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Chan's gait taps a metronomic beat on the sidewalk, a three-part step step click, step step click of his shoes and cane as he makes his way through the seedier part of the city. The area is sparsely populated at this time of day despite the density of buildings, mostly semi-abandoned office spaces with permanent for lease signs that host more junkies than working professionals. Those who dare to brave the streets give Chan a wide berth. The afternoon sun hits him in slices where it passes between the buildings; he pushes his sunglasses higher up his nose.
Dr. Seo Changbin's laboratory is six floors up in one of the less run-down buildings. About a third of the offices on the level have been entirely gutted and transformed—Chan is sure that every bit of it violates the terms of the lease. Most of the space is taken up by an assortment of computers and esoteric equipment. One wall is lined with storage cabinets and a few industrial refrigerators, half of them locked. In the back is a curtained-off operating theater. Chan had only seen inside once when Changbin stepped out to greet him. Sterile draping surrounded a reclined hospital bed, brightly lit from above like a macabre art installation. A man laid on top with an I.V. line running to his arm, head lolled to one side and skin waxy. Chan hadn't been sure if he was dead or alive. Changbin had just smiled warmly and asked if the traffic had been bad.
Today, Chan finds him scribbling at his desk, glancing between his notes and the computer screen. Changbin doesn't acknowledge his arrival but he knows it's been noted. He sets his briefcase on a relatively clear table, cane and sunglasses placed neatly on top, and comes to stand behind Changbin. The mix of chemical equations and shorthand on the page is entirely illegible to Chan. He pinches the bridge of his nose briefly and looks elsewhere before the haphazard chicken scratch worsens his already splitting headache. Changbin takes another minute to finish and then cranes his head backward to give him an upside down smile. "Hello, Mr. Bang."
"Hello, Dr. Seo," Chan says coolly in return.
"How is my favorite patient today?"
"Busy. Do you mind?"
Changbin heaves a put-upon sigh. He tosses his notebook onto the desk and stands, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. "Would it kill you to come by just to say hello?"
Chan's mouth twitches. It might have been a smile if he weren't feeling so tetchy. He supposes he would consider Changbin a friend. People like them have little need for friends and even less desire for them. Still, having only himself for company is a bit too bleak even for him; that man is an absolutely wretched conversationalist. Changbin's… eccentricities, on the other hand, complement his own. He makes as suitable a friend as Chan could hope for even without considering the depth of their dependency on one another. Changbin keeps Chan's head on straight. Chan isn't sure exactly what he offers Changbin, only that the doctor doesn't smile and joke with his other patients. "We both know you're also too busy for social visits," he says.
Changbin laughs. "Good point." He retrieves a box from one of the cabinets, locking it behind him, and sets it on the table where Chan left his things. When Chan reaches for it, Changbin grabs his wrist. Chan nearly startles but tamps it down. Two fingers slip under the edge of his glove and press against his pulse. "Elevated," Changbin says after a moment. He lets go and reaches up to tug at Chan's lower eyelid with his thumb, inspecting his mismatched eyes one at a time, and clicks his tongue. "You've been stretching yourself." He taps on the box. "Stretching this. You know what happens when you do."
"Yes, thank you," Chan says drily. He opens the box. Inside, packed in neat rows, are repurposed I.V. bags of thick black liquid. The formula had been tricky for Changbin to figure out and, in the end, they agreed that it wasn't worth the effort to rework it for a more convenient delivery method. At least it's shelf stable. Chan opens one and swallows half. It tastes like metal, a bitter tang that stabs at the hinge of his jaw, but the effect is immediate. He feels… settled. Steady. It quiets the sensation of being bullied out of his own skin. Changbin huffs a little nose laugh and Chan knows his relief was too apparent. He clears his throat and reaches for his briefcase.
"It's a sixty day supply." Changbin leans against the table and crosses his arms. Chan takes a stack of rubber banded cash from his case—Changbin's supposed friends and family discount still leaves a considerable bill to pay—and sets it next to him. Changbin doesn't bother to count it. He watches Chan carefully repack the bags into his case. "Should I expect to see you on time for your next appointment or…?"
Chan shoots him a sideways glance but smiles at the dry teasing. Astounding, he thinks, how much humor one can find in himself when he no longer feels like his head is being cleaved in half. "How about this," he says, closing his briefcase with a snap. "If you don't see me in fifty-nine days, make a house call." He and Changbin stare one another down, a reversal of earlier; his easy smile against the doctor's cold glare. Chan doesn't believe it for a second. If it were real, he'd see that curious green shimmer in Changbin's eyes, color serving as an omen like the banding of a snake: danger, do not approach. As it is, he just sees dark brown. Safe, handle with care.
A moment passes and Changbin cracks, grinning wide. "You're the worst, Channie."
Chan slips his sunglasses back on and heads for the door. "That's some way to talk to your favorite patient," he calls over his shoulder. Changbin's soft chuckle echoes in the lab behind him.
