Nineteen
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N hey! So, good news, this is like the shortest chapter in this story, I think xD idk if it feels too much like a filler chapter, with a really ty end omg x.x but now it's all building up to Chrismas, so... Yeah. Christmas :3 as ever, thank you for reading xxx I hope you enjoy <3
•••
“I want to go to the park!” Yoogeun demanded, as Jinki attempted to get the toddler to swallow even the tiniest morsel of his lunch – a cut-price fruit salad, for Jinki was trying to create a habit of healthy eating in his son from a young age, to find it was just as difficult as everything else he attempted to get him to do.
"Yoogeun,” he muttered, teeth gritted as he held out the spoon, “please, eat your lunch.”
"No! Park, park!” Yoogeun squealed in response, slamming his tiny feet against the kitchen unit and banging his fist on the counter. He was never normally like this, and Jinki only blamed himself; his time spent with Yoogeun was ever-decreasing, and doubled his back in pain when reconciled with all the other stresses he carried.
"Yoogeun!” Jinki scolded angrily, as the toddler continued his incessant complaining. “Enough! Don’t you see the rain outside? Eat your lunch, right now!” Jinki’s face was soured with rage as he glared at his son, who then broke into huge, gulping sobs, face red and eyes screwed shut, perpetually whining. At the end of his tether, Jinki pushed back his stool, and took the bowl with him, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned as white as the kitchen cupboards.
"Fine!” he declared. “No lunch!” And with that, he dropped the entire thing, bowl and all, into the bin. His heart stampeded in his chest as his son continued to howl. It was the weekend, a Saturday, supposedly Jinki’s day-off, but it didn’t feel like it, not one bit.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Jesus,” Jinki mumbled to himself, ruffling his hair as the vibrations resounded from the door frame, “can I just get one bloody minute of peace?” He glanced at Yoogeun, at the state of his house, and almost felt embarrassed he had to answer the call of whoever was behind the door. They'd leave quickly if they saw Yoogeun, but they'd leave in the knowledge that Jinki was more-than-likely an enraged, fluctuating father.
Jinki cast his son a weary gaze and almost frantically ambled to the door. He tried to calm his red cheeks and embittered glare as he reached the door, but nothing could disguise the sharpness in his eye or the slight ringing in his ear as he placed a hand on the handle and opened it strongly.
The person who stood at the step was the last Jinki had expected to see.
Outside, it rained, a huge, jarring storm that shattered against the window frames and added a dissonant melody to the chords of Jinki’s day. This didn’t bother the man, however, as he stood with the hood of his thick black coat up, hands jammed into his pockets, beneath the slight roofing over Jinki’s front door. Puddles had formed small islands at his feet, and he looked at Jinki with a gaze most apprehensive, already able to hear the cries of the toddler inside even over the onslaught of rain.
"Am I interrupting something?” Minho asked, words calm, verging on friendly.
"No, I-“ Jinki smiled sadly, allowing the tiredness in his eyes to show, the black bags that hung there to drag down his cheeks. “Come in,” he offered, as if Minho were a stranger.
As soon as Minho stepped inside and lowered his hood, Yoogeun’s crying ceased, and instead he opted to stare at the basketballer, with blotted cheeks and a half-open mouth. He didn’t run at Minho, didn’t embrace him with his usual excitement, for it had been a long time since he'd seen the basketballer. Minho picked up on this instantly.
For a second, Jinki just stood there, observing the handsome features of his brother. Though his complexion was still smooth and his eyes still tender, he too looked depleted, run-down. His hair was unkempt, as if he hadn’t brushed it after rolling from bed that morning, and his expression was a complex one, sewn into by doubts, worries and wonderings.
"I'm sorry,” Minho admitted. Jinki blinked at him, and then they hugged.
Hugging Minho wasn’t like hugging Jonghyun, or even Taemin – for one thing, the basketballer was both stronger and more muscular than the artist, and his frame was larger also – however, this wasn’t the stark difference. This was a hug between brothers. Not friends, not romances, but between two men who had been brought together in the most coincidental of circumstances, to trust one-another in blood even if not sharing the same family. Minho gripped Jinki’s shoulders tightly and embraced him for all it was worth, uncaring about Yoogeun’s confused murmurings. In this moment, all that existed was their bond.
When the hug broke, Jinki nodded at Minho, the relief at seeing his friend culminating in the slightest release of tension in his bones. It was as if all his other troubles subsided, and he didn’t even care that he was damp from clutching Minho’s sodden coat, didn’t even care that his visage was one drenched in concern. Minho was safe. Minho was back. That’s all that mattered.
