10

“He fainted,” he exclaims, heaving, while he walks Sungjin in, guiding him through the hall to Jinwoo’s room. When they reach the door Minho glimpses inside: Jinwoo lays in bed, the sheets tangled, the pillow out of place, his forehead a pool of shimmering sweat that droll down, leaving silvering trails behind all over his cheeks that are white ivory. He has his eyelids half-closed and his chest sways up and down irregularly. Minho turns on the light and it sheds golden over the dark corners of the room, gleaming over Jinwoo, making him sparkle, covered with mist and dew. “He seemed quite baffled,” he adds, trying to describe the situation, snipping the moment, conveying it to Sungjin to analyse. He tucks a strand of yellowish straw out of his eyes, scrubs his eyes on the process, grimaces – too early, he isn’t fully awake now that the adrenaline rush has dampened.

He observes with precaution how Sungjin opens Jinwoo’s lids, follows the reaction of his pupils to the halo from the torch, feels the touch of his hand when he places it over his forehead – it thuds soundly, scolding. Sungjin turns to Minho, raises a brow inquiringly but there is nothing Minho can’t tell to explain what’s wrong.

“I’ll run some more tests on him if you don’t mind waiting outside,” he says, commanding – already back to examining Jinwoo, carefully peeling off his pyjama, brushing slowly his flesh, counting the thumps of his heart. Heat swoops his face, raiding his skin in pink and rose and his chest twists at the expand of Jinwoo’s bosom, all-white pearl, soft to the glance, covered in irked flesh. He dodges Sungjin’s inquisitorial eyes, rambles towards the door, avoiding any confrontation, any inadequate judgement – he doesn’t want Sungjin to pry into his life, to hold prejudices).

Minho leaves Sungjin to examine Jinwoo, who still swoons in bed, faintly breathing. He lets the doctor in and closes the door gently behind him to give them a bit of privacy. He heads to his own dormitory, lumbering, cranky thinking that, perhaps, he has caused Jinwoo’s to collapse. Once in his bedroom, he fishes out his phone and laptop and ushers to the sofa, he sprawls in its velvety cushions. He dials Seunghoon’s number.

Seunghoon picks up at the fourth ring, beacons at Minho’s greeting, nervously.

“Did something happened?” he asks, worriedly, Seungyoon’s voice laced with his concerns.

“No, the doctor is with him right now, but Jinwoo is still unconscious,” he explains, lounging on the couch where they had had drinks the night before, laughing at the upcoming future, at prospects still to unfold for them: it has been so tender to have Jinwoo so open, his thoughts shared, no shame at all in him with another sip of wine, red lipstick smashing his lips and the corner of his mouth – and maybe it was that what has gotten Jinwoo down, the alcohol and the pills causing mayhem in his mind. He sighs, anxious to ask Sungjin if he is at fault: if he has tricked Jinwoo into something worse than he already was sinking into - if he has drowned Jinwoo with his hands, unknowingly, poisoning his head with alcohol and friendly banter. 

“Well, let me know what the diagnosis is, don’t hide it from us,” Seunghoon demands, with Seungyoon sitting on his lap – he can hear his breathing over the phone, so close that he can feel it itching on his ears. “And, Minho?” he says, mumbling, “don’t do it before telling Jinwoo. He will be mad if you do it at his back,” he advises but Minho can’t grasp the logic behind it – if he solves Jinwoo’s monetary crisis, won’t it be great for him? Won’t that allow him to start afresh?

“I don’t get it,” he says, honestly, forcing Seunghoon to elaborate. But it’s Seungyoon who replies, explaining himself - there is a ruckus at the other end, hands grabbing the phone, a bit of white noise filling Minho's ears before welcoming Seungyoon's voice. 

“Jinwoo didn’t tell us,” he begins, “because he was afraid and ashamed of his situation. And we are his best friends. I can’t imagine him wanting help from other people, people he barely knows...” and he lets the end of his explanation to drag on, filling in the gaps of what they have been talking before. “He never asks for favours, even if he is at the edge, he has to do it all by himself. We wouldn’t know if it wasn’t because he collapsed and you brought him to the hospital,” he continues and Minho nods, his blond hair raining droplets of salt and sweat. He takes one bottle of wine from the coffee table in front of him, plays with the label, peels it off while listening, distracting himself from what is awaiting ahead, distracting his mind from Jinwoo, from all he wants to do for him – but that Jinwoo won’t let him do.

