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Jihoon has grown to resent alcohol advertisements. He resents the smiles painted on the faces of the actors as they clink their bottles together merrily. He resents the beach and the sunset in the backdrop, the cheerful glow radiating over a slice of lime. He resents the crystalline bottles that bend the light into complex shards of rainbow and the shots showcasing how gorgeous the liquid looks cascading into a glass, how gorgeous you’ll feel once you’ve had a sip. He resents the smooth music that ties it all together at the end and the smooth voice describing what a feeling, what a wonderful feeling it is to drink up and have fun. He resents them because they don’t show the side he’s come to know so well.
And of course they wouldn’t. He knows that. Of course they wouldn’t conjure the image of a man drinking all by himself, alone in a too-large house that was always meant for a minimum of two. Of course they wouldn’t show the dead look that creeps into that man’s sunken eyes when he’s trying to tie himself together with trickles of fluid, patch up holes with drop after bitter drop. Of course they wouldn’t show the way that man lets his life turn to a pathetic little pity party centered around nothing but the consumption of alcohol because he’s got no one around to stop him from letting it happen.
If that was the side they chose to show, how would they make their money? How would they keep themselves in business? How would they keep producing so Jihoon could keep drowning himself to forget why he needs to? So that gives him two reasons to resent them: they don’t tell the whole truth, and because they don’t tell the whole truth, he’s able to keep living on the darker side of the bottle. It’s a tragedy, he thinks as he tips another drink back down his throat. Everything tastes like bile, but he doesn’t care. As long as it helps him forget, he doesn’t care if it tastes like death itself.
He doesn’t always forget, though, even if he tries. He doesn’t always watch his vision blur before he thinks about how Junhui wouldn’t have let this happen, how Junhui would die if he knew, would do anything to stop it. But would he? Jihoon knocks another drink back and tries not to think about whether Junhui would care enough to stop him if he were still around. After all, it’s Junhui’s fault.
Junhui had broad shoulders and a strong back. He was a landing ground, a safe haven, the only place Jihoon had to return to. He was a roof when the rain wouldn’t let up and a life raft when the rivers flooded. He was strong arms that could lift everything off Jihoon’s shoulders, hold him together when he thought the wind might tear him apart, keep him close when his mind tried to be far. He was home and warmth and everything beautiful in the world, and he was the last thing Jihoon was prepared to say goodbye to but the first thing he was forced to bid adieu.
He always told Jihoon not to worry. “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d tell him. “I’ll be around until you’re sick of me.” His voice was warm, the glowing embers of a fireplace, a thick wool scarf. Jihoon never wanted to do anything but believe him even when his brain wouldn’t let him. “I’ll be here forever,” he used to say, that achingly mesmerizing twinkle in his eyes and that charming lilt in his voice.
But forever is a wide word, one filled with so many countless promises. Jihoon knows that now. He knows he was so foolish to think he was lucky enough to fall into forever, so naïve to let himself believe he was anywhere near good enough for Junhui to stick around. He knows and he knows and he knows. His bed has turned into an ocean, vast and deep and lonely, and he can’t remember how to swim back to shore; he sleeps on the couch now because he knows his boat isn’t coming back to save him.
Two days ago, Jihoon ran out of alcohol, so in a rare change of events, he isn’t drinking tonight. Typically, he runs out to replenish his supply before that euphoric numbness starts to wane, but recently, he’s too overcome by the crushing fear of being seen by anyone to step foot out of the house for any reason other than going to work. He knows he’s more than pitiful to look at, a mess of a man bundled up in unkempt garb and desperate for a buzz to take his mind off things, and he doesn’t want the pity of random strangers lurking in the aisles at the liquor store any more than he wanted Junhui to leave him in the first place.
