Substandard Motels (between

broadway and carnegie hall) Part

One
Title: Substandard Motels (between broadway and carnegie hall)
Genre: Model!AU, Romance, Angst
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kaisoo
Length: 5,963/~11,000 words
Warning: some mildly graphic scenes (insinuated eating disorders)
Summary: When it's too late for Kai to find his way home, Kyungsoo reminds him that he
doesn't really need one.

Some are born to pose, was the only thing Eunhyuk said to Kyungsoo during the Fall 2010
Lee Juyoung show.
Eunhyuk was known for being a bi-polar asshole, the once-a-decade model who came along
with an attitude big as his monstrous shadow on the runway. Sometimes inexplicably
sociable, soaking up all of the spotlight and spitting it back at anyone near him; sometimes
small and barely there, with bones of knives and eyes of asbestos, Eunhyuk was a tickingtime bomb and the more make-up you piled on him, the greater the detonation.
Of course Kyungsoo knew better than strike a conversation with the end of his career, so he
pulled the typical mm that said everything from I-agree to shut-up. Plus he was convinced
that Eunhyuk was wrong; no one is born to pose. No one is born to be a photograph
because humans are imperfect and it is for that reason that make-up artists like Kyungsoo
exist: to swallow the imperfections and make their gawky poses sellable.
Barely glancing at Kyungsoo through the mirror, Eunhyuk continued to mumble things about,
Doesnt matter how much shit you dump on their face. Theyll cling onto the toilet and vomit
vodka polka-dots and youll think it was a scene for High Cut The words fumbled over his
tongue and as the lights dimmed, they vaporized. Kyungsoo stopped thinking about it.
But two years later, with a boy throwing up bile and bloody nothings onto the bathroom tiles
(because apparently even clinging onto the toilet was too hard on his toothpick bones) under
his nose, Kyungsoo somehow remembers Eunhyuks words. Some are born to
pose. Stripped of make-up, little blemishes on his skin exposed, and fingers curling in on
themselves, this one lives a photo and its so stunning that Kyungsoo is shocked out of
words.
Mind closing the door?

It takes two seconds, stretches as long as two hours, for Kyungsoo to understand the
request and process how hes probably not supposed to see this. So he slams the door shut
and rushes to the mirrors. Hitting the taps and smashing his hand down on the soap
dispenser, Kyungsoo attempts making some noise. Anything sort of, even if the boy doesnt
care if he overhears him retching intestines out of cocksucker lips.
Theyre in the backstage restroom of New York Gucci show, after all. This is what they do.
This is what makes coweries and mudclothes beautiful.
Kyungsoo shouldnt be surprisedhes seen this before (wrists the sizes of fingers, eyes like
august moons, and toothbrushes down hollow lipsticked teeth). But hes never seen it so
perfect like this.
-The boys name is Kai, says roll-call in Beijing Fall 2012, so Kyungsoo calls him that: Kai.
Yeah, Kai mutters, eyes stuck on a heavy paperback even though theyre glassy and not
really reading. Staring holes through the pages, or maybe holes through his kneecaps
underneath the pages. Models have weird habits and Kyungsoo has never been one to
understand them, how Kyuhyun relieves stress on his laptop while Hyukjae throws glass
vases at his manager and Heechul slaps everyone across the cheek.
Kyungsoo cant take his eyes off of Kais face and its not because hes overdone the ombr.
Its something between Kais gentle bones and hushed skin, and it takes Kyungsoos breath
away the moment Kai leans forward and eyes widen at his name-tag, Do Kyungsoo? Oh,
youre Korean!
Are you okay? Kyungsoo has no idea what hes saying (without question the worst thing he
can say at this place and hour of the day) but the thought manifests on its own. He
immediately thinks about how much time it would take to pack up all of his stuff when they
fire him.
But Kai doesnt seem all that offended. His lips break into a smile so genuine that Kyungsoo
goes all anesthetized right there right then.
The toilet?
Well if you dont want to talk about it
Everyone does it.
Yeah, but youre only supposed to throw up the food, not your stomach too.
Sure, Kai leans back into his chair, eyes hazy again and Kyungsoo knows that the
conversation has been lost. Except Kai makes a comeback two unread pages later, while
Kyungsoo is dusting pressed powder everywhere that makes him wince, And your soul.
What? Kyungsoo works his brush around the curved line of Kais jaw, not really listening.

Kai straightens up on his stool and turns to look at Kyungsoo with the same glassy eyes,
Youre also supposed to throw up your, a cold hand stops Kyungsoos, soul.
There is the same genuine smile and this time Kyungsoo realizes that its never really been
genuine the first time around. Then again, sometimes perfection is blinding like that.
He keeps powdering.
-In Seoul the winters are categorized under humid subtropical and humid continental but all
Kyungsoo feels is frost over his window panes and wind biting his ears. He breathes white
smoke and trembles his way into the corridors, past skittering models and human hangers.
The shivers are still in his bones as he dumps his jacket on a chair, gathers around with the
other staff, and entertains orders of I-want-this-and-that-and-it-should-be-like-lala-fucking-da.
Half-way across the room, Kai hollows his cheeks in on a cigarette, features distinct even
though hes drowning in flashes of numbing neon and chaotic shouting. Kyungsoo watches
an older woman chisel his sockets with eyeliner and distort flesh with colored dust. Half a
thought grows about dust to dust, but he gives up nursing it so all thats left is just the
graphite underneath his fingernails.
We want a taste of the (twenty-first century) Korean Gatsby, with all the intense
unadulterated undertones and shading but dont make it too gaudy, keep it simple and
Galliano so
Kyungsoo doesnt always listen to directions. They make no sense anyway. No one around
the place knows what he really wants because no one has understood fashion in words. (No
one has understood fashion, period. All they see are mobs of shapes and throngs of colors,
and not the slightest hint of the heuristic effect; the performance art; how embarrassing.) So
Kyungsoo disperses from the crowd, picks up his case and gropes precision out with his
fingertips in the pallets, lips tucked underneath teeth and eyes narrowed with focus.
Perfection is a compulsive disorder and
Boo.
Shit!
His brush slips right through sweaty palms and hits the floor with a mocking thud. A cream
cloud explodes over the cement floor and coats half of a black leather shoe that is almost
certainly part of a set. Kyungsoo doesnt bother glancing up at the Kai who has somehow
managed to make it across thousands of stray linen webs in a few seconds, before stooping
to his knees and rubbing away the blemish with his sleeve collar.
As the stain fades and Kyungsoos heart begins migrating back from his throat, he jerks up to
glower at Kai, Why would you do that?
Dont look so bewildered, Kai grins, about as genuine as last time except its a little cracked
today. A smidgeon of purple liner under his eyes seems more alive than it should. Kyungsoo

