7

The drizzling sound from the pan is what drives Minho in: he isn’t expecting to find Jinwoo cooking, but that is exactly the picture that's waiting for him. He is rummaging through the fridge, taking pots out and turning them into delicious-looking food, the tempting smell all spread over the room, spanning to fill the hall - the spicy aroma of curry and chilli, the sticky sweetness of soja sauce and a bitter-sour tart hint of anchovy, a reminiscent of old days in his old house, eating with his family, relishing into the taste of his mother's dishes (but it has been so long since then, so many years have gone by since the last time they all reunited under the same ceiling, around the same table. He looks at Jinwoo and twinkle, delighted at the prospect of having someone to share his time with, someone who won't ask about meetings or talk about prices and the right-size of the staff working in the office; it's just going to be him and Jinwoo).

“I’m back!” Minho greets him, smiling broadly. He comes into the kitchen carrying a massive box that he lais down on the counter, picking up Jinwoo's curiosity, who comes around, shooting glances at the printed label. Jinwoo is wearing an old T-shirt and baggy sweatsuit that hangs low on his hips, dangling loose-fitting around his legs when he moves. The colour - washed out, - pales his face and Minho raises a brow at him, inquiringly. "You shouldn't be cooking," he protests, looking at him sternly, firmly, "you should rest," he insists, but Jinwoo disregards his concerns, removes the content of the pan he is stirring, on hand holding the handle, the other one on his hip - his glance thorn between the fire, the box and Minho.

“I'm fit as a fiddle," he jokes, just to turn to Minho, pouring his attention on him for an instant "don't worry. You know already that I like cooking, and, besides, I can't stay locked in all day, hurled in a bed doing nothing, as much as Dr Park said," he says with conviction, "and I wanted to do something for you, in return for all your kindness," he adds, colouring Minho blushy, his mouth twitching up in a shy and proud smile. Up until now, nobody had ever done this much for him - though Minho would bring down the moon for Jinwoo, nothing asked in repayment. 

Minho knows that Jinwoo is a good cook - he has tried his meals before, at Seunghoon's, - and this time he is proving his worth in the kitchen where there is a deploy of dishes half-ready, the main course - stuffed chicken marinated with condiments Minho can't name - is laying in the oven, - and every corner of the house is impregnated with the flavour of Jinwoo’s baking – chocolate and coconut and almonds, a cake as sweet and delicate as him, as scrumptious as Jinwoo’s lips must be.

This might be the first time this kitchen has been used and it has been done by Jinwoo, who nods appreciatively to the pot, watching soup bubbling. He seasons ramyon and it is mouth-watery already, still half-done. He moves across the room like he belongs, opening cabinets, taking pans, scanning the elements inside of the fridge – and it is so domestic, so comfortable, Minho can close his eyes and imagine that this is just normal, that Jinwoo lives with him, that Jinwoo pertains to him – that he is not only a passer-by on his life but a constant, the one that makes his heartbeats, keeps him afloat, away from drifting. He wants this homey feeling that Jinwoo emanates, the tranquillity that he brings on, he is cosy and warm at the touch, all gentle around the corners, snuggly and comfortable - he possesses all the qualities that Minho lacks and that he longs for, yearns to hold: Jinwoo is the core of this house-hold.

Eating with Jinwoo is paradise, the taste of his food melting under his tongue, a flavour that he hasn't encountered in any fancy restaurant before - because, he thinks, it has been made by Jinwoo and he has done that with all of his heart, pouring in his essence, his love. When dinner is over, Minho rushes to stop Jinwoo, who is a step away from the sink, ready to do the dishes.

"My housekeeper will do that tomorrow, don't bother," he explains, grinning, "but you can take that box over there," he adds, his smile growing bigger, Jinwoo's eyes shimmering.  He takes it cautiously, moves it to the table, makes room for it, delicately peeling off the seal.

