Four
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundJinki nervously watched the man at the opposite end of the room with a hesitant stare. His eyes were trained on the painting – it was a large painting, one of Jinki’s most recent non-commissioned works – and featured an abstract depiction of his son playing with a plethora of vivid toys. Often his paintings were drenched in realism, but the cubist influence of his latest work had been what had sealed his deal in the public exhibition of the expressions of various local artists, designed to boost cultural awareness in the area. Jinki had felt honoured to be included alongside the talented selection – photographers, sculptors, painters – but his work felt detached from the rest, as if born in a reality of its own.
He stared at the latest observer of his paintings fretfully as men and women around him mingled, the rich and poor, the artists and the muses, sharing canapés and bubbly champagne as the light music swooned in the background. Although a sophisticated set up, the pieces of art displayed in a large, minimalistic room – a transformed warehouse located in the hiving centre of Seoul – those who drifted through were of various ilk; businesswomen strolled bashfully, flaunting narrow squints and pursed lips, and students stared as if enraptured, sporting ripped jeans and baggy clothing. None had stood out to Jinki, and none had seemed overly interested in his work – none but the young man who was observing it now.
Jinki knew it was irrational to stand and gape, and knew that he should talk to his past acquaintance, but there was something about the man's curiosity that caught him off-guard. He wasn’t dressed as Jinki had imagined him to be either. He wore a light pink jacket that was of the same tone as his hair, and pinstriped navy trousers. A pair of round spectacles perched on the edge of his soft nose, the spindly frames adding to his handsome eccentricity. Jinki watched him fearfully, as a woman slid in front of him.
"Excuse me,” she smiled, Jinki finally managing to tug his eyes from Jonghyun to grin kindly to the woman in front of him, “you're the artist of the cubist paintings, no? I-I recognise you from the pictures on the leaflet.” She smiled amiably, a small, rounded woman with warm features. She couldn’t have been much older than Jinki – two or three years, maybe less – and wore bright clothes that contrasted starkly with the white walls and bright lights of the exhibition halls.
“Yeah, that must be me,” Jinki nodded, bowing his head slightly as the woman’s eyes sparkled brightly. She wore refreshing perfume, that carried the scent of rose-water.
“Your work is very interesting,” she commented, glancing in the direction of the painting Jonghyun had now moved to – a smaller, more realistic one, of a man with platinum hair, dozing atop a sofa. Jinki hadn't been embarrassed at using a quick sketch of his unassuming, sleeping friend to paint from – after all, Taemin was a perfect model, with striking features and an elegant form – but upon realising Jonghyun would no-doubt recognise the dancer from the painting, his cheeks began to flush.
“Thank you,” Jinki extended, dragging himself back into reality as Jonghyun looked away from the painting, turning to immerse himself in the crowd, but not failing to catch Jinki’s eye as he did so. A smile tugged at his lips as he shot Jinki a friendly wave, wanting to initiate a conversation but not wanting to disrupt the potential client that had now approached Jinki. Instead, he wove back into the crowd again, surveying the work of the other artists. Though Jinki tried to follow the inquisitive man with his gaze, it became an impossible activity as he became hidden by the rows of artwork.
“Actually,” the woman continued, “my sister is an artist – a painter – and she does similar things. Don’t tell her I said this, but your work is miles better.” The woman laughed as Jinki tried to focus on her, mind consistently distracted.
“Oh, thank you,” he grinned, “but art isn’t a competition, it's an expression. We just express… Differently.”
“Isn't it a competition?” the woman advocated. “I mean, it seems these days that everything is.”
“No, not really,” Jinki murmured, “I mean, art is a portrayal of emotions. When you choose a particular word to use to describe yourself, do you see it as a competition within language to find the best? Not at all, you choose whatever suits. Art is… art is similar. Artists just chose whatever suits, and so do spectators.”
“Then how do people win art competitions?”
Jinki recognized the third voice to the fray instantly, the woman surprised to have her conversation interrupted as a candy-floss haired man came into view, standing beside the stranger. She glanced at his hair as if he too were one of the exhibits on display, before dragging her gaze to Jinki, awaiting an answer to Jonghyun’s question.
“Well,” Jinki began, mildly flustered but managing to burrow the red that threatened to seep into his cheeks. “The judges just choose whatever suits them.”
