Twenty-Two
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N so... Here we go, guys o.o attached to this chapter is a huge trigger warning for reference to depression and suicide. Enjoy Christmas :3
•••
“Yoogeun,” Jonghyun murmured cautiously, “I'd like you to meet Roo.”
As carefully as one would stitch the finest of patterns, Jonghyun lowered the small weight Roo was to the ground, beside the Christmas tree, where Yoogeun was an island amidst a tumultuous river of wrapping paper. The toddler’s eyes held that wide, starry gaze only replicated by a child in happiness and wonder; there wasn’t much that could offer the experiences that defined Christmas day to a young child other than the occasion itself, and this unlidded joy shone through every inch of Yoogeun as his lips rounded. Amidst the madness of presents and gifts, the younger was still swaddled in his favourite pirate pyjamas, and there was already a small smear of chocolate on his upper lip, despite the fact it was merely just past nine.
When Roo’s tiny feet scratched from the ground, she was instantly scampering towards Yoogeun and his presents, nose sniffing and burrowing into everything in her way. Whereas Jinki displayed mild worry with a parenting frown, Yoogeun laughed in absolute glee, dropping the new Spiderman figure he held and reaching out his hands to the excitable dog, who couldn’t help but succumb to Yoogeun’s serenade of giggles. He began to pat Roo’s fur playfully, and Roo returned the gesture by nuzzling her head against his tiny shoulder, and then Jinki was laughing, his recent fears diminished.
"Why does it feel like we're both introducing our kids to each other?” he joked, glancing at Jonghyun. His eyes glinted with a tired joy that morning, an irrepressible feeling of love and comfort consuming him.
"Because we are,” Jonghyun stressed, watching as the proud father he was whilst Roo crawled fiendishly atop Yoogeun’s laugh. “Roo is my baby, Jinki.”
Jinki chuckled as merrily as Saint Nicholas stuffed with mince pies and red wine, before reaching out and lightly holding Jonghyun’s hand in his. They stood there for an age, both men, fingers laced as they watched their kids befriend one-another in the sweetest of manner. The first strands of morning light were beginning to unravel their ribbon across the room, and as the artist and the musician watched, they assumed contentment could get no purer than this. Jinki’s hands were calloused and warm, and Jonghyun’s soft and cold, and all Jinki wanted to do was squeeze his lover’s hand tighter and kiss him with the most innocent of passions, but he couldn’t, for his son wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t want anything to upset the balance of what was already a perfect day.
"Hey,” Jinki spoke to Jonghyun kindly, as Yoogeun and Roo became completely enraptured in each other's company, “come to the kitchen, coffee calls.”
Jonghyun smiled and allowed Jinki to tug him gently to the breakfast bar, their hands falling apart as they reached their final destination. It was warm here, and the sensation of cinnamon was intensely subduing from a small, scented candle on the windowsill. As the little flame flickered, Jonghyun leant over the counter, watching Jinki start the kettle.
"Did you get breakfast?” Jinki asked, and Jonghyun rolled his eyes, for the artist really was like a mothering carer at times. Jinki turned around as the kettle started to whistle, and Jonghyun nodded briskly.
"Yes, Santa,” he jibed, and Jinki chuckled.
"And how long am I going to be known as Santa?”
Jonghyun shrugged, “Until the end of the holidays?”
"Was that a question or an answer?”
"Both?”
Jinki laughed.
A moment passed as both men looked back at Yoogeun and Roo. Yoogeun was now introducing the curious dog to an array of his new toys, telling the wide-eyed pet their names and powers and purposes. From a distance, it seemed Roo was almost nodding at every introduction, black eyes huge and unblinking.
“I still have to give Yoogeun my present,” Jonghyun mused, “and I have to give you yours.”
Jinki raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging the corner of his lips.
"You got me a present?”
“Well, of course,” Jonghyun murmured blankly, eyes falling to where he'd left his coat and bag bundled in the corner. “I got you two.”
"Two? Well, I'm-I'm afraid I just got you one.”
"It's okay,” the musician reassured, “I can give you one now, but the other you can't get to, well, later.”
As Jinki reached two cups down – noting to take the red polka-dot mug that was by far Jonghyun’s favourite – and cocked his head mischievously.
"’Later?’” he pressed, expression laden in intrigue.
"Later,” Jonghyun confirmed with a falsely seductive voice, wiggling his eyebrows as he did so and provoking a booming laugh from Jinki. Startled, Yoogeun glimpsed upwards from his haven beneath the wrapping paper, nostrils flared as Roo began to snoop around the still-in-their-packaging toys. He became distracted again quickly, however, as he began to lecture Roo on the inner-workings of his childish mind.
"Smooth,” Jonghyun joked. Jinki simply shrugged.
