Jongin comes in to school on Monday with a deep gash above his left brow, tiny black stitches holding the edges together.  A sparkly pink barrette is shoved in his bangs to keep his thick shock of hair off his forehead.

“What happened to you?”  Yifan tucks the ends of his muffler in the front of his coat, taking care the zipper doesn’t snag the loose weave.  Joonmyun pats Jongin’s shoulder with a thick blue mitten as he shoots Taemin a conspiratorial smile. 

“He went camping.”

“Camping?  Up in the mountains somewhere?” 

Joonmyun nods, scootching closer to Minseok on the textured steel platform of the merry-go-round.

“You mean his parents took him rock climbing?”  Yifan frowns, the links of the chain fence pressing through the padding of his coat as he leans back. 

“I think it was a fishing accident, actually,” Chanyeol explains as Joonmyun reaches across Taemin to adjust Lu Han’s collar.  Lu Han pushes him away with a snarl and pops his collar back up.  

“A fish almost bit my head off!”  Jongin grins, his gums as pink as his hair clip, and Taemin giggles evilly behind his hand.

“Nuh uh,” Sehun glares, his scowl upside down.  His long hair brushes the floor of the platform as he swings by his knees on a handlebar.  “Did not!”

“Did too!” Taemin shrieks, reaching up to pinch Sehun’s arm. 

“Ow!” Sehun screams, even though his puffy blue coat is too thick for him to have felt anything.  “Teacher, ow!”  

“I think it was a fish hook,” Chanyeol says loudly, stepping forward to separate the tousle.  

“Oh,” Jongin giggles.  He kicks his heels into the hollow platform and Lu Han covers his ears with a dramatic flail of his arms.  “Oh yeah.  Fish hooker.  Ow.”

“Teacher!”  Soojung’s voice is shrill in the clear air.  Yifan flinches, considering plugging his ears like Lu Han.  “Chanyeol Teacherrrr!” 

“Soojung, calm down please,” Song Qian says, catching Chanyeol’s eyes as Soojung sprints across the yard.  She trips in her red vinyl boots, catapulting into Minseok’s lap. 

“Whoa there!”  Chanyeol helps her to her feet, his knit glove sticking to the static in her windblown hair. 

“Chan Teacher, Baekhyun stole all my money and he won’t give it back!”  Her cheeks are red, with anger or with cold, Yifan isn’t sure which.  The kids had been out for awhile already before he joined them on the playground. 

“I didn’t steal it!” Baekhyun yells.  His coat is ped and he’s missing a mitten, his bare hand caught in Song Qian’s as they walk towards the merry-go-round.  “You traded it to me and Dae, fair and square!” 

“Well now I want it back!”  Even the tips of Soojung’s ears are red, the brass buttons on her peacoat flashing as her chest heaves.  “See?  I still have most of it!”  She holds up a ziploc, a scant handful of M & M’s rattling in the bag. 

“No take backs,” Jongdae says, jogging up to Song Qian’s side.  He’s wearing earmuffs and the band is slipping down his forehead.  “You knew the rules when you bought it.”

“‘It’?”  Song Qian fixes his earmuffs with a precise yank.  “What is ‘it’?” 

“This!”  Soojung shakes the bag.  “He said it’d make my hair shiny, but it didn’t!” 

“How much did you pay him?” Chanyeol asks, taking a seat next to Minseok to examine the bag. 

“10,000 won!”  Soojung hurls the bag at Jongdae, but Song Qian catches it before it hits him in the face. 

“Baekhyun,” she says, turning the ziploc over in her hands, “these are just M & M’s!  You can buy these at the CU down the hill.”

“No, teacher!  These are special, you can’t buy them anywhere else!” Baekhyun whispers the last bit like it’s a secret.

“Nonsense!  We could go buy M & M’s right now--”

“These aren’t M & M’s,” Baekhyun interrupts.  He shakes his head with an exasperated sigh, his dark hair sifting across his forehead.  “These are JBM’s.”

“JBM’s?”  Song Qian drops the bag into Chanyeol’s lap and he clutches at the slippery plastic with a gloved hand, his snickers muffled in his other elbow. 

“JBM’s!”  Jongdae leaps into the air, spreading his arms.  “Like, BMW!  But JBM.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“See?”  Baekhyun points at the bag.  A backwards ‘j’, a figure eight, and a very fat ‘m’ are scrawled on the plastic in faint blue marker.  “J--Jongdae, B--Baekhyun, M--magic!” 

“Ok, guys.”  Song Qian turns to face the rest of the class lined up on the edge of the merry-go-round.  “How many of you bought JBM’s?” she asks, making quote marks with her fingers.  Everyone raises their hand except for Kyungsoo, who is laying flat on his back on the other side of the carousel.  “Baekhyun, can I see the cash?”

“‘Fraid not.”  He closes his eyes, clasping his hands in front of his stomach, but Jongdae nudges him with a guilty smile before handing over a dirty pink envelope pulled from his pocket.  Song Qian pulls out a wad of green bills and counts them with silently moving lips before handing the stack to Yifan. 

“Why are you selling candy for more than double the price?  That’s not very nice to your friends.”

“Like I said,” Baekhyun drawls, pausing to wipe his nose with thumb of his mitten, “these are special.”

