8

It takes a lot of forbearances to teach Minho, who keeps on going his own way, even if Jinwoo has told him ten times to stir fry instead of boiling, but Jinwoo doesn’t give up, keeps on repeating instructions and making the best out of Minho’s disastrous attempts to cook. It's endearing and entertaining to witness every failure he does, all the effort going to waste because there is nothing to do with Minho - he is a hopeless case who doesn't have the minimum notion about cooking (though Jinwoo keeps on encouraging him, has faith that he will, eventually, with a lot of patience and perseverance, he will manage to fry an egg). 

“I am good, am I hyung?” he asks, full of expectations, an undistinguishable dish in front of Jinwoo - a pile of brownish debris. It looks raw around the edges despite that half of the chicken has been scorched and burnt out, which is a rare combination even for Jinwoo – he stares at it quizzically and takes a spoon of the soup. It tastes bitter and salty, bits of crushed garlic floating around like tiny ships.

“What have you exactly done?” Jinwoo wonders with a brow rose up, a frown that makes his nose scrunch. But Minho is so exalted and delighted to get his attention, looking for praise that won’t come – because he is a mess in the kitchen, there is nothing on the dish he has made that can be saved, less of all, praised, and Jinwoo feels terrible to have to bring it up, to bath Minho with the cold reality of his unskilled hands holding a pan. “Certainty, not what I have told you,” he adds, saving Minho to have to reply, “I know you are a creative person,” he says, trying to make it better before the fact check, “but you have to follow the steps while cooking, there is no other way,” and he sighs, pulling the soup aside, as far as the table allows.

Teaching Minho is a tiring catastrophe, his lips tremble in a vain attempt to smile assertively, but his eyes look hollow and dim and Minho glances at him worriedly.

“I think this whole adventure has exhausted you, sorry,” he mumbles with coloured cheeks, feeling that he is failing Jinwoo, feeling that he must be taking care of him, not wearing him more than he already is. Jinwoo might believe that he is doing better, that he can be discharged soon and back to his normal life in a day or two, but Minho stares at him, sitting with his face on his folded arms, leaning on the table, sighing slightly, trying not to drag Minho’s attention, for him not to notice the efforts he is taking to look healthy. He is still white as ashes, all bones and dangling skin wrapped around, he can’t take long walks and needs to support his weight against walls or Minho’s shoulders and he has observed the way he sinks on the mattress, closing his eyes and breathing in hard, his heart pounding. Sure, he is doing better, but he is not in good condition enough to be left alone, unsupervised – and Minho prays and wishes for Dr Park to convince Jinwoo to stay with him forevermore.

It's has been hardly a week since they have met, but Minho can't picture his life without Jinwoo now, not after getting accustomed to finding him walking around his house, filling it with the sense of belonging, with his mellow voice like singing, smiles as bright as the moon - he wants more of this, more domesticity, to discover home with him (the home that is Jinwoo to him). 

“It’s OK,” Jinwoo says, faking a smile that Minho can see through. Minho shakes his head, holds his hand and puts him into his embrace.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he insists, gently, his hand thrown over his back, his arm bearing half of his body, Jinwoo’s leaning on him. “I’m sorry for being a mess and for keeping you from resting,” he apologies, but Jinwoo giggles, his eyes half-closed.

“You need to learn the basics before getting creative,” he chuckles, remembering the chaos of Minho’s cooking attempt – even if he tries to negate it, he had fun watching him burn pans and creating mayhem even with the simplest of the dishes, the image of it sinks, softly, into his heart. “I’ll write you the instructions next time and you better follow them,” he adds, sternly but with glittery eyes so Minho knows he is half-kidding – that he is not mad at him, that Jinwoo considers that he still has potential (that he hasn’t lost hope, though Minho might but persisted only to keep Jinwoo by his side). He aims to make Jinwoo’s stay as happy and joyful as possible, pleasant, a day he can’t forget (days so good that he will wish for them to never end but, so far, Minho isn’t sure of it, Jinwoo has been hinting at his recovery more often than not and Minho can’t think about losing him, can’t afford to have this house empty again, not when it feels so perfect with Jinwoo in).

