(Don’t) Let Me Go: Part 2
---
“I saw the world in colours, but only because he wanted me too. He created me, brought me to become that person, to become the perfect reenactment of his dream. And I rejected those colours, placed them forever in my camera until all I saw in my world was grey.”
---
You were red,
and I was blue,
and you touched me, and suddenly I was a lilac sky,
and you decided purple, just wasn’t for you.
---
Lu Han has never been good at decoding thing, feelings, words.
He only ever knows how to project these things, how to pour his dedication and skewed philosophy onto others, eyes wide and mouth pretty.
He can turn his head to the tops of the trees and all he’ll see is beauty, twisted dead brown illuminated by falling snowflakes, gathering around the bottoms of the streetlamps. He can look at a person and see the same beauty, the deep eyes of a stranger, the dark colour of long flowing hair speckled with little white spots, fallen snow brushed off shoulders by delicate hands.
But if he were friends with the trees, friends with this stranger, he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know if they hated him, loved him, wanted him dead, alive, were upset with the very core of his personality.
He doesn’t know these things without being directly told, isn’t good at deciphering emotions, decoding cryptic texts, and understanding the social cues that lead many to compromise and to understanding.
Lu Han supposes he’s always been broken this way; always been lost when it comes to properly understanding what makes a person tick.
And he supposes now, thinking, kicking the untouched snow into a dirty pile by the street, jaw locked and eyes teary, that this is where he’s always gone wrong.
---
“Sehun?”
“Who else would it be?”
The snort is condescending, and Lu Han frowns. He doesn’t like who Sehun has become.
“I’m just surprised you’re calling me.”
“I said we were friends right?” Lu Han tries to picture Sehun, lying on his bed and fiddling with the worn cord of his phone, feet bare, hair fanning over his soft white pillows. “Friends call each other. You should come over.”
“Just like that?”
Lu Han glances around his own bedroom, easels, scattered books, a laptop in need of replacing. It’s always been colourful, Autumn and Summer prominent where Sehun’s bedroom is the faded hues of deep Winter.
“We’ll always be friends Lu Han.”
The clouds outside cast a grey light into Lu Han's room, but the candles on his desk glow a soft orange, and he's reminded of the positivity, of his portfolio; uncompleted.
"I'll be there in twenty."
---
It's Spring; bright sunlight pouring in over the ugly faded heater that Lu Han sometimes likes to press his face close to during the colder nights, knees brought up to his chest and eyes sparkling.
Sehun is pliant beneath him, eyes smiling as his lips part beautifully, asking for Lu Han to enter, for Lu Han to ravage him, hands sliding up thighs and quiet gasps mixing with crisp Spring air; Winter is quickly leaving and Lu Han can feel it bursting through his veins, a new energy, new smiles, Sehun.
"Lu Han," Sehun breathes, always so responsive, toes curling, fingers digging into his spine as Lu Han palms him slowly. He never rushes with Sehun, never quite gives him what he wants, just leans forward, kissing the moans that spill from his lips, unbottons jeans to slide his hand fully in and grip Sehun properly.
"What do you want, Sehun?" Lu Han asks, and it's playful, filled with love and promise, want, the energy of a summer yet to come.
"You," Sehun says, and his back arches into Lu Han as if to prove his point; a white pillow falls to the floor. "Always you. Everything for you."
"Don't be cheesy while I'm trying to get you off."
Lu Han’s words sound serious, but they lack bite, grin on his face as Sehun giggles into his shoulder, bites down as he comes over Lu Han's fingers, down his wrists. His eyes are still dark watching Lu Han lick his own fingers clean, humming at the taste, but they flash with something else, something Lu Han will never quite catch.
"You love me," Sehun says teasingly, grip on Lu Han's collar tight as he tugs him forward, whining when Lu Han's lips find his again, tongues sliding together. "You're also still too dressed. We're both too dressed."
"You think so?" Lu Han asks with a smirk, pushing Sehun back down until his back touches the cool sheets, buttons of a grey shirt coming open.
"I think so."
Sehun's mouth, the touch of his lips, tongue, fingers; they burst, lilac flames, colourful in Lu Han's veins.
Lu Han never once wonders what his colours are like for Sehun.
---
"It's cold in here."
Sehun is perched on the edge of his bed, eyebrow raised in Lu Han's direction, limbs too long, bent awkwardly.
"It's always been cold in here."
"It seems colder," Lu Han mutters, walking over to the heater, frowning when the knob sticks.
"It's broken," Sehun says from the bed, and he's sprawling now, looking comfortable in the icy cold room, tank-top sleeves falling dangerously from his shoulders. Temptation. “Since last week.”
"And you're not cold?"
Lu Han frowns, sits awkwardly on the cool wooden boards, jacket still on, beanie still crooked atop his head.
"I don't really get cold," Sehun shrugs. He's lighting up a cigarette, a habit Lu Han despises and yet is fully attracted to, eyes following the trail of smoke, settling on the plush of Sehun's lips around the stick, the way they part as his eyes lock with Lu Han's.
Tension.
"You used to."
"People change."
"I didn't know bodies followed hearts."
Lu Han isn't sure why he says it; why he says it in that tone, or with that choice of words, but Sehun is sitting back up, regarding him with something he can't read, a familiar flash that frustrates Lu Han.
He can never quite tell these things. Never has.
There's a thump; Sehun sliding from the bed and to the floor, cigarette half gone as he blows the smoke above Lu Han's head, out the drafty windows.
"You're still trapping me," He says, and his face is too close to Lu Han's; so close that Lu Han can count his eyelashes, can make out the exact curve of his cheekbones. "I shouldn't have invited you. I knew this would happen."
"Do you still --"
"I always have."
"I'm not trapping you," Lu Han looks down, away, feels his breath catching, twisting in his lungs, pushing his heart into its cold, hollow place. "You can leave again, whenever you want."
"You don't understand."
Sehun's laughter is playful in a way that has Lu Han's blood running cold. But he's beautiful, nose long and straight, wrists delicate as he reaches behind himself to put out his cigarette.
Lu Han feels warm, burning up even in the chill of Sehun's drab room, eyes tracing patterns in the wood, fingers curling around nothing.
"I don't."
Lu Han looks up at Sehun, in the same way he'd done at the exhibition, in the same way he'd done a million times in his life, and his gaze is pure emotion.
