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Hyunjin has always been good at deflecting. If you are witty, and manage to turn your back fast enough to not notice the lamp glow, you can be granted many things: grace from that one math teacher, mercy from your mum, forgiveness from your friends; never your mind. Especially, most certainly, if it's about Yang Jeongin.
To orbit around him, he learned fast, may be one of the most challenging and simultaneously precious opportunities he got to experience. As all respectable creatures of habit do, in fact, Jeongin navigates reality in a methodical and sharp way; so much so, Hyunjin wouldn't blame any stranger for seeing in him a future surgeon (even though he knows better than to allow a guy who faints at the very first sight of blood inside an emergency room. Or an Hospital to begin with).
It's nothing in the words and all in the destroyed sole of his old shoes, that disgusting black coffee he drinks in one swift movement at 7am, the never ending weekly discussion with Felix about cheese on crab rangoon— Whenever an exam comes up he tries, against all odds, to not alienate destiny: no being mean, no raising your voice, no bad thoughts. If something hits a nerve, he simply flashes a half-assed smile that doesn't reach his eyes and hopes people won't notice the restless picking on his hands. His surprised gasp the moment Hyunjin quietly gives him a pack of bandaids, then, sounds like a secret, a promise of unyielding trust, meant for the two of them and no one else.
Because Jeongin, contrary to any belief, oh so stubbornly chooses him everyday; has been since highschool, if a pretty Hyung smacking a ball in your face during P.E is a good example of how one’s brain can be resetted to see just said boy: loudly, embarrassingly, persistently to the point all your friends still hear about it years later. Hyunjin doesn't know how to deal with this sort of devoted-to-loser pipeline his best friend decided to follow, even more so if it means facing the weight in his fragile heart. He hopes an epiphany hits him. Maybe, if he’s dedicated enough, he can pretend to be some 19th-century tortured poet lying on the floor as a gut-wrenching soundtra—
“Hyunjin? Yah, Hyunjin!”
The sudden contact of a hand on his shoulder -Seungmin’s, his brain suggests like it wasn’t eating itself seconds before- brings him back to reality. He feels his body jolt, vision still blurry as he’s pulled back enough for his head to touch the car seat. He pointedly ignores the burning sensation lingering in his chest, unsure whether to blame the safety belt pressing on his ribs, the ungodly amount of coffee he chugged to survive their almost 6 hours drive, or something else entirely.
“Jesus— Seungmin, don’t yell in my ears like that! Do you want me to turn deaf?” He whines, dramatic antics naturally surging, unsure of how he’s supposed to look at the very same guy who decided to give him a scare without breaking his neck in the process.
“That’s your definition of loud?” Seungmin’s audibly scoffs. A brief silence follows. Hyunjin doesn’t need any proof of him and Felix sharing an amused look. “I’m locking you in the car with Changbin next time.”
“Please don’t. I’d rather die than—“
“God, I see what you’re doing for others.” Felix interjects, a dreamy sigh leaving his mouth. What the hell?
Now it’s Hyunjin’s turn to stare. He makes it his own personal mission. His seat squeaks when he twists his body with urgency, Seungmin already roaring with laughter.
“…What?” Felix asks, like he didn’t say the craziest thing on earth.
“What do you mean What?” He mocks “You’d want to be locked in a car with Changbin?”
“Yes. No questions asked.”
Listen.
Hyunjin usually tries to be respectful of his friends’ preferences: he never points out that Han willingly wears mismatched socks. Or that Chan eats everything (and he means Everything) using cutlery. Or that Minho likes to take cold showers as if he’s trying to become one with the penguins. But this? This is where he draws the line.
“Nah man, you’re actually cra—“ a loud knocking against his window seat startles him all over again. His head whips around like second nature, and he’s almost ready to start trashing over his freedom of speech being constantly denied, until he meets a way too familiar pair of feline-looking eyes.
The universe really is after him today, isn’t it? He knew slandering the sky at 14 years old wasn’t a good idea. Percy Jackson be damned.
