Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The two of them should have never crossed paths again. 

Three years ago when he heard the news that Suho had woken up, he wanted nothing in the world more than to see him. Hug him, touch him, see him– in any way possible. But he didn’t. He didn’t return back to Korea to go see him, or anyone. Even he knew, he had no right. 

He swallowed all his selfish feelings down when he first arrived. He thought, I should be in jail–right with the others . I should be dead. Every moment Suho was unconsious Beomseok wanted nothing more than to take his place. But he coudn’t. He could only attempt to atone with his own life. A part of him new he was only doing it for himself to, though, when he slit his own wrists in the bathtub. This only prompted a awful realization, that he had no control over his life whatsoever. His father had came to visit him, and placed him on a constant watch, he couldn’t even go to the bathroom without a guard. Beomseok couldn’t even die. He thought it was karma. He knew he deserved it. 

In that state, he’d gotten the news. Suho, that he’d woken up. That must have been a sick move of fate, for them both to be alive. When Beomseok’s father finally let up on him, he precariously logged into instagram. For half a year, sickingly enough, he was still on the other’s instagram. Beomseok didn’t know if it was a final act of pity, or if he really was so insignificant to the other that he didn’t bother to remove him. That’s good , Beomseok thought, I deserve it.  

He remained slowly navigating the other’s life for half a year over the net, on his instagram, until his shame fully consumed him, and he deactivated his own account. He considered hard for those thirty days giving him the opportunity to reverse it, if he really wanted to say goodbye forever, to the one piece of Suho he had left. The photos, the stories, the highlights. But he wouldn’t dare request to follow him again. The whole thing was pathetic in itself. Who did he think he was to do that? Without further thought, he let his account, the one thing he had left of Suho, to erase forever.

He didn’t bother to check again until another year, realizing Suho’s account had since turned public. He had almost fifteen thousand followers, and he looked to be doing well. Beomseok couldn’t help but admire the slight growth in his hair, feeling a bit sad when the other uploaded his new haircut. It’s outlandish, really. His obsession with the other was never cured. Even at now eighteen years old, unable to let go of his past—the one person he loved.

Sieun showed up often on the other’s feed aswell. He hasn’t seen Youngyi, not once, and it gave him a sick sense of satisfaction. It was only six months later, one and a half years after Suho had awoken, Beomseok said goodbye. He never checked the other’s account again. 

At twenty years old, he was still here, lingering onto the past. Enduring endless torment and abuse from his father, still, who joined him to live permanently in the Phillipines shortly after he recovered from his suicide attempt. He was older now, not taller–nor bigger. But his mind had aged, weighing the consequences of his actions–a guilt he carried with him every day like a turtle’s shell. Harming himself on a daily, something to cope with the pain, he wouldn’t dare try his own life again–at least not now, not here. Not in a place where his father could control everything. Failing again would mean being stuck in his father’s net for the rest of his life, and that was a thousand times worse than anything else. He would have to go somewhere away from him.  

Eventually, even his father couldn’t control him. He was receiving money on the daily from the man, despite everything. Maybe it was his own twisted way of showing love. Without much fight, his father only nodded his head when he had upped the courage to ask about going back to their home country to visit his birth mom’s grave. Something his father had demanded he let go of after his adoption. As soon as he got the okay, for the first time in three years, he packed his bags and left the house, going straight to the airport to book a one-way ticket to Korea. To see his mom one last time, and then die for good. 

They should have never met again. They should have never met. 

Beomseok sits in front of the dry, old grave. Uncared for and unkept, not one flower. He hesitantly places the white boquette he bought down, and hugs his knees to his chest. He doesn’t say a word for the first hour, he feels to weak to even open his mouth. When he does. It’s nothing of importance, “Ten years since you’ve been gone now, Mom.” He holds everything left to say on his tongue. Have you seen the person I’ve become? Pathetic, bruised, battered. He tries to will his tears away. Almost a killer. He bounced around in the foster care system for years until his father took him. He struggles to even remember her face. Pulling out an old, crumpled polaroid, he sits with his head against the head of the grave, repeating something over and over to himself. You don’t deserve to cry. The words his father had said to him as he lied on the hospital bed, an oxygen mask over his lips, and thick bandages covering sixteen stitches on both sides. He remembers wondering back then, if this was how Suho looked too.

After a few hours of eerie silence, something else breaks through the sound barrier. 

“Halmoni! You been well? I missed you, here!” A sharp inhale of breath, “I brought you your favorite.” The voice is so close to him, and Beomseok’s eyes jut out of his skull when the tone of voice begins to sound familiar. Recognizable, something inconceivable in Beomseok’s eyes. A voice he never thought he’d hear again in this lifetime. The voice echoes a conversation with itself, “Let’s eat.” 

He doesn’t know what to do, frozen in place. His phone buzzes with a notification, and the voice stops for a minute or so, before calling out, “Is there somebody else here?” Beomseok shuffles with his pockets to turn his phone onto silent, only to end up accidentally dialing the obnoxious emergency line, which bleeps out an automated, “Please state your emergency. One for fi—” Beomseok presses trembling thumbs against the hang up button, his heart rate picking up. 

“Uh–you good?”

There’s no denying it now, that voice. Ahn Suho. Slightly deeper, yet filled with that same confidence he always carried. A million images dance across Beomseok’s vision, a reminder of every memory he had worked so hard to shut out. His eyes fill with tears that he bites down, blood filling his mouth. Please, don’t come over here, don’t come over here, he prays to himself. 

It’s no use, he hears the pattering of footsteps grow closer and closer, and he only shuts his eyes tight, burying himself into his arms. At least then, he wouldn’t have to see his face. 

The steps get closer and closer, until they stop right in front of him. 

“Hey man, you good..? I don’t mean to intrude on your uh, grieving..and stuff.” Beomseok doesn’t lift his head and Suho continues, “I really thought nobody else was here, and I heard the dial..” He wills the other to go away, but he doesn’t, standing there in silence, waiting for a response, maybe. A minute or so passes, and Beomseok’s body cramps from the fetal position he’s held himself in for hours.

“Do you need me to call someone, or something?” 

Beomseok knows Suho won’t let it go. He never did. He was always the type. To jump in whenever he thought someone needed saving. This time he wished he wasn’t such a good person. 

Beomseok does the one thing he knows will make him go away, and he lifts his head from his arms.

Making eye contact with Suho made a type of warmth he’d never felt before course throughout his body. From his chest to the bottom of his toes and the top of his head, pouring out in all directions. The other had a calm, concerned expression on his face. Beomseok prepared himself for when those calm eyes would burn with hatred, disgust. It would hurt. What will Suho do? Will he spit on him? Curse at him, beat him up? Or worse, will he turn around and leave in silence?

What comes is nothing he could’ve ever expected. 

Though Suho’s eyes now display a sort of shock, the concern is still there. And Beomseok doesn’t know if he’s imagining the sudden warmth, too.

