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It was almost natural cause and effect, like thunder following lightning, or a landslide post-earthquake: the world saw Wonbin and fell in love with him. Shotaro was no exception when they first met. Wonbin hadn’t been fully-formed then; his hair cropped short, his eyes trained downward, and his Ulsan accent extra-foreign to Shotaro’s ears, then still new to yo instead of desu . And it wasn’t quite love, not yet. Anticipation, maybe, of the beginning of something more. Maybe Wonbin had felt it too, and that’s why they connected so effortlessly, despite the years and languages and experiences between them. Sometimes you decide to love someone before you actually do.
It had felt special then, loving Wonbin. But then came their debut, and the stages, the photoshoots, the brand deals, and the constant presence of snapping cameras. Front and center amidst it all: RIIZE Wonbin, 5th-generation visual genius it-boy. Now, he was the nation’s first love.
But here’s what the fans don’t get to see: Wonbin napping with eyes and mouth open on the couch, yesterday’s carton of chocolate milk left to spoil on the armrest. Trudging into the kitchen after said nap, hair cowlicked and drool crusted in one corner of his mouth, eating pickled radish straight from the jar. Flipping Eunseok off when Eunseok calls him out on it. Making up after, with a headbutt to the shoulder, since his fingers are wet with pickle brine.
“Ready to go?”
“Mm.” Wonbin grunts noncommittally, eyes still gummed half-shut.
Shotaro laughs, and chucks him under the chin. Wonbin pulls away, wrinkling his nose. He’s prickly, but irresistible to touch, like the burr of a chestnut or the fur of a street cat. Shotaro wants to pet him just to feel him bristle. Does so, but this time, Wonbin accepts the touch, leaning into Shotaro’s palm.
“Let’s go then,” Shotaro gives Wonbin’s hair one last tousle before heading out the door. Wonbin follows close behind, Shotaro’s shadow for now.
In Lisbon, the days are long. The sun is a different color here than in Seoul, and tempura-washes everything golden in its light.
Shotaro ducks behind the camera and there’s the Wonbin that everyone sees on screen: lounging leonine against a stone bolster, gaze liquid hot under the brush of his flaxen hair, cargo pants slung low to show the dip of his tawny hips. A snapshot of desire.
After the shoot, they celebrate with egg tarts and local beer. As usual, Eunseok is the first to turn in, joined shortly by Sungchan, and when Sohee wrestles out of his hyungs’ tipsy embrace to shower, Chanyoung eventually follows before the hot water runs out. That just leaves Shotaro and Wonbin, sitting knee-to-knee on the balcony, cooling off in the summer night air. Shotaro keeps laughing at nothing at all.
“You love it here that much, hyung?” Wonbin elbows him, grinning.
“I love this city, I love this mood, and I love you,” Shotaro sing-songs, looping an arm around Wonbin’s waist. Wonbin stiffens at the last line. Shotaro pretends to pout, but he pats Wonbin’s back placatingly, lightly, ready to pull away on cue.
“This is the part where you say ‘I love you, too,’ Wonbin-ah,” Shotaro chides him gently.
“...If I did, I wouldn’t mean it the same way you do.”
Shotaro turns. He can tell Wonbin’s blush is real and not some powder they dusted on him for the shoot. It’s a full-face flush that starts in his forehead and fills the shells of his ears. Shotaro laughs again, half-reflex, half-excuse, in case Wonbin wants to take it. But Wonbin doesn’t smile back, just looks at him with reproachful, red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m serious, hyung.”
“Eh?”
Shotaro blinks. Seeing is believing, so Shotaro follows the line of Wonbin’s red gaze, back to his own mouth.
“Wonbin,” Shotaro searches Wonbin’s face. He doesn’t want to misunderstand. “Do you like me?”
“I thought it was obvious,” Wonbin ducks his head, hair hiding his expression. “You’re always staring at me, after all. I thought you already knew.”
Shotaro swallows. “I didn’t—you’re always looking somewhere else.”
“Because I didn’t want you to see.”
Shotaro wants to see now. Carefully, he parts the curtain of Wonbin’s hair.
In Japan, doing this in public would be daytime drama levels of scandalous. In Korea, it would be career suicide. But they are not in Japan, or South Korea; they are in some far-flung country continents away, where there are cathedrals everywhere, and no one else but them.
Shotaro has always been one to act on spontaneity. It’s something that’s always irked stringent, serious Wonbin in the practice room. But he doesn’t protest when Shotaro crowds him against a limestone wall and cups his slim jaw with one hand. And his lips are soft and inviting when Shotaro leans in to taste.
Wonbin tastes like pale ale, and salt, and that sponsored Black Cat Rose Jelly lip tint he actually uses, stubborn, silly—
“Taro-hyung,” Wonbin whines, hushed. Their lips pull apart sticky.
“You don’t want to?”
“The managers—”
“Are asleep. And there’s no fans, no cameras anywhere. It’s okay.”
Wonbin shakes his head. “You haven’t given me an answer yet.”
Shotaro brushes Wonbin’s hair back. “Wonbin-ah, look at me.”
Wonbin does look up at Shotaro, and his expression then—only for Shotaro to see. Shotaro smiles and closes his eyes, chasing the afterimage.