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Hyunjin died seven months ago.
It was so stupid. A car accident, on the way home from the convenience store, one summer evening. It was swelteringly hot and dusk was settling in and Hyunjin just wasn’t looking where he was going -
In the end, Hyunjin supposes, he died for the sake of a candy bar and two energy drinks.
(One of which was for Minho. Hyunjin would like to think Minho doesn’t blame himself for that, but. He knows better.)
Hyunjin remembers the screeching of car brakes, the loud - almost comical - smack of his body against gravel, the pain. And not much else, after that.
It’s rather odd, to be dead. Hyunjin thinks he should be more upset about it, but his emotions feel so very far away. He walks around with floating steps, in a facsimile of his once-body, and wonders how long he will stay. Ghosts can’t remain forever, surely.
And with every day, his thoughts blur, a little more. He feels less and less - present.
Less human.
After three months, he could not quite picture his eomma’s face, anymore.
After seven -
Hyunjin is an outline, he thinks, of a person who used to be.
A memory.
But even imprints of once-people can feel boredom, and if Hyunjin must remain walking the earth for a while longer, he might at least follow around his once-friends. It is good, even as the not-person Hyunjin decides he is, to have a purpose.
His friends are at the club.
Hyunjin isn’t sure if it’s the first time for them since his death, or not - recently, he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness, losing weeks at a time.
It feels like his atoms are dissipating, and then recombining, only for the bonds to let go of each other once again.
Hyunjin is trying to hold himself together, as much as he can, but he can’t quite remember why.
There is something unfinished. Something he needs to - say? To fix.
And all that is left of his life are the people Hyunjin used to call his friends.
So, the club.
Minho stands at the bar, knocks back shot after shot, straight vodka. Unusual for him, he typically orders a rum and coke, and savours it, sipping slowly. Lets Hyunjin finish off his drink, if he pouts and begs prettily enough. Chan, next to Minho, is looking worried, making extravagant hand signals across the club at Felix, who is too busy grinding on Jisung to notice. Hyunjin wonders vaguely why Chan is so distressed, but thoughts have become - difficult, for him to hold on to.
Jeongin is at the other end of the bar, chatting up a girl with tattoos all up her arms and wicked eyeliner.
Get it, Jeongin-ah, Hyunjin thinks, very distantly amused.
His attention shifts, and he instead drifts over to Changmin and Seungmin, who are huddled together in a booth, Changbin’s arm swung around Seungmin’s bony shoulders. There is a feeling of vindication, somewhere, deep inside Hyunjin - those two idiots finally got their shit together! And it only took the untimely death of one of their closest friends, who would have guessed -
But it fades quickly.
All feelings, for Hyunjin, fade quickly.
Perhaps, he should let go, here. He could do it, he knows. He is holding his consciousness together through sheer strength of will, but it would be so easy… To slip away… To dissipate into nothingness, in this dark room heaving with living, flesh bodies, including those of the people he loves.
Loved.
How tired he is. How much effort it takes to hold on.
He could just…
A chattering group of teenagers, barely legal if they even are, walk right through Hyunjin, and he shivers. Not a nice sensation, that. He’s still - sort-of here, after all, sort-of anchored to the world. They should have more tact! How would they like to be walked through? The indignation centres Hyunjin, pulls him into the present.
Felix is yanking Minho, away from his ever-growing collection of shot glasses on the bartop, leading him to the dance floor.
Stirrings of interest.
Hyunjin follows.
Hyunjin can’t feel the heavy vibrations of sound, can barely hear the pounding music. But he can watch Minho dance, between Jisung and Felix, and just the act of watching is almost enough to make Hyunjin think he could join in. To make him feel human.
Minho looks beautiful, like this, under the strobe lights, his body moving fluidly against other bodies, seemingly without thought, or worry.
How Hyunjin loves him.
Ah, he thinks, ah. He tries to clutch at the burst of feeling, so overpowering, all-consuming, to hold it tight - it is so much, too much, too overwhelming for the atoms Hyunjin has left. He loves Minho, he loves Minho.
He lets the feeling colour in the outline that is left of him.
Hyunjin is barely a person. Hyunjin barely exists.
Hyunjin is his love for Minho.
