4

Jinwoo snuggles closer to Seungyoon and, for the first time, wonders how would be to sleep next to Minho if he is expected to do so any time soon – if Minho will ask him for more than he is willing to do. But he has been nothing but endearing and sweet, hasn’t forced him in any way: he has just stayed by his side, keeping him company – and Jinwoo is pleased with that, hasn’t been that disturbing or annoying: Minho has been so proper and nice, Jinwoo relies on him to come tomorrow.

“He is whipped,” Seunghoon sentences, kicking Seungyoon out of bed. “Completely infatuated,” he smirks, leaving a tray with breakfast. The fragrance of coffee spills all over the room and Jinwoo feel spoiled – Seunghoon has gotten him croissants from the bakery.

“Who are you talking about, hyung?” Seungyoon’s voice comes from underneath the blankets, only a bunch of curls escaping, covering the pillow. Seunghoon has no mercy on him, get rid of the bedclothes he has been shielding with, exposes his lithe body to the morning sun. Seungyoon moans, hit by the coldness of bold hands taking hold of him.

“Wake up and I consider telling you,” Seunghoon trades, in a vain attempt to get him out of bed. As usual, it fails – Seungyoon is a nightmare to wake.

“But it is too early!” he pouts, “and Jinwoo is so soft and warm,” and he tangles himself around Jinwoo, hands and legs are thrown around his limbs and chest, his puffy cheeks landing on the crook of his neck, nose rubbing his skin, nuzzling.

“And you have a job to go to, get money to pay the rent and your stupid collection of cameras,” Seunghoon grumbles, “besides, get to the shower with Jinwoo, or you will be terribly late, again,” he finishes, leaving them to have a quick bite of breakfast.

Seungyoon, giving up with a minor tantrum, gets up and, accordingly, gets Jinwoo to the bathroom, showers with him to save time – and to help him. He is feeling much stronger, but he is still frail and pale and he has been convulsing on the bed while sleeping, so Seungyoon holds him and washes his hair, his fingers buried on the softness of his black locks that run away with rivulets of hot water.

“You are so skinny, hyung,” he complains, touching with wet hands the hollows forming at his sides. Jinwoo laughs, ticklish, turns around to face Seungyoon, his fingers curls, pressing his waist.

“You are one to talk,” he says, punching his flat stomach gently – his fist crashes on bones and skin. Seungyoon has always been this way: bonny and skinny, even when he eats for three – even when he eats nothing but Yakults out of stress, his frame remains the same. Instead, Jinwoo has always been a bit softer, rounder, just a slight bit of a belly and now he is worse than Seungyoon, with his hips showing up, his legs barely upholding him, shaky and scrawny. Looking at him, bare and expose, Seungyoon gets a hold of why Seunghoon has been so concerned: Jinwoo looks terrible, pale and tired with blue painting his eyes, red lines covering the natural shade of bronzer of his orbs – even when he tries to hide it with a smile, it still appears on the wriggles that weren’t there a few months ago and that are Minhyuk’s to blame for. “How is work doing?” he asks, changing quickly the subject, brushing his mop of defeated curls, now tangled all over his forehead.

“Work’s good,” he explains, shrugging, “you are not so,” and he allows the caress, let the pressure on his head sink into him, to feel Jinwoo’s fingers gently sliding down on his hair. “What happened with Minhyuk? Seunghoon never told me the full story,” he adds, worriedly. “I mean, if you want to tell me, I’m grown up and all, even if you two treat me like a kid,” he continues, pouting – and he looks exactly like a baby and Jinwoo can’t hide the proud smile spreading all over his face, even when he is asking about something that still hurts, that is still clawing on him, chewing on his mind.

“He left with all my money,” he resumes the case, not really wanting to dig in – Seungyoon is too naive, it will only make him feel more pity for Jinwoo. “And I got to pay for the debt he took, too. I got several jobs to cover the expenses and… well, you see, I ended over-worked,” and it is good that the smile is still in place when he finishes.