has no idea if Kai is just living the makeup again but maybe it doesnt matter; this way or that
the quantity of suffering is a conserved value. Today there might be a bruise painted but
tomorrow there will be a smirk to take its place. I saw you staring at me.
Yeah, I was, Kyungsoo clutches Kais ankle with one hand for better balance. Almost all of
the discoloration is gone and perhaps if he tries hard enough it can be reverted back to new.
The smile disappears from Kais lips and a vague imprint of shock is left hovering on his
brows, Straightforward. Why are you polishing my shoe?
Isnt this part of your set?
No, and the glimmer in his eyes returns, Its just a shoe. I havent changed yet. But if you
keep on polishing like that, Kyungsoo hyung, it might become my favorite shoe.
So Kyungsoo keeps on polishing far after the stain has left.
An hour later when he sees Kais face floating down first on the runway, chin low and eyes
sweltering dark with something deeper than rage or lust, he understands the meaning of a
Gatsby with intense unadulterated undertones, kind of. Its something between terror and
fervor, very close to perfection but far, far away.
-Kyungsoo hyung!
The only difference between Korean and English, Kyungsoo realizes with a tilt of the brows,
is that one of them makes his ears pink. Looks like we keep bumping into each other.
No, you keep bumping into me, and its not until Kai laughs that Kyungsoo gets the joke.
Theyre lost in New York. Its spring, or supposed to be, except there are no blooming
flowers; only the last clumps of gray winter snow trying to fight off extinction. Clouds of
jaundice when you look down from the sky and impenetrable ash walls when you look up
from the asphalt. The big, rotten apple. Liveliest place on earth: breathe in humanity and
breathe out disco rays, yellow taxi cabs.
Post-show leaves Kai and Kyungsoo falling off adrenaline crests and into a bar in the middle
of nowhere. Broadway, Kai pointed out, nose digging into his thick scarf (because when
youre as perfect as he is, nothing is ever warm enough), Broadway is right around the
corner. Kyungsoo shrugged because hes never been a big fan of Broadway, a cluster of
bohemian theatres housing crude makeup, bulky lights, and shackled actors. Then Kai
pointed to another direction on a whim and promised that Carnegie Hall wasnt too far, either.
Kyungsoo relented. It might have been because his fingers were cold.
He ordered a drink, which somehow brings them to the present of warm and fuzzy and
fumbling, fingers eager to be drunk. Eager for the activities that Im-so-drunk might excuse.
Im a good fuck, Kai whispers, lips and teeth and maybe tongue, too, smearing against
Kyungsoos earlobes thick and heavy.

His voice and jaws, sinking comfortably into Kyungsoos sweater, are riddled with alcohol,
but his breath smells only of mint and mineral water. Kyungsoo sits back, gazes into the
violet glow of the bar racks, takes a moment to assess what Kai is drunk on because he
hasnt even touched his Bombay Gin.
I dont doubt it.
Kai sways back into his own spot, swinging one leg over the other so that the tip of his foot
brushes a straight and blunt line right up from Kyungsoos ankle to knees, For a splendid
fuck like me, youre sitting pretty far away.
For my collegiate sweater self, youre thoroughly untouch
Kyungsoo doesnt exactly finish his sentence because a pair of lips swallows the rest. Its a
clean kiss, no tongue or spittle, but somehow its laced with vice and makes Kyungsoo feel
more than violated. When Kai lets him go, what is left falls out in a hard stammer,
untouchable.
Oh really, Kai swipes his glass off the table and tilts back a good mouthful before moving
forward for another kiss. Slower, coarser, stings of sweet alcohol. Kyungsoo takes another
moment to wonder if its possible for bad kisses like these to be contagious before
swallowing the burn and kissing back.
Somewhere between airports and five-star hotels, in other words a substandard motel buried
under New Yorker skyscrapers, Kyungsoo discovers that Kai is as great a fuck as he
promised. One second and his lush lips are all over Kyungsoos cock, confident eyes locked,
and the next hes sinking grating nails into pelvis. Low moans and high gasps, visible bruises
and invisible whimpers, lucid eyes but desperate whispers; the end of one kiss begins
another. Kai sweeps one finger down Kyungsoos spine and he caves in. All caution to the
wind, souls, too. And hard shudders. He takes Kyungsoo from behind until theyre both a mix
of sweat and saliva and maybe a few tears here or there, then lowers himself and rides out
the white streaks dripping off his abs.
Its supposed to be a one-time deal, and because it is a one-time deal they have the luxury of
leaving nothing behind except a few condom wrappers. And maybe two handprints on the
still-misted bathroom mirror: here one moment, gone the next together with their footsteps
down the peeling corridors.
Since Kyungsoo likes handprints and Kai is fond of fiddling with multi-colored wrappers as he
waits for Kai to free up the shower, they promise each other, its still a one-time deal even
during the third, fourth, fifth encounter. Milan. Tokyo. Beijing. Moscow. London.
Youre really bumping into me, arent you, Kyungsoo hyung?
Youre just that good.
--

Ive lost track, Kai says one day, while theyre behind the cameras and Kyungsoo is
checking the texture of a new tube of lipstick. He dumps an arm over Kyungsoos shoulder
and the gesture makes Kyungsoo uncomfortable, even though theyve been closer before.
Its hot; Kais arm sticks to the perspiration on Kyungsoos neck, but the shadows where their
flesh meets are still cold. Somehow there is an air of insincerity, of Kais-not-really-heretoday. Maybe its that.
Where am I from again?
Seoul, South Korea, Asia, Earth, The Milky Way, Kyungsoo chimes, a self-satisfied grin on
his lips. Half a point for wit, he thinks, except when he looks at Kai its clear that what Kai
wants isnt wit.
Kai probably doesnt want an answer. He lets his hand fall and turns around to wave, smile
as genuine and flawless as ever, Oh Sehun!
-So, Kyungsoo starts, cuffing his sleeves leisurely. It takes him a few times to get the lines
straight, probably because his bones are still soft from Kais touch. He glances at the model,
who is still in his briefs, cuddling up Kyungsoos prints and warmth on the hotel sheets
despite the suffocating heat of summer, How many?
How many what?
Other than Sehun and me, who else?
Why?
Just curious.
Luhan, Suho, Taemin, a couple others, Kai doesnt bother lifting his head up from the
pillows, and from here Kyungsoo sort of thinks that maybe perfection looks a little on the thin
side today. He can count Kais ribs from two meters away and the way his elbows jut out
looks a little more than the usual bones of blade. An image or two pass of a boy twisting
himself inside out on fancy bathroom tiles. He lets them fade.
Arent Sehun and Luhan in a relationship, though?
Im there to spice up their sex lives. All that jazz.
Kyungsoo goes back to the bed and sits at the edge. Not quite touching, but almost. Just
enough to see the way Kais spine sticks out the back of his neck, not enough to reach out
and tuck them back in. There is a slight musing that, maybe, hed like to reach out and fix
things. Except its distant, and floats away with each breath.
Why so sad? Kai rolls on his elbow and props his head up on a palm, gazing intently at the
turn on Kyungsoos lips, If you want me to stop, all you have to do is ask me out.
To what?