Jinwoo is elated when he opens the present he has got him, claps enthusiastically, thank him profusely. When Jinwoo hugs him, out of the blue, Minho feels his heart about to explode, his hands around his waist, tightly pressing him closer, drinking the fragrance of his skin that is more than his soap and aftershave, pulls him deep into his embrace, his open, welcoming arms.

“You didn’t have to get me anything!” he outcries, his tone high with excitement and delight - he just means it halfway, he is truly thrilled with the present, a magnificent Samsung Galaxy Note that must cost his monthly payment, at least. 

“It's nothing much," he says, shrugging his shoulders, "I've noticed you have only that old Nokia phone," he continues, pointing at the relic that Jinwoo has next to him atop the table. "So now you can keep yourself entertained even without me," and he winks at him, flirty. 

Minho tries to get Jinwoo back to bed, but Jinwoo insists on staying with him, chatting. He slumps on the couch and pats the space on his side, making his point clear. Jinwoo asks him about his whereabouts, about his meeting, about his job and it's the first time Minho feels that he is been listened to, taking into account - Jinwoo nods, assertively, hearing him, his eyes at the front but his attention on Minho. And work leads to family and travels and childhood secrets and Minho finds that it's so easy to open up to Jinwoo, to reveal himself, exposing his fears and queries. Jinwoo nods, encouragingly, and Minho pours out his life for him to listen, to make sense out of it. 

Jinwoo finds it amusing how Minho acts, the way he behaves with him, so different from how he has been with Seunghoon – more composed and serene, giving himself a more sophisticated air. Instead, with Jinwoo he is all swoon and enamoured, soft all over, there is no roughness, all of his edges smooth because of Jinwoo – even his appearance, board and intimidating, dissolves: there is nothing scary about his face, his eyes are warm and inviting, sweet and kind. It is hard to resist all the charms he gushes out, showing off every little piece of him, trying to engage Jinwoo into this game of seduction that is more endearing than lecherousness and that Jinwoo declines, veiling his reasons with a change of topic that Minho rushes to follow, blanking out instantly whatever he has been trying before.

The moon is high in the sky, painting patches of silver and white on the floor, forgetfully drawing light on Jinwoo, who stirs on the sofa, Minho fast asleep on his side, the movie still on-going – but only Jinwoo is up to catch up with the plot. But he has been busy thinking, pretending, carefully avoiding Minho’s advances. At first, it has been friendly banter but it has slowly evolved into obvious, patent flirting, wolfing him with words and glances, his eyes trailing over Jinwoo. He doesn’t want to heat him up – recalling this morning has been mortifying, the lust washing over Minho put colour to his cheeks, - so he has been dodging his blatant attempts and tries. He is not prepared for this, not yet – perhaps never, not after Minhyuk: he can’t give himself away like this, not when his heart is still in pieces, not when he doesn’t have feelings for Minho (nothing more than a pleasant, retroactive friendship. Bringing up his past break-up must have been the reason why Minho backed off, composed himself – probably he remembered what Jinwoo had said, thought that it was too soon, too fast, and had stepped down, thankfully. And it's not only an excuse, he is not vamping it up, he really feels wasted after Minhyuk, unable to love, to partake in another relationship - he needs time, he needs to forget, he needs to mend his own heart once he is done with his sickness, once he is back on his own two feet, not relying on anyone else but himself. 

He rubs his eyes tiredly. He has been feeling exhaustion creeping up, smouldering his bones. He is still frail, his head spinning slightly but he is pulling off – he is doing his best to get well through his health doesn’t seem to agree with his will. He untangles his limps from Minho’s, carefully to not disturb him,  not weak him up. When he finally gets up from the couch, his feet feeling the coldness coming from the tiled floor, he drags them, sluggishly walking to his room, his knees too given up to fold. It takes a few turns in the hallway to reach his door and when he opens it, he lets himself sink onto the mattress, face hit against the fluffy pillow.

Minho finds him half on the bed, his legs loitering in the air.

