Chapter Text
Changbin was seven the first time he saw fireworks.
They were these bright, vivid, avalanches of colors in the sky, right where there shouldn’t be any color other than muted blue and fluffy white and scorned yellow. The fireworks were loud and booming, a sharp whistle and then bursts of blasts that made him flinch before he frowned, confused.
“Are the stars dying?” he’d asked his father.
His father had shaken his head. “Death isn’t that dramatic. It’s a quiet affair.”
Changbin, merely a child, had wondered if that was true. Death wasn’t dramatic? Maybe. A quiet affair? Perhaps. But the fireworks were glamorous and teasing, mysterious due to the distance, leaving behind a shiver of gooseflesh as they spluttered down to nothing. And then another would take its place. Rinse and repeat, abating after a long time of taunting.
Changbin never liked looking at fireworks. They made him feel…too much of everything.
And as he stood in front of the coffin being lowered six feet under the ground, sounds of crows and the impending storm over their heads, he finally let himself feel.
Hair the color of the night behind them, silky and straight, curling just so behind the ears, skin pale and smooth, the moon held no candle to the curves of milky marble, eyes dark and enchanting, a siren’s call, a raven’s song, the sound of the seas, everything in between, lips a shy red, as if wiped away after drinking blood, still carrying the tiny upturn that suggested criminality, something that needed to be turned away from.
Changbin stared as if the man was a firework.
The man stood beside three more men wearing black; his long coat that hid his lean body from the chill around them, his folded hands that were clasped in dark gloves, leather, or silk, maybe, his feet adorned in heeled pumps, the front of them sharp, the kind that made contained thud thud thud’s when walking.
He stared at the coffin differently from the others, not in tears, not in estranged pity at the concept of the death of a loved one, not even in indifference. He stared at it almost as if it intrigued him. As if the wood of the cist would blow up into flames, as if the tight latches around it would creak open and a hand would shoot out, as if death itself was something marvelous.
Changbin heard the sounds of sobs reach his ears, never once breaking his entrapment, and he was reminded that this was his cousin’s funeral. Nonetheless, he stared at the man like he would stare at a firework; wide eyed at first, relaxing into a submissive glare of utter enchantment after a few seconds of awe, he couldn’t look away when he was a child.
He couldn’t now either.
Beautiful, he thought to himself, and then thought the word to be inadequate.
There was nothing just beautiful about the man. Everything was more. His eyes weren’t stunning, they were heart wrenching, his hair wasn’t lustrous, it was the shimmer of the ocean, his lips weren’t tulips, they were the seeds of the pomegranate. He’d eat it. He’d eat them.
Everything about him was a phenomenon. Everything about him was bewitching. Everything about him was fireworks.
The funeral ended and Changbin was led away by someone in his family, he couldn’t remember who, nor did he care, his eyes were fixed, as they were to always be now. He wouldn’t look away. He couldn’t.
And as Changbin opened the shiny door to his expensive family car, the others waiting for him inside it, his eyes were met. Just for a second, just a quick look, as if he was casually, disinterestedly, sweeping his eyes around before settling inside his own car.
His eyes were the same, nonchalant, almost rudely uncaring. And they turned away after half a second, disappearing into the car at last.
And Changbin felt the fireworks inside his heart too.
⛧
Changbin had always been told that he was a proprietary child. He would not share his toys in the playground, he would not let anyone copy from his homework, he would not let his food be eaten by someone else.
It wasn’t exactly his fault. He was the only child of an affluent family, doted on since birth, given everything and anything he would glance at. He had only learned the behavior of men, of gods. As was shown to him.
Still, as he grew older and made friends who were different, friends who he came to care for, he relearned his reactions. Little by little. Step by step. It was okay if Seungmin took his hoodie when they were young teens. It was okay if Chan asked for his headphones when they were working on music together. It was okay if Minho used his phone to call his parents when they were out.
And little by little, step by step, he told himself that he had become normal.
Changbin sat in a cafeteria with his friends. The weather was gloomy, and the cuckoos cried about the surety of the rain. The cafeteria was one they did not frequent as much, due to the way it was located, right in the middle of the city, open plan, no windows, no walls around to hide them from curious onlookers going about their day.
Changbin and his friends typically wanted just that. A reprieve. Time away from the expectant gazes, from the duties, the load always on their shoulders like Atlas’ earth, only heavier.
But Changbin insisted; said this cafeteria would be gorgeous to sit in when it rained.
