slowly
after so many rainfalls
and pollen-thick winds
and fallen blossoms
life questions
'why is life always undermined?'
and death questions
'why is death always outshined?'

──

For some sadistic reason, Minho's parents insist on eating dinner as a family every night, even though Minho is almost positive it's as torturous for everybody else as it is for him. His mother is the lone exception, of course, and keeps her energy on par with a circus ringmaster so long as there's an audience.

"So," she says, "why don't we go around the table and say what we're grateful for today?"

Sooyun rattles off a generic answer. His brother-in-law says something about the filibuster. His father says he's grateful that his friend's hotel chain (meaning his own investment) is starting to show some returns.

"What about you, Minho?" his mother says, eager for him to participate.

"I'm thankful for Mrs. Lim and the cooks and the food they prepare for us."

His mother laughs. "That's what I was going to say! Okay, I am grateful for our beautiful, wonderful family."

"Even her?" Haewon is trying to feed Hara, who's snuffling, on the brink of tears. She must be able to sense Minho, though he purposely sat at the far end of the table.

"Of course even Hara!"

"If you say so. I might just rip my hair out if she doesn't sleep tonight. Minho, you better invite that cute singer back or I'm going to do it myself."

Minho stops mid-chew. He can feel eyes on him. He clears his throat. "You should, I don't have his contacts or anything."

Haewon raises her eyebrow, but drops the subject. The conversation bounces back after a minute or two, but it's a very long minute or two.

Minho retreats to his bedroom after dinner. He listens to the radio, some classical station, while he locks the door, draws the curtains, shuts out the light. His room is impersonal — by his own design — but he didn't mean to make it... cold. At least he's comfortable here. Mostly because he's alone.

He lies down and closes his eyes.

He falls quickly and deeply into that dark place, submerged in fog, hovering off the ground. From a crack in the void, light surges in. The figure, bright like the core of the sun, a palpable presence. He can feel the energy emanating from it, familiar and frightening at the same time. Words flow through his mind, indecipherable, an alien language. If Minho just tried, reached, pushed a little harder, he could understand what they mean—

A hitch lurches up his throat. He jolts up and doubles over the side of the bed, retching, holding his neck. Music is still playing over the radio, louder now, the same chord glitching over and over again. He staggers to his feet and yanks the plug out of the wall.

As soon as it's quiet, he can hear the baby crying upstairs. Fuck. He kicks the wall.

So he takes another walk in the forest. He's groggy, awkward on his feet, chilly without a jacket. He sits by the creek for a while and then heads back to the house. His throat hurts from coughing. Sometimes the nightmares overwhelm his body. This is the first time he's felt like he was going to throw up. It's also the first time he's remembered a full sentence from his dream. Life and death are evolving.

It's strange. It sounds like the kind of thing Jisung would sing. Maybe Minho has been thinking about his music too much. About him too much.

Once he returns to the house, he sits on the white wicker couch in the conservatory, watching the sky slowly change colour through the glass ceiling. He isn't tired anymore. He's kind of... lonely.

I'm not gonna call him, he thinks. Not gonna call him. Won't call him. Not gonna do it.

He picks up the phone and dials with one hand, the other fidgeting with the curly cord. The phone rings once, twice, thrice. God, this is stupid, it's barely seven. He's about to hang up when he hears a voice on the other end — not the one he was expecting.

"Who's this?" It sounds like an older woman with a smoker's frog.

"Uh. Hi. Is this Han Jisung's number?"

"Yes, this is his grandmother, who are you?"

"My name is Lee Minho — your grandson played at my family's auction a few weeks a—"

"Ah, you! Oh yes, he's told me lots about you."

Minho feels excitement rise in his chest. "Oh?"

"I want to thank you, Minho, for being kind to him. He had problems in high school — those kids picked on him relentlessly after he came out, and he doesn't admit it, but it left a big scar. Good grief, listen to me — I'm just being overprotective. You know how grandmothers are."

Minho doesn't, but he agrees in any case. Grandmother Lee used to sit in a rocking chair, glass of whiskey in hand, and scold his sisters for 'getting chubby.' (Also that "after he came out" is reassuring. Minho knew, but he didn't know...)

"Anyway," she says, "you know, I'm just relieved — I haven't seen him this happy in a while, especially with that spiffy guitar. And I know he would hit the ceiling if he knew I was saying any of this, so let's keep it between us, okay?"

"Of course, Mrs. Han. I'm sorry I called so early. I just — I wanted to speak to Jisung, is he there?"

