Luc's touch lingered. It wasn't the same tap Sebastian used to check a fever; it was heavy. It was deliberate.
Luc had tanned skin, had these bright sparkling eyes, and grey hair that shimmered under the neon lights of the bar.
Seol-Hwi tried to focus. "How... how do you know me?"
"I'm an advisor for the agricultural attaché," Luc explained, finally withdrawing his hand, though the spot where he touched Seol-Hwi's skin still felt hot. "I've stood in the back of three meetings this month just watching you work. You have a way of making our harsh grammar sound like music. It's a shame to see that music turned into a funeral dirge."
He signaled the bartender, not for another drink, but for a glass of water and a plate of food. "Eat. You shouldn't chug down an entire bottle of scotch on an empty belly."
Seol-Hwi stared at the water. It was another act of care. Another 'gentlemanly' gesture. He felt a sharp pang of suspicion.
"Is this also... etiquette?"
Luc laughed, a bright, genuine sound that drew the attention of several people in the bar.
"Care? No. It's just common sense. You look like you're about to fall off that stool, and I'd rather not carry a diplomat's favorite translator out of a bar in Itaewon."
He winked. It was a fast, playful gesture, but Seol-Hwi's heart skipped. Sebastian never winked. Sebastian gave small nods and smiled but never a wink, especially not in public.
"I'm not his translator anymore," Seol-Hwi whispered. "He left. He asked me why I loved him, Luc. How do you answer that?"
Luc paused for a second, his words coming out in French. "Tu l'aimais?" (You loved him?)
"It's pathetic of me, right?"
"Of course not. I just wonder... Pourquoi lui?" (Why him?)
Seol-Hwi's eyes widened and he turned to look at Luc who had just made a misleading statement.
He heard it right, right?
"Well, he left you and that is unfortunate on his part," Luc said, his eyes lingering on Seol-Hwi's for a moment longer. And then in French, he said, "If I were him, I would do anything to have you,"
Seol-Hwi's breath got caught. He didn't know if he was interpreting this right but it seemed like Luc was interested in him.
He reached his hand towards Seol-Hwi's cheek, a touch that felt so different from Sebastian's that Seol-Hwi was convinced that this time, he was getting it right.
'Is this it?' Seol-Hwi thought, his mind racing through a fog of alcohol. 'Is this the 'French passion' the books talked about? The stuff Sebastian was missing?'
He felt a surge of pathetic hope. Maybe he hadn't failed the language; maybe he had just been talking to the wrong person. He wanted to believe that so badly it made his chest ache. He looked at Luc's thumb against his skin and thought: This time, I'll be more careful. I'll look closer. I won't miss the nuance.
"You look like you're trying to translate something that doesn't want to be understood," Luc murmured.
Seol-Hwi swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. "I'm just... trying to figure out if I'm even speaking the same language as anyone else."
"Then why don't you try me?" Luc asked with a broad grin. "Try and see if we both speak the same language. I'm all... Yours."
Seol-Hwi thought about it. He wanted to forget Sebastian. He wanted to forget his broken heart and he wanted to find the right translation, so he decided to try it. He decided to try loving someone else.
Without another word, he pulled Luc in and locked their lips. The Frenchman was surprised by his audacity in front of the water but he didn't really care and kissed back.
Over the next few weeks at the embassy, Seol-Hwi became obsessed with 'getting it right.' Every time Luc leaned over his desk to point at a document, his chest brushing against Seol-Hwi's shoulder, Seol-Hwi would freeze. He would analyze the pressure of the contact.
He's touching me, Seol-Hwi would tell himself. Sebastian never touched me like this in public. This must be the difference. This must mean I'm special.
Luc was an explosion of color. He called Seol-Hwi 'Mon cher' with a casual flick of his tongue that sounded like a caress.
He brought him coffee without being asked. He would wink across the conference table, a secret signal that made Seol-Hwi feel like they were the only two people in the room.
'I was right,' Seol-Hwi thought during those long afternoons. 'Sebastian was just one dialect. A cold, formal one. Luc is the heart. This is the translation I was looking for.'
He started to convince himself that the airport had been a necessary tragedy, a clearing of the slate so he could finally learn the 'true' meaning of love. He leaned into the touches. He started to let his guard down, feeling the weight on his shoulders ease for the first time in a while.
But then came the dinner at the bistro.
The lighting was low, the wine was expensive, and Luc was being more 'Luc' than ever. He was radiant.
He held Seol-Hwi's hand above the table, his thumb stroking the knuckles in a way that made Seol-Hwi's heart hammer against his ribs.
"You are so beautiful when you focus, Seol-Hwi," Luc whispered. "I adore the way you see the world."
Seol-Hwi felt a tear prick his eye—not of sadness, but of relief. I did it. I translated it correctly. I found the right one.
But then, the waiter arrived to clear the plates.
"Ah, merci, mon cher," Luc said, his voice dropping into that same intimate, soft tone he used for Seol-Hwi, and Seol-Hwi's hand went cold.
He watched as Luc gave the waiter the exact same dazzling, heavy-lidded look he had just given Seol-Hwi. It wasn't just a polite 'thank you.' It was the same 'universal' charm.
Seol-Hwi watched, paralyzed, as Luc's hand retreated from his own to gesture animatedly at the wine list. He saw Luc wink at a woman at the next table who had caught his eye. He heard Luc use that same 'passionate' tone to describe a piece of cheese to the hostess.
And all of this left Seol-Hwi speechless.
The realization hit him like a blow to the stomach.
He isn't being loving, Seol-Hwi thought, the clarity more painful than the alcohol. He's just being Luc.
It was the same problem as Sebastian, just a different symptom. Sebastian's 'French-ness' was a wall of polite distance; Luc's 'French-ness' was a flood of casual intimacy. Neither of them actually saw Seol-Hwi.
Sebastian had treated him like a high-quality tool. Luc was treating him like a high-quality audience.
Am I even here? Seol-Hwi wondered, feeling a sudden, hollow lightness in his chest. Or am I just a screen they're both projecting their culture onto?
He looked at Luc, who was laughing at his own joke, and felt a wave of profound exhaustion. He had spent years mastering their verbs, their nouns, and their customs, only to realize he was still standing on the outside. He had tried to find a synonym for 'love' in their gestures, but all he found were idioms for 'politeness' and 'charm.'
He realized he wasn't special to Luc. He was just the person sitting in the chair at that moment.
"What is it?" Luc asked, tilting his head with a look of concern that Seol-Hwi now recognized as a standard, well-practiced expression. "You've gone quiet, mon cher."
Seol-Hwi looked at him, his reflection caught in Luc's dark eyes. He felt a desperate urge to scream, to ask if there was any word in their entire language that meant only you. But he knew the answer.
"I'm just tired, Luc," Seol-Hwi said softly, pulling his hand back under the table. "I'm very, very tired of translating."
Luc did not take long to understand what Seol was getting at. And by the time he did, the words had already left Seol-Hwi's lips,
"Séparons-nous,"