Waking up had been an affair best described as an apotheosis of the predictable unpredictable; Jinki had snapped from his dreams with a perturbing yawing sensation, only to glance down at the bed beside him and halt all abstract thoughts instantly. It'd almost jarred him, at first, to glimpse down as another lay beneath the confines of his duvet. It'd upset him, triggered a lifetime of emotions he didn’t have the strength to face so early in the day, but he'd ignored the wracking sadness given one thing: In the pale morning light, Jonghyun was effortlessly beautiful.

Jinki hadn’t wanted to disturb him. The night before, he'd been so intoxicated in exhaustion that standing had ailed him, and Jinki knew that, today, the musician would probably require all the strength he could muster. So Jinki had left Jonghyun beneath the duvets, curled up with his nose buried softly into the pillow, and had immersed himself once again in his daily routine, of waking up Yoogeun and taking the toddler to nursery. Before he'd disappeared, Jinki had left a note on his side of the pillow beside Jonghyun (Just taking the menace to nursery, make yourself at home) but his efforts had been for little considering that, when he returned almost half an hour later, Jonghyun was still motionless, to the extent that Jinki was almost worried.

All he could do was sit and wait, and so he did, watching his lover until Jonghyun inevitably rose from his stupor, eyes dusted in sleep and lips twitching into a small smile.

After the morning kisses and coffee, Jonghyun had urged they set off. He hadn’t been himself that morning, had been distant and cold and even recoiled when Jinki’s fingertips had brushed his, and it was making the artist nervous. He was so used to the affectionate Jonghyun, the excitable Jonghyun, the innocent Jonghyun, that this version of the vulnerable musician practically disturbed him.

Once, when glancing over as Jonghyun toyed with one of Yoogeun’s figurines that had been cast aside on the kitchen counter, Jinki almost saw the faintest of tears ridge the musician’s eyes.

He sincerely hoped he'd been seeing things.

However, upon venturing off in Jinki’s old, blue Volvo, there was no denying the absolute despondency in Jonghyun. To every question Jinki asked, he was given only a nod, save for the vitality of directions to the out-of-city graveyard they were pursuing. Nausea played in Jinki’s stomach as he drove through the greys of Seoul, for he knew at a graveyard one only found a specific thing: The headstones for the dead. His mind played conscious tricks as he attempted to guess what Jonghyun was keeping hidden, and why he'd kept it hidden so well. Not once had Jonghyun displayed the telltale signs of a tragic past, not once had he given Jinki any idea that he'd suffered due to circumstance – well, not until the photo album. Jinki supposed, though, that he'd just been oblivious; he should have understood how Jonghyun was almost too happy in his unprosperous world, should have understood what the tears of their first kiss meant and should have pieced together the tiny clues left by his lover.

But Jinki hadn’t, and Instead he'd forced Jonghyun to confide when the musician himself wasn’t ready.

They reached the graveyard as the earlier stretch of the morning dissipated into the hidden throes of sunlight, that dappled evanescently between the haze of fleeting clouds above. The ground was damp from rain and earthy from the soil’s over-saturation, and Jinki had to avoid a puddle as soon as he exited the Volvo, sidestepping as graciously as he could and locking the car. Jonghyun had no such qualms, planting his foot where-ever the ground was closest. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t thinking, as they stood in the layby of a quiet road.

They'd driven farther than Jinki had anticipated. Unripened fields surrounded them and if a car were to trundle by it did-so slowly, never meeting another on the empty road. In the far distance, trees piled upwards and struck at the mourning clouds, and the valleys and dips gave way to boxed houses and buildings. The church beside them was small, and Jinki anticipated a half-hearted congregation. Despite this, it was an architectural enlightenment, the monastic walls gating it of similar taste to the old stone that built it. The stained glass window was darkened by the light and the steeple that towered upwards was visited by a few well-meaning birds, embracing the morning with their distant complaints.

