20/20 Blindfold Vision- commentary
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Title: 20/20 Blindfold Vision
Pairings: Hanchul, minor Kangteuk
Genre: AU, drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything
Summary: They can try. Oh yes, they can try until they’re blue in the face, until they run out of ideas, until they die, but nothing and absolutely nothing will change his and Heechul’s love for each other.
Cut: “Society can go screw itself for all I care.”
A/N: Amazing. I actually wrote something O.o
- - - - - - -
The boy appears out of nowhere.
Han Geng falls backwards with a tiny yelp because, well, what else is he supposed to do? One minute, he’s squatting in the sandbox and building what will be the biggest sand castle in the world, and the next, he looks up to find that there’s someone crouched on the opposite side of the castle, staring at him.
Castle in the Sand by briteskies was one of the very first fic that I read (it’s Kurofai) over at fanfiction.net. Don’t remember how it goes, but it just stuck with me.
“Um, hi.” Han Geng smiles widely, offering the boy his plastic shovel. “Do you want to build a sand castle with me? It’s going to be the biggest one in the world!” He stretches out his arms as far as they can go just to show how big his structure will be once he’s finished. “And maybe even the universe,” he brags, swinging his hands up and down when the boy doesn’t say anything.
The boy gazes at Han Geng for a few more seconds, head tilted inquisitively, round eyes wide and innocent, before grinning largely just as Han Geng lowers his arms sheepishly. “Not today,” the boy singsongs, painstakingly sticking a small twig with the leaf still attached into the tallest sand tower. “Not today.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Han Geng turns his head at the exasperated sigh of his mother, who had rushed over upon seeing her son sitting dazedly in the sand. “You’ve got sand all over your clothes.” She scoops him up and brushes the sand off, swatting his butt lightly when she deems him clean enough. “There. Now let’s go home. Your daddy’s waiting.”
“Okay,” Han Geng says obediently, wrapping his tiny fingers around his mother’s much larger ones. He pauses to say goodbye to his new friend, but the boy has run off to amuse himself on the big slide.
His mother tugs on his hand gently. “You can play in the park again tomorrow,” she coaxes, misunderstanding his hesitance to leave. “But it’s time to go home right now. Don’t you want to tell Daddy about the amazing sand castle you built today?”
Bobbing his head enthusiastically, Han Geng proceeds to proudly explain in great detail every inch of his castle as she exclaims over every other sentence and praises him for being so smart. He forgets to tell his mom about the boy, but it’s alright because he’s sure they’ll run into each other again.
- - - - - - -
And they do. Run into each other again, that is, this time on the playground of Han Geng’s kindergarten. “Hi!” Han Geng calls out excitedly, skidding to a stop in front of the boy, breathing heavily from having sprinted all the way from his classroom.
For a moment, Han Geng fears that the boy doesn’t remember him, but the other breaks into a delighted smile, one that makes Han Geng’s lips turn up even more. “Hi!” is the equally cheerful reply. They stand there for some time as the other children run past, not doing anything, really, just beaming at each other. “Wanna play on the swings?” the boy suggests, pointing towards the playground equipment in question.
There was a swing set by the kindergarten area back at my elementary school.
“Sure,” Han Geng agrees instantly, thinking that he would’ve said yes to anything and everything the boy asked. Hand in hand, they dart over to the swing set where two adjacent seats are still unoccupied.
Because he reaches their destination one step ahead of the boy, Han Geng plops himself down into the closest of the two swings, idly pushing himself back and forth as he waits for his friend to settle in. He then remembers something Very Important, so he turns around, seat squeaking and chains creaking from the movement. “Oh yeah, I’m--”
Han Geng stops mid-sentence, because the person sitting next to him is definitely not his friend. “Hey!” Han Geng cries. The mean boy (mean, because who would steal another person’s swing like that?) doesn’t look up. “Hey!” Han Geng repeats angrily, and catches the mean boy’s attention.
The mean boy is some random, unimportant OC because I didn’t want to make Han Geng’s imaginary world even more complicated.
“What?” the mean boy says (and quite rudely, too).
Han Geng glares at the mean boy. “Why are you here?” he interrogates, eyes flickering to his friend who is most decidedly swing-less.
“Because I’m swinging, duh,” is the answer. The mean boy pumps his legs as though to demonstrate.
Grabbing the metal chain, Han Geng wrenches the swing to a halt. “You’re not supposed to,” he insists as he stands up to his full height.
The mean boy also gets off the swing. “And why not?” he asks, fists clenching and eyes narrowing.
Glaring back, Han Geng jerks his thumb towards his friend. “Because it’s his seat,” Han Geng bites out, “and we got here first.”
