(no subject)
Title: Lullabye for a Stormy Night (1/2)
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Homin
Summary: A kink gone wrong leaves Changmin and Yunho to patch up a relationship that may be without hope.
Warning: rape
He's already in that nice place before sleep and wakefulness when he hears the door slide open gently, footsteps on the creaking floorboards. A lump of fear rises in his throat. Did he forget and leave the back door open?
He should've checked.
He should've made sure.
A hand reaches out over his bedside table, looking for the light switch. He fumbles in the dark, knocking the alarm clock from the nightstand and to the floor, plunging the room into total black. The footsteps stop. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he swallows hard, the wood of the headboard cold against his back.
The house is silent.
Biting his lip to keep silent, as if the action will keep him from breathing, from making any noise at all, he draws back the cool sheets. The bottoms of his feet scrape the carpet.
Check the door. Check the door and find your phone. Turn on the light, check the door, find your phone. His mind propels through options, replacing, discarding, altering. He sits frozen.
There's not a sound outside.
This is stupid. He's a grown man, nothing to be afraid of. Not really. This is your house. You're safe here. But not if he's sitting still, waiting for some divine intervention to save him. God helps those who help themselves, he remembers being told in Church only last week. He's a good Catholic boy and God wouldn't let anything happen to him. He clings to the thought and shifts his weight from the bed slowly.
His heart is in his throat, pounding a quick drum that leaves him dizzy and anxious. Through the half-open bedroom door, he can't see anything but black.
It scares him, but he has no choice. Lamb to the slaughter and a thousand other helpful analogies shadow his steps. It's easier to be afraid in the dark, where his eyes can't see and he thinks he's got something to fear.
"Hello?" he calls, stupidly, pausing to see if there's an answer. "Is-is there someone there?"
There's no answer and he's not sure he could hear one anyway over the thud of his pulse.
The hallway floor groans under his weight, his heart jackhammering in his chest as he moves to reach for the light, fingers brushing along the drywall, waiting till they hit the switch...waiting... Light glares into his eyes, blinding him and he blinks, a second too late, a second too long and there's a shape in the doorway, tall and dark and his last thought is 'holy god, please no' before his fear takes over.
A shout dies on his lips as he stumbles back, knees weak and head swimming with the possibilities. There's a man in his house and he's coming forward and he's armed.
Oh god, he's armed.
A hand catches him round the arm, pushing him hard into the wall and he can feel copper in his mouth as he bites his lip, as a heavy weight presses against him. He hisses at the pain, again when a rough hand fists in his hair, drawing his head back and there's something cold against his throat.
A knife.
"No... please," he stutters out. He won't scream. He won't.
Tears gather in his eyes, but he blinks them away, trying to make himself as small as possible. Don't hurt me, his posture says, but the other man doesn't listen. Instead, he shoves him down, hip catching on the edge of his desk and fuck, his computer is still sprawled open, files everywhere. He should've hid the objects he cares about before he went to bed. He should've locked the door.
Too late for either.
He can feel the ghost of the knife against the small of his back, cutting through his pants and his fingers clutch at the carpet, trying to drag himself away but there's a knee in his back keeping him pressed to the floor. Hours at the gym and on the soccer team in college and what fucking good is it now when he can't move and he feels his sleep pants ripped from his waist.
Cold, clammy air hits his thighs, like someone turned the airco way down for the night. Like someone left a window open. Strangely, it doesn't inspire him to cry for help. He's a grown man, he can handle this.
"Don't--" he gasps around his fist, jerking away when the tip of the knife slides over his skin. Maybe the fucker'll cut him. Maybe he'll leave him here to bleed dry. He has no assurance that he won't. "God, please don't. I--I have money. I can pay, you don't have to do this..."
The hair in his hair tightens it's grip, pushing his face sudden and hard into the floor and he can feel blood trickle from his nose. Silence meets his entreaty, a cold hand groping him roughly and the fear is cold and heavy like lead in his stomach.
It spikes up a notch when he hears the sound of a zipper coming undone, his pulse quickening in horrible expectation--and why is the point of the knife still digging into his back? It's not like he'll run away, not like he can. He feels it prick the skin and gasps aloud, pain a poor distraction but nothing in comparison to the blunt and warm something, so much thicker and brutal than a pair of fingers as it breaches him roughly.
He does cry out then, agony lacing through like mercury. What the fuck?
This isn't part of the game.
"Fuck," he chokes, voice raw with pain. "Fuck, stop, stop it!" There's no reply, nothing but blood in his mouth and agony in his body and what the fuck is he doing? "Yunho, fucking quit it already! You're hurting me--"
There's another brutal shift of the other man's hips into his, ignoring his pleas like he doesn't hear them and for the first time, real fear, real anger claw at Changmin's heart. Hands scrabble for purchase on the soft carpet, trying to break free of the hold around his lower body, to get away from that excruciating pain.
His efforts earn him a punch to the shoulder from behind, a hard crack echoing through his bones as he falls.
"Stop--Yunho, what--"
A gloved hand squeezes him roughly, erection shriveled with pain and confusion but not immune to the vicious touch. He cries out against it, knees scraping the floor. He's trapped and he can't get away. He's being torn apart from within and he can't move, can't get the other man to stop. Something like bile chokes him and his pleas, a horrible lurch in his stomach when groans echo behind him like a warning. Like a threat. The thrusts into his ravaged body turn frantic, plunging deeper inside him and he's crying out, crying, tears spilling fast and hot over his cheeks and he chokes as a wad of fabric is stuffed into his mouth, silencing him.
His wrists are tugged behind his back, held roughly in place as pain lances through his shoulders and arms, his cheek rubbed raw against the carpet.
This can't be happening, he thinks dimly, choking on his own saliva and drowning in fear because the knife is still there. The fucker could still cut him and kill him and use him like a ragdoll and this is wrong. He didn't sign on for abuse, he thought--he was an idiot.
Disgust overwhelms him as the pants get louder, hips canting into his quicker and quicker until there's a flash of warmth across his backside, a groan in his ear.
Until he feels the other man recede and blood drips down his thighs.
The knife traces a line between his shoulder blades, over his wrists, his thighs as he shudders, fear and revulsion swimming in his veins. And then it's gone, another rough push of his face into the bloody carpet before he hears the rustling of a belt and creaking steps retreating.
Over.
He's left to lie there, bleeding and shaking, with no hand to pull him up. No one to cuddle with in the shower. He doesn't understand any of it, but the pain is real enough, the shame along with it.
The door slams shut.
It's an eternity before it's opened again and by then, Changmin has managed to shift to lie on his side, curled and half under the bed. It's safe there.
"Min-ah?" sounds down the hall with painful clarity. Painful normality. "I'm home, sorry I didn't call. I got called up just as I was getting ready to leave and--where are you?"
He hears feet shuffle across the floor, the slip of socks because Yunho always leaves his shoes by the door.
The light switch flicks on.
"Min-ah? Where--"
He closes his eyes and waits. He stopped being afraid, the body can't handle perpetual tension. His nerves have given out. He lies instead and waits for the ax to fall. To be asked why he hasn't gotten cleaned up yet.
"Changmin," he hears, the voice suddenly much closer. "What's wrong, baby? Are you feeling sick?"
A hand reaches out to touch him. He flinches away. Closes his eyes tightly because maybe if he pretends he isn't here, it won't hurt. Maybe if he plays dead, he'll go away.
"Minnie-ah. Talk to me. Are you sick?" The worry is so thick in the other man's voice it chokes. Liar, he thinks, tears escaping as a warm hand rests on his cheek. Liar.
It doesn't dissuade the other man, whose hands keep touching, keep searching, as if he doesn't already know. Changmin wants to scream and hurt him but he can't move. He's frozen like before. Only this time, it's with good reason.
Fortunately, he doesn't have to. Yunho is anything but patient, as the past evening has demonstrated, and he looks bewildered when his hand comes away bloody and red from touching Changmin's back. Surprise, he thinks bitterly, I bleed like a normal guy.
"Oh my god--what happened? Min-ah..." Concerned features focus on him intently, arms tensing to push the bed away. His last cover, gone. "Jesus."
Hands are on his face again, wet hitting his cheeks and for a moment, he thinks he's crying again but the sobs aren't coming from him.
"Baby, oh God--l-listen to me, I'm going--I'm going to call an ambulance. I'll be right back, I'm not leaving you, I'm gonna call the hospital," the words are coming too fast, tripping over one another until they're just buzzing in his ears.
He tries to grasp at them but all he tastes is his own confusion. Yunho isn't this good an actor. Why would he pretend? Why wouldn't he just drop the farce already?
By the time Changmin opens his eyes, Yunho is on his feet already, rushing out of the room to find his cell. His voice echoes through the house like Gregorian music on a scratchy record.
"--my partner, he's--I don't... hurt, very badly hurt, there's blood and I think--I think he may've been--"
No, he thinks, and the bile is back with a vengeance. No, he's lying. He's gotta be lying. Pretending not to know what happened--
"Yunho..." Changmin calls out, voice scratchy like sandpaper over the familiar name. "Yun-come back." Please come back.
The other man is at his side in moments, going to his knees, the cellphone cradling between his ear and shoulder.
He's crying.
"I'm here, baby," he whispers, finds Changmin's hand and his palm is warm and familiar. Changmin can't help the sobs that bubble up in his throat.
"--please, you have to hurry up, you have to get here--"
It wasn't him. Couldn't have been.
