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Donghyuck’s ashes fit in a wooden box the size of a bread loaf. When Jaemin downloads Donghyuck’s life statement, it occupies just a few megabytes.
It was a shock. Donghyuck lived faster and louder than anyone Jaemin knew, but Jaemin wouldn’t have said Donghyuck spent his life balance unwisely. Donghyuck’s first transaction on his twentieth birthday was an hour for a packet of ramyeon. His second was an hour for bus fare. His third was seven hours for kimchi jjigae and a beer. The shape of a day. Lunch, commute, dinner. Jaemin was at that dinner. He sat next to Donghyuck and discovered that drunk-Donghyuck was even more affectionate than sober-Donghyuck. Clinging to Jaemin like condensation on the neck of a bottle. Jaemin wasn’t old enough to drink yet. He wasn’t in love yet. He tries very hard not to feel anything about that. He’s been trying hard all week.
The last time Jaemin saw Donghyuck alive, he’d been singing in the kitchen. The next he heard, Donghyuck was dead on the floor of a convenience store.
Jaemin skips to the last page of Donghyuck’s life statement, and a sickening bubble of laughter spews from his throat. Donghyuck’s final transaction, the one that killed him, was an hour of life for a packet of ramyeon. That was all the time Donghyuck had left in his balance, and they didn’t even know it. The night before Donghyuck died, they had dinner, they watched half a movie, they had sex. Donghyuck seemed happier; Jaemin had been relieved. They didn’t even fight before bed.
Now their apartment is ghostly silent, and Jaemin feels every part the widow that he is.
He absently scans through Donghyuck’s final transactions. Halfway up the page, an anomaly gives him pause. A transaction for eight whole days of life, debited to somewhere called Lock and Key, two nights before Donghyuck died. Brow pinched, Jaemin opens his browser and does a quick search. He blanches. His stomach squeezes. The world tilts sharply, like a ship going under.
He’s not sure how long he sits. Long enough for his phone screen to idle, ghoulishly reflecting Jaemin’s hollow face back up at him. When it feels like the ground won’t trickle away beneath his feet, Jaemin stands, beelining for Donghyuck’s wallet on the kitchen counter. He rifles through movie tickets and Starbucks receipts; all the tiny things that killed Donghyuck.
Jaemin finally finds the receipt for Lock and Key. It’s more detailed than the life statement.
Time: 2 hours
Host: Twenty-Three
No refunds, no liability for end-of-life transactions.
At the bottom of the receipt are the words, Enjoy your stay, honey.
Next to Donghyuck’s wallet is his wedding ring, zipped up in a tiny plastic bag.
--
Five months prior to Donghyuck’s death, Jaemin’s mother runs out of life. Apart from Donghyuck, Jaemin is the only one left to miss her. He feels the scale of her loss compounded. The sudden responsibility of remembering she existed crouches in his ribcage like a lead golem. The unique complexity of a life. The absent people to whom she was everything.
A side effect of this is that the world is almost exactly the same, except to Jaemin. Like tinnitus. A constant high-pitched squeal in his ear, so present that he can sometimes he can forget it’s even there. Lethargy and apathy take possession of him, whispering this is your life now, get used to it. So, he does.
But Donghyuck sees the differences in Jaemin, even when Jaemin can’t feel them. Donghyuck cohabitates with Jaemin and his malaise, sharing the same room, and the same bed. Trying and failing for months to lure Jaemin out of the fog. Everyone has a breaking point.
One night, red-faced, Donghyuck snarls from across the room, “You never would have married me if you knew we were going to die old.”
A smashed glass would have less impact. When Jaemin catches his breath, he calmly says, “We were never going to die old, so what difference does it make?”
Donghyuck growls, animal frustration in his bared teeth, his fingers clawing back through his hair. “I wish you’d get mad. Why won’t you get mad at me?”
Jaemin is mad. He’s fucking furious, and showing it won’t change a thing. Just more wasted energy, just more hours spent sniping at each other. Donghyuck drags his sleeve beneath his nose and storms to the doorway, ransacking his coat for his lighter and cigarettes.
Without looking at Jaemin, he says, “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have married you either.”
Jaemin feels sick. “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t even know anymore.” The door slams.
He left his coat, the idiot. It’s zero degrees out. All the years Donghyuck’s been smoking, and he still can’t stand to get the smell in his good clothes. He scrubs his hands with scented soap after every smoke break. Jaemin grew to like the stale taste of it on Donghyuck’s tongue. His bonfire husband.
Jaemin is surprised when Donghyuck returns fifteen minutes later. He’s freezing, lowering himself to Jaemin’s lap, eyes miserable and fingers icy on Jaemin’s neck.
Donghyuck whispers, “If you won’t talk to me, at least talk to someone else.”
The cost of therapy would literally kill Jaemin. “I can’t afford that.”
“I love you, bunny.” Donghyuck’s cheeks are wet, his lips salty when he presses them to Jaemin’s. “And I miss you.”
It’s cruel. It’s fair. Jaemin rubs Donghyuck’s sides to warm his frigid body. “I didn’t go anywhere. I’ll be fine.”
Donghyuck shakes his head. “When?”
--
There’s a neon sign outside Lock and Key; a gaseous white glow overhead as Jaemin enters a narrow, dimly lit staircase, ascending one floor. The vestibule is small and tasteful. It’s a bit much for Jaemin, but he can he objective. Pale wallpaper. Satin ribbons and heavy lace. A bell rings above the door, and a moment later a man emerges from the back. His inky hair is immaculate, his outfit pearl-white and pristine. On his chest a neat little silver name-pin announces him as the eponymous Key. There’s something catlike in the sway of his walk and his watchful eyes.
“Honey,” he purrs, taking his place behind a narrow desk. “Welcome to Lock and Key. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. I know I’d remember your pretty face.”
This morning Jaemin shaved for the first time in three days. “You haven’t,” he says. “A friend recommended I stop by.”
“That’s a hell of a friend.” Key sits his chin on his knuckles, eyes narrowing. “And what did this friend say?”
Jaemin’s shoulders ache from subconsciously tensing. “He said to ask for Twenty-Three.”
Key nods, unruffled. “He’s free. In case your friend didn’t warn you, I will. None of our services are cheap.”
Jaemin could laugh. He’s aware of the cost. “What’s your cheapest?”
“Shameless,” Key snorts. “I like that. Half an hour for two days of life. Still interested?”
Jaemin nods. If he doesn’t do this, he’ll never sleep again. The chatter in his brain will deafen him. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Twenty-Three will fill you in,” Key says, all business as he begins tapping on the small screen in front of him. “We won’t include the boring parts in your time. We’re nice like that.”
Jaemin holds his wrist out to scan his chip, deducting life from his balance. Key has him take a seat, then disappears out the back. Jaemin wishes there was some music playing. Anything to deafen the sound of his own heartbeat. When Key returns, he beckons Jaemin through a curtain and down a narrow hallway, stopping at the end to lead Jaemin into a small room.
Key nods to a plush seat in one corner. “Sit here. Follow the rules, or you’ll absolutely regret it.” He flutters his fingers, and adds, “Have fun.”
Again, Jaemin waits. The furnishings around him are uniformly rich. A dark wooden bed with neat white sheets and four posts. A small chest of drawers against one wall, an ottoman. There’s a second door opposite the one Jaemin entered. Every moment that it stays shut increases Jaemin’s urge to stick his head between his knees and breathe deeply.
A few minutes later a man quietly enters and closes the door behind himself. He’s slender and small. His soft brown hair is parted in the middle and falling around his glittery eyes. There’s faint gold makeup smudged at the corners of his lids, and his lips are impossibly pink, set in a solemn pout. He makes his way to the foot of the bed and sits, arranging his silky white thigh-length robe, crossing his legs at the knee. Jaemin’s unease doesn’t settle.
“I promise we’ll get started in a moment,” the man says, his voice lilting and soft. “We just need to set a few boundaries first. My name is Twenty-Three.”
Jaemin’s mind races. On his back foot, he reaches for the only thing he knows right now: within this room, some lies are accepted. “I’m Bunny.”
