[exo] the painter of bones - iii
Title: The Painter Of Bones
Rating: Pg-13
Wordcount: ~22k
Pairing: BaekYeol
Summary: He’s used to working with old, dying or dead people. Most certainly not someone as young and fragile, alive, or beautiful as Byun Baekhyun.
He had walked off without thinking, out the door and past the first intersection before he actually remembers the umbrella he had left behind. He’s in a familiar position - huddled in a corner of an abandoned building and soaked to the bone, just like weeks before during Christmas. His hair is plastered annoyingly to his face and his clothes are sticking to his skin uncomfortably, wet fabric suffocating. There’s a dull, persistent feeling that keeps him feeling irritable and edgy and he rips off his coat and tosses it across the room in frustration when it doesn’t go away, easing open the top few buttons of his shirt so he can breathe better. He’s feeling restless and he’s pacing up and down the room. He doesn’t know why but all he wants to do is break something, or run wildly or perhaps even scream - anything, just anything to shake off this unbearable feeling, to get rid of the invisible hands that are slowly but surely curling around his neck, choking him.
He thinks that maybe he should be quick this time.
Looking around the room, he plans the oil trail in his head. Starting from the corner with the broken chair, leading across the edges of the walls, diagonally across the room, ending under the window. Hurriedly he unscrews the bottle of linseed and pours the liquid according to the route, much more sloppily than before - but he doesn’t care. All he wants to do is to get the fire started as quickly as possible so he can breathe again.
The feeling’s growing worse and he has to pace up and down while he fumbles with the matches. He has half a box left, but the box is damp, its matchsticks useless. He tries anyway, footsteps speeding up as he strikes them one after another, damp wood dropping uselessly to the floor as none of them light up. He gets more desperate when he reaches the last five, nervousness and pent up frustration causing him to drop the box and the matches. They blend in with the other damp ones on the ground and he can’t tell them apart, picking up the matches with trembling fingers, trying them on the box again and again and again and all he needs is just one, one to light up or give him a spark but none of them do and he screams as he hurls the glass bottle at the wall in frustration, watching as the shards fall and scatter in pretty pieces.
He grabs his coat and leaves, clutching his heart and his head, willing the dull ache to go away before it drives him mad.
It’s been a while since Kris has seen Chanyeol this way.
He remembers each and every of Chanyeol’s fits clearly, and his friend’s glazed eyes are a dead giveaway of the mental state he’s in right now. Chanyeol had brushed past him the moment he had opened the door, shoes and coat still on, heading straight for the stairs and up to his room where he usually locked himself in until he had calmed down. Kris sighs when he hears the door slam, readying himself to deal with the emotional wreck that he was left with in the aftermath of Chanyeol’s fits. He wonders what had triggered this bout while he boils the water for his tea, tapping his foot as he watches the water bubble. He grabs a satchet of Chanyeol’s favourite from the shelf and places it on the counter just in case he needs it to calm the younger one down later.
The clock on the wall tells him its two in the morning and he yawns, flopping down onto the sofa set in his bathrobe and pajamas, propping his slipper clad feet up on the arm rest. Groping around the table, his fingers grasp a corner of the day’s newpaper and he pulls it over, flipping through the pages leisurely. Chanyeol’s fits usually lasted about two hours. He has time.
There hadn’t been any fires lately. Kris rolls over and wonders why, quickly bored by the articles on petty crimes and economics, flipping to the obituaries section to look at fgslkjdgljksd. He picks up his teacup and downs the now cooled liquid in one gulp, yawning comfortably as the tea warmed him up. He dozes off once at about two forty five, waking up at three am when he rolls off the couch, cursing quietly as he nurses his bruised elbow while lying on the floor.
An hour left.
He gets up and moves to their storeroom, turning on the lights as he passes through the door, arms crossed, dragging his feet. He ignores his own cloth covered canvas and digs through Chanyeol’s pile instead, picking out the ones that he had done during his fits over the past two years. When Chanyeol was stressed, confused, hurt, or generally in one of the extreme ends of any emotional state, he would paint. Not in his usually controlled, true to reality way but in violent flurries of energy - large abstract paintings of pure colour and texture and splatters, usually representative of what he was struggling with at that time. He finds that these paintings are his friend’s best, and he’s tried countless times to persuade Chanyeol to sell them, but the younger always refused, it’s like selling away pieces of his heart, he said. Kris thinks it's a right pity that these paintings will probably never see the light of day. Chanyeol had initially tried throwing them away, but he got caught by Kris every time he did, and they had settled with keeping them hidden in the store room instead.
He hasn’t heard the click of Chanyeol’s door unlocking nor the shuffling of feet as he finally comes out of his room and he’s slightly worried, but he brushes it off and gives him another half an hour, thinking that maybe he needs more time to calm down.
Kris jumps in surprise when he hears a crash from upstairs around four thirty. He runs to his room to grab his lock picking set, an old remnant of his past, and dashes up the stairs to Chanyeol’s room, kneeling by the door and making quick work of the lock. When he gets it open with a creak he finds Chanyeol staring at him with desperate, wide eyes.
He has his knife in his hand.
“Chanyeol.” Kris walks towards him slowly, step by step, not wanting to alarm the already distressed boy. “Put down your knife.”
“No! I can’t I -” Chanyeol clutches it to his chest, out of Kris’s reach. “I can’t I need to - I can’t - I no!”
“Come on Chanyeol,” Kris tries again, moving closer. Chanyeol backs away slowly from the approaching blond, stepping towards his paint covered canvas, the soles of his shoes smudging the colours that have covered the floor. “Put it down.”
“NO!” Chanyeol is staring intently at the canvas now. “You can’t - no - don’t stop me! I have to destroy it.”
His eye are still glazed over and Kris knows exactly what he’s about to do when the younger one takes a step back and raises his hand, knuckles white as he gripped the knife.
Kris lunges at the other, tackling him to the ground before he has a chance to get the knife on the canvas. He’s still holding on to the blade but Kris trusts him enough to know that he wouldn't use it on him. He struggles to restrain Chanyeol as the younger thrashed about, trying to push kris off, flailing his arms and kicking uselessly. Kris had forgotten how strong his friend actually was, too accustomed to his usual mostly gentle demeanor - Chanyeol was never a violent person - and he struggles to keep him down, sitting on his torso and pinning his arms to his side. When he finally manages to ease the knife out of Chanyeol’s tight grip he realises with a start that he’s bleeding. He had held on to the blade of the knife in his desperation, the sharp metal leaving a deep gash across the palm of his left hand.
“Calm the fuck down Chanyeol,” Kris bites out when the other squirms under his weight, scowling in annoyance as he digs out his handkerchief from his pocket and presses it firmly to Chanyeol’s wound to help stop the bleeding. “Or you’ll aggravate your injury.”
He gets off Chanyeol only when the other calms down completely, closing his eyes tiredly as he lay boneless on the wooden floor of his room, clothes and skin covered in streaks and patches of paint. Kris reaches over to turn the canvas around so that it faces away from them and towards the wall, not wanting any unexpected reactions that may be triggered from seeing it again. He’ll bring it down to the store room when Chanyeol cleans himself up.
He offers a hand to Chanyeol and helps him sit up, backing against the wall and sliding down wordlessly into a sitting position next to the other, who’s holding the bloodstained handkerchief with his good hand. He refolds it before pressing it back onto the wound, wincing at the pain caused by the pressure. The gash is still bleeding profusely, blood streaks flowing down his forearm, dried smudges tinting his his a rusty crimson colour.
“We should get your hand looked at.” Kris starts, glancing over at his friend. “It looks like it needs fixing.”
Chanyeol nods quietly, keeping his gaze trained on the spot on the floor.
“What happened this time?” Kris asks, nudging Chanyeol with his elbow.
“I don't know,” He replies with a sigh. “I’m confused, I don’t know what to think.”
“About?” Kris’s eyebrows are raised now, his mouth forming an O when it clicks in his head. “This is about that Baekhyun isn’t it.”
Chanyeol’s lack of response is indicative enough and Kris gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not sure what’s going on between you two but you’ll figure it out eventually. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Chanyeol nods once more and rests his chin on his knees, letting his eyes close with a tired sigh.
