back to the future ; chenyeol ; 1/3
Title: Back to the future
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jongdae/Chanyeol
Wordcount: 26,800
Warning: Unbetaed, hints of panic attacks, slight tendency to depression.
Disclaimer: EXO belongs to themselves and SME
Notes: For Naz, for her undying Chenyeol love and the multiple times she killed me by linking me pictures of them ♥
Summary: There's a decision that led to Chanyeol drowning in the dullest life, and if he could go back, he'd find it and he'd change everything. Even if it were as insignificant as choosing another seat on the bus ride to school.
Chanyeol parks his car in front of his parents’ house and shuts down the engines. In front of him the alley stretches, rose bushes running along its edges, until it crashes at the foot of a pristine white door with neat window panes catching sunlight and flashing rainbows every two seconds. It hits him every time, how unchanging the place is. It’s past familiarity or fond memories, and more about jumping back in time. Every time he drives into the quiet neighbourhood, he can feel himself shrink back to the teenager he was, he can feel himself fill with quiet desires he never admitted, like wanting a hug from his mother in the dead of night.
It used to disturb him whenever he would go home during his college years. He was so high on the feeling of freedom and on the idea that he was finally an adult, that coming back and do nothing but laze around in his old bed while his mum would do his laundry always made him uncomfortable. He had been dreaming of that moment for so long, when he would be able to eat his dinners at ungodly hours of the night, that going back the kid he used to be made him feel like he was never really free. And freedom… Chanyeol longed for freedom so much. He finds it ironic now, and so funny, but in a morbid way, how kids just want to grow up while adults only dream of going back.
He glances at the large street of the neighbourhood dipping down under the horizon line, perfectly aligned houses standing on both sides. He knows that he can’t really outrun responsibilities and adulthood. He can almost feel his dull life waiting for him and ready to jump back into his car when he’ll drive to the end of the street and back to the city. He’d give so much to stay right here, where time doesn’t seem to fly away, where rose bunches don’t grow higher and window panes are always clean.
Chanyeol lets out a sigh. It breaks the silence in the vehicle with a loud crash, and he winces. He knows his mother is probably patiently waiting by the door, and if he doesn’t get off the car soon, she’ll rush outside. He doesn’t want to see the worry on her face, doesn’t want to see the smiling wrinkles in the corners of her eyes fall down. More than anything, he needs everything to be just like it ever was. Safe, warm and comforting.
He turns on his seat and grabs the travel bag on the back seat before opening the door and stepping out of the car. He locks it and feels his stomach clench with sickness at the sight of the fancy vehicle clashing against the quiet simplicity of the neighbourhood, but nothing feels heavier than the reflection he catches on the window. Perfectly styled hair, suit and tie, tired features. Chanyeol doesn’t recognize himself.
The door unlocks behind him, and he turns around as his mother’s face peeks out. She looks older than what she did when he was in college, smaller and more fragile, but all in all, she’s still the same with her wide smile and her loving eyes. She throws Chanyeol a look of mixed feelings somewhere between worry, confusion and happiness, and Chanyeol decides to focus on the latter. He can already feel his own mouth stretch into a grin.
“Mum!” he greets. His low voice almost catches him off guard. He was expecting the softer tone of his teenage days. “Ah, I’m so happy to see you.”
He hurries towards the door, opens his arms wide and embraces her while she wraps her arms around his neck. She chuckles, and he breathes in her scent - always the same hint of lilac - with a pleased sigh. Her body feels so tiny between his arms - she’s so frail - but her grip is strong and safe. She’s always felt very supportive even when Chanyeol never voiced out his worries, and she’s doing it again. He tightens his hold around her.
“How are you?” he asks without breaking away from the embrace.
“I’m good,” she answers without letting go of him.
Chanyeol’s dad died three years ago, his body failing him after so many years of good service. His mother’s voice has never been the same since that day. It’s still cheerful, sincere and loving, but there’s a double layer to it now, like an implied meaning, a quiet sentence she always thinks but never says. Chanyeol hears it perfectly well though. I miss your dad.
They finally break their embrace, and Chanyeol softly pushes his mother into the house, his hand spreading on the small of her back as he closes the door.
“Have you heard from Yura?” she asks, tiny hands immediately going for his bag.
“As a matter of fact, I did!” he answers while raising his bag above his head to stop her from carrying it. “She called me when she landed in Berlin. She sounded so excited about that conference, which I do not understand. Being a journalist has stolen another week-end from her.”
Chanyeol’s mother clicks her tongue, but Chanyeol’s teasing tone still draws a smile from her.
“She loves her job,” Mrs. Park says after glaring at Chanyeol’s bag. “Put that in your room and wash your hands. I cooked your favourite dishes.”
“Of course you did.”
She flashes him another smile before waddling towards the kitchen, her tiny feet disappearing in her fluffy pink slippers. Chanyeol represses a snort before making his way to his old bedroom, his stomach grumbling and his mouth watering at the prospect of the delicious dinner he can smell in the hallway.
Just like the rest of the house and the rose bushes outside, his childhood bedroom didn’t change. The walls are of a soft beige shade, except for a very discreet little patch near his nightstand that still has a piece of his childhood wallpaper. He still remembers asking his father to leave it there with an embarrassed voice, and how his dad took him in before grinning. I love whales quite a lot myself, you know, he had said before making sure the little piece of wallpaper he never tore off had a complete piece of the whale fresco that used to cover Chanyeol’s walls. The Eminem poster is still above his desk, just like the numerous Green Day ones are still hovering over Chanyeol’s twin bed. There’s no dust on his book shelves, and notebooks full of scribbled pieces of poetry and song lyrics are still neatly aligned on them. Even his school bag is there, looking hyped up for another trip to college as it rests peacefully against the wall. Chanyeol cracks a smile when he pictures himself showing up to work on Monday with the bag and its embarrassing amount of Mario stickers instead of his black leather suitcase.
It feels good to be home.
“And did Mrs. Lee apologize for that?” Chanyeol asks between two mouthfuls of rice.
His mother gives him a disapproving look when she catches his amused intonations. He’s been catching up with the life in the neighbourhood - where the most terrible thing that could happen is Mrs. Lee stealing your secret curry chicken recipe and claiming it hers after she invited your gang of friends for dinner - and the seriousness in his mother’s eyes has been nothing but endearing to him. He knows she watches the news and argues over newspaper articles with her friends, but in the safe nest that his childhood neighbourhood is, things like economic crisis or terrible human beings leading whole countries don’t seem to matter as much as knowing who will host the next monthly dinner.
“She did, because I made her!” his mother exclaims.
She grabs Chanyeol’s bowl and refills it for the third time already. Chanyeol hears his stomach shiver with fear, but he merely smiles and thanks her before dipping into the kimchi pan with his chopsticks.
“Everyone loves your kimchi,” he says. “You can’t blame her for trying to copy it.”
Mrs. Park snorts, but Chanyeol can see from her pleased smile and the rosiness blooming on her cheeks that she enjoyed the not-so-hidden compliment.
“The next dinner will be next week, and it’ll be at Mrs. Kim’s. Everyone is hoping for a very fancy dinner because - “
She stops short in her explanations and casts a suddenly excited look at Chanyeol. Confused, he lowers his chopsticks as she gasps and reaches out to pat him repeatedly on the arm, like she always does when she has the best news ever.
“What?” he asks, amused.
“I didn’t tell you!” she hisses, now so excited that she’s almost bouncing on the old pillow she’s sitting on. Chanyeol chuckles and pours her a glass of water that she dismisses with a click of the tongue.
“Mrs. Kim!” she continues in her high voice. “We’re expecting her to make a very fancy dinner because something happened to her son. Do you remember him? Kim Jongdae?” Chanyeol nods, and she immediately goes on, so eager to tell Chanyeol her story. “Well he has been offered a contract! He’s going to make an album!”
Chanyeol freezes, surprised. His mother nods with a wide excited grin, and Chanyeol wonders for a brief second what are the odds of her misunderstanding what Mrs. Kim told her. He faintly remembers Kim Jongdae being in the dramatic art club back in college and singing for the choir, but there’s a huge gap between singing in a church and singing in a recording studio. He can’t remember what major Kim Jongdae chose in college, but he knows that they were both born in the same year, which would make Jongdae twenty-nine years old, just like him. It’s pretty old to start a singer career. His mum probably got it all mixed up.
“Are you sure?” he asks, stressing the word more than what he wanted. “I mean… Did he ever audition before?”
He’s rewarded by another infamous click of his mum’s tongue.
“How would I know?” she says. “He’s always been in the music field, I guess. He’s a DJ for one of those radios you young people listen nowadays, and Mrs. Kim always said his radio show was successful. I never believed her though, because you can’t trust a mother when she talks about her son.”
She flashes a mischievous look at Chanyeol, who tries his best to look amused although he feels like he’s about to get sick. He suddenly deeply regrets not taking seriously his stomach’s warnings, and reaches for his glass, hoping that water will help the huge amount of food in him get digested faster.
“Come on,” his mother says. “Eat! You’re so thin. Do you even eat in that big flat of yours?”
