Twenty-Four
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N hello! ^-^ so like~ this chapter is written in a pretty dodgy way (I rushed it bc I just really wanted to write the next chapter >_<) and in the first segment idek if the events are realistic or what would happen irl, but i didn't want to drag it out so let us all pretend T-T i suppose this is a mild kind of filler but I promise things pick up in the next chapter, hopefully in quite an explosive way >_< so yeah. BARE WITH THIS HORRENDOUS PART T.T and, as ever, thank you <3
•••
Kibum stared at Minho and Minho stared at the table-top, and the only noise audible was the tap that dripped slowly, irrevocably. The secretary hadn’t screwed it firmly enough after getting water to brew Minho some coffee, and hadn’t returned to tighten it either. The dripping was almost a comfort, ensuring both men were still stained in reality, couldn’t drift on the thoughts that bloodied them.
Minho hadn’t touched his coffee.
Minho hadn’t touched his coffee.
As carefully as he dared, Kibum placed a shaking hand on top of Minho’s steady ones, and squeezed. The basketballer’s skin was cold and Kibum’s was warm, and when they met the transfusion sent a small shiver through Kibum, one that dissipated only at his curled toes. Kibum watched the basketballer uncomfortably. He didn’t have the right to hold Minho’s hand, not when he had such a horrific role in Taemin’s now-gone life, but nobody else was there to hold it, and so Kibum graciously accepted the task.
Neither man had spoken since Minho had returned. He'd walked in slowly, as if a patient unrightfully dismissed from hospital, and had just gawped at the room. Kibum had risen to meet him, but his body had been locked in a deadly snare, like it was being mutilated by the sharpest of bear traps. Minho had simply shook his head, once, twice, and then he'd cried. It seemed he hadn’t stopped, even if the tears were silent now.
There was so much Kibum wanted to say, to do, to acknowledge – but his mind was thick with the sediment of his misgivings. He'd been so selfish, envious to the core over how he'd assumed Minho and Taemin to be happy, together. All Kibum had considered was himself. Not the depressed dancer he'd wronged, nor the handsome basketballer he wished to do right by, but himself – the sordid, filthy, pest of a man who would meddle and meddle and meddle until something snapped. This time, the one to snap had been Taemin.
"I'm glad you were the one who found him,” Kibum whispered, for he was. Not in a malevolent way, rather that it seemed only right that Minho accompanied the younger into death. Taemin had loved Minho. Before being consumed by the earth forever, it only seemed fair his wish – to be held in the basketballer’s arms one final time – had been granted.
Slowly, carefully, Minho removed his hands from Kibum’s grip, and dug them into the pockets of his black coat. The coat seemed cleaned, refreshed, and held the very poignant scent of a lavender washing powder, sweet and subtle. Still not glancing at Kibum, Minho removed something shakily and set it on the table. Both men stared at it.
Dog-eared, creased and spotted in a few flecks of a browning red, a picture sat, gazing at the ceiling. Emotions whirred through Kibum in retrograde motion as he took in every detail of the photograph. Beside it, Minho set a note, and when Kibum read it, he couldn't help but feel the nausea creep into his throat. Minho didn't have to explain what the items were, for Kibum already understood. They were the items by Taemin’s deathbed – a picture of the dancer with Minho, and a short note addressed to three men:
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.
"Do you think it was painful?” Minho asked sullenly, for the first time observing Kibum. The secretary’s face was twisted in abstract horror as he stared at the small note. To Kibum, I'm sorry. “His death,” came the repeat, “do you think it was painful?”
Kibum slid his eyes from the note just in time to hear the knock resound from the door. They wouldn't answer it. They couldn’t. Kibum blinked at Minho, the knock nothing but a month-old newspaper in a world that sought the recent.
"This is the police! Open up!"
Kibum opened his lips slightly, wanting to say so much but unable to comprehend his housemate. Minho was so empty, so decrepit, so hur-
Police.
“Oh my God,” Kibum choked, stumbling back from his chair. Another knock, heavier this time, and Kibum’s mind was a mess as Minho simply sat, unmoving. What the hell were the police doing at their apartment? Brushing a hand through his hair, Kibum quelled the awkward twist of nervousness in his gut, and shut down the irreplaceable despair. Feelings would have to wait, now he had to be executive, he had to be efficient, he had to be Kibum.