The mean boy quickly looks at Han Geng’s friend before turning back with a sniff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scoffs arrogantly. “There’s--”
He was going to say “There’s no one there” or something along those lines
Out of the corner of his eye, Han Geng spots a blur streaking past him right before a red haze clouds his vision and he charges forward. He blinks, and when his eyes clear up, the mean boy is curled up on the ground, bawling loudly.
“Huh, what a wimp.” Han Geng realizes that it is his friend who’s standing over the mean boy, nose wrinkled, prodding the mean boy gingerly with one foot.
The only thing that runs through Han Geng’s mind and out his mouth is, “Nice punch.”
The boy shrugs nonchalantly and nods at Han Geng. “You too.” Han Geng blinks again, now in astonishment, because he didn’t notice that his knuckles are hurting a bit.
“Yeah,” he mumbles in amazement, then, more confidently, “Yeah!”
By this point, the mean boy’s howling and the boggled-eyed crowd have summoned the yard supervisors, who expertly survey the scene before catering the mean boy off to the nurse and dragging Han Geng back to his classroom for a Time Out and a phone call to his parents. He accepts the punishment along with the lectures on the necessity of sharing and playing nice because he knows, as his mom reprimands him and his dad winks and whispers, “That’s my boy,” that he was right in standing up for his friend.
And that’s why, once he is allowed to have recess again, he races across the playground to the boy who is waiting in the same spot with a smile, sticks out his hand, and greets the boy in one breath with, “Hi. I forgot to tell you. I’m Han Geng. What’s your name?”
- - - - - - -
Han Geng eventually refers to the boy as he, in italics because it indicates just how important the boy is, and besides, what is in a name anyway? He laughs when Han Geng presents his logic, teasing about how Han Geng must actually be an old man in the body of a kid to have come up with such a crazy reasoning, but allows for the endearment (his word, not Han Geng’s) because the lack of names does make things seem more intimate (the last part is accompanied by a playful leer).
I guess the ‘what’s in a name’ bit is from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Fitting, since the Hanchul here is so packed with drama.
Rolling his eyes, Han Geng pulls a potato chip from the lunch sack that his mom prepared and flicks it in his direction. He dodges it with a careless ease as though expecting it. “Admit it,” Han Geng challenges, eyeing the seagulls swarming down to fight over the fallen snack, “you don’t mind because it makes you feel special.”
My favorite chips are Ruffles Cheddar & Sour Cream, but I imagine Han Geng eating Lays Classic Potato Chips
He leans forward, elbows on the lunch table, brimming with certainty. “I don’t deny it,” he announces breezily but with the same assurance as someone stating that nothing is better than Super Junior. “I’m special. You wouldn’t last a single day if I wasn’t here.” He then erupts into raucous cackles that somehow don’t send the seagulls flapping away before falling silent. Reaching across the table, he grabs Han Geng’s wrist, bringing the captured hand up to his lips, warm gusts of air tickling the fine hairs on the back of Han Geng’s hand. “I am special, aren’t I?” he inquires softly.
One of my favorite scenes from Mujihi na Otoko since I love Kuon’s response ^.^
Transfixed, Han Geng gazes as a pink tongue darts out to lick his thumb and index finger free of oil and salt- slow, wet swipes against the pads of his fingers that leave them glistening with saliva. “Yes,” he breathes out, meeting those hooded eyes. “You’re special.”
Lips quirk up smugly, and pale fingers release his wrist. “Thought so.”
Sitting back in the bench, Han Geng muses how the person across from him hasn’t changed one bit. From the blurry years of kindergarten, to the faded experiences of elementary school, to the sketchy times of middle school, to now in high school, he has remained ever as before- so barbed tongued, so fearless, so self-assured- even when their best friend (also in italics because he’s special as well, though not quite as special as him) moved in and turned their duo into a trio.
And speaking of things staying the same, Han Geng thinks sullenly as a group of jocks strut past. Though most of them are preoccupied flirting with the popular girls or discussing the upcoming sports game, a select few deliberately slow down just to drawl out, “Freeeeaaak,” with much sneering and contempt.
Maybe it’s just me, but high school didn’t really seem to have as much an emphasis on cliques as the media portrays. There were cliques, but not insanely stereotypical ones.
His eyes flash dangerously. Slamming his hands against the table (Han Geng thanks the deities that the action doesn’t rock the bench), he shoots up and shouts furiously, “Yah, say that again!”
The jocks merely saunter off laughing condescendingly as Han Geng lunges across the table to pull him back down. This time, the rickety wooden structure does creak noisily at the added weight.
He whirls around to face Han Geng. “Why do you let them talk to you like that?” he demands, running his hand through his hair, incensed. “You know that if you just let us, we could teach them a lesson and they wouldn’t ever bother you again. You wouldn’t even have to do anything, just leave it to us.”
