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Night #1
There’s an angel in the laundromat.
He’s tall and slim and beautiful in a way that makes Minghao wonder if he’s dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dozed off at the little table during his weekly visits, after all, not with how out of whack his sleep schedule has been recently, with how dreary the weather is.
Or maybe he died of boredom, inexplicably winding up in an afterlife that looks suspiciously like the 24-Hour Coin Wash. It’s a sickly yellow purgatory if so, furnished with outdated machinery and an overabundance of seating in the form of cracked vinyl chairs lined up along the front windows, opposite from where Minghao sits at the taller tables and stools against the back wall.
But no, Minghao is alive and awake and it’s a quarter past midnight according to the too-slow ticking of the clock, on a Tuesday squished in the damp midsection of the rainiest Seoul spring on record, and there’s a long-legged angel unloading a basket of clothes into a washing machine.
The man, from what Minghao can see, is all soft edges and straight lines, honeyed skin and hair dyed the russet brown shade of fallen leaves. Minghao hadn’t gotten a good look at the finer details of his face when he first walked in—the “angel” designation having been a hastily assigned placeholder for The Most Beautiful Person He’s Ever Seen In His Life—and he still can’t discern much beyond a gray-hoodied back from where he’s currently sitting.
Not, of course, that he’s paying that much attention, you understand. Or contemplating how he would sketch the man’s languishing form as he sprawls outward from one of the green vinyl chairs across the room, scrolling on his phone, closed umbrella dripping on the floor next to him.
Midnight visitors aren’t unheard of at the 24-Hour Coin Wash. Minghao has seen it himself; people come, stay, leave, a perfect cycle of unassailable anonymity, a parade of insomniacs, nightshift workers, and exhausted college undergrads who shuffle in during the brief intermission between late-night study sessions.
But this feels different, somehow. Minghao tries to extinguish the spark of uncharacteristic curiosity flickering at the back of his mind—a product of boredom, no doubt, the restless interest of late nights and vague aesthetic intrigue.
Nothing more.
Obviously.
The guy hasn’t made any acknowledgment that Minghao is even there, a blessing and a curse that Minghao balances carefully for a few minutes, contemplating the potential ramifications of conversation.
Somewhere on the shelves above him, the raspy timbres of some upbeat American jazz song Minghao doesn’t know crackles through the speakers of the little radio, a mockingly dissonant soundtrack to his indecision.
Ultimately choosing to surrender to the sense of invisibility, Minghao rests his chin on one hand and twirls a pen restlessly between the fingertips of the other. He glances at his sketchbook, still open to the half-finished drawing he’d been working on before he began zoning out half an hour ago. It’s a monochrome seascape, an exercise in shading and reflection, and it bores him.
He adds a small, abstract human figure on the grayscale beach, looking out towards the ocean.
(So what if the penciled man is actually quite tall, with sun-kissed skin and an inordinately perfect nose? That’s no one’s business but Minghao’s.)
Still dissatisfied, he sighs, flips to a new page, and begins to draw.
With admirable restraint, Minghao refrains from outright staring, committing as much to memory as he can through side-eyed glances at his newfound muse. Portraiture has never been his strong suit, but he’s determined to capture the gist: hair, fluffy in the humidity, parted to the side to expose a sliver of forehead, sharp jawline, strong cupid’s bow, and lidded eyes simultaneously expressive and disinterested, the angel’s reimagined gaze fixed on Minghao.
(The finished drawing, for what it’s worth, isn’t half bad. It could use a bit more detail in the expression, of course, but there’s only so much one can do without being a total creep.)
Minghao taps his phone screen.
Almost 1 am, no new messages—unsurprising since Mingyu likely crashed after his evening gym session, and Wonwoo sleeps 18 hours a day at the best of times. During the work week, his friends are notoriously useless when it comes to entertaining him during his late-night escapades. Even Jihoon, no doubt still awake in his studio across the city, is nearly always too preoccupied with his music to respond in any helpful way to Minghao’s boredom.
His washing machine buzzes, cutting through the near-silence. Minghao blinks away the drowsiness and moves to shift his clothes to the nearest dryer. He’s grateful for the disruption at a time like this, when the jazz is a little too sleepy, the rain a little too rhythmic, the room a little too warm, when the illusion of purpose saves him from getting caught staring at the angel across from him—or, heaven forbid, from trying to speak to him.
Minghao alternates between absentminded sketching and mentally reviewing his to-do list for tomorrow, curiosity at the stranger ebbing away in favor of decidedly more practical concerns; there’s always so much to do before SNU’s end-of-semester art showcase at the museum. It’s an endless litany of minutiae—press releases, VIP invitations, catering, emails (so many emails!)—that he simultaneously hates and begrudgingly accepts as the tradeoff for having a job he loves 96% of the time.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Minghao has almost forgotten that he isn’t alone in the place when the angel’s washing machine goes off. He looks up to find the other man pulling damp clothes back into his basket.
Minghao tries to ignore the inexplicable disappointment that rears its head at the angel’s leaving, resigning himself to the impending hour of alone time. It’s fine, really. He would never begrudge someone’s preference for air-drying (even in the middle of the rainiest spring on record).
But then the angel stands up and looks towards Minghao for the first time, catching his absent stare, and oh.
Oh.
Though an insufficient first glance might cast his eyes in shades of indifference, he meets Minghao’s gaze with an expression tinged with something definitively opposite—an unexpected openness, like intrigue or kindness or something equally thrilling to Minghao’s delicate romantic sensibilities.