“Oh Beomseok.” Suho only says his name, voice calm and velvety. Beomseok looks up at him through his arms, and tear-filled eyes, threatening to spill. He gives a smile, not lacking in depth nor warmth, and its one that Beomseok can’t understand. What he can't understand most, though, is what leaves Suho's mouth next.

“Have you been well?”

Chapter Text

“Have you been well?”

Beomseok’s eyes widen, and his body flinches at the statement. “H-huh?” Suho stuffs his hands into his pockets with a sigh, looking around, left and right. “So this is how we see each other again, huh?”  Beomseok’s first instinct is to drop to his knees and grovel, beg for forgiveness for everything he’s ever done. Say all he’s wanted to say for the past three years of his miserable existence. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth to reply, and Suho’s curious eyes meet his. Beomseok breaks eye contact immediately, curling in on himself further. Despite his modest fashion, head to toe covered entirely, he feels himself being dissected by Suho’s curious gaze. Beomseok shivers at the cold breeze on his skin.

Suho eyes him up and down one last time before inhaling softly, “When’s the last time you had a meal?” There it is, that nagging tone that he only heard in his dreams. 

That’s a good question actually. Beomseok looks away and genuinely begins to think. When’s the last time he ate anything? It must have been in the Philippines, a day or so before he left. A couple grapes out of the fridge. He finally notices the nausea and cramping in his abdomen.

He realizes he hasn’t even said anything to Suho yet. Oh god, what if Suho gets upset and leaves. 

“S-suho, I—”

Suho cuts him off with ease, “You look like you’re gonna get knocked over by the wind.” There it is, a blunt statement said with a straight face, and Beomseok’s ears burn with embarrassment. Was he really that skinny?

He has nothing to say, he can’t find the words. 

“Do you wanna get something to eat?” Suho asks, pocketing both his hands. Beomseok takes a look at him. An actual good look at him. He looks the exact same as Beomseok remembers. All soft features and a laid back, calmness to him. The only thing that changed is the length in his hair, and his height. Before, they were about the same. Suho has a good inch or two on him now. It shouldn’t make him feel the way he does. I’m glad you were able to grow.

Seemingly not waiting for a reply, Suho just nods his head in the other direction, “Let’s go.” 

He then begins to walk away, and Beomseok knows he shouldn’t. He should stay right here, pathetic, curled up on his mom’s grave, wallowing in self-pity before he dies tonight. He doesn’t deserve to be in the presence of Suho. 

He pushes himself up weakly, and trails after the other. I forgot how this felt . He thinks, trailing behind Suho once more like he’s some kind of lap dog. Is he foolish enough to believe that’s not what he was?

Suho opens the door for Beomseok, and they both get seated.  “What do you want to eat?” He asks, in a soft tone, pushing the menu across the table. Beomseok doesn’t want to eat anything . He doesn’t deserve to eat. His body has gone so long without food for various periods of his life, it brings him more sickness than anything–just the smell of it. One look into Suho’s eyes, though, and he begrudgingly points at something random on the menu. 

When the food comes, they eat in silence. Suho had been watching him intently the whole time, watching Beomseok push food around with his spoon in circles, then pushing it back together again. “Eat some of it.” He says, more of a statement than anything. Beomseok’s other hand is under the table, scratching at his clothed thigh. He can feel the scabs pulling over. 

After a couple beats of silence, Suho sighs, “You’re not gonna eat anything?” Beomseok looks up to meet his gaze, then drops it immediately. He brings a trembling hand to his mouth, and the food falls from the spoon and back onto the plate. He looks at Suho with something he hopes comes across as, see? I can’t even do it properly. Please stop asking. Suho doesn’t give him the satisfaction, though, only blinking at him and then gesturing to the plate again. Beomseok sighs, scooping up the food and fighting through his hand tremor to bring it up to his mouth. He chews it–it tastes pretty good. He takes another bite, before his stomach begins to cramp. 

He looks at Suho, good enough? This time Suho indulges him. Beomseok thought that would be the end of it, but Suho scoops some of his food up and puts it onto Beomseok’s spoon. The other looks up at him as if to say, what am I supposed to do with this ? And Suho gives him a look that says, eat it. 

Beomseok brings the spoon up to his mouth. It tastes a lot better than his. He can’t help the way the corners of his lips turn up in satisfaction as the flavor sits on his tongue. He looks up and see’s Suho with a pleased expression. With a soft gaze, his lips part and he says, “Good job.” It makes something warm blossom in his chest once more, and he shoves it down with his food. 

Suho continues observing him over their meal, occasionally passing some of his food over to rest on Beomseok’s plate. Beomseok always eats what Suho passes to him. After a while, Suho switches their plates. Beomseok looks up at him, and something on his face must give it away, because the other reassures, “I like yours better.”

Silence follows and Suho looks off to the left side of Beomseok once more. “When did you come back?” Suho asks, meeting his eyes again. Don’t ask me questions. Don’t be curious about me. “Today.” Beomseok gives a short reply, cringing at how croaky it comes out. Suho pauses, “Did you go straight to the cemetery?” Beomseok looks up at him, and gives a curt nod. 

“You’re telling me you didn’t bring anything with you?” 

Beomseok nods his head in agreement, picking at the food on his plate, previously belonging to Suho. It’s his last meal, but still . He feels a tremendous guilt at the fullness in his belly. I don’t deserve to eat. “You don’t have any luggage?” Suho keeps asking questions–and he seems like he genuinely wants to know the answers. 

I don’t understand you.

  “Except my wallet, and my phone.” He speaks slowly, cautiously. “ I– ”  

He cuts himself off, don’t say too much . He looks down again. You came here to die, what do you really need?   Suho looks at him blankly, not pushing him further. He then swallows the last bite of his food, before sighing.

“You don’t look the best.” Five words, and Beomseok exhales shakily. He looked as he felt, apparently. Suho looks at him incredulously, raising an eyebrow—as if he’s trying to find out what exactly is on his mind. Beomseok inhales, and shuts his eyes hard. Why am I here? Why am I eating with you right now? Why are we sitting here like nothing ever happened, like nothing is wrong?  The waiter chose that exact moment to come over, “Are we ready for the bill here?” 

Beomseok fumbles with his pockets, reaching for his card, but Suho had already handed his off to the waiter, already on her way up to the front. He only looks at the other with pure confusion, and Suho’s expression doesn’t change. 

“I brought you here, didn’t I?” 

Beomseok feels embarrassed—like he’s being told right and wrong by his father. But this isn’t his father. This is Suho, his ex-friend that he almost murdered. Who brought him out to eat because he looked like he hadn't had a proper meal in months– what he said as they walked slowly to the place nearby. It was an action out of care and consideration, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes. 

He looks down at his lap, “I—I’m sorry. Y-you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

When he gains the courage to look up he meets Suho’s surprised eyes who replies, “It’s not something you gotta apologize for. It’s okay.” 