Glimpsing at Minho one final time, Kibum battled his confusion and opened the door.
When the policeman and woman gave him the tender glare of distaste most had bother hiding, Kibum instantly faltered. He was a mess, eyes swollen and grey, hair greasy and matted. He hadn’t changed clothes that morning either, still wore the same, baggy grey jumper he'd worn in bed, and he had barely even bothered to wipe the sleep from his eyes. Bedraggled, worn, filthy – the police officers certainly took no time in communicating their judgements.
The officers themselves were exact opposites of one-another; whereas the man was tall and rotund, the woman was short and wiry, and whereas his hair was clipped beneath his hat, the woman’s was long and shrugged into a tight ponytail, that seemed to drag back the skin on her face so that it was taut, emotionless. Their expressions were stern and their posture authoritative, and so much as looking at them unnerved Kibum, feeding him a tremendous sense of irrational guilt.
Their tone was very snipped, any politeness in their bodies condensed in rushed rudeness, as the woman stated confidently, “We would like to speak to Choi Minho.”
Kibum narrowed his eyes at them both, suddenly suspicious, suddenly shocked. He didn’t know what Minho could have done to conjure the calling of the security services.
bWe need to take him down to the station,” the man continued, voice softer than his colleague’s, “to ask a few questions. Is he in?”
"Mr. Choi is not in any trouble,” the woman assured, stressing her words as if it would cause Kibum to present Minho to her in a parcel, with a bow. “We just have to investigate every possibility.”
"Every possibility?” Kibum questioned, holding the door frame closed just enough that they couldn’t spot Minho’s statuesque form by the table. Worry and intrigue festered within the secretary as he pressed, “Every possibility in what?”
"Last night,” the male officer began, “Mr. Choi was found at the scene of a young man’s death. Now, we suspect the death to be suicide, however we must follow up on every line of inquiry, and it seems that some people believe this young man didn’t kill himself. As stated before, Mr. Choi is in no trouble, but we would appreciate his cooperation in finding out what really happened the victim.”
Kibum’s eyebrows furrowed. Were the officers really suggesting what he thought they were – that Choi Minho, the distraught, heartbroken shell of a man, was a murderer?
"Well, I'm sorry,” Kibum began, not about to hand Minho to the baying dogs before he had a chance to collate his thoughts, “but Mr. Choi-“
"Would be happy to answer any questions,” came the smooth voice from behind Kibum’s shoulder, and Kibum stopped, allowing his hand to slip from the door-frame. Minho towered over Kibum, observing the police officers sceptically. He was giving himself in, and although this comforted Kibum (for a guilty man would rarely do such things), it also scared him. Minho was emotional, a knot of angst and guilt, and could easily say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
"It's okay, Kibum,” Minho consoled, stepping forward so that Kibum would move aside. Kibum did, but not without briefly locking his eyes to the younger’s, so that he could communicate every ounce of what he felt within – that Minho wasn’t ready for this. Kibum didn’t care if the police picked up on it, didn’t care if they misconstrued it for guilt, he only cared that Minho understood he was worried, fretful, desperate. Minho placed a hand on Kibum’s shoulder, and Kibum felt it. Somehow, in front of the police, Minho was a different man.
"Thank you for your cooperation,” the male officer nodded, as the woman shot Kibum a steely glare. Minho rubbed the secretary’s arm in a caressing manner, repaying the debt of care Kibum expelled for him, and then they were gone, and Kibum was alone, staring blankly at the shut door. The police had taken him, when Kibum needed him, and when he needed Kibum.
The police had taken him, and, yet again, Kibum was alone.
•••
Jinki watched the pot of water as it began to boil on the stove. Moments earlier, he'd dropped his kettle, and it had broken, but he needed coffee, for he hadn’t slept, hadn’t slept one wink. Somewhere nearby, Yoogeun’s playful ramblings buzzed and the sound of the television chattered obnoxiously, but both were quiet, and so Jinki was too. The discarded kettle lay on its side by the breakfast bar, and the water in the pan hadn’t even started bubbling yet. It was still.
