14

“You look like something good has happened,” Seunghoon smiles down at him. They have definitively not been banging – at least not in his bed, - but his hair is all ruffled and the sheets crumbled, the pillow smelling like shampoo and Seungyoon’s marshmallow lips smudged all over the covers. Seungyoon has hustled to the kitchen at hearing Jinwoo announcement about food and diversion but Seunghoon has stayed, blocking the door, long legs and soft stares, leaning over the wall, observing Jinwoo, watching him beam, the burden over his shoulders shifting, changing.

“Minho has offered a job. But I assume it was all your doing,” he says, flustering, relishing into what his friend has done – what he has worked on to get to Jinwoo, how, even though he has stated more than once that he needn’t any help, Seunghoon has endured, did it his own way (how he has managed to give Jinwoo the exact opportunity he was looking for, how he has lured Minho into offering him that, killing two birds with one stone). “Thanks,” he mumbles, his head colliding against Seunghoon’s chest, counting the soft, reassuring thumbs of his kind heart. For a second, caught in Jinwoo’s embrace, he looks surprised, taken aback – as if he wasn’t sure of how to react, but it was a matter of time for Jinwoo to realize if Minho didn’t tell him first. He pets his head, gently, his hands tenderly unrolling flocks of raven winds.

“That’s what you deserve. Minho would have come up with this eventually, it’s nothing to be credited for,” he replies, shyly, feeling Jinwoo’s breathe on the hollow of his neck, his lashes slowly brushing his flesh. “And you would have done the same,” he adds, genuinely – Jinwoo only hugs him more tightly, feeling his spine, rubbing his thumb along the bony line, tickling the centre of all his suffering (massaging it in the exact right way to release the pain), and he remembers how Jinwoo put in long hours when he was injured, after the accident, how he stayed in the hospital, endured all of his sour moods, when he didn’t want to even cease living, he was there to put sense back into his skull. He owes Jinwoo his whole life and this has been nothing – but he lets his hands fall to the small of Jinwoo’s back, pulls him into him, his lips colliding, digging under black curls that smell like autumn and pumpkins.

“Perhaps but, still, thanks,” he says, carefully tiptoeing, his hands resting on his shoulders just so that he can impel and kiss the top of his forehead – Jinwoo will always be centimetres below him.

“So, did you accept it?” he asks, interested, a brow arched, inquiringly.

“I would be a fool to reject such an opportunity,” he confesses, the same words he has uttered to Minho before, his cheeks burning low, Seunghoon sensing it soaks through his shirt, warm, welcomed, a little giggle muffled, echoing across his bones.

“Well, these are good, good news,” Seunghoon laughs with him, rubbing off on Jinwoo’s joy, squishing him hard until he has him squealing, kicking the ground with bare feet and reverberating guffaws, four metres above heaven, delighted that Jinwoo, finally, has accepted that he can’t do it all alone – that they are here for him, that he can lean on them, on Minho, for comfort, for assurance, for love.

“What are we celebrating?” innocently asks Seungyoon, eyeing the number of old, costly looking bottles of soju scattered over the table that Minho has brought from his cellar, the streaming, delicious food waiting, the smile plastered in everybody’s features – even him, smiling good-natured.

“That I’m going to be hired to do something by Minho,” Jinwoo beams, his hand finding Minho’s, his fingers casually lacing around, pulling him near, seating by his side, sparkles exploding inside of his deep forest eyes. He is so assured next to him, calm, tranquil. Minho makes things easier, makes breathing come in effortlessly and he doesn’t feel the pressure, the urge to get better – to depart his side, not now that he has come up to help clean the mess that he is, the mayhem Minhyuk left behind. He has stayed next to him through thin and tick and he is not going to desert him, not when he is feeling better – not when he wants Minho to see him better, recovered. He has been thinking while waiting for the delivery to come, has been pondering, mulling his heart and Seunghoon is correct: Minho is a great person and he is just obstinate, mulish to get things done his own way – because that’s the only way he knows to function because relaying in others is not his fashion (he likes to be the one to be reliable, the one his friends trust about their problems: he is the type to be quite and bottle up, keeping it up to himself). But life has proven him wrong and has thrown him a hardball he hasn’t been able to dodge, to evade. And this match won’t be won alone – he needs reinforces, he needs Seunghoon and Seungyoon to keep his mind from wandering, needs Minho to keep him stable.

