Thirteen
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N horribly unedited so I'm sorry in advance for mistakes x.x as ever, thank you! ^-^
•••
Jinki stood in Jonghyun’s living area almost as if a trespasser. He'd switched the kettle on and was awaiting it to boil, and somewhat anticipating the sound of the shower as Jonghyun stepped in to wash on the other side of the wall. Jinki rolled his neck, wrapping his hoodie around himself more closely, and checked the clock on Jonghyun’s windowsill. It was still over two hours until he had to pick up Yoogeun. It seemed so odd, as if he were living a double-life. In one, he was a single father, reminded of the reason for his widowing every time he locked eyes with the bundle of joy that was his son. In the other, he seemed free, a young man finally beginning to explore again, to explore the boundaries of love and to keep secret fantasies that could turn his entire life upside down. Jinki toyed with these thoughts gingerly as the shower started up.
As the kettle boiled, Jinki figured he'd need a cup, and a spoon, and a tea bag, and so he began to hunt through the cupboards, fingers hesitant as he searched. The locations of both the cup and tea bag were easily spotted, and so it was with little time he came to hunt for the spoon. Taking a step back from the drawer, quietly in case he woke Roo (who slept peacefully in the corner, despite the rumble of the shower), Jinki surveyed the kitchen cabinets until he found the drawers, where he assumed the cutlery to be. The kettle finished its routine and lowly whistled as Jinki reached down and opened the first drawer.
It wasn’t a cutlery drawer, as he'd expected, but a drawer full of miscellaneous paraphernalia. Jinki frowned, knowing he shouldn’t pry, but unable to resist. Jonghyun was still in the shower anyway.
In the drawer were various pencils, pens, old notebooks and leaflets. A comb was tucked into the corner alongside a few colourful beads, but the most enticing item was the thick, red book that sat, title-less, in the middle of the drawer. It was coated in a thin layer of dust, having not been moved for many months. A photo album, Jinki assumed.
Glancing around nervously, the shower still pulsing, Jinki extracted the album carefully. He knew he shouldn't, but he was too intrigued by Jonghyun – and besides, the ammunition that the potential thought of baby pictures could provide was too tempting. Jinki’s hands hovered over the book, that was about the width of an A4 page, though square in shape. He knew that if reversing the roles he wouldn’t like Jonghyun searching through his ancient photobooks, but, in Jinki’s books, the photos weren’t just memories, they were reminders of a dead life, a life he'd once gave breath too and then abandoned. He doubted Jonghyun’s photo collection could be quite as perilous.
Inhaling sneakily, Jinki opened the first page, almost coughing at the plume of dust that spiralled outwards from the spine. He smiled instantly, the first pictures the grainy baby shots that most were infamous for keeping. In them, he could pick out Jonghyun clearly, his cheekbones ever-high and eyes ever-wide. In Jinki’s favourite picture, Jonghyun rode a small buggy, his mother having abandoned him there presumably to take the shot, where he held a large, colourful lollipop that was jammed into his mouth greedily. As Jinki flicked through, the years progressed with him, and as did the pictures of Jonghyun – fifth, sixth and seventh birthdays all documented with the classic, darkened shots of cake and candles and unachieved wishes. When the timeline verged into the teenage years, the photos became more sparse – most weren’t even of Jonghyun.
Jinki frowned, continuing to hunt.
On the next page, his breath hitched and his fingers stopped moving, eyes wide. He squinted his eyes, wondering whether who he was looking at was truly his lover, but realised it had to be, for the similarities were too blunt. Jinki blinked, as if viewing another person in Jonghyun’s body, unsettled by this phenomena, almost disoriented.
The figure in the picture was on a beach, dressed in nothing but his swimming trunks and casual demeanour. He didn’t appear camera-shy, rather camera-confident, the sun shining over his immaculately bronzed skin as he posed. His hair was a dark brunette, voluminous with the fringe slightly dampened by the white spray from the sea behind him, and the build he flaunted was as if one of the athletes seen in Minho’s sports-magazines. His arms were strong and his torso was riddled in muscles as he grinned. Jinki stared at the man’s face in the picture, eyes slits as he examined it. He knew the picture was small and a mere glimpse at reality, but there was no denying the difference in the man’s features – his eyes weren’t quite as wide, grin not quite as crooked, nose not quite as sculpted. His handsomeness seemed somehow more natural than the Jonghyun he knew now – the slender, almost underweight, Jonghyun, with next-to-no muscles or confidence. Jinki expelled his breath slowly and examined the last component of the picture.
