Eight
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundMinho rubbed his eyes and sighed, too discontent to sleep as he sat up from his position on Jinki’s sofa. He knew his friend well enough to know he wouldn’t have cared if he'd slept in his actual bed, but Minho wouldn’t have felt comfortable – although, by now, he doubted it would have mattered, for he wasn’t comfortable anyway. He felt akin to an intruder in Jinki’s home without Jinki, almost as if he'd broken through a locked door. The tepid heat and unearthly silence had only added to this affliction.
Unfortunately, getting Yoogeun into bed had been an unprecedented hassle, and he felt exhausted.
It took Minho a miraculous forty-three minutes to get Yoogeun into his cot, the toddler (or menace, as Jinki often preferred) howling and crying in protest. He folded his arms when Minho had tried to persuade him to wear his old, shrunk pirate-printed pyjamas, and had even thumped his stiff back as he'd carried him up the stairs. Brushing teeth resulted in a spray of water around the bathroom and the bedtime story was nothing more than Yoogeun impatiently wailing, before finally quietening down. As Minho had watched the baby monitor for a minute, ensuring the toddler had drifted asleep, he realised the responsibilities Jinki was holding as a father – responsibilities that were a constant. Even only as a temporary thing, it'd managed to stress Minho incoherently.
Minho stood and padded to the counter of the kitchen, dressed in grey jeans and a black t-shirt. The only lighting was from the comfortable mood light he'd turned down low, shrouding the room in a hazy glow but failing to illuminate the darkest corners. Stumbling over his feet, Minho dejectedly raided through Jinki’s cupboards as quietly as he could, hungry. He knew his friend wouldn’t mind if he ate what he could find.
Unearthing nothing of any interest, Minho sighed and turned to peer at the clock. It was past eleven – which was odd, for late was half-nine in Jinki’s books, and so Minho had been expecting the arrival of the eccentric painter for upwards of two hours now. He wasn't worried, rather intrigued, as to why something as inaccessible as an exhibition had kept Jinki out so late. Minho had his doubts about the story he'd been fed, but didn’t mind. Jinki was Jinki, as secretive as he was talented.
A thought suddenly occurred to Minho that piqued his curiosity. He wasn’t a nosy person, not really, but when it came to Jinki, he was interested in every aspect of his life, concerned for his friend ever since what had happened to her all those years ago. Up until the events that had led to Jinki’s social declination, he'd often invited Minho into his art studio, but recently had never extended such an invitation, despite how much Minho had requested.
Now, however, Minho was alone, with access to every part of Jinki’s house. He could explore in peace, could find out what, if anything, his friend was hiding from him. Minho bit his bottom lip and considered.
Though Jinki’s house was relatively compact, it held a basement that had been converted into a studio for Jinki – the reason he'd purchased the quaint home in the first place. Although no natural light could reach the basement, it seemed this only suited Jinki, for he said natural light was too fickle to be reliable. He instead depended on his own heavy lighting to help him sculpt the pathway for his paintings. Glancing over at the front door nervously, Minho couldn’t help himself. He made his way down to Jinki’s basement quickly.
Opening the doorway, Minho was briefly surprised to realise it wasn’t locked – but he supposed there was no need for Jinki to lock the door. It wasn’t as if Yoogeun could easily reach the handle, nor did any visitor wonder what was in the room to the extent of secretly searching. No visitor but Minho. He reached his hand to the right, patting the cold wall until he found the switch. Discovering it, he flicked it, leaving the door open only a slit, and began to descend the staircase. With each step came an unnatural creak that stiffened his posture, drilling paranoia through him at the thought of Jinki appearing behind him.
When the lights finally spurred into life, Minho was at the bottom of the staircase, and couldn't fathom the shock that registered through him as he observed the state of the icy basement.
Once in a tranquil state of mind, when last Minho had been in the artist’s palace, Jinki’s makeshift studio had been organised and tidy. The brushes had been stocked away neatly and there had only ever been one half-finished project on display. Now, however, the workspace was a complete juxtaposition.
