(for bluedreaming) Wherever My Heart Touches (Wherever That Is), I Will Go [1/4]
For: bluedreaming
Title: Wherever My Heart Touches (Wherever That Is), I Will Go
Pairing: Jongin/Tao/Xiumin
Word Count: ~28,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Infidelity, depression
Summary: Jongin and Minseok are childhood friends who have married, yet have become awkward around each other. Tao visits, and changes their relationship completely.
Minseok is already out in the garden when Jongin wakes up. He scrabbles at his alarm clock while he sits up, lifting aside a curtain to see Minseok bend down, gently turning over leaves to check his tomatoes. The early morning sun filters through Minseok’s red hair, setting it ablaze against the dull stone barriers of their property.
Jongin watches for a while. Minseok is a little strange; he sings and talks to the plants while he weeds the spaces between and plucks the fruit that is just ripe enough for their table. He smiles, and when he straightens Jongin can see that he has a sizable eggplant in one hand, dusty from the earth but otherwise perfectly shaped.
Jongin doesn’t really like vegetables. But Jongin loves the mirza ghasemi Minseok makes, sweet and yet spicy, with soft chunks of eggplant and tomato cooked so tenderly that it melts in his mouth. Jongin likes most of the food that Minseok makes for him, because Minseok knows that he is a picky eater and tries to make dishes that Jongin will find palatable, that Jongin will try. Jongin always tries, anyway, because Minseok always looks happy when he can coax Jongin to put a spoonful of some new recipe in his mouth.
Jongin doesn’t like how Minseok talks more to his garden than to him, but he doesn’t know quite how to change that.
The bathroom smells of the shaving cream that Minseok uses, stirring it up into a froth before applying it to his face with a brush. Jongin has always liked to watch him scrape the foam carefully away as Jongin brushes his teeth, sneaking glimpses while they share the sink basin. But today Minseok has gotten up early, and Jongin wonders why. It can’t be-
The screen door shuts and footsteps pass by the closed door of the bathroom. Jongin hears a quiet whine as the door to his bedroom is pushed open. “Jongin? Are you awake?”
He peers around the door. Minseok laughs as he notices the toothbrush still stuck in Jongin’s mouth, flecks of paste on Jongin’s lips. “Come to the kitchen when you’re ready,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”
Jongin washes up quickly, pulling on a shirt as he walks down the short hallway. “Oh!”
The kitchen table is full, every available space covered with dishes that Jongin likes. Minseok stands by the oven, smiling at him. “I was so surprised you didn’t wake up when I was making all this,” Minseok says.
Jongin turns bright red. “I-” He gestures awkwardly at Minseok, as always lacking the words he needs.
The smile on Minseok’s face doesn’t shift at all. “It’s okay if you forgot our anniversary, Jongin,” he says. “I just thought it might be nice to do something this year, that’s all.”
“No,” Jongin says emphatically, maybe a little too loudly. Minseok’s face seems to crack a little at that, but Jongin shakes his head. Minseok looks surprised as Jongin walks toward him, but Jongin opens the little cupboard over the cooking fan, much too high over Minseok’s head for him to reach without standing on a chair.
Jongin takes out the cake he bought yesterday, from Minseok’s favorite bakery.
When Jongin looks at Minseok’s face again, he is surprised to find that Minseok looks stunned. But before he can ask, the expression fades away so smoothly that Jongin thinks that maybe it wasn’t there at all, maybe it was just Jongin.
“Thank you, Jongin,” Minseok says warmly. “I guess - will you be home for dinner? We can save it for then. I don’t think we can eat all of this, and the cake,” he says, motioning at the table.
“Yes,” Jongin says. “Yes, we can - I’ll make sure to be here on time.”
Minseok takes the cake from Jongin and puts it on the counter, while Jongin sits down at the table and waits for him. “Good,” Minseok says.
“Thank you for the meal,” Jongin says hurriedly, before reaching for the coffee. Minseok laughs.
Minseok has never asked why Jongin always rides his bicycle to the courier shop he works at, though even Jongin knows it’s a little weird when Jongin can teleport. Jongin likes to because he likes feeling the wind in his hair, even during the chilly winter months; he likes listening to his music while he passes all of the businesses in town, closed for the morning. Most of all, he likes the time he spends by himself, rolling along in the empty streets, thinking about what he has to do today and what he’ll do when he gets home and Minseok-
Minseok. He likes thinking about Minseok, when Minseok can’t see his face. Jongin stops at a red light, balancing carefully on his toes. But Minseok never asks why Jongin doesn’t teleport, so Jongin doesn’t tell him. Minseok probably doesn’t care, anyway.
The sign in the window of Junmyeon’s Delivery says closed, but Jongin pushes his bicycle around back, leaning it against the little shed where all of the extra packing material is kept.
The back door is open, and Jongin doesn’t bother to knock as he enters. Junmyeon is asleep on his bookkeeping when he goes into the office. Even though Jongin tries to be quiet, Junmyeon still startles awake. “Oh, Jongin!” he says. “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” Jongin replies. “Is there anything for me today?”
“Of course,” Junmyeon says, getting up even though Jongin protests. Junmyeon is a mess, and his books are no exception when Jongin glances at them, but he keeps Jongin’s corner of the store neat and tidy. “You don’t have to go very far today, I think. Oh, wait, this one’s for America.”
“I can handle that,” Jongin says. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“Yes, but,” Junmyeon says, “Minseok complained the last time you came home too late. He called into the store, worried about you.” Junmyeon grins. “So this can probably wait until tomorrow.”
Jongin shuffles his feet, not really sure what to say to that. It doesn’t matter anyway. Junmyeon loads his arms with packages, until he can’t see Junmyeon anymore. “Be careful not to lose a package to the current!” Junmyeon says. Jongin rolls his eyes. “Not that you ever have,” he adds, and Jongin quickly straightens his face out, in case Junmyeon can see him.
“Remember to take your lunch break!” Junmyeon calls, just before Jongin teleports away.
Being that Jongin can barely talk to people, it’s not surprising how difficult he finds it to describe the space current. It’s always dark there. Something not unlike water surges around him, but it’s not water. It’s not time either. Minseok has a time travelling friend, and Minseok says that he always described time as molasses, thick and sticky, like slogging upstream in a muddy river. But space crackles and sparks around Jongin, brushing against his skin like understory leaves in a forest.
When he was younger and it was uncontrollable, he didn’t pay much attention to the feeling. He never teleported far enough that he was in the space current for a long time anyway. But now, when he can control where he wants to go, just by thinking of a name of a place and asking the space current to take him there, he feels.
The space current wraps around him like a friend, static and yet changing at every moment. It has a mind of its own, but it would never hurt him. Once he’s asked, letting go is like falling backwards onto a bed - he knows he’ll end up where he needs to be, in one piece.
There’s a nudge - not physically, but in a corner of his mind. Well, he’s certainly not in Seoul anymore, he thinks, breathing in the scent of saltwater. He opens his eyes and finds himself at the edge of a lake. He trudges up the rocky shelf, to a small, lopsided house. The windows are inset deep into the front, like shrunken eyes, and the roof hangs low. It looks a little strange, but Jongin has been sent to weirder places than this.
The brick path is uneven and grass grows between, lifting up the stones where they lay. Jongin walks right up to the door and knocks, steady, assuredly. Junmyeon had to practice with him, after the first few miserable runs.
A boy answers the door. The first thing Jongin notices is the three small balls that float over the boy’s hand. When he shifts, the spheres follow. “Yes?” he asks, his eyes glinting.
Jongin gulps, willing his throat not to crack as he juggles the packages in his arms. “Delivery for Lu Han,” he says. “From-” He squints at the scrawled handwriting in the left corner. Lu Han taps his foot on the threshold as he waits. “I’m sorry, maybe you can read it,” he says, passing it over when he gives up.
“I don’t know anyone in Canada,” Lu Han says, scanning the hastily written marker. “It’s probably a mistake.”
“Look inside,” Jongin says. Junmyeon rarely makes a mistake. “You might know them from the contents.”
The boy looks at him with a contained, amused annoyance. “You’re kind of outspoken for a delivery boy, aren’t you?” But he hesitates, and instead of shoving the box back at Jongin, he leans down and places it on the ground.
Lu Han opens the box carefully. He slits the tape open with a nail, before lifting the flaps. He raises an eyebrow when he notices Jongin watching him with interest. “I’m only making your job easier,” Lu Han says. “You know, when you have to take it back and package it again.”
Jongin keeps his mouth shut. Lu Han gives up on needling Jongin into a response, instead lifting away the tissue paper. Then he stills.
“How?” He says, finally, looking up at Jongin with bewilderment. Jongin cranes his neck to look into the box, but Lu Han snatches the contents up and holds it against his chest.
