SHINee Duets 2015: feixing & lucentic (Part Two)
It is almost nine-thirty when Minho rings the doorbell of Kibum’s sprawling residence, having had no choice but to pretend that he wasn’t going over to a fabricated stranger’s house anymore after Krystal constantly nagged at him for two hours, and then having his mother ambush him for dinner because we haven’t seen you at the table for weeks, Minho. Sit down or we’ll pick you up from school every day next week.
“Sorry,” he says, edging past Kibum after carefully toeing his shoes off in the hallway. “I couldn’t get away fast enough.”
The sight of Kibum tapping a paring knife on the side of his thigh as he rearranges himself on the vintage-worn loveseat should be disconcerting for any stranger, but Minho hardly bats an eyelid as he moves to sit near the man’s feet. “I was about to just leave you outside, if you had come any later.”
“What’s up?”
Kibum smiles, a bright one that would have looked pretty darn innocent to anyone else who saw it, but for Minho it makes him sit up a little straighter, the elder’s eyes giving him an uncomfortable once-over.
“Relax. You have your mid-terms coming up in a week or two, right?”
“Uh huh.” Minho honestly doesn’t see where this is leading.
By way of answer, Kibum rolls his eyes. Standing up, his feet a pale contrast to the deep red rug he has out in place of his usual cream one. “Change in the bathroom down the hallway and leave your socks in there, too. I’m going out for a smoke first.”
Well then. Whatever Kibum has laid out for him looks pretty normal enough, a muscle tank and a pair of old, faded sweats that are a little tight on him, but they’re all good after he rids it of its drawstrings. When he pokes his head out from the doors of the balcony, Kibum is stubbing out the last of his cigarette against the railings, and he follows closely behind the tilt of the elder’s head, a signal to go on inside.
It’s not until he hears the muffled screaming and the sounds of something being knocked over does Minho get what’s on their agenda tonight. His fingers automatically go to the hem of Kibum’s shirt, gripping it in hesitance, to which the businessman just smiles again, now more sinister and unreadable in the dim darkness of the stairway leading to the basement, and pushes open the door.
“I told you to come earlier, before the drugs wore off.” Kibum takes Minho’s hand off him and advances, squatting in front of the tied and trembling man, who lets out a loud moan of desperation when Kibum smooths back his sweaty hair.
“Who the fuck are you people?”
Kibum ignores this, the demand disguised as a plea for control. He moves over to perch himself on the edge of the toppled chair, looking at Minho. “I figured you got tired of watching, after a bit.”
“You mean-?”
By way of answer, Kibum points in the direction of his table. “Pick what you want. I’m afraid there’s not much to choose from, but I didn’t want you carrying out elaborate shows just yet. Dead people are messy.”
The man gets a solid kick in the head that has his eye swelling within minutes when he makes too much noise in protest, Kibum’s face schooled into the perfect look of disinterest. Minho is still standing near the table, fingertips sliding over each and every instrument on it, eyes flickering back and forth between the abused man and Kibum’s toys.
So much to choose from, but despite his excitement, the man’s commotion is more than just a tiny distraction. All of a sudden his hand stiffens, and he rakes his eyes over the array of weapons, over and over, blindly. What if-
“Are you going to do something about this or not?” Kibum’s breath suddenly ghosts near the base of his neck, and it makes him shiver despite its warmth. “I’ll finish him if you can’t bring your balls to.”
Minho grabs the first thing his fingers touch - something oblong - a box?
“Clingwrap,” Kibum says, amusement evident in his tone, and Minho looks down to see that he hasn’t misheard anything. “Not as fun, but still a good enough power trip.”
It's a lot more different, when he finally stands in front of the begging, pleading man that he doesn’t even have a name to peg to. Part of him wants to ask, lightheaded from the amount of sweat and terror bleeding out of the stranger, but he knows that Kibum would shut him down immediately.
As if the elder read him mind, “The less you know about him, the better. Don’t worry, he isn’t someone really important.”
He isn’t but he is, Minho wants to say, his palms suddenly damp and shaking ever so slightly as he advances, one slow, small step at a time, watching this stranger thrash all the harder in his seat and begging. Why, why me? Please! I have a family! If you- If you look through my w-wallet, you’ll see a my daughter- she’s thirteen- Ple-!
