Archive of Our Own

Renjun floats dead in the pool. 

Okay, so he’s not actually dead. Yet, he reminds himself , Not dead yet. The sky’s all duck-egg and peach clouds. Speckled spots of blue and amber. He’s lying on his back, Nose stretched up toward the sky. A conversation with his dad he’d had earlier makes its uncomfortable way to the forefront of his mind. 

“What’s wrong with your nose?” He’d put his fork down and squinted. The TV had been squeaking away in the background and he’d been trying not to tremble too hard from the strangeness of the entire situation.

“My nose?” Renjun had reached up for it, half to check if it was still there, half to check if it was bleeding. “What’s wrong with it?”

His dad had tilted his head before attending back to his fork and knife, the leathery steak he was currently attacking. He winces, “Soonkyu honey this is amazing.”

She’d made a sulky noise like “ hunnph” in reply. Renjun had pursed his lips and taken a sip of his water. She’d been angry about the dinner all day. ‘ A kid, and now he wants me to fucking cook for him. Jesus Christ.’

She’d caught him observing her and borderline snarled at him. “I’ve the sweat pouring out of me slaving over the fucking stove. Help me or make yourself busy.”

On the plastic leathery couch he’d bitten his lip. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

“Looks a bit swollen.”

“Swollen?”

“Yeah, but I think I’m wrong. It just looks a bit distorted ‘cuz of like.. see you’ve caught the sun a bit.” He frowns, “You’ve got freckles now too.”

After dinner Renjun had stared at his reflection in the mirror, turning his head this way and that way. Did his nose look funny from far away? God his dad had such a way with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. He’d gotten irritated then, and when he’d left the bathroom to stalk back into his lifeless bedroom he’d closed the door a little more aggressively than he’d ever done back home. 

“ You’ll toughen up a bit, when your skin gets used to it.” Had been his Dad’s reply when he’d asked him to pick up some Aloe Vera. As if that was how skin worked, it merely adjusted. Renjun had felt his eyebrows draw, but he was quite sure there was no point in arguing the case.

The heat in Vegas is like nothing Renjun has ever known before. heat of Hellish proportion.

Everyone always drones on and on about New York Summers. His mother recalled wild tales of being stuck in starch waitressing dresses in mid July, stinky sweltering subways and the smell of rotting food that seemed to penetrate every living pore whenever garbage collection got delayed in early June. But this ? This was a new kind of hell.

Everyday all Renjun could do was lie on his back in the pool, sprung out like a star. No bus nor car nor tube or taxi anywhere in sight to carry him away. There was no Coney Island, no street vendors selling spiced and steaming food, brusque businessmen and their americanos, Hippies and punks and youngsters singing jazz at street corners. 

In Vegas all that surrounds him is nothing at all really. Sand and dirt and empty houses. Literally, empty houses. (The first day Renjun had arrived he’d walked up and down and up and down trying to see if the lights were on anywhere else. Nope! Only abandoned lawns and dirty windows. Post apocalyptic, he felt it was. There was a word for his new space. Ghost estate. Something about the recession and housing and other shit he didn’t fully care to understand. Regardless he was alone and it was a hideous juxtaposition to the calamity and crowd he was accustomed to.) Late afternoon had transformed the sky into a flurry of boyhood and french gray. He can feel his skin fry under the sun and he decides to call it quits for the day.

He sighs and allows the water to swallow him.

A Stiff towel, cold shower, a night of staring at the ceiling again, dreaming of elsewhere, dreaming about a familial embrace long long gone.

He goes back to highschool, he might as well finish Junior year, is what his father had told him and he hadn’t really cared enough to argue with him over it.

He can see Mark Lee, in his mind’s eye. Bottle glasses and earnest eyebrows, shirt starch, tie done strangely well for a teenage boy. Mark and his rising voice, the stubble that’s always plagued him. A Natural masculinity that  Renjun’s always been slightly jealous of, masculinity that he hasn’t quite adjusted to yet so it sits heavy and awkward. He hears Mark’s closing words to him. “If i were you,” he had begun, chewing his pencil. “I’d work really hard. If you do well, you might even be able to get a scholarship for a new york college.” He’d smiled, widely and ignorant and Renjun’s heart had fluttered somewhere in the recesses of his heart. “Maybe we might see each other again someday.”

It wasn’t the “ I love you,'' Renjun had been looking for. It wasn’t “ Don’t go. You can stay with us forever or I swear to God I’ll come to Vegas with you.” Just, academic encouragement and a vague unsatisfactory hope of bumping into Renjun again.

Under the cover of night, in the fright of being alone, Renjun reaches into his suitcase and pulls out The Goldfinch. Why did he bring it with him? He should have given it to the police, to Mrs Lee, to Ten. There were so many chances for him to make it right and he never did. 

He’s scared of the dry weather fucking up the painting, but he allows himself to sit there and study it, the claws, the eyes of the bird, the gentle brushstokes lovingly humming at the bird’s wingtips. He wraps it in a pillow case, stuffs it behind the headboard of his bed. Things are safer this way.

Mark’s goodbye sits bitterly in Renjun’s mind as he sits in English class. They’re talking about  Seamus Heaney; “ Mid Term break” . None of the people in this room know that his mother is dead. Maybe it’s out of spite he’s allowed everything to slip away, or maybe it’s out of spite for his mother. 

Regardless, He’d hoped abandoning all academic pursuit would bring him some kind of neat closure. A middle finger to the universe. “ WHAT'S THE POINT?” He wants to scream. “ What's the point ?” He wants to cry. “ What’s the point?” He asks himself, laughing that morning. To hell with it all! To hell with Mark and the rest of the universe. To hell with nobody looking out for him. But he doesn’t feel any lighter for the declaration, only that sinking sense of misery. Maybe he should stop showering. Maybe people would be concerned then. Or not.

He’s not even sure why it matters to him so much. For the last ten months he’s been annoyed at all the adults in his life, at Mark’s mother, the therapist, the social worker. Everyone had been worried then, asking was he okay and did he need anything and how could they help and how are you coping Renjun? Do you want to talk about it? I’m here for you, we’re all here for you. 

