Chapter Text

Previous year: 

Yunho: 

[3 October, 3:48 am] I’ll never be able to properly thank God for putting you and Mingi on my path. 

I feel a bit guilty, though, because I still feel like an empty box despite your help. I know that you understand better than anyone what I'm feeling-or rather: what I'm not feeling-what's missing from my life.  

I think I'd feel better if my box had been empty from the start. But my box was full before life decided to empty it, little by little.  

You and Mingi sometimes helped to fill it. But most of the time, I must admit I’m hollow. I don't think I can keep my box full anymore. It scares me, I can't bear the thought of feeling even more alone than before if life decides to be even more cruel.  

I know you feel the same way.  

Sometimes I feel that the only way to stop suffering from my existence’s futility is to not exist at all.  

Maybe our salvation lies in death.  

*** 

When Hongjoong opened his eyes this morning, he felt something other than the numbing melancholy that usually wakes him up. Instead, he felt two other familiar feelings: anger and anxiety. 

In truth, he hardly slept a wink all night, tormented by these emotions he still doesn’t know how to deal with. He has no idea what came over him, offering to give Seonghwa his stuff back, to see him again. His stomach and heart tell him it's a bad idea: given the way the man has previously harassed him, chances are he'll see this interview as Hongjoong’s approval for Seonghwa to keep messaging him.  

Now that he thinks about it, he should take this opportunity to tell Seonghwa, face to face, that he can stop talking to him after he gets his clothes back, for good, this time. To finally put this fateful evening behind him. 

When he gets out of bed and unlocks his phone, the screen shows that it's already 2 pm. He throws it on the mattress and rubs his face with a sigh, then walks to his closet, resigned. 

Now that he's considering his options, Hongjoong feels shame crawling under his skin, to mix slyly with the anger gnawing at his heart on this rainy day. 

“What was I thinking, seriously?”  

His voice almost echoes in the emptiness of his wardrobe. Why did he ask to see him today of all days? He doesn't understand the sense of urgency that had seized him. 

He should cancel. Ask him to do it another day . 

I told him it was my birthday. Why did I do that? It was ridiculous. He must think I'm ridiculous. Everyone's always thought I was ridiculous. 

Mechanically, his right hand goes to his wrist. His movements are interrupted by the vibrating sound of his phone. 

Seonghwa:  

[7 November, 2:19 pm] Here's the address! See you soon. I've reserved one of the café's rooms just for us. Don't be late, I don't have much time :) 

“Fucking rich bastard”.  

Hongjoong hesitates between canceling out of sheer defiance, vomiting, or hanging himself with one of the rags hanging in his closet. 

In the end, he opts for a brown plaid shirt and light blue mom jeans. He doesn't have much choice, anyway. 

*** 

The illustrator is running late. 

It's 5:15 p.m., and his reflection in the window of the small café looks down on him with disdain. Hongjoong hasn't put on any makeup. It's been a long time since he last wore make-up - since he avoids looking at his reflection for too long. The man in the glass has deep, purplish dark circles decorating the outline of his dowsed eyes, and the dull complexion of someone about to throw up. Perhaps the weight he feels on his empty stomach really will cause him to vomit bile onto the gray sidewalk. 

In the glass, he sees his hands trembling.  

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door. He doesn’t know why it’s so heavy in his palm.  

At first, Hongjoong thinks he's in the wrong place. The main room of the café is extremely small and almost empty. Without the smell of sugar and the presence of a few employees, the place would seem closed. 

“Mr. Kim?” asks one of the waitresses who approaches him as he enters.  

Hongjoong awkwardly nods. 

“Mr. Park is waiting for you.” 

The artist frowns. Mr. Park? Park Seonghwa? He can't shake the strange feeling of déjà-vu this name gives him. 

The young woman leads him through a door, and Hongjoong suddenly finds himself in a small inner courtyard, sheltered by a glass ceiling regularly hit by shy raindrops. At one of the tables sits a white-haired man, lost in thought, whom Hongjoong doesn't recognize. 

Yet it's Seonghwa who's supposed to be there. The same Seonghwa he spoke to on the phone the day before. 