“Are you guys coming or not?” Coming where? Actually, when did they even stop? Minho’s voice sounds slightly muffled, but if the way Felix and Seungmin chaotically slide out of the car is anything to go by, he still was heard loud and clear.
Hyunjin watches the three of them for a moment. He doesn’t miss the way Minho softens at the sight of Seungmin approaching him, both of them suddenly looking shy; he takes a mental note to tease his roommate about it later. Felix, on the other hand, seems oblivious to the fond-gazing-competition taking place right beside him, too busy jumping with excitement and pointing at Bang Chan’s parents hou— Oh.
His surprise doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s only a matter of time before he hears a sigh being heaved at his side.
“I’ll take that you’re finally back on Earth?”
Of course Yang Jeongin would settle on speaking up only now. Hyunjin is quick to lose interest in the commotion on the other side of the glass; even quicker to redirect it towards the reason he had been so out of it to begin with. They’re already facing each other when he speaks back.
“Would it have been that hard to say ‘Hyunjin, we’re here’?”
“Well, that’s what I asked Seungmin to do.” Jeongin retorts, dimples threatening to show up. He tries his best to not stare. “Not my fault you’re both children with the attention span of a goldfish.”
It is, though.
In Hyunjin’s world, where people act accordingly and know how to recycle as God intended, he coughs and coughs until his heart falls out of his mouth. He holds it in the palms of his hands, stares at it not with the horror of someone who just lost a vital organ— rather, the relief of a child who almost choked on a piece of bread and is coming to the realization that not even air, against all odds, is free of cost. He gives it to Jeongin, who doesn’t care about the blood. About the blood ruining his car. About asking why the blood is there in the first place. Hyunjin doesn’t have to beg for him to accept it.
In this world he bites his tongue instead— hard enough to see black, as a punishment for all the times he dared to call himself an honest person. He is nothing but a liar.
He undoes his seatbelt, suddenly unable to hold the other’s gaze. “You’re so mean to me, Iyen-ah.”
Waiting for a reply would be useless, he decides, and so he leaves the car: a statement that doesn’t hold any real bite; that’s what it is. An overused joke between the two of them. His trembling laugh meant nothing.
The cold weather pinches his face as he runs towards Han, who is happily and comically signaling for him to join the rest of the group. Hyunjin knows, with unwavering certainty, that Jeongin is following without having to look back, because no matter how intense and frightening his own feelings are— their friendship is a ray; an everlasting, stable, familiar thing he can always come back to whenever he feels himself crumble. And maybe that’s all that counts.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Life hasn’t always been kind to Chan.
“So, what did your friends say? Are they coming over?” his mom’s voice, clearly full of joy even through the phone, used to make him wince. “Our new home is big enough to take in some boys, you know.”
It’s not like he considered himself the Grinch, alright? Yet winter break had become closer to a death sentence, and that call— a sort of cruel pre-execution torture, repeating itself over and over again each year.
“Eomma…” A silent plea. The family picture on the desk would accusingly stare back at him. Stop being a coward, it dared. But Chan—
“They all have their own things to do.”
Chan couldn’t. “I’m sorry”
Those words, so recurring for him and still so heavy, burned on his tongue. He had stopped asking himself what he was saying them for, what he truly meant; after all, two truths could exist at once: Chan held a river of apologies ready to catastrophically break, and his mum not enough towels to clean up nor survive the mess.
“Oh honey, don’t be.” How? “Better luck next year!” How? He wanted to ask. He wanted to know—
Is it luck to be stuck between two dimensions? To spend your birthday yearning for your grandma’s Miyeok-gulk and searching for the ocean in the reflection of your dining table? To realize you can’t pinpoint one’s taste nor the other’s sound? Is it luck to have your speech bubble written in korean while your thoughts run and trip and fall endlessly in English? To fight down your stupidly thick Australian accent, knowing you’re doomed to fail?
What is luck for someone like him if not the sting which comes from the proof that, once again, you can be wanted only split in half, never whole?
