11

“Hey,” Minho greets with a faint, wobbling smile, petting his leg. Jinwoo blinks as a response, ignoring his presence – he doesn’t want Minho to be a participant in his own pity party (he doesn’t need his condolences or his condescending words, a promise of paying off his debts – he will deal with it himself, Minho has done more than sufficient). “Hey,” he repeats, this time more insistently. Jinwoo flails a little, an after-taste of the strain. He nudges at him, gently, tries to catch his attention, to get him to focus on him instead of drifting into apathy, into his fogged memories. Minho only wants to perk him up, to bring his sunshine self back to life. His eyes shine at him like marigolds, beaming orange with peeking of the sun caressing his skin.

“Hey. Sorry. For the bother. And the worries,” he says, sounding as normal as he can manage, controlling the way his voice is giving up. It doesn’t work: he sounds as frail as he looks with a shaky voice and drowsy words stuttering. He must be self-conscious of the circumstances, he rubs his eyes and scrubs his hands over the sheet, leaves traces of perspiration smeared on it, glossing still his skin.

He is bathed in sweat, his flesh crawling under it, quivering with cold, his head coiling down with thoughts about giving in and begging for forgiveness – asking the police to have mercy on him. But Minho is right there next to him, holding his arm, looking at him with so much concern, with so much care and adoration, it pains him, it stings – to hurt him even more: to let him down, revealing the fraud that he is, how shallow he has acted to get what he needed. He doesn’t want this – to be a burden to Minho, to be displeased, a chafe, to shatter all of his expectations, to bring down the purity of his feelings (to ruin him for good – and to think about it makes him want to throw up: he can’t confess, spill it out, it’s for Minho’s own sake).

“Let me help you,” Minho whispers, the touch of begging and Jinwoo wonder why – wonders how much he must love him to offer him all. “I know about your particular situation,” he begins, inflaming Jinwoo’s cheeks and chest with indignation flares. “What happened with Minhyuk,” and the name tastes sour on his tongue, Jinwoo quivers, all colour drawn out. “What was your plan?” he asks, more curious than mad or inquiring – as if he wants to know what lingers in his mind, what is it awaiting ahead. “How were you about to pay off so much money all by yourself?” and Jinwoo sighs because there is no way out of this, there is no way out of Minho, not now that he knows the behind of his story, all the crap he has done and made – and plotted against him.

It is better to be honest – after all, there is nothing else to hide from him, he is aware of everything, thanks Seunghoon, he guesses (there is no other one who could have snitched on him like that – though Seunghoon wants to release the burden heavily embedded into his chest, erase that cursed name of his head; he is too kind telling Minho the enormity of Jinwoo’s complicated life: maybe now he will walk out of it before stepping deeper into misery).

“I was going to sell what you got me,” he confesses, looking down and properly ashamed. Minho doesn’t mind, it’s OK – they were presents that belongs to Jinwoo, he can do with them as he pleases, no offence taken. “I thought, too, of seducing you so you would willingly get rid of my problem, but I couldn’t,” he continues, all white against the golden morning shine. Minho rubs his knee affectionately, safely, draws circles around the bones, makes Jinwoo look at him all crumbled down, devastated by the admission.

“I am willing to do so, you don’t even have to ask,” he giggles and Jinwoo has to blink at him in astonishment, has to focus on his voice because he is drifting again – because it’s impossible that Minho is this generous even after the betrayal.

“I’ve been back-stabbing you all this time and, yet, you want to help me out?” he asks in amazement, his eyes all starry, gleaming with nervous tears about to navigate down his ashed cheeks. He bites his chapped lips, fidgeting with the hem of the sheets, pulling them up and down, fretting over it, repeating all their conversations, every one of their interactions, searching for signs – but there are plenty, Minho has always been so open about his whereabouts, about his wealth, Jinwoo shouldn’t be even the slightly shocked to hear so (Minho is rich, the heir of an empire of popular coffee shops, and he has always been in for a penny with him, with his whole circumstances, since the moment he swooned in front of his eyes and he darted to aid him. It has been all too precipitated, too rushed and Jinwoo trusts Minho but doesn’t want him to step in, wants to save him from all his pain and issues – he has nothing to do with them). And, also, Jinwoo is convinced of Minho’s feelings towards him, of his blossoming love that is staggering, always present and beaconing – and as far as he is concerned, it was part of his plant, a part he hasn’t had the courage to carry on, too ashamed and too worried of hurting Minho (but Minho is ready to be hurt, he reads the emotions trapped inside of his orbs).

