Work Text:
A dark street, lined with flickering lampposts that hardly illuminate the way is his path. Chan appreciates the feeling of the night wind chilling the layer of sweat atop his skin. A gentle reminder that he's yet to bite the dust, and a vaguely welcomed one at that. The moon is waxing but that detail is just a vague observation as he walks quickly through the shadows. It's not a suspicious pace, but Chan feels the thrill of worry nipping at his heels with each step. One wrong move, a single person out of place, could put his whole operation in grave danger. He's in the final phase, the daring escape, and should one person not play according to the plan detailed in his mind, he would be ruined. But that was half of what made it so thrilling.
The other half? He is quickly approaching that part, but he has to finish his escape first. As such, he carefully measures each step and keeps his gaze steadily in front of him. No wandering. Only casual confidence. If anyone sees Chan, he'll appear to be a college student walking home after studying for too many hours in the library. The frizzy curls peeking from his half-up hood and the sallowness of his cheeks will give them that impression, especially with the backpack on his shoulders hanging so low and heavy. A stranger's eyes should pass right over him, but if they looked closer they would find the sweat, and beneath the sweat, the barest remnants of blood he'd failed to completely wipe away. If Chan tried harder he could have, but it was an added risk. Added fun. A bigger challenge.
He loves challenges. It makes life much more interesting. There is something amazing to be found inside of a struggle.
As it was, Chan didn't quite recall the road being so long. He debates only for a moment before deciding the deviation from his plan won't harm it, and shrugs up his sleeve to check the old plastic watch on his wrist. 11:47. A series of numbers and scenarios run through his mind, and he grimly determines he must have lazed too long after changing his clothes. He should have stepped up his pace earlier but there's nothing he can do about the mistake any longer. Chan can't speed up again now or he'll catch attention in security cameras. His eyes slip closed, feeling too heated, but doing so allows him to visualize everything. He fast-forwards the moving image in his mind, leaving only himself in the same place as everyone in the picture changes positions. According to his calculations, he'll still be home free in just a moment. It isn't a detrimental mistake. No one is coming to stop him.
He grazes his fingers against the item in his deep hoodie pocket. The corner of Chan's lip turn up in a lopsided smirk. He turns at the end of the street and seems to vanish into the night.
Woojin examines his flawlessly clean nails with disinterest, his displeased sigh not the only sound coming from the room. A few feet away lie a mother cat and her four kittens, squirming and writhing blindly as they try to find their way to sustenance. He stares at the new and sticky creatures from the pile of boxes where he waits. One is smaller, paler, quieter. It doesn't move as much, even as the mother tries to push it in the right direction. Woojin's hand twitches. It's hard to control the urge when the opportunity sits right in front of him, so weak. He is tired of simply waiting, even if that is how he spends much of his time. Woojin holds his breath for a moment, waiting for a reason to stop.
But still, no one arrives, and he doesn't hold himself back any longer. His feet meet the ground silently and each step is just as noiseless as he approaches the small family. The mother cat's green eyes stare at him distrustfully, angrily even. She has no reason to trust him and plenty to hate him. Few creatures that lay eyes on him don't know who he is. Rather unfortunate for them.
Woojin stops just in front of the wild animals. The cat chose to give birth on a pile of rags so dirty that their color, though originally a vibrant blue, was now nearly black. He doubts he would be able to see them if they laid against the rich soil of healthy Earth. In comparison, the small body of each kitten is striking against it, their thin orange fur hardly covering pink skin. The fourth is the most noticeable, with fur so light it's almost- But not quite- White. It obviously has suffered in the womb, unlike its siblings. Truly a pitiful sight to anyone. Selfishly, the siblings pay it no mind, climbing over and pushing the kitten away in their haste to help themselves. It's to be expected, and it isn't like that will matter for much longer. Woojin has made up his mind, and he kneels down.
The mother keeps staring with her piercing green eyes.
With gentle hands, he picks up the kitten and rubs lightly against the chest and up the spine, looking for any obvious deformities. When he finds nothing, relief floods through him and Woojin carefully pushes his finger to open up the mouth. Once he's satisfied everything looks fine, he leans closer to the nursing mother cat again and places her runt kitten where they should be- Lined up with its siblings, taking in its first meal so as to continue the fight of life. She seems to be much less wary now, and he smiles at her. She doesn't shy away when his fingers rub between her ears.
"So Death saves dying kittens now, huh? That's the stuff you only read in books," Bang Chan's cocky voice rings from the doorway, and Woojin stills. A curse runs through his head but he doesn't say anything, instead choosing to retreat from the animals and return to his place on the boxes. He should never have interfered, but it's far too late now. His expression remains neutral, unlike Chan who is grinning at him like he's gleaned some important information from walking in on the scene. Woojin looks him over and takes note of his appearance. The uneven raise and fall of his chest suggests a sense of urgency. His hood barely clings to the back of his head. One hand is shoved in his jacket pocket. Chan is covered in a thick layer of sweat, but the blood on his skin glows in Woojin's eyes. Expectedly, there is a wild and nearly desperate look in his eyes, but his voice never loses the playful tone, "What, Woojinnie? I just like the irony. It's very you, don't be mad."
"I'm not mad, Chan. Do you have it?" He asks with a note of impatience edging his voice. He'll never admit it's because of the embarrassment of being caught, yet knows the man will be aware anyway. Frustration creases his brow.
"Of course I have it, I don't leave a job half-done." Indignation laces the words and hearing it brings him satisfaction. Chan pulls the hand from his pocket, and opens his palm for Woojin to peer into. The diamond necklace is indeed there, glittering even in dim lighting. There is more glowing blood on the jewelry, and the man's hand, yet Chan remains unaffected.
"Run into a little trouble?" He asks.
"Nah, all according to plan," Woojin raises a critical brow, and the other shrugs, "She won't die, anyways."
"No, she won't." He agrees. That doesn't change the fact that Chan did her harm, but they aren't arguing on that. Woojin sighs, and crooks a finger at Chan. Another smile plays on the boy's lips.
"Nuh-uh, not until you give me what I want. A trade is a trade, Death." He acts far too arrogant for someone so close to the edge, but perhaps that itself is the reason why Woojin doesn't argue. He takes a deep breath and slides down from the boxes again, dusting off his black cloak and jeans. Chan approaches him fearlessly, chest still heaving, eyes still desperate, and they stand a simple width away from each other. His hand holds the necklace out to the side, mischievous to the last. The two gazes meet for the first time since they joined together in the room, sending a familiar bolt down his spine. One hand situates itself on Chan's chin, their breaths mingling together.
"A trade is a trade." Woojin confirms, sealing their lips as he slides the necklace from Chan's bloodied grip.
When Chan returns home, the thrill is still in his veins but the emptiness is starting to fill his head. There's no goal, no plan, no Woojin, there's nothing but the blood on his skin and another hollow victory. The worst thing about an empty head is that it never stays that way for long. It stays open for intrusive and unwelcome thoughts, and they start the moment Chan locks his apartment door. The stench of months-old dishes and spoiled milk burn his nose, but he walks past the kitchen nonetheless and kicks open the door to the bathroom. He hates it here, more than anything. Chan's teeth grind as he twists the shower handle. He leaves the woman's blood on it- The sight stops him in his tracks, and he inspects the drying substance on his hand.
It wasn't his first time stabbing someone, but he really wishes she hadn't gotten in his way. Chan knows he's going to obsess over the stranger for months, watching her recovery just out of sight to ensure he didn't royally screw up her life. He couldn't forgive himself if he did. In all honesty, he doesn't know what punishment he would give himself if he has, in fact, harmed her beyond perfect repair. Certainly something he could worry about in the future. Instead of wasting his energy on that Chan continues to strip himself of his sweat-soaked clothes. They stick to him, unwilling to leave from where they're pasted against his body. He tugs them off anyway, because Chan has tried to shower in his clothes after plans and all it does is exhaust him more. It's better to fall asleep naked on his bed than in soaked clothes, it seems.