"Appa!” came a shrill chime, and Jinki glanced down, to find Yoogeun was by his side again. It seemed the toddler had a penchant for appearing when one didn’t expect it, and as he smiled up at Jinki’s sullen expression, he waved a doll in the air. “Appa, come play!”
"No, son,” Jinki sighed tiredly, patting his son’s head softly. He was exhausted, and barely had the strength to stand, so there was no way anything could force him to dissolve himself in games with his hyperactive child. “Play by yourself today, Appa’s tired.”
"P’ease?” Yoogeun requested, blinking up merrily. Though rosy-cheeked and burdened by Christmas cheer, Yoogeun’s spirits did nothing to alleviate Jinki’s depression as he replied, firmer this time, “No, Yoogeun. Play on your own. Give Appa some peace, please.”
"Aww, p’ease!” Yoogeun whined, battering the side of Jinki’s leg with his doll. “P’ease, Appa!” The toddler’s voice chimed loudly as the water began to simmer.
"Yoogeun,” Jinki scolded, patience wearing thin, “I already told you no, and I mean no."
“P’ease! P’ease! P’ease!” All the while, Yoogeun bashed his father with the toy, manners short when it came to the man.
"Yoogeun-“
"Ap-appa!”
"Yoogeun, stop it right now-“
"Appa! Please!”
Mottled in an annoyance no innocence could quell, Jinki reached down and angrily wrenched the doll from his son’s tiny grip. Unleashing his rage like he never had before with his son, Jinki threw the toy across the room, so that it snapped and skittered beneath the sofa, before yelling, "I already said no!" His eyes were slits, his face was red and his breathing was heavy, but before he had time to even process the way in which Yoogeun cowered beneath the table, wailing and screaming for all his tiny form could manage, Jinki’s phone began to ring.
He answered it, body sore from exacting such anger on his son.
"Jinki,” came a weak cry, and the artist knew who it was instantly, even despite the obvious sadness that clotted the caller’s voice.
"Kibum,” Jinki addressed, breathing slowly to calm himself. His head began to resound slightly as Yoogeun continued to cry. He hoped Kibum couldn’t hear it.
"Thank God you answered,” Kibum breathed, “Jinki, you have to help me, I-“ Kibum was distraught, his clipped words and rushed breathing displaying as much even through the crackle of the cell-phone.
"What's the matter?” Jinki asked wearily, understanding that Kibum had to know by now, and that he had to know that Jinki knew. News travelled fast. “Kibum, what is it?”
"It's the police,” Kibum admitted hastily, “they’ve taken in Minho, Jinki.”
Jinki halted, his expression dropped, and his entire body weakened.
"W-what?”
"They came about-about half an hour ago, Jinki, and took him away. They aren’t sure Taemin’s death was-was-“
Kibum didn't need to finish for Jinki to understand.
Propping himself up with his hand against the wall, Jinki exhaled. Though he knew Minho was innocent, though Kibum did too, such information was harder for the police to obtain.
"Please, Jinki, get over here,” Kibum spoke frailly, “I can't take this by myself. I've nobody else to turn to.”
Jinki’s body jarred. Of course, Kibum needed comfort, needed a hand to hold him upright, but Jinki was too busy with life for it to be his. However, the secretary had nobody else, and Jinki understood what it was like to mourn alone. He couldn’t subject Kibum to it, not if he was a moral man.
"Please, Jinki.”
Glancing at his son, who was now uncontrollably whimpering, Jinki sighed and massaged his temples. He couldn’t bring Yoogeun with him. There was only one person who could look after Yoogeun if he left, and the thought of confronting that person struck him colder than winter snow.
"Okay, Kibum,” Jinki mumbled, “I'll be over as soon as possible.”
"Thank you,” Kibum muttered, his voice lathered in desperation.
The pot boiled over.
•••
Jinki waited at the doorstep, clutching Yoogeun’s free hand tightly. Nerves tightened in his stomach as mizzle dripped from the over-bearing clouds, that made it seem more like night than day. Though he'd spoken with the man whose home he waited outside of only half an hour earlier, their conversation hadn’t felt real. The words had been simply enough to communicate what Jinki required the man to do. Yoogeun shivered slightly, cold, scared, and so Jinki only squeezed his hand tighter, the toddler's warm little fingers curled into a ball.
