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If Jihoon had it his way, small parties would stay small. If Jihoon had it his way, he wouldn’t trust Soonyoung when he said he was inviting some friends over for drinks – only a small group, he promised! Jihoon should have saw the first red flag when, having asked Soonyoung where he knew said small group of friends, Soonyoung responded:
“Rowing.”
Jihoon didn’t have anything against rowers, per se. He just knew of them in the broadest sense that the word ‘reputation’ could cover. His first and only experience with the rowing team was encountering them as a pack while out for drinks with the debate society one night. Jihoon counted himself lucky he had not encountered them since.
Alas, Jihoon thought nothing much would happen with a small group of rowers. But small grew to medium sized, and then his Friday night self-care ritual was ruined by a coxswain mistaking his face cream for tortilla dip.
“I’m so sorry!” Soonyoung shouted over the bluetooth speaker vibrating on the mantel. “I’ll buy you a new one!”
Jihoon rolled his eyes, tipped the (expensive) mint liquid into the bin and found a clean cup to ladle himself some punch. He wanted quiet, wanted – nay needed – sleep. His exams were approaching, his deadlines already gone and most of his waking hours were spent in the library. Eight hours was essential, but he figured, as Kendrick Lamar echoed around the kitchen, that he wouldn’t be getting that tonight. So rather than let his newly exfoliated skin marinate in his (artfully tidy) room, Jihoon figured he could get his socialising hours in all in one night and sequester himself in the group study room later.
He allowed himself two scoops of the punch. It was a sickly green colour, chunks of fruit bobbing around the surface – Jihoon didn’t want to know which coma-inducing mixture of alcohol was in it. It was then that Jihoon registered a figure, lounged against the fridge, cupped in his hand a collection of fruit. Jihoon paused as he reached past him for a bottle of tonic. He was clocked and the figure turned to him, smiling.
“Hey,” they said. Their voice was soft, melodic, and their eyes crinkled into their cheeks as they smiled. “Punch too strong?”
Jihoon didn’t recognise them fully, but registered the fringes of them like some faded dream that he struggled to cling to. They were remarkably handsome: tanned skin and a lean frame, a thick, cozy jumper hiding anything else telling about their body. Jihoon figured they could be a rower, but his edges weren’t as rough as some of the athletes Jihoon knew at the university – this person was softer, almost manicured with a button nose, full, pink lips. A yellow beanie covered their hair spare some small, stylish tufts slipping out.
Jihoon slowly opened the bottle of tonic, letting it fizz out before cracking it open fully.
“Just a bit,” Jihoon lied. He hadn’t tried it yet, but he figured from the way that it was barely eleven o’clock and everyone was steaming drunk that it would be. He nodded to the fruit in their hand. “Doesn’t look like that bothers you, though.”
They looked down at their hand, then back at Jihoon with a crinkled brow.
Jihoon jammed a thumb towards the punch bowl.
“They from there?”
They nodded.
“They’re gonna be soaked in alcohol. Much more so than, like, anything else. I’m suprised they are edible.”
They picked up another strawberry and ate it in one with a gentle shrug. Jihoon watered down his drink heavily.
“I’m Josh, by the way,” they said. They stuck out a hand. “Joshua for long. Jisoo if you’re my mom.”
Jihoon shook Joshua’s hand. It was soft, pretty, his fingers long.
“I’m a friend of Wonwoo’s. We’re in Gothic Lit together.”
Literature student, Jihoon thought. He should have known – the humanities reeked off him.
“I’m Jihoon. I live here.” Jihoon took a sip of his drink. Even with the tonic it was bitter and burnt down his throat. “I’m not in Gothic Lit but I read Frankenstein when I was twelve and wrote fanfiction about it.”
Joshua laughed, a swell, breathless sound.
“Please, for the love of God, don’t say it was Victor x Frankenstein’s monster.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that theory.”
From behind Joshua, Soonyoung ducked into the fridge, the door now pushing Joshua a step closer to Jihoon. He smelt sweetly of tangerines and the unmistakable scent of Peach Schnapps. He took another step closer and Jihoon realised, as Joshua stumbled, that it probably wasn’t intentional. He reached out his hand to steady Joshua by the arms.