“Well, in any case you need to return this money.”  She pulls the top bill out of Yifan’s loose grasp and hands it to Soojung.  The next one in the stack has happy birthday, Joonmyunnie! inked around the border.

“Teacher, that’s not fair!”  Baekhyun’s voice strangles as he lunges for Soojung.  Song Qian catches him by the hood of his coat, not releasing him until the money is tucked safely into a red corduroy pocket. 

“Ms. Victoria!”  Joonmyun raises his hand, wiggling his fingers inside his blue and gray striped mitten.  “They can keep my money.  I like JBM’s.” 

“Joonmyun, I don’t--”

“JBM’s make your hair shiny.  And my hair is definitely shiny.”  He fluffs the layers of his bowl cut, angling his head to give his audience a 180 degree view.  Minseok claps his thick red mittens together in appreciation.   

“That’s not--”

“Me too,” Lu Han pipes up, “mine is shiny, too!  So you can keep it,” he waves to Jongdae.  Jongdae folds an arm in front of his waist and bows. 

“Is that why none of them would put their hats on this morning?” Chanyeol whispers, and Yifan has to pinch his nose to hold back a snort. 

“Fine.”  Song Qian hands two of the bills to Baekhyun before holding out a third to Minseok.

“It’s ok, Teacher!  It’s a fun-taser, so I don’t mind.”  He smiles sweetly, and Joonmyun pats him on the shoulder. 

“Fun-taser?” Chanyeol asks, turning to Minseok.  His eyes are wide behind his glasses.  “You mean fundraiser?”

“Uh huh,” Minseok nods, his chin dipping into the folds of his fluffy silver scarf.  “For Baekhyun’s cat.  She needs a sweater, ‘cause it’s cold.”  Chanyeol ruffles Minseok’s extra shiny hair and mouths something to Song Qian, nodding eagerly when she bites her lip mid sigh.      

“Fine.  I give up!  You can keep the money.”  With a nod from Song Qian, Yifan hands Baekhyun the envelope.  He clutches it to his chest between the open flaps of his coat and looks up with a wobbly smile. 

“Thanks, you guys, I…”

“But you can’t sell anything else, ok?”  Song Qian squeezes Baekhyun’s shoulder as a frown flashes across his features. 

“But--!”

“It doesn’t matter how special the product is, or why you’re fundraising, because, well...you can’t sell candy on public property without a license!”  She folds her arms, staring down Baekhyun with a fierce smile dimpling her rosy cheeks. 

“My dad has a license!”  Baekhyun folds his arms too and stares back.  “He drives a big truck!  Way bigger than a milk truck, and way bigger than your puny car!”  He flings his arms wide in demonstration.

“Yeah, way bigger!” Jongdae echoes.  Song Qian works her jaw in tight circles, her eyes flickering from Baekhyun to Chanyeol and back again.

“Ok, Baekhyun, can I see the license?”  She holds out her hand, long fingers wiggling expectantly. 

“No,” Baekhyun frowns, “but it’s real!  It is!  I saw it.”

“I believe you,” Chanyeol says, sliding forward onto his knees to meet Baekhyun at eye level.  “But you know, what if the police came here and asked to check the license?  What would I tell them?”

“Oh, I--” Baekhyun falters, turning to Jongdae, but he just rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

“Anyway, it’s time to go in now, guys.”  Song Qian claps her hands, waving them towards the gate.  Kyungsoo is the first one off the merry-go-round, and beats Baekhyun to be the line leader.  Chanyeol escorts the line up the hill as Yifan holds the gate.      

“Just so you know, my car is not puny.”  Song Qian fixes Yifan with a pout, her silk scarf wafting out behind her as she glides through the gate just behind Soojung.  “I even have 4 wheel drive!”

“For sure.”  Yifan latches the gate, double checking the lock to make sure it’s secure.  The metal hinge is cold between his fingers, even through his gloves.   

******

Yifan trails his fingers over the stack of items of his shopping basket--a new light bulb to replace the burnt out one on his balcony, a three pack of soft bristle toothbrushes since the nice ones are on sale this week, eggs, the cheapest kind of instant noodles, bananas.  He still has yogurt in the fridge at home and he’ll pick up more fruit and produce at the neighborhood market later.

He nods, satisfied that he’s completed his mental checklist, and heads towards the check out.  He lingers as he passes the dumpling aisle, his hand curled loosely around one of the freezer door handles as he scans the plastic packages--kimchi filled, spicy pork flavor, big flat Daegu style ones with noodles mixed in, tiny round birds egg ones with chewy potato starch wrappers.  This has got to be his favorite aisle, this and the potato chips. 

He plucks at the zipper pull of his jacket, trying to balance his budget mentally.  He’s been using the bus more often since it’s been cold and rainy, so he’s not sure whether he has enough to splurge on a large bag.  But it’s his birthday tomorrow, so maybe just this once--

“Mr. Fan!”  Yifan turns to find Sehun hanging off the end cap display of dried squid snacks.

“Sehun-ah!  Long time no see.”

“Are you shopping?”  Sehun lets go of the display rack and skips closer.  He has new shoes on, tan and black oxfords, and they squeak on the tile.  

“Yup.  I’m almost finished.”  Yifan lifts the basket in his arms.  Sehun nods, mouth hanging open.

