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“Just five more minutes. Please.”
Wooseok clung tighter. He knew five minutes would never be close to enough, but he also knew five was five more than none.
Jinhyuk inhaled softly. “Okay.”
Still early, the room was fuzzy with dim, gray light. Outside the window, clouds drifted lazily through the overcast sky, whispering tales of rain storms to come. Even the summer heat held back, almost held its breath. A soft breeze danced through the open window. Everything else stayed still.
Wooseok spent the entire night dreading the morning. He felt himself looking at the clock compulsively during the night.
12:58.
1:35.
2:51.
More frequently as the morning got closer. Like the more he checked, the more time sped up.
3:47. 4:13.
4:40. 4:59. 5:12.
And, eventually, quarter of seven rolled around. Wooseok, defenseless, could only pull Jinhyuk closer.
Jinhyuk had gone through the same speech to Wooseok what felt like a hundred times. It’s not forever. Just a little while. Just until we can figure things out.
Wooseok wasn’t stupid. And he certainly wasn’t foolish enough to have anything but Jinhyuk’s best interest at heart. He knew a new job meant so many opportunities. Opportunities Jinhyuk had dreamt about for a long time. Opportunities that were, unfortunately, across the country.
Wooseok tried not to whine or pout. He especially tried not to cry. He spent two months trying to think of possible solutions and scenarios and alternatives. Jinhyuk would listen patiently before smiling solemnly, a sad look in his eyes, and saying in his sweet, sweet way, “I’m not sure that’ll work, my love.”
Because Jinhyuk cared about Wooseok more than anyone, and Jinhyuk knew every silly idea Wooseok presented required Wooseok uprooting his life and working nonstop to make enough money to tag along.
Jinhyuk knew Wooseok cried about it when he wasn’t around. Jinhyuk did the same.
A moment filled with silence until Wooseok spoke, slightly muffled against Jinhyuk’s chest. “I don’t know if I can do this without you.” He spoke slow, quiet, the only way his words wouldn’t crack.
Jinhyuk squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the right words would appear behind his eyelids if he willed them to materialize.
“I’m not saying that to guilt you or make you less excited. I just really don’t know,” Wooseok whispered. Jinhyuk exhaled hard.
“Look at me,” Jinhyuk said after a few seconds passed, opening his eyes. “Please.”
Wooseok pulled away from the soft gray fabric of Jinhyuk’s shirt, glancing up at Jinhyuk with his big eyes, now bloodshot from weariness. He felt raw, inescapably vulnerable under Jinhyuk’s gaze. He felt selfish and ashamed and wrong, and he hurt regardless.
Jinhyuk smiled the same soft smile with the same sad eyes. A pause. He locked his fingers tightly with Wooseok’s. Wooseok thought Jinhyuk was always, impossibly, composed. Jinhyuk always had answers.
“You did it all before I came into your life,” Jinhyuk replied. “You can still do it all without me here.”
To be honest, Wooseok knew if he watched this scenario from the outside looking in, he’d be disgusted with himself. Disgusted for acting weak . He would acknowledge Jinhyuk’s words as truth and rationalize the fact that, yes, Wooseok could do it all without Jinhyuk.
But that was not his position now.
He shook his head firmly. Eyes stinging, a few blinks to bat tears away. “I can’t. I’m different now.” He was careful not to let himself whine, pausing to take a breath. “I’ve had you in my life now.”
And Jinhyuk glanced around the room, the tiny room they called theirs, ours, gray and gloomy with full suitcases resting in the corner. And Jinhyuk let out one rough, choked breath, and he cried.
The type of cry that shakes your core, makes your stomach tremble as you catch your breath. Wooseok felt Jinhyuk sob against him, and his heart dropped. Nothing in life had prepared him for that pain, given him the tools to handle that break.
He propped himself up onto his elbow, stray tears sliding off his cheeks, others slipping onto his lips. “Jinhyuk, Jinhyuk,” he whispered, tracing the edges of his face. “Don’t cry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Jinhyuk just cried. Eyes squeezed shut, shaking against Wooseok. He cried, and for the first time that day, time felt unbearably slow to Wooseok. Time felt unbearable, unbreathable.
Wooseok looked on helplessly, limply rubbing Jinhyuk’s face. He had been loving Jinhyuk for so long, been relying on Jinhyuk for so long. For every tear he had, caused by every petty fight, every cliché movie, every emotional breakdown, every cry from frustration, Jinhyuk had an answer. Wooseok never said it, but he thought Jinhyuk was infinitely wise and inexplicably positive. He loved without any angles and without any conditions. His heart was open the way Wooseok wished his heart could be open. Wooseok had never learned how to behave that way, and now he could only watch as Jinhyuk lost control.
Eventually, weakly, Jinhyuk spoke. “It’s okay that you said it,” he said, forcing a smile that twisted and turned in pain. He let out another bout of tears, then breathed in. “It just hurt because I feel it too.”
Wooseok nodded. “I’m scared.”
“Well, things won’t end between us.” Jinhyuk’s face was red and swollen, eyes shiny as more tears escaped quietly.
“I know that,” he said as his own tears fell quicker. “I’m just scared of what my life will be like when it’s just me in this apartment. And me eating dinner, and me going for walks… Just me. No you.”
Jinhyuk frowned, reaching his careful hands out to Wooseok’s cheeks. “Wooseok. It’s never ever just you. Never.” He shook his head as he spoke, as if that words made no sense to him.
Wooseok’s body crumbled a bit, resting back down on the bed and getting closer to Jinhyuk. “That’s how it’ll feel.”
Wooseok didn’t like that feeling, didn’t know how to cope with it or how to forget it was there. Even the anticipation of it nagged at his core and reminded him of all the bad feelings that would surely arise amid Jinhyuk’s absence. He had not a single inkling of how he would handle those situations, and he didn’t like that uncertainty.
Jinhyuk reached for Wooseok’s hand beneath the covers, bringing it to his lips. He planted a soft kiss. And another. Eyes hazy, lids weighed down, hair messy from sleep. He held on gently, radiating strong softness. Wooseok’s heart melted.
“I’m here. Always,” Jinhyuk said. “Always, always, always.” His voice cracked, but he held strong. And Wooseok didn’t worry. Wooseok knew he meant that with his entire heart.
He closed his eyes and nodded, cooing softly as Jinhyuk took Wooseok’s face in his hands. He traced soft kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, both their faces damp with tears. Jinhyuk’s lips were warm against his skin, comforting and still heartbreaking. Heartbreaking that he’d have to go without.
Jinhyuk took one moment to just look at Wooseok, just soak in his angelic, round features, his little cherub face and stunning beauty and every little feature that seemed too perfect to even belong on a human being. Jinhyuk let his lips curve into a dull smile before pressing them to Wooseok’s, both gently and without restraint, desperately and patiently. Slow as the lazy morning clouds, like moving too fast would make the moment pass too soon. One kiss rolling straight into another, lips against lips with light hums and stray tears and a simple, necessary moment of peace.
Wooseok finally fell back once his head felt dazed, fingers now tangled into Jinhyuk’s hair, cheeks burning. “Thank you,” he choked out.
Jinhyuk chuckled, a tearful chuckle, unsteady, cracking. “For what, my love?”
Wooseok shook his head. “I don’t know. For everything. For coming into my life.”
That was enough. It would always be enough.