UPSIDE FORWARD for RISEANDRAIN [1/7]
For: riseandrain
Title: Upside Forward
Pairing(s): Chanyeol/Luhan
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): language and Chanyeol being pathetic
Length: ~51,000
Summary: Basically, without Luhan smiling at him everything about Chanyeol's life sucks just that much worse.
Author's note: Dear recipient: I was trying for a bittersweet love story but this kind of outgrew my outline (x5). So take your time to read this, no pressure and I hope you enjoy it! To my anon beta: you have my eternal gratitude T.T Seriously thank you. Also, some theme music and the song that kept me going.
August 2013
“Hey, hey Chanyeol?”
“What?” Chanyeol looks up from his phone to see his Luhan holding up two identical turquoise cardigans on padded hangers.
“I asked which one, the loose fit or the one with the white cuffs?” Luhan shakes the hangers lightly, making the knit materials dance across the smooth silk duvet cover of his bed. So they weren’t exactly identical, whatever.
“Uh, the loose fit?” Chanyeol points to the sweater on the left. Luhan looks especially petite and delicate in oversized sweaters, fine-boned and ethereal in a way that always makes Chanyeol want to gather his smaller frame into his chest and hang on and squeeze and never let go.
“You’re sure this one is better?”
Chanyeol nods, smothering a wide yawn with his wrist. He is sure. Even if Luhan is deserting him for the other side of the world, Chanyeol should at least be able to enjoy seeing his boyfriend at his cutest in photos.
Luhan nods and tosses the slightly larger sweater onto his bed and the white-cuffed one on the growing pile on the floor by the window. Chanyeol doesn’t understand why Luhan doesn’t just hang the rejects back in the closet, but then again, he doesn’t understand a lot of things about the man. Chanyeol could probably write a whole essay on how Luhan is a walking, talking, giggling, singing contradiction, but Chanyeol is a little lazy and who likes essays, anyway?
“Sweet!”
Luhan claps his hands in glee and Chanyeol startles, knocking his elbow into the side of the dresser he’s leaning against while on the floor. He can’t help but match Luhan’s grin even as he rubs the sore spot on his arm.
“I think we’re all done sorting the summer-weight cardigans now!” Luhan drops onto his bed next to a mountain of clothes bigger than he is and eases his head onto the plush mound of his down pillow. Chanyeol blinks at the open door of Luhan’s closet that could easily pass for a small department store, barring the fact that all of the clothes inside are Luhan-sized, and wonders what time it will be when they finally get around to sorting the underwear and socks. Luhan probably won’t have room in his suitcase for any underwear at this rate, Chanyeol thinks with a snort. Not that he’s opposed to Luhan going commando, though (but don’t tell Baekhyun that).
“Ugh, I hate packing, but it’s so exciting all the same!” Luhan groans into his pillow.
“Yup.” Chanyeol doesn’t look up, just keeps scrolling down the same posts on his Facebook newsfeed that hasn’t refreshed at all in the last hour. No surprise there, considering it’s almost 2 AM and not all of Chanyeol’s friends are inhuman cyborgs like Jongdae, who always hears all the gossip even before Luhan and has eyes in the back of his head. He somehow manages all this on two hours of sleep a night and way too much coffee.
“Yeol-ah,” Luhan calls softly, now hanging off the edge of his bed from the shoulders down, the back of his head pillowed against the dip in the side of the mattress and his soft pink hair fanning out like a cotton candy cloud.
Chanyeol leans forward on impulse to press a close-mouthed kiss to the gentle slope of Luhan’s bare forehead. His chest tightens when Luhan’s lashes flutter closed and a small smile steals across his lips.
Chanyeol leans back against the dresser, the brim of his cap turned backwards knocking against the drawer pull. The band slips over his eyes. Luhan giggles and Chanyeol decides with a smirk that his laughing face looks even more ridiculous upside down as he pushes his hat back into place with another yawn.
“I’m sorry,” Luhan says, sitting up, his hair a frizzy pink halo around his ears. “You don’t have to stay if you’re tired.” He bites his lip, lines of guilt pulling his skin taut across his fine features.
“Oh no! Really, I’m fine!” Chanyeol waves his phone and almost drops it in a hasty flail to reassure Luhan. He is tired, though. He was up before five to drop by the lab and check on the E. coli cultures for Junmyeon before his 7:30 calc class, but if Luhan’s not giving into fatigue yet, then neither is he.
Luhan smiles gratefully, rolling off his mattress with a soft groan to pull another armful of clothes from his closet. Chanyeol grins back, gritting his teeth against the next yawn blooming in his throat and tries to pay more attention. He knows he’ll regret it later if he lets these last precious moments alone slip away marinated in sour resentment.
He knows, because he was stupid enough to let it happen before.
Six days. They have six days left. Luhan is as excited as if his flight were leaving tomorrow, distracted and toying nervously with everything he can get his hands around. Chanyeol doesn’t blame him. He’d probably be in a similar state, if not worse, if he were bound for the bright lights of New York in less than a week.
“Chanyeol,” Minseok sighs, shooting him a pleading look as he relieves Luhan of a sharp object (this time a paring knife that had been propped on the cutting board) for the third time before Luhan can sever a tendon in his anxious fidgeting.
Chanyeol wraps an arm around Luhan’s shoulders and steers him into the living room and towards the sofa. It’s really too hot outside for a full on cuddle puddle, but at least the AC’s running and it will keep Luhan distracted long enough for Minseok to finish dinner.
Luhan gives a contented sigh as he pulls Chanyeol down on top of him, shifting slightly under the sudden pressure of Chanyeol’s long limbs, and nuzzles the tip of his nose into the hollow behind his ear.
“I’m gonna miss this the most, I think,” he whispers, hot breath ghosting the shell of Chanyeol’s ear.
“What, you mean you’re gonna miss your sofa more than me?” Chanyeol asks in mock dismay. “Seriously, Lu?”
“No, stupid!” Luhan chuckles and pinches his elbow. “I’m gonna miss being alone with you.”
They’re not really alone, as Minseok is clearly visible through the kitchen door where he’s stirring something in a saucepan with his back to them. They’re hardly ever truly alone, between nosy roommates and Chanyeol’s summer class schedule and Luhan’s long studio hours. But that’s okay; Chanyeol takes what he can get.
“Ugh, this is so comfy, I might just fall asleep like this,” Luhan mutters as his breathing slows, although that may just be from Chanyeol’s weight crushing his chest. Luhan’s eyelids fall closed, lashes tickling at the nape of Chanyeol’s neck. Chanyeol reaches for the remote on the coffee table, out of habit mostly but also spurred by his growing aversion to being alone with his own thoughts for too long. He hates how his brain is already caught under the lonely pall of the future, especially when Luhan is warm and pliant beneath him, the heat of his skin seeping through his thin sweater and Chanyeol’s old T-shirt and into the instinctive melt of limbs molded by months of muscle memory.
“Don’t.” Luhan’s fingers close over Chanyeol’s wrist before he can lift the remote. “Not today. Just be with me, Yeollie.” Please. Luhan doesn’t say it but Chanyeol can hear the pleading request in the press of Luhan’s fingers against his pulse, in the smooth stroke of his thumb over the edge of Chanyeol’s wrist bone. That’s one thing they have in common: difficulty asking for things.
“Ok.” Chanyeol drops the remote and allows Luhan’s fingers to lace through his own. He falls asleep to the hiss of Minseok’s steamer seething on the stove.
One more day. Actually, it’s less than that if you’re counting hours, and Chanyeol definitely is. He’s been compulsively counting down for the past sixty, to be exact, trying to ignore the clock and the receding line of sunlight across the lab counters each evening as he fidgets through his afternoon shifts in the bio stockroom, impatient to get home to Luhan, but painfully aware that each passing moment brings them closer to their impending separation.
Three days is a long time when you’re impatient and miserable. It also goes by frighteningly fast.
Chanyeol bites into the cold curve of his spoon in an effort to focus on Luhan; specifically, on the movement of Luhan’s lips and the low tones of his voice and not on the sliver of soft pink tongue that peeks out as Luhan chews shaved ice with parted lips to avoid early onset brainfreeze. Luhan always gets brainfreeze when they share bingsu. He always shoves heaping spoonfuls into his mouth but never learns his lesson.
“Ahh!” Luhan gasps, waving his hand in front of his mouth as he attempts to fan his oversensitized teeth and frozen tongue, although Chanyeol’s pretty sure that only works when you burn your mouth on something hot. He should just start bringing a baby food spoon to cafes with them, though he has no idea where to buy one. Kris would know, probably, but Kris asks too many questions.
“You ignoring me again?” Luhan pouts with a glare, apparently recovered enough to scold his boyfriend although his tongue must still feel a little numb. He’s got a lisp he doesn’t usually have, one that reminds Chanyeol of his sister’s sloppy speech when Yura had braces back in high school.
“Chanyeol?” Luhan’s frowning in concern, his bangs falling into his eyes as he leans across the narrow table, the key-shaped pendant on the fine chain around his neck clinking against the glass bowl between them and nearly dipping into their melting desert. Luhan catches the pendant in his fingers as Chanyeol automatically lifts a hand to smooth the pink wisps away from his forehead.
“Sorry, hyung! Just a bit tired, I guess.” Luhan blinks, gaze unwavering as if he’s waiting for Chanyeol to tell him something--something important--but Chanyeol just smiles, fishing in the sides of the bowl for a lump of sesame dusted ddeok to spoon into Luhan’s mouth. Luhan accepts the bite with a soft hum of appreciation, his lips blushed red from the cold.
Chanyeol yawns, sleepy and overfull from their late afternoon dinner at Luhan’s favorite meat restaurant. He picks at a clump of red beans that had been hiding under the square of ddeok. Neither of them is really hungry for dessert, let alone tooth-achingly sweet bingsu, but they had somehow ended up at their usual cafe after dinner and ordered as soon as the cute waiter from Qingdao bounded over to their table. It’s tradition, Chanyeol guesses, folding abstract origami sculptures out of napkins and fighting over the identical stainless steel spoons before digging into their treat. Luhan always lets him have the first bite.
“So tell me about your orientation again?” Chanyeol suggests, sliding another spoonful of quickly melting frozen milk shavings into his mouth even though his stomach’s going to complain as soon as he swallows.
“Oh! Did I tell you about the accommodations yet?” And Luhan launches into a detailed description of the newly remodeled studios at his host university for the third time, his temporary lisp overshadowed by the liquid anticipation in his voice. Chanyeol really should be paying attention now since he has pretty much zoned out every time Luhan started gushing about New York before, but it’s hard to focus in the fading half light by the narrow window. This is exactly the same spot Luhan broke the news, only a few months back.
It had been raining that day, just a light drizzle at the beginning of the rainy season, but the sun was glistening on the wet pavement out the window by the time Zitao brought their order.
Chanyeol had known since they’d met in October that Luhan had been hoping to study abroad junior or senior year. He’d kept that fact in the back of his mind as coffee dates turned into dinner dates, and dinners out into movie marathons and pizza on Chanyeol’s bed or Luhan’s sofa, but it still felt like a punch in the gut when Luhan announced with a bright grin that he’d been accepted to an exchange program for the fall semester.
