6

Jinwoo wakes up in time to take his medicaments – his phone has been buzzing with the alarm. He has them stored next to a glass of water that someone - positively Minho, - has left on the bedside table. He swallows them in one gulp and hesitates between going out or staying in bed until dinner: until Minho comes to reclaim his presence, his company required. He decides, posthumously, to get out and enjoy the last sunshine caresses of the day and wander around the house. He drags his feet across the wooden floor and wanders outside of his room, walks the long corridor, wonders what rooms are hidden behind the closed doors. Minho's place is labyrinthic, all paths leading to nowhere, decorated with odd furniture that talks about journeys and differents countries Jinwoo has never been to - mysterious cities that carry promises of adventures and secret rendevous. There are Persian rugs covering the tiles, making the way warm and fluff, pictures hanging on the colourful walls, oak desks from mid-century with delicate flourish engraved on the surface and Jinwoo touches it, feels the gleamy gloss on his fingertips. It diverges from being classy and elegant, but it has its own grace in its extravagant way, and Jinwoo tries to admire all the objects exposed, all the arts and crafts that Minho has piled on every available counter, shelves with diverse objects and books, replicas of old paintings framed in golden borders but not a single trace of family portraits, of Minho's face with friends on his many travels around the globe - it's always kaleidoscopic canvas and landscapes: the London bridge, the Effiel Tower, Wat Phra Kaew, the Buddhist temple of Bangkok with its emerald Buddha president the views, the Gothic quarter of Barcelona, with its grandiloquent Cathedral as the main focus, the bell towers scratching the sky, lights bathing the night in New York, the Brooklyn Bridge crossing the East River, Manhattan at the back, the Pyramids, superb in greyish shades, sand shaping the landscape. Jinwoo wants to get lost in them - he takes notes to ask about his trips to Minho, wants to fly with his words to these places he has been before. Jinwoo stares, mesmerized, the memorabilia that is present everywhere, all while walking to the end of the long corridor, looking for a way to the exterior - to the garden that awaits, the sun sneaking from afar, hueing in gilt the walls, falling warm on the floor. 

It takes half an hour for Jinwoo to roam across rooms and hallways until finding a door to the back garden, a patio with a swimming pool, fully green and luxurious. The water gleams like jewels under the last of the afternoon, iridescent with blues and oranges and the air is warm and calm, and Jinwoo takes out the sleepers and walks over the flourishing grass, feeling the freshness under his feeds, submerging them into the pool, splashing little waves joyfully, crashing them against the edges, letting it wet his skin. It feels so nice, so refreshing, the light playfully blinding his eyes, caressing gently his face, painting his hair in auburn – despite it being dark ink. The wind brings the taste of flowers and freedom and, for a moment, he forgets everything, lays on the grass and closes his eyes, the sun above, golden and glorious, touching his skin with a mild warmth, putting stars inside his orbs. It's almost paradise: the quietude only splintered by the occasional tweet from birds and the wind brushing the pool, creating undulations splashing on the sore - he could fall asleep in here, stay the rest of his life just contemplating the diffuse changes of the passing clouds.

Minho is restless wandering around the house, unsettled looking after Jinwoo - believing him to have gone. As a last option, he heads towards the patio, heart-pounding loud, worried, anxious, just to find him there, head-lighted, contemplating the wind playing with the foliage, the light creating illusions above the sky. He sighs, reassured, blinks away the fret he has been brooding, smiles at the sublime sight sprawled in front of him: the colours that the late afternoon is draining from Jinwoo, all shades and hard lines, the sky a turmoil of fire and ice and the trees dancing, swaying their branches to the sound of the breeze. 

“Here you are!” he exclaims, running to the side of the pool, rushing to get to Jinwoo. He smiles, gives him a little wave with his hand. “I thought you disappeared. The house is quite big,” he adds, his voice worried, the tone low, confabulating. “You could get lost,” he says, sitting on the ground.

“I’ve noticed,” Jinwoo replies, half smirking, stamping, distracted, his feed on the water, stirring it. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he quickly adds, feeling sorry for Minho – the way he looked at him first, how troubled he was, how relieved to see him. “I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I was just roaming and found this place,” and he hugs the space, embracing the whole garden.

“It is nice,” Minho admits, “but we should go inside, it is getting late and cold,” he advises, his hand on Jinwoo’s shoulder, crouching down. Jinwoo takes Minho’s hand and let him help him up, walks by his side, not letting his grab go, the hold he has on his wrist, the thumb that advances upon his skin, drawing over bones and veins. “Come, let’s go back to your room, I’ll ask them to bring your dinner there,” he promises, walking side by side, chit-chatting.

