Crossroad

He can't believe his luck. He checks his phone but the screen is all black, he taps on it but nothing happens, tries to reboot it to no avail: there is nothing to be done, the phone is dead and he really has to make a call.

He sighs, rolls his brown, wistfully eyes and crosses his mind for having disregarded the charger at the office - three days out of communication, when he needs the phone the most.

He is considering just getting a new battery when, hanging on the wall, totally out of place, he spots the land-line, still there, useless and unused for decades. He takes the phone and, in wonder, hears the phone line working even though it has been there gaining dust during years of reckless abandonment. He presses the dials and, more amazed, sees the numbers being marked on the little screen. He giggles, smiling at it - smiling at the other Minho greeting at him, all grinning and happy, distorted by the distance and the fogged glass, the slow wind from outside tapping gently. He waits until someone picks it up.

"Hello?" a voice says, cautiously. A voice that he recognises, a voice straight from his dreams, from deep inside his heart. A voice that belongs to someone he has left years ago but that it is still a constant, a resonance from what was good in the world. Jinwoo's voice - sweet and swarming inside of his eyelids, melting all the fluttering fears.

He hangs up, too startled, too panicked to even reply to him.

It has been a mistake, he has messed up with the phone number, pressed the wrong key, he eases himself. He shakes his head and rinses his mind from the gossamer that still loiters inside and that is made out of filaments of memories of Jinwoo, of their shared, loved past – a past so great he needs a second to recover, the weight of his voice swirling in him, playing tricks with his mind.

He inhales hardly and takes a moment, a pause before beginning again. He is a bit in shatters, caught out of guard: he latches onto the wire and curls it between his fingers in a calm motion to empty his head from the stormy clouds that hearing him is threatening to carry within. The repetition settles in and helps to burn and bury the shape of his words, the generous colour of his lips, like coke and cherry, the amusement always installed inside his eyes whenever he was looking up at him – whenever he managed to make him smile.

He hasn't expected this, obviously, to dial a number he used to had learned by heart. It must have been a coincidence, he only ever used the landline to call Jinwoo, years ago, when mobile phones were still a novelty and he was too broken to get one. He scrubs his eyes, rubbing the creases formed over his forehead. Breathe in and out, once, twice, placate the rapid thuds of his heart. It means nothing, it’s just nothing, he doesn't have to dig into it, to dive into it when it has been clearly an error, as simple as that, a misplace of a number, nothing more than that.

He takes the receiver again and makes the call, the one he is bound to do - a call to a client who lives in Mokpo.

Ah, so did Jinwoo, he recalls, figments of past holidays on the beach with Jinwoo bundled in his arms, the sun in his face and the love pressed to his side, beating as if his own heart-ache. Before moving in with him. How long has it been? Ten, twelve years? He left everything behind just for Minho to ditch him, favouring work and outing with friends over Jinwoo. No surprise he broke up with him, after all, it was all his fault. Stupid and naive, he thought love could mend everything, that Jinwoo would always stay because he was so enamoured: because he had said so. He didn’t mean it and Minho can’t blame him for leaving, not when he was so intoxicated with his own name to recall the person waiting at home for him – waiting in a place that was home and that now is just a place he doesn’t truly belong.

Minho kicks the floor, feels the warmth of the wood below, shudders off the anxiety, the nerves that have come like a tide, waving above his memories, soaking him with rain. He doesn't need to think about Jinwoo, he is past tense, a fond recollection, that's all.

He waits for the line to connect but he can't shake it off of his system the way Jinwoo tasted, his words replaying inside of his head, a bad sequence of sadness and sorrow and a deep slit in his heart.

