to where you are (1/3); for luhanacy

[perfectingart]

Title: to where you are
Rating: PG-13
Side pairing/s: chankai but only if you get it
Length: 20299 words
Summary: Lonely Jongin seeks solace in the astral world where he meets Baekhyun, who soon steals his heart. But also something else.
Warning/s: allusions to suicide, allusions to character death, supernatural shit, requires suspension of beliefs



Jongin knows exactly where he is, and yet he doesn't.

The barren mass of land in front of him stretches out further than his sight can go, but all he could see from here to its end is a sizable house halfway through. He scans the area some more, revolving around slowly on the balls of his feet.

He sees nothing else that's out of place, nothing sticking out like a sore thumb. Just a lot of reddish brown dirt under his shoes, a low-lying shrub a few feet away, and a boney carcass of a small animal to his left. Jongin decides then, like in any of other times that he's done this, to go with the flow and head for the house. Maybe what he's looking for is there.

It must be a good two-mile walk, however, to reach there from where he is. Jongin sighs. This is one of his least favourite things about being on the planes. There's so much walking, he whines, but bends down to pick a thick stick to use as a hiking companion anyway, and begins trudging towards his destination.

There's nothing much to entertain him during the walk. Jongin resorts to drawing circles in the dirt with the sharp tip of the stick, occasionally glancing up at the house ahead to gauge how much he's traveled.

It's only after a few glances that he realizes that he's not traveling at all.

Jongin stops dead in his tracks when he catches the sad dry shrub and doomed animal from before near him out of the corners of his eyes. He is literally at the exact spot he'd started out on.

If this had been Jongin on his first projection, he would have panicked right away. But now he knows that this is just another trick of the planes, to make him work for what's waiting at its end.

So he takes some time to think. There is always a way around these tricks. It might mean something silly like bunny-hopping all the way there. It might mean that he'd have to walk backwards. It might mean anything. There isn't exactly a how-to manual. He'd just have to try out every single idea that comes up.

He becomes so frustrated after a fifth one fell through that he screams and starts sprinting blindly towards the house, shoes snagging on jagged rocks as he goes. He bends over once he stops, panting.

Jongin sees it once he's straightened back up. He's managed to cut the distance down by at least half a mile.

He lets out a delighted whoop, thinking that's it, I have to run to get there.

But as he's just standing there collecting his breath, revving up for another burst of sprinting, the land bends and stretches on its own, as if made of plasticine, the moving earth towing the house back the distance Jongin's gained on it.

He's flabbergasted for a moment, but once he gets it he swears to never complain about having to walk a lot anymore.

Of course, Jongin figures out, I have to run non-stop to get there.

Suddenly he regrets not going to the gym anymore after the accident. He still looks like a fit twenty-something, but he knows more than anyone else that looks can be deceiving. Whatever stamina he might have had had seeped out of him a long time ago, along with his ability to dance.

He winces suddenly, shuts his eyes so tight his nose bridge crinkles, trying to block that sad memory out. This is not the time for that, he tells himself. He has to focus on the here and now. He has to get to the end.

Jongin tosses his stick away, takes a deep breath, and runs.



"Kim Jongin. You're next."

Jongin nods, having expected to be called. It's not like the small waiting room has anybody else in it. He throws a tight-lipped smile at the receptionist. "Thank you," he mumbles, his fingers busying themselves by fiddling with the ancient Dooly figurine he carries around on his keychain, a lucky charm of sorts he's had had for years.

He makes his way down the drab white hallway to the last door on the right as instructed. Dr. Zhang Yixing, Ph.D, the golden plate up front says in stark black letters. Astral Projection Specialist. He gently knocks, feet shuffling on the equally drab white carpet, waiting for an answer from within.

Jongin can't believe he's actually doing this. He's known to be logical, methodical, almost anal about having hard facts and figures presented to him before he swallows anything down as information. He is a no-nonsense, straight-to-the-point kind of guy, and likes to think he doesn't have even an iota of belief in superstitions and the paranormal.

