Chapter Text
The room is always dark. It doesn't matter if Gally is visiting in the early morning, or in the late afternoon, the room is always dark.
He draws the curtains, thin, trying their hardest to allow sunlight inside. A cube of light stretches out across the polished floor, but the light never reaches the bed.
Dust gets caught in the fragile light, floating upwards in the air, dancing in front of Gally's eyes. This always surprises Gally, as he knows what Minho's parents are like. If they had it their way, Minho would be in a completely sterile room, hidden from harm and locked away from dirt, disease and.. dust.
Boots tap against the floor as Gally walks. He makes sure to clean any mud he can off of them before he even steps foot inside of he hospital. Gally's mind is reeled back to the first day he went around Minho's house every time — he must've been only eight. How he had to take his shoes off at the door, how every surface was clean and mostly empty, how the brightest thing there was the trophy cabinet on the left side of the living room, piled high with trophies and medals awarded to Minho over the years.
The Park family house, it couldn't have been more different to Gally's flat. Instead of pale flooring, Gally had rotting wood beneath his feet. There was no empty, "lifeless" (as his own father had muttered) space; with just as lifeless bags of rubbish and beer cans smothering every surface in reach. Yes, Gally had colour, but in all the wrong shades.
Gally remembers clearly how Minho dragged him past the trophy cabinet, up the stairs with white carpets, through the corridor of bare walls, and into his bedroom. Oh, how Minho had forced himself into each corner of that room. Hung pictures — neat, of course — shelves with toys and books crammed on them, a wardrobe that could never close, and there was always a mess on the carpet. Whether it was homework scattered across the floor, or teddies tossed around after a tantrum.
Minho's dads often called Minho a troubled child. All Gally knew was that he saw Minho as brilliant.
The walls were a dark shade of blue, that was the most noticeable thing about Minho's bedroom. Minho bragged about convincing Jorge to go behind Janson's back and paint them, and how Janson got angry when he returned from work, but could do nothing about it.
From a very young age, Gally was given the impression that Minho did not get on well with his biological father. Mr Janson was quite scary to be around, so Gally made himself scarce, kept his actions polite, and wouldn't stay for dinner if he knew the man was home from work. Not that being at home was any better, as his own father was very alike to Janson, just in his own way.
Gally just thought that it was safer away from Janson, because his own father only hit him, and Janson looked as if he had the power to harm not only Gally, but Minho too. Minho and harm were two different worlds to Gally back then. Minho was strong, to him. Minho was smart, to him. Gally always felt safe if Minho was in an arms reach. To have that illusion of Minho shattered would have damaged Gally too much.
Now, Gally scoffs at those thoughts.
It seems as if though every day, the only thing he is constantly reminded of is how Minho and harm are in fact not only in the same world, but coexisting. Endless.
"It's just rain." Minho had laughed, elbowing Gally in the ribs, always a little too rough. They were supposed to be waiting under the awning for Jorge to pick them up and drop them home after their Saturday rugby game. Minho, freshly showered, out of his kit and in clean clothes, was stood in the falling water, walking backwards. "I know where I left my bottle— just give me a minute."
When Minho ran back towards the pitch in the darkness, Gally had thought, "What an idiot. He's gonna get a cold and be in a mood for the week."
If only it was a cold that had struck Minho down, and not that furious light from the sky, branching down and twisting like the gnarled tree roots him and Minho used to climb up in the forest nearby. Minho was still smoking when Gally and Jorge found him.
"Six weeks is a bit excessive, Minho." Gally says aloud, slipping his jacket off as he nears the bed. He tries ignoring how google told him last night that four weeks is the maximum amount of time a patient can remain comatose and survive in—
No. If Janson — a doctor — isn't panicking about his only son's condition, Gally won't either. Not even if Minho is Gally's only friend, and if Minho goes, Gally won't have anyone.
Minho looks the same as he did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and so on. His hair is always fluffy to some extent. That's probably from Janson trying and failing to comb it. There is colour in Minho's skin, meaning he looks alive. His chest rises and falls, never stopping. One of Minho's best traits, really. Never stopping.
Laying his jacket neatly on the back of the visitor chair, Gally looms over Minho, half expecting a bitter retort. No answer ever comes. That's okay, he tells himself, it's all okay.
In one last effort to bring light to Minho's face, Gally switches on the lamp at Minho's bedside. This allows a warm glow to caress Minho's silent features, face at ease. It's pretty in one way. Gally's never seen Minho look this relaxed in his sixteen years of life, always yelling, laughing, crying, and so on. But when Gally thinks of how close death was to gracing Minho's body, his heart can only sink.
Can he be honest with himself for just a moment?
It hurts.
Like hell, it hurts. Seeing the scarring on Minho's neck, and only being able to imagine how far the scarring goes under the bed covers. Gally clenches his fists, then eases his grip as he turns, sinking down onto the side of the bed. With a heavy feeling in his chest, he slips his boots off, not bothering with the laces, and then lifts his legs so he is sat properly beside Minho, the boy who never stirs.
Gally lays down when he decides he's ready. He tells himself it's for old time's sake, a feeble grab at the boyhood him and Minho once shared. Sleepovers on the weekly, hidden beneath the duvet in a fit of giggles, hushing each other to no avail. As Gally stares at the side of Minho's face, his expression remains blank. A tentative hand belonging to himself lifts, lightly coming to rest upon Minho's chest. The sturdy intake of air in, then the calm release out.
Fingers tightening on the fabric, Gally holds on. He holds on as if the rhythm will still at any moment and confirm his deepest fear; that Minho will never wake up. His prayers to God, foolish hope, all to be for nothing. Even the mere thought is too much for Gally to take, and his throat tightens impossibly, making breathing difficult. He wonders for a split second if he has his inhaler on him, then decides it doesn't matter.
His friend who used to curl in on him in the vulnerable moments, wrestle and play fight like an animal the rest of the time, lays perfectly still like a porcelain doll. Perhaps Janson is happy with Minho like this. That's the last thought that crosses Gally's mind before he slips into solemn sleep.