“I’ll go call a doctor. You should clean up and change out -” Kris gets up, dusting off his pants. “- I’m taking this with me.” He says as he lifts the canvas off the easel, maneuvering it through the door frame. He carries it down the stairs and leaves it with the rest of Chanyeol’s canvases before returning to his room to dig around his desk for the slip of paper with the number he’s been meaning to call since Christmas. Picking up the slip he heads over to the phone, taking in a deep breath as he dials the numbers, the phone’s receiver pressed close to his ear. It’s six in the morning and he knows it isn’t the best of ideas but he tries anyway, tapping his fingers nervously on the wooden table while he listens to the dials go by one by one.
He’s about to give up and put down the phone on the twelfth ring when a sleepy, mumbly voice picks up the call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Huang Zitao?”
“Yes.”
“This is Kris. You said you were a doctor. My friend cut himself pretty badly and his hands are really important for his work. Could you come take a look at the injury?”
There’s a long pause of silence on the other end of the line and Kris wonders if Tao has ditched the phone altogether. He hears the static crackling after a minute or two and the doctor’s voice comes through again. “I’ll be there right away. What’s your address?”
Luckily enough the damage to his left hand hadn’t been too bad. The knife had cut pretty deeply but thankfully had missed the major nerves, and Doctor Tao had told him he would recover just fine as long as he didn’t try anything stupid again. Kris has been eyeing him warily the entire week, constantly checking on him, and Chanyeol had felt guilty enough to cook up all his favourite foods in an attempt to appease his friend.
“Maybe you should do this more often,” Kris had joked once during dinner, earning himself a scowl and a hard kick in the shin from Chanyeol.
He’s going to see Baekhyun again today and he doesn’t quite know what to expect. His most recent encounter was still puzzling and he’s rather apprehensive of how Baekhyun will react to him when they meet, slightly afraid of being told to leave - but work is work and he has to finish Baekhyun’s commission no matter how awkward the two of them become.
He had borrowed Kris’s spare pair of gloves, slipping them on before he had left the house, trying to hide his bandaged palm. He knows he has to take them off sooner or later but hopes anyway that Baekhyun wouldn’t ask about it.
He realises belatedly that he’s done too good a job at concealing his wound when Baekhyun grabs his left hand and pulls him eagerly across the room once he’s through the door. He clenches his jaw to bite down the pain that attacks his nerves when Baekhyun squeezes his hand tightly, favouring the sting and throb over what would have otherwise been an exceptionally awkward greeting.
“Chanyeol! Chanyeol! You have to see this!” Baekhyun hasn’t looked at him yet, too preoccupied with leading the other over to the windowsill. Chanyeol smiles when he realises what Baekhyun had been so excited about and a laugh escapes from his lips when he feels a rush of relief at the realization that Baekhyun’s fingers have intertwined with his.
The seeds they had planted in the spare jars and bottles have grown, tiny green sprouts and leaves stood proudly against the dull brown of the soil in their place. Baekhyun fidgets excitedly when he passes one of the jars to Chanyeol carefully, watching the taller’s reaction while he examines the plant, face breaking into a huge, happy grin when Chanyeol gives the jar back to him and ruffles his hair with his good hand.
“They grew!” Baekhyun all but squeals, admiring the tiny sprout in the jar with wide eyes. “I watered them and put them under the sunlight like you told me to and they grew!”
“I grew my own plants!” He beams at the painter. Chanyeol doesn’t have time to react before he feels himself being squeezed tightly, Baekhyun looking up at him with bright eyes. “I’ve always wanted to. Thank you Chanyeol.”
He lets his arm curl comfortably around Baekhyun’s waist when the other doesn’t let go. Baekhyun’s fidgeting is rather ticklish and Chanyeol tries not to giggle while tingles run down his spine. Baekhyun is soft and warm and squishy and he’s come to realize that holding him feels really nice, and he tries to hide his disappointment when Baekhyun finally pulls away.
Baekhyun notices the gloves just as he’s about to start painting, and he freezes, brush hovering mid air, when Baekhyun comes over, curious.
“Are these called gloves?” He asks, running his fingers over the leather material. “I didn’t realize you were wearing them.”
“Nowonder your hand felt different,” He laughs, embarrassed. “Why are you wearing them though?”
Chanyeol tenses in his seat, reaching over awkwardly to put down his brush.
“I cut myself by accident.” He explains when Baekhyun starts tugging the gloves off. He lets him pull the right one off first, chuckling at how ridiculously big the glove looked on Baekhyun’s much smaller hand.
He bites his lip and looks away when Baekhyun gets to the left, pulling it off to reveal his bandaged palm. Chanyeol widens his eyes at the reddish blots that now colour the white bandages. They weren’t there this morning.
“Chanyeol!” Baekhyun starts to freak out, flailing madly as he got up and ran to one of his drawers, pulling out rolls and rolls of clean bandages. “We have to stop the bleeding!”
Chanyeol just stares in surprise when Baekhyun takes his hand and starts wrapping it efficiently, like he’s done it hundreds of times before and his heart aches a little when Baekhyun stares at him bewilderedly when he catches his wrist, stopping him.
“Chanyeol? Let go! I need to wrap your hand!” Baekhyun frowns, trying to wriggle his wrist out of Chanyeol’s grasp. “Let go! I need to stop it before it gets -”
“- Baekhyun,” Chanyeol starts, sliding off the chair so he’s sitting on the floor with him, eye to eye. “I’m fine,”
“But you said you got cut and there’s blood and -”
“ - I’ve already seen a doctor and got it treated. I’m fine, Baekhyun.”
“But the blood -”
“I don’t bleed that much. I got the cut a week ago. It just bled a little because the wound reopened, I think.”
“Oh,” Baekhyun has calmed down, but his brows are furrowed in concentration. Something’s bothering him.
“It’s because of me isn’t it?” Baekhyun asks and Chanyeol averts his gaze, not daring to meet Baekhyun’s worried eyes. He remains silent, unable to bring himself to lie.
“I hurt you.” Baekhyun says sadly, holding Chanyeol’s bandaged hand between his own, gently. “I’m sorry.”
The next time it rains it comes as a surprise for both of them. It hasn’t rained all week and the weather forecast hadn’t predicted any rain, much less a thunderstorm. It starts as a gentle, almost unnoticeable drizzle, slowly but surely morphing into a storm as the sky darkened and the thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.
Baekhyun’s sitting tensely, back straight and fingers pressed into the cushion as he stares intently out the window. He doesn’t notice when Chanyeol packs his things quickly into his workbag, wanting to leave before he gets kicked out, the memory of being yelled at by Baekhyun still fresh in his mind.
He gets up quietly and he’s almost out the door when Baekhyun catches his wrist, pulling him back into the room.
“Stay,” He pleads in a small voice, clinging to Chanyeol’s arm. “Stay with me.”
“I’m scared,” Baekhyun admits, jumping when a flash of lightning illuminates the room. “So please don’t leave.”
“I didn’t mean to chase you out the last time,” He apologises quickly, clamping his hands over his ears when the thunder crashes loudly. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s curled tightly into a ball on the floor, but he continues anyway, flinching again when he opens his eyes to see a bolt of lightning tear across the sky. “I was scared and I panicked.”
“Please stay,” Baekhyun begs, tugging on the hem of Chanyeol’s pant leg. He looks up in confusion when Chanyeol drapes his coat over him, gathering the trembling boy into his arms, holding him close.
“You like the curtains don’t you?” Chanyeol asks softly as he lifts Baekhyun’s smaller form, carrying him towards his favourite spot. Baekhyun nods weakly into his shoulder, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of Chanyeol’s shirt.
He lets Baekhyun down gently, resting his back against the wall and pulling the curtains over before sitting down next to Baekhyun, who more or less flings the curtains aside and scrambles onto Chanyeol’s lap when a particularly loud crash of thunder reverberates through the room. Chanyeol reaches for the coat that had fallen off and drapes it over Baekhyun’s shoulders again before hugging him tightly, letting his fingers run through Baekhyun’s hair, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head, and one more to his forehead when he blinks at Chanyeol with teary eyes.
“I’m here,” Chanyeol says to him softly when Baekhyun jumps at a flash of lightning, burying his face back into Chanyeol’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I won’t leave you,”
Baekhyun nods into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly, shaking, and Chanyeol adjusts Baekhyun so he can whisper into his ear.
“I’ll never leave you.”
He stays over at Baekhyun’s place that night. Baekhyun had fallen asleep on him, and he couldn’t bear to wake the other up, holding him through the night instead. His back aches badly, his neck is stiff and he can barely feel his legs, but Baekhyun’s sheepish smile as he nuzzles him drowsily makes it all worth it.
