Come Back Home

The wind blows harsh, raindrops dripping against the glass, one cold last days of December. He traces the figures, fingertips dancing over the window, distractedly, absent-minded, absorbed staring at the streets below, at the passing by and changing colours – from grey to white and smoke. He lets the crispy sensation chill him, washing over his own thoughts. From above and through the distance, he contemplates the cars flashing by, shades that move and transit, ephemeral, a moment suspended in the air that dies before it can be recorded. It is a cold winter morning that matches with his heart – frosted, numb, staunch. Unalterable like the droplets trickling the window, their path already decided, unmoved. A day to remember, a day that carries within a myriad of recollections, a patchwork of memories that he withstand, permitting them to be, to float his mind with the past, with the texture of his voice singing in the night – too loud to complain, too sweet to mind, - the taste of chalk and turpentine, the blare of fireworks in the sky condensed inside of his eyes. He is lost in his reflection, the stare that comes back from the tainted glass – deep brown diluted with raindrops and the husk of clouds, dull, overcast, glooming his features, blurring them to a mesh of lines and contours interlocked, drawing the person that he is – grey like his sweater, like the morning, like his own heart that throbs, unaltered, tediously monotone, attuned to his solitude, the loneliness installed between his ribs since then (since last April, when spring was suddenly replaced by a long winter day with no end).

There is someone ringing the door, the sound of it startling him. He blinks and his image moves within, disappearing. Outside the storm comes closer, darkening the sunlight, roaming over the streets, clouding the sky, and he feels it settling inside his chest, thumbing alongside the thunders – that something is about to happen, something unexpected.

Which is strange, Jinwoo considers while walking the distance from his room to the hall, pondering what has he asked to be delivered. Because Seunghoon bangs the door open, coming in like the wind - clean, refreshing, laughter in his heart. Seungyoon never comes uninvited, he is always calling first and, then, he has the password. All of them do - even the boy leaning on the entrance when he opens the door, looking rather out of place and uncomfortable - anxious and nervous-looking everywhere but Jinwoo, his eyes trailing, navigating from the ceiling to the ground, dragging within wind and rain.

Jinwoo is sure that he hasn't asked for Minho to be handed over to his door. Or a massive suitcase, for the matter. It was jjajangmyeon if anything. But here he is, staring down with an apologetic wince shimmering on his face, feeling down and desperate, fingers fidgeting with his torn, designed shirt, lips beaten to a rough patch of chapped skin, blemishing like a rouge lipstick stain, a blooming rose bleeding over his mouth, the perfume of agitation and tizzy that are completely incongruence in him. His hair has been combed too many times, the short, blond strands are smashed down by calloused fingers and the heaviness of the storm that is leaking tears gliding to his sides, travelling slowly over his tanned face, watering him, washing his sins. He brushes his hair, shakes the drips off – and they fall to the ground like shimmering diamonds. He has never seen Minho like this before – sad and abandoned to his fate, alone and grim. And Jinwoo wants to hold him, protect him, put a blanket over his fears, coat them for Minho – wants to pull him in, into his embrace, enveloping his frame with his arms, kiss the rain from his forehead, taste the wind from his skin, rinse the agitation from his eyes. But he knows better than to act – so he waits until Minho explains the reason for his arrival.

He contemplates the bags and Minho alternatively, his orbs glimmering with suspicious, pondering if this visit means something - if his hopes will be fulfilled or if this is just Minho throwing in more stuff he no longer wants in his life, throwing them to Jinwoo to mind, to take care of (as he has always done, taking in the leftovers tossed by Minho: clothes, the dorm, scraps of a song, a scrambled beats of a heart he used to clutch, the remnants of a love that has faded away, disappeared within Minho’s success and despair and glory). He has been coming and going and messing up with his heart, never giving in to Jinwoo, but never really giving up.

For the past few years, that has been the dynamic: Minho storming in to scuff and fumble, bringing in the taste of rain and tears falling down. Quick visits, unanticipated, a moment suspended, pegged in the air, wavering and unpredictable – sometimes nice, sometimes a nightmare.

Minho had departed – just after him, - leaving him behind, leaving memories and recollections to cut him raw, slashing him at night haunting him with his songs and the phantom of his hands. He couldn’t stand so he left, filling the dorms with emptiness, the taste of icicles, a snow scene.

It has been harsh, but Jinwoo understood, in the end, that it was for the better - that Minho moving wasn't because of him but because he was lonely without Jinwoo living in, without sharing every minute of every day in the same way, walking a path that was meant only for them. No, he disrupted their pace, unexpectedly, and so he was the one learning to survive with pressed images of Minho tangled around his heart, with his name on the tip of his tongue, his flavour upbraiding him for something he couldn’t avoid – for something that was meant to happen irremediably; he was set up to depart but Minho could have stayed by his side if he had wanted.

It has been the circumstance, in the end, they have nothing to do but adapt to them, remaining apart, living aside. And Minho had found a new place, had packed all his belongings and bided goodbye to the room where he used to sleep fuddled against Jinwoo when it was too hard to breathe when the pressure on him was high and the voices were screaming inside of his mind, bawling and yelling and Jinwoo soft words were the only thing guiding him back to himself, keeping him sane – kind words allowing him to rest well, to skip fears and terrors, to slide back to dream the dream of his heart.

And now here he is, waiting for something Jinwoo can't grasp, waiting for a reaction Jinwoo is trying to provide but that evades him, dodging like smoke over water, running from between his clasped tips. There is only one truth and it’s that Minho is here and his heart trembles and shivers, anticipating, mind racing, spinning, imagining already that Minho is here to stay - and if he won't, he will be the one to blame.

