Chapter Text
smoke
you wanted to be in love and he happened to get in the way
- a primer for the small weird loves; richard siken
He hears the soft, harsh hush of a match striking somewhere.
Where it comes from, Kibum doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Not right now, when he’s out and alive for what feels like the first time in months; Park Youngbin isn’t one of those scruffy local back-up dancers or glass-cut foreign models. He’s foreign-born – “Oxford”, he claims as his place of education and Kibum’s heart stutters over the perfect English pronunciation – and is very much a man, not like any one of the nondescript boys Kibum’s had to settle for in the past.
“Isn’t this grand?” Youngbin is remarking, his laughter unaffected and Kibum wholly charmed. They are stuffed from dinner at an upscale Italian restaurant which is Youngbin’s father’s go-to when he’s treating guests of the embassy. The ravioli has its reputation, but it’s the fizz of champagne pouring into Kibum’s glass that sears his first hopes of where this date could be heading.
That, and the smooth skin of Youngbin’s palm as it slides over the back of Kibum’s hand when Kibum replies, “We just say ‘daebak’ here.”
Youngbin laughs again and Kibum waits for another sign, for the tell-tale flutter in his chest to appear so that he can ease into the cool, relaxed smirk which will appear on his face, no doubt. When it doesn’t arise, he still takes that as a good omen. Youngbin is so cultured, so well-mannered, civilized and sophisticated in a manner that Kibum’s always dreamt of.
It’s an aspiration he still dreams of, Kibum reminds himself, as he turns his hand so that his palm now faces upwards into Youngbin’s loose grasp. This looks right; it should feel right too. Youngbin is biting slightly into the flesh of his bottom lip and he seems pleased, at least.
“And what do we say to ‘dessert’ here, then?” He asks playfully, wink included.
On any other night, Kibum might have given in even to the temptation of theft to satisfy a sweet tooth. But it’s still a first date and there’s still a comeback approaching for SHINee.
He clasps Youngbin’s hand. “We call it a ‘raincheck’. Will you be free next Sunday? Same time?”
Kibum knows this game all too well; Youngbin makes a little show of humming thoughtfully, mulling over the prospect like it’s a proposition. Kibum’s missed this part of life outside the bubble of idol activities; as a performer, he’s always partial to little shows like these.
“Of course.” Youngbin finally concludes. “Shall I call for the cheque?”
In any case, he does. Youngbin is only a year older than Kibum – “Since we’re in Korea, it’s two years,” goes the old joke – but already so worldly and experienced. For Kibum, it’s a welcome relief from the role of dorm mother that had been thrust upon him for the last seven years. He could get used to being taken care of.
He could definitely get used to having Youngbin’s hand perched firmly on the side of his waist as they step outside into the warm night air, chuckling breathlessly from not enough alcohol and an overflow of nerves. It’s just from the first time, Kibum assures himself. There’s the rest of summer left before Youngbin heads back to England for the autumn. One misstep wouldn’t derail the rest of what they were building now.
In the short time that it takes for him to settle in the passenger seat of Youngbin’s Audi and for Youngbin to settle in the driver’s side, locking the doors and switching on the music (“Have you heard of The Strokes? I think they’d be right up your alley.”), the heat tickles Kibum’s fingertips and toes, as if it were a cautionary gesture. Kibum doesn’t approve; he’s been enjoying himself and he won’t allow a mere bonfire in his innards to swallow up what’s left of it.
So he asks Youngbin about The Strokes and he replies that they’re a rock band from New York and Kibum allows his mind to take off high above and away from the traffic light which turns red at the approaching junction, far away from Seoul, from the dorm he’s consigned to share with Jinki, Jonghyun, Taemin and the asshole who ate the last of his mother’s spicy noodle soup for lunch earlier that day. If Kibum would try hard enough, it would all come down to him and Youngbin in his car, and New York rock bands, and holding hands over gelato and espresso in the next coming weeks, and things that made perfect, wonderful sense if he would allow them to fall into place exactly as they were supposed to. As he meets Youngbin’s gaze and smiles, he knows that at least, this much could be true.
“Tonight was fun.”
“Yeah.” Youngbin agrees. “To be frank, I didn’t expect…”
Kibum’s heart stops.
“I didn’t expect much. Someone like you has already seen so much of the world, right? You’ve been around a lot of friends, your contact list must be the length of the distance most people cover in their lifetimes. So hearing that you want to spend more time with me means a lot.”
Kibum’s heartbeat steadies. A fire is licking inside his belly, but he ignores it. It’s just Youngbin and him, just as friends until the light turns green.
“That’s good to know.” He murmurs, already troubled by his own reticence. They’re passing the signal; he should be making his move now and here he is, biting his tongue in case the wrong name falls from it. Luckily, Youngbin seems content enough with his silence and The Strokes blare in HD from the speakers.
It doesn’t take long until they reach Kibum’s drop-off point, just outside the dorm. Kibum tries not to look up at the building, but he still notices the lights are on through the curtains.
Youngbin’s palm is suddenly warm on the back of his hand and Kibum’s heart is racing again. He tears his eyes away from the windows.
Can’t fuck this up now.
“So same time next Sunday?” Youngbin squeezes his hand and meets his eyes. Kibum swallows.
Can’t fuck this up.
“Yeah.”