“So, in that sense,” Jonghyun pressed carefully, voice as soft as his hair, “do you think there is no real objectivity to art? That it's all inherently subjective?”
“There's both in everything,” Jinki answered ambiguously, “but art just blurs the lines.”
Jinki locked eyes with Jonghyun for a second, both men regarding each other cautiously as the woman laughed. When her voice broke through their makeshift anomaly, they both snapped their heads to her as she spoke, “I feel like I've interrupted something. I'll… I'll let you two discuss the matter, haha. Have a nice evening.” She bowed her head and scuttled away quickly, feeling awkward at imposing herself between what appeared to be two friends.
This left Jonghyun and Jinki alone, and Jinki glimpsed at Jonghyun with a timid half-grin.
“I didn’t know you were into art,” Jinki began, his reflection caught in the corner of Jonghyun’s glasses. Jonghyun smiled and allowed his eyes to drift around the room.
“Yeah,” he admitted, “but I, uh, I observe, I don't… I don't draw, or paint, or whatever. I'm afraid my skills are… Somewhat lacking.”
“Ah, I'm sure you're better than you think,” Jinki complimented, palms beginning to become warm as he kept them clenched.
“Your work is amazing, though,” Jonghyun stated, words drenched in honesty as he snagged his eyes onto Jinki’s. “Really, it's… it's different, without being too inaccessible. You really have a talent, Jinki. Really.”
Taken aback by the sincerity in Jonghyun’s voice, Jinki could only offer a simple, “Thank you,” as Jonghyun began to chew on his bottom lip, debating something to himself. Deciding against speaking his mind, Jonghyun instead asked, “So… Where's Yoogeun whilst you're out impressing the masses with your work?"
Jinki smiled at the mention of his son, before answering, “Staying with Minho’s mother – she's almost like a grandmother to him, so he's there often, I guess.”
“Oh, really?” Jonghyun furthered the conversation. “That's kinda odd, but... But nice. He's a good kid, I'm sure she doesn’t mind looking after him.”
“Good?” Jinki chuckled. “Nah, he's a menace.”
“No, I say he's kind-spirited,” Jonghyun disagreed, flashing Jinki a wide-eyed expression. “Just like his father.”
Jinki flushed furiously as Jonghyun grinned, face honing a look so warm that Jinki felt touched by it. There really was something different about Jonghyun – and it wasn’t just the candy-coloured hair. His manner was refreshing, his tone was uplifting, and everything about him, from the gold glasses that framed his strong cheekbones and the hazel eyes that were flecked with a likewise shade, was compelling.
"Are you sticking around for long?” Jinki suddenly asked, cocking his head at Jonghyun and awaiting an answer.
"Well, I'd… I'd no plans, really,” Jonghyun stuttered, wringing his hands together. “But I can stay if you'd like, I guess – if that’s what you meant, I don’t-“
"The exhibition ends in an hour,” Jinki informed, disrupting Jonghyun’s fluster, “it'd be nice if you could stick around, if you want. I mean, I'm just standing here – someone might ask about my work, but… To have a friend to talk to whilst I wait… I'd feel…”
"Less awkward?”
"Something like that.”
"Then I'll stay,” Jonghyun nodded, “but only if you walk me home.”
Jinki laughed, before playfully shooting, “A grown man needs walked home? Why?”
Jonghyun shrugged, and lowered his voice noticeably.
"It's just- I live in a dangerous… A dangerous area.”
"But won't I be endangered walking back by myself?” Jinki queried sceptically.
Jonghyun bit his bottom lip, turned his head away and mumbled something that was lost between the hiving conversations around them.
"Sorry?” Jinki prompted, trying to get Jonghyun to reiterate.
"I'm scared of the dark!” Jonghyun hissed, embarrassed as Jinki rounded his mouth. For some reason, instead of causing him to laugh at Jonghyun’s fear, it endeared him further to the vulnerable musician.
"Fine,” Jinki conceded, “I'll walk you home.”
•••
For the most part, they'd walked in silence.
