Twenty-Three
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N hey ^-^ so~ this chapter is kind of less eventful than usual and written pretty woefully, so I'm sorry TvT my excuse is that I've had a long week (best excuse ever already ikr o.o) so I'm kinda tired, but I wanted to update for you guys ^-^ I just haven't the energy for much *violins play melancholy tunes bc dramatic af* so yeah.. *shrugs* Obviously there's triggers here in this chapter for suicide and depression, but i think that's... Inevitable, given the last chapter, and also... If there are Ontae fans in the house (idk the ship has got to me recently) I've started a short Ontae story, and I'd appreciate opinions because... Well, I guess i explain in the A/N of the story. A lot on my plate etc with writing, so yeah xD anyway, please enjoy <3 and, as ever, thank you :3
•••
", Jin-ki, .”
The obscenities of language only added blessing to the rushed sound of skin-on-skin as moonlight bled carelessly through the window, carving two bodies that moved as desperately as their will would allow them. It was sordid, desperate, filthy and rugged – but both men were loving it.
Jinki breathed another expletive whilst he his body as firmly against Jonghyun’s as he dared. It was late – very late – and never before had their love been so carnal, and never before had they sought it twice in one night. After their first round (where Jonghyun had teased Jinki into inevitable submission), the elder thought he would never be able to stand again, for, however small, Jonghyun was powerful, was rough, was insatiable. But, just as sun rose in the morning of each day, the lowly whimpers of the musician only moments earlier had reignited Jinki’s passion – for, this time, Jonghyun wanted to be ed, and he wasn't going to sleep until his wish was granted. Admittedly, Jinki had been enjoying his rest in the aftermath of their first love-making session, had been enjoying watching the rise-and-fall of Jonghyun’s chest and the way his lips slightly parted with each breath, but he was enjoying dominating the musician even more. Savouring his lover’s body by gripping his narrow waist for all it was worth, Jinki eventually ed, overwhelmed, out-of-touch with the shadowed reality of his surroundings, and disappointed that such experiences had to end so soon. His spent body collapsed atop Jonghyun’s feeble one, and they lay like this together, Jinki breathing softly into the crook of Jonghyun’s neck, the younger shivering, clammy beneath his touch.
"…” was all the musician could manage, drenched in perspiration and heat as he allowed Jinki to embrace him, allowed the artist's nose to nuzzle against his flesh. Exhaustion overlapped the sensation to want more, but Jonghyun missed Jinki instantly as soon as the artist let go, to clean himself up, to get his act together, so that he could, finally, rest. With his face pressed against the pillow, curved body concealed only by the sprawled duvet Jinki had laid over him, Jonghyun felt so, so content. He didn’t know if much could break the euphoria within him, if the mundane normality of life could bare to touch him again, for the right-now was wonderful, the right-now was perfect. He moaned a sigh of bliss, curling his fingers into the soft duvet.
When Jinki returned, he was wearing a large t-shirt and new boxers, and Jonghyun didn’t have to look to feel the weight of the bed as his lover resumed to his place beside him. He didn’t shift the duvet from Jonghyun, still exhilarated, still warm, at the end of their love, and instead curled an arm around the younger, moving him so that they both lay on their sides, foreheads pressed together, arms resting on the smalls of their backs. It was subtle, it was serene, it was soothing – until the door was knocked.
Jinki bolted upright instantly, unsure of what he'd heard, wits alert as his gaze darted around the room. His first thoughts were of Yoogeun, however this knock came from the front door, from outside. Heart slowing to a dry beat, Jinki awaited a follow-up.
It took Jonghyun a few more moments to process the noise as it had his partner, and he was only groggily pushing himself up when the second knock resounded, a dismal thump with enough strength to wake the neighbours, though not enough force to jar them. Jonghyun’s eyes were slits as he glimpsed at Jinki fretfully.
"Don’t answer,” he croaked, absent-mindedly, “nobody calls at Christmas so late…” But Jinki wasn't listening. As the third of a triad resounded from the door, he leant down and planted a kiss on the top of Jonghyun’s cherry-blossom hair, and slid from the bed, reaching for his dressing gown. Accidentally, he picked up Jonghyun’s seductive Santa costume from earlier, and he almost smiled, and would have were it not for the imposition of the late-night caller.