“Woah,” Jihoon mused. Despite the thickness of Joshua’s jumper (hazy geometric pattern permitting) Jihoon felt the distinct hardness of muscles. He tried not to think about it too much (was there gin in the punch? Jihoon didn’t function well on gin). “Lay off the fruit, huh?”
Joshua popped a blueberry into his mouth.
“Sorry, I don’t drink masses,” he admitted. “I mean technically I do drink every week, but that’s just wine and its just a sip and its in church. But, like, it’s strong wine.”
“Oh, Jesus came to party, huh?”
“Fuck yeah, Jesus loves the party.” Joshua ate a raspberry. Jihoon worried for his health. “So, what are you doing?”
“Me?” Jihoon replied. “I’m having a drink.”
Joshua smiled, breathing out a laugh.
“Your degree!”
Jihoon smiled back.
“Sorry, my bad. Good thing you weren’t asking what I am doing in general because who really knows?”
Joshua laughed again. It took Jihoon a moment to realise that every word out of his own mouth was an attempt to hear that laugh again.
“I’m doing Classics,” Jihoon contiued.
“Oh, so you’re amongst the mysterious people I see sequestered into that small corner in the library all the time?”
Jihoon grinned.
“Sometimes, for sure.”
“What’s it like? Being smarter than everyone.”
Jihoon held out his hands defensively. “Okay, listen, I know the reputation says pretentious, but—”
Joshua all but giggled, pretty little clipped intakes of breath that made Jihoon’s cheeks heat. (There had to be gin in the punch.)
“You’re quite funny, you know that?” Joshua said.
Jihoon rasied his eyebrows.
“Really? That’s odd, I’m not trying to at all.”
Joshua snickered and ate two strawberries at once. Jihoon worried for the way he wobbled.
“Do you want to go get some air?” Jihoon asked. “Do you smoke? We have a really tiny, shitty gazebo at the end of the garden we use as a smoking area.”
Joshua smiled. “Yeah, sure.” He began to look around. “I gave my lighter to my friend, hold on...”
Jihoon began to look around with him, turning his back.
“Well, I have one, so no...” Jihoon looked back at Joshua, or rather, the space where Joshua once was. He’d disapeared, like he was nothing but a hallucination. Jihoon looked around again, trying to spot that yellow beanie, the grandpa jumper but found nothing but a sea of unfamiliar bodies.
“Huh...” Jihoon muttered to himself. He considered, for the briefest of moments of looking for him, but if there was anything social Jihoon was well trained on, it was taking hints.
He finished his drink.
Jihoon decided his night was over roughly an hour later. A third of the party had migrated outside, alocholic hot flushes cooled by a November chill and the metallic tang of cigarette smoke. The music had merged from loud rap and pop to smoother, chiller RnB tracks, some bodies clustered together in the sitting room dancing. Jihoon figured, with ear plugs pushed in at the right angle, he could sleep through the noise well enough.
First, he’d take his revenge for the tortilla’d face cream out on Soonyoung and use only his expensive products. Their house was three floors, shared between eight people, and in times like this, people were often too drunk to make it to the top floor bathroom. Jihoon collected his small vengence of pots and tubes and squeezed past a couple making out on the stairs to the top of the house.
The bathroom door was locked. Jihoon dropped his head onto it with a thunk.
“Hello?” he called. There wasn’t any noise from within. “Hello?” he tried again. “You okay in there?”
Then there was the sound of running water, quiet grunts of effort. Jihoon scowled.
“There’s bedrooms here, you know?” He called, quietly adding, “No need to fuck in the sink.”
The water ran again, then stopped. Jihoon, mostly was confused before he was concerned. He knocked with his knuckles.
“Can you, like, stop? I need the bathroom.”
Then, from inside, a gentle, nearly whimpering voice.
“I’m sorry, I—I’ve almost cleaned it all...”
Jihoon tried the door again. Still locked.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Concern crept into the edges of his voice.
“I made a mess,” the voice replied. “I’m really sorry.”
Jihoon sighed and set down the skincare army.
“It’s okay,” he responded. “Open the door, I can help you out.”
Jihoon wanted to go to bed.
