i.

It’s their second visit to the orphanage, Kyungsoo having been dragged along by Seonjin (and not to mention, threats of no kisses and hugs for an entire month). He cringes inwardly when the lady-in-charge latches her eyes onto the lack of silver bands on their fingers, but Seonjin doesn’t quite seem to notice, entirely overwhelmed by the welcome she receives from the children. Their enthusiastic yells and bright smiles light up the room in an instant – utterly unbearable for Kyungsoo who only sighs quietly, knowing full well that none of them will be returning home with her.

Because she’s taken fancy to the quiet boy sitting in the corner.

The lady reminds them that Kim Jongin ‘isn’t quite like other children’ and Kyungsoo’s frown deepens when said boy stares at him over the top of a book. Seonjin sits herself down beside the child, bringing out an object which somewhat resembles those depicted within the hardcover. Jongin reaches out to take it, brushing the tips of his fingers across the edges.

“It’s called a pinwheel, Jongin. Pin-wheel. It’s a smaller version of the windmills you like so much. Isn’t it pretty?”

Jongin examines the toy for a while longer.

Stands up.

Walks over to Kyungsoo and pushes it into his hand.

The man looks first at the childish plaything in his fist and then at Seonjin, catching a brief moment of hurt flickering in her eyes.

Kyungsoo decides that he doesn’t like the boy.

ii.

“Come on Kyungsoo, just tell him a story. Or even a random chunk of words would do. He likes hearing you talk, you know. You barely even speak to him.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“I’ll allow snuggling for tonight.”

“Three nights.”

“Deal.”

“…how about a week?”

“No. Now keep your promise and go.”

“You’re coming with me.”

Kyungsoo clutches the big book of pictures in his hands, jabbing his finger at one of them. Jongin looks vaguely pleased at having his company and a small grin tugs at his lips.

Kyungsoo loses himself in his words, shutting out Jongin and his dislikeable presence.

 “Windmills only turn in one direction – unless the mechanism is faulty, of course. Windmills take the wind as it comes and use it to turn the way they want to; they’re made that way, you see. And sometimes people try to mimic them, taking whatever life throws at them and forcing those things to bend in their favour.”

Seonjin chimes in with the over-used ‘if life gives you lemons, make lemonade’.

“Pinwheels are slightly weaker in their resolve. They turn in both directions, as long as you blow hard enough to move the blades. But that doesn’t make them any less pretty, does it? It’s a silly little imitation, like how people who think they’re fuc– really versatile, made-for-everything aren’t that much better off than those who pretend their lives are sailing the way they want them to. It makes them happy though. Makes us all happy.”

Jongin is entranced.

Seonjin shoots him a warning glare and Kyungsoo rolls his eyes, but decides to stop planting these –“mind-messing and absolutely unhealthy”, Seonjin tells him later– words into Jongin.

“However they take the wind is their choice, I suppose, but without the wind they don’t function at all. It depends on luck, really. You can attempt to predict the wind direction and speed, but you can’t ever control it – they’re nature, they change as and when they like. Perhaps one day the wind simply won’t come at all, and all the windmills can do is wait. They wait patiently, for hours, for days, for weeks or months even, just for the stronger breeze to come and allow them to turn again. Even if the wind never comes back, they wait until it does, or at least until they’re torn down and exist no longer.”

Jongin has fallen asleep smiling.

iii.

“Shouldn’t we enrol him in a child-care centre? What do you think?” Seonjin scrolls down a website with a list of available places in the region. She pauses when Kyungsoo doesn’t answer, cursor hovering over a hyperlinked line.

“Kyungsoo?”

“Hm?” Kyungsoo doesn’t look up from his scattered papers.

Seonjin sighs softly, legs of her chair scraping against the floor as she makes her way over to the man bent over their coffee table.

“I was thinking of looking for a full-time job, so we’d need someone to look after Jongin while I’m out. You can’t work well with him bothering you, can you?” Kyungsoo detects guilt and concealed sadness in her tone and scribbles out the remaining words playing on his tongue before turning around to look up at his lover.

“Why’d you need a job?” Smiles a crooked one.

“You’re providing for all three of us – it’s hard on you isn’t it? You’re staying up more often than you ought to, really, and I know you don’t like it when Jongin disturbs you while you’re composing. I promised I’d take care of him myself but, he tends to prefer your company, you know that?”

Kyungsoo hates seeing the pain in her expression.

“It’d be better if he isn’t at home during the day – you’d be able to concentrate better. And I could take on a proper job to cope with the extra expenses, hm?” She smiles, attempting to convince him.

