Twenty-Six
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N hey! I want to apologise for several things. Firstly, the wait for this update. Secondly, the short length of this update. Thirdly, the awful quality of this update TvT without being too cry-me-a-river about it, life has happened, and I have become extremely demotivated by everything I write. I have started writing a new novel, which will take lots of time, but it is my quest for, like, //something// in writing, but I just.. Can't write, my skills are so lacklustre, so i am devoting a lot to this new story and then have little time for this, so i am so Sorry T-T as ever, thanks for reading <3 i also know nothing on funeral tradition in south Korea but yeah. Sorry haha xD
•••
No matter how many times he tried, Jinki couldn’t slip the thread through the eye of the needle. In the corner, on the couch, Yoogeun slept peacefully, the tresses of his matted black hair soft against the white cushion he rested against. Occasionally, Jinki would distractedly cast his eyes to the sleeping child, watch his small chest rise up and down, and feel the only contentment he could ever source from his bleak reality. Love was a temporal thing, a fickle thing, but Jinki knew that, unconditionally, he would always feel it for his son. He allowed his heart to beat in whispers as he continued.
In the background, the radio crackled indistinctly. As it was so late, the only shows to air were the niche artistic types, that played sumptuous blues to aid the listener to sleep. As Jinki listened, the dulcet croak of another soulful song guided his wavering hand, and he wondered whether it was age or discomfort that bid him such a shake. He hoped neither. The noise of the radio dampened by his own will to listen, Jinki eventually dropped the needle atop the table, and gave up. He would try to sew Yoogeun’s pirate-print pyjamas the next day. Or the day after.
He hadn’t entirely decided his schedule yet.
Standing, Jinki padded wearily to the staircase, and lifted a maroon hoodie that hung over the banister. It held the scent of his old cologne, one he hadn’t worn in months but yet seemed to linger like a ghost around his house. Sliding his arms into the comfortable top, he hugged against himself, and simply thought.
It had been over a week since Taemin had been confirmed dead. It had been over a week since he'd spoken to Jonghyun. It had been over a week since Jinki had been able to live life normally. He hadn’t slept, had barely eaten, and was often short-tempered due to such circumstances. Yoogeun would face his wrath, or his paintings would face his wrath, but in either case, the outcome was detrimental, ill-intended and blatantly wrong. It seemed as if in the course of a week, Jinki had become less than human.
It's tomorrow, Jinki.
What is?
The funeral.
Jinki massaged the bridge of his nose as he lazily wandered towards the sofa. It was dark outside, though merely mid-evening, and the low, orange glow of his house was the only thing sustaining his vision. He wanted to elapse in the corner, fold inwards so that he could be drenched in darkness, but with such solitude came the loneliness, came the memories, and Jinki couldn’t contend with either. His body was weakened by state of mind; no illusions of peace for Taemin’s corpse could aid him, no dreams of being with the man he loved.
But, Jinki, there's something you need to... You need to know.
What?
He's being buried where she was buried. He's being buried in the same graveyard.
Jinki fell onto the sofa lightly, the breath journeying from his lungs as they emptied. Though the sofa stirred, Yoogeun did not, and therefore Jinki was able to rest his calloused hand against the toddler’s head tenderly, to provide comfort to his son’s subconscious thoughts – and to Jinki. I'm here, the hand said, and you're there. A link, a bond, a connection, to show Jinki that he wasn’t truly alone.
I can't do it, Minho. I can't come.
Why not, Jinki? He was your best friend. You have to be there, I need you there. She died three years ago. It's time to move on.
You have Kibum, you don't need me.
Jinki felt the surreal pang of loneliness echo through him as he considered all he'd done. His one chance at love, his once chance at companionship, and he'd lost it. He missed Jonghyun. Though a week, it had felt like months, and without the musician by his side, part of him was missing, pining to be satiated. He needed the care Jonghyun expounded, the love the younger gave, but he'd lost it, for he'd been stupid, and now he had to deal with the consequences – alone.
Kibum isn't himself, Jinki. I- You can't make me do this alone. You can't.
I won't go there, Minho.
You'll have to someday. This is important. We can't hide from our pasts. You can't hide from your pa-
The room was cold as Jinki stared. That night, he wouldn’t sleep.
•••
Jonghyun had been playing with the hem of his jumper when the visitor had called. To say he hadn’t been expecting a visitor would have been an understatement – he was neither attired for such situations and hadn’t the energy to stand, however, nonetheless, someone had sought him, and if he'd known aught on the situation he would have presented himself more suitably. Instead, as he was, he wore an over-sized beige jumper (one that Jinki had liked, for Jonghyun was berated by sentiment) and hadn't washed that day, his hair a tousled mess, eyes gouging two slats against his complexion. His very flat was also unprepared, the kitchenette a maelstrom of unwashed dishes and the floor a cot for notebooks and pencils. Even in a last-ditch scrabble to clear the clutter before answering, Jonghyun had known it was inevitable that the visitor would probably be disgusted by the state – however, part of him didn’t even care. He was beyond the point of normality now.