With a world-weary exhale, Han Geng picks himself out of his now squished lunch and sits down heavily, brushing the crumbs from his shirt. “Because,” he explains for the nth time, “violence is not the answer--”
“But it is an answer,” he interjects infuriatingly.
Reference to a Prince of Tennis icon for the Yamabuki team.
“Violence is not the answer,” Han Geng repeats sternly, “and I would rather they gang up on me than the two of you.” Han Geng nibbles thoughtfully on a potato chip that had escaped his impromptu belly flop. “Besides, every time that you two get into a fight or do something wrong, I’m always the one who gets in trouble.” He frowns at him. “Why is that?”
Smirking, he sweeps an arm across the table, knocking the remainders of Han Geng’s lunch to the ground and therefore to the mercy of the vicious seagulls that start holding their own Battle Royale. “Like you said,” he rationalizes before taking off, “better you than us, you masochist.”
Battle Royale: excellent novel, meh/gory manga, terrible movie.
And of course, Han Geng gets the blame for littering and provoking the wildlife.
- - - - - - -
They are in Han Geng’s room again. Han Geng doesn’t remember when it started, but they somehow always end up heading there once school lets out. It’s not a bad arrangement, all things considered, because Han Geng’s parents are usually at work, trusting that their son will not spontaneously decide to host a party in their absence. Han Geng chooses not to remark that a party for himself, him, and maybe their best friend is pointless. And very pathetic.
So there they are in Han Geng’s room, more specifically, sprawled side by side on Han Geng’s bed. Days like these should happen more often, Han Geng thinks blissfully. To just lie on your back, eyes at half-mast, doing nothing at all- that’s the epitome of relaxation. It would be more ideal to do the same things at the beach or the park, but one’s bedroom suffices.
They lie there, chests slowly rising up and down, listening to the sounds of their own breathing and the clock ticking. He eventually nudges the comfortable silence between them. “Sooooo,” he intones languidly, “what did your parents say about your new hair?” His hand drifts up to finger Han Geng’s platinum strands.
“Not much.” Han Geng carries on with his appraisal of the ceiling. “Just the expected goldfish impersonations. I think they were actually happy that I decided to ‘rebel.’” He raises his arms briefly to make air quotes before letting them flop back onto the bed with a thump.
He makes an amused noise. “Well, considering how they’re convinced that you’re a stick in the mud loner- which you are, by the way- they probably wouldn’t even mind if you got a tattoo or something.” He rolls onto his side, mischievous grin in place. “How about it? You can get one on your forehead that says ‘Property of--’”
“No thanks,” Han Geng cuts him off dryly while he buries his face into Han Geng’s shoulder to muffle the inevitable snorts. “I wouldn’t want to make myself even more of a social outcast than I already am.”
“Hmm,” he hums, drawing away fractionally. His eyes gleam with curiosity. “So why did you do it then?”
“Do what?”
“This.” There is a none too gentle yank on his hair that has Han Geng mournfully bidding farewell to the strands that part his scalp.
Han Geng eases his head away to loosen the death grip. “I told them that I wanted something different.”
“Uh huh,” he scoffs doubtfully.
“I did.” Han Geng flips over to face him, the bed springs groaning and the blankets bunching up in the process. “Well, that’s part of why,” he amends at his skeptical face.
“And the rest of it?”
Lifting his hand, Han Geng tangles his fingers carefully into brilliant crimson locks. “Because you guys got new hair styles and I wanted to match.”
Now, I find it incredibly annoying in fics when Hanchul have their Don’t Don hairstyles You can immediately picture them, but it’s just overused.
“Aww, how sweet,” he coos, patting Han Geng on the cheek. “Though clearly you wanted to complement my gorgeous looks because our dear best friend looks like some claw-happy cat assaulted him after he got a buzz cut.”
“Clearly,” Han Geng echoes, and receives an irritated dig into his stomach for the unappreciated mockery before they both lapse into silence.
Taking into account all of the abuse he endures, mainly verbal and some physical, Han Geng really has no explanation for what he does next. Maybe it’s because his eyelids flutter close as Han Geng runs his fingers through the bright scarlet tresses. Maybe it’s because he starts purring ever so softly at Han Geng’s ministrations. Maybe it’s because his skin glows even in the dim lighting. Maybe it’s because he looks so natural lying there in Han Geng’s bed. Maybe it’s because everything is so tranquil, so relaxing, so lazy.
Maybe it’s because this fic is terrible.
For whatever the reason, Han Geng closes the millimeters that separate them and brushes his lips against the other’s.
But he stiffens and lurches upright so quickly that Han Geng is left openly gaping with his hand hovering in the air. “You weren’t supposed to do that,” he says quietly, gripping the blankets so hard that his knuckles turn white. “You weren’t supposed to kiss me.”