“Bastard,” Seungyoon mumbles, his fists curling, nails leaving traces on Jinwoo, “I always knew he wasn’t good, but you were so happy with him, I thought you would know better than me,” he sighs, hugging Jinwoo, feeling the salt of his eyes blending with the water from the shower, skin against skin. “I’m sorry you had to deal with it all on your own, I wish I could have helped you. But I’m here now, always, for you, anything,” he whispers on his ears, his voice low and deep, serious, hot on his flesh.

“I know. And you have me, too. For anything but money,” he jokes, chuckling. “Now, let’s get you dry before Seunghoon murders you for being late,” and takes a towel to engulf Seungyoon in.

Indeed, Seungyoon is late but something must have softened Seunghoon, who only pushes him to the door, wishing Jinwoo a good day resting – and reminding him that Minho will be expected.

“So it was Minho to who you were referring before!” Seungyoon proclaims, exulted, tiptoeing on Seunghoon’s shoulders, watching Jinwoo’s reaction. He only shakes his head, heads to the bedroom and buries himself under the blankets that still smells like the baby-lotion that belongs to Seungyoon. Seunghoon has cleaned the remains of the breakfast, has made the bed again, despite that Jinwoo was about to be laying on it – and Jinwoo feels useless, a drag, a mess only causing pain and complications to others: he is longing to get well and repay Seunghoon’s generosity, Seungyoon’s kindness, Minho’s sincerity (though he doesn’t know how).

Minho comes in smelling like fresh baked goods and vetivert and Jinwoo is already waiting for him before he opens the door.

“I brought breakfast,” he says, leaving the paper bag on top of Jinwoo’s lap, “but seeing the mugs and dishes on the sink, I got the feeling that you have already eaten,” and he smiles as if nothing.

“Early, before taking the iron supplement,” he explains, and the taste crawls back from his throat to flood his tongue again. He can’t get used to that flavour, nasty and stingy, tangy, it leaves him wanting to throw up.

“How are you feeling?” he wonders, taking a seat on the chair, “do you mind if I eat?” and when Jinwoo invites him to do so, he retrieves a cinnamon roll from the bag, takes a sip of his iced Americano, smiles beatifically at Jinwoo.

“I’m good,” he assures him but Minho can see how exhausted he is, probably after the effort put into showering. And maybe it is too soon and too early to think about it, but Minho wants to bathe him, cover his skin with bubbles and foam, run his fingers deep on his skull, massaging his lusty hair. “And you have come earlier than yesterday,” he points out, checking the time on his phone – feeling the minutes since Seunghoon has been gone.

“Oh, perhaps? Am I?” he giggles, unsure, but knowing fully well that he has been counting the seconds to be back here, with Jinwoo – that he hasn’t slept at all, his mind ruined with thoughts about him, the curb of his lips engraved on his skin.

“Yes, an hour earlier,” he corroborates, smirking – Minho wishes to have more time with Jinwoo, to have all the time in the world to just admire Jinwoo.

He takes another bite of his breakfast, busies himself to stop staring at Jinwoo, but it is difficult: out from the shower, his hair still dewy is a view from heaven, hard to resist. Jinwoo only smiles at him, nodding to his chatting, studying him in a way that it isn’t obvious or bothering, – it is more flattering than anything and Minho wants to deserve the attention, so he keeps on talking, continues telling him whatever he is disposed to listen to (and Jinwoo is ready to listen to anything, he is good at it, has been trained by Seungyoon constants banter and nags). 

Minho ends by talking about his childhood: how he grew up in the richest but alone – his only friend her little sister, his only company a bunch of nannies and private tutors and teachers. He has gotten the best education money can pay, attended the most famous institutions but never really enjoying it, always apart, lonely. He had everything and, yet, it felt like sand drifting between his fingers, footsteps on the beach to be erased by waves – it was nothing but a feeble trail. He explains to him about the different companies his family owns: Paracosm, Osechill, Ohnim. They have been created from scratch by his father and they will belong to him once he retires, alongside all of his money. His sister, Danha, has left the family, too tired to bear with the name and the glory, the fame wearing her off and so it is all on Minho’s shoulders to carry the business soon.