Twenty-Three doesn’t flinch. His arms stay crossed over his chest, making him smaller than he already is. “You don’t have to answer this, but it may be beneficial to both of us. Why are you here? What do you hope to get from this?”
Jaemin blinks. He wants answers. He wants to play along until he gets them. “My husband just died.”
“Oh.” Twenty-Three’s brows pinch, then quickly flatten again. Jaemin could almost believe he imagined it. “Are you looking for comfort?” At Jaemin’s immediate headshake, Twenty-Three tries, “Are you looking for a distraction?”
Jaemin spreads his sweaty hands on his thighs. “What would that entail?”
“We can talk,” Twenty-Three offers. “I can listen. I can make you feel good, or you can just watch me, if you’d prefer.” He adds. “You can’t touch me. Ever. Not unless I say you can. If you go into this expecting that, I’ll gladly disappoint you.”
Jaemin swallows. “What do other men usually want?”
Again, Twenty-Three’s brow briefly furrows. “It depends. A boyfriend. An affair. A friend with benefits. Someone they can pretend to spoil, or someone who’ll spoil them. Someone who’ll just give them their undivided attention for a little while.”
It’s funny. The way Twenty-Three hunches in on himself, he almost looks prudish. Closed off and demure, his feet in neat white ankle socks. “Give me one of those.”
Twenty-Three nods. “Can I touch you? Nothing explicit, just your face, your hair. Hugs, that sort of thing.”
The back of Jaemin’s neck prickles. “Do whatever you want.”
“No,” Twenty-Three says gently. “That’s not how it works here.”
Jaemin relents. “You can touch me.”
“Okay. If you don’t like anything, speak up,” Twenty-Three says.
A moment later, he transforms. His eyes crinkle into a smile, warmth lacing his tone as he stands and crosses the short distance between them. “Bunny. You’re right on time.”
Bending down, Twenty-Three envelops Jaemin in a hug. The fabric of his robe is cool where it brushes Jaemin’s cheek. Twenty-Three cups the back of Jaemin’s head, and Jaemin sits stiffly, hands in loose fists on his knees, pulse floundering.
“I just got out of the bath,” Twenty-Three explains, barely above a whisper. Intimate. He stands again, holding his wrist beneath Jaemin’s nose; floral and fresh. “I tried that new soap you gave me. I can smell it everywhere. I know I’ll get used to it, but I keep wondering where it’s coming from.” He toys with the sash at his waist, twisting coyly on his heel. “I have a new outfit, too. Do you want to see it?”
Jaemin nods once. He can’t seem to make himself blink. “Show me.”
Pleased, Twenty-Three slips the bow of his robe, letting it fall to the floor. Jaemin’s breath catches in his throat. He isn’t sure what he expected, but his imagination is too poor for this. All around Twenty-Three’s torso is a sort of diaphanous harness. Creamy lace across his collarbone and down his sternum, and white straps caging his ribs. Hanging across his chest like a garland is a single string of pearls that mirrors Twenty-Three’s every movement. Below, he’s wearing a pair of equally insubstantial underwear. Jaemin can see Twenty-Three’s cock tucked carefully within, a dark blush through the pale lace.
Twenty-Three spins. He moves like a feather falling; weightless grace. “Do you like it?”
Jaemin’s mouth is dry. “It’s pretty.”
Twenty-Three hums, slipping a finger beneath one of the straps at his hip. “I’m not so sure yet.”
Jaemin can’t for the life of him see an entry or exit point to the harness that doesn’t end with it in tangled shreds. “What do you like?”
“More colour, usually,” Twenty-Three says, pulling the strap out and letting it snap back. His skin instantly turns petal-pink at the point of contact.
As bizarre as the circumstances are, their back and forth is beginning to feel like warped small talk. Something Jaemin knows how to pantomime. “What’s your favourite?”
“Mm. Autumnal shades. Red.” Twenty-Three laughs, a wind chime peal. “Not trashy race car-red, demure red. The kind you’d see in a really expensive hotel bar. Or red velvet cupcakes. I like yellow, but it’s hard to pull off.”
Jaemin offers, “I don’t believe that.”
Twenty-Three shrugs. “I worry it’ll make me look sickly. Or like a little chick, or something. I try to avoid that.”
That’s hard to picture. Even on the softly-spoken blank canvas of a man who first entered the room ten minutes ago. Twenty-Three steps backwards towards the bed, up on his tip-toes with his eyes on Jaemin.
“It took me a long time to put this on,” Twenty-Three trails his fingers across his chest. “But do you want me to take these off?” His hand travels down, ghosting over the front of his underwear.
Jaemin feels nauseous. His blood is sluggish in his veins, pounding in his temples and between his legs. “And then what?”
“Silly Bunny.” Twenty-Three cups himself in his palm and squeezes. “Then I show you what I do to myself when I think of you.”
Jaemin must nod. He doesn’t remember telling himself to nod, but Twenty-Three smiles, hips squirming at he peels his underwear down his thighs and lets them slither to the floor. Twenty-Three’s dick is still soft, but he wraps his small hand around himself, stroking a few times before climbing onto the bed and folding his legs into a kneel.
Twenty-Three sighs, his head tipping to the side, eyes fluttering shut. “You can touch yourself too, if you want.”
Jaemin can’t. He can’t move. He’s rock hard against his zipper; desperately turned on. He detaches himself from his body. From the man whose husband died less than a week ago, who’s now sitting in a seat that Donghyuck must have sat in, watching a scene that Donghyuck must have watched. Where Donghyuck may have felt as dizzy as Jaemin does, jacking himself off in front of a beautiful stranger and spilling into his fist.
“You aren’t usually this shy,” Twenty-Three says. A blush has set in high on his cheeks, his pupils wide and dark. The tip of his cock is shiny where it peeks in and out of his fingers.
Jaemin pretends. He pretends his mind is clear and untroubled. He pretends he’s happy, like he couldn’t bring himself to pretend for Donghyuck. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
“You make it sound like I’m not going to see you again.” Twenty-Three’s breath hitches, his hips twitching forward to meet his fist. His free hand meanders lightly across his throat, over the brown of his nipple, the soft of his stomach. “You know I’m all yours.”
“Do you miss me?” Jaemin asks, nails digging into his palms. “When I’m not here.”
“Of course I do.” Twenty-Three cuts off with a whine, his hand speeding up. “Oh.”
He’s silent when he comes, spilling ropes across his thighs, tremoring with his pink lips parted. His chest heaves, the string of pearls swinging in the turbulence. Jaemin can hear every shiver in Twenty-Three’s breath, even from across the room. Eventually, he releases his cock, pulling his clean hand back through his hair; as if breaking through the surface of a pool.
He fixes Jaemin with a drunken gaze. “Can you bring me the tissues?”
There’s a box at Jaemin’s elbow. Possessed, he scoops them up and delivers them to Twenty-Three.
“Thank you, baby.” Twenty-Three strips a few sheets from the box, wiping his hands and thighs and cock while Jaemin hovers above him. Then Twenty-Three stands, wrapping his arms around Jaemin’s chest, bare from the waist down and pressed all up the length of Jaemin’s hard-on. “I’m so glad you came. Be a sweetheart and close the door after you leave, okay?”
Jaemin’s body is cold when Twenty-Three moves away. On his way out, Key smiles knowingly, and says, “See you soon, honey.”
--
Jaemin lowers himself to the tiles beside the toilet, just in case. Donghyuck’s towel still hangs on a hook by the door. His toothbrush and deodorant are still on the counter.
As a partner, Jaemin knows that he was lacking in infinite ways. Even before his mood nosedived into the dirt and took up residence there. He’s mean in the mornings. He’s stubborn and slow to admit fault. He’s a know-it-all who takes little things too seriously. And in the end, he was an emotional whirlpool, sucking Donghyuck down with him. It’s a frightening thought. That someone as forceful as Donghyuck couldn’t fight against him.
He wonders what the final straw was. What did Donghyuck want from Twenty-Three that he couldn’t get from Jaemin? Warmth? Affection? They never stopped having sex, but maybe Jaemin grew to disgust Donghyuck. Maybe context killed his attraction to Jaemin.
