Chance Encounters at a Bo (1/1)

Jiyong fixes his glasses firmly over the bridge of his nose, wipes the sheen of sweat on his forehead with the sleeve of his sweater, and chuckles at the pile of complicated screws and cut-out plastic animals laid out in front of him.  “I’m starting to think Donna actually does hate you,” he says. He doesn’t get a reply, not even a snort from Marco who usually jumps at the chance to badmouth his sister. Any of his sisters, for that matter.  “Marco?” Jiyong calls out, tosses aside the infernal IKEA manual he’s been trying to make sense of for the past five minutes.  The room remains silent, no other signs of life aside from the pattering of Jiyong’s footfall against the wooden floorboards. His search ends when his eyes catch on a pair of Vans peeking from the gap between the floor and the base of a half-finished mahogany crib. Jiyong sighs, prays for an ounce more of patience, and convinces himself it isn’t wise to start a boxing match against a six-foot-tall Italian with commitment issues and a black belt in judo.  “You okay in there?” he asks, scratching his nails at a spatter of paint caking the leg of Marco’s denim jeans. A quiet beat and a long, drawn-out sigh later, Jiyong finally gets a response.  “What if she doesn’t like me?”  The words come out muffled but Jiyong’s heard them enough times to parse them out clearly. “She’s not going to like you very much when she gets here and finds out you still haven’t finished building her bed,” Jiyong snips.  Marco remains, quite literally, unmoved.  Jiyong decides to (also literally) take matters into his own hands, grabbing onto Marco’s wrist and starts to tug. He huffs an exasperated sigh when his friend doesn’t budge.  “Are you going to get out of there or do I have to call Mer?”  Jiyong hears the dull thud of bone hitting wood followed by a litany of curse words. He schools his face, trying and pathetically failing not to laugh when Marco’s bald head and hunched shoulders emerge from beneath the crib. “You wouldn’t dare.”  Jiyong cackles, offers his friend a grin and a helping hand. Marco stops rubbing at the pink spot on his forehead, flips Jiyong off before taking the proffered hand, hoisting himself off the floor. “You’re right, I wouldn’t.” Jiyong says. “Besides, she might end up yelling at me for letting you slack around.” It’s Marco’s turn to laugh. “Like my sister would ever get mad at her Jiyongie." “Ugh, please don’t,” Jiyong says, nose curling when Marco’s vile, disgusting, sawdust-coated fingers poke and pinch at his cheeks, doesn’t let up even when Jiyong starts kneeing him away. “Marco, I swear,” he says, with a scowl. “There’s a hammer somewhere in this room and I will use it on you if you break my glasses.” Jiyong yelps when he nearly trips after Marco abruptly lets him go. His trainers skid against the floor when he fights to regain his footing as Marco leaves his side and starts to make his way around the small room.  “Hammer,” Marco mutters, eyes hooded and tone somber. “That’s what I was looking for.” Jiyong gives his friend a full minute to work through his inner monologue, watches Marco mumble to himself and burn a hole through the floor, pacing the entire length of the nursery with measured, even strides.  Marco rifles through the huge toolchest by one of the curtainless windows, kicks the box over when all he finds are nails and bolts and rusty wrenches. When Marco sits on his haunches and makes to crawl back under the crib, Jiyong sighs because enough, grabs the back of Marco’s shirt to pull him upright.  “Ji, I need to look for the hammer,” Marco says, bats Jiyong’s hand away without even sparing him a backward glance. Jiyong wracks his brain for something to say, something he hasn’t tried out yet this morning that could be translated to it’s fine, Marco. you’ll be fine. “She’s gonna love you,” Jiyong says, nose wrinkling before adding, “...bro.” He bumps his fist against Marco’s bicep, tries not to grimace too hard at having to resort to bro-speak. Marco stills, blows out a breath. He eases himself down on the floor, back leant and head propped against the base of the crib.  Jiyong joins him not moments after. He sits himself beside Marco, stretches his legs in front of him, toys his fingers at the frayed strings of his hoodie, and waits. “A month,” Marco says around a sigh. “I only have one month to finish this room.” For someone nearly twice Jiyong’s height, there’s something terribly small about Marco like this-- legs tucked close to his chest and his cheek resting on top of his knees. “I know,” Jiyong says, pressing his side against Marco’s shoulder. “That’s why I finally decided to check the new place out and see how much work you’ve done.”  