iamthegayagenda | Prismatic Souls, Pt 1/? (Reply)

(A/N: I come bearing gifts!! A new, much less angsty story. I hope you guys enjoy this one!! I'll actually stick to weekly posting for this, so please anticipate it!)

Do Kyungsoo, 23 years old, working as a chef’s assistant at a cooking school. Living in a dingy, studio apartment somewhere far from the center of the city. And still, still miserably, unforgivingly, alone. That most of his friends had already met their soulmates was no help to this loneliness. Even the small things, a comment about the color of someone’s shirt, the color of the sky on that day - isn’t it strange? An invitation to watch the sunset at Banpo bridge - what for? For the colors, of course! Jongdae, his closest friend, would take the time to meet Kyungsoo, cook with him, eat with him, but there was still the lurking figure of Park Chanyeol, Jongdae’s soulmate, and between the effervescent cheeriness of them both Kyungsoo wanted to puke.

Besides, he was busy. He had his job, which he went to six days a week, and worked long hours, if only to keep him from the soul-sucking alone-ness of his apartment, and he had his parents, who he went to visit on his day off, and he had bills to pay, and movies to watch, and groceries to buy and food to cook and clothes to wash and floors to clean and-

And?

There was a magazine, propped haphazardly in front of all the others, that Kyungsoo only recognized because Jongdae, his best friend, worked as a photographer for. GS25’s selection of magazines was meager, really, and Kyungsoo had never paid them much mind. This magazine, Jongdae’s magazine, as Kyungsoo always referred to it, was a fashion magazine, with slim, ugly models bedecked in sleek outfits, but this model…this model. Kyungsoo couldn’t tell if the magazine was just using a new method of printing, with covers that could holographically change, but there was something about the model on the cover that seemed…different. He was beautiful, long-legged, with broad shoulders, and he was-

He was- not in black and white? Kyungsoo frowned, picking up the magazine, careful not to crease the glossy cover. It wasn’t bright, couldn’t be, he wasn’t seeing him in person after all, but the hints were there. A warm color, deep, on his shirt, and his skin, also warm, but different.

The ahjumma behind him cleared her throat, staring pointedly at the space in front of him. The cashier was waiting for him, a bored look on his face. Kyungsoo mumbled an apology, ears hot, and rushed to the counter, leaving the magazine behind.

He came back for it. Not to buy it, not really, just to see if it still happened. He stood off to the side, gingerly paging through the magazine, each glimpse of him a small flash of color. Kyungsoo drunk it in greedily, lingering on the model’s face, until a clerk, her face pinched with boredom, told him to buy it or leave. Kyungsoo placed it back on the shelf, but not before looking at the model’s name: Kim Jongin. And the photographer- oh. Kim Jongdae. So Jongdae knew this Jongin guy.

He formed a plan in his head, magnificent, down to every last detail. Kyungsoo would express interest in Jongdae’s work, get himself invited to a photoshoot, suavely introduce himself to this Jongin and they would kiss, passionately, and make sweet, colorful love-

But, of course, there was the small problem of Kyungsoo’s incredible shyness. Not to mention that Jongdae, with his ever sharp thinking, would be far too intrigued in Kyungsoo’s sudden interest in his work to let it go. And of course, the most worrisome of all the problems: that Kyungsoo would see Jongin in color, but Jongin would not see him in color. Kyungsoo’s stomach flipped. Why would he? A super hot model, see him, bug-eyed, short, near-sighted Kyungsoo, in color? No. It was ridiculous. So Kyungsoo filed it away and headed home, forgetting all about it when he curled up in bed to watch movies.

But it didn’t leave him alone. All Saturday, through the din of preparation, of chopping and rinsing and cleaning and measuring, he couldn’t get Jongin’s face out of his head. Even his mortifying blunder, handing (what the chef told him was) a green pepper instead of a red one (how could he tell? They looked the same, all varying shades of gray), wasn’t enough to distract him. Which is why, during his lunch break, he decided to look this Kim Jongin up, dropping his chopsticks unceremoniously in his bowl of soup when the flash of color came up on the screen. Brilliant, really. As if he wasn’t looking Jongin up precisely because Kyungsoo could see him in (partial) color. He fished them out, licking the excess broth off and hoping his boss wasn’t in the room to see it. But now he was entranced, by the warmth of Jongin’s skin, the way it contrasted with the color of the shirt (Kyungsoo really wanted to know the name of that color, it was so bright, so rich). Jongin’s jawline was so sharp, and his slim fingers so elegant. So engrossed was Kyungsoo in staring at his phone that he didn’t feel Jaehwan sneak up behind him and snatch the phone.

