Sweet November

As beautiful as a sunset, painting the sky; he can already envision it in the puffy, smoky air that taste like cigarettes and strawberries. Yes, he could be his next one, his last November lover.

His glance lingers on him and he follows him around, curious, eyes that fall upon his figure, that he wants to size, to hold, to measure it with brushing fingers on bare skin. He is even more gorgeous up close, sweeter, with innocent, effervescent eyes that bubbles with life, with something intangible that sparks under long lashes casting shadows on high cheek-bones that tint in cherry when he laughs too much, holed when he smiles, lips stretched, dimples digging on his face. Pretty. He keeps him under control, observes him from afar, his eyes always vigilant.

He knows how to make it – he has done that before since they told him that his life had an expiration date, that nothing could be done to save him. He has done so many things since then, but this one feels different, special. Perhaps because he will be the last on, his days are running short, his time consumed like his cigarette lingering on his mouth, clouding his view, clouding the boy he wants to take with him and that is smiling at the sky, listening to music, walking down the park. He follows his shadow, he keeps behind, tracing him with vivid eyes and dreams, touching already the idea of having him under his sheets, under his fingertips. He only needs to put a name to his stunning face, be charmed by him and let the magic begin.

He overtakes him on the path and shakes his shoulder. He jolts, taken aback, surprised – and he notes how cute he looks, bewildered, eyes veiled with amusement.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I want you to move in with me,” he says as a greeting. He frowns, absolutely lost, baffled. “My name is Song Minho,” he says, reaching for his hand that is given out of courtesy.

“Kim Jinwoo,” the other says and Minho smiles. A pretty name for a pretty boy, it all matches to his plans. “And I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I think you will,” Minho advises, giving him his card before leaving him behind. “You can come over any time,” he invites, turning around, waving at Jinwoo who is watching at him, perplexed, stoned, confused.

Now that he has a name, it takes only a few hours to find his place, his work. IT boy, it fits him, with slender hands, perfect to fix stuff. He also shares a flat with some Jinhwan and Minho is sure that he can convince him to kick Jinwoo out – money is not a problem, never has been for him who swim in abundance, who has it all and plays with others, life too short and too boring to keep him amused, always chasing a new peek, a new high that will dilute the anxious of knowing himself dead, of the awareness of his finality.

In the end, a week after he is the new tenant of the building and can end their contract, to kick them out on the street. He feels no remorse because he has the feeling that tonight Jinwoo will be his – and Jinhwan, he hasn’t the time or the energy to worry about others, he might deposit some cash for him to survive if his mind is too aggravated for what he has done.

Jinwoo comes to him as if written on the stars, with his bags and his things. But when he opens the door, he receives a slap instead of what he is longing for. It could be worse, though.

“Who the are you and what do you think you are doing?” he curses and it’s not what he has expected but his roughness turns him in, arouses his imagination of what he will say with parted, swollen lips. He will get him.

“I want you, that’s it,” Minho says, plainly. Jinwoo blinks at him, furiously.

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” he snarls, slamming the door on his face. And this is brand new: until now nobody has ever resisted to him – he can be many things (most of it manipulative and egoistic) but he is honest, has never lied to get a company.

And he really has set his eyes on Jinwoo, so he will get him, will do anything in his hands to convince him, to change his mind. He opens the door and finds him waiting for the elevator.

“Wait!” and, hearing his voice, Jinwoo only presses the button again, fiercely, pushing in his finger, feet drumming in agitation. Minho doesn’t care that he is clearly avoiding him, he grabs his arm and forces him to face him. “Look, I’m dying and I want you,” he repeats, stubbornly.

“What do you want me for? Are you planning to leave me all your money?” he snarls, turning around again.

“Maybe, if you are good enough. I have little time and I would like to enjoy it with you. Besides, where are you going to stay?” he asks, fancily, with a hidden, seductive note at the end, bating his lashes and biting his lips.

“Thanks to you, in a hotel,” Jinwoo says just in time for the elevator to arrive. “Now, if you forgive me, I want to go,” and he cast off of his arm, stepping in.

“Just for a month! Think about it, Jinwoo,” Minho sounds a bit desperate, which has never happened, but Jinwoo is disappearing and November is around the corner and he needs him, needs to be with him urgently because this is his last November, because this is his last month of life.