Han Geng crossing the line between reality and fantasy blah blah blah
Han Geng’s not sure he likes the emotions flitting around in his eyes- some disconcerting combination of disbelief, guilt, and remorse that Han Geng has never seen before and wishes never to see again. A sense of unease unrolls in his stomach, and he pushes himself into a sitting position, bracing himself on one hand. “And pray tell why not?” he dares him even though some miniscule speck in the far, far, far back of his mind screams that no, he really wasn’t supposed to do that.
Rather than answering, he instead forces out, “I don’t think you can see the full implications of this.” His fists clench on the blankets all the more tightly, and his voice drops another notch. “You can’t see the consequences.”
Han Geng shifts his weight and tucks his legs underneath so that he is kneeling instead of uncomfortably holding himself up with one arm. He covers his hands with his own, thumbs stroking the taut knuckles soothingly. “What are you talking about? I can see them perfectly fine.”
Wide eyes darken with something remotely akin to frustration. “No, you can’t.”
He decides to drop that particular issue because there is no arguing with him once he sets his mind on something. “Okay. So I can’t see them.” The words roll off his tongue and leave a bitter aftertaste. “But I don’t care.” He brings one hand up to stroke his face tenderly. “I don’t,” he enunciates clearly when he shakes his head, “I don’t.” And he plants a chaste kiss to his temple for emphasis.
Han Geng senses, rather than sees, his lips pursing together. “You haven’t even thought about what I am, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Han Geng responds anyway, absently thinking that he probably, certainly, knows the answer already.
Closing his eyes, he rests his forehead against his. “I love you for who you are,” he states simply. “Just because you’re a guy doesn’t make me love you any less.” He thinks for a few seconds and adds, “Society can go screw itself for all I care.”
An annoying yaoi cliché: “But we’re both guys!”
He is rewarded with a weak chuckle, and takes it as his cue to sneak a glance. Most fortunately, even though his expression is tinted with a shade of sorrow, the wry smile more than compensates for it. “You’ll probably regret this,” he warns not unkindly.
It is Han Geng’s turn to shake his head. “Never,” he says firmly, and, once more, eliminates the empty space between them.
He responds this time, and it is exactly as Han Geng has imagined- smooth milky white skin against his palm, fiery red strands tickling his fingertips, a warm slender body against him, pliant lips sliding insistently and unyieldingly (because the idea of him being submissive is laughable and frankly a little scary even in his fantasies) in time with his- and all Han Geng can do is kiss back with the same fervor.
So caught up is he in the clinking of teeth and melding of lips that he doesn’t hear his parents enter the house. He doesn’t hear them making their way to his room, chatting about their respective days and what they should do for dinner. He doesn’t hear his father knocking and proclaiming their presence. He doesn’t hear the knob turn. He doesn’t hear the door open. He does, however, hear his mom gasp aloud, whether in shock or horror he doesn’t know, and the sound is loud enough to jolt Han Geng to awareness.
“Mom! Dad!” To say that he is stunned would be a gross understatement. So would saying that he feels like someone has just shoved him off a steep cliff and told him to start flying. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and tries not to notice him getting paler and paler with each passing second. “You’re home early.”
His parents don’t appear to register his feeble attempt at a casual conversation. “Honey, what are you…?” His mother’s question falters in the awkwardness that thickens the air. His father’s expression is inscrutable.
Swallowing hard, Han Geng slaps a nervous grin on his face, his facial muscles straining from the effort. Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm, he chants in his head as he wraps his arm around his trembling shoulders and squeezes lightly for comfort. Whether the comfort is for him or himself is up for debate.
“Um,” tries Han Geng as his parents’ eyes creep back and forth between him and their son. Han Geng clears his throat, and their bewildered gazes jump back to him. “I don’t think you guys have been officially introduced,” he utters waveringly. “This is--”
“Damnit,” he swears lowly, jerking away from Han Geng.
Eyebrows knitting together, Han Geng reaches for him. “Hey, what’s wrong…?” His voice dies off when he abruptly cups Han Geng’s cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, rising up. “I’m so sorry.” With that, he slips through in between Han Geng’s parents and bolts out of the house so swiftly that Han Geng doesn’t even hear the front door slam shut.
Although it is too late, Han Geng jumps up with his hand outstretched and shouts “Wait!” The small, irrational part of him hoping that he will somehow come back is sadly disappointed. His parents stare blankly at where he ran past them before sluggishly turning back to face Han Geng, who drops his arm back to his side and scuffs the ball of his foot against the carpet. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I didn’t think he would--”
His father slams his fist against the wall.
Han Geng startles at the earsplitting bang. “Dad?” he calls out shakily, stepping forward.
“No!” his father yells. Han Geng flinches and withdraws until the back of his knees hit the bed. His father whirls around and storms away. “No. No no no no no! Not my son. Not my boy!” The bellowing continues to ring in Han Geng’s ears long after the master bedroom door slams shuts and rattles the picture frames on Han Geng’s desk.
