Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Quiet.

That’s the first thing Seonghyeon notices.

The yellow swim shorts that just disappeared into the crystalline water are barely visible from where Seonghyeon is sitting on the lakeshore. There’s a ripple outward that follows the loud splash, but it’s the only indication that anyone was ever there.

Juhoon perches next to him on the dry grass, knees folded neatly with another book in his hands. The soft pages of his book are mottled with sunshine that streams through the tree branches above their heads as Juhoon’s deft fingers sift through them methodically. Seonghyeon watches carefully as he furrows his brows in annoyance when his fringe gets caught in his eyelashes. Seonghyeon knows that his mom has tried to get him to sit still for long enough to trim it, but Juhoon is... persistent, when he knows what he doesn’t want.

Seonghyeon is somewhat grateful for the moment of silence that falls over the lake while the loudmouth is submerged, but a creeping emptiness lingers just over his shoulder, like a specter waiting for the moment Seonghyeon is finally alone. He waits, holding his breath without noticing it, in anticipation for Juhoon’s verdict. Not that he ever announces it out loud. Something in Seonghyeon can just sense it.

He’s good at stuff like that; noticing the things that give away when someone is angry. Or sad. Or about to say something they don’t really want to. Something about the way people clench their jaws, let their shoulders pull slightly tenser, and the way their faces morph ever-so-slightly – to the point where their distaste is noticeable if you look close enough.

Maybe other people just don’t look as closely.

“You laughed.” Juhoon comments eventually, not bothering to look up from his book. His voice is plain, not quite giving away what he really thinks of Seonghyeon’s reaction.

He hesitates.

“He was funny.” Seonghyeon replies awkwardly. He catches his lip between his teeth, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Juhoon has always seemed older than he is.

Even at age seven, he radiates a strange aura that teeters between off-putting and intriguing. He’s almost surrounded by a dark cloud that cycles between roaring warnings of thunder and gentle, inviting rain showers. Seonghyeon reaches out a hand, gently prying through the wall of water between them and poking the soft skin of Juhoon’s cheek.

“Ow.”

Seonghyeon rolls his eyes as his face momentarily ripples into a frown. “That didn’t hurt.”

“You don’t know that.” Juhoon retorts, but Seonghyeon can see the grin he’s suppressing pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He shrugs.

“You’re like an oracle.” Juhoon giggles, steely expression dissolving into one of amusement. His nosy gaze follows the yellow trunks as the body they belong to floats in the clear lake water. The sun continues to reflect off the water, and shine back onto Juhoon’s face. It bathes him in some kind of angelic glow.

“What?”

“An oracle.” Juhoon repeats again, attention already drifting back down to his book. “Someone who can tell the future.”

He says it obviously, like it’s common knowledge. Something six-year-old Seonghyeon should just know. As if he’s an idiot for asking for clarification. He shrinks into himself, arms wrapping protectively around his knees as his back hunches.

Juhoon doesn’t notice.

✧

The low rumble of the washing machines snaps Seonghyeon out of his daze. His back is aching where he’s hunched over the plasticky counter, scrubbing at an ancient coffee stain that just won’t budge. He blinks once.

The tail end of the summer radiates muggy heat that wraps hands around his neck and squeezes until he feels lightheaded. The sweltering temperature doesn’t let up until the leaves begin to turn a rusty, bloodstained orange. They hang on by a thread, still linked to their branches by threads as thin as capillaries as nature tries to cling to the warmth of a happier season. The wind occasionally picks up, a break from the angry thunderstorms that mark a clear wall between the pleasant weather of post-graduation, and the misery of the loneliness that lingers in its wake. The atmosphere breaks into a stagnant and thin nothingness.

The electric energy that served to brew violent weather in the clouds above them, that ultimately spilled into hot downpours, has begun to dissipate. The disappointing stuffiness that gets left behind isn’t suffocating like the heat was, but the stillness of the airflow around them feels like a snake constricting around his body.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” James asks as he dumps an armful of clothes, into his laundry basket. It’s normal to the point of domesticity, but Seonghyeon hasn’t quite adjusted to it yet. Every time James asks, his brain stalls for half a second before he remembers that yes, he is part of the household now. “I’ll stop by the store on the way home.”

Seonghyeon shrugs, nonchalant, like he’s not spiraling. “Whatever’s easiest for you.” He replies. “And whatever your family likes.”

He wants to take up less room. Be less important. His brain tells him it would be easier for everyone if he was less if a burden. But another part of him craves the warmth of family. Something he hasn’t fully experienced in a long time.

Friendship is one thing. The whole found family schtick is fun and feels nice, but it’s a whole other deal to have someone who feels like a parent. Someone who’s actually able to guide decisions with life experience behind their words; someone who can place hands on his shoulders and pat his back and have it fill him with warmth instead of dread.

“My mom will eat anything. And so will he.” James says with a breath that catches in his chest, like he can’t quite believe the words coming out of his mouth.

James’ mom and her boyfriend have been going strong since Seonghyeon was kindly welcomed into the family. They didn’t interrogate him for answers, nor did they outwardly speak his praises or make grand gestures of sympathy. Seonghyeon instead stumbles past the door to the tiny guest bedroom to find clean, folded laundry sat on his bed, with a glass of water and his new meds on his side table.

“They’re going away this weekend.” James adds. “Together.”

“Where?”

“I dunno. She didn’t really say.”

“She’s not being my mom, right?” Seonghyeon croaks, attempting to humor James, but the words sink their hooks into his throat on their way out, and the sarcastic tone lands awkwardly. It’s still raw in his chest, and the breath that follows is shaky. He immediately redirects his attention to the still miserable, brown stain on the linoleum countertop.

“You don’t have to joke about that.” James replies flatly, but Seonghyeon can read the concern in the way his eyebrows furrow slightly. “You don’t have to joke about that stuff to make me feel better.”

The stuff in question being years of mistreatment, where Seonghyeon was left alone in the house to fend for himself. Days on end where he was pretty much the only person in the house, where he had to get by at the ripe old age of fifteen. He stopped coming home eventually, during the stretches where he noticed the patterns, and currently predicted her disappearing into her bedroom.

“I know.” Seonghyeon rubs the back of his neck gawkily with his free hand.

“Then stop doing it.”

“I can’t.” He sighs. He thinks James is going to walk away again, leave him to busy himself with useless tasks.

Instead, James wrings out his fingers. “Want some help with that?”

Seonghyeon looks down at the mess, and hands the tattered rag over with a shrug. James settles his laundry basket on the floor.

“You can choose not to joke about her.” James insists, as he steps in and attempts to clean the mess Seonghyeon has been working at for the last ten minutes. He doesn’t bother trying to stop him from wasting his time.

“It clearly doesn’t make you feel better.”

Seonghyeon scowls.

“It’s not that simple.”

James rolls his eyes and traps his bottom lip between his teeth as he focuses his concentration on the stupid coffee spill. The quiet tumble of laundry temporarily drowns out Seonghyeon’s inner monologue.

“I don’t know what to do with myself.” Seonghyeon admits, leaning his elbows on the counter as he watches James struggle. “I’m like, stuck. I barely do anything anymore.”

“You could learn to cook better.” James shoots back teasingly. Seonghyeon sees the flash of uncertainty in his eyes before it comes out, and it immediately gives away James’ attempt to change the subject. “All that time alone and you still barely know how to drain rice in the sink without spilling it everywhere.”