And gorgeous, it was.
He stared across the wide street, where a diner stayed open twenty four seven. Changbin knew the owners, of course he did, he knew everyone, and everyone knew him. It was the same for everyone in his friend group, however, as they were sons of some of the most important people in the city. The son of the mayor, the son of a business tyrant, the son of the city’s beloved surgeons, and the son of the most famous lawyer couple.
The man—the firework—sat in the diner with the same three men he’d been with at the funeral a few days ago. They had seated themselves on a table right near the window, as if they too wanted to see the town when it rained. Changbin couldn’t blame them. It was gorgeous.
He had worn his dark hair in a half updo, thin silver glasses sitting on his sharp nose, slipping down as he stared down at what looked like a sketchpad in his lap. Changbin itched to see more, see clearer, see everything. The man’s friends seemed to be entertaining themselves on his behalf, if the slight eye roll was anything to go by. But Changbin didn’t think he actually looked annoyed, the look of vexation was the same Minho wore whenever Seungmin would inevitably do something to piss him off. Therefore; a declaration of fondness.
Changbin watched his every move without blinking, ignoring his own friends. He knew they wouldn't mind. They were talking about the latest baseball game anyway, something Changbin wasn’t typically interested in. Normally, he would at least try to act more focused on their conversation, but he couldn’t spare even a smidge of his attention.
It was all taken.
The man would brush his cheek absentmindedly, showing a thin pencil sitting between his pretty fingers, the man would dart his dark eyes up to look around his friends every few minutes, as if to remind himself to not drown into his own bubble, he would lift his lips in a half smile whenever the ones around him cracked a joke.
Changbin needed to marr all of it into memory.
He had never felt this way before. So…So curious. But curious was a word too innocent. Curious was when a small child asked why his mother never came back after she went away, curious was a cat tilting its head in confusion at a toy spring, curious was Changbin when Chan had sat him down and had slammed his thick headphones over his head, making him listen to a beat he’d made with the look on his face reminiscent of a detective trying hard to find a plaguing serial killer.
No, this was…this was thirst. There was nothing innocent in how Changbin looked at him. Perhaps morbid, yes, of course. Wanting, needing, dedicated. But innocent? No.
Changbin watched the four men leave the diner after another hour, an hour in which all Changbin did was feast his eyes. Nothing less. Never less.
His legs twitched. He wanted to go after them. The idea of not seeing him again was… unbearable. He didn’t know what to do with that. He’d never felt helpless in his life before. He wasn’t going to start now.
He’d lived in this city since he was born. He had traveled to many, many countries, but he never wanted to leave his city. It was dark and reminiscent, depressing, almost, to people who craved the sun on their skin. Changbin didn’t care.
He had the moon in front of him, after all.
Vaguely, his conscience reminded himself that this wasn’t ethical. Turn around, hurry back home, quick, before it’s too late. It didn’t matter. Changbin couldn’t look away.
The man lived alone. His house was near Minho’s family manor, perhaps a few minutes walk from it, half an hour away from the Seo Mansion itself. It was a simple two story building, with a tiny wraparound porch and a small garden. There were wicker chairs sitting on the softly lit porch, with purple orchids in a gray vase and magazines on the tabletop. The rose shrubs growing on every window sill were wet and fresh, and the sight made Changbin smile.
He watched him through his open window. The light inside his room on the second floor was dim, as if he had opened just a lamp, maybe a plethora of candles. Did he not like harsh light? Did he prefer the shine of muted candles instead? What did his room smell like? It shadowed his figure, made him look dim, but he wasn’t dull. No, he was brighter than anything Changbin had ever seen.
He looked like he was reading a book. He was enchanting. He walked back and forth in his room as he toiled over the hardcover, and the length of his room seemed to be big, with how Changbin had to wait exactly four seconds before he could see him each time he passed by. But Changbin didn’t mind waiting.
He’d changed his clothes to a more comfortable pair of a burgundy cardigan and sweatpants. So alluring. He looks wonderful in red. Changbin thought of the red and pink of his lips, thick and plump, and sighed out loud into the cold air, leaning against the lamp post, his hands warm in his coat pockets. His neck had started to twinge just a little from looking up, making a small part of him wonder how long he’d been standing here, but he couldn’t care less.
The man finally swished the curtains to a close safely, something that satisfied Changbin, and he stayed there for another half an hour, waiting for the lights to shut before he drove back home.