Minho hasn’t come this far to give up too soon. He follows Jinwoo to the elevator just before the door beeps, enclosing them together in one room with no escape route. Jinwoo sighs, defeated, forced to share a minute more with Minho. “I’ll give you anything you want,” Minho persists, because he hasn’t found out a person as obstinate as Jinwoo because nobody has ever resisted to his charms – and his money.

“What if I only want to be left alone?” he wonders, which is exactly the answer Minho was expecting. “Besides, why me? Why are you so obsessed with wanting me?” and this is a legit question.

“Because you look about right, perfect for November,” he smirks, confusing, even more, Jinwoo, who frowns at him, concerned.

“I could be serial killer, for all you know,” he points out but Minho only grins, beaming at Jinwoo’s curiosity that means that he is triggering him, that he will soon accept – he is sure about it, nobody has ever neglected his requests.

“Ah, but I know about you,” Minho says cryptically.

“You have investigated me,” Jinwoo resolves and Minho nods.

“Well, it’s only natural to do some research about the people I’m interested in. I might be open-minded but I don’t jump to the unknown without a safety net below,” he explains, a matter of factly and Jinwoo raises a brow querying. “You are the middle kid, born and raised in Mokpo. Graduated in Computer Sciences and working on programming, whatever that is,” he resumes. “Good enough to want to share my bed and fortune with you,” he offers, seductively. The screen on the elevator shows that they are descending, about to reach the main floor, so Minho smiles at him, tries to convince him.

“What do you know about my uality?” Jinwoo says enigmatic and Minho feels the pressure, his blood boiling up, running hot – he has never been so appealing and it would be so delicious to ravish his perfect shaded lips, to pin him against the wall and mess up his silky, dark hair, to let him moan inside his mouth, hands exploring, stripping off his clothes.

“Well, no relationship so far, but it can easily be changed,” he swishes temptingly, coming closer to him, slowly framing him.

“That’s because I’m not interested,” he rejects him plainly. “But it’s a bit unfair that you know so much about me and I know nothing about you but your name. And that you are kind of rich and bored,” he adds, smiling at him with a tinge of something sparkling inside his eyes.

“What do you want to know? Ask and I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” he promises, invested. So far it is auspicious, the first sign of interest that Jinwoo is showing.

“What’s your sickness?” straight and direct. Minho likes his style, he likes that he isn’t beating around the bushes.

“Brain tumour,” he explains, hitting surreptitiously the halting button, to stretch the moment to infinity, to keep Jinwoo here, talking, asking, picking his interest. “Not operable. It’s benign so far but, as it grows, it is threatening the brain functions. The doctor says I have one more month or so to properly being alive before it will compress it further and I forget how to move or talk,” he resumes his situation. “So you will be my last love, my last November companion,” he adds, with bright eyes looking for empathy.

“Non-operable?” he wonders and Minho nods.

“It’s too big to remove. They would need a very precise machine that doesn’t exist so far,” he explains, “such a pity, though, since I was diagnosed, I skirted around the fact that my days are finite, that my life will end abruptly. No attachments or commitments, only enjoyment and fun. And you could join me, it’s a good proposal: a month of your time living with me, doing with me all that you want,” and it sounds even tempting to Minho.

“And you never thought of investing to investigate a way to solve it?” Jinwoo wonders, suspiciously. Minho nods, ashamed because Jinwoo is right – he could have done it instead of throwing his money to the wind, wasting it frivolously, satiating his needs instead of trying to prolong his existence. He feels so stupid now that Jinwoo has mentioned it. “You could do it now. It’s not too late,” Jinwoo is just being nice, Minho knows – technology takes time to develop, and he has everything but time, that is running against him.

“It is,” he says, defiant.

“I could do it,” Jinwoo says, confidently, shocking Minho. “I think I could develop a prototype in a few weeks. It can be done,” he continues, baffling Minho, who is looking at him surprised. “Oh, I think your investigation skills stink because you forgot that I have a master degree in physics and mechanics. With the right equipment it won’t be too difficult,” he reassures and Minho wants to kiss him – has never wanted to kiss someone as badly as he does right now. “With your capital and my knowledge,” he continues, a finger tapping on his chin, pondering, “it is viable, what do you say? Do you want to make a deal with me?”

“This is not exactly what I had in mind, but yes, agreed,” he says, shaking his hand. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll provide it to you,” Minho smiles, feeling that all his life is already improving.