"I would never do it on purpose," He says, and he's frowning too much, the frown that Sehun used to say he hated, that Minseok likes to reach over and tug up with his own fingers. "You should know this."
"I do know this," Sehun nods, and he looks sad, eyes darker; the little sun there is has been completely eclipsed by the clouds outside, setting behind a wall of November sadness. "That's why you're here."
"You're too jaded for someone as young as you are," Lu Han murmurs. His head rests on his knees and he stares. Searches for any signs of something. "I still love you, you know. I'm sorry I ever made you leave."
"I'm sorry you ever made me exist."
"You existed before me," Lu Han says in confusion. "Someone shouldn't exist solely for someone else's benefit."
"I only exist because of you," Sehun says cryptically -- dramatically -- and Lu Han is struck by the sudden innocence across his features, the sudden burst of the Sehun he used to know. "I didn't exist before you and i didn't exist after you."
"Do you exist now?" Lu Han asks; he's playing along, dancing around Sehun's confusing words, Sehun's confusing everything. He left, and he's back and Lu Han feels as if he never left, as if they simply hadn't seen each other for a week; reconciliation after a fight, an argument.
Not two years.
"I'm sitting in front of you aren't I?" Sehun says, and there's a desperation back in his tone, as if he can't control himself. Lu Han sucks in a breath.
There's no warning before Sehun surges forward, arms around Lu Han's neck to kiss him hard, licking into an unresponsive mouth as Lu Han freezes in shock; overwhelmed. He only responds at the last minute, sighing in confusion, relief.
Sehun is kissing him and maybe they can fix this and maybe can stay but Sehun is pulling away and looking panicked and Lu Han just wants, wants wants --
"Sehun?" Lu Han gasps out, lips swollen and beanie fallen to the floor, nerves on fire. "What was --"
"Sorry," Sehun says, and he looks sheepish, lost, trapped. "I'm sorry I couldn't help myself."
And Lu Han still doesn't understand, but he wants to.
"You can't do that," Lu Han snarls suddenly, and the anger that flows through him is justified, he thinks. Real, right. never angry. not with him. "You can't just disappear and break my heart and come back and be all fucking cryptic and then try to make out with me."
"I--" Sehun stutters, and for the first time since he's been back, Lu Han sees hesitance, sees the scared boy that had failed an exam, that had broken an expensive camera. "I didn't -- I couldn't -- Lu Han --"
"I'll go home now."
Lu Han is quiet as he stands, quiet as he resists that every nerve, every thought in his mind, body is screaming at him to jump on Sehun, to reclaim what's his, to let him in. Mind, body, soul. Where he belongs.
He ignores Sehun calling his name.
---
“There was this time, when he took my camera and he tried to take a photo. And it turned out beautiful. At the time I wanted to cry; I was so happy that I was in love with someone so talented, that could pick up anything art and make it his own.
But later, I looked at the photo, at the colours of the leaves, and I looked into my face, the deadness of my eyes and the crooked smile on my face. It felt fake.
It was fake. I was trapped. My love was not my own but a fabrication, created only for him, Charcoal on paper to be his. And I couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard I tried. I still can’t stop it. I’m still trapped.”
---
Take me, take me back to your bed,
I love you so much that it hurts my head,
I don’t mind you under my skin,
I’ll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in.
---
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"You know what."
Sehun is coughing, sound too loud over the receiver. It causes every string of Lu Han's being to constrict, to close in on itself, twisting.
"You know I could never be angry. Not with you."
"I can never be angry with you either."
"I know."
"I can be sad though," Sehun sounds trapped, and Lu Han can see it, feel it, hear it. The fairy lights strewn throughout his room do nothing for the colourless pain that seeps into his ear, layered through a voice that sounds tired. "I want to let you go, but I can't."
"I'll go willingly."
"I can't let you willingly."
Sehun sounds insistent, and that fear that Lu Han doesn't understand is back in his voice, that crack that Lu Han falls through but can't get out of.
"I'm sorry."
"I know you are. I'm sorry too."
---
"Sehun kissed me."
Minseok blinks, looking shocked for a brief moment before his eyes narrow.
Why did he do that?" Minseok asks, perplexed and slightly ruffled, protective even in the face of his precious dongsaeng Sehun.
"I don't know," Lu Han says, and he drags a hand through his hair, leans against the back of the lounge couch, curls further into the arm. "I left."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know," Lu Han repeats pathetically, and he presses the heel of of his palm to his eyes, squeezes as if they'll touch his brain and magically grant him an answer. 'What would you do?"
"I would talk to him," Minseok says simply, and it's always been simple with him; easy. "You guys need to talk like human beings, not all cryptically with your art and poetry."
"It's easier for him to be cryptic I think," Lu Han frowns, pouts at Minseok. "Why can't I fix my sad life when you managed to get two boyfriends."
Minseok smiles lightly at that, pats Lu Han's arm.
"Every relationship is different, but fixing them is always the same," His words are true, and Lu Han can't help the sigh that bursts from his lips. "You just need to communicate."
"I'll try."
"Good."
---
Sehun blinks, mind hazy and limbs heavy.
He's confused, kind of lost. He has memories, but they feel planted in his head. He has thoughts, feelings, actions, but something feels off.
He remembers, but he doesn't remember, as if he's just come into existence in the middle of this sidewalk, surrounded by melting snow. He sees teenagers, his age, dressed like he is.
A school; it must be his, he supposes. His mind tells him so, directs him to walk towards it, go to a math class that he doesn't remember registering for. He exists, and there's a part of his heart that feels separate from the others telling him that he needs to find his purpose.
He stares at his chest in confusion and wonder, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. He's still short at this time, torso still not yet grown into his lanky limbs, face still soft, baby like; a 16-year-old.
Sehun considers asking someone where he is, but he knows where he is. It's an odd feeling, as if he's been born, fresh from a womb but with 16 years of life implanted.
His heart tugs, and he lurches, gasps, looks up to see two boys; older maybe. Both beautiful, good-looking, the heartbreaker type.
The one on the left is the one this weird part of his heart yearns for, and Sehun can't figure out why he suddenly feels trapped, drawn forward.