Jaemin isn’t turned on anymore. He’s exhausted. The sweat beneath his pits has turned icy-cold on his undershirt and he needs a shower, but showers have been a gargantuan effort lately. He hauls himself up and kicks his jeans off, leaving them on the bathroom floor.
Sinking to the sofa in the unlit living room, he pulls a throw rug over himself. It’s a stupid length, leaving Jaemin’s feet and ankles poking out the bottom. He used to complain to Donghyuck about that, too.
Jaemin knows it’s a dangerous time of night. It isn’t an hour for constructive thoughts. Closing his eyes, he lets sleep bring the morning to him.
--
It’s with no small amount of dread that Jaemin hits Ctrl+f on Donghyuck’s life statement. He showered first, and made a fresh cup of coffee. He thinks that’s a noteworthy level of self-preservation. He might go crazy and put some bread in the toaster too if the next five minutes don’t finally make him puke his guts up.
There’s one other result for Lock and Key, from the end of December two years ago. Two years.
Jaemin sinks back into the sofa, staring blankly ahead as pieces fall into place. They went on a trip that Christmas. One of the only vacations they ever dared to splurge on together. They spent the day picking mandarin oranges, and the night screaming at each other in their rental car. Jaemin can’t even remember what the fight was about, or who started it, but it was anomalous in its ferocity. Palms hitting the dashboard. Donghyuck stalking in front of the windshield, smoking like a wildfire while they both wound-up for whatever vile barrage came next. It was so bad that the next morning Donghyuck got out of bed while it was still silver-dark outside. He dressed and packed his bag and left Jaemin behind in the hotel without a word. Jaemin was awake the whole time. He didn’t ask Donghyuck where he was going. He didn’t stop him.
Later, Donghyuck told Jaemin he took the train home, passing apologies back and forth between their lips. I love you, I’m sorry, like an incantation. Jaemin remembers feeling deranged. Wanting to fuse with Donghyuck. Wanting to sink his fingers into him, up under his ribs where he was slippery and alive. An equally explosive amount of energy as their fight, poured instead into love-bites and bruised thighs and unwashed sheets.
Jaemin still avoids oranges. Drawn blood citrusy beneath his nails.
One of the harder things to believe about Donghyuck fucking around with another man, is that Donghyuck wasn’t honest with Jaemin from the start. It wasn’t in Donghyuck’s nature to waste spite like that. Not when he could see the impact of it instead, like a well-aimed slap.
Maybe Donghyuck learned something about himself he didn’t mean to. Maybe it wasn’t about revenge or loneliness. Maybe he actually just liked it.
Can Jaemin really blame him? He’s in the same fucking boat.
--
“Welcome back,” Twenty-Three says, closing the door behind himself.
He’s wearing the white robe again tonight, the same style of ankle socks. The only immediate differences are the thin choker of pearls at the base of his throat, and the pale opal sheen on his fingernails. Just like last time, he takes a seat at the end of the bed, legs crossed at the knee. He’s beautiful. Delicate, regal.
“I want to check in,” Twenty-Three says quietly. “And make sure nothing from your last visit was too much.”
As parts of a whole, no. The bigger picture threatens to crack Jaemin’s brain like an egg, but for now it’s holding. “You were perfect.”
Twenty-Three’s hands twist in his lap. “This must be a confusing time for you, I’d hate to—”
“Don’t.” Jaemin cuts Twenty-Three off. “Don’t worry about me.” Nothing good ever comes from that.
Twenty-Three nods once. “Of course. Since we have an hour tonight, I was wondering if you’d let me take things further.”
Immediately, Jaemin says, “Yes.”
“I’ll ask before I do anything, I’ll make it very clear.”
“I said yes,” Jaemin repeats.
“Feel free to play along.” Twenty-Three uncrosses his legs. “I like that.”
Outside of the persona he plays, it’s the first preference Twenty-Three has given for anything. Jaemin latches on to it.
“My Bunny.” A bright smile blooms on Twenty-Three’s face. The pet-name sounds different coming from his mouth. Whenever Donghyuck used it, there were two modes. Affection, or provocation. A decade spent sweet-talking and pissing Jaemin off in equal measure.
“Hi, baby,” Jaemin says, forcing his hands to stay glued to the arms of the chair as Twenty-Three piles into his lap, straddling Jaemin’s thighs.
“I have a treat for you tonight,” Twenty-Three settles comfortably, resting his hands on Jaemin’s chest.
“I thought you were my treat.”
Twenty-Three blinks. “Okay, I have multiple treats. Since you’re impatient, I’ll give you this one first. Untie my robe.”
It’s a surprise. It’s closer to touching than Jaemin expected to be allowed. He grips either end of the silky bow, and it slips free without resistance. The robe cascades silently to Jaemin’s feet.
Twenty-Three is naked. Nothing but his little socks and a faint blush on his cheeks. His cock nestles in the dip between Jaemin’s thighs.
“It must have been faster,” Jaemin says, voice hoarse, view filled with bare skin. “Getting ready for me tonight.”
Twenty-Three toys with the hair at Jaemin’s nape, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
Twenty-Three wriggles off Jaemin’s lap and stands, gleefully turning his back. He grips his ass with one lacquered hand, his cheek dimpling beneath his fingertips as he spreads himself to show off the jewel-shaped base of a butt plug.
“What do you think?” Twenty-Three shimmies, peering back over his shoulder.
Jaemin holds his breath to keep it steady. “I love it. Does it feel as good as it looks?”
Twenty-Three nods, turning around. The blush is spreading down his chest now. “I bet you’d feel better.”
Jaemin leans forward in his seat, knees spread. “What’s my other treat?”
“You’re so greedy,” Twenty-Three steps over to the chest of drawers. From within, he pulls a little pearlescent bottle. “I’m going to paint your nails. The same colour as mine, so the next time you touch yourself you’ll have to think of me.”
“I always think of you.” For the first time tonight, Jaemin almost chokes, reality wheedling its skeletal fingers into their fantasy. The weight of Donghyuck knocking on Jaemin’s ribs. Always the hottest, always the one who knew him best. Against all odds, the man of Jaemin’s dreams.
Twenty-Three pushes the ottoman between Jaemin’s spread knees, perching in front of him.
He takes Jaemin by the wrist, and says, matter-of-fact, “Your hands are ridiculous, Bunny.”
It startles a bark of laughter out of Jaemin. “Maybe yours are tiny.”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive.” Twenty-Three lifts his palm up to Jaemin’s, making stark the difference in length and width. Jaemin licks his lips. His eyes must glaze over a little, because Twenty-Three’s mouth curls into a wicked grin. “Do you like that?”
Jaemin swallows. “Yeah.”
“Where else are you this big?” Twenty-Three’s hand skates up Jaemin’s leg, coming to rest at the crease of his thigh. He squeezes. “Can I see?”
Jaemin breathes, “Of course you can, baby.”
Twenty-Three’s smile grows. He reaches for Jaemin’s fly, tugging Jaemin’s underwear away with one hand and his cock out with the other. Jaemin sighs at the first touch, warm and firm. His fingers itch to card through Twenty-Three’s hair. They want to feel the flutter of his pulse beneath the string of pearls around his neck.
“Oh. You were waiting for me.” Twenty-Three slides his fist loosely up Jaemin’s length, coaxing him to hardness. “None of my toys are this nice, you’re going to ruin them.” Twenty-Three tugs at Jaemin’s dick again, a little knot forming between his brow. “Bunny, I just had an idea.”
Jaemin’s breath shivers out of him. “I’m all ears.”
“I still want to paint your nails,” Twenty-Three declares, using Jaemin’s thighs to push himself to his feet. “Why don’t I keep your pretty cock warm while I do it?”
Jaemin’s dick visibly twitches.
Even Twenty-Three’s own cock has perked up a little now, jutting out from his body as he returns to the chest of drawers to grab a tube of lube and a strip of condoms. He braces an arm on the top of the drawers, reaching behind himself to grip the base of the butt plug. Twisting and pulling, he gently eases it loose, a soft groan escaping his lips as his hole stretches around the wide swell of it, letting it pop free.