Jinwoo wants to tell Minho not to practice on his own but his head is drowsy and the words don't form: they stick into his tongue, disconnected from the world. 

Minho doesn’t feel so bad about leaving Jinwoo alone when he is sleeping – he has felt onto bed half asleep and it took a minute for his chest to sway at a regular pace. He has contemplated him for a few sweets minutes before the quietness of the moment being smashed by the annoying, vibrant sound of his telephone. He has been summoned for a meeting at the headquarters – probably just to sign a bunch of documents, nothing of importance, but he has to go and tear his gaze away from the sleeping shape of Jinwoo, all curled under the soft blankets that have gained the taste of clovers that belongs to Jinwoo  (and that Minho, sometimes, sneaks in just to relish into it, rolling on top of them, his nose buried into the fabric).

On occasions, he feels the intensity of his feelings for Jinwoo getting out of hand, out of control, leaking through every pore of his being but, to this moment, Jinwoo hasn’t mentioned it, hasn’t announced his disgust with his behaviour – he has been nothing but nice and kind. Some other times Minho thinks that, perhaps, he needs to do more to be noticed, appreciated, seen as he wants Jinwoo to look at him – with love that matches the burning flames of his heart. At a time Jinwoo seems interested, inclined to flirt – subtly, gently, shyly, but there, evidently to Minho. But, mostly, he is friendly to him, erasing any trace of something else, of something more that could be sown and grown, blooming like flowers under the shape of a blossoming relationship that Minho longs for, craves for. And, since he has little to no reference to taking in, he recalls plots of old movies where the love interest is earned by presents and grand gestures – and, even if the situation with them is completely ineffectual for great deeds, he will come up with a plan to win Jinwoo’s over, to win his tender affections and fondness.

Jinwoo wakes up to a soundless house and a folded note next to his pillow. He rolls his eyes, reading it eagerly – despite predicting what is it about.

For a few hours, he has the place for himself and so Jinwoo engages into having a bath away from prying eyes, eyes shaded in dark, chocolate brown that is constantly on him, trailing on him, dancing on his figure like spiders. The water is so warm and smells like black roses, all bubbly and fizzy and, when he soaks in, he feels every knot on his back dissolving into tiny foam, and he gently massages his shoulders and rubs away the wrinkles on his temples, enjoying the moment – a moment that it’s a first and, most certainty, the last since filling up a bathtub this enormous must cost a week salary (but Minho can easily allow it, he swims in money, hasn’t asked him to refrain on any kind of expenses). He sinks into the hot, steamy water and let it drop from his hair to his shoulders, rivulets navigating across his bare skin, cascading to his long legs of bones and flesh that quivers when he gets up and has to hold onto the wall to steady his feet, head foggy and dizzy with the remaining puffs of vapour coming up from the still-warm pool.

He checks the time again, pondering where Minho has gone, wondering when he will come back home – feeling stupid for even worrying. He has forgotten how to kill time by himself, too used to working until exhaustion and living on cars and saunas, without a moment to himself – a moment to rest, a moment to breathe. He walks aimlessly around the house, dragging his feet, fingers touching the wallpapers, feeling its texture underneath his nails, marvelling at the mismatch of objects and collections that define Minho’s home. He lets his fingers wander over odd pots and frames, putting prices to them, wondering if he could take them away, sell them without Minho discovering that he is a stealer, but the mere thought brings pain to his head – Minho has been too good to pay him back in this manner, and he is better than that: it doesn’t matter how desperate he is, he is not going to rob a friend, and Minho is, indeed, one now (he has won his place with all he has done for Jinwoo, for his generosity, for his care and unwavering love). He wants to be more than a mere parasite to Minho, he wants to do more than on him, to feed on his blood until Minho is dry and broken just like Minhyuk did to him – he wants to be better than that, he doesn’t want Minho to find out his wrongdoings, the mess he is immersed into, the drama of his ed up life (and he feels like crap but he has no other option, nothing ethical will work out – he can’t even exactly work, stuck in bed, too tired and exhausted). He needs the money so urgently, he is at risk of losing everything, the last of his belongings, but he is still reluctant about this whole scamming plot in his head - he texts Seunghoon and asks for his opinion: he says to back-off, agrees with his reticences about stealing more than what Minho offers him as presents). 