Eventually he manages to get Baekhyun back onto his bed and tucked into his blankets, but Baekhyun had insisted on keeping Chanyeol’s coat, slipping his arms through the oversized sleeves, rolling over childishly so Chanyeol wouldn’t take it away. He leaves when Baekhyun is fast asleep again, leaving a note on the bedside table telling him he would be back later in the day. Sleepy Baekhyun is cute, way too cute for him to handle so early in the morning, whining and pouting while his hair stuck up in different directions, bangs falling haphazardly across his forehead, and it takes all his willpower to tear himself away, hugging the sleeping boy one last time before he bolts through the door with a silly grin on his face.
He does a horrible job of controlling his expression when Kris opens the door for him, blocking the doorway with his leg, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Sooooooooooo,” He starts with a knowing smirk. “You didn’t come home last night.”
Chanyeol tries his best to hide his smile behind his bandaged hand, but Kris knows him too well to miss it.
“Your coat is missing. And your bag too. Going somewhere?” Kris quirks his eyebrows, conceding and putting his foot down, tailing Chanyeol annoyingly while the other made a beeline for the stairs.
“I see somebody had a good night,” Kris nudges him insistently as he trails after Chanyeol, trying to dig out as much information as possible. He smashes his nose into Chanyeol’s shoulder blade when the younger ones stops abruptly mid-step, turning around with a frown.
“It’s not what you think, Kris.” He says seriously before continuing up the stairs.
“It isn’t? Tell me exactly what it is then,” He laughs obnoxiously when Chanyeol trips on the last step, shooting him a dirty look.
“What exactly happened with your Baekhyunnie~?”
“Don’t call him that,” Chanyeol jabs Kris in the sides, trying to push him off. “And get off my bed. I want to sleep.”
“Whyyyyyyyyy come on Chanyeol teeeell meeeee what happpeneeeddd,” The blond whines in the most annoying voice he can muster, shutting up when the younger shoots him a scary glare. “Why are you home anyway?”
“I ran out of Linseed and I need to paint again when I go back later. The portrait’s almost done.”
“Going off to see your Baekhyunnie again~?” Kris teases, avoiding Chanyeol’s pokes. He freezes when his friend turns around calmly with an evil twinkle in his eye.
“I’m sure,” He starts, with a dramatic pause, letting the silence settle in as Kris gulps nervously. Scary Chanyeol? He could deal with. Evil Chanyeol, however, was on a whole other level. “Huang ZiTao would love to hear about what a wonderful, hot, peachy doctor he is. I think I failed to mention that to him when he was treating my hand.”
Kris shuts up then and Chanyeol stops trying to kick him off the bed. Chanyeol’s eyes are closed and his breathing has evened out, but Kris knows his friend is only faking.
“You really like him don’t you?” He asks seriously this time, smirking when Chanyeol replies with a small, shy nod and smile on his lips.
“Have you kissed him ye-------”
Kris’s answer this time is a face full of pillow, complete with feathers and an elbow to the nose.
He’s been thinking about it all week.
Kris’s words have been ringing in his ears, looping in his head, and he might really just go crazy if he can’t make it stop.
He catches himself staring intently at Baekhyun’s lips more than he should while painting, spacing out a couple of times, but Baekhyun pays him no mind, smiling back innocently each time as Chanyeol apologized. He takes more time than he had predicted to finish Baekhyun’s portrait - he hadn’t counted on being so distracted, so fascinated by the features he’s been staring at and analyzing for close to six months.
Occasionally his eyes would meet Baekhyun’s but the smaller one never, ever broke his gaze, always looking back intently at Chanyeol with what Chanyeol would like to think was a shy blush tinting his pale cheeks.
It’s taken a while but he’s done. It’s been six long months but he’s finally done. Baekhyun has dozed off on his chair, knees tucked to his chest, neglected book balancing precariously on the edge of his seat. Chanyeol lets himself run his fingers through Baekhyun’s hair, brushing aside his bangs gently before nudging him awake, bending down so that he’s eye to eye with him.
“It’s done.” Chanyeol laughs at the way Baekhyun’s instantly awake, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes, sitting up straight and leaning forward eagerly.
“Can I see it?” He asks, blinking rapidly at Chanyeol while the other carries the canvas over, flipping the easel around before resting the canvas back on it, moving aside so that Baekhyun can have a better look. He’s painted Baekhyun as realistically as possible, not missing a single detail from his face - but there’s something different this time and its glaringly obvious to Chanyeol, and he thinks that Baekhyun would probably notice it too. He’s done something he’s never done before, channeling all the time he had spent with Baekhyun into the painting, condensing how he had felt when Baekhyun had first smiled, how his heart flipped when Baekhyun had first kissed him, translating the six months they had spent together into colours and strokes and shades. For the first time, he’s let himself feel for one of his paintings, let his relationship with the subject show, and he finds it rather disconcerting to let himself be read so easily but it’s for Baekhyun and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Chanyeol?” Baekhyun calls out to him and he walks over, letting Baekhyun hold on to his hand. “Is this really what I look like?”
Is this how you see me?
Chanyeol nods silently, squeezing Baekhyun’s hand tightly before turning to face him, cornering him in his chair, leaning closer so the other can’t move away.
“This is exactly,” He breathes quietly, pressing his lips tentatively to a wide eyed Baekhyun’s, lingering for a moment when Baekhyun doesn’t push him away. “What you look like.”
How I see you.
He’s on his way home after another all nighter at the morgue when he sees the skies darken and his feet decide to override his brain’s commands, taking the path that leads to Baekhyun’s home instead. Baekhyun isn’t expecting him until Thursday and he might turn out to be an unwanted guest but his gut tells him to keep walking. He slips through the unlocked gate easily, making his way up the path when the raindrops start falling heavily from the sky.
The weather forecast was wrong. It wasn’t sunny at all.
The housekeeper ignores him once he’s been let in, accustomed to Chanyeol’s presence after his frequent visits. The hearth isn’t lit and the hallways are dark and cold, the sound of the rain falling against the glass windows echoing loudly through the vast, vacant space. He notices for the first time the large, intimidating family portrait hanging on the wall and he stops for a moment, scanning through the rows of faces. There’s a pretty, young lady in the third row who has an uncanny resemblance to Baekhyun. She’s dressed in rich, fine clothes, standing with a man beside her who has the exact same eyes as Baekhyun - but Baekhyun isn’t anywhere in the picture. He wasn’t in the front with the other children, and neither was he in the back, or hidden somewhere in the frame. He just wasn’t there.
Chanyeol pulls his eyes away from the painting eventually, continuing down the hallway. The large grandfather’s clock in the corner is still and unmoving, its hands frozen in place, and Chanyeol wonders briefly about when it was that time had stopped in this house.
When time had stopped for Baekhyun.
The door isn’t locked and he lets himself in quietly, looking around the seemingly empty room for Baekhyun before he spots the lump in the curtains and makes his way over. The rain is falling hard and heavy outside the window and there’s a faint rumble of thunder in the distance but the storm hasn’t started yet. Baekhyun peeks at him from behind the crimson velvet, genuinely surprised when Chanyeol leans over and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead.
“Chanyeol? He asks, confused, but grateful as he latches on to Chanyeol’s arm, pulling him down so he can climb onto his lap like he likes to. He’s wearing the coat he had stolen from him, fingertips barely visible from the oversized sleeves. “Why are you here?”
“It’s raining,” He answers simply, pressing Baekhyun’s smaller body closer to his own. “And you were alone.”
He blushes when Baekhyun nods weakly and loops his arms around Chanyeol’s neck, pressing his lips to the spot between his ear and the curve of his jaw, and his heart breaks when all he can do is watch helplessly as Baekhyun squeezes his eyes shut when the first flash of lightning illuminates the room, feeling his fingers press tensely, desperately against his skin.
He wakes up the next morning to find Baekhyun resting his head on the left side of his chest, ear pressed to the area near his heart, sleeping lightly. Sometime in the night he had somehow managed to move Baekhyun and himself to the bed, falling asleep instantly while he hugged a snugly tucked Baekhyun through the blankets. Baekhyun stirs when Chanyeol lets out an involuntary yawn, resting his chin on Chanyeol’s torso, smiling sleepily at him.
“Morning, Chanyeol.” He greets, letting his eyelids droop. “Did I wake you?”
Chanyeol shakes his head and lifts an arm to rub the sleep from his eyes.
