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“Jeno,” he whispers, as he opens the front door and his eyes fall on familiar ones. It was unintentional, how breathless and quiet his voice sounded.
It didn’t drag across his throat like a rusty piece of metal— left out in the open to suffer the consequences of the harsh wind. Instead, it slowly slid off his tongue, like a prized necklace being taken out of its box.
Almost an entire year of radio silence, almost an entire year of not saying that particular name out loud— in self preservation— or in fear of confirming something that’s been lingering in the back of his mind for months and months and months.
And yet here he stands on the last step to Jaemin’s house— like a confession. Like every single confirmation Jaemin dreaded.
Jaemin has always imagined their first meeting after that one fateful night differently.
In the picture he painted, his hands were shaking, stomach tumbling, heart threatening to beat out of his chest.
But at the sight of pale skin, even more contrasting to dark hair and dark eyes under the moonlight— of a familiar denim jacket hanging off of broad shoulders— of strong hands already reaching towards him— there is peace.
Jeno reaches both hands to gingerly place it on each side of Jaemin’s waist, pulling him forward.
And Jaemin, almost instantly, collapses against him— melting in the warmth of his arms, cheek resting where Jeno’s neck met his shoulder.
He breathes him in— and Jaemin doesn’t know if it’s the sound of people’s muted mourning behind Jeno, if it’s the darkness enveloping the sky, gradually swallowing the moon and the stars whole, if it’s the distant crash of buildings—
or if it’s the familiarity of Jeno’s scent enveloping him, smelling of the pillows in Jaemin’s dorm room years ago, smelling of all the hoodies and shirts they used to steal from each other, smelling of late night drives and stolen kisses and whispered promises.
Jaemin’s knees go weak, but he doesn’t fall to the ground. Jeno keeps him steady, embracing him the way he hasn’t been able to in a year, arms wrapped so tight around Jaemin’s waist. Steadfast and reliable.
Silently, Jeno turns his head to press his lips against Jaemin’s temple.
“Jeno Lee,” Jaemin whispers once more. Even more quiet, even more breathless.
A year later and Jaemin Na still says his name the way he always has— careful.
That’s just the way it is, Jaemin thinks, perhaps you’ll always say the name of someone you love a certain way. Gently— tenderly— like it’s made a home out of your mouth.
“Nana,” Jeno whispers back. Perhaps.
Around twelve hours, the news reporter had solemnly said about seven hours ago.
Six hours ago Jaemin had begun calling every single person he has ever loved— every single person who has ever meant something to him.
Phone pressed against his ear, he doesn’t say I miss you, doesn’t mention how long they haven’t had a proper conversation. Instead, he’d told Mark, Renjun, and Chenle one by one over the phone, thank you for making everything worthwhile. Words will never be enough.
I’m sorry, he’d told Haechan, after they both desperately tried to make up for the end of the world with crude jokes and nasty laughs. Neither of them say what they were sorry for. Instead they let I forgive you hang in the air before they bid their goodbyes.
I love you, he’d told Jisung, as sure and as simple as always. I love you too, the younger whispers back, as rare and as true as always. Jisung didn’t say I wish I could’ve told you that more. Instead, Jaemin lets himself smile, lets the tears fall, when Jisung whispers I love you, I love you, I love you— over and over again before the line cuts off.
Jaemin pressed Jeno's name last, not knowing what to say, but wanting to say so much. He grasped at any word his mind could come up with, desperate to try and convey just how much of Jaemin’s world was made up of him.
In the end, he didn’t have to say anything.
Three hours ago, Jaemin had called Jeno, heart in his throat, palm pressed flat against his chest.
When Jeno picks up, he says nothing but “I’m on my way to you.”
Like nothing has changed. Like the Earth wasn’t being run to the ground. Like the universe wasn’t finally taking back what has always belonged to them.
Because it was Jaemin for Jeno the moment he walked into their Ethics class freshman year. It was Jaemin for Jeno even as he chose to walk away from their four year relationship.
Even when they were a three hour drive away from each other— a year away from making fixing things a possibility— an entire friend group’s devastating fallout away—
At the end of the world, it was Jaemin for Jeno, still.
Jaemin doesn’t know how long they stood there in each other’s arms— doesn’t want to know how long they have left.
Quietly, he pulls away from Jeno Lee. He steps into his house, letting his hand fall from Jeno’s shoulder to Jeno’s hand.
Quietly, he intertwines their fingers, leading Jeno in.
He sits the elder down in front of the table, wordlessly placing a cup of hot chocolate in front of him, made just the way he likes it.
Jeno takes off his jacket, throwing it over the back of the chair, leaving him in nothing but an old black shirt Jaemin used to love borrowing.
He takes small sips of the warm drink, eyes following Jaemin across the room as the younger locks the doors and the windows, shutting all the curtains close.
Jeno watches him, as Jaemin grabs a sharpie from one of the wooden drawers in the living room— keeps his eyes on him as Jaemin sits on the floor, in front of a wall with his back to the elder.
There was a certain kind of numbness in both of their movements. As if they were straddling a thin line between all the time in the world and no time left.
Jaemin Na was the most hopeful person Jeno knew.
I need hope, the younger told him once, if I don’t have hope then there’s nothing else left for me.
Perhaps this is what hopelessness does to people like Jaemin.
The younger blows air out of his mouth, before he reaches up and begins to write on the wall.
“Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake,” Jeno reads Jaemin’s neat script and recognizes the line immediately, “and dress them in warm clothes again.”
“Scheherazade,” Jeno says under his breath, “Richard Siken.”
