Flowers for Armour 

Jinwoo looks cautiously around just to spot two suspicious dark vans. He sighs. Paparazzi are already waiting to catch a glimpse of something scandalous happening to Minho again, to take a shoot to sell; it is annoying, disturbing – Jinwoo wonders how idols survive this kind situation, being followed, stalked on, all their lives suspected, thoughtfully examined.

As if Minho's name wasn't cleared already, as if it weren't them creating the mayhem on the first place – as if they didn’t have to apologize for the confusion, they are still there, guarding Minho’s house, seeking for another stunt, to get more views and clicks and money out of destroying someone’s name.

The night gleams with the flashes of cameras the instant they come closer to the door but they decrease until the air is quiet and the murmurs die again; Seunghoon presses the code and they come inside the condo.

"I'm glad you come with me, Seunghoon", he says to his friend while he opens the gate to the building.

"It's fun to be your fake alibi in case of need," he laughs, patting his back. "Minho's place is three floors up, if something goes wrong or if he tries to cook to impress you, just come to me. I'll kick him even if he is a nice fellow usually," he smiles reassuringly.

The elevator beeps for Jinwoo and he takes it to the sixth floor while Seunghoon jumps on the steps, two at a time, waving goodbye at Jinwoo.

“Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t!” he yells, laughing before disappearing up the stairs, turning around a corner. Jinwoo is left alone, waiting for the elevator to go.

The reflection on the mirror is distorted and he looks more tired than he was a minute ago. His heart is thumping loudly and all his body is sweaty with anxiousness, weariness to be caught up, to be a disappointment to Minho – he hasn’t allowed the feelings to bloom inside his chest, he keeps the seeds on the soil without watering them, waiting for Minho’s reaction, for when he will see his face again, up close, for real, not printed on a magazine. And the memory of his pictures displayed everywhere makes him feel dizzy, his head spinning, heart racing, the click of the elevator lifting too loud, like thunders, hammering, opaquing his own thoughts.

Not even working with ty tabloids, waiting for their articles to come out has made Jinwoo so nervous – and this time it’s only his reputation that it is on the line. The door opens and Minho is there, a smile conquering all the corners of his face. Jinwoo can’t help but to mirror him, smile back.

“Come in!” Minho’s hand lands on his back, pushing him inside the house, “I’ve seen press outside, are you ok?” he worries once he quickly closed the door behind them. Inside, the bright light coming from the DayGlo baths every corner of the hall. It is impressive – big, colorful, vibrant walls painted in yellow and red and blue roses. He walks in as if tip-toeing, avoiding all the mess that it is scattered everywhere – cans and tubes of paint, brushes, and canvas, stuff he can’t decipher, a rolling ball of dust, lamps, cameras, jewelry. Jinwoo has never been in a famous person’s house before but he highly doubts they are like this one – total chaos.

“Well, yes, but I came after work with Seunghoon, he is my bulletproof-alibi,” he giggles, and Minho nods at him beatifically, leading the way through a maze of cabinets filling the hall, topped with boxes with accessories and shoes and other stuff he hasn't the time to look at. Somewhere must be a cat because, in one corner, there is a bowl with dry food and toys, but the animal is possibly lost in between all the mess that spreads all over the house.

“I swear that, usually, I don’t have paparazzi out. My house, though, is always in disarray. I have no time to clean, sorry,” he apologizes, looking around, putting some cans out of their way. “Give me five minutes to make room for you to breathe,” he jokes before leaving him alone in the hall. All around, hanging on the walls, he spots pictures and drawings. They all have Minho’s signature on them. He avoids yet another brush discarded on the floor and stans closer to examine one of the paintings. Jinwoo touches, gently, the gauge of the paint used – it is thick and rough acrylics. His fingers follow the contours of it, dancing on it carefully. He can’t put a name on the figure but he is drawn to it anyway – drawn to the shades, to the love he has bled to create it.

“I didn’t know you were a painter as well,” he says, breaking the stillness when Minho comes to greet him in, finally.

