Archive of Our Own

Chan was dead. 

It was just one of the things that he knew to be true with all his being. He was sure of the fact that he was dead just as he was sure that he was a 25-year-old male named Bang Christopher Chan. Chan knew this from the moment he opened his eyes.

He was lying in his bed that he shared with Minho, Saniro bedsheets they bought drunk at a fair and all, but it was cold and empty. He wasn’t sure if the coldness came from the bed, or from his being. Maybe it was both. Ghosts were known to leave cold spots, right? Chan shivered, instinctively reaching for the blankets, but his hands passed right through the sheets and sank into the mattress.

Right. He was dead. And a ghost, apparently, by the fact his body was translucent and halfway into the mattress. Curiously, he lifted his hand straight up. He peered through it, wiggling his fingers. He could see the ceiling light through them, like he was looking at it through water - or glass. Moving felt like swimming, it’s a good thing he was good at it. 

Chan wiggled his fingers again before sitting up. It felt weird to be dead. He wasn’t breathing, he didn’t have to, and when he stood up, he realized he was floating. That was something really cool, the fact that he probably could swim slash float all the way to the ceiling, but now, he felt like he would rather be walking so he could get some sense of normalcy for a minute. Could he float objects? Like telekinesis or something? He should probably test it out later. 

The room looked different. In his heart, he knew without a doubt that this was his and Minho’s shared bedroom, but- maybe it no longer was. Chan had no idea how long he’d been dead, it could have been years, maybe decades, and the thought nagged at him like piranha fishes chewing at his heartstrings, He didn’t know how he had died either. Did he die hot? Did he die in pain? Did Minho have to watch? Did his poor boyfriend watch as they lowered Chan’s body into a coffin? Was there even a body? Did he die of foul play? Did someone- Chan shook his head to get rid of the train of thought. One problem after the other, he reminded himself. 

The first thing to do was to figure out when it was. He sure hoped he wasn’t a century into the future. That would suck massively, having everyone he knew dead. 

He wandered towards the furniture next to the bed, which consisted of a closet, a nightstand, and a cluttered desk. They looked identical to the ones he bought with Minho, so he supposed he hadn’t been dead long, and Minho was still alive. His heart tugged happily at the thought of seeing his beautiful boyfriend again, pretty smiles and warm hugs. The lamp still flickered annoyingly for five seconds after he turned it on, and something in his stomach shifted at the thought of Minho still keeping this lamp. They had both complained about this lamp, promising to replace it someday, but had never. 

Stuck to the closet door were what looked like drawings made by a child. Crayon and all. Did Minho have a kid while Chan was gone? 

There were two photo frames on the desk, and he picked one of them up - or tried to at least. His hand went straight through it, and he rolled his eyes but didn’t try again. He leaned down to get a clearer view of the photo and a soft smile pulled at his lips when he realized it was of the two of them in Italy, a vacation their parents helped pay for as a graduation present. He was smiling brightly, all teeth, with an arm slung around Minho’s shoulder, pulling him close. Minho, a slight contrast to Chan’s peace sign towards the camera, was standing still, and his smile was smaller, but no less joyful. His moon to Chan’s blindingly bright sun. A gently rocking boat to Chan’s crashing, excited waves. 

That trip had been wonderful, one of Chan’s favorite memories ever. 

The second photo frame was of a little toddler with fluffy black hair. He’s playing with a couple of building blocks, and he must be really special to Minho. He’s cute, and Chan bet he would love to play with him. This must be who made the drawings. 

A quick glance out the window told him that it was almost time for the sun to set, and something in his heart pulled, beckoning him to go. Hurry, it whispered, and Chan didn't know what he was hurrying for, but he turned to the bedroom door, which was already open, and walked out. And then, just because he’s horribly curious, he tried to walk through the wall. It took him a tiny bit more effort, but a couple more tries and he’s doing it like a professional. It takes more effort to walk through solid objects, he noted, like he’ll be able to make use of this information someday. 