The thought is enough to make Changmin double over with the weight of his shame.
*
Yunho doesn't understand what's going on. Numbers and questions on a clipboard and he doesn't know what to answer. Doesn't know if Changmin had all the vaccines he's supposed to, doesn't know if he has insurance and right now, he doesn't give a fuck about either, though he can't very well say so to the nurses watching him. To the policeman sitting by his side. It's just as difficult to focus on his questions as the ones on the clipboard.
"Mr Jung, are you listening?" the man presses with a look of displeasure.
He's been zoning out for half an hour, his eyes on the examination room where they've taken Changmin and refused to allow his presence.
"Sorry. Can you repeat that?"
The man writes something down. "When you came in with the victim, you had blood on your hands. Who's blood was it, Mr Jung?"
"His," he chokes out, remembering the way it dried, the way it broke off, whole scabs of brown-red liquid turned to war paint on his fingers. "I thought he wasn't feeling good, so I was going to help him up off the floor and I saw..."
Another scribble on the pad of paper. "Do you regularly keep your front door unlocked?"
Yunho shakes his head. "No. Only sometimes. If he's waiting for me, he leaves it open." It's their sign. If Changmin wants to play, he'll leave the door open for him when he gets home. For him, not for some stranger to come in and--
"You do have a key, don't you?"
He grits his teeth. "Yes."
The officer stares at him with critical eyes. Yunho feels like a bug under pins, waiting to be dissected.
"Are you involved in a homosexual relationship with the victim?"
A nod. "Yes."
The pen scribbles something on the pad, away from his eyes. He can't help wonder if it's some kind of judgment before the trial. They're fucking on a daily basis so why should this be any different? It's just sex between queers. Don't they usually take it up the ass?
Anger gnaws at his restraint, even if the words are all in his head. Sooner or later, someone is going to think along those lines.
"Would you be willing to give us a sample of your DNA? It's standard procedure, to compare with the victim's rape kit."
The words, spoken together make his blood boil and considering the way this is being treated, the fact that he hasn't been allowed within the room with his lover, it's no surprise that he snaps.
"Changmin. Shim Changmin. Not the victim." My lover, he wants to say. "And yes, I'll give you a fucking blood sample. I didn't do this to him!" Instead of grasping at straws, they'd be out there looking for the man who did.
It takes all his willpower not to go out and search for the son of a bitch himself.
The officer's features turn hard like granite. "Calm down, Mr Jung."
He wants to laugh, to punch something because he's never felt this damn helpless. "You can have whatever you want from me, you bastard. Just let me see him. He shouldn't fucking be alone!"
Before the other man can speak, before he can tell him off for interfering with a police investigation or some other standard bullshit that he's seen and heard on every cop show on late night TV, the door to the examination room opens, a tall woman with sunglasses resting atop her head stepping out. She'd look better on the cover of a fashion magazine than dressed in black and brown, her badge anchored safely on her belt.
She's the detective they sent out to crowd Changmin with questions and on any other day, Yunho might pretend to be offended that his lover got the pretty one. As it is, all he can think and say is: "I want to see him."
And thankfully, the woman nods.
"So does he."
It's gets him out of his seat and crossing the room in seconds, ignoring the nurse and the officers and entering the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Changmin is curled on his side, too small under blankets, staring at the wall. Yunho's heart aches.
It's not until the door opens again and the detective woman returns that he realizes he's considered a danger to his lover. That he's a suspect.
"Hey, you," he greets, trying to keep his tone light. Is Changmin the kind to give way to his emotions easily? Will he relieve the incident on his own until it gets too heavy and then talk?
Is he thinking, like everyone else, it seems, that Yunho is guilty?
Strangely, on the latter, Yunho doesn't have much of an opinion. Whatever makes him happy.
"How're you feeling?" he presses, moving to sit on a chair and hesitating before he draws it closer to the bed. The scraping sound of metal on the floor is like nails on a blackboard. He apologizes.
Changmin's eyes find his over the blanket, the younger man pale and quieter than Yunho's ever seen him. "I'm alright."
They both know it's a lie, a pretense, and why the hell did he ask that? How else could he be feeling?
He reaches out, wants to touch Changmin's hand but rests it against the bed instead. "Do you need anything? Do you..do you want me to get you something from home?"
All he gets for that effort is a shrug, Changmin looking at his hand where it lies between them like it's a whole separate entity. A foreign object.
"Books, maybe?" he suggests, trying to keep the other man talking. The silence is heavy with too many questions and he's afraid it means the worst. "Or pajamas, so you don't have to be in a hospital gown." He wets his lips, fights against the wave of tears that threaten. No. He can fall apart later.
"Anything you want, baby, just...just tell me, okay?"
Dark eyes meet his, the gaze unreadable like it was the first day they met and he unceremoniously spilled his coffee to have an excuse to buy another one to the tall boy with the nervous tics. "When you go home," Changmin breathes, "lock the doors?"
Yunho bites his lip to keep silent, calm. Like he knows he should be to help his lover.
"Definitely. I will." He darts a look over his lover's shoulder to the young woman who has yet to give them a moment alone. He may hate being studied, but if this helps find out who hurt Changmin, he'll try not to mind it.
Trying to put her out of his mind, he moves his hand those last remaining inches, lets his fingertips brush Changmin's. "Do you want me to stay here tonight with you?" Please say yes.
The younger man shrugs. "I'd rather go home but they say I can't." And for good reason. Someone broke in. Someone raped him in his home.
Yunho feels a rush of guilt at the thought that he's to blame.
Clearing her throat, the detective intervenes. "Your home is being considered as a crime scene, for now. It's important that we have access to it." A nod. "When you're ready, I can drive you to a hotel nearby myself. There are a number of questions your... partner was unable to answer for me."
Anger sparks in him at her tone. Her implications. "I'll answer your questions," he tells her through gritted teeth, "but I'm not going anywhere." Investigations and hospital regulations be damned.
"You can't sleep here," she tells him, stating the obvious. "And I would rather talk to you in private, Mr Jung." The latter is added more softly, as though she's speaking to a child and not a grown man. If nothing else, it drives home the point that she doesn't know how to deal with this. She's young. Too young.
He wants to protest, to make a scene because they kept him out there for God knows how long and now they won't even let him stay, but somehow, he knows it will end nowhere good. That if he's suspected, there's nothing to stop them from taking him to the police station or preventing him from seeing Changmin at all. He's not about to let that happen.
Swallowing his ire, he nods, squeezing Changmin's hand. "If you need anything, can't sleep, just call me, okay?" No reply, Changmin looking out past his shoulder. It cuts. "I love you, baby." He leans forward to kiss him on the forehead, biting his lip against the hurt and the anger that well up when Changmin flinches.
"Love you too," the other man whispers, soft enough that he almost misses it.
The detective holds the door open for him, as if she's not sure he'll follow if she leaves first. As if she's afraid he might lock himself in the same room as his lover and what? Finish what he started?
Yunho does his best not to scream with the frustration, the helplessness.
"What do you want to hear?" he snaps, rounding on her once they're outside.
The woman motions for him to sit down in the waiting room, taking a chair with a suspicious stain for herself. "Mr Shim refused to tell me why he didn't call the police immediately once he realized there was an intruder. We found no signs of struggle."
He feels cold. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, he tries to ignore the prick of tears at his eyes. He thought it was you. He thought it was you and he didn't call for help. This is your fucking fault.
"He thought it was me," he tells her, staring at the ugly beige carpet. "He thought it was me coming home. That bastard must've gotten to him before he realized..."
"Mr Jung," she stops him, loud but more shocked than reprimanding. "Please, calm down. Your partner is safe and we will find the man responsible." It's a lot of bullshit, he thinks, even as he clings to the words for comfort. "Can you think of anyone in your entourage who'd want to hurt Mr Shim? Do you have any enemies?"
The rape wasn't violent enough to have been random, he thinks, remembering all the crime dramas he ever saw. Or maybe the son of a bitch was twisted enough to try imitate him. Minimum sadism but lasting damage.
"No, I..." he shrugs, helpless. "Nobody. No one at my work knows I'm gay, we have the same circle of friends..." he clenches his jaw, slumping slightly in the chair. "None of them would do this. They wouldn't hurt him like this."
"It's possible this was an isolated event," she presses. "No other cases in the area match the description of a man clad in black who comes in through the front door and leaves when it's over. All signs point to it being someone close to the victim. A friend, a former lover..." She's fishing and he clenches his jaw.
"He doesn't sleep around. We're exclusive." You can forget about your promiscuous gay stereotypes, lady. "And quit fucking calling him that. Use his name."
Her eyes are piercing even though her features remain impassive. "We can only track this man down if you give us something to go on, Mr Jung. The attacker was meticulous. He used protection--there's nothing we'll get from trace."
"There's nothing I can give you either," he sighs, hopeless and helpless all at once. "I wasn't there, I don't know what happened."
"No, but the only man who was, refuses to speak about it." She touches a hand to her badge, as if to remind herself of her power, her role. Her responsability. "I don't buy the coincidence. He leaves the door open and a man comes in and rapes him. There's something almost... textbook about that."
His hands tighten around the arm of the chair. "You're wasting your time with me," he chokes, shaking his head. "I don't know anything and if Min-ah won't tell you, then you have to come up with something else. Dust for fingerprints, interview people. Do fucking something! Do your fucking job!"