Seonghyeon’s ears heat up.

“I’m not that bad.” He argues back. “I can manage.”

James quirks an eyebrow up with his lips pressed into a disapproving line.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Seonghyeon sighs in defeat, directing the conversation away from critique. He brushes his thumb against his forearm in a miserable attempt to ground himself again.

Like Juhoon used to do for him.

His thoughts are already wandering back through the months, to a more exciting time where every weekend was spent together. Perhaps even further back, to a way he used to deal with the boredom and pass the time. Irresponsibly, but hey. He’s a teenager.

“Don’t.” James interjects. It cuts through Seonghyeon’s haze like a hot knife through plastic. Like James has read him like an open book.

“I wasn’t-”

“No.” James says firmly, giving up with the rag, instead trying to scratch with his thumbnail. Thankfully, he avoids eye contact. “Being bored isn’t an excuse. You learn to deal with it.”

“Tough crowd.” Seonghyeon jokes. He must have a pathetic expression on his face, because James’ gaze softens when they meet eyes.

“Sean.” He says patiently, hand resting on his hip. “Don’t even think about it.”

It.

The icky feeling that he has to fight down like vomit crawling up his throat again. The itch that gets paved over with a thin layer of satisfaction and hope every time he crosses another day off the stupid calendar James got him to hang on their wall. He treats it like an award.

Some days, it’s stronger. Threatens to break through the carefully curated peace Seonghyeon has constructed his life around and throw him back into the pits of confusion and helplessness. The fragile stability of his daily routine frays at the edges when things get dull, makes the pull of the void more tempting.

Other days, he manages to file away those thoughts. Focus on the hope he’s now able to have in life. Now that his life doesn’t just finish at the end of the day – it extends into next week, into the next month. Gives him the chance to consider bigger milestones that he didn’t even know were an option months ago.

“I’m not.” He replies, mouth dry. “I wasn’t.”

James looks back at him like he doesn’t believe a word he said. Seonghyeon wonders when he turned into Juhoon.

“Whatever you say, man.” James relents. He finally gives up on the stain. Seonghyeon thinks he’s imagining the fact that it looks slightly faded, compared to how it started.

✧

Sunday mass feels lonelier than it used to.

Seonghyeon knows that it’s because Juhoon isn’t by his side, to politely sit through whatever it is the priest wants to rant about today, mixed with somewhat confusing metaphors and a healthy dose of audience interaction.

He always opens his eyes and instinctively glances to his left, looking for gangly, jean clan legs and thin, bony fingers tracing circles over his kneecaps. Sometimes Juhoon would mutter a quiet comment that made Seonghyeon giggle under his breath. Sometimes he would swat at his friend for insensitivity and frown.

Church might just be the one place Seonghyeon feels like he knows more than Juhoon. School became a lost cause. At work, he lost on experience. Socially, Juhoon chooses friends extremely frugally, and lets them come to him, rather than blindly seeking out attention like Seonghyeon.

Juhoon should realistically have been the coolest person in school. He managed to toe the line between mysterious and scary, leaving people wanting to speak to him. Seonghyeon wonders if Juhoon ever realized it, or whether he too felt like he was drowning in loneliness, surrounded by people who didn’t quite know how to handle him.

Well, other than Martin.

Loud, overly smiley, dumb Martin.

He managed to worm his way in between Seonghyeon and Juhoon, fit himself into the tiny cracks in Juhoon’s life that Seonghyeon couldn’t quite fill. Despite Juhoon’s steely resistance in the beginning, he can vividly remember the ice-cold jealousy that used to flush through him when Martin would saunter over, long limbs and tall frame (even for their age) taking up way too much space, as he attempted to strike up conversation with Seonghyeon’s best friend.

The worst part? Martin and Juhoon were the same age, and in mostly the same classes. Meaning he got double the time Seonghyeon did with Juhoon.

He did catch himself spiraling, wondering if he was the issue. Juhoon seemed happy enough. Maybe he was overreacting and needed to back off. It’s not like Juhoon could only have one friend, especially with how easily he melted between social groups. Maybe Seonghyeon hadn’t done enough good deeds to feel like they were still friends.

Or started being too unreliable, and too much of a burden for Juhoon’s taste.

But then Martin, lovely, sweet and annoying Martin, starts going out of his way to make him feel included.

It starts with him saving a seat next to Juhoon for him. Sometimes Martin will choose to talk to him first, letting Juhoon take a backseat as he asks about his interests. It feeds that deep desire inside Seonghyeon that cries out for attention, makes him cling to Martin’s side instinctively, look across a room towards him for reassurance.

Maybe Seonghyeon gets too attached too quickly.

But can you blame him?

Martin is fluffy and soft, entirely unintimidating once you get to know him. He’s the epitome of sunny yellow, always draped in soft hoodies and jeans that are multiple sizes too big for him, held up by old belts or shoelaces. Something about him makes Seonghyeon want to permanently fuse to his side, listen to the niceties Martin has to say about anyone and everyone.

He wishes he had even a sliver of the joy Martin does. Maybe it would make things easier to cope with. Maybe it would make him more tolerable to deal with.

Maybe.

The ritual of Seonghyeon’s new morning routine has become the ugliest part of him, he thinks. Regrettably, of course. The mundaneness of the repetition everyday does nothing but drive him further towards insanity, one pill at a time.

He wakes up, sees his meds and vitamins (that James’ mom has insisted on managing) neatly left in a glass on his bedside. He takes them in one go with shaky hands, washing the shame down his throat with the remnants of his cup of water from the night before. He has to sit, collect his energy for a while, before he drags himself out of his warm, tangled bedsheets and into the coldish shower. He simultaneously rinses his skin and brushes his teeth.

Okay, so cleaning teeth in the shower might not be the most conventional thing. But the whole maintaining hygiene deal is getting tricky, so why not kill two birds with one stone and make sure he’s doing both.

He spits down the drain with a grimace and scrubs his body too harshly with James’ minty body wash. Sometimes he feels his skin sting when he washes it off.

The blue towel he uses is threadbare. It has a fading, yellow rubber duck embroidered on it alongside his name, neatly stitched in orange thread. He can’t quite remember his mom gifting it to him for a birthday when he was very young, but some part of him just can’t stomach letting it go, despite offers from James to simply use one of his fluffy, new towels.

Every day, he blindly reaches into his boxes of unpacked clothes or the growing piles of washed laundry from James’ mother, in order to find something comfortable enough to slug through the day in. Usually, some combination of a t-shirt that’s too big for him, and a pair of sweatpants that he doesn’t really like anymore.

And the most disappointing part comes when he finally hauls himself down the stairs.

James usually isn’t home at this point, long gone at his morning shift at the piercing studio. Leaving him alone to cope with everything.

He has to pick up the drying red marker with an embarrassing familiarity and strike off another day on his calendar. Some days it feels good. Satisfying in the sense that he can now imagine being alive past the next couple of days. Sometimes he can even see himself settled into some sort of normalcy. A job, a house of his own. Maybe even a kitten if he’s feeling particularly good.

But some days, it actively saddens him and ruins his day before it begins.

He can’t even put his finger on why.

His body is aching. A deep, lonely ache that he knows isn’t just from sore muscles.