Paintbrushes lay everywhere – in tubs of water and across the cemented floor that was covered in a multitude of paint-stained sheets – and various canvases hung from the walls or sat on easels, each in various stages of production. A stool was positioned by the largest painting in the room – a regal portrait of a young woman – and a palette sat atop the wooden stool, dried paint festering against the wood. The bright lights scored dips across each painting, every meandering of the mind a masterpiece-in-making, although it couldn’t help but showcase the chaotic room that was a mere reflection of Jinki’s mentality.
Minho breathed outwards, and allowed his eyes to drift to the main thing he'd wanted to explore. On the left side of the room, a distressed wooden table sat, once a bright burgundy but now a faded brown. Although the table held various artist references and equipment, it was the large cardboard box beneath the table that Minho was focussed on – a box that had, many years ago, held hundreds of Jinki’s sketches. Minho was hoping that he'd filled the box further with new drawings.
When Jinki sketched, he didn’t just draw for an aesthetic purpose, he drew as an outlet of every thought he held, and Minho had seen that. He'd seen that when running around the track in high school as Jinki awaited him in the stands, scribbling into his sketchbooks, and he'd seen it even on the day of Jinki’s wedding, as he'd awaited her arrival, alone with Minho in the church, alone with his best man. Jinki had sketched to release a part of him he could never express in words, a part Minho hadn’t been given access to in many years.
Hunkering down after rubbing his bare arms, Minho hauled the box from beneath the table, goosebumps prickling his skin – and not solely from the cold. The lid on the box had a torn, ten-year old label on it, that showed the word 'drawings' in Jinki’s ever-spidery handwriting. Simply seeing the casing of the trove of dog-eared treasures stirred distant memories within Minho, and only added to his caustic worry that Jinki would appear at any time.
his lower lip, nostrils flared at the strong scent of paint, Minho withdrew the lid. His eyes widened at the first drawing he saw, and his heart almost caught in his chest.
It was of him.
Jinki’s drawings were so clear and precise one didn’t need an image to decipher exactly what he'd drawn, and to Minho it was clear that the tall, muscular figure sitting in the empty basketball court was meant to be him. The drawing was only an A4 size, small but exact, and it caught Minho’s imagination just as every piece Jinki created ever would.
Setting the drawing carefully on the ground by his side, Minho continued to leaf through the sketches. Though the first had been a recognisable sight, the figure in the other drawings was as if someone on the tip of Minho’s mind he couldn’t quite remember.
There was a quick sketch of a man staring at a painting, sporting rounded glasses and a delicate jacket, and then the same man at a table in a coffee shop, tapping the screen of his phone absent-mindedly. On a separate page the man was lost amongst a sea of people, and in another he was leaning in an over-sized jumper by the door of a building, and before Minho even had time to contemplate who the man could be or why Jinki had been drawing him, he heard the dreaded clearing of a throat behind his back. He froze instantly.
“Minho, what are you doing in here?”
Minho lowered his head guiltily and slowly placed the drawings back in the box. Hesitantly, he set the lid back on the box, not turning and standing to face the voice’s owner until he'd pushed it back beneath the table. Once he stood to face Jinki, he was surprised to see his face lacked anger, and instead was flaunted by a raised eyebrow. He almost seemed amused.
"I was… I was just…” Minho glanced around the room sceptically, and then at the box of drawings, before catching eyes with Jinki and biting his bottom lip, like a child about to be scolded.
Jinki walked gently down the staircase, and for some reason the stairs didn’t seem to creak as he did so. His journey was one drenched in silence, as he glanced around the room, almost as if he'd never been there before, a foreign realm of his misspent expressionism. He didn’t seem mad, as Minho had expected. He seemed complacent, uncaring, despondent.
"They aren’t finished,” Jinki mumbled, approaching the table Minho stood by and lifting a paintbrush idly, twirling it between his fingers. “So I guess they look a bit… Chaotic.”
He stood and surveyed his paintings with an analytical eye, Minho unknowing of what to do or say. Part of him wanted to query the subject of Jinki’s drawings, for he knew, he knew, he recognised the man, he just couldn’t remember where from, who it wa-
Minho blinked, startled.