It's a shock to him as much as it would be to anybody who knows him that he's actually seeking this sort of help. Astral projection sounds absurd. The idea that your soul can leave your body is ridiculous. Jongin's not even sure if there are indeed souls, in the way he isn't convinced that there is a god. But Sehun can be annoyingly persistent, throwing flyers and brochures about this crap at Jongin every chance he gets. Jongin's curious and desperate enough anyway, to try this at least once.

He wants an escape. He ran out of bargaining chips with life a long time ago, needs to get away from the dreariness of it all, the helplessness he wakes up to every morning, from nights of feeling so lonely it chokes him to sleep. He's already tried the other alternative, but when push comes to shove he could never pull that trigger. This might be his only solution.

"Come in, the door's unlocked," a chirpy voice calls from inside.

Jongin jolts out of his thoughts, turns the knob slowly. He peeks in cautiously.

"There you are." A man in a button-down shirt tucked into black slacks shuts the book he has in his hands, gestures at Jongin to have a seat. "You've finally decided on keeping your appointment," he chides teasingly, tone friendly and full of mirth.

A blush takes over Jongin's cheeks at that, his body bowed as low as it could to show his apology. "I'm really sorry about that, Dr. Zhang. I should have called to cancel."

The man just waves his hands as if to say it's nothing, getting up from his perch on his table to move closer to where the other stands. "It's alright. Many of my clients have done the same," he says as he pats Jongin on the back." It takes some time to get the courage to come to this place. It's quite the wild idea, so I understand." He grins, but then frowns a little. "And don't call me that, please. It's Yixing. Dr. Zhang is my mother." He points to a portrait of a regal-looking woman hanging on the baby blue walls.

Jongin chuckles.

"Now sit down," Yixing urges, pushing Jongin into a large, long couch as he himself plops into in the armchair opposite. He waits for a while to allow Jongin to settle in properly. "Alright, we could start right away with some questions, if that's okay with you?"

"Okay." Jongin nods slowly, the nerves from before returning.

"Don't worry so much, it'd be pretty simple ones," he assures him, having sensed the other's hesitance. He gives him a small smile. Jongin feels instantly at ease. "So I assume you've done some research about astral projection?" He asks as he serves his client some tea. "Right," he nods when Jongin answers with an affirmative, "can you tell me what you know? It could help me explain other aspects you may not have understood better."

Jongin sips some lemon tea before speaking. "Well," he begins, fingers gripping the handle of his china cup tightly, "I still can't say I know a lot. But I do know that it's an out-of-body experience kind of thing." He glances at Yixing, proceeding when he sees an encouraging nod. "Your soul gets separated from your physical state as you're at rest? Then it can travel to places until you return to your body."

"That's correct. So you have the general idea down, that's good." Yixing jots something down on his tab. "Anything else?"

"You can't get hurt in astral state, unless somebody's hurting your physical state. And there's a silver cord? That connects your soul with your body and makes sure it doesn't.... stray, I think," Jongin says, teeth worrying on his lips in uncertainty.

"All very true, Jongin," Yixing beams. "You've surely done your homework."

"But..... isn't it all a tad bizarre?"

Yixing laughs, drinks a bit of his own tea. "Of course it is. I think it is too. Then again," he pauses to wiggle further into the plush armchair, "that doesn't mean it's not real. Science is considered factual when much of it is bizarre too, no?"

Jongin doesn't have a proper response for that.

"Besides," the doctor continues, "you may not have realized it but I guarantee that you've projected astrally more times than you think."

"Really?" Jongin questions, cursing himself when his sarcasm shines through.

Yixing either doesn't catch it or is so used to this kind of reaction that he remains unfazed. "I kid you not. It's quite the common thing. Sometimes you think you're in a dream but what you are really experiencing is a projection. That's how you get deja vu."

"Huh?"

"Like you've seen something or been somewhere before. It's probably because you have, only not in your physical state."

Jongin is amazed that Yixing could say all this with such a straight face. He's starting to second, maybe triple guess himself, curiosity and desperation be damned. But he would like to believe that he's polite, so he can't just walk out.

"You still don't believe in it do you?" Yixing asks when he gets no response after a while. "That's okay, but think about it. Sometimes you're just walking down a street. Someone you've never met in your life comes around the corner, but all of a sudden you get a ping of recognition. Hasn't that happened to you before?"