He blinks and Youngbin is moving towards him, finally crossing the line. It’s Kibum’s signal to turn fully away from his sight of the dorm and towards this new (better) possibility. He’s ready for something new. And as Youngbin’s lips slide against his, he –
remembers how quickly it happened, remembers how it wasn’t supposed to happen at all, the smell of sweat and sports deodorant that asshole always wore, even if he wasn’t going to the gym, the taste of his chapstick
Kibum gasps, choking. The flames have travelled up his throat, scorching it, leaving behind enough smoke to fill his mouth.
“Shit, I’m sorry – ”
Youngbin is laughing, despite everything. Kibum can barely hear him above the blaze crackling.
“It’s okay.” Youngbin reassures him. “First dates are always awkward.”
Kibum wants to open his mouth and let out the heat in the thoughts that have suddenly erupted in his head, no this is not how first dates are supposed to go no this should have been nothing short of sweet and simple no this was not how things were supposed to work out no no no , but he finds himself sealing his lips tight with a smile, only to break it with a chuckle that sounded too loud and off-key. He would know a bad performance when he saw one and yet here he is, sinking in the middle of exactly that.
And Park Youngbin is none the wiser.
“So I’ll be seeing you next week.” He’s saying, as he drums a tune on the steering wheel. “I can’t wait. I really like you, Kibum.”
Kibum’s heart sinks.
He leaves Youngbin with nothing but a goodbye and a promise waiting to be broken, and he walks to the lift that will take him upstairs to another world entirely, one that seems so achingly familiar and foreign at the same time. It hadn’t been this way last week, before that trip to the gym, before –
The heat makes his skin prickle, a symptom of something that’s also making his heart pound in anguish and he hates this, everything that led to this moment, as he leans back against the glass in the elevator, grinding his teeth.
He knows the cause of it all, even its name and the way it yawns and stretches full-bodied first thing in the morning, he knows its stupid smile and the way it undoes something in his chest and that there was no fathomable way it should. At all.
Kibum has to reckon with it, has to put an end to the hum in his heart that makes his shoulders quiver whenever Choi Minho grins at him over breakfast in the morning, whenever Choi Minho laughs over his dogs chewing the charger cables, whenever Choi Minho huffs over a mistake in choreo, whenever Choi Minho’s reflection catches his eye in the mirror as they’re cooling down after practice.
Everything is Choi Minho’s fault and as the elevator doors ping open, Kibum knows he has to put a stop to it.
It’s already late at night when Jonghyun wakes up suddenly; he’s fallen asleep on his bed, right in front of his laptop, and a glance at the time on the bottom-left of the screen confirms his suspicions. It’s 12:43 in the morning, and between now and the precious few hours he’d dozed away, he’s produced a grand total of two words on the document still open before him. Two words whose meaning has completely escaped him and there they are, glaring at him in bold print. The fucking title of the song. Of course.
He groans, closes the document without saving and gets up to plug the laptop to charge for the remainder of the night. It’s only after switching on the light that he turns to the bed across from his and realizes with a strange jolt to his system that the sheets are still in place, the pillow still plump and lacking the lumpy indention of a resting head.
Somewhere out there, his roommate is still awake. At this time, Jonghyun is rational enough to know that Minho is probably just thumbing away at his controller in the living-room, hissing through his teeth as he tries to beat Taemin’s high score on SuperProBallLeagueWhatever on the Playstation, or maybe he’s venting his frustrations on an unsuspecting set of weights at the gym, or he could have just gone on a midnight run for beer and fried chicken with Changmin hyung or Junmyeon or Jinki.
Jonghyun still doesn’t have enough rational good sense to spare for the feeling curling in his gut, that something isn’t entirely right with the world, or at least, the tiny part of the world which lay before him, inside the dorm, completely dark with the lights switched off. Just to be sure, he steps out into the hallway and walks down to the end so that he can scan the living room for any traces for Minho. Even in the dark, he can tell the Playstation has been unplugged and stored away for the night. The floors and couch look clean; he could always vouch for Minho’s tidiness in that regard.
The odd feeling continues; Jonghyun feels like he should be satisfied with whatever reasoning he can come up with for Minho’s absence, but there’s always something hanging, something he feels he shouldn’t be privy to, but is somehow part of nonetheless.
He turns to head back to the room and suddenly starts at the shadowy figure that seems to have lain in wait for him. But –
“Jinki.” He exhales, and it’s comforting to see Jinki look just as surprised to see him. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Minho could – ”
The answer is immediate and doesn’t come from Jinki. It flows low and loud and clear from behind the door that encloses Kibum’s room, and Jonghyun feels the heat rise in his head. At any time of night, there was no mistaking a moan. And this one distinctly belongs to –
“M-Minho?” He stammers, disbelieving until the next moan follows, high and needy. “And Kibum? But… what…”
Jinki shrugs, not entirely able to shake off the discomfort so visibly etched into his features. Jonghyun can tell, even with the lights off. “I woke up because of… them. You didn’t hear it earlier?”
Jonghyun’s mind swims as he shakes his head, trying to put the pieces together. He had been asleep and before that, he’d retreated to his and Minho’s room because Minho and Kibum just wouldn’t stop their latest round of nightly bickering. There are shreds of their argument scattered around the living-room still, echoing from the space between the couch and TV console to the kitchen where the yelling had continued, each word searing through the air he and Jinki inhale.
“But… weren’t they fighting it out earlier? You heard them, right?”
Jinki nods, but Jonghyun can tell it counts for little. Jinki is as clueless as he is; they are rooted in the darkness of the hallway as the light from inside Kibum’s room pools in a golden sliver on the floorboard underneath the closed door, illuminating nothing.
