Work Text:
since you've been gone the world turned monochrome,
but every night i dream in technicolor.
those memories of us, they keep me whole,
but when the moment comes for me to go
deep in my heart i'm hoping to discover
that you will be the one to take me home.
***
I will never be whole again.
He looked into the mirror and felt an odd shiver run down his spine, like a frozen caress, devoid of any warmth, yet desperately trying to be gentle. The reflection was almost foreign to him. It was pale and motionless, terrifying in its stillness, unmoved by the sharp object in his hand. Unlike his facial muscles, tense and rigid, his wrist was weak, and as the new wave of tremors tore through it the razorblade fell down with a quiet clank.
I can't do this anymore.
He used to think that he was a good liar. He'd already told so many half-truths to other people, eventually losing count of all those threads and pins inside of his head. But lying to himself turned out to be too heavy a burden. Some days he could barely lift himself from the bed, as if the weight of all that self-deceit was pushing down on his chest.
It had been three and a half weeks since a thick barrier of wood and soil separated them. The perspective of this separation lasting even as much as another day made him want to walk in front of a bus or jump off the nearest bridge.
It's too much.
It would be foolish to say that he was taken by surprise. After all, wasn't he the one who pulled the plug? The one who signed the papers? The one who held that small, fragile hand, squeezing it ever so lightly, and listened to that even, almost comforting in its finality sound of the machine? And even though it brought him no relief, wasn't he the one who let go?
Baobei, it hurts.
He sighed, avoiding his own line of sight, and bent down to pick up the razorblade, holding it between his index and middle fingers, then put it back on the shelf of the medicine cabinet. As he walked into the bedroom the carpet felt soft beneath his bare feet. He took two pills from the bottle and dry-swallowed them, making a mental note to get a refill soon, and the floorboards swayed a little, beckoning him to lie down. The sleeping medication was worth every penny of its outrageous price, rapidly switching off his systems for six to eight hours of blissful oblivion.
However, as soon as his head hit the pillow and his eyes closed, the last thought in his mind was - my love, I can't wait to see you again.
***
Flash.
"Oi! What the hell are you doing here?"
Another one, bright enough to blind him.
"You little- This is private property! Go away or I will call the police!"
A shameless, completely outrageous burst of laughter, followed by an old man's shouting. A few teenagers ran out of the narrow alley and quickly disappeared around the corner. The complaints continued for another minute or two before dying down, and the creaky old door was slammed shut. In one of the neighbouring houses a dog was barking irritably, agitated by the ruckus outside.
"Hey, is everything okay?" A pair of arms circled around him from behind, and he felt Chu Wanning's forehead touching the back of his neck. "That used to be your house, didn't it?"
"Yes." Covering his husband's hands with his own, Mo Ran closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and the smoke and ash from twenty years ago filled his nostrils.
He was five years old when the house where he lived with his mother burnt down. The little boy, crying in the middle of the street, comforted by strangers, was the only survivor. Back then he was too young to comprehend that kind of loss yet, but somehow he knew that nothing would ever be the same.
"Thank you." The warmth of Chu Wanning's body, as a constant reminder of his presence, tugged at Mo Ran's heart, and his breath tickled the young man's skin as he spoke. "I'm glad that you wanted to share this with me. Your past."
He smiled, thinking that his husband could be so sentimental sometimes, and turned around to tell him that - yes, this was his past - but Chu Wanning was his future, till death do them part. After all, they swore to always be together, didn't they?
They promised.
They–
Flash.
A little bit further down the road someone was trying to take a family photo, but the baby was crying, and a young woman was wiping its cheeks with a small handkerchief.
Another one, bright enough to blind him.
The kids were playing around, unsupervised, pressing the button multiple times in a row. After a thorough scolding the camera was confiscated by one of the adults. The baby, now with a pacifier in its mouth, looked particularly cute in the striped blue and white costume.
"Hey, is everything okay?" A pair of arms circled around him from behind, but Mo Ran knew that none of it was real.
He probably needed to get a refill soon.
"I'm just a part of your past now, too."
He probably needed–
"It's time."
***
At first he counted hours. That night when he came home from the hospital, when he watched the recording on repeat until the device glitched and got stuck, playing the same moment over and over again, he laughed and cried, and stood on his knees in front of that digital ghost, begging for a do-over.
If he could only give it another try, perhaps this time it would all be different, and Chu Wanning wouldn't have to die such a slow, agonising death. If only–
Then he received the recordings. It was a gloomy day, as if constantly on the verge of raining, but never quite getting there. The air was filled with anticipation, and his co-workers all ran to the bus stops and the parking lot, in a hurry to get home, worrying about the possibility of a storm.
He walked. The city looked beautiful, filled with lights and noises, albeit a bit on the crowded side, but this overflowing, overbearing fullness of it made him feel alive. This feeling, that he couldn't generate on his own anymore, he had to steal from others, walking among them, brushing against them, bumping into them and taking, taking, taking, just to carry on being.