"Of course. I always thought that was because of the 'everyone has six doppelgangers' rule, though, not.... this," Jongin blubbers, hands waving around in the air.

Yixing nods, pours some more tea for them both. "That's a plausible reason too, of course. Not all instances of deja vu are from encounters during projections. You're right to be skeptic, definitely." He scribbles something down in his tab again, more chicken scratch than writing, then shuts it with such aplomb that Jongin jumps a bit in his seat. "So rather than telling you," Yixing says, leaning in closer to Jongin, mischievous grin furrowing dimples into his cheeks, "why don't you have a go at it now instead?"

Jongin gapes. He'd thought a first appointment would have just been an interview session. He didn't think he'd have to project now.

"Yes, now." Yixing says, as if he had just read Jongin's mind. He looks so enthusiastic the other's visibly scared now, but Yixing's clearly not taking no for an answer. "It'll be easy peasy. I've done it many times before myself." He places a hand on his client's to assure him some more. "I'll guide you the whole way through, promise."

And Jongin really wants to just hightail it out of there, but then what else do I have to lose, he thinks. It's either this or-

"It's beautiful, you know, when you project." Yixing adds dreamily, reminiscing his own travels. "You can go anywhere you want. I've been to places I've only seen in photos. Paris, for example. Eiffel Tower." He points to the ceiling with his index finger, moves it in an upwards motion, makes a zoom sound effect. "The elevator's fantastic," he giggles. "It's great for when you're bored too. I was in an accident once, broke my leg. Projected myself right out of that room to go frolic around in Haeundae, no pai-"

"No pain?" Jongin cuts in, eyes wide.

Yixing's a bit startled by the sudden interest, but hums a yes all the same.

"And I can go anywhere, do anything?"

"......yes. Do you have something in mind?"

Dance studio. I want to dance.

Jongin nods.



As soon as he reaches the house, Jongin keels over, hands grasping his knees as he tries to catch a breath. He's never felt so tired before in his life. His heart is threatening to beat right out of its cage and into his throat.

He has a look around once he's calmed down, and notices straight away that the place is old and rusty, much moldier than the last one he'd encountered in his projections. This house is old-fashioned, something that wouldn't appear out of place in yet another cliched sageuk drama. Despite its small size there is that eerily majestic aura around it, a scene conjured out of some olden tale Jongin remembers from childhood. The eaves jutting out of its wooden frame are rotten and termite-infested, the floor underneath his feet made of some sort of ground rocks poured over the lawn haphazardly. In its heyday it would have been spectacular, but even now it is a beauty, the shadows its structure casts across its sandy lawn resembling licks of flames from a large fire.

There is a lone flat rock standing proud in front of it. Jongin knows what that's for. He steps on it to climb up onto the elevated entrance, sliding the shoji open cautiously. It gives way, but not without a loud squeak of protest.

Inside, it is dank and dark. A musty smell floats into his nostrils as he steps in. His boots leave prints on the dusty floor, the heavy trod of his feet making dents fleetingly into its frail paper-thin base.

Now Jongin could just stay in one spot and wait for something to happen, or he could have his own mini exploration party. His soul is a restless one, and he'd often opt for the latter activity, preferring the thrill of not knowing what he'd encounter behind a closed door to simply sitting around until whatever is behind it comes to him.

This time, however, the clue presents itself straightaway. There is a stream of light snaking out from under one of the shojis. Jongin heads towards it, hesitates for a minute before deciding to drag the paper door open.

He sees immediately that the source of light is the sun, white and blinding in here where it was red and setting outside. He doesn't let himself dwell on it too much. He's stopped puzzling over these small little oddities after a few projections. The planes are a contradiction on its own; it's real and yet it's not, you're alive and yet you're not. Jongin's learned that overthinking will get you nowhere.

There are several figures standing around, obstructing the doorway. Adults, from the looks of it. Jongin enters without a care, not only because he knows that they would be blind to him, but also because that hazy cloud of recognition he's come to be familiar with has begun to invade his senses and he couldn't think properly for blurry minute. And yet he knows that the replay has begun.