At first it was difficult to imagine four whole months of a Luhanless existence (despite the fact Chanyeol had spent the first two years of college happy, single, and quite busy between lab reports and pick up basketball with Kris and 1 AM food fights with Jongdae) with Luhan’s fingers still linked in his, Luhan’s laughter dancing in his ears, Luhan, Luhan, Luhan.
It had started to feel very real, though, while squashed together on Luhan and Minseok’s sofa with X-Men playing in the background, scrolling through pages of discount flight itineraries; or while digging up spare wool gloves in the basement bargain bin of a department store, just in case New York turned out to be colder than Seoul or Beijing; or while sorting through piles of sketchbooks and Luhan’s scrapbook collection to decide which ones he could possibly bear to part with for four months.
If it was that hard to say goodbye to a scribbled in notebook from freshman year, the airport is gonna suck. Chanyeol shoves a spoonful with too much red bean in his mouth and smiles at Luhan and pretends it doesn’t taste like ash.
“Agh, it’s so hot,” Luhan moans, gingerly lifting his legs from the vinyl seat cushion only to have them stick again as soon as he lowers them. Chanyeol hums in agreement into his hair, trying not to inhale any dry, over-bleached strands.
He’s got both arms wrapped around Luhan’s shoulders, his boyfriend’s thin frame arching over the polished steel armrest between their seats and pulled into his chest.
Luhan’s right, it is hot. Chanyeol can tell from the vaguely room temperature air that an AC vent must be running somewhere, but on the vast floor of endless check in counters broken by narrow strips of benches, it doesn’t do much.
“What time is it?” Luhan fans himself with the papers clutched in his right hand, his boarding passes and luggage claim stickers tucked into his passport in a neat bundle.
“Mmdunno,” Chanyeol yawns. The last thing he wants to think about right now is the time, but of course Luhan can’t sit still, fidgeting and double checking the essentials crammed into his backpack. Chanyeol sighs but lets Luhan unclasp his hands and tug Chanyeol’s wrist up to check the display of his chunky digital watch that he wears more for show than anything.
“Ok, I should probably…” Luhan sucks in a breath, turns his head to bury the curve of his nose against Chanyeol’s throat even as he’s slowly slipping his shoulders free from Chanyeol’s embrace. Chanyeol stands with a low whine, his right arm still hooked over Luhan’s shoulder pulling them both up.
Luhan lurches on his wedge sneakers for a moment before steadying himself enough to bend down for his backpack and carry on duffel. Chanyeol reaches for the duffel but Luhan pries his fingers away from the handles.
“I got it, Yeol,” he says, flashing a smile too bright with promises for the airport departures terminal before 8:00 AM. “I’ll have to carry all my own heavy shit this semester, so I’d better get used to it, huh?” Chanyeol laughs too loudly for the space, an old lady’s nodding head snapping up to glare at him as the force of the hoarse rush of air scrapes the back of his throat raw.
“You’re just gonna miss me cause I spoil you,” Chanyeol pretends to pout, digging the tips of his fingers into the soft part of Luhan’s waist just above his hipbones.
“Hey!” Luhan smacks his hands away and almost drops his passport. “Isn’t it the other way around?” he challenges, angling his chin down and staring up through his fringe. Chanyeol just pulls Luhan’s sunglasses from where they’re hooked over the collar of his shirt and shoves them on the top of his head before pulling him towards the security queue.
They’re only a few feet away from one of the international security checkpoints but Chanyeol drags the rubber soles of his canvas shoes the whole way to stretch the distance, as if he could create invisible lines connecting Incheon to New York in the waxed surface.
They join the back of the queue, which isn’t too long. Luhan’s flying out on a Tuesday morning after all, because that’s when airplane tickets are usually cheapest, according to Jongdae.
Luhan drops his duffel to the floor between his legs so he can shuffle it along with his feet as the line creeps forward. Chanyeol presses his forehead to the curve of Luhan’s shoulder and squinches his eyes shut, willing the hot pricking behind his eyelids to dull before it can spill over into something that would embarrass him.
“Hey,” Luhan says, “you ok? I’m sorry I made you wake up so early to come with me.” Chanyeol sniffs and shakes his head against Luhan’s comforting heat. He straightens up to face Luhan with a tight smile.
“No, hyung, I’m good! Just... getting hungry I guess.” Luhan laughs, the back of his head rolling against Chanyeol’s neck, but he still looks uneasy when he twists back to face Chanyeol. So maybe it’s not the early hour, maybe that’s not the reason he’s guilty, a part of Chanyeol thinks bitterly.
The line moves up to where the metal railing starts, the dark navy uniform of the man verifying ID and tickets just a few bodies in front of them. Luhan extricates himself from Chanyeol’s embrace enough for Chanyeol to slip out of line but Chanyeol keeps his arm curled stubbornly around Luhan’s neck, his palm cupping the smooth slope of Luhan’s jaw and the cold steel bar unyielding between their sides.
“One last picture!” Luhan says suddenly, breaking Chanyeol’s hold as he twists to dig his phone out. “Cheese!”
Luhan has the camera app focused and snapping before Chanyeol can cement a smile in place, and then he’s bent double and scrambling for the straps of his duffel in a hurry to close the gap in line slowly opening ahead of them.
Chanyeol lets his eyes fall shut as Luhan pulls him in for one last squeeze around the neck as he hands over his passport.
“Don’t be gone too long,” Chanyeol murmurs. “Come back soon.”
“I’ll be back in winter!” Chanyeol can feel the soft curve of Luhan’s lips as he presses a smile to his forehead, and then Luhan’s gently pushing him away, collecting his documents from the annoyed security guard and disappearing into the left side of the split queue for security screening, only the flash of his dark sunglasses pillowed on the pink waves of his hair still visible.
Chanyeol swallows hard and heads past the bench they had just been sprawled across, now occupied by a sleepy teenage boy and an elderly couple with several tubs of kimchi tightly swaddled in large squares of silk. He walks down the left side of the escalator two steps at a time, brushing past fluffy miniskirts and padded shoulders of suit jackets way too stifling for August weather, and strides out the sliding doors of the nearest exit to buy a ticket for the shuttle bus.
Chanyeol’s still waiting for the 811 bus on a wooden bench, sandwiched between a sweaty businessman snoring softly into the folds of his jacket spread across his lap and an abandoned to-go cup of bubble tea, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out in time to see the second notification flash across the screen and he taps it before he can stop himself.
He smiles as the selca from the line upstairs enlarges to engulf the whole screen. Luhan must have made it through security to his gate then, or perhaps he’s sipping overpriced coffee at one of the transit cafes. Chanyeol brushes his thumb along the slope of Luhan’s cheekbone to keep the display from darkening and sighs. It’s a horrible photo, actually. The lighting was dim enough that the edges of their features blurred slightly, Chanyeol’s chin tucked just above Luhan’s shoulders with their faces pressed into each other’s until their cheeks are an indistinguishable smush of white.
Of course Luhan still looks perfect though, his hair in soft curls framing his forehead while Chanyeol’s manages to look simultaneously brittle-dry and frizzed out on humidity. Luhan’s skin tone even retains its delicate glow while Chanyeol’s just shines like has hasn’t bothered to wash his face for a good 48 hours.
Chanyeol tries to convince himself it’s just a trick of the lighting, or probably some ridiculous face recognition filter Luhan slapped on that’s calibrated to make him look hot and everyone else like shit. Chanyeol texts back a quick thanks!! have a safe trip hyung <3 before saving the photo to his phone memory. Out of habit he flips to the gallery to make sure it downloaded properly.
There it is, right in front of the crowded group shot with all their friends from Luhan’s goodbye party at Kris and Yixing’s last night, in which Chanyeol had managed to look even more unphotogenic, face flushed red from all the shots Luhan had forced down his throat, one for every sad face, just like he had threatened on the way there.
Chanyeol locks the screen and slips it back into his pocket just as the bus pulls up to the curb. The man beside him sits up with a start and struggles back into his jacket as he jogs to the bus. Chanyeol gets on behind him and hands his voucher to the driver before plopping into a window seat. He checks his phone again even though he knows it hasn’t buzzed in the last sixty seconds. Luhan still hasn’t seen his reply, he notices as the bus groans and starts to lumber forward. Chanyeol adds I miss you already... to the string of unread messages before sliding the window curtain closed and curling into the cushy seat.
His vibrating phone startles Chanyeol from an uneasy doze nearly an hour later and he grabs for it instinctively, the hope of finding another message from Luhan rising in his throat and welling under his tongue even as he realizes with the lucid part of his mind that it can’t be, Luhan’s plane should airborne by now.
It’s from his sister, Yura. It’s today isn’t it? check the freezer I picked up some popsicles and extra kleenex. don’t cry too hard you big baby. Chanyeol winces at the rush of nostalgia that floods his mouth, remembering last summer when she had sent almost the exact same message, right after he got his wisdom teeth removed.
“This is Daebang,” the driver announces. Chanyeol stands on wobbly legs to punch the red button on the wall in front of him, suddenly consumed with an overwhelming urge to get off this bus, now. The driver mumbles in acknowledgement of his intent to disembark but Chanyeol is solely focused on staggering down the aisle to the door as the bus bumps around a corner.
The driver brakes to a stop and Chanyeol stumbles out onto the curb, weaving through the throng of people emerging from the subway exit a few meters ahead. He trips down the wide flights of stairs into the station, welcoming the kiss of cool air across his overheated skin as he descends.
Daebang, huh. That’s a lot closer to campus than it is to home, but he can always crash at Kris and Yixing’s for a few hours before he has to deal with facing an empty apartment. Baby steps, Chanyeol, he reminds himself as he slips through the turnstile and around the corner to an empty bench beside the tracks. You can do this.
Chanyeol is half asleep, hunkered into a seat between two school girls on the subway a good 48 hours later, before he hears from Luhan again: sorry, I didnt have wifi at the airpt. miss u, followed by a selca of Luhan perched on a wrought iron garden chair outside some hipster cafe, posing in a beanie and oversized glasses. Is New York even cold right now? Luhan and his fashion.
Chanyeol yawns and opens Facebook to find 17 new notifications. He smiles to see he’s been tagged in their last selca together, which is the cover photo of Luhan’s new album titled Adventures <3!!~, but the warm fuzzies dull a little when he realizes the next five are dumb pics of airplane food, the edge of the dirty jetplane wing and some clouds, and three increasingly blurry ones that look like they were taken by a four year old admiring the city lights from the back of a moving taxi. As if Luhan has never traveled before. What the hell.
Chanyeol thumbs back to his newsfeed to like the album before sending Luhan a selca of himself pretending to be asleep on the train. Luhan immediately replies with a laughing emoji and Chanyeol can almost, almost hear his bright laughter ringing in the train car.
They met on a train, actually. Not the metro though: on one of those slow, cross-country ones working its way north to Seoul. Chanyeol was returning from a weekend visit to his grandmother in Jangseong, already bored after only thirty minutes of staring at mostly empty rice fields outside his window. He was facing another three hours of repetitious landscape before he could transfer to the subway for the last leg of his journey home and not enough phone battery to last for half of that.