There was a moment of silence. The tap dripped, then the sound of shuffling. The lock clicked open. Jihoon pushed open the door a crack.
Joshua was on the bathroom floor. That was the first surprise. The second was that he was very clearly stoned out of his mind, if the potent scent of weed wasn’t indicator enough. The third was that, with blotchy skin and red wet eyes, it was obvious he was distressed, but also that he was laughing, somewhat uncontrollably (that was the most confusing). The fourth surprise was the undeniable, horrible smell of vomit.
Jihoon tried his best not to react as he stepped into the bathroom. Joshua had been sick, violently by the looks of it, into the bathtub. And he’d, very earnestly, tried to clean it. Clearly, he’d not gotten far.
“I’m so sorry,” Joshua all but sobbed. The relaxed, calm, soft guy standing in Jihoon’s kitchen was now gone, and in his place sat a hunched, shivering, shaking boy. “I tried to clear it, I’m so sorry.”
Jihoon rubbed his forehead and rolled up his sleeves.
“It’s okay,” he said. His eyes watered with the smell. “That’s okay, we can clear this up. Come on,” he crouched next to Joshua and pulled him up as gently as he could. “First, lets get you cleaned up.” He had Joshua stand at the sink, and wash his hands with warm, soapy water. “What happened?”
Joshua sat on the toilet, drying his hands as Jihoon crouched by the sink and fished through the cupboard. He found an old box dye kit and from it, fished out two pairs of crinkly plastic gloves. They would have to do.
“I got really drunk,” Joshua admitted with a sniff. “And I was outside and someone passed me a joint and I haven’t smoked weed in a really, really long time and then someone passed me another and then I...” he motioned out, wrists limp. “Sick.”
“Yeah, that I can see.” Jihoon turned then to the bathtub, hands on his hips. “Right,” he began. “Lets get to work.”
Thud.
Jihoon turned back. Joshua was slumped against the toilet roll holder, head hidden in the crook of his elbow. His body jittered with sobs.
“He wants me to dance,” he cried.
“Who?”
“Him,” Joshua heaved. “He’ll kill me if I don’t dance.”
Jihoon scratched his temple.
“It’s okay,” he replied. “The bathroom’s locked, no one will get you in here.” Jihoon had dealt with enough people greening in his three years at university. He’d been there himself once or twice. He’d kept a little notebook in his desk of all the memorable quotes from his friends once they’d astral projected to another plain of consciousness while high. He perused it time from time to remind himself that his own intoxicated experiences weren’t going to be the only ones brought up at the dinner party when he’s thirty.
“No no, you don’t understand,” Joshua continued. “He’s in my head. We have to dance.”
Jihoon figured he was on his own for this clean-up. He began to wash the bath out with the shower head.
“We?” Jihoon asked. “Me and you have to dance?” It was somewhat cruel but Jihoon knew this was somewhat for his own entertainment.
“Everyone,” Joshua said. His voice drooped low, mumbling quietly. “Everyone is connected.”
“Connected, huh?” Jihoon fished around the cabinet for the bleach and lathered it generously over the bath.
“Connected,” Joshua confirmed. “To the hive mind.”
“So a man in your head, who is also in everyone’s head, is going to kill you if you don’t dance?”
“Oh my god, is that God?” Joshua gasped. He began to cry harder. “He’s so fucking ugly.” Then, he began to fall. Jihoon scrambled to catch his shoulders and eased him down to the bathroom floor. Joshua curled up, muttered unintelligibly to himself for some minutes while Jihoon scrubbed the tub. Then, he began to snore.
Once Jihoon was done, he snapped off his gloves and tossed them. He stood over Joshua, and shamelessly admired how peaceful, if not slightly yellow in the face, he looked.
“Wonwoo,” Jihoon called then from the top of the stairs. Wonwoo appeared at the bottom, lemonade in hand, glasses down his nose. “Help.”
With their combined force, Joshua was lifted from the floor and carried down one flight of stairs to Jihoon’s bedroom on the second floor (Soonyoung’s room, the one at the top of the house, was occupied by Soonyoung himself and the coxswain who had eaten Jihoon’s face cream). Completely dead weight, Joshua was unceremoniously dumped on Jihoon’s neatly made bed.
