2

“Have dinner with me,” he says in a way that admits no protest. “Company will do good for my lonely mood,” he adds, smiling, “unless you have another compromise or something!” he exclaims, suddenly aware that Jinwoo is a complete stranger – a very pretty one he wants to call friend soon, someone who looks so lost and out of his mind, Minho has felt the urgency to take care of him, even if he is nothing more than a stranger (Jinwoo looks completely ragged and broken down and Minho knows he will be worried about him from now on until he gets better, that he has to do something because he has the mediums and the willpower to do something good for Jinwoo or anybody in distress like a knight in shinning armour, he won’t let him slide, he will make sure that he arrives at his place, whatever it takes, at least he will feed him and bring him back to his own house: that’s the minimum he can do for a boy who has just collapsed in his arms, a boy who is as pretty as the stars).

Jinwoo just needs to call his boss and make Minho fall in love – fool him to the point that he will be willing to pay off his debts, to be kept (and never a happen-stance has been so good to him). He doesn’t need to do anything else: Minho offers him the comfort of his place and he seems very willing to be enamoured, it won’t suppose an effort – his ways are a bit rusty, but he still remembers how to be lovely.

Minho doesn’t want to let him go, too afraid of his weary appearance, too scared of leaving him alone – he wouldn’t stop worrying about him, picturing him fainting on the ground. It has been such a coincidence to find him, to be able to help, Minho can’t stop smiling looking at him. Beneath his cheap, unfit semblance, he is beautiful, with gleaming eyes that hold constellations, long lashes brushing fair skin, a mop of coal hair framing his slender face, cheekbones he wants to trace with his fingers, dancing over his flesh, drawing the veins beneath. And he seems so innocent and pure, so tired to even try robbing him. He needs a good week of sleep and food – and good clothing, - and Minho is more than disposed to provide it to him – even if it turns out to be a disaster, he is only intending to do a good deed (and he is rich enough to afford to lose a few thousand wons).

“I’ll drive straight home,” he says, glancing over Jinwoo who hasn’t yet agreed with him – but he doesn’t seem to need to be persuaded to be taken care of: he looks exhausted and frail, unable to refuse a hand.

“It’s OK, don’t worry, really,” he complains, not wanting to be a burden – playing it nice, hard to get. “I’m good, just...” but Minho cuts him off.

“Look, I’ll feel terrible knowing I didn’t do anything for you. You are not in a state to be alone,” he points out and he is right, he has to admit, his head palpitates and he is suffering a severe headache, his fingers are itching to call his boss, asking for a day-off. “A bath, some food, and a day in bed will do wonders for you,” he adds, “and, I promise, I’m not a weird ert or anything, I just want to help,” he assures him and Jinwoo wants to laugh, but he is too exhausted to even lift the corners of his lips in a tentative smile. He can only assent, his eyes on the road, memorizing the way Minho is going – just in case he needs the information later on. “Since you don’t want to go to the hospital, I’ll try my best”.

Minho seems to be so open, so kind as if asking to be swindled, bringing home a total stranger, a stranger who happens to be looking for a solution to his urgent debts. If he has to chose, Minho would be the perfect target for his uncanny plan – flexing cash, flexing love, he is perfect for what he will put into action (and, so far, he hasn’t had to do anything, Minho is flowing, aligned with Jinwoo’s needs, his interest).

“I trust you,” Jinwoo mumbles, giving to his words all the seriousness required – Minho has to trust him and the mere thought of what he is about to do makes him feel sick.

Minho smile is so bright, Jinwoo has to blink or go blind – and Jinwoo wonders was he like this when he met Minhyuk, this trusting, this sincere, this ready to be used, cheated, abandoned?

They leave the main road to take a gravel path that leads to a little villa surrounded by forests. The sky is navy and scarlet, the stars splashing the dim darkness, a few lamps shedding light, illuminating the main entrance. The building is impressive, it maintains the classical structure, with a front porch, the tile rooftop, invisible in the increasing night, grey and black. There are other cars parked – cars that cost more than all of Jinwoo’s savings. Minho opens the door and rushes to help him out, curling his fingers, gently, around his hand, leads him to the house while chit-chatting about the construction – how long it took, the architectural value, the reforms he applied. Jinwoo listens, puzzled, dazed with the enormity of it all – taking in everything, breathing in slowly, carefully not to fain due to the impression, not wanting to make a fool in front of Minho, who he needs to impress, to hoodwink, inveigle.

