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Admittedly, even at the age of five, Park Jisung knows that spending his days entertained by only a television and a coloring book aren’t the most ideal use of his time.
His father’s always working, his mother’s always busy, and not only does being an only child limit his chances at having anyone else to spend his time with, he happens to be the only kid in their apartment building too.
So that leaves Jisung spending his Saturday watching reruns of cartoon episodes he’s seen at least three times, quietly sitting in the centre of the couch while his mother talks in her ‘serious voice’ on the phone from the kitchen.
He supposes he’s not that bothered by the lack of children his age, though he definitely wouldn’t mind a friend or two.
Jisung’s attention is on the set of animated characters on the screen until he finally hears his mother end her call. He promptly sits up straighter in anticipation of her finally spending time with him.
“Jisung, sweetie,” The woman hums from the kitchen. Upon climbing onto the back of the couch, Jisung sees her looking through various cupboards, investigating the contents of the shelves inside. “We’ve gotta go get some groceries, okay?”
“Okay.” Jisung agrees, because in the least it’s something more exciting than sitting in the same spot for hours on end.
“And what did I say about climbing on the couch?”
“Sorry.” He mumbles, lowering himself off and wandering over to the front door, where he sits down to tug on his shoes, watching as his mother turns off the television and takes her bag from a small table by the door, glancing in it to make sure whatever she needs is there.
Once finished, Jisung stands, patiently waiting until the woman opens the door for them. He's quick to take her free hand, holding onto it as she leads them out.
Immediately upon leaving their apartment, Jisung hears some kind of movement in the hallway that he hadn’t earlier. Once his mother’s pulled the door to a close after them, he notes the source.
Earlier that week, Jisung had seen his parents bidding farewell to the couple across the hall from them, —Jisung didn’t know much about them, other than that they were around his grandparents' age, and always baking things that made him hungry— and overheard something about them moving out of the city.
Now, a wall was lined with cardboard boxes varying in size. Jisung sees a man and woman, this time what he guessed was about his parents' age, taking turns moving boxes inside.
“Oh. Looks like we have new neighbors already,” Jisung looks up to see the usual warm, friendly smile of his mother's that he likes. “We should introduce ourselves.”
Jisung’s not particularly fazed about that. His parents seem to get along with everybody in the building, and his mother occasionally has women from the tenth floor over for coffee, —who always insist on pointing out how big Jisung’s gotten, and how much he looks like his father— but it’s not until another figure emerges from the apartment’s entrance that he takes an interest.
It’s another kid, someone actually his age in their building.
The boy seems to be a little older than Jisung, and maybe taller too, asking his mother something that Jisung can’t make out before disappearing back into the apartment.
And without knowing his name, or anything really, he knows he wants to be the unnamed boy’s friend. The thing, though, is that he hasn’t got a clue about how to get to that stage with someone, considering he’s never had a friend other than his parents before.
He holds onto his mother’s hand a little tighter when she guides him over to where she effortlessly strikes up a conversation with the other woman, and Jisung tunes out after the talking turns from living across the hall to things like the best places to eat or shop.
Instead, his attention moves to the small view of the inside of the apartment he now has. It’s pretty bare, with covered furniture and more boxes here and there, though Jisung doesn’t see the boy from earlier.
“Oh, I’m sure my son would love to meet yours. Jaemin, come here!”
“You have a son too? How lovely! Jisung’s been quite lonely, actually, there doesn’t seem to be any other kids around, and with him starting school soon I’ve been a little worried—“
Jisung looks over to the other woman, and then into the apartment again, where a moment later he sees the boy return— Jaemin. That was his name.
When he’d seen him a few moments earlier, his expression had seemed busy and thoughtful, like something Jisung would see from his parents rather than someone his age. Now, he seems what he could only call welcoming, so much so that Jisung relaxes his grip on his mother’s hand when the boy approaches, despite how nerve-wracking it is to be introduced to someone who seems so different to himself.
