Chapter Text
C'mon c'mon c'mon.” This "free" hotel wifi is absolute garbage. His parents won’t pay for the upgrade because it’s charged by the room. Yeah, a couple hundred a night on a suite is fine, but a couple hundred and fourteen ninety-five, which he would totally reimburse, is too expensive.
“Ah, Seungie, keep your money.”
Why? When the twenty in his wallet means nothing when it could buy him the pure unmitigated joy of functioning internet.
He should be absolutely used to his parents’ boundless neuroticism by now, god knows enough of it has rubbed off onto him. For example, when he first moved away to college, he learned that it’s kind of weird to save and rewash ziploc bags until the seams start leaking and flatten tinfoil after it’s been used. This of course, he learned after his suitemate stared at him like he had a second head.
Furtively, Seungmin mashes the refresh button on screen. The ticker disappears, browser window fades to white, and reloads slowly.
"Pleeease." Mom’s hitting the spa, and dad has tee time scheduled, which means it’s a perfect time to hit up Armani Exchange, snag a few end of season items, and then destroy the evidence like tags, and bags and receipts.
Seungmin shifts and catches a whiff of something foul. Body odor combined with the scent of Cashmere Mist deodorant. Why the hell is that stuff so expensive if it’s absolutely useless out in the desert heat?
Sweat beads at his temple and his upper lip, but throwing an oversized pool towel over his head to shield himself from the sun is the best solution he can think of. Seungmin’s not having a working vacation, no sir, just relaxation. Nevermind the fact that he had a recurring nightmare in the days leading up to departure. In these nightmares, his LSAT books would make his bag overweight and then they wouldn’t clear TSA and he’d have to trash them all, including the invaluable notes written in the margins of the page .
And he doesn’t believe in e-books because research says you learn more from paper than screens anyway.
This is optional. Not some nervous tic he developed when he was studying for the SAT a few years ago and deleted and blocked every single app on his phone except for E-Trade for 16 hours a day.
Pixel by pixel the page loads as oppressive desert heat beams down upon his legs and the nape of his neck. Hell even the soles of his feet feel hot underneath the sun. Scroll, scroll, scroll through his portfolio and boom. There it is. ASM, initially purchased for $1.25 a share, it’s grown nicely with the announcement of a new merger three months ago and trade conference announcements rolling in.
"Seungmin, c’mon!" His brother interrupts. Followed by a muffled "nerd," and the cold splash of water against his feet.
“Wonpil,” his voice spikes into annoyance and then softens when he realizes that’s exactly what his older brother wants. “Fuck off.”
Dragging his fingers across the trackpad, Seungmin doesn't hesitate for a second before pressing "sell."
It's not the easiest $500 he’s ever made. In fact, when he factors in all the food he’s bought Wonpil the past few days, poutine, and shrimp cocktail, and sage chicken...When he takes into account the tips he’s been sliding hotel staff when his parents stare blankly at tip lines and open palms, it feels hard earned.
His phone rings with an oh so satisfying ka-ching of a virtual cash register. Only then does he shuck the beach towel shroud and tuck his rose gold macbook into his bag.
Stepping out of his Hilfiger slides, he darts to the pool’s edge, impervious to the lifeguard’s harsh whistle. In a perfect , track and field high jump arch he dives backwards into the deep end.
Holding his breath until his lungs burn, he traverses half of the pool until he can see the familiar outline of the pink pool float they rented. Flipping the raft is a split second decision that he wonders whether or not he can get away with. They don’t know each other that well anymore. Six years between them, and almost as many years Wonpil’s lived in LA. Seungmin does it anyway, dragging Wonpil into the water.
Resurfacing for air, he’s pushed back down immediately. They exchange furtive pinches and kicks underwater. Chlorine burns his nose and the back of his throat, but he doesn’t stop until Wonpil’s soaked and sputtering just like him.
“I knew those Harvard snobs hadn’t ruined you yet,” and he certainly didn’t think his brother would ever sound so happy to be unceremoniously dumped into the pool
“You’re a snob too you know,” sure he dropped out of Cornell years ago to work his way through almost every single art school in southern California but Wonpil can’t exactly escape his squeaky clean, argyle, New England past. Especially when they’re together.
