9

They have been drinking all night. Minho brought a fancy bottle from his personal cellar. It was good, it has an old and vintage flavour, leaving a trace of wood as the last note, a delicate after-taste. It was a red Cabernet and Jinwoo tried to enjoy it to the fullest, taking a small mouthful, swirling the liquor until the fragrance was imprinted on his palatal., whirling inside of his mind.

It was a deliciously atrocious idea. Ludicrous. He got drunk with half a bottle. He relaxed next to Minho, his head on his shoulder, his mind cushioned, between clouds of soft releases, his mouth working on its own, spilling what his head so hard tried to protect, to shut up.

It wasn’t much, he recalls, what he had said to Minho, the revelations made – but enough to make him suspicious, perhaps, of what he would do next. He doesn’t remember how he got into bed – likes to assume Minho had carried him, has tugged the blankets around him, kissed his forehead good-night as he did a few nights ago (he feels butterflies on his skin and tangles on his hair).

Even when he is exhausted, he doesn’t regret it - it was worth it, Minho was worth the trouble of standing still, cutting vegetables and stirring them: just to see the smile across his lips, the sparks inside his eyes, to feel like doing something good, finally (doing something to appreciate Minho’s efforts, even if he won’t be ever able to match with him: it’s the least he can do as repayment to all his kindness, to all he has poured on him – for the laptop and the horrible clothes, for all the money he will get after selling them on GMarket). Jinwoo has feeling low being the only one receiving, the one at the winning lane, and he wants to share with Minho the joy of friendship, companionship, to make sure that their time together is also rewarding to Minho, healing too. It’s the least he can do – since he can’t love him, not yet, maybe never, maybe he won’t even have a chance for that because, after he is released, Minho will become a memory only, no longer a constant presence he is starting to enjoy.

He has been awake all night long, hearing Seunghoon’s laughter right inside his ears, feeling Seungyoon’s lithe body pressed by his side, kicking him, fumbling and tumbling, unsettled. He has been having bad dreams, too, waking up early, covered in sweat, drags of memories loitering inside his head, repeating themselves like a broken record, feeling empty, a constant buzz on his mind that has appeared since he has moved to live with Minho. At first, he took them as signs of exhaustion, but now he is sure it's the overwhelming sensation of all that is going wrong with him, all the symptoms of what was left behind inside of his head, crawling and scratching, irking his mind and that now are wandering free - all the dots that tracks him to Minhyuk, the inviolable bound that forces Jinwoo to stay together with him (and all the damage and sabotage he did to him, too, adding up to the pain, adding to haze to the permanent feeling of dizziness at the back of his head, constantly throbbing, pulsing like the keys of an old piano - by instinct: they pop-up at random moments to annoy him, to hurt him, to chase him and bring him down, back to face the ty reality he is avoiding (the bubble Minho has blown around him, walls protecting his heart from falling apart again)). 

It has been coming slowly: like tides and waves, little by little, raising on him like passing by images, unfocused words on a screen. His name prompted suddenly, tasting bitter over his tongue, the sensation of being mocked, of being talked about, voices mumbling at night, calling for him, laughing at him – and he has been so unrest, upheaval, he feels every inch of his body whacked, his mind spinning, racing against the wind, a terrible head-ache bubbling, brewing up like thunders warning before the storm.

For months he has been running away, his mind too occupied, always going ahead, never looking back, never a second to waste with a past so sad. He has blocked, locked up every emotion, all his being focused on surviving, in making all the ends meet, not getting caught by Seunghoon's worried face, by Seungyoon's nagging retorts. He has been to hell and back, but his thoughts are unable to chase him, too far to reach. Now, Minho makes time for his mind to settle down, all the ideas and memories swirling in his mind untamed, have a moment to be formed, to become coherent, understandable. He has so many hours alone to listen to the voices in his head pointing fingers at him, blaming him for all that Minhyuk has done, for being a er, a looser, a wrecked heart to play with, naive and innocent, the perfect victim.

He tries to open his eyes but, even then, it’s all darkness and sorrow, he can’t make out the shapes of his surroundings – the chair, the books piled on the table, the lamp, the glass near the iron supplements he has to take every morning. He sees blind, all drawn blank. He blinks but his head fumbles, tingling, squeezing his temples like forceps compressing his skull from within, inwardly.