Chanyeol chooses to shove a full spoon of rice in his mouth rather than to answer, and his insides clench painfully. This pleases his mother who goes back to rambling about her friends without mentioning Kim Jongdae again, but Chanyeol struggles to follow her this time. The Kim family lives just across the street, in a house that looks pretty much like the Park’s, if not for the tulips bordering the alley instead of his mother’s rose bushes. He remembers Jongdae hoping out of the school bus with him, and going through the same stressful high school life as they were both in the same class, but he doesn’t remember anything that would have forecasted Jongdae’s destiny. But then again, looking at his own teenage self, with his lanky limbs and the old guitar he’d take everywhere, he guesses nothing really predicted he would end up in an office with a pretty view over Seoul either.
He tries to look happy when his mother takes out ice cream from the freezer - peach, your favourite! He forces himself to eat the full bowl she shoves in his face, but the ice cream feels like gravel in his mouth before turning into anchors in his stomach. He waits patiently for the floor to open up under him and swallow him whole, but nothing happens, and he can’t help but feel betrayed at how dull life has stubbornly decided to be with him.
Chanyeol brings his knees against his chest as he curls up in a ball in his bed. He grew too tall for twin beds pretty early but years of practice have made him an expert at keeping every part of his body secured under his blankets. Having a huge King size bed in his flat didn’t even change how he sleeps, all folded and gathered, so the change of scenery doesn’t bother him that much.
What bothers him though, and has efficiently kept sleep at bay for the past couple of hours, is the idea that Kim Jongdae could become a famous singer in a few months. He tries to reason with himself, to calm the upset storm of feelings he can feel raging on in his chest, but nothing works. He barely knew Kim Jongdae, and all he can recall for sure about him is how small he always looked, even more during his hoodie period - which Chanyeol also went through. It’s all those little things though that hurt the most and the likeness between them that has Chanyeol cracking. They went to the same high school, took the same bus. Just like him, Jongdae went through a weird hair phase when high school days were finally over. He lived in a small house, just like Chanyeol’s. Sure, he had tulips guiding him back to home instead of rose bushes, but Chanyeol is pretty sure that tulips can’t change that much in a life. So what happened that made him turn out to be so different from Chanyeol? Why isn’t he trapped in a business office and a monochromatic life too? Why is he twenty-nine years old and still fulfilling his dreams? How did those dreams survive, actually?
Chanyeol thrashes around. His elbow hits the wall, and he winces before freezing, hoping that the sound didn’t wake his mum up. He knows she sleeps too little and too badly, especially since she has that big bed for her only, and he’d hate himself for ruining the few hours of sleep she manages to get. Eager to stop thinking about a man he doesn’t even know, he grabs his phone and sets an early alarm for the day after, promising himself to go buy something for his mum’s breakfast. Before he knows it though, his fingers are hastily opening Naver and typing the name he can hear on repeat in his head.
Kim Jongdae fills his screen with too many results. He catches video links, events, and old men faces, but as he scrolls down, he also sees a younger one. Kim Jongdae hits Chanyeol’s retinas in all his glory, flooding his optical nerves with numerous pictures of the inside of a radio recording studio, large headphones most of the time on his ears, but also around his neck from time to time. Here, Kim Jongdae is smiling, here he’s smiling and wearing a beanie, here he’s laughing, and here he’s laughing and taking a selca with a famous Kpop idol.
Chanyeol’s throat constricts, and he struggles to breath. His heart thumping against his temple, he scrolls up and types his own name in the search bar with shaking fingers.
Park Chanyeol fills the screen with too many results. He catches links, events, and old men faces, and as he scrolls down, it becomes more and more obvious that none of them are him.
He exits the website, locks his phone and puts it back on his nightstand, his eyes wide open on the darkness filling his room. They both grew in similar houses. Chanyeol has a big sister, and he seems to recall Jongdae having an older brother too. Chanyeol had a ferret, and Jongdae a kitten. Chanyeol’s mum likes roses, and Jongdae’s mum is fonder of tulips. Those sound like pretty insignificant differences, but somehow, somewhere along the way, they turned into a bigger gap. Chanyeol is a business man, Jongdae is a radio DJ. Chanyeol’s life is dull and grey, Jongdae’s life is still moving forward and eventful. Chanyeol is no one, Jongdae is someone.
Chanyeol pulls the blanket up to his chin as he shuts his eyes close. The piece of whale wallpaper blooms on the back of his eyelids, and he shivers as he rolls up into a tighter ball. No matter how hard he digs into his memory, he can’t think of a major turning point that would have made the few feet between his and Jongdae’s rooms turn into whole different worlds, but there must have been one, right?
What choice did he make? What changed everything?
What happened?
“Chanyeol! Wake up, you’re gonna be late!”
Chanyeol straightens in his bed with a jolt, his eyes still half closed. His heart is beating way too fast in his chest for the sleepy fog he is still drowning in. He blinks a few times, hoping that it will help him wake up faster, but it only makes his eyelids heavier and heavier. He gives in with a sigh and falls back on his mattress, blanket bouncing around him. A yawn later and he’s already starting a new dream.
His bedroom door opens with a bang. He sits up with a yelp, his heart threatening to break through his ribcage.
“Come on,” his father says as he fiddles with his cufflinks. “You’re gonna miss breakfast again.”
Chanyeol whines, but the look his father sends him still gets him out of bed. His body feels heavy and weak, which isn’t surprising considering the three poor hours of sleep he got, but Chanyeol knows better than to complain. He walks to his desk, feet sliding more than anything and his muscles stiff, and plops down on the chair. He sniffs, still furiously blinking away the haziness from his mind, and ruffles through the mess spreading over the wooden surface. Pencils roll and fall on the floor, pages threaten to rip, but Chanyeol’s fingers eventually close around what he’s looking for. With an impending feeling of doom, he takes out his desk calendar, eyes crashing against the multiple hatches and the big fat cross waiting for him early November. He looks for his red marker and crosses a new day of June. He doesn’t try to count the remaining days, because they already feel too few although summer just started.
“Chanyeol!”
It’s his mother’s voice that shrills across the house this time, and Chanyeol winces. He puts the cap back on his marker, forces every thought about the college aptitude test out of his mind and rushes to the bathroom. He nearly missed his bus every day of the previous week and she obviously hasn’t forgotten. He allows himself one second to enjoy the fact that summer break will be here in a few days before he draws all his attention on getting ready in time.
He does pretty well with the washing and putting on clothes thing, but, just like his dad had predicted, when he storms into the kitchen for breakfast, it’s two minutes after he should have headed out. His mum is more punctual than he is, and she’s already in position. She skilfully shoves a plastic bag in his hands and gets on her tiptoes to catch the kiss waiting on Chanyeol’s lips.
“Dinner will be in the fridge,” she says as Chanyeol dashes out of the kitchen. “I’ll make your favourite!”
“Of course you will!” he retorts with a smile.
He storms out of the house, his school bag dangling from one of his shoulders, and his other hand tightly wrapped around the plastic bag. On the other side of the street, the school bus closes its door after the other kids of the neighbourhood got onto it. Chanyeol’s heart gives a powerful jolt in his chest, and he curses under his breath before jumping over the ugly rose bushes his mum likes to have pretty much everywhere in the garden. Probably a bit too used to Chanyeol’s inability to be on time, the bus driver glances on his side before starting the engines again, and Chanyeol catches the disapproving look blooming all over the man’s face.
He bows down when the doors open, mumbles a good dozen of apologies until it draws a smile from the man, and finally turns around to find a free seat. His eyes take in the same faces he sees every day, his lips flash the same smiles he’s used to throw around, and he makes his way to the back of the bus where he usually sits.
However, as he walks by the fourth row, his eyes stop on a both familiar and foreign face. He recognizes Kim Jongdae, the boy who lives across the street from him and who Chanyeol saw grow up along with him, and he considers, for a short and confusing, the free seat next to his neighbour. That never happened before. He must be even more tired than what he thought.
Probably feeling him staring, Kim Jongdae looks up from the book he was reading - mathematics, Chanyeol notes.
“Hello,” Jongdae greets him with a warm smile.
He looks tired, like Chanyeol and every other kid in their final high school year does, but in a much nicer way. For starters, his hair is nicely combed, and he doesn’t seem to have woken up barely ten minutes ago. Chanyeol’s stomach clenches painfully when he realizes Kim Jongdae could be studying for a few hours already.
“Do you want to sit there?” Jongdae asks patiently as Chanyeol’s silence stretches, and the latter, realizing he was blatantly staring, blushes. He nods, embarrassed, and plops down on the seat next to Jongdae.
“Thank you,” he whispers with a little shy smile.
Jongdae shrugs before going back to his book, and Chanyeol internally curses himself. Why did he even stop? He never stopped before, he just made his way to the back, sat and ate his breakfast or napped, depending on the days. Why did he feel so tempted to sit next to his neighbour today? He glances at the latter and winces upon seeing him buried in his last-minute studying session. His lips are moving silently as he reads over a few equations, and his nose is scrunched up with focus. He has a sharp profile, with even sharper cheekbones and a chiselled jawline, but the curve of his nose is smooth, delicate, which makes his whole face look extraordinarily balanced as though it just looks as it was supposed to look. Chanyeol catches long curly lashes standing out against the fierce rays of sunshine seeping through the bus window and dark retinas set ablaze with warm brown tones.