⛧
Hwang Hyunjin.
Hyunjin. Hyunjin. Hyunjin.
“Hyunjin,” he whispered, his voice a soft susur in the quiet of his expansive room.
Seungmin, ever the investigator, had found out the name. Changbin hadn’t asked him to, this was just another one of the constant cases of Seungmin never minding his own business.
Apparently there had been four young men who’d shifted to the city in the span of the past three months. Hyunjin had been the latest arrival, and it made sense that Changbin hadn’t noticed the other three, what with the constant work travel he’d been forced into for the better part of this year.
Seungmin had also told them the names of the others; one Han Jisung, Yang Jeongin, and Lee Felix. All of them childhood friends who had moved to the city together to look for better opportunities. He remembered Seungmin telling them more details about them, but Changbin didn’t care about the others. He’d found what he was looking for after all.
As was custom, everyone was to attend the events of the most influential family in the city, even if it were funerals. And so there, Changbin had seen him.
Hwang Hyunjin.
Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin.
“Hyunjin,” he whispered again. In the night of his room, if any of his friends saw him staring up at the ceiling creepily murmuring a name to himself, they would have thrown him out of the balcony without hesitation.
Changbin licked his lips before saying the name to himself again. He couldn’t get enough of it. It was a name fitting the person. Heavy, light, impactful. Hyunjin meant truth, Hyunjin meant treasure. So fitting.
In the next week, Changbin found out that Hyunjin was an intern at the local art store. He painted in his free time, and he liked canvases and sketch pads the best, specifically watercolors and charcoal. Acrylics were next in line, although he got frustrated with them the most as well. He liked to drink milk coffee, but he frequently forgot to ask the barista to add in that extra swig of caramel, often wincing as he took his first sip of it. In fact, Changbin had not seen him drink anything other than harsh caffeine, a little concerning, but well, Changbin was guilty of caffeine addiction as well.
Hyunjin liked sitting on that one bench in the park, the one furthest away from the circle where adults and children alike would spend their time. Apart from his friends, they all seemed very close, Hyunjin did not like hanging around other people. He favored wearing red tones the most, even in the comfort of his own home, and a constant theme of gloves and long leather coats made an appearance when he went outside.
He had a mole under his right eye, and he had a habit of biting his lower lip when he was concentrating; this came out the most when he would find himself engrossed in his art. He liked caressing the spines of the books as he walked past them, and he would rub his gloved fingers together after to diminish the dust settling on the fabric.
Hyunjin wasn't the biggest fan of spicy food, attested by one of his friends, Jisung, pranking him by switching his and Jeongin’s shrimps one outing. Hyunjin had turned red and sweaty almost immediately, swatting the back of Jisung's laughing head as he flapped his hand at Felix for a sip—several sips—of his strawberry soda.
Changbin was enamored, to say the least.
Changbin was obsessed, to say the truth.
Of course, his friends noticed. Chan, Minho, and Seungmin were observant, a product of their childhoods or just them in their truest form. Chan mentioned it first.
“Where do you run off to these days? It seems like we can't get a hold of you for more than a few hours.”
Changbin had shrugged and said something about work and making music, and Chan had nodded in response, relating to him but also skeptical. He knew not to push.
Seungmin was next; questioning in a much less empathetic way than Chan had. As was Seungmin.
“Why did you bail on yesterday's lunch? If you ditch on Saturday, hyung, I'll throw your laptop in the pool. For real, this time.”
And of course, Minho. Minho was Minho. And he didn't question. No, he stated.
“You've been distracted.” Sitting in front of Minho's house pool, the Lee Mansion was a stark contrast to the house Changbin actually wanted to be near right now. “Since Byeongho’s funeral.”
Changbin opened his mouth to say something but Minho cut him off in pure Minho fashion, “I know you couldn't give less of a fuck about Byeongho, Changbin, whatever comes out of your mouth next should be good.”
Changbin turned to him. Minho in his dark tee, sunglasses more expensive than any normal kid's tuition tucked up in his hair, his under eyes bruised with circles, lips pale and chewed. If anyone else looked at Lee Minho, they would see perfection, someone they couldn’t touch, someone who was worlds apart from them. Because that was what he was, was supposed to be. But Changbin saw Minho. Perfection…and maybe just a little bit of insanity.
“Are you coming to the club on Saturday?” Changbin asked instead.
Minho stared at him for a second. And then his lips turned into a sharp grin.
