Lie To Me

Chapter One
Himup

On my seventeenth birthday, I wanted nothing more than to spend it with Kim Himchan. He was a busy man — though, I wasn’t exactly sure what he kept himself busy with, so I knew it wasn’t a very probable wish. Even so, I wished for it in the privacy of my room, gently tracing my fingers over the plaster and drywall that separate him from me. I had lived with him for seven years, but I had only seen his room a handful of times on special occasions. I was always curious about how he had rearranged it in the time in between, but I never said so. It wasn’t my place to ask about Himchan’s business.

Actually, if you didn’t look at just the right time of day (after dinner, when we watched the news) you wouldn’t have ever guessed that two people lived there. Himchan was always in his office, and I was always trying to do something. He had put a treadmill in the livingroom for me, so most days I did that, but sometimes I tried to read books or watch TV. I was supposed to be homeschooled, but Himchan always gave me the easiest problems and I finished them in a few months each year. To anyone else it might have been a pretty boring life, always contained in those white walls, but I was happy. Being with Himchan made me happy.

When I turned seventeen, it was a heavy day — heavy with memories, heavy with responsibility, and heavy with the number that seemed to be ticking down that measured my time left as his tenant. I didn’t wake up feeling seventeen. I still felt like Jongup, though a little crummier. The sky was grey that day, too — a rainy and slushy, February day. I spent a long time loitering in bed, not willing to get out of it until I could hear Himchan’s door gently knocking against the wall. I was usually up and making coffee by that time, and while he had assured me it was fine for me to sleep in on my birthday, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Rolling out of bed and I ruffled a hand through my messy hair and shuffled out to meet him in the kitchen.

Himchan always looked perfect in my opinion, but in the morning I liked to look at him the most. His hair was blonde, (though I wasn’t quite sure when he had time to bleach it, being a very busy man and all) and in the morning it stuck up in at least forty-two different directions. He moved a lot in his sleep he had told me once — he snored, too, but I didn’t think he actually knew that. Morning Himchan was typically grouchy, but he was the most natural looking. He had a habit of coming and going at all hours some weeks and not at all other weeks — regardless, of what he was doing Himchan was always dressed in suits with his hair styled. He ate dinner in a tie and took coffee in his office with his shoes on. I never really knew why, but I felt a little less awkward about my T-shirts and sweatpants when he was undone in the morning.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbled to me as I reached for the coffee machine as usual. He stood back and left me to my element which was, quite frankly, to take care of him and earn my keep. The bags beneath his eyes were worse than normal on that day, and my heart wrenched up to see that he must have been working so hard to maintain the nice apartment in which we lived. I would live my entire life indebted to Kim Himchan and his acts of kindness toward me, that much I knew, and every day I felt it in my bones, like an itching desire to pay him back.

“Thanks, hyung,” I replied with a smile — still almost surprised that he could even remember it. In comparison to him, I wasn’t very much at all, besides an extra mouth to feed and someone to make his coffee and do his laundry. Himchan meant the world to me, but I knew no other world beyond his walls.

“Is there anything you want? And don’t say nothing; make it easy on me.”

The words I wanted to say were born in my chest, my heart, to be specific. Thudding out with the robust beat, they were simply, “your attention” but my brain got ahold of them and ripped them to pieces. That sounded stupid and clingy, both things I knew Himchan hated. He liked concrete, clear concepts that left no room for interpretations — which I always thought was pretty weird since he used to be a psychologist, but I never questioned anything he said or did. Not out loud, anyway. Quietly, and shamefully, I tried to dissect his words for deeper meaning, but psychology was not my calling.

I didn’t know why Himchan did what he did, only that he did it, and that made him Himchan. Truthfully, that was more than enough for me most days.

My seventeenth birthday wasn’t most days, though. On that day I just wanted him to finally open up to me before I left so that I might find a reason to come back. I wanted him to need me as much as I needed him, and I knew it showed on my face. I was certain that Himchan could read me like a book each and every day of my life, and did so without comment because he didn’t want to deal with that.

I wanted to ask for his attention, but my brain vetoed it in that moment, so instead my head and heart compromised on, “Can we go out dinner?”