“Me too shopping.  But it’s taking forever.  So slow.”  He folds his arms across his gut and twists his hips. 

“Are you here with your parents?”  Yifan ruffles his thick shock of hair as Sehun hooks his fingers into the holes of the red shopping basket. 

“Uh huh,” Sehun bobs his head.  “I get to go with Mommy today!  She’s taking me to ice cream next!  Do you want some ice cream, Mr. Fan?”  He claps his hands, his bony wrists sticking out from his pushed up coat sleeves.  He’s got to be hot wearing a down jacket inside the overheated store.  “You can come too!”

“Thank you, but that’s ok, Sehunnie.  We can have ice cream together on the playground next time.  I’m sure your mommy’s busy.”  Yifan lets go of the freezer door, edging to the end of the aisle. 

“But we’re not busy, we--”

“Oh Sehun!  Are you ready?  Let’s go, sweetie!”  A tall woman in killer heels eases a shopping cart around the corner.  Her eyes blink open in surprise at the sight of Yifan.  Even at a distance, he can tell her lashes are thick with gummy black mascara. 

“Mommy!  Come here hurry!  This is Mr. Fan.  Hurry up and say hello.”  Sehun dashes around the side of the cart and pushes her forward, his fists at the back of her thighs.  Her cart isn’t very full.  A bag of seaweed potato chips leans into a stack of imported cheeses, and a bottle of red wine wrapped in shiny gold foil rolls between boxes of chocolate cereal and a large custom platter of fresh sashimi. 

“Sehunnie, stop that, I--!  Oh, good afternoon!”  She steps around the cart, her professional smile lacquered in place with icy pink lipstick.  She has teeth like Chanyeol, too big for , but between her hollow cheeks they just make her look hungry.  “I’m Jang Minah, Sehun’s mother.  Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  She bows, delicately arranging the straps of her leather Kors bag on the shoulder of her suit jacket.  The beige silk wrinkles near her collar under the strain.  

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Yifan bows.  A pack of instant noodles tumbles to the front of his basket as he straightens.  “Sehun’s a great kid, you should be proud.”

“That I am!”  She giggles, fishing in her bag for a card case inlaid with mother-of-pearl.  She pops it open with a pink lacquered nail.  Yifan swallows the knot of tension in his throat as he accepts the embossed square of linen paper.  He definitely doesn’t have business cards printed up for his new job, and his cards from grad school are a little outdated.

“I don’t recall having met you at any of the open houses, but I don’t make it to my son’s school events too often.  I travel a lot, you know how it goes!” she titters, and keeps smiling.

“Oh, of course,” Yifan nods, an image of Baekhyun alone on the curb, his thin face bathed in dirty yellow light, flashing through his mind.

“So what do you teach?”  She steps closer, rocking back on one hip so the slit in her dress reaches the intersection of her thighs.

“I’m not a teacher, more like a member of the support staff, actually.”  Yifan’s fingers outline the edges of the cardboard lightbulb box, close around a cold egg.

“Oh, well even more commendable!  One of the valiant workers behind the scenes who get none of the glory!”

“Well, hehe!”  He shrugs, shifting back a little.  Sehun’s shoes squeak as he twists his heels. 

“Mom, ice cream,” he says, tugging on her jacket.  “Can Mr.--”

“Hush, sweetie.”  She yanks his fingers from her jacket and smooths away invisible wrinkles with the heel of her hand.  “Are you a counselor then?  God, you must have to have so much internal strength for a job like that.  I can’t even…” she trails off into a concerned hum, slowly shaking her head til her stiff curls bounce at her chin.

“He is way stronger, Mom!  He can carry four trash bags at one time!  Four big black ones!” Sehun nods earnestly, his own floppy hair bouncing along his jawline.

“Wha-what, sweetie?”  She blinks distractedly, tugging on the heavy gold hoop in her right ear. 

“Well, it’s not that impressive really, but yes, I can.”  Yifan smiles, slipping her card into his coat pocket.  His lower lip quivers, but he forces his tongue to outline the syllables between his teeth with permanent marker of confidence.  “I’m the janitor, technician, and all around handyman, I guess you could say.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, snapping her card case closed and dropping it into her bag.  Her other hand tightens on Sehun’s shoulder.  “Well, it was very nice to meet you, if you’ll please excuse us, I--”

“Mom!  Can Mr. Fan come with us to ice cream?  He really likes green tea flavor.”

“No, sweetie.  We can’t bother him.  He probably has to wake up really early for work.”  She flashes a tight, close lipped smile at Yifan as she turns Sehun around with the hand on his shoulder and starts to push him towards the register.

“Bye, Mr. Fan!  See you Monday!”  Sehun turns to wave with both hands and Yifan waves back as best he can with the heavy basket on his arm.  He should’ve gotten a cart today.

******

“Yifan?”  Chanyeol is in sweatpants with fingerprints of dried red paint down the left thigh.  His flimsy cotton undershirt is too thin for this weather, the v-neck at the collar stretched out but the sleeves tight on his arms.  His glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back into place with his fist as he covers a yawn.  