The walls were blank, yet another difference from when Chan was alive. Chan was the one who preferred the walls to be decorated with pictures, a habit he picked up from his mother, who adored having pictures of her babies lining the walls. All of her proudest achievements of them. Like Chan and the time he won the local swimming competition. Hannah when she won an award for best choreography. Lucas when he won gold and money for his artwork in his school’s art competition. 

Chan wondered how they were doing. Did his death affect them? Were his parents coping well, good health and all? Did Hannah become bigger, more famous like he always hoped she would be? Did Lucas become an artist like Chan always encouraged him that he could be? He hadn’t seen them in person for a long time, because seeing Hannah on TV and the others through a phone screen didn’t count. He missed them, and now, he probably won’t get to see them again. How long did he have as a ghost - if there was a time limit? There was probably a reason he hadn’t woken up earlier than today. And could other people see him? God, he sure hoped they could. Having people be just out of reach, not being able to let them know he was here… that sounded like absolute torture. 

His fingers drifted in and out of the walls when he trailed his fingers over them as he headed downstairs. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find, maybe an empty house, since Minho worked at the bookstores on weekdays and occasionally weekends with Seungmin. At least, Chan hoped he still did. Minho adored the peacefulness of his job, and Chan would pick him up on Wednesdays for dinner when his job let him out early because Changbin would arrive to swap shifts with him. In return, Minho sometimes would bring lunch to him, usually on Mondays, because everybody hates Mondays and Minho never failed to brighten up his day. Chan loved their routine.

What he didn’t expect to find was Minho sitting at the dining room table, seat facing towards him but his body twisted to his left side, where the toddler in the picture sat, waving tiny fists. 

Minho looked… older. More worn down. More tired. He looked so much more grown-up than the twenty-year-old Chan had unwillingly left behind. But from where Chan was, he could see the softness In Minho’s eyes that he loved, whichusually came from seeing stray cats. A small exasperated smile decorated his chapped lips as he tilted a tiny spoon filled with vegetables towards the child. The child was pouting, lips pursed firmly together as he glared at the spoon. 

“Lixie,” Minho said, and Chan’s heart picked up the pace at hearing Minho’s musical voice again. He barely registered the fact that the child was called Lixie. Was the kid really Minho’s? He remembered giggling about children's names to Minho when he had baby fever. One of the names he told Minho he liked most was Felix . A part of him dared to hope Minho remembered. “Last one, I promise.”

“I don’t wanna!” Lixie whined. 

“Felix.” Minho sounded as patient as ever. He named his kid Felix. Minho -

“Nooo,” Felix folded his arms and turned away from Minho, his little face scrunched up in a scowl. At the same time, something furry brushed against Chan’s leg, and when he looked down in surprise, a pair of big green eyes blinked back at him. He cooed quietly, kneeling down. The orange tabby nosed against the hand he held out, and delight filled Chan’s veins. The tabby could see him! So he wasn’t totally invisible. He guessed the rumors about animals being able to see ghosts were real after all. He wondered if he ever saw Berry again, she would be able to see him too. 

The tabby meowed impatiently, and Chan reached out to stroke its fur. His hand, luckily, didn’t pass through it, and it purred. So Minho did get a cat after all, Chan was glad. He’d always wanted a feline companion and said so often. Chan was going to get him one, but he supposed he must have died before he ever got the chance to surprise Minho with one. Is its name Soonie? Minho always said he wanted to name a cat that.

He’s so engrossed in petting the tabby that when Felix screeched, it almost made him jump so high he shot into the ceiling. Right, he’s a ghost. He could fly. 

“Uncle Chris!” Felix shouted, banging on the table. Chan snapped his head around to see Felix staring at him with familiar eyes, but bigger and more innocent-looking. Felix was actually looking at him! He could see him and he wasn’t just looking at the cat! And then he was startled, because Felix had called him Uncle Chris. How did Felix know him? 

Minho glanced over, and his eyes were filled with tiredness and exhaustion that Chan wished he could kiss away. It was like Felix had ripped off the band-aid that covered Minho’s sadness by screaming for Chan, and he was preparing himself for disappointment, like he thought Chan would actually walk through the door and he's thought it too many times for it to be true. 

