Chapter Text
Junhui does not believe in fate.
When he was 5, his father had walked out the door. Although children very rarely remember anything at this point in time, he can still distinctly recall the look on the older man’s face when he stepped out of their house and loudly shut the front door behind himself. He never understood, though, what it meant. Only that his mother spent the next few years tucking him in his sleep, and when she’d thought that his breathing was steady, she’d let the tears trickle down her porcelain skin. Whispering about how he had gone and become a ghost, wandering anywhere but at the place he once called home.
At 15, Junhui had spent meaningful hours of his summer on his brand new computer, searching for the best word to describe that expression he had seen. Despite his neighbor, Wonwoo, constantly peeping through his bedroom window, waiting for when he’d come out to ride their bikes along the street. Despite his younger brother softly knocking on his door, begging him to make their afternoon snack together. Despite his mother, still with her beautiful features, albeit slowly wearing down to time, asking with worried eyes when he’d become so distant.
Nothing ever came of his search. Not because words were difficult to find, but because not one could be linked to the pain that had since seeped through his body and created cracks so big that the foundation of his beliefs in love and fate and family were slowly caving in.
When he turned 18, Junhui celebrated his birthday with his neighbor and high school friends. Wonwoo, whose presence was slowly becoming more difficult to disregard, was right beside him, holding his birthday cake while softly whispering, "I hope your wish is the first to reach whoever’s up there,” while muffled singing echoed through the room. When he’d turned to the younger, his warm, brown eyes sparkled with the flames of the candles and his soft, yet kind smile was all his vision allowed him to see. And Junhui thought, well, if this is what it means to be found, I will gladly stop by. So, he blew the candle, and etched in his prayers were the words Jeon Wonwoo and healing.
At 20, Wonwoo had somewhat forbidden him from reading the dictionary. There were no words, per se, but there were looks. Concern, for the most part, but also unease. The kind he had seen from his mother all throughout his high school years and even before he left for university. That look, he slowly realized, must be the way someone looks at a ticking time bomb, seconds away from unraveling a disaster that could not be stopped and would do all that it takes to hurt. Despite that, Wonwoo had never turned away. He was immovable, like the bedside table from Junhui’s childhood bedroom that could not be pushed away or thrown out the door. He held the older’s hands, palms rough with callouses from midnight weightlifting sessions, and let his lips press softly on each knuckle. Even when they were almost defaultly clenched into fists, he would slowly uncurl each finger and place them on top of his living, beating heart.
Wonwoo did not understand, nor did he try to. But he was there. Steady and unmoving.
Until he wasn’t. At 24 years old, Wonwoo walked out the very same way his father did 19 years ago. The same way Junhui can now vaguely describe as a single word.
Firm.
With steely eyes and a tight grip, Wonwoo opened the door and left the life he and Junhui had slowly, yet steadily built. Had his mother felt it, back then? The hollowness, a strong feeling of nothing crawling up to his chest until it threatened to come out of his mouth like bile? His mind wracked for an answer, for a semblance of familiarity that could help him feel grounded. What he knew, however, was that the cries resonating around the suffocating walls were not unlike a familiar childhood melody.
He remembered how he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked his body for hours, but not when he gave in to sleep. When he awoke the next day, it was to the sounds of soft knocks and a low call of his name. He took heavy steps to the door and opened it to see the furrowed brows of Minghao. Without words, he let the younger step inside and engulf him in his arms.
He remembered how they stayed like that for what felt like hours but, in truth, were some short minutes. Minghao said nothing, even when his shirt turned damp from tears as the older tried not to choke on his sobs. He let him do all of this, because this was the type of kindness Junhui had always shown with sincerity to anyone who came into his life.
Junhui didn’t need to ask. Minghao came because Mingyu knew, and Mingyu knew because Wonwoo called. And Junhui knew, because, well. He knew Wonwoo. The man was gone, but he was not cruel. He was resolute, but never unkind. Because, like Junhui, kindness was his language when words failed to hold meaning.
And it was like that, for a while. Minghao knocking at early hours of the day, Junhui stumbling to the door from a slumber he could not recall had ever taken over. Minghao arriving whenever he was free, sometimes alone, or with a bottle of soju, or other times with a hesitant Soonyoung or a pensive Mingyu. Throughout all of that, kindness was a constant.
During one of those days, Junhui stated that he didn’t believe in fate. Everything came by choice. His linguistics degree he had chosen to get. The company he had contacted and chosen to work for. His mother, sending him a text once every week, sharing stories from home and reminding him to take care of himself because it’s hard to rely on hazy figures that promise forever.
