“I’ve got a question. When you get older than those ‘older guys,’ does your preferred ‘older-guy’ age range rise with you, or will guys the age they are now still be your type then?”
At his joke, Juhan tilted his head and laughed. But after hearing his story earlier, I couldn’t see the laugh as purely playful like usual.
“Well, I’m still such a fresh youth that thirty feels forever away. I haven’t thought that far.”
Pulling a deliberately impish face to tease him, Juhan tapped my shoulder and backed away.
“I’m off. Have fun on your da—... museum date.”
Then he sneaked a wink at me while sneaking a look at his face. I couldn’t tell if he was worried about this situation or just amused.
“The exhibition’s open till eight-thirty. Should we get moving too?”
He checked his watch and opened the rear door for me. I glanced after Juhan, who was crossing the street to flag down a taxi approaching from the other side, nodded, and got into the back seat.
At the wheel sat the same driver who’d brought me here a few hours ago. I’ve never owned a car, but riding in a car someone else drives is even more awkward. It’ll probably always feel awkward. Even taking a taxi had been a luxury for me till now.
He, on the other hand, always took the presence of someone in the front seat for granted. Unlike Hong Kong—where there’d been a sedan with a sliding blind between front and back, and where he sometimes aimed for heavy kissing or petting—he didn’t go that far today, but he didn’t particularly act like he was conscious of the driver seeing and hearing, either.
Except for the SUV, most of his cars were strongly chauffeur driven in character—built around rear-seat comfort. Cars for people who let someone else drive so they can truly rest, or who split even that time to review things and make decisions.
Right there, the difference between us was stark.
I’m someone for whom walking ten bus stops is just everyday life. He’s someone who treats the rear seat of a luxury sedan like a private room.
Our car merged into the river of taillights crowding the weekend evening road. Inside, a violin concerto played at a gentle volume. It was a famous Tchaikovsky.
“Did the drawing go well?”
He angled his body slightly toward me as he asked.
“...Yes.”
In truth there wasn’t much to show for it, but it wasn’t something I needed to report in detail, so I nodded.
He looked into my face with a smile that didn’t hide—didn’t try to hide—his pleasure at being alone together.
It’s different from just looking. Lately he “looked into” my face like this. A slight tilt of the head, eyes pleased, watching something in front of him that was interesting and dear.
Facing that look, I wasn’t anxious. If, like Juhan said, he wanted to draw a line, there’d be no need to act this expression.
The easing of my anxiety wasn’t just deduction, either.
It probably started the night of the housewarming barbecue.
In his study that day, we were both strangely more fired up than usual, and in the confusion that heat stirred, we let slip urges to possess and bind the other. It was clearly different from the simple sexual lines we’d traded up to then. Even fear that he might reject me didn’t rule me that night.
He’d even startled me with a bold line—that he’d rather I turn into an idiot who knew nothing but sex with him. We were talking about sex, but it wasn’t about sex. It was an impulsive greed born from a surge of excessive, too-strong possessiveness toward the person right in front of me, stupid as that is. I didn’t mind it.
“Tired? You’re quiet.”
“...”
Leaning forward a little with his arms on his crossed legs, he reached his left hand over and toyed with my hair.
“You’re not exactly a chatterbox anyway.”
Maybe feeling he’d said something silly, he added that with a smile, then tucked the hair I’d grown fairly long compared to when we first met behind my ear and drew his hand back.
Maybe my face was stiffer than usual because what Juhan said was stuck in my head. I was just as afraid to name this relationship clearly, but by failing to argue against what he’d said about him, I felt like I’d made him into a “bad guy,” and I felt sorry.
“I’m not tired. I’m... looking forward to the exhibition.”
I lifted the corners of my mouth into a smile that would prove I wasn’t lying. I said I was looking forward to the exhibition, but really I was looking forward to spending this evening with him.
Whether it was because of “I’ll take care of you,” I don’t know, but lately he’d been more attentive than before. Maybe still worried, he wanted me to check in before and after going out, and even for short distances I had to use his car—but he didn’t stop me going out. Especially at night, he took me out for dinner almost every time.
A few days ago, I even went to the art store and met him to match his finishing time. The driver waited outside, but still, while I waited for him at a café after my errands, I felt a little silly thrill, thinking, isn’t this what a normal couple’s date is like?
“This afternoon... what did you do?”
Maybe he picked up on my clumsy attempt to keep the conversation going; the smile at his eyes and mouth deepened.
“My trainer came to the house. Worked out.”
Two or three times a week, a trainer came to his place for focused strength work for one or two hours, and from the way he talked, even if I didn’t know details, he seemed versed in tennis, riding, swimming, all kinds of sports. I, by contrast, just did simple calisthenics in my room every day to keep a light tension in my muscles.
He said when you paint, your life gets irregular and your stamina and strength drop, and suggested we work out together.
“If weight training bores you, how about we try something more active together. I worry you’ll feel cooped up if you’re always at home...”
Ah... so that’s why he’d been taking me out almost every evening lately.
I looked at his face, propped on his elbow, chin in hand, watching me with concern, and then my gaze dropped to his left hand resting naturally on the seat. After a small hesitation, I slid my fingers onto his.
He straightened up from his chin rest, and his face looked a little surprised.
“Mm... what kind of service is this now. Makes me nervous.”
He said nervous, but he seemed to enjoy my sudden touch. I’d lightly held his middle and ring fingers; now his big hand laced our fingers tight. Maybe from the air conditioner’s chill, his hand was pleasantly cool.