Jonghyun. It was Kibum’s friend, the musician, Kim Jonghyun. Why ever was Jinki drawing him?
"Uh, they're-they're great,” Minho mumbled, suddenly feeling very awkward and embarrassed, as if he'd uncovered Jinki’s greatest secret.
"I wish,” Jinki smiled, spinning the paintbrush on the table-top and leaving it there. “Was Yoogeun okay?”
"He-he was fine,” Minho mumbled, “great, actually. I mean, bedtime was a bit of a hassle, but-but how was your art exhibition?”
"It was great,” Jinki grinned, almost laughed, possibly too happy to be wholesome. Minho frowned at him, but filtered his expression in an effort to calm his spiralling wonder. Jinki was acting weirdly, and Minho prayed it was only out of tiredness.
“I should… I should probably… I'll get going.”
Brushing by Jinki, Minho was surprised when a strong hand grabbed his arm to stop him moving any further. Jinki’s palm was warm as Minho shook him off, pivoting to view his friend, unsure of what to say.
"Thanks for looking after him,” Jinki extended politely. He said nothing more.
Minho nodded, concerned, and left the basement. Taking his coat and his mobile, he left the house quicker than he ever had, almost perturbed by the odd encounter with his friend.
•••
Jinki fell atop the bed with a contented sigh, sinking into the soft duvet as he sprawled across it. His bedroom was unlit but he didn’t care, closing his own eyes to further the darkness that was interrupted only by the slant of silvery moonlight through the window. As he lay, he breathed out, remembering his evening and the happiness that had blossomed with it – happiness countered only by the unshakable feeling of misplacement in his gut. But it didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter, because being with Jonghyun made him happy, and to Jinki, that was more important than the harrowing gazes of those who may judge – at least, it was for now.
As a smile graced his lips, he couldn’t help but open his glinting eyes. His charmed expression reminded him of Yoogeun’s on his last birthday, an expression composed of utter blissfulness at life and its fluctuating ways. He liked Jonghyun. He really, really liked Jonghyun, and that wasn’t something he planned on taking for granted.
After her he thought he'd never become involved in romance again.
In his pocket, he felt the soft vibration of his mobile, and frowned, sitting up and scratching his messy hair. He wondered who could be calling at such a time, and why they were calling him, but not one to be impolite, Jinki gingerly reached into his pocket and dug out his phone. He almost laughed at the name visible on the screen.
"Calling me already?” he asked quietly, accepting the call with that familiar feeling of nervous excitement fluttering through him. Reaching out a leg, he managed to push the door further shut with his toe, leaving only the space for a mere cut of light. He didn't want to wake Yoogeun, after all.
"Aish, just making sure I have the right number, don’t flatter yourself.” Alongside Jonghyun’s jibe came the most innocent of jokes in his voice, and it plastered Jinki’s face with a large, over-bearing grin. He knew he was acting like a love-struck teenager, but he couldn’t help himself. The very thought of Jonghyun made him feel warm inside – a cliché only chilled by the ever-present doubts of their newly found relationship.
"Sure, sure,” Jinki breathed. “I had fun this evening.”
"Me too,” Jonghyun answered sincerely. There was a slight bustling from his end of the line, almost like the chords of a guitar being accidentally strung, before the musician murmured, “We should do it again sometime.”
"When suits?” Jinki asked curiously. “Are you free tomorrow, for lunch?”
"I promised my boss I'd work an extra shift in the afternoon, but I should have time before that, yeah. Where do you want to meet?”
Jinki chewed on his bottom lip momentarily, before deciding, “How about that place you bumped into me and Minho at? It's nice.”
"Plus you met me there again,” Jonghyun laughed.
"True. Meet you there at one?”
"12:30?”
"12:45?”
"Fine, you win,” conceded Jonghyun. His happy tone hadn’t relented the entire conversation.
"I'll see you there, then,” Jinki grinned, heart beating just that little bit faster as he tightly gripped his mobile.