He’d swept them off like a proud housemother sweeps out cockroaches. He’d blown up his chest and slid his glasses back up his nose. I’m okay. But now he’s not really. Or maybe he never was okay but it just took him a while for that to catch up. Delayed reactions or something. Delayed grieving process. Every second that ticks by is a wound to him now.

Maybe it’s because everyone tiptoed around him for so long. “ You can walk.” He’d said. “You can walk comfortably around me. It’s fine.” But overnight it was like everyone had learned to dance. The whole world around him swelling in a crescendo, a dizzying waltz. He’s been knocked down in the blitz and he thinks “ I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t fucking ready. Why did nobody ask me If I was ready for the world?” Crawling these days is difficult for Renjun. Dancing is considerably more fun than tiptoeing. Everyone’s tired of him. That’s why Renjun’s resentful. That’s why he leaves class and decides to sit outside by the bins. Fuck Midterm break , Fuck Seamus Heaney. Fuck the poppy bruise and the coffin and the whispers informing strangers that he was the eldest and the angry tearless sighs and the candles soothing the bedside . The bins. Considerably grosser than anything he’s ever seen, all flies and bad smell he sort of regrets his decision. He’s got his ass perched on the curb, watching cars pass by, seemingly one every ten minutes. None of them are moving quick enough to kill him if he decided to just put himself out of his misery. 

A voice draws him out of his body and he startles to the sound of laughter. 

“Hello.”

He blinks and replies quietly, a culmination of his exhaustion and social awkwardness. “Hi.”

He doesn’t look, hoping the disembodied voice will clear off. Can’t he see Renjun’s a tortured soul enough as it is? Whatever the intent may be, Any attempt to befriend Renjun will only be read by him as salt in the wound. There’s no such thing in his twisted mind as friendship, only the prologing of awkward conversation. He’s an East Coast boy with nothing in common with anyone.

The funny thing about Vegas, and he can tell, is that unlike back home, popularity seems to have no correlation to beauty or wealth or sociality, but it merely hinges off How long one has lived in Vegas for. A unit of measure that confuses Renjun. Naturally, having moved here literally 2 weeks ago, he’s well aware of where that puts him on the social ladder. 

It’d never bothered him in New York, popularity that is, but he’d gotten by. He’d certainly never been invisible before. Therefore, this person must be making fun of him. Because why else would anyone be talking to Renjun?

To his own dismay he hears the rustle, watches a shadow move until he knows the voice has sat down next to him. Right next to him.

He turns but the fella’s face is already crowded into Renjun’s face, neck craned and somewhat of a smile spread across his face. Something he figured he’d never get used to. He’d never met anyone in his life before who invaded unspoken boundaries like that. 

“Na Jaemin.” He’s saying, hand springing out like a bizarre Jack-in the box.

Renjun looks at it before taking it in his own, unsure. “Huang Renjun.”

He has a hungry look about him, like some of the skinhead youths he’d seen chucking about spray cans and joints down outside central park. The kind of kid that made his mother hold his hand a little tighter every time he passed them. To a younger Renjun they’d seemed enthralling, anarchistic. Jaemin’s got hair that looks like it might've been pink at one point, but it’s gone white and yellow in the sun. He’s got dark roots that poke out in wild tufts, Heavy eyebrows that lurch across his brow. His posture skulks and lounges in a sprawling manner. Everything about Jaemin is sprawling , from his diction to his lazy insistence on doing everything exactly the way he sees it. He looms at Renjuns' curious, maybe slightly frightened expression and laughs. When he laughs he throws his entire head back, thrusting his pale neck out to the world.  He has giggles that  ring out in peals and chimes. “I think we’ll be great friends Renjun.” He says and when he smiles he seems to sprout fifteen extra teeth. 

Renjun’s heart races.

When he gets home he spends half an hour walking around, trying for signal. When he finally manages to send a text to Mark ( h̶i̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶ ̶s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶ It’s been forever omg how r u??) It takes Mark two hours to reply. (Yeah that’s crazy :)) I’m good!) Renjun curses the sky and flings his phone onto the couch. Mark is the driest texter known to mankind and it’s irritating because he wants to know everything. How are Mark’s parents? His older brother? Is Kun okay? What about Mark’s biology trip? He wants to gloat. Vegas is fucking incredible yeah? Dad’s great. I’ve been hanging out with him non-stop. Soonkyu’s great too. I’ve even made a new friend. He is cultured and also VERY intelligent. 

This imagining is a pointless and embarrassing exercise. Instead He opts to lie on the sitting room floor. Nobody is home.

Jaemin is like a worm in many ways.  

They meet there every lunchtime. Renjun wimps out of skipping class as a way to seek revenge on the universe; it’s sick and twisted that he has no way to make everyone pay for all the suffrage and heartbreak he’s gone through. 

It’s unbelievably taxing that when he becomes an adult it’s like, okay grow up . Like there’s a time limit for acceptable grieving. An adult semi-orphan is nothing out of the ordinary, an adult with a dead mother is nothing to shed tears over and the fact of it gnaws at his stomach. Regardless; He has decided to at least attend school. He’ll find other ways to let out all that anger and sadness, that feeling would be there whether or not he was present in class, he might at least get the credits. Maybe it’ll go away if he ignores it. Maybe it won’t. He thinks he might be angrier about living with his Dad than he ever was about the universe ripping his mother from beyond his reach and that thought overwhelms him so much he gets stomach pains; has to consciously unclench his jaw. Renjun might just be a bad person.

His dad and Soonkyu aren’t there when he wakes up, he’s beginning to realise that they’re not gonna be around much ( Is he happy or sad about this?) He lands on Somewhat relieved. He packs his own lunch with what’s in the fridge. Cheese, Poptart, A half-finished mountain dew. The fridge is more condiments than food but his Dad’s at least had the sense to leave 5 dollars on the table for him.

Jaemin soon makes it very clear that he only sticks around in class because Renjun does. It’s weird. Jaemin is definitely weird. The first day after their encounter by the bins he rolls into class and yawns, stretching all his limbs as he sinks into the seat. That can’t possibly be comfortable. Renjun thinks. He doesn’t say anything, still not sure what the etiquette is over whether they’re friends or not yet. It’s confusing to him. Some guy in a polo shirt and jorts approaches. He purses his lips, one hand resting on his backpack. “Excuse me, that’s my seat.”

