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So. There's obviously something going on. Something—big, Jungho thinks. Can't quite put his finger on what exactly that something is but none of it adds up. That dinner of four, Yuri's badgering questions, Seonwoo's uncomfortable behavior—the fact that he ran into them together at this late hour, in a DVD store of all things.
(The way Seonwoo can suddenly handle his liquor. The worrying amounts he can gobble up until it takes effect.)
Yuri's insistence on taking his former teacher home on his own, when Jungho, Seonwoo's old friend, was right there and offering to take on that task.
Despite the innocent face he likes to show, Jungho doesn't think Yuri refused due to any simple reason. There had to have been some ulterior motive. What regular 21 year old would rather help his former drunk homeroom teacher that used to shame him by taking away his cigarettes than use the opportunity to make fun of him?
It's all so… fishy, is the best word to describe it.
Pushing his hand through his hair, his coat over his arm, Jungho considers talking it over with Heeju. It seems the obvious choice, since it involves her baby brother, after all. Her dear brother, who cares so much for her yet can't stand the sight of Jungho.
It's probably the right thing to do. Jungho's never been very good at reading between the lines, coming to conclusions by himself. And yet.
And yet—
Jungho sighs. Discards the idea as easily as it popped up. Yuri may be his brother-in-law, may be Heeju's one and only brother, but he's also already an adult. So is Seonwoo, for that matter.
He shouldn't meddle. Shouldn't force Heeju to meddle, either.
Yuri and Seonwoo are already waiting outside, sent out by Jungho while he settled the bill, in the vain hope that maybe some fresh air would sober Seonwoo up, at least a little.
With another sigh, Jungho steps outside. Looks around until his gaze catches on two figures barely hidden in the shadows of the restaurant's building. Is about to call them over, call out to them, hey, the driver's almost here, does Seonwoo feel any better?, joke, at least well enough so he won't throw up inside my car?, when he—stops mid-step.
Something's not right.
Seonwoo's hunched over, sobs barely audible, accompanied by these little hiccups Jungho's never, in all their years of friendship, has heard from Seonwoo.
And Yuri—his brother-in-law, the supposedly so diligent ex-student of his dear friend who seemed so concerned just moments ago, is just standing there, face blank and uncaring, like there's not a grown man bawling his heart out next to him. He's loosely holding onto Seonwoo's upper arm, though, if barely so, just enough pressure to keep him upright, keep him from falling on his ass. He's got a cigarette between his lips, the filter clutched between pointer and middle finger. Blows the smoke out lazily before he inhales again.
Jungho wonders. Can't help questioning what is going on. Just what happened in these five minutes between him sending them out and leaving himelf. Jungho breathes in. Steels himself. Is about to call out to them—
“Of course the smell is what stops your little pity-party.”
—Seonwoo, his otherwise so shy friend, suddenly clutches at Yuri's shoulders. His fingers dig in deep, a desperate hold meant to—what, hurt? Confront? But Yuri looks unconcerned. Bored, almost. Even when Seonwoo whirls him around and pushes him up against the restaurant’s wall, their chests flushed together. Yuri exhales again, directly into Seonwoo's face. Unlike Jingwoo expected, unlike how he himself, a consistent smoker, would have reacted, Seonwoo doesn't seem fazed by the action. Doesn't cough, doesn't even blink, makes not a single sound. There's only the tears still silently running down to his chin.
Yuri barks out a laugh, short and downright derisive. The smirk on his face is mean, the cigarette dangling between his fingers, the tip of it a bright star in the dark. “What, this again? Gonna use me as a substitute for your beloved again?” Seonwoo keeps mum. Jungwo wishes he would actually say something, anything at all, give Jungho some context clues for these world-shattering words of Yuri's—exactly what again? Substitute for what? What beloved? Seonwoo's never mentioned anything about—
Yuri cups Seonwoo's chin with his hand, pushes at his face until he's looking up at Yuri, utterly demure at being handled like this.
(Like he's used to it.)