It’s a worn woolen sweater, but the way Lu Han holds it suggests that it has meaning. Jongin watches him lose himself in memories. He observes Lu Han claw his way to the surface again, slowly opening his eyes at last. “I knew this person a long time ago,” Lu Han says quietly. “When I was a child.”
It’s only him and Lu Han, but Jongin feels like he’s intruding. “Please sign here,” he says, producing the clipboard Junmyeon requires him to carry around in his knapsack.
Lu Han doesn’t take the pen. He rocks back and forth on his feet, still holding the sweater. “The scent is the same,” Lu Han says. “Just like when I was a child. Home.”
Jongin has known Minseok since he was a child. They grew up in this same town, went to the same elementary school. But since Minseok is four years older than Jongin, Jongin doesn’t remember much of Minseok from back then.
“It’s okay, Jongin,” Minseok always says, ruffling his hair as their parents reminisce. “I forgive you for not noticing me.”
Jongin doesn’t think that he didn’t notice Minseok, and he always protests when Minseok says that. Of course he noticed Minseok, who stands out more than anyone else. Minseok, so capable and responsible, who always knows what to do. Everyone always laughs, but Jongin thinks it was probably because he didn’t have enough words. Language is associated with memory, in that small children don’t have words to describe the events and surroundings they encounter, and so they lose those memories. When Jongin was younger, he thinks, he probably didn’t have the words to describe Minseok, and so he couldn’t lay down memories of Minseok to stay.
He still doesn’t have the words to describe Minseok now, but that doesn’t make him feel a little less guilty each time he comes and realizes he’s forgotten a little of Minseok since he’s seen Minseok last.
It’s not his hair, or his eyes, or his smile - important things like that. Instead, it’s the small details, moments, like the way his cheeks bulged when Jongin had taken the courage to push the last bite of crepe into his mouth. The way his eyes seemed so warm, when Jongin choked down the egg yolk in the special omelet Minseok had made, even though Jongin hates the floury taste. The way Minseok’s hair flamed red in the garden this morning.
It’s those things, of which Jongin always wants to take pictures, so he can keep them forever. Except no camera would ever do Minseok justice.
His hair flames, even now, in the glow of the chandelier over his head. Jongin watches Minseok and Kyungsoo confer by the bar, their heads bent together. The door shuts behind Jongin though, a little too hard, and the two of them look up in surprise.
“Jongin!” Kyungsoo says. “You’re done with work early.” Minseok is watching him carefully. It feels strange, that kind of attention, it always does.
“Junmyeon didn’t have many boxes for me today,” Jongin says. Minseok frowns, like he knows, but doesn’t say anything. “What are you looking at?”
Kyungsoo and Minseok run this art gallery and restaurant together. Kyungsoo is good at growing things, even better than Minseok, and Minseok’s frost helps with controlling the temperature, which is good for cooking.
But Minseok’s love has always been sculpture, and to sway him into going into business, Kyungsoo offered to open the art gallery as a concession.
Jongin knows the gallery isn’t always in the black - the neighborhood is a tourist trap, to be honest - and the restaurant turns a tidy profit on its own, but it really is Minseok’s passion. So he isn’t surprised to see the pictures spread out across the table, dark and in a grainy style. It’s what’s in the pictures that makes him take a second look.
Kyungsoo laughs at the expression on Jongin’s face, but Jongin is so amazed he doesn’t even blush. “Are these photoshopped?” he asks.
Minseok shakes his head. “You remember my friend, the one that time travels. These are all his,” he says proudly.
It’s all the same person - or so Jongin assumes, for his face is thrown into shadow in every picture, hidden by a jaunty and rather annoying hat. He stands in front of a royal court in Versailles, dressed in the finest silks. He balances on a construction beam, high in the air, no harness about him or the worker sitting next to him, in the height of the Industrial Age. He smirks, as a pyramid is constructed behind him, the labor of thousands of slaves. His arms are always raised in that way that signifies a selca, and it lends a comical flare to all of the compositions.
It’s so strange and yet overwhelming. There are other pictures as well. Jongin stops at one that portrays the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. Jongin is pretty sure that he was taught that there was only one man who was held responsible, but yet there they stand, all differing distances away from their target, dark metal glinting in their hands.
Jongin thinks that these pictures should be in a textbook, not hanging in Minseok’s gallery; they’re so dissimilar to the history he learned in school.
“He got the idea for it back in university,” Minseok explains. “Everyone thought he was crazy, but he did it anyway. Gets him into trouble sometimes, but he’s never apologetic about it.”
“You can get away with a lot of things if you call it art,” Kyungsoo adds dryly. “Even government dissention.”
“They’re really amazing,” Jongin says. It’s a little embarrassing to be so open about it, but Minseok doesn’t seem to mind. “Will he be coming to the opening of the exhibit?”
Minseok begins to collect the pictures into their envelopes, and Kyungsoo and Jongin help him. “Of course,” Kyungsoo says. “It will be good publicity for the business.”
“He doesn’t usually show,” Minseok says. “But I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I called in a favor. He couldn’t disagree.”
Kyungsoo disappears into the restaurant, locking the doors and checking that the lights are off for the last time that night. Minseok puts the photos in the safe, calling goodbye to Kyungsoo. Then he grabs Jongin’s hand and drags him out of the gallery with him.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Kyungsoo?” Jongin asks, flustered. The streets are empty and the sky has turned dark, and he can only see the lines of Minseok’s face.
He isn’t surprised that Minseok is holding his hand, not at all.
“He’ll be fine,” Minseok replies decisively. “But I’ve been dying for a bit of that cake you got for us, so let’s hurry home, okay?”
Jongin nods, the words choked in his throat. It’s a short walk home, but he feels warm with Minseok beside him. Jongin is opening the gate when Minseok speaks again.
“I said that my friend would be coming for the exhibit,” he says. “I-I said that he could stay with us, since we have the spare room. You won’t mind, right, Jongin?”
Jongin has never met any of Minseok’s friends from university. He knows that Minseok talks to them, time to time, in emails and such, but he doesn’t know any of them himself.
He thinks that he might be a little afraid, of these friends and undoubtedly the different Minseok that he will see when this artist friend, especially, comes to stay. Minseok is kind to everyone, but he seems to have a special affection for this one person. Jongin doesn’t know what to make of it.
But it really isn’t his place to voice any of these concerns. Instead, he smiles at Minseok. “Of course not.”
Minseok looks relieved. “Good. He’s only going to be here for a week or two, but I didn’t want you to feel put out in anyway. I think you’ll like him a lot, Jongin.”
Minseok cuts the cake carefully, perfectly. They sit at the table while Jongin picks at his slice slowly, and Minseok coaxes out of him details about his day.
They used to do this, back when they first got married. Minseok always made time for dinner, expecting Jongin to sit at the table with him and pass the salad, tell him about the new things he discovered in the neighborhood and what the neighbors said. That was back when Minseok worked at a museum in the city, and Jongin was trying to figure out what he wanted to do.
It helped Jongin to have that half hour in the evening, to listen to Minseok’s chuckle and terrible attempts at small talk. It gave him an anchor, of sorts.
Since then, they’ve moved to this neighborhood, a little quainter than they were used to. Jongin met Junmyeon while looking around for a part-time job, and now he helps with the delivery business. Minseok stays late some nights at the restaurant, when it’s busy. Kyungsoo says that Jongin can always come in and he’ll whip up dinner for him there, but sometimes the teleportation is tiring and Jongin just wants to go home.
So they don’t eat dinner much anymore. Still, there’s always a plate of something on the table, covered loosely - braised chicken with steamed asparagus, or homemade soup with small bits of noodles in it, just as Jongin likes. Always a reminder that Minseok probably worries about him, a little more than he should.
It makes him feel like a child sometimes, the way Minseok looks after him. Maybe because Jongin doesn’t know how to take care of Minseok in the same sense, to make up for it. Minseok always smiles and pushes him away, and maybe he doesn’t need Jongin. He probably doesn’t.
But Jongin would like to do something for Minseok, more than just buying his favorite cake from the local bakery.
There’s a brief scuffle in front of the sink, like polite strangers fighting to pay the bill at a restaurant, but finally it is decided that Jongin will wash the dishes and Minseok will dry. Minseok still pouts though, and when Jongin is done, wet hands dangling uselessly in front of him, he reaches up and tousles Jongin’s hair. “You’re getting too tall for me,” he teases, like Jongin hasn’t always been taller than Minseok.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Minseok asks.
They get out the laptop and rest their feet on the coffee table they never use, since their parents don’t visit often - “Let the newlyweds settle in,” his mother always giggles, in a way that always made Jongin blush in embarrassment, even though it’s been almost three years-
Three years, Jongin thinks, and lets his head fall back on the couch. It doesn’t feel like a long time at all, and that scares Jongin. A lot. The old surge of panic rises up in his chest.
