addict for dramatics

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/57368680.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: ZEROBASEONE | ZB1 (Korea Band)
Relationships: Kim Gyuvin/Shen Quanrui | Ricky, Minor or Background
Relationship(s)
Characters: Shen Quanrui | Ricky, Kim Gyuvin, Kim Jiwoong (ZEROBASEONE),
Zhang Hao (ZEROBASEONE), Park Gunwook, Sung Hanbin, Kim
Taerae (ZEROBASEONE), Seok Matthew, Han Yujin
(ZEROBASEONE), Background & Cameo Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Class Differences, Obsessive Behavior,
Morally Ambiguous Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Angst,
Jealousy, Heartbreak, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Triangles,
Recreational Drug Use, Drinking, Hate Sex, Under-negotiated Kink,
Face-Fucking, Dom/sub Undertones, Dacryphilia, Choking, Semi-Public
Sex, Rough Sex, Shen Quanrui | Ricky is Bad at Feelings, Kim Gyuvin is
Bad at Feelings, They will figure it out eventually i swear, Time Skips,
minor kim jiwoong/shen ricky, Cat/Dog dynamics, Rimming, Anal
Fingering, Oppa Kink, Spanking, Everyone Needs Therapy
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-07-16 Completed: 2025-03-10 Words: 148,024
Chapters: 12/12
 addict for dramatics
by Presently

Summary

Gyuvin is a little taller than Gunwook, and Ricky isn’t sure why, but this pisses him off.
Just like Gunwook, Gyuvin is also wearing all black—leather jacket clinging to his
broad shoulders and skinny jeans showing off his long legs. He’s far too well-
proportioned to be slumming around in a bar like this, face small with a perfect nose and
straight teeth. There’s mirth dancing around in his eyes, like Gyuvin is in on a joke that
Ricky has no clue of.

Ricky decides then and there that he doesn't like Kim Gyuvin.

Shen Ricky has it all: money, status, and an easy life.

His ultimate demise comes in the form of one bass guitarist. His name? Kim Gyuvin. His
desire? Ricky between his teeth.
 overture
Chapter Notes

hello… welcome to my latest fixation

originally i intended for this to be a oneshot, 30k max? but. er. i couldn’t stop writing i guess so here we are. i think
this will end up being 6 or 7 chapters, but i’ve left the chapter count in the air for now in case i change my mind
pleaseeeee make sure you read the tags! there will be drama and the characters will do things that will probably piss
you off but please give them a chance ^^
just a couple of notes about the world setting:
- initially this starts in 2006. there will be a time skip but i’ll be sure to make it obvious
- nyc setting!
- everyone’s age gaps are canon
if you’d like some vibes, here is a playlist i’ve made
fic title from here

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There’s a new band playing tonight.

Ricky takes a sip of his drink—a Long Island iced tea—head cocked to the side as he
observes the newcomers taking to the stage. They’re setting up their instruments, tweaking
amps and fiddling with leads. One of the band members trips over a cord and almost
faceplants into the drum set. Ricky snorts and looks away.

”Who are they?” Zhang Hao asks, as if Ricky would know who these losers are. Technically,
Ricky should know. This bar was owned by his father, and of the thirty-something
establishments owned by the Shens in New York, Petal & Thorn was Ricky’s favourite of the
lot.

There were certainly classier bars Ricky could peruse. If he were to take a taxi for ten
minutes to downtown Brooklyn he could have a three star Michelin meal accompanied by the
finest Cheval Blanc money could buy. Though, it would technically be free, since Ricky was
the singular heir to his fathers business and wasn’t going to be charged to eat at his own
restaurant.

Ricky had expensive taste, but he also had a fondness for the local bands playing at Petal &
Thorn every Friday night.

”Dunno,” he replies, throwing back the rest of his drink before placing the glass down on the
bar top. “They don’t look like much.”

Zhang Hao’s eyes are smudged with dark eyeshadow and clumpy mascara. He runs his
tongue across the top row of his teeth, gaze tracking something beyond Ricky’s shoulder.
“I’m not sure about that. The drummer is hot.”

Ricky twists on his stool, squinting in the dull lighting. He sees the guy Zhang Hao is talking
about—it’s the same one who had tripped before, actually, and Zhang Hao does have a point.
He isn’t Ricky’s type—too smiley and gentle looking. His hair is silky smooth and parted
down the middle, eyes almost disappearing as he laughs at something the frontman is saying.

”He’s alright,” Ricky replies, ignoring Zhang Hao’s scoff. The band seems to have finally
finished setting everything up, because the frontman turns around, and Christ. That was one
delicious looking guy.

The frontman taps on the mic, cringing a little at the squealing feedback echoing through the
small room. He’s wearing a pale pink muscle tee, massive biceps on full display that flex
attractively when he wraps his hands around the mic stand.

”Good evening, and thank you for having us,” the frontman drawls. His lips barely move
when he speaks, but there’s an alluring charm to it. “We’re Disorderly Conduct, and we’re
very happy to be here tonight. I’m Park Gunwook, and these are my bandmates.”

One by one, they all introduce themselves. Ricky isn’t really looking at anyone apart from
Gunwook though.

There’s Sung Hanbin, the drummer that Zhang Hao is still drooling over. Lead guitarist Seok
Matthew, and then there was Kim Taerae on backup vocals and keyboard.

Perhaps, if Ricky hadn’t been so busy ogling Gunwook, he would have noticed how the last
member was clutching his bass guitar a little too tightly, something dark and awful brewing
in his eyes as he stared at Ricky from his position on the stage. When he speaks into his own
microphone his voice is rough and gravelly, and he drawls out his syllables with a timbre that
makes some of the girls in the audience swoon.

“And I’m Kim Gyuvin. I do hope you’ll never forget that.”

Ricky has an allowance.

It’s not money—he’d laugh at the idea of his father allocating him pocket money, like Ricky
doesn’t have a black Amex card tucked into his wallet. No, the allowance he has is time.

Mr and Mrs Shen were just one couple of thousands that had immigrated to America in hopes
of a better future. Not just for themselves, but also for their children. The All-American
dream.

Ricky ended up being their only child—his mother had complications during her pregnancy
with him, and the doctor had advised against any future children, both for the sake of mother
and child. It had felt a little lonely at times, growing up as an only child, but he was at least
offered the comfort of extended family. Zhang Hao was a close enough cousin that Ricky
looked up to him as more of an older brother than anything else.
Ricky’s parents had worked hard to get where they were today. After moving to America
with nothing more than three suitcases and a dream, they had grown from their first shop—a
bao restaurant—to over thirty businesses in the city, ranging from cafés to luxurious hotels.
Ricky had been born somewhere between the tenth and eleventh successful business venture
and had grown up comfortably. He attended the fanciest private schools in the city and was
wearing designer brands before he could even pronounce Louis Vuitton properly.

For all of the success Ricky’s parents had, they’d both agreed on the same thing—let Ricky
be their son first, heir second.

While many of Ricky’s friends had been pushed into hobbies by their parents—things like
piano, ballet, French lessons, and many more boring things Ricky never wanted to learn—
he’d had the luxury of choosing. This extended up until college as well. Ricky was currently
in the last year of his fine arts degree, something he actually enjoyed going to college for,
rather than some dreadfully dull business degree.

It was also the last year of Ricky’s freedom.

Well, that may be a touch dramatic. It wasn’t as if Ricky would be banned from having any
more fun. He’d made a promise to his father that once he graduated from college he would
start working full time under Shen Enterprises in preparation to eventually take over the
company once his father retired.

In the grand scheme of things, the deal was pretty sweet. For the most part, Ricky was left
alone to his own devices in having fun so long as nothing ended up on the morning headlines.

Ricky’s love for punk and alternative rock had come about one summer afternoon, back when
he was still in school. He’d turned on the television to find something to watch and was
immediately entranced by Green Day’s Basket Case playing on MTV.

He’d always loved music. If Ricky hadn’t decided to pursue an art degree, he probably would
have studied music instead. As a kid he never went anywhere without his Walkman, always
humming along to the latest charting music.

Perhaps it was the teenage angst, perhaps Ricky’s taste had inadvertently changed as he aged.
Gradually, he found himself listening to Spice Girls less, and bands such as Nirvana and Foo
Fighters more.

He’d even managed to convince Zhang Hao to give them a listen. It didn’t take long for his
cousin to become equally obsessed, enough that he started to take Ricky to concerts. Most of
them were eighteen plus events which was no issue for Zhang Hao. But with Ricky being
four years younger than his cousin—though he was always told he looked older—they’d had
to finagle a fake ID for him.

Being a rich socialite had its benefits though, and Zhang Hao knew a guy who knew a guy. It
hadn’t taken long for Minghao to come through, and before Ricky knew it, he had been
introduced to the world of punk concerts and backstage parties.
Ricky loved the punk scene—no one knew him there, and no one gave a fuck about societal
expectations and stereotypes. Everyone was there to have a good time and they didn’t care
about things like petty gossip or which dessert fork is supposed to be used to eat cake. He had
the freedom to experiment with his fashion style—chunky military boots, cargo pants with
far too many pockets, and a lot of leather. It was the early 2000’s, baby! An era of fashion
exploration.

Of course, Ricky’s parents didn’t know exactly what he was getting up to in his spare time.
They knew he would hang out with his cousin and other friends a lot, but they likely thought
Ricky was doing something much classier. Like playing golf at the country club. Ricky didn’t
dress in his emo-esque fashion around his parents—he kept it simple with boring designer
polo shirts and khakis. The only thing he couldn’t hide was his hair, which he had bleached a
shade of white-blonde. His mother liked the hair though; she said it brought out Ricky’s fair
skin rather handsomely.

There were still occasions where Ricky had to act like the perfect, well proportioned heir his
parents believed him to be. Like today, on a yacht gliding across the Atlantic Ocean, the city
line of New York nothing more than a blip in the distance. He’s soaking up the salty ocean
breeze and warm rays of the sun from the top deck.

”So how have you been?” Jiwoong asks, taking a practised sip from his wine glass. He looks
every part like a model, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, dressed in a loose but luxurious
two-piece that billows in the ocean breeze.

”Oh, you know. Same old, nothing particularly exciting has happened lately.”

It’s obviously a lie. Most things that come out of Ricky’s mouth when he’s talking to Jiwoong
are lies. He’s not about to spill the details of the weekend—Ricky’s Saturday night had
passed in a blur of sweaty bodies and colourful pills. He’d needed the stress relief after
submitting an assignment that had been stressing him out for the last month. It had been so
bad Ricky had lost a little bit of hair—either that, or the monthly bleaching appointments at
the hairdresser were finally taking its toll.

Jiwoong hums. Swirls the wine glass around with a delicate flick of the wrist. Ricky watches
as the crimson liquid comes a little too close to the rim of the glass. One wrong move and
Jiwoong’s shirt will be forever stained and ruined.

”I find that hard to believe. You always seem to be up to something.”

Ricky chuckles, leaning back in his chair, letting the sun warm his face. "Maybe I'm just good
at hiding it. Or maybe you're just not looking hard enough."

Jiwoong raises an eyebrow, though the gesture is mostly hidden by his sunglasses. "Is that a
challenge?"

"Depends," Ricky says with a grin. "Do you feel up to it?"

Jiwoong takes another sip of his wine, contemplating. "I've never been one to back down
from a challenge. But tell me, what's the catch?"
"No catch," Ricky replies. "Just an opportunity to see if you can figure out what's been
keeping me busy. Think of it as a game."

"A game, huh?" Jiwoong's lips curl into a sly smile. "Alright, I'll bite. But don't think I won't
figure it out. I know you too well."

Ricky shrugs, nonchalant. He’s gone this long without Jiwoong snooping into his private life.
He doubts that will change anytime soon. "We'll see about that."

The ocean breeze picks up, rustling the sails overhead and carrying the scent of saltwater.
Jiwoong glances out at the horizon, where the sun is beginning to dip, casting a golden glow
over everything. "So, any clues to get me started?"

Ricky has known Jiwoong for a couple of years now. They first met back when Ricky was
freshly eighteen, a time where his parents sat him down and broke the news that Ricky had
been waiting to hear for a while.

Marriage, as a concept, was not something that frightened Ricky. It was another achievement
in life to be met, just as graduating school and getting his drivers licence was. Marriage was
something that Ricky had been resigned to happening to him, because that was the way the
world worked. There was a societal expectation bestowed upon every single person that was
born, and Ricky was perfectly fine to carry on that tradition. He could admit he had an easy
life, far easier than a fair chunk of the population. If he had to sign a legal document to
lawfully tie himself to someone else, then so be it. As long as Ricky had his fortune he didn’t
care.

Marrying for love was certainly out of the question—Ricky can admit that the limited amount
of love he has was already exhausted. On himself, and on the people closest to him. Giving a
piece of himself to someone else like that… It was disconcerting. Ricky didn’t like the idea
of handing over his heart in a velvet-cushioned box and expecting it to be treated with care.
Because it wouldn’t be, because he’s seen how things work in the real world. Life was not a
movie—life was Texas Hold ‘em and Ricky had long since perfected his poker face.

Ricky wasn’t upset at the prospect of having a loveless marriage. Yes, his parents cherished
each other deeply and had been lucky to have their own whirlwind romance as teenagers that
brought them to where they were today. But Ricky wasn’t naive enough to believe in the
fairytale of his own Prince Charming sweeping him off his feet. He honestly feels far more
comfortable tying the knot in a strictly business relationship.

So, Ricky had been eighteen when he was introduced to twenty-four year old Kim Jiwoong.
Not a whole lot had changed about Jiwoong since then—he still dressed the same and wore
the same cologne—but there was one shift in their relationship.

Jiwoong was very much in love with Ricky.

It had taken Ricky a little too long to realise, but by the time he had, the damage was already
done. Jiwoong looked at him like Ricky hung the stars in the sky, and Ricky didn’t know how
to let him down gently. He was too young, too crass with his words—and frankly, didn’t
really care about anyone else’s feelings but his own. That was how the world worked. It was
survival of the fittest.

”I know you love me,” Ricky said one night, lying on his back with legs twisted in the silky
sheets of Jiwoong’s bed. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and Ricky wiped it away
before it leaked into his eye.

Jiwoong made a noise, something halfway between a cough and a gasp. “I—I don’t—“

”Don’t lie to me,” Ricky sighed. “You know I hate that.”

Jiwoong was silent for a minute, and Ricky allowed himself to roll his head to the side,
appreciating the glistening honey-toned skin of Jiwoong’s chest.

”I know you don’t love me,” Jiwoong finally said, quiet and nervous and very unlike the
confident Jiwoong that Ricky was used to.

”I don’t,” Ricky agreed. His next words were a damaging blow. “And I never will.”

Jiwoong inhales sharply through his nose, squeezing his eyes closed like this was some
nightmare he could wake himself from. Except it wasn’t. “Can I ask why?”

This was why Ricky had been avoiding this conversation for so long. Jiwoong wasn’t the
type of person to take something at face value, accept it, and move on. Maybe Ricky was too
cold, but he thought life was a whole lot easier when you looked at it like that.

”Why is grass green? It’s just how things are, Jiwoong. You knew this from the very first day
we met. I’m not sure why you think I’ll suddenly change my mind.”

”Because…”

Because I thought I could wine and dine you. Because I thought I was charming and
interesting and handsome, and how could you see all of this but still not want me? Is likely
what Jiwoong is thinking.

”I thought you could handle it,” Ricky said when Jiwoong took too long to finish his answer.
“I told you it was just sex; I told you to not catch feelings. You agreed, and now here we are.
Don’t make me out to be the bad guy just because I held up my side of the agreement.”

Jiwoong sounds impossibly small when he next speaks. “We’re supposed to get married.”

They aren’t engaged. Not really. Their parents had set them up with the intention of marriage
of course, because Jiwoong’s family had a global cruise ship company, and the Shen’s were
one of the richest families in New York. It was going to be a marriage of convenience; a
unification of two powerful families merging into one.

Ricky didn’t need to be concerned with matrimony until after he had finished his degree. It
was another part of the terms he had set with his father. This way, he was afforded some extra
time to get to know Jiwoong before they were even officially engaged. If Ricky couldn’t be
Jiwoong’s lover, he could at least be Jiwoong’s friend.
Their arrangement wasn’t exclusive, and Jiwoong knew this. Ricky had even told the man to
feel free to see other people, to experience a relationship outside of the one he had with
Ricky. It wasn’t Ricky’s fault if Jiwoong didn’t take advantage of the offer. It wasn’t Ricky’s
fault that Jiwoong had fallen for him.

”I don’t need to be in love to be married.”

Ricky sits up, stretching his arms above his head. The sheets pool low on his hips, and he can
feel Jiwoong’s stare burning into his back. He thinks the older man needs a little time alone to
reflect, and he starts to gather his clothes from the floor. “Let’s have a couple of weeks apart.
Maybe you need to think about if this is what you really want, if this is what you can handle.”

That had been a year ago. Neither of them have brought up that night since, and Ricky
pretends like he isn’t aware of Jiwoong’s infatuation with him. It’s just easier that way.

He doesn’t like being cruel, but Ricky has long since set his boundaries, and it wasn’t his
fault if Jiwoong couldn’t accept that. Ricky can’t change the feelings that Jiwoong has for
him, and Jiwoong can’t seem to either. Both of them are stuck at a crossroads.

They still fall into bed with each other and today is no exception. Ricky rides Jiwoong on the
sun chair, pretends like there aren’t at least twenty-something staff trotting around on the
yacht. Jiwoong holds Ricky softly, like he’s cradling something fragile, but Ricky doesn’t
want that. He isn’t breakable, and he doesn’t want Jiwoong to hold him close as the older
man comes in the condom with bittersweet prayers whispered between Ricky’s collarbones.

It’s probably easier like this. Less talking and more fucking feels more impersonal. Maybe
Jiwoong will realise that Ricky is thinking about a certain singer underneath him instead.
Ricky wonders what Gunwook’s biceps would feel like between his teeth.

”When can I see you again?” Jiwoong asks. He helps dress Ricky whilst still being buck
naked, just like the gentleman he is.

Ricky rummages around his tote bag for his phone. He flips it open and sees a text message
from his cousin that had been sent an hour ago.

——Hao——

R U comin 2nite? A lil bird told me tht band is playin again.

——Ricky——

Wut makes U think I'm intrstd?

The yacht is almost back at the dock. Ricky gives Jiwoong a simple smile. “I’ll text you.”

He won’t. They both know he won’t. It’s always Jiwoong knocking on the door of Ricky’s
apartment, a bouquet of roses in hand and a hopeful smile plastered across his face. At this
point, it’s almost like a pathetic little tradition.

——Hao——
Oh c'mon Riks. I kno U got the hots 4 tht singer. Don't lie 2 me.

Ricky snorts at Hao’s text. His thumbs fly across the keypad as Jiwoong buttons up his own
shirt.

——Ricky——

Duh, ofc I'll B there. Y U think I got waxed ystrday?

——Hao——

LOL! Ur a freak!

——Ricky——

;-)

The yacht anchor is being lowered now, and that’s Ricky’s cue to leave. He stands up,
slinging his bag across his shoulder. “A pleasure as always. See ya later, Jiwoong.”

”Hey.”

Jiwoong catches Ricky’s wrist as he goes to walk past the older man. “Hm?”

There’s something intense about Jiwoong’s scrutinising gaze. “Stay safe, okay? I’m always a
call away if you need anything.”

The words are a little disconcerting if Ricky is being honest. Jiwoong has always been a bit
odd, but this feels a tad too out of the blue.

“I’m always safe. You don’t need to worry about me.”

The bar is full tonight.

There’s a line curving around the corner of sixty-eighth. Ricky raises a brow as he struts past
and flashes his ID at the bouncer, Zhang Hao hanging off his other arm. “Damn. I didn’t
know they were this popular.”

Neither did Ricky. But they played well and were a group of attractive young men, so it
didn’t come as much of a surprise to see the mass of teenage girls craning their necks in the
hopes to get a glimpse of the band.

”I hope they’re ready to be disappointed. Mingyu will only let about a tenth of them in
because of the venue limitations.”

Petal & Thorn didn’t have enough square meterage and fire exits to host large crowds like
this. Entry was based on a first come first served basis. The employees were not about to
break venue regulations for a gaggle of teenagers not old enough to be served alcohol.
Zhang Hao grins. “What’s the bet they’ll wait outside until the band leaves? Flash some chest
in hopes of a signature, or an invitation back to their garage…”

”Do you even have to ask?” Ricky sighs. He only pretends to be annoyed; it is a little
endearing to witness fangirls in real life. He was once young and obsessed with Billie Joe
Armstrong, so he gets it.

Jay is on bar tonight, and he’s already working on Ricky and Zhang Hao’s drinks from the
moment they walk through the front entrance. “Well, if it isn’t my two favourite angels.”

Zhang Hao rolls his eyes, plopping down on the barstool closest to Jay. “You don’t have any
other ‘angels’ so you’ll have to try a little harder with your flattery, Jongseong.”

Ricky pretends to vomit from the flirtatious tone his cousin is using, and Jay narrows his eyes
slightly. “Thought I told you not to use that name on me.”

“Sorry. I don’t listen to little boys.”

”He’s gonna spit in your drink,” Ricky mutters.

Jay scoffs, shaking the cocktail shaker with one hand and scooping ice into a highball glass
with the other. He’s flexing his muscles, it’s so painfully obvious with how he angles his
body slightly away from Zhang Hao so that his left arm is on better display. “I’m two years
younger than you, not twenty.”

”Baby boy, you could only be two hours younger than me and I still wouldn’t let you hit it,”
Zhang Hao giggles, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he watches Jay get progressively
redder in the face. Ricky has to hold back an obnoxious sigh. It’s the same shit with these two
every week—Jay needs to give up and Zhang Hao needs to stop teasing him.

Someone brushes against Ricky’s side, featherlight for just a second before they move away.
Ricky has a glare painted across his features as he turns to look, but it quickly melts from his
face when he sees who it is.

”Who isn’t hitting who?”

Gunwook looks a hell of a lot sexier up close. There’s a few freckles dotted around his face
and his jawline is imposing in a way that makes Ricky want to lick it. An eyebrow piercing
glows in the neon pink bar lighting. Gunwook’s plump lips are slightly chapped and pulled
into an easy grin as he leans his elbows on the bar top. He’s wearing all black tonight; a
graphic tee half tucked into ripped jeans and an assortment of bracelets wrapped around his
wrists.

”My cousin is being mean to the bartender,” Ricky explains. He takes a seat next to Zhang
Hao, ignoring the indignant squawks coming from that side as he looks up at the singer. He
likes this; likes being a step below a handsome guy like Gunwook. “It’s a shame that Jay
likes it, though.”
Now there are two men cussing Ricky out, but he does nothing more than smile sweetly at
Gunwook. “How about you? Do you like mean boys, Mr Rockstar?”

Gunwook chuckles. He tilts his chin down, and some of his hair falls across his eyes. “I
wouldn’t call myself a rockstar. But to answer your question, I prefer nice boys over mean
boys.”

Huh. That wasn’t what Ricky had been hoping to hear, but he could work with that if he tried
hard enough. “It’s just as well I can be both, then,” Ricky murmurs. He looks up at Gunwook
through fluttering eyelashes, nibbling on his bottom lip as he stares hot and heavy at the
singer.

It’s working, because the grin on Gunwook’s face is slowly morphing into something a little
more intense. Gunwook opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted when someone
else wraps an arm around his shoulders. Ricky drops his flirtatious gaze, a scowl forming on
his face as he glares at the newcomer.

”I love mean boys,” the stranger says, and his tone is almost goading. It takes Ricky a
moment to realise that no, this guy isn’t a random person, he’s another member of the band.

Gyuvin is a little taller than Gunwook, and Ricky isn’t sure why, but this pisses him off. Just
like Gunwook, Gyuvin is also wearing all black—leather jacket clinging to his broad
shoulders and skinny jeans showing off his long legs. He’s far too well-proportioned to be
slumming around in a bar like this, face small with a perfect nose and straight teeth. There’s
mirth dancing around in his eyes, like Gyuvin is in on a joke that Ricky has no clue of.

Ricky decides then and there that he doesn't like Kim Gyuvin.

He turns back to face Gunwook, trying to salvage the moment they were having before
Gyuvin jumped in like an overeager puppy. “Would you like a drink?”

”Wookie isn’t twenty-one yet, he can’t drink.”

Ricky inhales through his nose, trying to keep calm. Losing his shit at Gyuvin will likely do
no favours for Ricky if he wants to take Gunwook home. Behind him, Jay and Zhang Hao are
suspiciously silent, clearly enjoying watching Ricky trying to keep his temper in check. “I’m
sure I can make an exception for you. Do you like whiskey?”

Gunwook’s brows rise, the movement shifting his piercing. Even Gyuvin doesn’t say
anything, instead trading a look with Gunwook. It’s obvious that they’re putting two and two
together about who Ricky is. Jay grumbles something under his breath, probably a complaint
about Ricky using the bartender as a means to break the law, but Ricky doesn’t care enough
to reply. He watches Gunwook with expectant eyes when singer looks back at Ricky.

”I’m alright, but thank you for offering.”

Ricky shrugs like it's no big deal, because it really isn’t. He starts to say something else,
trying to ease into a conversation to get to know Gunwook a little better, but is once again
interrupted by Gyuvin. “I’ll take a drink.”
There’s pure venom in Ricky’s glare now. It’s one that would make any normal person wilt,
because Ricky has been told he has a very intense death glare, but Gyuvin doesn’t look
ruffled in the least. “No. I’m not serving alcohol to a minor.”

No one points out that not even a minute ago, Ricky had been offering Gunwook a drink.
Gyuvin grins, teeth gleaming in the neon pink lighting, and reaches into his pocket. Of course
he has a wallet chain, and Ricky rolls his eyes in disdain as Gyuvin slides a card out. “‘M not
underage, babe. Freshly twenty-one.”

He isn’t lying. Ricky squints at the ID card held between Gyuvin’s thumb and pointer finger.
The bassist had indeed turned twenty-one just a couple of weeks ago. He was born the same
year Ricky was.

Of course he’s a fucking Virgo.

”Congrats,” Ricky replies drily, conjuring up the most uninterested expression he can muster.
“Order your own drink then.”

That makes Gunwook snicker, though he looks at Gyuvin with apologetic eyes when his
bandmate frowns at him. Ricky’s glad that he made Gunwook laugh, even if it was at the
expense of someone else. Maybe Gunwook likes mean boys more than he thinks.

Gyuvin sighs, and—now why is he suddenly taking a seat next to Ricky? “Babe,” Gyuvin
draws out the word, propping his chin on his hand as he looks at Ricky. He’s too close, far
too close to be in the personal space of someone he’s just met. Either Gyuvin doesn’t have
boundaries, or he just wants to make Ricky uncomfortable. He’s certainly succeeding—Ricky
doesn’t even try to hide the way he scooches across his own barstool until half of his ass is
hanging off and his elbow is poking into Zhang Hao’s side. “Where’s your sense of
hospitality?”

“Stop calling me that,” Ricky snaps. He has to lean so far back, the only thing keeping him
on the stool is the white-knuckled grip he has on the bar top. Gyuvin keeps inching forwards
and Ricky’s nose is being hit with the stench of nicotine poorly concealed by Ralph Lauren’s
Polo Blue cologne.

Gyuvin tilts his head. The action is very reminiscent of a puppy that’s been told off for doing
something wrong, but it doesn’t understand what. “Stop calling you babe? You don’t like it,
huh? Maybe you’d prefer sweetheart—or, actually, you look like a cute little kitty cat when
you scrunch your nose like that.”

It’s a little ridiculous that the both of them are finding animal-like characteristics about the
other. But at least Ricky isn’t vocalising it. He glowers, levelling Gyuvin with an irritated
look. “Stop talking to me, I’m done with this conversation. Don’t you have a guitar to plug in
or something?”

”Me-ow.”

Ricky grits his teeth, choosing to down half of his forgotten drink in one go. He can feel the
burn of the tequila sticking to the back of his throat, eyes watering as he tries to suppress a
cough.

”We probably should get on stage,” Gunwook announces. He claps Gyuvin on the back with
enough force that the bassist's elbow slips out from beneath him, causing him to almost
smash his nose on the bar top if he hadn’t caught himself at the last second. Ricky likes to
imagine Gunwook did that on purpose. “Will you stick around after the show?”

The question was directed at Ricky, and he quickly replies before Gyuvin can interrupt once
more. “If you’re good enough.”

Gunwook smirks. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.” He takes a step away from the bar,
grabbing a handful of Gyuvin’s jacket to tug him down from the barstool.

Ricky watches as Gunwook drags Gyuvin through the crowd. The bassist keeps craning his
neck to stare at Ricky, mouth splitting open in a laugh that Ricky just knows is directed at
him. It’s like the guy knows he’s managed to crawl under Ricky’s skin in only the few short
minutes they had spoken. It’s like he enjoyed it. Ricky doesn’t like the way Gyuvin’s wide
eyes seem to look straight through him, like Gyuvin knows each and every dark secret Ricky
harbours. When the musicians are finally swallowed by the crowd of drunken dancers and
Ricky can no longer see them, he turns back around and sculls the rest of his drink.

”Well, that surely was entertaining,” Jay mutters. A neatly plucked eyebrow is raised as he
regards Ricky with a curious look, hands busy polishing a glass—though he isn’t really
focusing on it. Ricky should probably lean into his ownership role a little more, maybe tell
Jay to stop gossiping and get back to work, but he feels… flustered? Which is odd, because
Ricky never gets flustered.

He’ll blame it on the Long Island iced tea he drank far too quickly, because that had to be the
only explanation. Zhang Hao is nursing his own martini, taking small sips as he studies Ricky
with an indescribable expression. He’s quiet. Far too quiet.

”That Gyuvin guy likes you.”

Yep, there it was.

”So what?” Ricky shrugs. He plays with the puddle of condensation from his cocktail glass,
moving the water droplets around with a fingertip. “His way of showing it is acting like a
fifteen year old. And besides, he’s not the first person to have a one-sided attraction towards
me.”

And Gyuvin certainly won’t be the last. It’s just a facet of Ricky’s life that he’s grown
accustomed to by this point.

”But you like Gunwook, right?”

”I don’t like Gunwook. I want to suck his dick, there’s a difference.”

Jay makes a choked noise in the background, but neither Ricky nor Zhang Hao pay him any
mind. “So then, what if Gunwook likes you?”
“I suppose I’ll break his heart and maybe have one or two hit songs written about me.”

It’s happened before—there had been that Sumin guy, like two years ago or something. Ricky
had been nicer back then, far more gentle in the ways he would let hopeful men down that
wanted more from Ricky than a quick fuck. Regrettable Regrets had topped the punk rock
charts and shot Sumin’s band into the limelight. Though it had taken a few months for Sumin
to give up on winning Ricky back with shitty poetry and bouquets delivered to Ricky’s front
door. He’d been clinging onto the dregs of hope that Ricky had unintentionally let linger, and
the entire situation had changed the way Ricky handled men in the future.

The song was a total fucking banger though. He still listens to it sometimes.

“You’re such a slut,” Zhang Hao giggles around his straw. “Oh. They’re starting now.”

Just like last week, Ricky turns around on his barstool so that he can watch the performance.
He crosses his legs, heavy utility boots threatening to throw him off balance as he shifts on
the stool.

Gunwook is adjusting the strap of his cherry-red guitar, strumming the strings idly as he
looks around the bar. A couple of girls squeal when he flashes them a handsome smile,
running a hand through his hair and mussing it up in an attractive fashion.

”Hello, hello! It’s great to be back here again!” Gunwook speaks into the microphone. “I’m
seeing a lot of familiar faces in the crowd—hopefully that means you liked us enough last
week that you came back tonight?”

There’s a smattering of cheers and whistles, and Gunwook laughs bashfully. He’s pretty good
at crowd control for a newbie. “We have a few new songs to play tonight. I wanna see
everyone dancing, yeah? I’ll come find you after the show if you aren’t.”

Gunwook winks, taking a step back from the mic. He counts down from three, and introduces
the first song by sliding his left hand down the fretboard. Hanbin kicks in with the drums a
moment later, and then the rest of the band follows suit.

It’s a good song—upbeat, fairly heavy on the drums. Gunwook’s voice is gritty and raw,
accompanied by quick plucks of his electric guitar. The band plays in harmony, like they’ve
practised this thousands of times—they probably have, but it’s nice to be able to recognise
hard work. This is the kind of song Ricky would typically immediately want on his MP3
player, but he’s unfortunately struggling to pay attention to the song.

Gyuvin won’t stop staring at him.

Seriously, the guy is barely blinking. Ricky feels like a deer caught in oncoming headlights,
because he’s frozen in place as he locks gazes with Gyuvin. Those hundreds of hours of
practice really are paying off right now, because Gyuvin won’t look anywhere else. His long
fingers traverse the fretboard like he’s operating on autopilot. He alternates between using his
thumb and forefinger to strum, which Ricky thinks is fucking weird, but not as weird as the
unblinking eye contact Gyuvin is holding with him.
Ricky knows that bass guitars aren’t small—he doesn’t play, but he’s had the oppurtunity to
fuck around with instruments before. Bass guitars are heavier than they look and are bigger
than an electric guitar. They have a longer neck and wider frets, so why does the instrument
look so tiny compared to Gyuvin?

There’s a dryness to Ricky’s mouth that won’t go away no matter how much he swallows. He
knows he should look away, knows he should be looking at Gunwook instead. It’s as if Ricky
is stuck in a nightmare and Gyuvin is his sleep paralysis demon, and Ricky is unable to move
or scream.

“But you're a ghost, just out of reach,

A bittersweet lesson, love can't teach.”

Gyuvin’s fingers are long. They easily stretch to press down on the strings, and Ricky can see
the way the veins in Gyuvin’s hands are threatening to burst through his skin.

“Thoughts of you keep spinning in my head.”

Zhang Hao is saying something, but Ricky can’t hear him over the sound of his own
heartbeat pounding in his ears. His mouth has dropped open at some point, just a little.
Gyuvin tosses his head to shake the hair out of his face, biting down on his bottom lip as he
grins at Ricky.

“Every smile, every glance, I fall,

But to you, I’m invisible, nothing at all.”

The strap of Gyuvin’s bass is digging into his leather jacket. When he slides his left hand
down to the end of the neck, closest to the guitar body, the strap drags the collar of his jacket
down. Ricky catches a glimpse of a prominent collarbone, glowing bronze in the shitty stage
lighting.

He shifts on the stool, crossing his legs a little tighter.

“So here’s to all the broken hearts,

We fight alone in darkened parts,

And dream our shattered dreams.”

It had to be the alcohol. The increase in Ricky’s heart rate was because of the cocktail of
liquor he’d just knocked back. His palms were sweaty because the bar was crowded and
everyone’s body heat was warming up the room. Ricky was not interested in Gyuvin at all—
nope, nada, absolutely not.

There’s nothing gentle in the way Gyuvin shoves Ricky against the wall. The bathroom tiles
were cold, even through the layer of Ricky’s jacket, and he lets out a choked gasp that
Gyuvin steals with a bruising press of lips.

It’s messy. It’s aggressive. It’s Ricky whimpering when Gyuvin slides his tongue in, licking
Ricky’s teeth and tasting every crevice of his mouth. Gyuvin pulls back when Ricky begins to
get a little too into it; his hands were pawing at the bassist's chest, hips rutting against the
thigh shoved between his legs.

”On your knees, kitty cat.”

Ricky is never obedient. He’s never submissive. But for some reason, he finds himself
dropping to his knees, barely paying any mind to his aching shins. Ricky startles slightly
when Gyuvin reaches down to run a hand through his hair, though he unintentionally leans
into the touch.

”Good boy,” Gyuvin murmurs. There’s something wicked in his tone. Ricky thinks he may
have finally met his match.

The situation is bewildering. Internally, Ricky is yelling at himself, why are you here? Why
are you kneeling on gross public bathroom tiles—in front of Kim Gyuvin, no less? Where is
your decorum? Did you lose it along with your interest in Gunwook?

But it isn’t like Ricky is suddenly taken by the bassist. How could he be, when Gyuvin looks
down at him like Ricky is nothing more than mere dirt on his shoes?

Why does that turn Ricky on?

Gyuvin tightens his hold in Ricky’s hair, and his breath stutters, letting his head be yanked
back until he’s forced to keep eye contact with Gyuvin.

”Stop glaring at me. That’s rude.”

Ricky hadn’t realised he was, but he doesn’t relax his facial expression into something softer.
Rather, he lifts his top lip into a sneer and feels a surge of satisfaction when the creases in
Gyuvin’s forehead deepen. “You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what to do.”

It’s weak. Ricky’s voice trembles too much, and he knows he’s already lost when Gyuvin
barks out a laugh. The sound reverberates around the tiled walls, sounding awfully too loud
even with the music pounding outside.

Ricky doesn’t want to give in. He doesn’t want Gyuvin to feel like he’s won. But it's a little
too late for that now, isn’t it? The battle was already lost ten minutes ago, when Ricky had
picked his way through the crowd, feeling Gyuvin’s stare burning into the back of his neck.
Intent was stamped into each and every move—Ricky peering across his shoulder,
movements demure as he slipped into the men’s bathroom. And Gyuvin had followed, like a
pathetic dog running after a bone.

What did it say about Ricky, that he hadn’t spared a single glance at Gunwook?

Nothing that he didn’t already know about himself.

”Don’t you start trying to act like a tiger now, hm?” Gyuvin’s lips pull up into a smile, but it's
anything but friendly. “Big cats belong in the wild, but you’re at my feet. Everything about
you screams domesticated. All I need to do is put a bell around your neck.”

He can’t help it—Ricky shudders, only just stopping himself from letting out a whimper. It
doesn’t matter though, because Gyuvin is looking down at Ricky like he knows.

“I—I don’t…”

Ricky doesn’t even know what he’s trying to stutter out. A refute, perhaps, but the words get
stuck in his throat.

”Aw. You can’t even deny it. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

”Fuck you,” Ricky whispers.

Gyuvin’s smile widens. One of his teeth pokes into his bottom lip. “Oh, baby. I will.”

Ricky’s head rolls forwards when Gyuvin releases the grip on his hair. There’s a lingering
pain in his scalp, a dull throb that seems to pulse in time with Ricky’s heartbeat. Gyuvin’s
fingers are busy, unbuckling the belt that had been cinching his jeans in place.

All jokes aside, Ricky truly can’t seem to get any words out. He just sits there on his knees,
hands resting atop his thighs as he watches Gyuvin. Watches veiny hands undo the button and
fly, and then Gyuvin is shoving his jeans down. He doesn’t bother to step out of them
completely—just leaves them pooled around his ankles. He’s wearing boxer briefs, simple
black ones with no brand.

Ricky isn’t sure what compels him to do it. He leans forward, running the tip of his nose
along the outline of Gyuvin’s cock. It’s like he’s in some sort of twisted trance. There’s a
faint voice in the back of Ricky’s mind telling him stop, you’re better than this!

But is he really?

Ricky doesn’t think so. Not when the ache in his knees or the sound of someone knocking on
the door still isn’t enough to deter him from sticking his tongue out and tasting Gyuvin
through his underwear. It’s salty, mixed with whatever cheap detergent the bassist uses to
wash his clothes. The taste of precome lingers heavily on Ricky’s tongue. He lets it cling to
his taste buds, swirling his tongue around inside his mouth like he’s sampling a wine. Kim
Gyuvin de la Frontera 2006.

”Just like that, baby,” Gyuvin murmurs. Ricky looks up as he drags the flat of his tongue
across Gyuvin’s clothed length. Gyuvin’s cock twitches against Ricky’s cheek when they
make eye contact, and Ricky can’t help but wonder what he looks like from Gyuvin’s point of
view. A million dollar baby at Gyuvin’s mercy, on a grimy bathroom floor somewhere in the
streets of Brooklyn.

Ricky wants to tease a little longer. He wants to make Gyuvin beg, tear him apart until the
bassist is reduced to nothing more than a mere crumb of the man he had been.
But Ricky is also a realist. He always has been. Someone else was banging on the bathroom
door now, though neither Ricky nor Gyuvin had made a move to stop. It would only be a
matter of time before a staff member stumbled upon them with a set of keys and some Narcan
in case someone had OD’d in the bathroom again.

So Ricky slides his fingertips behind the waistband of Gyuvin’s briefs. He smirks at Gyuvin’s
surprised hiss, because Ricky has chronically cold hands. Goosebumps erupt across Gyuvin’s
stomach from the chilling touch and the soft hairs of his snail trail stand on end.

Gyuvin’s cock springs free when Ricky slides the briefs down, and he’s mildly appalled at
himself for feeling spit well up in his mouth. Ricky doesn’t drool over dick for crying out
loud—though, apparently he does now, and Ricky tucks that thought away real quick. He’s
just horny. It doesn’t matter that he’d fucked Jiwoong only mere hours ago—he’s just horny.

It’s long and thick, which is to be expected from how tall Gyuvin was. That saying about big
feet has never let Ricky down yet. The head is coloured an angry red and a fat glob of
pearlescent precome oozes from the slit. It trickles down Gyuvin’s length and Ricky laps it up
before it splashes onto the tiles. He braces himself on Gyuvin’s thighs, feeling the way they
tense underneath Ricky’s touch. He doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want Gyuvin to hold back.

He doesn’t want softness and restraint. He wants Gyuvin to use Ricky’s mouth, like Ricky is
nothing more than a cheap slut at a gloryhole.

It’s just easier this way.

Ricky cocks a brow. “Are you going to make me do all the work?”

That’s all the warning Gyuvin gets before Ricky swirls his tongue around the tip, sinking
halfway down in one go. He can feel his throat protesting; swallowing aimlessly at the
sudden intrusion and Ricky has to remove his hands from Gyuvin’s thighs, instead squeezing
his thumbs in his fists behind his back to stave off his gag reflex. He focuses on breathing
through his nose, eyebrows pinching together as he takes a few more centimetres of Gyuvin
down his throat.

Gyuvin mutters out a curse, reaching a hand out to stabilise himself on the mirror. “You play
dirty, kitty cat. You’ll regret that.”

Ricky hums around Gyuvin’s cock, the noise indifferent even though he can feel his own dick
straining in his pants. His eyes are challenging, openly staring up at Gyuvin as if to say do
your worst.

So Gyuvin does.

He grips a fistful of Ricky’s hair. The blonde strands are no doubt a disaster by now, and
Ricky can feel how his previously moussed locks crunch underneath Gyuvin’s hand. The
muscles in Gyuvin’s thighs visibly flex when he thrusts his hips forwards, keeping Ricky’s
head in place with an ironclad grip.
It’s been a while since Ricky has given head—much longer since he’s let anyone have their
way with him like this, no less. His mouth feels like it’ll rip, stretched to the limits as Ricky
tries to accommodate Gyuvin’s cock. There’s already spit welling up in Ricky’s mouth and it
leaks from the corners of his lips, along with the tangy strings of precome that won’t seem to
stop leaking from Gyuvin’s cockhead.

“You look good with my cock in your mouth,” Gyuvin grunts, using his grip on Ricky’s hair
to pull him forwards until Ricky’s nose is bumping into the neatly trimmed pubic hair at the
base of Gyuvin’s dick. Like this, Ricky can smell Gyuvin—really smell him, without the
interruption of his stupid alpha male cologne. It’s a musky scent, and there’s something so
deliciously manly about it that he can’t help the way his eyes roll back.

Gyuvin begins to shallowly thrust his hips. Ricky can feel Gyuvin’s cock bumping against his
soft palate, and he squeezes his thumbs a little harder. He doesn’t want to give Gyuvin the
satisfaction of choking on his dick. He keeps his gaze focused on Gyuvin, knowing that he
looks like a mess right now. Ricky doesn’t need a mirror to know that his face is flushed
pink, tears welling in the corner of his eyes because he’s kind of choking on cock. There’s so
much saliva—it can’t escape from the seal of Ricky’s lips anymore because there’s too much,
so he’s forced to swallow, and then he actually does gag.

He’s ripped off of Gyuvin’s cock—the bassist likely worried about Ricky accidentally
chomping down. Ricky takes in a dramatic gasp of air, a string of saliva momentarily keeping
him connected to Gyuvin’s dick before it breaks on a cough.

”Too much?” Gyuvin teases, grinning something awful and teasing. Ricky just glares up at
him, coughing a few more times into his fist. He doesn’t reply—doesn’t want Gyuvin to hear
how absolutely wrecked Ricky’s voice would sound. He can feel the way his throat is burning
and each time he coughs it only grows more inflamed. Fuck, he’s so going to regret this
tomorrow.

Wordlessly, Ricky drops his mouth open once more. He’s so fucking hard it’s starting to hurt,
so he snakes a hand down to palm at himself through his pants. Unbuckling his belt would be
too much effort, and Ricky doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’s getting off on
this. Though, with Gyuvin’s eyes gleaming and lips pulled into a cocky smirk, it's probably
too late for that.

Gyuvin slaps his cockhead on Ricky’s tongue a few times, clearly trying to get a reaction out
of the kneeling man. Ricky just glares, tensing his tongue and feeling the way his spit
splatters around with each smack. Some of it flies up and lands on his cheeks, mixing with
the perspiration building up from his pores. He waits patiently, palming relieving pressure
into his own boner, until Gyuvin finally stops fucking around and pushes back in.

There’s no time for adjusting—Gyuvin picks up from where they had left off, setting a brutal
pace immediately. His fingers tighten their twist in Ricky’s hair, other hand dragging a
Gyuvin-shaped handprint down the once pristine mirror.

Ricky can’t help the tear that leaks down his cheek. His sinuses are stuffy, overworked with
the need to breathe in short and sharp inhales and exhales. There’s a little bit of snot building
up in his nostrils—he can feel it, and it’s fucking nasty but he can’t stop it. His poor nose is
being squished with each thrust Gyuvin makes. He’s pretty sure there’s a nerve in his face
somewhere that links his nose with his tear ducts—when Zhang Hao had gotten his nose
pierced he couldn’t stop crying, even though he’d never had trouble with his belly piercing.
Ricky thinks of that now, when his nose is being crushed between his face and Gyuvin’s
groin.

Gyuvin tracks the tear with his dark gaze. A singular diamond droplet, dancing down Ricky’s
cheek and leaving a streak of salty water behind. His dick throbs in Ricky’s mouth and leaks
a little more. Interesting.

Ricky stops blinking. Lets his eyes water until he can barely see Gyuvin through the haze of
unshed tears, until the burn becomes too much and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. He can
feel the wetness seeping down his face and he opens his eyes, feeling proud of the way
Gyuvin’s pupils are blown. The bassist is getting sloppier with his thrusts. His hand makes a
squeaking noise as it slides further down the mirror. Ricky palms himself a little harder,
letting a moan rumble up from the depths of his throat. He knows the vibrations will feel
good.

”You—fuck,” Gyuvin groans. His composure is finally slipping. If Ricky could grin he
would, but his mouth is otherwise occupied. They’d only been in the bathroom for five
minutes at most and Gyuvin was already edging close to an orgasm. Either the bassist had
fuck all game, or Ricky wasn’t as rusty as he thought—perhaps a combination of the both.

Gyuvin chews on his bottom lip, face scrunched up in a way that should be unattractive.
Which it is. Ricky is not attracted to Gyuvin. He doesn’t let a quiet whimper slip out, rutting
against his palm a little harder, toes curling in his boots. He doesn’t appreciate the way
Gyuvin’s tongue slips out to lick at his chapped lips, desperate pants getting louder as he
chases his orgasm.

Ricky can’t think about that. So instead he sucks a little harder, making sure his tongue swirls
around Gyuvin’s head each time the bassist pulls his hips back. Ricky lets his teeth scrape,
just a little, and Gyuvin moans so fucking pornographically that Ricky almost comes then
and there.

Jackpot.

“I’m gonna fucking come,” Gyuvin grits out. Ricky can feel it, can feel the way Gyuvin’s
dick is throbbing in his mouth like some sort of phallic heartbeat. He doesn’t want Gyuvin’s
load on his face and doesn’t trust the guy to aim into the toilet. Ricky is not cleaning come off
of his face or the floor, so he resolutely seals his lips a little tighter around Gyuvin’s cock.

It’s probably a bad idea. No, it’s most definitely a bad idea. Ricky only just met this guy, so
he can only pray Gyuvin doesn’t have any diseases. It’s a little too late to be thinking about
this, since Ricky had literally dropped to his knees before even considering it.

Gyuvin gives one final thrust, and Ricky watches how Gyuvin’s entire body is overcome with
his orgasm. His brows knit together, teeth biting down so hard on his bottom lip that Ricky is
sure it’ll draw blood. The muscles in Gyuvin’s abdomen clench and unclench rapidly, and his
thighs shake as the first spurt of come shoots into Ricky’s mouth.
This isn’t the first time Ricky has swallowed. But it is the first time that someone’s come
hasn’t been horribly bitter. Don’t get Ricky wrong, it wasn’t sweet by any means, but it
certainly was a lot more tolerable than most spunk Ricky has had the displeasure of tasting.
Gyuvin must love his fruits.

Nothing will ever quite prepare Ricky for the warmth though. And there’s so much. Streams
of come slide down his throat, far too quickly for him to swallow all at once, and he has to
pull back so he doesn’t retch. Gyuvin reaches down to jerk his cock a couple of times,
milking the rest of his orgasm out. There’s semen pooling in the crevice of Ricky’s tongue. A
little bit dribbles down his chin. Gyuvin takes a step back, cock beginning to soften now that
he came. He runs his gaze down Ricky’s body. It’s more assessing than appreciative and
Ricky is once again reminded of the dynamic he willingly put himself in. He feels small like
this, like Gyuvin could make him crumble like a child stepping on a sandcastle at the beach.

Ricky doesn’t hate the thought.

He hates that he doesn’t hate that thought.

Ricky squirms a little. One of his legs has gone numb but he feels so close to bursting. He
can’t help the way he grinds against his palm, cock throbbing so hard in the confines of his
pants he’s mildly concerned he really will explode.

”Look at you,” Gyuvin coos. Ricky should laugh at that, should find it funny that Gyuvin is
slipping into baby talk with his cock still out and everything. But he can’t, because he just
wants to fucking come before it starts to hurt. “Kitty cat is all hot and bothered from sucking
dick. You’re more of a slut than I thought you were.”

”Shut up,” Ricky croaks. He can feel more come trickling out of his mouth. It’s disgusting;
Ricky feels used and dirty but he loves it.

This wasn’t how he’d intended the night to go at all. The plan was to get laid, sure, but not by
Kim Gyuvin of all people—much less in the fucking bathroom.

Ricky only has himself to blame though, doesn’t he? After all, he’d been the one to initiate.
Gyuvin had just followed. There was a high chance that Gunwook would have taken Ricky
home if he’d asked. Right now, Ricky could be in an actual bed being pounded into oblivion
by the lead singer.

Yet here he was.

”You know,” Gyuvin says, lifting Ricky’s head with a finger under his chin, “I was going to
offer you a hand. I’m not just a taker.”

Gyuvin drags his thumb across Ricky’s chin, smearing his come along Ricky’s jaw. The
touch is gentle, almost soft, but Gyuvin’s gaze is hard. He could be pissing on Ricky and it
would mean the same thing. The bassist was staking his claim. That should have set off
warning bells, should have sent Ricky running and screaming to the hills.
His cock twitches, begging for release. Ricky’s eyelashes flutter as he looks up at Gyuvin, a
silent plea shining in his eyes.

Gyuvin smirks. Pushes his thumb against Ricky’s bottom lip. Ricky drops his mouth open,
welcoming Gyuvin’s thumb like it's his last supper. Calloused and coated in semen, Gyuvin
presses his thumb down hard on Ricky’s tongue.

”But you haven’t been very nice. Running your mouth the second it's empty of cock. I think I
should just keep you stuffed full all the time, huh? You may act like a pedigree, but the
moment you speak you’re no better than a feral.”

Gyuvin pushes his thumb further in, far enough to hit the back of Ricky’s throat.

The orgasm hits Ricky like a freight train. When the first contraction hits, Ricky can’t help
biting down—Gyuvin’s thumb is still in his mouth, and the bassist hisses in pain as he
retracts his thumb. There’s a snark on the tip of Ricky’s tongue but he can’t spit it out because
his eyes are rolling back, gasping a plethora of fuckfuckfucks as he grinds against his palm
like a pathetic virgin teen. He can feel the damp patch growing in his underwear, come
seeping into his Calvin Klein’s as his thighs tremble from exertion.

A beat of silence passes. Ricky’s brain finally catches up to his body, and shame trickles
down his spine. “Get out,” Ricky mutters. It’s barely legible—his throat feels raw and every
time he swallows it feels like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together.

There’s a snort from Gyuvin. Ricky doesn’t want to look at the bassist right now, doesn’t
want to acknowledge what they just did. He remains on the floor, unmoving, as he listens to
Gyuvin pulling his pants back up and buckling his belt.

It’s only when Gyuvin steps over towards the door that Ricky feels a flame of panic arise. His
head shoots up, colour draining from his face as he watches Gyuvin reach down to unlatch
the door. “Wait!”

”What?”

Ricky clears his throat, trying to sound as imposing as possible. “Don’t breathe a word of this
to anyone. Not your friends, your bandmates, even your dog.”

He doesn’t know if Gyuvin has a dog. He doesn’t want to know.

Gyuvin scoffs, running a hand through his auburn hair. “Why do you expect me to oblige,
huh? You don’t own me.”

Of course Gyuvin would use Ricky’s own words against him. He grits his teeth, scowling at
the pleased expression on Gyuvin’s face. “Because I can ruin you, Kim Gyuvin. You wanna
fuck around and find out? Go ahead. But you better start digging your own grave if you’re
going to play like that.”

The bassist grins. It’s a sinister looking thing, and he rubs a thumb beneath his nose as he
leers at Ricky. “I’ll dig one big enough for two then, kitty cat. You wanna ruin me? Fine. I’ll
 destroy both of us.”

Chapter End Notes

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 accelerando
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ricky lives in a penthouse above the skyline of New York City. Every morning he wakes up
at six-thirty on the dot, jumps out of bed and goes straight into his morning yoga routine. He
likes to do his poses on his balcony, watching the sun slowly rise as he listens to the nonstop
traffic sounds of the city.

New York, the city that never sleeps.

Well, neither could Ricky last night.

He’d snuck out of Petal & Thorn last night after what was quite possibly the most shameful
yet best orgasm he’d ever had. And whilst there was a lot to unpack in that thought, Ricky
had decided to deal with it the next day. Priority number one had been to get out of the bar
without being seen by anyone.

Ricky didn’t frequent Petal & Thorn as often as he did purely for the venue itself. Sure, the
live bands were fantastic, and the bartenders were pretty decent, but there were better
locations in the city where Ricky could find those same charms. He liked the crowd that
frequented Petal & Thorn though, and he was close with the staff members which meant they
didn’t tattle on Ricky to the media.

It’s not like Ricky was a celebrity by any means. His family was influential enough to
warrant the occasional news article here and there about what they were up to, but they didn’t
constantly have paparazzi hounding them wherever they went. It was a pretty sweet spot to
be in; powerful enough to run in the high society circles, but not enough that Ricky couldn’t
run to the closest 7-Eleven without being photographed by a crowd of cameras.

But a picture of Shen Ricky stumbling out of a public bathroom with swollen lips and tear-
stained eyes? Now, that would be a picture worth a thousand words.

He’d cleaned himself up the best he could in the bathroom, scrubbing away the mess his
mascara had created from crying and rinsing his mouth out. The taste of Gyuvin still lingered
between his teeth. There wasn’t much he could do about his hair—he’d just ran damp fingers
through his locks in an attempt to flatten them down, but there was only so much he could do
with water.

Another band had started their set whilst Gyuvin and Ricky had been in the bathroom—a
group of girls that had been on the scene longer than Disorderly Conduct, but Ricky’s brain
was so frazzled he’d forgotten their name—so the crowd was distracted once he’d finally
slipped out of the bathroom. Ricky hadn’t wanted to go out the front doors in the chance he
ran into anyone from the band, especially Gyuvin, so he decided to take the back exit from
the kitchen.
The Gods must have decided to give Ricky a break, because Wooyoung and Yeonjun had
been too busy snickering over a gossip magazine to take any notice of Ricky sneaking past
them. The cooks should have actually been working, but Ricky was not about to stick around
any longer and give them a lecture.

So he’d stumbled into his penthouse some time past one in the morning—earlier than typical
after a Friday night out for him, but Ricky felt far more exhausted than normal. He’d
showered and brushed his teeth before slipping into a satin two-piece that normally made
Ricky feel luxurious and classy, but as he tossed and turned in his thousand thread count
Egyptian cotton sheets, he felt dirty.

Used.

And he liked it.

Cue seven hours of sleep so broken that Ricky is certain he’d only managed to escape into
dreamland for two hours at most. All his stupid brain could focus on was Gyuvin—his hands
pulling Ricky’s hair, cock shoved so far down Ricky’s throat he swears he could feel it in his
stomach.

Safe to say Ricky woke at eight-thirty with the sun in his eyes and a pathetic twitch of
morning wood.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, speech slurred from sleep. His neck was aching, and he coughs
a few times to try to dislodge the disgusting amount of phlegm that he could feel stuck to his
throat pipe.

There’s the distant sound of dishware clanging from the kitchen, and Ricky winces at a
particularly loud chop chop chop that seems to reverberate around his skull. It’s odd that
Ricky’s private chef hadn’t woken him up, but he chalked it up to an act of politeness rather
than one of laziness.

Ricky doesn’t do his yoga stretches—doesn’t think it’s a good idea, what with the pounding
in his head and general body aches all around. Skipping it for one day won’t hurt him. He
shuffles into his ensuite and dunks his head in the basin, gentility be damned. The cold water
is refreshing, the chilly temperature making him gasp as he suddenly feels far more awake.

His reflection truly is a sight to see—deep purple smudges beneath his eyes, and there’s still
some mascara clumping his bottom lashes together from where he’d obviously not wiped it
off well enough last night. The swelling in his lips has gone down but they’re chapped and
extremely dry. He looks pale, far more pale than normal, and he pinches his cheeks to try to
bring some colour back to his face. Ricky didn’t want to scare his private chef if he walked
out looking like a corpse—with Seonghwa wielding a knife, the man would probably stab
first and ask questions later.

Ricky makes his way down the hallway, stretching his arms across his head as he walks. He
can really feel how stiff his body is now that he’s up and moving. The bones in his shoulders
pop satisfyingly, and Ricky emits a tiny sigh of relief when he feels some of the tension melt
away. He should probably get a massage this week. He’d been meaning to for about a month
now—constantly hunching over a canvas really didn’t do his back any favours so he tries to
regularly see a remedial massage therapist.

When he turns the corner at the end of the hallway to enter the open-plan living area, his nose
is hit with the delicious aroma of bacon. Sometimes, Ricky swears that Seonghwa has a sixth
sense in regards to what foods Ricky desires to eat each day. He doesn’t have a meal plan or
anything set out—Ricky lets Seonghwa have free reign over what he cooks each day. He
hasn’t been let down in the last year that Seonghwa has worked for him.

“I was beginning to wonder when I would see you,” Seonghwa says, his loud voice booming
around the open-plan floor and making Ricky wince from the volume. Seonghwa was
standing over the stove and flipping the bacon in the pan over with a quick flick of his wrist,
back facing Ricky, so he must have heard the sound of Ricky’s bedroom door opening.

Ricky drops into one of the seats at the breakfast bar, leaning his elbows on the countertop
and letting his chin rest in his palm. Somewhere, Ricky can hear his mother chiding him for
his poor table manners, but he doesn’t care. “You could have woken me up.”

”I figured you needed to sleep in.”

“Yeah, you aren’t wrong there,” Ricky says through a yawn. He winces at the grating sound
of metal tongs scraping against the frying pan, rubbing comforting circles into his temples. “I
feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

Seonghwa finally turns around to look at Ricky, and he raises a thick eyebrow. “You sure
look like it, too.”

”Gee, thanks.”

Seonghwa shrugs, turning the heat down on the stove. “I mince garlic, not words. Give me
two shakes and I’ll find you some painkillers.”

Ricky mumbles a thank you when Seonghwa slides over a glass of water and a foil sheet of
paracetamol tablets. He pops two pills, dropping them in his mouth and washing the chalky
taste down with a sip of water.

”Are you eating?” Ricky asks once Seonghwa sets down a plate in front of him. It looks
fantastic—bacon and apple compote served over two slices of toasted brioche. Ricky has a
sweet tooth, always has, so Seonghwa has gotten into the habit of incorporating a touch of
sweetness into most of the dishes he cooks for Ricky.

“I’ve already eaten. But I can stick around for a little while, if you’d like? I can just get
started on lunch and dinner prep.”

”Yes, please,” comes Ricky’s response, shooting the chef a grateful smile before digging into
the food in front of him. Ricky isn’t one for talking and eating at the same time—partially
from the dining etiquette his mother instilled in him as a child, but also because Ricky felt
self conscious about exposing the chewed-up food in his mouth when he spoke.
It should be normal, sitting in relative silence as Ricky eats his breakfast, with the only
sounds coming from Seonghwa grating carrots or the distant honks and screech of tyres
echoing up from the streets through an open window. But with each bite Ricky chews and
swallows, his mind wanders a little more, until he can see the interior of the bathroom at
Petal & Thorn with each blink of his eyes.

Ricky puts down his fork and pinches the bridge of his nose. Every time he swallows the
food it hurts a little, and it's like the ghost of Gyuvin had reached his hand down Ricky’s
throat and pulled his stomach back up it, because Ricky is suddenly hit with a wave of nausea
and has to take a deep breath in order to not throw up everything he’d just eaten.

“So,” Ricky begins to say, but has to pause in order to clear his throat because his words
come out as more of a croak, “how’s Hongjoong?”

Seonghwa looks up from the chopping board, a sappy smile spreading across his face. “He’s
great. Apparently, his label has just signed on some new talent so he’ll be a lot busier soon
because they want to get a full studio album pushed out in the next month. Joongie is really
excited about it—says it's been a while since he’s seen such natural and raw talent.”

Seonghwa’s boyfriend—who was now his fiancé actually, only just recently proposing to
Seonghwa last month—was a producer for Shaboom Entertainment, a humble but upcoming
label that had lucked out with some of the artists they had signed on. Not because the label
was underperforming, but Shaboom Entertainment wasn’t a big company by any means.
They’d had a lot of success in the last couple of years though. The label typically focused on
hip hop and R&B music and a fair few of their artists had done very well in the charts, so
Ricky was curious about who the new singer was.

”I hope he hasn’t started sleeping in his studio again.”

The bashful laugh Seonghwa lets out is telling enough—Ricky narrows his eyes, queasiness
simmering down to something a little easier to ignore. “He has been, hasn’t he?”

The chef sighs. “You know how it is. I know how it is. There’s three of us in this engagement
—I was well aware of this long before Hongjoong got down on one knee.”

A flicker of unease stirs in Ricky’s chest. No matter how much the chef shrugs it off, Ricky is
positive that Seonghwa is upset by the inattentiveness of his fiancé. Inadvertent or not,
Hongjoong was putting his job first, and that just doesn’t sit well with Ricky.

”You guys are literally set to marry each other,” Ricky points out, “so if anything, he should
be spending more time with you. Forgive me for saying this, but I’m sure that Hongjoong
isn’t irreplaceable to the point where his job needs him to be there so much. Surely there’s
other producers that can step in for a little while to ease the workload?”

”I know it looks bad. And believe me, sometimes it gets lonely at home without him,”
Seonghwa says with a sigh. He’s not looking at Ricky, not really, eyesight out of focus as he
stares at something in the apartment behind Ricky’s head. “But Joongie… he doesn’t have
hobbies, you know? Music is it for him. There’s something about it that makes him happy—I
know I do too, but it's a different sort of happiness. If I’m his soulmate, then music is his first
love. I’m not about to rip that away from him. I don’t want to be selfish.”

“Don’t you miss him? Don’t you worry?”

Don’t you worry that with all the time he spends away from you, he could be seeing someone
else?

Ricky doesn’t have to say the words for Seonghwa to read between the lines. Seonghwa
packs the grated carrot away into a container, turning away to rinse the chopping board and
knife in the sink.

“I feel like that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

It’s like Seonghwa had just dumped a bucket of ice water on Ricky’s head. He blanches, eyes
widening as he stares at the back of Seonghwa’s neck.

“Jiwoong is not my fiancé! Hell, he isn’t even my boyfriend. We have no claim over one
another.”

Seonghwa had worked for Ricky long enough to know this. He was well aware of the
shenanigans Ricky secretly got up to on the weekends—how could Seonghwa not be, when
he was the one to always see the after effects of a Shen Ricky Friday Night Out?

Seonghwa stacks the chopping board and knife on the drying rack, turning back around to
face Ricky. There’s nothing inherently judgemental in his facial expression—Seonghwa has
always been a kind and courteous man, and Ricky had never felt uncomfortable around him.
But there’s a defensiveness to the way in which Seonghwa stands; arms crossed against his
chest as he leans on the edge of the sink, looking down at Ricky.

Ricky really should have kept his mouth shut.

”I know that. And I know that Jiwoong knows, too. But I just can’t help but think that this
whole… arrangement isn’t at all healthy. You’ve both been given a timeframe for how long
it’ll be until Jiwoong is to propose, but what happens afterwards? Will you really be fine to
settle down with a man you don’t care about? You haven’t even given Jiwoong a chance; you
told him immediately that you weren’t interested.”

Something about the way the chef speaks makes Ricky feel like this is a thought Seonghwa
had been sitting on for a while. They got along great—for an employer/employee
relationship, anyways, and whilst Seonghwa did like to start an idle conversation here and
there he never pried too deeply into Ricky’s personal life.

Overtime, they’d grown close enough for Ricky to consider them as friends. Seonghwa was
older than he was—the same age as Jiwoong, in fact, so there was a little bit of awkwardness
because of their generational gap. But overall, Ricky felt comfortable enough with the
knowledge that Seonghwa had a key to his apartment and control over what foods he ate on a
daily basis. That was a lot of trust to give someone, contractually obliged or not.
But right now, Ricky can’t help but feel like he’s being scolded by an authoritative figure
rather than a friend. There’s a frown pushing his brows down—he doesn’t like frowning, tries
to avoid it to not prematurely wrinkle his face, but he can’t help it.

He feels upset. He feels attacked—in his own damn house, too.

”It’s really none of your business,” Ricky mutters, focusing his attention on the bold red
backsplash behind Seonghwa rather than on the chef himself. “My private affairs shouldn’t
be something for you to concern yourself about.”

”You’re partially right,” Seonghwa agrees, “but your welfare is my priority. Yes, I am your
personal chef, but I’m also your friend. Your confidant. I’m not just here to do my job, collect
my pay, and leave. I’m here because I genuinely enjoy spending time with you. I think you’re
an amazing person, Ricky, but I can’t help but feel like you’re ruining things with Jiwoong
before they can even start.”

Ricky lets out a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “I’m not ruining anything
—my heart hasn’t swayed since I meant Jiwoong all those years ago. It’s been long enough,
don’t you think I would’ve already had a change of mind by now?”

”But it’s because you aren’t trying. You aren’t even considering the possibility of seeing
Jiwoong as anything more than a business partner,” Seonghwa says, pushing himself away
from the sink and standing closer so that Ricky is forced to look at the chef. He looks
effortlessly put together today—he always does though, and Ricky secretly thinks the chef
should have been a model instead. The body proportions that Seonghwa had were insane.
“You’re running around with God knows who at the end of every week and I don’t even want
to imagine what you’re getting up to. I just hope you’re being safe—I hope you’re being
treated well.”

I hope you’re being treated well.

The words echo around in Ricky’s mind, and he’s instantly transported back in time to last
night. Cold tiles beneath his knees and a none-too-gentle hand in his hair.

Was he being treated well?

Definitely not, but that was the problem, wasn’t it?

”I am,” Ricky says, ignoring the way his cheeks heat up. “I don’t think there’s anything
wrong with me wanting to enjoy some freedom before I’m shackled to this company, no?”

”Of course you’re allowed to have fun. That’s not the point I’m trying to get across. I guess
what I’m trying to say is… what if Jiwoong pulls out of the agreement?”

That makes Ricky raise his eyebrows. He regards the chef with an incredulous look. “That’s
not going to happen.”

”How do you know that for sure?”

”Because the choice isn’t up to us—it’s up to our parents. We don’t get any say in the
matter,” Ricky explains, as casually as if he’s reading lines from a textbook. “Jiwoong would
probably get, like, disowned if he turned around now and tried to do that.”

Seonghwa clucks in disapproval. He doesn’t understand fully, and Ricky knows the chef
never will, because… to say it outright, Seonghwa was in an entirely different societal class.
He was neither poor nor rich; sitting comfortably in the middle somewhere. He was marrying
for love, he was following a career he actually wanted to do. “His parents would disown their
heir just like that? For having an opinion?”

Ricky shrugs. It’s nothing outrageous—he’d seen it happen before. Not to anyone close to
him, but he’d heard rumours of Lee Chan running off with a girl he’d met on vacation in
Paris—she’d been a waitress at a luxurious restaurant and it had apparently been love at first
sight. Ricky hadn’t heard anything about Chan since then, and his family had moved back to
South Korea in an attempt to do damage control for their image.

Sometimes he wondered where Chan was. If Chan was still with that girl, if he had regretted
the decision he’d made.

“He has a younger brother. It would push their retirement back a few more years since Yujin
is still quite young, but that’s the point of having a second son. For backup.”

Seonghwa’s top lip curls. “That’s awful.”

He wasn’t wrong there. Even Ricky’s parents had been devastated when they couldn't
conceive a second child, because that meant their entire future rode on Ricky’s shoulders. But
it didn’t worry him at all, because Ricky would never let his parents down like that. “It’s the
lifestyle of the rich and the famous. Worse things have happened.”

Seonghwa is quiet for a moment as he processes his thoughts. “I just hope you know what
you’re doing.”

”I do, don’t worry,” Ricky replies instantly. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

”That’s the issue though, isn’t it?” Seonghwa sighs out, shaking his head. His voice is
exasperated but his expression is fond. “I think I’ll always worry about you, Ricky.”

Ricky decides to take Seonghwa’s advice.

Not necessarily as a favour to the chef—Ricky prided himself on his independence and
ability to not be swayed by other people’s opinions so easily. It was more so for himself.
Ricky couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a weekend at home and spent time with
himself. As much as Ricky liked going out and having a good time, he also appreciated the
quiet time he spent alone.

”What do you mean you aren’t coming tonight?” Zhang Hao whines from the other end of
the call. “This is our tradition!”
”I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Ricky tries to placate his cousin.

”Did something happen? Do I need to break you out of your apartment? Are you being held
hostage?”

”No, no, and no,” Ricky replies with a snort. He brings his legs up on the couch, letting his
chin rest on his knees as he absently watches his television. The Notebook is playing; Ricky
had muted the movie when the incoming phone call from Zhang Hao had buzzed in his
pocket.

”Well then, colour me confused, because I’m about twenty damn shades of it. Have you been
abducted by aliens? I’ve waited all week to see you, you snuck off last weekend without even
saying goodbye to me!”

”I told you I wasn’t feeling well,” Ricky mumbles.

”Yeah, the next day! I was worried, you know? What if something bad had happened to you?
I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if my baby cousin was taken advantage of by some
weirdo.”

”Nothing like that happened, okay? I just… probably drank too much and it made me feel
sick.”

Neither of them bring up the fact that Ricky had only had one drink. Zhang Hao sighs, and
there’s a rustling sound from his side of the call. He’s probably rolling around in his sheets
and trying to hold off a tantrum. Sometimes Ricky thinks he was the older one.

“Do you want me to come over then? We could do facials and paint our toenails and I’ll tell
you all about the weird tension between Matthew and Taerae.”

That grabs Ricky’s attention. “You met with the band?”

“Duh. You were supposed to as well, by the way. Gunwook totally missed you! He looked like
a disappointed puppy, it was so sad.”

Well. This was news to Ricky. He didn’t know that Zhang Hao had managed to wheedle his
way into a private meet with the band—though it came to no surprise. Once Zhang Hao had
his mind set on something—which was Sung Hanbin this time—nothing would stop his
cousin from getting what he wanted.

Ricky wants to ask if Zhang Hao had hooked up with Hanbin after all. But for some reason,
his next sentence was completely different to what he had intended to say.

“What about the bassist?”

Ricky immediately cringes at himself and bangs his forehead on his knees a couple of times.
So much for not thinking about the guy.

But Ricky couldn’t help it. He wanted to know if Gyuvin had spilled the beans about where
the two of them had disappeared to.
“Gyuvin? You know, it’s funny that you ask, actually. Gunwook said that Gyuvin went for a
smoke break, but he must be a really slow smoker or something. He was gone for a while so I
didn’t have much time to talk to him—a shame, he seems pretty funny. I think you’d like him a
lot, actually.”

“Oh,” Ricky mumbles, “so did he say anything particularly hilarious, or…?”

“Just like, stupid puns I guess. I dunno, I didn’t stick around for very long. What’s got you so
interested, anyway? I thought you didn’t like him.”

Zhang Hao’s tone is beginning to sound a little too suspicious so Ricky reels his questioning
in. It seems like Gyuvin really had kept Ricky his dirty little secret.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

”I’m not, I just thought I’d see what I missed, I guess,” Ricky easily deflects. He twirls a
strand of hair around his finger, watching Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams screaming at
each other on the television screen. He wrinkles his nose—Ricky had never been keen on
romance movies. He was only watching it because it was playing on the first channel he’d
flipped to.

”I can fill you in if I come over.”

“No, you should go have fun. I’m kind of tired anyway, I don’t think I’d be much fun to be
around right now.”

”Are you sure? I can rain check with Hanbin, it’s really no problem.”

”Oh? So is it serious?”

Zhang Hao had a penchant for not sleeping with the same person twice. It was extremely rare
for him to go out of his way to see a booty call again—Hanbin must have been good.

”I came like, four times. The guy is nuts.”

And that’s what Ricky gets for judging a book by its cover, he supposes. Turns out that
bumbling, clumsy Hanbin had game.

He wonders if Gyuvin could make Ricky come four times.

Nopenopenope, we are not going there! Focus, Quanrui!

”Go him, I guess,” Ricky replies, his mind conjuring an imaginary fist-pump for his cousin.
“I’ll be fine, Haohao. Go have fun, I promise we’ll go out again soon.”

”Hm, fine. But if you change your mind I’ll be over in a heartbeat.”

”I won’t, but thank you anyway.”

”Mm, okay… wǒ xiǎng nǐ!”

Ricky smiles at the sudden Mandarin phrase. He and Zhang Hao are both fluent in the
language—their parents didn’t want them to lose their heritage and had made sure they
learned it. Technically, Mandarin was Zhang Hao’s first language since he had been born in
China and only moved to the states when he was six. Ricky didn’t use Mandarin very often,
generally only when he was having a serious conversation with his parents, or now, when
Zhang Hao was trying to be cute.

“Zhào gù hǎo zì jǐ,” Ricky replies, snorting when Zhang Hao makes kissy noises into the
receiver. He hangs up before his cousin can start getting too sappy.

Ricky unmutes the movie but he’s not really paying attention. Instead, his thoughts are
focused elsewhere—mainly on a certain bass guitarist with eyes far too pretty for the nasty
mouth he had.

Honestly, Ricky had been on edge all week. Ever since last weekend, he had been waiting for
the ball to drop. He was sure Gyuvin’s threat hadn’t been empty—the guy had seemed
genuinely pissed off when Ricky had told him to keep quiet about their rendezvous, and
Ricky was sure that Gyuvin would tell someone.

Maybe he had, and Ricky just didn’t know yet. But for some reason Ricky was doubtful
about that. Gyuvin seemed like the kind of guy to gloat about his conquests to anyone and
anything that would listen, and if he had done so, word would have travelled back to Ricky
by now. Ricky knew far too many people, and was practically running out of space on his
SIM card with all the contacts he had.

Which then begged the question: why hadn’t Gyuvin told anyone?

Maybe he was saving the information, tucking away the dirt he had on Ricky until he felt like
exposing him.

It’s not as if Ricky was ashamed of his sex life or anything—he typically left one night stands
on a high enough note. Ricky liked to think he was a good judge of character because none of
the men he had slept with had leaked anything about Ricky to the press. Granted, not
everyone knew who Ricky was—he hadn’t been lying about the fact that he wasn’t a well
known public figure. Ricky liked to keep to himself.

Gyuvin had been a mistake, there was no question about it. Ricky wouldn’t slip up again.

“I’m so ready for the term to be over,” Haruto sighs, sliding into the seat next to Ricky.
“Who’s idea was it for me to choose a degree in something I actually like doing? Any time I
look at my graphite pencils I just want to snap them.”

Ricky snorts, shooting Haruto a sidelong look. “It was your idea.”

”I know! How stupid am I?”

Haruto slumps down in his seat, letting his head rest on the desk in an act of dejection. It’s a
little gross—there’s probably hundreds of germs on the wooden surface, but who is Ricky to
judge a stressed university student?

“Just think, we still have our final assessment to go,” Ricky singsongs, and that only makes
Haruto let out a few fake sobs.

”Please don’t remind me,” Haruto moans, rolling his head to the side so that he can properly
glare at Ricky. “I think all of my creative juices have been sapped out. I’ve been wrung dry!”

”Hm. Maybe you should go out and let loose a little, Haruto. Stress isn’t good for the young
mind—you’re doing yourself no favours just sitting here and complaining.”

Haruto clicks his tongue, screwing his nose up. Half of his face is all squished from where
it’s pressed against the desk. He looks like a gummy bear; Ricky sort of wants to pinch
Haruto’s cheeks.

”Easy for you to say! You’re just naturally good at everything. Some of us actually have to
try, you know.”

Oh, if only Haruto knew how many hours Ricky had spent painstakingly going over every
detail of his last assessment piece. Even now, Ricky is idly doodling a rose in the corner of
his art theory notebook, but each stroke of his pen is deliberate and precise. He’s always been
a perfectionist.

“We‘re getting close to the end,” Ricky reminds his classmate. “Just try to keep that in mind
—your hard work will pay off.”

”Yeah, whatever,” Haruto huffs, “then I actually have to get a job with my degree—which,
according to Hanbin, is yards harder than getting through school.”

Ricky is thrown through a loop for a moment when he hears the name Hanbin—then he
remembers that the Hanbin that Haruto is talking about is a Park, not a Sung, and Ricky
relaxes his tensed muscles. Luckily, Haruto didn’t seem to notice, clearly too distracted with
his own woes.

”I’m sure it won't take you long at all,” Ricky tries to reassure Haruto. He believes his own
words—Haruto is easily one of the most talented people Ricky has ever met, and the only
downfall was Haruto’s own self doubts.

”Alright, Mr Chaebol,” Haruto responds with a teasing poke to Ricky’s ribs.

Ricky raises an eyebrow. “A Japanese guy calling a Chinese-American guy a Korean phrase.
This sounds like the opening to a terrible joke.”

Haruto giggles, sitting up in his seat. There’s an indent in his cheek from where it had been
pressed against the spiral spine of his notebook. “What can I say, I’ve been influenced a little
bit lately. I think I’ve been hanging out with Yuseop too much. And he won’t stop talking
about his friend—apparently the guy has a band, or something? Yuseop is really proud of
him. I mean, their music isn’t my style, but even I can admit they sound pretty decent.”

Oh, good heavens.

”Really?” Ricky says, picking his words carefully. “I feel like everyone and their mother are
in bands these days though.”

Haruto nods, leaning down to shuffle through his backpack. “Yeah, that’s true. I think you’d
like them, though. Aren’t you into punk bands?”

Ricky realises a beat too late what his classmate is rummaging around in his bag for. He
shakes his hands when Haruto triumphantly emerges with his Walkman, the headphone cords
all tangled up from being carelessly shoved into the bag. “Oh, it’s okay. You don’t need to do
that, I’m sure they’re plenty good if you say they are—“

He’s cut off when Haruto shoves the headphones over Ricky’s ears. Haruto has to hold the
Walkman close to Ricky’s face, because he hadn’t untangled the cord. “Nonsense. Yuseop
would love to hear that his best friend has Ricky Shen’s stamp of approval.”

Resigned to his fate, Ricky pulls his lips into a thin line as Haruto fiddles with the Walkman.
There’s a few beats of silence as the track loads, the faint sound of static in the background
that is less likely to be from the Walkman itself and more likely to be from the studio where
the song was recorded. When the instrumental finally kicks in, Gunwook’s voice starts to
sing a moment later, and Ricky squeezes his eyes shut.

Did Gyuvin intend on haunting Ricky to his grave, or something?

With his eyes closed, there isn’t much for Ricky to focus on other than the music. Haruto
probably thinks Ricky is just really enjoying the song—and don’t get Ricky wrong, the song
was good. Gunwook was a fantastic singer, though Ricky secretly thinks he sounded better
live than in the studio recording.

But all Ricky can really concentrate on is the stupid fucking bass line. He can imagine it, too.
Gyuvin’s fingers easily reaching to press down on the fretboard, the pressure turning the tips
of his fingers pink. Ricky shudders—he swears he can feel the ghost of Gyuvin’s thumb
pressing down on his tongue.

The song ends, and Ricky opens his eyes to see Haruto looking at him expectantly. Ricky
slips the headphones off his head, passing them back to his classmate.

“So?” Haruto probes, packing the Walkman back into his bag. “What’d ya think?”

Ricky exhales sharply through his nose. “It’s a song that I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

With one final, delicate stroke of his paintbrush, Ricky leans back on his stool. He doesn’t
need to glance at the clock on the wall to know that many hours have passed since he’d sat
down in his studio. With the bright, orange-tinged rays peeking through the lace curtains,
Ricky knew the sun was dipping into its afternoon descent.

Zhang Hao had once told Ricky that he became something akin to a zombie when he painted.
Nothing would be able to pull Ricky from his art-focused stupor—not even an earthquake.
And that was no joke either, Ricky really had sat through a 3.0 magnitude earthquake and
hadn’t even batted an eye. It wasn’t until his mother had called him in a frenzy to see if he
was okay—she always worried that with Ricky living so high up, he was more at risk for
major disasters. But architecture had come a long way and the earthquake hadn’t even been
that big. If anything, the apartment complex simply would have swayed like it was designed
to, and Ricky just hadn’t noticed.

Not like he said that out loud though. He knew his mother would lose her mind if Ricky told
her that he’d been too focused on a painting that he hadn’t realised a literal earthquake was
happening—some of his textbooks had tumbled off the shelves, and the canvases he had hung
up on his walls were all crooked, but there was no sign of actual damage anywhere.

He’d managed to convince his mother that yes, everything is okay. No, you do not need to
come over to inspect the building—they have specialised people that work in that field and
I’m sure everything is fine. Only once he’d hung up Ricky had let out a breath he hadn’t
known he was holding. He knew his tunnel vision was bad, but he had no idea it was that
bad.

Of course he’d told Zhang Hao because—well, they told each other everything. Mostly.

At least this time Ricky was certain he hadn’t missed another earthquake. But his back was
aching, and he twisted on the stool to try and relieve some of the tension by cracking his
spine. An awful habit he’d picked up, and he could also pop all the bones in his fingers—
apparently you could get arthritis from doing that, but Ricky wasn’t sure if that was just
another old wives tale to prevent children from doing gross things like that. It felt too good
and too satisfying for Ricky to stop now.

He drops his paintbrush into a cup filled with water—now a murky blueish-grey from the
mixture of colours that had blended into the water. Ricky wiggles his socked toes, bringing
feeling back to the lower half of his body as he stands up in an attempt to not fall over. He
always washes his brushes and palette out immediately, because there was nothing worse
than having dried paint caked in the bristles of his brushes and stuck in the plastic holes of
the palette.

Ricky’s studio was equipped with a sink—you could call it more of a kitchenette, honestly,
just without the stove. There were cabinets underneath the counter and also mounted to the
wall, with a creamy tiled backsplash that was easy to clean off from when Ricky accidentally
splattered paint across it. He had some appliances too—a toaster, coffee machine, microwave
and a little bar fridge. Ricky didn’t use those too much. If he wanted food he had his kitchen
only down the hall, and he didn’t really like to eat in his studio either. The most he had were
bottles of water and iced tea in the bar fridge, easily accessible if he was suddenly overcome
with the need to drink something.
He uses his elbow to nudge the handle of the tap up because his hands are covered in
splotches of paint, and he doesn’t want to get it on the stainless steel tapware. The warm
water feels soothing against his cramped fingers—Ricky holds his hands underneath the
stream, letting the temperature bring some warmth back into his cold fingers.

Ricky is always pedantic in the way he cleans his tools. He scrubs hard at the palette until it
returns back to its pristine white condition, and uses his thumbs to spread the delicate bristles
of the brushes to wash all the paint away. The routine is soothing—it gives his eyes a break
from whatever he was working on, and eases his mind with the knowledge that the next time
he wants to work on a painting everything is nice and clean.

The last thing he washes out is the cup. Ricky places it upside down in the drying rack next to
the sink where the rest of his tools are, before wiping down the puddles of water that had
accumulated around the basin. He dries his hands, turns around, and then promptly stops in
his tracks.

Ricky is very thankful he hadn’t been holding anything because he definitely would have
dropped it.

See, when Zhang Hao said that Ricky goes into a zombie-like state of mind, he truly hadn’t
been far off the mark. Ricky had a bad habit of dissociating when he was doing things—it
was one of the reasons why he didn’t like to drive by himself most of the time, because he
could recognise that he was a danger on the road.

It wasn’t something he could help—Ricky had been this way for as long as he could
remember. He still managed to complete the tasks he was doing without actually realising he
was doing them—like making his bed or folding his laundry or even taking a shower. But it
also translated into his art projects.

Ricky would always begin a new piece with a semblance of an idea of what he wanted to do.
Like a tiny little sprout that was just bursting from the surface of the soil, reaching blindly
towards the sun so that it could blossom into a flower. That was how his artwork was born—
inspiration from things that happened in his day-to-day life. Like a sweet interaction he’d had
with a barista at his favourite coffee shop, or the way the trees in New York seemed to decay
each winter, yet come back stronger every spring.

Ricky has painted everyone close to him in his life at least once—and he’d painted Zhang
Hao so much, his cousin had a singular wall in his own apartment dedicated to canvases that
just featured himself. Zhang Hao had joked that it was like The Great Wall of Zhang Hao.

He’s created tribute work of his favourite bands—sometimes messy pieces splashed with
abstract lines of reds and blacks and purples, or more well-refined oil paintings depicting the
raw emotion delivered by the songs they performed.

He’s painted sunsets and sunrises and oceans and fields of flowers. Lions and sharks and koi
fish and eagles.

There have been times where Ricky has been unsatisfied with a piece he’s created. Normally,
he stores them in a cupboard, because as much as he would prefer to paint over them in white
and reuse the canvas, Ricky has always believed in the importance of self growth. He leaves
these canvases in storage so that he can look back on them in a few years time and see how
he has progressed.

Never before has Ricky wanted to throw out something he’s painted.

Scratch that.

He wants to burn it.

As he stands there, frozen in place, Ricky takes in what he’d just spent hours creating. The
sun has once again shifted in the sky, and Ricky’s shadow stretches long across the polished
wooden flooring. But as if some higher power above is laughing at Ricky, the easel is the
only thing illuminated in the studio, highlighted in a spotlight that seems to mock him.

The background of the canvas is a dark charcoal grey, speckled with white flicks of a
paintbrush. It could almost be interpreted as a night sky, if one so desired. In the middle was a
blue rose in full bloom, its petals spread wide. Some of them were falling from the stalk,
almost as if the rose was dying.

But it was the pair of hands holding the rose that scared Ricky the most.

Because those were the hands that he saw every time he closed his eyes. Those were the
hands that had tugged at Ricky’s hair; that had pushed him against the bathroom wall,
gripped his chin whilst a pretty face sneered down at him.

Those were the hands of Kim Gyuvin.

Ricky wasn’t going to lie to himself. He could make an excuse, try to play the painting off as
something little more than artistic expression. But it wasn’t really, was it?

There was never anything that Ricky painted half-heartedly. He threw his entire mind, body,
and soul into the pieces that he created. Because in a way, they were an extension of himself.
They were Ricky’s thoughts and feelings painted in sweeping strokes of greens, and his
hopes and desires illuminated in pinks.

He’d been trying—he’d been trying so fucking hard to not think about Gyuvin. But it was
like the guy was determined to follow him around—not psychically, but spiritually.

And it was stupid. It was stupid because Ricky knew that Gyuvin probably hadn’t spared a
second thought in regards to Ricky. Guys like him didn’t. Guys like Kim Gyuvin were
playboys with pretty faces and evil hearts.

Guys like Kim Gyuvin shouldn’t be around Ricky.

Ricky lets out a pathetic, despairing sounding moan, sinking into a crouch in front of the
easel. He can feel the heat of the sun on his back, seeping through the flowy material of his
black dress shirt. It was almost like Gyuvin was right there, embracing Ricky with arms that
were anything but comforting.
“What is wrong with me,” Ricky complains into the emptiness of the room. “Why can’t I
stop thinking about him?”

Gyuvin was like an annoying earworm—a repetition of a charting pop song that Ricky
couldn’t stand, yet it was stuck in his head on repeat. Everywhere that Ricky went he saw
traces of Gyuvin—in the grout of his own bathroom tiles, the smudges on those combat boots
he’d shoved into the back of his walk-in wardrobe, along with the rest of the outfit he’d worn
that night. In Ricky’s mind, if he packed every single thought of Gyuvin away into a tightly
sealed box and didn’t think about it, then everything would be fine.

But it was anything but fine.

Ricky peeks through his fingers, only cracking them just enough to take another look at the
painting. Just in case his mind was playing tricks on him.

The second look only reaffirms his suspicions.

Gyuvin had thin wrists that tapered out into large palms, and the veins beneath his skin there
were awfully prominent. The skin on his first set of knuckles were cracked and coloured
pink, either from lack of moisturiser or from repeated manual labour. His fingers were long,
the longest fingers that Ricky had ever seen on anyone—it made sense why Gyuvin could
play the bass so well. Not only were they long, but they were strong. His fingers were thin,
but the second set of his knuckles flared out a little more than a typical person’s would—like
Ricky, for example.

Shit, he’d even painted the tiny details of the rips in Gyuvin’s cuticles and the uneven edge of
his nails.

Ricky squeezes his eyes shut once more. He doesn’t even remember painting the canvas in
front of him—but who else could it have been? It was almost like Ricky had been possessed,
and had come out on the other side confused and disoriented.

It’s a wonderful piece. It’s one of the best things Ricky has ever painted—the detail was
exquisite, the colour harmony on point.

He hates it.

There’s a tightness to his chest, and Ricky sways on the spot where he’s crouched. He splays
a hand out in front of him on the floor, steadying himself before he falls over.

Ricky needs to get out of here.

He stands up so quickly that he almost falls over again, blinking white spots out of his eyes
from the sudden movement. But he manages to take one step, two steps, until he’s slamming
the studio door shut behind him and stumbling into the kitchen.

It wasn’t until Ricky was half bent over the counter that he realised just how quickly he was
breathing. Short, rapid breaths of air that were squeezed from his lungs like he was wringing
out a sponge.
He’s not having a panic attack—Ricky has been unfortunate enough to experience one
before, and what he was feeling right now was still leagues below what a panic attack
actually was. But he knew if he kept going like this, with uncontrolled breathing and racing
thoughts, then it would be easy enough to spiral into one.

”Get a fucking grip, Shen Ricky,” he mutters to himself. Pushing away from the counter,
Ricky steps over to the sink and turns it on to the coldest temperature setting, running both of
his wrists underneath the stream of water. It’s almost like a parallel echo of what he had been
doing only minutes ago—using warm soapy water to clean his brushes, oblivious to the
monstrosity he’d just painted.

The coldness of the water helps Ricky to ground himself. It’s a trick he uses for when he
reaches the level of drunkenness that just about inhibits him from walking, but it also works
wonders in a situation like this. He keeps his arms in the sink, letting numbness slowly travel
up his forearms. At least he’d had the foresight to shove his long sleeves up so that they
didn’t get wet.

Ricky isn’t sure how long he stands there for. It could have been two minutes or twenty. He
wasn’t focusing on anything except for the slow and deep breaths he was taking, staring at
the red tiled backsplash but not actually perceiving it.

It wasn’t until a particularly loud honk from the streets below pierced through Ricky’s
thoughts, that he finally snaps out of his detached state. He turns the tap off with freezing
cold fingers and reaches for a hand towel to dry off. It’s when he’s rubbing the soft cotton
against his skin that Ricky notices it.

Seonghwa didn’t like to wear his engagement ring when he cooked—the chef was afraid of
damaging it by scuffing the silver or losing one of the precious diamonds encrusted in the
band. He would always remove the ring and carefully place it in a glass bowl that sat on the
shelf above the sink. Because the bowl was made of glass it was see-through, and the sides
were high enough for Seonghwa to feel comfortable leaving the ring in there. Plus, it was
located perfectly at Seonghwa’s eye level so that he could keep an eye on it, like the thing
would grow legs and run off.

The chef had told Ricky that he didn’t feel comfortable leaving it in his pockets—Seonghwa
could be clumsy at times and was afraid that the ring may fall out of his pocket. Or maybe he
would forget to take it out of his pocket and it would go through the washing machine. But
he’d always been diligent in slipping the ring back onto his finger when he finished cooking
—until today.

Ricky scoops the ring out of the bowl, careful not to drop it with his frozen fingers. He holds
it between his thumb and forefinger, a smile blooming on his face for what felt like the first
time that day.

The ring was a pretty thing. It wasn’t like a typical engagement ring, with an obnoxiously
large gem that was worth a small fortune. The ring that Hongjoong had picked out for
Seonghwa was almost subtle in nature—but Ricky had a good enough eye to know that the
tiny little diamonds lining the silver band were worth more than just a pretty penny.
The band itself was unique—an infinity symbol that endlessly looped, small figure eights
joined together to form a circle. There were tiny, brilliantly shining diamonds placed in the
centre points where each loop linked with the next one.

It was the sort of engagement ring that Ricky thought he wouldn’t mind having himself.
Though he was sure that Jiwoong would probably use the most expensive ring from the top
jeweller in New York—and it would probably be gold as well, because that was more
expensive, even though Ricky preferred silver.

Ricky sighs softly, closing his fingers around the ring to hold it securely in his palm. He
should probably let Seonghwa know that he’d left his ring in Ricky’s penthouse. Though
knowing Seonghwa, if Ricky called him with this information then the man would panic the
entire drive back—even with the knowledge that the ring was safe and sound. Ricky didn’t
like the idea of a frazzled Seonghwa behind the steering wheel, so he decided to hand deliver
it instead.

