Solstice for chwihae [1/3]
For: chwihae
Title: Solstice
Pairing(s): Chanyeol/Lay, slight Chanyeol/D.O., brief mentions of Chanyeol/Kris
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): language, homophobic themes, implied violence, mention of death, unbetaed (!!!)
Length: 26k
Summary: Chanyeol comes home in time for spring and gets a second chance at first love.
Author's note: This is set in Korea but what I’ve used here is the standard medical program in the US (according to Google). Please do note that it might not be accurate. To my lovely recipient, I ended up mixing two or three of your prompts together so this a bit of a mess and might not be what you wanted. >< But I hope you like it a little. ;; Lastly, thank you so much to the mod for being so patient with me and my multiple extension requests. ♥
When Chanyeol feels the sharp tug of a frown on his lips, he doesn’t fight it.
A man he doesn’t recognize occupies his favorite table, long, pale fingers curling around the handle of a porcelain cup as he brings it up to take a sip. Or at least that’s what Chanyeol assumes he’s doing. He could just as well be simply inhaling the aroma of brewed coffee, or blowing on the scalding liquid so that he doesn’t burn his own tongue. It could be tea. He can’t really tell for sure when all he can make out clearly is a head of jet black fluff tapering to a clean shave at the base, a slender neck, and a dark gray coat draped over broad shoulders.
“Must be a tourist,” he muses, eyes squinting behind aviator sunglasses.
Anyone who doesn’t look remotely familiar must be a tourist. This town where he and his sister were born and raised is small and tight-knit enough to easily validate assumptions like that, especially around this time of the season when excursionists are expected to begin trickling in. Except, Chanyeol hasn’t actually been around here for years so, hey, what does he know?
The breeze, chilly but pleasantly fresh, flits across his face with a subtle nip courtesy of the last vestiges of winter. His tongue absently darts out to skim over plush, wind chapped lips, hissing at the roughness and the slight sting. The cold season has never been particularly kind to his skin.
His gaze sails over the counter where he easily spots Kim Junmyeon. His old friend, who is also the chief barista and owner of the quaint coffee shop, is blinking owlishly at him, head tilting a little to the side. It’s cute; makes him look like he's years younger than Chanyeol instead of older.
Chanyeol grins, all pearly whites shamelessly on display. Junmyeon throws him an inquisitive look, eyebrows twitching, as if to ask what he’s doing here so early. Then with a small jolt, he takes a gander at a particular corner east of the hall-the one with the best view of the sea-and his expression instantly goes stiff. He looks worried, but Chanyeol is quick to wave his concern away with a big smile as soon as the barista’s eyes revert to him.
I’ll come back later, he mouths.
Junmyeon only blinks again in reply before his attention is wrenched away by the next customer in line. A petite girl with ash blond curls cascading halfway down her back-can’t be older than maybe seventeen-comes up to the register. Chanyeol notes the impossibly short skirt and strappy heels, and he smirks.
“Definitely a tourist.”
He takes the wheel in a firm grip while casting one last curious glance at the man in the coat. A sense of petty defeat feels like dead weight in the pit of his stomach. It’s not like the table has a name on it or anything, he tells himself. And, to be fair, he did come by earlier than he usually does. Like, three whole hours too early. The café doesn’t really get too crowded but it’s always a lot quieter during off-peak hours - a lot more conducive to any sort of creative process, unless you’re the type of person who thrives in chaos. And right now, at almost seven in the morning, is definitely not off-peak.
The window slides shut at the press of a button. Shifting the gear from park to drive, he releases the brake and gives the gas a calculated press. Surprisingly, he’s met with hardly any traffic. Then again this isn’t Seoul, so maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising. Vegetation is abundant here, but barely visible yet. It’s too early in spring to see lush greens and flowers in full bloom. They’ll get there soon enough. And when they do, the district of Jinhae will be the busiest it will ever be the whole year.
It’s early enough that the road heading away from downtown is almost completely free. The compulsion to add more pressure to the pedal, to rev up to something like a hundred kilometers per hour, creeps under his skin and skitters down to his toes. He keeps it steady at 60 kmph, though. He takes a right turn into an obscure passage off the side of the main road. It’s virtually deserted, littered with overgrown shrubs - or will be once spring hits full force. It’s quite easy to miss, may even seem sketchy to an outsider, but Chanyeol knows these parts like the back of his hand.
In minutes, he’s navigating down a narrow dirt path that’s probably more fit for a mountain bike than an Audi. It’s a shortcut that he remembers biking up and down hundreds of times as a child. Chanyeol’s family’s estate is on the suburban outskirts; old, but well maintained - thanks to his sister - and huge for a small town like this.
The land area is vast with a two-story guesthouse standing adjacent to the main house. A little higher up out back are two cottages with a fantastic view of the bay. They’re quite popular with tourists that come by every year for the Gunhangje Festival. During the off-season, big-city folks, most of them burned-out by the monotony of life, head down here for a couple of days to unwind. There’s also the occasional artist, writer, or composer on the hunt for inspiration. Chanyeol falls somewhere in the middle of those two categories, himself.
Lips bowing in a lopsided grin, Chanyeol turns up the volume the loudest it can go and sings -screeches - out the lyrics with complete abandon.
Because the sun ain’t shining no more
I don’t know why but I’ve seen it before
Ain’t got no joy, no man to lean on
He leaves my soul on the floor like a doll 1
His head bobs to the beat, fingers drumming fiercely against the wheel. It’s not his usual type of jam - more like a guilty pleasure - and somehow that makes it all the more satisfying.
He drives along the stretch of a low brick wall until he reaches an arched gate coated in slightly-chipped black paint and gold accents. Slowing to a gradual stop, he presses a button to shut down the engine and shoves his sunglasses in the glove compartment before stepping out of the vehicle.
“Ah, cold!” his breath tumbles out in cloudy bursts. Shivers crawl across his skin as a strong blow of wind blasts through the branches. He instinctively tugs at the lapels of his coat, pulling it tighter around his body.
Temperatures are generally lower in the outskirts and so a lot, if not all, of the trees here are still mostly barren with sporadic sprinkles of green. Spring comes slowly in this area; cherry blossoms start blooming later than the rest of Jinhae-gu - usually around the same time when rain becomes a semi-regular thing - and linger barely long enough to make it worth the wait.
Chanyeol waddles over to the gate. He keeps an eye out for any sort of movement as he sticks both hands in between the cold iron bars to unhook the padlock on the other side. It’s a struggle trying not to make any noise. Park Chanyeol is many things but quiet is certainly not one of them. Carefully, he pushes at the creaky gate and slips through the gap as soon as it’s wide enough to fit.
A stone path cuts across a capacious front lawn and then splits into three: one leading to the door of the main house, another to the guesthouse, and the third forming a path in the middle of the two, toward a set of steps that leads uphill to the back where the cottages are. They used to call it ‘the woods’ when they were little; when Yura would pretend that she was Red Riding Hood and designate Chanyeol as the Big Bad Wolf. Red Riding Hood would always end up beating up the Wolf, somehow.
Chanyeol considers heading that way, but he’s famished and he knows that there’s nothing in the cozy little kitchen but stale bread. He takes his time, worries his lower lip as he fiddles with the keys in his pocket, secretly hoping that everyone - particularly his older sister - is still in bed. He’s not quite up to being put on the spot right now. But then the second he steps through the door of the main house, he finds Park Yura waiting right by the doorway, arms crossed on her chest. Chanyeol wills the impending panic away. Maybe she’ll just offer him food and not ask questions?
“Where did you go off to so early?”
Chanyeol breathes out a light sigh.
Well, there goes that.
He shrugs offhandedly in response as he slips off his shoes. She’s asking the wrong question; ‘Did you come home at all last night?’ is probably more on target, but he’s not about to point that out.
“Around,” he mutters vaguely, then adds in a rush, “I’m starving. Do we have any food?”
Chanyeol knows he’s struck a nerve when Yura bristles at the question.
“Just what the heck do you take me for? Of course, we have food. I’m a responsible mother of two,” she snaps, turning to stomp into the house. It’s the hormones, she’s going to say later.
Chanyeol barely manages to suppress a chuckle as he follows after her. It’s been over a week since he came back home, and in that time he’d like to think that he’s learned how to use his sister’s volatile moods to his advantage. That’s not to say that he always succeeds though, because he rarely does.
Yura abruptly stops in her tracks, spins around to face him. Chanyeol blurts out a “fuck!” when he nearly runs into her. He quickly clamps both hands over his mouth when Yura shoots him a look that promises bloody death. Chanyeol knows very well what his sister thinks about people spouting expletives around her kids - never mind that one of them is yet to be born and the other is probably nowhere within earshot.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”
“I... don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Bull-” The struggle to leave ‘shit’ out of that is so palpable. Chanyeol wants to snigger, but he doesn’t because his sister doesn’t seem very magnanimous this morning and he really does value his life.
“Answer the question.”
Chanyeol swallows. He averts his gaze and the height advantage allows him to peer over Yura’s head. He spots a plate of seafood pajeon, a bowl of rice and seaweed soup on the dining table, and he instantly perks up.
“Are those for me?”
“Park Chanyeol-”
“I was just driving around, noona,” he says indulgently, stepping past his sister and straight toward the food. “It’s spring. It’s kinda nice out early in the morning. And you’re the one who keeps telling me to get out more.”
Yura’s suspicious glaring doesn’t let up even as she moves to take a seat. Chanyeol is about to pull out a chair for himself when he begins to sense the silent scrutiny like a red, hot spotlight on his forehead. Glancing up with big, blinking eyes, his grin spreads wider in a manner that he knows - hopes - makes him look goofy and amusing enough to distract. For good measure, he walks around the table to plant a loud kiss on his sister’s cheek, one hand gently resting atop her protruding belly. Cheap trick, but it works.
Yura laughs softly, quickly reaching up to tousle Chanyeol’s hair before he can straighten to full height. She doesn’t ask any more questions.
“Is Yejun still in bed?” He later splutters around a mouthful and ignores the disapproving look his sister throws his way.
“I wish,” she says. “He’s waddling toward you as we speak, actually.”
Sure enough, Chanyeol hears a garbled noise behind him and finds a little boy with adorable tufts of dark hair stomping precariously toward him, stubby arms eagerly outstretched. There’s a big smile on his puffy face, several teeth still missing.
“Hey, buddy!” Chanyeol scoots back in his chair, turns to pick up his nephew the second he’s within reach, and the first thing Yejun does is make a grab for his pointy ears. Chanyeol scrunches his nose but leans in a bit closer anyway to let the kid win. He lives for his nephew’s happy giggles even if it means he ends up with abused, angry-red ears later.
“Don't let him anywhere near your soup if you don’t want it all over your clothes,” Yura warns him. “I’m not kidding.”
“I think he’s too distracted by my ears to notice anything else, to be honest-ow!”
Yejun probably decides to show some mercy and releases Chanyeol’s throbbing ear. He giggles, drool dribbling down the side of his upturned mouth, tiny palms clapping in glee. Yura only laughs at the scene and Chanyeol pouts at her before pouting at the baby.