I like Broadway, and he takes Kyungsoos hand, smooths it over the ridges of his neck and
nuzzles his forehead on the others thigh. The way his lips tilt is weak and feeble, cracking at
the edges and barely there. Still, Kyungsoo believes that today, today Kai is here.
So he takes Kai to Broadway, and tries to learn the compulsion behind shackled lights and
loud music with Kais hands down his jeans.
-After a few months, in the midst of brightening serums and sun-dipped bronzing powders,
Kyungsoo almost gets used to wiping stomach acid off of Kais lips. The process is simpler
now; stream-lined for efficiency, because after all in the line-ups Kai is just another face and
Kyungsoo is just another artist. Kai no longer tells Kyungsoo to close the door while he
coughs up liquid flesh and Kyungsoo no longer pretends to wash his hands.
Except youre not really dating me, are you?
What? Kai sputters, turns his head to glance at Kyungsoo and gags on empty. Heaves up
nothing but trembling fingers and white knuckles.
Youre dating an idea. An ideal. Youre in love with perfection and Im just here to what,
complete the triangle? You know, so you wont be the only one in unrequited love, Kyungsoo
clarifies, waiting for Kai to decide that enough is enough so that he can drown him in primer
and move onto others.
So youre saying youre in unrequited love? Kai grins, full lips pouted and eyes twinkling
and it all looks so painfully good next to shiny white porcelain and smooth stone tiles. A
handful of disheveled hair and transparent blood makes everything sparkle.
Yeah, with Kai.
But everyone is.
And Kyungsoo thinks thats the saddest thing hes ever heard.

--

Even when theyre not clustered together at the back of runway shows or cover shoots, Kai
still asks Kyungsoo to paint his face.
Cause I like the way you look at me, Kai explains while knocking back whiskey on the
terrace of some Tokyo (or is it Tuscany?) hotel. He might have arrived under-dressed and
bare-backed for the party, but no one bats an eye because here skin is just another layer of
clothing.
Still, Kyungsoo knows that even the perfect arent immortal. He slides his blazer over Kais
angled shoulders with a complacent, Sure.

Sure isnt enough. Grinning from behind exaggerated shoulder-pads and cufflinks, Kai stares
at Kyungsoo in the eyeballs breathless, hard, and demanding, You go all squinty from
concentration and you purse your lips. Like youre upset or something. Its cute. Come on.
Do it for me.
Kyungsoo doesnt refuse, of course. He wouldnt resist a chance to paint on the ideal
canvas, but he doesnt know if he wants to look at Kai tonight. This is one of those times
when Kais soul has been left behind in some bathroom stall and Kyungsoo doesnt feel like
lending his own. So he picks the cigarette from his teeth and taps it tentatively with a
forefinger. Ashes falling like stars. A veil of smoke shields the august moon in Kais eyes.
Looking away from the vortex, Kyungsoo puts his attention on the shot glass between Kais
fingers.
Some shrieks and laughter erupt from the after-party below, albeit all he can hear is Kais
unsteady breathing. He drops his joint in Kais drink, I dont have any tools on me.
Kai doesnt mind. He smiles, eyes twinkling as he leans back towards the railing, crosses his
feet, and props his weight up with both elbows. Tilting just enough to bring his eyes steady in
Kyungsoos, he laces his fingers between Kyungsoos. Joints bump and calluses sand
Eucerin serum as he mouths, You have your fingers and, gaze grazing, tongue.
And Kyungsoo learns that the difference between sketching under the sky and under the
vanity lights is that one kills the perfection while the other seduces it. With the sterling rays
trickling down Kais forehead Kyungsoo can only see sparkling porcelain and grey fingertips,
and with each second hes increasingly convinced that its not lips that hes kissing but a cold
creation. Or the leftovers of one.
(Gaunt is better defined by the contours of Kais bones than a few leisurely phrases from a
dictionary.)
They pull away and Kyungsoo is blind from fear. The first thing he runs for is the toilet. Who
knew retching intestines out of cocksucker lips would prove contagious?
-Sometimes Kyungsoo likes to imagine that Kai isnt really all that flawless. Maybe he has a
teenaged face at home who, when no one is looking, coops up on the couch Saturday
mornings to watch cartoon reruns in sunlight puddles. Maybe there is a side of him that
misses home in Seoul every now and then and secretly searches for photos of his hometown
on the internet.
And then he remembers that its Saturday morning and Kai isnt at home on a couch
watching cartoon reruns because hes hanging in a puddle of sweat or maybe vomit (or
tears) over Kyungsoos leg, tangled up in bruises and scratches and hung-over moans. This
kind of person wouldnt recall what kind of hometown he comes from because hes born of
plastic and measurements, and more importantly he wouldnt care.
Get up, were going to miss our flight

He pushes his toe against Kais chest and the brunette stirs, slowly, with a smile that
Kyungsoo looks away from. Persistent, Kai wraps his fingers around Kyungsoos foot and
presses a kiss to the arch, the ankle, the knee, the hips. Weary laughter drowns in Kais
parted lips, swollen from sleep. They try to murmur vows about love, art, and the future while
fucking the indecencies out of one another, slow and filthy under the same puddle of sunlight
Kyungsoo once thought they could watch Disney flicks in. The tempo is too slow and
Kyungsoo finds himself praying for it to end.
Later that day they pack their bags for another part in the world and Kyungsoo surprises
himself when he almost walks off with Kais suitcase. Belongings without identities are too
easy to mix up.
Kai doesnt seem to care about that, either.
Other times Kyungsoo stops between Italy and China mid-stroke, kabuki brush paused,
attempting to decipher the invisible words scrawled over Kais face. They are over
everyones faces: Hyukjaes blared I want out of this place in red and Heechuls the subtler
kiss my ass in glowing green. But unlike them, Kais face is blank. Its the perfect artists
canvas, all soft eyes and closed lips, rounded cheeks with stubborn brows, and it horrifies
Kyungsoo because if he doesnt look hard enough maybe Kai is part of the set. Maybe Kai is
just a breathing ornament, designed with great pain like his favorite shoe or newest scarf.
Dont you get sick of you know, this whole thing? Kyungsoo asks, while breathing down
the hollow of Kais throat in the name of dusting Adam apples, Celery sticks and vodka
shots and sleeping pills.
Not really, Kai shrugs, picking away a loose strand of hair. His reflection judges him intently
from within the vanity mirror, If I did I wouldnt be here.
Well maybe it could be like an addiction. Like you dont really want it but its a habit, so you
crave it even though you dont really enjoy
Nope, I want it, a quick grin, Cant the same be said of you?
Its different. I come only when they ask for me, and when its all done I go home. Make
dinner. Have a life, and all the good stuff. I can still separate lipstick from blood, and
Kyungsoo wants to ask Kai to come with him tonight, maybe, for all the good stuff. Except he
knows that all he will be leading home is a hanger with designer clothes, perfect nails, and
not much else.
But you like your job, dont you?
Do you?
I dont like anything, really. What else can I do?
The thing is, Kyungsoo realizes as he watches Kai skitter down the runway legs straight and
jaws set, sporting shiny latex and inflated PVC sculpture-coats, he really cant do much else.
White isnt a color that anyone wants to buy. Like tickets to Broadway, its something that

