Chapter 12:

I loved how I abandoned all my homework, how I fled from the momentary stress of school and basically everything in general to accompany Jongin.

The cool, fall air felt unwelcome to my skin, yet a comfortable sensation engulfed my body and I suspected it originated from the hand that was clasped around mine.

I wasn’t scared or nervous. The overall feelings that I possessed were less revolved around what I was about to do and more centered on the fact that Jongin grabbed onto my hand, allowed me to go with him, and trusted me.

“Hey,” I started, realizing his pace was relatively slow even though I was still slightly trailing behind him. Our outstretched hands were the only connection between us.

“Yeah,” Jongin breathed.

He halted, an unexpected movement that caused me to collide into his back. The familiar scent of his school uniform filled my nostrils.

I wasn’t sure of what I was supposed to say.

“Nothing,” I returned.

I earned a skeptical glare.

 “You’re just being a slowpoke,” I teased, gazing at him almost endearingly.

“You’re the one who can’t keep up,” he scolded back at me but there was neither malice nor venom in his tone. That feeling was replaced with an emptiness, which honestly scared me more.

Again, we became submerged into deep eye contact that swallowed both of our hearts and the lit up city and seemingly fast cars became a blur and the only thing standing in front of me was Jongin and the only thing standing in front of Jongin was Kyungsoo.

“My legs are just short,” I managed to reply.

This produced a snort from Jongin who, uncharacteristically, tugged at my wrist, signaling that we should hasten our stride, despite my less than long limbs.

“So let’s talk,” I continued. “About your dad.”

By now, I learned that while Jongin did beat up six people from his middle school, he was completely harmless, especially towards me and I could get away with most things without getting beaten to a gory blend of pulp and human insides.

“What about him?” Jongin remarked, his voice still having a relatively empty and emotionless quality.

“What’s up with you guys? I think you’re at my house and stealing my food more often than you are with your dad,” I honestly remarked.

Jongin in a breath.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

We walked across a busy crosswalk, while avoiding some bustling people who seemed to have exceedingly important places to go to at such a late time.

“Come on,” I pressed. “You know you can trust me and I am going with you.”

My tone was so soft that I thought I could barely hear myself but Jongin had amazing ears as always and picked up every word, reacting with exceptional reflexes.

“I know, Kyungsoo.”

 Jongin’s voice was hoarse.

Again, when he spoke my real name, with such emotion that he had lacked before, I felt my stomach clench and my thoughts go blurry and possibly my vision go fuzzy too.

I didn’t respond.

My right hand was going numb from the lack of contact it had with anything, nearly freezing solid. There were no pockets to place it in and my left hand already occupied the space between Jongin’s fingertips. Basically, it felt like it was a ball of heatless skin and flesh.

“We don’t have a bad relationship,” Jongin finally spoke, leaving only a slight essence of emotion now. “He’s never hit me or at least I don’t think. But he’s just an empty body, a human vegetable. He’s only a shell of what he used to be.”

I felt his pinky twitch before he continued to talk while we walked.

“Ever since my mom left, we haven’t really had many meals together. It’s not because my dad doesn’t want to see me, it’s because he’s never hungry. And occasionally he drinks. That’s his life. Go to work, sleep repeat. But then when he misses my mom, he drinks and he gets like this. That’s all.”

I had a gut feeling that there might’ve been more to this than Jongin said, possibly more than Jongin knew but I stayed silent for a full minute before saying anything.

“It seems like a desolate life,” I informed him, earning an agreed nod.

 We walked in a silence that overwhelmed the atmosphere but not necessarily in a negative way. It seemed more reflective as if we were both questioning our friendship.

Jongin’s house was a townhome caught between two other townhomes that appeared to be relatively larger than his. It was squished between them as if the air was being out of it and from the dark I could tell that it was a deep shade of an awkward green.

There was a dim light illuminating the contents behind a window, revealing a tiny kitchen and a shaking shadow, but there wasn’t much that I could really make out.

From his back pocket, Jongin retrieved a key ring with one sad, lonely key attached to it that looked as if it was supposed to remain untouched.

An unwelcome, low shout cut through the air like a deep buzz. It caught me off guard and I didn’t expect Jongin’s grip on my hand to tighten in order to calm my nerves that were suddenly rising.

I wasn’t anxious before but now that we were getting closer, realization was dawning on me faster than anticipated and I noticed that I wasn’t prepared.

When Jongin unlocked the door, another wave of silence lapsed over us and the room was too quiet. We followed the small light until we entered the kitchen.

Jongin’s father was a sad looking man as I predicted. He fit Jongin’s emotional description quite well with an essence of cliché aura emitting from his body. His figure sat lounging against a chair on the cold tile floor in a poor excuse of a kitchen and his head was tilted upwards, a bottle of whisky poised between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a delicate cigarette.

“Dad?” Jongin approached him.

The man with familiar disheveled hair that closely resembled Jongin’s, glanced over, only shifting his eyes and instead of laying them on his son, they stopped on me.

Keeping his eyes trained on me, he replied to Jongin, “You came.”

“I did,” Jongin took a dangerous step forward and even more riskily, gently retrieved the liquor from his father.

