Twenty-Five
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes Around“Why don’t you just take me through the events of last night? What happened when you went to visit the deceased?”
Minho stared at the table. Opposite him, a man sat, efficient as he was smart, dressed in a designer shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was slicked back, and in his accent was a foreign lilt, though Minho couldn’t place it. The officers from earlier had vanished, leaving Minho alone in the squat interrogation room. It was just like the movies – metal table, double-sided mirror, and the burdensome glare of the detective that questioned him.
"Mr. Choi,” prompted the stern-featured man, voice that of a soothsayer, “last night, when you went to see the deceased, what happened?”
The deceased.
Minho tried to remember. He really, really tried, however the only things that his mind could grasp was how cold the dismal room was, how the sanity in his mind was paralleled by a grief no smooth voice could dispel. Darkness verged the edges of his memory; he felt a body, small, tucked against his, and saw the subtle curve of falsely platinum hair across a motionless expression, a content expression. He saw the corpse of a man who loved him, of a man he didn’t have the time to love back, and a man that had died, alone, to spare his soul from the torture his reality subjected him to. Blinking, Minho felt a pulse that wasn’t there – but this time, it was his own.
"Mr. Choi, if you don’t cooperate-“
"He has a name.” Minho’s voice was terse, lacking remorse, lacking the care to know when he should subdue his words. The deceased was no way to remember a man so beautiful, the deceased destroyed any identity he'd had.
"Look,” the detective began again, “I realise that this was a very recent event, Mr. Choi, but we need your help to understand what happened to the- to Taemin, so that those who knew him can remain content in the knowledge of how he passed. Nobody is expecting this to be easy for you, but please, answer my questions. Can you do that for me?”
"You already know how he died,” Minho answered, trying his best to focus elsewhere, to focus on something other than the dim gradient of light in the room, a gradient that so easily reflected his life. Once bright, now a grey abyss – this was a labyrinth he would have difficulty escaping.
"We can't be sure of anything yet, Mr. Choi,” countered the detective, much to Minho’s abject displeasure. Though what he would depict speared nausea in his gut, Minho couldn’t help but state it as his nostrils flared.
"His wrists had two cuts in them, Sir. I found him in a bathtub, and he wasn't breathing. Tell me, what do you think that is?”
"Mr. Choi,” the detective tried again, ignorant towards Minho's spate of evidence, “I must insist that you be compliant. What happened last night?”
Minho clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He needed something – but it wasn’t to be let free, it wasn’t to go home, it wasn’t to rid himself of his memories, it was to see Taemin again, to see the glorious smile the younger had always held, to hear his song of laughter and watch his talents in dance. Minho needed Taemin back, but being defiant towards the detective wasn't going to resurrect him.
"Last night,” Minho began lowly, speaking as if under the guise of a sedative, “I'd planned to visit-to visit-“ He paused, unable to say the name. “Last night, I went around to his house. I'd planned to visit him earlier, but I… I got caught up with family.”
"What time did you arrive at Taemin’s?” the detective pressed, finally intrigued now that Minho had opened up.
"Around nine,” Minho spoke despondently. He still felt the chill of the night-air on the back of his neck.
"And when you arrived,” the detective pondered, “the front door was locked?”
"No,” Minho mumbled, “it was open.”
"And so you let yourself in?”
"When I got no answer, I did, yes.”
The detective paused momentarily, considering what he was hearing. Every word the basketballer spoke he doubted. He knew the game the detective played was one in search for holes, for kinks in the information that could further bend the wire, and so Minho understood that any misplaced words could easily grant him a night behind bars if he were so careless to give the opportunity for it.
"And would you say your relationship to the deceased was close enough that he wouldn’t have minded you doing this?”
"Taemin.
“Yes, sorry – your relationship with Taemin, then.”
"We were best friends,” Minho muttered sincerely, “close, like brothers.”
"But it's true,” the detective continued, manner starting to aggravate, “that this home wasn’t where Taemin normally stayed? This was a family house?”
"Yeah,” Minho slung back, “so?”
"After you entered,” the detective continued, ignorant towards Minho’s rhetoric, “what did you do then?”
"I called out for him,” Minho managed, voice cracked. He still remembered how echoed his tone had been in the desolate house, how candid.
"And when he didn’t respond?”
"I started looking.”