It'd been strange, really, a hesitant reminder to Jinki of the past, where he'd walked near-strangers home; in that past, however, these strangers had been pretty girls he'd been attempting a hook-up with, not grown men who owned the penchant for flinching every-time a voice was heard down a side-alleyway. The only exchange Jinki had been confident enough to muster with Jonghyun was a comment that he really was scared of the dark and that the night was colder than expected, to which Jonghyun had nodded aimlessly on both accounts, too unsure of his quiet voice in the darkened metropolis to speak. He'd by this stage removed his glasses, burying them in his pocket carefully.
Taillights blurred into an evanescent stream as their footsteps sounded in tandem, the streets growing quieter and quieter the further they'd walked. If Jinki hadn't known the area well, he would’ve worried about finding his own way back after leaving the musician at the flat he'd assured was only ten minutes away. Jinki had almost been surprised to hear Jonghyun lived in such an area, notorious for petty criminalities and impoverished families. He'd imagined Jonghyun to live somewhere much more upmarket, surrounded by a requiem of splendid suburbia. He hadn't imagined alleys that stank of congealed urine and litter that skittered over sparse roads indignantly.
"Down here,” Jonghyun directed, leading Jinki to a road that veered left. The streetlamps flickered, necks bent, and cast a weary gaze across the endless army of bricked walls. The road was empty – there were no cars, no people, no signs of any life – and it almost seemed as if a street detached from reality, a pocket of silence against the backdrop of Seoul’s urban rush.
"And… here we are,” Jonghyun declared gently, footsteps halting outside one of the buildings. They were all the same - small, rectangular blocks, that one had to ascend steps if they wished to reach the front door. The paint on the railings of the steps outside Jonghyun’s dingy flat was chipped, like the cracking nail varnish he'd more than often seen Taemin wearing, and from inside the building, the lower floor was lit, signifying that the tenants of the flat beneath Jonghyun’s were home.
"Ah,” Jinki muttered, unknowing of what to say. There were no compliments he could extend to such a vulgar home, as even the very doorway was uninviting. Jonghyun glanced at his flat, illuminated slightly by the seething streetlamp, and gazed at his feet.
"Yeah,” he murmured, “it's… it's no palace.”
"But it's home,” Jinki understood, “I get it.”
A second passed, and then after, in that fragment of time, Jinki’s world was shattered.
He felt the cold press of Jonghyun’s lips against his – the feeling of a kiss so unfamiliar, yet so comfortable – and instantly recoiled. He supposed it was the shock, the surprise, the guilt, as he broke their brief kiss, staring deeply into Jonghyun’s longing eyes as he balanced on his tip-toes, regret already creasing his brow. Jinki could read the younger man’s features so openly, so well, watching the terror in Jonghyun’s expression as he began to suspect he'd got things wrong, that he'd got Jinki wrong. But this terror only worked to crush Jinki’s resolve, to cause a vivid twist in his stomach, as he leant down and kissed Jonghyun back.
His mind sparked as Jonghyun’s lips melted against his – he'd no idea what he was doing, this was irrational, Jonghyun was a man and Jinki didn't kiss men - but those cares faltered as Jonghyun reached forward and gripped the lapels of Jinki’s coat, pulling the elder further in. Jinki’s mind was awash with the sensations he'd forgotten, coloured in a maelstrom of want, of need, of curiosity and intrigue, as he succumbed to Jonghyun’s exploration, relaxing himself fully to allow the younger access to his mouth, to explore it with his tongue and send Jinki’s very pulse into a frenetic tremor. It had burst with passion so soon, the kiss, and Jinki could barely contain the slight moan he made as Jonghyun searched him wantonly, their bodies overridden with heat, expectation, lust and desire-
Until they broke for air, and they were simply two men again, breathing harshly in the depths of a cold Autumn night as they stared at each other in abject confusion. Jonghyun’s lips were red and his eyes were ablaze, the sight lurching Jinki’s stomach as he attempted to consider what he'd just done. Jonghyun too seemed dazed, shocked at himself for initiating such an intimate kiss, and shocked at how deeply he'd enforced it. His eyes were wide, body shivering, as he reached a hand out and used Jinki’s tense arm to steady himself. Jinki’s hand still rested on the small of Jonghyun’s back, but he barely noticed. The only thing he did notice was the nausea in his own gut, and the years of longing Jonghyun had finally unearthed.
"You didn’t ask me to walk you back here because you're scared of the dark, did you?” Jinki asked, question empty as his dark eyes gazed down at the scared younger. Jonghyun almost cowered from Jinki, but bit his bottom lip in contemplation. Jinki stared at his lips, almost repulsed by himself once he realised where his eyes were trained.