Then Jinki’s hand is warm on his shoulder, and a wave of heat flows from his palm to Jonghyun’s chest until the same hand is pushing gently, and Jinki is telling him: “Go back to bed. We’ll figure things out in the morning.”
By ‘we’, Jinki means ‘I’. There’s no space in there for Jonghyun.
The warmth of Jinki’s hand is fading from Jonghyun’s bare skin as he guides him back to his room and as Jonghyun closes the door behind him, he slumps against the wood and exhales.
He’s going back to bed with his laptop instead.
Jinki doesn’t linger long in the hallway after sending Jonghyun off to his room. He considers sinking down on the living-room couch with his thoughts for company, but there’s an unquestionable heat in that small space; perhaps it’s a remnant of Kibum taking out his disappointment over a date gone wrong on every little annoying thing Minho ever did to him. It had gotten so bad that Jinki had told them to take it somewhere private to hash out a truce.
“Get a room!”
And the entire thing turns into his fault after all. And technically speaking (to himself), no one’s done anything wrong. Until SM decides otherwise. If they find out.
Another moan rings out. Jinki decides the couch isn’t the best place to come to a decision and he retreats to the relative sanctity of his own room, interrupted by nothing but Taemin’s occasional snores.
He’ll figure things out in the morning. Jonghyun’s been stressing enough for the past few weeks over the album release; Jinki can take care of the rest.
It must be sometime in the morning when Minho recovers enough of his stamina to pull on his clothes and make it back to his own room. A quick glance at Kibum’s phone screen tells him it’s 3:33, which is neither good nor bad, because anything comes in threes.
Kibum rolls over in his sleep and as his legs shift, the sheet which had covered both of them is pulled a little lower, revealing more of the smooth skin on his back. Minho’s eyes travel higher to meet the red marks made by his own fingernails, ten angry little red crescents encircling Kibum’s shoulder-blades. Maybe some lotion would help heal it up later.
Later.
Minho has to get back to his bed right now.
He’s relieved to find the lights switched off as he sneaks back, taking care to avoid the squeaky floorboard right down the middle of the hallway. Still, he’s especially quiet when opening the door to his room; Jonghyun’s a light sleeper.
The soft lump underneath Jonghyun’s bedsheet is a comforting sight as Minho quickly slips in underneath his own. Exhaustion hits him with the softness of a freshly washed pillowcase against his cheek; he pushes away the vision of the dimple on Kibum’s, springing afresh into his head.
“Minho-yah?”
The vision falls apart; it’s a room with Jonghyun he shares now.
Minho grunts a response. This was as coherent as he could get during this morning hour.
“Where were you?”
“Talking things out with Kibum.”
A pause runs, which Minho is too sleep-deprived to interpret.
“How did that go?”
Minho’s head hurts.
“Terrible.” He replies, and turns away to face the wall.
There are few things Jinki abhors more than friction. In all good sense, he knows it’s just something which comes with this whole leadership territory, even if he doesn’t enjoy it. And with the five of them crammed together in a couple square meters of space, it’s bound to occur more often than not. He can deal, he tells himself.
“Fuck this!” Kibum whines as they hit another pothole on the road. It’s as if he’s read Jinki’s mind and ripped the words right off his tongue.
Kibum’s been squirming uncomfortably since they got in the van after practice. Funny how everything else before that had gone so smoothly aside from the snide back-and-forth between him and Minho. They’d been granted five minutes to resolve it privately out of the practice room and had returned after thirty, shirts untucked, hair disheveled and lips smooth with wetness.
Manager hyung’s consolation involves turning up the volume on the radio (‘Hot summer, ah hot hot summer, Hot summer, ah hot hot, so hot…’ ) and telling Kibum to eat more carbs to ease his temper.
“It’ll give you more of a cushion to sit on as well.”
Minho snorts from his place in the front. For his sake, Jinki hopes it wasn’t in agreement, if the glare Kibum directs at the back of Minho’s head is a sign.
The cab in front of them suddenly grinds to a screeching halt, which in turn makes seatbelts a godsend with the way they all jerk forward in their seats instead of out of them.
“Motherfu – ” The rest of Kibum’s cussing is drowned out by Manager hyung’s.
Fifteen more minutes, Jinki tells himself, fifteen more minutes if the traffic improves and then he’ll be collapsing into his bed after calling dibs on the shower.
Next to him, Jonghyun is trying to be sympathetic. To Kibum.
“You can sit on my neck-pillow, if it hurts that much.” He’s even pulling off the pink bunny-eared cushion – which Jinki suddenly recalls he’d received from a fan and lent Jonghyun – and placing it on Kibum’s lap. “Besides, you should’ve been more – ”
“Jjong, it’s just fucking muscle cramps.”
“Yeah.” Minho murmurs just loud enough to carry over AKMU’s ‘Give Love’ and for Jinki to detect a trace of a snigger. “Cramps.”
Kibum inhales through his nostrils before leaning as far as he could across Jonghyun so that he can get to Jinki and pass on a message: “Hyung, would you please kick the seat in front of you? It would help ease my pain so much.”
Jinki would inflict more than that on both Kibum and Minho if he could get away with it, but it’s pushing 80 degrees outside and they’ve been stuck in a slowly moving metal box for the last 45 minutes. He gifts Kibum a firm ‘No’ instead and receives another huffy whine in return. Jonghyun’s sighing too; it’s been a week of dealing with this shit and neither Kibum nor Minho will fess up to anything except the multiple flaws of the other which instantaneously sprout before the comeback.