Midnight visitors aren’t unheard of at the 24-Hour Coin Wash, but beautiful boys who look like summer and smell like spring rain are far from the usual. Minghao knows that this is something different, someone special. It’s a certainty masked as apprehension blooming in the pit of his stomach, as ephemeral as a dream, as sure as the rain.
And Minghao is never going to see him again.
Then the angel smiles at him, and it’s nothing more than a slight quirk of the lips, and he waves, and it’s nothing more than a polite acknowledgment, but it’s something, and Minghao, hand lifted and a little awestruck, has to force himself to look away as the angel props his now-full basket against his hip with one arm, maneuvers his umbrella with the other, and walks out into the downpour.
*****
Night #2
The second time Junhui sees him, he is certain of four things:
- His luck exists in extremes. Like getting the job of his dreams only to have to move two thousand kilometers away to South Korea for it. Or finding the cutest little apartment with the cutest little kitchen window overlooking the cutest little park only to find that the small, in-unit washing machine has a leak. Or discovering that he conveniently lives two blocks from a 24-hour laundromat only for it to be the rainiest spring on record. And what if said laundromat is also frequented by the prettiest man he's ever laid eyes on in his life? It's just a matter of waiting for the other shoe to drop, really.
- There was no way to know for certain that the pretty boy would be there a second time. The chances of Junhui running into him again on a different week were, Junhui knew, slim at best and next to nil at worst. It feels a little like fate and a lot like a miracle that he is.
- Junhui has never been good at metaphors. He's never been good at metaphors, but the boy is perched on the same stool as last week, some kind of gorgeous, dark-plumed bird of paradise. So lovely, so untouchable. Junhui is a little obsessed with him, with his dark, shaggy hair, with his (adorably) pointed ears, with how cool he looks, serene and unbothered with his black leather sketchbook and oversized gray sweater.
- It is, for obvious reasons, imperative that Junhui avoid interaction at all costs.
Junhui put off going back to the laundromat for as long as possible, in part, for this last reason, knowing himself as he does. Knowing that if he went back and the pretty boy made of shades of shadow was, by some act of divine providence, somehow there, he would talk to him. Knowing that if he talked to him, he would most likely say something unforgivably stupid.
Something like Hi, I’m Junhui. I’m new to the neighborhood, and you’re perfect. Would you like to go to dinner sometime? Or, Hello, how does it feel to be god’s favorite? Can I have your number? Or, Isn’t it a bit excessive to be both art and artist at the same time? Leave some talent and beauty for the rest of us, followed by a cheeky wink and a (no doubt swoon-worthy) grin.
Instead, Junhui settles back into the same avocado green vinyl chair by the window, angled towards the back wall without directly facing Pretty Boy—a well-deserved moniker for a man Junhui will, sadly, never talk to.
He's overly conscious of avoiding eye contact and conversation, trying to distract himself with the mindless scroll of his phone, foot jiggling in time to the upbeat instrumental crackling through the little radio that, Junhui now sees, sits on the shelf above Pretty Boy’s table, next to a vase of (probably fake?) azaleas.
All-in-all, it’s not the worst night Junhui’s ever had, and in the quiet, he can almost pretend he’s completely alone. Sure, he should have brought a snack to munch on, maybe, or headphones, but it’s only for an hour, and he has plenty of thoughts swirling around his mind (not all of which concern a certain someone, thank you very much) with which to occupy himself.
Junhui is just thinking to himself that the whole situation is actually kind of—dare he say it—pleasant when his screen goes black.
He blinks, staring at the now useless hunk of metal and plastic in his hand as if his disbelief might somehow bring it back to life. Mentally cursing himself for forgetting to charge the phone after rehearsal, Junhui shoots a glance at Pretty Boy, hunched over the table and thoroughly invested in the sharp scratch of pencil on paper as he sketches something in his notebook.
The way Junhui sees it, he has two options for the next 45 minutes until the wash cycle finishes: wallow in cowardice while he continues sitting, simply pretending to be on his phone, or bite the bullet and ask for a charger.
Well.
That’s not much of a choice at all, really.
In the approximately five seconds and eight steps it takes him to cross the 15 feet to the little desk area, Pretty Boy—who, Junhui notices with no small degree of devastation, is even more gorgeous up close, brow furrowed and soft lips bitten in concentration—doesn’t look up from his work.
If Junhui was less preoccupied with his own personal crisis, he might think to sneak a peek at what the other man is drawing. But he doesn’t, instead clearing his throat and promptly shocking him into slamming his sketchbook shut with at least 37% more force than necessary. Pretty Boy meets Junhui’s wide, surprised eyes with his own.
“Oh,” Junhui suddenly finds himself at a loss for words, unsure if he should continue with his question or apologize for startling him so badly. “I- um. I’m really sorry to interrupt, but my phone just died, and I was wondering if you might have a charger?” He holds up his phone for emphasis and tries not to cringe as he stumbles across the syllables of his shaky Korean. No matter how diligent he’s been in learning the language, his confidence remains tenuous at best.
Pretty Boy glances at the device for a moment before pushing his sketchbook aside and turning to rifle through a backpack Junhui hadn’t noticed tucked behind his chair. “Here,” he mutters, holding out a tangled mass of cord, a red flush already blooming across his cheeks. “See if this one works for you.”
Junhui tries and fails to ignore how lovely his voice is, smooth and melodic in a way that makes Junhui’s heart squeeze.
“Thank you,” he says, bowing quickly and returning to his chair to plug his phone into the nearby outlet.
Junhui’s pulse still hasn’t completely settled when his phone blessedly flashes back to life a minute later.
“Ah!” He exhales victoriously, grinning. “It worked! Thank you so much—you’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Pretty Boy responds, returning Junhui’s smile. “Nothing worse than being phoneless at a laundromat.”