The detective nodded to himself, and then stood. He was tall – not quite the height of Minho, but certainly close, and the parting of his hair only accentuated such a fact. His figure leant to the intimidation as he began to pace, arms folded against his chest, hand expelling emphatic gestures.
"When you found him,” he mused, “was he in the bathtub?”
"Yes.”
"And you were the one to haul him out?”
"Yes.”
"What time would this have been?”
Minho couldn’t stand the detective’s prying any longer. Questions frayed his tired mind, creating a haberdashery of thoughts that were baying for a customer, charring embers against his skin as he struggled to douse them. Images of Kibum’s scared-witless expression taunted him, the elder’s vulnerable visage canvassed across his thoughts. Kibum needed him, and Minho wasn’t there, and the basketballer couldn’t quite figure how he'd been denied that opportunity.
"Sir, why am I here?”
The detective blinked at Minho, momentarily upset at his inquisitive nature; however, that upset dissipated hastily, for no-doubt had he faced similar questions in his career. Brow firm and upper-lip taut, the detective rolled his neck, not keen to divulge too much on the situation.
"It would seem, Mr. Choi, that several people have their doubts that Taemin really did take his own life.”
"What do you mean?”
The detective shrugged mildly, as if the manner mattered little.
"They seem to think that you did it, Mr. Choi. They seem to think that you are a murderer.”
Minho felt his face shade ashen as the detective spoke. Though visibly distraught and fragmented beyond belief, people still believed that, somehow, he'd murdered his best friend, his brother. Minho clenched his fists beneath the table, anger his dry pulsation. Taemin had been delicate, vulnerable, ethereal – how anyone even thought he would hurt him was near-harrowing.
"But I would never hurt him,” Minho breathed sincerely, “never.”
"Others don’t hold the same belief,” the detective replied objectively. Though the interview was recorded, as all interviews were, Minho didn't feel the need to perform in any way; the utter shock and devastation in his voice would be transparent even on tape, and so he merely hoped such sadness would aid him.
"But I-I-“
"Mr. Choi,” the detective attempted, “Mr. Choi, please.”
But Minho was gone. He wasn’t in the interrogation room anymore, he was stuck in the reel of a past that swung his life in retrograde; he saw his childhood and his adulthood, the innocence of youth and the forbidden fancies of the young. He saw friends, lovers, one-night stands or forgotten ties, but nestled between it all, like the mangled body of a new-born baby bird, was Taemin. He would never see the dancer again.
"Interview ending at 3:47PM,” the detective muttered, knowing only time would coax Minho from his distressed shuddering, his polluted mind. The detective left, and took with him Minho’s only grasp at humanity.
•••
Kibum swung back his head and downed the last of the bottle.
It was darkening outside; past eight but before nine, where the transition into night truly began. Children were tucked into bed to swaddle alongside their dreams, and parents were tucked into the mundane blessings of their life. The young swung back their first drink, the elderly hobbled into sleep, and the streetlamps outside would observe it all, whether directly above the mishaps of life of straining to peer through a window. Though it was boxing day, the city would bleed dry from a gash known only as normality, though Kibum was, as ever, unblemished.
Chucking the bottle angrily away (and hearing it shatter against a kitchen cupboard, no doubt broken in a kaleidoscopic of pieces), Kibum hazily grabbed for the next, and unscrewed the lid furiously. It was already half-empty, this bottle, the red wine being his port of indulgence weeks ago, and now was his go-to again to patch his dry throat. One thing he could never understand was how he managed to throw back so much, but was always thirsty for more, the archaic pang completely consuming the rawness of his thoughts.
To Kibum, I'm sorry.
The secretary laughed as he ambled away from the kitchen, a red sheen glowing across his often-ashen features. At first, he'd been cocky and bashful enough to believe that Taemin had been apologising for his own misgivings. Though Kibum couldn’t point to what those misgivings actually were, I'm sorry were words of self-imposed guilt and regret, and so, naturally, Kibum had assumed Taemin to have been guilty or to have regretted. Soon, however, another, more sensible, epiphany occurred, hewing out any of that sentimentality and replacing it instead with the absolute of truth: Taemin hadn’t been apologising over something he'd done, he'd been apologising for he was sorry that the secretary himself was such a pitiful, arrogant, deluded little creature. He was sorry to Kibum that he was Kibum.
That had hurt.