Silence fills the table until the waiter comes back with Suho’s card and a receipt, wishing them a good rest of their day. The silence is a killer, and Beomseok bites down his insecurities, saying the one thing on his mind, “Why are you even speaking to me right now?” Suho doesn’t seem shocked by his words, instead tucking his hands into his oversized sweatpants underneath the table as he looks at him, and then out the window. He reaches one hand up and fidgets with the paper straw wrapper on the table, opening his mouth to breath softly.

“I don’t know.” 

His honest reply brings a sort of relief to Beomseok. After all of this, walking him to the restaurant, paying for his food—it didn’t make any sense. He can’t hold back his emotions. “I almost killed you— why ? How can you—?” Beomseok’s voice is quiet, a contrast to his words. He knows that bringing this up could possibly remind Suho of everything that happened up until now. Or was it selfish of him to assume Suho had forgotten? It would be better if Suho was reminded of what a horrible person he truly was. Then maybe this whole act could stop.

Suho tilts his head and purses his lips, and in a soft tone says words that Beomseok never thought he would ever hear, “I forgave you for that years ago.” 

Beomseok feels the gears in his brain turning. Everything stops. The chattering of the other patrons around them, the buzzing of the fan on the ceiling. The strong smell of kimchi stew and pork from the table next to them neutralizes his brain and sends it into panic mode. No. No. He didn’t deserve to be forgiven. Hate me forever. Kill me. Please, please please.

“Why..?” Beomseok asks slowly, his voice quiet and broken, as he clenches the fabric of his pants with trembling hands. 

Suho doesn’t respond. “Where’s your hotel? Or where are you staying?” 

Beomseok thinks of making up a lie, so he can just end this conversation here, end this reunion, and then his shame with his life. But one look at Suho’s warm eyes, and he finds himself averting his gaze.

“I don’t have one.” 

“What do you mean, you don’t have one ?” 

“There’s no place I’m staying at. I didn’t book a hotel, I—I’m not staying anywhere.” 

Suho looks at him, and it’s laced with concern. Stop looking at me like that. He pleads in his head. Please, stop caring. Then, Suho asks a question he doesn’t know how to answer. No—a question he can’t answer. 

“You aren’t staying anywhere. You didn’t bring anything but electronics.” Suho is piecing things together in his mind, and Beomseok pleads he doesn’t complete the puzzle. A look flashes his face before he asks, “Beomseok, what did you come back here for?” 

The look in his eyes makes Beomseok want to tell him everything. But he can’t. He won’t. Though a small part of him wonders. What would happen if he told the truth? What he really came back for? A complete sense of deja vu washes over him.  And he's reminded of how different things could’ve been-if he had told the truth back then.

Four Years Ago

“What the fuck is going on with you, huh?” Suho asks as he presses Beomseok to the wall. People groan all around the karaoke room and Beomseok struggles to move with his wrist pinned, karaoke mic still lodged in his hand. 

“What the fuck does it matter to you?” Beomseok spits, full of anger and hatred. He ignores the look of pain that flashes across Suho’s expression, and makes eye contact with Sieun across the room, with the same concern written all over. 

Beomseok pushes Suho off him as aggressively as he can–despite his weak nature. “Just leave me alone. Fuck off.” 

He’s run the scenario in his head over and over, a thousand times. How different things would’ve been if he had just told them how he was feeling. How everything could have been avoided. Maybe if he wasn’t such an insecure piece of shit , how he could have been living right now–with them .  

When he doesn’t get a reply, he gives Beomseok a somewhat knowing look. “So what are you gonna do? Stay on the streets ? Do you want to put yourself in danger , Beomseok?” 

Yes. Beomseok thinks. That’s exactly what he wants to do. He won’t say it out loud, but he gives Suho a look that he hopes comes across as somewhat acknowledgement of his claim. 

Suho only looks at him once, then down at his plate, “Are you finished?” Beomseok nods in agreement. Suho then stands up, throwing his jacket on and Beomseok stays still, watching slowly. He looks warm. “Do you want to save it?” He points to the plate in front of Beomseok, who shakes his head slowly. “Then come on.”

Beomseok gives him a look of shock and confusion, and Suho only stares at him blankly, “You’re not sleeping on the streets, Beomseok.” No. That wasn’t the plan. I was going to kill myself.  

He stands up with trembling legs–racking his brain to find a way to get out of this situation.

 “No, I can’t. I–” Suho cuts him off almost immediately, stepping forward with a glare, “And what exactly are you gonna do if you do?” He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. You fucked up again, you fucked up. Beomseok trembles, unable to respond. Suho only walks up to him, eyeing his figure once more. The height difference becomes freakishly prominent, maybe more so due to his meek posture, and Suho takes off his jacket, throwing it over Beomseok’s shoulders. Beomseok freezes, unable to stop the heat flowing to his ears and face at the gesture. 

He then reaches a hand up, and Beomseok flinches, guarding himself on instinct. Suho’s hand freezes, twitching before he says, “Can I touch you?"

Can I touch you? The word echoes in Beomseok’s brain, and he stays still for a good half a minute, staring up at Suho in shock. The other’s gaze doesn’t falter, it's calm and collected. Patient. Kind. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve your warmth. Beomseok nods his head. Suho reaches behind him to pull the hood up and over his head. It’s not much to help, consequence of sitting out in the cold for the past few hours. But something else spreads throughout his body, and Suho grasps his hand through the half-cover. 

“Wear it properly.” He says. Beomseok doesn’t have it in him to deny, slowly reaching over to push his arm through the sleeve–then the same with the other. Suho then pulls both sides together, and zips it up for him, speaking softly, “You don’t take care of yourself.”  

How could I?

The jacket swallows Beomseok’s thin frame, and Suho takes his wrist softly, pulling him out of the restaurant.

 Beomseok doesn’t ask where they are going. 

Chapter Text

They arrive at Suho’s apartment in five minutes or less. Beomseok doesn’t know why he let himself be led all this way, but it’s too late to do anything about it. Suho lives on the first floor of a wealthy apartment complex. As they arrive in the front, he lets go of Beomseok’s arm briefly and gives him a look, stay put. As much as he wants to, he wills himself not to run away as Suho scans his residency card so the doors open. 

Once the doors open, he grabs hold of Beomseok’s arm again and gently guides him inside. Beomseok keeps his eyes to the floor, focusing on Suho’s warm hand holding his. It feels nice. He wants to cry–he doesn’t deserve his touch, not one bit. He can’t imagine how disgusting Suho must feel touching his dirty skin. 

Inside Suho’s complex is warm, cosy–homy. There are various picture shelves on the entry way–where he takes off his shoes. One catches his eye, a photo of him and Sieun, both holding up diplomas. Suho has a bright smile on his face and Sieun does too, looking at him, who has his arm wrapped around his shoulders. But, they are wearing different uniforms. 

You could’ve been there, with them, in that photo. He thinks. But, you know they wouldn’t have wanted you there anyways. 

How did everything go so wrong?

“Sieun switched schools after everything happened.” Suho says, as if he can read Beomseok’s mind. Beomseok shakes his head rapidly, he got caught staring. Then Suho says, “You thirsty?” Beomseok takes a second. He is, actually. Maybe that’s why his words are coming out all dry and croaky. Suho doesn’t wait for a response, walking into his kitchen area.