It remits after a few scarred heart-beats, like tunnel-vision, his sight slithers back with a tinkling sensation all over his flesh, goose-bums covered with cold sweat and fizzy head, all his limbs falling, numb, his voice a humming inside of his broken bones – Minhyuk’s voice shuffling into his mind, singing every moment they had but that was only an illusion that will shatter as soon as he gets up (but that keeps coming back for more: he doesn’t let him forget, even when he is gone and he can’t fight it, can’t fight a memory, grasping at thin air, fanning it away like dragged gossamer.

Jinwoo shakes his head and fishes out his phone – still too early to get up, but he swallows his medication before hitting the pillow and drowning into another sleepless morning recalling the past, every step he has taken but his head is hazy and everything rotates, revolves around like pirouettes, dancing shapes and colours blurred against the wall. He breathes in but the air tastes fizzy, effervescent and he is losing balance, is losing control, his mind jumps across space and time and he drowns into hot water, into the oblivious darkness, dives in, gives up, reaching the bottom where he is waiting, where he has always been – but he has been too busy to see, to get in touch with reality.

There is one last, persistent thought before the room dissolves: before all that there is is led by the vastness of oblivious, of nothingness: Minhyuk – everything always comes back to Minhyuk, the end and the beginning, the origin of Jinwoo’s distress and troubles (it’s always him and he can’t shake it off of his system, dispel the curse that bounds them – he can’t get rid of his name).

He is slightly hungover from Jinwoo and the Chardonnay he has hauled to after they were done with the Cabernet. They have a toast for a quick recovery, to more dinner together – for that moment to reel him in, never-ending for Minho. Jinwoo has been so talkative, opening up and sincere, he has talked about his friends and his family. He might be a little drunk, but not enough to loosen up, to sprawl on top of him, to let it all go and dive into Minho – he had fallen asleep on him, but the sensation of his cheeks brushing his jeans was enough to ignite ashes inside of his lungs. He has traced his freckles, lining them across the silk of his face. He has doodled his love all over the palm of Jinwoo’s hand that laid, forgotten, on Minho’s lap – he has curled his fingers around, feeling the pulse thumbing below. Minho hopes that Jinwoo is sleeping well, that wine will help him – isn’t that good for blood replacement, has he heard? - that his head is more clear than his own that twirls and whirls in dreamy fantasies of him, of a future that still has to unfold, a future as glorious as Jinwoo is – a future where he can grab his hand without being scared of being rejected, pushed away. They had a lovely dinner together after he had washed out any trace of steamy thought, diluting the memory of his exposed skin, of Jinwoo undressing in front of him. It had been too much, the scene too luscious, making his heart drum aggressively, out of tune. 

He shakes his head, shredding the tender filaments of the night before: it’s a new day and he has to face Jinwoo – he can’t do so if his mind is crammed with sinning images of them together, of his hands travelling across his body, sinking on the dimple at the end of his back, fingers pawing down into his peachy . He needs to cool down, has to stop thinking, recalling every gesture, every motion, everything happening again under his lids like flashes of an old movie.

It’s spinning out of his own axis what means being in love, as if Jinwoo is the air he needs to breathe in and out, the foundation of his life: Jinwoo has become the centre and Minho is only a mere satellite orbiting around. It’s a delicate, tender sensation, the evocation of poetry, of beautiful paintings hanging in museums all over the world. He is the sunrise and the flown of the river reflecting his own self, tinting the water in gold and silver – he wants to grasp at it but it runs through his fingertips.

The room is dim, a circle of pure sunshine bathing across the drawn curtains draws patterns over the tides on the floor, panting them with a patina of bright sepia. Jinwoo lays in bed not exactly as he has left him the previous night. Minho comes in wordlessly, tiptoeing, the fluffy carpet muffling his footsteps. He creeps in and seats behind Jinwoo, on the chair next to the bed, surrounded with his thumb around Jinwoo’s wrist and counts the blood running beneath it – slow-motion, as if in a fevered dream, Jinwoo feels cold and shivery, his skin gleaming, drops of sweat pearling his forehead, rushing over his arms, soaking the silk of his pyjama, a spoor of fear that makes Minho’s heart quiver, accelerated. He brushes wet hair out of his face, presses a wet cloth on his forehead, colds him down with little taps and water on his wrists and his nape.

Light eyes unfold suddenly, lashes batting slowly, unfocused, quivering as autumn leaves on the sun. There is no end to the depth of Jinwoo’s eyes, the shade of forests and home, the intensity of coffee and cream, just as soft and safe. Minho marvels at how beautiful they are, mesmerizing, all the stars loiter in them, twinkling like the dust of golden freckles. He stares at him, at the little curb on his lips, yawning, stretching in bed, the silk of his T-shirt sliding up alongside the blankets covering him, revealing a patch of soft, tender skin – like milk. When he turns to Minho, any traces of nightmares or fears are totally consumed by the force of his precious smile that he gifts at him, which makes his heart want to die. He blinks at him, unsure, a tilt on his eyes, his neck bend over the cushion, his lips glossed with water that shimmers like diamonds.