In Nonsan the train stopped for an unexplained delay of seventeen minutes and Chanyeol was about ready to start practicing drum rolls with his head on the window when a guy in a baggy gray coat stumbled down the aisle and dropped a heavy backpack into the seat beside Chanyeol. He was carrying more bulky bags of some kind of equipment than he could handle, and a smaller square case tumbled onto Chanyeol’s lap.
“Sorry!” the guy said, not even pausing to make a proper apology before trying to shove another bag onto the rack above his head. “Sorry, but could you…?” Chanyeol blinked his drowsy eyes back open to find his new seat mate’s face only centimeters from his own, full lips curved in an apologetic smile. But it was those huge, dark eyes that had Chanyeol stuttering, slow to process what the stranger was asking.
“Oh, sure!” As soon as he comprehended, Chanyeol stood up so fast he cracked his head on the rack (good thing it was October and he was wearing a knit hat thick enough to prevent a concussion or whatever) as he reached up to help the shorter man secure his luggage as the train started to pick up speed.
“So... golf clubs? Camping chairs?” The guy blinked, his lips parting in confusion until Chanyeol patted the extra long nylon bag he had just hoisted onto the rack. He tightened the drawstring tie before sitting back down.
“Ah! Haha, no! It’s a tripod. For my camera,” the guy said, adjusting the last padded black bag in his lap beside his backpack as he settled next to Chanyeol.
“You’re a photographer?” Chanyeol asked, his curiosity sparked. “Like for weddings and stuff? Wait, you’re not paparazzi are you?” The guy laughed even louder, his jaw dropping as he rocked back against the seat.
“Hell no, although that romantic shit would be a sweet gig. I’m an art student, in painting actually, but I shoot landscapes on the side.”
“Landscapes,” Chanyeol echoed. “In Jeolla? What did you take? An SD card full of stubbled fields and dirt roads? You’re like two weeks too late for the autumn leaves. Oh, but that’s nice! I mean, if you’re into rice fields or whatever! I think…” he trailed off, patting surreptitiously at his cheeks to make sure they weren’t about to blush a mortifying shade of sun-kissed strawberry. This guy was kinda cute, after all.
The guy just grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling up until Chanyeol had the sudden desire to run his fingers along the grooves in a totally non-creepy, polite way. His skin just looked really soft, okay?
“Actually, yes,” the guy said, somehow managing to talk without letting his wide smile slip a fraction. “I have two SD cards full of fallow fields and rusting fences and rotting tree stumps. It’s gonna be so cool! I’m going to layer them with the best shots from my international graffiti collection to make collage prints for this Halloween show we’re doing at the gallery and--”
Suddenly his face fell, dragging Chanyeol’s guts along with it like someone had reached a hand into his abdominal cavity and given his intestines a sharp yank. “Sorry, you probably don’t--sorry! I talk too much.” The guy shrank back into his seat, clutching his bag to his chest, and Chanyeol leaned forward just so he wouldn’t miss any of the intriguing facial expressions continuing to cross his features.
“No, hey man, it’s cool! I like art. I mean, I can’t do art but I have artsy friends. They tell me stuff. About art. Sometimes.” Chanyeol grinned, hoping his flailing wasn’t even more awkward than normal, and then the cute guy’s smile was back and he was opening his mouth to tell Chanyeol more and Chanyeol didn’t even care anymore that he was embarrassing himself with the socially unacceptable things Jongin termed as word vomit and over-enthusiasm.
They talked, sometimes at the same time when their conversation got too exciting to bother with pauses, all the way until Gwangmyeong when Chanyeol realized with a sudden pang that their train ride was almost over but they weren’t done talking yet. The photographer guy must have been thinking the same because he turned and said,
“Hey, my name is Luhan.”
“Chanyeol!” Chanyeol immediately blurted. “I mean, I’m Park Chanyeol.” Luhan’s eyes widened.
“Are you friends with Kim Jongin? The dance kid who sucks at chemistry?”
“No way!” Chanyeol gasped. “I mean, wait, yeah, I know him! Do we, like, go to the same school?”
And that was how Chanyeol found himself stepping off the train in Yongsan with Luhan’s number saved to his contacts and an invite to Luhan’s Halloween show scribbled in his day planner, and the rest is history.
‘History’ meaning that Chanyeol spent the next week replying to Luhan’s fluffy texts with his Baby Mickey emojis, the ones he only saved for super special people, and hanging around the back dance studio after his shifts in the bio stockroom to badger a smirking Jongin into divulging every detail he knew about his acquaintance in the studio art department.
Jongin complained but complied, so Chanyeol also dragged him along to the art gallery the following Thursday night. Chanyeol speed walked across campus, his dress shoes flattening the damp grass as he yanked Jongin along by the wrist, and then stopped short just inside the building. He stood fidgeting next to the propped open doors, suddenly feeling out of place just outside the brightly lit room of punch bowls and fancy finger foods and art professors in asymmetrical suits. He watched as nervous students flitted between guests and faculty and their installations, searching for Luhan among the crowd but relieved when he couldn’t spot him.
“Oh, come on hyung,” Jongin had groaned, his whole upper body rolling along with his eyes. “If anyone here has a right to be nervous it isn’t you. Can we go in already?”
“But... I feel like I’m intruding somehow, like I’m not supposed to be here,” Chanyeol had whined. He smudged the glass door as he ran his finger down the black and umber poster advertising the show, another copy of which he had spent a good part of the last five days staring at on the stockroom notice board.
“He invited you, didn’t he?” Jongin huffed, starting to really lose his patience.
“Yes, but--hey, why’s Luhan’s piece’s name in Chinese? I can’t even read it…” Jongin gave a hoarse laugh and elbowed Chanyeol in the side.
“Because Luhan hyung is Chinese, obviously! You’re just stalling now, aren’t you.”
“Luhan’s Chinese?” Chanyeol asked, so surprised by this revelation that he followed docilely after as Jongin started pulling him into the gallery. “Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Oh my god, hyung. His name is Lu Han, and you really didn’t realize he wasn’t Korean? I thought you knew.” Jongin shook his head and parked Chanyeol in front of the punch table. He gestured at the waitress clutching a ladle.
“Park Chanyeol!”
Chanyeol whirled around, almost knocking a crystal tumbler out of the server’s hands with a wayward elbow, to find Luhan striding towards him with arms outstretched. And Luhan, in a wine colored button down over fitted white slacks, his honey waves tumbling over the frames of his dark rimmed glasses, looked stunning. Chanyeol barely managed a stilted wave as Jongin snickered into the sherbet foam floating at the rim of his punch glass. “You actually came! What do you think?”
“Uh, it’s great! Yeah!” Chanyeol squeaked. Luhan smiled encouragingly, bobbing his head. “This punch is really... fruity!” Chanyeol continued. Luhan’s eyebrows quirked up slightly and Jongin stamped on Chanyeol’s foot.
“He means the show, dumbass, not the punch.”
“Oh fuck. I mean, sorry!” Chanyeol stammered, wishing he weren’t rooted to the spot by Luhan’s warm gaze so he could run screaming from the gallery and go drown himself in the water fountain in the back hallway, the one no one even used for drinking because it was always clogged with greasy globs of paint and moldy bits of papier mache. What a fitting end for a clumsy idiot.
“What hyung meant to say,” Jongin sighed, graciously stepping in to cover for Chanyeol’s fail, as per usual, “is that we just got here and would like to request a private tour of your magnificent work.”
“Ah,” Luhan sighed, the bright smile on his lips cranking up another few hundred watts, “in that case…”
“I’ll just... go find Krystal noona, I guess,” Jongin muttered with a sarcastic salute as Luhan linked his arm through Chanyeol’s.
“Sorry, man,” Chanyeol said, not even noticing Jongin slip away because his eyes were already glued to Luhan’s as he pulled them in an arcing promenade across the polished parquet to proudly present his cluster of framed prints.
If you ask Chanyeol how he met Luhan, he’ll probably just blush and stammer for the next five minutes, and you’ll probably give up on getting anything meaningful out of him long before he finally relaxes enough to spit it out.
It’s not that Chanyeol doesn’t like talking. Chanyeol is just way more comfortable with talking about things like proteins and ions and what kind of cleats are better for astroturf versus real grass and that one time Jongin swallowed a carton of very spoiled milk thinking it was yogurt (that really happened, by the way, although how he didn’t notice the smell no one’s quite sure).
And typing words is even scarier that saying them, because words in stark black against stark white, permanently saved to a server or phone comm forever, screenshotted to a phone, copied and saved to an inbox draft... those words don’t go anywhere. Those words seem to carry a much bigger liability than the spoken ones. Spoken words, Chanyeol likes to think, are gone with the wind as soon as they leave his mouth and die as irretrievable vibrations in space, long forgotten and corrupted in personal memory and therefore plausibly deniable should he ever feel the need to decide that he never said them.
That’s probably a large part of the reason Chanyeol replies to Luhan’s texts with three, two, or one word answers. Or increasingly as of late with no words, only emojis to deliver his mess of feelings to Luhan in a neat cartoon gif. The other part is that typing, especially on his finicky oversensitive phone keyboard is just, you know, annoying.
That’s why he likes Facebook posts instead of commenting on them, lets good morning emails pile up in his inbox read but unanswered. Chanyeol just feels safer saying those emotional type things in person, like over late night Skype calls, and Luhan says he understands.
They spend a lot of hours on video calls: talking, laughing, complaining about homework and professors and electric bills and annoying dongsaengs, staring at each other across the distance til their eyes feel tight and their skin feels tight and one of them inevitably has to run out for class or a shift in the stockroom or another Starbucks latte. At least a few times a week Chanyeol falls asleep with the backlight of his open computer screen haunting the backs of his eyelids and Luhan’s voice soothing him into sleep and even then, especially then, his heart feels tight, too.
Missing Luhan is finding a scrap of notebook paper with his rounded scrawl, half in Hangul and half in Chinese characters that look more like abstract string art. It’s walking into the kitchen with an affectionate insult on his lips only to be met with Minseok’s surprised stare. It’s growing up in the sense that Chanyeol’s reminded, again, that good things don’t last. Not the really good ones.
Basically, Chanyeol realizes that missing Luhan is almost like missing his grandfather who died his senior year of high school, and that really creeps him out because, well, Luhan had better return in December alive and all in one piece. He just better.
September
Chanyeol finds himself struggling to focus on the most basic and mundane details of his life in the following weeks. Things like laundry and decimal points and wiping off the kitchen counters and formatting essay footnotes correctly are practically impossible to pay attention to. Not when Luhan’s exploits are all over social media, updates and pictures of new friends and new favorite coffee shops and cute dogs in his new neighborhood and, of course, all the new pieces Luhan’s been inspired to start.
