Work Text:
The studio lights are flat. Diffused. Everything is beige and sharp-edged and sterile, like someone took a Pinterest board titled "Timeless Elegance" and stripped it of anything that could be mistaken for a heartbeat.
Felix stands just off-camera, arms crossed over his chest, watching a model adjust the sleeve of a sand-coloured blazer for the fifth time. The stylist's assistant flutters nervously beside him, holding pins and a garment bag like weapons in a silent war against entropy. Felix doesn't even glance at her, his eyes are fixed on the monitor, where the director is murmuring something about "understated sophistication."
He wants to scream.
Instead, he smiles. Just enough to pass for polite interest, and pretends to study the hemline. It's a good blazer. Technically perfect. Tailored. Crisp. Lifeless.
Someone hands him a lint roller. He accepts it without looking and pats down the model's shoulder. The fabric is high-quality wool, imported, responsibly sourced. Beige, like everything else in the room.
"Just make sure the cuff shows exactly half an inch," the creative director says, sipping a green juice. She's dressed head to toe in grey. Not silver, not charcoal... Just grey. The kind that exudes blunt authority and no imagination.
Felix nods, says, "Of course," then turns away before his mouth can betray him.
Behind the racks of neutral garments and the hum of low conversation, he finds a folding chair tucked in a corner of the set. His sketchbook is there, half-hidden beneath his crossbody bag, and he snatches it up. He flips past pages of old looks, scribbled notes, and mood boards that never saw daylight. Then he lands on a blank page.
His pencil moves fast. Sharp angles. Swirling organza. Shocking asymmetry and colour, envisioning a slash of chartreuse across jet-black vinyl, corsetry tangled with punk elements, gloves that double as sculptural pieces. The figure is faceless, but bold. Like whoever's wearing it walked out of a dream set on fire.
"Is that for one of the clients?" a voice interrupts.
Felix looks up too quickly. One of the producers is standing beside him, sipping a matcha latte with oat milk and an alarming amount of confidence.
Felix closes the sketchbook. "Just an idea."
The producer glances at the book, unimpressed. "Cool. Just make sure the next look is steamed before we roll again. We're going to do a slow pan on the fabric texture."
As he walks away, Felix lets the smile drop. His jaw tightens. The buzz of fluorescent lighting above him sounds like static in his ears. Around him, the team moves efficiently, adjusting softboxes, rearranging props, nodding at monitors. Everyone knows their role. Everyone is satisfied. Everyone is asleep with their eyes open.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Back on set, the camera pans over the model in Look Four. Another beige-on-beige ensemble with a splash of ivory if you squint hard enough. "A celebration of restraint," the creative director had said in the pitch meeting. Felix had nodded, sketched something safe, and buried what he really wanted to make six pages deep in his notebook.
The rest of the shoot bleeds together in a muted blur.
Look Five. Linen trousers. Cream blouse with an architectural shoulder that was apparently "inspired by Brutalist architecture." Felix pins the collar. Someone asks for more powder. Someone else asks for less lip tint.
He nods. He adjusts. He smooths. He smiles.
The model changes. The lighting resets. The room buzzes with quiet, professional urgency.
By hour five, even the playlist seems to give up, looping into ambient electronica, the kind that fills the air without being noticed. Felix stares at the monitor as the model walks slowly across frame, an ivory trench billowing behind her like the ghost of a personality.
He doesn't remember packing up. The shoot ends with polite bows, lukewarm praise, and an Uber ride booked automatically by the assistant that he didn't even ask for. Felix's arms ache from holding a steamer too long. His spine feels coiled, like his body is bracing for a crash that hasn't come yet.
Outside, Seoul glows with early evening haze. Lights flicker on across building façades, casting sharp geometric reflections on passing car windows. He doesn't notice. He's scrolling mindlessly, fingers flicking through his phone, not reading.
The car stops. He barely remembers the ride.
The building he lives in is quiet, tucked into a tree-lined street just far enough from the main road to feel private. As the elevator dings open, he sighs through his teeth and steps out, into another world entirely.
His apartment smells like bergamot and dusted sugar from the candle he forgot to blow out this morning. The door clicks shut behind him and, immediately, his shoulders drop two inches.
Here, the beige ends.
The living room is compact but open, the walls painted a warm pale yellow with one bold feature wall in a deep teal. Hanging on it are mismatched frames, some holding abstract prints, others filled with candid photos of his best friend Jisung, Jisung's partner Minho, and a few chaotic Polaroids of late nights and glitter eyeliner.
The couch is a mustard yellow velvet monstrosity that everyone teased him for buying, but Felix loves it. It's covered in throw cushions in clashing patterns: florals, geometrics, one shaped like a strawberry. A plush sage green blanket draped over the back like a cape. A stack of fashion books sits on the coffee table next to a chipped mug filled with coloured pencils.
Potted plants are clustered on the windowsill, trailing ivy, a tiny lemon tree, and a half-alive succulent he refused to give up on. It even has a name tag - Baby Groot, courtesy of Jisung's last visit.
It's... Home.
Felix exhales and lets his weight collapse into the sofa, limbs splaying out like a marionette with its strings cut. His eyes slip shut. For a long, humming moment, he just exists, cushioned by colour, wrapped in the scent of bergamot and cotton, surrounded by things that make sense.
Then his phone rings.
He groans into a pillow, but the sound dies in his throat when he sees the name flashing across the screen:
Jisung 🌞
His mouth tugs into a smile before he can stop it.
Jisung has always been that kind of person, sunlight in human form, equal parts chaos and comfort. They'd been best friends since they met at University, and discovered that they'd been born just one day apart. Their friend group had nicknamed them "the sunshine twins", and it had stuck.
They'd been inseparable from then, bonding over anime marathons, late night ramyeon runs and shared panic over project deadlines.
Now, Jisung was running one of the fastest-growing marketing firms in the country, alongside his impossibly beautiful and freakishly competent boyfriend, Minho.
They'd built it from the ground up by themselves after Minho left the sprawling chaebol conglomerate he'd been born into. For love. For Jisung.
Felix had never been able to find it in him to be envious, too happy for Jisung that he'd finally found everything he ever dreamed of in life and love.
He answers the call, smile still tugging at his lips.
"Did you kill the succulent yet?"
"Hello to you too," Felix says, dragging a throw pillow over his stomach. "And no, Groot lives. He's a survivor."
Jisung scoffs. "Felix, he has one arm and looks like he has clinical depression."
"He's just going through a phase."
"So were your bangs in second year and we both saw how that turned out."
Felix laughs, the sound loose and genuine, and leans his head back against the sofa. Jisung always knows how to knock the edges off a hard day.
"I saw the behind the scenes photos of your client's campaign on Instagram today," Jisung says. "That shoot looked like a funeral for joy."
"It was. I styled Look Four. Beige blazer, beige blouse, beige belt, beige trauma."
"You need to come up for air."
"I need to be reincarnated as someone who allegedly enjoys 'quiet luxury.'"
"You need to come to Incheon."
Felix closes his eyes.
The silence stretches for just a second too long, and Jisung seizes the opening like a shark smelling blood in the water.
"Come tomorrow," he says, voice bright and coaxing. "It's Saturday so you don't have work. No excuses. Minho's already planning to cook."
Felix groans softly. "That's emotional manipulation."
"It's strategic encouragement. Also... He's making galbi-tang."
Felix's stomach clenches on instinct. He can already taste the slow-simmered broth, the fall-off-the-bone short ribs, the way Minho always adds just a little extra garlic because he knows Felix likes it that way.
"You're a terrible person," Felix mutters.
"I'm a great person. I just happen to weaponise soup. Come early. Sleep in the spare room. You can live out your fantasy of being an unbothered rich aunty visiting from the city."
Felix presses his fingers to his temple. "I was really looking forward to wallowing in despair this weekend."
"Well, now you're coming to eat your feelings in a house with good cocktails and complimentary judgment."
He exhales through a smile. Even when he tries to resist, Jisung's voice is already untying the knots in his chest.
"Fine," Felix groans. "I'll pack a bag."
"Yes!" Jisung crows. "You won't regret this. Or you might, but at least you'll be full and warm and slightly tipsy, which helps."
Jisung hums, pleased with himself. "I'll tell Minho to make extra rice. You know he pretends he doesn't but he always does when you're coming."
Felix chuckles, already picturing it, Minho in his apron, tasting broth like it's a sacred ritual, barely hiding how much he enjoys fussing over people, especially when he can pretend he's not.
"Tell him I'll do the dishes."
"Absolutely not," Jisung says. "You've earned guest privileges. You're legally forbidden from lifting a finger."
"I could at least wipe the table."
"You could sit there and look pretty. That's the most you're allowed to contribute."
Felix laughs, head tipping back against the cushion. The tension that had knotted between his shoulders since sunrise is finally starting to ease.
"I'm glad you're coming," Jisung adds, voice softening, real now in the way it always gets when he drops the act and lets the love show. "It's been a while. We miss you."
Felix closes his eyes.
"I miss you too."
"Goodnight, baby," Jisung says gently. "We'll see you tomorrow."
The call ends.
Felix stays there for a moment, phone resting face-down on his thigh, the silence stretching around him like a soft throw blanket. Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, water runs through old pipes. The world is still turning.
He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. Ironic, really.
For years, he's been Jisung's sounding board, the designated emotional triage unit. He's played agony aunt more times than he can count, including when Jisung and Minho first started their relationship, and Jisung wasn't sure what future they even had together.
And now look.
Now it's him being gently lured out of his creative burnout with the promise of soup, drinks and a spare room. Him being coaxed into rest and warmth by someone who used to unravel at the slightest inconvenience.
It doesn't sting. It just surprises him, a little.
The role reversal. The gentleness. The fact that he's the one feeling a little lost, and Jisung, the once-messy, once-scared, once-self-sabotaging friend, is the one steady enough to catch him.
Felix sighs and stretches out across the couch, limbs spilling over cushions and blankets and the controlled chaos of his living room. A corner of a sketchbook peeks out from under a magazine. He doesn't touch it. Not yet.
But he thinks about it.
About how maybe this time, he doesn't have to figure everything out alone. About how maybe letting someone take care of him for a little while doesn't make him weak.
Just tired.
Just human.
And tomorrow, at least, he'll be fed, surrounded by people who love him more than they even say out loud, and maybe, if he's lucky, able to breathe without feeling like he's stuck in a rut.
Felix smiles again.
Then he finally rises from the couch, switches off the light, and heads to pack a bag.
______________
The Incheon station is busier than Felix expected, family members reuniting, travellers dragging overstuffed bags, the occasional distant voice announcing train times through the loudspeakers. Felix steps onto the platform, adjusting the strap of his overnight bag across his shoulder. The city feels calmer here. Wider skies, softer edges. The kind of place where your shoulders forget to stay tense.
He scans the crowd and sees them immediately.
Jisung is bouncing on his heels like he's highly caffeinated and barely containing himself, holding a ridiculous handmade sign that reads "LEE FELIX: INTERNATIONAL ICON & BEIGE SURVIVOR" in glittery gold letters. It's bent in the middle and slightly smudged, like it's been clutched too tightly on the way here.
Minho stands beside him, a perfect picture of composed patience in a long dark coat and scarf, sipping an iced americano in a cup with a straw. Felix can tell from here that he's pretending not to be amused.
The second Jisung locks eyes with him, all decorum vanishes.
"Felix!" he screeches, loud enough to turn heads. And then he's moving, shoving the sign unceremoniously into Minho's chest without even breaking stride.
Minho catches it without flinching, simply adjusts his grip and sips his coffee again.
Jisung barrels toward him like an affectionate missile.
Felix barely has time to brace before Jisung throws his arms around him, full-force, like they haven't seen each other in years instead of a couple of months. Felix stumbles back a step, laughing as Jisung practically clings to him, legs lifting slightly off the ground.
"You dramatic little gremlin," Felix mutters into his shoulder, arms curling tight around him anyway.
"Shut up, I missed you!" Jisung wails. "I missed your face and your stupid freckle nose and your tragic little designer meltdowns!"
"It's been like two months," Felix says dryly, squeezing him once more before setting him down.
Jisung grins up at him, bright and a little breathless. "You're here."
Minho reaches him with the glittery sign tucked neatly under one arm, coffee still in hand like it's an extension of his body. Without a word, he offers Felix a one-armed hug, firm and warm, careful not to spill his drink.
"Hey, Felix," he says, smiling, voice low and even.
"Hey," Felix replies, returning the half-hug. He's always liked this about Minho, how his calm doesn't feel distant, just deliberate. Grounding, in the best way.
Before Felix can shift the strap of his bag back onto his shoulder, Minho is already lifting it off with practiced ease.
"Oh, no, seriously, I've got it," Felix starts, reaching for the strap.
"Don't bother," Jisung says, grabbing Felix's wrist mid-reach like he's redirecting a child from touching a hot stove. "Trust me, it's not worth it. He will win, and he will carry your bag. It's best to just let him."
Felix raises a sceptical brow. "What, is it like a dominance thing?"
"It's a Minho thing," Jisung says, solemnly.
Minho falls into step beside them as they finally head to the car, Felix's bag slung casually over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. The glittery sign flutters slightly under his arm, still catching the sun.
Jisung loops his arm through Felix's, holding on tightly as they walk in tandem.
And for a moment, walking between them, with Jisung's warmth pressed into one side and Minho's quiet presence on the other, Felix feels something settle in his chest.
Not peace, exactly.
But something close.
______________
Dinner is loud in the best way.
The table is cluttered with bowls and side dishes, spoons resting in plates that are already half-empty, the galbi-tang pot still steaming in the centre like a miniature hearth. The scent of slow-cooked short rib and garlic fills the room, anchored by the comforting weight of rice, seaweed, and something spicy Minho refuses to name until they've eaten it.
Three bottles of wine in, their laughter is looser, easier. Jisung is mid-story, arms flailing as he recounts a pitch meeting gone sideways, and Felix is leaning back in his chair, tipsy and full, his cheek resting against his knuckles, watching the two of them with an affectionate kind of detachment.
"So then the client says," Jisung wheezes, "'Why can't the brand colours be vibrant beige?' And I... I blacked out, okay? I think I actually ascended."
"Your eye twitched," Minho supplies dryly, topping off Felix's glass. "I saw it."
Felix raises his eyebrows. "Vibrant beige sounds like the worst band name ever."
"I swear, the algorithm is breeding these people," Jisung mutters, then looks at Minho with exaggerated adoration. "But we survived. We nailed it. Minsung triumphs again."
Felix laughs, warm and slow. He watches them, how naturally they move around each other, the practiced dance of shared routines and small glances that speak whole paragraphs. It's like watching something work, not just in theory but in motion.
"So," he says, tipping his chin toward Jisung, "how's your mum doing?"
Jisung brightens instantly. "She's good! Still running the restaurant like it's a Michelin-starred war zone. We tried to send her help last month, bookkeeping, deliveries, whatever, and she just waved a ladle at me and said, 'Do I look retired?'"
"Sounds about right," Felix says fondly.
"She's convinced our success is some cosmic reward for all the years she made me clean squid at 6am."
Minho grins. "She's probably not wrong."
"She also sends Minho side dishes behind my back now," Jisung adds, narrowing his eyes. "I've been replaced."
"You do complain if it's remotely spicy," Minho says, deadpan.
Felix's laugh dissolves into a breathy cough as he sets his glass down, wiping his eyes. The heat from the wine hums in his chest. Around them, the table is a comfortable wreck of half-empty bowls and pink-tinged glasses. The kind of mess that doesn't demand clean-up yet. The kind that just feels lived-in.
Then Jisung tilts his head, the grin fading into something softer. "What about you, though?" he asks. "Work is still draining the soul out of you one tasteful pleat at a time from the sounds of things"
Felix leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. "It's just..." He exhales. "I'm really good at it, you know? Styling, presenting, translating a client's 'vision' into something wearable. But it's never mine. Everything's curated and sanded down until it's marketable. I'm tired of having to play it safe all the time."
Minho nods slowly, thoughtful. "You've been saying that for a while."
"Yeah, well," Felix mutters, "it's hard to get out of the cage when you're the one who polished the bars."
Jisung refills Felix's glass, then his own. "Maybe it's not about breaking out of the cage right away," he says. "Maybe you just need to find something outside of it. Something that's yours."
Felix arches a brow.
"I mean it," Jisung continues. "Something that doesn't require approval from people who think 'edge' means a black turtleneck. Something where you're allowed to fuck up and not apologise for it."
"Wow," Felix says dryly. "Thanks for attacking my entire client roster."
"I'm just saying," Jisung says, leaning on one elbow. "Maybe the problem isn't just the work. It's that none of it is for you. Do something pointless. Something messy. Something that doesn't have a strategy or a feedback loop."
Felix doesn't answer right away. He just stares into his wine for a second, then slowly pulls out his phone.
"Are you googling therapy right now?" Jisung asks.
"Worse," Felix mutters. "Creative classes in Seoul."
Minho hums, reaching for another piece of kimchi. "Can't wait to see you on Dancing with the Has-Beens."
Felix scrolls through the list. Pottery. Calligraphy. K-pop dance for adults. Woodworking. A thumbnail of someone beaming beside a perfectly centred bowl. Another of a neatly inked scroll with someone's surname in Hangul.
It all feels too... Planned.
Too clean.
He doesn't want a craft. He doesn't want name tags and fixed outcomes and laminated instruction sheets. He wants to make something that doesn't care if it's beautiful. Something he doesn't have to defend or market or justify. He wants to spill something on purpose.
He scrolls. Taps a tag: expression-focused art classes.
The page loads slowly, like it knows he's hesitating. Like it wants him to be sure.
And then he sees it.
Halfway down the list, in plain text:
Abstract Expression Through Paint – Saturday Evenings, Hongdae
Instructor: H. Hwang
No description. No testimonials. No gallery of smiling people holding up their finished pieces like proud children.
Just a date. A time. An address. And a small, blurry photo. Someone mid-stroke at a canvas, back turned, hair half-up, brush dripping red.
Felix narrows his eyes, thumb brushing over the image to try and sharpen it. It didn't help. But still, there was something in the posture of the figure. The intensity in the way they held the brush. Like the paint wasn't decoration, but language.
He clicks through to the full listing. It's not hosted through a major studio, just a name and a location, tucked into a sub-page of what looked like a shared creative space. No signup. No cost. Just show up.
'No experience required. Materials provided. Wear something you don't mind ruining.'
Felix lets out a quiet breath, half a laugh. Ruining something sounded like the most honest creative instruction he'd heard in years.
Felix turns the screen toward the table, thumb still hovering near the edge like he might change his mind. "Here," he says. "Look at this."
Jisung leans in immediately, squinting at the dim screen like he's deciphering ancient runes. Minho shifts closer, eyes scanning the listing with his usual calm focus.
After a beat, Jisung reads aloud, voice theatrical: "'Wear something you don't mind ruining.' Okay, that's either ominous or incredibly hot."
Felix snorts. "It's probably both."
"Abstract Expression Through Paint," Minho says, more to himself. He nods once. "Sounds like chaos."
"That's what caught my eye," Felix says, setting the phone down between their empty bowls. "No rules, no agenda, just... Show up and do whatever. There's not even a signup form."
Jisung picks up the phone again, brows furrowed, still scanning. "No testimonials, no structure, no weird branded aprons. This place doesn't even want to impress you."
"Exactly," Felix murmurs.
He didn't even realise how tightly he'd been wound until now, until something so simple, a blurry photo and a few plain sentences, loosened something in his chest. It wasn't telling him to be better, or marketable, or productive. Just present.
Jisung hands the phone back with a small smile. "It's very you. Or, like... Very you-before-you-started-answering-work-emails-at-midnight."
Felix arches a brow. "Rude."
Minho gives a quiet, approving nod. "It sounds like the kind of thing you'll either love, or walk out of halfway through covered in paint and self-awareness."
Jisung lifts his glass. "So basically a perfect Saturday."
Felix lets the moment stretch. His thumb lingers on the phone again, tapping the screen off, letting the image fade to black.
"I think I might go," he says, almost to himself.
Minho shrugs. "Then go."
"Wear something you hate," Jisung adds. "So if you ruin it, it's performance art."
Felix smiles, slow and crooked. The idea is still wild in his brain, but it feels good to say out loud. Like cracking a window after a long, stale winter.
"Yeah," he says. "Maybe I will."
The meal winds down slowly, the warmth lingering like steam above the empty bowls. The wine's mostly gone, save for the last half-glass in Minho's reach and the pink stain in Jisung's. The table is a beautiful disaster, crumpled napkins, rice grains scattered like confetti, chopsticks resting skewed across empty plates.
Felix pushes his chair back with a satisfied sigh. "Okay," he says, stretching his legs out under the table. "I'll help clear."
"Nope," Jisung says immediately, already stacking plates.
"Don't even think about it," Minho adds, rising and reaching for the bowls like it's muscle memory.
Felix rolls his eyes. "I'm not a guest, you know."
"You're exactly a guest," Jisung says. "A guest of honour. Sit. Digest. Reflect."
"Accept your fate," Minho deadpans, disappearing into the kitchen with a precarious stack balanced in one arm.
Jisung follows behind, hands full, humming tunelessly. Felix stays seated, because he knows better by now, knows that trying to argue is pointless when Minho's already halfway through loading the dishwasher in silent efficiency and Jisung is weaponizing charm like it's a superpower.