In the middle, tinier human beings are running and skipping around each other, precocious little things in tight tutus and leotards. Out of the corner of his eyes he catches a boy. He's noticeably older than the rest, perhaps not in appearance but in gait. His is the only defined face in the room. He's huddled alone against the floor length mirrors, warily observing his surroundings. Jongin feels his stomach clench.

Oh no, he thinks, albeit resignedly. Not this.

Just then, fingers twist into his own, and a warmness presses close to him.

"You stupid child," a voice comes, exasperated fondness clear in its tone as its owner clutches Jongin's hand more tightly. "I told you not to come here anymore. Now you'll lose this memory too, you dumbass." Jongin turns to look at the boy, whose face is contorted to simultaneously accommodate a frown and a smile, as if he's happy that Jongin's here but disapproving of his life choices at the same time. It's an expression Jongin's come to be partial to, on a face he's come to love.

And just as suddenly as it came, the tightness in his abdomen from before uncoils. Calmness washes over him in its stead. If losing these moments from his life means getting to see Baekhyun no matter how brief, he'll gladly lose them a million times over.

It will always be worth it.



The heady sort of euphoria he had felt after his first travel from Yixing's office had worn off gradually in the daily gruel of his morbid excuse of a life. Those little bubbles of happiness formed in his heart upon each step of a dance he'd 'performed' in that projection had popped and fizzled out one by one, with each step he takes towards the office job he hates, towards a home he despises, towards a meet-up with old friends from the dance studio where all he's reminded of is that they've moved on and he's still stuck in that fateful day where tragedy struck and wore him down.

So he took it upon himself to quickly learn how to project on his own. It'd taken him several tries, but he eventually got there.

Initially, the only thing he uses his time in astral state for was to go back to the studio and dance to his heart's content. He'd move to a classic tune, his body picking up its sound in ways he thought the lack of practice would have made it forget. He'll be there for hours until his muscles ache, tugging on his silver cord reluctantly when the early pricks of sunlight peeks through the curtains. He'd wake up feeling tremendously lighthearted.

It becomes a habit soon enough. At first he'd be fine with once a month. Taemin would comment that he's much easier to talk to these days, gladness evident on his face that his friend has found a way to emerge out of his depression somewhat. Sehun says I told you so, patting himself on the back with the smuggest expression Jongin's ever seen in his life on his face. Yixing had also been insufferably proud the next time Jongin pops in for a follow-up. "What did I tell you," he says. "Astral projection is the way of the future."

But soon it ceases to be an exciting novelty, and Jongin finds himself needing increasing frequencies of going under to maintain his happy facade. Being able to dance when he's in this foreign world only to jolt back into reality the next day with his waist still twisted out of place and a metal rod inside his leg engulfs him in a nasty feeling. He stops thinking that it's a very good idea to project to dance, when he knows it would amount to be nothing more than a dream, an empty promise with no chance of coming true.

The first time he'd traveled with zero intention of dancing, he'd met Baekhyun.

He wanders listlessly along the streets leading towards the beach. The moon throws its reflection across the black sea, the crashing of waves over the sand music to Jongin's ears. He treads carefully onto the edges of the water, hops over a jutting rock, and settles down. This small space is his safe haven. It's one he reckons only he knows, discovered when he was younger and playing unguarded on Naksan beach over a Chuseok visit to his grandparents' house nearby. As he grew older, he used to make the train trip down to Yangyang all the time under the pretense of seeing them, when truthfully he just wanted to be alone. It's where he comes to forget.

Jongin is drawing patterns into the sand when another body plops down across him.

"Hey there."

To say he's startled is an understatement. Nobody's ever spoken to him in his projections before. In fact, he's pretty sure it's not something that's possible. Yixing told him as much. Communication could only happen within a group travel.

But here is this person smiling at him mischievously, talking. Can he see me too, he ponders stupidly.

His confusion isn't unnoticed. "I scared you, didn't I?" The boy looks guilty as he ruffles his black hair. "I'm sorry," he says, extending a hand out. "I'm Baekhyun."

Jongin's still staring, but his arm moves on autopilot to meet this Baekhyun's hand halfway for a shake anyway. "My name's Jongin." His mouth works against his will too, apparently.

