Minho chose to stop reminding himself of that time when he realized his heart is finally at peace. He could now look at that person in the eyes without being reminded of how deep they were, or how dark they could get, or how sincere and vulnerable they looked as they were inches from his very own eyes when the night fell outside of the window. So he silently pushed the face leaning too close to him away without even feeling guilty about it.

“Said who?” Seunghoon chuckled as he backed off and threw himself into the couch right next to where Minho was sitting. “I quit smoking for a while now.”

“So you said.” Minho responded, as he continued to write his essay.

“You never have a problem with it.” Seunghoon looked at him contentedly, but he never glared back. “What you working on?”

“Same thing you never cared about.” Minho mumbled; he was stuck with this sentence for a while. He was trying to write something – something beautiful, yet dense, and not jargon-ish; something that could reflect how he has come to see the world as is, without the tinted spyglass of the education that trained him how to classify things, nor the naïveté of a young soul that lived far too short to make a judgement call about the humans and the worlds of which he always desired to be an expert. Question: How do you keep describing a thing that isn’t a ‘thing,’ a scattered piece of some broken nontangible liveliness; how do you make of something that hasn’t been brought to existence, that through the act of describing it becomes alive, a distorted and limited version that forgoes all its potentials? Minho whispered some versions of a messy sentence he thought of, but all he wanted to do was to spit them out, then spit on them again, because the thing that exists all and well inside his head suddenly sounds so mundane and lowbrow when he tries to negotiate with language to bring it to life.

“Never realize how much of a self-indulgent bastard you were.” Seunghoon opened the fridge and pulled out a can of beer. “Want some?”

“Later. You can see that I am writing.” Minho barely spoke; his eyes never left the laptop screen which was the only light source of the whole room. “How the did you get in?”

“You didn’t change the lock.” The older took a sip as he leaned on the table across from the couch. He looked around the small apartment with those oh so indifferent eyes; the lock wasn’t the only thing unchanged after all was said and done. “I could have broken into your house and take everything.”

“There’s no treasure here to take.” Minho slightly shrugged. “Don’t act new.”

“Oh there was.” Seunghoon laughed. “But I already took it.” Minho directed his gaze towards Seunghoon. He sighed before responding:

“If you’re gonna say ‘my heart’ I’m gonna punch you in the face.”

“Do it. It’s been a while.” Seunghoon grinned; he took only three strides and five seconds to get to Minho. One hand closing down the laptop Minho was using, the other grabbing his chin, Seunghoon demanded him to pay attention to the scenario he was trying to create.

“Not now, hyung.” Minho pulled away from him once again. He patiently removed the older’s hand from his laptop. “I have deadlines.”

“You always do, yet after three years you still stay here in this ty apartments. What them deadlines do for you?”

“Move on with my life.” Minho said under his breath. He closed his eyes for a second before turning to Seunghoon who refused to sit away from him, and continued. “One without you.”

“So you said.” Seunghoon raised his eyebrows with amusement. “Been telling yourself that, brat?”

“There’s no need. You haven’t been on my mind for a while.”

“You know you never forget your first love.”

“Who said you were?”

* * *

Seunghoon came into his life around five years ago. He was one of those casual encounters that you let sleep in your bed until the morning after because he didn’t smell bad and looked clean enough. One that you wouldn’t mind lending a towel for a quick shower in the morning, and even made you feel a little bit uneasy if you didn’t offer some coffee and breakfast. One who looked good without the effect of nighttime and alcohol, so you were not too embarrassed if he walked out of your apartment; on top of that, he might be able to keep a conversation going on. In sum, he was a one night stand that went wrong.

Minho didn’t believe in love, , one night stands, human relationships, or anything of the sort. He never had the mind to invest in those messy things that take too much time of this world; he was not crazy about any of the tricks that made other people go crazy in bed. Been there, tried that, applause, move on. Many have come to Minho, men and women, and all have left. They all sounded the same when they tried to give him a closure that he never bothered to ask. The nice version was, “I am into you more than you were into me.” Worse, “we don’t share the same goal.” The terrible one went, “I thought you have something in store because you look so intriguing but guess not.” Bottom line, who gives a anyway.

So it was a funny thing to see Seunghoon come back a few days later, beer and chicken in his hands, as he said he wanted to “hang out.” Sure, free food. That was the initial thought inside his head when he opened the door to let the stranger in. Half an hour into the (lack of) conversation, Seunghoon dropped half of a chicken wing into the box and looked at him, all curious:

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot away.” Minho finished chewing before responding.

“Do you not like or am I like really bad?” Seunghoon asked with so much sincerity that Minho felt a little tickled in his spine.

“What do you mean?” He asked, somewhat nervously.

“You fell asleep when I was blowing you.” Seunghoon thought for a while, then slowly spoke. Minho stopped himself right in time; he could have choked on his beer if he went on drinking.

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah. That.”