“I just have to go to boring meetings from time to time,” he explains, rolling his eyes at the prospect, “listen to the board meeting and such, very tiring,” he says, faking yawning.

It is then when Jinwoo sees it clearly. Minho has it all, even what he doesn’t need. And he needs it – any crumb will do, anything at all could save him, pay off his debt, all the money he owes to the bank. He won’t even notice if he loses a few million of wons, it won’t make a difference to him – he is rolling in money, lives on the easiest street. And he is so pliant to be loved, that it won’t be difficult to pretend to love him. And, when he will be done, Minho won’t even flinch about the few little missing things – he might be sad, but he can pay for therapy if needed, can blame him all he wants (once he is done with his issues, Jinwoo will forget it all, be back to his old, boring life).

“It feels like meeting you was bound to happen, as fate brought us together,” Jinwoo comments. He obviously doesn’t believe in this crap but maybe Minho does. Besides, it sounds flirty enough to drive him in, but not too strong, just casual and sort of friendly.

Minho fully agrees, shakes his head so fast he needs a moment to regain his stability, his capability to process Jinwoo’s words and sentences. This is what he has been feeling, this is the name of the seed blooming through his heart, taking all the space inside of his chest, replacing the air of his lungs with the taste of Jinwoo. This is destined love, he is sure of it.

Minho doesn’t remember the last time he has had the luxury to meet someone out of his very restricted circle of relatives and acquaintances. All of his life Minho has been surrounded by the same people: the same staff the same and regular names, and now that he lives alone, he misses them, misses the monotony of their shadow following - now he has nobody to be with, only Jinwoo and it's not a wonder why he is so caught up with him, bounding like they are already best buddies. He has been travelling all over the world – four times has he been to the most important capital cities but he has always done it alone. Jinwoo is the first real, tangible friend, the first person who hasn’t asked him for something – he has welcomed him in with a smile and all of Minho’s weak defences to his charms have been shattered; he has capitulated to Jinwoo, kneeling down to his loving face, to his perfect heart. They are bound to be, he is the one, the only, the person he has been looking, searching without knowing it. All his life he has been miserable, a loner, his family as his only companions, no one to call his true friend and now, all of a sudden, Jinwoo has appeared to shatter his expectations, the way he has been leading his existence – he is shaking the bottom of his core.

“I like that,” he confesses after a few seconds, his hand shyly stretching to reach Jinwoo’s, to hold bewitch his fingers his palm, feeling the soft surface, thumb romancing over his pale wrist, reckoning the flood of his blood running.

“What?” Jinwoo wonders, blinking at him sheepishly, in a way that makes his eyes gleam with golden dusk and silver stardust. Minho smiles at him, dazed, besotted to feel his pulse beating under the tips of his fingers – a heart that thumbs accelerated, rushed, pulsing like a song, mesmerizing Minho.

“To be bounded, destined, sounds lovely to me,” he explains, his voice caught in the feelings he harbours, pouring his emotions into it, making it clear that he believes that, between them, there is something more than a casual encounter – that, indeed, they are fated to be (and Minho wants for nothing more but this).

“Oh, yes, it’s a very nice notion,” Jinwoo agrees amiable, but only his trembling smile shows sincerity – even when his voice is soft, it sounds caustic, plain and dull. But it doesn’t matter, the chaos of his life is been swallowing up in a blooming love that is taking away any remaining emotion loitering inside of his chest.

Jinwoo wants to bang his head against something hard; he has been so insensible, he is ruining Minho’s opinion about him, he is pushing him away instead of reeling him into his loving plan. But, then, flirting has never been his forte, he has always been the one receiving the attention – and, even on that, he doesn’t have much experience: Minhyuk has been the first relation he has ever had so he needs to step up his game, come up with something to seduce Minho, to lure him, trap him in a gossamer of intricate lies and delicate betrays - through Minho doesn't seem to need much encouragement, he is already looking at him with glossy, elated eyes and Jinwoo feels bad, guilty tripping him, sinking into his heart hard, heavily (this is not right but he has no other options, he has to do what he must and, if fortune is upon Minho, he won't notice, he won't be too hurt when this all comes to its natural end).