So instead, he just watches.
From the doorway between kitchen and dining room, he sees them move around each other with ease, like planets in orbit. Jisung brushes past Minho, bumps him lightly with a hip, and Minho catches his elbow without looking, steadying the plate he nearly drops. It's effortless. Casual. The kind of intimacy that lives in the spaces between words.
Felix watches Jisung smile at something Minho murmurs, something too soft for him to hear. The look Jisung gives Minho in return is blinding, unguarded, full of affection so fierce it hums like electricity.
Then there's a glint, just a flash, off the matching silver bands they wear. Not flashy, not ostentatious. Just simple, smooth, nestled on their left hands like they've always belonged there.
Felix feels something shift in his chest. Not envy. Not exactly. Just... A deep ache wrapped in tenderness.
They may not be able to marry legally, not here, not yet, but there is no part of what he's looking at that doesn't count. They're married in every way that matters. Every touch, every glance, every shared moment of mundane domesticity is a vow all on its own.
He folds his arms across the back of the chair, rests his chin on them, and smiles.
They're the reason he still believes it's possible.
Not perfect. Not easy. But real.
And God, he wants that. Someday.
But for tonight, it's enough to sit in their glow, wine-warm and full, and let the quiet joy of witnessing them settle into his bones.
______________
The platform is already humming with movement when they arrive, suitcases rolling, voices rising, the faint chime of announcements echoing overhead, but Jisung is clinging to Felix like he's about to be deployed overseas instead of heading back to Seoul.
"You're squeezing the air out of my lungs," Felix mutters, muffled into Jisung's hoodie.
"That's because I love you," Jisung says dramatically, arms wrapped tight around him. "And also because I don't trust you to take care of yourself when I'm not there to guilt you into it."
Minho stands beside them, hands in his coat pockets, expression calm but fond. "He has snacks in his bag, I checked."
"Only because you snuck them in," Felix replies, grinning as he finally manages to wriggle out of Jisung's grip.
"You're welcome," Minho says.
The train chimes its warning. Passengers start moving. Felix shoulders his bag, but hesitates just before stepping onto the car.
Jisung catches his arm, tugging him back one last time.
"Hey," he says, suddenly gentler. "That class. The painting one."
Felix meets his gaze, uncertain.
Jisung's voice softens into something almost serious. "You owe it to yourself to try."
Felix blinks. Then nods.
He doesn't say thank you, he doesn't need to.
He just steps onto the train.
And Jisung stands on the platform, waving like a maniac as the doors close and the train starts to move, until he disappears from view.
_____________
The next week unfolds in washed-out tones.
Back in Seoul, everything sinks back into its usual rhythm, if it can be called that. Shoots blur together like one long, underwhelming commercial. Different studios, different clients, but the same clinical lights, the same safe silhouettes, the same dead-eyed insistence on minimalism with impact.
Felix styles a wool trench in five shades of oatmeal. Adjusts lapels. Pins trousers. Pretends to care about the positioning of a beige sock peeking out from a taupe loafer. He nods at directors. Smiles at models. Files away mental sketches he knows will never leave the safety of his notebook.
Every morning, he wakes up to the calendar appointment reminder on his phone:
SATURDAY – Abstract Expression Through Paint – 6:30PM, Hongdae
He never dismisses it.
Just stares at the screen for a beat longer than he should. Then shoves it into the background, like everything else he doesn't have the energy to deal with.
By Thursday, he starts thinking about excuses. He's tired. He's not a painter. It's probably weird, probably full of crunchy art bros and chaotic energy he won't know how to match.
Friday night, he opens the listing again. Just for a second. Just to see if the image has changed. It hasn't. The same figure, mid-stroke, brush dripping red. The same loose tension in the spine, the same sense of movement you can almost feel through the screen.
He closes the tab.
Saturday comes.
And with it, more of the same.
He spends the morning on a location shoot, styling a lifestyle brand's "quiet luxury" campaign in a minimalist rooftop apartment. The model barely speaks. The creative director says things like "subtle prestige" and "clean, unfussy wealth." Felix says, "Sure," and knots a scarf around a collarbone instead of setting it on fire like he wants to.
By the time he gets home, his muscles ache. His soul, even more.
The clock reads 4:15pm.
He changes into sweatpants. Doesn't unpack his kit. He ignores his sketchbook, sitting untouched on the kitchen table.
By 5:10pm, he's curled up on the couch, watching the sky dim through the window. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knows he could still make it if he left now. Hongdae isn't far.
But the thought of trying, of putting himself in a room full of strangers, of making something messy and real, of being seen in that raw way, feels like too much.
He watches the clock.
5:38.
5:54.
6:12.
Each tick tightens something in his chest. He pictures the room starting to fill. Easels, paint splattered floors. That figure from the photo, whoever they are, laying out tubes of pigment, unaware that someone across the city is falling apart over the idea of even showing up.
His phone buzzes.
It's the calendar reminder, again.
STARTS IN 15 MINUTES. ABSTRACT EXPRESSION THROUGH PAINT.
He sighs, covers his face with one hand.
And then, through the static of his exhaustion, Jisung's voice, quiet, firm, rises in the back of his mind.
You owe it to yourself to try.
Not succeed.
Not impress.
Not even finish.
Just try.
Felix's hand drops from his face.
He stares at the clock.
6:15PM.
If he leaves now, he might be a little late.
But he'll still make it.
He bolts up from the couch.
____________
Hongdae is louder than he expected on a Saturday evening.
Music spills out of bars and cafés, neon signs buzz and blink in competing fonts, couples and clusters of students drift along the sidewalks in waves of chatter and cigarette smoke. Felix keeps his head down as he weaves through it all, coat collar tugged up, paint-stained canvas tote hanging from his shoulder.
His phone guides him through a side street, then down a narrower one, bare concrete walls, old posters peeling at the corners, the smell of something fried drifting from a tiny kitchen window a floor above.
Then, the address.
He slows to a stop in front of a building so nondescript he double-checks the number.
Three floors. Washed-out grey. A metal security gate slightly ajar. No signage. No warm glow of curated lighting. No helpful chalkboard out front saying "welcome artists" or "class upstairs."
Just a plain door and a keypad with a sticky note slapped over it:
"Upstairs. Third floor. Door's open."
The handwriting is neat but rushed. Black ink, no heart doodles, no branding.
Felix hesitates. His reflection in the dusty glass is faint, warped.
There's no one to greet him. No sense of ceremony. It's quiet here, tucked just enough away from the buzz of the main road to feel like a secret.
His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.
Then, quietly, he pushes the door open and steps inside.
He hovers at the entrance on the third floor, heart pounding harder than he expected.
Laughter drifts from inside, low and casual. The rustle of brushes, a splash of water in a jar. Something jazz-adjacent playing in the background. Intimate. Real.
You're late, his inner critic offers unhelpfully. You could still leave.
Felix hesitates. His hand rests on the edge of the door. One step back, and no one would even know he'd come.
And then he sees him.
Across the room, standing at an easel, half-turned, paintbrush suspended mid-air, is a figure unlike anyone Felix has ever seen.
Tall, lean, luminous.
The man's hair is half pulled into a loose bun, a few strands falling into his face. His oversized shirt streaked with bold, unapologetic strokes of colour: red, deep blue, ochre. Paint smudges his fingers, flecks his neck. He moves like a dancer, precise and unhurried, completely absorbed in what he's doing.
There's something wild and elegant about him all at once. Like someone born from the canvas itself.
Felix can't move.
Not because he's unsure, but because something in the room has shifted around him, and he's no longer sure how to exist in it.
The man doesn't see him at first.
His body tilts into the canvas, brush sweeping across it with the kind of intention that doesn't seek approval. There's no hesitation in his hand, no nervous glances to check the room. He paints like he's alone, even in company. Like the world narrows to pigment and brush and feeling.
Felix's heart beats louder. Too loud. Loud enough to feel.
He doesn't even know what the man is painting, some storm of colour, abstract, aggressive, but he knows without understanding that it means something. Not for someone else. Just because.
Another laugh rises from deeper in the room, two people chatting casually near a long counter lined with paint tubes and coffee mugs. No one has noticed him yet.
But the man at the easel?
He turns.
Just slightly, like he's stretching his shoulder, or adjusting his stance. The light catches the sharpness of his cheekbone, the ink-dark sweep of his lashes, and then...
Their eyes meet.
Felix feels it land like static across his skin.
The man doesn't speak.
He just looks at him.
Not startled, not curious, assessing. Like he's seeing Felix not as a stranger but as a puzzle, a composition to be read. His gaze is steady and unblinking, sliding over Felix from head to toe and back again, not in a way that feels inappropriate, but in a way that feels... Invasive. Intimate.
Felix stands frozen in the doorway, his fingers curled too tightly around the strap of his bag. He swallows, suddenly aware of everything, his coat, his posture, the slight tremble in his breath.
Am I being judged?
It feels like judgment, or something close to it. But not cruel. Not dismissive. Just... Intent. Like the man is weighing something. Not Felix's clothes. Not his entrance.
Him.
And then, slowly, deliberately, the man lifts his chin and nods toward the back of the room. Toward an unattended easel set slightly apart from the others. There's a stool beside it, an apron slung carelessly over the seat, and a jar of clean water waiting like it's been expecting him.
The nod is wordless. Casual.
But something in it sparks.
An invitation?
Or a challenge?
Felix's throat is dry. His legs are heavy. But somehow, they move.
He nods once, and starts to walk. Past paint-splattered floors. Past other attendees chatting and working, only half-aware of his arrival. Past the man, whose eyes flick away as if the moment never happened.
Felix slips into the space at the back of the room, heart still loud in his ears.
He shrugs off his coat. Picks up the apron. It smells faintly of linseed oil and something earthy. He ties it on with slightly trembling hands.
The easel stands in front of him, blank canvas waiting.
He glances back, just once.
The man is already painting again, completely consumed. But Felix swears he sees the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Not quite a smile.
But close.
Felix turns back to the canvas.
And lifts the brush.
It feels awkward in his hand.
Too light. Too long. Not like the tools he knows, fabric scissors with weight, measuring tape with tension, pins with purpose. This thing just... Waits. Limp and loaded, bristles feathered and soaked in something vaguely red. It's the kind of object that demands intent but gives no structure in return.
The canvas stares back at him, blank and indifferent.
No rules. No guidelines. No reference photo clipped to the corner. Just space. And the quiet permission to ruin it.
He dips the brush into the paint again, breath held without realizing.
Then he drags it across the canvas.
The stroke is clumsy. Uneven. It bleeds at the edges where he pressed too hard. Not graceful. Not elegant. Not good.
He does it again.
More red. Then something dark blue. He doesn't know what he's painting, doesn't even know if he is painting, just shape and pressure, motion and instinct. It feels stupid at first. Embarrassing. Like scribbling in public.
But somewhere between the third stroke and the fifth, the voice in his head, you're doing it wrong, this doesn't mean anything, what would they think, starts to quiet.
The brush moves faster. Sloppier. More reckless.
Paint flicks up the side of his hand. A smudge appears on his wrist. He forgets to clean the brush before dipping into a new color and watches violet bloom messily where red and blue collide.
And then...
A voice.
Low. Smooth. With a slight rasp, like it's used more for expression than conversation.
"You don't have to think so hard."
Felix turns.
It's him.
The man with the loose bun, the paint on his neck, the presence like gravity and fire. He's standing just a few feet away now, arms folded loosely, brush in hand like it never quite leaves his body.
Up close, he's even more arresting. His features sharp and soft at once, like they can't decide if they want to wound or comfort. His gaze lingers on Felix's canvas, not judging, not correcting.
Just... Seeing.
"I'm not thinking," Felix replies, a little too quickly.
The man's lips twitch. "Sure."
Felix glances at the canvas. Then back at him. "Are you the instructor?"
The man shrugs. "Depends who's asking."
"I'm literally asking."
Now, the smile happens, barely there, but real. He nods once. "Hyunjin."
The name settles somewhere in Felix's chest like a dropped stone.
Felix clears his throat. "Felix."
"You have the look," Hyunjin says, almost absently. "The ones who come in late, stand too still. People who only ever create for someone else's approval."
He says it without cruelty. Without ego.
Just the kind of calm certainty that makes Felix's pulse spike.
"And what kind of people are those?" Felix asks, quieter now.
Hyunjin tilts his head. "The ones who need this the most."
Then he nods to the canvas again. "Keep going."
And with that, he turns and walks away, back to his own easel, his own storm of colour, as if the conversation had never happened at all.
Felix stares after him for a long second.
Then, slowly, he picks up the brush again.
And starts to paint.
Time slips sideways after that.
Felix doesn't know how long he's been painting. Minutes? An hour? It feels like both too short and too long, like dreaming in full colour and waking without knowing when you fell asleep.
The brush moves more confidently now. Still messy, still imprecise, but no longer hesitant. He stops cleaning between colours. Stops trying to make the composition balanced. There is no composition. Just motion. Just feeling. Crimson bleeding into ochre, thick streaks of charcoal black over soft pastel greens. It's ugly, maybe. Beautiful, maybe. It doesn't matter.
His breath slows.
His thoughts quiet.
No music plays anymore, at some point, the jazz track faded out and no one replaced it. The conversation in the room has softened too. Most of the others are packing up, rinsing their brushes, chatting softly near the sink. One woman is laughing quietly with paint still streaked across her cheekbone like a second smile.
Felix steps back from his canvas.
His fingers are smudged. His sleeve stained. His apron looks like it lost a fight with a small abstract galaxy.
But something in his chest feels lighter. Stretched open. Not fixed, not whole, but alive.
He looks at what he's made.
It's chaotic. A tangle of colour and weight and frustration. But it feels honest, like something true made visible. Not for sale. Not for a client deck. Not for praise.
Just for him.
Behind him, chairs scrape against the concrete floor as people trickle out. Someone offers a polite "Good night." He mumbles a soft "You too," without turning.
Then...
A shadow at his side.
Hyunjin.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just stands next to Felix, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he looks at the painting.
Felix shifts, glancing at him. "You're not going to give me a critique, are you?"
Hyunjin's mouth curves, not quite a smile, more a suggestion of one.
"You think this is that kind of class?"
Felix huffs a soft laugh. "Honestly, I'm not sure what kind of class this is."
Hyunjin nods once, eyes still on the canvas. "That's the point."
Felix turns to look at him.
Hyunjin's gaze is calm but intense. Not warm exactly, but present. Attentive. The kind of attention that doesn't ask anything in return.
He lingers a moment longer. Then, quietly, he adds, "You showed up."
Felix swallows. "Yeah."
Hyunjin lifts a shoulder in a loose shrug. "That's more than most."
Then he turns, walking toward the back of the studio, brush still in hand.
Felix watches him disappear behind a curtain, maybe an office, maybe just a storage space. The door swings shut behind him without a sound.
The studio is almost empty now.
Felix peels off the apron, folds it loosely over one arm. He hesitates, just for a second, then looks at his canvas one more time.
And for the first time in months, he doesn't pick apart his work.
He just lets it be.
Then he walks out into the night, heart thudding soft and steady, the smell of paint still clinging to his sleeves.
Felix's apartment is dark that night, save for the dim golden light from the floor lamp by the couch.
Felix sits cross-legged on the floor, back against the sofa, a mug of lukewarm tea balanced on one knee. He hasn't changed out of his paint-splattered clothes. His fingers are still faintly stained near the knuckles, blue pigment dried into the skin around his fingernails. His sketchbook lies unopened on the coffee table, next to his phone.
The silence in the apartment feels different tonight, not heavy, not sterile. Just... Still. Like the quiet that comes after rain.
His phone buzzes.
JISUNG 🌞
Calling.
Felix exhales a small laugh through his nose. He answers and doesn't even get a hello in before Jisung starts.
"Well?"
Felix rubs his face, smiling despite himself. "Hi to you too."
"Don't hi me. Talk. Did you go?"
There's a pause. Then, quietly, Felix says, "Yeah. I did."
A beat of silence on the other end. Then Jisung exhales, loud and theatrical. "Thank God. For a second I thought I was gonna have to show up at your apartment and drag you there myself next week."
Felix chuckles, then leans his head back against the couch. "I nearly didn't," he admits. "I just... Sat here on the sofa watching the clock."
"Seriously?"
Felix closes his eyes. "Yeah. I was tired. Burnt out. Didn't want to show up and suck at something new, you know?"
Jisung snorts. "Everybody sucks at new things. That's literally the point."
Felix lets the silence stretch again, but this time it's companionable. "You said something before I left. At the train station."
"I said a lot of things. I was very emotional. And hungover."
"You said I owe it to myself to try."
There's a brief, quieter pause on the other end.
"Yeah," Jisung says. "Because you do."
Felix swallows. "Well... You were right."
A satisfied sigh. "I'm always right. Minho has a spreadsheet."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. I'm proud of you." His voice softens. "Did it help?"
Felix doesn't answer right away. He just stares at the smudges on his fingertips.
"I don't know if it helped," he says finally. "But I didn't hate it. I stopped thinking for a while. It was messy. Weird. There's paint on my shoes. And I think I want to go again."
"Good," Jisung says, warm and certain. "You should."
Felix nods, even though Jisung can't see him.
Outside, the city murmurs on, distant and soft.
Inside, the silence no longer feels empty.
_________
The next week is more of the same.
Another set. Another shoot. Another round of linen suits in barely-there tones, styled on blank-faced models beneath lighting designed to be "editorial but approachable." Felix pins a sleeve. Adjusts a collar. Pretends to care about the millimetre of pant break like it's gospel.
The creative director is giddy about how "quiet luxury" is back, as if it ever went away. Felix smiles. Nods. Mentally checks out halfway through a sentence about tone-on-tone beige.
But his thoughts keep drifting.
Not to the campaign. Not to the shoot.
To that room in Hongdae.
To the weight of the brush in his hand.
To the mess on his canvas.
And how no one cared if it made sense.
He remembers the paint bleeding together in places it wasn't supposed to. The smudge that accidentally streaked across the corner and ended up looking... Unplanned. Chaotic.
He remembers how no one stood behind him, waiting with notes. No one asked if it aligned with the brand. No one said, "Could we try it a little more understated?" No one said anything.
And somehow, that had been the most terrifying and the most freeing part.
Now, standing in a pristine studio with white vinyl floors and filtered air, Felix feels the difference like whiplash.
Everything around him is designed.
Sanitised.
Safe.
It's not that he hates the clothes themselves. They're well-made. Flattering. Technically beautiful.
But they don't feel like anything. They don't mean anything.
He touches the hem of a dove-grey blazer and feels nothing at all.
At lunch, he opens his phone and scrolls through old photos of his work. Sleek. Crisp. A parade of looks that speak fluently in the language of aesthetic diplomacy. Not a single thread out of place.
He closes the app.
And instead, his mind drifts again.
Hwang Hyunjin.
The memory of him is annoyingly clear. Like a song that won't stop looping, even though you've only heard it once.
The way he stood at the easel, paintbrush moving like it was part of his hand. Not performing. Not posturing. Just moving.
And that gaze.
The way he'd looked at Felix, not kindly, not coldly, but completely. Like he'd seen through every polished edge and styled defence in two seconds flat. And somehow didn't flinch.
Felix catches himself doodling on the edge of a call sheet.
Just shapes at first. Lazy loops, geometric patterns. Muscle memory more than intention. But then the lines begin to shift. Elongate. Sharpen. He starts layering angles with softness, adding folds, drape, tension. The outline of a sleeve unfurls. A dramatic collar. Exaggerated length. Texture implied in the tilt of a pen stroke.
His brows furrow.
Without really deciding to, he reaches for his sketchbook, buried at the bottom of his bag, between a half-eaten protein bar and a receipt he meant to expense two weeks ago. He flips past older designs, polished and safe, until he finds a blank page.
This one... This one moves differently.
He doesn't sketch with intention. He doesn't plan the silhouette in advance. It just builds. A high-collared coat, sweeping and theatrical. Bare skin between sharp tailoring. Boots that look like they were made to storm a cathedral. The fabric flows like it's made of shadow and light.
There's something fluid in the posture. Power without rigidity. Grace without stillness.
And then he realises...
The form.
It's not exact. It's not deliberate.
But the longer he stares at it, the more he sees him.
The long frame. The sweep of hair pulled back. The way the body leans slightly forward, like it's caught in the middle of movement. Like it's about to make a mark and doesn't care who's watching.
Hyunjin.
Felix freezes, pencil hovering mid-air.
The realisation makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest. Not embarrassment, exactly. Not longing.
Something deeper. More dangerous.
He sits back in his chair and lets out a breath, sharp and low.
Then he shakes his head hard, as if that will knock the thought loose, scrub the image from behind his eyes. He flips the page, slamming the sketchbook closed on instinct.
It's fine.
It was just a sketch.
Just a form.
He tells himself he's not thinking about Hyunjin.
Not really.
But for the rest of the day, no matter how clean the designs, no matter how crisp the silhouettes or how neatly the lapels fall into place, none of it feels real.
Only the sketch stays with him.
Lingering like blue paint under his nails.
_____________
Saturday comes with no shoot booked. No early call time. No polished assistant poking at garment racks. Just Felix, alone in his apartment, dressed in sleep-soft clothes and clutching a coffee mug he forgot to refill.
