[team one] february 13th
Suchen Part 2. (this is Part 1.)
Winter clouds become snow and
snow becomes ice and
ice becomes a sooty stain
on the sidewalk.
The temperature drop once the clouds waft south makes Jongdae’s bones ache. But that’s not the only reason they ache these days. He swallows down a handful of painkillers with half a banana and a glass of milk, the fresh cream lumpy and clotting at the top of the glass. The pills are gel capsules, but there’s enough of them that they stick in his throat on the way down.
“Jongdae-yah!” his grandmother calls from the top of the stairs, “Is the wash done! Can you check the wash!”
“Ok, Halmi!” He slips into another sweater, bulky wool over clingy acrylic, before shuffling in his slippers to the veranda. The cold still seeps through in an instant when he pulls the sliding door open.
The wash is done. The cycle probably finished half an hour ago the way the socks are nearly dry where they’re plastered against the sides of the spinner. He has to lean halfway into the washer to collect the socks at the bottom. He stands up too fast, the last three clenched in his fist, and almost retches into the basket of clean laundry.
He drops the socks in as he wipes his mouth on his sweater sleeve, waiting for the dizzy nausea to subside a bit before hefting the basket. The milk was definitely a bad idea, all that cream.
It’s disgusting, really, the amount of pill shaped things he swallows these days. Ginseng tablets and wormwood infusions. NSAIDs and that new kind of chemo that will keep him in remission for a few more weeks, if they’re lucky. Fingers crossed but no promises.
“Jongdae yah-!” his grandmother calls again as he’s struggling to get the door back open with his elbow. “Did you remember to take the fish oil auntie sent you!”
Oh god, the fish oil capsules have got to be the worst. Jongdae gags again at the thought, grimacing as he balances the heavy basket on his knee to push the door shut behind him. It doesn’t close all the way but it’s good enough for now, til he has both hands free.
“Jongdae-yah!”
“Sorry, Halmi!” The basket hits the tile of the kitchen floor, narrowly missing the faint red stain where one of the boarders spilled kimchi at breakfast. “I’ll take it right now!” He’ll clean the floor later, when he feels a little better. Afternoons are easier, when his stomach settles and the sun comes out.
He swallows down the cod liver oil, and then a vitamin tablet he forgot from earlier. His phone vibrates in his pocket against the edge of the sink as he’s rinsing out his water glass. It’s probably from Joonmyun, a how are you doing? :)) or thinking of you, hope today’s a good day ✿ The same sort of mindless text he always sends during his pitifully short lunch breaks and Jongdae pores over, falls asleep to staring at the dumb flower emojis and double smiley faces.
Jongdae doesn’t open his messages now because he still has to fold the laundry and empty the dishwasher, and because it makes the pain easier to take if he knows he has something to look forward to waiting in his pocket. Each text from Joonmyun is a small gift, and he pretends every night under his covers as he thumbs through his inbox with trembling fingers that tomorrow morning will be Christmas. Magical. Miracles.
That’s how bad he has it, that’s how small his world has become. The pain, and Joonmyun. And Joonmyun is another kind of pain, a special kind of ache that is all Jongdae’s. But Joonmyun is also his safe place, with relief welling from his fingertips and in his voice when he answers the door stripped down to an undershirt and his kindest smile.
Jongdae picks up a mostly dry sock and makes himself dizzy digging through the damp pile to find the matching mate. His grandmother’s socks are all a dull white, varying only in the weight of the cotton or the depth of the elastic at the cuff. Too similar. Trying to tell them apart has always given him headache, even from before when he was not-sick. Maybe he should just take a nap now and…
Baekhyun is hunched over the kitchen counter when Jongdae stumbles down the stairs. His hair is a wind ruffled sea of waves and peaks, but Jongdae’s bedhead surely looks worse.
“Yo,” Baekhyun says, and slurps milk from his bowl. He’s crunching down cereal like a half starved teenage boy, which means it must be late. After dinner time.