“If you say so…” he prayed for his tone to be convincing enough “I really have to go, ‘ma. Don’t wanna fall asleep on my test tomorrow.”
“Right, right. I forget my baby still needs his 10 hours of sleep at his big age.”
Chan would snort, then; a calculated act. “It’s the beauty sleep code, I told you.” He didn’t have it in him to confess that sleep had stopped coming easily during his first year of uni, and hadn’t yet found its way back to him.
“Goodnight. I love you”
He missed when he could still dream.
“I love you too, Channie.”
The line would be cut, and silence engulf him like a blanket. Conveniently, sitting in the discomfort of his old chair for hours on end used to serve as a distraction from the ache deep within his soul.
Now though, as Changbin loudly banters with Hannah and his dad displays with pride every picture he took while fishing for the other boys to see, Bang Chan is hit with a sudden, beautiful realization: his parents’ house, Christmas lights exploding in colors and laughter filling the living room, looks more lively than ever.
The buzzing in his heart keeps growing louder and louder every second he spends in the middle of it all, to the point he entirely forgets to question a detail that would usually bug any normal person: why is everyone on the floor? How did he end up being the only person on the couch? Is this another social convention he wasn’t on board with?
The view is so pretty from up here, still.
“You caught it all on your own?!” Han’s surprised gasp immediately catches his attention. Chan can’t help but find endearing how he keeps frantically looking between his dad and the photobook. “That’s insane, sir!”
He almost teases him over his gaping mouth, wide just enough for flies to get in, then decides against it. Bless his undying passion for marine biology.
Felix is draped all over Jisung instead, and seems to be on the same line of thought as Chan. He could recognize the sparkle in his eyes from miles away— it’s the same knowing look that found him; chose him out of every student in the middle of a busy dining hall. It was October, the month who always begs Summer to linger by the door; the one whose grip is desperate and can never let go. Chan, gold invading his tunnel vision, already knew he was not bound to be any better.
Their convo, though he could only nod along while Felix fought his dire knowledge of Korean, had been the closest to home he ever felt. After all, they were “two blondies destined to find each other”: that’s what Felix said. Like two souls born from the same fire— a star, bright and brave, twinkling at the quiet Moon and whispering
I see you.
A finger gently pokes his cheek. “Is our Channie-hyung finally softening?”
Pause. When did Changbin join him on the couch? Actually, for how long had he been watching him?
“Huh?” Chan can only stare in absolute bewilderment. He wouldn’t be surprised if a big ass question mark was glowing above him. “No” He adds after a beat, unhelpfully “You must have gotten the wrong impression.” Hell, his throat is so dry—
“Have I?” Changbin smirk grows deeper. Chan’s last brain cell catches fire as soon as he feels a hand grabbing his wrist. “Should I just melt your heart with a kiss, then?”
“Excuse me?” He tries to pull away, but Changbin is already throwing himself on him with his lips dramatically puckered.
“Let me save you from the curse, Channie-Hyung!”
“Oh my God—“ he laughs obnoxiously loud, like he hasn’t done in years; Changbin follows as chaotically. “the cur— what are you saying?!”
“It’s okay man, just give in! You both have socks on anyway.” Hannah interjects, amusement clear in her voice. Chan wants to ask why socks would ever be involved in this mess, except it is indeed very hard to save your breath while Changbin is basically wrestling you.
“Not even socks are going to save them. They are too far gone for that.” Seungmin’s reply comes quickly; Hyunjin swats him on the shoulder, then ducks his head down to keep it quiet. If Chan was naive, he would interpret it as an attempt at showing some sympathy, but he’s one hundred percent sure the only reason Hyunjin isn’t contributing to the humiliation ritual is Jeongin peacefully napping with his head on his legs.
Honestly? He doesn’t understand how the guy managed to fall asleep on hard concrete and in such a loud environment, nor why Hyunjin actually thinks not talking is going to help the case; love works in strange ways.