“There are many things about me that you don’t know, yet” Minho replies, smirking, a hint of something inviting hanging on the edge of his words that reels Jinwoo in. He wants to discover more about Minho, he finds him already fascinating, kind, amiable, and talented.

On the diner table lays a good stack of takeaway pamphlets as promised.

“Chose whatever you want, my treat,” he says, pushing them to Jinwoo. He reads quickly before setting for tapas – because the croquettes on the photos look very appealing and he wants to try it for once. “Do you like Spanish cuisine?” Minho takes the paper and dials the restaurant. “A full course of tapas, whatever it includes,” he says to the phone. He opens a cabinet, takes a couple of glasses and pours red wine on them, handing one to Jinwoo, sipping a gulp from his. It tastes bitter on his tongue, sweetening while drowning on his palatal. Jinwoo swallows and smiles, sitting cross-legged on the stool.

The make small conversation while waiting for the food to come. Jinwoo asks about Minho’s music and his parents, about how he has been coping with the stunt.

“If it weren’t for you, I will still be in the middle of it,” he professes, suddenly grabbing his hands. His eyes twinkle, staring into his soul, smiling at him with affection and a hide meaning that Jinwoo can’t grasp but that tilts at the end of his lips, at the curb of his mouth that he wants to kiss.

“It’s my pleasure,” Jinwoo blushes, his cheeks tinted like blooming poppies, soft scarlet. “I only did my job,” he stutters in a low tone, embarrassed to be thanked for doing what he has been paid for. Again, nobody has ever done that – nobody has treated Jinwoo to lunch or diner, not even coffee after he finished working for them, after restoring their fame back, after cleaning their names and reputation after exhausting his mind for them to shine again. But Minho is very different from other idols and actors and disgraced figures he has worked for: he is always thankful, always ready to help and to laugh and joke and he makes his heart flutters, trembling like butterflies on spring, battling against the wind. He wants to shield him from all harm and he doesn’t know him that well, yet. They have only been working together on his case for over two weeks and, yet, he feels overly protective of Minho – probably because he knows how the world works, how the press will try again and again to tarnish his name; they will scrutinize him for months, -talking about everything he does, annalizing all of his moves, all the people he is involved with; once someone has been a prey of their cobweb, there is no way out; they like to hunt the hurt, the ones that tried to defeat them: they like the taste of blood and the flavor of out from others’ success.

The door-bell breaks the spell and the course of his thoughts; Jinwoo blinks back to reality, back at Minho who is looking at him with curiosity on his sparkling eyes.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he jokes, palming his back, opening the door. The smell of the diner spreads all around. When the content of the polyester boxes is revealed, Jinwoo’s stomach growls, hungrily. “Did you starve to enjoy this better?” Minho laughs, passing him a dish and chopsticks. They eat deliciously, ham and chicken croquettes, bread topped with oil and goat cheese, olives, Spanish omelet, octopus, and many other delicatessens that melts on their mouths, washed down with red and sparkling wine.

They talk for hours, sprawled on the couch, the heat from Minho’s skin warming Jinwoo’s core. They talk about life and choices, about paths to follow. Jinwoo has a glass of soju and takes sips from it, refilling it whenever it's emptied - and Minho suspects that he can hold alcohol pretty well because they have finished two bottles already and he is not slightly tipsy, his eyes are as clean as the moon coming in from the window. Jinwoo explains to him how he ever ventured to open his own PR agency with Seunghoon when neither of them has studies related to it. Minho discovers, shocked, that Jinwoo has a master in Communication Sociology while Seunghoon did Economics with Laudem. They both met during their internship on publicist management. They excelled in it and agreed to open their own agency after a road of ty jobs to save up for their dream.

“Not that I like it much, lately,” Jinwoo confesses, drawing another shot of soju. On the floor, a pile of bottles surround them. “I would rather do something else, something more helpful,” he adds, rubbing his eyes with his long, slender fingers. He looks tired, barely awake and Minho feels bad for keeping him on his flat, taking his resting time for another second to chat with him, let to know him more.

