Work Text:
i.
Family is Saeran, gripping his hand under the covers, asking him about the street in front of their house. How many trees, is there any grass, what does the sky look like? Saeyoung isn’t very good at describing, but he tries his best. The sky is pink and blue, splotchy. It looks like spun sugar. He didn’t count the trees, but there were small shoots of green dotting their branches. It’s spring, or almost spring, and Saeran is still tied up.
Saeyoung had been hoping it would be a phase, something their mother would cycle through on to her next way of punishing them, but she seems to favour this one over the others. Family had never been good, but it was quickly shedding whatever outer layer of understanding they’d been able to maintain in the past and exposing the sharp bones underneath. It’s spring, and Saeyoung’s family is a carcass.
ii.
He’s started playing a little game with himself. Whenever he’s sent out to buy some more cigarettes and alcohol (a daily occurrence now that the days were finally getting longer), Saeyoung would try and guess people’s stories. Spurned woman on her way to cut her ex-lover’s tires with a switchblade, overworked father of five dreaming of becoming a writer while trying to make ends meet, a college student with a dark secret; the stories pile up inside his head in carefully stacked piles of thematic interest. Drama, action, adventure, comedy – he pulls them out whenever Saeran needs them, or when the world gets a bit too much and Saeyoung needs to escape into someone else’s frame for a moment.
Saeran loves them, asks more and more questions the longer his confinement goes on. Sometimes Saeyoung wishes he could tell him the truth: that the world is big, but the spaces between people are bigger. It’s easier to lie to him though, pretend like they are all true and let the world outside their dirty window be as vibrant as Saeran wants it to be.
Sometimes Saeyoung inserts himself into their stories, sometimes he’s watching whatever drama was unfolding inside their worlds with the trained indifference of CCTV. It’s easier to take on that second role, he’s got experience with that. No matter how hard he tries to scrub the presence of his mother from his life, she’s always there, warning them about the world and the men in black and the back of his father’s hand. And in between those words, there’s other, sharper, unspoken things: her own rage cracking through the veneer of concern, his own fears inside her mouth. Saeyoung can pretend, but he can’t outrun her; he scratches at his arms and thinks he sees something of his mother’s nerves underneath his skin.
iii.
Family is an ever-shrinking distinction.
Saeyoung has started going to church. The sun is hard and biting on his neck, but the cool emptiness of the cathedral takes him in with no questions asked. Faintly, in a way that forces him to dust off disused pathways in his brain, he realises there probably should some level of concern for a child coming in unattended so often, but the silence suits him well enough. He doesn’t complain. It feels good to be lost from time to time.
He’s starting to notice the patterns in his mother’s binges, and that makes it easier to slip in and out of the house with whatever he can scrounge from the nuns far. This time, it’s some leftovers from the soup kitchen they run every Thursday for the local neighbourhood. That’s for Saeran; he’s been looking paler and paler since the rope had come into play and Saeyoung doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he gets sick. Their mother had taken them to the hospital in the past, but he can’t count on that now that she’s been getting more erratic, and that’s besides the issues of their identities. So: the food is for Saeran, and his wellbeing, and Saeyoung prays for that quickly.
The second gift for himself, a newspaper that someone had left lying around on one of the chairs. It’s dated from yesterday, which doesn’t tell Saeyoung much; as far as he’s concerned, time is divided between mother being awake or not. He’s as detached from timely concerns as he is from his own aching limbs – they’re not his, but some other’s, some doppelganger Saeyoung who’s hurt and tired – but something had caught his eye about the front page.
It’s hard to tell at first, he has to squint a little and it’s still not a perfect match, but the man on the cover is familiar. And familial. There’s a couple of decades separating them, as well as several good meals and a bath, but he looks suspiciously like the afterimage Saeyoung something gets when he passes in front of a shop window quickly. It’s his face, but blurry and mirrored, a changeling skin he doesn’t feel comfortable in, smoothed out and polished by the distance. His father is missing the ugly scar Saeyoung sports above his eyebrow and the gauntness in his cheeks – things he’s always resented now come to help him make sense of himself – but he does have the same eyes and hair. The Choi is printed underneath that in small, precise letters, an ugly brand of association between them.
Choi the not-Saeyoung promises a glorious return to traditional values, talks about his commitment to national heritage. There’s nothing remarkable about that, his father is just one in a long string of suited men with pretty, thin wives, men who talk about the past like it’s been left behind out of negligence and not intent. The headline burns a trail of bile in Saeyoung’s throat anyway. His thumb smudges the ink as much as he can, trims the fat off his name to the best of his ability. Saeyoung thinks he might like to reclaim that name one day with his hands around something other than paper; someone’s throat or someone’s hand, and he can’t even tell which one he’d prefer.