“Boys!” His mum calls. “And girls!” Minho follows right after. As if on cue, everyone turns around to watch the two of them emerge from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!” his friend adds, feigning innocence, as if he’s not declaring war by wielding a wooden spoon at them.
Chan can’t really take him seriously with that pink apron on. Not to add, Minho’s stance —his other hand being on his hip— only serves as a further confirmation of one of Jisung’s random late-night-statements (“Seriously, the more you pay attention to it, the more he looks like a mum!”).
He does. Sue Jisung, he really does.
“Coming!” Felix is already in action when he replies, skipping out the living room hand-in-hand with Han, while Seungmin is next in line: Chan can’t see his face, but judging by how fast Minho began fakingly throwing the spoon in his direction, he must be up to no good.
“We are not done here” Changbin whispers close to his ear before officially setting him free; he even adds an I’m watching you motion for good measure while slowly backing down, at which Chan bravely sticks his tongue out; he refuses to dwell on the clear and devastating loss of warmth. Or his legs being excessively jelly.
The evening, like a story already written, unfolds naturally: Hyunjin and Jeoning join the table a little late; the youngest’s hair is still sticking up in different directions when the two show up, and the image is both so cute and funny it becomes the main topic for a few minutes. Though Jeongin is too sleepy to even consider defending himself, that doesn’t stop him from sending daggers left and right; the only survivors of his slaughter are Chan’s family and —shocker— Hyunjin, who gently fills his cup with water from time to time.
Changbin, who according to Seungmin chews “obnoxiously”, ends up being his and Felix’s favourite victim: their banter is loud, chaotic in a way that resembles children fighting on a playground; their contagious gigglings, on more than one occasion, make everyone else laugh too. Jisung is the only one who doesn’t follow, too busy tearing up over how good the food is under the eyes of an extremely entertained Minho. They should have known not to trust him with Shoju (though, in Minho’s defense, he had no idea Jisung was such a lightweight).
Chan still can’t tell if Greek Tragedies were right— If his suffering had a meaning, a set direction to follow from the very beginning; if the only way to reach happiness is really through pain. At 18 years old, he used to run from the emptiness in his heart until his shoes were worn-out and full of holes; at 21, no matter how complicated his feelings are, he recognizes the right thing to do is stop. Breathe. Understand.
And so he does, taking the moment in. Because today, of all days, is the most sacred and precious one— a thank you, final and full of sweetness, from all the blown-out candles he wished on for the past three years.
His mum smiles at him in the distance. Chan finally has an answer: that’s what luck is—
He tastes a tear on his own lips when he smiles back.
To live as if loneliness never existed at all.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
If you asked Jeongin, puking might be the worst type of punishment you could ever receive.
It’s easy to accept your fate when you’re aware you brought it upon yourself— like that one time Seungmin had about three drinks too many and began apologizing while Jeongin was still fumbling with the keys (spoiler: they didn’t make it inside).
Honestly, Seungmin willingly harmed his poor liver; there was no point in denying his stupidity. Which is why he didn’t dare complain to Felix in the morning, aware he was one word away from being killed by both his best friends (another spoiler: the quiet didn’t last more than 20 minutes).
Jeongin’s stomach seems to be currently upset over nothing, though.
His vision spins horrifically when he finally opens his eyes.
“Shit—“ the whine echoes from inside the toilet; an experience so humbling he’s suddenly grateful his own ears can’t file a complaint for harassment. As soon as the smell of vomit hits him, he tries to lift his head up; still, no matter how much his brain is screaming at him to hurry, his body is too weak to cooperate. All he can focus on are his throat and nose burning with acid, it sparking a memory of some sort.
Though Jeongin can’t recall most of his childhood, every once in a while its missing pieces will come back to him in the form of scents, tastes, possibly sensations; he doesn’t know how to welcome any of those. Feeling nothing but overwhelmed by the acute tremble of his legs, it’s not a surprise he struggles to draw the difference between then and now: if you squint just slightly, screaming at a priest as a newly teenager and breaking down in someone’s bathroom because of a random fever can be similar enough. Sickness is always at the core. Shame has built a home inside of him. His desire to be cured used to be, and still is, an unmerciful beast.