Despite the fact that it’s warm enough for him to leave his jacket hung over the back of James’ dining chair, he keeps wearing his long-sleeved t-shirt that is wearing at the elbows, and his sweatpants that thin at the knees. As if he’s spent too long in skin that he doesn’t fit anymore.

Being eighteen is an odd feeling. It’s like he’s supposed to have figured everything out by now.

He and Keonho should’ve packed up and left the minute they graduated, like they’d spent their last weeks in school talking about. But he should’ve known that he was too much of a coward to follow through. The awkwardness that followed has strained every conversation they have. Not that they aren’t friends anymore, but the possibility that Keonho might’ve missed out on his chance to escape, simply because Seonghyeon wasn’t brave enough to take the leap like Martin and Juhoon, eats its way into his confidence. It fills him with a deep guilt and regret that crests whenever he looks Keonho in the eye and sees the twinkle dimming.

He surfs the wave with a lump in his throat.

The wind has picked up slightly, and it slinks past Seonghyeon’s skin. It ghosts along the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. The goosebumps follow with a slight delay, like his body has forgotten how to function like it’s supposed to. The leaves rustle, where they break away from their branches in shades of muddy brown and burgundy, long past the expiration date of the season. Mounds of foliage crowd the floor underneath the trees, carelessly swept into piles by someone employed by the town to make things somewhat presentable.

The strange urge to dive into the largest pile strikes him between the eyes, and he wonders where the stupid idea came from.

But hey. It would at least be interesting right?

He might find some spiders or get to crush a really crunchy leaf underfoot, before the rain that inevitably serves as the clear divide between mild autumn and miserable winter arrives. But he doesn’t do it. He never does anything, really.

He wonders what happened to the version of him that would take whatever was handed to him; the one that dove headfirst into stupid ideas without a second thought. Did turning eighteen really lobotomize him out of any fun? Break all the adventurous bones in his body?

Keonho finds him sat outside the church where Martin used to hang out with Wonhee. It’s empty, and the wood of the bench has begun to wear away. The brassy memorial plaque has faded. The sky is a warm pink as the sun dips into the horizon and casts a rosy glow across the town. It makes everything look more charming then it really is.

“You okay?” Keonho’s croaky voice flows past Seonghyeon’s ears. He sighs, and keeps his gaze fixated on his lap.

“Not really.” He admits, eyes stinging. Keonho’s weight drops into the empty space next to him. Seonghyeon can practically feel the exhaustion rolling off him in waves.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head. What does he even want to say? What are the thoughts considered palatable to other people, versus the ones that really ought to just stay inside his head.

Keonho stays quiet, leaning his weight back in the uncomfortable, solid bench.

The stillness that follows Martin and Juhoon’s departure isn’t as world-ending as Seonghyeon expected it to be.

Life still goes on. Seonghyeon has to find it in himself to continue. And that, might be worse than the misery he felt in the weeks leading up to his friends leaving.

At least that pain was mixed with anger and sadness. Even nostalgia for versions of themselves that they don’t really recognize anymore. But his current life, bloated with a soul-crushingly boring shifts, a dying social life, and the deep feeling in his chest that things are just wrong, is far harder to cope with.

The boredom is so foreign, especially to someone who spent most of his childhood entertained by Martin’s overly energetic clumsiness. And the silence is deafening.

In moments where the door to the laundromat flies open and bangs against the wall, digging the indent in the chipped paint deeper – he expects to look up and be met with a mop of dirty blonde hair, and a sideways grin from Martin, with far too many of Juhoon’s t-shirts in his arms.

Instead, it’s just some old guy. A couple wrinkles on his face, hair graying at the scalp, plainly dressed. Mildly embarrassed by the loud noise he’s caused, and the attention he’s drawn to himself. He ducks his head in habit and excuses himself to load up an empty machine.

And when the door to the break room slowly creaks open; Seonghyeon expects someone with dark hair falling in his eyes and his body swamped in a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him, glued to the phone or novel in his hands, to shuffle in and drop into the seat next to him. Maybe complain about something or heat up some lunch that he can steal.

Instead, it’s always just the new girl – Moka, he thinks her name is. She carries herself far lighter than Juhoon used to. Her voice is dreamy and airy. She should be more pleasant to talk to, as opposed to the gruff and irritated personality he grew accustomed to.

But again, something about it feels wrong.

The crumpled work shirt Juhoon wore stays dumped behind the counter in a heap. He’s not even sure if it’s been washed since Juhoon handed in his two weeks’ notice. James hasn’t dared touch it yet. Seonghyeon stares daggers at him anytime he goes near it.

It’s like nobody can quite figure out how to be again. Seonghyeon can’t work through the strange mix of feelings and worries in his gut, that swirl endlessly into the night as he lies waiting for the call from his friends.

He can smell the distinct mix of sweat and cologne on Keonho that he’s become all too familiar with. Something between cedar and amber, with an undercurrent of salt and lemony tang. Layered over top, there’s a hint of herbal spice clinging to his skin that only follows him when he’s finished a shift at the restaurant. He finally shifts his gaze from his own hands in his lap to his friend.

Keonho’s hair is messy where he’s clearly had it tied up. It juts up in different directions and his fringe stays plastered to his forehead with a layer of drying sweat.

“How was work?” Seonghyeon asks instead, blinking back wetness. He didn’t even realize he was tearing up.

Keonho groans, tips his head back with shut eyes as he finally lets the mask slip and slouches against the hard wood of the bench.

“Dad was in a terrible mood.” He sighs. “He’s real irritable at the moment.”

Seonghyeon observes the way Keonho’s face contorts into an expression that looks like he’s eaten a sour sweet by accident. His dark eyebrows furrow together and create deeper worry lines on his face that Seonghyeon hasn’t noticed before today.

“He’s been worse since I graduated.” Keonho adds. His voice drags with dread. “I’m blaming the fact that I’m technically an adult now.”

Seonghyeon clears his throat. “Have you talked about college again?” He tries, and Keonho sighs again, louder.

“We fight about college all the time nowadays.” He corrects. “He’s still insistent that I shouldn’t go.”

“That sucks.” Seonghyeon replies quietly.

“Yeah.” Keonho agrees, staring straight ahead into the distance with a faraway look in his eyes, like he isn’t really here, listening to their nothingness of conversation.

Seonghyeon attempts to collect his thoughts into something coherent and useful. He should really say something. That would make things less awkward. Maybe getting some of his emotions and thoughts out into the world would quiet his mind and take the crushing weight off his chest.

But he ends up just not saying anything, with his mouth opening and closing like a blubbering fish in a tank.

“You look skinnier again.” Keonho says after that. Seonghyeon’s not sure whether it’s an observation, or some weird way of conveying concern.

“And you.”

They sit in sad silence, drowning in their individual miseries until the sun sets, and Seonghyeon leaves without another word.

✧

Each day of early autumn is cooler than the last.

As the temperature begins to plummet, Seonghyeon has to unearth his collection of hoodies and jackets that he’d tucked away underneath the bed in James’ spare room.

The softer, thicker fabrics offer dregs of comfort, like a too-small blanket stretched out over his growing body. They’re somewhere to hide, where his wrists can disguise themselves in layers of folded fabric, and his collarbones sink beneath thick sweaters. The scarves he winds around his neck scratch at skin where his hair now drapes down in thin, greasy strands. The winds that begin to swirl around him as he walks between his house and his job are colder, fresher. They sweep up the stuffy boredom but bring with them lonely cold that forces his hands into his pockets.