"Hello?" it comes again, less gentle, a bit raspy, but still Jinwoo, undoubtedly Jinwoo. He gasps, taken aback, too shocked to mutter a word, to comprehend what's going on. He has made sure to press the numbers right so it's impossible that he is calling Jinwoo again. There must be something terribly wrong with this old landline. "Minho, is it you?" and now he sounds reassured, beaming, can picture the smile spreading, the gleam colouring his eyes with newborn stars and tilting constellations, the sweetness of his tone latching to Minho, carrying memories he thought was lost – lost in the sea that always was Jinwoo, a sea of tears when he had departed, leaving him broken and alone. And it pangs inside of his core, the roots of an old love stiffening around his ribs, coiling around like vines, compressing and strangling, the air chopped inside his throat, threatening to bloom in the spare bits where his name is still etched, written in ghostly red all over the walls of his heart. "It's you, I know," he says, as gently as possible, the sound of his voice like a caress over his chest, warm, assuring, relieving. "You said you would call," he adds, a beacon of a smile. Minho doesn't understand what he means by this: why should he call Jinwoo? It doesn't add up. But, then, Jinwoo's tone is so light, ethereal and graceful, it feels alien, strange, he wants to hang in there – listening more just for the blissful pleasure of hearing him just speaking.

A memory flashes behind his eyes but it doesn’t make sense because that promise was made years ago and he, evidently, didn’t comply, totally out it from his mind – he obliterated it, never made the call to Jinwoo, the last straw on their relationship. Is Jinwoo joking, messing up with him? It has to be that, it’s the only reasonable explanation – that he is punishing him somehow for breaking his vow, though Jinwoo has always been kind and considerate and this is not like him at all, it’s the only upshot he can grasp, think about.

Or, maybe, he is just daydreaming: it wouldn't be the first time he confuses his fantasies with reality. He needs to focus, wipe out Jinwoo and replace him with his duty, his obligation to call his customer who is waiting for him – and he is late already.

"Jinwoo? I'm sorry, I don't know why I am calling you. I was supposed to be speaking with a client right now, must have gotten the numbers wrong," he utters in a rush of puffy words that become airy as he pronounces them, letting them go. He needs to hang up on him again, centre on getting his life together, on avoiding Jinwoo's number for good - because nothing good will come out of this situation, he has nothing to tell him but vacuum sorries, sorries that won't change anything at all. Because as much as he misses him, as much as he has been conjuring his name on his lips, the flavour of summer nights and winter spicy that was Jinwoo's soft skin under his fingers, it is just too hard to keep him without hurting - and he doesn't have the luxury of time to get hurt again, to fall into the spiral that it is thinking about Jinwoo, about what has been of him, about the shades of comets that were his eyes and stargazing into his smile.

"Oh, you got clients?" he asks, amazed, surprised to hear so and it makes Minho's heart shake like a windmill, alive after so much time standing still. He sounds genuinely interested and surprised as if the notion was new to him – even though Minho has his business rocketing, he is the best the market has to offer. "So, well, at least you called, even if by mistake," he continues and his voice has become thin and small and there is no way for Minho to stop this conversation - not until he has Jinwoo laughing again, he misses the jiggle of it, the enormous pride it brought back to him, to be the reason, the source of all his joy, of his hands clapping, delighted, his head over his shoulder and his lips an inch from a kiss. Listening to his deceived tone is an arrow straight to Minho's core and he can't take it, so he bows and avoids the hit. He can’t go after dispiriting Jinwoo: it’s rude and cruel and Minho is not this type of man – he needs to reconsider, reconnect with Jinwoo, rediscover the man he so much loved and who he so much hurt before, the one who still holds the pieces of his shattered bones.

"Well, no, I would like to talk to you for a bit, it's been a while," he hastes to say, not sure of where this will lead, but convinced to want Jinwoo – even if only for a little span of time, it will be great to catch up with him after so many years.

There is a chuckle and this is a good sign - he is still capable of amazing him.

"We just saw each other yesterday," he replies, a brow raised in surprise. Minho has them arched in confusion. Definitively they haven't seen each other yesterday, he is almost sure of it.

He wants to confront Jinwoo, ask him to stop with this nonsense, to parse what he is saying and try to get away with the meaning of it. It has been four years since they have last met, Jinwoo has to remember that – he was, after all, the one biding goodbye to him.

This is not actually happening, this is just a dream – he pinches his hand and it hurts, a red mark of nails ploughing his wrist. He stomps against the floor with the same result – his leg quivering from the shock, vibrating intensely, prickling above his bones and skin. It’s preposterous the mere notion that he might be talking with the past – because he has noticed that today, of all the days, is the same day he was meant to call Jinwoo, same date, around the same hour: as if trapped inside a film but it is really occurring to him. “Did you miss me already?” he says, gently, playfully, and Minho is not prepared for this; he collapses on the floor, the receiver hanging, tilting above his head, Jinwoo’s giggles slowly making its way to his ears.