“I was listening to the sound coming from your chest. What kind of sound is it?” Baekhyun asks as he turns his head to listen again. “It feels familiar…but I haven’t heard it before.”
Chanyeol lets his hand rest against the back of Baekhyun’s neck, fingers playing with the ends of Baekhyun’s brown locks.
“That’s my heartbeat,” He mumbles. “It's the sound my heart makes when it pumps blood to the rest of my body.”
“Do I have one too?” Baekhyun sits up and stares down at his own chest anxiously.
“A heart? Yes you do. It’s right here,” Chanyeol chuckles lazily as he leans over to press his ear to Baekhyun’s ribcage, shifting his weight so he falls onto the other, limbs tangled in the mess of sheets and blankets. “I can hear it. Loud and clear.”
Chanyeol’s way too tall for Baekhyun’s bed and his arms hang over the sides awkwardly. He rolls over when Baekhyun nudges him, curling up on his side with his head resting on Baekhyun’s thigh.
“It’s still early,” Baekhyun tells him when he yawns again. “Go back to sleep.”
The painter mumbles groggily in agreement and Baekhyun grabs his pillows from the other side of the bed, fluffing one up and sliding it under Chanyeol’s head. He wiggles his way into the space between Chanyeol’s arms, pulling one over his own waist as he snuggles up, curling comfortably against his side. The last thing Chanyeol remembers before he knocks out is Baekhyun’s fingers tracing the burn scars on his palm.
Chanyeol’s not sure if he’s dreaming when Baekhyun asks him what it feels like to burn.
It’s different this time.
He’s looking out a familiar window, up at the dark sky, but there’s something obscuring the starless night beyond.
Blood.
There’s blood on the glass, in fingerprints and smudges. Blood on his hands, on his shirt, on his feet, crimson and crusted. He feels something wet on his cheeks and brushes his fingertips across the damp spots, the feeling of his touch chillingly familiar yet oddly foreign. He knows these hands, knows them well - but they aren’t his own. He runs them over his face, over eyelids, ears and lips, sinking to the ground in surprise when an involuntary sob claws its way out of his throat. He knows this sound, knows this face, but it doesn’t really hit him until he turns around, blurry eyes registering the details of the room he’s standing in.
It’s Baekhyun’s room. White walls and curved corners and red, red, red, red.
A muffled shout from his left has him spinning around again and he nearly falls back in surprise when he sees himself outside, freefalling, his body hurtling towards the ground.
But its too late, too late, he thinks when the heat hits him in a wave, the amber glow surrounding him as clambers onto the sill and backs against the window. He should have realized earlier, should have run, should have escaped.
He’s Baekhyun.
Baekhyun’s the ghost in the window - and he’s about to die.
The book.
He has to find the book. The one filled with articles on him, that he and Kris had received in the mail last winter. The one, it finally clicks in his head, as he pulls it off the shelf and flips it open, with the edges that were trimmed exactly like all of the books Baekhyun owned. He’s feeling uneasy as he flips frantically through the pages, hoping to find something, anything. He goes through the entire book thrice before he notices the four small letters on the corner of the last page inked neatly in Baekhyun’s cursive writing:
Help.
Chanyeol throws the book in the general direction of the bed, not caring when it hits a corner and lands on the ground. He’s far too busy scrambling for his workbag, tossing out brushes and paint and aprons and clothes as he searched urgently for the two new bottles of linseed oil he had been carrying around the past week. They’re not there.
He flies down the stairs, taking them in fours, speeding past a bewildered Kris to get to his coat, yanking it off the rack and flipping it inside out, shaking it madly so that the contents of his pockets fall out onto the ground. Keys. Coins. Pencils. No matches.
“Kris! Call the fire department!” He shouts back to the blond while he hurries around. “Give them Baekhyun’s address!”
“Why?” He asks, but moves to the phone anyway.
“Just do it. I don’t have time to explain.”
He’s still in his pyjamas but it doesn’t bother him at all, the matter at hand far more pressing. He grabs his shoes, not bothering with socks, and he has one side on when there’s a series of loud knocks on the door. He slips the other side on, hopping as he flings the door open to find Baekhyun’s housekeeper standing stoicly in the doorway, on their porch.
“The young master sent me.” The old man says, handing Chanyeol a ring full of keys. “He wants me to give this to you.”
“He’s in his room. Only the front door is locked.” He steps aside and pulls Chanyeol out the door, giving him a hard shove. “Go.”
He clasps the keys tightly in his hand, pressing the metal teeth into his skin as he runs, runs, runs for his life.
He can see the smoke billowing in the distance, clouding up the morning sky while tongues of flames peeked out over the sides of the house. He falters for a moment, praying silently that Baekhyun hadn’t started the fire in the corridor, running as fast as he can up the hill and past the gate, stumbling but never falling.
He tries to stay calm when he reaches the porch, fumbling with the keys and dropping them twice before he finds the correct one and slides it quickly into the lock turning it once, twice before he pushes through the door, only to find himself recoiling back out because of the heat. He should have taken his coat with him as some sort of cover, but it’s to late to regret now and he braces himself before he steps back into the house, running past Baekhyun’s burning fortunes and expensive antiques without a second look, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve.
He’s pretty sure he won’t make it out of this unscathed - even if he’s lucky.
Baekhyun had started the fire in the corridor. He spots one of the empty linseed bottles as he runs, and a couple of stray matches along the way. He had probably tossed the uncapped bottle from his room and thrown lit matches at the exposed oil, leaving the fire to spread on its own. The uneasy feeling grows as he nears the end of the hallway - there’s smoke coming from the gap under Baekhyun’s door - and Chanyeol wants to freak out when it dawns on him that Baekhyun had used the other bottle in his own room.
“Baekhyun!” He yells, hoping that the other boy was still conscious. “Baekhyun? Baekhyun can you hear me?”
There’s no reply.
Chanyeol hisses when he tries to turn the doorknob, forgetting that the metal would have heated up, holding on to his arm as he gasps in pain and blinks away the tears that come.
He doesn’t have much time left.
He tries kicking at the door but it doesn’t work. He backs away this time, turning as he rams his left shoulder into the door, throwing his weight into it, stumbling through the frame into a burning mess.
It looks exactly like in his dream. Flames danced along the wall as the fire burned through the room, the amber glow and the heat paired with the red of Baekhyun’s décor forming something akin to an inferno. The fire’s strongest in the corner of the (thankfully) large room, but much of Baekhyun’s furniture was made of wood and the fire had spread quickly. The bookshelves are close to skeletons now, the portrait of Baekhyun he had left to rest by the wall burning viciously, flames engulfing the features of Baekhyun’s face as the fire ignited the oils in the paint. He feels a chill run down his spine despite the heat.
“Baekhyun!” He tries calling out again, coughing as the smoke got into his lungs. The waves of heat from the flames are stinging his eyes and he’s tearing, trying his best to see through the blur. It’s instinct that leads him to the window, to the curtains, and he wants to fall to his knees in relief when he finds Baekhyun huddled up inside the thick velvet, wearing his coat, with his knees tucked to his chest. He’s holding on tightly to the book of seeds that Chanyeol had given him, hands shaking badly, eyes squeezed shut as he trembles in fear.
“Baekhyun,” He starts, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly, trying to get Baekhyun onto his back. He can’t move as fast but he can’t risk Baekhyun running barefoot and getting hurt. “Baekhyun, I’m here. Listen to me. We need to get out of here right now.”
Baekhyun opens his eyes then, finally registering the sound of Chanyeol’s voice, and as he blinks, trying to make sense of the blur, searching for Chanyeol’s face in the mess of colours and shapes, the tears start to fall.
He pulls his hand from Chanyeol’s and brings it to the other’s face, letting his fingers trace over his features quickly.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Baekhyun chokes out, clinging to Chanyeol desperately, burying his face in the crook of his neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and his legs around his waist as Chanyeol stands with Baekhyun on his back.
I thought you wouldn’t come.
“I know.”
I’m sorry I’m late.
May 6th, Sunday.
Byun Mansion razed to the ground by fire.
No casualties reported, cause unknown.
*
a/n: I don't know what happened with this this was supposed to be under 4k and much more creepy but it turned more into cupey and jshdflsjhflsdfhjsl much love to uchouten <3 for nagging egging me on hahahahahah. Basically gothic lit feels + history feels + art feels = ??!??!??!?!