And for a brief split-second, Minho’s eyes meet Hyunjin’s, and Minho sees him.
Really, truly, sees him.
It’s the first time anyone has noticed Hyunjin’s existence in seven months, but he doesn’t have time to relish the moment, because Minho is already breaking away, stumbling off the dance floor, ignoring Felix and Jisung calling after him, fighting his way through the crowd of people, until he’s out of the club altogether.
Hyunjin can just about recall the rush of cool air, the relief of leaving the sweaty, heaving mass of people, for the nighttime outdoors. How refreshing it could be, to be alive.
The bouncer watches Minho with some concern as he staggers down a side alleyway.
No way will he let Minho back inside, when Minho pulls himself together.
Well, Hyunjin thinks, a flash of guilt and humour, as he slips past the bouncer. …Seeing me has probably ruined his night out.
Minho is sitting on the ground, leaning against a brick wall. His head is in his hands, his knees are curled up to his chest so tightly it looks like he’s trying to disappear. Hyunjin floats to the floor lightly, cross-legged, in front of him.
Waits patiently for Minho to lift his head.
He doesn’t know if - it was a fluke. Maybe Minho will look up, and look through Hyunjin, like he has every single other time these past, awful months.
(How it hurt, when Hyunjin could remember enough to feel the pain. A hot coal at the centre of his chest, just about where his heart used to be.)
Maybe then Hyunjin will finally, finally let go.
But Hyunjin is clearer-headed, less blurry around the edges, than he has felt in weeks. Maybe the miracle effects of the cold night air work on incorporeal spirits, too.
Maybe Hyunjin needed to remember his reason to stay.
“I’ve gone insane,” Minho is saying, staring at Hyunjin, horror-stricken. “Oh, my God, I’ve lost it. I’ve finally lost it -”
Hyung, Hyunjin says, sadly. He doesn’t know if he’s making a noise. He doesn’t have vocal cords, after all.
Can Minho hear him? Hyunjin would like it, if Minho could hear him.
“Hyunjin-ah,” Minho says. He rakes a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s about to cry. Hyunjin hopes he doesn’t cry. It makes Hyunjin want to cry, and he can’t anymore. He’s tried.
You’re not hallucinating, Hyunjin says. It actually would be quite offensive to me, to assume I only exist in your head.
Minho makes a choked noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“I missed you, idiot,” Minho says. His hands are trembling in his lap, Hyunjin notices. “I miss you.”
And Hyunjin doesn’t say, I’m right here. Because he isn’t. Not anymore. Not really.
I know, hyung, Hyunjin says instead. He can’t tell Minho he misses him, either, because he doesn’t, not yet. He’s been following Minho, all this time. I’m going to miss you too. He stops to consider. There’s lots I’m going to miss. The wind, I think, Hyunjin adds, pensively. And sunsets. I’m going to miss sunsets.
“You were always too romantic for your own good,” Minho says. The eyeliner Felix forced on him is running. In the light of the lone amber streetlamp, he looks very dramatic and very emo and very sad.
And hot. Minho always looks hot.
Hyunjin would tell him that, if only Minho would stop crying.
“How are you still here?” Minho whispers.
Hyunjin doesn’t know, in all honesty.
I guess I just wanted to say goodbye, hyung. Before I go.
“But I don’t want you to go,” Minho says, almost petulant.
Drink always makes Minho cute, grumpy, or an absolute menace. Sometimes all three.
(Those times are Hyunjin’s favourites.)
“I can’t enjoy anything, anymore. You infected every corner of my life. Everything reminds me of you. I can’t even bring myself to throw away your fucking toothbrush. What do I do now? What am I supposed to do now?”
Uh, get rid of my toothbrush, says Hyunjin. Please don’t use my old toothbrush. People grieve differently and all, but that would definitely be weird, hyung.
“Brat,” Minho says, but his voice wobbling makes it less severe than he was probably aiming for. Hyunjin doesn't call him out on it. “I can’t even enjoy dancing now, asshole. How have you ruined dance for me?”
Don’t say that, Hyunjin pleads, alarmed.
Dance is who Minho is.
Hyunjin can't take that from him, too.
