The realization that he had walked away too soon began to gnaw at Seol-Hwi's gut the moment he heard those words from the stranger.
He had blamed the 'language,' but as he watched the grey Parisian sky, he realized he had been a coward.
He had run away because it was easier to say "it's untranslatable," than to stay and learn the messy, imperfect grammar of Luc's heart.
That's right. If there was one thing he regretted, it was not seeing Luc's heart since he was so focused on his every gesture and his every wink at others.
Seol-Hwi thought back to that final day at the Embassy. He remembered the way Luc's shoulders had slumped as Seol-Hwi packed his desk.
Luc had approached him, the usual spark in his eyes replaced by something raw and hollow.
"Are you leaving because of me?" Luc had asked and those words came out heavy.
At the time, Seol-Hwi had been so wrapped up in his own exhaustion that he had answered coldly, "This has nothing to do with you."
But it had everything to do with him.
Now standing in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, Seol-Hwi felt the weight of his regret. He had misinterpreted Luc's 'universal' charm as a lack of depth, but he had ignored the one thing that was specific: Luc held him. Luc checked on him. Luc was learning him, page by page, while Seol-Hwi was busy looking for errors in the margins.
With trembling fingers, he took out his phone. It was late in Seoul, but he couldn't wait. He sent a simple, pathetic "Hi."
He expected silence. Luc might've blocked him, but the message went through. And it didn't just go through, but a reply came instantly, as if Luc had been waiting for the message.
Luc: You finally texted me. I'm so happy. I missed you, mon cher.
Seol-Hwi's heart skipped a beat. He had missed him? His heart was racing, but then, he felt a surge of doubt—was this just the universal charm again? Did Luc even know who he was talking to in his sea of 'charming' contacts?
What if he was mistaking him for another?
For all he knew, Luc might've already moved on and had forgotten to unsave his name as mon cher.
Seol-Hwi: What temperature do I take my coffee?
Luc: 80°C. Any hotter and you pout because you burned your tongue.
Seol-Hwi bit his bottom lip. That was fast. So fast that he knew Luc didn't have time to go through any saved folder to look at it.
But was it a coincidence?
Seol-Hwi: How do I fold my shirts?
Luc: The military roll. You say it saves space, but I know you just like the order of it.
A sob escaped Seol-Hwi's throat. No, not a coincidence. This was Luc and he knew everything.
He had been paying attention to the tiny, untranslatable details of Seol-Hwi's life while Seol-Hwi had been judging him for winking at a waiter.
This made Seol-Hwi's heart race. He didn't want to miss this opportunity, and though selfish of him, he made the move regardless.
Seol-Hwi: I'm in Paris. If you want us to be together... I need you to be here by tomorrow morning. I'll be at this address.
He sent the location of a small, quiet café near the Seine. It was an impossible request.
A flight from Seoul to Paris was twelve hours at best. It was a test, the highest bar he could set for a man he wanted to spend his life with.
The next morning, Seol-Hwi sat by the window of the café, his coffee going cold. Every time the door jingled, his heart leapt. He felt like a fool until, suddenly, the door burst open.
Luc stumbled in.
He looked like he had been run over by a freight train. His tan was washed out by exhaustion, his expensive coat was wrinkled, and his chestnut hair—usually so perfectly coiffed—was a mess.
He had clearly thrown himself onto the first available flight without a second thought, trying his best to look impressive for Seol-Hwi and failing miserably in his haste.
But the fact that he had done it... He had rushed and come here, which was more than enough.
Seol-Hwi's heart ached with a sudden, overwhelming warmth as he looked at him. It had been weeks, about a month and a half since they saw each other last. But he could feel it.
This was the translation. The mess, the sweat, the frantic arrival. The everything that he tries to do right just to please Seol-Hwi.
Luc spotted him and broke into a wide, weary smile—the most genuine smile Seol-Hwi had ever seen. But as Luc rushed forward, his eyes only on Seol-Hwi, he collided hard with a tall man entering from the side.
"Pardon," Luc muttered, trying to sidestep the person.
The other man stopped, steadying himself. He was tall, blonde, and dressed in a suit that cost more than the café's entire inventory. He looked down at the disheveled Luc with a familiar, cool detachment.
"Watch where you are going," the man said and Seol-Hwi instantly froze. The voice was unmistakable. It was the sharp, polished sound of a winter morning in Seoul.
It was Sebastian.