“You haven’t. It was just a thought and I understand the desperation. You could have asked but I got to know you,” he tells, half giggling, content, “you are too proud to do so, stubborn and persistent, you do things your own way, without depending on others. And also I have the faint idea that you would be utterly embarrassed to tell how you got yourself caught into such a mess,” he adds, carefully, the giggling subdued, You are still recovering from him. He is the knife drilling your heart and, possibly, the reason of all the stress piling up in your head” he continues, all his words stabbing into Jinwoo’s mind, all of the arrows bearing truth within them. He rubs his tights, one hand under his chin, seeing Jinwoo from below – observing the blue dancing under his skin, a course of little veins travelling from his neck to below his shirt. “I get it, that’s why I’m offering. And because...” for a moment he falls silent, the last words fading in the air, coloured in vivid, flashing red. He is not sure if this is the best chance to tell him.

But maybe it’s about time to let him know.

Even if he doesn’t reciprocate, he needs to know – he needs to come clean to Jinwoo, who holds the stars inside of his shaky pupils.

Even if he already knows and plays dumb – better then, he will be able to confront him, to open up Jinwoo’s feelings. Even then, even if he doesn’t love him, Jinwoo is where he wants to stay: his happy beginning.

“Don’t,” Jinwoo shushes him, his voice soft and warm, “don’t say it. Not now. Not when all I have to answer you is pain and suffering. I know. I noticed. I’m not blind,” he explains, Minho’s words adding shades of peach into Jinwoo’s sweet features. “You deserve better than me,” he mumbles, finally, letting go of a part of his worries.

“But you are what I want, the person I love,” he admits, “and you are worth it to be loved. Even in pieces, you are still precious, inside and outside and every part of you is so bright and caring. You didn’t try to charm me and, yet, I’m under your spell, trapped between your fingers,” and it’s no news to Jinwoo. “Now, don’t think about it, you need to rest. Later on, Seungyoon will come to visit,” Minho says, leaving the room, stepping out of this confession – unscheduled, unplanned, he has just blurted it out, the words out of control, leaking from his heart to his mouth. And it feels so good to have them on the wild, chasing his shadow but not his mind, to have put a name to all his emotions, to allow them, bring them out. He giggles under the dim hallway, walks to his own room and sinks onto his bed, a smile still pressed on his lips.

He yanks the curtains and they flash open, releasing the image of a sunny day, the light beaming over him in pastel shades discording with his sensations, with all that has taken place a few minutes ago. He is restless despite that the air tastes bitter, scratching his pharynx and his heart paces out of tune. He strides around, feeling feverish, his mind racing, drinking on what he has done – what he has said to Minho. The truth – it isn’t making him free, he feels more trapped than before, between a cage of gold, under Minho’s control. He has said something beautiful but Jinwoo can’t take it, can’t accept it – can’t take Minho in, can’t love him properly and he grumbles, his tongue over the pillow, muttering sorries, hoping that he hasn’t broken Minho’s heart (because he can’t add other smitten bits to his already splintered chest. He frets over it again, repeats the words that have leaked from his head, that have soaked Minho. Jinwoo kicks the mattress and fussed around, knowing that he is the cause of Minho’s angst, that he could have just lied to him, accepted his feelings – hold his hand, intertwining fingers, kissing his lips pretending not to notice, a swish of skin against skin, nothing deep, nothing too committing (but would be enough to make Minho happy and Jinwoo wants it, wants to see it plastered on his soul, all the time – wants to give Minho what he has hadn’t in the past: friendship and care and love, but can’t bring himself to do so (can’t because his loss is still fresh and raw, because he can’t forget Minhyuk, not at the present moment, with so much time on his hands and recollections coiling inside of his mind).

He lays in bed, golden fingers of light bathing his eyes, giving them a shimmering patina – he bats them, lashes tickling his cheeks, feels dizzy and hungover. He closes his eyes and falls immediately asleep, the morning glow covering him, warming up his skin.

It smells like burning candles and spices, the sun high in the sky, palms waving with the wind, cradling under a perfect blue morning. Birds sing, swirling, colouring the horizon that dies over a translucence blue sea. Beneath it, splashes of life bring up shades and shapes: fishes and corals, and it is wonderful. He tastes his lips – like coconut oil and piña-colada – and his laughter reverberates all over his flesh. Despite the warm wind and the soft sand under his feet, despite the song of the nature surrounding him, despite feeling his hand around his, connected like it was always meant to be, it feels all kind of wrong. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t pertain to his words, to his world crafted with lies and farces. It is all a travesty.

But he can still hear his laughter, his voice talking to him, the sound he so much longed for, missed so much. He is telling him something that should make him smile, look at him tenderly, promising him anything – giving him all he has. But it throbs like an arrow straight to his core and he knows better than to swear to Minhyuk – that he is all false, a fake idol he is better off with. He laughs at Jinwoo’s revelation.

“Such a pity you finally find out,” he says, gently, waving his hand at him, “it has been so much fun!” and his laughter dissolves into the air, the ocean rises to take him in with waves and Jinwoo wakes up, panting frantically, biting his lips to the taste of blood blooming under his tongue, nails digging his skin, ploughing furrows along his wrist.