Time passed vibrantly that morning. Jonghyun decided that maybe, possibly, cleaning the mess Yoogeun had created was somewhat fun. He doubted it was due to Christmas spirit, however, and rather the fact that Jinki was repeatedly chucking scrumpled balls of wrapping paper at his head, to which the musician would reply with his own onslaught, and Yoogeun and Roo would spectate in amusement. Jinki had then decided that, actually, cooking the Christmas dinner – something intended to be a kitchen-storm, but was much more akin to a kitchen-rain-shower – was somewhat enjoyable, as every-so-often Jonghyun would assume control (for, apparently, he was an efficient chef) and whenever Yoogeun was thoroughly distracted, Jinki would wrap his arms around his lover’s waist. If he were to bury his nose into the crook of Jonghyun’s neck, the musician would swat him with the oven-gloves until he retreated, reiterating the mantra that they should Tone it down, for the kid's sakes.
After tidying and eating and adorning themselves in cheesy cracker jokes, Jinki found himself by the Christmas tree, clutching his gift for Jonghyun in his hands. Jonghyun had already extended his own present to Yoogeun, who was now embarking on an arduous struggle to unleash it from the packaging, and the musician was now rooting through his plastic bag of stuff to find Jinki’s present. Hauling it out with a dedicated grin, he stumbled, bare-footed, over to the tree, where the artist was wearing a look of patience and calm.
"Find it?” he asked, to which Jonghyun nodded enthusiastically. During these times with his partner, Jinki figured they were closer to children than adults. They wore playful half-smiles and their eyes were beset by a twinkle not even broken by age, and both seemed nervous, giddy, as if playground-crushes exchanging their first ever conversation.
Biting his bottom lip, Jonghyun held out the present with an outstretched arm, and muttered, “Merry Christmas.”
Jinki did the same, and both men accepted each other’s gift in a trader’s ambiguity. As the artist took the small package from the musician, he could tell what it was almost immediately. A CD, it had to be.
Jonghyun’s thoughts were similarly excited as he gingerly took the present Jinki had wrapped for him, however his guesses were a lot more vague than the artist’s. It was a flimsy package, wrapped loosely and secured by some twine, flat and rectangular. Jonghyun tilted his head.
“Who should open theirs first?” he pondered, as Yoogeun scrabbled away to take another sweet from the bowl on the table (though Jinki had thought it too high to reach, the clever toddler had already realised that all he had to do was pull out one of the heavy chairs and use it as a stepping stone).
“Me,” Jinki decided, “because I think I've a pretty good idea what it is.” Jonghyun agreed with a small tip of his head and nervously watched as Jinki delicately began to unwrap the gift. His movements were steady and his eyes never broke concentration as he did so, and Jonghyun found the whole spectacle to be handsomely adorable as he watched. As the wrapping fell silently to the floor, Jinki grinned. He'd been correct, but there was more to the CD than what he'd first suspected; attached to the front of the blank case was a small note, the CD itself similarly plain. Jonghyun was hesitantly quiet as Jinki read the note aloud.
“'Dear Jinki,
These are bad, this is bad, but I composed them for you so… It would be a waste not to give them, no? If you dislike them, I at least hope you find them humorous, or that they have the same effect as last time you listened to my songs...
These are bad, this is bad, but I composed them for you so… It would be a waste not to give them, no? If you dislike them, I at least hope you find them humorous, or that they have the same effect as last time you listened to my songs...
from the sincerest of, well, boyfriends,
Jonghyun.”
Jonghyun.”
Jonghyun was practically blushing as Jinki peered up again from the note, eyelashes fluttering in an overwhelming imbue of emotion. Something so simple, yet so personal, only worked to spark a twist of deep affection within the artist, an affection that culminated in his extensive feelings for the musician. Jonghyun gripped his elbow with his hand and rocked slightly on his heels.
“Compositions?” Jinki asked. “For me?” The painter knew the time any art consumed, knew that composing and writing several songs was no easy feat, and the idea that Jonghyun had done-so for him was only testament to the impact the painter had on his life – a sheltered life, a distant life, but a cherished life.
Jonghyun nodded, biting on his bottom lip, and wringing his wrists in his hands.
"I guess the note said it all,” he explained, and Jinki couldn’t help but feel the encompassing urge of wanting to embrace Jonghyun in the tightest of hugs and bury his nose into the musician’s cherry blossom hair, and hold him and kiss him and let him know just how much he loved him – because he did love him, he really loved him. But of course, Jinki remained still, and simply communicated such vast care through his eyes, in the hope that Jonghyun too could feel it.
"Your turn,” the artist decided, after realising he'd probably poked into the younger’s emotions enough. Jonghyun dropped the hand from his elbow and shook his arms, his large, grey jumper shaking with him. The hand that clutched the parcel almost burned white from anticipation as he eagerly began to unravel the twine and paper.
"Oh my God…” he breathed, as the twine and paper joined that of Jinki’s on the floor. In his hands he held a small bundle of three different art pieces – one a sketch, one a watercolour, and the final an acrylic. Jonghyun’s breath was hitched in his throat as he carefully looked through them all, the eclectic masterpieces that Jinki had no-doubt spent hours perfecting.
