Work Text:
chipped nail polish. blue suit. hair styled neat. face in profile. eyes closed.
chan doesn’t actually know how he got here. he doesn’t know how he put on the right clothes, found the right church, took the right bus - all he knows is that he’s here, right now, standing in front of the coffin, his hands balled into fists, his nails digging against his own warm flesh.
and there is jisung.
chan doesn’t blink. he doesn't breathe. he feels every mechanical function of his body just stop - as if time itself were frozen.
is that jisung?
it looks like jisung. that’s the soft curve of his nose. those are his pretty eyelashes. that’s the little mole by his mouth. but this thing, the thing in the coffin doesn’t feel like Jisung. Jisung wouldn’t be still like this. He’d be tapping his fingers, he’s be playing with a little scrap of paper, or bouncing his leg up and down till it gave chan a headache. no, this thing in the coffin is too tranquil to be jisung.
maybe if his body was on his side, and his legs were bent and his mouth was more relaxed chan could have pretended jisung was sleeping. but this body is too dignified, too linear, his jisung would never sleep like this.
a small noise behind him alerts chan to the fact that he has to move on. that’s how funerals work. there’s a process. you see the body and then you move away from the body to give someone else a chance. chan knows this. he’s never actually been to a funeral before, but he’s watched enough movies to pick up this piece of social etiquette. but right now, in this moment, it’s not so easy.
even though the body in the coffin is decidedly not jisung - chan can’t bring himself to step away from him. he swallows. he wants more time, that’s it. there’s gotta be more time. surely he’s just been here a couple of minutes, whoever is behind him can wait. they can wait.
chan unclenches one of his hands with great effort. he touches the edge of the coffin. wood. smooth wood. it’s shiny and red brown, reflecting himself and the room around them. he wants to touch the body too. maybe then all of this would feel real. He reaches into the coffin slowly - half expecting someone to stop him. Is this allowed?
his fingers brush against the suit - just at the shoulder. he inhales.
no. this still doesn’t feel real at all. this still doesn’t feel like jisung. chan’s mind possesses an incredible ability to deny the abundant evidence before him. he pulls his hand back, and without being conscious of his own movements chan takes a step to the side and returns to his seat in the fifth row.
a lot of people have come to pay respects. a lot of people chan has only seen in pictures. jisung’s parents. his older brother. his sister in law. his two little nephews. all four of his grandparents. and a dozen other members of his extended family, aunts and uncles, and cousins. chan doesn’t even know all their names, but he can pick them out easily because they look so different from the people he does know.
jisungs friends have facial piercings, and funny hair, and although they're all dressed in black and grey, their outfits are accentuated by tacky jewelry, visible tattoos, and eccentric footwear. chan knows most of them.
there’s a trio of friends from dance class, a row of coworkers from the coffee shop, a handful of friends from university, and a dozen from high school. there are also singletons. there’s jisung’s tattoo artist, and his English tutor, the girl who was his roommate during the pandemic. and there’s his ex-boyfriend.
chan fixes his eyes on the ground again.
he’s wearing very uncomfortable shoes which pinch his heel. he had bought them for a failed job interview. and now he’s wearing them to a funeral.
to jisung’s funeral, he reminds himself even though this doesn’t feel either real nor true.
more people pass in front of the coffin. some linger a short time, others stay for several minutes. chan watches it as if it were happening on a tv-show. he can’t physically feel his body. he’s just numb. he’s numb all over.
eventually a middle aged woman walks to the front with a tissue in one hand and a folded piece of paper in the other. she clears her throat and reads a poem out-loud in a wispy voice. She’s followed by Jisung’s brother, who’s sleepless and unshaven as he gives out his thanks to all in attendance and finally by his best friend from high school, who wipes away the tears with the back of his hand as he speaks.
and chan just sits there - listening.
and the funny thing is that he’s learning things about jisung that he never knew before.
apparently in middle school he raised hamsters. and he faked an ankle injury to get out of gym class. he bleached his own hair one summer and strands of it fell out from his poor application. he won his high school talent show with a rap performance. and the first time he got a paycheck he spent it taking his parents out for dinner.
