Six
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundJinki was sure this was the right house. Somewhat.
As he clutched Yoogeun’s hand, the toddler gaping up at him with eyes so wide they seemed to want to pop from their sockets, Jinki contemplated what he was doing; his mood was fluctuating as much as the afternoon sunlight, becoming covered by clouds sporadically, to only be revealed again moments later. There was a certain coldness in the air that reflected the nervousness of the flutters in Jinki’s stomach, and his throat was parched, despite the fact he'd taken a drink only moments earlier.
He was sure this was the right house. He was sure of it.
Pressing the button of the intercom for number two – he assumed Jonghyun didn’t live on the first level as those lights had been on the night before, when Jonghyun hadn't even been home – Jinki awaited a response. His heart pounded and his mind seemed to palpitate, questions such as what am I doing here and why am I doing this creating the empty blood-flow that kept him standing. The seconds were long and arduous and his thoughts were but a distant tremor. He held his son’s hand tightly, and then there was a response.
"Hello?”
The voice seemed dull, emotionless, cracked, so unlike the velvety tone Jonghyun had always flaunted – unlike to the extent that Jinki even questioned whether it was him or not. He clenched his free fist, having already rehearsed what he wanted to say a thousand times prior to stepping out of his old, blue Volvo.
Taking a deep breath, Jinki answered, “I felt the truth.”
The buzz of the intercom subsided and for a second Jinki felt an awfully dead weight in his stomach. He didn’t know if Jonghyun would want to see him, or if he even wanted to see Jonghyun, and he couldn’t help but feel his son was almost an imposter. Memories from the night before flitted through his mind – memories of touching Jonghyun, of feeling Jonghyun, of kissing Jonghyun – and then the front door was opened and a bleary-eyed musician was peering at him.
Jonghyun looked fragile. His pink hair was a bed-headed mess and his gaunt features looked even sharper than usual, possibly etched deeper by the whittled light that illuminated the dark corridor he stood in. He wore a grey jumper, so baggy it clearly showed his defined collarbone and tanned skin, and for the first time Jinki noticed how chapped and short his fingernails were, as if he'd gnawed them to tiny stumps.
When Jonghyun noticed Yoogeun, his eyes lit up and he shot the toddler a wide grin, slightly infected with what Jinki deciphered as nothing more than a cheery façade. Black bags dragged down his weary eyes and, furthermore, his cheeks were pale, paler than what seemed natural for his soft skin.
"Hey, little fellow,” Jonghyun smiled, as Yoogeun regarded him cautiously; of course, he recognised the superhero, but he didn’t recognise the slender, frail man beneath the dim light of the corridor.
"Hey,” he finally greeted to Jinki, eyes latched on the elder warily, as if one wrong move could send their brief encounter crashing into a state of nothingness.
Now that Jinki was actually faced with Jonghyun, he didn’t know what to say, or do, or think. His mind was a haze and his actions were stunted. He still clutched Yoogeun’s hand, and still blinked at Jonghyun, until the younger was forced into speaking, to break the awkward silence that had overwhelmed them.
"Do you want to come in?” Jonghyun offered, glancing at Yoogeun as he gripped his sleeves fearfully. There was something about his tone that made Jinki think Jonghyun was almost scared of him.
"No, I-“ Jinki stopped himself as Jonghyun tilted his head, exposing his long neck as he did so. Swallowing thickly, Jinki continued, “I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to, I don’t know, go for something to eat sometime – maybe tomorrow, so I can arrange a babysitting time for Yoogeun, or whenever, maybe next Friday, if that suits, or Saturday, or-or whenever, there's no rush.”
As Jinki began to ramble, a smile grew across Jonghyun’s cheeks, this time one that defied any false demeanour. The slight stutter in Jinki’s nervous words had left Jonghyun feeling overly warm, as if curled in a hug by the elder, and he knew that the joy that began to spread within him was one compelled further by the unexpectedly handsome man on his door-step.