"Jinki,” he exhaled, hands almost trembling, “these are…” Despite his attempts, he knew words couldn’t describe the intricacy of the three drawings. The first – the pencil-piece – was a detailed picture of two men at an outside café, lost in their own world as around them customers chatted. One of the men was narrow-framed and feminine, the other taller and stronger. The artist and the musician. The second picture, the watercolour, was simpler. It was of one man, the light splashes of paint representing pink hair and tanned skin. However the third, the acrylic, was Jonghyun’s favourite. It depicted a warm scene of two men curled together by a fire, the room painted in an orange glow as the pink-haired figure rested against the chest of the brunette, hands curled innocently around the hem of the man’s jumper as he slept. Snapshots of their relationship, taken by the camera of Jinki’s mind.
The artist his lower lip.
"These are beautiful,” Jonghyun admitted sincerely, and when he looked up again, it seemed his eyes sparkled with the roots of tears. “These are so, so beautiful, Jinki.” Clutching the pages as if they were fine gold, Jonghyun turned his head to the side slightly.
"Jongh’un!” exclaimed an urgent voice, as Yoogeun appeared by the musician’s side like a spectre emergent from a shell. “What's the matter, Jongh’un?” Jinki laughed slightly as Jonghyun rubbed his eyes with his wrists, before reaching down and ruffling the toddler's tousled hair.
"You know something,” Jonghyun answered, looking from son to father as he did so, “for once, nothing.”
"Then why are you crying?” Yoogeun persisted, as Roo sneakily joined the fray, by Jonghyun’s feet. “Appa, why is he crying?”
"Because he's happy, Yoogeun,” Jinki explained, cheeks flushing as he realised the truth of his statement. “Because he's happy.”
"But,” Yoogeun argued, “I’m ‘appy, an-and I'm not crying.”
Jonghyun giggled, dispelling the final few tears with his sleeve whilst he allowed the plethora of emotions to settle within him, as if they were the auguries of a life he wanted to lead. Jinki watched him lovingly as he did so, eyes flitting to his son with every spare thought.
"Because Jonghyun’s just being silly,” Jinki continued, causing Jonghyun to chuckle once again, “he's a silly superhero, Yoogeun.”
"But-“ Yoogeun frowned, though stopped as he realised the argument couldn’t reach his lips, for it was an argument that didn’t exist. “Silly superhero!” he jibed at Jonghyun, before scuttling away again with Roo nipping at his heels.
"Silly superhero indeed,” Jinki smiled, to the musician himself rather than the now-preoccupied toddler. The hint of red rimmed Jonghyun’s large eyes as he shook his head, the drawings still held protectively in his hand.
"I love you,” Jonghyun whispered deeply. “I really do, Jinki.”
"I know,” Jinki smiled, “but come on, we've two kids to entertain.”
Jonghyun laughed, leaving his present on the coffee table as Jinki did the same, and following the elder to where Yoogeun was lying with Roo by his side, the bowl of sweets scattered across the ground for both of them to feast on.
•••
"Merry Christmas.”
The words left Taemin’s lips softly as he leant against the headboard of his old bed, fingers resting gently on the duvet there. It was an odd duvet, a mixture of garish patterns that his parents had seemed to take fancy too, but he'd always seen as unfashionable and distasteful. It suited the gloomy stupor of the room, however, in lieu of the afternoon-light that attempted to dispatch it. However such weather had come about was beyond Taemin, for Christmas was meant for snow and for rain-showers, not mild-temperance and sunlight. He curled his fingers into the coarse fabric and breathed.
One more time. Taemin had to hear his voice just one more time.
Shakily, the frail dancer reached to the oak bedside table for his cracked mobile. It seemed just as dejected and lifeless as he did. Every-so-often, Taemin’s vision would slightly blur and he could barely force energy enough to let himself stand, and so he was sprawled atop his bed, having retreated there after one final search around his family home, for comforts he could find nowhere else. He'd uncovered a stash of chocolates in the kitchen cupboards, and with the attitude of it all, Taemin had tried to eat one. However, as soon as the sweetness of the treat had touched his lips, nausea had crept through him, and he'd eventually spat it out, the taste raw in his dry throat.
Occasionally, his head would pulse, and his heart would thump very, very bluntly, but it bothered him little, for he knew such afflictions wouldn’t hurt him much longer.
One more time. Just one more time.
As the phone dialled, and dialled, and dialled, the dead-weight began to settle in Taemin’s stomach. He knew he would get no answer.
The person you are calling is unavailable.
Taemin shut-down his phone and swallowed thickly. A final regret to add to the cornucopia. He would never hear the voice of the man he loved again.
Instead, Taemin brushed his fingers until they made contact with the photo by his side. He gazed at it fearfully, clutched it in his hands and held it by his chest. Cold, empty, alone, desperate – the feelings that harrowed him were a constant equilibrium.
It was over. Taemin knew it was over. His fight had been pointless and ridged in a pain more hell-bent than physical, but it was finally done, tarnished before it could spear him. Despite this, part of Taemin still whimpered feebly in a hope less futile than an army of one against thousands. There was one thing that tried to permeate Taemin’s will to give up, and one thing that would forever plague him if there was such a realm as the afterlife.