“You should go to sleep, Jinwoo,” Minho offers. “I have a spare room,” he says but Jinwoo refuses.

“We are not that close, Song Minho,” he lets go on a puff of hazed words. “Seunghoon would kill me if he discovers that I stayed with you,” he says while shaking his head, scattering his dreams away. Minho looks at him dejected. He really wants Jinwoo to stay – not only because he will worry about him taking a taxi back home deep at night, but because he wants to spend more time with him, hold him in his arms until his head rests on his chest and he can taste the perfume of his dreams, kissing his hair without him noticing, without being caught, feel the silky mess of his flocks, dark like chocolate, its flavor on his mouth, his fingers on his hips, circling on his skin reassuringly, calmly, just one heart-beat.

When Jinwoo stands up and begins collecting his jacket and hand-bag, Minho realizes that he needs to do something – something to prevent Jinwoo from leaving. He holds his hand, pulling Jinwoo to him gently and Jinwoo, startled, looks at him in surprise. Now it’s time for Minho to blush, silver and rosy, like an old picture, grey on the edges, shaded by the moon.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy and rushed but... I think. No, I know, that I like you. And I would feel better with myself if you stayed here, with me. Like, I won’t do anything like stalking you while sleeping, I promise,” he rambles, his hand tangled on Jinwoo’s, shaking, his fingers waving, electrified, sending its energy right to Jinwoo’s heart. He softens under his gaze, his bones melting at his words, his core a cage of hummingbirds chirping his name with delight.

“But if the press discovers this... that someone has slept in with you, it would ruin you for good,” he states, seriously because, as much as he likes Minho, he is aware of the risks, of what is it at stake – that Minho can lose everything and he doesn’t want to be the reason, he doesn’t want to be pointed and hated for loving him, he doesn't want to be the name that ends Minho's musical career, to spoil his fame with damp kisses that are dancing around them like gosht. 

“I think,” he murmurs, coming closer to Jinwoo, their hands still intertwined, “that you are worth the danger,” and his lips are so, so sweet caressing Jinwoo’s, his free hand curling behind his nape, pressing him in, gently, against his chest, where a new song is being released – a song for Jinwoo. It is so slow and so caringly, Jinwoo wishes that it never stops, that Minho will keep him here, forever, his lips grazing his, his fingers drawing on his skin, brushing the rim of his hair, tickling.

“I think,” Jinwoo breathes, “that you are crazy, indeed,” and kisses him again, diving into the sensation of being taken care of, held with so much affection, all the stars of the night dispelling because Minho’s light overshadows them. Jinwoo forgets all about his inquietudes, the hazard of being nabbed, captured on a picture for all the world to see.

They giggle between quiet kisses and they kiss for hours, sitting on the couch, talking, laughing, Jinwoo's forehead on Minho's neckline, fingers dancing, voices drowsy.

“You will be my most appreciated secret,” Minho promises once Jinwoo has to go. He rushes down to take a taxi, early in the morning, stealing one last kiss good-bye. The sun is rising but, even with the sky colored in ruby and orange, Jinwoo shines brighter than that, is warmer and sweeter and precious and Minho stares at him from the balcony, sees him run, entering the car, leaving him behind with a chain of lovely text messages already beeping on his private phone. He laughs at how silly it all is, at how his chest has expanded to hold Jinwoo, how his lips still taste like him.

Jinwoo forbids him to call while working but Minho leaves a trail of love-sick texts on his KKT for him to reply later – and if it is in person, the better.

Seunghoon sighs, opening the door of the condo for Jinwoo again.

“I bet Dispatch suspects that we have a relationship now, Jinwoo,” he closes it quickly behind and laughs, “we will make it to the front page on the nationals!” he pats his back ruefully.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the only safe way we have to see each other,” Jinwoo replies, sad, eyes on the ground, a trace of a smile whitening. Seunghoon smashed his shoulders.