Family is Saeran, shaking and holding his hand as they’re walking to the park. Family is a circle he draws in the sand pit, a tightening noose around his throat. Family is a not-father, and a not-mother, and then his brother, and then himself. Family is thin and stretched and angry, a lean beast in winter. Family is surviving.
It’s summer, and Saeyoung is starving.
iv.
V hands him the jacket. He seems embarrassed about it, but Saeyoung can’t, for the life of him, figure out why.
‘Thank you,’ Saeyoung’s voice cracks, but only a little. He’s trusting, but only a little. He’s hurting, but only a little. ‘It means a lot to me.’
V opens his mouth once or twice before he can finally find the right words. He does that a lot, hesitates and shrinks back, before spilling over like a tidal wave. He’s shared some of his work, and the red hot glaze of the sun (like Saeyoung’s hair!) had left him feeling odd and disconnected from his body, but V was always soft and mirroring, a lunar caress. Waning and waxing, hard to pin down, but kind.
‘It’s nothing much,’ he sounds even more sheepish now, ‘I can get you better things.’
‘No!’ Saeyoung has to be firm on this point again, and he sees V’s small flinch at the sharpness in his voice. He feels bad, but it’s important to make him understand. ‘Please, no, this is enough. More is harder to hide. I’m grateful, really –‘ something ripples under the surface of V’s face, but decides to stay hidden for now ‘– but more things means more trouble.’
‘I should at least get you one for yourself, it’s getting really cold now,’ V says, and Saeyoung’s heart goes wild in his chest. Kindness is not a skin he gets to wear often, but it feels snug around his body. It’s enough for now.
‘It’s okay, we’ll share.’
V seems like he’s about to ask how two kids are going to share the same jacket but stops when Saeyoung grabs his hand.
‘Walk me to the street corner?’ It’s the most he feels comfortable asking. Any more than that and they’ll get in range of the suit patrols and he can’t risk getting V more involved than he already is. Ask for more than that, and Saeyoung might remember how greedy he really is, how much he wants V to pet his head and tell him he’s done okay. His church visits had felt like a refuge, but now they’re a dangerous cliff side he’s trying not to jump off.
Family is a series of moments cut short. Family is good enough for now. V’s hand is shaking in his own.
v.
Rika is the only one there today. She’s elbow deep in the flower patch in the southern gardens, digging around for something and making clicking noises when it apparently fails to materialise in the damp soil.
It takes her a while to notice him, and she frowns when she finally looks up.
‘Saeyoung, hello,’ Rika says. It’s hard to tell with her, but she seems angry with something and Saeyoung folds back on himself. It’s learned behavior, a neat trick he pulls on himself sometimes: cutting the non-essential to appease. This time, it’s his posture that goes first, arms flying up and around to wrap his core protectively.
‘Hi,’ he says, ‘is V around?’
‘Not today, no. Can I help you instead?’ Rika is as soft-spoken as ever, but Saeyoung can’t shake the feeling that he’s irritating her. It’s the way she keeps flicking her hair around and puffing. He’d been scratched by enough cats to recognise the body language and his fingers automatically reach under the sleeves of his hoodie to touch the latest marks. It’s hard to keep track of what wound is what, but he’s fairly certain these are cat-induced.
Rika must have mistaken his pause for apprehension because her entire demeanour changes at that. She’s soft and pliable again, inviting. She points over her shoulder at one of the garden benches, but Saeyoung doesn’t take the invitation. If she’s displeased, she doesn’t show it.
‘I know you’re closer to V than you are to me, but I’m here for you if you need anything,’ Rika says, and there’s a clipped restraint to how she smiles next. Saeyoung feels red hot shame stir in the pit of his stomach and he bites his lip in anger at himself.
‘No, that’s not it! I do like you, it’s just that –‘ he pauses, unsure of how much Rika knows anyway. They’ve both been an immense help, but how much is she aware of? ‘– I’ve brought back something of his.’
‘Oh?’ Rika is back to her flower plot, moving the dirt around. It doesn’t seem to accomplish anything, but Saeyoung doesn’t know enough about plants to be sure. He’s still nursing his embarrassment when Rika puts her hand out and motions for him to drop something in it. He stands there stupidly for a couple of seconds, not knowing what to do with this new development.
‘I’ll pass it on to him,’ Rika says, and she giggles prettily when he makes no sign of moving. ‘Whatever it is you needed to give V. I’ll pass it on to him when I get home.’