There is a keening noise, and Han Geng is dismayed to see his mother sink to the floor, face ashen and tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Mom?” he whispers pleadingly, almost fearfully, but her tears only fall harder. He stumbles ungracefully to the door and collapses onto the floor, enfolding her in his arms. “Mom, please. Don’t cry,” he begs, blinking his own eyes furiously. “I’m still your son.”
She clings to him, and he can feel a damp patch spreading on the front of his shirt. “It’s okay, honey,” she sobs, inconsolable, “We’ll get you some help. It’s okay. It’s okay.” She repeats the mantra again and again through her crying, as though saying it will make everything alright.
Han Geng desperately wants to believe her.
Wow, that was very melodramatic O.o
- - - - - - -
‘Help’ comes the very next day.
The two of them are in Han Geng’s room again despite his vehement protests. Once there though, Han Geng finds that there is a lump in his throat that refuses to be swallowed. What is one supposed to say in a situation like this? Don’t worry? Everything will be fine? We’ll get through this together? It all sounds sickeningly false and cliché even in Han Geng’s head.
And then there’s him, standing with his shoulders slumped, dark circles prominent under his downcast eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says one more time, and Han Geng truly has no reply, because for as long as Han Geng has known him, not once has he apologized for anything, and hearing it so many times in a matter of days scares the heck out of Han Geng even more than his parents’ reactions.
My god, ‘Heechul’ has been so OOC, but since it’s not actually Heechul… *shrugs*
“Hey,” he murmurs softly, holding out his arms. The thing about his relationship with him is that although they are both quite vocal people, there is this unspoken understanding that allows them to communicate in the barest of words (their best friend insists that it’s some sort of telepathy), and never before has Han Geng appreciated this connection than when he wordlessly steps into the hug and circles his arms around Han Geng’s waist.
Han Geng rests his cheek against soft hair, feeling puffs of air being breathed shakily against the side of his neck. His own breathing isn’t too even either- he can tell by the uneven way the loose strands of his hair flutters every time he exhales.
But he only holds him that much more closely, because for reasons that he can’t properly articulate, Han Geng knows what’s coming. He knows it before the doorbell rings and his father gruffly welcomes the visitors. He knows it before his mother enters his room with tears threatening to overflow after knocking. He knows it before two men, impeccably dressed in neat suits, step in with both hands raised, saying calmly and soothingly as though to a wild animal, “We’re not here to hurt you. Please come with us.”
Han Geng tightens his embrace, slides his eyes shut, and inhales deeply. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to hold him again, breathe in his scent again. “Fine.” Han Geng is inwardly surprised at how controlled his voice sounds. “But you’re not taking him.” He draws away reluctantly and moves swiftly in front of him, shielding him from the men.
He seizes Han Geng’s hand from behind. “What are you doing?” he hisses frantically. Han Geng smiles grimly. He is probably thinking that Han Geng is about to do something remarkably stupid. He would be right, as always.
“Go,” Han Geng orders him, not taking his eyes off the people before him.
“What?!” is the incredulous reply.
“Go,” repeats Han Geng. He gives his hand an encouraging squeeze. “Get out through the window and hide somewhere until it’s sa--”
“Hell no!” he explodes, and Han Geng can feel the livid glare burning holes in the back of his head. The grip on his hand becomes excruciatingly tight. “If you think that I’m just going to leave you--!”
“Please,” Han Geng beseeches. “For me. Do it for me.” And he knows from how his breath hitches painfully that, even in a predicament like this, he will not refuse Han Geng’s request. He never has.
After what seems like an eternity, he brings Han Geng’s hand up and presses a searing kiss into the palm. “Only for you,” he whispers fiercely, and then he is gone.
It’s You is my favorite Suju song/MV.
A wave of relief washes over Han Geng when the two men do not pursue him. Of course not, why would they? They are here for Han Geng. Only when he feels like he has had sufficient time to escape does he allow the men to take him, permit them to escort him out of the house. Han Geng even manages to summon up all of his bravado as they usher him into a nondescript black van to sarcastically mention, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
A Streetcar Named Desire. Didn’t love the play, but I liked that line.
Somewhere in the background before the car door shuts, he can hear his mother weeping uncontrollably and his father consoling her, but he ignores them. The tingling sensation from his lips lingers in Han Geng’s palm, branded into his memory.
- - - - - - -
One hour.
One day.
One week.
One month.
Five. Whole. Months.
Han Geng has had enough of this place, has had enough of the atrocious food, the white walls, the sterile environment, the plastic staff members, the ‘How are you feeling today’s. Perhaps that’s what prompts him to spring to his feet and loudly announce, “I love Heechul,” midway through his daily check-up.