Besides, Ricky could use the distraction.

Hours ago, before Ricky had stepped foot in his art studio, Seonghwa had made lunch—
minted melon, tomato and prosciutto salad with a serving of homemade garlic bread—and
had told Ricky he would be stopping by Hongjoong’s studio for the afternoon. Ricky had
given the chef the evening off (because yes, Ricky was capable of cooking for himself on
occasion) and Seonghwa had taken the opportunity to go visit his fiancé. The chef was likely
still there so Ricky didn’t bother to call ahead.

He pads down the hallway and enters his bedroom, retrieving a small pouch from the dresser
in his closet that held all of his jewellery. Ricky grabs the first bag he sees—a black Louis
Vuitton shoulder purse—and carefully tucks the pouch in there before slinging the strap over
his shoulder. He double-checks his appearance in the mirror, smoothing a few stray hairs
down that were sticking up on his head. Ricky wasn’t in full glam today—just a light layer of
concealer to hide the imperfections in his skin, and a little bit of chapstick to keep his lips
moisturised. His shirt was tucked into form-fitting slacks that accentuated the curve of his
hips and thighs, and highlighted the longness of his legs.

Once he was satisfied with his appearance, Ricky grabbed his keys and cellphone, slipping
out of his apartment and leaving the memory of Gyuvin locked in there.

Shaboom Entertainment was located downtown, about a thirty minute drive from Ricky’s
penthouse. Ricky has only been there a handful of times—each time had been with
Seonghwa, because once the chef had learned about Ricky’s love for music, he had offered to
take Ricky for a tour around the studio.

Ricky has never walked into the place by himself. His relationship with Hongjoong teetered
somewhere between acquaintances and the beginnings of a friendship, but the guy was
honestly a little intimidating to be alone with.
Stepping out of the premium taxi cab he’d hailed for the drive, Ricky thanks the driver and
hands over a wad of cash before closing the door. The sleek black car speeds off in search of
another passenger and Ricky turns around to walk into the building.

The studio was located in one of the middle levels of the building it was in—shared with
other businesses like a dentist, hairdresser, and multiple offices. There was no one else in the
elevator when the doors opened. Ricky hits the button for the third floor and taps his foot as
the elevator takes him upwards.

The receptionist smiles at Ricky when he walks in—a pretty girl with sleek black hair.
Yooyeon was the name embellished on the desk plate, and she waves Ricky through without
even asking who he was there to see, so she must have recognised him from the last time he
was here.

Ricky smiles to himself as he walks down the hallway. He can almost picture the confused
expression on Seonghwa’s face when he walks in, one that turns into wide eyes and a
mortified blush when Ricky hands the ring over with a teasing grin.

He stops at a closed door, thankful that the studios were all labelled with names, because
Ricky would not have remembered which door led to Hongjoong’s studio—not when all of
the doors looked the same. He raises his hand to knock three times, taking a small step back
as he waits.

When the door swings open, it's Hongjoong’s face that greets Ricky. His delicate brows are
raised as he takes in Ricky’s sudden appearance at the studio, but his voice is friendly when
he speaks.

”Oh! I thought Seonghwa had the evening off?”

”He does, don’t worry,” Ricky immediately placates the producer. “He just left something at
my apartment and I’ve come to return it.”

Hongjoong tilts his head in question. “What could be so important that you came all this way
to personally deliver it?”

Before Ricky can answer, Seonghwa’s head appears over Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Ricky?
What are you doing here?”

The door swings open wider to accommodate Seonghwa, but Ricky barely pays any mind to
the interior of the studio as he digs through his purse. He pulls out the pouch where the ring
was safely stored, holding it up with his hand. There’s an explanation on the tip of his tongue,
but the words seem to die in his throat when Ricky looks past the couple.

A pair of dark, impish looking eyes were staring straight at him.

In one of the biggest cities on the planet, the chances of Ricky running into Gyuvin again
should have been slim. At least twenty decimal points away from zero. In the negatives. If
Ricky sat down he could probably work out the exact mathematics—but the point was that
Gyuvin shouldn’t be here.
Yet there he was.

Gyuvin was lounging on the leather couch that Hongjoong had managed to squeeze in his
studio—the damn thing took up at least half of the room. The bassist’s long legs were spread
apart, one of his red converse clad feet stretching out further than his other foot. He was
wearing skinny jeans with rips in the knees, a Metallica shirt with a low neckline exposing
the sharp jut of his collarbones. When Ricky’s eyes trailed up further, he noticed how Gyuvin
was leaning his elbow on the arm of the couch, head tilted as he rested his cheek against his
palm. Gyuvin didn’t look away when Ricky did—he could tell that the bassist hadn’t,
because Gyuvin’s eyes seemed to burn a hole in the side of Ricky’s skull.

What a sick fucking joke.

”I—I’m here—“ Ricky stutters, trying to compose himself. He shakes his head and clears his
throat, shoving the pouch towards Seonghwa. “Your ring. You left it at my place.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen immediately, and he looks down at his left hand where the ring
should be. He gasps once he notices his ring finger is empty, reaching over Hongjoong’s
shoulder to snatch the bag from Ricky’s grasp. “Oh my God. I feel so stupid—I’ve never
forgotten to put it back on!”

Hongjoong shoots Ricky a grateful smile before turning to his fiancé, running a soothing
hand along the side of Seonghwa’s neck. “Hwa, don’t stress. Ricky noticed that you left it
there and came to return it. Knowing you, after this incident, I don’t think you’ll forget it ever
again.”

Seonghwa’s eyes are wide, glistening with the telltale sign of unshed tears. He opens his
mouth to say something, but his response is interrupted by someone else speaking.

”Can’t deny that I’m a little curious as to why your fiancé’s ring was at another man's house?”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa both turn to look at Gyuvin who was the one that had spoken.
Ricky tries to hide behind Hongjoong as he looks at Gyuvin—though it's a little hard,
because the producer is a lot shorter than Ricky is. It’s only then that Ricky notices Gyuvin
wasn’t the only other person present—sitting a little further down on the couch was Hanbin,
watching the entire interaction unfold with a confused expression on his face.

“Don’t be weird,” Hongjoong says drily. “Ricky is Seonghwa’s boss. You know, the guy that
Seonghwa cooks for?”

Gyuvin puts his hands up in mock defence, clearly sensing the hostility emanating from
Hongjoong. “My bad man. But you gotta admit it doesn’t sound good out of context.”

That’s when Hanbin reaches over to flick Gyuvin’s ear, and the bassist lets out a pathetic
sounding yelp, shooting a glare at his bandmate. Hanbin hisses something that Ricky can’t
quite catch, but it's likely the drummer is telling Gyuvin to zip his lips if they want to keep
their contract with the company.
Which is why they’re here, is it not? Ricky is slowly putting the pieces together in his head.
The new talent that Hongjoong had signed on wasn’t just one singer—it was an entire band.

It was Disorderly Conduct.

Ricky can admit that he’s impressed—he’s not sure if the band got scouted, or if they had
submitted their CD to the studio. Either way, they were here in Hongjoong’s studio.

Well. Two members were, at least. Gunwook, Matthew and Taerae were nowhere to be seen.
That’s probably a good thing for Ricky.

”Joongie was actually just about finished here,” Seonghwa cuts in. His voice sounds
suspiciously wet but there’s a real smile on his face, and he twists the ring around on his
finger as he talks to Ricky. “Did you want to hang around for a little while?”

Normally, Ricky would never pass up the opportunity to spend some time in Hongjoong’s
studio. The last few times that Ricky had been here, Hongjoong had been kind enough to
show him a little bit of behind the scenes on how he constructed his songs and how to make a
basic beat.

Ricky would not be sticking around any longer. “I actually have somewhere I need to be.
Maybe we can rain check?”

Rain check when Kim fucking Gyuvin isn’t here.

”Of course. You’re welcome here anytime.”

Ricky smiles tightly at Hongjoong. “Thank you. I’ll see you around.”

He doesn’t wait for a response—it's rude, and Ricky knows it, but he needs to leave before he
spontaneously combusts on the spot. His footfalls are loud down the carpeted hallway
because he’s walking twice the speed of his normal pace, and he reaches the elevator in a
matter of seconds. Ricky jabs the button for the elevator, but as the seconds tick by and the
digital floor number indicating where the elevator is doesn’t change, he grows increasingly
stressed.

Screw it. He’ll just take the stairs instead—it’s only three floors. That option sounds much
better than waiting around for the stupid elevator to finally move.

Ricky shoulders the stairwell door open and manages to make it down half a flight of stairs
before he’s yanked backwards. When he stumbles, two veiny arms wrap around him, and
there’s suddenly a warm chest pressed against Ricky’s back.

“Where’s the fire, kitty cat?”

Gyuvin’s voice is dangerously low, tinged with a hint of humour. His whisper tickles at the
shell of Ricky’s ear, hot puffs of breath that make Ricky squirm in Gyuvin’s hold.

When he speaks, Ricky’s words are directed at Gyuvin, but he doesn’t turn his head—looks
straight ahead at the brick wall in front of him. “It’s right behind me.”
Gyuvin chuckles. He brings one of his hands up to cup Ricky’s chin. The touch is almost
gentle—until he forces Ricky to look to his side, where Gyuvin has propped his own chin
over Ricky’s shoulder. “That’s not very nice. Why would you run away from a guy like me?”

”Because you’re insane,” Ricky spits out.

He hadn’t actually intended to say that out loud—but Gyuvin’s lips pull into a wicked grin,
both rows of his teeth glowing even in the dim stairwell lighting. “Insane in the membrane,
baby. Why would I want to be normal? That’s just boring.”

”What do you want? Is it not enough that I can’t—“

By the time Ricky cuts himself off it's already too late. He’s said too much, it's so obvious by
the way Gyuvin’s eyes light up in delight.

”Oh, my poor little kitty,” Gyuvin titters. He lifts his head from Ricky’s shoulder, the warm
tip of his nose tracing the inky lines of Ricky’s neck tattoo. “Did you miss me, hm? Have you
been thinking about me all this time?”

Yes. I want to gouge my eyes out so I never have to see your face again. I want to smash my
head against those bricks until I can rearrange my brain in a way that will make me forget
you.

Fate was not something Ricky had ever believed in. To Ricky, fate was in the same category
as soulmates—nothing more than a fictitious belief that only fools blindly swore by.

But right now, Ricky thinks that someone had to have tied an invisible red string around him
and Gyuvin. Because it wasn’t enough that Ricky had met Gyuvin that night—Gyuvin was
everywhere.

In Ricky’s dreams.

His name in the mouth of Ricky’s friends.

Even in Ricky’s fucking art.

”No, I haven’t been,” Ricky retorts. He yanks his chin out of Gyuvin’s fingers, leaning as far
away as possible from the bassist whilst still in the circle of his arms. Ricky isn’t struggling
to get out of the grip, not really, and he grits his teeth as a wave of shame washes over him. “I
don’t even know who you are.”

Gyuvin hums, a sound that indicates he doesn’t quite believe Ricky. “Well… I know who you
are. Little Shen Ricky, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Tell me, do mummy and daddy
know who you really are?”

A sudden burst of anger washes over Ricky, and he twists in Gyuvin’s arms, bringing them
face to face. They’re so close like this, Ricky can see each individual pore in Gyuvin’s
cheeks. “Fuck you,” he hisses, eyes narrowed in a hateful glare.

”Baby. You need to learn to start saying ‘please’.”

When Gyuvin leans in, Ricky doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t want to.

He should though. He should push Gyuvin away and threaten to get a restraining order—
even though Gyuvin wasn’t actually stalking him, but Ricky was rich and he could get away
with whatever he wanted.

Honestly, Ricky should do anything but kiss back.

When Gyuvin walks Ricky backwards with his sinful mouth covering Ricky’s own, Ricky
lets him. Ricky allows himself to be pushed against the rough brick wall, makes no move to
stop Gyuvin when the bassist wraps his massive hands around the backs of Ricky’s thighs to
lift him up.

Gyuvin kisses Ricky like he’s on fire. Like he’s trying to smother the very flame of Ricky’s
soul, like Gyuvin wants Ricky dead. He’s making good on that promise to dig Ricky’s grave,
because he can barely fucking breathe with Gyuvin stealing all the air from his lungs.

There’s no tenderness. There’s no caress of hands or whispered words of reassurance. Gyuvin

bites down on Ricky’s bottom lip so that he can shove his tongue in Ricky’s mouth, and
Ricky is sure that it draws blood when he tastes metal in his mouth, feels how his lip throbs
in pain. But Gyuvin is quick to lick the blood away, and Ricky shudders when he imagines
what Gyuvin’s face would look like smeared in crimson red, the chewed up remains of
Ricky’s heart being swallowed down his throat.

It’s like Ricky is stuck in the middle of a tightrope and he’s being pulled in two different
directions. He doesn’t want Gyuvin, but he craves him so fucking badly that he can’t stop
thinking about the man.

No one has ever affected Ricky like this before.

No one has ever caused Ricky to get so lost in the depths of his own desires, that he forgets
who he is. Who he is meant to be.

Ricky’s hands had been hanging uselessly at his sides, but they fly up and thread through
Gyuvin’s hair when the bassist ruts their clothed cocks together. Gyuvin’s hair is softer than
Ricky had anticipated it to be, and his fingers aren’t gentle when he tugs at the auburn locks.
Gyuvin moans into Ricky’s mouth, the loudness only muffled by the seal of his lips over
Ricky’s. But it's enough to snap Ricky back to reality, and he breaks off the kiss with a gasp,
messy strings of saliva splattering across his chin.

The clarity of where they are—in public, at Hongjoong’s place of employment for crying out
loud—hits Ricky at once, and he wiggles in Gyuvin’s hold until the other man puts him
down.

”Gyuvin,” Ricky breathes out before the bassist can interject, “I’d like to think I’m a little
classier than a public bathroom and a musty stairwell.”

Gyuvin tilts his head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

 Ricky scowls, punching Gyuvin in the arm. It’s not a very hard hit—Ricky isn’t the strongest
guy out there, but it's enough to get the message across. “That’s my way of telling you to take
me somewhere else, you fucking dumbass.”

”Kitty cat. All you had to do was ask.”

God. Ricky hopes he isn’t making a mistake.

Chapter End Notes

apologies for the cliffhanger :p

twitter | playlist | retrospring

 scherzo
Chapter Notes

tags updated

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Ricky was five years old he went through an animal obsessed phase.

Visits to the zoo were a regular monthly occurrence. In particular, Ricky had always loved
visiting the massive arctic wolf enclosure. He’d press close to the glass, nose leaving little
smudges against the crystal clear surface, tiny hands flattened for leverage as he stood on his
tippy toes to try and get the best look at the animals.

The wolves were beautiful. They had the most blindingly white coat that looked so soft.
Ricky wanted to touch, even with the knowledge that they were predators. Ricky never felt
uncomfortable, not even when one of the larger wolves prowled around the edge of the
enclosure, dark eyes unblinking and trained onto little Ricky as he ooed and ah’d at the pack.

It was only when Ricky had watched a documentary about wild animals in the Arctic that he
finally moved on from his obsession. After seeing a snow hare being ripped apart by the
powerful jaws of one of those same wolves Ricky had been cooing over, he realised why that
wolf at the zoo had been looking at him like that.

Like Ricky was prey.

And he feels that same terror again—but this time, Ricky isn’t five years old and hiding
between the couch cushions as he sobs his little heart out.

This time, Ricky is looking straight into the eyes of Kim Gyuvin—because Gyuvin is the
wolf ready to pounce, and Ricky is no better than a poor little snow bunny with a
jackrabbiting heart.

But there’s another emotion brewing in his stomach. Excitement.

Because he asked for this, didn’t he? Ricky ignored the rational side of his brain, let the lust
take over him like the pathetic man he was. It was blatant in each hungry kiss he had
reciprocated; dripped from impatient fingertips carding through auburn hair. Ricky’s blood
wasn’t spilling in red splatters against the powder white snow—but his dignity sure was
being drained with each electrifying press of Gyuvin’s skin against his.

”Kitty cat,” Gyuvin murmurs, the sharpness of his canines glinting when he grins. “All you
had to do was ask.”
That’s all the bassist says before he turns on his heel, beginning to walk down the next set of
stairs. It takes Ricky a moment before he also follows Gyuvin, practically jogging down the
cement steps in an effort to keep up with Gyuvin’s stupidly long legs.

And how ironic was it, that Gyuvin had pursued Ricky into the stairwell, but now it was
Ricky trailing after Gyuvin?

He doesn’t laugh. There’s nothing funny about the situation.

They don’t run into anyone else in the time it takes for them to walk down the next two
flights of stairs. Gyuvin shoves the fire exit door open at the bottom of the stairwell, not
bothering to hold it open for Ricky. Prick.

The sidewalks were busy as per usual, and Gyuvin weaves through the crowd of New
Yorkers with Ricky a few paces behind him.

A black Toyota 4Runner is neatly parallel parked alongside the curb, and Gyuvin rounds the
front of the vehicle to unlock it. Ricky takes in the exterior of the car—dusty from city smog,
the clear coat peeling in patches on the hood. There’s a dent in the passenger side door, and
Ricky eyes it warily as the vehicle gently sways from Gyuvin climbing inside it.

He can see Gyuvin looking at him from inside the car, because the windows weren’t tinted.
The bassist has an eyebrow raised, his hand drumming against the steering wheel as he waits
for Ricky to make his decision.

Ricky tucks his fingers underneath the door handle and pulls.

His nose is immediately hit with the sour scent of nicotine, poorly covered up by a black ice
air freshener tree dangling from the rear view mirror. Ricky is by no means short—he’d
luckily taken after his father in the height department, because his mother was extremely
short—but he still had to practically jump up to get into the passenger seat. The damn truck
had a lift kit that certainly couldn’t be legal, not when the gap between the top of the tyres
and the wheel well was large enough that Ricky could probably fit his head in there.

The seats were leather but hadn’t been looked after at all. When Ricky settles into the seat
and reaches across his right shoulder for the seatbelt he can feel a sharp jut of torn leather
digging into his lower back, and he has to readjust in the seat to get comfortable.

The 4Runner shudders to life when Gyuvin twists the key in the ignition. Ricky isn’t too keen
on the sputtering sounds coming from the engine, but they only last for a few moments
before evening out into a low rumble.

Fuck. He hopes this thing doesn’t break down on the freeway. Though, from the careless way
Gyuvin jerks the steering wheel to the right and stomps down on the accelerator pedal, Ricky
doesn’t have high hopes. He’d only just managed to fasten his seatbelt in time for Gyuvin to
merge into the busy mid-afternoon traffic.

The bassist seems to at least be somewhat focusing on not rear ending the hatchback in front
of them as they travel down the streets. Ricky takes this as an opportunity to take a quick
glance around the interior of the car. He’d always believed that you could tell a lot about a
person by the way they looked after their car.

The 4Runner was in desperate need of an interior detail—the floor mats were muddy and
stained, and there were a few empty candy wrappers scattered in the footwell. Sections of the
carpet that hadn’t been protected by the floor mats were worn down and frayed, and if Ricky
hadn’t been wearing shoes he could probably rip a hole in the more threadbare areas just with
the force of his toes alone.

The dashboard and centre console were dusty and cluttered. There were miscellaneous items
scattered across the dash—guitar picks, random receipts and something that looked
suspiciously like a parking ticket, pens and some cigarette filters, and a couple of rubber
ducks for some reason. Each time Gyuvin turned a corner everything on the dash shifted a
few centimetres, but miraculously, nothing fell off.

The buttons and controls on the head unit were grimy, and there were what looked to be
Cheeto crumbs stuck to the volume knob of the stereo. The head unit was fitted with a CD
player, but currently the radio was playing because Ricky could hear the soft sounds of the
DJs speaking about an upcoming release from Justin Timberlake.

When Ricky chances a glance over at Gyuvin, he finds the bassist already looking at him. It’s
unfair that he looks attractive even whilst driving—his left hand casually resting atop the
steering wheel, right hand shifting up or down on the gearstick when required. Gyuvin is
wearing jeans but that doesn’t stop Ricky from flicking his gaze down to observe the
thickness of his thighs—only made more pronounced when Gyuvin switches his foot from
pressing down on the clutch, accelerator, or brake pedals.

“See something you like?”

Ricky rolls his eyes and looks away. “Absolutely not.”

Gyuvin laughs at that, the sound carrying around in the confines of the car. “Your eyes tell a
very different story, kitty cat. You don’t have to lie. I won’t tell anyone.”

“That’s a vastly different response to the one you gave me last time we met,” Ricky
grumbles.

“Aw. Have you been stressed about that?”

The words would sound comforting if Gyuvin didn’t sound so mischievous when he spoke
them. He doesn’t actually care about how Ricky is feeling, and it’s glaringly obvious from the
teasing lilt to his tone. “No. I haven’t even thought about you until I saw you today.”

“You should work on your lying skills. They aren’t very good currently.”

Ugh. Ricky cannot believe he’d willingly got into a vehicle with this dude—Gyuvin was
so… irritating. He rolls his eyes, choosing to stare out of the window instead so that he
doesn’t have to see the smug expression that’s currently plastered across Gyuvin’s face. “And
maybe you should work on your driving skills. I’ve seen sixteen year olds drive better than
you do.”

Another bold faced lie—Gyuvin was no professional chauffeur, but Ricky didn’t feel like
they were going to crash every other minute. It’s definitely a different experience from being
in the passenger seat of Zhang Hao’s car. Ricky almost shivers as he remembers the last time
his cousin had driven them somewhere. Zhang Hao had scraped the front bumper of his
Cadillac when he’d pulled the car into a park, grossly overestimating where the supporting
pillar of the parking garage had been.

Gyuvin just laughs though. “Don’t wound me too much in my old age, kitty cat. My heart
might not be able to take it.”

Ricky doesn’t reply to that. He crosses his legs daintily—well, as daintily as one can in a
moving vehicle—and folds his arms across his chest. The busy after-work traffic of the city
was easing out as Gyuvin directed the truck on an entry ramp, merging onto the parkway that
snaked along Jamaica Bay.

It’s always a pretty sight to drive through here. When Ricky turns his head to rest his cheek
against the headrest, he can see the dip of the sun across the horizon. It casts a warm, amber
glow that seems to dance across the surface of the ocean—the deep blue ripples reflecting the
fiery hue, turning the water into a shimmering sheet of gold and orange.

He’s always loved the ocean. If Ricky hadn’t already had his penthouse, he may have decided
to live on a houseboat instead. The only reason he hadn’t done so was because there wasn’t
enough room in a houseboat to comfortably contain everything that Ricky desired to have in
his living space. Plus, the security at his penthouse made him feel far more comfortable than
the openness of living on the ocean would.

At least, once Ricky married Jiwoong, he’d be able to spend a little more time out on the
open waters. Lord knows Ricky would be stupidly busy once his parents retired and handed
the reigns of the company over to him—Ricky knows that he’ll have far less time on his
hands to actually do the things he wishes to do, but with a husband that owns a cruise line,
Ricky is positive he’d be able to find reasons to take one of their boats out every now and
then.

Ricky almost jumps when Gyuvin speaks up again. He’d just about forgotten where he was—
that is, until the bassist rudely interrupted his daydreaming.

“So. What are the chances of us running into each other again like this, huh? It’s a little
funny, don’t you think?”

No, Ricky does not find any humour to the situation.

“Why weren’t the other members with you?” Is what Ricky replies with. He takes a peek at
Gyuvin from the corner of his eye—thankfully he isn’t looking at Ricky at the moment,
instead responsibly keeping his eyes on the road in front of them.
”Matthew and Taerae had to work today. And Gunwook needed to babysit. We didn’t all need
to be present today anyway, Hongjoong was just going over some of our demo work and
giving his opinions on where he’d like to change things up in the mixing.”

”Oh,” Ricky replies, frowning slightly. “Do you all have jobs?”

That makes Gyuvin grin. “Don’t forget that I’m practically a pauper compared to you, kitty
cat. We are from different worlds after all. Some of us are peasants that need actual jobs so
that we can pay our bills.”

Ricky scowls, narrowing his eyes at the bassist. “That’s not what I meant. Don’t be a jerk.
I’m just a little surprised, because if you’ve been signed onto a label I thought the entire band
would be focusing on that.”

”Easy there, I’m not trying to offend you,” Gyuvin soothes, and Ricky has to resist the urge
to reach across and smack him. “It’s all very new to us still. Matthew and Taerae can’t just
quit on the spot—not until they feel comfortable enough with the direction the label wants to
take us. Guys like us don’t put all of our eggs into one basket. That’s not how the world
works. Hongjoong and the rest of the team at Shaboom seem nice enough, but we’re going to
play it by ear for a little while.”

”So you’re not confident in Hongjoong?” Ricky asks, bristling slightly. He may feel a little
sour towards the producer at times, but he knows Hongjoong is a hard worker. The producer
had started from nothing, and his current portfolio was evidence that determination and hard
work could take you anywhere.

”That’s not what I said. I know that we got very lucky in having Hongjoong as our producer.
But if you were in my shoes, you’d understand that I learned a long time ago to not blindly
trust those in higher authority. It’s nothing personal against Hongjoong.”

There’s a story hidden in there somewhere. And Ricky is nosey, wants to push Gyuvin until
the bassist stops speaking in riddles and explains what he actually means, but Ricky knows
that won’t go down well.

”You said Gunwook is babysitting?”

Gyuvin hums in agreement. “I did.”

”Who?”

Ricky is already looking at Gyuvin when the bassist slides his gaze over to Ricky in the
passenger seat. “Well, aren’t you a curious little cat?”

”Stop calling me a cat,” Ricky snaps. Gyuvin snickers.

”I will. When you stop acting like one.”

”Has anyone ever told you that you have an extremely punchable face?”
”Actually, yeah,” Gyuvin replies. “But I’ll stop tormenting you. He has a kid sister, and his
mum is single so Gunwook helps to look after her.”

”Oh. But isn’t he—“

”A year younger than us? Yes. His sister is five, and that’s all I’ll tell you. It’s not my
business to spill,” Gyuvin answers, voice firm. “But you know, for someone that was on their
knees for me not that long ago, you sure are interested in someone else… a little too much
may I add.”

Ricky isn’t sure if he’s detecting a hint of jealousy in Gyuvin’s words, or if he’s just reading
into it a little too much. “I’m just making conversation. It’s not my fault you’re being weird
about it.”

Gyuvin huffs out a husky laugh. “You know, he really missed seeing you last week. The poor
bugger was very disappointed that you slipped away that night—he’d been looking forward
to getting to know you a little better. Wouldn’t shut up about how pretty you are. He’s a bit of
a hopeless romantic, that one. I guess it’s why he writes such good songs.”

”Why am I finding it hard to believe that you’re actually his friend?” Ricky asks. “Last time I
checked, friends don’t go around kissing the guys that their friends are interested in.”

Gyuvin shrugs, casual and nonchalant. His eyes are impish when they glance over to look at
Ricky. “A little bit of friendly competition never hurt anyone. Gunwook knows by now that
he should act fast if he doesn’t want me to swoop in.”

”And is that what you’re doing?” Ricky asks, one eyebrow raised. “Swooping in? I’m no
damsel, mind you.”

”Of course,” Gyuvin’s response is relaxed. “You aren’t innocent enough to be a damsel, are
you?”

”You don’t know me.”

”I know enough,” Gyuvin replies. He tilts his head, eyes still fixed on the road, grinning
something cheeky to himself. Ricky hates when Gyuvin does that. It feels like the bassist is
making fun of Ricky in his mind.

Ricky huffs in annoyance, his jaw clenched tight as he attempts to stare a hole through the
side of Gyuvin’s head. It doesn’t work.

He can’t get a clear picture of who Kim Gyuvin really is. And it's bothering Ricky, because
he’s normally good at reading people. It’s something that his father had passed down to him
—being destined to be a business mogul meant that Ricky needed to see past the initial
appearance of a person, and look deeper than what was presented at surface level.

Gyuvin seemed to err on the possessive side, but he’d throw Ricky away in an instant
whenever it suited him. Gyuvin had a sharp tongue, but there was a softness in the way he
acted around his friends—if what Zhang Hao had told Ricky held any truth. But then, Gyuvin
didn’t seem to give two shits about the fact that he was chasing after the guy his supposed
best friend was interested in.

Well.

Maybe Gyuvin was doing less of the chasing here—and that’s what annoys Ricky the most.
Because he is supposed to be the unobtainable one here, so why is he running after Gyuvin
like a cat chasing a ball of yarn?

And it isn’t just the physical aspects of their relationship, if you could even call it a
relationship at this point. It was Ricky thinking about Gyuvin nonstop, whether it was in his
dreams or during the day when he was in classes or when he saw a dog walker the other
morning walking three German shepherds.

Ricky has been finding himself associating everything with Gyuvin. And he thinks back to
earlier today, the canvas that’s still in his studio drying on the easel. He wonders how long
Gyuvin will stick around in his subconsciousness like some sort of incurable ailment. He
wonders how to fix it.

Maybe fucking it out will work.

Maybe Ricky is just sexually frustrated. Maybe he needs to be pushed around a little, just
enough to bring him back down to planet earth.

He slides his gaze back over to Gyuvin. “Where do you live?”

”Queens.”

”How much longer until we’re there?”

Gyuvin smirks. “Why? Tired of me already?”

If Gyuvin wasn’t currently operating a vehicle, he’d probably be getting all up in Ricky’s
space again. But he’s otherwise occupied, throwing the blinker on and taking the next exit.
Ricky has no idea where they are—Gyuvin could be driving him to some desolate area to
murder him for all he knows. And wouldn’t that just be Ricky’s luck?

“I don’t like waiting,” Ricky answers, unfolding his arms so that he can inspect his nails
primly. He’d missed a little bit of paint when he’d washed his hands earlier—there was a tiny
smudge of blue staining the tip of his thumb.

”I don’t know how you’ve managed to get so far in life with a mindset like this.”

”I’m not the type of person that needs to be patient,” Ricky replies primly. Gyuvin scoffs,
knuckles whitening as he grips the steering wheel a little tighter. Good. Maybe if Ricky
pisses Gyuvin off enough, he’ll get what he wants. “I live in Armani and Louis Vuitton.
People want to be my friend, they want to drop everything the second I ask. I could speed
dial another man right now—and he’d pick the call up immediately, too. He could probably
make me feel things that you could only dream of.”
Gyuvin’s jaw is set. He doesn’t look over at Ricky. “Really? Then why are you here with me,
instead?”

Because I need you like I need the air I breathe. Because I can’t stop thinking about how you
touch me, how you make me feel, how you make me crazy.

”Convenience.”

The 4Runner approaches a set of traffic lights that flicker from green to orange—and Gyuvin
doesn’t slow down, instead speeding up as he takes the corner far too fast. Ricky’s shoulder
bangs against the door. “Convenience, huh?”

”Yeah,” Ricky replies mildly, pretending like he can’t feel his shoulder throbbing. “You’re
nothing special, not really. Not to a guy like me.”

Lies, lies, lies.

Gyuvin exhales, a sharp and short sounding thing. His voice is slightly gruff when he speaks.
“I bet I could make you cry. Properly, this time.”

”I’d like to see you try.”

And there it is. The taunt, lingering heavily in the air. Ricky watches as Gyuvin rolls his lips
together, eyes darting around the streets in a craze. For what exactly, Ricky isn’t sure—but
then Gyuvin is taking a sharp left and pulling the 4Runner into a parking lot behind a
building that Ricky doesn’t quite catch a good glimpse at. Not when he’s too busy staring at
the way the veins on Gyuvin’s hands seem awfully pronounced right now.

“Get in the back.”

Gyuvin’s voice was low, edging on the side of dangerous. A shiver runs down Ricky’s spine.
This is a bad idea—probably worse than sucking Gyuvin off in a public bathroom, but for
some reason, Ricky can’t wait any longer.

The tension in the car was so thick, Ricky was practically wading through it as he unbuckled
his seatbelt, feeling the heavy weight of Gyuvin’s eyes on him the entire time.

One side of the backseat was already folded down. Ricky thinks about actually exiting the car
and getting back in through the rear door, but he’s worried about drawing any attention to the
car. Even if they’re parked somewhere inconspicuous.

So Ricky twists in the seat, grabbing onto the front seat headrests to keep balance as he
tentatively places his knee atop the centre console storage compartment. It seems to hold his
weight fine, so Ricky awkwardly squeezes his body through the gap between his seats—and
lets out a yelp when Gyuvin pinches his thigh.

”Don’t be a dick!” Ricky hisses, whipping his head around as he pauses—but Gyuvin only
takes that as his cue to do it again, this time to Ricky’s ass. Ricky doesn’t yelp this time, but
he does try to land a kick to Gyuvin’s leg, but his attempt is thwarted by a large hand
wrapping around his ankle.
Shit. Even the extra thickness of Ricky’s ankle compared to his wrist doesn’t seem to make
any difference with how easily Gyuvin manages to wrap his fingers around the body part.

“Don’t call me names,” Gyuvin says sharply. His fingers tighten slightly around Ricky’s
ankle, and he has to bite back a whimper. “That’s not very respectful of you.”

”And what makes you think I’d hold even an ounce of respect for you?” Ricky shoots back.
He tries to pull his ankle out of Gyuvin’s grip, but it's to no avail.

Gyuvin snorts. “My bad. Forgot I was talking to the Prince of Brooklyn here for a moment. I
won’t do it again, your highness.”

When Gyuvin releases his grip, Ricky is completely unprepared. He’d unintentionally shifted
his body weight in a way that Gyuvin had been supporting it with his hand, but with that
gone, Ricky all but tumbles into the backseat. He only just manages to catch himself before
smacking his head on the floor. Behind him, Gyuvin laughs, the sound grating on Ricky’s
ears.

This time, Ricky decides to crawl through the gap of the backseat that was folded down
before he turns to scowl at Gyuvin. “You’re such a dick! Are you trying to make me hurt
myself?”

Gyuvin shrugs. “I didn’t do anything, that was all you babe.”

Fuck. Ricky hates Gyuvin. He hates him so much. He hates Gyuvin’s stupid auburn hair and
his stupid sparkling eyes and his stupid lips that were stupidly plump and a little bit chapped
and his stupid hands that should be around Ricky’s throat, not attached to a pair of strong and
veiny arms.

He hates Gyuvin.

And he’s never wanted someone so bad.

Ricky shuffles backwards on his palms, chin dipped down and eyes trained on Gyuvin in a
hateful glare. He toes his shoes off as he goes, kicking them to the side somewhere. His
palms hit something soft, and Ricky glances down, letting out a disbelieving laugh when he
sees the thin mattress laying in the back of the 4Runner.

”Wow. You fuck a lot of people in this car?”

”No,” Gyuvin answers. Ricky doesn’t believe him.

”Yeah, sure you don’t. Because it’s completely normal to keep a mattress in your car.”

Gyuvin raises his eyebrow, and it disappears behind his messy bangs. “Kitty cat. You do
know a mattress has more than one purpose, right? Don’t be so filthy.”

Yeah, right. Ricky doesn’t know why anyone would willingly sleep in their car—Gyuvin
seemed like the kind of guy to partake in more car sex than the average person did.
“Whatever you say.”
One side of Gyuvin’s mouth raises as he lets out a breathless laugh. He unfastens his own
seat belt and twists in the driver's seat, resting his hands on the headrests where Ricky’s own
hands had been not even a minute ago. “You think I’m a liar?”

”Yeah.”

”I think you’ll regret saying that.”

And Ricky wants to ask what Gyuvin means by that—but the words die on his tongue when
Gyuvin climbs through the gap between the seats. With how long his limbs are, the bassist
should look silly trying to squeeze through the narrow interior of the truck, but he looks hot.
He looks hot because his face is twisted into something dark, something nasty, and Ricky
wants the bassist to devour him whole.

Ricky scooches further back on the mattress to give Gyuvin some room to fit into the back,
but it doesn’t matter. When Gyuvin clambers through the rear seats and into the back of the
car, he keeps crawling forwards until he’s all up in Ricky’s space. There’s barely any space
between them—Gyuvin’s hands on either side of Ricky’s thighs, his face mere inches away
from Ricky’s own.

”Lay down,” he murmurs.

Ricky bites his lip. He can feel his heart rate increasing with each passing second. “No.”

Gyuvin tilts his head. He laughs, but it's humourless. “You really don’t like making it easy for
me, do you?”

Ricky doesn’t, but he never gets the chance to reply—Gyuvin places a hand in the centre of
Ricky’s chest and pushes hard. Ricky is completely unprepared and falls backwards easily,
his fall cushioned by the mattress, but he still lets out a gasp when some of the air is knocked
out of his lungs.

He opens his mouth—to breathe or to curse Gyuvin out, Ricky isn’t sure. What he is sure of
though, is the hard and demanding press of Gyuvin’s lips against his.

Ricky whimpers when Gyuvin nips at his bottom lip, and his hands fly up to fist the material
of Gyuvin’s shirt. The bassist is all wandering hands and wet twists of his tongue; Ricky feels
like Gyuvin is trying to climb into his throat with the way he’s being kissed.

This isn’t a situation where Ricky can get the upper hand—no matter how he reciprocates
Gyuvin’s kisses with his own eagerness, Gyuvin still seems to overpower him in every single
way—physically, with the way his body engulfs Ricky’s; mentally, in the sense that all Ricky
can think about is Gyuvin; and spiritually, because Ricky doesn’t believe in fate but for some
reason there seems to be a red string connecting the two of them. And it isn’t necessarily a
good thing either—if Ricky could cut the thread he would in a heartbeat, because he doesn’t
like being entwined with someone like this.

But he is.
And he doesn’t know what to do.

Ricky doesn’t know what to do, so he stops thinking. Doesn’t let his mind wander any further
than how right it feels to be pinned down like this, doesn’t ruminate on the way it feels so
good when Gyuvin’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin of his throat. Ricky gasps when
Gyuvin bites down just a little bit below his Adam’s apple, back arching and toes curling as a
pathetic whine leaks from his lips.

Gyuvin pulls back, bangs hanging haphazardly across his eyes, and Ricky has to fight the
urge to brush them to the side. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”

Ricky sneers at him, and a toothy grin breaks across Gyuvin’s face. “For such a pretty face,
you sure do have a nasty personality.”

”Then maybe you should do something about it,” Ricky retorts, falling right into Gyuvin’s
taunting words.

”Maybe I should,” Gyuvin agrees. And then before Ricky can even blink, he’s being flipped
over, face getting squished in the cushioning of the mattress. His surprised gasp is swallowed
by the fabric and there’s two large hands tugging at his pants. Gyuvin’s fingers undo the fly
with ease, and before Ricky knows it, his pants are being tugged down his legs. Underwear
and all.

”Fuck,” Ricky gasps when he feels Gyuvin grab a cheek in each hand and pull. Ricky isn’t a
girl—he can’t get wet, but if he could he’s sure he would be at this moment, his cock rock
hard and hole fluttering around nothing. Gyuvin’s hands are big enough to cover the entire
surface area of Ricky’s ass and that sends a shiver down his spine.

”You’re pretty here too,” Gyuvin murmurs. There’s a hot puff of breath against Ricky’s hole,
and he only catches onto what is actually happening once Gyuvin presses his tongue flat
against Ricky’s rim.

Holy fucking shit.

”What are you doing?” Ricky chokes out, twisting his head as much as he can to look behind
him—but he kind of wishes he hadn’t, because Gyuvin looked practically sinful like this. His
mouth was just mere centimetres away from Ricky’s rim, eyes dark and half-lidded as he
looked directly into Ricky’s eyes.

”What does it look like I’m doing?”

Gyuvin ducks his head down once more, and Ricky’s eyes all but roll to the back of his head
when the bassist laps at Ricky’s hole like a dog starved. Fuck. Fuck, no one has ever done
this to Ricky before—the most he’s gotten is a mildly enthusiastic blowjob here and there.
Ricky didn’t know it was possible to feel pleasure like this.

But he’s also slightly mortified, because this is a rather intimate thing to be doing after only
the second time they’ve met. “Gyuvin—you—I thought we were going to do something
else.”
Gyuvin pulls back once more. “What did you think we were going to do? Fuck?”

”Well… yeah.”

Gyuvin grins and shakes his head. “Kitty cat, you were too impatient to wait. I can’t fuck you
here, I don’t have any lube, and I’m not keen on chafing my cock trying to use saliva alone.”

Ricky frowns, glancing down at the mattress. “But I thought…”

”I told you I don’t do this sort of thing in my car. You’re the first exception. You really
thought I was lying, huh?”

“Maybe—oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuck,” Ricky cries out when Gyuvin dives back in. He fists at the
sheets, squirming at the feeling of Gyuvin’s tongue slipping past his rim and dipping inside.
Gyuvin is extremely enthusiastic, massaging his inner walls with a slobbery passion that
makes Ricky’s thighs quiver.

There’s so much to focus on—almost too much, and Ricky is constantly torn between trying
to crawl away from the hot press of Gyuvin’s tongue, or pushing his ass back and begging for
more. Ricky is on that tightrope again—walking the fine line between what he can and can’t
take, and Gyuvin is shaking the rope beneath Ricky’s feet.

All of the air in Ricky’s lungs is essentially sucked out when he feels Gyuvin practically
burying his face between his asscheeks. Ricky is sure Gyuvin can’t even breathe right now,
but the wanker probably doesn’t even care about that. Not when all the bassist seems to be
focusing on is plunging his tongue in and out of Ricky’s pucker with a vigour that’s mind
blowing.

”Fuck,” Ricky groans, because that’s the only word he seems to be capable of saying right
now. Gyuvin’s tongue is so fucking wet and slippery, and the appendage is reaching places
inside Ricky he’d never thought possible. And soon enough, Gyuvin has turned Ricky into
nothing more than a gasping mess. He wonders if Gyuvin actually likes doing this—but as if
the bassist can read Ricky’s mind, he lets out a low moan, and the vibrations from where
Gyuvin’s tongue is snug inside Ricky make him shudder.

Gyuvin comes back up for air, and Ricky can hear him sucking in a few deep breaths. Ricky
takes a peek over his shoulder—half coy, half embarrassed—and feels dizzy with the sight
presented to him.

The interior of the car is rather dark—the parking lights having long since automatically
turned off, and the afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the empty lot. There’s the
distinct sound of car tyres rolling across loose asphalt, and Ricky should be concerned about
the publicity of where they are, but he pushes that thought to the back of his mind.

Gyuvin’s auburn hair is a mess and sticking up in different directions from where Ricky had
pulled it earlier. His bangs hang low in front of his eyes, but Ricky doesn’t need to see
Gyuvin’s eyes to know they’re half-lidded and devilish. A smug smirk is pulling at Gyuvin’s
lips, like he knows the effect he’s having on Ricky. And the fire in Ricky’s stomach is stoked
a little more when Gyuvin shifts around on his knees, the wetness of Gyuvin’s saliva catching
in a shimmer in the dull lighting. It’s everywhere, too—spread across his swollen red lips,
smeared on his chin and even on the tip of his nose.

”I think,” Gyuvin says after catching his breath, “that before I came along, nobody knew how
to make you behave. Am I right, kitty cat?”

Ricky’s top lip curls in a sneer. “Fuck off. I’m not your pet.”

”I know that,” Gyuvin replies, casual as anything even once he drops back down to his
elbows. “You’re something else, instead.”

And exactly what Ricky is, he never gets the chance to ask, because Gyuvin is diving back in
to devour Ricky. The sensations that Ricky is experiencing is nothing he’s ever felt before. It
feels good, so fucking good, and Ricky has always liked sex but it’s never felt like this. It’s
never felt so all-consuming, so intimate, and all it is is oral sex. Ricky doesn’t understand
how this cocky and arrogant man is capable of making him feel so many different emotions
all at once. He wants to swing his fists at Gyuvin’s face and paint the skin there with pretty
shades of reds and purples, but he also wants to put a leash around Gyuvin’s neck and beg
him to stay.

Ricky can’t help himself—a whispered plea falling from his lips. “Please don’t stop.”

The response he gets isn’t verbal—it's Gyuvin pulling back just a little bit, leaving enough
space between his tongue and the puffiness of Ricky’s entrance to slip the tip of a finger
inside.

A strangled moan is wrenched from Ricky’s throat, and his back arches at the same time he
tries to push back against Gyuvin’s finger. But the bassist isn’t having any of that—a hand
firmly wrapping around the sharp jut of Ricky’s hipbone, fingers digging in tight enough that
Ricky knows there will be reddish coloured marks imprinted into the skin there later.

”Nuh uh. Don’t be greedy,” Gyuvin tsks. He blows a breath of cool air against the slickness
coating Ricky’s hole at the same time he wriggles his finger in a little more, and Ricky can’t
help gurgling out a sob. He tries to shift around on the mattress a little, but Gyuvin’s grip is
vice-like—and in a daze, Ricky realises that the gigantic size of Gyuvin’s hand means that
the bassist's fingers easily reach well past his belly button. Jesus fuck.

Ricky can feel his head spinning—the feeling of Gyuvin’s finger inching further inside him
coupled with Ricky’s pathetic grinding against the mattress, his cock aching for stimulation
was enough to make him feel dizzy. And it’s a little pathetic, really—Ricky is used to being
treated like something delicate, something breakable, yet the roughness of Gyuvin’s finger
inside him aided with nothing more than saliva was enough to make Ricky feel ready to
burst. The slide isn’t smooth, either—saliva is fast-drying and the skin of Gyuvin’s finger
was rough, but just this alone was already enough to put every single one of Ricky’s past
partners to shame.

God. Ricky wants Gyuvin’s cock inside of him. No, he needs Gyuvin’s cock inside of him.
”Gyuvin,” Ricky starts to say, but he trails off into a high pitched whine once the bassist has
finally worked his finger all the way in. There’s a dull sting—one that begins at the base of
his spine, ebbing in dull throbs up his spine, but Ricky likes it. Likes feeling the purposeful
drag of Gyuvin’s finger inside him, thighs trembling when he feels Gyuvin curl his finger
deep inside.

”Hm?”

”I—oh, fuck,” Ricky tries to speak again, but Gyuvin is being a dick, because the bassist is
slowly sliding another finger inside Ricky. He can’t see Gyuvin right now, but he’s sure that
Gyuvin is probably grinning. And he can feel how Gyuvin twists his wrist slightly, trying to
find the perfect angle to fit his two thick fingers inside Ricky’s tight heat. “I want—I want
you to fuck me, shit.”

”Do you, now?” Gyuvin replies, his voice indifferent even as his second finger finally slides
all the way home. Ricky’s cheek is pressed against the mattress and he can’t get a good look
at Gyuvin from this angle, but he does see when the bassist stretches his torso until he’s
practically covering Ricky with his entire body again. His free hand is still digging into
Ricky’s hip, and Ricky doesn’t know how Gyuvin has such good balance, but he is wholly
unprepared for the next words Gyuvin utters.

”Then beg.”

And Ricky really is incapable of stopping the full body shudder that makes his bones knock
together and muscles twitch in interest. Those two words had been whispered into Ricky’s
ear with such dark and crazed desire that Ricky doesn’t even think twice before he’s giving
in.

“Gyuvin,” Ricky whimpers, “Fuck me, please. Please.”

Gyuvin lets out a long hum, and he begins to fuck his fingers in and out of Ricky’s hole at a
steady pace. There isn’t enough lubrication for the motion to make a squelching sound, but
Ricky can hear the smacking of Gyuvin’s knuckles meeting the soft skin of his taint. “I think
you can do better than that. Try again—but this time, ask Oppa nicely.”

What the fuck.

Ricky pushes himself up to his elbows, twisting his upper body as best as he can, mouth
agape as he stares at Gyuvin in shock. Ricky may not be Korean, but he does know what that
word means, and he thinks the shock he’s currently feeling is extremely validated. “That’s—
what the fuck do you mean? I’m not a girl! And I’m literally older than you!”

Only by a few months, but still. Ricky has had partners ask to be called lots of names in the
past—daddy and gēge were the most common ones, and sometimes Jiwoong liked to be
called hyung—but never oppa.

Gyuvin shrugs. He thrusts his fingers back in, a little harder this time, and Ricky is almost
knocked back down onto the mattress when his arms threaten to give out beneath him.
“Those are the terms. Ask me again.”
God. Ricky is going to lose his mind—he can’t believe he’s actually about to utter these
words out loud, but. He’s desperate.

”O-oppa,” Ricky breathes out, voice shaky. Gyuvin’s facial expression is unchanging, but he
does fuck his fingers in a little deeper, pulling a mewl from Ricky. “Oppa, please. Please fuck
me.”

Something in Gyuvin’s expression finally changes—and Ricky thinks he’s done it, thinks
he’s gotten his way, because he always does. He barely pays any mind to how wrong it
should be, calling Gyuvin oppa, far too focused on the desire he has for Gyuvin to unbutton
his jeans and slide his thick cock inside Ricky’s hole. Ricky still remembers how it felt to
suck on the bassist’s cock—the weight of it, the taste of clean skin and salty goodness of
precome. He wants it, wants to know how Gyuvin would fuck him with it, but then the man
has to go open his mouth and shatter Ricky’s fantasies.

”No,” Gyuvin answers neutrally, and Ricky is dumbfounded, because Gyuvin had to be
joking, right? “I told you I wouldn’t do it.”

”But,” Ricky splutters, “you said if I—“

”I told you to beg,” Gyuvin cuts him off, “but I never said I’d follow through with whatever
you asked me. You should really pay more attention to what I say.”

Fuck. Ricky is going to murder Kim Gyuvin. He’s positively seething, seeing red and
grinding his teeth together as he glowers at Gyuvin. Ricky cannot believe he’d just called
Gyuvin oppa for nothing. “You’re a bastard,” Ricky spits out, and Gyuvin just laughs like
Ricky had told a hilarious joke.

”Technically, you’re correct,” Gyuvin admits, but Ricky doesn’t know what he should believe
from that mouth at this point. “But really, kitty cat, you’re only further proving my point
about you being pretty on the outside but ugly on the inside.”

Ricky bristles, mouth opening to retaliate, but then Gyuvin is slamming his fingers back in so
fucking deep that Ricky swears he can see stars. And this time his elbows really do give out
from below him—he pants into the sheets, nails clawing at the fabric as he scrambles for
purchase. Ricky’s eyes roll to the back of his head as little sobs tumble from his mouth, slack
jawed and pliant to Gyuvin’s touch even if he is still pissed off.

And then, belatedly, Ricky manages to sift through the gooey mess of his consciousness
enough to realise that he likes it. He likes being angry like this, likes how Gyuvin pushes his
buttons and pisses him off and breaks through Ricky’s boundaries like they were made of
nothing more than wispy spiderwebs. But Ricky is beginning to learn that the things he
thought he knew about himself were nothing more than a sham, because Ricky doesn’t want
gentleness. He doesn’t want care.

Ricky wants Gyuvin to take him apart. He wants the bassist to rip him open with dull teeth
and chew him up until Ricky is nothing more than a pile of bones—and when Ricky is
reborn, he’ll crawl straight back into Gyuvin’s arms so that it can happen again. Call Ricky
deranged, but he’s never met anyone in his entire life that can make him question the very
being of his existence; that can screw all of Ricky’s morals up into a metaphorical paper ball
and throw it out the window.

He’s tried to pretend that he doesn’t care about Gyuvin, but ever since that incident in the
bathroom—no before that actually—when Ricky had first locked eyes with Kim Gyuvin,
he’d known that man was no good. A walking red flag is what Zhang Hao would call Gyuvin
if he really got to know the bassist. But Ricky has always liked the colour red.

And Ricky is in the punk scene because he likes the music, sure—that was what had drawn
him in in the first place. But the longer Ricky stayed, the more he got to know the people
around him, and he realised that this was a place where people could truly be themselves.
There were no afternoon tea parties with careful sips at saucers with a pinky sticking out, nor
were there plastic smiles and Botox filled faces leering uncomfortably at Ricky.

These were all people—real people—that didn’t give two shits about putting on a farce. And
Ricky thought that he’d already met the worst types of men in the scene, but none of them
could hold a candle to Kim Gyuvin.

Ricky cares about Gyuvin. Not in the sense that he’s worried about something bad happening
to the bassist—Ricky still wants to punch his teeth in, but no one else was allowed to lay a
finger on Gyuvin. Only Ricky could touch, only Ricky could taste, and he thinks he would
rather die than let Gyuvin go at this point.

But he also thinks he might die right now if he can’t touch himself. Ricky can’t reach for his
cock, not from where it’s still trapped between his body and the mattress. The friction he’s
getting is maddening, enough to keep him squirming for more, but not enough to tip him over
the edge. It’s rather reminiscent of his time in the bathroom with Gyuvin—except, this time,
Ricky doesn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of coming in his pants.

“Gyuvin,” Ricky pants, “I can’t—I can’t touch myself like this.”

”How unfortunate,” Gyuvin replies in a purr. He crooks his fingers a little, finally brushing
against Ricky’s prostate, and the moan that leaves Ricky is unfiltered and filthy. Ricky can
feel Gyuvin looming over him, hot puffs of breath tickling the back of his neck. Ricky twists
his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Gyuvin from the corner of his eye, hiccuping on a
moan when he sees Gyuvin already looking at him.

”Please,” Ricky whispers. There’s a little bit of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth,
but he barely registers it, biting down hard on his bottom lip with each stroke of Gyuvin’s
fingers inside him. He feels like he’s on fire, like he’s burning from the inside out and Gyuvin
is the only thing that can extinguish him, but Gyuvin won’t. Gyuvin would rather sit here and
watch Ricky burn, but Ricky isn’t even mad about it. He’d rise from the ashes like a phoenix
being reborn and fall back into Gyuvin’s orbit like nothing had even happened.

“You haven’t been very nice to me, so I’m not sure if you deserve it. If anything, I think I’m
the one who deserves to come, no?”

Ricky is hearing the words, but not really comprehending the meaning—that is, until he hears
the sound of a zipper being pulled down and feels the heavy weight of a cock slapping down
on his asscheeks. “Oh my God,” Ricky chokes out, clenching so tightly around Gyuvin’s
fingers that the bassist has to momentarily pause the movement of his hand. “What are you
doing?”

”What do you think I’m doing?” Gyuvin says through a laugh. There’s a loud ptui sound as
Gyuvin spits a glob of saliva onto his own cock, and some of it leaks over the side, trickling
down Ricky’s thigh. “I’ve gotta look out for me too, you know.”

”That’s not fair. I can’t come like this.”

”Not my problem. You should have been nicer to me,” Gyuvin replies. Ricky can feel his
shirt being shoved up a little more, and Gyuvin skims a thumb over the tattoo inked into
Ricky’s lower back. “Cute tat. Perfect spot for a little target practice.”

”You—don’t you dare,” Ricky splutters, cheeks flaming once Gyuvin resumes his finger-
fucking, coupled with the slick sounds of him slowly working a fist up and down his cock.
And Ricky shouldn’t find this hot, yet he can feel the damp patch of his own precome
seeping into the sheets growing even larger. Each thrust of Gyuvin’s fingers inside him is like
the sweetest torture—Ricky’s cockhead constantly catching on the cotton sheets, a dizzying
sensation that has him teetering just shy of an orgasm, but it isn’t quite enough.

Gyuvin sniggers. “I’m not sure why you think that you can suddenly call the shots now.
You’re just a mongrel kitty, you don’t get to have an opinion.”

And like Gyuvin is trying to prove his point, he spits out another glob of saliva—but this
time, it lands on Ricky’s hole, a crude act that only serves to highlight just how loose and
messy Ricky is down there. Ricky chokes out a gasp when he feels Gyuvin wiggling a third
finger in—and he can’t do it, it’s too much, like all of Ricky’s senses are going into
overdrive. But his body betrays his mind, because Ricky rocks back onto Gyuvin’s fingers
greedily, back arching impossibly into the sheets as his wanton moans echo around the
confines of the car.

”Greedy thing,” Gyuvin mutters. And then there’s suddenly a hand coming down across
Ricky’s ass, an undignified yelp torn from Ricky’s throat as he feels the sting of the slap
flaming across his right asscheek. It’s hard, but not hard enough to seriously hurt—Gyuvin is
testing the waters, seeing how much Ricky can actually take before he breaks.

And Ricky is learning a lot of new things about himself recently—like how, apparently,
spanking gets him off. Gyuvin’s fingers aren’t stopping inside him either, rough and getting
sloppier as the bassist chases the crest of his own orgasm. There’s something wet leaking
down Ricky’s cheek—and he’s crying again, hot and salty tears trickling down his cheeks,
delicate and shimmering pearls that Gyuvin no doubt would want to scoop up into a jar and
save for later. And Ricky’s theory is proven right when he blinks wetly, the natural long
length of his lashes sticking together slightly from his own tears, wide eyes gazing over his
shoulder at the man looming above him. Gyuvin moans, something open-mouthed and
guttural. Gyuvin is starving in the way he looks down at Ricky, like a man on death row
being served his last dinner—but the meal is Ricky, and Gyuvin is ravenous.
“Fuck,” Gyuvin swears lowly. Both of his hands increase in pace—and yeah, this is what
Ricky gets for fucking around with a musician. Ambidextrous asshole.

Ricky can tell that Gyuvin is extremely close to finishing—but it really isn’t fair, because
Ricky is still trying to pathetically grind into the sheets with no adieu. It’s not enough, and he
needs more, and maybe that’s why the grip on his own ego loosens a little. “Oppa,” Ricky
says through a sniffle, not missing the way Gyuvin’s nostrils flare at that, “please let me
come, please. I’m sorry for being mean—I won’t do it again, I swear.”

”Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” Gyuvin replies breathlessly. But maybe he’s finally
taking pity on Ricky, or maybe he just likes being called oppa that much. Whatever the
reason was, Ricky is suddenly empty and is being flipped over again, having to blink a few
times to get his centre of gravity back to normal.

Now that Ricky is looking up at Gyuvin like this—unobstructed and right in front of him,
Ricky feels his mouth dry up a little. There’s a pretty flush to Gyuvin’s cheeks, one that
travels down his long neck and disappears below his collar. Ricky wonders if Gyuvin is the
type of person to blush with his entire body. Something tells him yes.

“Go on, then,” Gyuvin prompts. He pointedly looks down at Ricky’s cock that’s currently
leaking from the slit, an angry shade of red colouring the head. “Touch yourself.”

Now is not the time to be embarrassed, but Ricky can’t help the heat that washes over his
cheeks. He does what he’s told though, reaching slightly trembling fingers down and
wrapping them around his own cock. Ricky can’t help the shaky gasp that feels as if it came
right from his own heart. It’s the first time he’s touched himself in what feels like forever, and
his eyelids flutter when he runs dainty fingertips across the weeping head.

There’s something about jerking off in front of another person that makes Ricky feel extra
filthy. And the feeling is only magnified when he blinks his eyes open, watching Gyuvin
watching him. He can’t look away, feeling almost like he’s stuck in a trance. Ricky could get
lost in Gyuvin’s eyes, could probably drown in them and die because he’s sure that the bassist
wouldn’t save him.

Ricky is already so worked up that he can feel the heat burning deep in his core already.
There’s a tightness in his stomach, a tremble to his thighs, and Ricky’s free hand twists pale
fingers in the sheets as tiny moans escape his lips. Gyuvin’s expression is smug, like he’s
pleased with seeing Ricky come apart beneath him like this. And even when Ricky’s eyes slip
closed, he can still see Gyuvin’s face burned into the back of his eyelids.

He comes like this, all high pitched whines and heaving breaths as he spills over his own fist
and stomach. His hips buck up into the tight circle of his fingers, and Ricky rides out the crest
of his orgasm as he hears Gyuvin grunt. Warm splatters of Gyuvin’s come streak across
Ricky’s stomach, mixing with his own remnants of satisfaction. And once again, Ricky is
marked with the bassist's claim.

Ricky cracks his eyes open. He wants to say something—maybe ask if they could actually go
back to Gyuvin’s place now and finish this properly. But Gyuvin isn’t even looking at him,
already moving around on his knees like this is a typical afternoon for him.
Gyuvin tucks himself back into his underwear, not bothering to zip his fly as he fishes around
in his back pocket. Ricky is lying there still trying to catch his breath, the sticky mess of his
and Gyuvin’s come quickly drying on his stomach. It’s sort of gross—with each passing
second the skin there feels tighter and crustier, but he kind of likes it. It’s almost as if Gyuvin
has marked his territory on Ricky—like a dog pissing on a pole.

”Here,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky gets no warning for the object that’s tossed towards him, so
he flinches away rather than catching it. But of course the item lands on Ricky’s sternum, and
while it doesn’t hurt, it does skim the edge of a streak of jizz, and Ricky wrinkles his nose as
he looks down. It’s Gyuvin’s damn phone.

”What the fuck?” Ricky picks the phone up, holding it between a judgemental thumb and
forefinger. Never mind the fact Gyuvin seemed perfectly happy throwing his phone at Ricky,
now there was semen smeared across the keypad. Ricky can’t help but wonder if Gyuvin
goes around chucking his phone at people on the regular—it wouldn’t surprise Ricky,
considering the fact that there was a crack in the screen and the outer case was scuffed and
worn down. He wasn’t a super tech savvy person, but Gyuvin’s phone looked like it was old
enough to be replaced at this point. “Why are you throwing your phone at me?”

Gyuvin looks at Ricky like he’s an idiot, and Ricky mirrors the bassist's expression. “As a
gift. Nothing but the best for my princess,” Gyuvin says with a snicker, before rolling his
eyes. “Put your number in it. What other reason would I have?”

Well, damn. There were about a hundred nicer ways to go about asking for someone’s
number—but, Ricky supposes he can’t expect much from a guy like Kim Gyuvin. He exhales
through his nose, remembering those yoga breathing exercises he does in the morning in an
attempt to calm his flaring anger. Gyuvin mutters in annoyance when Ricky decides to wipe
the phone on the sheets, and Ricky silently gives him the stink eye. If Gyuvin had such an
issue with that, then maybe he should have just handed the phone over to Ricky like any
normal person would have.

Ricky saves his phone number in a new contact before handing Gyuvin’s phone back. He
pretends like he doesn’t feel the electricity buzzing between them when their fingers
momentarily brush. “Do you have any tissues in here?”

Gyuvin smirks, raking his eyes across Ricky’s still exposed abdomen. “Maybe I do, maybe I
don’t. I kind of like you like this though—isn’t this what they call modern art these days?”

The socked toe that Ricky pushes into Gyuvin’s ribs is neither soft nor gentle, but it is
satisfying to see the flash of a pained grimace across Gyuvin’s face. Ricky will not take any
sort of mockery against his hobby. “Give me some tissues. Don’t be an ass.”

“I don’t have any damn tissues,” Gyuvin retorts, but after finally zipping up his fly he does
twist his body to reach into the backseat. The aftercare may be shitty, but at least Gyuvin is
doing a better job this time, procuring what looks to be a balled up shirt and handing it to
Ricky. He assumes it’s one of Gyuvin’s own—a charcoal grey with some sort of graphic on
the front. Ricky kind of wants to bring the fabric to his nose to smell, but not while Gyuvin is
looking at him.
Ricky does his best to wipe as much sticky residue from his stomach as possible, but some of
it is too dry and will require further scrubbing in the shower later. Gyuvin climbs back into
the front while Ricky shimmies back into his pants. It’s only once he’s faced with the task of
hauling himself back into the passenger seat, that Ricky realises just how spent he is. So
rather than squeezing back through the narrow gap, Ricky shoves his feet back into his shoes
and exits the car from the back door.

The sun was well on its way to disappearing below the horizon completely now—the sky had
darkened considerably since Ricky had last looked outside, a deep purple and blue tinge
bleeding into the atmosphere. He took an opportunity to quickly glance around the parking
lot, but there was no one else to be seen. Even the cars passing by on the adjacent road were
few and far between.

The sputtering of the 4Runner’s engine startles Ricky, and he places a hand over his rapidly
beating heart, turning to open the passenger door—which is locked. “Kim Gyuvin,” Ricky
calls out, stepping on tippy toes in an attempt to get a glance inside the car. “The door is
locked. I can’t get in.”

Ricky pulls on the door handle a few times for good measure, and he’s rewarded with the
window being wound down halfway. Expecting to see Gyuvin’s face appear, Ricky is
surprised to see his bag being dangled from crooked fingers instead. And he doesn’t get any
warning before Gyuvin is releasing his grip—Ricky only just manages to catch his bag,
saving it from falling onto the dirty ground.

”What the fuck?” Ricky hisses. He tried the door handle again, rattling the thing like he could
yank the door open if he tried hard enough, but it remained locked. “Let me in!”

He strains further on his toes, pawing at the door like a cat trying to reach for a treat. He
finally manages to catch a glimpse of Gyuvin when the bassist leans across the front seat, an
amused expression on his face as he watches Ricky pound at the door. “Password?”

Scowling, Ricky clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Let me in, dickwad.”

”Hm. Sorry, that’s incorrect. I guess you’ll have to find another way home.”

And when the window begins to wind back up, Ricky’s jaw drops in disbelief. “Gyuvin! You
can’t just leave me here!”

In an act of desperation, Ricky jams his fingers between the top of the window pane. It
works, because the window stops moving. From inside the car Gyuvin snorts. “I think I can,
actually. We both got what we wanted, didn’t we? What, you want me to take you out to
dinner or something? Buy you flowers and kiss your feet?”

”No! I just don’t want you to leave me stranded in some random fucking car park!” Ricky
exclaims. “I don’t even know where we are!”

”We’re in Woodhaven. Call your chariot, I’m not a taxi service and I’m not taking you
home.”
Ricky’s fingers instinctively let go of the window once it starts to roll up again, and he
watches in disbelief as the 4Runner speeds out of the parking lot, Gyuvin not even so much
as glancing back.

He’s shocked. He’s genuinely and utterly shocked. No one has ever dared to cast Ricky to the
side like this before. Fuck, he’s Shen Ricky for crying out loud. He’s supposed to be desirable
and sought after, and yet here he stands, abandoned and alone.

And it’s a combination of anger and upsetness that prompts Ricky to shakily thumb through
his contacts until he finds the name he’s looking for. Ricky jams the call button and shoves
his phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling his compact mirror from his bag and
checking his appearance as he listens to the dial tone. He rubs angrily at the dried tear tracks
on his cheeks, and uses a delicate nail to separate his clumped lashes. The call finally
connects, a familiar voice echoing through the tinny speaker of the phone.

“Ricky?”

”Can you come pick me up? I’m in Woodhaven.”

”Woodhaven? What are you doing in Woodhaven?”

”Does it matter? Can you come get me, or not?”

”I can, sorry. Where exactly are you, though?”

Ricky pauses, turning on his heel and squinting at his surroundings. “I don’t know. I think
I’m at the back of a supermarket, or something. On ninety-eighth.”

”The back of a… Ricky, have you been drinking? Why do you not know where you are?”

”This isn’t twenty-one questions,” Ricky snaps. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called you.”

“Wait, I’m sorry! I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m just worried, okay? Please don’t go
anywhere. Call me immediately if you don’t feel safe, alright?”

”Yeah, whatever,” Ricky mumbles, ending the call without bothering to wait for a response.
He lets out a frustrated groan, dropping down into a squat and holding his head in his hands.

It’s an eerily similar echo of the situation Ricky had found himself in only hours ago—
except, this time he wasn’t tearing his hair out over an inanimate object. No, now he had the
taste of Kim Gyuvin fresh on his tongue, the ghost of rough hands leaving invisible imprints
in his skin. Ricky pulls his collar to his nose and inhales, shuddering slightly when he smells
the combination of nicotine and that stupid fucking cologne and the pure scent of just Gyuvin
himself that was hidden beneath it all.

Ricky doesn’t know if he has the same effect on Gyuvin. But he hopes he does—he hopes
that when the bassist finally arrives at his destination, he feels the presence of Ricky lingering
like a bad omen. Because Ricky wants to haunt each waking thought Gyuvin has. He wants
to twist Gyuvin’s dreams into a living nightmare; invade every inch of Gyuvin’s mind like a
worm digging a tunnel through the soft blobs of fat.
 He wants Gyuvin to feel just as insane as he is. Because Ricky doesn’t think he can handle
this one sided infatuation. He isn’t made for this. Ricky only knows how to be desired; not
what it is to desire someone. And he can already feel how his character is slowly fissuring,
etching deep wounds into his marrow that can’t be fixed with a bandage. Ricky’s soul is a
bridge; and Gyuvin is a small crack in the support beams that will only weaken him over
time. But if Ricky collapses he won’t go down without a fight.

No.

He’ll drag everyone down with him. The purgatory that is Ricky’s mind is a lonely place, and
he’ll be damned if he’s the only one scathed.

Chapter End Notes

long time no see…

i posted on my twitter that i was taking a break from writing because i was feeling super overwhelmed with
everything, but i’m back now! sorry for the wait on the chapter!

thoughts? hopes? prayers? let me know…

twitter | playlist | retrospring

 obbligato
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

When the chrome body of a familiar looking Porsche Carrera GT rolls into the supermarket
parking lot, Ricky lets out a sigh. Of relief or annoyance, he isn’t actually sure of—but Ricky
is glad that the car is here at the very least. Ricky’s eyes track the movements of the driver as
he steps out of the vehicle, practically running over to stand in front of Ricky.

”Are you alright? Have you been drugged? Seriously, how did you get here?”

”Stop,” Ricky mumbles, batting away the pair of worried hands that had settled on his
shoulders. “I told you that I’m fine, Jiwoong.”

Jiwoong is looking at Ricky like he doesn’t quite believe him, but Ricky doesn’t care. He just
wants to get out of here.

Despite his lingering hesitance, Jiwoong leads Ricky over to the car. He opens the passenger
side door and gently pushes Ricky’s head down with his hand, making sure Ricky doesn’t
bump his head on the doorframe. Jiwoong even reaches across to buckle Ricky in, and he
gets a huge waft of the CK One cologne Jiwoong is always wearing. Jiwoong is, and always
has been, a gentleman. He’s one of the many men in New York City that would drop to his
knees with as little as a fluttering of Ricky’s eyelashes. And if Ricky asked Jiwoong for the
shirt on his back, Jiwoong would hand it over in a heartbeat. No questions asked.

Ricky doesn’t want that.

And he thinks that may be a large part of the reason why he’ll never love Jiwoong in the way
Jiwoong loves him. Because Jiwoong doesn’t understand Ricky. Even though they’ve both
known each other for years, Jiwoong still doesn’t know what makes Ricky tick. He isn’t
capable of making Ricky feel anything less than a God—and maybe Ricky used to like that,
but now he understands how foolish he’d been.

Ricky isn’t a God. He’s just a person.

Jiwoong closes the passenger door softly, and Ricky’s eyes follow the older man as he walks
around the bonnet of the car. Jiwoong’s movements are fluid, something akin to the sleekness
of a panther. It’s an entirely different way to how Gyuvin walks. The bassist is all long limbs
with barely any coordination, heavy footsteps that could be heard from a block away. But
Jiwoong on the other hand—he’s refined and precise. He doesn’t do anything without
calculating the answer to every single potential problem. And Ricky has always been similar
to Jiwoong in that regard.

Maybe that was why they’re so incompatible.

Jiwoong slides into the driver's seat with a grace that could make any professionally trained
ballerina envious. The Carrera engine purrs to life when Jiwoong twists the key in the
ignition, and the situation really is nothing like the one Ricky had found himself in with
Gyuvin.

It’s only once they’re travelling back through the suburban streets that Jiwoong speaks up
again. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. You haven’t been answering my calls or texts.”

Ricky sighs softly, resisting the urge to pick at a loose thread on his shirt. It must have been a
result of his romp with Gyuvin. “I’ve been busy.”

And honestly, Ricky should have known this was coming. He’d called Jiwoong on a whim,
still riding the highs of his adrenaline and fueled by anger from being ditched by Gyuvin.
When Ricky had pressed Jiwoong’s contact name, he’d thought that maybe he could finish
things off his own way—because if Gyuvin wouldn’t fuck him, Jiwoong surely would. He’d
seduce Jiwoong with sneaky hands and rose-coloured words, and he’d fuck Jiwoong with the
remnants of Gyuvin’s come still painted across his stomach.

But now, Ricky just feels depleted. He wishes for nothing more than to take a long, hot bath,
and curl up in the safety of his California King bed. Maybe if he’d paused for a moment to
think things through with his head slightly more screwed on, he wouldn’t be in this situation
right now.

Ricky doesn’t hate Jiwoong. But he just wishes the man would understand when to give him
space. And it’s not like Jiwoong is trying to come across as pushy—Ricky knows that
Jiwoong has a soft heart. The issue with that lies in the fact that Ricky can’t tread carefully
enough to not bruise that delicate muscle.

”Too busy to send a text message?”

Ricky pinches the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes slip closed momentarily as he tries to
compose himself. He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to argue with Jiwoong, but Ricky has
always had a fiery temper that’s difficult to maintain at times. He’s pretty sure he got that
from his mother.

”You’re not a student,” Ricky begins, fighting to keep his tone even. “You don’t understand
how exhausting it is studying full time. Especially with finals coming up. I’m sorry that you
feel like I’ve been ignoring you, but it wasn’t intentional.”

And it wasn’t intentional, not really. Ricky truly had meant to get to the barrage of missed
texts and calls from Jiwoong, but, well. He’s been a little preoccupied after all. And it likely
doesn’t help that every time Ricky thought about texting Jiwoong, the thought made him feel
even more tired.

Speaking with Jiwoong meant that Ricky needed to slip on that mask that he’d curated for the
higher society circle he ran in. But every time Ricky used that mask, it felt like it fractured a
little more with each passing day, and that terrified him. Ricky needed to fix it, because that
mask was the key to his future. Without it, Ricky didn’t think he would survive.
How could he, when he can barely stand to be in the same vehicle as his future fiancé?

Jiwoong’s lips thin into a line, and he readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. Shit, even the
way he drives is a perfect example—hands at a nine and three position, and his right hand
only leaves the steering wheel when he needs to change gears.

”I think you’ve forgotten that I was studying in university at one point, too,” Jiwoong points
out. He glances over at Ricky, thick brows pulling together in a frown. “I understand better
than you think.”

Ricky hasn’t forgotten about that—when he’d first been introduced to Jiwoong, the older man
was just finishing up a business degree at NYU, which was the same university Ricky was
currently attending.

”It’s hard to be exhausted from a degree that requires little creativity,” Ricky mutters,
crossing his arms and looking petulantly out the window. He hears Jiwoong sigh, and maybe
Ricky should feel bad, but all he feels is irritated. If he was a cat, he’s sure his tail would be
twitching in that way they do when cats get annoyed. The thought is almost amusing enough
to put a smile on his face—if only Gyuvin knew that Ricky was falling into the cat
mannerisms the bassist had bestowed upon him.

Jiwoong doesn’t take the bait. He’s well-behaved enough to not fall into a trap as easily as
that. And it’s annoying, because Ricky finds arguing with someone a hell of a lot easier than
having a heart-to-heart. “I’m worried about you. I understand you’re young, and you have a
lot on your plate right now. You’ve always been busy—and I try to keep my distance when I
can sense that I need to, but I can’t help thinking that right now, I should be keeping a closer
eye on you.”

Ricky scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re not my father. You don’t get to act like
you have third parental controls over me. I’m an adult, and I don’t need you to babysit me.
Keep that overbearing behaviour for Yujin, because I don’t want it.”

”I’m not trying to—“

”You are!” Ricky hisses, cutting off the pathetic attempt Jiwoong was making to appease
him. “Just because you’re a few years older than me you think that you have all of this
wisdom, but you don’t. We’re two different people, Jiwoong, and we may be similar in some
areas, but I’m still my own person. I have my own thoughts and feelings and you may think
you know what’s best for me, but you don’t!”

Ricky lets out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to get his
breathing back under control. He looks out through the windscreen, focusing on the way the
streetlights begin to automatically flicker on as dusk settles in. The traffic is slowly building,
and Ricky groans internally, because he’s going to be stuck in this stupid fucking car for even
longer. Curse New York City and the shitty road infrastructure that can turn a thirty minute
drive into an hour long one.

”I’m sorry,” Jiwoong finally says after a few minutes of silence. Ricky sees the way
Jiwoong’s eyes flicker over to him momentarily in the rear view mirror. “I don’t mean to
make you feel like I’m trying to suffocate you. I know I can come across that way, because
Yujinnie tells me that all the time. I guess it’s a bad habit I’ve always had, and I really do try
to reign myself in, but I guess sometimes I fall short. I care about you—I always have, and I
always will, and I guess I’m just worried about seeing you making the wrong decision one
day. It only takes a split second choice to forever alter your future, and I’d be devastated if
that happened to you.”

”You sound like a doomsday maniac,” Ricky mutters. “I’m not ruining my life, I don’t know
why you think that I am.”

”Because you called me out of the blue to come pick you up from a random part of the city
that I’m sure you’ve never even really ventured out into,” Jiwoong replies. He flicks the
indicator on and guides the Carrera onto an entry ramp, and Ricky spots a green sign with
white lettering of West Verrazano Branch. Looking out at the traffic ahead of them, Ricky
sinks back into the plush cream-coloured leather seats. It’s going to be a long drive. “You can
pull yourself together as best as you can, but it doesn’t take much for me to put two and two
together, Ricky. It’s a little obvious what you’ve been up to.”

Ricky doesn’t miss the lingering bitterness to Jiwoong’s tone. He resists rolling his eyes at
that. “What are you going to do? Tell my parents? Hold the information over my head like a
threat? I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Jiwoong, I’ve made it abundantly clear
that I sleep with other people.”

”I know, and that’s… fine,” Jiwoong begins slowly, even though Ricky is sure that Jiwoong
thinks that Ricky sleeping with anyone else is anything but fine. “But something about this
seems different. You seem different.”

”How am I different?”

Jiwoong tongues his cheek as he thinks. “More carefree, I suppose.”

“And you think that’s a problem?” Ricky replies, arching a brow. “I wouldn’t think it is.”

”It’s not a problem,” Jiwoong agrees, “but it can become one if you’re not careful.”

“It won’t,” Ricky responds wearily. Jiwoong has always encouraged Ricky to get involved in
his own hobbies, so he isn’t sure why Jiwoong is suddenly turning around and trying to warn
Ricky like a wise old travelling man.

Jiwoong seems to be thinking his next words over before he says them aloud. His eyes flicker
over to Ricky’s in the rear view mirror once more. “The Ricky of six months ago wouldn’t be
caught dead waiting around in public behind an asian grocery store. It’s like you’ve begun to
chase after whatever your latest interest is without really thinking it through. I think I’d go as
far as to call you reckless at this point.”

Well, maybe Ricky had been a little impulsive with his decision making. But Jiwoong was
acting like he’d caught Ricky in a position far more compromising than that. He folds in on
himself, defensive in the way in which he angles his body away from Jiwoong. “I’m not
being reckless. I don’t want to sit through a lecture right now, okay? I called you because
you’re the first person I thought of and I know I can trust you. If I wanted a speech I would
have called my father.”

“I wish you wouldn’t take every word as a personal attack,” Jiwoong mutters.

“It’s a little difficult not to, when that’s how they come across as!”

Jiwoong sighs, and he rubs at his forehead tiredly. “It seems like both of us are saying words,
but nothing is coming out as intended. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“Fine,” Ricky snaps back. And they sit in silence for a few minutes with nothing more than
the sounds of muffled traffic accompanying them.

When Jiwoong realises that Ricky won’t be the first to speak, he takes the reins. “You haven’t
forgotten about that gala we’re supposed to attend next week, right? I was thinking that
beforehand, we could…”

And Jiwoong’s words serve as nothing but background noise for Ricky as they slowly inch
through the evening traffic. He mumbles a response every now and then, but his mind is
somewhere far, far away from the confines of Jiwoong’s car.

More specifically, in the backseat of a certain 4Runner. Ricky wonders where Gyuvin is right
now.

He wonders if the bassist is thinking about him, too.

“Eight more months to go!” Haruto whoops when they emerge from their classroom. Ricky
laughs quietly, shaking his head as he nudges his friend to calm down. But he’s excited too—
finishing another round of term finals always lifts a weight from his shoulders.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re roaring to get away from me,” Ricky jokes,
bumping his shoulder in Haruto’s as they walk through the corridor.

Haruto grins. “Maybe I am.”

“No way. You know you’ll miss seeing me every day once we’ve graduated and you’re stuck
working with a bunch of lame old people.”

“Now why would you bring that up,” Haruto whines, wrapping his arms around Ricky’s
bicep and gently shaking Ricky’s arm. “Like, I still don’t know what I really even want to
do.”

“You’ve got eight months to answer that question,” Ricky points out. They step through the
sliding doors and walk down the steps, the chilly autumn breeze ruffling their clothes. It was
late enough in October that most of the trees had lost their foliage, and the ground was
littered in dead leaves that crunched beneath their feet as they walked through the square.
Ricky pulled his jacket a little tighter around his torso.
NYU campus was situated amongst a multitude of cafes, shops and restaurants. At times, it
felt less like Ricky was attending a university and more like he was at a college in the city
due to the relaxed layout of the university. NYU hadn’t been Ricky’s first pick—he’d had his
heart set on Cornell when he was in highschool. But going to Cornell meant that Ricky would
have to move to live on campus since it was well over a four hour drive away from the city,
and he had wanted to stay local.

It was still a great university though. And there was something extremely rewarding about
finishing a long day of classes and exiting the building to walk along the cobblestone streets
lined with perfectly manicured shrubbery, smelling the fresh air and moseying through the
Washington Square Park. New York City wasn’t a very clean place to live in by any
standards, but Ricky was able to forget that when he entered the square.

The square is busy, like always, and Haruto links his arm through Ricky’s to pull him through
a crowd of people standing around watching a few hip hop dancers busking. “Ricky, I’ve had
years to think about what I want to do, and I still don’t have my answer. I don’t think another
eight months will be enough time to open my third eye.”

”Sure, if you look at it that way,” Ricky replies with a teasing grin. “You’re talented, Haru.
I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

Haruto sighs, opening his mouth to respond, but he pauses when he looks past Ricky. “Hey,
doesn’t that look like Yuseop?”

Ricky turns to look where Haruto is pointing, and sure enough, he vaguely recognises the
figure sitting by the fountain. He doesn’t spend enough time with Yuseop to know him very
well—but then Ricky looks past the varsity jacket-clad student, and instantly recognises Park
Gunwook sitting beside him.

That’s right, Haruto had mentioned that Yuseop was friends with Gunwook—well, not by
name, but by association. Ricky is fairly certain that Gunwook isn’t a student, not here at
least. The lead singer is a little dressed down—wearing a simple black shirt tucked into dark-
washed jeans, a scruffy pair of sneakers currently nudging a soccer ball back and forth
between his feet. There’s a baseball cap sitting backwards on his head, messy dark tufts of
hair peeking out from beneath the crown. Gunwook looks even younger in the daylight, and
Ricky rolls his lips between his teeth as he tries to visualise this boyish looking Gunwook
standing next to the sexy-lead-punk-rock-singer version of Gunwook.

He knows he should try to clear the air between the two of them. It’s not like anything had
really happened, but if Gyuvin was telling the truth—which was a big if—then Ricky should
at least have the decency to turn Gunwook away while his interest was still fresh.

”We should go say hello,” Ricky says, and Haruto makes a surprised noise of questioning.
Ricky normally doesn’t like to talk to people outside of his inner circle—not unless he really
had to, or was a couple of drinks in. He’s always been a little reserved.

”Are you sure? We don’t have to,” Haruto replies.

Ricky shrugs. “I know Gunwook.”

”Oh? The one that has a band?”

”Yeah,” Ricky acknowledges with a nod. “They played at Petal and Thorn. I’ve met him
before.”

Haruto’s jaw drops. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? C’mon then, let's go!”

And Ricky just about trips over his own two feet trying to keep up with how quickly Haruto
pulls them through the park. He doesn’t know why the other man is in such a rush—Yuseop
and Gunwook don’t look like they’re going anywhere, too engrossed in a conversation to
even notice Haruto and Ricky approaching until Haruto clears his throat and the two younger
men look up.

Ricky is already looking at Gunwook, so he immediately sees the recognition dawning on the
lead singer's face. “Ricky?”

“Hey,” Ricky greets with a wry smile, wiggling his fingers in a wave. “I didn’t expect to see
you here.”

”Likewise,” Gunwook chuckles, leaning his palms back on the edge of the fountain as he
looks up at Ricky. “I had no idea you were a student here. I was just dropping by to see
Yuseop—I had to run some errands in the city and had some time to kill for an hour or so.”

Ricky briefly recalls Gyuvin mentioning the babysitting gig that Gunwook has, and he
wonders if that was what the lead singer was doing for the rest of the afternoon, or if he had
something else on. “Yeah, I study art. Listen, do you think we could talk for a minute?”
Ricky glances to the left for a moment, seeing Haruto and Yuseop watching the two of them
interact with curious eyes. “…Just the two of us.”

Gunwook gives him an easy shrug, standing from his seat at the fountain and flashing Ricky
a brilliant smile. “Of course. Walk with me?”

”I won’t be long,” Ricky tells Haruto. His friend gives him a nod, unlinking their arms and
taking a seat next to Yuseop.

Gunwook doesn’t touch Ricky—he leaves a reasonable distance between the two of them,
even on the busy path. If it was Gyuvin though, Ricky just knows the bassist would
practically be piggybacking him at his point.

And there he goes again. Comparing everyone in his life to Kim fucking Gyuvin.

Ricky sighs, and Gunwook glances over at him. “Rough day?”

”I wouldn’t call it easy,” Ricky agrees. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket,
shifting an inch closer to Gunwook to let a jogger pass on the path. “How about you?”

”Not too bad, actually,” Gunwook admits. “Fridays are my favourite day of the week. It’s
practically the weekend by this point. We’re playing at the bar tonight, did you know?”

”I didn’t.”
”Will you come watch us?”

It’s difficult to ignore the hopefulness colouring Gunwook’s voice. Ricky presses his lips
together, flicking his eyes to the side. “Ah, Gunwook…”

But Gunwook just chuckles, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He smiles, a little
bashfully, soft pink tinting the apples of his cheeks. “Can I ask you something?”

”Sure,” Ricky replies, though the word comes out rather uncertain. He really hopes that
Gunwook isn’t about to ask him out on a date.

But the lead singer surprises Ricky with his next words. “You aren’t really interested in me,
are you?”

Well, damn. It’s like Gunwook plucked the words straight from Ricky’s mouth. He’s stunned
into silence, and Gunwook seems to take that as an answer in of itself, because he lets out a
long exhale. “I wasn’t entirely sure, but I guess I am now.”

”Gunwook…” Ricky begins, but he pauses, because what is he supposed to say? He

shouldn’t lie. Gunwook has been perfectly wonderful to Ricky, even if they’ve only really
interacted twice. Ricky is too focused on figuring out what to say that he doesn’t hear the
sound of a bicycle bell ringing behind them—and he’s almost mowed over by the impatient
cyclist, if it wasn’t for Gunwook wrapping an arm around his shoulder and tugging Ricky
into his side. The singer is warm, and his cologne is sweet, and he immediately lets go of
Ricky once the cyclist has passed.

Once again, Ricky can’t help but wonder what is wrong with his brain. Here stands a man
that has been nothing but kind to Ricky, yet he still craves the touch of a certain asshole
named Kim Gyuvin instead. And it’s the exact same situation with Jiwoong. There has to be
something wired wrong upstairs, because Ricky knows that no sane person would prefer the
rough and boyish treatment that Gyuvin gave him over someone like Gunwook or Jiwoong.

”It’s alright,” Gunwook says, but the smile on his face is a little sad and betrays his
vocalisation. “I probably read into our vibes too much. Gyuvin says I do that a lot.”

Ricky’s head snaps up. “Don’t listen to anything Gyuvin says.”

He only realises that he probably shouldn’t have said that when he sees the singer's eyes
widen a touch. It’s too late to take it back now though.

”Why do you say that?” Gunwook asks, sounding genuinely curious. He shoves his hands in
the front pockets of his jeans as he eyes Ricky expectantly. Ricky wonders how Gunwook
isn’t cold—he isn’t wearing a jacket after all.

”He just… doesn’t seem like someone’s who’s words you should trust.”

”You say that like you know him.”

Ricky lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I know enough.”

Gunwook doesn’t respond to that immediately, instead gazing somewhere off into the park
with a thoughtful expression on his face. They've walked far enough away now that Ricky
probably wouldn’t be able to see Haruto and Yuseop sitting at the fountain if he looked over
his shoulder.

When the singer speaks up again, he almost sounds melancholic. “You know, he never used
to be this way. We were really close growing up, but somewhere between sophomore and
junior year he changed. For the worse, if I’m being honest.”

And Gunwook doesn’t explicitly say who he’s talking about, but it’s glaringly obvious he’s
speaking about Gyuvin. “What’s your point?” Ricky asks carefully, glancing over at the
singer.

Gunwook blows out a breath of air, almost as if speaking the words were like a punch in the
gut. “Gyuvin is my best friend. I think I’ll call him that forever until the day we die. We have
a lot of history, and I guess I’m too afraid to let him go even though I should have a long time
ago.”

”Why?” Ricky asks. His eyes tremble a little when Gunwook looks down at him with two
sorrowful doves taking flight in his pupils.

”Because he’s poisonous. He revels in the thrill of the hunt, and he’ll crush you between his
teeth like you’re made of toffee. He’ll rip you apart, Ricky, and he’ll enjoy it.”

He’s already started to, Ricky wants to say. But you don’t understand, Gunwook. I like it. I
want it. I could change him, I could reverse the scenario.

“What happened to him?” Is what Ricky asks instead.

Gunwook flashes him a tired smile. “I don’t really know. He’d always had a rougher time in
school than the rest of us did. He’s a pretty secretive guy, never wanted to bring any of us
around to his place, even before his personality changed.”

Ricky turns Gunwook’s words over in his mind as they amble through the park. He thinks
back to what his own high school years were like—a little stressful and angsty, but that was
nothing out of the ordinary for a teenager. Ricky knew he always had a family waiting at
home for him when he was having a bad day.

He wonders how different it was for Gyuvin. Teenage years were formative in the way they
shaped a person. Maybe if things had gone a little differently for Gyuvin he’d be entirely
unlike the man he was today.

“Don’t let what I’m saying ruin your perception of him too much,” Gunwook speaks up
again, and Ricky has to hold back a laugh at that. He’s fairly certain that nothing Gunwook
says would tarnish Gyuvin’s person anymore than the bassist already does to himself. “He’s
not a terrible person. Just… troubled, I guess.”

“Aren’t we all?” Ricky replies, kicking a loose rock off the path. “I think that inherently,
everyone has their vices. Isn’t that what makes us human?”
“I guess so,” Gunwook affirms, nodding along to Ricky’s words. “But that’s also entirely
dependent on how we handle it. I’m sure you probably have your own, but you still seem like
a perfectly normal and functioning member of society.”

Ricky giggles, covering his mouth as he looks down at his feet. He doesn’t think Gunwook
really meant for it to come across as a joke—nothing about the words he said was funny, but
the singer delivered them in a way that was hilarious to Ricky for some reason. Maybe it was
because Gunwook thought Ricky was normal.

He was anything but normal.

”What?” Gunwook asks with a grin once Ricky has stopped laughing. He gently nudges his
shoulder against Ricky’s, almost like he’s flirting, eyes squished into half moons as he looks
down at Ricky. He really is so handsome, and Ricky can’t help but wonder how differently
his life might have turned out if he hadn’t been stuck in the bathroom with Gyuvin that night.

Ricky clears his throat, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. Hey, I probably shouldn’t keep you
any longer, I know you mentioned you have somewhere to be.”

”I do. But hey, the offer still stands if you want to come see us play tonight—it doesn’t have
to mean anything, not between you and I. Even if I am kicking myself a little bit for letting
the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen slip between my fingers.”

It’s impossible for Ricky to stop the blush spreading across his cheeks—and he pointedly
looks away from Gunwook, lest he combust on the spot like an overripe tomato that’s been
sitting in the sun for too long.

“I appreciate the invitation,” Ricky responds, once he’s sure he can trust his voice to not
come out high pitched from embarrassment. “But I can’t, even if I wanted to. I have a thing
on tonight—not that it’s very exciting, but it isn’t something I can really get out of.”

”Ah, alright.” The disappointment in Gunwook’s voice is obvious, and Ricky feels a flicker
of regret in his stomach. “Maybe next time?”

He’s seeking out a promise. But Ricky can’t give him that—though, he can’t seem to shoot
him down either. Gunwook is beginning to become an enigma for Ricky, and he isn’t sure
what to do with this realisation. For now, he’ll tuck that observation away in his mind to think
about later—and Ricky knows this is becoming a trend for him lately. But he can’t help it.
There always seems to be far too much for his brain to process lately, and it's getting rather
exhausting.

”Maybe next time,” Ricky echoes, and he tries to pretend to not notice how forced
Gunwook’s smile looks.

Ricky is in the middle of mustering the fakest sweet smile he can at a man thrice his age who
is currently droning on about some dreadfully boring reenactment of a golfing tournament
he’d recently played, when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He ignores it. Another buzz
comes through, and Ricky subtly cranes his head to try to locate his cousin, because he
wouldn’t be surprised if Zhang Hao was spilling some gossip over text messages. But Ricky
spots Zhang Hao batting his eyes at a middle aged man with a glass of wine in one hand, his
other resting flirtatiously on the man’s arm, no cellphone in sight.

Maybe it was someone from university, like Haruto. It could be Seonghwa, even though he
isn’t much of a texter. Hell, it could be anyone of the hundreds of contacts in Ricky’s phone.

But the buzzing won’t stop.

Ricky has to politely excuse himself, because if he lets this carry on any further, someone
might think he has a vibrator in his pocket. And that just won’t do for some of the most
uptight people in New York City.

He finds a quiet corner in the ballroom, slipping his phone from his pocket and flipping it
open. His heart just about stops when he reads the writing on the tiny screen.

——Unknown Number——

Heyyy

Hello

Here kitty kitty kitty!

Y r u not answrng ur fone?

Igoring me isn’t nice :/

Here kitty kitty kittyyyyy!

It may be an unknown number, but Ricky knows that it’s Gyuvin. Of all the times the bassist
could have texted him, why did he have to choose now? Gyuvin has had an entire week to
message Ricky!

——Unknown Number——

I know u’re readin my msgs

Doggy wants 2 play

Damn. Ricky saves the number into a new contact, looking to see if there was anyone
watching him. There wasn’t, and he dips his head back down as he thumbs out a reply.

——Ricky——

Now’s a bad time

I’ll reply to u l8r

——Gyuvin——
Y? Wut R U doin?

——Ricky——

Smthg important

——Gyuvin——

More important than me?

LOL dont buy for a sec

——Ricky——

Ur so annoying

I GTG

——Gyuvin——

Not till U tell me where U R

——Ricky——

None of Ur biz!!

