Chapter Three
Cherry Blossoms [Rewrite]“Do you prefer black or white?”
Minho frowned as the call emanated across the apartment, emerging from the open door to one of the bedrooms. Lowering the book he was reading – something his coach had recommended about dietary phenomena and the secrets of exercising – the basketballer sank further into the sleek grey armchair, and sceptically replied, “If you mean in terms of race, I’m afraid to tell you, hyung, that's discrimination.”
Minho smirked coyly at his joke, attempting to return to his book but finding he'd lost his place, and that the information contained had been so vapid he may as well have not had a place to begin with. Sighing indignantly, he closed it over and slid it across the glass coffee table – a polished structure already invaded in a slew of magazines Minho found to be both pointless and over-priced, a method of brain-washing for the ignorant who would never be clean.
“Don't be an ,” called back the voice, as the sounds of rummaging resounded. It seemed he was foraging in a forest and not an organised wardrobe. “I mean to wear, idiot.”
“Ah,” Minho mused, eyes drifting to the mildly unkempt kitchenette, where a few unwashed dishes crowded the sink, and an empty cereal packet glared at the cream walls angrily. “Probably black, white’s way too impractical, and sometimes makes people look like Jesus, trying to be pure or whatever.”
“So does this top make me look like Jesus?”
Minho’s eyes trawled lazily to the man that had appeared like a spectre in the doorway, wearing a face of absolute confusion and sincerity. Minho could have laughed at his serious countenance had he not been so used to it, but after having lived with the fashion-conscience man for several months now, he was undoubtedly experienced in such occurrences.
“It looks fine, Kibum.”
Kibum sighed, and shook his head, wavy black hair framing a face with a beautifully pale complexion. His cheekbones were high and his eyes were feline, and Minho had always thought there was something quite unique in Kibum’s way, how he could look so pristine no matter his condition.
“And I don't look like I'm ‘trying to be Jesus’?” Kibum asked, staring down at the loose white shirt he wore, a top clearly designed for warmer weather, consisting of soft fabric and a slight-translucence, only accentuating Kibum’s elegant frame.
“Even if you grew a beard and wore a tunic, you wouldn't look like you're trying to be Jesus. People know you too well.”
Kibum scoffed and rolled his eyes, slipping back into his bedroom to change out of the new shirt.
“I still can't believe you managed to convince Jinki to come tonight,” Kibum mused, voice muffled somewhat as he changed. “Isn't he, like, a complete and utter recluse? Does he even go out to get food anymore?”
Kibum returned, swiping a strand of thick black hair from his eyes, dressed casually in a large sweater. Thoughtlessly, he fell atop the couch at a diagonal to Minho, and brought his legs up to cross them, like a child observing their friend, mischievous and riddled in an insatiable curiosity.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Minho scolded, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair and massaging his forehead slightly, “he just prefers his own company, you know what he's like.”
“You can say that again,” Kibum mumbled. Playfully, he toed the corner of the patterned rug beneath the coffee table, before resuming to his cross-legged position. “How long has it been since he's been on a night out?”
Minho shrugged complacently, dropping his hand and trying to calculate. The warmth of the apartment, and the ever-present scent of lavender that drifted from one of Kibum’s many scented candles, seemed to negate any notion of discomfort. It was restful, peaceful, so unlike the hectic world that lay outside their compact space. An oasis in a desert of fluctuating tumult, or a cloud-break in a blanketed sky.
“A year, two – I don’t know, hyung.”
“What even convinced him to come this time?” Kibum pondered, as if Minho hadn’t spoken at all. There was something harsh about Kibum’s accent, his words often clipped and drawn short, as if he didn’t care for eloquence; despite this, he was still a well-spoken man, poised in both decorum and word.
“Don’t know,” Minho shrugged again, “I mean, I mentioned that Taemin was missing him, and that you were, but it's not like I haven’t tried that before, y’know?”
“Maybe the loneliness has finally gotten to him,” Kibum considered, “I can't imagine what it's like to raise a child alone. He's so young, too.” There was a brief interlude of silence as both men considered Kibum’s statement, regretful for their friend, regretful for his position. In the corner, a clock ticked with morose expectation, gently gilding the room in a shadow of remorse. Suddenly, a slight laugh left Kibum’s lips, as he commented, “Do you remember what he used to be like?”
“It's hard to forget,” Minho grinned, “he was such a fool.”
“He's definitely given us some interesting stories for his kid when he grows up,” Kibum nodded slyly, eyes glossed in the remnants of memories.
“Yoogeun,” Minho corrected, “call him Yoogeun.”