“I just have two conditions,” Jinwoo tells, “I’m not going to sleep with you and that you will survive until it’s ready,” and Minho can only agree – with time, Minho is sure that Jinwoo will fall into his arms.

Jinwoo moves in the day after and Minho has everything shorten up, a guest-room prepared for him and a workshop setting with the latest technology as Jinwoo asked for. Minho has also talked to Jinwoo’s boss and convinced him to grand Jinwoo access to their system and a year off – that he will reimburse once the instrument is out in the market; they can make a profit out of it. And that and peace to work on it it’s all that Jinwoo requires from him.

“Would you want some coffee?” Minho peeks through the door. Jinwoo looks up from his papers and blinks sheepishly at him. He has been enclosed in this room for days, barely eating, working on calculus and programming on his computer – he can hear him typing on the keyboard at small hours of the day. He hasn’t had a chance to invite him to go out to dinner, or on a simple date to thank him for his efforts – Jinwoo seems to avoid him to the best of his abilities but Minho is insistent, never prone to giving up, not when it’s a quest to conquer someone's heart. And so he comes over with all sort of excuses, sits next to him and observes Jinwoo’s doings, failing to follow his steps, asking him for help to understand his project. But after a week, he has learned to leave him to himself because no reward is served after all his attentions towards Jinwoo – all is vain and useless since Jinwoo is devoted to his cause, not to his flirtatious.

Nobody has resisted so much to Minho’s advances, nobody has ever shared a room with him without laying his eyes upon him, and less of all if Minho was in the mood to be charming. He has always got what he wanted until now. Jinwoo is a puzzle, a mystery he has to solve, one that he craves for – more than physically, he wants to know him better, to find the human behind the skin, to unravel Jinwoo who has shown nothing but kindness to him in unexpected ways.

He doesn’t ask him for material things but for him to take care. He doesn’t want to spear time with him but with his project – he has left his job to purchase it, he dedicates all the hours of the day to investigate, to plan and calculate. But Minho knows that he does it all for him, to save him life despite that is pretty clear that Jinwoo despises him and all that he wants and does and offers.

It’s been a couple days, Jinwoo notices, since last time he has heard about Minho – since the last time he dropped by to ask him random questions. And he feels uneasy, queasy, thinking that, perhaps, it’s his fault: he has been rude and impertinent and, as much as Minho deserves a bit of a cold shoulder, he is sick and he should be taking care of him. After all, Minho is, too, continuously looking after Jinwoo in subtly ways – bringing him food and company even when none was demanded or needed.

He steps out of his laboratory, closes the door behind him and gets lost in the magnificence that is Minho’s flat. Jinwoo walks, carefully, afraid of touching, of breathing, of corrupting any of Minho’s antiques, the painting on the wall, the delicate furniture that comes straight from the Europe ’20s and that lay, elegantly arranged, everywhere, covering carpets from Iran, hand-seed, chandeliers shading soft light to infinite rooms, a succession of never-ending places, all different in style but all meddling all the same. He looks out of place, with a crumpled shirt and stained jeans and his hair a mess but when he finally finds Minho, laying lazily on an ottoman, he beams at him as if he was the shiniest star in the universe: as if his presence was more than welcome and awaited and desired. He can’t help but smile because it’s so strange, so odd, to be wanted by a stranger, even when Minho doesn’t feel that alien now, after a week together – Minho has thrown some details about his life and, even though Jinwoo wasn’t paying much attention, he is the type who listen attentively to others, so he knows his lecherous past, has a grip of his fears, of his condition and he can't help but to worry.

“Are you ok?” he wonders, looking at Minho. He nods, a smirk creeping on his lips.

“Were you worried?” he asks back and Jinwoo wants to shrug it off, ignore him, but it would be rude and Minho, despite all, has bathed him with attentions and suggestive suggestions he has blatantly ignored. But Minho is unhealthy, it’s just normal to be concerned about his patron, even when he is Song Minho, annoying and lewd and vicious – not really, not with him nevertheless, not yet, probably never, he has kept his hands out of him as agreed, accorded.

“I’ve haven’t seen you around,” he says, nonchalantly, which pleases Minho, whose smile gets wider. “And I thought you might be agonising somewhere, so I came out to check,” he finishes. “Also,” he adds, unsure, biting his lips, nervous, “I owe you an apology. I’ve been rude and insensitive to you. I’ll try to be nicer, I wouldn’t like you to kick me out of here as well,” he manages to slide with a hint of a joke.