Chanyeol would be lying, though, if he tried to tell you he wasn’t just as enamored by Luhan’s adventures. Even vicariously exploring NCY through Instagram and Twitter is an addictive thrill, almost as good as wandering the city streets hand in hand with Luhan. Besides the daily, often hourly, updates Chanyeol looks forward to and obsessively refreshes for, there are also his favorite selcas he’s downloaded to his phone: Luhan posing in front of a giant cheese sandwich sculpture at a hole-in-the-wall gallery, Luhan nuzzling a pug at a dog run, Luhan licking strawberry cream cheese off a blueberry bagel, Luhan, Luhan, Luhan.
Heck, Chanyeol probably even has more shots of Luhan’s graffiti obsession saved to his phone memory now than he does of Jongin’s bedhead (which he collects purely for blackmail purposes, of course). The picture he stares at the most though, the one he finds himself scrolling to as he’s falling asleep, is the blurry selca from the airport. It distracts him multiple times a day, actually, which is why he’s currently staring at their squished together faces again instead of reviewing notes for his physics midterm.
“Who’s that?” Jongin asks, glancing away from the TV for a quick peek over Chanyeol’s shoulder. Chanyeol jumps and shoves his phone under his thigh.
“Me and my four-year-old niece,” he grunts, shifting to hide the phone in his hoodie because it’s really not that comfortable to sit on.
“Don’t be dumb, I know it’s Luhan,” Jongin says, directing a reproving look at the screen where he’s trying to maneuver a hedgehog that does not really look like a hedgehog over a treacherous flow of red hot CGI lava.
Then why’d you ask, Chanyeol doesn’t even have the energy to snap.
“You never tell us things of your own volition anymore,” Kris looks up from editing a spreadsheet to say, continuing his annoying trend of being able to read Chanyeol’s mind.
“Whoa, are you accusing me of not talking enough? Because, stop the presses! This is a moment to record in history: The Day Kris Wu Didn’t Tell Park Chanyeol To Shut Up!” No one laughs but Chanyeol.
“It’s not that you don’t talk, dumbass.” Jongdae kicks at Chanyeol’s ankle from his perch on the couch next to Jongin. “You just don’t say anything... substantial, anymore.”
“Well forgive me for not delivering unsolicited orations on the future of Sino-Korean relations,” Chanyeol growls, sliding off the sofa cushion in a listless ooze to rest his head on Jongin’s knee. Minseok gives a soft gasp from behind his computer screen as Jongdae snaps shut the copy of East Asian Political History: Modern Era that was spread in his lap.
“Chanyeol,” Minseok says softly, slipping his headphones down to encircle his neck, “Jongdae didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.”
“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol apologizes into the seam of Jongin’s pant leg, the words doing nothing to staunch the bitter trickle of guilt coating his throat. Maybe he just needs to stay away from people for awhile, because people seem to ruin all of his good moods recently. And he hates making people upset, even if it’s just the cranky old lady behind the student center smoothie counter who scowls at him if he orders too loudly (as if the ice crushing machine thing isn’t three times as loud).
“It’s ok, dude,” Jongdae sighs, dropping his book to the carpeting before rolling off the sofa to dig for a notepad in his camo messenger bag. “We’re just worried. Lately you seem, I don’t know, unhappy?”
“I’m fine, it’s ok!” Chanyeol sits up enough to flash Jongdae a tight smile, the answer to Yura’s texts and Luhan’s phone greetings and Kris’ shoulder pats that’s become automatic slipping through his curved lips. “I’m really not in a bad mood, I promise!” Jongdae nods slowly before opening his notebook but Chanyeol keeps smiling just in case Minseok and Kris are watching from the table.
Chanyeol’s not lying, not really. Because he really was in a good mood today after his afternoon class got canceled and Jongin brought him coffee when they met up after his company class rehearsal. Because being in a good mood and being happy is not the same thing. You can totally feel great but still empty on the inside.
Being without Luhan but seeing glimpses of him all over--the almost empty bottle of his favorite mustard sauce in Minseok’s fridge, a strand of soft pink hair stuck to a blanket, another update on Twitter--is like that nightmare he’s been having recently. It’s already happened twice this week, Chanyeol’s dream of being set loose at a carnival only to discover it’s just him and the strains of gay calliope music, the only other hints of humanity being Luhan’s elusive smile distorted in row after row of funhouse mirrors.
And of course the sudden twist of unease around the rungs of his ribs compels him to blurt all of that into Jongin’s leg too, just after he’s barely managed to placate the room full of chronic worriers.
“Are you implying Luhan is the only hint of humanity in your pitiful existence?” Jongdae looks unimpressed.
“No, no,” Chanyeol protests, raising his head from where it’s pillowed on Jongin’s toned thigh (for the record, Luhan’s are much softer). Apparently that dream interpretation did not come of his mouth as eloquently as he had intended. “I appreciate all of you other people as... people. For sure. But…”
“We’re not Luhan. We get it, hyung,” Jongin says, pausing his game to check an incoming message. “Did you finish your essay yet?”
“Shit!” Chanyeol flails upright into a sitting position, accidentally kicking Jongdae in the ribs. “Sorry! No, shit I forgot!”
“Isn’t that due like tomorrow?” Minseok asks from the kitchen table with a frown.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Wow, I mean I know Luhan’s your 'everything' or whatever, but I didn’t realize that definition included personal day planner,” Jongdae snorts, still rubbing his side.
“Me neither,” Chanyeol moans, collapsing onto the floor to pull Jongdae’s discarded snapback over his eyes. “I guess I’ll go... work on that now.”
“Why don’t you go to the cafe?” Minseok suggests gently. “I’ll come with you, if you want.”
“No, no, that’s ok…” Chanyeol heaves himself onto all fours with a heavy sigh, Jongdae scrambling out of the way this time before any errant limbs can collide with his person. “See you all... sometime tomorrow, I guess.” Chanyeol chucks his wallet in his backpack and drags himself towards Minseok’s front door without a backward glance.
Chanyeol hasn’t been to the cafe since that last time with Luhan, actually. It’s not that he’s been avoiding it, exactly, he just... hasn’t felt like going there. Going with Jongdae or Minseok and inevitably ending up in the usual spot would just feel all wrong, and who goes to cafes by themselves except for hopeless nerds with shitty headphones for company instead of friends and piles of overdue homework to burn through on borrowed energy?
Chanyeol enters the shop and realizes with a bitter laugh as he waves to Zitao that of course it’s a Sunday night and crowded and the only open table is the one in the back by the window. Of course. Zitao drops off a tray of scones and jam to a table of gossipy old ladies before tripping over to Chanyeol.
“Yo! Shall I bring out the usual? Or are you waiting for your boyfriend?” Zitao’s voice lilts on the last word, not in an annoying overemphasis like Jongdae would give it if he were being an insufferable tease, but just a natural little trill. Chanyeol tries not to wince.
“Oh no, it’s just me tonight and I think I need something caffeinated, man. I’ve got like eight pages of BS on ossification to whip up by 8 AM,” he sighs, taking out his own shitty headphones.
“...no Luhan ge?” Zitao pouts, clutching a stack of menus to his chest.
“No, no he’s--”
“Oh yeah!” Zitao blushes, suddenly remembering Luhan’s goodbye bingsu almost six weeks ago. “What would you like to drink then?”
“Macchiato. Extra caramel, please.”
“Roger. Be right back.” Zitao slips back to the counter with a lopsided half smile and Chanyeol boots his laptop, sighing again as the OS takes its sweet time to load. As much as this sucks, this constant hollow feeling that suctions him emptier anytime he sees or does or finds anything that reminds him of Luhan, this is going to be his reality for the foreseeable future, so he better just get used to it. No more moping.
Chanyeol opens a blank document, the white page like the spread of sheets on an empty bed. He needs to do laundry tomorrow.
Zitao slips him a scone when he’s cleaning up the kitchen around midnight. Chanyeol smiles his thanks and packs up to relocate to the PC bang across the street.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Zitao says from behind the counter as Chanyeol follows a sleepy short haired girl out the door. Chanyeol laughs and it almost sounds natural this time, even to him.
The scone is dry but tastes like blueberries and spring and Chanyeol somehow manages to finish his report in time for class. When he gets home he goes right to sleep without changing the sheets.
If Chanyeol spent a good part of last year cramming for exams perched on a hard metal stool next to Luhan in the painting studio, junior year finds him gravitating towards the other wing of the arts building.
Jongin has a lot of free time since he doesn’t work on campus like most of the rest of them, but he’s pretty much always in the back dance studio, stretching, working on his six pack, messing around with new choreo to avant garde French music on repeat, or following his noonas around, toting their extra warm ups and pointe shoes and doling out foot rubs.
“You should see him in his natural element!” Chanyeol crows to Jongdae on the one afternoon a week their shifts in the bio stockroom overlap. “He’s like, the Junmyeon of the dance company, their little mama!”
“Hey!” Junmyeon looks up from relabeling some specimens a new TA apparently half-assed with messy handwriting, even though his shift in the lab ended an hour ago.
“It’s true though!” Chanyeol grins. Except what he’s not mentioning is the part where he’s becoming the number two bitch of the ballet brigade right after Jongin these days. He’s getting so good at foot massages he even knows the difference between the metatarsals by touch now, and not just the unrealistically colored anatomy charts in his textbook.
“So that’s where you’ve been disappearing to lately,” Jongdae grunts, shoving a tangle of butterfly nets into the supply closet. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d taken over as president of the Stitch ‘N Bitch circle in Luhan’s absence.”
“Oh my god, Jongie,” Chanyeol says with an incredulous laugh, “we may be perfect for each other but we aren’t the same person!”
“Mmhm,” Jongdae hums, texting somebody and totally not paying attention to Chanyeol. That’s another big reason he misses Luhan so much. Whatever his other faults (although personally, Chanyeol doesn’t think he really has any), Luhan always pays attention to him. Whether it’s soccer practice or a painting that’s keeping him busy, Luhan always has time for Chanyeol.
“Hey, are you taking microbio in the spring?” Jongdae asks, putting his phone away before Junmyeon can nag him for texting during work hours.
“It’s on my schedule. Why?”
“Thinking about switching, that’s all.”
“Seriously? Would you take it with me if you can get in?” Chanyeol bounces on the edge of his rolling chair. The broken wheel squeaks.
“Yeah,” Jongdae sighs. His hair droops a little in front and Chanyeol just itches to muss it up with his fingers. “Genetics overlaps with Economy of Modern China.”
“I don’t know how you keep up with a minor in another department. I think you get less sleep than Kris hyung.” Jongdae shrugs but Chanyeol knows it’s tough. It’s hard enough to graduate with just bio in under five years, as Junmyeon can attest to.
“You know what Jongin says, sleep is relative.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense!” Chanyeol grabs Jongdae’s droopy hair and tugs. Jongdae slams his fist into Chanyeol’s shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt your teatime gossip, ladies, but would one of you help me out with these trays?” Junmyeon points to the rubber lined trays of petri dishes on the counter, the freshly inked labels still drying on beige strips of masking tape. Jongdae hops down from his stool and grabs the nearest tray.
Chanyeol checks the crooked clock above the doorway as they exit. 2:16 PM. Almost time to check on the centrifuge in Lab 2. Another four hours before he can call Luhan. He pulls out his phone and loads kakao. Maybe he can prod Jongin into bringing him coffee. Thursday afternoons are always really slow.