“Right. Do you think he'll actually, I don’t know, embrace the spirit tonight?” Kibum queried, pursing his lips and toying gingerly with the corner of a plush cushion.
“If you mean get drunk and go home with a random stranger,” Minho defined, “then no, probably not.”
“Hmm, well, he and Taem’ can sit and drink water and chat hair-styles or some ,” Kibum sighed, waving his hand. "Considering it's my birthday, I’m probably definitely getting drunk and ing a random stranger.”
“Remind me to spend the night at my parent’s place,” Minho muttered, rolling his eyes and throwing back his head to rest it atop the chair. With his long neck exposed, eyes trained on the ceiling, he felt inherently bare, somehow vulnerable. Squinting heavily, he lifted his neck again, to find Kibum gazing at him curiously, lips parted to speak.
“What?” the basketballer pressed, brows narrowing.
“No, nothing,” Kibum excused, “just lost my train of thought, is all.”
“Your concentration span is woeful,” Minho murmured dryly, leaning forward and rubbing his own shoulder, massaging the tense muscle.
“Aish,” Kibum rebuked, “says the brain-dead basketballer.”
“It's only an illusion that people who play sports aren't intelligent,” Minho defended, as Kibum stood to amass a few of his fashion magazines, ever the obsessive cleaner despite his lack of tidiness. “In fact, sometimes people who play sports have to be more intelligent.”
“Hmm, sure,” Kibum dismissed, inspecting the dates on several of the issues with abject amusement. “It takes just so much intelligence to ‘shoot that basket’, I understand.” His words were submerged in a playful sarcasm as he moved the magazines to the kitchen counter purposelessly, before chewing on his bottom lip and inspecting them as if about to exact a brutal interrogation.
“Actually,” Minho countered, standing defiantly and folding his arms, sauntering towards the smaller man with indefinite confidence, “it does take intelligence. You have to- You have to predict the game, anticipate the other team’s players, and your own. You have to know where to move, you have to think fast – it's the perfect combination of physical and intellectual abilities.”
Leaning over the kitchen counter, hand delving into the fruit bowl, Kibum cocked his head, eyes expelling a faint ardour as he regarded his hyung.
“What?” Minho asked, lips twitching into an incredulous smirk.
“Think fast!” Kibum shouted, and Minho recoiled in fear just as a small orange rebounded from his chest. It fell to the ground limply and Kibum laughed childishly, already turning away from Minho’s surprised glare.
“And you're meant to be the team’s best?” Kibum shot, as Minho bent down to pick up the dejected piece of fruit, bruised and useless as a experimented cadaver. “Shame…”
“Throwing an orange at me hardly constitutes as a fair representation of my basketball skills,” Minho defended, as Kibum sank back into the shadows of his bedroom.
“Whatever,” he shrugged, turning in the door-frame to face Minho once more. “I'm going to sleep, get some rest before tonight. You should… probably do the same.” And then, as an after-thought, “I invited some old friends from college too, if that's okay? They'll probably spend most of their time on the dancefloor anyway.”
“Sure,” Minho shrugged, “it's not like I can stop you.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, considering you can’t even catch an orange.” With that, Kibum laughed, and clicked the door shut before Minho had another opportunity to defend himself.
Petulantly, the basketballer scowled.
•••
Jinki bit his lower lip and studied the paintbrushes with the analytical precision only a painter could fathom, eyeing the brush and brand just as much as the price marked on the label. The well-crafted set contained three horse-hair brushes, each of different widths, that were perfect for his artistic style, and the striking complexity of his paintings. His older brushes were beginning to wear out, the hairs loosening from their metallic fasteners, and Jinki knew as well as any artist that no painting could be finished with such compromised equipment; the flecks of brush could become lodged in the delicate canvas, or the misshapen edges could carve misconstrued lines. It was just a shame that the best brushes were also, subsequently, the most expensive.
As the owner of the quaint art shop talked oil pastels with someone who seemed to have the qualities found in a frequent customer, Jinki glanced down at his son, whose face today was as ruddy and red as it was when a new-born. He was gently poking a transparent bottle of green acrylic paint, eyes widened in a glaze of curiosity. These paints were much more refined than his own block colours, a spectrum of shades, ranging from muted to vivid.
"Careful, Yoogeun,” Jinki warned quietly. The shop itself was such an idyllic haven that the painter worried his young, enthusiastic son could upset it. More-over, the quixotic scent of lavender and canvas refined the gentle atmosphere, gave it the air of a place not meant for toddlers. The hush of the shop unnerved Jinki when his son was around – alone, it was a blessing, the jingle of the doorbell and the splay of golden light from the wide windows almost ethereal in quality – but Yoogeun had the penchant for becoming loud spontaneously, like a jack-in-a-box ready to unwind.