“He keeps things to himself, I noticed,” Minho notes, and Seungyoon agrees. Convincing Jinwoo to speak up is going to be beating a dead horse or worse, according to Seungyoon’s prattle.

“Yes, he is very private with his life and we never asked much. We assumed that Minhyuk had broken up for a reason – but we never pried and Jinwoo never gave us the details. And we let him go on with it. We had no idea he was carrying so much weight on his shoulders!” he exclaims, indignation hitting him, “Seunghoon hardly spotted him at the office, but they work on different departments so...” so they never suspected the depth of Jinwoo’s problems, how much has he dealt by himself – and how little he could solve with his bare hands.

“He will throw a tantrum,” Seunghoon butts in, “and stop talking to any of us,” he promises, foreseeing the heaviness of what Minho wants to get into. “So, unless you want our dulcet Jinwoo to shrew you, you better haul up to him before doing anything else. And I have a feeling that you don’t want that, Minho, so don’t pay off his debts, don’t try to be a hero and talk to him first. And it’s completely fine if you forget to tell him that it was us who spilt the beans about it all,” he says, half-serious half humouring himself. “So, in a nutshell, don’t act, just talk,” he advises knowingly. Because, of course, Seunghoon has gotten him all right, has glimpsed at his intentions to hover over Jinwoo for as long as possible – for as long as he lives and breathes. “Call us back when you have news, I gotta go, get ready to work,” and Minho blinks away from the confusion – he hears Seungyoon rushing, the rusting sound of shoes undone and socks frizzling over the floor. He hangs up, stares at the black emptiness of his iPhone – scrolls down but nothing catches his attention, nothing distracts him from his mission, from Jinwoo’s plight. He divers his mind by reading mails, working on some company’s stuff – but he is done in an instant, he is barely ever needed or contacted, he holds time in one hand and boredom on the other and makes the best of of the mending resolution (a bit of work and a lot of travels until Jinwoo come, falling into his arms as if his life was trying to tell him something, trying to change him from the inside with a burst of novelties landing on him in pieces shaped as Kim Jinwoo and all he brings in into his equation). 

He has been so lucky, he realises, comparing his existence, his bed of roses to Jinwoo’s life, who has always had to work hard. The most he has done to get paid is attending dull, boring meetings – and only on the occasions, his presence is needed. But, mostly, money grows in his bank account without him having to do a damn. He pounders about what Seungyoon has told him, ruminates the plausible solutions, the roaring consequence of imprudent acts - losing JInwoo forever, something he is not even considering. Whatever he can do, he needs to talk to Jinwoo first if he wants to avoid problems - confronting him will be hard but better than him storming out of his house, weak and wobbling (that would leave him worried to death about his whereabouts for the rest of his existence). 

It takes nothing to sneak into the room, pretending to be preoccupied, asking Sungjin a few questions regarding Jinwoo’s condition. He takes Jinwoo’s wallet and phone and gets out again, leaving Sungjin to mind the patient – Jinwoo is panting on his sleep, back at trashing and tossing but Sungjin has a hold on him, is mumbling sweet pleasantries, a hand on his knee and the other tapping over his hip-bone, Jinwoo is pinned down securely.

Jinwoo, who is so lost in his pride, building up fences to protect his heart. And Minho only wants to be near him, help him out because, honestly, he can – he might be the only one who can give Jinwoo a second chance (a new start).

As he expects, Jinwoo has all his passwords handwritten on paper inside his wallet so it costs him nothing to look into his bank statements, finding out the state of his debts. He brings his laptop to the couch, props up his feet on the table, getting comfortable, and types what he wants to discover.

Jinwoo’s financial report is a mess of ups and downs – and the red line goes so far below, Minho wonders if it can go worse than that. But, looking closely at it, it is still savable. It’s a lot of money, truly, but checking his own records, it will only be a little investment for him – he can send the money any minute, he doesn’t have to worry. Minho owns enough assets to cover up Jinwoo’s debts four times, at least, and, after all, what else is he expecting to do with all of his money but invest it all on Jinwoo? There is nothing to be added or said – he will do it for Jinwoo, will brush off that load out of his shoulders, out of his core, no quarrel admitted. It will be his pleasure to help him out of this hardship, out of such a dire situation.

