Where Are We Now

“Where have you been?" he asks when Jinwoo opens the door. It isn't that late - not later than usual, - but the room smells of whisky and loneliness and Minho is looking at him with glassed eyes. There isn't malice in his words, only a tight layer of remorse and envy, nothing he hasn't deal with before. It's just one of these days, the bad ones, but Jinwoo has been there, knows the demon by its name, knows how it devours the light and hopes from the core, leaving hollow spaces where something bright lingered before.

"I've been working" he sighs, coughing at the smoke tickling his nose. Minho watches his reaction and, quickly, turns around, smashes the of the cigarette on his lips on the astray, diffuses the grey traces swirling in the air.

"At the restaurant?" he asks again with a slight hint of resentment. It should be obvious where he is coming from, he is still wearing the apron and carrying the aroma of burned sugar and flour stick on the hair, a white powdered layer underneath his nails.

"Yes," he replies, rubbing his temple, holding in the urge to bitterly add 'where else I could be?' be he is aware that Minho has been alone all day long, that he has left without time to kiss him goodbye, too early to remember, too tired to complain, to make it up with him, who stays behind, with shadows and phantoms as his company, with memories of better old times - moments that he chases, that he follows but can't trace, can't grasp. "Some of us have to conform with more prosaic jobs," he adds, exhaling slowly the air trapped inside his heart. Cooking isn't his passion, he doesn't breathe for it, but it pays the rent and the bills and it is sufficient, it's enough for him, even if Minho doesn't understand - but he is made off of different stuff, he has always been brilliant, a shining star sailing across the sky. But, lately, the burning flares has subdued, diminishing, turning into dusted ashes swept by the wind. Minho has been down since his last exhibition, all his passion worn off and Jinwoo can tell exactly what he has done all these hours by himself: stare at a blank canvas, palette dry and wasted just like Minho himself, a shattered glass of golden liquid relaying on the coffee table, the smell of it impregnating his fingers, melting the colourful stains that were there before, the shades of watercolours and oil chalk. And Jinwoo has been there too, has hit rock bottom once or twice and Minho has stayed by his side, patient and kind, encouraging by words and acts and so Jinwoo doesn't mind, even when he is exhausted, he doesn't get cross at Minho's behaviour - he knows what lies under-core, pools of despair and self loath, feeling like trash, useless, a waste of time and space (he has felt this way when Minho was starlight, his name engraved in silver on the best galleries, money flowing in big chunks and he had absolutely nothing. Working saved him, finding a job, even if monotonous and demanding, keeps his mind out of troubles, it tires him to the bones, let his mind rest, maintain the dangerous, spiralling thoughts at bay, away. Minho looks at him suspiciously, raise a brow and dismisses him as if nothing, as if he was too good to wonder, to worry - but he does, he is just in a bad mood, drunk with pettiness and alcohol. "With Seunghoon?" he blurts the name as if venom, all the jealousy present, spurted out like bile and rancour, “again?” and it’s more an accusation than a question, but Jinwoo lets it slide, has no energy left to mind, to analyse the consequences of something he is already aware of – that Minho is acting like a jerk when he is not.

“Well, difficult to work without my boss,” he specifies, rolling his eyes, pushing past Minho, sinking into the comfort of the worn fabric of the old couch.

There is a flash of red and anger and a gust of smoke and Minho contemplates him, leaning on the wall, another cigarette hanging on his disgusted, troubled lips, shimming slowly, filled with disappointment and begrudge. Minho doesn’t appreciate Seunghoon very much, always complaining that he forces Jinwoo to work too much, keeping him away from home but this situation is ridiculous – they need the money to stay afloat until Minho gets back on track, working on his art, selling canvas and getting commissions done (until then, he will have to do with Jinwoo’s working shifts and his niggling attitude).

“He wants you,” he points out, for the first time – but it has been bubbling inside his mind, Jinwoo is convinced that it’s something that has been nourishing the demons eating him inside. “He lusts over you,” he adds, for emphasis, “he calls you constantly, keeps you by his side all day long, even when you aren’t supposed to be at work,” he enumerates, listing the grudges he has been piling inside, “I’m sure you two have done more than just work,” and exhales a cloud of smoke that fogs the room with suggestions and harsh remarks that are totally out of place but misery is a terrible company and that’s all that Minho has had in weeks and there is so much Jinwoo can do to be there for Minho as he needs. But he is too tired to fight, it’s going nowhere and Minho is out of his head – his mind drowned with whiskey and bad decision: it’s not the moment to discuss (it’s never the right moment to talk, to lay on the table the real issue). Jinwoo gets up and ignores the charges that Minho has thrown at him – he wants to forget it and dream about better times. It takes ten seconds for Minho to reach out for him, a hand falling on his shoulder, warm, gently, his voice broken with tears and wine, filled with regrets and sorrow and all the pieces of his tattered heart. “Hyung, wait, I didn’t mean it!” he exclaims, desperate, “I’m sorry it just… I haven’t seen you in ages and I’ve been missing you. And no, this doesn’t excuse what I’ve just said about you and Seunghoon… that’s awful of me, and I’m utterly sorry and ashamed for even having the thought stuck in my head. I missed you, missed you so bad, it hurt,” and his hands are holding him tight, laced on his chest, his chin resting atop of his hair, his breath taste like pity and sadness.

