Twenty
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes Around“What about this?” Jonghyun asked, lifting a brightly packaged action figurine from the shelf and turning it over in his hands. It was vibrant, and cheery, and colourful, and looked perfectly appropriate for a toddler.
“I already told you,” Jinki sighed, albeit in a polite manner, “he doesn’t like Captain America.”
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the large toy emporium was bustling with people of all ages; parents dragged children in-tow and shoved presents into bags when they were distracted, and there was a hive of pensioners purchasing for grandchildren, stocking their trolleys full of nonsensical toys that would be forgotten as soon as the wrapping paper was removed. It was busy, and every-so-often Jinki would get bashed by an idle elbow, or would get offered a quaint apology. There was so much noise that the soft jingle of the shop couldn’t be heard over it, merely becoming a fragmented whisper in the background.
“Fine, fine,” Jonghyun murmured, as he set the figure back atop the shelf and continued to walk alongside Jinki. The artist was dressed handsomely that afternoon, with a deep brown coat (worn from age, but only added to by such timeless eclecticism) and a thick grey scarf. Even his hands were gloved, and it reminded Jonghyun of something akin to a sly detective.
“What about one of those?” Jonghyun asked, pointing past a fretting mother at the opposite isle. Hanging from a hook proudly was an unpackaged display of a childish electric guitar, the type with large, block-colour buttons, that played a tune automatically for the child to add to. Jinki shook his head instantly.
“Jonghyun, he would never put it down. I'd have, like, no peace.” Jinki chortled and Jonghyun joined him.
“Well, what have you gotten him so far?” Jonghyun asked, as clueless as he was awkward as he walked beside Jinki. He didn’t have children, and wasn’t used to the whole affair of present-buying and mindless worrying over whether his offspring would like the copious amounts of toys he bought them. So Jonghyun didn’t have any idea why Jinki had asked for his assistance in one final attempted shop for Yoogeun’s gifts from Santa Clause.
“A lot,” Jinki answered bluntly, stopping by the newest rendition of a Spiderman figure, picking it up, surveying it and chucking it carelessly in the basket. It was the last one on the shelf, and looked exactly like the figure he'd bought Yoogeun the last time he was in Funland – only, it wasn’t the same, the costume was different.
“Well, why do you need more?” Jonghyun wondered curiously, almost jumping in a startled fashion as a knee-height child blitzed past him. The shop’s buzz was verging on a cacophony as Jinki pursed his lips.
“I just want him to have... the perfect Christmas,” he tried, glancing at Jonghyun’s skeptical expression with a look of hesitancy. “I haven’t been around for him much, Jjong’. I just want everything to be… right.”
“And it will be,” Jonghyun assured, as Jinki stopped by a shelf packed to the brim with various assortments of crayons and felt-tips, uni-aimed brands targeting only the creative souls. “But you don’t need all of this to make it that way. Yoogeun will appreciate what he gets, sure, but he'll appreciate the time with you more.”
Jinki sighed. He knew Jonghyun had a point, but he didn’t want Yoogeun to have to be envious of the other children with financial prospects much greater than his own. Though with only one parent, who seemed to be absent more than he could make up for, Yoogeun still had to have a normal life, a sane upbringing, and Jinki would fight for it. Even with the toddler at his last day of nursery, he still plagued the artist’s weary mind.
“Here,” Jonghyun mumbled, reaching over and taking the basket gently from Jinki, “I'll buy this. I have to get Yoogeun a present anyway.”
“Jonghyun-“ Jinki started, but the musician shook his head.
“Jinki,” Jonghyun responded, in a near-scolding manner, mimicking the tone of his partner. “It's fine. Like I said, I need to get him a present anyway.”
Jinki stopped then, and Jonghyun didn’t notice until he'd taken a step forward. He halted and turned to face the artist, tilting his head as the shoppers floated carelessly around them, oblivious to the connection between both men, oblivious that they were anything more than friends.
“Spend Christmas day with us,” Jinki offered suddenly. “I mean, all day, not just a fly-by visit. Come for dinner, and stay a while, stay the night.”
Jonghyun was stunned.
“Really?”
“Really, Jonghyun.”