“Ooh, who is this absolutely delicious five course meal?” Jaehwan purred. Kyungsoo spun around, cursing at him through the dumpling in his mouth. “Kim Jongin, huh. Didn’t take you for the type to moon over celebrities.” Jaehwan scrolled through the pictures, side stepping Kyungsoo’s vicious swipe.

“Give it back!” Kyungsoo growled. He managed to grab Jaehwan’s sleeve, pulling him hard enough to throw him off balance.

“Ah- hey! You’re gonna stretch my shirt,” Jaehwan grumbled, huffing when Kyungsoo snatched his phone back, cradling it. “It’s just some stupid model, anyway. Why are you looking him up?” Kyungsoo didn’t deign him with an answer, returning instead to his soup. “If you want a devilishly handsome man to look at you’ve already got me.” Jaehwan gave Kyungsoo a lopsided grin, but Kyungsoo replied with a scowl. “Oh come on.”

“Go away,” he muttered.

“No need to get so pissy,” Jaehwan huffed, sitting across from Kyungsoo despite the glare.

“Shouldn’t you be peeling potatoes or something,” said Kyungsoo.

“It’s not complicated. I don’t need half an hour for it,”

“It’s ten pounds of potatoes,”

“Oh, fine. I’ll go do my work. Moody, much?” Jaehwan ruffled Kyungsoo’s hair, chuckling when Kyungsoo tried to slap his hand away.

Modeling hadn’t been Jongin’s dream, not really. He wanted to dance, to shine on a stage, to move to the music. But dance, unfortunately, had not paid his bills. Modeling had come to him, unworked for, almost. An agent, seeing him one day, sweaty, hair unruly, sun in his eyes, asked him to try out. He did. They loved him. And that was how he made it; one of Korea’s top models, with magazine offers out the wazoo, designers tripping over themselves to get their clothes on him. But it did nothing. The other models, he didn’t understand. They loved it, the industry, the work. But they lost themselves in it. Many of them, he knew, would sleep around, living their whole lives in black and white, unloved and unloving. He was, he felt, far too alone. His consolation: Baekhyun, a model, one of his few model friends, who was also colorblind, also alone.

One of the few luxuries he allowed himself was his apartment, a two-storied penthouse south of the river, with a sprawling view of the city. The terrace was his favorite part, sheltered just enough so that the wind would not be a bother, but still cool in the summer. In the winter, he curled up on the sprawling sofa, against the northern window, indulging in books and fatty food, at least until his manager complained, pointing at the fullness of Jongin’s cheeks. He rather liked his cheeks full, but fashion didn’t, so he would exercise (in the privacy of his own apartment, of course- why have a penthouse and not a private gym). That brought its own satisfaction, seeing his muscles ripple under his skin, glistening with sweat. He hoped his soulmate, whoever it could be, would like it, too.

Then he’d strut onto the set, the clothes tight (they always were, because he needed to sell those glorious muscles he worked so hard on), holding flowers, sitting under palm trees, sprawled on the floor. And then on to the next set. Off came the makeup, the clothes; he’d sit patiently under the hands of the makeup artist (they always saw in color, just like the photographers, and the designers, and the stylists). Sometimes, if he was lucky, he’d be paired with Baekhyun; photoshoots were more relaxed, then, and Baekhyun even got the photographer to take photos of them making faces. Not Choi Siwon, he was kind of a dick, by the book and unwilling to waste even a pixel on less than perfect photos. But Kim Jongdae, funny guy, would let them in indulge. He’d even suggest faces, and equally ridiculous poses, his bright laugh a welcome relief from the stiff, uptightness of most photoshoots.

So life was good, sort of. Good money, good apartment, good friend (singular, unfortunately, he didn’t consider anyone else a friend, except perhaps Moonkyu). And yet the gnawing loneliness, knowing that his soulmate was out there, somewhere, perhaps feeling just as alone.

Just as alone as Baekhyun, too. Sometimes, like now, Jongin would feel guilty about his moping. Baekhyun was, of course, two years older than him, still seeing in black and white. Most people, Jongin would groan, would have already met their soulmate by now. And Baekhyun, ever cheerful, would remind him that for some people it took time.

But now, Baekhyun didn’t say that. He stayed quiet instead, slowly munching on his food. Jongin traced his fingers over the design on the cover of the book he’d picked out. It was a quiet afternoon, one of the few days they’d had off, what with magazines rushing to get their winter shoots done.

“I just- get so desperately lonely, y’know?” Jongin continued, playing with the corner of the book. “I feel like I’m missing something. Like my life hasn’t quite started yet.” Baekhyun sniffled.