They're talking to him, smiles and friendly gestures, names that he doesn't catch in his haze of confusion, declarations that Sehun is cute, that they want to be his friend, take care of him; he must be a transfer.
"You're beautiful," Sehun blurts out instead of his name, eyes wide and fixated on the taller of the two, a boy with a perfect jawline, glittering eyes and soft, almost fluffy hair.
"My name is Lu Han," The boy laughs, and it isn’t condescending; more curious as he looks curiously at Sehun. "But beautiful works too."
---
The buzzer is loud, obnoxious in the early morning.
Lu Han groans loudly, drowns it out with his complaining as he slams a button down, growls into the receiver of his rarely used house phone.
"What?"
"Can I come up?"
It's Sehun, which takes Lu Han by surprise, has him wide awake and struggling to put pants on, mumbling a subdued yes into his phone, different from the irritated snap of his voice merely seconds earlier.
Lu Han opens the door five minutes later with messy bed-hair, ratty sweats hanging low on his hips, shirtless and still half-asleep. He's unhappy, confused by Sehun showing up, but he knows he looks good like this; smirks at the way Sehun looks him up and down, licks his lips nervously.
Sehun looks good too, grey jacket and black buttons that match black jeans, dusty grey boots. He's dressed like a puff of smoke, trailing through Lu Han's life and settling under his skin. Second hand Sehun.
"Can we talk?" Sehun asks, and it’s timid, wide eyed.
He's suddenly shorter, and Lu Han feels as though he can see Sehun in his Riverview uniform, tie blowing in the wind and dark brown hair not yet silver, shy smiles and blurted out compliments.
His heart constricts and he nods.
They sit on Lu Han's bed among the Christmas lights, Sehun absently eyeing Lu Han's charcoal collection. He looks upset somehow, eyes follow the pattern of drawings on the wall, a timeline of different portfolios; of the colours and seasons as Lu Han sees them.
"When I say --"
Sehun pauses, shakes his head. "No not yet."
Lu Han blinks, confused, but says nothing, waits for Sehun to continue.
"We could try again," Sehun says tentatively. "I can deal with my own issues and just let myself exist for you how I was supposed to, how I was made to, and we could be okay."
"That's not healthy, Sehun," Lu Han murmurs.
"It's all I know," Sehun chokes, and he's crying, tears spilling down his cheeks and wetting the collar of his shirt; green today, a rare burst of colour in the grey that always has been Sehun's life.
Lu Han isn't sure what to do; he feels guilt, pain, sadness, but he still leans forward, wraps his arms around Sehun, sits with him in silence, holds him.
"Just like that," Sehun says into his shoulder. "You're still here and you're always here and I'm supposed to fall into you like I always have."
"No you're not," Lu Han says into his hair, and he believes this. No matter how selfish he is, no matter how much he wants Sehun, he needs to know that he exists for many reasons that are not Lu Han, needs to let go of this unhealthy feeling. If this is why he left Lu Han needs to show him that there’s no need to stay.
"I am," Sehun says firmly, and his eyes grow dark, hands on Lu Han's chest and tears drying, wiped off on Lu Han's skin. "We can take things slow, remember who we were. I'm home and I exist and please let me."
"Taking things slow doesn't involve you feeling up my naked chest," Lu Han says, and he's trying to joke, trying to lighten the mood, stop the hammering of his chest; the decision trying to make itself just based on how soft Sehun's fingers feel as they accidentally -- or perhaps purposely -- brush against a nipple.
"I could take things slow while feeling up your naked chest," Sehun whispers, and the joke is there, the teasing of old. He's trying too hard, and Lu Han pushes him back, pushes him away, places the gentlest of kisses on Sehun's forehead, fingers laced through his.
"No," Lu Han shakes his head. "You know I'll take you back, take us back. You know I'm never angry, not with you. But we take things slow."
"It takes a long time to make up for two years, doesn't it?"
"Yes, yes it does."
"Can we watch a movie?" Sehun asks, and he looks pitiful, trapped. Lu Han wants him to look free, wants the mirth in his eyes to be his own. "Cuddle at least? I think I need you right now."
"Breakfast first?" Lu Han suggests, running fingers through Sehun's soft hair, heart aching at the subconscious way in which Sehun leans into his touch, nods his head. "We can get breakfast and I'll drink coffee and we can watch your favourite movies all day."
"Thank you," Sehun mutters.
It's sincere.
It’s easy to pretend even with the weight crushing both of them.
---
Lu Han is perfect.
Sehun would like to say he fell in love quickly, that they hit it off and Lu Han was charmed and loved him and asked him right that day they met.
Things don't always work that way, though, and Lu Han barely pays him any mind, just coos, pats his cheeks, drags him to the mall for shopping.
They're just friends, and Sehun hates it, hates that he feels like he's not fulfilling his existence.
He follows Lu Han anyways, lets an unforeseen force guide him through his first semester like a lost puppy in love. Even when he hangs out with only Minseok his ears are open, intensely listening to any mention of Lu Han.
“When are you gonna tell him?” Minseok asks one day, sharing a meal with Sehun on the back steps; Summer is approaching with bright sun and warm winds.
Sehun doesn’t pretend to not know who he’s referring to.
“I can’t,” Sehun says, and he sounds impassive, hopes he sounds impassive. Minseok always notices the changes in his mood, seems more in-tuned to him than Lu Han ever will be; but that’s just Minseok, quiet and attentive and all-knowing, the perfect best friend.
“You sure?”
Minseok raises an eyebrow, judging, though he’s cutely drinking his banana milk like a child drinks from a bottle.
“I’m sure,” Sehun says, and he wants to flop on top of Minseok but the weird part of him, the one he tries not to acknowledge stops him. No. It says, You belong to Lu Han.
But Sehun doesn’t belong to Lu Han; he’s just a hormonal teenage boy with confusing memories and possibly a heart condition. He’ll never belong to Lu Han.
“He likes you though,” Minseok says matter-of-factly, shoulders shrugging and milk drained, lips smacking together childishly. “You guys are just skirting around each other like shy preteens.”
“I don’t even remember being a preteen.”
It’s muttered, and Minseok laughs, but Sehun isn’t joking, eyes narrowing as he stares at a tree across the street.
He really doesn’t remember.
---
The thing about being with Sehun is that it feels natural. Too natural, Lu Han struggling between too close and too far, not knowing whether to smile or frown.