‘Oh,’ Saeyoung throat has suddenly run dry, ‘that.’ The USB stick in his pocket feels like a stone and he briefly considers trying to drown in one of the nearby puddles. ‘Sorry, I’d rather do it in person. I have some questions I need to ask him about it.’
‘I understand.’ She’s running cold again. Not too much, but just enough that Saeyoung’s torn lip now throbs painfully at his new assault. ‘I don’t want to come between the two of you, I just wish you’d be more forthcoming with me. I –‘ her eyes are glowing from the inside with something warm and suffocating; Saeyoung wants to war it like a sweater ‘– I want to be like a mother to you.’
‘You are!’
‘Then why lie to me?’
The question is sharp and painful, knocks the breath out of him. She hasn’t stopped smiling and she’s not angry, she sounds more hurt than anything, but Saeyoung’s insides twist painfully at that. He’s not sure what to say to that. It’s for your own good, perhaps, or maybe: it’s all I know. The silence stretches on uncomfortably before Rika frowns.
‘You look cold, poor thing. What happened to the jacket V gave you? I thought you were going to share it?’
His mother had thrown up on it.
‘I’m not that cold,’ he lies, and then remembers the question. Rika does too. She looks disappointed.
‘That’s unfortunate,’ is all she says, but Saeyoung is not sure what she’s talking about. ‘Well, would you mind helping me out with this, then? I’m worried the garden’s waterlogged.’ Rika’s smile is faint, but he can hear it curl around her words like a summer’s breeze when she speaks again. ‘Too much of a good thing can ruin everything, you see.’
Her words stick with him for a long time afterwards. Families are unfortunate, he agrees; generational tragedies that wrap around themselves until you have to cut them loose. Saeran’s hand is small and feverish under the blankets, and Saeyoung grabs on to it tightly.
vi.
He can’t remember why the argument had started in the first place, but it’s eating him up on the inside. Once the white blinding flash of anger had subsided, Saeyoung had been left with a lot of shame and gaps where his recollection of the event should have been, which only made the guilt grow thicker in his chest. He doesn’t want to think about it, but it’s probably his fault.
His fingers hover the button to call Yoosung for hours, on and off, on and off, on and off. Zen messages at one point to tell him to stop being a dick and just admit he fucked up. There’s a selfie afterwards, though, so he must have meant it in an affectionate way. Saeyoung makes a note to make it up to him at one point (maybe brave a bar? the thought of alcohol still makes him sick, but he can handle a couple of hours for Zen) and then goes back to fretting uselessly over Yoosung’s contact entry in the RFA app.
It was a stupid argument to start with, something about whining and blaming V again. It’s mostly a blur, but the only clear thing Saeyoung remembers from it is thinking god, Saeran would never do this, over and over and over and over and over, until he snapped and left Yoosung alone and shaken in the mall food court.
He’d even forgotten to leave his fries there. They were currently cooling off on his desk and Saeyoung gives one an experimental nibble. They taste awful, so he eats the rest of them with a nervous energy that leaves his heart racing. That only makes him think of Saeran again, makes the horrible pangs between his ribs grow in intensity.
Family is an absence, he thinks. Family is a big, aching hole where you used to be kind and trusting and young. It’s unfair to Yoosung to compare him like that, he knows, but it’s also unfair that Saeyoung is alone. He feels supermassive, a black pit where decency goes to die, and he must have started crying at one point because Vanderwood looks genuinely concerned when he drops by to check up on his progress.
‘What’s wrong with you, are you sick?’
‘Sick with anguish, actually,’ Saeyoung manages, and he must make for a really pitiful sight because Vanderwood still hasn’t made a move for the taser.
‘Right. Well. Can I do anything to make that stop? Because I need a status update for the boss in about two hours and you look like shit.’ He pauses in between unloading the shopping bags into Saeyoung’s dreadfully empty void of a kitchen cupboard. ‘You’re distressing me, actually, I don’t like seeing you like this.’
Saeyoung gives and overdramatic sniffle and he knows he’s convincing when his partner rolls his eyes in response.
‘Weeeeelllll…you could tell me how to make it up to someone when you’ve been really horrible to them. Please?’
‘707, jf you’re trying to say sorry for being so slow with getting this done, you could start by getting off your ass and cleaning your desk, then finishing the assignment.’ Vanderwood is as cranky as always, but he pats Saeyoung on the shoulder twice, with the precision of someone’s who’s got the required amount of human contact needed to cheer him down to a science. ‘I got you that disgusting drink, by the way.’
‘PhD Pepper is not disgusting.’
‘I’d use it to clean drains, but it’s too sticky even for that. Anyway, get back to work while I clean up around here, okay?’