►
Title: Upside Forward
Pairing(s): Chanyeol/Luhan
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): language and Chanyeol being pathetic
Length: ~51,000
Summary: Basically, without Luhan smiling at him everything about Chanyeol's life sucks just that much worse.
Author's note: Dear recipient: I was trying for a bittersweet love story but this kind of outgrew my outline (x5). So take your time to read this, no pressure and I hope you enjoy it! To my anon beta: you have my eternal gratitude T.T Seriously thank you. Also, some theme music and the song that kept me going.
August 2013
“Hey, hey Chanyeol?”
“What?” Chanyeol looks up from his phone to see his Luhan holding up two identical turquoise cardigans on padded hangers.
“I asked which one, the loose fit or the one with the white cuffs?” Luhan shakes the hangers lightly, making the knit materials dance across the smooth silk duvet cover of his bed. So they weren’t exactly identical, whatever.
“Uh, the loose fit?” Chanyeol points to the sweater on the left. Luhan looks especially petite and delicate in oversized sweaters, fine-boned and ethereal in a way that always makes Chanyeol want to gather his smaller frame into his chest and hang on and squeeze and never let go.
“You’re sure this one is better?”
Chanyeol nods, smothering a wide yawn with his wrist. He is sure. Even if Luhan is deserting him for the other side of the world, Chanyeol should at least be able to enjoy seeing his boyfriend at his cutest in photos.
Luhan nods and tosses the slightly larger sweater onto his bed and the white-cuffed one on the growing pile on the floor by the window. Chanyeol doesn’t understand why Luhan doesn’t just hang the rejects back in the closet, but then again, he doesn’t understand a lot of things about the man. Chanyeol could probably write a whole essay on how Luhan is a walking, talking, giggling, singing contradiction, but Chanyeol is a little lazy and who likes essays, anyway?
“Sweet!”
Luhan claps his hands in glee and Chanyeol startles, knocking his elbow into the side of the dresser he’s leaning against while on the floor. He can’t help but match Luhan’s grin even as he rubs the sore spot on his arm.
“I think we’re all done sorting the summer-weight cardigans now!” Luhan drops onto his bed next to a mountain of clothes bigger than he is and eases his head onto the plush mound of his down pillow. Chanyeol blinks at the open door of Luhan’s closet that could easily pass for a small department store, barring the fact that all of the clothes inside are Luhan-sized, and wonders what time it will be when they finally get around to sorting the underwear and socks. Luhan probably won’t have room in his suitcase for any underwear at this rate, Chanyeol thinks with a snort. Not that he’s opposed to Luhan going commando, though (but don’t tell Baekhyun that).
“Ugh, I hate packing, but it’s so exciting all the same!” Luhan groans into his pillow.
“Yup.” Chanyeol doesn’t look up, just keeps scrolling down the same posts on his Facebook newsfeed that hasn’t refreshed at all in the last hour. No surprise there, considering it’s almost 2 AM and not all of Chanyeol’s friends are inhuman cyborgs like Jongdae, who always hears all the gossip even before Luhan and has eyes in the back of his head. He somehow manages all this on two hours of sleep a night and way too much coffee.
“Yeol-ah,” Luhan calls softly, now hanging off the edge of his bed from the shoulders down, the back of his head pillowed against the dip in the side of the mattress and his soft pink hair fanning out like a cotton candy cloud.
Chanyeol leans forward on impulse to press a close-mouthed kiss to the gentle slope of Luhan’s bare forehead. His chest tightens when Luhan’s lashes flutter closed and a small smile steals across his lips.
Chanyeol leans back against the dresser, the brim of his cap turned backwards knocking against the drawer pull. The band slips over his eyes. Luhan giggles and Chanyeol decides with a smirk that his laughing face looks even more ridiculous upside down as he pushes his hat back into place with another yawn.
“I’m sorry,” Luhan says, sitting up, his hair a frizzy pink halo around his ears. “You don’t have to stay if you’re tired.” He bites his lip, lines of guilt pulling his skin taut across his fine features.
“Oh no! Really, I’m fine!” Chanyeol waves his phone and almost drops it in a hasty flail to reassure Luhan. He is tired, though. He was up before five to drop by the lab and check on the E. coli cultures for Junmyeon before his 7:30 calc class, but if Luhan’s not giving into fatigue yet, then neither is he.
Luhan smiles gratefully, rolling off his mattress with a soft groan to pull another armful of clothes from his closet. Chanyeol grins back, gritting his teeth against the next yawn blooming in his throat and tries to pay more attention. He knows he’ll regret it later if he lets these last precious moments alone slip away marinated in sour resentment.
He knows, because he was stupid enough to let it happen before.
Six days. They have six days left. Luhan is as excited as if his flight were leaving tomorrow, distracted and toying nervously with everything he can get his hands around. Chanyeol doesn’t blame him. He’d probably be in a similar state, if not worse, if he were bound for the bright lights of New York in less than a week.
“Chanyeol,” Minseok sighs, shooting him a pleading look as he relieves Luhan of a sharp object (this time a paring knife that had been propped on the cutting board) for the third time before Luhan can sever a tendon in his anxious fidgeting.
Chanyeol wraps an arm around Luhan’s shoulders and steers him into the living room and towards the sofa. It’s really too hot outside for a full on cuddle puddle, but at least the AC’s running and it will keep Luhan distracted long enough for Minseok to finish dinner.
Luhan gives a contented sigh as he pulls Chanyeol down on top of him, shifting slightly under the sudden pressure of Chanyeol’s long limbs, and nuzzles the tip of his nose into the hollow behind his ear.
“I’m gonna miss this the most, I think,” he whispers, hot breath ghosting the shell of Chanyeol’s ear.
“What, you mean you’re gonna miss your sofa more than me?” Chanyeol asks in mock dismay. “Seriously, Lu?”
“No, stupid!” Luhan chuckles and pinches his elbow. “I’m gonna miss being alone with you.”
They’re not really alone, as Minseok is clearly visible through the kitchen door where he’s stirring something in a saucepan with his back to them. They’re hardly ever truly alone, between nosy roommates and Chanyeol’s summer class schedule and Luhan’s long studio hours. But that’s okay; Chanyeol takes what he can get.
“Ugh, this is so comfy, I might just fall asleep like this,” Luhan mutters as his breathing slows, although that may just be from Chanyeol’s weight crushing his chest. Luhan’s eyelids fall closed, lashes tickling at the nape of Chanyeol’s neck. Chanyeol reaches for the remote on the coffee table, out of habit mostly but also spurred by his growing aversion to being alone with his own thoughts for too long. He hates how his brain is already caught under the lonely pall of the future, especially when Luhan is warm and pliant beneath him, the heat of his skin seeping through his thin sweater and Chanyeol’s old T-shirt and into the instinctive melt of limbs molded by months of muscle memory.
“Don’t.” Luhan’s fingers close over Chanyeol’s wrist before he can lift the remote. “Not today. Just be with me, Yeollie.” Please. Luhan doesn’t say it but Chanyeol can hear the pleading request in the press of Luhan’s fingers against his pulse, in the smooth stroke of his thumb over the edge of Chanyeol’s wrist bone. That’s one thing they have in common: difficulty asking for things.
“Ok.” Chanyeol drops the remote and allows Luhan’s fingers to lace through his own. He falls asleep to the hiss of Minseok’s steamer seething on the stove.
One more day. Actually, it’s less than that if you’re counting hours, and Chanyeol definitely is. He’s been compulsively counting down for the past sixty, to be exact, trying to ignore the clock and the receding line of sunlight across the lab counters each evening as he fidgets through his afternoon shifts in the bio stockroom, impatient to get home to Luhan, but painfully aware that each passing moment brings them closer to their impending separation.
Three days is a long time when you’re impatient and miserable. It also goes by frighteningly fast.
Chanyeol bites into the cold curve of his spoon in an effort to focus on Luhan; specifically, on the movement of Luhan’s lips and the low tones of his voice and not on the sliver of soft pink tongue that peeks out as Luhan chews shaved ice with parted lips to avoid early onset brainfreeze. Luhan always gets brainfreeze when they share bingsu. He always shoves heaping spoonfuls into his mouth but never learns his lesson.
“Ahh!” Luhan gasps, waving his hand in front of his mouth as he attempts to fan his oversensitized teeth and frozen tongue, although Chanyeol’s pretty sure that only works when you burn your mouth on something hot. He should just start bringing a baby food spoon to cafes with them, though he has no idea where to buy one. Kris would know, probably, but Kris asks too many questions.
“You ignoring me again?” Luhan pouts with a glare, apparently recovered enough to scold his boyfriend although his tongue must still feel a little numb. He’s got a lisp he doesn’t usually have, one that reminds Chanyeol of his sister’s sloppy speech when Yura had braces back in high school.
“Chanyeol?” Luhan’s frowning in concern, his bangs falling into his eyes as he leans across the narrow table, the key-shaped pendant on the fine chain around his neck clinking against the glass bowl between them and nearly dipping into their melting desert. Luhan catches the pendant in his fingers as Chanyeol automatically lifts a hand to smooth the pink wisps away from his forehead.
“Sorry, hyung! Just a bit tired, I guess.” Luhan blinks, gaze unwavering as if he’s waiting for Chanyeol to tell him something--something important--but Chanyeol just smiles, fishing in the sides of the bowl for a lump of sesame dusted ddeok to spoon into Luhan’s mouth. Luhan accepts the bite with a soft hum of appreciation, his lips blushed red from the cold.
Chanyeol yawns, sleepy and overfull from their late afternoon dinner at Luhan’s favorite meat restaurant. He picks at a clump of red beans that had been hiding under the square of ddeok. Neither of them is really hungry for dessert, let alone tooth-achingly sweet bingsu, but they had somehow ended up at their usual cafe after dinner and ordered as soon as the cute waiter from Qingdao bounded over to their table. It’s tradition, Chanyeol guesses, folding abstract origami sculptures out of napkins and fighting over the identical stainless steel spoons before digging into their treat. Luhan always lets him have the first bite.
“So tell me about your orientation again?” Chanyeol suggests, sliding another spoonful of quickly melting frozen milk shavings into his mouth even though his stomach’s going to complain as soon as he swallows.
“Oh! Did I tell you about the accommodations yet?” And Luhan launches into a detailed description of the newly remodeled studios at his host university for the third time, his temporary lisp overshadowed by the liquid anticipation in his voice. Chanyeol really should be paying attention now since he has pretty much zoned out every time Luhan started gushing about New York before, but it’s hard to focus in the fading half light by the narrow window. This is exactly the same spot Luhan broke the news, only a few months back.
It had been raining that day, just a light drizzle at the beginning of the rainy season, but the sun was glistening on the wet pavement out the window by the time Zitao brought their order.
Chanyeol had known since they’d met in October that Luhan had been hoping to study abroad junior or senior year. He’d kept that fact in the back of his mind as coffee dates turned into dinner dates, and dinners out into movie marathons and pizza on Chanyeol’s bed or Luhan’s sofa, but it still felt like a punch in the gut when Luhan announced with a bright grin that he’d been accepted to an exchange program for the fall semester.