So Hongjoong moves closer, and the sound of his footsteps on the floor finally draws the man out of his thoughts.  

He gives him a little wave as he stands up. “Ah, Hongjoong! Take a seat.”   

When Seonghwa's black irises meet his, Hongjoong abruptly stops in his tracks. His eyebrows, which had remained furrowed until now, suddenly perch on his forehead, while his slender eyes widen and his jaw drops. 

Despite his new hair color, there's no doubt that this man is Seonghwa. Those big, bright eyes staring back at him were the ones he'd looked into that day . The rest, he hadn't seen. But now that his face is exposed, Hongjoong understands why. 

If he knows these eyes as Seonghwa, everyone knows this face by another name. 

“Mars?”    

Seonghwa’s only answer is an embarrassed, almost shy smile. 

“Is this a joke?” asks Hongjoong.   

“Ah… I'm sorry about that. I should have warned you.” Mars scratches the back of his neck. “I didn't know how to tell you…”   

Stunned, Hongjoong doesn't know what to say, so he just sits down. 

“Order what you want, it's on me," Seonghwa announces in an attempt to change the subject. 

The dark-haired man doesn't know how long he has been frozen in his chair, blinking as he stares at the man in front of him. 

Because it's Mars. South Korea's most famous model, the androgynous figure that all the luxury fashion houses are after. He’s the muse who steals the public's heart with every magazine cover, the man who has the eyes of the world on him at every Fashion Week - including Hongjoong’s. 

You don't have to be a big fashion fan to recognize Mars. Hongjoong, like everyone else, knows the face of the man who makes his country tremble and the world vibrate with every appearance. He recognizes him from dozens of Isabel Marant or Songzio fashion shows, his slender silhouette sometimes dressed in feminine pieces that accentuate his slim waist, sometimes adorned with masculine garments that emphasize his broad shoulders. 

And Hongjoong can’t tear his eyes away from him, because seeing Mars face-to-face is like seeing a masterpiece in real life for the first time.  

The truth is, he knows those delicately sharp, elongated features because he's put them down on paper before. Hongjoong likes to draw things that are worth immortalizing and magnifying, so the model's face is a natural fit. 

Yet, nothing can do justice to reality . 

It's as if the young artist had never really opened his eyes, always looked at life through a dull, gray filter, and then suddenly the splendor of Mars restored his sight, shaking him out of his torpor and dazzling him. 

You only meet a Park Seonghwa once in a lifetime, he has to admit. He struggles not to dwell on every feature of his face. On his mouth, which curves slightly over one cheek when he speaks... 

Ah. He’s speaking right now.  

“-Joong? Hongjoong? Can you hear me? Are you okay?”.   

Hongjoong feels his cheeks heat up as he blinks, snapping out of his daydream. He couldn't believe he was so absorbed in his thoughts about the guy's features that he didn't realize he was talking to him. 

The sensible man in him manages to push aside the thoughts of the fashion and beauty enthusiast he is. And this man wants to scream: he fell between the cracks of a rich man who probably doesn't even realize that he lives Hongjoong’s misfortune as entertainment. A stupidly naive rich man . 

“No .” Hongjoong finally breathes.   

“No?” Seonghwa grimaces. 

“No, I don't want you to pay for what I'm going to eat. I'm not hungry anyway.”  

Seonghwa looks down at the card in his hands. His face remains impassive, but Hongjoong notices the regular tapping of his finger against the laminated paper. 

“You told me it’s your birthday”.   

Hongjoong didn't think he could feel any more embarrassed today. But the young man is often wrong, and this time is no exception. 

“Just forget it. I don't know why I told you. I don't want you to pay.”   

I don't want to feel indebted against my will.  

Seonghwa's lips slowly part as his dark eyes lock on him again, and Hongjoong feels, in the pit of his stomach, that the model is going to insist. 

“I'm sorry, Mars," he blurts out before it's too late, "but-”  

“Seonghwa," he cuts him off nonchalantly.   

“W-what?”  

“You already know that my name is Seonghwa," he says with a small smile. “Use it.” 