Choi Minho.
Taemin supposed the basketballer was an ignorant bastard and an all-around selfish prick, but he loved him. Taemin also supposed that the basketballer would never, ever be his, but that didn’t matter, because Taemin ing loved him. Regardless of whether Minho would become his, the idea of leaving the basketballer, of not knowing how the man’s life would turn out, terrified Taemin senseless. Though another penny to the pound of pain Taemin was dealt, Minho had been his only comfort in a life worth ending, the only thing that got him up and got him moving and got him feeling any form of faith or love.
Even if not by his side, Choi Minho helped him stand.
Taemin also thought that it would be sad if he didn't uncover the endings of the stories ran by those close to him; he wouldn’t see the growth of his nieces or nephews, nor would he see the reached goals by those in his dance institution. He'd never know if Kibum got his life back on track and nor would he find out whether Jinki finally found someone to settle down with, to love as wholly as he'd loved her. Taemin would leave without reading the next chapter, would fold the corner to never resume, stuck on a cliff-hanger for eternity.
But he just couldn’t bare to flick the page.
Breathing slowly, Taemin dug within him for his final reserves of strength. There was little point in waiting around, in procrastinating. Nobody was coming. There was no need to hide. As steadily as he could on bones as brittle as twigs, he propped himself up.
The room was shadowed, cold, despite the dim lamp that glowed orange in the corner. There was a mirror opposing him, and so Taemin glanced in it one final time. Though he'd attempted to look presentable, by drawing thick tresses of eyeliner around his eyes and flushing his skin in concealer, he still looked like a broken porcelain doll, with a dismal expression and even darker qualms. The roots of his hair were beginning to show in mousy strands, the dye fading, and his skin was sickly.
Taemin rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and traced a finger along the vein by his wrist. He had a plan. It wasn’t a unique one, nor was it a surprising one – in fact, it was one so clichéd he was almost ashamed. The tried and tested ways were the best, however, and Taemin wasn’t about to defy convention now for the sake of being different. It didn’t matter how it was done, just that it was, and, when it was finished, it wouldn’t matter how he'd come to be, just that he had.
Taemin glimpsed at the picture one last time, and then to the knife beside it.
•••
"Someone looks exhausted…” Jonghyun mumbled, as he approached the black sofa quietly. His words were also gentle, as if he didn't wish to disturb the air that shrouded them, and he looked quite literally ethereal beneath the glow of the dim mood lighting – the only soldier to fire through the pitch of the dark night outside.
"No, just… Worn-out,” Jinki confessed, as he sank further into the sofa, shutting his eyes momentarily to breathe in the calm that had suddenly enveloped them. The day had been a scintillating rush of games with Yoogeun, and they'd only finally managed to ensure the toddler was asleep, tucked beneath his duvet with the comfort of a new teddy bear, and with Roo, who'd insisted in sleeping with her dog bed in the corner of Yoogeun’s bedroom. Jinki had been characteristically unsure of the idea, however Jonghyun had used Roo’s good behaviour that day as evidence to support the notion that she'd be a good girl. Too tired to protest, Jinki had relented, but the entire affair had only prolonged the length of time it took for Yoogeun to get to sleep.
As he exhaled, Jinki felt a weight on his lap, and cracked his eyes open to see Jonghyun straddling him gently. He smiled peacefully as the younger hooked his arms around his neck, and simply sat there, observing his boyfriend with a look of wry contentment.
"Today was perfect,” Jonghyun commented wholesomely, beginning to play with Jinki’s hair casually. Jinki nodded, resting his hands on Jonghyun’s waist. The day had been perfect, but it was only now that perfection was beginning to become realised, as he finally relinquished in the opportunity of becoming more intimate with his partner. It was warm as Jonghyun’s small fingers pressed into the nape of Jinki’s neck.
"Thank you,” Jinki extended gracefully, shifting slightly beneath Jonghyun’s weight. His heart was eliciting a tremoring beat as he contemplated their closeness - a closeness that never failed to arouse or excite him, no matter how often they felt it.
"For what?” Jonghyun asked, raising an eyebrow. So close to his partner, Jinki could clearly pick out each fleck of colour in Jonghyun’s beautiful eyes, could inhale the scent of cherry and coconut.
“For being here,” Jinki explained, “with me, today.” Jonghyun grinned, and leant in until his forehead touched Jinki’s, before parting once more. The touches between them birthed jolts of anticipation whenever they paid heed.
"Why are you thanking me?” the younger asked rhetorically, hands dropping from Jinki’s neck to rest on his torso. “You were the one who invited me over, gave me an unforgettable day, alright? If it hadn’t been for you, today would have been like every other year.”
"Every other year?”
“Roo and me and a plastic tree, watching some trashy film,” Jonghyun rhymed, and a smile faintly blessed him. Though that reality had once been so stark, in that moment it felt worlds away – a planet he'd never visit again, all because of Jinki.
"Sounds cosy,” Jinki commented, stiffening momentarily at Jonghyun’s light touch, and the imagination of his boyfriend cuddled up with the puppy on a sofa – though Jinki was unsure which would be cuter, the man or the dog.