He tells himself he's going to have a slow morning.
Maybe clean. Maybe rest.
Instead, he ends up at the kitchen table, sketchbook open, pencil already in hand.
The sketch from earlier in the week stares back at him.
He was going to leave it alone. Just one design, a moment of impulse, a brain purge.
But the proportions feel off. The collar too stiff. The boots too harsh for the flow of the fabric. He adjusts it. Just a little.
Then adds a slit to the sleeve. Softens the drape across the hip. Rethinks the seam placement on the back panel.
Before he knows it, he's pulling swatches from a box in his closet, laying them against the page, holding them to the light, trying to find something that feels like the sketch.
It's not obsession, he tells himself.
It's detail.
He changes the belt structure. Fusses with the hemline. Pencils in a line of fastenings that might not even work in real life but look right in the composition.
And each time, each time, he tells himself it's not him.
It's just a silhouette. Just a mood.
Not Hyunjin.
Not the way he moved. Not the way he'd looked so devastatingly alive in front of that canvas, paint flecked across his throat like a second skin.
Definitely not that.
By the time he finally looks at the clock, it's 6:22.
"Shit!" Felix bolts up, pencil flying off the table, his tea long cold beside him.
He tosses the sketchbook down and stumbles out of the chair, already grabbing for the paint-streaked tote bag he forgot to unpack last week.
There's no time to overthink. No time to stall in the hallway or scroll the listing again for courage.
Just movement.
Just go.
_____________
He gets off the subway one stop too late and has to backtrack, jogging half a block. His bag keeps slipping off his shoulder. His hair's a little too messy, his breath just slightly ragged by the time he hits the staircase.
Up the familiar three flights. The metal railing cool under his fingers.
Then, he pushes through the door without pausing.
No hesitation. No deep breath. No careful scan of the room.
He's halfway across the threshold before he realises how loud the door sounds when it shuts behind him.
The studio, already warm with the familiar scent of paint and turpentine, goes still for half a second.
A couple of heads turn.
So does he.
Hyunjin.
Leaning over a canvas near the centre of the room, one hand resting on the frame, the other dripping a thread of black paint from the end of a thin brush. He looks up at the sound, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
Their gazes meet.
Again.
Felix freezes for a second, heart kicking in his chest.
Then he remembers himself, bows slightly, apologetic, already flushing. "Sorry, sorry. I'm late."
Hyunjin doesn't speak. Just watches him for one long beat, then turns back to his canvas.
The others return to their work, conversation picking back up in the corners.
Felix hurries to the back of the room, to the same easel from last week. The apron is there, still stiff with paint, like it's been waiting for him.
He shrugs it on, tries to quiet the noise in his head.
He's here.
Late, breathless, flustered... But here.
And for the first time all week, he doesn't feel like he's drowning.
Just... Off balance.
Which is a start.
Felix doesn't plan to paint the design.
He starts with shapes—broad, abstract strokes, letting his hand move without instruction. A sweep of ink-blue across the canvas. A slash of ivory. He's not thinking, not yet. Just reacting. Layers, motion, instinct.
But the longer he works, the more familiar it starts to feel.
That arching curve... the silhouette of a coat.
The placement of negative space... a gap in the fabric, a deliberate slash.
The suggestion of a figure rising in the centre of the canvas, tall, lean, half-turned, in motion.
He pauses. Brushes hovering.
He knows this posture.
Knows that line of the jaw, even rendered in shadow.
His own design is bleeding out of him, unprompted, reinterpreted in brushstrokes instead of thread and pencil. It's not exact, looser, less structured, but the echo is there. Unmistakable.
He could stop.
He doesn't.
The brush moves faster now, mapping the outfit in smudges and smears. He lets it become warped, dreamlike. Lets it twist. Paint drips down the canvas, and he doesn't wipe it away.
There's no clear background. No context. Just a figure rising out of chaos, made of lines that only make sense to him.
By the time the others are rinsing their brushes and packing up, Felix is still standing in front of the canvas, blinking slowly like he's just surfaced from somewhere underwater.
He doesn't hear Hyunjin approach this time.
Only feels the shift in the air beside him, quiet, steady.
"I thought you weren't coming back," Hyunjin says, voice soft but direct.
Felix turns, startled. "What?"
"A lot of people don't," Hyunjin continues, gaze flicking over the canvas. "First class is a high. Second one's a mirror. Some people don't like what they see."
Felix lets out a breath, glancing down at the paint drying on his hands. "It wasn't intentional," he says, and it's the truth. "I got side-tracked."
Hyunjin nods, like that makes perfect sense. "Still. You came."
There's a small pause as his eyes return to the canvas.
"This is different from last week," he says, tilting his head. "More... Focused. Personal."
Felix tenses slightly. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"It is."
That disarms him more than it should.
Felix shrugs, trying to play it off. "It's kind of cheating, actually. I didn't come up with it on the spot. I sketched it earlier this week."
Hyunjin's expression doesn't change. "Why?"
"I was bored at work," Felix says with a soft exhale. "And... Frustrated, I guess. I'm a stylist, mostly. For commercial clients. Shoots, look books, brand campaigns. A lot of beige. A lot of things that look expensive and mean nothing."
Hyunjin says nothing, just listens.
"I've always wanted to design," Felix adds, quieter now. "Not just put clothes on people. Make them. Tell stories with them."
He laughs a little, bitter and breathless. "But dreams don't pay Seoul rent."
There's a moment of silence between them. Not empty. Just full of things neither of them says.
Then Hyunjin glances at the canvas again. "This looks like something worth telling."
Felix feels it in his ribs, low and deep. It doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like observation.
He swallows. "Thanks."
Hyunjin gives a small nod, then turns back toward his own workspace without another word.
Felix watches him go, the ghost of that sentence lingering.
This looks like something worth telling.
And for once, he lets himself believe it.
____________
The days blur together in a kind of functional haze.
Felix wakes early. Styles models. Pins necklines. Nods through production meetings. Chooses earrings that will never be noticed. He stares at mood boards for hours and doesn't feel a thing.
He's good at smiling. He's always been good at smiling.
But by Friday night, his muscles buzz with something else. Anticipation. Hunger.
And by Saturday evening, he's fully awake again.
The studio becomes its own kind of gravity.
Felix slips into the same seat every week, back corner, same easel, apron folded over the stool waiting for him. The room always smells like turpentine and drying pigment, always hums with low music and the shuffle of movement. He comes in on time now. Sometimes early.
His first few pieces were scattered, frantic, unsure.
But now... Now, the canvas listens to him more. The mess begins to speak his language. The colours obey in ways he didn't know how to ask for before. It's not polished. It's not perfect. But each week, the lines get closer to the vision he holds in his head.
The ghost of Hyunjin's form still shows up, of course.
Uninvited. Familiar.
Broad shoulders, narrow hips, limbs caught mid-motion. Sometimes it's clear, other times, it's just an echo. A tilt of the chin. A looseness in the spine. He tries to scrub it out, redraw it, ignore it.
He never really succeeds.
But who cares?
The whole point was to do something for himself. To find something honest. Who's to say inspiration can't take the shape of a man who exists like a brushstroke, uncontrolled, unreadable?
Hyunjin is always there.
Sometimes, he says nothing at all. Just paints, completely absorbed, the world falling away around him like static.
Other times, he'll walk by Felix's easel and murmur something as quiet as it is unexpected:
"Your lines are less afraid this week."
or
"Interesting colour choice, it complements the piece well."
Felix never knows whether to feel praised or exposed.
But he starts to wait for those moments anyway.
He makes friends, too.
A woman named Nari, who works in tattoo design, always has snacks and always narrates her chaotic inner monologue like a podcast no one subscribed to but everyone enjoys.
A retired professor named Junseok who mostly paints with his fingers and tells stories that trail off into laughter.
A marketing guy named Tae who never speaks above a whisper but paints like his hands are on fire.
It's the kind of community Felix didn't know he needed, people doing things just to do them, no performance, no brand, no strategy.
They ask him about his week. He tells them in vague words. "Shoots," "Deadlines," "More linen."
But in this room, it doesn't matter.
Here, he is not Felix the renowned stylist.
He's just Felix.
Hyunjin remains a mystery.
No small talk volunteered. No social media, no obvious history.
He's always the first one in the room, even when Felix is twenty minutes early one week, setting up the canvases before everybody arrives. And when everybody leaves, he remains behind, quietly washing the brushes and emptying jars of paint-stained water.
But when he paints, the room still bends around him.
Sometimes, he'll linger behind Felix for a beat too long. Sometimes he'll ask questions.
"Did you always draw like this?"
"What would you make if no one ever saw it?"
"Are you designing clothes or people?"
Felix never knows how to answer.
But he always tries.
By the eighth week, he's painted a full concept. Head to toe. A collection, almost, three figures. They each hold Hyunjin's shape in different ways. Like variations on a secret.
He knows it's indulgent.
But when he steps back from the canvas that night, arms streaked with colour, sweat at his collarbone, chest rising fast...
He's alive.
No edits. No brief. No one asking him to tone it down.
Just him, paint, and the ghost of someone he doesn't understand but keeps chasing anyway.
Felix looks up from his canvas, chest still rising fast, arms streaked with colour, his fingers aching in a way that feels earned.
The room is silent.
And empty.
Except... No, not quite.
Hyunjin is there.
Resting against the long paint counter at the back of the studio, legs crossed at the ankle, hands planted beside him. Watching.
Felix startles slightly. "Shit... I didn't realise-"
His eyes dart around. Every canvas has been put away. Brushes cleaned. Jars rinsed and stacked. The stools tucked neatly under tables like a reset stage.
He turns to the clock.
9:54PM.
The class technically ended at 8:30.
Everyone else has been gone for at least an hour.
Felix swears under his breath, setting down his brush like it's caught fire. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hold you up. I wasn't-"
"Don't," Hyunjin says simply, cutting him off without sharpness. "You don't need to apologise."
His voice is quiet but firm. Certain.
"It was interesting," he says. "Watching you work."
Felix swallows. His mouth feels dry, his pulse still loud in his ears.
Hyunjin's gaze is steady. "Is it helping?"
The question lands with more weight than it should. Not casual. Not rhetorical. Like Hyunjin already knows the answer but wants to see if Felix can say it out loud.
Felix exhales, long and slow. He looks down at his hands, flexes his fingers, still tacky with pigment.
"Yeah," he says. Then, after a beat, "It is."
He doesn't know what makes him speak next, maybe it's the late hour, or the fact that no one else is left to hear it. Maybe it's the way Hyunjin is looking at him like he won't look away, no matter what Felix says.
"I feel like I'm unravelling at work," he admits. "I mean... I'm fine. On paper. I've got clients, regular shoots, deadlines. I'm in demand."
He huffs a humourless laugh. "And I'm suffocating."
Hyunjin tilts his head.
"I love fashion," Felix says, voice soft but edged. "It's always been the thing that makes sense to me. But styling for clients... It's like I'm constantly translating other people's voices. Sanding down mine until it doesn't sound like me anymore."
He pauses. "This class... Painting... It's messy. Uncontrolled. And that should make me hate it. But I don't."
There's a long silence.
Felix doesn't register Hyunjin moving until he's close, too close.
Suddenly, he's right there in front of him. Not touching, but present. The kind of nearness that rewires the air between bodies.
Felix's breath catches.
Up close, Hyunjin is even more arresting, sharp lines and soft skin, loose strands of hair escaping the knot at the back of his head. There's a faint smear of ochre across his temple, a darker spot near the cuff of his sleeve.
And there, just under his left eye, something small, delicate.
A mole.
Felix hadn't seen it before. And now it's all he can focus on.
It's maddening, the detail of it. The realness of it. Like a flaw in marble that makes the whole sculpture come alive.
He has to fight the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out. To touch it. To see if it's real.
He swallows hard and looks away.
Hyunjin doesn't say anything. Just watches.
Felix can feel it, that gaze again. Quiet. Full. Not judging, not asking. Just seeing.
And somehow, that's the most disarming part of all.
Felix clears his throat softly, grounding himself with the brush still in his hand like it might keep him tethered.
"I should... Clean up," he says, not quite meeting Hyunjin's eyes.
Hyunjin doesn't move. Doesn't speak right away.
But then, so softly Felix almost doesn't catch it:
"Do you ever let anyone see your designs?"
Felix blinks, startled. "Not really."
Hyunjin studies him for a moment. "You should."
The words settle like paint on wet paper, spreading wider than they seem.
Before Felix can think of how to respond, Hyunjin nods toward the still-drying canvas behind them.
"I'm closing up," he says. "But if you ever want to stay late again... I don't mind the company."
Felix's stomach flips, heat rising in his chest before he can stop it.
"I... Yeah. Maybe," he says, brushing his hands down his thighs like it'll help.
Hyunjin just nods again, turning away with a faint smirk ghosting across his lips.
Felix doesn't know if it's an invitation, a dare, or just a line tossed over a shoulder.
But it stays with him long after he's left.
___________
Felix tells himself he's not staying late on purpose.
He tells himself that even when he double-checks his bag before leaving the house Saturday evening. Even when he changes his shirt twice and chooses the one with the paint stains that happen to look artful. Even when he doesn't check the time during class, letting the hours pass like water.
When the others start filtering out around 8:30, packing up with casual goodbyes and stained fingers, Felix stays rooted.
He's not finished, he tells himself. The canvas still needs depth, shadow, something.
Hyunjin says nothing at first, just moves around the room in his usual quiet rhythm, rinsing jars, wiping down palettes. He doesn't comment when Felix doesn't move. Doesn't ask him to leave.
Eventually, the soft shuffle of the last door closing fades, and the studio hums with a different kind of quiet. Not absence. Just focus.
Felix hears Hyunjin's footsteps approaching before he sees him. A rustle of fabric. The faint scent of paint and roses.
"You're still here," Hyunjin says. Not surprised. Just observing.
Felix looks up from his canvas. "Guess I lost track of time again."
Hyunjin glances at the painting. "This one's different."
Felix shrugs, half-smiling. "Maybe I'm getting better."
"No," Hyunjin says, still watching the canvas. "You're getting honest."
Felix's breath catches slightly, but he says nothing.
Hyunjin moves closer, just a few steps, but enough. He doesn't touch the painting, doesn't ask questions.
Then, unprompted, "I used to model."
The words land like a dropped brush in an empty room.
Felix blinks. "You?"
Hyunjin nods, gaze somewhere beyond the canvas now. "A lifetime ago. Someone I trusted said I should. That I'd be perfect for their project."
His jaw tightens slightly. "And I was. At first. After that, I wasn't a person anymore. Just... Something beautiful to use."
Felix says nothing, throat suddenly thick.
Hyunjin turns to look at him. "Eventually I realised I didn't recognise myself in any of the photos."
There's a pause.
"I started painting to find something that couldn't be curated. Something no one could crop or retouch or rewrite."
Felix's voice is quiet when it comes. "Do you ever miss it?"
Hyunjin's mouth curves, not quite a smile. "No. But sometimes, I wonder if I ever left it behind. People still look at me like I'm a gallery piece."
Felix meets his eyes. "I don't."
Something flickers between them then. A beat too long. A breath held.
Hyunjin's gaze doesn't drop. Doesn't flinch. "No. You don't."
The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's full. Steady. Real.
Hyunjin steps even closer, and for a moment Felix thinks he might reach out, do something reckless, close the space between them with something more than words.
But instead, Hyunjin lifts a hand and brushes his thumb just under Felix's cheekbone. "Paint," he murmurs.
Felix freezes, not from fear, but electricity.
He hadn't even realised there was still pigment there.
Hyunjin doesn't linger. He lets his hand drop, turns, and heads toward the sink to rinse it off. Like it meant nothing.
But Felix stands rooted in place, skin buzzing like someone struck a tuning fork in his spine.
It's a quiet suggestion. Almost offhand.
"You should bring your sketchbook next time."
Hyunjin says it while wiping down a paintbrush, voice neutral, gaze not quite meeting Felix's. Like it's no big deal. Like he's asking him to borrow a pen.
Felix tries not to overreact. Tries not to let his pulse spike. "Why?"
Hyunjin shrugs, rinsing the brush, hand steady under the stream of water. "Curious. I've seen what you can do with a brush. I want to see how you draw."
That word, want, lands heavy in Felix's chest.
He nods, too quickly. "Okay."
__________
When Saturday comes, he nearly chickens out.
He stands in his kitchen holding the sketchbook like it's a live wire. His hands twitch with the instinct to edit, rip pages out, rearrange them. Hide the ones that matter. The ones that look like him.
But in the end, he doesn't touch a thing. He tucks the book into his bag spine-down so he won't be tempted to pull it out early, and leaves.
Class is quieter than usual.
Fewer regulars, maybe the rainy weather kept people away. The sound of paintbrushes on canvas blends with low music, a pulsing, ambient jazz track that seems to fade in and out like a heartbeat. Felix paints with more ease now, no longer afraid of ruining the canvas. He leans into chaos, trusts his hands.
Hyunjin doesn't say much. Just glances at him occasionally. A flick of dark eyes that lingers a second too long. Like he's waiting for something.
When the others file out, Hyunjin moves with his usual rhythm, tidying in silence, not rushing. Felix waits until the last jar is rinsed before he pulls the sketchbook from his bag.
He hesitates, then carries it over to the long bench by the windows and sits. The space is dim now, only one of the overhead lamps left on. Rain smudges the glass. The studio feels smaller in the quiet.
He opens the sketchbook on his lap.
"I brought it," he says softly.
Hyunjin glances over. Doesn't hesitate. Just wipes his hands on a rag, then crosses the room and sinks down beside Felix like it's the most natural thing in the world.
The bench is narrow. Their shoulders almost touch.
Felix can feel the heat of him. The slope of his thigh pressing lightly against his. He goes still, breath catching at the contact.
Hyunjin says nothing. Just leans in, head bowed as he flips slowly through the pages.
For a few minutes, there's only the sound of paper turning. No comments. No questions.
Then-
"These are for clients," Hyunjin says. Not a question.
Felix glances sideways. "Yeah."
"They're... Skilful. Structured. But they don't breathe."
Felix swallows.
Hyunjin turns the page.
"And these..." He slows. The next few pages are messier. Bolder. Less symmetrical. Felix's lines grow longer, more fluid. More felt.
"They're yours."
Felix doesn't respond. He just watches Hyunjin's hand resting against the paper, fingers lightly stained with ochre and charcoal. The way his eyes move across the page, focused, deliberate.
Then Hyunjin turns to the next page and stills.
Felix knows what he's looking at even before he sees the flicker in his posture.
It's one of the newer pieces, half-finished, but unmistakable. A long silhouette in black wool and silk, slashed with sheer panelling and layers of rich, reckless texture. The figure is in motion, stepping forward, hair tied loosely at the back. The posture, the expression, the aura... It's all him.
Hyunjin doesn't speak.
Felix feels his chest tighten. His breath comes shallow.
He wonders if Hyunjin will laugh. Or ask if he's imagining things. Or accuse him of using him, of turning him into another mannequin like the person he told him about.
But instead, Hyunjin flips to the next page.
And the next.
Each design more clearly shaped by him. Different fabrics, different moods, bold armour one week, delicate transparency the next. But always the same presence. A constant ghost written into the seams.
Felix can barely breathe.
Finally, Hyunjin stops.
He looks at the last sketch, then tilts his head slightly, still not looking at Felix. "You've accepted it."
Felix's voice is low. "What?"
"That I'm your muse."
A beat.
Felix laughs under his breath. It's breathless. A little unsteady. "Yeah. I think I gave up trying to pretend three weeks ago."
Hyunjin finally looks at him. Fully.
Their faces are close, closer than they've ever been. Felix can see the small mole under his eye again. The tiny, paint-smeared line at the edge of his brow. Every line of him is real, imperfect, undeniably there.
"I don't mind," Hyunjin says softly.
Felix's heart stumbles.
"You don't?" he asks, barely audible.
Hyunjin shakes his head. "You're not copying me. You're... Translating something you see. I'd rather that be real than polite."
Felix swallows hard. "It feels a little intense."
"You're painting," Hyunjin says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "It should be."
Their eyes stay locked for a second too long.
Felix doesn't lean in.
But he thinks about it. Thinks about it so clearly it feels like a sin.
Then Hyunjin looks back down, closes the sketchbook carefully, and rests it between them.
"I'm glad you brought it," he says. "I see you more clearly now."
Felix wonders if his ribs are going to crack from the pressure in his chest.
Because he sees Hyunjin too.
And suddenly, that feels dangerous.
And inevitable.
_____________
The painting class becomes a rhythm Felix can't stop moving to.
By now, he doesn't just look forward to Saturdays, he lives for them.
His calendar is filled with shoots and fittings, meetings and emails, but in the margins of every day, there's a gravitational pull toward that studio. Toward Hyunjin.
The work itself has changed too. Felix no longer hesitates when he paints. His lines are freer. His colour choices braver. Sometimes he doesn't even realise what he's painting until he steps back and sees it clearly, another silhouette with Hyunjin's posture. Another glance over the shoulder with those same unreadable eyes.
Hyunjin remains steady. Mysterious. Present.
He still doesn't offer much about himself. But each week, something happens that shifts the balance between them by a fraction of a degree.