A man had his arm looped protectively around Jonghyun’s waist, grin as equally as compelling as his picture counterpart. The man was wearing sunglasses, but seemed just as handsome as the person he held, with a fray of dark hair and milky, white skin. Similarly to how the light reflected from his sunglasses, the joy reflected in his radiant image, a faded memory documented only by the produce of a camera. Jinki blinked at the picture, realising he'd uncovered a vital piece of Jonghyun’s past, a part he wasn't meant to have stumbled across, not in such a manner. A past partner, potentially, of Jonghyun’s. Jealousy began to writhe within Jinki from an unknown origin as he contemplated the man, his rosy smile and the no-doubt bright eyes that were hidden behind his dark shades. If Jonghyun had once loved him, maybe he still did. Maybe Jinki was just a fling and Jonghyun hadn’t moved on, dissimilar from how the artist himself had managed to move on from her. Jinki shook his head, well-aware his creeping doubts were insufficiently founded and lacked any real reason to have sustenance. Despite this, he couldn’t help the way those doubts began to tempt his curtailing jealousy.
“Jinki, what the hell are you doing?”
Jinki stiffened. Never had he heard Jonghyun so serious. Never had he heard him so cold.
The artist had been enraptured in the picture so much so that he hadn't heard the cessation of the shower, and was now well-aware he'd been caught red-handed. He assumed his face was the same colour as his son’s when he found the toddler with his face covered in chocolate he'd bartered from someone unsuspecting, and figured the emphasised beating of his heart had been dug out from the guilt rippling across him.
“I, just-“
When Jinki turned, he saw Jonghyun’s eyes weren't on him, rather on the photo album, and that they were glazed over, wet, feeble. His mouth hung open in shock, hair still in damp spikes from the quick shower. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t thinking, and Jinki didn't know what to say to excuse his actions.
“I-I think you should go,” Jonghyun stuttered. His words were quiet, clipped, cheeks flushed and jaw slung open. It was as if the photo album had triggered the emergence of a new Jonghyun, the emergence of a man Jinki hadn't yet been given the opportunity to meet.
“Jonghyun, I'm-“
“Go!
Jonghyun’s shout was sharp, jarring. Jinki set the photo album atop the counter with trembling hands. He didn’t know what to think, how to feel, where to go with his emotions, and why what he'd uncovered meant such a great deal to the musician.
“I'm sorry,” Jinki whispered. Failing to know what else to do and only able to watch in horror as the mood elapsed around him, Jinki followed Jonghyun’s instructions, knowing his place and knowing when he'd gone too far.
•••
The breeze was a soft kiss as Minho ran, the trees on either side of him creating a constant miasma of vivid browns and autumnal russets, the leaves caught in the transposition between Autumn and Winter. His breathing was heavy but his stamina held up as his feet pounded rhythmically against the forest pathway, the slight mizzle of rain only beginning to dampen his tensed muscles.
Running alone, Minho could see the world as a blank canvas. He knew how Jinki must have felt when starting a new painting, the empty stretch of it all that he could construct and envision with his eyes only. It was simply when he truly immersed himself that he could create his next masterpiece, and so Minho ran quickly, straining in a hope to truly immerse himself. His body snapped at him as he jogged past the evening dog-walkers and fellow fitness-extremists, flashing by an endless stream of unfamiliar faces, faces he wouldn't keep to mind for any longer than a second.
By the time he slowed, decreasing to a steady walk, the sky was darkening.