Together, they take the pool float and fold it, wedging it underneath their arms they rest their torsos on the float and let their legs trail down into the deep. They talk about the kinds of things that two people who know each other really well, but don’t really know each other at all can talk about. Wonpil asks him if he’s gotten into law school yet and tells him that he hasn’t even taken the LSAT. He then has to explain what the LSAT is.
Seungmin asks him if he’s still living in the apartment with the former reality television star and the Scientologist. Wonpil responds that he’s moved in with Dowoon with some of their friends.
“So, I was thinking about leaving you here tonight with mom and dad while they went to the Elvis tribute show but--”
“Oh, the benevolent cool god Wonpil is gonna grace me with is presence?” There’s rancor in his voice but his heart is beating fast because his brother is so cool and who knows what kind of cool things that he does when Seungmin’s not around.
Wonpil definitely doesn’t spend his free time updating his stock portfolio.
“I don’t know. If you can behave, I think I’ll take you to a party. Some friends of mine live out here.” Wonpil may have “settled down” in Los Angeles, but his home is anywhere he can charm someone with a smile.
Wonpil isn’t just surface level cool. Wonpil lives in LA. Has a boyfriend. Plays keyboard in a band. Dropped out of an Ivy league school to go to art school. Has a tattoo. Does whatever the fuck he wants and doesn’t have to step on anybody in the process of getting it. Coolness with a depth that Seungmin can’t even imagine.
If Wonpil is cool, then Seungmin is tepid. Nothing discernibly disagreeable about him, but nothing particularly inspiring or captivating. He lives a privileged life in Massachusetts to escape his equally, but differently privileged life in New York. He’s come out to a collective four people. He spends more time with his stock portfolio than his photography portfolio because that’s what his “friends” in his econ classes do. Future Harvard graduate, future law student, future lawyer. He does every little thing he can to make his parents happy. Tepid.
There’s nothing more tepid than a guy habitually checking MarketWatch on his phone.
But nobody other than Wonpil knows that about him now. What is it that they say about this place in television advertisements and travel agent brochures?
What happens here stays here?
Like his honors thesis, and his practice LSAT scores, and his 4.0 GPA won’t even know that it happened?
“Yeah. That sounds really cool.”
Can fair weather friends exist if you’re in a city with an estimated average precipitation of 4.08 inches per year? Not that he checked.
Can fair weather friends exist if that friend is your brother? He’d call anyone else a dick for the way he’s acting, but he knows that it’s not intentional. No, this is just how Wonpil happens to be.
Wonpil grabs his shoulder while he’s slapping other guys on the shoulder and says, “hey bro, this is my bro,” to at least a half dozen people. If there is one thing that Seungmin does know, it’s that his older brother is a combination of super outgoing and incredibly flighty. In no time at all a conversation about the intricacies of a music festival in Colorado last month leads Wonpil across the room and Seungmin alone in the peripheral of several conversations that he couldn't care less about.
The bits of conversation that he gleans, are riveting. “You know, his gallery installation is a real scam. Dude sold out.”
And, “I just really. Honestly? Need something more in my life than going to AA and waiting for my vibrator to recharge.”
“I like your sweater,” a girl brushes against his arm to get his attention and in the process spills red wine down the oatmeal colored sleeve. “Oops.”
He just got this from Armani Exchange. Fantastic
A few people ask who he knows here, and when telling people that he’s Wonpil’s brother becomes too much, the conversation simply evaporates like a shallow puddle left out in the hot desert sun.
But there’s nothing more tepid than than a guy habitually checking MarketWatch on his phone. So he swipes a brown bottle from a six pack pushed behind a chair and discovers that he absolutely hates IPA beer and it doesn’t matter what the hell Wonpil says they’re still disgusting.
Then, he manages to swipe a mango hard seltzer from a girl who insists that he have one and, “ain’t no laws with claws.” It’s much less offensive, but he’d much rather have something with sugar.
Alcohol takes off the edge and he feels free to roam the house as he sees fit. Taking it all in, he’s like some khaki clad anthropologist observing the indigenous people who have never been exposed to societies that know how to tie a Windsor knot or the difference between an oxford and a loafer.