“Can I have it with you?” Jinwoo says, innocently. He recalls how happy Minho was the past days, eating together, how much fun it was – and not only for him, but for Jinwoo as well, - and, seeing the beaming grin creeping from Minho, Jinwoo is sure to have done the correct thing – that Minho is, too, tired of being alone, of feeling lonely in this massive house. Jinwoo doesn't mind the company, he likes Minho enough - likes to talk to him, learn and discover the person that he is behind the fame that precedes him (owner of a reputable brand of coffee shops and other companies), likes that he cares, makes him laugh with his silliness, with the way he sees the universe. Jinwoo has been alone long enough, has been avoiding Seunghoon and Seungyoon to not have them all worried, stressed over him and his pecuniary problems. He has been eating in corners when he has enough money or the starvation was too great to fight back, has been taking nibbles in between jobs, running from one place to his next shift, never enough time to seat and enjoy, always on the move, so it is nice to have the opportunity to sit down and enjoy the food and the company, even if Minho's glance always falls on him. 

“Do you want to?” Minho asks as if the idea never crossed his mind. Jinwoo nods vehemently, smiles at him all radiant, and Minho grins back, excited about the prospect to share the table with him, to be able to feed Jinwoo with expensive, delivered food. 

"What is it?" Jinwoo wonders, pointing at a painting on his left, "it is beautiful," he exclaims, a hand covering his surprised mouth, lips stretched in a thin smile. Minho explains the arts to him, carefully detailing its origin, the artist that had crafted it and Jinwoo listens to him, all his attention drawn to Minho, his words drawing new meanings to Jinwoo and Minho is elated to be under Jinwoo's regard, loves to be his main focus, his hand still gripping his wrist, holding him, leading him to the dining room.

Dinner comes from a fancy restaurant, in flamboyant delivery boxes and, despite tasting delicious, Jinwoo thinks how sad it is to always eat like this, never enjoying the fire of the stove, the flavour of species lingering on the kitchen, the bubbling sound coming from a pot and he makes up his mind to cook for Minho from that day until his last one living with him, as an act of gratefulness – an act of care and love. Minho grins and beams all the way through dinner, his eyes never leaving Jinwoo, observing him munching, taking small bites, carefully not to upset his empty stomach. He answers Jinwoo's questions about his business, the pictures on the hall, his whereabouts and his heart sinks in happiness. In return, Jinwoo lies to him about everything regarding his past life - about Minhyuk, about his financial break-down, the fact that he has been living inside his car, taking showers in saunas and gyms, wearing the same suit for a week without been able to wash it out. He doesn't want Minho to look down at him, think that he is taking advantage of him - as he is, indeed, doing: a consented symbiotic way of living for the two of them. He doesn't need his pity - he only needs his generosity and his money. 

After it, Minho moves to a luxurious, velvety couch, sprawls on it, watches Jinwoo conflicted between joining or retiring to his room to his devices – whatever he does apart of sleeping. Minho smiles, pats the space next to him and Jinwoo tilts his head, undecided.

“Chose a movie,” he says, and Jinwoo heads to him, curious, sits by his side. 

Jinwoo thinks that Minho will turn on the TV – an enormous monster occupying half the wall of the room, - but, instead, he clicks a button and, from the ceiling, a screen descends – a whole home in cinema that has Jinooo marvelled, speechless. 

It is long after midnight when the movie ends and Minho is totally snuggling over Jinwoo, sleeping half-hanging on his shoulder, his arm dangling on his side. If Jinwoo were in normal conditions, if he weren’t sick, he would be able to carry Minho to his bed – he is skinny despite his tall and builds constitution, - but, instead, he has to pinch him. Minho squeals, surprised, springing out of the sofa.

“I wasn’t sleeping!” he jumps, and, despite the late hour, Jinwoo burst into laughter and Minho forgets to pretend, drawn to the sound of it, proud of being the cause.

“But we should go to sleep,” he points out, once the explosion of giggles subdues, rubbing his eyes for effect.

Minho makes his mission to Jinwoo, to put him in bed, to tug him under expensive blankets that smell like vetiver and bergamot and a bit of himself. Before turning off the lights and leaving him, he brushes away a flock of Jinwoo’s hair covering his face, just a slight touch but his fingertips burn with delight, the softness of his skin tickling beneath his flesh – the fragrance that belongs to Jinwoo stuck under his nails and he will sleep with the sound of his laughter as a lullaby, his perfume swirling on his nostrils.