“Shit.” Jongdae rubs his eyes, rubs the back of his head where his hair is brittle and thinning. “How long did I sleep?” He stops rubbing when a few strands splinter against his palm and stick there, refusing to let go even when he scrubs his hand on his jeans.
Baekhyun mumbles into his bowl as he drains it. He looks up to grin at Jongdae, milk dripping from his gums. “Hello there, Sleeping Beauty! I ate all the frosted flakes, sorry.”
“No you’re not,” Jongdae says, but doesn’t punch him because more than half the laundry is clumsily folded in the basket he left on the kitchen floor, and his grandmother still folds clothes into perfect geometric shapes despite her legal blindness. Baekhyun hasn’t punched him back since the end of December anyway, when Jongdae’s veins started bruising like fresh cut daffodil stems. They put him on a new drug right after Christmas, a new drug that is now an old one.
Jongdae makes sure the ribbed cuff of his cardigan covers the IV port taped to his wrist, to repel the splash of the sink. His glass fills slowly, the pull from the pump on the well not as strong since it hasn’t snowed or rained much the last few weeks.
He shakes out the next dose into his palm and Baekhyun raises his eyebrows, making a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Are you supposed to take all those at once?”
“Mm,” Jongdae nods. “They’re just painkillers. They had to up my dosage again.”
“Again?” Baekhyun’s face clouds as he licks a drop of milk from his chapped lips. “Do they even help? They’re...not so good for your liver, I think. I’ve heard.” He’s staring down at the sugary dregs in his bowl, slicing through soggy bits of cereal with the edge of his spoon.
“No no, they’re good, I’m good,” Jongdae says as clearly as he can around a mouthful of water. “I mean, they really help.” They help a bit, anyway. They take the edge off his pain that even Joonmyun’s soothing fingers can’t erase completely anymore. And his liver is the least of Jongdae’s worries, at this point. “Really!”
“Ok, chill.” The bar stool Baekhyun’s tipping back from the counter wavers as he flexes his knees. “I don’t want to be responsible for spiking your blood pressure or something, geez.”
“If you’re done eating go on, get out of here.” Jongdae flicks the nearest towel at his friend’s face, but it’s too damp to do anything more than flop limply. “You spike my everything, you asshole.”
“Do I spike your heart rate, too? When I get all close and personal?” Baekhyun leans across the counter and laughs against his face, milky breath and too much cologne stinging Jongdae’s nostrils. If Jongdae’s knuckles didn’t ache where he bruised them on the door frame he would totally punch Baekhyun right now, even though it’s not fair at all that he can’t punch back.
“Asshole!” Jongdae is laughing too, breathless against the rim of his water glass as he shoves Baekhyun away. It’s a relief that he can still play with Baekhyun, that their easy banter hasn’t dried up like the dew of his papery skin, like the well in winter.
He can’t wear contacts anymore. Even with eyedrops they burn. Baekhyun says his glasses are ~sexy~, but Jongdae knows they just emphasize how hollowed out his face looks in the mirror, how dull his eyes are behind the sheen of the lenses. He doesn’t say it outloud though, he just smiles and lets Baekhyun think he’s making him feel better.
He doesn’t really care what Baekhyun thinks of his fashion, anyway. Jongdae will never be his type unless he magically sprouts some boobs, and he’s pretty sure that is not a side effect of chemo, even the newest experimental drugs. Jongdae does care what Joonmyun thinks, but that’s different. And he doesn’t allow himself to wonder what Joonmyun thinks of his frames because Jongdae doesn’t dare to hope anymore.
Hope is so #2014, and it’s mid February.
“Do you need anything before I go?” Baekhyun’s already shouldering his bag, settling his cap low on his forehead but not bothering to cover his ears. He’s going to get another three ear infections before his birthday if he’s not careful.
“I’m good, thanks for the laundry,” Jongdae says and tugs Baekhyun’s beanie down over his ears because Baekhyun’s already been on antibiotics once this winter and Jongdae will go crazy if he’s quarantined again.