Breakfast feels too normal, the familiar chairs of Sehun’s favourite fast food place making him uncomfortable, nervous.
And yet he feels at home; flooded by the memories that are covering his eyes:
Sehun and him here at five in the morning, giggling and fighting a soft drink.
Watching Sehun across the table as they collect their change together for another greasy burger; Legs thrown across Sehun’s as they engage in something probably too inappropriate for a restaurant, even a cheap one like this.
Now they sit like friends, polite and smiling across the table as Sehun seems to relax, seems to open up, colour seeming to flash across his personality. Lu Han wants to draw him like this, colourful and laughing, nothing like the sullen closed off Sehun that had returned to the city.
“I’m glad you don’t hate me,” Lu Han says suddenly, seriousness mixing in with the dying laughter of a joke just told. “I still don’t know what I did, or why you felt the way you did, but I’m glad you’re here with me, now.”
“I could never hate you hyung.”
Sehun sounds shy -- is using honorifics -- and Lu Han feels his heart swell, fill up, warm despite the season that begins to surround them on every side.
“I could never hate you,” Sehun repeats later, burrowed into Lu Han’s side, movie playing forgotten on Sehun’s outdated television. “Never.”
---
Lu Han isn’t sure why they’re kissing.
Sehun is responsive, eager, desperate, fingers curling into Lu Han’s shirt tightly, as if trying to hold onto something more than just the thin material. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, past and present meeting with each touch of lips, each drag of tongue, hot and heavy against the other.
He isn’t sure how they got here; one moment they’re watching a cheesy movie, the next Sehun has him pressed against the headboard, straddling his thighs, unrecognizable look plastered across his sculpted features.
The feeling is new, and Lu Han can’t describe. It’s just like before, and yet new.
So much for taking things slow.
Lu Han moans, loud and embarrassing when Sehun scrapes teeth across his earlobe, shifts in his lap. And it isn’t fair because Lu Han taught him all these things; every teasing trick, every weak spot.
Sehun still remembers them.
And Lu Han, he still hasn’t forgotten Sehun’s either; hands sliding up under his shirt, thumbs grazing sensitive nipples. He’s too lost in the moment to care how complicated this is, but the feel of Sehun’s cock, hardening through his jeans has him pulling away with a gasp; back to reality.
“Sehun,” He starts, voice hoarse and lips swollen. “We can’t.”
“I know,” Is the quiet answer Sehun gives him, and he melts away from Lu Han, colour draining from him, staying behind on Lu Han’s skin like teardrops.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Lu Han licks his lips, chews and looks away from Sehun.
“You left,” He says, and it hurts. “You left and I can’t just let you show up like this, I can’t just let you back in when I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“I came back because,” Sehun pauses and he too licks his lips, breathing still laboured, eyes still glazed over with lust and something else. “I came back because you needed me to. You wanted me to.”
“And how would you know that?” Lu Han asks, tone sharp but not angry. Just curious, confused. “You haven’t spoken to me since you disappeared, how would you know anything about my life.”
“We’re still the same,” Sehun says, and he gestures to the room around them, fingers shaking. He needs a cigarette; Lu Han can always tell. “It’s easy to know your life when nothing’s changed except for the school you go to.”
And he’s right, really.
Lu Han still draws, he still broods, he still curls himself around his best friend when he’s sad and pouts when squirrels won’t let him pet them. He’s still in love with Sehun and he still finds himself sitting on their steps, even when the weather shouldn’t allow it.
But Sehun, he’s still the same also. The same flashes of emotion in his eyes, the same indifferent and yet shy stance, the softness that sometimes creeps through.
And yet it’s different. Lu Han thinks time can do that to people, because even if the feeling is still there, it’s been faded. Life experience, time spent alone, with others.
Lu Han still doesn’t know why, but he knows the sunken feeling in his chest when the door closes on Sehun all too well.
---
“Sehun do you ever think of what life would be like if I didn’t exist?”
Lu Han sounds tired, emotional. His voice lacks colour and Sehun yearns for it, yearns to know what the blissful colours of Autumn feel like.
“Why are you asking?” Sehun is worried, though which part of himself he doesn’t know.
“I’m just wondering,” Lu Han says, and Sehun hears the sounds of him flopping back into his pillows, lean body and legs splayed in front of him. “What if I didn’t exist?”
“Then neither would I.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” Sehun lets his own head fall back, lets his hair fan out over the grey of his pillows, hazy blue of his sleeping pills swimming into his vision. “I’m here because you’re here. Without you I would be nothing.”
There’s a sigh, and Sehun thinks there might be a sniffle.
“I love you,” Lu Han tells him, and it’s earnest, meaningful, Lu Han. “I hope we never leave each other.”
I can’t leave you even if I tried.
“I hope so too.”
---
Sehun's been a little off lately.
Or so it seems to Lu Han. He's been quieter, laughter less often, eyelids drooping from a lack of sleep; insomnia.
He's worried, teeth buried in the eraser of his pencil and legs shaking restlessly from where they're draped across the window seat. Sehun won't listen when Lu Han tells him he should vacation a bit, leave the city to go see his family in the country.
Sehun just keeps shaking his head, telling Lu Han that he refuses to go anywhere if he isn't coming. And it's childish really, but Lu Han just thinks it's cute, just worries and pouts by himself, locked up in his room.
Sehun had been over earlier; Lu Han has the hickeys to prove it, hair still mussed from where fingers had curled into the strands, tugged.
Lu Han feels guilty for not knowing what's bothering Sehun, for being insecure despite Sehun's insistent words of "it's not you, I'm just upset over my exams."
And they are good -- perfect in fact -- but Lu Han still worries. The only thing he can do is daydream, pull out the special sketchbook where he keeps his drawings of Sehun, the black and white charcoal art of the love of his life.
He draws Sehun at a train station, mind heavy and bags heavier. It's one of his best pictures, background blending perfectly, tiny speech bubble above Sehun's head; out of place in the realistic feeling of the work, yet perfect.
Lu Han thinks of what Sehun always says to him, thinks of his declarations of love and his hidden emotions. He imagines the sorrowful situation, imagines Sehun whispering apologies into his pillow as he smokes his last cigarette in the city.