Minho takes the first leap with his eyes shut and his hands trembling like they’re about to give up on him. And counts out the seconds, thereafter.
Even without blood, anything can be violent. Minho learns that when he finally takes his hands off the cling wrap, now securely wrapped around the distorted face of the stranger. He touches the limp arm, eyes widening just slightly at how everything is stiff, but not cold. Not just yet.
He doesn’t jump when Kibum places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him inquiringly, by way of asking How about it? without speaking. He doesn’t reply, either, just looks at the lifeless form in front of him, drained away from the remaining years of average living with his average family.
He simply exhales.
♔
It becomes a routine, if one could call the murdering of various individuals a routine. Kibum always texts Minho at three o'clock if they have something (someone) on for the night, a quick text that does not give away anything.
Minho breathes several different kinds of death scythes, knows them like the back of his hand. He’s still very messy, his handiwork rough and amateur, but Kibum is patient. Sometimes he catches the elder looking at him in a way that is almost fond, like how someone looks at a puppy finally learning to stumble about on its own. He gets a couple of smacks on the back of his head and the occasional if you bring blood out of the basement I will skin you alive myself, but other than that he’s learning, splendidly.
"What do you do with the bodies?" Minho inquires one night after a particularly gruesome killing. He rubs at his face and his fingers come back stained with red. Minho has never seen Kibum do clean up, they had always cleaned themselves up and then left the basement, leaving the body to cool while Kibum gives him a few tips before sending him on his way. When he comes back for another round, the basement is always ready for its next victim.
Kibum assesses him for a moment, and Minho knows the older man enough to know that he was wording his answer in his head, only giving Minho the information he thought Minho deserved.
"I dispose of them appropriately," Kibum answers.
"How?" Minho continues to prod.
A look of annoyance flashes pass Kibum's face, "you don't have to know, pup. Now, go get cleaned up so we can go back upstairs."
Kibum heads to the bathroom while Minho pockets a sliver of thigh, wrapping it up in clingwrap and stuffing it into his pocket.
♔
“What are you doing?”
A soft, simple question with absolutely no threat in its voice, but it makes Minho jump nonetheless. His heart thuds for the most warped reasons these days, his hand stilling on the knife still embedded in roughly sliced thigh, the metal bowl of seasoning knocked over into the sink in his flurry.
Kibum walks in, still in his gym clothes from his evening workout, the sweat still lingering fresh upon his skin. All of a sudden, the spacious kitchen feels too crowded, too closed in with the size of big, clumsy Minho and his stupid stupid curiosity. He should have been more careful, more controlled, less fucking idiotic-
“Kibum-ah, I’m sorry, I just wanted to know- please don’t-”
“Please don’t what, pup? Please don’t scoff at your college-level culinary skills?” Minho flinches as the older man reaches out with a finger, and it elicits a cocked brow from him. He doesn’t say anything, only dips a digit into whatever seasoning that lingers at the base of the overturned bowl and tastes it.
And makes a face as though he’s smelt something rotten. “This is appalling.”
“Sorry,” Minho says, quickly, so apologetically that the red spreads down his neck even more.
Kibum shakes his head, leaning his hip against the sink. He’s looking up at Minho even more now in his compromised position, but somehow he has the power to make the boy cringe harder than he already has. “So raw.. You should have told me you wanted to try.”
“No I- what?”
“I said, you should have told me you wanted to try.” Kibum could have been talking about going swimming, the way he says things so flat and bland that it makes Minho blink a couple of times to register whatever he’s saying.
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Mad at you? Perhaps, for being such a lousy cook, pup. I should really think about signing you up for culinary lessons.” Kibum sighs, running a hand through his hair, then turning to walk away. Minho is still gaping silently when the older man turns around.
“Get dressed. We’re going out for dinner tonight.”
♔
The lumps of meat on his plate, neatly sliced and arranged artfully amongst slices of fanciful vegetables, look harmless, even boring. Sure, they were in a nice, closed environment, complete with high-backed chairs and slow, classical music, and whatever that was in front of him did look very nicely done, but he had expected a bit more. What, he isn’t too sure, but perhaps a little more- drama.
Kibum clears his throat, the tips of his fingers forming a little patient mountain. “They do thigh very well, here.”