“You just gonna stand in the doorway all night?” Suho asks softly. 

Beomseok removes his shoes carefully and follows him. 

He stands there awkwardly, shifting with the sleeves of Suho’s oversized coat that he’s since taken off, folding it between his arms carefully. Suho takes two water bottles out of the fridge, and turns around to tilt his head at Beomseok, “You can sit you know. Put the jacket anywhere.” Beomseok nods his head, placing the jacket down on the table hesitantly. He doesn’t sit though, not until Suho places the water bottle in front of a chair, before sitting down with his own.

He takes the seat. They don’t talk for a minute or so. Suho sighs, running his hand through his hair once, “Can you drink the water, please?” 

Beomseok doesn’t mean to be difficult. He despises being difficult, but he can’t help asking timidly, “Why?” Suho only retains his blank expression, “You could hardly even walk straight on the way here.” That’s not how Beomseok remembers it—but his memory is in shambles anyway. After all, one proper meal won’t fix months of starvation and the resulting brain fog. Earlier, he thought he was being led forward by Suho. Maybe he was leaning in more than he thought. 

Suho gives him a firm stare, and Beomseok reaches for the bottle with shaky hands. Then there’s his futile attempt at opening it. It actually hurts–and he’s reminded once more of how weak he is. He can hardly do anything right. Suho gently removes it from his hands and opens it, before placing the cap and the open bottle in front of him. 

“Thank..you.”

Suho doesn’t reply. 

It’s only when the cold water hits his throat does Beomseok realise how thirsty he was. He was fucking parched. The first splash to the back of his throat makes him want to cry. When’s the last time he had cold water? Not a cup full from his sink back home, lukewarm tap. It feels like a luxury he’s been missing out on..

But immediately, his shiver comes back full-throttle and nausea courses through him. 

“Do you wanna take a shower?” Suho offers suddenly, and Beomseok freezes, tilting his head and staring at Suho like he didn’t process what was just said. Suho doesn’t ask again, simply waits for Beomseok’s response. Suho then stands up from the chair, “I’ll prepare you a tow—”

“No.” Beomseok cuts him off, his voice coming out weaker  than anticipated. I need to get out of here, his brain reminds him—not allowing even a fraction of peace. Suho looks at him with wide eyes, easing a soft tone, “Okay. No shower.” Beomseok watches as he sits back down, taking another drink of his water bottle. Why are you still here? His brain reminds him.

“I—think I should go.” It’s jumbled, uncoordinated, syllables slinging together like it’s his first time speaking. Like he hasn’t pit a sentence together in months. Maybe he hasn’t—besides today. 

Beomseok doesn’t wait for a response this time, standing up from the table, despite the immediate shoot of pain that radiates through his body as he puts all of his  weight on the tip of his left foot at once. His foot has been sensitive ever since his dad had mangled it that time. 

Beomseok can feel his ankle twist, and he’s about to fall.

But apparently Suho is up even faster than he was, grabbing him by his arm. Beomseok can feel Suho’s attempts to steady him, and he breaths out shakily, “Thanks.”

He then attempts to move, release his arm from Suho’s hold. But he can’t. All things considered, the grip isn’t too tight, it hardly hurts, but Beomseok can’t pull away from it. He’s too weak. 

Suho stares him down. “You’re not leaving.” 

Beomseok feels his eyes well up with tears. He breaks eye contact with Suho and blinks them all away, keeping his head down. He starts shaking, his shoulders rattling softly with his half bent foot, he’s balancing because of Suho now. “Can you let go of me please?” Suho doesn’t respond, keeping eye contact.

”Please let go.” He begins to flail around the tiniest bit, pulling his arm back—trying to remove it from Suho’s hold. I have to get out of here. “I can’t stay here any longer—please.”

A twinge of relief passes through Beomseok when Suho let’s go—only for the emptiness it leaves behind to be filled with shock when Suho places two hands on his shoulders. “Beomseok.” The man in question shakes his head, and Suho repeats firmer, “Beomseok.” 

“Why are you doing this? Why won’t you let me leave?” Beomseok says, body trembling. He stops flailing around and Suho’s grip loosens, allowing him to shake free. “I need to go now, please.” 

“Oh yeah? And where exactly are you going to go again?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

The taller then laughs as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, “Doesn’t matter?” 

Beomseok blinks up at him—pleading. 

“There’s this whole—fucked up finality about you, Beomseok.” Hearing him say those words out loud pierce Beomseok like a knife in the heart. He wanted to take cover, get as far as possible. He felt like he was being stripped bare, exposed for Suho to see. Was he really that obvious? 

Suho looks at him with something that says, it is that obvious. “And what the hell are you gonna do if you’re left alone, huh?” Suho remarks, his soft way is peaking a contrast to his sharp words. Though his eyebrows furrowed in anger. There’s something there, in his eyes—something Beomseok hadn’t seen since that day in the karaoke room. It makes him want to cry. 

“What does it matter to you?” Beomseok’s voice comes out unsure, shaky, desperate. He wonders if Suho heard it too, and the taller only looks at him blankly.

Do you know?

Beomseok ponders in the brief silence, eye contact with Suho maddening. 

I don’t mean a word I say.

I’m just desperate. Desperate to make you change your mind.. Make Suho kick him out of here. Don’t be rude, though. You have no right. “What does it matter to me?” Suho repeats, baffled. “It’s not about what matters to me. You’re a life, Beomseok. I’m not gonna just let you spend the night on the street. I’m not just gonna watch you endanger yourself.” 

Because you are human, Beomseok. Normal people would never want another human to be hurt—put into danger. 

“All types of horrible shit could happen to you out there.” 

He struggles to find his words. 

Say something. Anything. 

“It’s what I deserve.” The rest goes unspoken. It’s what I need to do.

Suho’s eyebrows furrow like he’s hurt by the statement, “What do you mean, deserve?” Beomseok stares at him through disheveled bangs. His eyes burn, he blinks away the crust. His body feels weak, lack of sleep slowly creeping in on him. His knees wobble the slightest bit, and he doesn’t know when his body will give out on him. 

“Is it because of that?” Suho spares him the words, and Beomseok can’t meet his eyes. 

That seems to tell him all he needs to know, because Suho then inhales deeply through his nose, sentence laced with sarcasm.

“You think that will change anything?” 

He’s met with silence, and he continues, more aggressively this time. 

“You think that atonement bullshit will change anything? Think it’ll make me feel better?” Beomseok stares at him, and something in his eyes must tell him something, because Suho’s tone turns much gentler.

“You think something bad happening to you will undo the year of my life I lost? Make me feel better?” The bitter truth hits pierces him like a knife in his heart.

Beomseok knows. He knows no matter what, he can never atone for what he did. He doesn’t say that, of course. 

And Suho knows, too. He knows Beomseok was planning something bad. 

 “Maybe.” Beomseok says, and he can’t keep eye contact. 