“Yeah,” Junhui hears himself saying. Oh, god. The floodgates have opened. “I’m honestly kind of surprised I’m not the only one insane enough to do laundry right now.”
The man chuckles and half-shrugs. “Don’t have anything better to do, I guess.”
“I can imagine the peace and quiet does wonders for creativity, though,” Junhui replies for some godforsaken reason, gesturing towards the sketchbook on the table and hoping that he doesn’t sound like a total idiot. He’s not entirely sure it works when Pretty Boy quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head.
“Sometimes. The late hour affects it more, I think, at least for me,” Pretty Boy responds. His washer buzzes and he gets up to move his clothes to a dryer. “Are you into art or anything like that?”
Junhui tracks Pretty Boy’s movement, reminding himself that it would definitely be weird to debate the merits of hang drying versus machine drying with a near-stranger. He chuckles sheepishly and shrugs. So cool. So nonchalant. Nailing it. “Not really. I do play the piano and act a bit, though. And I danced when I was younger.”
“A little bit of everything, huh?” The man grins, glancing over. “I used to dance a little, as well, before I moved here for university, but I haven’t really had much time since then.”
“School and moving will do that for sure, disrupting routines and all that,” Junhui says, sympathetic even as he quickly tries to decide which thread to pick up while tucking away the rest for (hopefully!) future conversation. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Pretty Boy feeds quarters into the dryer. “China. Liaoning Province,” he says. “You?”
“Oh! I just moved here from Guangdong a few weeks ago. ”
Juhui takes it as a success when Pretty Boy’s dark eyes brighten perceptibly, a sweet grin breaking across his face. His heart stutters. He ignores it.
“Small world,” Pretty Boy responds in Mandarin. “What brings you here? How are you liking it so far?”
His expression is so open, so kind. The earnestness of it makes Junhui pause for a moment. He thinks of insomnia and homesickness, the difficulties of nighttime silences, the friends he left across the sea. Thinks of the loneliness, simultaneously sharp and hollow, the heavy emptiness he carries like a burden and clings to like a memory. Junhui looks at the man across from him, an echo of home, a smiling shadow in a room the color of sunshine.
The other shoe doesn’t drop. Not yet.
“I came for work—the acting school down the road? It’s different from home, of course, but I’m getting used to it,” Junhui says. The familiar, lilting tones of his native tongue loosen something he hadn’t realized was so tightly knotted in his chest. He smiles back.
Pretty Boy nods and the two settle into a comfortable silence as he returns to his sketchbook—albeit with much less intensity this time. Junhui, for his part, does his best not to watch him, attempts to avoid the skilled, purposeful movements of his hand (how can someone’s fingers be so lovely?), tries not to wonder how he can seem so at ease, and ignores the urge to ask.
It’s settling, in a way, Junhui thinks. Homey, even in the cramped space, with its weird, hazy yellow lighting and awkward liminality. He can almost trick himself into feeling okay, or fool himself into seeing isolation as a surmountable obstacle, nonbelonging as temporary, and home as not so far away after all. Almost.
The sensation unfolds in his chest, and Junhui revels in it, swallowing it down like a man starved.
When Junhui’s washing machine eventually buzzes, it’s a violent disruption. It rips the through somnolence of the laundromat, the ambient tumble of the dryer, the gentle rise and fall of incessant jazz. He sets his basket down and begins tugging his clothes into it, draping the articles neatly over the edge for minimal wrinkles the way his mother taught him.
Neither of them says anything, not until Junhui unplugs his phone from the wall and winds the cord around a hand, tucking one end inside the resulting loop. Hesitating slightly, he sets it on Pretty Boy’s table.
“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” Junhui says, suddenly feeling brave. “even if I didn’t end up using my phone after all. I- um. I enjoyed talking to you more, anyway. I hope that doesn’t make me sound like a creep.”
The blush returns to Pretty Boy’s cheeks. Adorable. Junhui feels vaguely sick with it. He knows he needs to get a grip, but it’s just so difficult in the face of someone so genuinely lovely. It’s hard not to cling to the idea of him, the hope he represents.
“Likewise,” Pretty Boy responds with a soft smile. “Sometimes it’s nice having company to break up the boredom. And you’re not creepy, so…”
Junhui laughs, picking up his basket and umbrella. “Well, I’m glad you think so. I’d hate to have to find somewhere else to do my laundry. Maybe I’ll see you around?” He doesn’t even try to stifle the optimism inherent in the question.
“I’ll be here,” says Pretty Boy. His tone is light, almost teasing, the uncertainty of their synchronism reframed as an inside joke only he and Junhui share.
A quick, wary look out the window confirms the night’s persistent drizzle. Stalling, Junhui turns back. The man is leaning forward against the table, watching him, waiting.
Junhui decides he’ll only be a little stupid. Just for tonight.
“My name is Junhui, by the way.”
A smile, then, like the sunlight of a silver lining. “Minghao.”
Junhui nods and gives a small, polite bow as the name etches itself in his memory, wrought by a foolish sense of anticipation that he chalks up to the late hour.
Minghao Minghao Minghao
It’s the cadence of a heartbeat, footsteps, something to follow.
Junhui smiles to himself, secret and unseen, and steps out into the night.
*****
Night #3
Seven days, it turns out, is effectively an eternity.
By the time the following Tuesday night rolls around, Minghao fears he might be dreaming again, Junhui nothing more than a figment of his overactive imagination, some kind of divine being descended from the heavens like a harbinger of clean laundry and all things lovely.