He has finally gone mental, this is it. He is crazed, bonkers, delusional: this whole conversation it’s only a hallucination from his wild mind. He curls up in a ball on the floor, his head hidden between his bent legs, nonplussed, catching a breathe, focusing on his chest swaying, decadently, at an accelerated pace, hyperventilating. Minho wobbles, too stunned, confused with the revelation that this is all happening in his head – that this is like a dream, that he is feinting it, a product of his overwhelmed imagination. Maybe he should stop squabbling with it and face the fact that he needs help, that he is not well, unstable, puzzled by memories that are coming back to haunt him in his sleep.

But he is not sleeping, he has already cleared it. And he doesn’t feel like a lunatic, he hasn’t had any sign of mental instability before and his thoughts are running straight, he is sure that this is a confusion of his frantic mind.

“Minho? Minho, are you still there?” Jinwoo calls for him worried, and, well, if this is not real, if this is an illusion there is no harm in playing along – his heartthrobs and he misses the sound of his voice, the form he has to pronounce his name, so accurate, with so much adoration and love.

Minho makes a quick list of plausible explanations for this odd situation he is imbued in:

- He is dead and patches of his life are passing by in front of him – improbable, he is sure this has never happened before, it’s a complete construct of his mind, a complex fantasy that he has created inexplicably though he is not that amazed to have Jinwoo featuring in it: he has to admit, even to himself, that he has been missing him, recalling the flavour of his name rolling over his tongue, thinking about what they had since Seungyoon and Jiho have announced their wedding day.

- He is comatose in an ER after a crash but this is also unlikely to have happened, he remembers clearly opening the door of his flat, cursing at himself for having forgotten the charger of his phone when he needed to make a call, so he crosses it from the listing, racks his brain to come up with another solution.

- He has collapsed due to too much stress and work and now he is ludicrously unconscious, having a beautiful delusion – a dream of Jinwoo. And this sounds plausible, after all, he has been working around the clock for the past few weeks.

So, if nothing of this is real, he can dive into the illusion – it won’t shatter if it’s not tangible, And he really wants to give in, to surrender to Jinwoo, to whatever this is, this chance to change nothing but to be near Jinwoo once again – to embroider this interaction over his skin with tears and ink, this moment of wonderment and magic that his brain has conjured for him (for it is impossible that this is truly occurring, he might be deranged but he is not that fool to believe in time-travelling and magic phones connecting to the past).

“Yes, hyung, I miss you already,” he says, retrieving the phone, the cord stretched to reach him, Minho sitting on the floor, his whole limb quivering. The words come to his tongue with the force of truth unveiled. He has missed him, the feeling conceived, concealed among the wrack and havoc of what was left behind, but continuously beating through it all, low so he wouldn’t notice but constant, steady, surviving time and memories.

There is a soft strangled noise at the other end and Minho springs up, concerned. He realises a second later, the impact of his words, who he is speaking with – the exact moment four years ago, that instant he should have called and didn’t replaying in his head: Jinwoo is just touched. “I know I don’t say it too often, but it’s true, I miss you, every moment we are apart,” he adds, carefully to says the right things this time, to say what it is really pulsing through his heart – he doesn’t need to pretend nor to act, this is already a fiction, so he is going to release his sentiments, pour them into Jinwoo, imbibe him with them so, at least, the pain they inflict on him will subdue, relent.

“What has gotten into you all of a sudden?” Jinwoo inquires, a bit flabbergasted and Minho can understand his initial surprise: back then he wasn’t one to be so undeterred talking about his feelings – he wasn’t one to talk much. But he is more mature now, he has changed, he is no longer an immature playing with others’ feelings, fooling around with Jinwoo’s heart, believing that he would stay by his side despite all of the hurt and the pain. He has lived a life without him, knows the notion that it is to breathe when he is not around: losing him wasn’t a decision, was an imposition falling on him like a curse, the price for all of his crimes – for crossing his heart and hope not to die, getting away with promises made that he never complied. And now Minho is walking on wire, ten feet above the sky, saying all the sentiments that were always in his eyes but he never managed to say to him – too proud, too shy, too sure of a love that was a given to him but not to Jinwoo. He holds the ability to change what he did wrong, to reveal his inner self, presents it to Jinwoo and sees what goes on – so he can dream of a better life, a life waking up next to Jinwoo, wrapping him in kisses and mumbling all the love that he has and that belongs to the depths of his heart.