people rent for entertainment because at the end of the day white slips between their fingers
and corrodes to dust. At the end of the day theyre all humans, and Kai is really a patchwork
of grey and gray.
-As Kai comes closer, time and space drift further. Kai makes sure that they book the same
shows and when they do, everything shifts, turns, and goes out of focus. Minute hands dont
matter because theyll be late anyway. Airport terminals and hotel corridors twist into an
elongated mbius strip and fatigue renames itself oroborus.
Kyungsoo tries to find comfort with memories of Seoul: his old apartment and its tattered
doormat, the street vendor lady who serve him extra soondae, the stilted taro plant hes
forgotten to water again. But at the end of each memory he can only remember that hes not
in Seoul, again. Broadway is too flashy, Kais scarves are waxing neon, and clocks are
useless when time zones insist there can be more than twenty-four hours in a day.
He wants something more out of Kai and hes not really sure what it is, because Kai gives
him everythingafter-hours in the cab (when he presses his knee into Kyungsoos thigh,
hands somewhere in between, and as Kyungsoo tries to keep the moaning down with teeth
in bottom lips, he only smirks), rolling around and together in the sand, catching
thunderstorms on the top of high rises in wherever they are (it doesnt matter because theyll
be electrocuted regardless the country). There are the high tides of glamour, and when it
pulls away, their body imprints in the sand, which Kai interprets as romance and Kyungsoo
as fornication. What else is there to want?
Perhaps to hold hands
How embarrassingly adolescent.
The steps of a relationship like theirs go something like this: fascination, lust, disillusionment,
rage, then the inevitable falling apart. And the fact of the matter is that Kyungsoo knows. By
the time he has memorized the curve of Kais spine and the shape of his palm, the attraction
will fade. Kai is a novelty for him (the one who flies back to Seoul), and he is just another
plaything for Kai (the one who keeps on flying) and although neither say it, its louder than
any of the words they have ever exchanged.
-Seoul comes half past noon with girls in jean shorts and big LCD screens flashing pretty
faces. In the unconsciousness of light kisses over deceitful pledges, they swerve past
familiar alleys and into Kyungsoos apartment. Its a decent-sized exercise in tinted, warm
colors. Maple and birch hardwood line the floors under white curtains, baby blue couches.
They leave footprints in the dust that has gathered over the living room, incomplete toes
dotting smudged heels.
Kai drops his suitcase anywhere as he clambers after Kyungsoos straight line to the kitchen
stools. Swinging his arm over Kyungsoos shoulder, he breathes down Kyungsoos neck
while they dig up old recipes from fraying notebooks. They point to this and that. Vegetables

look good and we havent had tofu in a while but hey we have to go to the market do you
even have any won on you oh never mind Ive still got enough whatever hyung lets go
already and the door shuts again. Dust blows out the window.
To make lunch, stir-fry kimchi until translucent, add soup base, meat, tofu, and tell Kai that
even if he drinks the whole bottle of Pinot Noir and passes out on the carpet, Youll still have
to eat. You promised.
No, Ive had
One vitamin tablet, two martinis, half an olive, seven tic tacs since twelve hours ago. You
promised youd eat with me, Kai.
Okay, I promised.
They light candles and pull the curtains shut while red wax pools on translucent holders. Kai
arranges the flowers hes picked up and pokes at Kyungsoos taro plant, makes statements
about longevity and connectivity. If Kyungsoo squints and goes along with Kai, they could be
one of those couples in the Broadway musicals singing about the joy of life while eating
plastic grapes from acrylic plates.
It might be a little spicy.
Sitting his goblet down, Kai stares with difficulty at a slice of pork laying on the spoon
Kyungsoo holds out towards him, almost as if hes forgotten the function of nutrition. The
tension in Kyungsoos stomach slowly relocates to his limbs and he bites down as Kai takes
the piece into his mouth. Chews. Swallows. No fireworks or breathless anticipation, just one
guy staring wide-eyed while the other grins, No hyung, did you pour the whole pepper jar in
here or something?
The whole meal (one bowl of rice, one bowl of soup, three glasses of wine, four slices of
radish) goes down so easily with a little light chatter and half-hearted laughter that Kyungsoo
is almost not surprised to see Kai slip away as soon as they settle on the couch.
I have to get going. Got a fitting in an hour, he says by the door, suitcase back in his hand
because he was never here to stay, Thanks for the food, hyung.
Before Kyungsoo can even respond that he, too, is leaving for a show, the door has already
clicked closed. Kyungsoo scares himself thinking that its almost as if Kai was never here at
all. He packs his bags, checks his phone on the way, and presses speed-dial one while
Taemin waits for his hair to be clipped up.
Yes hyung? Kai picks up on the fourth ring.
A beat before music, the same kind of thudding soul-numbing tracks they play down the
catwalks, crawls into Kyungsoos fingers, Where are you?
At my fitting.

For some reason when Kyungsoo shuts his eyes all he can see is Kais footprints leading to
a bathroom. He wonders if he would follow that trail. Would he then let his bones relax into
the doorframe, eyes around Kais hunched figure, and voice between Kais hacks and
whimpers? Would he smile and ask, How is it?
Youre a good cook, Kai would say. Something like that. And then he would hold up a
forefinger, all pruned skin over bulky, nodular joints so that Kyungsoo presses his eyelids
closed until the flush of the toilet. When he opens his eyes, he would catch Kai with the same
old perfection. And a little kiss of vomit on his chin.
What are you wearing?
That smile you gave me.
Except Kyungsoo is pretty sure he hears Kais breathes hitching with muffled coughs again.
The distant flush of a toilet and Kyungsoo hangs up. Turning to Taemin, he wonders if its his
fault that he cant carry on or if its Kais fault for living the wrong reality. And Taemin simply
lifts his brows, lips curved gently.
But Kyungsoo is beginning to grow tired of seeing bared teeth. He diagnoses this as the
prelude to disillusionment.
-On the shores of Cala den Serra, Kyungsoo comes to realize that there is not enough of Kai
left behind his bright scarves and husky laughter and that he cant continue a relationship
with a mannequin. Even in the mbius strip, wearing clocks with missing hands, a kiss is only
a kiss and a whisper is just a whisper. Coloring a picture is one thing but loving that picture is
another; he doesnt want something to hang on his walls because he doesnt want to be the
one to take it off.
Kai, he takes Kais face in his hands and its surprisingly warm. Kyungsoo wonders why he
ever thought it would be cold because its human, after all. Kais human, Kais a real person
named Jongin, when he feels like it, even if all of this aches like a reenactment of warmth,
Kai, do you like me?
Sure, Kai answers, voice deep and uneven. Kyungsoo falls asleep feeling awfully like
crying.
He dreams of Kai taking a week off between seasons to fly to Bavarian Alps. Ragged white
and black fangs puncturing the clouds until all of it cries an ocean of green. In the dream, he
sits at home and phones Kai with a glass of seventy-proof alcohol that tastes something like
sleeping pills, What are you up to?
Teleporting.
The radio hums with monotonous exclamations and demands and it disappears altogether
under the way Kais breaths (in, out, in, out) washes up past the receiver and right into
Kyungsoos ear. Something somethings between pants and gasps.