With his feet under the cold waves of the pool outside, the sky a mess of blending colours and the trees swaying with the soft breeze, he sits and stares, feeling at ease, in peace. This moment feels perfect, it feels ethereal, everything else, all of his preoccupations, the weakness that carries inside of his heart, the worries and fears, everything just dwindling, disappearing – and Jinwoo takes in the whole view unfolding in front of him, letting the touch of the wind caressing his cheeks brushing away his wet hair.

He feels recharged, carrying the freshness of the green, lush trees, drops raining from his forehead, trailing over his cheeks like rainbow tears catching the colours of the sunset above him, and he watches it with his head surrounded by grass, his eyes following the stars. He sinks into the moment, forgets all, mind clear of anything but the growing shades in the sky – orange and purple and bleeding red at the far corners, painting the horizon with hues of heavenly fire. For a brief instant only Jinwoo exists, the world exploding like tiny bobbles of champagne, fizzing up on the glass, disseminating, disappearing, and Jinwoo feels happiness gracing at him – feels the old sensation of being content, not buried with worries and debts. A glint of joy after months of exhaustion, of been worn off, stripped to his bones, overworked. He could get used to this settlement, to have Minho paying for all his expenses – he is convinced already that Minho won’t oppose paying off his bills and scores, he will be elated to be accommodating to his needs. But he knows better than to lead such a parasite life – he is currently in parentheses, it’s only temporary, he will be soon out of it, back to work, back at living alone.

Jinwoo gets up and, with a last glance to the lost afternoon, he heads back inside, shaking the last droplets sticking on his hair.

After Minho’s failed attempt at cooking Jinwoo feels terrible – he can’t leave him like this, relying on delivery food when he has a restaurant-like kitchen to use. Preparing food comes to him easily, likes to try new recipes, the different aromas coming from the pan or the oven, the texture of the ingredients, the sound of a knife cutting vegetable, the sizzle of meat being grilled. He loves it all – loves sharing his dishes with everyone, has been the one thing he is sure Minhyuk truly valued. And Minho has done so much for him, this is the only way he has to repay his generosity – so he takes his phone and does the grocery online, hopes for it to arrive before Minho (and he feels less bad about using Minho’s credit card because it's for a good cause - it's to feed Minho as he deserves, he thinks, unpacking the delivered groceries, arranging them in the countertop, pondering what dish to do). 

His bones crack when he moves, but the kitchen smells lovely and it gives him the strength to continue, the picture of Minho coming home to a handmade dinner brings chuckles to his mouth - he has been too cosy, too homey with Minho these past days, doing things he used to do before, with Minhyuk (and, this time, the recollections taste bittersweet on his brain but he doesn't fight them back, let them play inside of his mind). He yawns and cranes his neck, adds some salt to the fermented radish and takes a small bite. Jinwoo grins, pleased with it. 

Minho can’t believe that Jinwoo is pent up inside the kitchen again.