“Hi, I’m Jaemin. It’s nice to meet you.” Jaemin smiles at Jisung.
Jisung spares a glance to his mother, who’s already back in a conversation with Jaemin’s, before looking back to the friendly looking boy.
“I’m Jisung.” He answers, as if he’s still learning that Jisung is, in fact, his name.
“How old are you?”
Somehow, that question feels a little easier, so Jisung holds up all his fingers on his free hand. “Five.” He says as well.
Jaemin seems to smile a little more at that. “I’m six, seven soon though. That means I’m older than you. Do you wanna be friends?”
Jisung blinks. Was that it? Was that all it took to become someone’s friend?
He realises Jaemin’s anticipating an answer, so he nods quickly, because absolutely does he want to be Jaemin’s friend.
The thing with Jisung, is that it feels as if things happen around him, rather than to him.
Wherever he is, whatever he does— he’s just there.
His days feel almost robotic, going through identical patterns and movements. He sits alone in his classes, scribbles notes he’ll never really look at again, and watches those around him make conversation that never seems to involve him.
It’s nothing bad, necessarily, just oddly dull.
And then there’s Na Jaemin.
Jaemin, the friendly, blonde senior that everyone loves, always at the door of Jisung’s final class of the day.
The moment Jisung sees him, with the smile he’s more familiar with than his own, nothing of the day behind him matters. None of the feelings or doubts he’s had throughout the classes matters. Jaemin is an effortlessly calming presence, and always had been.
“How was your test today, Jisungie?” Jaemin questions, snaking an arm around Jisung’s shoulders the moment the younger’s close enough, earning a whine in complaint.
“It was fine,” Jisung answers, attempting to push Jaemin’s arm away as they make their way through the hall, though when he doesn’t succeed, he simply gives up. Regardless of how many things Jaemin seems to remember about Jisung, he always finds it sweet. Especially since no one else really bothers to. He won’t admit that, though. “Do you mind?”
“Not really,” Jaemin grins, holding Jisung a little closer before releasing him. “Got groceries at home?”
“Enough, yeah. You’re staying for dinner?”
“Of course,” The older opens a set of main doors for the pair to exit the school building, letting Jisung pass first. “Would I ever miss the opportunity to cook for my dearest Jisung?”
Jisung rolls his eyes, though finds himself smiling regardless. Jaemin is more of a help than he probably knows— with Jisung’s parents away for work more than ever, most of the time Jaemin’s the only company he gets at home. And really, he doesn’t mind, especially not when his presence is always easily soothing. And considering he can’t cook, Jaemin’s certainly helpful in more ways than one.
He brings a hand through his hair, enjoying the feel of the late-afternoon sun on his skin after the usual day of stale classroom air.
They’re quite the opposite, him and Jaemin. Whilst he’s barely acknowledged by any of the student population other than a few of Jaemin’s friends, the other seems to know everyone, at least well enough to offer friendly waves to half of the people they pass on their way off of the school grounds. And like that, they work perfectly together.
Adjusting one of the shoulder straps of his backpack, Jisung hums thoughtfully. “How were your classes?”
Admittedly, it kind of sucks to have his best friend, —and all his friends, for that matter— in the grade above, though he’s more than used to it. It’s been that way all along.
As they begin to walk along the side of the street, Jaemin looks ahead, while Jisung watches him.
“Eh, same as always,” He shrugs, squinting in the sun that’s just the slightest too bright to properly see in. “Would have been better with you there, though.”
Jisung’s rolling his eyes again, shaking his head. “You always say that, hyung.”
“Because they would!” Jaemin defends, reaching a hand to attempt to squeeze Jisung’s cheek in the way he so often does. And as usual, Jisung brushes him off, though smiles all the way through it. The older’s always been much more affectionate than himself, and in honesty, it’s one of the things he likes most about him, as much as he denies the compliments and gestures.
Their apartment building’s only a ten minute walk from their school, and upon entering the elevator, Jisung feels around in his pockets, though finds everything but what he’s looking for. “Shit, I think I forgot my key. Do you have yours?”