It took him about fifteen minutes to reach a bench, situated in a small clearing by the side of the forest pathway. It was a picnic table, designed for a lunch feast, but Minho sincerely doubted any forest-explorers would be eating amidst the woods during twilight, and so felt no inordinate guilt at taking the seat. Though uncomfortable it was, it bothered him little, for his dash had exhausted him and his limbs were only beginning to cool off. He pressed his headband against his forehead to rid any perspiration, and flexed his arms, stretching to relieve any knotted pressure that could build up in the aftermath of his exertion. He did the same with his legs, unfolding them and reaching to touch his toes, before finally sinking back into the seat, peaceful. He knew it unwise to dwell in the forest, for the night would soon be irreversible and if he sat for too long his body could seize up, but he needed a moment, to breathe, to think and to ponder.
Kibum hadn’t spoken to him, not in days. At first, it hadn't bothered him, and had only made his decision to move away more resolute, but part of Minho didn’t want to leave the man he had been housemates with for so long. He felt, instead of it being a choice, Kibum was forcing him out, hauling him from rationality and depositing him behind the bottles upon bottles of alcohol the elder would consume. Minho was frightened to leave him alone, but equally as frightened to live with him. Just as ever, he was stuck, and unsure of how to escape his confinement.
As Minho sat, the surrounding forests were so tired that they gave no hindrance to the sound of foot against gravel pathway when a walker approached from the distance. Minho cocked his head, squinted, and was shocked when he deciphered the walker’s – no, the runner's - form. The chill of night seemed inseparable from Minho then as he zipped up his grey hoodie and awaited the runner’s approach, both men unsure of what to do with themselves. Though Minho had somewhat expected the man to ignore him altogether, he was surprised as the his footsteps slowed and he halted by the bench, at the opposite side to where Minho sat.
“Hi,” Minho spoke weakly.
In the paling light, underneath the glitter of the emergent stars and planets, Taemin looked quite ethereal. His skin was a stark white and hair almost a similar shade, floating in the breeze as he looked upon Minho. Minho hadn’t seen the younger in weeks, and so instantly noticed how he'd thinned even further. His running clothes – the hand-me-downs of Minho’s – sagged off of him dramatically, and his arms were wiry, sustained with little muscle and nothing more.
“Hi,” Taemin answered, voice croaked.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Neither spoke for a moment.
“I didn't know you'd be out,” Taemin commented, “I-I didn’t think you ran on a Wednesday evening.”
“It's Thursday, Taemin,” Minho spoke softly. Their voices mingled beneath the shadowed canopy of the trees as if they were villains lurking to incapacitate any creatures found within the mundane jungle, so subtle, so unsure, so scripted.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Taemin hugged his arms slightly, cold. He wore only a t-shirt and his running shorts, and had long since stopped his sprinting spree, hair now free from the band he'd tied it in and muscles beginning to relax. He'd attempted running idiotically, fully knowing the damage he could cause to his ankle, and had stopped very quickly after starting, preferring to walk the loop he often traversed with Minho. He'd almost managed to disguise the limp, despite the fact that with every impact pain poked through him, refusing to let him go.
“Here.” Minho stood as he spoke, and removed his hoodie, to reveal the strong arms that Taemin so often wished could hold him. Minho held out the hoodie and Taemin stared at it.
“Take it,” Minho prompted, waving it slightly as the darkness further descended, the sky now a murky blue. “Really, please.”
Taemin bit his bottom lip and let the hoodie fall into his hands. If from anyone else, he would have rejected the hoodie, but there was something about wearing Minho’s clothes that comforted him, something about the offbeat romanticism that fuelled his impossible dream. Taemin shrugged it on, the jacket drowning him instantly, and fumbled with the zip for a moment in silence. When he finally managed to zip it correctly and glimpsed back up at Minho, the older was grinning at him warily, sheepish smile effortlessly handsome.
“It's so big on you,” Minho commented, half in amusement and half in sadness.
Taemin held up his arms, watching how the sleeves hung from his slender frame, and for the first time that week the slightest of smiles twitched on his lips.
“Yeah,” he grinned, eyes beset with a twinkle, “it is.” He wrapped his arms around himself, the fabric closer to his skin, feeling so at-one with Minho despite not even touching him. His scent lingered on the material of the hoodie, and Taemin inhaled it subtly, not wanting to disrupt his encounter with the basketballer.
“So,” Minho began sceptically, not seeming to mind being bare-armed on such a cold night, “how have you been?”