Hongjoong's mouth goes dry. Honestly, how is he supposed to stay calm in front of this guy when he feels himself seething inside with every interaction?  

“Look, Mars, I'm sorry about the other night, and about the messages, and my call yesterday-”  

“Hong-,” Seonghwa snaps the coffee card shut.   

“No! I told you to listen to me, so please do, for once.”  

It's amazing how soft this guy's eyes are; every time, they should be throwing daggers at Hongjoong.  

The latter feels an uncomfortable warmth seizing the back of his neck as he turns to his battered backpack, which he had lamentably placed on the floor beside his chair. He feels overwhelmed by the model's gaze. There’s this sticky feeling clinging to his skin, that Seonghwa’s about to throw at him the same repulsive slurs as the ones he was used to hearing in middle school, between two blows and three cigarette burns.  

With clumsy movements, he pulls out a plastic bag containing neatly folded clothes, while he feels the model's piercing gaze stalking his every move in deafening silence. 

Hongjoong has never had many friends, apart from Yunho. He's always preferred to be as isolated as possible from other people's gaze after middle school, and hasn't had long face-to-face conversations with anyone in a long time. The few words he exchanges with Mingi when he insists on seeing him don't count. 

The whole thing makes his head spin. Instead of two eyes, he feels like a hundred stares are swarming over his skin, ready to laugh at everything about him, including the way he breathes. 

He tries not to think about his reflection in the café glass or how worn and shabby his clothes look. He tries not to think that Seonghwa must be enjoying himself, facing such a loser, with his rags, imperfect skin, and damaged hair, while he's so clean-cut, so well-groomed. 

“Here are your clothes," he quivers, trying not to look away. Seonghwa picks them up slowly and silently, nodding gently. As if not to frighten a stray cat. 

“I'm going to delete your number now, so you can maintain your privacy.” The digital artist watches as the man slips the plastic bag into his Jacquemus Soli bag. “I promise it won't fall into the wrong hands. I didn't want you to feel forced to talk to…” 

  He doesn't have time to finish, because one of the waiters appears to take their order. Hongjoong jumps at the chance to make his breath less labored. 

“I'll have the usual, San." Seonghwa smiles, seemingly unbothered.  

Hongjoong's eyes hurt. Despite the gray sky, the light blinds him, and his throat is dry.  

“Hm... An Iced Americano, please.”   

When the waiter leaves, the silence doesn't last. 

“I trust you, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa confesses. 

“Do you?” He sighs, flabbergasted.  

“I trust you," he repeats, his face still adorned with a calm smile. “You can keep my number. And call me by my real name.”   

Maybe the young man should scream. Or pull his hair out, or knock over the table. Or all at once. 

“Are you serious?” he blurts out. 

Mars nods. 

“ I. Trust. You. Hongjoong. ”  

Okay, maybe laughing would be a good option. 

“Have you lost your mind or are you messing with me? No, maybe you’re just even more naive than I thought?”. Like that, Hongjoong finally manages to ruin the model's smile. 

“Do you often give your number out to fucking strangers, Seonghwa?” 

“It's not the same…” the model sighs, squeezing his eyes. 

“How is it different? You don't know me - you don’t know anything about me except that I’m some suicidal asshole! You don't know what I could do with your personal information, what I could do to you .”   

Seonghwa, who had been pinching the bridge of his nose all this time, quickly reopened his eyes, immediately fixing his serious eyes on him.   

The young artist hadn't even realized that, during the discussion, he'd moved the front of his body forward onto the table, until the intensity of Seonghwa's gaze made him step back. 

“You won't do anything. I know it, Hongjoong," he says confidently.  “How can you be so sure, Mars? Hongjoong snorts, disillusioned.   

They're interrupted again by the waiter. The young man's hands immediately reach for his iced Americano. He hopes the bite of the cold on his skin will ground him a little. 

Instead of answering him, Seonghwa chooses to eat his red velvet cake. 

The designer's brain, on the other hand, fuses at full speed as his thoughts fill the silence. Yet he keeps his mouth firmly shut. Otherwise, he knows he's likely to say something ugly to the annoyingly pretty model in front of him. And for all the man's irritation, he feels that deep down, he doesn't deserve to receive so much bitterness in exchange for his kind and stupid naivety. 