“Here.”  Yifan holds out the green plastic bag from the supermarket.  One toothbrush from the three-pack, still in its packaging, is heavy in the bottom of the bag.  “This is for you.  I saw it and thought of you, so…”  

“Yeah?”  Chanyeol reaches in, green plastic rustling up to his elbow.  “Why?”  The toothbrush is dark blue, the head white and teal with tufts of green, a rough plaid of bristles. 

“They were on sale and I just thought…” 

Chanyeol smiles, too many teeth between chapped pink lips and no lipstick, and grabs him by the hand, plastic grocery sack swinging from his wrist. 

“Come inside, you.  Did you eat yet?”  The door gives a faint digitized beep as it locks behind them.  Yifan slips out of his shoes and waits by the kitchen island, letting the heat of the ondol soak through his thick socks into the soles of his feet.

“No,” Yifan says.  Chanyeol trips out of the bathroom, smoothing the air from the empty bag and knotting the plastic.  The neckline of his shirt is slipping down his shoulder and he shrugs it back into place. 

“How about… , I think all I have right now is ramen.”  He stuffs the bag under his sink, the cabinet door closing with a bang that makes the rag slung over the faucet quiver.  “How do you feel about ordering noodles?” 

“Chanyeol,” Yifan tries, his fingers tangled in the loose cable knit of his muffler.  His voice gets caught in his teeth.  Chanyeol keeps talking, one hip against the edge of the sink as he rifles through a sheaf of take out menus and real estate ads stashed in a top cabinet. 

“You like black sauce with--whoa!” 

The backs of his knees buckle at the press of the cabinet door handles as Yifan pushes him into the counter.  Chanyeol’s eyes widen behind his thick lenses at the first sweep of Yifan’s tongue. 

“Chanyeol,” Yifan slides a hand across his chest, his thumb stretching the v-line down the length of his sternum. 

“Fan,” Chanyeol catches his wrist as Yifan’s fingers skim soft cotton and softer skin at the edge of his waistband.  “We still haven’t talked, I--”  He gasps at the flick of Yifan’s tongue against thin cotton and pushes him away, strong fingers cupping his chin.  “Are you sure… this is what you want?” 

Yifan groans in frustration and shoves at Chanyeol’s shoulders, tearing at the hem of his shirt.  “What do you think.” 

Chanyeol laughs, his voice strangled like it’s caught on someone’s fish hook.  He slides off his glasses.  “You don’t have to--” 

Yifan mouths at the high color in his cheeks, the prick of Chanyeol’s lashes silk against his own.  

“Hey, hey calm down,” Chanyeol soothes, his hands the lines of Yifan’s shoulders in a steady rhythm that lets the air back into his lungs.  He presses soft, open mouthed kisses to Yifan’s temple, his eyebrow, his hairline. 

Yifan wants to melt into his touch, melt through the layers heavy on his skin--black mascara streaks, jagged teeth of broken zippers, hazy beams of dirty light, chalky bands of powdered latex, and noise.  The loud rush of Chanyeol’s breath is the only silence that blots out his internal noise.

“Yeol,” Yifan sees a web of intersecting red and pink behind his eyelids as he feels for Chanyeol’s lips with his own.  Chanyeol stops him with a press of fingertips.   

“If you want this, I’m all yours.  But just listen, ok?”  He chokes on a swallow as Yifan tightens his arms around his heaving ribcage, and hugs him back, swollen words spilling through swollen lips.  “You don’t have to prove anything.  I’m here for you even if you’d rather just--get beers on Fridays and have ice cream picnics outside.  I’m not going anywhere so--so if you--”

“Good.”  Yifan drags his fingers along the curve of Chanyeol’s hairline, smoothing back wisps of soft hair.  The icy uncertainty that seeped into his palms through the freezer door handle melts in the steady beam of warmth from Chanyeol’s eyes.  Yifan presses his lips together, tries to still his trembling with the weight of Chanyeol’s sincerity.  He never knew honesty looked this dark, this velvet.  

“Hey, just relax,” Chanyeol breathes, “you don’t have to impress me.”  Oh, but Yifan wants to.

“Shh,” he mumbles, boosting Chanyeol’s hips onto the counter, and kisses him again. 

******

It’s the first week of November and Yifan’s floor is cold, even through the thin cotton padding of his slippers.  It’s the beginning of November, and after November comes December, and Yifan hates December. 

He rips the September page off his calendar, then the next one, folding the sheets until all he can see of the pictures are the tip of an orange kitten’s tail and a red veined maple leaf.  The paper wad hits the nightstand with a dull plink.

“Are you even listening to me?”  Henry’s sigh is static in his ear and Yifan jerks his phone away from his face. 

“Yes,” he says.  “I’m listening.”  Henry woke him up before 10:00 on a free Saturday and then bullied him with questions he was too fuzzy brained to deflect.  The least Yifan can do is listen, in hopes that Henry will say something satisfactorily profound and let him go back to sleep.  

“Office place romance, dude.  I dunno.  My heart is telling me yes but my gut says hell no.”  Yifan winces at Henry’s high pitched squeak.

“Mmph.  Tell me something I don’t already know.”  His throat constricts around a dry yawn as Yifan slides his feet back under his covers, slippers and all.         

“So how many dates have you been on, exactly?  Like, how serious is this?”

“Dates?”  The floor is cold, but it’s too warm under the blanket.  Yifan  pushes it down to his armpits.  “We’re not dating.”