“You should have waited for me,” he mumbles, his hands on his ankles, pushing them to the mattress, covering him whole with covers and blankets. His fingers linger on top of him, travel up to his hair, lets them brush the locks falling over his face – he puts them beneath his ear, exposing his soft forehead. Tiptoeing, he bends to kiss it gently, lips barely toughing, grazing his flesh.

Jinwoo is framed between pretending to be asleep and confronting Minho for kissing him – not that it matters, it barely counts as a smooch, a peek on his brow, - and so he stays still and holds his breath, keeps his eyes fiercely pressed and let it slides. He won’t say it to Seunghoon when he calls him tomorrow – it would be too embarrassing to say so, he doesn’t have the energy to deal with his friend’s energetic laughter.

Morning gleams over Jinwoo with persistent intensity. He turns around, tossing the pile of blankets that fall on the ground with a soft thud. It feels too early even to take the medicine but Jinwoo is a man of habits, so he opens his eyes, checks the time on his phone: a few minutes before the alarm rings. He swallows the pill and gets up before Minho can come in to help – he wants to prevent another incident so he showers quick and gets ready to face the day.

Once dressed, he climbs back to bed, rest there while sending a text to Seunghoon. He gets a call after the first message and he picks up before the colour-ring will catch Minho’s attention – he doesn’t want him to listen to his conversation, he is entitled to have a bit of privacy, even if he is staying at his house.

“Hey, how are you doing? How is it living in paradise?” he greets Jinwoo, all high on sugar and Seungyoon. “Playing house?” he assumes, jokingly, his laughter reverberating through the phone, vibrating on his ears as if he were next to him instead of miles apart. He is kind of right, though he won't let him know - it is already mortifying to have Minho's eyes on him, he doesn't need Seunghoon to stir things up more than they are.

“He got me a new laptop,” he comments in a tiny sigh, “and kissed my forehead,” he adds, but it only provokes a waterfall of laughter from the other side, as expected, and he heaves patiently, waiting for the annoyance coming from the other end to reduce, feeling hues warm his cheeks, humiliated and embarrassed.

“So you have become a wife already! He goes to work, you stay home, he brings you presents. God, this is so much fun!” he says, clapping, probably sharing it with Seungyoon – from afar Jinwoo can distinguish his friend’s high-pitch hipper-laughter. Jinwoo rolls his eyes so hard he gets dizzy and needs a second to recover.

“I’m planning to sell the laptop once I’m back to your couch,” he explains, a whisper against the telephone. “It is a Samsung Galaxy Note,” he adds, in a murmur, glancing over the door, the thump of his heart ready to jump at the sight of Minho entering the room – of him discovering his scheme, that he is just going to deceive him.

“He really cares about you, Jinwoo,” Seunghoon states, but it is just plain obvious, he is already aware of his feelings, of how much he worries about him, how he is always watchfully glancing at him, ready to catch him up when needed – since their first encounter when he fainted and Minho was there as if it was fated as if the universe were sending Jinwoo a hint, a second chance (an opportunity to begin again). And he is grasping it, has a grip on it, will do what he must to kindly get rid of his debt and Minho once he has managed to find a way – but, if Minho continues bathing him with expensive gifts, he will get the money soon and, so, he will only have to think of a way to not hurt Minho’s feelings too much (because Minho has properly fallen in for him, despite that Jinwoo hasn’t done anything to gain his love).

“I’ve noticed,” he says, tumbling on the bed. It’s not that Minho isn’t subtle with his displays of affection, he is openly pouring them on Jinwoo, constantly, by words and acts.

He lets Seunghoon chat a little more before the pair have to rush to work, bidding quick good-byes to Jinwoo, promising to catch up soon, to meet for a coffee at one of Minho's infamous cafeterias named "Osechill" – Seungyoon at the end of the line, cheerful, is sending flying kisses to his favourite hyung, wishing him a long and joyful recovery to spend with Minho. When he hangs up, he sighs, his head empty, with no idea of what else to do but to set up his new computer – but he can’t, he must not get attached to any of this, he has to sell it later on (when Minho is not around). Jinwoo is just wondering how much can he ask for his newly acquired laptop and if it would change the price if he uses it a little – he is all itching to install programs, press the smooth keys, settle it to his taste and needs. After all, he has never had anything this expensive and he is just curious to see it with his own eyes, and he is proficient and skilled with computers – has dealt with them enough on his main job at YG.