——Gyuvin——

Tell me

Kitty

Kitty

Kitty

I won’t stop txting U till U do

Kitty

Tell me

——Ricky——

I’m at an event!!

Satisfied?

——Gyuvin——

Where
——Ricky——

Y does it matter to U

——Gyuvin——

Bcoz I need 2 kno where my kitty is

Ricky glances up just in time to see Jiwoong pulling away from the old man, heading through
the crowd of people towards Ricky.

——Ricky——

Omg

The Marriott. Happy?

I rlly GTG now. Stop txting me

——Gyuvin——

Very happy

Good boy

Ricky slips his phone back into his pocket at the same time Jiwoong finally makes it through
the throng of people, stopping in front of Ricky. “Is everything alright?”

”Yeah,” Ricky replies, clearing his throat. “Just one of my friends. Nothing important.”

Jiwoong seems to accept his excuse and extends an arm for Ricky to hold onto. “Let’s get
back to our mingling, then. Perhaps we should avoid Dawson for a little while though—I
think I’ve just about mastered the art of falling asleep with my eyes open and standing up by
this point.”

That makes Ricky chuckle, and he presses close to Jiwoong as they meander through the
room. Ricky can see his parents on the other side of the hall speaking with the mayor—his
father laughing politely at a joke Ricky just knows cannot be funny. Ricky’s mother catches
sight of Ricky and she gives him a little wave, eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles.

Ricky waves back, but he doesn’t direct Jiwoong over to his parents. He’d already spoken to
them earlier in the evening and was trying to avoid them for a little while—not because of
anything bad, it’s just that whenever he and Jiwoong were in the vicinity of Ricky’s parents
they got a little… pushy.

Ricky is just very damn glad he can’t have babies. He’s sure if he’d been born a girl his life
would be a lot more stressful.

They end up at the refreshments table. It was draped in a rich, red velvet tablecloth that
looked like it would be incredibly soft to touch. On one side, champagne flutes were stacked
atop of one another in a pyramid that seemed like it would fall over if you so much as
breathed on one of the glasses.

The rest of the table was covered in an assortment of hors d’oeuvres assembled prettily on
tiered silver trays. Stuffed mushrooms, smoked salmon canapés, mini quiches and gourmet
sliders that almost looked too good to eat. Jiwoong uses a pair of tongs to plate up a mini
quiche, asking Ricky if he would like anything to which he refuses. He doesn’t think he could
stomach anything right now.

The evening had gone just about as Ricky had predicted—boring and long, but the mayor's
gala wasn’t something that Ricky could exactly avoid. It was a little bearable with Jiwoong
by his side at the very least.

They haven’t spoken any further about their argument in the car last week. Partially because
Ricky didn’t wish to start another fight, and also because he knows Jiwoong doesn’t want to
push his buttons anymore than he already has. Just as always, their disagreement blows over
like it was nothing more than water under the bridge. It's always like this—until their next
fight, at least.

Jiwoong may not voice all of his opinions aloud, but Ricky knows that the older man looks
down on Ricky like he’s just a silly teenager with no knowledge of how the world really
works. And Ricky is so tired of this kind of old fashioned thinking because he does know
more than Jiwoong thinks.

Ricky knows that Mrs Lancaster was involved in an affair which resulted in the birth of her
youngest child—a fact that her husband was certainly not privy to. And he knows that the
Carrington’s mansion was raided by the police last month and had an astounding deal of
weed seized. The only reason the Carringtons were standing in the ballroom was because the
NYPD chief had received a hefty amount of hush money to sweep everything under the rug.

He could list more names and more secrets—in fact, Ricky could bring up Jiwoong’s own
hidden truths, something that the older man was surely positive Ricky had no clue of. But he
won’t.

He won’t, because Ricky isn’t an immature teenager that likes to use gossip as a talking
tactic. No, he keeps these cards tucked beneath his sleeve until he needs to slip them out to
win his hand.

“10 o’clock, we have company approaching,” Jiwoong mutters from the side of his mouth.
Ricky subtly glances over and almost laughs when he sees a familiar looking man
approaching. He’d never forget those high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that held an
innocence Ricky knew was nothing more than a farce.

How ironic for him to make an appearance now, of all times. And it was rather hilarious to
see Jiwoong acting like he didn’t care, because Ricky knows that he does.

He knows all too well.

—
Bad luck travels fast, because Ricky has only just managed to finally wrangle himself away
from a rather panicked-looking Kim Jiwoong and their familiar friend that can’t seem to stop
smirking at the two of them, when Ricky’s eyes skittishly land on a ghost.

It had to be a ghost. There was no way Ricky was seeing Gyuvin here right now, of all places.
He’s positive that the bassist had died sometime between the last text he had sent Ricky to
now, because this was a closed event. It wasn’t possible for Gyuvin to be here.

But some of the guests have started to point and whisper, and Ricky’s heart sinks when he
realises that Gyuvin was very much alive, and very much here.

And he’s looking straight at Ricky.

Gyuvin stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of well-groomed guests clad in black tie attire.
His auburn hair was a mess like it always seemed to be, wide eyes smoked out with a sultry
touch of eyeshadow and messily applied eyeliner. He was wearing that same leather jacket
he’d adorned on the night Ricky had first spoken to him, and the jacket only just covered
the… was that a mesh shirt?

Good fucking lord.

All concerns about Jiwoong and co are left in the dust when Ricky’s feet finally catch up to
his brain, and he politely excuses himself through the crowd to get to Gyuvin before any
more people notice him. Ricky doesn’t have a plan, not really—he just knows he needs to get
Gyuvin out of sight immediately. The bassist doesn’t belong here, and it makes Ricky feel
sick to his stomach knowing that Gyuvin thought he could just stroll right on in and think that
everything would be fine.

Ricky keeps his head held high as he walks straight past Gyuvin. He doesn’t need to look at
Gyuvin or say anything out loud—like a well trained dog, Gyuvin follows, and Ricky can
hear the heavy thump of Gyuvin’s combat boots trailing close behind him.

Because Ricky has been to the Marriott more times than he can possibly count on both hands,
he’s very familiar with the layout of the hotel. The hallways are thankfully empty since all of
the staff and guests are milling around in the main hall. Ricky finally feels safe enough when
he turns a corner to a dead-end corridor that runs along the back of the main hall, but he
knows there are no entry or exit points that would surprise them with a random guest
emerging.

“You can’t be here right now, Gyuvin,” Ricky hisses, wrapping his hand around the bassist’s
arm and pulling them into the first room he can find. It turns out to be some sort of spare
storage room, with crates stacked in one corner and portable clothing racks on wheels lined
up against a wall. The room would have been plunged into complete darkness once Ricky
closed the door behind them, if it weren’t for the sliver of moonlight shining through the
singular tiny window.

And it’s that small amount of light that illuminates the irritated set of Gyuvin’s jaw; the way
his eyes seem to simmer with an anger that Ricky hasn’t quite seen from him before. He
releases his grip on Gyuvin’s wrist and takes an unsure step backwards.
Ricky doesn’t like the way Gyuvin is looking at him. Even with the hundreds of people
milling around in the ballroom only mere metres away, Ricky still feels afraid. He feels like
Gyuvin could make him scream, and nobody would hear. And it sends a delicious thrill
through his body. His heart is pounding and his hands are trembling, yet he’s never felt so
alive, even if he’s standing in the shadow of the deadliest predator on this planet.

Gyuvin runs his tongue along the top row of his teeth before he speaks, and it’s the most
serious Ricky has ever heard the bassist be. “Who… who is that man outside?”

Ricky blinks, completely unsure of who Gyuvin is talking about. “You’re going to have to be
more specific. There’s a lot of men out there.”

And Ricky isn’t being sarcastic—but maybe it comes across that way to Gyuvin, because the
bassist lets out an irritated sounding sigh and cards a hand through his hair. He takes a step
closer, and Ricky takes another step back, and they’re doing some screwed up version of the
waltz that ends up with Ricky being pressed against a wall and Gyuvin looming over him.

”You know who I’m talking about,” Gyuvin says slowly, effectively caging Ricky against the
wall with his arms braced on either side of Ricky’s head. “The tall one, wearing the trashy
suit. He had his arm around your waist.”

Oh. Oh.

Well, Ricky thinks it’s remarkable how Gyuvin can call the custom-tailored Kiton suit that
Jiwoong is wearing trashy, but he supposes Gyuvin wouldn’t have a clue about high fashion
bespoke suits. That isn’t what has Ricky fighting off the amused grin threatening to break out
on his face, though.

The jealousy emanating from Gyuvin is so palpable, Ricky can practically taste it. It’s bitter
and tangy; and Ricky never thought Gyuvin would be invested enough to act this way, but he
is. He is, and this is the sort of information that Ricky can use to his advantage. He finally has
something to teasingly dangle in front of Gyuvin’s nose, and just like training a dog to sit,
Ricky will train Gyuvin to care.

“That’s Jiwoong,” Ricky says, and he speaks his next words in the most offhanded tone he
can muster. “He’s to be my fiancé.”

Gyuvin recoils like Ricky had just slapped him. An array of emotions wash over his face—
and it’s the most expressive Ricky thinks the bassist has ever been around him.

It makes Ricky feel good. Seeing the rug pulled out from beneath Gyvuin’s feet like this,
watching how Gyuvin’s wide eyes blink rapidly as his brain struggles to process what Ricky
had just said.

And maybe in any other situation, Ricky would be worried about what came next. He never
revealed any information about Jiwoong to his past fuck buddies, because he knew that they
would all walk out on him. And that isn’t a nod to how amazing their character was—a lot of
the guys Ricky had slept with would have had no problem knowing that Ricky would be
walking down the aisle with another man in a couple of years. But to Kim Jiwoong?
One look at him would have any sane man trembling at the knees.

Ricky has never been afraid of Jiwoong—because, honestly, the older man is barely capable
of hurting a fly. Jiwoong is in good shape with impressive muscles and a powerful physique,
with alarmingly good looks to boot. His facial expression is always schooled into that almost
angry yet seductive gaze, and he has a chronic case of bedroom eyes. He’s tall, rich, drives
luxury cars and is the heir to a cruise line company that is only continuing to grow in profits
each year. Kim Jiwoong is the sort of man you don’t want to fuck around with—especially
because Ricky had been promised to marry him.

Playing with Ricky is like playing with fire. It’s just, he normally doesn’t reveal this
information to anyone. And he truly hadn’t expected to tell Kim Gyuvin of all people. But
like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Ricky had been caught hanging around
another guy, and Gyuvin had wanted answers.

But Ricky doesn’t think Gyuvin will walk out on him. How could he, when Ricky has only
just started to sink his claws in?

”You… you have a fiancé,” Gyuvin says slowly. He runs a hand through his hair, looking to
the side as he rolls his lips together. “Why am I only just now hearing about this?”

Ricky tilts his chin up, levelling Gyuvin with a passive look. “He isn’t my fiancé yet. I said to
be fiancé.”

”It’s the same fucking thing!” Gyuvin exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration. He
pinches the bridge of his nose, turning his back to Ricky as he begins to pace in the small
space of the storage room. “Does he know that you’re going around cheating on him?”

Ricky bristles. “I’m not dating Jiwoong. And he very well knows that we aren’t exclusive
right now. There’s no cheating happening.”

Gyuvin’s footsteps are awfully loud as he paces back and forth, face scrunched up in a storm
cloud of anger. Ricky watches him the entire time, head swivelling from left to right like he’s
warily eyeing a wild animal. But he thinks that comparing Gyuvin to a wild animal really
isn’t that far off the mark—not when the bassist's teeth are gritted in a snarl, breaths coming
out in hot and sharp exhales. Ricky can practically picture what Gyuvin would look like with
wolf ears flattened back on his head in irritation.

“But you’re going to be engaged to him,” Gyuvin says, snapping his gaze up to Ricky. The
bassist's eyes are impossibly dark, brows pinched together as he regards Ricky with a vexed
expression. “You know that you’re going to be engaged to another man, yet you choose to run
around with someone else. With me.”

”What do you expect me to say?” Ricky replies, folding his arms across his chest like it
would protect him from the venomous tone that was injected into each word Gyuvin spat out.
“Do you want me to call myself a skank? Get down on my knees and pray to God for
forgiveness? Tell me, Gyuvin, what do you want?”
And Ricky is expecting Gyuvin to snap back with a list of demands. But instead, the bassist
stops walking, a bemused smile replacing his frown. “That night in the bathroom. You were
practically begging me to not tell anyone.”

Ricky feels his blood run cold. “Yeah,” He croaks out, tightening his crossed arms a little
more.

Gyuvin doesn’t look angry anymore—in fact, he looks positively giddy. He takes two long
strides until he’s standing right in front of Ricky again, a crazed smirk spreading across his
face.

Seeing Gyuvin being angry was far less terrifying than whatever this was.

”It’s not because you don’t want Jiwoong to know, is it?” Gyuvin says, glee dripping from his
voice. His eyes no longer hold any anger in them—rather a cheeky glint has replaced his
priorly furious gaze. “It’s bigger than Jiwoong. Let me guess, mummy and daddy don’t really
know that their perfect son is actually running around with some of New York’s finest
residents?”

Now that’s fucking terrifying, the fact that Gyuvin managed to hit the nail on the head like
that. Ricky practically shrinks in on himself, looking past Gyuvin’s shoulder because he
doesn’t think he can hold eye contact with the bassist.

It’s so fucking unfair how Gyuvin can flip the situation in the blink of an eye. And Ricky has
to give Gyuvin some credit—the man is smarter than Ricky thought he was. The fact that he
managed to piece all of that together in a matter of minutes—without Ricky even saying
anything, says a lot about how intelligent Gyuvin is.

Gyuvin takes Ricky’s silence as an answer in itself, and barks out a laugh that makes Ricky
cringe from how loud it is. “I had my suspicions about you. A pretty kitty with a face like
that has to be hiding something. And you gave it away, just a little, when you casually let
drop that Petal and Thorn was practically yours. I should have seen it then—seen how sneaky
and conniving you really are. Tell me, how well do you think mummy and daddy would take
it if I marched out there right now and told them your dirty secrets?”

Ricky’s arms twitch, and his hand jerks upwards. He isn’t going to slap Gyuvin—Ricky isn’t
violent, but he guesses Gyuvin doesn’t really know that. Rough fingers close around the
slenderness of Ricky’s wrist, and Gyuvin shakes his head, clucking his tongue in disapproval.
“Too slow. Nice try, though. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened to me.”

Now Ricky really does want to slap him.

”They wouldn’t believe a single word that came out of your awful mouth,” Ricky shoots back
at the bassist, trying to wrench his wrist from Gyuvin’s grip. But Gyuvin holds strong, an
immovable force with a sleeper strength Ricky hadn’t realised he’d been hiding. He gives up
trying to wrestle his wrist back—he doesn’t want to reemerge among the guests with
blooming red finger marks painted into his wrist. “They’d just think you’re trying to sabotage
me.”
Gyuvin grins. His eyes crinkle a little when he does that—and under any other circumstance,
Ricky is sure that the bassist would look sweet. But right now his character is practically
villainous. “I can be pretty convincing when I want to be. I’ve watched a lot of people over
the years, sweetheart, and I know the right things to say and when to say them. Hanbin once
told me he thought I would have made a better frontman than Gunwook. He says Wookie is
too soft, too pliable. Like squishy playdough. You know, I used to be a lot like Gunwook. But
I think I reached my expiry date a long time ago, because I’ve gone all hard now—everything
goes bad sooner or later, kitty cat.”

”He told me to watch out for you,” Ricky blurts out, taking the opportunity to steer the
conversation away from the topic of his parents. “He says you’re no good. That you like to
sink your teeth into innocent people and infect them with your poison. Honestly, are the two
of you even actually friends?”

”That wasn’t very nice of him,” Gyuvin replies, letting out a sardonic sigh. He turns Ricky’s
arm over until his palm is facing upwards, and he runs the tip of his nose along the line that
Ricky recognises as his heart line. He’d gotten a palm reading once, back when Zhang Hao
had been going through his spiritual phase. The palm reader had told Ricky he had a wavy
heart line, and explained that it meant many things, but that Ricky would battle with
conflicted feelings in his relationships in particular. “You may feel torn between different
choices or paths in your love life. Indecisiveness is something you will struggle with.”

”Is he telling the truth, though?” Ricky asks through a shuddering breath. Gyuvin pauses his
movements, his mouth hovering just above the meatiness of where Ricky’s thumb meets his
palm.

Gyuvin licks his lips, voice dropping a decibel deeper. “Why don’t we find out?”

And that’s all the warning Ricky gets before the bassist bites down on his hand.

”Gyuvin!” Ricky gasps, using his free hand to paw at the bassist's chest, but it does little to
deter the man. He isn’t biting down hard enough to really hurt—but Ricky just knows that
there will be teeth marks indented into his palm for the rest of the night. Gyuvin has a
malevolent look in his eyes, and Ricky has the feeling that he’s holding back a touch. He’s
sure that Gyuvin wants nothing more than to skin Ricky alive—and the crazy thing is, Ricky
would let him. He’d encourage him.

Just like a dog would, Gyuvin shakes his head back and forth, like he has a chew toy in his
mouth instead of Ricky’s hand. And Ricky shouldn’t find this attractive, shouldn’t feel the
way his cock begins to stir in the confines of his dress pants, but he does. He wants to know
what it would feel like if Gyuvin carved his teeth into each inch of his body. Screw getting
anymore tattoos—Ricky wants Gyuvin’s teeth marks littered across his body.

Ricky keens when Gyuvin retracts his teeth, lathing his tongue over the marks left by him.
“How do you feel? Poisoned?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Ricky breathes out, chest rising and falling quickly. “He didn’t mention
how fast acting it was. I might not know for a while.”
Gyuvin absorbs the information with a shake of his head. “I see. Maybe I should try being a
little more direct.”

And by being more direct, Gyuvin leans in to seal his lips over Ricky’s. He kisses and licks
into Ricky’s mouth like he really is trying to kill Ricky, and Ricky is incapable of preventing
the sudden weakness to his knees. His legs practically give out beneath him, but Gyuvin’s
reflexes are much faster and he wraps one of Ricky’s thighs around his hip to hold him
steady.

This really isn't a good idea. Ricky knows he can’t hide away in here for much longer without
raising suspicion—Jiwoong would likely already be looking for him at this very moment, and
it’s not like Ricky and Gyuvin were hidden very well. They were making out in a glorified
closet like a pair of teenagers who’d snuck out of a class to get their hands all over each
other. Hell, Ricky doesn’t even think he locked the door. But it’s a little hard to think straight
with Gyuvin shoving his tongue down Ricky’s throat, and it isn’t easy to pull away when he
feels the heavy weight of Gyuvin’s hardening arousal against his hip.

A distant sound of glass shattering is enough to break Ricky out of his reverie. That’s a sign
that the night is getting ready to draw to a close—someone out there was getting plastered
from far too many glasses of champagne, and he knows things will start to wrap up soon.
Ricky needs to get back out there to make an appearance. He breaks away from the kiss,
placing his palms flat against Gyuvin’s chest to keep the bassist away from his mouth.
“Gyuvin. I need to go.”

“Why?” Gyuvin mumbles. He snakes an arm around Ricky’s waist and pulls him impossibly
closer. Ricky’s nose is tickling the neckline of Gyuvin’s shirt, and he gets that familiar waft
of the bassists cologne and the bitter scent of nicotine hiding beneath it. “I think you look
good right here, with me. Jiwoong can find another pet to play with.”

Ricky sighs softly. He has to tread carefully here—Gyuvin seems to have calmed down
somewhat, placated enough with kisses that he may have dismissed his earlier threats of
finding Ricky’s parents. Ricky doesn’t want to undo the process they’ve made and he picks
his next words carefully like he’s tiptoeing through a den of sleeping wolves.

“Family expectations,” Ricky decides to say. He’ll skirt along the line of truth a little bit.
“I’m my parents’ only son. They want to see me out there mingling and making connections.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary for me.”

Gyuvin doesn’t seem to like Ricky’s answer. He frowns, his grip on Ricky’s thigh tightening
from where his hand still rests. “Family expectations of you being paraded around like a doll?
I saw you. There wasn’t a whole lot of talking going on from your end.”

“I guess I wasn’t feeling very chatty today.”

“And that’s Jiwoong’s whole purpose then, right?” Gyuvin says. “To have a pretty wife on his
arm and make all of the decisions? You know that’s what’ll end up happening.”

Ricky scowls. He shakes his head. “I don’t need a man to make decisions on my behalf. He
isn’t going to own me.”
“Something tells me you wouldn’t mind that, though,” Gyuvin grins. “Just… not with that
man out there.”

Ricky’s mouth snaps shut. He narrows his eyes at Gyuvin, feeling that familiar lick of
irritation burrowing into his chest. Just because Ricky has accepted his attraction towards the
bassist, it doesn't mean he likes him. Not in a way that gave Gyuvin the go ahead to try and
psychoanalyse Ricky like some dollar store therapist. Ricky doesn’t need that.

“You’re a lot more tolerable when you aren’t running your mouth,” Ricky grumbles. He leans
as far back as he can whilst still trapped in Gyuvin’s embrace, jabbing a finger into the
bassist's chest. Gyuvin looks thoroughly amused. “I’m five times more of a man then you
will ever be. Don’t act like I can’t conjure up comprehensive thoughts just because I like to
wear makeup and pretty clothes. It’s that sort of close-mindedness your band sings about not
believing in, is it not?”

”So you do listen to my songs.”

”I listen to Disorderly Conduct’s songs,” Ricky emphasises with another poke to Gyuvin’s
sternum. He does his best to ignore the hardness of Gyuvin’s muscles there. “You don’t own
the band. And besides, that’s not the point I’m trying to get across here.”

Gyuvin hums, tilting his head. “Then give it to me straight, kitty.”

”You don’t seem to have figured this out yet, but I’m more than just a pretty face. I’m
capable of doing more than you think that I can. I learned a long time ago to hold my cards
underneath the table, because plenty of those people out there would have no shame in trying
to peek at my hand. And sometimes I have to play along with what is expected of me—like
tonight. I’ll smile and act sweet, because this is a battlefield and I need to prepare my
alliances when I can.”

Gyuvin whistles, brows quirking upwards, the hint of a smile playing on his face. “Kitty has
spunk, huh? That was quite a speech. But I can’t help thinking that there’s still something
missing.”

“Like what?” Ricky narrows his eyes. The moonlight has shifted, and it’s casting an almost
perfect spotlight on the two of them. Ricky feels like he’s on a stage but he’s only really
performing for one audience member. And it’s the same guy that has his arms wrapped
around Ricky like he’d bolt away the moment Gyuvin loosened his grip.

”That you forgot to mention how you actually enjoy being paraded around like that,” Gyuvin
replies with an impudent smile. Ricky feels his own eye twitch. “When I first walked in, you
were walking around with your head held so high I thought it would float off to the heavens. I
watched you for a little bit, you know. It’s so obvious that you really do believe that you’re
better than everyone else.”

”I’m better than you are,” Ricky snaps back. “I wouldn’t leave someone stranded in the city
like you did to me.”
Gyuvin laughs, a loud and boisterous thing that tumbles out of his mouth without any
preamble. “Are you still mad about that? I think you deserved it, if I’m being honest.”

”I don’t believe you’ve ever been completely honest in your entire life.”

”Touché,” The bassist replies with a nod of acceptance. “Honesty is not my policy. But really,
I don’t think it’s yours, either.”

Ricky grits his teeth, trying to resist the urge to swipe his claws at Gyuvin. He’s just so
fucking annoying. “At least I’m a lot more genuine than you are. At this point, I think you’ve
fed into your own lies so much, you can’t even see them for what they are.”

”And what are they, hmm?”

”Just a way for you to feel better about yourself,” Ricky replies, and he’s proud of how
steady his voice comes out. “Because deep down, you know you’re not a good person.”

Gyuvin snorts. “Neither are you. But there you go again, putting yourself on a pedestal.
You’re so lost up there on your own high horse that you’ve completely gone off track to what
we were actually talking about.”

”Because you weren’t saying anything of essence.”

”I think you’ll find that I was,” Gyuvin teases out. His hand creeps a little further up Ricky’s
thigh, eyes tracked onto Ricky’s own like he wants to see Ricky crumble.

“Then spit it out,” Ricky retorts. His heart stutters when Gyuvin’s hand closes around his hip.

There’s a shift in the air. Like time has slowed down—a sensation akin to the steady drip of
molasses creeping down Ricky’s spine. And with each splash of the liquid burning hot into
Ricky’s skin, Gyuvin edges ever so closer, his breath mingling with Ricky’s once more. All
thoughts about the party outside are forgotten when Ricky is locked into that hypnotic gaze of
Gyuvin’s eyes.

”I think you like it,” Gyuvin mutters, ducking his head down to run his nose along Ricky’s
neck. Ricky gasps when Gyuvin’s teeth close around the cross that dangles from his ear, and
Gyuvin’s eyes flick back up to Ricky’s, the silver jewellery glinting between his canines.

A tiny whimper escapes from Ricky, and his fingers twist a little more in Gyuvin’s leather
jacket. “I don’t,” he whispers, not missing the way Gyuvin’s gaze lingers on the movement of
his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I don’t like it.”

But it’s hard to sound convincing when you don’t believe your own lie.

The earring drops from Gyuvin’s mouth, and he straightens up until his forehead is pressed
against Ricky’s. One of Gyuvin’s hands sneaks up Ricky’s torso, and it settles at the base of
Ricky’s throat—not in a tight squeeze, just firm enough for Ricky to feel the way Gyuvin’s
fingers and thumb dig in a little. It’s a heady sensation, one that makes the heat in his
abdomen rise.
”You do,” Gyuvin replies, and his lips are close enough to brush against Ricky’s own when
he speaks. “I saw the way you were practically preening. Like a cat at one of those cat shows,
a spoiled kitty with an owner spending more money on his pussycat than himself. Tell me,
am I wrong? Because I don’t think I am. Not with the way Jiwoong was looking at you.”

”You left out one part,” Ricky says, and Gyuvin arches his brow in a silent prompt. “The
judge that I’m putting a show on for. It’s you.”

“Is that so?” Gyuvin muses. The hand he has wrapped around Ricky’s hip moves, and Ricky
feels those fingers brush the skin above his waistband. “Then I suppose I should give you my
score then, shouldn’t I?”

”You should,” Ricky breathes out, even though a tiny voice in his head is screaming at him to
stop. He can’t be in here, he needs to be outside, but there is something so incredibly
intoxicating about seeing Gyuvin being jealous. It’s like a cocktail that Ricky can’t get
enough of.

He hopes it's bottomless. He hopes it's always like this.

“Well then, let me read out my notes,” Gyuvin grins, adopting a professional sounding tone
that still manages to come across as silly. “A flawless coat as always. And you’re always
groomed to perfection, so top scores all around for that. Your body… well, I think that goes
without saying…”

Ricky sucks in a breath when Gyuvin’s fingers creep further down beneath his pants, the tips
of his fingers skimming the soft crease of his hip. Gyuvin bites his tongue between his teeth
in amusement when he uses the tip of his nail to gently scratch at the smoothness of Ricky’s
skin there, and it's entirely unintentional when Ricky leans into the touch.

The bassist leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of Ricky’s ear. “But your
temperament… a shame, honestly. I think I’ll have to deduct points for that.”

Ricky reaches down to wrap his fingers around Gyuvin’s wrist, pushing the bassist's hand
down further. “Won’t you reconsider?”

“What are you offering?”

“Anything,” Ricky immediately replies. His hips buck uselessly when he pushes Gyuvin’s
fingers down far enough to touch the head of his half hard cock. “Anything you want. You
can have it.”

Gyuvin hums pensively, and the sound is like sticky caramel in Ricky’s ear. “Anything?”

“Yes,” Ricky whispers. He angles his head towards Gyuvin, directing his sultry-lined eyes up
at the bassist. There’s something different about the bassist tonight—Ricky isn’t sure if it’s
the jealousy, or if it’s something else entirely. But there almost seems to be a humane
glimmer to Gyuvin’s eyes tonight.
One side of Gyuvin’s mouth pulls up into a smirk. Ricky prepares himself for some sort of
rude comeback—but instead, is taken entirely by surprise when Gyuvin drops to his knees.
“What—what are you doing?”

“You said anything,” Gyuvin reminds him, popping the button of Ricky’s dress pants open.
“And I decided that I wanted a taste.”

Oh. Oh, holy fucking shit. Ricky’s head thunks back against the wall as he watches Gyuvin.
Disbelief prevents him from uttering anything more than a “fuck” when Gyuvin pushes
Ricky’s pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary when Gyuvin dives straight in with little tact or patience. But
Ricky thought he’d never see the bassist like this—getting down on his own knees and
servicing Ricky’s own desires before his own.

But Ricky knows that Gyuvin isn’t doing this out of the goodness of his own heart. What he
is sure of, is that Gyuvin wishes for nothing more than to get his fill of each and every part of
Ricky’s body. He doesn’t care about Ricky’s budding arousal or the way his thighs quiver
when Gyuvin wraps his hand around the base of Ricky’s cock.

Gyuvin presses his nose against Ricky’s thigh and inhales deeply. “You smell so good. I
could just eat you right up.”

“Go ahead,” Ricky replies, settling a hand on Gyuvin’s auburn locks in an attempt to ground
himself. Gyuvin huffs out a laugh.

“I wasn’t asking for permission, kitty cat.”

Gyuvin tugs on Ricky’s cock, and the slide is dry and bordering on painful, but Ricky likes it.
The bassist looks pleased at that, swiping the rough pad of his thumb over Ricky’s leaking
cockhead. He spreads the pearlescent liquid around, watching with rapt attention as he coats
the entirety of Ricky’s tip in it.

Looking up at Ricky with a devious smirk, Gyuvin licks a fat stripe from the head of Ricky’s
cock to the base. Ricky’s free hand flies up to cover his mouth in an attempt to quieten his
whines, because Gyuvin looked like a pornstar when he did that, and it was an image that
would be forever burned into Ricky’s retinas—especially with how the bassist was making
sure to keep eye contact the entire time.

Gyuvin’s breaths come out as hot puffs against Ricky’s abdomen, and he leans in to teasingly
nip at the skin there. Ricky is slowly beginning to realise that Gyuvin seems to have a
problem where he can’t keep his teeth out of some part of Ricky’s body for very long. Ricky
moves his hand, a snarky remark on the tip of his tongue—but it melts into a moan when
Gyuvin suddenly ducks back down to wrap his lips around the tip of Ricky’s cock.

Fuck, Gyuvin looks so fucking good like this. The bassist had naturally plump lips, and
seeing them spit-swollen and stretched around Ricky’s own cock—well, it was an absolutely
fucking insane sight to see, and that was putting it lightly.
Gyuvin uses his tongue to lap at Ricky’s cockhead, teasing flicks that grow increasingly
bolder with each tremble of Ricky’s knees. Ricky is pretty sure he’s putting far too much of
his own body weight on Gyuvin’s head, fingers gripping on for dear life in those auburn
locks, but Gyuvin doesn’t seem to mind. He just sinks down a little further, throat swallowing
around Ricky’s cock like it was nothing.

Ricky isn’t small by any means. He’s average sized, and he knows from experience that
giving head isn’t the easiest thing in the world. But with the way Gyuvin was working his
mouth around Ricky’s cock so easily… well, it sends a rush of jealousy through Ricky. He
doesn’t want to think about why Gyuvin was so good at sucking dick.

Gyuvin’s nose touches Ricky’s groin, and there’s a wet sounding squelch that comes from the
bassist when the tip of Ricky’s cock bumps against something slippery. And Ricky realises
that it’s Gyuvin’s throat making that noise, and his fingers tighten a little more in the messy
strands of Gyuvin’s hair.

There’s only a moment of stillness as Gyuvin looks up at Ricky, and the bassist's eyes are
watery in the dull light. But then he moves, and oh, does he move.

Gyuvin bobs his head up and down with a speed that makes Ricky’s head spin—his tongue is
stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his fingers are digging into Gyuvin’s scalp. Ricky’s other
palm flies down to paw at the wall as he tries to hold himself up, something that is getting
increasingly harder with each swirl of Gyuvin’s tongue. He isn’t going to last long—how
could he, when Gyuvin seems intent on sucking Ricky’s soul out of his dick like this? But it's
a good thing, because Ricky should have been out of this room five minutes ago.

He watches, slack jawed, as Gyuvin slurps around the pink tip of his leaking cock. “I’m
close,” Ricky chokes out, but instead of pulling off completely, Gyuvin wraps a large hand
around half of Ricky’s cock and uses his mouth to create a suction that no man would be able
to endure.

When Ricky comes he shoves his fist into his mouth to bite down on, whimpers muffled by
his own knuckles. And Gyuvin swallows it all, greedy gulps and twirls of his tongue to make
sure he catches every last drop.

Gyuvin sits back on his haunches, a stray bit of come oozing down his chin. He darts his
tongue out to catch it, a pleased smile on his face. “Delicious,” Gyuvin utters, voice coming
out slightly croaky. Ricky feels faint.

Ricky’s hands are shaking, but he somehow manages to tuck himself back into his pants and
tug them back up, zipper and all. God, they really need to stop having sex in public for crying
out loud.

”What the hell was that for?” Ricky asks when he finally finds his voice.

Gyuvin shrugs. “I’m happy.”

”You were literally yelling at me before,” Ricky points out, though he regrets voicing that out
loud when that familiar looking storm cloud passes across the bassist's face.
”Do you want me to be angry?”

Ricky quickly shakes his head, and Gyuvin snorts. If this is Gyuvin being happy, then Ricky
does not want to see what a livid Gyuvin would look like. He’s definitely seen glimpses here
and there, and he doesn’t want to see anything more than that.

”Wookie got a call tonight, but we were in the middle of playing our set so obviously he
couldn’t answer,” Gyuvin begins, and he pulls himself up from the floor and dusts his knees
off. “It was from Hongjoong, so Wookie called him immediately after we finished. Shaboom
gave the green light to release our album next month. We’re going to be on the radio, we’re
going to get a music video.”

That’s… definitely not what Ricky had been expecting to hear. Though, he doesn’t even
know what else would suffice a visit from Gyuvin like this.

There’s hundreds of thoughts swirling around in Ricky’s head, a tumultuous snowstorm of

Gyuvingyuvingyuvin. And Ricky is confused, because why did Gyuvin come all of this way
to tell Ricky in person? Shouldn’t he be out celebrating with his bandmates?

They hardly know each other. Ricky’s database of Kim Gyuvin knowledge barely expands
past the bassists name, date of birth, and what his come tastes like. This certainly isn’t
grounds for a personal drop in to share what could be the most important news of Gyuvin’s
twenties.

And yet again, Ricky is reminded that he doesn’t know Gyuvin. Not really.

But he wants to.

He doesn’t know what that means.

”Wow… that’s great,” Ricky says, though the words sound like they get stuck in his throat.
Nevertheless, the sparkle in Gyuvin’s eyes doesn’t dull, and Ricky thinks that the bassist
looks a lot younger with a smile on his face. An actual genuine one. “Does this mean you’ll
finally be a proper rockstar?”

”I think so,” Gyuvin replies, biting his bottom lip as he grins. “You’re not one of those
hipsters that only like underground groups, right? Cos I’m not gonna let you go that easy,
kitty.”

”I’m not.”

Gyuvin hums, wrapping his arms around Ricky’s waist and squeezing their cheeks together.
There’s a faint prickling of stubble along Gyuvin’s jaw, and Ricky grimaces when the bassist
rubs his face against Ricky’s. “Good. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together, you
and I.”

Fuck.
Chapter End Notes

and the mess gets messier…

i’d love to hear your thoughts/theories in the comments :)

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 leitmotif
Chapter Notes

please take a moment to familiarise yourself with the tags once more before reading this chapter. also, just a gentle
reminder that the characters in this fic are not a representation of anyone in real life. i do not condone the questionable
decisions these characters make and the questionable actions they do.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Ricky is starting to doubt how big New York City actually is.

He’d dropped by the local hole-in-the-wall café that he tended to frequent whenever he
desired something sweet to drink. Ricky doesn’t drink coffee—he hates the taste of it, but he
does like tea. And this café in particular made the most delicious iced tea. Ricky always got
the same thing; a strawberry iced green tea with a splash of honey and hint of mint.

Once he’d ordered at the counter, Ricky had made his way over to the collection point to
wait. His arms were folded as he watched an employee steam a jug of milk, entranced by the
way the girl made pouring latte art look so easy.

”Ricky?”

Hearing his name being called out, Ricky goes to take a step forwards—until he realises that
the voice was coming from behind him, and sounded rather familiar.

Ricky turns around, a disbelieving exhale falling from his lips when his eyes land on the
owner of the voice. “Gunwook, hey.”

The singer is dressed in a relaxed pair of blue-washed jeans, a white t-shirt tucked into the
waistband. He’s wearing the same scruffy sneakers he’d been wearing when Ricky had run
into him at the park, though there was a different cap sitting backwards on his head this time.
Just like Ricky flips his fashion choices depending on where he is and what he’s doing,
Gunwook seems to do the same thing. You wouldn’t be able to guess that Gunwook was
actually a punk rock singer if you randomly saw him on the street.

It’s completely different from Gyuvin. The bassist seemed to always be dressed in swathes of
black and chains and leather. Even his attitude stayed the same.

But here, Gunwook seemed to encapsulate a total boy next door look. It’s amusing to picture
this version of Gunwook against the charismatic one that seemed to be left behind in Petal &
Thorn. Ricky wonders which side of Gunwook is the real one.

Gunwook isn’t alone though—there’s a little girl hiding behind his legs, and she has her arms
wrapped around Gunwook’s left knee. A curious pair of wide eyes blink up at Ricky, though
she ducks back behind Gunwook when Ricky shoots her a friendly smile. This must be that
younger sister Gyuvin had mentioned.

”Fancy seeing you here,” Gunwook muses, smiling handsomely at Ricky. He notices where
Ricky’s attention has diverted to and chuckles. “This is my baby sister, Gyuri. She’s a little
shy.”

”That’s okay,” Ricky replies. He wishes he knew how to be more accomodating around kids
—Ricky knows that he can come across a little scary, especially with his resting bitch face
and cold aura. Because he’d grown up as an only child and all of his cousins were older than
him, Ricky had never quite learned how to act around kids. He always felt a little awkward
and out of place. “What brings you here?”

Here, not quite meaning the café—Ricky wasn’t trying to be rude, but he’s fairly sure
Gunwook doesn’t live in this area. This suburb had a seven-figure price tag attached to the
property value of any residence, and he knows Gunwook doesn’t have that kind of cash.

Gunwook’s answer is momentarily interrupted by Ricky’s name being called out—this time
by an employee, and Ricky politely excuses himself to grab his drink from the counter. When
he returns, Gyuri has inched out from behind Gunwook’s leg enough to peer curiously at
Ricky, though she doesn’t hide away again this time.

”Gyuri likes the parks here better than the ones we have at home,” Gunwook explains, resting
his hand on the back of Gyuri’s head. “I do, too. They’re safer, and the equipment is never
damaged or broken. She’s even made a friend, and they have little play dates every
Wednesday.”

Well, that was sweet. It’s a little upsetting to hear that the city is behind on park maintenance,
but what else is new? Ricky knows firsthand that the council would rather spend their money
on upgrading the more affluent suburbs, rather than maintaining the poorer ones.

Gunwook’s name is called a moment later, and he slowly walks over to the counter because
Gyuri is still attached to his leg. He hands Gyuri her drink first—a small paper cup, likely
filled with a warm chocolate since the weather was rapidly cooling. Just as Ricky had,
Gunwook also opted for a cold drink—though his choice was an iced americano, to which
Ricky wrinkled his nose at.

”You live around here, right?” Gunwook asked once he shuffled back over.

”I… yeah,” Ricky replies, voice sounding a little unsure. He doesn’t recall ever mentioning
that to Gunwook, though. Even Gyuvin still doesn’t know where Ricky lives, so of course
Ricky has to ask the question. “How did you know that?”

Gunwook chuckles, an easy sounding thing, and he’s barely phased by Ricky’s confusion.
“It’s a rich area. You’re a rich guy. I guess I just put two and two together.”

”Ah, I suppose you have a point,” Ricky agrees with a shrug. There’s a few more patrons
entering the café, and he realises that they probably shouldn’t be lingering around the drinks
counter for much longer, lest they hold up the flow of the workers. “Do you want to sit down
for a bit? Unless you need to get to the park already?”

”We have some time to kill. I’d love to chat for a little longer.”

They find a table tucked in the corner of the cafe. Ricky takes a seat in one of the leather
armchairs, and Gunwook sits opposite him with Gyuri perched on his knee. Overhead hung
vintage filament bulbs, and they cast a soft golden glow over the table when Ricky rests his
drink on the polished dark marble table.

From the window, Ricky observes the busyness of the city. Yellow taxis were interspersed
between glossy cars, and the occasional school bus raced past for afternoon drop off.
Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk, bundled up in pea coats and woolly scarves wrapped
around their neck to combat the autumn chill. Ricky wonders who they are and where they’re
going. He’s always loved people watching, and it was where he drew a lot of his inspiration
to paint from. Stories that surrounded him with no artist to illustrate them.

Gunwook speaks up once Gyuri has settled, nursing her drink as she stares silently at Ricky.
It’s a little disconcerting, he’ll be honest. There’s something awfully soul-seeing in the way
children seem to be able to gaze intently with those innocent eyes of theirs. Ricky wonders
what she’s thinking about. Hopefully, Gyuri isn’t trying to implode Ricky with the force of
her sight.

”You told me you’re studying art, right? Do you mean paintings, and whatnot?”

Ricky nods, taking a delicate sip of his tea. “Painting is something I do, but there’s also other
areas—like sculpting, sketching, digital art, and photography. Sometimes we do mixed media
too, that’s where we use multiple types of materials to create a piece. Like paints and textiles
and everyday items such as buttons and photographs.”

”Oh, that sounds awesome!” Gunwook gushes, and he sounds extremely genuine. He looks
down at Gyuri, tapping her gently on the shoulder. “Did you hear that? Ricky goes to
university to draw! And paint! It’s like arts and crafts, but for adults!”

The snort that leaves Ricky’s nose is entirely unwanted, and he raises a hand to shield his
face in embarrassment. But the siblings just look amused by his reaction—both of them in
fact—Gunwook, with his smile dimming from enthusiasm into something more soft, and
Gyuri had a sparkle in her big brown eyes that wasn’t there before.

”I guess you could put it that way. Though, my professors might faint if I tried to use glitter
glue in an assessment,” Ricky remarks with a bitten-back grin.

”You can’t use glitter glue?”

Ricky is a little taken aback by Gyuri’s sudden question. She has a sweet voice, like tinkling
bells on Christmas morning. He notices that Gyuri speaks the same way that Gunwook does,
with that slight slur. It’s cute.
”Well…” Ricky drawls, putting on an overexaggerated act as he pretends to heavily ponder
Gyuri’s words—finger tapping against his chin and eyes rolled upwards. Gyuri loves it
though, giggling quietly into the paper cup as she watches Ricky acting like he’s lost in
thought. “You know, now that you mention it, my professor never explicitly said that we can’t
use glitter glue. What do you think? Should I use it for my next project?”

”Yes! Yes!” Gyuri exclaims. She’s so excited that she starts trying to jump up and down
where she’s sitting, and Gunwook grabs the warm chocolate from her hands in a panic before
it gets spilled all over his jeans.

“Yah, Gyuri-ah,” Gunwook scolds, and the rest of his sentence is alien to Ricky’s ears. He
knows a little bit of Korean, but not enough to clearly understand what Gunwook is saying.
Whatever Gunwook tells Gyuri makes her pout, but she settles down and makes grabby
hands at the drink which Gunwook hands back over. She doesn’t look too disgruntled, and
something in Ricky’s chest tightens when he watches the two siblings interact. It’s glaringly
obvious that they care about each other deeply.

It makes Ricky think about how much he missed out on as a kid, being the only child in his
family. He’d had Zhang Hao of course, but his cousin was more like his best friend than
brother. It was an entirely different bond to the one Ricky could have had if he had a sibling.

Maybe he would have had an older brother to take care of him, like Gunwook looked after
his sister. Or perhaps, Ricky could have been the older brother. Would he have gotten along
with his siblings, like Gunwook and Gyuri seemed to? Or would he fight with them all the
time, like Jiwoong and Yujin did?

Ricky mulls over his thoughts as he takes another drink from his iced tea. “Do you have any
other siblings?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. Only Gunwook’s little sister had
ever been brought up in conversation, so Ricky is a little surprised when Gunwook nods.

”Yeah, I have a brother. He’s a year younger than I am,” Gunwook answers, and Gyuri seems
to perk up a little at the topic of her other brother. “His name is Gunho. We look pretty
similar, actually. People mistake us as twins all the time.”

”Really? I guess you’re pretty close then, right?”

Gunwook pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes shift, looking out the
window as an indecipherable expression passes over his face.

”We used to be. Not so much anymore.”

The singer doesn’t offer any more information than that, and Ricky is a little taken aback.
He’d thought that the closer in age siblings were, the closer they were in general. Granted,
he’s only taking examples from Zhang Hao—his cousin had a sister one year older than he
was, and while they did squabble more often than not, Ricky knows that Zhang Hao and
Xiaoting would die for each other. On the other hand, Ricky knows for a fact that Yujin
would try to save his own skin before scraping his knees for Jiwoong.
But here Gunwook was, defying what Ricky had thought to be fact. “I’m sorry to hear that.
Hopefully one day the two of you can restore the brotherly love you once had. If I
unintentionally brought up any uncomfortable memories, I apologise immensely.”

Gunwook shakes his head. “Nah, you’re fine. What’s in the past is in this past, and I can’t
change that. All I can do is try to move forward. He’s doing good, though. Going to college
and everything, I’m proud of him. He’s studying law, I definitely think he’s smarter than I
am.”

Ricky allows a half-smile to grace his face. “What are you trying to say? Don’t put yourself
down.”

”Oh I’m not, quite the opposite in fact,” Gunwook corrects him. “I did really well in school, I
probably could have gotten a scholarship if I’d tried for one. I’ve always loved learning new
things and I was in a bunch of clubs too.”

”Then what stopped you?”

”From going to university?” Gunwook clarifies, and Ricky nods. “Well, life, I suppose. Ironic
to say as a twenty year old, I know that. But things didn’t shape out how I thought they would
when I finished school, and I needed to stick around home for a while.”

Ricky wonders if it has something to do with his family. He remembers Gyuvin mentioning
that Gunwook’s mother was a single parent, and Gunwook seemed to be taking on the
responsibility of not only being an older brother to Gyuri, but also a father.

“Mummy said he couldn’t go,” Gyuri pipes up, “she said he had to stay and ‘be man’. What
does that mean?”

She tilts her head up to look at Gunwook, expectantly waiting for an answer. Gunwook holds
back a grimace and puffs out a gentle sigh, gently mussing Gyuri’s hair which pulls a tiny
squeal from her. “She means that someone has to take care of you, hm? Who else would give
you piggybacks and teach you your timetables?”

“Okay,” is all Gyuri replies with, and Ricky snickers behind his hand. Kids truly are so easy
to appease, and he wonders if he was like that as a child.

“What about the band?” Ricky asks. “I’m sure you guys will eventually go on a tour. Your
mother does know, right?”

“Yeah, she does. At first she wasn’t too keen on it—I mean, she still isn’t. But I think she’s
beginning to realise that Disorderly Conduct isn’t just a silly thing I do with my friends. We
have a label now, and an album that’s being released in a matter of weeks. Obviously we
won’t know how many records we sell, but Hongjoong is confident in us, so I’m thinking
positive thoughts.” Gunwook blushes with a smile and takes a sip of his iced americano he’d
seemed to have forgotten about. “He’s such a great guy. I’m pretty sure he lives in the studio
actually, and he’s working really hard to make this debut album as perfect as it can be. We’ve
only got two more songs that we need to record, and then everything else is up to him and the
label.”
Ricky wasn’t surprised to hear about Hongjoong’s dedication to the band. Of course Ricky
constantly hounded Seonghwa for updates about what Hongjoong was doing, and each time
he was disappointed to hear the chef say Hongjoong was still busy. It’s a difficult situation to
be upset over, though—on one hand, Ricky is annoyed with Hongjoong for neglecting
Seonghwa in favour of his producing job. But on the other hand, Gunwook looks so damn
happy that Ricky almost feels bad for having anger simmer beneath his skin like this.

“Has she become more supportive now then, with all of the changes happening?”

“She’s definitely slowly coming around. I think, if we can sell a decent amount of records,
she’ll hopefully stop trying to push me into going to college. The band is what I want to do
with my life now.” Gunwook pauses, leaning his chin gently on top of Gyuri’s head as his
mind seems to take him to a distant place. “You know, it started out as a bunch of guys just
messing around with instruments. It’s kind of crazy that we’ve managed to end up here.”

Ricky hums in agreement. “Life has a funny way of working, doesn’t it?”

“It sure does. But I think life has good sense.”

Assuming Gunwook is talking about the band, Ricky nods along. He’s about to open his
mouth to continue the conversation but he’s interrupted by the singer.

“Life has good sense, because I was able to meet you,” Gunwook remarks with a warm
smile. Ricky’s mouth snaps shut as his cheeks flood with heat—and it’s not like Gunwook
had even said anything inherently flattering. The singer just sounded so genuine that Ricky
couldn’t help but feel a little shy.

“Don’t do that,” Ricky grumbles, but he isn’t annoyed. Gunwook laughs breathily and flashes
Ricky an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. I know you don’t think of me like that. I guess I just get carried away when there’s a
handsome man in front of me.”

Ricky isn’t the type of man who is easily lost for words. His knowledge of language is
extensive, and he’s generally rather quick witted—he has to be. Yet, the smoothness of
Gunwook’s delivery seems to have tied Ricky’s tongue into a knot, even if what Gunwook
had said hadn’t been anything remarkable in of itself. Rather, the singer's words were cheesy
and unoriginal, yet they still managed to set off butterflies in Ricky’s stomach.

When Ricky looks up, he almost startles from the intensity in Gunwook’s eyes. Because the
singer hasn’t looked away, not even when Ricky’s eyes had locked onto his.

Ricky once had a thought; that he could get lost in Gyuvin’s eyes and drown in them. To be
dragged down by the strong currents and have his lungs filled with murky water until he
could no longer breathe.

Death. The thrill of the unknown. And Ricky just knows that wherever he ended up in his
next life, Gyuvin would find him again.
But Gunwook’s eyes aren’t like that. It’s intriguing how the two best friends can have the
same coloured irises, yet still look so different. Looking into Gunwook’s eyes has Ricky
feeling like he’s stepping into first class on a plane, ready to fly on an adventure that could
take him anywhere.

”Ew.”

Ricky is startled out of his thoughts by Gyuri, who is looking back and forth between him
and Gunwook. Her nose is wrinkled up and eyes narrowed as she thinks thoughts that only a
five year old could. “You guys are gross,” she declares, letting her gaze rest on her older
brother. “Like when you—“

Whatever Gyuri was about to say is cut off by Gunwook putting his hand over her mouth.
“Don’t be rude, Gyuri-ah.” He sends Ricky an apologetic smile. “I think she’s getting a little
restless. We should probably get going now anyway, I sort of lost track of the time.”

Ricky is glad that whatever weird moment they’d been having was broken. He clears his
throat and picks his drink up from the table. “That’s totally fine, I shouldn’t keep you for any
longer than I have.”

All three of them stand from the chairs, and Gunwook seems to be thinking hard about
something, what with the way his brows are furrowed and nibbling on his bottom lip.

“We’re going to play at Petal and Thorn again, this friday,” Gunwook blurts out. He shifts on
his feet a little, looking awfully nervous for some reason. “I think this will be the last time we
get to play there for a while. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but someone from the
marketing department has been discussing with us about having Disorderly Conduct as the
opening act for some concerts later in the year. I know you’re a busy guy, but I thought I’d
extend the offer just in case you wanted to come?”

“I’ll go.”

“It’s fine honestly, you don’t need to apologise—wait really?”

“Yes,” Ricky replies with a chuckle. It’s been too long since he had a night out, and Zhang
Hao wouldn’t stop bothering Ricky through their text messages.

And, maybe, Ricky wanted to see Gyuvin.

“Oh, awesome!” Gunwook sounds positively chuffed. “We’re also having a little party
afterwards, at Hanbin’s. It’s sort of like a celebration of our album dropping.”

“I’ll see where the night takes me,” Ricky replies, answering Gunwook’s unspoken question.
“It was pleasant bumping into you—and Gyuri, it was lovely to meet you!”

Gunwook gently nudges his sister, raising a brow in a silent prompt to answer Ricky.

“You’re prettier in person,” she says, and Gunwook makes a strange choking sound. Before
Ricky can even ask what that meant, Gunwook is hurrying Gyuri out of the cafè and waving
a hasty goodbye to Ricky.
He’s still standing at their table. Shrugging, Ricky checks the time on his phone and decides
he should get going too—he had dinner plans with his parents, and tardiness was not
something they took lightly.

“Ugh. It has literally been forever since we had a night out on the town,” Zhang Hao remarks
as he leans against the bathroom basin, his face only inches away from the mirror as he
swipes an eyeliner pen across his waterline. Zhang Hao had horrific eyesight, and he hated
wearing contact lenses because he complained about how much they dried his eyes out—so
any time Zhang Hao did his makeup, he had to hold his face extremely close to a mirror.

It was rather humorous. Ricky can’t relate—not with his near perfect vision. But he did like
the way glasses looked, and sometimes wore them if he wanted his outfit to look a little
smarter.

”My poor eyesight should not be an accessory for you,” Zhang Hao had complained once. To
which Ricky had said:

”There’s an entire market for these glasses. They’re even called fashion glasses. If Gwen
Stefani can do it, then I can too.”

Ricky adjusts a few pieces of his hair, using his reflection in the mirror to style his hair
sprayed blonde locks until he is satisfied. He was already dressed and ready to go, but Zhang
Hao liked to take his sweet time getting ready. “It’s only been a couple of weeks. Maybe you
should get a hobby.”

The comb that Zhang Hao throws at Ricky misses by a long shot. In Zhang Hao’s defence, he
probably can’t even see Ricky right now.

If you asked Ricky what his cousin did, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. Not really. Because
the thing was, Zhang Hao didn’t really do anything.

Zhang Hao’s family had moved to America a couple of years after Ricky had been born.
Ricky’s father had wanted his brother to be close by, and at that point the Shens had been
established with enough extra cash that they could support another family.

Zhang Hao’s parents helped out with some areas of the Shen business. Xiaoting was a real
estate agent and had been doing that for the last few years, establishing her name in the real
estate field.

But Zhang Hao?

Ricky really hadn’t been joking when he told his cousin to find a hobby.

“I do have a hobby,” Zhang Hao bites back, moving onto his other eye. He uses his thumb to
pull down the skin below his eye, lips parted in concentration as he runs the tip of the pencil
across his waterline.

”Gossiping is not a hobby,” Ricky deadpans.

”Boo. You’re no fun.”

”That’s rich, coming from the guy who uses his spare time to peruse the gossip columns of
magazines and take photos of himself to print out and stick on his bedroom walls.”

Zhang Hao glances at Ricky sidelong, a brow quirked up. “Wow. You’re kind of being a bitch
tonight.”

Ricky shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant as he looks away from his cousin and focuses his
attention on a pothos plant sitting on a high shelf above the bathtub. It’s fake, of course,
because Zhang Hao can barely remember to water himself half of the time, let alone a plant.

Zhang Hao is right: Ricky is being a bitch. For some reason he feels awfully nervous tonight
—the nauseous feeling in his stomach is something he hasn’t felt since he’d had to give his
graduation speech in senior year.

And it's stupid. Because Petal & Thorn is Ricky’s stomping grounds. He has no reason to feel
uneasy, yet here he is, trying to resist the urge to chew on his nails and tear up his cuticles.

”Sorry,” Ricky mutters. He isn’t trying to take it out on his cousin on purpose.

Zhang Hao waves a hand in dismissal, capping the eyeliner pencil and stepping away from
the mirror. He fluffs his hair up—which is now a pretty, chocolate-coloured brown—and
hums in satisfaction when he checks out his appearance. “It’s fine. I know you have things
going on right now that you haven’t told me, but I hope you know that I’ll always be here
when you’re ready.”

Ricky still hasn’t told him about Gyuvin.

And he knows he should. It’s not like Zhang Hao would judge Ricky, or spill the secret to
someone else. His cousin wasn’t like that. For some reason, Ricky just can’t bring himself to
spill everything that has happened between him and Gyuvin.

Ricky wasn’t afraid of Zhang Hao judging him—his cousin had done far worse things with
multiple people at once. He wasn’t scared of Zhang Hao being disappointed, or angry, or
anything like that,

Perhaps, the answer lay in the fact that Ricky wanted to keep Gyuvin all to himself.

Not that he would ever admit that out loud.

”You should wear your Warped Tour shirt, so that we can match,” is what Ricky replies with
instead, and Zhang Hao doesn’t comment on the change of topic. Though, something tells
Ricky that he won’t get away with his secrets for much longer.

If Ricky had thought Disorderly Conduct had been a popular band the last time he’d watched
them play in Petal & Thorn, tonight was even more shocking. The crowd wanting to get
inside the bar was twice as long. Some girls had even made custom shirts with the band
printed onto them.

The Ricky of a year ago would have been tracking the success of the band closely enough to
have already known this. He used to be interested in seeing the growth of bands and
comparing them to each other, but Ricky hasn’t had the time to do that lately. He supposed
it’s part of growing up, understanding when he needed to take a step back from certain areas
of his interests.

One of the girls in line looks at Ricky for a beat too long, something like recognition dawning
across her face. He quickly looks away and tugs Zhang Hao through the door once Mingyu
nods them through. Anyone under the age of forty and hanging around this area of Brooklyn
really shouldn’t have any idea of who Ricky actually was, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

The energy inside the building was crazy. Another band was playing, one that Ricky didn’t
recognise, and he wondered if they were new too. He didn’t really care. They end up at the
bar, and Jay grins when he notices them.

“Ricky!” Jay shouts to be heard over the live band, “I felt like I haven’t seen you for ages!”

Seriously. Ricky doesn’t show up for two weeks and everyone acts like it’s been two years.

Zhang Hao interrupts before Ricky can speak up, a pout on his face. “What about me? Why
are you only talking to Ricky?”

Jay raises an arched brow. “You were here last week. And the week before. You haven’t not
not been here for a long time.”

“You still could have said hello,” Zhang Hao grumbles. Ricky turns to look at his cousin in
disbelief.

“How were you here last week? We were at the gala!”

Zhang Hao snickers. “I got bored and snuck out. Don’t act like I didn’t see your disappearing
act, either. Did you find a cute waiter to hook up with, or something?”

“Or something,” Ricky agrees. At least Zhang Hao hadn’t noticed Gyuvin’s arrival at the
gala. And of the people that did, hopefully they thought Gyuvin was a drunkard that had
walked into the wrong place. No one had drilled Ricky about his disappearance—even
Jiwoong hadn’t asked many questions once Ricky had slipped back into the ballroom.
Though, Ricky couldn't be sure if Jiwoong was oblivious, or just didn’t want to know.

Jay leans across the bar, a serious expression on his face as he looks at Ricky. “I think your
cousin might be an alcoholic. If he ever misses a Friday night here, I’ll have to call the cops
because he’s probably dead.”

Ricky snickers at the bartender, and Zhang Hao punches Jay in the arm with an offended
gasp. “I am not! I hope you don’t forget how well I tip you, asshole!”
Jay laughs good naturedly, taking a step away and putting his hands up in defence. “I’m just
messing with you, Hao. You’re my favourite customer after all.”

”I’ll be your only customer soon,” Zhang Hao grumbles, but the threat doesn’t seem to phase
Jay. The bartender reaches above to grab down two martini glasses from the hanging rack,
gently settling them on the bar top and turning around to peruse the liquor bottles sitting on
the shelving.

“After anything in particular tonight? Or do you want me to surprise you?”

Zhang Hao asks for an apple martini, but Ricky declines the alcohol and asks for a mocktail
instead. That makes Jay turn around with a bottle of vodka in one hand, apple schnapps in the
other, and a judgemental eyebrow raised. “Seriously? Are you feeling okay?”

Ricky can feel his cousin’s stare burning into the side of his skull, but he pretends to not
notice. “Yeah. Just not in the mood to get smashed tonight.”

”Suit yourself,” Zhang Hao snorts. “I’m going to need at least three drinks before I step foot
in that house tonight.”

Before Ricky can even ask what his cousin means by that, there’s a ripple of applause
through the room. He looks over his shoulder, towards the stage, and is greeted by the
familiar sight of the Disorderly Conduct band members walking across the raised platform.

Gunwook makes eye contact with Ricky first. He beams and waves at Ricky, causing at least
three girls standing near the bar to squeal because they thought the singer was waving at
them. Ricky raises his fingers to wiggle them back in a little wave—but then Gunwook
almost loses his balance, and Ricky shifts his gaze over to see who had shoulder-barged the
singer.

It’s Gyuvin of course. Who else would it be?

The two bandmates swap a glare. The strain between them likely goes unnoticed by most of
the crowd, but not Ricky. Not when he’s staring at Gyuvin’s face and can see each minuscule
movement of his muscles. The bassist's jaw is locked and there’s tension pulling his brows
together. The whole thing happens in the span of only one second, but Ricky is eagle eyed
enough to witness everything.

They move into their positions after that—Gunwook to the centre stage, and Gyuvin to the
left. The bassist picks up his guitar and strums the strings a few times, twisting the tuning
pegs to adjust the sound until he’s satisfied. But he’s tense. Ricky can see it—the lines of
Gyuvin’s shoulders a little too sharp, his knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the
instrument. This isn’t the cocky and relaxed Kim Gyuvin that Ricky had been acquainted
with.

Gunwook begins to speak into the microphone, but Ricky isn’t really listening. He turns back
around just in time to see Jay sliding Zhang Hao’s drink over. Ricky snatches the glass up by
the stem before his cousin can, and he gulps half the drink down in one go.
”What the hell happened to ‘I’m not getting smashed tonight?’” Zhang Hao complains,
grabbing the glass from Ricky once he’d drunk his fill.

Ricky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes away from the bar. “I’m going
to mosh for a little bit. If I don’t see you around, we’ll catch up at the house.”

And Zhang Hao is calling after him, but RIcky steps backwards into the crowd, and it doesn’t
take long for him to be swallowed up by the sweaty bodies. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t
care. He lets the music sink into his skin and throws his hands in the air, getting thrown
around in the crowd like he’s nothing more than a puppet on strings.

”Hey, princess,” a voice murmurs in Ricky’s ear, and he doesn’t even have to turn around to
know who it is. But Ricky still tilts his head, shivering slightly when he feels Gyuvin’s nose
brush against his neck tattoo.

”That’s new,” Ricky comments, and Gyuvin chuckles quietly.

A large hand slips down Ricky’s arm, calloused fingers intertwining with Ricky’s soft ones.
There’s a shift in the air behind him, and before Ricky knows it Gyuvin is raising their joined
hands in the air, spinning Ricky around in a twirl. He’s completely unprepared and stumbles
forwards, but Gyuvin is there and catches him by snaking his arms around Ricky’s slim
waist.

”You look like a princess tonight,” Gyuvin explains, raking his gaze down Ricky’s outfit.
And Ricky doesn’t know how he looks like a princess. Sure, his shirt may be ironed, but last
time he checked, the royal family didn’t wear leather pants and studded belts. The nicest
thing Ricky was wearing were the multiple delicate silver earrings adorning his ears.

The bassist begins to slowly sway them back and forth, and it’s a little funny to Ricky that
they’re doing a two-step in a mosh pit of drunken punks. It’s a miracle that no one has
bumped into them—it’s as if Gyuvin and Ricky are in their own little bubble that no one else
can enter.

Gyuvin’s energy is totally different now. On the stage before, he’d been a vision of anger.
He’d played his bass so hard that Ricky had thought it might break. But he was a lot calmer
now. And not calm in the sense that he was being his usual arrogant self.

Calm in a different way.

Calm in a way that Ricky wasn’t used to.

“Do I look like a punk rock princess?” Ricky asks, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as he
looks up at Gyuvin. “Or do you think I look more like Princess Mary of Denmark?”

”Neither.”

Ricky frowns. He extracts his arms from where they had been squeezed between his and
Gyuvin’s bodies, reaching up to wrap his hands around the back of Gyuvin’s neck instead. He
can feel how hot the bassist's skin is there, like molten lava against Ricky’s cold fingers.
“Then what kind of princess am I?”

The corners of Gyuvin’s lips quirk up, just a touch. He squeezes Ricky’s waist a little tighter
and leans in to ensure Ricky can hear him over the din of the crowd. All that comes out of
Gyuvin’s mouth is one word, one syllable, one exhale of hot breath against Ricky’s cheek.

”Mine.”

Ricky rolls his eyes. “I’m not an object you can own.” He feels Gyuvin’s lips brush against
his cheek. Featherlight, something that could be mistaken for a kiss of affection. It sends
alarms blaring in his head.

”Maybe I should mark you up,” Gyuvin suggests, a smile evident in his tone. He pulls back a
little, smirking down at Ricky as they continue to sway. “You’d look good in purple, don’t
you think?”

“I don’t want your grimy teeth on me,” Ricky replies smoothly. He curls his fingers, scraping
his manicured nails against Gyuvin’s nape, feeling the bassist shudder slightly. “You’d
probably give me rabies.”

It’s a mean joke, Ricky can acknowledge that. But he wasn’t sure how to act around this
version of Gyuvin—the one that treats Ricky like a delicate flower and touches that could be
considered gentle. Almost caring.

This isn’t the Gyuvin that Ricky is used to. This isn’t the same man who fucked with Ricky’s
mind and tossed him around like a doll.

This isn’t the dynamic they’d created. And that scares Ricky, a little.

Gyuvin halts their dancing. The humour in his eyes has disappeared, replaced with that all
too familiar stormy expression that Ricky is used to. “What.”

It isn’t posed as a question. But Ricky finds great satisfaction in riling the bassist up. This is
the reaction he’d wanted, after all.

He shrugs, nonchalant. “You heard me.”

”Maybe you aren’t a cat,” Gyuvin growls. Ricky blinks, and suddenly the bassist has his hand
around Ricky’s face, squishing his cheeks and shaking his head back and forth. “Because last
time I checked, a bitch is a dog.”

Well. That’s the second time tonight that Ricky has been called a bitch. Maybe he should try
to piss someone else off and get a third. He could set a personal record.

”Takes one to know one.” The words are slurred together because Ricky can’t open his mouth
properly when Gyuvin is holding his face like this—but the bassist still hears him. Gyuvin
opens his mouth, a smart retort likely locked and loaded, but then he stops. Exhales a deep
breath through his nose.
”Why are you like this?” He mutters. There’s still anger tinging his tone, but this wasn’t the
response Ricky had been expecting, and he’s a little taken aback.

Gyuvin relaxes his grip, fingers trailing down Ricky’s cheeks to grasp his chin instead. It’s an
ironclad hold—not only physically, but also mentally. Ricky feels a little uncomfortable at the
intensity of Gyuvin’s gaze. It reminds Ricky of the first night they met at the bar, when
Gunwook had been dragging the bassist away through the crowd. Back then, Ricky swore
that Gyuvin could see inside his mind and read his thoughts. But now?

Now, it feels like Gyuvin is looking into Ricky’s soul.

”I don’t know what you mean,” Ricky answers, because he doesn’t.

“Maybe that’s the issue. You seem to be talented with the way you can turn a good situation
into a bad one. But I guess it makes sense, doesn’t it? A spoiled brat like you wouldn’t know
genuinity even if it hit you in the face.”

Ricky scoffs. “That’s not true.”

“Bullshit. You can’t see genuinity because you aren’t genuine,” Gyuvin retorts. He tips
Ricky’s chin up, a wildfire blazing in his eyes. This is good. This is what Ricky wanted. He’ll
choke on the smoke and fall uselessly to his knees as his lungs fill up with Gyuvin’s rage. “I
don’t know what I’m even doing with you. Sometimes…”

A muscle in the bassist's jaw ticks, and he looks to the side, like holding eye contact with
Ricky when he speaks his next sentence pains him. “Sometimes, you remind me of him. And
I know you’re bad news but for some reason I can’t stay away.”

That’s a bit fucking ironic. There’s no way that Gyuvin honestly thinks that Ricky is the
problem here. “I think you’ve got that twisted.”

“No,” Gyuvin shakes his head, “I don’t.”

Someone finally bumps into Ricky. He’s taken off guard—too lost in his own head;
gravitating around Gyuvin at two-hundred miles per hour in a dizzying spin. Ricky loses his
footing and stumbles, but the bassist is quick to catch him—one arm tightly circling around
Ricky’s waist, and a hand wrapping around Ricky’s bicep.

Both of them are surprised. Ricky, because he’d expected Gyuvin to let him fall, and Gyuvin
seemed to be thinking the same thing if the way his forehead creased into a confused frown
was any indication.

But he doesn’t let Ricky go.

Gyuvin’s thumb digs into the skin beneath Ricky’s ribs. Even through the thick cotton fabric
of Ricky’s shirt, the touch is still enough to pull a stuttered gasp from him. Gyuvin’s eyes
flicker down to Ricky’s mouth, watching how Ricky’s red stained lips part.

There’s so much tension between them. Thick like honey, but the flavour of their emotions is
anything but sweet.
”I don’t know how you can think of me as bad news,” Ricky says, probably too quietly for
the loudness of the bar. But they’re standing so close together that it likely doesn’t matter—
toe to toe, chest to chest. Gyuvin hasn’t let him go, and Ricky hasn’t made an attempt to
move. “You’re the one that’s the big, bad wolf.”

Gyuvin regards him with a scrutinous look. “Maybe I am. But have you ever considered that
you may be the hunter trying to run me out of my den?”

That punches a laugh from Ricky’s chest, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “No way.
You’re kidding yourself, and don’t try to gaslight me into thinking otherwise.”

”It isn’t gaslighting if it’s true.”

”You’re full of shit,” Ricky bites back. He wants to move now, but when he tries to take a
step away, Gyuvin only holds him tighter.

”That foul mouth is going to get you into trouble one day,” the bassist taunts.

“Hasn’t it already?”

”Yeah.”

”Then what are you going to do about it?”

Gyuvin smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ricky would, but they’re interrupted before he can reply. This time it wasn’t someone
knocking into them—it was Hanbin.

”Alright, break it up you two!” The drummer shouts, shoving his hands between Ricky and
Gyuvin’s chests. Ricky is surprised when Gyuvin actually obeys Hanbin’s request. The
bassist takes a step back and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

Hanbin looks between Ricky and Gyuvin, his brow furrowed. He looks extremely sweaty—
likely a result of heavily pounding on a drum set for thirty minutes straight. The perspiration
coating his skin glows in the pulsing lights, pink and blue laser beams tinging his arms in
cotton candy colours. Hanbin is wearing a white muscle tee tonight, one that has a graphic of
skulls and roses printed on the front. The material clings to the divets of his body and
highlights the broadness of his chest and tapered waist. Ricky spots two different tattoos—a
line of text inscribed into Hanbin’s bicep that Ricky can’t quite make out, and a trio of a sun,
star and moon nestled just below his collarbones.

”You need to help Taerae and Matthew pack the van,” Hanbin tells Gyuvin.

Gyuvin glares at Hanbin. “Why the fuck can’t you do it?”

”Because I’m the one that carts you assholes around like some sort of soccer mum,” Hanbin
snaps back, folding his arms across his chest. His muscles bulge when he does that, and
Ricky wonders if it’s purposeful.
”Well, what about Gunwook? What is he doing?”

”He’s busy. Don’t make me ask you again, Gyuvin.”

”Whatever,” Gyuvin scoffs, throwing his hands in the air. He turns on his heel and begins to
push through the crowd, uncaring of who he elbows and the dirty looks thrown his way. He
doesn’t look back, not even once, and soon enough Ricky can’t see the top of his auburn head
anymore.

He’s alone now, with Hanbin. And the crowd seems to close in around them now—almost
like the energy between Ricky and Gyuvin had been enough to keep everyone away. Ricky
looks over to Hanbin, watching the drummer shove his hand in the back pocket of his jeans
and procure a carton of cigarettes.

Hanbin shakes it, jerking his head towards the back exit. “Wanna join me?”

Ricky shrugs. “Sure.”

There’s a brisk chill in the air, and Ricky shivers when he follows Hanbin out into the alley.
The door closes behind them with a clang, the sound echoing around the damp bricks.
Hanbin doesn’t linger around the door, instead walking a little bit down the alley, and Ricky
follows him. There isn’t anyone else around, excluding two girls making out down the
opposite side of the alley, but they’re far too lost in each other to notice the presence of Ricky
and Hanbin. Ricky knows that there’s a smoking space in the front terrace of the bar, but he
supposes Hanbin had chosen to come out here to avoid getting interrupted.

The drummer leans against the bricks as he thumbs out two cigarettes. He passes one over to
Ricky, and leans over to light the end of the stick once Ricky has placed it between his lips.
Ricky takes a drag and is surprised by the minty taste. Menthols.

After Hanbin lights his own cigarette he takes a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for
a few seconds before exhaling. Ricky thinks that the drummer must be stressed about
something—especially when Hanbin’s head thunks back to rest against the damp brick wall
behind him. Ricky isn’t sure if he should tell Hanbin to peel away from the wall or not,
because the chances of someone having pissed on the bricks was awfully high.

”So,” Hanbin finally speaks up after a few minutes of quiet smoking, “you’re Ricky. Right?”

”That’s me,” Ricky confirms. It feels a little awkward to be out here alone with Hanbin.
Ricky has never really spoken to the drummer before, and he wonders what the other man is
thinking.

Hanbin squints at Ricky, blowing a breath of smoke from the side of his mouth so that it
doesn’t hit Ricky in the face. “Gyuvin said that this bar is yours. Is that true?”

Well. Technically the bar wasn’t Ricky’s—it was his fathers, but technicalities aside Ricky
could be considered the owner. He tells Hanbin this much, to which the drummer lets out a
dry chuckle. “Wow. I don’t know what the hell Gyuvin has gotten himself into now.”
Ricky reels back. “Excuse me?”

Hanbin smiles, but it's anything but kind. He taps a finger against his cigarette, and one of the
embers floats down on a current of wind and burns a tiny hole through the hem of Hanbin’s
shirt. Either the drummer doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care. “Forgive me for being a bit of an
ass, Mister Ricky. It’s just that I don’t think the two of you are a good match.”

Ricky doesn’t know why Hanbin is talking about the relationship Ricky has with Gyuvin as if
it's anything but casual. What kind of twisted information has Gyuvin been feeding Hanbin
with?

”You know, you kind of sound like a pseudo father right now,” Ricky replies, trying to keep
things lighthearted. He doesn’t know Hanbin—he doesn’t even know Gyuvin either, not
really. Ricky isn’t sure what sort of fragile relationship he’s tiptoeing on between the two
bandmates, but this isn’t a drama he wishes to get involved with.

”I suppose that isn’t too far off the mark.”

Ricky brings the cigarette to his lips, contemplating as he sucks in the nicotine. His
involvement with Gyuvin was supposed to be a secret. It wasn’t like the bassist had promised
Ricky he would keep the information to himself, but a small part of Ricky had hoped that
Gyuvin might. It would only take the wrong person getting this gossip to tell another person,
and then another person after that. A chain of nightmares that would take a bigger scandal to
cover up.

”What has he told you?”

”Nothing,” Hanbin replies simply, surprising Ricky. Hanbin notices this and scoffs. “I mean,
Gyuvin has never been the most subtle guy. He hasn’t explicitly told me anything about
whatever is going on between you,” Hanbin reveals, gesturing vaguely in Ricky’s direction.
“But it is a little obvious, don’t you think? I saw him follow you into the bathroom that night,
weeks ago. And when you showed up at Hongjoong’s studio, you looked like you’d seen a
ghost when you noticed Gyuvin was in there. And then of course, he ran after you, and I
didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon.”

Fuck. This entire time, Ricky had been so worried about his parents or Jiwoong finding out,
that he hadn’t even thought about the people closest to Gyuvin. “You’re an observant guy,
aren’t you?”

Hanbin smiles wryly. “I have to be, if I want to keep this band together. Gunwook doesn’t
understand that there’s more to leading a band than just creative direction. Matthew and
Taerae are too busy sucking face half the time to notice things until I tell them. And then
there’s Gyuvin… he’s the one responsible for most of the fights. It’s always between him and
Gunwook too. And if I’m being completely candid here, Mister Ricky…” Hanbin puffs on
his cigarette, flicking the ash to the ground. “Lately, a lot of the fights have been about you.”

Ricky blanches, almost dropping his cigarette. “Me?” He repeats, brow furrowed as Hanbin’s
words reverberate around in his mind. “Why would they be about me?”
”Because—“ a distant clang from inside the bar interrupts Hanbin, and he glances over at the
door. It remains closed and he clears his throat, shaking his head slightly. “Look. I don’t
know what a rich kid like you is doing hanging around a place like this. Even if you own it or
whatever, it’s obvious that this isn’t where you belong.”

”You’re—“ Ricky’s rebuttal is shut down when Hanbin shakes his head and thins his lips out
into a line.

”You don’t belong here,” Hanbin emphasises. “People like you think that you’re the top dogs
of the food chain. And maybe you are, but this isn’t the place you should be flexing that.
Unintentionally or not. You need to realise that guys like us have feelings. We can’t all have
plastic emotions and insouciant reactions. That’s what makes us human, at the end of the
day.”

And all of a sudden, Ricky is striked with a thought. “Is this about me? Or is this about
Zhang Hao?”

All that talk about nonchalance has really proven Hanbin’s point—especially when the
drummer can’t hide the way his face darkens. He looks to the side, cigarette clenched a little
too tightly between his fingers, and Ricky wonders what had happened between his cousin
and the drummer. Ricky knew firsthand that his cousin was a bit of a player. He’d all but
forgotten about the little tryst Zhang Hao had apparently had with Hanbin. They’d fucked at
least twice, but after that, Ricky had heard nothing about the drummer from his cousin.

”I suppose it’s a generalisation,” Hanbin eventually replies, and that’s an answer enough in
itself. “You have a whole other life to live. You’ll just ruin it if you stay here.”

And now Ricky is confused. “I genuinely can’t tell if you care about my wellbeing, or you
just don’t want me around Gyuvin. Which one is it?”

”Both,” Hanbin says with a sigh. He glances back over at Ricky, the lack of lighting in the
alleyway casting a shadow across his face. It’s an ominous look, especially when the
drummer puffs out another breath of minty smoke. “You’re young—both of you are. This
thing that’s going on between you two isn’t healthy. He’s even started to write songs about
you.”

”Is that really so out of the ordinary for a musician?”

“Gyuvin doesn’t care about music. He doesn’t care about the band very much either, if I’m
being honest. In fact, Gyuvin doesn’t care much about anything.”

Something dreadful washes over Ricky. It’s cold and steals his breath away and it feels like
his lungs are filled with sticky tar.

And he’s fairly certain that it isn’t the cigarette.

”But,” Hanbin continues, either oblivious to Ricky’s inner turmoil, or indifferent about it,
“He seems to care about you. I’ve known him for a long time, and he doesn’t have to tell me
these things. I can see it.”
”I don’t see how that’s a bad thing,” Ricky says, lying through his teeth.

Hanbin laughs, and Ricky wonders if he’s truly that see-through. ”He isn’t the type of guy
you want to date. He isn’t ready for that.”

“I don’t want to date him. I’m not sure what made you think that.”

The drummer hums, staring at Ricky with eyes that are far too analysing. He opens his mouth
to speak, smoke spilling from his lips, but both men startle when the back door of the bar
flies open hard enough to rebound off of the brick wall.

Ricky’s head whips to the side, and he’s a little taken aback to see Gyuvin standing there.
And the bassist looks pissed.

When Gyuvin’s eyes land on Ricky, he storms out from the doorway. “We’re leaving,” is all
he says, tugging Ricky along by the sleeve of his shirt. Ricky accidentally drops his cigarette
and tries to shake Gyuvin off, but the bassist holds strong. His outraged “What the fuck are
you doing?” Is ignored, and Ricky has to awkwardly hope along to keep up with Gyuvin’s
long strides.

”Where are you going?” Hanbin shouts after them. Ricky looks over his shoulder helplessly,
watching the drummer drop his own cigarette and stub the embers out with his boot. “What
about the party?”

“Fuck that party!” Gyuvin throws over his shoulder. “You can all fuck off! Assholes!”

And as Gyuvin drags Ricky away from the bar, he can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s
gotten himself involved with.

After what may have been the most tense taxi ride of his entire life—Ricky and Gyuvin had
both sat in the back of the car with the middle seat between them empty, Gyuvin staring out
the window the entire time after muttering an address to the driver and saying nothing more
the the rest of the drive—they’d ended up in Queens. At Gyuvin’s house.

Ricky slides out of the taxi and closes the door behind him, crossing his arms across his body
to preserve his warmth. He really should have worn a jacket tonight.

Standing on the sidewalk, Ricky takes in the house's exterior—it looks slightly worn down,
like it had been built a long time ago. The siding had long since faded from what was once
likely a bright red to something more pink-toned. Patches of paint have peeled away in spots
to reveal weathered wood hiding beneath the paint.

The front yard was small, like most of the other house blocks on the street. The grass was
long and in desperate need of a mow, the gravel path to the front door threatening to be
overgrown by weeds and wildflowers. There were hedges on either side of the porch stairs
that clearly had not been trimmed in a long time, and Ricky was fairly certain he could see a
beer can stuck in one of the branches. On the porch, a light above the front door flickers
every so often, like the bulb was on its way out. Mismatched furniture dotted the porch
landing—a couple of old and worn folding chairs, a small glass table and a shoe rack with an
eerie amount of cobwebs looped around the bars.

Gyuvin walks past Ricky without saying anything, and Ricky follows him. To Ricky’s
surprise, they don’t go to the front door—rather, Gyuvin walks around the side of the house,
his boots crunching on the gravel driveway.

It’s a little difficult to see, and Ricky is blindly trusting Gyuvin to not lead him over any holes
in the ground for Ricky to potentially twist his ankle in. But he doesn’t, and they emerge into
the backyard of the house. The driveway leads to a shed that isn’t connected to the main
house, but with the added deck, Ricky is pretty sure the shed isn’t used to store cars—
especially when he sees Gyuvin’s truck parked in the backyard next to a fire pit.

Gyuvin pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocks the door, shoving his shoulder
into the wood when it doesn’t budge at first. He steps inside, raising an eyebrow as he waits
for Ricky to follow.

The interior of the flat was about as Gyuvin as it could get. Ricky steps through the threshold,
Gyuvin closing the door behind him and flicking the overhead light on.

The walls were painted dark grey—clearly a home job, as the paint had seeped into areas of
the skirting board. There were posters and concert tickets of various bands plastered to the
walls, though some of them were half-hanging off due to the tape likely losing its stickiness.

In one corner of the flat, a double bed was nestled against the wall. Unmade with rumpled
tartan sheets, like Gyuvin had rolled out of bed this morning and forgone making it
altogether. There were more posters tacked on the wall above the bed. A few Polaroid
pictures were stuck to one of the bed poles.

On the other side of the room was a living space. A squishy blue couch covered in various
throw blankets and cushions sat below a window that was currently covered by drawn
curtains. In front of the couch, a coffee table was littered with magazines, empty soda cans
and take out boxes. There was sheet music scattered across the surface and Ricky looks away
from that quickly, remembering Hanbin’s words from earlier.

Next to the couch was a small amp plugged into a power socket. There was also a guitar
stand, but it was currently empty—Gyuvin’s bass must still be with the rest of the band.

Speaking of.

Ricky turns to the bassist, who is currently shedding his jacket and tossing it on a standing
coat rack. “Isn’t everyone else coming back here, too?”

”Yeah,” Gyuvin’s response is clipped. He runs a hand through his hair, clearly still irritated.
“No one will bother us though. They’ll stay in the main house.”

”Ah.”
Ricky wonders what has Gyuvin so fired up. Even after the thirty or so minutes it took for
them to get here, the bassist still seemed on edge. Ricky watches as Gyuvin strides over to a
mini fridge that he hadn’t noticed before, yanking open the door and snatching a can of soda
out. Gyuvin closes the door with his foot and opens the can with one hand, bringing it to his
lips and chugging half of it in one go while he stares at Ricky.

Gyuvin wipes his lips, swallowing the soda and setting the can down on top of the fridge.
“What was Hanbin talking to you about?”

”Nothing, really,” Ricky lies, but at least his voice comes out stable. “He was asking about
my cousin. Zhang Hao.”

”Right,” Gyuvin replies slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe Ricky.

”What happened that pissed you off so much?” Ricky dares to ask.

Gyuvin runs his tongue along the top row of his teeth. “Nothing, really,” he replies, echoing
Ricky’s words from earlier, and Ricky tamps down a laugh.

They’re both liars. He guesses it takes one to know one, after all.

Ricky doesn’t follow up on Gyuvin’s response. He stares at him instead, still standing at the
threshold. They do a lot of this, Ricky has noticed. Staring at each other. Sizing the other up,
wondering who will make the first move.

There’s things Ricky still doesn’t know. Things that he needs to know. Bullets that have been
dodged ever since he met Gyuvin. The bassist is a walking mystery, but Ricky seems to
unravel a tiny thread of the man every time they meet. And he keeps them in a little pouch,
wondering when he’ll upgrade to a bigger bag.

Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. Maybe this thing between them will fizzle out before Ricky
can sort through the nine different layers of Kim Gyuvin. He doesn’t know where tomorrow
will take them. All Ricky has is a ticket for tonight, and he’ll use it before it expires.

A coquettish smile curls his heart-shaped lips up. Ricky flutters his lashes, stretching his arms
above his head in a languid movement. He can feel his shirt riding up, and Gyuvin’s gaze
drops to the sliver of stomach that is exposed.

“Perhaps, we should find a way to expend all of that anger,” Ricky suggests.

It’s not a suggestion.

“You think you’re so fuckin’ cool, struttin’ around like you own the place.”

Gyuvin’s breath is hot in Ricky’s ear, annoyance palpable as he tugs harshly on the studded
belt that’s cinching Ricky’s leather pants around his waist. And Ricky smirks, eyes half
lidded and sultry, catlike gaze finding amusement in watching Gyuvin struggle with the
accessory. “That’s because I do.”
A low growl rumbles from the depths of Gyuvin’s throat. It’s cute, Ricky can just about
envision the irritated flick of a tail and ears pointed backwards. Now, he thinks that if Gyuvin
were a dog he wouldn’t even be one of those big and intimidating ones. He would be one of
those little demons that do nothing but shrilly yap and whine.

”Well, you don’t.” Gyuvin finally manages to tug Ricky’s belt loose from the buckle, sliding
it out of the belt loops with no finesse or care. Ricky doesn’t bother raising his hips to help,
just lets his body be jostled around by the roughness of Gyuvin’s hands. “It’s your father who
owns the bar. And about fifty other fuckin’ places in this damn city. You ain’t nothing but a
pathetic, spoiled brat.”

”I don’t see why that matters. At the end of the day, it’s my family’s money that’s paying you.
Without us, you would be nothing.”

Ricky would never admit this out loud, but he feels a zap of excitement every time he
manages to get under Gyuvin’s skin like this. Because to the general public, Kim Gyuvin was
the handsome and swoon-worthy bassist of Disorderly Conduct.

But Ricky knew better.

Kim Gyuvin had a charming, thousand megawatt smile that could turn into something twisted
and sinister in the flash of an eye. And Ricky has known this for a while now, but seeing it
never fails to make his heart beat a little faster.

”Did your daddy pour his blood, sweat, and tears into hundreds of hours of practice, thinking
that the possibility of getting scouted was nothing more than a dream?” Gyuvin bends down,
supporting his body’s weight on one arm, because he was still clutching Ricky’s belt with his
other hand. Like this, Ricky can see just how prominent the veins in Gyuvin’s arm are. “Did
he work part-time at a shitty fast food restaurant just to afford new guitar strings? Did he
personally hand out CD burns of our first single in hopes that at least one person would check
it out?”

Ricky huffs a laugh through his nose. It’s demeaning, and he can see the way Gyuvin’s brows
edge closer together in anger from the sound. “Daddy doesn’t care for sob stories,” Ricky
says mockingly, “so neither do I.”

And Ricky knows that he has pushed the right buttons when he feels the press of Gyuvin’s
forehead on his own. When Gyuvin speaks, their lips are almost close enough to touch.
There’s the faint scent of nicotine and mango iced tea on his breath. “Daddy will care,
because I‘ll have you in tears by the time I’m finished with you.”

The promise is enough to make Ricky’s stomach flip. “I’d like to see you try.”

It’s an empty threat, like all of the other ones that Ricky makes whenever he ends up in
Gyuvin’s orbit. But the bassist tends to have an ego far too large for his own good and Ricky
loves to take advantage of that. Because no one can make him orgasm like Kim Gyuvin does
—though, Ricky will never admit that out loud. God forbid he feed Gyuvin’s ego.
”Is that so?” Gyuvin replies. He shifts, tracing the studded belt across Ricky’s throat,
smirking when he sees Ricky’s adams apple bounce from a subconscious gulp. “Be careful
what you wish for, princess.”

That’s all the warning Ricky gets before he is unceremoniously flipped over. He lets out a
noise of complaint, because he landed on his nose and that hurt, but Gyuvin coughs up no
apologies. Instead, calloused fingers from years of playing bass sneak underneath Ricky’s
hips to nimbly undo the button and fly. Gyuvin wastes no time in yanking both Ricky’s pants
and underwear down, and Ricky can’t help but yelp when his bare ass is exposed to the frigid
temperature of Gyuvin’s bedroom.

”’S matter? Am I being too rough, kitty cat?”

”Stop calling me that,” Ricky hisses, turning his head so that he can glare at Gyuvin. The
bassist chuckles, tossing Ricky’s clothing carelessly onto the ground.

”Why?” Gyuvin replies, pinching Ricky’s inner thigh, tearing another yelp from him. “I
know you think I’m a dog. So it’s only fair, right?”

Yeah, Ricky does think Gyuvin is a dog. A mutt, to be more specific, but Gyuvin cuts him off
before he can even bite back with a scathing remark. “Take off your shirt. Unless you want to
get it messy, then be my guest and keep it on. But you are not borrowing anything from my
wardrobe.”

Fucking prick.

But Ricky does remove his shirt, because it’s his Taking Back Sunday concert tee from the
Warped Tour, and he does not want come stains on it. Gyuvin pushes Ricky face down into
the mattress again, tracing a path down the curved line of Ricky’s spine. His large hand stops
at the small of Ricky’s back where there is a butterfly inked into his skin.

”Prettiest tramp stamp I ever did see,” Gyuvin muses, rubbing his thumb in the middle of the
butterfly. Ricky has other tattoos—a word scripted down the side of his neck, and a sword
with roses curled around the blade on his wrist. But it’s always the butterfly tattoo that seems
to catch Gyuvin’s attention the most.

Probably because it’s right above his ass.

”Fuck off,” Ricky scoffs, “it’s not a tramp stamp.”

”Sounds like something someone with a tramp stamp would say.”

Ricky wiggled his ass. “Are we just gonna talk about the stupid tattoo, or are you going to
fuck me?”

”Wow, someone is impatient for my cock. Maybe if you’d shut up earlier, we could have
been finished by now.”

Ricky can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t, but he really can’t help it. “Yeah, because you
orgasm faster than a pathetic teenager who’s just discovered online porn.”
It’s a lie. Gyuvin doesn’t come that quickly, but Ricky likes to stir the pot. Walk over
Gyuvin’s ego a little bit.

And it’s obviously working, Gyuvin spitting his next words out with irritation. “You’re such a
fucking bitch. All you know how to do is run your mouth. I don’t even know why I keep
coming back for more.”

Ricky has a feeling that Gyuvin didn’t mean to say that last part out loud, but it was too late
for Gyuvin to take back now. And secretly, Ricky agrees.

He doesn’t know what it is about Gyuvin that draws him in. It’s a little pathetic honestly,
because objectively, Ricky could do better. He knows he can.

Gyuvin is a playboy and emotionally unavailable. He likes to push and push until Ricky can’t
take it anymore and snaps.

But Ricky isn’t much better. Because he teases Gyuvin with cruel words and crosses
boundaries like they’re invisible. In a way, Gyuvin and Ricky are sort of perfect for each
other.

”For my ass, of course,” is Ricky’s reply. He cranes his neck to look behind him, and yeah.
He thinks that Kim Gyuvin might be his ruin. The bassist is all messy auburn hair, sticking up
in different directions from where Ricky had pulled it earlier. Dark, piercing eyes that seem to
stare straight into the depths of Ricky’s soul. The corner of his eyeliner is all smudged, but
Ricky knows he probably doesn’t look much better. Knows he won’t look better once Gyuvin
is through with him.

Something passes across Gyuvin’s face, but Ricky blinks and it’s gone. Gyuvin sneers. “Of
course. Why would I want you for anything else?”

Gyuvin presses the pad of his thumb against Ricky’s hole. It’s a little too firm, a little too dry,
and Ricky scowls. “You are not putting any fingers in me without lube, fuckface.”

”Then get it.”

Ricky rolls his eyes, but reaches his arm out for Gyuvin’s nightstand. It’s a mess there,
cluttered by CD’s and cigarette butts that clearly missed the ashtray. There’s a couple of tins
which Ricky knows are home to Gyuvin’s stash of tabs and weed flowers, because this isn’t
the first time he’s fucked around with a guy like Kim Gyuvin. They’re all the same. The lube
bottle is smack bang in the centre of it all, because why bother hiding lube in a drawer if you
don’t hide your drugs?

Gyuvin, being the prick that he is, decides to push his thumb in anyway. Just a little past his
nail, but it’s still uncomfortable.

”Hey! Can you not just wait for two seconds!” Ricky complains. He blindly throws the bottle
backwards, feeling satisfied when he hears a dull thud and a curse from Gyuvin.

”I’ll kill you if that just injured my wrist,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky smiles a little.
”Good. Then I won’t have to see you anymore.”

Neither of them bring up the fact that Ricky clearly needs to be dead before he stops landing
in Gyuvin’s bed. It’s probably for the best.

Gyuvin retracts his thumb, and Ricky can hear the schnick of the cap being opened. Of course
Gyuvin doesn’t bother to warm the lube, because he immediately slips a fingertip into
Ricky’s hole which instantly clamps down from the frigid temperature.