When the door was opened, Yoogeun dashed at the man, and hugged his legs. The man smiled at Yoogeun, but as soon as he set eyes on Jinki, the smile faded, and there was silence.
"Thank you for doing this,” Jinki tried, but the insincerity in his tone was perplexed by the regret he felt. He'd lashed out the day before, said words he didn’t fully believe – but as he'd spoken them, he knew they held some account, and he could barely look at the musician they concerned.
"This isn’t for you,” Jonghyun mumbled, as Yoogeun broke away, rubbing his eyes tiredly, “it's for Kibum. Make sure he's okay, Jinki.”
"Yeah, I will.”
"When this is all over,” Jonghyun muttered, eyes hollow, “we have to talk.” Yoogeun tugged on the hem of the musician’s blue jumper, but he didn’t notice. Instead, he just observed Jinki as if he was accusing the artist of something, and it unsettled Jinki, it angered Jinki. He wasn’t in the wrong here – but Jonghyun was.
"Yeah,” Jinki nodded, “we do.” His words were so scripted one wouldn't be suggested wrong in believing the men held no bond.
"Not just about Taemin,” Jonghyun elaborated, as Yoogeun began to grow increasingly impatient. Jinki turned his head to the side, and nodded.
"About us,” Jonghyun extended, “about him.” He nodded down at Yoogeun, and a defensive barrier suddenly rallied within Jinki. Jonghyun had no right to talk about his son, no right at all.
"Why him?” Jinki asked back, forgetting the toddler could hear their every word. Yoogeun was picking up on the tension now, and had stopped pulling on Jonghyun’s sweater.
"I just think it's rather rich,” Jonghyun spoke spitefully, the words clearly tearing him apart as he made them, “that you say I'm burying my head in the sand, when you can't bare to tell him the truth about his own mother.” Jinki stopped dead, Jonghyun only realising what he'd just said. They were over-tired, both men were over-tired, and the musician had just given light to the fact he'd been investigating where he had no right.
"I'm going to go now,” Jinki stated slowly, carefully, “and I'm-I'm going to pretend that you-that you didn’t say that, Jonghyun. Look after my son.” Jinki stared at him, eyes misted, and Jonghyun looked back, features ridden in guilt. Suddenly, Jinki didn’t trust the musician to care for his son – but he had no other option. Kibum needed him, clearly much more than Jonghyun did.
"Don't let Kibum hurt himself over this,” Jonghyun warned, before closing the door on Jinki. Jinki stood on the doorstep. He wanted to run back in and take Yoogeun home, to the house of family, not a stranger. He didn’t trust Jonghyun, not anymore. Resisting the urge to kick down the door, Jinki backed from the doorstep. How did Jonghyun know what he'd told Yoogeun? How could he even understand?
Retreating, Jinki made his way to his old, blue Volvo. There were other priorities now. He had to go see Kibum.
•••
As soon as he stepped inside the apartment, both men were hugging. Jinki held Kibum gingerly, as the younger of the pair tucked his head against the artist’s shoulder. Such actions weren't foreign between the men, and they'd hugged on many occasions, but today felt different, somewhat heavier. Kibum was frail, docile, in Jinki’s strong arms, and as the secretary parted, there were tears in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry,” he mumbled, skirting behind Jinki and closing the door. “I'm so- it's just-“ Kibum shook his head, lower lip quivering, and Jinki watched him. He understood.
"I thought I should go to the station,” Kibum admitted meekly, “shouldn’t he be home by now? I just… I don't…”
"If the worst case happened,” Jinki reasoned, trying to forget his past encounter with his boyfriend and focus solely on the emotionally perplexed man before him, “we'd hear. Minho would be able to call you, Kibum.”
"He'd have the opportunity to call,” Kibum agreed, “but that doesn't mean he'd call me."
There was something bitter in his voice as the secretary moved to the kitchenette. The apartment seemed more like a museum exhibit than a home; it held the scent of the lavender air freshener plugged limply to the wall, and there wasn’t a crease in the pillows, nor was there an item misplaced from the drawers. Everything was exact, cold, rigid in its demeanour.
"I'm sorry,” Kibum apologised, “I don’t even know why I asked you to come. I'm such a goddamn inconvenience.” Kibum opened a cupboard and brought down two glasses – wine glasses.
