5

It has to be love, it must be love, Minho is sure of his feelings - as inexperienced as he is, he knows it can only be love. Intense and unexpected, wild like the sea crashing in waves of foam at the shore. It is incredible to be this thrilled, deeply connected to someone, feeling a range of emotions that, a few days back, were non-existent, to put so many new colours in his life, splashes of yellow and purple, the paint soaking, making him gleam, making him better. It is so brand new, tender and sweet: it takes an effort to control them, to keep the balance, to stay in charge, but Jinwoo brings the best out of him, makes him thrive, do better. He has never been in love so it is all surprising, burning in him like a bonfire - flares his heart, heating it up, igniting his mind with images of Jinwoo, smouldering everything that isn't him, all the rest merely ashes and foam. 

He arranges flowers in a crystal vase and puts them on the nightstand, the aroma spreading - daisies and marigolds, an explosion of white and yellow, the embodiment of Jinwo -, the wind gently swaying the curtains hanging in front of the French doors, slightly open to let the fresh air in. And he can’t wait to greet Jinwoo in, to have him all to himself – the first person entering his life, staying under the same roof and he is so excited he can't contain it, he smiles and chuckles and thinks he is going crazy (that he needs Jinwoo by his side to subdue this frenzy, this craze of craving for him, this hive of constant activity that runs out of his hands, out of control). 

Obviously, he has made extensible the invitation to Seunghoon and Seungyoon, knowing how vital there are to Jinwoo, how they orbit around each other in their personal, little system – and Minho is marvelled to witness their relationship, how they are different when they are together, how special and important they are, supporting and cheering but also complaining and nagging if needed; he has heard Seunghoon ragging against Jinwoo for not taking care of himself on their first time meeting, not minding that he was there, too, a total stranger (but he has never felt foreign with them, he has integrated into their world naturally, stepping in as if nothing). And he wonders if he will ever be part of them, too – if, by being with Jinwoo he can be their friend as well. All his life, more than money and fame and glory, what Minho has wanted has been to be surrounded by people who care for him, people close to his heart. He has been craving for love and now he can have it both - can extend his hands and hold friendship and grasp at this wonderful love that beams out of Jinwoo, leaking to him like blooming flowers. 

He falls asleep thinking about Jinwoo - thinking about him nestled by his side as he has been snuggling with Seungyoon, wishing their closeness to burgeon, flourishing with all that beats on his chest and that answers to the sound of Jinwoo's name. 

Seunghoon is helping Jinwoo to throw clothes into a bag – Jinwoo has come with nothing, all his belongings stacked in the boot of his car and they haven’t had the time to get them back, so he has been wearing Seunghoon’s pyjamas and baggy sweaters from Seungyoon (not that he cares about what he looks like, it's only for his friends to see after all). When finished, all he owns is contained inside one big tote bag. 

“Bring some food,” he recommends, heading to the kitchen. There are some leftovers still from yesterday and Jinwoo nods, helping him put them into containers, “so you won’t starve to death or be feed instant, insalubrious food,” he smirks, recalling what Jinwoo had said the day before: that Minho is a duffer who doesn't know the basic notions of cooking - which even Seungyoon is aware of. 

“I’ll make sure that Minho doesn’t step closer to the kitchen, if there is one in that massive house,” Jinwoo smiles, shaking his head, his dark hair swirling, creating a mess.

“Insist on that, even if you are about to faint, don’t let him cook,” he confides, hands smoothing Jinwoo’s locks, brushing them back into place, caressing gently the curb of his earlobes. “You can survive the dizziness, but poison? That can be lethal!” he exclaims, ludicrously, tapping at his back funnily. 

“I can’t believe you are leaving again,” Seungyoon mops, watching the bag on the floor, Jinwoo sitting on the couch, waiting, the early sun caressing his skin, painting his cheeks rose and peach. He sits next to him, sulking, smelling like vanilla latte and cheap cologne, clinching to his side like an octopus. Jinwoo sighs, holding him, an arm around his back, pulling him in, his fingers pinching the hollow of his cheek. “I don’t want to… who is going to protect me in the morning?” he protests, pouting childishly.