“Nothing, it’s just that I love you and I have been an idiot treating you so badly, playing around, not taking you into account very much,” he confesses, releasing the words that he has stored, caged inside of his throat – the sentence he was meant to tell him four years before, he is saying it now, the burden becoming flimsy, the guilt bearable, tolerable on his shoulders, palpitating below his ribs, over his stomach like a shoot to his heart, bleeding all that is lingering inside his mind. He just needs to burst it out, tell him what he couldn’t before – too proud, too scared of being abandoned, of depending so much on Jinwoo to the point of losing control. He is going to tell him now, he is not scared of his feelings anymore, he is going to be open and honest and hope for the best to come out. “I can’t promise to do better, but I’m promising you this hyung: I am trying to be better because the mere thought of hurting you leaves me panting, gasping for air, my heart can’t contain all you signify to me. And, yes, I’ll make sure to be worthy of your love, of your companion, I’ll make it up for all the times I was a hindrance, a complete moron. And I’ll never, ever, let you go because you are my air and I don’t want to choke – and I’ll choke without you so I’ll do the best effort to be meritorious of you,” and he exhales, feeling the cold air of the afternoon colouring the walls orange and mauve, shades coming from outside veiling his own shape leaning on the surface of his own house.

“Hey, it’s OK! I love you, too, there is no need to be this dramatic,” Jinwoo hurtles, words hasty, sweet and tender and drowning into Minho, who listens to his voice as if the holy gospel of God – with his heart in his hand and his feelings afloat. “But I accept your apology,” he adds, smiling, already grasping what Minho was intending.

“You know me too well, hyung, you have always understood the music of my heart, without me expressing it, you follow the notes, adjusting to me like a second life beating through me,” he tells, cheeks matching the sunset, eyes bright with everything that is genuine and that runs deep beneath his veins, pulsing amid his blood.

“You are making no sense, Minho, I’m worried that you might hit your head,” Jinwoo, though, sounds amused, flustered, his voice falling on him like crystal honey, clear and sugary.

“Hyung, I’m serious. I find out that I’m nothing without you. Oh!” he exclaims, shaking his head, “too much of a cliché, let me try again,” he adds, grinning at Jinwoo’s giggles, “I can’t afford losing you. And I decided to become a better version of myself, one that you can be proud of,” Minho settles to say, not precisely what he has in mind but close enough to what he wanted to express, the impression he intended to give to Jinwoo. “No more being a jerk, no more going out every night with my friends, no more long hours at work when all my reasons to be are summarized in you,” he continues, tersely.

“OK, I got it, now stop that nonsense and tell me about that client you said you got,” Jinwoo’s tone is bright and buoyant and Minho wants to paint his cheeks rose and peach, slump his finger to the hollow of his dimples, ensure that he is smiling at his silliness, that he is happy, content – as he deserves.

It takes a minute for Minho to be soaked by the immensity of the depths of his mind, the reason why he is talking with Jinwoo in the first place – the client he has so much forgotten about. But he can’t tell Jinwoo, he can’t because, four years ago he was barely beginning, was dust in the industry. There are so much he can’t possibly say, too confusing, too out of place – too hard to explain, - so he whitters, beats around the bushes, tells lies that feels more real than reality – when the reality is that he is delirious, dreaming about Jinwoo, about a second chance that is nothing but a mere product of his fantasy, of his hyperactive, receded mind, a replica of what should have been but never was and that is now intangible, out of grasp.

Perhaps this is not redemption – he can’t turn time back, as much as he wishes: this is what it is, just a passage inside of his mind, a hole he has dug on his memory line, a crack, a hollow he is filling up, replacing the truth with “what if” and “what should have been”. And he is fixing the damage committed, all the bullets fired to Jinwoo, mending broken bones and putting together the little pieces of a shattered core.

