Nothing I Can Do

02

August 28, 2018

"Happy birthday to you. Happy bir—"

"That better not be a birthday cake, Yang Hongseok of I'm shoving all twenty-five candles up your nose!" Hwitaek, more commonly known as Hui, yells from his massive living room that could probably fit both his equeally extravagant master bedrooms.

Hongseok comes out of the kitchen, wearing an apron lightly dusted with flour, holding a single sheet cake covered in blue frosting, tipped with pink flowers and "Happy 25th, Hyung!" in a lighter shade. There weren't twenty-five candles on the confection but rather a candle in the shape of a number.

"Joke's on you, hyung. I only put on one candle," he mocks, dropping it down on the coffee table Hui currently had his feet up on now. In doing so, the small, dancing flame extinguished, Hongseok reaching for the lighter deep in one of the navy blue apron's pockets. After he lit the single candle again, he pushed it back towards Hui. "Make a wish."

Hui rolled his eyes, blowing out the candle begrudgingly. "I wish it wasn't my birthday."

"I'm going to ignore that. Anyways, now that you're twenty-five—"

"A quarter of life away," Hui says out of the blue.

The younger grumbles at the unnecessary interruption, as he usually does, but manages to proceed. "Jinho is willing to play your party for free.

"With his hippie jargon?" Hui scowls, pulling the carton of cigarettes of the coffee table. He clenches one of the cancer sticks between his teeth, his speech a little muffled from the temporary inability to unhinge his jaw. "Light me."

Hongseok obliges, resurfacing the small fire starter from his pocket, waiting for the lighter to light his nicotine twig. "I've told you once and I'll tell you again. One, smoking is bad for you and can cause lung cancer and put a hole in the middle of your neck—"

"Ooo~Perfect to hang one of my earrings," he smiles sarcastically, blowing the toxic smoke in his friend's face.

He waves the smoke away from his nose, suppressing the cough that Hui would always laugh at "because he was weak." He cleared his throat, knowing that this was going to be a long day and an even longer night. "Two, Jinho is the cover artist and currently writing his own music."

"I'm only interested in Jinho's appearance because I know you two will be making out by the end of it." He chuckles heartily, now in dire need of a drink. "Bring me my Jack Daniels, Honk." His laugh sounds startlingly similar to that of maniacal laughter often used by villains.

"You know I don't like him like that. Did you want ice?" He makes his way to the bar, where all of Hui's alcoholic tendencies could be satisfied.

Hui laughs again, taking a longer inhale of his cigarette. "No, actually. You like him, but you're too scared to admit it. Three ice cubes."

Hongseok growls again. He knows Hui is right. It wasn't that he was homophobic, but his mother sure is. He'll never forget the day when he came home from school, cheery and excited. Then, it all came tumbling down when one of her siblings came out as bisexual. She was practically fuming, her hatred of the LGBT+ community forced Hongseok to subsequently remove her from his life. He always felt embarrassed when feelings for a guy bloomed in his gut, because that's not what his mother approves of. Even when it comes to Jo Jinho, the twenty-six year old who was about the size of an elf, the budding songwriter trying to break away from his Bruno Mars covers and create something unique and original. Hongseok always found himself falling hard for those types of boys; following their dreams to extreme extents.

"Need I remind you," he lets the ice cubes hit the chilled, whiskey glass, filling up the silence in his pause, "that my mother is a major homophobe?"

"She called me 'Satan's spawn' because I dated and slept with at least fifteen guys in my twenties. You don't have to remind me, Honk."

Hongseok ripped off the plastic wrapper sealed around the neck. "Told you you stop calling me that." He pours the brown liquid until it reached the tip of the ice cubes. In the stress of conversing about his mother, he pours himself a glass.

"You never let me have fun." Hui pouts, crossing his arms like a preschooler who won't go down for his nap. Hongseok transports both beverages to the living room. "Why'd you make two?"

He sets one down for Hui and one for himself. "You know damn well," he tips back the entire glass until it's nothing but frozen water and drops of whiskey trapped at the bottom, "my mother brings out my inner alcoholic. Now eat your cake. Worked on that shit all day."

"Why are their only two cubes? I asked for three?"

"Honk," was Hongseok's only response.

"Wow, aren't you sensitive?" He holds the cigarette between his index and middle finger, taking a leisurely sip of his alcohol, the one thing that was guaranteed to end him.

"You're such a prick."

Hui chuckles, knowing everyone really thought this way. Hongseok was the only one who had the guts to say it to his face but refrained from using any other, more vulgar, words in doing so. "What else is new?"

"Seriously. Is this about your muse again?" Hongseok pulled two, really silver forks from his apron pocket, stabbing one into the sheet cake he spent several hours working on. He forces one into Hui's hand, driving his arm until the prongs were submerged into his masterpiece.

Hongseok feed Hui a massive forkful of vanilla birthday cake so that he can appreciate his hard work on the day of his birth. "Can we not talk about this?" He comes out muffled, being his mouth is full of cake.

"Hyunggu said he can help you. Or, at least, try to talk to him." Hongseok takes his own bite, his lips now painted with blue frosting.

"I'm not taking death muse advice from somebody who was visited seven months ago by Murder," he grumbled, downing the rest of his whiskey, slamming his glass on the coffee table. "I don't care if his parents are the most elite experts in this subject, he's only twenty years old!"

"Okay, Mr. Twenty-Five Year Old. You do realize you have the worst death muse in existence. Having him is an awful thing you have to go through."

"Worse than Murder?" Hui chuckles, as always, not taking this subject as seriously as he can. "Murder's pretty bad."

For some reason, this topic pushed Hongseok's buttons and it didn't help Hui was a master at figuring which button can make him go off. He pressed the right one. "Lee Hwitaek, I'm so sick of this! the way you treat this death muse like he's some high form of royalty!" He took a handful of cake, the one he was shoving down Hui's throat, and slapped him in the face with it.

"Yang Hongseok!" His jaw dropped to the floor, his entire face covered in blue frosting and vanilla cake. He swiped his hand across his face, flinging it on the floor in such a dramatic fashion. His skin was red but the smeared blue across his cheeks made a light purple.

"Call me when you're done with your little sissy tantrum, princess. I'm going to pick up Jinho." He takes Hui's Ferrari keys off the table, marching out the front door.

"You have your own car!"

All Hwitaek received was the bird. Two birds.