But then his eyes widened. The spoon clattered to the floor and splattered the food onto the floor. Minho’s eyes met Chan’s. His mouth moved, mouthing Chan? and Chan beamed involuntarily, because Minho could see him! Minho covered his mouth, tears welling up in his eyes and making them shimmer. He’s still so beautiful. Even when he cries. 

Chan never liked to make Minho cry, but Minho always reassured him that they were always happy tears when it came to Chan. Unless they were fighting, then they were angry-frustrated-why-are-we-arguing tears. Are these happy tears? Chan sure hoped so. 

The way Minho breathed his name was all but a passing breeze, but it was crystal clear to Chan. The tabby slinking away from Chan’s still hand on its back snapped Chan out of his daze. He stood up, noticing how Minho’s eyes never left his. 

He smiled, a bit self-consciously, because Minho was still staring, and Chan didn’t know what he was supposed to do. What's the etiquette for waking up as a ghost and seeing your still-alive lover again? Should he say something? Hug him? 

"Uncle Chris!" Felix yelled again, banging his fist onto the table, which made a loud noise. Minho didn't react, still staring at Chan in disbelief. Chan settled for walking closer to the two of them until he was standing on the other side of the table. He rested his hands on the tabletop, leaning closer. 

"Hi," he said, his voice a bit raspy. He still sounded the same to himself, and his voice came out a bit shaky. Felix beamed widely at him, and a laugh bubbled out his throat at how adorable the child was. Minho made a strangled noise like he was being choked, and Chan turned towards him, a bit worried.

“Are you real?” he choked out before Chan could say anything, and it was all Chan could do to nod. One of Minho’s hands reached out to him, his fingers trembling, and Chan stood there and let Minho run his hand over his own. Minho’s fingers didn’t sink through his skin like Chan half-expected them to, instead, he felt his touch like a blazing wildfire, reminiscent of the time he burned himself while cooking for the two of them. But it doesn’t hurt, even if Chan’s chest heats up and curls warmly. 

Chan had half a mind to move and close his hand around Minho’s tiny, tiny palm, but it might disrupt the atmosphere that felt like they were walking on a tightrope, so he didn’t. Instead, he shut his mouth and watched as Minho traced the back of his hand, delicately and tentatively like Chan might fade away into the air at any second. And Chan felt like he might. 

Minho's fingers drifted upwards like he wanted to touch Chan's face, before returning his touches on Chan's hand. It's like the gesture was subconscious, and he had to refrain himself. And Chan wondered. 

“You’re so cold,” Minho whispered instead, breaking the silence, and Chan grinned wryly. 

“I’m dead." It was easier to say than expected. He might as well be talking about the weather or what he ate with how casual it sounded. 

Minho nodded, looking like he was in a daze. “Yeah. Dead.” Then he shook his head. “How? And for how long?”

Chan shrugged. “I woke up like this this morning.” He didn’t mention waking up in the bed. It wasn’t necessary. Minho nodded again, slowly. 

“When are you leaving?" 

Chan hated how that was the first question Minho asked, although it was understandable. He also hated how his mouth opened automatically and said a time he didn't even know about. 

"Sundown," he said robotically, "Eight o'clock."

Minho looked at the clock instantly, and his face dropped with disappointment. "It's six thirty."

He was quiet then, and Chan didn't know what to say. He hated the fact that they were acting like strangers despite their love, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Yet again, Felix saved him by wiggling around, causing the chair to tilt dangerously. Minho yelped, snatching the back and slamming it back onto the floor. Minho always had good instincts, and his fast reflexes were something that Chan loved to watch. 

"Felix!" Minho scolded, sounding every bit the parent he now was. 

Chan laughed, reaching over to pinch Felix's chubby cheek. "Aww, you're a little troublemaker!" Felix blew a raspberry, reaching up to smack at Chan's hand. 

Minho huffed. "He takes after his dad. Ch-" he swallowed harshly when he said Chan's name, but continued like nothing happened. "Chan, this is Felix. My son. Felix, this is Uncle Chris. But you knew that already." The last part he muttered under his breath, but Chan pretended not to hear. He wondered who the dad was, but didn't want to ask now. 

