13

From his room he still can hear Seungyoon sloshing around, the splashing sound laced with a soft, orange breeze of a painted afternoon of saffron and lemon, the air filled with the sweet perfume of tangerines and tea leaves, butter and chocolate, the high-pitched laughter of Seunghoon, the velvet, dancing voice of Minho replying to whatever they are asking him – about his life, about his business, about his feelings towards Jinwoo, he can’t tell, he doesn’t care.

He towels himself dry, changes into his worn-out jeans and fishes another old shirt from between the little pile of his own belongings – the scraps he had collected from Seunghoon’s home and that compose all that he has.

Jinwoo sighs, his back pressed against the door, slowly slumping onto the floor, knees bent, hands holding them, fingers encircling them, thumps brushing over his jeans. He cusses at himself, at his lack of sense and sensitivity, for having been so rude to Seungyoon, who only wanted to help – who, behind his child-looking face, is someone who deeply cares. He feels pathetic, feels his bones throbbing, his head spinning, aching to break free, to get rid of this all – the sickness that is dragging him, his lame, stupid problem with Minhyuk, whose name is keeping him awake all night, wrecking all of his defences, rooting in his core as if he belongs there, the pressure that is Minho’s kindness, his constants attention, pouring to him all his heart (wasting it to someone who can’t reciprocate his love: even if he tries, he is too barren to spare him a bit of affection, something more than what he has now). He huddles up, his head buried between his legs, breathes anxiety in, exhales it out but the feeling remains within – his own voice calling him names, reminding him of how hapless he is, hopeless, and, among all, jagged and downcast, miserable because he is pushing out everyone who comes around (because he is too proud to accept that he can’t deal with the heap of emotions that he so hard tries to cushion up, bottling them in until they boil up, bubbling to his system, making him ill, shaking like a leave on the wind, icicles forming amiss the bast void of his existence, piercing his skin, ragging him, thorn and shagged and usable). He has been waving Minho away, ignoring his sentiments – playing upon them as Minhyuk did with him before and he feels so ty for the kind of person he has become, even if he hasn’t done anything execrable the mere thought about utilizing Minho to his favour is already rueful, it’s in itself a crime towards what they have built up, it’s a sacrilege and Minho deserves better – deserves someone whole, someone who doesn’t cry to lull himself to sleep, who doesn’t up every time he opens his lips, someone who isn’t dealing with anxiety due to a regretful taste on ex-boyfriends that happens to be swindlers, in the end, milking him as if a cow.

The teacup is still warm under his cupped hands, tepid against his fingers. The brownish liquid catches golden strands of sunshine and Minho stirs it content, drinks it as if kissing Jinwoo’s eyes that are the exact same shade – as lukewarm and gentle, as kind and welcoming, flavoured like mornings in the sea. It settles his nerves, ties them into a knot that he can swallow so he can ask the question that has been trapped inside of his heart since this morning when he realized the weight of Jinwoo’s problems, the enormity of them, how much they have been hampering him, chaining him with the golden of his name, the phantom that has been chasing him.

“Tell me about him, about Lee Minhyuk,” he utters, not maundering – he has had enough of that, he requires an answer so to understand the state of Jinwoo’s heart (to estimate if he has a possibility to win him over or if this is a lost cause – if Jinwoo will never see him as anything but an acquittance).

Seunghoon blinks at him, caught off of guard though he recovers quickly, glancing at Seungyoon, who is playing on the pool – splashing and jumping, diving into the clean water, coming out for air, smiling at their direction, waving at them in occasions. He relocates some stray flocks of his dark hair, keeps them out of his eye level, rasps before taking himself a sip from his own coffee.

“There is nothing much to say about him.” he begins, unsure. For a second he closes his lids and sinks into past recollections, moments vivid, intents to put them into words, to explain Minho what it was, how it was, how it all happened by surprise, the shock of Minhyuk’s desertion – how it wasn’t expected even if it was welcomed for them because they have never grown to like him much. “Do you want to know something in specific?” he wonders, trying to make it easier for himself. Minho takes a second to pounder: he doesn’t need the full story, the highlights will do – he has no time to waste whatsoever and Seunghoon doesn’t come to him as someone who enjoys to kiss and tell.