Being at home, though, isn’t much better. It’s too empty when he’s the only one there, a vacuum of silence and darkness, cold walls and floors that laugh at him while he does nothing but stare at the TV from over the top of a bottle. He should never have agreed to buying a house—it was too big for just the two of them even from the beginning—but Junhui had wanted it so badly, a place that they could really call theirs, and Jihoon was never good at telling him no.
“I love it,” Junhui’d said the day they moved in. “God, I love it so much, Jihoon. It’s perfect.” Jihoon liked looking at him more than at the house itself, but he tore his eyes away anyway to take in the soft gray carpets and eggshell walls. It wasn’t what the vast majority would call a luxury home, but the way Junhui spun around in wonder sure made it seem luxurious.
“I hope you love it enough to be paying it off for the next fifteen years,” Jihoon had told him. The way Junhui’s eyes shone when he turned them to Jihoon still haunts him when he tries to fall asleep.
“You bet I do,” he’d said in that warm way of his, wrapping and arm around Jihoon’s shoulder and tugging him in. Jihoon always hated how his shoulder almost tucked right into Junhui’s armpit, but never enough to stop himself from being pulled in close. “Wanna know something, Jihoon?” he’d hummed, low and melodic.
“Lay it on me.”
“I almost can’t believe how lucky I am,” he said, leaning his head over to rest atop Jihoon’s. “I love you so much, and I can’t believe life is allowed to be this good.” Jihoon’s arm snaked around his side to give him a squeeze.
I feel the same. He thinks he said it back; at least, he thought he said it at one point. I love you, too. He wants to believe he said it aloud, but he can’t recall that moment as clearly as he once could. More than the world. All the hard liquor he’s had in the past month has done a terrific job of making him forget nothing but the things he’d really like to hang onto.
As he blinks lazily, eyes fixed on the television screen but unsure what they’re seeing, he realizes he doesn’t remember the last time he showered, realizes he can feel the grime on his skin, grime that goes deeper than the dermis and straight through everything he’s got inside, grime that makes him feel sicker and sicker every time he takes a breath. He heaves himself from the cushions and shuffles over mussed carpet with his bare feet. Stray crumbs and bits of debris brush his soles with each step, and he knows he needs to vacuum, but he just can’t bring himself to care about the state of the carpet.
When he gets to the master bathroom and strips his clothes off, he really feels how cold it is in the house, how he’s neglected to turn the heat on despite the declining outdoor temperatures because Junhui was always the one who did it and a warm house doesn’t feel right without him in it. Everything in this room is cold: the tiled floor, the marble countertop, the metal bar holding a stiff towel. Coldest of all is the large mirror making up most of the wall, and Jihoon doesn’t need to lay a finger on it to know.
The version of himself that he sees in the mirror isn’t a man he’s very fond of seeing. He looks haggard, barely alive, no more than a costume of himself draped tiredly over an impostor desperate for disguise. His skin looks like worn out upholstery, his eyes like unpolished glass, hair like frayed plastic fibers. He hates what he sees, and he hates that he can’t tell the difference between who he’s seeing now and who he saw a month ago, that the sight before him makes it so clear why Junhui left.
More than anything, he hates that stupid tattoo, right above his heart. A little flower, maybe the size of a quarter, purple and beautiful and wonderfully unfaded despite all the sunburns it’s been through. He can’t stand to look at it. If only he could scrub hard enough to wash it away or scrape that one piece of skin off so he never has to see it again, he thinks. But even if he somehow could, he knows he wouldn’t; even if it does nothing but remind him of everything he doesn’t have anymore, he still loves it.
“Let’s get matching tattoos,” Junhui had suggested one day as they sat eating dinner. Jihoon paused around a mouthful of broccoli, glancing up from his plate to his partner with uncertainty. He wasn’t quite sure whether he’d see seriousness or one of those goofy grins Junhui always pulled when he was just joking, but it didn’t look to be the second thing.
“Seriously?” he asked once he got the broccoli down.
“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “I’ve already got one picked out for you.”
“What is it?” It always made more sense for Jihoon to operate under the assumption that whatever Junhui wanted was going to happen, because more often than not, that was the case.