“You’re just like your mom,” he mutters sulkily and lifts Yejun higher to mock-bite at his tummy, sending the kid into a fit of joyful squealing.
Yejun’s nanny intervenes right in time to stop the baby from knocking over a glass of water with his swinging feet. She takes the boy from Chanyeol upon Yura’s request so that Chanyeol can finish his food before it gets cold, or before Yejun succeeds in causing any accidents, whichever comes first.
“By the way, we have a guest arriving later.”
“Oh? That's great!” Chanyeol reacts without actually looking at her; too busy playing peek-a-boo with Yejun who keeps dipping his giggly little head in the crook of his nanny’s shoulder as a way of hiding.
“Weren’t you just complaining about how low our occupancy has been lately-”
“I'm talking about the cottage.”
Chanyeol freezes, hands in mid-wave. He stops making funny faces at the baby. He’s been dreading this-losing the privilege of utmost privacy, having the woods all to himself.
He turns to his sister, his brows pinched.
“Don’t kick me, but I really wonder sometimes why these tourists pick here to stay for the festival when they can find other places closer to downtown.”
Yura shrugs. “Maybe he’s not just here for the festival.”
Chanyeol snorts at that, and immediately lets out an undignified yelp when Yura kicks him under the table.
“Rude. You grew up around here, too, remember?”
Couldn’t wait to get out, though, he wants to say but sagely decides not to.
“Sure,” he says flatly and shoves a spoonful of seaweed soup in his mouth.
It’s honestly a little difficult to fathom. Where they live is a small town in the outskirts, a little far from the more touristy, more commercially developed parts of the district, though close enough to the center of festivities. People usually stay here specifically for the annual Cherry Blossom Festival because, really, what else is there this side of town that’s worth sticking around for?
“Besides, some people like the isolation.” She waves a hand theatrically in Chanyeol’s general direction. “Case in point.”
Chanyeol makes a face, but doesn’t bother with a rebuttal. He can’t really argue with that.
“Fine, you’ve made your point,” Chanyeol concedes in a passive tone. “Did you need me to do anything?” he dutifully asks even though they do have a small staff that takes care of much of the heavier labor around the property.
“Not much. Just keep the noise down, will you?”
Chanyeol frowns hard, hand jerking back, causing him to accidentally whack his metal chopsticks against the side of the rice bowl with a loud, indignant clink.
“It’s music; not noise,” he retorts, meaning to sound righteously indignant but ends up more like a whiny child instead.
“Sure, just keep it down. You won’t be alone up there in the woods anymore.”
Chanyeol’s mouth falls open, as if he’s looking to vehemently object, but in the end he just shuts it without another word. It’s really not that hard, actually. He can always hook up headphones to everything. He’s just been too lazy to do it.
After brunch, Chanyeol hurries back to the cottage, hoping to get some work in before he has to relinquish his unbridled freedom.
The cottage is a single bedroom loft with two bathrooms and a small kitchen. A king-size bed is the centerpiece of the bedroom. There’s a sofa bed in the living room and another up on the loft. With most of his equipment set up upstairs, Chanyeol has somehow managed to convert the small space into a music room of sorts. At some point in the past couple of days, he decided to move from the loft to the kitchen, thinking that a change of setting might jog his inspiration. It didn’t. And now music sheets and crumpled paper that he hasn’t bothered to throw in the trash pretty much swallow his narrow kitchen island.
Chanyeol pulls out a stool and grabs the guitar standing next to it. Every curve and plane of the smooth, glossy, rosewood body of his Martin D-45 feels familiar, like an extension of his limbs, almost. But it just hasn’t been working like it used to lately.
His right hand hovers motionless above the sound hole, the other loosely wrapping around the neck as it glides up and down the polished hardwood. Indecisive fingers hesitate over the ebony fingerboard while scales and chord progressions flit in the back of his eyelids, buzzing like restless bees. He gets into a fierce cycle of jumping and dipping between frets without actually translating anything to sound.
Can’t work with that. Too predictable. Overused. Not gonna work.
That’s how he spends the next three hours - hunched over a pile of music sheets and a guitar on his lap. He ends up with nothing to show for it aside from more messy scribbles and more useless, balled up paper.
With a deep snarl, he grasps his head in both hands, eyes squeezed shut. It feels like it’s about to crack in half any moment now.
He’s stuck. He’s still stuck.
He’d smash the guitar on the floor, or something rock-and-roll like that, but this was his father’s most prized possession. It was handed down to Chanyeol - just to borrow for a while to practice with when he was eight, and then to keep as his own when he turned twenty-one. It was the tail end of winter when he figured in a fatal accident. Chanyeol had just graduated from university then. Nothing was ever the same.
“Don’t force it, man,” Byun Baekhyun, one of his best friends and business partners, tells him later. He’s holding the phone against his ear with one hand, while the other attempts to create some semblance of order to the clutter in his kitchen. The guitar is back on its stand a safe distance away from where he’s sitting. He gives it a quick glance as Baekhyun says, “It’s okay if you don’t come back with a full demo, you know.”
Chanyeol really only called to check in on the studio. He’s not quite the type to burden other people with his self-deprecating tirades. That’s just not a ‘Mr.-Happiness-Delight-Park-Chanyeol’ kind of thing to do. But of course Baekhyun would guess that something was amiss; and of course he wouldn’t let it go until Chanyeol talked. So he talked - though relaying a more watered-down version rather than the full extent of his frustration.
Raking a hand through his mess of a mop, Chanyeol unceremoniously dumps himself over the nearest cushion he can find. He would have bashed his skull on the side of the mahogany shelf next to the sofa if not for the battalion of pillows stacked by the arm, ready to catch his head. There’s a wide window just right above where the backrest ends, and he lets himself soak in the bit of sun that trickles through the makeshift awning of leaves on the other side. At least this tree looks like it’s got all its leaves back, he thinks absently.
He presses the phone closer to the side of his face as he looks up blankly at the countryside-aesthetic of rustic beams on the ceiling. So, very different from the plain, solid ivory-painted cement of his own apartment back in Seoul.
“I thought the whole point of me being out here is to get my mojo back?”
“Well sure, by getting away from the stress in the studio and taking a break.” Baekhyun nearly yells in his ear. “You were not supposed to bring the stress with you, dumbass. Unwind. Get laid or something, I don’t know-”
Chanyeol chews on the inside of his cheek. He has been getting laid, actually, but he doesn’t tell him that. He doesn’t tell anybody that. Chanyeol rubs a warm palm down his face, exasperated, but none of that sentiment registers in his voice.
“I’m fine, Baekhyunnie, honestly.” He’s got the carefree tone down pat, complete with a practiced upturn of the mouth, despite the way he flattens a calloused hand over tired, bloodshot eyes.
“I’m more worried about how Sehun’s holding up over there.”
His young intern actually has a pretty good ear, a good sense of rhythm, and is very talented - also very mischievous. The kid tends to easily get distracted. Chanyeol remembers being his age and being pretty much the same.
Baekhyun doesn’t respond right away, probably weighing his options and trying to decide whether to go along with this lame attempt at diversion or not. Another beat passes and Chanyeol eventually catches a loud exhale that sounds a lot like resignation. He half-grins because he knows that he’s won.
“He’s doing pretty well, actually,” Baekhyun tells him. “Still a little shit, though. He gives Jongdae aneurysms on a daily basis.”
Chanyeol sniggers at the mental image of his good friend whining and complaining like a grumpy, old man. Jongdae was delegated the task of taking over Chanyeol’s projects while he’s away, which, unfortunately for him, includes mentoring (and babysitting) Sehun as part of the package. He’s one of the most musically talented people Chanyeol’s ever met. Also one of the kindest. But he’s also a little shit.
Chanyeol laughs, genuine this time. “He’ll survive.”
He glances over to the window when he picks up on some movement in his peripheral. No one comes up here usually, except for Yura or any of the staff. Sure enough, his sister gradually comes into view. She’s talking animatedly, hands flying in different directions. That’s when he remembers that they’re expecting a new guest today. He completely forgot about that. Curious, Chanyeol sits up, throwing one arm on top of the backrest.
“So am I ever going to get invited to la casa de Park?”
Chanyeol snorts at Baekhyun and his ridiculous knack for lending a random, foreign twist to absolutely anything. Makes him sound smart and fancy, he says, to which Chanyeol always just pats his head indulgently in response.
Chanyeol cranes his neck to try and make out whom his sister is speaking with, but all he sees is a silver, hard shell suitcase and a pale hand gripping the handle.
“I don’t think my sister can handle the two of us under her roof simultaneously,” he grunts as he tries to shift to a better angle - as good as his overgrown limbs can manage within the confines of the furniture, anyway. But there’s a stout tree trunk standing right in his line of sight.
“Aww, come on, Yura noona loves me!”
Chanyeol chortles, doesn’t expressly object, because he knows it’s not a complete lie. Yura thinks Baekhyun’s as fluffy as a little corgi.
Yura starts to move, prompting the man to step out from the shadow of the tree and finally allow Chanyeol a proper glimpse.
Jet black fluff tapering to a clean shave at the base, a slender neck, and a dark gray coat draped over broad shoulders.
“Oh, it’s him,” Chanyeol mutters under his breath, eyes wide.
“Him, who?”
Chanyeol snaps out of his daze. He shakes his head until he remembers that Baekhyun can’t actually see him.
“No one. Just a new guest.”
“Oh!” Baekhyun’s tone spikes. Chanyeol can practically hear him leering over the phone. He’s probably wagging his eyebrows, too.
He ignores the impending insinuation that he’s sure Baekhyun’s got brewing for him and chooses instead to put all his focus into watching the man’s back. He tries to take in as much as he can all the way from his ineffectual viewpoint. There’s something about the whole picture that the man paints - his gait, his less-than-perfect posture. Something about it feels like he’s seen it before.
The man carries his luggage up the steps to a small porch and then stops at the door. Chanyeol manages to briefly catch a side profile. He notes the straight nose, angular cheekbones, jaw line so sharp it could cut. His lips are pink and full and his eyes are hidden under dark sunglasses. He suddenly gets a strange rumbling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the fact that he hasn’t had anything to eat in hours. This man really does seem awfully familiar, he thinks.
“Is he hot?” Baekhyun asks a tad too eagerly, but Chanyeol can barely hear him at this point.
He holds his breath, eyes straining harder. The man slides his glasses down, and then he turns.
Chanyeol lets out a gasp, completely forgetting for a moment that Baekhyun is still on the other line.
“Chanyeollie?”
He can feel his air passage closing up as a heady mix of panic and disbelief seizes his chest. The man’s eyes are kind, always have been, and they reduce into crescent slits when he smiles. There’s a dimple on his right cheek - and all the blood leaves Chanyeol’s face.
“No way…”
He remembers sticking his index finger into that dip a few times. The man - boy, at the time - would indulgently smile wider to make the dent even deeper; to make Chanyeol laugh. He knows exactly how it feels pressed against his lips, too.
He draws a lungful of air, pulse almost deafening that he barely catches the hint of alarm in Baekhyun’s tone.
“Hey, are you okay? Is it someone you know?”
Oh, it’s someone he knows, alright.
