Page 104 of Hamartia
I like this guy. He’d not normally be the kind of salesperson you get in stores like these and I’m wondering if this is how he normally is, or if it’s just me.
“Man, I love LA. I actually grew up in San Francisco, my family are still there. Moved back here about a year ago, felt like it was calling to me or something? But both are home, you know? I miss it.”
That’s when I know he knows exactly who I am. The finely wrapped box inside the Chanel bag appears in front of him a moment later and then he’s handing me the thing, stuffed inside a cellophane bag to protect it from the elements. His voice is quieter when he says.
“Have a great trip, Rapha. Enjoy Seoul, man. Was really great talking to you. And thanks for the commission.” He gestures at the bag.
I’m already wondering how this is gonna look when/if he posts about it online. Why am I in Seoul? Buying $4000 earrings when I’ve just called off my engagement. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him not to do it, not to post about it. I don’t want the risk for Jae—though why the fuck anyone would put us together like that I don’t know—but I just nod and offer him my hand.
“You deserve it, man. Merry Christmas. Hey, look me up on IG if you’re ever in LA, yeah? If I’m around maybe we can grab a beer?” It’s Machiavellian, but it might work. Is he gonna use this for clout when I’ve made that sort of offer? I’m hoping not—he seems like a cool guy. “Have a great Christmas.”
I bundle out back into the bustling Seoul street. I’m in the central thoroughfare, the giant TV screens flickering brightly in the snow–heavy afternoon.
Glancing up, I freeze.
A thirty-foot Jae is staring down at me. It’s a commercial for a sports brand so he’s in a t-shirt, trackpants and sneakers—not a look I’ve ever seen him in before. He’s flirting with the camera the way he does, that heavy-lidded stare he’s almost famous for, a slow trace of his lips with his tongue.
I can’t move for a second as it hits me how huge he is. Not only physically, in front of me now, but here in Korea. There’s likely not a single person in this country who doesn’t know his name. We’re both visible in lots of ways but for him, here, fame is something entirely different. I understand fame and the trappings of it, of course I do, but I’ve largely been allowed to do whatever the fuck I want with it—sometimes I’ve been actively encouraged to.
But Jae’s brand of fame is something else. It’s particular. He’s expected to be above scandal. Above anything that might be seen as negative. Like a politician or a priest. He’s lived his entire adult life this way. Whilst hiding his sexuality, whilst hiding want he wants and needs; who he is on a base level. The clothes, the jewelry, the precision of his art—it’s his armor. And somewhere behind it all there’s him. This vulnerable, sometimes sad, beautiful fucking thing that just wants someone to be brave enough to be with him. To choose him for him. To put their fucking name on the box of daisy cupcakes and love him the way he needs and deserves.
His words from last night hit me like a blast of snow-chilled air.
Why would anyone want this? Why would you want this?
I am not strong like you.
Fuck, I think he might be the strongest person I’ve ever met. How he hasn’t collapsed under the weight of expectation and the constant drive for perfection, I don’t know. It’s suffocating just thinking about it.
I’m still thinking about this as I slide into a metal booth at a little hole–in–the–wall food place advertising “Korean chicken and beer.” I’d found it a few blocks off the main shopping area, buried in a slush-filled alley and teeming at the edges with people. I almost walked on to find something else, but an elderly woman with an apron called me back inside, leading me through the cavern-like space and into a table near the back.
The place is loud, Korean voices laughing and shouting good-naturedly. She spoke a little English and seemed to know what I wanted before I even opened my mouth, so I’m eating a basket of fried chicken—a crispy savory orgasm that melts on my tongue—and drinking a Korean brand beer I take a picture of so I can try and pick some up later. Then I wonder if it only tastes this good because of the chicken. But it’s the best bottled beer I’ve ever had outside of Belgium. Mase and I did a beer tasting once when we were on tour there and left the place unable to walk and with $800 worth of beer Sam had to figure out how to import.
Thinking about him, I open the text chat. Stare at it for a bit. The last message I sent him was when he was late for the studio that first day. What the fuck happened that tipped him over the edge? Before finding me in the hall asking Jae if he missed my cock, something had happened. Something that made him not want to face me. Something that had him turn up two hours late on our first day back, wasted.
He’d spoken to Cam when I’d been in New York. Cam had called him? Was that what he’d said? Yeah, he said he called me becauseshe’dasked him to. Why would she do that? Why would they even be talking? I turn it over and over in my head and realize Cleo was right, I really don’t see what’s right in front of my face.
Had he secretly been wanting my relationship to fall apart? So he could sweep in and be the guy Camille deserved.
I try and imagine them together. Not in a physical sex way, just in the usual, couple kind of way and I can’t see it. They don’t work. Not in my head anyway. Camille deserves better than me, yes, better than someone who had barely been present the last year of our relationship. But is that guy Mason? I don’t think it is but clearly there’s a lot I don’t know about Camille and Mason and what they have.
Startling me out of my spiral, my cell starts ringing in my hand. I blink down at it, half expecting it to be Camille or Mason, but it’s not. It’s Jae.
“Hey, sorry, it’s loud in here,” I say as I answer, covering my free ear with my hand.
“Where are you?”
“Some chicken and beer place. I’m almost done—just have to pay.” I look about me for one of the wait staff. Of which I’m certain there’s only one—the woman who sat me down.
“You are finished with your shopping?”
“Yeah, all done. How about you? You finished work?”
He had a TV show, some ‘fan content’ to film, and then a magazine interview scheduled for today. I’m not even sure what time it is.
“Almost. Just some photos and then I am done.”
He sounds exhausted. Then I feel guilty for keeping him up half the night and waking him early this morning because my jet lag had pulled me awake at five. I’d rolled into him, my dick pressed against his hole and couldn’t stop. His alarm had gone off an hour and a half later while I dosed back to sleep, his come drying around me.