Jonghyun walked and Jinki followed. There were no confessors at the church, no indebted sinners, and so their journey was one of unambiguous silence as they made their way between the walls, and around the perimeter of the steeple. The shadows here were of a deep countenance to the blossoms of light that broke through, and it chilled Jinki, chilled him so deeply he barely remembered what he was doing at the church in the first place.

When they reached the back entrance of the church, the hidden graveyard was revealed. Here, the ground plateaued downwards, not steeply so, and at the far end of the dew-dropped grass was a line of old trees, with bent arms and furrowed gazes. Various pathways were etched through the rectangular cemetery, and as Jonghyun saw them his breath hitched. Jinki reached out a hand but Jonghyun was quick to dismiss it, not wanting his newfound lover’s comfort at such a moment. Instead, he started to weave through the rows of headstones, a needle through fabric, avoiding the ancient burial sights of the dead and forgotten.

Jinki swallowed thickly, already shaken by the heavy atmosphere that clung rigidly to the graveyard. Very few headstones flaunted bouquets and expensive stone, and most jutted out awkwardly, having somewhat fallen over their many years in captivity. Footsteps tracing Jonghyun’s, Jinki tried not to focus too much on these headstones, for he knew such memories would only scar him.

When Jonghyun stopped, he did so suddenly. The breeze quietened for that moment and he faced the gravestone with fear, with anger, with hurt and with confusion. Jinki stood by his shoulder and dropped his gaze to the headstone similarly, anticipating an explanation from the man beside him, the man dressed in dark colours despite his normal flamboyancy.

Jonghyun stared at the headstone, eyes picking over the name inscribed there. The dates of birth and death, the heavy-hearted message from family who had never expected the passing of their only son, and the bleak complexion of the granite. No flowers sat at this headstone, and the grass was spat from the ground around it, beginning to clothe the base of the headstone.

"He died three years ago,” Jonghyun confirmed. “The 25th of May. Our two-year anniversary as a couple.”

Jinki remained silent and nodded, unsure of what to do or say or think. Three years ago. The same year as her.

“We were going out,” Jonghyun continued, voice leaden and body quaking. “Out for dinner. I'd told him to take a short-cut as he drove, so he did.”

Jinki his lower lip, already knowing where the story was going, though apprehensive nonetheless. He wanted to hug Jonghyun but knew if he did so they'd both crumble, unable to understand what they were sharing.

"We were about three minutes from arriving, before a speeding driver hit us.”

Lowering his head, Jinki felt tears prick at his eyes, empathetic as he was for Jonghyun. The thought of Jonghyun having to live with such devastation was irreversibly uncomfortable, for Jinki would have wished it on nobody, especially not Jonghyun.

"I loved him,” Jonghyun admitted, “and he died. I was knocked unconscious, my face badly damaged, broken ribs and bones, but I lived. I lived because I didn’t know how to die with him.”

A tear slid down Jinki’s cheek, but Jonghyun remained uncompromising in his demeanour. He hadn’t looked at the artist, not once.

"I brought you here because he would have wanted me to move on, would have wanted me to find someone again. I wanted to show him I was happy. I wanted to show him that… That I think I'm in love again, Jinki.”

Jinki’s entire body turned cold. He felt his heart stop, felt his mind try to grasp for words he couldn’t establish. Jonghyun loved him. Jonghyun loved him.

“He once told me,” Jonghyun continued, as if he'd confessed nothing at all, “that I get attached too easily. That I always end up getting broken because I'm too quick to trust. But he died, Jinki, and with him, so did that sentiment. I didn’t trust after him, didn’t try, because I'd just… Just get broken. Then I met you. A good person in this bad, bad world, and I decided to trust you. Don’t break me, Jinki.”

Jinki stared at his lover with a great adoration etched onto his face, but also the need to immediately dampen the musician’s doubts.

"Jonghyun, I won't break you. I love you, too.”