“Just in general, what happened? How did it go down?” he states, hand under his chin, his back leaning forward, Seunghoon, an inch taller, glancing at him from above, his features gloomy under the twilight and shadows of the night – his slanted eyes barely noticeable, lost into the gravity of the afternoon, his lips pale, a straight line crossing his still face. He exhales, releasing puffs of air that taste like coffee beans.

“Minhyuk was awkward, at least, he was to us,” Seunghoon starts, “neither Seungyoon nor myself saw much of him. Jinwoo liked to keep him to himself, probably noticing the stiffness, that something was odd between us three. It was more an inkling than something happening, but I never appreciated him very much. I was happy for Jinwoo, of course, and as long as he was happy, that was all that concerned me. So I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he wickers, “but he appeared to be a perfectly normal gentleman, or so Jinwoo kept reassuring us with whenever we asked,” and he rubs the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, removing a dissident biscuit crumb.

“So,” Minho butts in, “when did you learn that he was gone, stealing all of Jinwoo’s money?” and this is one question Seunghoon is, again, diffident of replying because it hurts to remember that, at that time, Jinwoo didn’t trust him – that he didn’t tell him all of what transpired, that he took it upon himself to conceal and hide it, working overnight and living on the streets, sleeping in his old Mini, surviving out of ready-made, convenience store food, how heartbreaking has it been called by Minho, a total stranger, to come to collect Jinwoo from the hospital that fateful day.

“He told us, eventually, that they had split out,” he says simply. There is nothing else to tack on, it’s all he knows, all the details he can share without compromising Jinwoo, the few particularities he is sure about  – in the end, this story belongs to Jinwoo and it’s his life to explain. “You’ll better ask Jinwoo, he will tell,” he finishes, smiling softly at him. He is certain that Jinwoo won’t mind exchanging the truth for Minho’s peace of mind – if that’s what is hounding him, what really happened to Kim Jinwoo.

“I don’t know, Jinwoo is very private,” he revives, shaking his head.

“Yes, he is. But he is also very honest and sincere,” Seunghoon injects, his smile all covered with fondness, his voice – high-pitched, - melts to a smooth murmur while talking about Jinwoo. "He won't fend off, he will offer you the whole explanation, whatever question you have, he will solve them for you if you ask," he heartens Minho, petting the hand that props his chin and that it's closer to Seunghoon.  

“You must know him well,” and there is a hint of jealousy on Minho’s sentence, a poise that comes up as seriousness. Seunghoon can help but chuckle and Minho stares at him, brow rose inquiringly.

“Please, don’t,” he says, as gently as the last streak of laughter allows him, “Jinwoo is my best friend. More than that. I know his soul better than I know mine,” he reveals, blending into his words all the sentiments that he holds towards Jinwoo – familiarity, comfort, years spent together, side by side, fighting and diverting but always by one’s another. He can be stubborn and single-minded, determined and simple but, above all, Jinwoo is a whole sweetheart, caring and generous, shy but always ready to lean a hand – always there to help and support and to mind Seungyoon.

Across the window, the sky changes colours, from soft peach to navy, gravy blue tinting the incipient night that scratches the walls with wind and the rush of plates being collected, doors opened, feet walking over wooden floors. They are coming inside, he can picture them, Seungyoon dropping chlorine, Seunghoon nagging at him, urging him to shower – Minho chuckling at their antics, welcoming them, pining them into his chest, framing every instant, collecting moments together with people he calls his friends.

He isn’t expecting the door behind his back to suddenly burst open, enclosing the exact same picture he holds in his mind. He has no time to get up and so he crashes, unceremoniously, to the ground, hands out to buffer the fall. He hears chatter and pain blooming under his palms, the lower part of his back aching, the door whacking against him, the howl trapped inside of his vocal cords, tears at the brim of his eyelashes like gleaming jewels, his cheek grazing the floor, feet at his sight level.

