final (1/2)

Warm, muddled black; a swirl of blue and green; pink bleeding into dusky purple cut through with slices of yellow and white. Up close, it looks like nothing. Thick paint smeared over the canvas in a mess of arcs and curls. Seunghyun gets up from his stool and stands at the other end of the room, rolling the brush between his stained fingers, dissatisfied. It doesn’t have enough depth. The contrast isn’t as strong as he needs it to be. He wants to feel like he could fall inside if he got anywhere near the canvas. Like the giant peony petals would swallow him whole as soon as he looked away. Seunghyun squints at the painting and sighs, thoughts interrupted by the clomp of footsteps in the apartment above his. Something heavy hits the floor, followed by a muffled curse and the call of another voice out in the stairwell. He hasn’t seen the new tenants yet, just the U-Haul truck parked in front of the building. But he doesn’t need to know who they are to know that he already misses when the unit was empty. Walking back towards his work table, Seunghyun sets the brush down beside the others, deciding that he desperately needs a cigarette at the same time someone knocks on his door. He sighs again and wipes his hands off on his dirty jeans before padding down the hallway to answer. “Ahoy, sailor!” Olivia almost shouts, eyes brighter than the exciting shade of her pink lipstick. “Who let you in?” Seunghyun asks and then grimaces when she kisses his cheek and traipses past him like she owns the damn place. “The pretty children moving into your building,” she replies. “You did know you had new neighbors, right?” He shuts the door and turns, watching Olivia pour herself onto one of the old couches in the living room. “I was aware.” “So you’ve seen them,” she states, and Seunghyun doesn’t like the impish smirk playing at the edge of her mouth. “Not exactly.” Olivia raises both of her immaculately plucked eyebrows, suddenly fascinated by the throw pillow closest to her. “Ah.” “What?” he asks. Or demands. Getting a straight answer is often impossible when she wants to fuck with him. “Oh, nothing,” Olivia hedges. Seunghyun rolls his eyes and moves further into the room. “Olive, c’mon.” But she moves quickly, this one--lunging for her bag and whipping out a dark bottle. “Look, I brought wine!” Olivia blurts happily. “There is a god,” he smiles and takes it from her, the question temporarily forgotten. “I was running low.” She beams. “You’re welcome.” “Sit on the porch with me, I need to smoke or I’m gonna stab something,” Seunghyun murmurs, already making his way down the hall and into the kitchen while Olivia scrambles to her feet behind him. “Work not going well?” she asks. He sighs for a third time, which should tell her everything, because she’s good at that. Finding novels in the way someone moves, speaks, laughs. Seunghyun realizes he relies too heavily on her perception whenever he doesn’t want to talk about something and decides, in the end, that he can live with having this conversation. “I just don’t know why I agreed to do this stupid show,” he answers absently, grabbing the wine opener from the cabinet. Olivia pats him on the back. “Exposure, sweetheart.” “Well, yeah.” “And,” she adds, arm looping through his. “No one says no to Marlon.” “He’s fucking Looney Tunes,” Seunghyun laughs, and together they stumble outside into the humid afternoon. “I mean, seriously,” he continues, sitting in the closest tattered armchair against the wall. “This is like, high school art club bullshit. Who themes an art show on the beauty of nature ? If I wanted to look at tacky landscapes, I’d go watch Bob Ross reruns.” “Hey!” Olivia protests, a frown marring her face as she plops into the next chair over. “I love Bob Ross.” He throws her a withering glance. “I wasn’t insulting him .” “Jesus, don’t be such a grumpy gus, Seunghyun,” she chides. “If Marlon didn’t have any taste, he wouldn’t have asked you in the first place.” “Thank you.” Seunghyun huffs, pulling out his cigarettes and folding his legs up onto the cushion as he lights one. “But I’d still rather be working on my own shit,” he mutters. Olivia shakes her head. “You’re a brat, you know that? Some of us actually have to bust our asses for a living,” she grumbles, handling the wine, because she’s good at that, too. “Excuse me for wanting to enjoy what I do,” he argues, taking another drag. “I think I liked you better before you inherited all that money,” she muses. The cork pops out and she tosses the opener aside, drinking right from the bottle. Seunghyun grins. “No, I was still a dick when I was broke.” She chuckles, passing it over to him. “Must be why I love you so much,” she drawls. “I am very charming,” he agrees. Olivia snorts inelegantly. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he swallows a few mouthfuls and then passes it back, the flavor lingering on his tongue, sharp and smooth all at once. Seunghyun smokes quietly. Olivia drinks and checks her phone. He scratches at a splatter of blue paint on the side of his foot, thinking about how much he likes this--heavy summer air, excellent company, doing nothing to a soundtrack of city noises. Seunghyun spends so much time painting, he rarely gives himself the time to breathe. Breathing is kind of important, isn’t it? Olivia giggles at something on her Facebook feed and he’s in the process of opening his mouth to ask what’s so funny when a burst of laughter explodes above them, more footsteps clomping across the deck. “Dude, don’t forget the bowl! We need to christen every fucking inch of this apartment.” It’s a girl’s voice. Low and melodic and full of humor. There’s another that responds, but it’s too distant to hear the words. Seunghyun quirks an eyebrow at Olivia and leans closer. “Is it right to assume that I’ve officially been graced by the presence of stoner party kids?” he asks softly. She tilts her head from side to side, deliberating. “I’d say that’s a pretty fair assumption, yeah.” “How many?” “Three,” Olivia replies, turning back to her phone. He pokes her in the arm. “ And ? That’s it?” “I’m not doing your recon for you, asshole. I don’t live here,” she murmurs, but she’s smirking in that way he hates, because she knows something and she’s not telling him. “You definitely act like it sometimes,” Seunghyun scoffs. He steals the wine bottle, taking a giant swig. “Are you sure you don’t wanna say anything else?” Olivia’s eyes narrow into slits. “Mmm, pretty sure.” “Fine.” He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, perhaps a little more aggressively than he would otherwise. “How are Fred and Ginger?” That gets her spark going again, face lighting up like a goddamn firework. It reminds him that Olivia hasn’t sat for him in a while and he should rectify this, because he misses it. Misses her being around constantly. Misses how easy it is to paint the magnitude of her personality. Seunghyun likes being a shut-in, but that doesn’t mean he never feels nostalgia for how things used to be. It’s okay, though. He can do without used-to-be , since used-to-be was, honestly, pretty shit, and this is a lot better. Even if he does get lonely sometimes. Seunghyun quickly pushes the thought away, grinning as Olivia rambles on and on about her adorably neurotic dogs. They stay out on the porch for a few hours, talking and not talking, and while he does his best to remain present and attentive, he only manages about 95%. Because the other 5% can’t tune out the unfamiliar sounds coming from unfamiliar bodies upstairs. Or stop wondering why Olivia was being so evasive. She leaves before the sun begins to set, giving him a fierce hug and two more bottles of cabernet she’d kept hidden in her bag. Seunghyun brings both into the studio with him, trying not to scowl when he remembers how much work he still has to do. Standing at the far end of the room, he stares at the giant 8’ x 11’ canvas--sees nothing but flaws and missing pieces. It’s not the end of the world, he just needs to get in the zone and get it done. So Seunghyun uncorks bottle number one, turns on some Marvin Gaye, and picks up the closest paintbrush. “I’m gonna make you my bitch,” he whispers at the painting, hunching forward on his stool, laughing at himself. But the instant soft bristles and pigment meet fabric, the rest of the world melts away into nothing. Seunghyun’s mind shuts down. All he knows is warm, muddled black; a dash of blue, then green, and the perfectly fat strokes of dusky purple, cut through with slices of yellow and white.