“I've been, y’know, fine,” Taemin answered. His thoughts stammered as he attempted to build them, over-powered by memories of what Minho did and of what Minho said. He couldn’t quite contemplate the betrayal, the anger, and how Minho was slowly dragging that to insignificance as every word he spoke tugged Taemin back in. “How have you been?”
“Yeah, fine,” Minho answered reluctantly, rolling on the balls of his heels. “We should probably walk back, it's getting dark.”
“Yeah, it is.”
They began to walk together in silence, feet crunching across the gravel. Every so often, Taemin would grit his teeth, but was doing well in hiding the pain from his over-used ankle. Minho didn’t seem to notice the slight limp in his step or the crease in his brow. It was getting dark, after all.
“How's the dancing going?” Minho queried, as their footsteps began to coexist in the same rhythm.
“Good,” Taemin nodded, too afraid to speak anything more. Minho nodded.
“I swear, Taemin, I know it's hard now, but some day… you'll be the best dancer this country has seen, I feel it. And I'll be in the front row cheering for you. I hope you know that.”
Taemin felt his heart rupture at the compliment, cheeks blushing. His eyes glossed over but he blinked back the sadness quickly, to replace it with a standardised answer he knew would slide undetected beneath Minho’s radar.
“Thanks, hyung. It means a lot.”
Minho nodded, and they continued to walk.
By the time they reached the carpark, if was later and darker than both men had anticipated. A sense of vulnerability hung in the air as Minho scanned the empty car-park – empty but for his black jeep, the one he'd inherited from his father a few years ago.
“I'll give you a lift,” Minho offered, noticing how Taemin began to remove his hoodie. Though cold, Minho didn't particularly mind, for Taemin was warm and that thought contented him. He blinked at Taemin as if speculating a chart of data, much to the concern of the younger, as he predictably declined Minho’s offer.
“I can walk,” he mumbled, “it's not even a fifteen minute journey back to my place, really.”
“Yeah, but Taemin, your place isn’t the safest to traverse alone at night, you know that.”
Taemin froze, memories of his earlier encounter that week drilling though him.
“Come on,” Minho beckoned, but his smile faded when he realised Taemin wasn’t moving. The younger was statuesque, lips parted and eyes wide. He didn’t even blink, he just stared into space, gaze whipped with something akin to-
Minho frowned.
-akin to fear.
“T-Taemin,” he tried, but the dancer didn’t shift. It was odd, as if Minho were in a wax-figure museum and had mistaken an exhibition for a tourist. He glanced around, relieved to find that they were alone.
“Come on, Taemin,” Minho soothed, reaching out his hand and touching Taemin’s arm.
The reaction was violent as Taemin wrenched his arm away, a mere silhouette in the faded gloom, seen only given the blessing of the crooked streetlamps across the road. A few cars blitzed by, taillights diamonds against the bleak backdrop.
“Taemin,” Minho spoke, voice stern, yet worried, “Taemin, what's wrong?”
Taemin was trembling, and then he was staggering backwards, a hand clamped to his mouth. Minho could barely see him, for everything was bridged by darkness, but knew by the way the younger’s knees bowed and his posture buckled that he was about to lose the strength to stand.
Minho practically stumbled over and allowed him to fall against the cushion of his arms and chest instead of the painful trap of the hard ground.
Realising what he was doing, Minho froze.
He was standing in an unlit carpark, cold but for the goosebumps that lay across his skin, a mere silhouette that would have gone unseen were he less of a detriment beneath the streetlamps. In his strong arms, he held a tiny, tiny man, whose face was buried into his shoulder, dampening it with tears. The man was curled into him, fragile arms tucked into Minho’s chest, Minho's strong hands resting on his bony shoulders.
“It's okay,” he whispered gently, rocking Taemin slightly as if a young child. “It's okay.”
As Taemin cried, minutes passed.
Minho didn’t know what to do with himself or how to think. Guilt festered within him, evolving to various states of despair as he considered the events of the past few weeks. He hadn't ignored Taemin, but hadn't seen him either, and was oblivious to what the younger was crying about; his ankle, his family, his dreams, his failures… It could have been any number of things, and Minho had no idea. He wanted to ask but knew Taemin was in no fit state to answer, and so instead he gingerly held the dancer, quietening him and allowing him the freedom to exile any ill-thoughts within him. Minho’s heart thudded so loudly, to the extent where he wondered if Taemin could hear it, and concern emanated from his very expression, so much so that he wondered if Taemin could feel it.