He wills himself not to cry, because he doesn’t deserve to. Emotions are pouring out that he wants to swallow back inside, and he can’t bear to watch Suho’s expression morph into hatred after confirming Beomseok’s irrational reasoning, there’s no room for anything else in his head. 

Suho shakes his head, “That’s not gonna change anything, Beomseok. I don't want you hurt.” Beomseok looks up when he says that, face to face with Suho. His heart is racing, pumping out of his chest. His temples are pulsing with the beginnings of a migraine.  

You almost killed him. You almost killed him. You almost killed him. You tried to kill him multiple times. You let others hurt him. 

He’s beginning to panic, he can feel it. His breaths are coming out shaky and ragged. He watches Suho’s eyes flood with concern before he places a hand on his chest, standing up from table and backing away slowly. “Why.. You should want me dead—why? Why?” He can’t take it, he can’t breathe. 

“Beomseok?”

A beat of silence passes. Beomseok is betraying himself with the next sentence, confessing everything he feels. 

Say something to make him hate you more. 

Beomseok can’t meet his eyes any more, and he can feel scabs tearing on his thighs. I don’t want to make him hate me more. 

That doesn’t matter. It’s not about what you want, Beomseok. It’s about what’s best for Suho.

What’s best is you leave right now—and finish what you came here to do. 

 He shakes his head. He looks up once more to see Suho’s worried eyes. How could I say something more to him—that’s anything but begging, pleading, for forgiveness. 

You have to.

I can’t. 

I can’t. 

“I’m so sorry—sorry, Suho. It was never supposed to happen. It wasn’t—”

What the fuck is he doing? Who does he think he is apologizing after everything he’s done?

Regret washes over him in tsunami waves, his nails digging deep into his clothed thighs. Why did you say that? Why why why?

He felt like he had dug a hole far too deep, one that had been labeled with a big red sign, don’t go there. Suho’s expression doesn’t change, like he knew exactly what Beomseok was thinking. 

The shorter clutches at his chest, before bringing both of his hands up to his hair, tugging at the long black strands. 

The sound of a human skull making contact with the hard floor of the boxing ring. The blood from his nose, the way his ankle twisted funny.  

You let it happen. Don’t forget that.

The water finally seeps past his eyelids.

“Don’t forgive me. Don’t let me live. I want to leave, I want to leave. Please, please.” His true thoughts are pouring out—his guts spilled for Suho to see.  

The taller begins to panic a bit, “Don’t cry….shit.” He takes Beomseok’s hands into his own and the man is shaking, violently. “Beomseok. Listen to me.” Beomseok shakes his head, and Suho curses, letting go of his hands to cradle is face. 

“Look at me.” He says, voice firm and solid and Beomseok does—because maybe the sooner he does the sooner this will all be over. The sooner he can go and do what he was meant to do. “I need to say something—I need you to get this through your head, alright?” Beomseok blinks, tears running down his face. 

He’s numb. Not because he can’t feel anything, but because he feels everything. He’s completely overstimulated and overwhelmed. A thousand different ways this conversation will go, all jamming at once. It's all cramped in his brain like a bin full of trashed letters, sheets overflowing, crumpled and spilling over the top, and onto the floor…trashed letters. Like the ones he was going to send?

Suho gives him a serious look, gaze firm, “I need you to give me something. A nod—maybe..anything just to let me know you are listening. That you can listen.” 

Beomseok nods, and he feels disgusting once more. Suho’s large hands are encasing his face, his uncleanliness. He can feel himself beginning to loose balance.

“I don’t know how you’re feeling right now. I don’t know exactly what you were planning on doing tonight. I have an idea, but I don’t know for sure.”

Beomseok bites his quivering lip, until he feels blood fill his mouth. “Unfortunately, you ran into me.” He gives Beomseok a serious look, something hollow behind the eye. Maybe that would bring some sort of peace or relief to a normal person. Beomseok doesn’t feel relived, he doesn’t deserve to. 

Suho’s eyes trail down to his lips and he dips his thumb in between the gap to pull his bottom lip free, before cradling his face again. Heat travels across Beomseok’s face. Suho keeps talking as if  nothing happened. “You are not leaving tonight. I don’t care if you’re mad that I’ve stopped you. You are not going anywhere.” Please no.

 “If I have to watch you all night, I will. I’m not joking, Beomseok.” 

He doesn’t know what to say when Suho removes his hands from his face. 

Beomseok can’t find his words. 

“Why don’t you hate me?”

“I don’t know. I should.”

Beomseok inhales shakily.

“But I don’t. You were one of my best friends, too, you know.” 

The silence is deafening. 

Beomseok doesn’t know if he ever stopped to think about how much all of this probably hurt Suho. That maybe this whole situation affected him in a different way. Beomseok thought he would be ready to kill him—plummet him, ignore him. But the look Suho gave him just now told Beomseok only one thing. 

He’s been heartbroken. 

Beomseok feels more tears run down his face, not a sound leaving his mouth. 

Suho only looks at him once more, before averting his eyes to gesture to his suitcase, sitting by the table. “Did you bring any clothes in that?” Beomseok shakes his head, and Suho sighs.

“I didn’t think so.” He whispers, barely audible. Suho turns around, and disappears into one of the hallways on the other side of the apartment. 

He’s back quickly, carrying a set of pajama pants and a shirt, both folded neatly. He places them in front of Beomseok on the table. 

“You’re shaking.” Suho points out. Beomseok reaches his own hand out until it’s in his line of sight, watching it tremble. “You should get warm. The bathrooms down the hall, to the left.” Suho’s tongue is poking at his cheek, and he stands, expectant. There’s no room for any defiance. “There’s towels in the cabinet inside, so take whatever you need.”  Beomseok nods, expressionless. He takes the clothes and begins walking in the direction of the hallway. 

His movements are slow, like he’s struggling to move. 

Suho doesn’t say anything else.

And once the bathroom door shuts with a small noise, Suho rubs his palms over his face and curses.

Chapter Text

[….

Beomseok peels his clothes off his body, shivering at the loss of warmth. Both towels rest on the bathroom seat. The room is clean and white. Everything is sparkling, he never knew Suho to be such a perfectionist when it comes to such. Then again, Beomseok knew nothing about the Suho of today. Actually, he knew nothing about him back then, either. 

3 Years Ago

Beomseok watches nervously as Sieun reaches into the plastic bag he’s holding, one out of the two they brought back from the convenient store and hands Suho a sea-salt ice cream bar. 

The taller of the two smiles with glee, ruffling the shorter’s head. “Ah, Yeon Sieun. You remembered my favorite? I’m touched!” He places a dramatic hand over his chest, the apple of his cheeks swelling up. 

Beomseok stands there awkwardly when Suho slides his hand down from Sieun’s head to around his neck, then over his shoulder, dragging him along further into the apartment. Beomseok stays there in the doorway, alone. Solid as ice, a cold feeling washes over him at the intimate interaction. He stares longingly. They were in the same room, same house. Beomseok has never felt so alone. 