If you made it through the whole thing m(;__;)m thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!! look at the tags.
edit: i couldn't resist okay OTL Taoris' theme song - PEACH!*clapclap*
Rating: Pg-13
Wordcount: ~22k
Pairing: BaekYeol
Summary: He’s used to working with old, dying or dead people. Most certainly not someone as young and fragile, alive, or beautiful as Byun Baekhyun.
He had walked off without thinking, out the door and past the first intersection before he actually remembers the umbrella he had left behind. He’s in a familiar position - huddled in a corner of an abandoned building and soaked to the bone, just like weeks before during Christmas. His hair is plastered annoyingly to his face and his clothes are sticking to his skin uncomfortably, wet fabric suffocating. There’s a dull, persistent feeling that keeps him feeling irritable and edgy and he rips off his coat and tosses it across the room in frustration when it doesn’t go away, easing open the top few buttons of his shirt so he can breathe better. He’s feeling restless and he’s pacing up and down the room. He doesn’t know why but all he wants to do is break something, or run wildly or perhaps even scream - anything, just anything to shake off this unbearable feeling, to get rid of the invisible hands that are slowly but surely curling around his neck, choking him.
He thinks that maybe he should be quick this time.
Looking around the room, he plans the oil trail in his head. Starting from the corner with the broken chair, leading across the edges of the walls, diagonally across the room, ending under the window. Hurriedly he unscrews the bottle of linseed and pours the liquid according to the route, much more sloppily than before - but he doesn’t care. All he wants to do is to get the fire started as quickly as possible so he can breathe again.
The feeling’s growing worse and he has to pace up and down while he fumbles with the matches. He has half a box left, but the box is damp, its matchsticks useless. He tries anyway, footsteps speeding up as he strikes them one after another, damp wood dropping uselessly to the floor as none of them light up. He gets more desperate when he reaches the last five, nervousness and pent up frustration causing him to drop the box and the matches. They blend in with the other damp ones on the ground and he can’t tell them apart, picking up the matches with trembling fingers, trying them on the box again and again and again and all he needs is just one, one to light up or give him a spark but none of them do and he screams as he hurls the glass bottle at the wall in frustration, watching as the shards fall and scatter in pretty pieces.
He grabs his coat and leaves, clutching his heart and his head, willing the dull ache to go away before it drives him mad.
It’s been a while since Kris has seen Chanyeol this way.
He remembers each and every of Chanyeol’s fits clearly, and his friend’s glazed eyes are a dead giveaway of the mental state he’s in right now. Chanyeol had brushed past him the moment he had opened the door, shoes and coat still on, heading straight for the stairs and up to his room where he usually locked himself in until he had calmed down. Kris sighs when he hears the door slam, readying himself to deal with the emotional wreck that he was left with in the aftermath of Chanyeol’s fits. He wonders what had triggered this bout while he boils the water for his tea, tapping his foot as he watches the water bubble. He grabs a satchet of Chanyeol’s favourite from the shelf and places it on the counter just in case he needs it to calm the younger one down later.
The clock on the wall tells him its two in the morning and he yawns, flopping down onto the sofa set in his bathrobe and pajamas, propping his slipper clad feet up on the arm rest. Groping around the table, his fingers grasp a corner of the day’s newpaper and he pulls it over, flipping through the pages leisurely. Chanyeol’s fits usually lasted about two hours. He has time.
There hadn’t been any fires lately. Kris rolls over and wonders why, quickly bored by the articles on petty crimes and economics, flipping to the obituaries section to look at fgslkjdgljksd. He picks up his teacup and downs the now cooled liquid in one gulp, yawning comfortably as the tea warmed him up. He dozes off once at about two forty five, waking up at three am when he rolls off the couch, cursing quietly as he nurses his bruised elbow while lying on the floor.
An hour left.
He gets up and moves to their storeroom, turning on the lights as he passes through the door, arms crossed, dragging his feet. He ignores his own cloth covered canvas and digs through Chanyeol’s pile instead, picking out the ones that he had done during his fits over the past two years. When Chanyeol was stressed, confused, hurt, or generally in one of the extreme ends of any emotional state, he would paint. Not in his usually controlled, true to reality way but in violent flurries of energy - large abstract paintings of pure colour and texture and splatters, usually representative of what he was struggling with at that time. He finds that these paintings are his friend’s best, and he’s tried countless times to persuade Chanyeol to sell them, but the younger always refused, it’s like selling away pieces of his heart, he said. Kris thinks it's a right pity that these paintings will probably never see the light of day. Chanyeol had initially tried throwing them away, but he got caught by Kris every time he did, and they had settled with keeping them hidden in the store room instead.
He hasn’t heard the click of Chanyeol’s door unlocking nor the shuffling of feet as he finally comes out of his room and he’s slightly worried, but he brushes it off and gives him another half an hour, thinking that maybe he needs more time to calm down.
Kris jumps in surprise when he hears a crash from upstairs around four thirty. He runs to his room to grab his lock picking set, an old remnant of his past, and dashes up the stairs to Chanyeol’s room, kneeling by the door and making quick work of the lock. When he gets it open with a creak he finds Chanyeol staring at him with desperate, wide eyes.
He has his knife in his hand.
“Chanyeol.” Kris walks towards him slowly, step by step, not wanting to alarm the already distressed boy. “Put down your knife.”
“No! I can’t I -” Chanyeol clutches it to his chest, out of Kris’s reach. “I can’t I need to - I can’t - I no!”
“Come on Chanyeol,” Kris tries again, moving closer. Chanyeol backs away slowly from the approaching blond, stepping towards his paint covered canvas, the soles of his shoes smudging the colours that have covered the floor. “Put it down.”
“NO!” Chanyeol is staring intently at the canvas now. “You can’t - no - don’t stop me! I have to destroy it.”
His eye are still glazed over and Kris knows exactly what he’s about to do when the younger one takes a step back and raises his hand, knuckles white as he gripped the knife.
Kris lunges at the other, tackling him to the ground before he has a chance to get the knife on the canvas. He’s still holding on to the blade but Kris trusts him enough to know that he wouldn't use it on him. He struggles to restrain Chanyeol as the younger thrashed about, trying to push kris off, flailing his arms and kicking uselessly. Kris had forgotten how strong his friend actually was, too accustomed to his usual mostly gentle demeanor - Chanyeol was never a violent person - and he struggles to keep him down, sitting on his torso and pinning his arms to his side. When he finally manages to ease the knife out of Chanyeol’s tight grip he realises with a start that he’s bleeding. He had held on to the blade of the knife in his desperation, the sharp metal leaving a deep gash across the palm of his left hand.
“Calm the fuck down Chanyeol,” Kris bites out when the other squirms under his weight, scowling in annoyance as he digs out his handkerchief from his pocket and presses it firmly to Chanyeol’s wound to help stop the bleeding. “Or you’ll aggravate your injury.”
He gets off Chanyeol only when the other calms down completely, closing his eyes tiredly as he lay boneless on the wooden floor of his room, clothes and skin covered in streaks and patches of paint. Kris reaches over to turn the canvas around so that it faces away from them and towards the wall, not wanting any unexpected reactions that may be triggered from seeing it again. He’ll bring it down to the store room when Chanyeol cleans himself up.
He offers a hand to Chanyeol and helps him sit up, backing against the wall and sliding down wordlessly into a sitting position next to the other, who’s holding the bloodstained handkerchief with his good hand. He refolds it before pressing it back onto the wound, wincing at the pain caused by the pressure. The gash is still bleeding profusely, blood streaks flowing down his forearm, dried smudges tinting his his a rusty crimson colour.
“We should get your hand looked at.” Kris starts, glancing over at his friend. “It looks like it needs fixing.”
Chanyeol nods quietly, keeping his gaze trained on the spot on the floor.
“What happened this time?” Kris asks, nudging Chanyeol with his elbow.
“I don't know,” He replies with a sigh. “I’m confused, I don’t know what to think.”
“About?” Kris’s eyebrows are raised now, his mouth forming an O when it clicks in his head. “This is about that Baekhyun isn’t it.”
Chanyeol’s lack of response is indicative enough and Kris gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not sure what’s going on between you two but you’ll figure it out eventually. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Chanyeol nods once more and rests his chin on his knees, letting his eyes close with a tired sigh.