Jinki intertwined his fingers with Jonghyun’s.

They stood and watched the grave.

•••

"Kyungyeon is getting your position for the next match, Minho. You're subbed.”

Minho blinked at his coach with wide eyes, still breathing strongly from his latest training session. His muscles were coated in a thin layer of sweat and his uniform clung to him, his effort never once relenting, not for many hours.

"With all due respect Mr. Song, what?" Minho raised an eyebrow, lips almost twitching into a smirk of disbelief. Within the cramped office, that was smattered in training plans and timetables, Minho stood tall behind his coach’s desk, dressed in the black and orange kit he'd become so familiar to wearing over his many years under the coach’s watchful eye. It was an outfit he had worn to death, but one that fitted him perfectly. The sportsman that he was, Minho took pride in his kit, for, without his team, he wouldn’t be a player at all.

"You heard me,” the coach responded, as bashful as was normal for his direct, confrontational attitude. He leaned forward on his seat, and laced his fingers atop the only free spot on the rickety, wooden desk, the chair creaking as he did so. Though a small man, the coach was one of the most intimidating Minho had ever met.

"But… But, Sir, that makes no sense,” Minho argued, believing the words as he spoke them. “What the hell?” The faintest taints of anger stained him as he tried to understand why his coach would make such a decision, his hastened words a mere reflection of his shock.

"It makes perfect sense,” the coach responded firmly, not intimidated by the young basketballer, who towered over him stoically. “You aren’t playing well, Minho, haven’t since the start of the season. I haven’t seen you perform to your level of ability in weeks – months, even. If you hadn’t been such a valuable asset before, don’t doubt I would be questioning your very position on the team.”

Minho opened his mouth in shock, as if to protest, but no words came out. His heart raced and his mind was failing to comprehend what was happening. All he knew was that everything he worked for was beginning to unravel, like a ball of twine not properly stringed. This wasn’t right, it couldn’t be.

"Sir-“

"Minho, there's no debate here. I know you live for this game, but you aren’t competing how I need you to, how the team needs you to.”

"But I-“

"But nothing. Look, Minho, I've seen this before. Even the best of players can have a slump. The only way they ever make it back up the ladder, if they do, is by sorting out whatever problems are making them like this.”

"I don't-“

"Get your life in order, Minho.”

The coach stood then, a rotund, pot-bellied man with a face as distressed as that of a slaughtered animal. He wasn’t content with his decision, but knew he had to relieve his best player if he was no longer that. His last comment had silenced the basketballer, who clenched his fists, arms so tensed it seemed they could snap at any time.

"Coach,” Minho finally managed, words feeble in the warm room. “Coach, please, just… Reconsider. I need this game, you know I do.”

"And you haven’t lost it yet,” the coach reasoned, “there's nothing shameful about being on the bench, Minho. But I need you to understand that if you don’t shape up, that’s where you'll stay. I can't have a member on the team who can't even get a simple pass right.”

Minho dropped his head, ashamed.

"I don’t know what's going on with you right now,” the coach consoled, voice slightly softer, “but all I've heard are complaints from the others. You're distant, you don’t respond to calls, you train hard, but you're breaking no walls with what you do... This isn’t you, and this won't work for the team, Minho. It can't. Whatever is making you like this, you have to address it.”

"But I… Coach, I don’t know what's making me like this.”

The coach shook his head.

"You do, Choi Minho. You bloody well do. You just haven’t opened your eyes to it yet.”

Minho exhaled, trying to decipher the cryptic words.

"Now get back out there,” instructed the coach, lifting a mini basketball in his hands and playing with it as he leant against his desk. “Unlike the others, you really need this training session.”

