04: Wax to Vows

When Yeohwan gets home later that night, he hardly makes it past the first flight of stairs leading into his rented apartment complex when he spots his belongings—his clothes, his sheets, his books, his suitcase—dumped outside the main entrance like a pile of garbage.

!!!!!!!!!!!!

Letting out a small cry, he rushes forward and picks up his dirtied laundry, trying to gather every last item in his arms. What the hell is going on? Yeohwan has half a mind to storm into the apartment and knock on the landlady’s front door—

“Park Yeohwan!” comes a shrill shriek.

Yeohwan freezes mid-scramble. Looks like there’s no need to go looking.

Straightening his spine, he turns around to come face to face with who else but his landlady—a short, middle-aged woman in a pale nightdress that makes her look sickly green.

But that’s not the worst of it.

Yeohwan suppresses a horrified gasp when he sees a triangular bald spot on the crown of her head, which was definitely not there the last time he’d seen her. “H-hi, Mrs. Kwon.”

“You dare show your face in my premises?” Mrs. Kwon sneers, raising a hanger in the air, and Yeohwan feels like he’s twelve years old again, running away from his mother’s scolding after accidentally breaking her favorite flower vase. “Huh? After what you did—“

“Mrs. Kwon!” Yeohwan cries as he inches backwards. “I-isn’t it a lovely night? Perfect for some... um. Relaxation? Yoga?”

“Yoga, my ass!” Mrs. Kwon screeches, eyes livid. “Relaxing is the last thing on my mind right now. I’ve lost so much hair, you filthy scoundrel, all because of you, and now I’m balding even more because of stress!”

Yeohwan can only flash what he hopes is a remorseful expression as he kneels on the gravel. “I’m so, so sorry—“

“You’re only sorry you got caught, rat,” his landlady interjects, face red, nostrils flaring. She points at her half-shorn head. “And you’re paying for all this damage, eh? I’m going to court and slamming your name.”

Yeohwan gasps. “But I don’t have- I just graduated from university!” In other words: broke.

“You think I care? Get out. And never come back unless you’re settling for my damages and your overdue rent.”

And that is how Yeohwan finds himself hauling his belongings down the streets of metropolitan Seoul, lugging around two suitcases, one grocery bag of leftover takeout food, and a backpack weighing heavy on his shoulders, cursing himself for his terrible circumstances that he can’t exactly not blame himself for, all because—

“You sold what to your landlady?” Taeyeon chokes through a mouthful of bibimbap, and Yeohwan pushes a cup of cold water towards his best friend.

Yeohwan clucks his tongue. “Some homemade hair products.”

Taeyeon gives him a pointed look. “Homemade.”

“Okay, fine. It was just a little bit of... leg wax.”

“Leg. Fucking. Wax.”

“Small doses! And it wasn’t even obvious!” Yeohwan cries indignantly, cheeks puffed into a pout. “Plus, I designed that purple uniform on the bottle!”

“Hwanie, WanWan, Yeobo,” Taeyeon says, putting his chopsticks down. “Breathe, man. Loosen those shoulders. It’s not good for your blood pressure.”

Yeohwan lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been bottling up.

“I know you’re quite the entrepreneur, but... okay. Why?”

Yeohwan stabs his rice bowl with a spoon. “The grind never stops, Tae. You know I can’t let my family know how it’s really like for me here.” After all the fuss he’d made back in Busan to go out and find ‘better acting opportunities’ in Seoul, he can’t quit now. No turning back.

“Didn’t you say you were waiting for Big Apple Performing Group to get back to you with audition results?”

Yeohwan gasps, eyes blowing wide, and he scrambles for his phone. “Shit, that was today. Thanks for reminding me.”

A few swipes and taps later, he pulls up the email alert from his dream company. Yeohwan’s heart pounds in his ears as he scrolls through the list of names scheduled for a callback, only for his chest to deflate when he reaches the end of the webpage and—

“My name’s not here.”

Taeyeon gives an empathetic sigh. “Better luck next time—“

“There’s no next time,” Yeohwan says, heart sinking, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat. Big Apple only has yearly intakes. “At least, not until next year.”

“Then you have a year to keep improving yourself!”

Here’s to the fools who dream.

It’s a line Yeohwan fondly remembers from his favorite recent musical, Lala Land, sung by Emma Stone as she auditions for a role that she’s been coveting throughout the movie. Yeohwan remembers himself, sitting starry-eyed in the cinema, charmed to the bone. He remembers wanting to belt out a sudden tune, remembers the way his chest fluttered as if that song had been birthed into the seed of his soul, telling himself he would definitely be successful if he worked—tried—hard enough.

But sometimes even your 100% falls short.

“Y’know, Tae...” His words quieten, and he fiddles with the bottlecap of a soju bottle on the table. “I used to believe dreams were made of stardust, and that mine would hopefully be big & bright enough so someone might pay attention and say, ‘Hey, let’s give this one a chance.’”

Yeohwan locks his jaw, feels his stomach clench. He’s tried. He’s been trying. He’s tired. “But then I realized maybe dreams are just that. Things you can only imagine while you sleep.” A traitorous teardrop leaks out of the corner of his left eye. “Fuck. I think I drank too much." He leans forward to rest his forehead on the table. “I’m just another tryhard who’s never gonna be able to pay back my student loans. And now I’m about to get sued for some ahjumma’s hair loss, and I have no place to stay.”

“You can stay with me,” Taeyeon offers quietly.

“Nah.” Yeohwan waves his hands absently mid-air. “I’ll owe you too much. As if I don’t already.” He gives a humorless giggle. “I don’t leech off of friends.”