"Depressing, more like,” Jonghyun admitted, “but it doesn’t matter now, Jinki. Now I’m with you.”
"Yeah, Jonghyun. Now you're with me.”
A second of silence filtered by, and then Jonghyun leant down, unable to stop himself any longer, and began to kiss his partner passionately. Every ounce of the love he'd been holding all day was expounded in such a kiss, as well as the need to assert such love; though he felt doubts, Jonghyun wasn’t about to let them interrupt their perfect day. Jinki, slouched back as he was, allowed Jonghyun to dominate the kiss, giving the musician full access to his mouth. Their tongues danced a deadly waltz as Jonghyun gripped into Jinki’s waist, almost losing himself, succumbing to his wildest lusts, before Jinki’s wanton moan forced him back into reality. Jonghyun broke the kiss, breathing hastened, and smiled down at Jinki, who looked so, so handsome, with his hair mildly tousled and his red sweater giving him a mature, defined appearance.
"What?” Jinki questioned, as Jonghyun observed him analytically.
"Stay here,” Jonghyun said, before rolling from Jinki’s unfairly aroused body. The elder raised an eyebrow, wits alerted, keen to continue their embark into lust as Jonghyun stood, but he remained seated, for the musician’s manner required such. “Stay here, and give me… Like, ten minutes. No- wait- twenty. Yeah, twenty.”
Jinki frowned as Jonghyun backed away slowly, directed towards the staircase.
"What are you planning?” Jinki queried accusatively, lips tugged into a smirk, but Jonghyun simply responded with an exhilarated shrug.
"Part two of your present,” he answered, “just- twenty minutes, Lee Jinki. Promise me you can control yourself for that long.”
"You make me sound like some kind of animal,” Jinki mumbled, and Jonghyun flashed a smile, before disappearing upstairs. Jinki leant forward, shook his head in disbelief and clasped his hands.
He waited.
Time seemed to tick by slowly as he glanced at the clock by the kitchen. Curiosity piqued in his gut, but it wasn't unbearable. What was unbearable, however, was the desperate urge within him to cradle Jonghyun, to hold Jonghyun, to unashamedly love Jonghyun, to show him his passion until the younger was sore from pleasure. He'd spent the entirety of the day on the verge of fawning over the affection displayed by his partner, and now it was Jinki’s turn to hand back the favour, to show their relationship was anything but a one-way affair.
When twenty minutes had passed (or, nineteen, for Jinki really hadn’t been able to wait any longer), the artist ascended the staircase and made his way quietly towards the bedroom. No noise emanated from inside, however, as a precaution, he knocked the door lightly, not wanting too create too much of a commotion. From inside, a sweet voice replied, “Come in.”
Jinki obliged.
As soon as he entered, he didn’t know whether to laugh, to gasp or to squeak. He closed the door behind him, eyes dazed, lips parted. Jonghyun grinned, and, once again, giggled.
The room was swaddled in a faint red glow, from the flickering of various scented candles that illuminated each corner, their flame bequeathing a festive light to the boxed surroundings. Tinsel was wrapped childishly around the bed frame, and, when he saw it, Jinki laughed, but his eyes were quickly stolen by his partner, who looked amused, sheepish, excited and aroused all at once, an odd concoction of feelings that somehow led him to appear dastardly vulnerable.
Jinki bit his lower lip, eyes twinkling.
"Do you like it?” Jonghyun asked nervously, referring to the apparel of the room rather than himself, but Jinki could barely focus on the room enough to feel the heat that embraced it. Jonghyun knew this, and so such a remark was giving him confidence. “Jinki?” Jonghyun chimed, waving a hand in the air to catch the artist’s attention.
"I- uh- I- yes,” Jinki stuttered nervously. Anticipation was snipping his words as Jonghyun tried to disguise his obvious entertainment at the scene, but nothing could hide it as Jinki blinked once, twice, and then blew out his cheeks, having never seen his partner look quite so cutely ual.
Jonghyun stood awkwardly in nothing but an oversized Santa Clause jacket, the big, red, fur-lined type found in costume shops. It draped from him, drowning his frame completely, displaying his torso to the ridge og his navel. Anything further was hidden by a black belt, however, until the jacket ended and Jinki could see the tanned smoothness of the younger’s thighs, and that’s where his eyes were shamelessly cast as he tried to boot his thoughts into action. With that smile, with that devilish glint in his eye, Jonghyun was indescribably attractive, and all Jinki wanted to do was him so angrily – but, he didn’t want to upset such a scene. Jonghyun looked too good to touch.
"Well,” the musician smiled playfully, “now, you can call me Santa, because I’m the one bringing the gifts.”
Jinki burst into laughter at his lover’s terrible attempts at seduction, but they only somehow made the moment more memorable as Jonghyun walked towards him, the final puzzle piece to Jinki’s perfect day.