“Really?” Seungyoon looks at him elated, smiling his bright smile, the one that worth a million watts, the one that spreads like wildfire, from his lips to Jinwoo’s, twining his expression of jubilee, his hands up, wiggling and waggling, all over him, all over Minho, the origin of this happy instant that beats across the room.

“Yes, Minho has been so kind and thoughtful,” Jinwoo agrees, joining Seungyoon fussing over Minho, who looks partially delighted for the compliments and attention given and half mortified, dying inside, Jinwoo so close, his lips touching his burning cheeks, all thanks and never-ending gratitude – but he wants Jinwoo to do more, to break the last fence separating him from his heart, that he would give him more of this, more light touches and phantom of kisses that he will crave under his flesh (he craves for more, longs to have Jinwoo all to himself, though he is sure that it won’t happen, that Jinwoo is his forbidden sin, too far ahead to touch, to reach, to broken to be pulled back together (to shattered and beaten up to trust in love, to fall for Minho, even if he tries, even if he confesses, Jinwoo won’t budge, he can’t, not yet, not ever)). “I’ll move in with him,” he adds, “collect the car and settle definitively here. I’ll pay him a small rent at first, “he explains, recalling the discussion he has had with Minho before – how Minho has rebuffed any attempt to be repaid, how he had to nudge him, to impel his reasons to win him over, how he has agreed on the condition that he would cook for him (that has been the only concession given, the only requirement made and Jinwoo has laughed, agreeing on it immediately because such a cheap housing won’t be encountered on the market, and he had to admit that this place has grown into him, all the never-ending halls stuffed with art, the closed rooms hosting melancholic emptiness, the movie-like screen where they have spend hours watching old, teetered films, where Minho had once fallen sleep on him). “Bring my stuff here and keep Minho company.”

Minho gazes over Jinwoo, who is sitting on the chair at his left, the one closer to the stoves – where something has been cooking, something that smells delicious and that is disseminating its aroma straight to his stomach, which growls in anticipation. He has kept his fingers twined, has patted the back of his hand gently, has been beaming at him, not a sign of exhaustion, of mental struggling, ad if morning has never happened: as if he hasn’t endured a crisis earlier on – as if his head is calm now that the possibility of losing control has been cleared out. And this Jinwoo feels so different but his flavour remains – the texture of his voice, the gleam of his eyes, twinkling under the white, halogen light, the way he makes room to fit him in his life, how much he peppers him with subtle care that only Seunghoon notices (that he has pointed out to him before, having tea at the patio, Seungyoon’s feet underwater, Jinwoo giggling, sparkling under the sun).

It takes a minute for Seungyoon to gobble down his plate and half of Jinwoo’s – who has been filling it up with meat and scorched rice and potato pancakes that Seunghoon has mastered for them to enjoy. And then Jinwoo is raising his glass, rimmed with champagne, smiling like an angel, glancing at him all proud, all satisfied and Seunghoon smirks, following suits and then they are toasting to Minho, to his generosity, for his act of complacence towards Jinwoo and he wants to cry because this, having them here, with him, is a beautiful feeling, it’s all so brand new, he sips his flute and allows the bubbles to swirl down his throat, gulping it all.

It’s not just Jinwoo who has entered his life, is Seunghoon, who looks at him with a blast of wits and funny remarks, it’s Seungyoon, who is clinging already to his arm, his chin on his forearm, smashed already, airy-head, shoved over the table, his face about to hit a plate of kimchi jjigae – the one Jinwoo has been cooking, the reason he has been up and down the entire evening out, - smiling drowsy, babbling words without meaning. He has kept on toasting for Minho until he alone drowned a luxury bottle of Jukryeokgo’s soju, until he got himself stunned and drunk, leaving Jinwoo wondering the taste of it, amazed at the state of his friend, curled over himself, a ball of limps and pouts and droopy eyelids.

“For Song Minho,” he slurs, his voice drowsy, wed and mushy, his mouth clothed against his sleeve, speaking through the fabric.

“I’ll better put that one to bed,” Jinwoo has sighs, getting up, “is there any room for him to sleep it off?” he has turned to Minho apologetically, but Minho has found it amusing, he is getting overly found of this boy that feels more like family. He has been brushing the mass of ringlets, patting his head tenderly – has put a jacket on him to keep the cold of the night to creep behind his joints.