“How are you feeling?” Minho asks his thumb pressing on his wrist, carefully counting the beats of the blood below.

Jinwoo insists that he is good, despite the evidence of scowls over his nose, despite that he has had to wipe away tears out of his cheeks. Minho should know better, should have learned to read between the lines but he smirks at him with pretended happiness – he has to fake it because recovery means that his time is over, this opportunity wasted, no more chances to get to Jinwoo, to be his friend. Once Jinwoo will heal, he will become a nobody, a mere memory of a hassled times – that old song on the radio. Time is his enemy, ticking in silver against his pulse.

But it’s clear that Jinwoo is not OK – not the slightness and, this time, it has little to do with his anaemia, but Minho can’t pinpoint the reason.

“Easy, easy,” he says, helping Jinwoo to steady up. He leans his head on Minho’s shoulders, his eyes bright with confused tears.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “for being a bother,” he adds, for clarification. Minho shakes his head, his blond hair meshing with Jinwoo’s dark one, yellow and black blending. He looks gaunt under the sunshine that comes from between the window and that puts a patina of light over him. Gaunt and haggard, kissed by fire, and Minho’s glance falls on him worriedly.

“There is nothing to be sorry about, hyung,” Minho replies, “it’s nobody’s fault that you are sick,” he adds, smiling sweetly at him, playing the state of affairs down, “and I told you a gazillion times that I’m more than delighted to have you here, to take care of you, though, in reality, I do very little,” he adds, grinning sheepishly. There is a little chuckle that gets diffuse in the morning breeze but that splashes pride in Minho.

“You do more than enough,” Jinwoo argues, his voice sloppy, words coming out slowly, stuttering, in stammering streams. “You got me a house when I had nothing. You keep me company, watch over me, feed me,” he enumerates. “You didn’t have to, you didn’t know my name back then” he sighs, recalling that first moment they met, tears piling up in the corner of his eyes, a glimmer dot ready to roll down. “I’m just a nuisance,” he finally blurts out, his face collapsing on the cushion, hiding from Minho. “I don’t deserve any of this,” and he is thinking on everything that Minho has done and how much dust he has paid his with – how many times has he thought of sneaking out with his precious possessions, to use them to save himself. How selfish, how unkind, what an ingrate son of a has he been towards Minho who only wants to help him (who only wants to be loved and cared for). The pressure of it wiggles on his chest with the force of a whirlwind, a river about to spread, wild and untamed – all his emotions, all of his thoughts about to leak, the truth ready to be spoken about, all the secrets that Jinwoo has kept ready to be disclosed.

“Hey! Don’t be so hard on yourself! You’ll get better day by day,” Minho soothes him, rubs the parts he can reach – his hand falls on his ankle, the other is holding him by his side in half a hug that got Minho sprawled on the bed, his chin inches away from Jinwoo’s neck (and he can smell the traces of his soap spreading, soft and sweet). He feels the tears scattering, pouring on him like summer rain. “It’s OK, shush, shush,” he says, ruffling his hair affectionately. Jinwoo leans on him, his nose nuzzling on the crook of his neck, wetting his clavicle, filling up the hollowness of collar bones. He can feel the buzzing of his sobs, muffled, suffocated, recounts the thumbs of his heart, he can sense the weight he is carrying on, this burden that is causing all this distress, all of his affliction and pain. “I know there is something bothering you. You can tell me. You can tell me anything, I’ll understand,” he promises, his fingers doodling on him in reassuring, odd patterns. Jinwoo can not, he can’t explain it, can’t let him know – because it will ruin him, would be his end (and shame colours him rosy, heating his skin up until it feels like fever until he crashes down and weeps a little bit more).

“No, I can’t,” he sobs, hands covering his face, hiding his frame from Minho. He hiccups, rubs his eyes viciously, all bright shame on his cheeks. “I can’t, I can’t,” he repeats, sounding like a broken disc, disconnected, his voice void, emptied of any emotion. “I can’t, sorry, sorry,” he says, again, retreating into himself, dislodging from Minho’s side to sink into the bed, head hitting the pillow, his words muffled, dull, a softened repetition.