"You know something, Jinki?” Jonghyun finally pressed, voice somewhat softer, various fleeting emotions stitched into each word.
"What?” Jinki asked, suddenly curious, apprehensive and excited.
"Tonight really was the best night I've had in years.”
Jinki shivered, a chill running up his spine.
"Me too, Jonghyun,” he decided, in absolute truth. “Me too.”
"Haha, I'm going to go now,” Jonghyun stated, almost apologetically. “I'll see you tomorrow, Jinki.”
"See you tomorrow, Jonghyun.”
With a slight chuckle, Jonghyun hung up.
•••
Jinki felt hands against his skin, pressing into his back as the perpetrator moaned his name distantly, like a thought trapped within a cage, panting to be released. The friction between their bodies was excruciating, as Jinki reached out, burying a fist in the musician's soft, pink hair.
"Jinki..." the man groaned, perspiration mixing with the lust that flushed his tanned skin. His eyes were closed, for he no longer had the strength to hold them open, he merely had the strength to-
Jinki shot up from his bed, breathing heavily, eyes widened starkly. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his heart rattled against his ribcage. He twisted his neck, peered at the bed beside him, relieved to find it empty. He scrunched the duvet into his fists and exhaled, blinking rapidly to calm his racing mind. His pulse bred wanton urges throughout him as he brought up his knees and rubbed his temples with trembling hands. The room was too warm, and his track of thoughts too stunted. Glancing at the alarm clock, relieved to find it was only 4:00AM, Jinki collapsed back onto his bed, with only the comfort of the ceiling as he struggled to gather his thoughts.
•••
Kibum stared at the clock in his cramped office and squinted. It was still only 12:30, and he worked nine-to-five hours, meaning he had approximately four and half hours to work – three hours and forty-five minutes, if he subtracted his lunch break. He didn't mind his job (it wasn’t that stressful), however it was the most boring thing he'd ever been subjected to, even more boring than Mrs Jeon’s maths classes in high school. Each and every day he spent time filing reports and arranging appointments, secretarial work stereotypically associated with efficient women in efficient suits – not that Kibum was ist, rather perceptive when it came to what people expected to see in a secretary. If anything, they most certainly did not anticipate a young man with a sly smile and an intricate style.
Kibum stared at his desk blankly. People always thought he had it easy. He supposed, in a way, he did. Graduating from an all-arts college in fashion, it didn’t take Kibum long to find that, in the context of reality, his degree was a niche one. Jobs were scant and he'd managed to disappoint at every interview he'd somehow snagged a chance at. If it weren’t for his father’s law firm, he would’ve gone unemployed – but Kibum didn't have a degree in law, and it was soon found the only thing he qualified for was the lethargic paperwork necessary for a secretary to complete. His pay he supposed was overtly generous for his work, his father not prepared to watch his son fall indebted to many, but Kibum still had to work hard for the money, harder than most to prove his worth to the other staff, to prove he wasn’t just there because he was his father's son.
The office was warm, and had only one window, that provided little assistance in dampening the stringent heat. Kibum had resorted to rolling up the sleeves of his pale pink shirt and fanning himself slowly with a tired-from-typing hand. In front of him, his computer buzzed expectantly, an old machine he'd urged his father on multiple occasions to upgrade. The walls were a thick beige and the furnishings of dark wood, but it seemed so distant from the life Kibum had dreamed to be living. When everyone else around him had achieved their dreams – Minho as a basketballer, Taemin as a dancer and Jinki as a devoted husband and father – Kibum had felt embittered. Everyone had gotten something they'd always wanted, but for him.
That was, until, things started going wrong for everybody. Now he almost considered himself to be the lucky one.
Almost.
Kibum bit his bottom lip and scratched his neck, deep in thought. Flipping open the cover of one of his neat notebooks, he lifted a pen and began to scribble in the corner of the page, momentarily taking a respite from his work. Though Jinki was widely considered the true artist of the group, Kibum could sketch proficiently too – a skill he'd discovered as a young boy. Instead of entrancingly realistic drawings like the type produced by Jinki however, Kibum had leant towards drawing designs, eventually lending his focus to fashion and textiles. He worked well with fabrics and had a good eye – had been the perfect student and had graduated highly – but he supposed he didn't have the flare required to make it big, the necessary ability to be any more than a forgettable face in the crowd. He frowned, pursing his lips, the drawing slowly taking form.