He’s clearly waiting for a reaction, Minho dimly registers, as he spears a piece of it. He’s not focusing that much on Kibum now, though, his fingers suddenly colder and a lot clammier than usual.
Fuck it.
He’s almost afraid to start chewing, but once the sauces hit his tastebuds, his mouth automatically kicks into action. It is an unfamiliar taste, but yet it triggers some kind of distant memory in Minho, as if he’s tasted something of vaguely the same caliber, but yet never coming up with anything concrete. For thigh, it is surprisingly easy to chew, and Minho is done with his mouthful before he even finishes analyzing the flavours.
Kibum holds out a bit of his own dish at him, a sort of roll glistened with sweet sauce. “Not so much like chicken as the uneducated say, am I right?”
Minho nods, mouth still working around the piece of sweet meat roll. Kibum doesn’t pay him any attention, only points his fork at the soup in front of him.
“House special.”
Tonight was almost like a date, with Kibum so finely dressed and sitting in front of him, their private room done up with the full works - fancy tablecloth, dim chandelier lighting, a bottle of sparkling champagne. Easy classical music and Kibum unconsciously sways his fingers to when he’s idle and waiting for Minho to finish savouring the spread in front of him.
“So- there are other people in our country- doing what we do?”
They clink glasses, and Kibum finishes his drink before he replies. “The world’s not as fancy as you think it is, pup. But I don’t know them personally.”
“Then this restaurant- does the government or somebody keep tabs on this place?”
The question earns him an eye roll. “Do you think I would frequent places that were that low on coverage and security?”
“Sorry.”
“But this is a legal restaurant. I just have- acquaintances who are interested in the same cuisines as I am, willing to do up a nice little dinner for me when given the right resources.”
“Do they bring- whole, bodies in?”
“No. I usually send them what I want done. How do you think the public would react to a couple of men hoisting a body bag into the kitchen?”
That makes for a good point, but. Minho plays with the last remnants of soup in his bowl with his fork, not really looking at his companion. “Do you feel sorry?”
The businessman motions for Minho to pour him another glass of champagne, and he does. “Do you feel sorry eating minced chicken? Steak? Meatballs?”
“No, but it is kind of different, taking all of this in. I can’t help- remembering, some of the people I’ve taken away from families. Things like that.”
Kibum smiles, a small patient one. “You have killed, and killed again when you found out you liked what you saw, what it made you feel. And you only feel sorry after knowing what real power, the full circle, tastes like? It is kind of late, don’t you think?”
Part of Minho wants to retort, to tell him that it is not the same, but the way his fingers twitch on reflex with the memory of it all says otherwise.
Kibum doesn’t seem to want a reply, or maybe he’s seen all that Minho tries to hide from himself. This time, the elder pours him a drink.
And he downs it, along with the rest of his insecurities.
Thank you for the meal- for the full circle!
♔
Minho has never been an angry or aggressive person. People know who he is, by virtue that he is on the football team, but no one really knows him. Minho has always known how to keep his head down and stay out of trouble, mostly because it is too much hassle to be in trouble. But there was something about having seen people at their lowest, rawest form that had made it that people (at least, people he did not know) seem more… irritating than they normally were.
"Choi, you coming with us today?" one of his team mates asks him as practice starts to wind down. Minho is sitting on the grass, face flushed with exertion and trying to catch his breath. He answers in the negative - he has plans with Kibum later on.
"Don't bother him, probably too busy with his girlfriend," one of the other members says, and the other members laugh along with him. Annoyance twitches along Minho's forehead.
"I don't have a girlfriend," Minho replies.
"Then, do you have a sugar mummy, Choi?" someone asks in jest. This sends more laughter amongst the rest of the team.
"What did you say?" Minho hears himself ask. This was just normal banter between the team, a little crass but all in good fun. Minho does not know why it is making irritation crawl under his skin like a colony of ants.
"Just kidding, chill out," and that reply just seems to make Minho even more annoyed. He keeps quiet, not giving a reply.
But of course his team member thinks that Minho is angry, and tries to pander to him, joking as he tries to make up. Minho gets up from his spot on the ground and punches him square in the face.
♔
It is quiet, out of the car and sitting perched on the hood a couple hundred metres away from the edge of the cliff. Quiet, save for the faint crash of the waves down the shore below, a sharp, empty drop, and the whistle of the wind when it comes in in short, fierce bouts.