“You alright?” Minseok is looking at him, concerned. “We can go to sleep instead, if you’re tired.”
Jongin shakes his head, spreading the blanket over both of them instead. Minseok starts the movie - something that Jongin briefly mentioned wanting to see, mostly because it was the type of movie Minseok liked. But they never had the time, since business picked up over the holidays and Minseok had a huge exhibition to organize.
So here they are. Minseok makes all the expected noises at the appropriate moments, and Jongin has to keep himself from watching him.
“Sorry, am I too loud?” Minseok asks sheepishly. Jongin shakes his head, almost violently, but Minseok grows quieter.
Their legs are lined up, side by side, sharing warmth, and Jongin leans into Minseok’s body, trying not to think too much. At one particularly dramatic point, Minseok squeezes Jongin’s knee; a knee-jerk reaction of sorts. But he keeps his hand there, and Jongin can barely breathe.
“That movie was good, wasn’t it?” Minseok says, standing up and yawning, the blanket falling to the floor. Jongin nods, curling up into himself at the loss of heat. Minseok closes the lid of the laptop, twisting his hips as he stretches. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
Jongin doesn’t know why he does it, but he catches one of Minseok’s flailing hands and pulls him down to Jongin’s level - he kisses Minseok on the mouth, brief and shallow. He lingers after their lips part, breathing in the scent of Minseok, cinnamon and other spices used in the restaurant.
It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, too.
When he opens his eyes, he finds Minseok gazing back at him, smiling gently. But Minseok only kisses him on the forehead. “I know you’re tired, Jongin,” he says. “Come on, let’s go to bed?”
Sehun always used to whine when Jongin ditched him on the way home. “What’s up with you, asshole?”
Jongin, used to Sehun’s abrasive fondness, rolled his eyes. “Nothing,” he replied. “I just need to pick up some dry cleaning for my mom.”
Sehun narrowed his eyes at him. “You used that excuse two days ago.”
Well, trust Sehun to remember those kinds of details, but fail their last algebra test. “Well, they messed up her clothes last time, so they’re fixing them now.”
His friend didn’t look entirely convinced, but Jongin needed to leave, now, if he wanted to get there in time. “See you, Sehun!”
“I won’t forgive you for this! Ever!” Sehun shouted back, before whirling around and stomping down the lane. The trees along the road bristled with a stiff breeze. Jongin didn’t mind; Sehun would be begging him for money for bread tomorrow, anyway.
The high school was on the other side of town, but Jongin knew a couple of shortcuts through a few bumpy alleys. He dodged wet laundry and drying pots, beady-eyed pigeons and squawking housewives who would probably snitch on him to his mom.
He stopped a distance before the school gates, trying to compose himself, fussing with his hair to look less like a kid despite his uniform. The bell rang and the older kids trickled out. A few girls pointed at him, but he stared staunchly, waiting.
“Jongin!” It’s Minseok, backpack thrown carelessly over his shoulders. He turned back to his friends, telling them that he’ll see them later, and then walked over to Jongin. “Have you been waiting a while?”
Jongin shook his head, then realized that it made him look more like a child. “Yes - I mean, no.”
Minseok knocked into his side, grinning. “Sorry if I did. You want some ice cream?”
Jongin liked chocolate, but he let Minseok pick since he was paying. Luckily, Minseok liked chocolate, too. Jongin let out a sigh of relief, sinking into his chair.
Minseok smiled to himself, Jongin didn’t really know why. “Where’s Sehun?”
“Ditched him,” Jongin said through a mouthful of ice cream. He bit; Minseok was more patient, and licked his cone.
“Jongin! I really do want to meet your friend. Let him come with you some time.”
Jongin didn’t really want to share Minseok, though. Minseok’s parents and Jongin’s parents were friends, but Jongin had only gotten to know Minseok recently since the -
Jongin and his parents, they didn’t really talk about the incident. Minseok never pushed Jongin to talk about it either; he was always kind and instead listened to Jongin talk about school and soccer and Sehun instead. Minseok was nice, and Jongin didn’t want to share Minseok, not because he thinks that Minseok would become less special. But maybe, Minseok wouldn’t pay as much attention to him, and Jongin didn’t want that.
“Sehun’s annoying,” Jongin said. “And he doesn’t like ice cream. He likes bubble tea. That’s weird, too.”
Minseok laughed, played with the corner of his napkin while his ice cream melted. “I like bubble tea, though, Jongin.”
All the more reason not to bring Sehun, then. Jongin lapsed into silence, watching the server at the counter help a little girl choose a flavor. She picked something purple and pink, cheeks red with excitement. “Hyung?” Jongin asked. “Have you chosen what university you’ll go to?”
Minseok regarded him carefully. “I have. It’s a little far away from here, though, since there aren’t any colleges in the area.”
“I know,” Jongin said. “I’ll miss you.”
Minseok blinked. Jongin didn’t know how that’s so surprising. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jongin said. “So spend a lot of time with me now, okay, hyung?”
“Of course,” Minseok said. He stretched his legs out under the table, bumping into Jongin. “Let’s go play soccer in the park, Jongin?”
Jongin nodded eagerly, finishing off the last of his cone. Minseok pushed what’s left of his across the table. “Don’t you want yours, hyung?”
“You can have it,” Minseok had said, standing up and slinging his backpack on. “You like chocolate, after all. And I guess I’m full.” He checked his phone, tucking it into his pocket. “So, how was school today?”
Jongin remembers other conversations like that, always ending with Minseok playing with him and then walking him home. Minseok never had to hang out with Jongin, but he always did. Jongin talked to him more than he did to anyone else, even Sehun. Jongin could speak more freely to Minseok than anyone else.
He misses that.
Junmyeon has a stack of boxes on the counter waiting for Jongin, when he enters the shop. “Full day, today,” he says apologetically.
“No problem,” Jongin answers, slipping most of them in his bag. “See you later!”
Most of the deliveries are routine today. A birthday gift for a teenager in Australia, who delightedly tears apart the box right in front of Jongin. He finds a very strangely shaped package addressed to someone in the Philippines; a gray-haired man answers the door at the address and explains that it is a pineapple. Jongin is confused, but decides not to ask questions.
A sentimental glass ornament to a portly woman in Russia, who upon seeing that Jongin is definitely not dressed for the weather, invites him in for some hot chocolate before continuing on. Then he finds himself in Mexico, in front of a sloping house with a low roof; he hands over a small fan and some video games.
It’s interesting to make up stories in his head, about all the people he meets. But Jongin often finds that some deliveries just cannot be explained. He spends the rest of the day puzzling over fruit, the taste of chocolate on his tongue.
The last box is addressed to a Jinri; Jongin concentrates on her address and finds himself in front of a small apartment complex on the outskirts of a city. He climbs up the stairs and rings the doorbell.
A young man answers the door, leaning on the frame and turning the knob in a careless fashion as he stares at Jongin curiously. “Did we order pizza?” he asks.
“Chanyeol,” a woman says from within the apartment. Jongin surmises that this is Jinri. “I’m making dinner right now!”
“Pizza always is good,” Chanyeol tells Jongin seriously.
Jongin nods with equal gravitas, then shows him the package. It’s a small box, like the kind that jewelry comes in. “Delivery for a Choi Jinri,” he says.
He hears a whoop from the kitchen, and then the quick padding of bare feet. “I never get packages,” the woman says, smiling at Chanyeol. She takes the parcel from Jongin. “Who is it from?”
She angles her head to read the return address. Jongin barely has any time to wonder why her face falls so quickly before Chanyeol’s expression crumples as well. “He sent you something?” he asks. Jinri seems to shrink into herself. “Do you - do you still talk to him?”
Jongin knows the look on Chanyeol’s face well, since he’s seen it on his own face enough times. Jealousy.
“No!” Jinri says, but Chanyeol is already walking away, disappearing down a hallway, out of sight. “Chanyeol, it isn’t like that, not anymore. Please!”
Jongin can smell something burning. He feels bad, but he has to ask Jinri for her signature before he goes.
It really takes one unfortunate package to make Jongin feel miserable. He knows that Chanyeol and Jinri’s reaction isn’t his fault; there’s clearly something unresolved between them, and the sender himself probably had the intent of aggravating the problem anyway.
But still, the chocolate’s faded from his mouth, and all that’s left is this sour taste that Jongin doesn’t like. He wants to go home and talk to Minseok about it, but he’s probably still at the gallery.
Jongin materializes at Junmyeon’s shop and says goodnight, making sure that Junmyeon locks up the store and begins to make his own way home so that Junmyeon’s wife won’t get annoyed that he fell asleep on the books again. Junmyeon had recounted that episode rather sheepishly, when Jongin had stopped in for lunch between errands.
