"This has always been a little dangerous."

- Red, Kim Jonghyun

 

---

 

The floor hadn’t seen a proper broom or mop in a while, but it was cool against Jonghyun’s cheek and that’s what he really needed to relieve the itching beneath his skin without scratching. Specks of dirt were digging into his pores, coming dangerously close to being caught in his eyeball with every flutter of his eyelashes. His underwear was soaked in what he hoped was wine from the bottle he toppled earlier and not urine, though it was most likely a mixture of both. At least this time he’d managed to avoid a fiery case of diarrhea. Once he found the strength to pick himself up off the floor, he’d do an inventory of the he ingested to replicate for future highs. His current state of debilitation seemed a happy medium between utter humiliation and feels-too-good-to-ing-care.

It was the best he’d felt in a long time.

 

 

The sunlight peeking through the thin beige curtains in Kibum’s reading room came as a surprise, or it would have if he ever bothered to check the weather forecast in the morning. Why would he waste valuable time when he could simply open the French doors overlooking the gardens and feel the air brush against his skin and curl around his unkempt hair, revealing its open secrets. No one in Chelsea has seen the sun for at least three weeks.

Between brushing his teeth and buttering his toast, Kibum decides he might just go out into the communal gardens and have a cup of tea with Mrs. Anouilh who, just like her name implies, spends most of her days convinced it is her duty to talk as slow as possible.

“I’m only French by marriage,” she reminds Kibum at some point during every conversation they have, no matter how short or completely unrelated.

Kibum doesn’t mind it much since neither English nor French is his first language. Her affinity for dragging through time helps buffer the learning crutch, though he still beats her speaking speed by a few too many syllables.

As he makes his way from the kitchen on the second floor to the balcony located on the third, he’s reminded how much space this house provides and how little he’s taken advantage of it. He’s been in London for three years now and by the nonexistent plans he has every weekend, no one would ever be the wiser. Except Mr. and Mrs. Anouilh. They know of his drab social life and they make it a point to drag him out on occasion and usher strangers into his home with the hopes that someone will stick.

In the first year, Kibum really made an effort. He threw parties that wouldn’t offend his neighbors, went out to pubs and classy night clubs. He’d met so many people—slept with so many people—had gotten wined and dined all up and down the river. Then he’d gone back to South Korea for a month to finalize the transfer of his company and when he’d come back, it was as if he never existed. Only Mrs. Anouilh welcomed him back with a tin of biscuits and one of her warm hugs, which Kibum could only describe as motherly though she had no children.

London hadn’t slowed down for him.

 

 

Jonghyun’s entire body is on fire. Every nerve sparking from his body, singeing the air around him. His shirt is uncomfortable as it clings to his skin, suffocating him in his own overbearing heat and sweat, and he hurts. Everything hurts. Nothing feels pleasant anymore.

His back arches from the pain, while a deafening cry forces itself out from his churning stomach and upwards through his scratchy throat—a journey that exhausts the remaining energy from his body and knocks him unconscious.

 

 

“What a pleasant day. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Kim?”

Kibum nods before taking a sip of his tea. “I can’t remember the last time I had to trust my sunscreen.”

He eyes Mrs. Anouilh over the rim of his mug. The smoke from her half-finished cigarette threads between her fingers like phantom rings. Her toes curl against the concrete, relishing the transfer of heat and dancing with the rough texture so very different from the marble lining every floor in the Anouilh home. Kibum notices the chips in her nail polish and quirks an eyebrow.

“Young as you are.” She shakes her head, resting the of her cigarette against her closed lips. They’re close enough on their respective balconies to touch each other without fully extending their arms, so Kibum sneaks the cigarette from her fingers and takes a draw.

Mrs. Anouilh isn’t much older than Kibum. If he had to guess, he’d place her somewhere in her mid-40s to early 50s, and that’s only because he knows where to look. She’d thrown Kibum’s suggestion of wearing sunscreen back in Kibum’s face when he expressed his discontent at not being able to find a good brand on the island. She had the right amount of money and knew exactly who to call to make her look as youthful as she did. Kibum couldn’t say the same for the general populace. He liked it, though. For some reason, the wrinkles of the elderly made the people of London seem more welcoming and friendly.

“When are you having another one of your dinner parties, Mrs. Anouilh?” Kibum asks, words falling off his tongue as if English were the only language he’d ever learned to speak—in reality, this was a phrase he was particularly versed in repeating. “I’d kill for some of your sticky toffee pudding.” (He’d gotten that bit from Mr. Anouilh.)

“Dear,” Mrs. Anouilh drawls, “You don’t have to wait for a party.” She pats Kibum’s cheek twice. It’s only due to familiarity that he doesn’t flinch at the contact. “I send over some tomorrow if I get Greta down to the shop this evening.”

They’re facing each other but Kibum can’t catch her eyes.  

“No, you don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. It’s the very least I can do after putting you through that fiasco with Jim. I’m awfully sorry about that, you know.” Her fingers twitched around empty air.

“I know.”

It was like time stood still for Mrs. Anouilh. Kibum and James ended their short-lived relationship five months ago—around the same time he’d taken a red-eye back to South Korea for the first time in two years.

 

 

“Hyung?”

Strong hands lift Jonghyun off the floor.

“What the did you take?”

A sudden breeze chills the skin on his chest. His s harden. He shivers. It feels so good to be cold again.