"I know. I've been following you around."

Twenty different alarms go off in his head. Oh gods, he panics. It's a demon.

"No I'm not a demon," Baekhyun snaps. "I can't read your thoughts either," he continues when Jongin's eyebrows shoot into his hairline. "Why do people just assume I am that, though? Do I actually look like one?"

Baekhyun points to his face. Jongin's forced to look. His eyes are small and droopy, a button nose that sort of spreads out when he smiles smack in the middle above really nice lips. "You're pretty," Jongin blurts uncontrollably.

It's the other's turn to send his eyebrows up into oblivion. An amused smirk takes residence on his mouth, more a no shit than a thanks, but Jongin wouldn't know. He's too busy blushing to care.

"Thanks," Baekhyun says after a while. "I've watched you dance. You're amazing."

"...how did you-"

"I don't know. I just woke up one day in front of that studio you always go to." He sends Jongin an encouraging smile as he wiggles his butt into a more comfortable position on the damp beach rocks. "I love the way you move. It's gorgeous. I wish I could dance like that."

The heat on Jongin's cheeks surges back up again. He clears his throat to clear the fluster out of his voice, muttering a thank you under his breath. "But how can you see me? And t-"

"-talk to you?" Baekhyun places a hand on his chest in a gesture of self reference. "I'm a... thing."

Jongin blinks. "A thing?"

"Yeah. You don't need to know what it is exactly. I wouldn't know either, to be honest. But I've been wandering around," Baekhyun explains as he throws his arms around in the air, "for ages. Watching over people like you."

"Like me?"

Baekhyun nods. "Travelers like you. Projectors."

".... how do you know I am one? You look - well - normal too."

"Of course I look normal. I was human once too, duh," Baekhyun scoffs playfully. He laughs when Jongin blinks again, eyelids flapping more rapidly than before. "Anyway, it's obvious when you're not... one of us."

Jongin wants to tell Baekhyun to just get on with it and stop trying to be so fucking mysterious when the other starts leaning in and he nearly toppled over from his perch in his surprise.

"There's this, of course," Baekhyun begins, touching the silver cord looped loosely around Jongin's waist as he does. The other hand reaches around to his back to retrieve his own. "Mine's not connected to a body anymore." Only then does Jongin notice a similar cord around Baekhyun, only it's black as opposed to his silver. The end has been severed off clean. The guy, ghost, creature, whatever he is, looks sad then, and Jongin feels the urge to say something comforting. It gets clogged in his throat, however, because then Baekhyun shifts his attention to Jongin's face and the next thing he knows there are fingers are tracing down the side of his cheek.

"Well, that's one reason. But you see," Baekhyun whispers, low voice raspy, and Jongin doesn't know if he's shuddering from that or from the coldness of fingertips skittering across his jaw, "it's more so because projectors all share the same look you have. Like-"

"-like what?"

Baekhyun retracts his hands and scoots back to his original spot. He looks hesitant, almost guilty, to answer, and Jongin wonders why. Just as he opens his mouth to ask, dawn slowly emerges out of the horizon behind them.

Jongin begins feeling pricks in his eyelids, signaling he should go back now. But the titian light of the sun cast over Baekhyun's face gives him an unearthly glow, and Jongin thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. All of a sudden it's too soon. He could feel the cord tightening around him in warning, but he doesn't want to leave yet.

"Like what, Baekhyun?" Jongin repeats. "What do I look like?"

The smile he gets as he starts retrieving back into consciousness is radiant, and he just catches the other's words just as he jerks awake in the safety of his bed.

Like you need fixing, Baekhyun had said. Like I'm meant to find you.



The boy plastered against the mirrors inches towards the whitewashed walls at the further end, as if eager to get away from the cooties he's afraid the little ballerinas in front of him might have. Maybe he just wanted to get away from girls altogether, really. He jumps over the odd prop scattered along his route, nimble on the toes of his ballet slippers.

Yixing had neglected to tell Jongin one thing; astral deja vu hits you with the force of a hundred colliding trucks. Baekhyun clutches onto him, knowing Jongin needs him there to stay upright as he watches his younger self from amongst the crowd, a bit dizzy and unstable on his feet already.

