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Juyeon loves his job. He loves the eye of the camera — the eyes of everybody — on him, bathes contentedly in the praise that falls easily from the director’s lips as he’s adjusting to different poses, little exclamations of that’s right, Juyeon-ssi, perfect. He likes it even better when the make-up artists are fussing over him, preens visibly under their appreciative gaze when they call him beautiful and handsome and lovely.
And it’s not that he’s a narcissist, not entirely, it’s just that he loves to be praised, loves the giddy warmth that trills through him when he’s complimented, the way it only pushes him to work harder to feel worthy of it.
(Kevin thinks it’s cute and that’s all that matters, really.)
And yet, there are times when Juyeon’s reminded of how brutal exactly his job can be. Life as a model isn’t easy, he knows, has had his agent, Chanhee, remind him of it over and over again, of the possibility of rejection and criticism so harsh it will hook under his skin and tear him apart. It’s just that he’s never really had to face it.
At least, not until now.
“You’re not… really what we were looking for.”
“What?” His voice is faint.
The art director’s lips are pursed, lined with a sort of exasperation that makes Juyeon feel terribly small, like he isn’t even worth her time. Her nails, painted a garish red, tap impatiently against the door frame as her eyes skim briefly over his frame. Apparently unimpressed, she sighs. “I’m really sorry, Juyeon-ssi,” she says but it’s an obvious way to appease him, just like the professional, almost detached smile she dons a moment after.
The door starts to close and Juyeon’s hand shoots out to stop it. The briefest flicker of annoyance crosses her face but Juyeon is already barreling onwards, great bumbling words stumbling out of his mouth in agitated breaths. “But what about — didn’t we send you pictures earlier? You said that it — that I was fine then.”
Another sigh. “I’m really sorry,” she repeats, like a broken record. Juyeon wants to yell, demand an explanation, do anything except stand here floundering in his own desperation, but he’s always been exceptionally soft-spoken. Yelling is Chanhee’s job, except Chanhee isn’t here right now to help him sort things out. “Maybe next time, Juyeon-ssi.”
This time, his hand goes limp and he lets the lady close the door without any further protest, the resounding click echoing through him with a dreadful finality. For what might have been a few seconds or entire centuries, Juyeon stands there staring at the door, unblinking with his fists clenched painfully by his sides.
He suddenly feels very stupid — stupid for having woken up so early this morning to shower and make sure he smelled nicely of sandalwood and patchouli, stupid for having Kevin do his make-up to make him look pretty, stupid for dressing up in his favorite boots and tailored wool coat, stupid for spending the entire morning getting ready when it all amounted to nothing anyway.
What a fucking joke.
The excruciating heat of humiliation sears through him, red-hot and nauseating, and to his horror he can feel the subtle pressure of tears gathering at his lash line, blurring his eyesight until the door is nothing more than a streak of color.
See, it’s no secret that Juyeon cries easily. It’s something that his friends like to tease him about (especially Eric, the fucker), something that Kevin finds endearing, but Juyeon has known it as a burden all his life. How could it not be, when all it takes is a slight raising of the voice to make him start crying?
He’s holding his breath now, one hand coming up to angrily wipe away the tears that are spilling over his cheeks, shame burning at the tips of his ears. The callous dismissal rings heavy in his ears and he’s not sure when “you weren’t what we were expecting” turned into “you’re not what we wanted” and then into “you’re simply not good enough.”
His heart fissures and breaks at the thought.
God , Juyeon thinks later when he’s sitting in a nearby café , waiting out the appropriate time to return home so that it’s not too early for Kevin to get suspicious, but not late enough for him to worry. Kevin’s going to be so disappointed.
-----
Juyeon doesn’t expect Kevin to be home when he returns to the apartment, but when he steps inside he sees Kevin’s battered work boots carelessly shoved into their corner of the shoe rack, like he’d just come home.
“Kev?” he calls cautiously into the empty space. There’s a sudden clatter from the adjacent room followed by a startled curse, eliciting a chuckle from Juyeon even with how drained he is, and when he straightens up after unlacing his boots Kevin’s standing in the doorway, willowy form draped against the frame in a practiced display of nonchalance.