“Fuck,” he swears, fisting the sheets. There’s no time for Ricky to adjust, because Gyuvin
keeps pushing his finger in further until his knuckles press against the bottom of Ricky’s ass.
A second finger prods at Ricky’s entrance and his back arches on a gasp. “Gyuvin, it’s too
much, slow down!”

Ricky’s complaints are ignored when Gyuvin wiggles his second finger all the way in,
scissoring into the tightness of Ricky’s hole. He whines, blindly reaching an arm behind
himself to try and bat Gyuvin away.

”Stop moving,” Gyuvin growls. He grabs Ricky’s wrist and pins it to his back. The fingers
inside Ricky are relentless in stretching him out.

Ricky can’t help but struggle, torn between trying to claw his way away from Gyuvin, whilst
also pushing back onto the bassist’s fingers. Gyuvin plays Ricky just like his bass—rough
and unforgiving, but there’s a rhythmic nature to the way his fingers pump in and out of
Ricky’s puffy hole. They never start off slow, and they’re never soft. Being with Gyuvin is
like getting in a car and hitting the accelerator until they’re going at two-hundred miles down
the highway, seatbelts off and the windows wound all the way down.

He lets out a cry when Gyuvin slips in a third finger, curling all three until he locates Ricky’s
prostate with ease. Gyuvin doesn’t stop, not when Ricky begs and pleads, sobs wracking his
body until he’s a shaking mess and the sheets underneath his face are damp from tears and
spit. The pleasure is too much, it’s too fucking overwhelming when Gyuvin keeps stroking
his fingers against Ricky’s prostate, the lewd squelching of lube accompanied by Gyuvin’s
sinister chuckles.

”Please,” Ricky says on a hiccup, struggling against the grip Gyuvin has on his hand. He uses
his free one to try and pry Gyuvin’s fingers from his wrist, but it only seems to piss Gyuvin
off more.

The fingers inside Ricky stop moving. “Ask nicely,” Gyuvin murmurs.

“I said please,” Ricky whimpers, but it’s not the response that the bassist wants.

”Wrong answer.”

Gyuvin gives his ass a hard slap with the hand that wasn’t buried inside Ricky’s hole. Ricky
keens, back arching into the sheets, his cock throbbing.

”Try again.”
”Please—“ There’s another smack to his ass, and Ricky’s answer is cut off as he chokes on a
sob. He can feel how the skin on his asscheek tingles from the hits, like there’s an army of
ants dancing in a circle there.

”You’ve got one last chance,” Gyuvin growls, curling his fingers inside Ricky and thrusting
them deeply once to prove his point.

Ricky sniffles, fisting at the sheets weekly. “O-oppa. Can you please fuck me, please. I need
it, I need you, I feel like I’m going to fucking die if you don’t put your cock in me.”

There’s a moment of silence—Gyuvin doesn’t move a muscle, even when Ricky clenches
down on his fingers.

”Good kitty.”

And then Gyuvin is finally pulling his fingers out, shuffling around on the sheets. Ricky can
hear the sound of clothes rustling, but he’s too busy trying to regulate his breathing back to a
normal speed to even look behind him.

Something wet brushes against Ricky’s hole. He shivers, steeling himself for the feeling of
Gyuvin’s cock pushing into him, but it never comes.

”Turn over,” Gyuvin demands. Ricky swears he hears Gyuvin’s voice waver slightly. But he
complies, rolling his trembling body over with effort.

But oh, is it worth it.

Ricky is reminded of the time they’d spent together in the back of Gyuvin’s truck. But this
time, the lighting is brighter.

And Gyuvin is naked.

Fuck, Ricky’s cock twitches when he runs his eyes down all of the gorgeous, golden-toned
skin that’s on display. Gyuvin is on the slimmer side, but Ricky can still see the definition of
muscle rippling beneath Gyuvin’s skin. He wonders how strong Gyuvin really is.

Strong enough to hold Ricky against a wall and fuck him until he’s a shaking mess?

Gyuvin smirks, almost as if he knows where Ricky’s mind had wandered off to. He wraps his
hands around Ricky’s thighs and spreads them apart, walking on his knees until he’s close
enough for his cockhead to brush against Ricky’s taint.

”I’ve wanted to fuck you for a while,” Gyuvin admits, sliding his cock teasingly below
Ricky’s balls. “Since I first saw you, to be honest.”

Ricky gasps when he feels Gyuvin’s cock nudging against his rim, anticipating that sweet
pressure, but Gyuvin seems to want to take things slow for once. The bassist ducks his head
down, nipping at the sensitive skin of Ricky’s thighs and leaving tiny marks dotted across the
skin.
”I’m going to ruin you. You know that right, princess? You’ll never be able to take another
man's cock again without thinking of me.”

”Then do it,” Ricky replies in one rushed breath. He wraps a hand around the back of
Gyuvin’s neck, holding their gazes steady. “I want to be ruined. You’d better make good on
that promise, doggy.”

And Gyuvin fucking growls at that, lining his cock up and pushing inside Ricky. It’s
everything Ricky could have imagined. It’s more than Ricky could have imagined.

Ricky feels like he’s being split at the seams in the best way possible. Gyuvin was girthy, and
relentless, and sank deeper far quicker than Ricky had been expecting. His hand slides away
from Gyuvin’s neck, needing to grip onto the sheets instead to ground himself from the
feeling of Gyuvin finally sliding home. It’s hard to relax completely—there’s so much to
focus on, too much to focus on, and it stings a little.

But Ricky likes it.

“Gyuvin—oh fuck,” Ricky whines, all high-pitched and needy when the bassist rolls his hips
fowards. This is what he needs, what he’s wanted, and Ricky feels dizzy when he looks down
to see that Gyuvin is only halfway in.

”You’re so fuckin’ tight,” Gyuvin grunts, spreading Ricky’s legs impossibly further. His
hands are so stupidly big that they easily span the entire surface of Ricky’s thighs, and the
contrast of their skin tones is almost fucking poetic.

Ricky wishes he could see what they looked like together right now. He thinks of those
Michelangelo paintings, thinks that the curve of their two bodies would fit perfectly into one
of those masterpieces.

Will it fit? Ricky doesn’t know if it will even fit. God, he hasn’t been fucked for so long that
he’d forgotten how much he missed it. Forgotten how right it feels to have a nice, thick cock
sheathed in his warm heat. Ricky is already bordering on delirious, so fucking cock-dumb
and Gyuvin isn’t even all the way in yet.

Ricky’s body wants to reject Gyuvin. His stomach is tensing and de-tensing rapidly, thighs
screaming from being held so wide open, but Ricky doesn’t care. He wants Gyuvin, all of
Gyuvin, and it's this train of thought that leads him to wrapping his ankles around the small
of Gyuvin’s back. Neither of them realise what is happening until it does—Gyuvin hisses
when his hips are suddenly flush with the back of Ricky’s thighs, and Ricky cries out in a
combination of pain and pleasure.

”Holy fuck,” Ricky chokes out, mouth dropped open on a silent moan as he feels his body
trying to accomodate the thickness of Gyuvin inside him. And Gyuvin doesn’t seem to be
doing much better—Ricky can hear him breathing heavily, and a bead of sweat trickles down
Gyuvin’s jaw and drips onto Ricky’s chest. “Move. Gyu—oppa, move.”

Yeah. Gyuvin fucking moves, alright.

He fucks into Ricky at an agonisgly slow pace—not what Ricky had been expecting—but
each thrust is hard—which is what Ricky had been expecting.

Every time Gyuvin’s hips snap forwards, Ricky is jolted further up the bed. Soon enough,
Ricky’s head is almost entirely resting on Gyuvin’s pillow, and his stomach flips when he
discovers that he can smell Gyuvin’s natural scent wafting up from the pillowcase.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ricky wonders how often Gyuvin washes his bedding—
if he even washes his bedding. And normally, Ricky would be grossed out by this thought,
but he doesn’t care.

Fuck.

He doesn’t care.

“Focus on me,” Gyuvin demands, grabbing Ricky by the jaw and forcing him to look at the
bassist. “‘S matter, huh? Is it too much? I thought you could handle it.”

Gyuvin begins to thrust faster, the bed creaking in protest beneath them. Ricky swears he can
feel Gyuvin in his stomach, and if he looked down he’d surely be able to see the outline of
Gyuvin’s cock beneath his skin. But he can’t check, not when Gyuvin is holding Ricky’s chin
with an unrelenting grasp. Ricky just knows he’s going to feel the ghost of Gyuvin inside him
for days on end.

And he’s so fucking pleased about that.

”Don’t stop, please don’t stop, more,” Ricky begs. And Gyuvin laughs darkly at the
desperation seeping from Ricky, but he fulfils Ricky’s desires, thrusts getting harsher and
faster.

Dimly, Ricky hears sounds coming from outside, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters
right now—only him, and Gyuvin, and how fucking right their bodies fit together.

Ricky can’t stop babbling, a litany of so fucking good and oppa more more more leaving his
lips in a waterfall of pleasure. He’s normally never this noisy in bed. But no one else has ever
fucked him so good. And then Gyuvin finally finds the perfect angle to hit Ricky’s prostate,
and it’s over. Ricky is gone.

”Fuck. Do you ever shut up?” Gyuvin remarks breathlessly. One of his hands slides up from
Ricky’s thigh, tracing a path up his torso until it finds placement at the base of Ricky’s neck.
Gyuvin isn’t asking for permission, not really, but Ricky nods rapidly and feels those long
fingers wrap around his throat.

When Gyuvin squeezes his fingers, Ricky’s orgasm hits him out of nowhere like a freight
train. He comes untouched with a noisy cry, thighs quivering and stomach trembling, heels
pressing so hard into Gyuvin’s back that he’s sure they’ll leave bruises there. Gyuvin fucks
him through it, fingers so tight around Ricky’s throat that he swears he can see stars. And the
Gyuvin is pulling out, jerking his cock hard and fast until Ricky feels the warmth of Gyuvin’s
come splattering across his stomach, accompanied by a primal groan that sends a shudder
through his body.
Neither of them say anything when Gyuvin flops to the side, laying next to Ricky on his
back. Ricky can already feel his own body stiffening, the repercussions of arching his back
and getting pounded into the sheets catching up to him quickly. The flat is filled with the
sounds of their twin harsh breathing, tired puffs of breath that indicate how tired they both
are.

Gyuvin hauls himself off of the bed after a few minutes, and Ricky’s head lolls around on the
pillow as he watches the bassist tug his briefs on and putter around the flat. He walks back
over to the bed with a box of tissues and—and starts cleaning the drying semen from Ricky’s
stomach.

”What are you doing?” Ricky mumbles, a confused frown tugging at his brows. Gyuvin
pauses his movements, holding the tissue a little above Ricky’s stomach enough to tickle
slightly.

”Why do you keep asking stupid questions?” Gyuvin mutters. He finishes wiping away the
mess of their come, gathering the pile of tissues in one big ball and taking long strides across
the carpet to throw them in the bin. The muscles in Gyuvin’s back shift with each step he
makes, and Ricky is helpless to observe, like a moth drawn to flame.

God. He’s so confused. Having sex with Gyuvin was supposed to help Ricky to figure out his
feelings, but it seems to be doing the opposite. And suddenly, Gyuvin’s flat feels a little too
small, and Gyuvin is looking at Ricky a little too weirdly, and he needs to get out of here.

Ricky sits up and grabs the first clothing item he sees. It’s sweatpants, and they’re most
definitely Gyuvin’s, but the bassist doesn’t say anything as Ricky slips them on. They’re too
big for Ricky and he has to roll the waistband a few times for the pants to sit somewhat
comfortably on his hips. Ricky does manage to find his own shirt, turning it the right way out
before slipping it over his head.

Gyuvin is silent as he watches Ricky getting dressed.

”I need to use the bathroom,” is Ricky’s excuse. “You don’t have one here. Right?”

”It’s in the main house,” Gyuvin replies, and Ricky doesn’t need to be told twice. He strides
over to the door and wrenches it open, immediately getting hit in the face with a gust of
chilly air.

Ricky takes one step outside before Gyuvin speaks up again.

”There’s people inside. I heard them arrive earlier.”

Ricky drums his fingers on the door, glancing over his shoulder at Gyuvin. There’s no
discernible expression on the bassist's face. No smirk, no frown. Nothing.

”I know,” Ricky replies simply. And he closes the door behind him, crossing his arms across
his chest as he picks his way through the backyard.
Maybe if Ricky was in a clearer state of mind, he’d think twice about yanking the back door
of the house open. Maybe, if Hanbin hadn’t revealed earlier that he knew about Gyuvin and
Ricky, he wouldn’t be crossing the threshold of a random house filled with people he didn’t
really know.

But of course, it just has to be Ricky’s poor luck that he emerges into some sort of lounge
area and unintentionally interrupts a lively conversation between three band members.

Gunwook sees him first. The smile drops from his face faster than Ricky can blink—and then
the singer is standing from the couch, storming from the room and disappearing into the
depths of the house. In the distance, a door slams, and Ricky winces when the paintings on
the wall rattle and threaten to fall.

God fucking dammit.

On another couch, Matthew and Taerae were both staring at Ricky. Taerae’s gaze was a little
judgemental, one brow quirked up as he took in Ricky’s dishevelled appearance.

“Well,” Matthew drawls out, smacking his lips together a couple of times. “I guess this was
bound to happen sooner rather than later.”

Ricky narrows his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Matthew gestures vaguely down the hallway. He seems to be a little tipsy too, if the beer cans
on the table in front of him was any indication. “Y’know. Gunwook and Gyuvin. You. This
whole messy situation. Their messy situation.”

That earns him a smack on the arm from Taerae, but Ricky is just even more confused now.
“What do you mean, ‘their messy situation?’”

Was Matthew talking about Gunwook’s interest in Ricky? If he was, Ricky wasn’t sure why
Taerae was trying to stop Matthew from talking. Ricky is fairly certain that everyone in the
band would know this by now.

“You mean neither of them told you?” Matthew asks, disbelief dripping from his voice. On
the couch next to him, Taerae’s face seems to morph into an expression of alarm and he turns
to his bandmate with a hushed “shut up!”

But the match has already been lit, and Ricky is not walking away without an answer. Not
this time. “Told me what?”

Matthew’s head ping-pongs between Taerae and Ricky as he visibly struggles with his
decision to continue or not. Taerae is stony faced as he tries to discreetly shake his head, but
Ricky is positive that his own facial expression is much more deadlier. He arches a brow and
tips his chin down as he stares at Matthew.

Matthew breaks.

”Well… that Gyuvin and Gunwook are exes, of course. Did you really not know?”
Chapter End Notes

was anyone expecting that?

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 crescendo
Chapter Summary

once again, this is a work of fiction and does not represent anyone in real life. there may be themes in this chapter that
are upsetting for some. this chapter contains mild violence and unhealthy behaviours. please take care of yourself.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

There was a quote that Ricky’s professor had once said.

The greatest hypocrisy in art is pretending that it imitates life, when in truth, it exposes the
lies we live by.

Those words hadn’t meant anything to Ricky back then. It wasn’t the first time his professor
had gone off on a tangent in the middle of a lecture—all art teachers seemed to be a little
unhinged in one way or the other. But for some reason, Ricky had stored these words in the
back of his mind.

And now, Ricky thinks that he finally understands what his professor had meant.

“Ricky?”

He blinks, focusing his attention back on Matthew. The band member was looking at Ricky
with a wary expression. “Ricky, are you alright?”

“You’re so stupid,” Taerae tells Matthew with a scoff. He stands from the couch, running a
hand through his hair in a frustrated motion. “I’m going to check on Gunwook. Thanks a lot
for ruining tonight.”

Matthew’s jaw drops. “Me? How is any of this my fault?”

But Taerae ignores him, stalking down the hallway in search of Gunwook. Matthew curses
below his breath and takes a long swig of his beer. There’s loud music playing in a different
part of the house, and jovial conversation and laughter carry through the thin walls, but all of
it is nothing more than mere background noise to Ricky.

He sways a little on the spot.

At first, Ricky had thought that Matthew was joking. He’s never spoken to the guitarist, and
for all he knows, Matthew could be lying through his teeth just to get a reaction from Ricky.
But now, Ricky is certain that Matthew was being truthful. Especially after he saw the way
Taerae had reacted.

“Matthew. Why are they both in the same band?”

Matthew shrugs and sets his beer bottle down on the table. He leans forwards, bracing his
elbows on his thighs as he looks at Ricky. “The band was Gunwook’s idea. Disorderly
Conduct’s first two members were Gunwook and Gyuvin. Everything began in Gunwook’s
garage back when they were both high school freshmen. They’ve known each other for much
longer than that, though.”

Ricky nods slowly. “I see. And when did they date?”

“Before myself and Taerae joined the band. Aside from Gunwook and Gyuvin, Hanbin is the
only other person that knows everything that happened. All I know is that they broke up over
summer break one year, and it halted the band activities too. They started it back up about a
year later, and that’s when Taerae and I were recruited.”

”I don’t understand,” Ricky mumbles. He shivers a little. Some of the cold air from outside
must have followed him into the house. “Why would they agree to continue with the band
when they’re exes?”

”I don’t know,” Matthew replies, his voice slightly irritated. He rubs at his forehead, glancing
up at Ricky. “Gyuvin is crazy. Gunwook is stupid. And, quite frankly, I’m a little tired of
hearing Ricky this, Ricky that. It’s giving me a headache. The harmony of the band is totally
fucked up right now, and it’s your fault. Not mine. Fuck.”

Matthew’s words are aimed to pierce through Ricky’s skin, but he doesn’t feel them. Not
really. Ricky doesn’t care about Matthew’s opinion—they’ve never had a conversation before
tonight. Matthew is nothing more than a stranger to Ricky, and he’d heard far worse things
from the people closest to him.

”I see,” Ricky replies. His words come out just like the way he feels inside. Empty. “Thank
you, Matthew. I’m sorry for the drama I’ve caused.”

Something shifts in Matthew’s facial expression then, but Ricky doesn’t stick around any
longer to speak to him. Instead, he turns around and walks out of the house. Crosses the
length of the backyard until his hand is wrapped around the door handle to Gyuvin’s flat, and
then he’s twisting the knob to open the door.

Gyuvin is sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s only half dressed—sweatpants hanging low on
his hips, and he immediately looks up when he hears Ricky’s entrance. “Hey—“

All of a sudden, blinding and red hot anger explodes from within Ricky. He doesn’t know
what the reason for it was—maybe the information had finally sunk in. Maybe, seeing
Gyuvin sitting there so nonchalantly had triggered something inside Ricky.

Ricky grabs the first thing he sees, and before he even knows what he’s doing, there’s a
ceramic key tray hurtling in Gyuvin’s direction.
It doesn’t hit Gyuvin. Ricky isn’t actively trying to aim at the bassist. But it smashes against
the wall behind Gyuvin’s bed and explodes, shards of blue ceramic flying everywhere.
Gyuvin immediately leaps off the bed, genuine shock plastered across his face as he whips
around to look at the mess.

“What the fuck—“

Gyuvin is cut off once more, ducking when he turns to see something else hurtling at him. It’s
just a balled up shirt that had been slung along the side table next to the front door. Ricky
looks down, considering just picking up the entire thing and pegging it. Ricky feels like
there’s a thousand angry ants buzzing beneath his skin and he needs to get them out, but he
doesn’t know how.

He wraps a hand around the edge of the table.

”Wait—stop!” Gyuvin shouts, and suddenly there’s hands circling around Ricky’s wrists, and
Ricky is fighting against Gyuvin’s hold, curses falling from his lips that would make his
mother gasp in horror.

”You’re a fucking liar!” Ricky screams, his head snapping up to meet Gyuvin’s gaze directly.
“How dare you accuse me of being a cheater! How dare you try to make me feel like a shitty
person, when all along, you’re the fucking scumbag here!”

”I—“

”Are you still fucking him? Huh? Are you being a two-timing piece of shit? Have you—“

And this time, Ricky is the one being interrupted when Gyuvin shoves him against the door.
It was still open because Ricky had never closed it, and his back meets the wooden surface in
a manner far gentler than the way in which he had been throwing things at Gyuvin.
Goosebumps scatter across Ricky’s skin when a current of cold air brushes against his bare
arms, the temperature a stark difference to the heat of Gyuvin’s fingers wrapped around his
biceps.

”Just—just relax for a second—“

”Don’t tell me to relax!” Ricky hisses, trying to shake Gyuvin off but the bassist holds strong.
“You have some fucking nerve, you know that, right? I’m just a joke to you, aren’t I? I bet
you thought it was real hilarious to hear me talking about Gunwook like that! And he was
trying to warn me, but of course I didn’t listen!”

”Shut up!” Gyuvin roars. His eyes are ablaze and nostrils flared and there’s an ugly twist to
his mouth that looks oddly like Ricky’s cousin when he tries to hold back his tears, but
there’s no way Gyuvin is going to cry. Ricky doesn’t believe that Gyuvin is capable of any
type of remorseful emotions. “This wasn’t how—it wasn’t supposed to—look, I was going to
tell you.”

Ricky scoffs at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s bullshit. I don’t believe you for one
fucking second. As long as I was in the dark you were never going to mention it, were you?
Because why would you! Why would you tell me something like that—we aren’t exclusive! I
don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me anything!”

Gyuvin clenches his jaw. He takes a step back, looking at Ricky—but not really looking, his
eyes unfocused and unblinking. The yellow lighting from the porch outside illuminates his
figure, giving him a glow reminiscent of one a fallen angel would have. “It’s a sensitive
topic, alright! Do you think I’m having an easy time here, huh?”

”I do! Because this is the type of shit that you thrive on!” Ricky spits. He takes a step towards
Gyuvin, jabbing an angry finger into the bassist's bare chest. “And it’s real fucking rich that
you get to ride around on your own high horse, calling me out for hiding things when you’re
doing the same thing!”

”Gunwook is my ex,” Gyuvin replies through gritted teeth. “Jiwoong is going to be your
husband. And last time I checked, you were still fucking him, weren’t you? So what gives
you the right to act like I’m the only one in the wrong here?”

”Because—“ Ricky pauses. And he pauses, because Gyuvin is wrong, isn't he? Ricky and
Jiwoong haven’t had sex. Not for a while, not since that day on the yacht. Because that
evening was when Ricky’s world had been turned upside down in the bathroom of Petal &
Thorn by none other than Kim Gyuvin himself.

And Ricky had thought about fucking Jiwoong. Briefly, in the heat of the moment. But he’d
never followed through. In fact, he’s barely touched Jiwoong since meeting Gyuvin, and—

Wait.

What does that mean?

“Because?” Gyuvin prompts, folding his arms across his chest as he waits for Ricky to finish
his sentence.

But Ricky can’t do that. Not when he feels like his stomach has plummeted six feet
underground.

”B-because,” Ricky splutters, scrambling to push those ridiculous thoughts from his head,
“Because you’re—you’re still in kahoots with Gunwook!”

Gyuvin bellows out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “As are you with Jiwoong!
Nothing that you say can dig you out of this hole, princess!”

And what was it that Gyuvin had said all those weeks ago? “I’ll dig one big enough for two
then, kitty cat.”

Maybe that promise is finally being fulfilled. But not by Gyuvin—no, it’s Ricky, instead.

And just like Ricky really is trying to clamber his way out of a grave with his nails scraping
against the dirt walls and panic flowing through his veins, he spits out the most venomous
thing he can think of in an act of self defence.
“Don’t think that you’re any better than me just because your lies have finally been exposed.
We’re both messed up, but at least I’m not pathetic enough to write love songs about a guy
who wouldn’t look twice at you for anything but sex.”

There’s a small weight of truth to Ricky’s words—but his satisfaction in getting the upper
hand is short-lived when he sees Gyuvin’s face scrunch up.

Hurt.

There’s no other adjective to describe the expression on Gyuvin’s face. And Ricky gulps,
trying and failing to swallow around a golf ball shaped lump in his throat. Because he meant
what he said, he really did, but why does he suddenly want to rewind time and stop himself
from saying that?

Gyuvin’s brows draw together, arms falling to his side as his shoulders slump. His mouth
drops open slightly, like he wants to say something, but he shakes his head and turns around
instead. There’s a strange buzzing noise in Ricky’s ears, like the angry ants in his skin had
transformed into bees instead, and he squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his hands over his ears
in an attempt to dispel the noise.

But then Ricky opens his eyes, and a whimper falls from his lips.

Because there’s blood.

The bassist had turned around to face away from Ricky, and he had one hand on his hip and
the other cradling his face. There’s a tremble to Gyuvin’s shoulders, but Ricky can’t focus on
that. Not when his eyes are widened in horror, not when he can see the trickle of crimson
seeping from a cut a few inches down from Gyuvin’s right shoulder.

It’s not a large cut. A centimetre at most, but the size doesn’t matter to Ricky. Because he did
that.

He hurt Gyuvin.

Oh, God.

”Gyuvin,” Ricky gasps, the word coming out in a sorrowful moan. Whatever prior anger
Ricky had been feeling melts from his body as a far more devastating emotion washes over
him.

Regret.

Gyuvin doesn’t turn around. Even when Ricky takes a step closer and touches his trembling
fingers to the bead of red blood dribbling down Gyuvin’s back, he doesn’t turn around. But
Gyuvin does jump, a little, when he feels the light pressure of Ricky’s fingertips on his skin.

Ricky is horrified. He’s horrified at everything that had led up to the fight. He’s horrified that
he’d hurt Gyuvin like this, because Ricky wasn’t violent. He may have a wicked tongue but
never, ever, has he been the cause of someone else’s physical pain.
And he’s horrified when he tastes the saltiness of his own tears streaming down his cheeks.

It’s an ugly sniffle that seems to prompt Gyuvin to finally turn around, but Ricky can’t bear to
look up any further than Gyuvin’s prominent collarbones.

As they stand there in the open doorway, a breeze tinged with the faint smell of chimney
smoke rustling their clothes, Ricky wonders. He wonders what Gyuvin will do now. He
thinks he deserves to be hurt too, but Gyuvin would never raise his hand to Ricky like that.
No, Ricky is positive that Gyuvin is all bark and no bite. And once upon a time, Ricky had
thought the same about himself.

But that’s not true anymore, is it? Ricky has claws. And they’re sharp enough to hurt.

”I’m…” Ricky trails off. He’s what? Sorry? Pathetic? A monster? Underneath all of his
layers, who is Shen Ricky really?

He glances down at his hand. There’s a small amount of blood smeared across two of his
fingers, and Ricky feels like he’s going to be sick.

”What the hell is going on here?”

Ricky’s head snaps over to see Zhang Hao standing on the porch. His cousin has a startled
expression on his face, eyes darting between Ricky, to Ricky’s hand, to Gyuvin, and then past
Gyuvin to the mess in the flat.

”H-ao,” Ricky’s voice breaks on a sob, and he wraps an arm around his own waist. Zhang
Hao sighs, reaching through the doorway to gently tug at Ricky’s shirt.

”I think we should go home,” Zhang Hao murmurs, a serious expression on his face that is
only reserved for certain situations. Ricky doesn’t say anything—doesn’t agree or disagree,
but when Zhang Hao guides him down the steps with a hand on the small of Ricky’s back, he
doesn’t turn around.

Because if Ricky turns around, he doesn’t know what would happen next.

Gyuvin doesn’t utter a single word, nor does he make a sound. But the prickling on the nape
of Ricky’s neck is enough of an answer.

Gyuvin sees him. Gyuvin sees Ricky for what he truly is.

And for what that is?

Well. That’s something Ricky can’t answer himself.

Zhang Hao fills a glass with cold water from the dispenser in the fridge and hands it over to
Ricky. Ricky accepts it, but he doesn’t take a sip. He grasps it between his hands, the chilly
temperature seeping into his skin and numbing his fingers until he can’t feel them anymore.
He wishes he could numb his emotions, too.

Zhang Hao leans against the fridge and sighs. “Are you finally going to tell me what’s been
going on?”

There’s no point in skirting around the truth anymore. Not after tonight, not after what Zhang
Hao had seen. Not after he’d called them a cab back to Ricky’s apartment. Not after he’d
wiped the inky black tear tracks from Ricky’s cheeks and washed the blood from Ricky’s
fingers.

And honestly, Ricky never should have kept Zhang Hao in the dark like this for so long. But
Ricky’s emotions had avalanched into a snowball, one that only grew larger with every
passing day.

It had gotten out of control.

Ricky sets the glass down on the counter. He turns to walk down the hallway, and Zhang Hao
follows him.

The studio door was still closed. Ricky hasn’t been back in here since that day, and as he
gingerly wraps his fingers around the doorknob he feels like his heart is crawling up his
throat.

But Ricky is not a coward, and he will not let something like a painting haunt him for the rest
of his life.

He pushes the door open.

The studio is clean. Ricky has a housekeeper that comes by every few days, and by taking a
quick glance around the room, he can see that she’d reset the studio back to normal.

The canvas was still sitting on the easel. Ricky takes a shuddering breath and walks across
the studio, stopping in front of the easel. He reaches a hand out to brush against the painting,
running his fingers across the acrylic paint that had long since dried.

From behind him, Zhang Hao speaks quietly, like he’s afraid to startle Ricky. “It’s beautiful.”

Is it really?

Ricky doesn’t think so.

How can his hands craft something worthy of being praised for beauty, when it was these
very same hands that had inflicted pain upon someone else?

Ricky traces his pointer finger up until the tip of his nail skirts along the vein of one of the
painted hands. He unfurls his fingers, resting his palm flat against one of the hands that was
curled around the stem of the rose.

”The painting,” Ricky’s voice comes out small, a slight tremor wobbling his words. “It’s
Gyuvin.”
Zhang Hao is silent for a moment. There’s a shift in the air behind Ricky, and a pair of arms
wrap around Ricky’s waist as Zhang Hao engulfs him in a hug.

“Oh, shǎguā,” Zhang Hao mumurms sympathetically, resting his chin on Ricky’s shoulder.
“What have you gotten yourself into?”

There’s a strange burning sensation in Ricky’s nose. It hurts, and he tries to take a deep
breath, but it hurts. It hurts, and it's wet, and Ricky doesn’t remember the last time he cried
like this—not from pleasure, but from pain.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? The hollow feeling in his chest that feels like it’d been
carved out by a blunt butter knife—this is what it feels like to hurt.

“I don’t know,” Ricky replies in a whisper. “I really, really don’t know.”

Zhang Hao hums, taking a step back. He gently pushes Ricky towards the chair, and Ricky
sits on it, Zhang Hao crouching on the ground in front of him.

Ricky is reminded of a time, long ago, when the two of them had only been kids. He’d fallen
off the monkey bars and scraped his palms and knees on the bark, tears streaming down his
ruddy cheeks.

But Zhang Hao had been there—carried Ricky over to the park benches and soothed Ricky’s
wounds with comforting words and the singular bandaid he’d found shoved deep in his pants
pocket. It was laughable to look back on now—the bandaid had been a tiny thing, barely
large enough to cover one of the cuts on Ricky’s knee. And when Ricky’s parents had arrived
a minute later to take him to the hospital, the nurse had removed the bandaid and thrown it
away in the bin.

It was the thought that had counted. Ricky had been in pain, and Zhang Hao had done the
best he could.

There’s still a tiny scar there too, on Ricky’s knee. It was only visible if you looked at it from
a certain angle, and Ricky thinks that what he’s feeling now is awfully similar to that.
Something brittle, something fragile, something that Ricky was terrified of.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Zhang Hao suggests, reaching up to hold Ricky’s
hands with his own. It’s a lifeline, and Ricky desperately takes it, squeezing his cousin's
hands hard enough to hurt. Zhang Hao doesn’t move away.

“I’ve been having sex with Kim Gyuvin ever since we saw the band for the second time at
the bar,” Ricky admits, watching his cousin's face closely for any judgement, any disbelief.
But Zhang Hao remains passive, simply nodding along to prompt Ricky to continue. “It was
never supposed to mean anything—it doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t mean anything to
me.”

Zhang Hao smiles then, a little sadly. “Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”
Ricky rolls his lips together, looking to the side. But that’s a mistake because the painting is
right there, and its presence just reminds Ricky too much of Gyuvin if he was here. “I’m—I
just—I think…”

“So it’s just been sex, then?” Zhang Hao says when Ricky can’t seem to speak any further.

Nodding, Ricky’s eyes flicker back to Zhang Hao. “Yeah. Just sex.”

Right?

“Then what happened tonight?”

Ricky looks down at their hands—and his heart starts thumping in his chest, breaths coming
out short and sharp, and he yanks away from Zhang Hao’s grip. Cradling his hands to his
stomach, Ricky squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will away the thoughts of his tainted
hands.

Zhang Hao doesn’t touch him again, and that’s a good thing, because Ricky feels like he’s
teetering a little too close to the edge of a breakdown.

”We had sex,” Ricky says, which is a very poor way to start his explanation, because Zhang
Hao’s face instantly drops.

”Did he—“

”No, no, that’s not it,” Ricky hastily replies, shaking his head. “The sex is fine. The sex is
more than fine, actually. That’s the only reason I was there tonight in the first place.”

”Right,” Zhang Hao says slowly.

Ricky sniffles, trying to clear some of the stuffiness in his nose. “You know Gunwook,
right?” He asks, and Zhang Hao nods. “He likes me. He told me he likes me. And I turned
him down, even though he’s yards nicer than Gyuvin and certainly far less unhinged.”

”That’s the vibe I got from him, too,” Zhang Hao agrees. “Gunwook seems sweet. What does
he have to do with this? Are they fighting over you, or something?”

”They’re exes,” Ricky blurts out, his eyes wide as he stares down at Zhang Hao and waits.
Waits to see his cousin flip out just like he did, but…

Nothing.

Zhang Hao blinks twice. “Ricky, you’ve lost me. Is that what your blow up was over?”

Ricky folds his arms across his chest defensively, not appreciating the tone his cousin was
using. “Why are you making me sound so pathetic for getting angry about that?”

“No, don’t misunderstand me. I just—I thought something bad had happened.”
“This is bad!” Ricky replies with a scowl. “That’s—it’s—they’re exes! Can it get much
worse than this?”

“Ricky,” Zhang Hao says carefully, “Do you remember when you had that fling with
Junhan?”

Confused, Ricky answers, “yes. Why are you suddenly bringing that up?”

Junhan wasn’t someone Ricky had thought about in years. Ricky had all but forgotten about
the guitarist until Zhang Hao had mentioned him.

“Didn’t you find out that he was cheating on his girlfriend the entire time you two were
together?”

“Yeah. But then I ended things with him because I didn’t want to be a side piece to a guy
already in a relationship.”

“But it didn’t bother you much, did it? You called me and laughed about it, remember?”

Ricky shifts on the stool, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I mean, I was laughing about how
pathetic Junhan was. The guy is so far in the closet he can probably see Narnia. I did feel bad
for his girlfriend though.”

“But you weren’t upset,” Zhang Hao points out. “Even though he was in a relationship and
screwing his girlfriend the entire time you and him were having sex. It didn’t upset you.”

Oh. Oh no, Ricky does not like where this is going. “Zhang Hao…” he warns, but his cousin
ignores him.

Zhang Hao smiles, but the twist of his mouth resembles something more like a grimace.

“I think that you like Gyuvin. More than you realise.”

“I don’t,” Ricky hisses, rearing away from his cousin like he’d been burnt. Ricky stands from
the stool, and he can hear it toppling over, but he doesn’t care. He clasps his hands together
and holds the back of his head, like it would roll off if when he started pacing around the
studio if he didn’t hold onto it.

“I think you do,” Zhang Hao calls after him. “This isn’t normal behaviour for you, Ricky.
What other explanation could there be?”

“I don’t know!” Ricky shouts, turning on the spot to glare at Zhang Hao. But a muscle in his
cheek twitches, and Ricky has a sinking feeling that he probably looks more upset than angry
at this point. “Is my reaction truly so unwarranted? I’m a joke, Zhang Hao! I’m a fucking
joke!”

”You’re not a joke,” Zhang Hao replies in a soothing tone, rising from where he’d been
crouching. “I can understand why you’re upset. But you’re the one that can’t seem to
properly understand your own feelings.”
Ricky is the one who can’t understand his feelings? Is Zhang Hao being serious? Ricky can
understand his feelings perfectly fine.

He’s pissed off.

”This is bullshit!” Ricky exclaims. He strides over to the easel, grabbing the canvas and
turning to throw it to the ground. Behind him, Zhang Hao gasps in shock, but Ricky pays his
cousin no mind.

Of course the canvas doesn’t break. It just bounces a few times on the hardwood floor before
stilling. And it just had to land face up, too.

But it doesn’t make Ricky feel better. In fact, he just feels worse.

”You need to calm down,” Zhang Hao tries to tell Ricky, placing what is supposed to be a
comforting hand on Ricky’s shoulder. But Ricky angrily shrugs him off, whipping his head
around to glare at Zhang Hao.

”Don’t tell me to calm down,” Ricky says through gritted teeth. Dejavu washes over him,
because he’d had this same conversation with Gyuvin only an hour ago. “Get out. Fuck, I
can’t deal with this right now.”

And for the second time in one night—or third, or fourth, or fuck, Ricky has lost track by this
point—someone else has been hurt by Ricky. Because apparently, that’s all he’s capable of
doing at this point. Zhang Hao’s brows furrow, his mouth downturned as he shakes his head.
“You’re not pushing me away, Ricky. This isn’t healthy.”

”I don’t give a fuck,” Ricky spits, venemous and indifferent and maybe his teeth are
chattering but fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck this. Fuck everything. Everyone can get fucked.

Ricky doesn’t want Zhang Hao’s concern, Ricky doesn’t want Zhang Hao’s opinion. Ricky
doesn’t want much of anything right now, if he’s being completely honest. He wishes he
could slice his head open and take his brain out and scrub it beneath hot, soapy water until
the memories of tonight vanish from his thoughts.

”You may not give a fuck, but I do,” Zhang Hao replies firmly. “I care about you, and I can
see that you’ve been slipping lately. I think that—“

”I said get out!” Ricky screams, whirling around and kicking the easel. It tumbles over, and
Zhang Hao gasps in shock, taking an uncertain step back.

”Okay, okay, I’ll go,” Zhang Hao says hastily, putting his hands up. “But I will check on you
tomorrow. You can’t just toss me away, Ricky. Relationships aren’t disposable.”

Yeah. Bullshit they weren’t disposable. But Zhang Hao is already gone, the beep of the
keypad locking Ricky’s front door echoing throughout his apartment.

And once again, Ricky is alone.

But this is what he’d wanted.

Wasn’t it?

Ricky sniffles, looking down at the canvas on the floor. A wave of shame suddenly washes
over him, tears welling in the corner of his eyes. It’s just a painting, just a stupid inanimate
object, but Ricky just feels so fucking bad seeing it on the floor.

He kneels down, trying to pick the canvas up, but his fingers are shaking so much that he
can’t even get a good enough grip to pick it up. He whimpers, sliding down until he’s lying
on the floor on his side. Ricky extends an arm out, letting it rest across the surface of the
canvas.

The floor hurts to lay on. But Ricky thinks that he deserves the pain.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there for, absentmindedly stroking his fingers across the
painting. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. But the weight of Ricky’s
emotions finally settle over his body like a weighted blanket, and his blinks become slower as
he succumbs to a fitful sleep.

“Ricky, can you pass me the crab cakes?”

Glancing up from where he had been swirling the wine around in his glass with practised
flicks of his wrist, Ricky raises an eyebrow. The crab cakes were certainly not in reaching
distance for him.

To his left, Jiwoong sighs. “I’m right in front of you, Yujin. Why not just ask me?”

Yujin sniffs, keeping his chin tilted up and purposefully not looking straight ahead at his
brother. Instead, he keeps his attention focused on Ricky, blinking his wide bunny-like eyes
innocently. “Ricky? Did you hear me?”

Fucking hell. Ricky was not in the mood to get stuck between whatever fresh drama the Kim
brothers had gotten into. “Just pass him the damn crab cakes,” Ricky mutters to Jiwoong.

Jiwoong slides the plate over. Yujin looks down, seemingly contemplating the sudden
appearance of the crab cakes. His nose twitches and he shrugs, using his pointer finger to
push the plate away with a grossed out expression on his face like it was infected. “Never
mind. I don’t want the crab cakes anymore. Ricky, can you pass me the bruschetta?”

”Lord, please help me,” Ricky prays quietly before taking another sip of his wine.

At the same time, Mr Kim speaks up. “Yujin, stop being a brat. We’re in public for heaven's
sake, so stop acting like a six year old.”

”I didn’t even do anything!” Yujin whines, crossing his arms and pouting.

”Just eat the crab cakes and be quiet,” Mr Kim shoots back. “I know they’re your favourite.”
Yujin’s top lip twitches, but he does reach out to snag one of the crab cakes. He crams it in
his mouth, the sauce smearing all over his lips, and Mr Kim tsks in annoyance. Ricky takes a
final sip of his wine and flags over a waiter for a refill.

They were at the Sleepy Hollow, a country club tucked along the east shore of the Hudson
River. Once a month, the Kims and the Shens gather for brunch and catch up. After they ate,
the men would retreat to the golf course and the women would take a stroll around the
stunning grounds. Being built in 1911, the club was rich in old architecture and home to one
of the most gorgeous golf courses Ricky had ever seen. Sometimes, he used the crappy
camera on his phone to take photos of landscapes or animals that he saw around the Sleepy
Hollow, and would return home later in the evening feeling inspired to paint the things he’d
photographed.

But today, he was feeling anything but inspired.

Ricky was tired. He hasn’t been sleeping well at all lately, and in the last two weeks he hasn’t
managed to get more than four hours of sleep in a night. It was beginning to take a toll on
him—dark circles were permanently smudged beneath his eyes, his muscles were sluggish,
and his mind was in a constant haze.

Not that the wine would have been helping with that last issue. But drinking did take some of
the psychical pain away at least.

Ricky normally enjoys these brunches. But he was struggling to enjoy a lot of things lately,
and being dragged out into public to eat food and pretend like his bones weren’t slowly
splintering apart wasn’t his idea of a fun afternoon.

”Why are you being so messy today,” Mrs Kim admonishes, grabbing Yujin by the chin and
dabbing her handkerchief on Yujin’s lips, much to his dismay. “You know, Ricky was never
this silly when he was your age.”

Jiwoong snorts—then tries to cover it up with a cough. Ricky kicks the side of his calf
beneath the table, feeling satisfied when he hears the answering hiss of pain.

”Mother, you didn’t meet Ricky until after he graduated,” Jiwoong points out through gritted
teeth as he subtly reaches down to rub at his sore leg.

”Well yes, but Yiran has shared stories of what Ricky was like as a teenager—such a sweet
boy, not a mean bone in his body,” Mrs Kim replies, leaning back once she was satisfied with
the cleanliness of Yujin’s face.

“It’s true,” Ricky’s mother chimes in, placing her hand on Ricky’s shoulder as she beams.
“Not to sound like such a mother, but he truly is the apple of my eye.”

Everyone around the table titters at that, and Ricky has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

”Speaking of apples, there’s this new apple cobbler recipe that you must try,” Mrs Kim says,
and Ricky tunes that conversation out quickly. He brings his glass to his lips, but before even
a drop of wine is tipped back onto his tongue, he’s interrupted.
”You should slow down on the wine,” Jiwoong says, quietly enough so that only Ricky can
hear. “You’ve barely touched your food. Are you trying to get wasted at Sunday brunch?”

Ricky isn’t sure how he should reply to that. Because he knows that if he tells Jiwoong that
the only thing he seems to be able to stomach lately is some sort of alcohol, the man would
no doubt be concerned. And he has every reason to be.

It’s not like Ricky has suddenly turned into an alcoholic. He’s just struggling to cope, and it's
either he drinks enough to pass out or he bashes his head into the wall enough times to lose
consciousness.

Surely, wine is the better option of the two.

But, in an attempt to appease Jiwoong, Ricky scoops some mushroom risotto onto his spoon
and delicately raises it to his lips.

It tastes like ash on his tongue. Everything he’s been eating lately has tasted like that.

”Happy?” He asks, holding eye contact with Jiwoong as he drinks from his wine glass.
Jiwoong sighs through his nose, turning away and muttering something that sounds
suspiciously like “I never am.”

Well. That makes two of them, then.

”Ricky, have you seen Casino Royale yet?” Yujin asks, and Ricky shakes his head. “We
should go see it together! They’re saying that Daniel Craig is the best Bond yet!”

”I”m pretty busy lately, Yujin,” Ricky replies with a tight lipped smile. “Why don’t you go
with Jiwoong, instead?”

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Yujin sits back in his chair with a huff, picking at
the tablecloth and surely creating a fraying thread that wasn’t there before. “I don’t want to
go with Jiwoong. I want to go with you.”

”You never want to do anything with me,” Jiwoong grumbles, stabbing his fork into his pasta
a little too aggressively. “It’s always Ricky this or Ricky that. You’d think that he was your
brother, not me.”

Something heavy pools in Ricky’s stomach, because what Jiwoong had said was an exact
replica of what Matthew had said that night. Ricky takes a swig of his wine, one that is
probably too greedy to be demure.

He wishes his phone would vibrate in his pocket. He’s been wishing it would for days. But
every time it does, it’s never the person he wants it to be.

”That’s because I wish Ricky was my brother.”

Ricky has never been more thankful for Mrs Kim bringing up another one of her boring
recipes and roping all of the parents into conversation, because it means they’re too distracted
to notice the tension brimming on the opposite end of the table.
”I know, it’s not like you’re very secretive about it. Not when you tell me every damn day.”

”Who said I was trying to be secretive? At least Ricky has his priorities straight,” Yujin says
with an eye roll. “What about you? You’re leading—“

”Yujin,” Ricky interrupts in a stern tone, setting his glass back down on the table. “Please.
Can we not do this right now? My head is killing me.”

Right on cue, there’s a sharp stabbing pain in the left of Ricky’s temple. He winces, rubbing
at the spot like it would make the discomfort go away.

”Maybe, if you ate something and stopped drinking, you wouldn’t be feeling so awful,”
Jiwoong points out. Fucker. He should be thanking Ricky for trying to steer Yujin away from
that conversation, not trying to gentle parent him.

”Maybe you should worry about yourself first,” Yujin chimes in, his voice jeering. He’s
looking over Jiwoong’s shoulder, face twisting into a hateful frown. “God, did I summon him
or something?”

”What?” Jiwoong asks, sounding confused. He cranes his head to look behind him, and when
Ricky hears Jiwoong quietly gasp, he does the same thing.

Ah. As if today couldn’t get any worse.

”Good afternoon.”

Jiwoong clears his throat. “Seobin. What are you doing here?”

Seobin smiles, seemingly unaffected by the icy atmosphere of the table—because it wasn’t
only the attention of the Kim brothers and Ricky he had caught. No, the parents had paused
their conversation and were also waiting for Seobin to answer.

”Youngjae and I were having a meeting with some investors,” Seobin answers, sliding his
hands into the pockets of his slacks. He looks around the entire table, ensuring he makes eye
contact with every single Kim and Shen sitting there. He wasn’t affected by Yujin’s scowl or
Mr and Mrs Kim’s incredibly obvious fake smiles. “And of course, I had to come say hello
when I happened to glance upon this very table. Fancy seeing you all here today—I do hope
you’re having a lovely afternoon.”

”An investor meeting about yet another one of your outlandish start-up ideas?” Mr Kim asks,
taking a sip of his whiskey as he stares at Seobin.

And to Seobin’s credit, he doesn’t appear phased at all. But that is Yoon Seobin after all—
unbothered and carrying a relaxed grace that has always intrigued Ricky. He cannot recall a
single time where he’s seen Seobin’s feathers ruffled, even when he is constantly ridiculed in
their society’s circle.

”You’re more than welcome to your own opinion.”

Ricky takes a quick sip of his wine to hide his smile. Next to him, Jiwoong is fidgeting with
the clasp of his watch beneath the table. He’s nervous.

And he has every reason to be.

“We missed you at the gala,” says Mrs Kim, sickeningly sweet. “I don’t suppose your
invitation was misplaced this year?”

But Seobin just smiles, cocking his head. “Oh? Now that you bring it up, I don’t recall seeing
you that night. I must have been too busy chatting with Jiwoong to notice.”

”Really?” Mrs Kim replies, shifting her gaze across to Jiwoong who is very pointedly not
looking at his mother. “He never mentioned that. I suppose it must have slipped his mind.”

”It did,” Jiwoong croaks. “Seobin, it was nice to see you, but do you think we could catch up
later? We’re about to head out to the course.”

”Of course. I’ll look forward to it,” Seobin replies easily. He raises his hand in a wave, taking
a step back from the table. “I’ll see you around. Have a pleasant evening.”

And not a single person from the table bothers to return his farewell, but again, Seobin is
unfazed. Ricky watches him go, pursing his lips in thought. Jiwoong and Ricky’s parents are
muttering amongst themselves, a “the audacity” here and “a disgrace” there.

It hits a little too close to home. And suddenly, the capacious dining room feels far too small
for Ricky. He stands from the table, rather abruptly, interrupting the conversation. “I don’t
feel very well. I think I’ll go home early, I’m sorry.”

”What’s the matter honey? Are you coming down with something?” Ricky’s mother asks, her
face pinched in concern as she reaches to rest the back of her hand against Ricky’s head. But
Ricky just gently tugs her hand away, shaking his head.

”I think I’m just tired. I”ll call a cab, I won’t bother Stephen to come all the way out here
again so soon.”

”Are you sure? I’m confident that I could speak with management and get you a room here, if
you wanted to lay down for a little while,” Ricky’s mother says. And he feels horrible,
because she’s so genuinely worried about him.

But she shouldn’t be.

Ricky doesn’t deserve that.

”I’m sure,” he confirms before glancing around the table. “I apologise again for cutting my
time here short. Hopefully next month I’ll be feeling better.”

Once everyone has bid Ricky farewell, he makes his way through the dining room and out
into the main hallway that connects all of the rooms of the club. The entire time Ricky keeps
an eye out for Seobin—and Youngjae as well, but he sees no sign of either of the men. He’s
thankful, because he doesn’t want to get roped into a conversation with either of the men at
the moment.

He just wants to leave.

But of course, Ricky would never be lucky enough to escape without a small hiccup.

”Ricky!”

Sighing through his nose, Ricky squeezes his eyes closed for a second as he readies himself,
before turning around. Yujin is walking down the hallway, dodging staff and patrons as he
determinedly makes his way towards Ricky.

”What is it?” Ricky asks once Yujin is standing in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, Yujin says, “I need to tell you something. It’s important.”

Oh. He can’t be serious right now, surely? “Yujin, I—“

”It’s about Jiwoong,” Yujin stream rolls on, completely ignoring Ricky. “I know that
technically you both aren’t in a relationship right now but I think it’s important that you know
this.”

”You don’t need to—“

”I just think that it is really shitty what Jiwoong has done, and I think you’re really awesome
so this is just incredibly unfair to you.”

”Look, it’s—“

”But there’s something going on between him and Seobin, and I don’t care if I’m breaking
‘bro code’ or whatever but you deserve to know exactly who the type of man you’re going to
marry is, and—“

”Yujin.”

Ricky grabs Yujin by the shoulders, and the teenager finally stops talking. And oh God, how
Ricky’s heart breaks at the thought of sweet little Yujin believing that he was carrying this
weight all alone, when in reality, Ricky is just as equally at fault. “Yujin. I know.”

Yujin blinks. “What?”

”I know,” Ricky repeats. “I’ve known since the beginning. Seobin has been in the picture for
a lot longer than I have, after all.”

”But…” Yujin trails off, mouth dropped open to display his cute little bunny teeth. He’s
visibly confused, like what Ricky has just told him still hasn’t quite sunk in.

Ricky steers them into a corner because they were blocking part of the hallway, and he keeps
his voice down as he speaks. “Seobin isn’t a bad person. Neither is Jiwoong. I wish you
would try to get along with your brother a little better. You’re extremely lucky to have an
older sibling that cares so deeply for you, and I know that you’re taking it for granted.”

It’s only after the words have left Ricky’s mouth that he realises what he’s just said. And how
ironic were his words—because that was advice that Ricky needed to be taking, not just
Yujin.

And it’s funny how one simple realisation can unlock many more that Ricky would never
have pictured himself having.

He knows where he needs to go now.

”You’re okay with all of this?” Yujin finally says, sounding a little angry. “You’re okay that
Jiwoong is in love with someone else?”

”Love isn’t black and white, Yujin. If it was, I think there would be a lot less hurt in the
world.”

”Are you drunk?” Yujin asks with a scoff. He leans in, sniffing the air before rearing back.
“Oh my God. You’re definitely drunk.”

Ricky huffs out a laugh at that. “I’m not drunk, I had two glasses of wine. But I really do
need to go now, and I appreciate you telling me even if I already knew. Remember what I
said, alright? Be a little nicer to Jiwoong. He’s the only brother you have.”

When Ricky takes a step back, Yujin speaks up again. “You aren’t really going home, are
you?”

”Not anymore,” Ricky replies, shaking his head. “There’s something I need to do.”

——Ricky——

sry again

ik i already told u but i’m rly sry!

——Hao——

it’s ok

r u ok?

this msg is kinda scary outta nowhere!

——Ricky——

yh

i just figured sum stuff out. not everything, but sum

——Hao——

i'm always here if u need me, ricky. love u!

——Ricky——

I love u 2. <3

Nothing had changed about the house since Ricky had last been here. The grass was a little
taller, and it was likely that some more weeds had grown, but that was it. The house was still
there, still standing, still looking as rundown as ever.

Ricky isn’t sure what he’d been expecting. After his explosion that night, it wouldn’t have
surprised him if the house looked a little rougher, a little more broken.

But perhaps that was just Ricky projecting his emotions.

He isn’t sure what will be waiting for him here. In fact, Ricky doesn’t know if anyone is even
home. But when he walks down the driveway and emerges in the messy backyard, a familiar
black 4Runner greets Ricky like an old friend, and he knows.

He knows he can’t run. Not again.

Over the last two weeks, Ricky had done a lot of thinking. He’s replayed that night in his
head over and over again, wondering if things would have turned out differently if he hadn’t
reacted the way he had. If he hadn’t been blinded by so much rage and had taken a moment
to think, to really think, what would have happened then?

But he’s realised something important.

He doesn’t care that Gunwook is Gyuvin’s ex.

He cares that Gyuvin has an ex. He cares that there’s a story there that he doesn’t know
about.

Ricky has weighed the situation against the one with Jiwoong and Seobin, and he’d realised
that they’re both practically the same thing.

Except, he doesn’t care for Jiwoong in the way that he seems to care for Gyuvin.

And that… that is terrifying. That is brand new to Ricky.

He still doesn’t quite know what to do with this revelation. But what he does know, is that it
will sit in his mind and continue to fester into something far darker if he doesn’t do
something about it.

So here he is. Standing on the porch to Gyuvin’s flat.

Ricky knocks twice. Just gentle taps with the back of his knuckles, almost too quiet to be
heard. Maybe that was done on purpose, maybe it wasn’t.

He’s standing here of his own accord. A choice he had made for himself, yet when the door
swings open, Ricky feels frozen in place.

Gyuvin looks at Ricky blankly, and if Ricky thought that the bassist was hard to read before,
it is even more difficult now.

The shirt that Gyuvin is wearing hangs loosely on his frame, frayed at the edges and the
graphic that had been printed on the front has long since faded into something
incomprehensible. The black fabric is thin and stretched, nearly threadbare, exposing
glimpses of Gyuvin’s golden skin through tiny holes that could have been from moths, or
wearing the shirt so often. The wide, drooping neckline slips low on his broad shoulders, both
of Gyuvin’s collarbones peeking out.

And it’s there that Ricky focuses his attention on, because he’s not sure he can get his words
out if he looks Gyuvin in the eyes.

The bassist doesn’t speak. Ricky wishes he would, wishes he would break the silence with
one of his crude jokes or teasing remarks.

But he doesn’t.

And the sentences that Ricky had prepared seem to get stuck in his throat, even though he’d
repeated them in his head over and over again.

But he still tries.

“I’m sorry,” Ricky whispers through trembling lips. He can hear his heart beating so loudly—
a thump thump thump that he's positive Gyuvin must be able to hear. And Ricky wonders, if
his heart pounded hard enough, would it fly out of his chest? Would Gyuvin catch it? Would
he delicately cradle the pulsing muscle between his hands, or would he crush it until it was
nothing more than a pile of goo; blood and connective tissue coating his hands in a mess of
crimson red?

Still, Gyuvin says nothing. But he doesn’t close the door, either.

That has to mean something.

And maybe it had taken seeing Seobin and Jiwoong interacting to provide a clarity that Ricky
wasn’t sure he’d ever needed. But he knows now.

He knows that he doesn’t want to end up like them. Broken and ruined beyond repair;
nothing but a shell of what they could have been. What they should have been.

Ricky wants Gyuvin.

Oh, how he needs Gyuvin.

And Ricky thinks that finally, it’s time for him to be brave.

So he looks up. He looks up, and Gyuvin is looking at him—really looking at him. Because
Gyuvin sees Ricky for who he really is.

And who is Shen Ricky? Beneath all of the glitz and glamour, who is Shen Ricky?

Ricky can answer that now—he’s just a man. A man with desires. A man with feelings. A
man, that up until this moment in time, thought he was untouchable. Unobtainable. But he
hasn’t been that man—not for a while.

Not since Kim Gyuvin.

The depths of Gyuvin’s eyes are scary, but it doesn’t invoke a bone-chilling fear in Ricky
anymore. The fear of the unknown is still there, but now, Ricky knows that he’s ready.

He looks Gyuvin in the eyes. And he asks—no, he begs. “Let me in.”

Gyuvin steps to the side, but Ricky shakes his head.

“That isn’t what I meant. Let me in, Gyuvin. Please.”

Gyuvin shakes his head, a shadow passing across his face. “I can’t.”

”You can,” Ricky counters, taking a step forward. He reaches out, twisting his fingers in the
fabric of Gyuvin’s shirt. “You can, I know you can. Because I can, too. And I know you need
this—I know we need this. Please.”

An uneasy exhale tumbles from Gyuvin’s mouth. He wets his lips, his eyes flickering
between Ricky and the door—like he’s struggling between deciding whether to stay, or go.

And fuck. Fuck, Ricky hopes he stays. He prays to a God he’s never believed in that Gyuvin
stays. He twists his fingers a little tighter, steps a little closer. The familiar scent of Gyuvin
washes over him—cigarettes and that stupid, stupid fucking cologne.

With bated breath, Ricky waits for a reply. Waits for the reply he wants.

Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Gyuvin pulls away from him.

And then, like the sun finally peeking out from the clouds after days of miserable rain,
Gyuvin speaks.

”I can’t… I can’t promise you anything,” Gyuvin whispers, his adam's apple bobbing up and
down as he swallows. “I’m no good at those.”

It’s a lifeline, and Ricky reaches for it before it disappears.

“That’s fine. That’s completely fine. I can work with that,” he quickly replies, nodding his
head for added effect. “Just—just try. That’s all I’m asking for, I swear.”
 Gyuvin rolls his lips together and nods. “Okay. Okay—yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

The relief that Ricky feels from hearing those words is so overwhelming that he staggers—
but again, Gyuvin catches him. And Ricky thinks that Gyuvin will always catch him, no
matter how many mistakes he makes and how many cruel words he hurls at Gyuvin.

Ricky doesn’t deserve this. But fuck, he’ll forever be grateful. He promises himself that.

”Then will you let me seal the deal?” Ricky asks, and Gyuvin looks confused, but he nods
regardless.

Like a meteor hurtling straight for earth, Ricky crashes into Gyuvin. Desperate lips and
promises made with tender hands. Gyuvin scoops Ricky up, and Ricky wraps his legs around
Gyuvin’s waist. The door closes behind them.

And Ricky can’t help but notice how salty their kisses taste.

Chapter End Notes

chihiro is my recommended song for this chapter

twitter | playlist | retrospring

 dolce
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

There’s a rushed desperation in the way Gyuvin returns each of Ricky’s kisses. When Ricky
tries to pull back for air, Gyuvin chases after him—like he’s afraid that when their lips
separate, it’ll break the spell.

But it won’t. Oh, how Ricky is already too far gone now. Losing Gyuvin would be like a
chameleon losing their tail—because they couldn’t grow them back.

And Ricky knows that he will never be able to replace Kim Gyuvin.

”Gyuvin,” Ricky breathes out, craning his head back and placing his palm flat against
Gyuvin’s chest. “Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a bold statement, one that Ricky wouldn’t blame Gyuvin for not believing if their
positions were swapped. But to Ricky’s surprise, Gyuvin just nods, a whispered “okay”
providing extra reassurance. And it’s now that Ricky truly notices the wetness to Gyuvin’s
cheeks. When a fresh tear traces a shimmering path down Gyuvin’s jaw, Ricky reaches out to
gently wipe it away.

He’s positive that he isn’t holding up much better.

But Ricky doesn’t want to verbalise his emotions right now. So instead, he cradles Gyuvin’s
face and tells him, “take me to bed.”

Gyuvin walks them backwards. His eyes never leave Ricky. He’s looking up at Ricky like
he’s seeing something brand new—and maybe he is, because Ricky has never felt like this
before. Like every single moment he’s away from Gyuvin, there’s a weight in his stomach
that drags him down, down, down until he feels like the pressure on his shoulders is heavier
than an anvil.

The back of Gyuvin’s legs hit the edge of the bed, and he slowly sinks down onto the
mattress. Ricky makes no move to depart from Gyuvin’s lap and Gyuvin seems just as
content with their positioning.

Ricky wonders what Gyuvin is thinking about. He wishes he could take a peek inside
Gyuvin’s mind.

One of Gyuvin’s hands skirts up Ricky’s thigh, sliding up his torso and resting on the collar
of Ricky’s button-up. “Can I?” Gyuvin asks, fiddling with the top button as he waits for the
green light.

”Let me,” Ricky murmurs, gently pushing Gyuvin’s hand to the side. He’s proud of the way
his fingers only slightly tremble with each button he undoes. Gyuvin drinks in each new inch
of exposed skin with dark eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. And when Ricky is
finally free of his shirt—throwing it behind him to land on the floor somewhere—Gyuvin
immediately ducks down to suck a mark between Ricky’s collarbones.

He doesn’t stop there, either. Ricky knows his neck will be covered in hickeys by the time
Gyuvin is finished with him. And when Gyuvin drags the flat of his tongue up the length of
Ricky’s neck tattoo, he moans and scrapes his nails across Gyuvin’s scalp.

He’s missed this. The drag of Gyuvin’s teeth against his skin and the unbridled moans that
leave Gyuvin’s mouth. Nothing can replicate the way Gyuvin makes Ricky feel, and it had
been glaringly obvious in the weeks they were apart. Ricky would touch himself but it was
never satisfying, never what he needed.

No. What he needs is the man right in front of him.

Ricky thinks that he needs Gyuvin now, more than ever. And maybe Gyuvin can read his
thoughts, because he tucks his fingers between Ricky’s pants and his waist and breaks away
from ravishing Ricky’s neck. “Can these come off?”

It’s so… different, to have Gyuvin speak to him like this. But it isn’t bad. Ricky thinks that it
doesn’t matter if Gyuvin demands, or if he asks nicely—he just wants to have Gyuvin. All of
him.

“Yeah,” Ricky replies. He unwraps his arms from Gyuvin’s neck, sliding back on the bassist's
thighs until his toes could touch the carpet. Gyuvin watches with rapt attention as Ricky
flicks open the button of his fly and pulls the zip down. He pushes his pants and briefs down
his thighs at the same time, slowly revealing toned muscles and milky skin, and Gyuvin
makes a weird sound in the back of his throat.

Kicking his pants away, Ricky settles back in Gyuvin’s lap. Naked as the day he was born, it
feels a little strange to have Gyuvin’s clothed crotch rubbing against his bare ass, but Ricky
doesn’t mind too much. And he especially doesn’t mind when Gyuvin’s fingertips trace
indescribable shapes down the knobs of his spine.

“You’re unreal,” Gyuvin says, so quietly that Ricky is positive he hadn’t meant to say that out
loud.

“I can’t be unreal if I’m here,” Ricky replies with a tiny smile. Gyuvin’s eyes flicker up to
meet his, a thousand suns burning in the browns of his irises.

“Yeah,” Gyuvin breathes out, before surging forwards to catch Ricky’s lips in a deep kiss.

Ricky’s hands fly up to cradle Gyuvin’s jaw, and he can feel the way the muscles there flex
with each searing kiss Gyuvin presses to his mouth. When the bassist swipes his tongue
against the seam of Ricky’s lips, he parts his mouth on an invitation. The twirl of their
tongues is so much more than obligatory kissing—it’s Ricky begging for more and it’s
Gyuvin trying.
Shifting on Gyuvin’s lap, Ricky rocks his hips down and his fingers tighten their hold on
Gyuvin’s jaw as he moans into Gyuvin’s mouth. Gyuvin’s hands trail further down to grasp
Ricky’s hips, encouraging him to continue as he pulls Ricky down. The tip of Ricky’s flushed
cock brushes against the soft cotton of Gyuvin’s shirt, pulling a broken whimper from his
throat as he continues to roll his hips down. He can feel Gyuvin stiffening too; the hard
length of Gyuvin’s cock swelling between Ricky’s buttocks.

Ricky needs him. He needs Gyuvin now.

He breaks away from the kiss, but Gyuvin is undeterred—simply dragging his lips down the
column of Ricky’s throat as Ricky stretches his arm over to the nightstand. He pats around on
the surface until he can touch the bottle of lube, triumphantly wrapping his fingers around the
smooth plastic and snatching it up.

When Gyuvin hears the schnick of the cap opening he pulls away from Ricky’s neck, a string
of saliva momentarily connecting his mouth to Ricky’s skin before breaking. “Do you want
me to?” He asks, gaze shifting from the lube, to Ricky’s eyes, then back to the lube.

Ricky shakes his head. “I want to,” he insists, coating his fingers in the cool and sticky
substance. He reaches down behind himself, gently circling a finger around his rim. The
weight of Gyuvin’s gaze on him is intense, and when Ricky looks up, there’s a simmering
hunger in the bassist's eyes.

Ever so slowly, Ricky eases his finger in. He can’t hold eye contact with Gyuvin for very
long—throwing his head back on a stuttered moan as he eagerly sinks down to his second
knuckle. He’s going too fast, he knows he’s going too fast, but Ricky’s patience has long
since thinned out as he wiggles a second finger in. The stretch is a lot—almost too much, but
it feels good. And it feels even better when Gyuvin ducks his head down, the hairs on his
head tickling Ricky’s chin as he latches his lips around one of Ricky’s nipples.

”Oh, God,” Ricky gasps, his thighs trembling from the overwhelming amount of pleasure.
His free hand flies up to hold the back of Gyuvin’s neck and his toes curl when Gyuvin’s
tongue flicks over the sensitive nub. And Gyuvin doesn’t stop, swapping between teeth and
tongue, and it’s all too much for Ricky. His fingers curl inside his heat, barely brushing
against his prostate—but it's enough, it's more than enough, and Ricky’s first orgasm hits him
out of nowhere.

He whimpers, a drawn out noise, his hold on Gyuvin’s neck keeping him there tucked
beneath Ricky’s chin. Gyuvin mutters something that Ricky can’t quite catch—the sound of
his own heartbeat in his ears much too loud. The muscles in Ricky’s abdomen clench and
unclench as come spurts from his cock, creating a damp patch on the front of Gyuvin’s shirt.

“Fuck,” Ricky chokes out, slumping against Gyuvin as he inhales deeply. He hadn’t meant to
come so quickly—and honestly, that may have been the fastest he’s ever had an orgasm. But
tonight, everything felt ten times more intense than normal. It was like someone had ripped
Ricky’s heart from his chest and placed it inside an incubator because everything felt so
warm and pleasant, and Ricky has never experienced this type of feeling before.
Gyuvin smooths his hands up Ricky’s back, gently extracting himself from the near death-
grip Ricky had on him. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, cradling the side of Ricky’s face with
one of his hands.

”Yeah,” Ricky replies with a nod. “That was just…”

Just what? A lot? Not enough?

Ricky isn’t even sure of it himself. So instead, he leans down to seal his lips against Gyuvin’s
and hopes that somehow his message can be conveyed through the butterfly gentleness of his
lips on Gyuvin’s.

“Do you want to stop?” Gyuvin asks in between kisses. And he’s just so—so careful.
Restrained. His actions are bordering on something far scarier that Ricky can’t bear to think
about right now, because he knows he doesn’t deserve that.

Gyuvin should have slapped Ricky the second he opened the door. He should have told Ricky
to never contact him again, to never think about him again.

But he didn’t. And Ricky knows why. But he doesn’t know how to process that.

He thinks that being in a critical meeting with his father and their company shareholders is
far easier than whatever this is.

Ricky may be good with words—but only when it comes to business dealings.

Emotions?

That’s something entirely alien to him.

But Ricky will try. Just like how he expresses his emotions through his art, Ricky will try to
use his actions, too.

“I don’t want to stop,” Ricky replies, leaning his forehead against Gyuvin’s. Their eyes meet,
two separate worlds clashing in the fluttering of eyelashes and dilation of pupils. “I want to
make you feel good. Can I make you feel good?”

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to,” Ricky insists. “Please?”

Gyuvin pauses, like he wants to say something else, but ultimately decides against it. “Okay.
Yeah—yeah, okay.”

Biting his lip, Ricky slips his fingers out from where they were still nestled inside him. The
fluttering of his rim makes him shiver, and Ricky can feel the way Gyuvin’s eyes seem to
burn a hole into the side of his head as he reaches for the bottle of lube again. He snakes a
hand down between their bodies, fiddling with the waistband of Gyuvin’s sweatpants until he
manages to slip his fingers in to grasp the head of Gyuvin’s hard cock.
Gyuvin moans lowly, bucking his hips up into the loose circle of Ricky’s fingers. “Kitten—
feels good. Your hands are so soft.”

The pet name makes Ricky smile. Oh, how he had missed hearing that. He drags the
waistband of Gyuvin’s sweatpants down—he wasn’t wearing any underwear—tucking it
beneath Gyuvin’s balls. Ricky pours a generous amount of lube onto his hand, slicking
Gyuvin’s length up.

And it’s like this—Gyuvin still completely clothed and Ricky oversensitive from his orgasm
—that Ricky sinks down, down, down, until the back of his thighs meet the top of Gyuvin’s.
It’s a lot. It's almost too much. Ricky feels so full, and he barely notices the nonstop
trembling of his thighs as he tries to keep his breathing even.

Gyuvin picks up on it though, circling his arms around Ricky’s waist and pulling him closer.
“Are you okay? We can change positions if it’s too much,” he offers, genuine concern
bleeding into his voice.

But Ricky shakes his head, nose bumping against Gyuvin’s ear as he does. “‘M fine. ‘S just a
lot.”

That was putting it lightly.

Ricky has never felt so intimately connected with someone else before. He tilts his head at
the same time Gyuvin does, and their gazes meet once again.

It feels like they’re burning together.

Tucking his feet beneath Gyuvin’s thighs, Ricky rolls his hips experimentally—a surprised
gasp escaping his lips when he feels Gyuvin’s length sliding deeper inside him. He wraps his
arms around Gyuvin’s neck, hands fisting desperately at the back of Gyuvin’s shirt as his
grinding slowly turns into higher and higher bounces.

“Fuck,” Gyuvin groans, one of his hands sliding down to grasp a handful of Ricky’s ass. “So
good, you’re so good for me. You’re always good for me.”

Ricky doesn’t think so—he thinks he’s something rotten, but he swallows his words down
and directs his emotions into a filthy roll of his hips instead. A strangled sound claws up his
throat when he rocks down, feeling Gyuvin even deeper. He’s so full, he’s too fucking full,
but Ricky is relentless in chasing after his second orgasm. He wants to feel good—he wants
Gyuvin to feel good. And this is the only way he knows how.

Gyuvin’s hands slide down to hold Ricky’s hips, helping him ride with a grip far too gentle
for the filthy things they’re doing. Ricky rolls his hips faster and rides even harder, but it’s so,
so much. And it isn’t just the physical aspect—Ricky’s thighs ache and his lower back burns,
but he just feels so fucking overwhelmed. And the pounding of his heart is more than
physical exertion. Because this—because they are connected in a way that terrifies Ricky. But
he can’t run anymore, he promised himself he wouldn’t run anymore.
So instead, Ricky digs his nails into Gyuvin’s shoulders a little more. And he begs—for what
exactly, he isn’t sure, but he begs. “Please, please. I just—I need—I can’t…”

”I know,” Gyuvin whispers, “I’ve got you.” And he pulls Ricky closer until their chests are
flushed and Ricky really doesn’t know where he starts and Gyuvin ends—and then Gyuvin is
planting his feet on the carpet, thrusting up hard and tearing a broken moan from Ricky’s lips.
“Say my name, say my name.”

”Gyu-Gyuvin,” Ricky chokes out, holding on for dear life as Gyuvin relentlessly fucks him.
There isn’t much else he can say right now, reduced to nothing more than a trembling mess in
Gyuvin’s lap as the hot drag of his cock inside of Ricky destroys any semblance of a proper
thought. “Gyuvin! Gyu—fuck, there right there, Gyuvin!”

Ricky’s cock is trapped between their bodies, the brush of cotton against his sensitive
cockhead almost painful, but it’s so good. And Gyuvin is right there too, whispering in
Ricky’s ear, telling him just how good and perfect he is. And it’s lies, it’s all lies, but Ricky
can’t reply with anything more than nonsensical babbling. Maybe it’s a little pathetic that he
can still get off like this—with a feeling of dread deep in his stomach and the devil on his
shoulder—but he can. He can, and he manages to choke out a warning this time, but Gyuvin
is there to meet him at the crossroads where Ricky stands.

Just as if Ricky is offering his soul up in a carved wooden box, Gyuvin appears from the
shadows, ready to strike a deal.

But it’s all so backwards, isn’t it?

Because Ricky is certain now that he is the demon.

Gyuvin’s hand wraps around Ricky’s cock, stroking in time with each thrust. Ricky chases
the feeling with impatient rocks of his hips—and he’s pretty sure he just ripped a new hole in
Gyuvin’s shirt, but that thought is far too low on his radar currently. “Come for me, princess,”
Gyuvin mutters, his breath hot in Ricky’s ear, and that’s all he needs.

Ricky’s entire body locks up—thighs clamping and toes curling so hard he just knows he’ll
get a foot cramp later. Gyuvin guides him through it—like they’re at the bottom of the ocean
and Gyuvin is pulling him up towards the surface. Towards the light.

Ricky spills between them for a second time, and he shudders with each wave of his orgasm.
It really does feel like he’s underwater because there’s a rushing sound in his ears and a
suspicious burning sensation in his nostrils, but he ignores all of that in favour of weakly
thrusting into the circle of Gyuvin’s fingers before it becomes too much. And Gyuvin is still
inside him, hard and throbbing, and Ricky can feel the strain slowly morphing into pain.

But nevertheless, he rolls his hips down—sluggish and stuttered, but he holds Gyuvin close
to him as he whispers, “you can come too. Please, Gyuvin.”

Gyuvin thrusts a couple more times before he grunts, fingers digging into Ricky’s hip as his
entire body convulses. And when Ricky feels the first spurt of hot come spilling inside him,
he realises that Gyuvin never pulled out. Gyuvin’s hips jerk once, twice, before he stills
completely, panting ragged breaths into the bare skin of Ricky’s shoulder.

They sit there in silence, wrapped in each other's embrace as their hearts beat in prestissimo.
And Ricky thinks he is more than content to stay like this, but after a few minutes, he feels
Gyuvin shift beneath him.

“Hey,” Gyuvin says, his voice barely above a whisper.

But Ricky doesn’t want to move—he’d rather stay like this forever, even though he can feel
Gyuvin softening and come beginning to trickle down his thighs.

”Hey,” Gyuvin tries again. This time he carefully extracts himself from Ricky’s grip and
gently directs Ricky’s attention towards him with a hand on his chin. “How are you feeling?”

Horrible, Ricky wants to say, but he knows he can’t. Because trying to explain the thousands
of thoughts flying around in his head will do nothing but damage their already strained
relationship, and Ricky can’t bear to be the cause of even more pain. So he musters up a
smile instead—one that feels wobbly and forced, but he’s trying.

”Alright. I’m alright,” Is what he decides on. Gyuvin’s eyes narrow momentarily, but then his
attention is diverted when Ricky unintentionally squirms on his lap.

“Shit… I’m sorry. I should have asked if that’s what you wanted,” The bassist says, lips
thinning into a line as he looks down to where they are both still joined.

”It’s fine,” Ricky replies, “I don’t mind.”

And he’s telling the truth, but there’s still a slope to Gyuvin’s mouth that Ricky wishes wasn’t
there. “How about a shower? There’s… nobody else is home right now.”

Oh. Ricky hadn’t even thought of that.

Still, he doesn’t want to move—but Ricky can't allow himself to be selfish anymore. So he
nods and unwinds his arms from Gyuvin’s shoulders.

“A shower might be good.”

Ricky feels like he’s on cloud nine.

“Mm. Weed will do that to you,” Gyuvin’s voice floats through his subconsciousness,
causing Ricky’s brow to furrow.

Did I say that out loud?

“You did.”
“Stop it,” Ricky giggles, rolling over and pouting at Gyuvin. “You’re reading my thoughts, I
swear!”

Gyuvin smirks down at him, taking a long pull from the joint and exhaling the smoke through
his nose. Ricky giggles again. The bassist looks like a dragon when he does that.

“I hope you’re into monster cocks then,” Gyuvin says with an exaggerated waggle of his
eyebrows, causing Ricky to hide his face in the bassist's chest.

“You are reading my thoughts,” Ricky complains, his lips brushing against bare and slightly
sticky skin. “This isn’t fair.”

Gyuvin chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and making Ricky’s lips feel tingly.
“Maybe you need to smoke some more. C’mere, hm?”

A large, warm hand directs Ricky’s chin up, and he watches with half-lidded eyes as Gyuvin
takes another pull of the joint. But this time, instead of blowing the smoke out immediately,
Gyuvin ducks his head down to seal his lips over Ricky’s.

Ricky catches onto what is happening and parts his lips, welcoming the bitter and tangy taste
of weed on his tongue. When Gyuvin exhales the smoke into Ricky’s mouth, Ricky inhales,
feeling his lungs burn with each passing second he holds the smoke in his them. His eyes
flicker up to meet Gyuvin’s, and he can feel them watering—one or two tears rolling down
his cheeks that Gyuvin swipes away with his thumb.

Their lips separate when Gyuvin pulls back a touch, watching with rapt attention—well, as
rapt as one can be whilst high—as Rickly slowly lets the smoke seep from the corners of his
lips. He blinks, a slow sort of thing, feeling like someone had removed his brain and replaced
the empty spot in his skull with cotton instead.

“How are you feeling?” Gyuvin murmurs. He sounds so distant even though his face is only
an inch away from Ricky.

“Mm. Warm,” comes Ricky’s sluggish reply. He runs his nose along Gyuvin’s collarbone,
taking a deep inhale as he does. “So are you. You're always warm.”

Gyuvin huffs out a laugh, running his hand down Ricky’s back. “And you always feel cold.
Aren’t you freezing, kitty cat?”

He isn’t, but Ricky plays along—shoving his hands in Gyuvin’s armpits and sliding a knee
between his thighs. “Mm, I’m freezing. Warm me up?”

“First you say you’re warm, now you say you’re cold,” Gyuvin teases, but he does roll closer
towards Ricky, humouring him. “Which one is it, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Ricky whines, snuggling closer to the bassist. And he really doesn’t know—
everything feels hot but cold at the same time, and whatever strain Gyuvin smokes must be
strong, because weed has never affected Ricky this intensely before. “My heart is beating so
fast. Can you hear it? It’s too loud.”
“That’s just in your head, babe,” Gyuvin says in a soothing tone. Ricky doesn’t understand
how he can be so damn calm right now. “How about some water? Or would you like a snack?
I’m not the peckish type when I smoke, but I know some people are.”

“Mm. Maybe water.”

“Okay,” Gyuvin replies. He tries to shift away from Ricky to stand from the bed, but Ricky
makes a noise of complaint and only holds on tighter. He may want water, but that doesn’t
mean Gyuvin can leave. “Kitty cat. You need to let me go so I can get up.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-uh. I don’t want you getting dehydrated. When was the last time you ate something?”

“Um…” Ricky trails off, trying to think back. Had he eaten today? He can only remember
eating a little bit of risotto with some wine at the country club, and when he repeats that to
Gyuvin, the bassist frowns.

“You should’ve told me that earlier. You gotta eat and drink something, okay? I don’t want
you greening out on me.” This time, when Gyuvin tries to roll out of Ricky’s grasp, he allows
it. Only because Ricky is struggling to keep a tight enough grip on the bassist.

His head flops against the pillow as he watches Gyuvin putter across the flat, avoiding the
trail of Ricky’s clothes still littered on the floor.

And Ricky can’t even blame the weed for the nauseas flip his stomach does when his eyes
skitter over the small rectangular bandage plastered on the back of Gyuvin’s shoulder.
Because he did that.

Gyuvin ducks down to grab something from his fridge, and the entire time, Ricky’s eyes are
glued to the bandage. He hadn’t noticed it earlier—Gyuvin had only removed his shirt when
they showered together, but even then, the bassist had kept his back away from Ricky the
entire time.

He wonders if it still hurts.

Ricky gags when he thinks about just how differently the outcome could have been if a bigger
piece had hit Gyuvin, or if his hand had been injured instead. What if Ricky had ruined
Gyuvin’s future as a bass player? It’s so vehemently upsetting to think about that he has to
swallow down the little bit of risotto threatening to make a reappearance, and Gyuvin turns to
look at Ricky with a worried expression on his face when the sound catches his attention.
“Hey. Are you okay?”

And Gyuvin just looks so… concerned standing there, with a bottle of water in one hand and
a mango in the other. What does he plan to do with a fucking mango? Peel it and feed it to
Ricky, like he deserves it?

Ricky doesn’t deserve that—he doesn’t deserve gentleness and care. He doesn’t understand
why Gyuvin is being so nice to him. He doesn’t understand.
And so, he promptly breaks out into tears.

Ugly hiccups and a sniffling nose, and Gyuvin makes a noise like a wounded animal as he
hurries back over to Ricky. “Why are you crying? What’s the matter?”

“I—because…” Ricky begins, his voice wet, and when he looks up he can see two of
Gyuvin. God, he’s trying so hard to not throw up, but his vision doubling is really not
helping. “D-does it h-hurt still?”

Gyuvin looks confused, his brows pinching together and lips parting as he processes Ricky’s
words—but then, he must catch on, because he immediately shakes his head. “It doesn’t,
honestly. I think it’s pretty much healed by now, in fact.”

“Show me.”

Turning around, Gyuvin awkwardly reaches an arm behind his back. He peels the bandage
away, and Ricky’s eyes trace the movement. When the entire plaster is removed Ricky stands
up, reaching out trembling fingers to brush beneath the healing skin.

The area that was covered by the bandage is slightly more pale than the rest of Gyuvin’s back
is. And he hadn’t been lying when he claimed it was mostly healed—the cut was now nothing
more than a raised bump, the skin pulled together in somewhat of a jagged line as it naturally
stitched itself back together.

Ricky wonders if it’ll scar.

“Did you have to get stitches?” He whispers, voice breaking on a tiny hiccup at the end.
Gyuvin shakes his head, glancing at Ricky over his shoulder.

“No. Hanbin didn’t think it was serious enough. It didn’t hurt much, either.”

He must be telling the truth, because when Ricky traces a gentle finger over the healing
wound, Gyuvin doesn’t even flinch. But it doesn’t make Ricky feel any better. “I’m so, so
sorry.”

Gyuvin turns around, wiping a few stray tears from Ricky’s cheeks. He seems to be doing
that a lot lately. And Ricky doesn’t think he should be the one crying, yet here he is. Here
they are.

“It’s alright. It was an accident.”

“But it shouldn’t have happened,” Ricky insists, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have thrown
things. And—was it sentimental?” He suddenly asks, because he hadn’t even thought of that,
and it sends a fresh wave of panic through him. “Fuck, I’m such an asshole, I shouldn’t have
—“

“Hey. Hey,” Gyuvin cuts Ricky off, cupping his jaw. “It wasn’t sentimental. Just something
cheap that I barely used anyway.”

“I’ll replace it,” Ricky continues to babble, “I’ll buy you a really expensive one, and—“
“Shh. Take a breath,” Gyuvin interrupts. “You don’t need to replace anything. It was just a
key dish, alright? Calm down.”

“But it’s more than just a key dish,” Ricky replies in a whisper, and that pulls a sigh from
Gyuvin. His hands slide down to wrap around Ricky’s waist and pull him closer, Ricky’s
head being tucked beneath Gyuvin’s chin.

He doesn’t reply, not immediately—just holding Ricky there in the comfort of his arms.
Ricky’s cries gradually taper off into the occasional sob, and he thinks that he’s just so damn
tired of crying.

“I’ve long since forgiven you,” Gyuvin finally says, pulling back enough to look down at
Ricky. “We both did things we shouldn’t have. I should have told you earlier, because I put
you in an uncomfortable situation that you never asked to be in.”

But didn’t I do the same thing? Ricky thinks. How am I any better?

Ricky clears his throat before he speaks. “I was serious, you know. About you letting me in. I
want to know more about you.”

“I’ll try,” Gyuvin says, blessing Ricky with a half-smile. “But I really am not that great at
talking about myself, so be warned.”

”I’m pretty persistent.”

”Pot meets kettle,” Gyuvin replies, making Ricky bark out a wet sounding laugh. Gyuvin’s
face seems to relax a little when he sees a smile on Ricky’s lips, and he mirrors Ricky’s
expression with a smile of his own. “Now, will you have some water and food? You look
pale. Paler than normal.”

Gyuvin does end up peeling the mango and slicing pieces off at a time to feed Ricky whilst
also monitoring his water consumption. And once the mango is nothing more than skin and
seed, and the water bottle is empty, Gyuvin wraps Ricky in a sweet embrace and pulls him
back down into the sheets.

Ricky thinks he can get used to this.

Ricky feels like he’s being run ragged.

And really, it’s no one else’s fault but his—Ricky may be refined in his mannerisms, but shit,
there was something about Gyuvin that made it impossible for Ricky to stay away.

He’s not the only one sharing this sentiment, though. Not when Gyuvin currently has his lips
locked with Ricky’s and a hand tangled in his hair as they lazily make out.
Over the course of the last week and a half, Ricky has barely left Gyuvin alone. He’s at
Gyuvin’s flat more often than not, and the only times he leaves is for family obligations or a
class. But he’s made sure not to ghost the people close to him—constantly texting Zhang Hao
updates about what’s going on, and he’d also given Seonghwa some time off. Now that the
album was released Hongjoong had finally left his studio, and Ricky was thankful to know
the producer was finally spending some quality time with his fiancé.

And maybe Ricky has left some of his responsibilities back home in his penthouse. But he
thinks that he’d much rather be here, with Gyuvin. Tasting and touching him and slowly
pulling information from the bassist like Ricky was a surgeon operating on a patient.

It certainly wasn’t easy—Gyuvin truly had not lied about that. But they’d started small—
things like what Gyuvin’s favourite colour was, which is navy blue; or his preferred season,
which was autumn.

“I’ve always found it interesting to watch nature wither away during autumn. The trees lose
all of their leaves and the grass dries up and dies. But after winter, everything always comes
back to life. Autumn is where things go to start anew, and I think that’s pretty cool.”

Kim Gyuvin has an unexpected depth to him that Ricky hadn’t been expecting. His rough
personality wasn’t entirely a front—it seems to be more like a shield that the bassist uses
whenever he feels like he’s being attacked.

Don’t get Ricky wrong though. The sex is still as crazy as ever. He has bruises on his bruises.
And he likes them.

He’d even asked Gyuvin to take a picture. And Ricky is satisfied with the knowledge that the
bassist has a polaroid tucked in his wallet of two thighs with finger-shaped bruises decorating
pale skin.

But there’s still things that Gyuvin won’t talk about. Like his family, or much from his
teenage years. He’d clammed up the first time Ricky had asked, so he hadn’t tried again.

Ricky hasn’t asked much about the band either. To be frank, it was a little awkward with the
whole Gunwook situation. They haven’t touched that topic with a ten foot pole, and honestly,
Ricky isn’t sure they ever will.

But what he does know is that the band has some real concert gigs lined up in the near future,
and Ricky can’t help but to be excited on Gyuvin’s behalf. Ricky doesn’t know if he’ll be
able to make it to most of the shows, but he’ll definitely try. Maybe he should ask Gyuvin to
sign his chest.

The thought is so funny that Ricky has to back out of the kiss, because he can’t contain his
giggles. Gyuvin looks confused, but he still watches with soft eyes as Ricky tries and fails to
reign his laughter in. “What’s so funny, huh?”

“Have you ever signed a fan's chest before?”

Gyuvin’s eyebrows raise. “Uh, no. Why?”

Ricky shrugs, a smirk curling his lips up. “Just thought that I should be the first.”

“We could make that happen.” Gyuvin leans in, his breath hot against Ricky’s lips as he
whispers, “but I guess it depends on what you want me to sign with.”

“Ew,” Ricky complains, pushing Gyuvin away and wrinkling his nose in disgust. And Gyuvin
just laughs, rolling over and getting off the bed. He stretches his arms over his head, the soft
sounds of his bones popping making Ricky wince.

But it doesn’t stop him from admiring Gyuvin’s bare back as the bassist makes his way over
to sit on the couch. Ricky bites his bottom lip as he watches the muscles in Gyuvin’s back
ripple with each step he takes. Ricky knows exactly what those muscles are capable of now.

Gyuvin looks over his shoulder, a smug expression on his face like he knows what Ricky is
thinking. It’s the same shoulder that bears nothing more than a faint white line on it now.
“Don’t I have to put on a show for you first? What’s your song request?”

Ricky thinks about it as he watches Gyuvin settle down on the couch, spreading his legs and
lazily slinging his elbow over the armrest. Of course Ricky had listened to the album, and he
already has a favourite song—one of the b-sides that was towards the end of the track list.

He has a better idea.

“You should show me how to play the song,” Ricky suggests. He stands up from the bed and
meanders over to where Gyuvin is sitting on the couch. The shirt that Ricky is wearing—the
one that is actually Gyuvin’s and extremely oversized—slips down one of his shoulders, and
Gyuvin tugs the material back up with a small smile on his face. He doesn’t immediately
retract his hand, instead sliding it down Ricky’s side and wrapping it around the back of his
bare thigh. Ricky knows what’s coming before it even happens, but he still squeaks in
surprise when Gyuvin yanks him forwards.

“Hm,” Gyuvin hums, nosing along Ricky’s stomach like he’s trying to sniff out a treat. “I
could think of something else I’d rather do right now.”

His words are punctuated by a cheeky squeeze of Ricky’s ass, and Ricky bats his hand away.
“And I want to learn the chords to Fight or Flight.”

”Are you actually being serious?” Gyuvin asks, leaning back to look up at Ricky. There’s a
sparkle of something in his eyes—and it’s an expression on the bassist’s face that is
completely new to Ricky.

He likes it.

”I’m serious.”

Gyuvin looks surprised—his mouth dropping open slightly and brows rising to disappear
beneath his messy fringe. And Ricky can’t help but wonder why Gyuvin seems to be so
startled by Ricky’s request.
But then Gyuvin shrugs, an easy sort of thing, and he reaches across the side of the couch to
grab his bass guitar. He settles back against the couch cushions and spreads his legs, patting
the empty space between his thighs. “Alright, princess. Sit down. Let’s see if I can make a
bassist out of you, hm?”

Ricky does, settling in the space Gyuvin had created for him. He can feel the warmth
radiating from Gyuvin’s body like this—almost as if there was a weighted blanket draped
over his shoulders.

But it’s not a blanket. It’s Gyuvin’s arms, and he places the guitar in Ricky’s lap. The
instrument is heavy and the wooden body is cold, making Ricky gasp in surprise when it
touches his bare thigh. Behind him, Gyuvin chuckles. “Do you know how to hold it?” He
asks, lips brushing against the shell of Ricky’s ear and making him shiver.

”I do.”

To prove it, Ricky slides his left hand up the fretboard, loosely holding his fingers on the
strings whilst his thumb grazes the neck. With his other arm, he lets it casually sit in the dip
of the body with his hand flat against the pickups. “See?” He says, twisting his head to
proudly grin at the bassist.

”Look at you,” Gyuvin murmurs, a matching grin on his own face. He bumps his nose
against Ricky’s, one of his hands reaching up to hold Ricky by the jaw. “My kitty could be a
rockstar if he wanted to.”

And then Gyuvin catches Ricky’s lips in a filthy kiss, tongue twisting against Ricky’s in such
a lewd manner that it pulls a surprised moan from Ricky. Gyuvin swallows it up, his other
hand trying to sneak between Ricky and the bass, but Ricky pulls out of the kiss and bats the
wandering away. “Hey. You’re supposed to be teaching me something here,” Ricky
complains, a little breathlessly. His lips are tingling.

”Sorry,” Gyuvin replies with a laugh. He’s very obviously not sorry—eyes rakish and fingers
twitching as he visibly considers whether or not to try his luck again. “You just—it’s because
—fuck, you look so hot holding my guitar. I don’t think you understand what it does to me.”

”I’m pretty sure I understand rather well,” Ricky answers drily, because there’s something
suspiciously hard pressing into his lower back. Gyuvin snorts, ducking his head down to
press his forehead against Ricky’s shoulder.

”I’m a weak, weak man for you, princess. I just can’t help myself.”

At least the obsession goes both ways.

The sound of the front door closing has Ricky’s head snapping up from where he’d been bent
down to look in the fridge. It wasn’t Gyuvin, because Ricky could still hear the sound of the
shower running down the hall, the pipes in the walls of the house occasionally gurgling.
He freezes for a second, one hand braced on the open fridge door and the other gripping the
counter for purchase. For some reason, the thought of someone else arriving at the house
hadn’t crossed Ricky’s mind. He knew that Hanbin lived here too, but Ricky and Gyuvin
were always so wrapped up in each other over in the flat that Ricky hadn’t noticed the
drummer anywhere.

Or, he was trying to avoid them.

Which was fine by Ricky. He’s barely coming to terms with trying to forgive himself for the
blowup he had at Gyuvin—he’s pretty sure that Hanbin wouldn’t be as forgiving as Gyuvin
was. Ricky doesn’t know the drummer very well, but he does know that the older man seems
particularly protective over Gyuvin.

The beeping of the fridge breaks Ricky from his thoughts, and he steps back to close the
door, turning around to lean against it. He’s glad he had half the mind to put some clothes on
—his torso drowning in one of Gyuvin’s sweatshirts, but he was wearing his own pair of
Abercrombie & Fitch jeans with a pair of fuzzy socks to keep his toes warm.