It has been years since he has woke up this early but he has to make sure that Jinwoo is up too – he wants to be there, even if it is absurd, to see that he is taking his health seriously. He finds him swallowing the pill, the glass on his hand, his eyelids touching his cheeks, lashes casting shadows under his bones, fluttering. Minho comes in with a tray that taste like sweet coffee and tea leaves, sugar and butterflies and Jinwoo blinks, rubs his face with the back of his hand, a stupefied smile at Minho’s sight.

“Good morning,” he grumbles, voice stuffed with soft dreams and the memories of the night before. Minho can’t contain the grin, takes a seat near the bed, puts breakfast in front of Jinwoo. “Let me make myself presentable,” he whines, rumbling the sheets, kicking himself free. Once on the floor, though, he stumbles on himself, legs shaky, weak, unable to sustain his little weight and Minho catches him in a heartbeat, fingers around his hips, keeping him still.

“Easy, easy,” he soothes him, gently brushing his T-shirt – that falls baggy on him, covering far beyond his tights that reveals under the hem, pale, skinny, lithe, a glorious, supreme view that makes Minho wanderlust all across his skin, undercover what it is under the piece of fabric that belongs to another man (probably Seunghoon and Minho hides a pout of jealousy at Jinwoo not wearing what he has lent him). Jinwoo might have noticed the sparks burning holes on his flesh because he rushes to push the T-shirt down, trying to shield what has been already exposed. Minho chuckles, pat him, pulls him back to bed, a blanket ready to cover his bareness – and it is such a pity to keep those legs out of sight: long and firm and so perfect to have them all around. But he thinks that Jinwoo is here, that there will be more moments, intimate instants like this during the following days, that Jinwoo will grow used to his presence, to not be shy and show himself as he is – to disclose everything to Minho. As Jinwoo insists to wash up before eating, Minho helps him to the bathroom and stays behind waiting, wondering, daydreaming - imagining his body under the rain, covered in bubbles and soap. The faucet is on, water falling over Jinwoo and Minho can only picture his own hands over a sponge, gently caressing the back of his neck, lips a breath away from his flesh, foam leaking, sliding across his chest and his fingers dancing over it, travelling all over Jinwoo, discovering every tiny inch, wet hair dripping like rain, pressed against his cheek, every part of him itching to have him. All of his thoughts shatter when Jinwoo comes out fully dressed, hair a mess of humid, dark curls that Minho wants to get lost in. “Now, let’s eat.”

Jinwoo proposes to have breakfast somewhere that isn’t a bedroom.

“I never liked eating in bed,” he confesses, his arm linked with Minho’s, using him as a support. Jinwoo’s arms are so soft, splashed with loitering freckles that Minho dreams of paint by numbers, write with them the shape of his name – sinking the meaning deep into his heart, - and it is impossible that Jinwoo doesn’t know how alluring he is, how captivated he has Minho, all tangled around his fingers, his essence embodied by him, traned – he is in love, the feelings rooted in his core, flowers blooming under the wind he blows, under his smiles and words and small, generous acts. Jinwoo is art in movement, elegant, reserved, holds the purity of the first snow, the grace of feathers swirling in the air, the colours of the morning light falling between the greenery of the foliation in spring. Everything about Jinwoo Minho considers that it is perfect: from the fireflies living in his eyes to how he claps while having fun, punching backs when ashamed, hiding behind his friends, cheeks flushed, the shade of a peach. And every part of him is a deathly sin he wants to commit, write on him: greedy to have him, lusting over his body, gluttony to devour his flesh – leaving only traces of broken, gnawed bones, - sloth to leave his side, wrath for the years apart, all the seconds without knowing that Jinwoo was his missing part, the envy of all the people he has shared a bond, pride of being by his side, the chosen one. Jinwoo makes him spark alive, his emotions burning, flaming, consuming his chest with the power of his name. He has never felt this before and he knows it's love that has been inscribed on his core, scribbled permanently, that he won't forget, that Jinwoo is his first and last one. 

The grass under his feet crunches, spikes rubbing his soles, the fresh air dissipating his sultry head, cleaning the fog caused by the steam surrounding Jinwoo, the lust that craves on his heart. But, among it all, it is love what he has stored, it is love what beats and transpires from every pore of his whole being – and it will remain alive for as long as Jinwoo smiles softly at him, thanking him so kindly, his eyes a new shade of green, gleaming under the veil of the sunrise.