She clicks her tongue like a school mistress. "Calm down. I'm sure the last thing you want is to spend the night in jail, Mr Jung." Brows furrow in a deep crease, her eyes slanting even further until they're like seams in her face, not eyes. Yunho thinks he must be going crazy to notice all this.
A beat. "Where were you tonight between seven and nine PM?"
He buries his head in his hands. They're back to square one.
*
The crime scene tape is wadded up and stuffed in the very bottom of the trash, hidden from sight for both of their sakes. This is still their home, still the place they loved at first sight, the place they christened every available surface in. It's seen Christmases and birthday and friends; he won't let all of that be tarnished. He won't let this take that from Changmin.
His lover sits curled into the corner of the couch, staring without interest at an old drama in syndication. Yunho glances at him what feels like every ten seconds, trying to scrape something together for their friends who are coming over soon. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but they'd insisted and Changmin had shrugged, so the matter was settled.
If it does him good, he can't help think it's worth struggling through. After all, his lover has been keeping to himself lately. Therapy and too many hours in uncomfortable silence or with the police and he figures Changmin needs the change.
"Can you get me a beer?" he calls to him, distracted and probably not interesting in drinking. He hasn't touched alcohol since he came back and he doesn't take the pills prescribed to him. Yunho doesn't have the heart to force him.
"One sec," he mutters, checking the stove and shrugging off the potholders before grabbing one from the fridge, moving into the living room and passing it to him. Changmin takes it without looking away from the television.
"Anything good on?" he asks, wishing this could be two months ago, two weeks ago. That he could walk up to Changmin from behind the couch, press the cold drink to his cheek and laugh when he yelped. Now...he's so afraid to startle him, so scared that Changmin will be afraid of him...he doesn't dare.
Changmin takes the drink with a hand that doesn't waver - Yunho's been paying attention - and shrugs. "I'm not sure. Kinda zoned out."
He's been doing it since he came back, it's nothing new. Yunho nods. "Looks like you're not missing much anyway. Want to give me a hand in the kitchen?" It's going to be met with a refusal, but Yunho keeps trying.
"You don't have to bother, you know. They'll just order pizza. Like they always do."
Yunho nods. Tries not to be discouraged. "Maybe I'm cooking something special for you," he returns lightly, hands in his pockets because he doesn't know what else to do with them.
Changmin looks up at him, and even if he doesn't smile, his face softens. Yunho considers it a victory. For a moment, until, "Then I shouldn't ruin it. I'm sure it'll be great."
He takes the comment for what it is. Another excuse.
"Okay," he relents. "Do you need anything else?" Before, Changmin would have been begging him for food, drinks. Surfing on his computer to find the wildest recipes then challenging Yunho to prepare them for him. Before, Changmin would have been laughing.
The doorbell rings, cutting through Yunho's pity party.
"Guess they're early," he sighs, pretending not to notice the way Changmin jumps with surprise. His nerves are fragile, dangerously so. At least Junsu remembered to ring--the other man had always been fond of letting himself in. Changmin doesn't move from the couch, so he goes to greet them alone, unlocking the door and revealing the tentative faces of his friends on the other side.
He forces a smile, takes the wine from Yoochun's hands. "Thanks for coming."
"No problem, man, we heard there was free food." Yoochun always has the weirdest sense of humor, but it's an ice breaker and at least it's delivered from a distance. Yunho barely gets a chance to shake Jaejoong's hand before the other man is bounding into the living room, cuddling up to Changmin like an overly affectionate cat.
"This is the worst show ever," he proclaims. "Why do you watch it, Min-ah?" And it's invasive and sudden, but Yunho is holding his breath for nothing because Changmin shrugs and reaches for the remote around Jaejoong's shoulders. Completely ignores his presence.
Junsu claps a hand over Yunho's shoulder. "How are you holding up?"
It just maybe be the first time someone's asked him that since the whole thing happened and it takes Yunho a minute to respond, fingers clenching around the neck of the wine bottle, moving to find the corkscrew. "I'm fine," he offers, voice full of false confidence.
Junsu pushes himself to sit up on the counter, Yoochun having wandered over to the living room himself. "Yeah, that sounded genuine."
"I'm more worried about him," he placates, looking for the healthy middle and unable to find it. He's not worried, he's frantic. He's not fine, he's so full of hate and regret that if you stab him with a pin there won't be any blood to spill.
"He looks shaken up," Junsu agrees, gently, and the softly whispered comment is enough to set him off.
"Shaken up? He's a wreck!" Careful to keep his voice level with the sound of water boiling on the stove, Yunho snaps the cork off the bottle, jerking the cupboards open to rummage for glasses.
A small, warm hand is on his shoulder, tugging the glass from his hand to sit carefully on the cupboard.
"Calm down," Junsu tells him, his voice full of worry and pity and Yunho can't take it.
"Everyone's telling me to calm down," he mutters. "And nobody's telling me how to help him. I can't do anything to make it better. He got-- and it's my fault." I made him feel safe. He thought it was me.
"No," Junsu tells him, his voice strong, fierce with his denial. "No. Listen to me, Yunho. This isn't his fault. You're not to blame for being trustworthy, for Christ's sake. The only fault here is with that sick fuck who hurts our Min." Hands frame his features, Junsu's own stubborn and unyielding.
Yunho swallows hard, unable to turn his face away and so closing his eyes instead. "I don't...part of me thinks..part of me's still afraid he thinks it was me."
Junsu shakes his head adamantly. "You're not to blame for this. Some fucker did this to him. Not you." It's the kind of blind faith he wishes the detective woman could've heard, could've believed. "Changmin knows that. He's here with you and he loves you. He'd have never come home with you if he thought different. You know that."
Unless he's doing it out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. Yunho wouldn't put it past him.
"Hey, guys?" Yoochun calls from the doorway, aware that he's intruding but pretending not to notice. "We're getting thirsty. You'd better not have finished all that wine between the two of you already."
"Coming," Junsu returns without looking away, and Yunho hears socked feet pad away. His best friend sighs. "One of these days I'm going to stop opening the door when he comes over. Idiot." It's a bold-faced lie--the two of them can be so in love sometimes it's sickening, Yunho knows from personal experience.
He lets Junsu take the glasses and the bottle, practically shoving them into his hands. Enough self-pity for one afternoon. He can't indulge without feeling guilty.
"Don't hide in here," the other man warns. "We came to see you too." He slips out before he can aim another pointed retort, taking the opportunity with him. Damn Junsu for knowing him so well. For leaving the door open so he can hear laughter and voices echo from the living room.
He has no choice but to follow.
*
Once the house has cleared and the dishes been taken to the sink, he escapes to the bathroom, flicking on the shower tabs and locking the door. Catching his reflection in the quickly steaming mirror, he stares for a second, meeting his own eyes before the mist swallows them up. He sits on the toilet seat, staring down at his hands and listening to the water beat on the shower floor. He's taken enough showers in the past week to be clean for months, but he can't quite seem to shake the habit.
It's all that's keeping him sane right now, the idea that he has control over how his skin tastes and smells. Even if it's bad for all the cuts on his back, even if it makes pain flare over his abused body from the soap, he still does it. It's ritualistic and cleansing, in all senses of the word.
It's just not enough.
A knock shakes him from his thoughts.
"Min-ah, you okay in there?" Yunho's voice is gentle, trying to hold back the concern and Changmin appreciates it, he does. But it's not enough to deter him.
"I'm fine," he replies, just loud enough to be heard. "I'll be out soon." Once he's scrubbed red and raw and exhaustion overpowers fear.
"Okay..." Yunho doesn't move from his place by the door, that much is audible even over the sound of running water. Hating himself, Changmin ignores him. He doesn't know what to say to the older man. It's all confused and muddled in his head, but he doesn't want to rehash what the policewoman invariably spread around like gossip. Just in the interest of finding his rapist.
Bullshit.
He moves from where he sits, shuffles to the door between them. Presses a hand against it, as if he could feel Yunho through it. He hears a soft sigh moments later, then the other man's retreating footsteps, his forehead thunking lightly against the door.
He turns off the water a few moments later, trying to make an effort. He's clean. It's just psychological babble. He's healing.
"I was... gonna take a shower," he mentions as he slips into bed, pajamas too heavy and suffocating when he's used to sleeping in the nude.
Yunho unclasps his watch, laying it on the nightstand and settling into the bed, rubbing at Changmin's shoulder. "I'll let you get first in the morning, if you want. Or..." His mouth closes around the offer before it can be made, but Changmin hears it nonetheless. You could join me.
He remembers that. Slick hands spreading soap on his back, a warm mouth against his neck. The uncomfortable stretch and the ecstasy when Yunho made love to him.
"Did you check the locks?" he asks and the illusion is broken.
The hand on his shoulder stills. "Yeah. Twice. And the alarm is on as well."
Changmin nods, biting at his lip before shifting away, Yunho's hand falling to the bed between them with a quiet thump. "Good night."
He doesn't miss the shine of Yunho's eyes in the half-light, biting his tongue until it nearly bleeds.
*
He hates this more than anything and hates that Yunho has to take time off to drive him around when he could be working, doing something he loves. Instead, he gets to be cooped up in a waiting room while Changmin is made to talk.
"How are things with Yunho these days?" he's asked, the question repeated because he doesn't want to answer. Stalling for time almost never works and still, he tries.
A shrug. "We're fine."
A pause. "Just fine?"
He ignores him.
"Has there been...tension between the two of you?"
Tension. What does that mean? Yunho cooks and keeps house for him. He's taken time off work. Doing everything he can to keep him comfortable. Doing everything wrong, except Changmin keeps his tongue and tells him nothing.