Jaemin just offers the usual charming smile of his, and nods as he presses the seventh floor button without needing to look. “I do. What would you do without me, Jisung?”
And honestly, Jisung doesn’t know. Nor does he want to think about that if he doesn’t have to.
While Jisung leans against the back wall of the elevator, Jaemin lowers his backpack from his shoulders to unzip it, and a moment later holds out a key.
“Thanks.” Jisung exhales, taking it and running a thumb along the side. His mother had given Jaemin a spare key to their apartment after Jisung had started high school, and he wasn't sure whether that was because she knew Jaemin was taking care of Jisung more than anyone else was, or because she knew how forgetful he was— or both.
A moment later, Jisung unlocks the apartment and pushes the door open for the two of them, allowing them to step inside.
Immediately upon entering, Jaemin exhales, dropping his backpack by the door and loosening the tie of his uniform. “You wanna work on that calculus homework you got yesterday?”
“I mean, not really,” Jisung answers honestly, pushing the door to a shut, and Jaemin huffs. “What? You asked.”
“Rhetorically.” The older pokes Jisung’s side.
He supposes he can’t argue when Jaemin's help is the only reason he's passing, or when regardless of what they do together, Jisung enjoys every moment with his best friend.
“Fine.” He agrees, lowering his bag to a small, nearby table to find the particular notebook, after handing Jaemin back his key.
Jaemin is a million things, but more than anything, he’s smart. The other had decided he wanted to become a teacher when he was only eleven, and yet even then, Jisung had found it fitting. He’s more than patient when Jisung can’t comprehend the concept of something, and doesn’t give up until he gets a solid understanding of it.
They settle into the routine naturally, Jisung’s notebook and sheets of homework are set out ahead of them at the counter, and the two of them sit together. Jaemin goes through the questions with Jisung, helps him with the formulas, and though it’s all something they’ve done at least a million times before, Jisung’s never quite paid that much attention to Jaemin.
When he’s teaching Jisung something, —even if it’s a concept he learned a year ago and has already completely forgotten— everything about it seems so right, like it’s what Jaemin’s meant to do. His expression is something it’s often not, a kind of concentrated, in contrast to the usual laid-back Jaemin that Jisung often sees.
And not to mention— Jaemin is beautiful. Of course, Jisung’s no stranger to knowing that. But there, with the nearby window painting Jaemin’s face in a pretty orange, and with blonde hair falling ahead of his eyes as he leans down to write something down that Jisung should definitely be paying attention to, he realises that Jaemin is truly gorgeous, to say the least.
Everything about him seems perfect, like Jaemin’s but a life-sized doll someone’s spent hours making, a face so ideally sculpted that it’s a wonder he hasn’t been scouted as a model yet.
“Jisung? Is something wrong?”
He realises he’s been blatantly staring at Jaemin, and clears his throat. “Yeah— I mean no, nothing’s wrong.”
Jaemin shoots him a smile and nods, pushing the notebook over to be more in front of Jisung and standing up. “Read this all over a little more, I’m gonna get started on dinner.”
“Okay,” Jisung agrees, taking the pen Jaemin had used a moment earlier and habitually clicking it a few times. “Do you wanna stay over tonight?” He attempts to sound casual, and not like he’d just had a mild crisis over how perfect his best friend is.
“Sure,” Jaemin grins at the offer, starting to move around the kitchen to gather what he needs to make a meal. “When are your parents back next?”
At that, the younger exhales, frowning slightly down at the notes ahead of him. “Two weeks from now.”
He can sense the sympathetic look without looking in Jaemin’s direction.
“Good thing you’ve got me then, right?” The blonde offers lightheartedly, because somehow, he always knows what Jisung needs to hear.
“Yeah.” Jisung repeats quietly. Good thing he does.
Several hours, one meal, and three movies later, Jisung had fallen asleep on the couch with Jaemin, head resting at the older’s shoulder. Somehow, though probably not the most comfortable position to sleep an entire night in, Jisung always does.