It isn't true that a memory remains vivid in your mind after so long being caged there. Jongin barely remembers the specifics of this one here. The trivial details don't matter. It shows in the way everyone save the boy is faceless, features smudged like oil paint on canvas. The shade of a door on the other end of the mirrors flickers maddeningly between black and gray, Jongin's memory not being able to decide what colour it actually was.

Suddenly the boy falls, having tripped over a backpack or some errant thing that obstructs his way. He curses with the bravado of an adolescent, sure of the vulgarity of the freshly learned word, but he also begins tearing up. It was a hard fall. Jongin hears Baekhyun muffling a snicker and gets a bit offended. The sharp stab of pain that must have gone through little Jongin then resonates within older Jongin's crummy kneecaps. It hurts.

As he tries to stifle his sniffles, a pair of hands wrap around his arms to lift him back up.

Jongin doesn't know why he hadn't noticed her in the room before. The woman smiles gently at the boy, pinching his puppy-fat cheeks to cheer him up.

That stab of pain from his knees translocates to his heart with vengeance as the memory unfolds before him. He knows her face so well. The heavy-lidded eyes, plush lips over a strong jaw, sharp edges defining her features. There's a small scar running above an aristocratic eyebrow, an even smaller mole above the winging of her mouth.

His mother takes his small, stubby hand in her thinner, large one, and leads him back to the dance floor.



He was waiting for him the next time Jongin travels straight to Naksan beach. Jongin's both scared and slightly relieved for some goddamn reason, when he sees Baekhyun sitting there on his rock in his secret place, toes touching the lapping water as he observes the midnight sky. He's luminous like this, the sea breeze blowing the bangs off his forehead. Jongin only realizes he's been staring when Baekhyun's head snaps around.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he says, shit-eating grin on his face. Jongin doesn't have the chance to be indignant because Baekhyun's leaping off and onto his two feet, dusting the wet moss off his ass. "Took you long enough. I've waited for nights, it's been cold as fu-"

"Why are you still here then," Jongin slurs more than questions.

"....waiting for you, of course!" His tone suggests that the answer should have been obvious, and that Jongin's an idiot for even asking. "Didn't I say I would?"

"You didn't, actually," states Jongin, shaking his head. "Why would you anyway? I don't need you to fix me or whatever it is you think you have to do. So please just..... leave."

Baekhyun doesn't look fazed at Jongin's hostility at all. If anything he becomes more emboldened than before, locking his gaze into Jongin's with such determination that the latter starts feeling a flush creeping up his neck.

"What if I say I could help you forget?"

Jongin takes a step back as Baekhyun takes one towards him. "What do you mean?"

"Isn't that why you're here for? Your life is shit. You want to get away from it all."

A second step back. ".....what?"

Another step forward. "How about I help make it all get away from you instead?"

Jongin feels his back hitting the rough surface of the overhanging rock. Baekhyun's proximity to his body is too close for comfort now. There's a small frown on his face, a product of concern maybe. It's barely visible but unmistakeably there, marring the space between his eyebrows. Jongin thinks that just for a second, he saw a flash of red amidst the black of his irises, but Baekhyun blinks and it's gone at once.

"All you have to do," he says , voice nothing more than a whisper, hand presented out for Jongin to clasp, "is follow me."

He should say no. It'd be the sensible thing to do. Jongin tries to remember if Yixing had warned him against encounters with beautiful boys in the astral world. Nope, he couldn't recall a thing. So what can he do, really, when one of them is imploring him to come along, sparkly eyes thinly caged within kohl, looking like something out of a wet dream from his teenaged years?

He relents and grabs hold.



The planes are terrifying. Jongin learns that right off the bat.

There's a rush he felt the moment his fingers touched Baekhyun's that first night he'd traveled beyond what he knew was possible. It's as if a black hole bloomed in the middle of his stomach, sucking him in. His cord yanks him back in objection, but Baekhyun's hand anchors him forward, jerking his body into a vortex leading to god knows where.

Jongin bends over, dry heaving into the asphalt once they're back on solid ground. An ant crosses through his line of vision, a piece of leaf thrice its own size in its mandible.