Replacing the costume for the gown, he tried to wrap it around his strong frame. Movements stoic, he hissed at the lanced stiffness already forming along his back, body unprepared for the brutal exertion of his activities that night. Though Jonghyun often joked that Jinki was probably too old for this, the elder only paid heed to such comments when the rigidity of his body kicked in.
"Leave the door open…” Jonghyun mumbled, planting his face back against the mattress. “I want to hear…”
Jinki nodded, leaving the door open a slit as he entered the hallway. It was dark, and it took him several moments to fumble for the light-switch, but as soon as he found it and the orange glow separated night from humanity, Jinki hoped the visitor would get the idea that their call would be answered. The visitor. Fear pumped through him at the prospect of who would house-call so invariably late on the eve of Christmas, on the morning of Boxing Day. A long-lost relative, perhaps, or a far-from-happy friend. Jinki shook his head and clenched his fists. Whoever it was, they would have to leave, and would have to leave soon. In his house a toddler slept peacefully, and Jinki had his boyfriend to get back to, had his boyfriend to hold. Such callers on whimsies couldn't flatten those plans.
Padding down the staircase and avoiding the toddler-proofing gate, Jinki practically felt himself grin at the sight of his living room. The remnants of a Christmas well-spent were glorious across the room, shredded wrapping paper and half-cherished toys burdened by the scent of cinnamon and chocolate. Snapshots of the memorable day nestled in Jinki’s thoughts as he approached the door, images of Yoogeun grinning wider than he had in months, and of Roo scampering around the Christmas tree. Then, the more recent pictures filtered to Jinki, the more private ones, of Jonghyun spread, , across the top of his bed, awaiting the artist with a look of such expectation, and then of the musician’s untouchable expression as they'd teased each other senseless. It stirred Jinki, but he pushed it down. He had other things to think about.
Reaching the door, Jinki opened it hesitantly, just a crack, before widening it to its entirety and simply staring. His words were caught in the guise of the outside light before he grovelled strength enough to speak them.
The man that stood there was paler than Jinki had ever seen him. It wasn’t just a sleep-deprived paleness, nor was it an upset paleness, it was a colour so ashen not even corpses could flaunt it. His lower lip trembled and he seemed irreversibly stunned. Jinki went to speak, but found his eyes locked on a crimson dampness atop the younger's clothing. His heart lodged in his chest, unwilling to beat. Choi Minho looked scared. Very, very scared.
His eyes dragged themselves to lock with Jinki, and the artist could see how lifeless they were in one glance. The colour was missing, replaced by a metallic darkness, and his shoulders were broad, tense, imposing against a handsome build that deserved relaxation. Hands curled around the air as if he meant to speak something, Jinki prompting explanation with all he could: a raised eyebrow. Though his heart felt still, his pulse thundered violently, a paradox to state that frightened Jinki to the core. Something was clearly terribly, terribly wrong, and the perfection of his day was dispelled as soon as he understood that fact.
"Minho?” Jinki pressed, nausea beginning to twist within him at the sticky crimson on the fabric of the basketballer’s clothes. Minho blinked, numb to the night’s biting chill, and just before his jaw slung open, he wobbled on his own two feet, and Jinki was struggling to catch him.
"Alright, alright,” Jinki soothed, guiding the younger through the door as if he were a fragile antique. Concerns and questions lidded his gaze as his nose pricked, searching for the scent of alcohol that wasn’t there. Minho had been with his parents that day, Jinki didn’t understand this unsettlement.
On the landing, Jonghyun appeared, ghostly and nervous. He'd heard the name, the silence, and his intuition had told him instantly that something was wrong. He'd grabbed the closet clothes he could find – Jinki’s pyjama bottoms and his old, maroon hoodie – and had scampered into the hallway, unknowing whether his presence would be desired or not. Would it scare Minho? Would it aggravate Jinki? Would it confuse them both? Staring down from the banister of the stairs, the musician expected the eyes of the basketballer to be trained on him accusatively, and half-believed he was in a dream for it seemed too late for much to be making sense. However, as Jinki cautiously directed the shuddering younger to a stool at the breakfast bar, fright seeded within Jonghyun. Minho didn’t even glance his way.