“Seunghoon will,” Jinwoo assures him, petting him lovingly, feeling Seungyoon’s dejection, the melancholy he is boarding – for years he has been Seungyoon’s family, all he had in the world so it is comprehensible how abandoned he must feel. “Come on, Seungyoon, it’s not like you won’t see me again, this time you know exactly where I’m going,” he tries to reassure him, which makes Seungyoon laugh.

“True that: you’ll be playing houses with Minho,” he humours him.

“Playing doctors, more likely!” chimes in Seunghoon, cracking up.

“I was about to say something touching, but I’ll keep it to myself,” Jinwoo mumbles, rolling his perfect eyes – they might be his best friends but they can also be the most annoying pair. Seunghoon laughs – high pitch and loud and Seungyoon is quickly joining, clapping in delight. “Just… mind each other,” he says, the horn from Minho’s car echoing from below, coming alongside the ring of his phone that displays Minho's name bright on the screen. 

Jinwoo has his hand around the doorknob when Seunghoon halts, his semblance gaunt, serious – not a single trace of laughter on him.

“Jinwoo, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says, his palm on landing on Jinwoo’s shoulder, sternly. Jinwoo knows but it is for the best – not only for his benefit but he can’t depend so much on Seunghoon’s kindness, he has no means to repay him for all he has already done. “You can stay with us as long as you need, you don’t have to move with Minho,” he adds, a gentle smile blooming. Jinwoo nods, his own hand clutching around Seunghoon’s, fingers intertwined.

“Thank you,” he mutters, “but Minho wants it and I make up my mind,” he explains, leaving a trace of his own plan. “Besides, you have already done far too much,” and he feels it, sinking heavily on his blood: how much Seunghoon has supported him, how he had taken in when he found himself on the streets, unable to pay rent, he has invited him to his house, leaning his shoulder to cry on, to lean in. Seunghoon has always stood by him, has trusted in him when he didn't and has never cursed him for all that Minhyuk has done, all of the wrongdoing affecting him, putting him in this unsafe position of having to rely on others for everything. 

“You are my best friend, Jinwoo, nothing I do needs to be thanked. You have done a lot for me, too. You were the only one for me when I hit rock bottom. You were by my side when I had the accident,” he mentions, reminiscing, “even when my parents came, you told them not to sleep at the hospital, that you would. And Seungyoon, you put him into my life. Well, you forced him to me, but anyway, it was an improvement in the end,” he jokes, glancing over at his boyfriend. “So, we are even, if we have to compete between what we have done for each other” he finishes with a soft grin, half-hugging Jinwoo.

“Anyway, as comfortable as your couch is, and I’m talking with first-handed knowledge, I don’t want you to have to get funds for a masseur. Your back is not that robust,” he points out, rubbing it with care, “besides, paid holidays at Minho’s villa!” he exclaims, exultant, and Seunghoon gets the point of what Jinwoo is about to do - that he has agreed on this plan for his own sake and benefit, that Minho is best suited to take care of him than he or Seungyoon would. “Now,” he looks at Seungyoon, waves cheerfully at him, “I’ll better go before Minho thinks I changed my mind,” and he opens the door, the wind blowing at his face, the light shatters on him. Seunghoon takes the bag and helps him out, calling for the elevator.

Minho is waiting for him, his Aston Martin parked in front of Seunghoon’s apartment complex. He peeks at Jinwoo, rushes to get the baggage out of his hands, looks at it with curiosity.

“Do you have more stuff to bring on?” he wonders, shocked when Jinwoo shakes his head. He is paler after the little effort and Minho has rushed to his side, ready to lean him a hand. He heaves, breathing hard, his eyes a bit unfocused, unclean around the edges after the effort of walking down the stairs. “This is all you have?” he asks, in total disbelieve. It can’t be possible that the sum of Jinwoo’s possessions can be squished inside of a regular shopping bag.