"Can I come in?" his voice is deep and sorrowful, and it is worse than hearing his songs on the radio - because he can touch it, it is real, tangible and the filaments of it tangle around his heart, hanging and choking him like cords and robes around his neck, ready to end his patience, the elucidations threatening his mind, imagines flooding his head, feeling the touch of his hands curled around his wrist, lashes brushing against his cheeks.

And what is he supposed to say? Should he let him come over and collect the crumbs he will leave afterwards? He has done it before, has overcome Minho, his sporadic visits to this place, has survived to his back being turned to him again, to the unspoken words, the longing, the aching, the irremediable parting that follows every time he is here – the irrevocable fact that he will depart again, vanishing until next time, until it dissolves into the air, a trace of gossamer falling on Jinwoo like pouring rain.

Jinwoo sighs, defeated - after all, he has no will to resist Minho, he has always taken it all from him, no defences needed.

He retreats inside the hall but Minho doesn't dare to step in, not fully, just barely crossing the threshold, as if fearing not to be welcomed. As if Jinwoo could break him with his heart of glass, with his honesty and all the pain he has caused.

"So..." Minho tries but upon seeing Jinwoo, all quiet and composed, he loses the balance, loses the force and the impetus, the willpower that has driven him here, to this place that holds him dearly, that embraces him with recollections he has sip with expensive wine and whisky on the rock, bottom-up to forget.

He looks around, torn, feeling more at home than ever before, feeling this place like he feels Jinwoo – homey, cosy, comfortable, easy to be with, soothing. He has replaced his touches with his own style and Minho realizes now that he has been too imposing, that he has never allowed Jinwoo his own space between their shared walls – that all was his and Jinwoo had to tag along. He stares at the room opening at the end of the hall, steps into the unknown with a pondering heart – and despite that it remains the same it transpires Jinwoo’s sincerity, the purity of his core and Minho wonders how much has he taken from him, how many things have kept Jinwoo trapped in just to not bother, following his trail. Without Minho, Jinwoo is blooming, burgeoning, his traits, before diffuse and blurred, meshing and colliding, are now clear like his voice – crystalline and echoing, pleasant to be heard, to be seen. And he has missed it, has been stupid, has wasted precious time that he should have spent with Jinwoo – but it is already too late to be sorry, he can only pray to be accepted again, that Jinwoo will want him back even if only for today.

It wasn't a fight, not really, what had separated them, it was the silence, the weariness, it jaded them – the dreariness, the dullness it blunted them. Little by little, it was falling among them, raining like autumn, cold and wet, an old September day. It wasn't one big argument, one terrible event, it was tiny cuts that kept on bleeding, that persisted in hurting even when the scar faded away. Continuously, constantly, pouring in, differences and indifference, old habits that became insufferable, things getting out of control. And Minho left, not because he had enough, but because he couldn't afford to lose Jinwoo. Because retreating was better than losing him, the one who bottled up all of his feelings, never complaining, always smiling, waiting for him in silence, his quiet presence, his warm hands pressed over his chest, the slow cadence of his heart-beats lulling him to sleep – Minho yielded to him but had no time to prove it, always too busy, always on the move, running ahead of him. It was better to leave, have his own space to think – a place unspoiled by Jinwoo, somewhere that belonged only to him even if he was dying to let Jinwoo in (dying to have him). Living without Jinwoo wasn’t living at all – it was a world that has lost its shine, flowers wilting under his touch, decadent. He needed Jinwoo but he couldn’t stay – he needed time to fix what time had broken, dispersed, bring back what kept them united, the spark to his beautiful eyes.

And the distance was slowly building up and, eventually, between them there was an ocean, insurmountable.

The words swirl in his mouth and he exhales, exuding the wreckage that is climbing inside of his throat, he bites his lips and feels copper flooding his tongue, bitter but calming down.

He points at his suitcase before saying what must be said.

“Hyung, can I stay?” and they come out in a rush of cold air and a pierced heart that hangs in agony, waiting for a reply.

Jinwoo stares at him, uncertain, divided – despite that he feels that, this time, it is true. Minho blinks, confused, nervous, his mouth twisted in a rictus, twitching spasmodically, flustered, unease, disquiet, apprehension washing him, coating him with trepidation and dread – as if Jinwoo could neglect him; as if a negation was an option: as if Jinwoo could leave him (as if it was a possibility). Jinwoo moves aside, making room for Minho. He doesn’t have to reply, the answer is all over his expression – in the tilt of his smile, the welcome that shines in his eyes, the way he is opening up, bubbling with excitement and happiness and joy, ready to jump to him, ready to kiss him hard. Majestic.

He can’t believe it can be this easy, this simple to return, to turn the page back and fill in again, falling into Jinwoo’s life like another leaf. As if nothing had happened, as if time didn’t push them away – as if Minho leaving didn’t affect him, though he knows it did, he is aware of the damage caused, all the wreckage, the crushed bones and the rolling down tears. The chill subsides, melts away – there is no coldness in the presence of Jinwoo, there is nothing but his arms circling him, his chin nestling atop his shoulders, flocks of dark, curling hair caressing his cheeks, feathery.

“Yes, of course, you can stay. As long as you need. As long as you must,” he mumbles, his words colliding with his lips, peppering kisses that wipes away the remains of the rain.

“Just while we are working on this new album, though, I’m still paying the mortgage,” Minho jokes, the suitcase wide open, his stuff thrown everywhere, disarray of clothes and complements. “This time you can be the one moving in.”