The clipboard slips out of the doctor’s slackened grip and clatters to the tiled floor, papers scattering every which way. Neither the doctor nor the male nurse bothers scrambling for them.
“Pardon. What did you say?” splutters the doctor as the nurse drops a pen.
Ha ha ha, that must’ve been quite a shock for Dr. Heechul and Nurse Jungsu XD
“I. Love. Heechul.” Han Geng drags out each word with relish, immensely enjoying the spectacle of the speechless doctor and nurse. He breaks out into borderline maniacal laughter. “And you homophobes can’t do anything about it.”
Through the slits of his eyes, Han Geng sees the nurse recover first. “Doctor,” the nurse says urgently, “maybe we should bring in someone else.”
“No.” The doctor warily observes Han Geng with a critical once-over. Han Geng is too busy doubled over and wheezing to complain about being examined like a piece of meat. “It’s fine.”
Han Geng just laughs and laughs and laughs until his stomach and face hurt, and then he laughs some more, not giving a damn if this further ‘proves’ that he’s a few French fries short of a Happy Meal. because he has come to an epiphany.
Oh look, I found a grammatical error after ‘Happy Meal’
He loves Heechul. Heechul loves him. The shrinks can do whatever they want to him (and he knows they will); they can try to straighten him out until they run out of pills, until all the mental institutions burn down, until they’ve diagnosed him with every single psychological illness in the book and then some.
But nothing, nothing that they do will cause his and Heechul’s love for each other to change.
And that is the absolute truth.
- - - - - - -
Han Geng has been locked up for exactly one year. He can tell because there are 365 marks on the base of one of the walls in his room. He carved them there himself, on his hands and knees, scraping with the edge of his fingernail until an indent formed, one notch for each passing day. An image of the room covered from floor to ceiling with scratches floats through his mind unbidden, and he shakes his head to disperse it.
He’s not locked up, per se, like some of the actual patients here (Han Geng can hear them shrieking and pounding away at the doors throughout the night). In addition to the cafeteria and visiting rooms, he’s allowed to use the bathrooms by himself, visit the recreational area, and wander about the courtyard. A privilege, they tell him with a patronizing smile, a reward for his good behavior. They can use all the pretty words they want, but it’s still a prison to him.
Picking at the hem of his shirt, Han Geng wonders if he will see Heechul today. Since his parents probably told the staff to ward off any visitors other than themselves, Heechul had taken it upon himself to sneak in and see Han Geng personally, donning a different appearance each time.
“Haven’t you run out of disguises by now?” Han Geng joked when Heechul turned up a few months ago.
Heechul had tossed his bleached do out of his eyes and sneered. “I haven’t even started yet.” And to prove his point, the next time Heechul showed his face, he was sporting long straight black hair tied up in an effeminate ponytail.
And it’s also annoying when Heechul has bleached hair. I thought he looked very pretty with his U hair, and I was rather disappointed to find out via Full House that they were extensions.
Lately though, security has gotten tighter than ever, and it has been harder for Heechul to find a way in, the period between his visits increasing gradually. At first, Heechul had managed to make it into Han Geng’s room. Afterwards, he got as far as the door to the room, then the hallway, then the visiting rooms, then the lobby, and during his last appearance, he was only able to hover around the entrance of the hospital.
Maybe it’s irritation and frustration from having not seen Heechul for an entire week that spurs Han Geng to accuse cynically, “You guys are cowards.”
The doctor, whose questions Han Geng has been resolutely ignoring for the past half hour, to his credit, continues writing and doesn’t look up. “Sorry?” he inquires genially.
“Cowards. All of you.” Han Geng doesn’t bother clarifying who ‘you’ refers to because, well, it’s kind of obvious. “You’re just scared because you have no clue what to do with me.”
“Is that so?” The amiable tone makes it sound like they’re discussing the weather.
“Yeah.” Han Geng crosses his arms over his chest. “Let’s face it. It’s already been a year since I’ve come here, and nothing you guys have done has worked. I’m still gay and I still love Heechul.”
This time, a muscle in the doctor’s jaw twitches ever so inconspicuously, and it doesn’t escape Han Geng’s triumphant notice. “That’s…not the real issue here,” the doctor states cautiously, adjusting his glasses.
“No?” Han Geng shoots back. “Because I think that it is the real issue.” He leans forward, elbows on thighs and hands clasped between his legs. “You guys are scared.”
“We’re not--” the doctor attempts to deny, but Han Geng interrupts him.
“You are. You’re scared shitless because you don’t understand this whole homosexual business. Or, rather, you don’t want to understand it. It’s not something that can be attributed to the majority, and it’s not something that you can just dissect and study and find the cause or whatever, so you just take the spineless route and call it a freak thing.”
