Lee Jinki hated routine as much as he loved it; admittedly, it gave his life a systematic structure, for he'd rise at the same time and fall to sleep again in rough accordance, and it provided him with a motivation, of sorts, to fulfil his obligations. However, routine also fastened Jinki to the same laborious flux, wearying his bones by the simple matter that nothing ever changed. His work would never change, his memories would never change, and, most notably, his tiredness would always be. Recounting this abysmal fact for what felt like the hundredth time in that hour alone, Jinki slumped against his desk with an aggravated sigh.

He found it near contradictory how the life of a painter could involve such paperwork.

Slowly, he gathered his thoughts, thoughts as fickle as the horse-hairs of a brush, and began to root through them with increasing carelessness. Bills, customers, supplies, Autumn – the sloom of upcoming events was a plethora of misery. Jinki hated Autumn, for it mostly rained in Autumn, and though the russets of the leaves could be of a hazel more decadent than his own tousled hair, such transience was so fleeting that the colours were only beautiful for mere days – if even. Most leaves were sodden, trampled husks of nature, crushed before their beauty piqued, and this was an artist’s nightmare. Jinki was a painter, and a painter’s work took time, and he never found he had it to paint the autumn leaves.

Morosely, Jinki lifted his head from the desk and blinked with two tired eyes. The light above buzzed with a golden flamboyancy, and the stiffness of his back mocked his stooped posture. His neck was bent like a lamppost and as he glanced around in abject despair, no artistic thought could dampen the sheer state of his cramped office-room. Files and papers spat out from open drawers like hungry tongues, and the main desk itself resembled a patchwork quilt, stitched in customer references, diaries from forgotten years and the unappealing crochet of crumpled crisp packets. Jinki didn’t even like crisps.

Shaking his head and knowing his routine didn’t give him time to tidy – something he was almost thankful for – Jinki stood, hissing mildly at the slight pain that lanced through his spine. He'd been sitting for so long it seemed his body had developed a new rigid posture. As he rolled his neck and shoulders, the room drowned in an ethereal silence, Jinki composed himself for the next part of his routine – one he knew was just as hectic and strenuous every single night, but one he didn't seem to mind as much as the quiet throes of his office work.

Padding towards the door, dodging an open storage box, Jinki glanced around himself one final time. He would clean the bustling room. Eventually.

Clicking off the light, Jinki opened the door and the onslaught was immediate. Before he even had time to exit, his ears perked and his skin shivered at the loud, obnoxious, colourful jangling of the theme-tune to yet another child’s television show. Pressing the door with his back to close it, Jinki didn't know whether to laugh or grimace at the senseless lyrics about rainbows and happiness that found purchase even on the upstairs landing, as noisy and eccentric as a toddler themselves. The repetitive rhythm was one he knew well, for the cartoon – about a puppet and his quest for redemption in a world of careless humans – was one that frequented the channels at such an hour, and Jinki had even fallen victim to watching it. But, as every human with a fluctuating attention span, he had only been able to struggle through half an episode before retiring to his office to tug at his hair in frustration.

His son, on the other hand, loved it.

Jinki made his way down the short, narrow corridor to the staircase, able to view his kitchen and living area even from over the railings of the glass banister. Though compact in many ways, Jinki’s home was an eclectic combination of abstract modernism and the quaint uniqueness of the vintage. Above his head was a tall ceiling with large, sophisticated skylights, and the kitchen and living room boasted a black-and-white colour scheme that was as impractical as it was chic. The scent of cleanliness was oppressive in its comfort, and the walls held small paintings only an artist as keen-eyed as Jinki could collect. Everything was pristine, everything was perfect – except for the fact that a spate of toys found themselves lodged in every conceivable corner, from underneath the wooden kitchen table and scattered around the black-marble island. Though a constant annoyance to Jinki, he supposed, in an odd, fatherly sense, he valued the chaos. It gave the home a life he couldn’t have given if he'd been alone.

“Yoogeun…” he cooed endearingly, descending the stairs in slow, trudging footsteps. “Yoogeun, it's bedtime!”

