Chapter Text
“It was all because of that asshole Oh Beomseok and his gang—”
Sieun gets the news in the middle of class, after he fails a test. His feet feel heavy, running out of the classroom. He doesn’t hear his teacher asking where he’s going or what he’s doing. He is fueled only by the thought of Suho.
“—Some people stopped by and offered to pay for his hospital bills. They got his grandmother to sign something—”
He feels numb. There’s no feeling in his fingers, no trace of exhaustion registering in his body as he races to the hospital Youngyi sent to him. The room is inconspicuous, the same as all the other hospital rooms there are in the same hallway. He feels like he’s going to vomit.
“—Sieun-ah … Suho won’t wake up.”
Suho doesn’t turn to face him when he enters the room. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t call out to him. There’s an older woman, likely Suho’s grandmother, who is the only other visitor apart from him inside the room. Only she turns to look at him when he enters. She asks him if he’s Suho’s friend and he answers with some vague affirmative answer.
Suho isn’t going to wake up. He isn’t going to be there in class tomorrow. He isn’t going to wait for Sieun outside of his cram school on his motorcycle to pick him up and drag him to dinner. He isn’t here anymore.
He cries. Tears flow down his face, marring his features and filling the halls of the hospital for longer than he’s ever cried before.
It’s ugly. There’s mucus dripping down his face, tears staining Suho’s blanket. He doesn’t care. He leaves his heart in that hospital room, only turning back to get one last look at Suho.
—
The crunch of cartilage is fresh, rewarding beneath his fists. Jeon Youngbin screams, loud, pained, as Sieun leaves to find Kang Wooyoung. Sieun strangles him with shoelaces and immobilizes him. He pleads with him, claiming he had no part in Suho’s comatose state. Wooyoung apologises, over and over, but it’s not to the right person.
“Don’t apologise to me.”
The finishing blow to any dreams of an MMA career comes crashing down on his ankle, in the form of a 7 kilogram dumbbell. Sieun leaves as his pained cry echoes down the halls.
He trudges his way back to Byeoksan, covered in blood and panting. Slams a fire extinguisher into Lee Jeongchan and Han Taehun, brutal and unforgiving. But when he’s standing over Oh Beomseok, fist raised, he can’t bring himself to do it.
“Why’d you do it?” He asks, almost a plea. We were all close.
“I have no idea why I did it,” Beomseok’s voice is shaking, clearly bracing for the hit. “You should understand me, Sieun-ah.”
Sieun’s eyes widen, ever so slightly.
“Yeah,” He manages to get out. “So I need you to understand me too.” It should be easy. He should be able to maul Beomseok’s face and body with no hint of guilt, like he did with the other three. But the blow doesn’t land. It never will.
He leaves Beomseok behind, but his words haunt him even as he leaves the campus.
—
Sieun walks aimlessly for a long, long time. Long enough that the sun goes down and his phone buzzes in his pocket more times than he cares to count.
He doesn’t know where his feet aim to take him; he wanders the streets of Seoul with no purpose and no soul. It’s an instinctual action he takes, no thought behind it. If he thinks about anything at all, his mind will go back to Suho and the hospital room, and he has no tears left to cry anymore.
The numbness in his body has ceded by now, but he still walks, even as his bones ache. Suho tried to make him a little bit more athletic, and succeeded slightly, but he’s still not built for a walking tour of Gangnam just yet.
He doesn’t want to think about Suho. He can’t. If he thinks about Suho, then he’ll really fall over and succumb to the weakness in his body.
The lights to his side distract him, bright fluorescents halting him in his step. A convenience store. One he finds vaguely familiar. Distantly, he realizes he’s probably close to the hagwon he goes to, and by that logic— this is the same convenience store he used to frequent with Suho. He tries not to hiccup at the thought.
Outside, there’s a man in light blue flannel sipping something from a can, eying the bloodstains on his shirt and the scratches on his face with a pointed expression.
Sieun pays him no mind and shuffles into the store.