"He's still at work — but don't worry, he has a phone there. Let me give you the number."

He finds a pen and paper and jots down the number. He says thank you, wishes her a good evening and realizes too late that it's seven in the morning. As soon as they hang up, he dials again.

Jisung picks up after one ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Lee Minho."

"Minho? Oh. Holy shit. Hi."

He's biting his thumbnail. "Sorry for calling so early, I'm probably interrupting."

"No no, I'm not doing anything. I'm the kind of security guard that doesn't get to walk around. Where'd you get this number?"

"I called your house first and talked to your grandmother."

"Huh... that's a little concerning."

"No, she's great. I didn't know you took care of her."

"It's more mutual actually." He laughs a little. "So... what's up?"

"Right. I thought of something and it kind of reminded me of your lyrics. 'Life and death are evolving' — something like that. I don't know. It sounded cool in the moment. I just... thought of it and thought of you."

"Oh. That's sweet, Minho. I'm writing it down now in my notebook." There's a pause. "Oh wait. It's already here, the evolution song. 'Lands are razed / creatures forgotten / while earth revolved / life and death evolved.'"

Minho rolls his eyes at himself. He confused some kind of dream lyric with an actual memory.

"Ah. Okay. I'm dumb."

Jisung laughs. "No, it's nice you've been thinking about it. Usually I'm the only one."

Minho is still biting his thumb. He's just waiting for a question that he doesn't want to answer, like why he's calling, why he's up so early, why he sounds nervous.

Then Jisung says "So, you sent me a really nice, really expensive guitar."

Minho did do that. "Yes."

"How do you know I'm not the kind of person who gets offended when people buy them stuff?"

"Are you?"

"No. I graciously accept the gift and say thank you. So thank you."

"You're welcome. How does it sound?"

"Like pure gold. I smile every time I play it — shit, every time I look at it. I put the old one in the firewood pile."

Minho smiles. "Great. I got lucky, I don't know anything about guitars. I thought it might've been too, I dunno, sleek?"

"No, it's beautiful. Seriously, Minho, thank you. I don't know how I can repay you."

He bites his lip. God. This is new. The fidgeting. The nervousness. He isn't sure he likes it.

"See me again," he says.

There's a silence. Minho's whole hand is tangled up in the cord.

"That doesn't seem fair," Jisung says then. "I thought payback wasn't supposed to be... mutually beneficial."

Minho smiles. No, he beams.

"If you're looking for fairness," Minho says, "then you could always provide a service."

"Oh?"

"Teach me guitar. Something more complicated than Hot Cross Buns."

He laughs, slightly breathless. "I'm sorry, Minho, I'm not a miracle worker. Look, come to my house instead. I'll show you around."

"Really?"

"You're not the only one who gets to give house tours just because you have a big stupid mansion."

Minho snorts. "Alright. When are you free?"

"Any time this week. Except the nights and mornings and most of the afternoons. Maybe 9:30 on Saturday? Is that too late?"

"No, that's great. Before you go though — does your grandmother like jewelry?"

Jisung laughs. "Is this, like, part of your technique or something?"

"Technique?"

"You..." Another pause. "You know... when you meet new people."

Minho likes the shy note in his voice. "You mean, do I buy stuff for all the guys I see?"

He takes the silence as a yes, so he continues.

"The answer is no. Try shopping for spoiled heirs who already own everything under the sun."

"I'm pretty sure that's one thing I'm never going to try... and she likes food more than jewelry."

"Chocolate?"

"Taffy, the salty ones."

"Noted. Um. You're working, I'll let you go."

"Yeah, you're right. Saturday, okay?"

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

Minho hangs up and blows out a breath. Saturday. Okay. He thinks he has an engagement that night, a meeting with some city councillor. He can get out of it. Malingering is frowned upon, but as long as no one knows what he's really doing, he might as well be seeing to something important and business-related.

Minho catches movement from the corner of his eye. He turns and sees his father standing at the edge of the room, turned away like he was about to leave. Their eyes meet.

"Were you listening?" Minho murmurs.

His father is impassive. "If you insist on doing what you do, I expect you to be wise about whom you throw the family's money at."

Minho clenches his fists. Uselessly, as always where his father is concerned. Just stand still and take the hit. Minho has gotten good at it. Fortunately his father's words don't leave marks like his hands used to.

He turns to walk away.

"It was my money," Minho calls, voice faltering.

His father doesn't stop walking.