He’s — beautiful, Juyeon thinks reverently, beautiful with his sunkissed, honey skin and the mussed waves of hair falling in obsidian strands over his eyes. Beautiful, even after two years of living together, and his . Something inexplicably warm expands in Juyeon’s chest and a little bit of the weariness dissipates.
“Hey, you,” Kevin says. He opens his arms slightly and that’s all the prompting it takes for Juyeon to cross the room and crash into his arms, burying his face into his neck. Peaches and the more pungent scent of paint tickle at his nose, a strange aroma that Juyeon has learned to associate with home. “Don't go into our bedroom for the next two hours,” Kevin is saying. “I may or may not have knocked over your work desk.”
Juyeon laughs. “Did you?”
“The lamp stayed intact,” Kevin chirps. “How was the shoot?”
“It was fine,” Juyeon murmurs, but something in his voice must give him away because Kevin’s pulling away to look him directly in the eye, one eyebrow raised skeptically.
“You don't sound so sure,” Kevin says, smoothing a thumb over the jut of Juyeon’s jaw.
“No, no. It went well.” He smiles, a reassurance, but Juyeon’s never been good at lying and Kevin can read him better than anyone else. Still, Kevin just stares a moment longer before nodding, slow and measured.
“Okay, good,” he says. “So I’ve been thinking—”
“Have you?” Juyeon teases and gets a sharp jab to his ribs in return.
“I’ve been thinking ,” Kevin continues, pausing effectively only to slant a glare in Juyeon’s direction, “I had this idea the other day. It came to me while I was painting and I haven’t really had time to bring it up but now’s as good a time as any, right? I want to preface this by saying you, by no means — even if you’re my boyfriend — are obligated to agree. At all. I mean if you say no I’ll be a little crushed but then we can just forget about it—”
“Kev,” Juyeon says fondly, stopping his frantic tirade. “You’re rambling.”
“Oh,” Kevin blinks.
“Just say it.” Juyeon drags Kevin closer by the straps of his overalls, sets his hands on his hips and sways them side to side like dandelions in the sweet spring breeze. “I doubt it’s as bad as you’re making it. Unless it’s about some sort of weird fetish, which I’m totally open to by the way, since it’s you—”
“It is not !” Kevin squawks indignantly and flaps his hands in vague panic against Juyeon’s shoulders. “You’re insufferable.” Juyeon just leans forward to plant a chaste kiss to the tip of Kevin’s nose. “Anyways, what I was going to ask is — can I paint on you?”
The question gives Juyeon pause. “Paint… on me?”
“Yeah, like, using your body as a canvas? I don't know, I haven’t really worked out the details yet.” When Juyeon doesn’t offer an immediate answer, the blood drains from Kevin’s face at an alarming rate, skin going pallid. “You hate the idea.”
“Kev,” Juyeon says, grabbing him by the wrists before he can pull away and hole himself up in his room, maybe start stress painting like he always does when things get too much for him to handle. It takes a while for Juyeon to gather his wits and when he speaks, it’s hushed and secret. “You want to paint on me?”
Kevin’s eyes are still blown wide with ashen panic but his body’s no longer so rigid against Juyeon’s, a tinge of puzzlement creeping into his irises. “Yes,” he says, like he’s testing the waters. “I do.”
Not another second passes by before Juyeon promptly and suddenly bursts into tears.
“Oh my God,” Kevin says. There are hands frantically trying to brush them away but they just keep rolling down his cheeks in endless rivulets. “Just forget I said anything, Juyeon-ah, seriously—”
“No, I just—” Juyeon warbles, desperately blinking away the tears. Grain by grain, Kevin’s face materializes before him, a distraught furrow between his eyebrows. “You want to paint on me ,” he repeats, voice embarrassingly watery. He doesn’t have the capacity to explain further but the tempestuous distress in Kevin’s gaze withdraws and Juyeon knows, without a doubt, that he understands now.
“Of course I do,” he says softly. “Will you let me?”
Juyeon nods stiltedly and he’s immediately rewarded with a smile so bright and endlessly devastating that it renders him speechless. Wordlessly, Kevin tugs him down the hallway and into the room that had been transformed into an art studio. His easel sits in the corner, replaced temporarily by a cushioned bench which takes up a majority of the space besides a wooden stool and a rickety table, a conglomeration of paint tubes and a vast array of brushes covering the entire surface.