And the next morning, they go through the same routine again, as they always do. They go to school together, meet up during shared breaks, and Jaemin meets Jisung at his final class, from where they spend the rest of their day in one another's company. It’s a familiarity that’s comforting to Jisung, so much so that he almost forgets there’s a possibility that the routine can be anything other than a constant.
So, a week later, when the two wake up thanks to Jaemin’s alarm for school, and they begin to routinely get ready for the day, it comes as a surprise when the older speaks up.
“I can’t come with you to the studio after school.”
Jisung furrows his eyebrows in confusion as he messes with his tie. “What? Why?”
Initially, he thinks Jaemin’s joking, or teasing him, something of the sort. He can’t remember a single time where Jaemin missed a visit to the nearby dance studio that had become Jisung's favorite place.
“I have to sort out some college application stuff,” Jaemin answers, glancing at the time on his phone. “Sorry, Jisungie. You know I wouldn’t miss seeing you dance unless I had to.”
Jisung desperately tries to ignore the way his heart sinks at the word ‘college’. Yeah, it’s inevitable. Jaemin’s going to be going away to college, starting his life a year before Jisung would. But really, he wishes he could ignore the fact for as long as possible.
Though he knows his feelings towards the matter are beyond irrational, beyond ridiculous, and wills himself to ignore the thought, and instead just nods; forces a small smile. “No problem.”
Though, when Jisung arrives at the studio after school that evening, it starts to feel a little like a problem. Like the start of something.
And he can tell he’s not the only one noticing the odd sensation. The instant he enters through the main glass doors of the studio, he sees Huang Renjun’s expression harden in confusion.
As Jisung approaches, Renjun straightens in his usual seat at the reception desk. “Jaemin isn't with you today?”
As with most of his friends, Jisung had met Renjun through Jaemin, though Renjun was definitely one on the closer side. Also in his senior year, Renjun happened to work at the dance studio Jisung attended. Sometimes Jisung forgets Renjun isn't the only employee, considering he never sees anyone other than the occasional cleaner around.
The place is always deserted, and Renjun is always friendly, so Jisung never shies away from conversations over the desk about the happenings of the city and their school. On occasion, Renjun’s boyfriend, another friend of both Jisung and Jaemin’s, Lee Donghyuck, will show up, though Jisung couldn’t see a trace of him today.
Placing his bag at his feet, Jisung glances around the entrance to the studio. It’s a miracle the place hasn’t gone out of business, considering the most business they get is a few lone dancers and a weekly dance class for toddlers.
“Nope. He’s busy with college application stuff.” He explains, dragging a hand through the dark strands of his hair. Why is it always so hard to make eye contact with a person that isn’t Jaemin?
“Shit, I should probably get to that too,” Renjun chuckles, sitting alert when an email notification sounds from the computer, scanning over a few words before returning his gaze to Jisung. “Working on anything special today?”
“Just practicing some old routines.” Jisung says in return, overly aware of how boring he sounds. And he’s about to say something to excuse himself when the studio’s phone rings to life, startling both himself and Renjun. Renjun looks so unfamiliar with the phone actually ringing that he’s not sure what to do with it for a few seconds.
Clearing his throat and offering an apologetic look to Jisung for ending their conversation so abruptly, Renjun takes the phone to his ear. “Hi, this is— Oh, our dance lessons? Yes, I can tell you the details.”
Jisung gives a nod and a closed-lip smile towards Renjun before lifting his bag from the floor, and heading off in the direction of the usual room of his choosing.
It’s the furthest to the back, on the left of the building, and while the several others of the studio are fairly identical, there’s something right about this one.
Jisung wasn’t anything like Jaemin. He wasn't the kind of smart the other was, nor effortlessly good at anything he tried. He wasn’t at all sure of where he wanted his life to go.
All he knew was that he could dance.