The musician grinned uncontrollably. Though he loved Jinki, he had been under no false illusion that the artist would have wanted to spend Christmas day – a day all about family and indulgence – with him. He'd figured Jinki would want the entire day to share with his son and his son alone, preparing the toddler a colourful celebration where only father and child could bond. But, instead, he wanted a beautiful day, where father, son, and boyfriend could bond, a day for them all of them to spend together.
“I normally spend Christmas day alone,” Jonghyun laughed sadly, “or, well, with Roo. Can I bring her?”
Jinki blinked.
“I can't leave her on Christmas day,” Jonghyun argued, and then he blushed, for he realised how demanding he'd been and how ludicrous the said demand probably sounded to Jinki.
“Um, well, I don’t see why not,” Jinki stuttered, lips curling upwards slightly. He was genuinely smiling, and to Jonghyun that sight had become as rare as it was ethereal.
“Then yes,” Jonghyun grinned merrily, “I'd love to spend Christmas day with you.”
•••
Taemin stared at the wall and the wall stared back and he didn’t realise how it could be so imposing, so dark, so soulless. He'd been staring at it for upwards of two hours now.
Somewhere in the distance, the radio crackled, droning about the streets that were littered in the thriving Christmas shoppers, and how the festive mood seemed to drown out any depression the city held. Taemin hadn't felt that, however. Hadn't felt it one bit.
It'd been several weeks since he'd moved from his dingy flat. In that time, Minho had visited him three times – once to check-in on him, the second to try feed him a ‘delicious’ pastry he'd bought from a local bakery, and a third to extend the invitation of spending Christmas with him and his parents. Taemin had declined. Jinki had also visited once, much to Taemin’s surprise. It seemed Minho had filled the artist in on his relocation, and Jinki had wandered over in a bid to give Taemin a sweetly wrapped Christmas present. He'd been amiable, he'd been polite, he'd been stressed – he'd been Jinki. The present now sat beneath the boughs of Taemin’s make-shift Christmas tree. As his parents were spending Christmas with his brother, they hadn’t seen it fit to purchase a tree, and so Taemin had made one out of a stack of books, shaping them in the form of jagged branches and boughs. It looked silly, he supposed, but he'd made it for he'd nothing else to do, and had thought that, stupidly, the hilarity of the pathetic tree would somehow lift his spirits.
It hadn't.
Taemin glanced at the clock. It was verging on late-evening. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, and then it would be Christmas day, and Taemin would be spending it alone, and he figured the idleness of it all would probably be unbearable. Minho was already gone, planning to spend Christmas Eve with his family, and so Taemin didn’t even have him to turn to. Jinki would be busy, fussing over creating the perfect day for his son, the days Taemin recalled having as a child, with bountiful presents and hopes and dreams all culminating in a memorable slip in the photo album. He recalled wrapping himself in his mother’s arms at getting a new bike, and falling out with Taesun for stealing his stash of chocolates. He remembered family gatherings to watch the mindless television around the homeliest of fires, and he remembered the angelic sight of fine snow crusting the rooftops of all the houses around his – a sight as magical then as any fairy-tale. Taemin remembered it all so vividly.
He sighed and clutched his sleeves in his hands. He felt so empty. Apart from shuffling around the house, he hadn’t moved much the past week, hadn’t danced much, and he felt as if he was beginning to forget an ability so very intrinsic to his being. His limbs dragged as if under constant exertion, and he'd fainted on four separate occasions – once even half-way down the staircase, a large bruise forming on his arm from where he'd, accidently, managed to protect his head. This made his entire body stiff, like a locked treasure chest prying to get opened, and he didn’t want to do anything. He hadn’t left the house in days.
Beside him, his phone rang.
“Hello?” Taemin asked down the receiver, knowing who'd called him and awaiting a voice as velvety as the living room he sat in was dull. His family seemed to really like the colour green, and natural incenses.
“Hey, Taemin,” answered the voice, and Taemin could practically see the friendly smile on Minho’s face as he spoke. Uncontrollably, butterflies emerged in Taemin’s stomach as if he were a naïve schoolgirl, only these butterflies had broken antennas and dented wings, and flitted from organ to organ like an injured man limped. “How are you?”
“Same as I was last time you called,” Taemin answered blankly, trying to inject anything into his voice. It was hard. It was really ing hard.
“Yeah, but, that was yesterday,” Minho offered optimistically, “and today is today, so how are you today?”