*

In his not-at-all limited experience living in this city, Seunghyun has grown accustomed to certain patterns. Patterns like the types of people who gravitate towards specific neighborhoods. The consistent inconsistency of public transportation. Traffic during rush hour, street festivals in the summer, how much the cost of living goes up every year. Those things rarely change and he’s gotten used to their permanent position in the background of his existence. Something else that rarely changes is the behavior of his neighbors. People are usually friendly, but distant. Or totally dismissive, which he prefers, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Seunghyun doesn’t want to be friends with the young, happy-go-lucky couple across the hall who never clean up their dog’s crap from the front yard. He doesn’t want to be friends with the three guys who live below him, because he’s pretty sure they’re all fantasy football-playing, Miller Lite guzzling ex-jocks and he had enough of that in college. Everyone else is more or less a blur of late 20-somethings pretending to have their shit together, and Seunghyun knows enough about that, that he doesn’t need to hear it from anyone else. The point here, is that--as far as he’s concerned--they all reside safely within their own little bubbles and those bubbles almost never overlap. Or they didn’t, until the trio of stoner party kids moved into #301 and forcefully insinuated themselves into his without permission. Which is just rude, honestly. Seunghyun pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Bass-heavy house music has been literally throbbing into his apartment for the last two hours, accompanied by loud voices and drunken laughter, and he can’t deal. Can’t hear himself think. He couldn’t even go to sleep if he wanted to, which he doesn’t, and being robbed of the option altogether is making him grumpier with each passing second. Who the fuck throws a party on a Monday night, anyway? Glass breaks out on the deck a moment later and everyone cheers. Seunghyun groans quietly into his hands and realizes that he’s probably going to have to be That Guy. Because he’s 28 going on 80 and gosh darnit, these rowdy-ass children will not be tolerated. Too bad he doesn’t own a shotgun. Scrubbing at his face, he walks out of his studio and then out of his apartment, jogging barefoot up the stairs and grimacing when the bass starts to rattle his brain. Then Seunghyun pounds on the door before he can chicken out. A minute or two ticks by. The door vibrates in time with the beat but doesn’t open and he tries again, even though he doubts they’d hear a fucking bomb go off. He wants to know why no one else in this building has come raging up the stairs. Surely he isn’t the only one with ears. Or better taste in music. Seunghyun sighs, giving it one more shot and knocking so hard the door rattles on its hinges. But the only thing he gets in response is the promise of a life haunted by generic, EDM trap garbage. Wonderful , he thinks, raking a hand through his hair. Maybe he can come back during the day. Or maybe he’ll get drunk enough that he won’t care anymore. He whines out a laugh at how unlikely that is and turns to leave at the same time a wave of sound floods the hallway. Seunghyun blinks, momentarily stunned. Not because of the music, but because the music brought something with it--a sudden burst of color. Pale, ruffled platinum; charcoal, burnt sienna, rose. His heart flounders a bit in answer. Time seems to warp slightly and slow down as the burst of colors moves closer, soft mouth curling into an inviting smile as he pulls the door closed behind him. Seunghyun feels like he’s been assaulted. He feels betrayed. He’s definitely entertaining the thought of murdering his best friend and wondering whether or not he can get away with it. “Hi,” the boy greets. Seunghyun’s ears are ringing a little and he can’t stop staring. “Uh...hi.” Dark brown eyes gradually drag over him from head to toe, rose petal lips stretching across the boy’s face when he notices Seunghyun’s bare feet. “You’re clearly not here for the party.” He registers the words and the fact that he should respond to them, but he’s caught up in the low timbre of that voice and how warm it is. Seunghyun adds yellow ochre to the growing list of colors. Umber and amber and a hint of violet. His neighbor raises both eyebrows when he doesn’t say anything. Seunghyun thinks his cheeks must be bright red. “N-no,” he manages, folding his arms over his chest and clearing his throat. “I, um. I live downstairs.” “Oh,” his neighbor replies, eyes quickly widening when he realizes what that means. “ Oh .” Seunghyun offers a thin smile and uncrosses his arms, fidgeting in an attempt to maintain focus instead of choosing what colors he’d use to paint all that golden skin. “Yeah. I know you just moved in and everything, but I was trying to get some work done.” “It’s almost 3AM, what the hell are you working on?” his neighbor asks, amused. “Painter.” Seunghyun gestures at the myriad splatters on his white t-shirt. “I keep weird hours. Occupational hazard.” The boy nods, gaze zeroed in on Seunghyun’s stained fingers. He crosses his arms again. “So you want me to turn the music down.” “If--” he stops, huffing out an awkward laugh and shrugging. “If that’s not a problem, yeah.” Really givin’ ‘em what for, Seunghyun . He is baby Simba croaking out his first pathetic and incompetent roar. But the boy just nods again--slouching against the vibrating door with an unfair grace and watching Seunghyun through his platinum fringe. “Sure.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Okay.” “I’m Jiyong, by the way,” his neighbor offers, hand extended. The beat drops as he steps forward to take it and the floor shakes, Jiyong’s fingers squeezing his briefly. “Seunghyun,” he returns unsteadily. An easy smile pulls at Jiyong’s mouth as their hands fall. “I’d ask you if you wanted to come in for a drink, but going in there without shoes on might kill you.” He laughs awkwardly again. “Thanks, but--” Seunghyun jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Work things,” he says, feeling ridiculous and incapable of maintaining eye-contact for more than a few seconds. Jiyong’s lips twitch into a grin. “Right.” Time does that bizarre suspension thing again, stretching out of shape while voices swim in the background. He’s trying to remember the last time he was this inept at talking to another human being and thinks that it’s not entirely his fault when a human like Jiyong is allowed to wander the earth in ripped skinny jeans and soft cotton. Rubbing at the back of his neck, Seunghyun inches in the opposite direction. “Anyway, it was, um, nice. Meeting you. Jiyong,” he fumbles, saluting moronically. Jiyong bites into the swell of yet another smile. “Likewise, Mr. Painter.” He’s down the stairs and back in his apartment before any further brilliance can launch itself out of his stupid, stupid mouth. The throbbing bass dials down a few notches into something tolerable, but Seunghyun can’t even enjoy it, because he’s simultaneously flustered and homicidal, which is a really fucking strange way to feel. He needs wine and nicotine. And to stab Olivia in the face with one of his paintbrushes. “Fucking traitor,” he grumbles quietly, grabbing his phone and the bottle he left on his work table. [Sent: June 6 3:14AM]