“Hey,” Minho murmured, finally managing to prise Taemin from him. When he separated the dancer, holding his thin arms with his two strong hands, he saw the clear tear-tracks down his face, illuminated by the strengthening moonlight. “Hey, what's the matter?”
Taemin stared up at him with hollow emotion. He was so close to Minho, so close that he could reach out and touch the basketballer's lips if he'd so wanted.
“Taemin,” Minho repeated, shaking him lightly. “Taemin, what's up?”
Taemin lowered his head and disentangled himself from Minho. To his hyung’s surprise, Taemin threw off his jacket and handed it to him, before deciding firmly, “I'll walk myself home.”
“Taemin-“
But the dancer was already walking away, as emotionless as if their encounter had never truly happened.
•••
On the drive home, Minho started firstly by tracing the way back to Taemin’s flat, to see if he could catch up with the dancer and force him to accept the earlier offer of a lift. He didn't care if the detour added a considerable length of time to his journey, and he was too startled to pay heed to the monetary costs of the drive or the fact that it was late, that Kibum, despite everything, would be beginning to worry. However, as he allowed the jeep to trundle through the emptying streets, he didn’t see Taemin anywhere, and eventually relented. The dancer didn’t want to see him, clearly, and Minho wasn’t even sure he wanted to see the dancer, scared of what another encounter could unearth, scared of what was so blatantly terrorising the young man. His mind felt akin to the city – dark but for a few precious lamplights that flickered hesitantly, wells of brightness against a painful backdrop. Minho bit his bottom lip.
Reaching his apartment, Minho barely observed his surroundings, the monotony of his life meaning he'd seen the same cars, the same buildings and the same people for years. The only thing somewhat different this evening was the abstract pulsation of his heart as he felt Taemin’s narrow frame in his arm, felt the dampness of the younger’s tears on his shoulder, despite the fact he was no longer present. Minho shook his head and made his way to the third-floor apartment.
Slipping inside his home was an activity of dull routine. The television buzzed distantly as he stepped in, flooded instantly by the low orange glow of the room. Minho pressed the door shut behind him quietly, inhaling the soft aroma of the scented candles that had long since died out on the coffee table. The mumble of the program Kibum had been watching spoke in whispers, indecipherable and vague, as Minho wearily cast his gaze around the apartment. It'd changed little from how he'd left it, except the fact that a cupboard hung open, as limpid as his own limbs as the tiredness of his evening exercise circulated through him. Using his toes to remove his trainers, Minho padded to the cupboard and closed it. He rubbed his arms. They were still bare, for he had left his hoodie in the car, hadn’t bothered to pick it from where he'd thrown it in the passenger seat. He blinked.
The curtains on the window at the opposite side of the room still hung open, so Minho then moved to close them. The silky fabric was gentle against his calloused palms as he drew them quietly, not bothering to give the pitch night another peek, their view one he'd seen many, many times. As his third action, Minho reached for the controller and switched of the television, the bright images cutting instantly, dissipating so that an eerie silence consumed the room, and the harsh light from the screen no longer drowned the surroundings. Finally, Minho turned to the focus of the living area.
An empty bottle of red wine curled between his fingers, arm hung lazily by his side, Kibum lay on the sofa, deeply asleep. He wore a beautiful dressing gown, a richly purple satin that was embroidered with the finest of floral patterns. The dressing gown cut a deep v-neck upon him, exposing the milky white of his smooth skin, and his thin wrists were exposed by the way the sleeves drooped upwards. His chest moved in rhythm with his exhalations slowly, face serene as he slept, oblivious to the analytical stare of his housemate. He had drank until he could stomach no more, and had drifted into the peaceful landscape of his dreams. His eyelids fluttered occasionally as Minho watched, fingers twitching. The scent of alcohol wasn’t pungent, rather comfortable, as Minho silently knelt by Kibum’s side and removed the bottle from his slender fingers. His chic black hair covered the side of his face as he rested, lips slightly parted.
