15

It feels so nice, like floating in warm water: relaxing, comfortable. The night is up, bathing him with silver and he must be dreaming – he hopes he does; he hasn’t sleep this peacefully in so long, he wants to keep his eyes closed, enjoy the sensation that is melting his bones. But there is a nagging thought, persistently blinking at the back of his head and he sighs, defeated, letting go of the mild feeling surrounding him, shakes the treats of sleep away, hanging over him like cobwebs.

He blinks at the moonlight and tries to guess the hour – his mind is soggy, his thoughts coming up in a puff of smoke, thin and trembling. There are soft lips mumbling names he holds dear, stumbling words that make no sense to him, bony fingers and pink hands all over his waist and he lets his gaze wander over the sleeping figure cuddling by his side, with blazing flocks of inked hair that falls on his forehead – that he brushes away from his eyes, touching lashes that bat slightly. Seungyoon doesn’t move, too soak in alcohol to even recall what he has been doing. Jinwoo chuckles, fond, allowing him to snug closer, to throw a leg over his hip-bones. He counts to ten before unlocking himself from among Seungyoon’s limps that are keeping him pressed against the mattress.

Jinwoo breathes in sharply but, this time, the air floats naturally, it doesn’t get trapped in his cords, raging his throat with nails and claws – it doesn’t hurt as much as before. The knot between his ribs is lessening, the pressure thumping in subduing, his heart slowing down its rhythm and he hasn’t woke up screaming his name, looking for him. His mind keeps swirling and his lungs burning down, panting for oxygen when the night is drawn and he is alone, but the anxiety is remitting, the anguish and distress still palpitate through his veins but not that hard, not as harsh anymore. It’s good, bearable, tolerable, with the pain suffuse: it’s not perfect but he is getting better day by day and it’s all thanks to him – it is all because of Minho. This time he will do what’s right, he won’t let all the efforts go to waste – all the faith, all the love, he will keep them save inside of his core, until it blooms, uprooting the fears, the dread of not being enough, of not being good enough, of being replaced, forgotten, stripped from the person he was before and that is now lost along the blood running down his spine.

Seungyoon feels so warm, so gentle, even when he is sprawled, half of his body trapping Jinwoo, catching him by the edges, his shirt a mess of wriggles under calloused fingers that are so familiar, that he can touch them by heart. He would rather stay here, with Seungyoon’s chest swaying over him, his heart-beat on his ears, the washed flavour of soju still lingering over his flesh, but there is something he has to do – he must retrieve his phone and check that it’s time to swallow his pills that he has stored in the room assigned to him and that it isn’t this one. He heaves, Seungyoon’ heavy on him, a death weigh, and his bones are so frail and he is feeling so tired – but so alive, he unwinds his fingers from his skin, kicks him out of his body and Seungyoon is so deep into sleep, he doesn’t even flinch (he pouts at the lack of contact, at the lost of Jinwoo’s flesh under his palms, but stays still, babbling incoherently, munching over Seunghoon’s name, calling for him as if a charm cast upon himself. He tugs Seungyoon again, envelops him with sheets and blankets, keeping him wrapped in place, unable to feel the distance between them. He presses a digit against his soft cheeks and he smiles, all gummy, Jinwoo watches him until the cadence of his heart is so calm he can’t count them and closes the door slowly, carefully not to wake him up – recalling the deride of the night before, how he had ended sleeping in with Seungyoon (how he has been surrounded by pouts and nags and gently pressed into the mattress, Seungyoon mumbling incoherently, dragging him while stripping off his clothes, tossing them without a thought.

He walks across the hall to the kitchen, where he is sure he had left his phone – and where he hopes to find a soul to accompany him, to share the burden that has been lingering between his rips, compressing his lungs and setting fire amid his veins and blood, the turbulence of his mind, to release the concerns he stores towards Minhyuk (fears that he will come back, stepping right into his life). He is sure he will be back to the rest of what he has, of what he has attained – he will drain him because, honestly, he doesn’t feel strong enough to refute him, to not fall in love like the first time (like the only time he has been enamoured before, with him, his only one).

The kitchen is empty, the lights are long gone, silver beams and shadows illuminating the floor in grey hues that map it like patchwork. Jinwoo slides in, pats down the walls seeking for the switch – it catches the room in yellow glint, bathing the leftovers of a party left halfway, plates scattered, uncared, on the sink, stains and crumbles covering the table, food in containers. The clock above points to 5 am in time for his stomach to growl, hollow, too busy feeding Seungyoon to cater for his own needs and now he notices how hungry he is.