•••

Kibum supposed he wasn’t very good at allowing people to go about their own business in peace. Not that he was a disrespectful man, rather a man who desired to know. Though travelling the artistic route through education and failing to carry such a notion to the workplace, Kibum was also a logical man. He was intelligent, quick-to-understand and held unquantifiable knowledge about the oddest of things, such as stitching patterns and Sudoku puzzles. Despite this, his curiosity could sometimes be misinterpreted for a mere want to cause conflict and rivalry, even if that was the opposite of his intentions. So, when he'd visited Taemin, he hadn’t done so with the intention of upsetting the younger (in fact, he'd gone with the opposite), but he clearly had, and Kibum wasn’t entirely sure as to why.

Then, as a follower to the harsh meeting with his intriguing friend, Kibum had experienced an unsettling event with his housemate. He hadn’t been asleep when Minho had picked him up with his strong, strong arms, but the basketballer’s heartbeat had pulled him into the aether of his dreams, an aether he'd been trying so hard to stay out of. Kibum had only really stayed awake for one reason that night, and it had been a pathetic reason; he knew that, when in false-sleep, Minho always fell for the charade, and picked him up and carried him to bed. Kibum had wanted to feel close to the younger once more, in contravention to the distance that had steadily been growing between them – a distance he didn’t know how to stop, but desperately wanted to.

Kibum rounded the streets as he walked, on another lunch break from another day of monotony and the dull pulsation of the repetitive. He'd filed reports and accepted calls and paid heed to the scandal from his fellow employees, but nothing had piqued his interest before embarking on his mission to find a relaxing lunch. On his journey, beneath the fleeting grey clouds and amidst the hustle of city-life, Kibum hadn’t expected to meet any scandal outside of his workplace.

But he was so very, very wrong.

During this day, Kibum had decided on an ulterior-motive alongside purchasing his lunch. It'd been weeks since he'd seen his old friend from university, the quirky musician, Kim Jonghyun, and so, given his front of knowledge and ability to store it, Kibum had recalled the grocery store Jonghyun had claimed to be working in, with the hope that he'd catch his friend during one of his shifts. It wasn’t that he longed to see Jonghyun for any particular reason, it was just that, given his suspicions over the musician and Jinki, he'd been convinced that he wanted to catch up again with the cashier, to escape the suffocating restraints of Minho and his fluctuating mood-swings. As he'd walked, he'd almost felt nervous; though not under scrutiny, it seemed Jonghyun had somehow basked in the rift of Kibum’s own fall-out with Minho, and he knew nothing of it. The musician was as oblivious to those who talked about him as to the lives of the customers he served.

Kibum had walked with a spring in his designer-shoed step. He wasn't sure why, for the street was awash with people and the scent of cigarettes and exhaust, but he'd been somewhat happy. He figured it was over how Minho had reacted to him the night before, and how it certified that their bond was still intact, even if by a thread, and this made Kibum feel warm inside, made him feel valued. This skip was withdrawn however as soon as he saw the scandal unfold.

A car had pulled up quickly by the vapid store Kibum was visiting – an old, blue Volvo that he recognised instantly, despite seeing rarely. As the car paused, just for a quick second, the driver and passenger exchanged sullen words, exchanged a glance, and then, to Kibum’s absolute surprise, exchanged a brief kiss, unseen by the eyes of many. Kibum had paused, squinted, stared in disbelief at his circumstance and situation, but his sight was confirmed as the pink-haired passenger exited the car and dashed into the store, late for his shift. The driver sat in his seat, shook his head once, and started the engine briskly, before weaving back into the line of cars that tooted down the busy road.

Kibum blinked.

Kibum bit his bottom lip.

Kibum glanced at his watch distractedly.

He'd just witnessed the confirmation of his doubts as if he were the oddest man in the world to be shown them, a coincidental occasion that should never have happened, but somehow, inexplicably, did.

Jinki and Jonghyun had just kissed, and Kibum had seen everything.