So, in order to not reveal and expose himself and this extravagant situation, in order to keep Jinwoo talking, to keep him on the phone, thrilled, curious, asking for more, dragging the minutes and turning them into passing hours, Minho chooses his words carefully, wittily, with elegance. It might be all happening only in his head but it has been so long since he has felt this exhilarated, his heart thumping, no rush, no pressure, just the pleasure that it is being with Jinwoo on the phone, hearing all the tints swirling in hos voice, the musicality of his tone, the spark that ignites a smile and that Minho is the cause of. It is like falling into a possible past, a past that he didn’t screw up, mess up, a past full of possibilities, an extended span of time where happiness lingers – where he can be with Jinwoo once more without doubts, without regrets (and bubbles of joy fizz inside of his veins, popping like jingling bells, bringing back the taste of his lips, the soft caress over his skin).

If he could, he would stay in here for the rest of the day – for the rest of eternity as well, he has his recollections all fogged, unravels Jinwoo, brings up their past and start afresh, but he can only hope to remember these sensations once he regains his senses, once he opens his eyes to the emptiness of his flat, the lights are long gone and icicles loitering inside of his heart, piercing and gritting over the surface. So he holds on to every second of this conversation, protracted it as long as he can, not prepared to let go of Jinwoo again – to let go of this wonderful dream he must be dreaming, this rabbit-hole transporting him to a past unfold.

If he could he would change all that he had done, put Jinwoo first, worshipping him as he should have – Jinwoo, the one hanging up the sun and the stars, the reason behind every one of his smiles, tender and sweet, a warm presence at the end of the day, a bundle of cuddles and joy. But he has to groove with what he has done – with what he has never done, - and keep on going, preserve this moment together like dried flowers, pressed between pages of his life, inked on every corner of his brain.

Afternoon fades at the edge of his vision, turning from red to purple to navy and he isn’t even aware of the changing features coming from the window, the light replaced by street lamps and shades bathing the hall, swirling above his head – he sits on the floor, the cord connecting the receiver stretched, a straight line from the wall to his ear.

Darkness falls on him, takes him by surprise, but he ignores it, doesn’t let time affect him – this is his moment, his redemption, his only opportunity to win Jinwoo over, to get him back, tangled in this weird affair, an everlasting dream furrowed inside of his head. He blinks, feeling his heart beating, spelling his name, leaking his sentiments in a manner that makes Jinwoo flustered – but Minho doesn’t care, he ensures that by the end of this illusion he is aware of them, has them numbered, listed, pinned deep down in his chest. Because this is a fantasy so he can be sincere, it will dissolve in the air anyway, become a dizzy memory, a rare recollection so he let him know, tells him all that he couldn’t before and Jinwoo takes it with grace, touches his hand through distance and time and Minho feels his tenderness dashing on him like magic.

It is so easy to fall into Jinwoo, falling into synchrony, dancing together in a ball of words. It is easy to talk to him, comfortable, comforting, as if he has just reached home – Jinwoo with his open arms welcoming him, enveloping his frame and pouring rain of soft kisses all over his skin. It is easy to lose track of anything that isn’t Jinwoo and when he hears Jinwoo yawning he raises a brow, surprised.

“Maybe we should go to bed,” Jinwoo suggests, the air hot and his eyes tired. “Though I really like talking to you like this,” he admits and Minho can see the tint highlighting his cheeks in rose and pink. He chuckles – he feels the same, feels like he should stay, clinging on the phone, listening to Jinwoo slowly falling asleep, counting his freckles and singing to him, lulling his dreams. He longs to have him by his side, to wake up to the sound of his heartbeat, to his hands latched around his wrist, his chin nestling above his shoulder, his cherry lips pulsing over his carotid. He doesn’t fancy good-byes, he wants to loiter in here a bit longer, tell Jinwoo that, if he goes now, it will be over – the magic held in this instant will be forgotten and he doesn’t want to miss a thing, he has been missing him for years.

But, after growling and pouting and complaining, he is defeated by logic and exhaustion and he hangs up promising to call him tomorrow – swearing that he will even though he isn’t sure what day tomorrow will be for him if the current of time will be draft again, pushing him further into the past or launch to the future (or if time will just stop messing with him).