A shriek of laughter emanated from the living area and Jinki sighed. Whether Yoogeun hadn't heard him or had blatantly ignored him was beyond his knowledge, but either way, the idea of disrupting his son’s fun face-to-face was one Jinki despised. Three years of parenting and yet he still hadn’t become accustomed to the looks of utter hatred Yoogeun could conjure.

“Yoogeun,” Jinki reiterated, firmer this time, so that his soft voice could be heard above the constant chattering of the television. “Don’t act like you didn't hear me.”

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Jinki rubbed an eye and rounded the corner, to inwardly groan at the sight bequeathed to him. His often-orderly living room had become what could only be described as a maelstrom. The faux-leather sofa had been uprooted, pillows thrown with ambiguity across the well-furnished room. Vibrant, half-broken toys were piled in a volcanic mound on the white carpet, broken limbs of dolls and the fluffy innards of bears spewing from the mountainous impasse, and, as the flat-screen television blared and the strong lights twinkled, the child amidst it all grinned with complete and utter ignorance.

“Yoogeun…” Jinki hesitantly scolded, and finally, stubby fingers curled around a battered book, Yoogeun’s head shot up and he cracked a silly grin. Jinki’s heart instantly weakened.

The three-year old was as unpresentable as ever, something not too dissimilar from jam smeared across his rounded right cheek, and his dark hair swept in a several different directions, as if the arrow to a broken compass. When he smiled, his face contracted a rosy red sheen, and in his stained dungarees, he was hapless and happy, the vision of absolute innocence. Dragging his eyes from his son, Jinki uncovered the television remote from behind a pillow and prepared himself for the nightmare to follow.

And it was, indeed, a nightmare.

Yoogeun enjoyed protestation when Jinki attempted to put him to bed. He also enjoyed shouting, and flailing, and balling his tiny fists so that when Jinki was forced to carry him upstairs, he could pound his father’s back with all the might his little body could form – and it was indeed quite a lot. If Jinki ​had managed to calm him -  which was a rare occurrence, and one that didn’t seem to rear its head that particular night – there were still the inevitable chores of brushing his teeth and dressing the kicking toddler in his favourite pirate print pyjamas (that were definitely beginning to become too small), and when that had been achieved, it was only when Jinki began to mumble some pointless bedtime story that Yoogeun would finally accept the fact that he was desperately tired, and would allow his eyelids to flutter shut in the darkened embraces of his small bedroom. Maybe it was because of his fatherly connection, or maybe it was just that Jinki had exacted this routine so often, but he could always tell as soon as his son had fallen asleep; the toddler’s breathing would lessen to a shallow pattern and his tiny chest would rise up and down incredibly softly, as if he wasn’t breathing at all.

As this happened, Jinki would sit and watch, despite the room’s murky shadows, and would allow his eyes to gloss over in something akin to love. It was unconditional, it was near-paralysing in its nature, but as Jinki the matted hair of his sleeping son, he knew he wouldn’t trade those obligations for anything on the planet. Yoogeun was the one part of his constant routine he ​did value – and he valued it more than he even did his own life.

Hesitantly, Jinki closed the book he held on his lap and quietly left the room, pulling the door so that it was open only a mere slit to allow his son to sleep in silence. Exhaustion began to invigorate his own limbs do that all he could do was trudge down the stairs, ligaments pulsing a weary anger and eyes fading in their battle for strength. Everything was quiet, now, as it had been in his office earlier. It was eerie, introspective, and devastatingly lonely, but Jinki supposed he was used to it. He supposed he had to be.

Massaging his eyes with the back of his palms, Jinki decided he really should tidy the haphazard mess his son had made in the living room. Walking steadily to the controllable switch and dimming the lights to a meditative orange, Jinki surveyed the tepid room with a deep frown. He was glad of his jumper, though did not know if the chill that bit the air was real or of his own imagining. It seeped into his pale skin, stiffened his frame, made him want to forget about the state of his home and elapse on the sofa to never move, but Jinki liked to think he was an efficient man, a determined man, and he ​would sort the state of his home – he just had to work up the energy to do so first.

A low vibration sounded and Jinki frowned.

His phone.