“What laundry,” Baekhyun snorts, but grabs Jongdae by the shoulders before crushing their chests together in a bro hug, his work bag slamming into Jongdae’s thigh.
Jongdae’s phone vibrates again, the sound rattling against the hard surface of Baekhyun’s laptop as he lets go from the hug.
“That your sunbae again?” Baekhyun’s eyebrows lift the cuff of his hat as he backs into the entryway, stumbling over his own shoes. “The one who likes cake?’
“How would you know.” Jongdae ducks forward to straighten the hall rug. He bites his lip in satisfaction when he stands up with a trace of dizziness blurring his vision.
“Who else texts you besides me and your lover boy hyung.” Baekhyun grins, but his lips are soggy at the edges, like he swallowed a mouthful of too sweet milk from the bottom of his cereal bowl. It makes Jongdae’s stomach flop uneasily.
“He’s just my hyung, ok.” His fingers trace the outline of his phone in his pockets, the nicks and scratches in the plastic case where he’s dropped it one too many times.
“Oh god.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes to the ceiling as he pulls on his sneakers and manages to not fall over, amazingly. “‘Just your hyung’ that you in no way care about beyond his ability to feed you when you’re stranded in Seoul?” He shoves his hat up, exposing the tips of his ears again. “Or ‘just your hyung’ that you would really like to strip and then fu--”
“Oh my god please leave already,” Jongdae groans, and tries to strangle Baekhyun with his scarf without messing up the rug again.
“You’re blushing, Kim Jongdae,” Baekhyun says as soon as he’s freed his mouth from his scarf. He pokes Jongdae’s cheeks through his scratchy woolen mittens and Jongdae would bite his fingers if that wouldn’t leave him with a mouthful of mothball flavored fluff. “So I know I’m a 100% right.”
“No,” Jongdae counters in a perfectly calm sounding voice, and proceeds to shove Baekhyun towards the door.
“Oh! I see how it is, so you just want hyung to do the fu--”
Jongdae lunges forward to strangle Baekhyun out the fucking front door but he trips on his grandmother’s boots and his ankles crunches as it rolls. The pain sends him spiraling, the cold tile surging up to meet him, but Baekhyun’s thin arms claim his weight before the floor can knock the pain loose from its chokehold on his throat.
“Are you ok? Fuck, Jongdae--” Baekhyun’s still holding him, tight fingers digging under his shoulder blade and into his bicep propping him upright against the couch, “are you crying?”
“I’m mad at you, you jerk!” Jongdae’s speaking but he’s not sure if he’s making any sense. His face feels like it’s melting under the heat of his tears and his humiliation and his rage.
“Shh,” Baekhyun soothes, and his long, cool fingers feel nothing like Joonmyun’s against his scalp but Jongdae leans into the touch anyway. He leans and tries to focus on breath. “You didn’t tell him yet, did you,” Baekhyun whispers into his hair, voice hushed with solemn realization.
Jongdae shakes his head. Baekhyun’s wool sweater abrades his forehead. “I’m not going to. I can’t, Baek.” Jongdae’s face is a sliding mess and his hair is still a mess from bed and he wipes it all with his sleeve. More scratchy wool in a muted purple, closer to heather than violet, but still a color Joonmyun is partial too.
“Jongdae, you have to. Like, now. Who knows how…”
Jongdae waits patiently for him to trail off into understanding. “That’s why I can’t. There’s no point.” He thinks about it every night as he’s falling asleep, waiting for the drowsy rush of his heaviest dosage to take over the thrum of his bloodstream.
“I just--hate it. Hate seeing you in pain.” Baekhyun’s thumbs press insistent against the knots bunching along Jongdae’s shoulder. “And since I can’t fix...this,” he chokes back a hoarse laugh, plucking at Jongdae’s sleeve where the port makes a bulge against the cuff, “at least let me--Jongdae, you have to tell him.”