There’s a chime when he walks in. A female clerk greets him and stops halfway, her eyes raking over his frame. He probably makes a sight to see; disheveled with tear streaks on his face, and his bloodstained clothing. He turns away, ignores her and continues towards the wall of coolers.
He spends a while looking at the selection. Red bull, iced coffee, yogurt drinks and various selections of flavoured milk greet him blankly. The faint cold from the fridges and seemingly endless options offer no solace to his wandering thoughts.
Surrounded by familiarity, Sieun finds everything he looks at will have some link to Suho. The seats outside are the same ones they used to sit at, talking about nothing late into the night. The same streets Suho would drag him onto his motorcycle, going on late night drives through the city. Everything in Gangnam, and everything in Seoul as a whole continues to remind him of Suho. Sieun stares at his feet, fists clenched by his sides, breath hitching.
He looks up and sniffs at the same time another person walks in, the door chiming again. In his peripherals, there’s a flash of dark hair and the same blue flannel from earlier. He pauses in his step, wiping his eyes free of unshed tears. The man looks at him from across the store, averting his eyes when he meets Sieun’s own.
Weird. His attention goes back to the fridges in front of him. There is still no cure to his indecision, so he just selects something at random and just hopes it’s sweet.
The clerk from earlier eyes him up and down multiple times as he sets the drink on the counter. It must be a sight to see— a nerdy-looking frail highschool student with wounds on his face and bloodstains on his shirt. He doesn’t care what she thinks of it, but the feeling of eyes lingering on the tear lines on his face is a little uncomfortable.
Finally, after enough inspection, she runs the scanner over the barcode on the drink. It makes an electronic beep sound and registers on the screen facing him.
“1500 won.” She says cheerfully.
All too late, Sieun realizes he doesn’t have his wallet. In fact— he doesn’t have anything on him at all, save for Suho’s pink pillow. He idles in place, racking his mind for what he can do. Is there any change in his pockets? His shirt?
“Sir?” The clerk looks down at him expectantly. He meets her gaze, slightly wide-eyed because of his situation. Mentally, he gives a farewell to the drink and—
A figure appears next to him, seemingly out of nowhere. Sieun jumps back a few steps out of the suddenness of the action. The same blue flannel again enters his field of vision, and he looks up at the man next to him. The man has a few inches of height over Sieun, so he looks down at him from the corner of his eyes with something indiscernible in his gaze.
“I—”
Before Sieun can begin to say anything, he’s cut off.
“It’s fine,” The man says, more to him than to the clerk. There’s a wallet in his hands and a small basket of other goods that he places on the counter, ignoring Sieun’s confusion at the whole sequence of events. “Can you add these as well?”
The clerk is visibly a little confused by the interaction, but doesn’t address it and rings up the rest of the items. It’s strange, and more than a little sudden but frankly, Sieun doesn’t have the energy in him to care. He’ll take the drink and leave, simple as that.
—
Or, at least, that’s what he plans on doing. When the beeping sound in the background of his thoughts ceases, he finds himself outside of the convenience store, where the man was sitting earlier.
It’s cold. It feels similar to earlier, being in front of the open fridges, lingering while trying to decide on something. Here the lights are less harsh with his back to the fluorescents.
Sieun’s arms hang in between his legs, nothing to do. The longer he sits still with no movement, no adrenaline to power him, the weaker he begins to feel. The cast rests heavy on his right arm.
Footsteps approach him from behind as he picks at the plaster.
Sieun stares blankly as a bowl of ramyun is slides towards him, alongside the drink he intended on buying earlier. He didn’t buy this. He didn’t want it. Hell, Sieun is half sure he won’t be able to stomach it at the moment.
In lieu of acknowledging the food in front of him, he picks up the drink instead. Strawberry milk. The foil seal is run between the tips of his fingers, as he picks incessantly without much purpose.
Sieun doesn’t look up for a long time. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the kindness he’s been granted, partially because he can’t process it. The ramyun and the strawberry milk feel foreign to him.
“You should probably eat before it gets cold,”
Sieun blinks. Looks up from his hands and pauses in his movements. He takes the first good look at the man who paid for his food in the silence that follows.