He became startled when his reality came into tune with his moving hand and he saw just who he was drawing.
The figure was slight, standing with relaxed shoulders and wearing a large shirt. His cheekbones were high, lips full and hair wavy, and in his eyes was the slightest of glints. A perfect drawing of the dancer, Lee Taemin. Kibum tilted his head, curious at both the scratchy pen lines and himself, but continued the drawing, filling out the details until he had the line drawing of Taemin’s upper body and head. It looked good in the corner of his notebook. He played around with the details on the shirt some more before surveying his drawing with raised eyebrows. He was no Lee Jinki, but the drawing looked good – at least, in Kibum’s eyes.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and Kibum slammed the notebook shut quickly, pushing it away from him and grabbing his computer's mouse.
"Come in!” he shouted, plastering his face with the look of intensive focus. A woman peeked her head around the door – a middle-aged woman with thinning lips and jaundiced skin – and asked,
"Kibum, the reports?”
"Soon,” Kibum dismissed, so she tutted and closed the door, her brief encounter with the young man spurring him back into work.
•••
"No, no,” Jonghyun laughed over his coffee, “I don’t make music for a living, it's-it's more of a hobby. I work part-time as a cashier. I'd… I'd work full-time, but it's just that the work is hard to get.”
"Have you ever tried turning music into more than a hobby?”
The coffee shop was busier than it had been on their last visit, but no less quaint and no less friendly, as the two men sat by the sun-drenched table. The scent of coffee was more poignant given the sheer amount of packed tables surrounding them, but it didn’t entirely drown out the scent of the paraphernalia of flowers beyond the wrought iron gating around the tiled patio. Conversations were mulled like wine and the chilled sunlight was a blessing Jinki assumed seemed to kiss him whenever he visited the coffee shop, like a calling from heaven, if he were to believe one existed.
"Yeah,” Jonghyun answered, regretfully, tugging Jinki’s attention away from the subdued hum around them. The clink of cups against saucers was an ever-present melody as Jinki tilted his head at Jonghyun, awaiting a continuation.
"I had a-a record deal, once,” Jonghyun admitted, shyly looking away from Jinki, the light framing the soft curve of his nose delicately.
"What happened?” Jinki pushed carefully, realising instantly it was a topic Jonghyun felt uncomfortable discussing.
"Life just… Just got in the way.”
Jinki nodded as Jonghyun set down the fork he'd been twiddling, by the bed of salad he'd barely touched. Introspective even in the worst of times, Jinki knew not to prompt Jonghyun for further answers – the younger musician would part his past when he was ready to tell it.
"How about you?” Jonghyun deflected, voice brightening again. “What made you decide to turn painting into a lifestyle?”
Jinki frowned, considering the question before he answered. As the younger awaited, dressed in a sweet array of pale colours and sheepish glances, Jinki flattened the arm of his own jacket and shrugged.
"I just… It was just something I thought I could do, that I enjoyed. I've always had an interest in art, so I decided it'd be a good idea.”
"Did you study art?” Jonghyun pondered, searching Jinki. “Like, I mean, at school?”
Jinki shook his head. Every time he caught Jonghyun’s eyes, a jolt of nervousness writhed within him; he was nervous he would mess up, he was nervous about the half-lidded dreams he'd had the night before, but he was mostly nervous that the ever-growing deluge of people around them would catch on to the true bond between the two men – a bond that was more than just a polite friendship.
"I studied business,” Jinki answered, finally tugging his thoughts back in line before he abandoned Jonghyun’s query for too long. “At the time, I didn't really know what else to do. I was never really good at any subjects.”
"Weren't you amazing at art?”
Jinki shook his head again, before supplying, “I always hated the teacher's assignments. I wanted to draw and paint what I wanted – I didn’t want to photograph the coast-line or make a ceramic sculpture.”