Minho sighed heavily, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Knowing Kibum wouldn’t stir, for he never did, Minho bent down and gingerly scooped the secretary into his arms, allowing his head to fall against his strong chest. Kibum’s frame was light as Minho held him, his body warm from the tense heat of the apartment. One arm dangling purposelessly by his side and the other curled inwards atop his stomach, Minho carried Kibum to his room, side-stepping by any obstacles in his way with pensive concentration. By the time he'd reached Kibum’s room, his arms were becoming increasingly exhausted, already tired out from his strenuous running earlier. Expertly, he used his shoulder to nudge the light-switch, illuminating the cold haven that was Kibum’s room. With as much care as he was able, Minho lay Kibum on his duvet, ensuring his head was tucked atop the pillow. Normally, at this point in time Minho would have left, receding to his own room to give the elder peace to sleep, but this evening, inexplicably, he stayed.
So as not to disturb Kibum, Minho sat on the bed beside him, facing the window as he buried his head in his hands. His shoulders tensed as he sat there.
After a minute of attempting to align his thoughts with his future, Minho finally dragged up the dregs of motivation he needed to observe his best friend. Kibum was so ethereal against the light, almost angelic, so motionless in his sleep that it was unnerving, but he'd always been this way. Minho shivered. Kibum’s room was cold, much colder than the living room.
Watching him, Minho felt the conflictions within him arise. He wanted to leave his friend, wanted to be able to breathe and live alone, but part of him didn’t think he could. Through thick and thin, through black and white, Kibum had stuck by him, though Minho’s issues had always been minor, always been little compared to the things he'd had to contend with from Kibum, the things he had to contend with because of what Kibum had done to him. Shakily, Minho reached a finger forward and dragged the strand of hair that had fallen over Kibum’s face behind his ear. He stared at Kibum as if a fallen angel, and was about to leave, when Kibum’s eyes flickered open, two hazy pupils glancing up at Minho, not in surprise, nor in shock, but in contentment.
“Minho…” Kibum murmured, voice muffled by the bed. He lifted a hand but his eyes fluttered shut before he could, the drunken slur in his voice chilling Minho as the hand fell back to the bed, not able to reach Minho before succumbing to the dream Kibum was half-immersed in. “Min…” Kibum moaned into the duvet, clenching his tiny fist. Minho watched him, a frown lacing his features, as he wondered what was running through the elder's alcohol-condensed mind. His lips moved as if he were speaking, and his body curled in slightly, before his sleep-ridden reality ceased. Kibum stilled again, Minho’s heart heavy.
“What is it?” Minho whispered, well-aware Kibum wasn’t listening. “What is it, Kibum?”
Minho’s ponderings were left astray in the late night, as he sat and watched his friend sleep.
•••
Jinki hadn't moved the entire evening but to put his son to bed. It was late, but that didn’t matter to the basement, for no natural light ever embraced it, in day or in night. Tongue sticking slightly from his chapped lips, he dabbed at the large canvas before him with his paintbrush, intricately perfecting the rounded curve of a stranger’s shoulder. The painting wasn’t Jinki’s best (he wasn’t a fan of the proportions, for even if perfectly drawn they seemed somewhat skewed, and the figure himself was offering a grin far too eager to be painted handsomely) but it would suffice. A few more days and it would be done, another client satisfied and another cheque in the bank.
It was cold in the basement. The heating system didn’t extend to his artist studio and in winter the chill bit as fiercely as a rabid dog, so Jinki had resorted to wearing a large, knitted jumper, the itching type most avoided even in extreme conditions. He coughed, adjusted the turtle neck of his garment, and set his pallet and brush down, finished for the evening.
Silence.