“I’m... I don’t...” Chanyeol stammers, hands feeling like ice all of a sudden. “Fuck-”
❀❀❀
It might have been because his father had been in a band that Chanyeol grew up having big dreams that revolved around music. Playing, writing, composing, producing-he wanted to learn it all and be good at all of it. His father had been very supportive and his mother, though not as enthusiastic about the idea, never tried to stop him as long as he didn’t take his academics for granted.
He could expertly play five different instruments by the time he started high school. He became popular for being the gangly kid who could bust out mean riffs on electric guitar. His mother finally put her foot down when he started having thoughts of either joining or forming a high school band during the very first week of his freshman year.
“Finish high school, get into a good university, and then you can have your band,” she had firmly stipulated and left no room for argument.
During the latter part of the school year, his music teacher came to him asking if he would be interested in participating in an international amateur musicians’ workshop organized by a sister school in Hunan, China. It was a month-and-a-half-long event that would span the winter break and culminate in a song-writing competition. The grand prize winner would be going home with a scholastic fund and glowing recommendations, possibly even get the chance to have their song released by a recording artist. It was a big opportunity and Chanyeol knew it. Luckily, his mother caved-sort of as consolation for the band thing.
Barely a week after winter break had officially commenced, Chanyeol found himself at Changsha Huanghua International Airport, along with his music teacher and two other students - a girl he recognized from his music class and a guy from a higher year. They were billeted at a local family-owned guesthouse near the school instead of a hotel in order to make it a ‘full cultural experience’, as their mentor had put it.
That’s when he first met Zhang Yixing - the kind, handsome son of the gentle woman who owned the guesthouse.
❀❀❀
Chanyeol shuffles about aimlessly, stealing glances out the window every so often.
Yixing hasn’t come out since Yura left him to his own devices about half an hour ago. If he’s anything at all like the Zhang Yixing that he remembers then he’s probably asleep right now, snoring lightly, sprawled awkwardly under the covers. Possibly shirtless. He rubs a palm on either side of his face, tries not to dwell on the thought too much.
The lights are out, save for the main lighting in the sitting room. Typical. Yixing doesn’t like having the light on in his room when he sleeps, but he does like seeing a soft glow spilling through the narrow gap at the bottom of the door. It’s comforting knowing that he’s not in complete darkness, he once said, so he always has to leave the light on somewhere else.
Chanyeol picks up his guitar for the nth time and tries to get something - anything - out, to no avail. With a loud, exasperated breath, he replaces the guitar on its stand and goes to pull out a cold can of Cass from the fridge. It doesn’t quite help take the edge off either, not with his earlier conversation with Baekhyun playing like a broken record in his mind.
“It’s really simple, you know. Get your ass on that porch, knock, smile that winning smile of yours, and say ‘Hi! I nearly talked my best friend’s ear off back in high school because I wouldn’t shut up about you for over a year, would you like to have dinner with me some time?’”
“Hey now, first of all, that is not true-”
“Oh, please, I can guarantee you Jongdae will back me on this, my friend, don't even try.”
“That proves nothing since you both enjoy ganging up on me so much anyway. And... and he was the one who stopped replying to my messages first-”
“Seriously? How mature of you to let go of juvenile grievances from a fucking decade ago.”
“I'm... It’s not-look, what if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he doesn’t even remember me?”
“And what if he’s there precisely to see you? You’ll never know unless you actually speak to the guy, will you?”
It’s not too often that Baekhyun actually makes a somewhat compelling argument. But more than that, it’s so unlike him to be this rattled over something so inconsequential in the first place. Or maybe not so inconsequential. Zhang Yixing was the first boy in his life after all.
Chanyeol chucks the empty can of beer in the trash, grabs his keys, and gets out.
“So what you’re saying is,” Junmyeon gingerly sets the large cardboard cup in front of Chanyeol then takes a seat across from him.
Junmyeon is always gentle, always patient, always ready to slip out of his apron and leave his post whenever Chanyeol shows up looking uncharacteristically gloomy. It doesn’t happen all that often, so when it does he tends to assume that it’s something serious. But even though it actually isn’t, as naturally motherly as Junmyeon can be, it really makes no difference.
“You dated this guy when you were in high school-”
Chanyeol squirms a bit in his seat. He doesn’t always come to anyone for things like this, much less old, childhood friends from his hometown. Save for Baekhyun and Jongdae, people he grew up with are not as open-minded to any sort of relationship that veers away from the norm. Even Junmyeon wasn’t as comfortable with it in the beginning, but he tried. He still tries. That’s good enough for Chanyeol.
“Not exactly. We were... actually, I don’t know what we were. There was never a label on it.” He admits as he sinks back in his chair, fingers lightly tapping the side of his caramel macchiato.
“Okay,” Junmyeon says carefully. “But you were... a vague, more-than-friends kind of something?”
“I guess?”
“And then he disappeared on you, and now all of a sudden he’s renting one of your cottages?”
He replies with a definitive nod while his hands come up to wrap around his hot coffee. Junmyeon’s head tips a little to the side as tiny grooves of confusion form on his brows.
“So what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be over there asking for an explanation or something?”
Chanyeol pauses midway through a sip. It doesn’t hit him until now that that is exactly the problem. He doesn’t like to admit that he’s still pressed about, as Baekhyun put it, a juvenile grievance from a fucking decade ago. He shakes his head, a tired, feeble grin tugging on his mouth
“There’s really no point, though. It’s been over ten years, hyung-water under the bridge.”
“And yet, here you are.” Junmyeon fixes him with a knowing look. “It can’t be pointless if it’s something you still care about, and clearly, you do. Frankly, I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”
“Like what?” Chanyeol coughs out a laugh in a last-ditch effort to inject some ounce of humor in this conversation. Junmyeon knows him better than that, though.
“Like, completely off-kilter. You weren’t like this even after Yifan-” Junmyeon cuts himself short. Chanyeol stares down at his drink, fights the compulsion to press a palm against that spot just below his right clavicle. He’s not expecting any apologies for that slip. If there is anyone who has every right to rub that mistake in his face, it would be Junmyeon.
“Listen,” Junmyeon starts gently, throwing a light punch to his arm to get his attention. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Baekhyunnie is right. Do yourself a favor. You can’t hide from this guy forever, anyways. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Chanyeol doesn’t exactly get the spine to walk up to his new neighbor’s foyer until the next day. It’s sometime late in the afternoon when Chanyeol finds himself toeing the invisible boundary between his space and Yixing’s. The man appears to have slept in. He hesitates right on the stone path that borders the two lawns, crossing it back and forth several times until the light in Yixing’s room suddenly flickers on. Chanyeol feels his heart leap to his throat when he spies a moving shadow on the bedroom curtain. This must be creepy as fuck, but he stays frozen on the spot, anyway.
The shadow totters on seemingly unsteady legs and nearly trips over what Chanyeol guesses is the old, wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. He laughs despite himself because, yeah, this is the Zhang Yixing he remembers.
“Okay,” he breathes, hands clenching at his sides. He shakes his head and puffs out his chest. “No big deal.”
Except, the moment he steps up to Yixing’s door, he gets a strong urge to hightail it back to his own place. He would have done exactly that if the front door hadn’t swung open even before he could attempt to retreat.
Yixing looks up and Chanyeol loses all mobility the instant his large eyes lock with Yixing’s droopy ones.
The man is obviously taller now, though not anywhere near as tall as Chanyeol. All the baby fat in his face is gone, making his cheekbones more defined, but he’s just like Chanyeol remembers him-fair skin; pink, pillowy lips; beautiful, gentle, brown eyes.
He's surprised that there’s no taste of bile in his mouth, no heavy weight of resentment in his heart, like he’d anticipated. There Is something kicking and swirling in his chest, something he can’t quite put a finger on, but he knows it isn’t anger.
Yixing blinks up at him sleepily for a second and then quickly sobers up, suddenly fully awake. Chanyeol’s gut pinches at the look on his face.
“Hi, Yixing-ge,” he blurts out in sloppy Mandarin with a smile that he hopes doesn’t look too nervous, all the while trying to keep his voice steady.
Yixing wordlessly stares at him for moment. It’s quite possibly the longest five seconds of his life and there’s really nothing he can do but panic because, shit, what if Yixing really doesn’t remember him anymore? He’s going to kill Baekhyun. He’s going to drag it out for as long as possible and make it very slow and very, very painful, and-Oh! Yixing is smiling at him. And he’s talking to him. In lightning-fast Mandarin.
Well, there’s the flaw in his plan.
“I... what?”
Yixing chuckles, right cheek denting deeper, and Chanyeol’s heart kind of jumps a little bit despite the embarrassment that’s slowly creeping up his neck.
He has to admit that he didn’t foresee this little problem when he managed to dredge up the courage to walk up to the man’s porch. He recalls Yixing having a pretty good handle of the language when they first met because he happened to be taking a couple of foreign language electives back then. But that was such a long time ago. He’s probably forgotten all of it.
Instead of speaking, Yixing steps aside and waves him in. Chanyeol emits a low “waah,” as he is ushered into the living room which, in retrospect, is kind of a dumb thing to do because this is hardly the first time he’s seeing this place. He partially owns the entire property, after all. But that's his thing. He reacts. Dead air is the enemy.
Yixing merely sniggers at his silly reaction, almost as if he expected it. Chanyeol promptly plants himself on a chair by the kitchen island after Yixing gestures at him to take a seat. Now it’s his turn to give the man a once-over while he scans the contents of the fridge. Chanyeol takes in the plain white shirt and wrinkled cargo pants. Yixing looks like he’s dressed for early summer instead of early spring, but then he’s not too surprised because he knows that Yixing’s body temperature tends to be a bit higher than the average person - always warmer. His dark brown hair is a mess, sticking out in every possible direction. That’s... typical, too.
Chanyeol bites his lip to hold back a vague sound of amusement while his brain scrambles for something to say, and a way to say it that the foreigner will understand. Yixing seemed to be able to hold a conversation with Yura just fine earlier. Maybe they were speaking in English? Chanyeol knows plenty of English, but everything he knows seems to escape him at the moment.
“Um,” He has half a mind to whip out his phone and pull up his trusty Korean-to-English translator app.
Yixing shuts the fridge and turns to him looking rather lost. His expression is a cross between thoughtful and distressed, maybe because he didn’t find anything to offer his visitor. Chanyeol feels kind of bad now for putting him in this position.
He clears his throat and directly meets Yixing’s gaze when the man shifts his full attention to him.
“Do you...” Chanyeol powers through in halting English. “Do you... want food? Hungry?”
Yixing blinks. His eyes go all soft, and then his lips are curling up at the corners.
“Yes, that would be great, actually. I really have nothing in here but, well, water.” He replies. In impeccable Korean.
Chanyeol shoots up to his feet, jaw slack, and Yixing’s face scrunches up cutely as he barks out a laugh. He’s still grinning when he starts to move away from the fridge. And then it all happens so fast. Chanyeol is grabbed by the lapels of his coat, forcing him to bend at the waist to meet the smaller man’s height as strong arms lock around his neck. His own hands catch on the small of Yixing’s back, and when Yixing tugs him closer, face buried in his shoulder, Chanyeol forgets to breathe for a second.