Minho shows him the interior, which is as extravagant as his own clothes, mingling different styles that don’t really combine: the room is filled with rugs of vibrant colours and carpets with mismatched patterns, furniture that is more to show up than useful. He invites him to take a seat before offering him a cup of tea that Jinwoo feels compelled to accept and that warms his feelings, steadies his senses.

Minho was only walking by, he hadn’t had a thought about bringing a boy home, it just happened, an accident occurred and he felt compiled to help, morally obligated to do something just like the rest of the pedestrians when Jinwoo collapsed on the ground, his lithe body hitting against concrete. He held him carefully, lied his head on his crumpled shirt. Of course, he would have helped anyone in distress; it just occurred to be a handsome boy requiring assistance, a thin, pale, fragile boy, with exhaustion painted all over his face. He did what he must, he provided him with some solace, forcing his perfume on his nostrils to shake his senses, make him come to life. And then, when he regained his cognizance, he dodged all of his inquiries, rejected going to the hospital – which seemed capital to Minho, seeing how weak and frail he was, trembling with the wind, ready to be blown up, - and, later, it made him grow worried, pondering this young man’s situation: his will to help increased rapidly, thinking of ways to keep him safe, out of the radar, because with his urgency and panicked expression Minho was sure he was running from an abusive relationship, escaping from someone meaning to hurt him – he has seen the signals, the pinned shock on his eyes, the fear transpiring from his quivering hands, the urgency to be left alone despite the stammering of his eyes, his pupils huge, dilated under the wavering sunlight.

So he made his decision: bring him home, keep him safe and sound as any good citizen would have done – and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to rest otherwise; the fact that the boy was pretty and lovely was just a plus: he would have given a hand to anyone in need, no question asked. And that’s how he ended with Jinwoo sitting in one of his couches, legs crossed formally, looking bewildered, eyes big, absorbing the surroundings, reading into him, blinking slowly at any word that Minho was saying as if falling asleep and he has seen the pained gulps he made while sipping his drink, as if tea was hurting him – as if Jinwoo hasn’t had anything to eat in weeks.

Minho has excused himself to make a call and, alone, finally, Jinwoo can only be marbled at his good star, the fate that has brought Minho into his path; he doesn’t deserve this treatment, all these niceties, all this attention. He feels bad for lying – though, so far, he hasn’t said a thing, - but Minho has been nothing but kind, offering him tea and company. He is glad that Minho is not around to hear his stomach-churning, the gag reflex on his throat, the vile coming up with a wave of nausea. He sinks into the comfort of the velvet of the sofa, warm and delicate, his head resting on the recliner and he feels so drowsy, so tired, his head spinning, all the art tumbling in front of his eyes and he rubs his temples, intents to keep focused, awake – but has been up since early in the morning, has eaten nothing but coffee.

He comes back to the sight of Jinwoo sleeping – a view to behold: like a painting, he rest peacefully and Minho wants for nothing but to put him to bed, wait for the doctor he has appointed. He wouldn’t have worried so much if Jinwoo had accepted to go to the hospital: he would have paid the fee, call his family, leave him to heal, but he had refused, had said that he was OK – yet his condition was one to be concerned. And now he is sure he has done the right thing: Jinwoo needs help and Minho has the means and the volition to do it, he doesn’t care about futilities, Jinwoo is obviously sick and needs to be pitied, taken care of. Carrying him to bed is an easy task: he is a lightweight, his veins throbbing, blood floating in a slow tempo under his fingers touching his pulse, the dark rivulets on his neck. He tugs him into bed, a wool blanket on top of the covers and sits on the chair next to the bedside-table and waits for Sungjin, his particular doctor – the one he has hired to take care of his employees and himself, - holding his hand, feeling the bones of his small wrist.

“What has happened to you?” he murmurs, watching over him, brushing the silky hair out of his forehead.

Sungjin arrives in no time and gets to work without a word, examining Jinwoo. He removes his shirt to listen to his heart-beats, his breathing – and Minho feels a pang of jealousy at Sungjin’s liberties over Jinwoo, touching him, grazing his skin. He observes his pupils, lifting gently his lids, lashes fluttering, creating shadows on his cheeks. Sungjin nods, sighs, shakes his head.