Kibum is in a strange mood tonight, having said nothing at all since bailing Minho out of the school authorities’ hands. He’s not angry, though, judging by the way his shoulders aren’t tense in a way that makes Minho’s stomach cold, but the boy is still afraid to sit closer next to him, to touch him.
“Sorry,” he says again by default, even though he’s not really sure what kinds of things he’s apologizing for. Getting into a fight? Getting Kibum under the radar? Not knowing what else to do or say except for saying sorry?
It seems that Kibum understands him, for he doesn’t reply to that apology. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, eyes a little farther away than usual. “How did you get here, pup?”
“I- I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean here. WIth me. All of this.” Kibum gestures lazily at himself, the car, at Minho. “Playing God.”
Minho shrugs, opting to fold his arms at the back of his head and lie down. There are no stars out tonight, clouds forming a murky kind of black in the sky. They should probably think about heading back soon if they didn’t want to be caught out in a potential thunderstorm. “I don’t know. I always felt curious about things like that - I just didn’t expect to be given a shot.”
“Do you like how all this makes you feel?”
Another shrug. “It’s okay.”
Kibum flops down on top of the car, body making a thunk on the metal. Minho’s answer drags out a laugh from him, and when Minho squints and lays on his side, the elder man, with his arms stretched out as if to reach for the empty sky, looks almost innocent. Soft. “So much blood and death and power, and all you can tell me is that the whole ride for your so far has been ‘okay’?”
“There isn’t really an appropriate feeling here, is there?”
“I suppose not.” Kibum sighs, stretching a little before closing his eyes. They fall into silence for a while, one that drags on for so long that Minho thinks that the other’s almost fallen asleep. He’s about to reach over to touch him when the businessman speaks again. His arm retreats.
“I was eight- or nine, I think. I don’t know. But one day when I was a kid, I was walking back from school with my mother when I saw this car accident. It wasn’t really an accident - something I found out later on because this bloke just wanted another man dead - but on that day everyone thought it was. It kind of happened in front of me, some of the poor bastard’s blood even got on my uniform. I just stood there, blinking, watching the blood seep into the concrete and bury itself in between the cracks along with other bits of run-over flesh, the bruised horror on the dead man’s face. I don’t really remember much else, but I wasn’t crying or screaming or anything when my mother dragged me away. I remember feeling curious, though. Maybe even a little excited. Especially when I found out the whole episode was a murder.”
“Did you- start, then?”
“No, God. I wasn’t that big a crazy as a kid. I killed my first man when I was twenty-two, so angry and irrational after a big fight with my boss back then that I couldn’t hold back. It was just him and me in that stairwell - I remember rolling my eyes and thinking serves you fucking right for pissing me off before I stabbed him one last time.” Kibum shivers. “Ugh, I was so raw back then. I’m glad I watched enough criminal documentaries and forensics to save my amateur ass.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, huh? I’ve always enjoyed being in power. Staying on top, that kind of thing. Wouldn’t you think the same, now, if not since back then?”
Minho closes his own eyes, and thinks about the blood and the screaming and the triumph of one over the other. It raises his goose bumps, but it’s not really a bad thing. “Could get used to it.”
Kibum smiles, a slice of silver against the dim glow of the headlights.
♔
It is a little surreal, even awkward at the beginning, but Minho gets the hang of it. Keeping up two facets of himself. By day, he slouches on top of his desk during boring history lessons and does his best at soccer practices, even stays back for extra practice when his seasons draw near. By night, it's almost as if he's flipped a switch. The sporting determination in his eyes gives way to a dark, liquid hunger, one that he cannot quite stave off by the time they get to Kibum's place for one of their little sessions.
"Good save," pants Jinki, kicking his legs out from under him and flopping onto the track in defeat. Minho just smiles, and hands him a bottle of water, glugging down his own, little rivulets coming down the lines of his neck.
"Couldn't have done it without you."
Jinki waves him off. "What are teammates for." He nudges the taller boy so that he stretches out his legs to give him access to his lap, and lays down, squinting under the glaring sun. "Want to come over with the rest of these assholes for a horror movie night later on?"
"Can't, have to be somewhere else tonight," Minho replies absently, fingers playing with the loose bottle cap. It's really too hot for them to be sprinting laps on the field with only three-minute breaks in between.