Breakfast has never been this meaningful before – it usually was just a mere transaction, an automatic act, but since Jinwoo, it has become his favourite routine. Maybe it is because Jinwoo smells like coffee beans and it is wonderful the shape of his laugh, how he tilts his eyes, lips stretched around the cup, savouring the taste of the beverage and Minho is in awe, surprise that such a gesture can constrict his heart, fill his mind with blooming ideas that he had never had before – ideas for his own coffee-shop. Jinwoo is a surprise, a never-ending changing shade, iridescent like a diamond, constantly gleaming, sparkling, always capturing Minho’s heart, living free inside of his chest and head.

Jinwoo wonders about his life and Minho tells him everything, reveals all of his secrets, gives them for free to him, not ashamed of being this open with someone he barely knows – but that feels deep-rooted inside of his core. He talks about his family, about his plans, about the companies he runs as the head-up.

“But it is merely by name,” he explains, smirking, “I just sign some papers,” he adds to the ringing indignation of Jinwoo, who is too familiar with waking up to the sunrise, working non-stop just to make ends meet, just to thrive and survive another day. But he colds it down shimmers his scorn in favour to dig in more, to discover how much Minho earns, how eager he is to finance his life.

Minho makes enough money in a week to pay off half of his debt, he realises, breakfast was gone, the sun up, colouring his eyes hazel and brown, his back on the grass and Minho’s voice like humming-birds, distant, pleasant, but not exactly tangible – a nice white noise accompanying his running thoughts, the plan already taking form. And, when Minho mentions going out to buy him a laptop, Jinwoo makes amends with his conscience: Minho will never know and he is not going to steal – he will accept any present and, later on, sell it. It is a win-win situation: it pleases his scruples and it will ease his bankruptcy. It is perfect and nobody will be hurt by it – Minho won’t care about all the gifts he gave to him once he disappears from his life, back to his own, ordinary reality; he will be too immersed in his rich existence, rolling in money, walking the easy street. No harm will be committed: it’s going to be fine and perfect for both parts implied.

“Are you tired, hyung?” he asks after a while. They have been watching the clouds passing by, naming them, recalling childhood games. Minho has been silent, listening to Jinwoo’s tales of islands and sisters and fishing and burning a whole building by accident. He has snickered then and Jinwoo’s cheeks have been tanned by shyness and sunlight, making him even more appealing, with his voice filled with memories, his glance fixed on the sky, counting the breeze bathing his flesh, grass tickling his side, hands under his head, rubbing absent-mindedly his dark hair. He yawns, watching the sun hiding beneath the clouds, smiles at them before turning to face Jinwoo.

“No, I’m good,” he says, “it is very nice to be outside after forcefully staying in for a while,” he adds, chucking, fingers covering his view, opaquing the sunlight bathing him. It must be true, he looks vibrant and youthful, more healthy than on their first meeting when he fainted nearly on his arms – a fate that has brought them together, that is working in mysterious ways (like magic and fairy-tales).

“Well then,” Minho smiles, getting up, “I sadly have to go,” and he checks, distractedly, his Rolex, shakes his head disappointedly, “not that I want to,” he adds, “but today of all days, I have a meeting. But I’ll be back soon. With something for you, promise,” and he winks at him, chuckles at his own cheekily comment.

Like this, Jinwoo is left alone with instructions to call if he needs anything – to call Minho any time, anywhere, - but he has no reasons to disrupt him, not when he has the whole house to tour around and, even though his head feels dizzy and, on occasions the walls dance, he is strong enough to be by himself.

He will ask Minho for a map of his mansion. There are too many rooms to remember, all of them painted in vivid colours: green, olive, lime, scarlet red, the succession is giving Jinwoo a headache and the halls are impossible long, always ahead to the next place. It is impossible to navigate but, after opening uncountable doors, Jinwoo finally stumbles with the kitchen.

For someone who survives out of take-away and delivers, this room is impressively equipped: there are cabinets, two fridges filled to the brim with containers and frozen chicken – and different types of hand-made kimchi and motherly made side dishes. There are six stoves and two ovens, and Jinwoo has never seen this many household appliances before – he doesn’t dare to approach them.

He feels terrible knowing that Minho has no one to cook for him: it is more than he can take and, besides, the easiest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, he has learnt from Seungyoon, who has been constantly fed by Seunghoon since the beginning of their relationship, that was trapped by food and peppered kisses and never tried to break free.