“As I was yesterday,” Taemin answered again, no hint of playfulness in his voice. The mobile was nothing but a dead weight in his hand, and it seemed to stutter slightly, as if the cracked screen and unresponsive keys were fatal injuries.
“Oh, well, I was just calling to say,” Minho muttered, voice slightly muffled by the receiver, “on Christmas day, I'm not staying the whole time with my parents, I'm leaving after dinner, and I thought – if you wanted – I could stop by, and, like, we could maybe catch up together and celebrate Christmas.” Minho’s mood was bright, cheery - but Taemin’s was not.
“No, it's fine, spend the time with Kibum or something.” Taemin’s words were dry. He didn’t want to see Minho on Christmas day, for he knew – he knew – it would break him. He was too close to the edge already, and he could feel it approaching with deadly audacity. Minho was something he couldn’t have, a lifeline so close yet so far, a grain of sand trapped in an hourglass that would become lost if he were to shatter it. Such hopes were unreliable, distasteful, fleeting.
“But- what if I want to spend the time with you?” Minho retorted. His voice was quite literally mellifluous.
Taemin paused then, for he had no real response. He wasn’t keen on upsetting the elder with the mantras he indoctrinated himself with on a daily basis, and nor did he think Minho would believe a scripted speech on a Christmas flu or Winter chill. The basketballer was far too perceptive for that.
“My family will be back by then,” Taemin lied quickly, his dry bottom lip. Whenever he swallowed, it felt like a horde of locusts were lathering his throat, drinking in any moisture.
“But I thought you said they were staying to New Year?”
“Change of plan,” Taemin mumbled, narrowing his eyes. Regrets fidgeted with the threads of conscience that remained tethered to him; he wanted to spend Christmas day with Minho, but he didn’t want to spend that time as two awkward friends, too nervous to even discuss the simplicities of that passing thing known as life. He wanted to decorate Christmas trees with Minho and bake mince pies and, more than he thought he wanted to breathe, he pined for the basketballer’s strong arms wrapped around his waist in the softest of embraces. He wanted Minho to nuzzle his nose into his neck and tell him that everything would be okay, but he'd have to mean it then, it'd have to be more tangible than it was now. Then, later, Taemin would curl into Minho’s body, much like he had those weeks before, only this time Minho would be comfortable, and would know how to treat Taemin – not as a dented penny, but as his boyfriend. Taemin shook his head, emerging from the chrysalis of his thoughts. Such mundane dreams were hopeless. He was incredibly idiotic to even so much as give light to them. Idiot. Such a ing idiot.
“Ah, well, I guess- I guess maybe I'll still pop by,” Minho offered, “to drop off the present I got you.”
“You got me a present?”
“Well, yeah, we're friends, right?”
Friends.
“I suppose,” Taemin answered, and he was proud, for he managed to lilt his tone in a way that resembled a faint happiness.
“Hey,” Minho decided, having the epiphany of a thought, “on Christmas day, why don’t you go visit Jinki? I mean, his door is always open on Christmas day, even if you wouldn’t think it. I've turned up unplanned on several occasions – mostly to steal some Christmas pudding, but… He's always glad to have visitors. It'd be a good chance for you to meet Yoogeun again, too.”
“No, I-I wouldn’t like to barge in,” Taemin commented, imagining his weary, insipid self lodged into Jinki’s father-son day like a burnt-out candle amidst a fire. He'd probably terrify the full-of-life toddler.
“Trust me, Jinki would love it,” Minho grinned, “he always asks after you, you're a good friend to him. I'm sure he would practically pull you in the door by the hair on your head.” The basketballer laughed slightly.
“Thanks for the suggestion, but really, I'm fine by myself.”
“But what will you do?”
“I don’t know,” Taemin contemplated, “watch old films, I guess.”
“I suppose there's a lot of them on at Christmas, huh,” Minho commented. “Hey, Taemin, I was wondering, after Christmas… We should go back out running together again. What do you think?”
Taemin pursed his lips. He barely had the energy to walk, never-mind jog through the endless serenity of the nearby forests. He'd only be a burden to Minho if they ever ventured out together.
“Maybe,” he mused. Nostalgia his veins as he remembered the last content time he'd been running with Minho, their footsteps mingling together in the breeze like the branches became twisted and gnarled. It seemed not even the cold shoulder of the wind could dispel their enigmatic moods, and Taemin had found himself to be so, so close to Minho, without even using the power of words. When they ran, their world was their own, and they were the only beings that existed there.