Yoogeun ignored Jinki and bent down slightly on his little legs to survey the spectacle of paint colours, ranging from an autumnal russet to a heavenly silver. His eyes widened in awe, having told Jinki many times that there were a lot more colours here than in his crayon set, and never forgetting such a fact, either. His determination was near-inspiring as he continued to stare, each colour a story of its own.
Noting his son’s copious curiosity, Jinki decided to buy the brushes, a brash decision to get Yoogeun out of the shop before he protested about his crayons again – a likely circumstance, given his age. Besides, one couldn’t paint if they had nothing to paint with, and since Jinki’s very livelihood revolved around painting, it'd be rather absurd to think his financial cycle would continue to tick over if he couldn't complete the paintings his clients commissioned. Nodding to himself, Jinki tightened his grip on the brushes.
Caringly clutching Yoogeun by his tiny hand, Jinki ushered him to the till as the previous customer left, ensuring he couldn't break free in the constricted confines of the store.
"Hello,” the man behind the till smiled, recognising Jinki and shooting a pleasant smile at Yoogeun, who gazed up obliviously. The man was tall, beyond six foot, and held a narrow face, cheekbones gaunt and eyes rounded slats on either side of a thin nose. He was older than Jinki – mid-forties, the edges of his hair just beginning to grey and his skin sun-spotted in rounded, purple blots, though mostly concealed by the pinstriped shirt he wore. He bowed slightly to Jinki as he set the brushes on the counter, reaching into his pocket to remove his wallet. Jinki knew he should’ve said something, should’ve asked how the man was or commented on the weather, but his timidity had grown over the years, blocking any desire for small talk. Words dug heels in his tongue just to whip the foot away before he had time to grasp it.
"Is that all?” the shopkeeper asked, tone cheery, yet succinct, as if a man putting on graces to embrace his fickle façade.
"Yeah, that’s it,” Jinki confirmed, passing the money over meekly. He shivered slightly, the drifting months beginning to chill him further. Even though he wore a soft beige jacket, he still felt the candid nip in the air, one he hadn't expected so early in the season. It already seemed the autumn would be a cold one, a dismal one, one that culminated more in the apotheosis of despair than beauty. Jinki shook his head. He was just being depressive.
The owner accepted the money kindly with an amiable, “Very well,” before placing the brushes in a brown paper bag and handing it to Jinki.
"Would you like a receipt?” he asked as he passed Jinki the almost worthless amount of change, but Jinki declined, bowing his head slightly and thanking the man before herding Yoogeun through the double doors, eager to leave the claustrophobic shop.
Outside, the busy street was stringent, puddles having formed in the cracks between the pavements, like miniature potholes. Buildings whimpered between the subtle limbs of the breeze, asphyxiated by hands of scant rain and cold. The pedestrian area wasn’t busy – unsurprisingly for a Wednesday afternoon, where most people were either at work or school – and the menagerie of cosmopolitan shops advertised special offers and amazing prices with a shameless greed. The street was so beseeched by the ploys that few truly grabbed Jinki’s attention. The sky above was a mottled grey and the pavement below was like a pestering mould, but it didn’t bother the painter, as he allowed Yoogeun to wrap his hand around his finger and tug him in the direction of the shop they were inevitably going to end up in, despite Jinki’s protestations.
The toy shop.
"Ca’ I get a Spida'man?" Yoogeun asked excitedly, as he tugged Jinki further, little footsteps practically running as he coaxed his father down the pavement. A few passers-by watched with mild smiles, even strangers able to cherish the charming interaction as Jinki jokingly teased his son with, “We'll see.”
As they reached the shop, Jinki’s head almost panged just looking at the multi-coloured signage. The lettering for Funland was an offensively bright blue on a yellow backdrop, which was in turn surrounded by red, and then by green. The large windows showcased various gender-stereotyped toys – pink dolls, army soldiers – and the classics to amuse all, such as footballs and colouring books. Yoogeun’s eyes became near iridescent by simply peering at the entrance, and Jinki knew he couldn’t deny his son the opportunity of making his life characteristically miserable by once again throwing at tantrum at the fact he couldn't get a multitude of over-priced toys.
Entering hesitantly, the children’s music that softly chimed with the stacks of bright shelves and smooth counters was instantly drowned out by Yoogeun exclaiming, “Woah!” and tearing his hand from Jinki’s to launch himself in the direction of the superhero toys, a few isles from the till. The woman behind the counter smiled plaintively at Jinki as he glanced around, a pretty, young girl with eyes like starlit rivers. Jinki nodded politely before scuttling after his son, oddly subservient in their newfound role-reversal As he scanned the isles, he only caught the formless figure of one other customer in his peripheral, and so was rather casual and held a moderate tone as he approached the toddler.