He takes Seonjin’s hand into his, looking at her slender fingers as he speaks slowly.

“It isn’t a burden, composing and writing to provide for us, I mean. It’s something I enjoy doing, even if it means burning the midnight oil when inspiration chooses the most inappropriate moments to strike. And as cliché as this sounds, you’re my muse, don’t you know that? If you go to work, who’s going to stir up those warm feelings with a special cup of coffee or instant noodles?”

Pause. Light tilt of the head and gazes connect.

“Yeah, I don’t write sappy love songs often enough, but love doesn’t always have to be expressed the way you’d expect them to be. You make me feel things nobody and nothing else can, and it’s only with those that I find notes and lyrics spilling onto paper so easily. I can’t say I like having Jongin standing outside my door, knocking every time he counts to three hundred and forty-nine, but I do know I wouldn’t like not seeing you for ten hours straight every single day. So stay here with me, alright?”

Seonjin blinks away the liquid in her eyes.

“Now I know why people cry when they hear your songs.”

Kyungsoo chuckles. “You’ve said that plenty of times Seon.” Crosses over the back of the sofa, stands behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, lacing their fingers together.

“So I’m not going to work?” She feels him shaking his head.

“You’re staying beside me, and I’m going to work hard. Soon enough I’ll be able to call you my wife. And whatever comes, we’ll face it together. Will you trust me, Mrs. Do?”

She lifts an eyebrow in amusement and slight disbelief.

“Is this your idea of a proposal, Do Kyungsoo?”

“If I were proposing you’d be sobbing right now, Seonjin.” Then claims her lips before any retort surfaces.

“I love you.”

Smiles into the kiss.

Cheesy.

“And I love you more.”

iv.

The way Seonjin left wasn’t anything spectacular.

(oh, it was a classic departure, but that didn’t make it hurt any less, not for kyungsoo)

Jongin demands for one of those “spinning things” he’s so infatuated with – he still hasn’t learnt the name. Kyungsoo’s made to stay home since Jongin won’t let go of his cardigan (Seonjin doesn’t miss the clenched fist and gritted teeth as Kyungsoo holds the door open for her).

Kyungsoo ignores the constant tug at the hem of his clothing.

The call comes like any other, without the slightest hint of foreboding (Kyungsoo never did understand how people could feel that bad things were coming). Kyungsoo picks up the telephone and presses it to his ear, mumbling a stiff greeting while keeping his sight away from the boy sitting near his feet.

His body stills, a grave voice rasping through the receiver gripped between pale fingers. It falls, dangling by the cord. Swings like a pendulum counting down.

Five.

Is this Do Kyungsoo?

Four.

Are you related to Lee Seonjin?

Three.

You were number 1 on her speed dial.

Two.

It was a car accident.

One.

We're sorry.

Jongin walks over and touches the black object hanging from the coffee table. Taps Kyungsoo’s palm gingerly. The man’s empty gaze travels downwards.

A corner of his lips quirks upwards.

“Are you happy now?”

Jongin only stares.

“Are you happy?” Kyungsoo’s voice breaks. Jongin hears something between a laugh and a sob.

“Are you happy now that Seonjin’s dead?” Jongin steps backwards, shunning from the livid glare burning in his father’s eyes. He’s afraid. Jongin’s afraid. Jongin sees anger, loss, and above everything else, pain. He sees them even if he doesn’t know what they are, and he doesn’t understand. He sees them and they scream at him. Jongin doesn’t know why they want to hurt him so bad, but he’s terrified now. He sees his father advance towards him and shuts his eyes, covering them with his hands. Lets out a yelp when Kyungsoo grabs his collar and drags him over to the table, then slams the receiver into the side of his face.

“Hold it. Hold it and hear what they said. Listen to them, Jongin. Listen to them tell you how she was crossing the street with a bag in hand. Listen to them say how she was smiling and looking at the present she’d bought. Listen to how she wasn’t paying attention. How the car came and sent her flying. How she lay in a scarlet sea of her own blood. How she pointed to the coloured pinwheel that fell out from the bag. How her last words were, ‘Give it to Jongin.’”

Jongin cries when Kyungsoo grabs his wrists and pries his hands away from his face. Sobs louder when Kyungsoo slaps him across the cheek. Scrambles away when Kyungsoo yells at him. Shields himself with thin arms as Kyungsoo loses it completely and lands one blow after another, turning Jongin into a mess of tears and blood and purple bruises.

“If you weren’t such a ing imbecile, Seonjin would still be alive.”

Burned in.