•••
Minho had stayed with his parents much longer than he'd intended. Much, much longer. It was past nine before he reached his shared apartment with Kibum, the drowsiness of one mince pie too many and a few glasses of celebratory champagne only just beginning to kick-in. Amidst the jubilation and joy of his day, he'd almost forgotten about his alcoholic housemate, and now was bared down by regret at the thought of him. Alone, Kibum was probably in a woeful state, and it was a state that only Minho would have to deal with, and deal with until the elder of the two had expended whatever anger he was honing – and it would, undoubtedly, be cataclysmic.
As Minho entered the apartment, bag of belongings slung over his shoulder, he was surprised to find things almost exactly as he'd left them, but for two stark differences – the overhead light lit the room in an almost harsh brightness, and Kibum was sitting on the sofa, waiting.
"Go visit Taemin,” was the first thing spoken between both men. Minho frowned a distant smirk, entering and closing the door behind him. He noticed another startling difference as soon as he did.
There was no scent of alcohol.
"Merry Christmas to you too,” he muttered in a dry response. Already the comfort and homely love he'd inherited from the embraces of his family were evaporating, drop by drop, as Kibum perched, ashen, on the edge of the sofa. His hair draped across his face and his phone sat on the table-top. The screen was cracked.
"Minho,” Kibum spoke tersely, through gritted teeth, “do you have any idea how many times I've tried to call you? I've sent at least a hundred messages. Go visit Taemin. Go now.”
"What's the rush?” Minho queried, dumping the bag atop the counter. In their apartment, Taemin was a topic as taboo as any drug, and rarely would the elder mention him in anything but passing. However, by the undoubted worry in the secretary’s eyes and the temptation of a curse at the base of his lips, the basketballer was forced to listen. “Why don’t you visit him if you're so bloody worried?”
"You know what, Minho?” Kibum began, cocking his head and glaring at the younger. “I actually would have if I knew where it was his parents lived. But I don’t. And he is sick.”
"I know he's sick,” Minho grumbled, strolling to the cupboards. He needed a glass of water – or, if he had to contend with this for the rest of his Christmas holidays, something stronger. The cupboard opened with an empty clatter as he rooted through it for a glass, almost oblivious to Kibum as the secretary stood shakily.
"Clearly, you don’t know how sick,” Kibum tried. Sewn into his words was an anger Minho couldn’t quite place as he found a glass and inspected it, for he knew he couldn’t always trust Kibum’s half-hearted dish-washing.
"I do, Kibum,” Minho sighed, before turning to face his housemate, “I know him like the back of my hand.”
Kibum was so outraged he practically laughed.
"God, Minho, really? Really? Because, personally, I think you don't know . If you did, you would have spent Christmas day with that kid, would have spent the last few weeks that kid – hell, would have spent every ing day you’ve known him with that kid.”
"Kibum, you're over-tired,” Minho tried, forgetting his drink and leaning against the counter. He couldn’t deal with this now, this triad of guilt and accusation and fear from the secretary. He felt as if a fish in water that became snagged to the hull of a passing boat, a boat yawing so greatly over tides he became seasick.
"No, Minho,” Kibum disagreed, eyes almost maddened, “I'm not. You-You're really telling me you… God, forget it, Minho, if you don’t go, I will. Where does he live?”
"Kibum, calm down,” Minho tried to soothe, using every ounce of gentleness he could conjure. In this state, it would be impossible to argue with Kibum. “You should just… Just go to bed, we can talk about this in the morning.”
"Minho, Taemin loves you.”
Minho paused, and then, sensing a punch-line was about to form, he laughed. However, when Kibum’s lips remained taut and his expression firm, the joviality died on the younger’s lips until he was frowning.
"Bull."
“He practically told me. That night we- that night I ed him, it was so he could forget about you.”
Minho shuddered, shaking his head in dismissal. If Kibum wouldn’t go to bed, then he would.
"Spare me the details of your… Of that," Minho muttered, pushing himself from the counter and stalking past Kibum. He wasn’t even thirsty anymore, just depleted, just tired, just worn.
"Minho," Kibum exclaimed, “you have to go see him!”
"And do what, huh?!” Minho’s face was scarlet as he whipped around to reply with an equally measured shout, breathing rapid. Taemin didn't love him. Of course he didn’t. That was bull. Stupid, concocted bull.
“He needs you,” Kibum croaked, eyes beginning to water slightly. “He's dying.”
Minho rolled his eyes, before responding, “Oh, spare me the dramatics, Kibum. If this is some twisted game of yours, I will not bite.”
"This isn’t about me!” the secretary attempted. “And this isn't-this isn’t about us. I swear to you, Minho, this is all about him. You need to go see him, tell him what he means to you.”
"But I don’t love him!” Minho rallied, eyes dark.
"But you do, Minho,” Kibum breathed, a tear sliding down his cheek. “You do.”
Minho frowned. He didn’t love Taemin. He didn’t. But the idea that he was somehow deeply infatuated with the dancer had reduced Kibum to great, hawking sobs, and that made him uncomfortable, made the sinew tighten around his bones and the air constrict in his lungs.
