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Chenle always snoozes far longer than he intends to.
It’s Jisung who wakes him up first, a gentle shake of the shoulder. When Chenle finally stirs awake, clutching the duvet tight, they share a few words. The words are the same every time. The usual, early morning routine.
When Jisung suggests a cup of coffee, or at least a pot of tea, Chenle will say:
“Can I have a few more minutes of sleep?”
Jisung takes a peek out the window from behind the curtain. It is still dark out, though the stars do not twinkle. It is a dusty grey.
“Okay.”
Humming in tune with the low thrum of their old heater, Chenle wriggles to Jisung’s side, face slumped against the pillow. It does not take long for his breath to even out.
Jisung grazes his fingers over the scar above Chenle’s eyebrow. It is jagged in the shape of the River Thames, and Jisung knows this because he’s traced that same scar so many times he’s convinced he could swim the length of the river with his eyes closed.
It is not smart to keep his eyes closed now, though. Jisung keeps looking at the window, waiting for when he’ll need to wake Chenle up again.
“Why’re we up s’early, anyway?” Chenle mumbles, when that moment comes.
“The sunrise,” Jisung answers. Chenle props himself up on his elbows, and Jisung pushes the curtains open, the grey chiffon echoing. The white sun twinkled above the blue. She rose like there was no sadness in the world, smiling her way into every room. Every wall, every floorboard, and every ceiling.
“It’s pretty,” Chenle muses, his own face adorned by the ceaselessly happy sun, “I’ve always liked the sunrise.”
Chenle’s shadow blocks the light from reaching Jisung.
“I know.”
They sit like that long enough. Soon, the sun hangs high in the sky, gold and dry, like hot metal on Jisung’s cool skin.
“Up you go,” Jisung says, tapping lightly on the small of Chenle’s back, “we can’t stay in bed forever.”
-
Breakfast consists of Chinese porridge and soy sauce. Jisung doesn’t think he’ll ever get the recipe perfect, but Chenle is easiest to please when he’s not on an empty stomach at seven-thirty in the morning.
The porridge is too hot to eat, but it provides good warmth for both their icy hands in the dead of January.
“Is that you in the picture?” Chenle squints, pointing vaguely behind Jisung, at the photo frame on the counter top.
Two silhouettes, in black suit and bowtie. Placed in a white, nondescript frame. It sits high, atop the kitchen counter in a corner. It is a throne, despite its unassuming nature.
“Yes.”
He swallows his porridge. It is warm enough to eat now.
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations,” Chenle says. “How long?”
“About eight years, next month.”
“That’s long,” Chenle reckons. There is a sharp clinking sound when his teeth hits the Chinese porcelain spoon that he insists must be used when eating porridge and soups. “Two presidential terms. Two leap years. One octennial.”
Jisung smiles. “Not very long when you enjoy it.”
“No wonder this porridge is almost done,” Chenle says, mouth full and cheeks chubby, “this is good.”
-
Days like this are routine. Chenle fills in the crossword on the life section of the newspaper, and asks Jisung a few questions as he goes along.
“Across ten: The greek goddess of misery, anxiety, grief and depression.” Chenle breathes out a breath. “Whew. That’s depressing. Do you know it?”
Jisung creases his eyebrows. “Is it Miseria?”
Chenle spells the word out from under his breath. “Nope. Too many letters.”
It is like playing a game of fill in the blanks, except there is nothing in it for Jisung. The empty white spaces and blocks of black in the crossword are oddly reminiscent of Chenle’s mind.
Sometimes, Jisung has his own questions.
Can you still love the shell of a person?
...and many more, but Chenle’s questions are usually more than enough to keep him occupied.
Chenle is done with the crossword now. Who knows if his answers are correct?
It does not seem to bother Chenle. Seeing the blanks filled gives him enough satisfaction to move on to the next.
“Here,” Chenle says, sliding the cup of coffee over to Jisung, “my sorry for being a bother.”
Jisung wraps his hands around the warm cup. It thaws his frozen fingertips.
“You’re never a bother. Not to me, at least.”
He takes a sip from the steaming cup. It’s a bit too bitter, and doesn’t have milk, so Jisung adds in a cube of sugar and creamer himself.
“Sorry, is it too bitter?” Chenle asks, gesturing to the sugar cubes, “that’s usually how I have my coffee, but maybe it was too strong for you.”
Jisung waves him off, stirring the coffee. It swirls like white fog in a brown room. “That’s okay. You and I have always had different tastes, anyway.”
Chenle nibbles on his bottom lip when Jisung sips at his coffee. He’s still all cheekbones, defined jawline, and his lip reappears plump like a berry when his teeth finally let go.
Jisung talks about the news. Chenle talks about yesterday. Eventually, the coffee goes cold.
-
There is something equally suffocating and liberating about being freshly showered and tangled in bedsheets. Jisung feels like he is floating on two thousand clouds. He also feels like he might just be swallowed up by the bottom of the ocean.
They’re in bed early, again, because Chenle gets tired quite easily.
“Sorry you have to share the bed with me,” Chenle says, fresh out the shower, “I’m not too sure where else to go.”
“That’s okay. I’m comfortable sharing the bed.”
When Chenle climbs into bed, there is a friendly gap between them. A cordial distance. Chenle is careful not to take too much of the duvet, so that Jisung still has some on his side.
It does not matter. Jisung will still be rudely awoken by the harsh winter breeze at three am. Chenle is a chronic blanket stealer.
“Goodnight, Jisung,” Chenle says, voice muffled by the linens, “remember to wake me up for the sunrise tomorrow.”
Jisung never forgets.
“Goodnight, Chenle.”
And tomorrow, Jisung will answer all of Chenle’s questions again. Like a broken record.
Who are you?
Park Jisung.
What happened to me?
You got into a car crash. You have anterograde amnesia.
Is it me you’re married to?
Yes, and I still wouldn’t have it any other way.
Like a crossword puzzle. Except it is the same one, every day. Like the newspaper stopped designing new questions. The same blanks staring back at him. When it comes in, newspaper rolled up outside their apartment door, the unfilled gaps are daunting, and when they are done, there is little satisfaction in the chicken scratch between the black boxes.
It is not his favourite game,
but Jisung figures it could be much, much worse.