Jiyong pauses, looking at the bare walls of the room and all the furniture lying around.  “...Or not done.”  Marco barks out a laugh, clear and bright, just like his eyes now that he’s smiling.  “Or maybe ‘cause you’re ditching me in two weeks and felt guilty for leaving,” he says, lightly punching at Jiyong. “That, too,” Jiyong says, hand rubbing his arm because there is no such thing as a light punch when it comes to Marco. Marco sobers and stops laughing, but the smile on his face remains. “Thanks for dropping by and lending a hand, Ji. You know you didn’t have to.” “I know. But I can’t avoid Wicker Park forever, right?” Jiyong returns Marco’s smile with a smaller one of his own. “And I’m going to have to get used to this place again when you need me to babysit.” Marco shoots Jiyong a pained look. “Dude, promise me you won’t spoil her too much.” “Her first word won’t be Givenchy, but that’s all I’m promising,” Jiyong says, patting Marco’s shoulder in mock reassurance. “No designer baby clothes.” Marco points a stern finger at Jiyong but then falters, “Ji, seriously. The closets don’t even have doors yet. I won’t have anywhere to put all the shit you’re gonna buy her.” Jiyong laughs because Marco knows him too well and the seventeen items in his Bluefly checkout cart is solid proof. His laughter dies when he takes stock of the sorry state of the nursery, sighing when he says, “We should really get back work.” Marco has a better idea. “How about we finish building whatever Donna sent over and then we head out to eat?”  “Yes,” Jiyong groans after his watch tells him it’s well past noon.  “What did she send over, anyway?” Marco asks. “It’s just a baby mobile.” Jiyong glares at the mess of abandoned plastic pieces on the other side of the room. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard.” “This is Donna we’re talking about,” Marco says as he boosts himself off the floor before pulling Jiyong up with him. “Everything about her is hard.”  Jiyong snorts. “No. I think she just hates you.”  Jiyong didn’t trip earlier when Marco lost his grip on him. But this time, he does, falls flat on his ass when Marco purposefully lets go of his arm. “I changed my mind. We’re getting lunch right now. Last one to the corner deli pays for everything.” Marco says all of this in one continuous string of words, voice trailing as he blunders out of the nursery and zips his way into the living room like the overgrown puppy that he is. “You’re such a dick,” Jiyong yells out and the sound of Marco’s laughter followed by the apartment door slamming shut is the only reply he gets.  Jiyong gets up off the floor for what feels like the hundredth time that day, but he’s smiling as he walks out of the room. Marco needed the headstart, anyway. But ultimately, Jiyong is just relieved that parting from his bed way too early on a weekend morning wasn’t put to waste. He makes his way out of the flat, jogging at a leisurely pace, knowing fully well there’s no way in hell anyone, much less Marco, could beat him in a footrace.

- - -

A lot has changed since Jiyong last set foot in Wicker Park. But at the same time, everything still carried an air of familiarity. He sees the old liquor shop, the small convenience store at the corner street, and the bakery that sold little cakes Jiyong remembers sending a box of over to his parents during his first week at University. There’s a coffeehouse in place of the art supply shop where Mary, Noah, and him used to buy their paints and brushes from. Jiyong recognizes the mismatched brick tiles of the roofing and the stained glass window despite the people loitering about and sipping on their overpriced cups of coffee.  It’s funny how places, just like people, don’t completely remain untouched by time. The entire strip of thrift stores that used to line Damen Ave now houses a two-floor Rite Aid, and Jiyong is certain he saw a Marc Jacobs storefront across the sandwich place Marco and him had lunch at. They’re making their way back to Marco’s apartment when Jiyong spots yet another unfamiliar shop on the opposite sidewalk. “What’s that place?” Jiyong asks. Marco stops in his tracks and follows Jiyong’s gaze. “Hey, I think that’s the tat shop. You know, the one Arias was telling us about?” Jiyong’s ears perk at this because the urge to add to his half-sleeve had been niggling at him for a while now. The urge that made itself known again when a nameless stranger had asked him which of his tattoos was his favorite one, and Jiyong had found himself at a loss on what say. Jiyong felt constantly at a loss that night, if he’s being honest. But he shelves away those thoughts. Thoughts about a deep voice, a kind smile, and a pair of dimples that have absolutely nothing to do with what’s happening right