He runs to him, dead worried that he has overdone himself, tired and worn out. But, to his surprise, he hears him humming, rumbling around, checking the content of a boiling pot. He sneaks in unnoticed, carrying parcels with him that belong to Jinwoo – that he has earned by being just him. He restrains the urge to say anything and just stays still, observing Jinwoo, relishing into this rare moment where he can contemplate him openly, without being judged. He swirls into the kitchen the same way he entered his life: carefree, without hesitation, digging in as he tries to dig out – but Minho doesn’t want him to go, can’t contemplate it, so he will do anything to keep him by his side: the first person to ever matter to him, more than any friend or family (Jinwoo has come in like a storm, changing everything with the span of a second, grey and troublesome, he has accepted him all the way, even when he knows now that Jinwoo is walking in a pickle, that he is more than what he lets transpire, that he carries secrets he wants to undercover, discover, hold in his hands).

The moment he turns to get something from the pantry at the other end of the room, his eyes meet Minho and he stares at him, shades of surprise painting his expression, lips stretched in a perfect circle, round and peachy, tilting his head, questioning his own presence, the reason for having come in so surreptitiously. He raises a brow in slow motion and Minho observes it cautiously – as if a wounded animal, as if a sudden movement could scare him.

“You are back!” he exclaims and the moment breaks apart, the tension dissolving and Minho exhales the air trapped inside his throat.

“Yes, I’m home,” he smiles broadly, waving at him excitedly, stupidly, watching him with delight – eyeing these plump lips of him so perfectly shaped as a heartbeat, glossed with temptations and sweetness: the promise of wonderful, summer kisses. “Sorry, it took me a while,” he adds, shaking the thoughts out of his head, clouds streaming hot ministrations that he feels quivering under his skin. “I went shopping,” he explains, beaming,  “I got you presents," he chirps, excitedly, glancing at the paper bags resting on the hydraulic floor, "I wanted to go with you, using the opportunity that I had to go out anyway, but you were too tired. I hope what I got you will fit your taste,” he says, pushing the bags to Jinwoo, who looks at him apprehensively, worry veiling the shine of his eyes. “Do you want to try it on?” and he can’t help the hopefulness of his voice, the latched urge to see him wearing what he wears, matching like kids going to school – he wants to ravel into the sight of just Jinwoo, help him remove his shirt and let his fingers wander over his sides, tenderly gracing his flesh, taunting his bones, chasing his dreams that lay on Jinwoo’s chest and that’s the place he wants to be buried down.

Jinwoo glances tentatively inside the bags, suspicious, reading the precedence of the items, trying to figure out what waits inside – the terrible choices of Minho. He spots Luis Vuitton logo and something that reads like Freiknock that has him making faces, concentrating to follow the lines of the hanguk inked. He frowns, attempts to brush it off – to avoid the humiliation, - but Minho looks so happy, elated, he can’t neglect him like this – after all, in the end, he is going to sell it, he just have to try it on and never see them again.

Minho takes clothes as if it was Christmas day, all jiggling and smiling, and hands them to Jinwoo, who unfolds them carefully, glances at the tags, trying to calculate the prices – but it’s a losing game: they are more expensive than he thought, it makes his skin crawl in shock.

“This one,” Minho says, his tone light, high with expectations and dreams come true, “goes with this pants,” he adds, revealing a pair of odd fitting velvet trousers, the colour of sherry wine splashed with bleach. The attached price sums up for more than he earns in a month – and they are monstrous, horrid, mismatched longitude of the legs, too tight for his own health. The shirt he is trying to combine it with is another terrible choice but he considers it, watches the anticipation building up in Minho and he wants to faint – he could, actually, pretend to be sick, but Minho is looking at him raring, all itchy with bubbling excitement, with bated breath. 

“You didn’t have to!” Jinwoo exclaims, flustered, looking at the terrible choices he has made – he might know nothing about fashion but he is sure this is terrorism towards the industry and the professionals. “You have already done more than enough for me, no need to also dress me up,” he adds, shyness blushing his cheeks adorably. Minho shakes his head, blond hair scurrying, bits of straw shaking around.