Kevin nudges his chin at the bench. “You can go lie down there. Take off your shirt first, though.”
Juyeon sniffles. “You just want to see me naked.”
“I will throw this at you,” Kevin threatens, although there’s no real heat behind it. Juyeon salutes him mock-playfully and does what he’s told, placing his neatly folded shirt by his feet. Warm anticipation trills beneath his sternum as he watches Kevin bustle about the room, awaiting his next instruction patiently. “Think I want you on your stomach,” Kevin says eventually. “I’m gonna paint on your back.”
“‘Kay,” Juyeon mumbles, adjusting himself accordingly. The first touch against his bare skin comes as a slight shock, the pads of Kevin’s fingertips a pleasant and welcome warmth. Their journey across the expanse of his back feels almost reverent and it makes Juyeon shiver. “Do you know what you’re going to paint?” he asks.
Kevin hums, contemplating. “Not sure yet. I’m going to start now, okay?” At Juyeon’s answering nod, there’s the sweep of paint right over his left shoulder blade, cold and moist. “It will just be a vague background for now but…” He trails off, seeming to lose the remains of his sentence. “Tell me about the shoot,” he says.
The words make Juyeon go rigid. If Kevin notices the way his muscles coil and tense beneath his brush, he doesn’t mention it. “Did the make-up noonas try to set you up with their nieces again?” he goes on amicably.
Juyeon forces himself to relax. “Not this time,” he says with a small huff of laughter. A story starts to form behind his eyelids, the images so tangible that he feels he could reach out and grab it. Smiling faces, adoring eyes, and always the praise that streams past their lips. “Um, I guess it went as it always did. Nice clothes.”
“And the people?” The brush has moved on to swirl around his right shoulder now.
For some reason the lies get stuck in Juyeon’s throat here, cloying and horrible. The faces from earlier turn into something hateful, derision in their sneers and Juyeon sees the director in their place. You’re not really what we’re looking for. Juyeon jolts up suddenly, Kevin yelping in surprise and oh, he’s messed up.
He had one job, which was to lie on the bench and stay still, and he couldn’t even do that right. The knowledge that he’s just potentially ruined Kevin’s painting tears like a knife through paper, causing a sniffle to arise in his throat, and now that the dam has broken he’s powerless to stop the torrent of stinging tears that spill over onto his hands.
Pretty soon his shoulders are shuddering with body-wracking sobs, and Juyeon knows that the rapid up-and-down movement of the dip of his back is surely going to crack the paint or make him angry and — oh, did he make him mad? At the very least, Kevin is going to be disappointed, disappointed that he had been wrong to trust Juyeon with this. He hadn’t even considered it before, but now that the possibility has invaded his mind it tears through him like a tsunami wave devastates a small town, and every fibre of his being screams that he’s fucked up beyond repair. Kevin’s going to hate him and never forgive him and—
“Juyeon, baby?” Kevin’s voice finally pierces through his own panic induced haze, alarm laced through his tone. Juyeon whimpers a little, wishes fervently for the ground to open up and swallow him whole so Kevin can’t see him like this — flushed all over with ugly tear streaks trailing down his splotchy cheeks. But then he makes a sort of wounded noise in the back of his throat, fingers prodding at his shoulder to turn him on his back even though his precious painting hasn’t dried, and Juyeon is so, so weak.
He can’t help but cry harder when he meets Kevin’s eyes, always so patient and doting — and how could he still look so impossibly fond when Juyeon’s crying out an ocean? Another wet sob hiccups its way up his throat, and then Kevin’s hands are tenderly smoothing away at his tears, murmuring quiet reassurances even though they all fade to static in Juyeon’s ears.
“Juyeon. Juyeon-ah, Juyeonnie, baby, my love, my everything—”
“Stop,” Juyeon snuffles petulantly, nose pressed against the soft sweater bunched behind the denim of his overalls. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Kevin chuckles lightly, threading his fingers through Juyeon’s hair to scratch gently over his scalp. Juyeon can’t help but let his eyes flutter shut and the way he nudges his head further into Kevin’s touch is almost instinctive. “Catboy,” Kevin murmurs fondly, an amused smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “What’s wrong, Juyeon-ah?”