Hongjoong tries not to dwell on the way Seonghwa's eyes crinkle with each bite, as if he's tasting this delicious cake for the first time. 

“You should try it. So good ”. 

Mars spoke with his mouth full. Hongjoong tries not to choke on his coffee, observing the way the cream perfectly decorates the round shape of his lower lip. 

“No, thanks.”   

Seonghwa stares at him with wide eyes. 

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. What do you mean you don't want to taste this delicious cake? You don't know what you're missing... Wooyoung would be angry if he heard you," he mumbles.   

Hongjoong doesn't ask who Wooyoung is, and Seonghwa doesn't insist: he simply goes back to his cake, which he quickly devours in big bites. Like this, he looks like a child afraid that his siblings will steal his food. 

Hongjoong rolls his eyes. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, and tries to hide it behind his glass. 

“So, what do you do for a living, Hongjoong?”   

Seriously, he wants to run away, hide, disappear - again and again. 

When he sees Seonghwa looking up at him, his eyes reflecting all the curiosity in the world, he swallows hard. He should never have come here. 

“Hm. I'm an illustrator and digital artist.” 

Hongjoong observes the way Seonghwa's straight eyebrows raise at his words, his eyes becoming even rounder. 

“Really?” the model enthuses, spoon still in his mouth. “Can you show me?”

His moist lips close around the spoon, then slide cruelly slowly around the metal surface. This simple gesture shouldn't be so painful to watch, but this image sends a strange spark down Hongjoong’s spine. 

He takes advantage of Seonghwa's request to divert his attention to his phone, which he pulls out of his pocket to show Seonghwa his Instagram account. 

“Shall I?” Seonghwa's voice takes on the texture of silk again, and his long fingers brush the edge of the phone still in Hongjoong's hand. 

Hongjoong feels his grip on the object weaken, his gaze caught by the refined shape of the hands that manage to grasp it effortlessly. His eyes glide down the arms of the perfectly fitting black turtleneck. He feels something change inside him and tighten in his throat as he notes that despite wearing this simple piece, Seonghwa’s silhouette belongs on a canvas.  

Because the proportions of his body are just perfect .  

“ It's beautiful, " murmurs Seonghwa, whose attention is fixed on Hongjoong's phone. “I didn't think your work would be so colorful. I love the contrast between black and red in this one…” 

Hongjoong swallows. He's relieved Seonghwa isn't looking at him: at least he can't see how he’s captivated by his silhouette. His visual exploration resembles a journey into forbidden territory, but gives rise to a delicious sensation he'd almost forgotten existed. He feels it slyly seizing him. It’s born in the pit of his stomach, licking deliciously at the top of his ribs. He feels it buzzing from the palm of his hand to his fingertips. 

This vital, feverish need to draw, he revels in it. This desire to draw something whose beauty seems irreproducible. To draw Seonghwa . 

“Seonghwa.” The assurance that fills his voice is unusual. Forces the mannequin to look up at him. 

“I've already drawn you several times, you know”.   

*** 

The yellowish light from the nightly street’s neon reflects on Hongjoong's cheek through his window. The melody of Hongjoong's stylus gliding across the screen of his graphic tablet fills the dimly lit room, occasionally replaced by the young man's sighs. 

Hongjoong draws a line. Erases it. Draws it again. Erases it. Again and again. 

Between each attempt, memories of the previous afternoon flood his mind. 

“Damn it," he swears as he abruptly drops his pen, which rolls across his messy desk.   

Shame overwhelms him as he drags his hands over his face in a desperate effort. Regret never ceases to torment him. It had been so long since he'd felt such poignant inspiration seize him that he'd done and said things that weren't like him. 

“I've already drawn you several times, you know” . What had possessed him, again, to say that to Mars? He couldn't help it, and it would be a lie to say he hadn't felt a little pride when he saw the genuine curiosity on Seonghwa's face. Or that he hadn't felt his ego swell as the model made an impressed pout when she saw the three drawings Hongjoong had created of him - his heart-shaped mouth and cheeks tinted an excited pink. 