He goes to sleep feeling accomplished, happier than ever. He smiles sloppily at his own reflection, embroiders the musicality of Jinwoo’s voice under his bones and sleeps soundlessly, feeling his presence wrapping him, his soft voice talking, assuringly.

The sun sneaks into the room in waterfalls of golden and lemon, warm and tepid, lighting his eyes with slumber. He churns and stirs, bumping into something.

“Hey, mind you!” a voice says, a voice forgoing, preterite. He opens his eyes in shock – and, indeed, he finds Jinwoo laying by his side, the sheets covering him, his precious face grinning, all sincere and perfect under the beams of sunlight. Minho shivers.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, staggered, in awe. Jinwoo looks at him in agape, tilting his head. “We broke up,” he adds, the words stumbling in a rush to come out, to get the answer.

“What? No… Or is this your way to actually telling me that you want to break up?” Jinwoo answers, voice riling, high-pitched with panic and surprise. Minho sizes that instant of confusion to stare at him, at the phantom cuddling with him – he gleams in creamy shades, the contours opalescent, stars in his eyes, his features more define and mature, affected by turning age, more creases on his smiling lips, more affection and fondness colouring his expression (less passion, he looks calmer, older, wiser, more kind and experienced).

He needs to check if they are on the same page – this is still a dream, he is sure, but it won’t hurt to confirm.

“No, of course, I don’t want to break up. Sorry, I got it mixed up, the nightmare is still dragging its cobwebs around me,” he apologises, summoning all the conviction he can, trying to sound firm, stern on his resolution. “Hyung, are Jiho and Seungyoon still getting married?” he asks, searching a confirmation. Jinwoo chuckles and it is still capable to amaze Minho to an untold degree.

“Well, you better be serious because I already spoke to them and said that I would bring you as my plus one,” he jokes, holding into him.

So this is the present – but he is still unconscious, isn’t he?

But this Jinwoo by his side touches him and he feels his fingers around his skin, the glaze of kisses over his cheeks, the tinkle that comes from his silky hair swirling above his forehead like a curtain of fireworks. And, even though it is not possible, it is so real, so tangible, he tangles himself around Jinwoo, captures his mouth, drinks the air from his lungs and reclaims him as he has never done with anyone else before.

It is so stuffy, satiated and dreamy, all the stars in his eyes and all the love in his heart. He lands his hand on his chest, grasps him and pushes him even closer, devouring every inch separating him from his skin. And time is no longer a luxury – time is no longer objective and he is lost into Jinwoo and doesn’t want to find the exit of this: he will rather stay than awake to an empty bed and a hollow heart lacking a piece.

“I am still amazed that you haven’t gone,” Minho says, later on – time a bunch of lies, no longer affection him. Jinwoo punches him gingerly, pouts at the motion.

“It was long ago and we solved it. I was pissed because you called me by mistake, which implied that you had forgotten to actually call me, but then you promised to change, to be better, to show your love and I changed my mind. Don’t you remember? It was…” he thinks, for a moment, counting the days gone by, “exactly four years ago. What a coincidence you bringing this up right now,” he giggles, pressing a kiss to his temples, “we solved our problems so we could continue being together. Because I loved you so much back then, I couldn’t allow myself to let go, even when it hurt so much,” he confesses, "you came all the way to Mokpo to collect me, drove us back to home. After that call," he adds, reminiscing, "you became much more attentive, thoughtful, dinners out, introducing me to your friends and all that," he explains and it doesn't add up to him, he can't phantom something that hasn't occurred to him, but Minho wants for nothing but to make Jinwoo him again, marking every angle and skin, one physical proof of belonging.

He does so, again, claims all the bits of Jinwoo, makes him moan his name until morning yields to afternoon and the sky is completely grey.

And, when he is done, with all his bones gone, all the ashes subdued and burning low, with Jinwoo peacefully napping over his core, when he is hurt so beautifully in all the way that feels perfect that he realises that this, this must be real - that, somehow, he has managed to tear time apart, to connect with his past and switch it, making the right decisions, taking the correct steps that, in the end, have kept Jinwoo. A landline to the past - and he takes a mental note to not try to call again, to replace the phone with a photograph of them.