“…”

Minho stayed silent. He barely knew the guy, and the scenario that was happening right now was a little awkward. He thought of consoling the guy’s pride instead of spilling his whole life philosophy to a stranger, but whatever the excuse was, it sounded much more stupid. ‘Sorry you were great, I am just too drunk.’ ‘I passed out from all the waves of emotions your tongue brought me.’ ‘I didn’t mean that.’ None of those sounded great, and on top of that, he really couldn’t be bothered with lying. So he went ahead:

“I don’t feel like talking about that. Do you absolutely need to know?”

“No. I’m just curious. I was afraid that you were pretending to fall asleep because I was bad and you didn’t want to hurt my feeling.” Seunghoon shrugged; he picked up the wing he was chewing on and started eating again.

“Oh, none of that. Sorry we didn’t get anywhere if that’s what you wanted.” Minho said, almost but not too apologetic.

“Nah. I don’t do nonconsensual. Plus I was tired too and to be honest I was really wishing I was eating chicken instead of that night, ‘kno means.” He stopped in the middle of the sentence and looked at Minho with horrors. “, I don’t mean it like that.”

“No, that’s real.”

“You are weird.” Seunghoon slightly chuckled and finished his last bite. Minho took a good look at the weird guy who was sitting on his couch, eating chicken and drinking cheap beer. Whoever he was, Minho had a feeling that some kinds of fated joke were drawn upon him; being a nonchalant person he was, however, come what may, he never tried to confront nor fight against it, obstacle or opportunity.

Unless, of course, when his whole world and existence and well-being was threatened by it.

* * *

The first time Seunghoon disappeared, Minho went crazy.

He went crazy, despite the fact that there was absolutely nothing going on between the two of them, except for the casual take-outs, stay-ins of beer and chicken, and the nonsensical conversations that Seunghoon tried to have while lying in the couch trying to read some of Minho’s books - most of them were Q&A sessions where Seunghoon asked and he answered. (“What the is affect?” – “The political economy of feelings.” – “What the flying is that?” – “A theorization that the system of emotions, feelings, and behaviors that humans have is not only biologically determined, but also integrated into the structure of society and modes of production.” – “Can you language because I have no idea what the is going on anymore.” – “You are taught to love and hate certain things in a certain way, and your conception of love and hate is also inherited from different ideas, big and small, like tradition, culture, philosophy, ideology, commercial media, and so on.” – “So basically I’m a tard that doesn’t know love is what you mean.” – “Not only you. Us all.”) He knew nothing of the guy, nothing more than the fact that when he said he wanted to hang out, he really didn’t try to make an excuse for late night visits, and that even so, those visits usually ended in staying over, and borrowed quick showers in the morning, and coffee and breakfasts. He didn’t know where he could find Seunghoon, or if he should even try, because he couldn’t remember where in the world he could have met Seunghoon so he can trace back. From too long ago, he chose to never remember how a person came into his life, much less how they left.

So Minho stayed up much late than usual, waiting more diligently at the loud thud at his door everytime the rude guy came; his hands were always so busy with foods and drinks, he usually kicked the door instead of knocking. But Seunghoon was gone. A few months after Minho got used to the strange companionship and the affect that came along with it, Seunghoon disappeared. Minho did the things he never did, he tried to find Seunghoon. He invested so much time and effort despites all the deadlines; he made a zillion calls to friends and acquaintances, had awkward conversations with people whose names he barely remembered, just to ask the stupid question: “Do you happen to be one of those who somehow hung out with me at a social gathering at some bar a few months back?”

* * *

By the time he was officially mad at himself for caring so much, he found Seunghoon, hanging with his friends at a random bar that he once visited – drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, cracking jokes, talking, and laughing; the found boy waved at Minho and calling his name as if never once ed into his life or abandoned it all along. Minho was amazed at how calm he was, saying hello back, joining the group and silently sipping beer at with strangers who have no idea who the hell he was, and listening for the conversations which were of absolutely no interests to him. At one point, Seunghoon turned to him and asked:

“How have you been?”

It took him more than a minute to answer such simple question.

“Fabulous.”

Of course he was. He had to be. Because Seunghoon was here, in his element, totally relaxing and engaging with all the stories being told without asking questions every five minutes. Minho found himself strangely agitated that he could think otherwise, or that he even tried so damn hard to find a person, who was absolutely fine and perfectly contend with his life; he sat at the table for more than two hours before excusing himself. As he left, he heard people cautiously asking Seunghoon questions, about who he was and why he was there and what could have been the relationship between them two. He didn’t hear Seunghoon’s answer, but he should not care more than he already did. So he went back to his place, his life, all but wondering why he was shaken so violently by a person whose last name he barely knew.

Seunghoon made it a habit of disappearing, but by the second time, Minho had already learned that it was no anomaly. Seunghoon’s disappearance wasn’t strange; him being so worked up about it, on the other hand, was. In the end, what did he expect of a person who was more of an acquaintance than a friend, more of a one night stand than an intimate partner? As such, it was not like they even touched. Soberly, that was.

“Can I ask you a question?” Minho finally asked Seunghoon, in the middle of a random hangout at night, after the fifth time he left and came back.

“Shoot away.”

“Why do you always disappear…” Minho didn’t finish the sentence. (From my life, he meant to ask.)