Silence hangs in the air between them like a tapestry, until Taeyeon speaks. “Yeohwan?”

“Mmm?”

“What if I told you there might be a way I could help?” There’s a quaver to Taeyeon’s voice that wasn’t there before.

“Don’t give me money, Taeyeon-ah.”

“I’m not.” A pregnant pause. “At least, it won’t be me giving it to you. And you can work for it. With your acting chops.”

“You say that as if you’re not my fellow theatre major graduate.”

“Yeah, but...” Taeyeon’s voice trails off, because they both know he doesn’t have to worry about auditioning when he’s the one who got street-casted while walking down Hongdae a few months back. “I’m just saying. You need something that you can’t earn from a monthly paycheck. And… I think there’s a way.”

Rubbing his nose, Yeohwan raises his head and fixes his blurry gaze on his best friend, and that’s how he knows Taeyeon isn’t kidding. “How much does it pay?”

“Uhh. Falls within ten billion won. I think half.”

Yeohwan’s insides jolt. “Tell me more.”

It’s not the first time he’s fallen into one of Kim Taeyeon’s schemes. The guy has a knack for Inventive Ideas, though Yohan can confidently say that there’s a 2:10 chance that his ideas are actually... feasible.

So while it’s not the first time he’s falling into one of Kim Taeyeon’s brainchild schemes, Yohan is taking a huge leap of faith with this one.

There’s a coffee shop two blocks down Yohan’s apartment called Bean There Done That, and that’s where Yohan sits now, beside the glass windows and trying his best not to wring his hands together in nervousness. He actually wore a nice, crisp grey shirt paired with dark jeans today instead of opting for one of his usual hoodies and ripped jeggings. Somehow this feels like a blind date, even though Yohan’s better, rational brain knows it’s anything but.

Park Yeohwan. That’s the name of the guy that Taeyeon is recommending as a candidate for marriage. As if marriage is just a contest you have to win instead of a lifetime commitment.

It almost sounds similar to a certain young man’s name from last night’s kerfuffle, but Yohan waves it off. There’s no way. For all he knows, there could be a hundred Park Yeohwans staying within the vicinity of Myeongdong alone. Yohan doesn’t think his luck is that bad.

He glances at his wristwatch.

2:03pm. Where is he? Yohan hates to think he’s an anal stickler for punctuality to the point of aggression, but it’s actually one of the traits Hajoon has gotten right about him from the get-go. Time is gold—once it’s gone, you can’t get it back.

He sighs through gritted teeth. Tardiness, tardiness—the most despicable of all attitudes. You never know if you can depend on people. Tapping his foot restlessly, Yohan picks up a random magazine with a glossy cover from a coffee table at the right side of his armrest.

It takes 7 more minutes and 43 seconds of Yohan casually leafing through the shitty magazine when the air across him shifts and, from his peripheral vision through either side of the magazine, he senses someone sitting down.

“Hello, good afternoon,” a silky voice greets.

Yohan's blood goes cold.

That voice is way too familiar for his liking. Slowly, ever so slowly, Yohan peeks over the top of the magazine to observe who the newcomer is, and what he sees sends his nerve endings haywire.

“Have you already had lunch? I haven’t and I’m starv– oh.”

Of all the damn men in the world. Same golden hair, same slender build, same caramel eyes, glinting to reflect sunlight streaming into the cafe.

It’s him– that Yeohwan.

Yohan lowers the magazine on the table, expecting to be bamboozled with scorn and self-entitled haughtiness, but by some miracle or a 180-degree twist in personality, the shock in Yeohwan’s eyes quickly shift into hesitation and even embarrassment.

What. Yohan shifts in his seat. “It’s you.”

"Unfortunately." Yeohwan nods once, firm. “Anyway! Look, let’s cut to the chase. I um, changed my mind.”

“About?”

“Marrying you. I say yes.” Yeohwan doesn’t waste any time, and to Yohan’s surprise, he finds the same quiet desperation that he’s sure his own eyes must have held the night before. “I do.”

Yohan bristles, startled. “Is that so?” he says, low and careful. “How come?”

“I heard there was a…” Yeohwan snags his upper lip beneath his teeth, “...compensation for it.”

Money—how it drives people in circles. Only then does Yohan understand what exactly Yeohwan’s here for. Sungjoon must have relayed him the predicament Yohan’s in. It’s almost laughable, how they’re both after the same thing and resorting to drastic measure for it. Yohan arches an eyebrow. “Y’sure?”

Yeohwan worries his lower lip, and overhead Yohan notices an Ed Sheeran song filtering in through the speakers:

'Cause you need me, man, I don't need you

You need me, man, I don't need you

You need me, man, I don’t need you at all

“Yes.”

Feeling daring, somewhat feral, Yohan asks, “Well, what if I told you my offer doesn’t stand anymore?”

“No, please—“ Yeohwan’s eyes fall shut, like he’s holding something back, as he says, “Please. I’m sorry for all I said last night, but...” He exhales shakily, a quiet helplessness straining his eyes, before he molds his face in an impressively calm mask. “C’mon. Let’s help each other out. We’ll call ourselves the new romantics: partners in crime, 21st century millennials making money out of marriage. Like a movie, but in real life. So.”

Yohan smirks, feeling like he has the upper hand now after remembering the way Yeohwan pretty much treated him like gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe last night. “So what?”

Yeohwan rolls his eyes and sighs. “Do you want to get married or not?”

How the tables have turned. If they go through with this, Yohan will either get very, very rich or very, very screwed over. Either way, there’s only one way up. He shrugs, makes it obvious that this isn’t his personal choice, but oh well.

“I do.”

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