Taemin had his reasons, however, and in his alcohol-enthused mind, Kibum recalled those reasons no more vividly than when he stumbled drunkenly against his bedroom door, opening it as best he could with a feeble arm. He remembered that door, remembered ing Taemin against that door, had remembered being ed against that door – though that was a tale buried deeper than his own will to change. Kibum recalled so easily how lithe Taemin’s body had been, how soft the skin of his sides were against his own calloused fingers, how wanton his moans and how frantic his movements. Kibum chuckled cynically, tumbling backwards from the door with his bottle in hand.
Taemin was dead now.
Swigging as much as his mouth could carry and swallowing what would suffice, Kibum’s mind became so entrenched and intoxicated that he couldn’t see the light above him from the darkness of night. He was lost, inescapably, to a realm of burnt-out desire and delusion, fuelled by his alcoholism and willingness to forget and to-
Kibum groaned shamelessly as his mind caught up with him, visual senses aligning with the scant thought of before. He remembered being ed against that door. It wasn't often that happened, and it hadn’t happened in years, but Kibum couldn’t deny that the last time it had was the best night of his life. In that moment, he wanted to relive it, wanted to feel the hands of the man that had done it, wanted to run the flats of his own palms down the man’s strong, strong body, over the grooves of his torso and the muscles of his shoulders. He wanted to feel the roughness of the man against him, how that night, in their drunkenness, he'd been so ing desperate – a quality he'd never displayed before or since – and had over-powered Kibum as easily as sin overpowered blessing. Kibum wanted him again, so badly, that the tension was going to become unbearable.
Kibum caught himself on.
Whilst he gave thoughts to his sordid little fancies, his disgusting, carnal little dreams, the people he loved were distraught. Taemin was dead, Jonghyun was mournful, Minho was losing his mind, and Jinki was-
Kibum collapsed atop his bed, so drunk the strength in his legs had weakened. His arms splayed by his sides, the open bottle near-empty now, the remaining contents trickling across the cool duvet.
Jinki.
Above him, the light blared fiercely, trying to connect the chains of his sober mind, however distant he was, and so Kibum shut his eyes, shut it off, wanting to remain forever intoxicated. The bed was so soft, so gentle, so caressing, as the thoughts began to barricade him in an area he would never have touched were he sober.
Jinki-hyung was so ing great. Whereas Kibum was a selfish prick, baying for attention and forcing his friend into a compromising position to visit him, Jinki had appeared, despite the multitude of qualms that he no-doubt faced. He'd appeared, and he'd held Kibum, and when Kibum had almost gone too far, he'd gripped the situation firmly, gracefully, in a way he knew would leave their friendship as intact as it had ever been. God, he was amazing, and Kibum had believed sincerely every word that he'd breathed to the artist – Jonghyun was a very, very lucky man.
Kibum stiffened slightly as unwarranted thoughts came to mind. Jinki-hyung. He was the final on the list. Not that Kibum had planned or plotted, but it seemed the secretary had a habit for getting too rowdy and destroying his friendships, all for one simple, simple thing – . He'd ed a multitude of his college friends, he'd ed Taemin, he'd ed-
Kibum shook his head, dispelling the thought.
The only one he hadn’t even touched was Jinki, but Kibum didn't want to. Though great and wonderful and all forms of perfect, Jinki was also innocent, and vulnerable, and angst-ridden, and broken. Kibum imagined him to be the gentle type, the thorough type, the one who only made love when he meant it and wasted no time in dropping kisses in-between the rampant pleasure-building. He'd be-
Wait, why am I even thinking about this?
Kibum’s mind spoke, but the secretary didn’t listen. He was split in two. One wanted to explore something he hadn't done-so before, and the other attempted to pressure him into sobriety, to get his act together, to leave the tepid bedroom, to make himself presentable and try – just try – to act like he wasn’t as wilted as a winter leaf inside. The parts weren’t equal, however, and one cried much louder than the other. Every man needed care, every man needed attention, ever man needed to be satisfied, and it had been weeks, if not months, since Kibum had experienced any such things. God, he was so ing lonely.