Chanyeol looks away, his heart rate increasing for whatever reasons. His stomach decides to join his body’s impromptu symphony session with a starved grumble that has Chanyeol wincing with discomfort. He eyes hungrily the bag his mum gave him and manages to make out two banana bread loafs inside, which he would already be devouring if he was on his usual seat. However, since he suddenly decided to sit next to a guy he barely ever talked to, he finds himself now battling a very soul-crushing dilemma.
He casts another look at Jongdae as his stomach gives another protest. Eating in front of strangers has never really bothered him, but he doesn’t like the idea of annoying Jongdae, who seems to be fighting a very frustrating war against his equations. Chanyeol does know the feeling after all, he supposes Jongdae has the same red cross waiting for him on a calendar back at his house, the same deadline and the same crushing exhaustion sticking to him.
But also, Chanyeol is really really hungry.
His stomach lets out another grumble for good measure, this time so loud that Chanyeol fears Jongdae might have heard it. When he risks another look at his neighbour though, it’s only to see him frown at his book, a look of exasperation blooming on his face. Chanyeol feels his resolve crumble away as he draws back his focus on the plastic bag. Surely Jongdae would understand, wouldn’t he? Hopefully. He really doesn’t look like the type who wakes up too late to eat breakfast.
Chanyeol lets out a little sigh, but he braces himself all the same before shoving his hand in the bag and pulling out the first banana bread. It looks holy between his fingers, and he lets out a second short sigh, this time of pleasure. After another discreet glance at Jongdae, who doesn’t look bothered for now, he unwraps the bread. The plastic makes the loudest noise ever, and Chanyeol freezes.
He glances at Jongdae, who has let go of his book in favour of looking at Chanyeol with a little smile. The latter can feel his cheeks heat up.
“I’m sorry…” he mumbles. “I… didn’t have time to eat breakfast this morning.”
“That’s okay,” Jongdae smiles. “It looks very tasty.”
Chanyeol draws back his focus on the bread and internally moans. Yes, it does.
“Go ahead,” Jongdae tells him. “Have a good breakfast.”
Chanyeol thanks him with a smile, and hurriedly unwraps the whole bread before hastily shoving the wrapping back into the plastic bag once and for all. He takes a first bite and his stomach chants in response. Nothing like banana bread to make up for a messy and hasty morning routine. He’ll have to make sure to buy flowers for his mum. She’s been so nice and comprehensive about his repeated lateness, much more than he deserves. It’ll be the first thing he’ll do after that stupid aptitude test, and then he’ll sleep. For days.
He takes another bite of his bread and mindlessly glances at Jongdae, only to freeze when he catches the latter staring. Jongdae’s eyes widen and he hastily draws back his focus on his book, pinkness blooming on his sharp cheekbones. Chanyeol chuckles.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
Jongdae shrugs, too embarrassed to answer, but Chanyeol is pretty familiar with the look of pure hunger. He shoves his hand in the plastic bag and grabs the last banana bread that he offers to Jongdae. The latter glances at it before looking up at Chanyeol, lips curled up in a small smile.
“Go ahead,” Chanyeol says. “Have a good breakfast.”
Jongdae chuckles, and the sound catches Chanyeol off guard. It’s light and higher than what he would expect from boy their age, but it’s not unpleasant. Jongdae takes the banana bread, and Chanyeol watches him unwrap it as though it was a precious treasure. His eyes wander away from Jongdae’s face to the rest of his body.
He does look younger than Chanyeol, although the latter knows for sure they were both born the same year. It’s probably the small height, which even the sitting position can’t hide, and the thinness of his body. Jongdae’s heels barely touch the floor, and his thighs look barely thicker than his arms. The school uniform he’s wearing hang loosely on his shoulders and efficiently drowns his thin waist. Jongdae doesn’t look sick or underfed though - he has soft cheekbones and a healthy glow radiating from his skin, and Chanyeol can’t help but feel a bit envious. Growing up looks nice on Jongdae, almost too nice, but Chanyeol knows it’s a misleading publicity. He has lanky limbs and unexpected pimple to prove it.
“I’m Kim Jongdae by the way,” Jongdae says with a smile.
Chanyeol nods.
“I know. Same class, remember? I’m Park Chanyeol.”
Jongdae makes a face.
“Sorry… I’m so tired I feel like I’m working on automatic pilot. I’m sorry. I do know who you are, and thank you for the bread, really.”
“Don’t mention it,” Chanyeol chuckles.
Jongdae flashes him another smile before looking away to take a first bite of the bread. Guessing that it would be pretty uncomfortable for him to eat while being watched by Chanyeol, the latter also looks away and happily draws back his focus on his own bread.
The ride to their high school is short, and they spend it in silence, both chewing on their breads. They exchange a few more words once they get off the bus and a few chuckles when they take off their shoes to change into the school slippers and almost trip over each other, but as soon as they enter their classroom, their amusement dies down. Jongdae glances over his shoulder, and his tired eyes turn to playful wrinkles when he nods at Chanyeol in a wordless cheer. Chanyeol returns the favour with a little smile that borders on secretive - they did share a breakfast, didn’t they? - before he makes his way to his desk, at the back of the room. Jongdae sits three rows before him, his back immediately bending as he pulls out his mathematics book and goes back to trying to understand his equations.
Chanyeol fishes for his own book in his bag, a smile lingering on his face despite the unexciting day waiting for him. He’s still not sure what got into him and why he suddenly decided to sit next to Jongdae in the bus, but he cannot say he’s upset he did. It’s funny though, he allows himself to think as he opens his book, that they never really talked despite living barely a few feet from each other. Jongdae’s house looks so much like his, you’d think they were made to be friends, at least.
Well, he tells himself, heavy eyelids and tired eyes taking in the tiny words covering the pages in front of him, it’s never too late to make a new friend.
Words buzz in Chanyeol’s ears and characters flash behind his closed eyelids whenever he blinks. His bag straps dig into the flesh of his shoulders, the weight heavier with every step he takes. He has a fleeting thought for the books bouncing inside his school bag and which get carried home without having to do the slightest effort. It doesn’t seem fair to him, how he’s the one who has to open those same books, flip those pages heavy with knowledge and swallow it all until it pins him down like he’s a boat and they’re the anchors.
He forces his eyes open and looks down at the street going downhill in front of him. The concrete sucks in the moonlight but harshly rejects the artificial streetlights and it gives the street a yellowish glow. Behind Chanyeol, the hagwon building is imposing. It’s all geometrical shapes and perfect angles, walls building up a huge cube that has Chanyeol mindlessly going over the formula to calculate the area of a cube. He takes in the walls, gauges the building’s height, his tired brain ready to do the maths. It takes him a few seconds to remember that his day is over, school is long finished and he just got out of his cram school. No need to calculate anything now to know that he just needs to reach his bed and make the best of the few hours of sleep he has left.
“I hate hagwons,” he mutters in the silence as he finally sets off.
His eyes irremediably fall down to his shoes, and the more he stares at his shoelaces, the more tired he feels. It’s only when he feels himself swaying dangerously that he realizes that his brain is already half asleep. He raises his head, breathes in deeply, and forces his neurones to come up with thoughts interesting enough for him to make it to his house in one piece. He only manages a few weak nice streetlight and oh that is a very dark alley before giving up with a soul-crushing sigh.
It is at that precise moment that he stumbles upon Kim Jongdae for the second time today.
Jongdae is a dark silhouette before he is, in fact, Jongdae, and that would have usually been enough for Chanyeol to keep on going without so much of a glance over his shoulder. But he catches the outline of sharp cheekbones standing out against the weak glow of the street he’s currently crossing, and images of Jongdae’s profile view from the bus ride this morning fill his mind. He stops dead on his tracks, and it takes him a few seconds to realize it as he loses himself in the sight.
Jongdae looks just as lost and confused as Chanyeol, but in an even more obvious way. He’s crouched down and is aggressively rummaging through his back while muttering what sounds like very bad words. He doesn’t seem to be the slightest aware of what is going on around him, which is kind of endearing, but probably dangerous, Chanyeol muses. He checks the street for car and steps on the road, intent on joining Jongdae on the other side. The latter has now his two arms in his bag, and he’s barely a few inches away from shoving his head inside as well.
“Hey,” Chanyeol says as he reaches Jongdae.
The latter yelps as he gives a jolt which makes him lose his precarious balance and fall on his butt. He looks up at Chanyeol with wide dark eyes, his hand clenching on his heart. Up close, he looks even crazier, but despite the dark bags heavying on his features and his dishevelled look, Chanyeol still makes out the warm, soft aura Jongdae had in the bus.
“Sorry,” he winces before leaning down to offer his hand to Jongdae. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Jongdae wraps his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist instead of just taking his hand, and Chanyeol’s exhausted brain immediately zooms on it. It’s barely an anecdote about Jongdae, just a meaningless detail but it stands out in Chanyeol’s head like a picture worth remembering. Jongdae’s skin looks sickish under the streetlight, but his fingers are soft against Chanyeol’s wrist.