A hand on Felix's wrist as Hyunjin adjusts the angle of his brush. A pause behind him that lasts long enough to notice. A fleeting comment about palette choice that somehow sounds like a compliment and a confession.
It's never inappropriate.
It's never quite enough.
But it lingers.
Like the time Felix had a streak of cobalt across his cheekbone and Hyunjin wiped it off with his thumb, slow, unhurried, and said, "Better."
Or the moment last week when they both reached for the same jar of water, their hands colliding. Felix pulled back immediately, stammering some apology, but Hyunjin just looked at him for a second longer than he had to and said, "You're always too careful."
And Felix?
Felix is drowning in it.
Because these are nothing moments. Forgettable, even. If it were anyone else.
But it's him.
And Felix reads into every brush of skin, every glance, every inflection. He's halfway into an emotional freefall and has no idea where the ground is anymore.
__________
The following Friday night, Felix is sitting cross-legged on his couch, sketchbook in his lap, pencil in hand but unmoving. The apartment is dim, the only light coming from the lamp behind him. His phone buzzes beside him, and he answers without checking.
"Hey, baby," Jisung's voice purrs. "How's the tortured artist lifestyle?"
Felix snorts. "I've upgraded from tortured to vaguely unstable. It's an improvement."
Jisung laughs. "Minho says that's how you know you're making real art."
Felix hums distractedly, his gaze flicking to his laptop where a starred email sits in the corner of the screen.
"How is it going? The class, I mean."
Felix hesitates, gaze drifting to the sketch on his lap, a long coat, dramatic shoulders, asymmetric drape, undeniably inspired by the way Hyunjin leaned against a wall last Saturday, one leg bent, eyes distant.
"It's good," he says quietly. "We've got... A rhythm now."
Another pause. Jisung is too quiet.
Then: "Okay, and now say the thing you're not saying."
Felix closes his eyes. "I'm not-"
"Felix."
He groans. "I just. God. Okay. I think I'm catching feelings. Or already caught them. Or, like, got tackled by them, I don't know."
There's a long silence. Jisung doesn't laugh.
"Hyunjin," he says softly.
Felix nods, even though Jisung can't see it.
"I didn't mean to," he says. "It just... Happened. I kept telling myself he's just my muse. But it's not just that anymore. I feel like he sees me. And I see him. But then I remind myself he's just... Doing his job. I'm just another student in his class."
"He stays late with you," Jisung says immediately. "Every single week. Don't act like that's normal."
Felix bites the inside of his cheek. "He's just... Committed to his work."
"Oh my God," Jisung groans. "You're not one of his paintings, 'Lix. He asked to see your sketchbook. He lingers like he's trying not to say something every time you speak."
Felix runs a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple."
"Is it not? Or are you scared?"
Felix goes quiet.
Then Jisung's voice softens. "Hey. Listen. You don't need to go full grand gesture. But what if you asked him to get a drink? Something small. Neutral territory. Just... See what happens when you're not surrounded by canvas and turpentine and ambient tension."
Felix exhales. "What if I ruin it?"
"What if you don't?" Jisung counters gently. "What if he's been waiting for you to ask?"
Felix doesn't answer right away.
But his heart has already started to race with the thought.
"I... Actually got something weird today," he admits.
"Weird how?" Jisung asks, instantly alert.
"Like. An email. From a gallery. An actual gallery. They want me to be part of some upcoming multi-artist showcase, design, music, sculpture, painting. All mediums."
"Wait, what?!" Jisung practically yells. "Why are you leading with tortured artist when you should be leading with I'm showing at a gallery? Open the damn email."
Felix laughs, already pulling the laptop toward him. "Alright, alright."
He clicks it open, scans the lines again even though he's read it at least six times already.
"They said the show's six weeks from now," he reads aloud. "It's a celebration of local creatives working across disciplines. They want to feature one piece per contributor, to keep things manageable. Fashion, performance art, painting, whatever."
"And they asked you?" Jisung asks, voice caught somewhere between awed and vindicated.
"Apparently one of the gallery curators saw a sketch I posted a few weeks back and got my name through a mutual contact."
"I told you those uploads would lead somewhere eventually," Jisung crows. "Okay, so... What are you going to show?"
"I don't know yet," Felix admits. "It has to be one complete outfit. Something strong, something that feels like me."
Jisung goes quiet for a second. Then, slyly, "And who's going to model it?"
Felix hesitates.
The image comes to him instantly. Hyunjin, standing beneath gallery lights, hair half-up, limbs like brushstrokes, wearing something Felix built around the way he moves.
But then he remembers Hyunjin's story. The former "friend" who used him like a canvas. The bitterness in his voice when he told him about how it had ended.
Felix swallows that thought, hard.
"I don't know," he says, a little too quickly. "Haven't thought that far ahead."
"Mhm," Jisung replies, unconvinced. "You definitely didn't just picture Hyunjin in something sheer and dramatic, standing under a spotlight with everyone gasping."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying," Jisung continues, more gently this time, "there's nothing wrong with asking. If it's truly something that matters to you, he might surprise you."
Felix hums, noncommittal. He doesn't trust his voice enough to say more.
"You're scared," Jisung adds, quieter now. "And I get it. But you're not the only one who's allowed to change. Maybe he's not the same version of himself he was back then either."
Another silence passes between them, this one heavier but no less loving.
"Get some rest," Jisung says eventually. "We'll talk soon. And read the email again before bed so you know it's real."
Felix lets out a breath and smiles faintly. "Goodnight, Ji."
"Goodnight, baby. And hey, ask him out. Even if it's just for drinks. You deserve to know."
Felix doesn't reply, not out loud.
But he does open the email one more time before heading to bed.
And this time, he lets the idea sit in his chest a little longer before pushing it away.
______________
Felix barely sleeps the night before.
The gallery invitation email remains starred in his inbox. Every time he thinks about it, he feels both giddy and nauseous, like someone dared him to step out onto a stage he'd only ever watched from the wings.
And then there's Hyunjin.
The weight of Jisung's words cling to him all morning. What if he's been waiting for you to ask?
By the time the sun dips toward evening and he's boarding the subway to Hongdae, Felix is a mess of nerves dressed in layered neutrals and a shirt he ironed twice just to keep his hands busy. His sketchbook is in his bag. His palms are damp.
He tells himself he's just going to paint.
But the truth of it is louder.
The studio is dimmer than usual when he arrives. Rain clings to the windows, blurring the streetlights into soft halos. There are fewer people tonight, just five regulars, each already at their easels, music playing low in the background, something melodic and disjointed.
Hyunjin is by the counter, pouring paint into palettes. He glances up when Felix enters, and there's the faintest tilt of his mouth. Not a smile, not exactly, but something like recognition. Like relief.
Felix's heart kicks in his chest.
He offers a nod and a quiet greeting before heading to his usual easel. He's more focused tonight, more deliberate. Not in a technical way, but emotionally, like something in him has decided that tonight matters more than he can admit.
The piece he paints is all curve and motion. Layers of gauze and contrast. A silhouette caught mid-turn, half-revealed, half-withheld. He doesn't name it in his mind, but he knows who it's drawn from. Who it's for.
Two hours pass in what feels like minutes. The room begins to empty, soft goodbyes and rustling bags fading one by one. Until again, it's just them.
Felix doesn't look up when the last door clicks shut. He keeps painting. Or pretending to.
Hyunjin's voice breaks the quiet.
"You're tense tonight."
Felix glances over. "Is it that obvious?"
Hyunjin steps forward, arms crossed loosely as he leans against the worktable beside Felix's easel. "Your lines are sharper. Less breath."
Felix shrugs. "Just thinking."
Hyunjin tilts his head, watching him for a moment. "Dangerous habit."
That earns a quiet laugh.
There's a beat of silence between them. Familiar now. Charged.
Felix wipes his hands on a rag and clears his throat. "Actually... I wanted to ask you something."
Hyunjin's posture doesn't change, but his gaze sharpens just slightly.
Felix swallows. His fingers fidget with the hem of his sleeve. "I know we only really see each other here. In this... Setting. But I was wondering if maybe you'd want to-"
A breath. A beat.
"-get a drink. If you're not busy, that is."
Hyunjin's lips twitch. He doesn't reply immediately. Just studies Felix like he's considering a particularly stubborn knot of string.
Felix rushes to fill the silence. "It doesn't have to be a thing. It's just... I realised I've known you for three months and I don't even know what your laugh sounds like unless someone spills paint on themselves."
Hyunjin lets out a small, surprised exhale through his nose. "So you do pay attention."
Felix flushes. "Unfortunately."
Another pause.
Then, with a quiet smile curling at the edge of his mouth, Hyunjin says, "Alright."
Felix blinks. "Alright?"
Hyunjin nods once. "Let's get a drink."
There's something unspoken in the way he says it. Not tentative. Not teasing.
Just genuine.
Felix stares at him, heart doing something entirely ill-advised in his chest. "Cool. Yeah. Okay."
Felix doesn't even pretend to return to his canvas. The second Hyunjin nods toward the sink, rag in hand, Felix is already rolling up his sleeves.
They clean up side by side, the silence between them comfortable, humming with the low kind of anticipation that makes Felix feel like he's walking across a tightrope. Hyunjin moves with his usual economy of motion, efficient, quiet, almost meditative. Felix moves more awkwardly than usual, hyper-aware of every brush of elbow, every shared glance.
He's never been so happy to wash out a jar of brushes in his life.
By the time they lock up the studio and step out into the warm Seoul night, Felix feels like he's vibrating beneath his skin.
Hyunjin doesn't say where they're going. He just starts walking, and Felix follows without question, the sounds of Hongdae on a weekend night rising around them, street buskers, neon signage buzzing, the low thrum of conversation spilling out of cafés and bars.
They slip down a narrow alleyway lined with mural-covered walls and exposed brick. At the end of it, tucked between a stationery shop and a stairwell that smells faintly of fried chicken, is a doorway Felix never would've noticed. A hand-painted sign above it reads 'Opus'.
Inside, it's dim and warm, soft orange light pooled across mismatched furniture, faded jazz filtering through vintage speakers. It's the kind of place that doesn't try too hard, and so feels effortlessly cool.
A few heads turn as they enter. A man behind the bar raises two fingers in greeting. "You're late again," he calls to Hyunjin, but there's no malice in it.
Hyunjin just lifts a hand. "I was working."
The bartender snorts and sets two glasses down without asking.
Felix leans in as they slide into a booth near the back. "You come here often?"
Hyunjin shrugs. "It's quiet. They let me stay too long."
Felix smiles. "That sounds familiar."
Their drinks arrive, beer for both, a shared bottle of soju between them. Hyunjin pours the first round without a word, the gesture practiced.
Felix watches him from across the table. His shirt is still flecked with paint at the sleeve, his hair half-escaped from the tie he'd twisted it into earlier. Under the warmer light, his skin looks softer. Less unknowable.
"I didn't know if you'd say yes," Felix admits after a moment, fiddling with the rim of his glass.
Hyunjin doesn't flinch. "Why not?"
Felix shrugs. "You're... Hard to read."
"Good."
Felix huffs a laugh. "You are, though. You talk to me more than anyone in the class, but you never say much about yourself."
"I don't like explaining things before I know what they mean."
Felix studies him. "And what does this mean?"
Hyunjin meets his gaze evenly. "Don't know yet."
Their eyes hold.
Hyunjin sips his beer like it's a quiet ritual, one hand curled loosely around the glass, the other resting on the table, fingers long and paint-stained as always. He doesn't rush to fill the silence between them, and somehow that makes Felix want to.
"So," Felix says after a moment, trying for casual, "do you do anything besides paint and vanish into thin air the second class ends?"
A faint smile tugs at Hyunjin's mouth. "I teach. I paint. I walk a lot. I read when my brain lets me." He tilts his head slightly. "And sometimes I come here to pretend I'm not thinking about everything all the time."
Felix smiles into his glass. "Sounds healthy."
Hyunjin smirks. "It's better than some alternatives."
They lapse into a moment of silence again, but it feels more like breathing space than awkwardness.
Felix leans forward a little, arms folded on the table. "How did you end up teaching? You don't strike me as the type who enjoys lesson plans."
"I don't," Hyunjin says, immediately. "No plans. No grading. Just a space where people can make something that doesn't have to mean anything."
Felix raises a brow. "So you created the class you needed."
Hyunjin doesn't deny it. "I don't think most people realise how hard it is to unlearn the pressure to be good. To stop apologising for making something messy."
Felix goes quiet. That hits too close to home.
Hyunjin must see it on his face, because he adds more softly, "You're not the only one who came in needing permission."
Felix looks down at his drink, mouth tugging slightly. "Yeah, well. Still working on that."
They talk more after that. About Seoul, about family, Hyunjin's has some distant family members in Busan, apparently, about food, Hyunjin doesn't cook but will religiously hunt down the best tteokbokki stall in any neighbourhood he visits. Felix laughs when he learns Hyunjin has an encyclopaedic knowledge of early 2000s R&B, though he refuses to elaborate on why.
Hyunjin listens when Felix talks. Really listens. There's no glaze in his eyes, no polite nodding. Just steady, thoughtful attention like Felix is saying something important, even when he isn't. It's disarming.
Somewhere in the middle of a story about Felix's accidental mis-booking of a men's magazine shoot in a baroque Catholic church, Hyunjin stretches his legs under the table, long and casual, and his knee brushes against Felix's.
It's barely anything.
But it's everything.
Felix's breath hitches, and he prays to every patron saint of restraint that his face isn't going red. He forces himself not to look down. Not to overreact.
Hyunjin doesn't move his leg.
Felix tells himself it's the small booth. Just proximity. An accident.
But it doesn't feel like an accident.
They keep talking. Felix tells him about Jisung and Minho, about the mustard yellow sofa and the strawberry-shaped cushion and how he hated his job a little less this week. He doesn't say it's because of this moment, because of Hyunjin sitting across from him like he's a living version of all the inspiration Felix thought he'd lost. But he thinks it, hard.
Eventually, the conversation slows, not from fatigue but from comfort. They've refilled their soju glasses several times, Hyunjin more sparing than Felix, but neither of them seems eager to leave.
Outside, the rain has stopped. Inside, the last few patrons murmur over their drinks and jazz still lingers in the corners of the room like smoke.
The bar begins to dim around them slowly, almost apologetically, first the back lights, then the glow above the shelves, until only the low sconces near the door remain lit. A soft chime sounds as the bartender announces last call, and Felix blinks at the time on his phone.
1:03 a.m.
"Guess they're closing the place down," he says, voice low and lazy with warmth.
Hyunjin slides out of the booth with a soft exhale. "Yeah, usually once the last few people leave they shut up shop, regardless of time.”
They step out into the street together, the door clicking shut behind them. The air outside is cool and damp, the kind of post-rain breeze that feels like it's pressing pause on the world. Everything is quieter. Shinier.
Felix falls into step beside Hyunjin as they head toward the main street. The rhythm of their footfalls syncs without thought.
"Thanks for coming tonight," Felix says, hands in his pockets, shoulder occasionally brushing Hyunjin's with each turn. "I wasn't sure if this would be weird, stepping outside the studio."
Hyunjin doesn't answer immediately. He walks for a few more seconds before glancing over. "It's not weird."
Felix smiles softly. "I've really enjoyed getting to know you. More than just... You know. Your occasional comments on my painting."
That earns the faintest curl of a smile at Hyunjin's mouth, though he doesn't quite look at him.
"Don't get used to it," Hyunjin says quietly, almost teasing, but something about the tone makes Felix glance at him more carefully.
They stop at the corner where the street splits, one way leading toward the subway, the other into the winding side roads of Hongdae.
Hyunjin shifts his weight slightly, hands loose at his sides. "I'll see you next week."
It's not dismissive. Not cold. But it's a clear enough end.
Felix hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Next week."
There's a moment, just one, where neither of them moves. Like the night has stretched out a thread between them, just long enough to feel it pull.
Then Hyunjin turns, walking off into the dark, his silhouette tapering into the scattered light of neon reflections in puddles.
Felix watches him go for a beat too long, the ghost of a smile still caught on his lips.
Then he exhales, tugs his jacket tighter, and makes his way home with the feeling of something unfinished thrumming in his chest.
___________
Felix responds to the gallery email early Sunday morning, still wrapped in his duvet, the light barely bleeding through the curtains. He re-reads his reply three times before sending it, short, polite, nonchalant.
Thank you for the invitation. I'd be honoured to participate. Looking forward to the details.
—Felix Lee
The second he hits "send," the weight settles on his shoulders. Six weeks. One outfit. One shot.
By Monday, he's already sketching in the margins of mood boards at work.
It starts as idle scribbles, lines, cuts, fabric drapes he's imagined before, but it quickly shifts into something more obsessive. He hides the drawings between shoot call sheets and pinned-up palette cards, stealing time between fittings to revise a hemline or reinvent a neckline.
But nothing sticks.
He tears through a dozen drafts by Wednesday. Not because they're bad, some of them are technically excellent. Clean silhouettes. Balanced shapes. A few even make the stylists around him pause and go, "Ooh."
But none of them are enough.
They feel like echoes. Safe, even when they're risky. Clever, but not true. Each time he finishes a version, he looks at it and hears that quiet, irritating voice in his head say You're still playing dress-up for someone else.
So he tears them out of his sketchbook and starts again.
Outside of those moments, work continues in its usual blur of beige monotony. He styles three shoots over five days, each brief as dull and glossy as the last, washed-out palettes, polished neutral linens, models who look through the camera rather than into it. The creative directors all use the same four words. Clean, timeless, elevated, understated.
Felix nods, smiles, and forces himself to care just enough to get through the day.
But the second he's alone, the second he's on the subway or in a café corner, the sketches come back out. He doesn't tell anyone what it's for, not even the new friends he's made at the Saturday painting sessions. This piece feels private. Sacred, even.
Still, by Thursday night, he's surrounded by crumpled paper on his living room floor. The mustard couch is half-buried beneath sketch pads and fabric samples, swatches pinned and unpinned again. He's pacing in mismatched socks and an oversized hoodie, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Because there's something he hasn't let himself draw.
Something he keeps circling around.
A silhouette. A line of posture. A brush of collarbone that feels too familiar.
He knows the shape he wants to design for.
But putting it on paper means admitting what he wants it for.
And who.
_____________
The chatter in the studio is softer tonight, some of the regulars already drifting toward the sink, others chatting over paint-smeared canvases. Felix has managed to finish something he doesn't entirely hate, which already feels like a win.
He's wiping his hands on a towel when Hyunjin appears at his side.
"I'm heading to Opus," he says casually, voice low enough that it doesn't carry. "They've got a live jazz set tonight."
Felix glances up from his canvas. "Yeah?"
Hyunjin tilts his head, unreadable but steady. "You should come."
There's no flourish in the offer. No pressure.
But it hits Felix somewhere deep anyway.
"I'd like that," he says, and means it more than he knows how to say.
They walk to the bar in comfortable quiet. The night is warmer than last time, the sky a deep violet, the streets buzzing with Saturday life. When they reach Opus, the place is already humming, lights low and amber, every surface soaked in gold.
The band is just setting up on the small raised platform near the back. A vintage upright bass leans like a lover against its player's shoulder. A trumpet gleams. A mic squeals once, then settles.
Felix and Hyunjin slide into the same booth as last time, drinks arriving without needing to be ordered. Felix suspects the bartender memorised it from last week.
Their conversation meanders easily, topics flowing without force. Felix tells Hyunjin about a disastrous shoot earlier in the week involving an uncooperative peacock and a model allergic to feathers. Hyunjin talks about a new series he's experimenting with, thicker textures, bolder colours, fewer shapes.
"You're getting less abstract?" Felix teases.
Hyunjin lifts an eyebrow. "Or maybe just more honest."
Felix's smile softens.
Then the music begins, rich and slow, a pulse of upright bass and the low ache of saxophone curling through the room like smoke.
Some of the bar's patrons get up to dance, swaying in small, expressive motions. It's not a formal kind of dancing. More like bodies moving because they can. Because they want to.
One of the dancers, a woman with a cropped black bob and a dazzling grin, laughs as she approaches their table.
"Hyunjin," she sings. "Come dance with me."
He starts to shake his head, almost imperceptibly, glancing toward Felix like he's checking for something, permission, maybe.
Felix feels it. The way the moment teeters.
He lifts his chin, feigning ease. "Go ahead."
Hyunjin holds his gaze for a beat too long. Then rises.
The woman takes his hand like it's nothing, like it's a habit. They move to the centre of the open floor, and then...
He dances.
Not like he's performing. Not like he's trying to impress.
Hyunjin dances like he paints, fluid and precise, but never restrained. His body curves through the tempo like it already knew the rhythm before the music began. Every movement flows into the next, measured and intuitive, graceful without trying.
Felix watches, stunned.
He didn't know. Didn't expect it.
Hyunjin's shirt is loose, almost translucent in the stage lights, and it flutters with each motion like it was meant for this. The music lifts and falls, and the fabric rises with it, skimming over his hips, catching the air. His partner spins out and back again, and Hyunjin's hands guide her with the same focus he gives to his brushstrokes, deliberate, light.
Felix forgets his drink entirely.
Ideas start skating through his mind in fast, vivid flashes, organza panels layered over bare shoulders, pale silk moving like smoke around a frame. Colours that shift with the light. Garments designed for movement, not just appearance.