As he walks through the house, he discovers a white baby grand piano plastered with bright red Supreme box logo stickers and Seungmin can’t decide if that’s cool or if that’s tacky. All he knows for sure is that the night won’t end without Wonpil playing it.
There’s a lot about this home that makes him ask that question, cool or tacky? It's like a rich person bought it and left a broke college student to fend for themselves while decorating. Fake deep mixes with real deep. A chunk of drywall is missing from the foyer, around it is a baroque style frame. A card with neat typeface reads, “Han Jisung, Mixed media: Rum and drywall, 2019” as if this were a work of art in a museum. Next to it is an abstract painting that looks absolutely museum worthy because of how it takes his breath away.
Through the hallway, a mostly topless woman parades past him. Mostly topless, because liquid latex doesn’t count. In the hallway, a poetry reading goes awry when the poet abandons the spoken word in favor of writhing around on the carpet clawing at his shirt. The syllables of whatever poem he’s reciting are lost in his histrionic display.
Even though his face feels hot, there’s no way in hell he’s drunk enough for this.
The whole place smells like weed. Which is fine. It’s legal here, and even if it wasn’t he’s totally fine with it.
But the smoke in the air makes his throat feel dry, and you know what’s great for a dry throat? A drink.
After winding his way through what seemed to be an endless chain of living rooms and foyers, Seungmin finds the kitchen and ultimately the promise of more booze, because this anthropologist is almost ready to go learn the customs of the natives. Mingle. If you will.
Lovely. There’s a human sacrifice of some kind taking place in the kitchen.
Deep in ritual, perhaps an offering to the god of hangovers, a hedonistic scene unfolds directly in front of him on the kitchen island.
Something tells him it’s not a virgin sacrifice. The hottest guy he’s ever seen, dressed of course in the ceremonial garb of all black, lays on his back upon the marble counter top. His shirt is raked high, and Seungmin could probably wash the stain out of his sweater with his abs.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” the stressfully attractive sacrifice taunts one of the men running the ceremony. Then, as if he’s accepted his fate, he interrupts his smirk by balancing a wedge of green lime between his own lips.
Cannibalism!?
God, his accent is so good too. It’s kind of not fair that this guy is not only the hottest guy he’s ever seen, but the hottest guy he’s ever heard. Some kind of brain breaking dissonance when you see someone with the face of one continent, and the voice of another, who lives on a third, because swear to god this guy is an amalgamation of every guy he’s fantasized about since the first time he rubbed one out to a Red Box copy of Wolverine.
“Ah c’mon, what’s a bodyshot between friends?” A man with a matching accent taunts before burying his face in the other man’s navel. Shamelessly, he laps at toned white skin before trailing upward, and seizing the lime wedge from between his lips.
Holy fuck.
This debauchery is met with thunderous applause from several other men watching the whole scene unfold.
“Hey,”
The blood in Seungmin’s body runs cold, but what can he expect? He intruded on this most sacred ritual and did absolutely nothing to conceal himself. The natives.
He’s sitting up now with his shirt pulled back down and cheeks flushed red. Messy tousled hair matches so well with roughed and simultaneously exquisite designer clothes. Oh my god, he looks like he’s just been fucked. “You look like you need a drink.”
Words. Words would be great right now. He knows a lot of them because LSAT.
“Aw shit, Chan’s getting cold feet,” one of the boys surrounding the kitchen island teases.
“No, I--” And then Chan’s horror seems to match his own for a moment, eyes wide with panic. “I mean, you don’t have to take a--if you’d rather have a real glass you can--”
If. You’d. Rather. Rather. An indication of preference. Rather. Implying two or more choices. Does he have a choice here? Body shot or glass?
Fuck it. He’s never gonna be cool like Wonpil. But he’s out in the desert, so why not be hot like this guy?
“No,” his voice sounds shaky. But he’s so tired of being tepid and being cool just isn’t working out. This guy is hot. Makes him feel like he could be hot too. Forget stocks, roulette, or twenty-one, cause if he’s gonna take a gamble it’s gonna be on his own terms. as soon as he gets back home, it’s finals, and LSAT, and applications, and law school. If not now, when? He’s going all in. “I’ll have what he's drinking," he says gesturing to the boy who just took the body shot. And then, because that’s more forward with anyone he’s ever been in his life, including the time he lost his virginity. “If that’s cool.”