“That’s not--”
Han Geng snaps his fingers. “Oh! I got something better; you guys can’t stand it because you are afraid that you might be gay yourselves.” A feral grin slinks onto his face. “Now wouldn’t that be hypocritical? And a big case of self-denial, too. How’s that for irony?”
“I don’t think--”
Sighing noisily, Han Geng straightens up and slaps his hands on his knees. “Either way, it boils down to this- you guys don’t know what to do with me because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He juts out his chin. “Got that down in your notes? You can sprout all the psychological reasons that you can come up with in your narrow-minded brains, but it’ll all be useless because there is nothing wrong with me.”
“We never--”
“All that yapping about homosexuality being unnatural and stuff? Total bullshit. If you want unnatural, just go see a plastic surgeon. But being gay is a part of who I am. Whether it has to do with my genes or all that complex biological stuff, I don’t know, but it’s something that’s as much a part of me as my ethnicity or personality or features or so on. You’ll never be able to chalk it up to some mental affliction because it’s who I am.”
Failed attempt at bringing in real life issues.
A long silence follows Han Geng’s speech. The doctor steeples his fingers and fixes a hard look on Han Geng, who returns the steely gaze with one of his own.
The doctor eventually speaks up. “You can’t be with Heechul,” he says almost gently and somewhat wearily, as though they’ve had this argument before. They probably have, but this is one debate that Han Geng will never back away from, and now is no exception.
“Why? Because he’s a guy?” Han Geng lets out a short bark of laughter. “Look, I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I’m exactly the same as everyone else. I bleed if pricked, I laugh if tickled, I die if poisoned, and I take revenge if wronged, just like any other person. And you can bet your doctor’s degree that I love as well. The only thing is that the one I love is the same gender as me. But it doesn’t make a difference.” He pauses. “It shouldn’t make a difference.”
The ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ speech from Merchant of Venice. Didn’t like that play either.
The doctor regards him for several more contemplative moments. “Your parents love you very much,” he finally informs Han Geng.
Han Geng grunts derisively. “If they did then I wouldn’t be here in the first place.” Getting to his feet, he crosses the room and perches on the ledge next to the barred window. “Please leave,” he addresses the doctor without looking at him, “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
The doctor waits a bit before standing up and gathering his papers. “Very well,” he concedes crisply, walking to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Han Geng stares impassively out the window until the doctor’s footsteps no longer echo in the halls. Then, he reaches into his shirt pocket and extracts a piece of stationary, unfolding it and smoothing it out on his leg.
Kangin, bless his heart, had managed to sneak into the facility a few days ago to deliver the note from Heechul. Their best friend looked incredibly well, his hair still cropped short but with the ‘battle scars from a cat attack’ thankfully grown out. Han Geng had commented as such, and Kangin immediately launched into an obviously well-rehearsed monologue about how he’d met this amazing person by the amazing name of Leeteuk who had an amazing dimple and the most amazing laugh, and did he mention that Leeteuk was completely amazing?
Smiling faintly at the memory of Kangin shuffling dreamily out of the room with slippers slapping against his heels with each step and stars in his smitten eyes, Han Geng thinks wistfully and gratefully, At least one of us is doing well.
He rereads the note for the zillionth time, heart clenching with yearning at the inked letters scrawled in Heechul’s distinct hand: ‘Keep me in your thoughts.’ In my heart, mind, body, and soul, Han Geng pledges, cradling the worn paper against his chest.
Glancing out the window, his stomach somersaults into oblivion when he glimpses Heechul situated just outside the gate separating the courtyard from the rest of the world. Even at that distance, Heechul looks directly at Han Geng and smiles radiantly, love written clearly in his eyes.
Get it? As Han Geng is slowly ‘cured,’ ‘Heechul’ gets farther and farther away.
One day, Han Geng vows, reaching through the bars as Heechul simultaneously hooks his fingers through the metal links. One day, we’ll be together again.
Yes. We will.
- - - - - - -
Tucking the papers under one arm, the doctor opens the door to his office with his free limb. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he greets politely, shutting the door behind him to ensure privacy.
Han Geng’s parents scramble to their feet, seeming to have gotten more haggard and anxious in the past hour that they’d been waiting. “Doctor, how is he?” Han Geng’s mother questions, wringing her hands subconsciously.
The doctor sets his notes and records on his desk and gestures for them to take a seat before following suit. “He’s doing as well as can be expected,” he reports honestly. From their crestfallen faces, it is not the answer that they want, so the doctor hastens to reassure them that, “Recoveries like this take time. Han Geng has been showing vast improvement in some areas.” He leaves out, “Though not in others,” but Han Geng’s mother visibly relaxes anyway.
“Thank you, Doctor. Now if there’s anything we can do…?”
At that, her husband begins laughing sardonically, not unlike his son had a while ago. “Too late for that,” he spits out venomously as though the words offend his very being.