Cursing, Jinki stumbled to the sofa and began to root behind the cushions, the phone’s perpetual buzz becoming increasingly impatient. It decorated the empty house in an odd dysphoria, as if the noise itself was a desperate wail, and it chilled Jinki, though he knew such thoughts were irrational. He didn't like living alone, didn’t value living alone, yet-

Jinki fished the phone out from behind the sofa and sighed in hazy relief, before slumping against the seat and answering with a near-breathless, “Hello?”

“Have you just run a marathon?” responded the caller sceptically, Jinki instantly recognising their friendly, velvety voice. Sinking further into the seat and allowing his eyes to momentarily flicker shut, Jinki replied sullenly, “Nope. Just put Yoogeun to bed, is all.”

“Oh…” answered the voice in understanding, and Jinki could almost imagine the expressions of the man as he inhaled this information. “It's your age catching up on you.”

“Aish, I'm only a year older than you, Min’-“

“-actually it's almost two years, so-“

“-so you really shouldn’t say anything. Why are you calling me, anyway? Isn't it past your bedtime or something?” Jinki chuckled slightly, tone mocking, comfortable, as was often the case with friends so close.

“Y’know, hyung, a healthy lifestyle is nothing to be ashamed of. Actually, you could probably ​benefit from it.”

“Right.”

“It'd make you less grumpy, for a start.”

“Minho, did you call with the sole purpose of annoying me, or-?”

There was a pause as Minho contemplated this information, and Jinki could have sworn to hearing another, more distant voice in the background as he awaited the response.

“No,” was all that Minho provided, and Jinki rolled his eyes, stifling a yawn as he awaited a continuation. Minho could often be slow in his articulation, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because, often-times, he didn't know how to say it. “I came to ask about this Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“What's this Friday?” Jinki shifted slightly on the couch, eyes latched on a small baby-rattle beneath the kitchen table that he knew Yoogeun had outgrown, yet it was an implement his son still sought joy in. A slight smile twitched on Jinki’s lips as his thoughts wandered.

“Kibum’s birthday,” Minho answered casually, as if expecting Jinki to understand his point immediately.

“And you want me to bake him a cake?” Jinki asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow with careless instinct. He heard Minho laugh slightly, and then there was another pause as the younger contemplated what next to say.

“On Friday night,” Minho began, as if his words were scripted, rehearsed, and scripted again, “we were thinking of going out for a couple of drinks, just a few of us.” Then, that distant voice was heard again and Jinki’s eyebrows furrowed as Minho concatenated the afterthought, “And Kibum would ​really appreciate it if you were there.”

“Minho-“

“Look, we know you aren’t- we know you don’t really like this kind of thing, hyung, but we honestly think that it would do you good to just… I don’t know, let loose, come out, have some fun-“

“Minho-“

“-and I know you've Yoogeun to think about, but you know how much my mum loves him, she'd jump at the opportunity to babysit.”

“I don’t know, Minho, it's just-“

“Come on, hyung! You're still young. It's just not… It's not healthy to stay cooped up in your house all the time.”

“I'm not ​cooped up," Jinki challenged, a slight grit beginning to fray his words. “And I've too much to think about now. I can't just go out and get drunk and act like a damn fool, it's just- it's irresponsible, towards me ​and my son.”

“Going out once won't hurt,” Minho reasoned. Then, a softer approach, “We think it'd be good for you. She wouldn’t want you to-“

“Don’t bring her into this, Minho. Don’t dare.” Jinki’s interruption was so clipped that Minho seemed too stunned to respond, as he calculated his next words. An odd nausea pricked through Jinki’s stomach with a needle and thread, sewing a miasma of emotions he did his best to ignore. He couldn’t address them, not now or ever, but nor could he tear out the stitches that formed them.

“Just think about it, hyung. If not for you, for Kibum. It's been ages since you two saw each other last.”

“Well, tell him to drop by if he's so desperate to see me,” Jinki responded tersely, instantly despising the aggravation in his voice.

“Don’t be like this, Jinki,” Minho muttered, voice laboured now. They both knew the situation well enough to understand this wasn’t the first time such a schism had risen; Minho misplaced his words and Jinki misplaced his emotions, and both men had held the same argument with cyclic regularity. Routine, Jinki thought it. Just another bloody routine.

