Work Text:
Chun-dong wakes to his wrist cramping, his fingers tingling with pins and needles. It’s happened before when he’s slept awkwardly, but this time there’s a different reason.
Jun’s holding his hand in bed, the fingers of the Hand That Saves now interlinked with his, and overnight, they’ve shifted in their sleep. Well, Chun-dong has, and stolen half the blanket if the sight of Jun’s smooth, pale back is anything to go by. Doesn’t he ever feel the cold?
Sliding his hand from Jun’s, he flexes his fingers and winces.
“Bad dream?” Jun asks, turning to face him.
Chun-dong shakes his head and massages life back into his palm. He’s had sporadic nightmares since… his gaze reflexively falls to his stomach whenever he remembers that night. The scar’s still there. Not going anywhere. Of course, he frequently dreams of Gi-dong too. His brother’s memory isn’t going anywhere either.
“I don’t remember my dreams,” Chun-dong says. It feels inappropriate to share them with Jun. He’s seen enough horror; he doesn’t need Chun-dong’s added to his mental pile.
“Would you like to?”
Swinging his legs out of bed, Chun-dong slides his feet into his slippers and stretches until his neck clicks. “Breakfast?”
“They’re harder to see,” Jun says, shrugging. “But, if they’re memorable.”
“Huh?”
“Dreams.”
“Wait.” He can’t seriously mean… “You can, see people’s dreams?”
“If I’m looking in the right place.”
He’s learning something new about Jun every day, apparently. Now though, he’d like to learn how quickly he can dress so they can grab some food before Chun-dong’s shift. He doesn’t like leaving without seeing Jun eat something. His pigeons have more chance of getting fed before Jun if he’s left to his own devices.
Plucking Jun’s shirt from the floor, Chun-dong throws it to him. “Come on. I need coffee.”
*
It’s been a week of tedious twelve-hour shifts at the station and, even worse, almost a week since he’s heard from Jun. Chun-dong doesn’t want to chase him—the guy obviously appreciates personal space—but if he doesn’t, it’s unlikely Jun will reach out first. He’s just like that.
The idea strikes him at his desk while chewing on a stale croissant that’s dropping crumbs all over his keyboard. It’s genius. He smiles so much and for so long that Jung throws a ball of screwed-up paper at the side of his head.
“Cat videos, again?” Jung jokes, shaking his head. “We do actually have work to do!”
“We do,” Chun-dong says, grabbing a sheet of paper from the printer and a thick black marker from his drawer.
*
Before bed, Chun-dong has just enough time to construct his genius idea. He stopped at a store on the way back to his apartment for the essential element and, despite his exhaustion, his smile’s back with a vengeance once he’s set everything up on his balcony.
*
Chun-dong’s phone vibrates beside his head, waking him. It’s from Jun, and his text reads:
Clever.
You too.
When are you free?
Holding his phone to his chest, Chun-dong punches the air, convinced it’s the most romantic text he’ll ever receive from Jun. It took three days for Jun to see his scribbled sign, taped to his balcony door just above a tray of expensive bird seed—the favourite brand of pigeons the guy at the pet shop said.
JUN.
MISSING YOU.
CALL ME?
He scrolls through the calendar on his phone to see when his next scheduled day off is. There’s a little icon on tomorrow’s square, and Chun-dong’s stomach drops. That day’s free for a reason.
He’ll reply to Jun later.
*
Every year, Chun-dong takes this day off, even if he’s a little short on cash that month. And every year, the station makes it difficult. So he swaps shifts, feigns illness, whatever it takes to keep the day free.
Today would’ve been Gi-dong’s birthday. Chun-dong prefers to remember his brother on this day. On the anniversary of his death, he drinks himself stupid or dives into a pile of paperwork to distract himself. Birthdays are different, though. They should be celebrated.
There’s nothing celebratory about Chun-dong’s day off, however. Remembering his brother is sometimes painful enough that it makes him physically ill.
His hands shake as he stirs the pot of miyeok-guk he’s got on the stove, fragrant steam rising and clouding the windows. He makes this soup for his brother on his birthday every year, and every year is another away from the tragedy that still feels as raw and fresh as yesterday.
Chun-dong’s eyes stream with tears when he tastes the broth he only ever consumes on this day, from Gi-dong’s sky-blue bowl that he’s kept all these years. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t care. He’ll finish the bowlful because Gi-dong can’t.
The soup is the only thing he manages all day. He’s tempted to drown his sorrows with every bottle of soju he has, but it interferes with the tablets he’s still taking for his wound, and he’s promised Jun he’ll be careful about that. He lays his hand across his stomach and inhales, pushing his belly against his palm. If only emotional wounds healed as fast.
Would Gi-dong be proud of him for what he’s gone through, what he does for a living?
The view of the city is prettier at dusk. Windows of light twinkle like stars in the blueish dark. It’s these people Chun-dong’s protecting. Or trying the best he can to. The question is always there: would he work for the police if Gi-dong hadn’t…
His brother’s laying there, hands tied, eyes blank. Mother’s screaming.
Chun-dong tries to smother his tears with his palms, but it doesn’t work. The pain in his heart is unrestrainable. Sliding down his balcony wall, he hunches into his knees and cries so loud it echoes from the neighbouring buildings.
A pigeon lands on the balcony. It ignores Chun-dong and starts pecking at the little seed that remains. Chun-dong kicks out at the tray, sending its contents flying and the pigeon scarpering. Today, he is alone—and that means no pigeons either. That’s the way it’s always been.