“I’m kidding, I don’t mind. I told you that I would be your solid alibi and we are friends, of course, I'll help you in case of jam,” he ruffles his friend’s hair with affection before pushing him into the elevator. “Say hello to Minho. Or better, come over to visit, it’s been a while!” he invites and, later on, they will.

It’s been six months since Minho’s name hasn’t been on the press for other reasons than him releasing a new album – he has done photoshoots and interviews but all related to music and fashion and Jinwoo hasn’t had to worry a bit about him, tabloids haven't been underhanding him, there isn't a word degrading him. They have been meeting at Minho’s place, mostly using Seunghoon as a cover-up; sometimes they go to Jinwoo’s, risking that Minho will be caught up by the press though Jinwoo’s neighborhood is quiet and deserted and they are cautious. On occasions, Minho drops by the office to pay them a quick visit, to steal a kiss from Jinwoo before leaving, or to give them tickets for a concert they are obligated to attend to – Seunghoon drags Seungyoon with him and it’s fun to be able to hang out with them, to have a moment to breath fresh air, enjoying the moment with friends and Minho shinning on the stage. And, since Jinwoo is Minho’s publicist, nobody suspects much if he sneaks into the back-stage, if he presses his lips on Minho’s, brushes the sweat away with soft moans and his hands covering his flesh. It’s nobody’s business if they kiss and make out on the dressing room after the show, when the make-up artists have already gone, with the lights off and their mouths on. Sometimes they even talk about Minho's image, about ways to make Minho more friendly approaching since he still looks intimidating, hard, hazard despite that he has a golden heart. Jinwoo is introduced to Minho’s team and he works with them to develop a way for Minho to gain more traction, to be recognized by the general public instead of relying on his loyal fans.

Jinwoo is late. Out the rain is pouring and, due to that, the train was delayed. He shakes his hair, droplets falling from his curls. It is an awful day. The gloomy, clouded expression in Seunghoon makes Jinwoo shiver – the atmosphere is dense and he feels the chills creeping inside his chest; nothing good is coming.

The ring of the phone breaks the moment but the dullness remains. Jinwoo moves in a daze, picking up the call.

It’s Minho calling the office – and, like a premonition, Jinwoo knows that something is wrong. He turns the computer on, checks on his phone what is going on.

Minho’s name is everywhere, again. He picks the first article and reads through it, trying to make sense out of it. It takes Jinwoo four attempts to understand. On the other end of the line, Minho is talking to him rushedly, telling him that he doesn't know how this happened, that it's all false again.

“Just come over. Give me a moment to gather all the media outlets and the press coverage and we will plan a strategy,” he tells him, agitated. He wants to burn Dispatch for starting another baseless rumor.

This time it’s not a dating scandal. Jinwoo checks the social media and Minho’s pictures are all over the place, there are comments, threats, links, and crazy theories. Jinwoo reads carefully but his eyes are blurry, he has tears on them. He wipes them and washes his face, cold water dropping from his lashes. He feels Minho’s pain, his fears, the way this will affect him, his career, his reputation, everything he has been working for. And he has dealt with so much, nobody deserves to been treated this way, nobody deserves to be a headline for something that hasn’t even happened because Minho wasn’t there – Minho, who lives between his studio and Jinwoo, who barely goes out, dragged into a drunk fight on a club he once performed, months ago.

But the press needs fresh meat to get the netizens attracted and, does it matter if it’s all false? By the time Minho’s name will be clean again people will have moved on, not caring about the truth.

Jinwoo wants to punch something. On the secluded, small bathroom stall, he screams, letting out all his anger, his frustration, all the hate and allows the memory of Minho to greet him; a hug-able to melt all his worries, to leave his mind clean, only his name thumbing through the daze, though the nothingness, the void where only Minho matters. And he will get this right, he will make them bend to Minho, force them to be sorry for messing with him again – he will find a way to repay Minho’s love and kindness while protecting him, his fame, his talent that they want to waste, to suffocate (to stop the flames that are Minho’s songs that have spread everywhere).