"I did,” Jonghyun spoke truthfully, voice but a whisper in the silent street. “It just feels like I've-I've always wanted to do that.”
"What, kiss someone outside your house?”
"No,” Jonghyun shook his head, “kiss you.”
Jinki swallowed thickly, casting his gaze to the road, where an aluminium can rocked in the breeze, dejectedly.
"Well, I'm sorry,” Jinki dismissed, pushing Jonghyun’s palm from his prickling arm, and taking a step away from the younger, “but… But I don't date men, I don't see men, I don't- I don't do anything with men. If it's a hook up you want, I'm the wrong person. You've gotten me wrong.”
"I don't just want a hook-up,” Jonghyun attempted, trying to stop Jinki from disappearing into the night, from leaving him as a loose thread in the city’s tightly sewn sweater. “I-I think I- I can't stop thinking about you, Jinki. I don’t know why.”
Jinki was taken aback as he focused on Jonghyun, on the fact that, in the musician’s eyes, there seemed to be the roots of tears. He was a fragile man, it seemed, a man more in-tune with his emotions than his reality. His lips were downturned in a vague plea that chipped away at Jinki’s denial, but Jinki couldn’t give in, because this wasn't right. Jonghyun was a man. He wasn’t one of the pretty college girls Jinki had courted all those years ago. He was a young, struggling musician, with a future that seemed bleaker than the flat he currently quivered outside.
"Well, stop,” Jinki commanded, tone uncharacteristically scathing as he addressed the younger. “I'm not… I'm not…”
"I get it,” Jonghyun stopped, “but I also felt the truth, Jinki, and you did too.”
"Stop it,” Jinki demanded again, voice quavering as he took a step back.
Jonghyun lowered his head guiltily, the last flecks of lust that'd been powering through him in the aftermath of their kiss subsiding. Now his stomach just jolted, and his mind gently shook. He hadn't thought Jinki to be the narrow-minded type, hadn’t thought him to be anything. Jonghyun reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a small notebook and pen. It caught Jinki by surprise, but he supposed it at least made sense that Jonghyun had it – he was a composer, a lyricist, and Jinki could see by the way he flipped through the pages that he was one who constantly penned down ideas. Finding a blank page, Jonghyun scribbled something down quickly, tore off the page and handed it over, trembling as he did so.
When Jinki simply stared, Jonghyun pressed, “Take it, and think, please.”
Jinki was in two minds; part of him felt like he knew this was wrong, that he didn’t date men and that this was just an outlet of the loneliness that had enraptured him, but he also knew that he had been the victim of Jonghyun invading his thoughts. The musician made him nervous, paranoid, self-conscious – signs, if any, that there was something there. Jinki just didn’t want that something to exist. Gingerly, he took the note from Jonghyun’s quivering hand, and placed it in the pocket of his coat. Jonghyun nodded to himself, and took a step back, upset, confused, almost as if one in mourning.
"Just think,” he requested, “and tell Yoogeun the superhero said ‘hey.’”
Smiling sadly, Jonghyun climbed the steps to his house, and didn’t glimpse back as he left Jinki on the pavement, alone with a fractured mind.
•••
Much to Jinki’s surprise, Yoogeun had drifted asleep in the car as he'd driven the toddler home, having picked him up later-than-planned from Minho’s mother. She hadn’t minded, apparently, and had said it'd been a pleasure to babysit the toddler – who'd subsequently spilled juice over her new shirt and the cushions of her plush sofa. Jinki had apologised frantically, eyes leaden and mind a deteriorating mess, and had herded his lethargic son to the car with something akin to anger, an emotion he didn’t express often.
The drive had seemed longer than usual; Jinki was unaware whether that was to do with his own state of exhaustion, or the events of the earlier evening that had been on a constant loop in his mind. Regardless of the reasoning behind it, the journey had been an arduous one, despite his son’s calm breathing and shut eyes.
As he pulled his old, blue Volvo into the small, graveled yard of his house, his heart almost caught in his throat as soon as he realised that the white, outside light was on, illuminating a crouched silhouette, sitting on the step that led to the entrance of the modern building. This fear dampened whenever he recognised the man – almost instantly, for not many held the height or physique of his late night visitor. Jinki silenced his car’s engine as he parked, groaning to himself as the figure stood, ruffling a hand through his hair.