“I’ll go call a doctor. You should clean up and change out -” Kris gets up, dusting off his pants. “- I’m taking this with me.” He says as he lifts the canvas off the easel, maneuvering it through the door frame. He carries it down the stairs and leaves it with the rest of Chanyeol’s canvases before returning to his room to dig around his desk for the slip of paper with the number he’s been meaning to call since Christmas. Picking up the slip he heads over to the phone, taking in a deep breath as he dials the numbers, the phone’s receiver pressed close to his ear. It’s six in the morning and he knows it isn’t the best of ideas but he tries anyway, tapping his fingers nervously on the wooden table while he listens to the dials go by one by one.
He’s about to give up and put down the phone on the twelfth ring when a sleepy, mumbly voice picks up the call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Huang Zitao?”
“Yes.”
“This is Kris. You said you were a doctor. My friend cut himself pretty badly and his hands are really important for his work. Could you come take a look at the injury?”
There’s a long pause of silence on the other end of the line and Kris wonders if Tao has ditched the phone altogether. He hears the static crackling after a minute or two and the doctor’s voice comes through again. “I’ll be there right away. What’s your address?”
Luckily enough the damage to his left hand hadn’t been too bad. The knife had cut pretty deeply but thankfully had missed the major nerves, and Doctor Tao had told him he would recover just fine as long as he didn’t try anything stupid again. Kris has been eyeing him warily the entire week, constantly checking on him, and Chanyeol had felt guilty enough to cook up all his favourite foods in an attempt to appease his friend.
“Maybe you should do this more often,” Kris had joked once during dinner, earning himself a scowl and a hard kick in the shin from Chanyeol.
He’s going to see Baekhyun again today and he doesn’t quite know what to expect. His most recent encounter was still puzzling and he’s rather apprehensive of how Baekhyun will react to him when they meet, slightly afraid of being told to leave - but work is work and he has to finish Baekhyun’s commission no matter how awkward the two of them become.
He had borrowed Kris’s spare pair of gloves, slipping them on before he had left the house, trying to hide his bandaged palm. He knows he has to take them off sooner or later but hopes anyway that Baekhyun wouldn’t ask about it.
He realises belatedly that he’s done too good a job at concealing his wound when Baekhyun grabs his left hand and pulls him eagerly across the room once he’s through the door. He clenches his jaw to bite down the pain that attacks his nerves when Baekhyun squeezes his hand tightly, favouring the sting and throb over what would have otherwise been an exceptionally awkward greeting.
“Chanyeol! Chanyeol! You have to see this!” Baekhyun hasn’t looked at him yet, too preoccupied with leading the other over to the windowsill. Chanyeol smiles when he realises what Baekhyun had been so excited about and a laugh escapes from his lips when he feels a rush of relief at the realization that Baekhyun’s fingers have intertwined with his.
The seeds they had planted in the spare jars and bottles have grown, tiny green sprouts and leaves stood proudly against the dull brown of the soil in their place. Baekhyun fidgets excitedly when he passes one of the jars to Chanyeol carefully, watching the taller’s reaction while he examines the plant, face breaking into a huge, happy grin when Chanyeol gives the jar back to him and ruffles his hair with his good hand.
“They grew!” Baekhyun all but squeals, admiring the tiny sprout in the jar with wide eyes. “I watered them and put them under the sunlight like you told me to and they grew!”
“I grew my own plants!” He beams at the painter. Chanyeol doesn’t have time to react before he feels himself being squeezed tightly, Baekhyun looking up at him with bright eyes. “I’ve always wanted to. Thank you Chanyeol.”
He lets his arm curl comfortably around Baekhyun’s waist when the other doesn’t let go. Baekhyun’s fidgeting is rather ticklish and Chanyeol tries not to giggle while tingles run down his spine. Baekhyun is soft and warm and squishy and he’s come to realize that holding him feels really nice, and he tries to hide his disappointment when Baekhyun finally pulls away.
Baekhyun notices the gloves just as he’s about to start painting, and he freezes, brush hovering mid air, when Baekhyun comes over, curious.
“Are these called gloves?” He asks, running his fingers over the leather material. “I didn’t realize you were wearing them.”
“Nowonder your hand felt different,” He laughs, embarrassed. “Why are you wearing them though?”
Chanyeol tenses in his seat, reaching over awkwardly to put down his brush.
“I cut myself by accident.” He explains when Baekhyun starts tugging the gloves off. He lets him pull the right one off first, chuckling at how ridiculously big the glove looked on Baekhyun’s much smaller hand.
He bites his lip and looks away when Baekhyun gets to the left, pulling it off to reveal his bandaged palm. Chanyeol widens his eyes at the reddish blots that now colour the white bandages. They weren’t there this morning.
“Chanyeol!” Baekhyun starts to freak out, flailing madly as he got up and ran to one of his drawers, pulling out rolls and rolls of clean bandages. “We have to stop the bleeding!”
Chanyeol just stares in surprise when Baekhyun takes his hand and starts wrapping it efficiently, like he’s done it hundreds of times before and his heart aches a little when Baekhyun stares at him bewilderedly when he catches his wrist, stopping him.
“Chanyeol? Let go! I need to wrap your hand!” Baekhyun frowns, trying to wriggle his wrist out of Chanyeol’s grasp. “Let go! I need to stop it before it gets -”
“- Baekhyun,” Chanyeol starts, sliding off the chair so he’s sitting on the floor with him, eye to eye. “I’m fine,”
“But you said you got cut and there’s blood and -”
“ - I’ve already seen a doctor and got it treated. I’m fine, Baekhyun.”
“But the blood -”
“I don’t bleed that much. I got the cut a week ago. It just bled a little because the wound reopened, I think.”
“Oh,” Baekhyun has calmed down, but his brows are furrowed in concentration. Something’s bothering him.
“It’s because of me isn’t it?” Baekhyun asks and Chanyeol averts his gaze, not daring to meet Baekhyun’s worried eyes. He remains silent, unable to bring himself to lie.
“I hurt you.” Baekhyun says sadly, holding Chanyeol’s bandaged hand between his own, gently. “I’m sorry.”
The next time it rains it comes as a surprise for both of them. It hasn’t rained all week and the weather forecast hadn’t predicted any rain, much less a thunderstorm. It starts as a gentle, almost unnoticeable drizzle, slowly but surely morphing into a storm as the sky darkened and the thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.
Baekhyun’s sitting tensely, back straight and fingers pressed into the cushion as he stares intently out the window. He doesn’t notice when Chanyeol packs his things quickly into his workbag, wanting to leave before he gets kicked out, the memory of being yelled at by Baekhyun still fresh in his mind.
He gets up quietly and he’s almost out the door when Baekhyun catches his wrist, pulling him back into the room.
“Stay,” He pleads in a small voice, clinging to Chanyeol’s arm. “Stay with me.”
“I’m scared,” Baekhyun admits, jumping when a flash of lightning illuminates the room. “So please don’t leave.”
“I didn’t mean to chase you out the last time,” He apologises quickly, clamping his hands over his ears when the thunder crashes loudly. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s curled tightly into a ball on the floor, but he continues anyway, flinching again when he opens his eyes to see a bolt of lightning tear across the sky. “I was scared and I panicked.”
“Please stay,” Baekhyun begs, tugging on the hem of Chanyeol’s pant leg. He looks up in confusion when Chanyeol drapes his coat over him, gathering the trembling boy into his arms, holding him close.
“You like the curtains don’t you?” Chanyeol asks softly as he lifts Baekhyun’s smaller form, carrying him towards his favourite spot. Baekhyun nods weakly into his shoulder, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of Chanyeol’s shirt.
He lets Baekhyun down gently, resting his back against the wall and pulling the curtains over before sitting down next to Baekhyun, who more or less flings the curtains aside and scrambles onto Chanyeol’s lap when a particularly loud crash of thunder reverberates through the room. Chanyeol reaches for the coat that had fallen off and drapes it over Baekhyun’s shoulders again before hugging him tightly, letting his fingers run through Baekhyun’s hair, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head, and one more to his forehead when he blinks at Chanyeol with teary eyes.
“I’m here,” Chanyeol says to him softly when Baekhyun jumps at a flash of lightning, burying his face back into Chanyeol’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I won’t leave you,”
Baekhyun nods into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly, shaking, and Chanyeol adjusts Baekhyun so he can whisper into his ear.
“I’ll never leave you.”
He stays over at Baekhyun’s place that night. Baekhyun had fallen asleep on him, and he couldn’t bear to wake the other up, holding him through the night instead. His back aches badly, his neck is stiff and he can barely feel his legs, but Baekhyun’s sheepish smile as he nuzzles him drowsily makes it all worth it.