The secretary stirred as he kept his eyes screwed shut in blissful imagining. Jinki-hyung, the only one he hadn’t explored in-depth. He was a good guy, a kind guy, a lovely guy, a handsome guy – but he wasn’t Kibum’s guy, he was Kim Jonghyun’s. Kibum sank into the sheets slightly as he imagined, just briefly, what it would be like to have someone to call his own. Though partial to many flings and having spent the coldest of nights with the warmest of people, Kibum didn’t know what it was to have love reciprocated. Jonghyun and Jinki’s relationship was probably so ing perfect, like the men within it. Kibum imagined that they would be the hand-holding type, the morning-kisses type, the type to be as affectionate as they were in adoration of one-another. It almost hurt the secretary to know he may never feel such a bond with someone, that he didn’t deserve such love. He'd had many times, but it was often rough and uncherished, and he'd bestowed many hugs, but they were often platonic and empty. He just wanted someone to hold him, to kiss him, to help him sleep in the shadow of night.
Kibum just wanted someone, anyone.
Practically curling inwards, Kibum’s entire body rushed as he tugged his mind into keeping. Spread across the bed by himself was an odd affair, for he was normally not alone, and was never, ever clothed. He also wouldn’t be the one spread – it would be a beautiful young woman, with anticipating eyes and a raw lip. Though, Kibum supposed, he had been the one on the duvet before, he had been the vulnerable one, and God, had it felt amazing. Kibum remembered the man from his earlier imaginings, remembered how he'd towered above the helpless secretary, grazing darkened eyes over , milky skin. The secretary recalled widening his own legs that little bit further, body tantalizingly warm, irrevocably ready, teeth chewing on his red lower lip with such eagerness. He remembered the man’s form, glistening in sweat and expectation, fully erect and fully divine, strong hands having to soothe himself at the sheer sight of Kibum’s exposed form. God, did Kibum remember. He remembered so well.
Practically curling inwards, Kibum’s entire body rushed as he tugged his mind into keeping. Spread across the bed by himself was an odd affair, for he was normally not alone, and was never, ever clothed. He also wouldn’t be the one spread – it would be a beautiful young woman, with anticipating eyes and a raw lip. Though, Kibum supposed, he had been the one on the duvet before, he had been the vulnerable one, and God, had it felt amazing. Kibum remembered the man from his earlier imaginings, remembered how he'd towered above the helpless secretary, grazing darkened eyes over , milky skin. The secretary recalled widening his own legs that little bit further, body tantalizingly warm, irrevocably ready, teeth chewing on his red lower lip with such eagerness. He remembered the man’s form, glistening in sweat and expectation, fully erect and fully divine, strong hands having to soothe himself at the sheer sight of Kibum’s exposed form. God, did Kibum remember. He remembered so well.
The secretary muttered an expletive, feeling his body begin to respond to the imaginings in the worst way it could. The product of loneliness and desperation – and alcohol, so much alcohol. Kibum cursed his own idiocy, but couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t help himself, from imagining further.
Slipping his hand beneath the band of his jogging bottoms, Kibum’s eyes seemed to roll to the back of his head as he imagined the man he'd loved loving doing this to him once more, feeling him there. The secretary’s entire body stiffened at the idea, pulse pouncing as if a hunter. Kibum remembered how ethereal the man’s hands had felt around him, how strong his back had been to hold onto as he'd massaged and and played with the secretary’s every part, and Kibum remembered the absolute ecstasy of having the man inside him, ing him, faster and faster and faster-
Kibum removed his hand from himself before he could do worse, and cried. The tears were light at first, but soon evolved into shuddering sobs, that echoed so blankly through the apartment that all he could do was hear them.
He was desperate for the man he'd had. He really, really was. Though he wanted to hide it, bury it, consume it with the last of his red wine, Kibum couldn't do it anymore, couldn't handle it. That simple touch earlier had been enough to provoke the feelings he'd been burying beneath his own despair, a touch that had been to only his arm, a touch that said little from the giver but spoke a plethora to Kibum. He didn’t know if he was in love, didn't want to be in love, but Kibum was certainly in lustful desperation, and always had been. He needed his old lover, needed to be held by him again for he was so, so, so alone, but his fantasy was far away.
He was desperate for the man he'd had. He really, really was. Though he wanted to hide it, bury it, consume it with the last of his red wine, Kibum couldn't do it anymore, couldn't handle it. That simple touch earlier had been enough to provoke the feelings he'd been burying beneath his own despair, a touch that had been to only his arm, a touch that said little from the giver but spoke a plethora to Kibum. He didn’t know if he was in love, didn't want to be in love, but Kibum was certainly in lustful desperation, and always had been. He needed his old lover, needed to be held by him again for he was so, so, so alone, but his fantasy was far away.