Jinwoo is in his office when Minho comes in, his beautiful eyes rimmed in red, his hands shaking in rage.

Jinwoo holds him tight and sings his love for him that is eternal, infinite. He calls Seunghoon in and, together, they work on a sketch, something to release to the press.

For 24 hours straight Jinwoo is restless, his phone buzzing with news and calls and e-mails. He has found out the number of the owner of the bar where Minho was spotted. It takes him a while, he has to search on Naver because the press can't reveal the name of the place without permission. He has engraved inside his sight the pictures, the moment a blow takes down a man to the floor - and the man looks similar to Minho in size and constitution, the room, dark and somber, tricks the shoot, making it hard to define the color of the hair or the shade of his clothes. He makes the call, his head crumbled down, his heart with Minho, suffering the aftermath of it with him.

“I haven’t released any statement. Nobody asked me, one of my employers showed it to me this morning,” he says, embarrassed. “Of course I’ll do it, sir.” And it’s Jinwoo’s first smile. The sky is still covered with stormy clouds but there is hope at the end and he holds onto it.

Next, he calls for witnesses – in ten minutes he finds four (a waiter and three clients that were there). They deny Minho’s assistance.

“If Song Minho were there I would have asked him for an autograph,” one of them says, excitedly, glad to be of help. Jinwoo thanks them profusely before writing a press release. He stays the night in the office, working, missing Minho pressed next to him, his lips ghosting on his skin.

The next morning, though, AllKpop redresses the issue, saying that it was a misunderstanding, stating that rapper Song Minho wasn’t in the place when the fight took place and that it was a look-alike they mistook him for. The article is pitifully done but works in the end, Minho's name is not related to the dispute, the searching in Naver and social media are clean in a few hours – and Jinwoo swallows raw three anxiolytics, his nerves skin-deep; he hasn’t slept and he only wants to snuggle with Minho, feel the warmth radiating from his core.

It takes another day for the stunt to be dismissed finally but when someone else will be pinned by the media, everybody will forget about Minho's case – Jinwoo promises it to him over the phone, yawning, exhausted.

“This is how stunts work,” he says, barely holding the phone on his shoulder. “They raise, ruin and perish because another one has raised up and the cycle repeats itself,” he yawns again when he hears the bell of the door ringing. “Sorry Minho, someone is on the door,” he says, hanging up.

“Don’t need to hang up, hyung,” Minho gets in uninvited – but Jinwoo doesn’t care, he can come in any time, any moment. He drinks the distance between them, kissing him urgently, hungrily. He pins Jinwoo against the wall and his hands travel down his legs, his sides, his chest, grazing the place where his blood rise, agitated. “I have so much to thank you,” he grumbles on his ears. The light in his eyes is dark and dangerous, all lust and desire but when he sees the state of Jinwoo he holds him, drags him to bed, lays next to him, and safeguards his dreams as he has protected his life, his career. On his sleep Jinwoo mumbles some unconnected whispers about scandals and how he wants to shield him against them.

“You are too good to be harrowed by them, they are psychos,” and he cuddles next to him, his head resting on top of his chest, the thuds of his heart his lullaby.

“Shush, love, everything is ok now,” he murmurs back, kissing the top of his hair, feeling it brushing his skin. “You are so brave for standing for me, you are my armor.”

Jinwoo moves in with Minho.

Now the flat is tidy and clean, he has his own space to work on the weekends when he doesn’t go to the office but has issues to address, to catch up with. Minho, too, has his own room to paint, a gallery filled with portraits that reflects his endless love for Jinwoo – hanging on the wall there are four different paintings of Jinwoo over the seasons; a scarf covering half his face, hiding the giggles he was holding on, snow melting on his black hair. Flowers stuck on his lips, a clean sky, birds. Steps on the sand, the shore, waves wetting his feet. Red and orange, the sun glowing on his flesh, a coffee warming his hands, the drink touching his tongue that is poking out, teasingly. It is lovely.