"Where have you been?” Jinki croaked, ever-curious. He analysed Minho, having forgotten completely the argument he'd only just had with his son.
"I've been-I've been around,” Minho mumbled, deflecting the question. A second passed, until he realised that he'd have to indulge in his reason for visiting. He could shield it no longer.
"Jinki, look,” Minho began, tone serious. He glimpsed at Yoogeun, knowing he'd have to censor his words for the younger’s benefit, and maybe even for the artist’s. Jinki’s face had instantly slackened, and he appeared somewhat frightened by the shrift address.
Minho began hesitantly.
"I came here to-to tell you something, and I want you to know that-that-“ Minho inhaled, “-that whilst I might not think what you're doing with Jonghyun is right-“
"Minho-“
"-I will still be here for you, no matter what. It's your life, Jinki, not mine. I just hope you two realise what you're-what you're doing.”
Minho paused and glanced to the side guiltily, cheeks somewhat flushed. He'd spoken his piece in the kindest of ways he could conjure, but he still felt as if he'd just insulted his best friend, an odd quirk in his attitude that he couldn’t stamp out.
Jinki took a moment to contemplate what Minho had said. Though it'd been extended as an invitation of warmth, it had fallen on cold ears; I just hope you two realise what you're doing. It was patronising, it was ignorant, it was misconstrued – but it was Minho.
"Thank you,” Jinki tried, swallowing thickly. He couldn’t bare to look at Minho, as the basketballer played with a loose thread on his sleeve. Never before had Jinki seen him so nervous.
"Jinki,” Minho began again, the curiosity prompting him into wondering, for he couldn’t leave without knowing for certain. “Jinki, do you love him?”
Jinki’s eyes instantly flitted to his son, who'd abandoned the stool and was by the kitchen table, playing with two broken action figures. He didn’t seem to have heard Minho, a candid relief to Jinki, for he couldn’t deal with the weight of his son understanding, or at least trying to, not yet.
"Yes,” Jinki nodded, finally gaining the confidence to hold eye contact with the basketballer. “Yes, Minho, I do.”
Minho bit his lip, the truth rattling through him quicker than the bullet from any machine gun. This wasn’t an infatuation that could be shaken quickly, nor was it a fling that would resume to dust at the end of its haul. Jinki was in love.
“And what about Yoogeun?” Minho asked calmly, eyes now trained on the mindless toddler, whose thoughts were still centric on attending parks and buying toys. He didn’t seem old enough for this reality. “How will he-do you think he could cope with-Do you think it's right to raise him with two fathers?”
“I don’t see what could be wrong with it,” Jinki dismissed sullenly, although knowing the lie himself. If Yoogeun had two fathers, his son would be subject to the malicious intent of others who didn’t understand what it was to be in love with the same gender, couldn’t accept that there was another pathway than heterouality. Yoogeun could be so easily bullied over the matter of his parents, could have his life so easily made miserable.
"Children need a mother, “ Minho tried to lecture, “as in a stable woman, not a penniless musician who-“
"Don’t speak of him in that way,” Jinki interjected sharply. “Don’t even dare, Minho. I told you, I love him, and that’s final. Nothing you say will change that. Nothing.”
Minho nodded in defeat.
"Your loyalty is admirable, Jinki.”
"This isn’t loyalty, Minho. It's love. When you feel it, you'll understand.”
Minho lowered his head.
"I should go,” Minho spoke lowly. “There's more than just you I have to see again today.”
Jinki nodded, and guided Minho to the door. Before he exited into the rain again, however, Minho stopped one last time, to say something else, but he thought better. Jinki also had a thought, about an abused dancer and an untold secret, but given the lack of knowledge he honed, the words caught in his throat.
"I'm sorry,” Minho apologised, one final time, and all Jinki could do was accept his brother’s thoughts – for, even though he disapproved, their bond was too tight to be shattered so easily.
"Goodbye, Minho,” Jinki mumbled, “I'll see you soon.”
"I'll see you soon, Jinki.”
Minho left quickly.
•••
Kibum clutched his head as he sat by the arm of the sofa, on the ground, knees brought up to his chest. It was his fifth day off of work. Five and counting. His father was getting pissed, saying there was no rational reaso for him to be off on a sick-break for so long, despite his condition only worsening further; he had a chronic headache and kept hyperventilating if he over-thought, and though he'd still been drinking (he couldn’t stop), the alcohol did little to console him. At first, he'd dismissed it as a classic Christmas flu, but Kibum knew that it was more than that – flues provoked stifling coughs and free-lance nausea, not prickling headaches and a rock heart. Kibum sniffed loudly. He hadn’t left the apartment in days, in fear that his red-rimmed eyes and apoplectic mind-set would garner more attention than he deserved.