A deluge of laughter cascades over him while a pair of long, strong fingers curls around his wrists, push him up and heads him to the bed, helps him sit down while he stares, blankly and in awe, at the annoying chuckles. Seunghoon takes a seat next to him, rubbing the small of his back, where the impact has thrown him forward, his fingers massaging him expertly, under his care the pain quelling already.

Seungyoon is the source of the bothering sound – in other instances, he would have been able to recognise the temperature of his voice, the resemblance it has with a hysterical hyena, how he claps and laughs at the same pace.

“Oh, Seungyoon, shut up,” Jinwoo grumbles softly, kicking his calf to make him stop. Seungyoon let go of the last guffaw and the musicality of it swirls, sinking into Jinwoo, forcing a smile out of him. Jinwoo nods at him, inquiringly, tilting his head a little to look at his eyes: Seungyoon looks back at him regretful, blush on his fluffy cheeks, pumping with the memory of their previous disagreement – and the reason why Jinwoo has to flee, taking refuge into his room, too sorry for having been so harsh on him, on someone who doesn’t merit such a reply (Seungyoon is a whole sweetheart). He attempts to smile apologetically to him, but Seungyoon is already forgiving him – he can’t stay mad, can’t hold grudges and Jinwoo wishes to be a bit more like him, carefree, blithe, jovial and effervescent (instead he lives stuck into the past, lashed to it, caged into his own grievance, his head awash with worries and concerns).

“Sorry hyung,” he mumbles, biting his lips contrite. “I think I’ll head to the shower if you don’t mind,” he asks, looking sorrowfully at him, a shy grin threatening to bring a smile upon him – and Jinwoo finds himself incapable of being sore at him, it’s impossible to resist his pouts and charms.

“Though this is Minho’s house, you should be asking him, not me” he points out, glancing over at him, who stands at the doorsill. Minho looks at him, his eyes the colour of the wood in winter, clouded like a rainy sky, with distress not voiced, directed towards Jinwoo – the one to blame, the cause of all his concerns. 

He shrugs.

“Sure, go ahead,” he indicates, not minding, watching Seungyoon rushing in, gleaming – whatever discussion he has had before with Jinwoo forgotten, unspokenly solved. Jinwoo indicates him the way, throws a towel to him, who catches it by the edge, unfolding it over his heavy swimming truck that hangs low on his hipbones, the hem over his knees, long, pale legs dropping water on the carpet at his feet, not caring a bit. He joggles his hair, scattering tears all over, splashing the ground and Seunghoon’s toes.

“Are you joining hyung?” Seungyoon invites him, his hand already opening the bathroom door, glancing at him inquiringly.

“I already done that,” he explains, his head damp, all the chlorine removed from his flesh, smelling fresh like morning dew and clover gardens.

“Do you,” Minho begins, surprised to have found his own voice, his mind already picturing, daydreaming, “shower together often?” he finishes, not really expecting a reply – not really sure he has said it out loud. But Seungyoon is laughing at his direction, glancing over him with mirth in his eyes, a delight covering all the surface of his face.

“Jinwoo hyung and I? Whenever we spend the night together,” he explains and he is about to elaborate – to add spice to Minho’s already racing head, - when Seunghoon meddle him, pushing him to the shower instead of letting him finish his sentence. He feels his tongue acrid, bitter-sweet, thinking about the possibilities of a future untold, still secret – a future where he, too, can sponge Jinwoo, his prints on his skin, scrubbing him clean, the sprinkler on top of them, sprinkling cool water over them, pearling their flesh with merriment and content (and Minho can’t wait for his dreams to come true, to be as close to Jinwoo as Seungyoon proves himself to be – close enough to share showers and bed-time-stories).