"Not really. Everything's very... sedate." A snort. "Like we're on a permanent bad trip."
His therapist leans forward. "You shouldn't let him force you into anything you don't want."
It doesn't sit right and he shakes his head, pressing his back into the couch. "He's not...forcing me. He just.." Changmin shrugs, digging the toe of his sneaker into the carpet and falling silent.
He just doesn't get it.
"Isn't it difficult living with him?" the therapist muses and it's almost rhetorical. He's always been good at offering leading questions, even if they probably explain why he would've made a lousy lawyer.
Changmin frowns. "I'm probably difficult to live with right now. Not him."
The other man steeples his fingers, tilting his head to the side as he considers him. "Has Yunho expressed that to you?"
"No," he replies and thinks maybe. "No, he's been great. Supportive. Willing to talk when--"
His therapist smiles, his grin almost shark-like. "When you don't want to? If you want my opinion, I think you shouldn't bother. It's very likely he won't understand."
Changmin is silent.
"Changmin, may I ask you something personal?" the man preludes, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't wait for a response. "Given those...proclivities...of Yunho's that you expressed before this happened..." A pursing of his lips. "Do you blame him?"
On his lips is a denial, vehement as ever, but the therapist is already shaking his head, anticipating him.
"You know I can't help you unless you're honest."
Lips purse, trying to form the words when they don't come naturally. "He is... I hate what that's become. He feels guilty. I don't blame him, I do too."
The man shifts closer, furrowing his brows. "Why do you feel guilty, Changmin?"
He looks away, discomfort like something alive, crawling up his spine. "Because I..." he swallows hard, then shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it."
There's the sound of a tongue clacking with disappointment and it sounds like bird claws on the window sill in the morning, when he's lying in bed, trying to pretend he's still asleep and Yunho is still asleep and the rape never happened. The therapist brings him back to the present with a hand to his knee.
"Don't you think it'll do you good? I'm sure you have a lot of thoughts welling up inside."
Changmin shifts from the man's touch, uneasiness swimming over him like nausea. "No. I don't...I don't want to talk about anything else. Can I go?"
Dejected but not pushing - never pushing - the therapist nods. "Send Yunho in for a second before you go?" he asks, eyes averted and already rising. It's not the first time - the two talked about him on the phone the day after the incident. Yunho told him flat out and asked if he minded.
He pretends he doesn't.
He all but runs out of the room, tugging open the door and watching as Yunho looks up, standing quickly. "Is everything okay?"
Changmin shrugs, goes to sit at the far end of the waiting room couch. "He wants to talk to you."
The therapist appears in the door, nods, motions Yunho to follow him. With a last concerned look at Changmin, he does.
*
In the car after and later, in the house, Yunho doesn't speak to him. Doesn't look at him. Instead, he goes straight for the phone and holds it out to him.
"What?" What do you want? What is this?
Yunho shrugs. "I thought you'd like to call your parents. Make arrangements."
Changmin stares at him, at the phone heavy in his hand. "Make arrangements?" he repeats dumbly, fingers curling around the device.
Yunho looks away, looks down at the floor. "To go home."
His world comes to a standstill. That's not his wish, that's not even what he agreed on with his therapist, but suddenly Yunho doesnt want him here anymore. It's to be expected, he hasn't been his usual self, but he thought it'd be excused. So they're not fucking like rabbits all day and all night long, okay. So he's not exactly been pulling his weight around the house. It's been two weeks. The police investigation hasn't even been concluded.
He thought he'd be allowed at least that much. He thought his therapist's initial comments about Yunho wouldn't prove to be true.
"Don't you think a man that much older will tire of you once you stop being a novelty object?"
"W-what?" he stutters out, voice small and on some level, it sickens him to hear himself be so pathetic. "You want me to leave?"
He's never been the type to take the easy route.
"Isn't it better like that?" Yunho retorts, still not looking at him, still rooted in place in their living room. There's a coffee ring on the table, he should clean that away. Do the dishes. Make dinner. Everything he hasn't been doing for the past two weeks suddenly makes the top of his mental list of reasons to stay.
It takes him a second to add Yunho instead of it all.
"My parents live five hours away," he tries to placate, sitting down heavily. Begging for an excuse.
Yunho doesn't play ball. "I can drive you."
"I don't want you to drive me!" he snaps, fingers digging into the cushions of the couch as if trying to anchor himself in a maelstrom. "Yunho..."
The other man's face is pinched. "Then I'll buy you a plane ticket."
"Why are you doing this?" he grits out, wanting nothing better to beat Yunho dead with the damn phone still clutched in his hand. He's not a violent person, never has been, but his emotions have run away with him. He's not sure who this new Changmin is anymore--perhaps it's no wonder Yunho doesn't want him.
His lover heaves a breath. "It's very difficult for you to recover here. I don't know how to help you and I'm not--"
"Not what?"
"Not sure I'm not making it worse."
He wants to laugh, the sound bubbling up and choking in his throat. "Not sure? Here's a clue. This?" he holds up the phone, tempted to pitch it at him, "Is making it worse."
Yunho's face darkens, a shadow in his eyes that's almost frightening to behold. Changmin holds himself rooted in place. He's not afraid of Yunho. He's not afraid of Yunho.
"Then how about you tell me what isn't?" he snaps, louder than is necessary. "You barely fucking talk to me these days, how am I supposed to know!"
He can feel himself shake but he tries to force down the panic, bury it deep. They've fought before, all out screaming matches. Yunho has never hurt him. Would never hurt him. "What the hell do you want from me? What, did you think they'd just patch me up and everything would be back the way it was? That going back to the fucking therapist would fix me?"
Yunho's foot collides with the coffee table and it, coffee ring and all, takes a tumble to the floor. A small flicker of pride courses through him when he fails to find the gesture frightening. He's not a pussy. He's not a coward.
"There's no need to break up the happy home," he manages, voice shaking but the words acerbic enough to hit home.
His lover glares. "I'm sick of this, Changmin."
I'm sick of you, he means, and maybe he was lying to himself when he said Yunho would never hurt him. His teeth are clenched so tight they ache. "I'm sorry," he bites out, hands in fists. "Sorry to leave you stuck with damaged goods."
"Don't pull that shit, okay?" Yunho snaps and buries his head in his hands. "You're not damaged goods, you never were, you're just--you're just so fucking quiet about all of this... Why do you even bother to stay here? You can move in with Jaejoong. Heck, he'd be more than happy to have you in his bed."
Changmin does throw the phone at him then, feeling a sick sort of pride as it glances off his shoulder, breaking to pieces when it hits the floor. "If you don't want me, just say it, damn you!"
Yunho cries out with the shock and pain of the impact, clutching his upper arm. "Fuck! Shit, Changmin, what the hell? Have you lost your mind? Jesus--shit. You're really fucked in the head, you know that?" A glare, his nostrils flaring, whole upper body curved and it couldn't have hurt that bad, Changmin thinks. He's not even strong enough to fight off a rapist.
"Was that payback, by any chance?" his lover groans. "Hell, if you wanted a punching bag, all you had to do was ask. You blame me for what happened, right? It's my fault?" A humorless laugh. "Or you think I did it? Sleeping with the enemy... God, Min-ah, trying to be in a Julia Roberts flick?"
"Shut up!"
Yunho's face is drawn, a hand pressing over his eyes. "Why? That's it, isn't it? The police think I hurt you, the fucking doctors thought I hurt you, why would you think any different?"
His memory flashes guiltily to calling out his lover's name and being met with silence and pain. Other memories intrude. Of himself on his knees, bound and gagged and torn open. Of being cut and punched and used. Of being left there to rot, discarded like a piece of trash.
"We don't use condoms," he breathes at last and stands. The bedroom isn't far. He makes it there in three strides. "Come on, asshole, get in here if you want to hear why you're a fucking idiot." It's not much of an invitation, but it's the best he can do.
There's a hesitation, a long pause between words and deeds, but Yunho appears in the doorway, hand rubbing at his shoulder before dropping to his side. He looks years older than he is.
"Why am I a fucking idiot?"
Hands shaking, he pulls open the doors to the closet. "You hate wearing gloves. I've seen you clean the car with bare hands in the middle of winter. You don't own gloves. Why would you bother with gloves in your own house, with your fingerprints all over the place anyway?"
Yunho is silent, but he continues, needing to get the thoughts out, to convince both of them.
"The fucking neighbors have heard us scream at each other enough that there...there'd be no need to gag me," he mutters, closing his eyes at the sight of Yunho's flinch. "I heard footsteps in the kitchen, heavy, like someone was wearing boots on the tiles and you never fucking wear shoes in our house. Ever."
He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "It couldn't have been you."
Yunho watches him, features etched in sadness, a miserable smile lifting at the corner of his mouth before disappearing.
"You forgot something, Min-ah."
Changmin frowns, hand tightening on the handle of the closet door. "What?"
Yunho meets his eyes. "I would never force sex on you. I would never hurt you. Ever." He bites his lips, eyes falling to the carpet. "I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight. I'll...I'll see you in the morning." He taps his fingers on the door jamb. "I love you, Min."
Silence isn't the answer he's supposed to receive for that one, even Changmin knows that much. It's long moments before he remembers to form the words and when they emerge, they're too soft for Yunho to hear. Meaningless, just like his reasoning.
The truth is in what Yunho says. In what Yunho believes.