I picked my words carefully because Himchan was a careful sort of guy, and he was good at getting around corners. He looked at me for a long moment and I handed him a cup of coffee, black, and chilled with exactly six ice cubes (a number I had perfected by my eighth birthday). After that, he shifted his eyes to the sky outside, grey and churning for another long moment. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I never knew what he was thinking. Instead, I just waited quietly for the answer I hoped would go in my favor, muscles tight, not taking a breath. Seven years had passed without fruit, because even then I couldn’t predict a single thing Himchan ever said or did.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked at last, and I felt like my heart might leap into my throat. I had honestly expected him to refuse in the weird polite way he often refused things. In that moment seventeen seemed a little less heavy, and I knew I smiled too big the moment that I did it. He awkwardly returned the smile with thinly pressed lips.

“I don’t really know any places, is there anywhere you like?”

Himchan was usually pretty attentive, but that day he seemed out of it, like his mind was preoccupied with something else. His responses were sluggish and distant, and there was something about his eyes that seemed sadder than usual. That didn't surprise me any, really. Himchan was always tired on my birthday, just like me. I had come to live with him on this day seven years ago, and while it got a little better each year, we both felt like death was with us.

Eventually he nodded quietly and got me an apple from the fridge. Placing the crimson fruit in my hand, he broke the silence between just in time for nature to do the same as rain began to pelt the roof above our head. “I'll take you somewhere nice, make sure you dress appropriately.” And just like that, Himchan was gone, disappearing back into his bedroom, instead of his office which was incredibly odd. I let it be, naturally, since death was with us that day and not even I was in a hurry to get dressed for my rare quality time with Himchan.

I stared at the apple had left behind, running my thumb over the smooth surface and searched for blemishes. There was one even coat of ruby, not getting darker or lighter at any point, and it lacked bruises and soft spots of any sort. The apple was the perfect weight and its stem was at the optimal length for playing little kid games; and I was overcome with such an unexplainable sadness that for a moment I thought I might stop breathing altogether.

I very rarely refused things that Himchan gave me, in fact, I could count my bouts of childhood insolence on one hand, but I couldn't bring myself to take a bite of that apple. There was something unnatural about it, and I feared that if I were to eat it, that I might become just as synthetic as it felt in my hand. Instead, I put it back into the bowl of apples and withdrew from them as a whole. Following in Himchan's footsteps I hid in my bedroom from the sounds of the rain, the death in the air, and the perfectness of the apples in the fridge.

On my seventeenth birthday I wanted to forget the world and sleep it away – and I did, for the most part.

I finally dragged myself from my blanket refuge when the sun was getting orange over the buildings in the horizon. The sun set faster in the city, I knew, from the occasional spur of the moment holidays Himchan offered to take me on. Because of this, I dressed in a hurry, finding my least wrinkly shirt and buttoning it up to my neck. I hated to dress up personally, but Himchan kept buying me dressy clothes, so I knew he'd want me to look my best. After at least a dozen tries trying to tie a tie, I finally managed to reach a presentable level of appearance and I faced the anxiety that came with going out.

I went out twice a month, sometimes more if Himchan had little errands for me to run. I bought the groceries bimonthly, and that was the only reason I really went out. I used to go out for runs, but Himchan got worried about me being out by myself and bought me a treadmill. When I was younger, I used to sneak up to the roof to watch the sun go up, but Himchan had put a stop to that out of concern for my safety. For nearly half my life, he had been protecting me from the evils of the world in any way he could. Himchan was the only person I had in life, and he took care of me with all his might – that was why I didn't mind that we couldn't talk much even if we stayed under the same roof, he was busy with the mechanics of having a kid in the house.

Except I wasn't a kid anymore, I reminded myself. I was almost a man, with thick arms and a lean body, and I wasn't sure how Himchan felt about that; I wasn't even sure what I wanted him to feel about that. I knew that I had no hope in university, but my years of hiding behind a child's status were almost over. I was at the age where I should be preparing to support Himchan in a few years time – to pay him back in full for everything he gave me, but I was scared. This is where I felt that I belonged, sleeping by his side, with or without the divider of plaster in between.

With a deep breath, I faced Himchan. He was in the kitchen, dressed in a white shirt like mine with a thick tie and perfect fitting trousers. Himchan was a lean man, too, though he lacked the same muscle tone I had. Even so, he was prettier to look at, without a doubt. He was tall and slender with defined cheek bones and voice that could talk anyone to sleep. He was a beauty, there was no arguing that. I would have been happy to have been half as handsome as him that night, but I couldn't do anything but fumble with the buttons on my cuffs and smile.