•••

By the time Kibum had returned home, it was the early evening, past six as he straggled into the apartment with his brief case. He was unsure what to do, what to say or think or feel – should he tell Minho or allow Jinki and Jonghyun to open up when they were ready to? It was an awkward argument that was rewiring every piece of the circuitry within Kibum’s mind. Were it any other couple, he would have instantly informed his housemate, but it wasn’t just any other couple. It was Minho’s best friend and Kibum’s old flame, it was two men deeply lathered in the tragedies of their incoherent lives.

I​t was two men.

When Kibum entered, Minho was sitting at the kitchen table as if he'd never left that morning. He didn’t raise his head when Kibum dropped his briefcase and closed the door behind him, didn’t flinch as Kibum regarded him warily. The apartment was cold, as if the window had been left open all day, yet the air was almost stale, any ambience having deteriorated amidst the broken friendship of the two residents. Minho’s fingers played idly with his coffee cup, and he wore a large hoodie and a pair of pyjama bottoms. Kibum frowned. Minho never wore pyjama bottoms. Something was, very clearly, wrong.

"Hey,” Kibum tried, but, much to his own predictions, he was ignored. Wrinkling his nose, Kibum removed his suit jacket and hung it over the coat-rack beside him. Minho’s reluctant posture and pensive expression only added to Kibum’s uncertainty, as he squinted at the bright light above him, drowning the room in its unnatural glow. Given the transcendence of the seasons, it was already dark outside, and as if to compliment this, Minho had drawn the curtains.

Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Kibum dragged a hand through his hair. He knew, deep down, that this had to stop – the lack of communication, the unbridged gap, the thoughts translated only through imperatives and shaded glares - but he had no idea how to counter it. He just hoped his words would be enough.

"Have a good day?”

For a moment, there was no response, as Minho dwelled upon the question. Kibum was unsure if he would even speak, until the basketballer answered curtly, “Doesn’t look like it, does it?”

Kibum was off-set by the tone, but knew he had to continue nonetheless. Rarely was he so intimidated by his long-time friend, rarely was he so nervous around him.

Shrugging a shoulder, Kibum dug his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers casually, and answered in a pleasant tone, “Well, no, not really.”

"Coach put me on the bench,” Minho offered dryly, letting go of his untouched coffee and laughing at the table-top sarcastically. “Me, Kibum. Me."

Kibum nodded. Minho was, and had been since his arrival, the team’s strongest player. Though too inexperienced to be pegged as the captain of their squad, he was still the rising talent, the prominent star, the one who was going to lead the country to success and fame on a global basketball map. He was their best player, and everyone knew it.

But best players didn't get converted into substitutes.

"Maybe it's just for the match,” Kibum tried, rolling his words lightly from his tongue as he attempted to douse his internal turmoil, attempted to focus elsewhere. “I mean, maybe he just wants to try out others, y’know?”

"He told me why it was,” Minho answered bluntly, “it's-it's because my mind is a ing mess, Kibum, and you know it. I can't even get a perfect pass because I'm too distracted.”

"Distracted by-by what?” Kibum dared to ask. He hadn’t moved from his position beside the sofa, for he was too afraid to test the bonds of their reunification as friends so quickly.

"Open you eyes, Kibum. By you."

Overwhelming guilt overcame him then, but so did defiance, and anger, because Kibum knew Minho was over-dramatizing. The younger always did.

"Minho, pl-“

"No, Kibum. No. I-I'm sick of this. Absolutely sick. Every night I come home and you're-you're drunk or there's some stranger in your bed and you tell me you'll get better and you'll change but-but it isn’t cutting it, Kibum, not anymore.” Minho looked up. “See, I care about you, Kibum. I really, really do. But it seems like all I am to you is the guy who helps you pay the rent to live in this nice, city-apartment. The guy who cleans up your messes and doesn’t care about his own. Coach told me to get my life in order if I wanted to remain on the team, so I am, Kibum. I'm moving out.”

Kibum was stunned.