Yixing smells like fresh laundry and aftershave and he finds himself not very keen on letting go. The warmth of his breath seeps through Chanyeol’s coat, the cotton shirt underneath, until he can feel it like a small patch of summer on his skin. Something he doesn’t quite have a word for washes over him, making him want to throw his head back and laugh, let all the pent up tension bleed out, because, wow, it’s been so fucking long.
“I don’t remember you being this mean, ge. You’ve changed.” He complains, careful not to breathe directly into Yixing’s ticklish neck.
A second or two after the words leave his mouth, his smile falters. Something in his chest violently twists in objection at his own statement because-well, vanishing without a single word, no warning or explanation? Making someone fall in love with you only to leave them hanging? That’s pretty fucking cold. He wills that sentiment away, though. Water under the bridge, he tells himself.
Yixing laughs quietly. He steps back to look him up and down, and Chanyeol is suddenly too aware of how disheveled he looks right now. He’d duck his head, maybe try to pat down his hair into submission and self-consciously rub his neck, if he weren’t so preoccupied with staring at Yixing’s face with thinly veiled awe. He really didn’t think he’d ever see him again.
Yixing clucks his tongue. “Aiyo, and you’ve gotten way too tall, Cànliè.”
Chanyeol purses his lips at the mention of his Chinese name. No one’s called him that in ages. Not even when he hung out with Chinese students back in university, or even when he eventually dated one of them. He’s never actually told anyone else about that name. Only Yixing knows, because Yixing was the one who gave it to him.
His eyes get even bigger when the man reaches up to playfully flick at his earlobe. He used to do that a lot when they were much younger too, mostly when he was bored. He’d say, “Your ears look funny, but they’re cute,” and then try to fold them in or tug at the protruding shell. Then he’d giggle, all mirthful eyes and dimpled cheek. Just like right now.
Chanyeol snorts, decidedly ignoring the flush radiating from the spot that brushed the man’s warm fingers.
“Don’t hate me just because you didn’t grow enough. And your accent still sounds funny.” That last bit’s a lie. In fact, Yixing’s Korean seems to have vastly improved. He doesn’t tell him that, though.
Appalled, Yixing lands a chastising slap on his arm and frowns. “Who’s the mean one now?”
Chanyeol scuttles back a bit upon impact, cackling. It feels so good to be able to laugh, even more so when Yixing chuckles along, his eyes sparkling in the light.
❀❀❀
Winter in Changsha was unexpectedly savage that year. It was the perfect weather to hibernate, especially right after catching a red-eye flight from South Korea to China, but Chanyeol had wanted to get a head start; get familiar with the place, the people, get an idea as to what he was going to have to work with for the next several weeks.
Mama Zhang, as their gracious host had the students address her, had been surprised to see him not sleeping in like the rest of her new guests.
“Would you like me to help you with breakfast?” He started heading toward the sink to wash his hands, but the woman shook her head, holding up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t worry about it, Chan-chan.” Chanyeol grinned at the nickname. “This is your first meal here; let me make it for you. Next time, you can come help, okay?” she said in decent, if heavily accented, Korean. The gentle smile on her face reminded him very much of his own mother.
“Okay.”
He stood there watching as she deftly pulled out spices and condiments from the shelves.
“You can wait in the lounge. Or take a look around, if you’d like.”
That had been plan, actually, but one look out the window and he concluded with a frown that it was probably not a good idea to step outside. His lips prickled where skin had already begun to crack despite a generous swab of moisturizer, and he was sure his face would start flaking in a few days. He’d have to wait until there was more sun out before he could try to venture into the patio. The garden that surrounded the house was massive. He bet it would have looked lovelier had it been any other season.
Chanyeol took a seat and plucked out a grape berry from the fruit basket on the dining table. A burst of sweetness and welcome hint of tartness assaulted his taste buds. He picked another one and popped it into his mouth.
“Mama Zhang, how do you know how to speak Korean?” He asked with big, curious eyes.
“I have a son,” she smiled. “He’s graduating high school soon. He likes learning languages.”
She began gathering up her ingredients in a plastic box to carry out to the kitchen. Barely a minute after, the distinct squeaky noise of rubber soles skidding on polished hardwood echoed from the hall. It’s like someone had done a sudden swerve after realizing that they were headed in the wrong direction.
Before Chanyeol could toss another berry into his mouth, a raven-haired boy who appeared to be around his age, give or take a couple of years, burst into the dining room. His plump mouth was agape, shoulders heaving, droopy eyes flitting about like was lost. His gave a start when his gaze landed on Chanyeol.
“Oh?” He blinked.
“Oh!” Chanyeol blinked back, rising to his feet.
“Hello,” they both said at the same time, Chanyeol in Mandarin and the other boy in Korean. Chanyeol laughed aloud while the other chuckled quietly.
“You must be one of the students from Korea. I’m Zhang Yixing.”
He dropped his entire torso forward to give Chanyeol a ninety-degree bow. The display of reverence startled him, and for a second there he didn’t know what to do. Mama Zhang had mentioned that her son was graduating soon, which would then make Chanyeol younger than him.
“Ah, hi! Yes! Yes, I am. I’m-I’m Park Chanyeol.” He returned the courteous gesture as best he could. “I think you’re my...” He paused to scour his meager Chinese vocabulary for the right word. “...ge?”
Yixing’s smile broadened at that. All Chanyeol could see for the next three seconds was the deep dimple that formed on his cheek.
“Yes, I think so. I’m Yixing-ge. Or Yixing-hyung, or just Yixing-I really don’t mind. It’s nice to meet you.” His accent was there, though less pronounced than that of his mother. Chanyeol thought it was cute.
Mama Zhang’s head suddenly popped out from the kitchen doorway, addressing Yixing with a fond smile that the boy easily gave back. The exchange was way too fast for Chanyeol to comprehend fully, but he did manage to catch something about fruits. He paled.
“Oh, are these yours? I took a few grape berries, I’m sorry,” He sheepishly opened his palm to reveal the last piece that he got from the basket.
Yixing vehemently shook his head. “No, no, that’s okay.”
He draped a brown parka with a fur-lined hoodie over one of the chairs, while the backpack that had been hanging on his shoulder landed on the tabletop in one quick swing. He unzipped the main compartment just wide enough to pull out a small, waxed canvas lunch bag. The strap was tugged free from the slot before he unrolled the top.
“These are actually for guests. Mama just told me to grab a couple to take to school.”
Hugely relieved, Chanyeol sat back down and slipped the grape between his lips, all the while keeping observant eyes on the other boy. He was wearing a simple pair of washed-out denim and a navy blue, V-neck pullover. It didn’t seem like he had an undershirt on and Chanyeol wondered if he was serious about going out in the freezing weather with that few layers on him.
“School? Isn’t it winter vacation now?”
“It is,” Yixing answered, grabbing a green apple and a banana, one in each hand. “But I take foreign language electives over the breaks. So that I can chat with you guys like this,” he told him with a lopsided grin and a playful glint in his eyes.
Something about it oddly made Chanyeol want to giggle like a little girl. “Cool. You can practice your Korean with me sometime.”
Yixing smiled at him gratefully. “You know, I might actually take you up on that.”
He slipped his arms into his padded parka and then pulled the backpack over his shoulders. No ear muffs. No gloves. No scarf. Chanyeol was a strange mix of worried and amazed.
“Aiyah, I’m running really late. I’ll see you later!”
He was already out of sight when Chanyeol noticed the lunch bag on the table. Without thinking, he made a quick grab for the canvas and was about to go and try to catch Yixing when the boy barged back in, grimacing as the side of his shoulder slammed into the doorway.
Chanyeol was laughing before he could stop himself, earning him a mock-indignant slap on the arm. Yixing was bashfully laughing along, though, so Chanyeol knew he wasn’t really mad.
“You need to be more careful.” He handed over the food bag, mirth still lingering on the quirk of his lips. “And you forgot your fruits.”
“I know. This happens to me all the time.” Yixing muttered with a resigned sigh and extended a hand to retrieve his snacks. “Anyway, thanks!”
He gave a brief wave with the hand that wasn’t holding the bag; but then as he turned away Chanyeol noticed something else.
“Yixing-ge, wait!”
Rubber scuffed loudly against the floor as he came to an abrupt stop. Chanyeol’s grip on his backpack kept him from spinning around.
“What are you-”
Chanyeol yanked down the zipper of the bag.
“-oh.”
His voice came out equal parts taunting and incredulous when he asked, “Are you always this forgetful?”
This time, it was Yixing who burst into laughter first. Chanyeol blinked in surprise when the shorter boy turned and reached up to pat his head, just like how one would a well-behaved puppy.
“Ah, what would I do without you?”
❀❀❀
Chanyeol hasn’t been back long enough to be abreast of the hottest dining spots in town.
He suddenly wishes he’d listened to his sister when she told him to go out more and explore the area a little, because right now there are only three places nearby that spring to mind: the new shabu shabu place that Junmyeon had taken him to a week ago (not bad at all, but unless you’re really lucky, you’ll need to make a reservation at least three days earlier if you don’t want to waste time waiting in queue), the old bunshik restaurant near the stream (great view, but-maybe not), and the samgyupsal joint about a block away from Junmyeon’s café (definitely not).
In the end, Chanyeol decides he’s going to try his luck. Yixing slides into the passenger seat and they head downtown for some Japanese food. He skips the heater, presses a button to open the front seat windows just partially. It’s a short drive, anyway, and he knows Yixing will enjoy the view better like this. But then Yixing presses the controller beside him, prompting his window to pull all the way up.
“Let’s not leave the windows down,” he says, then takes the liberty to activate the car heater himself.
Chanyeol turns away from the road for a quick second to give his passenger a doubtful look. He’s staring intently at the controls, probably trying to figure out how to get the temperature adjustments to work.
“Won’t you feel too warm, though?”
“You get cold faster than I sweat and your skin hates the cold,” Yixing states matter-of-factly, mostly still distracted by the slew of Hangul-labeled options on the touch screen. “Anyway, I can just take off my jacket if I need to. Close your window.”
They happen to come by a red light then and Chanyeol takes this chance to stare at him, flabbergasted. He didn’t expect Yixing to remember that. Just as he’s secured all the windows, Yixing suddenly emits a muffled cry of triumph beside him. He turns to Chanyeol and asks, “24 degrees, right?”
“What?”
Curious, he flicks a glance at the monitor to see what the other man has been up to. Sure enough, the temperature indicator reads 24 degrees Celsius.
“Right?” Yixing prods, sounding all too happy with himself.
Chanyeol blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
He turns back to the road, fingers tightening around the wheel. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to curb... something. A laugh, maybe - or an embarrassingly high-pitched, banshee-screech, he’s not too sure. He really didn’t expect Yixing to remember anything about him, much less something as specific as his preferred room temperature. It’s just a silly little thing.
“Right,” he repeats under his breath, as if saying it one more time will make this all feel a little less surreal. As he listens to Yixing hum a tune under his breath, he thinks that maybe the heat coiling in his stomach might be enough to keep him warm for the rest of the day after all.