“I would never. Not until November passes by,” Minho assures him, holding his hand. “And don’t worry. It’s just that you aren’t what I expected. So far, all my men were always on top of me, if you know what I mean. But you are different, and I don’t know how to act around you. I’m accustomed at flirt and ups, not to have someone who clearly doesn’t want me around but stick with me because he wants to help me live,” he explains, and his fingers crawl between Jinwoo’s, warm, slender, beautiful – the hands of a creator, calloused and stained, a stream of little scars and broken nails Minho wants to fix so bad. “You should take better care of yourself,” he mushes and Jinwoo glances at their hands and rubs Minho’s palm with his thumb and it sends tickles down Minho’s senses, makes him smile again, showing his white teeth and hidden dimples.

“I should be the one saying it,” Jinwoo broods, “are you doing all right? Do you need something?” and he instantly regrets asking Minho because he can see his eyes lusting over him, shining with eagerness. “Not that,” he advises, shaking out his hand, and Minho nods, blinking away his arousal.

“What about dinner together?” he asks and he finds entrancing how Jinwoo takes a whole minute to accept. “Nothing fancy or anything, just ordering food. You look so skinny,” he complains, and Jinwoo breathes out, exhaling all the air he was holding. “And don’t panic, I’ll behave,” he promises, though it is already hard; Jinwoo is so beautiful, even when he is a shamble, he shines through his heart and Minho wants to glance at it, see if it as pretty as he dreams off – and Minho finds that he is more hungry to dwell into his personality than into his lithe body.

Despite having had him spied, it is surprising the number of things Minho ignores about Jinwoo. He was too busy lusting over him, all right, too hurried up to understand the man he was chasing down.

Jinwoo is not only brilliant at what he does, but he is also well-known for his kindest heart. He has supported all type of causes, helped raise money to fight the floods and the hunger, has worked to rebuild roads and houses, has helped develop new improvements to fight cancer. He is also good at cooking as he finds out a few days later when he encounters him on the kitchen, preparing dinner, a pot of delicious stew brewing on the fire and his hands on his pokets.And, underneath his shyness, once he thaws down enough, he reveals a genuine and sincere personality, with a golden core made out of kindness and love. And Minho likes the man in front of him, likes Jinwoo very much, and it’s been years since Minho looked into a person for more than their physic, for more than a lovely month of continuous s and travels to Bali, living luxuriously, extravagantly, without a thought about the future, just enjoying the moment, relishing the present, everything out of it before running out of opportunities. But Jinwoo makes Minho regret his past, all the time misused, disipared with the wrong people - people who never returned him the favour, people who took away everything from Minho, leaving him with nothing but a hollow heart, because he never surrounded himself with the ones like Jinwoo, patient and devoted and always giving.

For years Minho has craved for company but never allowing them to come closer, to get rooted in his heart. Too hard, too complicated, he likes things as they were, no strings, no attachments, simple and clean: and fun and luxury and not having to worry about an uncertain tomorrow, a future banned to him. So he focused on the present, to get all he could until it is barren and he is full of life to waste, money to throw away. But he takes roods on Jinwoo naturally, like a vine to the trunk of a tree, he climbs around him, keeps Jinwoo to himself, grows into him, holding him tight inside his heart, where his name beats, burned under his skin. He knows that, when November is over, he will have to finish it – he will die anyway, Jinwoo is aware of it, everybody is, it’s not a secret that he has the days counted, every hour bringing death closer.

Fear has made Minho lonely. Lonely has turned him extravagant, frivolous, excessive and confident, uncaring. He has done as he pleased for years to fill up the void inside his heart. He has tried to mend it with a stream of bodies to play with, to release his mind from all the feelings he has piled upon his mind. He has travelled the world and done all that it has to offer, has partied until breaking down until sun sent and straight to the next morning. He has been wild and savage and unrestrained – but the only thing that, perhaps, could change his life, give him more time. He has wasted money with no end, waterfalls of cash spent in every drink available, in anything imaginable to shut up his head, his preoccupied mind: he has shoot down his friends, forgetting about them and their pitiful speech, their sadden expression, instead, he has engaged with all kind of inappropriate folks and buddies, has ed them in all kind of ways. He has been loud and boisterous and never opened up about himself, about his terrors, about what he had to face. Sure, everyone in his life knew where they were getting into and they accepted it, done all that Minho asked them for, took the money and the memories offered, but none has been kind to him, has asked about his feelings: only Jinwoo. And he finds that he wants to live a little longer, stay alive one more day to see him making coffee, him asking about his life, about his worries.