“Yeah, I think that’s cool, bro,” one of the boys at the counter grabs for the tequila bottle and shoves at Chan’s shoulder.
“Han, don’t I get a say in this?” Han? as in, “Han Jisung, Mixed Media: rum and drywall” holds a lot of power right now. Chan’s face is beet red. And then, as if something were snapped back into place, Chan grabs another wedge of lime. “Of course it’s fine.”
Chan lies back onto the kitchen island. Lifts his shirt back up real slow. Someone dribbles amber colored liquid onto his pale skin. Maybe for the first time ever he’s regretful that he’s neglected two years of house, graduation, and yacht parties because if this is the norm, he’s really missed out.
Seungmin grips at the v of his hips and lowers his head toward Chan’s body. God this has to look obscene. Fuck this better look obscene because it’s too late to be shy. Meeting Chan’s shining gaze he can only hope that he comes across a fraction as sexy-confident as Chan. “Cheers?”
“Cheers mate.”
Seungmin dips his tongue into Chan’s abdomen. Immediately he’s met by the smoky burn of tequila. Lapping at it as quickly as possible, it burns the back of his throat, and he doesn’t get the chance to enjoy fluttering skin beneath him.
“That tickles.”
Desperate to salvage anything, he laps a long stripe up Chan’s toned stomach boldly stopping at the crest of his chest where his black crewneck is pulled across his chest. Upward, he captures the wedge of lime. In that moment, the briefest contact is made between their lips.
“Do you do that often?”
“Do what?”
“Sacrifice yourself to the house party gods?”
Chan laughs in response,“yeah, I committed one hell of a party foul last week.”
Seungmin laughs too, and even though it isn’t that funny it sounds genuine. In that moment, he kind of knows. Because it’s one thing to mistake the illicit thrill of a body shot as mutual attraction, and it’s another thing to actually find a stupid joke funny.
If Changbin hadn’t disappeared twenty minutes ago with the promise that the entire house was going to know better than play Old Town Road over the PA system, he’d scoff and tell him that it wasn’t that deep. He’d tell Chan that he’s just thinking with his dick. He’d tell him that his type is anyone that calls his bluff. Changbin would tell him that he’s a fool for a well dressed man, and that he was screwed the minute he walked in with the Armani Exchange pullover, even if there’s wine spilled down the sleeve.
But it’s more than that. Has to be. He’s Chan’s type, which means he’s Changbin’s type too. He’s almost certain that Changbin would like. Changbin’s a sucker for the Valley Girl aesthetic. Mall punk meets prep and the rest is history. Which is which? Well, he’s not really figured that out yet.
But when you open with a body shot, Chan supposes that what comes next isn’t really that much of a leap upward.
Except that it’s clear that the guy’s confidence is spent, and it’s not made any better by sucking on a lime. “Ah, stop eating that. You look miserable.”
“It’s better than the liquor,” he says with a grimace.
Chaos has erupted around them.
From Felix, “wait, I’m completely sober, I need another shot.”
From Han, “Alright, I’m taking bets right now.”
But it feels like the house is empty. “I can make you a real drink. What do you like?”
“Um,” his face burns hot red, like it's just dawned on him that what he’s done is very out of line with the designer sweater, liberal arts, yacht party, good boy image that he’s spent years cultivating. Like it’s just dawned on him that what he’s done is very in line with wine stains, and house parties, and art school rejects. Like he’s afraid that it’s too late to ask for a mimosa or a sangria now that he’s downed a shot of well tequila.
“Bartender’s choice?” And if that’s not convincing, “trust me.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your name,” asked as he finds ice, squeezes the rest of the discarded lime half into a tumbler glass.
“Seungmin.” Seungmin is very cute.
“This is Chan,” Han cuts in.
“I’m Chan.” Discarded between several bottles of liquor he finds the bar jigger and measures out a generous, but not overpowering portion of gin. There’s an open liter of seltzer on the counter, in it goes. Then he scans the accoutrements. Olives. No. Lemon. No. Maraschino cherries. Yes. He dumps no less than four or five cherries and a whole lot of cherry juice into the cocktail. “Wanna get out of here? Maybe go talk or something?”
Nothing like a trip to the suburbs to lull you into a false sense of serenity. With the strip neon lights miles away, Seungmin can see the stars in the inky night sky.