Jaemin had wondered; how far things go within the walls of this room. The first time he’d sat down in this chair it had been with the intention of holding on for dear life and seeing where Twenty-Three took him. To find out what he could learn without the benefit of Donghyuck to enlighten him. Somewhere along the way, he may have lost the thread of the lesson. He closes his fingers around himself and squeezes, his world honing to Twenty-Three as he slinks back to Jaemin.
Twenty-Three wraps and lubes Jaemin’s dick, then slips two slick fingers inside himself. That’s all the additional prep he does before he’s pressing the bottle of nail polish into Jaemin’s hand, and bearing down on the blunt head of Jaemin’s cock.
“Fuck,” Twenty-Three pants, pausing his descent. His eyes squeeze shut, jagged breaths spilling out of him, tousling Jaemin’s hair. He already looks destroyed, dappled pink all over, sweat forming on his brow. Jaemin is worried for his own stamina, less than halfway buried in the tight grip of Twenty-Three.
“Okay,” Twenty-Three breathes, steeling himself. He lets out a loud, unbroken groan, sinking down until he’s flush against Jaemin’s lap.
For a while, Twenty-Three just trembles and breathes, fingers spread in a v-shape where he’s stretched wide around Jaemin’s cock, forehead tipped against the chair beside Jaemin’s head. Jaemin isn’t allowed to soothe a hand down Twenty-Three’s back to calm him, so he uses words instead.
“You did so well,” he murmurs, his dick enveloped in pulsing warmth. “You look so pretty right now. Taking all of me, just like that. And you feel amazing.”
Twenty-Three laughs woozily. “So do you. Maybe too good.”
“Can you get it together for me?” Jaemin asks, voice low and private. “I know you can, baby, come on.”
“Bunny,” Twenty-Three whimpers, so quietly it would be inaudible if it wasn’t spoken right beside Jaemin’s ear. A tremor passes through Twenty-Three’s whole body. His hole clenches around Jaemin, and warmth splashes Jaemin’s wrist.
For a moment, they both freeze.
“Sweetheart,” Jaemin coos, peering down between them at the sticky mess Twenty-Three has made of Jaemin’s shirt. “You just—”
“Don’t laugh at me.” Twenty-Three buries his face in Jaemin’s neck.
“Why would I laugh at you?” Jaemin turns his smiling mouth into Twenty-Three’s hair.
“It’s not fair,” Twenty-Three says, petulant. “I spent ages fingering myself waiting for you. I waited so long.”
“You did,” Jaemin agrees. His heart squeezes sharply. “God, you’re cute.”
“No, I’m not.”
Jaemin hums. “You don’t want to be cute? I have bad news for you.” When Twenty-Three doesn’t respond, Jaemin asks. “Do you want me to pull out?”
“No. Just give me your stupid giant hands,” Twenty-Three snaps. He sits up, his plush mouth parting around one more silent moan. The effect of his ire is only slightly ruined by how ruffled he looks. His sweet cock spent and slumped between them.
Miraculously though, he does manage to settle down again. His hands remain steady as he twists the little cap off the bottle, brushing excess polish on the lip. He starts on Jaemin’s thumb, holding Jaemin’s hand to keep it steady. There’s a blaze deep in Jaemin’s belly, crackling and flaring every time Twenty-Three shifts or squeezes around him.
“Yours is darker,” Jaemin notes, watching Twenty-Three carefully paint an almost transparent layer over each of Jaemin’s nails.
“I have three coats,” Twenty-Three explains. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Just once.” It was Donghyuck’s idea. He painted his own sometimes on the weekends. He almost always fucked them up. He sucked at waiting for the lacquer to dry properly. He sucked at sitting still. “My nail tech told me I had weird little cornflake toenails, so I never went back.”
“That’s disgusting.” Twenty-Three snorts. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
Jaemin says. “It isn’t.”
“I hope the service was cheap.”
“He was cute,” Jaemin explains. “I let it slide.”
Unlike Twenty-Three, Donghyuck did like race car-red. He liked Pepsi and chewing gum and pop music, and cut-off denim shorts. He liked making Jaemin’s personal space his own, and knowing when Jaemin thought of him. When he'd bother to call during the day just to talk. He liked getting fucked from behind. He liked Jaemin leaving bruises on his hips. He liked when Jaemin gave as good as he got.
Twenty-Three likes it when Jaemin plays along. Jaemin wants to ask Twenty-Three something real. He wants another honest answer that he knows isn’t part of their make-believe. He can’t have one without the other. He can’t hide in this soft, indulgent world where his husband isn’t ashes and expect to get anything candid from Twenty-Three in return.
“We’re running out of time,” Twenty-Three says quietly. “I’m only going to get one coat done.”
“It’s okay,” Jaemin says, watching as Twenty-Three’s thumb grazes over Jaemin’s wedding band.
“I’m going to leave the bottle with you,” Twenty-Three says, the brush fanning neatly over Jaemin’s last bare nail. “I want you to finish what I started, and bring my polish back to me. Don’t half-ass it, you have to do a good job. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Jaemin says, watching Twenty-Three blow a stream of air onto Jaemin’s sticky nails. “I think I might want to talk next time.”
“We can do that.” Twenty-Three peers up at Jaemin through his lashes. Slowly, he rises an inch off Jaemin’s dick, then sinks back down.
Jaemin lays his hands carefully on the arms of the chair, his head tipped back. It’s soporific. Solvent fumes and a warm man sitting on his cock. “Do you think you can come again?”
Twenty-Three whines, beginning to set a rhythm as he bounces himself in Jaemin’s lap. “Do I have to?”
“I’d like it if you did.”
Obediently, Twenty-Three wraps a hand around his flaccid dick and begins stripping himself in tandem. It doesn’t take long for him to chub up again. Heat and pressure build inside of Jaemin, volcanic in intensity, watching as Twenty-Three’s thighs begin to quake and slow, losing steam.
“Bunny,” Twenty-Three pleads. “Please.”
Twenty-Three is so small that Jaemin could lift him up and down on his dick if he wanted. He can’t touch, though, so instead he thrusts his hips up to meet Twenty-Three, punching a groan from him in the process. The dull slap of skin is deafening. It only takes a minute longer for Jaemin’s orgasm to rock through him, knocking him from his foundations as he comes in waves, spilling and spilling into the condom.
No longer jostled by Jaemin’s movements, Twenty-Three goes limp. His head hangs between his shoulders, fist moving feverishly over his cock. His eyes closed, lips pursed, solely focused on meeting his own end.
“Come on, baby,” Jaemin urges, basking in the sight, dick and thighs still thrumming with heat. “Come on, so sweet, give me just a little more.”
Twenty-Three hiccups, and one last spurt of come dribbles from his dick onto Jaemin’s shirt.
“You did it,” Jaemin hums, eyes fixed on the quiver of Twenty-Three’s bottom lip.
Twenty-Three nods, voice thick, his overbright eyes opening to meet Jaemin’s. “It’s what you wanted.”
Twenty-Three’s legs are jelly, knock-kneed like a newborn foal. He glares at Jaemin’s smirk, and gets his revenge by gripping the base of Jaemin’s cock to unceremoniously strip the condom off. He unwraps a new white t-shirt and hands it to Jaemin to change into, gaze roving over Jaemin’s bare chest in the few moments it’s exposed.
Still naked, Twenty-Three hangs off Jaemin’s neck, yawning like a cat. “You wore me out.”
Jaemin begins bracing himself to leave this room and re-enter the world. “It was only an hour.” Twenty-Three makes an angry sound into Jaemin’s collar. Jaemin smiles, real and easy. “Did you have fun?”
Twenty-Three hums, squirming a little against Jaemin. “I did, actually.” He freezes, swallowing audibly. His tone loses some of its warmth, turning syrupy and deliberate. “I mean. Of course, I did. I always have fun with you.”
Jaemin sighs, the little bottle of nail polish wedged in the pocket of his jeans. “Me too, baby.”
--
In the morning, Jaemin makes it to the Starbucks three blocks away. He brings an Americano and a croissant home. He even eats some of it.