Designed for him.
The thought lands hard.
He presses his thumb to the edge of his glass, grounding himself. Tries not to think about how every sketch he's drawn this week, every draft he's crumpled and thrown away, has been avoiding this truth.
That the design is already in him, waiting under his skin to be released.
And it's shaped like Hyunjin.
____________
Felix doesn't even kick off his shoes when he gets home.
He drops his bag just inside the door, grabs his sketchbook from the coffee table, and all but collapses onto the floor in front of his cluttered bookshelf. The apartment is dark except for the warm pool of light from his desk lamp, but he doesn't bother turning anything else on.
His hand moves before his mind can catch up.
Lines spill across the page, bold, loose, immediate. There's no hesitation tonight. No second-guessing or overly edited precision. It's like something inside him broke loose the second Hyunjin stepped onto that dance floor.
He draws not just the silhouette, but the motion.
Soft layers that lift with the slightest spin. A high neckline that contrasts with bare arms. Sheer fabric cascading like water over a structured base. Draped panels that follow the spine in fluid, breathing lines. He starts layering swatches and scribbled notes in the margins: bias cut, fluid silk organza, a suggestion of skin, but never obvious. A garment meant to move. Meant to dance. Details about lighting choices at the gallery to maximise the impact.
By the time he looks up again, it's nearly 3 a.m.
There are six full sketches sprawled across the rug. His hoodie is streaked with graphite and ink, his tea has long gone cold, and the thrill buzzing beneath his skin hasn't let up.
It's happening.
The design is real now, not just an idea. It exists. And for the first time since the invitation arrived, Felix lets himself believe he might actually pull this off.
But time is already slipping.
Five weeks until the show.
Five weeks to finalise the design, source the fabrics, and pattern it properly. He'll need muslin first, of course, test everything, troubleshoot drape and movement, tweak the fit of toiles before he even touches the proper material. And that's assuming he can find what he wants. Seoul is full of fabric districts, but the right textures will take hunting. He makes a mental list. Dongdaemun first, then maybe online. Or he could...
He pauses, staring at the main figure on the page.
He's drawn it again, without realising.
The long neck. The sharp collarbone. The expressive curve of the wrist.
It's Hyunjin.
Of course it is.
Felix exhales sharply and leans back against the edge of the sofa. He's not even surprised anymore. The man lives in his work now, stitched into every fold of inspiration like thread he can't unpick.
And that brings him, once again, to the problem of the model.
He needs someone with presence, someone who moves like the fabric itself, elegant but raw, poised without being rigid. The piece demands it. It needs someone who can feel it.
And Felix knows, without a doubt, who that is.
But the moment the thought surfaces, he pushes it away.
No. Absolutely not.
Not after what Hyunjin's been through. Not after what he told Felix. About being turned into someone else's art project, someone's curated idea of beauty.
Felix won't do that to him. He can't.
He rubs a hand down his face, heart still pounding with creative momentum and emotional static.
There has to be someone else.
There has to be.
He doesn't believe it for a second.
___________
The week slips past in a blur of muslin mock-ups and stained fingertips. Felix spends most of it hunched over his worktable, pinning and unpinning half-finished fabric tests, muttering to himself and cursing dull needles when they slip and jab against his fingertips. His kitchen becomes a secondary sewing station, his meals forgotten or replaced by coffee and dried fruit eaten over pattern paper. Every time he looks up, another day is gone.
By the time Saturday arrives, his knuckles are sore and his back aches, but the toile is finally beginning to resemble something close to what he imagined. Not perfect. But promising.
Still, he needs to get out of the apartment.
He doesn't expect Hyunjin to invite him again.
They're cleaning up after the painting session, Hyunjin rinsing brushes while Felix blots stray pigment from his hands.
"You coming to Opus tonight?" Hyunjin asks, not looking over.
Felix blinks. "You want me to?"
Hyunjin's lips curl slightly. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
There's no hesitation this time. "Then yeah," Felix says. "Yeah, I'll come."
The club is louder than last week, the jazz band replaced by a moody live trio with electronic undertones. The lights are lower, casting everything in gold and garnet. The crowd is a little younger, more chaotic, but somehow, Hyunjin still belongs here like the room was waiting for him.
They sit close, closer than usual, in a corner booth tucked away from the worst of the noise. Felix can barely hear the music over the blood rushing in his ears.
Their shoulders brush once. Then again. Neither of them moves away.
They talk, but the words don't matter as much tonight. Not when every glance lingers a second longer than it should. Not when Hyunjin's fingers wrap around his glass like it's Felix's wrist he's holding. Not when Felix is hyper-aware of the way their knees press together under the table and neither of them shifts.
Hyunjin leans in to say something, a joke, maybe, something about the band, and his mouth is so close that Felix catches his breath without meaning to.
Hyunjin doesn't pull back.
And that's it.
The moment the air changes.
Felix's pulse jumps, fast and uncertain, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't run.
Hyunjin doesn't speak.
Felix shifts forward, barely a breath, and presses his mouth to Hyunjin's in a kiss so gentle it almost doesn't register at first.
Felix's eyes widen as Hyunjin responds, kissing him back. Surprise pulses through him like static.
But it's soft. Intentional. Sure.
Not a question. A statement.
And then, just as fast as the shock lands, Felix melts.
His hand rises instinctively, fingers brushing against the curve of Hyunjin's jaw, then settling there, warm against the skin of his cheek. He can feel the faint scrape of stubble beneath his thumb, the slight hitch in Hyunjin's breath. The kiss deepens, not urgent, not rushed, but heavy, and Felix's heart stumbles.
Hyunjin shifts closer, his fingers sliding along the inside of Felix's thigh beneath the table, slow, certain, like he already knows what it will do to him.
Felix gasps into his mouth, breath catching hard enough to make his lips part. His pulse stutters. His spine goes rigid, then loose, his hand tightening where it rests against Hyunjin's cheek. The soft scratch of stubble, the warmth of his skin, everything feels amplified, immediate.
Hyunjin doesn't push. Just holds him there in that taut, deliberate closeness.
Then his mouth drags just barely away, brushing the corner of Felix's lips, then down, jaw, cheekbone, until his breath spills hot and steady across Felix's ear.
"Wanna come to mine?" he murmurs.
Felix shivers.
The question curls low in his stomach, and he doesn't need to think. There's no breath left for hesitation. He turns his head just enough to catch Hyunjin's gaze, steady, unreadable, except for the flicker of something unmistakable behind it.
"Yes," he says, voice low. Barely audible.
Hyunjin's lips ghost into the barest suggestion of a smile, pleased, but not smug. And then he stands, tugging gently at Felix's hand, and Felix follows without a word.
The air outside is cool, but it does nothing to settle the heat pooling in his chest.
Their hands stay linked as they walk, Hyunjin's thumb brushing slow, thoughtless circles against the back of Felix's. It's nothing. It's everything.
Hyunjin's apartment building is tucked between a closed café and a florist that smells faintly of soil and leftover jasmine. The exterior is tidy and understated, glass and grey concrete softened by vines climbing one rusted railing. Nothing flashy. Nothing that calls attention to itself.
Just like him.
Felix barely registers the elevator ride, the soft click of the door unlocking, the quiet hush of the hallway. Everything blurs until they step inside.
The door clicks shut behind them.
And then Hyunjin is on him.
There's no preamble, no pause, just the press of lips to lips, urgent and intent, as if the space between them had been unbearable for too long. Felix barely has time to drop his bag by the door. It tips, half-zipped, spilling a sketchbook and a tangle of headphones he doesn't care about in the slightest.
His fingers reach instinctively for Hyunjin's waist, finding warm fabric and solid muscle beneath. Hyunjin's hands are already in his hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, slower now, but no less consuming.
Felix sighs against his mouth, letting himself be pulled into the space without hesitation.
Hyunjin tastes faintly of soju and citrus. His body fits against Felix's like something inevitable. The kiss turns languid, exploratory, lips parting and pressing with heat that curls low and persistent in Felix's chest.
When they finally break apart, it's only by a breath.
Felix opens his eyes slowly. Hyunjin's are already on him, dark, steady, unreadable but present.
Felix's voice is barely a whisper. "So... This is your place."
Hyunjin huffs a soft laugh, forehead resting against his. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm not great at tours."
Felix grins, heart pounding. "I like your version better."
They don't move right away. They just stand there, bodies flush, the city muffled behind closed windows and quiet walls. Felix doesn't care where the bedroom is. Doesn't care where the spilled pens rolled.
All he wants is this, Hyunjin's warmth, his breath, his hands framing his face like something precious.
And the feeling, sharp and terrifying and real, that he doesn't want the night to end.
Hyunjin pulls back just enough to meet his eyes.
There's something unspoken in the glance he gives Felix, checking, not for permission, but for presence. For certainty. And whatever he finds in Felix's expression makes his lips twitch at the corner, like he's allowing himself to believe this is real.
Then, without a word, he laces their fingers together and gently tugs.
Felix follows.
The apartment is quiet, sparse in that deliberate way, minimalist but lived in. A few canvases lean against the walls in the hallway, some blank, others half-finished in thick, abstract strokes. The lights are low, the air warm with the faint scent of paint and something vaguely herbal, like citrus and cedar.
Hyunjin's bedroom is tucked at the end of the hall. No door, just a wide frame and a soft spill of warm light from a bedside lamp.
The bed is unmade.
The room is clean, but not curated, linen sheets in a soft, crumpled heap, a hoodie draped over the back of a chair; brushes in an old mug on the windowsill. It feels like him. Intimate without trying to be.
Hyunjin tugs Felix gently into the room and turns to face him again. He doesn't speak.
Just steps close, rests a hand lightly on the curve of Felix's neck, and kisses him again.
Slower this time.
Softer.
Felix sighs into it, hands drifting instinctively to Hyunjin's hips. His skin tingles where they touch, heart thudding so loudly it feels like it fills the whole room. The kiss stretches out, unhurried, exploratory. Their bodies start to sway together, all instinct and heat and quiet hunger.
Clothes aren't tugged off in a frenzy, but eased away, each layer removed with lingering fingers. When Hyunjin's shirt lifts over his head and drops to the floor, Felix lets his hands roam, over smooth skin, paint-flecked in places, the subtle dip of collarbone, the warmth of muscle under lean strength.
"God," Felix murmurs before he can help it, voice low and uneven. "You're-"
But Hyunjin leans in and kisses the rest of the sentence from his lips.
They move to the bed, not stumbling, but drawn, like gravity tugging them down into soft linen and shadow. Felix lies back against the sheets, heart thrumming in his throat, his senses overrun. Hyunjin climbs over him slowly, knees bracketing his hips, gaze never leaving his face.
Hyunjin's fingers skate along Felix's ribs, over his stomach, up to his chest, tracing the shape of him like he has a paintbrush in hand, and Felix is his canvas. His mouth follows suit, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses along the column of Felix's throat, across his shoulder, down...
Felix arches slightly, breath catching, a quiet moan escaping before he can stop it.
Hyunjin lifts his head, eyes dark, mouth parted, his fingers toying with the waistband of Felix's boxers.
Slowly, he pulls them down, Felix's cock springing free back against his stomach.
Felix sucks in a breath as cool air brushes over newly bared skin, sharp as it moves along the line of his thighs. His pulse flutters, eyes fixed on Hyunjin, calm, unhurried, as he moves to one side and slowly eases Felix's boxers down the rest of his legs. The fabric slips past his knees, his calves, pooling at his ankles before being discarded to the floor with quiet finality.
Hyunjin doesn't rush. He just looks up once, gaze lingering, and Felix feels it everywhere.
And then Hyunjin leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above his hipbone.
Felix inhales sharply, hand fisting the sheet beneath him.
"Breathe," Hyunjin murmurs, the word spoken against his skin, lips barely moving.
Felix swallows. Nods. He lets his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as Hyunjin continues, kissing a trail lower, then back up, patient and devastating.
He's not sure how long they stay like that, Hyunjin touching, tasting, learning him in the quiet, private language that lives in the space between breath and sound. The world outside fades. There's only this now, this room, this heat, this strange and fragile gravity tethering them together.
Felix lifts his hips without thinking when Hyunjin moves closer, and gasps when his fingers slide across his hip to wrap around his cock in a fluid motion.
Felix can barely bring himself to look when he feels the wet warmth of Hyunjin's tongue swirl around his tip, scared that the image of those plush lips wrapped around him will be enough to send him straight over the edge.
As expected, the sight is absolutely damning. Hyunjin's dark eyes meet his as he sinks his mouth over him, and Felix swears under his breath, eyes fluttering shut.
"Ah fuck... Hyun..." Felix is barely capable of forming words with the slow torturous drag of Hyunjin's mouth over his length.
Hyunjin shifts slightly beside him, settling on all fours, the muscles in his arms taut with quiet control. He's close, close enough that Felix can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, can see the rise and fall of his breath.
Without thinking, Felix reaches out, trailing his fingers in a slow, deliberate stroke up the backs of Hyunjin's thighs. The touch is light, almost lazy, but it draws a subtle shiver from Hyunjin, barely there, but unmistakable.
Felix smiles to himself, the kind that comes not just from confidence, but from wonder. From knowing he can touch him like this, can make him feel.
But then he also wonders just what reactions he could draw out of him with his cock inside a different place.
The thought has him groaning, biting back a sigh as Hyunjin's tongue swirls around him lasciviously.
As Hyunjin hollows his cheeks, Felix lets out a strangled cry, rushing to stop him. What actually happens is Felix wraps his hand in Hyunjin's hair, yanking him back far harder than he intended... And Hyunjin moans.
The sound sends an instant electric jolt to Felix's cock, and he has to fight to the urge to instantly throw him down on the bed and just thrust into him with zero prep.
"I wasn't finished," Hyunjin murmurs, the words pitched just above a whine, laced with a teasing, bratty edge.
Felix smirks, his voice low and rough as he sits up and leans towards to Hyunjin, releasing his hair. "Maybe not," he growls, fingertips dragging slowly along Hyunjin's skin, "but I'm not finished with you either."
A flush was blooming high across Hyunjin's cheeks, warm and unguarded, and if Felix had thought he was beautiful before, now, like this, his lips swollen from sucking his cock, he was utterly devastating.
"Lube?" Felix asks.
"Drawer on the left."
Felix turns to rummage through the drawer, easily finding the lube and condoms, alongside a neatly coiled length of soft red rope. He pauses, holding it up between two fingers, and glancing over his shoulder at Hyunjin with a raised brow.
"This yours?" he asks, dry, amused.
Hyunjin just smirks, unbothered. "Are you judging or taking notes?"
Felix lets the rope dangle from his fingers for a beat longer, eyes narrowing just slightly, teasing. "That depends," he says, voice low and even. "Would it be for me... Or for you?"
Hyunjin's smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it deepens, just a little. His gaze flicks from the rope back to Felix's face, steady and unflinching.
"For me," he says, simple and clear. No hesitation. No performance.
Just the truth, offered up between heartbeats.
Something tugs tight in Felix's chest. The air in the room seems to shift, a feeling like static permeating through it. Hyunjin remains where he is, open and waiting, giving Felix room to move closer or not at all.
"And is this for special occasions, or...?" Felix lets the question hang, the end of it curling into the air like smoke, inviting Hyunjin to fill in the blank.
Hyunjin's eyes flick up, catching his with that now-familiar weight, calm, self-assured, laced with something darker just beneath the surface.
"Define special occasion," he murmurs, leaning forward and plucking the rope from Felix's hand with deliberate ease.
Before Felix can answer, if he even had one, Hyunjin is already moving.
He coils the length of silken rope around one wrist, then the other, his movements precise, practiced. Felix watches, pulse rising, as Hyunjin loops the final strand and pulls the knot tight with his teeth, never once breaking eye contact.
The sight is devastating.
Effortless and bold, like everything else Hyunjin does. But there is trust in it, too. A kind of surrender that came not from weakness, but from knowing exactly who he was and choosing to offer it anyway.
Felix's breath came slower now. Heavy. Controlled only barely.
Hyunjin tilts his head slightly, wrists still bound but relaxed in front of him, like a question asked without words.
"I like giving it up," he said quietly. "Now and then."
Hyunjin shifts backward, the mattress dipping beneath his slow, fluid movement until his back meets the headboard, sleek gold bars catching the low light like jewellery. He lifts his bound wrists and rests them lightly against the metal, tilting his head just enough to meet Felix's gaze.
A wordless invitation.
A quiet challenge.
Felix doesn't hesitate.
He reaches for the remaining length of rope, fingers steady as he guides it around the bars, anchoring Hyunjin in place with calculated ease. The rope tightens, not harsh, not cruel, but firm, allowing Hyunjin just enough room to slide his hands up and down the rails, but no farther. No escape. No retreat.
When Felix moves back to look at him, arms stretched above, spine long, eyes dark and unwavering, he swears he's never seen anything more beautiful.
"Do you have a safe word?" Felix asks, voice low but steady, all warmth and intention now sharpened by care. He wasn't going any further until that part was clear.
Hyunjin meets his gaze without hesitation. "Yeah," he says softly. "Red lights."
Simple. Undeniable. Immediate.
Felix nods once, the seriousness of it grounding them both. "Good," he murmurs.
Felix turns back to the drawer, now half-forgotten in the haze of heat between them, and retrieves the lube and a condom.
He sets them on the edge of the mattress, within easy reach, and then pauses, just for a moment, to take Hyunjin in again.
Arms stretched, wrists bound to the gold bars above him, chest rising and falling in a rhythm Felix already knows he'll remember. His eyes never leave Felix, watchful, unguarded, unwavering. Trust coiled in every breath between them.
Felix climbs back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress between Hyunjin's thighs. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat, just beneath the line of his jaw, then lower, slow, devouring the sounds Hyunjin doesn't quite make.
"Still good?" Felix murmurs, lips brushing the edge of his collarbone.
Hyunjin's reply comes in the form of a breathless nod, then a whispered, "Still good. Keep going."
Hyunjin arches slightly into the touch, not in desperation, but in invitation, like he's offering himself piece by piece, and trusting Felix to take only what he was given.
Felix reaches for the lube, uncapping it with one hand and warming it between his fingers before slipping his touch lower, watching Hyunjin's expression closely. Every flicker in his eyes, every sharp inhale, a conversation.
Felix gently circles his fingers around Hyunjin's entrance, before slowly sliding one finger forward. Hyunjin's head tips back against the golden bars with a soft, unguarded sound, wrists flexing instinctively against the rope.
Felix watches Hyunjin's face as he crooks his finger, smiling as he hits his prostrate and Hyunjin's whole body arches forwards, restrained only by the red ropes holding his hands in place.
Hyunjin's breaths stutter slightly, coming in pants as Felix adds a second finger to the first, crooking his fingers repeatedly over the sensitive spot inside of him.
"Good boy," Felix murmurs, his voice low and warm with quiet disbelief, like he was still catching up to the way the night had unfolded around him, unexpected, intimate, electric.
Hyunjin only whimpers in response as Felix adds a third finger, scissoring them slightly to increase the stretch.
The bars rattle slightly as Hyunjin's wrists strain against the ropes, his legs scrabbling against the bed for purchase.
Felix uses his free hand to pop the cap off the lube again, squirting a generous amount onto Hyunjin's cock. Hyunjin gasps at the cold sensation of the lube, feet kicking weakly against the bed again when Felix strokes a few languid movements up and down his length.
Felix then moves his attentions to himself, coating himself slickly in the remaining lube, before withdrawing his fingers. Hyunjin whines as he slipped them out, but huffs a breath when he finds them replaced with Felix's cock, begging entrance.
Felix places one hand at Hyunjin's hip, holding him steady as he finally pushes forward into him, the sensation of Hyunjin's body tight around him even with the prep.
Hyunjin lets out a strangled cry, his hips rising to meet Felix's, causing him to bottom out quicker than expected.
Felix moves his other hand so that he's holding both of Hyunjin's hips firmly, allowing him to roll his hips to meet him with more purpose, more force.
Hyunjin shudders with each movement, his wrists shifting up and down the bars slightly with each thrust. Felix shifts his hands, pulling Hyunjin upwards away from the bed. He's now balanced across Felix's thighs, and completely at his mercy as his snaps his hips forward into him, again and again.
Hyunjin lets out a low whine, a dribble of pre-cum shining on his stomach.
"You're doing so good baby" Felix soothes, watching the crease between Hyunjin's eyebrows deepen. He can feel the spiral of steady heat building in his own core, the slight sheen of sweat down his back as he fucks into Hyunjin's willing body.
One of Hyunjin's hands suddenly grips the bars with a white knuckle grip, a strangled cry coming from his throat, and then he's spilling hot and heavy across his stomach, leaving an almost pearlescent shimmer across his skin in the dimly lit bedroom.
The sight alone undoes him, his release hitting fast and hard, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, the ache of it sharpened by the idle wish that the flimsy barrier wasn't there at all.
Felix braces himself, arms trembling slightly as he holds his weight above Hyunjin, chest heaving. The aftershocks ripple through him, but he doesn't let himself collapse, not yet. Instead, he steadies his breath and lowers Hyunjin's hips with care, the mattress shifting beneath them as he gently eases himself down onto his side.