“Fuck off.” He says it like a slap. ‘s a seat right there.” He points, drawling and the guy looks like he’s going to try to argue but then he must think better of it and he slinks over to the top of the room, defeated.

“You didn’t come again today.”

Renjun starts and looks at him. Again, Jaemin’s neck is craned in to examine him closer. Renjun recoils a little. “Sorry?”

“I waited for you.” He huffs. 

Renjun laughs in spite of himself. “Sorry.” He says again.

Jaemin falls asleep very quickly after that. Upon first glance, Jaemin looks like the last person on earth he’d ever try to befriend if he still lived in New York. He dresses in a mix of bizarre clothes. Not in an Art School way but in a more blindfolded auntie stumbling wildly around a goodwill way. He wears shirts with things like SHARKNADO, and ARMADILLO-MAN written across in bold bright lettering, but sometimes he’ll show up in something surprisingly nice. A linen button up with fake gems dotted around the cuffs, What looks like vintage adidas basketball shorts, A leather jacket on almost every occasion . Renjun wonders if it’s intentional or not. He thinks that if he ever tried to wear a leather jacket he’d just look silly. A little boy in a costume.

Jaemin is charming, sort of . Not necessarily mysterious - he lacks the quietness or closed-offness Renjun associated with the term but he’s certainly interesting. Deeply interesting even. Every second Renjun spends looking at him is a new feature unpeeled that brings him nowhere closer to getting an idea of who he actually is. Every minute spent talking to Jaemin only ends in new unanswerable questions. It’s an observation about Jaemin’s character that remains true and consistent for the whole duration of their friendship.

About a week later Jaemin drags himself into class and throws his hands up in the air. “You fucker!”

“Who? Me ?”

Jaemin nods, throwing his bag down. It clunks and he can feel the other occupants of the classroom glancing at them nervously. Renjun knows he doesn’t fit in. Jaemin definitely doesn’t. His lip curls in a helpless small smile. 

“At this rate,” Jaemin sighs. “I might even make it to the honor roll.”

Renjun isn’t quite sure what to make of this. He supposes it’s another attempt to get to know Renjun. 

“Are you free afterschool?” He tries.

Jaemin flails his hands wildly. “Finally. God, yes.”

The story with Na Jaemin was seemingly endless. It felt to Renjun that there was little discernible beginning nor ending to his origin story. 

To put it simply: Jaemin was a culmination of everywhere. He’d arrived six months prior, and lived one street over from Renjun. Another strip of empty homes. He was an only child too. From what he told Renjun, Jaemin had previously traveled all over the world. He's lived in Seoul, California, Ireland, Germany, Sweden, Italy, Ecuador, Poland, Singapore. Paris even; He’d been everywhere on God’s green earth. When Renjun was asked why, Jaemin had said it was because of his dad’s work. When Renjun had asked what his dad worked as he’d merely shrugged, tearing into a roll of Hubba Bubba. Biting it in the worst way. “Beats me.”

Renjun had gotten distracted, cringing and asking, “Do you have a favorite place?”

Jaemin had hummed and screwed up his nose. “Maybe Heidelberg?”

His tales ignited a childlike sense of delight in Renjun. “What did you like most?”

“At Christmas they have these Markets. Like, snow or like.. fake snow. I don’t know and I don’t really care. They set up all these little huts in the streets. Like, pots of hot mulled wine and gingerbread and potato grattans and stuff.”

Renjun was enchanted. He’d drawn up a picture of the place on Google Images on his phone “It looks like something of a fairytale.” He’d sighed dreamily. “Would you ever go back there?”

Jaemin shakes his head. “I haven’t a word of German.”

“Oh c’mon.. I’m sure you do.”

“Alright then, Scheiße ... Krankenwagen ... Schmetterling ... zwei Bier bitte …

Du bist das Gelbe vom Ei.”

“Woah.”

Jaemin had laughed. “You’re so easy to impress.”

“Only because you’re the most interesting thing here.”

He frowned. “Renjunnie if you think there’s fuck all to do in Vegas you’d never last a day in Kerry.”

“Where’s that?”

“Who even gives a fuck? Shitville, Ireland.”

That day afterschool, after the rickety bus has deposited them at their spot, Jaemin grins and points at the next street over in the rows and rows of empty houses. “I live over there!” 

It looks just as abandoned as the rest of their estate. Renjun wonders briefly if he’s squatting there. He then wonders if that assumption is classist.

Renjun starts walking and when he realizes he’s walking by himself he stops and turns round, unsure.

Jaemin has pulled an umbrella out from somewhere. silver under sunlight, black material like the wings of a bat deep in the desert. Renoir, Renjun hears his mother say. He mentally pushes her and her art off and away. 

“What’s with the..” He trails off, a bit unsure if he’s the one being weird here, as if it’s normal to have an umbrella on hand.

Jaemin flashes him a wild grin. “I fucking hate the sun.”

Jaemin’s idea of entertainment, it becomes apparent, is vastly different to Renjun’s, and much more illegal. 

He wonders what Jaemin would think of his and Mark’s games of chess, of his trips up and down to visit Kun and his antique store, he and his mothers excursions to MOMA . He has no idea what Jaemin thinks of art, or music or religion. He seems to flare randomly from genre to genre, loving things or holding utmost contempt. 

Now, they’re sprawled out on Jaemin’s floor listening to The Fame Monster on his banjaxed stereo. It sounds clapped, like genuinely clapped , as though it’s lived through three wars and the collision of the Titanic,  but Jaemin hums along contenedly, 

Renjun tugs at the collar of his shirt, feeling embarrassingly damp as Jaemin rolls over onto his belly and lights up a cigarette. The orange light brightens up the holes between his fingers and Renjun blushes, although he’s not sure why. His room is exactly what you’d expect from someone of Jaemin’s general caliber. ( unprecedented, unpredictable.)

It’s all dark walls, closed shutters, a desk lamp murmurs from where its head pokes out beneath Jaemin’s bed. There’s a huge indian rug stretched out across the floor ( Where the fuck did he get that?) and an assortment of photos and posters scattered across the wall. Madoka Magica, Rick and Morty, that fucking Trainspotting poster (choose life) and a Joker poster all curling and peeling at their edges and corners. God help Renjun. 

He frowns at a picture of Jaemin smiling next to a nun. “You catholic?” He asks, surprised.