She places a hand on his arm tentatively. “Dear,” she implores, distress in her voice, “there was no way we could’ve known.”
“But there was!” He pounds his fist against the nearby wall, and the lines at the corners of his eyes and the pallor of his face stand out in stark relief against the unflattering glow of the fluorescent lights. “There were indicators,” he continues, more subdued, but still looking exhausted and aged beyond his years. “Never interacting with anyone, the selcas with only him in them, talking to himself constantly. It was all there and we didn’t do a damn thing about it.”
His wife is shaking her head. “It could have just been that he was introverted. It didn’t have to mean that--”
“And what about my family history?” he snaps, anger flaring briefly in his eyes before fading away to bleakness. “My mother was the same, and so was my grandfather.” His laughter now is bitter. “I thought- no, I hoped- that since I wasn’t affected, our son would be spared as well. Guess the joke was on me.”
He hunches forward suddenly, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Every night, I keep thinking,” he whispers hoarsely, tone full of self-loathing, “that if only I’d seen the signs earlier, then I could’ve gotten him here faster and we wouldn’t be stuck like this.” A harsh sob rips through his throat. “But I didn’t, and now our son, our boy, he…”
His wife gathers him in her arms when he falls silent, his stooped frame shaking badly and tears pouring in rivulets down his cheeks.
Again with the melodrama…
They eventually leave after several words of comfort and promises that Han Geng is in the best care possible. Once they’re out of sight, the doctor leans against doorframe and pulls off his thin black frames, rubbing his eyes. It always tires him greatly to see a patient’s distraught relations.
“Doctor!”
Hoisting himself upright, the doctor turns to see a male nurse jogging towards him. “Yes? What is it?”
The nurse hands over a manila folder. “Patient 0117. It looks like he’s been leaving his room and bothering the other patients. The other nurse requested that you speak with him and persuade him to, ah, not wander around.”
January 17 is Kangin’s birthday, yes? And I think the Kangteuk is kinda cute.
“Youngwoon again?” The doctor accepts the file with exaggerated unwillingness. “We should just install locks on his door. Or give him some beer. Whatever’s easier.” He snickers at the nurse’s scandalized countenance. “Kidding. I’ll go talk to him right now.”
Nodding, the nurse makes to scurry off.
The doctor frowns slightly. “Hold on a sec,” he commands, slipping his glasses back on.
The nurse halts in his tracks, perplexed. “Yes?”
Moving faster than one would’ve thought possible for someone who practically lives in the hospital, the doctor snatches away all of the folders in the nurse’s arms. “You work too hard,” he scolds. “Go take a break and leave the rest to me.” A pointedly raised eyebrow effectively ends all objections and spastic attempts to retrieve the files.
The nurse raises his hands in surrender, corner of his mouth tugging up to reveal a dimple. “If you say so, Doctor.” With a jaunty wave, Jungsu trots off in search of a cup of coffee.
Rolling his eyes affectionately, the doctor heads off to his heart-to-heart, but pauses outside Han Geng’s room. The young man is still seated by the window, a tender smile on his face, gazing out at the courtyard and the field beyond the gate, both of which were devoid of people. A crumpled piece of blank white paper is clutched in his hand.
Pushing his glasses into place, the doctor squares his shoulders and gamely continues down the hall. He knows that it’s impossible for him to save every single patient he runs across, but he sure as hell can try. Just you watch, Han Geng, Heechul swears, resolution resonating in his steps and conviction blazing in his eyes, I won’t give up on you. You can count on that.
- - - - - - -
END
I am ashamed of myself OTL
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A/N: And after several years, a few miracles, and even more drama than you can shake a stick at, Han Geng and Youngwoon somehow get better, and Hanchul and Kangteuk live happily ever after :) I really intended to work on this drama/romance fic, but Judge got updated and I discovered The Administration series, and yeah…
To make things a bit clearer, highlight the section below (spoilers for those who skip to the end first):
So basically, he and their best friend are nameless figments of Han Geng’s imagination until Han Geng reaches the hospital and is therefore able to bestow upon them the names taken from actual people in the hospital (Heechul the doctor, Jungsu the nurse, and Youngwoon the patient)
Their best friend doesn’t show up because I didn’t think to give him a part in the story.
I have no idea why I inserted at least three literary references
Han Geng’s parents didn’t act sooner because people have a tendency to not see what they don’t want to see.
As to why he can punch the mean boy/knock the lunch off the table/get in trouble, it’s actually Han Geng doing all that, but he doesn’t realize it.
Heechul is the doctor because he would be the most prominent person in Han Geng’s life, and it’s because he’s a doctor that he’s acting professional rather than his usual crazy self while in the hospital.
And Heechul wears glasses because I have a megane fetish, just like how numbuh_009 has a glove fetish ^.^
Anyways, thanks for reading! Comments will be very much loved <3