Please dont tell me youre living off of tic tacs and vitamin pills again.
Its part of my job.
No one told you to look like a damned wire hanger.
Hyung, you just dont understand. This is the price for perfection
But you dont have to be perfect.
No, hyung. No. I do. I want this.
Come on, Kai, Im not some stupid spectator. I know what youre playing at. You dont care if
its perfection youre going at. You just want to suffer, dont you? Youre bored and you just
want to suffer for fun because there is never enough when it comes to attention, is there? I
was your audience and you werent a model, you never were, Kai. You were just a hunger
artistfuck, Kai, you were a better artist than
Shut up!
Damn it just tell me whatever the fuck do you want? Sympathy? Admiration? Respect? Pity?
What do you want, Kim Jongin? What the fuck can I do to make things fucking enough?
Cold silence. Kyungsoo can't feel his soul.

Do Kyungsoo, dont you dare ever call me Jongin again.

And Kyungsoo dreams that after they hang up, Kai will scrunch up into a ball before the
toilet. Dipping his fleshless hands into the vomit basin, he'll scrub at his face; try to wash off
the makeup thick like icing on his face while throwing up everything from charcoal to
cigarette smoke, because what else does he eat? Half of Kyungsoo wants to imagine that he
grabs Kai by the neck and screams at him to stop, that hes perfect enough, that he doesnt
have to be. But then the other half remembers that in this dream hes in Seoul, and Kais not
even on the same continent. It's all too helpless, so he curls up in a ball. Perhaps tighter than
Kai's. Hugs his knees and kicks his phone and kisses it and hates it and consoles himself
that, At least Kai cares enough to claw the makeup off at least he knows hes wearing
makeup.
With tears cold and filmy over his lashes, Kyungsoo wakes up to a dark room and the vague
contours of Kais face. He feels Kais fingers lingering on his cheek, and Kais voice so much
softer than it had been in his dream, Hyung, Im sorry.
Sometimes things fall apart not with a raging bang, but a muffled whimper inside downfeathered pillows.
-Its either March or November when the season ends and Kyungsoo goes back to Seocho,
Seoul. Hes surprised that the key still fits in his apartment door and that his taro plant is

alive. When the soondae lady waves him over for extras as if hes never gone, and
Baekhyun from across the hall continues singing the same song in his shower, Kyungsoo
swears he cant feel his face for one reason or another. Nothing has moved on without him.
Kyungsoo thinks it might mean they were waiting for him. The stokes have to be in place
before the wheel turns and this scene, of sweltering warmth and smiles that arent on the
lips, is where he belongs. Not between time zones and passport stamps, but home.
He forgot to ask for Kais address when they parted ways in Amsterdam (was it?), though Kai
wouldnt have given him a valid one anyway.
As time passes Kai doesnt call, and its probably because hes changed his phone number,
so he convinces himself to stop waiting. Life moves on. Workshops, collaborative projects,
part-time gigs work themselves between tasting soup from the pot and bumping into
Baekyuns bright-teethed boyfriend in the hallway, who claims that his eye-twitches are due
to some sort of manufacturing defect. The taro plant finally withers, and Kyungsoo replaces it
with a calendar.
I got ripped off, he complains to the Baekhyun, when they bump into each other on the
staircase, The store owner said taro plants are supposed to last forever.
Nothing lasts forever, Baekhyun chuckles, Duh Kyungsoo, I thought you knew that much.

>>
Kyungsoos version of the post-break-up story is a pathetic photocopy of drown-yoursorrows-in-work. But this time the story goes differently because, and hes made a list for this
(on the back of a drugstore receipt with a dulled green brow-liner), onemore shows would
only mean more chance encounters with Kai; twothey havent really broken up yet; and
threethere isnt anything to break up, actually.
Kai proves the last point when Spring 2013 begins thirty-six days later in the backstage of
Vivienne Westwood. The same novel rests on his lap and hes on the same page, thumb and
glassy gaze resting on the same words and its almost as if time has never really moved for
him. White light paints ceramic planes with sharp corners over his face and leaves the rest in
inoffensive shades of graffiti-cement. Even if hes somehow rewound from a twenty-first
century Korean Gatsby (new romantice maybe) into a demented afterimage of the Baroque
boy (old pagan stains), all flourishing gold, red, and violet splaying across his cheeks like
watercolor and tea, gaunt is still gaunt and emaciated is always emaciated. Kai has changed
so little that Kyungsoo almost begins wondering if the thirty-six days of Seoul were only a
sighs length in reality.
A whirlwind of mixed French and English pounds from megaphones and into contemporary
rock beats (Westwood always has the best music), leaving Kyungsoo and Kai in the eye of
the storm where everything is still. Where Kyungsoo thinks he can hear Kais brittle fingers
gliding against rows of black ink on yellowing pages and the murmur of his pen over Kais
inner rims.