November is half-way gone and it’s been a month since Jinwoo moved in. Now, instead of locking himself on his lab, he welcomes Minho in. Instead of locking his room, he falls asleep on top of Minho while watching a film on the couch. They eat together and laugh and befriend and Minho finds Jinwoo naive and innocent and the kindest person in the world and Jinwoo has witnessed glints of another Minho, one with a willing heart full of solitude and tenderness, gentle and caring, someone who heeds, who wonders and dreams and marbels, someone who paints his words with new colours and shapes, a new Minho underneath his noisy facade, and he finds that he likes to demise the surface, unroll the real character, learn more about him, exploring his heart, tentatively, slowly getting closer, clower to the rim.

Jinwoo has accompanied Minho to his regular check-up at the hospital a few times, driving him, helping him out even when assistance wasn't needed and Minho allowed Jinwoo to spoil him with tender acts of intimacy, has been introduced to Lee Seunghoon, his doctor, a renamed neuron-surgeon who gets impressed by Jinwoo’s project.

“Maybe you could come over for dinner and you both can catch-up with the boring stuff,” Minho says, bothered but amiable. “Maybe Seunghoon’s perspective would be of some help,” and it is. That night, between bites of food and conversation, Jinwoo’s device gets tried first.

Seunghoon is quite pleased with the instrument, finds some improvements to be done and makes some suggestions all while analysing it.

“Can you make it easier to grab? Surgeries can last hours, this has to be light and precise,” he observes and Jinwoo nods, taking notes.

“He seems lovely,” Seunghoon mumbles to Minho, on his way home, “I like him, looks like a good catch, a good November,” he adds, smiling softly: after all, he is his only friend, the one sticking by his side, the one who understands his needs and eccentricities – he is aware of the reason behind wild parties and a continuous stream of -boys, nobody staying, nobody who cares. Jinwoo is the opposite of that; he isn’t interested in Minho’s money or in his , he is here for the long ride, he is a keeper and Seunghoon can only hope that Minho will notice it, that he won’t kick him out when the month is over as he has done before.

“He is,” Minho mutters, a smile across his face. Seunghoon grins at it, a suspicious glint in his eyes, at the edge of his lips, curbed up maliciously.

“I see,” he says, the door open, “you really like him,” he points out the truth. It’s not difficult to see, it’s not as if Minho has been hiding his inclinations, his interest for Jinwoo is clean and raw and obvious.

“He is only helping me,” Minho retorts, grimly. “He is nothing but a friend, at most,” he explains in a low tone, mumbling the words that pain his chest and constrict his core. Seunghoon nods in understanding. This is more than just a flirt, Minho is not only lusting over Jinwoo as he usually would, he is smitten, he is whooped and whipped and it’s so nice to see a sheen of the real Minho, the one who isn’t trying hard to get, shielding behind excuses to be someone different, someone who was listless to anything but raw passion and lecher and pleasure. He has been asking Jinwoo about his whereabouts, about his past while having dinner, has listened them talk, made comments and jokes and showed interest. He has been more alive in the past hour than in the past ten years and it’s all due to Jinwoo, a presence like a charm, protecting Minho from himself, from destroying the only good thing that he has – his noble, kind heart.

“Then you are the only one to will be hurt,” Seunghoon indicates, amused by this change. Minho has never been damaged before, not seriously – maybe a bit saddened for the loss of a great lover, but nothing enough to trigger tears. But when Jinwoo’s time will be over, Seunghoon guts that Minho will be the one heart-broken.

“It’s OK; I’ll probably be dead by then,” he dismisses, shrugging it off and Seunghoon shakes his head.

Jinwoo feels comfortable around Minho. He likes it, likes waking up and have breakfast with him, chatting about past dreams. He has told him about his life, his family, his work, his hobbies. In return, Minho has, too, open up to him, like roses blooming in spring, has shown him his true colours and they turn up to be beautiful and joyous, splashing Jinwoo’s view, tangling to his heart.