He’s late-twenties, early thirties at most, but still looks young. Slightly long, dark hair, and somewhat harsh eyes and a neutral expression, unreadable. Healthy-looking. Subtly toned arms. A white shirt under his blue flannel. Nothing strange, perfectly inconspicuous.
Someone who’d walk by him, pretending not to notice his state or maybe sneer at him. Not buy his drink and give him food.
The man looks back at him. Raises his eyebrows and tilts his head towards the bowl of noodles. Internally, Sieun begrudgingly admits that it does smell good and he does feel a little hungry…
He tears open the pair of disposable chopsticks. The man’s lips quirk slightly, but turns his head back to his own noodles.
The first bite makes him realize just how hungry he was. Sieun in general doesn’t like spicy things—he’s always leaned more towards sweets— but right now, the noodles somehow taste better than usual.
Despite this, he tries to eat slowly. As he enjoys the small luxury of toppings he’s been granted, the man pulls out his phone, presumably to shoot off a text to someone. Sieun looks up and pauses. So does the man.
“My… roommate,” He says, before Sieun can ask (he wasn’t going to). There’s a barely noticeable hesitation before ‘roommate,’ to which Sieun doesn’t acknowledge. He doesn’t intend to talk or hold any more conversation than he absolutely needs to.
The food helps a little bit, but his wounds are far from healed. Both physically and emotionally. That is something no stranger could begin to mend.
Sieun eats in silence. The strawberry milk is sweet when he drinks it. He focuses on the taste rather than the awkwardness that has fallen in the silence. However thankful he’s expected to be doesn’t override his lack of desire to speak.
“So…Yeon Sieun?” The man says.
Sieun freezes. He’s been less than aware of everything going on, but he knows he didn’t give his name to the man in front of him. He squeezes Suho’s pink pillow.
“...How do you know my name?” His voice sounds worn and weak even to him, raspy from the crying and yelling. He hopes the bloodstains on his clothes are menacing enough.
Sieun has only been in a fight with an adult once before; Gilsu, at the amusement park. This man is unarmed, but he can sense a physical strength. If he were to make the first move, he could—
The man snorts. It sounds like a laugh. Sieun looks at him, slightly bewildered for the second time this night. The man lifts his chopsticks from his noodles and points towards Sieun’s shirt.
“Your uniform,” He says, and Sieun feels a little stupid when he realizes. “Your name is on your uniform.” He looks down at the bloodstained clothing and low-and-behold, there it is, custom-tailored. Yeon Si-eun.
“Oh.” It’s a dumb response. He feels dumb. The man snorts again.
“Yoon Jongwoo,” He says. Sieun looks at him, not understanding. “My name.”
Sieun just stares at him. No pleasantries fall from his mouth. He has no voice for politeness, not anymore. Somehow Jongwoo understands this, and doesn’t penalize him or even bring it up at all.
A silence falls between them. Somehow, it lacks the awkward undertone it had earlier, only disrupted by sounds of eating from either of them.
Sieun, surprisingly, is the one who breaks it. When he takes the last bite of his food, he finally looks up.
“I can’t pay you back.” It is frank. Not rude but non-negotiable.
Jongwoo blinks back at him, then waves his hand as if to brush it off. “It’s fine,” He says, turning back to his own bowl of ramyun. “I didn’t expect you to anyways.”
Unnecessary kindness after unnecessary kindness. Sieun will never understand it. He tries to.
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t have bought it for you if I thought you were going to pay me back.”
“No, not that. Why did you buy this for me at all?” Sieun asks.
That makes Jongwoo pause. He halts in his thought, visibly mulling over his words and what to say. “You looked hungry.” Among other things, goes unsaid. It hits Sieun harder than he thinks it does.
The tears come unconsciously. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until it drips onto the table, to the side of his empty bowl of noodles. The emotions from earlier and his exhaustion all come back onto him, rushing onto Sieun in a flood of tears.
Jongwoo startles when he notices. “Hey, uh, Kid, I’m—”
“I’m sorry—” They say in unison.