“Awesome,” Minho grinned, his optimism taking Taemin’s ambiguity as an acceptance.
Taemin allowed his lower lip to tremble for a moment. It seemed that he didn’t quite catch what he was living for. Those visions of running with Minho were fixations of the past, and the future was one as bleak as the grey pavements of Seoul’s wintery snare. Taemin couldn’t dance anymore, he figured – not just because he hadn't been allowed – and dancing had fuelled him, had blessed fire to the grate in his stomach. Before, there had been a scant hope with Minho, something that would unduly click like a flame lapping at darkened sky, but that was prior to when he'd unearthed a beset homophobia, and a love that lay only on brotherhood. Things seemed pointless, they seemed worthless. There was no point in even living anymore.
“Taemin, can you hear me?”
Taemin shook his head, snapping from the makeshift aether. Something akin to fear stiffened his posture, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Sorry, yeah, yeah,” Taemin muttered, embarrassed he'd completely missed what Minho had just said. This was the man he loved, yet Taemin couldn’t even show him devotion.
“I was just saying,” Minho began again, “that I think next year will be a good one. The end of this year has been bumpy, but… But I really think that next year will be a good one. I really do.”
A pause.
“Taemin? You still there?”
Though he was, he really wasn’t.
“I have to go,” Taemin breathed, voice cracking down the receiver. He hung up instantly, knowing he'd left his friend in confusion, and possibly regret. I really think that next year will be a good one. What did Minho know? Next year would be hell, just as the year before. In the dancer's life, it seemed this attribute was a never-shifting quality. There was barely any point in living through next year, barely any point at living at all.
In that moment, an idea was seeded.
•••
Minho stared at his phone in disbelief. Though his conversations with the younger were often clipped, this had been somewhat an exaggeration of the norm; he'd just disappeared, like the wings of a fly dissolving in water, and he hadn’t even said goodbye. Minho blinked at his mobile. He could call back, but part of him didn’t want to. Pestering Taemin too much would do nothing but aggravate the frail dancer.
“Minho, sweetie,” cooed a voice, as Minho turned, a rehearsed smile plastered across his face. He stuffed his phone into the back pocket of his faded jeans, eyes round and retaining some form of Christmas-joy, like the glint of a young child awaiting Santa Clause. He figured that, maybe, it was too much.
“Yeah, mum?” he asked, his mother wandering in happily, almost dazed. Minho wondered if she'd had a glass of wine – she was always a little bit too merry during the Christmas season. “Did you see the card the neighbours gave us? Beautiful, isn’t it?” She handed him a card, embroidered with the finest of gold laces, clearly personalised and expensive. The neighbours were well-off, it seemed.
“Lovely,” Minho mumbled, handing it back to his mother. She smiled, sauntering to the fireplace and setting it beside the plethora of other cards his parents had received, from distant relatives and friends, all well-intended but, for the most part, empty. Watching as his mother wrapped her floral shawl further around herself, Minho sighed quietly, but it didn't go without being detected by her well-trained ears.
“Minho,” she began cautiously, tip-toeing across vocabulary like her feet were those of a ballerina. She raised an eyebrow at her son as he sank down atop the arm of the sofa, clutching the sleeves of his jumper, for it was oddly cold in here, despite the fire that crackled in the grate. “Are you okay? You seem a bit…”
“A bit?”
She shook her head, and murmured, “It's probably nothing, sorry. It is Christmas, after all.”
“No, mum, what is it?”
Minho’s mother tilted her head, showcasing her worn-by-age features with an undue grace. She was a very elegant woman, very poised.
“It's just- you seem a bit off, I was wondering if maybe something had, y’know, happened between you and Kibum?”
Minho frowned, instantly defensive, instantly perplexed.
“Kibum?” Minho queried. “Why would anything happen between us? We're good friends, it's fine.”
“Huh, it's just,” Minho’s mother pursed her crimson lips, trying to decipher the best way to communicate with her son, “it's just, I got a rather odd call from him a few weeks back, and he was wondering where you were. I didn't think much of it at the time, but the more it went through my mind, the less sense it made.”
“What did he say?” Minho asked, suddenly curious. He hadn’t realised Kibum had asked around for him.