"I need to leave," The speech bubble says, sad Sehun's eyes twinkling even with the dullness of the pencil. "I need to cease to exist in this city, and find my happiness again."
He'll have to show this to Sehun tomorrow on their date, bug him about starring in a dramatic movie, leaving the sad, crying girl behind and running off to make a living in New York.
Lu Han just isn't sure why the charcoal feels heavier, or why he suddenly feels dread in the pit of his stomach.
---
"I knew I'd find you here."
Lu Han looks up, startled out of his daze, gloved fingers pausing where they'd been flying across paper moments ago. The steps are cold where he's sitting, and it's with a puff of air that he answers Sehun.
"I'm behind on my portfolio," Is all Lu Han says, looking up at Sehun with eyes that are only widened slightly. "I work best here."
"You always have," Sehun says, and he sits next to Lu Han, thighs touching. The warmth is immediate, and it takes nearly all of Lu Han's will to not lean into Sehun's fleeting touch. "Even when we were teenagers."
"I suppose," Lu Han isn't looking at Sehun, eyes trained on the scene he's drawing, a faceless couple dancing under fairylights. Add some liveliness to your work Minseok had said. "Why are you here?"
"I can't stay away from you," Sehun says, and it's honest, bare. "Even if you tell me to, even if I try."
"I'm sorry."
The sketchbook is heavy, and Lu Han's fingers are starting to numb through his thin gloves; the air feels chillier all of a sudden, crisp wind biting through his windbreaker.
"It's not your fault," It's said quietly, and Lu Han feels Sehun's warmth closer; feels the weight of Sehun leaning on his shoulder. It's heavier than the sketchbook, heavier than having an entire building lay itself to rest atop his shoulders.
"You've changed your mind now?" Lu Han asks, and his words too, come out quietly. Nervous.
"Everything I've said," Sehun licks his lips, fidgets. "It hasn't been a lie. But I know you never meant anything."
"Does that mean we can start over properly?" Lu Han asks gently, sketchbook closed and hands clasped together; for warmth.
"I don't think we should start at all," Sehun says darkly, and his eyes are sad, lost. "I think we should just keep going."
"If we keep going you'll just feel the same way you always have."
"And that's okay," Sehun tells him, lets out another puff of cold air. "That's just how it is."
"What can I do to change?" Lu Han asks, and he's moving away from Sehun, sitting up straighter, ignoring the way the cold seeps into his skin from the step walls. "What can I do so that you don't feel bad anymore."
"You can't change anything," Sehun stands up, stretches, reaches out a hand. Lu Han takes it warily, glances at him with uncertainty, worry, fear. "But that's okay."
"Are you sure?"
It's a moment they can't turn back from; a banishment of high school, of two years alone, and of maturity.
"I'm sure."
---
Baekhyun and Jongdae are singing a duet; loud over the karaoke microphones, noise grating to Lu Han's sober ears.
"I'm dating Sehun again," Lu Han says over -- or perhaps under -- the sound of Baekhyun's wailed high note. Minseok is lounging on the couch next to him, drink in hand and eyes fondly attached to Jongdae as he sings some kind of bridge.
"Are you sure about this?" Minseok asks, and he doesn't give advice, just hands his bottle to Lu Han, tips the contents into a willing mouth. "Have you guys fixed things?"
"Almost," Lu Han coughs, vodka concoction burning as it touches the back of his throat. "We've talked. We'll get there."
"I'm happy for you," Minseok tells him, getting up to take a microphone from Jongdae, glancing back to give Lu Han a gummy smile.
Minseok is sincere; his words are never lies.
But maybe they're not perfect, never will be; Sehun's words snapped over the receiver before he hangs up, before a completely wasted Lu Han slumps into the back seat of a car, wondering, hoping, lost.
It'll always be his fault.
---
"You'll have to pretend to just be my friend," Lu Han tells Sehun, frowns over his breakfast of champions; an egg muffin and a fountain drink. "My parents, they're very conservative. I don't think I'm ready to break that -- that kind of news to them yet."
"It's alright," Sehun assures him, reassures him, reaches across the table to hold Lu Han's hand, fingers curled around fingers. "I just want to meet them, it doesn't matter as what."
"They'll love you," Lu Han says with a grin, leaning back in his seat and sighing happily, lips quirking over his straw. "Loving you probably runs in my family."
Sehun blushes, hides his face, resurfaces to tug Lu Han's hand closer.
"I hope so."
(They do love him, nurture Sehun like he's a son.
"We love our son's best friend," They say, and it only hurts Sehun a little bit. He exists for Lu Han, and it doesn't matter in what way.)
---
"Sehun--"
Lu Han is gasping, back pressed against the wall, voice echoing in the dingy bathroom of the gallery. His pants are pooled around his ankles, underwear joining them as Sehun' drops to his knees, looks up at him adoringly; painfully.
"I couldn't resist," Sehun pants, and he's nipping at Lu Han's thighs, going too slow for a place like this where anyone could walk in. Lu Han keeps eyeing the door through the mirror, eyes wide and hips bucking into Sehun's sudden tight grip.
"You looked so good and so happy and so proud," Sehun continues, voice muffled as he places kisses to Lu Han's inner thighs, to his balls. "You liked my newest exhibit so much, and that part of my heart. It wants."
"That part of your --" Lu Han moans as his sentence is cut off, as Sehun takes him in fully, holds Lu Han's hips against the wall with a sure hand.
"Later," Sehun mumbles around Lu Han's cock, vibrations causing Lu Han to throw his head back, moan louder. "We'll discuss it later."
Lu Han forgets Sehun's words when he comes with a shout ten minutes, zipper done up just in time for a random boy to come through the door, giving their swollen lips and messy hair a calculating, judging look.
They both laugh, hand in hand as they leave the bathroom, leave the gallery, cold air of winter fresh as Lu Han's heart dances.
They're okay.
---
Lu Han is in high spirits these days; his portfolio is coming along nicely, winter slowing down as they dance into the next year. Christmas, the holidays, it's all a blur to him with Sehun back at his side and his best friends there.
It's been a good few months; no fighting, no cryptic words, no discussions of being trapped. Just a strange bliss of their relationship feeling as if it's once again new, once again replenished; beautiful.
It's almost been too nice, Sehun acting exactly the same as he once had, just like the naive teenager remembers him as. It's almost as if he's pretending, molding himself to what he thinks Lu Han will love.
