Heaven-Sent

Jongdae is very happy with his new apartment. He’s finally accumulated enough money in two years of painfully moving up the ranks at his uncle’s law firm to buy his own place, no longer sharing with Minseok and his stupid Chinese boyfriend.

The place is impressive, too. It’s on the third floor of a complex whose doorman wears a peacoat and a snappy sort of hat even though it’s in the sort of up-and-coming neighborhood that doesn’t cost much yet because it’s still a little rough around the edges but is also pretty full of hipsters and young professionals like Jongdae.

Jongdae’s third-floor flat is on the edge of the building that faces a skinny little street. There’s another apartment complex on the other side of that street, and the sole downside of the place lives therein.

That downside is a boy who prances around shirtless like he owns the place, which he really couldn’t, because he’s one of those skinny trust-fund artist types. His little fire escape balcony is directly parallel to Jongdae’s biggest window and Jongdae always finds himself staring open-mouthed out of it when he’s supposed to be doing casework because this mysterious resident spends his nights smoking and painting giant canvases and wearing nothing but a pair of paint-splattered jeans that hug his sinfully skinny hips and Jongdae definitely doesn’t want to take their place at the base of his window-neighbor’s long, lovely torso.

Or so he swears to himself as he rubs his eyes, trying to remember whom the hell he’s defending. He fucking hates these assholes who bring their tiny little robberies to big courts like the ones he works at all day, and while he knows those aren’t the best sort of thoughts to have when he’s devoted his life to that very sort of tiny little robberies, he can’t bring himself to care about anything but the guy next door who’s currently taking a smoke break on his fire escape.

It’s only gotten worse in the month that Jongdae’s lived in the building. He finds himself wanting to kiss the poor bugger on the mouth and drown in his lazy smile and halfway defined muscles and it doesn’t make any sense because Jongdae’s always had a thing for sharp wit and sharp jawlines and ambition, but then again, the last guy he met like that had crushed him like a rabbit in tire tracks, and maybe this infatuation is just a response to that. In any case, it’s unhealthy and addictive, but Jongdae loves the way the artist’s chest moves with each measured breath when he thinks, and even though he can’t see what he’s painting, he knows it’s gorgeous.

Call him crazy, but Jongdae’s pretty sure he sees the artist’s lips twitch into a smile when their eyes meet for a brief second.

And Jongdae never really ends up finishing the casework. He ends up locking himself in the shower and jacking off to thoughts of whoever the hell the guy next door is. Jongdae knows it’s creepy and awful, especially considering that he doesn’t even know the man’s name and he’s probably a trashy trust-fund junkie, but he’s not got enough of a conscious to feel guilty about it. He’s argued too many people out of their rightful punishments to have much of a sense of right and wrong. Combine that with thirteen hours of sleep over the last four days and nothing seems especially bad to Jongdae.

When he comes, he decides that he wants to know everything there is to know about this artist next door.

The next morning, he has some sort of sickeningly domestic fantasy of coming home and falling into his lanky window-neighbor’s arms. He looks like he would be warm and smell like smoke and paint and his big, cigarette-burned hands are obviously talented in more ways than one and Jongdae’s all lonely and sexually unfulfilled and corporate and damn it, he wants to know what the man paints up there all day.

And the world is evidently smiling upon him because Mr. Wu comes up to him during his lunch break and huffs at Jongdae’s instant ramyun and Jongdae’s really scared for a second but instead the older man just thanks him for doing that casework (which he definitely didn't finish on the metro ride to work) and offers him, for the first time in six long months, tomorrow off.

Jongdae can’t even tell how many times he bows. He spends the whole afternoon essentially plotting in his cubicle, wondering how he can find out everything about the boy who won’t leave his mind without being outright creepy.

His opportunity comes even sooner and a lot more awkwardly that he hoped it might, but it doesn’t end too badly.

Jongdae’s half-asleep when he gets off the subway a block from his place at sunset that evening, his tie crooked and his briefcase heavy. He still feels like an impostor dressed like this – he’s still a kid; he’s never even been in love – but he plays the part pretty well, staring at the ground and pursing his lips in what might, in some universe, look like deep thought until he slams head-on into a very warm and very firm chest that appears to belong to a pair of torn Chuck Taylors and extend down into a familiar pair of halfway-ruined jeans that hang just-so on a lovely pair of hips.

He looks up into the warmest, brightest pair of eyes he’s ever seen.

Then the wind picks up and threatens the canvas that fell onto the pavement along with Jongdae’s own papers and the moment of brilliant, awkward, soul-to-soul contact is broken as they rush to pick up one another’s things. Jongdae wishes morosely that he had something somewhat more interesting than old case files as he picks up the canvas by the back and flips it over to make sure the pavement didn’t damage it and discovers approximately the most exciting thing he’s ever seen since he first kissed a boy in college because the front of the canvas is painted in what seems a lot like Jongdae’s perfect likeness, except he’s a lot more ethereal and surrounded by a lightning storm and his eyes widen as his mysterious neighbor grabs it back with an awkward thank you and then disappears into the subway tunnel.

Jongdae is confused and a little scared and a million times more enamored.

He performs the same little shower routine that night, moaning softly as he hits his climax and shivering a tiny bit afterward as he tries to place himself in the context of the artist’s life. He’s lived in this apartment for less than a month and has fallen disgustingly for his neighbor and even though he’s chastised himself a million times, telling himself he needs to find a real lover, this is the first time that he really dares to think that his halfway imaginary one might work out.

Nobody else has ever looked at Jongdae like that, let alone painted him on a giant canvas as some sort of beautiful, godlike freak.

He tries not to think too deeply into it as he falls asleep, wrapping his skinny legs around his biggest pillow and wishing it was the gangly stranger as he tries to push the very same man out of his mind and falls asleep. He never gets the chance to sleep in, and he’s going to take advantage of it now. Everything is always easier after a good night’s sleep.

Actually, it isn’t, because somehow Jongdae finds himself padding around his flat, clueless, in his underwear, at the very same time as the very root of his problem is, and that root is definitely looking at him now.

Jongdae tries not to look back, but he can’t help it, and fuck, he wants to hold his boy next door even when he’s way too scared to look at him long enough to gauge the look in his eyes. He groans and pulls on the most casual clothes he can find, rubbing his own sleepy eyes.

He needs food before he can properly chastise himself for being a creepy twenty-something asshole with a steady job that falls in love with boys he’s never met but who paint pictures of him, because right now, his stomach is growling, and he has this disgustingly romantic notion that he might be half of a really adorable TV drama sort of romance.

And so Jongdae walks down the street between their buildings to the convenience store on the next corner and buys himself another multipack of instant ramyun and throws in a box of strawberries for the illusion of healthiness.

He’s halfway back to his complex and his stomach is a lot hungrier when a tall figure obscures his path, nearly knocking him over again, and he looks up, confused.

And there’s the boy, and Jongdae's lost in his damn bright eyes again, but rather than explaining himself, their owner holds out his hand and introduces himself.

“Park Chanyeol,” he says, grinning, as he inadvertently yanks all of Jongdae’s practically negligible body weight into his chest when the smaller man incredulously takes his hand. His voice is deep and Jongdae decides he was right for wanting to drown in him. “I’m your neighbor.”

“Kim Jongdae,” the smaller man replies, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

And sure enough, within a month, he's coming home and falling into his lanky window-neighbor’s arms. Chanyeol smells like smoke and his chest is warm and Jongdae just lives his life in a state of happy disbelief because he is, in essence, one half of a really adorably stupid TV drama romance, and it's amazing.