James stands in silence outside the laundromat’s back door, patiently waiting as Seonghyeon puts the key back in the lockbox, hair pushed back off his face with another headband as his stiff fingers fumble to reset the code to zero.

James is kind enough to come pick Seonghyeon up on the days he notices his gaze is slightly unfocused, his hands shakier than before. It almost feels like James has some kind of supernatural ability to sense when Seonghyeon probably shouldn’t be trusted to walk home in the dark, alone.

James clears his throat and breaks the silence. “You and Keonho are acting weird.”

“Are we?” Seonghyeon croaks, voice hoarse from where he hasn’t had to use it for at least an hour. “I didn’t notice.”

“You don’t seem as close as you were.”

“I’m not as close with anyone as I was.”

James pauses, and Seonghyeon sees him falter before he speaks again.

“Are you ever going to work on that?”

Seonghyeon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t let anyone into your world anymore.” James replies, like it’s straightforward. “Not even me.”

“I did nothing but share how I felt.” Seonghyeon shoots back bitterly. “Look where it got me.”

“Sean-”

“No, James.” He sighs. “I tried the whole being vulnerable thing and it didn’t work out.”

“That was unrelated to you-” James tries again, hand shooting out to grip Seonghyeon’s wrist. It’s cold and harsh.

“They left us.” Seonghyeon mumbles, voice breaking. “They left me.”

James wraps his arms around him, a crushing embrace that feels like it burns Seonghyeon. He instantly stiffens, tries to pull away.

“Stop pushing me away, Seonghyeon.” James tries, to no avail. His arms are shaken loose, and Seonghyeon steps back with a rapidly beating heart and wild eyes. Something cracks inside him and the dam bursts.

“I’m not-”

It’s all too much. James steps forwards, puts a hand on his shoulder this time, invades his space again.

“Stop lying to me-”

“I’mnot.” Seonghyeon wails, a nauseatingly vulnerable cry that makes him buckle at the knees and catch himself on the wall before he slams into the ground and sinks to sit in a tiny ball. His face crumbles into something between utter hopelessness and misery. Still, no tears flow, despite his eyes welling up.

James stays frozen where he is, just staring at his outburst.

“I don’t even know who I am.” He buries his head in his arms, wrapped up around his knees as he curls up, impossibly small. “Let alone what I’m doing.”

“Woah, hey.” James starts, but Seonghyeon holds his hands up to stop James from coming closer. He glances up, vision blurry. James is still there, undeterred.

“Why are you still here?” He asks with a small voice, punctuated by a quiet hiccup as he tries to wrangle his feelings. “Just go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” James replies softly as he kneels in front of Seonghyeon. “Just because you’re going through something doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”

Seonghyeon tries to kick him away weakly, but James wraps a hand around his ankle, fingers brushing against the skin underneath the hems of his aging sweatpants. The skin on skin makes him jump. He feels his hair stand on end as James gently sweeps his thumb across Seonghyeon’s cold shin.

He feels the creep of bile up his throat and the familiar tightening sensation at the back of his mouth. He retches once, then twice, and folds over on himself as he spits up a pitiful puddle of vomit and saliva onto the wet floor. It mixes with the puddle of rainwater that’s run off the laundromat roof, onto the street.

“Stop fighting me.” James murmurs. “You’re not alone.”

“Why does everything feel so cold then?” Seonghyeon whispers bitterly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s like they took my joy with them.”

James stays quiet. His hold on Seonghyeon’s ankle remains firm, grounding.

“Sometimes.” Seonghyeon gulps. “I hope that I don’t wake up in the morning.”

It feels good in a sick way, to finally say it out loud.

“I don’t look both ways when I cross the street anymore.” He continues. He doesn’t really know where the words are coming from. He sighs, looks down at his hands. “I wonder how it’d feel for it to just be over. All the time now.”

James moves to sit next to him, back flat against the cool wall.

“You’re not crazy for feeling like that.” He says, and Seonghyeon finally hears his voice tremble. “I know what you mean.”

He feels James guide his head to rest on his shoulder. His posture slumps.

“I just want to disappear.” He screws his eyes shut, feels a hot tear leak out.

They sit. For a long time. Seonghyeon doesn’t quite know how much time passes.

The silence is once again broken by James, though this time it’s because he pulls his pack of cigarettes from where they’ve been buried deep in his pockets. James pretty much ignores his presence as he lights up.

“Can I have some?”

It's miraculous really, that he didn’t get addicted to smoking.

A fifteen-year-old Seonghyeon nearly trips over the lip of the backdoor as he steps out into the fresh wintery air. His limbs aren’t quite coordinating the way he needs them to as he escapes the stifling indoor atmosphere. His vision is starting to slip, and he catches himself stumbling into the sharp corner of the kitchen island on his way outside. He hisses. It’s going to bruise for sure. A nasty purple, based on how hard he just slammed his hipbone into the countertop.

He doesn’t even know how he ended up here. His memory is fuzzy, and his thoughts move slow, like he’s trying to run in a dream.

He sees a face stood under the outdoor light. It flickers, casting long shadows over his sharp features. He approaches timidly – they’re not familiar after all. Just two people who happen to share a friend.

“James, right?” He says shakily.

He gets a nod in response. James looks down his nose to take in Seonghyeon’s disheveled appearance, and the fact that he’s wearing a thin t-shirt outside in the winter. His forehead wrinkles briefly as he scans Seonghyeon’s face, tries to recognize him.

“Eom?” He asks, eyebrow raised. Seonghyeon swallows his nerves and stands a little straighter. “You good?”

James’ sharp features look especially intimidating in the dark, and his eyes look blacker than they might be in reality. Seonghyeon partially wants the ground to split in two underneath him.

“Just needed some air.” Seonghyeon lies. It’s a tiny bit true, if he squints. The party is loud and stuffy and there are far too many people’s hands touching him. He’s totally not escaping another awkward encounter.

He’s seen James around school, loitering in stairwells and dodging teachers in the hallways when they try to catch him out of class. A cloud of smoke follows him wherever he goes. Martin has mentioned him in passing, but they haven’t had to cross paths – well, until now.

“What are you doing here?” James asks, and Seonghyeon looks away, glances back at the house.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He deflects. “You’re at a highschooler’s party.”

“I’m a highschooler still.” James retorts.

“Just about.”

“I haven’t graduated.

“Isn’t it in like, four months?”

“Shut your mouth.” James laughs. “Smartass.”

“No.” Seonghyeon replies smugly as he sticks his tongue out.

“You here with someone?”

He shakes his head. “Alone again.”

It lands sadder than he means for it to.

“Ah.” James nods casually, and Seonghyeon watches with some weird fascination as he inhales, watches the end of the cigarette flicker alive with bright orange flecks that illuminate in James’ irises.

“Can I have some?” Seonghyeon asks once he catches James’ gaze. He breathes out smoke that fills the space between them.

“You sure?”

“Haven’t smoked a cig before.” He replies, and James laughs.

“All the shit you get up to and cigs were off the table?”

“You know about that?” Seonghyeon says warily.