His therapist, he thinks belatedly, was right.
| next |
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Homin
Summary: A kink gone wrong leaves Changmin and Yunho to patch up a relationship that may be without hope.
Warning: rape
He's already in that nice place before sleep and wakefulness when he hears the door slide open gently, footsteps on the creaking floorboards. A lump of fear rises in his throat. Did he forget and leave the back door open?
He should've checked.
He should've made sure.
A hand reaches out over his bedside table, looking for the light switch. He fumbles in the dark, knocking the alarm clock from the nightstand and to the floor, plunging the room into total black. The footsteps stop. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he swallows hard, the wood of the headboard cold against his back.
The house is silent.
Biting his lip to keep silent, as if the action will keep him from breathing, from making any noise at all, he draws back the cool sheets. The bottoms of his feet scrape the carpet.
Check the door. Check the door and find your phone. Turn on the light, check the door, find your phone. His mind propels through options, replacing, discarding, altering. He sits frozen.
There's not a sound outside.
This is stupid. He's a grown man, nothing to be afraid of. Not really. This is your house. You're safe here. But not if he's sitting still, waiting for some divine intervention to save him. God helps those who help themselves, he remembers being told in Church only last week. He's a good Catholic boy and God wouldn't let anything happen to him. He clings to the thought and shifts his weight from the bed slowly.
His heart is in his throat, pounding a quick drum that leaves him dizzy and anxious. Through the half-open bedroom door, he can't see anything but black.
It scares him, but he has no choice. Lamb to the slaughter and a thousand other helpful analogies shadow his steps. It's easier to be afraid in the dark, where his eyes can't see and he thinks he's got something to fear.
"Hello?" he calls, stupidly, pausing to see if there's an answer. "Is-is there someone there?"
There's no answer and he's not sure he could hear one anyway over the thud of his pulse.
The hallway floor groans under his weight, his heart jackhammering in his chest as he moves to reach for the light, fingers brushing along the drywall, waiting till they hit the switch...waiting... Light glares into his eyes, blinding him and he blinks, a second too late, a second too long and there's a shape in the doorway, tall and dark and his last thought is 'holy god, please no' before his fear takes over.
A shout dies on his lips as he stumbles back, knees weak and head swimming with the possibilities. There's a man in his house and he's coming forward and he's armed.
Oh god, he's armed.
A hand catches him round the arm, pushing him hard into the wall and he can feel copper in his mouth as he bites his lip, as a heavy weight presses against him. He hisses at the pain, again when a rough hand fists in his hair, drawing his head back and there's something cold against his throat.
A knife.
"No... please," he stutters out. He won't scream. He won't.
Tears gather in his eyes, but he blinks them away, trying to make himself as small as possible. Don't hurt me, his posture says, but the other man doesn't listen. Instead, he shoves him down, hip catching on the edge of his desk and fuck, his computer is still sprawled open, files everywhere. He should've hid the objects he cares about before he went to bed. He should've locked the door.
Too late for either.
He can feel the ghost of the knife against the small of his back, cutting through his pants and his fingers clutch at the carpet, trying to drag himself away but there's a knee in his back keeping him pressed to the floor. Hours at the gym and on the soccer team in college and what fucking good is it now when he can't move and he feels his sleep pants ripped from his waist.
Cold, clammy air hits his thighs, like someone turned the airco way down for the night. Like someone left a window open. Strangely, it doesn't inspire him to cry for help. He's a grown man, he can handle this.
"Don't--" he gasps around his fist, jerking away when the tip of the knife slides over his skin. Maybe the fucker'll cut him. Maybe he'll leave him here to bleed dry. He has no assurance that he won't. "God, please don't. I--I have money. I can pay, you don't have to do this..."
The hair in his hair tightens it's grip, pushing his face sudden and hard into the floor and he can feel blood trickle from his nose. Silence meets his entreaty, a cold hand groping him roughly and the fear is cold and heavy like lead in his stomach.
It spikes up a notch when he hears the sound of a zipper coming undone, his pulse quickening in horrible expectation--and why is the point of the knife still digging into his back? It's not like he'll run away, not like he can. He feels it prick the skin and gasps aloud, pain a poor distraction but nothing in comparison to the blunt and warm something, so much thicker and brutal than a pair of fingers as it breaches him roughly.
He does cry out then, agony lacing through like mercury. What the fuck?
This isn't part of the game.
"Fuck," he chokes, voice raw with pain. "Fuck, stop, stop it!" There's no reply, nothing but blood in his mouth and agony in his body and what the fuck is he doing? "Yunho, fucking quit it already! You're hurting me--"
There's another brutal shift of the other man's hips into his, ignoring his pleas like he doesn't hear them and for the first time, real fear, real anger claw at Changmin's heart. Hands scrabble for purchase on the soft carpet, trying to break free of the hold around his lower body, to get away from that excruciating pain.
His efforts earn him a punch to the shoulder from behind, a hard crack echoing through his bones as he falls.
"Stop--Yunho, what--"
A gloved hand squeezes him roughly, erection shriveled with pain and confusion but not immune to the vicious touch. He cries out against it, knees scraping the floor. He's trapped and he can't get away. He's being torn apart from within and he can't move, can't get the other man to stop. Something like bile chokes him and his pleas, a horrible lurch in his stomach when groans echo behind him like a warning. Like a threat. The thrusts into his ravaged body turn frantic, plunging deeper inside him and he's crying out, crying, tears spilling fast and hot over his cheeks and he chokes as a wad of fabric is stuffed into his mouth, silencing him.
His wrists are tugged behind his back, held roughly in place as pain lances through his shoulders and arms, his cheek rubbed raw against the carpet.
This can't be happening, he thinks dimly, choking on his own saliva and drowning in fear because the knife is still there. The fucker could still cut him and kill him and use him like a ragdoll and this is wrong. He didn't sign on for abuse, he thought--he was an idiot.
Disgust overwhelms him as the pants get louder, hips canting into his quicker and quicker until there's a flash of warmth across his backside, a groan in his ear.
Until he feels the other man recede and blood drips down his thighs.
The knife traces a line between his shoulder blades, over his wrists, his thighs as he shudders, fear and revulsion swimming in his veins. And then it's gone, another rough push of his face into the bloody carpet before he hears the rustling of a belt and creaking steps retreating.
Over.
He's left to lie there, bleeding and shaking, with no hand to pull him up. No one to cuddle with in the shower. He doesn't understand any of it, but the pain is real enough, the shame along with it.
The door slams shut.
It's an eternity before it's opened again and by then, Changmin has managed to shift to lie on his side, curled and half under the bed. It's safe there.
"Min-ah?" sounds down the hall with painful clarity. Painful normality. "I'm home, sorry I didn't call. I got called up just as I was getting ready to leave and--where are you?"
He hears feet shuffle across the floor, the slip of socks because Yunho always leaves his shoes by the door.
The light switch flicks on.
"Min-ah? Where--"
He closes his eyes and waits. He stopped being afraid, the body can't handle perpetual tension. His nerves have given out. He lies instead and waits for the ax to fall. To be asked why he hasn't gotten cleaned up yet.
"Changmin," he hears, the voice suddenly much closer. "What's wrong, baby? Are you feeling sick?"
A hand reaches out to touch him. He flinches away. Closes his eyes tightly because maybe if he pretends he isn't here, it won't hurt. Maybe if he plays dead, he'll go away.
"Minnie-ah. Talk to me. Are you sick?" The worry is so thick in the other man's voice it chokes. Liar, he thinks, tears escaping as a warm hand rests on his cheek. Liar.
It doesn't dissuade the other man, whose hands keep touching, keep searching, as if he doesn't already know. Changmin wants to scream and hurt him but he can't move. He's frozen like before. Only this time, it's with good reason.
Fortunately, he doesn't have to. Yunho is anything but patient, as the past evening has demonstrated, and he looks bewildered when his hand comes away bloody and red from touching Changmin's back. Surprise, he thinks bitterly, I bleed like a normal guy.
"Oh my god--what happened? Min-ah..." Concerned features focus on him intently, arms tensing to push the bed away. His last cover, gone. "Jesus."
Hands are on his face again, wet hitting his cheeks and for a moment, he thinks he's crying again but the sobs aren't coming from him.
"Baby, oh God--l-listen to me, I'm going--I'm going to call an ambulance. I'll be right back, I'm not leaving you, I'm gonna call the hospital," the words are coming too fast, tripping over one another until they're just buzzing in his ears.
He tries to grasp at them but all he tastes is his own confusion. Yunho isn't this good an actor. Why would he pretend? Why wouldn't he just drop the farce already?
By the time Changmin opens his eyes, Yunho is on his feet already, rushing out of the room to find his cell. His voice echoes through the house like Gregorian music on a scratchy record.
"--my partner, he's--I don't... hurt, very badly hurt, there's blood and I think--I think he may've been--"
No, he thinks, and the bile is back with a vengeance. No, he's lying. He's gotta be lying. Pretending not to know what happened--
"Yunho..." Changmin calls out, voice scratchy like sandpaper over the familiar name. "Yun-come back." Please come back.
The other man is at his side in moments, going to his knees, the cellphone cradling between his ear and shoulder.
He's crying.
"I'm here, baby," he whispers, finds Changmin's hand and his palm is warm and familiar. Changmin can't help the sobs that bubble up in his throat.
"--please, you have to hurry up, you have to get here--"
It wasn't him. Couldn't have been.
The thought is enough to make Changmin double over with the weight of his shame.