“You look nice,” we said at the same time, which made me laugh and him smile in his awkward Himchan way. Without talking beyond that, we left our top floor refuge and headed for the parking garage below. I was happy like that, and I knew he was, too. Words were sort of messy things that got in our way more often than not. I wasn't too good at expressing myself, and usually sounded dumb when I tried to say important things. Himchan was a good talker, I knew, since I heard him on the phone every so often – but I never ever wanted him to speak to me the way he did with other people. When he met with other people he would smile big and wide and fake. He spoke with energy that I knew was falsified, so even if I got a colder version of Himchan, I got the honest Himchan, and I cared for him all the same.

When we got to the car, I grabbed his door for him and he snorted. Placing a placid hand on my head, he patted it twice and shooed me off toward my seat. Smiling, I went, proud to have gotten the tiny sign of amusement from him. Pressing my lips together to push it off my face, I fastened my seatbelt and he started the car. For a long time, we sat in silence, smelling the new car scent that had yet to be driven out of the vehicle and it was nice. My mind was often blank in Himchan's presence, which kept from thinking back to the negatives that came with my birthday.

“I'm proud of you,” he blurted out of no where, eyes ahead, hands tight. I watched him with raised eyebrows, trying out a few different replies on my lips without using words at first.

“Thank you, Hyung. What for?”

“You're a good boy, Jongup.”

“Thank you, Hyung.”

And silence blanketed us once more in a soft and caring way, swallowing up the discomfort of conversation. I wanted to speak openly with Himchan, I really did, but he was a person who took away my breath and words so often, I feared that if I started I wouldn't stop until I had talked us both to death. There was so much for me to tell him – to thank him for, and so much that I would never say.

I busied myself that way, imagining what I might like to tell him if I was smarter with my words, until we got to the restaurant. It didn't surprise me that it seemed fancy and expensive – after seven years, I had learned it was only the biggest and best for Himchan. He seemed to have an endless supply of funds that I was very careful to never ask about, and I just bit my tongue about my own awkwardness when it came to the luxuries of life.

Walking side by side, people tipped and turned their heads to see us. Himchan was a very beautiful man, and the response was suspect – but in that moment I thought a few people might be watching me, too. Nervous, I walked a bit closer to him, and he remained calm and collected, as always. Nothing ever got to Himchan, and I mean that with all my heart. Cooly, he pulled out his own chair and slid into it with refined sort of air. I, in turn, tried to do the same, but it squealed against the expensive tile. From across the way, an attractive older woman laughed at me and I felt like my ears would catch fire. She wiggled her fingers at me and I buried my nose in the menu as a response. I really wasn't meant to be in big fancy places like this, but this is where Himchan was in his element.

“Get whatever you want,” he reminded me, knowing that I was scanning prices, rather than food. Shifting in my seat, I nodded with an apologetic smile.

“I don't know what I want... the menu's in French, hyung,” I reminded him, and he laughed a little.

“I'll order for you then.”

Not long after that a nicely dressed waiter made his way over to us, and Himchan prattled off some French food – which, I couldn't quite make out to figure out how much my food ended up costing, which was surely his intention. While he spoke, the attractive woman from the other table kept her eyes on me, twirling a strawberry around in some chocolate sauce on her plate over and over again. I felt uncomfortable under her gaze, but she didn't seem to notice. She only smiled and looked at me in the way I imagined a cat would look at a fish that it wanted to eat. That's how other people made me feel often, though – like I was a piece of meat. I only really felt comfortable with Himchan, and suddenly I wished I had asked to get take out and eat out at our kitchen table instead.

“So, how does it feel to be seventeen?” Himchan asked, saying the age louder than necessary. Behind him, the woman seemed to be listening in.

“Not much different than being sixteen, I guess. How did it feel when you turned seventeen, hyung?”

Brushing a hand through his blonde hair, he laughed a bit. “That's almost prehistory, Jongup – I don't really remember.”

And in that moment, I was reminded that Himchan was old enough to be my dad, and even older than my mother had been. It was always a little discouraging when that fact asserted itself, though I could never quite figure it out. He had been thirty when I came to live with him seven years ago – when I was twenty, he'd be forty. I could never close the twenty year gap between us, and that's why I knew when I was nineteen, I'd have to go on my way.