It’s too much. He can’t stop it. He rubs his palm into his tear ducts, trying to keep it from coming out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear a familiar voice, laughing about the absurdity. Crying all of a sudden? Sieun-ah, you’re sensitive at heart, aren’t you? The voice is clear in his thoughts— he can almost hear it, if he tries hard enough.
He left his heart in that hospital room, and it’s coming running back to him right now. Sitting idle with a stranger is too familiar of an action. Too many times, it’s been him with someone else.
Sieun is quick to wipe his tears with his cast-arm. The rough material drags over his eyelids as he hangs his head.
Jongwoo sighs. “Don’t use that to wipe it,” He passes a wad of napkins to Sieun, who accepts it graciously. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.”
“Thank you.” It’s all he can manage. He lets a few moments pass before he continues on. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Jongwoo asks. Sieun can see him calculate what to say in the silence that follows. “Actually, don’t answer that. You don’t need to apologize. Drink.”
Jongwoo nudges the strawberry milk closer to Sieun. He sips slowly.
“But I do want to ask,” This time, it’s a little more hesitant coming out of Jongwoo’s mouth. “Why is there blood all over your clothes? I mean, you’re…”
Small. Frail. Weak.
Sieun is all of those things, but he is intelligent enough to make up for all of his flaws. He keeps himself from saying
‘The blood’s not mine’
and settles for a half-assed excuse.
“I fell down the stairs.”
Jongwoo’s lips quirk. “Really now.” But he doesn’t pry further. “You shouldn’t walk around like that. People will think you got into a fight.”
And then he’s standing up and taking off his flannel, draping it over Sieun’s hunched over figure. Sieun just looks at him blankly for the nth time this night. His arms slip into the pale blue fabric, the remaining warmth emanating onto his body. The fabric is worn but still soft. Comfortable. It feels nice and shelters him from the slight chill outside.
“For the blood. Try and get that cleaned out as soon as possible. Baking soda and water should work well enough.” Sieun nods in a vague affirmative, clutching the edges of the flannel. He runs his fingers against it repetitively, running through the stray and frayed threads.
“Do you have anywhere to go?”
No. Comes his immediate answer. Instead of blurting that out, he tries to ponder it. He could return home. To an empty apartment and hide in his room with only his thoughts for company. Or his father would be there with him, interrogating his already exhausted self beyond measure. Sieun can hear his father’s voice already nagging him for his physical state. Most of all, he just wants a place to rest. To sleep and preferably only wake up when Suho does.
Walk home with a hollow heart but full stomach and new(?) flannel on his body.
“You don’t look like you can walk much further. I can drive you?” The last sentence is in a questioning tone. Jongwoo continues on without realizing Sieun’s internal contemplation.
The only other alternative is to walk across Seoul with the stoplights as his companion. The bus line has long since passed its running time, and he’s not sure he has his pass at all. So Sieun nods slowly, wiping his eyes once more.
The drive is a blur. He wishes he could prolong the experience, keep himself away from that place for as long as his mind perceives it as, and crash the moment he gets home. But he sits in the front seat, and forgets all of it.
He only realizes the drive is over when the car stops with a slight halt. Jongwoo looks over at him from the driver’s seat. Sieun glances out the window to his apartment complex.
In front of the building, Sieun can do nothing except incline his head and whisper a “thank you” before he leaves.
Jongwoo waves his hand up and down. “It’s nothing,” Except it’s not, and he’s probably the reason Sieun isn’t passed out somewhere. “I just needed to see you get home safely.”
“Wash your shirt as soon as possible. Blood will stain the longer you leave it in.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Be safe!” Jongwoo calls out as Sieun leaves. He turns back and waves a farewell.
A complete stranger treated him better than most of the other seventeen-year-olds at his school, better than most adults and teachers in his life. He stands in front of his apartment door for a long time recollecting his thoughts.
Too late, he realizes he still has the flannel on. The warmth lingers on his skin. He sighs and opens the door, casted fingers wrapping around the edge of the cloth.
The apartment is empty. He feels a little more hollow and a little more full, but still distinctly empty. He heads straight to his bedroom, forgets to remove the blue flannel and falls asleep on top of Suho’s pink pillow.