“You cook dinner together, take his dog on walks at the park, and then make out on park benches.  What part of that is not dating?”

“The dog isn’t Chanyeol’s.”  Yifan frowns at the cracked shade of his bedside lamp.  “Princess belongs to Tao.”

“Answer the question, lameass.”  Henry sounds as tired as Yifan’s limp sheets feel between his fingers. 

“Because we did all those things before?”  Yifan clears his throat.  “I mean, we did the hanging out things before the making out and...other things.”

“Other things,” Henry repeats flatly.  “Oh lord,” he sighs.  “See, this is your problem, Fannie.”  Yifan drops the crumple of bed sheets and grabs a fistful of his comforter. 

“Don’t call me that.”   

“Ok, Krissy,” he self-corrects, and Yifan bites back a growl because Henry might actually say something useful if he stays quiet long enough.  “Your problem is that you don’t talk about things.  Out loud.”

“Things?”

“See, the talking should come before the things, and then things won’t be so confusing and effed up.”

Yifan sinks his teeth into the edge of his blanket, even though that means he’ll have to get up and do laundry as soon as Henry hangs up, because he’s out of peppercorn jerky in the drawer of his nightstand and thinking about this stuff makes his jaw tight.

“Wow, that was eloquent.  You should give a TED talk on ‘things’.”

“Hey, I’ll gladly talk to you about Rachmaninoff’s violin concertos instead, but as painful as this is,” Henry draws out the word ‘painful’, his throat squeezing around the syllables, “I really think you need to man up here.”

“Yeah…” Yifan whines in the back of his throat.

“So how do you propose to do the manning up?”

“What?”  Yifan squirms, the elastic cuff of his sweatpants riding up his ankle.  “Do I have to decide that now?” 

“Do whatever you want.”  Henry pauses to yawn.  He’s probably half asleep in front of his homework right now.  “But you might want to start by talking to him.”

That was the answer Yifan was afraid of.  . 

******

“Baekhyun-ah.” 

“Mr. Fan?”  Song Qian’s class is on the way to the bathroom after lunch, wading upstream through the flood of sixth graders heading to the cafeteria.  Baekhyun stops behind a support pillar in the atrium, out of the way of traffic.  He looks so small in the shadow of the brick pillar, wrists swallowed by the cuffs of a pilled gray sweatshirt that hangs halfway to his knees. 

“Here.”  Yifan ducks behind the pillar, bending to hand him the third toothbrush.  The second one, the yellow and orange one, is tucked on a ledge above Chanyeol’s bathroom sink.  Baekhyun flexes slender fingers to grip the handle, flicks his thumb across the red and purple bristles, and hands it back.

“I don’t need that.”  His hands tighten around the green plastic mug that holds his toothpaste and plain white brush, the frayed bristles flattened like a mown field.

“But… this one is special,” Yifan says.  He smiles.  The inseams of his jeans rubs as he shifts closer.  “See?  Red and purple, two colors!”     

“Purple’s boring.”  The pinch of Baekhyun’s mouth looks like the seam of a moon shaped dumpling, puffy and pale.  “I like mine better.”

“Ooh, wow!”  Chanyeol’s voice is loud in Yifan’s ear as he sidesteps behind him, resting a palm on the scored brick.  “Is that the secret toothbrush you were telling me about earlier?”

“Huh?”  Yifan’s lips curl around his teeth in confusion.  Chanyeol plucks the brush from his fist and draws a spiral in the air with the end of the handle.

“Is this the secret you were telling me about?” he repeats, loud enough that a sixth grader passing by turns her head to stare, pigtails swinging. 

“Oh, right, yes, shh!”  Yifan makes a grab for the toothbrush, catching on. 

“S-secret?”  Baekhyun stands up taller, straightening the shoulder seams of his sweater with a yank to the zipper placket. 

“Yes.”  Chanyeol nods til his glasses start to slip forward.  He pushes onto the tiptoes of his fur-lined moccasins, checking the hall for suspicious individuals before crouching down to whisper, “we need to find a special owner for this special toothbrush.  Do you think you can help us?”  

“I think so,” Baekhyun breathes.  His teeth sink into his lower lip, small and sharp.  “What do I hafta do?” 

“Just use this toothbrush after lunch.” 

“Every day,” Yifan adds, “we need your help to test it, so it’s really important you don’t skip any days.”

“Ok.”  Baekhyun’s eyes track the toothbrush as Yifan lowers it carefully into his mug, the soft rubber grip brushing the hard plastic of the white one as they nestle together.

“And when it starts to get worn out, tell us right away so we can start testing the next one, ok?”  Chanyeol’s voice is soft in the echoey atrium, but deep enough he doesn’t have to strain to be heard above the swirl of shouts and footfalls and slamming shoe lockers. 

“Yes, Teacher!”  Baekhyun’s fist closes over the red handle.  His knuckles press sharp and white against the slide of his skin. 

“Thank you, Baekhyun.”  Yifan stands to bow, careful not to hit his head on the overhang.  “You’re a true friend of science.”

“Oh!”  Chanyeol covers his gasp with a tight palm.  Baekhyun startles and almost drops his mug.  “I almost forgot the most important thing!”

“What?”  