It was a celebration, a loose term. The pseudo anniversary of Seungmin's older brother becoming a neurosurgeon. His brother was also here at the club, just in another section altogether. He and Seungmin didn't mesh well. Really, all Seungmin wanted was to get wasted before he got home lest he face his parents’ doting on his brother sober. Changbin thought it would genuinely kill Seungmin if that happened.
The club was dark and daunting, a cave of neon lights and bassy, borderline cringe renditions of pop music. One look at Chan's grimace told Changbin everything he'd needed to know about his thoughts. Alas, Chan was astute in his opinion that no art was bad, and that ‘bad’ art should be allowed to exist as itself. Changbin knew Seungmin, if he were sober, would have stalked up to the DJ stand and changed the music himself.
Changbin wasn't a fan of drinking, never one to fall victim to voluntary incapability. He sat next to Chan and Minho as Seungmin knocked down three back to back shots of gin and vodka. One would assume this was another being altogether. Surely Kim Seungmin, the son of renowned, beloved, surgeons of their city, ever the pristine and clinical youngest child, wouldn't be knocking back alcohol without a flinch sitting in a private, permanently reserved, booth with his three influential friends.
Surely not.
Changbin kept an eye on his friends, mostly just Seungmin, since neither Chan nor Minho were fond of alcohol poisoning either, and was grateful that he had designated himself the driver for tonight's get-together. Minho's speedy driving would have made Seungmin puke within seconds, and Chan was basically a helicopter parent but with even more control issues.
He sighed through his nose, pressing his lips together as Minho's phone rang with a call from his mother. The man rolled his eyes and shifted to leave the table, his black turtleneck making him disappear into the darkness within seconds.
“It's not even eleven yet,” Chan said into Changbin’s ear. Changbin simply nodded, a flutter of worry springing inside his chest for his friend.
“Let's hope he doesn't flip out. That never ends well,” Changbin replied, although he wasn't sure if Chan heard with how Seungmin chose that moment to lean over the railing and let out several loud whoops as the song changed into a more funky EDM beat.
Changbin helped Chan force Seungmin back into his chair, eyes roving the ground floor of the club automatically.
He froze.
Yanking Chan's collar back so that he could lean forward and properly look, Changbin stretched over him to stare past the railing. Chan, half confused, half amused, watched as Changbin's face turned from grumpy-but-still-caring friend to something else. Something he couldn't quite place.
“Take care of Seungmin, text me when Minho's back or if we need to leave.”
And with that Changbin was gone.
He heard Chan call out for him but he ignored him, knowing that he was capable enough to take care of himself and Seungmin. If Minho came back unhappy from his call, Changbin might have to go back. But he wasn’t waiting around to find out.
Hyunjin danced on the main dance floor with two of his friends, Felix; the one with the long blond hair and freckles on his sunny face, and Jisung; the one with the youthful cheeks and warm, brown eyes. Changbin saw the fourth one, Jeongin; with his keen eyes and dimpled smile, hurry towards his friends with drinks balanced precariously in his hands.
But none of that mattered now.
Changbin leaned back against the wall behind him, happy that the club was clean enough for him to do so, and watched. He watched.
Hyunjin was a star. He burned brighter than any other person dancing around them, he invited looks of longing and admiration from everyone, and Changbin was none but another one of his adherents.
His hair was free tonight, unclipped and unabashed in how it fell over his luminous face, damp and a little glittery in the neon lights around them. His skin shone like pearls of the ocean; Changbin wanted to trace the rivulets of sweat cascading down his temple, his cheek. His eyes were whetted in the lambent of the lights, gleaming darkly even in their effulgence. He watched as Hyunjin threw his head back and laughed at something his friend said, his red lips honed like a knife right through Changbin’s heart, sharp and saccharine.
His shirt was a shimmery green, not unlike the color of the freshest leaf of summer, or perhaps the deepest droplet of the seas. Changbin watched the way his silver necklace sat low on his chest, his long fingers decorated with rings, forgoing the usual gloves. His ears had on blue jeweled studs, twinkling as he moved just so.
Changbin felt his heart reach his throat, as it often did whenever he looked at Hyunjin, but it wasn’t an anxious feeling. No, it was a feeling so full that he didn’t feel learned enough to name it. Other things he felt, petty emotions such as anger, jealousy, fear, even happiness, all paled in comparison to how this felt.