"Hello," Chan cooed, letting Felix wrap a hand around two of his fingers. "You're such a pretty boy, huh?" He must take after you, Minho, was what Chan didn't say out loud, but he was sure Minho knew. 

"He really is, isn't he?" Minho said, fondness dripping into his gaze as he glanced at his son. 

"How old is he?" was easier to ask than How long have I been dead? 

"Almost ten years," Minho replied, knowing as he always did, "Felix is three."

Chan looked away from where Felix was trying to shove Chan's fingers into his mouth, and met Minho's gaze. 

Minho, his pretty, pretty, boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend, he supposed, he'd obviously moved on. He could practically see the sadness, although whether it was from life (doubtful), or from seeing his long-dead lover as a ghost (most likely), Chan didn't know. Chan wanted to wrap him up into his arms like he used to and burrito him on the couch, while he put on a movie and cuddled Minho until he complained loudly, even though red painted his cheeks. Wanted to cover him in loud, wet, open-mouthed kisses while Minho squealed and cringed away from him, the pair of them a giggling mess. Wanted to brush his bangs away and kiss him slow and deep, kiss the exhaustion and misery away. 

But it was different now, and there were new lines on the floor, drawn in Chan's absence. 

"Are you happy?" fell from Chan's mouth, and Minho's lips quirked slightly. He glanced at Felix again, who was still trying to eat Chan's fingers, and his posture seemed to melt into his chair. 

"Yeah." It was soft, almost fragile. "Yeah, I am." 

"Yeah?" Chan smiled, small. "I'm glad." He really was. Chan couldn't lie and say there wasn't a part of him that selfishly wanted Minho to say he wasn't happy without Chan by his side. But most of him just wanted Minho to be happy, with or without Chan. That was what it meant to love someone, and he loved Minho with all his being, every piece of his soul. 

He knew Minho still loved him too, that much was obvious in the photo frame still on the desk, in the stupid cactus Minho had bet he would kill before the year was up, in the way Minho still looked at him with a kind of sad longing and softness that said I miss you, I love you, and I wish we didn't have to be like this . 

Chan wished it didn't have to be like this either. Chan - a fading ghost running on borrowed time; Minho - a ghost of his past self who's living a Chan-less life. Two very different ghosts, contrasting as they always had, always did. 

But there's also something else in Minho's gaze. Something that told Chan that although there was still a place for him in Minho's heart, there were two other people there, and they were sharing this sacred place. One of them is Felix. The other, Minho's current lover. 

And they would hold his heart together in place of Chan when he finally went. 

He didn't know how long they stayed there in silence, Minho sitting in his seat, Chan somehow drifted to standing in the middle of the table, their hands interlocked. At some point, Felix had gotten out of his chair and was toddling somewhere else in the house, but Chan didn't really pay attention to him at all. Minho was all he saw, all he wanted to see. 

He licked his lips, a habit that came out when he was nervous. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, starting with-

"I love you."

Minho startled out of his daze, eyes wide and pained. "Chan-"

I can't , was what Chan knew he would say. Not anymore, not in that way. He could feel the metal of the ring wrapped around his finger. 

"Don't say it back, it's okay," Chan shook his head before Minho could respond. "But I love you, and I will still love you." Chan squeezed his hand once, hoping it conveyed everything he wanted to say but didn't have the courage to. He was sure Minho knew at least some of it, he could always read Chan like a book, which helped him win games way too often for it to be fair. 

With that, he let go of Minho's hand and turned to find Felix, because he was determined to spend some time with the child who made his boyfriend best friend's world so much better. He hoped Minho told stories about them. He was pretty sure Minho told stories about them.

Also because if Minho looked at him with that heartbreaking expression for one more second, Chan didn't know if he could stop himself from crying. Could ghosts cry? He didn't know if he wanted to find out. 

He spent the rest of the hour playing with Felix, obliging to the child's demands when he wanted Chan to carry him, be the princess, save the prince, say "I love you Princess Lixie", and Uncle Chris can you make me fly ? 