“I'm not being like anything,” the painter answered, trying his best to deflect the attention from himself. “I'm just not… Into that life anymore, Minho. You've got to understand that. I can't- I can't do it. If I came, you know I'd just ruin the night for everyone else there, whoever that involves.”

“It'd literally just be me, you, Kibum and-and Taemin, if I can actually get a hold of him. Us four at some club – hyung, they'd understand better than anyone if you didn’t want to drink or dance or make out with some drunk e.” Minho chortled mildly, testing the waters with his remark.

“Oh, so Kibum wouldn’t try and make me make out with some drunk e? Really?” Jinki threw back rhetorically, tone beginning to lilt into calmer waters with his joke.

“I'd protect you,” Minho offered, mocking a valiant nature, “you have my word.”

“Idiot,” Jinki directed, a smirk forming on his chapped lips.

“Come on, hyung,” Minho pleaded, “Taemin would love to see you.”

“I thought this was for Kibum?”

“It is, but… I'm pretty sure Taemin is egotistical enough to want you to do a painting of him, so, hey- business opportunity.”

“Aish, Taem’ is the opposite of egotistical. Kid’s too damn shy to even speak to anyone other than us three.”

“Hey, maybe his personality has completely changed,” Minho countered, “something you wouldn’t know, considering you haven’t seen him in – what, three months?”

“Four. And I've been busy, Minho, you of all people should know that.”

“We're all busy,” Minho argued, “I've the team to train for, Kibum has his job and Taemin’s this damn dance school – but we're taking time out, because that's what we've got to do. We're taking time out to just enjoy ourselves, there's nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, but none of you have a kid,” Jinki muttered.

“Don’t use the ​I'm-a-father excuse,” Minho threw back, “because you know that’s all it is – an excuse.”

“No, it's a reason,” Jinki answered, “and if you had a kid you'd understand, but you don’t, Minho. You don't, so don’t try act like you do.”

“Hyung, we both know the real reason you don’t go out.”

“Minho,” Jinki warned, “I already told you, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Minho retaliated, becoming more confident in himself. “Don’t ​what, Jinki? It's been three years, don’t you think it's time you moved on?”

“Christ, Minho, we are not talking about this – not now, not ever, so-“

“Why not? You have to move on, hyung, and the only way you can do that is by learning how to live again.”

“I'm living just fine. Going out, getting drunk, having with some nameless girl – that’s not living, that’s just acting like an immature, irresponsible college kid, and that’s not who I am.”

“Yeah, well, who are you?” Minho proposed. “To me, you're a brother, but to the rest of the world, you're just another lonely widow.”

“To the rest of the world, I'm Lee Jinki,” was the curt response, “the single-father, the painter.”

“No, that’s who you are to you,” Minho responded. “To everyone else, you're just lonely.”

There was a brief interlude as Jinki struggled to collate the fragments of his thoughts; his temperature had risen, the colour of his cheeks flushed in a red anger. His eyes were darkened by some insipid memory and even the base of his lips had greyed. Within minutes, he'd aged a century, the world becoming colder as the warmth of his anger spread throughout him. He clenched his free fist as stubbornness bore a child in his mind, and the child grew until it became a thoughtless adult, yawing over undulating currents to scare him.

He knew, deep down, beneath those snippet waves, that Minho was right.

“Look, Minho,” he began steadily, keeping his voice as subdued as he could, fingers cold around the mobile, “it's-it's late, and I’m tired. I'm going to bed. Tell Kibum that I’m sorry, okay?” Jinki closed his eyes and swallowed, reticent with regret, about to hang up when a strong voice stopped him.

“Jinki, wait- I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to bring her into this, I know it's not my place, I-“

“Forget it, Minho.”

“Please just give Friday some thought. If not for me, for Kibum. He'd love to have you there, you know he would.”

“I promise,” Jinki mumbled, the falsity in his voice laced over in tiredness.

“Thanks, hyung.”

Jinki hung up and within minutes was asleep.