He moves as if a phantom, pretending not to be there, not to be noticed by the rest – he suspects that they must all be sleeping and he doesn’t want to interrupt their dreams, wishes them to have a good night sleep while preparing a cup of tea. He boils water and waits, hurrying to his room to get his medication, to take his supplement of iron with a sip of warm Gyokuro, the taste of it already in his nostrils, tickling his senses like bubbles of energy – rich, revitalising.

Jinwoo feels him before actually seeing him curled over his bed. He knows it’s Minho long before creeping in, tiptoeing, silver shine leaking, colouring his nape, the bundle of blankets and his pretty face resting on the pillow, looking at him with his lids closed, long lashes creating shades on the bones of his cheeks. He comes closer, watching him with interest – watching him with kindness, with care. Like this he could be anyone, any person in the world – all his features dissolved, relaxed and vulnerable, exposed. There is nothing of the board, imposing man he knows – soft on the inside, a heart of gold. There is nothing at all threatening about him now, all corners and smooth surface, the little light drizzling over him sleeking all the creases on him and he wants to lay down next to him, protect him from the world outside – to protect him from himself, to shield Minho from the ache of a broken heart.

He moves on his sleep and it feels strange to be the one observing – when it was always been the other way: waking up to see his smile spreading, watering him like soft rain. It is an odd sensation, so different from watching Seungyoon and, for a second he refrain the urge to curl next to him, allowing his warmth to irradiate from his skin to him – but Jinwoo doesn’t want to molest him, to harass him, to make him think that, perhaps there is a chance (that he will fall in love, too). He won’t, he can’t, his heart is in pieces and it’s impossible to fix that, to mend what no longer is tangible, beating through his chest – there is only pain thumping in between his ribs, a reminding of all he has gotten to lose. He dispels the thought and settles to do what he must – so he walks to the cabinet where the pills are, carefully not to disturb the peace in the room.

There are eyes on him, he feels it piercing his dreams – they are there, glancing, gracefully, at him and, when he wakes, in waves of shock and surprise, he sees Jinwoo’s liquid pupils falling on his lips, painted tenderly in soft hues of golden and morning promises. When he recalls on him, Jinwoo blushes adorably, his cheeks aflame under the veiled shadows of the day. He turns to check the time, smiling giddily – thinking that he could get used to it, to wake up next to Jinwoo, in a heartbeat because it feels like paradise has come to greet him, has come to stay by his side.

“Morning,” he mumbles, still sleepy, his mouth klutz lips the colour of the moonlight, sloppy. But he can’t contain the grin, the bliss of been able to see him undone, unprepared – Jinwoo wasn’t meant to be here and, yet, he has come to him in the end.

“Sorry, did I wake you? I came here for my pills, it’s time to take them,” he explains, his bones tinted in joyous hues of scarlet, caught red-handed.

Deception pours into his heart like a glacial, washing him over with snow and pain – and Jinwoo has the decency to look down, sorrowful, ashamed, crushing in an instant all that Minho has gathered (but it’s his fault in the end, Jinwoo remains the same, the one who told him not to confess, the one who warmed him against feelings because he was barren, empty-handed, a broken mess).

Jinwoo sees the deception crawling to cuddle Minho, to engulf him in a stele of sorrow and remorse and he wants to change, to do better – to be able to cheer Minho instead of being a bearer of tragic moments, to twist the knife at his back. He takes the pills and swallows them, smiles at Minho ruefully, hating to be the reason of his dejection, hating that he is the one to blame. Minho has done so much, has been so kind and generous and there is nothing he can’t do right to make it better, to make Minho happy as he deserves – his life has neglected him enough, he shouldn’t be another stone hindering his path. He has accepted to move in with him because it fits in his condition – because he has no other place to be, - but, after some consideration, he sees it differently – he sees it from Minho’s perspective and it will only hurt him, to live together but unable to be loved back, to be stabbed constantly, unconsciously, inevitably. He doesn’t want to be that person to slash him, to bring pain and suffering because Song Minho is such a lovely man and he has had enough crap – but Jinwoo is nothing but a burden to bear, another shoot to his heart.