The water is just as cold as he likes it, and he sighs in relief. His head ducks under the stream before his hands run over his face to push his hair back, but Chan returns his fingertips to his lips. They refuse to stop burning from Woojin's kiss- He always finds the sweetness of Death's kiss funny. He tastes intensely of lime sherbet some days, and lightly like peach tea others. This time was lime sherbet. It has to do with Chan stabbing the girl, he supposes. But he certainly likes it, and he likes how his lips sear the moment they make contact. It seems like life and Death aren't supposed to interact so intimately.
A kiss is nothing in return for thieving, sure, but that's all Chan requires. So long as Woojin keeps kissing him, he'll steal anything.
He laughs to himself. It echoes in his bathroom, and the echo is all it takes to stop him. Another stark reminder of how alone he is. Chan wonders how much longer he can prolong things before he bites the bullet and Woojin comes for him one last time. He hopes it will be Woojin, anyway. Another Death would be the most disappointing thing, the worst way to finish up his wreck of a life. What's the point in making a connection with Death if he doesn't come to reap you? Briefly he wonders if he should trade the promise that Woojin will be the one to reap him for his next theft but it leaves his mind almost as quickly. Chan doesn't know if he can swallow his pride enough to do it- Or find a way that doesn't make him seem weak when requesting.
But never mind that, he has a cold shower to finish so he can collapse into bed and pretend like sleep will ever come his way. Chan has never had a restful night's sleep in his life, and it's already past one a.m. He has to head into work at eight so Chan figures he can look forward to maybe two hours of interrupted sleep before dragging himself back out of bed. With such a depressing number in his mind he massages cheap two-in-one shampoo into his scalp, scratching at the dead skin. He prefers suds and soap to cover his hands rather than blood and sweat, though the excitement of stealing is worth it. Chan always gets to come back home and shower the nastiness off, and there is always the pride of having gone through another plan successfully. He can see it behind his eyelids again, each player in their place and doing just as he predicts. Chan's talent, or perhaps gift. He doesn't care, he just loves the feeling of being right.
Yet sometimes Chan is not right, and then incidents like tonight happen, but he still received a kiss from Woojin and so he's happy. Just tired.
Tired enough that he nearly skips the most important part of the day, but he could never do that. Chan stops by the picture frame on his way to the bedroom, water dripping from the bare body he didn't bother to dry off. He crouches down and traces the features delicately, "I'm home, Innie. Sorry for taking so long. Sleep well, yeah?"
Chan carries onto his room, leaving a trail of damp footsteps and his dead brother's picture behind him.
The next time Woojin and Chan meet, they are on the top floor of another abandoned building. Woojin has found another item he wishes for Chan to retrieve. He supposes he doesn't need the human to get it, but as they always are with Chan, these are special circumstances. If it's possible for the other to steal it, for Woojin to give him a temporary purpose, he'll do it. He can't explain the pull inside of him that tells him such a thing is important but there is no real need to examine it. Does Death ever need a reason beyond his job and his desires? He doubts someone would tell him otherwise.
Rather than demanding the mission right away, as he expects, Chan throws himself onto an aged and frankly rotting couch. He seems rather unbothered by the state of the furniture, shutting his eyes and leaving a hand tangled in his own hair. His expression is carefree and hints slightly of a smile from what Woojin observes from his place on the dining table. The room stays quiet with neither speaking. Instead, they exist in the same space and he takes the opportunity to take Chan in more thoroughly. Something about the man always troubles Woojin when they meet. He has a feeling of premonition- No, perhaps recognition, instead? But it's impossible, because they had never met until the day of the car accident, when Chan had mistakenly seen him.
So why did he seem familiar even back then?
But Chan's laughter brings Woojin to attention, and he ensures his expression is clear, "Is something funny?"
"I like how you look when you're thinking. The way your eyes change is sorta amazing," The words are a compliment on their own but Woojin holds no trust for the other's dimpled smile. There is always far too much playfulness poorly disguising the desperation when he looks him in the eyes. That has to be the reason why he keeps calling Chan to him. Those eyes that express more than his words, "Am I that fascinating to you?"
"Not in the slightest. Do you plan on getting your task or not? I could always do it myself." Woojin hopes the thinly-veiled threat and change in topic will prod Chan along, but the man shrugs noncommittally. His hand hovers above the ground, waving around until it comes in contact with a ball that was left behind ages ago. He begins to toss it above himself, watching the item as it spins over his face. Chan catches it, and throws it again.
"I'm good here for a while."
And for a while, he stays good. Woojin remains in his place and Chan keeps throwing the ball even as the afternoon sun begins its descent. Golden light washes over his whitish skin yet he seems unconcerned of the passing time. All Woojin has is time, but contrastingly it worries him. While Chan looks towards the ceiling and plays by himself, the world continues on around them. He can't imagine living with limited time and choosing to waste it in Death's silent company. It simply fails to make any real sense to him. What is the appeal in wasting such a scarce resource? And he has to admit, the repetitive sound of the ball sliding against his palm as he tosses it, and slapping back against the bare skin is getting on his nerves. There is not a single thing about this human that he understands. Any rational line of thinking doesn't seem to apply to him, but then again what should he expect? The man faces Death like an old friend.
"How long do you plan on hanging around for, exactly?" Woojin asks, obviously annoyed. Chan grins, sitting up with sudden zeal.
"What? Don't you have any idea how cool this is?" His confusion must show on his face because the other rolls his eyes, "Aw, come on! How many people get to say they're Death's personal thief? Can say they've literally kissed Death? You have to get how awesome it is, it's like an anime. And if I'm gonna spend my time pillaging and making out with Death I want to get to know him more."
"The term pillage is generally used in reference to war, Chan," The reply earns him a dismissive wave of hand, "There's nothing to learn about me anyway."
"Sure there is! There's always something to learn about anyone. Like how I had a dog growing up. Bet you didn't know that, huh?" His body carries more life than before, as though it's been shocked into him. Everything about Chan seems a touch more genuine, from the glimmer in his eyes to the way his teeth peek from his smile. The whole person seems less crooked than before and Woojin is shocked. The transformation happened right in front of him but he's still finding it hard to believe- The cockiness has an innocent feeling more than anything.
"...I didn't..." Woojin keeps his response short and rolls the new fact over in his mind like dice. A dog suits Chan, really. A popular choice in companionship, though he has obviously never kept a dog he's met many and likes them. Their unconditional love for those individuals they choose seems like something Chan could benefit from. But at the same time, he's wary because the man has a desire to control situations. Surely that could apply to pets, as well? And such a thought makes the relationship between dog and owner much less innocent and significantly more negative. Woojin simply doesn't know what to do with the information in his possession.
"So? Tell me something about yourself. Where you're from, what you like to do, your scariest reaping story- I mean, you're Death, there has to be some awesome ones, right?"
The questions force Woojin to pause as they bury just beneath the surface of his skin. The itch at the back of his neck is uncomfortable, and he rolls his shoulders in hopes of getting rid of the feeling. He hates to admit it, "I don't have answers for something like that. I exist and I do my job and I wait. There isn't anything to know about me, because I just am."