and these flutters of stories wedge themselves into everything chan does know about jisung until he starts to cry.
he should be hearing these things from him.
he swallows and hangs his head. he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. the fact is that many of the people in this room don’t know who he is and it would be pointless to tell them now. he’s better off remaining anonymous, just another friend.
they all stand up to sing a song and chan uses this opportunity to sneak out through the side door. He stands in the little garden outside the church. the sky is blue, and the wind is pleasant. it’s spring time, and the flowers just started to bloom. He breathes in the cool air, trying to steady himself as more tears drip down his cheeks.
it isn’t possible. it just isn’t possible. a week ago he was right here and they were making plans for the summer.
he leans against the wall for support because he’s sure his legs won’t hold him anymore. for a while he stays like this, eyes half closed, listening to the cars that occasionally pass in front of the church.
he startles when the door opens.
a young woman steps out, a little baby crying in her arms. “Sshhh not now,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes too. she rocks from side to side, holding the baby close against the body.
chan doesn’t know what to say. he recognizes them both. this is the sister in law. and this is the baby who was born the same week chan and jisung met. the woman paces slowly from side to side, one hand under the baby, the other over it’s little head. she looks tired and pale, and this stirs chan out of his lethargy.
“can i help you in anyway?”
it’s as if she hadn’t noticed him before. she looks a little startled.
“you’re one of jisung’s friends?” she asks, and her voice almost breaks at the words.
chan nods.
“can you just hold him for a moment?”
“sure,” chan answers before he can really think about it. he stretchs out his arms and takes the baby from her. it’s been a long time since he’s held a baby, but the instinct kicks in right away, and chan cradles it, looking down at his little round face.
the woman stretches her neck, her shoulder, she takes a deep breath and crouches on the ground.
the baby is warm, even through its little pajamas. chan rocks it in his arms, like he remembers his mom rocking lucas. he looks so fat and healthy. and his black eyes look up at chan as if he were really trying to see his face. he stops crying, and chan cushions the baby's head on his shoulder. he closes his eyes as he feels a tightness in his throat. what would jisung have said about this?
he can feel the tears starting again but he doesn’t bother wiping them. who’s there to see it anyway? the baby won’t judge him.
it’s so small, and wiggly, and warm. and it’s eight months old and this is the first spring of his whole life. chan breathes slowly. in and out. and again and again.
a few more minutes pass and then the woman stands up again. “thank you,” she says as he hands her the baby again.
chan nods.
there are tears on her face too. “i don’t think i’ve met you before, where did you meet jisung?”
“the gym,” chan answers.
“oh,” she says and holds his gaze. “you’re that friend.”
chan has no idea what that means. as far as he knew jisung wasn’t out to his family.
“he told us you guys were going on holiday to australia together.”
yes. that had been the plan. he had wanted so much to show jisung the word in which he had grown up. the park by his house. the beach where he’d gone after school. it had felt so important. he’d wanted jisung to know everything about him, to understand everything about him.
she puts her hand on his forearm and squeezes it for a moment and then she goes through the doors again.
chan knows he should go back inside. he should be there, seeing it all. he should try to get another moment with jisung. should try, somehow, to hold his hand one more time. but he can’t get himself to do it. instead he hangs around by the door, shifting from foot to foot, sometimes crying, something feeling less than nothing.
when the doors open again he averts his eyes. he stares fixedly at the ground as the coffin and the pallbearers move slowly to the hearse. his family follows, and chan glances up to see the baby one last time.
many of jisung’s friends, the ones chan did meet, and the ones he hadn’t managed to yet, stop and say a few words to him. they say how sorry they are. they ask if there’s anything they can do for him. a few of them invite him out to an after event, but chan just shakes his head and smiles politely.
he watches them leave one by one. some cry. some hug each other. some use scarfs as tissues. some linger on the sunny patch of the garden in whispered conversation while chan remains rooted to the spot.
somehow, this morning, when he got dressed, and took the bus and found the church on google, he had this vague notion that it would be better after today. that somehow this would clear up the situation. but it hadn’t at all. not even seeing him in a coffin could make him believe that it was true.