“Stop trying to fix me.” Jongdae’s not mad anymore. The ache is taking over now, radiating from the pith of his bones. It hurts worse when he lets something upset him, really get to him. Feelings are exhausting. “Stop trying to fix something you know nothing about.”
Baekhyun flinches, a soft intake of breath chilling the curve of Jongdae’s ear and he knows he’s hit home. He knows Baekhyun is remembering the jagged steel blooming haywire from the heart of his brother’s vintage typewriter, the one with the sticky keys that don’t stick anymore. It doesn’t type anymore either, not since Baekhyun took it apart to oil it.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jongdae whispers against the soft skin of Baekhyun’s neck that smells like spices and not tangerines. He doesn’t need to say anymore but he wants to make certain Baekhyun will just go home without anymore questions. Jongdae needs to stand the pain alone, and he’s prepared.
The doctor at the local hospital said they’ll put him on a morphine drip if the pain gets any worse. If it does, Jongdae’s prepared to grit his teeth through it because he has to stay lucid. He has to keep his eyes open for the sunrise of Joonmyun’s smile, so brilliant in the dingy hallway outside his door at 1:00 AM. Jongdae’s not willing to give up those flashes of reprieve. Not yet.
“Ok,” Baekhyun says, “ok. I’ll just...bye then. Til tomorrow.” He pats Jongdae’s hair with the hand still wearing his mitten, and his boots scuff across the floor. Jongdae will have to polish the wood before his grandmother comes back down.
He watches Baekhyun leave from the balcony of the upstairs veranda. His grandmother is still snoring in her bedroom, curtains drawn against the faded afternoon light. Baekhyun’s small figure is a blot against the glow of the streetlights. He raises a red mitten in parting as he trails down the empty street.
A wave becomes retreating footsteps and
steps become flickers of shadow and
shadow becomes a sooty stain
on the sidewalk.
Next up is goodbyelover!
edit 1/16/15: I finished the au! finally. It has 8 parts total, and I rearranged the order a bit. posted here on my lj and here on ao3.
Winter clouds become snow and
snow becomes ice and
ice becomes a sooty stain
on the sidewalk.
The temperature drop once the clouds waft south makes Jongdae’s bones ache. But that’s not the only reason they ache these days. He swallows down a handful of painkillers with half a banana and a glass of milk, the fresh cream lumpy and clotting at the top of the glass. The pills are gel capsules, but there’s enough of them that they stick in his throat on the way down.
“Jongdae-yah!” his grandmother calls from the top of the stairs, “Is the wash done! Can you check the wash!”
“Ok, Halmi!” He slips into another sweater, bulky wool over clingy acrylic, before shuffling in his slippers to the veranda. The cold still seeps through in an instant when he pulls the sliding door open.
The wash is done. The cycle probably finished half an hour ago the way the socks are nearly dry where they’re plastered against the sides of the spinner. He has to lean halfway into the washer to collect the socks at the bottom. He stands up too fast, the last three clenched in his fist, and almost retches into the basket of clean laundry.
He drops the socks in as he wipes his mouth on his sweater sleeve, waiting for the dizzy nausea to subside a bit before hefting the basket. The milk was definitely a bad idea, all that cream.
It’s disgusting, really, the amount of pill shaped things he swallows these days. Ginseng tablets and wormwood infusions. NSAIDs and that new kind of chemo that will keep him in remission for a few more weeks, if they’re lucky. Fingers crossed but no promises.
“Jongdae yah-!” his grandmother calls again as he’s struggling to get the door back open with his elbow. “Did you remember to take the fish oil auntie sent you!”
Oh god, the fish oil capsules have got to be the worst. Jongdae gags again at the thought, grimacing as he balances the heavy basket on his knee to push the door shut behind him. It doesn’t close all the way but it’s good enough for now, til he has both hands free.
“Jongdae-yah!”