Asphalt, he thinks faintly. Ants?

He snaps back up to see concern on Baekhyun's face, but he doesn't have time to think about that now. It's broad daylight, the sun blinding like fluorescent lamps, the heat piercing into his skin sweating out into his thin shirt. Jongin panics. He's no longer at the beach.

"What the hell is this? Where the fuck have you taken me?"

Baekhyun latches onto his wrist to pacify him, but Jongin wrenches it away when he realizes that everything about this place feels vaguely familiar. They're standing on a steep uphill climb, around them grand manors obscured by tall gates. The one immediately on his left is particularly imposing. It's huge, fenced in by a wall of Italian marble. Overbearing trees shoot up from all four corners of its compound, dead leaves piling onto the black roof in the hot summer weather. It looks aloof and impersonal, but as Jongin stands there agape at what he's seeing all he could feel is warmth and security, artefacts of what the house used to mean to him.

This had been home once.

He dashes to the front gates with all the grace of a headless chicken, Baekhyun on his tail telling him to wait a minute. Jongin doesn't. He couldn't. He hasn't been here in ages, bulldozing through the unlocked gate in his excitement instead.

That should have been a sign for him that none of this is real. He knows better than anyone else that the gate should have been impenetrable, the coldness of its stainless steel armor a metaphor of its inhabitants within. Jongin knows, because he's spent hours standing in front of it the morning of his mother's wake, begging his father to visit her grave.

The haziness which greets him inside should be another clue. What he keeps in his memories and what he doesn't blend together. It's a chaos of images inside his head, exploding in technicoloured pixels in his eyes. He thought he was going mad.

A toddler, barely four, runs into the scene from out of nowhere, cutting through his haze. He waddles unsteadily but barges forward anyway, heading towards an enormous gift-wrapped parcel in the center. The edges settle soon afterwards, the streamers and decorations hanging across the yard becoming apparent. Happy birthday, our beloved Jongin!, most of them say. The little boy screams when he unearths a green tricycle, Dooly-themed with a miniature Dooly dangling from the handles. He gets on it, tries to fit his feet into the peddles, but his legs are too short. Bodiless laughter bursts out from all around.

There's a wobble on the boy's lips now, tears just waiting to gush out of his big eyes. A deep boom of a voice looms over him in an instance, telling him gently that men don't cry. He stops sniffling, small face full of determination to not cry, staring at the man above as if seeking approval for not going through with a full-on tantrum. He gets his hair ruffled and his cheek poked as a reward.

Jongin, standing a few feet away, feels the hand running through his own hair and a subtle stab into his own cheek. He knows he's lived through this, but how is it possible that he's reliving it? It's so surreal, a blow to his gut. He topples over, but before he hits the grass Baekhyun wraps an arm protectively around his chest. When he looks up a woman is there too, the very picture of radiance as she stoops down to peck both 'men' on the lips. His heart soars with happiness as he watches the threesome huddle into a family hug, the surge of blood accompanying it sending confetti into his vision again. He feels his body slumping heavily into Baekhyun for support, eyes shut tight until his head stops spinning.

When Jongin reopens them the yard is empty. It's just him against Baekhyun's chest, the noise from before reduced to the soft thrum of his own heartbeat, an are you okay whispered against his forehead.

"What is this place?" Jongin asks weakly.

Baekhyun inhales sharply. "We're in the planes. The greater planes, to be exact. This must be your first tier."

".....I don't understand."

"You wanted to forget. This is where you get to leave your memories behind."

Jongin blinks. Once. Twice. This is confusing. "But.... if it's really for me to forget then why did that just happen-"

"-happened precisely for this purpose. Whatever you just saw... you won't remember anymore in the morning."

"What? How?" He jolts away from Baekhyun's embrace, landing on his haunches. "You mean...... but that memory is-"

"-precious to you. I know. The birthday before your parents' divorce." Baekhyun cards a hand through his hair, keeps his eyes down so that he won't have to look directly at Jongin. "But is it really that bad if you lose it?"

"....what?"