And that was about it. He wasn’t too good in school, and he certainly wasn’t good the time his mother had made him try out soccer when he was eight— but dancing, that was different. Something he’d happened to take an interest in thanks to a movie he’d seen as a kid, and thanks to that movie, and a flyer his mother had seen on a walk, he’d ended up in this very room for his first dance lesson.
When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he never knew. He didn’t when he was ten, he didn’t when he was fourteen, and now, seventeen, a year away from having to be certain— he still doesn't have a clue. He likes to dance, and he wants to do that. But never does it feel quite that simple.
Dropping his bag by the door, Jisung takes a long exhale, beginning to stretch his arms over his head.
If anything clears his mind, his worries and his doubts, it’s dancing. Dancing is what he can only describe as the sense of being free.
And that’s always what makes it all the more special to have Jaemin accompanying him, watching him, insisting that he stays hydrated, —because even though something so simple, Jisung always seems to forget— and encouraging him, praising the routines Jisung spends months adding to and working on.
Once he’s finished stretching, Jisung connects his phone to the room’s speakers, readying the music for the routine he always chooses to start off with, Jaemin’s favorite.
He’d choreographed it around two years ago, yet still made subtle changes and improvements to it up until a month ago, and at least for now, feels fairly satisfied with it. Mostly because it's a decent routine, though partly because he knew Jaemin likes it best.
Only once has Jisung ever danced in front of a crowd of any more than Jaemin, Renjun, a few dance teachers and his mother, and really, he didn’t mind if it stayed that way.
He likes dancing being for himself. His body and mind as one, and nothing to complicate the process.
With eyes on his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the room, Jisung easily goes through the routine that comes to him as naturally as walking, gliding through every movement.
And once he’s done, he goes through it again, then once more, before cycling through several other routines of his until his limbs start to ache with exhaustion and he’s well and truly out of breath.
So, he forces himself to take a break. As he stands straighter in the centre of the room though, intent on moving over to take a seat at one of the several folded chairs pushed to the side, he feels something. A moment later, he identifies the sensation as something at his throat, a tickle of sorts.
Quickly, he’s coughing, similar to what he might do if there’s a little too much dust in a room. Which is odd, considering he’d seen the cleaner in here not too long ago.
Instinctively, a hand moves to cup his mouth, and within a few seconds, the sensation is gone, and he’s stopped coughing. The feelings left so abruptly, Jisung almost feels as if he’d imagined it was there to begin with, at least until he takes notice of something in the palm of his hand.
Looking closer to inspect it, Jisung finds something thin and white, and his breath catches in his throat when he registers what it is— the petal of a rose.
No.
That couldn’t have come from him.
His gaze darts to the small window close to the ceiling, though it’s shut, as is the door. There isn't wind, isn't anything that could have caused a petal to end up in his hand without him noticing.
Yet, it’s not possible. It can’t be.
All at once, Jisung’s moving from where he’d been practically frozen to the vinyl of the floor beneath him, grabbing his bag and rushing out of the room.
Leaving the room, Jisung’s halfway through hurrying down the hall, —where it is exactly he’s going in such a rush, he doesn’t know— when he catches sight of a small, plastic trash can outside of the building’s bathrooms that he’s never quite noticed before.
Approaching it, he doesn’t spare another glance at the terrifying petal before he drops it inside, and continues down the hall. It was purely a coincidence.
Out of sight, out of mind. Right?
Classes are more of a blur than ever to Jisung. They’re somehow both impossibly slow and overly fast, and he doesn’t process a second of any of it. He can’t shake the sensation that things are different, and he hates it.
And thanks to a lifetime of the same routine, the same things, the same places and the same people, he’s not quite used to the feeling, and an odd dullness is left lingering at his chest.
The senior students are in the full swing of exam preparations, college applications, and everything that indicates the end of this stage of life. One that Jisung isn’t at yet.
He knows he should have prepared himself better for this. The moment he’d arrived on his first day of kindergarten, and Jaemin had gone off to the other side of the school for his own first grade class, Jisung had known that was how it would be.