Jinwoo needs to come with an answer quickly, something sounding reasonable, something that won’t raise suspicions – something far away from the truth. There is no explanation to describe his lack of belongings that don’t involve his personal problems – that most of what he has is piled on the boot of his old, abandoned, little Mini: that the rest has been sold to pay off a debt that doesn't belong to him but that has been put under his name.

“I had a pretty bad break-up,” he says, trying to sound sensible, imbuing his words with pain and sadness, so Minho won’t press it further. “He threw most of my things,” he adds for emphasis. He doesn't want Minho's sympathy but needs him to trust in what he says, needs him to don't ask more, so he puts on sorrow and lets his misery bath over him, making Minho believe him.

So that explains why Jinwoo has been living at his friend’s place, Minho notes. He also notices the stars on Jinwoo’s orbs, how they shine with salty drops and so he doesn’t pry, just nods and observes the clothes stored – that, even from above, look baggy enough to engulf two of Jinwoo.

“Once you are better, we will go shopping,” he promises, turning the engine on, pedal to the metal, flashes of streets passing by, the wind crashing against the window. He rolls it down, feeling the spring on his face, blowing his hair, the sunshine on his eyes and Minho wants to stop the universe to stare at him. Jinwoo’s mind spins and his head is thumbing, beating achingly, palpitating like a second heart, the rush of blood colouring his ears and he reclines his body against the leather material of the seat, feeling its coolness rubbing his neck.

“There is no need,” Jinwoo softly rejects, too used to wear jeans and Seunghoon’s sweaters – since his wardrobe is neglected, getting dusty inside a car, and he wonders when will he be able to get back his clothes (his working suits and his collection of grey hoodies).

“You need something to wear,” Minho protests, kindly, taking his phone out of his Louis Vuitton luxurious bag, “let me call my house-keeper to prepare some outfits for you. At least, a pyjama. Unless you are the type to go commandos in bed,” he adds, interests perking up. Jinwoo gives up, pretending that it is all right with him but, internally, feeling absolutely ashamed of having to wear any of Minho’s outfits – he is a man of casual wear, he can’t fit in Minho’s aesthetic and personal taste, he is already dreading just by imagining it.

Minho chats over the traffic and the road, he talks about the nice weather, all the things they will be able to do soon, and Jinwoo tries hard to keep his attention on him, but his head buzzes and he is slowly fading, fog clouding his mind, covering his senses, making him tumble and stumble on his own words, his body swinging, losing control. He feels so exhausted, despite having done nothing, his heart running, beating at the same pace as a drum, so loud that he can't follow its pounding.

Minho must have noticed, putting a heavy hand on his thigh, letting him know that he is not alone, that he can let go and crash down. His fingers draw patterns over his jeans and it feels warm all over Jinwoo’s skin, Minho’s grip on him settling him down, anchoring him to this world.

“Take a break, you must be tired,” Minho hums, his hand not leaving Jinwoo. “I’ll stop the car and get you some water,” he suggests and, at the next street, he finds a space to park. He throws his expensive jacket on top of Jinwoo, covering him with cashmere and silk and gets off of the car, leaving Jinwoo alone reluctantly, glancing over every five seconds to make sure that Jinwoo is safe, comfortably curled on the copilot seat.

He comes back carrying a paper bag of goodies, the sweetness of them penetrating Jinwoo’s dizziness, making him spring up.

“Here,” he says, passing him a bunch of croissants, just out of the oven, still soft and warm, “you need some sugar. It will do good to you,” and he smiles, watching Jinwoo tearing the pastry, taking small bites at a time. “The appointment with Dr Park is at 10 am,” he comments, casually looking at his golden Rolex, “we have time.”