“Nobody else in dance class is anything like as good as you,” Minho says, laughing shakily. “I keep looking around, expecting to see you practicing, or - arguing with Yeonjun-ssi, or anything, but you’re not, and you never will be again, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to deal with that. How am I supposed to care about dance showcases or competitions or auditions when you’re supposed to be there? When you’re supposed to be next to me?”
There’s only so much Hyunjin can deflect.
I’m sorry, he says, tiredly.
He has his own grief, buried somewhere, about the loss of his future. He can’t carry Minho’s, as well. He can barely hold himself together as it is.
“Don’t apologise to me,” Minho says, sharply, although the effect of his glare is diminished by his face, streaked with mascara and with tears. “Don’t you dare fucking apologise for dying, Hyunjin-ah, as if it were your choice -”
Don’t be mean to me, hyung, Hyunjin says.
He leans his nonexistent bodyweight back, against his hands. Shakes out his dark hair, which is blurry and indeterminate, at the edges. He can’t tell the different strands apart. Hyunjin had wanted to shave it all off. To try out something new. Now he’ll never get the chance.
He laughs lightly, and says, I think I’m going soon, so. Don’t be mean to me.
“...It’s just not fair, I should be scolding you for leaving your dishes in the sink, for forgetting your facial expressions, for turning your head half a beat too early -”
Hyung, Hyunjin says. His giggle is airy. Do all your fantasies about me being alive again involve yelling at me?
Minho stares at him, dark eyes glittering. With tears, and. Something else.
“No,” he says, on an exhale, half a beat too late. “Not all of them, Hyunjin-ah.”
Hyunjin thinks about kissing Minho. He would taste like vodka, and lip gloss. His lips would be warm.
When he was alive, he had wanted to kiss Minho. He had thought they would -
At some point. Get their shit together. Like Changbin and Seungmin.
He had thought they had time.
Minho’s hands are trembling, still, in his lap. Hyunjin wants to reach out. Wants to feel the rough, sweaty heat of human skin.
Hyunjin keeps his hands by his sides.
Death is bearable.
His translucent fingers passing through Minho’s, an utter absence of any feeling where once there would have been touch, would not be.
Minho-hyung, Hyunjin says, I need you to know it wasn't your fault.
They don't - do this, him and Minho. Emotional conversations and all. Not their thing.
But this is important.
“I should have been there,” Minho says, immediate. “I should have known I couldn't trust you to cross the street by yourself -”
You can blame me, Hyunjin says, somewhat relieved. I don't mind. As long as you forgive yourself, hyung.
“I’m so fucking mad at you, Hyunjin-ah,” Minho exhales. His eyes are half-lidded, now, like he might be just about to fall asleep, pass out right here on the street.
…I know, Hyunjin says. That might have hurt, once upon a time, but Hyunjin’s mercurial emotions are flattening, again. If his love for Minho could have been painted in bright colour, broad brushstrokes, when he was alive, it would now be rendered in greyscale. Hyunjin is somewhere Minho’s anger cannot reach, and his slippery grasp on his elusive sense of himself is loosening. That’s okay.
Minho groans, pained. “That’s not what you're supposed to say.”
Hyunjin’s control is weakening.
He tries to anchor himself in reality - Minho’s nails are painted black, the handiwork of one of their friends, in all probability -
Hyunjin can't remember their names, and can't remember why that should make him sad.
Hyunjin slips and slips. His form flickers. He doesn’t have long.
He wonders if Minho can tell.
Minho doesn’t talk, but he looks at Hyunjin like he's trying to memorise Hyunjin’s features. Like he’s trying to immortalise Hyunjin in time.
Like he loves Hyunjin.
But Hyunjin knew that, already.
“Is it,” Minho says, “Difficult. To stay? To be here, with me? To be here at all?”
Hyunjin nods.
“Do you need me to - do you need my permission, Hyunjin-ah?”
Hyunjin thinks about it. Not really, but.
That would be nice, hyung.
“You did well, Hyunjin-ah,” Minho says. His voice cracks. His hands are trembling. “You held on for so long. You - you made sure to wait for this stupid hyung to see you. To say goodbye. But you can.”
Minho stops, and closes his eyes. He’s crying again. Dimly, somewhere distant, with the last remnants of himself, Hyunjin wishes for his paints. Minho looks so beautiful in the lamplight.
“You can go now.”