Jonghyun’s eyes are closing and his head tips forward slightly. The v-neck he’s wearing shifts, allowing a peek at the tanned skin beneath, just above where Jinki knows his chest mole lies. When he jerks awake again, Jinki is already gazing out the window.
“Traffic’s clearing up now.” Manager hyung hums appreciatively. “We’ll be home soon.”
It doesn’t do anything to erase the frown from Kibum’s face or the exhaustion from Jonghyun’s. Jinki glimpses Minho’s dead-eyed stare reflected in the side-mirror; whatever glee he’d derived from Kibum’s discomfort has run its course, which leaves room for the real physical aches to make their presence known. Right at the back is Taemin, absorbed in the epic fantasy world subject to each swipe and jab of his finger on his new phone screen.
Jinki looks down at his hands, which, only a few hours ago, were too heavy to sweep away the stray hairs which fell over his forehead, and comes to a decision:
“Hyung, can you drop me off at the 7-Eleven? I can pick up anything you guys need.”
Without turning to take in the full view, Jinki senses the ears pricking.
“Ice-cream.” Kibum orders.
“You’re on a diet.” Manager hyung snips in. “You all are.”
“Ice-cream.” Taemin interjects from the backseat, eyes still glued to his phone as it casts his face in blue light.
Jinki catches Minho’s glance through the side-mirror reflection and guesses that he’s in on the collusion. But all that’s left is –
“Jonghyunnie?”
Not even that makes Jonghyun smile. He’s alert enough to give Jinki a non-committal nod and it sits about as right with Jinki as a punch to the gut. Now that they’re nearing the corner on which the store sits, there’s nothing else left for Jinki to do but unlatch his seatbelt and wait for Manager hyung to give the signal for him to safely step out.
“Don’t wait for me.” He assures everyone but himself. “I’ll walk home with the bags.”
Manager hyung looks like he wants to argue his case, what with the way his jaw clenches, but ends up letting Jinki go with a sternly worded warning informing him to stay discreet and take no longer than 20 minutes. Which is what Jinki wishes he should have told Minho and Kibum after they’d stormed out of practice, but the damage is done and he’s never going to hear the end of Kibum’s nagging if he doesn’t get something sugary and calorific to soothe him.
The cold blast of air-conditioning that hits Jinki as soon as he retreats into the store might be his first blessing of the day. Then comes the fully-stocked ice-cream freezer which almost makes him burst into a full chorus of Hallelujahs until he realizes he’d forgotten to ask which flavors everyone wanted.
But this should be a breeze too: cookies ‘n’ cream for Minho, green tea for Kibum, anything with bananas for Taemin. And Jonghyun…
Okay, Jinki thinks, he’s got this. Jonghyun’s favorite flavor will come to him in time.
A tub of mint chocolate chip falls into his basket, followed by walnut and matcha. Mango and blueberry tumble in next, in case Jonghyun’s in the mood for something sweeter. Although, judging by his mood earlier, Jinki wonders if he should be taking any risks. Maybe something like café au lait was a safer bet. Or would vanilla be considered too boring? Passion fruit? Cinnamon Swirl? Christmas Eggnog and Candy Cane? No, no, no, of course not, because Jonghyun absolutely can’t stand Christmas.
Maybe he’s overdoing it a little. Or maybe he isn’t doing enough at all.
23 minutes later, he’s finally home after trudging alone from the store with two carrier bags of ice-cream tubs, which might have turned into milkshakes at some point in the evening heat. It takes two attempts for him to get the passcode right and by the time the door swings open, Taemin’s already pouncing on him.
“Waahh, hyung, did you buy the entire store?”
“If that doesn’t satisfy Kibum, he can go out for a second run.” Jinki mutters, maneuvering precariously between Taemin’s curious hands and the shortest path he can navigate from the entrance to the fridge. “Where is he anyway?”
“Minho owes him a massage.”
Jinki freezes in his tracks. “What?”
“His words, not mine.” Taemin takes full advantage of this pause to slip his hand into one of the bags and pulls out a tub of Pistachio Maple Syrup. “I didn’t know they stocked this flavor here…”
“A massage ?!”
“Yeah, that’s why Minho’s hanging out in his room now. Weird.”
Jinki doesn’t how to take in any of this new information, except by letting out his irritation in a loud, noisy exhale. His fingers are too preoccupied to pinch the bridge of his nose or rub his temples.
“Taemin, help me out here.”
Taemin happily obeys by removing one of the bags in Jinki’s grasp, gathering three more tubs in his arm during the trip to pack the rest in the freezer. Fortunately, the receipt from the store lies bunched at the bottom of the bag which Jinki still carries. He quickly reaches in and crumples it into his fist before Taemin can see. Out of 28 flavors, there has to be at least one Jonghyun is partial to. And if there isn’t, Jinki considers the level of good sense left in him to even consider the possibility of ordering a tub of whatever he wants from one of those online gourmet stores.
The little pyramids of hot pink tubs which he and Taemin build up in the cool comfort of the freezer are not doing anything to reassure Jinki. Bit by bit, the rashness of his actions becomes more apparent and retrospectively foolish. He hopes he’s not giving anything else away when he asks Taemin, “Where’s Jonghyun?”
“Showering.” The answer comes promptly over the snapping off of a lid from a container of Strawberry Cheesecake. “You can go next if you want. I can wait.”