There was a knock on the door and Kibum could only grit his teeth. Visitors didn’t call often – apart from the group’s newly-found lovebirds, he'd been left alone.
"Coming!” he growled, for it was a growl, low and guttural and unintentionally threatening as he fumbled to his feet. He felt so . There was no other word for it. His best friend had left him, he'd hurt one of those closest to himself because he couldn't control his own disgusting lusts, and he was ill. Though Kibum normally wasn’t one to think lowly of himself, he couldn’t help but do so in that moment.
"I said I'm coming!” Kibum grumbled, stumbling towards the door, trying to flatten the worn jumper he'd stolen from Minho’s drawers.
Reaching the door, Kibum flung it open.
"Oh God,” he cried, falling against the door frame in relief. “You bastard,” he spat, “you bastard!”
Minho brushed past him and entered his home, bag of possessions in hand.
He allowed Kibum to cry there for a while. He supposed if someone had walked by, they would have stared, for to watch a man cry at their own doorstep, with the entrance available to them, would be an odd sight indeed. But nobody walked by and no eyes were spared to stare as Kibum battled through his breakdown, shoulders shuddering as he clutched his knees and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, a mixture of relieved and insulted. Minho spent the time unpacking his bag, and shaking the rain from his coat, and ensuring his room was how he'd left it. It was.
By the time he walked back into the apartment, Kibum was still, the door open. The room was dim, for the light was scant on the winter's day, and the curtains were half-drawn, like lips curled into a sad grimace. It also held the fierce stench of alcohol.
"Kibum,” Minho commanded, “get up.”
Kibum didn't move.
"Get up, Kibum.”
The reply was low, scathing.
"Where the hell have you been?”
Minho shrugged.
"I thought you cared about me,” Kibum spoke, raising his head so that his voice was no longer muffled, and that the grit in his eyes was clear. “Do you have any idea how worried I've been? How sick?”
"Welcome to my world,” Minho jibed sarcastically, standing with his arms hung limply by his sides. It was warm in here, oddly.
"What's that supposed to mean?” Kibum retorted, shaking his head slightly.
"I spend every single day,” Minho explained, words succinct, “worrying about you, worrying that I'll come home and you'll have drank too much, you'll have hurt yourself – or, even worse, you'll hurt someone else."
Kibum lowered his head, guilty.
"I needed out,” Minho murmured, “I needed away from you, Kibum. I care too much about you.”
"If you care so bloody much, why weren’t you here when I needed you, Minho?” Kibum’s question was almost a plea.
"Because, Kibum, you always need me.”
Time passed slowly in the apartment from there on.
Kibum finally managed to regain his composure, standing from the door-frame and shutting the door. He leaned against it for a while, head pressed against the door. Minho sat at the table, drumming his fingers in an erratic pattern, clearly perplexed about something. Both men felt as if on the same planet though in different worlds; Kibum was so, so relieved to have Minho back, but the younger was being over-confident, bashful, careless, and would barely look at the secretary. It was as if he'd done nothing wrong. It infuriated Kibum, but, more-so, it saddened him. He thought Minho’s return would bring with it, in the very least, an apology.
"Someone broke into Taemin’s,” Minho nodded objectively. “I found him, lying there, on the floor. I thought he was dead, Kibum, but he'd just fainted. I stayed with him all night.”
Kibum couldn’t speak. His mind clouded. His heart thumped. Taemin. Kibum had wronged Taemin, wronged him so much, yet the dancer was still in pain.
"He's went to stay with his parents,” Minho continued, patting the table with his hands. “And he's starving himself.”
Light filtered through Kibum’s conscience, weakening him, forcing a wobble into his step as he clutched the kitchen counters for balance. What Minho was saying didn’t even seem real, an illusion wrapped in a dream wrapped in a fairy-tale realm, one where the laws of science were in a constant reverse.
"But other than that,” Minho concluded, “nothing has changed.”
"Is he okay?” Kibum asked, unknowing what else to say. After what had happened, a sense of responsibility was beginning to drown out his sanity. “Taemin, is he okay?”
"Does he sound okay to you?”
Kibum shook his head.
"He'll get better,” Minho tried, knowing there was little point in stirring Kibum’s hysteria any further in the cauldron. “I'll make sure of it.”
"Make sure of it, then,” Kibum instructed, wearily tumbling to the sofa, for he really needed to lie down.