Deep down, Minghao knows, logically speaking, that it’s odd for him to have gotten so attached to the other man so quickly; Wonwoo and Mingyu had pointed out as much during their game night last Friday.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Hao. It’s just unlike you to feel so drawn to someone else,” Wonwoo says diplomatically, taking a bite of fried chicken and only glancing up briefly from his cards to consider the others. He pushes a small stack of makeshift wooden chips forward.
“Yeah,” Mingyu nods, matching Wonwoo’s bet as he slides his own chips to the center of the small table. “Especially some random guy you met at the laundromat. Sure, he was pretty, but that’s never been enough for you before. What makes him so special?”
And isn’t that the question? Minghao knew Mingyu didn’t mean it in any other way than genuine curiosity, but Minghao still hadn’t been able to answer at the time, unsure of how to explain that something about Junhui feels different, is different—familiar and yet entirely new in a way that does nothing but draw Minghao in and hold him there.
He couldn’t bring himself to mention the portrait from two weeks ago, hidden away within the confines of his sketchbook, or that he keeps returning to it. If he did, and if pressed, he would deny everything, claim the picture as nothing more than the detached visual interest of an artist made manifest.
Junhui is, objectively, a very good-looking man; who wouldn’t want to capture him on paper?
Muse is the word that continuously ricochets around his mind, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jihoon. He had, as always, stayed largely quiet during their poker game, always thinking, always assessing. During his turn that round, he’d pushed forward all of his chips.
“Not everyone wants to pine over their best friend for years before finally making a move. Sometimes you just know,” Jihoon stares meaningfully at a properly chastised Wonwoo and Mingyu. His gaze shifts to Minghao. “ Do you know?”
Does he? Minghao thinks he does. He really, really hopes he does.
It is this thought that is swirling through Minghao’s mind when Junhui arrives not long after midnight, laundry braced in one arm, the handle of his umbrella hung over the other. He beams at Minghao, and Minghao can’t help his responding grin.
“Hi, Minghao,” Junhui says in Mandarin. Minghao wonders if this is to be their norm, the root of their common ground. He hopes so. He’d like to share this with Junhui, carve space out of something intrinsic, something for just the two of them. “Not to jinx it, but I think the rain is beginning to ease up. The sun will be out any day now—I can feel it.”
Minghao chuckles. “You think so? I wouldn't have thought that the 29th straight day of storms is evidence that things will clear up soon, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“I miss the sun,” Junhui sighs. “And it would be so nice to make it all the way here with dry shoes.”
“Ah, the aspirations of youth. Never stop dreaming big, Junhui,” Minghao says, mock-serious.
Now it’s Junhui’s turn to laugh, bright and beautiful like the rest of him. “I know, it’s so much to ask.”
He pulls his bag of quarters from the front pocket of his jacket, counting them out carefully before slotting them into the machine. Rather than take his usual place in the green chair, however, he walks towards the back wall.
Minghao closes his sketchbook and pushes it aside, equal parts confused and exasperated when Junhui stops in front of the birds.
It’s a hideous illustrated print of two birds, some species of sparrow or lark, that hangs haphazardly between the washing machines and the door to the storage room. Minghao has a love-hate relationship with the piece; on the one hand, it’s an insult to good art and aesthetic tradition, an eyesore, positioned like an afterthought and understood as an abomination, fundamentally unsettling for reasons he can never quite pinpoint.
And yet there’s a part of him (a small, embarrassing part) that kind of likes it—“kind of likes” because it’s an appreciation of the Stockholm Syndrome variety, a begrudging consequence of sleepless nights and forced proximity.
The birds are on thin fucking ice.
Junhui, for his part, is enthralled. “So what’s the deal with the birds?” He asks, gaze sliding over to Minghao and grinning as Minghao rolls his eyes.
“Don’t even get me started on the birds,” Minghao snorts.
“Why not? They’re…charming. In their own way. I like that the branch they’re sitting on is just kind of floating in midair, like the artist couldn’t be bothered to finish the rest of the tree.”
“They’re hideous. There’s no way someone saw that and thought, oh yes, just what every laundromat needs —some ugly-ass birds. ”
Junhui chuckles. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think they elevate the vibe of the place. Why else would I keep coming back if not to admire the birds staring at me from their weird, dark corner?”
“To appease the laundry gods?” Minghao shrugs. “They demand their sacrifices at regular weekly intervals, as you know.”
“Fair enough.” Junhui pauses and scratches the back of his neck, hesitancy dripping from the gesture. “I’d say the laundry gods are the second most important motivator for me to keep coming back, though.”
Oh.
Minghao’s pulse skyrockets at Junhui’s flirtation—it is flirtation, right? Could it be anything else? Shit, what if he isn’t actually flirting, and he’s just going to make a stupid joke?—and Minghao’s mind goes blank.
The frantic five-second mental search for something to say that is both smooth and encouraging, deliberate enough to show interest and witty enough to leave an impression, makes Minghao’s soul shrivel up, all his latent romantic fantasies collapsing along with it. Overt flirtation or romantic (?????) banter or whatever the hell is currently happening has never been his strong suit; he generally prefers the power combo of avoidance, coy glances, and internalized pining.
Even this, as with everything else, is different with Junhui.
Minghao doesn’t quite know what to do with that.
But he’s a second too late. Before he can decide between responses (“Ah, yes, second only the olfactory consequences of dirty laundry,” or the much more blatant, “Ranking me above the gods? I’m flattered”), Junhui smiles placidly. “The birds, of course, are first.”
Fundamentally, Minghao knows that this is Junhui’s attempt to dispel potential awkwardness, but he can’t quite quell the wave of disappointment that rolls through his stomach, the sense that he’d missed a crucial opening. Instead, he stares at Junhui, unblinking, as he tries to regain his grip on the conversation.