"It's okay,” Jinki comforted, as Minho sat, oblivious to his state, and blinked around him like he was in a foreign landscape. “It's okay.”
A deadly silenced passed, with all to accompany it Jonghyun quietly descending the staircase, and Jinki assuming the seat beside his friend. When he caught the musician’s eye, he nodded, as if to say his presence was allowed, that it wouldn't upset the basketballer – the dazed, stunned basketballer. Though this fluttered Jonghyun’s stomach, the worry was too prominent to ignore as he carefully observed Minho.
Jinki’s body was cold even before Minho spoke his piece.
"He's dead. Taemin’s dead.”
For a moment, there was quiescence. It was a simple hush, nothing upset but the candour of the night, as Jinki smirked, then laughed, then frowned, and then wavered. There was no intricacy behind his actions, the only thing he could provide a dismissal that Minho quickly expired. Jonghyun’s mind began to swell in disbelief, as he watched Jinki crack a small wail, then a heartfelt choke, a wretched Jesus, no and an empty rhetoric Minho easily shot down.
"I found him dead,” Minho breathed, “I was too late, I was too late." The basketballer broke down then, and Jonghyun could only watch as both men, both brothers, elapsed in pain together.
Their perfect day was ruined.
•••
Kibum hadn’t slept that night, for Minho hadn’t come home. To the secretary, this meant one of two things – he really had found Taemin injured, or, the more likely of timelines, he was cosying up to the younger beside a crackling Christmas fire, having finally paid heed to Kibum’s advice. Minho loved Taemin, Minho had to love Taemin, for in Kibum’s eyes it made sense. It made sense, but it also unsettled him. The idea of the dancer locking lips with the basketballer was an uncomfortable one, and, even more-so, an unlikely one that somehow fitted the ideals of life. Minho wasn't a homophobic bastard, not as his act suggested, he was just a man in denial, and Kibum could see that starkly. He did live with the basketballer, after all.
On the early morning of boxing day, as he nursed his cold cop of coffee sullenly, Kibum considered what he'd achieved in the run-up to Christmas to try stabilise his bond with Minho once again. He'd tried to be a better person, a man who gave and forgot, not one who took and held grudges, and he'd even dropped the bottle. Time ticked by and the urge lilted him to go out, get drunk and get ed and forget everything that quashed him, but his will to finally live up to his promises fought stronger than the need for a booze-and-party lifestyle. Minho was right, he was old now, had to work his of to keep the dull as hell office job, and so Kibum was trying. He was really, really trying.
Only he'd been trying to no reward.
Without the calming spirit of a drink-or-two, problems were more defined, more real. He felt the pain the liquor often dampened, and even the marrow in his bones pined for the slightest sip, something small to get him by. Only, when Kibum drank, a sip turned into a glass, and then a bottle, until he'd blanked his mind completely and could only feel the repercussions the morning after, a stew of guilt, of regret, of headaches and a dirty-conscience.
Sighing, Kibum finished the coffee, and placed the mug in the sink to wash later. It was early yet, and, if Kibum’s speculations were correct, he doubted Minho would be home until later, if at all. He was probably busy baking mince-pies with the sickly dancer, building dreams and futures over the carcass of Kibum’s prospects. They'd be laughing, giggling, sharing tales as if Kibum barely existed – for, he supposed, in a relationship that would fit as wonderfully as theirs, he didn’t. Compared to Taemin, Kibum was nothing. He was just another stranger. Another filthy, lowly stranger.
When the gentle knock on the door came, Kibum knew it wasn’t Minho. The younger would simply let himself in without warning the secretary, ignorant to his presence, and so intrigue stirred the lethargy in Kibum's gut. Ruffling his untamed black hair and brushing down his ragged grey jumper, Kibum ambled to the doorway, with every intention to dispel the visitor before they'd the chance to aggravate him further in his cold, vapid apartment.
When he opened the door (hesitantly, for Kibum was unsure of himself, paranoid that whoever it could be would grimace at him in a manner most judgemental), Kibum blinked steadily at the man who stood on the doorstep. His cherry-blossom hair was ever-serendipitous and the glow of his skin ever-handsome, and he was dressed well, in skinny denim jeans and a large green sweater. However, his eyes were red, swollen, and hung like the untied laces of his shoes. The full lips he flaunted were also curved downwards, and he shivered as if nervous.