Chan happily obeyed every request, discovering that he indeed could make Felix float. It didn't take him a lot of effort, only a bit more than what he needed to walk through walls. He only half paid attention to Minho, seated on the couch with a glass of water in his hands and watching them. His expression was complex and unreadable, but Chan reminded himself that Minho didn't have his hands free, which meant he completely trusted Chan with his child. 

Felix was honestly, a joy, and Chan could completely see why Minho loved him so much. He too, would be hopelessly enamored with him if he spent any more time with Felix. 

But his clock was ticking, and it was made obvious in the way his body slowly started becoming more transparent and his fingertips started to fade. 

Minho was watching him. 

Chan knelt and ruffled Felix's hair. "Uncle Chris is getting tired now," he told him, and when Felix pouted, added, "he's not as young as you are, Lixie."

That made Felix grin. "Uncle Chris is olddd ," he drawled, slurring the syllables slightly. 

Chan huffed, but agreed. "Yeah, he's very old and his back is breaking. Go play by yourself Lixie."

Felix blinked at him for half a second before his attention was stolen away by his dinosaur plushie, and Chan smiled, albeit sadly. Oh, how easy children have it. 

"Bye, Lix."

It was goodbye forever, but Felix didn't know that. He'd hate to see the results of what would come when Felix finally figured out why Uncle Chris was so cold, and why he wouldn't come back to play with him. Maybe he'd be too young to remember the man who played with him on an unmemorable day when he was merely three. Would it be better that way? 

Minho was still watching him as Chan settled down next to his side. Not touching. Chan knew his boundaries. 

"You've always been good with children," Minho remarked. 

"Felix is very sweet," Chan rebuffed. He's not that good. 

Minho shrugged but didn't argue. He seemed to shrink, seeming smaller when he spoke again. "I don't want you to go again." He struggled to say it, and Chan knew how hard it was for Minho to say something so vulnerable, so he really appreciated it. 

"I don't want to go either," Chan said, itching to reach out and take Minho into his arms, "But you're happy with them. It's been ten years, so don't miss me too much."

Minho refused to look at him, staring into his glass, and Chan pretended he didn't see the liquid ripple. 

"I always miss you."

He sounded like he was about to cry again. 

"I'm sorry," Chan felt like there was a lump in his throat. 

"It's not your fault," Minho murmured, closing his eyes, and Chan knew that, but he was still sorry. 

"Look, you now have a family, Min. Be happy, for me, okay? Or for them. Don't let me hold you back." It kind of hurt. For him to say those words, but he knew that they were true, and he believed in them. Besides, he felt like he was fading quickly, and if he didn't say them, he might never get a chance to. 

Minho smiled wryly, like there was a joke Chan didn't know about. "But my family misses you too."

Chan was confused. That didn't make sense. Unless he was talking about Minho's parents? He did miss the short woman who made heavenly tteokbokki and the man with glasses who taught the two of them how to ride a bike. 

Minho opened his eyes and snorted wetly when he saw Chan's face. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when they heard the front door opening. Instead, Minho closed his mouth and his smile was pained, but amused. 

Felix immediately threw down his toys, yelling "Daddy!" at the top of his lungs while he ran to the door on his tiny legs. 

"Pumpkin! Hello, Lixie! Have you been a good boy for Papa, hm?" Chan heard the deep voice of Felix's father, and Minho's husband, and frowned slightly. 

The voice was oh-so-familiar, but Chan couldn't put a finger on it. It was on the tip of his tongue, and he knew he should know this voice. He heard it almost every day. 

Then Felix giggled happily, and it clicked. 

He whipped around to stare at Minho, who watched him with an expectant expression, as if cautiously judging his reaction. 

"Is that Changbinnie ?" he gasped, the name of his other best friend tasting bittersweet on his tongue. He missed Changbin, his best friend who would always be down to talk if Chan couldn't sleep. The two of them marked their friendship by clubbing at ungodly hours, and Minho would only shake his head, before warning them to stay safe. 

Minho dipped his head slightly, a nod. "He was- there. For me." The words sounded tight in his throat. 

Chan imagined it then, his two best friends in a relationship. Taking care of each other. Loving each other when he couldn't. 