He wonders what rumors have circulated the school. Who has told what story? How many people know? Realistically, how much longer can this all go on for before someone steps in to stop him?

Would anyone even stop him? Before it’s too late?

“Everyone knows.” James snorts. “It’s hardly a secret.”

Seonghyeon’s cheeks burn in humiliation. It shrinks his confidence, makes him retreat back inside his oversized clothes like a tortoise.

“Never had a reason.” He mumbles, gesturing towards James’ hand, still not meeting his gaze.

“Dude.” James says, and Seonghyeon hears the gentle lilt his voice takes on. God, does he look that pathetic?

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” He asks. But he doesn’t stop Seonghyeon when he reaches out to pluck the cigarette from between James’ fingers. A strange look settles across his face as he watches.

Intrigue? Maybe even some twisted form of being impressed, with how easily Seonghyeon is able to throw away his dignity. He inhales the way he does when he smokes a joint and breathes in deeper. The fumes fills his lungs, and the cigarette burns at the back of his throat. It makes him cough, sputtering out grey smoke into the frigid air.

He winces. “That’s bad.” He says plainly, face tangled in a grimace.

“You get better at it.” James replies. His expression is unreadable, for the first time.

Seonghyeon passes the cigarette back, swimming in a fuzzy mixture of regret and desire that makes him more nauseous than he already was. “I gotta get going soon.”

It’s less directed at James than just to the universe.

“It’s late.” James agrees calmly. “Do you need a ride?”

“Haven’t you been drinking?”

“I can call a friend, idiot.”

“Oh.” Seonghyeon replies awkwardly. “Maybe.”

“Are you avoiding someone or some shit? You keep looking back at the house.” James points out as he places the cigarette back between Seonghyeon’s fingers carefully. “Is everything good?”

James looks like he doesn’t really expect anything from him. Yet somehow knew that he was going to ask for more. He cough his lungs up this time. It’s still gross, and he doesn’t see how James can enjoy it, but it’s not downright awful.

“There you go.”

“Shut up.” Seonghyeon retorts.

James just snorts, and Seonghyeon feels the tension between them ease just a bit.

“I’m fine.” He insists. “Nothing’s wrong.”

It’s a terrible lie.

“You’re a funny one.”

Seonghyeon scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve heard stories about you k-holing in empty classrooms.” James mutters. “But you can’t smoke a cig.”

“Just shut up.”

“Is it true, by the way?” He asks. “That you did that?”

Seonghyeon stills. Like the realization that yes, he did actually do that never quite set in until this moment.

“Yeah.” He stammers. He opens his mouth to speak, just to close it again.

“You don’t seem the type.”

“Oh.”

James laughs out loud this time. “What was it like?” He asks after a beat. Seonghyeon sees the gleam of interest in his eyes.

“It felt like I was dying.” He breathes out. A soft thing that dissipates into the air. “In slow motion.”

“And that’s good?” James asks, voice sharper than before. His expression has changed a bit, but Seonghyeon’s brain is moving too slow to identify it this time.

“I guess.”

They stay there in the cold, breath fogging up as they exchange small comments and quips. He eventually hears the door open behind them, and footsteps echo on the concrete floor.

“Yo, does anyone-”

Keonho freezes when he sees Seonghyeon stood next to James. They awkwardly stare back and forth at each other, and he can feel James’ eyes boring holes into him.

“Hey.”

“I’m gonna go.” Seonghyeon says abruptly. His shoulder brushes past Keonho’s on his way past, rougher than he intends it to be.

“Thanks for the cig, James.”

When they used to go to mass as a group, Seonghyeon was in deep shit. There’s no way around it.

Constantly dazed, running on barely any sleep. Holding himself upright by some miracle. Needing to be handed food in order to remember to do it. He might have withered away if not for Keonho.

Poor Keonho, who did nothing but earnestly try and earn Seonghyeon’s friendship, look out for him when he clearly needed it. Poor Keonho, who kept getting pushed away out of some fear of being left alone again. Seonghyeon sometimes wonders why he was so blind to it. Even though Juhoon was so, so correct in his reading of the situation.

But yeah. Maybe Keonho did save his life.

Little offers of dinner after hours at his family’s restaurant, on the house. Passing glances in the halls with the quirk of a thick eyebrow that read as some kind of, “You okay?”. Even waiting up as the dregs of classrooms empty out of the school gates, and Seonghyeon continues to drag his feet, dreading the moment he has to actually go home.

Sometimes they walked home in silence. Sometimes they’d stop by the convenience store where Martin worked on the way. But Keonho was always there, beaming smile and rosy cheeks, trying to help him in some way.

✧

Seonghyeon doesn’t hear from Juhoon for five weeks and four days. And yes, he kept count.

The autumn fully welcomes itself into his life, and his world becomes even quieter as the sounds of wildlife become few and far between. He’s almost jealous of the yearly migration. It would be so great to just run away.

He waits by the landline while he eats his breakfast, and again when he returns from work late into the evening to attempt to stomach some semblance of dinner. The silence speaks louder than any phone call.

He begins to feel a spark of anger deep in his chest. Some unfair resentment towards Martin and Juhoon. They escaped. They go the life he wanted. And proceeded to break every promise they made him in the preceding weeks.

How dare they.

The bitterness eats at Seonghyeon’s heart, turns into some ugly monster that he keeps inside, shamefully waiting.

One evening, he’s borderline asleep with his legs draped over the arm of the chair he’s curled up in. The hem of the pajama pants James has kindly lent him is slightly too short, and the stitching is coming apart with age. He’s thrown a thin blanket over his lap, but it’s not really contributing much warmth at all.

He thinks he ate. Like, pretty sure the meal he remembers was today, but the days are starting to blur together at the edges, and his brain has been awfully fuzzy.

The gnawing loneliness in his chest continues to chip away at his sense of time, and his desire to move. The brain fog worsens by the minute, to the point where his head is tilted back, and his eyes are barely open. He might be dozing in and out of consciousness.

The phone rings once, twice. Seonghyeon chokes on his spit, and jolts upright in surprise. James’ landline never rings.

He nearly knocks the phone off the hook in his desperate scramble to pick up the call. His hands are trembling, and Seonghyeon nearly drops it when he weakly wraps his fingers around the cold plastic.

“Hello?” He says, voice too frantic. He smoothes his free hand through his hair as he leans over the arm of James’ recliner. His knees curl up into his chest as he holds his breath.

“Hyeon? Is that you?” He hears a quiet voice crackle through the line, and God, he could cry right now.

“Jju?”

“Hey, sorry it’s so late. I just got in from work and-”

“Fuck you” Seonghyeon chokes.

He hears Juhoon laugh clearly on the other end of the phoneline. Wonders if he can hear the rage lying underneath the relief.

“I love you too.” Juhoon replies smoothly. “Sorry if I woke you up.” He adds sheepishly.

Seonghyeon dimly registers that the sky is dark outside. He must’ve slept through the evening again.

“It’s nothing.” He says. “I was about to head to bed.”

“Hey, don’t let me stop you-”

“Juhoon.” Seonghyeon pleads. The desperation in his voice must sound as thick as it feels, because Juhoon stops in his tracks.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and Seonghyeon finally has to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

“Not really.” He stammers out. His voice breaks towards the end as he sucks in another shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

“Hey.” Juhoon’s voice is gentle. Like the breeze in the summertime.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Seonghyeon cuts him off before he can say anything. “I don’t... I don’t know what to say.” He admits, quieter.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He insists. “Everything feels wrong. I just,” Seonghyeon sighs.