“Shower first, questions later, right.”

Cold shower, please, Jonghyun tries telling whoever is carrying him across his apartment. It’s a long hallway to his bathroom. This person must be strong. So strong and kind. Very attractive. And Jonghyun smells like piss and sweat and vomit. Not attractive. .

“I can’t understand you, so don’t try talking, hyung.”

Bossy.

“Okay, I’m going to pretend I didn’t understand that while I’m saving your life.”

Jonghyun isn’t dying. He can still wiggle his toes and everything. Strong, Kind, and Bossy is just being dramatic.

“All right, I’m going to take off your underwear now and sit you in the tub. Then I’ll turn on the water, okay?”

Jonghyun wiggles his toes and nods against Strong, Kind, and Bossy’s chest. He’s so cold now. Too cold. He’s shivering.

“You gotta let me know if it’s too hot or cold.”

He’s shivering.

He’s shivering.

He can’t stop.

 

 

Waking up early means that even after Kibum spends a good amount of time on his balcony gossiping with Mrs. Anouilh about families he doesn’t know, there are still so many hours left in the day.

Kibum doesn’t have a day job per se, (having sold his company to the son of a media mogul in South Korea for a sum large enough for him to have an early—early, early—retirement) so he’s taken to building up his hobby portfolio. After three years of leisure life, he’s dabbled in playing cricket (an exceptionally boring sport), learning to ride horses (because that’s something only rich people in countries with large amounts of open land get to do), collecting antique vases (and giving up after cracking four thousand-dollar pieces), and even bird watching.

He settled on painting as his trusted pastime, watercolour landscapes. It’s not as hard as everyone always whines about and gives proper meaning to his free time—he has to wait for each layer to dry before continuing.

Waiting is what he’s doing when he gets the call. He almost doesn’t answer it, the ringing sounding foreign to his ears. He picks up on the fourth ring.

“What’s wrong?” the Korean slides off Kibum’s tongue unbroken as he walks over to the window. His unpleasant conversations tend to end better when he’s looking out into nature. Something about the sway of the tree branches and the colorful garden flowers he couldn’t identify by name. It was simply charming and serene. The green untainted by man.

Minho’s voice comes through clearer than it should from nearly nine thousand kilometers away. Kibum can almost hear the concrete. “Why do you think something is –”

“It’s nearly 2am in Seoul right now.” And you haven’t called in six months. Only his parents call him with good news from home, and it’s only ever about some cousin he doesn’t remember or what new city they’ve travelled to. Even as he shoos them off the phone, he’s grateful for the time they set aside to talk with him about nothing and everything. They’re the little piece of home he misses. Not much (anyone) else.

“He booked a flight to London.” A pause. Then, “One way.”

Kibum rolls his eyes at the lizard resting on his windowsill. “When?” He doesn’t bother asking who because there’s only one person Minho calls to talk about and it’s never himself.

“Tomorrow.”

Kibum swears. Looks like he’ll have to cancel his (nonexistent) plans to play house with his past. Again. He runs a hand through his hair then down his face, frustrated.

“Why the hasn’t anyone frozen his account yet?”

“We tried.” Minho’s voice is tight and Kibum’s only ever been able to give back what he’s given.

“Not hard enough,” he snaps, immediately regretting his words when all they’re met with is silence. He uncurls his fist and takes a deep breath. In and out. Four seconds. Minho still doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t mean you weren’t trying. But all those people he keeps around—someone should’ve seen this coming.”

A sigh comes through the receiver. “We can’t all run off to foreign countries, Kibum. Besides, they’re not the kind of people who’d tell him to stop.”

If Kibum were in the mood to be contrary, he’d argued against what Minho was implying — how could someone who quite literally packed a runaway bag and left all his problems behind possibly be the kind of person to look after anyone but himself? — but he felt an ache in his chest, more like a pounding, that told him this was a cry for help and if he didn’t answer it …

“What time does he land?”

“Late on Saturday.” Kibum can’t tell if Minho sounds relieved or smug, but he’s decidedly less angry than a few moments ago. “Around nine. He wants to take a cab.”

Oh, that’s a horrible idea. A surge of excitement rushes through Kibum briefly. He coaxes it back down.

“Like hell he does. I’ll pick him up.”

“Try to catch him before he gets too far. Heathrow isn’t small.”

“What do I do with him after?”

“Put him on a plane back,” Minho says with all the ease in the world.

“You say that like it’s easy.”

A beat. “He could’ve gone to America.”

Kibum scoffs at the notion. “Please, American drugs are either watered down or duds and—this is not helping. Okay, I’ll try. I will.”

“It’s Jonghyun. Do a little more than just try,” Minho pushes, as if Kibum somehow missed that aspect of the situation, as if he didn’t care. As if Minho didn’t believe he understood.

Kibum taps the glass twice with his free hand, then leaves it there to rest against the cold plane.

“I’ll send him back clean. I promise.” The lizard looks at Kibum then, head cocked as if he heard his vow and wants to call bull. Kibum sneers back.

“Be careful. We worry about you, too.” Kibum feels his lips twitch into something that would be a smile if he were more inclined to believe Minho’s words. Before he can say anything to combat them, though, Minho continues, “And you should know he’s gotten more…persuasive,” he warns, finally letting his fatigue sneak into the deep rumbles of his voice. Kibum knows that bone-deep weariness too well.

“I’ll manage.”