At first it was difficult to imagine four whole months of a Luhanless existence (despite the fact Chanyeol had spent the first two years of college happy, single, and quite busy between lab reports and pick up basketball with Kris and 1 AM food fights with Jongdae) with Luhan’s fingers still linked in his, Luhan’s laughter dancing in his ears, Luhan, Luhan, Luhan.
It had started to feel very real, though, while squashed together on Luhan and Minseok’s sofa with X-Men playing in the background, scrolling through pages of discount flight itineraries; or while digging up spare wool gloves in the basement bargain bin of a department store, just in case New York turned out to be colder than Seoul or Beijing; or while sorting through piles of sketchbooks and Luhan’s scrapbook collection to decide which ones he could possibly bear to part with for four months.
If it was that hard to say goodbye to a scribbled in notebook from freshman year, the airport is gonna suck. Chanyeol shoves a spoonful with too much red bean in his mouth and smiles at Luhan and pretends it doesn’t taste like ash.
“Agh, it’s so hot,” Luhan moans, gingerly lifting his legs from the vinyl seat cushion only to have them stick again as soon as he lowers them. Chanyeol hums in agreement into his hair, trying not to inhale any dry, over-bleached strands.
He’s got both arms wrapped around Luhan’s shoulders, his boyfriend’s thin frame arching over the polished steel armrest between their seats and pulled into his chest.
Luhan’s right, it is hot. Chanyeol can tell from the vaguely room temperature air that an AC vent must be running somewhere, but on the vast floor of endless check in counters broken by narrow strips of benches, it doesn’t do much.
“What time is it?” Luhan fans himself with the papers clutched in his right hand, his boarding passes and luggage claim stickers tucked into his passport in a neat bundle.
“Mmdunno,” Chanyeol yawns. The last thing he wants to think about right now is the time, but of course Luhan can’t sit still, fidgeting and double checking the essentials crammed into his backpack. Chanyeol sighs but lets Luhan unclasp his hands and tug Chanyeol’s wrist up to check the display of his chunky digital watch that he wears more for show than anything.
“Ok, I should probably…” Luhan sucks in a breath, turns his head to bury the curve of his nose against Chanyeol’s throat even as he’s slowly slipping his shoulders free from Chanyeol’s embrace. Chanyeol stands with a low whine, his right arm still hooked over Luhan’s shoulder pulling them both up.
Luhan lurches on his wedge sneakers for a moment before steadying himself enough to bend down for his backpack and carry on duffel. Chanyeol reaches for the duffel but Luhan pries his fingers away from the handles.
“I got it, Yeol,” he says, flashing a smile too bright with promises for the airport departures terminal before 8:00 AM. “I’ll have to carry all my own heavy shit this semester, so I’d better get used to it, huh?” Chanyeol laughs too loudly for the space, an old lady’s nodding head snapping up to glare at him as the force of the hoarse rush of air scrapes the back of his throat raw.
“You’re just gonna miss me cause I spoil you,” Chanyeol pretends to pout, digging the tips of his fingers into the soft part of Luhan’s waist just above his hipbones.
“Hey!” Luhan smacks his hands away and almost drops his passport. “Isn’t it the other way around?” he challenges, angling his chin down and staring up through his fringe. Chanyeol just pulls Luhan’s sunglasses from where they’re hooked over the collar of his shirt and shoves them on the top of his head before pulling him towards the security queue.
They’re only a few feet away from one of the international security checkpoints but Chanyeol drags the rubber soles of his canvas shoes the whole way to stretch the distance, as if he could create invisible lines connecting Incheon to New York in the waxed surface.
They join the back of the queue, which isn’t too long. Luhan’s flying out on a Tuesday morning after all, because that’s when airplane tickets are usually cheapest, according to Jongdae.
Luhan drops his duffel to the floor between his legs so he can shuffle it along with his feet as the line creeps forward. Chanyeol presses his forehead to the curve of Luhan’s shoulder and squinches his eyes shut, willing the hot pricking behind his eyelids to dull before it can spill over into something that would embarrass him.
“Hey,” Luhan says, “you ok? I’m sorry I made you wake up so early to come with me.” Chanyeol sniffs and shakes his head against Luhan’s comforting heat. He straightens up to face Luhan with a tight smile.
“No, hyung, I’m good! Just... getting hungry I guess.” Luhan laughs, the back of his head rolling against Chanyeol’s neck, but he still looks uneasy when he twists back to face Chanyeol. So maybe it’s not the early hour, maybe that’s not the reason he’s guilty, a part of Chanyeol thinks bitterly.
The line moves up to where the metal railing starts, the dark navy uniform of the man verifying ID and tickets just a few bodies in front of them. Luhan extricates himself from Chanyeol’s embrace enough for Chanyeol to slip out of line but Chanyeol keeps his arm curled stubbornly around Luhan’s neck, his palm cupping the smooth slope of Luhan’s jaw and the cold steel bar unyielding between their sides.
“One last picture!” Luhan says suddenly, breaking Chanyeol’s hold as he twists to dig his phone out. “Cheese!”
Luhan has the camera app focused and snapping before Chanyeol can cement a smile in place, and then he’s bent double and scrambling for the straps of his duffel in a hurry to close the gap in line slowly opening ahead of them.
Chanyeol lets his eyes fall shut as Luhan pulls him in for one last squeeze around the neck as he hands over his passport.
“Don’t be gone too long,” Chanyeol murmurs. “Come back soon.”
“I’ll be back in winter!” Chanyeol can feel the soft curve of Luhan’s lips as he presses a smile to his forehead, and then Luhan’s gently pushing him away, collecting his documents from the annoyed security guard and disappearing into the left side of the split queue for security screening, only the flash of his dark sunglasses pillowed on the pink waves of his hair still visible.
Chanyeol swallows hard and heads past the bench they had just been sprawled across, now occupied by a sleepy teenage boy and an elderly couple with several tubs of kimchi tightly swaddled in large squares of silk. He walks down the left side of the escalator two steps at a time, brushing past fluffy miniskirts and padded shoulders of suit jackets way too stifling for August weather, and strides out the sliding doors of the nearest exit to buy a ticket for the shuttle bus.
Chanyeol’s still waiting for the 811 bus on a wooden bench, sandwiched between a sweaty businessman snoring softly into the folds of his jacket spread across his lap and an abandoned to-go cup of bubble tea, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out in time to see the second notification flash across the screen and he taps it before he can stop himself.
He smiles as the selca from the line upstairs enlarges to engulf the whole screen. Luhan must have made it through security to his gate then, or perhaps he’s sipping overpriced coffee at one of the transit cafes. Chanyeol brushes his thumb along the slope of Luhan’s cheekbone to keep the display from darkening and sighs. It’s a horrible photo, actually. The lighting was dim enough that the edges of their features blurred slightly, Chanyeol’s chin tucked just above Luhan’s shoulders with their faces pressed into each other’s until their cheeks are an indistinguishable smush of white.
Of course Luhan still looks perfect though, his hair in soft curls framing his forehead while Chanyeol’s manages to look simultaneously brittle-dry and frizzed out on humidity. Luhan’s skin tone even retains its delicate glow while Chanyeol’s just shines like has hasn’t bothered to wash his face for a good 48 hours.
Chanyeol tries to convince himself it’s just a trick of the lighting, or probably some ridiculous face recognition filter Luhan slapped on that’s calibrated to make him look hot and everyone else like shit. Chanyeol texts back a quick thanks!! have a safe trip hyung <3 before saving the photo to his phone memory. Out of habit he flips to the gallery to make sure it downloaded properly.
There it is, right in front of the crowded group shot with all their friends from Luhan’s goodbye party at Kris and Yixing’s last night, in which Chanyeol had managed to look even more unphotogenic, face flushed red from all the shots Luhan had forced down his throat, one for every sad face, just like he had threatened on the way there.
Chanyeol locks the screen and slips it back into his pocket just as the bus pulls up to the curb. The man beside him sits up with a start and struggles back into his jacket as he jogs to the bus. Chanyeol gets on behind him and hands his voucher to the driver before plopping into a window seat. He checks his phone again even though he knows it hasn’t buzzed in the last sixty seconds. Luhan still hasn’t seen his reply, he notices as the bus groans and starts to lumber forward. Chanyeol adds I miss you already... to the string of unread messages before sliding the window curtain closed and curling into the cushy seat.
His vibrating phone startles Chanyeol from an uneasy doze nearly an hour later and he grabs for it instinctively, the hope of finding another message from Luhan rising in his throat and welling under his tongue even as he realizes with the lucid part of his mind that it can’t be, Luhan’s plane should airborne by now.
It’s from his sister, Yura. It’s today isn’t it? check the freezer I picked up some popsicles and extra kleenex. don’t cry too hard you big baby. Chanyeol winces at the rush of nostalgia that floods his mouth, remembering last summer when she had sent almost the exact same message, right after he got his wisdom teeth removed.
“This is Daebang,” the driver announces. Chanyeol stands on wobbly legs to punch the red button on the wall in front of him, suddenly consumed with an overwhelming urge to get off this bus, now. The driver mumbles in acknowledgement of his intent to disembark but Chanyeol is solely focused on staggering down the aisle to the door as the bus bumps around a corner.
The driver brakes to a stop and Chanyeol stumbles out onto the curb, weaving through the throng of people emerging from the subway exit a few meters ahead. He trips down the wide flights of stairs into the station, welcoming the kiss of cool air across his overheated skin as he descends.
Daebang, huh. That’s a lot closer to campus than it is to home, but he can always crash at Kris and Yixing’s for a few hours before he has to deal with facing an empty apartment. Baby steps, Chanyeol, he reminds himself as he slips through the turnstile and around the corner to an empty bench beside the tracks. You can do this.
Chanyeol is half asleep, hunkered into a seat between two school girls on the subway a good 48 hours later, before he hears from Luhan again: sorry, I didnt have wifi at the airpt. miss u, followed by a selca of Luhan perched on a wrought iron garden chair outside some hipster cafe, posing in a beanie and oversized glasses. Is New York even cold right now? Luhan and his fashion.
Chanyeol yawns and opens Facebook to find 17 new notifications. He smiles to see he’s been tagged in their last selca together, which is the cover photo of Luhan’s new album titled Adventures <3!!~, but the warm fuzzies dull a little when he realizes the next five are dumb pics of airplane food, the edge of the dirty jetplane wing and some clouds, and three increasingly blurry ones that look like they were taken by a four year old admiring the city lights from the back of a moving taxi. As if Luhan has never traveled before. What the hell.
Chanyeol thumbs back to his newsfeed to like the album before sending Luhan a selca of himself pretending to be asleep on the train. Luhan immediately replies with a laughing emoji and Chanyeol can almost, almost hear his bright laughter ringing in the train car.
They met on a train, actually. Not the metro though: on one of those slow, cross-country ones working its way north to Seoul. Chanyeol was returning from a weekend visit to his grandmother in Jangseong, already bored after only thirty minutes of staring at mostly empty rice fields outside his window. He was facing another three hours of repetitious landscape before he could transfer to the subway for the last leg of his journey home and not enough phone battery to last for half of that.