jisung was still in his room. strumming his guitar, and watching his animal documentaries. or maybe he was in a coffee shop,, with a cute hat, and a decadent cheesecake, a little notebook for poems by his side. or maybe he was riding the subway, going in loops, listening to music.
chan feels that at this moment jisung might be doing anything. he might be bouncing on a trampoline, or riding a motorcycle, or even going up to the roof of a sky scraper. there was just one place where he wasn’t. he wasn’t in that coffin. he wasn’t headed to the cemetery. he wasn’t dead because that just didn’t make any sense.
now that there’s no one else here chan feels that he can just give up. he sits on the ground, cross legged, as if he were a little kid again. he rests his head against the back of the wall. maybe he should just stay right here. why not? this is as good a place as any. and it’s not like he’s got anyone to go home to. it’s not like he has any plans now.
he listens to the sounds on the streets. he hears whips of a conversation in the distance, but it’s nothing to him. he feels his mind quiet, his breathing slow, he’s so tired, it’s been so impossible to sleep lately. for a long time he lies like this, and then he hears someone say his name:
“chan.”
this one word makes his eyes flash open.
hyunjin is standing in front of him. he’s all in black, his long hair tied back, his face stupid pretty.
“yeah?”
“let’s go,” he says, very softly and his voice is beautiful too.
they’ve never met before, but chan’s seen his picture, and he’s sure hyunjin has seen his.
he rises slowly, his body feels unnaturally stiff, as if he’s aged 30 years in the last 30 minutes. they walk through the garden together, to the sidewalk. chan lets hyunjin lead him down the street, the sun-shining over both of them.
they reach the corner and keep going. it’s a quiet neighbourhood. there are low-rise apartments with stores on the first floor, and balconies looking out. as they advance chan glances up all those windows. he catches sight of movement occasionally: an arm, the back of someone’s head. for most people this is just a regular day.
it soon becomes apparent that hyunjin doesn’t know where he’s going. he wanders from block to block, with chan at his side. it’s so funny. he’s spent so many months trying not to hate hyunjin, and curbing his jealousy whenever his name was even implied, and here they are together. what would jisung say about this?
they reach a small bridge and cross together. chan glances down at the little trickle of water below, the way it sparkles in the sunshine. He catches a glimpse of hyunjin looking at him and self-consciously turns in the opposite direction. he’s just as intimidating as his pictures.
when they reach the other side of the bridge hyunjin stops in a little patch of shade. he puts his hands out on the white railing. and his fingernails have chipped black nailpolish - like jisung’s. chan wishes he hadn’t seen that and looks away. his chest feels tight. why did he come here? it would have been better to stay at the church.
“i don’t know what to say,” hyunjin says. “i’ve thought a lot about you this week.”
i didn’t think about you at all. it would be very rude to say this so chan doesn’t. he had thought about jisung’s parents, about his friends, his coworkers, but somehow he’d never considered what hyunjin might be feeling. it hadn’t even crossed his mind that they might see each other until he’d seen him coming into the church.
“i’m sure you know this already but you made him really happy.”
chan breathes in. he doesn’t want to talk about this, but he can’t find it in himself to cut hyunjin off.
“we didn’t text much since you guys got together, but he only said nice thing about you, and-” hyunjin pauses. his hands have gone white because he’s gripping the railing so hard. “you know i really loved jisung. our relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was good, we had four pretty good years-” he lifts red-rimmed eyes and looks at chan. “i’m really sorry you didn’t get to spend more time with him, he was really excited to have a future with you.”
it feels like someone punctured his chest. and suddenly chan is ugly crying. no more sedate tears. no more solemn expression. just snot, and sobs that wreck through his body. and he doesn’t know where they are anymore, and he doesn’t know where he’s going after. he feels hyunjin hug him. feels the wetness of his tears on his shoulder as they embrace.
it wasn’t enough time. eight months is not enough time. jisung was chan’s favourite person and he had intended to do everything possible for them to have a happy ending. this wasn’t fair, it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. what was there left to do but cry, and scream, and eternally grieve for the future they should have had.