“Not really.”

He squints at the picture. Yep, definitely Jaemin. Only he’s younger, with shorter, blacker hair and he’s in a uniform. “What’s with the nun?”

“Ahh!” Jaemin hums “Sister Brigid… she was lovely.. Used to help me sew up my trousers whenever I got into scrapes. God knows I’m useless at it myself.”

Renjun studies the picture. “Is she still alive?” 

“No idea!” He announces cheerfully. “I hope so.”

Renjun doesn’t really know what to do so he shuffles, awkward until Jaemin rolls over and pats the space on the rug next to him. Renjun discards his bag by the door and flops down next to Jaemin. “You wanna try?” He asks, eyes like black holes, lashes like ashes and embers. He blinks prettily and Renjun looks away. “You don’t have to.” He says softly and he places the curious thing back between his lips.

“No,” Renjun finds himself saying. “I’d like to.”

He tries not to think about how every time back in New York when he and Mark passed a smoker Mark would cough loudly- much to Renjun’s embarrassment. Mark had no affliction worsened by smoke and anyone who heard Mark's odd barking fake cough was made instantly aware of that fact. ( “I do it to make them feel bad. I’m only helping them in the long run.” Renjun hadn’t been so sure. “ Mark Lee, saving one life at a time. ” It had come out more sarcastic than he’d meant and he’d bitten his lip after he’d said it.) 

He takes it between his fingers the way he’s seen all the cool boys at school do it. He breathes in. 

Nothing happens.

“Oh,” He says, mildly disappointed. Jaemin laughs at him. “You did it wrong.”

“How do I do it right?”

“Inhale, then inhale again. So it goes right down to where you can feel it in your chest.”

He tries again and has a coughing fit. 

Jaemin takes it back, amused. “No cigarettes for Renjunnie then, I take it.”

He finishes it, before he stumps it out on one of those plates for babies, with Pikachu’s face staring out from the plastic, drowning in a litany of butts and soot. 

Renjun shakes his head, desperate to prove something, although he’s unsure of what or why. “Can I have another?” He asks, semi-meek and Jaemin playfully raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to.” But Renjun cuts him off, shaking.

“What about the smell?” Renjun asks but Jaemin waves a hand at him. “Nobody cares.” He says. It’s not pathetic, nor proud. He says it quite a matter-of-fact way. 

They talk about nothing, they talk about everything. Renjun tells Jaemin about the doormen of his old building, their names and their superstitions and how they used to greet him every morning by twirling him up in the air when he was still small. Renjun talks about comfy chairs and flicking through glossy magazines while his mother got her hair cut, how his legs never quite reached the floor; the art books strewn across their tiny apartment, their weekly pilgrimages to whatever gallery was showing at the time. In exchange Jaemin fills him in on the absurd nuances of his own past; Once while in Paris a group of kids younger than him had ganged up on him and stolen the oreos straight out of his hand, (‘ Au Revoir fattie!’ they’d said to him) In Los Angeles he’d met Bella Thorne wandering around the pier. He told tales from far and wide, rich classmates with producer fathers who lived in castles, accidentally making nemeses with various cows, his time working as head fry cook in some diner just outside North Carolina. The strangest thing was that it was all true . It was all true because there was simply no way somebody could make it up. Preposterous is what half of what left Jaemin’s mouth was. Absurd . Conversation looped in circles of “ No fucking way.” Jaemin wouldn’t say anything, he scrambled to his feet, a huge t-shirt hanging down around his elbows as he peeled himself off the floor. He’d wordlessly open his closet and start manically flicking through, peering into different shoeboxes full of stuff before flinging them back onto his bed were they not the right one. “ Honest!” He’d mutter, setting the shoebox in front of Renjun and flopping back down onto the carpet. He’d light himself another cigarette as Renjun would fish through .

Jaemin seemed to have Photographic evidence for everything. 

They wander out to the garden (more mustardy dirt) and sit in the shadow of Jaemin’s house. 

“When’s your old man expecting you home?” 

Renjun thinks, “I don’t know. I don’t think he cares.”

Jaemin hums. “Mine’s an alcoholic.”

Renjun holds up his hand for a high five although now he’s doing it he regrets it because who goes in for a high five after being told their new friends dad is an alcoholic. “Mine too! Although now he says he’s sober. I thought he was, but he’s been drinking beer and stuff. Soonkyu says he’s off the,” he raises his spare hand for air quotes, “ Hard Stuff.” Jaemin high fives him, laughing.

“I dont think anyones ever high fived me before for having an alcoholic father.” 

Renju blushes furiously. “Probably not my best moment.”

Because Jaemin revealed one of his truths, Renjun feels obliged to offer up one of his own. “My mother is dead.”

Jaemin raises up his hand for a fist bump. “‘Mine too.”

“No way.”

Jaemin giggles. Renjun thinks this has to be the most bizarre interaction he’s ever had. “What are the chances?” He marvels.

“Ah Junnie,” Jaemin says, leaning his head on Renjun’s shoulder. “We were meant to be.”

When Renjun gets home he wonders if that’s true. He doesn’t think he is where he’s supposed to be. His life is a slippery slope of Oh Dear and the floor falling through everytime he gets to his feet.

Every Saturday a shuttle bus comes round and brings them through bumps and dust to the mall. 

It’s pretty derelict as far as shopping institutions go and Renjun feels a but put out by the desolation of the place. It’s a liminal space, that’s what it is. 

He and Jaemin tour a Khols and Renjun pretends not to notice Jaemin grabbing random shit and shoving it in the lining of his huge leather trench coat. Like something from The Matrix, Renjun wonders how the hell Jawmin got his hands on a jacket like that. 

It’s not like Jaemin is particularly good at stealing, it’s more so that nobody working there cares enough to interrupt him. 

Renjun follows close behind, unsure of what to do with his hands so he keeps his arms folded across his chest, wire glasses sliding down his nose, glancing anxiously around. 

They leave shortly after that, and head down the dusty street. Jaemin whistles to himself, stalking ahead like a large rare bird of enormous confidence. Renjun trails close behind. He doesn’t ask where they’re going but when Jaemin draws to a stop outside an off license he pauses, unsure. “Are we going in?” 

Jaemin nods. “You can wait here though if you want.”