You are the worst best friend

I’ve ever had [Sent: June 6 3:14AM]

If I loved you less, I’d ask for

a divorce, because you’re a

disloyal asshole who takes

​pleasure in my pain Seunghyun guzzles some of the wine and slumps onto his stool, looking blankly out the window. Olivia will text him back when she wakes up, most likely smug and victorious and teasing, like she usually is when she knows how screwed he is. And he can’t really argue with that. Frowning, Seunghyun abandons the painting and goes outside to smoke. He listens to the voices above him grow dim as people begin to leave and the sky begins to lighten. Occasionally, there’s a peal of deep laughter that makes him think of dancing, charcoal-lined eyes. Seunghyun flicks ash from his cigarette and refuses to imagine what Jiyong’s colors would actually look like smeared all over one of his canvases.

*

A couple days later, he learns that the fun doesn’t just stop at dance parties. Seunghyun’s even in bed before sunrise for once, eyelids heavy and limbs slowly turning into sandbags as he flirts with unconsciousness. Except there’s a crash--the wooden gate that leads to the alleyway slamming open and a duo of giggling voices echoing loudly against the building. He groans, burying his face into his pillows, but the noise continues despite attempting to pretend this isn’t happening. “Shut the fuck up, it wasn’t like that at all.” Jiyong , his brain registers, then the female voice he heard the day they moved in. “Should’ve seen your face,” she wheezes with lazy laughter. “It was-- it was like watching a James Bond movie, but like, gayer. God, so much gayer. The gayest.” A high-pitched yelp carries up from the back stairwell. “Ow! Shit, why are you hitting me?” He hears Jiyong snort, their voices getting louder as they climb. “Because you’re obnoxious.” “Says the one who smooth operator-ed his way into striking out.” “Oh my god, stop.” Seunghyun lifts his head and glares at the window. If there’s a benevolent force in the universe, they’ll disappear inside their apartment and that’ll be the end of it. If, being the key word. He’s not that optimistic. Another clatter--something falling down the stairs. “Fuck, my shoooe,” the girl cries before dissolving into another round of throaty laughter. Footsteps clomp against the wood and then he can hear them out on their deck, knocking shit over and cackling and supporting Seunghyun’s general lack of faith in humanity. “Do you think Sarah’s still up? I meant to text her earlier…” she begins rambling, but he’s not really listening, dragging himself out of bed. Tinny music starts to play, probably from one of their phones, and he rolls his eyes while trudging into the darkened hallway. Seunghyun rubs at his cheeks, hating everything as he fumbles with the back door and blearily makes his way up the stairs. Something about their twin expressions of intoxicated surprise when he appears at the top is incredibly gratifying. As is the view, admittedly, and Seunghyun is groggy enough not to care that he’s staring. Because Jiyong looks disheveled and beautiful--sitting on their ratty couch in a sweaty tank top that hangs loose from his tanned shoulders--and Seunghyun finds that he’s forgotten what it was he wanted to say. Luckily, Jiyong’s roommate is all too happy to fill the awkward silence. “Dude,” she blurts, studying Seunghyun with hooded eyes. “Is this the ho--” But Jiyong quickly lashes out, punching her in the arm. “Eleanor, shut your fucking mouth. Jesus.” Eleanor whines and shoves him back. “Asshole. Stop hitting me.” Ah, yes. Now Seunghyun remembers. He leans against the railing with a sigh. “If you guys are gonna be out here, can you keep it down?” Jiyong whips his head up and at least has the decency to appear chastened. “Sorry. Yeah, of course.” He nods, scratching a hand through his rumpled hair. Jiyong offers an apologetic smile, eyes wandering lower, and Seunghyun chooses not to read into that too much. It’s too late. Or early. Whatever. He’s not cognizant enough for any of this. “Sorry, hot neighbor,” Eleanor drawls, trying and failing to contain her low chuckle as she grins up at him. Beside her, Jiyong tips over to press his face into the couch cushions. “We’ll be quieter, I promise.” Hot neighbor ? Heat crawls up the back of his neck and he huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “It’s my fault anyway,” she continues, fingers working slowly but diligently in her lap to pack a glass pipe with weed. “I have, like, zero volume control or spatial awareness.” “Don’t forget tact,” Jiyong’s muffled voice adds. “That too, man. My brain to mouth filter is super fucked.” Eleanor snorts to herself, then gives him another easy smile. “Hey, you wanna smoke with us?” For a second, Seunghyun toys with the idea of saying yes, but thinks better of it. He did the messy college kid thing a lot longer than his four years at school, he doesn’t need to start again. “I appreciate the offer,” he murmurs. “But I should go back to bed.” Eleanor gives him a thumbs up. “Cool.” Seunghyun laughs softly again. “All right,” he says, a little disappointed when Jiyong still doesn’t come out of hiding. “See you around.” “Sweet dreams, hot neighbor,” Eleanor calls after he’s already turned to walk down the stairs. Jiyong practically roars above him in response. “ Eleanor. ” “What, dude? You weren’t wrong .” In a surreal, half-asleep daze, Seunghyun shuffles into his apartment and belatedly wonders what happened to the comparatively brazen version of Jiyong he met the other night. And also why they couldn’t have come up with anything more inspired than “hot neighbor”. Kids these days.