+++
The cloudiness comes on slowly, so slowly that Chan doesn't notice at first, can't pinpoint when it began. Two days ago? Four? Overwork, he'd thought, Changbin's teasing voice rising from his memories to chide him. Hypocrite. So he'd eaten, slept, and still the cottony dullness clung to his mind. It's just enough to irritate him; tiny slips is all it is, here and there, but to Chan even a small misstep is unacceptable.
He's returned home for the day, dropping his briefcase next to the desk and tossing his coat in the direction of the sofa. The abandoned prison he's claimed as his own is far more run down than any of the places Changbin has used over the years—and his use of it far less legal—but he's managed to carve out a space he could almost call homey. Changbin may be alright with a cot shoved in the corner of his lab, but Chan has standards.
He thinks about putting on some coffee and even makes it halfway to the pot before remembering for the third time that he's out. Chan pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Unacceptable. If this keeps up, it may be worth the time to visit the good doctor agai—
Oh.
Chan manages to take two steps toward his desk before he makes his move. The haze in his brain gives way instantly to searing pain, like an icepick being driven through his skull. Chan staggers, knees and palms hitting the floor before he's aware of falling. He looks toward the desk, vision blurring. He keeps his medicine in the third drawer. Is there a bag left? If he listened to Changbin and took his full dose every day, there won't be, but Chan can't remember if he had and can't move to find out. Not now that he's here, holding him down, teeth on his neck. Chan laughs grimly. "Clever boy," he grits out. "How long have you been waiting, hm?"
He doesn't get an answer, of course. Chan's body seizes. It plays out in abstract, pushing and pulling, hands gripping throats, teeth snapping in mirror snarls. Dogs fighting over a carcass.
All the while, Chan writhes blindly on the floor.
+++
He gasps for air, spit flying from his lips, and feels. The transition is rough—always is, but especially so when he hasn't experienced the body in this long. Sensations overwhelm: the cold tile against his burning skin, pain everywhere, a tang like blood at the back of his throat. His stomach lurches and he vomits, emptying what little he'd eaten that day onto the floor. Once the heaving stops, he crawls on jellied limbs to collapse an acceptable distance from the mess.
Chan lays there, shaking and sweating, feeling like a newborn. He breathes. The pain ebbs. The shriek of sensory input quiets. He allows himself a moment to just be, to feel himself in his body.
It doesn't feel very good but at least it's his again.
Chan gets to his feet and half stumbles to the bathroom, shedding his tie and sweat soaked waistcoat on the way. He rinses his mouth out at the sink, splashes his face, and stares at himself in the mirror. Water drips from his chin and the ends of his disheveled hair. For just a second, he sees a flash of rage in his own eyes, feels the weak push against his consciousness. Chan laughs. Maybe he's being a sore winner but he thinks he's earned a bit of gloating. "Quit whining," he tells his reflection. "Be good while I clean up your mess."
He doesn't get the chance. The door down the hallway opens with a rough squeak. "House call, Mr. Bang!" The doctor. Chan looks back at the mirror, heart sinking. He looks like shit. If he had time, he could play the role—God knows he's had enough time to study his other self's mannerisms—and get rid of his visitor, but not looking like this. There'll be questions and the doctor is too shrewd to buy any excuse Chan might come up with. Two more options, think. Fight is out. Even considering his own enhancements, even if he were at full strength, he'd never win. That just leaves—
He bolts for the window. It rattles its case when he throws it open. One foot out and he has a half second to marvel at the feeling of sunlight on his skin before he's ripped back inside by his shirt collar. His back hits the floor—no, the wall, pinned by a hand on his throat. The doctor smiles at him with manic glee, green eyes dancing. "You've been naughty, haven't you, Channie?"
Chan thrashes, kicking and clawing. The doctor swats his hands away as easily as he would a fly. "Stop it," he's saying, though Chan can hardly hear him over the blood pounding in his ears. "Settle down now and behave." Chan couldn't if he wanted to; animal instinct is taking over, saying escape, run, he'll eat you alive. He lashes out and his fist connects with the doctor's face. It's hardly enough to make him flinch but his face goes dark, no longer amused by Chan's useless squirming. "I said stop!" he snarls, pulling Chan closer by his neck before slamming him back. Chan's head bounces on the concrete wall, vision graying at the edges. The fight seems to leak out of him and he can only pull pathetically at the doctor's fingers.
"There," the doctor says, soft again, like he's speaking to a child. He smiles. "That's much better." He lowers Chan to the floor, careful with him like he's fragile. Chan feels fragile; under the doctor's hands, under his green stare, he feels like a specimen. A pinned insect. His head swims. He tries to get away again, shoes scraping against the tile as he's laid down, but the doctor tuts and sits on his legs. "Fresh out of anesthesia," he says, smoothing Chan's hair back and ignoring his pushing hands. "We're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, I'm afraid."