Renjun takes one look around at his surroundings. There’s a girl leaning against the wall across the road. leathery tan, red chest and nose, Hoop earrings and the smack! of her bubblegum.

“No, I’ll come in.” He mumbles, although he’s not sure of himself and he feels like he’s going to shit his pants. 

The lights are bright inside, heavy fluorescent bulbs buzzing and flickering. He watches Jaemin’s figure trace down the aisle and he hums as he settles over a naggin of Smirnoff.

They walk over to the counter and Renjun stares at his feet as Jaemin sets it down on the counter. 

But he never asks for an ID, he just types in the amount. “7.50.” The cashier blinks sleepily and Jaemin prods Renjun.

He startles, fumbling in his pocket for 10 dollars his dad had left out on the counter for him. He couldn’t be less inconspicuous if he tried.

The cashier forgets his 50c when he hands back his change but Renjun says nothing, pocketing the two dollars, glancing at Jaemin. 

As they walk back to the shuttle bus Renjun hisses “What was that?”

“Hmm?”

“Like,” he gestures behind them. “ That .”

Jaemin shrugs. “They don’t ID in there.”

“You drink?”

“Why not?”

Renjun can’t think of a good reason so he shuts up.

Jaemin drinks like the world is going to end. He smokes like a veteran. It should be unattractive but it isn’t really. They make a routine of it. They come home either to his or Jaemin’s (Mostly his) and they sit on the floor chain smoking and listening to music. Renjun learns how to inhale right. The first time he gets that buzz he blinks, the world feeling a little like how it does after a shot hits him. “Oh.” He murmurs quietly.

Jaemin nods sagely. Renjun learns to love the burn of alcohol too. Vodka at the start makes him splutter. “Jesus Jaem, it tastes like hand sanitizer.”

Jamein passes him a half empty can of coke zero. “If you mix it it’s not as bad.” He takes the bottle back from Renjun, taking a straight swig from it. Renjun stares at him in mock horror. “You need to be studied in a lab.”

Jaemin pretends to push him. “I’m only being helpful!”

It does taste better, and the strangest thing is that it makes Renjun feel Nice . Like, normal. How he was before. Gone is that heavy oppression that squashes and pulls at his throat. The guilt, the anger, the fear of being forgotten entirely by everyone he loves . When Renjun drinks, the world becomes glassy, funny. It’s like being in a video, sped up and slowed down by Go’s sticky fingers. It’s like confidence and leaning into whatever or whoever’s nearby. Normally being Jaemin.

It’s the closest and fastest connection to a person Renjun ever had. He supposes that stems from speaking to nobody else at school and having nobody else around at home. Even if Renjun wanted to explore other options there’d be none available. Jaemin is all he’s got, but this is placated by the simple fact that Renjun’s all Jaemin has too. He grows to like the taste of straight smirnoff and smoke. The feeling of dizziness and the sick feeling he gets when he’s had too much. 

Every burnhole starts to smell like home, he stops bothering to brush his hair in the morning.

They watch a lot of those Lifetime original movies. Fifteen and Pregnant; The Pregnancy Pack, Flowers in the Attic, Babysitters Black Book. Sometimes Soonkyu joins them. She’s weirdly cool with Jaemin’s presence, Renjun’s father too. They find his oddities charming, and he seems to brighten up the house a bit. Once, Renjun’s dad ruffles Jaemin’s pink hair. “You remind me of myself as a youngster.” Jaemin grins, Renjun shudders. “I used to be an actor y’know?” Renjun and Soonkyu roll their eyes but Jaemin’s already transfixed. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.” By Actor, What Jaemin’s dad means is that he once played a dead body on an episode of Law and Order. He’s played villains and sidekicks in various low budget crime shows. He always blamed Renjun’s mother for his failure in the career. Always held it against her that acting (“ acting ”) didn’t bring in enough to support their budding family.

“Will I tell you the secret to acting?”

Jaemin looks straight at his father, more of a son than Renjun ever was.

Jaemin’s father nods sagely, prodding Jaemin’s sternum. “It has to come from here, to really be convincing. All that pain, it needs to come from somewhere. That’s the truth of every good actor.”

Soonkyu likes Jaemin too. He flirts with her, that’s what it is, but she seems to find it funny more than anything. “Can I get you a drink?” He’ll ask, arm slung over the couch and she mutters to herself, coming home after a shift at work. She’ll unzip her jacket and throw her bag down on the counter, french tip acrylics rapping against the fridge. She’ll study him and then laugh. Her laugh is nothing like Rnejun’s mothers. It’s more throaty, dryer. She’ll shake her head and jab a finger in his direction. “You.” Renjun will scoff. Fucking sleazebag.

He’ll only smile wider then. It’s strange, Soonkyu treats Renjun like an inconvenient house guest but she gets nicer when Jaemin’s around. He supposes it’s because they have that same scrappy vibe about them. Is that snobby? He doesn’t mean to be superior but sometimes it spills out without him noticing. Renjun’s been poor his whole life but it’s poor masked with scholarships to fancy schools and a by-product of spending so much time with Mark and his family. He thinks about Mrs Lee’s collection of rare art, about Mark’s hand-carved chess set.

Soonkyu brings home food from work every now and then. Jaemin giggles and waggles his fingers (“ Don’t mind if I do”) As he lurches forward to pick at a silver takeout tray full of cold cocktail sausages. He’s demented.

One night they’re lying out the back of Renjun’s place. Home alone, drinking with their pants rolled up around their knees, feet and calves submerged in the pool. 

“She’s on coke.”

“Soonkyu?”

“And your dad.”

“Oh, why’d you think that?”

“Surely you see them?”

“I just thought they were weird.” He realises how stupid it sounds now he’s saying it out loud.

It’s quiet for a moment and then out of the blue Jaemin asks, “do you wanna pierce my nose?”

“Tonight? Like now?”

“Yeah.”

“No, we're drunk.”

“Hi drunk, I’m Jaemin.”

He leans over, swatting at Jaemin who to his chagrin sits up and allows himself to slip into the pool.

He starts up. There are no lights in the pool, only illuminated roughly by the light coming from the back windows of the house. it’s surface like dark ink in a starless night. He growls. “Jesus Jaemin.” His eyes dart around frantically, Before he slips in too. A couple days ago Renjun had a terrible encounter, swimming headfirst into a still writhing beetle in the process of drowning. He’s reluctant to jump in.