“Wonwoo. That was an interesting choice.” Minghao stated from the rim of his cup.
“Was it?” Junhui asked, even though he felt himself gasping for air.
Minghao hummed, his eyes fluttering closed. “Most would say practical. He was your next-door neighbor, right?” and Junhui nodded, despite the other not being able to see.
“He was more than that.”
“Of course,” Minghao replied, agreeing. “He was the guy who made you stop reading dictionaries because you drove yourself into a wall thinking of how to define your coward of a father.”
Silence.
“Only to leave the exact same way he did.”
“I don’t know,” was all Junhui could say.
That was that. Minghao never brought him up again, nor did Soonyoung nor Mingyu nor anyone else who knew the both of them and had witnessed, firsthand, how Junhui spent his nights kneeling beside his bed, calling to the god who listened to his prayer when he was 18 to open their ears once again.
At 25, Junhui finally understood why Wonwoo left.
Wonwoo had grown tired. Maybe Junhui had nothing else to give. He could see it. There was no more substance to him, nothing but self-pity and the ever-growing need for a deity to mend the wounds from having family taken away and torn to pieces. His entire life had been shaped to never reconcile with his father or himself, to always identify with kindness so that no one would ever have any reason to leave.
Maybe Wonwoo saw right through him. Felt that the kindness was a ruse by desperate 5-year-old Junhui who begged and begged for the same thing returned. And Wonwoo had enough of the wallowing, the acts of service that were passed with expectant eyes. Return to sender. What a pathetic deal.
At least, that’s what he thought. No one could confirm. Not even Mingyu, who was still as close to Wonwoo at 24 as he was at 19. He had been adamant from the very start that he would never choose a side. So, that gave birth to sealed lips and feigned ignorance.
It’s not like Junhui asked, either. Despite the way the younger had left, he respected Wonwoo and his silence, never asking any questions—why he picked up his belongings and left his set of keys on the kitchen island on the day that Junhui had an out-of-town trip, or why his contact was suddenly unreachable after the initial unanswered calls.
It was easier, that way, to mend the distance of where his heart had shattered. Junhui, with graceful steps not unlike a dancer’s, leapt to each broken piece, gently swaying like tides controlled by the bright moon.
At 26, Junhui understands that healing is nonlinear.
When he stops by the craft shop near his apartment and stares a second too long at the fox decal stuck to the glass wall, or when he skims through online shopping sites, thinking of a nice camera to gift himself. Moments in passing that do not signify much, but are inherent choices to think. To remember.
Slowly, his friends start re-introducing the name that now felt foreign in his own mouth. In passing, like a footnote to an interesting thought or a vivid memory. Junhui doesn’t mind nor reacts the way he did a year ago. Back then, the mere sound of that first syllable would have him begging for release, desperately learning to inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Now, although his breathing still slightly hitches, there is a masked expression of indifference as he nods along to the conversation. Like this, he feels braver, ignoring the blood dripping from his fingers as he picks up broken pieces and reminds himself to wash away the dry patches clinging to his skin.
Jihoon makes it a habit to visit often, to Junhui’s surprise. Wrapped in the silence of his living room, he listens intently to rhythms that resemble forgotten memories and longing stares because, like Junhui, he does not rely on just words to explain how his heart beats.
Chan, too, comes after his afternoon classes in university. Spread across his arms are packs of fried chicken and fizzling soda that leaves an explosion of warmth in Junhui’s stomach. Jeonghan, who was never one to meddle, comes with unopened Lego boxes that he refuses to pack away before leaving. “For days when your brain talks too much,” as his parting words, saying goodbye with kind eyes and a gentle squeeze on his forearm.
From then on, Junhui’s routine is somewhat constant: waking up at dawn, working until dusk, and coming home to a friend or two waiting at his doorstep with gummy smiles and an assortment of goods. He slowly becomes comfortable, remnants of being hit by brisk passerby who don’t apologize for the trouble they’ve caused neatly packed away in a corner in his mind.
It’s good, like this. Safe. But healing is nonlinear, isn’t it?
Because when he comes home from work, thinking of the video game Seungcheol had been texting him about non-stop, unassuming of what is to come, Wonwoo shows up.
On his doorstep. The very same one the soles of his worn-out loafers had padded across when he vanished into thin air.
Wonwoo, who is kind, resolute, and firm, who very rarely shows up unannounced, always accusing surprise as a form of dishonesty. He’s right there, no longer a hazy figure in Junhui’s jumbled thoughts. Lips pursed thin, posture awkward but steady. He looks up, meets his eyes, and Junhui hears answered prayers.