“Thanks,” Jongdae mumbles, embarrassed. He glances at his schoolbag and makes a face.
“Is, uh... is everything okay?”
“Yeah, of course yes,” Jongdae hastily adds. He flashes Chanyeol a warm and comforting smile before chuckling. “I just… Well, I just got out of the English hagwon, and I was on my way home, but I suddenly wondered what’s the English word for bush? So I just… freaked out while looking for my notes.”
Chanyeol glances at Jongdae’s schoolbag.
“You couldn’t wait ‘til you were home?” he asks, amused.
Jongdae shrugs.
“It seemed… really important at the time?”
Chanyeol snorts, and it draws another smile from Jongdae, this time a peevish and shy one. It looks just as bright as the other though, and it even manages to smoothen the worry lines mapping Jongdae’s face. Chanyeol wonders how bad he looks himself, but he guesses it doesn’t really matter. They both have the same deadline, the same weight on their shoulders, and probably the same exhausted face. All in all, it feels nice to know that Chanyeol is not the only one drowning.
He feels his own lips stretch into another smile.
“We could walk home together,” he offers. “I’ll stop you from getting distracted from the ultimate goal, which is your bed, and you’ll stop me from getting hit by a car because I’m pretty sure I’m already half sleeping.”
Jongdae chuckles, tiny smiling wrinkles breaking out all over his face in response to Chanyeol’s joke. He makes sure to gently push Chanyeol on his left side though, as far away as possible from the road, and the gesture has Chanyeol’s tired brain zoom in again. He blinks and the image of Jongdae’s fingers on his forearm as he softly handles him remains a while longer on the back of his eyelids, until it finally fades out.
Chanyeol patiently waits for Jongdae to zip his bag and put it back on his shoulders, and they set off again together. Jongdae’s soles scrap against the concrete as though he was too tired to properly walk, and Chanyeol is too tired to agree out loud. He does glance at Jongdae though, just when the latter looks up at him. Their eyes meet and they both smile slightly.
“So,” Chanyeol starts, because Jongdae’s eyes are inviting. Dead tired, but welcoming. “English, uh?”
Jongdae lets out a heavy sigh.
“English,” he confirms. “My parents want me to study business, and English is definitely a plus.”
“It was mathematics for me,” Chanyeol says. “They want me to be an accountant.”
Jongdae nods, and silence comes back between them. Chanyeol faintly wonders if Jongdae used his parents as the subject of his sentence to distance himself like Chanyeol did. He wonders if linguistics is as important as books have told him, and if him using the past tense to talk about the cram school he barely got out of really shows a desire to draw a line between past and present. Mostly, he wonders if Jongdae is thinking in English, tired thoughts trying to untangle themselves and jumping on every little detail around them to translate them, because Chanyeol is surely thinking with numbers. He sees angles, perimeters and formulas whirling all around him. He’s so tired.
“Although it’s not what I want to do,” Jongdae confesses with a low voice that Chanyeol almost misses.
He blinks down at his neighbourhood and the latter flashes him a soft smile.
“I want to have my own radio show,” he says. His tongue becomes softer, lighter, around the word radio and the Korean accent fades out, replaced by an English accent. Jongdae doesn’t even seem to realize it, but Chanyeol does. “I promised my parent I’d get accepted in a SKY university though and I’d study hard to become a business man, just in case. I want to get into Seoul National University, because they have a great student radio.”
SKY universities. The phrase echoes in Chanyeol’s mind with red letters, red crosses and a red circle on a November day. Seoul National University, Korea University and Yonsei University. Such a beautiful acronym for heavy knowledge and bitter, crushing stress. Chanyeol lets out a little huff of understanding, and Jongdae smiles softly at him.
“Do you want to be an accountant?” Jongdae asks.
“I…” Chanyeol starts, but never finishes.
His brain replays the question several times, but it somehow doesn’t make more sense. He listens to Jongdae’s soles scrap against the concrete, to his own feet swallowing distance with much difficulty, and to Jongdae’s silence. It’s a question he’s never heard before, and that he’s never hoped to hear, but that’s not what catches Chanyeol off guard. What surprises him is that he’s never asked himself, he’s never wondered if the intense cramming sessions he’s been having for so long now were really for him, and he has no answers.
Jongdae remains quiet, and they keep walking in perfect synchronization. Chanyeol tries to tidy up his thoughts, to stop thinking about numbers and equations, but algebra seems to have taken over the silent voices in his head. He thinks in problem wordings, in tiny neat characters. If Park Chanyeol spends three fourths of his day studying, with one third of this time truly disliking it, is accounting really his dream career? Give details of your calculation.
Jongdae doesn’t ask. His eyes are distant, even though he does make sure the street is clear before crossing it, his hand pressed against Chanyeol’s back to lead him. Chanyeol’s brain keeps zooming in and out on him, he catches details on the fly and nothing makes sense anymore, but he doesn’t struggle. Jongdae is the language student, he would probably have the words, no matter how foreign they would sound, but Chanyeol sees him in numbers, in unknowns, in curves on charts and fractions. Jongdae has two very deep eyes, and numerous lashes, he has different gestures - like the way he curled his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist or how his hand constantly flutter behind Chanyeol just in case. He has curling lips that always seem to be smiling, and he is at least one fourth smaller than Chanyeol.
“Bush”, Chanyeol suddenly blurts out. He slightly winces at his own voice breaking around foreign syllables.
Jongdae looks at him, questioning.
“The word you were looking for,” Chanyeol explains. “It’s bush.”
“Oh.” Jongdae exclaims.
He repeats the word in a low whisper, his English definitely less Korean than Chanyeol’s, although still awkward. When he looks up at Chanyeol, the latter flashes him a smile.
“English can be useful for accounting,” he explains.
“True, true,” Jongdae nods. His eyes linger on Chanyeol’s face, but he eventually looks away to lead Chanyeol across the last crossroad. They finally step into their quiet, peaceful neighbourhood. Everything is so still here, so unchanging. He can’t wait to get out of here.
“Will you keep going to the hagwons during summer break?” Jongdae asks.
“No, I’m helping my mom in the family restaurant.” He feels definitely more pleased about working behind the register than every other year. His tired brain hints that it must probably mean something, but Chanyeol is too exhausted to take the hint. “You?”
Jongdae shakes his head.
“Helping my dad at his grocer’s shop.”
They’re walking in the middle of the road now, but none of them cares. It’s home here, it’s safe.
“Do you think… Do you think we could study together?”
Jongdae glances at him.
“You mean, like helping each other?”
Chanyeol nods. Jongdae grabs his sleeve and stops him so abruptly that Chanyeol almost topples over. Jongdae helps him regain his balance though, and he answers Chanyeol’s half-outraged half-blank look with a low chuckle.
“Your house,” he says with a tilt of his head, and Chanyeol glances over his shoulder. The rose bushes look silver in the night.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, embarrassed. Jongdae’s fingers are still clenched around his sleeve.
“I think it’s a good idea, us studying together. Let’s talk about it tomorrow in the bus, okay? For now, I just want to -“
“Sleep” Chanyeol concludes.
Jongdae approves with a grin, and Chanyeol faintly wonders if there is an English word for that sort of expression.
“Go home,” he tells Chanyeol. “I’ll wait here until you entered your house, just in case. I think you’re right, your brain might be already asleep. You look barely alive,” he teases.
Chanyeol snorts. Jongdae’s fingers finally let go of his sleeve, but they keep nestling in his private space. They go up, hover over Chanyeol’s arm and finally stop on his shoulder for a few pats that he can feel through his whole body. It looks funny to him, because Jongdae is so small and they have so much space between them, but he’s the one feeling awkward for some reasons. It’s not Jongdae, it’s his limbs that are too long, his body that is too lanky, and his shoulder that is too bony. Jongdae looks like he fits, like he has everything under control, and like patting your neighbourhood and fellow classmate in the middle of the street at midnight is perfectly normal.
“Goodnight, Jongdae,” he says, and Jongdae beams at him.
“Goodnight, Chanyeol.”
Chanyeol turns around, steps over the rose bushes and walks straight to the door. The mathematics formulas are finally starting to die down in his mind, replaced by a fierce and hungry need to lie down. He thinks about his mum leaving food for him in the fridge and he wonders if she’ll let him have it for breakfast. He wonders if he’ll even be awake for breakfast.
He glances over his shoulder just as his hand curls around the doorknob, and catches Jongdae diligently waiting in the middle of the street, the hint of a smile hanging on his lips. He’s all curves and sharp angles, equations and unknowns, so small in his school uniform, but so comfortable. He wants to be a radio DJ, Chanyeol thinks. He curled his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist instead of taking his hand, and he made sure Chanyeol would be safe when crossing the street. He looks tired, so fragile, so small, but in control. Chanyeol’s brain comes up with one last problem before it calls it a night.
If Park Chanyeol and Kim Jongdae live in the same street, same houses and goes to the same high school with the same goal, how come they are so different?
Chanyeol softly closes the front door behind him. He watches Jongdae turning around and walking to his own house between the curtains of the closest window. He steps over tulips instead of rose bushes.
Chanyeol goes to bed thinking he at least solved one problem today.