“I need to do some adjustments, but, soon, the first prototype will be done for trial!” he says cheerfully. He has been working less on it to spend more time with Minho, to take care of him since, lately, he has noticed him becoming paler, getting tired easily, eating less and sleeping more, staying in instead of going out as he did so much before – before Jinwoo, before rooting for him, before discovering that a quiet, calm life was better than the rush and chaos he used to enjoy, that he was craving for peaceful evening watching TV, chatting amoung a movie ravishing snaks instead of lips, staring at Jinwoo falling asleep on top of him, stirring like a kitty, a soft smile blessing Minho's eyes. 

Minho smiles, expectantly, proudly of Jinwoo’s doings, of his research and hard work and all the time and knowledge he has poured into this, into trying to save his miserable life, a life he has been constantly wasting, throwing away.

“I don’t deserve you… this,” he notes, eyes rimmed with sadness and embarrassment. He has been a jerk, he has consumed like a candle, always trying to shine brightly. He has lived as he pleased, done as he wished, all by himself, always alone, enduring in silence an unbearable solitude and the dread of the tumour, with death on his soles, chasing. And he has haunted it down paying for a fake company, for lovers that came and disappeared in a month, none of them wondering about Minho, none of them caring, staying by his side.

“Maybe,” Jinwoo lift a smile, teasing, “but even if you don’t deserve it, others will and that’s what matters,” he offers, winsome words to assure Minho. “You still can change, you have time,” he continues, despite that Jinwoo fully knows that Minho is running out of it, that his days are marked, that in fifteen days it will all be over.

Perhaps it’s that the reason why, later that day, Jinwoo sneaks into his room, sleeps next to him, cuddling against Minho, a soft, phantom of a kiss lingering on his hair, Jinwoo’s lips a breathe away from his skin.

“Why?” Minho wonders, fully awake, his back pressed against Jinwoo’s chest. He giggles.

“Because I don’t want to miss a thing,” and he puts a hand on his side, forcing him to turn around, to face him, to crush his lips in a sealing kiss. “You are going to go and I won’t be able to do this again,” he mumbles, words stuttering, coming out in puffs between gentle kisses. Jinwoo pulls him into his embrace, enveloping him, a hand resting on his nape, fingers drawing on his cheek, eyes half-closed, staring dreamily at him and Minho feels so alive, a heart that pounds, at ease. “I like the person that you are when you forget your armour when you let your defences down,” he explains, brushing his hair delicately and Minho purrs, his head resting on Jinwoo’s chest, his mind filled with the taste of his lips, the tenderly feeling of butterflies’ wings colliding on him. “Now, Minho, let’s sleep.” And Minho stops questioning Jinwoo's change of heart - in the end it doesn't matter if he loves him or if it's all a game.

With Jinwoo protecting him, Minho sleeps peacefully, as he has never truly done in years – and it’s way better than the exhaustion after a rough night of crazy driven when he is left dry and swollen and content, in a haze of pleasure, but Jinwoo beats it all, beats all his lovers and he is only sleeping by his side, pouring smooth kisses all over him.

Minho feels loved. Minho wants to live. Minho tries to fight another day against the tumour with Jinwoo holding his hand, with his lips resting on his forehead, his fingers whipping the sweat out of his eyes, his voice lulling him with words that speak of love and dreams. 

Jinwoo stays when the tumour begins to left Minho prostrated in bed, eating his energy, him dry, wore to the bones, restless. He takes care of him, promises him that he won’t go, that he is strong to take whatever that will come.

“I won’t let you alone, not a minute, Minho, my love” and he installs a chair for him inside his lab, where he can work and mind Minho, he keeps always nearby, always close to his heart where he is most cherished. And when Minho can't hardly speak or stay awake, Jinwoo nurses him, kisses away his tears.

The prototype has been tried by Seunghoon, who brings good news to them – a successful operation, but it still needs to go through more trials and evaluations and Jinwoo keeps coming up with improvements, so he devotes himself to his work and to Minho, who is barely alive, who eats through IV and has to be monitorizated. 

He is aware that Minho has little hopes, that the darn tumour, as being as it is, is spreading, constricting his brain; he is aware of the risks of an intervention, how delicate and precise such a surgery has to be, but, despite it, he is a realist and looks at the bright side – he has come a long way, he has endured more than Minho suspects, more than he has told; Jinwoo knows lost and pain way too well, has suffered it when his mother was sick: when she was nothing but bones and skin and he couldn’t do anything to alleviate her pain, relieve her of an agonizing torment. At the end, when no hope or treatment could be afforded, he saw her wither and die on his arms, his tears bathing her translucent face, her smile forever engraved inside his chest.