*
Yunho doesn't understand what's going on. Numbers and questions on a clipboard and he doesn't know what to answer. Doesn't know if Changmin had all the vaccines he's supposed to, doesn't know if he has insurance and right now, he doesn't give a fuck about either, though he can't very well say so to the nurses watching him. To the policeman sitting by his side. It's just as difficult to focus on his questions as the ones on the clipboard.
"Mr Jung, are you listening?" the man presses with a look of displeasure.
He's been zoning out for half an hour, his eyes on the examination room where they've taken Changmin and refused to allow his presence.
"Sorry. Can you repeat that?"
The man writes something down. "When you came in with the victim, you had blood on your hands. Who's blood was it, Mr Jung?"
"His," he chokes out, remembering the way it dried, the way it broke off, whole scabs of brown-red liquid turned to war paint on his fingers. "I thought he wasn't feeling good, so I was going to help him up off the floor and I saw..."
Another scribble on the pad of paper. "Do you regularly keep your front door unlocked?"
Yunho shakes his head. "No. Only sometimes. If he's waiting for me, he leaves it open." It's their sign. If Changmin wants to play, he'll leave the door open for him when he gets home. For him, not for some stranger to come in and--
"You do have a key, don't you?"
He grits his teeth. "Yes."
The officer stares at him with critical eyes. Yunho feels like a bug under pins, waiting to be dissected.
"Are you involved in a homosexual relationship with the victim?"
A nod. "Yes."
The pen scribbles something on the pad, away from his eyes. He can't help wonder if it's some kind of judgment before the trial. They're fucking on a daily basis so why should this be any different? It's just sex between queers. Don't they usually take it up the ass?
Anger gnaws at his restraint, even if the words are all in his head. Sooner or later, someone is going to think along those lines.
"Would you be willing to give us a sample of your DNA? It's standard procedure, to compare with the victim's rape kit."
The words, spoken together make his blood boil and considering the way this is being treated, the fact that he hasn't been allowed within the room with his lover, it's no surprise that he snaps.
"Changmin. Shim Changmin. Not the victim." My lover, he wants to say. "And yes, I'll give you a fucking blood sample. I didn't do this to him!" Instead of grasping at straws, they'd be out there looking for the man who did.
It takes all his willpower not to go out and search for the son of a bitch himself.
The officer's features turn hard like granite. "Calm down, Mr Jung."
He wants to laugh, to punch something because he's never felt this damn helpless. "You can have whatever you want from me, you bastard. Just let me see him. He shouldn't fucking be alone!"
Before the other man can speak, before he can tell him off for interfering with a police investigation or some other standard bullshit that he's seen and heard on every cop show on late night TV, the door to the examination room opens, a tall woman with sunglasses resting atop her head stepping out. She'd look better on the cover of a fashion magazine than dressed in black and brown, her badge anchored safely on her belt.
She's the detective they sent out to crowd Changmin with questions and on any other day, Yunho might pretend to be offended that his lover got the pretty one. As it is, all he can think and say is: "I want to see him."
And thankfully, the woman nods.
"So does he."
It's gets him out of his seat and crossing the room in seconds, ignoring the nurse and the officers and entering the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Changmin is curled on his side, too small under blankets, staring at the wall. Yunho's heart aches.
It's not until the door opens again and the detective woman returns that he realizes he's considered a danger to his lover. That he's a suspect.
"Hey, you," he greets, trying to keep his tone light. Is Changmin the kind to give way to his emotions easily? Will he relieve the incident on his own until it gets too heavy and then talk?
Is he thinking, like everyone else, it seems, that Yunho is guilty?
Strangely, on the latter, Yunho doesn't have much of an opinion. Whatever makes him happy.
"How're you feeling?" he presses, moving to sit on a chair and hesitating before he draws it closer to the bed. The scraping sound of metal on the floor is like nails on a blackboard. He apologizes.
Changmin's eyes find his over the blanket, the younger man pale and quieter than Yunho's ever seen him. "I'm alright."
They both know it's a lie, a pretense, and why the hell did he ask that? How else could he be feeling?
He reaches out, wants to touch Changmin's hand but rests it against the bed instead. "Do you need anything? Do you..do you want me to get you something from home?"
All he gets for that effort is a shrug, Changmin looking at his hand where it lies between them like it's a whole separate entity. A foreign object.
"Books, maybe?" he suggests, trying to keep the other man talking. The silence is heavy with too many questions and he's afraid it means the worst. "Or pajamas, so you don't have to be in a hospital gown." He wets his lips, fights against the wave of tears that threaten. No. He can fall apart later.
"Anything you want, baby, just...just tell me, okay?"
Dark eyes meet his, the gaze unreadable like it was the first day they met and he unceremoniously spilled his coffee to have an excuse to buy another one to the tall boy with the nervous tics. "When you go home," Changmin breathes, "lock the doors?"
Yunho bites his lip to keep silent, calm. Like he knows he should be to help his lover.
"Definitely. I will." He darts a look over his lover's shoulder to the young woman who has yet to give them a moment alone. He may hate being studied, but if this helps find out who hurt Changmin, he'll try not to mind it.
Trying to put her out of his mind, he moves his hand those last remaining inches, lets his fingertips brush Changmin's. "Do you want me to stay here tonight with you?" Please say yes.
The younger man shrugs. "I'd rather go home but they say I can't." And for good reason. Someone broke in. Someone raped him in his home.
Yunho feels a rush of guilt at the thought that he's to blame.
Clearing her throat, the detective intervenes. "Your home is being considered as a crime scene, for now. It's important that we have access to it." A nod. "When you're ready, I can drive you to a hotel nearby myself. There are a number of questions your... partner was unable to answer for me."
Anger sparks in him at her tone. Her implications. "I'll answer your questions," he tells her through gritted teeth, "but I'm not going anywhere." Investigations and hospital regulations be damned.
"You can't sleep here," she tells him, stating the obvious. "And I would rather talk to you in private, Mr Jung." The latter is added more softly, as though she's speaking to a child and not a grown man. If nothing else, it drives home the point that she doesn't know how to deal with this. She's young. Too young.
He wants to protest, to make a scene because they kept him out there for God knows how long and now they won't even let him stay, but somehow, he knows it will end nowhere good. That if he's suspected, there's nothing to stop them from taking him to the police station or preventing him from seeing Changmin at all. He's not about to let that happen.
Swallowing his ire, he nods, squeezing Changmin's hand. "If you need anything, can't sleep, just call me, okay?" No reply, Changmin looking out past his shoulder. It cuts. "I love you, baby." He leans forward to kiss him on the forehead, biting his lip against the hurt and the anger that well up when Changmin flinches.
"Love you too," the other man whispers, soft enough that he almost misses it.
The detective holds the door open for him, as if she's not sure he'll follow if she leaves first. As if she's afraid he might lock himself in the same room as his lover and what? Finish what he started?
Yunho does his best not to scream with the frustration, the helplessness.
"What do you want to hear?" he snaps, rounding on her once they're outside.
The woman motions for him to sit down in the waiting room, taking a chair with a suspicious stain for herself. "Mr Shim refused to tell me why he didn't call the police immediately once he realized there was an intruder. We found no signs of struggle."
He feels cold. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, he tries to ignore the prick of tears at his eyes. He thought it was you. He thought it was you and he didn't call for help. This is your fucking fault.
"He thought it was me," he tells her, staring at the ugly beige carpet. "He thought it was me coming home. That bastard must've gotten to him before he realized..."
"Mr Jung," she stops him, loud but more shocked than reprimanding. "Please, calm down. Your partner is safe and we will find the man responsible." It's a lot of bullshit, he thinks, even as he clings to the words for comfort. "Can you think of anyone in your entourage who'd want to hurt Mr Shim? Do you have any enemies?"
The rape wasn't violent enough to have been random, he thinks, remembering all the crime dramas he ever saw. Or maybe the son of a bitch was twisted enough to try imitate him. Minimum sadism but lasting damage.
"No, I..." he shrugs, helpless. "Nobody. No one at my work knows I'm gay, we have the same circle of friends..." he clenches his jaw, slumping slightly in the chair. "None of them would do this. They wouldn't hurt him like this."
"It's possible this was an isolated event," she presses. "No other cases in the area match the description of a man clad in black who comes in through the front door and leaves when it's over. All signs point to it being someone close to the victim. A friend, a former lover..." She's fishing and he clenches his jaw.
"He doesn't sleep around. We're exclusive." You can forget about your promiscuous gay stereotypes, lady. "And quit fucking calling him that. Use his name."
Her eyes are piercing even though her features remain impassive. "We can only track this man down if you give us something to go on, Mr Jung. The attacker was meticulous. He used protection--there's nothing we'll get from trace."
"There's nothing I can give you either," he sighs, hopeless and helpless all at once. "I wasn't there, I don't know what happened."
"No, but the only man who was, refuses to speak about it." She touches a hand to her badge, as if to remind herself of her power, her role. Her responsability. "I don't buy the coincidence. He leaves the door open and a man comes in and rapes him. There's something almost... textbook about that."
His hands tighten around the arm of the chair. "You're wasting your time with me," he chokes, shaking his head. "I don't know anything and if Min-ah won't tell you, then you have to come up with something else. Dust for fingerprints, interview people. Do fucking something! Do your fucking job!"
She clicks her tongue like a school mistress. "Calm down. I'm sure the last thing you want is to spend the night in jail, Mr Jung." Brows furrow in a deep crease, her eyes slanting even further until they're like seams in her face, not eyes. Yunho thinks he must be going crazy to notice all this.