"No, Kibum, of course you aren’t,” Jinki assured, “you’ve every right to be upset, y’know.”
Kibum shook his head and reached down to a lower cupboard, fishing blindly inside. As he clicked it shut again, he seemed to hesitate, as if a candid voice was telling him to halt, but he ignored it, and poured himself a glass of sparkling red wine.
"Want some?” he queried, holding the bottle so that Jinki could see the brand. Jinki declined with a wave of his hand, and then an afterthought hit him, for he remembered bluntly his exchanges with Minho, exchanges about Kibum’s fancy for a drink, his alcoholism.
"Are you… Are you sure you need that?” Jinki asked, cautiously - he didn’t want Kibum to feel he was patronising him, after all. Screwing the lid on the bottle loosely, Kibum shrugged a shoulder. The wine glasses were more akin to bowls, and Kibum’s was overtly full.
"Are you really going to stop me?” he responded curtly, folding his arms across his chest whilst he held the glass daintily. His eyes were mere slits, burdened by an over-wroughtness from nothing but life. He placed the glass to his lips, and a shiver jolted through Jinki. Kibum was his friend, his good friend, and the imperative Jonghyun had extended rotated around and around in Kibum’s mind – make sure he doesn't hurt himself over this.
Jinki walked forward slowly, as Kibum twirled the glass in his hand distractedly. It seemed even he was considering his actions. The crimson liquid was a calling he wanted to mute, but one he just couldn’t.
"Come on, Kibum,” Jinki tried, “you have me now, you don’t need a drink. You don't want a drink.” Kibum glared up at Jinki, and appeared as if he was about to shout, to argue, to cause ruckus they were both too weary for, but something snapped, and then his features were down-cast like the winter weather outside. His hands shook and his eyes clouded, and so Jinki walked forward, as close as he dared, and took the glass from him. He poured the contents down the sink as Kibum narrowed his gaze on the kitchen table, his musky scent a minor comfort. Jinki watched the wine stream away, further and further, until it disappeared completely.
“I'm trying,” Kibum murmured shakily, “I really am.”
"I know,” Jinki acknowledged steadily, heart churning in his chest, “that’s why I stopped you.”
Kibum blinked, clutched his sleeves and exhaled. Wiping his eyes tiredly, he nodded to the sofa.
"Can we sit down?” he pondered, and Jinki nodded. They both walked to the sofa hesitantly, the grey of outside reminiscent to night. Time was slipping by so slowly, so hesitantly, as if scared to upset the fractured realities both men were living. Neither had come to terms, not yet, and as Jinki sank into the sofa and Kibum reclined by his side, the only sign both were still living was the way they breathed together, like synchronised gymnasts. The sofa was comfortable, yet it wasn't, and Jinki couldn’t help but feel nervous, for it had been years since his friendship with Kibum was like this – just the two of them, together, fraught and uninterrupted by the quixotic lies of reality. He didn’t know what to say, for no words could stomach what had happened.
"Do you really think they'll charge him?” Kibum worried lifelessly, leaning forwards on the sofa. His body was so strict, yet so weak, a contradiction to state that only emphasised his evolving, consuming plight.
"No,” Jinki answered truthfully, “no, Kibum.” He believed such statements to be true, for Minho was innocent. He wasn’t lying, wasn’t scheming, hadn’t laid a finger on Taemin in anything more than love, in friendship, and the artist knew this, knew this more than he knew up from down.
"He's not him anymore,” Kibum spoke plaintively, “he's not him, Jinki.”
"Kibum,” Jinki attempted, noticing the way the younger became frantic with his breathing, “Minho- he- he has to mourn what happened. He won't be himself for a while, but he's still Minho, Minho’s still here.”
"Only he's not,” Kibum handed back, “he's in some ing interrogation room.” Kibum tilted his head to the side. Never before had Jinki seen him so weak, so pathetic. Kibum was a high-flying, city-dwelling, problem-facing enigma. He wasn’t this. He was never this.
“It's all my fault.” Kibum’s voice cracked at the words, and Jinki felt everything within him contract, as if someone was pushing each little bone together, to make him feel small, to make him feel worthless.
"No,” Jinki shot down instantly, firmly. “Why would you even say that, Kibum?”