Ignoring the way Seonwoo's still clutching at him, Yuri puts the cigarette against his lips. Inhales, but keeps his mouth shut tightly without exhaling. And it's then, in that in-between moment of being distracted by something so mundane, when Jungho's kept busy by the foolish question of why Yuri's not exhaling, that it happens. Without a word of warning, without any breadcrumbs left behind for Jungho to pick up—
Seonwoo surges forward, head tilted. Eyes screwed shut, tears leaking out through closed lids. And he—
Presses his mouth against Yuri's closed one. Their lips slanting together almost as if they—
As if
As
As if they've done this before, his mind helpfully supplies.
It's a short thing. A glad-to-see-you-kiss. A see-you-soon-kiss. A welcome-home-kiss. No tongue, no teeth, just two open mouths slanted together perfectly, one pair of eyes closed, the other wide open.
There's smoke dwindling in the space between their previously joined mouths when they part. Yuri's gaze is unmoved, like he didn't just kiss a man nine years his senior—his ex-teacher, for heaven's sake—in a public space where anyone could have seen. Could have seen, revealed them, uploaded it to social media, and by the gods, shouldn't Seonwoo know better? How a picture of this could ruin his career as a teacher, his future chances of getting a permanent contract?
While Jungho doesn't agree with those old-fashioned views, parents, even these days, won't accept their kids having a gay teacher. Even if it was a one-time-thing—a drunken accident. Nevermind the fact that his choice of partner's his ex-student, of all people.
Jungho swallows hard. Feels his mind grow hazy. He's not good at these things. Heeju's always been the emotionally attuned one between the two of them, and—god, Heeju. Selfishly, he wishes she was here, is only glad that she isn't because he doesn't know how she would handle seeing her beloved brother in a compromising situation like this.
Seonwoo's eyes are still closed, hands now fisting the lapels of Yuri's jacket. He's sobbing again, again, again and again, mumbles and mutters and sobs out, says,
.
.
.
Says Jungho’s name. A broken murmur, a helpless whisper, and if Jungho wasn't confused before, he definitely is now, dread heavy in his chest.
Yuri rolls his eyes. Grabs at Seonwoo's fists twisting the fabric of his jacket, pulls his hands off but doesn't let go of them once his jacket's freed. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, unfazed. “I'm Jungho. Sure. Like the other times. It's not like it's the first time that you call out his name when you're getting it on with another guy.”
Seonwoo just sobs harder, doesn't reply, these little sounds of uhn and ghg and hhah
And Yuri's simply... gazing at Seonwoo like this entire situation doesn't concern him. Like their lips weren't pressed together only moments ago. He doesn't wipe Seonwoo's tears, doesn't whisper reassuring words, only stares and stares and stares and it's downright creepy how he keeps his eyes on Seonwoo's face, barely blinking.
Maybe Jungho should just leave. It's taking the coward's way out, but he's not—he can't—he can't do this, right now. Can't process anything with Yuri and Seonwoo right there, not confronted with that one world-shattering call of his own name. He has to leave, has to—get his thoughts straight before he can confront Seonwoo.
He's about to turn in the other direction and call the driver-for-hire to tell him his services aren't needed after all, when there's another shout of his name behind him. It's not Seonwoo this time. Neither is it Yuri.
It's the driver-for-hire, bored face and an obvious lack of enthusiasm, and generally, Jungho wouldn't think ill of a stranger, but he bites his tongue, neck instantly flying toward the two shadows stark against the restaurant's wall. It feels like centuries until Yuri raises his head, turns it in the direction of Jungho and the driver. He's always been a quick thinker. Only takes a single look at the emotions chasing each other on Jungho's face before he breaks out into a grin, viscous and this side of manic. He looks down at his chest, where Seonwoo's head is leaning against, the older man still sobbing like a child, albeit silently, now.
“Uh-oh,” Yuri says, voice entirely disinterested, “seems like your little sweetheart caught us.”
Seonwoo looks up at that, his face glistening in the shady light of the streetlamp. He looks completely, utterly horrified.
“Seonwoo—” Jungho starts, takes a step toward them, wants to reassure his friend, tell him—what exactly, he's not sure, but he has to fix this, he can't be the one to have put this heart-wrenching look on Seonwoo's face.
But before he can even come close to them, hand reaching out, meant to comfort, Seonwoo just—crumbles. Slumps against Yuri, who puts his arms around Seonwoo like he expected something like this.