“What birthday do you remember, then? Which one was your favorite?” I asked, desperately trying to keep the conversation rolling. He folded his arms over his chest, tapping his fingers on his upper arm in thought.

“Twenty-nine. That was the first time I met you, wasn't it? You came to the office and gave me cookies... Everything was decorated – I was really happy that day. I've never had a surprise party other than that.”

My cheeks felt hot again, but I didn't feel like meat this time. Himchan just made me feel warm in general, and that's why it'd hurt so much to let him go when the time came. If I could stay by him forever, I would.

“It was mom's idea,” I said without thinking, and Himchan's talkative mood seemed to die away. I even killed my own will to talk with that without even trying. For the past seven years we had avoided bringing up the thing that let death sit with us at the dinner table, and suddenly I had said it and I felt sick. Mentioning mom was something I avoided doing at all costs because it was like Novocaine for my brain, turning my thoughts to numbed lumps of sadness, rather than anything coherent. My stomach felt wrenched up, and the woman watching me was making me anxious.

“Sorry – I... I didn't mean to...” I mumbled, letting my eyes fall to my lap. Himchan shook his head, reaching into his shirt pocket to withdraw a handkerchief. It wasn't until he offered it to me that I noticed I was crying. Hiccuping, I took it at rubbed at my eyes. Every year, I wondered when it'd stop hurting to think of her, and this year I learned seven was not the lucky number.

“Crying is a reasonable coping mechanism, Jongup. Don't feel ashamed to cry – I know losing her was hard on you... it was hard on me, too,” Himchan said quietly as the food came. The waiter tried to pretend that he didn't notice I was crying loudly into a piece of fabric, but I could see through the thin pink threads that he kept peeking at me. The woman seemed less interested now, finally rising from her meal that she had finished before I sat down. Everyone was looking at me, the boy who had the noisy chair and was now crying like a baby in some fancy restaurant full of people who probably couldn't read the menu, and that made it worse.

Sometimes I had these panic attacks, and people were the worst remedy. The only person who had ever been able to calm me down since my mom died was Himchan. He was the only person in the world who was patient enough to just let me cry and choke until I couldn't do much of anything anymore because that was the only thing that made it better. Sometimes I just had to cry myself out of these fits, and Himchan was completely unfazed.

I ended up ruining dinner with all of my crying. I barely ate three bites of some ridiculously expensive food (that wasn't even that great), and we couldn't hold a conversation because I was whimpering too much. Himchan didn't complain, though. He just put his hand on my shoulder and paid the bill. He lead me out of the restaurant and opened my door for me and took back his soaked handkerchief. He never ostracized me, even when I did things like this, and it only added to my admiration for him.

“I'm sorry, hyung...” I ground out at last, climbing into the passenger seat. He shook his head and pulled out of the parking lot as if it was nothing.

“It's your birthday, if you want to spend it crying, you're entitled. You're a good boy, Jongup. I'm sorry that bad things sometimes happen to good boys.”

After that, he didn't look me in the eye for the rest of the night. We sat up together at home while he poured himself some liquor and I drank some water to calm my nerves. I ate some left over pizza after I was stabilized and we watched a late night documentary. We didn't talk about mom anymore than that, but I could feel her there with me. The Novocaine of her memory had spread now, from my head to my heart as my mind replayed February 2 from seven years ago over and over again – the day I had turned ten years old, and the day I had lost my mother.

Himchan stayed up with me until I couldn't see straight, even though I knew he probably had more important things to do, and he even walked me to my room. “You're a good boy, Jongup,” he told me me with the scent of alcohol accenting his words. He was close to me in that moment, our faces almost touching, but not quite – and for a moment I wanted to kiss him just to do it. It was a strong impulse that I sometimes got, and with each passing year it seemed to get harder to control.

I could picture it perfectly because I thought of it so often: I'd lay a hand on his delicate face and I'd kiss him softly – but not too softly, because Himchan wasn't frail and he probably preferred rougher kisses; it'd be a chaste kiss because I had never kissed someone, and I only had a vague idea of how it worked; he probably wouldn't kiss me back, and then I'd be embarrassed, but I would have been all the greater of a man for being able to kiss the person I cared for most in the world.

Someday, I thought as I thanked him and sent him off to bed to sleep off his whiskey, I might kiss him, but not while I was just seventeen, death was in the room, and the apples were so perfect in the fridge – now was not the time. No, not yet.