For the first time since Donghyuck died, Jaemin opens Donghyuck’s side of the closet. The scale of it almost floors him; the reality of having to prioritise what tangible scraps of Donghyuck’s life Jaemin wants to keep. It’s less overwhelming than his mother’s apartment, at least. She had furniture and a family’s accumulated paperwork. Appliances and a pantry overflowing with spices and dry goods. Her hulking rice cooker migrated to Jaemin and Donghyuck’s kitchen counter, monopolising an unjustifiable amount of space. The dozen tubs of kimchi she left behind seemed bottomless until Jaemin began watching with a permanent lump in his throat as they dwindled one by one.
Instead of processing anything, Jaemin pulls the first hoodie he sees off its hanger and tugs it over his head.
Donghyuck’s nightstand is a mess. The drawer is filled with lube and moisturiser and half-empty blister packs of over-the-counter pain relief. There’s his satiny pouch of sex toys, and a bed of foil-wrapped candies. His father’s watch with its dead batteries and broken band. There’s a bottle of race car-red nail polish.
Jaemin finishes his fingernails first, his neck aching from craning forward to focus. Once the shade matches Twenty-Three’s, Jaemin brings his heel up onto the sofa and paints his big toe red. It’s satisfying, watching the polish neatly cover his entire nail. His smaller toes prove harder. His nails are wonky and uneven, and he leaves cartoon-gore smudges on the surrounding skin.
“Okay, maybe you were right,” Jaemin mumbles, dipping as little polish on the brush as he can to try to mitigate the carnage. “You left me some weird fucking skeletons to deal with, Donghyuck.”
Jaemin switches feet, starting on his big toe, easy again.
“I wish you’d told me,” Jaemin says. His voice sounds strange in the silent apartment with no one to respond. “I know I wasn’t the best at sharing, I know that was hard for you, but I wish you’d told me about him.”
In the back of Jaemin’s mind, Donghyuck’s voice says, please, you would have held it over me forever.
It’s possible. God knows, being married to Donghyuck had tested the limits of Jaemin’s jealousy in the past. It wasn’t Donghyuck’s fault. He was flirty like that; it was part of what Jaemin liked about him. The problems were the bugs in Jaemin’s head and the men around Donghyuck who thought his flirtations meant anything. So, maybe Jaemin would have forgiven Donghyuck for going to see Twenty-Three in secret. Or maybe he would have spread kindling everywhere and lit a match and burned their marriage around them.
Jaemin exhales. “I wish you didn’t feel like you had to go to him instead of me.”
That’s on Jaemin, too. For making himself a vault and locking Donghyuck out. For so wholly failing to make him feel as valued as he was.
While he waits for his nails to dry, Jaemin scans through Donghyuck’s life statement. It’s strange seeing all the moments in which Donghyuck was a solo entity. Untraceable. Just one small human moving through the world unobserved, out of Jaemin’s scope. Buying a pack of cigarettes here, getting the train here, getting two serves of gilgeori toast here. One of them must have been for Jaemin. Donghyuck never hesitated to spend his life on him. Jaemin’s sinuses prickle.
He scrolls and scrolls, his pearlescent nail passing over text. No one knows where Jaemin is. There’s an inadvertent stealth to his life, now. He wonders where Twenty-Three spends his days when he isn’t at Lock and Key. He wonders who would crumble for Twenty-Three if he disappeared like Donghyuck did.
--
Jaemin holds his wrist up to the scanner to pay his balance for the night. Four days for an hour with Twenty-Three.
The printer whirs, spitting Jaemin’s receipt into Key’s waiting hand. “You’re making a habit, honey.”
The back of Jaemin’s neck heats. “Any comments?”
“None at all,” Key replies mildly. He gestures down the hallway. “You know where to go.”
Twenty-Three holds Jaemin’s hand in both of his, scrutinising Jaemin’s work. “Not bad for a rookie.”
“It was less fun without you,” Jaemin says.
“Obviously.” Twenty-Three rolls his eyes. Still holding Jaemin’s hand, he tugs. “Come sit on the bed. Get comfy. I want you to tell me every little thing that’s on your mind. You can watch me get ready while you do it.” Jaemin toes his shoes off and sits up by the headboard. “I’ll give you a reward afterwards.”
Twenty-Three discards his robe on the chair, turning to rifle through the chest of drawers. His ass is cute; just a little round. First, he pulls a pair of thigh-high stockings out, sitting on the edge of the ottoman to begin rolling them up his legs.
“Black today?” Jaemin notes.
“I don’t like white stockings. They’re too costume-y.” The lacey top of the first stocking hugs Twenty-Three’s narrow thigh. He wrinkles his nose. “Too bridal.”
Twenty-Three seems quieter today. Less bubbly and sticky. It sets the mood of the room and soothes Jaemin. Like a dog, he calms, watching Twenty-Three with slow breaths and a still mind.
Jaemin says, “I think my husband would have liked you.”
Twenty-Three doesn’t flinch. “Tell me about him.”
“He was beautiful.” Trying to encapsulate everything Jaemin saw in Donghyuck is a daunting task. Jaemin wonders what parts of Donghyuck Twenty-Three didn’t get to experience in their two short meetings. Things that do him justice. “He was the life of the party.”
“Were you alike?” Twenty-Three pads back to the drawers. Maybe Jaemin is reading into it, but the question sounds layered. Were you fun before he died?
That’s complicated. “Yes. Sometimes?” Twenty-Three slips a black garter belt around his waist, high around his belly button. There’s a tiny, flowy skirt attached, barely covering half of Twenty-Three’s ass, leaving his soft cock visible. The back has a short criss-cross of corset lace. “He was funnier than me. He was funnier than everyone. He was so sharp, he made it hard to tell if he was insulting you or not.”
“I think I’d like him, too,” Twenty-Three says, clipping his stockings to his belt. He looks sexy; sultry. Jaemin notices his makeup is dark and smoky today. He sits on the edge of the bed. “Tie my belt for me. Make it tight. Keep talking.”
Jaemin shuffles forward, clumsily working at the laces with his big fingers. “We were both pretty bad at hiding when we were—” sad, angry, resentful. Every ugly emotion that showed in their body language like a spotlight. “When we were tired. We weren’t always good for each other.”
“How long were you together?” Twenty-Three’s breath hitches as Jaemin tugs the laces of his garter into a bow.
“Almost ten years.”
“That’s so long,” Twenty-Three whispers.
“I guess,” Jaemin says. It didn’t feel that long. Jaemin stares at Twenty-Three’s waist. It would fit in Jaemin’s hands so neatly. “I think I’m done talking.”
Twenty-Three orders Jaemin naked. He presses a little vibrating plug between his own cheeks, and writhes around on his stomach as he sucks Jaemin off. The last ten minutes of their session are spent with Twenty-Three starfished on top of Jaemin, soft nylon skimming Jaemin’s skin. He’s heavy, and desperate, whining quietly as the vibe pulses in his ass, finally trembling his wet release onto Jaemin’s stomach.
Twenty-Three’s body is humid and grounding, tethering Jaemin to Earth. It’s only when Twenty-Three’s breath shudders against Jaemin’s neck that it occurs to Jaemin that the vibe is still buzzing inside of him.
“How long were you going to stay like that?” Jaemin asks. Twenty-Three’s hands fist in the sheets by Jaemin’s head. Jaemin swallows. “Can I take it out?”
Slowly, Twenty-Three nods.
Jaemin bunches Twenty-Three’s flimsy skirt up his back, his hand brushing one garter strap as he cups Twenty-Three’s ass, plush and supple. With the other hand, he grips the base of the vibe, carefully working it free.
“Help me out,” Jaemin murmurs into Twenty-Three’s hair.
He feels the moment that Twenty-Three bears down and the vibe slides loose. He hears it in the wounded groan that tears from Twenty-Three, pressing his face so hard into the crook of Jaemin’s shoulder. Jaemin switches the vibe off, and lets his hands fall away again.
“Better?” he asks to Twenty-Three’s sweaty temple.
“Mm.” Twenty-Three nods, making no effort to move. “Thank you, Bunny.”