1| 2| 3
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jongdae/Chanyeol
Wordcount: 26,800
Warning: Unbetaed, hints of panic attacks, slight tendency to depression.
Disclaimer: EXO belongs to themselves and SME
Notes: For Naz, for her undying Chenyeol love and the multiple times she killed me by linking me pictures of them ♥
Summary: There's a decision that led to Chanyeol drowning in the dullest life, and if he could go back, he'd find it and he'd change everything. Even if it were as insignificant as choosing another seat on the bus ride to school.
Chanyeol parks his car in front of his parents’ house and shuts down the engines. In front of him the alley stretches, rose bushes running along its edges, until it crashes at the foot of a pristine white door with neat window panes catching sunlight and flashing rainbows every two seconds. It hits him every time, how unchanging the place is. It’s past familiarity or fond memories, and more about jumping back in time. Every time he drives into the quiet neighbourhood, he can feel himself shrink back to the teenager he was, he can feel himself fill with quiet desires he never admitted, like wanting a hug from his mother in the dead of night.
It used to disturb him whenever he would go home during his college years. He was so high on the feeling of freedom and on the idea that he was finally an adult, that coming back and do nothing but laze around in his old bed while his mum would do his laundry always made him uncomfortable. He had been dreaming of that moment for so long, when he would be able to eat his dinners at ungodly hours of the night, that going back the kid he used to be made him feel like he was never really free. And freedom… Chanyeol longed for freedom so much. He finds it ironic now, and so funny, but in a morbid way, how kids just want to grow up while adults only dream of going back.
He glances at the large street of the neighbourhood dipping down under the horizon line, perfectly aligned houses standing on both sides. He knows that he can’t really outrun responsibilities and adulthood. He can almost feel his dull life waiting for him and ready to jump back into his car when he’ll drive to the end of the street and back to the city. He’d give so much to stay right here, where time doesn’t seem to fly away, where rose bunches don’t grow higher and window panes are always clean.
Chanyeol lets out a sigh. It breaks the silence in the vehicle with a loud crash, and he winces. He knows his mother is probably patiently waiting by the door, and if he doesn’t get off the car soon, she’ll rush outside. He doesn’t want to see the worry on her face, doesn’t want to see the smiling wrinkles in the corners of her eyes fall down. More than anything, he needs everything to be just like it ever was. Safe, warm and comforting.
He turns on his seat and grabs the travel bag on the back seat before opening the door and stepping out of the car. He locks it and feels his stomach clench with sickness at the sight of the fancy vehicle clashing against the quiet simplicity of the neighbourhood, but nothing feels heavier than the reflection he catches on the window. Perfectly styled hair, suit and tie, tired features. Chanyeol doesn’t recognize himself.
The door unlocks behind him, and he turns around as his mother’s face peeks out. She looks older than what she did when he was in college, smaller and more fragile, but all in all, she’s still the same with her wide smile and her loving eyes. She throws Chanyeol a look of mixed feelings somewhere between worry, confusion and happiness, and Chanyeol decides to focus on the latter. He can already feel his own mouth stretch into a grin.
“Mum!” he greets. His low voice almost catches him off guard. He was expecting the softer tone of his teenage days. “Ah, I’m so happy to see you.”
He hurries towards the door, opens his arms wide and embraces her while she wraps her arms around his neck. She chuckles, and he breathes in her scent - always the same hint of lilac - with a pleased sigh. Her body feels so tiny between his arms - she’s so frail - but her grip is strong and safe. She’s always felt very supportive even when Chanyeol never voiced out his worries, and she’s doing it again. He tightens his hold around her.
“How are you?” he asks without breaking away from the embrace.
“I’m good,” she answers without letting go of him.
Chanyeol’s dad died three years ago, his body failing him after so many years of good service. His mother’s voice has never been the same since that day. It’s still cheerful, sincere and loving, but there’s a double layer to it now, like an implied meaning, a quiet sentence she always thinks but never says. Chanyeol hears it perfectly well though. I miss your dad.
They finally break their embrace, and Chanyeol softly pushes his mother into the house, his hand spreading on the small of her back as he closes the door.
“Have you heard from Yura?” she asks, tiny hands immediately going for his bag.
“As a matter of fact, I did!” he answers while raising his bag above his head to stop her from carrying it. “She called me when she landed in Berlin. She sounded so excited about that conference, which I do not understand. Being a journalist has stolen another week-end from her.”
Chanyeol’s mother clicks her tongue, but Chanyeol’s teasing tone still draws a smile from her.
“She loves her job,” Mrs. Park says after glaring at Chanyeol’s bag. “Put that in your room and wash your hands. I cooked your favourite dishes.”
“Of course you did.”
She flashes him another smile before waddling towards the kitchen, her tiny feet disappearing in her fluffy pink slippers. Chanyeol represses a snort before making his way to his old bedroom, his stomach grumbling and his mouth watering at the prospect of the delicious dinner he can smell in the hallway.
Just like the rest of the house and the rose bushes outside, his childhood bedroom didn’t change. The walls are of a soft beige shade, except for a very discreet little patch near his nightstand that still has a piece of his childhood wallpaper. He still remembers asking his father to leave it there with an embarrassed voice, and how his dad took him in before grinning. I love whales quite a lot myself, you know, he had said before making sure the little piece of wallpaper he never tore off had a complete piece of the whale fresco that used to cover Chanyeol’s walls. The Eminem poster is still above his desk, just like the numerous Green Day ones are still hovering over Chanyeol’s twin bed. There’s no dust on his book shelves, and notebooks full of scribbled pieces of poetry and song lyrics are still neatly aligned on them. Even his school bag is there, looking hyped up for another trip to college as it rests peacefully against the wall. Chanyeol cracks a smile when he pictures himself showing up to work on Monday with the bag and its embarrassing amount of Mario stickers instead of his black leather suitcase.
It feels good to be home.
“And did Mrs. Lee apologize for that?” Chanyeol asks between two mouthfuls of rice.
His mother gives him a disapproving look when she catches his amused intonations. He’s been catching up with the life in the neighbourhood - where the most terrible thing that could happen is Mrs. Lee stealing your secret curry chicken recipe and claiming it hers after she invited your gang of friends for dinner - and the seriousness in his mother’s eyes has been nothing but endearing to him. He knows she watches the news and argues over newspaper articles with her friends, but in the safe nest that his childhood neighbourhood is, things like economic crisis or terrible human beings leading whole countries don’t seem to matter as much as knowing who will host the next monthly dinner.
“She did, because I made her!” his mother exclaims.
She grabs Chanyeol’s bowl and refills it for the third time already. Chanyeol hears his stomach shiver with fear, but he merely smiles and thanks her before dipping into the kimchi pan with his chopsticks.
“Everyone loves your kimchi,” he says. “You can’t blame her for trying to copy it.”
Mrs. Park snorts, but Chanyeol can see from her pleased smile and the rosiness blooming on her cheeks that she enjoyed the not-so-hidden compliment.
“The next dinner will be next week, and it’ll be at Mrs. Kim’s. Everyone is hoping for a very fancy dinner because - “
She stops short in her explanations and casts a suddenly excited look at Chanyeol. Confused, he lowers his chopsticks as she gasps and reaches out to pat him repeatedly on the arm, like she always does when she has the best news ever.
“What?” he asks, amused.
“I didn’t tell you!” she hisses, now so excited that she’s almost bouncing on the old pillow she’s sitting on. Chanyeol chuckles and pours her a glass of water that she dismisses with a click of the tongue.
“Mrs. Kim!” she continues in her high voice. “We’re expecting her to make a very fancy dinner because something happened to her son. Do you remember him? Kim Jongdae?” Chanyeol nods, and she immediately goes on, so eager to tell Chanyeol her story. “Well he has been offered a contract! He’s going to make an album!”
Chanyeol freezes, surprised. His mother nods with a wide excited grin, and Chanyeol wonders for a brief second what are the odds of her misunderstanding what Mrs. Kim told her. He faintly remembers Kim Jongdae being in the dramatic art club back in college and singing for the choir, but there’s a huge gap between singing in a church and singing in a recording studio. He can’t remember what major Kim Jongdae chose in college, but he knows that they were both born in the same year, which would make Jongdae twenty-nine years old, just like him. It’s pretty old to start a singer career. His mum probably got it all mixed up.
“Are you sure?” he asks, stressing the word more than what he wanted. “I mean… Did he ever audition before?”
He’s rewarded by another infamous click of his mum’s tongue.
“How would I know?” she says. “He’s always been in the music field, I guess. He’s a DJ for one of those radios you young people listen nowadays, and Mrs. Kim always said his radio show was successful. I never believed her though, because you can’t trust a mother when she talks about her son.”
She flashes a mischievous look at Chanyeol, who tries his best to look amused although he feels like he’s about to get sick. He suddenly deeply regrets not taking seriously his stomach’s warnings, and reaches for his glass, hoping that water will help the huge amount of food in him get digested faster.
“Come on,” his mother says. “Eat! You’re so thin. Do you even eat in that big flat of yours?”