It has to be more than just his bad health, Minho thinks, marvelling at the intensity of Jinwoo’s outburst. He looks so out of character, he, who is calm and always composed, quiet and shy, he, who is sweet like honey and flowers, who deserves so much – it pains Minho greatly to watch him so broken, so precarious, shifting and trashing, limbs spasmodic, shuddering at an irregular pace, shaking his whole upper-body until he falls numbly, still, his skin cold and clammy. Minho runs his fingers along his spine but Jinwoo doesn’t respond. He takes his pulse – fast and furious, - and calls Sungjin for reinforces.

He calls Seunghoon for clarifications.

When he picks up the phone, he briefly explains the situation. At the other end, Seunghoon takes a deep breath.

“What is wrong with him?” Minho asks, tired of beating around the bush, of evasive answers to his vague questions. He knows there is something deep going on with Jinwoo, the real cause of his suffering but, so far, Jinwoo has been dodging it, blaming it on a bad break-up he doesn’t want to dig in – too painful, he is not prepared to uncover the truth: that Jinwoo is still in love with his ex-boyfriend (that he has nothing to do, that his attempts are in vain, that any option he has dreamt off is just that, a dream inside of his head).

Seunghoon rustles, murmurs something Minho can’t catch – Jinwoo shuffles by his side, his face looking at him, his eyes all white, void and hollow, inexpressive. He brushes his hair and feels tears dropping between his fingers, sweat splashing his palm.

“So he is breaking up, finally,” Seunghoon mouths gently, tenderly – as if he already knows, as if this is no news to him (as if he has been expecting this very moment and his mind is ready to cope with it – or mayhap it’s only that Seunghoon is sharp and focused and has been friend with Jinwoo since long before).

“What do you mean, Seunghoon?” he wonders, his hand touching Jinwoo in a phantom of a caress, just enough to leave a trace over his back of his presence – reassuring.

“I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, it’s Jinwoo’s life, after all. But, hey, we owe you. And you deserve to know. You have carried off Jinwoo this week, standing by his side even when you didn't know him at all so…,” he sighs, the air hot against his ear, “it has been a rough time for Jinwoo,” but that Minho already has figured it out.

“Because of his ex,” he mumbles, coaxing Seunghoon to keep going on.

“Because of his ex, yes. But he hasn’t explained to you why, right?” and Minho finds himself shaking his head, his blond hair scattering around like a whirl. “It wasn’t even a breakup. Minhyuk – the bastard – ran away, leaving Jinwoo broken. Literally. Plainly? He scammed Jinwoo, took all his money, got credits under Jinwoo’s name and disappeared. Jinwoo has been living in his car because he couldn’t afford his flat. He got different side jobs to keep afloat but, obviously, it took a toll on him,” he sums it up. There is a persistent buzz clattering inside of his head, an annoying whir that is inflaming his mind with the injustice served to Jinwoo – Jinwoo who is good and kind and who has been played down by the one he loved.

“Didn’t you know?” it’s the obvious inquiry coming next and Seunghoon is ready for it.

“No. He snubbed us, we didn’t see him in weeks. I only knew they had slit, but not the enormity of the whole scheme. Minhyuk scamming him? It never crossed my mind,” he confesses, all honestly – and Minho has no reason not to believe him.

“How much is it?”

“I’m not sure, but a lot,” but Minho is sure that he can take care of it – to pay off for Jinwoo’s expenses and all he owes and more (for Jinwoo he would walk to the moon and return to him with stars in his pocket).

“Let’s settle this, then, I’ll square up Jinwoo’s financials. I’ll talk with the bank later on, once I speak and convince him,” he says, firmly – and Seunghoon can’t hide the smile spreading on his face, the fact that this is what he was wishing for, the best outcome for Jinwoo (that he has found someone so deep in love that is ready to risk it all and everything for him – though Minho is so rich that, perhaps Jinwoo’s debt it’s just small change).

“I appreciate your offer, Minho, really, but… Don’t go tell on me, Jinwoo will kill me,” and Minho giggles because this is so likely to happen – he rushes to promise Seunghoon that he won’t spill the beans, snitch him to Jinwoo.

“I’ll just do it, then. And he can find later.” Right then the doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of Dr Park Sungjin. Minho flinches his glance from Jinwoo’s tumbling form to the door and, with a deceived sigh, moves on to let Sungjin in, “OK, the doctor is here. I’ll let you know what he says. Call you back. Thanks for trusting me, Seunghoon,” and he hangs up, waving at a worried Dr Park, that is frowning on the front door, waiting for him, leaving a concerned Seunghoon behind.