"There's no such thing as a good memory. Only the start of a bad one. Really think about it, Jongin," says Baekhyun as he pushes off the ground to stand. "When you were.... watching it, were you really just happy?"

Jongin hears himself blurt out a no, the answer so obvious his tongue knows on reflex.

"It was painful too, wasn't it?" Baekhyun holds a hand out for Jongin to grasp so he could help him up, keeps their fingers locked together once they're both on their feet. "That's because you can't lie to yourself. Memories pile up. Over time you'd end up wishing the 'good' ones never happened, because that's the point where the fucking up begins."

Baekhyun squeezes his hand, as if to both reassure Jongin and to make sure he doesn't run away. Jongin just lets him. He can't tell if it's just the fact that this is the first time he's seen him, really seen him without the darkness of Naksan around them, that he finds himself looking at Baekhyun's face for longer than is appropriate. Just as well too, because under full light exposure Jongin catches for sure the glint of red in his eyes, jerking away from the guy in his surprise.

"What are you?" Jongin demands. "What do you want from me?"

"I'm just here to help." Baekhyun gives him a small smile. "Look, I can't force you to do anything." He gestures at his blackened cord. Jongin unconsciously touches his own, relieved when it's still there and intact. "Whenever you want to leave you're free to go."

He's about to give it a tug, wanting to just go home, when Baekhyun tells him to wait, voice almost pleading in tone.

"I know this is difficult to understand. But if.... things really change for you and you want to try again, I'll be at the beach. I'll wait for you to come back."

Jongin glares at Baekhyun, hoping he'd get the message that no, he would never want to have anything to do with him ever again. He adamantly pulls at his cord, the yard around them dissolving as his mind regains consciousness.

In that split second where he's stuck between this world and the planes, he thought he heard a soft please come back. But he can't be sure. He can't tell what's real and what isn't anymore.



Little Jongin clutches onto the barre as he begins stretching. He was slight for his age, chin barely reaching the top of the wooden beam, but he's bending and twisting enthusiastically anyway, demi plie as neat as a tightly tied bow, the shyness from before slowly leaving him. He's here to dance, and as his mother smiles at him from where she's correcting the posture of another student, he chants his mantra of I want to make her proud inside his head. I want to make her happy, all the determination a twelve-year old could muster embedded into every word.

She had been tall and lean, much like his adult self. Grace dictates every single move she made, pulsing from the flicked points of her fingers to the very tips of her toes when she dances. She demonstrates a plie and a tendu on the barre herself, everyone else following suit with varying degrees of success.

"Your mother's beautiful," Jongin hears Baekhyun breathe into his ear. He could only nod. She really is. Or was. This was her in her element and it shows, almost resplendent she is under the glow of the instreaming sunlight as she stands en pointe in the center of the room.

Jongin's never had the chance to see her mother dance professionally, but he knows from the countless framed pictures they had in their tiny apartment that she was an amazing ballerina. She'd given up on her career to become a wife and a mother. After the divorce, Jongin knows that she grew to resent ever making that decision. She'd disposed of something she cherished greatly for a person who'd disposed of her without so much as a second glance.

But his mother was resourceful, and she managed to get them back on their feet quickly, having a successful dance school up and running within a couple of years. This very place right here, Jongin recalls as he looks around the studio. A place to call her own, one set up as her marriage was crumbling down. It's somewhere she depended on to regain a sense of self-worth.

Regardless of how resilient she had been, however, she never found it in herself to forgive his father's infidelity. The hatred ate away at her. The woman Jongin's looking at right now, with the smile and a chuckle to spare for everyone, isn't real. She's only an illusion. A projection all on her own, afforded not by the separation of her soul from her body, but by those antidepressants Jongin's seen in their medicine cabinet.

As a young boy, he'd asked his mother about them, about his father, about why she looks so sad when no one else is around. She never answers his questions with words, only a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive pat on his chubby cheek. He gradually learned that it's better not to ask. Reminiscence only threw his mother into a downward spiral of depression. He couldn't deal with it then, so he ignored her whenever she allowed herself to fall into that pit of self-pity. It's no wonder then that whenever he allows himself to do the same now, he couldn't deal with it either.



this story is continued.
part ii