“He was wondering where you were,” she murmured, fingers drumming a small, round table that held various ornate antiques, “and he said, if I remember, that you had some kind of basketball match out of town, that your phone was broken and you hadn’t told him when you were returning, and I- Well, you told me you didn't have a match that week, Minho, so then his story didn’t quite add up.”
“He probably just got confused,” Minho offered casually, “you know what he's like.”
“Who is he spending Christmas with? It probably isn’t good for him to be locked in that apartment.”
“I don’t know,” Minho admitted sullenly. Though relieved to have respite from his fragmented friend, he still couldn’t help but feel guilty for leaving Kibum alone on a day meant to be for company and warmth. It wasn’t right to leave him in his state, yet Minho couldn’t bare another day with him as he was, especially not the day of Christmas.
“Why don’t you invite him over for dinner here?” she asked kindly. “I know it's meant to be a family day, but you and Kibum practically are family, don’t you think?”
Minho frowned. Family. He saw Jinki that way, he saw Taemin that way, but he found it much more difficult to see Kibum in such a light.
“No,” Minho declined, “he's-he's got a bad flu. Besides, I'll be back after dinner anyway, so he won't be spending the entire day alone. He probably won't be out of bed before mid-afternoon.”
“Ah, okay,” Minho’s mother understood, “but extend the invitation regardless. He's welcome here if he wishes.”
“I will,” Minho nodded.
He wouldn’t.
•••
“Just-Just stay still,” Jonghyun commanded, as Jinki winced. “God, you're such an idiot.” Jinki and Jonghyun smiled in unison, despite the pain that lanced slightly across the artist’s arm. The bleeding had, for the most part, stopped, as Jonghyun gingerly pressed a damp cloth against the small, yet vicious, wound across Jinki’s bicep. The elder had managed to slice his shoulder against a rusted nail that had, for some odd, odd reason, been sticking out of the door to his bedroom. The gouge hadn’t been large, but it had hurt, Jinki’s slight yelp confirming such a notion.
“Jinki,” Jonghyun mumbled, concern lacing his voice, “I really think you should go to the hospital. The cut is-it's pretty open, and a rusted nail-“
“It's just a small cut, Jjong’,” Jinki reassured as he moved his arm from the counter, allowing Jonghyun to remove the reddened cloth. The artist stretched out his arm and rolled down the sleeve of his now-torn shirt.
“Even small cuts can get infected, especially by a dirty nail, Jinki.” Jonghyun cocked his head at his boyfriend, whose face was slightly flushed, albeit in a rosy, handsome way. “Go, I won't let you not.”
“But I have to pick up Yoogeun soon,” Jinki argued, standing and ruffling his hair. “I've no time.”
Jonghyun blinked, an idea sprouting.
“Hey, let me pick up Yoogeun. You won't be long, and I can, like, look after him until you're back. It'd be nice to get to know him better.”
Jinki paused, and raised an eyebrow.
“Jjong’, do you even know where the nursery is?”
“Sure, I came with you to pick him up before, remember?”
“Yeah, but-“
“Trust me, we'd be fine.”
Jinki lowered his head. Though Jonghyun was by no means a stranger, he felt like an irresponsible parent leaving Yoogeun in the musician’s hands. He didn’t know how capable Jonghyun was of caring for the younger, or how well they would get on. There were too many unknowns about the musician to trust him to care for his son as well as Jinki hoped he could.
“I don't know, Jonghyun,” Jinki sighed, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It's just-“
A knock resounded from the door and Jonghyun rolled his eyes.
“Postman?” he asked hopefully. Jinki simply shrugged on his jacket and shook his head. The postman had already been.
When he opened the door, he did so with one of those smiles found on product-posters – like the idealistically happy grin of the consumer who brandished their purchase with uninhibited glee. He had a warm smile, Jinki, but one that was easily known as being too-wholesome if it was so. Kibum noticed it instantly, but didn’t comment, for he knew his own smile had held a similar falseness before.
“Hey,” he extended, and Jinki raised his eyebrows, and Kibum knew instantly what it meant. It was a depiction of awkwardness not even broken by Kibum’s own nervous posture, and it wouldn't even cease as soon as the house’s other guest appeared by his shoulder, peeking over at Kibum curiously.
“Hi,” Kibum nodded at Jonghyun. Jinki was startled, for he hadn’t noticed the presence of the musician only a metre behind him, and, for some indescribable reason, he blushed.