It’s been a while since the press has been on Minho’s heels so it’s just normal that they leave their guard off; Jinwoo has his password to open the door and there is no way anybody could suspect they are together because they have been discrete, careful. And, yet, there is something bugging Jinwoo, fear at the end of his heart, beating through his mind.

They went out to have diner, to celebrate their second anniversary together. Minho refused to wear a mask and cap - ”It is a fancy place,” he had said. He was right, of course: the place was elegant and beautiful and empty, reserved for them alone. It was the perfect night, just them, soft music, bubble drinks, and wine and Jinwoo couldn’t wish for anything else with his hand twirling around Minho’s. And, then, there was a flash bathing his eyes. He dismissed it as a car passing by with the light on, reflected on the window but, after a second, it happened again, too fast to be what he was thinking first but too impossible to be what he knew it truly was. He had held his assumption until next morning, not wanting to rubble Minho’s happiness, the moment together that hardly happens nowadays with Minho working on his next album, and Jinwoo focused on a big scandal.

Jinwoo’s case is totally eclipsed by another one bigger, out of proportions.

Jinwoo's suspicion was correct: a paparazzo followed them, stalked them, and photographed them together on a romantic date.

For over a week Minho has to stay home, prisoner of his own feelings exposed, blamed, tarnished, disgraced by the press, by the whole population; he has to remain silent, not able to defend himself yet because this stunt is way too massive to be dispelled in a day.  Jinwoo has to leave work – LeeKim S.L has been revealed to by his company and they have been camping there since then, Seunghoon has informed them. Minho has to delay his release, TV stations have banned him for scandalous behavior – which Jinwoo translated to him as being dating a boy. Fans are dropping him, the public opinion is in havoc, people insulting and degrading and trashing on Minho, supporters, and haters who take the chance to hate on him more. Minho’s agency, though, has released a statement apologizing for any kind of misunderstood but that they will always support their artist on whatever choice they made and, therefore, they won’t be firing Song Minho but postponing his album.

Minho is thankful for it, for having such a net of support. He doesn’t care about his fame or his name, not when, this time, it’s real – when they are saying what lingers on his heart, that he is in love with Kim Jinwoo and now he can finally, openly claim it, say it loud, go out without fears, without having to hide and pretend and act professional to keep up the facade.

“I’m not famous, they should have pixelated me,” Jinwoo complains, watching the news pressed against Minho. “I’ll sue them.”

“Well, you are so beautiful, can’t blame them for thinking you were an actor,” Minho laughs gently, squishing him closer, his arm thrown around his waist, fingers on the rim of his shirt. “This will end soon. I’ll go, hold an interview, tell them to up and come back to you,” he says, making Jinwoo chuckle – and the sound of it is like angels singing; Jinwoo has been so stressed over the last days, worried and preoccupied about them being outed this way, being talked, thrown to the lions, nasty words related to them, staining their love, cursing it with every new article, with every news they release.

“You won’t, but thanks,” he says, his head falling on his shoulder, nuzzling on his collarbone. Jinwoo hasn’t been sleeping much, has been taking pills that make his thought funny, strangled, his head hazed.

“This is not how I wanted it to be,” Minho says softly, dragging the words with him as if edgy, uneasy – it makes Jinwoo spring up, paying attention, eyes big following Minho, - “but I’m glad that they know. I don’t want you to be a secret, hyung,” he says, a smile forming, his orbs gleaming, Jinwoo nodding, appreciating what he has said, appreciating the meaning of it, “I want everybody to know that you are my world, that whenever I sing about love I sing about you, the owner of my heart, my life and my soul.”

“You don't care about me being dragged into a stunt because you are used to it and you don't need me anymore. You can pay anyone to clean it for you," Jinwoo pouts, breaking the cheesiness that Minho has dropped “I have to rely on Seunghoon” he continues pretending sulkiness – but Minho knows better, Jinwoo is being playful despite how much it has affected him, how the scars are still bleeding, raw and open on his skin, the anxiety, the fear but he is pulling it back because he has Minho, and he is the only encouragement that he needs, who brings stars to his life, whose heart beats for him, who is holding his hands, staring into his eyes, staring into universes forming inside his pupils.