In Nonsan the train stopped for an unexplained delay of seventeen minutes and Chanyeol was about ready to start practicing drum rolls with his head on the window when a guy in a baggy gray coat stumbled down the aisle and dropped a heavy backpack into the seat beside Chanyeol. He was carrying more bulky bags of some kind of equipment than he could handle, and a smaller square case tumbled onto Chanyeol’s lap.
“Sorry!” the guy said, not even pausing to make a proper apology before trying to shove another bag onto the rack above his head. “Sorry, but could you…?” Chanyeol blinked his drowsy eyes back open to find his new seat mate’s face only centimeters from his own, full lips curved in an apologetic smile. But it was those huge, dark eyes that had Chanyeol stuttering, slow to process what the stranger was asking.
“Oh, sure!” As soon as he comprehended, Chanyeol stood up so fast he cracked his head on the rack (good thing it was October and he was wearing a knit hat thick enough to prevent a concussion or whatever) as he reached up to help the shorter man secure his luggage as the train started to pick up speed.
“So... golf clubs? Camping chairs?” The guy blinked, his lips parting in confusion until Chanyeol patted the extra long nylon bag he had just hoisted onto the rack. He tightened the drawstring tie before sitting back down.
“Ah! Haha, no! It’s a tripod. For my camera,” the guy said, adjusting the last padded black bag in his lap beside his backpack as he settled next to Chanyeol.
“You’re a photographer?” Chanyeol asked, his curiosity sparked. “Like for weddings and stuff? Wait, you’re not paparazzi are you?” The guy laughed even louder, his jaw dropping as he rocked back against the seat.
“Hell no, although that romantic shit would be a sweet gig. I’m an art student, in painting actually, but I shoot landscapes on the side.”
“Landscapes,” Chanyeol echoed. “In Jeolla? What did you take? An SD card full of stubbled fields and dirt roads? You’re like two weeks too late for the autumn leaves. Oh, but that’s nice! I mean, if you’re into rice fields or whatever! I think…” he trailed off, patting surreptitiously at his cheeks to make sure they weren’t about to blush a mortifying shade of sun-kissed strawberry. This guy was kinda cute, after all.
The guy just grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling up until Chanyeol had the sudden desire to run his fingers along the grooves in a totally non-creepy, polite way. His skin just looked really soft, okay?
“Actually, yes,” the guy said, somehow managing to talk without letting his wide smile slip a fraction. “I have two SD cards full of fallow fields and rusting fences and rotting tree stumps. It’s gonna be so cool! I’m going to layer them with the best shots from my international graffiti collection to make collage prints for this Halloween show we’re doing at the gallery and--”
Suddenly his face fell, dragging Chanyeol’s guts along with it like someone had reached a hand into his abdominal cavity and given his intestines a sharp yank. “Sorry, you probably don’t--sorry! I talk too much.” The guy shrank back into his seat, clutching his bag to his chest, and Chanyeol leaned forward just so he wouldn’t miss any of the intriguing facial expressions continuing to cross his features.
“No, hey man, it’s cool! I like art. I mean, I can’t do art but I have artsy friends. They tell me stuff. About art. Sometimes.” Chanyeol grinned, hoping his flailing wasn’t even more awkward than normal, and then the cute guy’s smile was back and he was opening his mouth to tell Chanyeol more and Chanyeol didn’t even care anymore that he was embarrassing himself with the socially unacceptable things Jongin termed as word vomit and over-enthusiasm.
They talked, sometimes at the same time when their conversation got too exciting to bother with pauses, all the way until Gwangmyeong when Chanyeol realized with a sudden pang that their train ride was almost over but they weren’t done talking yet. The photographer guy must have been thinking the same because he turned and said,
“Hey, my name is Luhan.”
“Chanyeol!” Chanyeol immediately blurted. “I mean, I’m Park Chanyeol.” Luhan’s eyes widened.
“Are you friends with Kim Jongin? The dance kid who sucks at chemistry?”
“No way!” Chanyeol gasped. “I mean, wait, yeah, I know him! Do we, like, go to the same school?”
And that was how Chanyeol found himself stepping off the train in Yongsan with Luhan’s number saved to his contacts and an invite to Luhan’s Halloween show scribbled in his day planner, and the rest is history.
‘History’ meaning that Chanyeol spent the next week replying to Luhan’s fluffy texts with his Baby Mickey emojis, the ones he only saved for super special people, and hanging around the back dance studio after his shifts in the bio stockroom to badger a smirking Jongin into divulging every detail he knew about his acquaintance in the studio art department.
Jongin complained but complied, so Chanyeol also dragged him along to the art gallery the following Thursday night. Chanyeol speed walked across campus, his dress shoes flattening the damp grass as he yanked Jongin along by the wrist, and then stopped short just inside the building. He stood fidgeting next to the propped open doors, suddenly feeling out of place just outside the brightly lit room of punch bowls and fancy finger foods and art professors in asymmetrical suits. He watched as nervous students flitted between guests and faculty and their installations, searching for Luhan among the crowd but relieved when he couldn’t spot him.
“Oh, come on hyung,” Jongin had groaned, his whole upper body rolling along with his eyes. “If anyone here has a right to be nervous it isn’t you. Can we go in already?”
“But... I feel like I’m intruding somehow, like I’m not supposed to be here,” Chanyeol had whined. He smudged the glass door as he ran his finger down the black and umber poster advertising the show, another copy of which he had spent a good part of the last five days staring at on the stockroom notice board.
“He invited you, didn’t he?” Jongin huffed, starting to really lose his patience.
“Yes, but--hey, why’s Luhan’s piece’s name in Chinese? I can’t even read it…” Jongin gave a hoarse laugh and elbowed Chanyeol in the side.
“Because Luhan hyung is Chinese, obviously! You’re just stalling now, aren’t you.”
“Luhan’s Chinese?” Chanyeol asked, so surprised by this revelation that he followed docilely after as Jongin started pulling him into the gallery. “Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Oh my god, hyung. His name is Lu Han, and you really didn’t realize he wasn’t Korean? I thought you knew.” Jongin shook his head and parked Chanyeol in front of the punch table. He gestured at the waitress clutching a ladle.
“Park Chanyeol!”
Chanyeol whirled around, almost knocking a crystal tumbler out of the server’s hands with a wayward elbow, to find Luhan striding towards him with arms outstretched. And Luhan, in a wine colored button down over fitted white slacks, his honey waves tumbling over the frames of his dark rimmed glasses, looked stunning. Chanyeol barely managed a stilted wave as Jongin snickered into the sherbet foam floating at the rim of his punch glass. “You actually came! What do you think?”
“Uh, it’s great! Yeah!” Chanyeol squeaked. Luhan smiled encouragingly, bobbing his head. “This punch is really... fruity!” Chanyeol continued. Luhan’s eyebrows quirked up slightly and Jongin stamped on Chanyeol’s foot.
“He means the show, dumbass, not the punch.”
“Oh fuck. I mean, sorry!” Chanyeol stammered, wishing he weren’t rooted to the spot by Luhan’s warm gaze so he could run screaming from the gallery and go drown himself in the water fountain in the back hallway, the one no one even used for drinking because it was always clogged with greasy globs of paint and moldy bits of papier mache. What a fitting end for a clumsy idiot.
“What hyung meant to say,” Jongin sighed, graciously stepping in to cover for Chanyeol’s fail, as per usual, “is that we just got here and would like to request a private tour of your magnificent work.”
“Ah,” Luhan sighed, the bright smile on his lips cranking up another few hundred watts, “in that case…”
“I’ll just... go find Krystal noona, I guess,” Jongin muttered with a sarcastic salute as Luhan linked his arm through Chanyeol’s.
“Sorry, man,” Chanyeol said, not even noticing Jongin slip away because his eyes were already glued to Luhan’s as he pulled them in an arcing promenade across the polished parquet to proudly present his cluster of framed prints.
If you ask Chanyeol how he met Luhan, he’ll probably just blush and stammer for the next five minutes, and you’ll probably give up on getting anything meaningful out of him long before he finally relaxes enough to spit it out.
It’s not that Chanyeol doesn’t like talking. Chanyeol is just way more comfortable with talking about things like proteins and ions and what kind of cleats are better for astroturf versus real grass and that one time Jongin swallowed a carton of very spoiled milk thinking it was yogurt (that really happened, by the way, although how he didn’t notice the smell no one’s quite sure).
And typing words is even scarier that saying them, because words in stark black against stark white, permanently saved to a server or phone comm forever, screenshotted to a phone, copied and saved to an inbox draft... those words don’t go anywhere. Those words seem to carry a much bigger liability than the spoken ones. Spoken words, Chanyeol likes to think, are gone with the wind as soon as they leave his mouth and die as irretrievable vibrations in space, long forgotten and corrupted in personal memory and therefore plausibly deniable should he ever feel the need to decide that he never said them.
That’s probably a large part of the reason Chanyeol replies to Luhan’s texts with three, two, or one word answers. Or increasingly as of late with no words, only emojis to deliver his mess of feelings to Luhan in a neat cartoon gif. The other part is that typing, especially on his finicky oversensitive phone keyboard is just, you know, annoying.
That’s why he likes Facebook posts instead of commenting on them, lets good morning emails pile up in his inbox read but unanswered. Chanyeol just feels safer saying those emotional type things in person, like over late night Skype calls, and Luhan says he understands.
They spend a lot of hours on video calls: talking, laughing, complaining about homework and professors and electric bills and annoying dongsaengs, staring at each other across the distance til their eyes feel tight and their skin feels tight and one of them inevitably has to run out for class or a shift in the stockroom or another Starbucks latte. At least a few times a week Chanyeol falls asleep with the backlight of his open computer screen haunting the backs of his eyelids and Luhan’s voice soothing him into sleep and even then, especially then, his heart feels tight, too.
Missing Luhan is finding a scrap of notebook paper with his rounded scrawl, half in Hangul and half in Chinese characters that look more like abstract string art. It’s walking into the kitchen with an affectionate insult on his lips only to be met with Minseok’s surprised stare. It’s growing up in the sense that Chanyeol’s reminded, again, that good things don’t last. Not the really good ones.
Basically, Chanyeol realizes that missing Luhan is almost like missing his grandfather who died his senior year of high school, and that really creeps him out because, well, Luhan had better return in December alive and all in one piece. He just better.
September
Chanyeol finds himself struggling to focus on the most basic and mundane details of his life in the following weeks. Things like laundry and decimal points and wiping off the kitchen counters and formatting essay footnotes correctly are practically impossible to pay attention to. Not when Luhan’s exploits are all over social media, updates and pictures of new friends and new favorite coffee shops and cute dogs in his new neighborhood and, of course, all the new pieces Luhan’s been inspired to start.
Chanyeol would be lying, though, if he tried to tell you he wasn’t just as enamored by Luhan’s adventures. Even vicariously exploring NCY through Instagram and Twitter is an addictive thrill, almost as good as wandering the city streets hand in hand with Luhan. Besides the daily, often hourly, updates Chanyeol looks forward to and obsessively refreshes for, there are also his favorite selcas he’s downloaded to his phone: Luhan posing in front of a giant cheese sandwich sculpture at a hole-in-the-wall gallery, Luhan nuzzling a pug at a dog run, Luhan licking strawberry cream cheese off a blueberry bagel, Luhan, Luhan, Luhan.