His chest filled with a honeyed sweetness, his head floating above the clouds, his fingers twitched as he crossed his arms, needing to be near, needing to touch. But this was alright for now. Watching Hyunjin, seeing him in all his glory, was more than what he could have asked for.
Hyunjin danced with his friends, allowing them to wrap around him and touch him. Jisung forced himself away from the group to take a call, and Jeongin fitted himself behind Hyunjin, Felix to his front. They moved in a way that screamed familiarity. Hyunjin looked more than comfortable, head thrown back on Jeongin’s shoulder as Felix danced and laughed right on the skin of his neck.
Changbin watched Hyunjin, drinking in the joy on his face. A sigh escaped him, readily dissolving in the heat and music of the club. It was strange, even to Changbin. He was half ready to feel jealous, possessive at the thought of someone touching Hyunjin, all in a maniacal manner, since Hyunjin did not know who he was, nor did Changbin, not fully, not yet.
But it was what Changbin had expected. The second he wanted something, it had to be his and his alone. That was the way he’d grown up, and not just him, all of his friends. Their world was different, it was indulging, a tad bit too much. It had the wells of darkness, of course it did for even the moon had a dark side, but Changbin had long since stopped focusing on the pain.
Even now, he waited to feel anger, jealousy. Jeongin pressed his lips to Hyunjin’s ear as he whispered something to him, and Felix laughed at them as if he’d said something hilarious. When Jisung came back, Hyunjin pulled him into their little impromptu dance circle, and Jisung went willingly, sneaking a kiss on both Felix and Hyunjin’s cheeks, threatening Jeongin with one as the youngest flailed away as far as he could without detaching himself from Hyunjin completely.
All Changbin felt was satisfaction. Of course, of course, Hyunjin should be doted on just like this. He should be cherished and idolized, more than anybody in this horrid club. Changbin knew one thing for sure, he could do it better than anyone, he could worship Hyunjin better than anyone, make him feel good, make him feel loved.
But as long as Hyunjin smiled like that, as long as the glow rested on the apples of his cheeks, Changbin would sit back and enjoy. And enjoy, he did.
Jeongin and Felix, after long minutes, shifted to move away, perhaps to get more drinks, perhaps towards the restrooms. Jisung latched himself to Hyunjin as they left, but after another minute, his face etched into a frown as a call interrupted them again and he sent a look of apology towards Hyunjin. Hyunjin shook his head calmly and nodded; Jisung pressed another kiss on his cheek and slipped away after murmuring something to him.
As Hyunjin let out a breath and danced alone, Changbin felt himself alerted more, watching him sharply. The people around Hyunjin were mostly keeping to themselves, and the ones who would gyrate a bit too close or wrap a hand around him for a second or more were ignored easily enough.
It seemed that Hyunjin bloomed brighter alone, not that he wasn’t happy with his friends, but now he shined. He moved soulfully, uncaring of anyone watching him, anyone judging him. He was reminiscent of an angel, mystical and hazy, yet just as demoniacal. Changbin couldn’t imagine looking at him from closer than a few feet, sure that he’d burn into ashes the second he would turn those seraphine eyes on him.
The song turned into a slower, R&B number, one Changbin remembered Chan listening to often when they were younger. Hyunjin followed along to the changes as if he knew what was to come, perhaps he did, he was everything and so clairvoyance wouldn’t be a concept foreign to him, Changbin thought to himself.
His brows twitched as a man with tattoos all over his neck slithered closer to Hyunjin and wrapped his arms around his middle, pulling him closer to his person. He waited, watching Hyunjin’s face as he turned around a little as if to check who it was before he frowned and moved away. But the other male let out a laugh that made Changbin’s ear scorn even if he couldn’t really hear it and yanked Hyunjin closer, mashing his sweaty face to his neck.
Hyunjin’s perfect face shifted into one of irritation, his eyes losing their flicker as he said something to the man, and even Changbin, from where he was, could tell how negative it was. The man only grinned and laughed something back, his fingers harsh on Hyunjin’s forearms.
Changbin had felt anger before. It wasn’t his favorite emotion. He knew Chan hated it, Seungmin was built on half eager anger threatening to burst forward at most times, and Minho was of the mind that anger was an important, equal emotion to any other.
But Changbin didn’t love it. It was greasy and thick, tar-like as it sat low on his throat and wretched him to say and do things that he regretted later. But it was always simmering, never a volcano, always just a shred of lava. He had learned to control his wrath, his childhood was filled with broken bones and broken toys after all, and so he wasn’t at war with it, not anymore.