*
The knocking infiltrates the cloud in Chun-dong’s head. It gets louder, more impatient, more agitating. He puts his hands over his ears.
“It’s me.” Jun’s voice?
Chun-dong pushes his face into the corner of the balcony and ignores his unexpected visitor. He’s cold, embarrassed. His head’s pounding from crying, and his hands are trembling. Nobody should see him like this.
The knocking continues. “Can I come in? Chun-dong?”
It is Jun. Chun-dong slides his phone out of his pocket. (5) Unread. They’ll stay that way.
“Chun-dong! I’m worried.”
The last thing Chun-dong wants is to cause Jun any more pain. Quickly, he weighs up whether it’ll upset Jun more to be left unanswered or to see him like this. He gets to his feet and walks to the door, pressing his hands against it.
“I’m sorry,” Chun-dong says through it. “I’m… unwell. Come back another time.”
Silence. Long enough that Chun-dong wonders if Jun is still there. Then, “I saw you on the balcony.”
The pigeon. Of course.
Chun-dong swallows, presses his forehead against the door. “I don’t want company. I’m sorry. Please leave me alone.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
That shocks Chun-dong briefly, before he remembers the depths of Jun’s skills. He knows so much, and Chun-dong’s let him hold his hand frequently. These days locking himself away were always his secret. Now it was theirs, he supposes. Perhaps he already knew.
He unlocks the door.
*
To keep himself in one piece in front of Jun, Chun-dong’s taken to sitting on the sofa and staring into space. If he doesn’t talk, it won’t all come flooding out, and Jun won’t have to bear more pain than he does already.
Silence doesn’t bother Jun. He tidies up the apartment around him, makes the bed, puts his scattered clothes in the laundry, and Chun-dong wants to ask him to stop, tell him it’s unnecessary, but he can’t. Staring at his lap, he lets shame and despair eat into his bones.
The smell of seaweed has Chun-dong lifting his head: Jun warming up the soup. On the kitchen counter, two bowls are lined up. One is Gi-dong’s.
“Be careful with that,” he says, standing.
The bowl’s been washed, but Chun-dong fetches another. Gi-dong’s is only ever used once a year. He’ll find the energy to wrap it in tissue paper and store it away. Yet…
“This bowl was my… brother’s.” He looks at Jun cautiously. Jun isn’t a performing monkey, and Chun-dong would never ask him to use his gifted hands for his own selfish reasons. Would he?
Jun turns off the stove. “Then I will use this one,” he says, gesturing to the other bowl. But his eyes say something else, ask something else. His eyes often have more to say than his mouth, and Chun-dong often finds he’s unable to look away from them. When Jun’s gaze turns to the sky-blue bowl, he asks, “May I?”
Chun-dong isn’t sure he can handle it, but he nods.
*
They’re sitting facing each other, legs crossed, Gi-dong’s bowl on the floor between them. Jun doesn’t want to accidentally drop and break it, so this solves the problem.
Chun-dong’s terrified. Not only will Gi-dong’s bowl contain memories from their childhoods, it’ll show Chun-dong’s weakness too, every year he’s spent performing the miyeok-guk’s ritual, breaking down over his brother’s loss. But he trusts Jun with his secrets, with his pain, and while he wants to protect him from it, from everything, sharing part of Gi-dong with him feels… right.
“Ready?” Jun asks, squeezing Chun-dong’s hand gently.
Chun-dong nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not when he’s so afraid.
Jun’s hand creeps closer to the bowl, his long fingertips reaching for it. His jaw clenches when he makes contact, the eerie glow in his eyes almost matching the blue of the bowl’s porcelain. Chun-dong’s transfixed. If Jun goes too far, tries too hard, he’ll slide the bowl from his grasp. He’s seen the effect his psychometry has on his body. One drop of blood is too much in Chun-dong’s opinion.
“It’s beautiful,” Jun whispers. Chun-dong watches the words form on his lips, a smile pulling at them. “You drew this for me?”
What?
Jun huffs a laugh. “One day, we’ll eat shaved ice this tall. I promise.”
That’s when Chun-dong remembers. A few days before Gi-dong died, he’d drawn him a picture and given it to him at the dinner table. Scribbled in every coloured pencil he had was a huge bowl of sweet ice piled high with sweet red beans and sliced fruit. A stick figure of Chun-dong stood on one side of the bowl, Gi-dong on the other, the piled dessert taller than them both.
“When?” Chun-dong asks in a whisper, reliving the forgotten happy conversation. A tear slides down his cheek and drips from his chin. Remembering the good times has been impossible when his brother’s memory is overshadowed by grief.
“Soon,” Jun replies, but it’s Gi-dong’s voice Chun-dong hears.
Chun-dong weeps, but he’s smiling through the tears. That day is crystal clear in his memory now. Gi-dong had stuck his drawing to their bedroom wall proudly. In bed that night, they’d pondered if they could eat a dessert as tall as their house and, deciding they could, how long it might take them.
“Your brother loved you very much,” Jun says. His hand, no longer on the bowl, is caressing the back of Chun-dong’s, fingertips brushing back and forth across his knuckles.
Chun-dong can’t speak, can hardly draw breath between his sobs. Falling into Jun’s arms, he lets it all out.
*
The next sign Chun-dong tapes to his balcony beside a tray of bird seed just says, THANK YOU.