He takes a moment to contemplate Jinwoo, how beautiful he is, with his hair unruly and his eyes full with sunshine, gleaming with hues of autumn leaves falling down, his fair cheeks munching, the curb of his neck gulping, veins popping up, all of his blood running, beating through his core. He looks better, healthier, not much but he hasn’t blackout and his glance is steady on his breakfast, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Minho wants to run his fingers down his spine, feel the bones beneath, the swing of his chest, his breathe catching up on his hair like cobwebs of sultry air. He desires to brush him with gentle hands, touch all his contour, feel every fibre of him, outline him and burn his shape deep inside his corneas. Jinwoo makes him feel and he hasn’t felt in years, numb and glossed to any real emotion, shut down to anything but himself. All he has done, he has done it for his own gain, being nice and sympathetic, it was all courtesy but Jinwoo is the flame defrosting his heart, taming his sentiments. There is more in him than just his pretty face: something that makes Minho want to impress him, prove his value, his worth. Even if Jinwoo doesn’t feel the same, he is thankful for the opportunity to meet him, to learn what friendship is like, what the word means – and for those precious instants together that he will never let go of his mind, always pressed inside his core. And he should be freaking out at how fast this has grown up in him, but he can’t be, not with Jinwoo next to him – he feels just at ease.

They arrive on time at the hospital because Jinwoo has shattered Minho out of his fantasy, has brought him back from his daydreaming. Dr Park is already waiting for them inside his consult office. He watches Jinwoo, sizing him up, a worried glance crinkles forming over his forehead, concern over his face looking at his skinny frame, the shade of white covering Jinwoo's flesh. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks as an introduction, inviting Jinwoo to take a seat in front of him. Minho stays by the door, waiting expectantly. 

“Better,” Jinwoo says, honestly. He feels stronger, not as wobbly as before, “though I get tired frequently,” he is forced to add, blushing, under the severe stare of Minho. Park Sungjin chuckles at the scene, smiles at them.

“OK, it is normal. Now, let me run a few tests,” he assures Jinwoo, “and see how you are really doing.”

It stinks when the needle pierces his skin when his blood comes to fill the syringe. Jinwoo claws his nails on his skin, hands in a fist until Minho holds him, all his nerves relaxing under his touch. It is strange how this bound is working on, how close Minho is to him and, yet, his heart won’t flick, his mind steady even if all of his body relays on him. After an hour, Park Sungjin comes back with the results. His burrowed, knitted brows say more than his explanation, though, insisting that Jinwoo should rest more, eat well and take his iron supplement pills, that his blood-test were still deficient, still lacking haemoglobin.

“I prescript you more supplements to regain the healthy balance of cells in your blood, also vitamins, since you won’t be able to go outside for a while,” and he scribbles on a note that hands to Jinwoo with a soft grin, “take it easy and make sure to eat plenty of meat. Sleep a lot, too, and don’t go out, not alone, at least. You are too weak, you could faint again, lost your conscience,” he recommends, hand in hand, in a good-bye shake, “and come back in a week for another check-up. We need to keep an eye on this anaemia,” he murmurs, kindly opening the door, leading them outside.

“I’ll bring him back here, then. See you!” Minho says, shaking Dr Park’s hand as well. Sungjin helps Jinwoo out, walks him to the door and observes them both until they are a mote in the distance, a car racing on the road. 

Jinwoo hates it, loathes being a problem, a nuisance to others, having to rely on Minho’s kindness to pay for his expenses – the significant bill from the medical visit, the food he brought on the road, all the things he is about to rain on Jinwoo: it makes him feel small and useless: a trashy person (but it can’t be helped, he has nothing on him but his name and his pride, the rest has been with Minhyuk, stolen and broken and manipulated). He wants to bury himself in a ditch, hide from Minho's eternal sunshine, the warmth that he irradiates and that falls always on him, but he also wants to kick back the debt and will do and use all of his assets (and it just happens that Minho is the best he has). But his objections and qualms, as strong as they can be, are nothing compared with the red numbers on his bank account, the piled dues that someone has contracted impersonating Jinwoo and that he has to pay for them or he won’t have a life at all and Minho seems the easiest way to solve his life – his twice life-saviour, always ready to offer him what he needs, even without asking him first. Minho dismisses all of his thanks, promising that it's nothing for him, that he is more than pleased to be of help - but there is more underneath his tone, his good nature; Jinwoo can see it blossoming like roses on spring, beautiful and dangerous at the same time: love (and Jinwoo wants to shake it off, brush it over, but can't because Minho is too kind, too generous and the guilt piles up, hardening his heart and constraints his mind).