He only has to worry about Jinwoo’s health, about the state of his mind – he wants to find more about that swindle Minhyuk who had ruined Jinwoo to the point of breaking up all he has, taking away the joy that he more than deserves. He wants to have a word with him and he wonders, for the first time, how relieving will be to punch the smuggling face he imagines Minhyuk to have. He has been swirling on Jinwoo’s head for quite a time without Minho noticing, he has been the wall surrounding Jinwoo, his defence against any closeness. Minhyuk, who has taken Jinwoo down, wrecking and pulling him apart; has left nothing but rubber, but Minho is going to work with that – he loves the shatters of Jinwoo, the bits left behind after the chaos, and he is sure he will love him whole, once done with the initial shock, once he is back to be the boy who laughed and was free (the boy smiling at the photo that Seunghoon has hanging in the wallpaper of his dinner-room, the one where he is cutely hugging Seungyoon, embracing him with all his might). He wants to have it, too, the closeness, the assurance that Jinwoo will stand by him, that he cares and looks after – that he is loved even if it’s only a quarter of the affection he was pulling on Seungyoon on that picture. And he will make sure that Jinwoo gets all of this back – that his smile never leaves his mouth, that his eyes are always gleaming with joy, that he has all that he deserves and more (far more since Minho is willing to make cash rain over Jinwoo, he is going to pay off for all of his needs and expenses so he won’t miss a thing ever again, so he will be covered).

Inside Jinwoo’s wallet Minho finds an old Polaroid of the three of them – Seunghoon and Seungyoon, pressed together in between wriggles of age and use, them giggling, holding into one another, the light shining over Jinwoo making him all bright. The film veiling the picture is worn out and its crumbled on the corners out of time, the colours diffuse but, even then, Jinwoo stands out, even crunched between his friends, he radiates pureness and happiness, with puffy cheeks Minho has never seen and that looks just perfect on him – healthier and amused, it’s a look that fits him amazingly well. He checks his phone – a crappy ancient Samsung that has seen better days, - and, again, finds traces of friendship all over it – pictures and texts and the call register that is filled with their names. Minho smiles and sighs – not a mention of the devilish ex, not a single proof of his existence (Jinwoo must have erased them). He scrolls and scours a little more, checks his applications, search on his navigator, but Minhyuk’s name evades him, completely scrubbed out.

And what if this all is nothing but a scam? Jinwoo putting a prank on him? He heaves up, disdains the mere idea of Jinwoo being a fraud, a stunt – it’s impossible that he has tricked Sungjin, too. No, he doesn’t brood over it, it’s have been just a foolish stupidity – bosh, nonsense, he is not thinking straight, his mind plagued with shreds of sleep smudging his better judgement (he is strained, has been a long morning and he hasn’t had his coffee yet, too diverted in Jinwoo to notice the absence of breakfast). Minhyuk is the one to peg on for this whole mess Jinwoo is undergoing. He is the cause of all his pain, all the agony he is suffering right now - it belongs to that cursed name that means harm to Jinwoo (Jinwoo is too good to even consider swirling Minho and, even if he did, he is so willing that he will turn reality into something pleasant to Jinwoo).

His stomach churns hungrily and he flushes his eyes, tears them from his laptop. He rubs his lashes tiredly and calls it a morning. Heading to the kitchen he feels like an intruder, stepping into an unknown land, despite that everything inside belongs to him, has been build to suit his taste and preferences – but he has never had an occasion to put them into use, too accommodated to consider cooking and now he can’t imagine this place without Jinwoo, recalling his hands stirring, the tender sizzling sound, the aroma coming from the grill and the meat turned edible filling his plate, fulfilling his mouth. Leastwise he works the coffee pot and brews himself a nice, fragrant cup, dark like the storm he feels growing upon him – raindrops shaped after Jinwoo.

One sip of his coffee and energy bubbles into his system awakes him and his senses – he takes another gulp and let it sink, diminishing the anguish and the concerns he holds deep. When he finishes his drink all that he has left is the urge to rush back to Jinwoo, to see him get well, get ready to face the day – to recover under his care.

Sungjin is sitting on the armchair, cross-legged, observing Jinwoo stir in his sleep. Minho comes in quietly, blinking at the suave darkness engulfing the room with the curtains closed over the window, painting the light grey and dim. Sungjin makes eye contact with him, invites him in. Minho plops onto the back of the chair, leans on it, crawling his legs, bending and holding them with his hands pressing his knees.