It is so convenient that he needs to take the medicine just a few minutes after his slide and, when Minho brings him a glass of water, Jinwoo quickly thanks him with a beaming grin.

“I hope the doctor will discharge me tomorrow,” says Jinwoo in an attempt to bring back the lively conversation floating between them and that his silliness has killed.

“You still look sick,” Minho comments, biting his tongue, preventing adding more. “I don’t think anaemia will be cured in a day or two,” and tries to smile, hiding his disappointment. “And you should rest more,” he sighs, “I’m afraid I’m keeping you awake and that I’m not doing my job properly,” and, with a desperate gesture, he covers his face with his hands.

“I’m OK, I slept a lot already. Beside…” he says, pondering what else to say, how to convince Minho to stay with him – convince him that he is interested, that he is just terrible with words and acts. “I like the company,” he settles for: it’s generic enough but, with a discrete smirk to him, he hopes Minho will get the point.

He does because his glance falls on him and it is all sugar and cotton candy, heath-fluttering. He gleams and his hands cover Jinwoo’s over the cover, engulfing them with blankets and sheets and the hot texture of his skin. Jinwoo allows the sensation to drown onto him, remembering the last time someone holds him this way, so lovingly, with so much care – and it was Minhyuk who last touch him, his hands always on his body, caressing every inch of it, relishing into the fact that Jinwoo was his only (making it clear that Jinwoo belonged to him in waves of pain and pleasure washing over his flesh, melting his bones, whipping them to nothingness). He doesn’t miss that, the contact, the closeness, be pressed against another body, his chest on his chest, his lips covered, hands dancing on his back, slowly travelling down, gripping and groping and making him feel high. This isn’t the same but a rush of nostalgia rains on Jinwoo and, perhaps, he can get used to it – used to be taken care of, to be the one receiving instead.

“If you are sure,” Minho is delighted, Jinwoo’s hand is still beneath his palm, hasn’t moved yet and he is in amazement contemplating the little fireflies tilting on Jinwoo’s eyes, waltzing in slow-motion, tracing his own face, tickling his senses with warmth and affection and he can stop babbling and rambling and telling Jinwoo everything he has ever done – he reveals every notch of his heart, wants to come up clean to his presence.

He talks for hours about everything and nothing at all, occasionally stopping to help Jinwoo out of bed – to the toilet or to get him something, - and to hear the replies that come to him with a glint of a smile, his tender voice mild and soft, telling him some random story about his past, an anecdote about himself and Minho keeps track of them all, has memorized them, engraved deep inside his brain.

Later on, Minho accompanies Jinwoo to the kitchen, watches him, cook, makes himself useless, proves his lack of skills and makes Jinwoo laugh at his lame attempts at making ramyon.

“Are you trying to put raw garlic into it? That’s blasphemy!” and Jinwoo needs a minute to regain his strength, all wasted cracking up, folded on a chair, catching air and tasting the shame of Minho. “I got this, just sit and stay away from the stove,” he chuckles, shaking his head, pushing Minho out of the room. Minho might be a bit crest-fallen but just to hear the clear sound reverberating through the walls of the room, he would do it all over again, would ruin any dish, burn the whole thing up if only that would grant him one more second listening to Jinwoo’s precious laughter.

They wait to have dinner with Seunghoon and Seungyoon, who arrive together, hand in hand, carrying the wind on their messy hair and the brightness of a starry night captured on the curb of their smiles.

“Dinner!” beams Seungyoon, running to hug Jinwoo.