“His blood pressure is very low,” he comments, putting aside the tensiometer, “and he looks skinny, his bones are protruding, his belly is distended, hollowed,” he, again, shakes his head, hair scattering over his round, serious face. “Pale, weak, yes… Did you say he fainted?” and Minho nods, hurriedly explaining the incident. Sungjin takes mental notes that add to his diagnoses. “Malnutrition, a severe case of anaemic, and possibly chronic fatigue. He needs absolute rest, iron injections every day,” he advises, “and to eat healthily. Looks like he hasn’t had anything decent in weeks,” he exposes. “Let him sleep and tomorrow I’ll check on him again when he will be lucid and able to explain his situation, how he got this dire, but I’ll do that at the hospital, he is in no condition to be in this environment,” he comments serious and writes down the prescription for Minho.

Once Sungjin is gone, Minho takes a seat near Jinwoo, curls his legs and stares at him, observing the slow cadence of his breath, counting the amount of air coming out from his lungs, expiring. Like this, he falls asleep. Like this is how Jinwoo finds him later on, the first of morning breaking through the curtains, roughly shading him in orange and golden.

Jinwoo has to go, needs to be at work, needs to depart from the cosiness of this soft bed, wake up from the revelry he has been indulged, imbued in, walk into the real world where he is required to do his job – and he can’t allow more dizziness, to faint again, despite that his head is still throbbing and his limps are dozy, heavy, anchors keeping him between cashmere blankets and silk sheets. He is weary, burnt out, all his bones melted, buttering against him, impeding his movements but he drags his legs out of bed, steady his feet on the porcelain tildes, slurs on the floor – he must do it, he needs to get out, forget Minho, forget his stupid idea of swindling him – he doesn’t deserve it.

He reaches Minho’s position when his mind spins and his legs give up, knees bent, hands trying to find some support. He grabs on the armchair, presses it with all of his might, groping at Minho’s arm. Minho stares, confused first, at Jinwoo’s failed attempt – he is on his knees, sitting on the cold floor. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and pulls Jinwoo up, using his arm as his support.

“Hey,” he says, his voice muffled with tiredness, a bit of a smile dancing inside his eyes, “the doctor said repose, not getting up from bed,” he comments, while aiding him back to the mattress, where he is forced to sit and, then, lay down.

Jinwoo blinks slowly, processing his words. He is more amazed than angry at what Minho has done – and he should be more pissed because he has no right but, instead, he feels a wave of thankfulness.

“But I have to go to work,” he complains, in a vain attempt to get up. Kind hands, though, press on his blades, pushing him back to the soft, plumpness pillows that engulf his head in a sea of feathers and satisfying solicitude – the room, tainted with the veil of a low sunrise coming to greet the day, is stained in hues of light blues and pale reds, caressing with golden dust the furniture, the oriental rug covering half the tildes of the floor, the spacious wardrobe, the candelabra hanging atop of him: everything screams luxury, expensiveness, comfort.

“Well, sadly, you are only allowed to go to the hospital, Sungjin said,” he explains, “you need to rest and regain force,” he continues, sitting next to him, Jinwoo’s feet folded to make room. “I’m not going to pry on your life or whatever that drove you to this state of health, but I would like you to get well and, since you are my guest, it would be my honour to you to the hospital, call your family or friends to collect you there and we don’t have to see each other again,” he says with firm conviction, with finality. Jinwoo can’t negate it – not when, looking back, he has been such a disastrous visitor, not when he can’t even stand on his own, his legs a puddle, trembling as if made of jelly.

Jinwoo is forced to have some breakfast, despite nausea he feels, he tries his best to eat porridge and milk, something soft to not discomfort his upset stomach that has been empty for many hours – the porridge feels like sand on his mouth but he swallows it with a smile, his energy slowly coming back and he holds the urge to throw up.

The drive to the hospital goes by quickly; Jinwoo stares from the window of Minho’s Aston Martin, attempting to enjoy the ride – but he feels drowsy, his head stuffy and all he can see are flashes of bright colours and the endless sunshine that pricks his mind. Minho provides some background sounds, words that Jinwoo tries to grab, the meaning dissipating into the air – and his low voice works as a lullaby, pleasantly sinking into him.

Minho helps him out, carries a wheel-chair for him, pushes it through the doors of the Asan Medical Centre, the best hospital in the whole city of Seoul as Jinwoo recalls, feeling ashamed just to step in – he has not the money to pay the fee, and he looks as if a bus has stepped on him but Minho fits there as if belonging, walking confidently to the front desk, talking with a clerk.