“He has a small panic attack,” Sungjin says, mumbling, “otherwise, he seems well. Needs to rest his mind, so lots of quietnesses and sleep,” he advises, getting up. He collects his devices and throws them into his bag, “I’ll send you the invoice,” he says, hand on the knob, smiling, “don’t worry too much, he is getting better, just too much pressure, I assume. In this condition,” he continues, pointing at the sleeping figure, all bundled under blankets, of leaking golden falling onto him, “I can’t tell much, but he looks healthier. As for the panic attack,” he adds, dragging his tone to a nearly an audible whisper, “don’t press him, don’t ask. Let him open up. It’ll do him good. And lots of rest and company. But no talking,” he smiles, shaking his head, noticing the change inside Minho’s eyes, the way they trail over Jinwoo, worried. It’s impossible to conceal the concerns he has, the love that transpires from every inch of his skin – translucence against the wind but still clear and consistent.

The walk outside is soaked in silence but there is nothing left to be said or shared – Jinwoo is stable, his condition improving; he only requires a good rest and to lift the burden sinking in his chest. Sungjin shakes his hand in a goodbye, before driving back to his consultation, wishing that Minho would stop being so painfully obvious about his affections.

He calls Seunghoon but goes straight to voice-mail – Minho assumes he has his phone off during working hours. He dials Seungyoon who picks it up at the first ring, sounding excited like a puppy – endearing, no wonder why he is dotted by Jinwoo when he answers the phone with such a bright smile and cheerful voice. He plops onto the armchair again, raising his legs, feet propelled into the side of the bed.

“Seunghoon is at the office,” he explains, “but you can tell me. I’m not a kid,” he adds, probably pouting with his marshmallow lips that have pecked Jinwoo.

“Anxiety,” Minho reveals and Seungyoon isn’t that surprised by the diagnosis.

“I expected something like that, yes,” he comfirms Minho’s inquiring tone. “It isn’t a wonder when he has been dealing with so much,” he adds, and this time Minho knows what he is talking about, the implications, the reasons behind Jinwoo’s circumstances. “He’ll be all right soon. I’ll come over later if it’s OK with you,” he says, his mouth curbing at the edges.

“Of course! You don’t need an invitation. Jinwoo’s friends are my friends, too,” he says, beaming at the prospect of having them here, of having Seungyoon who is nice and caring, and Seunghoon, practical and clever, around – to help him with Jinwoo, to ground him, to convince him to accept his offer of paying off his debts.

“We can playhouses together,” he chuckles, all giddy with delight and fun, a lecherous last note behind his words that Minho catches by the end, shivers at the reference – the fact that, again, he has been caught up red-handed being all woo over Jinwoo.

When he hangs up, he turns to Jinwoo, who is staring at him, his eyes wide brown and wild, cheeks coloured with shame and sadness in equal proportions. Minho gasps, taken by surprise and Jinwoo tries to smile at him, reassuringly.

“You are awake?” it comes out more like a snort than as a question and Jinwoo glances over him, a brown rose. “Since when?” he wonders, bending his knees, holding them with his hands, giving back the space he has taken from Jinwoo. He shuffles, faces him, his features pale, wriggled with worry, creasing forming on his forehead.

“A panic attack,” he stammers, his voice coarse, eyes rimmed in red, abashed.

He can’t believe this has happened – that he didn’t see it coming. He should have been more aware of the fears building up, eating him from inside – the leftovers of Minhyuk’s chest-mate. He has been moving forward, moving on, he hadn’t had a second to spear on him, but now that Minho is taking care of him – God bless him, - thinking is all he has to tag along, too much time on his hands – and the terrors and implications have finally chased him, devouring his mind: money, his broken heart that he can visualise smashed on the ground like red-stained-glass, nowhere to go, no job to sustain him, nothing to call him but an old phone and a ragged pair of jeans and baggy shirts that have belonged to Seunghoon. And Minho who is ready to discover the scam that he is, the kind of person he has become after being ditched and abandoned – living under a constant storm. Only desperations have brought him there, to Minho’s arms – he has pushed by necessity, by the urge to break free of debts and creditors (he has been led to this household by dint of tiredness and a hazy head (and, after all, he needs to plough on, he has bashed against too many walls already, he needs to thrive and survive this episode of chaos and fears and confusion: he needs to get over it soon, right now).