“A lilac,” Junhui told him, tracing a finger over the left side of his chest, right under his collarbone, “right here.” Jihoon poked his fork around thoughtfully at the broccoli still sitting on his plate. (“Look at this vegetable steamer!” Junhui had said a week prior, kicking down the door in his excitement. “It’s so cool! You can just steam broccoli like nobody’s business!” They had steamed broccoli every night for three weeks after that.)
“Why a lilac?” he asked eventually.
“Because they’re my favorites,” Junhui said with a shrug, “and they’re beautiful, and you’re beautiful, and I think it would look good on you.” Jihoon sighed softly, resting his fork on the plate. “You can pick out whatever you want for me,” Junhui cooed, “but I really want you to get a lilac.”
“What if it hurts?”
“If it hurts,” Junhui slid his hand across their small table and joined it with Jihoon’s, entwining their fingers, “I’ll be there, and you can squeeze the life out of my hand if you need to.” He rubbed his fingertips behind Jihoon’s knuckles like he was waiting for something.
“I guess you can get a chrysanthemum in the same spot then,” he conceded, “since I like them the best.” The way Junhui smiled made it seem like mums were actually his favorite to begin with, and Jihoon couldn’t help grinning back.
He still remembers exactly what it looks like, a pinky orange bloom with a vibrant yellow center. He still remembers how many times Junhui had said, “Oh my god, thank you, it’s so beautiful,” after they got it done. He still remembers how warm his lips had been on his that night. He still remembers everything about that day. Thank you, too. But he doesn’t remember that. For everything you do, for everything you are. He can never remember if he said it like he should have.
The water feels lukewarm at best even if Jihoon can hardly see through the steam and his skin is starting to dye red where the scalding water hits him. Massaging the shampoo into his scalp is only therapeutic until he remembers how much Junhui had always liked to ruffle his hair, how much he’d grown to love it, too. He’s sure the droplets streaming down his face aren’t all coming from the showerhead, but he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t notice anyway.
Even though he knows he’s clean, something somehow still gives the feeling that he’s coated in a layer of muck when he steps back out of the shower, tile frigid against the bottoms of his feet. The headache now pounding behind his ears isn’t doing much to calm his thoughts, and he drapes a scratchy towel over his head to block out the too-bright lights that he can’t bear to see. His skin prickles up against the cold, but Jihoon can’t bring himself to do anything to stop it. After what feels like hours, he shuffles to start redressing himself, a thin night shirt and sweatpants well overdue for a wash, and slinks back out to the sofa, the only part of the house he still treats like a home.
It takes a few seconds for the unusual chime of the doorbell to register on his ears.
“Jihoon,” Junhui had whispered, “I love you more than anything.” Jihoon had been a single breath from saying it back when he continued with, “But I don’t think you love me.”
“What?” was all he could find the air to say in response. They’d been sitting on the couch watching the news, Jihoon curled up in Junhui’s side like usual, and he shifted away to look him in the face. The bitter sadness in his eyes stung like splinters of ice in Jihoon’s skin, and even though Jihoon knew he needed to look at it, he couldn’t.
“You don’t love me like I love you,” and it was an assertion then, not just a speculation, even if Jihoon knew it was false. But I do love you. His mouth never said what it needed to.
“Why are you saying that?” he asked instead. “Why are you doing this?”
“Isn’t it true?” It’s not. “If you want me to leave, I will, Jihoon.” I don’t. “I don’t want to make you unhappy.” You won’t.
“We have a house, Junhui,” he said instead. “A life. You can’t just…”
“I can if you need me to.” He pressed his lips into a hard line, eyes watery and shiny and much too far from the glimmer that made Jihoon love looking into them. “Be honest. Are you tired of me?” I could never be.