“Who…who is he?”

I expected it to be more slurred but the man’s voice was relatively stable, considering the screaming that had been heard earlier.

“He’s-“

“WHO?!” The man repeated with more viciousness and impatience.

“He’s my friend,” Jongin remarked, hiding the bottle of whisky behind his back and returning to my side, watching his father.

I tried to make sure my glance appeared in a way that wouldn’t be perceived as judging.

Jongin’s father snorted.

“Tch, friends. Yeah right,” he lowly answered.

“But I am his friend,” I spoke up, feeling slightly more confident.

Suddenly Jongin’s father grasped the chair with a venomous hold and he hoisted himself upwards and hazardously stepped forward.

Jongin instinctively stepped in front of me and I felt my stomach clench in anticipation and a general feeling of warmth despite the situation.

My hand left his and clutched the fabric on his shirt, attempting to pull him back beside me. He remained still as ever, like titanium.

“Hey,” I uttered but he didn’t budge.

Jongin’s father was stilled as he watched us.

He then did something I totally did not expect in a thousand years.

The older man broke down and sobbed. His body racked with emotional shivers and random heaves, up and down, occasionally revealing a stream of water that engulfed his face like a shower head dripping over his hair and flowing down his cheeks uncontrollably.

Jongin’s reaction was slower than I thought but eventually, he ambled over to his father, dissolving into a hug with him that was awkward and unsure but needed nonetheless. He still appeared as if he didn’t care, his arms limply lying on his father’s back and his expression full of emptiness but I could tell he was purposely holding back.

When the drunk noises simmered to a sound the closely resembled a silence, I spoke up.

“I know what I need to do.”

The smell of soup consumed the kitchen and the noses of Jongin and his father. It was something that I whipped up with the lack of ingredients that remained in the cupboards; however, it turned out better than I thought.

It was much needed and I could tell that Jongin’s father, who wasn’t necessarily sober but more coherent now, needed something else inside his stomach other than the bitter alcohol that already drenched his system.

We sat down at the splintered table and I placed soup bowls in front of the two and also had one for me.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Jongin’s father wondered, his eyes travelling towards me.

His eyes were tired and they still looked as if a kernel of tears and pain remained inside of them, transmitting a feeling of pain to whoever looked into them. They really reminded me of Jongin.

“My name is Do Kyungsoo, sir,” I responded. “Please enjoy the soup.”

Talking to him made me nervous, like when I used to speak with Jongin. Not counting the first time. The first time I met Jongin I was naively fearless. But after a while, the growing fear (which eventually retreated though) became larger and larger and I soon realized that Jongin was generally dark person.

While we sipped up the liquid along with chunks of veggies and some meat that I unthawed from the freezer, I learned that Mr. Kim wasn’t a bad person.

Just a sad one.

“You probably think I’m crazy, Kyungsoo,” Mr. Kim addressed me. “Drinking like this.”

His lips were pressed into a line and it seemed as if he struggled to let the words out, like a bit of his drunk self was still trying to be contained.

I could tell the heat of the soup was helping to clear his head though. He remembered my name already.

“No,” I argued. “I don’t.”

But he continued anyway.

“Ever since that poor boy committed suicide,” Mr. Kim wistfully looked downwards.

Jongin’s entire body tensed up and I found myself clutching onto his knee under the table, calming him. His eyes remained trained on his soup, a sense of perplexity consuming them with an immeasurable strength.

“And my wife left me. And the witnesses fled.”

“What?” I suddenly asked, perking up. “The witnesses?”

“Yes,” Jongin’s father continued. “There were witnesses to the beating that fled to another country so a strain was put on everything and people thought that Jongin beat those people up without a purpose.”

A cold feeling settled in the bottom of my stomach and I felt suddenly uncomfortable. More so than before. This didn’t feel right.

“How awful,” was all I managed to say.

For the rest of dinner, there wasn’t much spoken because there wasn’t much to say. Nothing at all.

I did all the dishes without question, not allowing Jongin to help so instead he stood idly, watching me hand wash them and individually place them back in the cupboards.

His father remained seated, staring at the wall in a lifeless manner that reminded me of Jongin’s previous description.

“I probably should go,” I whispered to him, catching eye contact with him. “And you should probably stay with your father.”

“I’ll walk you,” Jongin proposed.

“No,” I stubbornly answered. “Don’t. You’ll just have to walk all the way back. Besides, I think you should stay here.”

Jongin’s shadowy, tired eyes met mine more intensely, like before. His plump lips were slightly parted and eyebrows partially risen. His skin appeared darker and exceedingly powerful in the dim light and the overall complexion and sincerity in the one stare, filled with both love and hate, was almost enough to make me teeter backwards, but I remained upright.

“Hey shorty,” he informed me with a low, dry and somewhat exhausted voice. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I remarked. And I entirely meant it.

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A/N: omg. it’s so short. i sincerely apologize. god. sorry. K anyway. ASDFADSNC. School just attacks me with work and I just stopped and updated because I hate ap…k so…comment? Please :D Tell me what you think…I just randomly put randomness kind of…some fluff…not really..kind..a…yeah but like I said comment…say what you think and all that jazz.