Ricky steels himself in preparation to see Hanbin—but it isn’t the drummer that walks down
the hallway and freezes in the entrance of the kitchen.

“Gunwook,” Ricky says in a rushed breath, watching how Gunwook’s face seems to go
through the five stages of grief in the span of a few seconds. “How… how are you?”

This is awkward.

The singer has barely crossed Ricky’s mind in the last couple of weeks. And Ricky should
probably feel bad about it, because the last time he’d seen Gunwook, the guy was visibly
upset. By no means does Ricky thrive on causing tension between the band members, but
honestly, was it really his fault?

How can Matthew blame Ricky just because Gunwook had feelings for him? That’s not on
Ricky. He can’t control that.

Gunwook clears his throat, looking a little past Ricky as he speaks. “I’m good, thanks. How
about you?”

Never has Ricky heard the singer sounding so unsure when he talks. It’s fucking weird. In
fact, Gunwook is acting really strange right now—his hands wringing together and knee
bouncing as he nibbles on his bottom lip. Ricky can’t help but wonder if he’s been smoking
something, because Gunwook is acting nothing like his typical self.

It's making Ricky feel uncomfortable. But he can’t just leave, because the shower is still
running and Gunwook is blocking the only exit Ricky can take.

“I’m good. I listened to the album, by the way,” Ricky says, trying to segue into a topic that
might be a bit more comfortable for Gunwook. “It’s really good. You all did a fantastic job, I
bet it’ll stay on the charts for ages.”
That seems to make Gunwook visibly relax a little, and he offers up a smile. He wraps his
hand around the shoulder strap of the backpack he’s wearing and shrugs nonchalantly. “We
owe a lot to the studio, Hongjoong in particular. He saw the vision and worked his magic, and
he we are.”

“And here you are,” Ricky echoes in a murmur. He taps his fingers against his thigh,
pretending like he doesn’t notice Gunwook’s gaze flickering down to watch the movement
for a moment.

He wonders if either of them will address the elephant in the room. Surely, it’s painfully
obvious just exactly why Ricky is standing here right now, in a kitchen that isn’t his own.
And then Gunwook raises his gaze to meet Ricky’s eyes again, and there’s something new
there. Something that throws Ricky off.

Because Gunwook looks hungry. Hungry for something that Ricky doesn’t recognise.

But it only lasts for a second at most, because Gunwook’s signature handsome smile flashes
across his face once more. “I’m just here to grab something for Hanbin,” Gunwook explains,
jerking his chin to the side to gesture deeper into the house. “Is… is Gyuvin in his flat?”

“He’s in the shower,” Ricky replies. Almost like Gyuvin had heard him, the shower shuts off
at that exact moment—the pipes groaning as the flow of water stops. And then the sound of
Gyuvin’s voice floats down the hallway—something incomprehensible because Ricky can’t
quite make out what he’s saying, but it startles Gunwook. It startles him enough that he spins
around, and his backpack gets caught on the handle of the cupboard he’s standing next to. He
must not have zipped it up all the way, because things start falling out from the open pocket
and land on the kitchen tiles.

Ricky ignores whatever Gyuvin is calling out for and crouches down to help pick the mess
up. Above him, Gunwook makes a strangled noise, and Ricky almost pauses to look up to see
if the singer is okay—but then he sees it.

No.

He sees himself.

Amongst the scattered mess of pencils and music sheets and random pieces of rubbish,
there’s Ricky’s face. Photos of himself in various places—the front of his apartment complex,
at his university campus with Haruto—there’s even one of Ricky walking down a busy street
of inner New York City with his father after a successful client acquisition.

But… why?

There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. There has to be.

Gyuvin calls out again, but he’s closer this time, and Ricky can understand what he’s saying
now. “Where’d you go, princess? You said you were coming back!”
 And like a wild animal sensing danger, Ricky feels a wave of uneasiness wash over him. He
glances up at Gunwook, who had all but frozen in place as he watched how Ricky was
essentially crushing the photos due to how hard he was gripping them. “I think you should
leave,” Ricky tells him—but it’s too late now.

It’s too late, because Gyuvin makes a surprised sound as he comes into view, stopping behind
Gunwook. “Wookie? What are you doing here?” And Ricky slowly raises his head, like if he
didn’t move any faster than that, Gyuvin wouldn’t see.

But Ricky has never been a lucky person. That much is obvious.

He doesn’t even have any time to try to hide the pictures. Because even though Gunwook is
standing right there in front of Gyuvin, the bassist's gaze lands on Ricky—because they are
always bound to be inexplicably drawn together like magnets. And Ricky can only watch as
Gyuvin’s eyes trail further down until they stop, widening at first, and then narrowing as his
gaze flicks away—to look at Gunwook now instead, who hasn’t moved an inch the entire
time.

Ricky should have known that things were going too smoothly.

“Gunwook. What the fuck.”

Chapter End Notes

please note the chapter count has changed :) i’ve also moved from retrospring to neospring (since rs is closing down)
and i’ve linked it down below!

twitter | playlist | neospring

 doloroso
Chapter Notes

there’s some intense stuff that happens in this chapter. i’ve listed a few content warnings
below, but if you feel like you’re fine to read the chapter without knowing, feel free to
skip over as they are spoilers

mild violence. references to: child neglect, cheating, domestic violence

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Gyuvin—“

“Don’t you fucking Gyuvin me, you piece of shit,” Gyuvin hisses backing Gunwook up
against the same cupboard that had been the cause of this distaster. “What the fuck are you
doing?”

Ricky feels like he’s in a nightmare. He feels like he’s in some awful sleep paralysis state,
frozen and unable to move as he watches the scene in front of him play out.

And Gunwook… he looks scared. His face has gone pale, backpack haphazardly hanging off
his shoulder as he presses his body against the cupboard in an effort to get away from
Gyuvin.

The silence only seems to infuriate Gyuvin more, and his palms slap loudly against the
cupboard door on either side of Gunwook’s head, making both the singer and Ricky wince.
“Spit it out!”

That confident swagger that Gunwook typically walked around with was nowhere to be
found right now—because he looks impossibly small like this, eyes wide and mouth dropped
open as he looks every bit like the kid that got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

And still, he doesn’t speak.

“Fuck!” Gyuvin yells, taking a step back and scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Fuck.
This is—this is so fucked up. What the fuck.”

And Ricky… well, he’s inclined to agree with that statement. He looks back down, at the
photographs in his hands, and all he feels is confused.

The question is poised on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason, Ricky cannot bring
himself to speak.

Why, Gunwook? Why did you do this?

“I thought we were fine,” Gyuvin exclaims, throwing his hands in the air as he paces back
and forth in front of Gunwook. “We broke up, and things were shitty, but I thought we were
fine. You know, we managed to get the band together because that’s what you always wanted
to do, not me! But you had something to focus on, at least! A goal to work towards!”

Gyuvin stops in his tracks, turning around to swipe his hand across the counter. Ricky
flinches when a box of biscuits and a pack of napkins go flying off, crashing into the floor on
the other side of the kitchen.

Spinning back around, Gyuvin continues his rant, his words like venom dripping from his
tongue. “I forgave you. I forgave you. Because I was afraid to lose you, because by doing so,
I would be losing a piece of myself. But maybe it just doesn’t matter now, huh? Because after
everything you put me through, you’re still trying to ruin my fucking life. God fucking forbid
I have any happiness!”

Gunwook’s mouth opens and closes a few times, like his body is trying to figure out how to
speak again. “Gyuvin, I—I never—can you just—“

But whatever stuttering mess Gunwook is trying to choke out only seems to infuriate Gyuvin
more, and he stalks towards Gunwook, his fist raised, and Ricky can only helplessly choke
out a “Gyuvin, don’t!” as the bassist draws his fist back, and Ricky closes his eyes because
he can’t bear to watch this.

Crack!

Ricky’s eyes snap open. Gyuvin’s fist had connected with the cupboard door beside
Gunwook’s head, a hard enough punch that it had splintered the wood. Crimson blood
trickles down the damaged door—much more than the last time Ricky had seen the bassist
injured.

But Gyuvin doesn’t move his fist. He’s locked in an intense stare-off with Gunwook, who
hadn’t moved the entire time.

Gyuvin hadn’t wanted to punch Gunwook. Not really.

“I tried,” Gyuvin speaks in a low growl, his face only inches away from Gunwook’s. “I tried
so fucking hard to pretend like everything was fine. Like I wasn’t dying on the inside every
damn day. And I didn’t think I would get through it, but I did—and we were fine. Everything
was fine. Don’t you understand? Everything was fine.”

”I know, and I—“

”No, you don’t know!” Gyuvin shouts, face pinching and voice cracking. “Because if you did
know, then you wouldn’t have done this!”

“If you would just—“

“No!” Gyuvin roars, drawing his fist back and smashing it into the cupboard again. A sob is
ripped from Ricky’s throat, because Gyuvin is hurt again, and it’s Ricky’s fault again.
But he just feels so fucking helpless. He doesn’t know what to do, not when he still can’t
wrap his head around the pictures he’s holding of himself.

Gunwook winces, his eyes darting from Gyuvin’s hand, to his face. “Gyuvin, you need to
calm down.”

“Calm down?” Gyuvin echoes with a scoff, his eyes widening as a self-deprecating laugh
falls from his lips. “Calm down? Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“Yes, but you need to—“

“I don’t need to do anything,” Gyuvin hisses, his free hand clenching and unclenching, and
for a split second it looks like he really might raise that fist. Ricky’s breath catches in his
throat, the sound barely perceptible, but Gyuvin must hear it because his gaze flickers over to
Ricky.

And Ricky doesn’t know what Gyuvin sees when he looks at him. But whatever it is, the
anguished expression in Gyuvin’s face softens a touch. It wouldn’t be recognisable unless
you were looking right at him.

This is good, Ricky thinks, beginning to slowly stand up from where he’d been crouched
down, he’s calming down. Maybe we can work this out like adults.

But then Gunwook had to ruin it by opening his big fucking mouth.

“You need to listen to what I have to say to you for once,” Gunwook says firmly, and
whatever relief Ricky had been feeling quickly vanishes. “You never do. You’re so—you’re
so quick to anger, you never think first.”

You’d be able to hear a pin drop in the silence that followed Gunwook’s words.

Gyuvin’s head slowly swivels away from where he’d been looking at Ricky, focusing his
attention back on Gunwook. The bassist blinks, just once and very slowly, like he’s trying
very hard to reign his anger in.

“Are you trying to make a joke?”

Gunwook gulps, shaking his head, like he’s only just realised he has very much said the
wrong thing. “No.”

Gyuvin smirks, but there’s not a single ounce of humour behind it. “It’s funny. It’s so fucking
funny that I can’t even laugh. Isn’t that hilarious? Huh? Why do you think I always jump to
conclusions, huh? Tell me, Park Gunwook, just exactly why would I do that?”

“Gyuvin, please—“

“Tell me!” Gyuvin shouts, and he almost seems to loom over Gunwook, twice the size of the
singer just from pure anger. “Tell me, just exactly why do you think I jump to conclusions so
quickly?”
”I—I didn’t mean—“

”Because you fucking cheated on me!”

What the fuck.

And Gunwook is crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks as he cowers below the man
he’d once loved. Or claimed to, at least. “Gyuvin, please.”

But Gyuvin doesn’t hear him, or he doesn’t care. He laughs, a bitter sounding thing. “You
went and fucked someone else and fucked up my trust, and I was so fucked up for ages. I was
miserable! But the worst part was that I blamed myself for the longest time. What did I do so
wrong? Was I truly so unloveable?”

”You aren’t,” Gunwook whimpers through trembling lips. “I swear to God, you aren’t.”

“I don’t fucking believe you!” Gyuvin screams, slamming his hand over and over into the
cupboard door. The wood continues to splinter beneath his fist, and Ricky is scared, he’s so
fucking scared because he’s never seen anyone act like this before.

He doesn’t know what to do. He feels useless.

Gunwook sobs, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out but he’s not sure he should.
“Please, stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

Gyuvin snorts, the sound self-deprecating and lacking any humour. “I’m hurting myself? I
don’t think any pain will ever hurt me more than you did that day. This?” Gyuvin brings his
bloodied hand close to his face, twisting it around to inspect the damage. His knuckles are all
torn up, blood trickling down and splattering in tiny droplets on the kitchen tiles. “This is
nothing compared to that.”

“I thought we worked past that,” Gunwook hiccups through a sob. “You told me… you said
that you forgave me.”

“And I did. But this?” Gyuvin gestures to Ricky, to the photos, shaking his head. “This is
fucked up, Gunwook. You’re stalking my—you’re stalking him. The fuck are you doing that
for? You like him, whatever, but I thought it was pretty fucking obvious he was off limits.”

“I’m not stalking him—“

“You are!” Gyuvin blurts out, “you’ve taken pictures of him. Without him knowing!” And
then Gyuvin’s head is whipping to the side, a frighteningly wild blaze in his eyes as he looks
at Ricky. “Right? You didn’t know, right?”

Ricky’s tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth. “What? No, of course not.”

”See?” Gyuvin seethes, pointing at Ricky with his injured hand, “he didn’t know, Gunwook!
That’s literally stalking!”
”It’s not—you don’t—” Gunwook cuts himself off, finally looking over to Ricky. There’s a
pleading emotion in his eyes, and he’s looking at Ricky as if he wants Ricky to say
something. To extinguish the flames, to give Gunwook an out.

But how can Ricky do that? How can he do that, when he is the one stuck in the middle?

That’s not fair. Because Ricky deserves an explanation, too.

He shakes his head, the movement barely noticeable. But it’s enough, because something
shifts in Gunwook’s demeanour. It’s so eerily similar to how quickly Gyuvin’s emotions can
change, that a shiver travels down Ricky’s spine.

Ricky watches as Gunwook’s face seems to shutter. It begins with the tightening of his lips,
pulling into a line that no longer quivers. His jaw clenches, and his eyes—his eyes are the
most frightening part. Because Gunwook blinks, and all of that fear, all of that hope, is gone.
Dark, empty irises that stare disdainfully at Ricky—almost as if Gunwook is trying to convey
it’s your fault that I’m this way, Ricky.

The only lingering emotion left is the croakiness to Gunwook’s voice from crying earlier. But
it’s hard to focus on that with the words that come out of his mouth next.

”Fine,” Gunwook grits, focusing his attention back on Gyuvin. “You wanna call me a stalker?
Fine. But don’t you think that just maybe, you should have been more focused on the band?
Your livelihood? Instead of chasing after some rich boy that’ll probably throw you to the
gutter once he’s tired of your bullshit? Come now, Gyuvin. You don’t really think he actually
cares about you, do you? Did you forget that his mummy and daddy already have his husband
and wedding planned out?”

”You’re a son of a bitch,” Gyuvin snaps, and Gunwook laughs at that.

”Yeah. Yeah, I am. Surely you’d know that better than anyone else, huh?”

”Fuck you,” Gyuvin spits, and something finally breaks in Ricky, because he’s moving. He’s
throwing his body across the kitchen, inserting himself in the space between the two men,
because he’s positive that fists are about to start flying. For real.

”Stop,” Ricky pleads, hands on either band member's chests as he physically holds them
apart. “You guys are friends, stop fighting!”

“Ricky, get out of the way,” Gyuvin mutters.

“Yeah, get out of the way, Ricky,” Gunwook echoes. “He wants to be a big boy and fight, so
why don’t you let us?”

Ricky doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t give into the taunting words, instead focusing his
attention on Gyuvin. “Gyuvin, please. Neither of you are in a state to have a civil
conversation right now.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Gunwook interjects before Gyuvin can speak.
Ricky closes his eyes and lets out a controlled breath. But it still hurts, those words Gunwook
said. Now though, is not the time for Ricky to feel sorry for himself.

”Shut the fuck up,” Gyuvin growls at Gunwook, pushing slightly against Ricky’s hand. “You
don’t know anything!”

”I know that Ricky cut you up,” Gunwook continues to press the topic. “You like that or
something? Like the pain? What are you, a masochist?”

”Maybe I am, if I’ve spent so many years of my life hanging around you.”

”Gyuvin,” Ricky warns, but his voice seems to go unheard.

”I never heard you complain once,” Gunwook replies bitterly, “and all it takes is some pretty
boy to change your worldview?”

”Yeah. Because he’s five times more of a man than you’ll ever be.”

That makes Ricky freeze. Hearing Gyuvin use Ricky’s own words—against someone else—is
surreal.

”He’s not that special,” Gunwook says with a scoff, and now Ricky is just really fucking
confused.

Apparently, so is Gyuvin. “The fuck are you on about? You were stalking him, Gunwook!
Last time I checked, people don’t just stalk someone they aren’t interested in!”

”And I’m telling you there’s nothing special about Shen Ricky!” Gunwook practically
explodes, and Ricky can feel the muscles in Gunwook’s chest rippling beneath his touch, as if
that statement was backed up with so much pure anger that it was causing Gunwook’s body
to have a physical reaction. “He’s just a guy! A guy with too much money and too little care
for the people around him! He’s not special, and he certainly doesn’t think you’re special,
either!”

”You know what?” Gyuvin mutters, taking a step back, causing one of Ricky’s hands to drop.
There’s a defeated expression on his face, and he looks… he looks sadder than he had when
he’d argued with Ricky. “I’m done. I’m done with you, I’m done with the band. You can find
another bassist to put up with your shit. I’m done.”

And Gunwook is silent, stunned into a state where he can no longer speak—which is good.
But Ricky doesn’t know how long this will last for. He’s positive that Gunwook had been
expecting Gyuvin to bite back, to fight, to not give up this easily.

The words aren’t quite processing in Ricky’s mind. All he can think is that he needs to get
them out of here and away from this situation, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to pull
them apart from a physical alteration.

So that’s what he does. Ricky steps away from Gunwook and takes Gyuvin’s hand in his
own, gently tugging until Gyuvin gets the idea. And Ricky doesn’t know where they’re
going. He doesn’t know what will happen from here on out.
What he does know is that he mourns.

He mourns for Gunwook and Gyuvin.

It’s a nod to both Ricky and Gyuvin’s characters that Ricky is the one driving. He’s behind
the wheel of Gyuvin’s 4Runner—something he never pictured himself to ever be doing.
Ricky barely drives as it is, let alone a truck, but they haven’t crashed yet so he thinks he’s
doing a decent job.

Gyuvin is quiet in the passenger seat. Occasionally, he’ll mutter directions to Ricky—a turn
left here or take this exit there. Ricky doesn’t know where exactly they’re going, but Gyuvin
seems to have a destination in mind.

Ricky doesn’t ask.

He’s not sure if he should.

The atmosphere in the car is so horrifically fragile, Ricky is afraid to even breathe too loudly.
He’s not scared of Gyuvin, it’s nothing like that. But there are things Ricky doesn’t know, and
if he asks the wrong question, he’s terrified of Gyuvin blowing up again. He’s scared that
Gyuvin will hurt himself, because Ricky is slowly putting the pieces of Kim Gyuvin together,
and he’s learning that the bassist's personality isn’t as black and white as Ricky had made it
out to be. There’s layers, there’s so many layers, and Ricky is fairly certain he’s only just
begun to peel the first few away.

There’s so many thoughts flying through Ricky’s mind. The newly uncovered backstory
behind why Gunwook and Gyuvin had broken up. The pictures Gunwook had taken of Ricky.
The weird riddles both bandmates had been speaking in. Everything is so confusing and
jumbled, and Ricky feels like there’s more to the story he isn’t yet privy to.

But he keeps his focus on driving for now. It already feels awkward enough to not be the
passenger for once—and it’s worse that the 4Runner is a manual. No matter how dodgy
Ricky had assumed the vehicle to be, he has to give credit where credit is due. His gear
changes are rough and late, and the car may groan and grumble beneath their feet, but it still
chugs along reliably.

After forty or so minutes of uncomfortably quiet driving, Gyuvin points to an exit and directs
Ricky to take it. They’re on the other side of the Hudson River, having crossed the state line
of New Jersey a while ago. Ricky doesn’t normally venture out to this area of the city, so he’s
curious as to where Gyuvin is taking him.

It turns out to be a lookout of sorts. Ricky parks the truck, uncaring of how he’s probably
taking up two spaces from his poor parking skills. He looks over at Gyuvin, but the bassist is
already opening the passenger door and climbing out, so Ricky does the same.

There’s a decent amount of cars in the parking lot, and Ricky can see what looks to be a
combination of tourists and joggers and people walking their dogs milling about around the
lookout area. He’s a little confused, because this place is busy and he’s unsure of why Gyuvin
would want to be surrounded by so many strangers right now.

But Gyuvin doesn’t walk over to the lookout. Instead, he goes left, and Ricky follows a few
paces behind.

The hiking path they walk up slowly begins to get steeper and steeper, and Ricky has to bite
his tongue to not let a few curse words slip out when his sweater gets snagged on stray
branches. After a few minutes of this, Gyuvin takes a sharp right, ducking beneath a low tree
branch and going off the trail.

There’s a joke on the tip of Ricky’s tongue about isn’t this how serial killers lure their prey to
their deaths? But now is not the appropriate time. So Ricky keeps his mouth shut and also
ducks beneath the branch, arms pinwheeling for a moment when he emerges on the other side
because he almost loses his balance.

Gyuvin must notice, because he looks over his shoulder just as Ricky is righting himself.
“Oh. Sorry,” Gyuvin mutters, pausing in his tracks and holding his hand out for Ricky to
grab. “I guess I’m so used to coming out here that the path isn’t an issue for me.”

The hand Gyuvin is holding out is his injured one. Ricky freezes for a moment, unsure if this
is a good idea, because he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt Gyuvin. He doesn’t even care
about the dried blood and scabbed skin. Which, when Ricky thinks about it, is huge. Because
he’s pretty sure if this had happened a month ago, he’d turn up his nose and say something
along the lines of “Gross, I’m not touching that. And I can walk perfectly fine by myself,
thank you.”

But current Ricky has changed. This version of himself is nothing like how he’d acted a
month ago.

So he interlocks his fingers with Gyuvin’s as carefully as possible.

”It’s alright,” Ricky replies, flashing what he hopes is a convincing smile. “I don’t exactly go
to places like this often.”

The tiniest, barely there smile pulls at the corners of Gyuvin’s lips. “You’re a real city slicker,
aren’t you?”

”Guilty as charged.”

It’s easier to manage the trail—or, lack of one—with Gyuvin gently pulling Ricky along.
Their hands are slightly clammy, but Gyuvin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He
constantly looks back at Ricky like he’s making sure Ricky is alright, and it makes something
warm bloom in Ricky’s chest.

They walk like this for a few minutes—Gyuvin holding branches to the side for Ricky—until
they reach a dead end. There's a pile of rocks that’s taller than Ricky and Gyuvin. And Ricky
thinks that surely Gyuvin must have gone the wrong way or something, because where are
they supposed to go from here?
“You might have to get your hands a little dirty, princess,” Gyuvin says apologetically,
nodding at the rocks. “We just have to climb up here and then we’ll have reached our
destination.”

If someone had told Ricky two hours ago that he’d be going on an unplanned hike in clothes
horribly inappropriate for the sport and weather, he would have laughed. These rocks look
like the perfect place for a spider to be hiding in, and Ricky’s skin crawls at the thought of
getting bitten by something potentially lethal. But, Gyuvin seems to know what he’s doing,
so Ricky shelves his fear and nods.

“Okay,” he agrees, letting go of Gyuvin’s hand and searching for the best rocks to grip onto.
He looks backwards, a teasing smile on his face. “Catch me if I fall?”

Gyuvin’s response is deadly serious. “Always.”

Oh.

Clearing his throat, Ricky begins to awkwardly climb up the rocks. It’s a little difficult since
the rocks aren’t stacked on an angle—they’re more so sitting straight on top of each other.
Ricky has rock climbed before, but that was in high school and it was indoors with a harness
and a foam mat on the floor. He’s not climbing that high, but if he falls there’s a good chance
he’ll sprain something.

Two hands suddenly push against his ass, and Ricky gasps in surprise. Below him, Gyuvin
huffs out a small laugh. “You look like you’re struggling. I’ll boost you up, ‘kay?”

Though it’s slightly intimate, there’s nothing sexual in the way Gyuvin is touching him. And
true to his word, Gyuvin pushes Ricky up far enough that Ricky is able to easily clamber to
the top of the rock pile. He immediately focuses his attention back down on the bassist, who
was already climbing the rocks far quicker than Ricky had.

“Be careful,” Ricky murmurs, worry evident in his tone. His hands move around uselessly as
he tries to figure out if Gyuvin needs help, but before he knows it, Gyuvin has made his way
to the top of the rocks.

“Turn around,” Gyuvin tells Ricky, so Ricky does.

“Oh,” he breathes.

It’s not the prettiest view Ricky has ever seen. But he’s been to some of the most stunning
places in the world on trips with his parents, so it’s a little difficult to top those.

There’s a clear view of the Hudson River, framed in an almost perfect circle by shrubs and
tree branches. The river ripples gently as a breeze dances across the surface, and two ducks
paddle about in the water, occasionally dipping their heads beneath the surface to search for
bugs or small fish.

Ricky isn’t sure exactly where they are, but he can’t hear anything other than the wind
blowing against his ears, or the faint sound of ship horns. They must be far enough away
from the crowd of tourists to no longer be able to hear them. “How did you find this place?”
Ricky asks, because it seems like Gyuvin had made his own trail here.

Gyuvin doesn’t reply immediately, standing up and walking towards what Ricky now realises
is a ledge. He wonders if it’s a straight drop down.

“I used to go exploring a lot, as a kid,” Gyuvin begins to explain, gazing out across the river.
“There’s not a lot of places in New York that are untouched like this. Discovering this was…
well, not a happy accident. But I am happy that I found it.”

Ricky walks over to stand behind Gyuvin, keeping a small gap between them. “It's nice. New
York is kind of a dirty city, so places like these are definitely special.”

Gyuvin doesn’t reply, instead crouching down to sit on the ground. It’s a little alarming how
close he is to the edge, but Ricky reminds himself that Gyuvin has been here plenty of times,
so he also follows suit. It’s not the most comfortable place to sit down—rocks and sticks dig
in uncomfortably to Ricky’s bottom and legs, but he ignores it.

“I come here to think a lot,” Gyuvin murmurs, wrapping his arms around his shins and
leaning his chin on his knees. “Even when I was in school, when I felt like everything was
too much, I’d drive out here just so I could sit in peace and quiet.”

Ricky hums quietly. He doesn’t want to disrupt the fragile atmosphere they’ve created—not
when this is one of the first personal things the bassist had chosen to reveal about himself.
“What do you think about?”

“I like the city. But sometimes it’s too noisy and overwhelming,” Gyuvin replies, something
like melancholy colouring his words. ”Do you ever think about how there’s just so many
people living here, all with their own different stories and dreams? Sometimes I feel like I’m
more insignificant than an ant.”

Ricky glances over at Gyuvin, feeling like his lips were tugging down at the corners. “I think
you’re bigger than you believe. I think you’ll only continue to grow.”

Gyuvin lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Is this about the band?”

“Partly, I guess,” Gyuvin admits. A gentle breeze whooshes through the gap in the greenery
and ruffles his hair. He looks a lot softer, like this. And younger. “You know, I can tell you
want to ask me something. We both know what it is.”

When Gyuvin glances over at Ricky, there’s a softness to his eyes that Ricky has never seen
before. It’s almost like Gyuvin’s walls have finally begun to crumble. And sure, maybe Ricky
had wanted to reach this point, but not like this. Not when he can see the way Gyuvin’s smile
is nothing but a show, not when there’s a vacant expression plastered on his face.

He never wanted to see Gyuvin in pain.

Ricky twirls a strand of grass around his finger, tighter and tighter until it begins to cut off the
circulation and turns his skin white. “Back at the house… you said Gunwook cheated on
you.”

“I did,” Gyuvin confirms.

“I guess I’m just confused. Why is he still in your life? And does everyone else know?”
Ricky adds on as an afterthought, remembering something Matthew had said to him. ‘Hanbin
is the only other person that knows everything that happened. All I know is that they broke up
over summer break one year, and it halted the band activities too.’

Gyuvin exhales, the sound being stolen by the wind. “Not everyone knows. Hanbin and
Gunho know, though.”

Hanbin, Ricky had been expecting. But Gunho?

“Gunwook’s brother?” Ricky asks, raising a brow. Gyuvin nods.

“Yeah. It was an accident. I never wanted Gunho to find out.”

Ricky thinks even further back, long before he’d even known Gunwook and Gyuvin were
exes. That day at the cafè when he’d met Gunwook and his younger sister… That was when
Ricky had learned Gunwook had a brother.

One that wasn’t all too fond of him.

“Oh my God,” Ricky mutters as he begins to piece everything together. “Gunho… he hates
Gunwook. It’s because of what Gunwook did to you, isn’t it?”

Sighing, Gyuvin nods. “It’s not as clear cut as you may think it is, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that none of us had it good as kids. Matthew was thrown out of his house for being
gay. Taerae’s mother emotionally abused and manipulated him for years. Hanbin’s
relationship with his family has long since been strained because he didn’t want to go to
college for the degree his parents wanted him to do—he had a college fund and everything,
but he turned his back on them because he never truly felt like their son, he felt like an alien
in his own home. Gunwook’s father cheated on his mother when she was pregnant with
Gyuri, and I… I’m estranged from my family.”

That was a whole lot of information Ricky hadn’t been prepared for. He sits there in stunned
silence, the blade of grass slowly unfurling from his finger because his entire body has frozen
in shock.

The silence seems to make Gyuvin feel uncomfortable because he looks away, jaw tensing.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said all of that when you didn’t even ask.”

Ricky defrosts enough to shake his head, reaching out to touch Gyuvin before he thinks better
of it and pulls his hand into his lap. “No, don't apologise, it’s just—that was a lot. But I’m
glad you told me, I want to know.”

“Why?” Gyuvin mutters darkly.

“Because you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” Ricky replies immediately, and
he hopes Gyuvin can hear the honesty in his voice. “There’s no one like you, Gyuvin. I want
to know everything about you, even the things you don’t like about yourself. About your
past. I won’t ever push you, but I will always be here to listen.”

“I’m not a good person, kitty cat,” Gyuvin warns, staring at the river. “If I was, my parents
wouldn’t have tossed me aside like I was nothing more than chewed up fatty meat that they
didn’t want to swallow.”

Ricky can feel his heart squeezing in his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” He offers.

“Not really,” Gyuvin replies with a hollow laugh, “but I guess it’s just another secret to spill
today.” He looks over at Ricky, a sadistic smirk pulling at his mouth. But it doesn’t look quite
real enough to be believable. “I come from a big family. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But I’m
there, somewhere in the middle of nine kids. Three boys and six girls.”

Gyuvin tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek on his arm. His voice is a little muffled
when he speaks. “That thing they say about middle child syndrome? Yeah, that’s definitely
true. I’m sure it sounds like a dream to you since you grew up with no siblings—big family,
lots of people to look after each other, never bored as a child. But it’s nothing like that.”

And maybe at one point, Ricky had thought that having siblings was what he’d been missing
out on all his life. But after Gunwook had admitted his brother wasn’t on speaking terms with
him, and the direction in which Gyuvin is going, Ricky thinks he might be the lucky one
here.

“There were so many of us that we had to fight for the attention of our parents,” Gyuvin
continues to explain. “The youngest were always prioritised over the oldest. My mother had
favourites, two of my younger sisters that are twins. They were the last to be born. And my
father, he doted on my eldest brother the most. He was the real perfect son in his eyes. But
nothing about our family was perfect. There were eleven of us living in a trailer.”

Ricky can’t stop the gasp that leaves his lips.

“Yeah. I know. Because at the end of the day, our parents popped out babies just for that
government bonus. They didn’t really care about us. Not even their ‘favourite’ children. They
blew all that money on weed or whatever other drugs their dealers had going for cheap at the
time.”

“We were never neglected, though. Not physically, at least. We were always clean and
clothed, and none of us ever starved. But as a child, there were things to me that were far
more important. I wanted to feel loved.”

Ricky’s heart squeezes a little more, almost as if Gyuvin had ripped a hole in his chest and
was crushing the muscle with his hand.
“Do you know how it feels to see other children being dropped off to school with a kiss on
their head and a hug, while you have to walk forty minutes in the blistering summer heat only
to be late for class anyway? Or having to forge your mothers signature for a permission slip
to go on a field trip, because she forgets to do it every time you ask her? How about the
embarrassment of constantly dodging the question of just why exactly your friends can’t
come over to your house?”

“I don’t,” Ricky whispers.

Gyuvin smiles grimly. “I’m glad you don’t. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. To feel so alone
even when you’re surrounded by the people who are supposed to love you the most. I wasn’t
the only one struggling, all of us kids were. But I definitely handled it the worst out of
everyone.”

“I started to act out. Picking fights at home with my siblings, stealing their most treasured
possessions and blaming it on somebody else. We all began to turn on each other instead of
supporting each other, and it was all my fault. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted my
parents to see me, you know? To notice me, instead of looking through me like I was nothing
more than a ghost taking up space in their trailer.”

“I got what I wanted. They saw me. And they hated me. They hated what I did, they thought
I was just a pesky brat ungrateful for everything they did for me. So they sent me to live with
my grandparents. And you know, all things considered, they weren’t the worst people to live
with. But even being as young as I was back then, I could still tell that they didn’t want me
there either. My grandparents are very culturally connected to Korea—which isn’t a bad
thing, but I knew nothing about my culture. My parents never shared any of that with us kids.
I didn’t know any of the language, I didn’t understand the concept of honorifics, and my
grandparents hated me for that. Even when I tried to explain to them how I’d never been
taught, they still expected me to know.”

Even though he had been born in the States, Ricky couldn’t imagine being so clueless about
his heritage. He probably wasn’t as attuned to it as he should be, but at least Ricky’s parents
had enrolled him in classes and taken him to temples to share their culture with their son.
Ricky can’t imagine how it would be to feel so alienated from that part of himself.

“I went from living with parents who never even looked my way, to my grandparents who are
about as strict as they come,” Gyuvin continues to say. “What do you think happens when a
parental figure tries to force a kid to do something they don’t want to do?”

“They rebel,” Ricky answers, and Gyuvin nods.

“Yeah. Things went from bad to worse. But I didn’t have any siblings around me, so I started
to cause trouble at school instead. I ended up getting expelled from my elementary school,
and my grandparents were so embarrassed. Ashamed. They barely wanted anything to do
with my mother who was already the black sheep of their family, but now they were stuck
with an asshole kid who wouldn’t listen to them. Wouldn’t listen to anybody. I remember
back then I was just so damn angry all the time. No one ever wanted me.”
And now it makes sense—the facade Gyuvin seemed to put up constantly. It wasn’t because
he was an asshole.

It was the only defence mechanism he had.

“I was spiralling for a long time. But… then I met Gunwook when I was enrolled into a
different school,” Gyuvin reveals, the edge to his voice softening slightly. His eyes seem to
glisten with an unknown emotion as he looks away from the river, directing his focus to the
sky. “I’m sure you understand what I mean when I tell you he seemed to be a gift sent from a
God I never quite believed in. He’s handsome, kind, and genuinely such a good guy.”

Gyuvin pauses, a shadow crossing over his face, like the clouds hiding the sun. “Or he used
to be a good guy. I don’t know what to think anymore. But back then I didn’t trust anyone.
All my life, people have turned around and stabbed me in the back. I kept pushing Gunwook
away because I was scared to let him in, but shit, he was persistent. No matter the names I
called him, or the pain I inflicted on him.” Gyuvin suddenly turns to look at Ricky. “We were
in a proper fight once, y’know? I’d hit my breaking point that day because shit at home was
bad, and Gunwook was so good, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to channel
my anger into something else, so I started to punch him. And I kept going, and going, and he
defended himself but never raised a fist to hurt me. And you know what he said to me?”

Gulping, Ricky asks, “what was it?”

“He said that if hurting him made me feel better, then he’d be willing to be a punching bag
for me whenever I wanted,” Gyuvin answers, shaking his head. “Isn’t that fucked up? It was
enough to make me pause and stop, and think. And I swear right at that moment I had a
complete out of body experience. I saw myself, and I saw Gunwook, and I hated what I was
doing. What I’d become.”

Gyuvin pauses, stretching his arm out and looking at his injured hand. “There’s this quote I
once heard that I’ve lived by for a long time. I’m not a violent dog. I don’t know why I bite.
Because it was all I ever seemed to be capable of doing. And it was tiring, y’know? I wanted
to be better. I wanted to find meaning in life—I wanted to be more than just some angry kid
going through the motions and wondering what the point of everything was.” He flexes his
fingers, eyebrows pinching together when the movement pulls at his scabbed knuckles.
“That’s when Gunwook had an idea. That instead of using my hands for violence, I could use
them for something else. Something that could help people around the world that felt just as
lost as I did.”

“The band,” Ricky supplies, and Gyuvin hums in agreement.

“The band,” Gyuvin echoes. “That’s what would be the beginning of our downfall.”

Something flickers in Ricky’s memory. “Matthew mentioned that the band started with you
and Gunwook. Was it… was it because of all of that?”

That being the tornado that was Kim Gyuvin and every shitty thing that had happened to him,
leading to a boiling point that should have scared Gunwook away, But rather, it seemed to
have had the opposite effect.
“It’s never explicitly been stated that it was, no,” comes Gyuvin’s answer. “But I feel like
that’s only a small part of the reason. Gunwook has always wanted to be someone more than
just a lower class guy from Queens. He’s never let his financial situation define him, even
when his parents split and they were struggling living off of food stamps and no heat in the
winter because it was too expensive. He’s dreamed about making it big and supporting his
family ever since he was old enough to understand exactly what the pecking order of society
was.”

Ricky looks at the ground in front of him, suddenly feeling ashamed of how easy he’d had it
growing up. Of course he’s always known that there were people far less fortunate than he
was, but it’s never something Ricky has truly thought deeply of.

“Do you know what generational trauma is?” Gyuvin suddenly asks, and Ricky looks up,
face screwing up in confusion. He shakes his head.

“It’s kind of like a domino effect. Emotional and psychological wounds that are never quite
healed, passed down to future generations. I only know about this ‘cos Hanbin was supposed
to go to university and earn the psych degree his parents wanted him to, so he studied a little
bit in high school,” Gyuvin explains, and Ricky nods along. “So basically, if something
fucked up happens to one of your grandparents, it could sit and fester inside of them. And
then it gets passed on to their own kid, and then to their kid’s offspring. Does this make
sense?”

“A little,” Ricky replies, “but why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not making any excuses for Gunwook. But I’d be a hypocrite if I held shit against him
when he has plenty of shit he can hold against me.” Gyuvin unwraps his arms from around
his shins, letting his legs stretch out in front of him instead. “His dad was never a good guy.
He’d beat on Gunwook’s ma and then fuck off for a few days doing God knows what with
other women. And Gunwook and his kid brother… they were only children at the time,
y’know? Gunwook tried to shield Gunho from everything, but who protected Gunwook?
Nobody did. I couldn’t, not when I was busy trying to keep myself afloat. Shit was fucked up
for everyone and I regret not being able to be there for him like he was for me.”

“It got real bad one night. Bad enough that Gunwook’s ma finally had enough and kicked her
husband to the curb and started the divorce proceedings immediately the next day. He was
ordered to pay child support, but it was never enough. Not with a single mother with two
growing boys to feed and a baby girl on the way. Gunwook started to pick up odd jobs here
and there, anything he could do as a thirteen year old kid still going to school. And he started
dreaming of being something more, something bigger. Whilst I was the kind of guy to
channel my anger into violence, Gunwook used a pen, instead. He began to write music.”

“That’s admirable of him,” Ricky admits, looking out to the river. The ducks were gone now,
and the sun was beginning to dip lower towards the horizon. “It’s awful that he had to go
through all of that at such a young age. That all of you did.”

Gyuvin hums, and Ricky can feel the stare of the bassist burning into the side of his head, but
for some reason he can’t bring himself to look over. “I used to think it was nothing more than
a pipe dream. Gunwook had never even touched an instrument before, not when his family
was unable to afford stuff like that. But he managed to save enough cash to buy some shitty
second hand guitar and he taught himself how to play. After our fight he taught me how to
play bass, ‘cos once you learn acoustic guitar, you pretty much know how to play any kind of
guitar. And I liked it more than I thought I did. I could pour all of my resentment into those
four strings instead of cutting up my fists on whatever pissed me off.”

Ricky has never paid very close attention to Gyuvin’s hands, but when he looks back over at
Gyuvin, he can see the other man is looking at his hands with a frown on his face. Of course
one is his hands is all busted up, but when Ricky looks over at the other one, he finally
notices the faint white scars littered across Gyuvin’s knuckles.

His stomach lurches.

“I guess I’m still a little high strung,” Gyuvin says, almost in a joking tone. “Ah well. It
worked for a while, anyhow.”

And Ricky isn’t sure if he should, but he reaches over to hold Gyuvin’s hand in his own. The
bassist jumps a little, surprised at the sudden touch, but he doesn’t shy away. Instead he grabs
onto Ricky’s hand like it’s a lifeline, threading his calloused fingers between Ricky’s soft
ones.

“Falling in love with Gunwook wasn’t like how it was with—” Gyuvin pauses, clearing his
throat. “Falling in love with him was slow. So gradual that I didn’t realise it was happening
until it was too late. But I wasn’t alone in that feeling, because the same thing was happening
to him. And it was scary for me, because Gunwook was the first person in my life to ever
love me. But I fell, and he was my first everything. I gave him every part of my heart and
soul and foolishly expected a teenage boy to keep them safe. I’m sure you know by now that
didn’t happen.”

Ricky squeezes Gyuvin’s hand, and the bassist squeezes back. “What happened?” Ricky
murmurs, so quietly his voice could almost be carried away by the breeze. Gyuvin was giving
him so much information all at once and Ricky was afraid to scare him away, because Gyuvin
may not actively be aware of it, but he was laying out his heart and soul again.

But this time, it was Ricky receiving them.

“We were invited to a party by this random guy at school,” Gyuvin begins, his voice not
much louder than Ricky’s had been. “I didn’t want to go. It was one of those massive parties
where everyone gets fucked up on battery acid vodka and whatever stimulants people could
get their hands on. There’s too many people, too many variables, and I always turned down
those invitations. It's not my type of crowd.”

Gyuvin sighs, leaning his head against Ricky’s shoulder, who tries to not freeze up. This isn’t
the first time Gyuvin has initiated more of an intimate touch such as this, but it’s still brand
new to Ricky.

“Gunwook was so angry that day, and I still don’t know why. He wanted to know why I
wasn’t going, and when I told him I didn’t like those people, he flipped. Said I was always so
pissy and rude all the time, and I never wanted to go out to have any fun. He wanted to create
good memories with me during our youth, exciting memories.” The last part comes out bitter,
and Gyuvin leans a little heavier on Ricky. “I know something must have set him off that day.
Maybe he saw his dad somewhere. Maybe someone at school said something to him. But I
wasn’t thinking about that kind of stuff—I took it as him being unsatisfied with me, with our
relationship, so I told him to fuck off and enjoy the party with fun people.”

“And while I was miserable at home, strumming my bass and trying to not lose it, Gunwook
went to the party. He got absolutely shitfaced and ended up in bed with some other guy. I
found out the next morning when he knocked on my door, hungover and miserable and he
confessed everything. I could tell he regretted it, and it was obvious he hadn’t been in his
right mind, but it fucking shattered me.”

It would have been surprising if it hadn’t. After everything Gyuvin’s family had put him
through, for him to put trust in somebody else—and then have them turn around and ruin
everything with one stupid decision? It’s enough to make someone go crazy.

Ricky holds onto Gyuvin’s hand a little tighter.

“I spiralled for a while after that. Flunked my last year of high school ‘cos I never attended.
Spent most of my time away from home, but it’s not like anyone really cared. Obviously the
rest of my band mates did, but I didn’t wanna talk to anyone. I took off for weeks at a time,
ignoring everything and driving around in my truck. I’d leave the city and drive for hours,
parking in some random field and sleeping beneath the stars.” Gyuvin shifts his head, tilting
his chin up so he can look at Ricky. There’s a tired smirk pulling at his lips. “I wasn’t lying
when I told you I didn’t fuck people in my car.”

The mattress. Of course.

“I’m sorry,” Ricky says, and he really means it.

Gyuvin lifts a shoulder in a shrug, tipping his head back down so Ricky can no longer see his
eyes. “It’s alright. If I was you, I wouldn’t have expected anything else from a guy like me.”

“I judged you too harshly.”

“As you should have. I told you I’m no good, and I meant it. I dunno why people try so hard
to be in my life, to be honest. Maybe they see something in me that I can’t, I dunno. Which
brings me to Hanbin.”

With Gyuvin leaning on Ricky’s shoulder like this, he can feel each word the bassist says.
The side of Gyuvin’s mouth is pressed against Ricky’s sweater sleeve, tiny vibrations
travelling through Ricky’s arm with every syllable that falls from his lips.

It’s nice. It’s grounding.

It’s strangely intimate.

“I met Hanbin through Gunwook, because he was working a part time job at a fast food
restaurant. Hanbin was his supervisor. He’s a little older than us, and he was stuck working
there for cash since his parents wouldn’t pay for anything they didn’t approve of. Sometimes
we’d get free meals if there were leftovers. Looking back now, I think Hanbin purposefully
messed up a few orders so that I could eat. He seemed to figure my story out before I could
even tell him.”

”I could see him doing that,” Ricky says in agreement.

He remembers that night, that horrible night. Hanbin had forced Gyuvin to go and pack the
van, and Ricky had followed Hanbin out to the alley. He’d almost forgotten about the
conversation they’d had—Ricky has been so busy with everything else, his singular
interaction with Hanbin had slipped his mind.

He’d been incredibly analytical that night. Not by any professional means, but certainly
knowledgeable to a degree. Perhaps with a dash of favouritism, too.

”We grew close. I told you Hanbin had his own shit to deal with, and I guess we all bonded
over how shitty our families were,” Gyuvin says with a dry chuckle. “And just like Gunwook
and I, Hanbin had never touched an instrument before in his life. Gunwook managed to
convince Hanbin into trying out the drums, ‘cos he thought it would be a good way for
Hanbin to pummel out any of that anger he had on a drum set instead. And it worked.”

”I know everyone says the band was Gunwook’s idea, but I never realised just how much
effort he put into it,” Ricky admits. “What about Matthew and Taerae?”

”Hanbin introduced us. He’d gone to school with them, but Taerae and Matthew already
knew how to play a couple of instruments. It didn’t take much convincing to get them on
board with the band. It’s always been Gunwook’s dream.” That last part comes out sounding
like it tasted bitter on Gyuvin’s tongue.

Ricky glances down, his nose being tickled by the tips of Gyuvin’s auburn hair. He can’t see
the bassist's face from this angle, but he does see Gyuvin plucking blades of grass from the
soft dirt. One by one, Gyuvin twirls his finger around each piece and pulls, before letting it
go and starting all over again.

And it’s a little ironic, because Ricky thinks that each blade of grass ripped from the earth
represents Gyuvin. With every single sentence he speaks, Gyuvin is pulling parts of his soul
from his chest and letting go.

But Ricky is there to catch them. He’ll scoop them up and tuck them away somewhere safe,
because that’s what Gyuvin deserves. Kindness, and care, and Ricky hasn’t done a very good
job of doing that so far. But he’ll try now, God, he really will try.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Gyuvin whispers, “I know I’ve told you so many already. You’re
probably tired of listening to my sob story.”

”I’m not tired at all,” Ricky replies immediately. He wraps his other hand around their joined
ones, trying to convey all of his emotions into that simple touch. “I told you I wanted to know
everything about you. You can tell me another secret, it’s okay. I promise.”
Gyuvin shifts again, and he’s looking at Ricky, the waterline of his stunning brown eyes
filling up horribly quickly.

”I just—“ Gyuvin’s voice cracks and he bites down hard on his lip, “I don’t know what to do.
Everything is so fucked up, I’m so fucked up! It’s so hard to breathe these days, but…”

Ricky gulps. “But what?” He softly prompts.

Gyuvin takes a shuddering breath, eyes darting away like he can’t quite bear to speak whilst
looking at Ricky. “It’s easy around you. I feel like I can almost be normal.”

The world shatters beneath Ricky’s feet.

”That’s good,” he replies, stamping down the panic inside him like he’s playing one of those
stupid whack-a-mole games at the arcade. This is not the time to panic. “I’m glad that me
being here helps.”

”But then everything got all fucked up,” Gyuvin snaps, and Ricky would have been taken
aback by the sudden change of mood if he wasn’t already accustomed to this. “I can’t believe
Gunwook had the fucking audacity to do that! How are you not freaking out right now?”
Gyuvin turns his head to look at Ricky, twin tears angrily dripping down his cheeks.

Because you needed me. Because I don’t think I deserve any more of your kindness.

“I think I’m still processing it,” Ricky replies, and it’s only a half-lie. “I don’t know.
Something seems really weird about the entire situation.”

”Yeah. Taking photos of someone without them knowing is weird.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ricky says with a dry chuckle. “I think I need to talk to him.
Properly.”

Gyuvin clenches his jaw, his fingers tightening a little around Ricky’s own. “I don’t. I don’t
ever want to see him again.”

”You don’t have to see him when I do,” Ricky tells him. “But I can’t let this hang over my
head forever. And deep down, I know you still care about him. You’re a good guy, Gyuvin.”

The bassist scoffs, shaking his head in denial. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, and Ricky
wonders what sort of memories he’s thinking of right now. “How can you say that? After
everything I’ve done? I’m an asshole, and I’m careless, and I never think before I do
something. I don’t know how to not be a dick. I don’t know why you’re still here,” he admits.
The wind has begun to pick up, whipping ferociously at this hair and clothes. Gyuvin isn’t
wearing long sleeves and Ricky wonders if he’s cold. “Maybe you aren’t even here. Maybe
this is all a dream and I’ll wake up soon, miserable and pathetic and wishing that life would
have treated me differently from the beginning.”

”I promise you that I’m real,” Ricky says, but Gyuvin just shakes his head.
 ”Don’t you get it? I don’t know anything anymore!” Gyuvin cries out, hanging his head in
despair. “I’m just so fucking tired. I’m tired of feeling this way. I’m tired of the lies, I’m tired
of the fighting, I‘m tired of everything!”

And maybe later, Ricky will berate himself for being selfish.

But not right now.

”Are you tired of me?”

”Never,” Gyuvin replies immediately, and there’s honestly shining through his wet eyes. “I
doubt I’ll ever be tired of you.”

”Then tell me if I still feel like a dream,” Ricky breathes out, and it’s all the warning Gyuvin
gets before Ricky is leaning in.

Their lips meet, nothing more than a tender caress of closed mouths. Ricky leans back an
inch, eyes flickering open to see Gyuvin’s gaze already locked onto him. “Well?”

”I don’t know yet. Let’s try again.”

This time, Gyuvin cradles Ricky’s face in his hands, and their kisses get a little heavier. Their
noses bump, and Gyuvin pulls Ricky closer and closer until he has to clamber into the
bassist's lap but still, it doesn’t seem close enough.

Gyuvin’s tongue dips past the seam of Ricky’s lips, and Ricky is helpless to deny. His breath
catches, stolen by an even harder press of Gyuvin’s mouth against his, but he doesn’t ask for
it back. He lets Gyuvin take and take, and if he asked, Ricky would allow the bassist to have
his soul as well. Anything Gyuvin wants he can have, and Ricky will even make sure to serve
it up on the finest gold platter he has.

”What about now?” Ricky gasps out when they finally part for air. His fingers trace a path up
Gyuvin’s bare arms that are covered in goosebumps, the pads of his fingers resting on either
side of Gyuvin’s neck. “Do you still think you’re dreaming?”

“I’m not dreaming,” Gyuvin confirms, nuzzling his nose beneath Ricky’s ear where his tattoo
is. “I think you’re my dream.”

But he’s wrong. Ricky isn’t a dream.

He’s a nightmare.

Chapter End Notes

pls don’t come at me with pitchforks… there’s still 4 chapters to go!

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 arpeggio
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ricky barely registers the dull pain ebbing in waves through his back as he’s slammed
against the wall. How can he pay that any mind, when he’s far too occupied by the heady
sensations of Gyuvin’s teeth scraping down his neck?

”Fuck,” he chokes out in a whine when Gyuvin locates the extra sensitive spot on his neck.
“Right there. Fuck, right there, don’t fucking stop!”

Momentarily, Gyuvin pulls away from where he’d been sucking a blooming mark of claim on
the R of Ricky’s Rolemodel tattoo. “Such a filthy mouth on you,” he smirks, keeping a palm
pressed in the middle of Ricky’s chest to prevent him from moving. “Why should I do what
you say when you decide to speak like that?”

”Please,” Ricky gasps, his hips kicking forward without him realising. The pressure of
Gyuvin’s thigh against his growing boner had disappeared when he’d pulled away from
Ricky’s neck, and Ricky was desperate to be touched there again. “‘M sorry, I’ll be good, just
—please.”

But Gyuvin seems to be in the mood to tease, and he only takes another step backwards. Still
holding Ricky in place with the force of one palm. Ricky could wiggle out of the grip with
ease, but this situation wasn’t about physical strength.

It was about mental strength.

”Please what?” Gyuvin asks with a wicked grin. He slides his palm upwards, a firm touch
that traverses up the length of Ricky’s neck before those calloused fingers are gripping
Ricky’s chin. “I’m no mind reader, babe. Use your words.”

Ricky gulps, and he can feel his adam’s apple brushing against Gyuvin’s knuckles. “Touch
me. I need you to touch me.”

Gyuvin hums, tipping Ricky’s head up with a sharp jerk of his hand. “Manners, kitty. What’s
the matter? Can’t you follow more than one instruction at a time?”

Ricky ignores the subtle jab. “Please touch me,” he pleads, hooking the tips of his fingers in
the waistband of Gyuvin’s jeans. Gyuvin’s skin there is burning hot and Ricky desires
nothing more than to shed Gyuvin of his jeans. And then, maybe, when they’re laying
together Ricky can shed Gyuvin of his guarded emotions too. “I need you to touch me,
please.”

Once again, Gyuvin hums, but he still looks unconvinced.

If he’s going to play dirty, then Ricky will match him stride for stride.
The words feel foreign on his tongue, but Ricky had watched Sweet 18 a couple of years ago
with Zhang Hao, and he’d managed to pick up a few phrases from the show. He ignores the
irony of the show’s premise compared to his life currently, because that was a can of worms
he was trying to keep closed for as long as possible.

”Won’t you play with me, oppa?”

Immediately, Gyuvin’s pupils dilate and he lets out a shuddering breath. The fingers on
Ricky’s jaw tightens and Gyuvin hisses quietly. “Jesus fuck, Ricky. Where did that come
from?”

”What?” Ricky replies, feigning nonchalance as best he can whilst there is a very glaring
problem in his pants. He cocks his head, and Gyuvin lets him, but he doesn’t release his hold
on Ricky. “Did oppa not like it?”

And honestly, it’s rather obvious that Gyuvin does like it when he covers Ricky’s mouth with
his own. Hard, bruising presses of lips that will leave Ricky’s own swollen for hours. But he
doesn’t mind. And he certainly minds even less when Gyuvin presses his entire body against
Ricky’s, his own hardness poking into Ricky’s hipbone.

”You’re insane,” Gyuvin breathes out between kisses, sneaking one of his hands beneath the
hem of Ricky’s shirt. Ricky leans into the touch, shivering when he feels the hotness of
Gyuvin’s palm sliding up his own cold abdomen.

Insane would be putting it mildly. Ricky wants to sew their skin into one and twist their
organs around each other with zip ties so that they will be joined together, forever.

But he doesn’t say that out loud. Rather, he nips at Gyuvin’s bottom lip and greedily
swallows the surprised moan that tumbles from Gyuvin’s mouth. Teasingly, he whispers,
“you like it. Being normal is boring, don’t you agree?”

Gyuvin opens his mouth to reply, but before he can utter a single syllable, there’s a ding that
pierces through the erotic atmosphere. Both men whip their heads to the side, and it’s clear
that they’d forgotten where they were. In an elevator.

It shouldn’t matter. This elevator was a private one, and it only travelled from the lobby of
Ricky’s building to his penthouse suite. Only those with a copy of Ricky’s keycard were able
to use the elevator, and his penthouse should be empty.

Should being the keyword. Because when the polished metal doors slide open with a soft
whoosh, Ricky and Gyuvin are greeted with the unwelcome sight of a visitor lounging on one
of the leather chaises in the sitting area. The television is on—not that Ricky can see it from
this angle, but he can hear the soft volume of the home cooking channel playing.

”Shit,” Ricky hisses, and Gyuvin doesn’t even berate him this time. Probably because he’s
too busy staring daggers at Jiwoong.

The man in question looks up—his face is half hidden from today's newspaper, leaving only
his eyes and upwards on display. Jiwoong arches a brow, gaze flickering from Ricky, to
Gyuvin, then down to where they’re still pressed together. Ricky wants to shove Gyuvin
away but he also doesn’t want to draw attention to his softening boner. “What are you doing
here, Jiwoong?”

Jiwoong closes the newspaper and folds it once, tossing it down onto the glass coffee table.
He looks incredibly unimpressed and he folds his arms, pointing the toe of his dress shoe at
Ricky. His legs are crossed and there’s a glass of whiskey-on-the-rocks on the side table next
to him that’s half empty. “What am I doing here?” He echoes, sounding incredulous. “I’m
looking for you, obviously. I was starting to think you were dead or something. You’ve all but
dropped off the face of the earth. Is it so hard to send a single text message?”

Glowering, Ricky resists the urge to snap back with a harsh remark. God fucking forbid he
has a couple of days to himself. And now here comes Jiwoong and his annoying father
complex. Fuck, Ricky can’t stand it.

”Well, here I am,” he mutters. He’s thankful the elevator doors won’t close until they step
out, otherwise this whole situation would be yards more awkward. “Can you leave? Last time
I checked, I never gave you permission to waltz in here whenever you liked.”

”If it wasn’t me it would have been your father,” Jiwoong replies with a snort. “Imagine that.
I’m sure he’d have far worse things to say if it was him here instead of me.”

Ricky blanches. “What? Why the hell would my father be here?”

”You went radio silent for two weeks, Ricky!” Jiwoong exclaims, shaking his head like he
was scolding a child.

“Two weeks?” Ricky echoes, frowning. There’s no way it's been two weeks since he last
reached out to his family. He’d only just called his mother the other day, hadn’t he? It feels
like just yesterday he’d heard her voice, the way she’d scolded him for not checking in
sooner, the way her laughter had filled the line despite her usual complaints. Just yesterday.

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to clear the fuzziness that’s settled in his mind, but it
doesn’t make sense. The days have started to blur together recently. Life feels like it's been
moving in fast forward, everything happening too quickly to keep up with. But two weeks?
That feels like a stretch.

Two weeks. It doesn’t feel like two weeks. It feels like maybe a day or two, at most. Maybe a
week, but not two. How could he have let so much time pass without noticing? How had he
gotten so wrapped up in the other side of his life—the one that feels like it’s spiraling out of
control—that he hadn’t even realised the calendar pages were turning, the days slipping
through his fingers like sand?

He blinks hard, his thoughts racing in a jagged, panicked rhythm. And then it hits him, sharp
and cold. Class.

Ricky’s chest tightens, a sick feeling unfurling in his stomach as he tries to remember the last
time he actually went to class. Was it really that long ago? He can’t even picture it. The last
lecture he attended feels like it happened in a different life.
For crying out loud, he was supposed to be graduating soon.

How had he let this happen?

That’s a question Ricky shouldn’t be asking himself. Because he knows how he’d let it
happen.

And it all boiled down to the man standing in front of him in the elevator.

“That’s what I said,” Jiwoong mutters, his voice sharp with irritation. He stands up, the
movement abrupt, like the anger in his posture can't be contained any longer. Normally,
Jiwoong is the calm one, the one who listens, who takes the time to think before speaking.
Ricky can’t remember the last time he’d seen him this frustrated.

Jiwoong exhales sharply, shaking his head as though he’s trying to shake off an invisible
touch. He crosses his arms, glaring at Ricky with that familiar look of disappointment mixed
with something more complicated.

“Well,” Jiwoong continues, voice clipped, “now that I know you’re alive and well, I think I’ll
be taking my leave. But we do have a family meeting tomorrow. And I take it I don’t need to
remind you what it’s about?”

Oh, God.

Tomorrow. The meeting. The thing he’d all been avoiding thinking about for as long as
possible.

Ricky swallows, but his throat feels dry, tight, like the words won’t come out even if he tries.

He’s not ready for it.

“No,” Ricky replies. “No, I remember.”

Jiwoong doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at Ricky, his expression hard to read—
frustrated, sure, but underneath that, something else. Concern? Worry? Ricky can’t tell.

Jiwoong’s smile is grim. “Wonderful. If you’ll excuse me…”

Rather pointedly, Jiwoong glances between Ricky, Gyuvin, and the elevator. Ricky clears his
throat and extracts himself from Gyuvin’s arms, shuffling out from the elevator. He can hear
Gyuvin following him, and Ricky leaves a wide berth between himself and Jiwoong as they
pass each other.

When Jiwoong enters the elevator he swipes his keycard on the reader, pushing the bottom
button that will take him down to the lobby. He clasps his hands behind his back, looking
down his nose at Ricky and Gyuvin as the elevator doors begin to slide closed.

“I’d take out the trash soon, if I were you. Leaving it sitting in here for too long will make the
apartment stink up.”
And before Ricky can even process his words, the doors close, and the elevator begins its
descent down.

There’s so much to unpack from that short interaction. But Ricky’s thoughts are interrupted
by a snide remark.

“So that’s Jiwoong.”

There’s not an ounce of respect or politeness in the way Gyuvin spits Jiwoong’s name. He
says it like it physically repulses him to do so, and Ricky turns around, chewing on the inside
of his cheek. Just as he’d thought, Gyuvin looks angry. Any hint of prior playfulness has
dissipated from his face, replaced with a stony mask that has Ricky feeling on edge.

Gyuvin has seen Jiwoong before, of course. The night of the gala. But they’ve never met—
not like this. Never like this.

“Yeah,” Ricky breathes out, wrapping his hand around the edge of the half-wall that separates
the entryway from the kitchen. He needs something to hold onto.

Gyuvin huffs out a breath. It sounds like a laugh. “I’m taller than him,” he observes. “That’s
kind of funny.”

Ricky looks at Gyuvin warily. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’m taller than him. I’m younger than him. I’m probably stronger than him, too,”
Gyuvin muses. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, but he pushes away from the marble
and slowly walks towards Ricky.

It almost feels threatening.

“What’s your point?” Ricky murmurs, trying to dispel the tension that had settled across the
room like a thick blanket. He resists the urge to take a step back when Gyuvin rounds the
corner of the island, and he pauses in the middle of the hall.

“My point?” Gyuvin echoes, cocking his head. “I don’t have a point. I have a question.”

They’re no more than two metres apart, but for some reason, it feels like they’re standing on
opposite ends of the earth.

“What’s your question?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Gyuvin’s converse-clad feet echo on the tiles. The sound bounces around the penthouse.
Three steps, and Gyuvin has closed the distance between them with ease.

“My question,” Gyuvin murmurs, reaching his hand out to drag his pointer finger down the
middle of Ricky’s dress shirt. Down, down, down, until it comes to a stop at the bottom of
Ricky’s sternum. “My question is this.”
He leans forwards, chapped lips brushing against the shell of Ricky’s ear, and Ricky is
helpless to stop the shiver that travels down his spine.

“Do I fuck you better than he does?”

Husky, the words come out, but there’s an underlying darkness to his tone. Ricky’s eyes
flicker to the side, but all he can see is the sharp lines of Gyuvin’s jaw. This close, Ricky can
see the imperfections scattered across Gyuvin’s skin. The faintest hint of stubble shadowing
his jaw. A small, jagged scar that zigzags from his temple and disappears beneath his hairline.
Ricky wonders what had been the cause of it.

The implications behind what Gyuvin said makes Ricky’s stomach swirl. This game that
they’re playing—that they’ve always played—is a dangerous, dangerous thing. Someone will
emerge battered and blue no matter who strikes first.

Ricky has seen a softer side to Kim Gyuvin. Two weeks spent in a blissful, honeymoon-like
stage where the only thing Ricky cared about was spending time with this man. He’s mapped
out almost every single inch of Gyuvin’s body and committed it to memory. Traced unspoken
words between each freckle scattered across his skin.

But that is all he’s done.

Ricky’s phone has remained untouched; his responsibilities left unturned. And he’s sure his
only saving grace from not getting kicked out of university was likely due to some sort of
donation his parents would have made to the institution. He doesn’t know for sure, but it’s
increasingly more likely due to Jiwoong showing up at his penthouse.

Tick, Tock, goes the clock.

And everything will come crumbling down.

But Ricky wants just one more night. Tomorrow will be a new day, and he can remove the
rose-coloured glasses from his eyes then. But not now.

He’ll allow himself to be selfish just one more time.

“I don’t know,” Ricky murmurs coyly, skimming his fingers down the firmness of Gyuvin’s
abdomen. “Maybe I need a refresher.”

Ricky can’t bring himself to be surprised at how easily Gyuvin manoeuvres them through the
penthouse. They’ve christened almost every room with their fervent touches—Seonghwa had
almost walked in on them half naked and dry humping in the kitchen.

Tonight, Gyuvin seems to have a destination in mind. He hoists Ricky up by wrapping hands
around his thighs, and Ricky locks his ankles at the small of Gyuvin’s back to prevent
himself from slipping down. He’s far too preoccupied by the slide of their mouths to pay
much mind to where Gyuvin is taking him.

But then Ricky is falling backwards onto something soft, and he looks around to see they’re
in his bedroom. The bed is perfectly made, no doubt the work of his housekeeper while they
were out. The sweet scent of caramel tinges the air, emanating from a cluster of candles
glowing warmly on Ricky’s bedside table.

It almost feels romantic.

They shed their clothes and they bare themselves, vulnerable and raw. The only thing Ricky
can register over the pounding of his heart is Gyuvin’s voice, a rush of desperate words
flooding from his mouth like an unstoppable tsunami wave.

With three of Gyuvin’s fingers snug in Ricky’s heat, it’s hard for him to do much more than
ball his hands up in the silky sheets beneath him.

“Tell me,” Gyuvin pants into Ricky’s mouth, his dark eyes dancing around in an almost
frantic manner. “Am I better?”

“I—“ Ricky gasps when Gyuvin’s fingers curl, hitting that sweet spot inside him just right. “I
don’t…”

Ricky doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. Whether it’s an agreement or something
else—his words have all but escaped him, floating out of the window alongside his emotions.
It’s all too much.

He doesn’t want tonight to end. He wants to stay here, wrapped in Gyuvin’s embrace,
pretending like nothing outside the two of them matters.

When Gyuvin rolls his hips forwards, Ricky lets out a breathy cry, his hands flying up to claw
at Gyuvin’s shoulders. Even in his fucked out state Ricky is mindful of the sensitive area
there. It may not hurt for Gyuvin anymore, but it does hurt for Ricky.

“Am I better? Am I better?”

Like a mantra, Gyuvin repeats his words over and over again with each slap of his thighs
against Ricky’s. And at this point, Ricky isn’t sure that Gyuvin is asking him anymore.

Ricky doesn’t give him an answer. Not verbally.

His answer is given by each kiss he presses against Gyuvin’s skin. The trembling of his
thighs. A hand splayed above his head, empty and searching until Gyuvin reaches out to
interlace their fingers together.

And just as quickly as they had gone from zero to one hundred, time slows down once more.
Almost as if, somehow, Gyuvin understood what Ricky was thinking. The frantic postponing
of his hips slows down into passionate, intoxicating grinding.

Gyuvin’s hand is wrapped around Ricky’s throat. Ricky’s soul is wrapped around Gyuvin’s
heart. In the darkness of the bedroom, their naked bodies are illuminated in a soft, golden
glow from the two candles on Ricky’s bedside table.

Twin flames, Ricky thinks as he circles his fingers around Gyuvin’s wrist. Forehead to
forehead, chest to chest. They paint a canvas of beautiful ruin, highlighted in strokes of
devotion and shadowed with despair.

When Ricky comes, he blames the tears on his orgasm.

It’s easier than admitting the truth.

There’s a brisk chill in the air, and Ricky bundles into the warmth of his coat as he steps out
of his car.

He’d driven himself here. It just felt right.

But in this rundown neighbourhood, Ricky’s fancy red sports car looks awfully out of place.
It’s quiet here. Ricky can’t hear much more than the distant sound of traffic on the freeway,
someone’s television turned up too loudly. The faint rustling of a newspaper caught in the
wind.

Gunwook’s house shares similarities to Hanbin and Gyuvin’s in which it’s tired and old. The
green paint is faded and the mailbox crooked. Some shingles are missing from the roof,
exposing the roofing sheet beneath.

Two pairs of beat up sneakers are carelessly strewn across the porch, and as Ricky steps up
the stairs, they creak beneath his weight.

Ricky hesitates before knocking. He takes a breath, steels himself for the conversation he’s
about to have.

He thinks back to an hour ago. Tangled in the sheets with Gyuvin, the sounds of the bassist
breathing providing a calming medicine to the racing of Ricky’s heart. He hadn’t managed to
get more than an hour's sleep last night. He’s just thankful that Gyuvin had knocked out into
dreamland not much longer after their romp.

It made it easier. Not having to put on a brave face in front of Gyuvin and pretend like
everything was fine.

Ricky had laid there, his head on Gyuvin’s bare chest, hand splayed across his abdomen. The
steady rise and fall of Gyuvin’s chest had lulled Ricky into a false security that he knew
would only be fleeting.

In the darkness of the room, their souls were illuminated by the soft glow of the city filtering
in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were no stars to be seen in the sky due to the
pollution of the city, but Ricky didn’t need to see the stars in the sky to be reassured they
were real.

Not when he had Gyuvin with him.

Ricky had always loved his penthouse. But lately, he felt that adoration slowly dwindling.
Desires for pristine furniture and modern decorations were gradually being replaced with
something more simple. Something he shouldn’t want.
This penthouse, this life. It was undeniably luxurious, but Ricky doesn’t want that anymore.
Ricky feels like he’s a bird trapped in a gilded cage, something far too vast and impersonal to
truly feel like his home.

And, when he thinks about it, he’s always been in this cage. Ever since the day he was born.
He’ll be stuck in there until he dies, but what can he do?

This choice that he has to make. It weighs his shoulders down, makes him feel like he’s
wading through a sea of molasses.

And he’s stuck. He doesn’t know whether to walk forwards or backwards. He doesn’t think
he will know until he seeks out the closure he’d so desperately been desiring.

Hours had passed like this, and all the while, Gyuvin slumbered on. Unaware of the turmoil
that was brewing in Ricky’s mind.

When the first cracks of dawn had begun to trickle through the window, Ricky made a
choice. He carefully crawled off the bed and rummaged through Gyuvin’s jean pockets until
he found what he was looking for. 10 digits that Ricky should have asked for a long time ago.

——Ricky——

Hi

It’s Ricky

Can U send me Gunwook’s address?

——Hanbin——

I hope U kno wat ur doin

Ricky doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

Yet here he is, fist poised to knock at the door of the Park residence. He doesn’t have a plan
nor does he have any idea of what he even wants to say.

Before Ricky can even bring his fist to the door, it swings open on its own, and he's caught
off guard. He jumps, momentarily disoriented, his eyes darting around as though searching
for the person who must have opened it—except, there’s no one there.

“Ricky?”

His gaze drops.

A breath escapes him, unsure whether to laugh or to cry. “Gyuri,” he says, forcing a smile for
her sake, though it feels fragile. Gyuri beams back at him, her smile genuine and bright.
Ricky notices the small gap between her teeth that wasn’t there the last time he saw her. “Did
you lose a tooth?”
“I did!” Gyuri squeals, her tongue flicking through the space with excitement. “I put it under
my pillow, and—and guess what?”

“What?”

“The tooth fairy came!” She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, practically
vibrating with joy. “She gave me five whole dollars! I’m rich!”

Ricky chuckles softly, reaching down to ruffle her hair. “Oh, that’s awesome, Gyuri. You
really hit the jackpot.”

“I’m gonna buy so much candy! And some new dolls!”

Ricky watches her, a knot tightening in his chest. The innocence of her very being—she
knows none of the cruelties this world has to offer. He misses feeling that way.

Suddenly, a sharp voice calls out from inside the house, the rapid fire of Korean echoing
through the hall. Ricky catches fragments of it—something scolding, maybe even frustrated
—but the words are too fast and tangled for him to fully understand.

Then, Gunwook appears. He steps into the hallway behind Gyuri, and his eyes lock with
Ricky's. For a split second, they both freeze. Ricky can almost feel the tension thickening in
the air.

“Hey,” Ricky says awkwardly, raising a hand in greeting, trying to break the silence. “I’m
sorry for dropping by unannounced.”

Gunwook blinks, still caught in that strange, deer-in-headlights look. His appearance tells
Ricky that he wasn’t expecting company—his hair is messy, and he’s dressed in an oversized
pair of sweatpants and an old, faded T-shirt that’s seen better days. The neckline is stretched
out, as if it’s been washed too many times.

“Why are you here?” Gunwook’s voice is blunt, direct, without a trace of small talk or
politeness.

Ricky can’t help but appreciate the straightforwardness. He’d much rather Gunwook cut to
the chase than pretend everything’s fine between them. He takes a breath, then responds,
keeping it simple.

“To talk.”

Gunwook doesn’t react immediately. Instead, he just stares at Ricky for a moment. The
silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Before Gunwook can respond, Gyuri, completely oblivious to the tension in the air, jumps in,
her voice full of excitement. “I have things to talk about too!” she exclaims, her eyes
sparkling. “I got new dolls! I need names for them!”

Gunwook sighs softly, reaching over to gently nudge Gyuri away from the doorframe. “Not
right now,” he says, his tone soft but firm. “Maybe later. We can play our game first, okay?”
Gyuri’s eyes instantly light up. “Really? It’s been so long!” she says, practically bouncing
with excitement.

Gunwook’s expression softens, and a small, reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“I know, Guppy. I’m sorry. I totally forgot. But I remembered now, didn’t I?”

Gyuri beams, and without missing a beat, sticks her tongue through the gap where her
missing tooth used to be. “I get to put on the headphones, right?”

”Yeah, you do,” Gunwook replies. “Go on. Make sure you draw with lots of detail, ‘kay? I’ll
come find you when I’m done.”

It doesn’t seem like Gyuri needs any further prompting—practically skipping down the
hallway and disappearing into the depths of the house. Ricky can’t help but feel confused,
and it must show on his face, because when Gunwook glances at him he sighs.

”It’s this… thing we used to do, when she was younger. I couldn’t always physically take her
away from the fights. When we were stuck here, I’d get her to put on these noise cancelling
headphones that I’d use to plug into my guitar when I secretly practiced in my room. It
blocked out the fights, the yelling. We never had a Walkman or anything she could plug them
into, so instead I told her to use her imagination as she sat there. Draw something, create a
story. She’s good at that kind of stuff.”

”Oh,” Ricky breathes out, a wave of sadness washing over him. But it’s admirable—the quiet
yet desperate act of protection Gunwook had over his younger sister. That he still has. “Does
it work?”

Gunwook lifts one shoulder in a shrug. His expression is guarded. “She believes in it. As
long as she does, then that’s enough.”

And Ricky doesn’t know what to say to that. How can he, when he’s never been succumbed
to the horrors that Gunwook has. Gunwook doesn’t press him for a response—wordlessly
spinning around and walking down the hallway.

So Ricky follows him.

Gunwook turns left at the end of the hall, and Ricky does the same. They pass a door to a
bedroom that is obviously Gyuri’s—her name scrawled on a sign in that messy, childish
handwriting that all kids grow out of eventually. The Y in her name is all crooked and the
pink clashes with the orange background, but Ricky thinks it's charming.

Ricky doesn’t pause to linger. He’s here for one thing and one thing only. But he does take
notice of the house as they walk—a frayed rug in the living room, a chipped vase on the
coffee table. Crooked photo frames of the Park kids line the walls. Some hooks are empty,
like there were missing frames. Ricky almost does a double take when he glances at one of
the frames.

Gunho and Gunwook could pass as twins.

When they arrive at the door that must be Gunwook’s bedroom, it creaks open, almost as if it
had been waiting for them. Gunwook shoulders the door open the rest of the way, and Ricky
follows him, ensuring to close the door behind him.

Gunwook’s room is similar to Gyuvin’s, in a sense. Walls lined with band posted—some torn,
some with pencil marks scribbled over them. Gunwook’s guitar is leaned against one wall.
There’s a desk with papers strewn across the surface, messy handwriting scrawled along the
blue-lined paper. Slightly crumpled, and Ricky’s gaze drops to the waste bin beneath the
desk, noticing it overflowing with scrunched up paper.

There’s a double bed that’s haphazardly made up, like Gunwook had attempted to do it
properly before giving up. This is where he lingers, body angled towards Ricky, but eyes set
on a distant point in the room.

Beating around the bush isn’t going to get them anywhere.

“I’m going to tell you what I know so far,” Ricky begins, and Gunwook shrugs. Almost as if
he’s saying go on, then. “You followed me around the city and took photos of me. Gyuri
recognised me because at some point, she saw the photos. Gyuvin doesn’t want to come back
to the band because he feels betrayed. How am I doing so far?”

”You want a gold star or something?” Gunwook responds, huffing out an annoyed sounding
exhale. “You seem to have it all figured out. What more do you want?”

“I think I deserve an explanation,” Ricky says, trying to keep his tone controlled. But it’s
hard when Gunwook won’t look at him—why won’t he acknowledge Ricky, why won’t he
talk to Ricky? “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Gyuvin.”

That makes Gunwook look up, and Ricky is shocked to see the red-rimmed eyes staring right
at him.

”You don’t know anything,” Gunwook snaps, but it comes out far more feeble than he must
have intended it to. His voice wavers and his hands ball up into fists and for a split second
Ricky wonders if Gunwook would hit him.

”Yes, I don’t know anything,” Ricky agrees, taking a cautionary step back. Gunwook
immediately notices, because his hands relax once more and he has the decency to look at the
ground in shame. His ears are pink and his shoulders are slumped, and it’s with a startling
clarity that Ricky realises the fight is leaving Gunwook’s body just as quickly as it had
appeared. “That’s why I’m here. Because I want to understand and I want to help you. I don’t
want any bad blood between us, Gunwook. I don’t hate you.”

”Why?”

One singular word, one syllable—it’s quiet enough that Ricky almost doesn’t hear it.

“Because I know that deep down, you aren’t a bad person,” Ricky says. “You made a
mistake. A very, very big mistake. I’m trying to offer you an olive branch here.”
Gunwook scowls. “I don’t need your pity.”

”That’s not how I’m trying to come across,” Ricky replies, fighting to keep the exasperation
out of his voice. “I’m trying to give you an opportunity to explain everything in your own
words. Infatuation can make people do some very stupid things, and this isn’t the first time
I’ve had something like this happen to me. Well. I can’t say I’ve ever been stalked because
someone had a crush on me, but…”

And then, like a volcano that has remained dormant for far too long, Gunwook explodes.

”I don’t like you, Ricky!” He shouts, running irate hands through his hair. And Ricky just
stands there, shocked, because his brain isn’t working fast enough to put all of the pieces
together.

”What?” He utters, but it only seems to frustrate Gunwook more.

”I’m fucked up, Ricky,” Gunwook says, his voice hollow, and he crosses his arms across the
chest like he’s trying to keep everything inside him safely tucked away. But it’s not working,
because words keep tumbling from Gunwook’s mouth—words that Ricky is hearing, but
can’t quite comprehend. “I don’t like you, not in the way you think—not in the way everyone
thinks. Surprise!”

“What?” Ricky says again, because he can’t seem to form any other words.

It’s enough to anger Gunwook, because he throws his hands in the air and looks at Ricky like
he’s the weird one. “I said I don’t like you! I don’t want to fuck you, I don’t want to kiss you
—I don’t want you! What can’t you understand about that?”

”But…” Ricky trails off, and his ears are ringing, and his heart is pounding, and he’s just so
fucking confused. “But you—you said—“

”I said a lot of things I didn’t mean,” Gunwook interrupts, and Ricky’s jaw snaps closed. For
some reason his ears are ringing, and his heart is pounding so hard in his chest it feels like it’s
trying to crawl up his throat.

A wounded noise slips from between Gunwook’s lips and he squeezes his eyes closed,
pressing the heels of his palms there like he’s trying to block out the sight of Ricky for good.
“Please. Please, can you just leave?”

And perhaps, if this were to have happened two months ago, Ricky would turn and walk out.
He wouldn’t stay behind—not for any man that didn’t wish for him to stick around. Ricky
has met his fair share of crazy guys and never, ever has he felt obliged to willingly put
himself in a situation where shit could get even crazier.

But fuck. He deserves an explanation, God damn it.

“No,” he utters, and that one word is enough to make Gunwook glance back up at him. “I’m
not leaving. Not until you tell me why you were taking pictures of me.”

“Get out,” Gunwook hisses.

“No.”

“For fuck sake, Ricky!” Gunwook shouts, and Ricky really hopes that Gyuri still has her
headphones on. He doesn’t want her to hear her older brother acting like this. “What the fuck
is your problem? Why do you have to stick your nose in places it doesn’t belong?”

“Excuse me?” Ricky scoffs, folding his arms across his chest in a show of defensiveness. “I
stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong? Last time I checked, you and Gyuvin both
intentionally waltzed into my life!”

“Intentionally?” Gunwook spits, his handsome face twisting into a sneer. “Get fucking real. If
you weren’t at the bar that night, none of us would be in this mess!”

“Well then maybe you shouldn’t have been at my bar!”

“Fuck you!” Gunwook screams, the words spat so venomously that Ricky flinches when
Gunwook’s saliva splatters across his cheeks. “Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck your stupid
fucking bar! You had everything, Ricky! You had everything and yet you take, and take, and
take until there’s only scraps left for the rest of us!”

Taking a cautionary step backwards, Ricky shakes his head as he eyes Gunwook. “What the
hell are you talking about? I haven’t done anything to you!”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” A manic-sounding laugh follows his words. “You’re blinded by your
own desires that you can’t see past them! You can’t see that some of us are fucking drowning
out here, Ricky!”

And God, Ricky is incredibly tired of everyone speaking in riddles. “Then tell me what I did
that was so wrong! You can yell at me all you want, Gunwook, but it won’t fix anything. I
can’t help you if you don’t help me!”

For a minute, nothing but silence fills the room as Gunwook and Ricky stare at each other.
Like a showdown between two cowboys, Ricky wonders who will draw their gun first. He
knows he doesn’t want to. He’s tired of causing pain to those around him.

But luckily, Gunwook decides to draw his gun. And he points it straight at Ricky.

“Leave Gyuvin alone.”

”Excuse me?”

”Leave. Gyuvin. Alone,” Gunwook repeats, each word enunciated sharply. “That’s how you
can help me.”

Taken aback, Ricky struggles to find a response, because he’s just so fucking confused. “You
said… you said you don’t like me. Now you’re saying you want me to leave Gyuvin alone. I
don’t understand—“

And then it hits him. As if Ricky had been standing in the middle of a highway, and
Gunwook was driving a double semi straight at him.
It hits him.

“Oh my God,” Ricky gasps, overcome with horror as he stares at Gunwook. “You really
don’t like me.”

“I don’t.”

Ricky has to fight the urge to reach for his own throat, because it feels like an invisible rope
has twisted around his windpipe. He chokes out his next words as best as he can. “It’s
Gyuvin. This entire time. It’s Gyuvin.”

And honestly, Ricky doesn’t need the confirmation. Not when Gunwook is looking at Ricky
with such a broken expression in his eyes. Not when Ricky slowly begins to put all of the
pieces together.

”I’ve never stopped loving Gyuvin,” Gunwook replies, and he sounds so incredibly wounded.
“The biggest regret of my life was going out to the party that night.”

“Why did you do it?” Ricky whispers. Neither of them point out the fact that Ricky is clued
in to the entire situation.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Gunwook’s shoulders slump. “I never told him why.”

“Will you tell me?”

And Gunwook has no obligation to do so. They barely know each other.

“I had a fight with my mother. A really bad one.”

Gunwook sinks down on his mattress, holding his head in his hands as he stares at the
threadbare carpet beneath his toes. “I’m sure that Gyuvin has already laid all of my secrets
bare for you. Am I right?”

“He told me a few things,” Ricky replies, shifting uncomfortably on the spot.

“I once briefly mentioned to you that at first, my mother wasn’t supportive of my dreams. Of
the band.”

Nodding even though Gunwook isn’t looking at him, Ricky replies, “Yeah. I remember you
telling me that day at the cafè.”

“That was…” Gunwook trails off, scrubbing his hands through his hair as he tries to figure
out the right words to say. “…Putting it nicely. She never supported the band for the longest
time. She didn’t allow me to go to college either, because as the eldest son I was expected to
provide for the family. Since my father was no longer in the picture.”

So the real reason that Gunwook couldn’t pursue future studies wasn’t because he didn’t want
to. It was because of his mother.
“Things didn’t shape out how I thought they would when I finished school.” Gunwook’s
words from weeks ago float around in Ricky’s head, and he now realises just exactly what the
singer had meant.

“We argued over that a lot, specifically in my senior year of high school. Gyuvin never knew
about it. I didn’t want to burden him with that shit, not when he already had a mountain of it
to deal with. But thinking back now, maybe I should have. Maybe he would have been able to
help. Maybe he would have been able to talk me down, because the stress was slowly piling
up on my shoulders and I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Ricky rolls his lips together, processing what Gunwook had said. “I thought the band was
your dream?” He says. “Wouldn’t going to college just get in the way of it? Not that I’m
trying to be discouraging, I’m just trying to understand.”

“It was. It is. Forever and always, the band is what I wanted to do. But now that’s falling
apart too. Gyuvin has gone radio silent on us—he isn’t even returning Hanbin’s calls.
Though, I guess you already know that, don’t you?” Gunwook asks accusingly, glancing up
at Ricky with narrowed eyes.

Ricky looks away, something like shame prickling his heart.

”I wanted to do more with the band,” Gunwook continues to explain when it’s obvious Ricky
isn’t going to say anything. “Everything I’ve learned about music has been self taught. I
wanted to learn from professionals about composition, music theory, and how to produce. I
wanted to attend a college because that’s how you make connections. I wanted… I wanted to
do more. To be more.”

”I had to save my own money in secret for months just to be able to scrape enough together
to buy my first guitar. I’d see the way my mother would frown when she changed the channel
and saw MTV playing. She’s the kind of person who never really listened to music. Never
appreciated it. Let alone the kind of music that I was interested in.”

On Gunwook’s bedside table, there’s a photo frame that had been laid face down. Gunwook
reaches over to pick it up, angling it towards himself so that Ricky can’t catch a glance of
who is in the photograph.

”Everything around me was crumbling. The people I held closest to in my heart were hurting,
and I was powerless to stop it. Gyuvin was lost, Hanbin was trapped, and I… I was holding
on by a thread. The marriage between my parents had been strained for a very long time and I
was trying so fucking hard to convince my younger siblings that everything was fine. But it
wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.”

Gunwook looks away from the photograph and directs his attention back at Ricky. “Have you
ever seen someone get hit? And I’m not talking about a slap to the face.”

Ricky gulps and shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

”It’s awful. It’s really, really fucking awful. That shit they depict in the movies… it doesn’t
even come close to the real thing,” Gunwook mutters darkly. His fingers tighten around the
frame, and it creaks in protest. “You’re never prepared. When it happens, it’s like you’re
watching in slow motion, even though it’s happening much quicker than that. Watching how
the skin ripples from the impact, and the head snapping back from the force, and the
combination of blood and saliva spraying everywhere. But what always got me the most was
the sound. Listening to bones break beneath someone else’s fist is the most discomforting
noise I’ve ever heard in my entire life. And then, take all of that and amplify it, because it’s
your own mother getting hit.”

”Gunwook…” Ricky trails off, because he doesn’t even know what to say. His heart feels so
incredibly heavy in his chest.

But Gunwook just shrugs like he doesn’t care. Ricky’s positive it's all a farce, though.

“My dad was a piece of shit. He still is. What can I do, hey? When he left I tried to do more. I
tried to step up and fill his shoes, but—shit, Ricky, I was a fucking kid. I was a kid trying to
raise two other kids and keep my mother afloat at the same time. It’s not easy. It’s fucking
hard. But I think that I was doing such a good job of pretending like everything was fine, that
nobody really noticed that I wasn’t.”

”The day of the party, my mum found the guitar I’d bought in secret. It was hidden in the
back of my closet, and I don’t know why she went in there that day. My house had always
been the main place where we had our jam sessions. I had it all planned to a T—Gunho had
tutoring every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, and my mother would take Gyuri to
swimming lessons on those same days. We always had a few hours to use my garage to
practice and she never knew about it. When she found my guitar she was furious. She wanted
to know why I was wasting my money on such trivial things when there were four mouths to
feed and my two younger siblings to get through school.”

Ricky crosses his arms in front of his chest, once again feeling ashamed at just how easy he’d
had it growing up. The only things he’d ever been concerned about was making sure he was
keeping up with the latest fashion and technology, and here was a man who likely would have
been content to own something as simple as a hand-me-down.

”So I confessed to her,” Gunwook continues to explain. “I thought I could make her
understand if I explained the plans that I had. I was a fool though, because all she could focus
on was the money I had apparently wasted on a dream she didn’t believe I’d be capable of
achieving. Do you know how soul crushing it was, to hear my own mother tell me that? I’d
already lost one parent, and each day that went by it felt like I was losing my other one, too.
You know what she said to me?”

”What?” Ricky whispers, afraid of hearing the answer.

“She said that I was selfish. She said that I was acting exactly like my father,” Gunwook grits
out, his jaw clenching and face twisting into an echo of the pain he must have felt at that
time. “My father. My cheating, woman-beating, scumbag of a father. She said that to me.” He
pauses, letting out a chuckle that is devoid of any sort of humour. “After everything I did for
this family, the one time I wanted to do something for myself, she decides that I’m being
selfish?”
It’s enough to drive anyone insane, Ricky thinks.

”I know she didn’t mean to hurt me like that. But neither of us could rewind time. And I
thought that, sure, if she thinks that I was no better than my father, than maybe I should act
like him,” Gunwook admits, bitter and empty and Ricky wants nothing more than to reach his
hand out for Gunwook to hold, but he fears he’s far too late to provide an empathetic
connection Gunwook had been seeking years ago. “I’ll take the words I said to my grave and
I’ll never forgive myself for the things I said to her. Because when I think about it now, I
understand that she was only projecting her hurt onto me.”

“So I went to the party. I was already keyed up because it felt like Gyuvin was slipping away
from me and I didn’t know what to do. I drowned my sorrows in cheap liquor and threw back
the pills that were pushed into my hands. I spent the night with someone who wasn’t the man
I love—and I will regret that forever.” Gunwook drops his head between his shoulders, and
the photo frame tilts down at the same time.

It’s a picture of him and Gyuvin. A far happier version of Gyuvin that Ricky has never quite
seen. He looks so young and cheerful and even though he’d been tossed away like trash by
the people who were supposed to love him the most, you’d be hard pressed to know just by
looking at this photograph.

And it makes Ricky wonder. Amongst the turbulent life that Gyuvin had lived through as a
teenager, how was it that he looked like such a different person compared to now?

Of course, things have happened since then. Gyuvin’s split with Gunwook. God knows what
else with his family. Ricky doesn’t even know if Gyuvin is still in contact with his
grandparents, let alone his parents and siblings.

Healing is not a black and white process. But Ricky can’t help to think that he isn’t helping
Gyuvin at all. Because shouldn’t he be happier with Ricky? They’ve talked, and they’ve
touched, and they’ve seen the ugliest parts of each other. Yet it still feels like something is
missing.

And then Ricky realises.

Gyuvin can never be happy with him. Not truly.

Because Ricky has been promised away to another man. Because Ricky has always known
his relationship with Gyuvin had a ticking time bomb attached to it.

There’s nothing that Ricky can offer him.

“I don’t even remember what happened that night,” Gunwook reveals, and there’s a mourning
echo to his words that twists Ricky’s insides into knots. “I was so fucked up on whatever shit
I took. And when I woke up the next morning, I knew it then. That was it. I was no better
than my father. I’d screwed another guy and broken the trust of the one person I’d sworn to
never do that to.”
“I told him immediately. I thought that there would be a chance of forgiveness if I owned up
to my shit as fast as possible.” Sighing, Gunwook places the photo frame back facedown on
the bedside table. “Obviously that didn’t happen. He was heartbroken, and he had every right
to be! I worked really, really fucking hard to get back to the point where he would even talk
to me. I made him promises—I told him that we could make it big, him and I. We could start
over and make something of ourselves. Forget the past and create a future together where
there was no more pain.”

”He said that he forgave you,” Ricky points out. Gunwook nods, his mouth thinning into a
grim line.

”Yeah. I don’t know if he was being completely truthful with himself, but he did tell me that
he forgave me. It took a lot of hard work to get the band to where it is today, but it was even
harder mending the fractures in our relationship. And I thought that this was it—we were
slowly growing a fan base, we were playing local gigs and getting our name out there more,
and things between Gyuvin and I were almost back to normal. But then we landed a show at
a bar in Brooklyn one night.”

Ricky leans against the closed door behind him. He feels like he needs the support all of a
sudden. “Petal and Thorn,” he supplies, though they both already know which bar Gunwook
is talking about.

”I wish I hadn’t agreed to play there.”

A shaky breath leaves Ricky’s lips and he squeezes his hands together in an attempt to
ground himself. He knew it was coming, but it still hurts.

If Gunwook notices the shift in Ricky’s demeanour he doesn’t mention it. “He saw you
sitting there at the bar—drinking your cocktail with a pinky stuck out like some snobby rich
kid. I clocked you for one right away—you didn’t belong there and it was glaringly obvious.
You may have attempted to fit in with your makeup and clothes, but no punk kid wears
designer to a gig like that.”

”I didn’t want to go back there. But Gyuvin… he wouldn’t stop talking about the bar. And I
knew it wasn’t the venue he was interested in—no, it was you. But I was scared of undoing
all the progress we’d made by denying him what he wanted, so I agreed for us to play there
once more. This time I would be prepared, though. This time, I would swoop in to sweep you
off your feet.”

Ricky thinks back to that night all those months ago. Him sitting at the bar with Zhang Hao,
friendly banter being tossed back and forth with Jay. Gunwook jumping into the conversation
like he’d always been there.