“Well,” he mumbles, suddenly alone with Jinwoo – though he can hear the others bickering in the room next door, their conversation muffled, the sound of gentle lips against lips, the soft waterfall from the shower, the ruffle of clothes being removed. “I told them to stay over for dinner if it’s all right with you if you feel good enough to deal with them” he reckons in a breath, feeling his head warm and his chest constricted looking painfully at the beauty in front of him, his hair plastered on the sides of his face, wet, little droplets shimmering like rainbow tears, the constellations of his eyes immersed, exploding into a sea of warm brown, the aroma of tea leaves and soft laughter. He is precious, he is a marvel, not only on the exterior: Minho has had a glimpse into him, can say that he knows Jinwoo and, even though it is slightly, he is captivated by his delicate character, how caring and sweet he is, stubborn and resolved, independent but someone you can always count with. And the more he gets to discover about him, the more he wants to dig, trapped into the labyrinth that Jinwoo’s personality is, into the myriad of aspects he isn’t aware of but wants to uncover.

Jinwoo nods, a tiny smile spreading all over his features.

“Thanks, Minho,” he says, meaning more than just what has been stated and his heart swells with love and pride for having been able to make him happy – for having read him correctly this time. “For letting them come over,” he adds, explanatory. “You didn’t have to and, yet, you welcomed him as if they were your old friends as well,” and he can’t keep the emotion splashing his face – tenderness, fondness, joy, all written all over his mouth parted in delight, stretched into a bright smirk.

“I hope to call them my friends as well,” he replies, rubbed off on Jinwoo’s words – Seunghoon and Seungyoon are more than gladly accepted into his life, Jinwoo in it or not, he likes them very much, wishes to be liked back, get them to be as close as they are with Jinwoo, to enjoy what the three of them have (a friendship that is more natural than blood and breathe).

“You have a pool, therefore, you are automatically Seungyoon’s best friend,” he grins, making Minho chuckle in surprise and giggle at how easily persuaded someone can be – how easily impressed Seungyoon is, to be already appreciated for what he owns instead of by who he is though the thought is funny and he laughs with Jinwoo, their voice blending together and it sounds delicious, his crystalline, pure tone intertwined with his low cackle. “He likes you all right,” he says, more seriously this time, remembering what Minho had explained to him a night ago while drinking expensive Chardonnay. He might get a bit drunk and felt sleep on Minho’s shoulder – he isn’t sure, the recollection is a sequence of glimmer and blur, hazy behind the recognition, but he remembers his voice relating him about his past, how he never had a friend in his life – used to people using him, coming and going but never staying, never truly caring and it pangs between his ribs, hurting like a slap, to realize how demanded Minho has been and how little he has gotten in return. “You are a good man,” he says, speaking the truth from his heart, “it’s not a wonder Seungyoon is already attached to you. Give him ten more minutes and he will cling onto you like an octopus, quite literally,” he advises, grinning. “And Seunghoon will be at your kitchen, complaining about the lack of handmade food,” he finishes, a hand cupping his chin, his eyes solely on Minho.

“You won’t let that happen, though,” he jokes, joining the conversation, “I have seen a few containers with leftovers from yesterday. I might call in for delivery but we can also finish them,” he observes, faintly allowing his heart to take in all that Jinwoo is.

“If you have invited Seungyoon, the remaining from the other night won’t be enough to feed him. He stuffs himself,” he explains, chuckling and Minho rushes to the kitchen, dismissed by the news, his phone out and his fingers dialling the number of his favourite restaurant, asking for reinforcements – Jinwoo’s laughter distant but bright, the only star in the sky of his firmament.

Once the door closes behind Minho, Jinwoo springs into the mattress, scuttling into his last conversation with Seungyoon – how gruff he has been to him and how much he needs to atone and apologise because he is not at fault (Jinwoo is, for allotting this all to happen, for bringing shame to his name and hauling within his friends, involving into his problems innocents like Minho, who just occurred to be there for him when he needed help – unwanted but required all the same). But he can’t get lost in his own thoughts because Seunghoon appears, peeping through the bathroom door, his sleeves rolled up, arms wet, speckles of water all over his shirt, rolling his eyes at his friend.