He reaches to cup Hyunjin's face, brushing damp hair from his forehead, the ropes still keeping his wrists in place, golden bars above framing the flush across his cheeks.
Felix leans in, hand still cradling Hyunjin's face, and presses a kiss to his lips, slow, deep, and searching. Hyunjin melts into it with a soft sound, lips parting under the press of Felix's tongue. His bound wrists shift slightly against the bars, not in discomfort, but in instinct, seeking touch he can't quite return yet.
Felix pulls back just enough to meet his eyes again, honey-lit and heavy-lidded, before lifting his fingers to the knots, unwinding the red rope loop by loop from the cool metal.
The bindings fall away, and Hyunjin's arms drop softly to the bed, his wrists pink but unmarked. Felix trails his fingertips down the inside of one forearm in quiet apology, in thanks, in awe.
Felix lingers, fingertips still ghosting over Hyunjin's arm, unsure what to say now that silence has pooled softly around them.
He swallows, then sits back slightly, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.
"I should probably..." he starts, eyes flicking toward the door, the words trailing off into the space between them. He doesn't finish the sentence, but it hangs there.
Hyunjin's gaze lifts to meet his, still soft but steady. "You can stay," he says simply, his voice low, just a little rough around the edges.
Felix's heart stumbles. He watches Hyunjin carefully, looking for any sign that the words are said out of politeness, out of obligation. But there's only calm on his face. Something even. Something real.
"If you want to," Hyunjin adds, quieter now.
Felix nods once, exhaling through a smile that feels more like a release than an answer. "Yeah," he says. "I do."
Hyunjin rises from the bed, moving with the kind of effortless grace Felix is starting to recognise as second nature. He disappears briefly into the bathroom, returns with a clean towel and a bottle of water, and hands both over without a word. Felix murmurs a thank you before slipping beneath the covers while Hyunjin turns off the lights, the room sinking into quiet shadow. The bed shifts as Hyunjin settles in beside him, not pressed close, not tangled together, just... There.
They don't touch.
And yet Felix feels every inch of him, feels the way the mattress dips with his weight, hears the subtle change in his breathing as it slows.
It's been a long time since someone else has shared his silence like this.
Felix stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, then lets out a slow breath and closes his eyes. The warmth beside him, near, not near enough to touch, but undeniable, is enough to quiet the usual storm in his chest.
He doesn't fall asleep quickly, but he sleeps deeper than he has in months.
___________
Felix wakes to the scent of coffee, dark, rich, and velvety. For a moment, he doesn't open his eyes. The air is still cool around him, the space beside him in the bed empty but faintly warm. He stretches slowly, the ache in his limbs a quiet reminder of the night before.
Hyunjin must be in the kitchen, he thinks.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and starts collecting his clothes, pulling them on piece by piece in the quiet. His shirt is inside-out, but he doesn't bother fixing it.
Padding barefoot toward the living room, he spots his bag by the front door, still splayed open, the contents scattered where he'd dropped them in haste. A few pens, his charger, a crushed protein bar wrapper. But...
His sketchbook isn't there.
Felix frowns. He distinctly remembers jamming it in there last night before he'd left his apartment.
He steps further into the open-plan space, and stops dead.
Hyunjin is standing by the far counter. His back is to him, body too still, shoulders squared not with calm, but with tension. The coffee pot steams beside him, forgotten. In his hands is Felix's sketchbook, open.
Felix feels the dread unfurl before he can even speak. Still, he tries.
"Hyunjin?"
Hyunjin turns slowly.
His expression is a storm.
Eyes sharp, lips pressed tight. His fingers grip the sketchbook like it's something volatile.
He lifts it slightly, letting Felix see the page.
A sweeping sketch of the final design, dramatic draping, subtle layers, fabric notes scrawled in the margins. And beside it, a few hastily written thoughts: Runway lighting? Cool tones, like Opus. Soundtrack idea: piano, slow build. Would Hyunjin say yes? Followed by a tentative underline.
Hyunjin's voice cuts across the room, low and laced with anger. "What is this?"
The silence that follows is immediate. And crushing.
Felix opens his mouth. Closes it again. His stomach lurches.
"I... I didn't mean for you to see that," he says, voice barely steady. "It wasn't... It's just an idea, I haven't planned-"
"You think you can sketch me like this," Hyunjin says, stepping forward, "plan a whole show around me like I'm a mannequin, and not even ask?"
His voice isn't raised, but it burns.
"I wasn't... Using you," Felix says quickly, but the words already sound weak, defensive. "It's just... I got inspired. I couldn't help it."
Hyunjin's jaw tightens. "You know I don't do this. Not anymore. You know why."
Felix's breath catches. His whole body feels hot and cold at once, like his skin can't decide which way to react.
"I wasn't-" he tries again, stepping forward, but Hyunjin cuts him off sharply.
"Is that why you kissed me?" Hyunjin demands, eyes blazing. "Is that why you slept with me? Was it some kind of warm-up? A pitch? Were you trying to butter me up so I'd say yes?"
Felix recoils, stunned. "What? No, Hyunjin, that's not-"
"Oh my god," Hyunjin says, voice cracking like a fault line. "I've done it again."
Felix freezes.
"I've done it again," Hyunjin says, louder now, backing away, his grip tightening around the sketchbook like he might throw it. "Jesus. You're exactly like him."
The words land like stones in Felix's chest.
Hyunjin's laugh is bitter, hollow. "This is what happened before. Exactly. Someone making me feel like I'm beautiful and brilliant and worth something, but it only counts when I'm useful to them. When I fit into what they want to make. And I believed it again. I thought-" He breaks off, jaw clenched. "How did I let this happen again?"
"Hyunjin, please," Felix says, barely getting the words out. "That's not what this is. That's not what you are."
But Hyunjin doesn't hear him. Or won't.
"I should've known," he mutters. "I should've known the moment you started looking at me like... Like you'd already cut and sewn the whole damn thing in your head. Like I was fabric on a mannequin. A fucking doll."
The word lands with a slap. Ugly and sharp.
Clean and brutal.
"Do you know what he did to me?" he says, eyes flaring with something raw, something trembling just beneath the surface. "He made me think he loved me, Felix. And I loved him. I trusted him with everything. And when I no longer fit his vision, when I wasn't perfect anymore, he dropped me. Like discarded fabric."
His breath hitches, and Felix's heart twists in his chest.
"And now you're..." Hyunjin trails off, pacing a sharp line across the room. He drags a hand through his hair, then grabs the sketchbook and shoves it hard into Felix's chest. "Just take it. Go."
Felix fumbles to catch it, heart pounding. "Hyunjin, just let me explain. Please, this isn't-"
"Red lights," Hyunjin snaps.
The words crack like ice across the room.
Felix stops cold.
It hits him like a gut punch. Like the floor's been ripped out from under him.
Not a command. A boundary.
Not just anger. A wall.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His thoughts stumble over themselves. His hands shake as he clutches the sketchbook like it might steady him.
For a beat, all he can do is stand there. The heat of shame crawls up his neck, settling in his face, in his chest, in the back of his throat. His heart is hammering so hard it almost hurts. Not just from being told to leave, but from how completely he'd misread the shape of this closeness. Or maybe, worse, how real it had felt.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Felix says, but the words are barely a whisper now. Aching. Useless.
Hyunjin doesn't respond.
So Felix nods once, sharp and pained, then drops to gather the rest of his things, his pens, his keys, the sketchbook pages that had fluttered loose and now feel radioactive in his hands. Everything he touches feels wrong, tainted. Even his own clothes feel too tight against his skin.
He doesn't look back as he reaches for the door. Doesn't ask again. Doesn't say goodbye.
Because there's nothing left to say that won't make it worse.
And when the door clicks shut behind him, it sounds a lot like the end of something he hadn't even let himself hope for.
____________
The subway ride home is a blur of white noise and motion.
Felix keeps his eyes trained on the floor between his shoes, gripping the metal pole like it might stop him from unravelling completely. The carriage is mostly empty, save for a couple half-asleep passengers and a tired-looking man in a suit. The silence around him only makes the noise inside louder, Hyunjin's voice echoing again and again, the way he'd said "red lights" like it was the only thing left protecting him.
Felix presses his lips together, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He breathes through his nose, shallow and sharp, willing himself not to cry here, not in this flickering tube of fluorescent light, not in front of strangers who won't look at him but will absolutely see him if he breaks.
When the train doors open at his stop, he bolts.
By the time he reaches his apartment and fumbles with the keys, his hands are shaking. He doesn't even bother turning on the lights, just stumbles inside, kicks off his shoes, and drops his bag halfway through the entryway.
And then, like his body has finally run out of tension to hold it all in place, he crumples to the floor.
The sketchbook slips from under his arm, and he hurls it across the room with a ragged, furious sound. It hits the wall with a hollow thud, pages bending open like broken limbs. He doesn't even look where it lands. He doesn't care. For the first time in months, he wishes he hadn't gone to that damn class. Hadn't seen Hyunjin. Hadn't felt so much.
He drags himself upright just enough to pull his phone from his pocket. His thumb hovers, then types out three words.
I fucked up
He barely has time to lower the phone to the floor before it rings.
Jisung.
Felix stares at the screen for a second, blinking hard. Then he answers.
"Felix?" Jisung's voice is quiet, but alert. Steady. There's no teasing, no lightness. Just concern. "Hey. Talk to me. What happened?"
Felix tries to speak and finds his throat tight, dry. He exhales shakily, and the sound cracks. "I really... Messed everything up."
"Okay," Jisung says, calm but insistent. "Start from wherever you can. I'm here."
Felix presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. He's never hated words more, never needed them more. He doesn't even know where to start.
But Jisung's still there, not rushing him, just there, waiting to catch whatever pieces he manages to hand over.
Felix sits on the floor, knees drawn up, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. He stares across the room at the sketchbook where it lies, half-buried under his jacket. The pages are still slightly bent from where he'd hurled it earlier.
Jisung's voice crackles softly through the line. "Talk to me, Lix. Please."
Felix swallows hard. His voice comes out low and hoarse. "It was after the studio last night. We went to Opus again... But then I kissed him. And he invited me to his place."
Jisung doesn't interrupt.
"It was good, Ji. Better than I thought I'd ever get with him. It didn't feel casual, or confused, or like some mistake I'd regret. We talked, we kissed, we fucked... And I stayed the night. I thought it meant something."
He takes a shaky breath.
"This morning... He found my sketchbook. It must've fallen out of my bag by the door, I didn't really pay attention at the time." He swipes a hand across his face. "And it was open to the new design. The one for the gallery show."
A beat.
"The one with notes about staging and the part where I was wondering whether I could ever ask him to model it."
Jisung exhales, sharp and low.
"And that was it," Felix says. "He turned around and he was holding it like it burned him. Asked me what the hell it was. Thought I'd planned it all. Thought I fucked him just to manipulate him into saying yes."
"Shit."
"He kept saying I was like his ex. That his ex told him he loved him, and used him for his image, then dumped him when he didn't 'fit the vision' anymore. Said it made him feel like a doll."
Jisung is quiet, but Felix can hear his breath catching slightly.
"I tried to explain, Ji," Felix continues, voice breaking. "I tried to say it wasn't like that, that I hadn't planned any of this. But he wouldn't hear it. Just shoved the sketchbook at me and told me to get out."
Felix's fingers clench on the hem of his sweatshirt. "And when I tried to say one more thing, he just said his safe word from the night before. Like I was some threat to him. Like I was dangerous."
Jisung lets out a slow, shaky sigh. "God, Felix."
Felix pinches his eyes shut. "I wasn't trying to manipulate him. I didn't even know if I was going to ask him. I was just thinking it through on the page. Like I always do."
"I know," Jisung says. "Of course I know."
"He didn't even ask. He just saw the sketchbook and decided I was like his ex."
"He's hurting," Jisung says gently. "And I get why it might've triggered something for him, but... Felix, he didn't give you a chance. He assumed the worst."
Felix's breath stutters.
"You didn't use him," Jisung adds. "You love design. And it's not a crime that he inspired you. He's incredible from what you've told me. Of course he'd get into your head and end up on the page."
Felix rubs his hands down his face. "It felt like he saw all of me and still decided I wasn't worth listening to."
"Well," Jisung says carefully, "then that's his mistake to reckon with. Not yours."
Felix doesn't say anything for a long moment.
"I'll stay on the line as long as you need," Jisung adds. "Even if you don't want to talk."
Felix nods, even though Jisung can't see it. His throat's too tight for anything else.
But the silence feels a little less crushing with Jisung on the other end of it.
The silence between them stretches for a while, soft and steady, like a blanket thrown over the sharp edges of Felix's thoughts. Jisung is the one to break it.
"Do you want to come visit here again?" he asks gently. "Clear your head. Breathe real air. Minho can make that galbi-tang you love."
Felix lets out a low, tired laugh. "You're too good to me."
"I know," Jisung says, without a trace of irony. "So?"
Felix hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip. "I think... Honestly? Seeing how sickeningly in love you and Minho are might just be the worst possible thing for me right now."
Jisung hums. "Fair."
There's a pause. Then-
"I'll come to you, then."
Felix blinks. "What?"
"I'll come to Seoul for a few days," Jisung says, casual but decisive. "Bring snacks. Make judgmental faces at your mood lighting. Kick your ass into drinking some water and finishing that show piece."
"You don't have to-"
"Don't start with me," Jisung cuts in, and Felix can practically see the way his friend's eyebrows must be arching. "I'm not letting you mope alone while spiralling into existential dread. What kind of fake sunshine twin would I be?"
Felix hesitates again, the instinct to say yes immediate, but quickly smothered by guilt. "Are you sure? I don't want to drag you away from everything. You've got work. And Minho."
In the background, Felix hears the faint creak of a door, the murmur of footsteps.
"Right," Jisung says brightly. "It's decided then."
"Wait, Ji-"
But Felix hears him already calling out across the apartment, his voice growing fainter as he moves. "Minhooo, I'm going to Seoul for a few days to look after our baby!"
A muffled response, something like a laugh, then Jisung returning to the call with a grin in his voice. "He says hi and also that he'll send some galbi-tang with me."
Felix exhales a laugh despite everything, pressing his knuckles to his mouth to hold it in. "Tell him thanks."
"I will. And Lix?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you. Even now. Especially now."
Felix stares up at his ceiling, that soft little ache in his chest shifting, still sore, but lighter somehow.
"Thanks, Ji."
"Always."
_____________
Felix stands at the train station, a warm breeze ruffling the sign in his hands. It's homemade, chaotic in its colour scheme, a little lopsided, and covered in yellow sunshine stickers that catch the light. Bold block letters in gold marker read:
JISUNG – DESIGNATED SUNSHINE TWIN
It's childish. It's cheesy. It's very Jisung.
Felix can't stop the small smile tugging at his lips, even as the nerves from the last few days linger like static under his skin. He shifts from foot to foot, watching the arrivals, heart giving a familiar jolt when he spots the mop of brown curls and oversized hoodie that could only belong to one person.
Jisung emerges from the crowd with a huff, dragging two absurdly large suitcases behind him like he's moving house. A third bag, slung across his shoulder, bounces with every step. He looks like chaos incarnate and entirely too put-together all at once.
"You've got so much luggage," Felix calls out as Jisung approaches, holding the sign higher so it's impossible to miss.
Jisung squints, reads the sign, and immediately breaks into a wide grin. "Oh my god. Is that glitter pen?"
Felix shrugs, pretending to examine his nails. "I took inspiration from your whole aesthetic, actually."
"You've been blessed, admit it," Jisung says smugly, then promptly groans, dropping the suitcase handles. "Ugh. I forgot how annoying this is without Minho. He always insists on carrying everything, and now I'm out here suffering like a commoner."
"You chose to bring your entire closet."
"I needed options," Jisung argues, already pulling Felix into a tight hug. "What if I require multiple outfit changes?"
Felix laughs, wrapping his arms around him and holding on a little longer than usual. "Thanks for coming."
Jisung squeezes once, then pulls back. "Of course. Someone has to make sure you don't spiral into some minimalist breakdown and start wearing beige."
Felix snorts, grabbing one of the suitcases before Jisung can argue. "Come on. I've got coffee at home. And actual food."
"Will there be snacks?"
"There will be my snacks."
"Perfect," Jisung says, trailing after him. "Let's unpack our trauma and some freeze-dried strawberries."
___________
By the time they reach Felix's apartment, Jisung has filled the air with enough chatter to drown out every anxious thought. Something about a chaotic intern at his firm. A new ramen place near his building. A mild war with Minho over which version of Spirited Away has the better dub.
Felix lets it wash over him like background music, comforting and familiar.
The moment they step inside, Jisung tows his luggage past the door and flops dramatically onto the mustard yellow sofa like he's been through a harrowing expedition.
"This thing's still ugly," he says fondly, face smushed into the strawberry-print cushion.
"And I still love it," Felix replies, kicking the door shut and heading to the kitchen. "Want coffee?"
"Do I breathe oxygen?"
They settle in with mugs in hand, Jisung's legs thrown across Felix's lap, both of them curled into the wreck of blankets and pillows on the sofa. It's easy like this. The kind of easy you only earn after years of seeing someone at their best and worst and loving them in every state.
Later, when the sun has dipped behind the buildings and the warm apartment light fills the quiet, Jisung leans his head back and looks over at Felix. "So. Fashion show."
Felix groans into his cup. "Yeah."
"You still doing it?"
"I said I would. And I want to," Felix replies, setting his mug down. "But it's hard to focus right now. I feel like everything I make lately is either a pale echo of something I started before... Or just a reminder of what I lost."
Jisung nudges him gently with a socked foot. "You didn't lose everything. You're still you. You still have your sketchbook. Your talent. Your weirdly specific taste in fabrics."
Felix huffs a laugh, tired but grateful.
"And look," Jisung adds, stretching his arms above his head, "I'm here. For as long as you need."
Felix glances toward the bedroom door. "Hope you remember what it's like to sleep on a mattress half your size."
Jisung grins. "Please. You remember freshman year? We practically slept head-to-foot on a twin bed every time our anime marathons ran past 2am."
Felix chuckles. "You kicked in your sleep."
They move to the bedroom not long after, leaving the half-folded laundry and abandoned mugs behind.
Felix tosses a t-shirt at Jisung, who peels off his jeans and climbs under the covers with a groan.
"This bed's comfier than I expected," he mumbles as he settles in, stretching like a cat.
"That's because I paid grown-up money for it," Felix says, switching off the bedside lamp. The room dips into a soft twilight from the city lights outside, shadows curling at the edges.
They lie there in the quiet for a moment, back to back, space between them but comfort in the shared stillness.
Felix exhales slowly. "Thanks again, Ji."
Jisung hums. "You'd do the same."
"...I'd bring less luggage."
"Blasphemy."
Felix smiles in the dark. It's the first time his chest has felt loose in days. Tomorrow, the show. The sketches. Maybe even the conversation he's afraid to have.
But tonight, he shares the bed with someone who knows every part of him and stays anyway.
____________
When Jisung finally sits down with the sketchbook in his lap the next day, the room goes quiet. No teasing, no half-baked commentary, just the soft scratch of the page as he turns it.
And then, "Felix."
His voice is low, almost reverent.
Felix looks up from where he's been fussing with a stray thread on a fabric swatch. "What?"
Jisung turns the book around so Felix can see the page, like he hasn't stared at it a thousand times himself. "This is... Felix, this is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."
Felix lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. "You're just saying that because you love me."
"I do love you," Jisung says, firm, "but I also have eyes. This is... It's not just pretty. It's striking."
He traces a finger lightly over the form, careful not to smudge. "You've always been good at styling, but this... This is something else. This is you. You poured your soul into this, didn't you?"
Felix shrugs, eyes burning a little. "I guess."
"You did. And it shows. It's soft and sharp and full of movement. It looks like a dream and a love letter at the same time."
Felix doesn't respond at first. He can't. His throat is too tight.
Jisung closes the book gently and leans back, arms crossed, expression softer now. "You're gonna destroy people with this. In the best way."
___________
The store smells faintly of cotton and industrial dye, rows of bolts in every shade line the walls like a painter's dream. Felix runs his fingers along a roll of silk organza, the muted silver catching the light, and glances at Jisung for input. Jisung gives an approving nod, half-distracted by the embroidered trim section.
"Looking for something specific?" a voice says, casual but clear.
They both turn. The store assistant is young, maybe mid-twenties, with sharp eyes and an even sharper sense of posture. He's wearing wide-leg trousers and a cropped jacket like he walked off a magazine shoot, and Felix immediately notes the easy confidence in the way he moves. He could model. Hell, he should model. The silver name tag attached to his jacket states that his name is Seungmin.
Felix blinks. "Uh, yeah, actually. We're sourcing fabric for a design going into the multidisciplinary show at the Namyang Gallery next month."
Seungmin's brows lift slightly, impressed. "No kidding? That's a great space. One of my friends is contributing too, music piece. Bang Chan, if you know him?"
Jisung lights up. "Wait... Bang Chan? Minho's obsessed with his stuff, he's constantly on his Soundcloud."
Felix hums. "Small world."
"Always is," Seungmin says, then eyes the swatches they've been holding. "You've got good taste. Let me know if you want any input. I know our inventory well."