Eventually he manages to get Baekhyun back onto his bed and tucked into his blankets, but Baekhyun had insisted on keeping Chanyeol’s coat, slipping his arms through the oversized sleeves, rolling over childishly so Chanyeol wouldn’t take it away. He leaves when Baekhyun is fast asleep again, leaving a note on the bedside table telling him he would be back later in the day. Sleepy Baekhyun is cute, way too cute for him to handle so early in the morning, whining and pouting while his hair stuck up in different directions, bangs falling haphazardly across his forehead, and it takes all his willpower to tear himself away, hugging the sleeping boy one last time before he bolts through the door with a silly grin on his face.
He does a horrible job of controlling his expression when Kris opens the door for him, blocking the doorway with his leg, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Sooooooooooo,” He starts with a knowing smirk. “You didn’t come home last night.”
Chanyeol tries his best to hide his smile behind his bandaged hand, but Kris knows him too well to miss it.
“Your coat is missing. And your bag too. Going somewhere?” Kris quirks his eyebrows, conceding and putting his foot down, tailing Chanyeol annoyingly while the other made a beeline for the stairs.
“I see somebody had a good night,” Kris nudges him insistently as he trails after Chanyeol, trying to dig out as much information as possible. He smashes his nose into Chanyeol’s shoulder blade when the younger ones stops abruptly mid-step, turning around with a frown.
“It’s not what you think, Kris.” He says seriously before continuing up the stairs.
“It isn’t? Tell me exactly what it is then,” He laughs obnoxiously when Chanyeol trips on the last step, shooting him a dirty look.
“What exactly happened with your Baekhyunnie~?”
“Don’t call him that,” Chanyeol jabs Kris in the sides, trying to push him off. “And get off my bed. I want to sleep.”
“Whyyyyyyyyy come on Chanyeol teeeell meeeee what happpeneeeddd,” The blond whines in the most annoying voice he can muster, shutting up when the younger shoots him a scary glare. “Why are you home anyway?”
“I ran out of Linseed and I need to paint again when I go back later. The portrait’s almost done.”
“Going off to see your Baekhyunnie again~?” Kris teases, avoiding Chanyeol’s pokes. He freezes when his friend turns around calmly with an evil twinkle in his eye.
“I’m sure,” He starts, with a dramatic pause, letting the silence settle in as Kris gulps nervously. Scary Chanyeol? He could deal with. Evil Chanyeol, however, was on a whole other level. “Huang ZiTao would love to hear about what a wonderful, hot, peachy doctor he is. I think I failed to mention that to him when he was treating my hand.”
Kris shuts up then and Chanyeol stops trying to kick him off the bed. Chanyeol’s eyes are closed and his breathing has evened out, but Kris knows his friend is only faking.
“You really like him don’t you?” He asks seriously this time, smirking when Chanyeol replies with a small, shy nod and smile on his lips.
“Have you kissed him ye-------”
Kris’s answer this time is a face full of pillow, complete with feathers and an elbow to the nose.
He’s been thinking about it all week.
Kris’s words have been ringing in his ears, looping in his head, and he might really just go crazy if he can’t make it stop.
He catches himself staring intently at Baekhyun’s lips more than he should while painting, spacing out a couple of times, but Baekhyun pays him no mind, smiling back innocently each time as Chanyeol apologized. He takes more time than he had predicted to finish Baekhyun’s portrait - he hadn’t counted on being so distracted, so fascinated by the features he’s been staring at and analyzing for close to six months.
Occasionally his eyes would meet Baekhyun’s but the smaller one never, ever broke his gaze, always looking back intently at Chanyeol with what Chanyeol would like to think was a shy blush tinting his pale cheeks.
It’s taken a while but he’s done. It’s been six long months but he’s finally done. Baekhyun has dozed off on his chair, knees tucked to his chest, neglected book balancing precariously on the edge of his seat. Chanyeol lets himself run his fingers through Baekhyun’s hair, brushing aside his bangs gently before nudging him awake, bending down so that he’s eye to eye with him.
“It’s done.” Chanyeol laughs at the way Baekhyun’s instantly awake, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes, sitting up straight and leaning forward eagerly.
“Can I see it?” He asks, blinking rapidly at Chanyeol while the other carries the canvas over, flipping the easel around before resting the canvas back on it, moving aside so that Baekhyun can have a better look. He’s painted Baekhyun as realistically as possible, not missing a single detail from his face - but there’s something different this time and its glaringly obvious to Chanyeol, and he thinks that Baekhyun would probably notice it too. He’s done something he’s never done before, channeling all the time he had spent with Baekhyun into the painting, condensing how he had felt when Baekhyun had first smiled, how his heart flipped when Baekhyun had first kissed him, translating the six months they had spent together into colours and strokes and shades. For the first time, he’s let himself feel for one of his paintings, let his relationship with the subject show, and he finds it rather disconcerting to let himself be read so easily but it’s for Baekhyun and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Chanyeol?” Baekhyun calls out to him and he walks over, letting Baekhyun hold on to his hand. “Is this really what I look like?”
Is this how you see me?
Chanyeol nods silently, squeezing Baekhyun’s hand tightly before turning to face him, cornering him in his chair, leaning closer so the other can’t move away.
“This is exactly,” He breathes quietly, pressing his lips tentatively to a wide eyed Baekhyun’s, lingering for a moment when Baekhyun doesn’t push him away. “What you look like.”
How I see you.
He’s on his way home after another all nighter at the morgue when he sees the skies darken and his feet decide to override his brain’s commands, taking the path that leads to Baekhyun’s home instead. Baekhyun isn’t expecting him until Thursday and he might turn out to be an unwanted guest but his gut tells him to keep walking. He slips through the unlocked gate easily, making his way up the path when the raindrops start falling heavily from the sky.
The weather forecast was wrong. It wasn’t sunny at all.
The housekeeper ignores him once he’s been let in, accustomed to Chanyeol’s presence after his frequent visits. The hearth isn’t lit and the hallways are dark and cold, the sound of the rain falling against the glass windows echoing loudly through the vast, vacant space. He notices for the first time the large, intimidating family portrait hanging on the wall and he stops for a moment, scanning through the rows of faces. There’s a pretty, young lady in the third row who has an uncanny resemblance to Baekhyun. She’s dressed in rich, fine clothes, standing with a man beside her who has the exact same eyes as Baekhyun - but Baekhyun isn’t anywhere in the picture. He wasn’t in the front with the other children, and neither was he in the back, or hidden somewhere in the frame. He just wasn’t there.
Chanyeol pulls his eyes away from the painting eventually, continuing down the hallway. The large grandfather’s clock in the corner is still and unmoving, its hands frozen in place, and Chanyeol wonders briefly about when it was that time had stopped in this house.
When time had stopped for Baekhyun.
The door isn’t locked and he lets himself in quietly, looking around the seemingly empty room for Baekhyun before he spots the lump in the curtains and makes his way over. The rain is falling hard and heavy outside the window and there’s a faint rumble of thunder in the distance but the storm hasn’t started yet. Baekhyun peeks at him from behind the crimson velvet, genuinely surprised when Chanyeol leans over and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead.
“Chanyeol? He asks, confused, but grateful as he latches on to Chanyeol’s arm, pulling him down so he can climb onto his lap like he likes to. He’s wearing the coat he had stolen from him, fingertips barely visible from the oversized sleeves. “Why are you here?”
“It’s raining,” He answers simply, pressing Baekhyun’s smaller body closer to his own. “And you were alone.”
He blushes when Baekhyun nods weakly and loops his arms around Chanyeol’s neck, pressing his lips to the spot between his ear and the curve of his jaw, and his heart breaks when all he can do is watch helplessly as Baekhyun squeezes his eyes shut when the first flash of lightning illuminates the room, feeling his fingers press tensely, desperately against his skin.
He wakes up the next morning to find Baekhyun resting his head on the left side of his chest, ear pressed to the area near his heart, sleeping lightly. Sometime in the night he had somehow managed to move Baekhyun and himself to the bed, falling asleep instantly while he hugged a snugly tucked Baekhyun through the blankets. Baekhyun stirs when Chanyeol lets out an involuntary yawn, resting his chin on Chanyeol’s torso, smiling sleepily at him.
“Morning, Chanyeol.” He greets, letting his eyelids droop. “Did I wake you?”
Chanyeol shakes his head and lifts an arm to rub the sleep from his eyes.
“I was listening to the sound coming from your chest. What kind of sound is it?” Baekhyun asks as he turns his head to listen again. “It feels familiar…but I haven’t heard it before.”