And he relaxed, because there was nobody he trusted Minho with more than Changbin, and there was nobody he thought would fit Changbin more than Minho. They would take care of each other and Felix. Chan trusted that fact without a doubt. 

He exhaled, all his worries turning into smoke. It'd be okay. Minho would be okay. 

"I'm glad it's Changbin. Tell him I love him, okay? I miss him. And if he doesn't take care of you, I'll haunt him myself."

Minho snorted weakly. "Why don't you tell him yourself? Afraid he'll whoop your ass?"

"For one. Also, I might not be here when he comes in. Tell my family I miss them too, yeah? I hope they're doing okay," he added as an afterthought. 

Minho stiffened, shooting up from his relaxed position. The glass was haphazardly set down somewhere. 

Chan didn't even have to check. He could feel it, a feeling that was both icy and warm creeping up his legs and licking into his torso. Minho stared at him in horror. 

A hoarse cry escaped Minho's throat and he lunged at Chan, squishing him into the cushions. Minho's arms were blazing warm around his torso and his tears icy on his collarbones. It was all Chan could do to hug him back. 

"No, no, please ," Minho choked out, and Chan would have paid any price so Minho didn't have to feel like this. His chest panged at how desperate and distressed Minho was. 

"Minho," he whispered, raw like his name was a secret, a treasured possession. "Minho, we knew."

"It's not fair !" Minho cried, "It's not fair!"

"I know," Chan stifled a sob. Apparently, ghosts couldn't cry, and it hurt impossibly worse than he could have imagined. Like there were all these feelings clamoring to get out, but they couldn't, so instead, they suffocated and drowned him. "Jagi, I know." It wasn't fair, it really wasn't. And for the past two hours, he had pretended it didn't hurt him, like there hadn't been claws digging into his still heart and carving out holes. The nickname had slipped out, had been an accident, but neither of them noticed. 

Minho sobbed, and Chan's heart splintered into thousands of tiny shards. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted, the tears that couldn't come crawling up his throat and choking him, rendering his voice hoarse and raspy. "I love you so much, I'm sorry." He was fading. There was barely any of him left. Minho clutched what was left of him tight, sobs pouring out his mouth, and when a heartbreaking wail left him, Chan wanted to take his pain away so bad it almost punched him breathless - if he had any breath left to give. 

"I'm sorry, I love you, I love you," Chan whimpered repeatedly, burying his face into Minho's shoulder in one last attempt to hold him close. If it was freezing, Minho didn't react. "I love you so much."

Minho slowly started to sink into him like quicksand when Chan started to lose substance, and the scream Minho let out when he realized was instantly imprinted into Chan's soul like a red-hot iron. 

"Minho? Babe, is everything okay?" Changbin's voice cut through his haze, sounding worried, a bit scared, and Minho only cried harder. 

" Please !" he screams, his voice raw, like he was begging on his knees, for something, anything, so Chan would stay. 

"Minho?!" Changbin shouted, and Chan let out a broken sob. He heard Changbin's running footsteps and pressed his icy-cold lips to Minho's temple. One last kiss. 

"Minho." His voice shivered and shook and shattered. "I love you, Minho." It was the only thing he could say, all other words failing him. He felt like he was floating. His words turned into ghosts in the breeze. Minho didn't feel like he was going to burn him anymore. "I love you." 

When Changbin burst into the room, Chan was already gone. 

He watched, from above, as Mingo collapsed into the cushions because Chan was no longer there to bear his weight and wailed so hard he was screaming. As Felix's face screwed up and he cried because his papa was crying. As Changbin held Minho while he cried so hard Chan thought he would throw up. As Changbin held them both even though he was confused, and rocked them tenderly because he loved them. 

Chan's heart ached terribly. He wished he could go back and undo his death. He wished it didn't have to come to this. He also partly wished he never had become a ghost, so he wouldn't have ripped the old wounds wide open. 

But they'll be okay. No use regretting what's been done. 

Chan closed his eyes to the amber light bathing the kitchen and exhaled one last time. 

One.

Two.

Three.

And Chan was nothing more than the passing breeze.