As the visitor regarded him with his often-handsome features, there were emotions in his eyes that Jonghyun couldn’t quite peg to the clothes line. Distrust, maybe, but also solemnity, regret and guilt; a miasma of over-wrought conjuring that the basketballer displayed even in his very posture. His fists were clenched in the cold flat, eyes slits that would flit to every maker of noise. It would have been threatening had it been any other man, at any other time, but it was Choi Minho, Jinki’s best friend, so pure he was practically a disciple.
"Tomorrow?” Jonghyun deflected, sinking back against the kitchen counter, arms wrapped around his waist. He looked so small framed by such uncomfortable light. Minho nodded, resting his fingers on the edge of the kitchen cabinet.
“I know you weren't- I know you and Taemin weren’t necessarily close,” he explained, unable to capture Jonghyun’s eye, “but it isn't- you shouldn’t be there for him. You should be there for Jinki.”
Jonghyun looked away, instantly subject to the embroil of his memories. A precarious tilt of emotion played on his mind as his eyelashes fluttered, yet he tried not to place them on his demeanour, tried not to let Minho see how empty he felt, how vapid.
"Yeah, well, Jinki made it pretty clear he doesn’t need me there,” the musician mumbled, words partial to an echoing upset.
"He does.”
"He hasn’t spoken to me in over a week, Minho. He's done with me, and I figured that you would be happy about that, considering.”
Jonghyun’s eyes were metallic as he glanced at his companion, before stopping himself mid-motion. That had been uncalled for, unjust, and he was unsure why his mind spat such misgivings. This was no time to fight, no time to argue.
Blessed with the ignorance of understanding, Minho continued, “Jonghyun, Jinki is- he's a funny sort, when it comes to death. He doesn’t act like others. He pushes everyone away, but he doesn’t mean to, it's just- just his way.”
Jonghyun remained silent, hands gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles burnt white.
"Jonghyun, he hasn’t told you about his wife, has he?”
The musician shook his head, curiosity piqued. Every part of him begged to know the truth, but it was a truth Jinki didn’t want acknowledged, and so he felt a traitor for confiding in Minho.
"She's buried at the same graveyard as the funeral is taking place.”
"So?”
"So he won't go.”
"Then that’s his choice.”
"Jonghyu-“
"Minho, look,” Jonghyun began, teeth gritted, eyes zealous. “Taemin was a good kid. He really, really was, and even if I didn’t know him half as well as I should have, I will miss him, and I will be at that funeral. But I won't be there for Jinki. He thinks, somehow, that Taemin’s death is my fault. Why would he even want to talk to me if that’s the case? In his eyes, I'm a ing murderer.”
"You know, Jonghyun, that he didn’t mean that. You know he didn’t.”
Jonghyun jutted out his bottom lip, angered, yet subtly so. Recollections of his last encounter with Jinki became imbued upon him as he tried to change course.
"You don’t know what happened his wife, do you?” Minho asked, eyebrows raised. Jonghyun shook his head.
"He isn’t not telling you because he doesn’t trust you, Jonghyun.”
"Well then why isn’t he telling me?”
As Jonghyun asked, he watched Minho lower his head slightly, deep in thought. Conflictions arose to be battered by transparency as he configured all that he knew and all Jonghyun didn’t, and as the musician waited, he couldn’t help but feel the inadequate tension in the air, poignant under Minho’s selflessness. He didn’t like Jonghyun. He liked Jonghyun’s relationship with Jinki even less. Yet he was at the musician’s house, asking for the musician’s help, and in Jonghyun’s eyes, that was somewhat admirable.
"Jinki doesn't… He doesn’t like to relive the past,” Minho began carefully, selective of his words as he tampered with the counter. “Especially when it comes to her. They were so in love, Jonghyun, it was practically a- a fairy tale, in a way. Nothing could break them. She fell pregnant, and they got married, and Yoogeun was born, and it was so, so wonderfully perfect.”
Jonghyun lowered his head, throat constricted. He couldn’t speak, even if he'd wanted to.
"But everything changed, so suddenly, so quickly. It isn't- it isn’t my place to tell you how it happened, Jonghyun, but… You need to realise that Jinki won't tell you what happened, will barely accept her death, because of one simple reason.”
"What?” Jonghyun queried, voice hoarse.
"It was his fault.”