•••
"And what's wrong with your place?” Taemin’s mother asked suspiciously, pursing her bright red lips as she scrubbed at the mugs used by her and her son only moments before. The make-up she wore was too young for her complexion, trying to convert the cultivated frown-lines into a smooth, blemish-free skin-tone. In Taemin’s opinion, she seemed garish, her flamboyant floral shirt only adding to the statement her outfit was making in the vapid kitchen.
"I told you,” Taemin answered carefully, knowing his place and when not to breach it, “I'm getting a few repairs done.”
"I just don’t understand,” Taemin’s mother continued, setting the cups with a clink in the drainer and shaking the water from her soft hands, “why this is happening now and why the repairs are so big you have to leave your flat.” She turned briskly, folding her arms across her chest and raising an eyebrow at Taemin sternly.
"It's just for a few days,” Taemin tried, wanting to beg but knowing he'd get further if he kept his plea sustained. “Then I'll be gone, I swear.”
"Yes, well, I already told you, Taemin, tomorrow we're heading off to see you brother, and we won't be back until after Christmas, and I just don’t know if we can trust you in this house.”
"What is that supposed to mean?” Taemin asked boldly, wringing his wrists in his hands.
"I think you know what it means,” she answered, adjusting her shirt slightly.
"Well, then, can I-can I come with you to see Taesun?” Taemin tried, the very mention of his brother provoking childhood memories, old thoughts that seemed as if they were torn directly from the photo album. He missed his brother, and hadn’t seen him in months, for he lived further up the country, too far to substantiate for a drive-by visit.
"Hah,” Taemin’s mother snorted, “you really think he'd want to see you like this? No, Taemin, it's for the best you stay here, spend Christmas alone to-to heal yourself.”
Taemin bit his bottom lip.
Though his mother was a shrewd, callous woman at the best of times, it seemed she took some pity on her youngest son. He was a hellish abomination borne of sin and disaster, but he was still her son, and she knew she should accommodate for him, to aid his curing of the evil, detestable condition that plagued him.
"If your father agrees,” she relented, regarding her son with eyes stolen from the corpse of a hawk, “you can stay here, until your flat is fixed. I'm taking a risk in trusting you here, Taemin. Your kind, they aren't-“
"Thanks, mother,” Taemin interjected gratingly, before she could add insult to the injury that already trailed behind him, chained to his ankles like boulders to a prisoner. If his father agreed, at least this would be somewhere he could stay, somewhere safe, to clear his mind – and, he supposed, it was only a blessing that his parents too would be gone, even if that meant spending Christmas alone.
"Ah, Taemin…” she sighed, lifting the tattered drying cloth beside her and beginning to soak the water from her recently washed dishes. “I really thought I'd raised you well, but I've faith we can pull through this, together, as a family.”
When once Taemin would have argued, the bruises and cuts reminded him that it was better if he simply submitted to a shameful agreement. Maybe he was wrong.
"I mean, look at your brother,” she continued, “he has a beautiful wife, kids… I know we can get that for you too, Taemin. Just have a little faith, son. God will answer our prayers. He will.”
"How are the kids?” Taemin asked suddenly, spurred on by the thoughts of his nieces and nephews. He hadn’t seen them in years, hadn’t been allowed to, for his mother feared he would ‘taint’ their mind-sets.
"Wonderful,” Taemin’s mother hummed, a slight happiness in her lilting voice. “Minseo is beginning to read. She's doing well.”
"Hah,” Taemin laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. The last time he'd seen Minseo, she couldn’t even recognize her own name. He remembered when she'd been born, and how Taesun had been so fretful, so worried, yet so caring. It had almost convinced Taemin that he should become a father himself some day, but he'd dismissed the idea. He was too irresponsible, too clumsy, too ed up, to raise a kid.
"Your father won't be back until six,” his mother offered, “so I won't know if you can stay over until then. You're welcome to have dinner with us, Taemin. I'm sure your father would love to confirm what you told him yesterday.”
At the thought of his father, Taemin stiffened. Though his mother's curt attitude was one thing, it was nothing compared to the wrath of his father.
"I told him already,” Taemin mumbled, “Jinki won't do anything. He-he doesn't understand.”
"Are you staying for dinner or not?” asked the dancer’s mother, small yet imposing in the hemmed-in kitchen. She'd ignored Taemin entirely, but the dancer was used to it.
"No,” Taemin muttered, shaking his head. “I have-I have things to do. I'll come around later this evening again.”
Taemin’s mother nodded silently, and returned to scrubbing the dishes.