They chat for a few more minutes, nothing deep, but enough for Felix to catch himself admiring the assistant's frame, the way fabric would hang clean on those shoulders. Jisung must notice too, because he glances sideways at Felix with a subtle smirk.
"So," Jisung starts, feigning nonchalance, "I don't suppose you've ever done any modelling?"
Seungmin laughs. "You're not the first to ask. I've done some for fun, but nothing professional. Why?"
Felix hesitates for just a second too long.
"We don't have a model yet," Jisung fills in, grinning. "And my friend here might be in desperate need."
Felix chokes a little. "I wouldn't say desperate-"
"Definitely desperate," Jisung says over him.
Seungmin smiles, intrigued but not committing. "Well... If you need someone and can't find anyone else, I might be convinced. Depends on the outfit."
Felix can't help the faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Fair enough."
They exchange contact details, and as Seungmin walks away to help another customer, Jisung leans in and whispers, "He has exactly the proportions of that Burberry ambassador you drooled over last year."
Felix rolls his eyes. "I did not drool."
"You mentally unzipped his trench coat with your eyes. That's worse."
Felix doesn't answer, because, well. He's not wrong.
____________
Over the next few days, Felix throws himself into the work. The muslin toile takes shape slowly at first, uncut fabric pinned in loose panels, adjusted and re-pinned as the silhouette begins to form. His tiny studio becomes a mess of chalk lines, thread clippings, and hastily scrawled measurements taped to the wall. Jisung camps out on the couch like an overly enthusiastic production assistant, running coffee missions, handing Felix safety pins before he even asks, and offering unsolicited, but somehow always spot-on, feedback.
"Your back seam's off," he mutters around a mouthful of tangerine slices, leaning sideways to inspect the dummy.
Felix groans. "I know."
"But otherwise? She's hot."
Felix tries not to laugh, mouth tugging up in spite of himself. "It's a piece of clothing."
"Hot is hot," Jisung shrugs.
By the third day, the muslin prototype is nearly done. Felix stands back to admire it, still rough, still unfinished, but the bones of it are there. Clean lines that fall into chaos at the hem, pleats that flare like caught wind, a neckline that floats just off the collarbone. The ghost of Hyunjin still lingers in the shaping, the imagined weight of him in motion, but Felix has tried to separate the design from the person.
Tried.
That evening, Jisung sets a cup of tea beside his sketchbook and says, without preamble, "You're going to message Seungmin."
Felix hesitates, thumb hovering over his screen. "What if he's changed his mind?"
"He won't," Jisung says. "And if he has, you'll deal. But you can't keep waiting for someone who's not interested."
That one hits a little too cleanly.
So Felix exhales, opens his messages, and types out a short note, friendly, polite. Then he attaches a few clean photos. One of the finished sketch, another of the toile on the mannequin in soft morning light. He stares at it for longer than necessary before pressing send.
He almost doesn't look at the reply when it comes a couple hours later.
But he does.
Whoa. That's stunning.
If it fits as good as it looks, I'm in. Just tell me when to show up.
Felix exhales. Relieved, yes. Grateful. But as the excitement settles, there's still a dull little ache he can't quite shake.
Because Seungmin will look incredible in the outfit.
But it won't be Hyunjin.
And part of him had still been hoping, however foolishly, that it could be.
___________
Friday evening arrives faster than either of them expected. Jisung's bags are repacked, poorly, overstuffed, and half-unzipped, exactly how he'd arrived, and he lingers on the station platform like he's trying to delay the inevitable.
"I feel bad leaving," he says, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. "Like I'm abandoning a houseplant I promised I'd water."
Felix chuckles, leaning against the pillar next to him. "I'll try not to wither in your absence."
Jisung doesn't laugh. Not really. He studies Felix for a moment, his expression softening. "You sure you're okay?"
Felix nods, more certain this time. "Yeah. I mean it. I'm okay. You being here helped more than I think you realise."
"Please. I brought coffee and chaos. Minho's the calm one in this relationship."
"You brought loyalty and snacks. Honestly, that's my love language."
Jisung cracks a smile at that, but still hesitates before turning toward the door. "Text me if you feel like the world's caving in again, alright?"
"I will."
"And if you ever need me back, just say the word. I'll come running."
Felix's throat tightens, warmth blooming behind his ribs. "I know."
Jisung pulls him in for a tight hug, one of those arms-wrapped-completely-around kind of hugs, and presses a kiss to the side of his head before pulling back.
"Alright. Go chase your dreams and your pretty boy heartbreaks. I'll be here whenever you need me."
Felix smiles, truly smiles. "Safe travels, Ji."
As the door of the train closes behind Jisung, the world is suddenly quiet again. But this time, it doesn't feel quite so lonely.
____________
Mornings begin with quiet cups of tea, not coffee, he's been jittery enough, and afternoons disappear in a blur of fabric, thread, and sketches scattered across every flat surface in his apartment. His tiny sewing machine hums almost constantly, its beat steadier than his own pulse most days. Pins line the edges of his sketchpad like a crown. A half-eaten cup of ramyeon permanently lives on his workbench.
Seungmin drops by every few days, patient and curious, standing still as Felix adjusts muslin at his waist, pins fabric near his collarbone, or mutters to himself about hem lengths. He never complains. Not even when Felix gets lost in thought and accidentally jabs him with a pin.
"You know, I have a life outside of standing here like a statue," Seungmin grumbles once, arms outstretched mid-fitting.
Felix looks up. "And I am extremely grateful."
"I should be getting paid for this."
Felix snorts, "You're getting a free custom-designed outfit."
Seungmin rolls his eyes but doesn't move. He's good like that.
Evenings pass with fabric draped over chairs and cutting shears tossed beside empty mugs. Felix often finds himself lingering by his bookshelf where his sketchbook now lives, or near the door of his apartment. More than once, he catches himself checking the clock near 6:30 on a Saturday.
The hour the painting class would've started.
The first Saturday after the fight, he considers going. He even puts on his coat. But the weight of what happened presses into his chest, and in the end, he turns away from the door. It doesn't feel right. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He tells himself Hyunjin deserves the space. Maybe Felix does too.
But the ache in his chest never really fades.
The week before the gallery event, he finds himself on the phone to Jisung, phone pinned to his shoulder as he absently rearranges the scraps of fabric on the table in front of him. "It's nearly done," he says. "Just a few more details. Some hand-stitching on the collar and adjusting the drape in the back."
Jisung hums on the other end, the sound rich and familiar. "And how do you feel about it? Honestly."
Felix leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the half-finished garment on the mannequin by the window. "Good," he admits. "Actually... Kind of excited."
There's a pause, then Jisung lets out a soft, satisfied exhale. "You should be. It's a great opportunity, Lix. And more than that, it's the first time in, what, years? That you've made something for you."
Felix smiles faintly, the weight of that truth settling somewhere warm in his chest. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it is."
"You deserve this," Jisung says firmly. "You've spent so long pouring yourself into other people's ideas. It's about time the world saw yours."
Felix doesn't respond right away. He just lets the silence hold them for a moment, filled with the quiet hum of connection, even through the phone.
"Thanks, Ji," he says eventually. "For everything. For coming down. For the sign at the station. For dragging me out to fabric shops even when I was ready to crawl into bed and disappear."
Jisung snorts. "Please. You think I'd miss a chance to dramatically gesture at brocade and pretend I know what I'm talking about?"
Felix laughs, really laughs, for the first time in days. "You're the best hype man a guy could ask for."
"Damn right I am."
__________
The morning of the gallery event dawns grey and still, the sky over Seoul washed in soft cloudy light that makes everything feel hushed, expectant. Felix is already awake before the sun's properly up, pacing his apartment in bare feet and a threadbare hoodie, the finished outfit hanging on a rack like an altar.
By mid-afternoon, he's at the gallery space, a sleek, industrial building softened by creative chaos, easels, installations, sound equipment, and tired-but-excited artists shepherding their pieces into place. Felix's section is nestled near a wide window where natural light spills over polished floors and clean walls, the mannequin he brought off to one side so the actual piece can shine during Seungmin's walk.
Seungmin arrives in his usual calm, half-smirking way, tugging a hoodie over his head as he nods at Felix. "So, we doing this?"
"We're doing this," Felix replies, trying to sound composed. He's not.
The outfit is ready, weeks of labour stitched into silk and organza, dyed to a palette inspired by movement and rain and something Felix hasn't dared to name aloud. The details are perfect. He knows they are. But it doesn't stop him from circling Seungmin like a hawk once he's changed, fussing with a shoulder seam that sits exactly where it should, smoothing down the fall of the back panel that he's already double-steamed.
"Felix," Seungmin says after the fifth adjustment to the cuffs, "if you touch this collar one more time, I will walk the runway backwards out of spite."
Felix freezes, one hand mid-air.
Seungmin raises a brow.
"...Right. Okay," Felix says, stepping back and forcing his hands to drop to his sides. "I'm good. I'm fine."
"You're really not," Seungmin replies, amused, "but the outfit's beautiful, and it fits like it was made for me, which, shocker, it was. So relax."
Felix opens his mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly, but Seungmin cuts in, eyes glinting.
"I even sent pictures to a friend of mine who used to model professionally. He's done Seoul and Paris fashion weeks, the whole thing."
Felix stiffens, suddenly horrified. "You what?"
Seungmin shrugs, utterly unbothered. "Relax. I didn't tell him anything, just that it was a piece a friend designed and I was modelling it. He said, exact quote, 'that's a fucking gorgeous outfit.'"
Felix blinks.
"Also said the fabric choices were bold in a way that actually worked, and the silhouette was refreshing without trying too hard."
For a moment, Felix forgets how to breathe. "He really said that?"
Seungmin nods. "Told you. It's good. You're good. Now stop hovering before you make me wrinkle something and actually give you a reason to panic."
Felix exhales, shaky. "Right."
He doesn't tell Seungmin that his hands won't stop trembling because this outfit, this moment, is everything. Not just a showcase, but a piece of his heart, laid out in fabric and form for people to look at and, hopefully, feel something.
And maybe, maybe, one person in particular. Though Felix hasn't let himself hope too hard.
Still, as he steps back to look at the full picture, Seungmin in the finished design, standing under gallery lights in a space that once felt impossible, Felix can't help the swell in his chest.
It's happening. It's real. And for once, it's his.
Then someone from the gallery staff pokes their head into the dressing area. "We're starting in fifteen. You're first in the rotation."
Felix nods, suddenly light-headed.
Seungmin rolls his shoulders, then flicks an invisible speck of lint off the front of his sleeve. "You coming out there with me?"
Felix takes a shaky breath and nods. "Yeah. I am. I have to read out a short statement while you're walking."
Seungmin raises a brow. "You wrote a speech?"
"Not a speech," Felix mutters, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Just a few lines about the inspiration behind the outfit. They asked every designer to submit something. Some people pre-recorded theirs, but I... I wanted to say it myself."
Seungmin grins, that knowing, slightly smug grin that means he's about to tease him, but for once, he doesn't. He just claps a hand lightly on Felix's shoulder.
"Good. You should. You deserve to be heard."
Felix swallows past the knot in his throat. "Thanks."
They walk together toward the side entrance of the gallery's exhibition space, where a soft golden light bathes the stage area. Through a thin velvet curtain, Felix can hear the hum of conversation on the other side, clinking glasses, footsteps on polished concrete. The low thrum of anticipation.
The gallery has transformed the space beautifully, spotlights hang like stars, illuminating each installation one at a time, rotating slowly from visual art to sculpture to performance and, now, to fashion. The runway itself is minimal, a long stretch of matte floor flanked by seated guests, the walls behind draped with gauzy fabric that shifts with coloured light.
As Seungmin heads toward his mark, a gallery coordinator gestures to Felix to step up to the podium. A mic waits there, its stand adjusted just below his chin.
He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.
The lights dim. A hush falls.
He hears the click of Seungmin's heels as he starts walking, and at the same moment, Felix leans in to the mic, the hush in the gallery thick as breath held. His voice is quiet at first, but clear, measured not because he's holding back, but because he wants to mean every word.
"This piece is the first thing I've created in a long time that felt like mine," he begins. "For years, I've worked in fashion translating other people's ideas, other people's aesthetics, visions, brand guidelines. I got good at it. But somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing myself in what I made."
He glances toward the runway, where Seungmin has just begun his walk, the trail of the outfit catching the light in soft waves. The organza flows behind him like wind given shape, shimmering slightly with every step, weightless, fluid, alive.
"I was starting to think that maybe I'd forgotten how to want something just because I wanted it," Felix continues. "But then, I met someone. And suddenly everything was in colour again."
His voice wavers, but he steadies it. "He didn't even know he was doing it, but he reminded me what it felt like to move through the world without apologising for it. To create messily. To feel inspired."
Seungmin turns at the end of the runway, the layered silk and organza shifting with him like breath, fabric that doesn't just follow the body, but anticipates it. A design that was never meant to sit still.
"This outfit is built on that moment," Felix says. "The moment when you watch someone move and realise you've been standing still. It's about freedom. About motion. About letting yourself be seen. And about remembering that inspiration doesn't always come from within, it can walk into your life when you least expect it."
He steps back from the mic, heart thudding, throat tight.
On the runway, Seungmin comes to a stop, standing tall, the fabric still catching the air in gentle waves around him like it remembers being touched by wind.
The applause that follows is immediate.
It's not just polite. It's genuine.
Felix stays frozen for a second, wide-eyed. Then he exhales, long, quiet, and lets himself smile. A true smile, for once.
______________
Backstage, the noise of the gallery feels distant, muffled by the heavy curtain as Felix ducks back into the changing area with Seungmin. His hands are still a little shaky with adrenaline, but the glow in his chest hasn't faded.
"You were incredible," Felix says, eyes scanning over the outfit as Seungmin shrugs off the outer layer with care. "Seriously, you walked it like you'd been born in it."
Seungmin snorts, rolling his shoulders like he's easing the last of the performance from his body. "You're acting like I performed some miracle," he says, dry as ever. "The outfit did most of the work. I just didn't trip."
Felix huffs a soft laugh, grateful. "Well, it looked like magic out there."
Seungmin flicks a glance toward him, then down at the garment now resting neatly across the dressing bench. "You said I could keep it," he says, not a question, just a reminder.
Felix grins. "Yeah. I did."
"Good." Seungmin pauses. "Because I'm never returning it. I've already thought of three places I can wear it to."
Felix laughs properly this time, the tension in his chest unspooling further. "It's yours," he says, warmth in his voice. "Every stitch."
There's a beat of silence as they both glance toward the entrance to the gallery space. The sounds of clapping and murmuring continue just out of view, and for the first time in weeks, Felix doesn't feel like an imposter. He feels like someone who made something that mattered.
Someone who might be starting again.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he sees something, someone, move just beyond the curtain. A familiar silhouette. A heartbeat skipped. A breath caught.
He blinks.
Hyunjin.
Hyunjin is standing across the room.
Not a dream. Not a trick of the light. Not a memory conjured from too many sleepless nights.
He's real. He's here.
Hair tied back in a low knot, expression unreadable in the soft wash of gallery light, dressed in effortless monochrome like always, except...
Except this time, his gaze is locked on Felix.
Before Felix can make sense of it, Seungmin nudges him. "Oh good," he says casually. "He came."
Felix startles, eyes flicking between Seungmin and Hyunjin. "What?"
Seungmin follows his line of sight. "That's the friend I told you about," he explains. "The ex-model? The one I sent photos of the outfit to? Said it was beautiful?"
Felix blinks. "You sent the outfit photos to-?"
"Yeah," Seungmin says, and before Felix can respond, before he can do anything, really, Seungmin grabs his arm. "Come on, I'll introduce you."
"Seungmin, I don't think-"
But Seungmin is already tugging him forward, weaving through the small crowd of patrons until they're standing directly in front of Hyunjin, who watches them approach with unreadable eyes.
"So this is Hyunjin," Seungmin starts breezily, "and Hyunjin, this is-"
"Felix," Hyunjin says softly, cutting him off.
His voice lands like a match in dry grass.
Seungmin glances between them, confused. "Wait... You two already know each other?"
Hyunjin doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed on Felix like he's trying to read a sentence that's been erased and re-written over a dozen times, the echoes blending together.
Felix clears his throat. "Yeah. We... Know each other."
It's the understatement of the year, but anything more would crumble in his mouth right now.
Seungmin blinks, still clearly trying to catch up. "Right. Well, in that case I'll leave you two to catch up and go see what snacks they've got. Or something..." He backs away a little awkwardly, leaving behind a silence that's equal parts raw and guarded.
The moment stretches, taut and unsure.
Felix is the first to speak, his voice quiet. "He sent you the photos of the outfit?"
Hyunjin nods, slow. "And the final design sketch."
Felix's breath catches. "I didn't know they'd end up with you."
"I know," Hyunjin says. Then after a pause, "But I'm glad they did."
The air shifts. It's no longer tight with anger or hurt, just the ache of something unfinished, maybe even repairable.
"I didn't come here for a scene," Hyunjin adds. "I came because... I needed to see what you made. I needed to know if it really was what I thought it was."
Felix meets his eyes. "And was it?"
Hyunjin's lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not yet. "You tell me."
Felix hesitates. His hands are cold. His pulse is not.
"I made it for you," he admits. "Not because I wanted to use you, or manipulate you into anything. But because you reminded me what it felt like to create something that meant something to me again. You re-lit the spark I thought I'd lost."
Hyunjin exhales, long and slow, like he's been holding his breath for weeks.
Felix presses on, voice softening. "I never should've assumed. I should've asked. I was scared to ruin it by putting it into words. But not saying anything did just as much damage."
He's met with silence, again, but a different kind.
Hyunjin finally steps forward, closing the space between them by half a pace. He's close enough now that Felix can count the tension in his shoulders, the twitch in his jaw.
"You said the piece was inspired by someone dancing," Hyunjin says. "Was it really about the movement?"
Felix's breath hitches, but he holds Hyunjin's gaze.
"Yes," he says. "It was about the movement. But not just... Abstractly."
Hyunjin tilts his head, listening.
"It was that night," Felix continues. "At Opus. The live jazz band. You danced with that woman, just for a few minutes, but... I couldn't stop watching you. The way you moved." He swallows. "I saw it all in my head, right there, organza, silk, fabrics that would follow your lead, not fight it. Like the outfit would dance with you."
Hyunjin doesn't speak, but something in his face shifts, something subtle and raw.
"I went home and sketched for hours," Felix adds, voice quieter now. "It felt like everything that had been stuck finally cracked open. I just-" He exhales. "I never imagined you'd actually see it."
Hyunjin looks down, fingers brushing the hem of his coat like he's grounding himself in the feel of fabric.
"I saw it," he says. "I felt it."
A beat.
"And when Seungmin said it was for a friend, and the event it was for..." he goes on, "I thought... Maybe. But it still hit me like a punch when I realised it was you."
Felix manages a fragile smile. "Better or worse than the sketchbook discovery?"
Hyunjin huffs something like a laugh, but it's low and a little sad. "This time at least, I didn't feel like I'd been blindsided."
He lifts his eyes again.
"I was still angry about what happened," he says. "But I've been thinking about it a lot. About you."
Hyunjin nods slowly, jaw tight, like the words aren't easy but he's already decided to speak them.
"I was unfair to you," he says. "I let my past decide who you were, before you even had a chance to explain. I saw that sketchbook and... I wasn't just angry. I was scared. That I'd been stupid enough to fall for the same thing twice. That I let myself get close to someone who didn't really see me, just what I could give them."
He breathes out hard through his nose, gaze flicking away. "But that wasn't fair. You're not him. And I think, deep down, I knew that. But I didn't want to risk being wrong again."
Felix reaches out without thinking, just the lightest touch to Hyunjin's wrist, cautious and careful. "You had every right to be scared," he says gently. "And I get why you freaked out. What happened to you... It was unexpected, and it was awful, and I never want to make you feel like that again."
Hyunjin's eyes dart back to his, something flickering there.
"I just... I wish I'd said something sooner," Felix continues. "I wish I'd told you what that design meant to me. That it was inspired by you, yeah, but not because I wanted to use you. Because you reminded me how to feel something again. How to create again."
There's a pause, taut and full.
Then, finally, Hyunjin exhales, like he's been holding his breath for weeks and didn't realise it until now.
"Okay," he says. Not like he's giving in. But like he's choosing to believe him.
Hyunjin shifts his weight, glancing toward the exit. "I should head home," he says quietly, voice careful.
Felix nods, a little too quickly. "I'll walk you."
There's a brief pause, and then Hyunjin gives him a small smile. "Alright."
They step out into the night together, the hush of the city wrapping around them like a cooler, quieter kind of intimacy. The sky's a velvet blue, speckled with the glow of streetlamps and the occasional rumble of traffic. Felix walks beside Hyunjin in silence for a few steps, not needing to fill the quiet immediately.
Eventually, Hyunjin glances sideways. "So... What's life been like since I last saw you?"
Felix exhales, slow. "Busy. Messy. Kinda good, actually." He smiles, faint but genuine. "Jisung came to stay for a few days. You'd like him, chaotic in the best way."
"I think I remember you mentioning him. Your best friend, right?"
"Yeah. He showed up at the train station with three suitcases and zero shame. Took over my bed like it was a student dorm all over again."
Hyunjin huffs a soft laugh, eyes crinkling.