Staring around emptily, Jinki felt a feeling that hadn’t visited him in many weeks. Though a frequent vicissitude of his life prior to the candy-haired musician, since their first night together Jinki hadn't once felt alone, but he did now. Not only did he feel lonely: he felt cheated, he felt wronged, he felt unreliable and he felt villainous. It was as if he'd conducted a murder and hid the body, for it to be dug up only days later, the only chance at peace and serenity lifted before he could truly feel it. Thoughts were returning to him, thoughts he had repulsed with the emergence of Jonghyun. Thoughts of her, thoughts of how he saw her in Yoogeun’s wide eyes, and thoughts of how he felt indescribably empty without a hand linked to his own. His body trembled with fear at the idea that he'd damaged things, that he'd hindered the only chance he'd had at a relationship, for being far too optimistic, curious and safe. Somehow, he'd managed to give himself the impression that Jonghyun’s past must have been a happy one, not an angst-ridden one like his own, but now he wasn’t as sure, and unearthing that had sent a tremor through everyth-
Knock.
Jinki frowned and stood instantly, body cold and stoic.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The repetitive thudding sounded from the front door, quite quietly though loud enough to be assertive. Had he not inherited the habit to keep his basement door open, Jinki doubted he would have heard it, but it was late and he was weary and he figured that maybe, just maybe, not hearing it would have been for the best.
Knock.
Jinki cursed and ruffled his hair, scanning his jumper for paint blotches as he scampered to the front doorway, up the staircase and out into the constant ambience of the living area. He shut the door behind him, moving to answer the call with the mind-set that whoever it was could be dismissed quickly. He didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with midnight conundrums, nor did he have the confidence to address a stranger so late, for he was too concerned with the safety of his son. Ensuring the small gate was attached across the top of the staircase (so that, if he heard the guest, Yoogeun couldn’t come stumbling down the stairs and greet them), Jinki breathed in, squinted and opened the door.
He couldn’t think when the visitor blinked at him, and couldn’t react when the visitor practically threw himself into Jinki’s body, wrapping his frail arms around the elder and burying his head into his chest.
“J-Jonghyun?”
Jonghyun shook his head, and kept his body tight to Jinki’s as the cold air began to harrow them. It'd been a few days since Jinki had been kicked from Jonghyun’s apartment, and in that time he'd missed the musician severely but had never gained the confidence to contact him. He knew he'd severed a line of trust when he'd opened the photo album, one that, in the early stages of their relationship, he didn't think could be re-linked.
“Hey…” Jinki soothed, heart pounding. As Jonghyun shivered in his arms, the artist severely hoped it to be from the cold. Reaching over with Jonghyun still enveloped, Jinki pushed the door shut, listening to it grate against the flooring as his hand returned to the younger's cherry blossom hair.
“Hey,” he repeated, slightly louder this time, content in the knowledge that Yoogeun hadn’t been awakened by them. Jonghyun sighed heavily and broke away from Jinki, wiping an eye as he did so.
The musician looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept the entire duration of the time Jinki hadn't been with him. His lips were near-blue in shade and his hands trembled erratically, hidden underneath a large black coat. He observed Jinki cautiously as if the words were lodged in the back of his throat and he couldn’t extract them.
Silently, Jinki helped Jonghyun remove his coat, and left the garment sitting on the breakfast bar, unveiling the large grey jumper Jonghyun wore, with a slight tear in the hem. Before Jinki could ask why Jonghyun was in his house, before he could even comprehend, Jonghyun bashfully leant forward and kissed him. The kiss was soft, impassioned and caught Jinki off-guard, but he understood immediately what this was.
It was an apology.
“Jinki,” Jonghyun breathed as they parted, head lowered and expression pained, “I'm really sorry.” He shuddered again and allowed Jinki a second to contemplate his words. It was late, and they were tired, and Jonghyun’s throat was so dry he felt his tongue was lathered in desiccated leaves.
“No,” Jinki replied, “I am. I'm sorry, I'd no right to-to-to pry like that.”
“No, you'd every right,” Jonghyun countered. “But Jinki, I need you to… If we are going to continue this relationship, there's things about me you need to know. Things about me, about my past, and about my future. You need to know me, Lee Jinki. You do.”
“Then tell me,” Jinki instructed, “because I want to know you.” Neither man had moved for the longest of times, before Jonghyun shook his head.
“No,” he whispered sullenly, “no, not tonight, not here. But tomorrow – when you take Yoogeun to nursery, then come meet me. I won't tell you what you need to know, Jinki. I'll show you.”