“What? Naturally, I’m intrigued by their floating stick and weird beady eyes. Why do they look like that?” Jun squints at the picture one last time before going to sit on top of the dryer nearest to Minghao.
Minghao shrugs, recovering slightly. “Well, they are weirdly accurate drawings, which might do it. Sometimes it creeps people out when art gets a little too close to reality. Also, birds themselves are kind of odd if you look at them for too long.”
For a moment, Junhui regards Minghao with an indiscernible look and clears his throat. Minghao would be remiss to overlook the light pink dusting Junhui’s high cheekbones. “Right. Well, I mean, sometimes birds are pretty…just not those birds.”
Before Minghao can respond, his washing machine goes off and he stands up to move his clothes. Junhui turns to his phone (charged this week, Minghao thinks to himself with a small smile), and the two lapse into silence. It reminds Minghao of last time, when he’d discovered that there was a kind of comfort in such breaks in conversation with Junhui—devoid of all the awkwardness or obligation that so often plagued his interactions with other near-strangers.
Strangers. That’s what they are at the end of the day, right? Minghao could so easily forget that; Junhui, a stranger. Just some random guy at the laundromat.
What makes him so special?
Sitting down again, Minghao tugs his sketchbook closer, pencil tapping idly against the desk.
Junhui has moved to sit on top of one of the dryers closest to Minghao. For the second week in a row, Minghao is devastated to note the two moles above his upper lip, the ones dotting his cheeks. Even doing nothing at all, Junhui is magnetic.
Minghao exhales softly. He needs to get a grip. It’s a new day, a new week. He can do this, his own burgeoning feelings be damned.
Junhui’s eyes flick down to Minghao’s sketchbook. Minghao knows the drill, knows where this is going a second before Junhui even asks. “So, what kinds of things do you draw? I assume not anatomically correct birds.”
Minghao snorts, feeling his face flush. He clears his throat and doesn’t think about the face of the man in front of him replicated in ink. He doesn’t. “I- well, it’s kind of a boring answer, but a little bit of everything. Things I see just going about my day, landscapes that stand out to me, sometimes random things I pull from memory.”
“Ah,” Junhui says, nodding. “Things you don’t want to forget.”
Minghao clicks his tongue. “Yeah, I suppose so. I’ve always preferred painting, though. Most of my portfolio is a combination of acrylics and watercolors and oils.”
Junhui leans forward, bracing his hands against the front edge of the dryer, feet dangling like a child’s, too far off the ground. “Portfolio? Are you taking classes?”
“Not anymore. I’ve been working as a curator for the Aesthetics Department at SNU since I graduated, so about three or so years now? I mostly do freelance commissions and organize exhibitions at their art museum, but sometimes they ask me to include pieces of my own.”
Junhui’s face alights with a boxy grin. (Minghao’s heart doesn’t skip a beat. It doesn’t.) “That’s so cool! I can’t imagine how proud that must make you as an artist, to have your work validated that way. You must be incredible.”
Now there’s no denying the way Minghao’s heart violently thumps against his ribcage. He vaguely wonders if Junhui can hear it. Of course, that doesn’t matter much when he knows he’s blushing, can feel the burn creeping up his face, around his undoubtedly stupid smile, and frying his brain. “I- thank you, Junhui. I really am proud of it.”
Junhui shakes his head. “I’d love to see your work sometime. I bet even birds would look amazing if you painted them.”
His tone, equal parts teasing and admiring, returns Minghao to earth. It’s a skill Minghao is quickly learning Junhui has, this ability to make his heart soar while ensuring his feet remain firmly planted on solid ground. It’s a deft interweaving of want and need that Minghao is used to navigating by way of clumsily omitting one in favor of the other, wildly vacillating until the balance is thrown off and he’s forced to overcorrect. It’s an endless carousel of lofty ambitions and brutal reality checks, highs and lows that ache and linger and lead to sleepless nights at the laundromat.
Junhui, Minghao thinks, gives him something to come back to.
Sometimes you just know.
“I have some photos from the last exhibition I was part of, if you’d like to see them.”
If Junhui picks up on Minghao’s shyness, the self-consciousness that drips from his every word, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he jumps off the dryer and leans his entire torso over the desk, eyes wide and waiting. “Really? You don’t mind? There’s literally nothing I would like more.”
Minghao believes him entirely. Braver now, he pulls up the album (aptly titled “autumn art thingsss”) on his phone and slides it over.
“The exhibition last fall was called ‘The Fantasy of the Self,’ so there were lots of portraits and surrealist pieces. People aren’t really my favorite subject to paint or draw”— with exceptions, chirps the voice in his head, unbidden—“so I tried to focus more on the concept of essences, the things that construct and create the self rather than the physical aspect. Most of the pieces I made were for my portfolio or to eventually sell.”
His explanation gets caught in his throat, and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of Junhui’s silence, his slow, thoughtful swiping through Minghao’s camera roll.
“These are incredible, Hao.” Junhui murmurs. He seems entirely entranced by what he’s seeing, his soft, perfect mouth slightly agape, eyes widened in a kind of awe that would make Minghao die a little inside if he wasn’t already feeling vaguely faint at the nickname.
This is definitely too much for Minghao’s delicate romantic sensibilities. He might actually combust.
“Ah, thank you, Junhui. I- oh, those two are called Adoration I and Adoration II. They were displayed in the final exhibition.”
Junhui is flipping between two paintings, one comprised of a deep midnight blue background, sharp strokes of maroon loosely tracing a man’s profile in the foreground. The other is an exact inversion: a different man’s profile, facing the opposite direction, painted in blue against a dark red background.