“I have an appointment with Dr Park Sungjin,” he says and, in no time, he is directed to a private room, where a doctor – Park Sungjin, Jinwoo suspects, - is waiting. He introduces himself, shakes his hand politely, asks him to lay on the stretch, is subject to a few questions about his general health and then, he runs some tests on him – takes his arterial pressure, extracts blood, checks his temperature. Jinwoo is too tired to pay much attention, but he catches bits of information, the concerned expression pinning Minho, the doctor mumbling, taking notes.

“Definitively, exhaustion, dehydration and anaemic, due to malnutrition, his red blood cells recount is very low, possibly cause for an inadequate dietary iron intake,” he describes, nodding at the results of the blood test he has run on him earlier. Jinwoo has been here, on the stretcher, for an hour now, enduring Sungjin’s minutely examination. “You must rest, for at least a week, stay in bed, drink plenty of water, get some iron supplements or injections, eat well,” he adds, “and I’ll see you in a few days,” and holds Jinwoo’s hand, help him stand, steadies his steps. Minho smiles at him encouragingly.

“Should I call someone to come, pick you up?” he wonders, expecting to be him who will take care of Jinwoo, again – he is so sweet, so cute when sleeping, Minho wants to see more of him, wants to be there for him, help him to the best of his capabilities, discover more of the person he is, be his friend in times of need.

He ends calling Seunghoon, his only friend, the only person that is aware of his problems – the only one he doesn’t need to lie or to pretend. He arrives quickly, with a surprised expression, a bit dejected, too – for not being aware of the state of Jinwoo’s welfare, so deteriorated since last he saw him. Seunghoon embraces him in a tight hug, rubs his hair affectionately, assures him that he is never, ever, a bother, that he is welcome to his place any time – that they are friends on thick and thin, always. He thanks Minho profusely – more after he has offered to pay, promising to be in touch.

“So, what happened to you?” he queries, closing the door of his shabby, second-handed Hyundai that grumbles while turning the engine on.

“I fainted,” he explains, simple and easy, and Seunghoon has to roll his eyes for emphasis, not buying it at all.

“And Song Minho, the richest guy in town, found you like a lost puppy. Very amusing. Now, tell me the truth,” and Jinwoo sighs resigned to have a chat, a deep one, with his friend. “Because I’ve talked with the doctor and I know that your condition is very precarious. To stay in bed a whole week, at least? It is serious,” he points out and there is no way for Jinwoo to play it down – he expects the whole story, starting since he left his apartment without notice, running away as if scared to face him, his best friend. He wasn’t afraid of Seunghoon, just ashamed of who he did become – he didn’t want Seunghoon to worry (he has enough on his plate already, he doesn’t need Jinwoo to complicate things more). “Jinwoo, where have you been? Sleeping on the car?” he wonders, breaking the silence, forcing Jinwoo to speak.

“And at the sauna,” he adds, cheeks warm, scarlet blooming on them. “And I got another job, and I couldn’t afford to eat properly because the bank threatened me with the active debt and I collapsed on the street because it seems I haven’t rest in a while and he helped me and was very kind to let me pass out on his bed and he even called a doctor,” he rambles, talking as quickly as possible to save him from the ignominy of being confronted by Seunghoon. But he only sighs, pats his thigh with a free hand, rubs it in small circles, the comfort from his palm drowning into his bones.

“You don’t have to carry the whole weight of Minhyuk’s crime on your shoulders, you can ask me for money, or Seungyoon, or your family. We know you weren’t aware of his wrongdoings, you are a victim, the bank must understand, moreover with a police report on your side,” he says, lifting the burden from Jinwoo’s chest. But he can’t accept their money: this is his problem and he will solve it without involving them.

“I’ve tried that but the bank said that, sadly, the debt is on my name and, therefore, I have to pay it back to the last won he loaned,” Jinwoo replies, a tiny smile born of reassurance, the love and care that Seunghoon is offering him.

It’s been months since Jinwoo was at Seunghoon’s place but nothing has changed: his clothes are scattered everywhere, it smells like fresh meat and vegetables, and Seungyoon is sprawled on the bed, making use of the space at his volition. He beams at the sight of Jinwoo, rushes to help him, his red, calloused hands around his hips, Jinwoo’s head resting on his shoulder, Seunghoon kicking off any impediment on their way to the bedroom.

The sheets are crumbled and used and the fragrance of baby-lotion that belongs to Seungyoon sticks on the pillows but Jinwoo feels like home.