Chanyeol lets his hand rest against the back of Baekhyun’s neck, fingers playing with the ends of Baekhyun’s brown locks.
“That’s my heartbeat,” He mumbles. “It's the sound my heart makes when it pumps blood to the rest of my body.”
“Do I have one too?” Baekhyun sits up and stares down at his own chest anxiously.
“A heart? Yes you do. It’s right here,” Chanyeol chuckles lazily as he leans over to press his ear to Baekhyun’s ribcage, shifting his weight so he falls onto the other, limbs tangled in the mess of sheets and blankets. “I can hear it. Loud and clear.”
Chanyeol’s way too tall for Baekhyun’s bed and his arms hang over the sides awkwardly. He rolls over when Baekhyun nudges him, curling up on his side with his head resting on Baekhyun’s thigh.
“It’s still early,” Baekhyun tells him when he yawns again. “Go back to sleep.”
The painter mumbles groggily in agreement and Baekhyun grabs his pillows from the other side of the bed, fluffing one up and sliding it under Chanyeol’s head. He wiggles his way into the space between Chanyeol’s arms, pulling one over his own waist as he snuggles up, curling comfortably against his side. The last thing Chanyeol remembers before he knocks out is Baekhyun’s fingers tracing the burn scars on his palm.
Chanyeol’s not sure if he’s dreaming when Baekhyun asks him what it feels like to burn.
It’s different this time.
He’s looking out a familiar window, up at the dark sky, but there’s something obscuring the starless night beyond.
Blood.
There’s blood on the glass, in fingerprints and smudges. Blood on his hands, on his shirt, on his feet, crimson and crusted. He feels something wet on his cheeks and brushes his fingertips across the damp spots, the feeling of his touch chillingly familiar yet oddly foreign. He knows these hands, knows them well - but they aren’t his own. He runs them over his face, over eyelids, ears and lips, sinking to the ground in surprise when an involuntary sob claws its way out of his throat. He knows this sound, knows this face, but it doesn’t really hit him until he turns around, blurry eyes registering the details of the room he’s standing in.
It’s Baekhyun’s room. White walls and curved corners and red, red, red, red.
A muffled shout from his left has him spinning around again and he nearly falls back in surprise when he sees himself outside, freefalling, his body hurtling towards the ground.
But its too late, too late, he thinks when the heat hits him in a wave, the amber glow surrounding him as clambers onto the sill and backs against the window. He should have realized earlier, should have run, should have escaped.
He’s Baekhyun.
Baekhyun’s the ghost in the window - and he’s about to die.
The book.
He has to find the book. The one filled with articles on him, that he and Kris had received in the mail last winter. The one, it finally clicks in his head, as he pulls it off the shelf and flips it open, with the edges that were trimmed exactly like all of the books Baekhyun owned. He’s feeling uneasy as he flips frantically through the pages, hoping to find something, anything. He goes through the entire book thrice before he notices the four small letters on the corner of the last page inked neatly in Baekhyun’s cursive writing:
Help.
Chanyeol throws the book in the general direction of the bed, not caring when it hits a corner and lands on the ground. He’s far too busy scrambling for his workbag, tossing out brushes and paint and aprons and clothes as he searched urgently for the two new bottles of linseed oil he had been carrying around the past week. They’re not there.
He flies down the stairs, taking them in fours, speeding past a bewildered Kris to get to his coat, yanking it off the rack and flipping it inside out, shaking it madly so that the contents of his pockets fall out onto the ground. Keys. Coins. Pencils. No matches.
“Kris! Call the fire department!” He shouts back to the blond while he hurries around. “Give them Baekhyun’s address!”
“Why?” He asks, but moves to the phone anyway.
“Just do it. I don’t have time to explain.”
He’s still in his pyjamas but it doesn’t bother him at all, the matter at hand far more pressing. He grabs his shoes, not bothering with socks, and he has one side on when there’s a series of loud knocks on the door. He slips the other side on, hopping as he flings the door open to find Baekhyun’s housekeeper standing stoicly in the doorway, on their porch.
“The young master sent me.” The old man says, handing Chanyeol a ring full of keys. “He wants me to give this to you.”
“He’s in his room. Only the front door is locked.” He steps aside and pulls Chanyeol out the door, giving him a hard shove. “Go.”
He clasps the keys tightly in his hand, pressing the metal teeth into his skin as he runs, runs, runs for his life.
He can see the smoke billowing in the distance, clouding up the morning sky while tongues of flames peeked out over the sides of the house. He falters for a moment, praying silently that Baekhyun hadn’t started the fire in the corridor, running as fast as he can up the hill and past the gate, stumbling but never falling.
He tries to stay calm when he reaches the porch, fumbling with the keys and dropping them twice before he finds the correct one and slides it quickly into the lock turning it once, twice before he pushes through the door, only to find himself recoiling back out because of the heat. He should have taken his coat with him as some sort of cover, but it’s to late to regret now and he braces himself before he steps back into the house, running past Baekhyun’s burning fortunes and expensive antiques without a second look, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve.
He’s pretty sure he won’t make it out of this unscathed - even if he’s lucky.
Baekhyun had started the fire in the corridor. He spots one of the empty linseed bottles as he runs, and a couple of stray matches along the way. He had probably tossed the uncapped bottle from his room and thrown lit matches at the exposed oil, leaving the fire to spread on its own. The uneasy feeling grows as he nears the end of the hallway - there’s smoke coming from the gap under Baekhyun’s door - and Chanyeol wants to freak out when it dawns on him that Baekhyun had used the other bottle in his own room.
“Baekhyun!” He yells, hoping that the other boy was still conscious. “Baekhyun? Baekhyun can you hear me?”
There’s no reply.
Chanyeol hisses when he tries to turn the doorknob, forgetting that the metal would have heated up, holding on to his arm as he gasps in pain and blinks away the tears that come.
He doesn’t have much time left.
He tries kicking at the door but it doesn’t work. He backs away this time, turning as he rams his left shoulder into the door, throwing his weight into it, stumbling through the frame into a burning mess.
It looks exactly like in his dream. Flames danced along the wall as the fire burned through the room, the amber glow and the heat paired with the red of Baekhyun’s décor forming something akin to an inferno. The fire’s strongest in the corner of the (thankfully) large room, but much of Baekhyun’s furniture was made of wood and the fire had spread quickly. The bookshelves are close to skeletons now, the portrait of Baekhyun he had left to rest by the wall burning viciously, flames engulfing the features of Baekhyun’s face as the fire ignited the oils in the paint. He feels a chill run down his spine despite the heat.
“Baekhyun!” He tries calling out again, coughing as the smoke got into his lungs. The waves of heat from the flames are stinging his eyes and he’s tearing, trying his best to see through the blur. It’s instinct that leads him to the window, to the curtains, and he wants to fall to his knees in relief when he finds Baekhyun huddled up inside the thick velvet, wearing his coat, with his knees tucked to his chest. He’s holding on tightly to the book of seeds that Chanyeol had given him, hands shaking badly, eyes squeezed shut as he trembles in fear.
“Baekhyun,” He starts, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly, trying to get Baekhyun onto his back. He can’t move as fast but he can’t risk Baekhyun running barefoot and getting hurt. “Baekhyun, I’m here. Listen to me. We need to get out of here right now.”
Baekhyun opens his eyes then, finally registering the sound of Chanyeol’s voice, and as he blinks, trying to make sense of the blur, searching for Chanyeol’s face in the mess of colours and shapes, the tears start to fall.
He pulls his hand from Chanyeol’s and brings it to the other’s face, letting his fingers trace over his features quickly.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Baekhyun chokes out, clinging to Chanyeol desperately, burying his face in the crook of his neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and his legs around his waist as Chanyeol stands with Baekhyun on his back.
I thought you wouldn’t come.
“I know.”
I’m sorry I’m late.
May 6th, Sunday.
Byun Mansion razed to the ground by fire.
No casualties reported, cause unknown.
*
a/n: I don't know what happened with this this was supposed to be under 4k and much more creepy but it turned more into cupey and jshdflsjhflsdfhjsl much love to uchouten <3 for nagging egging me on hahahahahah. Basically gothic lit feels + history feels + art feels = ??!??!??!?!
If you made it through the whole thing m(;__;)m thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!! look at the tags.
edit: i couldn't resist okay OTL Taoris' theme song - PEACH!*clapclap*