A beat. "Where were you tonight between seven and nine PM?"
He buries his head in his hands. They're back to square one.
*
The crime scene tape is wadded up and stuffed in the very bottom of the trash, hidden from sight for both of their sakes. This is still their home, still the place they loved at first sight, the place they christened every available surface in. It's seen Christmases and birthday and friends; he won't let all of that be tarnished. He won't let this take that from Changmin.
His lover sits curled into the corner of the couch, staring without interest at an old drama in syndication. Yunho glances at him what feels like every ten seconds, trying to scrape something together for their friends who are coming over soon. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but they'd insisted and Changmin had shrugged, so the matter was settled.
If it does him good, he can't help think it's worth struggling through. After all, his lover has been keeping to himself lately. Therapy and too many hours in uncomfortable silence or with the police and he figures Changmin needs the change.
"Can you get me a beer?" he calls to him, distracted and probably not interesting in drinking. He hasn't touched alcohol since he came back and he doesn't take the pills prescribed to him. Yunho doesn't have the heart to force him.
"One sec," he mutters, checking the stove and shrugging off the potholders before grabbing one from the fridge, moving into the living room and passing it to him. Changmin takes it without looking away from the television.
"Anything good on?" he asks, wishing this could be two months ago, two weeks ago. That he could walk up to Changmin from behind the couch, press the cold drink to his cheek and laugh when he yelped. Now...he's so afraid to startle him, so scared that Changmin will be afraid of him...he doesn't dare.
Changmin takes the drink with a hand that doesn't waver - Yunho's been paying attention - and shrugs. "I'm not sure. Kinda zoned out."
He's been doing it since he came back, it's nothing new. Yunho nods. "Looks like you're not missing much anyway. Want to give me a hand in the kitchen?" It's going to be met with a refusal, but Yunho keeps trying.
"You don't have to bother, you know. They'll just order pizza. Like they always do."
Yunho nods. Tries not to be discouraged. "Maybe I'm cooking something special for you," he returns lightly, hands in his pockets because he doesn't know what else to do with them.
Changmin looks up at him, and even if he doesn't smile, his face softens. Yunho considers it a victory. For a moment, until, "Then I shouldn't ruin it. I'm sure it'll be great."
He takes the comment for what it is. Another excuse.
"Okay," he relents. "Do you need anything else?" Before, Changmin would have been begging him for food, drinks. Surfing on his computer to find the wildest recipes then challenging Yunho to prepare them for him. Before, Changmin would have been laughing.
The doorbell rings, cutting through Yunho's pity party.
"Guess they're early," he sighs, pretending not to notice the way Changmin jumps with surprise. His nerves are fragile, dangerously so. At least Junsu remembered to ring--the other man had always been fond of letting himself in. Changmin doesn't move from the couch, so he goes to greet them alone, unlocking the door and revealing the tentative faces of his friends on the other side.
He forces a smile, takes the wine from Yoochun's hands. "Thanks for coming."
"No problem, man, we heard there was free food." Yoochun always has the weirdest sense of humor, but it's an ice breaker and at least it's delivered from a distance. Yunho barely gets a chance to shake Jaejoong's hand before the other man is bounding into the living room, cuddling up to Changmin like an overly affectionate cat.
"This is the worst show ever," he proclaims. "Why do you watch it, Min-ah?" And it's invasive and sudden, but Yunho is holding his breath for nothing because Changmin shrugs and reaches for the remote around Jaejoong's shoulders. Completely ignores his presence.
Junsu claps a hand over Yunho's shoulder. "How are you holding up?"
It just maybe be the first time someone's asked him that since the whole thing happened and it takes Yunho a minute to respond, fingers clenching around the neck of the wine bottle, moving to find the corkscrew. "I'm fine," he offers, voice full of false confidence.
Junsu pushes himself to sit up on the counter, Yoochun having wandered over to the living room himself. "Yeah, that sounded genuine."
"I'm more worried about him," he placates, looking for the healthy middle and unable to find it. He's not worried, he's frantic. He's not fine, he's so full of hate and regret that if you stab him with a pin there won't be any blood to spill.
"He looks shaken up," Junsu agrees, gently, and the softly whispered comment is enough to set him off.
"Shaken up? He's a wreck!" Careful to keep his voice level with the sound of water boiling on the stove, Yunho snaps the cork off the bottle, jerking the cupboards open to rummage for glasses.
A small, warm hand is on his shoulder, tugging the glass from his hand to sit carefully on the cupboard.
"Calm down," Junsu tells him, his voice full of worry and pity and Yunho can't take it.
"Everyone's telling me to calm down," he mutters. "And nobody's telling me how to help him. I can't do anything to make it better. He got-- and it's my fault." I made him feel safe. He thought it was me.
"No," Junsu tells him, his voice strong, fierce with his denial. "No. Listen to me, Yunho. This isn't his fault. You're not to blame for being trustworthy, for Christ's sake. The only fault here is with that sick fuck who hurts our Min." Hands frame his features, Junsu's own stubborn and unyielding.
Yunho swallows hard, unable to turn his face away and so closing his eyes instead. "I don't...part of me thinks..part of me's still afraid he thinks it was me."
Junsu shakes his head adamantly. "You're not to blame for this. Some fucker did this to him. Not you." It's the kind of blind faith he wishes the detective woman could've heard, could've believed. "Changmin knows that. He's here with you and he loves you. He'd have never come home with you if he thought different. You know that."
Unless he's doing it out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. Yunho wouldn't put it past him.
"Hey, guys?" Yoochun calls from the doorway, aware that he's intruding but pretending not to notice. "We're getting thirsty. You'd better not have finished all that wine between the two of you already."
"Coming," Junsu returns without looking away, and Yunho hears socked feet pad away. His best friend sighs. "One of these days I'm going to stop opening the door when he comes over. Idiot." It's a bold-faced lie--the two of them can be so in love sometimes it's sickening, Yunho knows from personal experience.
He lets Junsu take the glasses and the bottle, practically shoving them into his hands. Enough self-pity for one afternoon. He can't indulge without feeling guilty.
"Don't hide in here," the other man warns. "We came to see you too." He slips out before he can aim another pointed retort, taking the opportunity with him. Damn Junsu for knowing him so well. For leaving the door open so he can hear laughter and voices echo from the living room.
He has no choice but to follow.
*
Once the house has cleared and the dishes been taken to the sink, he escapes to the bathroom, flicking on the shower tabs and locking the door. Catching his reflection in the quickly steaming mirror, he stares for a second, meeting his own eyes before the mist swallows them up. He sits on the toilet seat, staring down at his hands and listening to the water beat on the shower floor. He's taken enough showers in the past week to be clean for months, but he can't quite seem to shake the habit.
It's all that's keeping him sane right now, the idea that he has control over how his skin tastes and smells. Even if it's bad for all the cuts on his back, even if it makes pain flare over his abused body from the soap, he still does it. It's ritualistic and cleansing, in all senses of the word.
It's just not enough.
A knock shakes him from his thoughts.
"Min-ah, you okay in there?" Yunho's voice is gentle, trying to hold back the concern and Changmin appreciates it, he does. But it's not enough to deter him.
"I'm fine," he replies, just loud enough to be heard. "I'll be out soon." Once he's scrubbed red and raw and exhaustion overpowers fear.
"Okay..." Yunho doesn't move from his place by the door, that much is audible even over the sound of running water. Hating himself, Changmin ignores him. He doesn't know what to say to the older man. It's all confused and muddled in his head, but he doesn't want to rehash what the policewoman invariably spread around like gossip. Just in the interest of finding his rapist.
Bullshit.
He moves from where he sits, shuffles to the door between them. Presses a hand against it, as if he could feel Yunho through it. He hears a soft sigh moments later, then the other man's retreating footsteps, his forehead thunking lightly against the door.
He turns off the water a few moments later, trying to make an effort. He's clean. It's just psychological babble. He's healing.
"I was... gonna take a shower," he mentions as he slips into bed, pajamas too heavy and suffocating when he's used to sleeping in the nude.
Yunho unclasps his watch, laying it on the nightstand and settling into the bed, rubbing at Changmin's shoulder. "I'll let you get first in the morning, if you want. Or..." His mouth closes around the offer before it can be made, but Changmin hears it nonetheless. You could join me.
He remembers that. Slick hands spreading soap on his back, a warm mouth against his neck. The uncomfortable stretch and the ecstasy when Yunho made love to him.
"Did you check the locks?" he asks and the illusion is broken.
The hand on his shoulder stills. "Yeah. Twice. And the alarm is on as well."
Changmin nods, biting at his lip before shifting away, Yunho's hand falling to the bed between them with a quiet thump. "Good night."
He doesn't miss the shine of Yunho's eyes in the half-light, biting his tongue until it nearly bleeds.
*
He hates this more than anything and hates that Yunho has to take time off to drive him around when he could be working, doing something he loves. Instead, he gets to be cooped up in a waiting room while Changmin is made to talk.
"How are things with Yunho these days?" he's asked, the question repeated because he doesn't want to answer. Stalling for time almost never works and still, he tries.
A shrug. "We're fine."
A pause. "Just fine?"
He ignores him.
"Has there been...tension between the two of you?"
Tension. What does that mean? Yunho cooks and keeps house for him. He's taken time off work. Doing everything he can to keep him comfortable. Doing everything wrong, except Changmin keeps his tongue and tells him nothing.