He could deceive himself if he wanted, look at his reflection in the mirror tomorrow morning and blame this crying to tiredness; yet where his eyes refuse to follow his shadow will always linger, holding the truth about who he is like a knife against his bare throat. Sometimes Jeongin wishes it could talk. Does it have a name? Does it like him? Would it rather be with someone else? He feels sorry for it. For the burden it has to carry. Maybe things would have been easier if he wasn’t born to begin with.
Desperate to shut down the noise, he frantically shakes his head, but it’s too late already: the motion only makes the room spin faster,doing nothing to stop the past from rapidly merging with the present. What was the last thing he ate? His skin is on fire. He can’t tell. Was it Dakbal? Kimchi jjigae? Expired salmon? Dirt? Or was it his dog’s fe—
He chokes on nothing, frustration immediately replacing relief. He just wants to push this stupid feeling out of his system— No, he needs to. Why can’t he throw it up? Please, let him throw it up. What if his dad hears him? His girl of a son, losing her mind over a harmless tummy ache. Jeongin can’t have that happen. He can’t he can’t he fucking can’t—
A loud thump at his side makes his skin crawl. Maybe it’s time he finally gets kicked out of the house. After all they gave him so many chances to get himself fixed, and he failed. Failed, failed, and failed. He already knows what’s next, his mouth moving faster than his brain when he catches movement in his periphery.
”Please don’t.” Jeongin shrinks, body bracing for an impact that never comes. Instead, the hand stops right before landing; something his father would have never done. Could it be his mum? He almost sighs in relief, ready to thank the Lord for such a blessing, but then,
“Huh?”
What in the world.
The voice is deep, a gravely tint that only comes from waking up moments before, but it isn’t his father’s. And certainly can’t be his mum’s. So what should he do? Flee? Where would he run? Actually, can he even stand up in these conditions?
He ends up flinching even harder as the realization sets in. Too busy freaking out, he fails to notice there is nothing hovering over his forehead anymore.
“It’s just me, Hyunjin.” Hyunjin. Why would Hyunjin be here? This doesn’t make any sense. He merely manages a whine in response, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I only want to help, I promise. Can I touch you? I’ll— I’ll lift your head up.”
Jeongin wants to cry. He can’t tell what the fuck is going on at this point -if he spawned in the wrong location after a minecraft glitch or somehow hit his head so hard he forgot Hyunjin was at his parents’ house- but he knows one thing: he’s really starting to lose his breath, and his best friend might be his last hope. When he nods, he does so with renewed urgency.
Once the green light is given, Hyunjin is fast to act; so fast Jeongin can’t help but shiver at the feeling of cold fingers grabbing the nape of his neck. He audibly gasps in relief at his head being finally lifted, air meeting him halfway through.
“There you go baby.” Hyunjin’s tone, although blurry, is nothing but dripping honey. He patiently waits for Jeongin to catch his breath, his free hand coming to press slow circles into the younger’s back, before he speaks again. “Can I hold you?”
It takes a moment for the question to fully register. Now that Jeongin’s vision isn’t narrowed, it’s easier to take in the rest of his surroundings. What he first notices, eyes curiously scanning the room, is that the walls are light green— an odd color compared to the one he was expecting to find; his mum always wanted them pristine white. The ceiling is definitely higher than what he remembered, and all the lights seem to work just fine (a miracle, indeed). Waiting to hear the smell of stale cigarettes, he wrinkles his nose in an automatic motion, but all he’s met with is Lavender. Pleasing, delicate, sweet Lavender. This can’t be his home, Jeongin knows; selfishly, he wishes it could be.
“Y-Yeah.” he finally remembers to say, cautious, checking if he still knows how to talk. “Where are we?”
“Channie-hyung’s house.” That checks out.