“I’m sorry to be a bother,” he apologises to Seunghoon while he is covering him with blankets – old and ragged but warm all the same.

“Don’t be,” he says, grinning, “Seungyoon is a bother,” he adds, cheekily, “he kicks and talks in his sleep, it is very annoying. Not to mention that he doesn’t help with the chores at home and I have to spoon-feed if I ever want him to eat something else than Yakults,” and he burns into laughter that is soon followed by Seungyoon, who sneaks into the room just to ensure that Jinwoo is well cared of.

“He is right, hyung, you are more than welcome to stay with us,” he offers, smiling big at him and Jinwoo feels overwhelmed with the sensation of being loved, forgetting his difficulties for a moment, being able to finally rest with his head emptied of any concerns.

Jinwoo gets a few hours of peaceful sleep, swinging into oblivion and, when he wakes up, the world appears to be brighter, more colourful and vibrant – he is still weak and pale and convalescent but has given in to give up: life has sort of meaning again, even if it’s diffuse, confusing and distant, he thinks he will make it, that he will manage to survive. His previsions die too soon, with the entrance of Seunghoon, his face telling him bad news was coming to disturb his rest.

“Idiot boss number 2 fired you for not showing up yesterday. Idiot boss number 3 can’t allow you a week off, so he, too, is firing you,” he storms into his peace, soaking him with hailstones, despite that he knew it was more than possible to have lost his jobs – they were pretty much illegals, so he was expecting to be made redundant for not going. But he is home now and he will find more jobs once he can stand up on his feet, once this awful week of imposed rest is lifted, he will be free to exhaust himself again, searching for something better paid – he doesn’t need to get preoccupied about it now, he just needs to recover, that’s all. “Idiot boss number 1 said to get well soon and to come over to collect your things from the office whenever you are ready, that he will keep them in a box, not to worry,” he finishes, convincingly disgusted and discouraged. “But that means unpaid holidays! How long has it been since that?” and he smirks because Jinwoo is shaking his head, following his antics – and that’s a win: making him smile.

“Last holidays I took were paid by the company,” he confirms, stupidly giggling with Seunghoon.

“And these? On Song Minho! He has called me and said that he feels outraged by the number of idiots firing you and that, if you want, he will put some sense into them. But I already did it and I only got threatened with being reported,” and smirks again, making Jinwoo chuckle.

“You are unbelievable, Lee Seunghoon,” he beams, delighted, elicits by his friend who is willing to do so much for him.

“Well, that’s the least I can do for you. You would have done the same or more since you are a caring person and I am not,” and his hand on his knee is warm and firm. “You can stay with us as long as you need. The couch is not that lumpy and Seungyoon will take upon him the ingrate task to wake up at ungodly hours to give you the iron supplement pills. He has gone to the pharmacy to get them,” he explains, his eyes dancing, trailing over Jinwoo. His face is soft and pallid, his freckles highlighted under the light afternoon sunset, his pupils are shaky, surrounded by red veins marking his tiredness, the exhaustion that he doesn’t mention but that his body reflects. And he looks so thin, so weak, so bonny… His hips pointy, looming over breaking his flesh and it is worrisome how his legs fail to keep him standing up, his arms limping, lacking force and muscle. “Besides, what have you done to enchant Song Minho so much? He has promised to call every day to see how you are doing. Has even invited himself to come over and see for himself,” he jokes, putting colour to Jinwoo’s cheeks. He hasn’t done anything, even when he has thoughts about it, about seducing him, getting advantage of Minho's money that he so much needs, but hasn’t had the time to put his plan into action – he isn’t sure he has the energy to do so.

“Probably faint in front of him,” he says, shrugging, not giving it much credit – after all Seunghoon tends to exaggerate everything.

“Yes, they said it was a sight to behold,” he humours him, making Jinwoo shake his head in shame. “Really, he is just this nice? To anyone?” he wonders in amazement, puzzled. Jinwoo can’t confirm but has a feeling that he must be – that Minho is the type to help without being asked.

“Truly, I did nothing. I didn’t even know who he was until he introduced himself,” he explains, a bit defensive because Seunghoon is not one to let things slide, to have mercy when he is so curious, invested in something – and his eyes twinkle, shining like new-born stars.