He crumbles a caramel-chocolate swirl cone through the bag, feeling it soften through the wrapper. His fists clench at his sides, jealousy and embarrassment curling in his gut. 

Suho’s bright laughter echoes in the other room, and Beomseok feels stupid for even trying. 

He blinks old memories away, looking at his own battered skin in the mirror. His upper left arm is riddled in small cuts from his shoulder to the edge of his elbow. He twists his arm slightly to get a better view. One, in between the crease of his underarm scratches against itself painfully, and Beomseok watches the red liquid drip down slowly.

He wipes it with the back of his hand, disgusted by the sight, and then puts it under the sink faucet. It was there and then it wasn’t, the red stain took less then a second to swirl down the drain. His right arm is clean, void of any self-inflicted injuries. His ribs are visible, seeing his own reflection in the mirror makes him want to barf. 

He steps back a bit, eyeing both his thighs. Fairly unscathed, mostly fading scars. Minus the ones he re-opened earlier that same evening. He looks until he can’t look anymore, turning away from the mirror in shame. I’m truly disgusting. 

He pulls back the glass door of the shower, and turns the knob in the middle. He feels with his hand as the water turns from freezing cold to lukewarm. A semblance of normalcy, maybe. As if he deserves that. It stays lukewarm for about a minute, and he turns it all the way left, quickly stepping inside and sliding the glass door shut. A pleasant warmth fills his chilled body, and he leans his head back, letting warm water run over his hair, down his closed eyes. 

After about ten seconds, the water begins to burn his skin. It’s almost excruciating. He whimpers at the pain. It’s like he’s being burnt alive. He bites the skin of his knuckle and repeats over and over, endure it. Endure it, endure it. It’s red hot and burning, his skin. He gets used to it eventually. Looking down at his feet, his usual pale white skin is irritated a harsh red from the water. He moves to the left a bit, and the water hits an untouched area of his body, right below his waist in the left side.

He winces—loud and painful.

Looking around the shower he eyes shampoo, conditioner, a multitude of different facial products as well as soap, and an unused exfoliating towel. Suho must have put that towel in there for him earlier. Fuck. He presses his hands against his eyes, feeling the burn seep into his nose and lips. 

More liquid seeps down his eyelids, not shower water this time. 

I just want this all to be over.

He closes the bathroom door behind him slowly, as quiet as possible. As if he’s afraid of making noise. As if the only other person in this apartment didn’t already know he was taking a shower. Suho probably heard the shower turn on and off. Beomseok doesn’t know why he’s so careful, so afraid. 

Ashamed might be a better word. 

His own discarded clothes are folded neatly over his arm, Suho’s large ones encasing his frame. Comfy, fuzzy socks support his feet, and he can’t say he doesn’t feel better than he did before he showered. The fabric is soft, and it smells like Suho. 

So does his hair, and his body. He used Suho’s products. He smells like Suho.

The quiet humming of a fan barely muffles the soft chuckles of Suho, multiple audios of music stopping and playing at random times. The closer he gets the more audible the sound of Tiktok…or maybe Instagram gets, and he exhales deeply before crossing the threshold.

Beomseok stands there awkwardly until Suho looks up at him. He immediately softens up, “How was the shower?” 

Beomseok nods his head, “Good. Thank you.” 

Suho nods, unsure what to do. “You can just put them on that chair,” he says, looking at Beomseok’s folded laundry. Beomseok sets it down quietly, fidgeting with his hands. Suho sighs, patting the spot next to him on the couch, “You don’t have to just stand there.” Beomseok shakes his head, “It’s okay.” I should keep my distance. 

“Beomseok. Seriously. Sit down.” Suho argues one more time, and there’s no room for disagreement.  He makes his way over hesitantly, settling himself down a reasonable distance away from Suho, who just laughs softly. Beomseok ignores the way his heart skips a beat.

“Why am I here?” He whispers, more to himself than Suho. The other turns his head, brushing his hair back. He doesn’t say anything. 

Beomseok feels his eyes flutter open and shut. Suho is eating a cup of beef flavored ramen, and he sets his chopsticks down half-heartedly. 

“Because I wouldn’t let you leave.” 

“And why is that?”

 Beomseok’s voice comes out sharper than he intended it to. Suho isn’t phased.

“Because you were talking crazy?”

Beomseok doesn’t want to, he can hardly remember half of anything he’d said that day. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” 

They sit in silence as the taller finishes his food, and Suho’s mouth drops open slowly, “Hey, can I make you anything?”

Beomseok doesn’t get it.

“No. I mean, it’s fine—I’m not hungry.”

Suho rests his chin on his open palm, eyeing him up and down. Beomseok’s not delusional, he knows he looks anything but healthy right now.

He probably looks as hungry as he feels.

Beomseok breaks the eye contact, curling in on himself. He half expects Suho to say something back, continuing the snarky back and forth they had going earlier.

But there wasn’t anything. Just a small, soft word of acceptance from Suho.

“Okay.”

He didn’t push it any further.

Just as sweet as ever, Ahn Suho? 

A few minutes later they are both sitting on Suho’s couch, the tv playing some random Marvel movie. No subtitles, Suho was studying for an exam. 

Ahn Suho was an English major.

If kind of fit him. 

Beomseok sat there, awkward. His thin frame was obvious, baggy clothes making him look even smaller. He hated it. He hated himself so, so much. 

“Do you want hot chocolate?” Suho asks, a few minutes later. For the first time since he ran into Suho at the cemetery, Beomseok feels something warm up inside of him. 

When’s the last time he’s had something chocolate? 

He nods immediately. 

He thinks he must be imagining the slight curve of Suho’s lips, teasing a smirk. And it never comes, so Beomseok forgets about it. 

Beomseok sits, still curled in on himself. He feels cozy, warm. He closes his eyes, taking in the sounds around him. 

The buzzing of the heater, the sizzling of the kettle, before it breaks off into a high-pitched whistle. The crinkle of the hot chocolate mix. Then, he opens his eyes once more and finds Suho. 

Suho’s face, calm—content seeming. He’s since changed into a fluffy sweater. Suho is slim, but with clear muscle, just like all those years ago. The brown compliments his paler skin nicely. 

Beomseok can’t stop. He weighs in on everything. Even the little details.

The way the top of the spoon was squeezed between his thumb and index finger. That’s how he always held his pencil back in school as well. 

Stop staring.

Beomseok listens to a part himself these days . He’s learned to trust a part of him. A part that discerns him from right and wrong. 

The part that told him not to cut himself open that day. 

He didn’t listen to it then. 

Before he knows it, Suho is back with two cups of hot chocolate. He places one in front of Beomseok on a cup holder.

He murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.” Suho doesn’t reply. 

Suho sets his cup down in don’t of him before settling back down on his spot on the couch and resuming the movie.

“Be careful, it’s really hot.” 

Beomseok nods, seeing Suho’s stare in his peripheral.

When Suho focuses his attention back on the movie, he grabs the cup with two hands, shivering at its warmth. Beomseok doesn’t blow on the liquid before taking a sip. 

