PART 12

                                    

                                          
Jihoon sat on the dusty couch, staring at the television that was playing some late-night show. He wasn’t paying attention to it; it was just background noise to fill the oppressive silence that had taken over the house. 
The air was thick with the stench of alcohol, rotting food, and something Jihoon couldn’t even place. It felt suffocating.
He glanced at Seokmin, who was sitting on the floor, hunched over with his knees drawn to his chest, rocking slightly. His hair was a greasy, tangled mess, and his clothes looked like they hadn’t been changed in days. He was a shadow of the brother Jihoon once knew—a man reduced to a shell by his own mind and actions.
Jihoon sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to push back the anger and frustration that threatened to bubble over again. He couldn’t lash out; he’d already done enough of that earlier. Seokmin needed a lifeline, not another shove into the abyss he’d created for himself.
“Seokmin,” Jihoon called, his voice firm but not harsh.
Seokmin didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the floor as if it held the answers to all his problems.
Jihoon leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’re not going to sit there all night. Get up.”
Seokmin’s head moved slightly, but his body didn’t.
Jihoon’s patience was wearing thin. “Do you hear me Lee Seokmin? I said get up.”
Seokmin finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and lifeless. “Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
“Because you’re not going to rot away in this mess, that’s why,” Jihoon snapped, gesturing around the room. “If you want to fix anything in your life, start by cleaning this up.”
When Seokmin still didn’t move, Jihoon stood up and loomed over him. “First things first. Shower. You smell like a dumpster fire, and I can’t sit here and babysit you if I can’t even breathe properly.”
Seokmin let out a dry, humorless laugh, his lips curling into a mockery of a smile. “Why bother? What’s the point?”
Jihoon clenched his fists, but he forced himself to stay calm. “The point is that you’re alive, Seokmin. And if you’re alive, you don’t get to give up. Now, get up and get in the shower. That’s an order.”
To Jihoon’s surprise, Seokmin obeyed, albeit sluggishly. He staggered toward the bathroom like a zombie, dragging his feet. Jihoon followed him, standing in the doorway to make sure he didn’t try to bail.
“Clean yourself properly,” Jihoon instructed, crossing his arms. “Use shower gel. Wash your hair. And don’t even think about just standing under the water for five minutes and calling it a day. I’ll know.”
Seokmin turned to glare at him, his lips twitching in irritation. “You think you’re my boss now?”
Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “Right now, I’m the only person in this house with a functioning brain. So yeah, I’m your boss. Deal with it.”
Seokmin scoffed but didn’t argue further. He stepped into the bathroom, and Jihoon heard the sound of the shower starting.
Jihoon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his temples. This was going to be a long night.





Half an hour later, Seokmin emerged from the bathroom, his hair damp and his face scrubbed clean. He looked marginally better, though the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness in his cheeks were still painfully evident.
“Better,” Jihoon said, nodding in approval. “Now, pick up all the trash in this living room. Start with the food containers. I’ll get a trash bag.”
Seokmin stared at him, his expression incredulous. “You’re making me clean my own house?”
“Yes,” Jihoon replied bluntly, tossing a trash bag at him. “You made this mess. You clean it.”
Seokmin caught the bag with a frown but didn’t protest. He shuffled around the room, picking up empty takeout boxes and discarded wrappers. Jihoon watched him like a hawk, occasionally barking out instructions.
“Don’t just throw the cans in the bag—rinse them out first.”
“Wipe down that table. It’s sticky.”
“Pick up those clothes and toss them in the laundry basket. No, not on the floor—in the basket.”
Seokmin muttered under his breath, but he did as he was told. Jihoon could see the frustration building in him, but he didn’t care. If anger was what it took to get Seokmin moving, so be it.


By the time the living room was somewhat presentable, Seokmin was visibly exhausted. He collapsed onto the couch, his head falling back as he let out a groan.
Jihoon stood over him, his hands on his hips. “Don’t get too comfortable. The kitchen’s next.”
Seokmin groaned louder, covering his face with his hands. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Jihoon smirked. “A little. But mostly, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t drown in your own filth.”
Seokmin sat up, his shoulders slumping. “Why are you even here, Jihoon? Why do you care?”
Jihoon’s smirk faded, and he sat down beside his brother. He looked Seokmin in the eye, his expression serious. “Because you’re my brother. And no matter how much you screw up, no matter how much you piss me off, I’m not going to abandon you. But you’ve got to meet me halfway, Seokmin. You’ve got to try.”
For a moment, Seokmin looked like he might argue, but then his shoulders sagged, and he nodded. It was a small victory, but Jihoon would take it.
“Good,” Jihoon said, clapping him on the back. “Now, let’s tackle that kitchen. And don’t even think about half-assing it.”
Seokmin let out a tired laugh, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”
“You have no idea,” Jihoon replied, already heading toward the kitchen.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Seokmin followed without complaint.