"Please," Chan chokes. He didn't even know he'd opened his mouth until he hears himself begging. Useless, certainly, just like everything else, but fear pushes the words out anyway. "Please, don't—"
"Just let it happen, Channie. It'll be over a lot quicker." The doctor's hands come back to his throat, both of them now, and begin to squeeze. Chan pulls at his arms, tries to pry up his fingers. Useless. The vice tightens and he opens his mouth on an airless gasp. The doctor is saying something, soft and soothing, but Chan can't understand him anymore. Blood pounds in his head. His chest burns.
The last thing he sees before his eyes roll back is piercing green.
+++
When Chan comes to, the first thing he notices is that he's on the couch, head pillowed by his own wadded up coat. The second thing he notices is that everything fucking hurts. The full-body ache from his other self forcing his way to the surface is fading, or maybe it just seems that way compared to the throbbing in his head. Not icepick sharpness but something duller, more pedestrian. "You hit me," he rasps.
Changbin hums from the other end of the couch and turns the page of his book. He doesn't bother to look up but his lips twitch into a poorly concealed smirk. "You're welcome."
The memory is hazy, like it always is from the back seat. Floating senseless, only aware of what's happening in an abstract way. Secondhand information from the other side of the mirror. He recalls pain, panic, then silence. The color green. He sits up, suppressing a shudder. "You couldn't have showed up yesterday?"
"I'm a busy man, Channie. You aren't my only client."
Chan rubs the back of his head where a sizeable lump has formed. He doesn't even want to know what his neck looks like. "Yes, you look harried," he grumbles.
Changbin chuckles, finally shutting his book. "I was waiting for you to wake up. It's called good bedside manner." He smiles—a little too genuinely, all things considered. "You're my favorite patient, after all."
"You hit me."
"Oh, stop crying about it." Changbin drops the book in his bag and pulls out three I.V. pouches. "You'll have to come get the rest of your order at the lab but this'll buy you about a week. I dosed you already, so don't worry about today."
Now that he mentions it, Chan can faintly taste the medicine lingering in his mouth. There's a glass of water on the table. Changbin sets the pouches next to it. Chan glances toward the desk; the floor has been wiped clean. "Thank you," he says softly. He'll blame it on his sore throat.
Changbin doesn't say anything, just scoots closer to Chan and pokes and prods him as he tends to do. He checks his eyes, tilts his chin up to inspect the bruises on his neck. "How's your head?" he asks.
"I'll live," Chan says, reaching for the water. Changbin watches him take a few long drinks.
"Ibuprofen as needed," he says. "Have you reconsidered my offer?" Chan sets the glass down and arches a brow at the non-sequitur. A little smile tugs at Changbin's mouth. Not the warm one from before, but the kind he gets in the lab just before disappearing into the operating theater. Chan almost thinks he sees a spark of green. "Integration," Changbin says, almost breathless.
Chan sits up straighter, mouth fixed in a flat line. He'd nearly forgotten about the first time Changbin mentioned it, well over a year ago. It's just something we might think about, he'd said, as if he didn't surely have the entire procedure planned out to the last detail, typed up and filed away until the day he gets to use it. The thought makes Chan ill. Integration is a misnomer; it implies peace, cohabitation, a joining of two halves to make a whole. Chan is not half. One plus one does not equal one. Something has to give—has to be given up. It's not integration. It's an excision. Chan almost can't decide which is worse, to die or for him to die. Or maybe Changbin is right and he can mold them into a single being, but isn't that also death? The Chan that's left won't be either of them but a new Chan entirely. He'll have never existed before, have never looked in the mirror.
His head would be so quiet.
Whatever Chan does, he does for the both of them. He's tried to float that thought into the dark space behind his brain but the idiot doesn't listen, just snaps and sulks. So be it. He keeps his grip on the wheel, keeps the other him pushed down and sleeping, and does what needs doing.
"No," he says. Changbin is still looking at him. Chan picks up the glass again and looks at his watery reflection. "Don't ask me again, Seo." He drinks.
Changbin sighs and the manic look in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it had arrived. He slumps back into the sofa cushions. "What a waste," he teases. "Such a fascinating subject and I have to sit on my hands. Honestly, if you weren't my friend I'd just do it anyway." He laughs, as if it were truly funny. Chan knows he wouldn't stand a chance if Changbin decided he was done waiting for permission. He supposes its proof of the trust he has in the doctor that he isn't utterly terrified of him.
"If you weren't my friend I wouldn't have a fucking headache right now," he says.
Changbin snickers. "If you weren't my friend you'd have died in a ditch years ago." Chan tips his glass as if to say you've got me there. "Take your medicine, no skipping doses. Come to the lab before you run out," Changbin says. He takes his bag and heads for the door. "Call ahead and I may even have tea ready. Goodbye, Mr. Bang!"
"Goodbye, Dr. Seo," Chan replies. Changbin waves over his shoulder and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving Chan alone—or something like it, at least.