Jeongin tenses one last time, arms carefully encircling him and pulling him back. After that, all he can feel is Hyunjin. In the warmth of his embrace, he is obedient and pliant: a muppet, boneless, for the other to move as he pleases. It’s scary, really, to think how open and bare he looks right now on this floor, and how badly he will regret it to no end in some hours; but isn’t it so nice to be held? Hyunjin is familiar. He’s solid, and he’s safe. If Jeongin could, he would bury his face into the curve of his neck and never let go. Instead he sighs, head resting against his chest.
His Hyung's heart has a nice rhythm. Beautiful, even.
A hand fits itself under his chin and, in a matter of seconds, a piece of toilet paper is being gently brushed against his lips. Right. He must’ve had some leftover bile. It’s so hard to think.
“Better?” Hyunjin asks. He hums, and prays it’s enough.
⋆
Jeongin clicks his tongue. "Since when can you make tea?"
Hyunjin stills for a moment, his outraged expression clear despite the darkness surrounding them. "Fuck you mean since when? That's like. One of the easiest things to learn."
“Wouldn't put it past you to not know." Jeongin is quick to retort, sitting on the kitchen stool like a king on a throne. Watching Hyunjin splutter is ten times more entertaining when he's matching his height.
"What—Why would you— What?" he half-screams, mindful of the fact that it's four in the morning. Jeongin bites down a smile and limits himself to shrug. If Hyunjin could, he would already be throwing his hands in the air by now; thankfully, or sadly for Jeongin's own entertainment, that can't happen unless they want for Chan's already filled mugs to disastrously fall on the floor.
“You don’t deserve someone like me” Hyunjin unceremoniously goes on “I’m never talking to you again. Forget about my existence. Forget,“ he sends Jeongin a pointed look as he walks towards him “about my wallet—“
“Oh, not your wallet, please!” Jeongin’s sarcasm reaches the stars. “What will I do without it?” He pretends to grasp at his own heart, so deeply hurt by the words he just heard, as if he’s not giggling in the meanwhile.
“You heard me. We’re done.” Hyunjin says, tone final, but he still slides one of the drinks towards him. Jeongin takes it as a win.
The moment feels domestic, close to something they could have everyday if only he had the guts: Hyunjin, hair a mess and face soft, his mole a shining star, making him tea in the middle of the night. Jeongin, drowning in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie, pretending he isn’t memorizing all the ways the dim light falls on his lips.
Eve’s apple.
He grabs the cup, a fuzzy feeling setting in his chest. “Thank you” he whispers, but they both know this is not about tea. The hours spent in the bathroom weigh on his conscience like an anchor.
“It’s nothing.” There is fondness in the way Hyunjin whispers back at him. A sincerity that scares him. Threatening: I held you because I wanted to. Jeongin’s heart jumps in his throat just at the thought of it. At the thought of Hyunjin saying—
Baby. He intently stares at the liquid; stirs it to feign normalcy. Baby Baby Baby Baby—
“Innie, wait!” Hyunjin yelps, but it’s too late: Jeongin is already chugging down his tea, officially sending himself to his death. Regret hits him in waves right after.
“Ow, fuck—“ he cries, tongue burning like hell, tears building up in his eyes. For a second, no one dares make another sound. Then, in perfect style, Hyunjin does the unforbidden thing: he snorts. Jeongin immediately gasps, still in incredible pain. “Do not laugh—“
“Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t know it was that hot—“ (read it as: I forgot tea supposedly runs hot)
“How do you not know?” Hyunjin replies, clearly having the time of his life. Oh, how the tables have turned. “That’s basically common knowledge!"
“No, it isn’t!” Jeongin shakes his head “You were supposed to tell me.” He tries his absolute best to look credible, as if his statement makes any sense. Of course, he fails. “Actually, you should always inform me about everything.”
Hyunjin’s eyes grow comically large at that, and a giggle is punched out of him before he heaves a sigh. When he speaks, each syllable is draped in fondness. “You always want more, don’t you?”
Jeongin looks up, right into the depth of Hyunjin’s shining eyes. His desire to kiss him is unbereable and stupid.
Don’t I?