Heck, Chanyeol probably even has more shots of Luhan’s graffiti obsession saved to his phone memory now than he does of Jongin’s bedhead (which he collects purely for blackmail purposes, of course). The picture he stares at the most though, the one he finds himself scrolling to as he’s falling asleep, is the blurry selca from the airport. It distracts him multiple times a day, actually, which is why he’s currently staring at their squished together faces again instead of reviewing notes for his physics midterm.
“Who’s that?” Jongin asks, glancing away from the TV for a quick peek over Chanyeol’s shoulder. Chanyeol jumps and shoves his phone under his thigh.
“Me and my four-year-old niece,” he grunts, shifting to hide the phone in his hoodie because it’s really not that comfortable to sit on.
“Don’t be dumb, I know it’s Luhan,” Jongin says, directing a reproving look at the screen where he’s trying to maneuver a hedgehog that does not really look like a hedgehog over a treacherous flow of red hot CGI lava.
Then why’d you ask, Chanyeol doesn’t even have the energy to snap.
“You never tell us things of your own volition anymore,” Kris looks up from editing a spreadsheet to say, continuing his annoying trend of being able to read Chanyeol’s mind.
“Whoa, are you accusing me of not talking enough? Because, stop the presses! This is a moment to record in history: The Day Kris Wu Didn’t Tell Park Chanyeol To Shut Up!” No one laughs but Chanyeol.
“It’s not that you don’t talk, dumbass.” Jongdae kicks at Chanyeol’s ankle from his perch on the couch next to Jongin. “You just don’t say anything... substantial, anymore.”
“Well forgive me for not delivering unsolicited orations on the future of Sino-Korean relations,” Chanyeol growls, sliding off the sofa cushion in a listless ooze to rest his head on Jongin’s knee. Minseok gives a soft gasp from behind his computer screen as Jongdae snaps shut the copy of East Asian Political History: Modern Era that was spread in his lap.
“Chanyeol,” Minseok says softly, slipping his headphones down to encircle his neck, “Jongdae didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.”
“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol apologizes into the seam of Jongin’s pant leg, the words doing nothing to staunch the bitter trickle of guilt coating his throat. Maybe he just needs to stay away from people for awhile, because people seem to ruin all of his good moods recently. And he hates making people upset, even if it’s just the cranky old lady behind the student center smoothie counter who scowls at him if he orders too loudly (as if the ice crushing machine thing isn’t three times as loud).
“It’s ok, dude,” Jongdae sighs, dropping his book to the carpeting before rolling off the sofa to dig for a notepad in his camo messenger bag. “We’re just worried. Lately you seem, I don’t know, unhappy?”
“I’m fine, it’s ok!” Chanyeol sits up enough to flash Jongdae a tight smile, the answer to Yura’s texts and Luhan’s phone greetings and Kris’ shoulder pats that’s become automatic slipping through his curved lips. “I’m really not in a bad mood, I promise!” Jongdae nods slowly before opening his notebook but Chanyeol keeps smiling just in case Minseok and Kris are watching from the table.
Chanyeol’s not lying, not really. Because he really was in a good mood today after his afternoon class got canceled and Jongin brought him coffee when they met up after his company class rehearsal. Because being in a good mood and being happy is not the same thing. You can totally feel great but still empty on the inside.
Being without Luhan but seeing glimpses of him all over--the almost empty bottle of his favorite mustard sauce in Minseok’s fridge, a strand of soft pink hair stuck to a blanket, another update on Twitter--is like that nightmare he’s been having recently. It’s already happened twice this week, Chanyeol’s dream of being set loose at a carnival only to discover it’s just him and the strains of gay calliope music, the only other hints of humanity being Luhan’s elusive smile distorted in row after row of funhouse mirrors.
And of course the sudden twist of unease around the rungs of his ribs compels him to blurt all of that into Jongin’s leg too, just after he’s barely managed to placate the room full of chronic worriers.
“Are you implying Luhan is the only hint of humanity in your pitiful existence?” Jongdae looks unimpressed.
“No, no,” Chanyeol protests, raising his head from where it’s pillowed on Jongin’s toned thigh (for the record, Luhan’s are much softer). Apparently that dream interpretation did not come of his mouth as eloquently as he had intended. “I appreciate all of you other people as... people. For sure. But…”
“We’re not Luhan. We get it, hyung,” Jongin says, pausing his game to check an incoming message. “Did you finish your essay yet?”
“Shit!” Chanyeol flails upright into a sitting position, accidentally kicking Jongdae in the ribs. “Sorry! No, shit I forgot!”
“Isn’t that due like tomorrow?” Minseok asks from the kitchen table with a frown.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Wow, I mean I know Luhan’s your 'everything' or whatever, but I didn’t realize that definition included personal day planner,” Jongdae snorts, still rubbing his side.
“Me neither,” Chanyeol moans, collapsing onto the floor to pull Jongdae’s discarded snapback over his eyes. “I guess I’ll go... work on that now.”
“Why don’t you go to the cafe?” Minseok suggests gently. “I’ll come with you, if you want.”
“No, no, that’s ok…” Chanyeol heaves himself onto all fours with a heavy sigh, Jongdae scrambling out of the way this time before any errant limbs can collide with his person. “See you all... sometime tomorrow, I guess.” Chanyeol chucks his wallet in his backpack and drags himself towards Minseok’s front door without a backward glance.
Chanyeol hasn’t been to the cafe since that last time with Luhan, actually. It’s not that he’s been avoiding it, exactly, he just... hasn’t felt like going there. Going with Jongdae or Minseok and inevitably ending up in the usual spot would just feel all wrong, and who goes to cafes by themselves except for hopeless nerds with shitty headphones for company instead of friends and piles of overdue homework to burn through on borrowed energy?
Chanyeol enters the shop and realizes with a bitter laugh as he waves to Zitao that of course it’s a Sunday night and crowded and the only open table is the one in the back by the window. Of course. Zitao drops off a tray of scones and jam to a table of gossipy old ladies before tripping over to Chanyeol.
“Yo! Shall I bring out the usual? Or are you waiting for your boyfriend?” Zitao’s voice lilts on the last word, not in an annoying overemphasis like Jongdae would give it if he were being an insufferable tease, but just a natural little trill. Chanyeol tries not to wince.
“Oh no, it’s just me tonight and I think I need something caffeinated, man. I’ve got like eight pages of BS on ossification to whip up by 8 AM,” he sighs, taking out his own shitty headphones.
“...no Luhan ge?” Zitao pouts, clutching a stack of menus to his chest.
“No, no he’s--”
“Oh yeah!” Zitao blushes, suddenly remembering Luhan’s goodbye bingsu almost six weeks ago. “What would you like to drink then?”
“Macchiato. Extra caramel, please.”
“Roger. Be right back.” Zitao slips back to the counter with a lopsided half smile and Chanyeol boots his laptop, sighing again as the OS takes its sweet time to load. As much as this sucks, this constant hollow feeling that suctions him emptier anytime he sees or does or finds anything that reminds him of Luhan, this is going to be his reality for the foreseeable future, so he better just get used to it. No more moping.
Chanyeol opens a blank document, the white page like the spread of sheets on an empty bed. He needs to do laundry tomorrow.
Zitao slips him a scone when he’s cleaning up the kitchen around midnight. Chanyeol smiles his thanks and packs up to relocate to the PC bang across the street.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Zitao says from behind the counter as Chanyeol follows a sleepy short haired girl out the door. Chanyeol laughs and it almost sounds natural this time, even to him.
The scone is dry but tastes like blueberries and spring and Chanyeol somehow manages to finish his report in time for class. When he gets home he goes right to sleep without changing the sheets.
If Chanyeol spent a good part of last year cramming for exams perched on a hard metal stool next to Luhan in the painting studio, junior year finds him gravitating towards the other wing of the arts building.
Jongin has a lot of free time since he doesn’t work on campus like most of the rest of them, but he’s pretty much always in the back dance studio, stretching, working on his six pack, messing around with new choreo to avant garde French music on repeat, or following his noonas around, toting their extra warm ups and pointe shoes and doling out foot rubs.
“You should see him in his natural element!” Chanyeol crows to Jongdae on the one afternoon a week their shifts in the bio stockroom overlap. “He’s like, the Junmyeon of the dance company, their little mama!”
“Hey!” Junmyeon looks up from relabeling some specimens a new TA apparently half-assed with messy handwriting, even though his shift in the lab ended an hour ago.
“It’s true though!” Chanyeol grins. Except what he’s not mentioning is the part where he’s becoming the number two bitch of the ballet brigade right after Jongin these days. He’s getting so good at foot massages he even knows the difference between the metatarsals by touch now, and not just the unrealistically colored anatomy charts in his textbook.
“So that’s where you’ve been disappearing to lately,” Jongdae grunts, shoving a tangle of butterfly nets into the supply closet. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d taken over as president of the Stitch ‘N Bitch circle in Luhan’s absence.”
“Oh my god, Jongie,” Chanyeol says with an incredulous laugh, “we may be perfect for each other but we aren’t the same person!”
“Mmhm,” Jongdae hums, texting somebody and totally not paying attention to Chanyeol. That’s another big reason he misses Luhan so much. Whatever his other faults (although personally, Chanyeol doesn’t think he really has any), Luhan always pays attention to him. Whether it’s soccer practice or a painting that’s keeping him busy, Luhan always has time for Chanyeol.
“Hey, are you taking microbio in the spring?” Jongdae asks, putting his phone away before Junmyeon can nag him for texting during work hours.
“It’s on my schedule. Why?”
“Thinking about switching, that’s all.”
“Seriously? Would you take it with me if you can get in?” Chanyeol bounces on the edge of his rolling chair. The broken wheel squeaks.
“Yeah,” Jongdae sighs. His hair droops a little in front and Chanyeol just itches to muss it up with his fingers. “Genetics overlaps with Economy of Modern China.”
“I don’t know how you keep up with a minor in another department. I think you get less sleep than Kris hyung.” Jongdae shrugs but Chanyeol knows it’s tough. It’s hard enough to graduate with just bio in under five years, as Junmyeon can attest to.
“You know what Jongin says, sleep is relative.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense!” Chanyeol grabs Jongdae’s droopy hair and tugs. Jongdae slams his fist into Chanyeol’s shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt your teatime gossip, ladies, but would one of you help me out with these trays?” Junmyeon points to the rubber lined trays of petri dishes on the counter, the freshly inked labels still drying on beige strips of masking tape. Jongdae hops down from his stool and grabs the nearest tray.
Chanyeol checks the crooked clock above the doorway as they exit. 2:16 PM. Almost time to check on the centrifuge in Lab 2. Another four hours before he can call Luhan. He pulls out his phone and loads kakao. Maybe he can prod Jongin into bringing him coffee. Thursday afternoons are always really slow.
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