--
Jaemin knows he needs an exit plan. He already earns a tiny fraction of the life he spends, and his paid bereavement leave passed by in a rapid blur. In just three sessions he’s spent a week-and-a-half of his life balance at Lock and Key. It’s not sustainable. Short of outright asking Twenty-Three if he remembers Donghyuck, Jaemin has learnt all he was ever going to. The sensible next step would be to move on, and figure out how to spend the life he has left.
--
Couples and individuals with dependents receive a life subsidy from the state. Parents usually live to see their children through to adulthood. Jaemin’s mother outlived everyone she knew from her own generation. She used to joke that her chip was faulty. Jaemin accepts that even he fooled himself into thinking she’d be around forever. He sees now that he may have underestimated the vacuum she was left in. All of her friends and family flickering out; Jaemin’s dad dying seven years before her.
With hindsight, it guts him to imagine her ever feeling the drowning depth of what Jaemin feels now. He hopes she didn’t. No support he lent her was adequate for that.
Jaemin’s low mood must radiate from him today. Twenty-Three is gentle off the bat, sitting himself across Jaemin’s lap and coiling his arms around his neck. Petting Jaemin’s hair, staying close and quiet.
“Do you still have your parents?” Jaemin asks.
Twenty-Three’s thumb brushes back and forth at Jaemin’s jaw. “No.”
“How did you get over it?”
“Oh, no.” Twenty-Three laughs, humourless and weary. “Bunny, I didn’t do that. I don’t go a week without thinking of something I wish I’d asked them about themselves. Sometimes I feel like we were strangers.” Twenty-Three makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “My shower started dripping and I don’t want to pay a plumber. How was I supposed to know that I should have had them teach me how to fix it?”
Miraculously, that pulls a small smile from Jaemin. He knows how to fix a shower because Donghyuck knew how to fix a shower. Jaemin suspects Donghyuck’s primary motivation was having an open outlet for tool related innuendo. Well, yeah, Donghyuck had said. And I know watching me fix things makes you horny. Do you really think I’m above exploiting that? Jaemin never fucked Donghyuck in his toolbelt, but he thought about it.
Twenty-Three sighs. “They were so certain of the world. If they’d lived longer, maybe I would have seen through that. Or maybe I would have understood them. Maybe I should have tried harder.”
Jaemin closes his eyes and leans into Twenty-Three’s hand, stroking rhythmically through Jaemin’s hair.
“How many people are you mourning, Bunny?”
“Everyone around us is dying,” Jaemin murmurs. “All the time.”
“Mm? So you should be used to it?”
Jaemin wilts, hiding in the dark behind his eyelids. “I don’t feel normal.”
“We can’t predict how our brains will react to that kind of stress.” Twenty-Three argues. “We aren’t always lucky.”
Jaemin focuses on small things. The seat beneath him. The verdant scent of Twenty-Three’s perfume. “I made things so difficult,” he says. “For my husband.”
“By being unhappy?”
Jaemin nods, a hot tear squeezing out of the corner of his closed eye. Twenty-Three swipes it away before it even reaches Jaemin’s chin. It’s hard to pinpoint which slippery thought pattern sent Jaemin down the fastest after his mother died. He recalls, though, that even pretending to be happy felt like a betrayal to his grief; cutting short the lament his mother had earned from the world. All he’s been doing since Donghyuck died is pretend.
Twenty-Three’s chest rises in a massive inhale. “It can feel thankless. Caring for someone when you don’t know if you can help them. I imagine it’s even harder when you’re married. How do you maintain sustainable boundaries?”
“We didn’t do that,” Jaemin says.
“Bunny, if you’re searching for the right answer, I don’t think there is one. It’s unfair to expect anyone to be the same after that kind of loss.” Twenty-Three’s hand smooths over Jaemin’s forehead. “You could wallow in guilt for the rest of your life, it won’t undo anything. It doesn’t need some deeper meaning for it to be useful. You don’t need to water it to learn from it.”
Jaemin opens his eyes, finding Twenty-Three already staring back. “If he was here, what would you say to him?”
Twenty-Three swallows. His thumb lingers at the corner of Jaemin’s mouth. “That his pain is valid. That he’s allowed to feel loss, too, and he isn’t a bad man for any bitterness he feels towards you.”
If that’s what Twenty-Three said to Donghyuck in his final days, then Jaemin loves him completely.
Twenty-Three kisses the pad of his thumb and smudges it between Jaemin’s brows. It stuns Jaemin; a halo of little cartoon stars around his head.
“We have half an hour left,” Twenty-Three says. “Can I do anything?”
Jaemin shakes his head. “This is fine.”
“No, it’s not.” Twenty-Three groans, levering himself out of Jaemin’s lap. “My back is killing me. Come to bed.”
Laid out on top of the covers, Twenty-Three pillows his head on Jaemin’s chest, their legs tangling.
“Are you warm enough?” Twenty-Three asks.
Conscious of Twenty-Three’s flimsy robe, Jaemin replies, “Are you?”
“This isn’t about me.” Twenty-Three’s tone is clear. We’re still pretending. Don’t forget it.
--
Donghyuck’s phone is dead. Jaemin plugs it in next to the bed, and turns it on.
He doesn’t intend to snoop; now or ever. Seeing Donghyuck’s message history out of context would fuck with Jaemin’s head at the best of times. Jaemin wants to export Donghyuck’s gallery, though. He knows his phone is linked to the cloud.
Most of his recent photos are fairly banal. Food, a few outfit selfies, someone’s curly-coated dog tied up on the street. There’s Jaemin’s last birthday and the eerie gold glow of the candles seconds after Donghyuck finished his soaring rendition of the birthday song; seconds before Jaemin blew them out. Jaemin scrolls and scrolls, and eventually skips back to the beginning to see Donghyuck at the end of his teens with their campus as the backdrop. His cheeks are rounder and his hair is flat and awkward. He looks untroubled, still at a point where his main burdens revolved around staying on top of his studies.
Jaemin features in a few; equally awkward and bright-eyed, frequently a wallflower. They hadn’t hooked-up yet. They hadn’t begun swaggering their way towards complete preoccupation with one another. Jaemin keeps browsing, swiping through photos of Donghyuck with his arm around his friends. So many people who Jaemin either forgot or never knew. He swipes past one like any other, then swipes three more times before the delayed impact hits him. His blood drains from his face.
The man next to Donghyuck is even smaller than he was when Jaemin saw him yesterday. His hair is black instead of brown. His face is bare behind a pair of glasses, and he’s wearing a simple hoodie and joggers. Donghyuck’s arms are wrapped around Twenty-Three’s shoulders, his face pressed to Twenty-Three’s smiling cheek.
--
Twenty-Three looks tired when he enters. He locks eyes with Jaemin, and says, “You should really find some cheaper hobbies.”
Jaemin spent all night and all day on the verge of wholly unravelling. The first words out of his mouth are, “How did you know Lee Donghyuck?”
Twenty-Three goes still; a deer hearing the click of a rifle. He turns his head to Jaemin, brows furrowing, eyes wide and wary. “What?”
“Lee Donghyuck,” Jaemin repeats, gripping the arms of the chair like they’re the only thing keeping him upright. “He was my husband.”
Twenty-Three sways gently, gaze unfocused. Then he sinks heavily back onto the edge of the bed, one hand flying to his mouth. Tears well in his eyes, a harsh inhale shocking through his body. “When?”
“Two days after you last saw him.” Jaemin’s legs have gone disconcertingly numb.
“Wait.” Twenty-Three covers his face with both of his hands, silent for a heavy moment. Jaemin watches the exact second he loses the fight for composure. His shoulders heave as a sob wrenches from his chest. “Wait. Just wait a minute, wait.”
Jaemin takes shallow breaths to keep them quiet, dizzy and detached. Eventually Twenty-Three’s hands move away from his splotchy face, trying in vain to catch tears that fall faster than he can wipe them. His makeup is ruined.
Twenty-Three grinds a fist into his eye, not looking up as he gasps, “What are you doing, Jaemin?”
“Who are you? Why did he come here?” Jaemin begs. “I need to know.”