It's there; in the back of Lu Han's mind, crawling to the surface to seep through as insecurities, shorter hugs, chaster kisses.
He thinks that maybe they're just pretending to be okay.
---
Do you remember when me met?
That’s the day I knew you were mine.
---
Lu Han is late.
He's usually late but today Sehun is irritated, stretched out on Lu Han's bed -- Lu Han never has to know that he's crinkled his blankets -- eyes on the bright sun that streams through Lu Han's slightly open curtains.
“Just let yourself in, I won't be long; work just wants to keep me,” Lu Han had said, had laughed over the phone.
Lu Han knows nothing. Lu Han is cheerful, optimistic, loving; he looks into the future with bright colours, ones that spill from him and cascade over Sehun. He can sometimes feel their warmth, can sometimes understand what orange feels like as it ghosts over his lips, what fiery red tastes like on the tip of a tongue.
He glances to the side. Lu Han's sketchbooks are stacked neatly, well-kept and cared for; the most precious things in his life aside from the dreadful charcoal pencil.
Sehun is never sure why he hates the pencil. Perhaps because it's Lu Han's favourite, and Sehun can't understand why someone so colourful would want to draw with something so lifeless, so dead, so pointless. He absently counts the sketchbooks, five of them placed so nicely Sehun could swear robot hands had placed them there.
There’s an extra sketchbook.
Sehun has only ever looked through four of Lu Han’s sketchbooks. “This is all the work I’ve ever done. Porfolio’s one, two, three and the current one.”
It’s probably just a new one, one never written in and meant for portfolio number five, but Sehun is bored, curious, slides from the safety of Lu Han’s bed to the foor. He scoots across the floor childishly, reaching above his head for the sketchbooks.
Portfolio one; New beginnings.
Portfolio two; Seasons
Portfolio three; Colours
Portfolio four; Colours and Seasons
The fifth one is labelled “Mine”, and at first Sehun smiles, at first he giggles, opening the pages to find drawings of him, all dated, signed, black and white with Lu Han’s favourite charcoal pencil.
And then he sees it.
The first drawing, dated the same morning he’d found himself confused, lost in the middle of a sidewalk, memories but not flooding his mind. And he gets curious, reaches for the charcoal pencil, rips out a blank page.
That part of him leads him, understands, but Sehun doesn’t, just knows that maybe there’s a reason he exists for Lu Han, maybe there’s a reason the depression is collapsing down on his shoulders and dragging him under to drown.
Each picture in the sketchbook, they’re all things Sehun remembers doing, but they’re all dated before he remembers doing them.
He’s not the best at drawing -- photography has always been his only talent -- but he tries anyways. Draws a portrait of himself, tells a story while he’s doing it. He’s fist pumping in the drawing, hands to the sky. It’s a cute doodle and Sehun grins, satisfied for a moment.
Maybe he’ll take a photo when his shoulder stops hurting.
He’s not sure why it’s hurting, but that part of him, the one that controls his movement and makes him feel crazy stirs, and Sehun finds himself with his hands in the air, mimicking the photo.
He breathes in carefully.
Breathes out shakily.
And understands.
---
“You drew me,” Sehun says accusingly, pointing at Lu Han from where he’s still seated on the floor, sketchbook open in his lap to page one. “You drew me before you even knew me.”
“Why do you think I fell in love with you,” Lu Han says cheekily, dropping to the floor next to Sehun and kissing him gently; on the lips, the side of his jaw, the soft spot beneath his ear. “I drew my dream boy and imagined I’d meet him, and then someone exactly like him shows up at my school and calls me beautiful. It was fate.”
“It’s almost like you created me,” Sehun laughs, and he’s turning, kissing Lu Han back. Lu Han doesn’t notice the shakiness, the hollow quality of his grey laughter.
“I guess so,” Lu Han giggles, and he looks shy, snaps the sketchbook shut and holds it close to his chest. “I never thought you would find these. I’m embarrassed.”
“I find everything,” Sehun says with a smirk, and he’s crawling back up to Lu Han’s bed, challenging him. Sehun pats the blankets next to him playfully while Lu Han meticulously stalks the books back up, places the charcoal pencil in its holder. “Coming up?”
Lu Han crawls up to the bed and on top of him, grinning and beautiful.
Sehun knows how he exists now. Knows why.
---
“Sehun.”
He’s fiddling with a camera, sitting a bit away from the others so he can focus, get the exact right angle for his shot.
“What’s up,” He calls, not looking up. He knows the owner of the voice.
“I think we need to talk.”
Sehun blinks in confusion, finally glancing up to find Minseok hovering over him, eyes soft but serious.
“Have I done something wrong?” He asks, tone careful. He’s always been close with Minseok; has always respected him, gone to him advice. But that was when he first existed and this is now, after he’d supposedly broken Lu Han’s heart, over and over.
“Possibly,” Minseok says but he’s leading Sehun by the wrist over to a table by the windows, the ones Lu Han loves because he gets a view of the lobby fountains.
Sehun sits nervously, waits for Minseok to speak. He’s lost his best shot of the day, and he can feels eyes on them, can feel the others watching, though they don’t interfere.
“Why are you pretending?” Minseok asks, and he’s straightforward, never being one to skirt around, to play games.
“I’m not--” Sehun tries to say but his words die out, trail off at the look on Minseok’s face.
“Back before you left, I could tell you weren’t pretending, but now you are,” Minseok says shortly, and he looks angry, but it’s a slow burning anger, the kind that parents give their children when they’re disappointed. “So whatever you’re doing you need to stop and you need to tell Lu Han what he’s done wrong before he collapses.”
“We’re fixing it,” And Sehun sounds whiny, childish, even to his own ears.
“He’s fixing it,” Minseok says and it’s the truth. Sehun hates him in that moment for telling the truth. “He’s fixing it and you’re hiding something from him. You didn’t have to deal with him after you left Sehun. I did and it wasn’t fun.”
Sehun is left alone at the table with his head spinning and his heart tugging aimlessly at his sleeve.
---
They’re sitting on the steps -- alone -- watching the sun go down.
Sehun could stay here forever, could lean into Lu Han’s side and pretend he belongs there, inhaling the soft scent of honey that he always exudes.