"Kibum,” he greeted softly, and Kibum’s haze was broken. Suddenly, he felt the looming presence of the cold corridor, felt the abstract worries for Minho that piqued in his need for cessation, and allowed his cheeks to flush at how awfully attired he was. This wasn’t Kibum. It was a shell, a rumoured look-alike, not the chic, city-dwelling secretary.
"Can I-Can I come in?” Jonghyun requested politely, though urgently. There was something wrong, for Jonghyun was never so forward. Kibum nodded, feeling his heart begin to thud. Questions cascaded in his thoughts but all he could do was stand aside, so that Jonghyun could enter, his breathing clipped, his manner weak. When the musician was standing in the centre of the room, glancing around with misty eyes, Kibum pressed the door shut with his back, and simply waited. Whatever Jonghyun had to say, he would say it, and Kibum’s heart would falter, as it usually did at bad news.
"Kibum,” Jonghyun tried, voice barely a whisper, “I'm so sorry.”
Kibum frowned then, stomach lurching. Sorry? Fret began to grey his hair as he thought of Minho, of how the basketballer hadn’t returned home, of how Kibum had argued with him and he'd left and now-
"Taemin’s dead.”
The first thing Kibum did was shake his head. Taemin wasn't dead. Such notions didn’t match, broken puzzle pieces tempted only to berate the picture.
"No,” Kibum dismissed, shaking his head confidently, “no, because that makes no sense, Jonghyun, I saw him just a couple of days ago, I-“
Jonghyun tilted his head, lips quivering, a tear dashing down his cheek. He swallowed thickly, a distraught man, and then Kibum fell to his knees. Though Jonghyun dashed to his side, Kibum didn't notice him.
"How?" Kibum whispered, feeling Jonghyun’s small grip on his shoulders. “How?"
"He killed himself, Kibum. Taemin killed himself.”
Guilt. Regret. Guilt. Hysteria. Guilt. Anger. Guilt. Disbelief. Guilt.
Kibum clenched his teeth until the veins in his neck stood out, until the fear in his body was repelled in frightful shudders.
Taemin had killed himself, and Kibum knew it was all his fault.
•••
Jinki watched Minho as he helped Yoogeun pull on his tiny red jumper, that still fitted despite having shrunk in the wash – twice. Yoogeun’s head popped through the soft fabric as Jinki pulled the top down, and he smiled up at his father, oblivious. Jinki grinned back fondly, but it was a false grin, an empty grin, a lying grin.
"Go play with your toys,” he instructed bluntly, “Jonghyun will be back soon.” Yoogeun bit his bottom lip and nodded. Though the temptation to pester Minho ran through him like a fever, he was a good kid, an obedient kid – albeit a menace. He slid from the sofa and scampered merrily to his toys beneath the tree. It was early morning, the sun having yet to rise, sleeping with Roo as the dog slumbered lazily in the corner. She had risen for a moment at the disturbance of Yoogeun embracing the day, but had been too tired to do anything but curl up in the corner, by the oak cabinets with the calendar. Yoogeun patted her as he padded by, but didn’t force her to open her beady eyes.
Standing stiffly, Jinki rubbed his face with the bases of his palms, and began to walk towards his friend, who hadn’t moved the entire night. Knowing Yoogeun was distracted, Jinki observed Minho quietly. Jinki had removed his coat by gentle force the night earlier, to wash out the blood, and so Minho sat on a stool in his sweatshirt, hands on his lap, staring blankly into space. One would liken him more to a wax figure than a human, his eyes glossed over with a wet sheen, expression fraught. He noticed Jinki, however, and could only whimper as his friend took the seat beside him.
"Minho,” Jinki began, voice coarse in the tepid inclines of the kitchen, “Minho, you have to go home.” Everything seemed smaller today, more confined, more condensed.
“I held him in my arms,” Minho breathed out quietly, gaze still locked on that same nothingness he'd been observing for hours. “I held him in my arms, but I couldn’t save him.”