"Look! Look!” Yoogeun yelled excitedly, pointing upwards at a row of the newest superhero figurines, a plethora-collection of modern action-icons Jinki only vaguely recognised from many of Yoogeun’s cartoons. “I want that one!” Yoogeun commanded, standing on his tip-toes and stretching up, though unable to reach due to his limited height.
"Hmm,” Jinki contemplated, lifting the Spiderman figurine in its well-designed box and staring at the price tag. In terms of toys, it wasn't overly expensive, but these days, everything seemed expensive to Jinki, and the plastic figurine, with its arachnid eyes and bright red bodice, was no different. “If you want it, what do you have to say?”
Yoogeun stamped his foot and clenched his fists, Jinki becoming aware of the other customer emerging into the isle at the opposite end, surveying the shelves. He paid the customer little attention, and instead focussed solely on his son.
"Yoogeun?” Jinki prompted, trying to instil a sense of manner into his child. He'd found it important to teach Yoogeun of courtesy and manner from a young age, knowing that, if he learned now, the habits would hopefully stick.
"Please?” Yoogeun asked innocently, jutting out his bottom lip and widening his eyes so that they were wet and vulnerable. It was almost unfair at how his son was already so manipulative.
"It looks like you'll have to give in,” commented a friendly voice from beside Jinki. Jinki almost jumped, startled, as he and Yoogeun both turned simultaneously to gape at the shop’s only other customer.
Jinki froze as Yoogeun gasped, and murmured indiscreetly, “Dad, it's superman!”
The stranger laughed, shyness flushing the contours of his cheeks, as Jinki tried to compose his thoughts. He studied the man before him as if he was a character from a lost epoch, timeless and shadowy like the darkest of ebon.
The stranger with cherry-blossom hair seemed more awake this afternoon, wearing a white hoodie and black jeans, with a smile as comfortable as the fabric of his clothes. He appeared somewhat awkward, clutching a football in his hands and averting his gaze from Jinki to the ground, Jinki to the ground, and never once attempting to sustain eye contact. He seemed so timid that Jinki was surprised he'd even spoken in the first place, and wondered what had compelled him to.
"I suppose so,” Jinki nodded, handing his son the toy, causing him to squeal excitedly, despite the fact he'd many dolls so similar that by the morning he wouldn't be able to tell which were the new and which were the old.
"Kids are funny,” the stranger commented, a grin playing on his lips as he watched Yoogeun’s infatuation flick from the toy to his pink hair in a cyclic pattern. “They find entertainment in almost everything.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Yoogeun comically, causing the toddler to giggle in giddy ambience, proving his open point.
"Do you have any?” Jinki asked, not knowing whether his rhetoric was polite or intrusive.
"No,” the stranger replied, shaking his head quickly, “this is for my nephew, it's his birthday tomorrow and... And he loves football.” The stranger nodded nervously, drumming the ball with his fingertips. Jinki noticed his nails were ragged, short, like barbed fences.
"What's your superpower?” Yoogeun asked suddenly, defiant in his wait for an answer as he watched the stranger. Jinki was about to interject again, before the young man answered, “I appear in many shops, all over the world, to buy the best products and use them to create whacky inventions.”
For some reason, he seemed highly comfortable speaking to Yoogeun as opposed to Jinki, dramatizing his words and leaning in playfully. Jinki wondered if there was something about his own personality that deterred the young man.
"What do you make?” Yoogeun pressed, completely absorbed by the man’s false characterisation. The stranger simply tapped the side of his nose, indicating that it was a secret, and in response, Yoogeun placed his finger on his lips and nodded in understanding, a rather mature action from the most immature of people.
"Come on, Yoogeun,” Jinki prompted, “let's leave superman to get on with his ‘whacky inventions’.” Jinki caught eyes with the stranger again and shot a knowing look, to which the stranger responded with another slight blush and a curt nod. He acted out-of-keeping for a man of his age, almost like someone snagged in the net of his own reality. Each time Jinki’s eyes met his, that reality beckoned him with an intrepid compulsion, crooking a slender finger, tempting.
"Have a nice day,” the stranger offered. His voice was soft and his tone velvety as he spoke. Then, as an afterthought, he muttered to Jinki, “Have fun painting also. I'm sure you do it well.”
Jinki was about to impose a question before the man slid away, becoming concealed by the next isle over. He must have seen Jinki’s bag of brushes – that, or he really was a superhero.
Laughing at his own thought, Jinki broke a smile.
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