Chanyeol chooses to shove a full spoon of rice in his mouth rather than to answer, and his insides clench painfully. This pleases his mother who goes back to rambling about her friends without mentioning Kim Jongdae again, but Chanyeol struggles to follow her this time. The Kim family lives just across the street, in a house that looks pretty much like the Park’s, if not for the tulips bordering the alley instead of his mother’s rose bushes. He remembers Jongdae hoping out of the school bus with him, and going through the same stressful high school life as they were both in the same class, but he doesn’t remember anything that would have forecasted Jongdae’s destiny. But then again, looking at his own teenage self, with his lanky limbs and the old guitar he’d take everywhere, he guesses nothing really predicted he would end up in an office with a pretty view over Seoul either.
He tries to look happy when his mother takes out ice cream from the freezer - peach, your favourite! He forces himself to eat the full bowl she shoves in his face, but the ice cream feels like gravel in his mouth before turning into anchors in his stomach. He waits patiently for the floor to open up under him and swallow him whole, but nothing happens, and he can’t help but feel betrayed at how dull life has stubbornly decided to be with him.
Chanyeol brings his knees against his chest as he curls up in a ball in his bed. He grew too tall for twin beds pretty early but years of practice have made him an expert at keeping every part of his body secured under his blankets. Having a huge King size bed in his flat didn’t even change how he sleeps, all folded and gathered, so the change of scenery doesn’t bother him that much.
What bothers him though, and has efficiently kept sleep at bay for the past couple of hours, is the idea that Kim Jongdae could become a famous singer in a few months. He tries to reason with himself, to calm the upset storm of feelings he can feel raging on in his chest, but nothing works. He barely knew Kim Jongdae, and all he can recall for sure about him is how small he always looked, even more during his hoodie period - which Chanyeol also went through. It’s all those little things though that hurt the most and the likeness between them that has Chanyeol cracking. They went to the same high school, took the same bus. Just like him, Jongdae went through a weird hair phase when high school days were finally over. He lived in a small house, just like Chanyeol’s. Sure, he had tulips guiding him back to home instead of rose bushes, but Chanyeol is pretty sure that tulips can’t change that much in a life. So what happened that made him turn out to be so different from Chanyeol? Why isn’t he trapped in a business office and a monochromatic life too? Why is he twenty-nine years old and still fulfilling his dreams? How did those dreams survive, actually?
Chanyeol thrashes around. His elbow hits the wall, and he winces before freezing, hoping that the sound didn’t wake his mum up. He knows she sleeps too little and too badly, especially since she has that big bed for her only, and he’d hate himself for ruining the few hours of sleep she manages to get. Eager to stop thinking about a man he doesn’t even know, he grabs his phone and sets an early alarm for the day after, promising himself to go buy something for his mum’s breakfast. Before he knows it though, his fingers are hastily opening Naver and typing the name he can hear on repeat in his head.
Kim Jongdae fills his screen with too many results. He catches video links, events, and old men faces, but as he scrolls down, he also sees a younger one. Kim Jongdae hits Chanyeol’s retinas in all his glory, flooding his optical nerves with numerous pictures of the inside of a radio recording studio, large headphones most of the time on his ears, but also around his neck from time to time. Here, Kim Jongdae is smiling, here he’s smiling and wearing a beanie, here he’s laughing, and here he’s laughing and taking a selca with a famous Kpop idol.
Chanyeol’s throat constricts, and he struggles to breath. His heart thumping against his temple, he scrolls up and types his own name in the search bar with shaking fingers.
Park Chanyeol fills the screen with too many results. He catches links, events, and old men faces, and as he scrolls down, it becomes more and more obvious that none of them are him.
He exits the website, locks his phone and puts it back on his nightstand, his eyes wide open on the darkness filling his room. They both grew in similar houses. Chanyeol has a big sister, and he seems to recall Jongdae having an older brother too. Chanyeol had a ferret, and Jongdae a kitten. Chanyeol’s mum likes roses, and Jongdae’s mum is fonder of tulips. Those sound like pretty insignificant differences, but somehow, somewhere along the way, they turned into a bigger gap. Chanyeol is a business man, Jongdae is a radio DJ. Chanyeol’s life is dull and grey, Jongdae’s life is still moving forward and eventful. Chanyeol is no one, Jongdae is someone.
Chanyeol pulls the blanket up to his chin as he shuts his eyes close. The piece of whale wallpaper blooms on the back of his eyelids, and he shivers as he rolls up into a tighter ball. No matter how hard he digs into his memory, he can’t think of a major turning point that would have made the few feet between his and Jongdae’s rooms turn into whole different worlds, but there must have been one, right?
What choice did he make? What changed everything?
What happened?
“Chanyeol! Wake up, you’re gonna be late!”
Chanyeol straightens in his bed with a jolt, his eyes still half closed. His heart is beating way too fast in his chest for the sleepy fog he is still drowning in. He blinks a few times, hoping that it will help him wake up faster, but it only makes his eyelids heavier and heavier. He gives in with a sigh and falls back on his mattress, blanket bouncing around him. A yawn later and he’s already starting a new dream.
His bedroom door opens with a bang. He sits up with a yelp, his heart threatening to break through his ribcage.
“Come on,” his father says as he fiddles with his cufflinks. “You’re gonna miss breakfast again.”
Chanyeol whines, but the look his father sends him still gets him out of bed. His body feels heavy and weak, which isn’t surprising considering the three poor hours of sleep he got, but Chanyeol knows better than to complain. He walks to his desk, feet sliding more than anything and his muscles stiff, and plops down on the chair. He sniffs, still furiously blinking away the haziness from his mind, and ruffles through the mess spreading over the wooden surface. Pencils roll and fall on the floor, pages threaten to rip, but Chanyeol’s fingers eventually close around what he’s looking for. With an impending feeling of doom, he takes out his desk calendar, eyes crashing against the multiple hatches and the big fat cross waiting for him early November. He looks for his red marker and crosses a new day of June. He doesn’t try to count the remaining days, because they already feel too few although summer just started.
“Chanyeol!”
It’s his mother’s voice that shrills across the house this time, and Chanyeol winces. He puts the cap back on his marker, forces every thought about the college aptitude test out of his mind and rushes to the bathroom. He nearly missed his bus every day of the previous week and she obviously hasn’t forgotten. He allows himself one second to enjoy the fact that summer break will be here in a few days before he draws all his attention on getting ready in time.
He does pretty well with the washing and putting on clothes thing, but, just like his dad had predicted, when he storms into the kitchen for breakfast, it’s two minutes after he should have headed out. His mum is more punctual than he is, and she’s already in position. She skilfully shoves a plastic bag in his hands and gets on her tiptoes to catch the kiss waiting on Chanyeol’s lips.
“Dinner will be in the fridge,” she says as Chanyeol dashes out of the kitchen. “I’ll make your favourite!”
“Of course you will!” he retorts with a smile.
He storms out of the house, his school bag dangling from one of his shoulders, and his other hand tightly wrapped around the plastic bag. On the other side of the street, the school bus closes its door after the other kids of the neighbourhood got onto it. Chanyeol’s heart gives a powerful jolt in his chest, and he curses under his breath before jumping over the ugly rose bushes his mum likes to have pretty much everywhere in the garden. Probably a bit too used to Chanyeol’s inability to be on time, the bus driver glances on his side before starting the engines again, and Chanyeol catches the disapproving look blooming all over the man’s face.
He bows down when the doors open, mumbles a good dozen of apologies until it draws a smile from the man, and finally turns around to find a free seat. His eyes take in the same faces he sees every day, his lips flash the same smiles he’s used to throw around, and he makes his way to the back of the bus where he usually sits.
However, as he walks by the fourth row, his eyes stop on a both familiar and foreign face. He recognizes Kim Jongdae, the boy who lives across the street from him and who Chanyeol saw grow up along with him, and he considers, for a short and confusing, the free seat next to his neighbour. That never happened before. He must be even more tired than what he thought.
Probably feeling him staring, Kim Jongdae looks up from the book he was reading - mathematics, Chanyeol notes.
“Hello,” Jongdae greets him with a warm smile.
He looks tired, like Chanyeol and every other kid in their final high school year does, but in a much nicer way. For starters, his hair is nicely combed, and he doesn’t seem to have woken up barely ten minutes ago. Chanyeol’s stomach clenches painfully when he realizes Kim Jongdae could be studying for a few hours already.
“Do you want to sit there?” Jongdae asks patiently as Chanyeol’s silence stretches, and the latter, realizing he was blatantly staring, blushes. He nods, embarrassed, and plops down on the seat next to Jongdae.
“Thank you,” he whispers with a little shy smile.
Jongdae shrugs before going back to his book, and Chanyeol internally curses himself. Why did he even stop? He never stopped before, he just made his way to the back, sat and ate his breakfast or napped, depending on the days. Why did he feel so tempted to sit next to his neighbour today? He glances at the latter and winces upon seeing him buried in his last-minute studying session. His lips are moving silently as he reads over a few equations, and his nose is scrunched up with focus. He has a sharp profile, with even sharper cheekbones and a chiselled jawline, but the curve of his nose is smooth, delicate, which makes his whole face look extraordinarily balanced as though it just looks as it was supposed to look. Chanyeol catches long curly lashes standing out against the fierce rays of sunshine seeping through the bus window and dark retinas set ablaze with warm brown tones.