"Not really. Everything's very... sedate." A snort. "Like we're on a permanent bad trip."
His therapist leans forward. "You shouldn't let him force you into anything you don't want."
It doesn't sit right and he shakes his head, pressing his back into the couch. "He's not...forcing me. He just.." Changmin shrugs, digging the toe of his sneaker into the carpet and falling silent.
He just doesn't get it.
"Isn't it difficult living with him?" the therapist muses and it's almost rhetorical. He's always been good at offering leading questions, even if they probably explain why he would've made a lousy lawyer.
Changmin frowns. "I'm probably difficult to live with right now. Not him."
The other man steeples his fingers, tilting his head to the side as he considers him. "Has Yunho expressed that to you?"
"No," he replies and thinks maybe. "No, he's been great. Supportive. Willing to talk when--"
His therapist smiles, his grin almost shark-like. "When you don't want to? If you want my opinion, I think you shouldn't bother. It's very likely he won't understand."
Changmin is silent.
"Changmin, may I ask you something personal?" the man preludes, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't wait for a response. "Given those...proclivities...of Yunho's that you expressed before this happened..." A pursing of his lips. "Do you blame him?"
On his lips is a denial, vehement as ever, but the therapist is already shaking his head, anticipating him.
"You know I can't help you unless you're honest."
Lips purse, trying to form the words when they don't come naturally. "He is... I hate what that's become. He feels guilty. I don't blame him, I do too."
The man shifts closer, furrowing his brows. "Why do you feel guilty, Changmin?"
He looks away, discomfort like something alive, crawling up his spine. "Because I..." he swallows hard, then shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it."
There's the sound of a tongue clacking with disappointment and it sounds like bird claws on the window sill in the morning, when he's lying in bed, trying to pretend he's still asleep and Yunho is still asleep and the rape never happened. The therapist brings him back to the present with a hand to his knee.
"Don't you think it'll do you good? I'm sure you have a lot of thoughts welling up inside."
Changmin shifts from the man's touch, uneasiness swimming over him like nausea. "No. I don't...I don't want to talk about anything else. Can I go?"
Dejected but not pushing - never pushing - the therapist nods. "Send Yunho in for a second before you go?" he asks, eyes averted and already rising. It's not the first time - the two talked about him on the phone the day after the incident. Yunho told him flat out and asked if he minded.
He pretends he doesn't.
He all but runs out of the room, tugging open the door and watching as Yunho looks up, standing quickly. "Is everything okay?"
Changmin shrugs, goes to sit at the far end of the waiting room couch. "He wants to talk to you."
The therapist appears in the door, nods, motions Yunho to follow him. With a last concerned look at Changmin, he does.
*
In the car after and later, in the house, Yunho doesn't speak to him. Doesn't look at him. Instead, he goes straight for the phone and holds it out to him.
"What?" What do you want? What is this?
Yunho shrugs. "I thought you'd like to call your parents. Make arrangements."
Changmin stares at him, at the phone heavy in his hand. "Make arrangements?" he repeats dumbly, fingers curling around the device.
Yunho looks away, looks down at the floor. "To go home."
His world comes to a standstill. That's not his wish, that's not even what he agreed on with his therapist, but suddenly Yunho doesnt want him here anymore. It's to be expected, he hasn't been his usual self, but he thought it'd be excused. So they're not fucking like rabbits all day and all night long, okay. So he's not exactly been pulling his weight around the house. It's been two weeks. The police investigation hasn't even been concluded.
He thought he'd be allowed at least that much. He thought his therapist's initial comments about Yunho wouldn't prove to be true.
"Don't you think a man that much older will tire of you once you stop being a novelty object?"
"W-what?" he stutters out, voice small and on some level, it sickens him to hear himself be so pathetic. "You want me to leave?"
He's never been the type to take the easy route.
"Isn't it better like that?" Yunho retorts, still not looking at him, still rooted in place in their living room. There's a coffee ring on the table, he should clean that away. Do the dishes. Make dinner. Everything he hasn't been doing for the past two weeks suddenly makes the top of his mental list of reasons to stay.
It takes him a second to add Yunho instead of it all.
"My parents live five hours away," he tries to placate, sitting down heavily. Begging for an excuse.
Yunho doesn't play ball. "I can drive you."
"I don't want you to drive me!" he snaps, fingers digging into the cushions of the couch as if trying to anchor himself in a maelstrom. "Yunho..."
The other man's face is pinched. "Then I'll buy you a plane ticket."
"Why are you doing this?" he grits out, wanting nothing better to beat Yunho dead with the damn phone still clutched in his hand. He's not a violent person, never has been, but his emotions have run away with him. He's not sure who this new Changmin is anymore--perhaps it's no wonder Yunho doesn't want him.
His lover heaves a breath. "It's very difficult for you to recover here. I don't know how to help you and I'm not--"
"Not what?"
"Not sure I'm not making it worse."
He wants to laugh, the sound bubbling up and choking in his throat. "Not sure? Here's a clue. This?" he holds up the phone, tempted to pitch it at him, "Is making it worse."
Yunho's face darkens, a shadow in his eyes that's almost frightening to behold. Changmin holds himself rooted in place. He's not afraid of Yunho. He's not afraid of Yunho.
"Then how about you tell me what isn't?" he snaps, louder than is necessary. "You barely fucking talk to me these days, how am I supposed to know!"
He can feel himself shake but he tries to force down the panic, bury it deep. They've fought before, all out screaming matches. Yunho has never hurt him. Would never hurt him. "What the hell do you want from me? What, did you think they'd just patch me up and everything would be back the way it was? That going back to the fucking therapist would fix me?"
Yunho's foot collides with the coffee table and it, coffee ring and all, takes a tumble to the floor. A small flicker of pride courses through him when he fails to find the gesture frightening. He's not a pussy. He's not a coward.
"There's no need to break up the happy home," he manages, voice shaking but the words acerbic enough to hit home.
His lover glares. "I'm sick of this, Changmin."
I'm sick of you, he means, and maybe he was lying to himself when he said Yunho would never hurt him. His teeth are clenched so tight they ache. "I'm sorry," he bites out, hands in fists. "Sorry to leave you stuck with damaged goods."
"Don't pull that shit, okay?" Yunho snaps and buries his head in his hands. "You're not damaged goods, you never were, you're just--you're just so fucking quiet about all of this... Why do you even bother to stay here? You can move in with Jaejoong. Heck, he'd be more than happy to have you in his bed."
Changmin does throw the phone at him then, feeling a sick sort of pride as it glances off his shoulder, breaking to pieces when it hits the floor. "If you don't want me, just say it, damn you!"
Yunho cries out with the shock and pain of the impact, clutching his upper arm. "Fuck! Shit, Changmin, what the hell? Have you lost your mind? Jesus--shit. You're really fucked in the head, you know that?" A glare, his nostrils flaring, whole upper body curved and it couldn't have hurt that bad, Changmin thinks. He's not even strong enough to fight off a rapist.
"Was that payback, by any chance?" his lover groans. "Hell, if you wanted a punching bag, all you had to do was ask. You blame me for what happened, right? It's my fault?" A humorless laugh. "Or you think I did it? Sleeping with the enemy... God, Min-ah, trying to be in a Julia Roberts flick?"
"Shut up!"
Yunho's face is drawn, a hand pressing over his eyes. "Why? That's it, isn't it? The police think I hurt you, the fucking doctors thought I hurt you, why would you think any different?"
His memory flashes guiltily to calling out his lover's name and being met with silence and pain. Other memories intrude. Of himself on his knees, bound and gagged and torn open. Of being cut and punched and used. Of being left there to rot, discarded like a piece of trash.
"We don't use condoms," he breathes at last and stands. The bedroom isn't far. He makes it there in three strides. "Come on, asshole, get in here if you want to hear why you're a fucking idiot." It's not much of an invitation, but it's the best he can do.
There's a hesitation, a long pause between words and deeds, but Yunho appears in the doorway, hand rubbing at his shoulder before dropping to his side. He looks years older than he is.
"Why am I a fucking idiot?"
Hands shaking, he pulls open the doors to the closet. "You hate wearing gloves. I've seen you clean the car with bare hands in the middle of winter. You don't own gloves. Why would you bother with gloves in your own house, with your fingerprints all over the place anyway?"
Yunho is silent, but he continues, needing to get the thoughts out, to convince both of them.
"The fucking neighbors have heard us scream at each other enough that there...there'd be no need to gag me," he mutters, closing his eyes at the sight of Yunho's flinch. "I heard footsteps in the kitchen, heavy, like someone was wearing boots on the tiles and you never fucking wear shoes in our house. Ever."
He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "It couldn't have been you."
Yunho watches him, features etched in sadness, a miserable smile lifting at the corner of his mouth before disappearing.
"You forgot something, Min-ah."
Changmin frowns, hand tightening on the handle of the closet door. "What?"
Yunho meets his eyes. "I would never force sex on you. I would never hurt you. Ever." He bites his lips, eyes falling to the carpet. "I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight. I'll...I'll see you in the morning." He taps his fingers on the door jamb. "I love you, Min."
Silence isn't the answer he's supposed to receive for that one, even Changmin knows that much. It's long moments before he remembers to form the words and when they emerge, they're too soft for Yunho to hear. Meaningless, just like his reasoning.
The truth is in what Yunho says. In what Yunho believes.
His therapist, he thinks belatedly, was right.
| next |