Junhui zooms in, squinting. “I love that they share the same colors. It makes it more…connected, I guess?”
“Yeah, these two are meant to be paired together,” Minghao leans back in his chair, unable to look at Junhui, unable to bear thinking about him thinking about Minghao’s art. It’s too real, too intimate. “My two closest friends, Mingyu and Wonwoo, were my models. They’ve been together for ages—since college—and I was trying to capture the way I see them together. The flecks are supposed to communicate how we’re changed by those we love. Bits and pieces of them become part of us, and bits and pieces of us become part of them. Love reflects this exchange, and the fantasy of how we see ourselves is always linked to the reality of our relationships with others. I don’t know anyone who embodies that kind of balance and devotion more than Mingyu and Wonwoo.”
In the 14 days Minghao has been aware of Junui’s existence, he’s considered him through a kind of (admittedly) idealized haze. Junhui seems unfailingly warm, all sunshine and sweetness distilled into human form, unflappable. So when Minghao finally looks up at him and finds Junhui already looking back, his brown eyes glittering with tears, Minghao flounders.
“Junhui! Oh my god, are you alright?”
Junhui lets out a choked laugh. “Yes, sorry, I just…That was the loveliest, most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Minghao huffs out a laugh, half in embarrassment and half in relief. “I’m glad you think so,” he says. “It’s just a paraphrase of the description I wrote for the exhibition, but that’s the gist of it.”
Junhui returns to the paintings, blinking away the unshed tears as he flips back and forth. “They’re magic, Hao. I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know Mingyu and Wonwoo, obviously, but I can almost imagine I do. You captured them so wonderfully.” He gently slides the phone back to Minghao.
Minghao sets it aside and shakes his head, fond. “They’re even better in person. I bet you’d like them.”
“I know I would,” Junhui says, and he’s back to smiling. Smaller, softer, but no less real. “I have to admit I don’t have many friends here yet, so it’s nice to hear about yours.”
And, oh, something about that aches.
Minghao thinks back to when he first arrived in Korea, so young and stubborn and unwilling to admit how frightened he was, even in the midst of all the excitement of being somewhere he’d always dreamed of living. The conflicting emotions had been difficult to reconcile until he met Mingyu and Wonwoo, and then, later, Jihoon. Even then, with their help and love, it had taken a lot of time, a lot of effort to come to terms with it all.
“It’s like you said last week,” Minghao responds. “It’s different from home. Jarring and weird and painful in a lot of ways, at first. But then you find people”—he looks up at Junhui, already looking back at him—“and then you discover that they’re your people and the sadness eases a little. It becomes a much easier burden to bear when you can share it with others. They don’t even have to really get it, you know? They just have to be willing to love you through it.”
Junhui’s expression is contemplative. He doesn’t look away from Minghao, and with the little radio’s crescendoing arpeggios dancing through the silence around them, it feels like something important. Something big.
“Sometimes home is a lot closer than you think,” Minghao adds softly. “Sometimes it is what you make it.”
Sometimes you just know.
Before Junhui can respond, his washing machine buzzes, signaling the creeping arrival of Minghao’s now-familiar disappointment. For a moment, Minghao thinks he sees a flicker of something in Junui’s gaze, but it’s gone before he can grasp it, dissect it.
Instead, Junhui smiles, subdued in a way that Minghao isn’t entirely sure how to deal with; it throws him off, this vulnerability, Junhui’s sudden shift from a blazing noonday to a softening dusk. “Thank you, Hao. Really. That means more to me than you know.”
“Of course,” Minghao returns the smile, but a last question nags at the back of his mind, and he can’t resist asking. “Is that why you always come here so late? Homesickness?”
“Yeah, in part,” Junhui says, and he doesn’t expand or elaborate, but Minghao is just relieved that he doesn’t seem embarrassed by the admittance.
Without thinking, Minghao stands and takes a few steps towards Junhui, who’s pulling damp clothes out of the washer. Without thinking, he speaks. “I know it isn’t quite the same, but I hope you’d consider me a friend if you need one.”
“Oh,” Junhui looks up at him from where he crouches, eyes wide. Surprise and gratitude soften his expression, written in the shadow of hesitance in the quick aversion of his gaze, the thinly veiled relief in his voice. “Thank you, Hao. I do- consider you as a friend, I mean.”
“Good,” Minghao smiles and walks over to pick up Junhui’s umbrella from where he’d abandoned it earlier by the chairs. “It’ll get better. It always does. I promise.”
“It always does,” Junhui echoes with a nod, and he seems sure of it now, armed with a faith that Minghao knows with a selfish certainty that he helped inspire.
What makes him so special?
Junhui picks up his basket, accepts the offered umbrella, and begins walking away. Reaching the door, Junhui tilts back against it to push it open, the pattering of rain suddenly amplified. “Bye, Hao. I’ll see you next week? Seven days, as the gods demand?”
“As the gods demand. See you later, Jun.”
And if Minghao clings to the beaming smile Junhui leaves him with, lets his heart wrap around it and hold it close as something precious, something suddenly and inexplicably necessary to him, if he watches out the window long after the shadows have swallowed Junhui’s retreating form, no one else has to know.
*****
Night #4
Junhui might be in heaven.
It’s the Tuesday night-Wednesday morning cusp, a quarter past midnight, the drizzle of rain is muffled by the syncopated swells of the usual jazz, and the laundromat smells like a winter evening in Shenzhen.
The rich salty-sweetness of zhajiangmian slips through the soft undercurrent of laundry detergent, and if Junhui closes his eyes, he can almost pretend. Almost, because even his fantasy of home cannot account for the beautiful boy sitting across from him, eyes closed in a rapturous first bite of disanxian.