His fantasy was in an interrogation room, being asked daunting questions on the friend he'd just lost.
•••
Jinki stood in Jonghyun’s living room silently, watching as his lover stirred a spoonful of sugar into the tea he'd been brewing for himself when Jinki had interrupted. Conveniently, Yoogeun was napping in Jonghyun’s room, as if such sleep-times were scripted by the musician, as he tiredly dragged a hand through his hair. The sleeves of his jumper were rolled up, revealing two strong arms. Veins visible, once Jinki would have been enraptured by the younger’s candid beauty, but now it simply upset him. He was about to argue with a man so vulnerable, so ethereal, and it almost instilled a sense of guilt in the worried artist.
When Jonghyun turned around again to lean the small of his back against the counter, cradling the steaming mug in his hands, he said nothing. He looked at Jinki once with heavy, unblinking eyes, and then blew his boiling drink to cool it. When he sipped the liquid, he stifled a hiss at the slight burn that bit his lips, but he remained still, almost as if he was unaware Jinki was even there. Someone needed to break the proliferating quiet, and Jinki figured that someone wouldn’t be the musician.
"Thank you for looking after him,” Jinki acknowledged, but Jonghyun’s response was further vapid than the room they stood in. He nodded once, curtly, giving Jinki the respect he would a thief caught mid-act. This unnerved Jinki, drying his throat and forcing him to clench his fists tightly. When his anger managed to grow limbs and a body, Jinki allowed it to wrap itself around his every organ, squeezing tighter and tighter, building even more pressure, until he could do nothing but blurt it out, though he wished he could handle it more carefully.
"Jonghyun, you said we needed to talk, so why won't you actually talk to me?”
Jonghyun flinched slightly, the nip in Jinki’s voice something rare, something he wasn’t used to. The elder usually sounded so soothing, so beautiful, and it crippled Jonghyun’s thoughts to believe that such a quality had diminished because of him.
“What do you want me to even say?” Jonghyun answered back, lifting his eyes from the dismal coffee before him and laying his sight on the artist.
"I'm not apologising, Jinki. I've nothing to apologise for.”
"No,” Jinki answered, pacing slightly, clearly nervous, erratic. “I want you to tell me what the hell you think you know about my-about my son, how the hell you found out what it is you think you know, Jonghyun.” Jinki swallowed, startled at his own confidence. Had this not been about Yoogeun, Jinki supposed he would have dropped it then and there. Jonghyun was his lover, but Yoogeun was his son, and he would do anything for that child in the faintest of heartbeats, even if that meant confronting the man he valued so, so dearly.
"Jinki,” Jonghyun murmured, tone almost pleading, “you haven’t told the poor kid that his-that his own mother is dead.” He hoped Jinki would realise how absurd this was. He really, really did.
"What do you know?” Jinki retaliated. “Did you ask him, Jonghyun? Did you ask my son – my three year-old son – about his dead mother?” The very thought seemed to repulse Jinki to the core as he gritted his teeth, struggling to keep the past at bay.
Jonghyun remained silent, a criminal to Jinki’s statement.
Jonghyun remained silent, a criminal to Jinki’s statement.
"Jonghyun?” prompted the artist, words laced in the authority of love, of trust, of partnership.
"How else was I going to get to understand you?” Jonghyun tried, hoping his reasoning would bridge the already forming gap. “How else would I get an insight to your life? You don't tell me , you never tell me , and I-“
But Jonghyun was caught off by Jinki muttering, “Jesus,” and rubbing his face with his palms. Stress lanced through him, from the very tip of his toes to the strands of his brunette hair. Jonghyun retracted slightly, placing down the mug, for his hands were becoming too shaky to hold it.
"What did you tell him?” Jinki queried, suddenly frantic, whipping his hands from his features. “What did you say?”
"I didn’t say anything,” Jonghyun murmured sincerely. “What could I say? I know just as much about his mother as he does.”
Jinki seemed to jar slightly, fidgeting with his hands as he attempted to calm the tumult in his gut. This was his son they were discussing. His son.
“Do you have any idea what you could have done to him?” Jinki pushed, jabbing a finger at the closed door to Jonghyun’s bedroom. “Jesus, Jonghyun, he's just a kid! You had no right – no right – to talk to him about this. No right.”