”You tried to steal me away first,” he breathes out in realisation, the cogs turning at rapid
speed in his head. “We were flirting, but then Gyuvin interrupted us.”

”That’s when I knew that it was too late,” Gunwook mutters, exhaling an irate-sounding
breath through his nose. “He kept talking about you after that night. Never in… detail, but it
wasn’t difficult to put two and two together. And it wasn’t as if he’d been celibate since we
broke up. But something about his fascination with you was different. Far more intense than
anything I’d ever seen.”

It was more than just fascination, Ricky thinks, though he doesn’t voice that aloud. It would
be incredibly poor taste to divulge the way in which his and Gyuvin’s infatuation traversed
something more than just fascination.

Because it all came down to something much worse than that. In a sense, he and Gyuvin were
both junkies. But not for drugs.

No.

They were addicts for each other.

Addicts for the pain they cause. Addicts for the touch of their bodies. Addicts for the things
they never should have been in the first place.

Addicts for dramatics.

”So I had to get creative. I had to find another way to split the two of you up.”

The photographs.

”Is that why you were stalking me?” Ricky can’t help but blurt out, and the ashamed
expression on Gunwook’s face is telling enough.

“I didn’t mean to stalk you,” Gunwook says in an attempt to defend himself. Something in
Ricky’s facial expression must betray the doubt he feels, because Gunwook continues to
press his point. “Seriously. I didn’t. It was never supposed to turn out this way. You really
think I would willingly put myself in a fucked up position like that?”

Ricky shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re going to have to help me
understand this, Gunwook. How is following me around the city and taking photos of me in
private supposed to equate to anything other than stalking?”

”I just—I just wanted to understand,” Gunwook bemoans, scrubbing his hands down his
face. “I thought that maybe I was missing something in myself. Because I’d spent years
repenting for what I’d done, always saying yes to Gyuvin even when I didn’t want to. And I
felt like I was getting nowhere. I wanted to make him fall in love with me again, but I didn’t
know how to do it. It felt like I was rubbing my soul raw trying to please him and it was
killing me.”

Ricky can hardly believe what he’s hearing right now. “You’re saying that you followed me
around and took pictures of me to… to study me? To figure out why Gyuvin was interested in
me? That’s insane, Gunwook! Why on earth did you never consider the alternative?”

”What alternative?”

”Talking to me!” Ricky exclaims like he’s stating the obvious, because he kind of is. “If
you’d told me the history the two of you share I would have taken a step back. I never asked
to be caught up in this web of lies!”

”It’s not that fucking easy! I’m a peasant compared to you, Ricky! It was never easy to
approach you—not when you walk around dripping money from your fingertips whilst I
struggled for years just to put food on the table for my family.”

”That’s bullshit,” Ricky growls. How the fuck is it his fault he’d been born into a rich family,
and Gunwook wasn’t? How is that grounds to be stalked? There are mistakes that Ricky has
made in his life that he can take responsibility for—but not that. That is completely out of his
control. “You have no excuse. You’re a coward, Gunwook. And I hate to say it after
everything you’ve gone through, but have you considered that maybe, just maybe, Gyuvin
won’t run back into your arms because of that?”

Hackles raising and teeth grit, Gunwook hisses, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

”I think I do.” Smoothly, the words come out, but Ricky is trembling on the inside. “You’ve
spent so much time trying to appeal to Gyuvin that you haven’t spent any time working on
yourself. Because maybe, if you’d stopped to think for just one second before you acted,
you’d realise that what you’ve been doing is very wrong.”

”Don’t patronise me!”

”I’m not. I’m just telling you what you’ve been afraid to admit to yourself this entire time.
You’ve been selfish, Gunwook. You’re so hellbent on trying to figure out a way to crawl back
into Gyuvin’s orbit, but have you ever thought to realise that maybe he doesn’t want that?”

”Shut up!” Gunwook snarls. He’s putting up a brave front, but Ricky can hear the wetness to
his voice. “Just shut up! I love him, fuck, I’m in love with Gyuvin. I never stopped loving
him. What else can I do? I can rip my heart from my chest and light it on fire, but I’ll still
love him! Do you think I didn’t try to stop loving him? Because I did, Ricky! I tried so
fucking hard, but at the end of the day it will always be him! And can you say the same? Can
you tell me with one hundred percent certainty that you feel just as deeply as I do?”

Gunwook’s chest is heaving by the time he’s finished. Ricky feels like he’s been
suckerpunched.

Can he say the same?

”I don’t know,” Ricky mutters. He laughs, a pathetic sounding thing that makes Gunwook’s
eyebrows rise. “I guess that makes both of us cowards. How ironic, huh? We’re not so
different, you and I. You may think we are because of where we come from. Because of who
we are. But at the end of the day we’re both too afraid to face the things we need to face head
on.”

Frowning, Gunwook asks, “What do you mean by that?”

But Ricky has heard enough. He’s said enough. And he’s leaving with more questions than
answers, but he finally understands now.
”I’m not going to contact my legal team,” he tells Gunwook, pushing away from the door and
wrapping his hand around the doorknob. “You can be rest assured that there will be no need
to follow me around anymore. I’m sure you got your answers, as have I. Neither of us are
winners in this battle, Gunwook. There never was going to be one.”

”What do you mean?” Gunwook repeats, standing from his bed. “Where are you going?”

Ricky musters up an attempt at a charming smile. He’s not quite sure if he’s hit the mark with
it, though. “A family meeting. Good luck, Gunwook. I hope that in time you can begin to
heal those wounds you’ve left untreated for far too long.”

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

The jitters in Ricky’s leg only seem to increase with each passing second. Like a broken
metronome, his knee bounces in tempo rubato. The heel of his Oxford shoe hits the polished
floor with an audible snap and the sound echoes in the hallway, fading into the distance
somewhere between the marble pillars and expensive artwork. Swallowed up by the frivolity
until it’s replaced by a new noise. Rinse and repeat.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Time. There’s never enough time.

Everything is slipping through Ricky’s fingertips like tiny grains of sand that he can’t catch
fast enough. And oh, how foolish was he to believe that ignoring the most pressing of his
concerns would make them vanish. Because they didn’t, because they were still here,
looming above his head like a bad omen.

”Hey.”

Zhang Hao’s whisper tears Ricky from his caged mind, and he looks over at his cousin whose
face is pinched together in concern. “Are you okay?” Zhang Hao asks. His hand moves to
rest on Ricky’s knee, and it halts the bouncing.

Ricky should lie. Ricky should plaster that practised fake smile on his face and nod like the
pretty heir he is.

But he’s tired. Oh, he’s so fucking tired of pretending like he wasn’t ripping apart at the
seams. He’s been strong, and he’s been brave, but all the ignorance has resulted in fractured
heart lines and bruised hands.

”No,” Ricky replies, his voice breaking immediately, and he forces himself to swallow
around the lump in his throat. “I’m not okay. I’m really, really not okay.”
”Talk to me,” Zhang Hao murmurs, twisting in his seat so that he can take Ricky’s hands in
his. “What’s going on?”

And isn’t that a loaded question? Sniffling, Ricky looks up at the ornate ceiling and rapidly
blinks in an attempt to clear the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He lets out a shaky
breath, retracting one of his hands from Zhang Hao’s grip to wipe at the back of his nose,
decorum be damned.

He can’t look at his cousin. If he does, Ricky is positive he will break. So he keeps his gaze
fixed on the crystal chandelier overhead and tries to even out his breathing.

Zhang Hao doesn’t press him. Even as the minutes pass and the silence continues to stretch
between them, he remains silent. The only sound that can be heard is the ticking of the
grandfather clock sitting at the end of the hall.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Ricky has always hated that thing. It chimes on the hour and he’s lost count of how many
times it had woken him up as a child. It’s a stupidly gauzy thing, and it always creeped him
out. For the longest time he’d sworn it was haunted. His childhood bedroom had been
upstairs but the sound always pierced through the layers of cement and wood.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Finally, Ricky lowers his gaze down to where his hand is clasped with Zhang Hao’s. Ricky is
pretty sure that his rings must be digging in rather uncountably to his cousin’s fingers, but
Zhang Hao makes no attempt to move away.

”Why did it have to turn out like this?” Ricky whispers, almost too quiet to be heard over the
hammering of his own heartbeat. And almost like those words were attached to the strings of
Ricky’s own soul, they hang in the air. Raw. Real. A piece of him he never thought would be
exposed in the open like this.

And he’s speaking in riddles, but Zhang Hao understands. Of course he does. “It’s about
Gyuvin, isn’t it?” He murmurs, rubbing his thumb across Ricky’s knuckles in a comforting
motion.

Ricky’s breath catches in his throat. It feels like a confession that he’s been holding back for
far too long.

Closing his eyes, he doesn’t reply immediately. Zhang Hao saying Gyuvin’s name out loud is
a weight that brings everything crashing down on Ricky’s shoulders. His leg continues to
bounce, and that gives away enough without Ricky having to say anything.

”I don’t know what to do,” Ricky finally admits. His eyes open, but he doesn’t meet Zhang
Hao’s. His gaze drifts, unfocused, towards the grandfather clock instead.
”Ricky,” Zhang Hao murmurs, squeezing Ricky’s hand. “You know why we’re here today,
right?”

Wordlessly, Ricky nods.

”I think you need to consider your future,” Zhang Hao continues softly. “I… I understand
how you’re feeling. Maybe better than anyone else.”

Zhang Hao’s voice is calm. Measured. But there’s something else behind it—something
personal. A hint.

It makes Ricky wonder if there’s more to Zhang Hao’s words than just comfort.

“You understand?” Ricky repeats. He finally looks at his cousin, and he’s wholly unprepared
to see the raw emotion plastered across Zhang Hao’s face. Zhang Hao, who has always been
something akin to an older brother to Ricky. Zhang Hao, who has always seemed so steady
and sure of himself.

Zhang Hao, who is looking at Ricky like he’s looking at a mirror of himself.

The emotions swirling in Zhang Hao’s eyes are filled with something far too understanding.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I do. I know our situations aren’t entirely the same. But I know
what it feels like to be far too involved with someone you shouldn’t be. It’s a dangerous path
to spiral down.”

Hanbin, Ricky’s mind supplies. He’s positive that his cousin is talking about the drummer.
Ricky doesn’t know what had happened between the two of them, but something tells him it
hadn’t been painless.

Zhang Hao is similar to Ricky in many ways, yet where they differ lies in his ability to
recognise when to step back. Unlike Ricky, who often pushes through his emotions, Zhang
Hao knows when to distance himself from a situation if he senses it’s slipping out of his
control. He thinks with his head more than his heart.

And for the longest time, Ricky had believed he never let his heart control him. Because for
the longest time, it hadn’t.

And then he met Gyuvin.

He met Gyuvin, and he spiralled, and spiralled, and spiralled. And now Ricky doesn’t know
which way is up and which way is down.

It’s at moments like this when Ricky feels like he’d been born into the wrong family. Because
he thinks that Zhang Hao would do a much better job at filling Ricky’s shoes.

”What do I do?” Ricky asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel like I’m being torn in
two. I don’t know which way I should go.”

Zhang Hao studies him for a moment before leaning forward and closing the gap between
them. Ricky is reminded once again that in the room behind them, one version of his future
awaits.

“Ricky,” Zhang Hao begins, his voice gentle but firm. “I think the real question isn’t about
choosing between them. It’s about choosing yourself—and what you need for your future.
You won’t be able to move forward in any direction if you keep letting your emotions pull
you in two different directions.”

”But that’s the problem,” Ricky admits quietly. “At this point I don’t know what my future
even looks like. It was supposed to be easy—I finish up at university, get married to Jiwoong
and begin to work with my father. But then… there’s him. And I think about it now—walking
away from him—and I feel like I’m losing something more important than just… just some
guy I screwed.”

Zhang Hao squeezes Ricky’s hand again. “I know how much you’re struggling right now. I’m
trying to put this as gently as I can. It’s not possible for you to have both, you know that
right? One way or another, something you believe is important to you is going to have to be
sacrificed. The decision is up to you on which you choose to let go. The only future you have
ever known, or the boy that has made you feel things you never thought yourself capable of
feeling.”

“This is so messed up,” Ricky whispers, more to himself than to his cousin. Ricky’s chest
feels tight—like something is lodged in there, pushing against his ribs. It’s almost as if
Gyuvin’s presence were here with them right now. Almost like he was holding Ricky’s heart
between his hands and begging Ricky. Choose me. Please, don’t leave me.

Meeting Gyuvin had changed everything and Ricky can’t deny it anymore. The bassist had
become a constant in his life that Ricky had never asked for, and Ricky had foolishly
believed he could push it away and compartmentalise, but he’s losing the fight within
himself.

”I can’t just throw everything away,” Ricky admits, his fingers tightening around Zhang
Hao’s in an attempt to ground himself. To remind himself of where he is. Here, the present.
Not the past and not the future. “But I think about letting go of him, and… it doesn’t make
me feel good, Zhang Hao. It really doesn’t make me feel good at all.”

”You won’t lose everything,” Zhang Hao says firmly. “You aren’t walking away from who
you are. You’re choosing who you want to become.”

Ricky is terrified. “I don’t know who I want to be anymore.”

”Yourself, Ricky,” Zhang Hao responds softly. “Just be yourself. That’s all you can do now.”

And before Ricky can come up with a response to that, they’re interrupted by the sound of
the heavy wooden doors of the tea room opening. Ricky and Zhang Hao look over to be met
with the sight of Ricky’s father standing there.

”I’ve given you boys enough time to talk,” Mr Shen says, the corners of his mouth tight.
Ricky fights the urge to shrink and hide behind his cousin. “We’re starting now.”
Ricky swallows, forcing himself to stand from the seat even though his legs feel like they’re
two seconds away from giving out beneath him. The air in the house feels awfully stifling.
Ricky wonders if he’ll be able to make it through the next few hours without succumbing to
the pressure.

Everything was happening too quickly. It wasn’t supposed to happen this quickly.

“Come on,” Zhang Hao murmurs, reaching down to entwine their fingers together. “I’ll be
with you every step of the way.”

This isn’t Ricky’s normal stomping grounds. He’s always been a little snobby with the cafés
he frequents, and this one is far from the mark. It’s nowhere near the polished and tidy cafés
that are dotted around Ricky’s neighbourhood—this one has seen its fair share of wear and
tear that is too unintentional to be trendy. The once vibrant blue and green walls have faded
into a duller colour, and the wooden tables are scuffed and chipped. Rings of coffee have
stained the tabletop that Ricky is sitting at, and no amount of scrubbing would get rid of
them.

But, this is where Gyuvin had wanted to meet him.

Ricky wonders if Gyuvin spends a lot of time here. He wonders if, as a teenager, this was the
place he’d meet up with his friends. Would they sit at one of these very tables, the same
worn-out chairs that creak when you lean back too far, and pour over algebra homework
together? Would Gyuvin scribble out equations with the same focused intensity, or laugh at a
joke one of his friends made?

Would Gyuvin have been one of those kids who spent their evenings here, huddled together
with friends over half-finished cups of hot chocolate and a shared slice of pie, laughing about
nothing and everything at once?

There’s still so much Ricky doesn’t know about Gyuvin. They’ve known each other for such
a short amount of time, yet for some reason, it feels like an eon.

Ricky leans back in his chair and drums his fingers along the top of the table. He’s sitting in
the corner of the café and he has a perfect view of the front door. It’s only opened four times
since Ricky sat down, and each time he heard the bell tinkle, his head would shoot up to see
who had walked in. And each time it wasn’t Gyuvin.

He glances out the window, taking note of the purpling sky. The glass was fogging up from
the cold air outside. He hopes Gyuvin remembered to wear a jacket.

Ricky has been sitting here for thirty minutes already. The drink in front of him was ordered
on a whim—Ricky felt bad for taking up a table without buying something. He’d used the
drink to warm his hands, but after a while it too grew cold.

Ironic, he thinks.
Everything he touches loses its warmth eventually.

Ricky checks his phone, but there’s been no word from Gyuvin. He’s beginning to think that
the bassist had stood him up. That he knew why Ricky wanted to meet him and had backed
out.

And then, on instinct, Ricky’s eyes flicker to the door once more. He’s not sure why—it
hadn’t opened, the bell hadn’t made a sound. But in some cruel turn of fate, Gyuvin was
reaching his hand out for the doorknob.

He twists it.

The bell chimes.

And for a moment, the warm air is sucked out of the café as a chilling gust of wind sweeps
through the interior. Gyuvin closes the door quickly, shooting a smile at the barista at the
counter. Ricky half expects him to order something, but is taken by surprise when Gyuvin
forgoes a drink and walks over to him instead.

Devastatingly, Ricky thinks that Gyuvin looks beautiful.

His auburn hair is windswept, a little messy from the winter breeze outside. There’s a faint
flush on his cheeks and his nose is pink from the chilly air. But his eyes are bright—alive,
Ricky thinks. There’s a whole universe in them, something vast and unexplored.

It’ll remain that way.

Ricky’s gaze lingers—he knows he’s staring, but he thinks he’ll allow himself one last
chance to do so. His eyes flicker from the curve of Gyuvin’s jaw, to the slight pout of his lips,
down to the neckline of his hoodie.

He isn’t wearing a goddamn jacket.

”Are you not cold?” Ricky blurts out as Gyuvin takes a seat in the chair across from him.

Visibly surprised, Gyuvin glances up, an amused smile creeping across his face. “Not really,”
he replies causally. “I guess I’m just used to it.”

Ricky stares at him for a moment. He wonders how many nights Gyuvin had spent in the cold
—bundled up in the back of his 4Runner or sitting at his lookout. It’s December in New York
—the winters here aren’t forgiving. It’s the kind of cold that nips at you the moment you step
outside. The kind of cold that lingers deep in your bones.

”Alright,” Ricky murmurs, resisting the urge to shrink into the warmth of his own double-
breasted coat.

”I’m sorry for running late, by the way,” Gyuvin says, changing the topic with ease. He shifts
in the chair, and it’s only now that Ricky realises he’s carrying a backpack with him. “I was
halfway here and I forgot something—so I had to double back to my place and grab it. Then
Hanbin wanted to talk to me, ‘cos, you know he hasn’t seen me for a little while. He’s really
damn persistent, but I told him I had something important to get to. And then the traffic was
awful, one of the main roads was blocked up from a crash, and—“

“Gyuvin,” Ricky suddenly says, interrupting the bassist mid sentence.

Pausing from where he’d been rummaging around in his bag, Gyuvin looks at Ricky—really
looks at Ricky, and he freezes in place. “What is it?” He asks, but his voice is wary, almost as
if he knows he won’t like what Ricky is about to tell him.

Ricky sighs and runs trembling fingers through his hair. In the reflection of the window,
Ricky’s appearance illustrates a story he never thought he’d be telling. The roots of his hair
are dark, and he’s been in desperate need of a hairdresser appointment for the last month. He
hasn’t been keeping up with his skincare and his cheeks are red with irritation from where
he’d slapped some face wash on his skin in the morning before rushing out to drive to
Gunwook’s house. The sweater he’s wearing beneath his coat is at least three seasons out of
date—some navy blue thing that had been sitting in the back of Ricky’s closet for God knows
how long.

To put it simply, Ricky was unkempt.

He didn’t recognise the man staring back at him through the glass.

And when Ricky thinks about it—really thinks about it, he realises that he hasn’t recognised
himself for a very long time.

For months, he’s been existing in pieces. Parts of him scattered between responsibilities,
expectations, and the relentless demands of his life, all whilst trying to hold onto this thing
with Gyuvin. He’s been running on autopilot, pretending that he can keep Gyuvin tucked into
one corner of his world while the rest of his life continues on as if nothing has changed.

But it has changed.

Ricky can feel it now—just how strained everything has become. He can’t keep doing this to
himself. He can’t keep lying about what is and isn’t important.

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself—God, how he wishes he could continue onwards in

blissful ignorance. But the line between what is real and what he’s pretending to be is starting
to blur, and he can no longer ignore it.

Life isn’t simple like that.

What had started as something as easy as a rendezvous in a bathroom had snowballed into
something far more intense than that. And Ricky had let it go on and on until it was too big
for him to contain any longer.

Because he’s selfish. He’s a selfish, selfish man.

There’s no easy way to spit his words out. Ricky can try to soften the blow all he wants, but
in the end, he knows that’s not the right thing to do. The longer he avoids saying what needs
to be said, the harder it will be for the both of them.
After tonight, Gyuvin needs to hate Ricky.

Ricky doesn’t know if he can live with the idea of Gyuvin hating him, but he knows it’s the
only way forward. Because if Gyuvin doesn’t hate him, there’s no way Ricky can walk away.
And he has to walk away.

This thing between them—it’s never going to work. It can’t. Not with the life Ricky’s been
given, not with the future that’s already been laid out for him.

“Jiwoong is going to propose to me.”

It was almost like the words hadn’t come straight out of Ricky’s mouth. Because why were
his ears ringing all of a sudden? Why did it feel like all of his blood was pooling in his feet?
And when Ricky sways a little in his chair, Gyuvin doesn’t reach out to steady him.

How could Gyuvin, when his fingers were gripping the edge of the table like he needed to
ground himself?

”What?” Gyuvin whispers. And it’s not because he didn’t hear Ricky—no, they are both very
much well aware of what Ricky had said. Maybe Gyuvin was simply trying to process the
information. Maybe he didn’t want to believe it.

That would make two of them.

But Ricky can’t say that, because by doing so, he would be leaving the chink in his armor on
full display. And Gyuvin would take advantage of that, Ricky knows he would. “Jiwoong is
going to propose to me,” Ricky repeats, and he prays that Gyuvin doesn’t hear the way his
voice wavers. “One week from today. Our parents have everything planned out. It’s going to
be incredibly romantic. We have an entire restaurant booked out, and mother was saying
something about a quartet playing for us—“

“Please, stop.”

“Knowing her there’ll be fireworks too, the moment I say yes,” Ricky continues to babble on,
ignoring Gyuvin and instead pointedly looking at the far back wall of the cafè. “I picked out
the ring. Would you like to see? I had to get the size adjusted to fit my finger perfectly, so I
have it in my bag…”

“Why are you doing this?” Gyuvin replies, and it sounds like he has to choke the words out.
But that’s just not fair. That really, really isn’t fucking fair. How can it be, when Gyuvin is the
free spirit here? He has nothing tying him down. No expectations or responsibilities.

And honestly, their relationship was always doomed from the beginning, wasn’t it? They’re
from two completely different worlds. Ricky will never understand the pain Gyuvin went
through, and Gyuvin will never understand the pain Ricky will go through.

They simply aren’t compatible. Just like a comet, Ricky and Gyuvin had burned too bright
and too fast. What they’d had was never supposed to amount to anything long term.
”Because you need to wake up, Gyuvin,” Ricky mutters. He can feel the bassist staring at
him, but still, he refuses to look over. Ricky is scared of what he’ll see if he does. “I have
priorities. And you…”

You’re the highest of them all.

”You’re nowhere near being close to the top,” is what Ricky forces himself to say, and the
words taste like ash on his tongue. “I’ll admit that I led you on because I wanted to occupy
myself with someone before I was tied down for good.”

Lies.

“We had fun. You were a good fuck. But that’s all it ever was, alright?”

Lies.

A man crosses through Ricky’s path of vision, and for a moment, the stranger looks like
Gunwook. Dark hair, broad shoulders and a slim waist. But then he turns around, and it's
glaringly obvious that it isn’t Gunwook.

”I’ve never stopped loving Gyuvin. The biggest regret of my life was going out to the party
that night.”

Swallowing hard, Ricky forces the next words out of his mouth. “Jiwoong is my future. He
always has been. And it will never be anyone else.”

Lies.

The noise in the café begins to increase in volume as the late afternoon rush of customers
pour in, but Ricky can barely notice it over the buzzing in his ears. His hands have gone all
clammy, and he tries to wipe the sweat on his slacks, but his palms only slide across the
slippery material.

”How can you say that to me?” Gyuvin mumbles, so quietly that Ricky almost doesn’t catch
it. But it’s as if his ears are specifically attuned to Gyuvin, because no matter how loud or soft
the bassist speaks, Ricky will always hear him. “After everything I told you. I gave you a
piece of me, and you—you promised to keep it safe. This isn’t keeping it safe. This is you
going back on your word.”

Ricky knows. God, how he knows. And the guilt will eat him alive for a long time, but what
is he supposed to do? There’s no other way around this. No matter how badly Ricky wishes
he could have the best of both worlds, he simply can’t.

“What can I say,” Ricky mutters, glancing down at the table where his decaf lattè has sat
untouched. “I’m a businessman. When are we ever truthful?”

The barista had poured a cute little art with the steamed milk, though it was slowly mixing
into a white blob as the drink cooled down. It was a Christmas tree. As Ricky stares at the
foam, he wonders what Gyuvin will be doing for Christmas since he has no immediate family
to celebrate with. Does he normally spend time with his band mates? Do they play white
elephant and drink alcoholic eggnog and share a Costco roast together?

And after everything that has happened, would they do that this year?

Has Ricky ruined all of that for Gyuvin?

“You don’t mean that. I know you’re lying.”

Gyuvin sounds so sure of himself. But he’s right, of course he’s right, but Ricky can’t
confirm his suspicions. He can’t go back, not now, not ever.

This is it.

This has to be it.

Ricky closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them to look at Gyuvin. He
pretends that he can’t see the redness in Gyuvin’s eyes, or the way his nails are etching lines
into the wooden surface of the table. He pretends that Gyuvin’s complexion hasn’t gone ashy
and nose isn’t tinged pink and his eyebrows aren’t drawn together as he tries to figure out
what the fuck is going on.

Ricky pretends that everything is fine.

“I’m not lying,” Ricky replies, lying, “what don’t you understand? We had our fun. You’re
not the first emo boy I’ve fucked, Gyuvin, but you will be the last. Shouldn’t that be some
kind of honour for you? When will you ever screw a guy like me again? You won’t, not with
all of that bad juju hanging over you like a curse. Move on, Gyuvin. You can’t live in the past
forever.”

Desperately, Ricky wishes Gyuvin would lose his temper. Even if the man causes a scene in
public. Because he shouldn’t be sitting there quietly and taking blow after blow like this was
a regular Sunday afternoon.

It’s selfish, but Ricky wants Gyuvin to get mad. He wants Gyuvin to smash his coffee mug
and tip the table over and call Ricky every single curse word under the sun.

He wants Gyuvin to lose himself to the fire, and he wants Gyuvin to burn him. To reduce
Ricky’s soul to nothing more than ashes, because that is what he deserves.

Gyuvin doesn’t do any of that. And maybe if the situation was different Ricky would laugh,
because he knows for sure that the old Gyuvin wouldn’t act like this.

He’s gone all soft now. And it’s because of Ricky.

“You know what?” Gyuvin utters softly, retracting his hands from the table and folding them
in his lap instead. “I take back what I said the first time I met you. I don’t like mean boys. I
don’t like how you’re making me feel right now.”
It feels like Ricky’s heart is lodged in his throat, and even though he is filled with shame, he
doesn’t look away from Gyuvin. Because he needs to see this. He needs to remember what
Gyuvin looks like when he’s heartbroken. He can never forget what he’s done.

And hopefully, he can use this situation to better himself as a person. He’ll find a way to be
kinder to Jiwoong, to be more open with Zhang Hao. He’ll try to make lasting connections in
his social circles and spend more time with people that aren’t just his relatives.

Perhaps eventually, when Ricky feels like he’s finally healed, he can bring himself to forget
Gyuvin and let him go.

But it’ll take a long time for that to happen.

“I told you that you felt like my dream. But this isn’t a dream. This is my worst nightmare,
and I’m living it,” Gyuvin says, sounding subdued. “I told you everything that happened with
Gunwook. With my life. And now… wait. Did Gunwook say something to you?”

“No,” Ricky replies, lying through his teeth once more.

“Leave Gyuvin alone.”

“I’m in love with Gyuvin. I never stopped loving him.”

Gyuvin pushes his chair back, the legs making a horrid scraping sound against the tiles. “I
don’t believe you.”

“If that’s what you want to think then go ahead,” Ricky retorts, resisting the urge to rub at his
temples in frustration. “But this is my choice. It always has been. And my choice isn’t you,
Gyuvin, so you need to let me go.”

“You need to start thinking about your future. Your early twenties are nothing more than a
blip in the long run. When you look back on your past in ten years, you’ll understand what
I’m trying to tell you.”

Maybe Ricky’s father is right. Maybe this time of his life really is a blip.

Ricky just hopes it isn’t one that will linger in his heart. He hopes that over time he’ll grow to
forgive himself.

And he hopes that Gyuvin will forgive him, too.

He hopes that Gyuvin will move on and find someone better. Someone who won’t hurt him,
someone who can tie the fraying strings of his soul into a bow and stitch his jagged flesh
back together.

He hopes that Gyuvin will heal.

“This is so…” Gyuvin sounds distressed, and Ricky has to fight the urge to reach across the
table to hold onto Gyuvin’s hand. God, it hurts, it hurts so bad knowing that his last
impression will be cruel words and broken promises. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you
would say this shit to me. I need you, don’t you get that? I gave you everything. I gave you
every single part of me—you can’t just turn around and pretend like that didn’t mean
anything!”

Ricky clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to look away, because that would be a display of
weakness. And he can’t do that, not now, not ever. He can’t give Gyuvin any opportunity to
see that Ricky doesn’t mean any of the words that he’s saying. Because this is the right thing
to do. They were never meant to be together.

Ricky should have never gone to the bar that night.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Ricky replies, and he hopes Gyuvin can’t hear just how hollow
those words sound. “You were just… a really long one night stand. I should have cut you off
earlier, but I guess I was just having too much fun. This was never going to amount to
anything serious. Don’t kid yourself.”

And at that moment, Ricky knows that the anguished expression on Gyuvin’s face is one that
will stay with him forever. Every time he closes his eyes he’ll see the way Gyuvin’s pupils
shake, the tremor to his lips, the pallor of his cheeks.

He’ll remember, he’ll regret, but he can never take it back.

”I should have listened to Hanbin,” Gyuvin mutters, shaking his head as he stands from his
seat. Helplessly, Ricky tilts his chin up to keep his gaze on the other man. Gyuvin slings his
backpack over his shoulder, and from the corner of Ricky’s eye he notices something white
fluttering down into the seat. But before he can pay it much mind, Gyuvin is speaking again.
“He said that you would be a heartbreaker. He said that we were no good for each other. But
in my own desperation for love—“

Ricky’s breath catches in his throat.

”—I ignored him. And I shouldn’t have. Hanbin of all people can read a person just with one
glance. I was a fool to think you would turn out to be any different.” When Gyuvin turns his
head to the side, he blinks heavily, eyelashes clumping together with unshed tears. Ricky
feels like he’s going to vomit. He wants to claw his eyes out and forget that any of this had
ever happened. “Maybe Gunwook said something to you, and you’re lying about it. Or
maybe he didn’t. But either way, the reality of the situation is that you still played me like a
fiddle. But I want you to know something. No matter how terribly you treat me, I will never
do the same thing to you. And do you know why that is?”

It’s a rhetorical question. They both know what the answer to that question is. And it’s made
increasingly more obvious when Gyuvin looks back over at Ricky—down at him, because
Ricky is still frozen in his chair. Once upon a time, Ricky had liked this position—him being
below someone else. But not like this. Not in this situation. He and Gyuvin had been equals
for such a short period of time, but here they are, taking mile long steps backwards in the
progress they’d made.

And it’s all Ricky’s fault.

”Why?” He breathes out, softer than a feather but heavy with the echoes of everything he’ll
forever leave unsaid.

Gyuvin huffs out a self deprecating chuckle, his eyes rolling to the ceiling momentarily
before once again fixating back on Ricky. And there’s no more warmth in them. A pair of
cold, empty eyes stare back at Ricky, and even on the first night they’d met Gyuvin hadn’t
looked this closed off.

”Because I love you, Shen Ricky.”

Beneath the table, Ricky’s fingers curl around the edge of his seat. The wood isn’t smooth
either—it’s sharp and jagged but Ricky digs the fleshy bits of his palms in, uncaring of the
blood that will begin to drip on the floor. Because he’s bleeding on the inside, too. He’s
stabbed himself with an emotion he never thought he’d feel and now he’s reaping the
consequences of falling for a boy he never should have met.

Kim Gyuvin has ruined his life just as much as Ricky has ruined Gyuvin’s life. Ricky has
scratched Gyuvin with his claws—but Gyuvin has caught Ricky between his teeth, and with
each word he speaks, Ricky only feels those fangs puncture his skin deeper and deeper. He’d
once wished Gyuvin would devour him whole, but now Ricky desires more than just a wish.
He needs Gyuvin to chew him up and swallow him down and Ricky needs to stay there.
Because that would hurt far less than what he’s feeling right now.

Those three words aren’t spoken with a single ounce of fondness. It’s nothing like how a first
confession should be—because Gyuvin sounds empty, because he sounds like the words are
poison on his tongue.

Gyuvin opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but then his jaw snaps shut and
he shakes his head like he’d thought better.

He turns around.

He walks away.

The door of the cafè closes with a gentle tinkle, and Ricky’s eyes betray him, because he
can’t stop looking at Gyuvin.

Gyuvin doesn’t look back. Not when a harried-looking middle aged woman accidentally
bumps into him and continues down the sidewalk without an apology. Not when he stops at
the pedestrian crosswalk to wait for the light to change. Not when a snowflake lands perfectly
atop the crown of his head.

He walks away, and he doesn’t look back, and Ricky just thinks that some higher power must
be playing a cruel joke on him.

The first snow of 2006.

The first time Ricky had allowed himself to realise that he was in love.

And Ricky knows that Gyuvin’s parting words will haunt him for the rest of his life.
 Because it was the first time Gyuvin had ever used Ricky’s name. Not kitty cat, or princess,
or any of the other terms of endearment he’d used here and there over the last couple of
months.

“Because I love you, Shen Ricky.”

“I love you too, Kim Gyuvin,” Ricky whispers into the nothingness. His hands are burning
hot, but his heart—his heart feels like it’s been submerged in ice. It feels like it’s fracturing
with every breath Ricky takes.

He wants to hold onto it. To put all of the pieces of him back together. But he thinks that, no
matter how hard he tries, there will always be hairline cracks etched into the very thing that
keeps him alive.

”I love you too, Kim Gyuvin,” he repeats, but it’s no longer a statement. It’s a prayer. It’s a
plea. But Ricky knows that no matter how many times he says those words out loud, it’ll
never be enough.

There’s no coming back from this love. Because this love has torn Ricky to pieces. This love
has unravelled a side of Ricky that he never knew he had.

Ricky breathes in, but it feels like he’s suffocating.

And in that moment, he knows he’s lost Gyuvin.

Not just for tonight.

Forever.

Chapter End Notes

recommended listening for this chapter…

for gyuvin: bittersweet symphony

for ricky: cruel world

to that person in my neospring confessing they were scared for the update… i’m sorry for lowkey lying. i hope i
didn’t lull you into a false sense of security, but i probably did 😭
but. BUTTTTTTT listen guys i swear this is the last time a chapter will make you want to lynch me. i swear on my
pink haired seonghwa photocard!!!

two chapters to go and then the epilogue… i’m not ready to let this story go :(
twitter | playlist | neospring
 appassionato
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Shanghai, 2014

Ricky smiles politely, his voice soft as he murmurs a farewell to the woman he’d been
speaking with, watching her walk away to the next artist’s display. His back is starting to
ache from the long hours of standing, the tension creeping through his spine, but he forces
himself to ignore it. Instead, he redirects his attention back to Jingxiang.

The gallery was starting to settle after being filled to the brim with eager visitors. The initial
excitement of when the doors had first opened has died down, and though the space is still
alive with conversation, the crowd has thinned. The atmosphere is more relaxed now as the
evening begins to wind down.

”You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Ricky turns, his head tilting slightly as his brow arches in a silent cue for Jingxiang to
continue. “What is it?”

Jingxiang gestures toward the canvas in front of them, one of Ricky’s more abstract pieces.
It’s a fiery blend of oranges and reds, highlighted with the occasional splash of pink. “Your
paintings,” he says, “I’ve noticed that it’s always the same person. Is it… someone real? Or
just a character you’ve imagined?”

Ricky’s eyes flicker back to the painting, the soft downlights casting a golden hue over the
textured surface. He takes a minute to think, resisting the urge to chew on his lip. Around
them, the murmur of idle conversation drifts through the gallery, punctuated by the gentle
clink of glassware. A waiter approaches and offers champagne from a silver tray. Ricky
declines with a polite smile.

The question wasn’t unexpected—in fact, Ricky had anticipated it. Sooner or later, someone
was bound to ask. And now that it had finally been voiced, there was no room to pretend. Not
anymore.

”He’s real,” Ricky says at last, his voice quiet but steady. “A ghost from my past that I
couldn’t keep locked away. I’ve always struggled to decipher my own emotions, but…
through my art, I hope that someone else might find clarity where I couldn’t.”

Jingxiang’s expression is unreadable, though his next words are laced with curiosity. “Did
you love him?”

”I do,” Ricky answers, the present tense slipping out like a confession.
Jingxiang snorts at that, hiding a smile behind the glass of champagne he’d accepted from the
waiter. Ricky’s glad, because it dispels some of the tension that has been building since
Jingxiang had first raised the question.

”I’ve always suspected your heart was lying somewhere else,” he comments smoothly before
taking a sip. Ricky watches the bubbles fizz in the glass as Jingxiang relaxes his arm, holding
the glass delicately between his index and middle finger.

The bubbles remind him of how he used to feel, being around Gyuvin. Like Ricky’s entire
stomach was filled with them.

But he pushes that thought away as quickly as it had appeared. There’s no use pondering on
the past any longer. Shanghai is very far away from New York.

Over seven thousand miles, in fact.

”Luckily you’re not after my heart then, are you?” Ricky replies, turning away from his
painting. He surveys the gallery, watches other artists answering questions that the visitors
have about their artwork. Ricky has been doing that all night, and he’s glad for the lull in
activity over his side of the room, because he can feel his social battery slowly draining as the
minutes tick by.

“But what if I was?”

Ricky throws Jingxiang a dirty look. The other man is joking—if it wasn’t evident in the
playfulness of his tone, then the shit-eating grin spread across his face is a dead giveaway.

”Then you’d be in for a rude awakening, my friend,” Ricky responds drily, which only makes
Jingxiang grin wider. He watches, unimpressed, as Jinxiang leans in closer to whisper
something into Ricky’s ear.

”If I recall correctly, you were calling me something else last night.”

”Piss off,” Ricky mutters, shrugging Jingxiang’s hand off of his shoulder. The other man just
throws his head back and laughs, drawing attention from a few nearby guests. “Laugh all you
want. You’re still just a gross pervert.”

”You like it,” Jinxiang shoots back with an overexaggerated waggle of his eyebrows. Ricky
glances away then, clenching his jaw, pretending like he doesn’t see the echo of Gyuvin
standing in Jingxiang’s place doing the exact same thing.

For crying out loud.

It’s been eight years.

When will Ricky move on?

It’s a redundant question he continues to ask himself. Because he knows the answer. If it’s
been this long and he still feels that same hollow ache in his chest whenever he thinks about
the bassist, then.
He likely never will.

And that’s okay. Ricky is learning to live with it. This thing he has going on with Jingxiang
will never amount to the relationship he’d had with Gyuvin. It can’t, because Ma Jingxiang is
the most emotionally unavailable person Ricky has ever met.

They fuck, they clean up, maybe share a cigarette afterwards. Ricky might offer Jingxiang a
glass of wine, but he’ll never have one himself.

Ricky has been sober for seven years. He’s trying to be better—to do better. And he thinks
he’s doing an alright job so far.

Twisting his wrist to check the time, Ricky glances down at his watch. It’s nearly six o’clock,
and the gallery is set to close soon. He knows he should stick around until the very end, but
his feet ache, and all he can think about is the comfort of a hot bath to soak away the
exhaustion.

”I think I’ll wrap thing up now,” he says to Jingxiang, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as the
other man pouts in response. “There’s still tomorrow night to go yet, and it’s supposed to be
even busier. I need my beauty sleep.”

”Yes, we can’t have the gran Shen Quanrui operating without his twelve hours of rest,”
Jingxiang teases, setting his empty glass down on a nearby table. “You don’t need to remind
me what you’re like when you’re tired.”

”I don’t even sleep for that long,” Ricky mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “Can you
do me a favour?”

”When am I not doing you favours?” Jinxiang replies with a grin.

”Can you stay here until the manager drops by?” Ricky asks, ignoring the playful jab. “I’m
supposed to sign out before I leave, but I really don’t feel like talking to him. Lovely guy,
don’t get me wrong, but he’s… hard to shake off, if you know what I mean.”

Jingxiang nods absently, his eyes glazing over as he stares off into the distance. Then, as if
what Ricky had said finally registers, he glances back at Ricky with a groan. “Wait. Why do I
have to stay?” He whines, “what makes you think that I want to be stuck talking with him?”

Ricky leans in, raising his hand to gently tap the side of Jingxiang’s face. “Because,” he says
in between taps, “I just know how much you love talking about Kandinsky and Mondrian.
Besides, you owe me. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that time last week you left me alone
with your mother. That was the most excruciating two hours of my life, Ma Jingxiang.”

”She’s not that bad!”

Ricky shakes his head, tutting beneath his breath. “She asked me about marriage, Jingxiang. I
just about lost my mind trying to steer the conversation away from that!”

”It’s not my fault she thinks we’d have pretty babies!” Jingxiang exclaims, but Ricky is
already stepping away. “And—wait. Who the heck is Kavinsky and Modron?”
”Kandinsky and Mondrian,” Ricky throws over his shoulder, grinning at the terrified look on
Jingxiang’s face. “Just smile and nod, baby. You’ll figure it out.”

True to his inner promise, the first thing Ricky does when he arrives home is run a bath. He
pours a generous amount of lavender-scented bubble bath into the clawfoot tub, watching the
fragrant liquid swirl and foam as the warm water fills the basin. The calming aroma envelops
him as he unbuttons his shirt, the fabric slipping off his shoulders. His clothes fall carelessly
to the floor in a crumpled heap, but Ricky doesn’t mind. For now, it’s just him and the
peaceful solitude of the bathroom.

He steps into the tub, wincing slightly as the hot water makes contact with his skin. The heat
is almost too much at first, but he eases into it, letting his body adjust as he sinks deeper.
With a quiet sigh, he rests his head against the back of the tub, his muscles relaxing into the
warmth. A long, tired exhale escapes his lips, the weight of the day beginning to melt away.

Ricky never used to care much for baths. Showers were more his style—quick, efficient, no
time wasted. He’s never been one to linger in the bathroom, always in a rush, always with
something else to do. But lately, things have changed. There’s something about the solitude
and the warmth that calms him in a way nothing else does. He’s busy, of course—his
commissions demanding his attention and the endless list of events pulling him in every
direction—but he’s learned to make space for these quiet moments. He lets himself unwind,
sinking into the water until his skin softens and his fingers and toes wrinkle from the
prolonged soak.

Tonight, he plans to do just that. Ricky sinks further into the water, until the bottom half of
his face is submerged, leaving only a small gap between his nose and the surface, just enough
to breathe.

Ricky’s eyes wander around the bathroom as he soaks in the warmth of the water. Soft beams
of moonlight filter through the frosted glass window, which stretches across one entire wall.
The light plays gently across the room, giving everything a muted glow. A pothos plant hangs
from the corner of the window, its vines slowly creeping and winding themselves around the
empty curtain rod, as if trying to claim a little more space for itself.

In one corner, the shower is a sanctuary of its own—massive and luxurious, with a rainfall
showerhead that pours water in a steady stream, its pressure soothing against the scalp. The
dark grey tiles add a cool touch to the otherwise warm room, and recessed shelving holds a
few bottles of Ricky’s favorite shower gels.

If he looked to his left, Ricky would catch sight of the double vanity. Twin sinks sit in white
quartz and a massive mirror stretches across the wall above them. It’s almost laughable, the
amount of space he has to himself, and yet it feels empty in a way that’s hard to explain. He
had bought this house—this massive space—on a whim, not long after signing the papers to
leave behind the cramped apartment he’d lived in for years. Even now, he can still remember
the real estate agent's overenthusiastic sales pitch as she led him through the house, gushing
about all the features.
"Perfect for starting a family," she’d said, her words echoing in his memory. "A master
bedroom plus two extra rooms—one could be a study, the other a nursery." She went on to
mention the kitchen and the open-plan space, but when she reached the bathroom, her words
became almost reverent. “It’s rare to find a bathroom this large in this area. Your wife will
have so much room for all of her things!”

Ricky’s lips curl in a small, humourless smile at the memory. He’s not sure where the agent
got the idea of him having a wife, especially considering his ring finger had remained bare
from the start. Only his name had been on the housing forms, and there was never a mention
of a spouse. He suspects it was a combination of the tired assumptions about a man buying a
home or perhaps something he said had been twisted into an unspoken narrative. He never
bothered to correct her, though. Maybe out of politeness, or maybe because, at the time, it
didn’t matter. He had signed the papers a few days later and begun making plans to move into
the space that was supposed to be his fresh start.

But no matter how much effort Ricky has put into building this life, into carving out a space
that is all his own, it never feels quite like it’s enough. It feels like he’s still stuck in the past,
tied to something he hasn’t let go of. He notices it in the small things—like how he always
uses just one side of the sink for his products, as though keeping a space open for someone
who’s never there. Or how he still sleeps on the left side of the bed, as if leaving the right side
untouched is some sort of tribute.

Ricky hasn’t moved on. He can’t move on—not when his heart still aches for someone he
hasn’t seen in years, someone who probably hasn’t thought of him once since they parted.
And he’s tried, he really has. But no amount of distractions—whether it’s alcohol or fleeting
encounters with nameless men in the hidden corners of Shanghai—can fill the empty space
inside him. It’s a hollow that no one else can touch, not even now, when he’s surrounded by
everything he thought he wanted.

He’s doing better now, though. It’s been a long road, but he’s managed to pull himself out of
the depths he’d once slipped into. Years ago, he made a promise to himself to turn things
around, and though there were moments of weakness, moments when he veered off course,
he’s found his way back. That’s why he doesn’t drink anymore. Why he no longer frequents
bars in search of meaningless encounters that were never really about the other person, just a
desperate attempt to feel something—anything—for a few fleeting hours.

Jingxiang has been a steady presence in Ricky’s life, a constant he never realised he needed.
Their connection is more than just sex; over time, it’s morphed into something more
comforting than the label of "friends with benefits." But that’s as far as it will go. Ricky
refuses to make the same mistake twice. Jingxiang doesn’t believe in commitment—his
overbearing mother’s protests aside—and while Ricky has no illusions about what they have,
there’s a part of him that can’t help but think of someone else when Jingxiang’s lips are on
him.

It’s a convenient arrangement, or at least, that's how Ricky chooses to view it.

Ricky has always had this quiet suspicion that Jingxiang knows more than he lets on. He’s
never talked about Gyuvin, never let slip a word about the past, especially what happened in
New York. That’s where it all stayed, locked away. And Jingxiang, to his credit, has never
pressed, even though Ricky is sure he must be curious. Because there are things about him,
things from that time, that he’s kept to himself and he’s certain Jingxiang has picked up on
the unspoken stories.

Things like the locked box in the top drawer of his nightstand—a box Jingxiang discovered
one night when he was rummaging through drawers in search of a condom. Or the way Ricky
refuses to kiss him on the mouth. Or the cigarettes Ricky only smokes after they’ve had sex,
like some kind of ritual he can’t fully explain.

And then there was tonight—the question about the person in the painting. Jingxiang’s
innocent inquiry. And the way it felt like an accidental unraveling of the thin threads Ricky
had so carefully kept knotted. Ricky has always known that Jingxiang suspected something
deeper. He’s never said anything outright, but there have been moments—quiet, unspoken
moments—that gave it away. The soft way Jingxiang has looked at him, like he’s waiting for
Ricky to finally admit the truth.

He knows Jingxiang doesn’t care about it, that it’s not romantic between them. But hearing it
brought up like that—it was almost a slap in the face. Ricky can’t deny that it stung, just a
little. He’s embarrassed, too, by how easily Jingxiang had figured him out. It feels too raw,
too exposed. And Jingxiang doesn’t even know the first thing about art.

It makes Ricky wonder.

Does everyone else see him for the fraud he is? Does it show? He’s spent so much time
pretending—pretending that he’s over it, pretending that the past is behind him, when in
truth, it’s always lurking in the corners of his mind. The truth he keeps buried, so carefully
guarded. But what if deep down, everyone can tell?

Brrzt. Brrzt.

From the floor, Ricky’s phone buzzes against the tiles. He glances over briefly, assuming it’s
probably Jingxiang himself calling to curse Ricky out for leaving him there. He decides to
ignore it, knowing Jingxiang will give up if Ricky doesn’t answer.

And just as he’d thought, the vibrating stops.

Then it starts again.

Well, maybe Jingxiang is feeling extra bratty tonight. He’d had a few glasses of champagne
at the exhibit after all, and alcohol always managed to loosen his inhibitions. Still, Ricky
makes no move to answer his phone, because something will end up distracting Jingxiang
from bothering Ricky sooner rather than later.

Just as the buzzing stops, it starts up once more.

”Jesus Christ,” Ricky mutters, sitting up in the tub. The noise is disturbing his peace, and he
strains his arm, hand smacking against the tiles until his fingers manage to snatch the leg of
his trousers. He’ll just mute the damn thing.
Ricky’s fingers are wet, and he almost drops the phone into the bath when he finally retrieves
it from the pocket of his pants.

He does a double take at the screen.

Incoming call from Zhang Hao.

The call rings out once more, because Ricky just sits there and stares down at the device. He
has no idea why Zhang Hao is calling him at this time—it’s very early in New York right
now, and Zhang Hao would normally be on his way to work.

Once again, Ricky’s phone buzzes in his hand. And he’s confused, but Ricky swipes his wet
thumb across the screen, lifting his phone to his ear. “Hao?”

”Geez, it took you long enough to answer!” Zhang Hao replies from the other end of the line.
He’s speaking in English, and it takes Ricky’s brain a moment to catch on to what his cousin
is saying. He barely uses English, and whilst he hasn’t forgotten the language, it does sound a
little alien to his ears.

“Sorry,” Ricky replies slowly, his accent bleeding through into his words. “I’m in the bath.”

”The b—why did you answer the phone, then?” Zhang Hao switches from English to
Mandarin halfway through his sentence, and Ricky blinks a few times as he struggles to catch
up.

”Because you kept calling me?” He answers in Mandarin, and thankfully Zhang Hao doesn’t
switch languages again.

”You could have just ignored me. Wait, maybe not—I’d get worried if you did that. Anyways.
A little birdie told me you had an exhibit open! And you didn’t even tell me?”

Ricky’s free hand scoops up a pile of foam from the water, and he watches the bubbles slowly
pop. “You’re busy. And you’re on the other side of the world. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Zhang Hao exclaims, and Ricky can vaguely hear the sounds of a horn
blaring through Zhang Hao’s end. “You’re telling me that an exhibit at The Golden Lotus is
not a big deal?”

Shrugging, Ricky mumbles, “yeah.”

”Shen Quanrui! Don’t piss me off! And I could never be too busy for my favourite cousin, are
you crazy?”

”You don’t even talk to any of your other cousins,” Ricky points out.

“That’s not the point. I’ll get to the point. I’m very upset that I missed the first night, so guess
what?”

”What?”
”You’d better make sure you’re there tomorrow night as well. The exhibition runs for two
nights, right?”

Frowning, Ricky dips his hand back into the water, washing the bubbles off. “It runs for a
week, the artists are only there for the first two nights though. What are you telling me?”

Zhang Hao ignores Ricky’s question. “So you’ll be there tomorrow night?”

”Yes.”

“Fantastic,” Zhang Hao replies, the grin evident in his voice. “That means that—ah, wait, I
need to go now. The taxi is here. I forgot how impatient the drivers are in Shanghai, I think
he’ll drive off if we don’t get in there now.”

Pause. Pause.

”S-Shanghai?” Ricky splutters, sitting up straight in the bath. Some of the water spills over
the edge from the sudden movement, and his clothes are probably getting wet on the tiles, but
he doesn’t care about that right now. “Hao. Are you telling me you’re in Shanghai right
now?”

”Duh,” Zhang Hao replies, and he has the audacity to act like he hadn’t just dropped a
bombshell of information on Ricky. “So tomorrow, be at the gallery! Bye Ricky, love you!”

And before Ricky can even fumble out a response, the line drops. He spam taps the call
button on Zhang Hao’s contact, but his cousin doesn’t pick up the phone. Probably too busy
gossiping away with the taxi driver, knowing him.

What the hell. Ricky hasn’t seen his cousin in over six months. Zhang Hao still resides in
New York, and it’s not like they could hang out every weekend like they used to. It was a
fifteen hour flight, and Ricky was a busy guy—Zhang Hao was a busy guy. Blessedly, Zhang
Hao had finally figured out what he wanted to do with his life at just about the same time
Ricky’s life fell apart which was rather ironic. But Zhang Hao teaches now, elementary kids
at some fancy private school with a yearly tuition that makes even Ricky wince. So Zhang
Hao can’t exactly fly over randomly, not when he has a career, and Ricky hasn’t been back to
New York for eight whole years. That’s not about to change any time soon.

They weren’t kids anymore—Ricky and Zhang Hao are adults, with their own goals in life,
but this… this feels incredibly out of the blue. Far too random to be a coincidence. Ricky
hadn’t told his cousin about the exhibit because it was such a last minute thing. Ricky wasn’t
even aware he’d be getting a spot until three days earlier, because The Golden Lotus really
was a big deal. It was the most sought after art gallery in Shanghai, and Ricky was still
making a name for himself. This wasn’t his first exhibition by any means, but it was the
biggest. It was something that would open a lot of doors for Ricky.

He’d told two people about it. Jingxiang, and Jiwoong.

Ricky knows there’s no use calling Jiwoong about it now, because the other man would
certainly be asleep. So he thumbs out a text, places his phone on the tub tray, and sinks down
into the water. It’s cooled down to a pleasantly warm temperature now, and Ricky keeps his
eyes squeezed shut to prevent the soap from irritating them. He stays there, submerged in the
water, until his lungs burn enough to force him back to the surface. He sucks in mouthful
after mouthful of air, but somehow, it feels like he’s drowning on dry land.

Kim Jiwoong • 10:28pm

Of course I passed the message along to Zhang Hao.

I’m surprised you didn’t mention it to him at all.

Shen Ricky • 8:12am

Because I knew he’d get sad about not being able to be here.

It’s pointless now, he’s in Shanghai. You should have warned me!

Kim Jiwoong • 8:15am

Hey, he’s your cousin.

We both know he would have buried me alive if he found out I knew and he didn’t.

Shen Ricky • 8:16am

I don’t see how that’s my problem.

Kim Jiwoong • 8:16am

bitch

Argh that was Seobin, sorry. I don’t think you’re a bitch.

Shen Ricky • 8:17am

Hm, sure you don’t.

Seobin, I miss you. Tell Jiwoong to keep his nose out of my business.

Kim Jiwoong • 8:19am

Seobin says that’s impossible.

I’ve been this way for too long.

Shen Ricky • 8:21am

True. He’s never been wrong.

 Someone’s ringing my doorbell, I need to go.

Kim Jiwoong • 8:22am

Don’t have too much fun tonight!

I love you

(Platonically)

Shen Ricky • 8:22am

Mm.

“Did you know my cousin landed in Shanghai last night?”

Jingxiang squints at Ricky from where he’s standing on the doorstep, hands shoved deep in
his coat pockets. “Good morning, Jingxiang,” he says sarcastically, “how are you? How did
last night go? What time did you manage to get away from the gallery?”

Ricky rolls his eyes and saunters down the hall. He hears the front door close, and the sound
of Jingxiang toeing his shoes off to shove his feet into the spare pair of house slippers
reserved for him.

“Cry some more,” Ricky remarks flippantly, opening his fridge door to retrieve a bottle of
water and a punnet of strawberries. He slides the bottle across the kitchen island for
Jingxiang, and bites into a strawberry, licking the juices from his lips.

“I will, actually,” Jingxiang mutters, twisting the cap off of the bottle and gulping down a
mouthful of water before continuing. “Zitao is insatiable. And not in a sexy way, either. I ran
out of different ways to say ‘wow’ about thirty minutes into our conversation. You did not
prepare me for that! I left two hours after you did, Quanrui!”

Ricky can’t help but snort, covering his mouth as he laughs at the ruffled expression on
Jingxiang’s face. “Well. I did warn you, didn’t I? He’s really nice, and I’m thankful he added
me to the exhibit, but small talk just isn’t my thing.”

”And you think it’s mine?”

”Sort of, yeah,” Ricky replies with a shrug. “You love talking.”

”Not about things I’m clueless about!”

”Maybe you should have paid more attention in school.”

Jingxiang glares at Ricky, his brows twitching. “Oh I’m sorry, Mister ‘I have an art degree.’
The only art class I took was in my first year of highschool. I don’t even know what the
difference is between Beethoven and Picasso!”
”Beethoven is a music composer, you moron,” Ricky replies, but Jinxiang just throws his
hands in the air like he’s saying that’s what I’m trying to tell you. “Anyway, in more pressing
matters. My cousin is here. He flew in last night, and he didn’t even tell me.”

”Zhang Hao?” Jingxiang queries, and Ricky nods. “Oh, great. He hates me.”

”He doesn’t hate you.”

Jingxiang’s lips thin out into a line. “Every time he comes here and sees me, he looks at me
like I’ve committed some horrendous crime. A crime that I’m not even aware of, mind you.”

To be fair, Jingxiang does have a point. Zhang Hao has always been a little... on edge around
him, and over the years, he’s openly shared his dislike for the man. Ricky doesn’t fully
understand why Zhang Hao holds this grudge, but he has a sinking feeling it’s tied to
something deeper—something like overprotectiveness. And worry. So much worry.

Ricky’s breakdown after everything that happened with Gyuvin had been bad. A mess, really.
He’d disappeared without a word for a whole month—no calls, no texts, no nothing. Not to
his parents, not to Zhang Hao, not a soul. He’d withdrawn a large sum of money from his
bank account, packed a single suitcase, and bought a one-way ticket to China, acting on
impulse without any clear plan of what he would do when he arrived.

It’s one of those periods in his life that he regrets deeply, a time he wishes he could rewrite.
Because it left scars, ones that still linger in his relationships with the people he loves most.
Even now, he’s trying to mend the cracks, one piece at a time. He’s on speaking terms with
his parents now, but it’s been a long road to get there.

“He’s just... weird like that,” Ricky says absently, biting into another strawberry. He chews
thoughtfully before continuing. “But yeah, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. You know,
since I didn’t get one myself.”

Jingxiang raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you he was coming?”

Ricky shakes his head, the memory of Zhang Hao’s sudden call flashing in his mind. “No. He
called me last night, asking why I didn’t tell him about the exhibit. Which... I didn’t, because
we both know how last-minute everything was.”

Jingxiang taps his fingers rhythmically on the kitchen island, a quiet hum of frustration in his
movements. “I can’t get out of this, can I?”

“You’d have to be dead to,” Ricky replies, his lips curling into a grin as Jingxiang flips him
off. The playful gesture eases some of the tension, and Ricky finds himself hoping—just a
little—that tonight, Zhang Hao might finally drop his guard. Because, deep down, he knows
they could get along perfectly if Zhang Hao could just let go of whatever it is that’s been
eating at him all this time.

—
"Thank you for stopping by," Ricky says for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. The
smile on his face feels a little too strained, stretched too thin for comfort. The elderly couple
he’s been chatting with drifts off toward the next display, and Ricky exhales a quiet sigh,
relieved to be momentarily free from the interaction.

He’s genuinely grateful to anyone who takes the time to talk, of course. But his energy is
quickly dwindling. He doesn’t spend nearly as much time out in public as he used to—most
of his days are spent in the quiet solitude of his home studio, or at events like this, where
Jingxiang typically takes the lead in conversations.

Ricky remembers a time when he resented that. Back then, he’d felt almost babied by
Jiwoong’s tendency to step in and manage social situations. But now, with a bit more
perspective, Ricky realises that Jiwoong could read him better than Ricky could read himself,
and that was something he didn’t quite understand at the time.

Maybe, Ricky muses, he’s regressed a little. It’s hard to ignore the pull to retreat into the
quiet space he’s created for himself. But he’s doing his best to keep from retreating too far,
and tonight, he thinks he’s done a decent job.

"On a scale of one to ten, how tired are you?" Jingxiang murmurs in his ear, his arm sliding
comfortably around Ricky’s waist. Ricky glances sideways, catching the amused glint in
Jingxiang’s eyes. The other man finds it endearing, how Ricky struggles through these social
situations, attempting to network with strangers in an effort to get his name out there. Ricky
remembers the time Jingxiang had jokingly compared him to a cat.

Ricky had snapped and told him to fuck off.

Jingxiang had never brought it up again. That was the one and only time Ricky had let his
temper get the best of him, and though he apologised afterward, he never explained why the
comparison had set him off.

"Sometimes I wonder why I never got into drinking coffee," Ricky grumbles, and Jingxiang
snorts in amusement, clearly entertained by his complaint. "I feel like caffeine would’ve
really helped me tonight."

Jingxiang squeezes his hip in a small gesture of comfort. "You’re doing great," he assures
him. "Trust me, I’ve seen people stop and look at your business card after they walk away.
They like you."

”I hope so,” Ricky replies quietly, scanning the gallery as he talks. “You haven’t seen Hao
yet, have you?”

”No. Maybe he got stuck in traffic?”

Ricky hums in response, nibbling on his bottom lip. The exhibit had been opened for two
hours and there was still no sight of his cousin. Zhang Hao hadn’t answered his phone all day
either—all of Ricky’s texts and calls remained unanswered, and honestly, Ricky was
beginning to wonder if he’d dreamt the entire interaction up. It wasn’t like Zhang Hao to be
this late, especially after he’d sounded so deadset on getting here last night.
”I know what you’re thinking,” Jingxiang murmurs, his lips close enough to Ricky’s ear that
they brush against his helix piercing. Ricky’s eyes skitter to the floor as he listens. “Zhang
Hao may hate me, but he loves you. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why he’s
running late.”

It eases Ricky’s worries slightly, hearing someone else say that. His head bobs up, gaze
meeting Jingxiang’s, and a quiet “thank you,” slips from his lips. Ricky is only vaguely aware
of how close they’re standing—to an outsider, it probably looks like they’re sharing a very
intimate moment. And it is, just not in the sense that a stranger would be thinking. Jingxiang
smiles, rubbing his hand on the small of Ricky’s back before taking a step away, his touch
disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared.

”That’s what I’m here for,” Jingxiang says with a shrug, his eyes flickering to something over
Ricky’s shoulder before focusing once more on Ricky’s face. “Moral support and all that.
Also, I don’t want to alarm you, but…”

”What?”

Jingxiang tongues the inside of his cheek. “For the past five minutes or so, some guy has
been staring at you. I thought he was just admiring your art or something—you know, since
we are in an art gallery after all. But I’m pretty sure if was you he was looking at. I didn’t
mention it, since it’s not Zhang Hao, but I can’t help—Quanrui, why does he look like the
person in your paintings?”

Ricky’s heart fucking drops.

No.

No.

There’s no way. There is absolute no way that—no. No!

Ricky spins around, almost knocking his elbow into a passerby, and he doesn’t even bother to
utter out an apology. His eyes scan the crowd again—this time though, he’s focused on where
Jingxiang had been looking. But all Ricky can see are strangers, and the occasional gallery
employee with a tray of champagne or finger foods balanced on their hands, certainly no sign
of—

Of Kim Gyuvin.

Because—because that’s Kim Gyuvin. Oh God, that’s Kim Gyuvin. Ricky’s heart lurches, it
pounds in his chest and climbs up his throat and he’s choking on it, because that’s Kim
Gyuvin.

And he’s walking away.

It doesn’t even matter that all Ricky can see is the back of Gyuvin—because every inch of
that man has long since been burned into Ricky’s brain. He could scrub and scrub but nothing
would remove the familiar slope of Gyuvin’s shoulders, or the unique shape of his ears, or the
slight swagger in which he walks.

Ricky’s feet are frozen in place, and Jingxiang is saying something to him, but he can’t focus
on anything other than Gyuvin. Because why is Gyuvin here? In Shanghai, at The Golden
Lotus?

Why is he walking away?

A sense of dejavu washes over Ricky, but it’s not a nice feeling—because he’s transported
back in time, eight years ago, when he’d seen Gyuvin for the last time. And he’d been
walking away, and Ricky had been a coward, because he let him. Because he thought that it
was the right thing to do.

Ricky thought that if he pushed Gyuvin out of his life everything would get better. For Ricky,
for Gyuvin, for everyone.

But it didn’t get better. Because Ricky can’t move on. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. He’s tried
so hard, and he thought that, for a time, things were improving. And he supposes that in a
sense, they did—he escaped the city that had been suffocating him without him realising, he
was following his dreams, he was making something of himself. Something to be proud of.

All of these achievements, and yet, Ricky is so fucking lonely. Jingxiang is only a bandaid for
comfort, and it’s not his fault—the problem is that Ricky knows what he wants. He’s always
known what he wants.

What he wants is currently walking away from him.

For the second time.

And Ricky has no idea why Gyuvin is here, but he knows that he must be here for Ricky.
There’s no other explanation that is fathomable. Ricky had pushed Gyuvin away, and he
thought he’d never see the other man again, but he’s here.

That has to mean something.

Ricky doesn’t say anything to Jingxiang. And in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t the
best look for him—he’s supposed to be manning his exhibit, but he hopes Jingxiang will stay
there to cover for him. Because Ricky is weaving through the crowd as fast as he can, eyes
desperately staying trained on Gyuvin’s retreating body. Never has he been so glad that the
other man is so tall, because Ricky is terrified that he’ll lose sight of Gyuvin and lose this
chance forever.

When Ricky finally makes it out of the exit, he breaks into a run, not giving a damn about
anyone else that may be watching. Most of the visitors are inside right now anyway, the
hallway practically empty save for the few people Ricky sprints past.

”Gyuvin!”
In front of Ricky, Gyuvin pauses, his shoulders tensing. He doesn’t turn around, but he
doesn’t continue to walk, and in the span of two seconds Ricky catches up to him. “Gyuvin,”
Ricky gasps, holding a hand against his stomach as he breathes, “Kim Gyuvin? Is that you?”

It’s a stupid question. Ricky knows it’s Gyuvin, yet a small part of him is refusing to come to
terms with it. Because it’s been so long since he’s seen the other man, and he’s stumbling
over his words, the English sounding foreign coming out of his mouth, but God it feels so
right.

And Ricky waits, standing there, hopeful as hell that Gyuvin won’t walk away. Ricky knows
he has no right to wish for that, not after everything he’d said, but seeing Gyuvin in the flesh
has awoken something in him.

Ricky wants to fix things. He wants to feel whole again, and he knows that he can’t if Gyuvin
isn’t in his life.

When Gyuvin finally turns around, the breath is once again knocked from Ricky’s lungs.

Painting Gyuvin was one thing.

Seeing his face in the flesh was something else entirely.

”Hi,” Ricky says, but it comes out more like a wheeze. His eyes dart across Gyuvin’s
features, taking in every inch of the face that has never once left Ricky’s mind.

How is it that Gyuvin looks both the same and entirely different at once? Ricky is sure he’s
aged—he’s certainly aged, but so has Ricky.

The baby fat that once softened Gyuvin’s face has long since melted away, revealing a more
defined bone structure, sharper than Ricky remembers. Fine lines have begun to form at the
corners of his eyes and mouth, and Ricky finds himself wondering if Gyuvin still smokes. He
notices, too, a scattering of freckles across the bridge of Gyuvin’s nose, stretching out onto
his cheeks—freckles that were never there before. And it hits Ricky with a raw pang of
devastation. He wasn’t there to see all of these changes. He wasn’t there as Gyuvin
transformed from a boy into the man standing before him.

Gyuvin’s hair is no longer that familiar faded auburn; it’s now a rich brown, deep and warm,
and it only serves to make his eyes stand out even more. Eyes that are locked on Ricky now,
but so impossibly unreadable.

"Hello," Gyuvin says, and Ricky immediately catches the subtle change in his voice—it’s
deeper now, tinged with a quiet confidence.

There are so many things Ricky wants to say. He wants to apologise, to ask how Gyuvin has
been, to say anything that might bridge the gap between them. But for some stupid, irrational
reason, what comes out of his mouth is: “What are you doing here?”

Well, that’s a great way to make someone feel welcome. Ricky wants to crawl into a hole and
die right then and there, but he grits his teeth and forces himself not to close his eyes in
embarrassment.

To his credit, Gyuvin doesn’t seem fazed by the question. He’s cool, collected, as if this is
nothing more than a regular Saturday evening. “I came to see you.”

Five words, spoken with a nonchalance that Ricky has never quite been able to find for
himself. Five words that throw Ricky off his axis, sending him orbiting into the sun.

"Your hair isn’t blonde anymore," Gyuvin observes, almost as an afterthought. Ricky glances
up at him, caught off guard, and knows he must look ridiculous—wide-eyed and unsure.

"Yeah," he says slowly, resisting the sudden urge to reach up and touch his hair. "Yeah, it’s…
yours isn’t either. I mean, it’s brown. It, uh—it looks nice?"

The corners of Gyuvin’s mouth twitch. "You don’t sound very confident about that."

"No!" Ricky blurts out, then stumbles over his words, flustered. "I mean—yes! I am! I’m
sure! It looks nice! Really!"

"Mhm," Gyuvin hums, the brief glimmer of amusement in his eyes fading as quickly as it
appeared. His expression tightens. "I think I should go, though. I didn’t realise you already
had someone else with you."

Ricky blinks, frowning, completely at a loss—until the realisation slams into him. Oh God.
Of course. The timing of his life had to be some kind of cosmic joke, because out of all the
moments Gyuvin could’ve walked into the gallery, he’d chosen the exact one where
Jingxiang had been offering the comfort Ricky so desperately needed.

"Wait," Ricky says, voice tinged with panic. His hand almost shoots out to grab Gyuvin’s
arm, but he stops himself at the last second. "It’s not like that."

"Forgive me for saying this," Gyuvin replies, his tone cool but edged with something softer,
something vulnerable, "but I find that a little hard to believe."

Desperation seeps into Ricky’s voice as his eyes lock onto Gyuvin’s, willing him to see the
truth. "I know. I get why you’d think that. But Jingxiang and I—it’s not like that. We’re not
dating, we’re not going to be engaged, I swear to you. He’s just a friend."

Gyuvin presses his tongue against his teeth, his gaze sharp yet contemplative. "Just a friend?"

Yes, Ricky wants to say. The word trembles on the tip of his tongue. But he stops himself,
because it’s not the whole truth. And he’s done with lies.

"It’s not romantic," Ricky admits finally, the words dragging something hollow and aching
out of him. He watches Gyuvin’s face falter, just slightly, and it feels like a punch to the
chest. "It never has been. It never will be. We’re both on the same page about that."

The silence that stretches between them after Ricky finishes speaking feels impossibly long
and yet strangely fleeting at the same time. A passerby glances their way, curious—probably
wondering why Ricky is standing outside instead of mingling inside the gallery. The
realisation hits Ricky like a sharp jab—he’s out here when he’s supposed to be working.

Stupid, stupid timing.

"Good," Gyuvin finally says, breaking the silence. The single word sends Ricky’s brain into a
tailspin.

Good? What does that even mean?

Ricky barely has time to dwell on it. "Yeah," he replies, the word escaping on a breath he
didn’t realise he was holding. His phone buzzes insistently in his pocket—once, twice, three
times. Probably Jingxiang, but it only serves as a jarring reminder of another question
pressing on his mind.

"Uh, not that I’m not glad to see you," Ricky begins, scrambling to pivot, "but… where’s
Zhang Hao? He was supposed to be here tonight."

"Ah." Gyuvin’s lips twitch, pressing together like he’s stifling a laugh. There’s a flicker of
something mischievous in his expression, like an inside joke Ricky hasn’t been let in on. For
a moment, it feels like being transported back in time—eight years ago, when they first met
at Petal & Thorn. "Something came up with Hanbin. We were all supposed to come together,
but—well, it’s not really my place to say. You can yell at him later all you want; he probably
deserves it, to be honest. In my totally unbiased opinion."

"Wait… Hanbin is here?" Ricky echoes, his voice tinged with disbelief. Bombshell after
bombshell—it’s as if the universe has decided to cram every emotional upheaval into one
weekend. Ricky feels like he’s on a rollercoaster with no end in sight, no clue what twists and
turns lie ahead. "Why on earth is Hanbin here?"

Gyuvin opens his mouth, but hesitates, reconsidering. "It’s… sort of a long story," he says
finally, his tone careful. "A conversation best had sitting down, I think."

Shit.

Ricky feels a wave of panic rise in his chest. He can’t do this—not now, not when he’s
supposed to be overseeing an exhibition at The Golden Lotus, for crying out loud. The
weight of everything must be written all over his face, because Gyuvin’s expression softens.

"It doesn’t have to be right now," Gyuvin offers gently.

And Ricky is torn. Because here Gyuvin is, standing right in front of him after so many years.
It’s almost impossible to focus on anything else. Ricky doesn’t want to let him go—not now,
not again.

But the memories claw at him. The last time he’d been with Gyuvin, Ricky had let everything
else slip away. He’d been so consumed by Gyuvin—by the way his presence lit up Ricky’s
world—that he’d lost sight of everything else. And for a while, he lost it all. Ricky doesn’t
blame Gyuvin for that. He blames himself.
He won’t let it happen again.

It hurts. God, it hurts. Ricky wishes he could walk away from the gallery, leave everything
behind just for an hour, have a cup of tea with Gyuvin, and simply… talk. Catch up. Ricky
wants to know how the band is going, if Gyuvin still drives that old truck, if New York has
been kind to him.

"Can we…" Ricky starts, then falters, quickly dismissing the idea of meeting at a café. The
thought alone churns up memories he’d rather leave buried tonight. "My house. Can you
come to my house later? Or tomorrow, if you’re too tired. I mean, you probably haven’t
adjusted to the time difference yet…"

"Tonight works," Gyuvin replies casually, but his gaze lingers on Ricky, unyielding. Ricky
shifts under the intensity, wondering if he has something on his face—or if Gyuvin is waiting
for something he hasn’t said yet.

"Can I have your address, or…?" Gyuvin finally prompts, his tone light, though his eyes stay
locked on Ricky’s.

"Oh." Ricky’s ears burn with embarrassment as he fumbles for his phone, suddenly hyper-
aware of the silence stretching between them. He avoids Gyuvin’s eyes, pulling up his
messages while ignoring Jingxiang’s barrage of desperate SOS texts. "If you give me your
number, I’ll send you the address and let you know when I’m wrapped up here. I’d ask if you
wanted to wait around, but I’m going to be here a while, and I’m sure you don’t want to
loiter. You’d probably get bored."

He glances up, and Gyuvin’s gaze catches him off guard—intense, familiar, yet somehow
heavier with meaning tonight. It’s a look Ricky recognises, but one that feels entirely new in
this moment.

"I don’t think you understand, Ricky," Gyuvin says, his voice dropping into a rumble that
makes Ricky’s breath hitch. Hearing his name like that—spoken so deliberately—throws him
completely off balance. "I’d never get bored being around you."

Ricky freezes, mid-motion, phone in hand, as the weight of Gyuvin’s words sinks in. His grip
falters, and the device slips from his fingers. Before Ricky can even react, Gyuvin steps
forward, catching it smoothly before it hits the polished tiles.

"You should be more careful," Gyuvin says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he
glances down at the phone. "This looks expensive."

"Um."

Ricky’s mouth refuses to cooperate. He stands there, frozen, staring at Gyuvin like the other
man has sprouted a second head.

"If tonight’s circumstances were a little different, I’d stay," Gyuvin says, his voice calm as he
types his number into Ricky’s phone. "But I’m a little worried Zhang Hao and Hanbin might
rip each other’s heads off if I leave them alone for too long. And I’m pretty sure none of us
want that."

Ricky burns with curiosity. There’s so much he doesn’t know, so much he needs to know—
but he’ll have to wait. His heart clenches as Gyuvin finishes typing and hands the phone back
over. The gesture feels surreal, like something out of a dream. It’s been a long, long time
since he’s had Gyuvin’s number.

"Okay," Ricky breathes, his voice barely above a whisper as he shoves the phone into his
pocket. He glances at Gyuvin, not ready to go back inside, not ready to let him go—not even
for a few hours. "As soon as I’m finished, I’ll text you."

"I’ll be waiting," Gyuvin murmurs. His hands slip into the pockets of his leather jacket—a
jacket so quintessentially him that Ricky almost smiles. Some things really don’t change. "I’ll
see you soon, Ricky."

Ricky stumbles through a farewell, the words coming out tangled and awkward. He stays
rooted to the spot, watching as Gyuvin walks down the hallway, his heart aching with every
step the other man takes. He knows this time is different—Gyuvin isn’t leaving for good. But
the urge to run after him, to beg him to stay, bubbles under his skin.

It’s only for a few hours, Ricky tells himself, repeating the words like a mantra.

Only when Gyuvin disappears from view, leaving the building entirely, does Ricky force
himself to move. He steps back inside, feeling like he’s floating in a daze, his thoughts stuck
on the man who had just walked away.

Ricky hasn’t stopped pacing since he got home.

Up and down the hallway he goes, his thumbnail caught between anxious teeth, chewed to
the point of rawness. He’s only been back for fifteen minutes, but each one stretches
unbearably long, dragging by like hours.

True to his word, he’d texted Gyuvin the moment he slipped away from Zitao. The reply he’d
gotten—a single thumbs-up emoji—has been looping in his mind ever since.

Was Gyuvin mad? Had he started to rethink everything during the hours they’d been apart?
Maybe he’d realised Ricky wasn’t worth the effort—not with all the emotional baggage he’s
dragging behind him like rusted chains cutting into his shoulders.

The worst part is, Ricky wouldn’t blame him. He really wouldn’t. If Gyuvin decided to ghost
him, Ricky knows he’d deserve it. He knows these thoughts are negative, knows they’re part
of a pattern he’s been trying to break—but fuck, it’s hard to stay positive when the
uncertainty gnaws at him like this.

Normally, he’d pour all of this anxious energy into a painting. He’d lose himself in the
rhythmic swipe of the brush, letting the stress drain from his body and into the canvas. But
tonight, he feels too restless. His hands itch with nerves, and he knows if he tried to paint, his
trembling fingers would only smear chaos across the surface. He doesn’t trust himself not to
make a mess of everything—tonight, of all nights.

Ricky is still grappling with the fact that Gyuvin is here. Here, in Shanghai—not a dream, not
a figment of his imagination. He can’t be, not when Jingxiang had seen him first.

To say Ricky hasn’t thought about Gyuvin would be a lie. The truth is, Gyuvin crosses his
mind at least once a day. Always fleeting, always at arm’s length. Ricky has never allowed
himself more than that. He’s never searched for Gyuvin online, never asked anyone about
him. It wouldn’t have been fair—to Gyuvin, or to himself.

For all Ricky knows, Gyuvin could be married by now. He could have a family, a life far
removed from the one they used to share. But despite himself, some small, stubborn part of
Ricky clings to the memory of their brief encounter at the gallery. That stupid, sweet glimmer
of hope. Because there’s no denying it: Gyuvin had been jealous.

Just like eight years ago, when Gyuvin first saw Jiwoong with Ricky, that flicker of green had
coloured his gaze. It’s subtler now, muted with age and distance, but Ricky still noticed it—
still saw the faint edge of possessiveness in Gyuvin’s eyes when the light hit just right.

In some ways, Gyuvin hasn’t changed.

But Ricky can’t dwell on that—won’t. He doesn’t think he has the right to anymore. Not after
everything he did.

Tonight isn’t about him. Tonight, he just wants to make things right.

The sharp chime of the doorbell jolts Ricky out of his thoughts, his heart leaping in his chest.
Startled, he whirls around, thumbnail still caught between his teeth, staring at the door as if
he could open it with sheer willpower—or seal it shut forever. He’s not sure which he’d
prefer. Not yet.

Ricky stands frozen, stupidly caught between fight and flight. He’s been waiting for Gyuvin
—of course he has. He needs to answer the door. So why is he so afraid?

But Ricky already knows the answer. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

The doorbell rings again, cutting through the silence and snapping him out of his daze.
Moving almost on autopilot, he finds himself standing in front of the door, hand outstretched.
The lock clicks, and then, with a twist, the door swings open.

It hasn’t been long since Ricky last saw Gyuvin—only a few hours. Yet somehow, seeing him
now feels like a punch straight to the gut.

Gyuvin is breathtaking. So much so that Ricky feels an ache in his chest, like he might cry if
he looks at him too long. No one else in the entire world could ever compare to Gyuvin—his
Gyuvin—who stands there now with hands casually tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
The beginnings of a smile tug at Gyuvin’s chapped lips, and Ricky’s heart clenches. Of
course his lips are still chapped. And of course Ricky still wants to kiss them anyway, to
press cheeky words against the shell of Gyuvin’s ear, to lace their fingers together like time
hasn't changed anything between them.

But time has changed things, and Ricky knows it. For the better or for the worse—he’s just
not sure which option it is yet.

"Hey," Gyuvin says softly, breaking the silence when Ricky doesn’t speak. The gentle
summer breeze stirs his hair—brown now, not auburn, and Ricky still hasn’t gotten used to it.

"Hi again," Ricky squeaks, gripping the door handle so tightly his knuckles turn white.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny, frantic voice screams at him to pull it together. He
shakes his head slightly, blinking hard in an attempt to bring himself back down to earth.
"You can come in."

Stepping aside, Ricky watches as Gyuvin brushes past him, the doorframe feeling impossibly
small as their shoulders nearly graze. The familiar scent of Gyuvin’s cologne hits him, and
Ricky almost lets out a laugh—soft, breathy, incredulous.

It’s the same cologne Gyuvin has always worn.

Ricky holds his breath instinctively, as if that would somehow shield him from the flood of
memories the scent dredges up. It won’t. He knows it won’t. The cologne will cling to his
skin, and later tonight, when Ricky is lying in bed, he knows he’ll do something utterly
pathetic—like keeping the sweater he wore tonight close, burying his face in the fabric just to
inhale that stupid scent.

Stupid, stupid Ricky.

Trailing behind Gyuvin, Ricky feels strangely out of place in his own home. He watches as
Gyuvin wanders through the entryway, his gaze darting around with open curiosity. There’s
something endearing about it—Gyuvin, taking in every detail like a wide-eyed puppy
exploring a new space. Ricky hangs back, letting him look.

"Your house is nice," Gyuvin says, glancing over his shoulder with a warm smile that
threatens to undo Ricky entirely. "It’s very… you. Though, I almost thought you sent me the
wrong address at first."

"What? Why?" Ricky asks, blinking in confusion.

Gyuvin jerks a thumb toward the nearest window. "I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to live
in the mountains."

"Oh," Ricky breathes, a nervous chuckle escaping as he scratches the back of his neck.
“Yeah, I, uh… kind of got tired of living in the city.”

"How come?"
Ricky shrugs, his gaze drifting somewhere past Gyuvin’s shoulder. “The hustle and bustle
started to get to me. It felt too crowded, too… suffocating. I wanted a place where I could
breathe, you know? My own space.”

Gyuvin hums thoughtfully, turning back to continue exploring the house. “I get that. You
were always so alone in that penthouse. I’m sure Shanghai is just as crowded—maybe even
more so—than New York.”

"Maybe," Ricky murmurs, trailing after him. His eyes follow Gyuvin as he stops in the
kitchen doorway, lingering there in a way that makes Ricky’s pulse quicken. Only a few
hours ago, Jingxiang had been standing in that exact spot, but now it’s Gyuvin—and the
energy feels completely different.

“Do you, uh, want something to drink?” Ricky asks, his voice a little too quick, a little too
shaky. “I’ve got water, juice, tea… maybe some beer if that’s more your thing.”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

Ricky nods, wordlessly turning to the fridge. His hands tremble slightly as he grabs a cold
bottle of water. When he turns back to slide it across the counter, he freezes—Gyuvin is
closer than he expected. Far closer. Barely a foot of space separates them now, and Ricky’s
breath stumbles in his throat.

They weren’t even standing this close together at the gallery.

Ricky inhales reflexively, catching the spicy notes of Gyuvin’s cologne, warm and familiar,
mingling with the subtle, earthy musk that always clung to him. It’s dizzying.

Gyuvin is looking down at him, his brows knitting together ever so slightly, his gaze intense
and unreadable. It feels like he’s studying Ricky, like he’s trying to piece together a complex
puzzle, figuring out what’s missing or where things went wrong.

Ricky’s knees feel weak, his grip tightening on the plastic bottle as it crinkles beneath his
fingers. They’re breathing in sync now—Ricky’s unsteady exhales drawn in by Gyuvin in the
smallest, quietest rhythm.

It feels like a kiss, even though it’s not.

Neither of them move. The air between them is electric, crackling like the calm before a
storm, and Ricky sways slightly, willing himself not to lose his balance. The last thing he
wants is to embarrass himself in front of Gyuvin.

“Your hair looks nice like this.”

Ricky blinks, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he struggles to process the words. “Huh?”

“Your hair,” Gyuvin repeats, voice lower, softer. And before Ricky can fully comprehend
what he’d said, Gyuvin’s fingers are in his hair. A single strand caught between his thumb
and forefinger, rolled delicately like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever touched. “It’s
different, but I like it. Makes you look more… mature.”
The compliment sinks in slowly, like honey dripping off a spoon, and Ricky barely registers
the heat rising to his face. He isn’t sure if Gyuvin means to pull slightly as he lets the strand
fall from his grip, but the gentle tug sends a shiver down Ricky’s spine. A quiet gasp escapes
his lips, unbidden, and Gyuvin’s eyes flicker, darkening ever so slightly.

The space between them hums with tension, so thick it feels tangible. Ricky swears he can
feel it pressing against his chest, winding around his lungs like a python.

“Th-thank you,” Ricky stammers, gripping the cold water bottle like a lifeline to keep himself
grounded. He’s sure his cheeks are flaming—burning as hot as the sun itself.

Gyuvin’s lips quirk, an almost-smile tugging at the corners, and then he leans in. Closer.
Ricky’s pulse roars in his ears, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Badum. Badum.
Badum.

Gyuvin’s minty breath fans across Ricky’s face, so near that every nerve in Ricky’s body is
on edge, strung tight between wanting to close his eyes or keeping them wide open so he
won’t miss a single moment of this proximity.

And then Gyuvin pauses, so close Ricky can feel the heat radiating off him. His voice is
barely above a murmur.

“Thanks for the water.”

Ricky blinks, and Gyuvin is suddenly across the kitchen, leaning casually against the island.
The space between them feels vast, an aching contrast to how close they’d just been. In a
daze, Ricky watches as Gyuvin unscrews the bottle cap and takes greedy gulps. The house is
so quiet that the sound of each swallow seems amplified, echoing in Ricky’s ears. His eyes
fixate on Gyuvin’s adam’s apple, mesmerised by the way it bobs with each movement.

The fridge door behind Ricky is cold against his back, but the chill barely registers. He
presses his palms flat against the metallic surface, grounding himself, keeping his knees from
buckling.

And maybe it’s creepy, standing there silently staring at Gyuvin, but what else can he do?
Gyuvin is here. In Shanghai. In his kitchen, casually drinking a bottle of water from his
fridge. He leans against the island like he’s done it a hundred times before, like this is
something normal.

Gyuvin wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, releasing a satisfied exhale as he screws
the cap back on. He’s downed more than half the bottle in one go, and Ricky realises with a
jolt how thirsty he must have been.

Then Gyuvin notices him. His gaze flicks toward Ricky, and he extends the bottle with an
easy, nonchalant gesture. His fingers glisten with condensation. “Do you want some?”

Ricky’s brain short-circuits. Here lies Shen Quanrui, 2014. Cause of death: Gyuvin offering
him water. From the same bottle. Gyuvin’s lips had been wrapped around that opening. His
saliva probably mixed with the remaining liquid, and now he was holding it out, so casual, so
unaware of the chaos he was unleashing.

And for a second—an actual, stupid second—Ricky almost says yes. His lips part, a soft “Y”
forming before his brain slams on the brakes. He shakes his head quickly, his voice coming
out in a rushed tumble. “No, that’s—I’m fine. I’m good. Thank you.”

Gyuvin shrugs, an easy smile curling his lips. It’s so relaxed, so unbothered, as if he doesn’t
realise the storm he’s stirred inside Ricky. “All good. You just looked thirsty, that’s all.”

There’s a single droplet of water clinging stubbornly to Gyuvin’s chin, and Ricky has to tear
his gaze away before his thoughts betray him. He clears his throat, desperate for an escape
from the overwhelming tension. “We should go sit down.”

This time, Ricky takes the lead. He can feel Gyuvin’s presence at his back, the quiet sound of
his footsteps trailing behind. It sends a nervous jolt through Ricky, and he gulps, quickening
his pace ever so slightly. The layout of the house is far from the open expanse of his old
penthouse—cosier, more compact. The front entrance spills into the kitchen, with a bathroom
and storage room opposite it. Beyond that, a hallway leads to the heart of the house—the
living and dining room where Ricky spends most of his time.

Down two steps, the large rectangular room unfolds before them. Over the years, Ricky has
carefully curated the decor to suit his tastes—a blend of traditional and modern elements that
somehow complement one another perfectly. The seating area features a plush three-seater
couch and two armchairs, partially sectioned off by intricately carved wooden dividers. In the
centre sits a low, polished redwood coffee table, adorned with a delicate tea set. On the far
wall, a television hangs above a faux electric fireplace, its glow giving the room a cosy
ambiance.

Across the space, a six-seater dining table stands largely untouched. Ricky rarely uses it—he
finds it awkward to sit there alone. Instead, he typically eats perched on a barstool at the
kitchen island, or, if he has company, on the couch. The table is more of a placeholder, a way
to fill the empty space.

Ricky gestures toward the couches, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he hesitates over
where to sit. An armchair feels safer—neutral, with a respectable amount of distance—but
would Gyuvin take it the wrong way? Like Ricky was trying to keep space between them?
The couch, on the other hand, opens the door to the possibility of Gyuvin sitting next to him.

He’s overthinking. As always.

Just sit down, Ricky tells himself, and he does—on the couch.

For a moment, relief floods through him. Gyuvin will probably take one of the armchairs. It’s
logical. Comfortable.

But Gyuvin doesn’t.

He sits right next to Ricky.

Ricky’s breath catches. There’s still almost a full cushion separating them, but it doesn’t feel
like enough. Gyuvin’s warmth is unmistakable, radiating off him like a furnace. It seeps into
Ricky’s skin, banishing the cold he’s grown so used to feeling. Even in the summer, Ricky
always feels a lingering chill—but now, with Gyuvin this close, it’s like he’s burning up.

God, how he’s missed this.

Clearing his throat, Ricky leans back into the couch cushions, doing his best to feign
indifference to the fact that Gyuvin is right there, so close he can practically feel the man’s
presence radiating beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Gyuvin watching him,
calm and patient, like he has all the time in the world.

Gyuvin seems so different now. More… relaxed. And that small shift in his demeanour
sparks something unexpected in Ricky.

Hope.

Maybe he doesn’t hate him after all.

“So,” Ricky starts, eager to break the silence before it suffocates him. “I guess… let’s start
with Zhang Hao. Who, by the way, still hasn’t answered his phone. Is he okay?”

The mention of his cousin might just be a stall tactic, an easy way to steer the conversation
somewhere neutral. Sue him. He needs the buffer.

Gyuvin doesn’t seem to mind. He leans back into the couch as well, one leg crossing lazily
over the other, the picture of ease. Ricky doesn’t look, but he knows Gyuvin’s arm is draped
across the top of the couch, his fingertips tantalisingly close to brushing Ricky’s head.

“To answer your question,” Gyuvin says, his tone light, “we’re going to have to go back to
about a week ago.” He pauses for effect, as if setting the stage. “Hanbin and I were out at
dinner. You know that place, East River Ravine?”

Ricky blinks, caught off guard. East River Ravine? That was one of the most upscale
restaurants in the city. “I do,” he says, trying to reconcile the mental image of Gyuvin at such
an exclusive spot. “That’s… a very fancy restaurant.”

Gyuvin’s lips curve into a small, wry smile. “Yeah. Hanbin and I have this little tradition—
every Friday, we try out a new place to eat. We’d been putting off East River Ravine for a
while, though. The waitlist is insane. But, you know, connections can get you in anywhere.”

Connections?

“Right,” Ricky replies, nodding slowly, unsure where this story is going but fully aware it’s
heading somewhere.

“Anyway,” Gyuvin continues, leaning forward slightly, “we’re sitting there, enjoying our first
course, when I notice a commotion a few tables over. Two guys are arguing—not subtle at
all. And listen, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I do love a good rich-people melodrama.”
His grin is conspiratorial. “So I nudge Hanbin, and he glances over just in time to see one of
the guys stand up and—get this—throw his glass of red wine all over the other guy.”

“Oh my God,” Ricky mutters, eyes wide with disbelief. “What does this have to do with
Zhang Hao, though?”

“I’m getting there,” Gyuvin replies patiently. “So, the wine-thrower turns to storm out of the
restaurant, and I think to myself, Why does he look familiar? The moment he passes our
table, I glance at Hanbin—and I swear I’ve never seen him turn that pale, like all the blood
drained from his face. Because the guy who just pulled off that dramatic exit? It was Zhang
Hao.”

Ricky’s head snaps toward Gyuvin, jaw dropping. “What? Hao? Are you serious? He didn’t
tell me about this! He hasn’t told me anything about what’s been going on lately!”

Gyuvin shrugs, a knowing look on his face. “I think he’s still trying to make sense of it all
himself. Anyway, there we were, sitting in stunned silence—until the guy Zhang Hao threw
his wine on stood up and made a beeline for our table. And let me tell you, he looked furious.
I genuinely thought he was about to throw a punch right there.”

“He didn’t, did he?” Ricky’s voice is rising, panic tightening his chest. His fingers twist
wrinkles into the couch cushion as worst-case scenarios race through his head. “Is that why
Hao’s been avoiding me? Is he hurt? Is he—”

“Ricky.”

Gyuvin’s voice cuts through Ricky’s spiralling words, calm and grounding. His hand finds
Ricky’s knee, warm and steady, and the touch sends a jolt straight through him. Ricky
glances down at the point of contact, noticing how big Gyuvin’s hand looks against his leg,
the heat of it seeping through his trousers.

