if the sky falls
so that you can remain as a shining person
(burn me with that dagger instead)
it’s hard to leave the warmth of their bed.
harder still to leave the warmth of the long arms that he’s become far too used to have wrapped around him while he sleeps. the hardest though is to have yifan’s body shifting in response to chanyeol’s movements, no matter how minimal he tries to make them. but yifan is a deep enough sleeper that he just moves in tune to chanyeol sliding away, out of the bed. the older man doesn’t rouse and for that chanyeol is grateful.
he’s already packed in secret. he won’t need much, but he’s put enough food into a knapsack for the journey to the camps and then after that, everything will be taken away from him anyway-he knows how it is and he knows how it works. they’ll provide anything and everything he’ll supposedly need. he’s done this before, after all. war is nothing new and being a soldier is nothing new to chanyeol.
on the way to the washroom, he picks up the knife he keeps in his bedside table drawer-both he and yifan have knives stored beside them even when they sleep. they live too far out from town not to take the precaution. chanyeol quickly heads outside to the well, in the darkness of the night, only the stars as lights, to gather a bucket of water. he brings it back inside, still trying to tread through their small house as quietly as possible. he can’t have yifan even near consciousness-he can’t have yifan even thinking this was a dream.
chanyeol pours the water into the wooden basin in front of the looking-glass, and over another empty bucket that he places on the table that the basin is propped up upon, he starts cutting his hair into it, the long dark locks plopping softly down against the wood. he cuts it as close as he can-cutting it short the same way yifan’s is. as similarly to yifan’s hair as possible. when he’s done, he washes the knife and splashes the cold water over his face and head, making sure to wash the errant strands off his skin.
he walks back to their bedroom to put the knife back and yifan hasn’t stirred, hasn’t moved at all from the position chanyeol had last seen him in. the sheets have slipped off of the older man slightly, revealing pale skin and wiry muscle, so chanyeol tugs them up, covering yifan up until his broad shoulders. he risks a quick touch to the other man’s hair before chanyeol leaves the room again-he still has a lot to do.
next is the armor-yifan’s armor.
it’ll fit chanyeol-it won’t fit perfectly, but it’ll be so close that no one will notice. not with their heights. not with chanyeol’s perfect grasp of the language after having lived years upon years in this land. not with how rare his and yifan’s heights are-it’ll be so close and chanyeol’s hair is short, and there won’t be that many portraits painted of either of their likenesses. it’ll be close, but it’ll pass.
the metal plates feel strange against his skin. it isn’t too different, but isn’t the same as chanyeol’s own armor-the one he’d left in his homeland, along with his sword, along with all traces of his previous life (the one he doesn’t want to remember, the one he wishes never happened, the one he wishes he could erase by washing his skin over and over again). he closes his eyes for a moment, just after he’s finished slipping on the leg plates. he’s sitting at their dining table-just two seats at the small, wooden rectangle, and tomorrow morning, one of them will be empty at breakfast.
once, while they were both lying in bed, chanyeol’s cheek pressed against yifan’s bare chest, chanyeol’s hair feathering out against the older man’s collarbones and throat, he’d linked their fingers together, holding them up against the sunlight filtering in, and he’d mused out loud what would it be like to have been able to be proud of what he’d fought for? to have been a soldier of honor rather than of death?
(yifan had kissed the words from chanyeol’s lips-had whispered back that even honorable soldiers were ones of death. chanyeol doesn’t think yifan understood the question at all.)
he supposes he’ll find out, though, in these coming months-years-what it’ll feel like to be a soldier of honor. maybe, with this, through this, chanyeol will be able to redeem himself even if only slightly-even if only in his own, horrible eyes-maybe someone will be able to forgive him even if it isn’t himself.
(even if yifan already forgave chanyeol a thousand, a million, times over)
as he stands, the armor clinking softly, he smiles bitterly. here he is already, in his thoughts, deluding himself into believing that all this is for such a noble cause. it isn’t. he isn’t. he’ll never be noble and he’ll never be honorable. he’ll only ever be selfish-as selfish as his reason for doing all of this.
(he can’t let yifan go-he can’t be the one left behind again)
chanyeol rips a piece of parchment from the large roll they have out near the tiny shelf of books they keep. he sits now at the desk in their living room, and dips the brush into the inkwell. it won’t be long because even though chanyeol is a man of so many words, none of them come to him right now. so he only churns out the important ones-the ones that’ll keep yifan in the dark, that’ll keep yifan safe regardless of what happens to chanyeol.
(the ones that’ll stop yifan’s tears)
he folds it as he returns for the last time to their bedroom, placing it on yifan’s bedside table and he leans in to press his lips against his lover’s forehead. one last time.
(because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever return)
it feels like heavy weights are being pressed upon chanyeol’s armor (yifan’s armor) right above where his heart is as he straightens and forces himself to take step after step through their house (their home-that they built, that they lived in, that they loved in, that yifan healed chanyeol in day by day, month by month, year by year) until he finally reaches the doorway, closing it and letting it lock behind him.
he’d already saddled his horse and tied the knapsack of food and water to her bridle. he takes her by the reins and leads her out far enough that they can see the house completely without having to stand back. she’s been with him for a long time, so he knows that she’ll stay when he tells her to-just for a moment-as he turns to the house (their home) one last time, with his arms spread.
chanyeol faces his palms outwards to the house and breathes in deeply as the warm tingling gathers in his fingers and shoots out like comets, silvery-blue beams, at the small, wooden house. they each form a point and when chanyeol claps his hands together, a silverfish film of light connects from point to point-protectively boxing the house in. chanyeol guides the dancing charms with his eyes, directing them with his breathing, and he whispers commands beneath his breath.
keep safe whom i love, let enter none with ill-intent, let enter none with doubtful intent, protect him through the thickest of troubles may they be natural or caused by man-let him sleep soundly, let his mind rest at ease, let none enter who may cause him disturbance of mind, heart, body or soul-protect him, protect him, protect him
when the last of the charms fades, the blue lights and silver films fading away into invisibility, chanyeol’s arms drop to his sides and he heaves another great breath. he turns for his horse, mounting her easily and patting her between her ears. she whinnies, almost encouragingly, almost bracingly, as he directs her with the reins towards the dusty road leading for the town.
it’s a three-day journey to the nearest post where they’re taking recruits to the camps nearer to the front lines, and chanyeol is lucky to reach it within a little more than two days. he’s lucky to have a quick horse, and he knows he’ll be luckier still if they let him keep her during the short few training weeks before they ship him off to the battleground. many other soldiers are already lined up once the sun reaches the middle of the sky-the lines are far and long, stretching out to the road that chanyeol rides up upon.
he doesn’t get to the officers at the gate until it is well near sundown but there are even more men behind him, so he counts himself fortunate in that aspect as well. the officers are heads shorter than chanyeol and they don’t even glance up from their rosters as one of them barks out, “name?” while the other readies his brush.
“wu yifan,” chanyeol says, and with perfect mandarin, “from the village towards the east.”
the officer with the scroll locates and crosses the name off easily while the second officer steps aside and directs chanyeol to the next station-health inspections and the like.
chanyeol follows the crowd of young men, horse at his side and head bowed.