It’s warm from the day's heat and he resurfaces looking around for Jaemin. They’re both fully dressed. They're both intoxicated. fuck fuck fuck.

“ Jaemin,” he calls out, anxiety rising in his chest. Suddenly he’s back in that hell forsaken museum. It’s two years ago and his blood is running with despair.

His eyes dart around wildly and he can feel that ugly fear swell at the back of his throat. 

Headfirst into this shallow pool, he leaps in after Jaemin, half scared to death, thrashing with his heart in his mouth. 

Jaemin bobs upm to the top, cackling and splashes Renjun.

He doesn’t realize how freaked Renjun is, and maybe that’s Renjun’s fault for being such a messy ball of exposed nerves but he can’t help the way he screams.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

And then it all goes dreadfully quiet, only the sound of Renjun’s panting and heaving, and Jaemin’s unfamiliar stiffness.

He swims over to the edge of the pool, propping his elbows up on the tiles, wet hair hanging as he buries his head in his hands. Slowly snaking down so they cover his ears.

He feels the water move from its earlier turbulence, and he tries achingly to drone out the buzzing sound of the filter, the heaviness of his clothes and libs, the frenzied heartbeat knocking at his ribs, schizophrenia written in its rhythm. 

Jaemin doesn’t apologize, it’s not a part of his coding. In New York, everyone would fall over for him if the wind ever dared to blow the wrong way. But Renjun’s still annoyed. 

He turns around, angrily at Jaemin, whose eyes float just above the water next to him, whose breaths come up in bubbles.

“Don’t fucking do that shit.” He rasps.

“Sure thing.”

Jaemin splashes him lightly. 

“You wanna pierce my nose or no?”

He sighs and splashes Jaemin back harder. As is the only way to ever deal with him.

What belongs to Renjun, Jaemin normally takes as his own. Jaemin’s policy of communism seems to apply to everything in life. He constantly steals, borrows for long term. 

It drives Renjun demented at the start. He was an only child his whole life, and Mark was never ever the kind of person to take something from him, he always had everything he needed. 

Jaemin is this strange mess of not understanding boundaries, and not exactly caring. 

All of Renjun’s clothes are way too small on him, but that doesn’t stop him from wearing them. 

One day Renjun’s filled with panic, he tears his room apart looking for his copy of The happy prince and other stories. 

It’s from Ten, one of the few remnants left of his happy times in New York. 

He remembers the months recovering from the accident, sneaking to Ten’s antique shop after the explosion went down, after his world became flat and big and empty, stretching out for miles when Renjun could barely lift himself to walk. 

Back then there was no question of speaking about it with Ten, they worked on sanding, varnishing, Ten’s glinting ear piercings and nimble fingers, chafed from years of hard work. 

Ten spoke to him about a lot of things and his tummy hurts because he misses him so much. 

Before he left he’d flung himself in the door, the bell chiming as he’d stepped into the shop, breathless as ever. He’s glanced around as though on the edge of waking up from a dream, trying to burn the dark oak, the smell of everything, the glitter and chips and creaking floorboard into his memory. As he’d hugged Ten for the last time he’d carved that caring paternal presence into his brain. Feeling like a small child all over again. 

Regardless, one of the last things they’d ever exchanged was a copy of the Happy Prince , Ten, pressing the worn copy into Renjun’s hand as Renjun held back tears.

He was sick of crying all the time.

Now he’s stressed out and he feels like an idiot because that was one of the only remainders of Ten he had left beyond memory and he went and lost it like a complete fucking dipshit. 

Oscar Wilde, one of the only vivid things left of life out here, in this ghost estate surrounded by desert. Beige nothingness and substances. 

He hears hammering on the front door and when he comes downstairs he’s surprised to find that it’s neither Jaemin, as he expected, nor is it Soonkyu or even his father, but a tall, tall man decked out in a silky shirt and a gold chain hanging round his neck.

He’s got catlike eyes that remind him of Jaemin and cheekbones like scars, sloping down to a curling mouth. 

“Hello there.”

Renjun doesn’t reply, unsure of what to do. He goes to close the door, but the man sticks one large, boot clad food in it. His heart thuds a little louder ij  his chest.

“Is your father home?” He asks. 

Renjun purses his lips. “No sir.”

He nods, taking his foot back. “Sir. He raised you well.”

“Sorry if this is rude, but who are you?”

“Johnny. Suh.”

“Does my dad owe you money?”

Johnny's eyes gleam. “Something of the sort.”

Renjun feels his insides collapse a little, feels his chest go funny.

Johnny continues. “You’re a good kind, I can tell. So I trust that you’re gonna tell your dad I called yeah? Will you do that for me?”

He nods stiffly and closes the door, sinking down onto his knees, head tucked between them until it goes completely dark outside.

What the fuck is he supposed to do?

It’s only a week later, when he’s over at Jaemin’s house they're lying on the floor with the curtains drawn shut. He turns the smoke over in his hands, there’s everything nasty in his hair. He’s drunk. He spends all his time here straddling the line between drunk and hungover. He wonders if it’s bad for him, but then actually thinking about the health costs of his hedonism scares him so much, he silences the voice of reason into submission. 

So much of him is broken already, he’s scared of confronting the fact that he’s ruined himself even more.

He rolls over to reach for the ashtray, and he cracks open an eye when his hand lands on a book. His eyes shoot open. His book, his copy of the happy prince.  

“Jaemin,” He murmurs faintly.

“Hmm?”

“Next time you want to borrow that book, just ask.”

“Why?”

“You scared me.”

“Oh.” He says, but he doesn’t say sorry.

“I didn’t like it.” He says then.

“It’s not your type of book.”

“It’s depressing.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you like it so much?”

“I just do.”

“I didn’t like the story about the nightingale. It made me real sad.”

“I think it’s good. People are stupid and selfish and mean.”

Jaemin sniffs “I don’t like it.”

He rolls his eyes, stamping out the filter. “It’s not your kind of book.”

“Why do you like it so much?”

Renjun thinks. “I wish I could be like the prince.”

“The prince dies.”

“At least he’s a good person.”