As if a mere thought could summon him, Minho shows up through the gap of the door, a tray precariously on his hands.

“Morning!” he chirps, full of vitality, carrying the taste of coffee and sugar. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, kindly, while breakfast is being served. Jinwoo nods, smiling, trying to ignore the memory of his lips dancing over his flesh – it has been nothing, he repeats to himself.

Minho has never been happier before, not when buying every piece of clothing inside the store, not inside a plane, travelling around the world, not even while partying, renting a whole club for himself and his self-proclaimed friends (that have all faded away into oblivion): nothing compares to Jinwoo. 

Jinwoo nods, all of his wet hair dropping tears down of his forehead. Minho halts the journey of one silvery drop with a finger slowly caressing Jinwoo’s cheek, catching it, wiping it off of his face, feeling down because Jinwoo has been awake for a while but hasn’t said anything, hasn’t come to him for help – which means that he doesn’t trust him or that he is getting better: both options can’t make his heart swell with happiness, he only feels hollow, emptied, the premise that his time with Jinwoo is becoming thinner hitting hard against the boned walls of his chest.

“What about you?” he asks, politely, a little smile fluttering at the corners of his lips. He accepts the coffee and a pastry and makes room in the bed for Minho to join. He sprawls by his side, precariously balancing their breakfast until Jinwoo takes the tray, places it on top of his bended knees, bites on his croissant, chuckling.

He wants to say that he has dreamt of him, but regards it as too strong – he has already done enough, has embarrassed himself more than once and he doesn’t want to push Jinwoo, wants for him to be content, to stay with him, because, alone, Minho has forgotten how to function (but, as easy as his life has been, he has never been this happy, as stupid and grandiose as it sounds, he has fallen in love with half a stranger who makes him want to be better).

Jinwoo nibbles a croissant and waits for Minho's answer – but he can’t tell him the stream of hot water coming on his dream, the images of his lithe, pale body splashed with little dots he traced, painting him by numbers, nipping on his neck. Minho shakes his head vigorously, diffuses the memory of the night, the dream just a bubble of fog and fire.

When Jinwoo gulps down the coffee, his adam apple moves within it, alongside the intake of the drink and Minho finds it fascinating, finds it enthralling – finds out that everything about Jinwoo is way too much perfect, too much seductive, even the smallest of his movements (he wants to trace them, to recreate them in his head). On occasions, Jinwoo seems to be miles away, uninterested but, other times he is just so nice and caring, so sweet and warm, Minho wonders if he feels the same way - if he is becoming enamoured, if he has broken the walls surrounding him, his affection reaching him, melting the ice of his heart. 

“I rested well,” he says instead, tempted to add that he should have wakened him – that he has found Jinwoo half dangling on the bed, that he has put him under the blankets. He bites his lips and lets blood paint them scarlet, takes a sip of his strong Americano and lets the chat go down – he has nothing to say but all to observe, his eyes following Jinwoo, who eats carefully under his stern stare.

Jinwoo focuses on his breakfast since Minho is watching, attentively, at him, ensuring that he eats enough to face another day. He crumbles another pastry, takes the flakes one at a time, bitting them slowly, making time. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, cautiously laying a hand on his thigh, leaving his cup of coffee on the tray that he has precariously balanced on his lap. His hip is brushing Jinwoo’s, under layers of silk and cotton from the blankets and the pyjama, but he closes his eyes for a second and pretends that they dissolve, that his skin is what caresses Jinwoo’s milky limbs – limbs that fall on the mattress, pressed against it, sinking under the weight of exhaustion and gravity.