“I’m tired of discussing this,” he told him instead, because he wanted these words gone and this stuffy air out and to fall back into Junhui’s arms right then. That wasn’t what happened, though, because that was the wrong thing to say. Junhui got up and left, and Jihoon hasn’t heard his voice since, and maybe this was all his fault to begin with.
It’s been so long since he’s had a visitor that he’s forgotten what the doorbell sounds like. It’s a bit of a weird sort of note, and all it is now is an aching reminder of the man who pointed that out, the man who always used to answer the door because Jihoon he knew didn’t like to do it. He thinks maybe he’ll just ignore it—all the lights are off except the one coming from the television, and there’s no way whoever it is can tell anybody’s home—but it rings again and again and again, and he tells himself that he may as well act like the adult he’s supposed to be and answer it.
He doesn’t want to raise his own hopes, trick himself into thinking he’ll see Junhui there when he opens the door, but it’s hard not to when he’s got no idea who else it could be at this hour, no idea who else could be on a mission to see the saddest man on earth. He trudges over freezing hardwood toward the front door, flicking on a light as he goes, and the soles of his feet are nearly numb by the time he steps on the welcome mat that’s not as straight as it should be. He steels himself against the inevitability of finding Junhui behind the door so he won’t be disappointed when he opens it. Once the mental wall has been erected, he grabs the doorknob and swings it open.
Only to have the mental wall bulldozed and razed to the ground, because who could it be standing outside his door but the single good thing in his life that had walked out just a month ago, the only sight in the world he would ever want to see? Junhui looks half frozen to death in a knit hat and a soft turtleneck sweater that Jihoon knows is his favorite, and Jihoon would pull him into his arms if he thought he could do it.
“Did you get rid of your key?” is the first thing Jihoon thinks to ask. Junhui’s breath leaves puffy echoes of clouds on the air when he speaks.
“No,” he says, and Jihoon could burst into tears over one syllable. He’s listened through every album he owns twice, but nothing compares to that sound. “But I thought you would’ve changed the locks.”
“I didn’t.” He hadn’t even thought to. There were a lot of things he hadn’t thought to do, a lot of things he’d only ever think to do if Junhui brought them up. They stare at each other for a long while, Junhui’s hands shoved into his pockets and Jihoon’s toes freezing in the face of the breeze coming in from outside. He’s not sure whether he should be relieved or scared, and Junhui’s face isn’t giving him any hints.
“Can I come inside?” Junhui says at last, and Jihoon steps aside to usher him in.
“It’s your house, too.”
Jihoon feels weird guiding Junhui through the house like he’s a guest, almost sick to his stomach, but he leads him to the kitchen anyway since he doesn’t know where else to go or why Junhui’s even here. Maybe he really is just dreaming, hopefully dreaming, fast asleep already at the hands of a liquor lullaby. His toes are so cold, though, that he has reason to believe he’s awake.
“It’s freezing in here, Jihoon,” Junhui says once they’ve sat down, exhaling into his hands to warm them up. They’re seated opposite each other just like they always used to be at dinner. Junhui always used to reach across to take Jihoon’s hand, but he doesn’t look like he’ll be doing that right now. “Don’t you turn the heat on?”
“No,” Jihoon says flatly. His eyes are stinging and he knows exactly why, but he pretends he can’t feel it. “You can turn the heat on if you want.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Yeah.” Junhui looks at him oddly, a slight frown on his lips.
“I guess this is fine, then,” he says, and Jihoon can’t understand it as anything but I’m leaving again.
“Are you going to…” he begins, but he doesn’t have the energy to finish it. “Are you just here,” he gulps, taps his fingers on the tabletop nervously, “to get the rest of your things?”
That has to be it, and Jihoon doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him sooner. Junhui had left just about everything behind, all but a single suitcase he packed in haste. He still had soap in the shower, still had clothes in the closet, still had pictures hanging on the walls. Things that made it hard for Jihoon to look anywhere in his own home but at the TV, things too precious to be thrown away. Junhui levels his gaze, and his eyes don’t look as calm as they should.