*

There’s a part of him that’s starting to believe this might be karma. For being an obnoxious little shit, a menace, an impossible smart-ass. Seunghyun isn’t proud of it, but it happened, and all he can say is that he’s grateful he eventually grew out of it. Ten years too late, maybe. No one’s perfect. He also tries not to keep score, but this last week has honestly got him wondering if someone up there wants to see him suffer. Like the second, third, and fourth encore of that shitty house music invading his apartment and his brain. In the middle of the afternoon, at night, just after most of the building has left for their 9 to 5 grind. The last one makes him suspicious that this is all some evil plot to annoy him to death. Because he’s almost always home, since he doesn’t have a normal job. What’s worse, though, is that Eleanor and her boyfriend engage in offensively loud sex at least once a day. The first time Seunghyun went up there to bitch about it, Jiyong looked just as done. Which was kind of a relief, to learn he wasn’t alone. Even if he did do a top-notch impersonation of the poppies he’d been painting moments before--skin flushing the moment a particularly obscene moan filtered into the hallway. Seunghyun can’t remember the last time he’d been that flustered. Hot and bothered all the way down to his bones, because for a split second he’d let himself imagine what kind of noises Jiyong would make. Right there , with his neighbor standing in front of him looking adorably embarrassed and yet 100% aware of the direction Seunghyun’s brain had plummeted. Unsurprisingly, he’d made an awkward, hasty retreat and vowed never to think about it again. It was a lie, of course. For one, Seunghyun was human. Two, he was a guy. And three, no amount of porn was going to erase the way Jiyong had bitten into his plump bottom lip and smiled, like it was super okay that Seunghyun was thinking about fucking him. That Seunghyun wanted to fuck him. God , he groans internally, shaking himself back to the present. The poppies stare at him, crushed and crinkled and pathetic from across the studio. He relates. He relates and reminds himself that the last time he got laid was almost a month ago. He also reminds himself that he hasn’t been in a long-term relationship since he was 25. There’s a reason for that. Seunghyun looks down at the paintbrush in his hand, rolling it back and forth in his fingers. When he puts on some classical music and sits on his stool, he doesn’t think about anything and he pretends he doesn’t notice how all of Jiyong’s colors ended up crowding his palette.

*