They sit, not on the numerous patio chairs, but on the edge of the back porch itself. Without a show to put on, without a bluff to call, Chan becomes more human to him as he looks up at that same sky and brilliant waxing moon. His posture is relaxed, reclining backward and supporting his weight on his hands. He seems at a loss for words, like he too can be awkward. Chan for a moment, has the potential to be something more than the hottest guy he’s ever seen.
In that awkwardness, Seungmin takes refuge in looking out at the yard, which is no less immaculate or strange than the house. A stone pathway leads out into the grass to an arched trellis, which acts as a mythical gate or sacred portal between the house and the garden.
Almost pastoral, a ceremonial circle of concrete lawn geese, some of them headless, carve out a brilliant sigil in the grass. Each one dressed in immaculate gingham frocks.
“Do you know how much money these people must have to have this much grass in the desert?”
“Grass?” Chan laughs again, and he’d do anything to chase that sound. “I know the person who owns this house. I’m going to tell him that out of all of this, the thing that impressed you was the grass.”
Dry air brushes against his skin and makes him feel parched. Luckily, Chan made him a drink. So he sips it in long, overeager gulps until the burn of liquor makes him stop. “Wanna see something cool?”
“Yeah,” Chan seems to take this offer as invitation.
Seungmin isn’t sure that he minds.
Hand on his thigh, Chan rubs delicate little circles into the denim of his jeans and it makes Seungmin’s skin pique with gooseflesh.
“Oh god, this is dumb.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s no more dumb than letting your best friends and really cute stranger rip body shots off your chest,” Bolder now, he swipes his thumb up the inside of his thigh.
Fuck.
Carefully, he plucks one of the maraschino cherries out of the glass, shows it to Chan in the faint porch light. “Here,” and he offers the cherry to chan by the stem.
Chan first reaches for it with his fingers, and Seungmin pulls back. “Nuh-uh.”
Understanding now, Chan lets him feed him the cherry. Then, he pops the stem into his mouth. and pops it into his mouth stem and all. Of course, he makes a big show of poking his tongue against his cheek and pursing his lips. Then, with a smile, he catches the end of the stem between his front teeth and pulls it tight. “See?” as he shows Chan the perfectly tied knot what he’s done.
“Wow.” And then without skipping a beat, “What else can you do, Cherry?” Their position shifts again. Seungmin moves his leg, and then so does Chan. Instead of sitting with his legs over the porch edge, he now sits with them over Chan’s hips, like he’s halfway sitting in his lap.
“What, are you gonna call me that now?” His ears burn hot, and yeah, he’s probably bright red like one right now.
“If you let me.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a nickname before.”
“It’s cute. Like you.” Then, like he weighs nothing at all, Chan’s hefted him into his lap for real. So he sips his drink in long, overeager gulps until the burn of liquor makes him stop.
“This okay?”
“Yeah?” Seungmin lets out a breath that he didn’t even know that he was holding. Chan is so close he can feel the tickle of his breath on his lips and the rise and fall of his chest. What is he supposed to do? Like he knows what he’s supposed to do, but he doesn’t like know what he’s supposed to do when a guy is this hot and this sure of himself and this cool .
“I can um,” talking is not going to get him anywhere. Not when Chan’s snaked a hand up under his shirt and has his palm splayed wide across the small of his back. Not when he’s grabbing his ass through his jeans.
Wet his lips with his tongue and close his eyes, Seungmin has to act.
“Chan?” A stranger’s voice interrupts.
But the lip-brush soft-sting of teeth tugging at his lower lip that he anticipated so badly just never comes.
“Ah--Sorry dude--”
“What?” Both of them jolt in surprise and Chan scrambles to keep him steady and not drop him in the grass depths mere inches below. “Hyunjin, what the hell?”
“What the hell yourself Chan. It’s Minho, he’s locked himself in the bathroom again with your dog. It sounds like he’s crying maybe, and we can’t find Changbin.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Seungmin moves. Chan is apologetic. “I’m sorry. I really should take care of this,” and it’s sealed with a kiss on the tip of his nose. Something far less satisfying than he anticipated.
“Please don’t go anywhere. I’ll make this fast, I promise.”