"Minho, wait, why don’t you just-just think about this for a mi-“

"I don’t need to think about it,” Minho closed quickly, voice dripping with an air of rationality. “I need to get away from you, because you're-you're all I think about, off pitch and on. I'm scared of you, of what you'll do to yourself, and I need freedom.”

"But you don’t get freedom by abandoning your friends!” Kibum countered, tone very suddenly desperate. All last thoughts had expired and he was left with only one motive: to change Minho’s mind. He barely even remembered the scene he'd witnessed earlier that day.

"And I'm not abandoning you,” Minho dismissed, “I'm just detaching myself. All we've both needed is space, Kibum. I see that now, after-after-“ he started to stammer “-after everything we've been through, we need space. We need to live our lives without each other, Kibum.”

"What happened is just another reason to stay together,” Kibum decided, throwing out his arms as the faintest signs of tears began to peck away at him. He couldn’t have Minho leave their brotherhood like this, not now, not when he needed him the most.

"No,” Minho repressed, “no, it's not. What happened is what led to this, led to this dysfunction, Kibum. We've never been the same since, and you know it.”

"Oh, spare me the melodrama,” Kibum hissed, face contorting for a brief second. “It was one drunken mistake, and you're too much of a for it to ever have been anything more.”

Kibum’s words were venom, and he silently cursed himself. He was trying to keep Minho by his side, not deter him, but so far his attempts were only spurring the latter. As if to accentuate such a point, Minho stood suddenly from his chair, the anger surging through him as an adrenaline that forced him to stand and jab a finger pointedly.

"I'm not a , Kibum, I'm just not a-not a like you, okay? I don’t need that lifestyle around me.”

Kibum twitched at the word, but knew, deep down, Minho’s brutal language was all for show.

"Well then God must really hate you,” Kibum shot back, as Minho trembled with his rage. “You certainly didn’t seem to care when we were ing the hell out of each other all those years ago, did you?"

Minho froze at Kibum’s hard stare, a stare that couldn’t be cut down easily, a stare that had been honed through years of malice and let-downs.

"You didn’t care, Choi Minho, and your God didn’t either.”

Minho took a step away from the table and shook his head at Kibum, as if the elder had just murdered an injured animal, had broken something frail and precious. Kibum just breathed heavily, the fight beginning to lilt as he realised his words.

"It was a drunken mistake,” Minho murmured lowly, “and I regret it. I regret it all.”

"I know,” Kibum offered, folding his arms loosely across his chest, “but that doesn’t make it right, Minho, for you to leave, or likewise for you to call every other man out on his actions with another.”

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Kibum his bottom lip.

"I saw them kiss, Minho. I saw Jinki and Jonghyun kiss.”

A second passed as Minho narrowed his eyes, shook his head, and responded with, “Bull.”

"It's not, Minho. It's really not.”

"It is! It is because you're-you're lying, Kibum. You were probably drunk again.”

Though his attitude cut deep, the insult didn’t, as Kibum retaliated, “I'm not a liar, you're just blind. Dismiss it if you want, but it's true, Minho. It's true.”

Minho disappeared. He receded into his bedroom and left Kibum idle for ten minutes, trying to realign his thoughts and his purposes. The conversation had been a strong tangent, blow upon blow culminating in the addressing of an issue neither had ever wanted to raise again, not if they understood what was good for their friendship. But Kibum had raised it, and for that, he was guilty.

When Minho returned, he was dressed in ripped denim jeans and a v-necked sweater, a bag slung over his shoulder and eyes infinitely tired.

"Y’know,” he explained, as Kibum widened his gaze, “I think I'll stay somewhere else tonight. Have fun, Kibum, really. Don't pay the es too much, mind. You need some money left for wine."

He stormed past Kibum, to the doorway, but before he could exit, a small voice stopped him.

“Minho, wait.”

He paused with his hand hovering over the handle.

"Come back safely,” Kibum wished.

With that, Minho left.