“Yes,” Jaemin confirms without looking at him and continues to write,
“How it was late, and no one could sleep,
the horses running until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance,
and the days were bright red,
and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.”
Jaemin stares at his own writing for a few minutes before turning to look at him, silent still.
“Look at the light through the windowpane,” Jeno reminds him. He doesn’t know who the writing was for— whether it’s for himself, for Jeno, for any survivor, or for the world.
Jeno watches the way tears fall down Jaemin’s cheeks as he continues writing, with a hollow feeling in his chest.
When it gets too much, he closes his eyes.
Perhaps there is no such thing as hopelessness for people like Jaemin. This thought breaks his heart a little more.
Jeno keeps his eyes closed, but in his mind, he recites the next lines of the poem,
“Look at the light through the windowpane.
That means it’s noon, that means we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”
Jaemin has stopped crying by the time the entire poem is written on the wall— by the time Jeno gets the strength to open his eyes and finish his cup of hot chocolate.
Carefully, Jeno stands up from the chair and closes the distance between them.
He offers both hands to pull the younger man up.
He guides Jaemin’s hands to rest on his shoulders, as he gently cups the younger’s cheeks and wipes his tears away.
“I’m here,” Jeno assures him, because there’s nothing else left to say.
The younger man nods.
They don’t know how much time is left when they walk up the stairs, when they open the door to Jaemin’s room, the one Jeno has never been in before, and locks the door behind them.
Jaemin shuts the windows and closes the curtains.
Jeno takes in every single detail in the dim lit room, tries to get to know the first home Jaemin has ever had that didn’t have a single trace of him.
He was running his fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf, reading the titles one by one, categorizing which ones were old and which ones were new, when he was surprised by the crackle of a radio.
“Sorry,” Jaemin apologizes, as he fiddles with an old tiny radio, “the old owner left this with me, I’ve only played it twice— it’s a bit confusing.”
After minutes of pressing different buttons, Jaemin settles on a station playing a song Jeno didn’t recognize.
“I forgot the name of this song,” Jaemin says after a while, “they used to play it for the kids in the orphanage. I never liked it when I was there.”
He looks away, before continuing, “it grew on me when I got out. Must be nostalgia.”
Jeno looks at him for a long long long time, before he steps forward and asks, “dance with me?”
And to both of their surprise, Jaemin throws his head back and laughs.
Beautiful, Jeno thinks, still as beautiful as ever.
Jaemin’s eyes are still bright when he calms down, breathing out a “yes,” and wrapping his arms around Jeno’s neck.
Jeno smiles down at him, hands making their way to the younger’s hips.
They sway to the quiet sound of the radio, eyes never leaving each other.
And for a second, they were both nineteen again— the cold of Jeno’s kitchen floor biting at their bare feet, as they danced to whatever song was trending in the refrigerator light, young and in love and in love and in love.
“I’m terrified,” Jaemin admits, because there was always something about Jeno Lee that made him honest.
And slowly, Jeno leans down to press his lips against the younger’s in a careful kiss, because it was the only honesty Jeno Lee could offer.
They continued to dance as the songs changed into another and into another and into another.
They pulled each other closer and they kissed and they kissed and they kissed.
When they pull away from each other, a question hangs in the air.
Jaemin answers it wordlessly, unbuttoning his top and letting it fall to the ground.
He keeps his eyes on Jeno, as the elder takes off his clothes.
When there’s nothing left of Jeno to hide, he leans in to kiss Jaemin deeply, sweetly.
He helps Jaemin out of every single piece of clothing, gently— always gently.
And they kiss and they kiss and they kiss, warm skin against warm skin.
Jeno leads him to the bed, gingerly laying Jaemin down, the younger’s back against the mattress.
Jeno makes love to him on their final night, slowly at first— kissing every single part of the younger’s skin he missed so dearly.
And then it turns aggressive— lips turn into teeth, gentle holds turn into bruising grips, moans turn into whimpers— an angry kind of desperation.
And when they’re both marked and bruised, covered in sweat, hoarse throated, breathing heavily, and so fucking exhausted— it turns into something else.
To something Jeno can only describe as a delicate kind of resignation— soft and kind and caring and so so so sad.
As the distant sounds of destruction come closer, Jaemin begins to weep, trembling under the elder’s touch.
Jeno kisses him, over and over and over— both of them feeling the most human they have felt their entire lives.
And when it is no longer enough, and Jeno can no longer keep his own tears from falling—
They both lay on their sides, facing each other, holding each other.
For the last time, Jeno Lee looks at Jaemin Na with a shattering kind of gentle admiration.
I love you, Jaemin doesn’t say. Instead, he whispers, only for the other to hear, “Jeno Lee.”
The way Jaemin’s lips curve around his name is still the most tender thing he has ever set his sight on.
More than anything, he’s glad it is the last thing he ever sees.
“Nana,” Jeno whispers back, just as they both close their eyes.
They hold each other tightly as destruction looms over them. The universe can take back whatever it thinks belongs to them, Jeno Lee thinks, but this— this belongs to us.
As the world caves in, Jaemin says a single prayer.
It was stupid— to wish for something so silly at the end of the world. But still, he prayed.
He prayed that the writing on the wall would survive.
He hopes someone— something— discovers it one day.
He hopes someday, somehow, they decode it and find out that a Jaemin Na had once lived in this house and wrote it.
He hopes someday, somehow, they find out he wrote it so there could be proof—
that at the end of the world, it was Jaemin for Jeno and it was Jeno for Jaemin, still.