•••
Kibum observed his appearance with soulless eyes. The full-length mirror (hidden in a cupboard within his bedroom, though now exposed by the way the door gaped open) reflected an image as dull as trodden ice, as insipid as a wiry crow. His hair was long – past his defined cheekbones now – and wavy, framing an ashen pallor and placid expression. The suit he wore was black; the shoes he wore were polished; the skin he wore was wrought. Funeral attire was not his forte.
And yet it was, because he looked, quite simply, corpse-like. He wondered whether Taemin looked as woeful, as a grey, withering body, eyes lidded and skin beginning that slow process of decay. He wondered if Taemin’s bones were as brittle, if his muscles were as weak, even now after such time confined to death. Kibum wondered, and as he wondered, he observed with those ever-feline eyes of his.
Behind him, the door opened tentatively. If the entire room had been dismal, it was brightened partially by the entrance of the only man who could ever make things feel somewhat better – if not terribly worse at the same time. Minho side-stepped in, and caught Kibum’s gaze in the mirror. Neither spoke, for neither needed to.
Unlike Kibum, the basketballer looked handsome. His complexion was pale, yes, but still effortlessly beautiful, and the bags beneath his eyes were mostly concealed by his strong, handsome features. The suit he wore appeared expensive, and the air he flaunted was rich, and every inch of him held the embrace of meaning and grace. He would slide well into the funeral, would mourn listlessly, would be regarded by all as a good, good friend to Taemin.
Well, maybe not by all.
Minho walked up behind Kibum expectantly, and did something neither man had been expecting. Kibum supposed it was the younger’s search for comfort and the weakness of his own state that prompted it, even though he wanted to believe it was more. However, Minho wasn't so suggestive, so misconstrued by fleeting emotions, and his actions towards Kibum were written solely in the ink of brotherhood. The secretary knew that, he did.
Minho looped his arms around Kibum’s waist and rested his head on the smaller’s shoulder, pulling Kibum’s body close to his as he exacted the hug. Minho’s eyes were closed, and so Kibum unashamedly stared at their reflection, of Minho giving him a back-hug that should have meant so much to them both, but meant little in the light of the morning. Kibum raised his hands up and held onto Minho’s arm. He didn’t know whether the younger was crying, though was hesitant to move him to find out. The connection between them both was the only thing energising Kibum, for they'd barely spoken all week, not since the interrogation, and the secretary needed this, much more than he could bare to admit.
"Minho,” Kibum finally managed, becoming increasingly warm as the elder’s head pressed against his neck, ever-platonic, ever a brother. “Minho, what are you doing?”
Kibum rubbed his arm, and Minho broke away, and just as Kibum had expected, his eyes were red and his cheeks tear-stained.
"I was too late,” Minho choked. “For him, Kibum, I was too late.”
Minho rested his head back on Kibum’s shoulder, and continued to cry.
•••
A corpse rested in the coffin.
Its eyes were closed, as most corpses' were, yet, unlike most corpses, this one was still achingly beautiful. The undertaker had thought so, unable to remark but unable to ignore the idea that this young, frail thing had once been a beautiful, loving man. The body itself was pale and shackled to death’s countenance, beginning to fade away like the dawn inevitably would. It was dressed well, purely, respectfully in a crystal-white, but beneath the sleeves of the flowing top were two bony arms with two bloodless gashes on each wrist, gashes that had bled the body dry, bled the beautiful man to a new aether, where his waking life didn’t matter anymore, where nothing mattered anymore.
His hair was fine and feathery, a mousy blonde that had once been far-heavier. His lips were full, somewhat parted, his nose perfectly formed, and in his hands he held flowers. The family had wanted flowers, lilac flowers, that matched his complexion.
The undertaker had wondered with this man whether corpses rested comfortably in their coffins. Did their backs hurt lying still for so long? Did their limbs become pulsed with rigidity before being consumed by the earth? There were so many hapless questions. The undertaker also wondered whether, beneath it all, the mind still ticked, over and over, recounting a world the corpse would never reach again. If this corpse thought, the undertaker wondered what it would remember, but saw no need to dwell on it. Each had their dreams, their aspirations, their goals – the only oddity about this man was that he'd decided to destroy his future by his own hand, had decided to kill himself.
The undertaker liked to ponder what would force someone to such lengths. Work, family, money, relationships – there were too many possibilities, and he doubted it was just one. The man had probably been afflicted with a plethora of unfixable problems. Maybe not everything in his life was bad, so to say, but a great deal of it must have been, and this would have upset the undertaker if he'd never dealt with such cases before. He had dealt with such cases before, however, because suicide seemed a rampant plague.
The body continued to lie, unmoving.
The undertaker wondered whether it regretted its choice.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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