►
Title: Solstice
Pairing(s): Chanyeol/Lay, slight Chanyeol/D.O., brief mentions of Chanyeol/Kris
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): language, homophobic themes, implied violence, mention of death, unbetaed (!!!)
Length: 26k
Summary: Chanyeol comes home in time for spring and gets a second chance at first love.
Author's note: This is set in Korea but what I’ve used here is the standard medical program in the US (according to Google). Please do note that it might not be accurate. To my lovely recipient, I ended up mixing two or three of your prompts together so this a bit of a mess and might not be what you wanted. >< But I hope you like it a little. ;; Lastly, thank you so much to the mod for being so patient with me and my multiple extension requests. ♥
When Chanyeol feels the sharp tug of a frown on his lips, he doesn’t fight it.
A man he doesn’t recognize occupies his favorite table, long, pale fingers curling around the handle of a porcelain cup as he brings it up to take a sip. Or at least that’s what Chanyeol assumes he’s doing. He could just as well be simply inhaling the aroma of brewed coffee, or blowing on the scalding liquid so that he doesn’t burn his own tongue. It could be tea. He can’t really tell for sure when all he can make out clearly is a head of jet black fluff tapering to a clean shave at the base, a slender neck, and a dark gray coat draped over broad shoulders.
“Must be a tourist,” he muses, eyes squinting behind aviator sunglasses.
Anyone who doesn’t look remotely familiar must be a tourist. This town where he and his sister were born and raised is small and tight-knit enough to easily validate assumptions like that, especially around this time of the season when excursionists are expected to begin trickling in. Except, Chanyeol hasn’t actually been around here for years so, hey, what does he know?
The breeze, chilly but pleasantly fresh, flits across his face with a subtle nip courtesy of the last vestiges of winter. His tongue absently darts out to skim over plush, wind chapped lips, hissing at the roughness and the slight sting. The cold season has never been particularly kind to his skin.
His gaze sails over the counter where he easily spots Kim Junmyeon. His old friend, who is also the chief barista and owner of the quaint coffee shop, is blinking owlishly at him, head tilting a little to the side. It’s cute; makes him look like he's years younger than Chanyeol instead of older.
Chanyeol grins, all pearly whites shamelessly on display. Junmyeon throws him an inquisitive look, eyebrows twitching, as if to ask what he’s doing here so early. Then with a small jolt, he takes a gander at a particular corner east of the hall-the one with the best view of the sea-and his expression instantly goes stiff. He looks worried, but Chanyeol is quick to wave his concern away with a big smile as soon as the barista’s eyes revert to him.
I’ll come back later, he mouths.
Junmyeon only blinks again in reply before his attention is wrenched away by the next customer in line. A petite girl with ash blond curls cascading halfway down her back-can’t be older than maybe seventeen-comes up to the register. Chanyeol notes the impossibly short skirt and strappy heels, and he smirks.
“Definitely a tourist.”
He takes the wheel in a firm grip while casting one last curious glance at the man in the coat. A sense of petty defeat feels like dead weight in the pit of his stomach. It’s not like the table has a name on it or anything, he tells himself. And, to be fair, he did come by earlier than he usually does. Like, three whole hours too early. The café doesn’t really get too crowded but it’s always a lot quieter during off-peak hours - a lot more conducive to any sort of creative process, unless you’re the type of person who thrives in chaos. And right now, at almost seven in the morning, is definitely not off-peak.
The window slides shut at the press of a button. Shifting the gear from park to drive, he releases the brake and gives the gas a calculated press. Surprisingly, he’s met with hardly any traffic. Then again this isn’t Seoul, so maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising. Vegetation is abundant here, but barely visible yet. It’s too early in spring to see lush greens and flowers in full bloom. They’ll get there soon enough. And when they do, the district of Jinhae will be the busiest it will ever be the whole year.
It’s early enough that the road heading away from downtown is almost completely free. The compulsion to add more pressure to the pedal, to rev up to something like a hundred kilometers per hour, creeps under his skin and skitters down to his toes. He keeps it steady at 60 kmph, though. He takes a right turn into an obscure passage off the side of the main road. It’s virtually deserted, littered with overgrown shrubs - or will be once spring hits full force. It’s quite easy to miss, may even seem sketchy to an outsider, but Chanyeol knows these parts like the back of his hand.
In minutes, he’s navigating down a narrow dirt path that’s probably more fit for a mountain bike than an Audi. It’s a shortcut that he remembers biking up and down hundreds of times as a child. Chanyeol’s family’s estate is on the suburban outskirts; old, but well maintained - thanks to his sister - and huge for a small town like this.
The land area is vast with a two-story guesthouse standing adjacent to the main house. A little higher up out back are two cottages with a fantastic view of the bay. They’re quite popular with tourists that come by every year for the Gunhangje Festival. During the off-season, big-city folks, most of them burned-out by the monotony of life, head down here for a couple of days to unwind. There’s also the occasional artist, writer, or composer on the hunt for inspiration. Chanyeol falls somewhere in the middle of those two categories, himself.
Lips bowing in a lopsided grin, Chanyeol turns up the volume the loudest it can go and sings -screeches - out the lyrics with complete abandon.
Because the sun ain’t shining no more
I don’t know why but I’ve seen it before
Ain’t got no joy, no man to lean on
He leaves my soul on the floor like a doll 1
His head bobs to the beat, fingers drumming fiercely against the wheel. It’s not his usual type of jam - more like a guilty pleasure - and somehow that makes it all the more satisfying.
He drives along the stretch of a low brick wall until he reaches an arched gate coated in slightly-chipped black paint and gold accents. Slowing to a gradual stop, he presses a button to shut down the engine and shoves his sunglasses in the glove compartment before stepping out of the vehicle.
“Ah, cold!” his breath tumbles out in cloudy bursts. Shivers crawl across his skin as a strong blow of wind blasts through the branches. He instinctively tugs at the lapels of his coat, pulling it tighter around his body.
Temperatures are generally lower in the outskirts and so a lot, if not all, of the trees here are still mostly barren with sporadic sprinkles of green. Spring comes slowly in this area; cherry blossoms start blooming later than the rest of Jinhae-gu - usually around the same time when rain becomes a semi-regular thing - and linger barely long enough to make it worth the wait.
Chanyeol waddles over to the gate. He keeps an eye out for any sort of movement as he sticks both hands in between the cold iron bars to unhook the padlock on the other side. It’s a struggle trying not to make any noise. Park Chanyeol is many things but quiet is certainly not one of them. Carefully, he pushes at the creaky gate and slips through the gap as soon as it’s wide enough to fit.
A stone path cuts across a capacious front lawn and then splits into three: one leading to the door of the main house, another to the guesthouse, and the third forming a path in the middle of the two, toward a set of steps that leads uphill to the back where the cottages are. They used to call it ‘the woods’ when they were little; when Yura would pretend that she was Red Riding Hood and designate Chanyeol as the Big Bad Wolf. Red Riding Hood would always end up beating up the Wolf, somehow.
Chanyeol considers heading that way, but he’s famished and he knows that there’s nothing in the cozy little kitchen but stale bread. He takes his time, worries his lower lip as he fiddles with the keys in his pocket, secretly hoping that everyone - particularly his older sister - is still in bed. He’s not quite up to being put on the spot right now. But then the second he steps through the door of the main house, he finds Park Yura waiting right by the doorway, arms crossed on her chest. Chanyeol wills the impending panic away. Maybe she’ll just offer him food and not ask questions?
“Where did you go off to so early?”
Chanyeol breathes out a light sigh.
Well, there goes that.
He shrugs offhandedly in response as he slips off his shoes. She’s asking the wrong question; ‘Did you come home at all last night?’ is probably more on target, but he’s not about to point that out.
“Around,” he mutters vaguely, then adds in a rush, “I’m starving. Do we have any food?”
Chanyeol knows he’s struck a nerve when Yura bristles at the question.
“Just what the heck do you take me for? Of course, we have food. I’m a responsible mother of two,” she snaps, turning to stomp into the house. It’s the hormones, she’s going to say later.
Chanyeol barely manages to suppress a chuckle as he follows after her. It’s been over a week since he came back home, and in that time he’d like to think that he’s learned how to use his sister’s volatile moods to his advantage. That’s not to say that he always succeeds though, because he rarely does.
Yura abruptly stops in her tracks, spins around to face him. Chanyeol blurts out a “fuck!” when he nearly runs into her. He quickly clamps both hands over his mouth when Yura shoots him a look that promises bloody death. Chanyeol knows very well what his sister thinks about people spouting expletives around her kids - never mind that one of them is yet to be born and the other is probably nowhere within earshot.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”
“I... don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Bull-” The struggle to leave ‘shit’ out of that is so palpable. Chanyeol wants to snigger, but he doesn’t because his sister doesn’t seem very magnanimous this morning and he really does value his life.
“Answer the question.”
Chanyeol swallows. He averts his gaze and the height advantage allows him to peer over Yura’s head. He spots a plate of seafood pajeon, a bowl of rice and seaweed soup on the dining table, and he instantly perks up.
“Are those for me?”
“Park Chanyeol-”
“I was just driving around, noona,” he says indulgently, stepping past his sister and straight toward the food. “It’s spring. It’s kinda nice out early in the morning. And you’re the one who keeps telling me to get out more.”
Yura’s suspicious glaring doesn’t let up even as she moves to take a seat. Chanyeol is about to pull out a chair for himself when he begins to sense the silent scrutiny like a red, hot spotlight on his forehead. Glancing up with big, blinking eyes, his grin spreads wider in a manner that he knows - hopes - makes him look goofy and amusing enough to distract. For good measure, he walks around the table to plant a loud kiss on his sister’s cheek, one hand gently resting atop her protruding belly. Cheap trick, but it works.
Yura laughs softly, quickly reaching up to tousle Chanyeol’s hair before he can straighten to full height. She doesn’t ask any more questions.
“Is Yejun still in bed?” He later splutters around a mouthful and ignores the disapproving look his sister throws his way.
“I wish,” she says. “He’s waddling toward you as we speak, actually.”
Sure enough, Chanyeol hears a garbled noise behind him and finds a little boy with adorable tufts of dark hair stomping precariously toward him, stubby arms eagerly outstretched. There’s a big smile on his puffy face, several teeth still missing.
“Hey, buddy!” Chanyeol scoots back in his chair, turns to pick up his nephew the second he’s within reach, and the first thing Yejun does is make a grab for his pointy ears. Chanyeol scrunches his nose but leans in a bit closer anyway to let the kid win. He lives for his nephew’s happy giggles even if it means he ends up with abused, angry-red ears later.
“Don't let him anywhere near your soup if you don’t want it all over your clothes,” Yura warns him. “I’m not kidding.”
“I think he’s too distracted by my ears to notice anything else, to be honest-ow!”
Yejun probably decides to show some mercy and releases Chanyeol’s throbbing ear. He giggles, drool dribbling down the side of his upturned mouth, tiny palms clapping in glee. Yura only laughs at the scene and Chanyeol pouts at her before pouting at the baby.
