on pieces of dyed rays | woosan

Chapter Twenty Nine

If sleeping over at someone else's house was hardly ever Wooyoung's thing, then staying in for several days was unheard of. He's only stayed a night at Hongjoong's place when he was completely wasted, but now he's spending nights in San's apartment. Wooyoung reasons it's because he has to look after Byeol, and he doesn't trust the condition of his basement, not when stray dogs were roaming around the area.

The naivety of San shocks Wooyoung, having things like expensive stereos and branded shoes unattended, out in the air to someone who he knows only the basic information (face, name, phone number) of and maybe his hole condition (which is, inarguably, very important). And he should consider it lucky that Wooyoung's greed has been nonexistent probably since he was born. People steal for a better life, anticipation, but Wooyoung doesn't need one. Ever since he was born, he was taught to not expect anything by enforcement, because one can never be disappointed when one doesn't hope.

He did go around exploring the apartment though. San gave him consent to do pretty much anything in this apartment, except for selling it and burning it down, and when one is bored, they don't have much choice. Wooyoung found two bathrooms and three toilets (he wonders if San uses them equally, for peeing, pooping and fapping), two guest rooms (which are clearly not in use for how clean and untouched the rooms are, and Wooyoung thinks San could've made him use one of these instead of his own but he never mentioned it), and a walk-in closet (many high-branded clothes Wooyoung doesn't even recognise the name of. He did try on a jacket just to experiment, and he was drowned by its wide shoulders).

As generous as the spaces were, San didn't seem to own much. Couches, a TV, a fridge, tables and chairs, and everything else that would be on the cover of a fancy catalogue with model rooms that lacked personality. Wooyoung couldn't hide the disappointment when he couldn't find a porn San would jerk off to, the closest thing he found to a nude man or woman was the fashion magazine he works for—which probably was considered art, although he thinks the line is quite fuzzy between the two. He doesn't even find real life human photos like his family photo or a childhood album, and Wooyoung guesses he isn't a reminiscent type, although the man appears to be awfully romantic.

And of course, the atelier.

Wooyoung liked to make it a routine, to visit the atelier once he was back in the apartment after his dirty work, breathing in the settled dust and unbleached grease. Somehow, it took his day's fatigue away, filling the lungs not with vile smokes and caustic perfumes, but with the precipitation of infatuation. He'd switch on the dim orange lamp light that doesn't entirely chase away the darkness settled in the corners of the room, curl on top of the couch as he stares at the three silhouettes—the canvas is still standing on the floor, leaning against the wall, and San explained something like waiting for the perfect frame that he'd ordered for this specific painting to arrive. Wooyoung would stare at the painting silently for thirty minutes, before he left the room, dragging his body to the shower.

The canvas was still there—the one San had prohibited him from seeing, and when Wooyoung entered the atelier for the first time alone, his fingers tingled to just pick the cloth up and peek inside, because San would never know. But to this day, the cloth remained untouched, the heart of the canvas a mystery. He gave up on reasoning why that is; either because he was never the prying type, his little brain having no space to stock people's issues, or because San had genuine eyes when he asked him not to.

Promise was never his thing to keep. Jongho would complain how he's always late on time, Hongjoong would complain how he sometimes just forgets to visit him in the club, Yeosang would complain how he keeps his payment pending. For Woooyoung, promises are not necessarily meant to break but are not necessarily meant to be kept either. Even now as he is huddled up on the solitary couch in the atelier, having the veiled canvas in his peripheral, his fingers tingle, but instead of revealing what's beneath the cloth, he uses them to wrap the blanket around his figure tightly.

The atelier is a little dustier than other rooms that are pristine clean, and Wooyoung learned why on the third day of his stay. He woke up to the noise coming from the living room, his mind blankly familiarising with the sound, and without much caution, he stepped out, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He found a woman probably in her fifties in the living room, navigating her way through with a portable vacuum cleaner.

The woman looked up as soon as she felt another presence in the room, and gave a shriek that was enough to give a lift to Wooyoung's buzzed brain.

"Hi," he greeted, hoping she wouldn't report him. Between a middle aged woman wearing a uniform and a guy wearing worn out clothes looking like a tramp, one won't take so much time to pick a side. "I'm San's-" he hesitates for a moment before he finishes, "friend."

"I heard," she grumbles, pressing a chunky hand on her chest, in an attempt to ease the shock her weak heart must have received. "Just don't sneak up on me like that, kid."

Since he wasn't expecting a visitor while he was around, it would've been nice if San had given him a heads-up too, but he was glad that he wasn't going to be held overnight in the cold four walls.

She practically ignored Wooyoung after that, and saving himself from being a garbage on the floor she'd rather pick up and throw away, he sat on the kitchen counter, taking a bite of a ripe apple. The life of a rich person was truly something else, Wooyoung thought, having a housekeeper who'd come clean their rooms regularly no matter the mess you create. She worked quickly and effectively, cleaning up the whole apartment in just two hours, except one room.

"What about the atelier?"

When she started packing away her cleaning tools, Wooyoung asked.

She looked at him with grumpy eyes, as if answering that simple question was far more exhausting than scrubbing the bathroom floor.

"Off limits."

That explained the way the room was always dustier, comparatively disarrayed and a little detached from the rest of the apartment. It was San's sanctuary. Even with this whole apartment to himself, San had created a safe hideout for himself, his territory, that no one shall invade.

Out of all the territorial spaces Wooyoung has been in, this probably is the most personal. He doesn't dwell on the thought much though, for why he resides here or why San lets him.

Wooyoung is just another passing human in San's life.

Their paths just crossing for a short fleeting moment of their lives.

Or, percentage wise, maybe it wouldn't be as short, if he dies tomorrow. And he considers this moment better than those that took a third of his twenty-six years. Three months out of twenty-six years is better than three months out of seventy something years, right? Just a short of one percent on his ugly life pie chart, but he'd have that instead of decimals.

Then again, the reason he keeps on breathing is to lessen the slice of the pie infested by the shadow of the woman. He wants the toxic slice to be a slit, an almost nonexistent piece but they say one rotten apple spoils the barrel, so what's he fighting for?

The decay spreads out quicker than he ever wanted.

"Okay, I'll listen to you, hyung."

"Come, let's dye the sky."

"Because you deserve to be happy, Wooyoung."

"Aren't you guys going to stop me?"

"Because with him, you look-"

"I hope you'll be able to find your perch, one day."

"What do you think of him?"

"Pray tell, beautiful stranger, what is your name?"

Wooyoung does a little courtesy after learning no one cleans up the atelier. He tips off the mounted dust on the furniture, fixes the tilted frame on the wall, and collects some obvious garbage—crumpled pieces of paper, smudged pieces of sponge—and throws them in a bin.

And at the end of the day, he dips on San's bed, nestles in deep, chasing the lingering scent of the gone man.

As if that will lessen his suffering. As if that is his last straw. He's in the dark, and he sees the golden strip ahead of him, within his reach. He stretches his arms, as far as his anatomical ability allows, in hopes of grasping it.

He doesn't.