“I don’t even know who I am.” He says. His fingers on his free hand play with the cord of his pajama pants.

“You’re eighteen.” Juhoon replies. “You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Me and Martin took two years to figure our shit out.”

“Okay-”

“Sean.” Juhoon says, firmer than before.

Seonghyeon picks at the skin flaking around his fingernails, bitten raw. “I feel like I’m supposed to know by now.”

“You have plenty of time to figure out who you are.” Juhoon promises. “Stop worrying about it so much.”

They both go quiet. He wishes Juhoon would just drop the act now and tell him to get lost. Leave him alone in his new life.

“You know how you guys figured out that you wanted to get out.” Seonghyeon asks eventually. “And like, what you wanted to do.”

Juhoon hums, like he doesn’t notice anything is wrong.

“How did you just... do it?”

“I didn’t want to initially.” Juhoon replies softly. “Martin asked me to go with him.”

“I know that.” Seonghyeon says, barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

“I couldn’t keep putting it off, I guess.”

They sit in silence.

“I don’t have anything going for me anymore.” Seonghyeon whispers. “I don’t even want to get out of bed anymore.”

“Sean- I’m sorry-”

“It’s not your fault, really.” Seonghyeon says, but this time he fails to stifle the bitterness in his tone. “I have nothing to look forward to.”

“Have you considered seeing someone? My therapist was alright-”

“I’m on new meds to help.” Seonghyeon interrupts. He knows he’s being somewhat cruel in the way he’s just dumping all of this on Juhoon, but he can’t stop the flow of confession any longer. “Well, they’re supposed to help.”

Juhoon sighs on the other end of the line.

“I feel like some kind of broken robot every morning. I take the stupid pill and cross another day off my sobriety calendar, and nothing feels any different.”

“Hyeon.” Juhoon tries again, and the softness of it knocks Seonghyeon a little off kilter. “Take a deep breath.”

He tries. Truly. Feels his chest expand and fill with air that he doesn’t really want to keep breathing.

“You don’t need to fix everything now.” He hears Juhoon say firmly. “But you need to try to regulate.”

Regulate.

Who does Juhoon think he is, telling Seonghyeon how to feel his feelings when a year ago he was sobbing into Seonghyeon’s sheets uncontrollably.

Then, he hears it.

He notices the bitter and angry tone his internal monologue has taken on.

Fuck, is the loneliness really ruining him this fast? When did he get so spiteful? When did the feisty Seonghyeon morph into angry, angsty Seonghyeon? And why did nobody see it happening?

Or stop it?

“Okay.” He breathes out, biting his tongue in shame. The pit in his stomach returns, makes him choke back another sob. It feels like he has an all-consuming monster within him, waiting to feed on the misery he brings when he lashes out.

“I’m here for you, okay?” Juhoon sighs. “I’m really sorry it took so long for me to call.”

Seonghyeon doesn’t say anything.

He just hangs up on the call he was waiting to get.

It’s easier that way.

✧

Seonghyeon wonders whether his mom made him how he is.

Sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees her staring back at him.

People have always said it. He’s got her eyes, the same shade of dark hair. The toothy smile that people haven’t seen since the summer.

They used to look so clearly like mother and son. For a few years, it was good.

She would brush her shiny, dark hair and sing to him with a voice as clear as that of a bird’s chirp in the morning, as he sat in the bath as a small child. She’d lather his scalp with bubbles that smelled like lavender and wash it out so carefully that he wouldn’t even need to close his eyes.

He and his sister would take turns lying across his mother’s lap as she gently ran her fingers along his back, lulling him to sleep. She taught him to ride a bike, patched up his scrapes when he came to her crying. Showed him different books on animals, plants, science. She was his world. Then his father left.

The courts ordered that his sister went with him. Things spiraled.

He watched his mother implode into something unrecognizable. He tried not to notice the way she withdrew. They stopped going to church together. Grocery shopping trips became few and far between, eventually falling to Seonghyeon entirely. The curtains stopped opening in her bedroom, engulfing the house in an oppressive, miserable atmosphere.

He recalls not seeing her emerge from her room for days on end, wondering if she was even still alive up there, as he lay on the couch downstairs, drifting in and out of consciousness. Both of them trying to grapple with crushing grief of reality, for a life they had torn away from them. Maybe it was his age, that made him afraid to ask her if she was okay.

Maybe it was shame to admit to her that he felt the same way.

The person in the mirror today makes him sick. He resembles her more than ever when he’s slipping back into old habits. The purplish circles underneath his eyes that he fought so hard to get rid of, from weeks of poor sleep and nutrition. The way his hair is thinning in places, where he keeps absentmindedly pulling it out. The skin bitten raw around his nailbeds.

Ghostly pale, eyes sunken. Sore skin that reddens on his cheeks, around pimples that didn’t exist months ago. His lips, painfully dry and cracking whenever he so much as attempts a smile.

He mourns the version of him that could’ve existed had his mother not fallen to pieces.

Would he know how to cope on his own? Would he have learned to place his trust in others securely, without testing friendships whenever he got jealous, or insecure, or angry. Would he have been able to move on with life, settle into some form of normalcy that didn’t make him wish he was dead.

Would he be a better person?

But then again, would he have felt so connected to the church, had she not emotionally abandoned him? Had he not spent so much time sat in the pews, avoiding going home to confront an angry, spiteful woman, would he find solace in the Lord? Would he have been so open and loving towards his friends if he had been receiving it from another source?

So many questions.

And no answers.

The person he is today disgusts him.

There was a brief period of time, a couple months, where everything looked like it was going right for him. Like the sugary coating of a candy apple at Halloween, that looks delightful and appetizing. But as his small spark of hope began to sputter out, that same sweetness began to rot.

Today, he sits on James’ porch. He’s wrapped up in so many layers of clothes he doesn’t even want anymore, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

It’s like something inside him can sense the thunderstorm coming. His nose pricks up like a well-trained search dog when he catches the scent of petrichor and the sound of rain on the horizon. He sits for hours, watching the smokey-grey clouds move in, darkening the sky, and spreading a thin layer of dread across the town.

He hears the quiet click of the front door opening behind him, and the familiar sound of a body clad in a warm sweater and too much worry dropping to sit on the floor next to him.

“Food’s ready.” James’ voice comes gentle, like a fluffy blanket being draped over his shoulders. Yet, he tenses, like the softness of it is purely there the cushion the blow of whatever James says next.

“I’m not hungry.” Seonghyeon replies, staring straight ahead at the brewing storm.

“You have to eat.” James argues. “You’re going to wither away otherwise.”

“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Shut up.” James says, but it’s firmer than usual.

Seonghyeon sighs, breaks his intense eye contact with the clouds.

“What is it?” He relents when James doesn’t budge.

“Come find out.” He teases, a small smile playing across his lips.

Seonghyeon doesn’t indulge him.

“My mom sent me a letter.” He chooses to say instead.

He sees James’ fingers tighten around the rough cuffs of his jacket.

“Did you read it?” He replies, and Seonghyeon can immediately see through thinly veiled calm.

“No.” He admits. “I couldn’t bring myself to open it.”