“Because of you,” Twenty-Three spits, another sob punching out of him. “Because he didn’t know what to do and he needed a friend, because he was worried about you.”
Jaemin’s own head falls into his hands. For a long while, the only sounds in the room are of Twenty-Three catching his breath. Moving around and sitting back down and blowing his nose loudly.
Twenty-Three sniffs. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Jaemin mumbles, “Are you serious?”
Twenty-Three groans. “I’m sorry.” His voice is thick, but steady. “Oh. We dated, Jaemin. For like a month, when we were freshmen. It was fun–” Twenty-Three’s breath catches. “He was maybe too fun, but I was going back home for the break, so we decided to call it. He texted me on Christmas, and then it – it just became a thing we do. He texts me every Christmas, it's cute, but that’s it.”
Jaemin searches back through his memory, straining and failing to remember that time. Back then, Donghyuck was hard to keep up with when he wasn’t holding you purposefully close.
“He came here one other time,” Jaemin says. “Why?”
“Because he’s an asshole.” Twenty-Three wipes his eye with a tissue, sighing at the black smudge of makeup that comes away. “Because he never listens to me.” Twenty-Three’s shoulders slump, misery and exhaustion in the slope of them. He keeps referring to Donghyuck in the present tense. It pinches Jaemin’s heart just a little every time. “You guys went on a trip somewhere–”
“Around Christmas.”
Twenty-Three nods. “I was on his mind. He said you guys had a huge fight, he said–” Twenty-Three hesitates. “He thought he’d made a mistake. He was scared you’d leave him.”
“What was the fight about?” Jaemin asks, starving. Chest thumping with the reality of someone else who knew Donghyuck. “Do you remember?”
Twenty-Three nods. “He’d planned the whole trip. He was excited to go away with you, but whenever he asked you what you wanted to do, you just deferred to him.”
Jaemin’s stomach falls. “I wanted to go where he wanted to go.”
Twenty-Three wraps his arms around his stomach. “He thought you didn’t care enough to have an opinion. We never fucked, Jaemin. I mean, we did, but before you guys—”
“I get it.”
“He just wanted to talk.”
Jaemin sits back. It’s absurd. They knew each other for so long, they cohabitated for so long, living in each other’s laps. Chatting and laughing and snapping at each other all those years, and they still managed so often to miss each other’s meaning.
“Jaemin, can you come here?” Twenty-Three asks quietly. “Come over here.”
There’s a pile of wet tissues next to him, and the slant of his mouth is so sad. He’s beautiful, even hurting. Even sliced wide open on the same blade as Donghyuck and Jaemin. Jaemin stands and walks to him.
Twenty-Three tugs on Jaemin’s sweater. “Hug me back.”
The mattress dips beneath Jaemin. Twenty-Three folds his arms around Jaemin’s shoulders, clutching him; close in a way that he hasn’t felt before. Granted permission to touch, Jaemin isn’t gentle. He squeezes Twenty-Three tightly, grasping his narrow back and waist.
Jaemin mashes his face into Twenty-Three’s damp neck. “What’s your name?”
Twenty-Three’s fingers flex in Jaemin’s hair. “Renjun.”
“Renjun,” Jaemin repeats. He strokes a hand through Renjun’s hair, leaning back to meet Renjun’s glassy eyes. “Thank you.”
Renjun pulls Jaemin down by the back of the neck into a bruising kiss.
Jaemin is only briefly shocked. Then he meets Renjun with equal pressure, tugging him even closer, skimming bare skin beneath Renjun’s robe. It’s easy; Renjun is light and pliant. He’s responsive. He plunges his hand between Jaemin’s thighs and presses down, seeking out the shape of Jaemin’s cock.
“Fuck,” Jaemin whispers, tasting salt. He tugs at Renjun’s robe, peeling him naked. He finally drags his hands up Renjun’s soft thighs and stomach. Down the curve of his spine, down the centre of him where Jaemin finds the base of a plug firmly nestled.
Renjun makes a soft noise around Jaemin’s tongue. “Hang on.”
Scrambling off Jaemin, Renjun lays on his stomach, stretching out to reach the nightstand. He wrenches the drawer so hard it bangs on the end of its runners and bounces loudly back before Renjun manages to get inside and snatch a bottle of lube. Jaemin jerks his sweater and shirt off and stands to strip his jeans, but the sight of Renjun all splayed out triggers something inside him. He grips Renjun by the ankles and yanks him back down the bed. Renjun yelps, weightless when Jaemin rolls him over and steps between his spread thighs.
“Take your pants off.” Renjun’s lashes flutter as he works the plug out, tossing it aside. “Now.”
Jaemin doesn’t stop to ponder Renjun’s motivations. If this is an extension of services, he’ll take it. If it’s poor decision making fuelled by shock, Jaemin will stoke it. If it’s nothing more than Renjun clinging to the nearest warm body within reach, Jaemin won’t pretend that he isn’t desperate to do the same.
While Jaemin slicks his dick up, Renjun stuffs himself with three slender fingers, his forearm slung half over his eyes. Renjun hooks his ankles around Jaemin, and breathes, “Hurry up. Jaemin, I need –”
It’s fast. That’s all the finesse Jaemin has right now, and Renjun seems to want it that way. Jaemin swallows Renjun’s helpless groan as he fucks into him in one long push. He bends Renjun in half and hammers him, knocking air from Renjun’s lungs with every thrust, pinning him to keep him from sliding up the bed. His tiny waist pinches under the broad splay of Jaemin’s hands. Renjun’s heel kicks painfully at the small of Jaemin’s back, his fingers twisting in Jaemin’s scalp so hard it stings.
“Help me,” Renjun whines. He sighs into Jaemin’s ear when Jaemin wraps a hand around Renjun’s velvet soft dick.
Renjun bites down on Jaemin’s bicep when he comes. He showers Jaemin’s skin with a flurry of sweet little ah sounds, clenching tight on Jaemin’s cock. Renjun wilts once his orgasm leaves him, arms sliding off Jaemin’s shoulders, stomach painted white. The sight is mesmerizing, chiselling Jaemin’s arousal to a sharp point, leaving him slamming into Renjun’s lax body one last time, groaning, buried to the hilt as he spills.
When Jaemin pulls out, Renjun’s face winces into a frown. When Jaemin gets down on his knees beside the bed to take Renjun’s soft cock between his lips to clean the come off him, he keens and twists away. Renjun seems content to let Jaemin rest down there, though; pillowed on his bare lap.
“Why Bunny?” Renjun croaks, voice wrecked from crying. He brushes Jaemin’s sweaty hair from his brow.
Jaemin nuzzles his cheek into Renjun’s thigh. “It’s what Donghyuck called me.”
“What the fuck,” Renjun breathes. His fingers keep combing. He says, “I need you to lie on top of me.”
Dazed as he is, Jaemin appreciates a clear order. Crushed beneath Jaemin’s larger mass, Renjun turns to putty again. Hot tears roll into Jaemin’s hair where his head is nestled next to Renjun’s. Jaemin presses a kiss by the corner of his eye.
“I’m okay,” Renjun whispers. “I want you to see something.”
Renjun is gone for a while. The back door stays cracked open, though, letting the sound of a tap running and a toilet flushing filter in. When he returns, he’s holding a phone, his hands in paws beneath a long cream-coloured sweater. His makeup is gone. His face is puffy and radiant.
Renjun holds the phone out to Jaemin, sitting at the head of the bed with Renjun’s robe across his lap. “My message history with Donghyuck. You can read it all.”
Jaemin swallows. He takes the phone automatically, unsure if he wants to see it. “I don’t think you’re lying to me.”
“I know.” Renjun climbs onto the bed. “It’s not much, but it’s part of him. It’s my part of him.”
Renjun tucks himself under Jaemin’s arm while Jaemin reads. From the first interaction, Donghyuck jumps out of the screen. It’s him, in all his technicolour glory.
i want to see you again
Donghyuck, it’s been less than an hour.
i know, but what if you met someone new in that time and they were more direct than me and now you’re going steady
I’ve never met anyone more direct than you.