It’s only a quick bike ride to the gallery, which is warmly lit with the new chandeliers that Minseok has installed. Jongin peers in the window, marveling at Minseok’s hard work. The lighting is perfect to highlight the photographs from Minseok’s friend, though the walls are still empty and bare.
Jongin wheels his bike into the foyer and leans it carefully against the walls. Minseok rarely minds. He proceeds through the gallery, noting that the walls have been painted a welcoming honey color. Minseok seems to really want this exhibit to be the best that the gallery has seen yet.
He doesn’t find Minseok anywhere, but the last room has a single frame hanging on the wall. Jongin stops in his tracks, mesmerized.
It’s that same man, the hat tipped low over his forehead. Jongin can see some of his dark hair and his nose, but otherwise he’s just as anonymous.
He’s standing in the middle of a battlefield, troops on either side with their guns balanced on their shoulders, bullets flying from the barrels, some inches away from the man. It must have taken precise timing, not only to take the picture, but to disappear from the field before any of the bullets struck him.
“Pretty ambitious, don’t you think?” Jongin hears. He whirls around to see a man his age standing between him and the rest of the gallery. Jongin stares at his hooked nose, his dark clothing that he wears well.
“Do you like it?” the man prompts, and there’s something strange in the way that he asks, but Jongin doesn’t pay attention.
“Yes,” he says. “Are you working with Minseok on this exhibit?” There’s sawdust on the man’s knees, and something in his hair. He appears to have come from the direction of the backroom, where Minseok stores the heavy photograph frames and fixtures that he has yet to use.
Jongin has met many of the painters and electricians that Minseok has worked with before, but he remembers that Minseok said that a particular carpenter was retiring. Perhaps this is his replacement, Jongin reasons.
“Yes,” the man replies. There’s something swinging from his right hand; Jongin focuses on it, realizing that it is a small disposable camera. The bright orange and blue of the plastic are jarring, disorienting in the space that Minseok is so carefully putting to detail.
“Are you taking pictures of the before and after?” Jongin asks. Sometimes Minseok does that, when the gallery is going through a particularly dramatic renovation. Like that one time when he showed an artist who described her style as a mix of visual kei and kawaii. The walls were painted magenta and there were skeletons reclining in the corners. Jongin kept jumping at each turn.
The man looks around the room. The carpet is peeled back, where the walls meet the floor, and Jongin wonders if Minseok will replace even that. “Perhaps.” He brings the camera up and points it at Jongin, taking a picture of him.
Jongin winces at the flash. “Hey,” he exclaims. He doesn’t like having his picture taken, either.
“You didn’t like that?” the man smiles, but it’s not mocking. Instead, he looks disappointed.
Jongin doesn’t like that expression; he thinks that Minseok wears it too often. Anyway, won’t Minseok see this? He doesn’t want to be the cause of that face again. He looks around, and then notices the stairs to the roof. Minseok keeps the door locked, but there’s a window at the turn of the banister. Jongin sits in front of it. “Like this,” he says.
The man is bemused. “I can barely see your face. Your back is to the light!” Jongin makes to get up, but he shakes his head. “No, no, let me take one picture.”
This time, Jongin smiles. The flash still makes him recoil, and he worries about what that will translate to on film. But the other man is staring at him, and when Jongin meets his eyes he can’t help but blush.
“What-” he begins to say, not really knowing what will come out, just to say something.
Instead, he hears the grind of the door from the restaurant being pushed open. Distantly, Kyungsoo says. “This space is reserved for art showings. My business partner isn’t here right now, but this is really his domain, and he takes great pride in exhibiting all of the art that comes through to the best of his ability. He’s quite sorry not to meet you, but he said something about finding some special chairs, and I suppose he’s lost track of time.”
“That’s quite alright,” a woman says. “Is he preparing for a show right now?”
Kyungsoo is showing around some potential investors, Jongin realizes. He panics, but the dark-haired man is there, pushing him up and around the turn of the stairs. They sprawl out in front of the door to the roof, and Jongin is anxious, but the other man smiles at him.
Kyungsoo’s voice drifts away as he leads the sponsors through the rest of the gallery. Jongin feels childish, running away like that. He moves to go back downstairs, but the other man catches his hand gently.
The touch is electric, alien. Jongin doesn’t initiate touch with others often, and Junmyeon and Kyungsoo aren’t that open themselves. Minseok might ruffle his hair or touch his shoulder once in a while, but that’s it. So this stranger holding his hand - it feels odd, unwarranted, but not unwanted.
But Jongin doesn’t dwell much more on the touch of their hands, because the man pulls him in closer and fits their mouths together, swallowing Jongin’s exhale down the back of his throat.
Jongin isn’t prepared, and so he doesn’t respond right away. But the lips against his move insistently, and he answers in turn. He gasps when the man bites his bottom lip, slips his tongue into Jongin’s mouth. His hand slides up to rest on Jongin’s jaw, while the other slips up under the bottom of his T-shirt.
It’s heady and wonderful. Jongin smells musk and spice, cinnamon in particular. It tingles, spreading through his lips to the tips of his fingers and toes. When the other pulls back, he presses forward, pushing him against the wall, his legs tangled with the other man’s.
He slips his fingers into the other man’s hair, pulling by accident when the other man pulls him closer, even closer. He hears the moan, feels his own heart beat faster in anticipation.
Hands caress his arms, fingers press against the waistband of jeans. Jongin wants.
Minseok hasn’t kissed Jongin like this in a long time. Minseok, Jongin remembers with a sinking chest. Minseok.
Kyungsoo exclaims from downstairs. “Oh, Jongin’s bike is here!” Jongin imagines him turning to the sponsors when he hears him continue. “He’s Minseok’s husband, helps out often here. He must have come by to walk Minseok home.”
He breaks away, pushing with both hands on the other’s chest. He cringes at the bruised lips he leaves behind, the mussed hair, the confused eyes, and runs down the stairs, thankful that he doesn’t hear steps behind him.
Kyungsoo is surprised to see him burst into the foyer, the investors behind him clutching their pearls in shock. “Ah, Jongin!” he says, and Jongin is afraid that he’s going to ask. That Kyungsoo knows what Jongin did, that they all can see it in Jongin’s disheveled appearance. But instead he asks, “Is Minseok back there?”
“No,” he says. “I - tell Minseok I came by, but I decided to go home first, okay?” He ducks his head at the investors, who giggle between themselves about something Jongin can’t even begin to fathom. He ignores Kyungsoo, who says, “But he’ll probably be back soon-”
He wheels his bike outside hurriedly, kicking up the stand, and takes off, legs pumping as hard as they can.
It’s late and Jongin is sitting on the couch, chin propped on a pillow between his legs, when the garage door opens. He hears the drawer slide open and shut as Minseok drops his keys inside.
Minseok has a folder of papers in hand when he pauses in the hallway outside the living room. Jongin doesn’t want to look, but when he does he can’t help himself, trying to search every corner of Minseok’s face for something that says he knows what Jongin did.
He sees the dryness at the edges of Minseok’s face, the slight oily accumulation at his hairline which itself is receding. He sees the wrinkles at the corners of Minseok’s eyes and mouth, the shadow of stubble that covers his cheeks.
“Jongin? How was today?” Minseok asks. “Kyungsoo said you came by looking for me, but you left in a hurry.”
“He was showing around some investors,” Jongin explains quietly. “I didn’t want to bother.”
Minseok smiles, playing with the folder in his hands. “You don’t have to worry about that - you’re always welcome at the gallery,” he says. “Don’t watch too much TV, okay?”
Jongin listens the shower run, the thunderous splash of water as Minseok washes up. He knows that Minseok probably ate dinner at the restaurant. Jongin hasn’t eaten, but he’s not hungry.
Minseok is sitting at the edge of his bed, toweling his hair, when Jongin knocks on the door and pushes his way inside. “Jongin?”
Jongin can barely lift his head up, he feels like vomiting. “Hyung, hyung, I have to tell you something,” he says, and then it all rushes out. “There was a guy today - I met him, I didn’t - I kissed him, I’m sorry - I’m really sorry -”
He’s not looking at Minseok, but he knows that Minseok isn’t toweling his head anymore. Jongin forces himself to look at Minseok, but Minseok is expressionless, the blankness that comes before an angry storm. But he doesn’t shout or yell or order Jongin out of their home.
Instead, he just says, “Jongin, let’s not talk about this.”
“But, hyung,” Jongin says, confused. He feels delirious with guilt.