November is falling like autumn leaves to the ground, painting it scarlet and golden and Minho thinks it has been the sweetest one, the best month in his life. But it’s coming to an end and he knows what is it about to come.

“I’m sorry I drag you into this,” he babbles in one of the few good days, where he is awake and conscious, where he can eat mashed potatoes or soup by himself. He has to stay in bed because he continuously faints and his vision is becoming blurred and foggy, but Jinwoo is by his side, holding his hand. He takes his palm and kisses it gently.

“It’s a bit too late to regret it now,” he smiles, despite the tears flooding Minho’s eyes. “And no, even if November is over, I’m not going. You can try but I would save your energy up,” he jokes, linked fingers.

“This is not how it was supposed to be,” Minho complains, seriously, heaving, panting hard. Jinwoo sighs, pressing his palm to his heart.

“It’s too late to get rid of me,” he promises, snuggling with him, “you have to deal with me,” and he kisses the lonely mole of his nose, traces all the ink on his body carefully, sketching it with closed eyes and even breath.

“I’m sorry Jinwoo, I’m really are.”

“No needs, love. I’m glad to have found you, even if you were a jerk before, you charmed me, you made me fall for you in the end,” Jinwoo pulls him closer, envelops him with open arms, his warm vanishing Minho’s remorse and fears.

“You have been the sweetest November I ever had, but this is…,” but, with a kiss, Jinwoo drinks away his last words that taste like fire and blood but Minho giggles under him so it's worth it - anything is so that to put a smile on Minho's frowned face. 

“This is not over if that’s what you are thinking about. Even if tomorrow is the last day of November, it means nothing," and Jinwoo leaves him that night alone. 

Next morning Minho wakes up to a wall covered with calendars that displays a perpetual November. 

“It is always November from now on,” Jinwoo explains, turning the pages. “Always November,” and Minho have never been this happy before.

“Always with you, Kim Jinwoo.”

It’s a vow: Minho means it. He is not going to die, not this young, not when there are so many things to do with Jinwoo, not when he has had only a month with him to embrace, to remember. It’s too little, it’s way too soon. He can’t leave him heartbroken, crying on his grave, the only person who would come to visit, the only person who has ever genuinely cared, that came to him willingly.

Jinwoo calls Seunghoon when Minho passes out. He is hardly intaking air, his vitals constants are weakening by seconds; he has his eyes shoot, withering under a Dicember that shouldn't grace him, that was forbidden to Minho - he has survived to see another month but not longer, he won't make it, he is unstable. The ambulance rides through the city, the siren breaking the stillness, muting the drops of Jinwoo’s heart, his voice sedating his feelings with promises that have no ground to flourish. He holds onto Minho’s hand and it’s raining from his orbs, tears watering his skin, the tubs hanging around his veins, keeping him alive.

“This is not how I wanted it to be,” Jinwoo mumbles, kneeling on the floor. The room smells like antiseptics and bleach and everything is coloured in white, the fluorescent bathing Minho with a cold light. “But if you make it, I’ll marry you, I promise” and he sneaks a ring from his pocket to his finger, kisses it reverently, prays with his hands pressed together. Then Seunghoon takes him, carries him to the surgery room, smirking at the golden glint on Minho's finger.

The waiting is killing him. It’s been several hours and no news has come from Seunghoon. The prototype they have been working on is being used now for Minho as it was instructed after being approved but that’s not a guarantee for Minho - not eve Seunghoon's steady hands and expertise, notghin can assure him that Minho will make it.

 Morning falls and Jinwoo stills waits, crunched on the plastic seat.

“This can’t be the end, I don’t accept it,” he keeps on mumbling, desperate. But wait is all he can do and he hates it, hates the smell of the hospital, misses the warmth from Minho, his laughter, how treasured and welcomed he made him feel, appreciated even for the smallest thing. "Minho, love, don't leave me, don't go away," and he falls down, crying on the ground, his hands covering the purple circles under his eyelids. 

It takes another day for Jinwoo to visit Minho. He is intubated and connected to a machine, his hair shaved, his skull stitched, the wound still recent, swollen, covered in bandages. He touches it carefully, gently patting it.

“You came back to me,” he blubbers, holding onto him.

This is what Minho wakes up to: a crying Jinwoo and a new ring on his finger, the promise of an everlasting November – a sweet November.