When Jinki finally stopped, eyes trained on the wall behind Jonghyun, blush started to seep across his cheeks, and Jonghyun couldn’t help but let out the sweetest of giggles.
"On Friday night,” he interrupted, as Jinki shot Yoogeun a concerned look, accidentally, to which his son merely blinked, “there's a… A market, of sorts, nearby. I'd planned to go… Maybe you'd like to come, too?”
“Ah, yes, markets are, yeah, great,” Jinki nodded, almost too enthusiastically, “should I pick you up? What time? Around seven?”
"Seven sounds great,” Jonghyun smiled, “perfect, actually.”
"Seven it is,” Jinki nodded, confirming the time to himself. “But we'll - we'll both go now, give you some space to, y’know, continue with your day.”
"Oh, I wasn’t doing much,” Jonghyun explained, “I just was… Music stuff, I guess.”
"Maybe I can hear your compositions some time,” Jinki pondered, “if ever you wanted a second opinion.”
"Maybe,” Jonghyun smiled, “that’d be nice.”
"Yeah… anyway, Yoogeun and I should go. We'll go. I'll-I'll see you on Friday, Jonghyun.”
"Seven,” Jonghyun confirmed, “I'll see you then, then.”
And with that and a final hastened wave from Yoogeun, Jinki and his son returned to the old, blue Volvo, Jonghyun watching them as they did so. Before Jinki slipped into the car, he caught eyes with Jonghyun one final time, smiling knowingly. He didn’t know if things would have gone any differently had Yoogeun not been present – although to his surprise his son had stayed quiet, his simple presence meant Jinki couldn’t do everything he wanted, most notably pull Jonghyun in for another kiss, to feel his touch again. But as he smiled at Jonghyun and Jonghyun smiled back, Jinki doubted his first kiss would be his last, and felt the familiar feelings of anticipation broil in his stomach again.
He shot Jonghyun one final wave, and almost missed the subtle, ‘Thank you,’ that Jonghyun mouthed to him, before he receded into his flat once again.
•••
Taemin stared at himself in the mirror.
He wasn't meant to be rehearsing today – he'd been gifted the rare opportunity of a few days off, to which he'd gladly availed, but after his snipped-short conversation with Minho, he'd felt at a loss of what to do. In the morning, he awoke with the motivation to retrieve the rest of his things from his parents’ suburban paradise, to furnish his own two-room flat, but a jaded apprehension there had diminished any of that once-held spur. Confused over where he should go or who he should see, he'd returned to the one place where he always knew the atmosphere would be a constant: the dance studio.
He'd simply free-styled for upwards of an hour, and had gone uninterrupted due to the fact that many of his fellow trainees had also been dismissed for the week, allowed to travel home or retreat to some well-earned relaxation. It'd been an experience that had allowed him to expound the pent up anger, sadness, fear and worry in an art-form most in-tune with his frenetic mind-set, but now he was exhausted, and was sat, staring at the mirror, legs sprawled and propped up by his out-stretched arms.
Feminine. That’s what his mother had called his appearance as soon as she'd seen his newly-dyed, platinum-blonde hair. He supposed she'd had a point – his features had already held a soft-sharpness, only accentuated by the wavy hair that ended just below his high cheekbones. It was when he started wearing the eyeliner and the black nail varnish that his parents had become truly disgusted; the dyed hair was his admission to a trend, but the make-up was nothing but an attempt to be something he wasn’t. It was a disguise of his unattractiveness, a breach of the norm, and in such a conservative household, it was not seen as the correct attire.
Before he'd began dancing, he'd wiped his make-up from his face, exposing the fresh skin and wide eyes beneath. Though he felt bare without make-up, Taemin knew he probably could have escaped the judgement of others without wearing it – in fact, the judgement may have been even less than what he received now – but he didn’t feel comfortable without it. He felt too exposed, felt that his cheeks would redden too easily as he blushed and that the glint in his eye would go unnoticed if he smiled. A blank canvas that required paint, that was what he would be without his make-up, as if one of Jinki's unfinished masterpieces.