Exiting the car, Jinki ignored the visitor as he went to retrieve his son, who stirred from his deep sleep once his seatbelt was unclipped. He didn’t move much however, head lulling against his father’s chest as he carried his son from the passenger seat, slamming the door with his elbow, resulting in an unnatural clatter. Yoogeun murmured something indecipherable, balled fist against Jinki’s shoulder, as he finally made his way towards the front door, and, in turn, the visitor.
"What are you doing here?” Jinki asked wearily, scared to upset his son and the still of the pitch night, as he finally walked close enough to Minho to chart the basketballer’s tired expression. If he had been cold during his wait, he did not show it, glancing awkwardly at Yoogeun, then at Jinki, debating the best way to share his reason for darkening the artist's doorstep at such an hour.
"Kibum has a-another… Another visitor,” Minho hinted, pursing his lips. “I need somewhere to crash tonight.”
Jinki rolled his eyes, playing a dangerous balancing act as he held Yoogeun using one hand and attempted to insert the key into the door opposite him with the other. When the key slid into the lock, he twisted it, Yoogeun drawling, “Minnie-ho,” sleepily as he finally noticed their visitor, but falling back into the realms of dreams as Minho smiled at him warmly.
"Hey, little man,” he whispered, as Jinki budged the door open with his shoulder.
"Come on,” Jinki sighed, beckoning Minho in as he flicked on the lights. Minho shut the door using his back, as the kitchen-living area became lit, a disorganized sprawl of Yoogeun’s toys and Jinki’s aspirations. The house was cold, but certainly warmer than the chilled night, as Minho uncontrollably shivered given the transposition of heat.
"Let me just put him to bed,” Jinki spoke quietly, indicating Yoogeun. “I'll bring you some duvets and things.”
"Sure,” Minho accepted gratefully, “take your time.”
As Jinki disappeared up the staircase, humming with his soothing voice to Yoogeun as he did so, Minho rubbed his brow and slid onto one of the stools at Jinki’s breakfast bar, massaging his temples. Jinki was used to this arrangement by now – various nights a month it seemed that Minho would appear, seeking subterfuge for a night as his roommate exacted drunken antics with yet another stranger. When Jinki suggested Minho stay with his parents, he was dismissed, for such a subject was too awkward to explain to the borderline conservative, and, even more-so, he certainly knew his parents wouldn’t understand him when he explained how a drunken Kibum didn't just aggravate him – it scared him.
Around ten minutes later, the familiar creaking of stairs was heard as Jinki descended, a duvet bundled in his hands. For some reason, on this night, he appeared more tired than ever; thick bags rimmed his eyes and he looked distraught, as if a cornucopia of thoughts was threatening to burst from his mind at any time.
"Thanks, man,” Minho tried, as he pushed himself from the stool and ambled to the faux-leather sofa. Jinki sighed, throwing a few of Yoogeun’s plastic toys to the floor carelessly, and answered with something along the lines of, “Don't worry about it.”
He left the duvet on the arm of the sofa for Minho, pivoting to face the taller man with a sigh. His eyes grazed over the basketballer so analytically that Minho was almost scared, until Jinki shook his head and padded away, now barefoot. Minho hadn't seen him remove his shoes.
"I'm sorry,” Minho clarified, “really, I don't mean to be a hassle, I know you're busy-“
Jinki held up a hand as he slowly made his way to the staircase, signalling to Minho that he should stop talking. Minho bit his tongue as Jinki looked back at him, from the bottom of the stairs.
"It's fine, Min', really. It's worth it seeing how happy Yoogeun is to see you in the mornings. I don’t mind, honestly.”
"You're a good friend,” Minho called, whilst Jinki hauled himself up the staircase, waving a hand and uttering a distant, “Yeah, yeah, the greatest.” Minho laughed despite himself as Jinki reached the second floor, hidden from Minho’s vision.
"Make sure to turn out the lights!” he instructed, when Minho began to unravel the duvet.
"Night, hyung!” Minho replied, smiling to himself, albeit with an inherent sadness.
•••
Jinki cried.