Minseok shakes his head, jaw set. The wet towel dangles from his hands. “Let’s not - Jongin, I don’t want to know. I can’t-” He turns away, facing the alarm clock on the night stand, and kills Jongin completely when he says, “Thank you, Jongin, for telling me about this.”
part two
Title: Wherever My Heart Touches (Wherever That Is), I Will Go
Pairing: Jongin/Tao/Xiumin
Word Count: ~28,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Infidelity, depression
Summary: Jongin and Minseok are childhood friends who have married, yet have become awkward around each other. Tao visits, and changes their relationship completely.
Minseok is already out in the garden when Jongin wakes up. He scrabbles at his alarm clock while he sits up, lifting aside a curtain to see Minseok bend down, gently turning over leaves to check his tomatoes. The early morning sun filters through Minseok’s red hair, setting it ablaze against the dull stone barriers of their property.
Jongin watches for a while. Minseok is a little strange; he sings and talks to the plants while he weeds the spaces between and plucks the fruit that is just ripe enough for their table. He smiles, and when he straightens Jongin can see that he has a sizable eggplant in one hand, dusty from the earth but otherwise perfectly shaped.
Jongin doesn’t really like vegetables. But Jongin loves the mirza ghasemi Minseok makes, sweet and yet spicy, with soft chunks of eggplant and tomato cooked so tenderly that it melts in his mouth. Jongin likes most of the food that Minseok makes for him, because Minseok knows that he is a picky eater and tries to make dishes that Jongin will find palatable, that Jongin will try. Jongin always tries, anyway, because Minseok always looks happy when he can coax Jongin to put a spoonful of some new recipe in his mouth.
Jongin doesn’t like how Minseok talks more to his garden than to him, but he doesn’t know quite how to change that.
The bathroom smells of the shaving cream that Minseok uses, stirring it up into a froth before applying it to his face with a brush. Jongin has always liked to watch him scrape the foam carefully away as Jongin brushes his teeth, sneaking glimpses while they share the sink basin. But today Minseok has gotten up early, and Jongin wonders why. It can’t be-
The screen door shuts and footsteps pass by the closed door of the bathroom. Jongin hears a quiet whine as the door to his bedroom is pushed open. “Jongin? Are you awake?”
He peers around the door. Minseok laughs as he notices the toothbrush still stuck in Jongin’s mouth, flecks of paste on Jongin’s lips. “Come to the kitchen when you’re ready,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”
Jongin washes up quickly, pulling on a shirt as he walks down the short hallway. “Oh!”
The kitchen table is full, every available space covered with dishes that Jongin likes. Minseok stands by the oven, smiling at him. “I was so surprised you didn’t wake up when I was making all this,” Minseok says.
Jongin turns bright red. “I-” He gestures awkwardly at Minseok, as always lacking the words he needs.
The smile on Minseok’s face doesn’t shift at all. “It’s okay if you forgot our anniversary, Jongin,” he says. “I just thought it might be nice to do something this year, that’s all.”
“No,” Jongin says emphatically, maybe a little too loudly. Minseok’s face seems to crack a little at that, but Jongin shakes his head. Minseok looks surprised as Jongin walks toward him, but Jongin opens the little cupboard over the cooking fan, much too high over Minseok’s head for him to reach without standing on a chair.
Jongin takes out the cake he bought yesterday, from Minseok’s favorite bakery.
When Jongin looks at Minseok’s face again, he is surprised to find that Minseok looks stunned. But before he can ask, the expression fades away so smoothly that Jongin thinks that maybe it wasn’t there at all, maybe it was just Jongin.
“Thank you, Jongin,” Minseok says warmly. “I guess - will you be home for dinner? We can save it for then. I don’t think we can eat all of this, and the cake,” he says, motioning at the table.
“Yes,” Jongin says. “Yes, we can - I’ll make sure to be here on time.”
Minseok takes the cake from Jongin and puts it on the counter, while Jongin sits down at the table and waits for him. “Good,” Minseok says.
“Thank you for the meal,” Jongin says hurriedly, before reaching for the coffee. Minseok laughs.
Minseok has never asked why Jongin always rides his bicycle to the courier shop he works at, though even Jongin knows it’s a little weird when Jongin can teleport. Jongin likes to because he likes feeling the wind in his hair, even during the chilly winter months; he likes listening to his music while he passes all of the businesses in town, closed for the morning. Most of all, he likes the time he spends by himself, rolling along in the empty streets, thinking about what he has to do today and what he’ll do when he gets home and Minseok-
Minseok. He likes thinking about Minseok, when Minseok can’t see his face. Jongin stops at a red light, balancing carefully on his toes. But Minseok never asks why Jongin doesn’t teleport, so Jongin doesn’t tell him. Minseok probably doesn’t care, anyway.
The sign in the window of Junmyeon’s Delivery says closed, but Jongin pushes his bicycle around back, leaning it against the little shed where all of the extra packing material is kept.
The back door is open, and Jongin doesn’t bother to knock as he enters. Junmyeon is asleep on his bookkeeping when he goes into the office. Even though Jongin tries to be quiet, Junmyeon still startles awake. “Oh, Jongin!” he says. “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” Jongin replies. “Is there anything for me today?”
“Of course,” Junmyeon says, getting up even though Jongin protests. Junmyeon is a mess, and his books are no exception when Jongin glances at them, but he keeps Jongin’s corner of the store neat and tidy. “You don’t have to go very far today, I think. Oh, wait, this one’s for America.”
“I can handle that,” Jongin says. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“Yes, but,” Junmyeon says, “Minseok complained the last time you came home too late. He called into the store, worried about you.” Junmyeon grins. “So this can probably wait until tomorrow.”
Jongin shuffles his feet, not really sure what to say to that. It doesn’t matter anyway. Junmyeon loads his arms with packages, until he can’t see Junmyeon anymore. “Be careful not to lose a package to the current!” Junmyeon says. Jongin rolls his eyes. “Not that you ever have,” he adds, and Jongin quickly straightens his face out, in case Junmyeon can see him.
“Remember to take your lunch break!” Junmyeon calls, just before Jongin teleports away.
Being that Jongin can barely talk to people, it’s not surprising how difficult he finds it to describe the space current. It’s always dark there. Something not unlike water surges around him, but it’s not water. It’s not time either. Minseok has a time travelling friend, and Minseok says that he always described time as molasses, thick and sticky, like slogging upstream in a muddy river. But space crackles and sparks around Jongin, brushing against his skin like understory leaves in a forest.
When he was younger and it was uncontrollable, he didn’t pay much attention to the feeling. He never teleported far enough that he was in the space current for a long time anyway. But now, when he can control where he wants to go, just by thinking of a name of a place and asking the space current to take him there, he feels.
The space current wraps around him like a friend, static and yet changing at every moment. It has a mind of its own, but it would never hurt him. Once he’s asked, letting go is like falling backwards onto a bed - he knows he’ll end up where he needs to be, in one piece.
There’s a nudge - not physically, but in a corner of his mind. Well, he’s certainly not in Seoul anymore, he thinks, breathing in the scent of saltwater. He opens his eyes and finds himself at the edge of a lake. He trudges up the rocky shelf, to a small, lopsided house. The windows are inset deep into the front, like shrunken eyes, and the roof hangs low. It looks a little strange, but Jongin has been sent to weirder places than this.
The brick path is uneven and grass grows between, lifting up the stones where they lay. Jongin walks right up to the door and knocks, steady, assuredly. Junmyeon had to practice with him, after the first few miserable runs.
A boy answers the door. The first thing Jongin notices is the three small balls that float over the boy’s hand. When he shifts, the spheres follow. “Yes?” he asks, his eyes glinting.
Jongin gulps, willing his throat not to crack as he juggles the packages in his arms. “Delivery for Lu Han,” he says. “From-” He squints at the scrawled handwriting in the left corner. Lu Han taps his foot on the threshold as he waits. “I’m sorry, maybe you can read it,” he says, passing it over when he gives up.
“I don’t know anyone in Canada,” Lu Han says, scanning the hastily written marker. “It’s probably a mistake.”
“Look inside,” Jongin says. Junmyeon rarely makes a mistake. “You might know them from the contents.”
The boy looks at him with a contained, amused annoyance. “You’re kind of outspoken for a delivery boy, aren’t you?” But he hesitates, and instead of shoving the box back at Jongin, he leans down and places it on the ground.
Lu Han opens the box carefully. He slits the tape open with a nail, before lifting the flaps. He raises an eyebrow when he notices Jongin watching him with interest. “I’m only making your job easier,” Lu Han says. “You know, when you have to take it back and package it again.”
Jongin keeps his mouth shut. Lu Han gives up on needling Jongin into a response, instead lifting away the tissue paper. Then he stills.
“How?” He says, finally, looking up at Jongin with bewilderment. Jongin cranes his neck to look into the box, but Lu Han snatches the contents up and holds it against his chest.