“Zhang Hao is fine,” Gyuvin assures him, giving his knee a gentle squeeze. His voice is soft,
steady. “Trust me. That guy didn’t even have the chance to touch him, because Hanbin was
on his feet before I could even process what was happening. He stepped in between them so
fast I thought he might actually throw a punch himself.”

“Oh…” Ricky exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “What happened next?”

Gyuvin lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “What do you think happens when you put
two hotheaded guys together? They started squaring up like a couple of bulls fighting for
territory. It’s funny in hindsight, but in the moment, I was genuinely worried Hanbin might
start throwing fists. The guy was yelling all kinds of nasty things about Zhang Hao, and Hao
was trying to get in the middle to calm things down, but then—” Gyuvin pauses, his voice
dropping. “Then the guy called him a whore. And that was it. Hanbin completely lost it.”

“What the fuck?” Ricky blurts, shock and indignation bubbling up in his voice.

“Yup. Hanbin didn’t throw a punch—but he shoved the guy hard enough to get the manager
involved. Next thing we know, we’re all being tossed out.”
“What?” Ricky exclaims, completely flabbergasted. “Even though he was the one who
started it?”

“Apparently, we were all disturbing the peace of the restaurant,” Gyuvin says with a shrug.
“Security escorted us out, but as soon as we hit the sidewalk, they left us alone. Probably for
the best, too—Hanbin tried to go at him again, but Zhang Hao held him back, muttering
something in his ear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was, it worked.”

Gyuvin’s hand is still resting on Ricky’s knee, and without realising it, Ricky shifts slightly
closer to him. Neither of them pull away, the space between them shrinking without a word.

“But,” Gyuvin continues, his voice taking on a sharper edge, “it must’ve set that guy off all
over again. He started running his mouth, and this time, I was the one chest-to-chest with
him. My peaceful night was officially ruined—he’d gone after Zhang Hao, then Hanbin, and
I’d had enough.”

Ricky’s breath catches, his voice coming out in a whisper. “Gyuvin… what did you do?”

Gyuvin’s grin spreads slowly, mischievous and unapologetic. The arm he’d slung over the
back of the couch drops down, his wrist twisting to reveal the back of his hand.

Ricky gasps. Gyuvin’s knuckles are scabbed and raw, the faint evidence of a fight written
plainly on his skin. Before he can think twice, Ricky’s hands shoot up to cradle Gyuvin’s
injured hand, his thumbs brushing tenderly over each knuckle.

“Gyuvin,” Ricky breathes, his voice tinged with worry, “are you okay? What happened?” His
thumbs continue their gentle path, tracing the rough edges of the scabs as though his touch
might somehow soothe the lingering ache. His chest tightens, his heart aching at the sight of
Gyuvin hurt—even if it’s just a minor wound.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Gyuvin says, amusement lacing his tone. Ricky glances up, catching the
way Gyuvin’s eyes crinkle at the corners, warmth shining through the mirth. “The other guy,
though—well, let’s just say he won’t be bothering Zhang Hao again.”

“You can’t—you can’t just go around hitting people,” Ricky splutters, though the thought of
Gyuvin standing up for Zhang Hao stirs something uncomfortably warm in his stomach.
“What if he presses charges? You could’ve been charged with assault!”

“That’s not going to happen,” Gyuvin says firmly. “Everything’s been handled. I promise.”

Ricky isn’t entirely convinced, but the certainty in Gyuvin’s tone keeps him from pushing
further. Still, he doesn’t let go of Gyuvin’s hand, his fingers unconsciously tightening around
it.

“So,” Ricky says after a moment, attempting to steer the conversation, “you ran into Zhang
Hao. How did that turn into you and Hanbin being here, though?”

“Well…” Gyuvin clears his throat, his gaze drifting somewhere across the room, and for the
first time since their reunion, that unshakeable confidence of his falters. It’s subtle—a flicker
—but Ricky notices it immediately. “We haven’t seen Zhang Hao in a long time, y’know?
And there’s… history between him and Hanbin. I think they’re trying to figure out if there’s
still something there. Not that it’s going smoothly, but seeing them together made me think.”

“Think what?” Ricky asks, voice quieter now.

Gyuvin’s gaze snaps back to Ricky, locking onto him with an intensity that makes Ricky’s
breath hitch. There’s something raw and unguarded in Gyuvin’s eyes, something vulnerable
and consuming, like a fire threatening to burn through him. Ricky can feel it—the weight of
Gyuvin’s emotions pressing into the space between them, radiating through every point of
contact. The warmth of Gyuvin’s hand still resting on his knee. The way his own hands
cradle Gyuvin’s knuckles like they’re something fragile.

“It made me think about how much I missed you.”

The words are soft, almost a whisper, but they slam into Ricky’s chest like a tidal wave,
stealing the air from his lungs.

Ricky is grateful he’s already seated, because the moment feels like it might knock him over
otherwise. He sways slightly, a disbelieving exhale escaping his lips as if his lungs can’t quite
process the enormity of the moment. It feels like a dream—no, it has to be a dream. Because
there’s no way Gyuvin is here, right now, saying these things to him. These words, the ones
Ricky had secretly longed to hear for so long, but never dared to imagine could actually be
true.

He blinks, trying to ground himself. "What are you trying to tell me?" Ricky asks, his voice
quiet but intense. His wide eyes search Gyuvin’s face as he turns fully to face him. Their
knees knock together—a tiny point of warmth that feels like it’s slowly unraveling him. "Do
you not…"

The words trail off, stuck somewhere between his throat and his heart. He doesn’t say them,
but he doesn’t have to. Do you not have someone else?

Gyuvin seems to hear the unspoken question anyway. He shakes his head, the motion
tousling his hair, though that one stubborn piece at his crown still sticks up. Ricky’s fingers
itch to smooth it down, but he doesn’t want to let go of Gyuvin’s hands. Not yet.

“I don’t,” Gyuvin says softly, his voice steady, reassuring. “Not for a while, at least.”

“Oh.”

Ricky doesn’t mean for the sound to come out quite so breathy, but he’s genuinely curious.
He tries to tamp down the faint flicker of jealousy—it doesn’t feel fair. Not when he still has
Jingxiang. Had? He doesn’t know anymore. Everything feels tangled and uncertain, except
for the need burning inside him to understand what’s been happening in Gyuvin’s life during
these past eight years. He suddenly wants to know everything.

“I, uh…” Gyuvin lets out a small laugh, the corners of his mouth quirking up even as a faint
flush colors his cheeks. His eyes drop to where their knees are pressed together, as if he can’t
bring himself to look at Ricky when he says what comes next. “I had a fake relationship for a
little while.”

“What?”

The word bursts out of Ricky before he can stop it, sharper and louder than he intends. A fake
relationship? Of all the things Gyuvin could have said, that was the last thing Ricky expected.
Why? Why would Gyuvin, of all people, need something like that?

Gyuvin at least has the decency to look a little sheepish. “It wasn’t my idea,” he says, his
teeth catching on his bottom lip as he hesitates. “It was a trend for a while. A PR stunt my
manager thought would be a good boost for my career.”

“Your career?” Ricky echoes, the words coming out almost reflexively. “What about… what
about Disorderly Conduct?”

Gyuvin’s smile flickers to life, but it’s faint and edged with bitterness. “Ah. So Zhang Hao
wasn’t lying when he said you hadn’t been keeping up with the scene at all.”

Ricky feels a twinge of guilt at that, but before he can say anything, Gyuvin continues. “The
band dissolved a long time ago.”

“What?”

“It just wasn’t going to work out,” Gyuvin says, his voice low and weighted. “After… after
everything that happened, everything felt too damaged. Gunwook and I couldn’t even stand
to be in the same room. Matthew and Taerae let the tension get to them, and Hanbin…” He
trails off, his expression softening with something like regret. “Hanbin was just too
exhausted, trying to hold us all together.”

Ricky stares at him, his mind racing to catch up. “Wait. When did… when did the band break
up?” he asks, though part of him is already dreading the answer.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Gyuvin’s face shifts, the grimace he tries to suppress giving it
all away. His hand tightens, just slightly, on Ricky’s knee.

“About a month after I last saw you.”

Ricky’s stomach lurches, dropping like a stone. “Oh my God. It’s all my fault—”

“Ricky.”

“I thought—I thought that if I left you alone, things would get better. That if I—”

“Wait, what?”

“If I walked away. If you walked away. Then that stressor would be gone, and you could
focus on what mattered to you—on what was important—”

“Ricky. Stop.”
The firmness in Gyuvin’s voice stops Ricky cold, the words cutting through his messy
thoughts like a blade. His head snaps up, wild eyes locking onto Gyuvin’s, which are
brimming with dismay. And just like that, Ricky sees it—the heartbreak written all over
Gyuvin’s face. Heartbreak that he caused. Again.

“I’m sorry,” Ricky whispers, the words fragile, trembling on his lips. They take far more
effort to say than he’d expected, like they’re being wrenched from somewhere deep inside
him.

Gyuvin hesitates, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s struggling with how to respond.
Ricky can almost see the thoughts whirring in his head, the cogs turning as Gyuvin pieces
together what to say next. Finally, he speaks, his voice a mixture of confusion and quiet
desperation. “What do you mean by, ‘if you left me alone, things would get better?’ You
said…”

“I know what I said,” Ricky interrupts softly, his gaze falling to the floor. Shame presses
down on him like a weight he can’t shake. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“Did you mean it? Did you mean any of it?” Gyuvin asks, his voice urgent now, the words
spilling out in a rush.

Ricky’s head lifts again, and he’s startled by the raw intensity on Gyuvin’s face—a mix of
pleading and determination that feels like it might shatter him.

Did he mean it?

No. Of course not. Every word he’d hurled at Gyuvin that day had been a lie—a calculated
blow meant to hurt, to sever ties. To force them both to move on with their lives.

But Ricky hasn’t moved on.

And maybe… just maybe… Gyuvin hasn’t either.

“No,” Ricky admits, his voice breaking as the truth spills out. At the same time, he sees
Gyuvin’s expression crack, the walls he’s kept up crumbling in an instant. “I never wanted to
hurt you like that. It killed me to do it, Gyuvin.”

Gyuvin’s breath catches, his brows furrowing as something like anguish flickers in his eyes.
“Then why did you do it?”

Ricky’s bottom lip trembles as a wave of emotions crashes over him, heavy and suffocating.
It feels like too much, all at once, and before he knows it, he’s standing. Gyuvin’s warmth
slips away as he rises from the couch and walks to the window. He stares out into the dark
expanse of the yard, his eyes unfocused, barely registering the soft glimmer of fairy lights
looped around the fence railing. They glow faintly, like tiny fireflies suspended in the night,
delicate and untouchable.

“You have to understand, Gyuvin,” Ricky says, his voice quiet and strained. “The way things
were going for us… it wasn’t going to end well. I think—I think I became too attached to
you. To the point where I wasn’t thinking about myself anymore. And I know this sounds
selfish, but in turn, it meant I wasn’t thinking about you either. Does that make sense?”

From behind him, Gyuvin’s reply is tinged with confusion. “Not really, no.”

Ricky exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against the cool glass. “I let everything in my
life slip away because I was so… so consumed by you. My schooling, my family, my future
—none of it mattered. All I cared about was being with you.” He pauses, his voice thick with
emotion. “And it’s not your fault. That’s not what I’m trying to say. But I wasn’t taking
anything else into consideration.”

“I ignored everything—my engagement, the transition from being a student to becoming my

father’s apprentice. And worse, I ignored the things that mattered to you. The band. Your
relationships with the people closest to you. I was being greedy, Gyuvin. Greedy and selfish,
and I destroyed what we had before it could even become something real.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Ricky can feel it pressing against his back, heavy and
suffocating, but he can’t bring himself to turn around. He’s terrified of what he’ll see on
Gyuvin’s face. Because now it’s all out there—his raw, unfiltered truths, his deepest regrets.
And it’s all just sitting there, exposed, waiting for Gyuvin to take it apart piece by piece.

"Imagine my shock when, a few years ago, I stumbled across an article online: Kim Jiwoong,
heir to Everblue Cruises, marries entrepreneur Yoon Seobin. Can you even imagine how
baffling it was to read that?”

Ricky shifts uneasily, his voice barely above a mumble. “I… I think I have an idea.”

“I thought you two had divorced,” Gyuvin presses, frustration creeping into his tone. “That
things hadn’t worked out in the end. So, like an idiot, I let my curiosity take over. I searched
your name online… but there was nothing. Not a single mention of you anywhere. It was like
you’d been erased from existence.”

“I…” Ricky hesitates, unable to find the words. In the dark reflection of the window, he sees
Gyuvin rise from the couch.

“And then it hit me—Hongjoong’s husband worked for you,” Gyuvin continues, his voice
sharpening. “Seonghwa would know what happened, right? So one day, I casually brought it
up. Asked if Seonghwa was still working for you. Hongjoong thought it was strange—I never
talked about anything but work—but he told me something interesting.”

Gyuvin pauses for a breath, the tension thick in the air. “He told me you never married
Jiwoong. That you packed up everything and disappeared. For an entire month, no one even
knew where you were.”

Ricky lowers his head, his arms crossed tightly as though trying to keep himself together. His
voice barely carries as he whispers against the glass, “I know.”

“So tell me something, Ricky,” Gyuvin says, his voice dangerously low, each word sharp and
deliberate. He steps closer, the sound of his footsteps growing louder with every agonising
second. “How does it make any sense for you to say all of that, and then disappear without a
trace? Not even a week after telling me Jiwoong was going to propose to you?” He pauses,
his voice cracking with emotion. “What was the point of it all, then? Because that broke me,
Ricky. It really, really fucking broke me.”

“I know,” Ricky chokes out, his voice strained, a painful lump rising in his throat. He shuts
his eyes tightly, pressing his forehead against the cold glass as if the pressure might ground
him. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know it would feel like that.”

“Feel like what?” Gyuvin demands.

“Like I’d cut off my own leg. Like I’d stabbed myself in the gut and kept twisting the knife,”
Ricky sobs, his words barely coherent through the tears. “I didn’t… I didn’t realise how
much I loved you, Gyuvin. Not until it was too late.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Gyuvin’s voice trembles as he grabs Ricky’s arm, tugging
gently until Ricky is turned to face him. Ricky’s gaze drops, fixated on Gyuvin’s black
Converse, now speckled with the hot tears dripping from his chin. “You didn’t have to run,
Ricky. We could have… we could have been something.”

“Because I ruined your life!” Ricky’s voice cracks, his anguish pouring out in a rush.
“Because Gunwook still loved you, because I was getting in the way of the band! But none of
it matters now, does it? Everything I did—it was all for nothing! And you hate me, don’t
you? I don’t even deserve to feel this way because I brought it on myself, but the more I think
about it, the more I realise I can’t bear it!”

“Ricky.”

Gyuvin steps closer, his hands reaching up to cup Ricky’s tear-streaked face. He tilts Ricky’s
head up, forcing their eyes to meet. But instead of the anger Ricky expects, Gyuvin’s
expression is soft—sympathetic.

“I don’t hate you,” Gyuvin says firmly. Ricky tries to shake his head, denial on the tip of his
tongue, but Gyuvin’s grip holds steady. “I don’t. I never did. Not now, and not then. Don’t
you get it? I can’t hate you.”

“No, I don’t,” Ricky whispers, his voice shaking.

Gyuvin exhales, his thumb brushing gently against Ricky’s cheek. “I know why you did what
you did. And I wish—God, I wish—you’d just talked to me. But the truth is, back then, I
don’t think I would’ve listened. I wasn’t ready to let you go, and I wasn’t ready to take a step
back. But I understand now. I get it, Ricky.”

He pauses, his eyes searching Ricky’s for a flicker of understanding. “And that’s why I can’t
hate you. Because you didn’t do it out of spite. You did it out of love.”

Out of love. That’s exactly why Ricky had done it. His face crumples, and through the blur of
his tears, he can barely make out Gyuvin’s sympathetic expression.
Ricky had severed the ties between them in the harshest way imaginable—because he
thought it was the only way to save Gyuvin. To save himself. He had sacrificed the most
precious thing in his life, convinced it was the right thing to do.

But now, looking back, he knows it wasn’t. If he could turn back time, maybe he wouldn’t
have cut so deep. Maybe they just needed space, a break—no matter how much Gyuvin
would have resisted the idea. Maybe things wouldn’t have hurt as much.

Maybe Ricky wouldn’t have spent all these years feeling so unbearably empty.

He can admit the distance did him some good. It forced him to grow, to stand on his own two
feet. He learned what it means to be an adult, how to build a life for himself without leaning
on his parents. He made new friends beyond the small, insulated circle of his youth—not just
Jinxiang, but Wumuti, Binghua, Yizhuo, and so many other wonderful people he met after
moving back to China.

And yet… a part of Ricky still wishes Gyuvin had been by his side through it all.

When he hit rock bottom, drowning his nights in alcohol and passing out just to do it all
again the next day. When he began to claw his way back, shakily picking up a paintbrush for
the first time in six months. When he rediscovered his passion for art and finally started to
feel alive again. When he slowly mended his fractured relationship with his parents. When he
finally saved enough money to put a deposit down on the house he now calls home.

Ricky had been surrounded by love and support the entire time, yet his heart never stopped
yearning for one person. Even after all these years, it still beats for Gyuvin.

“I’m sorry,” Ricky sobs, his voice breaking as his nose burns and he sniffles, disgusted with
how wrecked he must look. “I’m so, so sorry for hurting you, Gyuvin. Not a day has gone by
that I haven’t thought about you—about the things I said, about how much I regret everything
that happened.” His chest heaves as he struggles to steady himself. “If I could, I’d do it all
over again… and this time, I’d make it right. I want to make things right between us.”

Gyuvin hushes him softly, his thumbs brushing away Ricky’s tears, though the effort is futile
—they just keep falling, unstoppable and endless. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Everything will
be okay. I’m here now, and I…”

Ricky blinks, his blurred vision clearing just enough to catch the conflict etched across
Gyuvin’s face. His brows knit together, and he nervously worries his bottom lip between his
teeth, as though unsure whether to speak the words hovering on the tip of his tongue. Then
their eyes meet—fire against ice, the sun and moon converging.

“I love you, Ricky,” Gyuvin declares, his voice steady but filled with raw emotion. Ricky’s
breath catches, and a sob bursts from his lips before he can stop it.

“I love you,” Gyuvin says again, firmer this time. “I’ve loved you from the moment I met
you. I never stopped, not even for a second—not after all this time, not after everything. It’s
always been you. I’ve loved before, but… ‘love’ doesn’t feel like a strong enough word for
what I feel for you. I don’t think there’s a word in any language that can capture it.”
“Gyuvin…” Ricky chokes out, his trembling hands wrapping around Gyuvin’s wrists as if
he’s afraid to let go, afraid this moment might slip away. He can’t believe what he’s hearing
—it feels like a dream within a dream.

“Let me have you, Ricky,” Gyuvin pleads, his voice desperate as his eyes dart between
Ricky’s, searching for a glimmer of hope. “Please. Let’s start over. We can do it right this
time. We can be better.”

“Gyuvin…”

“I want to take you on dates and spoil you,” Gyuvin continues, his voice growing firmer,
more certain. “I want to show you off. I want to call you mine—for real this time. You’re my
everything, Ricky. You’re the most important person in the world to me. And… and I don’t
think I’ll ever feel truly whole without you.” His voice cracks, but he presses on. “If you let
me, I’ll give you everything. Anything you want. My heart, my soul—it’s all yours. It’s
always been yours.”

“I don’t deserve you!” Ricky cries, his voice shaking with self-reproach. “Gyuvin, I—I
wanted to try to fix things, but after everything I’ve done, I don’t—”

“Stop,” Gyuvin interrupts, his hands tightening slightly on Ricky’s face, grounding him. His
gaze burns with intensity. “Stop saying that. You can’t keep punishing yourself for something
that happened years ago.”

“But I—”

“No,” Gyuvin cuts him off firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Ricky’s mouth
snaps shut. “We were kids, Ricky. Stupid kids who didn’t know what we were doing. You
made mistakes. So did I. But I’m not mad at you anymore. So you don’t get to be mad at
yourself either.”

“I can’t help it,” Ricky admits, “I think a part of me will always mourn what we could have
been. Everything we missed. I—so many things have changed and the fact that I don’t know
what has is killing me! I don’t know if I’m ever going to forgive myself!”

”I forgive you, Ricky,” Gyuvin says tenderly stroking Ricky’s cheeks with his thumbs.
Unintentionally, Ricky leans into the touch, his eyelashes fluttering, still wet with tears. “And
I hope that, one day, you can forgive yourself too.”

”Maybe,” Ricky whispers, because he can’t make a promise—but he will try. For Gyuvin’s
sake, for his own sake. Ricky will try.

And Gyuvin seems pleased with this, a smile blooming across his face—God, how Ricky has
missed seeing that. He’s missed Gyuvin’s face and his hands and his words that can be so
carefully constructed yet at the same time so carefree. He’s missed Gyuvin so much, and he
never thought he’d get here again—in Gyuvin’s arms, barely any space separating them.
Whatever good deed Ricky had done in his past life has finally come back to help him, and
he swears, oh how he swears he’ll never let Gyuvin go again. Not now, not ever.
”Ricky,” Gyuvin murmurs, and how deliciously sweet Ricky’s name sounds falling from
Gyuvin’s lips. And Ricky sees it coming, when Gyuvin leans in closer, his head tilting ever
so slightly. Their noses brush together, and they’re kissing.

The feeling of Gyuvin’s lips against Ricky’s own is heady—warm and soft yet somehow a
little chapped, but that’s okay. It’s enough to distract Ricky from the reality of the situation,
because they’ve only just met after a very long time, and they really shouldn’t be kissing. But
he pushes that thought to the back of his mind for now, his hands sliding down Gyuvin’s arms
to wrap around the back of his neck instead.

When Gyuvin draws back, just for a second, Ricky chases after him. Chuckling, Gyuvin
whispers, “Fuck, I love you so fucking much,” before he’s diving back in.

And this time when they kiss it’s not tender nor sweet—it’s desperate, it’s Gyuvin’s fingers
threading through Ricky’s hair and Ricky moaning into Gyuvin’s mouth when the man pulls.
It’s Gyuvin swiping his tongue along the seam of Ricky’s lips, and their tongues sliding
together as Gyuvin crowds in even closer.

Where they begin and end, Ricky doesn’t know. But what he does know is that nothing will
ever triumph over this feeling. The peace he feels when he’s with Gyuvin can never be
replicated with alcohol or another man.

Gyuvin is it.

And Ricky feels so damn alive.

In a daze, Ricky barely registers his back pressing against the cool glass of the window. One
of Gyuvin’s hands drops from his hair, trailing a blazing path down Ricky’s side and finding
a new home against his thigh. Gyuvin tugs once, twice, until Ricky’s knee lifts and he’s
wrapping his leg around Gyuvin’s hip. Someone moans—Ricky isn’t even sure which one of
them does—and his hips roll forwards of their own accord, a keen being pulled from his lips
and swallowed down by the other man.

It’s when Ricky feels something hard pressing against his abdomen that he tenses, pulling
away from the kiss in a rush. His breathing is rapid, and Gyuvin blinks, his eyes glazed over
with lust as he tilts his head in a silent question.

”We shouldn’t…” Ricky clears his throat when his voice comes out hoarse, “we shouldn’t do
this. Not—not right now. Can we take things more slowly this time around?”

A laugh bursts unexpectedly from Gyuvin’s lips, startling Ricky enough to make him flinch
slightly. He doesn’t quite understand what’s so funny, but then Gyuvin leans in again—not to
kiss him, just to press their foreheads together. His eyes are soft and warm, brimming with
kindness, and in that moment, they’re everything Ricky has been missing for so long.

“Asking to take things slow after eight years of waiting—well, that’s something, Shen
Ricky,” Gyuvin says, his tone laced with gentle teasing. “But if that’s what you want, we’ll
do it. Sorry—I got a little carried away.”
Ricky doesn’t blame him. Honestly, he’d gotten carried away, too. They untangle themselves
slowly, Gyuvin taking a few steps back until there’s a more respectable distance between
them.

And yet, it still feels surreal.

“It’s late,” Ricky says after glancing at his wristwatch. His voice comes out quieter than he
intends, almost hesitant. “I—well, did you… want to stay the night?”

Gyuvin’s eyebrows wiggle mischievously. “What happened to ‘taking things slow’?”

Ricky’s face burns, and he scrambles to clarify. “Not like that! I just mean—I live kind of out
of the way, and I don’t know how far your hotel is, and I’m sure you’re tired. I don’t have a
spare bed, but you can have mine—”

“Ricky,” Gyuvin interrupts, his voice soft but firm, cutting through Ricky’s flustered
rambling. “I’ll stay. But I’ll take the couch.”

“But—”

“Nope,” Gyuvin says, shaking his head decisively. “I’m taking the couch, and we’re not
arguing about it. Just hand me a blanket, and I’ll be perfectly happy.”

Ricky sighs, realising there’s no point in fighting him on this. “Okay,” he relents. “Yeah, I
can do that.”

“Do I even want to know whose clothes these are?” Gyuvin asks, a playful smirk tugging at
his lips as he walks down the hallway. His hair is still damp from the shower, droplets sliding
down his jawline, and Ricky has to resist the urge to grab a towel and dry him off properly.

Ricky is pretty sure Gyuvin already knows exactly who the sweatpants and oversized shirt
belong to. It’s not like he had much of a choice—none of Ricky’s clothes fit Gyuvin’s
broader frame, thanks to Ricky’s slim waist.

Thankfully, he’s held onto a few of Jinxiang’s clothes over the years.

“I think the two of you would get along,” Ricky says lightly, hoping to steer the conversation
away from the obvious.

Gyuvin snorts, the sound both amused and sceptical. “We’ll see about that,” he replies, but
there’s no hint of anger or jealousy in his voice, just a teasing warmth.

How far they’ve come.

Ricky fidgets as Gyuvin glances at the makeshift bed he’s prepared on the pull-out couch—
blankets neatly tucked, pillows fluffed just right. His hands twist together nervously as he
stands there, unsure of what to do next. Part of him feels like he’s walking on eggshells, and
the other part… doesn’t want this night to end.
 What if he wakes up tomorrow and discovers that this was all a dream? A beautiful,
impossible dream.

“Ricky,” Gyuvin says softly, pulling Ricky from his thoughts.

Ricky’s head snaps up, meeting Gyuvin’s gaze. There’s something tender in the way Gyuvin
looks at him, something steady and grounding and everything Ricky has ever needed.

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Gyuvin promises, his voice firm but gentle. “I swear.”

“Yeah,” Ricky replies breathlessly, feeling a little foolish at how effortlessly Gyuvin can see
right through him. He bites his bottom lip, suddenly shy under the weight of Gyuvin’s gaze.
“Okay. I’ll… I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Mhm,” Gyuvin hums, his lips curling into a soft and reassuring smile. “Sweet dreams,
Ricky.”

As Gyuvin settles onto the couch, Ricky tries not to trip over his own feet as he stumbles
down the hall toward his bedroom, mumbling a quiet goodnight over his shoulder.

There’s still so much left unsaid, so much for them to unravel. But tomorrow is another day
—a fresh start.

Ricky slips into his bed and rolls onto his side, facing the wall that separates his room from
the lounge. He expects his thoughts to keep him awake, but instead, his eyes grow heavy, and
sleep comes easier than he ever imagined.

What Ricky will never know is that on the other side of the wall, Gyuvin lies awake for a
while, his gaze fixed on the wall between them as well. His thoughts are whirling around his
mind in a gentle storm, but eventually, the pull of sleep takes him too.

Chapter End Notes

the only crying i expect anyone to do now is from happiness. guys. guys we are so back i am vibrating omggggg they
are still in love T_T after all this time! and i know theres a lot of things i hinted at in this chapter that still havent been
explained im so sorry sdjsjfjs but this chapter was getting so long! thank you all for waiting for this update, life has
been so hectic lately but it will never stop me from my yaoi shenanigans

btw. live update as i currently type this note. my eyes hurt so bad please send help

twitter | playlist | neospring

 perdendosi
Chapter Notes

apologies in advance, i’m a noob with html and couldn’t make the formatting for part of the chapter look good… i’m
sorry :( maybe one day i will come back and make it look better hhhhhh

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Ricky blinks awake, still caught in the haze of sleep, he assumes—at first—that
everything from yesterday was just a dream. A beautiful dream, yet bittersweet, because
that’s all it could ever be. Just a dream.

He stays in bed for a few moments, adjusting to being awake before finally rolling out from
beneath the sheets. Padding over to the window, he slides the curtains across to let the
morning light filter in. It’s there, in front of the glass, that he moves through his daily
stretches. He exhales softly as the tension in his muscles ease with each slow pull and release.

The shower greets him with warm steam—mornings are for showers, evenings for baths—
that’s Ricky’s routine now. He stands beneath the spray, letting the water rinse away the ghost
of Gyuvin’s touch and every lingering sensation that had felt too vivid to be imagined. Ricky
doesn’t dream often, but when he does, it’s always of Gyuvin.

How cruel, he thinks, for his mind to dangle something so hopeful in front of him only to rip
it away the moment he opens his eyes. He’s usually more level-headed than this, not one to
let a dream of all things send him spiralling.

It was just a moment of weakness. It happens, doesn’t it?

It’s only when Ricky shuffles down the hall, still not fully awake until he has his first cup of
tea, that he halts so abruptly he nearly falls over. His hands shoot out, catching himself
against a side table just in time. The table rattles beneath the sudden weight, a few trinkets
clattering to the floor, the noise awfully loud for the morning.

And it’s enough to stir Gyuvin.

Gyuvin, who is still here. Who is real.

It’s obvious that Gyuvin wakes in a panic, because he bolts upright, eyes wide, hair an
absolute birdsnest. “Wha—?” He slurs, blinking blearily as he scans the room, visibly tense.
But then his gaze lands on Ricky and his shoulders relax, his sleep-addled brain clearly
piecing things together. “Oh. G’mornin.’”

Meanwhile, Ricky is struggling to function. His fingers fumble uselessly along the surface of
the table as he tries and fails to form a coherent thought. “You—you’re here—you’re not—I
thought—“

”Thought you were dreaming?” Gyuvin finishes softly. Ricky nods, still feeling dazed.

Gyuvin chuckles quietly. “Yeah. Honestly, so did I when I saw you standing there looking all
freaked out. It’s kind of funny, actually…”

Ricky narrows his eyes. “What’s funny?”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Gyuvin suppresses a smile. “Even after all of this time, you
still remind me of a cat.”

Ricky lets out a startled laugh—breathless, disbelieving. He straightens, raking a hand

through his hair in a pointless attempt to smooth it down. Certainly not because he suddenly
feels self conscious.

No… self conscious isn’t quite right.

Shy. He feels shy.

When it becomes clear Ricky isn’t going to respond, Gyuvin tilts his head, his voice dipping
into something gentler. “Did you sleep well?” Gyuvin rubs at his eyes—puffy, still a little red
—and Ricky finds it incredibly endearing how Gyuvin, despite nearing thirty, somehow still
carries that boyish softness. Ricky doesn’t think he’s the same, he’s sure he looks older than
he is by now.

Did he sleep well?

”…Yeah,” he murmurs. And even though he still feels tired, there’s a lightness to his bones
that he hasn’t felt for a while.

Happy. He feels happy.

And it’s not that Ricky has been unhappy all this time. He’s had his moments of joy—small
bursts of warmth—but most days, he simply feels content. At ease.

But now, looking at Gyuvin—lounging on his couch, here in his living room—Ricky feels as
if the ground beneath him has vanished. Not in a bad way, no.

In the best way. A way that makes his chest feel too full, like his heart has outgrown the
space it’s supposed to fit in.

”What about you?” Ricky asks, stepping further into the room and stopping just a few feet
from the couch. His eyes catch on the cushions scattered on the floor, a blanket half-falling
off the edge, and a small smile tugs at his lips. He wonders what kind of dreams Gyuvin had.
He wonders if they’d had the same one.

”Really well. You have a nice couch.”

Ricky snorts. “Uh huh. I’m sure a bed would’ve been much nicer.”
Gyuvin smirks, and even with a puffy face and hair sticking up in places, he’s still as
handsome as ever. “Then maybe next time we should share.”

The words slip out so effortlessly, so casually, that Ricky lets out an undignified squawk
before he can stop himself. “Hey! Have you been practicing lines or something?”

Gyuvin tilts his head, all faux nonchalance. “Every day in the mirror, just to prepare for when
I saw you again.”

And oh. Ricky might actually die. He forces himself to look away, to pretend he’s unaffected,
but his pulse is racing. When did Gyuvin get so smooth?

”Do you want breakfast?” Ricky mumbles, fighting to keep his voice even. “I make a mean
omelette if you’re interested.”

Gyuvin’s smile is butterfly soft, and he blinks slowly up at Ricky. “Yeah,” he says, voice
gentle. “I’d like that.”

“So, no private chef out here?”

Ricky glances up from his plate, meeting Gyuvin’s curious gaze. Shaking his head, he replies,
“No. I wanted to start doing more for myself. Back then, eating just felt like another thing to
do. But now, I actually appreciate it more, knowing that I’m the one making the food I’m
eating. Not that I ever had any qualms with what Seonghwa cooked for me.”

Gyuvin tilts his head as he considers Ricky’s words. “That’s… interesting. Kind of deep,
actually. So, what happened with Seonghwa? I only really…” Gyuvin trails off, suddenly
looking sheepish. “I only ever asked Hongjoong about you.”

I only ever asked Hongjoong about you.

The words bounce around in Ricky’s mind. He takes a sip of his tea before answering. “Hao
hired him. As far as I know, he’s still working for him.”

”Oh?” Gyuvin sounds surprised. “I never knew. Then again, I haven’t seen Zhang Hao in a
while either.”

”Yeah. In fact, he’s really busy with work so I have no idea why he’s even here. It’s the
middle of the school term, he can’t just drop everything like that!”

Gyuvin shrugs, scooping up a bite of his omelette, and Ricky has to fight the urge not to stare
at his plush lips.

”I don’t really know much about what’s going on with him and Hanbin,” Gyuvin admits once
he swallows. “It happened like this—after that whole mess with the asshole at the restaurant,
we were all just standing there, looking at each other like it was some western standoff. And
then, out of nowhere, the first thing Hao says is that he’s flying to China in a week to see
you.”
Ricky frowns. “That’s… really? After all those years, that’s what he decides to say?”

Gyuvin snickers. “Honestly, I think he was just flustered after seeing us—well, mostly
Hanbin—after so long. It was probably just the first thing that popped into his head.”

”And you both just… went along with it? Just like that?”

”Nah,” Gyuvin shakes his head, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “Not me at least.
Hanbin, though? He looked like he just won the lottery. I had to physically drag him away—
but not before we got Hao’s contact info.”

Funny—years ago, Hanbin had been the voice of reason for Gyuvin. Now, it seemed those
roles had reversed.

”Well, you’re here now so I guess you agreed in the end.”

”I did,” Gyuvin says. “Though I won’t lie, I was a little… unsure about it.”

Ricky’s gaze lowers to his plate. “I don’t blame you,” he murmurs, nudging his food with his
fork. “It’s a big thing—coming all the way here. But I mean, Hao must have told you I wasn’t
seeing anyone, right?”

”He didn’t tell me anything.”

Ricky’s head snaps up. “Wait—what? What do you mean?”

“I asked him not to,” Gyuvin admits, setting his fork down on his plate. His expression turns
pensive as he studies Ricky, and for a moment, it feels like he’s looking right through him.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I could handle knowing. Whether you had someone or… you
didn’t. Either way, it felt like too much.” His voice grows quiet, something more raw
bleeding through into his words. “It’s selfish, isn’t it? I flew all this way knowing there was a
chance you could have a boyfriend. Or a husband. And sure, I figured Hao would have said
something if you did, but…”

”But what?” Ricky whispers.

”But he didn’t,” Gyuvin says, almost like he’s realising it himself just then. “And maybe—
maybe I thought he was setting me up for failure.” A wry, embarrassed smile tugs at his lips.
“I’ve always had this feeling he didn’t like me. Which… I guess is fair, isn’t it? Hanbin was
always wary of you too.”

Ricky exhales, shaking his head. “Wow. The parallels in our lives are insane. It’s like fate has
us strung up on puppet strings or something.”

”Do you believe in fate?” Gyuvin asks suddenly, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows
on the table.

Ricky blinks at the abrupt shift, momentarily caught off guard. “Fate?” He repeats, glancing
down the hallway. His eyes land on Gyuvin’s shoes—mismatched Converse, one red, one
black—and once again, it hits him that Gyuvin is real. He’s here.
“I don’t necessarily believe in God,” Ricky finally says, his voice softer now. “But I’d like to
think that somewhere out there, someone’s looking out for me. For us.” He looks back at
Gyuvin, taking in his tousled hair and sleep-crusted eyes, and a wave of quiet affection
washes over him. “Because this… all of this—it feels too good to be a coincidence. You
running into Hao, flying here… me seeing you at the gallery. It kind of does feel like fate.”

Whatever answer Gyuvin was searching for, he seems to find it in Ricky’s words. He leans
back in his chair, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “Would you say… we were
written in the stars?”

Ricky scoffs, looking away quickly, heat creeping up his neck. “Now you’re just being
ridiculous.”

And Gyuvin just grins, easygoing and effortlessly handsome—everything Ricky has wanted.
Everything he’s been missing. “Sorry. I’ll stop. I guess you have a lot of questions for me,
right? What do you want to know?”

Ricky breathes out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I don’t know much of
anything.”

Gyuvin nods as if he expected that.

”I haven’t really kept up with music or celebrities like I used to,” Ricky continues. “But
you… you’re a celebrity now, aren’t you?”

Gyuvin hesitates, rolling his lips together. “I suppose I am. But it feels weird calling myself
that. When I think of celebrities, I think of people like Margot Robbie or Rihanna. Putting
myself in that same category just feels… strange.”

Ricky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you telling me you’re as famous as Rihanna?”

”What? No!” Gyuvin blurts, backtracking. “That was just an example!”

“Then how famous are you?” Ricky asks, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Gyuvin chuckles. “Why? Are you only interested in me for my fame?”

Ricky picks up a piece of omelette and aims it threateningly at Gyuvin, who immediately
raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright,” Gyuvin relents, and Ricky drops the omelette
piece back onto his plate. “I have fans. I have a career. I’ve… put out a few albums, done
some acting. Nothing crazy. You probably haven’t seen anything I’ve been in, though.”

Ricky blinks. “Wait—-you were in movies?” He asks disbelievingly.

Gyuvin laughs again, this time sounding a tad embarrassed. He suddenly seems to find the
table fascinating, avoiding Ricky’s curious gaze. “Yeah. Just some dumb teen romance
dramas. It was years ago, I haven’t acted since.”

Ricky leans back as he processes it. The idea of Gyuvin reciting dramatic, overly cheesy lines
in a movie aimed at swooning teenagers is almost too much to wrap his head around. And
yet, somehow… it makes perfect sense. Gyuvin has that whole bad boy charm going for him
—if his current styling is anything to go by, it’s clearly the image he’s been sticking with
even after all this time.

”We have to watch them,” Ricky accounces. Not can we, not maybe we should.

Have to.

Gyuvin flushes slightly, though whether it’s from Ricky’s insistence or the topic itself, Ricky
isn’t sure. Either way, it’s cute. “I don’t think I could survive that kind of embarrassment.”

Ricky grins cattishly. “You can hide your face in my shoulder if it gets too bad. But it’s
happening, no matter what.”

Gyuvin hums in reluctant acceptance but doesn’t argue.

Then, a question that’s been simmering in the back of Ricky’s mind finally bubbles to the
surface, and before he can stop himself, he blurts it out. “So, you said the band split. What
happened to everyone?”

The mood shifts then, a slightly palpable tension blanketing the room. Gyuvin exhales softly,
his gaze lifting back to Ricky, a flicker of sadness behind his eyes.

”Well, you know I went solo,” he says. “Hanbin quit music—at least, professionally. He
owns a café in the Bronx now. Still posts covers sometimes. Every once in a while, someone
walks in and recognises him from his drumming days.”

“Taerae took the indie route. He’s with an independent label now and his music is incredible.
A lot more soft and acoustic, nothing like how intense Disorderly Conduct had been.
Matthew managed to get in touch with his family again, and they’re slowly mending the
broken relationship between them. His mother is still a little distant, but he’s grown pretty
close to his sister. Matthew has always loved dancing, but I think Taerae steered him towards
music back then which is why he never really pursued dancing. But he’s happy now—
happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

Ricky absorbs all of the information in. Things have changed, but from the sound of it,
they’ve changed for the better. And everyone is happy.

Well, almost everyone.

There’s still one person Gyuvin hasn’t mentioned.

”What about Gunwook?”

Gyuvin hesitates, glancing up briefly as he cracks his knuckles. “Honestly? I only

reconnected with him about six months ago.”

Six months ago?

Better late than never, Ricky supposes. “And?”

”We’re okay,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in.
“Not like before. I don’t know if we’ll ever truly be the same. But we talk. Here and there.”

”How is he?” Ricky asks, unable to stop himself. His mind is spinning. Six months. That
means Gyuvin and Gunwook hadn’t spoken for almost as long as Gyuvin and Ricky had.
That means… that means Gyuvin never went back to Gunwook, right?

”He’s better,” Gyuvin says. Then, after a pause, “I know something happened between you
two that day. I don’t know what you told him, he never said. But whatever it was… I think it
got through to him.”

Ricky frowns at that. “But—our conversation—he told me to leave you alone. He told me…”
Ricky pauses, unsure if he should say it out loud.

But Gyuvin already seems to know. “He told you he still loved me, didn’t he?”

Ricky blinks. “How did you know?”

Gyuvin exhales, shrugging. “Honestly? I think a part of me always did know. Gunwook—
he’s never done anything half-hearted. When he cares, he cares. Like when he first met me
and decided we had to be friends even though I wanted nothing to do with him. Or the way
he threw himself into the band. Or… loving me. But that was always the problem. Gunwook
let his emotions consume him. He never knew how to let go—of his father, of his passions, of
me.”

And that… that makes sense.

Gyuvin has always been intense. But Gunwook—when Ricky really thinks about it—
Gunwook was something else entirely.

Gunwook was obsessive.

“He reached out to me to apologise,” Gyuvin continues, and Ricky almost can’t believe what
he’s hearing. “He explained everything—why he did it and what had happened. But I didn’t
forgive him. Not then. In fact, I told him to shove his excuses up his ass and blocked him
right after. I was still raw, still angry, and I acted like a prick. And after that… I didn’t hear
from him for a long time. Not until six months ago—when I ran into him at a supermarket of
all places.”

Ricky lets out a short laugh. “What is it with you and randomly running into people?
Seriously, New York is way too big for this to keep happening.”

”I know,” Gyuvin replies with a snort. “At first, I thought it wasn’t a coincidence—you know,
after everything that happened with him and you. He recognised me immediately, and I was
about to tell him to piss off, but then… I saw who he was with.”

”Oh?”

”Three little kids. Loud as hell. One was wrapped around his leg, begging Gunwook to buy
him a bag of Cheetos. And I was confused—like, were they his kids? And then a woman
appeared behind him with a basket of groceries, and I thought that oh, he has a wife now. But
it turns out she was just a coworker, and Gunwook was working. He does a lot of community
work now, and he’s contracted with different organisations across the city. That’s all he had
time to tell me before he had to go, but we exchanged contacts and met up a few days later.”

Community work? Ricky frowns. Gunwook had always been so passionate about music,
about the band… it doesn’t add up. And he voices his confusion, Gyuvin nodding along in
understanding.

”Yeah, I thought the same thing,” Gyuvin admits. “I always figured he’d go solo or start a
new band. Once we all signed off on breaking the contract with Shaboom Entertainment, that
was it—I never saw him again. And no one in the industry ever seemed to mention him
either. But I let it go, because, honestly? I didn’t want to think about it. But him and I sat
down for coffee, and he told me everything.”

”He said he made the decision to go to therapy. After everything that happened he realised he
needed to. It was eating him alive, and if he didn’t do something about it, it was only going to
get worse. And therapy isn’t some magical fix, it doesn’t work for everyone, but for him? It
helped. Talking to someone, getting a fresh perspective, it all made him understand himself in
ways he never had before. And he was also prescribed medication which helped too, though
he told me the biggest difference came from just talking to someone.”

”You already knew his childhood wasn’t the kindest. And as he worked through it with his
therapist he realised something—there were kids out there just like him. Kids who were lost,
angry, bouncing between homes. Kids in the system, kids with broken families that didn’t
want them. Kids with nowhere to go. Kids like Gunwook, like me, like all of us.”

Ricky breathes out shakily. “Wow. I have to admit, I never saw that coming.”

”Me neither,” Gunwook says, “But it makes him happy. He feels like he’s actually doing
something and making a real difference. It’s not an easy job by any means, but he’s thriving.
The kids adore him. And yeah, there are bad days, but he told me the good will always
outweigh the bad. That’s a motto he’s been trying to live by.”

”And the most fulfilling part for him? Seeing those kids leave the system successfully.
Whether they find family, a new home, or age out and step into the real world—Gunwook is
always there, making sure they know they’re not alone. That someone still cares.”

It’s kind of beautiful. Knowing that Gunwook has turned his life around, and not just for
himself, but for the kids who need the same support he and Gyuvin once desperately lacked.

”He’s reconnected with his brother, too,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky instantly perks up.

”Really? That’s fantastic!”

Gyuvin nods, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. They see each other a lot at work now.
Some of the kids Gunwook helps are caught up in legal battles, and when they have to go to
court, Gunho is sometimes their public defender. It’s kind of incredible, isn’t it? How life—
how fate—brought them back together.”
Fate. There’s that word again.

But something still lingers in Ricky’s mind. It’s a question he can’t ignore.

”Does he still love you?”

Gyuvin doesn’t even flinch, almost as if he’s been expecting the question. “No.”

And just like that, just with one word, Ricky feels lighter. He sags in his chair, relief washing
over him. That knowledge is something that’s gnawed at him for years, like a quiet and
insidious weight resting on his shoulders. And now—now, it’s gone.

Which might make him a terrible person. A selfish, jealous person who could never quite let
go of someone he had no right to hold onto. But shit, Ricky doesn’t care. Because he still
loves Gyuvin. And he could never bring himself to admit that to Gyuvin, not when Gunwook
was still tethered to him like that. Not when it felt like stepping between the two men, even if
it had been far too late to worry about that.

But this means… this means things are okay now, right?

Not immediately. Ricky knows that much. Healing isn’t instant. But when he thinks back to
everything they’ve been through—to the locked box in his bedside drawer—he believes it.

Everything really will be okay.

For real, this time.

”He’s not even sure if he ever really loved me like that,” Gyuvin adds, and Ricky’s attention
is redirected back to him. “That’s something he’s been unpacking with his therapist—the
difference between love and obsession. Whatever it was, though, he’s not that person
anymore. He’s changed. And for the better.”

A genuine smile spreads across Ricky’s face. “I’m so beyond happy to hear that.” And he is.
Not just for himself, but for Gunwook, too. He’d been lost for so long, wounded and
directionless, but instead of spiralling further he’d chosen to rebuild himself. To put the
pieces back together.

”Yeah,” Gyuvin agrees, opening his mouth as if to say something else. But before he can,
Ricky’s phone rings, the sudden sound cutting through the quietness of the kitchen.

”Sorry,” Ricky mutters, already reaching to decline the call, until he sees the name on the
screen. “Oh. My cousin must actually be alive. Do you mind?”

Gyuvin gestures for him to go ahead, so Ricky picks up the call, pressing his phone to his ear.

“You,” he hisses in Mandarin, catching the amused glint in Gyuvin’s eyes. “What the hell
happened last night? I was waiting for you!”

”I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Zhang Hao says quickly. “I’ll make it up to you I swear. I just—
something—things happened—“
”Hanbin, right?” Ricky interrupts, easily filling in the gaps.

There’s a brief silence before Zhang Hao groans. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. For now, I think.
Fuck, I don’t know. Are you going to the gallery again tonight?”

”The artist nights are over,” Ricky replies flatly.

”I know that! But we can still go look, right? I’m really, really annoyed that I missed it.”

Ricky wants to press Zhang Hao further, make him sweat a little—but from Zhang Hao’s
frazzled tone, he already is. So, Ricky decides to be merciful.

”Fine. But you’re bringing Hanbin, and you’re telling me everything that’s going on. Deal?”

Zhang Hao hesitates on the line, almost as if he’s trying to figure out a way out of it. Then, he
lets out that signature put-upon Zhang Hao sigh. “Okay, okay. We can do that. Gyuvin’s with
you now, right?”

Ricky glances up at Gyuvin who’s watching him with a soft smile. His heart stutters. “Yeah,”
he replies, voice quiet. “We’re catching up on everything.”

”Is it going well?”

”It is,” Ricky admits, biting his lip to stifle a grin as his gaze drops back down to his plate.
“Thank you, Hao, I didn’t realise how much I needed this until now.”

”Of course,” Zhang Hao replies, and Ricky can practically see him puffing his chest out in
pride. “Anything for my baby cousin. Tonight. Six o’clock. I’ll meet you at the gallery.”

”With Hanbin,” Ricky presses.

Another sigh. “With Hanbin,” Zhang Hao echoes.

They exchange goodbyes before Ricky sets his phone down, glancing at the clock. Eight
thirty. Plenty of time to kill. He looks over at Gyuvin.

”You promised me a date,” Ricky says boldly. “You have me for the entire day. Why don’t I
show you the sights of Shanghai?”

”It would be my pleasure,” Gyuvin murmurs, and oh, Ricky thinks he could definitely get
used to this.

Looking back at it now, Ricky realises that choosing a tourist hotspot probably wasn’t the
best idea he’s ever had. But he panicked, being put on the spot like that. And it’d dawned on
him that, despite living in Shanghai, he rarely goes out just for fun.

And sure, Ricky has his favourite cafés and restaurants, but he’d wanted to show Gyuvin
something more. Something bigger.

So here they were, inside the Oriental Pearl Tower. Surrounded. Bombarded, actually. By
fans.

Gyuvin’s fans.

It had all started out normally enough. Gyuvin had left Ricky’s place for a little while to
swing by his hotel to grab some of his own clothes, whilst Ricky spent that time pacing back
and forth in his walk-in closet as he overthought everything. What to wear, where to go, what
to do. And then it hit him—he’d promised to show Gyuvin the sights of Shanghai, right? So
what better place to start than one of the highest viewpoints in the city?

Ricky tucked that thought aside before he could overthink any further and began to get
dressed. He shrugged on a soft, white knitted sweater, tucking it onto a pair of creamy slacks,
slipping his feet into a pair of deep brown polished Oxfords. He left his hair down, styling it
to frame his face and soften his features, letting it fall in just the right way to conceal part of
his forehead. Rings wrapped around his fingers, a few spritzes of his favourite perfume on his
wrists and behind his ears, and…

He was nervous.

Really fucking nervous.

But then the doorbell was ringing, and Ricky just about trips over himself as he rushes down
the hall, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his sweater as he goes.

When he twists the doorknob and pulls the door open, he’s hit with a wave of dejavu, almost
feeling like he’s repeating last night all over again. Because his heart lurches into his throat
the moment he sees Gyuvin standing there.

Ricky doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to just how effortlessly handsome Gyuvin is.

The other man is dressed in all black, a sharp contrast to Ricky’s lighter coloured outfit.
They’re like Yin and Yang.

A long coat skims just past Gyuvin’s knees, a shirt beneath that’s unbuttoned just enough to
offer a glimpse of his tanned chest. Slim, tailored pants emphasise the mile long length of
Gyuvin’s legs, and for once, he’s swapped out his usual Converse for sleek black boots.

But what catches Ricky’s attention the most, enough to almost derail his thoughts entirely, is
the bouquet of flowers in Gyuvin’s hand.

“Hi,” Ricky breathes out, eyes flickering between the bouquet and Gyuvin’s face. Gyuvin
looks awfully pleased right now.

“Hey again,” Gyuvin says with a smirk. “Long time no see.”

Ricky huffs an amused breath through his nose. “Are those… are those for me?”

“What? Oh, these?” Gyuvin says, looking down at the bouquet as if he hadn’t realised he’d
been holding it. “Hm. I don’t believe there’s another stunning man living here by the name of
Shen Ricky, is there? Maybe I got the wrong house…”

“Give me those,” Ricky mutters, and Gyuvin just laughs, holding the bouquet out for Ricky
to grab. “I’m going to get these into some water.”

The only thing Ricky can think as he strides down the hallway is flowers. Gyuvin got me
flowers. These flowers in my hands are ones from Gyuvin. That he bought for me. Gyuvin
bought me flowers.

The bouquet is a delicate mixture of roses, soft whites and blushing pinks. Some of the roses
are in full bloom whilst others are still unfurling from their buds. Ricky likes that. It means
they’ll last longer. He already knows he’s going to press some of them to preserve them
forever, maybe frame a few. The thought sends a strange flame of warmth curling through his
chest, even as his hands tremble slightly whilst rummaging through a cabinet for a vase.

He finally finds one and holds it beneath the faucet as water rushes out in a steady cool
stream. His foot taps an anxious rhythm against the tiles.

”Are you okay?”

Ricky is startled—it’s stupid, but for a second he’d forgotten Gyuvin was even here, too
caught up in the tangled mess of his own thoughts. Ricky jumps, nearly dropping the vase,
and suddenly Gyuvin is there—reaching past him, turning off the faucet and gently taking the
vase from Ricky’s unsteady grip.

”Hey. What’s wrong?”

”Nothing,” Ricky wheezes, though his body betrays him. The air in the kitchen suddenly
feels awfully stifling, the fire in his chest creeping further up and threatening to choke him.
He tugs at the neckline of his sweater, fanning the fabric in an attempt to cool himself down
even though he can already feel the sweat forming at his temple. He needs to get it together.

Gyuvin doesn’t look convinced. He sets the vase down on the kitchen island before closing
the small distance between them in two purposeful strides, settling his hands on Ricky’s
shoulders.

”You’re shaking,” Gyuvin murmurs, fingers tightening their grip just slightly. His brows knit
together in concern. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, you know that, right?”

Ricky shakes his head a little too quickly. “It’s not that,” he insists, resisting the urge to chew
on his thumbnail. “It’s just—I haven’t—I’m nervous, okay?”

Gyuvin blinks. “Nervous? Why?”

Ricky squeezes his eyes shut. God, he’s so fucking embarassed. He’s too old for this
ridiculous, stomach twisting anxiety over something as simple as a date. He knows that.
But this isn’t just any date.

It’s Gyuvin.

”I don’t know,” Ricky admits quietly. “It’s stupid—I feel like I’m a teenager all over again,
freaking out over something like this. I’m sorry…”

”Hey.”

Gentle fingers tip his chin up, and Ricky’s breath catches as his eyes flutter open.

Gyuvin is right there, so damn close, something heavy and intense in his eyes. Ricky doesn’t
exactly know what the emotion is, but it’s enough to make his heart pound harder. He starts
counting Gyuvin’s freckles just to steady himself.

”Your feelings aren’t stupid,” Gyuvin says, quietly but firmly. “Don’t ever say that. There’s
nothing wrong with being nervous. Hell, how do you think I’ve been feeling these past few
hours?”

”Fine?” Ricky guesses hesitantly.

Gyuvin laughs, shaking his head. “Definitely not. I had to fix my hair at least four times in
the taxi because I couldn’t stop running my hands through it. That’s how nervous I was. Still
am, to be honest.”

Ricky exhales softly, feeling some of the tension lifting from his shoulders.

”So hey, you’re not alone in this. We may both be nervous wrecks, but at least we’re nervous
wrecks together, right?”

“Sorry,” Ricky says. “I’m just—“

”Normally a lot more composed than this?” Gyuvin finishes for him, the corners of his lips
quirking up.

Ricky chuckles, nodding. “Yeah.”

The sound of Ricky’s laughter draws a proper smile from Gyuvin. “I figured as much. You
were always cool, but now…” he trails off, studying Ricky’s face as he searches for the right
words. “Now you’re more refined. Elegant. Intimidating.”

”Intimidating?” Ricky echoes disbelievingly. “Me?”

There’s no way Gyuvin actually thinks that.

”Yeah,” Gyuvin replies with a shrug, his fingers slipping from Ricky’s chin to graze over the
soft fabric of his sweater instead. “Seeing you with another man last night was bad enough—
but even before that, I was just standing there trying to figure out how to approach you. And
it’s not just your hair or your style. You carry yourself differently now, with so much
confidence and certainty. And I’m not saying I lack confidence, but… you’re just on a
different level.”

Ricky laughs incredulously. “Me? No way. I just—I’ve always been good at keeping my
emotions in check. It’s why I paint, honestly. I needed a way to let everything out.”

Gyuvin tilts his head as he considers that. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.” A smirk spreads
across his face. “Either way, I think you’re the coolest person I’ve ever met, Shen Ricky.”

Rick scoffs and looks down at his shoes. “Yeah, whatever. I—I’m just gonna put these
flowers in water, then we can go.”

When Ricky pulls back, Gyuvin lets him, watching as Ricky carefully arranges the bouquet
in the base. With each flower Ricky adjusts, he wills himself to calm down, and as the
minutes tick by his heartbeat slows to something steadier. Once he’s satisfied with how the
flowers look and no longer feels like his chest is about to explode, he steps back, exhaling.

Only then does he notice Gyuvin still staring at him, hands tucked in his pockets.

From there they had slipped into the taxi Gyuvin had waiting outside, and the driver whisked
them away once Ricky gave him their destination.

The ride over had been filled with quiet conversation. Small talk about the weather, mundane
world events—nothing particularly important. And yet, to Ricky, it meant everything. Just
being here next to Gyuvin felt like something rare, something he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—
take for granted.

But now, standing hundreds of metres above the city and surrounded by excited fans, Ricky
has to admit that this wasn’t how he’d imagined the day unfolding.

He lingers at the edge of the small crowd and watches as Gyuvin signs anything the fans
could find to thrust into his hands—receipts, the back of photos tucked into wallets, even one
girl’s bare arm. And it wasn’t the fame that felt strange to Ricky. He’d always imagined
Gyuvin being big one day, but always with his band beside him. The five of them sharing the
spotlight. Yet here Gyuvin was, standing alone. Somehow he still manages to fill the space
with only his presence.

The gathering of teen girls had drawn the curiosity of nearby tourists, pausing to whisper
amongst themselves. Ricky shifts uncomfortably when he notices a few of them looking at
him.

”It was lovely to meet you all,” Ricky hears Gyuvin say in a warm but firm voice. “But I
should move along now.”

”Thank you so much, Gyuvin!” One of the girls squeals, the others chiming in with similar
enthusiasm. They hurry off, still stealing glances over their shoulders with faces flushed in
excitement.

”You okay?”
Now standing in front of Ricky, Gyuvin is studying him with concern. Ricky tilts his chin up
and forces a small smile. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting our date to be interrupted like that.”

”I’m sorry,” Gyuvin murmurs, a crease forming between his brows. And without thinking
about it, Ricky reaches up, smoothing it away with his thumb.

”Don’t apologise,” Ricky says softly. “It was sweet of you to take the time for them.
Honestly, it’s probably my fault for bringing us here. You told me you weren’t that famous,
though?”

A quiet laugh leaves Gyuvin’s lips, and he gently catches Ricky’s wrist, guiding his hand
away from his forehead. But instead of letting go he laces their fingers together and tucks
their joined hands into the pocket of his coat. “I told you I’m not Rihanna levels of fame.”

”So you lied,” Ricky says, narrowing his eyes.

Gyuvin grins and shakes his head. “You just didn’t ask the right questions, kitty cat.”

The sudden pet name makes Ricky blush a bright red and he tries to turn away, but he can’t—
not with Gyuvin still holding his hand captive in his pocket. “You’re so…” Ricky’s words
falter as he meets Gyuvin’s gaze, and suddenly the lighthearted teasing slips away into
something quieter and deeper. Gyuvin is looking at him with a familiar intensity that makes
Ricky’s breath catch.

”I’m so what, hm?”

And suddenly, despite the crowd around them, it feels like they were the only two people left
on the planet. Gyuvin looks at Ricky like he was something remarkable. Like Ricky is the
northern lights, and Gyuvin is the astronomer watching in awe, not wanting to miss a single
moment.

What is Gyuvin?

Well.

Gyuvin is extraordinary.

To defy all odds. To overcome every obstacle life had thrown at him, time and time again.

Gyuvin had fought through it all, and he’d come out the other side stronger than ever. He
could have let the pain and anger consume him, could have let it twist him into something
unrecognisable. But he didn’t. He didn’t, and he’s here, standing in front of Ricky, and he’s
so amazing, and—

And he’s the love of Ricky’s life.

Gyuvin watches him, patient in a way Ricky has never seen before. His brows lift just
slightly, like he already knows exactly where Ricky’s thoughts have spiraled to, and—and it’s
too much.
Ricky feels so goddamn shy. Like a silly, love-struck teenager. It hasn’t even been twenty-
four hours since Gyuvin came crashing back into his life, and yet Ricky is already drowning
in emotions too big to contain.

He forces his gaze away, fixing his eyes on the glittering cityscape beyond the window. His
ears burn as he mutters, “You’re annoying.”

Gyuvin just laughs, richly and hearty, and he gives Ricky’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on.
Let’s walk for a bit, yeah?”

The sky is clear and sunlight spills in through the tower’s floor to ceiling windows. The glass
panels beneath their feet make it feel like they’re walking on air.

”So,” Gyuvin says, his tone light as they meander through the observation deck. He glances
over at Ricky with curiosity etched into his face. “Shanghai, huh? What made you decide to
come back?”

Ricky exhales and chews on his bottom lip. “Honestly? It was kind of a spur of the moment
thing.”

Gyuvin hums and waits for him to continue.

”I knew I needed to leave New York, but I didn’t have a plan,” Ricky admits. “I just…
packed a bag, went to the airport, and booked the first departing flight without thinking about
it. It didn’t even hit me until I landed that I was suddenly on the other side of the world with
no plans, not a lot of money, and completely alone. It was reckless. Stupid, even.”

Gyuvin frowns. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to leave like that.”

”It wasn’t your fault,” Ricky says quickly. “It was mine. I didn’t tell anyone—not even Hao. I
just turned off my phone and drifted from hotel to hotel for weeks because I was…
overwhelmed. Lost. I needed space. But I should have told someone.” He sighs, stealing a
glance over at Gyuvin who’s watching him with nothing but understanding in his eyes. “Hao
thought I was dead at first. The only reason he didn’t file a missing persons report was
because my dad told him I was fine. That I’d taken off with a bunch of cash and was
probably living it up somewhere like a spoiled brat.”

”Ricky…” Gyuvin trails off, his grip on Ricky’s hand tightening slightly.

Ricky just shrugs. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly wrong, was he? I wasn’t living it up, but I did
run. And Hao… he wasn’t even mad when I finally called. He was just relieved I was okay.
My parents, though…”

”You’re not talking to them anymore?”

”We weren’t for a while,” Ricky says quietly. “My dad was furious. My mum was just
devastated. And I get it, I really do. They brought me to America for a better life, and from
their perspective it probably looked like I threw everything away. And maybe, in some ways I
did. I wasn’t the best son.”
”Don’t say that,” Gyuvin cuts in immediately, his voice firm and eyes sharp with conviction.
“Don’t ever say that about yourself. You were going through something and if they couldn’t
understand that you needed space, then that’s on them. Not you.”

“But I should have told them something,” Ricky says, frustration seeping into his tone. He
resists the urge to run a hand through his hair, not wanting to ruin the styling. “I just… left.
Disappeared into thin air. They had every right to be angry with me.”

“But you guys are okay now?”

”Yeah. It took some time, but we made our peace. I don’t think they’ll ever fully understand
me the way I want them to, but I guess it’s better than not talking at all.”

”Exactly.”

They continue walking, the glass floor beneath them making Ricky’s stomach flip as he
glances down. The cars beneath them on the roads look impossibly small, almost like toy
models spread out across a play mat.

And then Gyuvin finally asks the question Ricky has been waiting for.

”So… what happened with the engagement?”

Ricky lets out a wry chuckle. “Obviously it never happened. Which was a big part of why my
parents were so pissed with me for so long. All that planning and all those arrangements were
gone because I wasn’t there. When we finally got back in touch they tried to convince me to
come home to go through with it. But I told them no. I told them I didn’t want to marry
Jiwoong, and honestly? He didn’t really want to marry me either.”

Gyuvin gives him a sceptical look. “What makes you so sure?”

”Sure of what?”

”That Jiwoong didn’t want to marry you,” Gyuvin clarifies. “He always seemed so… dead
set on you.”

”In a way, he was,” Ricky admits. “And he did love me. I know that. But the love he had for
me… I always thought it was more of a puppy love. Something that was never meant to be
more than that. But Seobin, on the other hand…”

”That’s his husband now, right?” Gyuvin asks, and Ricky nods.

”Yeah. The love Jiwoong has for Seobin is different. It’s fierce and bright, something that just
made sense. Seeing them together, you just knew. It was right.”

Gyuvin looks confused. “Wait—was he involved with Seobin while he was with you?”

Ricky shakes his head. “No. But when I first met Jiwoong I accidentally walked in on them
once—not doing anything compromising, just… sitting together. They were holding hands
and whispering to each other. It was intimate. Natural. The way they leaned into each other’s
space like it was the most effortless thing in the world.

”And did they get embarrassed when you caught them?” Gyuvin asks with a raised eyebrow.

”Yeah,” Ricky murmurs. “But I kept their secret. Not long after that, Jiwoong and Seobin
stopped seeing each other because… well, Jiwoong’s parents never approved of Seobin.”

”Why not?”

They pause at one of the windows, Ricky gazing down towards the Huangpu River. He rests
his free hand on the metal rail, watching as tiny boats chug down the river. It kind of reminds
him of Gyuvin’s hideout spot back in New York—except this one was far more public and
higher up.

“Seobin has always been a dreamer,” Ricky begins, letting his mind take him back in time.
“You have to understand that he doesn’t come from a high society family like the rest of us
did. He was by no means poor, he grew up middle class at best, but his parents were ordinary.
His mother taught elementary school and his dad was a mechanic.”

“A career like that was never in Seobin’s interest. He wanted to do better, to be bigger, and so
he began his business ventures as early as high school. He tried it all—making clothing,
selling products as a vendor, walking around the neighbourhood to try to convince people to
buy some overpriced vacuum or something like that. Nothing really stuck, and he skipped out
on college to try to save some money to put towards yet another business idea. But
everything kept falling through.”

“Seobin met Jiwoong at college, funnily enough. Not that Seobin was enrolled—he was
standing outside the campus with a car boot full of random gadgets, trying to sell them to the
students coming and going through the gates. Not many people stopped for him, but…
Jiwoong did.”

“Did Seobin try to sell Jiwoong something?” Gyuvin asks with a grin.

“Of course. He tried his best, and Jiwoong played along for a little while. He thought it was
cute, honestly, but he also thought that Seobin was… a really hard worker. Because here he
was, at the front entrance to one of the top schools in the city, not seeming to feel an ounce of
shame at practically throwing himself at the feet of the richest of the rich.”

“Sounds kind of humiliating,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky nods along.

“Yeah. But Seobin didn’t care. Even when students were walking past him, snickering and
pointing, none of it phased him. Not once did he crack throughout his entire spiel, and
Jiwoong decided to humour him. He bought something under one condition.”

“What was the condition?”

“That Seobin give Jiwoong his number,” Ricky replies with a grin. “And… that was the
beginning of them. They had to date in secret, because Jiwoong was afraid of what his
parents would say if they knew he was dating someone from a lower social class. Even his
younger brother Yujin never knew they were dating at first. But then I came along.” Ricky’s
grin slips, replaced with what he knows is a bitter look. “And Jiwoong realised that what he
had with Seobin couldn’t be anything more serious than that.”

A beat of silence passes, and Ricky glances over at Gyuvin who has a contemplative
expression on his face. “You know,” Gyuvin says, “this sounds awfully familiar.”

That makes Ricky bark out a laugh. “Wow. It really does, doesn’t it?” He sighs softly, the
memories seeming so far away yet so close at the same time. “Jiwoong’s parents already
knew Seobin well enough—but they thought he was nothing more than just one of Jiwoong’s
friends. A friend they weren’t exactly fond of, but a friend nonetheless.”

“Why didn’t they like him?” Gyuvin asks. “Was it only because he wasn’t a rich kid?”

“Yes and no. Even though Seobin was a hard worker, all of his ideas kept failing. That man
has tried out more business ventures than my own father has, to be honest,” Ricky admits.
“Jiwoong’s parents—and in turn, mine as well—always thought he was a failure. A leech
trying to use Jiwoong. They never gave him the time of day. But no matter what, Seobin
never let them affect him—he was always calm and composed, could take criticism no matter
how harshly it was handed to him. And that’s always something about him I’ve really
respected, because even in the face of adversity, Seobin never gave up. And he never gave up
on Jiwoong, either.”

When Ricky finally says those words out loud, he feels a wave of shame wash over him. He’s
had it easy, so damn easy, and yet he ran away from everything the moment it all got too
hard. His character was completely different from Seobin’s—Ricky had been a coward.

And maybe Gyuvin knows what Ricky is thinking, because he pulls him closer to his side, his
nose brushing against Ricky’s temple. “These aren’t two situations you can compare,”
Gyuvin says firmly, his words breathed out hotly against Ricky’s skin, and Ricky can’t help
but to close his eyes—whether from the words spoken or the proximity, he’s not sure.
“You’re two different people. At two different points of your life. If you keep blaming
yourself you’ll never be able to move forwards, Ricky.”

It’s intense. It’s suddenly so, so damn intense. Ricky ducks his head down, muttering, “when
did you get so wise?”

“I always have been,” Gyuvin replies, and Ricky can hear the smile in his voice. And maybe
he’s joking, but Ricky thinks that there’s definitely some truthfulness behind Gyuvin’s words.
Before he can mention it, Gyuvin plays it off, like he knows what Ricky had been about to
say. “But anyway. They’re married now, so, are things better?”

“Yeah,” Ricky replies, and without even thinking about it, he leans his head against Gyuvin’s
shoulder as he recounts everything that’s happened. It feels normal. Natural. The warmth
from Gyuvin’s arm bleeds through Ricky’s cheek, and his lips brush against Gyuvin’s coat as
he speaks. “I mean, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows at first. Like I said, our parents didn’t
like Seobin. But I guess… I guess they were desperate. And he swooped in at the right time,
promising business growth that my father and I had barely touched on. I was never very
eager to learn things, not like Seobin, and I think once he and my father sat down to talk
things through my father realised that Seobin wasn’t so bad after all. He was just young and
hardworking and not afraid to trip and fall—which he has numerous times.”

”I would have thought that Jiwoong’s parents and your parents wouldn’t merge like they did
if you and Jiwoong weren’t married, though? How does that work if your families aren’t
technically joined in any way?”

”Money runs deeper than blood,” Ricky murmurs, and he can’t help but to feel a little bitter
as he speaks. He has nothing against Seobin—he’s thankful for the other man, actually,
because he’d solved a problem Ricky knew would chase him forever. But he can’t deny the
fact that he feels like Seobin has replaced him in a sense. “They’d struck a deal, and I hadn’t
come through, so Seobin was the glue. He’s done a good job— a great job, in fact. He’s done
more in the last eight years than I think I could have done in twenty.”

Gyuvin hums, the vibrations making Ricky’s cheek feel funny. “And are you happy?” Gyuvin
asks, squeezing Ricky’s hip.

The answer comes immediately.

“Yes,” Ricky breathes out, shifting his head so that he can look up at Gyuvin. The angle is
horrifically awkward, but it’s worth it, especially when he catches the fondness lingering
around the edges of Gyuvin’s eyes.

Gyuvin’s lips curl. “Why?”

”Because you found me again,” Ricky says honestly. “The first time I never knew I needed
you. But this time… this time I’m certain. I need you.”

And maybe that makes Ricky sound a little desperate. Maybe he should be a little more
demure with his words. But he’s finding it hard to care about pretences right now, especially
when Gyuvin is looking at him like he’s something wondrous, something otherworldly.

For a fleeting moment, Ricky thinks that Gyuvin may kiss him. Because those dark eyes keep
darting between Ricky’s eyes and his lips, and they’re in public, but Ricky doesn’t care.

Gyuvin doesn’t kiss him. Not on the lips, anyway.

He steals Ricky’s hand from where it still sits snugly in his pocket, bringing it to his lips
instead. The most delicate, butterfly-like kiss is pressed upon Ricky’s knuckles, and oh,
Ricky might faint. Especially when Gyuvin’s gaze flickers from Ricky’s knuckles back to his
eyes, a knowing glint dancing around in his own eyes like he fully understands the effects
he’s having on Ricky.

”I think I’ve seen enough of the air,” Gyuvin murmurs, and Ricky blinks, unaware that he’d
stopped breathing until his lungs began to burn. “Besides. I think we have more company
than we’d originally intended.”
Ricky follows Gyuvin’s subtle glance, and he sees that same group of teen girls—now almost
double the size. They were hanging back at a respectful distance, certainly not close enough
to hear anything, but it’s rather obvious he and Gyuvin are sharing an intimate moment with
more people than they’d like to.

”Are you hungry?” Ricky asks, and Gyuvin smirks.

”Starving.”

Ricky decides to bring Gyuvin to a more low key restaurant, in hopes to prevent another
incident occurring like what had happened earlier. It’s not that Ricky is upset at all—he’d
thought it was sweet, seeing Gyuvin interact with the fans. And they’d been respectful.

But Ricky is selfish.

Selfish, because he wants Gyuvin all to himself today.

The restaurant Ricky had taken Gyuvin to was barely even that—in the sense that on the
outside, the restaurant was completely unassuming. Tucked between a twenty-four-seven
laundromat and a convenience store, Grandma Lin’s Soup House was recommended to Ricky
by Binghua a few years ago. Ricky has never brought anyone else here—not even Jingxiang.
This was just one of those places that Ricky wanted to keep to himself.

But for some reason, he’d been compelled to bring Gyuvin here.

The restaurant technically wasn’t even named Grandma Lin’s Soup House—it’s just what
Ricky calls it, due to the fact it was owned by a sweet old lady that everyone in the
neighbourhood called Grandma Lin, and a lot of the time, she serves soup.

There’s no menu. Grandma Lin serves whatever she decides to cook that day. Her ingredients
come from her own backyard where she grows herbs and vegetables, and fresh fish and meats
from the morning markets down by the Chuanyang River.

Ricky knows Gyuvin must be confused, because when the taxi driver drops them down at the
end of the street and they begin to climb the hilly path, ducking and weaving between the
residents and stray clotheslines strung up all about the place, Gyuvin entwines his hand with
Ricky’s as if he’s afraid to get lost. Ricky glances back at him momentarily, shooting Gyuvin
a smile, but he says nothing as he turns back around to focus on where he’s leading Gyuvin.

There’s no grand entrance, no sign board, nothing. Just a weathered old wooden door with a
talisman painted in strokes of red that’s intended to bring good health and healing. Ricky
pushes the door open, gently tugging Gyuvin through the entrance, and he feels a shift in the
air behind him, likely Gyuvin ducking his head down so he doesn’t knock it on the low door
frame.
It’s not busy inside—only two other patrons can be seen, and they’re tucked in a corner
sharing a bowl of something bubbling and steaming together. Ricky brings them to a table—
his favourite table—and they sit down, knees knocking together beneath the rickety wooden
table because it’s much too small for how tall they both are, but Ricky doesn’t mind. He likes
the cosiness, likes being so close to Gyuvin.

Gyuvin, who looks as if he feels entirely out of place currently. He’s looking around at the
interior of the restaurant, curiosity mixed with hesitance, and Ricky kicks his ankle out to
wrap around Gyuvin’s, bringing his attention back.

“We don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” Ricky tells him gently. “A five minute
walk will take us to somewhere more… your style, if you’d like?”

The words feel weird coming from Ricky’s mouth. But he knows by now that Gyuvin must
be used to luxury, even if he’d started from the bottom of the barrel. Ricky just doesn’t want
to make him feel uncomfortable.

Gyuvin looks surprised, and he shakes his head, his leg still tangled with Ricky’s. “No, no it’s
not that. It’s just… I’ve never been somewhere like this before. I mean, eating Burger King
with Hanbin back when he worked there as a teen was about as interesting as it got for me. I
never really got to experience a place like this.”

”Oh…” Ricky trails off, feeling an echo of sadness panging in his chest. “Well. We’re here
now. What do you think?”

Gyuvin thinks for a moment before replying. “It feels like a home,” he eventually settles on,
and it makes Ricky smile, because that’s what he thinks too.

It’s then that Grandma Lin bursts from the back, the curtains to the kitchen swaying as she
emerges. She’s a tiny woman, age pressing down on her shoulders and shrinking her with
each year that passes, but she doesn’t let that stop her. Her silver hair is pulled up in a tight
bun that would make her face look severe if it weren’t for the wide smile on her face, one that
makes her eyes crinkle.

”Quanrui!” She exclaims, bustling over to their table and wiping her hands across her apron.
“It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you, my dear!” She glances over at Gyuvin who’s
looking at her curiously—Ricky is reminded that Gyuvin has no idea what she’s saying right
now. “And what’s this? You finally brought your boyfriend along?”

”He’s not my boyfriend!” Ricky exclaims, cheeks flaming. Gyuvin looks very interested in
their conversation now when he notices Ricky visibly embarrassed.

“Ah. I meant, your husband!”

”No!” Ricky says, and Grandma Lin just laughs, reaching out to pinch at Ricky’s cheek.

”Your food won’t be too long, my dear. Water? Or something stronger?”

”Just water is fine,” Ricky tells her, resisting the urge to fan his face. It’s suddenly awfully
hot in the small restaurant.

Grandma Lin disappears just as quickly as she’d appeared, but not before whisking up two
glasses of water from seemingly nowhere, and Ricky glances back over at Gyuvin, who’s
studying him with a tender expression. “What did she say?” Gyuvin asks, grinning wolfishly
when Ricky chokes slightly on the sip of water he’d taken.

”Nothing important,” Ricky mutters, clearing his throat and managing to get his second sip of
water down successfully. He can’t think about what Grandma Lin had said too closely—
boyfriend was bad enough, but husband?

A delicious shiver travels down Ricky’s spine at the thought. To be tethered to Gyuvin like
that, bound by matching rings and the same last name.

Kim Ricky.

He imagines it. Waking up each morning with their legs tangled in the sheets, the familiar
warmth of Gyuvin beneath him as he presses lazy kisses to his sternum, coaxing him awake
with gentle affection. Sharing breakfast together, still half asleep but completely in love.

Ricky would take care of the dishes, elbows deep in soapy water. And Gyuvin would be a
menace, wrapping himself around Ricky from behind and pressing in close. Ricky would
sigh, feigning irritation, but the truth would be hidden in the way he tilts his chin just so, in
the ghost of a smile he refuses to let show.

And as he scrubs the dishes, he’d trace Gyuvin’s name with every stroke of the cloth.

”Hm.” Gyuvin looks like he wants to say more, but Ricky hears a vibrating sound, and
Gyuvin slips his phone from his pocket with an apologetic glance at Ricky. For a moment,
Gyuvin’s expression is unreadable, but then he’s chuckling quietly, and Ricky’s curiosity is
piqued.

”What is it?”

”The internet is a strange place indeed,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky frowns, because that
answers nothing. But then Gyuvin is turning his phone over and sliding it across the table to
Ricky, gesturing down at the device. “I think you have found yourself some more fans after
today.”

Feeling even more confused, Ricky scoops the phone up, squinting down at the screen.
Gyuvin has some sort of online forum pulled up, and—and there’s a picture of him and
Gyuvin plastered at the top of the page.

shay

you guys are not going to believe who my friend saw today at the oriental pearl tower!?

[Image Attached]
Upvoted by: kati, dr. kim, cas, meche, paris 🍓, and 12,647 others
Comments:

↳ mimi

that's literally kim gyuvin?

Upvoted by: Megan L, ball anon, aylin, rui, xenny, and 9,026 others

↳ kami 🪽
no but doesn’t he have a show in cali in like three days? How is he in shanghai and no
one even knew??

↳ Lia

my friend works at the JFK international and she swore to me she saw him but i didn’t
believe her because no one else said anything…

↳ eve ⛲️
i expect my apology in cold hard cash

↳ Lia

take my life savings take everything i have I’ll never doubt you again

↳ sy 🍓
Who else is going to the concert?

↳ vers

me!

↳ machi

I AM! I hope he’s back in time for it…

↳ ori 🕊️
He will, trust 🙏 he’s never missed a show. Remember that one time he sprained his
ankle but still performed sitting down on a stool the entire time? Even though he’d only
just been discharged from the hospital the day before?

↳ mon

Kim Gyuvin is the ideal man, the ideal singer, the love of my life. But WHO is that cutie
he’s with?
↳ oliv 🍒
that’s what i want to know, he’s so pretty!

↳ M&V

his face is unreal

↳ mari

do you think that’s his boyfriend?

↳ ijbol

no but wasn’t he dating that pop star?

↳ aria

everyone knows that wasn’t a real relationship 💀

Byeol 🍮
You guys don’t know Shen Quanrui? He’s an incredible artist and his style is so pretty,,,

🥺
plus he’s such a cutie I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him once and he was so fawking
sweet

Upvoted by: neo, BanAn, fede, zai!!, em, and 10,294 others

Comments:

↳ min

U MET HIM? Wow, so lucky…

↳ nyang 🎀
do you have a better picture of him? for science

↳g

here he has an insta but doesn’t post his face [Link]

↳ 🌱
his art is incredible where has he been my whole life

↳ cn

my fave painter 😭 this is the last place i expected to see him but i am not mad
↳ jian

ME TOO! It’s like my two worlds are colliding right now

↳ odd gobble

shay we need you to come through with more photos for the masses

↳ shay

there’s no more they were panicking too much im sorry 😭💔

↳ Ari! 🐍
completely valid tbh

↳ lvrboy

we’re just lucky enough to get these photos

↳ aimi

I FOUND SOME EVERYONE STOP STRESSING [Image Attached]

Upvoted by: yana, Narin, ren, a n e d, ilia, and 8,321 others

↳ jabi

i could kiss you right now

↳ eva

this guy should be a model how is he real

↳ squeak 🐬
he kind of does have the look of a celebrity, no?

↳ rysa

i feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before

↳ mars

a man as beautiful as that would certainly be unforgettable

kori 🍰
kim gyuvin and shen quanrui are the next it couple of the decade: change my mind (you
won’t, but feel free to try anyway) [Image Attached]

upvoted by: jules 🍊, tayri, shrimp 🍤, livi, nini 🪼, and 25,499 others
Comments:

↳ jas

WHO ARE THESE FINE MEN

↳ natalie 🪁

im picking up what you’re putting down

↳ kori 🍰
im so glad u understand

↳ 🧸
I’m obsessed with how they look standing next to each other

↳ andi

you’re obsessed? Look at quanrui

↳ Berry ☄️
i didnt even notice but WOW is he STARING

↳ ria 🎀
surely they’re a couple with the way quanrui is looking at him

↳ 📞
if soft was defined by a person..

↳ Alia

this could be my new hyper fixation. IF they go public that is

↳爱

can they adopt me?

shay
my friend omitted some details? It turns out that Gyuvin KISSED ricky??????

Upvoted by: alex, ✨madi ✨, raam, sol, ani 🩷, and 15,395 others
Comments:

↳ bee

WHY IS SHE GATEKEEPING

↳ kiki

what do you mean they kissed? 😭😭

↳ ness

mouth to mouth babe

↳ kiki

I KNOW WHAT KISSING IS

↳ ✨🦌
i feel a little bad, your friend wasn’t following and ruining their date right?

↳ traumatini

i never even thought about that ☹️

↳ shay

NOOOOOO she was with a tour group and happened to see him
tower is super massive they tried to give them space i promise
😭 its not like the
↳ anna

phew i was worried…

↳ dada

me too stalkers are not cool

↳ dyan 🌹
how do i be a fly on the wall in the oriental pearl tower in shanghai

↳ 🥭mel🍓
i just searched this exact phrase online
↳ lina

i’ll join you *rubs fly hands together*

↳ nini ☀️
bzzt bzzt… fly reporting for action

↳m

WAIT FOR ME I’M FLYING IN TOOOOOO

↳ noe ⭐️
what is this fly army and how do i join it

↳ Yapyyap

Is this not Lord of the Flies

↳ vic 🧋🪶
not exactly my friend

↳ lilith

no but when you think about it, it kind of is…

shay

final update from me… gyuvin kissed ricky on his hand NOT his lips

upvoted by: shu, alani, shel, ein :D, loglady, and 19,343 others

Comments:

↳ 语晴|章吴

call me old fashioned but I think this is much more romantic

↳ Cece 💙
i agree with you!

↳V

this is the kind of scene from a romantic movie oh my gosh…

↳ lina 🪼🍉
didn’t he have a scene like this in ‘Our Fated Stars’?

↳ eumpapaya 💗
HE DID

↳ atlas

why would you remind me of this 😭 it was so sweet

↳ yzra

i don’t know either of these men but the more i read about them the more i think I’m
falling for them

↳ lolo

currently experiencing the same thing 😭

↳ sputnik

IT JUST GETS BETTER AND BETTER WITH EACH NEW POST

↳빛 👾
where do i find romance like this

↳ myra 😽
let me know if you find out the answer 🥲
↳ jay 🔂
I second this

↳ shelby

in desperate need of an invite to their wedding STAT

↳ 🌷🎀🍓
me too!!!!! I’ll be the flower girl

↳ rhuurui

shotgun being the ring bearer

↳ yonn
 i’ll be the officiator

↳ gi

woah can you officiate my wedding?

↳ yonn

i’m not actually qualified BUT I’LL DO IT

↳H

They get married -> They have their honeymoon -> They have a child -> And then
another child -> We rejoice

↳ mei 🌸
I JUST KNOW THEY WILL HAVE THE CUTEST BABIES

↳ miri

wait but arent they both men?

↳ mei 🌸
KIM GYUVIN WILL MAKE MPREG REAL!!!!

↳ gabby

the real question is what flavour cake do we think they would have?

↳ kalie

surely not boring chocolate

↳ eliannah

i’m calling it now—vanilla with strawberry frosting and mango pieces on the top. I don't
know why, but it just calls to me… it makes sense

Ricky sets the phone back on the table, huffing a laugh through his nose. “Wow,” he says,
glancing back up at Gyuvin who’s been watching him the entire time Ricky was reading
through the comments. “That’s a lot.”

”In a good way or a bad way?”

”Good,” Ricky replies honestly. He rolls his lips between his teeth. “Is this, like, a daily
occurrence for you?”
”Pretty much,” Gyuvin says easily, shrugging a shoulder like it wasn’t a big deal. Which, to
him, it likely wasn’t—Gyuvin is a celebrity now, after all. Ricky is still trying to wrap his
head around that. Separating the Gyuvin he knew back then and the Gyuvin he knows now.
Both versions are so different yet still so similar. “I’m just grateful my fan base has a good
sense of humour.”

”Your fan base,” Ricky teases, and Gyuvin rolls his eyes good naturedly. “You know, they
said you could make male pregnancy real. That’s wild.”

And Ricky had thought he’d had the upper hand—thought saying that to Gyuvin would make
him flustered, yet it seems to have the opposite effect. Gyuvin smirks dangerously, leaning
his elbows on the table and closing the tiny amount of space between him and Ricky.
Uncaring, apparently, that they weren’t alone—not like the other two people in the corner of
the restaurant were paying them attention, and Grandma Lin could still be heard in the
kitchen cooking, but it still stirs butterflies in Ricky’s stomach. Something flashes in
Gyuvin’s eyes, and oh, how he looks so much like the boy Ricky had known all those years
ago right now.

”What, do you think I can’t?” Gyuvin murmurs. One of his fingers tilts Ricky’s chin up, and
their eyes lock in a gaze that seems awfully heated. Gyuvin cocks his head to the side, dark
eyes roaming over Ricky’s face, and it feels awfully piercing, like Gyuvin can read every
single one of the thoughts floating around in Ricky’s mind.

”It’s—It’s not possible,” Ricky stutters. He gulps, feeling his adam’s apple brushing against
Gyuvin’s finger that’s still holding his chin up. “I—you—I can’t carry a baby.”

Gyuvin just hums, his thumb creeping up to brush against the plumpness of Ricky’s bottom
lip. It feels like Ricky is frozen in place, like he can’t move, every single atom in his body on
fire, attuned only to Kim Gyuvin. “I think…” Gyuvin drawls out, pulling Ricky’s bottom lip
down ever so slightly before letting it go. “I think that anything is possible if you try hard
enough, don’t you agree? I mean, look at where I am now…”

Gyuvin is obviously referencing his fame—at least, that’s what Ricky thinks he’s referencing.
Maybe he’s also talking about literally being here right now with Ricky. But either way,
something stirs in Ricky’s gut at the smooth timbre to Gyuvin’s voice, and he looks away, the
touch of Gyuvin’s fingers on his face disappearing. “I don’t think trying hard is something
that can get me pregnant, Kim Gyuvin,” Ricky mutters to the wall, and he hears Gyuvin
laugh breathily. Ricky thinks that Gyuvin might say something else, something a little more
unhinged just to push Ricky’s buttons even further, but before he can they’re interrupted.

Two bowls of steaming soup are set down in front of Ricky and Gyuvin. “Eat up,” Grandma
Lin tells Ricky, a stern expression on her face. “You look skinnier every time you come in
here.”

And before Ricky can even deny that, Grandma Lin is already whisking away, heading across
to the other table to chat lively with the other patrons. Normally, she would sit with Ricky as
he ate, and they’d talk about Ricky’s latest projects or the neighbourhood gossip, but perhaps
Grandma Lin wishes to leave him alone right now as Ricky clearly has company.
At least now, Ricky can blame the pink in his cheeks on the food. “Oxtail soup,” he tells
Gyuvin, who’s been looking down at his own bowl curiously. “Spicy, by the smells of it.”

Ricky waits for Gyuvin to take a spoonful first before having his own, and of course, it’s
delicious. Gyuvin seems to share the same sentiment.

”This is incredible,” Gyuvin says, awed as he immediately goes back in for more. Ricky bites
back a smile, feeling proud on Grandma Lin’s behalf as he watches Gyuvin enjoying the
soup.

They eat in silence for a little while, and it isn’t until their bowls are more than halfway
finished that Ricky speaks up again.

”So,” he begins, taking a sip of water to clear away the lingering spice on his tongue.
Gyuvin’s head pops up as he waits for Ricky to continue. “This fake relationship that
everyone but I seem to know about…”

”Ah.” Gyuvin clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, it was just some
silly PR stunt. It wasn’t anything serious.”

”You told me that already,” Ricky replies with a teasing smile. “But I want to know more
details.”

Gyuvin sighs, but it sounds more fondly exasperated than irritated. “Well. After I split from
the band and left Shaboom Entertainment, I signed with a new company—Interstellar
Records. They weren’t really sure what to do with me at first—hell, I wasn’t sure what to do
with myself. But I started working with some producers, trying to find some sounds that I felt
fit me right. Hongjoong ended up moving to my label as well—I guess he really wanted to
work with me. And you know, I was sort of riding the popularity from Disorderly Conduct
but it was also a double edged sword, because all people could talk about was why we
disbanded so early on. And, you know how it is—people started to spread nasty rumours,
none of which were true.”

”I never even thought about that being a possibility,” Ricky admits, feeling a little ashamed.
But Gyuvin just shakes his head, knocking his knee against Ricky’s beneath the table.

”It’s not your fault, or my fault, or anyone from the band's fault. People will speculate—it’s
just unfortunately human nature to do so. But the label was worried that the rumours would
hurt me so early into my career, and I guess in turn, them too. They’d invested in me and
wanted to protect that investment. So my PR manager decided to get creative.”

”Minjeong—my PR manager—and some of the higher ups from the company had a meeting
to discuss what to do. And, somehow, everyone settled on the idea that she brought up. That I
should pretend to date someone for a while—preferably someone new and fresh to the
industry—in hopes that it would give the masses something else to focus on.”

”Oh?” Ricky says, grinning as he leans forwards. “And who was the lucky girl?”
”She was an industry plant,” Gyuvin explains. “They wanted to try to make it less obvious.
Her name is Belle—Shim Belle—and she was signed to the company around the same time
as I was.”

”Wait,” Ricky interrupts, eyes widening a touch. “You—you faked dated Shim Belle? As in,
Crimson Rogue Shim Belle?”

”I thought you didn’t watch movies?”

”Gyuvin,” Ricky deadpans, “of course I’ve seen Crimson Rogue. I’ve seen all three movies,
how could I not? They’re only, like, some of the most popular movies of the past decade.
She’s literally the female version of James Bond.”

”You have a point,” Gyuvin replies, nodding. He’s grinning now. “But, yeah—that was a long
time ago. Many years before she got those massive roles—her incline in success was gradual
and natural enough that no one really put two and two together that her father was a revered
script writer in the industry, and her mother one of the board members of Sony.”

”And I’m assuming it worked?” Ricky asks, and Gyuvin nods. “So, how was it? Fake dating
someone?”

Gyuvin’s nose scrunches. “Weird. I mean, Belle is lovely, though—we still keep in contact.
We got along really well which made it easy. I was worried she’d be snotty, I’ve heard horror
stories about other celebrities pretending to date each other. But we never had any problems.
It was easy enough—it only lasted for a few months, and all we had to do was attend a few
events together and be sighted out in public for the paparazzi to take photos of us.”

Ricky can’t help it. “Did you kiss?”

”Yeah,” Gyuvin says instantly, like he’d been expecting Ricky to ask that. “We had to, a few
times for the cameras. Gotta make it believable. Held hands and all that stuff.”

And now, Ricky is just being cheeky. “Did you… do more than that?”

Gyuvin scoffs, reaching across the table to gently flick at Ricky’s arm. “You know I don’t
like girls.”

”Well, for all I knew you could have. It’s not like we ever spoke about it.”

Gyuvin pauses as he considers Ricky’s words. “You have a point. But to answer your
question—both questions—no, we never did anything more than kiss. For the cameras. And
no, I don’t like girls.” And then, before Ricky can even speak, Gyuvin drops a bomb on him.
“To be honest, I just like you.”

”Again with the cheesy lines…” Ricky mutters, spooning more soup into his mouth to give
him something else to focus on. Across the other side of the table Gyuvin just laughs, picking
up his own spoon to finish off his meal.