The air is cool, and Sehun basks in it, basks in the serenity of not-knowing, of the piece of heart feeling whole, proper. They aren’t talking much, Lu Han rarely does when they walk together, bits and piece of conversation here and there.
Sehun likes to watch Lu Han sketch, likes to watch his hands, fingers pretty around his pencils. There’s something beautiful about watching art come to life and Sehun supposes that’s why Lu Han watches him also, why he follows Sehun around to poke at his camera and admire his shots.
He’s finding it hard to focus on the art right now.
Not with Lu Han’s lips pursed in concentration, eyebrows furrowed and hair falling into his, ruffled slightly by the evening wind. He looks beautiful and Sehun has to hold himself back from blurting things out, from spilling compliments that he can never take back.
“Am I that good looking?”
Lu Han’s teasing voice startles Lu Han out of his daze and he jumps back slightly, flushes.
“I-”
“It’s okay,” Lu Han interrupts him, and he’s turning towards Sehun, face too close to his own, eyes soft, sparkling with the reflection of the sunset. “I like you too.”
“Oh I-”
He’s cut off by soft lips, gentle and insistent as they touch his own. Sehun’s eyes flutter shut as he returns the kiss, and it feels so natural, so right, breathing laboured when they part, despite the innocence of the kiss.
Lu Han reaches over and ruffles his hair, softer, more intimate than he usually does, eliciting one of Sehun’s shy grins, the crescent moon smile that everyone always grows to love.
It’s simple, and Sehun’s heart agrees.
---
“I can’t be with you.”
It’s almost funny, the setting of this. Rain pouring down as they hide in an alleyway off the main street, Lu Han’s bangs a matted mess across his forehead, staring at Sehun. It’s kind of like a dramatic movie, the way Sehun breaks the news, the way he leans forward only to pull back, eyes sad.
“I talked to Minseok earlier, and he was right,” Sehun continues, fiddling with the wet hem of his shirt. “You’re trying so hard and I’m pretending everything's okay and I just can’t.”
“Okay,” Lu Han answers, and he turns away from Sehun, prepared to wander back out in the rain, walk home slowly, dejectedly. But something snaps, something has him turning back and fixing Sehun with an icy glare. “Can you at least tell me why?”
“I can’t--”
“Sehun when I walk away now I will never speak to you again,” Lu Han spits out, and now he’s actually angry -- seething even -- at Sehun. It hurts more than any other emotion, because he’s never wanted to be angry with Sehun, never with him. “So I deserve to know why you left, why you’re like this now, why you won’t fucking talk to me.”
“I’ve told you,” Sehun snaps out, and he’s crying, tears dropping from an already sopping face to a wetter shirt, rain quiet with the sounds of their heartbeats. “I exist only for you. You created me.”
“I don’t understand,” Lu Han snarls. “I don’t understand and you’re making no sense.”
“That drawing,” Sehun says and his voice is quieter, but the words are spat out, as if he can’t breathe. “The first drawing you ever did, the one that’s of me but dated before I met you. It is of me. You created me.”
Sehun stops talking for just a second, catches his breath, looks at Lu Han as if he’s the worst thing to ever step foot in his life.
“Every time you draw me, it happens in real life. I exist when you draw me, when you want me to exist. You draw me walking in the park, I find myself walking in the park,” Sehun tells him, and it doesn’t make sense, isn’t real, is crazy. “You said when you drew me, you imagined your dream boy falling in love with you. I appeared one day, on that sidewalk with memories that shouldn’t exist and I couldn’t help myself from loving you because that’s all I was meant to do. All you ever wanted me to do.”
“Sehun,” Lu Han interrupts, quiet, subdued. “I never made you love me, and even if it felt like I did you don’t need to tell these insane stories to get me to leave. I’ll leave.”
“Don’t leave,” Sehun calls, and it’s desperate, nearly as dramatic as Lu Han himself had once been. “You asked me why and I’m telling you why.”
“Okay,” Lu Han heaves, chest constricting and mind confused. “Okay.”
“When I left,” Sehun starts again, and he sounds as if he can barely get the words out, as if they’re lodged in his throat. “It was because you drew me going on a trip. You imagined me leaving. I was in my room and then suddenly I was at the train station, bags in hand and the knowledge that you had imagined me leaving and never coming back. I got on the train and then I didn’t exist.”
“You didn’t exist?” Lu Han chokes on his words. It’s believable, the tiny details of Lu Han’s imagination, things he’s never told anyone, a photo he’s kept hidden away; not in the ‘Mine’ sketchbook.
“I ceased being,” Sehun whispers, and he walks close to Lu Han places his hands on his shoulders. “I came back because you drew me with the charcoal pencil. It’s always that one charcoal pencil. You drew me back in the city and suddenly I existed again. I was alive and it was only because you imagined it.”
“I-” Lu Han stutters, back away, unsure, scared of what Sehun is saying; of the truth behind it or the idea that Sehun really has lost his mind. “So you’re like a ghost?”
“But I don’t haunt by choice,” Sehun says, and it’s quieter now than ever before. “I don’t love you by choice, I don’t exist by choice. It’s all because you drew me.”
“I didn’t know,” Lu Han says, and he’s hugging Sehun close to him, burying his nose in Sehun’s shoulders, squeezing painfully. “I didn’t know If I knew I would never do that to you. I would never --”
“I know.”
Sehun is walking away, away from Lu Han and back out into the rain. “It’s not your fault,” He calls over his shoulder. “It’s best if I stay away from you and feel the pain of a love I can’t control alone.”
Lu Han slumps against the alley wall, and cries.
---
“How do I fix this?”
Sehun knew he would call, knew the phone would ring, crackle, familiar voice whispering through the holes in his ear.
“You can’t,” Sehun says, and the walls are black, closing in around him. “You can’t fix it. Even if you draw me not loving you anymore I would still remember and I would resent you.”
“That’s better than hurting like this, existing like this.”
“But you would hurt,” Sehun says in near silence. He has a cigarette lit, has the pills ready in his hand, the ones that make him love the soft things, the ones that bring the colour into his life and put him to sleep afterwards. “You would hurt and you would still love me, and after everything I can’t do that to you.”
“I can handle it, I deserve it,” Lu Han sounds stubborn, set, and Sehun is filled with a kind of gratefulness even the charcoal can’t reach. Even if he doesn’t believe, he always tries.