“I can drive him home, there is no need for us to stay” Seunghoon refutes, politely, unsure, not wanting to abuse Minho’s hospitality, not wanting his boyfriend to become a nuisance, an added problem to Minho’s – he has been more than attentive and amiable but there is a limit to everything and Seungyoon might have crossed the line, as cute as he is, he can easily get on the nerve of someone who doesn’t know him well.

“No need to trouble yourself,” Minho affirms, sternly – there is no way he is letting them go, not when they paint Jinwoo with such wonderful new colours and shades, not when their presence makes him so happy (not when he might need Seunghoon’s support). “I have plenty of space, you can crash him at the first room you’ll see, there shall be blankets on the cabinet” he instructs, watching Jinwoo struggles to carry Seungyoon, leading him as if he were already part of it and his chest squeeze watching him marching, stomping his feet to ground Seungyoon limp body. He is dead weight on his back and he has to drag him out of the kitchen, followed by the distinct nags and pouts from Seungyoon, who isn’t pleased to be harrowed around.

“Hyung, I can walk,” he complains, stuttering, staggering over his own feet. Jinwoo holds his hand and pushes him, leading him outside, leaving the room with another round of low heaves.

“By the sight of it,” Jinwoo says, balancing Seungyoon, whose legs are wobbling, a wiggling smile all over his scrawny features, “no, you cannot,” he let’s go a breathe, strict, hurrying to hold Seungyoon, to keep him firmly between his hands, his fingers circling his bonny hips, keeping him leaning over him.

The pair are out of view but Minho can still hear the hassle, Seungyoon flapping and scuffling blending with Jinwoo’s kind sighs and he can’t help but laugh at it, looking at Seunghoon, who is shaking his head in disapproval.

“I’m sorry on his behalf,” he states, a door closing at the far end, the blow of wood against the framework. “Seungyoon can be a little pain in the ,” he adds, shifting to glance at the long corridor from where Jinwoo and Seungyoon have vanished, “but, usually, is a good kid,” he finishes, turning towards Minho again, holding his stare. Minho dismisses it waving his hand, smiling back at him, assuringly.

“It’s fun, you know, this house has never been this crowded or loud before,” and it’s true, he hasn’t had this many interactions in his lifetime, has never experienced dinner with friends until Jinwoo – has never imagined it could be this good, this thrilling, and he feels so grateful for their presence, for having decided to stay, it feels like his birthday (and better than that because these people are here out of their own volition, not forced or bribed by his parents, they are here because they want to, because they like Minho enough, because they don’t find him smug and vain and full of himself, as he has heard the rumours saying all his life). He has always been surrounded by pricks who only wanted to benefit from his money, he has never had real friends because they all fleeted him once they were done with him, but Jinwoo has come clean to him, has never used his position to ask for anything – on the contrary, has tried to reject every present he gave, has always been pristine even if, internally, he thinks otherwise, Minho knows better.

“You are a good person, Song Minho,” he finds Seunghoon saying, while petting his hand gently, just to gain his focus “you know you can count on us for whatever you need. You have saved Jinwoo and, therefore, we collectively owe you,” he says in all graveness and Minho senses his gratefulness bathing him – just like Jinwoo’s, - making him feel undeserving, shy and trembling – an emotional mess, too much to process. “Not everybody would have taken in a complete stranger and, yet, here we are, the aforementioned stranger putting my boyfriend to bed in your house,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“None of you feels like a stranger to me, it’s like I already know you,” he comments and it’s something he has been giving some thought about – the fact that he has so many emotions laced around Jinwoo, that he has fallen so quick and hard, that maybe they are made to be, destined, the universe pushing them together. And then, Seunghoon and Seungyoon, the lovely bickering, nagging pair of friends that he feels so affiliated with, so close that, in no time, he might be calling them family (maybe they already are, so much has he bounded with them three after just one week that feels like years but has passed by in a blink).