“You’re just like your mom,” he mutters sulkily and lifts Yejun higher to mock-bite at his tummy, sending the kid into a fit of joyful squealing.
Yejun’s nanny intervenes right in time to stop the baby from knocking over a glass of water with his swinging feet. She takes the boy from Chanyeol upon Yura’s request so that Chanyeol can finish his food before it gets cold, or before Yejun succeeds in causing any accidents, whichever comes first.
“By the way, we have a guest arriving later.”
“Oh? That's great!” Chanyeol reacts without actually looking at her; too busy playing peek-a-boo with Yejun who keeps dipping his giggly little head in the crook of his nanny’s shoulder as a way of hiding.
“Weren’t you just complaining about how low our occupancy has been lately-”
“I'm talking about the cottage.”
Chanyeol freezes, hands in mid-wave. He stops making funny faces at the baby. He’s been dreading this-losing the privilege of utmost privacy, having the woods all to himself.
He turns to his sister, his brows pinched.
“Don’t kick me, but I really wonder sometimes why these tourists pick here to stay for the festival when they can find other places closer to downtown.”
Yura shrugs. “Maybe he’s not just here for the festival.”
Chanyeol snorts at that, and immediately lets out an undignified yelp when Yura kicks him under the table.
“Rude. You grew up around here, too, remember?”
Couldn’t wait to get out, though, he wants to say but sagely decides not to.
“Sure,” he says flatly and shoves a spoonful of seaweed soup in his mouth.
It’s honestly a little difficult to fathom. Where they live is a small town in the outskirts, a little far from the more touristy, more commercially developed parts of the district, though close enough to the center of festivities. People usually stay here specifically for the annual Cherry Blossom Festival because, really, what else is there this side of town that’s worth sticking around for?
“Besides, some people like the isolation.” She waves a hand theatrically in Chanyeol’s general direction. “Case in point.”
Chanyeol makes a face, but doesn’t bother with a rebuttal. He can’t really argue with that.
“Fine, you’ve made your point,” Chanyeol concedes in a passive tone. “Did you need me to do anything?” he dutifully asks even though they do have a small staff that takes care of much of the heavier labor around the property.
“Not much. Just keep the noise down, will you?”
Chanyeol frowns hard, hand jerking back, causing him to accidentally whack his metal chopsticks against the side of the rice bowl with a loud, indignant clink.
“It’s music; not noise,” he retorts, meaning to sound righteously indignant but ends up more like a whiny child instead.
“Sure, just keep it down. You won’t be alone up there in the woods anymore.”
Chanyeol’s mouth falls open, as if he’s looking to vehemently object, but in the end he just shuts it without another word. It’s really not that hard, actually. He can always hook up headphones to everything. He’s just been too lazy to do it.
After brunch, Chanyeol hurries back to the cottage, hoping to get some work in before he has to relinquish his unbridled freedom.
The cottage is a single bedroom loft with two bathrooms and a small kitchen. A king-size bed is the centerpiece of the bedroom. There’s a sofa bed in the living room and another up on the loft. With most of his equipment set up upstairs, Chanyeol has somehow managed to convert the small space into a music room of sorts. At some point in the past couple of days, he decided to move from the loft to the kitchen, thinking that a change of setting might jog his inspiration. It didn’t. And now music sheets and crumpled paper that he hasn’t bothered to throw in the trash pretty much swallow his narrow kitchen island.
Chanyeol pulls out a stool and grabs the guitar standing next to it. Every curve and plane of the smooth, glossy, rosewood body of his Martin D-45 feels familiar, like an extension of his limbs, almost. But it just hasn’t been working like it used to lately.
His right hand hovers motionless above the sound hole, the other loosely wrapping around the neck as it glides up and down the polished hardwood. Indecisive fingers hesitate over the ebony fingerboard while scales and chord progressions flit in the back of his eyelids, buzzing like restless bees. He gets into a fierce cycle of jumping and dipping between frets without actually translating anything to sound.
Can’t work with that. Too predictable. Overused. Not gonna work.
That’s how he spends the next three hours - hunched over a pile of music sheets and a guitar on his lap. He ends up with nothing to show for it aside from more messy scribbles and more useless, balled up paper.
With a deep snarl, he grasps his head in both hands, eyes squeezed shut. It feels like it’s about to crack in half any moment now.
He’s stuck. He’s still stuck.
He’d smash the guitar on the floor, or something rock-and-roll like that, but this was his father’s most prized possession. It was handed down to Chanyeol - just to borrow for a while to practice with when he was eight, and then to keep as his own when he turned twenty-one. It was the tail end of winter when he figured in a fatal accident. Chanyeol had just graduated from university then. Nothing was ever the same.
“Don’t force it, man,” Byun Baekhyun, one of his best friends and business partners, tells him later. He’s holding the phone against his ear with one hand, while the other attempts to create some semblance of order to the clutter in his kitchen. The guitar is back on its stand a safe distance away from where he’s sitting. He gives it a quick glance as Baekhyun says, “It’s okay if you don’t come back with a full demo, you know.”
Chanyeol really only called to check in on the studio. He’s not quite the type to burden other people with his self-deprecating tirades. That’s just not a ‘Mr.-Happiness-Delight-Park-Chanyeol’ kind of thing to do. But of course Baekhyun would guess that something was amiss; and of course he wouldn’t let it go until Chanyeol talked. So he talked - though relaying a more watered-down version rather than the full extent of his frustration.
Raking a hand through his mess of a mop, Chanyeol unceremoniously dumps himself over the nearest cushion he can find. He would have bashed his skull on the side of the mahogany shelf next to the sofa if not for the battalion of pillows stacked by the arm, ready to catch his head. There’s a wide window just right above where the backrest ends, and he lets himself soak in the bit of sun that trickles through the makeshift awning of leaves on the other side. At least this tree looks like it’s got all its leaves back, he thinks absently.
He presses the phone closer to the side of his face as he looks up blankly at the countryside-aesthetic of rustic beams on the ceiling. So, very different from the plain, solid ivory-painted cement of his own apartment back in Seoul.
“I thought the whole point of me being out here is to get my mojo back?”
“Well sure, by getting away from the stress in the studio and taking a break.” Baekhyun nearly yells in his ear. “You were not supposed to bring the stress with you, dumbass. Unwind. Get laid or something, I don’t know-”
Chanyeol chews on the inside of his cheek. He has been getting laid, actually, but he doesn’t tell him that. He doesn’t tell anybody that. Chanyeol rubs a warm palm down his face, exasperated, but none of that sentiment registers in his voice.
“I’m fine, Baekhyunnie, honestly.” He’s got the carefree tone down pat, complete with a practiced upturn of the mouth, despite the way he flattens a calloused hand over tired, bloodshot eyes.
“I’m more worried about how Sehun’s holding up over there.”
His young intern actually has a pretty good ear, a good sense of rhythm, and is very talented - also very mischievous. The kid tends to easily get distracted. Chanyeol remembers being his age and being pretty much the same.
Baekhyun doesn’t respond right away, probably weighing his options and trying to decide whether to go along with this lame attempt at diversion or not. Another beat passes and Chanyeol eventually catches a loud exhale that sounds a lot like resignation. He half-grins because he knows that he’s won.
“He’s doing pretty well, actually,” Baekhyun tells him. “Still a little shit, though. He gives Jongdae aneurysms on a daily basis.”
Chanyeol sniggers at the mental image of his good friend whining and complaining like a grumpy, old man. Jongdae was delegated the task of taking over Chanyeol’s projects while he’s away, which, unfortunately for him, includes mentoring (and babysitting) Sehun as part of the package. He’s one of the most musically talented people Chanyeol’s ever met. Also one of the kindest. But he’s also a little shit.
Chanyeol laughs, genuine this time. “He’ll survive.”
He glances over to the window when he picks up on some movement in his peripheral. No one comes up here usually, except for Yura or any of the staff. Sure enough, his sister gradually comes into view. She’s talking animatedly, hands flying in different directions. That’s when he remembers that they’re expecting a new guest today. He completely forgot about that. Curious, Chanyeol sits up, throwing one arm on top of the backrest.
“So am I ever going to get invited to la casa de Park?”
Chanyeol snorts at Baekhyun and his ridiculous knack for lending a random, foreign twist to absolutely anything. Makes him sound smart and fancy, he says, to which Chanyeol always just pats his head indulgently in response.
Chanyeol cranes his neck to try and make out whom his sister is speaking with, but all he sees is a silver, hard shell suitcase and a pale hand gripping the handle.
“I don’t think my sister can handle the two of us under her roof simultaneously,” he grunts as he tries to shift to a better angle - as good as his overgrown limbs can manage within the confines of the furniture, anyway. But there’s a stout tree trunk standing right in his line of sight.
“Aww, come on, Yura noona loves me!”
Chanyeol chortles, doesn’t expressly object, because he knows it’s not a complete lie. Yura thinks Baekhyun’s as fluffy as a little corgi.
Yura starts to move, prompting the man to step out from the shadow of the tree and finally allow Chanyeol a proper glimpse.
Jet black fluff tapering to a clean shave at the base, a slender neck, and a dark gray coat draped over broad shoulders.
“Oh, it’s him,” Chanyeol mutters under his breath, eyes wide.
“Him, who?”
Chanyeol snaps out of his daze. He shakes his head until he remembers that Baekhyun can’t actually see him.
“No one. Just a new guest.”
“Oh!” Baekhyun’s tone spikes. Chanyeol can practically hear him leering over the phone. He’s probably wagging his eyebrows, too.
He ignores the impending insinuation that he’s sure Baekhyun’s got brewing for him and chooses instead to put all his focus into watching the man’s back. He tries to take in as much as he can all the way from his ineffectual viewpoint. There’s something about the whole picture that the man paints - his gait, his less-than-perfect posture. Something about it feels like he’s seen it before.
The man carries his luggage up the steps to a small porch and then stops at the door. Chanyeol manages to briefly catch a side profile. He notes the straight nose, angular cheekbones, jaw line so sharp it could cut. His lips are pink and full and his eyes are hidden under dark sunglasses. He suddenly gets a strange rumbling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the fact that he hasn’t had anything to eat in hours. This man really does seem awfully familiar, he thinks.
“Is he hot?” Baekhyun asks a tad too eagerly, but Chanyeol can barely hear him at this point.
He holds his breath, eyes straining harder. The man slides his glasses down, and then he turns.
Chanyeol lets out a gasp, completely forgetting for a moment that Baekhyun is still on the other line.
“Chanyeollie?”
He can feel his air passage closing up as a heady mix of panic and disbelief seizes his chest. The man’s eyes are kind, always have been, and they reduce into crescent slits when he smiles. There’s a dimple on his right cheek - and all the blood leaves Chanyeol’s face.
“No way…”
He remembers sticking his index finger into that dip a few times. The man - boy, at the time - would indulgently smile wider to make the dent even deeper; to make Chanyeol laugh. He knows exactly how it feels pressed against his lips, too.
He draws a lungful of air, pulse almost deafening that he barely catches the hint of alarm in Baekhyun’s tone.
“Hey, are you okay? Is it someone you know?”
Oh, it’s someone he knows, alright.