"That doesn’t change the fact he doesn’t know his mother's dead,” Jonghyun retorted, ignoring the factors of their relationship and instead honing in on Yoogeun’s future. Jinki had to see how detrimental this could be. He had to. “What is it you want, Jinki? Do you want him to grow up with the belief she's alive? Do you have any idea what that would do to him?”
"He's only three,” Jinki refuted, “he doesn’t even know what death is yet. And-and this doesn’t change the fact that you have no right to ask him things like that! Did you consider what could happen? What he might ask me?”
"Oh, yeah,” Jonghyun nodded, “he would probably ask about how his mum died, where she's at – and he'd find out the truth, not whatever bull you’ve been feeding him!”
"It's not bull!” Jinki raged, face flushing crimson. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand, you aren’t a father, you don’t know what it's like to raise a child.”
"You know what?” Jonghyun responded, shocked at how his own pitch was rising to meet Jinki’s. “I'm not a father, but I still know what it is to care. He'll find out the truth eventually, Jinki, and the sooner, the better.”
"Stop acting like you have a ing clue about what you're saying,” Jinki spat, the memories provoking a vicious spate that dug swears from a cabinet normally locked. Jonghyun recoiled slightly at the expletive. “Stop acting like you know.”
"I guess I don’t,” Jonghyun mumbled, suddenly drained, suddenly exhausted, the fight within him flickering as he approached Jinki’s stoic form. “I don’t have a clue because you don't tell me anything, Jinki.” Slowly, he kept walking closer. “Now, I have been more than patient with you. I've waited, and I've waited, and I've waited to find the right bloody time, but it seems there never is one, is there?”
"What do you mean?” Jinki threw back, as the distance between them got shorter and shorter, twine of their anger growing thinner and thinner.
"I mean,” Jonghyun began, pausing about a metre from Jinki, “that you haven’t told me one thing, not one, about your past. I've shared everything about my past, Jinki, and that was so, so painful – but I loved you, and you deserved to know, and so I told you all I could. Ever since, I've been waiting for you to show me the same trust, but you haven’t so much as hinted.” Jonghyun was surprised Jinki had remained silent for so long, the tension in their stare a muted rifle-fire.
"It's complicated,” Jinki managed, breath constricted, and Jonghyun almost lost himself in the embroilment of rage and sadness. Instead, he tampered the fury into his words.
"Complicated? Ha, clearly, Jinki.” Jonghyun shook his head. This subject was dangerous, the past a minefield with no signposts, and so he had to be cautious. Despite everything, Jinki was still the man he loved. “I just want to know,” Jonghyun begged, lifting his head slowly, “I want to understand. Who was she? How did she die? When did she die?”
The triad of questions was all it took for Jinki’s eyes to glaze over, and then he was simply staring into the space behind Jonghyun, remembering. He remembered who she was, how she died and when, and once he looked back at Jonghyun, the blatant terror in his eyes was transparent, so much so that the musician wanted to reach out to him, to hug him – but he couldn’t, not now.
"Jinki,” Jonghyun pressed softly, “please.”
Jinki swapped his gaze to Jonghyun, lips parted, expression glossed. He shook his head.
Exasperation leant to Jonghyun’s actions as he gripped Jinki’s arm tightly and shook him, pleads tumbling from his mouth – he just wanted to understand, just needed to know what Jinki was hiding, but such contact only served to snap the artist.
"Let go!” Jinki commanded, ripping his arm away and stumbling backwards. Jonghyun didn't understand. He'd never understand. “This isn’t your life,” Jinki shot back. “This isn’t your business.”
"Can't you see?!” Jonghyun raised, agitation widening his eyes and mocking his tone. “This is my life now, Jinki. The moment I told you I loved you, this became my life.”
"What the hell are you talking about?” Jinki snipped, Jonghyun’s ever-cryptic language scoring claw-marks with no discernible origin.
"You are my life,” Jonghyun suddenly admitted, the aggravation between them both becoming too much for him, as his weary shoulders sagged. “You're my life, Jinki, but I don’t understand you.”
Jinki blinked heavily, mouth dry. He hadn't been expecting that. But, just as easily as he'd become caring, anger riled up into a twisted knot within Jonghyun again.