Taemin probably has a party of White Mages and Dragoons to assemble on his phone, so Jinki’s going to take up his generous offer. His thoughts can do with some scrubbing off, so while Taemin glides away into the living-room armed with phone and ice-cream for sustenance, Jinki collapses onto the nearest chair at the kitchen table and waits.
After he hears the bathroom door lock unbolt, Jinki counts to fifteen, giving enough time for Jonghyun – possibly adorned in nothing but his personality and a towel – to slip out and go get changed in his and Minho’s room. When the time runs out, Jinki gets up and heads down the hallway to the bathroom. Kibum’s room is suspiciously quiet and there’s really no good reason to pry further.
Later, under the shower’s heat, Jinki lets out the sigh he’s been holding in since he got out of the van.
He knows there’s no good reason for that either.
The rest of his routine passes on auto-pilot: finish showering, brush teeth, floss, set his three phone alarms. It’s still only 10:15, relatively too early to turn in for any of them, and Jinki isn’t quite ready to break that tradition just yet, even if it’s just him, Jonghyun and Taemin sprawled out on the living-room couch, watching Infinite Challenge reruns.
Except none of them are really watching. It’s not long before Taemin’s fidgeting with his phone again, unable to resist the lure of a loot-box which sprouts in a timely notification onscreen, and although Jonghyun seems in better spirits now than he was right after choreo practice, Jinki can’t shake off the feeling that his mind is far off from the cast’s antics in a daycare.
He opens his mouth to say something – possibly stupid enough to gauge a reaction – but Jonghyun shifts into a cross-legged position that momentarily causes the broad collar of his black wifebeater to slide just a little, exposing enough collarbone and a hint of pecs to keep Jinki’s jaw hanging for while, until he catches Jonghyun staring back and promptly sets his face straight.
“Are you okay, hyung?”
Jonghyun hasn’t addressed him like this in a while, which makes things even worse in Jinki’s head.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He lies and judging from the way Jonghyun cocks his head to the side, stare still fixed on him, he’s bad at it. “There’s ice-cream in the fridge.”
“We’re all on a diet, remember? But anyway,” Jonghyun ends it with a smirk and gets up, making his way to the kitchen. The three-stack high pyramid of garish pink tubs in the freezer looms large in Jinki’s head; he’s definitely overdone it and in a few seconds, Jonghyun’s loud exclamation of disbelief will echo from an embarrassingly short distance.
In that same span of time, a high-pitched keen flits down the hallway from behind the closed door to Kibum’s room. Jinki can’t be more grateful.
“Is shiatsu supposed to hurt that bad?” Taemin wonders out loud, still thumbing through his battleground. “Minho said he’s read books on how to do it right.”
Jinki slumps deeper into the coach with a groan. “Minho should know better.”
“To be fair, I think Kibum’s enjoying it nonetheless.” Jonghyun chimes in on his return, pink plastic tub in one hand and spoon in the other. “I’m surprised that he can take this much after – ”
“Jjong, please .” Jinki warns. The knowing smile on Jonghyun’s lips stretches a little wider and that’s enough for Jinki to feel instantly lighter.
As Jonghyun makes himself comfortable on the couch again, Jinki tries to settle into this moment of calm. Jonghyun’s skin must still be warm from his shower, he muses, because he can swear that he can feel it somehow, even without touching. It could be scientific; do bodies generate heatwaves?
“Mm, so good.” Jonghyun hums around a spoonful of pink ice-cream. Jinki already agrees.
“You really must have gone wild in the 7-Eleven. We can open another store and sell off the rest of the ice-cream that’s left.”
If Jonghyun thinks that’s a good idea, Jinki can play along. “At least it’d be better than Manager hyung binning it, like he did with the leftover pizza last time.”
Jonghyun hums again in agreement. “Yeah.”
He takes another spoonful into his mouth.
“This tastes even better after being stuck in traffic for two hours. Here, try some.”
Jinki thinks he would like that; to lick the smidgen of pink off the spoon Jonghyun extends to him – strawberry milk, it finally dawns on him, is Jonghyun’s favorite flavor. And so is his. Jinki thinks he would love for the spoon to enter his mouth, feel the pink ice-cream melt inside, just as it had over Jonghyun’s pink tongue.
Jinki’s gaze falls into Jonghyun’s orbit and in the stillness that spans a second, the planets nearly align and cause everything until now to tip over into place. Maybe the sun rises; maybe it’s the moon Jinki sees in Jonghyun’s eyes. Maybe it’s nothing at all; maybe it’s why Jonghyun seems to come back down to earth, blinking slowly until he realizes his place.
“Shit, sorry.” He shoves the little plastic tub and spoon into Jinki’s lap, and practically springs away in the kitchen’s direction. “I’ll get you another spoon.”
It’s not so much about sharing than it is about spaces. Jonghyun values his own and Jinki decides to respect their boundaries, as invisible as they are to his naked eyes. When Jonghyun does return with a spoon for him to stick into the smooth dent already made in the pink mass of gradually melting strawberry sweetness, Jinki’s mind returns to the one spoon already stuck in the midst of it; an offering, an almost kiss.
If Jonghyun notices, it’s unapparent, even if his voice is a touch higher when he rambles on, “Can’t beat ice-cream in a heat wave like this. We can share, can’t we, hyung? At least, it’s like equal calorie distribution, right? No one’s getting fat. Or sick.”
His knee presses into Jinki’s as he jabs the second spoon towards Jinki’s mouth. “C’mon, hyung, use this. It’s gonna be milkshake later. Or do you really want me to feed you?”