“Do we undress him?” Wonwoo asked.
Jihoon frowned.
“While he’s unconcious? No, that’s weird.”
“Well...” Wonwoo pushed his glasses up his nose bridge. “His clothes do have vomit on them.”
Jihoon thought of his bedsheets and the smell of them tomorrow.
“You’re right... but still weird.”
Jihoon settled for taking off Joshua’s shoes and his socks and his jumper, leaving on his jeans and the plain white t-shirt underneath. He tried not to admire the way his biceps (bigger than Jihoon had anticipated) were hugged tightly by the cropped sleeve. He tucked Joshua in, up to his chin and took off his beanie also. The mop of brown hair stuck up in all directions. Jihoon felt his cheeks heat in an odd sense of endearment filled his chest.
Fetching a glass of water and pain killers from the kitchen, Jihoon left them on the bedside cabinet and then turned out the light. When he got back downstairs, most of the party had dispersed, relatively early, so Jihoon sat on the sofa, and waited to sleep.
The morning came with a blistering chill and a bright sun. Much too early for Jihoon’s preference, but as he woke, he realised he’d slept with his head on an empty vodka bottle and the stabbing pain in the joints were an unforgiving alarm clock. He woke to the stench of alcohol and vomit and the picture of his living room looking like a nuclear fall-out zone. Empty cups and glasses littered the surfaces; carpet with trodden food in it; the suspicious discoloured pool of...something over the wall. Jihoon took it in for a moment and decided the most pressing issue would be a cup of coffee before he started on it.
Jihoon took one look at the kitchen and decided he could spare a couple of dollars on the coffee from the bodega just this once. A treat after a hard week, he theorised. He’d donned his scraf and his coat when he paused at the bottom of the stairs, thinking. He listened. Silence, apart from the gentle snoring of the stranger sleeping on the first landing. Jihoon stepped over him on his way to the second floor where he stood outside it for a moment and listened again.
Silence.
He had enough money for two coffees if he got them small.
When Jihoon walked back into the house fourty-five minutes later he was struck again by the scent – but this time, not of sick and alcohol, but bleach and air freshener, jasmine and rose.
He popped his head into the living room and saw it spotless, then walked to the kitchen and saw it sparkling. Cleaner than it had ever been (as far as clean student houses could be). He could even see his own reflection in the metal of the sink.
It was then he registered the faint smell of bacon and the appearance of a tin foil covered plate by the sink. He set down the two lukewarm coffees on the counter next to a neatly folded up piece of paper, cursive handwriting reading Jihoon.
He picked it up and read.
Hi. I’m so sorry. Last night I was absolute state and I want you to know my head and my stomach are paying me back for it right now. I really, really, really can’t apologise enough. You looked after me so well, I figured the best thing I could do after you cleaned up my mess was help you with yours. I tried not to use up too much of your products so let me know if you want me to send you money for new ones. Also the food – I didn’t know what was yours so I grabbed whatever was in the fridge, so I can pay whoever back for that too.
I’m really sorry, again. But also thank you. You didn’t have to be so kind to me. But if you could do one more thing for me? Just do not contact me for at least two weeks from now, so I can at least try and forget how embarrassing I am.
When those two weeks are up though, give me a call J
Joshua
Under that was a hastily written phone number. Jihoon quickly added it to his contacts before he set down the note and checked under the tin foiled plate. In a delicious assortment sat fried bacon, scrambled eggs, two slices of toast and come cooked mushrooms, still steaming and warm. His gut twisted in hunger as he smelt the full ensemble, accompanied by a flutter of butterflies that danced through his chest into his throat and out through his mouth into a chuckle.
He picked his phone up and began to type a text only to hesitate then delete the paragraph a moment later. He typed then:
In two weeks I’ll innocently be having a drink at the student’s bar on campus at 7pm. Would be a horrible shame if I were to run into you there. I’d hate to make you embarrassed.
A reply came through a moment later.
What part of no contact for two weeks didn’t you understand? Now the Starbucks barista will think my face is naturally that red.
And then:
(I’ll be there to buy you a drink)
Jihoon grinned and began to eat.