“I’m... I don’t...” Chanyeol stammers, hands feeling like ice all of a sudden. “Fuck-”
❀❀❀
It might have been because his father had been in a band that Chanyeol grew up having big dreams that revolved around music. Playing, writing, composing, producing-he wanted to learn it all and be good at all of it. His father had been very supportive and his mother, though not as enthusiastic about the idea, never tried to stop him as long as he didn’t take his academics for granted.
He could expertly play five different instruments by the time he started high school. He became popular for being the gangly kid who could bust out mean riffs on electric guitar. His mother finally put her foot down when he started having thoughts of either joining or forming a high school band during the very first week of his freshman year.
“Finish high school, get into a good university, and then you can have your band,” she had firmly stipulated and left no room for argument.
During the latter part of the school year, his music teacher came to him asking if he would be interested in participating in an international amateur musicians’ workshop organized by a sister school in Hunan, China. It was a month-and-a-half-long event that would span the winter break and culminate in a song-writing competition. The grand prize winner would be going home with a scholastic fund and glowing recommendations, possibly even get the chance to have their song released by a recording artist. It was a big opportunity and Chanyeol knew it. Luckily, his mother caved-sort of as consolation for the band thing.
Barely a week after winter break had officially commenced, Chanyeol found himself at Changsha Huanghua International Airport, along with his music teacher and two other students - a girl he recognized from his music class and a guy from a higher year. They were billeted at a local family-owned guesthouse near the school instead of a hotel in order to make it a ‘full cultural experience’, as their mentor had put it.
That’s when he first met Zhang Yixing - the kind, handsome son of the gentle woman who owned the guesthouse.
❀❀❀
Chanyeol shuffles about aimlessly, stealing glances out the window every so often.
Yixing hasn’t come out since Yura left him to his own devices about half an hour ago. If he’s anything at all like the Zhang Yixing that he remembers then he’s probably asleep right now, snoring lightly, sprawled awkwardly under the covers. Possibly shirtless. He rubs a palm on either side of his face, tries not to dwell on the thought too much.
The lights are out, save for the main lighting in the sitting room. Typical. Yixing doesn’t like having the light on in his room when he sleeps, but he does like seeing a soft glow spilling through the narrow gap at the bottom of the door. It’s comforting knowing that he’s not in complete darkness, he once said, so he always has to leave the light on somewhere else.
Chanyeol picks up his guitar for the nth time and tries to get something - anything - out, to no avail. With a loud, exasperated breath, he replaces the guitar on its stand and goes to pull out a cold can of Cass from the fridge. It doesn’t quite help take the edge off either, not with his earlier conversation with Baekhyun playing like a broken record in his mind.
“It’s really simple, you know. Get your ass on that porch, knock, smile that winning smile of yours, and say ‘Hi! I nearly talked my best friend’s ear off back in high school because I wouldn’t shut up about you for over a year, would you like to have dinner with me some time?’”
“Hey now, first of all, that is not true-”
“Oh, please, I can guarantee you Jongdae will back me on this, my friend, don't even try.”
“That proves nothing since you both enjoy ganging up on me so much anyway. And... and he was the one who stopped replying to my messages first-”
“Seriously? How mature of you to let go of juvenile grievances from a fucking decade ago.”
“I'm... It’s not-look, what if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he doesn’t even remember me?”
“And what if he’s there precisely to see you? You’ll never know unless you actually speak to the guy, will you?”
It’s not too often that Baekhyun actually makes a somewhat compelling argument. But more than that, it’s so unlike him to be this rattled over something so inconsequential in the first place. Or maybe not so inconsequential. Zhang Yixing was the first boy in his life after all.
Chanyeol chucks the empty can of beer in the trash, grabs his keys, and gets out.
“So what you’re saying is,” Junmyeon gingerly sets the large cardboard cup in front of Chanyeol then takes a seat across from him.
Junmyeon is always gentle, always patient, always ready to slip out of his apron and leave his post whenever Chanyeol shows up looking uncharacteristically gloomy. It doesn’t happen all that often, so when it does he tends to assume that it’s something serious. But even though it actually isn’t, as naturally motherly as Junmyeon can be, it really makes no difference.
“You dated this guy when you were in high school-”
Chanyeol squirms a bit in his seat. He doesn’t always come to anyone for things like this, much less old, childhood friends from his hometown. Save for Baekhyun and Jongdae, people he grew up with are not as open-minded to any sort of relationship that veers away from the norm. Even Junmyeon wasn’t as comfortable with it in the beginning, but he tried. He still tries. That’s good enough for Chanyeol.
“Not exactly. We were... actually, I don’t know what we were. There was never a label on it.” He admits as he sinks back in his chair, fingers lightly tapping the side of his caramel macchiato.
“Okay,” Junmyeon says carefully. “But you were... a vague, more-than-friends kind of something?”
“I guess?”
“And then he disappeared on you, and now all of a sudden he’s renting one of your cottages?”
He replies with a definitive nod while his hands come up to wrap around his hot coffee. Junmyeon’s head tips a little to the side as tiny grooves of confusion form on his brows.
“So what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be over there asking for an explanation or something?”
Chanyeol pauses midway through a sip. It doesn’t hit him until now that that is exactly the problem. He doesn’t like to admit that he’s still pressed about, as Baekhyun put it, a juvenile grievance from a fucking decade ago. He shakes his head, a tired, feeble grin tugging on his mouth
“There’s really no point, though. It’s been over ten years, hyung-water under the bridge.”
“And yet, here you are.” Junmyeon fixes him with a knowing look. “It can’t be pointless if it’s something you still care about, and clearly, you do. Frankly, I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”
“Like what?” Chanyeol coughs out a laugh in a last-ditch effort to inject some ounce of humor in this conversation. Junmyeon knows him better than that, though.
“Like, completely off-kilter. You weren’t like this even after Yifan-” Junmyeon cuts himself short. Chanyeol stares down at his drink, fights the compulsion to press a palm against that spot just below his right clavicle. He’s not expecting any apologies for that slip. If there is anyone who has every right to rub that mistake in his face, it would be Junmyeon.
“Listen,” Junmyeon starts gently, throwing a light punch to his arm to get his attention. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Baekhyunnie is right. Do yourself a favor. You can’t hide from this guy forever, anyways. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Chanyeol doesn’t exactly get the spine to walk up to his new neighbor’s foyer until the next day. It’s sometime late in the afternoon when Chanyeol finds himself toeing the invisible boundary between his space and Yixing’s. The man appears to have slept in. He hesitates right on the stone path that borders the two lawns, crossing it back and forth several times until the light in Yixing’s room suddenly flickers on. Chanyeol feels his heart leap to his throat when he spies a moving shadow on the bedroom curtain. This must be creepy as fuck, but he stays frozen on the spot, anyway.
The shadow totters on seemingly unsteady legs and nearly trips over what Chanyeol guesses is the old, wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. He laughs despite himself because, yeah, this is the Zhang Yixing he remembers.
“Okay,” he breathes, hands clenching at his sides. He shakes his head and puffs out his chest. “No big deal.”
Except, the moment he steps up to Yixing’s door, he gets a strong urge to hightail it back to his own place. He would have done exactly that if the front door hadn’t swung open even before he could attempt to retreat.
Yixing looks up and Chanyeol loses all mobility the instant his large eyes lock with Yixing’s droopy ones.
The man is obviously taller now, though not anywhere near as tall as Chanyeol. All the baby fat in his face is gone, making his cheekbones more defined, but he’s just like Chanyeol remembers him-fair skin; pink, pillowy lips; beautiful, gentle, brown eyes.
He's surprised that there’s no taste of bile in his mouth, no heavy weight of resentment in his heart, like he’d anticipated. There Is something kicking and swirling in his chest, something he can’t quite put a finger on, but he knows it isn’t anger.
Yixing blinks up at him sleepily for a second and then quickly sobers up, suddenly fully awake. Chanyeol’s gut pinches at the look on his face.
“Hi, Yixing-ge,” he blurts out in sloppy Mandarin with a smile that he hopes doesn’t look too nervous, all the while trying to keep his voice steady.
Yixing wordlessly stares at him for moment. It’s quite possibly the longest five seconds of his life and there’s really nothing he can do but panic because, shit, what if Yixing really doesn’t remember him anymore? He’s going to kill Baekhyun. He’s going to drag it out for as long as possible and make it very slow and very, very painful, and-Oh! Yixing is smiling at him. And he’s talking to him. In lightning-fast Mandarin.
Well, there’s the flaw in his plan.
“I... what?”
Yixing chuckles, right cheek denting deeper, and Chanyeol’s heart kind of jumps a little bit despite the embarrassment that’s slowly creeping up his neck.
He has to admit that he didn’t foresee this little problem when he managed to dredge up the courage to walk up to the man’s porch. He recalls Yixing having a pretty good handle of the language when they first met because he happened to be taking a couple of foreign language electives back then. But that was such a long time ago. He’s probably forgotten all of it.
Instead of speaking, Yixing steps aside and waves him in. Chanyeol emits a low “waah,” as he is ushered into the living room which, in retrospect, is kind of a dumb thing to do because this is hardly the first time he’s seeing this place. He partially owns the entire property, after all. But that's his thing. He reacts. Dead air is the enemy.
Yixing merely sniggers at his silly reaction, almost as if he expected it. Chanyeol promptly plants himself on a chair by the kitchen island after Yixing gestures at him to take a seat. Now it’s his turn to give the man a once-over while he scans the contents of the fridge. Chanyeol takes in the plain white shirt and wrinkled cargo pants. Yixing looks like he’s dressed for early summer instead of early spring, but then he’s not too surprised because he knows that Yixing’s body temperature tends to be a bit higher than the average person - always warmer. His dark brown hair is a mess, sticking out in every possible direction. That’s... typical, too.
Chanyeol bites his lip to hold back a vague sound of amusement while his brain scrambles for something to say, and a way to say it that the foreigner will understand. Yixing seemed to be able to hold a conversation with Yura just fine earlier. Maybe they were speaking in English? Chanyeol knows plenty of English, but everything he knows seems to escape him at the moment.
“Um,” He has half a mind to whip out his phone and pull up his trusty Korean-to-English translator app.
Yixing shuts the fridge and turns to him looking rather lost. His expression is a cross between thoughtful and distressed, maybe because he didn’t find anything to offer his visitor. Chanyeol feels kind of bad now for putting him in this position.
He clears his throat and directly meets Yixing’s gaze when the man shifts his full attention to him.
“Do you...” Chanyeol powers through in halting English. “Do you... want food? Hungry?”
Yixing blinks. His eyes go all soft, and then his lips are curling up at the corners.
“Yes, that would be great, actually. I really have nothing in here but, well, water.” He replies. In impeccable Korean.
Chanyeol shoots up to his feet, jaw slack, and Yixing’s face scrunches up cutely as he barks out a laugh. He’s still grinning when he starts to move away from the fridge. And then it all happens so fast. Chanyeol is grabbed by the lapels of his coat, forcing him to bend at the waist to meet the smaller man’s height as strong arms lock around his neck. His own hands catch on the small of Yixing’s back, and when Yixing tugs him closer, face buried in his shoulder, Chanyeol forgets to breathe for a second.