He doesn’t need to develop, it is clear to Jinwoo.

“Seungyoon,” they both say, blithering. “I have to jostle him into the shower stall,” he adds for clarification and they are both in stitches.

“He can be such a baby,” Jinwoo agrees, smiling fondly despite his last reflection about his friend.

“Yes. By the way, he told me,” and of course he has told on him, describing it all to Seunghoon – Jinwoo isn’t offended or irate, he has assumed it to be already. “He worries,” he adds, shaking his head, “we both do, hyung,” and, without preamble, takes a seat next to Jinwoo.

“I know and I’m sorry to be a trouble,” he says, hushed, “and I’m sorry for hurting Seungyoon. He, among all, shouldn’t have to be concerned about me".

“Gosh, hyung, it wasn’t that serious!” Seunghoon exclaims in response to the staid tone of his voice. “He was mostly joking, you know. About you dating Minho. We know that you are still a bit in shatters,” he says, gently elbowing him on the side, making room next to Jinwoo to lay down. “It was all banter to make it easier to us, to accept that you were ditching us for Minho. Song Minho, rich and luxurious,” he says jokingly, wresting a smile into Jinwoo. “And I know you only considered scamming him because you are in a very dire situation,” and the little smile perishes on the spot, making Seunghoon frown with defeat, looking at Jinwoo disapprovingly, “You are great, don’t even venture to ever consider it differently,” he threatens, sternly, “even if you can't see it now, I see it. Seungyoon too. Even Minho, otherwise he wouldn’t be this whipped and smitten. He is not subtle,” he comments, “but I’m sorry for him, it must be complicated to love you knowing that it has an expiration date,” he adds, in an afterthought. He likes Minho enough to want to spear him any suffering, to be there to deliver the news instead of him having to face Jinwoo’s refusal – if there is one at all, he has heeded Jinwoo too, the way he shines brighter with Minho, how he deftly takes care of him, no words, just acts (just as Jinwoo is, silent and shy but constant in his affections). He has caught a glimpse of it, a shared smile, Jinwoo filling Minho’s plate with the baked goodies, waiting to see his reaction – waiting to have his approval, his liking. He doesn’t need to and, yet, he does it. And it is so cute to observe how naturally they have grown closer, even if it has been barely a week, Minho has become a dear friend to him. “But you don’t have to carry this burden alone. We are here, even if only as a support,” he says. Like this, side to side, eyes focused on the ceiling, it’s easier to speak up his mind, it doesn’t take so much effort to talk, he can summon his courage and tell Seunghoon what is swirling inside of his mind, bubbling up like champagne.

“I know you all mean good and I appreciate it, I really do,” he begins, his voice slightly unsteady but lovingly as ever, “but, Seunghoon, I can’t keep relying on people to solve my life. It’s my problem, it’s my responsibility to bear it, so I’ll do it my way, not going to trouble you or anyone. After all, I brought it upon myself, for trusting Minhyuk, for allowing him to steal my savings. It might take longer to get back on track, but I’ll be there, eventually. And Minho won’t have to hear about me again. He will be free of me soon, once I can get back to work,” he says all honestly. But nothing he tells is new to Seunghoon – it’s exactly what he has told Minho earlier, it’s exactly what he expected Jinwoo’s opinion to be.

“You are an old story, hyung,” he chuckles, gently nudging him. “That’s what I told Minho, word by word,” he opens up – he wants Jinwoo to be on the same page as the rest of them, to let them help. “He won’t budge, though, you know. Even if you say no, he will come up with another plot to aid you. He is determined to help and helped you’ll be,” he jokes, making Jinwoo roll his eyes.

“I don’t want to be a burden to him,” he complains, pouting like Seungyoon, trying to be convincing, failing at it because, instead, he just sounds like a little brat.