Jaemin sniffs. “I wouldn’t ever let a swallow steal all your gems.”

“A swallow can’t steal anything if you’ve already taken it all.”

“Fair play.”

“Come with me,” Jaemin had said and Renjun feels like an idiot now, shivering on a Las Vegas strip, avoiding eye contact with tarot readers and washed up dreams. 

Jaemin looks smart today, Renjun looks stupid in his jean shorts, converse, glasses. He looks like a kid, he is a kid. 

Jaemin thrusts his jacket and phone into Renjun’s hands, says low and quick, “If he drives away, call the police.”

Renjun stares helplessly at Jaemin as he wobbles over to the red Ford Fiesta that pulls up on the curb. In the dark, in his nervous disposition, all he can do is wait. He can’t see Jaemin’s mouth moving as the window rolls down, and he can’t hear either over the distance and sound of the humming engine. The soot coming out of the back of the car curls up in the night, flutters like wings, toying with the ends of his hair.

He glances down at the phone and panics. If he has to call emergency services what does he say? What does he do? Fuck fuck fuck, why does Jaemin always put him in these situations? Why does Jaemin always put himself in these situations?

They’re speaking through the window and Renjun finds himself praying nothing will go wrong. After half a second The willowy figure that is Jaemin, pulls away, his dark leather coat glinting under the red light of the car. It pulls away, Renjuns finger hovering over the 911 key. His ragged breaths make him feel like a dog. Renjun has no idea how it’s gone. Jaemin’s body language is always hard to read. He moves and navigates life as though it’s his first day negotiating with flesh and bone. 

He squirms and sticks a thumb out, feeling like a deflating balloon when Jaemin jumps up and clicks his heels. He can feel the fear swallow out of his stomach. He wipes his hands on his shirt.

“What did you get?”

Jaemin grins and Renjun’s more than a little surprised when he pulls out two tiny baggies filled with white powder. Renjun has never seen proper drugs before. He reaches out but Jaemin pulls it away, mischief all over his face.

“How much was that?”

“$120”

“Holy shit., where the fuck did you get that money?”

“Soonkyu.”

Why is Renjun even surprised at this point? He laughs in disbelief, a short sharp burst. “You’re not seriously going to..”

Jaemin shrugs and tucks it away inside one of the many pockets lining the inside of his coat. Renjun pretends not to notice the way his hands are shaking.

He gestures back to where the car isn’t anymore. Just a trashy road once again. He wonders how the fear came and went so quickly. “Do you know him?”

Jaemin scrunches up his face, “Not really.”

“Is he nice?”

Jaemin shakes his head. 

“Oh.”

“Why would I have to call the police?”

“He’s driven away before.”

Renjun hums as Jaemin waves a hand. “Nevermind him. We’ve got bigger things to burn.”.

He doesn’t ask for any, just watches Jaemin at the kitchen counter as he cuts it up, he passes a fiver to Renjun, demanding he roll it up for him. ( “Skinny fingers.” He says, turning Renjuns hand over in his, while Renjun goes red from the touch.) 

He wonders again what Mark and Jaemin would think of each other. Jaemin would probably be charmed by Mark. Mark, probably repulsed by Jaemin . 

The warm indoor lights on the ends of his dead hair, his skinny fingers touching his nose while his head is tilted back, towards the ceiling above them, towards the sky on the other side through layers of concrete and plaster. The jacket that slips down his arms, showing skinny wrists. The shape of his body is so much taller than Renjuns, his eyes so much looser. 

He sniffs, pinching his septum, then makes eye contact with Renjun. He feels chills come from somewhere and he kicks a piece of dust on the floor, waiting for it all to go back to normal.

It never does, only becoming a part of their lives. 

On Thanksgiving, they go out to the little local playground, kicking dust from the swings. Jaemin is swigging from a bottom shelf naggin, regalling one of his wild travel stories. Renjun zones in and out from the nicotine buzz, feeling his fingers heat up and his teeth become stained. He stares down at his limp foot, dragging as he moves back and forth on the swing. Fingers on cold chains.

Nobody makes Jaemin laugh quite like Jaemin himself.

He splutters, “And the stupid fucker backflips off the bridge.”

Renun zooms back into reality and smiles at Jaemin hazily. “What happened then?”

He leans back, swinging right up into the air, legs flailing wildly, feet kicked up in the face of the moon. Renjun’s moon. 

“Jumped right in after him. The canal was so nasty then, all algae and rat poison. I’m pretty sure they found a body bombing down it, all packed up in a black suitcase.” He wrinkles his nose.

“I had red marks up my back for weeks after that, I didn’t jump in right. Hurt like a bitch.”

Renjun muses. “It’s a wonder you didn’t break your legs.”

“Beginner's luck.”

“Or your guardian angel.”

“Do you believe in Guardian angels?”

Renjun stops, staring at the bracket mark he’s dragged into the floor with his feet. “I don’t know. Mom always did, but then things didn’t work out so great for her. Probably not.”

“I’ll be your guardian angel.”

He laughs and swats Jaemin, taking a drag of his almost gone cigarette. “You’re so lame.”

“I’m so cool.”

Renjun shakes his head. “You are an idiot.” He decides.

Jaemin smiles like he knows something Renjun doesn’t, how he always smiles.

Renjun’s father has been sharking around, and he can tell by the mania in high eyes, the sweat beading at his brow. 

It’s not ordinarily a problem, he’s even come to kind of love his dad,a little bit anyway. He’s not sure how to feel, he wishes somebody would tell him. Configure the appropriate feelings and responses in his own personal guidebook. 

Renjun is slumped across the couch, book in one hand, Jaemin’s legs are thrown up across him and they glance at each other nervously when Renjun’s dad starts pacing.

“Hey kiddo.”

“Hi.”

“Listen, I’m gonna be frank. Your mom left you a lot of money.”

“She did?”

He nods. “Withdraw half I’m opening a business.”

Renjun thinks about his life in Las Vegas. Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s not so bad.

Later he calls his lawyer with shaking hands, his dad watching him like a starving animal.

“Hullo?” He speaks, unsure.

He asks for $50,000. Boarding school he tells the guys his mother called. 

Mr  Baek speaks to him gently. “Is your dad there?”

Renjun makes eye contact with his dad, who shakes his head. “No.” He lies.