“Ah, yeah, come-come in,” he mumbled, standing aside and waving an arm as an invitation. Kibum entered, knowing the roots of the hesitant atmosphere and that he was the cause. Jonghyun smiled at Kibum politely with that all-too-sweet grin of his, eyes squinted as he did so. Unlike Jinki, the musician seemed composed, unaffected, by his good friend’s presence. Kibum wasn't surprised to see him.
Jinki’s house was dark, despite the wide skylights and chic interior; the dismal sky outside meant most light was caught behind clouds before it could spear Jinki’s home. It was less clean, less organised, than Kibum remembered it being – toys were strewn across the furniture and the Christmas tree in the corner was only half-decorated, and when Kibum’s eyes fell on the bloodied cloth on the counter, a frown burdened his features.
“I hurt myself,” Jinki provided, ashamed, and Kibum just laughed.
There was silence for a minute.
“I-I just came to drop this around,” Kibum explained, holding out his arm and presenting the well-wrapped present he'd brought. It was of fine paper and had been rounded by a perfect bow, and it was very representative of Kibum’s artistic nature, shown also by the blue coat he wore and the curled styling of his wavy, black hair. “It's for Yoogeun.”
“Oh,” Jinki replied, surprised. He accepted the present with a polite nod. Kibum had never gotten Yoogeun a gift before, had never even used the toddler’s name. It was an odd occurrence for him to darken Jinki’s doorstep.
Noticing the withheld aura the room was doused in, possibly a mixture of Kibum’s knowledge of the truth and Jinki’s unwillingness to accept it, Jonghyun asked, “So, how are you, Kibum? Do you feel better?”
Kibum nodded slightly, and answered in as sophisticated a manner as he could conjure, “Yeah, I do, thanks. I think it was-I was just having a stressful time at work, is all.”
“Ah, yeah, work is stressful,” Jonghyun nodded, and then, for the simple reason that he could, he linked his arm through Jinki’s. “Jinki is finding it stressful too.”
Jinki tightened instantly, and cleared his throat, unravelling his arm from Jonghyun’s quickly. Jonghyun looked aside, dejected, Jinki’s dismissal stark despite its subtlety. As Kibum watched, he picked up on such friction instantly.
“Yeah, stressful,” Jinki provided, glancing at his lover. Jonghyun appeared to be somewhat offended. The artist just didn’t think it appropriate to have such public displays of affection – even if to someone as understanding as Kibum. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel right at all.
“Well, I just came to drop that by,” Kibum murmured, sensing the hostility between the couple. His presence had upset something, and as he looked between Jinki and Jonghyun, he found it hard to understand what. “I should probably get going.”
“Thanks, Kibum,” Jinki extended, accompanying the younger as they walked towards the door. “I didn’t really expect you to get him anything, so I-“
“It's fine,” Kibum smiled, shaking his head. “I just… I just realised that maybe instead of taking, I should give for a change, and Christmas is the season for it.”
“That's very admirable,” Jinki offered, “thanks, Kibum.”
“Think nothing of it,” Kibum replied. He left.
When Jinki clicked the door shut and turned back to face his partner, Jonghyun was staring at the floor. His body seemed rigid and his eye-line didn’t falter, and it would have chilled Jinki had the throbbing in his arm not cooled him enough already.
“What was that about?” Jonghyun asked, finally raising his head. His tone was shrift, a juxtaposition to its usual upbeat clarity, and his cheeks were burdened by the faintest of pinks.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jinki answered skeptically, widening his eyes. Jonghyun clenched his jaw, before inhaling slightly, gaze now firmly rooted on his boyfriend.
“Jinki, Kibum already knows about us, so I don't-I don’t understand why you're so keen to try hide it.”
“I'm not hiding anything,” Jinki tried, already understanding his rebuttal fell on ears not equipped to listen.
“Am I not even allowed to hold your arm in public?” Jonghyun shot back, mildly tempered. “Are you-are you embarrassed that you're with me?”
“No!” Jinki dismissed quickly. “No, of course not, but we-we don't have time for this. I have to go pick up Yoogeun.”
“No way,” Jonghyun shook his head, calming slightly, knowing this was a matter that would have to wait. “You're going to the hospital. I'm picking him up.”
With that, Jonghyun brushed past Jinki, not even offering a goodbye as he reached the door.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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