“I just love it! It's incredible, Hongjoong, I don't have the words. I think it's the best fan art I've ever seen.”   

“I'm not a fan.” Hongjoong had deadpanned.   

Hongjoong winces as he returns to his drawing. "I'm not a fan" ... Cringe. He remembers that after laughing at Hongjoong's answer for at least a good 2 minutes, Seonghwa had gone to the café’s bathroom. When he'd returned, slightly paler than before, Hongjoong still had felt this uncharacteristic impulse to ask Seonghwa to pose for him. 

It was this, above all, that the artist regretted, because for the first time, he had read an emotion of discomfort disfiguring the model, who had politely declined. 

But worst of all, Hongjoong told him he'd draw him anyway. 

And so he did, trying to forget the shadow that had passed in Seonghwa's eyes. 

Mixed with this regret, however, he feels the inspiration still engraved in his body. It dictates in his every gesture, commands him to replicate the majesty of the model he has in mind on his screen. 

And yet, with every line and color he throws at his digital canvas, he knows that something doesn't feel right. That his work is so far from his vision. Because now that he's seen the real thing, he knows that even the photos he uses as references or his mind can’t do it justice. 

“Fuck.”   

Swallowing his pride, he does yet another out-of-character thing and grabs his phone. To write a message. To Seonghwa. 

Hongjoong: 

[8 November, 8:02 pm] Sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to sound like a weirdo. 

I guess I kinda failed lol.. So yeah, sorry if I made u uncomfortable 

[8:03 pm] Thanks for the coffee, tho. I told u not to pay for it.  

He's about to put his phone away in his pocket without waiting for an answer, when the doorbell jolts him out of his thoughts. 

Hongjoong doesn’t get up to see who’s bothering him. He's not waiting for anyone, so as usual, he pretends he’s not home, waiting for the person to leave.  

Except that his doorbell rings a second time, then a third.  

A trembling voice reaches Hongjoong's ears, muffled by the thin walls separating his room from the hallway. “Hongjoong. I know you're home.”  

Mortified, Hongjoong doesn't move. He remains glued to his chair for several seconds, as if the slightest movement would make the situation more real. More inevitable. Because it's Mingi's voice outside his door, bursting the bubble of inspiration that had begun to shield him from the dark thoughts usually plaguing him. 

But Hongjoong moves his feet anyway, opens the door, and behind it, sees the boyfriend of his dead best friend. 

Mingi's eyes are as red and wet as the day they lost him. In the reflection of the young man's tears, Hongjoong recognizes the cry for help he knows all too well. So, even if Hongjoong wants to stay away from Mingi-as if it would protect him from another loss, even if he promised himself he wouldn't help him, he's not a monster.  

On the cold floor of his apartment, his feet move to let Mingi in. When Mingi approaches him to pull him into an embrace he doesn't want, he silently lets him. For a moment, he closes his eyes. Hongjoong hopes that this way, he will forget the despair distorting the student's features, once filled with radiant candor. 

In these arms too big for him, Hongjoong gives everything he has to not feel even more vulnerable, small. 

“Sorry,” Mingi breaks the silence by pulling away from Hongjoong. “I know you don't like physical contact. I just wanted - needed to…”   

“It's okay.”   

Mingi looks at him for a moment, arms flailing.   

“It's so hard, right now.” His voice is strangled. “I can't think of anything else, I can't pretend everything's okay anymore... I'm trying, trying so hard not to worry my family…” 

A pause.  

“It hurts, Hongjoong. It hurts so, so much. I needed to see you, to see you and…” his sentence remains unfinished on a broken note. 

Hongjoong looks away. The word "sorry" is on the tip of his lips, but he decides to swallow it. It leaves a bitter taste. 

“How are you?” asks his impromptu guest, wiping away his tears. 

The artist shrugs. 

“How do you think I’m doing, Mingi?”  

He closes his eyes tightly again. Very tightly. He didn't mean to be so dry, but he clearly can't control the words that come out of his mouth. He takes out the wrong ones and keeps the right ones. 