After this nothing will be the same but their relationship, which is rooting deeper, blooming like spring, spreading as the smiles twinkling on their faces, the happiness that they share and treasure.

"But I always need you," Minho says, gently, close to his heart. He rests on his shoulder, kissing his pulse, breathing on his neck.

His voices sound dangerous, his nose nuzzling on his skin. He feels as all his body relaxes, how all the tiredness melts away, swirling just by Jinwoo's hands brushing his hair. "It's been a hard week, rest well," Jinwoo murmurs, his lips on his forehead.

Jinwoo puts Minho to bed, undressing him with care.

“Don’t go,” Minho’s hand reaches out for his own and pulls him down the mattress. Jinwoo giggles.

“Ok, work later,” he gets rid of his jeans and snuggles next to Minho, all his muscles drowning into his warmth, his hands holding him, laced on his hips, his lips sweetly blowing on his forehead. He feels how the exhaustion from Minho is released to the night, his breath steady on his shoulders where it blows his skin, all the tension dissipating with his hands on his, rubbing it out of his bones, melting it with care and love. 

“As long as you stay with me, I don’t care about anything else,” Minho hums, half asleep, “just stay with me, please.” And so Jinwoo does, caressing his sides reassuringly, drawing hearts that sink on his skin, coloring his night with good dreams.

“The best movement is to attack,” Seunghoon explains and Jinwoo has to agree. “Minho should do a press conference and make it public, ask for privacy since it's a private matter who you date with and Jinwoo is not a public person, he can't be treated this way if they don't want to risk getting sued,” it is a good way to suffocate the scandal, with nice words and nice actions. Minho should do some charity work, too, so the general public will be soft on him, more lenient, – who can when Minho is going to sing in hospitals for sick kids? - Seunghoon hasn’t bothered to come up with a way to convince fans to stay. “If they deserted you when things turned bad, you don’t need them in your life,” he has said, wise words from a wiser man, and Minho has concurred with the idea.

“New fans will come soon once the album is out,” he has added, imperturbable, unbothered. He hasn’t lost much after all – his company has shielded him, stepped on to protect his reputation, and he has the best team of press managers available who had put nights and days to stand up for him, to shift the general opinion, to smooth up the situation, make it the best for Minho.

It is not easy, not when they are targeted and hated and, sometimes, followed on the streets. They have to move twice before everything settles down. Jinwoo has to leave his work as a publicist at LeeKim, has to sell his participation of the enterprise to his partner, and starts again somewhere else but he keeps in contact daily with Seunghoon and Seungyoon. Minho’s new album is heard everywhere which means that it is a success but also that Minho has to travel for concerts and shows and promotion on variety shows – he hasn’t been on TV much after the conference he offered, he hasn’t been working much outside of his studio, creating music, but that’s what he loves and his life is entwined with Jinwoo’s and he has love (from fans, for his music, for Jinwoo the most) and that all that matters to him, the TV stations can off if they don’t want him for who he is, for who he chooses to be with.

Minho looks back at his life; it hasn’t been easy but he is lucky, so lucky to have Jinwoo, his flower, his windscreen, the one who shielded him when he needed it the most, when the world was cold and nobody was home for him, alone against defamation, against hate thrown at him incongruently, daggers and knives stabbing with words that hurt like gunfire and bullets. Jinwoo has been the one standing by him even when he was getting fired back by people with rotten hearts and poisoned minds. He never cared, he never minded, he was his armour made of flowers and smiles, soft, reliable, trustful, never letting him walk alone on a path made of ice and fire, a path that could get him down and up, a bumping road. He could have chosen different and, yet, despite everything, Jinwoo is still by him, hands holding, smiles growing old and beautiful. A shared love that burns brighter facing adversities, proving itself strong, worthy, forever.