It’s a worn woolen sweater, but the way Lu Han holds it suggests that it has meaning. Jongin watches him lose himself in memories. He observes Lu Han claw his way to the surface again, slowly opening his eyes at last. “I knew this person a long time ago,” Lu Han says quietly. “When I was a child.”
It’s only him and Lu Han, but Jongin feels like he’s intruding. “Please sign here,” he says, producing the clipboard Junmyeon requires him to carry around in his knapsack.
Lu Han doesn’t take the pen. He rocks back and forth on his feet, still holding the sweater. “The scent is the same,” Lu Han says. “Just like when I was a child. Home.”
Jongin has known Minseok since he was a child. They grew up in this same town, went to the same elementary school. But since Minseok is four years older than Jongin, Jongin doesn’t remember much of Minseok from back then.
“It’s okay, Jongin,” Minseok always says, ruffling his hair as their parents reminisce. “I forgive you for not noticing me.”
Jongin doesn’t think that he didn’t notice Minseok, and he always protests when Minseok says that. Of course he noticed Minseok, who stands out more than anyone else. Minseok, so capable and responsible, who always knows what to do. Everyone always laughs, but Jongin thinks it was probably because he didn’t have enough words. Language is associated with memory, in that small children don’t have words to describe the events and surroundings they encounter, and so they lose those memories. When Jongin was younger, he thinks, he probably didn’t have the words to describe Minseok, and so he couldn’t lay down memories of Minseok to stay.
He still doesn’t have the words to describe Minseok now, but that doesn’t make him feel a little less guilty each time he comes and realizes he’s forgotten a little of Minseok since he’s seen Minseok last.
It’s not his hair, or his eyes, or his smile - important things like that. Instead, it’s the small details, moments, like the way his cheeks bulged when Jongin had taken the courage to push the last bite of crepe into his mouth. The way his eyes seemed so warm, when Jongin choked down the egg yolk in the special omelet Minseok had made, even though Jongin hates the floury taste. The way Minseok’s hair flamed red in the garden this morning.
It’s those things, of which Jongin always wants to take pictures, so he can keep them forever. Except no camera would ever do Minseok justice.
His hair flames, even now, in the glow of the chandelier over his head. Jongin watches Minseok and Kyungsoo confer by the bar, their heads bent together. The door shuts behind Jongin though, a little too hard, and the two of them look up in surprise.
“Jongin!” Kyungsoo says. “You’re done with work early.” Minseok is watching him carefully. It feels strange, that kind of attention, it always does.
“Junmyeon didn’t have many boxes for me today,” Jongin says. Minseok frowns, like he knows, but doesn’t say anything. “What are you looking at?”
Kyungsoo and Minseok run this art gallery and restaurant together. Kyungsoo is good at growing things, even better than Minseok, and Minseok’s frost helps with controlling the temperature, which is good for cooking.
But Minseok’s love has always been sculpture, and to sway him into going into business, Kyungsoo offered to open the art gallery as a concession.
Jongin knows the gallery isn’t always in the black - the neighborhood is a tourist trap, to be honest - and the restaurant turns a tidy profit on its own, but it really is Minseok’s passion. So he isn’t surprised to see the pictures spread out across the table, dark and in a grainy style. It’s what’s in the pictures that makes him take a second look.
Kyungsoo laughs at the expression on Jongin’s face, but Jongin is so amazed he doesn’t even blush. “Are these photoshopped?” he asks.
Minseok shakes his head. “You remember my friend, the one that time travels. These are all his,” he says proudly.
It’s all the same person - or so Jongin assumes, for his face is thrown into shadow in every picture, hidden by a jaunty and rather annoying hat. He stands in front of a royal court in Versailles, dressed in the finest silks. He balances on a construction beam, high in the air, no harness about him or the worker sitting next to him, in the height of the Industrial Age. He smirks, as a pyramid is constructed behind him, the labor of thousands of slaves. His arms are always raised in that way that signifies a selca, and it lends a comical flare to all of the compositions.
It’s so strange and yet overwhelming. There are other pictures as well. Jongin stops at one that portrays the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. Jongin is pretty sure that he was taught that there was only one man who was held responsible, but yet there they stand, all differing distances away from their target, dark metal glinting in their hands.
Jongin thinks that these pictures should be in a textbook, not hanging in Minseok’s gallery; they’re so dissimilar to the history he learned in school.
“He got the idea for it back in university,” Minseok explains. “Everyone thought he was crazy, but he did it anyway. Gets him into trouble sometimes, but he’s never apologetic about it.”
“You can get away with a lot of things if you call it art,” Kyungsoo adds dryly. “Even government dissention.”
“They’re really amazing,” Jongin says. It’s a little embarrassing to be so open about it, but Minseok doesn’t seem to mind. “Will he be coming to the opening of the exhibit?”
Minseok begins to collect the pictures into their envelopes, and Kyungsoo and Jongin help him. “Of course,” Kyungsoo says. “It will be good publicity for the business.”
“He doesn’t usually show,” Minseok says. “But I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I called in a favor. He couldn’t disagree.”
Kyungsoo disappears into the restaurant, locking the doors and checking that the lights are off for the last time that night. Minseok puts the photos in the safe, calling goodbye to Kyungsoo. Then he grabs Jongin’s hand and drags him out of the gallery with him.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Kyungsoo?” Jongin asks, flustered. The streets are empty and the sky has turned dark, and he can only see the lines of Minseok’s face.
He isn’t surprised that Minseok is holding his hand, not at all.
“He’ll be fine,” Minseok replies decisively. “But I’ve been dying for a bit of that cake you got for us, so let’s hurry home, okay?”
Jongin nods, the words choked in his throat. It’s a short walk home, but he feels warm with Minseok beside him. Jongin is opening the gate when Minseok speaks again.
“I said that my friend would be coming for the exhibit,” he says. “I-I said that he could stay with us, since we have the spare room. You won’t mind, right, Jongin?”
Jongin has never met any of Minseok’s friends from university. He knows that Minseok talks to them, time to time, in emails and such, but he doesn’t know any of them himself.
He thinks that he might be a little afraid, of these friends and undoubtedly the different Minseok that he will see when this artist friend, especially, comes to stay. Minseok is kind to everyone, but he seems to have a special affection for this one person. Jongin doesn’t know what to make of it.
But it really isn’t his place to voice any of these concerns. Instead, he smiles at Minseok. “Of course not.”
Minseok looks relieved. “Good. He’s only going to be here for a week or two, but I didn’t want you to feel put out in anyway. I think you’ll like him a lot, Jongin.”
Minseok cuts the cake carefully, perfectly. They sit at the table while Jongin picks at his slice slowly, and Minseok coaxes out of him details about his day.
They used to do this, back when they first got married. Minseok always made time for dinner, expecting Jongin to sit at the table with him and pass the salad, tell him about the new things he discovered in the neighborhood and what the neighbors said. That was back when Minseok worked at a museum in the city, and Jongin was trying to figure out what he wanted to do.
It helped Jongin to have that half hour in the evening, to listen to Minseok’s chuckle and terrible attempts at small talk. It gave him an anchor, of sorts.
Since then, they’ve moved to this neighborhood, a little quainter than they were used to. Jongin met Junmyeon while looking around for a part-time job, and now he helps with the delivery business. Minseok stays late some nights at the restaurant, when it’s busy. Kyungsoo says that Jongin can always come in and he’ll whip up dinner for him there, but sometimes the teleportation is tiring and Jongin just wants to go home.
So they don’t eat dinner much anymore. Still, there’s always a plate of something on the table, covered loosely - braised chicken with steamed asparagus, or homemade soup with small bits of noodles in it, just as Jongin likes. Always a reminder that Minseok probably worries about him, a little more than he should.
It makes him feel like a child sometimes, the way Minseok looks after him. Maybe because Jongin doesn’t know how to take care of Minseok in the same sense, to make up for it. Minseok always smiles and pushes him away, and maybe he doesn’t need Jongin. He probably doesn’t.
But Jongin would like to do something for Minseok, more than just buying his favorite cake from the local bakery.
There’s a brief scuffle in front of the sink, like polite strangers fighting to pay the bill at a restaurant, but finally it is decided that Jongin will wash the dishes and Minseok will dry. Minseok still pouts though, and when Jongin is done, wet hands dangling uselessly in front of him, he reaches up and tousles Jongin’s hair. “You’re getting too tall for me,” he teases, like Jongin hasn’t always been taller than Minseok.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Minseok asks.
They get out the laptop and rest their feet on the coffee table they never use, since their parents don’t visit often - “Let the newlyweds settle in,” his mother always giggles, in a way that always made Jongin blush in embarrassment, even though it’s been almost three years-
Three years, Jongin thinks, and lets his head fall back on the couch. It doesn’t feel like a long time at all, and that scares Jongin. A lot. The old surge of panic rises up in his chest.