“I can’t have you wandering around wearing the same every day,” he proclaims, “it’s nothing, anyway," he adds, a well practised flourish that he says all the time Jinwoo complains. 

“But this is… too much,” Jinwoo tries to reason, showing him the price, “this is terribly expensive,” but Minho brushes it out, laughs at the prospect of Jinwoo preoccupied about his financial state – he is rich, he can flex his money in every possible way and he wants to indulge Jinwoo with every delicious thing he has negated himself.

“No,” he dismisses it, pushes back the denim jacket, “it’s a present, please, accept it,” and Jinwoo has no other option but to take it, despite it being hideous – he isn’t sure if he will be able to find a suitable buyer: if anyone would want such a horrible thing. “And it’s more for me than for you, since it will please my sight,” he adds, joking, and Jinwoo smiles shyly, tries not to deceive him with another negative answer.

“I don’t deserve it,” he mumbles, folding the pieces of clothing, feeling the softness of the fabric: silk and organic cotton. It is too much but Jinwoo knows that Minho won’t back out, that he will insist and persist for him to keep it, that it’s a present – a present for no reason at all, - so Jinwoo sighs once more and puts on a pleasant smile just to make Minho feel better, rewarded for his efforts, for all the time and money wasted – for all that Jinwoo will get out of this performance, latter on.

He feels dirty just by thinking of selling all these items. It doesn’t matter that he obviously wants to get rid of them – that he won’t wear them, in any situation he could possibly be in: they are terrible choices that don’t match and exorbitant prices for what the label is offering (faded, worn-out fabrics, awful animal prints, colours that he can’t even name. But he is already enmeshed in that fantasy – so there is only one rational thing to do: he strips out his own clothes (Seunghoon’s T-shirt and Seungyoon’s pair of too-tight jeans, folding them in a corner of the kitchen, piled carefully).

His skin shimmers golden under the last of sunlight coming through the window panel, silky, milky, he wants to trail the veins pulsating on the surface, rains his fingers over him, falling like dripping drops of jewellery, sweat pooling on his hands that he wants to slowly put on him, touching every fibre of Jinwoo exposed. When Jinwoo lifts his arms to take off his baggy, shabby T-shirt, he reveals the terse side of his ribs, all bonny and firm, a glorious expansion of skin that makes Minho’s heart pound, accelerated, quivering. It is magnificent: Jinwoo is, all and everything regarding him – from his heavenly voice to the darkness of his eyes, the shadows that his hips cast just below the hem of his jeans and Minho needs to stop thinking, staring, has to focus on something else that isn’t Jinwoo’s chest. There is no stop to his feelings, this urge to have Jinwoo, to have him now – he stares at it blankly, leaves his imagination wander over all the options, all the possibilities, all of his wanton and lust and that Jinwoo, so innocently, so naive, is igniting on him (he is gasoline to the flares that live inside of Minho’s mind).

Jinwoo feels his eyes falling on him, travelling up and down his figure, mesmerized by flesh and bones, skin too pale, too skinny to be arousing – long has it that he felt confident in his own body, sure of his proportions, sure of be luring, captivating, to be bathed by the lust of Minhyuk’s eyes, ravished with lips and teeth and nails ploughing on his back, over his hipbones. His cheeks flash red but he pretends not to notice, ignores Minho to the best of his abilities, does as if he weren’t there, throwing hungry glances at him, looking pitifully lame and starved – looking as if the first time seeing a man (and he is not yet there, his jeans are secured on his waist, he holds them just to ensure that he is saved (not that he worries about Minho, he is a gentleman, even if lust is pumping inside of his heart)). He hurries to get dressed again, even if that consist of wearing the ugliest shirt he has ever laid eyes on – it feels like wearing moss all over, itching and distasteful, but he can’t complain because Minho is right there looking at him all expectant.