With something between boredom and passing intrigue, something that says that says just
making conversation despite the inflections, Kai grazes the blank fixation in Kyungsoos
furrowed brows. Why did you change your number?
I didnt think youd want to call me, Kyungsoo mutters, syllables soft as the stardust settling
into crevices of iridescent powder, We were just a one-time deal, prolonged.
Kai catches Kyungsoos gaze, moves his jaw lightly, but a backstage reporter breaks into the
make-up station adjacent and the storms eye looks elsewhere. Kais jaw clench again and
Kyungsoo drowns fast in the shrill chatter. Breathless and helpless. But perhaps its alright.
He imagines the woman turning to them next, stuffing the microphone in Kais face to hear
regurgitated enthusiasm, and as easily as that Kai will evade having to correct the truth.
Neither of them will protest it because they both know that this situation doesnt merit the
efforts of a lie. A singular collision in time is better brushed off than expounded.
Except Kai doesnt actually brush it off; he simply talks over it, as if hes never heard
Kyungsoo at all, My agent has two spare tickets to a Broadway show, after NYFW
Are you inviting me?
Im only trying to help you bump into me, Kai grins, but its not a joke and neither of them
are laughing.
How unironical, Kyungsoo decides, two pretending to watch a game of pretense, not the one
on Broadway but their own. And he nods along, because maybe a little bit of Kai has rubbed
off on him. Maybe he too wants to indulge a little in suffering. The charcoal in his hand is thin
enough to snap, but its still thicker than the invisible line connecting his soul to Kais
beautiful mouth.
You should try reading that, he suggests pointedly.
The words are always there, anyway. Ill read when I
They publish stuff with disappearing ink these days, you know.
Flash and someone snaps a picture of them: Kais twinkling provocateur beam, Kyungsoos
squinty fixation (and trembling hand), and the book with ink that might disappear (but theyll
never know because Kai will never see the end).
-(Sex is something like purging.)
They dont end up in Broadway. They end up in a substandard motel killing time and little bits
of each other, smearing handprints down shower doors and bucking up against white
porcelain tiles. Kyungsoo inhales humidity, obscenities, exhales heat and sparks on
fingertips, exhales torn moans and shredded sighs. Heels slip down the arch of the spine;
lips and marrow-deep sighs fuse with the shivering cartilage under Kais taut skin. And when
a name is strangled in Kyungsoos throat he realizes that he doesnt really know what to call
a subhuman concept.

(But purging is nothing like sex.)

-Zitao, intern make-up kid from Qingdao with a handful of convenient Korean obscenities,
joins Kyungsoo post-show while coordination staff clears the hall. Midnight arrived hours ago
and whisked along with it all the beautiful people to palaces of champagne and chandelier.
What remains is a hollow combination of chairs dragging against fountain floors, backstage
chaos still ringing in ears, and the mists of green glitter that manifests with every blink.
The couch is sticky on the back of Kyungsoos arm. He subconsciously counts the number of
minutes passing before he passes out with them.
Muttering about darker hues on noses and shit didnt anyone see the clumped mascara
there I told them not to blink so are we screwed or what, they take turns jabbing fingers at
the little monitor on a portable television set until Kai comes on the screen. That is when
Zitao stops digging into his bag of potato chips and rambling breathing jittering, God.
It takes Zitao a little while to come up with something more adequate. Look at him. Hes
literally flawless. Not just the proportions or the face but, like
The air, Kyungsoo provides. Its not a difficult answer. Kai puts it up on his face like a neon
board, all of his cruelly audacious suffering, above the faint lips and below the smoldering
scowl: a help me please, and a fuck your charity. Kyungsoo recalls something about a boy
boxed into a white cubicle, throwing up liquid meat and transparent soul and flushing it all
away. He lets it go.
Yeah the air about him, Zitao contemplates the snapshot, There is something awfully right
with him in the wrongest way, like hes exhausted beyond sensibility but in a really hot way
and its kinda freaky. Did you see his eyes? Its likehesemptyor something.
So hes empty, Kyungsoo thinks. How very, very clever. Maybe if he strains enough Kai can
be the purest distillation of empty. The literal essence of empty. Maybe Kai is only so
attractive because he has flushed away all of his flaws down the toilet, and so empty
because along with the flaws went the identity. Perhaps the current Kai is a living snapshot of
the seconds before Jongin disappeared, immune to time and position.
At some point Kyungsoo passes out with the minutes, while plucking out the bricks on the
wall between perfection and empty and wondering if its possible to keep one and kick the
other.
What wonderful wishful hoping.
-Stale, suffocating fog clogs Rome on the brink of spring. The clouds squeeze a shade of blue
into a gray sky, presses down on the cityscape through an invisible glass divide. Some
confetti and this could be a post-modern snow globe.

Leaning on the rusted railing of the fire escape, Kyungsoo highlights phrases in a magazine
with cigarette ashes. The concept is elegant and very chic, which is pretty much every
other concept, Antique gold on the lids, tainted, mysterious brown eyes, shimmering
cheekbones; its the old fashioned take on glamour, better to say an ennui with recycling
grunge, all very exciting.
Very exciting, he parrots, not without a scoff.
General mayhem unwinds two steps behind him, the typical photoshoot frenzy with a pinch
of panic. With a calculated drag of nicotine, Kyungsoo shuts his eyes and submerges himself
in the frantic shouting about wheres Kai werent you just talking to him; and I dont know he
was around just a second ago and he said that he needed to take a breather and I dont
know, I dont know, okay hes not the type to just walk out of shoots so Iwe cant have a
fucking shoot without the damned model, you moronbut he looked fine really, he didnt look
upset or anything I just thought...
And before he knows it hes dropped the joint down the metal staircase and scrambled past
the shouting coordinators. Sprinting down the basement corridors, makeup kit bumping
bruises on his back, Kyungsoo tries to convince himself that hes running for nowhere until
he steps into the bathroom and Bam Bam Bam, the third stall swings open to a scene that is
a little too picturesque.
Kyungsoo drops his kit and the clatter is clear, but neither of them hears it.
Kai is propped up against the wooden wall, eyes lidded and an occasional flutter of the
lashes. One arm dangles off the plastic seat, sharp elbow and jagged wrist and forefinger
drawing echoes in the water below; the other slumps, concealing something alarmingly
bright under his palm. Hes barely breathing, chest trembling under silk that exaggerates
what little motion there is, legs angled for distortion. Too long, too thin, too hard. A film of
glaring light over his chin.
Kai the first whisper comes out purely as a statement, and the second one, Kai? as a
combination of questions: why arent you moving? what is that bottle in your hand? are you
alive?
Mm, and Kai shifts in a dour attempt to lift his head. Decay takes him first so he simply
flops over. Eyes cracked and colorless. Frizzled hair smears between his cheek and the wall
and he makes an ugly squeak, Kyungsoo hyung.
Kyungsoo doesnt wait to listen to what Kai has to say before he pries the bottle out of Kais
hand and dumps a handful of pills and, These had better be
Theyre just anti-acids nd painkillers, dont worry, Kai interrupts, a bark of pathetic energy
as if to prove that all the vomit and stains and translucent skin are only effects. And maybe
they are. Just effects. Just a giant fucking neon Fuck Your Charity with a help me
now printed in the subtitles.
Youre fucking unbelievable, fucking really Kyungsoo chuckles, dry heaving laughter over
sobs, because what else can he do? Throw the little ivory tablets on the ground? Crush them