“You can’t tell any of the other students about the experiment, ok?”  Baekhyun nods, his sweater slipping back down the line of his shoulders.  “Because it’s top secret research.”

“Top secret,” Baekhyun says.  He smushes his cup into the softness of his cheek and the mint green plastic is glossy against the smooth matte of his skin.  “Ok!”

“Thank you, Baekhyun, for your service.”  Chanyeol salutes as he stands, grabbing Yifan’s wrist for support as he flexes his knees.  “Now hurry or you’ll be late to class!”

“Ok, Chan Teacher!”  Baekhyun sprints a few steps down the hall, then trips to a stop and swerves around to wave both hands.  “Bye bye!”  He skids out of sight, the floppy paper snowflakes Amber stapled to the bulletin board flapping in the breeze.  It’s only November, not officially winter yet, and the eight-sided asymmetrical cutouts look more like stylized spider webs than crystals.  Yifan’s mother would say they have “character”.    

“Sorry if I was interrupting there,” Chanyeol says.  He slides his hand up the sleeve of Yifan’s pullover, fingertips skimming the nubbly rows of ribbing.  They pass the open doorway of the office and Changmin nods in greeting, headphones plugged into his computer.     

“Oh, not at all,” Yifan says.  His grip tightens around the mac pack as he lets the weight of Chanyeol’s hand settle on his shoulder.  The hall is mostly empty now.  Only two older girls are still down by the lockers, occupied with a pair of pink plastic hand mirrors.  “And thanks Yeol, really.  How did you do that?”   

“Do what?”  He tugs Yifan closer, his eyes opaque innocence as he unlocks the classroom.  Chanyeol’s fingers tap syncopated beats across Yifan’s shoulder in the off-balance rhythm of his grandmother’s rotary dial.  “I just told him to brush his teeth after lunch.” 

The quirk of his lips conceals mouthfuls of steam from the shared shower head and the mute sigh of skin against sheets.  Chanyeol doesn’t need words to speak, even though he never stops talking.  The ghosts of letters cling to his eyelashes and he exhales meaning in every breath.  It makes Yifan’s cuticles itch for a stick of charcoal to etch them all into substance. 

“Seriously though, how’d you get so good with kids?”  The teeth of the brass key in Chanyeol’s hand force the lock open.  The hinged jaw of the door handle groans and Yifan nudges him through the art room door.  “Do you have younger siblings?”

“No!”  Chanyeol gives Yifan an amused stare, the smooth skin of his under eyelids pooling up beneath dark lashes.  “I’m the precious baby brother!  And also I think you’re exaggerating my skills.”

“So you watched your little cousins, then?  Responsible babysitter of the neighborhood kids?”

“Nope!”  Chanyeol’s shoulders are quivering under his baggy flannel now as he cracks open the lid to a tub of red clay.  “Seriously, I was always the troublemaker.  In school, at home, on the playground.”

“Ok,” Yifan grins.  “That’s not so hard to believe either.”

“You know, you’re pretty good with them yourself.”  Chanyeol lifts a hunk of clay onto the counter.  The moons of his fingernails are shell pink against the earthy red.  

“Me?”  Yifan watches thin wire slice through clay like cheese, in half, then in half again. 

“You connect with the students a lot better than you give yourself credit for.”  Chanyeol pushes back his sleeves but doesn’t bother to turn up the cuffs.  The left one is going to fall down again, Yifan gives it thirty seconds.  “Which makes me also think,”  Chanyeol ducks behind the counter, emerging with a pink spray bottle, “you must be amazing at art, too.” 

“Well that’s an easy assumption to make,” Yifan says.  “No pressure.”  Fine mist clings to the countertop as the clay weeps pink tears down its sides.

“Everyone needs a little pressure.”  Chanyeol bevels the hard corners with the broad end of a plastic stylus.  “Not too much, just enough to keep you moving forward.”  He sets down the tool and gives the rough sphere a little pat.  His sleeve slips over the peak of his elbow, the edge of his cuff absorbing the sticky sludge splashed up his wrist as it falls. 

“What are you talking about.”  Yifan slides onto the nearest stool. The stitching on his back pockets catches on the cracking vinyl seat.  “You’re being really cryptic again.” 

“I dunno.”  Chanyeol shaves a strip of clay from the ball as he turns it in his hands.  The smooth curl drops through the wire hoop of the pick onto the counter.  “I guess for me it’s always been my family.  Whenever I needed that extra little push to take a risk or--”

“You?”  Yifan’s snort hits the silence as the next twist of clay meets the counter.  “You needed encouragement to take risks?”  

“Well, yeah.  For the ones that mattered.”  Chanyeol rubs his neck with the back of his hand, messy fingers curled into his palm out of the way, but still manages to streak his hairline with red.  “Didn’t your parents sit on you to get you to finish homework, or go to the scary soccer tryouts or, I don’t know, apply to better colleges?” 

“I pushed myself to achieve in school.  My mom didn’t have to.”  Yifan grabs a handful of kleenex from a dispenser decoupaged in a haphazard rainbow of sparkly tissue paper.  “And I played basketball.  Not soccer.”  And he wrote all his own college applications, too.  His mother didn’t even read his essays, just checked the fat manila envelopes to make sure the addresses were legible and the postage stamps were on straight.   