“It survived the corruptive attempts of Minho,” Jinwoo jokes, sitting on the table, next to a blushing Minho. “He must have someone cooking for him, otherwise, I don’t know how is he still alive,” he exclaims, turning to face him – and Minho wants to die due to the intensity of his gleaming eyes.

“It’s called delivery,” Minho jokes back, humorous, “that’s what has kept me alive,” he adds, laughing, blemishing at the attention coming from Jinwoo.

“Well, no more deliveries. I’ll cook for you,” and it tastes like the sweetest of the promises. “Seunghoon, tomorrow I’ll move in with Minho, he has offered to look after me at his place, which is more convenient for him and us all,” he explains, expectant, carefully watching Seunghoon’s reaction. He only nods, accepts the decision. “So no more sleeping on the couch,” he adds, punching Seungyoon, who is seated at his other side, “you will be able to cuddle with Seunghoon again!”

“We will miss you,” the youngest pouts, clinging onto his arm, nuzzling over his sleeve. Jinwoo rubs, affectionately, his curls, kisses the top of his forehead.

“But it is for the best,” Seunghoon assures to nobody in particular, winks secretly at Jinwoo.

“I’ll collect you tomorrow early for the check-up with Dr Park,” Minho explains on the door, waving good-bye to Seungyoon, who is holding Jinwoo’s arm, helping him walk.

“I’ll be ready,” he says, closing the door, smiling meaningfully at the empty space that has the form of Minho.

“So?” Seunghoon appears next to him, grinning mischievously, “what’s going on?” and raises an eyebrow, inquiringly. Seungyoon, too, looks at him between torn and surprised.

“He offered, I accepted, there is nothing much to explain” Jinwoo resumes, which is the truth. But Seunghoon needles him, harries him until Jinwoo sighs, annoyed with all of his buggings, with Seunghoon following and staring accusingly – accusing him of telling him the whole tale, the reasons of accepting Minho’s proposal.

“Come on, I want the juicy details!” he corners him, once Jinwoo is back in bed and can’t escape his persistence.

“Really, Seunghoon, you are so nosy! There is nothing juicy or racy. He offered and I feel bad for taking your bed away, so I accepted. He possibly wanted me to move yesterday – or maybe even to stay since I fainted, - but I decided to wait and see that he isn’t a psycho. See? I’m doing the homework well,” and rolls his eyes.

“Are you sure? You know that you can stay here as long as you need, and more,” he says, his fingers curled around his bonny arm, rubbing his elbow with care.

“I know and I’m thankful, but he has insisted and… Consider it my paid holidays,” he smirks and Seunghoon joints, jumping on the bed, the mattress gently springing under the added weight.

“But if something succulent happens, you must tell me,” Seunghoon stresses, happily. He, too, has been studying Minho, observing him – he has looked him up, - and, so far, he seems honest, truly interested in Jinwoo, properly attached and enamoured, enough to propose him to move into his house barely a few days into knowing each other. Seunghoon would be worried about such a rushed decision, but Jinwoo is cautious, knows what he is doing – and he will be watchful in the nearest future, he is not leaving Jinwoo fully alone.

“If ever,” Jinwoo shakes his head, negating any possible close relationship between himself and Minho. He hopes it won’t happen, that Minho will be content holding hands and occasional kisses on the cheek, that it will be very pure and naive – that it will be a platonic relationship at most, nothing physical, nothing vexing for him, nothing too demanding (he is up to do good, not interfere with his life further than needed, meeting friends and parents; that’s a no).

Minho can’t sleep and it is the third night in a row that his heart feels heavy, drowsy but unable to rest, unable to stop the procession of Jinwoo’s images, the pictures of him that he has already printed on his core. He can’t wait to have him here, sharing the same space. He has ordered his housekeeper to get a room ready, to gather everything necessary for a convalescent man and the work has been done minutely under his guidance. He feels above the clouds and beyond, three steps above heavens reminiscing Jinwoo, picturing him inside his open arms, his chin resting on the crook of his neck, his hair tickling under his nose, his sweet fragrance all over his senses – like spice and flowers.