“Save yourself time and reasons, he will insist,” Seunghoon counsels, shaking his head, dark locks spreading over the pillow, tickling Jinwoo’s cheeks. “I’m not telling you to accept his money without conditions or anything. That would be weird since you don’t know him that well,” he comments, “but perhaps let him get you a job in his company? That should be good enough,” he suggests and Jinwoo finds himself agreeing with Seunghoon – he has that way to come up with valid points. “Live with him in here,” he says, enveloping the room with his arms, stretching them to grasp all the space, “but pay him a rent, and, most important, make him promise to never, ever, dress you. He kills my vibes,” he finishes laughing hard, finding under the bed one of Minho’s bags. Written all over it there is the logo of the shop he has gotten them from Louis Vuitton, Prada, Channel, Freiknock, all expensive as hell – all hideous as hell as well.

It takes a second for Seunghoon to be on his knees, dragging the parcel up to the sheets, spreading the content and jesting over the criminal fashion sense of Minho.

“This can only go to the bin,” he says, showing up a leopard printed shirt. He squirms at reading the tag, “even if the price is exorbitant, throw it. Nobody should wear such a disgusting thing,” he finishes, discharging it to the floor, quickly booting it under the mattress.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Jinwoo says, his head bobbing from the edge of the bed, grinning at Seunghoon, encouraging him to get rid of any trace of Minho’s unfashionable sense. “As much as I appreciate the gesture, I would never, ever, wear it. So better make it disappear before Minho asks me to try them on, again.” Seunghoon looks at him with an inquiring expression veiling his face.

“Did you modelled for Minho? Did he force you?” he asks, his voice rising in disgust and disbelieve, driving into madness for an instant. He takes a glance over another piece of fabric and grimaces at it, tossing it aside. Jinwoo wants to dissolve into nothingness, his whole skin burning with roses.

“I might have,” he admits sadly, abashed, recalling the texture of the fabric falling on him, the way Minho had been observing, with so much adoration laced into his face – he couldn’t refute, he owed him this much, he would do it all again: for Minho he would do so much, he owes him his life after all (and whatever he asks from him, he will deliver if reasonable, if possible). “It was mortifying but I was thinking about all the cash I could get from them at the Gmarket,” he laughs it off, allowing Seunghoon to join.

“I like the way you think,” he grins, definitively erasing any trace of the bags, kicking them to the pitch they have come out first. “They are better buried in here. May them rest in peace and never see the light of the day,” he says, appalled, crossing himself. Jinwoo follows suit, giggling and rolling on the bed, laughing so hard it hurts.

“What’s going on?” Seungyoon lurks from the bathroom, all bare and exposed pale skin, looking at them in puzzlement.

“Nothing!” they both reply at the same time and it brings another round of simultaneity laughter.

“It is nice to see you two getting along,” he mumbles, sounding dejected, abandoned, and a needle of guilty pierces Jinwoo’s heart – but he knows Seungyoon, he would like to try the clothes on and it will be the beginning of a never-ending story: there is no way to stop a stubborn, nagging Seungyoon when he is into something and he is very much interested in fashion, much to Seunghoon’s dismal - he has seen them fighting because Seungyoon has been spending too much money in fashion lately, paying the rent falling upon Seunghoon mainly. 

“Babe, we have always get along perfectly well, don’t be so surprised,” Seunghoon gets up from the floor and brushes off bits of dust. He grabs Seungyoon from his hips and pulls him into his chest, kissing him hard, nipping away from the pout from his mouth.

“Get a room!” Jinwoo bemoans, indignant – one is never used to his best friends making out in front of his eyes.

“We are already in a room,” Seunghoon smirks all devilish, looking so pleased with himself, his hands exploring all the fresh skin of Seungyoon’s back, trailing dangerously down, fondling and paddling Seungyoon’s bones.