“I missed you, too,” Jinwoo says, twining his fingers around Minho’s, feeling the texture of his smooth skin, all dark under the dim of the moonbeams coming from afar, seeds across the window.

“Stay with me, then,” he offers, expectant, wishing for nothing but Jinwoo.

“You know that I can’t,” Jinwoo exhales, patting the back of Minho’s hand. “But I miss you, I miss the instants we don’t have together, but we are adults, we have to accept the reality,” he finishes, serene, realistic. Minho snorts and shakes his head in disbelieve.

“Where has our love gone?” he wonders in a shadow of a whisper.

Long are gone the skipping classes and making out in alleyways, the rush of adrenaline with every butterfly kiss, waking up all covered in tempera and smelling like turpentine. He doesn’t love Minho less than before but passion has morphed into comfort, blending with adulting and growing up. Responsibilities and bills and expenses to cover up make it difficult to sneak out, to stay in bed all morning, lazily snuggling, hand in hand, lips pressed together, breathing the oxygen straight from his lungs. He has work and Minho has to figure it out how to be without Jinwoo constantly around, has to learn to let him go – because he will always come back home, come back to Minho. Love has gone nowhere, it is still in Minho’s soft smile when he observes Jinwoo sleep, his fingers brushing the silk of his cheeks, tracing the shades of freckles, caressing his lashes, peppering pecks all over his forehead when he finally opens his eyes to see him. It’s on the little actions and small gestures, in every good-night kiss when they manage to go to bed together, it’s on the shade of his glance whenever they look at Jinwoo – admiration and devotion and a love so deep that has no bottom. It’s there even if Minho insists to conceal it – Jinwoo knows better, he can unveil it.

“It’s here,” he says, turning between Minho’s arms, kissing the mole at the edge of his nose, making Minho chuckle. “It’s always been, it will always be,” he promises, joining his lips, his words diluted into his mouth, swallowed by Minho’s tongue. Minho leans into the kiss, into the soft feeling of Jinwoo’s chest colliding with his, his heart over his, beating at the same tempo, at the same pace, of his hands creeping up to hold his waist, fingers spreading like open wings to touch his spine, smoothing the creases, all the knots born from wearing off and Jinwoo relax into the embrace, welcomes the touch with a smitten purr. “And, if you miss me so much, you can always come over, have dinner with us and, then, walk home with me,” he smiles on the crook of his neck, his cheek landing on his shoulder, lashes batting slowly, drowsy.

“Do you want me to go? Aren’t you mad at me for what I’ve said before?” he marvels at Jinwoo’s kindness, at his forgiving heart.

“Well, I’m too tired to think straight,” he jokes, giggling – and the sound is so refreshing, it lifts the gloom of the atmosphere, sweetens the taste of smoke and alcohol. “But yes, of course, I want you to come over and visit us, any time, any day, any moment is perfect. And, just for you to know, Seunghoon is already married with Seungyoon, totally not romantically interested in me,” he adds, chuckling. Minho’s head falls, hides against Jinwoo’s hair, ashamed, embarrassed, tormented. “If I ever want to leave you, I’ll tell you first,” he jokes, reassuring Minho, patting his back with affection. “Now, all I want is to crash on my bed. Tomorrow will be another day, a better day. I’ll cook for you and we will have time together,” he promises. “I know you are having a rough time but I’m with you, you don’t have to carry it all on your own, you can lean on me, I won’t go anywhere, even if you pull me off, I won’t move, I’ll stay with you as long as you want me to.”

“I’ll always want you. And thank you, hyung, for still loving the incomplete me, this useless Minho who can’t do anything right now. I feel broken without the paints and brushes, lifeless, restless. I’m scared of an empty canvas, of the pages I can’t fill up with colours, but you brighten up my days, you, who don’t give up, who is persistent and resilient, who loves this futile man that I become. When I look at you, I want to draw on your flesh, to doodle all you make me feel, sketch on you all of my emotions, let them sink into you, share them with you, so you can understand how much I love you, how much you make me be a better person, even if I don’t look the part,” he adds, chortles, ashamed. “You keep my shatters in place, save from more devastation, from me throwing myself away,” and he hugs him, means all the words. “Now, let put you to bed before you doze off on me,” and Jinwoo lets Minho carry him – tug him in bed, lying next to him, counting all the stars inside of his eyes.

When Jinwoo wakes up, he finds tender traces of colour on his skin, slashes of yellow and green, the shape of a sunflower painted over his chest, Minho staring at him, lovingly, a swarm of canvas painted, a smile that is evergreen, a kiss flavoured with ink and brushes, a love that feels fresh, renewed. And it might be momentary, the happiness contained in this scene exploding soon so Jinwoo traps it within his hands, take it all and keeps it deep inside his heart – pressed like dried flowers, a memory to preserve, an instant to forever, for when life wavers and all becomes unsure: he will look back at this and smile, feeling Minho by his side, feeling that, even if only for a second, he has rebuilt his heart.