"I pay you so much respect,” Jonghyun expounded, “so much. I'm always there for you, always caring, and you repay me by-by accusing me for your best friend's suicide, by telling me damn-all about-“
"You were the one who told us not to act on the abuse!” Jinki interjected, revitalised as the topic of Taemin returned. “You were there one who said he'd be fine. Not me, not God, but you.”
"You didn’t do anything either,” Jonghyun reminisced, “you were just as complacent as I was! Don’t dare try pin this on me. I barely knew the kid.”
"Oh, so now it's my fault?” Jinki queried bashfully, heart burning cold. “I made a mistake believing your lies, Jonghyun, that it'd just all be ing dandy. And now he's-“ a crack in voice “-and now he's dead.”
Both men stopped, chilled.
"Listen to us,” Jonghyun muttered, on the verge of an epiphany. “A man is dead and we're-“ He took a step back from Jinki, ruffling his own hair. As much as Jinki would have liked to the dismiss the notion, Jonghyun really did look so beautiful today. It was when he was dressed-down, casual, bed-headed and unruly when he looked his best. There were no gimmicks, no guises, and simply the musician. The talented, kind-hearted, thoughtful musician. Jinki swallowed thickly, nerves wrought.
"Jinki,” reached the younger, words effortlessly drenched in a fragility no other could possess, “this has to stop. Please, Jinki. Just tell me the truth. Who was Yoogeun’s mother, and why won't you ever talk about her?” Jonghyun’s eyes were desperate as he spoke, lined with the faintest of tears. It almost broke Jinki to see him like this.
Considering all, the only thing Jinki could offer was a wavered, “Leave it.”
A hand was on his arm again, and words were slipping from the younger’s lips, but to Jinki they were a faded miasma of misunderstandings and miscommunications. Consonants merged with vowels and the entirety of the alphabet struck cordless with an empty chime, and all he could see was Yoogeun, and her, and Jonghyun, and the echoing constraints of fear. He was on the edge, on the limit, palms sweaty, mind sharp, and although he didn’t want to do it, though he knew it was wrong, Jinki did what his temper demanded.
"Leave it!"
The shout had been near-deafening. No-doubt had the neighbours heard it. A cry erupted from Jonghyun’s bedroom. The toddler had heard it too.
But it was Jonghyun’s reaction that struck the artist most severely. The musician quivered and retracted instantly, curling inwards, defensive, as if Jinki were about to strike. His entire body trembled, lips parted, eyes wide, unseeing. Jinki had scared him.
The artist stared at the scene of his carnage, instantly regretful.
"I-Jonghyun-I-“
"Get out,” Jonghyun hissed, berated by terror, by the broken link of trust. Jinki extended an arm, but Jonghyun recoiled further. “Get the hell out of my house.”
Jinki could only oblige, as he ran to Jonghyun’s room to collect his son, and left without even a goodbye.
•••
It was well past midnight when the door to their apartment opened. Kibum hadn’t fallen asleep, thankfully, but had been too ashamed to move after disposing of the bottle, attempting to sober up as he lay, almost lifeless, atop his duvet. A headache pulsed dimly in the back of his conscience, like a flickering light, and every breath was shrewd, empty. Though not catastrophic yet, soon the headache would become unbearable, and as would his self-pity, his shame, his anguish. He was so, so sick. So ing sick.
"Are you going to move from there?” came a deep voice from the doorway. He'd known Kibum was drunk the moment he'd returned, for the stench of alcohol was wry in the air and the mood of the apartment so damp not even a year of warmth could soothe it. He'd found Kibum himself strewn across his own bed, out-of-mind, out-of-touch, with the simplest of his surroundings.
"Minho,” came the weak reply. The basketballer stood, and stared, and felt part of himself rapture, for deep down he knew that this was his own fault. Kibum had needed him, needed a arm to cling to in the face of their trauma, and he hadn’t been there to provide it.
"I ed up,” Kibum admitted meekly, eyes still trained on the blank ceiling, “didn’t I?”
"You did,” Minho answered, remaining strength elapsing in on itself with steady progression. His entire day had been a line of snipped string, and though he'd tried so desperately to tie it together, the edges were too frayed to touch.
"Forensics couldn't find my print on the knife,” Minho murmured, “I'm in the clear.”
Kibum was silent.
"But I know who did this,” continued the basketballer, determined that even in his drunken state, Kibum would understand. “I know who accused me.”
"Who?” croaked the elder, trying to come to his senses.
"Taemin’s parents.”
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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