“Did you have breakfast?” Minho wonders, crumbling sheets, motioning to wake up, to be released from the mess of blankets covering him. Jinwoo nods slowly, looking down at him – staring at him heavily, the taste of a storm coming. The mattress springs under his weight when he sits next to Minho. He feels the dampness from his skin, from the patches where his fingers curl around his hand, how they tremble, agitated, troubled and he believes that this is all – that Jinwoo is resigning, ready to shatter the remains of his heart.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, a thumb dancing over his wrist, “for being a mess,” he continues, all sadness. But Minho isn’t sorry. He might be a mess, but it’s a beautiful one and he trusts that, with time, he will be able to untangle him, to put the pieces together and shape the Jinwoo that lies below, awaiting – a Jinwoo who will be real, tangible, a Jinwoo he has seen hinted when he was with his friends, loyal, carefree, sincere. He doesn’t mind what Jinwoo has to say, he is determined to stay, to reveal the truth concealed below the surface – he is not going anywhere because next to Jinwoo is his place, like him or not, he will remain, obstinate like a cobweb. (he has been trapped and there is no way out of loving Jinwoo, as sudden as it appeared the emotion won’t go away. Jinwoo’s voice is so little, so tiny, to not interrupt the nightingale, his hand dancing over his skin, cold fingers trailing along his veins, under the rhythm of his swollen chest.

“It’s not all your fault,” Minho says in the same manner, soft and caring.

“Well,” Jinwoo utters, uncertain, “I fell in love with him, so that’s on me,” he admits, turning to face Minho – but, instead, Minho pushes him to his chest, enveloping him with an arm, rubbing affectionately his hair, his mouth colliding with bones and ribs and the taste of bergamot and coffee. He feels so warm, so comfortable, so nice – it flashes memories that he has buried down, pressed hard to dilute them with the course of his blood. He doesn’t want to recall him, to allow his mind to say his name because, if he does, he will spiral down again, all the fight will go to waste.

“You can’t control your heart,” Minho tells with conviction, nodding more to himself than to Jinwoo. Of course, he knows – of course, he hasn’t chosen to love Jinwoo, it just happened, unruly, unmatched. He hums in low agreement. “It’s nobody’s fault, hyung, really,” he adds, running his fingers under his scalp, tracing the delicate lines of his nape, tips tapping softly over his forehead. “But… I want to know more,” he continues, remembering the little Seunghoon has told before, feeling Jinwoo’s cheek landing over his collarbones, his hair tickling under his nose – and he is so light, barely the touch of a feather, soft and silk, his skin pale, milky under the curtain of moonbeams leaking in, all silver and shadowy. It is hot where Jinwoo is and Minho can assure that he is hiding, covering his blush between the night and the security of his own bones – it’s lovely that he has settled over him, nestling over his skin, his hands still laced under the sheets. “Are you still in love with Minhyuk?” and he despises the name, the weird way it makes him feel – uncomfortable as if cheating on him. Jinwoo swallows air, takes a big breath and it comes out warm, slowly passing over him like a summer wind.

“No, I’m not,” he exposes with conviction. “He is...” he begins, stops for a moment to gather his wits, “still a part of me, will always be,” and his voice wavers, smooth and creamy, weak, “but I don’t love him. I miss what we had, being with him, but that doesn’t mean he owns my heart,” he finishes, his nose rubbing under his tattoos.

“How did you meet,” he fires as if he has already planned this. Jinwoo chuckles, the taste of it sinking straight to his fingertips.

“Like most people, we met at a party. Someone introduced us and he was… handsome,” he exhales, remembering it, seeing it happening under his eyelids: the moment he first saw Minhyuk, how interesting he was, flirty and seductive, but so sturdy, he carried an aura of security, of protection and, for years, he was the chosen one – the lucky one to have his attention, his kisses, his voice lulling him back to sleep when nightmares hunted him. Minhyuk was so good he never had a reason to suspect. He was perfect and kind and gentle, always there to support him, always there to make things lighter, to put a smile on a bad day. Up until now, he stills tries to figure up what went so uncharacteristically wrong. But he knows better now: it was all a farce, Minhyuk used him to get away with his money, he was a swindler, playing with his heart, owning his feelings and mistreated them to his advantage. He pretended all the time, Jinwoo meant nothing, was no-one and all the years together became sand wetted with tears, barren, wasted.

“And, how did you find out he robbed you?” he asks, cautiously, not wanting to hurt or to push Jinwoo into something he doesn’t want to reveal, to expose to him – after all, it has been a private matter, Jinwoo hasn’t explained much to him, most of his inquests have been to Seunghoon, who hasn’t said much (who hasn’t known much because, again, Jinwoo was very secretive with them, walking on thin ice not to involve them into his problems).

“I came home and I just felt it. He wasn’t there and it didn’t feel right. A hunch, my stomach churching and my heart was telling me that he was gone, for good. The place was exactly the same, he didn’t take anything with him, only his Veak cap. He adored it, that’s how I knew,” he recaps, the pressure building up, pulsing into his mind, an imminent headache.