It’s comfortable. To be here like this with Gyuvin. With their knees knocking against each
other, passing idle conversation about less trivial things now as they finish their food.
Occasionally, Ricky will glance up to already find Gyuvin looking at him, and their gazes
will lock for a few moments before they both look down at their bowls, smiling stupidly into
their spoons.

And they’re both older now. Almost thirty, which still blows Ricky’s mind every time he
thinks about it. And yet, when he’s with Gyuvin, Ricky feels like he’s a teenager again.
Living on the highs of a crush, his heart stuttering stupidly when Gyuvin cracks his knuckles
or leans back to stretch. And Ricky doesn’t think it’s because they’ve been apart for so long
that he’s feeling this way—no, he’s pretty sure it’s purely the fact that Gyuvin just makes him
feel young.

And he wonders. He wonders if it will always feel like this.

He wonders, if when he’s old and grey and hobbling around with the aid of a walking stick,
would Gyuvin still be by his side? Would he still make Ricky feel beautiful, feel young…
feel loved?

”What are you thinking about?”

Ricky’s head shoots up, blinking away his thoughts. “Nothing much,” he says, not wanting to
reveal the truth. It feels too raw. “Have you finished eating?”

It was nearing three in the afternoon—they’d had a late lunch after the shenanigans of today.
Gyuvin nods. “Yeah. I tell you what, I’m going to be dreaming about this place for a very
long time.”

”Then we’ll just have to come back here,” Ricky says easily, and neither of them comment on
the sureness in his voice. Grandma Lin is still over at the other table, and it gives Ricky the
perfect opportunity to fish out his wallet.

”Wait—let me pay,” Gyuvin tries to say, but Ricky shakes his head, glancing up once he’s
secured a bundle of notes from his wallet.

”Do you have anything other than credit cards or American dollars?” He asks, and Gyuvin
pauses before shaking his head. “Mm. It’s cash only here. You can get the next one. Now, are
you ready to run?”

Ricky tucks the corner of the bundle beneath his empty soup bowl, already pushing his chair
back. Gyuvin is half a step behind him, confused as he jerkily stands up. “Yes—why are we
running?”

”Because,” Ricky says, reaching for Gyuvin’s hand easily, like it's the most natural thing in
the world. “I always give Grandma Lin too much money and she always tries to give it back
Now come on—let’s go!”

And as they run out of the restaurant, all Ricky can hear is the blood rushing to his ears,
Grandma Lin calling after them with a few choice words, and Gyuvin’s rambunctious
laughter as they stumble down the hill, trying to not fall over.
God. Ricky never wants this day to end.

Each hour Ricky spent apart from Gyuvin feels agonisingly long. Ricky hadn’t really known
what to do with himself, spending most of his time sitting on the couch and staring at the
clock as the seconds ticked by. But it felt like the clock was moving in slow motion, or
perhaps broken—it wasn’t, and Ricky had gotten up to change the batteries just to be sure,
but it still moved at the same speed.

It was obvious that Ricky was missing Gyuvin. He could admit that to himself, at least. But
he’s missed Gyuvin for eight years. Ricky can wait a couple more hours.

Though, a smaller and more evil part of Ricky keeps telling himself that that was it. After
their day together, after Gyuvin had dropped Ricky to his front door with a kiss on the cheek
and a parting promise to see him later at the gallery, that Ricky wouldn’t see him again. That
Gyuvin had left, boarded a flight and was never going to come back. That he’d given Ricky
false hope.

And it’s stupid. Because deep down, Ricky knows that Gyuvin would never do that to him.
But that still hadn’t stopped Ricky from checking what flights were leaving Shanghai that
evening, panicking when he saw there was one, then promptly sending Jingxiang an SOS text
because Ricky was two seconds away from chewing his thumb off from the sheer amount of
nerves he was experiencing right now.

Once Jingxiang finally lets himself into Ricky’s house and walks down the hall only to see
Ricky splayed all over the couch like he’s on death’s doorstep, he lets out an obnoxiously
loud sigh, dragging Ricky upright to sit properly.

“You’re pathetic,” Jingxiang says, rather bluntly.

Glumly, Ricky nods. “I know.”

“I’ve never seen you so horrifically down bad.”

“I know.”

Jingxiang drops onto the couch cushion next to Ricky. Crosses his legs, leans his elbow on
the arm so that he can rest his head on the palm of his hand as he sits there and blatantly
judges Ricky. “Text him.”

“What? No!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jingxiang takes a controlled breath in. “You’ve put this
ridiculous narrative in your head and instead of just asking the man if he’s still in the city,
you’d rather sit here and internally panic like a squirrel that’s taken a line of coke.”

Well. That was one way to put it.

“Yeah. Pretty much,” Ricky replies, and Jingxiang groans.

“Why even ask me to come over if you’re not going to actively listen to the advice I’m trying
to give you?”

“Because I felt like complaining and you’re my favourite person to do it to.”

Jingxiang mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like next time I’m
making Yizhuo do this. “Is he not coming back here to take you to the gallery?”

“No,” Ricky says miserably, though it’s his own fault and he has no one to blame but himself
for that. “I asked him to go back to make sure Hao and Hanbin actually show up this time.”

“…Then he’ll be there and not on a flight, you idiot.”

Ricky turns to face Jingxiang, his thumb caught between his teeth. “But he could have still
left. Like there’s no reason for him to stay.”

There’s approximately three seconds of silence as Jingxiang stares at Ricky before he

explodes in a rapid flurry of Mandarin that Ricky almost struggles to understand.

”You—you’re so stupid! Why would he leave? What goddamn reason would Gyuvin have to
leave after he flew his ass all the way here, on a whim, a whim that could have turned out to
be something terrible! Because from what you’ve told me—which, by the way, is not much—
but even I can deduce that he likes you, you absolute moron! He slept over and you went on a
date and probably did all the disgustingly cute things that couples do, and yet, yet you still
think he would leave? Is he a terrible person?”

”No!” Ricky immediately exclaims, and Jingxiang just drags a hand down his face.

”Then he won’t leave! Can’t you get that through that thick skull of yours?” Jingxiang
reaches over to gently shake Ricky by the shoulders, and Ricky swears he can feel his brain
rattling around in his so-called thick skull. “This guy—he’s so into you! Because, lets be
honest, what normal person would take a long flight with no fucking idea of what they’re
doing and no idea what they’re getting into, just for you!”

”Hey!” Ricky says, “That's rude! What do you mean, just for me?”

”Ugh. Not what I meant! You know what I meant!”

And Ricky does know what Jingxiang had meant, but he can’t help the anxiety that builds up
inside of him, thick and gooey and threatening to explode like a volcano. For Ricky,
everything that’s happened in the last day simply just seems too good to be true. He nibbles at
his thumbnail before Jingxiang pulls his hand away from his mouth with an irritated sigh.

“You’re thinking way too hard about this,” Jingxiang tells him, adopting a slightly softer
tone. “I know you have a problem with doing that—getting in your own head, thinking of
every single negative thing that could come from something. But I’m telling you, this Gyuvin
guy likes you—if you’ve been hung up on him for this entire time, and he just appears here
after so long, that’s like—fate or something.”
Fate. God, now Jingxiang is talking about fate. Ricky thinks he’s going crazy.

“But what if he’s having second thoughts?” Ricky whispers.

“Did you give him a reason to?”

And—and Ricky pauses. He thinks.

“I don’t think so.”

It’s glaringly obvious that Jingxiang is two seconds away from screaming, but he takes in a
deep breath, plastering a strained smile across his face. “Then that’s your answer.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Nope!” Jingxiang stands from the couch, tugging Ricky up who goes without a fight.
“Nope. Nope nope nope. We’re not doing any more of this.” He begins to push Ricky down
the hall towards his bedroom. “You’re going to get ready, and I’m going to take you to the
gallery, because suddenly I don’t trust you to take yourself there.”

Ricky doesn’t even get the chance to defend himself before he’s being shoved into his
bedroom, Jingxiang slamming the door closed. “And don’t come out until you look like a full
course meal ready to be devoured!”

Sighing, Ricky shuffles over to his wardrobe, beginning his second freak out of the day about
what to wear.

“I’m going to throw up.”

”No, you are not,” Jingxiang hisses, grabbing Ricky by the elbow and practically pulling him
into the gallery. It’s probably a good thing Ricky is being physically dragged into the
building, because otherwise he’d probably be running away like a spooked cat right now.
“You’re fine. Stop overthinking it.”

”That’s not possible,” Ricky mutters, but he does take a deep breath in an attempt to calm his
racing heart. They walk past Zitao, and Ricky shoots the gallery manager what he hopes is a
friendly smile, but he’s positive it comes out more like a grimace instead.

He’s going to be overthinking it because it’s likely going to take Gyuvin and Co a little while
to get here. Maybe Ricky can try to sneak outside for a little while, he knows that there’s a
pretty little garden at the back of the gallery, and—

And they’re here.

They’re actually all here already.

”Fuck,” Ricky says, and JIngxiang opens his mouth to voice his confusion, but pauses when
he follows Ricky’s line of sight.

”Damn,” Jingxiang says with a low whistle. “Attractive people really do attract attractive
people.”

Ricky ignores him, rooted to the spot as he stares at the three men. They’ve yet to notice
Ricky and Jingxiang’s arrival, instead grouped around a painting—one of Ricky’s paintings
—murmuring between themselves as they point to different sections of the canvas. And it’s
stupid, because Ricky knows that his paintings are here, hours of hard work on display for
hundreds of strangers to observe each day, and yet—yet he feels shy knowing that Gyuvin is
here. Because Gyuvin has never actually seen any of Ricky’s work.

He’d asked one day, a long time ago, but Ricky had brushed him off. He’s not sure why—
maybe it felt too personal, maybe Ricky just wasn’t quite ready to let him in like that just yet.
But he’s here now, eyes roaming across all of Ricky’s work, and it makes a rush of self-
consciousness rise up in Ricky like a tsunami wave. Jingxiang tugs at Ricky’s elbow, trying
to get him to move, but Ricky doesn’t go.

Honestly, he considers turning tail and booking it out of the gallery. He’s relieved that Gyuvin
is here, of course. But he’s also really fucking anxious, and he’s starting to think this was a
terrible idea.

And of course Gyuvin chooses this time to look over his shoulder. Maybe he felt Ricky’s
presence, that tickling on the back of his neck like someone was staring at him. Once again
Ricky is blown away by Gyuvin’s stunning appearance. He looks just as, if not more refined
than he had on their date—a silky black dress shirt tucked into well-fitted black slacks, a thin
silver chain around his neck contrasting beautifully against his tanned skin. His hair is styled
in soft waves, and he smiles at Ricky once he catches sight of him.

Ricky really does feel like he’s going to throw up.

”Ricky.”

Jingxiang steps into Ricky’s line of vision, his thick brows pulled together in concern. Ricky
blinks, swaying slightly on the spot, and Jingxiang steadies him with hands on his shoulders.
“Okay. I didn’t realise just how bad your anxiety actually was about this.”

”Because—because I haven’t seen him for so long!” Ricky hisses. “And suddenly he’s just—
he’s everywhere, and it’s so overwhelming, and he’s here and I’ve never shown him my art
and—“

”Ricky.” Jingxiang cuts him off gently, genuine concern swimming in his brown eyes. “Look.
If he’s come all this way after so many years then that means something, okay? Hell—you
told me that he said he loves you.”
”People can still take their words back,” Ricky mutters, and it’s more of a dig at himself than
anyone else.

”Do you think he’d do that?”

Does Ricky think Gyuvin would?

No. No, he doesn’t, because Gyuvin isn’t a liar like Ricky is.

And the answer must shine through on his face, because Jingxiang nods like that’s what he’d
expected. “Come on. I want you to introduce me to the man you’ve been moping over for so
many damn years.”

”Are you not… do you not feel weird?” Ricky can’t help but to ask.

Jingxiang just grins that grin that makes him look like a sweet honey bear, even though Ricky
knows he’s anything but. “I really don’t. I’m happy for you. I mean—I’m sure I was never
what you really wanted—“

”Jingxiang.” Ricky’s lips curve downwards.

”Shush,” Jingxiang gently chastises him. “Honestly, you should be very well aware by now
that we were just blowing off steam with each other. But you’ve found your man again and
you need to go and be with him. Don’t worry about me. I still want to be in your life, as a
friend—but only if Gyuvin is okay with it, of course.”

Ricky glances over Jingxiang’s shoulder, and he’s not sure what he’s expecting to see. Maybe
jealousy written into Gyuvin’s expression, maybe an angry tension in his shoulders.

But he doesn’t see anything like that.

Just Gyuvin standing there, his hands in his pockets as he tunes out whatever Hanbin is
saying to him, staring at Ricky instead. A soft, fond smile plays on his lips. He’s patient. He’s
relaxed.

He’s nothing like the hotheaded boy Ricky once knew.

And it’s a little bittersweet, but Ricky knows it’s for the best. Because they were too toxic for
each other, too caught up in the demons in their own closets to truly understand what each
other needed.

It’s enough to calm Ricky down, though. Because it’s clear to see that Gyuvin doesn’t mind
that another man’s hands are on him. A man that Gyuvin knows has been intimate with Ricky
up until he’d walked back into Ricky’s life. The entire situation is a far cry from what they’d
been like all those years ago.

They’ve grown.

And Ricky is so fucking proud of not only himself, but of Gyuvin, too.
So he exhales slowly, letting his eyes slip closed for a second as he composes himself. When
they open once more he directs his gaze back towards Jingxiang. “Okay,” he tells Jingxiang.
“Let’s go.”

Ricky and Jingxiang link elbows, walking across the gallery towards Gyuvin. He’s still
watching them, and his smile only grows bigger with each step closer Ricky gets. It feels like
it takes hours to get there, like Ricky is walking in slow motion, each footstep thudding
loudly in his ears. But then they’re there, right in front of Gyuvin, and Ricky greets him with
a pathetically out of breath sounding hello.

Before Gyuvin can even say anything though, Ricky is almost barrelled over by Zhang Hao
leaping at him and wrapping him in a death squeezing hug. “Ricky!” He all but shouts in his
ear, “I missed you so much! My little baby, how do you look more grown up every time I see
you!”

Ricky wheezes in response, and thankfully Zhang Hao releases his grip enough for Ricky to
inhale air back into his lungs again. “It hasn’t even been that long,” Ricky says, and Zhang
Hao just sighs in response.

”Am I not allowed to miss you, huh?”

”You are,” Ricky replies, rolling his eyes. He wriggles out of Zhang Hao’s arms, taking stock
of his cousin.

Zhang Hao doesn’t look that different from when Ricky had last seen him, which had
probably only been six months ago. His hair is a slightly lighter brown, whether from salon
visits or more time in the sun, Ricky isn’t sure. A smart-looking navy suit clings to Zhang
Hao’s lanky frame, highlighting the slimness of his waist and the long length of his legs.

What stands out the most to Ricky, though, is the stressed lines creasing Zhang Hao’s face.
Not noticeable to a passerby, but Ricky knows his cousin well enough to know his tells.
Zhang Hao’s hands hang at his sides, fists curled, and Ricky just knows that half crescent
moons will be indented into Zhang Hao’s palms.

”Hello again, Ricky.”

Glancing over, Ricky sends a polite smile Hanbin’s way. He’s not yet sure what to feel about
the other man, not when his cousin seems so stressed out right now. Ricky doesn’t think that
Hanbin is a bad guy, not after what Gyuvin has told him, but he’s still treading carefully.

Hanbin’s hair is dark now, falling in lazy strands across his forehead. He, too, is wearing a
suit, but Ricky can tell that it’s not professionally tailored like Zhang Hao’s, or current season
like Gyuvin’s. The top few buttons are undone, and Ricky catches a glimpse of a tattoo inked
between his collarbones—a sun, star, and moon. Ricky wonders if Hanbin has always had
that.

”Hi, Hanbin,” Ricky replies. It feels a little awkward.

He’s saved, though, Zhang Hao wrapping a hand around Ricky’s wrist and tugging. “We’ll be
back soon,” he tells Hanbin, Gyuvin, and Jingxiang, already dragging Ricky away before
Ricky even gets the chance to introduce Jingxiang, or say anything else.

”Hao—what the hell—“ Ricky tries to say, but Zhang Hao cuts him off as he drags him out of
the main gallery room.

”Your loverboy can wait,” Zhang Hao throws over his shoulder, and Ricky squawks
indignantly.

He doesn’t understand how Zhang Hao already knows how to navigate the gallery, but within
a minute he’s been whisked into some random room that’s empty save for some furniture
draped in sheets. This is where Zhang Hao decides to go, ripping the sheet off and sinking
down onto a leather couch.

Ricky isn’t sure what he’s expecting. For Zhang Hao to immediately spill the beans, or to ask
how Ricky is going, or how Gyuvin is. Anything but what he says next.

”I need you to hit me,” Zhang Hao tells him seriously.

Ricky blanches. “What?”

”I need you to hit me.”

”Hao, what the fuck?” Ricky says regarding his cousin with an incredulous look. “Why?”

”Because I’m a moron,” Zhang Hao bemoans, burying his face in his hands. “I need some
sense knocked into me.”

”And I need an explanation,” Ricky says firmly. He gently pries Zhang Hao’s hands away
from his face to hold instead, and Zhang Hao grips onto Ricky’s hands like they’re a lifeline.

So Zhang Hao tells him everything.

He tells Ricky how they’d met that night at the bar, that same night Ricky had disappeared
into the bathroom with Gyuvin. And Ricky knows that already—in fact, he knows all about
Zhang Hao’s little escapades with Hanbin that had occurred over the span of a few weeks.
But he’d never thought it was anything serious.

If Ricky was notorious for sleeping around back then, Zhang Hao was five times worse. But
the thing was, Ricky had always viewed Zhang Hao as someone unobtainable. His cousin
didn’t care for feelings, didn't care about burning bridges. He’d been snotty and used his
money to get him places. Just a rich kid with no goals in life.

But whilst Ricky was spiralling down the black hole that was Kim Gyuvin, Zhang Hao was
spinning a web without meaning too. Because, before he knew it, Hanbin was becoming a
constant in Zhang Hao’s life without him even realising it.

And it didn't have any meaning. For so long, Zhang Hao had played Hanbin like a fiddle.
Teased him along, dangling a carrot on a stick for Hanbin to helplessly follow. Because it was
all in good fun, wasn’t it?

He pushed and pushed and pushed, and Hanbin took it, because—

“Because he fell in love with me,” Zhang Hao mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face.

”He told you that?”

”Down on one fucking knee like he was proposing,” Zhang Hao reveals, and Ricky gasps in
shock. “Like. What the hell was I supposed to do with that information?”

”Well…” Ricky treads carefully like he’s walking on eggshells. “What did you feel?”

”I don’t know. Not love. I don’t think so.”

It’s disappointing, but Ricky understands. Zhang Hao has always been standoffish like that.
Frivolous and uncaring of anyone excluding himself and his family. He kept what he loved
close to him.

”Then what happened?”

Zhang Hao sighs. “I told him I didn’t feel the same. I mean, to be honest, I kind of… went in.
Very hard.”

Ricky doesn’t have a good feeling about this. “Hao, what do you mean by that?”

”I mean that I told him I didn’t fall in love with boys like him,” Zhang Hao replies with a
grimace, and Ricky winces on behalf of Hanbin. “I… look, you don’t need to know every
single thing I said. I’d rather not repeat it. It was a lot of nasty things because I was freaking
out—like, I’ve had guys confess to me before. But never—never like that. Because I could
tell just how smitten and truthful Hanbin was being, and—and I knew that deep down, he was
a good guy. He wasn’t anything like those assholes I’d slept with, and I think… I think that
scared me.”

”Believe me, I understand that completely,” Ricky says, and Zhang Hao smiles thinly.

”Yeah. I know. So… I pushed him away. I didn’t want to think about how he made me feel. I
would have preferred to go back to how I was,” Zhang Hao says, wringing his hands together
in his lap. “And for a while, I did. Or I thought I did. I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really
stopped thinking about him. The what ifs of it all.”

And ah… yet another parallel in Ricky’s life. Though, this time, it wasn’t Gyuvin. It was
Zhang Hao.

Ricky feels bad. He wishes he could have been there more for his cousin. Yet again, Ricky is
reminded of just how blindsided he’d been by his own overwhelming emotions all of those
years ago. It’s not another path he wishes to travel down again.

”But you’re here now, with Hanbin,” Ricky points out, and Zhang Hao nods. “So… what
does that mean?”
”I’m not in love with him,” Zhang Hao mumbles. “But—after what happened with that
asshole at the restaurant, and Hanbin standing up for me, I… I think it resurfaced feelings.
Nothing crazy, just… fuck. I don’t know. I really don’t know, Ricky.”

Ricky can sense that Zhang Hao is getting increasingly stressed, so he reaches out and wraps
his cousin in a hug. His hands soothe up and down Zhang Hao’s back as he whispers, “It’s
okay. You don’t have to know yet. You’ve already made the first step—hell, you flew him to
China with you. That has to mean something, right?”

There’s a beat of silence before Zhang Hao replies, his voice muffled against Ricky’s
shoulder. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

”And are you in a rush? To find your answer?”

”…No.”

Ricky leans back, brushing some stray hairs away from his cousin's forehead. “Then you
have no reason to worry. I think that, if Gyuvin came back to me, then Hanbin will come
back to you too. If that’s what you want?”

Zhang Hao takes a moment to think about this, before he nods, chewing on his bottom lip. “I
think I do, Ricky,” Zhang Hao admits, blinking rapidly. “I think I want to know what it’s like
to love someone.”

”It’s a beautiful feeling to experience,” Ricky replies, probably a little too quickly, but he
doesn’t care. Zhang Hao does smile at that, a little wobbly, but it’s there nonetheless. “No
type of tequila can make you feel the way you do when you love someone, Hao. And I hope
that you can understand it one day—whether it’s Hanbin, or someone else.”

”Thank you,” Zhang Hao whispers. He sniffles, before shaking his head quickly like he’s
trying to physically dispel his tears away by doing so. “Now. That’s enough about me—what
about you and Gyuvin, huh?”

Ricky grins. “What about Gyuvin and I?”

And when Zhang Hao leans forwards to playfully smack at his arm, Ricky giggles, the sound
carrying around the room. He hopes that he can experience this feeling for a very, very long
time.

“Jingxiang seems like a nice guy,” Gyuvin comments idly as he and Ricky meander through
the gallery.

Ricky chokes on nothing. “Um,” he says, not quite sure how to respond to that.
Grinning, Gyuvin wraps his arm around Ricky’s shoulder and tugs him closer. “You don’t
need to worry. I’m not going to, like, get angry or anything.”

”You don’t think that it’s weird?” Ricky can’t help but to ask.

Gyuvin shakes his head. His eyes sparkle in the gallery lighting. He smiles handsomely at a
younger couple that clearly recognise who he is, but they scurry away before Gyuvin can
offer a photo or autograph.

“I don’t. Jealousy… I think there’s a time and a place for it,” Gyuvin says wisely, “and here?
It’s not. Although… I do hope that your arrangement has been… cancelled, now.”

”Obviously,” Ricky mutters quickly, and Gyuvin laughs again. Ricky’s not sure if he’ll ever
get used to that. Just how freely Gyuvin expresses himself now. It’s nice, it really is, and
Ricky is so glad that Gyuvin feels comfortable enough to do so. Again, Ricky is struck by
just how much Gyuvin has grown.

”We might have to set him up with someone else,” Gyuvin suggests, looking over his
shoulder, and Ricky follows his line of sight to see Jingxiang chatting animatedly with
Hanbin and Zhang Hao. It’s good, Ricky is glad Jingxiang is there—because he’s breaking
the tension between the two men, and Zhang Hao… is letting him. Even after so clearly
disliking him for years. Perhaps the nerves of being around Hanbin had finally gotten to him.

”Did you have someone in mind?” Ricky asks.

Gyuvin’s teeth flash as he grins wolfishly. “Perhaps.” Before Ricky can further question him,
Gyuvin changes the topic. “I never knew you were such a good artist. Your paintings are
beautiful.”

”Thank you,” Ricky murmurs, ducking his head down, suddenly feeling shy.

”It’s a set, right?” Gyuvin asks, and Ricky hums in agreement. “I thought so.”

Gyuvin stops them in the corner of the gallery, his gaze drifting towards the trio of Ricky’s
canvases on the opposite wall. “The first one feels… heavy,” Gyuvin says, eyes tracing the
dark swirls of purples and greens, their edges blurred and muddled together. “Like something
restless. Something lost. The second one feels like hope. Like the storm is starting to clear.
And the last one… it’s a celebration. It’s bright, full of life.” Gyuvin turns to Ricky then, his
expression thoughtful. “Are they you?”

Ricky sways a little on the spot. He can’t believe how perfectly Gyuvin had interpreted the
paintings. In fact, he was almost completely correct. “No,” he says, glancing up at Gyuvin.
“They’re you.”

Two things happen at once.

Gyuvin pulls Ricky backwards into the door that leads into the bathroom, locking it behind
them with a deft flick of the lock.
And Ricky’s stomach swirls in a tumultuous storm as he leans against the marble basin,
wondering exactly what that expression on Gyuvin’s face means.

”Are you serious?” Gyuvin asks quietly.

Ricky swallows. The sound is audible in the enclosed space. “Yes.”

”The paintings are me,” Gyuvin repeats, almost like he’s talking to himself. His hand
twitches, like he’s not sure what to do with this information. “You… you painted me. What I
had been, what I was, and what… what you hoped for me to be?”

”Yes,” Ricky says, again, because it’s all he seems capable of saying.

”But you had no idea that I was even going to be here.”

Again. “Yes.”

Gyuvin’s hands rise up to hold the back of his own head. Like he’s trying to keep himself
together. “You—you can’t just say that to me, Ricky.”

”Why not?” Ricky asks, confused, wondering where in the past two minutes things had gone
so wrong for Gyuvin to be acting like this. But then Gyuvin is stepping into Ricky’s space,
eyes desperate and searching.

“Because,” Gyuvin gasps out, like the words are being punched from his stomach, “Because I
love you, Shen Ricky.” And oh, how it was only yesterday Gyuvin had said those exact
words to Ricky, but still, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. Gyuvin’s hands fly up to
cup Ricky’s cheeks, almost desperately, his hands so damn warm against the chilly pallor of
Ricky’s skin. “And—and I know you might not feel the same. But that’s okay, because—
because I lasted this long, and maybe I can last a little longer if I really try—“

”What?” Ricky cuts him off, frowning. His fingers reach out to twist in the fabric of Gyuvin’s
button up, and unintentionally he pulls the man a little closer, the tips of their shoes bumping.
“You don’t know that.”

Gyuvin lets out a breath. “I know,” he says slowly, like it pains him to do so, like he doesn’t
want to admit it out loud. “But—but I can hope—“

”No—I mean, why do you think that I don’t feel the same?” Ricky asks, completely serious.
He can’t step any closer into Gyuvin’s space, but he does lean in, so close that the tip of his
nose brushes Gyuvin’s bottom lip. He can both hear and feel Gyuvin take in a shuddering
breath, and Ricky’s eyes flicker up to meet Gyuvin’s already staring down at him.

“I—because—“ Gyuvin stutters, his words escaping him, whether from their close proximity
or the intentions behind Ricky’s words. Maybe both. “Because I thought I was a fool for
holding out hope for so long. And I thought—I thought you would have moved on. I thought
your feelings would have faded.”

Ricky shakes his head—barely moving it in the tiniest of motions. He breathes out, and
Gyuvin breathes in. “How could I?” He asks rhetorically, his eyes moving between Gyuvin’s.
“How could I move on when every second, of every minute, of every day you were the only
constant in my mind? I used to think you were some sort of parasite, something eating away
at me, and I thought I was going crazy but—but I was wrong. Because you were nothing like
that.”

”What was I, then?” Gyuvin asks, and he almost sounds afraid, his fingers trembling slightly
against Ricky’s cheeks.

Ricky is scared too. He’s so, so fucking scared of screwing things up. Because he can’t do
that again, he can’t risk losing Gyuvin, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

It would kill him.

But he can’t run any longer. He can’t run and hide and pretend like everything is fine if he
hibernates in a burrow of buried emotions and lingering doubts. A blanket of what-ifs draped
over his shoulders and a bitter pill of regret being chased down by the strongest vodka he can
find.

”You were my first love,” Ricky whispers, and Gyuvin makes some sort of choked noise in
the back of his throat, but Ricky keeps going. “You were my first love—you were my only
love—you are the man that I love. Forever and always. And I don’t think that will ever
change.”

”Ricky…” Gyuvin breathes out, bringing his forehead closer until they’re bumping, and he’s
looking down at Ricky like he’s seeing him for the first time. “You really… you really mean
that? You love me? Right here, right now?”

”Yes,” Ricky replies, his voice cracking a little, and oh, why does he feel like he’s going to
cry? He can’t cry, not here, not now, but there’s such warmth in Gyuvin’s eyes, such
tenderness with each stroke of his thumbs against Ricky’s cheekbones. “I love you at this
very moment. I love you with every breath I take, I love you even when I’m sleeping, I just
love you.”

”Ricky,” Gyuvin says again, his fingers wrapping around the back of Ricky’s neck, his
thumbs brushing the highest point of Ricky’s cheekbones. Impossibly closer he leans in, each
word he says spoken in hushed breaths brushed against Ricky’s lip. They’re practically
kissing by this point—all Ricky had to do was purse his lips and that would be enough. “Do
you really mean that? Truly?”

Ricky’s response is immediate. Without thinking. Because he doesn’t need to, not when the
answer comes straight from his heart. It rips out of the muscle and clambers up his throat,
leaving a sticky trail of blood and goo behind, but Ricky just swallows past it. “I do. I’ve
never believed in something as much as I do my love for you.”

Gyuvin exhales a shaky breath. “Oh,” he whispers, his eyes shimmering, and even
underneath the harsh white bathroom lights, he still looks so fucking beautiful.

“Oh,” Ricky repeats, feeling a little silly, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Not when all
of his feelings have just been laid bare, ready for Gyuvin to pick apart like he’s a rotting
carcass and Gyuvin is a vulture diving in to eat Ricky’s insides.

They just stand there, staring at each other, not hearing anything more than the echo of their
breathing in the bathroom or the muffled sounds of the gallery visitors just beyond these tiled
walls.

“You really mean it?” Gyuvin says again, his voice almost lost in the air, and Ricky nods.

”I do,” Ricky affirms, his lips brushing featherlight over Gyuvin’s own, his gaze trapped in
the enchanting stare of Gyuvin’s. “I love you, Kim Gyuvin.”

And maybe—maybe they shouldn’t be doing this right here, right now, in a bathroom of all
places. It’s a little ironic, when Ricky thinks about it, because that’s how it had all started
wasn’t it? Ricky on his knees in a grimy bathroom with someone pounding on the door as he
swapped saliva with Gyuvin all of those years ago.

But this time, it’s different. Because they’re older now and more gentle with each other—
time has aged them with a grace Ricky had never once had even when he thought he did. And
rather than bruised knees, it’s Ricky’s lungs that feel so, but only because Gyuvin steals the
breath right from them as he covers Ricky’s mouth with his own.

All Ricky can taste is Gyuvin’s tongue, and he parts his lips with ease before Gyuvin can
even ask for permission. They’re kissing, and—and it’s more than the kiss they’d shared last
night. Because that kiss had felt like coming home to someone.

But this one?

This feels like Gyuvin is handing everything over to Ricky.

Each twist of their tongues, each gasp swallowed by greedy lips, it feels like Ricky is tasting
the very essence of Gyuvin’s being. And when Gyuvin pushes him backwards carefully,
Ricky goes, his back gently bumping against the cold tiles—his head doesn’t hit them,
because one of Gyuvin’s hands snakes around to cradle the back of his head as their kiss
deepens,

And Ricky is by no means abstinent—but with Gyuvin kissing him like this, their bodies
essentially moulded together until Ricky doesn’t know where he begins and Gyuvin ends,
it’s…

It’s a lot.

Especially when Gyuvin shifts his hips just right, like he’s trying to get even closer, and the
meaty muscle of his thigh pushes against Ricky’s budding erection. And Ricky can’t help it,
his head tipping backwards as a moan is torn from his lips. His hands scrabble for purchase
against the back of Gyuvin’s shirt, fingers twisting and slipping and dragging down the
material, and from where Gyuvin’s mouth had slipped down to press open-mouthed kisses
against the column of Ricky’s neck, he moans, something guttural and—and Gyuvin.
But Gyuvin doesn’t stop. Thigh tensed, he nudges it against Ricky again, and oh, oh, Ricky
thinks he may implode on the spot. It feels like there’s molten lava bubbling beneath his skin,
like it’s melting him on the inside.

”Sensitive,” Gyuvin comments, and Ricky’s laugh tapers into yet another moan. “You haven’t
changed one bit.”

No, Ricky thinks. He hasn’t.

Gyuvin still has him wrapped around his finger.

Even after all of this time.

But Ricky has always known that, hasn’t he?

Because even when Jingxiang—or any of the unnamed men from all those years ago—was
fucking Ricky, there really was only one man he could think of.

Ricky’s eyes squeeze shut, his hips bucking, a pathetic whine leaving his lips that is certainly
far too loud for where they are—and maybe that’s what snaps Gyuvin out of whatever haze
he’s in, because suddenly Ricky feels cold, Gyuvin leaving his space just as quickly as he’d
infiltrated it.

”What—“ Ricky’s eyes flicker open, confusion and arousal thrumming through his veins.
Gyuvin is standing too far away, and Ricky frowns.

Gyuvin runs a hand through his hair. The movement tugs at his tucked in shirt, revealing a
sliver of tanned waist just begging to be touched. He looks—he looks stressed. Apologetic.

”You asked for us to take things slow,” Gyuvin says, and oh.

Ricky’s heart just about melts, trickles down his rib cage in clumps of adoration. Leave it to
Gyuvin to remember what Ricky had said, to take it into consideration.

Fuck.

Ricky is so fucking in love.

”Gyuvin,” Ricky gasps, “I know I said that. But I—I just really need you to take me home
and fuck me. Please.”

”Oh my God,” Gyuvin mutters, but he doesn’t sound upset, he sounds—he sounds almost
pained. And Ricky can’t have that—he appreciates Gyuvin being attentive, but fuck, Ricky
has never been so turned onto in his entire life and he needs Gyuvin now. He needs him more
than ever.

So Ricky steps back into Gyuvin’s space, gently taking Gyuvin by the wrist and bringing his
hand down. Ricky’s eyes flutter when he drags Gyuvin’s hand over the hardness in his pants,
and Gyuvin isn’t doing much better, cursing lowly under his breath.
”Please,” Ricky begs, and it’s clear to see when Gyuvin gives in. “Take me home.”

Ricky’s not quite sure how they managed to get from the gallery to his house. He barely
registers the fact that he’s ditching Hao, again, somehow stumbling into a taxi with Gyuvin,
and then they’re being whisked down a highway. But when they do finally make it back to
his house, they can’t keep their hands off each other—or their mouths.

They trip into Ricky’s bedroom, feet getting tangled in the rug and desperate hands
wandering over rumpled clothes. Gyuvin’s mouth is glued to Ricky’s jaw, painting a canvas
of reds and purples across the skin there, whilst Ricky’s hands tug at Gyuvin’s waistband. He
barely even registers where he is, what he’s doing—the room is still dark, but the waning
gibbous of the moon shines just enough light in through the window to illuminate them.

Ricky’s walk-in closet is still open, and from the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of
the two of them in the mirrored reflection. Tangled up in each other, black against white, yin
and yang. It sends a delightful shiver through him, and he rocks his hips forwards, lips
parting on a moan as the friction sends sparks of pleasure through his body.

“Take this off,” Ricky whines, pulling at Gyuvin’s shirt. He feels Gyuvin laugh against his
neck, tiny vibrations humming through his neck like an army of ants.

”Taking it slow, huh,” Gyuvin comments with humour colouring his tone, and Ricky
playfully sinks his teeth into the junction of Gyuvin’s shoulder and neck. It earns him a moan
in return, and Ricky soothes his tongue over the white indents.

He’s missed this. The banter, the roughness of Gyuvin’s hands on his skin, the way his heart
beats at a prestissimo pace whenever he’s around the other man.

Two can play at this game that Gyuvin just started.

Ricky’s nose trails up and up until his lips are ghosting over the shell of Gyuvin’s ear. His
gaze is heavy and half-lidded as he looks at Gyuvin, whispering into the man's ear, “should I
ask nicer, oppa?”

The effect is instantaneous—Gyuvin’s hands tightening around Ricky’s waist, and his cock
twitches against Ricky’s hip. “Kitty,” Gyuvin breathes out.

“Can’t oppa take his shirt off? Please—I need you.”

It takes only a split second for Ricky to end up on his bed. It takes even less time for Gyuvin
to shed his shirt, and Ricky can hear the sound of the buttons breaking, the fabric straining as
Gyuvin all but rips it off. It ends up on the floor somewhere, and then Gyuvin is all over him,
greedy hands slipping beneath Ricky’s own shirt and roughly tweaking his nipples.
”Fuck,” Ricky cries, writhing around in his sheets as Gyuvin thumbs the delicate nubs over
and over again.

Gyuvin’s hands slide a teasing trail down Ricky’s torso, finding their next destination at
Ricky’s hard cock. He squeezes, and Ricky chokes on his own spit, pathetically thrusting his
pelvis up for more more more.

“Desperate little princess,” Gyuvin mutters darkly, biting his lip on a grin when Ricky
fucking keens at that. “All hot and bothered just from a little bit of kissing, huh?”

Ricky carves his name into Gyuvin’s back. Swears to himself that Gyuvin will never forget
him, not when Ricky’s nails rake a deliberate path down miles and miles of skin. He may
have softened over the years, but Gyuvin has awakened something inside of Ricky that had
remained dormant for a very long time.

”Don’t act like you’re doing much better,” Ricky breathes, his hand snaking around to tease
at the outline of Gyuvin’s own cock. He bucks into the touch, and Ricky is all smug as he
raises a brow. “I think you’re enjoying it just as much as I am.”

Time seems to do something strange when Ricky is with Gyuvin. It builds in waves of
hyperspeed, and then it slows into something sticky and languid. Gyuvin’s hair tickles the
bare skin of Ricky’s thighs, gentle teeth and flowering lips pressing promises made of reds
and yellows into the skin there. And it’ll bruise, and Ricky will see them for days to come, a
reminder of their love tattooed onto milky white thighs.

Sharp hipbones and wandering thumbs, and Ricky feels blissed out on cloud nine as Gyuvin
lathes his tongue over Ricky’s fluttering hole. Inch by agonising, yet delicious inch, Gyuvin
licks into him, and Ricky barely registers the change from tongue to finger as Gyuvin works
him open with a deftness that feels so familiar yet so strange at the same time.

Gyuvin switches between being careful and hasty, like he can’t quite decide whether to drag
things out or not. Maybe, he too is afraid that this isn’t real, just a wonderful dream, one that
he could wake from at any moment. But the constant push and pull is driving Ricky crazy,
and he catches the wave faster than he thought—because he’s coming already, thighs
threatening to crush Gyuvin’s head if it weren’t for those broad shoulders in the way.

Tiny, choked out cries tumble from Ricky’s mouth as come trickles from his cock, and
Gyuvin looks up at him, eyes round and sparkling as he finger fucks Ricky through it. It’s
almost too much, the drag of Gyuvin’s rough fingers against Ricky’s velvety walls, but Ricky
doesn’t care. Rolls his hips down as he rides the wave, determined to get as close to Gyuvin
as possible even though the overstimulation is making his eyes water and his nose burn.

”Baby. You’re crying.”

Gyuvin reaches a thumb up to wipe away a tear, and Ricky sniffles, wrapping his fingers
around Gyuvin’s wrist to keep him there. “Feels good,” he mumbles, licking the saltiness of
his tears from Gyuvin’s thumb. “You make me feel good.”
Obsidian eyes follow each movement of Ricky’s tongue, lust-tainted fingers curling from
where they’re still sitting inside Ricky. It pulls a surprised gasp from Ricky, his head tipping
back against his pillow as his heels dig into the small of Gyuvin’s back.

When Gyuvin’s fingers finally slip free, Ricky complains with a litany of nonsensical words,
but Gyuvin dips his head down and silences RIcky with a passionate kiss. “Do you need a
second?” He asks against Ricky’s lips, and Ricky shakes his head, eyes tracing a path over
the shadowed features of Gyuvin’s face. Like this, Gyuvin looks like something otherworldly
—a fictional demon that’s come to earth to collect Ricky’s soul.

And Ricky will give him it. Fuck, he’ll give him anything.

”I don’t need a second,” Ricky says, his voice cracking slightly. “I need you.”

”You have me,” Gyuvin murmurs. “You’ve always had me.”

Gyuvin holds himself up with hands on either side of Ricky’s head as he slowly sinks in.
Ricky wants to watch, wants to see everything, but it just feels so fucking overwhelming in
the best and worst way. He gives himself to Gyuvin easily, the backs of his thighs flush
against Gyuvin’s hips, and he starts crying again. Tears dripping onto Ricky’s chin, hot
droplets against the pavement on a cloudy summer afternoon—but then Ricky realises it’s not
him crying.

He blinks his eyes open, greeted with the sight of Gyuvin’s ruddy cheeks and stormy eyes.
Another diamond drops down, right onto the tip of Ricky’s nose, and his brows knit together
as he reaches up to cup Gyuvin’s face.

”Why are you crying?” Ricky whispers into the abyss. Because there’s no one else left on this
planet—just him and Gyuvin. Everything is all black, but he’s red and Gyuvin is orange. A
gaillardia in full bloom.

”I’m sorry,” Gyuvin says, biting down harshly on his lip. He shifts his weight, leaning on one
hand as his other brushes over Ricky’s ear, fiddles with the pierced cross hanging there. “I
just—I just really, really fucking love you.”

”You shouldn’t cry over me,” Ricky tells him, thumbing away the tears that only continue to
leak from Gyuvin’s pretty eyes. “Don’t cry. Just love me, love me, love me.”

Gyuvin doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. Ricky receives his answer in the form of a
sharp, deep roll of his hips, before he’s pulling out excruciatingly slowly. Gyuvin’s next
thrust all but forces the air from Ricky’s lungs, and he picks up the pace, fucking Ricky until
his whimpers transition into elongated moans.

Ricky’s arms wrap around Gyuvin’s back. He doesn’t want to let him go. He doesn’t want
this night to end. He wants to be suspended in time, just here with Gyuvin, for the rest of
eternity.

And he doesn’t know how he’s survived for so long without Gyuvin by his side. Because
Ricky swears that neither nicotine nor alcohol has ever had such a gripping claw on his heart
like Gyuvin has.

Physical symptoms of addiction are nothing compared to the hole in his very essence when
he’s away from Gyuvin. No amount of cravings can feel worse than how fucking empty he
felt for the longest time.

Ricky thinks he’d rather peel the skin from his bones, layer by layer, leaving a mess of flesh
and blood in a pile than to be apart from Gyuvin again.

And he thinks that Gyuvin shares the same sentiment.

So Ricky pulls Gyuvin closer until the other man is practically completely covering his body.
He doesn’t miss the way Gyuvin’s shoulders tremble, notices the tightness of Gyuvin’s grip
on his shoulder, but it feels perfect. It feels right.

There’s something so inherently overwhelming about their connection.

Gyuvin’s thrusts grow sloppy and rough, any semblance of coordination gone as he, too,
chases after it. They frolic around in a meadow, a tabby cat and a golden retriever tumbling
down the hill with blades of grass and dandelions sticking to their fur.

Faster, faster, faster. Feverish kisses layered across Ricky’s neck. Red lines scraping down
Gyuvin’s arms. The headboard is hitting the wall. Gyuvin is sobbing into the crook of
Ricky’s neck. The hairs on Ricky’s arms are standing on edge. Lightning licks the air. Slick
bodies slide against each other. Something rumbles in the distance.

Ricky grabs Gyuvin by the chin and breathes air back into his lungs.

Gyuvin’s hand fumbles for Ricky’s neglected cock, and they gasp orgasm-tainted moans into
each other's mouths at the same time.

Every single nerve in Ricky’s body is alight. He feels like a livewire, like a lightning bolt has
struck him and snapped his veins apart. He sparks, and he burns, and he presses explosions
against Gyuvin’s lips as they go up in flames together.

Two minutes or two hours—Ricky isn’t sure how long it takes for them to come down from
their high. But then Gyuvin is finally moving, pulling out and breathing a low curse as he
watches his come drip from Ricky’s puffy hole. There’s still a fire blazing—it frames Gyuvin
like wings, and Ricky blinks blearily, positive he’s delirious.

”I love you,” Ricky says. And then he says it again.

Gyuvin smiles, face streaked with tears, but he looks the happiest Ricky has ever seen him.

Happier than he did in Gunwook’s framed photo of him.

”I love you, Ricky,” Gyuvin replies. He soothes a careful hand across Ricky’s abdomen,
wiping away the evidence of their eclipse with what looks to be his own shirt.
Ricky wants to keep saying it, over and over again, but there’s a weight pressing against his
eyelids. Slower and slower he blinks, and Gyuvin just smiles down fondly at him. Maybe
they should shower. Maybe they should soak in a bath.

But Ricky knows that now, he can wait.

Because he has all the time in the world to spend with Gyuvin.

And right now, he wants to fall asleep in his arms.

So he pulls Gyuvin down. Tangles their legs together and rests his head on Gyuvin’s chest.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

Gyuvin’s adagio heartbeat lulls him to sleep. And in the morning, Ricky knows that he’ll still
be here.

New York, 2017

Once upon a time, Ricky had an allowance.

Not of money—but of time.

And for years, he spent it recklessly. He drowned himself in crowds of sweaty bodies and
liquor, living as if tomorrow would never come. Life in the fast lane was all he knew, and he
was fueled by the rush, the thrill of the fleeting illusion of invincibility.

He’d thought he was untouchable.

He’d thought he had it all figured out.

Then Kim Gyuvin happened.

Gyuvin, with the wicked glint in his eyes and calloused hands. Gyuvin, all sharp edges and
defiance, yet the only person who had ever seen Ricky for who he truly was.

From the moment they met Gyuvin had understood him in a way no one else had. And for
reasons Ricky could never quite understand, Gyuvin stayed.

Gyuvin could have walked away. Should have, maybe. But he didn’t.

Call it fate, destiny, or something less tangible—in invisible red thread tying them together, a
force pulling them back together no matter how far they strayed. Because even after all those
years apart, they still found their way back to each other.
Ricky never believed in soulmates. The idea that out of billions of people, only one person
was meant for you? That they could be halfway across the world on an entirely different
continent? A mere stranger? It had always seemed so impossible.

But Gyuvin…

Gyuvin made Ricky believe.

And if Ricky had to list the reasons why, he’d run out of space too soon.

The way they fit together so easily on the couch, limbs tangled and heartbeats aligned. The
way Gyuvin always had a meal waiting for Ricky after a long day with his arms open and
inviting. The way Gyuvin caught Ricky’s nosebleeds when stress took its toll, dabbing away
the crimson with gentle fingers and whispering reassurances as he tucked Ricky’s hair away
from his face.

But above all, Gyuvin felt like home.

Soulmates must be real. How else could two broken people strip each other down to their
rawest selves, only to rebuild something even stronger?

Though, love is never without its fears.

Ricky is terrified of hurting Gyuvin again, terrified of losing him. And Gyuvin knows. He
soothes Ricky’s anxieties with butterfly kisses and quiet promises, because that’s just who he
is. Who he’s always been.

And Ricky? He can’t silence the demons in his mind. Can’t erase the voice whispering doubts
when things feel too good.

But he can live with it.

Because love isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes it’s slammed doors and heavy sighs.
Sometimes it’s battles fought in silence, or wounds reopened with a single careless word. But
where there is struggle, there is always growth.

And Ricky refuses to let the darkness win again.

Life will always have its storms, but Ricky has learned that pain carves out space for
strength. That healing isn’t about avoiding scars, but instead, learning to live with them.

And through it all, he and Gyuvin will always find their way back to each other. Whether it
takes seconds, minutes, years.

Their love was forged in fire and ashes. And every day, it grows.

To the world, Kim Gyuvin was a rockstar—a smooth talker with dangerous charm, the
heartthrob of many.
Once upon a time, Ricky had thought of Gyuvin as nothing more than another fling. A bassist
with something dark lurking behind his eyes.

But now?

Now, he’s—

“My pretty wife.”

Arms circle around Ricky’s waist, and he rolls his eyes, craning his neck to find Gyuvin
grinning cheekily down at him. His hair is windswept, and Ricky realises that he’d been so
lost in his canvas that he never even heard the sliding door close.

”I don’t see a woman in here anywhere,” Ricky says, arching a brow. “And—did you
seriously forget sunscreen again?”

Gyuvin laughs, unbothered. “Stop pretending you don’t like it when I call you that.”

Ricky ignores him. “Sunscreen.”

”I did—“

”That sunburn is going to hurt like a bitch, Kim Gyuvin,” Ricky interrupts, dabbing another
smear of blue onto the waves he’s been building for the past hour.

Gyuvin just chuckles, dipping down to nip at Ricky’s earlobe. Ricky yelps and swats at him
half heartedly.

”I’m sorry…” Gyuvin drawls, sounding anything but. His eyes flicker upward, wide and
expectant. “You’ll put aloe vera on me, right?”

Ricky sighs. “I’ll have to, unless I want to hear you whining all week.”

Gyuvin hums, pleased, resting his chin on Ricky’s shoulder and watches as he works.
“Maybe you should’ve put sunscreen on me before I went out…”

Ricky snorts. “I believe you’re old enough to do it yourself.”

”But I like when you do it.”

Ricky hides his smile. “Then come to me next time.”

Gyuvin sighs dramatically, leaning heavier on Ricky, his warmth draping over like a blanket.
“I can’t believe you’re working. On our honeymoon.”

”Inspiration strikes when you least expect it,” Ricky replies, his tone light. “You, of all
people, should know that.”

”Hmph.”
A silence settles between them, easy and familiar. The painting is coming together—slowly
but surely. Ricky is just about to set his brush down when the houseboat shifts beneath them.

”There’s that afternoon tide,” Gyuvin murmurs in his ear, a little too gleeful. “I think the
ocean is trying to tell us something.”

As if in agreement, the boat rocks again. Ricky exhales and finally sets down his brush and
paint palette.

He spins on his stool. Gyuvin lets him. Now they’re face to face, only inches apart.

Ricky knows where this is going. Sees it in the way Gyuvin bites his bottom lip, in the
teasing glint in his eyes, in the slow, deliberate drag of his finger down Ricky’s chest.

Out here, in the middle of the ocean, time feels like it’s been suspended. There’s no rush, no
stress, no allowance running out.

Just them.

And what exactly is the ocean saying, huh?” Ricky plays along, batting his eyelashes.

Gyuvin grins. Leans in, their noses brushing. “That you should spend a little more time with
your husband instead.”

Tumbling into bed with Gyuvin never gets old.

Giggles swallowed by lazy kisses. Fingers tangled in green satin sheets. Love-softened hands
and starlit eyes.

Ricky looks up at Gyuvin.

And this time, he never looks away.

Shanghai, 2007

Ricky stumbles into his hotel room, blindly fumbling for the light switch while attempting to
yank off his shoe. He’s far too drunk to manage both at once, and his balance wavers. With
all the grace of an elephant in a china shop, Ricky topples over—bringing his suitcase down
at the same time with a heavy thud. A strained groan escapes him as pain blooms through his
body.

Ricky never bothers to unpack. What’s the point when he’s constantly drifting from one hotel
to the next? His luggage stays tucked in the hallway, only unzipped when he needs fresh
clothes.
Lying on his back, Ricky stares at the ceiling, watching it blur and swirl in his vision. It’s
stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke, and Ricky thinks that maybe he should light
one himself. The thought is enough to get him to move, his head lolling as he reaches for his
jacket, fingers searching for the familiar carton of Marlboros.

But then something else catches his eye.

A piece of paper, jutting carelessly from his suitcase.

Ricky’s sluggish fingers fumble for it and he unfolds it with drunken clumsiness. The words
on the page shift and swim before him, refusing to settle.

And then… clarity.

Because Ricky knows what this is.

What he’d sworn to not read. What he should have thrown away, should have left behind in
that café where Gyuvin had once sat across from him. And Ricky had nearly done it, had
nearly walked out without a second thought.

But he didn’t.

For some stupid fucking reason, he had kept it.

And now, tonight, of all nights, he’s finally going to read it.

Song title:

Ghost of a Stray

No More Ghosts

The Softest Rose ???

I built my walls up stone by stone

And told myself I was better alone

But you cut through like a wrecking ball

And now I’m feeling things I can’t ignore anymore

Swore I’d never feel this way

’Cos I built my heart up with a barricade

 But you broke though

You made me see

That maybe love isn’t dead

And maybe it’s awakening in me

The rest of the song blurs into nothing as Ricky’s eyes well up, tears spilling over before he
can stop them. He chokes on a sob, still sprawled out on the floor, but he doesn’t care. He
deserves this. Every bit of it.

The paper slips from his trembling fingers and flutters to the ground beside him. Ricky curls
in on himself, shaking, his body wracked with violent, gasping sobs. He cries until his cheeks
ache, until his throat is raw, until he feels like he might shatter from the weight of it all.

He’s so fucking miserable.

Every inch of him hurts. The backs of his thighs and arms are scraped raw from being shoved
against a brick wall in some nameless alley downtown by some nameless stranger that had
fucked him roughly without any care.

But none of that hurts as much as this does.

Because no one will ever make him feel the way Gyuvin did. And Ricky knows—God, he
knows—-it’s all his fault.

Because Ricky wasn’t a soft rose.

He was covered in thorns. And all he ever did was make the people around him bleed.

But as he lies there, hiccuping, breath stuttering between broken cries, a thought surfaces in
his mind.

That maybe it’s time to stop feeling sorry for himself.

Ricky’s hand trembles as he reaches for his phone. Dials the number he’s ignored for weeks,
the one with hundreds of missed calls.

Zhang Hao picks up immediately. Of course he does.

”Hao,” Ricky sniffles, his voice small and broken. “Hao. I—I want… I want to get better. I
want to do it. For him.”

Chapter End Notes

okay. i don’t even know what to say at this point

i guess first things first, i hope everyone that interacted with my tweet about being included in the chapter is happy
with it!!! uhhh i got halfway through before realising so many people liked the tweet and i’d feel bad if i only chose a
few people so i tried really hard to include everyone ;_; also i’m so sorry if i missed some names. um. i lost part of my
docs at some point which included some progress and i don’t want to talk about it…. cries

so!!! that was a very long chapter!! i feel like i’ve run a marathon writing and editing this. i’ve also cried a lot. like so
much. we have one final chapter to go and it’s so bittersweet. i don’t want to let this fic go :’(

anyway… i’m rambling… because i don't want to press post chapter… ahaha. please let me know what you thought
in the comments… i know a lot has happened in this chapter and i do apologise if its overwhelming D:

i love you guys 🖤

twitter | playlist | neospring

 coda
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

New York, 2006

“I really don’t know why we’re coming back here again.”

Gyuvin rolls his eyes, twisting around where he’s sitting in the passenger seat of their van.
The expression Gunwook is sporting is almost petulant. His bulky arms are crossed against
his chest, the corners of his lips curved down into a pout.

He looks like a big baby.

”We’ve been over this,” Gyuvin replies, holding up his fingers and curling them down with
each point he makes. “The crowd loved us. The fees were cheaper than most of the other bars
in the area. We need any exposure we can get. I don’t know why you seem so against this—
aren’t you supposed to be leading us?”

Gunwook scowls at the last comment. “I just think we could be somewhere better right now.”

”Okay. Like where, exactly?”

A beat of silence passes as Gunwook visibly scrambles for an answer, and Gyuvin shifts to sit
properly in his seat, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. “That’s what I thought.”

”Gyuvin,” Hanbin mutters warningly.

Gyuvin’s eyes flicker over to Hanbin, and the van shudders as Hanbin hits the brakes, the
interior bathed in red from a stop light. “What?”

”Don’t get started,” Hanbin says without even looking at him. “We have a show in less than
an hour. I don’t want any… fighting.”

“There’s no fighting happening,” Gyuvin replies, keeping his tone light. He half expects
Gunwook to chime in, but the back remains uncharacteristically silent apart from the quiet
mutterings between Matthew and Taerae—who are, yet again, in their own little world.

Hanbin doesn’t reply. He just hums, pressing down on the gas pedal when the light turns
green once more.

Glancing down at his hands in his lap, Gyuvin realises he still has his pinky untucked from
his fist. And, secretly, he curls it in along with the rest of his fingers.

I hope that cute blondie is here again tonight.

Gyuvin will never admit that out loud though—that one of the reasons, perhaps the biggest of
all—was that he wanted to come back to this specific bar on this specific night in the hopes
of spotting that pretty boy with the catlike eyes once more.

Because Gyuvin hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him ever since.

“We’re on in five. Where the fuck is Gunwook?” Hanbin hisses, tapping his drumsticks
against his thigh in what Gyuvin can only describe as an anxious, off tempo beat.

And truthfully, Gyuvin hadn’t even realised Gunwook was missing—he’d been too focused
on setting up his bass guitar and tuning it until it sounded right. Plus, Hanbin always needed
an extra pair of hands to help lug his drum kit out of the van. But now that Hanbin had
brought it up, Gyuvin looks around and notices that Gunwook isn’t anywhere on the stage.

It’s strange. Gunwook is detail oriented and would normally be breathing down everyone’s
necks, ensuring that everything is perfectly set up.

But he’s not here.

At first, Gyuvin thinks that Gunwook may have stepped away for a minute. He doesn’t
smoke, but he could have gone to the bathroom—but as Gyuvin runs his eyes across the
crowded room, his gaze zones in on Gunwook.

He’s over at the bar.

He’s talking to that pretty blonde man.

Something swirls in Gyuvin’s stomach. Something dark, something stormy, and it settles
right at the bottom like a weight threatening to drag him down.

”Found him,” Gyuvin mutters to Hanbin, and that’s all he’s saying before he’s pushing his
way through the crowd, ignoring the hands grabbing at him and girls squealing their praises
into his ears. He doesn’t care about anything other than getting to the bar—and separating
them.

When Gyuvin finally breaks free from the crowd, he catches the tail end of their
conversation.

”I wouldn’t call myself a rockstar. But to answer your question, I prefer nice boys over mean
boys,” Gunwook is saying, and Gyuvin has to hold back a snort. Real fucking rich coming
from Gunwook of all people.

But Gyuvin had sworn to himself he’d move past all of that. And so, he swallows down the
nasty words that threatened to fall from his lips, and lingers a few feet away as he
eavesdrops.

The pretty blonde man is sitting at the bar with his elbows leaning on the countertop, his head
craned over his shoulder as he looks at Gunwook. There’s a rather obvious flirtatious
expression painted across his face, and somehow, that only makes the pit in Gyuvin’s
stomach feel bigger.

He’s probably the most stunning man that Gyuvin has ever seen. All long body lines with a
tiny waist and broad shoulders. His hair is bleached a blindingly white blonde and it's styled
in a messy manner, almost looking like someone has been running fingers through those
locks. Gyuvin finds himself wanting to reach out and touch, to grab and pull, to see those
catty eyes narrowed at him in a glare, that deliciously long and pale throat exposed for
Gyuvin to mark up. The more Gyuvin stares at this man, the more he finds himself wanting
to ruin him. To see that eyeliner drip down his cheeks in inky black streaks. To make his lips
swollen with rough kisses.

The man bats his eyes at Gunwook, nibbling on his bottom lip as he stares, something hot
and heavy in his gaze. “It’s just as well I can be both, then,” he says, and Gunwook grins.
Gyuvin knows that grin. And it’s enough to snap him out of his stupor, his feet carrying him
over to Gunwook before he can even think about it.

He steps into their space, elbow not so subtly bumping against Gunwook. Grinning, Gyuvin
interrupts them, tamping down the laugh that threatens to escape his lips when from the
corner of his eye he sees Gunwook’s cool facade slip momentarily. “I love mean boys.”

It’s obvious from the moment blondie lays his eyes on Gyuvin, he’s annoyed, because
Gyuvin had interrupted a moment he knew would have turned into something a little more
steamy. Those dark, narrowed eyes trail down Gyuvin’s body, almost as if he’s scanning him.
Figuring out if Gyuvin is a threat or not.

But then, blondie is looking away from Gyuvin—and it almost feels like a slap in the face.
“Would you like a drink?” He asks Gunwook.

And again, Gyuvin interrupts them. “Wookie isn’t twenty-one yet, he can’t drink.”

Gyuvin has to give it to this cutie—he really is trying to maintain his composure, especially
as the bartender is watching along in interest, as well as the man sitting next to him.

“I’m sure I can make an exception for you. Do you like whiskey?”

That’s enough to have Gunwook and Gyuvin trading a look with each other, Gunwook’s
brows rise as Gyuvin frowns, trying to make sense of just exactly what blondie had meant by
that. Make an exception for Gunwook? With the bartender right there? How would he…

Ah.

Understanding dawns on Gunwook’s face at the exact same time that Gyuvin pieces it
together, almost as if they’d subconsciously shared the same thought. And now Gyuvin
remembers—this bar was one of the more upscale places they’ve played at, largely due to the
fact it was owned by a fairly well known business tycoon in New York. Gunwook hadn’t
spoken with the man directly, the manager was who he’d dealt with, but on the business card
he’d received there had been a name inscribed on the back in gold lettering.
Shen Enterprises.

When Gyuvin had spotted blondie the first time they were here, he could have sworn he
recognised him from somewhere, but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

But now…

Now, he’s fairly certain he knows exactly who he’s talking to.

Because this isn’t just any pretty boy sitting at the bar and waiting for someone to pick him
up.

This is Shen Ricky.

Gyuvin is by no means well informed about the richest families in New York, but he does
know about the Shens. Their son—their only son, in fact—generally keeps out of the
limelight for the most part. Gyuvin is sure there’s probably photos of Ricky in a few articles
here and there, but that’s not where he recognises him from.

No.

And he’s quite certain that Ricky doesn’t remember—because there had been not an ounce of
recognition in those cold, dark eyes as he looked at Gyuvin. It’s likely a memory that has no
meaning to Ricky, especially not one that had happened so long ago.

But Gyuvin remembers. Oh, he remembers it all too well.

Even though it had happened over ten years ago, the memory has lingered in his mind. On a
night that had been rougher than most, Gyuvin had found himself huddled beneath a bus stop,
a storm raging with wind whipping unforgivingly at his bare arms. He was damp, trying to
keep out of the rain, wondering just exactly where he could stay for the night because he
didn’t want to go back home—if he could even call it that. Not when his parents screamed at
him, not when his siblings hated him.

So he’d walked, and walked, and found himself further away from his house than he’d
intended. He didn’t know where to go from here.

He didn’t know what to do.

He had no money for a bus fare, but even if he did… where would he go? Gyuvin didn’t have
anywhere that could offer him comfort. All he did was float through life, trying to keep
himself together, but it was hard. Because he couldn’t understand why he’d drawn the short
straw. He couldn’t understand why his parents didn’t love him.

He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t love himself.

And then, a sleek, black car pulls up in front of the bus stop. Squinting through the
downpour, Gyuvin watches as the back door opens, someone stepping out of the car, shoes
splashing in the puddles on the sidewalk. An umbrella shields them from the rain, and as they
get closer, Gyuvin shrinks further back into the seat, pressing himself into the corner.
He’s wary. Because the stranger is coming right for him, a purposeful stride in their step, and
Gyuvin doesn’t understand why. Why did they stop? What do they want from him? Money?
His belongings?

Gyuvin doesn’t have anything on him other than the clothes on his back.

”Hey,” the stranger is saying, tilting their umbrella back to reveal their face, and it’s only then
that Gyuvin’s realises its a kid. Probably around his age, black hair parted smartly down the
middle of his forehead and cat-slanted eyes staring down at him. “Are you okay? Where are
your parents? Do you need a ride?”

And it’s too many questions for Gyuvin to process—not to mention that he doesn’t want to
tell this stranger anything. He doesn’t trust him, he doesn’t trust anyone, and this kid looks
like the kind of kid who has never had to fight for anything in his life before. Not when
Gyuvin is pretty sure that the kid’s shirt alone probably costs more money than Gyuvin has
ever seen in his entire life.

So he sits there, his knees pulled to his chest, a scowl painted across his face as he silently
stares at the stranger. But it doesn’t seem to bother him, and he continues to blabber on.

”I mean, I know that you aren’t supposed to get in the car of someone you don’t know—but
you can trust me, I promise! My driver—,” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, and Gyuvin’s
scowl only deepens at that, —“can take you to wherever you need to go.”

Still, Gyuvin says nothing.

”Okay,” the kid says, rummaging around in his pocket with his hand that isn’t holding the
umbrella. “I can give you some money for a taxi instead? At least that way you don’t have to
wait for the bus to pause at each stop—“

”I don’t want your pity money,” Gyuvin snaps, and he expects that to be enough. To send the
kid away crying. Because Gyuvin is mean, and his tone is bitter, and he’s two seconds away
from arcing up like a wolf.

But to his surprise, the kid doesn’t seem bothered at all. He just shoves the wads of bills he’d
pulled from his pocket back into there, and pauses for a moment, contemplating something as
he stares at Gyuvin. It’s unsettling.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Can I… can I at least give you my umbrella? I don’t think the rain
is going to let up for a while. If you decide to walk somewhere, I at least want you to stay
dry.”

Gyuvin wants to say no. He wants to tell this kid to fuck off, to leave him alone, to stop
treating him like some sort of charity case. But before he can say anything, there’s the distant
sound of someone calling out from the car, and the kid looks over his shoulder as he yells
back. “Give me a second!”

He turns back to Gyuvin, and before Gyuvin knows it, the kid is closing his umbrella. He’s
standing beneath the bus stop so he doesn’t immediately get wet, but—but then he’s carefully
settling it down next to Gyuvin on the bench, taking a step backwards to give Gyuvin space,
and instantly he’s soaked. Wide eyed, Gyuvin watches as the kid smiles, seemingly
unbothered by the rain that’s soaking into his designer clothes and plastering his hair to his
forehead.

“I have to go. You can leave the umbrella here if you don’t want it—the choice is yours. The
choice will always be yours, and I hope you don’t forget that.” The kid glances down the
road, and what exactly he’s searching for, Gyuvin isn’t sure. “I hope you stay safe. Maybe I’ll
see you again one day.” And then he’s looking back at Gyuvin, a wide, gummy grin on his
face. “Goodnight!”

And with that, he turns around and runs back to his car, the door slamming closed behind
him. The car peels away from the curb, gone before Gyuvin can even blink, and… and he’s
flabbergasted.

Gyuvin isn’t used to kindness like this.

He feels on edge. He sits there, frozen, waiting for the car to return. For the kid to take back
his umbrella, to spit nasty things in Gyuvin’s face. Because… good things don’t just happen
to people like Gyuvin.

But the longer he sits there, the more time passes, and Gyuvin slowly begins to think that
maybe—just maybe—there were no ulterior motives behind the random act of kindness.

It’s late. It’s cold. And, just as the kid had said, the rain only continues to pelt down. The
raindrops ping on the metal roof of the bus stop, something fast, something rhythmic, and
Gyuvin knows he can’t spend the night here. It isn’t safe, and it isn’t warm. He knows he can
find somewhere else to go—but he needs to walk.

The umbrella seems to beckon him. And, before Gyuvin can even really think about it, he
picks it up. It’s cold to the touch, any of the lingering warmth from the kids hand on the
handle long gone by now. A car zooms past on the road, its headlights illuminating the metal
pole momentarily, and Gyuvin catches the glimpse of a name engraved on it.

Shen Ricky.

He looks much the same, Gyuvin thinks, as he directs his gaze back at Ricky. Almost as if
he’s underwater, Gyuvin barely hears Gunwook muttering an I’m alright, but thank you for
offering.

Ricky looks much the same, yet so different. There’s a hardness to his character that wasn’t
there all those years ago, and Gyuvin wonders, what had happened?

Had Ricky finally experienced the harshness of the world, or… did he simply grow up? Did
he lose his kindness along the way?

Gyuvin doesn’t think that’s quite it. Because the longer he looks at Ricky, the more he sees.
The tenseness in his shoulders, the protective way he curls in on himself. It’s almost as if he
senses the danger—like he’s used to the danger.
And Gyuvin isn’t dangerous. Not really. He’s damaged, more than anything.

So it hurts, a little bit. To see that Ricky who had once looked at Gyuvin with such
tenderness, such… empathy—is now barely giving him the time of day. Like Gyuvin is
nothing more than dirt beneath his shoe.

Ricky doesn’t remember Gyuvin.

But maybe that’s okay.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Shrugging at Gunwook’s response, Ricky opens his mouth to say something else—and
Gyuvin decides, then and there, that he wants to be in Ricky’s life. And maybe Ricky won’t
have Gyuvin in the way that Gyuvin wants.

So maybe, Gyuvin will give himself to Ricky the way that Ricky wants.

”I’ll take a drink,” Gyuvin cuts in, and the glare that Ricky sends his way is practically
venomous. It’s good. This is exactly what Gyuvin wants.

”No,” Ricky replies through gritted teeth. “I’m not serving alcohol to a minor.”

Grinning, Gyuvin reaches into his pocket to fish out his wallet. He slips his ID out and
dangles it in front of Ricky’s face tauntingly. “‘M not underage, babe. Freshly twenty-one.”

Ricky eyeballs the card for a few seconds before glancing back up at Gyuvin, an uninterested
expression on his face. “Congrats. Order your own drink then.”

To his side, Gunwook snickers, though he quickly schools his features into an apologetic
expression when Gyuvin glares at him.

Fine.

Gunwook wants to laugh?

Two can play at this game.

Sighing obnoxiously loudly, Gyuvin slides into the empty barstool on Ricky’s left, propping
his chin on his hand and leaning in close. “Babe,” Gyuvin drawls, fighting to hold back his
smile as Ricky noticeably shifts backwards until he’s bumping into the guy—friend?—he’d
arrived with. “Where’s your sense of hospitality?”

”Stop calling me that,” Ricky snaps, and Gyuvin only continues to inch forwards, finding this
entire situation wholly amusing.

Tilting his head, Gyuvin adopts an innocent tone. “Stop calling you babe? You don’t like it,
huh? Maybe you’d prefer sweetheart—or, actually, you look like a cute little kitty cat when
you scrunch your nose like that.”
Ding ding ding. Gyuvin has a winner. Glowering, Ricky levels Gyuvin with an irritated look
—and Gyuvin is positive that if Ricky had a tail, it’d be flicking around in annoyance. “Stop
talking to me, I’m done with this conversation. Don’t you have a guitar to plug in or
something?”

Gyuvin doesn’t, actually, because his gear was all set up—it’s Gunwook that needs to plug his
in. But Ricky doesn’t need to know that.

”Me-ow.”

And really, it’s getting hard to not laugh by this point—especially when Ricky sculls half of
his drink at once, clearly trying to keep his cool but doing a very poor job at doing so.
Gyuvin would love to stay here for a little longer, find out what really makes Ricky tick—but
then Gunwook finally inserts himself back into the conversation.

”We probably should get on stage,” Gunwook announces, clapping Gyuvin on the back with
more force than Gyuvin was expecting. His elbow slips from beneath him, and Gyuvin
almost eats shit on the bar, but manages to right himself in time. “Will you stick around after
the show?”

”If you’re good enough,” Ricky quickly replies.

Smirking, Gunwook replies, “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.” And then he’s grabbing a
fistful of Gyuvin’s leather jacket, roughly tugging him off the barstool and through the
crowd. As Gyuvin is dragged along, he laughs, the sound getting lost in the din of the room.

And not once does he look away from Ricky.

Because in less than five minutes, Gyuvin has managed to figure out what makes Ricky tick.

Gone is the kind boy with the umbrella—he’s been replaced with an older and colder version
of himself.

Gyuvin thinks—no, he knows—that this is going to be fun.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, he’ll experience a heartbreak that will make him feel
alive once again.

After all, there’s no doubt about it, is there?

Gyuvin might already be a little bit in love with Shen Ricky.

Shanghai, 2014

”I’m coming with you.”

Gyuvin’s head whips up, and he blinks owlishly at Ricky who’s still sprawled out on his bed.
It’s hard to focus on just exactly what Ricky is saying when—when Gyuvin is trying very
hard to not look at all that.

All that being pretty, pale legs tangled in silky sheets, red and purple love bites scattered
across Ricky’s skin as a temporary reminder of what they’d gotten up to last night.

It’s distracting, and Gyuvin knows he probably looks like a fool right now, one leg halfway
into his trousers as he sways a little on the spot. But he doesn’t care about that—all he can
think about is how beautiful Ricky is. How lucky he is.

“Huh?” Gyuvin eventually replies, confused.

Ricky just smiles, nothing but patience and a little bit of humour swimming in his eyes. “New
York. I’m coming with you to New York.”

That’s enough to snap Gyuvin out of his stupor. He pulls his pants on properly, zipping up the
fly and haphazardly shoving his arms into his shirt next. “What—what do you mean, you’re
coming with me to New York? Ricky, I’m boarding the flight today. In, like, six hours.”

Ricky shrugs like it’s no big deal. Which is insane, because it is a big deal. “That’s fine. I’m a
fast packer. Thirty minutes and I’m good to go.”

Shaking his head, Gyuvin buttons up his shirt as he looks at Ricky. “That’s not—packing
isn’t the issue here, Ricky. You can’t just jump on a plane like that.”

”You did it,” Ricky points out.

”It’s not the same thing,” Gyuvin protests.

Ricky’s lips curve down—and fuck, that’s not… that’s not what Gyuvin had meant damn it.
He scrambles to expand on his point before Ricky can think something silly, like Gyuvin
doesn’t want him to come. Because that’s not the reasoning, not at all.

”I had time to plan,” Gyuvin begins, ignoring Ricky’s scoff. “Look. I had, like, a week to
organise myself. And it was reckless, and I wasn’t—I wasn’t really thinking properly, you
know? The only thing my brain could focus on was you. I wanted to see you again.”

”And I want to see you,” Ricky replies, a little petulantly.

Gyuvin sighs, exasperated, but in a fond way. “And you can. We can video call and stuff now.
You know, technology has come a long way—“

”I don’t want to FaceTime you!” Ricky interrupts, his voice bordering on a shout, and it
shocks Gyuvin into silence. Ricky sits up, the blankets pooling in his lap, and he looks… he
looks small. Unsure. “I want to be with you. In person. I want to be able to kiss you, and
touch you, and hold your hand—I don’t want to be separated by an ocean and an entirely
different timezone, Gyuvin. I don’t want that.”

Stunned, Gyuvin’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. He can barely believe what he’s
hearing. Before he’d boarded the plane to Shanghai, all Gyuvin had hoped for was just—just
a chance to talk to Ricky. Even if the other man hated him. Gyuvin had been prepared to drop
to his knees and beg for Ricky to take him back.

But instead, Ricky had chased after him. Confessed his love, even after all of this time—and
back then, Gyuvin had always had a sneaking suspicion that Ricky was aware of his own
feelings, but unsure of how to address them.

So much has happened in the past couple of days, and Gyuvin had thought—well, he tries to
not actively be negative anymore, but sometimes he couldn’t help it—he’d thought that
maybe… maybe this would be something temporary again. Maybe Ricky would get sick of
him.

Never would he have expected Ricky to so easily hand himself over. To rip his heart from his
chest and hold it out for Gyuvin to take.

”Ricky,” Gyuvin begins softly, holding his hands up placatingly like he’s approaching a wild
animal. “I get that. I really do. But—but you said you wanted to take things slow. You can’t
just drop everything and get on a plane with me.”

”Yes I can,” Ricky says with an irritated sniff. He crosses his arms over his chest. “And we
can still take things slow. In New York.”

”You have a life here—,” Gyuvin tries to say, but Ricky cuts him off with a firm shake of his
head.

”Don’t you get it?” Ricky says, a little desperately, scooching forwards on the mattress until
he’s sitting on the edge, toes barely touching the ground. “My life isn’t here. My life is with
you.”

”Ricky…” Gyuvin breathes out, his mind whirling as he tries to figure out how to respond.

But Ricky just shakes his head again. “No. Look, I know what I said. I know I was the one to
suggest we take things slowly. And I know that I was the one who fell in too deep, who
became far too obsessed with you. But—but this time, things will be different. We’ve had
eight years to grow, Gyuvin, and I can’t—I can’t spend any more time away from you. Not
again.” Ricky’s voice cracks then, and Gyuvin’s heart plummets into the ground when he sees
Ricky’s bottom lip wobble. “I want to start things over, to do things right this time. But I
can’t do it if we’re both on entirely different continents.”

Gyuvin crouches down, peering up at Ricky. Even crying, Ricky really is the most beautiful
person Gyuvin has ever seen in his life. He reaches his hands up, cupping Ricky’s face
delicately and wiping away the tears as they come.

“Hey,” he whispers, and Ricky sniffles, red rimmed eyes staring down at him. “It’s not like
I’m running away forever, alright? It’s just a concert. One single concert, and I’ll be on the
next plane back here.”

And yet, the reassurance still doesn’t seem to be enough for Ricky.
”I want to go with you,” Ricky continues to insist. He leans heavily against Gyuvin’s hands,
trusting him to hold him up. To not let him fall.

”You can’t just drop all of your responsibilities like that.”

”I’m not going to! I can paint anywhere, I have plenty of time to finish my commissions, so
there’s no reason I can’t come with.” Ricky argues back. He chews on his lip, eyes darting
across Gyuvin’s face as he visibly thinks about something. “And… and I think that it’s time I
go back. I haven’t been there for eight years. I’ve been away for long enough.”

It’s clear that Ricky’s mind is already made up, and Gyuvin can’t convince him otherwise—
not that Gyuvin doesn’t want Ricky to come with. In fact, he’d been dreading leaving because
he knew that the second he stepped out that door he’d already be missing Ricky.

“Are you sure?” Gyuvin asks, gently rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles on the apples of
Ricky’s cheeks. It’s cute, how Ricky leans into the touch even further, the distress in his eyes
clearing with each passing second. He really is a cat.

”I am,” Ricky replies.

And, well, who is Gyuvin to deny Ricky?

”Okay,” Gyuvin whispers, and his heart leaps in his chest when a beautiful smile blooms
across Ricky’s face. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

New York, 2015

“I feel like he’s going to hate it,” Ricky mutters, running a hand through his already
dishevelled hair. God forbid he sees his reflection in a mirror, because Ricky knows he
definitely looks like a mess right now.

”He’s not going to hate it,” Zhang Hao replies, rolling his eyes.

”You don’t know that.”

Zhang Hao gives Ricky a look. “Neither do you,” He points out, clearly exasperated. But still,
he pulls Ricky into a side hug, tilting his head to the side until their temples are touching.

”I just thought that…” Ricky trails off, fisting the material of his pants, no doubt creasing the
once perfectly ironed fabric. “He wrote the song for me, and I painted this for him. I’ve been
holding onto it all this time. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Humming, Zhang Hao squeezes Ricky’s shoulder. “It’s not about fairness. Relationships
aren’t a perfect scale. Sometimes, one side will tip down a little further than the other. You
give and you take, but it’s not always equal. And that’s okay. Because honestly, Ricky, do you
really think there’s anyone on this earth perfect enough to do that?”
”No,” Ricky sighs. He hates how Zhang Hao is always right. “I guess it also kind of feels like
I’ve been hiding it from him.”

Zhang Hao pulls away and turns to face Ricky properly. There’s a serious expression on his
face, a rare one he normally only reserves for his students. And Hanbin, sometimes.

”There’s a difference between hiding something and waiting for the right timing,” Zhang Hao
says, his thick brows pulled together in that signature frown of his. “It’s just a painting, Ricky
—but at the same time, it’s more than a painting, isn’t it?”

”Yeah,” Ricky whispers.

”I think that life is all about timing, when you really think about it.” Zhang Hao rolls his lips
together, his hands sliding down Ricky’s shoulders to interlock their hands instead. He
squeezes, and Ricky squeezes back. “Because what if I hadn’t been at the restaurant that
night? Or what if we’d never gone to Petal and Thorn? There’s so many what ifs, Ricky, but
that’s all they can be. All they should be. You can think and think about what could have been
—what should have been—all you want, but there’s no use in doing it. What matters is that
you’re here, presently.”

Zhang Hao looks down at their hands. He drags his thumb along Ricky’s knuckles, much like
a piano player would to a keyboard. “And honestly, I wish I’d known this back then. It’s a
little hypocritical of me to say now after that whole spiel, huh? But I guess I’ll always be a
little flawed. And so will you. It’s just what makes us human. All we can do is accept those
flaws because they’re a part of us.” Glancing back up, Zhang Hao finally smiles, his eyes
crinkling at the corners. “So yes, Ricky. I think Gyuvin will love the painting. Because he
loves you.”

Oh. Oh dear. Ricky can feel his bottom lip wobble, and he looks away from his cousin at the
painting instead as he rapidly blinks to clear the tears threatening to fall. “Thank you,” Ricky
chokes out, inhaling sharply. “I really needed to hear that.”

”Of course. I’m here for you. Always.”

“Happy birthday,” Ricky murmurs shyly, stepping aside to show off the gift behind him.

Gyuvin’s lips part on a soft exhale. “Ricky… you’ve never painted me anything before.”

”I have,” Ricky admits, and Gyuvin’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I painted this for
you a long time ago.”

Gyuvin stands from the edge of the mattress, taking three long strides across the bedroom
until he’s standing in front of the easel. Ricky hadn’t wrapped the painting, wasn’t sure he
could deal with the nerves of watching Gyuvin tear apart the paper, so instead he’d covered
Gyuvin’s eyes and led him to the bedroom.
It’s an agonising minute of waiting as Gyuvin takes in the painting, his eyes darting across
every inch of it. Ricky can see the moment when Gyuvin glances down at the bottom left
corner, where Ricky always signs and dates his works.

”I’m holding a blue rose,” Gyuvin observes, glancing over at Ricky for confirmation, who
nods. Nevermind the fact that Gyuvin knew those hands were his without even having to ask.

”Yeah.” Ricky isn’t sure if Gyuvin wants him to elaborate on that or not.

He watches as Gyuvin brushes delicate fingers over the canvas, fingers travelling down the
bumpy lines of paint. “And you painted this in 2006.”

”Yeah.”

Gyuvin nods then, slowly, and Ricky could just about bounce on the balls of his feet—that’s
how nervous he is.

But then Gyuvin turns to face him, and he smiles, something big and loving and Ricky really
can’t believe how lucky he is.

”It’s beautiful. I love it. This is the best present I’ve ever gotten,” Gyuvin tells Ricky,
reaching out to wrap him in his arms. Ricky squirms a little, cheeks pinkening.

”You’re just saying that. I’m sure you’ve had far better presents before.”

”Nope. I’m telling you that this is my favourite.”

Ricky hums from where his face is squished against Gyuvin’s shoulder, not quite believing
him, but he knows there’s no point in fighting Gyuvin over this.

It is relieving, though, to finally be able to hand over the painting to Gyuvin. And although it
will hang in their house, Ricky feels content in knowing that it's now in Gyuvin’s possession.
Because it feels right.

”I do have a second favourite present, though,” Gyuvin says, and Ricky tilts his head up,
raising a brow to prompt Gyuvin to continue. He has a feeling Gyuvin isn’t being all that
serious though, not when his eyes gleam and a cheeky grin finds its way onto his face. “I’m
looking right at him.”

Ricky scoffs, but there’s no real heat behind it. “And when the hell have I ever given myself
to you as a gift?”

Gyuvin’s grin only widens. He dips his head down, lips brushing against the shell of Ricky’s
ear. His breath is hot and sends a shiver down Ricky’s spine. “There’s always today. You
know… if you wanted.”

And, well, who is Ricky to deny Gyuvin? He wriggles his way out of Gyuvin’s arms, one
hand working on unbuttoning his own shirt whilst the other coyly beckons Gyuvin over.
“Come unwrap me, then.”
 —

Shanghai, 2017

Gyuvin used to think that having a family was all a farce. Because his mother and father
never loved him, because his grandparents treated him like a pest, because his siblings had
not an ounce of loyalty to each other.

It’s not their fault. Not really. Gyuvin knows better now, knows that from the moment each
one of them had been born, they were doomed from the beginning. Ties far too severed to
mend by this point.

Gyuvin knows that if he saw one of his siblings on a sidewalk he wouldn’t recognise them.
Because they’re all nothing but strangers to him.

And that’s okay. It’s taken him a long time to understand, but it really, truly, is okay.

Family is not born by blood. Family is born by love.

A love that he’s found in his friends. A love that found him in the form of a pretty blonde
man sitting at a bar that had caught Gyuvin’s attention all of those years ago. A love that
lingered in an umbrella long since lost, but never quite forgotten.

Ricky isn’t blonde now, and he hasn’t picked up an eyeliner pencil in a long time, but he’s
still as beautiful as ever. Maybe even more so now, because Gyuvin swears he looks even
more stunning with each passing day.

And today, Ricky glows with the force of a thousand suns. He’s shy when he repeats the
vows he’s practiced hundreds of times, and then tearful once Gyuvin recites his own. He
squeals and giggles when Gyuvin dips him down for an overly dramatic kiss, but they both
smile into it, rapid camera shutter sounds and cooing from the guests reminding Gyuvin that
they aren’t in their own little bubble right now.

When they both straighten up properly and turn to face the guests, Gyuvin swears that he’s
never felt this happy in his entire life. Hanbin and Zhang Hao are at the altar with them, each
the respective best men of Gyuvin and Ricky. In the audience, Matthew and Taerae sit with
matching smiles on their faces, and Taerae not so subtly tries to wipe his tears away. Jiwoong
has his arms slung across Yujin and Seobin’s shoulders, and even Ricky’s parents are here—
they’d taken a little while to come around, but they’d gotten there in the end. There’s
Gunwook, Hongjoong and Seonghwa, Jingxiang, Wumuti, Yizhuo, Binghua and Haruto—
and many, many more people that have become such staples in Gyuvin and Ricky’s lives.

Gyuvin looks at all of the faces in attendance and he knows. He knows that he is loved, and
these people may not be his family by blood, but that doesn’t matter to him.

He’s always had a family around him. And he finally understands that.

These are his people.

This is his home.

”Hey,” Gyuvin murmurs to Ricky, and he swears, oh he swears that he may just vomit from
the sheer amount of happiness flowing through his body right now. Especially when Ricky
turns to face him, eyes sparkling and lips stretched into the biggest smile Gyuvin has ever
seen on him.

Holy fuck.

That’s his husband.

Gyuvin is so caught up in staring at Ricky that he completely misses what his husband says—
that is, until Ricky rolls his eyes playfully and gently shoves at Gyuvin’s shoulder. “Hey. Kim
Gyuvin! Are you even listening to me?”

”Hm?” Gyuvin hums, blinking out of his daze as his brain catches up. “Of course I’m
listening to you Kim Ricky.”

Kim Ricky. Kim Ricky. Kim Ricky.

Gyuvin will never get tired of saying that.

Ricky’s cheeks flush a bright red, and he bites down on his lip, his little fanged tooth turning
the skin there white. “If you really were listening to me, then you’d know I asked you to
finish what you were saying,” Ricky says once he’s collected himself.

What was Gyuvin even saying? He takes a moment to think, glancing down, and it all comes
back to him when he sees the bouquet of roses Ricky is still clutching.

Blue roses.

Not natural of course, as such a flower didn’t exist. But it’s what they’d wanted for the
wedding, and they’d paid a florist a hefty amount to dye hundreds upon hundreds of white
roses blue. It’s definitely worth it, Gyuvin thinks, when he looks around and sees the flowers
everywhere.

It means something to the two of them.

From something that had once seemed so impossible, to a dream that’s come true.

”I think it’s time for the bouquet toss, don’t you think?” Gyuvin says, and Ricky looks down,
adjusting the bouquet in his grip.

”I suppose it is.”

And Gyuvin hadn’t known what to expect when Ricky tossed the bouquet over his head. But
he certainly didn’t think that Gunwook and Jingxiang would jump for the bouquet at the
same time. They both catch it, one hand each wrapped around the stem of the bouquet, and
they turn wide-eyed to face each other.

”Well,” Zhang Hao mutters from behind Ricky, “was anyone else expecting that?”
”No,” Gyuvin replies with a snort. The photographer snaps a few pictures of Gunwook and
Jingxiang whilst they're still frozen in place. It’s like they’re both waiting for the other to
make the first move.

”It kind of makes sense, though,” Ricky remarks. His hand finds Gyuvin’s, their fingers
intertwining, and Gyuvin squeezes Ricky’s hand on reflex. “Don’t you think?”

The last part is said a little quieter, reserved only for Gyuvin to hear. He leans his head
against Ricky’s.

”Yeah. I think Gunwook deserves to be happy,” Gyuvin says softly. He smiles fondly as he
watches Jingxiang move first, turning to look at Gunwook and saying something to him that
no one else can hear. Jingxiang lets go of the bouquet, instead pushing it into Gunwook’s
chest gently, With a flourish, Jingxiang spins around and makes his way over to the altar.

”Congratulations,” Jingxiang says with a grin, shaking both of their hands. “I’m so happy for
the two of you.”

”Right back at ya,” Ricky replies cheekily, and Jingxiang cocks his head in confusion. He
doesn’t get to say anything more though, because Gunwook is next in line.

”It was a beautiful wedding,” Gunwook tells them seriously, and Gyuvin can see Gunwook
fighting the urge to look over at Jingxiang. How endearing. “I’m so happy for the two of
you.”

Ricky and Gyuvin both thank him, and then Hanbin is clapping his hands together in an
attempt to move things along. “Alright, alright, back to your seats! You’re supposed to let the
couple walk down the aisle first before you bombard them.”

Gyuvin laughs, looking over his shoulder at his best man. “Hanbin. When have Ricky and I
ever done things in the right order?”

New York, 2018

”Being back here feels like a blast from the past,” Ricky admits before taking a sip of his
martini. He still doesn’t drink like he used to, but they’d both decided to indulge a little
tonight. For old times sake.

They’re both nursing their drinks, though. Gyuvin doesn’t mind a little bit of a buzz, but
that’s as far as he’ll go.

He glances around the bar and hums. “I was never here as much as you were. Has much
changed?”

”Not really,” Ricky replies with a shake of his head. “Jiwoong never really touched this bar. I
guess all this time he’s known this place holds special memories for me. Staff have come and
gone, but that’s to be expected I suppose.”
“I see,” Gyuvin says. To his right, someone slides into the empty barstool, and he glances
over for a moment to see a younger girl with short, cherry red hair, flagging down the
bartender with a delicate wave of her hand.

His focus shifts back to his husband, and they speak in quiet conversation until the crowd
begins to cheer. Tonight’s act is on stage, and they both swivel in their stools to watch.

”Good evening, everyone!” The lead girl enthusiastically says into the microphone, and the
crowd shouts back at her. She grins at that, flicking some of her long, silky black hair over
her shoulder as she wraps her hands around the mic stand. “My name is Kim Jiyoon and this
is my band Sue Wretch! Hope ya have a good time with us tonight!”

And yeah, as they begin to play, Gyuvin has to admit that they’re good. Jiyoon has a fantastic
voice, the perfect blend of gritty but smooth, and she works the stage like she’s done this
thousands of times. Gyuvin is sure Sue Wretch is headed for great things.

Gyuvin is so enraptured by the performance that he barely registers Ricky’s elbow nudging
his side.

”What?” He asks, eyes flickering over to Ricky.

Ricky just grins, tilting his head towards the girl sitting next to Gyuvin. “I can’t help but
notice they’ve got some chemistry.”

So Gyuvin glances over—and yeah, he sees it. The red haired girl has long since forgotten
about her drink, still clutching the glass absentmindedly as condensation drips onto her thigh.
Her eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, completely lost in Jiyoon’s every move.

And then Gyuvin looks at Jiyoon. For a fleeting second, he almost thinks she’s looking at
him. But no—her eyes are locked on the red haired girl as she pours her soul into the lyrics as
she sings.

”Think there’s something about this place?” Ricky muses. “I guess it’s a good thing Jiwoong
never touched Petal and Thorn.”

Gyuvin smirks.

Does he believe this bar is the reason he and Ricky met?

Not quite.

Because Gyuvin knows their red thread was tied long before they ever set foot here—before
they even knew each other’s names. But still, he’ll give the bar some credit. After all, it was a
bridge, wasn’t it? Who knows how much longer it would have taken for him to find Ricky
again?

”I wonder what their story will be,” Gyuvin comments idly.

Ricky cocks his head as he considers. “No idea. Life has a funny way of working out, doesn’t
it?”
 Gyuvin chuckles. “I’ll drink to that.”

Their glasses clink, and they hide their smiles behind the rims as they take a sip.

If someone had told Gyuvin twelve years ago that he’d find the missing part of his soul in a
dimly lit bar downtown, he would have laughed in their face. Would have told them he didn’t
believe in wholeness.

He’d once told Ricky he’d dig them a grave big enough for two. And maybe, in a way, he had
—because they left their old selves in that hole. Reborn into something better.

Two matching gold bands catch the neon red glow of the bar.

Gyuvin raises his glass one last time.

To fate.

Chapter End Notes

so, this is it. the final chapter of addict for dramatics has come to a close

to be completely transparent with you guys, i grew far more attached to this fic than i thought i would. and it sounds
stupid because it’s just a made up story, right? but i think this is the first time that something i have written has ever
made me feel so emotional

i started writing this fic when i was still fresh to the fandom, and to think that eight months have passed since the
beginning of this journey… it doesn’t feel real to me. the very first author note i wrote for this story i explained this
was supposed to be a 30k oneshot, but i simply couldn’t stop writing, and now it’s almost five times the length i’d
initially planned for

i want to thank anyone who’s given my story a read. whether you’ve been here from the beginning, or only just began,
thank you. thank you so much. for the comments, the kudos, the bookmarks, everything. thank you to anyone who’s
ever had to deal with me screaming about my fic in their dms, for being patient with me amongst the breaks i’ve taken
writing this—just, thank you. seriously. i feel like i need to say something more than thank you but words are failing
me right now

to those curious about haobin’s story, i do wish to write a oneshot for them. i’m just not sure as to when it will be
completed. i think i want to take a little bit of a break from this universe i’ve created and work on some other projects
first

and in a way, this feels a little bit like goodbye, doesn’t it? the end of an era

one of the most incredible things i have taken away from writing this fic is the fact that it has touched so many lives
and brought comfort to those who needed it. that is truly so so so beautiful—to know that something i’ve written has
had a positive impact on others all around the world. writing this fic was very healing for me and i’m glad it has been
healing for others too

but hey—goodbyes aren’t forever, though. you know that, right?

with love,
Presently 🖤
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