“How appealing,” the cushion that Jinwoo throws at them misses its objective by a mile, at least, and only makes Seungyoon chuckle harder, cuddling into Seunghoon’s embrace, as close that is hard to tell them apart – legs entangled, hands disappearing behind fabrics, mouths ravishing each other. “You are disgusting,” he states, getting up, fed up with their randy behaviour - they are tongue to tongue, kissing with frenzy, leaking passion and desire, the room steamy and suffocating, hot with heat and rustling bodies. 

Jinwoo is about to hurl another cushion toward his friends when the door opens viciously, a shocking high-pitched screech breaking the of the moment.

It all goes black for a second before the room is colliding with a bunch of hysterical laughter. Minho flickers, furiously trying to delete the traces of what he has perceived. Jinwoo stares at his friends, torn between Seunghoon still holding Seungyoon in a bare embrace, his hands laced around his waist and his tongue on his throat, and Minho, who is tinted in an extravagant shade of rose, about to choke on his own spite. And Seungyoon’s chortles chimes like bells, reverberating inside of Seunghoon’s chest that stutters and shakes.

Jinwoo acts as fast as he can due to his condition: he grasps Minho’s hand and drags him outside, leaving the scene in a blur of pale skin and Seunghoon’s voice coming out like a nightmare.

“He is traumatized now, you can say goodbye to dinner,” it sentences falls, drooling between the crack of the door. 

“No, you are still welcomed to stay. Just get dress and keep your hands to yourself, if possible, in my presence,” Minho carries on, his voice humorous, his fingers still laced with Jinwoo’s – his soft, white hand contrasting with the tan of his own. “Unless Jinwoo is already sick of you. Then I’ll call the police to kick you out of here,” he jests, knowing well that Jinwoo wants them here – that his friends are the best remedy to the gloom that hangs in him, to change his mind towards everything.

“Did you heard?” Jinwoo yells cutesy, banging slowly over the wooden gate, “don’t cross me,” he finishes, turning towards Minho, who is waiting for him, waiting for this moment alone, them both. “Let’s go sort thing out,” Jinwoo suggests and, reaching for his hand again, he is pushed to the kitchen, where Minho has done nothing but a call, his phone forgotten on the table. He picks it up, shoves it into a pocket, stares at Jinwoo who, after a few minutes with his friends looks well-rested and fresh – and Minho wonders if companionship can be this therapeutic, this healing (this is something alien to him, new and rewarding, fascinating to observe, to see unfold in front of him, kindly becoming a participant to their shared jokes and antics).

He sloshes on the chair, suddenly a bunch of nerves, a wreck: there is something he wants to discuss with Jinwoo, something that Seunghoon has suggested and that has nestled inside his heart, taking form and wings inside of his head. It might be precipitated, he might refuse, but he has to ask, has to offer him this chance, this opportunity to break free from his recent past, from his burdens that are so much slowing his recovery – and, overall, even if that means losing him, he wants Jinwoo to be happy, to be free. He can’t get entangled with preambles so he lets it go as it comes, words spluttering from his lips, unfiltered, sincere.

“Work for me,” it is simple and Jinwoo blinks at him, curiously peeking the best out of him. He raises his brows but waits for him to continue, to add the rest of what is lingering in him, “work for me, at the company. I know you have been wrongfully terminated at your three old jobs,” he says and Jinwoo is amazed that he recalls this, that he has been paying attention to him since the beginning. “You can work from home until you feel recovered. Heck, you can work from home always, if you want. You can have an in-home office, or you can have whatever you want at the headquarters,” he continues, making it more difficult to reject – and Jinwoo wonders why he is thinking about rejecting a perfectly well-offered job: after all this is exactly what he needs, he will be looking out for one anyway - he has been fired from his previous three working places.

“What is this job about?” he inquiries, sitting in front of him, his hands tapping his knees agitatedly. “What is the position?”

“The position?” Minho muses, “whatever you can offer, the company is mine,” he resumes, smirking. “But, really, you could be a great asset for us,” he adds, convincingly, trying to lure him to the cause. “We can discuss the money and other considerations later, if you accept the position,” he says.