Yixing smells like fresh laundry and aftershave and he finds himself not very keen on letting go. The warmth of his breath seeps through Chanyeol’s coat, the cotton shirt underneath, until he can feel it like a small patch of summer on his skin. Something he doesn’t quite have a word for washes over him, making him want to throw his head back and laugh, let all the pent up tension bleed out, because, wow, it’s been so fucking long.
“I don’t remember you being this mean, ge. You’ve changed.” He complains, careful not to breathe directly into Yixing’s ticklish neck.
A second or two after the words leave his mouth, his smile falters. Something in his chest violently twists in objection at his own statement because-well, vanishing without a single word, no warning or explanation? Making someone fall in love with you only to leave them hanging? That’s pretty fucking cold. He wills that sentiment away, though. Water under the bridge, he tells himself.
Yixing laughs quietly. He steps back to look him up and down, and Chanyeol is suddenly too aware of how disheveled he looks right now. He’d duck his head, maybe try to pat down his hair into submission and self-consciously rub his neck, if he weren’t so preoccupied with staring at Yixing’s face with thinly veiled awe. He really didn’t think he’d ever see him again.
Yixing clucks his tongue. “Aiyo, and you’ve gotten way too tall, Cànliè.”
Chanyeol purses his lips at the mention of his Chinese name. No one’s called him that in ages. Not even when he hung out with Chinese students back in university, or even when he eventually dated one of them. He’s never actually told anyone else about that name. Only Yixing knows, because Yixing was the one who gave it to him.
His eyes get even bigger when the man reaches up to playfully flick at his earlobe. He used to do that a lot when they were much younger too, mostly when he was bored. He’d say, “Your ears look funny, but they’re cute,” and then try to fold them in or tug at the protruding shell. Then he’d giggle, all mirthful eyes and dimpled cheek. Just like right now.
Chanyeol snorts, decidedly ignoring the flush radiating from the spot that brushed the man’s warm fingers.
“Don’t hate me just because you didn’t grow enough. And your accent still sounds funny.” That last bit’s a lie. In fact, Yixing’s Korean seems to have vastly improved. He doesn’t tell him that, though.
Appalled, Yixing lands a chastising slap on his arm and frowns. “Who’s the mean one now?”
Chanyeol scuttles back a bit upon impact, cackling. It feels so good to be able to laugh, even more so when Yixing chuckles along, his eyes sparkling in the light.
❀❀❀
Winter in Changsha was unexpectedly savage that year. It was the perfect weather to hibernate, especially right after catching a red-eye flight from South Korea to China, but Chanyeol had wanted to get a head start; get familiar with the place, the people, get an idea as to what he was going to have to work with for the next several weeks.
Mama Zhang, as their gracious host had the students address her, had been surprised to see him not sleeping in like the rest of her new guests.
“Would you like me to help you with breakfast?” He started heading toward the sink to wash his hands, but the woman shook her head, holding up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t worry about it, Chan-chan.” Chanyeol grinned at the nickname. “This is your first meal here; let me make it for you. Next time, you can come help, okay?” she said in decent, if heavily accented, Korean. The gentle smile on her face reminded him very much of his own mother.
“Okay.”
He stood there watching as she deftly pulled out spices and condiments from the shelves.
“You can wait in the lounge. Or take a look around, if you’d like.”
That had been plan, actually, but one look out the window and he concluded with a frown that it was probably not a good idea to step outside. His lips prickled where skin had already begun to crack despite a generous swab of moisturizer, and he was sure his face would start flaking in a few days. He’d have to wait until there was more sun out before he could try to venture into the patio. The garden that surrounded the house was massive. He bet it would have looked lovelier had it been any other season.
Chanyeol took a seat and plucked out a grape berry from the fruit basket on the dining table. A burst of sweetness and welcome hint of tartness assaulted his taste buds. He picked another one and popped it into his mouth.
“Mama Zhang, how do you know how to speak Korean?” He asked with big, curious eyes.
“I have a son,” she smiled. “He’s graduating high school soon. He likes learning languages.”
She began gathering up her ingredients in a plastic box to carry out to the kitchen. Barely a minute after, the distinct squeaky noise of rubber soles skidding on polished hardwood echoed from the hall. It’s like someone had done a sudden swerve after realizing that they were headed in the wrong direction.
Before Chanyeol could toss another berry into his mouth, a raven-haired boy who appeared to be around his age, give or take a couple of years, burst into the dining room. His plump mouth was agape, shoulders heaving, droopy eyes flitting about like was lost. His gave a start when his gaze landed on Chanyeol.
“Oh?” He blinked.
“Oh!” Chanyeol blinked back, rising to his feet.
“Hello,” they both said at the same time, Chanyeol in Mandarin and the other boy in Korean. Chanyeol laughed aloud while the other chuckled quietly.
“You must be one of the students from Korea. I’m Zhang Yixing.”
He dropped his entire torso forward to give Chanyeol a ninety-degree bow. The display of reverence startled him, and for a second there he didn’t know what to do. Mama Zhang had mentioned that her son was graduating soon, which would then make Chanyeol younger than him.
“Ah, hi! Yes! Yes, I am. I’m-I’m Park Chanyeol.” He returned the courteous gesture as best he could. “I think you’re my...” He paused to scour his meager Chinese vocabulary for the right word. “...ge?”
Yixing’s smile broadened at that. All Chanyeol could see for the next three seconds was the deep dimple that formed on his cheek.
“Yes, I think so. I’m Yixing-ge. Or Yixing-hyung, or just Yixing-I really don’t mind. It’s nice to meet you.” His accent was there, though less pronounced than that of his mother. Chanyeol thought it was cute.
Mama Zhang’s head suddenly popped out from the kitchen doorway, addressing Yixing with a fond smile that the boy easily gave back. The exchange was way too fast for Chanyeol to comprehend fully, but he did manage to catch something about fruits. He paled.
“Oh, are these yours? I took a few grape berries, I’m sorry,” He sheepishly opened his palm to reveal the last piece that he got from the basket.
Yixing vehemently shook his head. “No, no, that’s okay.”
He draped a brown parka with a fur-lined hoodie over one of the chairs, while the backpack that had been hanging on his shoulder landed on the tabletop in one quick swing. He unzipped the main compartment just wide enough to pull out a small, waxed canvas lunch bag. The strap was tugged free from the slot before he unrolled the top.
“These are actually for guests. Mama just told me to grab a couple to take to school.”
Hugely relieved, Chanyeol sat back down and slipped the grape between his lips, all the while keeping observant eyes on the other boy. He was wearing a simple pair of washed-out denim and a navy blue, V-neck pullover. It didn’t seem like he had an undershirt on and Chanyeol wondered if he was serious about going out in the freezing weather with that few layers on him.
“School? Isn’t it winter vacation now?”
“It is,” Yixing answered, grabbing a green apple and a banana, one in each hand. “But I take foreign language electives over the breaks. So that I can chat with you guys like this,” he told him with a lopsided grin and a playful glint in his eyes.
Something about it oddly made Chanyeol want to giggle like a little girl. “Cool. You can practice your Korean with me sometime.”
Yixing smiled at him gratefully. “You know, I might actually take you up on that.”
He slipped his arms into his padded parka and then pulled the backpack over his shoulders. No ear muffs. No gloves. No scarf. Chanyeol was a strange mix of worried and amazed.
“Aiyah, I’m running really late. I’ll see you later!”
He was already out of sight when Chanyeol noticed the lunch bag on the table. Without thinking, he made a quick grab for the canvas and was about to go and try to catch Yixing when the boy barged back in, grimacing as the side of his shoulder slammed into the doorway.
Chanyeol was laughing before he could stop himself, earning him a mock-indignant slap on the arm. Yixing was bashfully laughing along, though, so Chanyeol knew he wasn’t really mad.
“You need to be more careful.” He handed over the food bag, mirth still lingering on the quirk of his lips. “And you forgot your fruits.”
“I know. This happens to me all the time.” Yixing muttered with a resigned sigh and extended a hand to retrieve his snacks. “Anyway, thanks!”
He gave a brief wave with the hand that wasn’t holding the bag; but then as he turned away Chanyeol noticed something else.
“Yixing-ge, wait!”
Rubber scuffed loudly against the floor as he came to an abrupt stop. Chanyeol’s grip on his backpack kept him from spinning around.
“What are you-”
Chanyeol yanked down the zipper of the bag.
“-oh.”
His voice came out equal parts taunting and incredulous when he asked, “Are you always this forgetful?”
This time, it was Yixing who burst into laughter first. Chanyeol blinked in surprise when the shorter boy turned and reached up to pat his head, just like how one would a well-behaved puppy.
“Ah, what would I do without you?”
❀❀❀
Chanyeol hasn’t been back long enough to be abreast of the hottest dining spots in town.
He suddenly wishes he’d listened to his sister when she told him to go out more and explore the area a little, because right now there are only three places nearby that spring to mind: the new shabu shabu place that Junmyeon had taken him to a week ago (not bad at all, but unless you’re really lucky, you’ll need to make a reservation at least three days earlier if you don’t want to waste time waiting in queue), the old bunshik restaurant near the stream (great view, but-maybe not), and the samgyupsal joint about a block away from Junmyeon’s café (definitely not).
In the end, Chanyeol decides he’s going to try his luck. Yixing slides into the passenger seat and they head downtown for some Japanese food. He skips the heater, presses a button to open the front seat windows just partially. It’s a short drive, anyway, and he knows Yixing will enjoy the view better like this. But then Yixing presses the controller beside him, prompting his window to pull all the way up.
“Let’s not leave the windows down,” he says, then takes the liberty to activate the car heater himself.
Chanyeol turns away from the road for a quick second to give his passenger a doubtful look. He’s staring intently at the controls, probably trying to figure out how to get the temperature adjustments to work.
“Won’t you feel too warm, though?”
“You get cold faster than I sweat and your skin hates the cold,” Yixing states matter-of-factly, mostly still distracted by the slew of Hangul-labeled options on the touch screen. “Anyway, I can just take off my jacket if I need to. Close your window.”
They happen to come by a red light then and Chanyeol takes this chance to stare at him, flabbergasted. He didn’t expect Yixing to remember that. Just as he’s secured all the windows, Yixing suddenly emits a muffled cry of triumph beside him. He turns to Chanyeol and asks, “24 degrees, right?”
“What?”
Curious, he flicks a glance at the monitor to see what the other man has been up to. Sure enough, the temperature indicator reads 24 degrees Celsius.
“Right?” Yixing prods, sounding all too happy with himself.
Chanyeol blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
He turns back to the road, fingers tightening around the wheel. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to curb... something. A laugh, maybe - or an embarrassingly high-pitched, banshee-screech, he’s not too sure. He really didn’t expect Yixing to remember anything about him, much less something as specific as his preferred room temperature. It’s just a silly little thing.
“Right,” he repeats under his breath, as if saying it one more time will make this all feel a little less surreal. As he listens to Yixing hum a tune under his breath, he thinks that maybe the heat coiling in his stomach might be enough to keep him warm for the rest of the day after all.
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