Though he'd heard the same phrase reiterated several times, it still churned nausea in his stomach as Jinki pictured the scene. Though Minho hadn’t divulged every gritty detail, Jinki had deciphered that he'd found Taemin’s corpse in a bathroom, and that he'd been wet, and that, to Jinki’s greatest distress, the younger had killed himself.
"Minho, Kibum will be worried,” Jinki attempted, hoping Yoogeun wasn’t listening to the exchange. The toddler was too innocent for such stories, too pure, and had already served out several queries over why there were tears in Minnie-ho's eyes.
"I couldn’t save him,” Minho spoke again, “I let him die.”
Exhaling, Jinki rubbed his friend's arm. He needed Minho to go, for he couldn’t keep his mind sharpened any longer. Though appearing strong for the younger, all Jinki wanted to do was fall. With Minho around, he couldn’t do that, and alongside everything else, he had an added responsibility, to care for the grown man as he would a brother. After a sleepless night, such a notion drained him.
"Minho, please,” Jinki pleaded, “go home, get some rest.”
"If I'd only went there when I'd planned,” Minho mumbled, voice splitting dangerously, “if I'd only gotten there sooner-“ and then he was crying again, raising his hands to his head and stifling the sobs. Taemin was dead. Taemin was dead. Taemin was dead.
Tears pricking his own eyes and nausea twisting the dagger in his gut, Jinki consoled, “You did all that you could, Minho,” but his attempt went unnoticed. Minho could only cry, and Jinki could only watch.
Taemin was dead.
“Minnie-ho?”
Jinki resisted the compulsion to curse as he looked to his side, where his small son stood, scared, ears pricked and hand raised to his lips. Jinki hadn't heard him approaching due to- Taemin was dead.
“Hey, little man,” Minho managed, sniffing and rubbing his eyes. Reaching down with a weak arm, he ruffled Yoogeun’s hair, but the toddler bowed backwards, and Minho retracted.
"Why is he crying?” Yoogeun pondered, curiosity widening his eyes and forcing him to rock on his heels. In his grubby hand he clutched a half-broken toy. Minho glanced at Jinki as if he too was searching for an explanation.
"Minho lost a very good friend last night,” Jinki explained cautiously, words very separated, very succinct. As soon as Minho heard them, he choked slightly, but managed to retain an upright posture, for Yoogeun’s sake.
"Is it-is it like when we lost mama?”
Jinki stiffened. Yoogeun’s voice was too flowery for such inqusitions.
Taemin was dead.
She was dead.
“Yes,” Jinki expelled, his breath beginning to hitch. “Yes, yes- Yoogeun, go back and- go back and play with your toys.”
But Yoogeun was ignoring Jinki, and instead turned to face Minho confidently, as if he held the words to salvage the older’s depression.
"Don’ worry,” Yoogeun chimed, “Appa says it's a long jour'ey, but you will see your friend again.”
Yoogeun beamed, and then skipped away, leaving Minho speechless in the aftermath of their confrontation.
Though the sentiment was well-intended, Minho already knew he would never see Taemin again.
•••
Jonghyun held Jinki to his chest and let the elder cry, and cry, and cry. The fabric of his green sweatshirt was sodden, but Jonghyun didn’t care, as he soullessly stared into space, back rigid against the bed-frame. Yoogeun was napping, Roo was chewing on a few leftovers, and Jinki was finally mourning the loss of one of his best friends.
"Shhh, now,” Jonghyun coaxed, Jinki’s hair as the artist curled up against him. Though he knew the pain Jinki felt was probably heavier, denser, riddled in an angst no therapy could dispel, seeing his lover in such a way was tearing Jonghyun to pieces, and gnawing on the flesh as it was ripped. Jinki gripped Jonghyun’s sweatshirt as his face pressed against the younger's body, cries so harrowing that they were silent. Occasionally, he would kick out, and Jonghyun would plant a kiss on his forehead to let him know he didn’t suffer alone, but nothing tangible could eradicate the abstractions in Jinki’s mind, of corpses strewn in blood and lives stained in malice.
Minutes drifted by as if it was a new life. The memories of the day before were less than that, and, with Minho having finally left to speak with Kibum, the house felt eerily empty, leaving only Jonghyun and Jinki and their oppressive remorse. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Taemin was dead.