Chanyeol looks away, his heart rate increasing for whatever reasons. His stomach decides to join his body’s impromptu symphony session with a starved grumble that has Chanyeol wincing with discomfort. He eyes hungrily the bag his mum gave him and manages to make out two banana bread loafs inside, which he would already be devouring if he was on his usual seat. However, since he suddenly decided to sit next to a guy he barely ever talked to, he finds himself now battling a very soul-crushing dilemma.
He casts another look at Jongdae as his stomach gives another protest. Eating in front of strangers has never really bothered him, but he doesn’t like the idea of annoying Jongdae, who seems to be fighting a very frustrating war against his equations. Chanyeol does know the feeling after all, he supposes Jongdae has the same red cross waiting for him on a calendar back at his house, the same deadline and the same crushing exhaustion sticking to him.
But also, Chanyeol is really really hungry.
His stomach lets out another grumble for good measure, this time so loud that Chanyeol fears Jongdae might have heard it. When he risks another look at his neighbour though, it’s only to see him frown at his book, a look of exasperation blooming on his face. Chanyeol feels his resolve crumble away as he draws back his focus on the plastic bag. Surely Jongdae would understand, wouldn’t he? Hopefully. He really doesn’t look like the type who wakes up too late to eat breakfast.
Chanyeol lets out a little sigh, but he braces himself all the same before shoving his hand in the bag and pulling out the first banana bread. It looks holy between his fingers, and he lets out a second short sigh, this time of pleasure. After another discreet glance at Jongdae, who doesn’t look bothered for now, he unwraps the bread. The plastic makes the loudest noise ever, and Chanyeol freezes.
He glances at Jongdae, who has let go of his book in favour of looking at Chanyeol with a little smile. The latter can feel his cheeks heat up.
“I’m sorry…” he mumbles. “I… didn’t have time to eat breakfast this morning.”
“That’s okay,” Jongdae smiles. “It looks very tasty.”
Chanyeol draws back his focus on the bread and internally moans. Yes, it does.
“Go ahead,” Jongdae tells him. “Have a good breakfast.”
Chanyeol thanks him with a smile, and hurriedly unwraps the whole bread before hastily shoving the wrapping back into the plastic bag once and for all. He takes a first bite and his stomach chants in response. Nothing like banana bread to make up for a messy and hasty morning routine. He’ll have to make sure to buy flowers for his mum. She’s been so nice and comprehensive about his repeated lateness, much more than he deserves. It’ll be the first thing he’ll do after that stupid aptitude test, and then he’ll sleep. For days.
He takes another bite of his bread and mindlessly glances at Jongdae, only to freeze when he catches the latter staring. Jongdae’s eyes widen and he hastily draws back his focus on his book, pinkness blooming on his sharp cheekbones. Chanyeol chuckles.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
Jongdae shrugs, too embarrassed to answer, but Chanyeol is pretty familiar with the look of pure hunger. He shoves his hand in the plastic bag and grabs the last banana bread that he offers to Jongdae. The latter glances at it before looking up at Chanyeol, lips curled up in a small smile.
“Go ahead,” Chanyeol says. “Have a good breakfast.”
Jongdae chuckles, and the sound catches Chanyeol off guard. It’s light and higher than what he would expect from boy their age, but it’s not unpleasant. Jongdae takes the banana bread, and Chanyeol watches him unwrap it as though it was a precious treasure. His eyes wander away from Jongdae’s face to the rest of his body.
He does look younger than Chanyeol, although the latter knows for sure they were both born the same year. It’s probably the small height, which even the sitting position can’t hide, and the thinness of his body. Jongdae’s heels barely touch the floor, and his thighs look barely thicker than his arms. The school uniform he’s wearing hang loosely on his shoulders and efficiently drowns his thin waist. Jongdae doesn’t look sick or underfed though - he has soft cheekbones and a healthy glow radiating from his skin, and Chanyeol can’t help but feel a bit envious. Growing up looks nice on Jongdae, almost too nice, but Chanyeol knows it’s a misleading publicity. He has lanky limbs and unexpected pimple to prove it.
“I’m Kim Jongdae by the way,” Jongdae says with a smile.
Chanyeol nods.
“I know. Same class, remember? I’m Park Chanyeol.”
Jongdae makes a face.
“Sorry… I’m so tired I feel like I’m working on automatic pilot. I’m sorry. I do know who you are, and thank you for the bread, really.”
“Don’t mention it,” Chanyeol chuckles.
Jongdae flashes him another smile before looking away to take a first bite of the bread. Guessing that it would be pretty uncomfortable for him to eat while being watched by Chanyeol, the latter also looks away and happily draws back his focus on his own bread.
The ride to their high school is short, and they spend it in silence, both chewing on their breads. They exchange a few more words once they get off the bus and a few chuckles when they take off their shoes to change into the school slippers and almost trip over each other, but as soon as they enter their classroom, their amusement dies down. Jongdae glances over his shoulder, and his tired eyes turn to playful wrinkles when he nods at Chanyeol in a wordless cheer. Chanyeol returns the favour with a little smile that borders on secretive - they did share a breakfast, didn’t they? - before he makes his way to his desk, at the back of the room. Jongdae sits three rows before him, his back immediately bending as he pulls out his mathematics book and goes back to trying to understand his equations.
Chanyeol fishes for his own book in his bag, a smile lingering on his face despite the unexciting day waiting for him. He’s still not sure what got into him and why he suddenly decided to sit next to Jongdae in the bus, but he cannot say he’s upset he did. It’s funny though, he allows himself to think as he opens his book, that they never really talked despite living barely a few feet from each other. Jongdae’s house looks so much like his, you’d think they were made to be friends, at least.
Well, he tells himself, heavy eyelids and tired eyes taking in the tiny words covering the pages in front of him, it’s never too late to make a new friend.
Words buzz in Chanyeol’s ears and characters flash behind his closed eyelids whenever he blinks. His bag straps dig into the flesh of his shoulders, the weight heavier with every step he takes. He has a fleeting thought for the books bouncing inside his school bag and which get carried home without having to do the slightest effort. It doesn’t seem fair to him, how he’s the one who has to open those same books, flip those pages heavy with knowledge and swallow it all until it pins him down like he’s a boat and they’re the anchors.
He forces his eyes open and looks down at the street going downhill in front of him. The concrete sucks in the moonlight but harshly rejects the artificial streetlights and it gives the street a yellowish glow. Behind Chanyeol, the hagwon building is imposing. It’s all geometrical shapes and perfect angles, walls building up a huge cube that has Chanyeol mindlessly going over the formula to calculate the area of a cube. He takes in the walls, gauges the building’s height, his tired brain ready to do the maths. It takes him a few seconds to remember that his day is over, school is long finished and he just got out of his cram school. No need to calculate anything now to know that he just needs to reach his bed and make the best of the few hours of sleep he has left.
“I hate hagwons,” he mutters in the silence as he finally sets off.
His eyes irremediably fall down to his shoes, and the more he stares at his shoelaces, the more tired he feels. It’s only when he feels himself swaying dangerously that he realizes that his brain is already half asleep. He raises his head, breathes in deeply, and forces his neurones to come up with thoughts interesting enough for him to make it to his house in one piece. He only manages a few weak nice streetlight and oh that is a very dark alley before giving up with a soul-crushing sigh.
It is at that precise moment that he stumbles upon Kim Jongdae for the second time today.
Jongdae is a dark silhouette before he is, in fact, Jongdae, and that would have usually been enough for Chanyeol to keep on going without so much of a glance over his shoulder. But he catches the outline of sharp cheekbones standing out against the weak glow of the street he’s currently crossing, and images of Jongdae’s profile view from the bus ride this morning fill his mind. He stops dead on his tracks, and it takes him a few seconds to realize it as he loses himself in the sight.
Jongdae looks just as lost and confused as Chanyeol, but in an even more obvious way. He’s crouched down and is aggressively rummaging through his back while muttering what sounds like very bad words. He doesn’t seem to be the slightest aware of what is going on around him, which is kind of endearing, but probably dangerous, Chanyeol muses. He checks the street for car and steps on the road, intent on joining Jongdae on the other side. The latter has now his two arms in his bag, and he’s barely a few inches away from shoving his head inside as well.
“Hey,” Chanyeol says as he reaches Jongdae.
The latter yelps as he gives a jolt which makes him lose his precarious balance and fall on his butt. He looks up at Chanyeol with wide dark eyes, his hand clenching on his heart. Up close, he looks even crazier, but despite the dark bags heavying on his features and his dishevelled look, Chanyeol still makes out the warm, soft aura Jongdae had in the bus.
“Sorry,” he winces before leaning down to offer his hand to Jongdae. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Jongdae wraps his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist instead of just taking his hand, and Chanyeol’s exhausted brain immediately zooms on it. It’s barely an anecdote about Jongdae, just a meaningless detail but it stands out in Chanyeol’s head like a picture worth remembering. Jongdae’s skin looks sickish under the streetlight, but his fingers are soft against Chanyeol’s wrist.