“That’s okay.” James says. “When did it arrive?”

“Three days ago.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve tried to open it. Like ten times.”

“And?”

“Every time I tried I just...” Seonghyeon stutters, feels his voice catch in his throat. “Couldn’t do it. It was like my fingers locked up when I touched the envelope.”

The distant rumble of thunder interrupts them, and Seonghyeon feels the wind still around them.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about her.” He confesses.

He replays finding the letter, neatly tucked into the mailbox with crisp handwriting. The familiar swirls and flourishes on his name that he recognizes immediately as belonging to her. The envelope, perfectly sealed, calculated and neat. Seonghyeon runs his finger along the edge, feels the sharp edge. Part of him wants it to slice his skin.

“I don’t blame you.” James replies, voice low in his throat. His hand finds Seonghyeon’s, and he traces absentminded patterns on his soft skin.

“I hate her. I think.” Seonghyeon swallows thickly. “But I don’t at the same time.”

“Yeah.”

“I just want to ask her questions.”

“Makes sense.”

He stills again, anxious, trembling hands resting in his lap.

“The worst part was that she came back, and suddenly she was fine.” He says, eyes closing as he feels the pain of the memory. “It wasn’t fair that she just got to start again.”

It was agonizingly painful, to realize that she had been hiding out elsewhere, building a life for herself with entirely new people. She didn’t even feel the need to tell him. Just selfishly picked up and left until she got bored and came home.

“She didn’t hide out in her dark room for days. She even cooked me dinner that first night.”

He exhales through his nose.

“I couldn’t eat it. I just left it on the table and hid. Like a coward.”

The extravagantly cooked sticky rice that were set neatly on a freshly cleaned table was like a luminous, radioactive pile of sludge. Just waiting for Seonghyeon to take the bait and succumb to the poison.

“You’re angry.” James breathes. His grip on Seonghyeon’s hand tightens ever so slightly. “It’s okay to be angry.”

But the anger doesn’t just simmer anymore. He feels like a volcano, bubbling and churning red hot fury within, without a way to release the building pressure. It turns inwards and begins to eat away at his own body.

“It feels terrible.” Seonghyeon retorts. “I hate who I’ve become.”

A flash of lightning splits the sky open, and the thunderous roar of a downpour of rain hitting the aluminum roof above their heads deafens him.

“You can’t let it ruin your life.” James agrees, voice raised. “But you need to let yourself be angry. Or sad. Or just relieved.”

Seonghyeon stares at the cold rain hammering down against the grass.

“Or else?”

“Otherwise it’s going to destroy you.”

✧

Seonghyeon catches his emotions bubbling within himself frequently – as he walks to work, when he’s trying to force down some kind of meal, when he texts Keonho but doesn’t really say anything of substance. He slumps against the seats outside the train station one day, completely exhausted and aimless. He thinks he was on his way to Keonho’s restaurant, before he chickened out and walked here instead.

He hears the train roll in slow, brakes screeching while the mechanical clatter of metal wheels against the aging tracks pierces his ears. A deep clunking follows, with a low frequency hum reverberating inside his chest, with the occasional crackle as the wheels continue to grind. Finally, it stops with a loud shudder, like someone groaning in pain. Martin always talked about catching a train out of here one day, despite having never gotten on a train, nor having a clue where he’d go afterwards. Seonghyeon tastes something bitter in his mouth as he feels his brows furrow into a frown.

His head drops back as his eyes flutter shut, fringe falling across his forehead, shorter where James tried to trim it last week. The letter is still sitting tucked under his mattress, where he can’t see it. It’s in pristine condition (or at least as close as it can get, considering it was left in a grimy mailbox and then stuffed under a bed).

He’s going to have to open it someday.

Another day, though.

There’s the sound of someone shouting behind him on the platform, but he doesn’t bother to turn around and watch. He hears the roll of suitcase wheels on the cracked concrete ground towards the train, alongside heavy footsteps – frantic. It’s the sound of someone nearly missing out on their chance.

They shout, deep and desperate, for the train to wait a second. They must get lucky, because Seonghyeon doesn’t hear them again, before the train creaks to life, and rolls out of the station.

The weeks begin to drag. Time slows agonizingly, like the universe has been rearranged to torment him.

The landline continues to ring, and Seonghyeon chooses to ignore it each time, from his spot on the armchair with his legs thrown over the armrest. Even when James’ mother pokes her head around the corner from the kitchen, asks if he’s going to pick it up. He shakes his head, wallowing in shame and anger.

He observes the way her eyes widen when she takes in his disheveled appearance, hair knotted and eyes heavy. Then her lips press into a thin line that he reads as disapproval, before she glances back into the kitchen, presumably to check on whatever she’s cooking.

“Do you want to talk?” She asks gently. She doesn’t make any movement towards him, nor does she seem to be that insistent on it.

He shakes his head, but his bottom lip gives him away when it wobbles.

“I know you’re not doing okay.”

It’s painful to hear.

“Yeah.”

She steps closer, lips still pursed, but this time her eyebrows have a crinkle between them. She just observes him, like an animal in a taxidermy exhibit.

“Would you mind doing the dishes for me?” She asks, and the wild swing catches him off guard. He shakes his head again, pulling himself to his feet on autopilot.

“Thank you.” She says politely, neatly manicured hand reaching for the remote as she switches on the television. She doesn’t pay attention to what is playing.

Seonghyeon notices a new ring.

“Do you have a specific way you like it done?” Seonghyeon mumbles as he trudges, like a zombie, towards the sink full of soapy water. When he looks down, he sees the reflection of someone he doesn’t even want to be anymore.

“No, you decide how you want it.” She replies, voice drowned out slightly by Seonghyeon’s hazy mind and the white noise of the television. His hands dip into the water, and it engulfs him like a warm hug. It almost makes him sob on the spot.

The translucent curtains are drawn across the small window in front of the sink, but Seonghyeon can still make out the silhouette of himself in the glass. He mechanically picks up the first plate, hands shaking. He knocks it against the sink by accident, nowhere near hard enough to crack it, but enough for him to feel the wave of guilt rise up his esophagus again.

“I’m sorry.” He chokes suddenly. “I’m really sorry.”

A hand on his back that rubs gently startles him, and he jerks away from the touch on instinct.

“We have more than enough plates.” She reassures him, her voice soft as she picks up a tea towel.

Seonghyeon has to refocus himself, as he washes and rinses each plate the exact way his mother required them to be done. Clean the front once, then the back. Then scrub hard with the copper brush. Then clean with the sponge, and rinse with cold water. James’ mother just watches patiently and stretches out her hand to take the soaked plate from him.

She dries it without question.

He continues to wash, allows his mind to wander. The first few plates, he cleans meticulously. Then he starts to slip. He forgets to scrub. He doesn’t rinse in cold water, but rather dips the dish into the warm water instead to wash the soap bubbles away. He doesn’t wash the plates from largest to smallest, simply reaching into the water and picking whatever is nearest.

He expects the criticism to come. Some reprimand on laziness. Some snide comment about his lack of care. But nothing ever happens.

She just keeps taking the dishes from him and drying them.

He realizes he has a tear running down his cheeks when the water in the sink is lukewarm, and he’s scrubbing cutlery like his life depends on it.

By the time the sink is empty, and he pulls the plug, the tear tract has dried. And she’s still standing there, waiting.