Holding our joined hands up, he kissed my fingers, a face like he was bottling up a spreading smile inside. He didn’t lift his lips right away; he met my eyes for a moment.
“...”
Then with his other hand he pinched my lower lip. Our own kiss-substitute... a touch that was ours.
Even that made my head go hazy. Lately I wanted him with a strangely fierce intensity. Even this small touch had heat gathering fast between my legs, and it flustered me.
Noticing my arousal, he flicked a glance toward the driver’s seat. Then, with a face tinged with regret, he lowered his voice and whispered:
“If I’d known I’d get this face... I should’ve driven. I gave up driving so I could get you a little drunk.”
Sating desire was thrilling, of course, but this restraint wasn’t bad either. Just... it made things crop up that were a little hard to endure.
“Maybe we should just go home.”
He squeezed my hand harder and sighed the words out, and a small laugh slipped from me at the playfulness.
Maybe we don’t need words like we’re dating now or let’s be lovers. Even without a clear marker, we were both tacitly agreeing that obligations toward each other had sprung up—like not dating or touching other people.
Facing the way he looked at me like this, a natural certainty pooled in me. Along with a cautious guess that this might be the right direction and speed for him and me.
I squeezed his hand too. The violin solo in Tchaikovsky’s concerto was racing toward its peak.
■ ■ ■
The show was at a small, experimental gallery made by renovating an old detached house, far from the busy districts; its theme was “Silence and Lies.”
According to the pamphlet, the artist was from Helsinki and had never had formal art training. Though an art-world authority who recognized her talent had offered her a chance at top-tier schooling, she turned it down.
She was famous for never signing exhibition contracts with major galleries, and for donating the high rate of thirty percent of her painting income to various women’s and children’s foundations.
Because of a free style that completely ignored traditional technique and her bold path, assessments of her work were polarized, and the pamphlet also noted that she was forthright about her critical stance toward the contemporary art world.
Her attitude outside the canvas was social, but the works filling the suite of small rooms were deeply personal. They tunneled terrifyingly far inward; facing them felt like confronting eyes wide open in the abyss—eyes that concealed nothing, reduced nothing, reflecting things as-is with almost mechanical honesty.
By the time I stepped out of the last room, I felt like all my energy had been drained. It was like the fatigue after a high-tension film that holds your eyes from title sequence to end credits.
I came out to the main hall—which, before the conversion, was probably someone’s living room—but didn’t see him right away. We’d split up at the entrance to look around freely and hadn’t crossed paths once since.
He stands out anywhere, not just for his looks but his height; if we were in the same space, there’s no way I wouldn’t see him. Pamphlet in hand, I scanned the crowd.
“Seo Ihyeon.”
“...”
I turned instinctively toward the voice. He was at the entrance, calling me, a coffee in each hand. He must have finished first and gone downstairs to the café.
Since that night, he sometimes called me without the “Mr.”—and every time it made the back of my neck shrink like someone was tickling me—but it felt different from when he said it in a house with just the two of us.
I froze at the lurch in my chest; he smiled and came toward me instead. It wasn’t my imagination: everyone in the hall was looking at him. Whether openly or by sidelong glances, everyone looked. Even if I knew it was natural... I disliked it a little. Childishly, I didn’t know why I was like this.
“It’s packed—it’s the weekend. Shall we step out?”
I took the iced Americano he handed me and slipped out through the crowd. Unlike inside, the air outside the door was close and humid.
We stepped past the gallery entrance—its fence opened to the alley, erasing the border—and a car waited about ten meters away. Wherever we went, a car dropped us right at the entrance and waited at the exit; there was simply no walking to be done. Feeling awkward alone about that, I climbed in.
The car slipped out of the alley and joined the road. Dusk was coming, so at least the heat had ebbed from midday levels, but people passing outside the window were fanning themselves or letting the faint breeze of handheld fans hit their faces, worn out by high summer.
“This year I don’t think I’ve really had time to feel the heat.”
“Hm?”
He lifted his brows, interested at the words that slipped out without thought.
“In Hong Kong too... and after we got back I moved into your place pretty soon and we’ve been in the car a lot... so I don’t think summer has really sunk in.”
“You’re tending the garden. That should be hot.”
“That’s just me taking a little time because I like it. Complaining I’m hot over that... that’d be a bit dramatic.”
With his okay, I’d been looking after the garden lately. It was just small chores—rough pruning, weeding, hooking up the hose and watering—but even a planned garden gives you a real lift when you spend time facing nature. The garden Juhan and Yuni called eerie now showed clear signs of a human hand.
“...Do you feel cooped up?”
After ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) a short silence, he lowered his voice to ask. I shook my head firmly.
“No, I didn’t mean that...”
I had no complaints about my life now; I’d just spoken while looking out at the street with no special thought. Seeing the trace of apology and pain darken his face, I wondered if I’d said something pointless.
He was the one handling everything for my safety, comfort, and the time to focus on painting, but whenever this topic came up, he looked pained.
“Kindness” couldn’t contain it. Past gratitude, I almost felt guilty at how much care and consideration I lived in.
At times like this, the age gap between us felt stark. Socially, financially, in experience and judgment... I wasn’t enough to be his support, and I didn’t yet have the ability to give anything concrete back. It made me impatient. Painting. I had to paint, quickly. For now, that was all I could give him.
He watched my face in silence, let out a short breath, and lightly took my hand.
“Just... bear with it a little longer.”
“I’m not naturally the type who enjoys going around or being active. You know that. And you take me out often... I wasn’t saying I felt cooped up, so please, really, don’t worry.”