(Again, like he's used to it.)
Looking down at Seonwoo in his arms, then at Jungho's flabbergasted face and back at Seonwoo, Yuri barks out a laugh. Says, a mix between giddy and incredulous, “Yeah, sure, why not. Just pass out and leave me to clean up your fucking mess. Not like it's the first time or anything.”
The atmosphere in the car's so stifling, you could cut it with raw-bitten fingernails. Jungho's hands are on his thighs, clutching the fabric of his trousers, gaze resolutely set to look out of the front window.
He snuck a look before, though, so he knows while Yuri's sitting upright on the left side of the backseat, he's laid Seonwoo out, his head in Yuri's lap, legs cramped together on the right seat.
He didn't want this. Didn't want any of this. Didn't want Seonwoo to faint, didn't want Yuri to break the peace between them, fake as it may have been this whole time.
Didn't want to confront—this, them— like this.
(Didn't want to confront it at all.)
Steels himself. Hardens his resolve. Knuckles going white.
“Yuri, I'm aware you've never liked me—”
“Wo-hooooow,” Yuri says, whistles. “Mr. Lee got drunk off his ass, bawled his eyes out and fainted right in front of you, and you're still trying to make this about me? Never expected you to be this cruel to your precious college buddy.” Turning his face toward the trying-not-to-listen-yet-obviously-failing driver, Yuri says, “Are you hearing this shit, man? What has friendship between men come to? Do they no longer adhere to bros before hoes?”
“Seonwoo's a 30 year old man with a stable income and home. He can take care of himself. You, on the other hand—”
Yuri laughs, loud and boisterous, a hint of ridicule in it. It makes Jungho flinch despite himself.
“Take care of himself?!” He laughs again, shorter and darker, this time. “Shit, you actually believe the bullshit you're spouting, don't you? You think getting smashed every night until he's unconscious and letting himself get fucked by random guys in hotels while he's imagining it's your dick getting him off is taking care of himself?”
Jungho flinches again. Flicks his eyes toward the driver who looks purposefully stone-faced.
“Yuri—Yuri, you can't just say things like that.”
“What, can't stand hearing the truth? Don't wanna face reality? Well cry me a fucking river, I didn't like you marrying my sister, either, yet here we fucking are. Jesus. What do they even see in you? You're nothing but a pathetic, oblivious as all hell regular old Joe. And yet, they—”
“Yuri!”
“—can't help themselves, can they? I don't see it. Can't fucking fathom it—”
“Yuri, just, please—”
“How could they have fallen in love with a fool like you?”
“Shut up!”
Jungho's breathing so heavily, he can feel a cough bubble up inside of him. Yuri looks stunned, if only for a second, and he's not alone. Nevermind the way the driver shrinks dangerously low into his seat—Jungho's surprised at himself. He's never before—he's never shouted at anyone, ever. Has never lost his temper.
But Yuri's entire attitude this night just chipped and chipped and chipped away at Jungho's serene patience, and how could he stay calm when he insinuated—when he said his friend—
“I know you're unhappy with me, Yuri,” Jungho says helplessly, “but you shouldn't slander your teacher like that just to get back at me.”
At his words, Yuri looks even more stunned than before, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. Jungho thinks it's because he calmed down so quickly, that Yuri's not used to inflating anger considering the way his father is around him.
He could not have been more wrong.
There's a sly smirk on Yuri's face. A foreboding feeling in Jungho's gut when he sees it. Yuri exhales on a little oh, chuckles lighty. “Oh, my god. This is rich. You think I'm lying. Are you so blinded by this false comfort of camaraderie that you can't even—” Yuri chuckles again, sticks his hand into his jacket pocket. Fiddles around until he retrieves his hand, his pack of cigarettes dangling from his fingers. Pushes it forward between the space of the front seats, and even the faux-casual driver sneaks a glance at it.
Jungho stares. Doesn't understand what the sudden gesture means.
“Yuri, you know you can't smoke in th—”
“Shut up. Shut up, and for once in your life, take a good, hard look at reality and think for your fucking self. I'm bored of telling you facts you refuse to accept as truth.”