“How long has it been, since then?”

It was the first snow, the texture of the swirling flocks still burning in his memory, vivid, a contrast with what happened after it – a blur of days without Minhyuk, days without propose or direction, without an explanation to go on (only abandonment, deflection).

“About a year,” he says, counting the hours without he had left before his heart lastest beat. A year and he still bears the scars, he is still stuck in time. A year for everything he ever loved to splinter, dismantled right in front of his eyes.

“Did you knew back then that he…?” he leaves the words unsaid but Jinwoo grasps at them, seizes them with a tiny smile of encouragement.

“You don’t have to be this careful,” he advises, shaking his head. He is no longer cuddling by his side, he has opted to sit down, his back leaning against the wall, legs bent, hands tracing, distractedly, circles over his knees. Minho follows suit, his shoulder bumping. “Suddenly, a few months after, my landlord came to visit. He then told me that I wasn’t paying the rent, to check that there must be something happening. He was really patient, he let me stay for a while but, in the end, he had to despatch me. I went to the bank and then I was surprised by the fact that I was in the red. We dug down all the contracts and arrangements under my name and found out what was happening: Minhyuk took credit on my name and the bank has been taking the money to pay for it from my saving account until it was emptied. I took another job, sold all I could, did my best to pay it off and get back to the track, but it wasn’t enough,” he sighs and Minho nods – he has seen the records, the bank extracts, he knows Minhyuk asked for a pretty sum.

He tells him so, reveals what Jinwoo already assumed – he raises his brows, more curious than surprised, more deflated than irate for having his life compromised, stalked.

“Yesterday,” Jinwoo comments, eyes lost in the ceiling, the sun climbing up at the far end, tinting the room with red and purple, “it feels like a million years ago. So much has happened. So much has changed,” he continues and Minho is sure that he is talking to himself, mumbling words that make sense only to Jinwoo.

“You fainted,” he points out and, realizes, that Jinwoo should be sleeping, resting, that despite the appearance of normality, Jinwoo is still frail and weak.

“And you were there to help. I’ve been blacking out for so long, but you have been there to pour light, guiding me to take the correct path. You were there even when I didn’t want you to be there,” he admits, and it swirls, hard, bitter on his lips. “I was so lost. Still am, but because of you, because of all you did, I think I’ll be OK. Day by day, getting better,” and, when he smiles, it reflects the beams of the sunrise, melting any resistance.

“I hope so, that you will recover soon. And that you will allow me to stand by you. To be a friend, because, even though it has been so little the time we have spent together, I already consider you as my family.” Jinwoo doesn’t reply but finds his hand, opens the fist that lays between their legs and unclasps it, entwines his fingers and holds him. And knows the meaning that pulses from his skin to him.

“I’ll get better, Minho, I’ll be better,” and it’s a promise – one that he can keep. “And I won’t go anywhere. I’ll park my ty life here for you to observe it, for you to see how I put it back together,” and his chuckle, which sounds out of place, sinks into Minho like rain into the forest – clean, clear, dear.

Jinwoo knows about his feelings so there is no reason to reiterate them, to force him to reject him again. But that won’t change him, his determination to be with Jinwoo – to be with him in any possible way. He is patient and Jinwoo needs time, Seunghoon has told him, he has realized as well. Time to forget, time to forge back his heart, to be in control of his life.

“I know you will,” Minho says, tightening the hold Jinwoo has of his hand, “and I’ll be there to see you blooming again,” and it’s just a second but Jinwoo’s lips fall on his cheek, smooth, tender, gracing his skin like butterfly wings. And he knows that there is hope because he feels it buried in his skin, where a kiss has been placed because Jinwoo leans on him and tells him more about what had happened. Because Jinwoo is opening up, slowly but surely, and there is no return from this point.

“Hey,” Jinwoo chimes in after a while, after seeing the sun getting up inside of his eyes, “I promise to cook every day for you if you promise not to get me more clothes,” and this time he is laughing genuinely and, even if he is mortal offended, even if Jinwoo has just stabbed into his heart once again, he can’t take it seriously, not when he is trembling with delight, cracking up. Not when Seunghoon comes in, unexpected, uninvited, and joins them, bouncing into bed with Seungyoon.

And the situation is so odd and, yet, reassuringly familiar, Minho can’t mind. He has friends who care for him, has Jinwoo half over him – a fealty pledge of daily cooking and a heart of gold that is gleaming under the coming from the window.

THE END