with his heel, or better yet shove them in Kais painfully red lips until he chokes and sputters
them back, raining confetti in their impeccably demented globe? Tear down the walls and
scream for everything to stop please just stop because what else can he do?
Hey, its okay, lets not get upset here, Kai mutters. The glint is back in his eye and it looks
comically pretty atop the bile and blood and smudged powder a shade too light (always a
shade too light). Youve seen this before. Fix me.
And Kyungsoo does it. A mechanical habit.
Today he skips the brushes and digs into Kais bones with fingers and beige foundation, hard
enough to bruise but not hard enough to rip because flesh is the last thing Kai has, stretched
taut and thin. Thumbing concealer under the eye and palms cupping bronze on cheeks,
forehead. Crimson middle finger over the lid, blue pinky under the waterline. Flesh gliding
over flesh, separated by a layer of artificiality. Setting powder slapped in sync with the loud
bass thumping from the corridor and its so sad, all of this, Why do I do this for you?
Its your job, Kai grins, and it might be a joke, but Kyungsoo isnt laughing anymore. He
smoothes Kais locks, shredding strands from a sticky scalp with military precision, clips
away all the excess and leaves just enough pain for it to look awfully right in the wrongest of
ways. And because Kyungsoo has ran out of laughter, Kai gives him a hand, So theres this
bar I found thats got some amazing ambiance.
(Sometimes sobs can sound a little like giggles, if you really want to believe it.)
The shoot turns out to be surrealist haute couture. Kyungsoo watches as Kai disappears
under latex petals and vinyl lips. Shutters flicker at bodies drenched in powder paint, stylized
Kabuki physiognomies. While highlighting more magazines with tar, Kyungsoo muses that
they couldve just moved the set to the fucking bathroom an hour ago for the same outcome.
-The sun comes down during Roberto Cavalli. Milan on a Friday. A haze of lukewarm light and
bitter winter outside, stuffy A/C and monochrome light bulbs for the bare-chested models
inside. Kyungsoo is assigned to Luhan, a soft-spoken Beijing boy perpetually adjusting his
emerald green pea coat and cropped purple trouser. He looks somewhat befitting of Sehuns
passing dub (oriental peacock), Kyungsoo thinks, perhaps due to how he fidgets. Unsure but
confident.
They always ask about hometowns, Luhan mumbles, as Kyungsoo slides an extra line of
talc and kaolin down his nose, But its not like they care. I mean it makes no difference to
them. Tokyo or Busan, Beijing or Bangkok, all they hear is Asian. Like the giant country of
Asia. Next time I might say that. Hi, Im Luhan and Im from Asia. Hah.
Sometimes I forget where Im from, Sehun cuts in, pressing idly on the counter while
someone snaps a photo, All this traveling and you dont reallywant to remember, and a
smug little tilt of the lips for the smart assed remark, Plus each time someone tells you who
you arecinematic Sicilian today, for examplethey tell you who you arent, which is you,
me. And then around the end of the walk, theres a second when all you can remember is a

sum of what theyve told you, which makes no sense anyway, but the problem is that you
cant remember your own name.
The worst.
Do it a few more times and youll have to check your passport as a reminder.
Im pretty sure some people dont even bother anymore, Luhan shrugs, casting his
attention across the room, But it cant be that bad. He gets to open the show. Maybe its like
a sacrifice.
The ultimate crisis. Identity or accomplishment.
Character or usability.
Imperfect human or perfect hanger.
Do you think hangers worry about things like these?
And Kyungsoo wonders, too.
-There is a certain sort of finesse in carrying on an exchange of exaggerated nothings and
Kais got it down to the very core, ghosting along drowsy syncopated tunes in the back of a
dimly lit jazz bar (quote the bar with amazing ambiance). Its not the same nowhere as the
first place they had stumbled into, all pink noses and ears and Bombay Gin on the double;
charming excited nervous darting glances on top of fumbling fingers. But its still nowhere,
since Kai is found of meeting nowhere at no time, and hes still sporting a distracting scarf
dazzling sequins added tonight for the mocking hiss of tough glamour bitchperhaps with
the hope that if it outshines him, then no one will see his jaundice-colored cheeks.
Kais voice floats along the chinoiserie and vanishes without a trace into the secular
decadence of lanterns, coppers, and cigar-infused bourbon cocktails. He talks about
everything, which amounts to zilch except maybe the familiar trail his toe skimps from
Kyungsoos ankle to his knee. Up, down, up, up, down.
Im free for the night, Kai says, One of my fittings rescheduled and I missed you, hyung.
Still Kyungsoo tries clinging onto Kais consonants (hyung) and grasps only salty lust and
soured sentiments and alcohols fuzz and the cold magic in Kais black stare and nothing.
Nothing. He catches nothing because there was nothing in the first place. A hundred and
eighty-seven centimeters of flawlessness sitting right in front of him and not the slightest hint
of an existence.
Are we in a relationship or not? Kyungsoos demand hangs awkwardly over the air. The
weary blues wheels to a standstill. An interruption of poorly-timed laughter from the
neighboring table.
Kais expression goes blank for one beat, and not a second more, My new place has a good
view of the

Kai
can see Oxford Street if you lean on the
Kai.
Theres a jacu
Kai, STOP IT!
Kai blinks. The napkin in Kyungsoos hands is rough and hard like stone. He hears himself
wheezing and hates it so bad that it only gets worse, Im Do Kyungsoo. Im Do Kyungsoo
from Seocho, Seoul and I like taro plants and I think my neighbors boyfriend is secretly a
robot, and I hate how my neighbor sings the same fucking song in the shower all the time but
I have the same habit. I watched Pororo when I was a kid and when I get nervous I forget
stuff and at one point or another, or maybe even now, I kind of want to be a chef. I clean all
the time and sort my shirts by color and type because I like control. Thats why Im a makeup artist. The control. I like the control. I like knowing what things are and what they will
become, making it and estimating it with my own two hands. Im Kyungsoo but who, really,
the fuck are you?
The silence stays. Red light splinters down Kais side, a little fuzzy around the corners. Jaws
clenched, fingers curled, and eyes soft. Its another million-dollar pose. Kai doesnt move
(portrait of fear as a young man), so Kyungsoo leaves instead.
Let me know when you figure it out.
-Italian suburbs in transition from winter to spring are best viewed at night, with rows of little
suns lining each street and the darkness drifting behind corners, wafting in with a faint scent
of daylight. The asphalt is wet and theres a light drizzle, but Kyungsoo doesnt really notice.
Hes not sure what street hes on, or what time it is, and for some reason it feels alarmingly
as if hes gotten caught up in another mbius strip and even more so that hes too lazy to
walk out of it. It might be the alcohol, except hes not drunk. It might be loss, but hes certain
he hasnt lost anything. Maybe a prolonged one-time deal with concept.
(For Kyungsoo romance is something slightly evasive, inconvenient, and nave. Its
something that you both regret getting into and out of.)
Perhaps hes fallen out of a romance, overlooking the problem that it was very
straightforward, convenient, guarded, and something like a twentieth century horror flick with
an ending that was doomed from the start. Maybe it wasnt a romance. Maybe it was just
something to regret.
(Relationships go something like this: fascination, lust, disillusionment, rage, then the
inevitable falling apart.)