"That's not true?" Chan looks at Woojin like he's lost his mind, "I can name plenty of things I know about you. Your name is Death but also Woojin. You like to meet me in abandoned buildings, so I'm thinking you like quiet places, yeah? And you always perch on top of something, too. You look inhumanly beautiful, though I'm assuming that's because you're not human. When you kiss me, you taste like lime sherbet or peach tea but that depends on the day. Oh, and you save dying kittens! That one I learned not to long ago. Let's see, what else...You think a lot, and keep a lot of those thoughts to yourself. And you don't get super emotional. Nah, instead you're really controlled and just let bits of it through, which is honestly a little scarier. You're really fond of beautiful things, especially ones that sparkle."
He is unsure of how to respond, but Chan continues.
"See? There's plenty to know about you, Woo."
He's feeling completely in control again. That is the sort of feeling he only gets when he's putting a plan of his into motion, living out the scenarios he spent countless hours fantasizing in almost perfect accuracy. There isn't anything quite like it. Chan even knows when the breathless, pleased laughter will rush from between his lips when he just feels too excited to hold it back any longer. It comes just after the security guard leaves to investigate the sound of running water. When the aged man slams the door behind him while cursing in heavy dialect, Chan's lips part. It's spot-on, all of it. From how the grate squeaks when he swings it open to his expert landing, Chan is just right. He knows where he is, he knows where everyone in the building is. All it takes it a moment of closing his eyes to see the ever-moving map in his mind. So, so satisfying.
Chan can live off this feeling alone, he thinks. Every hair is raised on-end yet his movements are nothing but deliberate. His body reacts like it's in a serious, flighty situation but his mind just stays clear as can be. The jarring contrast addicts Chan.
But focus is key, and he can spend time later reveling in it. He glances around the room, gaze lasting no longer than a moment on each area. Chan just wants to make sure there isn't anything extra he'd like to take with him. Stealing for other people is fun and all, but when you're as poor as him, sometimes you like to take things for yourself, too. He doesn't get any money out of Woojin, and selling expensive items for cash? That's just begging to get caught. No, he finds it much better to just take something you actually want. That being said, he is actually rather excited about what he's taking this time. It isn't anything Woojin asked for, he is stealing it all on his own to gift to Death. He'll never see it coming when Chan calls for him, and that brings his favorite extra thrill to the table.
Chan loves surprises.
As he passes by the desk, he snags a pair of loose earbuds. They dangle from his jeans pocket. The room is messy and poorly put together to be holding such a prized possession, to the point where Chan wonders if the owners will even notice that anything is gone for days. They don't seem to care about their things no matter how much others would give to have them. It feels more likely that the guards will notice long before their bosses.
Heart fluttering in chest, attention focused on the pink and black paper fan, Chan's lips turn up again. It's even more beautiful in person, delicate flower patterns painted on in swirls. Golden glitter highlights the most stunning details and shines in the artificial lighting of the room. He's annoyed, though, to find such a beautiful piece carelessly tossed on a shelf with papers and binders full of research papers. They detract from its importance, the craftsmanship that went into it- Yes, Chan is certain that Woojin will take much better care of it. He's really doing the expensive, aged paper fan a favor. He swings the backpack off his shoulder and with delicate fingers, Chan grasps his prize. He makes sure to wrap it in preprepared tissue paper before storing it away.
And Chan makes the perfect getaway, just as he envisioned, the adrenaline coursing through him mixing with pure satisfaction. He feels smug, standing in the middle of the same abandoned factory as the last time Woojin called on him. Just as dusty and dark as ever, but much more occupied with him in it. Rolling his shoulders relieves some of his body's natural tension and he clears his throat. Each breath fills him with more confidence, but also seemingly more dust particles as he hacks into his elbow after a particularly deep one. Nonetheless, Chan calls out, "Woojin!"
Everything stays still for a moment, but before he can call out again, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. Chan turns around, stepping back at the same time. He expects to see Woojin but it doesn't kill him to stay cautious in that kind of environment. He did just steal and is in a shady part of town. So yeah, he expects Woojin but he doesn't expect the furrowed brows and the way Woojin grabs his shoulder again.
"You're not hurt? You're fine? Why is there nothing wrong with you, Chan?" Death asks the questions without pausing for an answer. He's sort of baffled, voice stuck somewhere in his throat while his mind tries to process the situation.
"Aw, Woo, you're worried about me! I'm flattered," He tries a charming grin, hoping for the combo to throw Woojin off more than the other has thrown him. It's been a bit too long since he was faced with something similar to concern. Chan doesn't even know what the concern is for, "Why, should I be hurt?"
Woojin stares at him. The color of his eyes is piercing in the dark around them, "I told you that you could call me when you got into trouble. I meant when you were getting something for me, but since I didn't specify that I assumed you'd gotten yourself in a bad situation on your own and found it a reasonable situation to call on me. But you're...Fine."
"You sound disappointed. What, were you that excited to reap me and be done with it?" Chan's joke seems to fall flat in the silence. The atmosphere is absolutely stifling, Woojin won't stop staring with an expression that almost seems cold now. He doesn't like how any of this is going, but he's Chan and Chan doesn't let awkward situations affect him. So despite the rock of discomfort settled in his stomach, he winks at Woojin and reaches into his backpack, curling his fingers around the tissue-wrapped gift, "I've got something for you. C'mon, hold your hand out- And no, it's not a dying kitten for you to save, though that is a great idea."
The thing is, he's literally playing with Death so the darkening in his eyes does sort of scare him. But again, Chan presses forward when Woojin finally offers an open palm. He lays it there with a wink, grinning proudly at the other. Despite the whole meeting going quite strangely, Chan is still sure of his choice in stolen item. It's just the sort of thing Woojin asks him to thieve, but even better because he heard about and chose it himself. He really thinks that Woojin will like it, he hopes so more than anything because...Well, he went to the trouble of taking it from some very wealthy people, didn't he? Someone needs to appreciate his hard work and there's only Woojin to do it. And Chan still isn't convinced that Woojin isn't that person, from his distant memories. So he waits with rising anticipation as the paper is peeled back.
Woojin blinks.
"I didn't ask you to steal this."
"Nope."
"Then why...?" It's unbearably amusing and perhaps slightly endearing how much Death looks like a confused puppy right now. There are just some- Well, many- Human concepts that he fails to grasp on his own. It makes Chan wonder just how much he actually looks into the lives of the people he reaps. Are their clothes that forgettable? Does he not see a personality in their accessories? Are their homes just rooms full of things with no meanings? Do their relationships with others leave no feelings inside of him? Chan supposes that would make the job much easier, it's like stealing them away from nothing. It also makes him wonder just how many other personifications of death are out there, and if Woojin talks with them. Do they need interaction as much as humans? Where do all these things Chan steals for him go? Where does Woojin go? Chan doesn't even know if he has a place to call his own.
"I heard about it and thought of you, so I thought you should have it. It's a thing humans do, normally for people they get along with. Though sometimes you also do it for people you hate but have to be nice to on special occasions," He shrugs, "It's a gift."
Woojin is so fascinating. He looks at the fan like it's going to crumble to nothing, so gently and with so much care it's like his newborn child. But at the same time, he seems suspicious of it, like it's about to bite him. His body language is screaming a multitude of things at Chan- He can't decipher it all. Yet it's the most interesting thing to watch him determine his own feelings on the matter. Chan begins to anticipate when Woojin takes a deep breath before he speaks, such a human thing-
"A trade," Woojin decides, "This is a trade."
Before Chan can react, searing warmth and peach tea push against his lips. The suddenness of the action doesn't stop him from melting into it and grasping onto Woojin's arms like only they exist. As far he's concerned? That's the truth.