Unwittingly, Jungho does stare at the pack of cigarettes, the blue box with the familiar scrawling of characters down the side.
It's the same brand Jungho smokes. He realizes that much.
But he doesn't know why—can't comprehend—doesn't want to—
“A barely illuminated room, two boys on a couch,” Yuri boredly drawls, like he's an unenthusiastic lead in a high school play reciting lines he cannot be bothered to remember. “Running TV, a pack of cigarettes. One gets lit, the other touches the lit end of the first one. Boom,” Yuri makes jazz hands, eyes wide, innocent facade back on his face, “Sparks. Fucking. Flying.”
Jungho doesn't even have to ask him to elaborate. Yuri does so without pause, seems to relish in the miserable look on Jungho's face. He puts his hand on Seonwoo's face, draws his fingers through Seonwoo's sweaty strands of hair before he continues, “There's a reason why he's so hot and bothered the minute he smells your fucking cigarettes, and there's a reason he called your fucking name when he was kissing me. Do us both—screw that, do all four of us a favor and stop deluding yourself for your own comfort. The only one happy will be you. Which is fine, too, but don't pretend to care for him when you willingly take his word at face value on whether he's doing fine or not.”
When you can't even see through his lies. When you ignore them, even if you do actually realize them for what they are.
Yuri doesn't have to say those words, not when Jungho's being telling them to himself every time he picks up his phone to call Seonwoo.
Don't let him off the hook this time, confront him this time, don't falter like a little sissy this time, words he's told himself before hanging up with a good to hear you're doing well once again.
He's always known there was something wrong. Something Seonwoo didn't—wouldn't—couldn't tell him.
He never expected it to be this bad.
“Sorry to interrupt, uh. Sirs. But we've arrived at the first destination.”
Like a switch flipped, Yuri springs into action, lightly slaps Seonwoo's face with the palm of his hand.
“Mr. Lee. Mr Lee. Mister—wake up, Mr. Lee. Jesus, you really like doing this thing where I call your name like a million times and you still won't wake up, don't you?”
Seonwoo's eyes blink open blearily, eyelashes stark against his pale skin, and once again Jungho's reminded how wilfully blind he must have been not to realize how far his friend's body has deteriorated since—
(Since before his wedding.)
Blinking slowly, Seonwoo looks up at Yuri. Opens his mouth to say, “Jun—” but Yuri forcefully slaps his hand over his mouth, muffles his words. There's something—something in Yuri's eyes, something indecipherable, and honestly, Jungho no longer has the energy to care what that is about as well. He feels so, so drained.
“It's Yuri, Mr. Lee. Jungho's in the front seat, though.”
Another lazy blink. Then another. Until Seonwoo keeps his eyes shut entirely and nestles his head against Yuri's clothed thigh.
“You've gotta be—fucking, shit. Alright. So it's one of those days,” Yuri mutters under his breath, angrily opens the car door to slide out of his seat, Seonwoo's head falling against the upholstery.
Jungho gets out as well, nervously glances at the still closed car door. “Yuri, let me—”
Yuri rounds the car, forcefully opens the car door. Sticks his upper body inside and grabs at Seonwoo, forces him upright, an arm around Seonwoo's shoulders.
“No fucking need,” he tells Jungho without looking.
I didn't need your help the other times. It's too late now. What can your presence even do at this point, besides ruin even more?
Jungho doesn't know which one it is. Fears it's all of the above.
So he quietly steps back, lets Yuri, arm wrapped around Seonwoo's waist, pass by him without a word.
But Yuri wouldn't be Yuri if he didn't have one last punch to the gut left. He seems to live for every miserable little thing that could destroy Jungho.
Truly the revelations of twenty-minute-car-rides.
Eyes innocently opened, lips curled into a pleasant smile, cruel in its deceitfulness.
“Thanks for getting us home, brother-in-law. I hope you have a restful sleep.” He nods his head as if in a bow, before he turns himself and Seonwoo around, staggers toward the entrance of the apartment complex.
Jungho's left standing alone in the cold, heart drenched and worldview shattered.
The driver, still in the car, leans over the passenger seat. Consolation heavy in the wrinkles of his face as he says, “Sheesh, that's rough, buddy.”