So yeah, Junhui thinks, this might be a top-five-nights-of-his-life situation.
“I can’t believe you made all this,” Minghao says between mouthfuls of stir-fried potato and pepper. “Or that you remembered-”—his cheeks pinken sweetly as he trails off, and good god, Junhui is fucked—“it just means a lot.”
Junhui grins, helping himself to more fried rice. Who would have guessed that all it took to draw this kind of reaction from Minghao was a phone call to Junhui’s mom, asking (very cooly, very nonchalantly, of course) if she knew of any traditional dishes from Liaoning? It was just a simple matter of dodging her many questions, making a short trip to the market, and basking in the anticipation of Minghao’s smile, really. Easy.
“Of course I remembered,” Junhui says before he can stop himself. Great. Now he and Minghao are two shades more red. “And I honestly owe it to you and our conversation last week. I keep thinking about it, how home is what we make it.”
Minghao quirks an eyebrow, recovering first. “And the laundromat is your home now?”
“The laundromat is my home now,” Junhui laughs. “And the theater is during the day. I’ve even made the extra effort to talk more to the guys I work with. I was very brave about it.”
“You really expect me to believe that you struggle to make conversation? It didn’t seem like you were struggling to talk to me when you nearly scared me half to death that first time.”
“A dead phone and desperation are highly motivating. Also, it wasn’t like I was trying to freak you out. That wasn’t my fault!”
“Right.”
“Whatever. You don’t have to believe me; you just have to be proud of me.”
Minghao laughs at that, eyes crinkling into crescents. Satisfaction warms Junhui’s cheeks, and he has to fight back the broad smile that threatens to split across his face. “Tell me about all the new friends you made then, Jun.”
“Well. There’s Seungcheol, Soonyoung, and Seokmin. Seungcheol is my boss and the stage manager for most of the productions, and Soonyoung and Seokmin are instructors on the musical performance side of things. I’m pretty sure they have more energy in their pinky fingers than most people have in their entire bodies.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Minghao says, scooping more fried rice into his bowl.
“It is,” Junhui chuckles. “But it works well when wrangling the students, I guess. You’d really enjoy watching Soonyoung dance, though, even if spending longer than five minutes with him would put you out of commission emotionally for a week. I’ve never seen anyone move the way he does.”
“Does Seokmin dance, too?” Minghao leans forward, invested in Junhui’s every word. It does funny things to Junhui’s heart to think about it too much.
“Yeah,” Junhui says. “He’s primarily a voice teacher for when the theater puts on musicals, though. I haven’t had the chance to listen to him very much, but Seungkwan—one of my students—says he has crazy range.”
Minghao has, at this point, demolished the entire bowl of disanxian. Junhui bites back a grin and pushes the still-warm bowl of zhajiangmian forward in subtle encouragement for Minghao to take more. He doesn’t even try to hide his smile when Minghao does.
“Seungkwan,” Minghao repeats thoughtfully. “Do you teach children?”
“Most of my students are in high school, but in the evenings, we hold courses for university students. It’s supposed to be supplementary to their actual college courses, but sometimes they just do it for fun, as a hobby. That’s what Seungkwan and Hansol do,” Junhui pauses, thinking of the unlikely pair—sweet, bubbly Seungkwan and the comparatively reserved, serious Hansol. “They’re my favorites.”
“Is that so? And what does a student have to do to be your favorite?”
At that, Junhui glances up at Minghao, whose gaze remains resolutely trained on his bowl of zhajiangmian as he toys with a piece of cucumber. Is he…flirting? It seems equally likely and unlikely, and Junhui, perpetually unsure of what to do with that, tucks it away for now. His heart couldn’t handle it if Minghao was flirting.
He’s not sure if he could handle it if he wasn’t, either.
“Honestly? Just showing genuine interest is enough,” Junhui says, shrugging. “It’s a low bar, but that’s really all it takes.”
Minghao’s eyes flick to Junhui’s briefly. “Noted.”
Ah. Okay, then. Definitely flirting.
Junhui shoves another bite of zhajiangmian into his mouth before he says anything ridiculous. It still haunts him, the endless expectation and constant waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can’t seem to shake it, even when Minghao looks at him like that, like he knows Junhui. Like he cares.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, that’s about it, if you don’t include the café worker I see every morning when I go to the theater.” Chan, his brain supplies. He doesn’t know why he remembers that. “Oh, and I’m supposed to be getting new neighbors later this week, so I’m cautiously optimistic about that.”
Minghao’s washer buzzes, and he smiles as he gets up to switch his clothes over. “That all sounds really wonderful, Jun. You’re well on your way to creating one hell of a friend group, it sounds like.”
“Yeah,” Junhui sighs contentedly. “Now if only I could get my sleep schedule back on track, I could actually make time to hang out with them outside of the theater.”
Minghao gasps. “What? And miss our weekly late-night laundry rendezvous? I’m hurt.”
“I would always make an exception for you, Hao.”
And there it is. Junhui opened his big fat mouth and now it’s weird and quiet and awkward and the jazz music is definitely mocking him and the noodles in the zhajiangmian are a little too cold and taste a little too salty and Junhui was too much, too earnest, too fast.
Right as regret rises like bile in the back of his throat, Minghao sits back down in front of him, meets his eyes, and doesn’t look away. “So would I, Jun.”
And of course it’s the right thing to say. Minghao never shies away from Junhui, even if it seems like he might, never backs down in the face of Junhui’s chronic openness. He knows Junhui. He cares.