“You don’t.”
“I-”
“Hang up Lu Han,” Sehun says on an exhale, water in his grip and pills on his tongue. Sleeping aids for those with barren hearts. “Go to sleep.”
The colours on his tiny camera lens look beautiful, so beautiful.
---
“I used Colours and Seasons because -- because not only do they represent him but they also represent what I don’t have. All of this colour, all of this beauty that bursts from the trees and the sky and the people around me, it’s wonderful.
And it was kind of an escape, a way to capture it all and keep it forever. He created me so that I would love the way the world looked on film, and I do. I love it so much. Almost as much as he loves drawing me.”
---
People say goodbye,
in their own special way
---
Lu Han draws Sehun one more time; draws him being free, not remembering himself, every painful thing he doesn’t want.
“He’ll be free,” Lu Han says out loud, shading in the contours of Sehun’s beautiful cheekbones, charcoal cracking in his fingers. “He’ll do what he wants, and he won’t remember me, or us, and that part of his heart it won’t be there. He won’t exist for anyone but himself, not for me, not for anyone. He’ll be Oh Sehun, photographer or maybe not.
He’ll be who he wants and he’ll love who he wants, and if we ever perhaps meet again, he can choose. He can choose whether he wants me or whether he doesn’t. Whether he knows me or doesn’t.”
Lu Han is crying, tears spilling down his cheeks as he finishes his final drawing, placing it carefully on the tables beside him, looking at the charcoal as if it’s burning his fingers.
He throws it, melts it in the tiny fireplace and cries.
Lu Han cries until he has no tears left, cries until he knees ache and his throat burns, until his eyes are flushed red and his heart wants to give out.
He lets Sehun go, curls up on the floor in his once colourful bedroom, watches a power surge knock the fairy lights out, pulling him into grey. Darkness.
Spring is ending, but to Lu Han, winter is just beginning.
---
“I’m drawing you again.”
Sehun sits up slowly, limbs heavy from the aftereffects of the blue pills, the one he takes to drift away every night. Anger creases his vision, sorrow, pain.
“Why would you do that Lu Han,” He asks, and his voice is choked. It’s never been his fault, and yet now it is. “I thought you would never willingly hurt me.”
“That’s why I’m drawing you again.”
Sehun’s throat is dry, but his eyes are wet, tears spilling quietly, one drop at a time.
“I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“You’re sending me away again?” Sehun croaks, and everything is grey. Grey, grey, grey and turning black and nothing is the same ever and he hates it. Hates it. “Making me not exist?”
“You’ll exist,” Lu Han tells him, and he sounds oddly calm, voice a flat line of melancholy. Grey, just like Sehun’s. “You’ll exist, just not for me.”
“What are you going to do?” Sehun whispers, and he can feel the colours through the phone, faint, lively.
“See, the thing is Sehunnie,” Lu Han continues, and his voice is rising slightly, nervous tangle of tones. “You always say you exist for me, but I exist for you too, you know. And that sounds dramatic and it is, but I exist for you and it’s by choice, and I want you to have that choice too.”
“I don’t get --”
“I love you,” Lu Han interrupts, and his voice cracks, along with all of Sehun’s heart, not just that section of him, but the entire thing, like being stabbed. “I love you, okay? You won’t remember that, but I do.”
Sehun forgets Lu Han’s colour when he hangs up. The grey swirls above him, crawls along the walls and into his crevices, whispering quietly in his ear.
Sehun remembers Lu Han’s colour when he forgets Lu Han. They’re not Lu Han’s colours anymore, but the world’s colours, dancing around Sehun and into him.
He’s no longer grey.
---
You took my soul, and wiped it clean.
---
--- Epilogue
Normally one would see the seasonal year as ending in Winter; when the trees die, everything grey, white, dull.
Lu Han’s story, it ends in Autumn; with the school bells and the dropping temperatures, trees shedding their layers to become barren, rows of dead creatures swaying with the wind, but no longer vibrant.
This is when Lu Han likes to begin his portfolio, likes to take his sketchbook everywhere, draw the life, the hidden secrets, the dark corners of the season.
He likes to showcase the bright colours, cascading leaves fanning around him, falling onto the canvas of his sketchbook, only to be traced into something beautiful. He usually sits on the steps -- the ones that were once their steps -- fingers absently tracing the cracks between faded bricks, the tiniest of smiles jumping across his lips.
And the thing about memories is that they never really announce their arrival, and they never tell anyone what they're bringing.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be going to this school?”
A voice, familiar, haunting, crashing down on Lu Han’s shoulders like a bad memory. His head snaps up, sketchbook falling in shock from his lap, down the steps to land in a mess of bent pages.
“Shit, sorry,” The voice says, and a boy is skipping down the stairs, retrieving it, dangling it in front of Lu Han playfully. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I--” Lu Han stutters, blushes, acts like he really is old enough to attend a high school. “It’s okay, I was just distracted.”
“Well, what’s your answer?” The boy prods, sitting next to Lu Han on the steps and smiling, gentle and safe. “Unless you actually go here?”
“No, I don’t, I go to the University. I just like to draw here in the mornings, it’s peaceful,” Lu Han says, and he’s proud of himself for sounding coherent, for getting his words out despite the pounding of his heart, the pressure on his chest. “I could ask the same of you?”
“I’m not really sure why I’m here,” The boy laughs, and Lu Han is struck by his beauty, startled by his hair; once silver locks dyed a dazzling rainbow. “I just sort of found myself here at these steps. It’s strange because I’ve never been to this school in my life and yet something feels like home.”
“Like home?” Lu Han asks, confused but hopeful, eyes wide as he leans towards the boy in questioning.
“As if they’re important,” The boy shrugs, face impassive now. “It happens a lot. Must be one of those creepy past life happenings.”
“It must be,” Lu Han nods, but he trails off, stares at the boy and breathes in deeply. He has one chance. “You’re beautiful.”
“Am I?” The boy grins, playfully now, looks Lu Han up and down.
“My name’s Sehun,” The boy laughs, and it isn’t condescending; more curious as he looks curiously at Lu Han. "But beautiful works too."
---
“In the times of equal days and nights, what I see is my left and right hand, the past and the future, myself and others, as well as the I, who lives in the centre.”