“Ok then, basketball.”  Chanyeol’s grin is wide as Yifan dabs at his neck, as if he smeared the clay there on purpose as an invitation for Yifan to--

“Ok what?”  Yifan drops his hands to his laps, knuckles jammed into the paunch of vinyl cushion between his legs. 

“Your parents cheered you on at basketball games, right?  ‘Run faster, Fan!  Use those big old feet and jump!’”  Chanyeol punches the air, like he’s at some kind of MMA match. 

“Uh, no.”  Yifan wipes a drip from Chanyeol’s fingers off the side of his nose.  “My mom worked nights when I was in high school.  Sometimes my cousin would come, but he’s the laziest fan ever.  He used to fall asleep on the bleachers.”  Because Henry’s parents pushed him to study until all hours, and when he wasn’t studying he was playing violin. 

In high school at least half Yifan’s friends, including Henry, told him repeatedly how lucky he was.  He wasn’t pressured into pursuing law school, passing the MCAT, earning an MBA from Harvard.  Yifan is glad his mother supports his love for art, even if he can’t say she fully understands it.  But at the time, at least, he had felt like it was just further proof of her lack of confidence in him.    

“Napping on the bleachers?  Damn, that is lazy.”  Chanyeol mops up the counter with a sponge and squeezes it over the mound in front of him. 

“I think I did 90% of his laundry until I moved away.  We both cried at the airport.” 

“Tough love, tough love.”  Chanyeol shakes his head, plunges his thumb into the center of the softening clay.  Yifan flinches at the squelch and picks nonexistent dirt from under his thumbnail.  “But at least he learned?”

“Nah, my aunt took over.”  Because Henry doesn’t have time to change his socks, let alone wash them, with his business and violin performance double major.  And maybe he drinks too much Starbucks, but he can still balance music with academics and come out with straight A’s and the hot girl’s phone number.  Yifan will probably die envying his ability to ace tests he never studied for.  That and Henry’s yellow rain slicker with the pikachu hood he got for his fifth birthday.  That was a sweet coat.

“Are you two still close?” 

“With Henry?”  Yifan picks at his other thumbnail, where the cuticle is dry and starting to tear.  “Yeah.  We skype.” 

“I just have a sister.  We’re pretty close though, especially now that we’re older.”  Chanyeol smiles, but he’s not looking at Yifan. 

“Yura?  Yeah, you told me.”  Chanyeol talks about her a lot.  Yifan’s heard more stories about Park Yura, who gave up a modeling contract to study medicine at Seoul National, than he has about Zitao’s dog.  And that’s saying something, because pretty much all of their group kakao messages are devoted to Princess. 

“I didn’t tell you this, but I used to be really jealous.”  Chanyeol slides a thumb over the rim of the bowl he’s hollowing out of the clay, the walls shaping higher under the pinch of his fingers.  “We have the same face, you know.  Gorgeous eyes, perfect smile.” 

He flashes a grin, and Yifan would kick him if the counter weren’t in the way.  “And I wanted to be good at all the things she was good at.  I don’t know why, maybe because that’s what everyone else expected.”  His fingers across the bottom of the bowl, not evening or smoothing, just gliding in aimless circles. 

“And now that you’re older it’s evened the playing field?”   

“No.  I just realized--”  Chanyeol fingers the bit of sponge, dabs it into the moisture pooling in the bowl.  “Well, I had this art show at the end of senior year.  It was in the school gym, all our paintings from the advanced art class set up on little easels.”  He pinches the lip of the bowl and folds the side over.  His hands are wet past his wrists now.  “God, I was so nervous!  Everyone important came, you know?  Teachers, my parents’ friends.  Yura’s friends.  And this guy my dad knows, I don’t even know his name, he told me on the way out the door that he didn’t know about art but my piece was his favorite.  Because I painted in colors no one else would have used.”

“Wow.  That’s…”  The rough edges of brittle vinyl are sharp against Yifan’s palm as he shifts. 

“Colors Yura wouldn’t have used.” 

“What a compliment.”  

Chanyeol’s fist comes down.  The walls of the bowl crumple in and he kneads the air out with the heel of his hand. 

“When he said that, I finally realized it was actually a relief to be something else.  To be good at something else.  Like I could be me and paint purple sidewalks, and Yura could be a math genius but also just my sister, and we could both be beautiful, and it was ok.”  The clay is in a ball again, but this time Chanyeol flattens it against the counter, rolling it into a long snake.

“So now you don’t care.  That’s it?  It doesn’t bother you at all?”  Yifan pokes at the tapered end of the snake.  Chanyeol withdraws his hand with a sigh, bracing his palm against the edge of the counter. 

“It still gets to me, sometimes.  Comments some relative makes at a dinner, you know.  I’m dreading her wedding for sure, the comparisons and questions about why I’m not married yet.”  Chanyeol picks up the ends of the clay and twists them into a large red pretzel.  “In part ‘cause I know they’ll upset my parents, too.”

“Yeah, I hear you.”  His high school graduation was first the time Yifan realized the extent of the gossip his mother must’ve endured from the other parents.  Most of the neighbors didn’t know quite what to say when they heard he’d won an obscure scholarship to study art in Seoul--not even “real art”, as Liu Chao’s mother put it.  Only cleaning up the dirty art of true artists.  Must be because he had no talent for creating new ideas. 