It’s probably nothing serious and that’s partially the problem. Jinki straightens his back away from Jonghyun’s wheedling arm, zeroing in on the dark patch of nothing outside the window.
“Don’t fret, I’m not that hungry.” He lies.
If this disappoints Jonghyun, it only extends as far as the downward twitch of his lips, for as long as the second it takes to rearrange his face into a waning half-moon smile. The ceiling light above them glows obnoxiously bright; Yoo Jaesuk’s voice from the television blares loudly, jarring.
“Your loss.” Jonghyun replies, not sparing Jinki another glance, and Jinki accepts it as gracefully as the aftermath of an ‘almost’ moment gets. His resolve to let it pass liquidizes with each lap of Jonghyun’s tongue on his spoon, each twitch of his ankle which he jerks away from Jinki.
In the morning, Minho’s in no mood for talking and he’s willing to bet – hopefully – that Kibum isn’t either. They should’ve exhausted themselves of words at this point; Minho’s no poet, so he knows that actions speak louder. It’s all the more evident in Kibum’s shoulders at the breakfast table, hunched in on themselves as he burrows his frown in a magazine propped against one of Jonghyun’s wooden book-stands.
There’s nothing very appealing about the moment unfolding before Minho; anything that might have passed for beautiful last night, hidden in the darkness under the cotton skies of Kibum’s bedsheets, is plain in the daylight. The frown on Kibum’s face is too forced; Minho’s just as much of an actor as he is, but not seasoned enough to discern what lies deeper than what he sees on skin, the faintest traces of the nail-bites etched into Kibum’s shoulders, which he knows are hidden under today’s dayglow orange t-shirt. To be fair, Kibum gives as good as he gets.
The bruised skin on Minho’s hips itches under his sweatpants. Last night had been rough.
Kibum sucks in a breath while turning a page.
“Liar.” Minho wants to call out, just to spite him. “Can’t face Park Youngbin’s photoshoot in GQ, so you’re reading Grazia instead.”
But he just coughs to announce his presence and Taemin’s the only one who answers with a grin around the spoonful of cereal already in his mouth. There’s a ‘Good morning!’ jostling for space somewhere amidst the mush of milk and cornflakes, but at least he means every word. Minho crosses the kitchen space and ends up in the same line of sight as Kibum’s back which faces him defiantly.
By some stroke of fortune, Taemin’s snagged the seat at the head of the table. On his right is Jinki while the chair on his left is empty. Kibum is seated further down the left, leaving the one chair next to him as well as the one directly across empty.
It’s nothing worth tearing his braincells apart for. Minho knows this for sure, but it’s still a stupid decision to be mulling over in the morning. Take the seat next to Kibum or across? Sitting across from him would put more distance between them, which is appealing, but then he would end up having to look at Kibum.
“Minho?” Jinki calls out, concern evident in his voice. “What’s bitten you?”
There’s more than one painful answer to that, none of which Minho feels like elaborating. He’s about to bite the bullet and take the seat next to Kibum, when Jonghyun saunters in and does just that. Easy as a breath.
It’s only now that he notices how Kibum’s shoulders relax as he makes his way to the chair opposite his side of the table. Once Minho sits, the open magazine spread in front of Kibum covers his neck and most of his face. Kibum’s hair is growing out according to plan for the comeback; it’s going to be dark with tinges of seaweed green, the conditioned ends fanning around his head. He’s going to look fucking gorgeous. Minho hates it already.
Next to him, Jinki sighs.
“D’you want a boiled egg, Minho?”
“No.”
Nonetheless, the last soft-boiled egg from the platter in the middle of the table lands on his plate, despite the rejection. Jonghyun doesn’t seem too pleased.
“Half an hour.” He complains. “I sleep in for half an hour and all the protein’s gone.”
Jinki pushes his chair back to stand. “I’ll make you one.”
Clearly, Jonghyun hasn’t expected his whining to have this effect. “Wait, what? Hyung, you don’t have to…”
He’s scrambling to join Jinki at the stove in an attempt to strong-arm him out of taking him seriously. “Jinki, please, let me – ”
Jinki tsks and Jonghyun pouts. It’s so painfully obvious that Minho rolls his eyes, both of them so oblivious to what the other wants that it’s comically absurd. But it’s distracting enough for him to almost miss Kibum slipping away. When he turns, looking up, Kibum’s eyes briefly meet his and it’s both enough and not enough and Minho doesn’t know what he feels or why.
Kibum turns away to make his exit, leaving his mug of coffee and magazine behind. Minho counts to five before reaching out to touch the ceramic rim, the place where Kibum’s lips would have pressed, only to find that it’s long since gone cold.
Before leaving for his mother’s house, Jonghyun always makes sure to have an excuse handy. Some days, and on many nights, it’s because he misses her, her comfort, her warmth, her cooking, just her. Sometimes, he jokingly admits that it’s Roo, and accuses his mother of overfeeding his dog because why else is she so lethargic when he comes over?
But lately, he’s been using these excuses as a cover story. Today is one of those days on which his sister arrives home early enough from work to join him and their mother on the living room sofa, just in time to catch up on the newest KBS drama which Jonghyun knows no one will end up watching because they have each other to pester and play around with. Billions of people in the world and right here are the only two he’d trust in a heartbeat.
It’s just that there are things he trusts Sodam a little more with.