But ever since then, Jaemin has always been close— across the hall, a few classrooms away.
As had all of Jisung’s other friends.
But now, the sense of it all being temporary really seems to kick in, and Jisung doesn’t know what to do with himself, other than sit around and watch.
“Jisung?”
He flinches slightly, drawn out of his thoughts by someone ahead of his desk. He identifies the figure a moment later, when the back of their hand presses to his forehead.
“Are you okay? Sick, or something?”
Brushing away Jaemin’s hand, Jisung glances around the classroom to find it empty. He hadn’t even processed that class had ended, let alone that everyone had left, leaving him sitting alone at his desk, drawing circles in the margin of his notebook with a pen, and faraway in thought.
“I’m fine, hyung.” He doesn’t think it’s a lie, but it sure feels like one.
Jisung’s not sure if the older quite believes it, though he offers a hum in response, pulling up the chair from the desk nearest to Jisung’s and taking a seat after dropping his backpack to the floor, pulling the notebook closer to himself.
Though he frowns at the particular page, which sits blank aside from the small doodles along the margin, and Jisung sees his eyebrows furrow. “You didn’t take any notes?”
“No,” Jisung exhales, shaking his head and pulling the notebook back towards himself. He shuts it firmly. “Just.. lost track of time. I’ll get the notes from someone else.”
Unlike earlier, he’s certain that’s a lie, considering he doesn’t even think anyone in his calculus class even knows his name, let alone will be willing to help him out with something entirely to fault on his own carelessness.
Jaemin’s about to say something else when there’s a noise from the classroom’s entrance, and both look over to find a senior in the doorway, clearing his throat.
Jisung recognises him as Sungchan, someone he’s never really talked to, but seen amidst Jaemin’s classmates.
“Hey Jaemin. Uh, were you still up for studying with us in the library?” The male asks, and Jisung looks over to Jaemin, appearing a little surprised.
“Shit, I completely forgot about that—“ He stands up, lifting his backpack and unzipping it. “Sorry, Jisung. I really need to get to this. I brought you lunch.”
A second later, Jaemin places a plastic container of leftovers from the food Jisung had seen his family order the night before, —Jaemin hadn’t been home, and though his parents had offered for Jisung to join, he’d politely declined and opted to have cereal for dinner instead— before zipping his bag up again and putting the strap over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you around.” The blonde tells Jisung, offering him a little ruffle of his hair before heading out of the classroom with Sungchan, quickly falling into a conversation about textbooks and practice exams that drowns out as they head down the hall.
“Yeah.” Jisung mumbles, though Jaemin’s long gone, and looks to the container at his desk. Though his appetite isn’t quite there, he knows he should eat regardless, but doesn’t exactly want to do that alone in an empty classroom.
He can’t remember the last time he’d ate a meal at school without Jaemin, but he supposes he’s going to have to get used to it anyway. Carelessly forcing the notebook into his backpack, once zipped, Jisung puts it over his shoulder and takes the container of food, pushing his chair underneath the desk with his leg.
Heading out, Jisung moves through the fairly empty halls, enough time having passed since class had ended for people to find their typical spots to eat and converse, leaving the rest of the school an odd kind of deserted for the middle of the day.
He’s tired, he realises as he moves through a set of main doors, out into one of the quieter exterior areas of the school grounds. He hasn’t been sleeping well at all, regardless of whether Jaemin’s around to keep him company overnight, —which recently, has barely been the case— or not.
Maybe it’s equally to fault on spending more time than ever at the dance studio, well into the night thanks to Renjun’s permission to stay past closing hours as long as he promises to properly lock up and not tell his boss.
Though, it’s not necessarily the kind of tiredness that weighs down on his body, on aching limbs and drooping eyelids, and instead the kind that’s more in his mind than anything else. Fuzzy thoughts and misremembered instances. Still, it’s enough to obviously take a toll on him. On the weekend his parents had managed to be home, his mother had pointed out how tired he seemed, suspected he and Jaemin had fallen into the habit of playing video games until the sun rose, much like they had several years back.