now. “Yeah, I think we should check it out,” he says, already crossing the street and grinning at the wooden signage with the word Inkwell spelled out in curling, intricate script. Jiyong pushes the door open and what he discovers inside isn’t exactly what he expected. “A bookstore,” Marco intones behind him, obviously disappointed because the last book his friend has ever touched was in the form of a Bible Marco’s mom had chucked at his head that summer him and Jiyong crashed her car. Jiyong finds himself smiling as his eyes pan across the stretch of the shop. It’s an assault to his senses, but he welcomes it. There isn’t an inch of the walls that’s not studded with books. It’s not very neat, but Jiyong thinks it would lose half its charm if it was. A smooth jazz tune, Etta James, maybe even Sade, filters through speakers Jiyong can’t see. He could tell that some of the books are probably older than he is, the smell of aging ink, and glue, and paper blotting the still air around him. Some places you step into just feel like they have a life of their own, and Inkwell definitely seems like one of them. “I bet this place might even have a first edition Hitchcock by Truffaut,” Jiyong muses. “I have no idea what you just said,” Marco says, “But if you’re looking for a book, we should go ask the dude at the counter.” The dude at the counter isn’t what Jiyong expected either. Or who, rather. Jiyong wants to laugh because the universe has a knack for making him feel like the butt of all its jokes. He vaguely hears Marco letting out a dumbfounded whoa of surprise, feels him nudging at his back and pushing him towards the direction of the store’s counter.  Everything else fades into the background for Jiyong because the most important thing right now is the boy standing by the cash register. The book he’s reading shrouds half of his face from view and his bangs keep falling over his eyes. But Jiyong recognized him instantly. He’s leaning on the shelf behind him, just like how he was standing by the door of Alchemy when he first caught Jiyong’s eye. His hands keep swiping absentmindedly over his hair, and Jiyong smiles because he remembers that too. “Why aren’t you moving?” Marco asks, fully shoving at him now. “Go over there and find out Prince Charming’s name.” “Could you shut up,” Jiyong whispers furiously and elbows Marco in the stomach. “And quit pushing me.” “I’m doing this for your own good.” “Marco, stop. I look ugly today. I can’t do this.” “No you’re not. You look fine.” Jiyong scoffs. “God, you are so straight. Why are we even friends?” Marco eases his hold on Jiyong and sighs.  “Because you need me to tell you when you’re running the wrong way,” he says, running a palm over his shorn head before continuing. “Like how I need you to tell me when some things aren’t worth running away from.” Jiyong stops from squirming, turns around to look up at his friend, mouth slightly agape. Marco is far from being the brightest light bulb in the bunch, so bursts of insight like this is such a novel thing to behold.  “Does it really mean that much to you that I go up to that counter?”  Marco sighs. “What are you so scared of, Ji?” It’s a loaded question. And Jiyong knows what Marco meant, but he can’t help but take it out of context. It’s something he’s been asking himself for a while now and he’s isn’t sure if he’s even close to knowing the answer. Jiyong laughs to placate his nerves. He doesn’t need an existential crisis. At a bookstore, of all places. A bookstore with a certain black-haired boy that causes Jiyong’s insides to seize up and make him feel as if he’s walking on water. How is he supposed to make it three steps without toppling over, he wonders. “Alright, fine” he says, needlessly fixing his glasses. “I can do this.” Marco beams. “That’s the spirit.” He grabs Jiyong by the shoulders to turn him and starts to march them forward.  “Be brave. Go get your man,” he says, and Jiyong would have stamped on Marco’s foot if his legs didn’t feel like they were made out of jelly. They reach the counter but Marco keeps his hands where they are, as if Jiyong would run if not for him holding him still. Jiyong doesn’t say anything. Can’t, more like, because this up close and bathed under sunlight, whiskey stranger is even more devastating to look at than he did last Wednesday night. Marco lets out a loud, obnoxious cough that could probably be heard a few stores down the block. Jiyong should be glad, he thinks, that his friend didn’t choose to ring the bell by the counter too. Small mercies. The boy looks up from the book he’s reading. Jiyong isn’t sure what his face is doing when Dimples just sort of stares back at him. Oh right, glasses. And the mud brown jacket zipped up to his neck, hood drawn over his greasy, unwashed hair. Jiyong doesn’t know which would be worse-- the boy failing to recognize him or the boy not even knowing who he is.  