“No,” he says after an eon. “I thought you would’ve gotten rid of it all.”
“It’s your stuff,” Jihoon tells him tiredly, the final word cracking in his throat. He looks down at the tabletop intently because he hates crying more than anything and looking into Junhui’s eyes isn’t steering him in a good direction. “If that’s not it, why are you here?”
“Look, Jihoon, I…” There’s a wobble creeping into his voice when he talks this time, and Jihoon has to look at him but he also can’t, so he shifts his eyes to Junhui’s hands instead of his face. They’re tightly clasped and shaking. Jihoon wonders if it’s just the cold. “I know you don’t want to see me anymore, but I just…” A sob tears him down for a moment. “I miss you. And I didn’t know what to do.”
“Don’t say that,” Jihoon mutters. He snaps his eyes back to Junhui’s and they’re wide and confused, a little tired and a little wet.
“What?” His tongue stumbles over it, and Jihoon knows well enough that this is what he always looks like when he’s about to cry, but he can’t think of a reason Junhui has to cry. He doesn’t want to turn himself into that reason again.
“Don’t say that I don’t want to see you,” he says, and every word is a chore to get out around the lump in his throat, “because there’s nothing else I want to do.” Don’t cry, he tells himself, but he still feels a few tears make their debut on his cheeks. “I more than miss you, Junhui. This house is hell without you in it.”
“Jihoon,” he whispers.
“I haven’t done a thing since you left,” he continues, fingernails hitting the wood with sharp clicks. “I haven’t swept. I haven’t done laundry. I haven’t vacuumed. I haven’t even turned on the damn heat.” A heavy breath slides through his lips, tremulous and aching. “I haven’t done a thing but go to work and come home and drink myself unconscious on the couch.” Worry spikes in Junhui’s expression, and his hand snakes across the table to cover Jihoon’s. “I haven’t slept in our bed, Junhui. I can’t even look at my own skin without thinking of you, and I would do anything if it means you’ll come back.”
“But you—” He cuts himself off abruptly. “Why didn’t you ever call me?”
“I didn’t think you would want to talk to me,” Jihoon explains. “Since you left.”
“But I only… I only left because—”
“I know,” Jihoon sighs. “I know it’s my fault. Because I don’t… Because I’m not…” He struggles to find the phrase. “I’m not good enough for you. To you.” Junhui opens his mouth to interject but closes it again, rubbing circles on the back of Jihoon’s hand with his thumb. “But I love you more than anything, Junhui. I mean it. I love you so much, and that’s not going to change.” He drops his face into his free hand to wipe at stray tears and disguise the fresh ones starting to squeeze out. “I thought I would never see you again, and I would rather die than live knowing that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and Junhui’s grip on his other hand tightens. “I can’t take care of myself if I don’t have you to help me want to. Please say you’ll come back.”
“Of course,” he breathes. “Of course I will. You know I want to, Jihoon, but are you… sure you want me to come back?”
“There isn’t one thing I want more.” He expels a rush of air that makes him realize his lungs haven’t been running up to par since the last time he saw Junhui’s face. “I need you to come back,” he says, and there go the rest of his tears, undammed and hot, dripping clean off his face and onto the table below. His eyes squeeze shut in a futile effort to stop them, and they’re still closed when he feels a pair of arms around him, big and strong, just like he remembers. That only strengthens the flow, and he knows he’s soaking right through Junhui’s sweater, but he can’t find it in himself to care because he’s too overwhelmed at the feeling of being wrapped in Junhui’s embrace again, an embrace he thought he’d already felt for the last time.
“I’m here,” he whispers, low and soft, and Jihoon’s body tries to tense up and relax at the same time. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and it’s so familiar and scary that Jihoon can’t help but let his chest heave around a hard sob. It feels like he’s got rocks sitting at the bottom of his lungs, and he needs Junhui to hold him until they go away.