Breathing heavily as he allowed his limbs to rest, Taemin bit the inside of his cheek and studied himself, like a professor studying the rarest of insects. He was skinny, but he sincerely doubted he was skinny enough – his dance instructor had told him that any fat at all would be weight he'd have to lose if he wanted to excel, and Taemin had nodded in agreement. His face was too rounded, and, compared to the other dancers, he supposed he was over-weight. The industry held to more than solely talent, and Taemin knew that. Despite being praised time-and-time again as the most talented dancer of his class, he'd never been noted as the handsomest, and that was a trait the most famous required, because the world was a superficial one and a callous leader at that.
Taemin rubbed an eye and pushed himself up with lethargic limbs. He was done, for the day. It was important to rest.
Showering and dressing back into a fresh set of clothes (ripped denim jeans and a loose grey sweatshirt) didn’t take Taemin long, and so when he exited the clean changing rooms, and subsequently the large building of the entertainment company, it was still relatively early, just past four. The sun spoke whispers across the sinful streets, drawing crescents over car bonnets, both parked and in motion along the busy road, and past the lowered heads of the pedestrians who traversed the pavements quickly, in mind that, if the city around them buzzed, they would too.
Taemin joined the fray of preoccupied people, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked, playing a childish game of avoiding pavement cracks as he did so. It was a gift of luck, to avoid all the cracks, and he figured he needed all the luck he could get, as he stalked quickly beneath the watchful gaze of the surrounding buildings. The further he walked, the busier it got, as, before reaching his box-flat, he had to forge a route that verged closely to the heart of Seoul, rather than the outskirts. Although he could have traversed the outskirts to reach his flat, there was something about the unpopulated alleyways that daunted him, an irrational phobia possibly caused by the stories that had recently been cropping up in the news.
So enraptured that he was in his walking, he almost missed the skeptical calling of his name as he entered a street that wasn’t as busy as the previous.
Outside a small shop, screwing the lid atop a brightly labeled energy drink, stood Kibum, hair as free as ever, face decidedly cheery. He'd dressed down from earlier, swapping his luxurious suit for a blue jumper which also seemed to employ the element of red tartan along the sleeves, and pale denim jeans, ripped like Taemin’s. It was very like Kibum to dress in such a way – differently, yet not so much that he stuck out from the crowd in an abstract manner. Despite this, Taemin supposed Kibum did stand out from the crowd. His aesthetic charm gifted him such a quality.
Taemin inwardly cursed. He hadn’t expected to meet anyone on his fifteen minute walk home, however it wasn’t uncommon that he'd see Kibum or Minho outside the locally-run store, for their apartment was a mere minute away and it was an easy walk for them.
"Kibum,” he greeted, slowing as he reached the front of the shop, knowing it would have been rude to ignore his friend. The shop itself was dull and run-down, with a distressed sign and dirt-caked windows. Taemin doubted one would have expected to see someone as trendy as Kibum floating outside it, but that was yet another level to Kibum’s charm, his ability to crop up and become at home anywhere.
"Finished your ‘dancing stuff?’” Kibum asked, as Taemin stood languidly beside him. A half-smile played on Kibum’s lips as he questioned the young man. Taemin knew it was only Kibum’s way – he'd been friends with the man for several years, after all – but to a stranger, they would’ve read the smirk as a flirtation.
"Yeah,” Taemin nodded, “I just decided to do some private rehearsal, I was the only one there.”
"Ah, you should’ve invited me!” exclaimed Kibum, touching Taemin’s arm lightly. “I'd love to see you dance, I haven’t in years, and Minho tells me you’ve gotten way better than what I last saw – and what I last saw was amazing.”
Taemin couldn’t help but blush as Kibum dropped his hand, before adding to the pinkness in his cheeks as he realised that, without his make-up, Kibum could no doubt see this glow.