“Thanks,” Jongdae mumbles, embarrassed. He glances at his schoolbag and makes a face.
“Is, uh... is everything okay?”
“Yeah, of course yes,” Jongdae hastily adds. He flashes Chanyeol a warm and comforting smile before chuckling. “I just… Well, I just got out of the English hagwon, and I was on my way home, but I suddenly wondered what’s the English word for bush? So I just… freaked out while looking for my notes.”
Chanyeol glances at Jongdae’s schoolbag.
“You couldn’t wait ‘til you were home?” he asks, amused.
Jongdae shrugs.
“It seemed… really important at the time?”
Chanyeol snorts, and it draws another smile from Jongdae, this time a peevish and shy one. It looks just as bright as the other though, and it even manages to smoothen the worry lines mapping Jongdae’s face. Chanyeol wonders how bad he looks himself, but he guesses it doesn’t really matter. They both have the same deadline, the same weight on their shoulders, and probably the same exhausted face. All in all, it feels nice to know that Chanyeol is not the only one drowning.
He feels his own lips stretch into another smile.
“We could walk home together,” he offers. “I’ll stop you from getting distracted from the ultimate goal, which is your bed, and you’ll stop me from getting hit by a car because I’m pretty sure I’m already half sleeping.”
Jongdae chuckles, tiny smiling wrinkles breaking out all over his face in response to Chanyeol’s joke. He makes sure to gently push Chanyeol on his left side though, as far away as possible from the road, and the gesture has Chanyeol’s tired brain zoom in again. He blinks and the image of Jongdae’s fingers on his forearm as he softly handles him remains a while longer on the back of his eyelids, until it finally fades out.
Chanyeol patiently waits for Jongdae to zip his bag and put it back on his shoulders, and they set off again together. Jongdae’s soles scrap against the concrete as though he was too tired to properly walk, and Chanyeol is too tired to agree out loud. He does glance at Jongdae though, just when the latter looks up at him. Their eyes meet and they both smile slightly.
“So,” Chanyeol starts, because Jongdae’s eyes are inviting. Dead tired, but welcoming. “English, uh?”
Jongdae lets out a heavy sigh.
“English,” he confirms. “My parents want me to study business, and English is definitely a plus.”
“It was mathematics for me,” Chanyeol says. “They want me to be an accountant.”
Jongdae nods, and silence comes back between them. Chanyeol faintly wonders if Jongdae used his parents as the subject of his sentence to distance himself like Chanyeol did. He wonders if linguistics is as important as books have told him, and if him using the past tense to talk about the cram school he barely got out of really shows a desire to draw a line between past and present. Mostly, he wonders if Jongdae is thinking in English, tired thoughts trying to untangle themselves and jumping on every little detail around them to translate them, because Chanyeol is surely thinking with numbers. He sees angles, perimeters and formulas whirling all around him. He’s so tired.
“Although it’s not what I want to do,” Jongdae confesses with a low voice that Chanyeol almost misses.
He blinks down at his neighbourhood and the latter flashes him a soft smile.
“I want to have my own radio show,” he says. His tongue becomes softer, lighter, around the word radio and the Korean accent fades out, replaced by an English accent. Jongdae doesn’t even seem to realize it, but Chanyeol does. “I promised my parent I’d get accepted in a SKY university though and I’d study hard to become a business man, just in case. I want to get into Seoul National University, because they have a great student radio.”
SKY universities. The phrase echoes in Chanyeol’s mind with red letters, red crosses and a red circle on a November day. Seoul National University, Korea University and Yonsei University. Such a beautiful acronym for heavy knowledge and bitter, crushing stress. Chanyeol lets out a little huff of understanding, and Jongdae smiles softly at him.
“Do you want to be an accountant?” Jongdae asks.
“I…” Chanyeol starts, but never finishes.
His brain replays the question several times, but it somehow doesn’t make more sense. He listens to Jongdae’s soles scrap against the concrete, to his own feet swallowing distance with much difficulty, and to Jongdae’s silence. It’s a question he’s never heard before, and that he’s never hoped to hear, but that’s not what catches Chanyeol off guard. What surprises him is that he’s never asked himself, he’s never wondered if the intense cramming sessions he’s been having for so long now were really for him, and he has no answers.
Jongdae remains quiet, and they keep walking in perfect synchronization. Chanyeol tries to tidy up his thoughts, to stop thinking about numbers and equations, but algebra seems to have taken over the silent voices in his head. He thinks in problem wordings, in tiny neat characters. If Park Chanyeol spends three fourths of his day studying, with one third of this time truly disliking it, is accounting really his dream career? Give details of your calculation.
Jongdae doesn’t ask. His eyes are distant, even though he does make sure the street is clear before crossing it, his hand pressed against Chanyeol’s back to lead him. Chanyeol’s brain keeps zooming in and out on him, he catches details on the fly and nothing makes sense anymore, but he doesn’t struggle. Jongdae is the language student, he would probably have the words, no matter how foreign they would sound, but Chanyeol sees him in numbers, in unknowns, in curves on charts and fractions. Jongdae has two very deep eyes, and numerous lashes, he has different gestures - like the way he curled his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist or how his hand constantly flutter behind Chanyeol just in case. He has curling lips that always seem to be smiling, and he is at least one fourth smaller than Chanyeol.
“Bush”, Chanyeol suddenly blurts out. He slightly winces at his own voice breaking around foreign syllables.
Jongdae looks at him, questioning.
“The word you were looking for,” Chanyeol explains. “It’s bush.”
“Oh.” Jongdae exclaims.
He repeats the word in a low whisper, his English definitely less Korean than Chanyeol’s, although still awkward. When he looks up at Chanyeol, the latter flashes him a smile.
“English can be useful for accounting,” he explains.
“True, true,” Jongdae nods. His eyes linger on Chanyeol’s face, but he eventually looks away to lead Chanyeol across the last crossroad. They finally step into their quiet, peaceful neighbourhood. Everything is so still here, so unchanging. He can’t wait to get out of here.
“Will you keep going to the hagwons during summer break?” Jongdae asks.
“No, I’m helping my mom in the family restaurant.” He feels definitely more pleased about working behind the register than every other year. His tired brain hints that it must probably mean something, but Chanyeol is too exhausted to take the hint. “You?”
Jongdae shakes his head.
“Helping my dad at his grocer’s shop.”
They’re walking in the middle of the road now, but none of them cares. It’s home here, it’s safe.
“Do you think… Do you think we could study together?”
Jongdae glances at him.
“You mean, like helping each other?”
Chanyeol nods. Jongdae grabs his sleeve and stops him so abruptly that Chanyeol almost topples over. Jongdae helps him regain his balance though, and he answers Chanyeol’s half-outraged half-blank look with a low chuckle.
“Your house,” he says with a tilt of his head, and Chanyeol glances over his shoulder. The rose bushes look silver in the night.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, embarrassed. Jongdae’s fingers are still clenched around his sleeve.
“I think it’s a good idea, us studying together. Let’s talk about it tomorrow in the bus, okay? For now, I just want to -“
“Sleep” Chanyeol concludes.
Jongdae approves with a grin, and Chanyeol faintly wonders if there is an English word for that sort of expression.
“Go home,” he tells Chanyeol. “I’ll wait here until you entered your house, just in case. I think you’re right, your brain might be already asleep. You look barely alive,” he teases.
Chanyeol snorts. Jongdae’s fingers finally let go of his sleeve, but they keep nestling in his private space. They go up, hover over Chanyeol’s arm and finally stop on his shoulder for a few pats that he can feel through his whole body. It looks funny to him, because Jongdae is so small and they have so much space between them, but he’s the one feeling awkward for some reasons. It’s not Jongdae, it’s his limbs that are too long, his body that is too lanky, and his shoulder that is too bony. Jongdae looks like he fits, like he has everything under control, and like patting your neighbourhood and fellow classmate in the middle of the street at midnight is perfectly normal.
“Goodnight, Jongdae,” he says, and Jongdae beams at him.
“Goodnight, Chanyeol.”
Chanyeol turns around, steps over the rose bushes and walks straight to the door. The mathematics formulas are finally starting to die down in his mind, replaced by a fierce and hungry need to lie down. He thinks about his mum leaving food for him in the fridge and he wonders if she’ll let him have it for breakfast. He wonders if he’ll even be awake for breakfast.
He glances over his shoulder just as his hand curls around the doorknob, and catches Jongdae diligently waiting in the middle of the street, the hint of a smile hanging on his lips. He’s all curves and sharp angles, equations and unknowns, so small in his school uniform, but so comfortable. He wants to be a radio DJ, Chanyeol thinks. He curled his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist instead of taking his hand, and he made sure Chanyeol would be safe when crossing the street. He looks tired, so fragile, so small, but in control. Chanyeol’s brain comes up with one last problem before it calls it a night.
If Park Chanyeol and Kim Jongdae live in the same street, same houses and goes to the same high school with the same goal, how come they are so different?
Chanyeol softly closes the front door behind him. He watches Jongdae turning around and walking to his own house between the curtains of the closest window. He steps over tulips instead of rose bushes.
Chanyeol goes to bed thinking he at least solved one problem today.
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