Noticing that Jinki had stopped quaking so heavily, Jonghyun began to massage circles into the back of the artist’s neck, fingers damp with tears and perspiration. Jinki didn’t succumb to the comforts, however, and instead slipped away from Jonghyun, so that he was sitting upright, facing the younger.
The bedroom was dismal, the only light to film it being the grey winter sun. Underneath such backing, Jinki appeared quite manic. His eyes were lower than the under-layers of the earth, and his body was so tense, so strict, that Jonghyun believed he could pluck it like the string to a harp. He watched Jonghyun, the remaining tears remaining unseen on an already glistening face, and Jonghyun watched him, unknowing what to say to provide care, to provide warmth, to provide anything.
“You told me not to invite him over,” Jinki muttered deeply, and Jonghyun froze. Recollection of Jinki’s idea to invite Taemin to celebrate Christmas with them alluded towards his despair, and Jonghyun could only shake his head, trying to think of anything that could excuse what he'd done.
"You told me,” Jinki continued, words dangerously slow, dangerously wavered, “that-that we shouldn’t invite him here, Jonghyun. You told me that.”
"Jinki,” Jonghyun attempted, leaning forward slightly, “don't.”
"Don’t what?” Jinki threw back, features morphing to the idea that he had reached some form of divine epiphany. “Don't what, Jonghyun?”
"Don’t try and find someone to blame for this.” Jonghyun’s words were steady, for he knew that Jinki was emotionally confused, and couldn't control his sleepless thoughts.
"Maybe he wouldn’t be dead then,” Jinki defended, backing away from Jonghyun. “We could have helped him. But-but no, no, you were too selfish to-“
Jinki moved himself from the bed, Jonghyun watching him tiredly. This conversation was only going to end one way, and he already knew it. The musician’s plan now was simply to limit the damage as much as he could, so that his reparations would cause little stress in a time that would be flattened by it.
"This isn’t my fault, Jinki,” Jonghyun spoke softly, “don’t do this.” Though he believed his statement, a seedling of doubt germinated within the musician. Maybe if he had let Jinki invite Taemin over-
“He's dead, Jonghyun, he's dead and we could have-could have-“ Jinki’s eyes flashed as his breathing intensified, and Jonghyun couldn’t help but let the dread and empathetic horror fester in his gut. Jinki staggered backwards, physically reflecting the mental gashes that bled him dry.
Standing to meet his partner, Jonghyun mumbled, “We can't change what's happened, Jinki. But we have to be strong now that-“
"Strong?!” Jinki mocked, almost in fury, and Jonghyun could only recoil, hurt. It were as if Jinki had crushed his broken paw. “We should have been strong when he was alive, Jonghyun. We should have helped him, but all you wanted to do was bury your head in the sand.”
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jonghyun shot back, unable to keep his pitch from rising as the roots of anger s within him.
"When I told you about the abuse, you said to do nothing, and with the invite, you didn’t even want him here. Sure, Jjong’, maybe he meant little to you, but he was my friend, and you- you stopped me from helping him because you were too scared to hurt yourself in the process!”
"That’s not anything to do with it,” Jonghyun retaliated, face beginning to flush as he clenched his jaw. Through Jinki’s depressive sadness, fury flared, and all Jonghyun could do was meet it.
"No, it is,” Jinki nodded, words so fast Jonghyun barely caught them, “it is. A man js dead, Jonghyun, because you're too ing selfish to lift a finger!”
Jonghyun inhaled sharply, startled to the extent that his entire body wanted to elapse and coil up and shiver. Tears bit at him until he couldn’t bare to face them, and somewhere, somehow, guilt was beginning to drench him. Maybe Jinki had a point.
“You don't mean that,” Jonghyun uttered quietly, voice wavering, “you don't.” Jinki had never sworn at him before. Jonghyun shook, almost scared.
"I do,” Jinki spat back. “I do. Taemin’s dead, Jonghyun, and it's our – no, it's your – fault.”
Jinki glared at Jonghyun, insanity looping his oftentimes placid features, and Jonghyun couldn’t bare it. It's your fault. Wanting to speak but unknowing how, Jonghyun’s heart seized over how a day could change so quickly, how the blame could fall so soon. Taking one last look of his lover, Jonghyun cowered, cried and bolted to the door.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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