"M-Maybe soon,” Taemin stuttered, as Kibum tilted his head fondly. “But I really doubt what Minho says, honestly… it kinda feels like my dancing is worse than it was.”
“Aish, I strongly doubt that,” Kibum offered kindly. “You're very talented, Taemin. Don’t forget it."
“Well, what are you up to?” Taemin asked, keen to deflect the topic of conversation from himself, to waters far less treacherous.
"Well,” Kibum mused, moving slightly from the entrance of the shop so that a flustered customer could exit. “After you left, I went shopping, at the mall, but I'm really beginning to hope I get this job, otherwise I'll never be able to afford this really nice pair of shoes I found. Seriously, they looked amazing, you’ve no idea.”
"Didn’t you say the interview went awfully?” Taemin taunted, attempting to liven the conversation so that he didn’t appear as an angst-ridden wreck to his friend.
"Yes… but…” Kibum grinned, before swatting Taemin playfully. “We have to hope! Hope, Taemin! It's the way forward. They have to say yes, they can't deny me.”
"Sure, sure,” Taemin laughed, unable to help the fact that Kibum had smitten him with his undeniable personality yet again. Though Minho had told Taemin a lot over the years that would’ve worked to dampen his opinion on Kibum, the fact that Kibum was so exuberant and amiable tackled the image Minho had tried to form – an image where Kibum was well-meaning, but was a narcissistic, self-obsessed hypocrite, who was all too eager to indulge in things often frowned upon by the conservative.
"Well, I should probably go,” Kibum admitted, as the first drops of rain began to mizzle. “I'll let you get rest after your practice.”
"Yeah, yeah, I'll-I'll see you around, hyung.”
Kibum nodded and waved, before heading off in the direction of his apartment, using a well-pedicured hand to shield his hair from the scant rain. Taemin watched him round a corner, before resuming to making his own way home, not bothering to create any attempt at lessening the weather’s light onslaught.
It was only a few drops, after all.
•••
Jinki stared out of the window as the torrential downpour plastered the pane, streaking pathways that formed tracks like leave-less trees. It'd started as a mere pitter-patter, but had almost instantly broken into a detrimental storm, the forecast fluctuating so violently Jinki wondered whether the weather-men and women had even predicted it. Detaching his eyes from the outside world, away from his small drive that was now stained in dirty puddles, Jinki dialled Minho and awaited the inevitable answer.
"Hey, hyung,” was the first thing Minho said, as usual, voice deep, yet soft, down the receiver.
"Hey, Min', I was wondering,” Jinki began, glancing over from the kitchen to ensure Yoogeun was still firmly parked by the television, “is your mum free to babysit on Friday night?”
As Jinki awaited an answer, he used his free hand to stir the pasta he was boiling for himself, organic pasta he'd purchased ages ago and hadn’t yet eaten. He'd become sickened by eating the same food each night – whatever instant meals he could find – and was pining for something uninfected by artificial colours, flavourings and bountiful salt.
"Ah, Friday?” Minho repeated, already sounding apologetic. “I'm sorry, Jinki, but they're-they're heading out to visit my grandmother on Friday, and they're staying the weekend. They won't be around.”
Jinki bit back the expletive he wanted to yell and absent-mindedly brought the pasta away from the boil, tapping his fingers against his cell phone.
"It's okay, never worry,” Jinki sighed, scratching his head as he watched his son. “I'll find someone else, it's fine.”
Before Jinki could hang up, he was stopped by a hastened, “Hyung, wait, I can babysit for you.”
Jinki couldn’t contain the laugh that escaped his lips.
"Min… No. Just… Just no.”
"What? You've said yourself a million times that I'm good with Yoogeun, and it's a hell of a lot better than wasting money on any babysitter you'd have to pay.”
Squinting at the bright lights above him, that warmed the tepid kitchen increasingly, Jinki shook his head.
"Minho,” he muttered down the receiver, “you’ve had, like, no experience with kids whatsoever, never mind toddlers.”
"I have!” Minho protested. “Besides, I've seen you care for Yoogeun so much that I practically know his routine off by heart.”