"Where?"
"A friend's."
Minho is surprised when Jinki sits up, with his brows cocked in a questioning manner. "Who?"
"You don't know him. Why?"
"The same guy who's been picking you up after school sometimes?"
Minho bristles. "The same guy. What's up?"
Jinki studies him for a moment, then scoots back a couple of inches and exhales. "Is everything going okay, Choi? I mean, it's been almost a month since you last hung out with the team and I, and we used to hang at least twice a week after practice. You're- you're not in any sort of trouble, are you?"
"Me? Of course not." At least, he's in nothing he'd consider trouble.
"Really?" Jinki persists, and suddenly Minho is resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "You can tell me things, you know."
"God, Jinki-ah. I'm fine, stop worrying."
The other boy doesn't answer, only scrutinizes him for a couple of seconds, before he nods, slowly. "Okay, Choi. Just checking." He turns away, shielding his eyes and squinting at something out in the field, but just when Minho flops back-first onto the track, he speaks again. "People are talking about you."
"What about me?"
"Stuff. Mostly- things like how you've changed."
"Changed?" This peaks Minho's curiosity; he thought he'd blended himself well enough into the student body to not draw too much attention to himself. Or Kibum.
"There're good and bad things, just so you know. Good things like overhearing more girls fawning over you when passing by groups of them in the hallways to class, your name on the lips of teachers because of good test scores instead of shitty ones for once."
"And the bad?"
Jinki shrugs. "I don't know so much about that one, because you're still the same Minho to me, but I do agree that you've become.. A little more mysterious. Moodier, too."
The good stuff, Minho understands. He's aware of these things, too, but just doesn't want to bother with them all that much. Kibum never does anything by halves. Minho sometimes feels like he's a diamond in the rough, the way Kibum scrutinizes him, treats him, cuts him precisely so his new facets only showcase the brightest parts of him. The Choi family was always part of the middle-income group, and Kibum has pumped a considerable amount of effort and money to turn him from the scruffy college boy he used to turn his nose up at to an acceptable human being.
All for the price of fun, of course.
But the bad, not really. It strikes him with a cord that the days have slipped away to give way to mid-April, and he doesn't really know how time has gone by. He remembers vague routines of school and soccer and Kibum's and the occasional dinner with the soccer team and a couple of classmates - but not much else.
"Yah, Minho." Jinki's voice drags him back to the present again, and Minho has to fight to keep a sunny, questioning smile on his face to counter the clouds on his team mate's. "Are you sure everything's okay? This guy, if he's your boyfriend, he's treating you right, right?"
No he isn't- is what wants to automatically slip out of Minho's mouth, but something holds his tongue in. It would do better if things were assumptions rather than the twisted truth from the horse's mouth. "We're good, I promise. It's just- I'm still working things out. I'm sorry I haven't been making time for you- everyone."
Jinki nods, but Minho can see that he's not all convinced. "Just take care of yourself, and don't forget your friends, got it? And don't let him or his money fuck you over."
"Yeah, and you-" the shrill of their coach's whistle invades into their conversation, and it is concluded with Jinki groaning and jumping up, offering an outstretched hand to Minho, still on the ground. There's only a moment's hesitation before he takes it and continues to sweat out the rest of the hours.
♔
"What the fuck are you all doing in my house," Kibum says flatly, dumping the groceries dining table with a resounding thud before walking into the living room. Minho tags along, chips in hand, brow furrowed and more than a little confused.
"Yo," one of the intruders call out, draped lazily across one of Kibum's armchairs. He's hanging halfway off the piece of furniture by the backs of his knees, and gives Minho a friendly wave from his position. "Not going to say hi, the both of you?"
The other intruder kicks the chair leg. "You idiot, I told you we shouldn't have come crashing unannounced again! He's brought that cutie home and we've probably kicked his plans into the gutter."
Kibum plants his hands on his hips, still towering over the two of them. "How did you all get in?"
"It was Taemin's idea," calls the chair-worm, and he earns another kick, this time in the ankles by the other boy, who positively wilts under Kibum's cold, cold stare. "We duplicated your keys the night you passed out drinking and muttering about locking us out."
"That was because you shitheads wanted to fuck in my kitchen and do you think I would have allowed that."