•••
Roo stared at Jonghyun and Jonghyun stared at Roo and it was almost as if both were fighting for acknowledgement as Jonghyun folded his arms and tilted his head at his stubborn pet dog.
"Roo,” he cooed, “eat your dinner!”
Roo blinked at the small bowl of dog-food, and then at her aggravated owner, and then waddled away, tail wagging, to find some subterfuge on the sofa.
"So much for cheaper brands and better taste..." Jonghyun muttered to himself, leaving the bowl in the corner of the kitchenette in the hope that Roo would become too hungry to deny it later. Upon first purchasing the tiny puppy for company and companionship, Jonghyun hadn't imagined to grow such a bond with the docile animal, particularly when it came to their levels of communication. He knew when Roo didn’t like something, and this dog food was certainly unacceptable from Roo’s rather spoilt perspective.
Humming to himself, Jonghyun tapped his fingers against the kitchen cupboards. He'd finished his spree of music-making for the night (he'd rounded off another song, an electro-pop tune that was still buzzing around his mind even as he tried to forget it) and had expended every ounce of creativity within himself, so that he could barely even register the colours of his living area. Thankfully, his shift at work had been the earlier one, meaning his evening had been free of unmannerly customers, but now he was at a loss of what to do. Though well-used to having evenings alone before his relationship with Jinki, now the idea felt foreign, out-of-place, something that was no longer a constant in his routine.
He figured he wanted to invite Jinki around, and that he probably wanted to the hell out of him, because it seemed it was only when they had that the elder didn’t sport some form of stress – even then, Jonghyun figured sleeping with the artist had also become a tad less free and playful. It seemed rushed, almost a match of convenience and light relief, enacted until Jinki got his cravings satiated and fell into Jonghyun’s small arms. It wasn’t that Jinki didn’t care about Jonghyun – in fact, he cared more than ever – it was just that he cared about everything else too, from his unspoken money-issues and the raising of his son.
And Taemin. Jinki really cared about Taemin.
Jonghyun sighed as he watched Roo slump her head atop a cushion. He hadn’t really believed the lines he'd fed Jinki about Taemin – that he'd be fine, that there might not even be anything wrong – because the story had been transparent in itself. Taemin’s father beat him, on a surprisingly regular basis. It seemed to be the only explanation, but Jonghyun would never let Jinki accept this, for he'd do anything at all to lessen the anguish the artist felt. Guilt whispered at Jonghyun seductively, but he wouldn’t succumb. Jinki couldn't handle the plain truth, the blatant facts, and so Jonghyun would keep them hidden for as long as he could, until it became clear that there was no other option.
Thinking about his lover, Jonghyun sank into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He wondered what the artist was doing right now – was he playing with his friend, was he resting in bed, was he eating… The musician shook his head. He was painting. He had to be. A flicker of desire fluttered in Jonghyun’s stomach as he thought of Jinki curled beneath the sheets of his bed, of the morning-light glancing across the exposed skin of his toned back and strong shoulders. God, he was so ing lucky. Jinki was beautiful. So, so, so beautiful. But he was a beauty tainted by an unmoving strife.
Christmas was coming soon, and Jonghyun wanted to do something, something special, for the struggling artist. He wanted to make Jinki step back from life and appreciate it for what it was, life, he just didn’t know how the hell he could achieve such an epiphany in his lover. He also had Yoogeun to think about. Jinki was a father, a father with memories of a past much better than the present, but Jonghyun wanted to show him that the present was worth a damn, that, even though he'd lost so much, it still held meaning. A night of exploration as they'd indulged in when they first slept together wouldn’t be enough. This had to be different. This had to be special.
Jonghyun rubbed his forehead. Jinki would be twenty-six soon. Twenty-six. It wasn’t old, yet it was, and the younger couldn’t quite wrap his head around how his age was closely nipping at Jinki’s heels. He still felt like a child just into adolescence, unsure of himself and vulnerable, incredibly so. Life passed by so quickly, and people just seemed to let it.
The thought of him came into Jonghyun’s mind. He would be twenty-seven now, for he'd been older than Jinki. Jonghyun was sure they still would have been together, and he'd have achieved his stupid, old dream about becoming an actor, for Jonghyun’s partner had always wanted to be an actor. An actor with a big house where he and Jonghyun could live until they died, young and fast and free until they required a walking stick to aid their movement. A faint smile kissed Jonghyun’s lip. It faded quickly.
He was dead. Jonghyun had Jinki now.
Jonghyun rubbed his forehead. He had Jinki now, but Jinki was enough.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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