When the ending credits roll around, mother stretches with a sigh and confesses that she’d better get around to sorting out the laundry now than never, no thanks to her son’s distractions. Jonghyun watches Sodam watch her as she heads upstairs and then it’s down to the two of them. Three of them really, with Roo, and he’s not sure that even counts since the actual third person that’s been dominating his and Sodam’s conversations has never been privy to them.
He patiently waits for Sodam to finish scrolling through her SNS feeds, occasionally pausing to leave a like and comment, while Roo climbs onto his end of the sofa and nestles in his lap. The first question comes sooner than he expects:
“Are things still slow at the dorm?”
“Yes.” Roo lifts her head at the sound of his voice, so he’s now obliged to scratch behind her ear. “And no.”
Sodam looks up from her phone. “Is that good news?”
“Not for me.”
Her eyebrows rise, a sign that he’d better hand over the details, through and through.
“It happened a few weeks ago, but I’m definitely sure something happened. Between Kibum and Minho. Yeah.” He responds to her jaw dropping. “It was that one night on which we heard… stuff, from Kibum’s room. At least, Jinki and I did. Taemin was sleeping.”
“And?”
“It’s still happening. They get it on behind any closed door they can find and pretend nothing happened the next morning while the rest of us lose out on our precious sleep. Well… it’s actually Jinki and I who can’t sleep. Taemin does, somehow.”
It takes a good while for Sodam to process everything he’s spilled. Jonghyun can’t blame her; life at the dorm over the past week has taken on a surrealistic feel, as if there were a convergence of parallel universes that accidentally crossed over each other. Whatever had happened behind Kibum’s bedroom door on the night he and Jinki found themselves caught outside in the hallway on the other side was rippling into each day that followed.
Sodam finally sets her phone down. “Is that what’s been upsetting you?”
“I’m not upset.” Jonghyun protests. “People just shouldn’t lie, don’t you think?”
“Well, it is only between two people.”
That’s true and Jonghyun knows it, and he also knows it’s not entirely the way things are going. “I know it’s not anyone’s business but theirs, but… something isn’t entirely fitting.”
What he means is that for all their combined acting prowess, two of his members are shit at lying. Not that he expects Sodam to completely get it, and judging by her furrowed brow, she really isn’t seeing it from his viewpoint.
“So… do you not like the idea of them being together?”
Jonghyun is about to scoff, when:
“Or is it because you want what they have?”
His mouth twists into a scowl instead. “If you’re implying that I want to spend the duration of my relationship sneaking about and lying, then no. I don’t want that.”
“Of course not. But you’d want something , at least.” Sodam’s being mischievous now. “With him.”
There’s nothing for him to dispute there. He’s wanted something for a long time now; he wonders if Jinki has too.
“What’s stopping you?”
He has an easy answer for this: “It’s complicated.”
As well as the not-so-easy one: “It’s him. Or maybe it’s me? It’s like two of us trying to get hold of the steering wheel in the same car and sometimes he’s pretty dense, you know? Or I guess I’m too forward? And we might as well as end up going nowhere.”
And the simplest one: “If the company finds out…”
All of these come tumbling out in the span of a minute and he hates how nothing is any clearer despite the outpour. Even Roo seems annoyed; she’s already begun whining. At least Sodam’s learnt not to make her giggling too obvious. There’s just a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Cheer up, you’d still be getting some good song-writing material out of this.”
“Don’t remind me.” He groans. “Even that’s gone. It’s like I’m stuck in every aspect of my life.”
“Oh, chill, would you?”
A cushion hits him.
“You’re so melodramatic. It’s amazing how you haven’t progressed at all since high school.” There’s no malice in her voice as she closes the gap between them and puts her arm around his shoulders. “Push will come to shove one day, I’m sure.”
“There’s not going to be any shoving, Noona.”
“Are you going to keep pushing then?”
Jonghyun doesn’t know if he can, or if he even wants to. Things are strained enough as it is and he’s not sure if he’s up to testing Jinki’s boundaries.
“Maybe I’ll give up.”
Her hand on his head is soft and soothing as it gently strokes. “That’s not like you. You’re not going to let go that easily.”
It’s true and he hates himself for it.
“Maybe I’ll just write a song after all.”
“And it’ll be beautiful. Just like everything you write.”
He doesn’t have the heart to disagree, so he nods anyway, and his head feels heavier, full of his words, weighted with longing and doubt.
It’s 2:13 in the afternoon on a Thursday, Kibum has already been up way too long and he can’t wait to go back to bed again. And unlike the last sporadic couple of nights, he’ll be going there alone and if any of his thoughts wants to have their merry way with him right then, he’s just going to smother them with a pillow.
The hope of a peaceful afternoon nap begins to fade as soon as the door swings open to the dorm’s entryway. Kibum hears laughter; Minho’s cackling and Taemin’s snickering. The furniture thumps as they roughhouse over something which Kibum knows for certain can only be absolutely inane, so he’s going to head straight to his room. It’s been two hours too long spent with Jinki getting the new choreography perfectly acceptable. Kibum had woken up at six this morning with the assumption that a stopover at Starbucks would ease his transition into the early hours. The flush of humidity which had sunk into his skin, seeping right through his Moschino shirt as soon as he stepped out of the building made him realize his mistake.
Still, Kibum had persevered. Kibum had driven to the nearest coffee house and ordered three tall iced Americanos for himself, Jinki and Jonghyun who were supposed to meet him in their designated practice room at SM. Kibum hadn’t complained at all when he received Jonghyun’s text, explaining why – but not really – he’s decided to sacrifice dance practice time for studio time instead, and Kibum had pretended he didn’t notice Jinki’s face fall momentarily when he found that it was only Kibum whom Jonghyun texted.