Oh, how Jisung wishes that were the case.
As expected, he finds Renjun and Donghyuck sitting together on their usual bench, accompanied by Shotaro, a student that had transferred from Japan a little under two years ago. Like everyone else Jisung seems to get along with, though, he’s a senior.
“Oh, hey Jisung.” Donghyuck greets as he steals something from Renjun’s food, earning a noise of complaint.
He can tell what’s on the trio’s mind before he’s even sat down. Jaemin isn’t with him. He sees it on everyone’s faces whenever he turns up somewhere alone, even when Renjun had stopped bothering to ask why Jaemin was rarely accompanying Jisung to the studio nowadays.
“Hey.” He returns in what he hopes is a semi-enthusiastic tone, taking the free seat next to Shotaro, who offers a friendly smile in-between mouthfuls of food. Jisung lowers his bag beneath the table.
Renjun and Donghyuck soon begin to bicker about the food, and Jisung tunes the pair out, opening the container and retrieving the chopsticks inside. Though before he can eat, there’s an odd feeling again, something he knows he’s felt before.
And then he identifies it. That feeling he’d had the afternoon at the studio, where in his hand, he’d found the—
Quickly, he dismisses himself, though he’s only a few steps away before he’s starting to cough, and everything about it feels so sickeningly familiar to the last time that he’d desperately tried to forget about.
Ducking behind the side of the nearest building, where he figures he’s well enough out of sight of anyone who could care, Jisung finds himself coughing, practically choking, almost as if something’s stuck in his throat.
And this time, there’s a dull sensation of pain in his throat and his chest, tightening his lungs.
Though it only lasts a few seconds, and once he’s felt he’s actually coughed something up, it’s gone, and while one hands against the brick wall of the building, steadying himself, the other, kept by his mouth, feels like it’s the one against an incomprehensibly heavy force.
He doesn’t want to look. He feels it there, he knows something’s there, but so desperately does Jisung not want to see what it is. He knows what it is.
It takes what’s probably a minute or two for him to force himself to take his hand away from his mouth, and there, in wait at the palm of his hand, sits three dainty white petals.
Jisung feels sick. Feels like he could cry.
Maybe, just maybe, he could have brushed off the first time. Eventually, he could have pushed the thought to the back of his mind, lied to himself enough that it was a coincidence until he actually believed it.
But the petals, —the horrific petals, the ugliest kind of rose petals Jisung can ever imagine— they’re there, they’re as undeniable as what coughing up petals entails.
His hand balls into a firm first. He can’t look at them anymore. The disgusting petals that had come from him, that signalled the beginning of something— or maybe, the end of something would be more appropriate.
He doesn’t know what to do. It’s as if Jisung’s been dumped into a place he’s never been with people he doesn’t know, without even being himself. He’s a stranger, the shell of the person he’d been before these stupid, horrendous rose petals had shown up and turned everything upside down.
He’s pressing his back against the wall now, hands against his eyes in hopes of refraining from letting out any of the tears he knows are on the verge of spilling at any moment.
His knees feel weak and his heart is racing, and God, all he wants is Jaemin there.
In a wave of a frustration that temporarily overwhelms everything else that he feels, he tosses the petals away from himself, —as much as someone can physically toss petals that don’t weigh much more than a feather— letting them gracefully land on the grass beside him.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
That’s what he’s supposed to do, right? Calm himself.
And he wants to. He wants to lie to himself some more and make up excuses for what’s happening, but he can’t.
He knows class starts any moment now, and he knows he’s left his stuff with the others, surely they’ll come looking for him—
Willing himself to stand straight, Jisung leans around the corner of the building, looking in the direction of the table he’d left. There, he sees Donghyuck in Renjun’s arms, the two laughing with one another, saying something Jisung can’t make out, before Donghyuck leans in to kiss Renjun briefly on the lips, then erupting into a fit of giggles once Renjun tugs him closer.