“I know,” he said softly. They were quiet now, just the rustle of Jongin flipping through the book, and the clink of Baekhyun’s chopsticks against the bowl.

“I try, you know,” Baekhyun said at last. Jongin looked up at him, confused. “I try to stay positive. To always cheer people up. To be that bright light. But-“ he sighed, placing his chopsticks on the table, “But it’s hard. It’s hard when I’m missing the biggest part of my life.” Jongin took Baekhyun’s hands in his, squeezing them gently.

“Hyung, you know I’m-“

“Yes, I know but-“ he sniffled again, “but it’s not the same. And we can’t give each other what we really need. You know that.” Jongin pulled away, settling back onto his chair.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin said, his voice barely a whisper. Baekhyun chuckled, wiping his eyes.

“What for, silly. There’s nothing you can do, you know,” he smiled at Jongin, his eyes and nose bright red. Jongin shifted in his seat, fiddling with the book again.

“I’m sorry we’re sitting in a multi-million dollar penthouse, eating corner store kimbap, like the famous models we are, but all we can do is be miserable,” Jongin said wryly. Baekhyun kicked him, laughing when Jongin tried to bite back a smile.

“Well, I’m sorry that we have to do a photoshoot with Choi on Thursday,” said Baekhyun. Jongin groaned, the book slipping from his lap.

“Why him?” Baekhyun shrugged.

“Fuck if I know? I just know it’s gonna suck,” said Baekhyun.

“Well, if things get any worse in life, for us, I could always be your lifelong companion,” Jongin joked. Baekhyun threw his head back, laughing.

“As much as I think you would give divine dick, it’s gonna be a no from me,” said Baekhyun. Jongin faked a pout, a dramatic sob shaking his chest. Baekhyun threw his balled up napkin at Jongin, sniggering when it nearly landed in Jongin’s mouth.

Thursday was, as they had expected, absolutely terrible. The Choi, as they referred to him, was as stuck up and demanding as ever. They’d been given very dramatic makeup, which Jongin only imagined was worse in color, and their clothes were all transparent. The important parts were covered, of course, with conveniently placed props, and, in some cases, just a hand.

The Choi sniffed.

“I need-“ he rested his fingers on his chin, lost in thought. “I need homoerotic,” he decided. Baekhyun and Jongin exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. The Choi stood, hand on hip, waiting for them to move. “Today!”

Baekhyun rolled his eyes, slipping his leg between Jongin’s thighs, snorting when the plastic of his pants stuck to Jongin’s. Jongin widened his legs enough for Baekhyun to get comfortable, smothering a giggle when Baekhyun placed a hand on his right pec.

“Ah- ah- no,” The Choi snapped. Baekhyun sighed, resting his forehead against Jongin’s head. “This is far too close. You’ll look-“ The Choi glanced around, pursing his lips, “You’ll look gay.” Baekhyun and Jongin looked at each other, then at him.

“You just asked for homoerotic,” Baekhyun said, quirking an eyebrow when The Choi nodded.

“Yes, but this is too much. Look, the leg between his thighs- no- no, no, no. This won’t do,” The Choi sucked his teeth. “No, instead, Baekhyun- here- no, not there, this way-” Baekhyun complied, slipping down until he was settled between Jongin’s legs on the floor. “Now, up- no, not all the way.” Baekhyun was kneeling now, a hand delicately placed on one of Jongin’s thighs. Jongin’s manager rubbed his temples, watching The Choi fuss over them some more.

“Not to rush you, Mr. Choi, but Mr. Kim has another photoshoot this afternoon,” he said. The Choi sniffed, nodding.

“I’m well aware of the time, Mr. Noh,” The Choi drawled, snapping away at them.

He was, in fact, not. They were freed, from The Choi’s incessant fussing and the chafing of the plastic clothes, two hours later.

Jongin’s manager ran through the schedule, lips pursed.

“You have a solo shoot on Sunday,” he said, sucking his teeth,

“Sunday?” Jongin asked. He pouted, peering over his manager’s shoulder. “With who?”

“For Dazed Magazine. Apparently that was the only day both you and Photographer Kim had available,” the manager flipped through the other pages.

“Kim Jongdae, Kim?” Jongin asked. The manager nodded absentmindedly. “Ah, well, at least there’s that.”

“You’ll be free the rest of the day, though,” said the manager.

“Oh, goodie,” said Jongin, grinning when manager Noh gave him an unamused look.

“You have a good rest of the weekend,” his manager said, shuffling out of Jongin’s apartment.