“Why do you always do your laundry at night?” It’s a whispered question, not at all what Junhui had intended to say, but he’s an idiot and his mouth and brain never function on the same wavelength and he doesn’t know how to control either one.
And yet it feels necessary, somehow, like seeking an outreached hand that he knows Minghao will always willingly offer. It’s a selfish curiosity, a sudden need to look at the man across from him and see his own fears and needs and desires reflected back.
Minghao squints and glances over Junhui’s shoulder in the direction of the birds (that Junhui has decided to love, no matter what Minghao might say about aesthetics or taste or quality, thank you very much) and seems unphased by the randomness of Junhui’s inquiry.
“Loneliness,” he says.
“I see.” Junhui does.
“But,” Minghao’s dark eyes, bright under the fluorescent lights, return to Junhui’s. “I’m not so lonely anymore.”
And then Minghao smiles at him and it’s real and beautiful and everything Junhui has ever longed for, everything he’s ever dreamed of.
Minghao is home and heaven in human form, and Junhui wants to hold onto him, onto this feeling, and never let it slip from his grasp the way so many things—people, places, emotions—have. He wants to revel in this moment, tuck it away, pin it to a board, as fragile as a butterfly’s wing, as sacred as a prayer.
“You make me forget that I miss the sunrise,” Minghao says softly, and it’s a confession. It burrows deep in Junhui’s chest, makes home in his heart.
“And you make me brave,” Junhui responds. “You remind me of everything good, here and anywhere else.”
How soon is too soon for devotion? Too early to dive head-first into the small pool of golden paradise Junhui has found in the 24-Hour Coin Wash? Junhui swallows down the words he’s not ready to say, and, despite everything, he waits. He waits because some things are worth waiting for. He waits because some things are worth not rushing. The moment settles, encased in glass. Junhui holds onto it.
When Junhui’s washing machine goes off, he moves to take out his clothes with limbs leaden with reluctance. It’s almost robotic, the way he packs up the now-empty dishes and picks up his umbrella and walks to the door, but human when he looks back, finding Minghao’s gaze already fixed on him, so light compared to the burden of leaving.
Junhui says nothing as he steps outside, but an unspoken promise lingers in the pattering of the rain, suspended in the somnolent pre-dawn hours.
The other shoe doesn’t drop.
*****
Morning #1
There’s an angel in the laundromat.
He’s tall and slim and beautiful in a way that makes Minghao wonder, for a brief moment, how he could ever be so lucky. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s yearned for something unattainable, after all, not with how lonely he’s been recently, with how soft his heart is.
Minghao is alive and awake and it’s a quarter before 6 in the morning according to the too-slow ticking of the clock, on a Wednesday anchored at the tail end of the rainiest Seoul spring on record, and there’s a long-legged angel unloading a basket of clothes into a washing machine.
Hearing the door open, Junhui rises and turns towards Minghao standing stockstill in the doorway, face adorned with a boxy grin that does something quite frankly illegal to the pounding of Minghao’s heart. Junhui looks radiant, Minghao thinks, as he always does, set aglow in the deep blue light of early morning.
“You came,” Junhui says, and he sounds a little breathless, a little tentative and unsure in a way that Minghao hates.
Minghao walks towards him. He didn’t even bring his laundry, arms empty and mind full of Junhui Junhui Junhui.
“You left me a note,” he responds.
M– 6am. Date with the dawn? –J. It was cheesy and short and to the point, left the night before on the cracked avocado green vinyl seat of Junhui’s chair. Minghao hadn’t even stayed to wash his clothes, returning instead to his little apartment to lay awake for hours, thinking and hoping and dreaming with eyes wide open.
Junhui smiles. “The rain stopped,” he says, as if it means something. Maybe it does.
“That sounds like something to celebrate,” Minghao quirks his head. “No more soaked shoes.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Would you care to join me for breakfast? I’d say I have about—” Junhui leans back to squint at the clock—“an hour or so to wait, and I’d hate to waste it just sitting around.”
“I’d love to,” Minghao holds back a grin, disguising the acceleration of his heartbeat with a shrug. “I suppose the laundry gods wouldn’t mind us leaving your clothes unattended for a little while.”
Junhui laughs. “Are you sure? Isn’t that a cardinal sin, or something? I wouldn’t want you to get smote,” he pauses and winks so, so poorly. Minghao feels faint. “Only smitten.”
For half a breath, Minghao blanches. The mortifying ordeal of being known has nothing on the absolute agony of verbal acknowledgment, and he can feel the old familiar flush crawling up his cheeks.
Well. It’s not like Junhui’s wrong.
Minghao clears his throat. “I’m sure the gods would be forgiving enough if we just stepped out for breakfast.”
At that, Junhui’s entire face brightens, eyes wide and eager with something akin to relief, and Minghao briefly wonders how Junhui might have believed, even for a moment, that Minghao could ever give him anything other than a definitive, unequivocal, resounding “yes.” It seems unnatural, counterintuitive. Wrong in a way that is borderline offensive to his delicate romantic sensibilities.
It occurs to him then—not for the first time—that perhaps the laundry gods aren’t the only thing worth worshipping in the deep midnight of a rainy Tuesday, or in the promise of summer curtaining the vestigial coolness of a spring morning, or in the orange-gold light of the 24-Hour Coin Wash, or the here and now, the always and forever.
Sometimes you just know.
And yeah, Minghao thinks. He knows.
Junhui holds out his hand and bows in mock gallantry, grinning as Minghao meets him halfway. He tilts his head toward the rain-splotched windows, luminous in the first rays of rosy dawn. “Shall we?” He says. “It’s going to be a beautiful sunrise.”
Minghao smiles and follows him out the door.