There are many things Woojin can't comprehend. They don't seem to be coded inside of him, like they are with humans. He has a different set of internal rules and base understandings of the world around him, and he's acutely aware of it. He always has been, but interacting so much with Chan highlights the problem. Glaring and maybe even a bit painful, except Woojin and emotions don't particularly mix. Again, the way humans understand emotion and the way he does differs. Given that all he has is time, he spends quite a bit of it contemplating those concepts. But no matter how he twists and angles it all, it comes down to him not being able to figure it out by himself. His inability doesn't bother him. Rather, it makes dealing with Chan more difficult.
It started with Chan "wanting to get to know him." Then it continued with the man going out of his way to put himself in danger, in order to steal something he thought Woojin would like. And after the first time he called on Woojin? Death seems to be summoned far too often to the human's side. Never for anything important. He's never in any danger, there isn't a reason for him to be concerned a single time he hears Chan call his name. The summons are always for a human thing he cannot understand.
From being asked his opinion on a type of music, to Chan questioning which shirt he'd rather wear, and even getting requested to help him solve a puzzle, Woojin finds himself by Chan's side for the most useless of reasons. What's most interesting about these encounters is that Woojin doesn't have to stay. He can leave any time he learns the subject isn't serious, but he still feels that recognition towards the man. The uncomfortable and strange feeling that makes Woojin call Chan to him repeatedly, to give him a purpose and save him from the edge he lingers on. Isn't it odd for someone teetering at the edge to reach out to assist another? Because Woojin is certain that's what Chan is doing. He is trying to help him understand more about human life. Even if he doesn't quite get the intentions, Woojin fails to stop it all from happening.
"Even though they're all different colors, they taste the same?" He stares at the bag of brown, yellow, and orange circular candies on the table between them. It lacks all sense, "Then what's the point?"
"Um, they all have different flavors spiritually. Like, everyone universally agrees that they taste the same but they definitely don't taste the same. Reese's Pieces are another candy where everyone has a favorite color, y'know?"
He doesn't know.
When Chan suddenly takes the bag and pours it all over the table, little discs of peanut butter-flavored penuche scatter in all directions. Some hit the floor with an audible crack of their candy coating but he remains unconcerned. The crinkling of his eyes tells Woojin he's entertained, maybe happy judging by the tune he suffocates with his closed mouth. He begins to separate the pieces by their color, "You know, there's a game I used to make my old boyfriend and my little brother play with me. Whenever I had Reese's Pieces I'd count how much of each color there was, and then I'd give the colors a topic. The one there was least of was "hard to say," the middle was "embarrassing," and the most was "confession." Look, we have hardly any brown but a bunch of orange!"
Woojin listens as Chan explains the intricacies of the game- How whoever he was "playing with" would pick one once they were all put in the bag, and depending on the color they would tell Chan about something. Hard to say was a category for topics sensitive to the other player, embarrassing was for anecdotes to laugh about, and confession was random things. He supposes it's easier for humans to speak about things when they're prompted, but Woojin's never considered that they might need a childish concept such as this to be honest with one another. Even more, he's bothered with how Chan explains it.
"Only they would play?" He asks, and Chan tilts his head questioningly, "You said it was every time your brother or boyfriend picked a color. What about you?"
"Oh, I just ate them. I'd make them play when I knew something was upsetting them, so that way they would talk to me." The human shrugs, popping a yellow candy in his mouth. He leans back on his arms, creating audible cracking sounds in his shoulders.
"But what about when you were upset, Chan? Did you never express it?"
"Suddenly Woo is curious about me~" But Woojin doesn't rise to the obvious bait. There is a brief pause of silence before he swallows, reaching for the table. Woojin slides a brown Reese's Piece directly in front of Chan and sits back, waiting patiently. Something flashes in his dark eyes, but a thoughtful look overtakes the expression before Woojin has time to read it, disappointingly quickly even, "I've taken care of others since I was young, without realizing it. It's just what I did, I always helped people. I took care of the people I loved."
"Why does that mean no one took care of you?"
But Chan winks and eats the candy, and Woojin figures this is another human complexity he cannot fathom.
Jeongin's absence is still really heavy on Chan's shoulders. He hates waking up in the morning, knowing there's no one he can send off to school with a sad attempt at a packed lunch and a kiss to the forehead- Before he died, Jeongin was getting taller than Chan, and he would have to raise himself on his toes and pull his brother down to get the exact right spot. But to fill that emptiness he still makes the boy a snack every day, eating his own across from the ever-smiling picture in the hallway. Tangerine juice streaks down his arm, another peeled one sitting right next to Jeongin as Chan stares. He wants to do more than look at memories of his brother, but the thing about dead people is that they stay that way, he's pretty sure, so he can't do anything else. Chan doesn't get how he can make such perfect plans and maps in his head but can't do something as simple as keep people by his side.
His brother. His boyfriend. His childhood friend. They're not there.
But somehow, Death is whenever he calls.
Maybe this is Chan's fate, for being born and living so abnormally. He considers it a lot. Maybe if he didn't have weird abilities, maybe if he didn't use them, maybe if his existence didn't push his mother to suicide, maybe if he behaved in school and didn't cause so much trouble, maybe if he didn't get addicted to the thrill and adrenaline, maybe if he didn't need to control situations, maybe maybe maybe.
It feels like the smile in Jeongin's picture gets colder and colder the longer he looks.
His phone rings, and Chan pushes away from the wall, shoving the final citrus slice in his mouth and wiping his hands on his jeans. He grabs the cell from the counter, but he doesn't bother to check who's calling before accepting it and holding it to his ear, "I already said I'd cover the shift, so-"
"Hyung, I thought we talked about looking at Caller ID," Seungmin sighs, and his breath catches in his throat. Chan pulls his phone away to double-check that it is, indeed, Jeongin's friend and that he isn't imagining things. Unfortunately, it's confirmed and he curses quietly, taking a deep breath before putting it to his ear again, "I heard that. Until you block me, I'm not gonna stop checking in. Did you eat today? I'm done early today because my teachers have meetings, we could grab a meal together."
"Sorry, just ate Seungminnie. Maybe next time. How are classes going? As easy as you thought?" It hurts to talk to him casually, like there isn't a gaping chasm between them. There is. The only thing that connected them, was a bridge, crumbled away ages ago and left so many tears and lonely nights in his wake. Chan knows that Seungmin is simply too good of a person to abandon him completely, and that's why he calls every once in a while. His energy is soothing, filling some of the empty space around Chan, but his voice always brings back memories of laying on the living room floor and helping him and Jeongin with their homework, and making pancakes on Sunday mornings to feed them when they wake up. Too lonely, talking to Seungmin makes him feel way too damn lonely.
"They're pretty challenging but in a fun way, you know? But, hyung, on the news..." His tone drops lower, "A lot of things are going missing recently."
"That's why you shouldn't concern yourself with me, Seungmin," Behind closed eyelids, Chan still sees the blurry image of Jeongin's bruised hand and Woojin's boot just mere centimeters from it. Why does that moment have to come to mind? It ruins his image of Woojin more and more every time he remembers it, "Stay in school, get a good job, all that stuff. Just forget about me, yeah? Involving yourself with me is just asking to ruin your pristine reputation. As a favor to both hyung and Jeongin...Just stay away, Seungminnie."
"You could stop whenever."
"No, I really can't," He laughs, rubbing a hand over his face. Tangerine juice burns his eyes, "That's why I went back to it all. Forget about what you see on the news and please stop calling."
Chan feels, strangely, that his control is slipping and it makes him sick.