“What do you mean disappear?” Seunghoon raised his eyebrows. “I just live my life is all. I don’t live here, right?”

Minho didn’t say anything. They stayed silent for the rest of the night, except that before Seunghoon left that night, Minho grabbed his hand, pulling him back, and pushed him against the wall. “Go ahead,” Seunghoon’s eyes told him from the tiny distance between them, “do what you are meant to do.” So Minho leaned in and kissed Seunghoon, a long, deep kiss in which the only thing bothered him was howmuch he must have wanted it. Seunghoon studied his face for a while after he broke away, just to chuckle:

“As expected, you are a good kisser. I’m going now.”

“Why don’t you stay?” Minho reluctantly let go of his hand.

“Love, you don’t want the same thing I do.” Seunghoon winked at him and started walking out of the door.

For once in his life, Minho begged to differ. He held Seunghoon’s hand again, so tightly that the older tried to pull away. “What now?”

“Take this.” Minho dropped something into Seunghoon’s pocket.

“Why?” Seunghoon touched the key inside his pocket and looked at Minho in disbelief. “Why me?”

“Just because.” Minho let go once again and walked back in. “Lock the door when you leave.”

* * *

It is, of course, always a cliché when one tells you a story of how a person came to love and be hurt; being a trained author, Minho always tried to avoid thinking of those worn-out and tired ideas. But what else is new, this world is worn-out and tired; he never thought of himself as special, but he wished at least he wouldn’t walk the same path that everyone else seemed to have walked.


Three years after the last time he saw Seunghoon, Minho stopped looking for him. The only thing, if he learned anything from all those years, was that outside of his door, Seunghoon exists. If he could have arrived to the place Seunghoon was, wherever he was, Minho imagined, he would have found Seunghoon having fun and living life, his very own life, one that started before Minho and would last way beyond him. Seunghoon was okay. He must have been okay, for him to not come back. Otherwise, Minho would know. Because Seunghoon wasn’t Minho’s savior or escapism, Minho was his. Because behind every thud Seunghoon kick to his door was a time Seunghoon needed to be with someone outside of his world – someone so much of a stranger he wouldn’t need to perform any type of restrained human affect. Someone that he could call on and off on a daily basis, yet has no right nor privilege to question his motive or behavior.

It is such a shame, Minho thought, he mistook indifference with freedom. Minho yearned for a ‘thing,’ a thing that has yet been put into existence of human affect, be it a strange affinity of coincidental intimacy or stranger’s kindness, an experimental affection of longing without belonging, the interconnection of humankind without being physically engrained or vowed commitment. Question: if I am human and you are human and the only thing we know about each other is that we exist, how much can we love each other? Not so much, not so much, not quite so much. Isn’t it so, hyung?

And so he kept writing until Seunghoon is but a figure, an example, or a conceptualization of the lack of language to defer the thing inside Minho’s head; Seunghoon was there, he existed, but perhaps all Minho could envision of him was those very few moments when Seunghoon let go of his world. He kept writing until he made peace with the fact that he was never left; rather, he was blessed with the encounters with someone who could lead him to believe that he almost saw the thing he was looking for. He saw it, touched it, and tasted it on the tips of his tongue, but not enough to fully capture what it was. It was alright. Isn’t it so, isn’t it so.

…

…

…

“You mean you didn’t love me.” Seunghoon tucked a strain of hair behind his ears and leaned in again to look closer at Minho’s eyes. Minho didn’t say anything back. “Then why are you still waiting for me?”

“Who said I was?” Minho glared at him.

“Are we still playing that?” Seunghoon faintly laughed. “That love me, love me not game got old so quick.”

“There’s no game, Seunghoon.” Mino curved his lips into a rare smile. “There were you, and then there was me. There was no game. Why did you come?”

“Come back, Minho. I came back.”

“No. ‘Come back’ suggests the familiarity of somewhere you once owned or belonged to. None of those exists here, in this place.” Minho softly spoke. He cupped both his hands on Seunghoon’s face and pulled him in; their noses almost touched, and Minho could feel the warm breath from the other touching the corner of his lips. “I have always been here, and you have always come to me.” Seunghoon gulped; his eyes traced the movement of Minho’s mouth as he tried to lean in a little bit closer, but Minho didn’t let him.

“Look. I don’t have any excuses for what I did, Minho.” Seunghoon spoke again.

“Of course you don’t. You never need to.” Minho still kept his smile on. “You come to me or not, contact me or not, was never a part of your life. You were never required to treat me with care, hyung, because outside of this apartment, I don’t exist. You and I know it, let’s cut the chase.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“The real question is, what do you want to do?”

.
.
.

It is, of course, always a cliché when you hear a love story being told. Somewhere along the line, there is always love, loss, and pain; forgiveness, betrayal, and obsession; vow, compromise, and sacrifice. But then no one talks about love the way it exists outside of the two people that name love love, who put the way they interact with each other under the name of such thing.

Minho doesn’t believe in the definition of such affect. He waits for the questions it brings and the ways people answer them.

But then again, not many people understand that they are suppose to ask themselves such questions.

“So, what do you want to do?”




End.