Page 4 of Hamartia
“Thanks, Hyung,” I say, without looking at him.
For one stupid moment I want to cry. I feel so utterly alone. Then I feel guilty for feeling like that because I am surrounded by my best friends, people who would do anything for me, people who I love like brothers. And yet, I still feel like they really don’t know me.
Loneliness haunts me most days, a looming grey specter that knows all of my thoughts. A chilly understanding that no matter what I achieve—how much success we have—there will always be that part of me left wanting something else. Needing something more.
It’s ironic because there are so many days where I have far too many things I don’t need or want. When I find joy and peace through far simpler things; a bike ride through Yeouido Park, a solitary walk through a random book shop or art exhibition, the heat of the shower after a particularly hard dance practice.
“Drink before we take off?” A flight attendant asks as she stops at Kai and me, smiling a polished white smile.
“Whisky, please,” I say and she nods, flicking her eyes at Kai, who’s watching me still. Curious and concerned.
“Same,” he says without looking at her.
She hurries off behind the curtain and I ignore the look while moving to fish my Air Pods and eye mask from my bag. Then I reach over my shoulder to wave Lua over.
“I’ve changed my mind about the pill,” I tell her and she scurries back to retrieve the previously refused sleeping pill.
I’m already feeling tired, thinking about my bed, about cuddling with Shiro, about how long I’ll sleep when we get home. Goodness knows when we will be back in Europe again. I should enjoy this moment, feel proud, feel something. The first Korean group to sell out a stadium tour in the west. But all I feel is bone deep exhaustion. Fear too, because I have a feeling that things are about to get crazier for us, like we are in the path of some massive tornado that we have no power of withstanding once it hits us.
With the pill and the whiskey in front of me, I down both just before we start our ascent. In the air I request another drink while trying to ignore the occasional glances from Kai.
He takes a deep sip of his drink before letting his head drop back against the seat, eyes closed, throat pale and long. He looks good, which is also messing with me. He’s lost a little weight from his face but put on some muscle in his chest and arms. His hair is longer than I ever remember seeing it.
I’m staring at him as the pill and whiskey cocktail start to work their magic. How long has it been since the last time? Three months? Four? We are not always drunk when we fuck, but most of the time we are. We just handle our alcohol better than the rest and so we’re often still awake when the others have gone to bed. It’s easy. Too easy sometimes. But mainly it’s convenient. No strings, no feelings—aside from that residual love you carry around for your first love long after it’s over. Long after you realize that it never really begun.
There’s no risk of being outed or caught or anything else that goes with maintaining any kind of romantic entanglement while being an idol.
At ten thousand feet I’m contemplating going down on him in the airplane toilet. At twenty, I’m thinking I’ll let him fuck me in there instead. That would help scratch some of the itch crawling over my skin. The whiskey and sleeping pill are doing a different job to what I need them to do. By thirty-five thousand feet, I’m nodding off and thinking instead about Raphael whatever his name is. Specifically, about how I’d disprove his assertion that I don’t have a dick by bending him over that bathroom sink and making him take it. I’m not a natural top, but I would make an exception for him.
Two years later
August
“So, ma mere found a Chateau, just outside Lyon. She sent me some pictures of it. I’ll forward them to you now.”
“Right, sounds good,” I tell Camille as I toss myself back onto the bed. Soft. How I prefer it.
The view from the ceiling height windows at the foot of the bed is of a lit-up Chicago, the night sky a wintery ink-blue.
Fuck, I’m hungry. When did I eat last? I skipped the in-flight meal, like I always do. Fuck, I want Sushi. I’ll get Sam to go out and find some.
“I’ve sent them,” she says a minute later. “Let me know what you think. It’s not as nice as the house in Garda, but it’s France. And papa will be much happier if it’s in France.”
“I doubt that. Doesn’t matter where you marry me, he still won’t be happy about it.” I flick the call to speaker and go into my messages to have a look at the pictures. Yeah, it’s a chateau all right.
Camille giggles. “He’ll come around.”
I doubt that too. It could be our twenty-year anniversary and Jérémie would continue to despise me. Continue to believe I’m not good enough for his daughter. Which I’m probably not, but it would be better if he didn’t realize that.
Or maybe he’s what’ll force one of us to pull the breaks and bring this thing to a screeching halt. I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. Well, that’s not true. We’re doing it because we love each other. But there’s also a chance that what we love is the idea of us. I’m sure she said yes partly because of the aesthetic. Her mother: the Oscar-winning actress. Her father: the Palme D’or winning director. Her sister: the supermodel. Her husband: the rockstar.
Camille doesn’t know anyone who has a normal job. Everything in her life has been carefully cultivated; a celebrity pedigree that’s a Vogue editor’s wet dream.
But yeah, she loves me too, and I love her. And if I’m gonna marry anyone, it’s gonna be Camille Le Garde.
“So, what do you think?” She’s eating something now. Something crunchy and loud in my ear.
“It’s nice,” I admit. It’s a sand-colored building in the middle of acres of vineyard in the French countryside.