“Sorry, Halmi!” The basket hits the tile of the kitchen floor, narrowly missing the faint red stain where one of the boarders spilled kimchi at breakfast. “I’ll take it right now!” He’ll clean the floor later, when he feels a little better. Afternoons are easier, when his stomach settles and the sun comes out.
He swallows down the cod liver oil, and then a vitamin tablet he forgot from earlier. His phone vibrates in his pocket against the edge of the sink as he’s rinsing out his water glass. It’s probably from Joonmyun, a how are you doing? :)) or thinking of you, hope today’s a good day ✿ The same sort of mindless text he always sends during his pitifully short lunch breaks and Jongdae pores over, falls asleep to staring at the dumb flower emojis and double smiley faces.
Jongdae doesn’t open his messages now because he still has to fold the laundry and empty the dishwasher, and because it makes the pain easier to take if he knows he has something to look forward to waiting in his pocket. Each text from Joonmyun is a small gift, and he pretends every night under his covers as he thumbs through his inbox with trembling fingers that tomorrow morning will be Christmas. Magical. Miracles.
That’s how bad he has it, that’s how small his world has become. The pain, and Joonmyun. And Joonmyun is another kind of pain, a special kind of ache that is all Jongdae’s. But Joonmyun is also his safe place, with relief welling from his fingertips and in his voice when he answers the door stripped down to an undershirt and his kindest smile.
Jongdae picks up a mostly dry sock and makes himself dizzy digging through the damp pile to find the matching mate. His grandmother’s socks are all a dull white, varying only in the weight of the cotton or the depth of the elastic at the cuff. Too similar. Trying to tell them apart has always given him headache, even from before when he was not-sick. Maybe he should just take a nap now and…
Baekhyun is hunched over the kitchen counter when Jongdae stumbles down the stairs. His hair is a wind ruffled sea of waves and peaks, but Jongdae’s bedhead surely looks worse.
“Yo,” Baekhyun says, and slurps milk from his bowl. He’s crunching down cereal like a half starved teenage boy, which means it must be late. After dinner time.
“Shit.” Jongdae rubs his eyes, rubs the back of his head where his hair is brittle and thinning. “How long did I sleep?” He stops rubbing when a few strands splinter against his palm and stick there, refusing to let go even when he scrubs his hand on his jeans.
Baekhyun mumbles into his bowl as he drains it. He looks up to grin at Jongdae, milk dripping from his gums. “Hello there, Sleeping Beauty! I ate all the frosted flakes, sorry.”
“No you’re not,” Jongdae says, but doesn’t punch him because more than half the laundry is clumsily folded in the basket he left on the kitchen floor, and his grandmother still folds clothes into perfect geometric shapes despite her legal blindness. Baekhyun hasn’t punched him back since the end of December anyway, when Jongdae’s veins started bruising like fresh cut daffodil stems. They put him on a new drug right after Christmas, a new drug that is now an old one.
Jongdae makes sure the ribbed cuff of his cardigan covers the IV port taped to his wrist, to repel the splash of the sink. His glass fills slowly, the pull from the pump on the well not as strong since it hasn’t snowed or rained much the last few weeks.
He shakes out the next dose into his palm and Baekhyun raises his eyebrows, making a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Are you supposed to take all those at once?”
“Mm,” Jongdae nods. “They’re just painkillers. They had to up my dosage again.”
“Again?” Baekhyun’s face clouds as he licks a drop of milk from his chapped lips. “Do they even help? They’re...not so good for your liver, I think. I’ve heard.” He’s staring down at the sugary dregs in his bowl, slicing through soggy bits of cereal with the edge of his spoon.
“No no, they’re good, I’m good,” Jongdae says as clearly as he can around a mouthful of water. “I mean, they really help.” They help a bit, anyway. They take the edge off his pain that even Joonmyun’s soothing fingers can’t erase completely anymore. And his liver is the least of Jongdae’s worries, at this point. “Really!”
“Ok, chill.” The bar stool Baekhyun’s tipping back from the counter wavers as he flexes his knees. “I don’t want to be responsible for spiking your blood pressure or something, geez.”