"Art is a personal thing,” Jonghyun nodded, “I understand that, because music is the same, really. An expression of who we are.”
"Indeed,” Jinki nodded, sipping his now lukewarm cappuccino. When he set the cup on its saucer, he found Jonghyun to be smirking at him. When he raised an eyebrow, the smirk only contracted into a small giggle, before Jonghyun commented, “Lee Jinki, is your life a cliché?” After a quizzical stare, Jonghyun continued, “You've got, y’know, froth on your lip.” Jonghyun pointed his tiny finger at his own top lip and Jinki instantly blushed, wiping it away with a napkin quickly.
"Aw,” Jonghyun complained, “I could have wiped it off for you.” Jinki hid behind a hand in embarrassed laughter until he managed to compose himself, locking eyes with Jonghyun as he did so.
"Hey,” Jinki finally remembered, eager to turn the conversation to anything but his own incredible idiocy, “I got a call this morning about an art exhibition, next Friday night, at some hotel place just out of city. I'm supposed to take a plus one, only… Minho hates this kind of thing, and I was wondering if maybe…”
Jonghyun cocked his head in contemplation, staring up at the wisps of white cloud as he did so.
"I… I think I can make it,” he nodded. “It sounds like a sophisticated event though. Is it, like, suits and ties?”
"You don’t mind, do you?”
"No, I-I think I've a suit, somewhere. People will be walking around serving champagne and stuff, won't they?”
Jinki frowned humorously and replied with a rhetorical, “Probably?”
Jonghyun’s face instantly lit up with a bemused excitement, and he drummed his fingers atop the table quickly.
"I've never been to a posh event like that,” he departed, “they always seem so exclusive- I- how do I even act?”
"Just be yourself,” Jinki laughed, “as long as you don’t appear in your pyjamas, it should be okay.”
"Okay, cool,” Jonghyun nodded, appearing to make a mental note of what Jinki had just joked. “I'm sure you look handsome in a suit,” Jonghyun flirted, growing increasingly confident with the elder. Jinki’s confidence was still somewhat on the rocks however, and he became immediately flustered by Jonghyun’s innocent compliment, cheeks reddening as he cleared his throat.
"I-well-“
Jonghyun simply smiled, blushing at the effect he had on Jinki.
"Listen,” he extended, words careful now as he stopped the tapping of his fingertips, “Friday night is usually a movie-night for me, it's like… like a tradition, every Friday I'll watch a film, and so… If you wanted, if the exhibition didn't end too late, you could come back to mine and have a movie night? Only if you wanted, I mean, I know the exhibitions can be tiring, and-“
"No,” Jinki interrupted, “that sounds fun. What's the movie?”
"Whatever you like. I sense you're a rom-com type of guy, honestly.”
Jinki laughed, “Really? Ha, you know me so well.”
"Rom-com it is,” Jonghyun confirmed.
"Wait! I was just kidding, I'm not really a rom-com guy.”
"Oh.”
"Oh?”
"I kind of am.”
Jinki shut his eyes slowly and shook his head as if ashamed of Jonghyun’s movie tastes, and Jonghyun reached over and swatted his arm teasingly.
"We'll think of a compromise,” he opted, and Jinki nodded happily.
"Oh, damn!” Jonghyun suddenly exclaimed, as he glimpsed at the watch on his wrist. “It's that late?”
He stood frantically as Jinki watched onwards in shock, eyebrows raised as Jonghyun flustered in his pocket for his wallet.
"It's okay,” Jinki soothed, “I've got the bill, but- what's the rush?”
Jonghyun sighed and answered, “My shift started five minutes ago.”
Around them, people watched blankly as Jonghyun grabbed his coat and pulled it on, Jinki half-amused and half-concerned at Jonghyun’s lack of time-keeping.
"I'll pay you back,” Jonghyun offered, stumbling backwards slightly, “thank you. And, uh, call me, definitely, or I'll call you, or-or whatever. Bye, Jinki.”
Jinki nodded, watching Jonghyun tear into the crowd to reach his work.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
Comments