It's unseasonably warm for the evening so Woojin sheds his black cloak early on. Chan continues to stir something in a pot on the portable burner he brought along when Woojin called for him earlier. He has something else he wishes for the man to get for him, a jewelry box this time, but after he gives him the mission Chan just nods and tells him to sit down. Normally when given a job, his body tightens in anticipation and there's excitement in every bit of him so the lack of enthusiasm tips Woojin off immediately. There's something not quite right with the human, he feels so much closer to the edge than any other time they've met- Even closer than when he stabbed that woman. Observing the tremor in Chan's fingers and the persistent creasing of his brows ties his insides into knots, a feeling he isn't that familiar with. Is that what spending more time with humans does?
He wants to relieve Chan of his burdens. Woojin recognizes that, after long periods of self-reflection. The reason for such a wish remains a mystery to him, but he assumes it, again, is tied with that feeling of recognition. Woojin wonders just who Bang Chan really is, to be a human with such unearthly skills and fragility.
"Woo, come here and look! What do you think?" He steps away from the couch and his ruminations to Chan's side instead. As directed, he peers into the pot and is greeted with unnaturally red broth coating a mixture of noodles and rice cakes. The man is tearing off bits of green onion and tossing them in, but he looks to Woojin with wide eyes for approval. He's unsure why that makes him feel fond of the other.
"It's...Food?" Chan rolls his eyes at the response, "I don't know what you want me to say."
"Say it looks good, maybe? I've been slaving away over this hot pot all on my own while you perch yourself on the arm of the couch and chill out without your cloak- By the way, how are your arms as tan as your face? I've literally never seen you without the dramatic Death cloak on. That being said, you look super good without it," The man strings from topic to topic. He can't keep up with it, but that's to be expected, "Anyways, it's ready so let's eat! I'm so hungry~"
"Out of the pot?" Woojin scrunches up his nose, "No way. Put it in bowls, I don't want to eat out of the same thing as you."
Chan stops short, eyes boring into Woojin. His knuckles are white over the chopsticks he has grasped in his hand. He doesn't think the other has ever looked at him so unsettlingly before. There have been countless moments where Woojin had this feeling, but they were fleeting. The way Chan looks at him now...It's prolonged, uncomfortable, and he swallows. This interaction is unusual and he thinks, perhaps, his face is getting red. Hopefully it's just the heat of the evening and portable burner, but he feels that it may be embarrassment of some sort. He turns away, looking towards the floor and fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. Woojin tries to figure out what's happening, but before he can, Chan laughs brightly.
"Wow! Is Death too high-and-mighty to share his plate with a measly human?" He entirely sounds to be joking, but despite it Woojin attempts to spit out an apology despite his back still facing the younger, "No Woojin, you're good, I did bring some with me. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Here-"
Woojin turns right as Chan steps closer to him, a bowl of noodles in his hands. Expectedly, such a collision makes the food spills over the both of them and the plastic bowl clatters to the floor. For a moment, he's only mildly disturbed by the inconvenience, but then the strong, stinging pain hits him. Chan is already tearing off his own shirt whereas Woojin stares at the mess on his.
"Ow, shit- Woo, what are you doing? You're gonna burn yourself worse, take it off!" The man's voice is high with worry, and his hands are quick to grab the hem of Woojin's shirt and pull it up. These are all very new events to him, but he figures if the other removed his top and wants him to do the same, it's probably the best thing to do. He maneuvers out of the clothing with Chan's help, until the wet fabric is twisted in the human's hands as his chest heaves. There's a bright red spot on Woojin's stomach where the noodles spilled, and it pulses. He looks back at Chan, but his expression is different now, less panicked something a touch...Heavier, perhaps, as he takes a step to Woojin. It sets him on edge as he gets closer and closer, until his breath brushes against Woojin' lips, "I made you dinner. A trade is a trade?"
"Chan?" Those eyes are so, so sad. They seem to hurt him worse than the burn, so he finds himself nodding. He swallows thickly, "A trade is a trade."
The human drops the shirt and wraps his arms around Woojin's shoulders, Chan's upper body hitting his so forcefully that they stumble back as their lips meet. Woojin grabs Chan's biceps to steady them, his feet wet from stepping in the cooling food on the floor. He doesn't miss the way Chan presses as much of their skin together as he can, with the desperation of someone looking for salvation. The too-warm evening sunlight shines through the old, parted curtains and against them. Woojin can't nearly reciprocate the passion of the kiss Chan is giving, but he tries his best nonetheless. His thumb pushes down against the other's bottom lip. Somehow doing that makes Chan try to press even closer. Everything inside of Woojin wants this to soothe Chan, from that sadness, from that desperation, but when he finally breaks away he can still feel it there. It doesn't hide, it's right at the surface. He rests his forehead against Woojin's shoulder and he can feel the shakiness of his breathing where it puffs against his flushed skin. His hands rest on Woojin's chest.
"Is skin contact...Comforting to you?" He asks carefully, "Do you like it?"
It seems Chan cannot speak, or perhaps doesn't trust himself to, because he nods instead. Woojin swallows, conscious of the heavy thumping of his heart. Chan appears small in this moment. He thinks back to the Reese's Pieces. Why does that mean no one took care of you?
Woojin slips one hand into Chan's curls and the other across his lower back, holding him closely. Their skin is sticky in the humid room. Naturally, his cheek comes to rest against the top of Chan's head and his eyelids close. He does all this with the intent of anchoring Chan, of pulling him from the dangerous edge and keeping him right there where Woojin can still see him, but...He finds while standing there that maybe he, too, likes the feeling.
"There's something wrong with me," Chan speaks to no one, heels hitting the side of the building at he stares at the jewelry box in his hands. Police sirens ring below him, but they'll never look up. He knows they won't. Instead they race around like bugs, looking for the criminal who's sitting high on the roof just above them. The benefits of living in a city, really. Cold wind tangles his hair. The moon is missing from the sky, so there's only stars to glitter against the heirloom. It's so Woojin. Just the sort of thing he asks him to take. He feels good with it in his hands, he does, but as his gaze returns to the moonless sky the high gets brought down more and more, "What do I do this for anyway?"
The answer is simple- Woojin. Death. He wants to see him. He wants to know everything about him and why he looks like that person from ages ago. He wants to taste lime sherbet and peach tea and have his lips burn. He wants to teach him and be held by him and forget how much his so-called talents have fucked up his life. Woojin is the only one who has ever made him feel useful for being able to know things so exactly. He's the only one that tells him it isn't wrong to plan out every detail and make it happen that way- And maybe he feels that way about it. But he doesn't say it, like Chan's mom did. He didn't ever whisper hyung, that's creepy the way Jeongin did or scold him like his boyfriend. No, Woojin asked him to do it, asked him to use his abilities and go back to his middle school habits. Death is the only one that makes him feel appreciated and if that's not messed up, he doesn't know what is.
But it feels unfair. If Chan stops agreeing to trades, a stolen item for a kiss, would Woojin stop seeing him? It's not like he needs Chan. He pointed that out many times before. He only sees him because he feels like it. If Chan becomes useless, then Woojin wouldn't be around anymore. And he's too lonely for that.
Everyone is gone. Everyone who's entered his life is gone, Chan is alone and it's always going to be that way, he knows it. And he can't stand that loneliness. He can't stand the thought of Woojin leaving him too, but he can't offer Death anything but his gift and pretty things. But he's Death, and there's one thing that Death does. Chan feels his throat tighten and he carefully pushes himself back from the edge of the roof. His breathing is erratic, but he calls him anyway, "Woojin! Woojin!"
And there Death stands, dramatic black cloak and all.
"Too lazy to come all the way to the meeting point, Chan?" His tone holds mirth, his smirk is playful, but Chan doesn't have time to admire all of the human qualities in him that Death doesn't seem to see.
"I want to make a different trade tonight, forget the stupid kiss," He says, and the moment Woojin hears his voice his whole demeanor changes. Stiffness enters his posture and he looks at Chan with those piercing eyes. He shivers, "Woojin, you have to promise when I die that you'll reap me. It has to be you. Promise me that and you can have this. I just need you to promise me that one thing, that's all."