Kibum had set up the tablet which contained the choreo guide as well as the music, and set himself and Jinki in their positions as best as they could muster with only two members present. Kibum had had to make do with running on a diet’s worth of salad, egg whites and one-and-a-half grandes of coffee – Jonghyun’s share split between himself and Jinki – for the next five hours, alternating with wiping his sweaty forehead at random intervals and pausing to correct Jinki’s missteps, which – given Jonghyun’s absence – seemed to have tripled in frequency. Kibum knew he could’ve just rolled his eyes and forgiven both of them, but he’d nearly exhausted his own energy by the time the hour hand settled on one.
It hadn’t taken much for Jinki to just collapse on his back at that point. He’d batted away Kibum’s attempts to get him upright and insisted he would be staying longer to get his moves down. Kibum hadn’t argued, though he also knew better than to agree. This summer was turning out brutal, heat lashing through every open crevice.
He needed the alone time; he’d earned it.
As he passes the fridge in the kitchen, Kibum remembers the hot pink hillocks of ice-cream tubs. Jinki always went about things weirdly when he was trying to appease everyone. Or just one. No wonder Jonghyun seems so tired lately.
He wonders if there’s anything he likes left; surely just a spoonful wouldn’t count as cheating. His hand hovers over the remaining pink tubs as his mind ponders, until there’s an eruption of noise that makes him flinch.
It’s probably something stupid, but he has to be sure.
Kibum steps backwards away from the fridge and out of the kitchen, until he’s in sight of the living-room. Taemin’s vocal range is only slightly off-kilter from where he lies shrieking on the couch as Minho straddles him with a smirk.
Red. A flash of red hits Kibum in the eyes. Then he sees the TV remote tugged between both their hands and everything shifts back into perspective.
Taemin must sense his presence because he’s craning his neck to look at him. “Oh, hi hyung!”
Kibum keeps his eyes trained on him, not Minho.
“The hell are you doing?”
“Watching TV?”
“In that position?” Kibum sniggers too loudly, even to his own ears. “What show? MMA? No wonder you’re laying off the workouts.”
Taemin just grins cheekily, rolling away from beneath Minho and onto the floor, folding and unfolding his legs with a dexterity Kibum envies. “Anyway, I got the remote now so it’s my say.”
“You only win because Kibum interrupted.” Minho pipes up. A disconcertingly familiar rush makes Kibum’s chest twinge uncomfortably. He decides that he can do without ice-cream today.
“Anyway, I’m gonna go shower. Play nice, you two.”
He doesn’t spare another glance at them and starts for the bathroom. He’s not more than halfway down the hall when he’s interrupted.
“Hey, Kibum…”
It’s Minho. Kibum doesn’t have time for this, but he’ll grant him this one second. “What?”
“You tell me.”
The red flash is back behind Kibum’s eyelids as he lets them fall closed. It’s a muted shade of red this time, one that burns in a different manner. When he opens his eyes, Minho is still before him with his hands planted on his hips and mouth set. There’s none of the amiableness crinkling his features as it had just a few minutes ago when he’d been with Taemin.
“Minho, stop it. I’ve spent four hours watching Jinki hyung trip over his feet on the day the sun decided to kickstart its descent into hell. Go play with Taemin if you want to play at all.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Of course Kibum knows and he hates that Minho can see that. “Taemin is right. Over. There.”
“So?” Minho’s gaze darts towards the living-room where Taemin now lies contentedly on his stomach with his eyes fixed on the TV screen, and he lowers his voice regardless. “How’s Park Youngbin?”
“Fucking hell, Minho, is this what you decided to accost me over?”
“I’m not ‘accosting’ you, I’m asking you a question.”
“Which is none of your business.”
“And what we did in the bathroom before last group practice wasn’t either?”
An unbidden memory of going down on his knees before Minho as the hot water fell in sheets around them hits Kibum with all the force of a kick to the head.
“That’s different.”
It’s only two words, but Kibum knows he’s already said too much. Judging by the confusion apparent on Minho’s face, he’d better not give him time to catch up.
He begins putting enough space between them, making his way to his room. “I’m tired and I’m going to take a nap.”
“Wait a minute…”
Minho’s fingers are encircling his wrist. “What’s different, Kibum? Aren’t you technically cheating on him?”
“Let go of me – ”
“I don’t wanna end up in any of that love triangle bullshit, if this is we’re heading – ”
“We’re not heading anywhere!”
The hand around his wrist releases and the rest of Kibum pitches forward in the wake of his outburst. He stumbles into the nearest wall, pushes himself off of it and then flees to the open door of his room, accomplished without having to look any longer into Minho’s eyes.
And it is all Choi Minho’s fault. Another memory arises inside Kibum’s head as he slams the door shut and nearly flings himself onto his bed, one in which the waxy feel of Minho’s chapsticked lips melds with the stickiness of the summer heat after that first time in the gym. Then comes the one before that where Minho smiles at him, across from backstage over streams of technicians and coordi noonas, under the glare of stadium lights in another country, just for him.
Another comes after both of these, and this is the one where Minho lies next to him, both of them spent and gasping for air, skin slick with sweat.
Kibum buries his head in his sheets and after catching a whiff of that scent, slides onto the floor with hands clenched, feeling a stab of vindication as the nails digging into his palms remind him of the ones that had sunk into his back, just a few nights ago.