Felix continues. "He helped me with the outfit at first. We went to the fabric store together. That's actually how I met Seungmin."
Hyunjin raises a brow. "Really?"
"Yeah. Seungmin was actually great throughout the whole process. Didn't even flinch when I brought out 15 different fabric samples, or when I nearly cried over the wrong stitch tension... So naturally I liked him immediately." Felix shrugs, sheepish. "There were hours and hours of sewing. And more than a few minor blood sacrifices. I stabbed myself with pins so many times I swear I've developed nerve damage."
That draws a proper laugh out of Hyunjin. "You always did strike me as the dramatic type."
Felix grins. "Tell that to my plasters."
They walk a little farther. The sounds of the street fade behind them as they drift down a side road, their footsteps quiet against the pavement.
"What about you?" Felix asks, more gently now. "How's... Everything?"
Hyunjin slows slightly, considering. "Still running the class. Some new people started coming, some left. But the regulars, Somi, the guy who always paints with green, Yejun with the glitter obsession... They still show up every week. It's quieter without you, though."
Felix glances over, surprised at the softness in his tone.
Hyunjin's eyes are on the sidewalk. "You used to bring this nervous energy with you. Like you weren't sure if you were allowed to take up space, and then halfway through the night you'd forget you were trying to stay small. I kind of miss watching that happen."
Felix swallows. "I miss it too. The class, I mean."
They come to a stop beneath a streetlamp, the light spilling between them like an unspoken thing.
"I wasn't sure if I should come back," Felix admits. "Didn't want to make anything harder than it had to be."
Hyunjin lifts his eyes, the amber glow of the streetlamp catching the subtle shift in his expression, something softer than before.
"I'm glad you gave me space," he says quietly. "I needed it. Not just because I was angry... But because it forced me to stop and actually sit with everything. To look at what I was carrying and why I reacted the way I did."
Felix watches him carefully, saying nothing and letting him speak.
Hyunjin exhales, a slow breath like it's been building for weeks. "I treated you like you were going to hurt me. Like it was inevitable. Because that's what I've come to expect from people. Especially when they see something they want in me."
His voice tightens, but he doesn't look away.
"And you didn't do anything to deserve that. You were inspired. You were scared to ask because you cared, not because you were trying to manipulate me. But I couldn't see that at the time. I saw someone sketching me into their life and assumed it meant I was disposable again."
Felix's chest aches with how much he's wanted to hear this, how much he's needed to know it wasn't all in his head.
Hyunjin shakes his head slightly. "But the thing is... You didn't defend yourself just to be right. You left. You respected the boundary. And the silence? It made me listen to myself. And I realised... I was wrong."
There's a beat of stillness between them. The soft hum of the city in the distance. The streetlamp buzzing faintly overhead.
Felix's voice comes out small. "I didn't want to make it worse."
"You didn't," Hyunjin says, stepping closer, the space between them shrinking like a slow inhale. "You made me realise I don't want to push people away before they get the chance to stay."
Felix feels that, like warmth blooming through the cracks he'd tried to seal off.
"Does that mean..." he starts, hesitant, "you'd want me to come back to class?"
Hyunjin offers a small smile, wry and just a little shy. "Only if you promise to keep staying late each week."
Felix laughs, something light and unguarded slipping out. "Deal."
They reach Hyunjin's apartment quietly, the familiar building rising in soft shadow above them. The walk has been unhurried, a gentle return to rhythm, the kind that makes it easy to forget the ache that came before it.
Felix hesitates just outside the doorway, rocking slightly on his heels. "Well..." he starts, voice low and a little uncertain. "I guess I'll let you get some rest. Goodnight, Hyunjin."
His fingers twitch at his side. It takes everything in him not to reach out, just for a hug, maybe, or a light brush of his hand. His gaze lingers longer than it should on Hyunjin's mouth. Soft. Familiar.
Hyunjin's voice is warm, careful. "Goodnight, Felix."
Felix nods, eyes flicking down to Hyunjin's lips again without meaning to. He catches himself, flustered, and turns with a second, awkward "Night."
But before he can take a full step away, he feels it, a gentle grip at his wrist.
He turns, startled, only to find Hyunjin's long fingers wrapped around him with surprising care, like he's afraid he'll let go too soon.
"Unless..." Hyunjin says, his voice quiet but sure, "Did you maybe... Want to come in and continue talking?"
It's not demanding. Just a question, suspended gently in the space between them waiting to be answered.
And Felix, heart caught in his throat, lips parted just slightly, nods. Just once.
They step inside, and the door clicks shut behind them with a softness that feels louder than it should. The apartment is dimly lit, just the warm spill of a lamp near the kitchen, casting honeyed light over clean lines and vaguely familiar corners.
Felix shrugs off his jacket a little awkwardly and toes off his shoes, trying not to fidget but failing miserably. His hands hover near the seams of his jeans, like they need something to do. Hyunjin mirrors the energy in kind, he moves with that same quiet tension, like someone navigating around invisible threads, careful not to disturb them.
Felix glances over and sees Hyunjin pushing his hair back behind his ear, a small, habitual motion that makes something in Felix's chest tighten. His heart taps nervously at his ribs, not loud, just persistent.
Hyunjin gestures toward the couch. "Do you... Want to sit?"
Felix nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Thanks."
He crosses the room and sinks into the cushions, trying to seem relaxed, but his spine's too straight, shoulders a little too square. Hyunjin sits beside him, not too close, not too far, and the cushion between them dips with the weight.
For a moment, they both stare ahead, the silence between them thick but not unbearable. Just expectant.
Felix lets out a soft breath and smiles faintly. "This is weird, right?"
Hyunjin's mouth curls slightly. "A little."
"But not bad?"
Hyunjin finally turns to look at him fully, and there's something softer in his eyes now, tentative but open. "Not bad." A pause. "Just..."
Felix tilts his head, voice barely above a murmur. "Did you want to talk?"
Hyunjin's eyes flick down for a heartbeat, then back up. There's a moment of perfect stillness. The room feels like it's holding its breath.
"No," he says quietly. Almost a confession.
Felix breathes out, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, not a smile, not quite. "Me neither."
He leans in slowly, giving Hyunjin every chance to pull back, to shift away, to change his mind. But Hyunjin doesn't move. Not until Felix is close enough that his breath grazes Hyunjin's skin, warm and familiar.
And then, finally, Hyunjin exhales like he's been holding the moment in for weeks. He closes the space between them, pressing his mouth to Felix's in a kiss that is quiet, sure, yet trembling at the edges.
Felix's hand finds Hyunjin's hip, fingers curling there with quiet certainty as he deepens the kiss.
Hyunjin's hands rise, cradling Felix's jaw with a tenderness that steals his breath. He tilts his head, coaxing the angle, and when his tongue brushes gently in question, Felix responds without hesitation, parting his lips, leaning in and offering more.
Hyunjin rises onto his knees, the movement smooth and deliberate. Felix watches him, breath shallow, then takes the opportunity to lightly tug at his hip, a wordless suggestion.
Hyunjin doesn't resist. He lets himself be guided, shifting across until he's straddling Felix's lap, knees pressed into the couch on either side. The heat between them deepens, slow and inevitable, as he settles into place, bracketing Felix with his body.
Felix's fingers flex against Hyunjin's hips, grip tightening instinctively. The urge to move, to press up into him, to close the space entirely, thrums just beneath his skin. But he holds still, jaw tight with restraint, afraid to rush something that already feels fragile and delicate. Afraid to want too much, too soon.
Hyunjin, it seems, has no such reservations. The movement is subtle, barely there, but unmistakable. A slow, deliberate grind of hips against his, muted by layers of fabric but no less electric for it. The friction sparks low and sudden through Felix's body, stealing the air from his lungs. He bites back a gasp, fingers tightening reflexively at Hyunjin's waist.
Felix exhales, slow and shaky, trying to steady himself. But Hyunjin doesn't pull away, doesn't even waver. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth parted like he's tasting the moment as much as living it. Every brush of his body against Felix's feels intentional, slowly increasing the pressure until broken moans are falling from both of them.
Felix slides one hand up Hyunjin's back, feeling the fine tremble there, the way his breath stutters just a little when Felix grazes the curve of his spine. He isn't sure which of them is trembling more now. All he knows is that he doesn't want it to stop.
"I missed you," Felix says quietly against Hyunjin's mouth.
Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, gaze open and unguarded. "I missed you too," he murmurs. "More than I wanted to admit."
Felix's voice is low, a breath against Hyunjin's lips. "Want to show me how much?"
Hyunjin huffs a soft laugh, his eyes lighting up with a familiar spark, amusement, affection and want.
He dips forward, placing soft-lipped kisses against Felix's jaw, and Felix exhales shakily, tilting his head to give him more space, his fingers tightening slightly where they rest. Then, without thinking, he lifts his hips, seeking more of him, just a brush, a tease, the contact enough to drag a quiet moan from his throat, low and breathy.
Hyunjin meets him there, a soft exhale brushing past Felix's ear as he rolls his hips down with slow, wicked intent. The friction draws a sharp breath from Felix, his fingers gripping tighter at Hyunjin's waist, not to hold him back, but to steady himself. Even beneath the press of his bruising grip, Hyunjin moves with unbothered grace, deliberate and devastating.
"Jesus, Hyun, if you keep that up..."
Hyunjin tilts his head slightly, all feigned innocence with a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Keep what up?" he murmurs, hips shifting just enough to make the question a challenge in itself.
Felix sucks in a breath, his fingers tightening where they rest on Hyunjin's waist. "That," he says, voice low and frayed at the edges. "You know exactly what."
Hyunjin smiles, slow, knowing, and leans in until their noses nearly touch. "Maybe I do," he whispers. "Maybe I just like seeing what it does to you."
Felix lets out a low groan, narrowing his eyes at Hyunjin with a mock-accusatory edge.
"Is this your idea of revenge or something?" he asks, voice rough with half-laughter, half-desire. "Because it's starting to feel suspiciously like punishment."
Hyunjin's smile curves slow and wicked.
"Can it really be called punishment," he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush Felix's ear, "if you're enjoying every second of it?"
Felix swallows, breath catching. The warmth of Hyunjin's body pressed to his, the soft pull of his voice, it all coils low in his stomach. His fingers twitch against Hyunjin's waist, unable to decide if they want to pull him closer or hold him still.
"I don't know," he says, voice hushed. "You're making a pretty compelling case."
Hyunjin tilts his head, eyes never leaving Felix's, his fingertips tracing a path along Felix's collarbone, light, lingering. "Then maybe you should stop me."
Felix huffs a breath that's almost a laugh. "Not a chance."
Instead, Felix surges forward, catching Hyunjin off guard. His hand lands firmly at the small of Hyunjin's back, the only thing keeping him from toppling backwards onto the floor.
Hyunjin lets out a startled yelp, his fingers digging into Felix's shoulders on reflex. For a beat, they're frozen, pressed together, breath mingling, hearts racing in tandem, before Hyunjin huffs out a surprised laugh against Felix's cheek.
"Bedroom?" Felix asks, nodding his head towards the other room.
Hyunjin nods, already shifting to find his feet as Felix moves to stand.
In the bedroom, Hyunjin crosses the space without hesitation, his movements fluid, sure. He presses a hand lightly to Felix's chest and nudges him backward, guiding him down onto the bed with quiet insistence.
Felix goes easily, breath catching as the mattress meets his back.
Then Hyunjin follows, climbing over him with a grace that's all intention, settling into the space above like a brush poised over canvas, intent, focused and trembling with the promise of contact.
Hyunjin's hands skate across Felix's pants, tugging at the buttons. Felix lifts his hips to allow their removal, then sits up just enough to return the favour, tugging at Hyunjin's pants while Hyunjin reaches for the buttons of his own shirt, their hands brushing in the middle.
Within moments, the layers of clothes are gone, and Hyunjin settles over him once more.
He leans over to the same drawer as before, taking out the familiar bottle of lube and a condom, electing to leave the silken red rope behind this time.
Instead of handing the lube over as Felix expects, Hyunjin flips the cap open himself, squeezing some onto his fingers. His eyes never leave Felix's as he smooths it between his fingers, the sight torturously slow and tantalising. Felix feels the weight of that gaze settle on him, anticipation curling low in his stomach.
Then Hyunjin's long fingers slip behind his back, and a soft, unguarded sound escapes him, his jaw going slack as his eyes flutter half-shut, lashes trembling with the effort of control he's rapidly losing as he fucks himself on his fingers.
All Felix can do is watch, spellbound, as Hyunjin moves above him, breath catching in soft, aching sounds that are far too beautiful to be real.
The flush across his chest deepens, lips parted around a sound that never fully leaves his throat. He's luminous in the low light, every inch of him shaped by both power and softness, like a painting come to life.
Felix reaches up, hands steady now, fingertips skimming up Hyunjin's sides before settling at his waist.
Hyunjin's eyes open, meeting Felix's with a dark gaze that sends a sizzling jolt through his system.
His hand comes back in front of him, and he opens the bottle of lube again, this time turning his attentions to Felix.
The cold sensation of the lube against his cock is a stark contrast to the heat he feels throughout his entire body.
When Hyunjin shifts position to sink down onto him, Felix holds his breath without even realising, his pulse thundering noisily in his ears.
The moment Hyunjin's hips settle flush against his, Felix can't help but thrust up to meet him, a sharp hiss slipping through his teeth at the rush of sensation, familiar and overwhelming all at once.
Hyunjin's hips roll with a rhythm Felix can't begin to articulate, fluid, deliberate, devastating. It steals the breath from his lungs, sends his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm, leaving only the burn of sensation and the way his head spins like he's chasing stars.
Hyunjin rises slowly, achingly controlled, until Felix teeters on the edge of losing him completely, then sinks back down with a smooth, devastating press of hips. He repeats the motion, each descent stealing another thread of Felix's restraint. By the third slow grind, Felix is biting down on his lower lip, teeth digging into skin as he tries to hold back the heat curling sharp and fast in his gut.
Each roll of Hyunjin's hips is a study in control, measured and maddening. Felix's hands clutch at his thighs now, fingers flexing where they grip warm skin. The tension winds tighter with every drag and press of Hyunjin's body over his, each slow ascent followed by a shattering return.
Felix tips his head back against the pillows, throat bare, mouth parted around a gasp he can't quite catch. His breath stutters when Hyunjin shifts just right, angle precise, devastating, and a broken sound escapes him, half-moan, half-benediction.
Hyunjin leans forward slightly, bracing one palm on Felix's chest, the other threading into his hair to steady himself. His movements never falter, and Felix can't tell if he's being undone or rebuilt, only that it's Hyunjin doing it, quiet, steady, certain.
"Hyun-" he tries, voice frayed, but the rest of the word disintegrates under the weight of sensation.
Felix pulls in a steadying breath, determined to get what he wants, focus narrowing to the man above him, to the flush high on his cheeks and the shadows dancing across his collarbone.
"Hyun," he says, voice low and rough-edged, "grab the damned bars."
There's no hesitation, just the quiet sound of breath and the soft creak of the bed as Hyunjin reaches up, wrapping his hands around the golden bars of the headboard. The light catches on the metal, the muscles in his arms flexing just slightly.
Felix tightens his grip on Hyunjin's waist, taking control with a sudden thrust upward, sharp and forceful. Hyunjin's body jolts, a tremor rippling through him, mouth parting in a breathless 'O', no sound but the shiver echoing through his frame.
Felix continues, holding Hyunjin still as he fucks into him, Hyunjin's white-knuckled grip on the golden bars sending them quivering just as much as he is.
Felix can feel the pressure building in his own gut, and he starts to roll his hips with a different angle, rewarding him with strangled gasps of Hyunjin's pleasure.
"Felix..." Hyunjin breathes, the sound cracked and pleading. His grip slips down the bars, body trembling, barely holding on. "I... I can't..." he chokes out, voice breaking like his restraint, eyes glazed and desperate as he tries to stay with it, stay with him.
Felix's voice is a whisper, but he means every word.
"You're beautiful," he breathes. "I want to see you like this all the time."
Hyunjin's breath hitches, sharp, fragile. His fingers tremble where they grip the bars, knuckles white, and then they slip completely. His whole body folds against Felix's chest, boneless and undone as he keens high and loud, heart hammering where it presses between them.
Felix continues to thrust up into Hyunjin as his release paints the space between them, his own rhythm losing focus as the pressure that has been coiling low in his stomach finally snaps.
It rushes through him all at once, white-hot and consuming. His spine arches into the sensation, a shudder running the length of him like a tremor breaking loose. His vision blurs at the edges, a dizzy rush pulsing behind his eyes, as though the world's gone too bright for a second too long.
His body moves on instinct, hips stuttering, breath turning ragged. Every nerve feels alight, like his skin is trying to memorise this moment, the weight of Hyunjin on top of him, the sound of both their breathing, the ache giving way to release.
When it finally ebbs, it leaves him hollowed out and full all at once, chest rising fast beneath Hyunjin's slumped frame. Felix lets his head fall back against the pillow, one arm still curled protectively around Hyunjin's shoulders.
Felix's heart is still racing, but it's a softer rhythm now, not wild and frantic, but full and steady. Hyunjin lies heavy on his chest, head tucked beneath Felix's chin, their bodies sticky with sweat and more? but entirely unbothered by it. One of Hyunjin's hands rests over Felix's ribcage, as though he's still grounding himself by the beat there.
"I meant what I said earlier," Felix adds. "About wanting to see you like this. Not just here, like this, I mean... Just, in colour. Unfiltered. When you're painting, or dancing, or laughing at something stupid I say." He hesitates, then adds, quieter, "I don't want to lose that again."
Hyunjin lifts his head, just enough to look him in the eye. There's no mask there, just honesty, still a little tender and raw. "Then don't," he says. "We both got in our own way before. Maybe we just... Don't do that this time."
Felix nods, emotion crawling up his throat like moss. "I'd like that."
Hyunjin presses a soft kiss to his collarbone. "Me too."
They lie like that for a while longer, neither ready to break the closeness. Eventually, Hyunjin shifts just enough to reach for the blanket and pull it over them both, then settles again with his arm draped over Felix's waist.
"You staying?" he asks, not quite teasing, more like he's hoping the answer he wants is obvious.
Felix lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "Try getting rid of me."
______________
Backstage is a whirlwind of energy, garment bags rustling, shoes clacking against the floor, assistants murmuring into headsets, and models moving like practiced shadows through the narrow space. But in the eye of it all stands Felix, heart thundering in his chest, the lighting warm on his skin and the weight of five years' worth of work resting on his shoulders.
Except it doesn't feel like a burden. It feels like a dream.
His brand name is stitched into the tags now, LIX, and in a matter of minutes, his very first official collection will debut on the runway. His designs, his vision, his name.
He's adjusting a hem on Seungmin's jacket when Jisung and Minho find him, both dressed sharp for the occasion, Minho holding a little bouquet of white cosmos that Felix knows is meant for after the show but can't help grinning at anyway.
"You look like you're going to throw up," Minho observes, entirely too casual.
"That's because I might," Felix says, smoothing the collar of a model's coat with trembling hands.
Jisung throws an arm around him. "You're about to change your life. Of course you're terrified."
Felix shoots him a look. "Encouraging."
But Jisung just grins. "That's what Minho's here for. I'm just here to cry and pretend I taught you everything you know."
But even as they laugh, Felix notices something... Off. There's a shared look between Jisung and Minho, a kind of nervous energy Felix knows all too well.
"What?" he asks, straightening. "What's going on?"
Minho raises his brows. "Nothing."
Jisung fumbles. "It doesn't matter. It can wait until tomorrow."
Felix crosses his arms. "Absolutely not. You two are vibrating with secret energy and I'm about to send my life's work down the runway. Do you really want me going into the biggest moment of my career thinking my best friends are hiding something from me?"
Minho smirks. "Just tell him, jagiya."
Jisung groans, then grabs Felix's hands. "Fine. But only because I don't want you having a spiral 5 minutes before curtains."
"Spill."
Jisung glances at Minho, who gives him a tiny nod.
"We're getting married," Jisung says. "Abroad. In spring."
Felix's jaw drops. "What‽"
Minho shrugs with faux nonchalance. "Spain. Somewhere along the coast, quiet, sunny, just us and a few people we love. You and Hyunjin are invited of course"
Felix throws his arms around them both in a clumsy, overwhelming hug, nearly knocking over a clothing rack. "Are you kidding?! That's incredible!"
"I wanted to wait until after the show," Jisung mumbles into his shoulder, "because this is your moment."
Felix pulls back, eyes bright. "You are my moment. Both of you. This is the best pre-show news you could've given me."
He doesn't say it out loud, but as he looks between them, the ache of joy swells behind his ribs. Not just for their happiness, which is real and earned, but because they've been part of every step in his journey. From scattered sketches and heartbreak to this, a runway, a brand, a future.
"And I'm designing your suits," Felix says, without giving them a choice.
Jisung just beams. "Obviously."
Minho smirks. "Only if you promise to cry when we say I do."
"Oh, I'll sob like it's the finale of my favourite drama."
The call for line-up echoes through the backstage hallway.
Felix turns toward the curtain, where Seungmin waits, regal in silk, and Hyunjin is already poised with his first look, his posture composed but eyes unmistakably locked on Felix.
And Felix breathes in. Then out.
He's ready.