“I’m better,” he replies, cheerfully, though the way to the shower had him dragging his feed on the carpet, eternal, the room bigger, spinning around, the sound of the water crashing over his hair, wetting it, a torment, a waterfall of pins and needles straight to his mind. But he wants Minho to believe that he will exit his life soon, that he doesn’t have to bother any longer, that Jinwoo will retreat to his own place in a few more days – despite sensing that this is what Minho dreads the most, that he is scared of being alone, that he has been neglected all his life, living in solitude in a place that is sombre and cold (like a ghost house).

He feels pity for him, though is he who is in a dire situation, the one who, in case of not been able to pay off an imposed debt will be sentenced, straight to jail. Still, Minho’s life, as easy as it has been, has been a lonely one, with no one to share it at all – and Jinwoo misses the touch of Seungyoon’s reddened, rough hands, his fingers curbing around his wrist, his head falling on his shoulder, a cascade of fluff curls spreading the sweet smell of marshmallow and pink afternoons, Seunghoon’s laugh, high-pitched and cumbersome, his way of messing with him and making him crack up, a mesh on the floor, all that he has and Minho has not: friends to disperse burdens with, people to hang out with even when the world is too big and he was too lost: they will always be Jinwoo’s light, the music of his heart. Before departing Jinwoo promises himself to make the best out of this, to make sure that Minho has a taste of friendship, a bit of love to remember, to think about, to long for – after all Minho is doing for him, Jinwoo wants to remain as a fond memory, even if he ends breaking Minho’s heart (and he knows that he will miss him, too).

“Oh, that’s good news,” he says, but they are not – not to him, at least, he has no desire for Jinwoo to go, he wants to keep him by his side, maintain this soft familiarity, this routine of seeing him sleeping, eating together, of dozing off next to him, with his hand an inch away to engulf Jinwoo’s, to feel the softening of his fingers caressing the inside of his tips. He has been craving for love for so long, he has buried himself with money and momentary pleasures, never caring, never feeling: Jinwoo has changed his game, his existence - he is making him thrive, wanting to see another day just to watch his smile. 

Jinwoo chuckles at the resonance of his voice filled with tamed emotions – hollow and vacuum, the contrary of his usual tinkling, gleeful voice. His lilt sounds bored, empty, and Jinwoo smiles amid the timid pout forming on Minho’s lips.

“Hey,” Jinwoo says, leaning his head towards his shoulders, feeling how rejected Minho has always been, kept close for others to see him – to hear his laughter and his deep voice filled with emotions, the sparks of his eyes while talking about fashion, the way he smiles at him, sheepishly but also irrepressibly, cute, born from sheer happiness and joy.

His hair cascades down Minho’s side, long and sleek, all dark ink and Minho exhales, releasing the air from his lung, spreading the taste of coffee across the room.

“Do you have any plans for today?” he asks, smiling like a fallen angel. Minho looks at him with surprise – he has never suggested anything before, he has been always taking the lead, suggesting, investing his time and will towards Jinwoo. Maybe, finally, his efforts are about to pay him off – perhaps Jinwoo has seen his true colours, has discerned his feelings for him, all the love he has stored all these past days and that know no limit or boundaries. It is all so fresh and new, Minho has trouble navigating through it, finding the right way to approach, the correct words.

“No, I have nothing on my agenda for today. Why?” and he chuckles at the way Jinwoo gets up hurriedly, how his eyes, clean and deep, become hazed by the sudden movement. Before even realising, Minho has his hands holding him, fingers curled around Jinwoo’s hip. “Take it easy, there is no rush,” he says, his voice vibrating straight to his ear, smoothing him. He helps him steady up, takes his hand and Jinwoo doesn’t fight him back, allows him to take care – doesn’t pretend to be better than he is.

“Then, Song Minho, I’ll teach you how to cook,” he says, beaming, “so you can put this kitchen into use,” and sinks onto the chair, legs crossed.