"Oh, really?”
"Yeah, really: Wake up at eight, dinner at six, bedtime at eight – but a story before bed…”
"Fine, I concede, you know his timetable – but that doesn’t mean you know how to look after him.”
Jinki padded to his fridge and retrieved some orange juice that sat just on its use-by date, and took a drink from the carton as he listened to Minho’s further reasoning.
"Come on, hyung, you can trust me! And Yoogeun would love it, you know that. I also just… I'd like to get away from the apartment for a while, even if just an evening. Please?”
Exhaling, Jinki placed the orange juice back in the fridge, various debates rattling through his mind. On one hand, Minho was a responsible man – his captaincy in his basketball team practically proved as much – but he was also one who hadn’t spent time around children, and Jinki wasn't so sure that he could put all he'd seen into action as much as he believed. But Minho was stubborn, and, despite the fact it felt uncomfortable to Jinki, it was certainly a lot less stressful than the idea of Yoogeun spending an entire night with a stranger.
"Fine,” he finally relented, forgetting about his pasta and feeling solely relieved at the fact he'd be able to go on his date – if it could be considered that – in peace.
"Awesome,” Minho smiled, his happiness audible. “When should I be there?”
"Six-thirty,” Jinki muttered, “no later, Min.”
"What time will you be back?”
Jinki chewed on his bottom lip, before answering, “Late.”
There was a pause.
"Sure, hyung, but… now I'm curious. What are you up to, anyway? There's not some hot date you're keeping from me, is there?”
"No date,” Jinki lied, “just an out of town art exhibition.”
As he spoke the lie, he felt his insides twist. He'd not really thought things through – the idea of spending an evening with Jonghyun terrified him, to the point where he could feel his hands shaking and the sweat forming on his brow, but he'd wanted to make sure. His feelings were developing at a rate he hadn’t quantified for, and Jinki wasn't blind enough to believe that, having spent an evening with Jonghyun, he wouldn’t want to spend a night with the man also. Jinki didn’t necessarily mean for a night full of exploration physically, rather mentally – he wanted a night full of words, to get to know Jonghyun. It seemed too soon to ask for anything more.
"Hmm, alright,” Minho accepted sceptically, the suspicion clear in his voice. “I'll be around at seven, then.”
"Six-thirty, Minho.”
"Yeah, sorry.”
Jinki sighed and hung up, setting the phone atop the counter and rubbing his forehead.
Out of all the people capable of looking after his son, why on earth had he trusted Minho?
•••
Taemin buried his head into the pillow and cried.
He didn't know why he was crying – it just happened, occasionally, usually when he was worn out from either socialising or dancing. He'd return home – or, to his place of residence, for he didn’t see the two-roomed flat as being anything akin to homely – and he'd stare at the ever-growing mould in the corner of the wall, and consider the fact that, even during Autumn, the flat felt perpetually cold and damp. He was particularly cold today, having been caught in a torrential downpour. If it were late, his soft sobbing would be accompanied by the various repulsive noises from the flats above and beside his own, of men and women alike finding some form of pleasure in the pitiable places they lived. Thankfully, it was mid-evening – most tenants were either partying, working or resting away their regrets.
Taemin clenched his pillow tightly, nails gripping so firmly into the fabric he became scared he'd ripped the blue covering he'd carried from childhood. His body curled like the frail hand of an elderly man beyond his stage of fortunate health, and his throat was constricted, slowly quashed as he further sobbed.
He felt so alone, so trapped, so confined. The resounding urge to want to be held by somebody rattled through him like an empty echo, only Taemin had no idea who he'd want to hold him – a drunken stranger, or a close friend? Neither option seemed right.
Body shuddering, the edges of his mind slipped in and out of various thoughts, a trail of angst that left his body like the torn pages of a notebook. He wanted to read the words on those pages, but they were too far gone. Everything was too far gone.
Feeling the loneliness encompass him, Taemin continued to cry.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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