Jinki frowned, but all-the-same lifted Jonghyun’s hand and held it supportively in his own. The emotion was so apparent on the younger’s face that it shifted his very gaze, as if an exorcism he was the subject of. He rubbed Jinki’s palm sensitively and looked away, biting his bottom lip whilst he secured his own thoughts.
“Jonghyun,” Jinki addressed gently, a thought suddenly coming to mind, “why don’t you stay here tonight?”
“I'll just be a burden,” Jonghyun dismissed instantly, tone drenched in cynicism as his eyelids drooped. “It's okay, I can make it home.”
“Did you- Jonghyun, did you walk here?”
Jonghyun nodded and Jinki’s lungs seized.
“You're staying here,” he commanded softly, “it's not safe out there, Jonghyun. I'm not letting you walk home.”
Jonghyun exhaled and elapsed into Jinki’s form again, sending the artist staggering backwards a few steps. Jonghyun was so weary his limbs were failing him, the bright lights of Jinki’s home only provoking a malevolent headache as he warily clutched the elder’s frame.
“Come on,” Jinki beckoned, gingerly guiding Jonghyun upstairs with the quietest of footsteps. Both men were petrified of waking the toddler in their care, scared of his response to such late-night traumas. Jinki’s fingers were laced in Jonghyun’s as he led him up the staircase, Jonghyun’s eyes struggling to form anything but halations as he attempted to view Jinki’s home from a new perspective. Jinki fiddled with the baby gate and unlocked it effortlessly with his free hand, lightly pulling Jonghyun through and shutting it behind himself. Jonghyun’s head slumped forward as he ambled behind Jinki, so tired he felt dissociated from reality. Jinki could have been a stranger leading him to his premature demise, and yet he would have followed regardless.
Reaching Jinki’s room, the atmosphere was tepid and unlit but Jinki kept them in darkness, having already witnessed Jonghyun’s reaction to the electric lights from downstairs. Entering and pushing the door until it was open only with an eye’s slit and letting go of Jonghyun’s fingers, Jinki began to root through his drawer of clothes to find two t-shirts to wear in bed – one for him and one for Jonghyun. As he silently rummaged, Jonghyun attempted to gain bearing of the room, though found it difficult in only mere slices of moonlight. The wardrobes were coated in full-length mirrors and the bed was a double one, and the window was wide and searching, like a spectator to Jinki’s sleep. Jonghyun blinked at it.
“Here,” Jinki whispered, out of habit rather than necessity. He handed Jonghyun a large red shirt that advertised an old brand of alcohol, and the younger nodded his head in thanks, instantly beginning to strip, uncaring for he went unseen in the dark anyway. Jinki did the same, until both men were standing in only their t-shirts and underwear, staring at the bed as if it were an obstacle to their sleep.
Jinki moved first and assumed his side of the bed, but Jonghyun was motionless, ever unsure of himself.
“It's okay,” Jinki certified, “come here.”
Jonghyun did as told, and Jinki felt the bed dip as he slid beneath the duvet cover. Jonghyun did likewise, until they were both sat on their designated side, staring into space as they decided on what to say or think.
“Can you hold me?” Jonghyun requested simply, words so fractured Jinki wondered whether he knew he was saying them. “Please, Jinki?”
Jinki held out his arms and Jonghyun curled into him, the bare skin of their legs touching as they lay down together, now on neither side of the bed, rather together, in the centre. They hadn’t done this yet, Jinki figured, hadn’t simply lay together, not unless it was after , after that increasingly familiar exploration of each other. Though such closeness to Jonghyun sent a tingle throughout his body, Jinki felt content like this, felt whole, felt that, despite it all, nothing could separate them. Lovingly, he kissed the top of Jonghyun’s forehead, finally appreciating the fact that his lover had returned to him.
“Jonghyun,” he muttered caringly, intrigue clawing at his rigid arms, “Jonghyun, where are we going tomorrow?”
For a second, there was no answer, and Jinki was about to accept that the musician had already fallen asleep, but, to cut through the starkness of the room with a chilling confession, all Jonghyun said were two words, before succumbing to the tiredness he could no longer fight.
“A graveyard.”
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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