Woojin's expression is unreadable, "Are you alright? Did something happen?"
"Just make the trade Woojin. The promise for the jewelry box. Please." He hates how weak the last word sounds.
"...Why? Why would you make me promise you something like that?" But Chan just shakes his head. He repeats the request with a trembling voice, but he doesn't look at Woojin anymore. He paces anxiously on the rooftop, the cold air becoming harder to breathe. The lights of the buildings lower that the one he's on seem to pulse, bright to dim, dim to bright. Being alone forever isn't an option, someone has to be by his side at the very end. Chan craves that reassurance. If he just has that, everything else is doable. He can manage, like he always has.
"Woojin."
"Okay," Death says, "Alright. A trade is a trade. I promise you, Chan, that when your time on Earth is at its end, I will be the one to reap you. I will keep the promise."
"Thank you." He whispers. He feels dizzy, the whole world around him seems to be spinning. Woojin takes one halted step in his direction before shaking his head and striding confidently to him instead. He takes the jewelry box in one hand and grabs Chan's chin with the other. Woojin kisses him and tastes like lime sherbet but honestly, Chan is too relieved by the promise getting made to wonder why he kisses him anyway.
The house is terribly messy. Woojin supposes that tends to happen when someone is murdered in it, but he can't hide his wince as he carefully makes his way through shattered dinner plates and winter decor. He follows the mess to the living room where a man is taking his last breaths while his best friend tries to figure out what to do with the murder weapon. Woojin doesn't bother with the killer and instead kneels down by Lee Minho, pressing a hand to his clammy forehead. He's beautiful, with curled eyelashes and a light mole on his nose, but the beauty is devastated by pallid skin and a pain-marred expression. At Woojin's touch his breathing falters. His eyes find Death's even as he continues to press against the wound in his own abdomen. Red marks ruin the smooth skin of his neck from the failed choking attempt, and his feet are filled with glass shards.
It must feel terrible. Such a death is agonizing enough, but for the crime to be committed by your own best friend is truly pitiful. Woojin doesn't feel bad per se, but he also isn't pleased to have to take Minho away. Interestingly enough, the human doesn't regard him with fear- It reminds him of Chan. A hint of defiant arrogance despite recognizing just what is in front of him. Except unlike Chan, there isn't the look of someone near the edge. His stomach twists at the thought of the man, because the night on the roof bothers him much more than he cares to admit. But he must focus on his job, on the man in front of him that is suffering.
"Don't you dare," Minho whispers, "I'm too close to achieving it all. Don't you dare."
"Even if you lived through this, you'd never be able to dance the same again. Your dream is unattainable now- Don't make yourself suffer more than you have to," He brushes the bangs out of his face, hoping to make him even a little more comfortable. Minho's bottom lip trembles, and he looks away from Woojin to his best friend. An illegal gun is still in his grasp, Minho's blood covering his clothes. Such an imperfectly committed murder. While he tends to refrain from making judgments in these situations, he doubts the murderer will get away with the crime this time. His lips curve into a sad smile, "Come on, Minho. I'll hold your hand the whole way, I promise. Look away from him, there's nothing you can do about him anymore."
"I trusted him more than anyone," A smirk enters his tone with the next words, "I was going to beat him. But I was gonna share the win with him. I still would. Don't do it."
"I can't leave without you, Minho. I know it seems unfair, bu-"
"Oh come on, really?" Woojin blinks as he's cut off. Despite everything, the dancer speaks with all the attitude Woojin imagines he has for years, "Don't try that bullshit on me. It's more than a little unfair. My whole life, I worked my ass off for this competition. I gave up everything. My childhood, my boyfriend, everything. And when I finally get to the final stretch, my best friend decides I'm too much of a threat to his chances and tries to kill me for it. And now I have a grim reaper patting my head and telling me he'll hold my hand and walk me in like it's my first day of kindergarten."
"I'm Death, not a grim reaper," He refutes, "Those don't exist."
"And a stupid grim reaper at that."
"I don't have a choice, Minho. I don't make the rules. It's over here for you, so let's move on," He frowns at the spasm in the dancer's face. If Minho doesn't go with him now, Woojin doubts he'll get a chance at another life at all. He will probably dissolve into nothingness as his body completes its final shutdown. Nothing in Woojin wants that to happen, but he also doesn't have the freedom to explain what happens when someone refuses to go with Death. There aren't rules written down anywhere, sure, but he has innate knowledge of his job and the way it works. A sigh leaves him and he smooths out the agony in Minho's expression. Spending so much time with Chan has made reaping feel too different, "Let's go. It isn't so hard."
His eyes are still focused on his friend. The man is trying to wash Minho's blood off in the sink, "...I'm afraid of heights. Do I have to go anywhere high up?"
Woojin smiles, pleased, "Not if you don't want to."
A week passes from the night with the jewelry box. Chan waits, and waits, and waits more for Woojin to call on him again, but Death never seems to come by. Instead, he finds himself stuck in the endless repeat of washing dishes at work, shoveling half a bowl of rice down his throat, and trying for hours to sleep to nearly no avail. Chan's standard, but it leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth- One that longs for lime sherbet or peach tea. The lack of activity makes him unhappy, even more frowns grace his features than usual. Excluding Jisung, all of his coworkers avoid him. Chan is aware he could call Woojin at any time, but he...Worries. That the other is mad at him. That he made things too uncomfortable with that near-total breakdown. So he waits.
Until Jisung comes running into the break room before they open for dinner service, waving his phone around.
"Have you guys seen this? Do you remember Minho hyung? He worked here for like, three months?" The boy is full of nervous energy, but hearing the name Minho freezes Chan's blood. Of course. Of course he remembers Minho, they applied for the job together after all. They haven't spoken since...Chan found playing with Death more fun. Their romance washed away by him delving back into unapologetic stealing like when they were middle school students. He wants Jisung to say that Minho finally won that dance competition that he has been after since even before they dated, yet the vaguely horrified expression on his face warns him otherwise. Suddenly, the lights seem a little too bright for Chan's eyes and he hears his own heartbeat. It thumps so loudly he is nearly certain the waitress beside him hears it but she gives no indication of such a thing, "His best friend shot him because they were competing in the same national-level event. Right in his own house! It's all over the news now. Can you believe that?"
"Where did the guy even get a gun from?" The waitress beside him asks. He never did learn her name, "That's so awful. Minho was so pretty! A little weird but I liked him...Wow..."
Chan clears his throat, thankful that his skin is already pale. Surely no one can see all the blood that's drained from his face, "Is he...He's dead...?"
"I don't know hyung...Some news outlets are saying he is but others are saying he's comatose. Are you alright?" The words force Chan from his seat and he stumbles towards the back door. Everything is spinning around him. Not another one. You don't get to take someone else. He might be muttering to himself, rubbing a hand over his face- His coworkers stare at him with strange looks. Of course they would never remember anything about Chan or his life. He never was one to have people care about him. The only one who's different is Jisung. Instead of discomfort and minor disgust, he seems concerned and scared. The younger's hand reaches for him, "Hyung, where are you going?"
"I need to go." Chan mutters, shouldering the door open.
"You can't just walk out of work, dude-" Someone calls but it slams shut behind him. Forget worrying what Woojin thinks of him, the bastard better be ready to face Chan. Sure, Minho left him, after scolding him for the disappearing at night and the stealing and everything else, but there was always the comfort that he was alive. He was out there and probably doing better on his own than he ever did with Chan. He wasn't gone gone like his mom, Jeongin, his childhood friend- Minho was like Seungmin, absent from Chan's life but still in someone else's. He wants to scream. It's all so wrong.