So he continues dragging himself down the half-deserted sidewalks, lined with substandard
motels and sawdust restaurants. Maybe somewhere between disillusionment and rage, hell
bump into someone. The non-ideal canvas.
-No one ever pulls the disappearing act backstage of any runway, let alone Jean Paul
Gauthiers, but Kai does.
Kyungsoo is in the midst of highlighting recycled ash phrases on adolescent features when
he hears the familiar wheres Kai werent you just talking to him; and I dont know he was
around just a second ago and he said that he needed to go somewherewe cant have a
fucking show without a damned face to open it, you moronbut he looked fine really, he
didnt look upset or anything during the rehearsal so I just thought...
Once again Kyungsoo rushes down the corridors, fast as the hysterical crowd will let him,
this time with no kit thumping off his shoulders. Theres half a prayer in his throat. Half a
prayer, half a vulgarity, half a plea, half a threat.
But no semi-cadaver is there to greet him behind half-cracked bathroom doors. Just a yellow
sticky-note floating in the toilet bowl, one word scrawled on top in unmistakable handwriting:
Kai.
He flushes it down and crumbles on the tiles.
-Kai resurfaces eventually and they end up in the same functions because the intersection
between Beijing-Seoul-Tokyo-Milan-Paris-New York is terribly small like that. Sometimes
Luhan is there with Sehun and a rubix cube, generously chatty about timing and tricks and
two-minute records, to average out the fact that neither Kyungsoo nor Kai will speak first.
Sometimes Zitao pops in the corner to ogle the way Kyungsoo shapes Kais face with
wordless reverence and a pen and notepad. Sometimes the occasional photographer swings
by and takes a shot of them: Kais squinty fixation, Kyungsoos searching glances, and the
book with ink that might disappear (but it probably doesnt matter because Kai is by the end
now).
Most of the time they ride out the silence; Kyungsoo watches Kai chase words across the
pages, Kai looking into the mirror to monitor Kyungsoo every once in a while. Their gazes
miss, by a lot a little.
What do you usually think about, Zitao demands, poking his head over Kyungsoos
shoulder as he packs up his utensils at Kenzo SS13 in Beijing, when drawing on a perfect
face like that?
Making it better.
Dont you worry that youll shade things wrong? I mean, its already perfect so how do you

Its make-up, Zitao. Water, carbomer, DMDM hydantoin, acid blue. Not permanent marker. If
you do it wrong then you just start over. Plus theres no such thing as the ideal face,
anyway.
At the end of Spring/Summer, Kyungsoo catches a glimpse of Kai on television while wasting
away time in an airport terminal. Striding down the catwalk hips squared and chin tilted, he
supposedly embodies the prodigal son of the retro rock-and-roll. But not quite. Within usual
dark glower, theres an insolent prick gloating and its wrong in all the rightest ways.
Not really perfection, but very, very close.
-Dawn catches Kyungsoo in last nights jeans, sun burning into one cheek, clammy bed
sheets stuck to the other, and something buzzing in his pockets with mechanical persistence.
Kyungsoo reaches over to smack it, though somehow he ends up knocking over a stack of
notes on his pillow.
The paper tower topples in slow motion and Kyungsoo watches it with a pre-emptive groan.
This is the typical Seoul morning at home: dulled headaches and curtains being ripped open,
unread emails and milk delivery kids ringing bells one too many times. Charming, albeit
obnoxious, especially with Baekhyun singing in the shower about his mother and shooting
anonymous and how on earth he can be majoring in English, really.
But Kyungsoo thinks that this side of Seoul is more preferable than an exclusive view of blue
waves and flocking seagulls and breakfast in bed. Not very picturesque and completely
human. He flips his phone open and stares.
Im Kim Jongin, is written quite clearly in twelve-sized Batang font. Three extremely clear,
extremely foreign words.
Kyungsoo leans back into his pillow, head thudding with what should be a hangover and
some faint memory of whining drunk to an exceedingly nonplussed Baekhyun on the subject
of new taro plants.
Whos Kim Jongin?
Was hoping youd open the door and help me figure that out.
So he opens the door and Jongin simply stands there with his hands stuffed in pockets, eyes
downcast and chin digging into the collar of his off-white hoodie. Shuffled feet, disheveled
hair, callused knuckles linger over the handle of a small suitcase, neon yellow JFK-ICN
airport tag rather distracting. Cheeks pushed up and teeth biting down a nervous grin.
Ive never seen Pororo, Jongin declares, a bit too loudly, and Kyungsoo hears Baekhyuns
blinds screeching open, so he drags him inside and slams the door before Chanyeol yells
something about Im recharging and just because youre famous doesnt mean you can do
whatever okay.

Its when they hear Baekhyuns blinds slide back and the peace return that Kyungsoo notices
his grasp is too tight on Jongins wrist.
What did you say?
Im asking you to take me to see Pororo.
Kyungsoo thinks that he probably looks like a moron as he chimes, You wont regret it.
Pororo is better than Broadway.
Well see about that.
Pororo ends. Eventually Jongin puts his hoodie on again, steps out the door saying the same
Thanks for the food, hyung and slams it before Kyungsoo can ask to leave together.
Kyungsoo chews on his tongue, but itll be okay this time because Jongins left his suitcase
behind. And the dust is clearing, will clear, one day.
-Theyre booked for New York Gucci again. Haven of yellow cabs, human bodies pulsing
down the streets, hints of blue through congested clouds and construction workers poking
heads out of manholes like Whack-a-moles, Jongin claims, Wait, are you sure were on the
right street?
Summer breaks into autumn with light pouring down the sides of skyscrapers, air conditioner
too cold, hair colorists whining about this and that and models loitering everywhere theyre
not really supposed to. Typical backstage chaos. Typical middle-classed children dressed in
high-classed glamour, feet too big and smiles a little confounded, a little tired, albeit excited.
Hi, Im Luhan and my hometown is Asia, Luhan says, poker faced while a perplexed frown
crawls over the reporters brows.
He lifted it, Sehun snorts off to the side.
Kyungsoo and Jongin turn in unison, What?
Its my copyrighted poker face and he stole it, Sehun clarifies, pouting enough to hang a
spoon off his lips, though he immediately straightens up when the camera turns to him, Hi,
Im Sehun, and Im also from Asia.
The reporter seems to have seen better days when she finally sizes up Jongin, exasperated
sigh already hanging over the question, And you? Is your hometown also Asia?
I dont actually have a hometown, Jongin shrugs, But I do go to Seoul a lot.
What for?
Things, Jongin meets Kyungsoos wide-eyed stare, but he doesnt smile. And he doesnt
really need to.