He just tilts his head back and lets it scorch down his throat—and burn his tongue. It’s a welcome pain.

And the numbness on his tongue afterwards allows him to do it again, this time the burn is worse.

It tastes good. Creamy. Not too strong of a chocolate flavor, like Beomseok prefers. Out of curiosity, he checks Suho’s mug. 

Beomseok almost drops the cup when he sees Suho’s hot chocolate looks much darker than his. Clearly with much more chocolate powder inside than his. 

A dark, deep brown versus Beomseok’s light brown. It couldn’t have possibly been on purpose. 

Four Years Earlier 

“Oh Beom, how do you like your hot chocolate?” Suho’s voice calls from the kitchen. 

“Uhm…never had it..” Beomseok calls back hesitantly.

Suho scrambles back and gives him a crazed look. Even Sieun, who was sitting next to him looks away from his book with a pursed lips 

“Are you kidding me?!” 

Beomseok shakes his head, laughing at the antics. 

Sieun sniffles a bit, his nose red from his cold. “Well, do you like chocolate?” 

Beomseok ponders for a second, “Yeah, but like..not a super strong chocolaty flavor. More creamy and sweet I guess…would be good.” 

Sieun gets up from where he was sitting on the couch. Beomseok moves to follow him but Sieun puts a hand on his boulder and pushes him back down, softly. 

“Wait.”

Sieun approached Suho who’s still wearing a shocked expression. He then mutters something. Suho nods and they seem to discuss something quickly before they both disappear behind the kitchen walls. 

Five minutes later they re-emerge. Suho with one mug in hand and Sieun with two in two hands.

Sieun places two down and one is significantly darker than the other. He passes the lighter one over to Beomseok. “Try.” 

Suho sips his and then yelps, and Sieun stares at him softly before turning to Beomseok. “Hey, Beomseok, blow on it first. Don’t be stupid like Suho”

“Hey!”

Beomseok laughs softly, picking the mug up with two hands. He relinquishes, there’s a comforting warmth it brings him. He blows on it once, twice, three times. 

Suho and Sieun both watch as he brings it to his lips. A delicious mixture of milk with a soft chocolate flavor breaches his tongue, and his eyes light up.

“Beomseok, look up here.” Suho’s voice calls, and Beomseok looks up at him immediately. There must be something on his face because both Suho and Sieun both break into a smile. 

“It’s good?” Sieun asks, to which Beomseok nods his head enthusiastically. 

In a hurry to taste it again, Beomseok brings it up to his lips and sips it while Suho and Sieun both lean forward a bit in shock.

“Wait—” 

The word comes from both of their mouths simultaneously, but it’s too late.

Beomseok flinches as the hot liquid burns his tongue. Sieun just looks at him with pity and Suho laughs, before leaning down to rub his hair affectionately. 

“Looks like we are both stupid. Take that, Sieun!”

Beomseok looks up with a fond smile as his two friends begin to bicker.

[….]

Beomseok shakes himself out of memory lane. That was in the very beginning of their friendship. Back before everything went to shit. Before he ruined everything.

Before every fond experienced went stray, trampled under the bad ones.

When Sieun didn’t show up for school and Suho insisted they go to his house and check on him. 

Beomseok was constantly “sick.”

Nobody ever visited him.

The hot chocolate is pretty much gone now, and he places the cup back on the table. He looks to see Suho’s barely touched his and he feels embarrassed. 

Eventually, Suho looks over and gives a soft smile.

“Do you want more?”

“No, it’s okay. Thank you..”

The rest of the evening passes quietly. 

[…

“You can sleep here.” Suho opens the guest room door and Beomseok nods. 

“If you get cold, there’s a heated blanket in the closet. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m two doors down.” Suho rubs his neck as he speaks, and Beomseok nods.

Say something. Convey your gratitude.

“I have a door alarm. It’s on all night. If you leave, I’ll know.” 

Beomseok takes it as a promise, though it sounds more-like a threat, nodding his head. “Okay.”

Suho nods too, looking a bit awkward. He closes the door and Beomseok exhales in relief.

His phone begins to ring in his pocket. A whatsapp call. He declines the call from the contact labeled Father immediately. 

Beomseok collapses onto the bed. And it’s so comfortable. He rolls onto his back, digging his nose into the shirt. It still smells like Suho.

He hates that he’s doing it. Hates that he’s here. Beomseok knows too. That he’s disgusting. A curling dread aches up his spine. Even the room is being tainted by him. 

He’s all alone. In the darkness of this room. His phone shuffles out of his pocket somewhere inside of the bed, but he doesn’t move to see where. 

All alone, again.

In Suho’s house, in his room, his clothes—but he feels more alone, more distant, than ever. Here and now, he’s still nothing. 

There’s an emptiness inside him, burning from within. It claws up to the surface, so he holds himself close. He clasps his stomach and then puts a hand on his chest, trying to soothe the ache. 

It’s no use. It’s internal.

Bone-deep. 

There’s a sourish aftertaste in his mouth from the hot chocolate. His tongue is raw and dry. It doesn’t water when the tears breach his eyelids. 

It’s alright, he tells himself. He will leave tomorrow, and everything will go as planned. 

Just one more night. 

—

Beomseok wakes up to the cold morning air brushing against his face. His eyes burn. The pillow is damp, and he sits up slowly. 

He must have cried in his dreams. There’s a mirror and a drawer in the guest room he’s residing in. He sits there for a second and opens the door quietly, looking down the hall once and twice. He closes the door behind him, he begins to tread down the hall slowly. He can hear nothing but silence, and he wonders if he can leave now. 

Walking past the vestibule, Beomseok stops in his tracks when his brain reminds him, you’re still wearing Suho’s clothes. He’s halfway through turning around when he hears a deep voice call his name.

“Beomseok.”

He freezes. Turning back around, Beomseok looks forward, and dread fills his body as he comes face to face with Yeon Sieun. He’s taller now too, his face is more filled out, void of the baby fat Suho used to always tug at. His eyes, calm yet sad, an expression Beomseok saw in his dreams. Fond memories come to surface, and he slides his hand down to his thigh, digging his nails in. Scratching the memories down. 

Sieun’s eyes follow his hand down, and he uncurls his fingers so quick, it’s like it never happened. Sieun keeps his expression neutral, but there’s something in his eyes. Sieun looks at him once more, before balancing on his left side softly, clenching his fists. “Beomseok.” He says. 

“Yeah, Sieun?”

“Let’s talk.”

“Okay.”

Sieun stands up straight, unclenching his fists. “Okay,” he repeats, and exhales softly–a bit shakily. Sieun then turns around and walks into the living room area Beomseok stood in last night, who follows after him slowly. 

When he enters, he sees Suho already on the couch, his leg up, bent, one arm swinging over the arm of the couch, the other resting on the on his knee. He looks up at Beomseok when he comes in, then turns his averts his gaze, turning his head away. I deserve that. Beomseok knows this, but it stings all the same. Like when Beomseok first started hanging out with Youngbin and the others, and Suho would avoid him like the plague, like he had a sickness he could catch, airborn. 

