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Kibum was enlisting in the morning, and Minho could not find it in him to be okay about it. He knew, in his brain, that this was the proper order of things; they had put off military service for as long as they could, Minho was enlisting just a few months later, and in the grand scheme of life one and a half years was just a blip of time. Minho even believed in military service, he was enlisting in the marines for god’s sake. But the thought of two years without Kibum’s hands in his, his voice in his ear, his magnetic presence available at any moment on call made Minho feel nauseous and desperate in an out-of-body sort of way, like he was standing on the precipice of some horrible unknown. Not to mention the cruelty of the timing of all this: it was unbearable that they had to separate so soon after what happened, so soon after the worst possible thing happened.
Minho had already lost one piece of his heart in the most unimaginable way possible; he wasn’t sure what would be left of him after losing another.
It did not help that Kibum was presently practicing his own version of cruelty, for reasons Minho could not even begin to understand. Minho had texted him incessantly throughout the evening, wanting to see him just once, just briefly, before they would be apart. To hold him and be held by him, to look him in the eye and tell him to be well, to promise Minho that he would be well. But Kibum was standoffish and cold in his responses, and eventually after 11pm had stopped texting him back altogether. He couldn’t understand it. This wasn’t how they treated each other, not anymore, not after everything.
He was buzzing with hurt energy when he got a call from Kibum’s number, but the voice on the other line was foreign to him, giving him the name and cross streets of a bar Minho had never been to before and asking him to come collect Kibum. Minho was out the door and in his car before the call was over.
He found Kibum on the sidewalk in front of a gay bar in a not so great part of Seoul, throwing up into the gutter with a stranger hovering hesitantly by his side. Minho collected the guy’s name and number for the inevitable NDA to follow, made a few phone calls, and had Kibum tucked into the passenger seat in under five minutes flat, head lolling against the window, groaning softly between panting breaths.
Back at Minho’s place, Kibum spent the next hour alternating between dry heaving and crying into Minho’s toilet bowl. Minho sat on the floor next to him, rubbing his back, brushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead.
“Could you - ?” Minho handed him a glass of water.
“And - ?” Some mouthwash.
“Ugh, gross, I -” His toothbrush with the toothpaste already applied.
They played this game many times before, although not in the recent past, and not to this extent. Back when they were younger, when Kibum had first moved out of the dorm, loose with freedom and disposable income, he had gotten himself sloppy drunk a whole host of times. Occasionally, when he needed help, he would call Minho to fetch him, and it was something of a point of pride for Minho to be that safe person for Kibum. It was a testament to how much their friendship had grown, from awkward bickering teenagers who couldn’t stand the sight of one another to grown adults who had weathered life’s hardest moments together. They loved and trusted each other completely, unconditionally. Or at least Minho thought they did.
“Mm think I’m done,” Kibum mumbled into the toilet seat.
“Do you want to take a shower?”
“Yeah, but -” a groan. A moan. He could hardly lift his head. “Help me?”
Minho undressed them both and helped Kibum into the shower. This wasn’t their first time seeing each other naked. After all, they had lived together, sharing a bathroom, for years. Kibum was a mess, trembling all over, a line of angry red bite marks running from the base of his neck down his sternum. Minho knew they would blossom into ugly purple and yellow bruises tomorrow. Still, Minho couldn’t help but think he was beautiful as he washed Kibum off quickly. Minho had never been interested in men, not really, but he had to admit that moments like this with Kibum - moments that were a hair too intimate - made something twist deep in his gut.
Kibum looked so vulnerable, so sad, it hurt Minho to see. Minho dried them both off, half carrying Kibum into the next room, gently laying him down on his bed. He quickly pulled on his own pajamas before helping Kibum into one of Minho’s old t-shirts and shorts. He looked ridiculous in Minho’s clothes, but Minho didn’t have any matching silk pajama sets to offer.
Kibum crowded into his space as soon as Minho settled onto the bed, both legs tangled around Minho’s, one hand fisted in Minho’s hair. He was crying silently, his whole body shuddering with it. Minho pulled him tight and held him. They had held each other like this countless times over the years, and especially over the past year, when it sometimes felt like the only thing grounding them to this world was physically being together, lining every part of themselves up against the other and holding on.
“Fuck,” Kibum whispered, over and over again. Between moans. Between sighs. Between choked sobs. Like a chant, like a prayer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” And then, out of nowhere: “Fuck, I love you.”
Minho said it back, immediate, automatic. “I love you, too.” Because of course he loved Kibum. Loving Kibum was as natural to him as breathing.
Kibum stilled. He pulled away from Minho to sit up, wincing and swaying because his ABV was still multiple times what it should be. He looked down at Minho for what felt like forever, and Minho, in the dark, could not make out his features. The space between them was silent, punctuated only by Kibum’s laboured, hitched breathing. Finally, Kibum said, quietly, gently, “No you don't, you idiot,” before leaning down to press a soft, open mouthed kiss against Minho’s lips.
Minho’s mind went blank. He had gone from preemptively missing Kibum so much that he physically ached with it, to picking up all of his broken and messy pieces, to holding his hair back while he threw up, to clutching him while he cried, to this: Kibum’s lips, soft and wet and slightly bitter, against his.
Without thinking, he responded, reaching both hands up to cradle Kibum’s face with the gentlest touch he could muster, opening his mouth under Kibum’s. His response was automatic, natural, obvious even.
It felt inevitable.
It felt like a long time coming.
But then Kibum stilled and shoved Minho away. He clutched his head and groaned. That sudden movement must have hurt. “Fuck, fuck,” he said, turning away from Minho fully, his back to Minho’s front.
“Kibum-ah,” Minho said, hesitant. The sudden loss of physical contact was jarring. Minho reached out for him, hand brushing Kibum’s shoulder, thinking they would talk about this - that they had to talk about it - but Kibum shrugged him off.
“I’m going to be sick,” Kibum said resolutely, and pulled the covers over his head.
And that was that. Minho had been iced out by Kibum enough times when they were younger to know when it was happening. His hand remained hovering there, in the space between them, for many moments longer. It remained there, hesitantly reaching at nothing, at everything, long after Kibum’s breath evened out.
Minho lay awake for a long time, heart and mind racing, staring through the dark at the rise and fall of Kibum’s chest under the covers.
What had that been about? Minho didn’t have any experience kissing men, but he was certain what they just shared had not been a goodbye kiss between friends.
If Minho had been more certain, less confused, less scared; if he had known truths about himself that he had never explored before; if Kibum hadn’t been so drunk, so sad; if they both hadn’t been so fucked up on the inside from all that had happened the year before, Minho would have woken Kibum up and insisted they talk about it. But none of those ifs were true, not then, so all he could muster was to reach out a trembling hand to touch Kibum’s cheek with the lightest of touches, turn, and will himself to sleep.
The next morning, Minho startled awake with a gasp. Kibum’s side of the bed was neatly made, empty and cold. It was clear that he had left hours before.
On his phone was one single unread message from Kibum:
“Last night was a mess. I'm sorry. My housekeeper will mail you your clothes after she launders them.”
Nothing even close to a goodbye.
And Minho begins to unravel at the seams.