"Because it is,” Kibum whimpered. “It all is.”
He was crying then, and Jinki did all he knew how – he embraced Kibum. Leaning back on the sofa, he held the younger’s shoulder as the secretary buried his head into his chest, tears beginning to dampen the fabric of his jumper. Kibum curled up, tucking his legs beneath him, and held onto Jinki’s clothes tightly, sobbing uncontrollably. For a minute, all Jinki could feel was Kibum’s frail body by his, could feel the erratic beating of his own constricted heart, and the way that everything slowed to a pulse. They were so, so close, closer than they'd ever been, but Kibum barely seemed to notice.
Placing a hand on Kibum’s soft hair, Jinki began to it, to calm the younger, until he felt tears prick against his eyes. Though he cared for Kibum, Jinki knew the secretary wasn’t the one he should be holding. His hands should become intertwined with hair the colour of cherry blossom rather than Kibum’s deep brunette, and his arms should lock around a tiny, narrow-framed man, not a tall, broad-shouldered one.
Shudders subsiding, Kibum seemed to catch on to his proximity with Jinki – the fact that nothing separated them but the fabric of their clothes. He retracted his head, but his hands remained on Jinki’s chest, stoic, fearful. It was as if sudden movements could break him. Looking up at the artist, Kibum’s eyelashes fluttered, and he offered a sad grin.
"Jonghyun’s a lucky man to have you,” Kibum bequeathed. For a moment, he analysed Jinki’s features, and the elder felt locked in a vice, for he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Kibum’s gaze was handcuffs around his conscience, and the secretary’s desperation for comfort was blatantly transparent.
"No,” Jinki answered sullenly, “he deserves better.”
Gently, he peeled Kibum’s hands away, holding them in his own for a second. Kibum knew when his play was over, the stage emptied from all but him. His script was an odd one, one Jinki hasn't anticipated, but he couldn’t allow the younger to make any further advances, for his own sake. Their closeness had already breached the boundaries of friendship, but it was an irrational move. Jinki knew Kibum just needed anyone.
“Why would you say that?” Kibum asked, finally apart from Jinki. He dried the remnants of tears with his sleeves, sitting on his knees, as Jinki leant forward, feeling more uncomfortable now. The artist was under no illusion that, had he been single, Kibum would have seized the opportunity, even despite their many years of friendship. They were somewhat akin to strangers these days, Jinki figured.
Jinki clasped his hands together and furrowed his brows. All he could think of was Jonghyun, how much he loved Jonghyun, and the growing ravine that was separating them: A conflict of untold pasts, unseen futures and the wretched present. His affection for the man still lived, even if his trust had perished.
Sensing he wouldn’t answer, Kibum continued, “You're a good man, Jinki. I-“ he stopped, and collected his breath. “I'm sorry, for everything.”
When he apologised, Jinki knew the younger wasn’t talking about himself, wasn’t talking about Taemin. He was talking about her, about a past he didn’t want to remember, not ever.
"I have to go,” Jinki muttered gruffly. He stood to leave, back stiff, body warm, but before he could move, a small hand tightened around his wrist.
"Wait,” Kibum murmured, “there's something you-something you have to see.”
Quietly, Jinki waited as Kibum dropped his wrist. The secretary disappeared into Minho’s room momentarily, and when he reappeared, in his small hands he held two pieces of paper – the first a picture, the second a note.
"These were by him when he died,” Kibum explained shakily. Padding across to Jinki, Kibum handed him both items. Jinki stared, before blinking up at Kibum.
"He loved Minho?”
Kibum nodded, and elaborated, “I think Minho was the only thing that kept him living so long.”
"Why did he thank me?” Jinki asked. As soon as he spoke them aloud, he knew the words would haunt him for years, haunt him just as Taemin’s death. He would never see Taemin again, would never be able to laugh with him, joke with him, mock the tall basketballer with him… He would never see Taemin again.
“I don’t know,” Kibum answered, “I just don’t know, Jinki.”
Guilt.
“I need to go,” Jinki spoke briskly, handing the note and picture back to Kibum. He had to be strong, had to remain calm. It was okay. He could handle this, he could.
"I'll be fine,” Kibum assured, and Jinki nodded.
He had no choice, he had to go, for he and Jonghyun had to talk.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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