But when he saw the slight flinch on Hyunjin’s face as he attempted to wrench free of the other male’s grip, Changbin felt the lava rise up to his teeth. He was moving before he could understand it fully. From his peripheral vision, he could see Felix and Jeongin come back from the restrooms, so he knew Hyunjin wouldn’t be alone again after.
Before Felix and Jeongin reached him, Changbin had already budged past the crowd, making sure Hyunjin saw nothing but the rush of the people around him, and just as his friends appeared and Hyunjin turned to look at them, Changbin dug his fingers into the tattooed man’s neck and ripped him away.
The man yelped and stumbled but Changbin did not let go of him, jaw gritted and eyes unblinking as he dragged him towards the backdoor of the club. Once he had the door opened and had thrown the man outside, he glanced back to check that Hyunjin was with his friends, safe and sound, before he shut the gate behind him.
The night had turned colder, his breath showing in white as he looked at the man who had pressed himself to the opposite wall, breathing harshly as he frowned at Changbin.
“What the fuck, dude?”
Changbin let himself take one moment to calm the heat charing him from the inside and then he walked forward, making the man let out a shaky, terrified breath and plaster himself fully into the wall behind him.
If Changbin was in his right mind, he would have laughed at how this man who had a couple of inches on him and looked to be much older was cowering like a little boy. Nevertheless, Changbin was not looking to be amused right this moment.
He stopped just a few inches away from the man, staring at him. “Did he not tell you not to touch him?”
The man looked as if he was new in town. He did not seem to recognize who Changbin was, and he wasn’t running for his life right now. He just frowned deeper in confusion before his eyes lit up, although a new edge of fear burned in them. “What? Man, I-I was just looking for a good time tonight.” He let out a nervous little chuckle, as if that would lead to Changbin empathizing with him.
“Did he not tell you not to touch him?” was all he repeated, his tone leaving no room for error.
The man swallowed and tried to slip past him but Changbin snatched him by the neck, making him gasp and claw at his wrist. “What the fuck! Dude! I-Let me go, he was the one who was all up on me, he wanted it!”
Changbin looked at him blankly, forcing the creeping char down again. He tightened his grip on the man’s neck and he choked disgustingly. He heaved in a panicked breath and continued, digging himself deeper, “Look, I’m sorry, okay, I’m-I’m sor-I didn’t know he was your bitch, man, I’m sorry, you can keep him, just let me go, ple-”
Changbin’s fist moved before he could allow it, a guttural sound of a gargled scream and bone crunching echoing in the alley as the man flopped on the ground, holding his bleeding, definitely broken, nose as he wailed.
Wasting no time, Changbin crouched and seized his hair in his grip, yanking him upwards. The man winced, eyes shutting close, and Changbin used his other hand to choke him again, making his eyes fly open in alarm.
“Never say that again,” he hissed at him, the sound haunting in the dead of the alley. “Never. Do you understand?”
The man sobbed out loud, trying to scramble away to the opposite wall again.
“Changbin?”
Both the men looked to the right as the new voice came. The bloody male cried again. “Help me! Dude, please, he’s fucking crazy.”
Changbin only looked at Minho as he put his phone in his pocket and walked forward leisurely, looking down his straight nose at the sniveling man. He didn’t even blink, hands inside his pockets casually, and turned towards Changbin. “What did he do?”
Changbin let a small smile come up his lips as the other man widened his eyes, looking between the two, connecting the dots. “Fuck-”
“Is it a problem if blood gets on your top?” Changbin only asked.
Over the dreading sobs of the other, Minho tilted his head and pursed his lips, eyes blank in a way that would have sent any normal, grown man running in the opposite direction. “I won’t be happy with it. But I need a distraction right now.”
Changbin knew he could trust Minho, just as he could the other two. However, he also knew Seungmin was not interested in physical exertion, and Chan’s moral compass was the healthiest out of all of them. Minho was the perfect blend of physical prowess, thanks to his fifth degree black belt in taekwondo, and a twisted ethical code, thanks to his upbringing.
But Changbin did not need Minho to beat this man up even if the older needed a distraction. No, Changbin needed to feel his own knuckles redden and tear with blood. He needed to hear the snap of bones and skin himself. He needed to set an example.
Minho and Changbin returned to the club after less than an hour, sifting through the floors to settle into their booth as if they hadn’t even left.