His footsteps slap loudly against the pavement. People's eyes are on him, he mutters apologies to the ones he knocks into, but he can't stop until he gets there. His aim is one of the abandoned places Woojin likes to call him to. With luck, he'll already be there, and if not, Chan will call him. He can't allow this to happen.
When he shoves the door open, it's empty, and Woojin's name tears from his throat before he has time to think about it.
"I thought you were working," He speaks from behind Chan, and immediately he lunges. He twists Death's shirt in his fist, slamming him against the wall. There's blind panic in his mind, to the point that he hardly considers how truly bad of an idea this all is. For his part, Woojin doesn't push Chan away, doesn't shy from his snarl and bared teeth. Instead, his brows draw together and he inspects these aspects. He feels bare in front of him, but every emotion he feels is utterly violent and raw. Woojin can think whatever he wants, that doesn't matter, "Did I do something?"
"Give Minho back. You can't have him." The other looks surprised.
"You know Lee Minho?"
"He's the ex-boyfriend I played the Reese's Pieces game with. He's the one that took care of me after Jeongin. Minho needs to win his God-damned dancing competition so give him back!" He bites his own tongue while yelling, and the salty taste makes the sharp pains in his abdomen worse. Chan really might puke at this rate. He's trying to pretend like there aren't also tears building up with each moment that passes, because he's just so washed with grief he can hardly stand. Woojin's face is anything but reassuring, rather, Chan would like to wipe the superior quality of it right off. He wonders if being immortal really makes you pity humans that fucking much that you make a face like that. He doesn't want pity from someone like Woojin.
"Chan...That's not how this works. I can't just un-reap someone. Those things are simply decided, it can't be undone." That voice, he hates it so much. Death doesn't get to sound sad.
"Haven't you taken enough from me, Woojin? Done enough to me? Wasn't my mom enough? My brother, my baby brother? I raised him, I raised him and you took him away from me like it was nothing! Accidents happen, I get that, but why us? Why him? Jeongin had so much left and God everything hurt so much, I couldn't even reach out to hold his hand even though it was right in front of my face, Woo, so bruised and hurt, but you could stand right there and take him away!" Chan's not sure what he's yelling about anymore, if it's his anger at Woojin or the agony of watching Jeongin slip away that haunts him every night. He can't forget how much he wanted to hold his brother's hand and whisper he loved him, that they would be okay, but being unable to. Because Chan hurt too badly, even though Jeongin was the one dying, "You looked me in the eyes and stole him, even though I begged you to stop."
"I told you, those things are decided Chan. I'm sorry. If I'd known- If I'd know that acknowledging you being able to see me despite not being someone I needed to reap was going to lead to this, I wouldn't have done it. That's what's worse, right? You know who does it. You have a person to lay the blame on," Woojin shakes his head like he's reprimanding himself. Chan's hand drops from his shirt, "I shouldn't have gotten involved. I just thought you were unique, so I- I should have left well enough alone. I'm sorry."
He can't help but stumble back, "That's what you're sorry about? Out of everything, that's why you're sorry? That you got to know me?"
"I won't be sorry for doing was I was created to." That sentence, of them all, feels sharp and cold, but he has to laugh.
"What you were created to? God Woo, do you even know who you are?" Woojin opens his mouth to reply, but Chan shakes his head, "Woojin. Please. I need- I need Minho to just be alive. Even if we never cross paths again, I need him to exist."
Death lays a large, warm hand on his shoulder. He tries to push him away, but the grip tightens, "Look at me, Chan. Listen to yourself. Do you think someone stops existing just because they die? Does dying make their impact disappear from this world? Or do they continue to affect the world they left? The grief you're feeling right now, all the regrets, those are because of Minho. He still exists. He exists in pictures and in memories and in every emotion you and his family and his friends are going to feel from this day on. When you succeed, you're going to think of him. When you fail, you're going to think of him. When you're alone, you're going to think of him. Minho still exists. He's not alive, but he exists. The same goes for your brother, and your mom, and anyone else who dies. That's what it means to say someone never truly dies."
Chan wants to tell Woojin to shut his mouth, that he doesn't know what he's talking about but he does, more than Chan ever can and that's a painful pill to swallow. His sob sounds pathetic even to himself, and he clumsily wipes at the dripping tears with closed palms. He sniffles and whines like a child left at daycare for the first time. For his part, Woojin doesn't move from his spot where he'd originally slammed him against the wall. The other stays perfectly still, his gaze focused on the view outside the window. His heart hurts, so much, aching and heavy and even though he just screamed at and blamed Woojin for everything, he still wants him. He craves the closeness and the contact, the good feelings Woojin gives him, and with shame he raises his arms up and out for a hug. He looks at Chan sorrowfully but even still...
He embraces Chan, petting his hair and not uttering a word as his tears soak his clothes.
The strange thing is, Woojin doesn't remember reaping Chan's mother before. Perhaps that is why he has that recognition of the human? He saw him when he was a child, maybe? As everything he said in his fit of anger implies his mother passed away before his brother. Would that not explain Woojin's strange pull to keep him from the edge? It's like the dying kitten whom he wanted to give a fighting chance. Seeing Chan as a child and again later, somewhere deep inside knowing it was the same boy as before would surely trigger those same feelings. The explanation seems far more reasonable than anything else Woojin has considered. Or maybe he was blaming the concept of death in general on Woojin. He doesn't know, and there's more that fails to sit right with him. A particular thing that came out of Chan's mouth, that he'd moved right by without fleshing it out further- What you were created to? God Woo, do you even know who you are?
Sure, he recognizes that Chan was emotional at the time. He surely was saying whatever came to his mind. But as he balances himself on top of a billboard advertising bubble tea, the words echo in his mind. They hit him harder than he thought they would. They bounce around in his skull, drowning out nearly every other thought with how loudly they repeat. Woojin is Death- In fact? Woojin is his second name, Death the first. Woojin is just what he chooses to go by, to make those he's reaping feel more comfortable. It gives him a more human aspect, one that they can relate to. It's much softer sounding than Death.
Woojin is Death. Death likes to perch on top of things. He thinks a lot. He's fond of beautiful things, especially ones that sparkle. But all of those are things he noticed about himself through Chan, they are things Chan said about him. Why does a human seem to know more about him than even he does? It could be that Woojin failed to be introspective often enough. He never saw the point in knowing himself because he exists for the sole purpose of reaping souls. Yet after getting to know Chan, he found a secondary purpose- The purpose of giving Chan one. Even after such a meltdown, he still wants to keep him from the edge. In fact, the urge might feel even stronger now. He thinks he might drag him from that edge, kicking and screaming if he had to.
But why does everything circle back to Chan? Haven't you taken enough from me, Woojin? Done enough to me? What did Woojin do to him? He doesn't understand. He doesn't even know if this is personal or another thing about being human that he doesn't get.
But if he doesn't get being human, then why does Woojin...Why does Woojin want...
He shakes his head and stands from his crouched position. There are souls to be reaped, and Death is the only one there to do it. He steps off the billboard and dissipates into the night sky.
"Can I tell you something, Woojin?" Chan asks when he hears Death step behind him. He must have made noise on purpose, as Woojin never makes a sound without meaning to. Truthfully, he worried that he wouldn't come when he called. He really wouldn't blame him, since their last meeting went so...Poorly...Poorly being one of the largest understatements of Chan's life. He's still dressed in the clothes from Minho's funeral over the past few days- In spite of their previous break up, his parents still requested that Chan participate as a part of the mourning family.