The skinner one, curled up on Kibum's rug, has the decency to blush. "We're sorry we've ruined your plans, hyung-ah."
Kibum sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Never a moment's peace in my fucking life."
"Jonghyun hurry up and get off that chair for god's sake."
Kibum slaps a hand to his forehead, and by means of relief, throws the remote at the one named Jonghyun. "Fuck all of you. Make us all dinner, and Taemin you'd better leave the set of duplicates on the hook by the end of today."
Taemin visibly brightens. "So we don't have to go?"
"You will have to, if the two of you termites don't get up right now."
It's comical, the way Kibum's friends scramble to tidy each other up before heading for the kitchen. The shorter boy is fist pumping and shouting nonsensical-sounding song lyrics into the air, and he's almost making the bend to get to the kitchen when he backtracks and points at Minho.
"Who's the little college cutie? Never knew you were into the little boys, Ki- ow!"
Taemin is tugging on Jonghyun's ear, the firm hold turning it a fresh, angry red. "Keep your mouth shut, dumbass."
Kibum rolls his eyes. "Introduce yourself, pup."
"Pup?" The two say almost simultaneously, eyes so wide that they actually make Minho feel self-conscious - something he's not felt in a while.
"I- uh, Kibum tends to call me that sometimes. I'm Choi Minho."
"Hello, Choi Minho," Taemin says pleasantly, finally letting go of Jonghyun's ear and skipping over to shake his hand. His is a tiny one, and Minho's long fingers envelope the shorter, stubbier ones. "Kibum hyung's never really brought his boys home, so you must be something special."
"Lee Taemin."
"And you told me not to shoot my mouth off," sneers Jonghyun, but there is no bite in his voice. It makes Minho kind of nervous, though, the way the shorter man runs his eyes down the length of his figure with a million questions sounding off in his eyes before sauntering into the kitchen. "Come help, idiot. We can interrogate him all we want later when Kibum's taking one of his long-ass showers."
Kibum nudges him with his foot. "Take your coat off and hang it up."
Minho blinks, but does so obediently. "Who're they?"
"Friends." Kibum says it almost like it's a bad word, but not quite. "From back in high school. They were the only assholes who stuck around."
“The only ones you love enough to let stick around.” Taemin winks at Minho and skids off into the kitchen before the older man can find something else to throw at him.
The first peek into Kibum’s private life is a surprisingly good experience. For someone who rarely smiled with the sun in his eyes nor found much anything amusing, Kibum laughs a considerably fair bit more when his friends are around. Minho finds himself relaxing in the easy atmosphere that Jonghyun and Taemin have brought along with them into the house, and by midnight, Jonghyun is dragging Kibum into the kitchen so that they could start on the alcohol.
Jonghyun and Taemin are a couple, Minho finds out, stretched out on the balcony with his legs tangled with Taemin’s and his head on Kibum’s left thigh. Inebriated, Kibum is a lot more pliant and agreeable, his fingers threading through Minho’s hair every now and then when the college boy starts to get restless and fidget a little bit to burn off some of the high. The older man is mostly silent, listening to the banter between Taemin and Minho, and the occasional tune in Jonghyun’s breathy, soulful voice. It’s almost trance-like, the way their voices eventually drift away into the night, intoxicated with smoke and alcohol. MInho does not remember when he falls asleep.
When he wakes up, however, he is alone, still out in the balcony with the weak sun rays warming his toes. He hears tinkering going on in the house, but when he stumbles toward the noise, he only sees Kibum in the kitchen fixing up a pot of coffee, who turns around with a raised brow by way of greeting at the noise Minho makes coming in. Jonghyun and Taemin are nowhere to be found; presumably back in their own apartments, wherever those were.
He never gets to meet them again, however. Kibum always seems dismissive when he talks about wanting to meet them, distracting him with one depraved activity after another when they meet up. Once, Minho asks, tentatively, if the elder has killed them, and Kibum’s eyes had gotten so flat and dark and furious that Minho leaves the house early to catch a breather.
He doesn’t dwell on the two of them for long, though. There is something about the way Kibum stiffens and tightens his grip on Minho’s hair, lingers a cool palm against his cheek when he passes the boy that makes his stomach clench. It’s not an unpleasant feeling.
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