“If you’re done eating go on, get out of here.” Jongdae flicks the nearest towel at his friend’s face, but it’s too damp to do anything more than flop limply. “You spike my everything, you asshole.”
“Do I spike your heart rate, too? When I get all close and personal?” Baekhyun leans across the counter and laughs against his face, milky breath and too much cologne stinging Jongdae’s nostrils. If Jongdae’s knuckles didn’t ache where he bruised them on the door frame he would totally punch Baekhyun right now, even though it’s not fair at all that he can’t punch back.
“Asshole!” Jongdae is laughing too, breathless against the rim of his water glass as he shoves Baekhyun away. It’s a relief that he can still play with Baekhyun, that their easy banter hasn’t dried up like the dew of his papery skin, like the well in winter.
He can’t wear contacts anymore. Even with eyedrops they burn. Baekhyun says his glasses are ~sexy~, but Jongdae knows they just emphasize how hollowed out his face looks in the mirror, how dull his eyes are behind the sheen of the lenses. He doesn’t say it outloud though, he just smiles and lets Baekhyun think he’s making him feel better.
He doesn’t really care what Baekhyun thinks of his fashion, anyway. Jongdae will never be his type unless he magically sprouts some boobs, and he’s pretty sure that is not a side effect of chemo, even the newest experimental drugs. Jongdae does care what Joonmyun thinks, but that’s different. And he doesn’t allow himself to wonder what Joonmyun thinks of his frames because Jongdae doesn’t dare to hope anymore.
Hope is so #2014, and it’s mid February.
“Do you need anything before I go?” Baekhyun’s already shouldering his bag, settling his cap low on his forehead but not bothering to cover his ears. He’s going to get another three ear infections before his birthday if he’s not careful.
“I’m good, thanks for the laundry,” Jongdae says and tugs Baekhyun’s beanie down over his ears because Baekhyun’s already been on antibiotics once this winter and Jongdae will go crazy if he’s quarantined again.
“What laundry,” Baekhyun snorts, but grabs Jongdae by the shoulders before crushing their chests together in a bro hug, his work bag slamming into Jongdae’s thigh.
Jongdae’s phone vibrates again, the sound rattling against the hard surface of Baekhyun’s laptop as he lets go from the hug.
“That your sunbae again?” Baekhyun’s eyebrows lift the cuff of his hat as he backs into the entryway, stumbling over his own shoes. “The one who likes cake?’
“How would you know.” Jongdae ducks forward to straighten the hall rug. He bites his lip in satisfaction when he stands up with a trace of dizziness blurring his vision.
“Who else texts you besides me and your lover boy hyung.” Baekhyun grins, but his lips are soggy at the edges, like he swallowed a mouthful of too sweet milk from the bottom of his cereal bowl. It makes Jongdae’s stomach flop uneasily.
“He’s just my hyung, ok.” His fingers trace the outline of his phone in his pockets, the nicks and scratches in the plastic case where he’s dropped it one too many times.
“Oh god.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes to the ceiling as he pulls on his sneakers and manages to not fall over, amazingly. “‘Just your hyung’ that you in no way care about beyond his ability to feed you when you’re stranded in Seoul?” He shoves his hat up, exposing the tips of his ears again. “Or ‘just your hyung’ that you would really like to strip and then fu--”
“Oh my god please leave already,” Jongdae groans, and tries to strangle Baekhyun with his scarf without messing up the rug again.
“You’re blushing, Kim Jongdae,” Baekhyun says as soon as he’s freed his mouth from his scarf. He pokes Jongdae’s cheeks through his scratchy woolen mittens and Jongdae would bite his fingers if that wouldn’t leave him with a mouthful of mothball flavored fluff. “So I know I’m a 100% right.”
“No,” Jongdae counters in a perfectly calm sounding voice, and proceeds to shove Baekhyun towards the door.