Yifan had smiled politely through gritted teeth and conveniently forgot to bring her a souvenir when he came home for winter break.  But look how prophetic she had been.  Now that he’s professionally trained to clean up trash art, he cleans up actual trash instead.

“Not a big fan of weddings either?”  Chanyeol wipes a hand on his jeans. 

“Or any kind of big event, really.”  Yifan shakes his head and pulls the pager out from his belt.  It’s digging into his side in this awkward sitting position.  “You never know who you’re going to run into, but it’ll probably be everyone.”

“Oh!”  Chanyeol perks up, squishing the pretzel in his fist.  “Speaking of which, Sehunnie said he and his mom ran into you at the store!”

“Oh, yeah.” Yifan grabs the pager and scratches his neck with the rubber tipped antenna.

“Did you take a selca to commemorate the occasion?  Can I see?”  Chanyeol plops the clay down and peppers the surface with shallow fingerprints.  It looks like hammered brass, or the textured steel platform of the merry-go-round outside. 

“Uh, no.”  Yifan sets down the pager but leaves his fingers wrapped around the case.  “I mean you could if we did, but there’s no picture.”

“Aw!  You’re no fun!” Chanyeol adds a grid of score marks to the surface with his thumbnail.  “We should take one today on the playground, then.”

“I don’t think Sehun’s mom would approve.”  The tape on the case of the mac pack is peeling, the outer layer nearly completely pulled free.  Only a bit of the gummy adhesive is left.  Yifan massages it flat against the black plastic anyway, smoothing out any air pockets with the side of his thumb.  It sticks, but it’s not going to last.  Yifan gives it thirty seconds. 

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Well, at first she was...friendly.  A little too friendly, I didn’t know what to think.  And then once she heard what my job title was she…backed off?”

“Yeah?”  Chanyeol’s scowl cuts sharp across his features. 

“Maybe she’s just shy,” Yifan mumbles quickly, as if he talks long enough, fast enough, he can erase the lines suspicion sinking into Chanyeol’s skin like brackish dew.  “Or maybe not shy, just--”  He remembers the slit in her skirt sliding higher as she simpered. 

“Just?”  Chanyeol’s eyes are hard, bright pebbles beneath the curving shoreline of his brow. 

“She.  I think she got embarrassed.  I don’t know.  They were in a hurry and--”

“What a ,” Chanyeol says, says it matter of factly like he casually cusses out students’ parents every day of the week.

“Um,” Yifan blinks.  “It’s ok.  Really.  She was just caught off guard and I’m--I--”  He has holes in his jeans, in more pairs than he’d like to admit.  His hands haven’t held a drawing pencil in months.  He hasn’t called his mother in months, either.  Not a proper call. 

“Yifan, look at me.”  It takes three inhales, but he does.  Chanyeol’s fingers are caked with drying red sludge and his eyes are still hard, the dark luster of anthracite.  “You, your job, your neighborhood.  Your creativity.  There’s nothing to apologize for, so don’t make me mad by trying to.  Don’t let yourself listen to anyone who says you’re not--”

“Chanyeol.”  Yifan grabs the edge of the counter, head whirling with snatches of his surroundings like he just stepped off the merry-go-round. Jessica, looking down as she tucks a curl behind the shell of her ear.  “I’m sorry, Yifan, but you’re just not--”

“What.”

“Chanyeol, I’m ok with myself now.  I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t have to try to make me feel better about reality.”  His professor, explaining through the lips of an apologetic smile as he moves Yifan’s painting to the back row of display boards to make room for Kihyun’s sketch.  “I know you worked hard, but the composition’s just not…how can I say…”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better.  I’m mad because you’re not listening to me,” Chanyeol says evenly, eyes flashing.  “I don’t lie to my friends just to cheer them up, Yifan.  ‘Cause that’s just another way to let people down.  I’m telling you the truth because you can’t seem to--”

“Chanyeol, just--”  Yifan rubs his eyes until he can feel the moist squish through his eyelids.  “Can we not, right now.”  His mother sagging into a sigh, the pad of her thumb streaking down the breath fogged glass of the picture frame, his father’s matte finish smile trapped behind the pane.  “I know you think you understand what happened.  But you were just a kid then, your memory’s just not…”

“Fine.”  Chanyeol’s red and black checked shirt looks two sizes too big when he deflates, the loose flannel hanging like a cape on his hunched frame.  The sight punctures a leak in Yifan’s heart as well.  “I can’t change your mind for you, but I’ll tell you one more time: I believe in you, Wu Yifan.  Whoever you you decide to be, I’ll always try to be your honest friend.”

“Thanks.”  Yifan can’t meet his eyes for fear he’ll find a smooth black gaze behind a screen white of tobacco haze, and too much honesty.  “I think I’d better go now.  You have class next hour, don’t you.” 

“Oh.  Yeah.”  Chanyeol blinks at the yellow light pouring through the high window.  “Take care, man.  Call me, ok?  When you want to… hang out again.” 

“Ok,” Yifan says.  “I will.”  His shoes are slick on the dirty tile in the hall.  They don’t squeak at all today, which means it’s time to mop again.  “See you.”  He pulls the door shut behind him and heads back to his office, pager in hand. 

******