“Thank you, Seonghyeon.” Is all she says.

“You’re welcome.” He replies flatly. His feet stay frozen where they are, despite him desperately wanting to flee.

“You can go now.”

And that kicks his brain into overdrive. He sprints, falls into his bed, and sobs into the pillow.

✧

James gifts him a bicycle.

It’s painted a pale blue, with silvery-gray spokes that spin like a spiderweb, glimmering in the sunlight. The grease thick chain is pulled taught along the frame and coiled tight like a snake lying in wait, while the scuffed tires remind Seonghyeon that this is probably a hand-me-down, or a secondhand purchase. The bell, however, is bright and polished brass, which James demonstrates with a bright, piercing ping. It cuts sharp and loud, above the click of the freewheel coasting as the bike moves, and the rhythmic hum of the tires biting into the concrete driveway.

Seonghyeon feels a burn at the back of his throat, and a deep guilt in his chest.

“You didn’t have to get this for me.” He croaks, and his eyes sting.

“I didn’t.” James agrees. “I wanted to though.”

“I don’t even know if I remember how to ride.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know how to fix it up if something comes loose.”

“You can learn.”

“I don’t know if I can accept the bike.” Seonghyeon realizes, is what he’s trying to say.

“I know.” James says with a sad smile. “You’re going to, though. It’s yours.”

Seonghyeon takes the handlebars from James’ hands, tests out the tight grip squeeze he needs to clamp down on the brakes. There’s a tiny lamp on the front of the bike that he didn’t notice before.

“Is there a catch?” He asks with a raised brow. “Like, any rules?”

James shakes his head. “It’s all yours. You can paint it if you don’t like the blue. You can take it wherever. You don’t have to clean it if you don’t want to. It’s just something for you to have.”

Seonghyeon’s chest heaves with a shaky exhale.

“Okay.”

James’ face splits into a happier grin. He stumbles forwards, arms outstretched, before he stops centimeters from Seonghyeon awkwardly.

“Can I-”

“Yes, James.”

Fifteen-year-old Seonghyeon stumbles past a couple pressed up against each other in the hallway as his vision swims. He doesn’t pay them a second glance, instead pushing past them into the toilet they’re currently blocking the entrance of. The girl scoffs at him, complains a bit, but it falls on deaf ears.

Seonghyeon slams the door shut behind him and bolts the lock shut, before he drops to his knees and hunches over the toilet bowl. The nausea is intense as his head spins, his throat constricts as he retches. His mouth is wet with saliva, and he has to wipe some away with the back of his hand to stop it from dripping down his chin. The muscles in his chest contract, and he heaves again, spitting into the bowl beneath him. The water is moving more than it should.

He doesn’t even know what he’s on. He blindly accepted an array of drinks and bags from people he doesn’t know, like that could’ve ended better than this.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Is anyone in there?” A voice, rowdy and annoying. “I need a piss.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” Seonghyeon manages to shout back, just loud enough to carry over the thumping bass in his ears. The knocking doesn’t let up though, and that combined with the overwhelming ringing in his ears and metallic taste in his mouth sends him over the edge.

He doubles over the toilet again, ribs clenching as his body violently purges itself of the poison he’s forced into it. Hot acid burns his throat as it floods his mouth, and undignified, choking sounds fill his ears as he empties his stomach into the bowl. His palms are sweating where they’re gripping tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. He absolutely despises the feeling of puking.

He stays knelt there, alone. His forehead resting on his forearms as he tries to collect himself. This time, the wave of nausea isn’t enough to make him puke, and he has to bury his fingers in his throat, knuckle deep, to force it out.

Eventually it passes. The nausea eases slightly, and he’s able to pull himself to his feet. He holds his mouth open under the faucet and trickles some cold water into his mouth. He swishes it around before he spits it back out, watches it swirl down the drain. It’s mixed with blood.

He looks at himself in the mirror, where his cheeks are flushed, and his skin is splotchy. His hair is messed up and he can see the faint trace of red from where he had a nosebleed earlier in the night. The guy outside bangs on the door again.

“Dude. Get out.” He complains, and Seonghyeon rolls his eyes. He splashes some water on his face before he unlocks the door.

The guy stood opposite him is about the same height as him. He’s got dark hair that curls where sweat clings to it, like he’s just been working out.

Seonghyeon nearly chokes again.

“Sorry.” He squeaks, tries to move aside for the guy, but they both sidestep in the same direction and bump into each other. Seonghyeon feels his stomach twist up again. The color must drain from his face, because the guy opposite him puts a hand on his shoulder as he starts swaying on his feet again.

“You good, bro?” He asks, voice a bit quieter. Seonghyeon immediately turns around, collapses, and doubles over the toilet again. It’s incredibly unflattering. He continues to retch, but this time nothing comes up. The guy kneels down beside him once he locks the door shut.

“Should I get you a water?” He says, pity thick in his tone. Seonghyeon shakes his head, spits the dregs of the bile in his mouth out.

“Is there anyone I can get for you?”

He shakes his head again. “Didn’t come with anyone. Nobody at home either.” He rasps.

“Do you want me to keep you company?” The guy offers gently. Seonghyeon’s eyebrows raise on instinct.

“Huh?”

“I can stay with you if you want.”

Seonghyeon’s face contorts into a frown briefly. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re puking your guts up.” He replies. “Duh.”

Seonghyeon’s knees are aching where the tile floor is digging into them.

“Fair enough.”

“What’s your name?” The guy asks.

“Seonghyeon.” He slurs. “Nice to meet you.”

“You like this all the time?” His voice tilts with a tinge of flirtation. At least, that’s what Seonghyeon’s clouded brain reads it as.

“Depends who’s asking.” He replies, split lips pulling into some sick kind of smile.

The guy moves slightly closer as Seonghyeon drops his head into the bowl and spits again. The humiliation burns on the way up, just as the alcohol did on the way down.

A hand rubs his back.

“You can’t have anything left in your stomach.” He jokes. “It’s all gotta be in the bowl.”

“Don’t underestimate my stomach lining.” Seonghyeon retorts. He’s right, because not a second later, his vision spins and he pukes again.

“How old are you?” He chokes in between spitting and wiping his mouth. “I don’t recognize you.”

The guy laughs.

“I’m new to town. Well. I will be.” He replies. “I’m fifteen.”

“Oh shit, really?” Seonghyeon laughs, finally able to lift his head up to look him in the eye. He has a cheeky kind of sparkle in his eye that Seonghyeon doesn’t see frequently. “Me too.”

Seonghyeon smiles, but he’s not sure if he really means it.

The guy pulls himself to his feet. “Tough shit for fifteen I guess.” He says with a pearly grin.

He extends a hand to Seonghyeon, who has finally stopped retching. He wipes his mouth one more time, before letting himself be helped to stand on wobbly legs. He opens his mouth, gargles more cold water and spits it down the drain again.

There’s no blood this time.

As a ‘thank you’ for his kindness, a still-drunken Seonghyeon presses a kiss to his cheek with poor aim. His lips catch on the corner of the guy’s mouth as he clumsily steps towards him.

He freezes immediately. Seonghyeon feels it.

They don’t speak another word to each other as they part ways. Seonghyeon doesn’t see him again for months.

Until they’re sat in the same row on the first day of school.