He buried his head in his arms as he sat atop his bed, fingers clutching the small note the small man had given him earlier.
I felt the truth, and you did too.
The words were simple, almost graceful. Jinki had been expecting a phone number, or a place to meet, but, of course, the poetic nature of the lyricist hadn’t allowed for something so clichéd; instead, he'd opted for something strikingly personal, something he knew would catch Jinki out as he read it.
Jinki couldn’t fight the carnal cravings that had seeded within him. He longed for Jonghyun, longed to feel his tongue explore him again – and this time, more than just his mouth. He longed for Jonghyun’s touch, Jonghyun’s curiosity, but also, his smile, his laugh, his affectionate flirtations and hazy attempts at compliments. He longed for everything Jonghyun was, and he barely knew the man.
The man.
Jinki scrunched himself up further, gripping his knees and allowing the note to flutter to his bed. Tears streaked his cheeks, and he sniffed, feeling irreversibly childish. This entire notion was childish - he'd traded a kiss with the musician once, it meant little, yet it'd sent Jinki’s thoughts into a detrimental spiral. He was twenty-five, and he was crying. He wasn’t crying over stress, over work, over her, he was crying over a near stranger, who liked to be seen as some kind of comedic superhero, who held the most adorable grin Jinki had just about witnessed, who-
Who was a man.
Jinki shuddered, screwing his eyes shut. Never before had he found a man attractive, never before had he dared. Even when Kibum had drifted through his ‘experimental’ stage in university, living the stereotype and indulging in all forms of men, Jinki had lived in absolute ignorance, not caring because he didn’t have to. Kibum had eventually returned to sleeping with women and normality had resumed. The whole affair was but a vague memory - Jinki’s only experience with homouality, and he hadn’t even partaken in the act. But now, things were different.
He didn't want to like Jonghyun. He wanted to erase the man from his life completely. He just couldn’t. Jinki had never thought about it before, what it would be to love a man, but he figured it was something he would never want to be afflicted with; Seoul was no place for a gay man, after all. Whilst the younger were becoming more open, the conservative underbelly of the city scratched with claws of rampant hatred. It was almost dangerous to admit to being openly gay, for you were most certainly placing yourself on the firing line.
Not that Jinki was gay. He couldn't be. This was just one man, one kiss – it meant nothing.
Jinki wiped his nose with his sleeve and attempted to compose himself. His mind lacked filters, the image of a future for Yoogeun where he'd two fathers instead of one beginning to haunt him. It would be a horrendous environment for a child, surely – a break in social conventions and an invitation for hatred and distress. How could Jinki ever even consider being with another man? How could he pull his son into such conflict?
After another few minutes of relentless worrying, Jinki’s tears subsided, sobs quietening so that the only audible noise in the dark, box-shaped room was his own subtle breathing. He squinted, eyes accustoming to the irreversible gloom, as the beaten forms of shadows threatened his vision with their contorting forms. For a minute, he was peaceful.
But then the longing returned.
He wasn’t calm, not really, and felt there was only one thing that would ever calm him: a pair of arms around his waist, or the gentle whisper from his infatuation. The only thing that could calm him was Jonghyun.
Jinki glanced at the empty space beside him in the bed and shivered. It'd been years since he'd shared the space with another. Slowly, he placed his hand on the sheet, where she had used to lie. His arm tensed as he tried to picture her lying there, black hair a soft curl against the lilac bedlinen, but the imagination was halted. Instead, all Jinki could imagine was the soft, pink hair of a narrow-framed musician, wrapped beneath the duvet, cocooned innocently as he slept. His eyes were closed, lips parted, and Jinki could almost touch the smooth skin of his beautiful collarbone.
Though frightened by what he saw, Jinki hesitantly began to play with his thoughts; he saw Jonghyun’s heartfelt grin and his wide eyes, felt the touch of his tepid palms as he his arm lovingly. He wanted Jonghyun – no, he needed Jonghyun – to assure him that everything was okay.
Jinki screwed his eyes shut. Jonghyun could never assure it was okay, and could never do so for one simple reason: He was the one who was upsetting the balance in the first place. Falling atop his bed in a sleeping position, Jinki stared into space, eyes opened wide as he hugged himself tightly. He had to forget Jonghyun, he had to.
He just couldn't, and knew, deep down, he never would.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
Comments