“It’s the same as you," Hongjoong murmurs with difficulty.   

Whatever Mingi believes he'll find here, Hongjoong knows he won't. Even so, his voice is steadier and more hopeful as he finally asks: 

“You kept our photos, didn't you, Joong?”  

Despite his shaky lips, he feels the corners of his mouth turn up slightly as he answers, in a breath, that he still has them in his drawer. He feigns annoyance when Mingi asks if he can see them, with the excitement of a stray dog that has just been given a pat. 

The truth is, he doesn't know if he's ready to see them again. It's been a year since he last looked at these pictures, since he left them untouched, buried deep in his desk drawer. Yet, he accepts.  

If Yunho's boyfriend notices how Hongjoong struggles to open the drawer, he says nothing. Nor does he make any comment when he drops the little green box, on which are written the words "for you two". With his characteristic kindness, Mingi simply bends down and picks it up. 

“Thank you, Hongjoong.”  

Then, without asking, the student sits down on the bed. Hongjoong follows suit. 

Just like that, he finds himself confronted with photographs immortalizing the few memories he struggles to find in the fog that always surrounds his thoughts. The ones he's not ready to see. 

That's probably for the best: it allows him to imprint them again in his memory, before leaving and forgetting them for eternity. 

He recognizes the Polaroid taken on the day when he, Yunho, and Mingi went ice skating for the first time. They were 17, Mingi 16. In the picture, their cheeks pressed together are rosy from the cold, distorted by ear-to-ear smiles. They look happy. 

In the photographs taken by Yunho, Hongjoong sees the normal teenagers they could have been, through their youthful smiles. He sees the love that Yunho had for Mingi and that Mingi still has for him. 

In the photographs of their hours spent in the PC-bangs near the house he shared with Yunho and his mom, their karaoke nights, their school days, they look happy. Maybe he should start believing the lies in these freeze-frames. Their story is far more beautiful and colorful than bleak reality. At least, Hongjoong knows that Mingi was the only one happy. 

He spots the picture Yunho had taken of an orange dead leaf, fallen alone on a wooden bench. He remembers it because it was the day his best friend's mother died. He was 19. 

In a photo he had taken of Mingi and Yunho hugging under a cherry blossom tree, Hongjoong sees a drop fall. Then two. He doesn't need to look up to know that these are Mingi's tears. 

This one was taken the day before Yunho ended his life. 

“Sorry," the student whispers with difficulty between sobs.   

Sometimes silence is worth more than words. Hongjoong doesn't know how long he stares at the photograph, only surrounded by the sound of his friend's cries. 

“Thank you," Mingi eventually breathes. “Thank you so much, Hongjoong,” he repeats, clutching the Polaroid to his heart.   

And the artist feels like guilt is squeezing his heart, even though he doesn’t want to feel it.

***

Yesterday, Hongjoong agreed to visit Yunho's grave with Mingi. 

Today, the fresh air of the new morning lightly disperses the mist weighing on his mind. It gently sweeps away the few dead leaves that have withstood the month of October, pushing aside the clouds to let in the winter sun's rays. They fall, in cruel contrast, on the small, cold stone sheltering his friend's remains. 

Between dry fingers, he holds the photo of Mingi and Yunho, still wrinkled from the former's tears. 

His gaze remains fixed on the grave, trying his best not to look at Mingi, but he knows that the latter is crying anyway. In his ears, the song of a robin mingles with Mingi's sobs. 

Hongjoong knew coming here was a bad idea; he didn't even know why he agreed to come here with him. Their friendship should remain buried next to Yunho until Hongjoong joins him. 

“Can I ask you something, Hongjoong?”   

Hongjoong wants to say no. However, his lips tighten along with his heart, preventing him from answering. 

“We've never talked about it, but…” Mingi chokes before resuming. “He sent you a message, too, right? Before…” The sentence dies on his lips, and Hongjoong raises his eyes to the sky. The cold burns his eyes and constricts his throat. The cold, and nothing else. 

“Yes," he barely answers.     

“What did he... Huh. Do you want to talk about it?” Mingi tries. 