"I'm going to bed,” Minho slung back lowly, but he was stopped by a hand gripping his wrist like a pincer. He glimpsed down at it, pale-faced, and waited for his housemate to speak. Kibum wiped his eyes and sniffed, managing to tell the tale through a few leaden tears.
"Taemin came here,” Kibum breathed, “and he was so, so sick, Minho. I tried to call the ambulance but he left before I could and I didn't know where he lived and you wouldn’t pick up your ing phone and-“ a pause for breath, “-and Minho… You should have seen him. His nose was bleeding like crazy and he couldn’t stand and… Minho, that was yesterday, and I’m scared he's- if he's fallen there's nobody at his house to help him and-“
Minho’s body was struck numb with coldness. Visions of Taemin, unconscious or worse, in his parent’s house wracked through him until all he could see was the dancer, hurt and confused, hurt and alone. Kibum wavered to the side, shoulders shuddering violently as he sobbed into his palms, but Minho ignored him. Minho was running to the door. Minho was running to find Taemin.
The journey was short and one he didn't notice, not for the acrimonious chill of the winter night or the deep hollows of darkness breached only by way of the head-hanging streetlamps. His heart raced as he moved and his mind jarred with unclear precision. He didn’t love Taemin. He didn’t. Minho couldn’t love another man, especially not one as broke-
Halfway through the thought, Minho inhaled sharply. Taemin. Broken. To think of him like that, as if a sparrow with a snapped leg, was wrong, was naïve, was ignorant. Taemin was Minho’s brother, brothers looked out for each other, brothers didn’t leave each other to rot on a day as bright as Christmas. Brothers didn't leave each other.
Minho’s cheeks were red as he reached the house of Taemin’s parents. It was located in an idyllic little suburb, out-of-town and out-of-sight, as pristine as the movies but with the underbelly of scandal that inscribed it as such. Around him, various houses were lit by their outside lights – a row of similar soldiers in the same regalia – as families tucked beneath their Christmas trees or watched their precious four-wheel drives loiter by the garages. How Taemin could bare to stay in such a closeted community was beyond Minho, but he supposed anywhere was better than that two-roomed flat. Nervously, he glanced around him. He could see the light from behind the green curtains of the living room. A good sign, if any. Maybe Taemin was fine.
Minho shook his hands as he reached the door. Just knock, Minho. Raise your ing hand and knock. But if he entered, what would he say? Would he tell Taemin to go to hospital or would he do as Kibum had instructed? Only-only Minho didn’t love Taemin, so there was really no need to-
He knocked.
Waiting idly, Minho looked above him. From just out of city, it was possible for one to see the stars. Minho liked to walk to Taemin’s house for that reason. The stars aligned the sky and if he craned his neck he could see them, even past his condensing breath, a miasma of colour finding purchase in a swathe of thick navy – yellows and oranges and whites and lilacs. It was serendipitous, a reminder that the solar system was not a lone fighter – rather, one of many, that would soon become lost to the nothingness around it.
Catching himself, Minho frowned. There was no answer. He knocked again – this time louder, emptier, yet to the same response. He quelled the nervousness writhing in his gut. Taemin would be fine. He'd be in bed, tucked away, or curled up on the sofa indulging in one of those trashy films he'd been wittering to Minho about. Yeah, he'd be fine, completely and absolutely, Minho just had to make sure of it.
Intrusively, the basketballer reached out and pressed down the door handle. To his relief, and his added nervousness, it was open. He closed his eyes and cracked open the door.
As soon as he entered, he felt little transition from the outside world – here was just as chilled, the only difference being the orange glow of various lights and the muted buzz of the television from the living room. Swallowing thickly, Minho clicked the door shut quietly with his back, eyes flitting around the hallway. The kitchen light was off, door hung open, and the same was said for the bathroom. The only room with any signs of life was the living room, where the television emanated its cascade, a cacophony of voluminous laughter from a crack-joke comedy show.
"Taemin?” Minho called softly.
There was nothing but the television.
Working to dispel the nervousness that pirouetted through him, Minho continued towards the living room, flinching every-time the floorboards creaked beneath him. He felt as if an imposter, a burglar, in Taemin’s family home. Between each quaint family item was his own imposition, a man not meant to be there, a man not invited. The dancer's name was his reiterated mantra as he walked, calling coarsely for no response. Maybe Taemin was asleep.
Minho creaked open the living room door slowly. It was a very green living room, that held the scent of chamomile, much like his own mother. The flat-screen television flickered merrily, but was subject to the audience of an empty room. It was eerie, as if the program was playing to a ghost. On a day such as Christmas, it hissed at Minho’s senses, a pest with no purpose. He retreated, shutting the door as he did so.
Panic was beginning to fester within him, but he couldn't let it infect. He was sleeping. The dancer was probably just sleeping.
“Taemin…?” Minho tried again, more hesitantly this time. “Taemin, it's Minho, sorry I didn’t call by earlier.”
Nothing.