Minho says little on their drive back and Jinwoo decides to contemplate the view, the passing by trees and cars, listening to the radio, feeling his head drowning into gloppy thoughts, slowly spiralling down, the music a distant buzz of white-noise. He intents to focus on the road, get a sense of where he is going, the road turning into a path, the occasional trees spreading around turning into a luscious forest, all green on the peak of spring, flowers timidly blooming amid the gravel, splashing the grey with bright colours, knitting a joyful carpet that Jinwoo avoids stepping on, much to Minho’s amazement.

“They won’t die because of you,” he chuckles, watching Jinwoo carefully obviate the path to the villa standing big, a massive, traditional building, impressive on its forms and shape and size. Jinwoo ignores his banter, walks slowly to the entrance that Minho has already opened for him.

The interior is a cacophony of shades and styles, reflecting Minho’s personal, unsightly taste.

“Welcome home!” he greets him, beaming, smiling with the whole world engraved on his lips. Minho carries his belongings and shows him to his room that is, accordingly decorated. There is a vase of flowers disseminating their fragrance all around, a few books neatly piled on the bedside table and a few toiletries on top of the bed, alongside a silk, extravagant pyjama that is already making Jinwoo crawl, his skin itching – this is too much, too lavishing and elegant and costly for his own use.

“This is too much,” he protests but Minho just shrugs his shoulders, gently pushing him to the mattress – it is like laying on clouds and it swallows his complaints with soft pillows made out of real feathers and blankets so smooth he wants to lay in forever, covered by the warm smell of cashemire and wool. 

“It’s what you deserve, Jinwoo,” Minho says, sitting next to him, his hand landing on Jinwoo’s limbs. “You need to rest and not worry about anything. And I’ll make sure that you’ll get everything you want and need,” he swears, in a serious tone that reflects that he won’t take any argument against his resolution. “Now, let me take care of you, please,” and his voice is soft and eager, nearly begging and Jinwoo can’t take the enormity of his offering, even if he has been willing to accept it, it makes his heartache with shame and regrets, remorse for what he is doing - for taking advantage of someone who clearly wants to be used by him. “Here, change and get some sleep,” he adds, getting up, walking to the door, leaving Jinwoo alone with his thoughts. But, before closing the door, his smile peeks between the gap remaining, “don’t worry about a thing, I’m here for you," he repeats, his voice quivering, echoing across the hall. 

Jinwoo can’t sleep even when he is worn out, all his bones heavy, but his mind is wide awake, meditating, repeating Minho’s words. It’s just that Jinwoo can’t bring himself to be this selfish, to use Minho for his own benefice – despite that Minho is clearly offering himself to be used and abused, Jinwoo feels uncomfortable just thinking about it. What was as natural as breathing for Minhyuk, it is tormenting him, putting him upside-down, a game trickling his mind with what and what-not. The fact that Minho is accepting him with so much enthusiasm is odd, really, but there is nothing Jinwoo can’t do about it – he can’t stop him without seeming rude.

He finally falls asleep, sinking into a nice black-out without dreams, feeling the light coming from the window changing hues, grooming him with afternoon colours, bathing him with golden.

Minho doesn’t want to intrude but he has been watching TV tediously, missing someone to talk with, missing the sweetness of Jinwoo’s easy, agreeable laughter. He hasn’t intended to disturb Jinwoo and, yet, after a while, he has found himself in front of his door, sneaking in, sliding inside of his space, crouching on the floor, levelling with his face, breathing at the same pace as him, his fingers drawn to his lashes, brushing the purple circles below his eyes. Jinwoo has stirred in dreams but hasn’t wake up, hasn’t realised his presence next to him, his eyes trailing his shape, sailing on the ocean of his own reveries. He has left moments before Jinwoo opened his lids, facing the aftermath of being observed.