“The position that will be crafted to fit me, I assume,” he heaves, rubbing his temples. Why is he making it all so difficult for himself? Here he is, Minho, as loving and kind as always, proposing him a way out, an opportunity that befits his needs perfectly, that follows exactly Seunghoon’s directions and explanations. And he is pondering, ruminating when there is nothing to be reckoned – he just has to say yes to Minho and let the rest come along.

He allows his emotions to settle under the silver beams of the moon, the stars little dots fogged by clouds of storms that might fall on them tonight. Minho sighs and looks at Jinwoo with pleading burning inside of his eyes, begging him to take it, to take him, even if only as an employer, to accept his offer because that’s all he has stored for him, all he can come up with – without offending Jinwoo, without belittling his own sentiments.

“I would beat myself to death if I didn’t take it,” he finally says, huffing, the air coming out raggedly, stuttering a bit. “Even if I have to clean the toilets,” he joshes, colour bright on his pupils, his cheeks, again, plump, peachy, dimples forming, catching the light that creates the illusion of a halo atop of his hair like raven’s wings. And the weigh of his soul feels lighter now, he can breathe again without cords gagging him, impeding the air to reach his core: maybe this time he is going to see the light - maybe this is the path Seunghoon has signalled, pointed at (not walking alone but no totally relaying in someone else but his own efforts and hard work). 

"If you feel like unclogging toilets is your call, I'll arrange it for you," Minho joins in, wittily, and Jinwoo can hide the throb of the joy of his heart - he smiles from ear to ear, gives props to the idea of Minho, applauds his offer because this is the way he needs to follow, the halfway point that will encourage him to strive and continue. "I'll talk with the managers and get it ready for you to incorporate when Dr Park decides you are in good enough condition," he remarks and Jinwoo nods agreeably - there is no reason to fight, not when he has already accepted it wholeheartedly, even if he feels that he will owe Minho big time (he has been favouring him an awful lot of instances for the past few days and Jinwoo hasn't been able to replicate). "For now, rest and get well and don't worry. I'll pay your debt and you can pay me back in the manner that you prefer, that will be comfortable for you, with no rush or pressure," he assures, his smile as pure as the moon that is looming over them, its lights creeping from between the shadows of the dark veil of crows swayed by the wind, quicksilver and green. Jinwoo finds the gesture sympathetic, kindhearted and generous, he reaches out to hold his hands - and Minho blinks, dazed, surprised by the speed of it but allows him to lace his fingers over his wrists.

"Thank you," Jinwoo mumbles, holding back tears that draw capricious vestiges of diamonds. "Thank you, thank you, thank you so very much, Minho," and he is up and rushing towards Minho, arms spread, reaching for him, kissing him erratically, frantically, lips chasing his hands and his cheeks, limbs thrown around his shoulders, pressing him in, embracing Minho with all his might, so tight that would hurt if Minho wasn't absolutely lost into it, melting into the feeling of Jinwoo, sensing him all around - his perfume, the flavour of his hair tickling his tongue, the contact of his fingers over his flesh like ashes igniting, little flames burning his heart that trembles and records the moment, engraving it and pinning it on his mind forever. 

It lasts a minute that feels like an eternity to Minho - that feels like a mere second when Jinwoo draws back, smiling big, not regarding that he has been peeking him, his lips tasting salt and bergamot and the iridescence gleam of Minho's skin. He shakes his head but Jinwoo's essence is still clutching him - a phantom of a hug that will follow him endlessly, until his hindmost breath. 

"We can sign a contract if it will gratify your conscience," he tells, a hand falling atop of a bunch of fingers tapping over the table. "Seunghoon can be a witness," he proposes and then a torrent of giggles escapes from his lips, unstoppable, "do you think they are banging on your bed?" he manages to say between panting guffaws. 

"I'll burn the bedsheets," he promises, grimacing, accompanying Minho's cackles, forging their own symphony that comes in giggles from their simultaneous hearts.