It felt strangely nice to be recognized as a major person in Minho's life. Their countless years of friendship and dating hadn't been shoved under the rug. But the suit is old now, stiff in some places from sweat, and wrinkled from kneeling in others. His knees hurt, but he still leans against his wall and keeps his gaze out the window.
"What is it?" Woojin asks the question gently. He doesn't think he deserves the kindness, he hasn't even apologized yet.
"I think I used to know you. That doesn't make sense, right? But I'm pretty sure I did." He turns, exhaustion attempting to drag him to the ground.
"Did you see me when I reaped your mother?"
"What?" Chan's confusion storms inside of him, "No, not at all. I don't even think you did that, Woojin. I think I knew you before my mom ever died- I want to show you something. I don't really know, Woo...I don't. But I don't think you do either, and that's why I wanted to show you. Come on."
Chan walks by him. He can't bear to look the other in the face. The shame feels like mud, thick and heavy. Chan just wants to sleep, but one look at Jeongin's cheerful smile in the picture he passes in the hallway immediately reminds him that he won't be able to. He'll be haunted by the accident again. The image of Woojin's blank expression from that day flashes in his mind and he has to shut his eyes. It's not his fault. Chan can't afford to focus on that, and instead he puts all of his remaining energy into pulling open his closet door and crouching down to grab the box. He doesn't go through it often. Pictures are tough to look at, but there's some he needs to look at for the first time in a long time. He unclips the top and takes out the first handful, but Woojin simply stands in his doorway.
"What am I looking at?" Chan smiles, lopsided and hardly genuine.
"Nothing yet, I have to find it." He spreads out photos from his childhood on the floor. Each one cuts at his soul a little more. The ones that include his mother leave a sour taste in his mouth. Chan doesn't know if he'll ever be able to look at her face without feeling guilt, and injustice. He thinks that, despite everything, he deserved a mom that tried to love him and his gift. But that opportunity is long gone, just like the opportunity to apologize to Minho and hug Jeongin are. Those two appear in nearly every picture he puts out. If Chan were to imagine himself now, he thinks he would see a shape of dark blue with no form. It just exists in it's own sorrow.
"Wait, what is that? Who is that?" Woojin is suddenly beside him, pointing to the picture in his hand. It yanks him violently from his thoughts, and Chan looks at it.
"Exactly. You see it too, right?" He carefully brushes aside the other photos and sets the remaining few in his hands out. There isn't many, but they span over a couple of years, and feature the same two children- Chan, and his childhood friend, "This is Kim Woojin. He was my age, and my best friend growing up. I didn't meet Minho until after everything. I knew him as early as my memories go back, Woo. We did everything together, until we were seven. He always thought my ability was cool and I used it to get us into trouble, I guess. But when we were seven, the strangest thing happened."
"Chan." Woojin's voice shakes. He sounds scared, but Chan's heart is beating too fast. Adrenaline is pumping. He needs to say it.
"One night, we snuck out of our houses- Met at the edge of the woods, like always. We went and played around town for a couple of hours, it was so damn ordinary. Woojin and I...We just knew each other perfectly, so I knew when he was antsy to get home before someone woke up and saw he wasn't in bed. So like always, I used my ability to see if the way home was safe. He should have been in the clear, no one would be in his way, he'd be tucked up in his pajamas in bed in twenty minutes. So I told him goodbye, and I'd see him tomorrow. That's the only time I've ever been wrong," Chan squeezes his eyes shut, "I already told you, the strangest thing happened. When I woke up, Kim Woojin didn't exist. No one knew his name, he didn't have a desk in school, his parents didn't have any kids, everyone said he was just a dream or an imaginary friend. But that wasn't true, because of these pictures."
"What are you saying, Chan? What are you saying to me right now?" The edge of Woojin's tone is dangerous. He just shrugs, looking at him tiredly.
"You have a lot of human qualities for being made as Death. Tell me why you look like a grown up version of my childhood friend, Woo, and I'll tell you what I'm saying." It's a direct challenge. Woojin doesn't take it, and when Chan's eyes open from his next blink, Death is gone.
Emptiness echoes inside of his shapeless dark blue self, and Chan curls up on his bedroom floor, holding the photos close to his chest while ever-quiet tears soak his sleeve.
"I think I fell in love with you along the way. I stopped caring so much about why you looked like Kim Woojin, and the jobs you gave me," Woojin watches Chan from the shadows as the man lays in his bed, wrapped up in scratchy bedsheets. The human can't see him, he doesn't even know Woojin is here, but every night that he comes he finds this exact scene. Chan, unable to sleep, talking to an empty bedroom like he's speaking to Death. It's saddening. It seems like every time he visits the apartment, it's in further disarray. It always makes his heart ache, but hearing the words I think I fell in love with you bring a much sharper pain to his chest, "It wasn't even really about being lonely Woojin. It was you I liked being with. Seeing your expressions when you did something for the first time. Hearing your voice. Hugging you, kissing you. You made me really happy."
Woojin could respond. He could step from the shadows and reassure Chan that he wasn't speaking to no one. He knows that he can ease some of the man's suffering and suffocating loneliness, yet...He won't. He doesn't think he can. Woojin was right to have said he was sorry to have gotten involved with Chan, because he doesn't think it's done either of them much good.
Pale moonlight makes Chan's eyes sparkle, but that seems to be the only gleam there. The defiant arrogance Woojin had become used to meeting has faded away. His skin is pale, sickly at this point, and his lips chapped. He wonders if Chan drank any water today. He wishes he could ask, but even wishing that makes him scold himself. Woojin knows he needs to stop coming to see Chan, it isn't making their parting any easier. Honestly, he worries that even while actively cloaking himself, that the human can sense him. Because Chan is still special, his mind is supernaturally brilliant and gifted. Woojin is still impressed and interested in such a fact. If someone as strong as Chan crumbled so thoroughly under the pressure of it, what would have become of any one else had they been selected to carry the burden of such an ability? It's unpleasant to consider.
"I hate thinking about the accident. It makes me want to hate you. And despite everything, Woojin, I don't want to hate you. You're so damn important to me. But when I see Jeongin and his hand, the blood and feel all that pain again...Well, I don't know if the physical pain then has anything on the emotional pain that came after." What a disgustingly hollow laugh. Woojin feels sick hearing it, and sicker recalling Jeongin's twisted, broken body and the bloodied pleas that bubbled quietly from Chan's mouth the...First time they met? He doesn't know anymore, but getting to know Chan so well has completely crushed the thrill he felt in that moment, when he realized the man could see him then.
He shouldn't have gotten involved.
"I miss you." Chan whispers, and Woojin turns his back on the man. He wills himself to an abandoned building in a quieter part of town. Crates are stacked at various heights, and Death travels through them. It's easier to think of himself as Death, it uncomplicates so many things, yet still...He finds that he prefers being Woojin much more. He perches atop the highest stack of crates and lays one arm across his knees, resting his head on it. Off to the side, a mother dog licks her newborn pups clean, their squeaking breaking the silence of the room. Woojin watches the scene interestedly, looking for any signs of distress among them. He meets the mother dog's eyes, but she doesn't growl. Instead, she yips almost invitingly. Woojin unfolds himself despite having just gotten there, and walks noiselessly to the family. He kneels by her head and rubs it comfortingly.
"You've done well. They'll be okay, you can rest for a bit now. They'll be a handful growing up, you know?" Woojin smiles tenderly, and wonders if an undying being can successfully help raise a litter of puppies. After all, Woojin has few pressing concerns to attend to until he has a promise to fulfill, but he certainly has a lot of empty time until then.
"Okay," Death says, "Alright. A trade is a trade. I promise you, Chan, that when your time on Earth is at its end, I will be the one to reap you. I will keep the promise."