“Oh! I see how it is, so you just want hyung to do the fu--”
Jongdae lunges forward to strangle Baekhyun out the fucking front door but he trips on his grandmother’s boots and his ankles crunches as it rolls. The pain sends him spiraling, the cold tile surging up to meet him, but Baekhyun’s thin arms claim his weight before the floor can knock the pain loose from its chokehold on his throat.
“Are you ok? Fuck, Jongdae--” Baekhyun’s still holding him, tight fingers digging under his shoulder blade and into his bicep propping him upright against the couch, “are you crying?”
“I’m mad at you, you jerk!” Jongdae’s speaking but he’s not sure if he’s making any sense. His face feels like it’s melting under the heat of his tears and his humiliation and his rage.
“Shh,” Baekhyun soothes, and his long, cool fingers feel nothing like Joonmyun’s against his scalp but Jongdae leans into the touch anyway. He leans and tries to focus on breath. “You didn’t tell him yet, did you,” Baekhyun whispers into his hair, voice hushed with solemn realization.
Jongdae shakes his head. Baekhyun’s wool sweater abrades his forehead. “I’m not going to. I can’t, Baek.” Jongdae’s face is a sliding mess and his hair is still a mess from bed and he wipes it all with his sleeve. More scratchy wool in a muted purple, closer to heather than violet, but still a color Joonmyun is partial too.
“Jongdae, you have to. Like, now. Who knows how…”
Jongdae waits patiently for him to trail off into understanding. “That’s why I can’t. There’s no point.” He thinks about it every night as he’s falling asleep, waiting for the drowsy rush of his heaviest dosage to take over the thrum of his bloodstream.
“I just--hate it. Hate seeing you in pain.” Baekhyun’s thumbs press insistent against the knots bunching along Jongdae’s shoulder. “And since I can’t fix...this,” he chokes back a hoarse laugh, plucking at Jongdae’s sleeve where the port makes a bulge against the cuff, “at least let me--Jongdae, you have to tell him.”
“Stop trying to fix me.” Jongdae’s not mad anymore. The ache is taking over now, radiating from the pith of his bones. It hurts worse when he lets something upset him, really get to him. Feelings are exhausting. “Stop trying to fix something you know nothing about.”
Baekhyun flinches, a soft intake of breath chilling the curve of Jongdae’s ear and he knows he’s hit home. He knows Baekhyun is remembering the jagged steel blooming haywire from the heart of his brother’s vintage typewriter, the one with the sticky keys that don’t stick anymore. It doesn’t type anymore either, not since Baekhyun took it apart to oil it.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jongdae whispers against the soft skin of Baekhyun’s neck that smells like spices and not tangerines. He doesn’t need to say anymore but he wants to make certain Baekhyun will just go home without anymore questions. Jongdae needs to stand the pain alone, and he’s prepared.
The doctor at the local hospital said they’ll put him on a morphine drip if the pain gets any worse. If it does, Jongdae’s prepared to grit his teeth through it because he has to stay lucid. He has to keep his eyes open for the sunrise of Joonmyun’s smile, so brilliant in the dingy hallway outside his door at 1:00 AM. Jongdae’s not willing to give up those flashes of reprieve. Not yet.
“Ok,” Baekhyun says, “ok. I’ll just...bye then. Til tomorrow.” He pats Jongdae’s hair with the hand still wearing his mitten, and his boots scuff across the floor. Jongdae will have to polish the wood before his grandmother comes back down.
He watches Baekhyun leave from the balcony of the upstairs veranda. His grandmother is still snoring in her bedroom, curtains drawn against the faded afternoon light. Baekhyun’s small figure is a blot against the glow of the streetlights. He raises a red mitten in parting as he trails down the empty street.
A wave becomes retreating footsteps and
steps become flickers of shadow and
shadow becomes a sooty stain
on the sidewalk.
Next up is goodbyelover!
edit 1/16/15: I finished the au! finally. It has 8 parts total, and I rearranged the order a bit. posted here on my lj and here on ao3.