Maybe he was thinking too much into it, because Suho then turns his head back, “If you ever came back, Sieun needed to know too.” He nods his head at the end. Suho looks uncomfy, and Beomseok looks at him, then Sieun, who gives Suho a look. Oh. That’s what it is.

Beomseok always knew. They had a connection he lacked. Sieun’s quiet charm, and Suho’s energy. There was always something there. 

Beomseok doesn’t know where the audacity came from, with the words that leave his mouth next. 

“You said you forgave me.” Beomseok says, slowly, and Suho flinches, as if the words hurt him. “Y-yesterday. At the restaurant. You, you said you forgave me.” Sieun looks at Suho, then back at Beomseok. “Is it because of Sieun?” Beomseok finishes, gesturing towards the sad-looking man. Sieun has an unreadable expression on his face. 

Suho sighs, a pained sound leaving his mouth as he rubs his hand over his face. Sieun’s eyes widen in a sort of shock, before he reaches a hand out in Suho’s direction, like he’s trying to stop something.

“Suho, don’t—“

“Yeah.” Suho stands up, nodding his head as he confirms Beomseok’s suspicion. Sieun’s hand falls, trembling at his side. 

Beomseok nods. “Why?” The question is aimed at Sieun this time, and the shorter only looks at him, unmoving. “Why?” He repeats, not demanding, more of a plead than anything.

“Beomseok.” Sieun lets out softly, his lips parted slightly. And there it is, that look again. Pity—was it? Suho brought Beomseok here, wouldn’t let him leave. Made him think that even for a second—No. No. This isn’t Suho’s fault. Beomseok reminds himself, it’s all because of him. 

That hurt to think.

Maybe it was all some cruel joke by the universe. That’s fine—he acknowledged long ago he deserved any and all karma coming his way. But this? He can’t do it. 

Suho found him, fed him, and let him sleep here. Forgave him. It was all too good to be true in the first place. 

Suho only looks at him blankly, “I don’t see why it’s hard for you to understand.” He then pockets his hands, looking throughly uninterested in whatever Beomseok has to say next. It’s all too familiar, it’s all so hurtful. 

Like those words Suho said all those years ago.

“I don’t care. You disgust me.”

No. Not this again. 

“I’m not gonna stand here and act like I truly expected you to have forgiven me.”  Beomseok lets out, his voice small and broken. You don’t deserve to show hurt. 

Suho’s lip turns falls down ever so slightly, “That—that’s not what I said. I do forgive you, Beomseok.” 

What?

“Huh?”

The look on face tells Beomseok, he’s pissed. “You don’t forgive me.” You shouldn’t, you don’t. He doesn’t know why he says it.

To make himself feel better, to say it out loud before Suho does. What was the point? 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Suho.” Sieun intervenes once more, attempting to play peacemaker. Beomseok feels deja vu spurt at him in tidal waves. 

“Wait, Suho.” Sieun says, removing Suho’s hand from Beomseok’s collar. “Let’s talk first.”

Beomseok bites a trembling lip, willing the tears away. He completely ignores Suho’s statement. 

“I just want to know why. Why did you pretend? Why did you keep me here?” 

Suho stares, visibly frustrated, “I do forgive you. I just didn’t do it alone.”

He asks something selfish, “If it was just you, would you have been able to?”

A year of his life lost.

Beomseok keeps his head forward, straight. Suho looks at him, silence saying more than any words ever could. 

“That’s a relief.”

 He settles for, voice void of emotion. Stop talking. 

“A relief? What is that supposed to mean?” Suho remarks, his eyebrows furrowed, stepping forward slowly. 

It was too good to be true. I knew that. I knew that I didn’t deserve to be treated kindly by you. By anyone—is what Beomseok wants to say. But he doesn’t. Instead, he inhales deeply.

“It didn’t make sense. It confused me. I’m relieved.” He hates it the second it comes out of his mouth. It sounds insecure, manipulative. Suho gives him a look of pity,  “Yeah, so what the fuck does that mean? What do you mean you’re relieved?”

Beomseok doesn’t reply, only clenching his fists further, digging the nails deep into the surface layer of his skin. He feels skin mold between his fingernails. 

This is it. This is all too familiar. The type of reconciliation he’d seen in his nightmares every night, where he is finally confronted for his heinous actions.

“You were too kind to me, Suho.” Beomseok confesses. Sieun stands still, unable to say a word between the two of them. “Too kind?” Suho repeats, agawffed. “Too kind?” 

Beomseok doesn’t say another word. Suho stands there, arms outstretched—he inhales shakily, before pressing his hands to his head. Suho groans in frustration with his next words, “Why? It’s like every step of progress we make it’s back to square one.”

Beomseok doesn’t understand his frustration.

“Neither of you are even talking properly.” Sieun says, his tone seemingly irritated, but not at Beomseok.

“You weren’t trapped in that place, Sieun.” Suho says, and his voice sounds young, like they are sixteen again. Suho stops, freezing for a bit, looking at Sieun with an expression. 

Something else Beomseok doesn’t recognize. Suho stops talking, and it’s like they both know something he doesn’t. Fuck, of course they do.

“Beomseok.”

Suho’s call of his name is distant. Everything is underwater in an instant. His fists uncurl at his sides, his posture slumping a bit. 

Then comes Sieun’s voice, equally muted. 

“..seok..? Beomseok!”

He looks at both of them, both their expressions doused in concern. He doesn’t like it. 

“I told you to speak nicer to him…”

Is that Sieun’s voice?

“I know it’s just…he doesn’t listen! It’s like everything I say, he can’t hear it.” 

“…can’t tell if he’s choosing not to.” 

Beomseok breathes in air, letting it fill his sunken lungs.

“I’m not. I—I’m sorry.” Beomseok chokes on his own words, his chest pumping up and down as he attempts to hold it in.

He wants to cry and scream.. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, tracing every crease of his socks in a feeble distraction. A broken noise leaves his throat and he cups his hand over his mouth. It’s no use, it unlocked a wave of tears with it, and he can’t stop the break down.

“Beomseok..” Suho says, his voice hesitant, blocked. He reaches out softly, as does Sieun.

He shakes his head repeatedly, inhaling deeply, but it stutters, leading toward a sickening sound. Somewhere between a cough and a sob.

“Please—don’t come any closer.” He manages to get the sentence out somewhat coherently..and both men stop dead in their tracks. He looks up at Suho first, then Sieun. 

He watches Sieun’s eyes widen slightly, his face contorted into a somewhat stoic shock. Suho’s eyes are full of a different emotion–one Beomseok’s not stable enough to process. 

“I have to go.” He brushes past both of them hurriedly and Sieun, closer of the two of them grabs his arm in a firm grip. Beomseok looks back at him and his expression must give him something. “No.” Sieun looks desperate.

“I promise I’ll come back. I—I promise. I just have to go.”

The second Sieun’s grip loosens, he’s running out the door. He doesn’t even grab his shoes.