As Chan and an inebriated Seungmin caught sight of them, Changbin peered down the railing to trail his eyes without pause. He couldn’t see Hyunjin or his friends there anymore.
An uneasy feeling settled inside him, wanting to see whether Hyunjin had reached home safely, what he was doing, if he had gone to sleep yet, but he cleared his throat and looked ahead as Chan realized that Changbin’s hands were bloody and swollen, while Minho looked like he’d come out of a fucked up magazine shoot, what with the splashes of liquid red on his neck and jaw. Changbin wanted to laugh at how Minho had lazily tried to wipe them away but then had let them be, clearly not giving a fuck at the idea of someone seeing him blood ridden.
“What the fuck…” Chan blinked and then shook his head. Seungmin blinked at them with unfocused eyes beside him. Chan watched them both from under his brows. “Is he alive?”
Minho nodded.
“No cameras?”
Minho let out an easy sigh, stretching his arms over his head as if he hadn’t just helped beat a grown man into near pulp. “Back alley.”
And if Chan noticed Changbin's uncharacteristic silence, he did not say anything in response.
⛧
Changbin knew little to nothing about art, figuratively or literally. Most of his, rather stilted, knowledge came from half dozing, half watching as Minho went on a binge to finish every single documentary produced in the world, as he often did. Neither Minho liked the art ones, as seen by his constant frowns of skepticism, nor did Changbin, as seen by how he couldn’t keep his eyes fully open for more than three minutes each time.
However, he had done his research, reading through articles and asking Seungmin, the only one from their group refined enough to have been to the Louvre, who gave him some pointers, confused by his sudden intrigue but interested enough in a Changbin who was moving out of his usual interests (that Seungmin knew of, at least); i.e; the gym, work, and food.
Changbin carefully wrapped the fragile brown paper around the box of watercolors, checking over the bouquet that held onto the paint brushes. The watercolors had been recommended by Seungmin, who had found one of the most sought after, and expensive ones, and had suggested them to Changbin.
The paint brushes, well, Changbin knew Hyunjin wanted these.
Hyunjin frequented the many art supply stores in the city. It seemed that one of his favorite ways to spend his free weekends were to visit different art stores, even the ones on the outskirts of the city. He would murmur the names of the supplies to himself, tilting his head cutely to observe the length and width of the canvases, tapping softly on top of the brushes as he went past them.
On one of his recent visits, Changbin saw him stand in front of a bunch of paint brushes for at least three minutes, staring down at them with a serious gaze and chewed lips. Changbin watched on, confused and curious, as he flipped the paint brushes to take a quick look at the price printed on them before he cleared his throat and kept it back carefully.
And so, Changbin had immediately gone to the same art store a few hours after and had bought the paint brushes. He wondered whether it was an impulse, seeing Hyunjin’s face in even the vaguest expressions of unhappiness had triggered the need to put the happy, serene look back.
The salesgirl had bowed and greeted him nervously, introducing him to other pricey supplies. She knew if anyone could buy them, it’d be Changbin. However, Changbin knew what he needed. He simply asked her to wrap the same pouch of paint brushes Hyunjin was looking at and the girl raised both brows slightly.
“This is one of our limited edition items,” she explained as she rang it up. “Sable hair paint brushes are very delicate and in demand. We only have one of these in our store, due to its price and export conditions.”
Changbin nodded easily. He handed her his black card and looked at the paint brushes secured carefully in soft tissue papers. A smile on his face, he bid the salesgirl as he left.
Hyunjin and his friends loved to spend their Sunday evenings in the Flower Park. The Flower Park was one of the city’s most beloved tourist destinations, decorated with more types of flowers than Changbin had ever seen, romantic walkways, stalls selling yummy sweets, and a hedge maze which held different kinds of flora on each turn, making it a popular photoshoot spot.
Changbin chose those few hours to visit Hyunjin’s house. He got out of his car, unflinching in the drizzling and chilly air, and carefully placed the brown paper wrapped gifts on Hyunjin’s porch table, right next to the magazines and vase. He caressed the flowers as he stood there for a moment, wondering whether his fingers had touched the same place Hyunjin’s fingers could have touched before.
He glanced at the gift once more, straightening the small card that peeked out of the burgundy ribbon tying it all together. He’d written a small note, the red ink glimmering back at him, nothing too fancy, everything Hyunjin was worthy of and more.
You deserve to create the kind of art you want.
⛧