Your Vanilla Scent (Junhao)

Jun

The burst pipe was...well, it was what it was.

The incident had apparently occurred in the attic, and water had flooded through a crack in the ceiling to Jun's bedroom, ruining his bedding and a good portion of his clothes. None of that bothered Jun. What he did check—more frantic than he would have thought—was the little cabinet in his bedside table, which was already warped on the outside but blessedly dry on the inside.

He dug out the contents with care. It wasn't much, just a few photos of his mother, of his brothers, even one of his father he hadn't had the guts to burn yet.

It's hard to hate the people who raised you.

It wasn't exactly true. Maybe for Myungho, who was good and kind and pure, all the things Jun really wasn't (no matter how often Myungho may call him the nicest human). But for Jun, the struggle was keeping that hatred pure. The love kept creeping in against his will, built out of tiny, inconsequential moments. The time his father had taken him—only him, not Ivan or Sascha—to a baseball game (Jun had later found out his father was there for business more than anything else, disappearing for a good hour and leaving Jun alone with his hot dog). Seeing his father dancing with his mother in the kitchen (Jun had always wondered how he had wooed her, in the beginning. By pretending to have a heart? How had she possibly been fooled?). The strange, almost proud look in his father's eyes every time Jun grew another inch (and wasn't that the kicker: the only part of Jun his father approved of was the thing over which he had no control).

As if summoned by his thoughts, by his proximity to the photos, a familiar number lit up Jun's phone. Jun debated leaving it. He should have switched out phones days ago. Should have changed it out the second after he'd hung up the last time, in point of fact.

Still, he pressed the little green button. "Sascha."

"You haven't changed your number yet. That's quite sloppy of you, Junhui."

That cold, monotone recital definitely wasn't Sascha's voice.

"Vanya," Jun greeted, using the diminutive of his brother's name in turn—just to be an asshole—while simultaneously cursing himself for picking up the phone.

"You really pissed me off, Jun, you know that? That was an important deal you fucked up."

Jun stared at the picture in his hand, the one of the three of them, all standing careful inches apart, Sascha the only one smiling. "That's good. I meant to."

A long silence. Jun was almost positive Ivan was picturing the many ways he'd like to kill him.

Jun got bored of the quiet after about ten seconds. "Are you coming for me, then?"

"I don't know where you are, I'm afraid. Stay on this call long enough and I might be able to find out."

The pointed warning—so out of character for Ivan—could mean one of two things: either Ivan already knew where Jun was and thus didn't give a fuck if Jun hung up too soon, or he wasn't coming for Jun at all. He was actually letting him go.

How stupid would Jun have to be to believe it to be the latter? And yet he really hoped it was, that they could just...be free of each other. "I didn't figure you to be so sentimental, Vanya."

"Maybe you're just not worth my time."

"Maybe not. Always was second best."

"Idiot. Sascha's second best. I don't know what you are." When Jun didn't rise to the bait, Ivan paused for only a moment before continuing on. "Aren't you going to miss the money, Junhui? You haven't exactly stashed much away. You haven't been withdrawing from your accounts either."