Marco clears his throat again.  This time, the boy smiles. It’s still as captivating as Jiyong recalls it to be. He wets his lips while Jiyong bites down on his own. “Hi…” he says, drawn out and confused. But he’s still smiling so Jiyong takes that as a good sign. “Um,” Jiyong starts to say, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m the DJ from Wednesday night. A-at Alchemy? The bar in Little Italy?”  Jiyong grimaces after his verbal hemorrhaging, and again when Marco squeezes his shoulders, signalling him to calm down. Jiyong takes a steadying breath.  “My name is Jiyong. In case you forgot.” “I didn’t forget,” he says, one of his cheeks dimpling when his smile widens, “Jiyong.” Jiyong thinks he’s never heard his name sound so perfectly coming out of someone else’s mouth, like maybe that’s where it belongs. He ducks his head for a second because it’s such an absurd thought to have. And also so he can hide the huge smile threatening to break his face in half.   “I’m Seunghyun, by the way,” the boy tells him. “Guess I did forget that the last time.” “Seunghyun.” Jiyong likes the way his name sits in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.” He pauses. “Again, I mean. Nice to meet you. Again.” Jiyong can’t quite remember the last time he was this tongue-tied in front of another person. “Likewise.” Seunghyun nods, lips twitching. His hand plays with the corner of his book before closing it shut and stowing it away. Jiyong recalls his ink-stained fingernails and the prominent jut of his knuckles, but not the silver band around his right thumb. “And I’m Marco.” Jiyong jumps at the sudden sound behind him. “In case either of you forgot.”  Seunghyun laughs quietly, eyes leaving Jiyong for the first time to spare Marco a quick glance. He offers a hand for Marco to take. Marco laughs his big, booming uncle-laugh he uses around small children and his nephews before clasping Seunghyun’s hand and shaking it firmly.  “I’ll leave you two kids here to catch up,” Marco says, side-steps away from the counter to avoid the foot Jiyong had aimed at his shin.  He turns his attention to Seunghyun and asks, “Do you sell CDs in here?”. Jiyong hollows his cheeks, trying to swallow a laugh. He shares a look with Seunghyun before the boy regards Marco with a bemused look.  “Sorry, we don’t,” Seunghyun says. Marco hums. “Where’s your sports section?” “We don’t have one.” “Do you have magazines?” This is where Jiyong cracks. He laughs, not even caring at how dorky he probably looks, hiding a snort behind the back of his hand. He’s laughing because his friend is being spectacularly dense. Because he woke up at seven in the morning on a Saturday after just two hours of sleep. Because the day he neglects to put his contacts and chooses to wear his laundry-day clothes is the day he bumps into Seunghyun. It’s hilarious. His life is hilarious. Seunghyun probably thinks so too because he’s chuckling as well. “Yeah,” Seunghyun says. “On the shelves behind you, next to the front window.” Marco yells out his thanks before, finally, walking away. Seunghyun’s eyes flit back to Jiyong, remnants of laughter still evident in its creased corners.  Jiyong plants a palm on the counter, ignores the roiling in his stomach that has a lot to do with boy standing not more than a foot away from him. He fidgets with his glasses, smoothes a hand down the front of his hoodie, taps a finger over a particularly deep ridge on the countertop. Jiyong can be brave. He just needs a second or five to convince himself. He’s fine. “So…” Seunghyun starts, “What are you guys up to today?” Jiyong looks up, inhales sharply when Seunghyun looms closer, his body angled forward and elbows perched on the counter. Jiyong stuffs his hands into his pockets so they don’t do anything stupid. Like reach out and tuck the stray hairs on Seunghyun’s face behind his ear.  “Marco and I were working on the nursery room over at his place,” Jiyong manages to say without stuttering. “Then we went out to grab a bite to eat.”  Seunghyun nods, silently willing Jiyong to continue.  “I, uh, I haven’t been in the area in a while,” Jiyong says, digs his nails into his palms to stop himself from recalling why. “So Marco figured he’d give me the grand tour of the neighborhood on the way back.”  Jiyong’s pretty sure he’s making a face, but Seunghyun’s gaze doesn’t waver. Neither does his smile. He looks at Jiyong directly in the eye and tells him, “I’m glad he did.” “Me too.” Jiyong smiles hard enough that his cheeks start to hurt. “And it was the least he could do after nearly nailing my hand against the wall.” Laughing, Seunghyun drops his chin into his palm.  “That would’ve been unfortunate,” he teases, trying and failing to keep a poker face on. He flicks his eyes to a spot over Jiyong’s shoulder. “Marco already sounds like he’ll be a great dad.” “He practically is one,” Jiyong tells him. “If he’s half as good a dad as he is an uncle, then my goddaughter is going to be the luckiest kid in the world.” Seunghyun’s eyes widen. “He made you godfather? That’s awesome,” he murmurs. “No,” Jiyong says because picking out godparents for his daughter had been at the bottom of Marco’s priority list. “But he better. Right, Marco?”  Jiyong turns his head to the left. And sure enough there’s Marco, caught in midstep, edging his way closer towards the counter. “Right! Godfather. Yup. That’s you, Ji,” he calls out from behind a book he’s supposedly reading. It’s a dictionary.  Jiyong gives Marco a look that says I love you but I’’ll hurt you if you don’t go away. And thankfully, for the both of them, Marco doesn’t object. He turns his focus back on Seunghyun. The boy has his head bowed, eyes shrouded by his bangs, and there’s a small, pensive smile playing on his lips.  “I’m sorry about him, by the way,” Jiyong says, leaning forward like maybe if he gets close enough he’ll be able to read Seunghyun's thoughts. “Marco’s just… protective. He thinks I’m a twelve-year-old just because I look like one.” Seunghyun huffs and lifts his head. He blinks, clears his throat after passing a hand over his hair before saying, “You don’t look like you’re twelve.” Jiyong could be imagining it, but he sees a faint blush tinting Seunghyun’s cheeks.  “Sometimes, I do,” Jiyong says over a laugh. “I think it’s one of the reasons why I got into tattoos in the first place. So people stopped asking me how old I was.” Seunghyun edges a fraction closer, head still resting on one of his palms. “How many do you have, anyway?” he asks. Jiyong gnaws on his cheek, suddenly aware of how small the space between them is.  “I don't actually know at this point,” he says. “I lost count after my tenth. I don't think I even know which one my favorite is.”  Seunghyun grins, eyes narrowing in mirth. He crouches down until he’s eye-level with Jiyong. “But you said it was somewhere I couldn’t see,” he says, arching an eyebrow.  Jiyong’s cheeks warm at the memory of Wednesday night, mentally berating himself and cocky, loose-mouthed GD who spewed out half-truths just to keep an aura of cool nonchalance. He feels his blush deepen when Seunghyun’s eyes flicker down at his mouth before meeting Jiyong’s gaze again. “Er, sorry about that,” he says. “That was just me trying to flirt with you.”  Jiyong’s foot nearly kicks the base of counter because he hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud. “I, um, haven’t decided on a favorite yet, actually,” he says. Seunghyun laughs, but not unkindly. He drops his arms and crosses them on the counter, the tips of his fingers a whisper away from grazing the front of Jiyong’s sweater. Seunghyun nods slowly and licks his lips.  “I’m not gonna stop asking until you do.”  Jiyong bites at his lip. Hard. Like the sting would kickstart his brain to get on Seunghyun’s level.  “Yeah?” he asks, smile morphing into a smirk. “How about you help narrow it down for me right now?”  Jiyong keeps his eyes trained on Seunghyun as he rolls up the right sleeve of his hoodie and reveals half his arm. Seunghyun drums his fingers lightly on the counter. He studies the graffiti of ink on Jiyong’s skin. His lips quirk, the unsure curve of his mouth easing when his eyes rest on a spot on Jiyong’s arm.  “You must really love Keith Haring,” he says. “Yeah, you could say that,” Jiyong replies, grin faltering as Seunghyun’s line of sight leads his own eyes to settle over the patch of marked skin right beneath the crease of his forearm. “I’m a big fan of his work,” he adds, the brightness of Jiyong’s tone belying his anxiousness, free hand itching to pull down on the bunched up cloth over his forearm and hide the black-inked heart from view.  There’s a frown marring Seunghyun’s face when Jiyong looks back up at him. A beat and breath of silence later, then a blanket of comprehension starts to soften the worry lines on Seunghyun’s forehead. He smiles, a tiny one but no less powerful on its hold of the butterflies swirling in Jiyong’s stomach.  “Yeah, same,” he murmurs, acknowledging both Jiyong’s words and his unease, not making any attempt to press on any further about the tattoo carrying the most of Jiyong’s regrets. Jiyong’s heart is doing funny things in his chest now, but he can’t exactly put a finger on the cause. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s a language louder than his words, something akin to quiet pleading brimming Jiyong’s eyes that Seunghyun readily understood. Or maybe it’s just the smile on Seunghyun’s face-- open, and beautiful, and completely accepting. But whatever the case, Jiyong finds himself smiling back, shoulders relaxing, and teeth easing up on their assault on his bitten-down fingernails.  “He’s brilliant,” Jiyong says, enthusiasm genuine this time. “He had a point-of-view and a style that was completely his own. I think that’s what I admire the most about him.”   Seunghyun’s smile widens. “Exactly. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”  Seunghyun laughs, just a shade embarrassed at his own words, and hangs his head. He looks up at Jiyong, eyes peeking through his lashes and a curtain of hair, a crooked sort of smile playing on his lips that makes him look infinitely younger.  Jiyong faintly hears a rushing in his ears that makes him think of high walls starting to crack and crumble to the ground. The sound comes to an abrupt halt when Seunghyun reaches out a tentative hand and touches two of his fingers against the base of Jiyong’s palm, lightly pressing on the three characters inscribed on Jiyong’s skin.  “Why your own name?” he asks. Jiyong represses a shiver, flesh breaking out in goosebumps when Seunghyun’s fingernails trace over his skin almost reverently. It takes him a moment to register Seunghyun’s words, caught up with imagining how Seunghyun’s hand would look like clasped over his.  “Wait. You can read Hangul?” Seunghyun’s eyes leave Jiyong’s arm, but his fingers remain where they are. “Only a little,” he says, eyes crinkling when he smiles.  Jiyong’s breath catches in his throat when Seunghyun’s fingers circle his wrist and pull him in closer. Seunghyun cups Jiyong’s elbow with his spare hand, tilts his head as he tries to decipher the mishmash of text and drawings on Jiyong’s arm. He’s had a lot of people do this to him, some even without invitation, but this is the first time it feels like he’s being read like an actual book. Jiyong’s right arm is splayed over the counter, the stark lines and swirls of color more pronounced over the wooden countertop. It feels a lot like he’s showing a sliver of his soul to a person he’s barely met. But the thing is, Jiyong can’t find it in himself to mind at all. “Me too,” Jiyong almost forgets to say, voice gone soft around the edges. “And I know this means dragon,” he says, pointing at the last character on his wrist, hand brushing against Seunghyun’s with intent. Seunghyun’s gaze follows Jiyong’s finger, the corner of his lips quirking up in agreeance. His eyes then sweep over to the intricate band of red and yellow ribboning around Jiyong’s forearm. Seunghyun gently twists his grip on Jiyong’s wrist and trails the knuckles of his left hand over the thin, curling tail of a dragon.  “Which explains this,” he says, voice pitched low and close to a whisper. “Right?”  Jiyong lifts his head up to meet Seunghyun’s eyes.  He swallows, wonders if Seunghyun can feel the frantic pulse point jumping under Seunghyun’s hold on his wrist. “Yeah,” he answers. “Right.” Jiyong doesn’t recall if it was this quiet when they started talking, but it’s definitely quiet now. It’s quiet enough that he can hear Seunghyun’s even breathing, a stark contrast to the sound of his heart tumbling about in his chest. Jiyong feels a pang of jealousy at Seunghyun’s calmness, at the steadiness of his touch, and at the firmness of his gaze. It makes him feel more adrift despite both of Seunghyun’s hands anchoring him in place. Jiyong coughs, an attempt to disperse the thick air weighing this moment and kick himself out of getting lost in his own head. “It’s also why some people at the bar know me as G-Dragon,” he says, tone going for cool but missing it for miles. Jiyong backpedals, flustered. “I mean, not this,” he says and uses the hand that Seunghyun isn’t holding hostage to motion over his faded hoodie and loose jeans.  “This is…” He bites his lip trying the find the right words. “This is just Jiyong.” Seunghyun gifts him with a half-smile for all of his babbling, his hold on Jiyong’s arm tightening, almost instinctually. “Something tells me they’re not mutually exclusive.” “Yeah, you’re right,” Jiyong replies. “It’s just that life taught me that sometimes…” he trails off when Seunghyun’s thumb absently drag over the swell of his wrist bone. He soldiers on, thinks he deserves a medal for even managing to form words with Seunghyun right. there. invading his space and stealing some of his oxygen.  “Sometimes, it’s better not to give yourself away,” he says. “Not all of you, at least.”  Jiyong catches himself before he starts telling Seunghyun his life story. “Lucky you, then, because you got to see a little bit more than what most people usually do,” he says. Seunghyun is quiet for a moment as he studies Jiyong’s face, expression inscrutable.  “Life gave me similar advice once,” he says eventually, a bite of self-deprecation staining his voice. “I think I just handled it a little bit differently.”  Jiyong’s brows furrow at the downward tilt of Seunghyun’s mouth. He could continue down the route they’re already taking. The one that ends up with Jiyong telling the story behind each line sketched on his skin, and with Seunghyun maybe showing a few scars of his own. But Jiyong doesn’t because it’s been too long since he’s seen either of Seunghyun’s dimples peek out from his cheeks. “Yeah,” Jiyong says, raises his eyebrows in a mock show of cockiness. “Not everyone can rock a tank top like I do.” Seunghyun stares at Jiyong. Then he snorts. He starts to laugh, head bowed and shoulders hunching in to reign in his giggles. Jiyong absolutely does not swoon.  Seunghyun straightens behind the counter, stretches his back to ease its stiffness from crouching for so long, but still keeping his hold on Jiyong’s arm. When he calms, he shakes his head and sighs, dimples dotting either of his cheeks when he smiles.  “Can’t argue with that,” he says. Jiyong smiles in return, mulls over whether or not to poke fun at Seunghyun for not letting him go ever since he pushed away the sleeve of his hoodie. He gets distracted with his name being called out from the other end of the shop. Jiyong’s mind reels because oh right, there’s a world that exists outside of his and Seunghyun’s little bubble. Jiyong turns back, sees Marco holding his phone against his ear as he drags his feet over to the counter like he’s somehow lost the ability to use his limbs properly.  “Marco?” Jiyong asks, regrets having to pull away from Seunghyun’s grasp, but the dead look in his friend’s eyes is making his heart titter with worry. Marco doesn’t respond, has yet to put his phone away and stop staring blankly at the floor.  “What’s wrong?” Jiyong asks, making his way towards his friend. “Who’s that? Is it your nona?” Marco blinks after Jiyong places a tentative hand on his shoulder.  “No. It’s Meg,” Marco tells him. “It’s happening, Ji. It’s happening.” Jiyong sucks in a surprised breath. “What? Now?”  Marco doesn’t answer, motionless, feet still rooted to floor.  Jiyong knew this day would come. He’s been preparing for it since he saw the ultrasound pictures and had to lug around a drunken Marco all the way to Mer’s house later on that night. What Jiyong didn’t foresee was how hard it was going to be to drop whatever he was in the middle of, even if that’s exactly what he promised to do.  “We have to go,” Jiyong says to a stock-still Marco as he gently takes his friend’s arm in his.  “We have to go,” he repeats, this time for Seunghyun, forcing his voice not to waver like maybe he’s trying to convince himself too. Seunghyun sends Jiyong a reassuring smile, voice tight when he tells him, “Then go, it’s okay.”  No it’s not, Jiyong thinks, because the universe is being terribly unfair. Again. It’s not fair because Jiyong was doing fine with just the fond memory of this kind, beautiful stranger. But now this stranger has a name and is far more kind and impossibly more beautiful than he’d remembered.  “I’m really, really sorry,” Jiyong says, meaning every word.  "It's cool. Don't be sorry." “I’ll see you around? I know where to find you now, so you’d better stay put.”  Jiyong throws Seunghyun a glance over his shoulder as he leads Marco to the entrance of the store. He waits before he pulls the door open, waits to hear Seunghyun’s response.  Seunghyun looks at him, nods and gives Jiyong his answer. “I will.”  Jiyong accepts it along with the small smile on Seunghyun’s face. He forces out a smile in return because that’s all he can do for now.  Jiyong realizes two minutes too late in the cab ride to the hospital that he could have done more. Like ask Seunghyun for his number, or even leave his own set of digits like how it was supposed to have gone down the night they met. Universe: 2; Jiyong: 0 Two hours and two packs of Skittles Sours later finds Jiyong trying very hard not to blame an unborn child for cockblocking him. He does want to blame Meg’s tricky bladder a little. That and Braxton Hicks contractions. Jiyong finds solace in his third bag of candy and an apologetic Marco telling him he could always drop by Inkwell like he promised Seunghyun.  Right. There’s that. It shouldn’t be too hard. Well, maybe it might sting a little. Memories tend to splinter when left alone and if you aren’t careful, you might cut yourself turning them over in your hand. But a second trip to Wicker Park might just be worth it. Jiyong has a good feeling it would be.