“Great, lovely!” he cheers, blinking as if the sunset has been caught on his lashes, smiling broadly, the high tension broke once Jinwoo put on something, veiling what had Minho so fascinating, hazed over the exposure of his chest. Jinwoo looks down at it, rolls his eyes, let it slide – let Minho’s comments sink into the air, his head filled with the idea of how much he will get out of this. “It’s amazing that everything looks great on you,” Minho compliments him, smiling broadly, falling stars coming from his eyes to Jinwoo, handing him yet another monstrosity of an outfit – Louis Vuitton never looked so wrong in someone as it looks on Jinwoo right now, all mismatched and a mess of different overlapping patterns. And, on top of that, Minho procures him a padded jacket that makes him feel stuffed and big, he sinks into it as if it were water.

He might not know a thing about fashion but, surely, Minho doesn’t either – he feels ridiculous and stupid and misses the holes of his favourite grey hoody, soft and worn out.

Minho analyses him, up and down, his pupils falling to the ground. He shakes his head, straws of blond hair swirling around, encompassed.

“No, this won’t do it,” and, for the first time, Jinwoo agrees, hurries to get rid of them, piles off the layers of clothes until he is only wearing his underwear.

Minho needs to refrain from the urge to pull him in, to hold his frame and never let him go, to touch every inch of sacred skin exposed in front of his eager eyes. He tears his glance away, feeling rosy creeping up on Jinwoo’s cheeks, feeling that he needs to calm down – Minho intakes air and, slowly, lets it all go. But the image persists under his eyelids, the picture of Jinwoo, perfect and gleaming under the light of the kitchen, the delicious figure that he is, it makes him burn, his bones scolding, his heart pounding, drumming in his cage, screaming his name, yearning from caresses that are just part of his imagination, a mere illusion he has drawn out of his adoration for Jinwoo. It is too much. “Get dress, hyung, you will catch a cold,” he says, voice raw, scratching his throat with nails and claws.

Jinwoo complies with Minho, collects the scattered bits of his pride and puts them together, covering his skin with comfort and security – and Minho breathe comes out shaky for a moment, before becoming even again and Jinwoo feels that his attention has been divided towards something else.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” he offers, smiling as if nothing has transpired between them, as if he never felt Minho’s eyes lusting over him, the lust craved all over his expression, shimmering on his glare.

“Yes, just let me gather all of these,” he says, pointing at the pile of ugly clothes, “I will leave them into your room,” he adds, pushing them back into the bags, rushing to get out of his sight.

When he comes back, half an hour later, he looks refreshed, his face beams at Jinwoo, at the table filled with what he has been cooking, thanks to him profusely.

“It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness,” he replies to Minho’s pleas of him to take it easy, to rest and get better. “Besides, I like to and I feel much better,” he adds, smiling, serving a spoon to Minho’s plate – and Minho shivers being fed. It feels like a well-practised dance, the both of them repeating the same things, skirting around reality, avoiding the elephant inside the room: that this ball will be over soon. 

“There is nothing to be repaid,” Minho insists, sure that having Jinwoo around is enough to fulfil all of his dreams – that Jinwoo alone is more than worth any effort, any won spend on him, every hour by his side. Jinwoo doesn’t need to cook for him or to force himself into doing anything against his will: Minho only wants to help him – that’s all. And, after all, he is the one who should be thankful for – the universe, the location, the incredible circumstance that has brought them together, to bundle, to become closer. Whatever that is going on with Jinwoo – everything he tries to hide and conceal, every grimace he holds in so Minho won’t see: he has noticed, he has worried over – he has figured out that something was very wrong with Jinwoo, something he doesn’t want to talk about, something revolving his past and the love of his life that he has mentioned earlier on, a glass of wine on his hand, sadness storming inside his eyes, his voice drowsy, mind foggy, eyebrow crowded together over the warmness of his eyes, half-worried, half-afflicted, sinking onto Minho as if he were a life-saver, as if he could delete what was hurting him, the troubles that brought him to his limit, to the end of his rope.