“Well, that settles it then,” Seunghoon says, with finality, “you don’t feel alien anymore, not even when you first entered my flat to caretaker over Jinwoo,” he jokes, recalling the moment, fiercely vivid in his mind. Really, Minho just felt perfectly in place, as if his spot was by Jinwoo’s side – he came into Jinwoo like rain, gushing into him all that he lacked (all that Seunghoon couldn’t offer Jinwoo, Minho gave it to him without hesitation, without concerns, without regards or rewards). It was all oddly natural – the way they swirl around, falling into pace, matching heartbeats and breathing the same air and Seunghoon harbours no doubts that Jinwoo will come around, that he, too, will heal and start from scratch with Minho (that he will replace the hollow cavity that is not pumping between his ribs, below his collarbones, that he will fill up his life with laughter and joy).

It’s been half an hour and Jinwoo hasn’t come back, silence has engulfed the room, the only sound is the munching and the clicking of glasses rose and gulping down. Seunghoon has gotten dry-mouthed, his words scarce, and Minho is getting worried due to Jinwoo’s absence – though Seunghoon doesn’t seem to ponder what might happen to the two departed ones and Minho intents to mimic his calmness, the cool expression he adopts, eating slowly, carefree, enjoying the meal as if his last.

Minho really likes Seunghoon – caring and diligent, made of stars and witty remarks; he is the type who takes the lead and people follows around, always right, always full of love and passion. And Seungyoon, the eternal baby boy of the group, the one everybody dots on, spoils to his pouts, who nags but who also sits and listens, who makes Jinwoo smile tenderly, who gets the best out of him. And Jinwoo, for whom he has plummeted down to the ground, head to toe, to whom he yields and yens, hankering as if he was the air, water to his thirsty heart. Jinwoo, who is sweet and dear, who tries not to bother, to not become a nuisance, but here to lean a hand, to make Minho crave for more, longing for lost touches and good-night kisses that are only dreams of his soul. Jinwoo, who holds stars and starts fires beneath his flesh; who smiles so easily, making everything feels OK. Jinwoo, the final he won’t get but all he wants, all he ever love written under his name.

And he thinks that he will be all right if only Jinwoo stays in his life – if he doesn’t run away, leaving him in shatters, out in winter, snowy day. He believes he can endure life, anything it might throw his direction if Jinwoo remains close by, as his lucky charm, as the one who clasps his core, who has nourishing it with timid love that he has seen blooming – in a way that is more than friendship but less than what he hopes for but that it’s enough if that’s all Jinwoo can allow (he can wait for him to get over his struggles, for his inner fight to be won, for him to be ready to reveal his true feelings).

“Maybe,” Minho begins, his words coarse, “we should save some for Jinwoo,” he says, glancing at the remnant of food still on the table, the leftovers that they won’t finish and that Jinwoo has skipped just to put Seungyoon to bed. He should have been here with them already, the moon is up, spurting the kitchen in shades of silver, clouds veiling stars that flash over the window, the wind swaying the grass, dew watering it, condensing the edges of the night, chilling the atmosphere outside.

“We should go fetch him,” Seunghoon gets up, the chair pushed out, scratching the floor below. “Perhaps he is been retained by Seungyoon,” he offers as an explanation and Minho tries to picture it in his head, ends up raising his brows in acceptance.

Indeed, Jinwoo has been trapped by Seungyoon’s sprawled limbs, arms and legs thrown over a sleeping Jinwoo, his hands on his hips, pulling him closer, his chin resting on the juncture of his neck, his babble caught amid his hair, their breaths coming in together, exhaling at the same pace.

“As I imagined,” Seunghoon shakes his head, peeking through the door, leaking the picture of the two men huddling together, a blanket precariously covering them – a shirt tossed, a pair of jeans hanging at the edge of the mattress, Seungyoon’s pale skin, bare under the moonbeam, coloured in cream, splashed with soft freckles and the flavour of his shampoo swirling, like cinnamon-buns and baby lotion.

“What do you want to do?” Minho leans against the wall, watches the scene with a pinch of jealousy that prickles his heart, wonders how it will feel to be the one resting next to Jinwoo – to have him so innocent, so open and vulnerable, to be able to grace his hair, to linger his lips over his forehead, the temperature of his skin under the palm of his hand, touching the blood palpitating below, rushing up and down. “Want to sleep with me?” he asks, not sure of what else to offer – or if it would be better to wake them up, arrange the rooms in accordance.

Seunghoon’s eyes open up in shock and amusement.

“I’ve said I liked you, but not this much, thanks. I’ll take the couch, after all, I’m used to it already,” he jokes.