“Well, he seemed very interested in your well-being, he will be in touch and you should expect him any time since he said he would come over and I didn’t state otherwise,” he points out, “he is nice,” he then mentions, letting it drop. “Nice and millionaire and, in due time, enamoured of you,” he continues, his sufficient smirk on place, ready to spread, “just in time to pay off your debs, how convenient,” he sing-songs, annoyingly, his smug expression all over his face and, if Jinwoo were less exhausted, he would have thrown a punch at his pleased expression, erased it with a blow – instead, he rolls his eyes but Seunghoon has hit close to home.

He tells him about his wild idea because he can’t afford to have Seunghoon plotting on his own – if he is going to fraud someone, he needs a backup. And he is sure because Seunghoon has hinted at it, that he will agree, that he will have his support – and explaining himself might save him from being cornered with crazy, wild ideas and plots conceived by him and Seungyoon.

“I actually thought about that but felt terrible after pondering a bit more. It is so unfair and I don’t want to hurt anyone as Minhyuk did to me. Besides, I can’t flirt,” at this point, though, he has Seunghoon deadpan at him, but it is true, he can’t do it, he can’t become Minhyuk – and Minho has been so kind and nice, he doesn’t deserve to be scammed like this, it is unfair.

“Don’t be so morally uptight!” he exclaims, “You need money, he might need you, consider it an exchange: cash for the company? Maybe you can have an agreement,” he suggests but Jinwoo can’t accept it: the mere idea is unpleasing.

“I don’t need a sugar-daddy,” he pouts – but that is exactly what he needs, though Minho doesn’t need to know or Jinwoo would die of embarrassment, mortified.

“So your plan is to lie to him? How are you going to get his money? Robbery?” he wonders, a brow rose up.

“I told you it was just a silly thought born from desperation,” and, with a fake yawn, he pretends to be too tired to continue with the argument and Seunghoon gets the hint, leaves the room in silence, only to be back with a tray of home-made food that makes Jinwoo’s stomach churn in anticipated delight.

This time he eats slowly, bite by bite, letting it settle down first. He feels much better now, still weary and weak, but he is laughing and with good company, having Seungyoon trying to spoon-feed him, Seunghoon nagging at him for not taking more care of himself, for allowing this to happen.

“You didn’t need to leave or to get another job,” he protests, sitting on the bed next to Jinwoo. Seungyoon presses the chopsticks against his lips and he has to open, munch the steak before replying. He could have stayed, that’s true, Seunghoon never kicked him out, but he wasn’t chuffed with his presence, either, and Jinwoo needed to be by himself, get a hold on his shattered, ruined life.

“I didn’t want to bother,” he excuses himself and he can hear Seunghoon’s grumbling, grumpy. “I needed to be alone to realise what to do,” he quickly adds but that doesn’t soften his friend mood.

“If you were all right, I would be kicking you right now,” he gripes, scowling. “I can’t believe you slept on the car, for God’s sake!” he proclaims, getting up and pacing around the room to shush his feelings, all the wrong that Jinwoo is saying. Seunghoon is right, of course, he now realises how stupid and egoistic he was, how upset his friends might have been, wondering about him, picturing the worse happening to him. He should have stayed, not only for his own comfort but for Seunghoon’s sake, too, he has been pestering him for hours and Jinwoo feels the truth prickling right into his core – they would have helped him, they would have provided and sustained him, he shouldn’t rely on someone he doesn’t know like Minho to get back on track – he should have trusted his friends to have stuck by his side, any time, anywhere. Jinwoo wants to cry watching Seunghoon storming out of the room, still rambling, furious, tears about to fall and Seungyoon pets his hand, smoothing the roughness that Seunghoon has left behind.

“He is right,” he mumbles, his eyes cast down, not strong enough to face Seungyoon.

“Yes, he is. He was sick worried about you. We both were,” he says with a sad note at the end of his words and he chooses carefully what to say next, “but he will get over it, you know him and his mood-swings. By tomorrow he will be cheerful again, not a trace of dejection,” he consoles Jinwoo.

“But I should apologise, I must!” Jinwoo exclaims, turbulently, feeling every bit of shame and he ends sending Seunghoon a long text that he replies coolly in a heartbeat – and he can hear his chuckles from behind the walls, how he accepts his penance and remorse.

Once night falls over him, leaving him alone, the name of Minho comes to his mind, the idea suggested by Seunghoon getting form, shaping it into a possibility – he will see once Minho comes over, if he will, he might just say it out of courtesy. He sleeps cuddled by blankets that smell of Seungyoon’s softener, like lilacs and spring and it is so gentle and soothing, he rests without the usual nightmares chasing him.