By the time he approached the apartment building the skies cleared and he could see the moon, surrounded by scattered remains of clouds. He walked through the entrance, nodded to the security guard, went toward the mail boxes and opened one completely on autopilot. He didn't actually expect to find anything there, but when his hand reached inside and found a small envelope, it tore him out of this trance and he stared at it for a rather long time, confused.
As soon as he began listening to it, he knew. From the very first second of silence and static, even before he heard Chu Wanning speak - he already knew.
I need you to promise me.
And when he started, he could no longer stop. He couldn't just press 'Pause' and keep him waiting. It wasn't something to be severed into little parts for better digestion, and interrupting it felt almost sacrilegious, so he waited and listened and understood.
I'm scared.
The physical pain was something he couldn't share, not could he make it better. There was no hope, and at some point he just had to accept the helplessness of their situation. But he - he got to live, he got to make it out alive, and this life that he thought about throwing away so many times - he never once thought about how it would make him feel. Because in the end Chu Wanning feared his death so much more than his own.
Please, forgive me.
He listened.
I love you.
He listened.
Thank you.
He listened.
Goodbye.
He didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke up in the morning, somewhere in the back of his head there was a decision.
Grief came in waves, some smaller, some bigger, more like a tsunami, but he weathered them all. He counted days. Then weeks. Then months. As time went by it got easier to stay afloat.
He worked. Ate. Jogged in the mornings. Every year, when the day arrived, he went to the cemetery with a bouquet of flowers and asked his husband to be patient and wait just a tad longer. And every night he took two pills from the bottle and let Chu Wanning's voice lull him to sleep, hoping to see him again, repeating it like a mantra.
Just one more time.
Just one.
Just–
***
For the first time in his life Mo Ran felt so completely, inappropriately out of place. Of course, it was very nice of his uncle to invite him to this corporate event - although he was just a third-year university student - but all those people made him want to suffocate himself with the extremely uncomfortable, but very elegant (according to his aunt) tie.
He couldn't understand what they were talking about, and with each passing minute he had less and less interest in making an effort to participate in the discussion. As much as his uncle wanted Mo Ran to make 'useful connections', it was sometimes just best to admit that most people in their early twenties would rather be watching a movie with their friends right now.
Alas, he was tricked into skipping Horror Fridays, and for what?
He took a glass of champagne off one of the trays that numerous waiters and waitresses were carrying and gave it a couple of swirls. Mo Ran knew it was expensive, but the taste made no difference to him. In all honesty, he would much rather drink a beer.
No good taste in clothes. No refined palate. Two strikes already. One more, and he would be exposed as an impostor and kicked out of there, shamefully led by his tie, which was, of course, perfectly suitable for the occasion.
All the people seemed to look the same. Of course, they were all different, Mo Ran knew it, but for some reason couldn't recall any of the faces. Except one.
It was a truly horrendous party. He was just about to create some ridiculous excuse, one of those half-truths that he came up with so easily, and leave. Yes, he was just about to do that.
He was just–
His uncle was talking to someone. The voice that reached Mo Ran's ears - quiet, yet firm and compelling - all of a sudden drew his attention. That person was explaining something, but his figure was obscured by a tall man with grey hair. But the goal was to leave, wasn't it?
He tried to ignore it and gather his thoughts. However, just when Mo Ran finally settled on a more or less reasonable explanation for his early departure, the field of his vision cleared, and he saw–
Him.
The most beautiful person he'd ever met. The man who took his heart and gave him his own in return. He always thought it was an unequal exchange. Chu Wanning had so much more to offer. He was so much better than Mo Ran, in every way.
But when their eyes met, when their eyes met for the first time and he smiled slightly - that's when the rest of the world disappeared. And in that huge room there were only the two of them.
"Wanning."
"Hello, my love."
They stood in front of each other for what seemed to be an eternity. In total silence every other noise was sharper, but the most terrifying sound was the one he couldn't hear.
"You know I'm not really here, don't you?"
Mo Ran felt tears running down his cheeks, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. This moment, stolen from death, was too precious and too fleeting.
"Don't be afraid. You've come so far. I'm so proud of you, Mo Ran."
He didn't need to look around to feel the room slowly disappear around them. Soon there would be nothing left, nothing but a gravestone and all this meaningless, empty time ahead of him.
"Wanning, I–"
"It's okay. I'll be waiting for you. As long as it takes."
"I can't– How am I supposed to–"
The whole room narrowed down to the tiny spot where they were standing. There were no lights, no furniture and no people. Desperate, he reached out to touch the man's face, but he was transparent as well and his hand went right through.
If there was a phantom pain in limbs that were no longer there, then Mo Ran's heart that died that day in the hospital had a phantom heartbeat, diligently pumping blood through his veins.
"I will always love you, Mo Ran. Oh, and one last thing before I go–"
His voice was quiet, no more than a faint whisper, but he heard every single word as if they were spoken directly into his ears.
"Thank you for the sunset, my love. It was so very beautiful."