“You alright?” Minseok is looking at him, concerned. “We can go to sleep instead, if you’re tired.”
Jongin shakes his head, spreading the blanket over both of them instead. Minseok starts the movie - something that Jongin briefly mentioned wanting to see, mostly because it was the type of movie Minseok liked. But they never had the time, since business picked up over the holidays and Minseok had a huge exhibition to organize.
So here they are. Minseok makes all the expected noises at the appropriate moments, and Jongin has to keep himself from watching him.
“Sorry, am I too loud?” Minseok asks sheepishly. Jongin shakes his head, almost violently, but Minseok grows quieter.
Their legs are lined up, side by side, sharing warmth, and Jongin leans into Minseok’s body, trying not to think too much. At one particularly dramatic point, Minseok squeezes Jongin’s knee; a knee-jerk reaction of sorts. But he keeps his hand there, and Jongin can barely breathe.
“That movie was good, wasn’t it?” Minseok says, standing up and yawning, the blanket falling to the floor. Jongin nods, curling up into himself at the loss of heat. Minseok closes the lid of the laptop, twisting his hips as he stretches. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
Jongin doesn’t know why he does it, but he catches one of Minseok’s flailing hands and pulls him down to Jongin’s level - he kisses Minseok on the mouth, brief and shallow. He lingers after their lips part, breathing in the scent of Minseok, cinnamon and other spices used in the restaurant.
It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, too.
When he opens his eyes, he finds Minseok gazing back at him, smiling gently. But Minseok only kisses him on the forehead. “I know you’re tired, Jongin,” he says. “Come on, let’s go to bed?”
Sehun always used to whine when Jongin ditched him on the way home. “What’s up with you, asshole?”
Jongin, used to Sehun’s abrasive fondness, rolled his eyes. “Nothing,” he replied. “I just need to pick up some dry cleaning for my mom.”
Sehun narrowed his eyes at him. “You used that excuse two days ago.”
Well, trust Sehun to remember those kinds of details, but fail their last algebra test. “Well, they messed up her clothes last time, so they’re fixing them now.”
His friend didn’t look entirely convinced, but Jongin needed to leave, now, if he wanted to get there in time. “See you, Sehun!”
“I won’t forgive you for this! Ever!” Sehun shouted back, before whirling around and stomping down the lane. The trees along the road bristled with a stiff breeze. Jongin didn’t mind; Sehun would be begging him for money for bread tomorrow, anyway.
The high school was on the other side of town, but Jongin knew a couple of shortcuts through a few bumpy alleys. He dodged wet laundry and drying pots, beady-eyed pigeons and squawking housewives who would probably snitch on him to his mom.
He stopped a distance before the school gates, trying to compose himself, fussing with his hair to look less like a kid despite his uniform. The bell rang and the older kids trickled out. A few girls pointed at him, but he stared staunchly, waiting.
“Jongin!” It’s Minseok, backpack thrown carelessly over his shoulders. He turned back to his friends, telling them that he’ll see them later, and then walked over to Jongin. “Have you been waiting a while?”
Jongin shook his head, then realized that it made him look more like a child. “Yes - I mean, no.”
Minseok knocked into his side, grinning. “Sorry if I did. You want some ice cream?”
Jongin liked chocolate, but he let Minseok pick since he was paying. Luckily, Minseok liked chocolate, too. Jongin let out a sigh of relief, sinking into his chair.
Minseok smiled to himself, Jongin didn’t really know why. “Where’s Sehun?”
“Ditched him,” Jongin said through a mouthful of ice cream. He bit; Minseok was more patient, and licked his cone.
“Jongin! I really do want to meet your friend. Let him come with you some time.”
Jongin didn’t really want to share Minseok, though. Minseok’s parents and Jongin’s parents were friends, but Jongin had only gotten to know Minseok recently since the -
Jongin and his parents, they didn’t really talk about the incident. Minseok never pushed Jongin to talk about it either; he was always kind and instead listened to Jongin talk about school and soccer and Sehun instead. Minseok was nice, and Jongin didn’t want to share Minseok, not because he thinks that Minseok would become less special. But maybe, Minseok wouldn’t pay as much attention to him, and Jongin didn’t want that.
“Sehun’s annoying,” Jongin said. “And he doesn’t like ice cream. He likes bubble tea. That’s weird, too.”
Minseok laughed, played with the corner of his napkin while his ice cream melted. “I like bubble tea, though, Jongin.”
All the more reason not to bring Sehun, then. Jongin lapsed into silence, watching the server at the counter help a little girl choose a flavor. She picked something purple and pink, cheeks red with excitement. “Hyung?” Jongin asked. “Have you chosen what university you’ll go to?”
Minseok regarded him carefully. “I have. It’s a little far away from here, though, since there aren’t any colleges in the area.”
“I know,” Jongin said. “I’ll miss you.”
Minseok blinked. Jongin didn’t know how that’s so surprising. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jongin said. “So spend a lot of time with me now, okay, hyung?”
“Of course,” Minseok said. He stretched his legs out under the table, bumping into Jongin. “Let’s go play soccer in the park, Jongin?”
Jongin nodded eagerly, finishing off the last of his cone. Minseok pushed what’s left of his across the table. “Don’t you want yours, hyung?”
“You can have it,” Minseok had said, standing up and slinging his backpack on. “You like chocolate, after all. And I guess I’m full.” He checked his phone, tucking it into his pocket. “So, how was school today?”
Jongin remembers other conversations like that, always ending with Minseok playing with him and then walking him home. Minseok never had to hang out with Jongin, but he always did. Jongin talked to him more than he did to anyone else, even Sehun. Jongin could speak more freely to Minseok than anyone else.
He misses that.
Junmyeon has a stack of boxes on the counter waiting for Jongin, when he enters the shop. “Full day, today,” he says apologetically.
“No problem,” Jongin answers, slipping most of them in his bag. “See you later!”
Most of the deliveries are routine today. A birthday gift for a teenager in Australia, who delightedly tears apart the box right in front of Jongin. He finds a very strangely shaped package addressed to someone in the Philippines; a gray-haired man answers the door at the address and explains that it is a pineapple. Jongin is confused, but decides not to ask questions.
A sentimental glass ornament to a portly woman in Russia, who upon seeing that Jongin is definitely not dressed for the weather, invites him in for some hot chocolate before continuing on. Then he finds himself in Mexico, in front of a sloping house with a low roof; he hands over a small fan and some video games.
It’s interesting to make up stories in his head, about all the people he meets. But Jongin often finds that some deliveries just cannot be explained. He spends the rest of the day puzzling over fruit, the taste of chocolate on his tongue.
The last box is addressed to a Jinri; Jongin concentrates on her address and finds himself in front of a small apartment complex on the outskirts of a city. He climbs up the stairs and rings the doorbell.
A young man answers the door, leaning on the frame and turning the knob in a careless fashion as he stares at Jongin curiously. “Did we order pizza?” he asks.
“Chanyeol,” a woman says from within the apartment. Jongin surmises that this is Jinri. “I’m making dinner right now!”
“Pizza always is good,” Chanyeol tells Jongin seriously.
Jongin nods with equal gravitas, then shows him the package. It’s a small box, like the kind that jewelry comes in. “Delivery for a Choi Jinri,” he says.
He hears a whoop from the kitchen, and then the quick padding of bare feet. “I never get packages,” the woman says, smiling at Chanyeol. She takes the parcel from Jongin. “Who is it from?”
She angles her head to read the return address. Jongin barely has any time to wonder why her face falls so quickly before Chanyeol’s expression crumples as well. “He sent you something?” he asks. Jinri seems to shrink into herself. “Do you - do you still talk to him?”
Jongin knows the look on Chanyeol’s face well, since he’s seen it on his own face enough times. Jealousy.
“No!” Jinri says, but Chanyeol is already walking away, disappearing down a hallway, out of sight. “Chanyeol, it isn’t like that, not anymore. Please!”
Jongin can smell something burning. He feels bad, but he has to ask Jinri for her signature before he goes.
It really takes one unfortunate package to make Jongin feel miserable. He knows that Chanyeol and Jinri’s reaction isn’t his fault; there’s clearly something unresolved between them, and the sender himself probably had the intent of aggravating the problem anyway.
But still, the chocolate’s faded from his mouth, and all that’s left is this sour taste that Jongin doesn’t like. He wants to go home and talk to Minseok about it, but he’s probably still at the gallery.
Jongin materializes at Junmyeon’s shop and says goodnight, making sure that Junmyeon locks up the store and begins to make his own way home so that Junmyeon’s wife won’t get annoyed that he fell asleep on the books again. Junmyeon had recounted that episode rather sheepishly, when Jongin had stopped in for lunch between errands.