Glancing upstairs, Minho noticed the light to one of the bedrooms was on. It was probably Taemin’s room, and Taemin was probably asleep there, and if Minho went upstairs he would more-than-likely disturb the dancer, would more-than-likely startle him, but Minho found himself ascending anyway, for he wanted to make sure he would find the dancer asleep, and not-
Minho shook his head. Taemin wouldn’t be unconscious. Kibum had been over-exaggerating, because Kibum did that, often. Taemin would be asleep, and he would be peaceful, with that beautiful platinum hair of his spread out across a pillow, and a half-smile on his lips as he dozed. The thought almost warmed Minho’s heart until the staircase beneath him began to creak.
"Taemin,” he reached out, guilty at trespassing the house, “I'm coming upstairs.” He wasn’t surprised at hearing no response.
When he reached the landing, he felt disproportionate. His height set him on awkward footing as he blinked a few times at the doorways, the crackle of the television now just a whisper, that of a radio consumed by water. Minho’s heartbeat was erratic and his breathing halted. The light to another room was also on, but he didn’t know what lay behind the doorway that revealed but a slit of the interior, and so he moved to the bedroom first, fists clenched, eyes determined.
He reached the door and pushed it open, and he could instantly tell that the bedroom belonged to Taemin, but the dancer wasn’t there. Trophies from various dance competitions lined a few old cabinets, and there were various posters on the walls, for several pop groups the younger had once been a fan of. It was minimalistic, yet had a few obvious-parental touches, like the garish duvet and matching curtains. A makeshift Christmas tree had also been constructed by books in the corner, and Minho would have grinned at the dancer’s creativity had he not been so fearful. Taemin wasn’t there, but something else was. Minho almost didn’t notice it, so consumed had he been in his hunt, but when he did, the colour drained completely from his features, and his jaw tightened.
On the floor, by the bed, was the smallest drop of red – of blood. It was dried, however. It could be months old. Years, even. Minho nodded to himself. It was old, it was nothing. He kept the thought in a prism even when he noticed another droplet, and then another, as he retracted from the room. It was old, it was nothing.
Knowing he had one final room to check – or, one that at least seemed lived in – Minho allowed his mission to fuel the fire in his veins. He hadn’t yet found the dancer, hadn’t been given a reason to worry. Maybe this was another bedroom where Taemin had fallen asleep, seeking comfort elsewhere in his family home. There was no need for concern, no need at all. Minho rubbed his arms, despite the dense fabric of his coat, chilled to the marrow.
One foot-step, then another, and a third, and he was by the door. He didn’t understand why he was so hesitant. Visions of a poorly dancer worried him, but he knew, even if Taemin was unwell, he could be fixed, could be healed, could be mended. There was really no need to fear, to doubt or to fret, for even if he was sick to the core, Taemin wasn’t broken.
Minho pushed open the door, and in that second, it felt his world had elapsed.
If such a moment could be bequeathed noise, it would be the distant humdrum of the television and the futile drip-drip-drip of a tap unknowing when its blues would end. If such a moment could be gifted touch, it would be the embrace of moisture in the air, the dampness against the bathroom tiles, condensed there. If such a moment could be handed taste, it would be a sour nausea, scampering at the back of Minho’s throat, and if it could be given scent it would be a similarly-off concoction of metallic doubt. If such a moment could be allowed sight, it would be of a bloodied bathtub, full of crimson water, stagnant like that of a fly-rimmed pond.
Of course, the basketballer rushed to the bathtub in an instant. A name he had called softly became a scream from chapped lips – brutal, harsh, desperate – and such designer clothing mattered little as he fell to his knees by the porcelain tub’s side, hauling hands in and searching for the body beneath the water. He was crying, yet he didn’t notice. He was screeching, yet he didn’t notice. His arms were sodden and cold as he gripped the body, yet he didn’t notice. Minho didn’t notice a thing.
Pulling the man from the water was like pulling a child from their cot. His eyes were closed in innocence, and his lips were tugged into that half-smile Minho had pictured seeing. His body was , ribcage protruding from nothing but shrivelled skin, and Minho hugged it to his chest, shook it by the bony shoulders, cried and hollered and begged, for he didn’t mind that the body was , nor the fact that the wrists were sliced open like two unseeing eyes. The innocence on the man’s face was ethereal as his long eyelashes shielded two beautiful eyes that would never see light again.
"No…” Minho pleaded through his sadness and confusion and guilt and sorrow, “No…”
Like this, he held Taemin for upwards of three hours. He barely noticed the bloodied blade or the picture smeared in a similar substance, and nor did he see the note by his side, a small note, with three simple sentences:
To Jinki, thank you.
To Kibum, I'm sorry.
To Minho, I lov-
To Kibum, I'm sorry.
To Minho, I lov-
The final letters were indecipherable from the blood.
When Minho called the ambulance, he decided the corpse was cold. He'd held on to it for dear life, he'd sang songs and offered apologies, but there was no denying the irretrievable. It took the medical staff a long time to pry Taemin from Minho, and took them even longer in explaining the truth, for it was a truth Minho couldn’t accept, a truth Minho couldn’t believe. He'd seen Taemin only days before, but this was days after, and the past couldn’t be rewritten.
Taemin was dead.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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