He sniffs again into his shirt, frowns when he realizes his tears are going to leave a wet stain on his pretty, lavender sweater. “The shoot never happened. The director turned me away,” he says quietly, hands fisting into the fuzzy material for a semblance of comfort. The tears that burn at the corners of his eyes are of humiliation now. “She said that — that I wasn’t what they were looking for and she gave me this look and sent me home like I was just some — some kind of pawn in a chess game and—” He cuts off abruptly. “I was so embarrassed I could die.”
A beat passes where only the sound of Juyeon’s heavy pants permeates the space, and then Kevin’s leaning forward to touch a kiss to the inside of Juyeon’s wrist, lips brushing against the silver chain of the bracelet he’d bought him for their third anniversary, a sort of promise leading up to forever.
“To hell with all of them,” Kevin declares with a vehemence so fierce that it tears a wet laugh from Juyeon’s throat, startled by the fire in his eyes. “Juyeon-ah, you’re… you’re fucking stunning, is what you are.”
“Oh,” Juyeon says stupidly, feels his cheeks go hot. “Thank you.”
Kevin smiles, swipes his fingers absentmindedly over the dried tear tracks winding like a serpentine path down his cheekbones. “You know we don't have to finish the painting if you don't feel up to it, right?”
“What? No, I want to,” he says, affronted. As if to prove his statement, he flops back down onto the cushions, fists clenched stubbornly. A huff of amusement sounds from behind him, which Juyeon chooses graciously to ignore. He hears the faint clatter of brushes, the telltale burble of paint being squeezed from the tube, and waits, determined not to mess it up this time.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” Kevin questions out of the blue.
“Yeah,” Juyeon says. Warmth trickles into him at the memory, his lips quirking up at the edges subconsciously. His eyes slip shut as he gradually falls back into the lilting rhythm of the brush gliding against his back, a little bit of tension seeping out of him with each stroke.
“You were wearing this cream sweater with the sleeves rolled up and when you came to take my order you smiled at me and I almost passed out when I noticed the little star decals on your cheeks. I thought you were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”
The tips of Juyeon’s ears go scarlet. “You’re too much,” Juyeon mumbles.
“I think I finished at least five different sketches of you while I was sitting in that café. I’ll show them to you later when I’m done,” Kevin offers. “It’s kind of embarrassing how big of a crush I had on you, but whatever.”
“We’re literally dating.”
“Yeah, yeah, be quiet.” It’s silent for a moment, a lull in the conversation where Juyeon can let himself float pleasantly as Kevin sweeps his brush in wide berths over his skin, humming a vaguely familiar tune under his breath. “I’m almost done. Just a few more details and then… finished!”
“Really?” Juyeon shoots up to crane his head over his shoulder to peer at the finished work, huffing in disgruntled frustration when all he can see is a sea of drowsy blues, little swathes of butterscotch yellow scattered throughout.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Kevin scolds. He slides out a mirror from underneath his chair, angling it in a way to alleviate the awkward, borderline painful manner in which Juyeon is twisting his neck, and—
“Oh,” Juyeon breathes, barely louder than a whisper. “That’s me.” In the painting, he’s crying out a river of stars, each one a glimmering aureate hue like the sun-bathed city of Seoul in the early evening, blinding in its magnificence. He’d woven delicate streaks of silver moondust into his ebony hair, their light woven into Juyeon’s very essence and Juyeon realizes — breath caught in his throat — that Kevin had made him beautiful .
(So this is how you’ve always seen me.)
“I — Kev, this is incredible. You’re incredible,” he manages finally.
“Oh, well.” It’s Kevin’s turn to look away, bashful. “I’m glad you like it.” His head jerks minimally in Juyeon’s direction, eyes slitted in a suspicious glare. “You’re not going to start crying again, are you?”
All Juyeon can do is laugh, his fingers encircling Kevin’s wrists if only to tug him closer. He doesn’t speak because he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth he really will start crying, so he settles for pressing his words into Kevin’s skin instead, overwhelmed and unspeakably grateful at the same time.
Thank you , he says with a graze of his lips over the paint-smeared peaks of Kevin’s knuckles. I love you, cupped within his palms so Kevin might carry it everywhere, I love you, I love you, so much my heart aches with it sometimes .
The way Kevin smiles at him makes him think he understands.