The photo bends a little between his fingers.  

“No,” Hongjoong inhales with difficulty. “I can't, Mingi.”  

Don't insist, please don't insist. 

Hongjoong is tired. Tired of having to fight day and night not to be crushed under the weight of grief, under the weight of this friendship that is no longer there, and that he would so much like to see through naive eyes, ignorant of his own mistakes. 

“Could you show it to me then...? The text he sent you?”.   

For the millionth time, his eyes close as the vice grips his chest. His knees are weak, staggering in time with his heart. He tries so hard to breathe, to expel and inhale the air between his lips, which never seems to stop shaking. 

Showing this message to Mingi shouldn't be a problem. If Mingi hates him, then it would make his next attempt easier. It would allow him to make sure that he wouldn't be sad about his death. 

Yet, is he ready to get this message out of the sole reality of his head and phone? Is he ready to look guilt in the face? 

Mingi's hand on his shoulder doesn't help. 

“I'm sorry. I don't know why - I don’t know why I asked that," Mingi hesitates. “I suppose he told you the same things as he wrote in the message he sent me. He told you it wasn't your fault, and that you and I were the only things that brought him any happiness in the end”.   

 “Yes.” Hongjoong chokes.  

Yes, but no. Yunho never told Hongjoong it wasn't his fault. He simply told him that he knew he understood him. 

And Hongjoong... Hongjoong, deep down, knows it's because he never really helped Yunho. Without his friendship with Hongjoong, Yunho would probably still be here. You could change the world with "ifs" - and Hongjoong is certain that if they hadn't seen in each other a way to entertain their dark and macabre thoughts, he wouldn't be where he is today, mourning the loss of his friend's beautiful soul. 

“You know, Hongjoong, I'm not stupid. I've always known that you and Yunho were suffering a lot, psychologically. I know you still are."    

Of course, they didn't tell Mingi that they often talked about death, how disappearing - ceasing to exist - must be so peaceful. Far from the cruelty of humans and life. 

Hongjoong should have put an end to the way their friendship sometimes took unhealthy turns when they shared their darkest wishes, jokingly, of course. Yunho always assured they were only joking.  

“I knew he wasn't well... I knew.” Mingi continues.   

Selfishly, when it had gotten worse, Hongjoong had carried on - it was so comforting, sharing such thoughts with his best friend. To feel understood, guilt-free.  

If he'd known Yunho was going to do it, he would have stopped. 

“But I never thought he'd, he'd-”   

Mingi cries again. This time, it's too much for Hongjoong. Because his best friend deserved better - he deserved a long life, free of pain, surrounded by friends who would have put his well-being above their suicidal thoughts. 

The grief tearing at Hongjoong's chest is back, and this time, it's accompanied by the guilt the artist had tried so hard to bury in the depths of his being.  

The tears leave his eyes and sobs his throat without him being able to do anything about it. It's uncontrollable and inevitable, the torrent of emotions drowning him once again. 

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry. So, so sorry.”  

He feels Mingi's hand grip his elbow. The younger one is no longer crying, too shocked by his friend's cries. 

“Hong-”  

“I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”   

Despite the sobs rushing out of his chest and down his cheeks, Hongjoong drops to his knees. The sudden movement rips his elbow from Mingi's grip, and the friction is painful through his coat. It hurts. 

It hurts. 

His hands places the picture on the stone as he repeats "sorry", again and again. Staring at it, his peripheral vision barely registers Mingi's movement as he moves himself at his level. 

Between each of his tears, the gnawing pain in his soul is accompanied by the pain in his knees. Between each tear, he feels Mingi's hand patting his back. He knows he's crying again, too. Between each weep, Mingi tells him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: 

“It's not your fault, Hongjoong.”   

In his pocket, his phone vibrates. After some time, Hongjoong checks it mechanically.  

Seonghwa: 

[9 November, 9:35 am] Don't apologize, Hongjoong. I was caught off guard, but it's only because of bad past experiences. I'll tell you about it one day, if you’d like. So please do not think about it too much.  

[9:36 am] It's a bit irrational on my part, but it's not your fault.

It's not your fault.