It’s only a quick bike ride to the gallery, which is warmly lit with the new chandeliers that Minseok has installed. Jongin peers in the window, marveling at Minseok’s hard work. The lighting is perfect to highlight the photographs from Minseok’s friend, though the walls are still empty and bare.
Jongin wheels his bike into the foyer and leans it carefully against the walls. Minseok rarely minds. He proceeds through the gallery, noting that the walls have been painted a welcoming honey color. Minseok seems to really want this exhibit to be the best that the gallery has seen yet.
He doesn’t find Minseok anywhere, but the last room has a single frame hanging on the wall. Jongin stops in his tracks, mesmerized.
It’s that same man, the hat tipped low over his forehead. Jongin can see some of his dark hair and his nose, but otherwise he’s just as anonymous.
He’s standing in the middle of a battlefield, troops on either side with their guns balanced on their shoulders, bullets flying from the barrels, some inches away from the man. It must have taken precise timing, not only to take the picture, but to disappear from the field before any of the bullets struck him.
“Pretty ambitious, don’t you think?” Jongin hears. He whirls around to see a man his age standing between him and the rest of the gallery. Jongin stares at his hooked nose, his dark clothing that he wears well.
“Do you like it?” the man prompts, and there’s something strange in the way that he asks, but Jongin doesn’t pay attention.
“Yes,” he says. “Are you working with Minseok on this exhibit?” There’s sawdust on the man’s knees, and something in his hair. He appears to have come from the direction of the backroom, where Minseok stores the heavy photograph frames and fixtures that he has yet to use.
Jongin has met many of the painters and electricians that Minseok has worked with before, but he remembers that Minseok said that a particular carpenter was retiring. Perhaps this is his replacement, Jongin reasons.
“Yes,” the man replies. There’s something swinging from his right hand; Jongin focuses on it, realizing that it is a small disposable camera. The bright orange and blue of the plastic are jarring, disorienting in the space that Minseok is so carefully putting to detail.
“Are you taking pictures of the before and after?” Jongin asks. Sometimes Minseok does that, when the gallery is going through a particularly dramatic renovation. Like that one time when he showed an artist who described her style as a mix of visual kei and kawaii. The walls were painted magenta and there were skeletons reclining in the corners. Jongin kept jumping at each turn.
The man looks around the room. The carpet is peeled back, where the walls meet the floor, and Jongin wonders if Minseok will replace even that. “Perhaps.” He brings the camera up and points it at Jongin, taking a picture of him.
Jongin winces at the flash. “Hey,” he exclaims. He doesn’t like having his picture taken, either.
“You didn’t like that?” the man smiles, but it’s not mocking. Instead, he looks disappointed.
Jongin doesn’t like that expression; he thinks that Minseok wears it too often. Anyway, won’t Minseok see this? He doesn’t want to be the cause of that face again. He looks around, and then notices the stairs to the roof. Minseok keeps the door locked, but there’s a window at the turn of the banister. Jongin sits in front of it. “Like this,” he says.
The man is bemused. “I can barely see your face. Your back is to the light!” Jongin makes to get up, but he shakes his head. “No, no, let me take one picture.”
This time, Jongin smiles. The flash still makes him recoil, and he worries about what that will translate to on film. But the other man is staring at him, and when Jongin meets his eyes he can’t help but blush.
“What-” he begins to say, not really knowing what will come out, just to say something.
Instead, he hears the grind of the door from the restaurant being pushed open. Distantly, Kyungsoo says. “This space is reserved for art showings. My business partner isn’t here right now, but this is really his domain, and he takes great pride in exhibiting all of the art that comes through to the best of his ability. He’s quite sorry not to meet you, but he said something about finding some special chairs, and I suppose he’s lost track of time.”
“That’s quite alright,” a woman says. “Is he preparing for a show right now?”
Kyungsoo is showing around some potential investors, Jongin realizes. He panics, but the dark-haired man is there, pushing him up and around the turn of the stairs. They sprawl out in front of the door to the roof, and Jongin is anxious, but the other man smiles at him.
Kyungsoo’s voice drifts away as he leads the sponsors through the rest of the gallery. Jongin feels childish, running away like that. He moves to go back downstairs, but the other man catches his hand gently.
The touch is electric, alien. Jongin doesn’t initiate touch with others often, and Junmyeon and Kyungsoo aren’t that open themselves. Minseok might ruffle his hair or touch his shoulder once in a while, but that’s it. So this stranger holding his hand - it feels odd, unwarranted, but not unwanted.
But Jongin doesn’t dwell much more on the touch of their hands, because the man pulls him in closer and fits their mouths together, swallowing Jongin’s exhale down the back of his throat.
Jongin isn’t prepared, and so he doesn’t respond right away. But the lips against his move insistently, and he answers in turn. He gasps when the man bites his bottom lip, slips his tongue into Jongin’s mouth. His hand slides up to rest on Jongin’s jaw, while the other slips up under the bottom of his T-shirt.
It’s heady and wonderful. Jongin smells musk and spice, cinnamon in particular. It tingles, spreading through his lips to the tips of his fingers and toes. When the other pulls back, he presses forward, pushing him against the wall, his legs tangled with the other man’s.
He slips his fingers into the other man’s hair, pulling by accident when the other man pulls him closer, even closer. He hears the moan, feels his own heart beat faster in anticipation.
Hands caress his arms, fingers press against the waistband of jeans. Jongin wants.
Minseok hasn’t kissed Jongin like this in a long time. Minseok, Jongin remembers with a sinking chest. Minseok.
Kyungsoo exclaims from downstairs. “Oh, Jongin’s bike is here!” Jongin imagines him turning to the sponsors when he hears him continue. “He’s Minseok’s husband, helps out often here. He must have come by to walk Minseok home.”
He breaks away, pushing with both hands on the other’s chest. He cringes at the bruised lips he leaves behind, the mussed hair, the confused eyes, and runs down the stairs, thankful that he doesn’t hear steps behind him.
Kyungsoo is surprised to see him burst into the foyer, the investors behind him clutching their pearls in shock. “Ah, Jongin!” he says, and Jongin is afraid that he’s going to ask. That Kyungsoo knows what Jongin did, that they all can see it in Jongin’s disheveled appearance. But instead he asks, “Is Minseok back there?”
“No,” he says. “I - tell Minseok I came by, but I decided to go home first, okay?” He ducks his head at the investors, who giggle between themselves about something Jongin can’t even begin to fathom. He ignores Kyungsoo, who says, “But he’ll probably be back soon-”
He wheels his bike outside hurriedly, kicking up the stand, and takes off, legs pumping as hard as they can.
It’s late and Jongin is sitting on the couch, chin propped on a pillow between his legs, when the garage door opens. He hears the drawer slide open and shut as Minseok drops his keys inside.
Minseok has a folder of papers in hand when he pauses in the hallway outside the living room. Jongin doesn’t want to look, but when he does he can’t help himself, trying to search every corner of Minseok’s face for something that says he knows what Jongin did.
He sees the dryness at the edges of Minseok’s face, the slight oily accumulation at his hairline which itself is receding. He sees the wrinkles at the corners of Minseok’s eyes and mouth, the shadow of stubble that covers his cheeks.
“Jongin? How was today?” Minseok asks. “Kyungsoo said you came by looking for me, but you left in a hurry.”
“He was showing around some investors,” Jongin explains quietly. “I didn’t want to bother.”
Minseok smiles, playing with the folder in his hands. “You don’t have to worry about that - you’re always welcome at the gallery,” he says. “Don’t watch too much TV, okay?”
Jongin listens the shower run, the thunderous splash of water as Minseok washes up. He knows that Minseok probably ate dinner at the restaurant. Jongin hasn’t eaten, but he’s not hungry.
Minseok is sitting at the edge of his bed, toweling his hair, when Jongin knocks on the door and pushes his way inside. “Jongin?”
Jongin can barely lift his head up, he feels like vomiting. “Hyung, hyung, I have to tell you something,” he says, and then it all rushes out. “There was a guy today - I met him, I didn’t - I kissed him, I’m sorry - I’m really sorry -”
He’s not looking at Minseok, but he knows that Minseok isn’t toweling his head anymore. Jongin forces himself to look at Minseok, but Minseok is expressionless, the blankness that comes before an angry storm. But he doesn’t shout or yell or order Jongin out of their home.
Instead, he just says, “Jongin, let’s not talk about this.”
“But, hyung,” Jongin says, confused. He feels delirious with guilt.
Minseok shakes his head, jaw set. The wet towel dangles from his hands. “Let’s not - Jongin, I don’t want to know. I can’t-” He turns away, facing the alarm clock on the night stand, and kills Jongin completely when he says, “Thank you, Jongin, for telling me about this.”
part two