Mr Baek hums, “Listen Jun, he rang me earlier this week looking for a pretty big sum of money. I told him then and I’ll tell you now that the money belongs to you. You’ll get it when you’re eighteen.”

He feels dizzy. “Oh.”

There’s no restaurant, there’s no hope for the future.

“I wasn’t able to get it.”

His dad doesn’t speak for a long time, just nods and leaves the kitchen, outside to the pool. Renjun hears him wail and he wants to flush himself down the drain.

Renjun is plagued by nightmares, but they don’t ever talk about it.

In his loneliest hour he thrashes in thin linen sheets, sweat clinging to his forehead, no air left in his lungs.

Jaemin won’t sit up, only whispering to him in languages Renjun doesn’t speak, smoothing down his hair, gently murmuring. 

Renjun will flop back down and rub his eyes, hands still shaking until his breath becomes even. His chest is as stable as the winter sea, mountains that rise and fall and rise and-.

He shudders again, hands reaching up to hold his neck and he presses on his collarbones, just to have something to hold on to. 

He can feel those ugly salty tears slipping down his face, burning, stinging, way too hot. 

He’s startled when Jaemin slings a long skinny arm over his waist, he’s embarrassed, feeling his heart beating in his chest, Jaemin’s skin against where his t-shirt has slipped up. He’s never been held like this before.

“Go to sleep.” He murmurs into the back of Renjun’s neck, he can feel the warm air tickle his neck. The weight of him against Renjun. “It’ll all be alright.” He murmurs. 

Through the small window next to his bed, Renjun sees the moon. It knows something he can’t quite put his finger on. It looks at him. “I know you stole that painting.” “she died because of you.”

He closes his eyes and heaves out a rattling breath, feeling his body unwind in Jaemin’s proximity.

And then his dad’s fucking dead. He’s entirely alone in this world. His blood was full of alcohol. He crashed his car. He left him and Soonkyu with nothing. When she tells him this he laughs. She frowns. “You think you’re something special.” She jabs her finger at him coldly. “You’re just like him and you’ll be just like him as long as you’re alive.” And then she snatches a bag of pills from the cupboard and goes upstairs to bed.

Renjun takes the little money he has saved, ties the pillowcase holding the painting up in brown baking paper, held together by tears and twine he cut with nail clippers. In his panic, his ragged breaths. Dreaming about New York, his old apartment, museum fires. Renjun conjures images of Mark, Mark’s mother, the cold dinner times and games of chess he never really cared fro. His mind crosses through to the flight home, all he good times and bad times with his father, lazing dreamy as a flower during Las Vegas dusk. He dashes out the door with barely the socks on his feet. 

Say yes say yes say yes say yes. 

He blurts out the question before Jaemin has barely answered the door. 

“Run away with me.”

He sees jamein’s face fall and croaks loudly, spewing desperately through gritted teeth and bleary eyes. 

“Please. I’ll do anything. Please.”

Jaemin’s voice is so much more gentle than it normally is and it pains Renun, because this is the delicacy he has always wished for from Jaemin. He hates that it’s here, now.

“Please, I swear to god, I’ll fix it, we can do it. I have a friend.”

“Renjun.”

He shakes his head. “Please Jaemin.”

“What.. what happened?”

He steps forward, reaching for Jaemin’s leather clad arms, clawing at the pale slivers of his wrists. He feels his mouth quiver. “I only have so long before CPS steps in, you can.. We can. You could go with me. We could stay with Ten..”

But Jaemin is shaking his head. 

“We gotta go now. Your dad surely won’t mind.” He cries, and he presses a damp hand to his forehead, feeling his glasses grow crooked.. He wants to tear his hair out, he wants to wrench his eyes out of his head. This is so hard. This is so unbearable.

“You taught me to smoke.” He rasps, Jaemin holding him upright. “And I kept doing it wrong, but then one day I did it right, the smoke went right through me.”

It slipped through his cracks, and so did Jaemin. Renjun is damaged goods running out of sellotape. Jaemin falls inside his every shortcoming.

Jaemin won’t stop looking at him, crease in his eyebrows, those eyebrows that crawled across his face, that always seem to be puzzling or conniving.  His mouth is dragged down at the corners, a caricature of a frown. Everything Jaemin does is silly. 

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Renjun shakes his head. “I’m leaving now.”

Jaemin startles. “Now?” He shakes his head violently. “No, no, look, gimme a couple days.” He grabs his own neck, tugging at the skin under his chin, looking pained. “Just a couple days to figure out all my loose ends.”

But Renjun just shakes his head, voice nothing but a whisper. “I have to go tonight or I’ll never go.”

Jaemin’s hands drop down to his arms, and they’re looking at each other, both silently begging the other person to choose them.

Renjun knows what they have is strange, but he’s still surprised when Jaemin tilts his chin up with the tip of his finger and gently kisses the tears off his lips. He surprises himself as he reaches out and holds Jaemin’s cheek, reaching on his tallest tiptoes. 

He feels like he’s going to be sick, the taxi driver pulls up outside the house. This wasn’t how he thought things would go , his heart hurts. He stumbles back, pursing his lips, trying to wrap his eyes around the way Jaemin looks, every part of him screaming, aching to remember him this way forever. J aemin, his Jaemin. 

“I love you.” He calls out, scared, uncertain and shivering.

Renjun’s teeth chatter in the slight wind, maybe the first time he’s ever felt cold here. 

“Good luck.” Jaemin calls out softly.

Renjun watches himself walking, opening the taxi door, alone again. Alone for the first time since the week he spent in nightmare land after his mother died. 

He hugs his knees into his chest bitterly as the taxi pulls away.

Nothing ever stays the same.

It’s only when he arrives in  the city, unwraps his paper parcel for the first time since he arrived in Vegas, too terrified to even look at it, he feels his heart unbuckle in his chest. He’s locked himself in a filthy bathroom stall at the train station, piss all over the floor,  dead poetry scribbled on the walls. His hometown.

He sees it before he registers it, peering through the holes in his fingers, the cracks in his joints.

But the goldfinch is long gone, and he stares miserably at the cheerful cereal box he cradled inside a pillow case. 

All his lovely jewels are stolen.

He sinks against the bathroom door, cursing the day he first laid eyes on Jaemin Na.