Saeyoung doesn’t get into work immediately though. He spends a bit in the backend of LoL servers before that. It takes a couple of hours for Yoosung to react, and Saeyoung takes his time getting to the messages. His hands are shaking when he opens the app.
i know you’re trying to be cute
but was it really necessary
to kill my guild members
and spell out i’m sorry with their decaying skeletons
in front of my guildhouse??
There’s an angry sticker at the end and Saeyoung almost kisses his phone.
yes
Three angry stickers now. Saeyoung’s hands grip the phone just a little too hard, heart beating just one touch too fast for it to be comfortable. In hindsight, the extra caffeine had probably been a bad idea when he was this twitchy to begin with.
seven, are you ok?
i should be asking you that
Yoosung takes his time with the next set of answers.
it’s just that
you’re always making fun of me and tricking me into doing stupid things and murdering my guildmates for sport
so i’m used to your moods
but this is the first time you’ve ever snapped at me like that
Saeyoung is still typing a response when Yoosung’s last texts come through.
i honestly didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again
you seemed very angry
and i don’t even know what i did wrong
Shame drapes itself around Saeyoung’s shoulders again. It feels right, like a favourite jacket with that one spot you can’t get rid of, and he leans into it, seeks the old comfort of familiar disquiet.
you didn’t do anything wrong
i’m sorry i’m like this
It’s the most honest he’s ever been with Yoosung, and the weight of it crushes the breath out of Saeyoung’s lungs. He tosses the phone to the side and gets back to work. He feels the faint vibration of three incoming texts a couple of minutes later, but ignores that as well, like he ignores Vanderwood’s comments about not leaving his things all over the place. He only gets to them the next morning, right after he wakes up from a troubled nap and forgets that he should be afraid of the response.
i’m sorry i upset you
please don’t kill my guild members anymore
do you wanna go see a movie next week?
This is family too, Saeyoung thinks. Small and shaky, but it’s there.
vii.
Family is a pair of hands around his throat. Family is the burning feeling in his lungs. Saeran had been a phantom limb for so many years, something so essential broken off and stolen from his body that even being strangled feels somewhat comforting.
He’s wheezing when Saeran lets go, wheezing into what has to be the most uncomfortable hug of his life. His brother doesn’t hug back, but he doesn’t push him away either, lets himself slide against the wall instead until they’re both collapsed on the floor and crying. It doesn’t stop for a long time, not until Saeran finally makes a move to push him off.
‘Stop fucking around,’ is all he says, but the fight’s gone out of him. He sounds small and shaky, and is stubbornly avoiding Saeyoung’s eyes.
‘Okay.’
Saeran’s cut is still there, an angry streak of red on the otherwise sickly pale territory of his arm. Saeyoung notes with a rising wave of panic that they’re both smeared in blood by this point and it doesn’t show any signs of slowing down. He remembers things from his training, Vanderwood’s droning tone stuck to his brain like gum to the underside of a table, the ways to stop someone from bleeding out clamoring for his attention, but the only thing Saeyoung can focus on is the realization that Saeran will never agree to stitches or a doctor. Not now. He has to do what he can here, in the basement, and figure out a better option tomorrow.
He tries his luck.
‘Can I take care of your arm?’
‘Okay.’
Saeran is docile while Saeyoung fiddles around with the first aid kit. It would be easier under normal circumstances, but his hands are shaking so hard he drops the disinfectant bottle to the ground twice before he can finally unscrew the cap.
‘That’s not very sterile,’ Saeran hisses, but he sits through everything without flinching. He looks too tired to do anything much other than say something pointed every now and then. When the final bandage is wrapped, he flexes his fingers a little, testing the resistance of the sloppy handiwork. Saeyoung can’t read his expression, so he waits, anxiously, fiddling with the scissors while Saeran takes his time deciding what to say next.
‘I’m going to watch TV.’
Saeyoung blinks. There’s a cautious edge to that statement, wrapped in a lot of aggression, but the exhaustion dripping through every syllable is earnest.
‘Uh. Sure. The remote is on the couch.’
They don’t say anything more to each other that day. Saeran finally falls asleep on the couch, healthy arm tucked under his head and curled up on himself, and Saeyoung brings him a blanket before falling asleep at his workstation, spent and still covered in blood. When he wakes up, he finds the blanket thrown over his head haphazardly. It strikes him as funny, the deliberate carelessness of it, so he laughs until he’s sobbing and then he cries until he’s calm again.
They have pancakes for breakfast and say nothing, but Saeyoung thinks family is the empty space between their hands growing smaller when they reach for the jam at the same time, and the way Saeran stares him down until he lets him have it first.