“I need you to mean that,” he mutters into Junhui’s chest, arms reaching desperately to clutch at the man before him, fingertips almost poking through where the gaps between stitches in his sweater are worn a little too wide, a miniscule hint of that skin he loves so much. “Even if it’s my fault,” he continues around another sob, “I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave again.”
“I won’t,” Junhui hums, but it’s rough and wobbly because he’s started crying, too, and Jihoon could almost laugh if he were anywhere near in the mood. “I swear to god.” For all the swearing Junhui used to do, he hadn’t been known to do it much to god, and Jihoon hopes (to god) it means something good.
Junhui pulls back into a squat beside Jihoon’s chair and wipes away the tears on Jihoon’s face before bothering with his own. He looks good even if his eyes are puffy from crying and there’s snot crusted on his sweater, and his fingers are feathery and light as they sweep tiny droplets of water over his cheeks. Jihoon wants to close his eyes, but his concept of object permanence has been a little shaky lately, so he keeps them open to make sure Junhui doesn’t evaporate into the recesses of his mind, a drunken dream gone forever. Junhui laughs a sad little chuckle through his teeth, finally lifting a thumb to wipe under his own lashes.
“I promise I won’t disappear,” he says, running a hand through Jihoon’s still damp hair. Jihoon almost starts crying again because he never expected having a hand in his hair would bring him so much relief, but he holds it in because his eyes already hurt and he doesn’t want to destroy all of Junhui’s hard work. Without warning, his teeth start chattering.
“Will you turn the heat on?” he whimpers softly. He feels like a kid, helpless and weak, but Junhui’s always made it seem like it’s fine for him to be helpless and weak if he needs to be, so he just stares back with wide eyes as his hair is ruffled.
“Do I have to be the one to turn it on?” he asks mischievously, and that’s the man he’s in love with. That’s the man whose arms are bridges to a better place, whose smile is a canoe for the whitewater rapids. That’s the man whose eyes shine like the sun in the middle of the night and whose laugh is a symphony all on its own. That’s the man his heart knows is home, and he’s so glad to have a home again.
“You always turn it on,” Jihoon tells him, a little bit of a smile starting to come back to his facial muscles. It feels foreign, but he’s willing to readjust to the sensation.
“I guess that’s true,” Junhui concedes, rising to his full height and extending a hand to Jihoon. Jihoon envelops it in his own, ten frozen knuckles all knotted together, and follows Junhui to the thermostat, where he kicks it up to a temperature that’s bound to get uncomfortable.
“I love you,” Jihoon says as they stand there, hands linked, waiting for the heat to kick on and the tiles under their feet to get a little warmer. Junhui squeezes his hand just slightly in response, shuffling no more than an inch closer. Warmth radiates from the center of his chest.
“I love you, too,” Junhui says, and he laughs when Jihoon says it back again, golden and sharp.
I love you. Jihoon knows he’s saying it this time because he can hear it on his ears, feel how right it is rolling off his tongue. I love you. The more he says it, the more Junhui laughs, but it doesn’t stop him from returning the sentiment every time, gracing Jihoon’s ears with the rich timbre he calls home. I love you. It doesn’t sound like words anymore, but Jihoon has so many missed opportunities to catch up on, so many times he let pass that deserve what they’re due, so he keeps repeating it over and over, less like a broken record and more like a perfectly good one with a single extremely short track.
They stand there until the heat’s got blood pumping through their veins again, and Jihoon keeps saying it. He’ll say it until his lips get tired and his throat goes raw and his words don’t even register anymore. He’ll say it when the walls fall down and the roof caves in and the doors rust off their hinges. Junhui’s still saying it back, but his throat must be getting sore, because he pulls Jihoon in until their lips meet, sweet and steady, eyelids fluttering shut. Jihoon guesses this is a way to say it, too, and it might be his preferred method, but once their lips part, he’ll say it in words again anyway.
One more time, just to make sure.