Take me to lunch. Somewhere with seating.
gone are the days when you could woo a guy by making him come twice in one night
my whiskey dick defying prowess
I didn’t have whiskey dick!
I have stamina!!!
ok kitten
Their texts have the tint of a fledgling relationship. Flirting, learning schedules, arranging to meet up at this café or that bar. Links and photos. Renjun is a match for Donghyuck, witty and dry. It’s over fast, though. The point of their breakup is easy to piece together.
i’m sorry, renjun
What response are you hoping for?
Nothing? Wow, Lee Donghyuck ran out of quips.
Jaemin asks, “Did he dump you?”
“Technically,” Renjun mumbles, cheek squished to Jaemin’s waist. “I was only going away for a month. If I’d known he wouldn’t wait that long for me, I would have dumped him first.”
Jaemin smiles. His hand rests on the side of Renjun’s neck, fingertips dipping in the hollow of his throat. Donghyuck, always living quickly. “He wanted everything right away.”
Renjun shrugs. “I’m so many years past being offended.”
merry christmas, renjunnie
Merry Christmas, Donghyuck.
i miss you and your beautiful body
If you’re about to tell me you’ve changed your mind, I’m going to astral project into your apartment and feed you your own feet.
a tempting proposition
i haven’t. i was just thinking of you. be flattered
I’m not and I’m trying to get over you so go away.
oof
loud and clear
talk to you next christmas, kitten
Ugh.
Jaemin murmurs, “I’m glad he mellowed with age.”
“Did he?” Renjun asks.
“Maybe.” What objectivity does Jaemin have? He lost his heart to that little jerk.
Jaemin reads the next year.
merry christmas, renjunnie
Oh, you were serious.
i’m always serious
say it back
renjun, think of my christmas!! don’t you want me to be merry!!
No, I’m hoarding it for myself, bye.
Jaemin keeps reading, Christmas after Christmas, mostly impersonal and always cute. He picks out pieces of the narrative that he knows.
merry christmas, renjunnie
Merry Christmas, Donghyuck.
what’s what, kitten?
I got a new job. Can you keep a secret?
i love secrets :)
Absolutely not what I asked.
i won’t tell a soul
Jaemin’s heart beats faster as he approaches the year of his brutal fight with Donghyuck. His hand squeezes at the scruff of Renjun’s neck. Renjun pets at Jaemin’s flank, a tender presence. Then there it is, three days after Christmas.
hey, are you around?
???
I thought your phone turned into a pumpkin on the 26th.
Donghyuck?
What’s going on?
are you free to talk?
Now??
I’m working tonight :(
And then the morning after.
Don’t ever pull that shit again.
i’m sorry, baby
I’m serious. Don’t ever come here.
thanks for not kicking me out.
After you paid that much?
wow
I’m kidding. I hope you feel better.
tbd
talk to you next year
“Do I live up to what he told you about me?” Jaemin asks, a layer of nausea in his stomach like oil in water.
“I knew he’d marry a freak.” Renjun lays a kiss on Jaemin’s hip to soften the blow. “He bragged that you were gorgeous.”
Jaemin doesn’t push. If those conversations were for Jaemin, neither of them would be here.
Jaemin reads through to the end. It’s brief. A decade of acquaintance in one-hundred-word snippets. “He didn’t text you last month.”
“He just showed up,” Renjun explains. “If he warned me, I would have told Key not to let him in. Trust him to find a loophole.” Renjun turns his face into Jaemin’s thigh, his voice muffled into his robe. “I just thought – it’s terrible, I just thought – Christmas would have come around this year and I would have waited for a text from him.”
Jaemin slides down until he’s face to face with Renjun. He thumbs a tear from beneath his eye. Since Donghyuck died, Jaemin has found no comfort in himself. He hopes he has enough to be of use to Renjun. He can’t comprehend Renjun’s grief any more than his own, but he does share it. He kisses Renjun softly.
“Are you comfy?” Jaemin asks, smoothing Renjun’s sweater down his thigh.
Renjun nods, his nose brushing Jaemin’s.
Jaemin needs to know more about Renjun. It’s gnaws at him like hunger. “Can I ask you about yourself?”
“Yes.” Renjun tucks his hands up under his chin, small and soft. “Ask me anything.”
--
Jaemin doesn’t go back. He wants to, and that’s the problem. He’ll go back again and again until Key’s calling the coroner to scrape Jaemin off his tastefully carpeted floor. Maybe a week ago Jaemin would have been at peace with that, but for now he wants to inspect what shape his life is in before he writes it off.
He does wonder if Renjun would have given him his number if he’d asked. But it nags at him less than if Renjun had looked Jaemin in the eye after that night and told him they were only ever going to be strangers. That all they shared was simply an exchange of life for services.
To Jaemin, that night was very real. He can’t detach from the fact that Renjun has been a supporting player in his life. It’s revelatory.
Healing is non-linear. Most days it doesn’t feel like healing at all.
Jaemin starts eating at least two meals a day and tries not to nap while the sun is up. He moves a few things around in the apartment to make it feel less like a memorial. The living still reside here. Donghyuck will always be remembered, but Jaemin won’t go to his own grave with a “MAY I SUGGEST THE SAUSAGE” novelty apron in his kitchen. He gets rid of his mother’s hulking rice cooker and spends two days in bed.
In his quest for sun and exercise Jaemin finds himself at the park, stretching next to a kind-eyed man named Jeno. He’s somehow freakishly energetic and extremely low energy all at once, and he moulds peacefully to Jaemin’s peaks and valleys. Sometimes he brings Jaemin food; more often he sweettalks Jaemin into shouting them both. They watch movies together. He’s a quiet constancy that Jaemin needs.
Jaemin even finds a volunteer-run support group. It takes him a while to attend. Vulnerability is one hurdle. The guilt of not seeking help earlier is another, but he remembers Renjun’s words. Learn from it; let it go.
Two months after Donghyuck dies, Jaemin comes face to face with Renjun in the entry of a Starbucks. Both of them freeze in their tracks.
Renjun buys Jaemin a coffee, scanning his chip and scowling at him. “I’ve seen what you waste your balance on.”
Slightly dazed, Jaemin says, “You weren’t a waste.”
They sit by the window, commotion all around them and tension between them. Christmas music blares over the sound system.
“You look good,” Renjun says, fiddling with his straw. “You look better.”
“Yeah?” Renjun looks incredible. He has a maroon scarf around his neck and a soft sweater beneath a shearling-lined jacket. Autumn colours.
Renjun hums. “More sentient.”
Jaemin laughs. Renjun looks at him like he’s grown a second head. It’s very possible Renjun has never heard it before.
“You always look good.” Self-conscious, Jaemin clears his throat. “I’m sorry I disappeared without saying anything. That was probably cruel.”
Renjun keeps staring, expression growing puzzled. “I told Key to blacklist you.”
Jaemin blinks. “Oh.”
“I didn’t want you killing yourself to see me.” Renjun’s face turns pink in front of Jaemin’s eyes. “I guess that was presumptuous.”
It really wasn’t. “I did want to see you. I just kind of want to see next year, too.”
Renjun looks down, picking furiously at a scratch on the table. “Do you still want to see me?”
“I do.” Jaemin intercepts Renjun’s finger with his own, forcing his attention back up. “Is your shower still dripping?”
Renjun looks surprised. “Yeah.”
“I can fix it for you if you want.”
“Is this innuendo?” Renjun’s head cocks. “Are you going to offer to clean my pipes next?”
Jaemin can’t trust any of the men he loves to take plumbing seriously. “Shouldn’t I buy you dinner first?”
“That would be life-changing.” Renjun clarifies, “The shower, I mean. I can hear it in every room and I’m scared I’m going to snap.” Renjun slides his fingers into the gaps between Jaemin’s on the table. “You could stay for dinner. Or a drink. I don’t care why, just stay, I’m so tired of wondering how you’re doing on your own.”
Jaemin smiles, taking Renjun’s hand. “Don’t worry about me.” He melts when Renjun’s fingers close around his thumb. “I promise I’m not alone.”
Jaemin’s own life has been changing a lot lately. It really could hurt to risk a little more, but maybe it will be worth it.