Minhyuk is getting into his head. Minhyuk – his name like ashes inside his mouth, the one that brought opprobrium into Jinwoo, the one who deserted him without a single word, not an explanation. He would have understood, he would have been able to put a closure to his sentiments, lock them. But he disappeared, as if he never existed, leaving nothing behind, taking with him all that was Jinwoo’s – his money, his promises, his whole heart. It wasn’t a break-up, it was a broken house that he found out, later on. Minhyuk made it spark, his touch of gold always managing to put a smile on Jinwoo, to steal a kiss so stealthily that he wouldn’t notice until their lips were so close he breathed in his perfume – and then he was a mess of giggles and joy. And then, nothing. He remembers his tender face, handsome and clean, with deep brown eyes, brows always arched in a straight line, moving over his forehead, alive, how elated he was when he got him his favourite VEAK cap – he wore that even in the shower, even when he was ing Jinwoo, it was an extended part of him. It was hilarious, really, to touch his head and find fabric. He would pout if Jinwoo took it off – then he would tuck it on Jinwoo and stare into him, all , aroused by the view below. He took that cap, too – and Jinwoo thought then that, perhaps, he loved him, too, that it wasn’t all a charade, a pretence (but it hurt all the same: loved or not Minhyuk has smashed his chest, taking away all that was dear, everything he worked so hard to get, to accomplish).

He was chosen, probably, years ago, to become Minhyuk’s honeycomb, to pay for his expenses and receive amazing in return – but Jinwoo wanted more, not only his fierce body , he wanted to yank his heart and keep it beside his own, buried under his blood. Minhyuk always skirted around, never exposing his life to Jinwoo, never telling him who he really was. For four years, four incredible years, he had lived a lie and he had brought it all, at it with all his might – because it was sweet and lovely and how could he ever suspect the stab on his back? He truly, honestly, loved Minhyuk and, in the end, he was the one suffering for it – the one left behind. For over four years he has done nothing but financially supporting Minhyuk, paying his rent, sharing his house with him for free, giving in to all of his whims – he didn’t need to even ask, Jinwoo memorized all of his fancies, knew all of his yearnings, he supplied them to Minhyuk. He never returned the effort, he would kiss him and call it a day – he would touch him and Jinwoo would feel so honoured, would forget how much devoted he was and how little he got back because Minhyuk was like a living flame of silver and rain, his expert hands trailing over his sides, making him tremble, making it all feel agonising good, ing up his heart and mind, a smirk hovering over him, the taste of cigarettes and smoke lingering on his lips.

In the end, it was all his fault, wasn’t it? For trusting Minhyuk, for welcoming him, beaming, into his life without questioning, without suspecting – he gave him his whole life only for Minhyuk to use it, to leech everything possible out of it, his blood like a bloodied parasite. And, yet, it’s hard to blame Minhyuk.

Jinwoo shakes his head in disbelieve, discharging his hair all over the pillow, scattering dark ink. He intakes a mouthful of air, let it dive into his chest, exhales slowly until his eyes are foggy and he let it go all in one go. Minhyuk is gone, out of reach, probably enjoying Jinwoo’s money, seeking out his next victim. He knows that he has deserted Korea, took a flight to Lanzarote, “La Isla Bonita” playing on his head, Madonna’s voice clear, rolling the name of the island again and again under his lids. The police have conducted a search, had told this much to Jinwoo – had told him they could do nothing for him, that he should have been more cautious. He was left in shatters, broken and crumbled, abandoned, feeling dejected, sold out, utterly cheated on.

Not that it matters any longer where Minhyuk is, where he is sheltered, Jinwoo won’t be able to touch him – to put his hands over him, blear out that smirk of him that, once in a lifetime, was able to turn him on instantly. He wants nothing to do with him, he was mourned his decaying love alone – he is done missing him, wondering and fretting, he is over Minhyuk: he only wants to solve this icy situation, stagnant to the point that nothing can be done because Jinwoo isn’t well enough to bring cash to the bank and pay the debt off.

If he only accepted Minho’s offering, all this mess will be solved, so easily, he wouldn’t need to even blink – all this nightmare disappearing in front of him.

But it’s too much. He can’t take such liberties with him – he has to be the rational one, has to think of the consequences, can’t step into another black hole of desperation and turbulences. He has to do it on his own, he can’t let Minho take care of it because, then, he would owe him – owe him his life and he can’t let that happen, can’t depend on someone who is barely an acquittance who is madly in love with him.

He can’t allow Minho to do it because he will, eventually, repent of his acts, call him back and obligate him to give back what he has given first – and he will be back to square one, back to the beginning. Jinwoo rubs his temples, contemplates the situation he is immersed in, looks for a way out and finds that the only decent thing he can do is get out of this house and head back to the place he belongs – to his little Mini, sleeping inside of the car, too exhausted to even think, working from dusk to twilight. He misses the simplicity of it – how he had only one thing in mind, one objective to stubbornly follow, single-mindedly.