It’s nothing Jisung hasn’t seen before. Plenty of times he's seen Renjun and Donghyuck being a generic lovesick couple behind the desk of the dance studio, but never has he been in the mindset he is now.
Moving back to once more be completely hidden by the wall, Jisung finds himself looking down to the petals again.
Those stupid petals.
Jisung had never given much thought to the concept of soulmates, or more specifically, his own soulmate, before that day.
Sure, he knew about soulmates. He knew how they worked, and he knew that everyone had one. But they’d always been painted in the best light possible, the concept of a soulmate was something portrayed like a fairytale, an experience of love and light and everything good in the world.
Though, you’d never see the fairytales of those who’s soulmate didn’t love them back.
You’d never hear of the horrendous ache it leaves in your chest, of the flowers that fill your lungs until you can’t breathe any longer, until you die an agonising death.
He’d never had a reason to think about it. He was young, he hadn’t even worked out where he was headed after high school yet, what he wanted to do with his life. His soulmate was a faraway concept he figured wouldn’t come into his life for at least another decade. Maybe he’d stumble across them in a coffee shop or something, and he’d just know, and they’d have that perfect little happy ever after that everyone and their soulmates seemed to have.
Sure, maybe he’d wondered a little about it when it had become so painfully obvious that Renjun and Donghyuck loved one another, and were indeed each other’s soulmate. He wondered if maybe he too, would find his while young, but the thought had left his mind quickly, and hadn’t come back until that day at lunch break, with the petals and Renjun and Donghyuck’s unapologetic PDA.
And then it all came together like a puzzle. A cruel, unforgiving puzzle that had taken years to form even a hint of a shape, though with the addition of a few pieces, had suddenly made complete sense.
Of course, the first petal had been the indicator. Only one disease on earth would cause a person to cough up flowers, but still, Jisung convinced himself he didn’t know for sure until the second time, until he’d seen Renjun and Donghyuck.
Hanahaki disease.
Suffered by those who’s soulmate doesn’t return their feelings, destined to a fate of the cruelest pain of all.
Jisung doesn’t need to research it. He knows enough. He knows what this means for him.
And most importantly, he knows who his soulmate is.
There’s a relentless emphasis on his, because so clearly does he know that nothing of it is returned.
Na Jaemin is Park Jisung’s soulmate, though Jisung isn’t Jaemin’s.
In a million lives, a million circumstances, he’d know it was Jaemin. Not a single soul on earth could ever make him feel a fraction of the way Jaemin does, simply by being around him.
Jaemin is the one who makes him feel safe, makes him feel at home, makes his heart feel the kind of content it never does in any other time or place.
And yet, it’s one sided. A fate worse than the death brought by Hanahaki itself.
He wants to try to forget. So desperately does he want to pretend that things are the normal he knows, but he can’t.
In the least, he can for other’s sake. He can easily hide the symptoms, excuse himself whenever he feels the sensation that grows more familiar with every instance.
The petals vary— sometimes it’s one, sometimes it’s half a dozen, sometimes it’s something in-between. But always, every time, it hurts more than the last.
What started as an inconvenient tickle in his throat now was an unmissable pain; a burn in his chest, a tightness in his lungs, a sting.
But there’s nothing to do about it, nothing he can do with the twisted fate that’s been set out for him.
The weeks are much like the days, and the weeks are much like the months. Passing by in a fast, unintelligible blur, yet somehow so painfully slow.
Jaemin’s busy— busier and busier until the senior’s exams finish. And Jisung watches from the sidelines; the celebration of exams being over, sits with Jaemin’s parents while he graduates, accepts a scholarship to the college he’d taken a preference for.
Jisung’s happy for him. He knows all of it is the least he deserves.
But God, does it hurt him in every sense to see his best friend, his soulmate, slipping out of his life.
Sometimes the older finds the time for him, stopping by Jisung’s apartment in-between tours of his college and shopping for his future dorm, but it’s nothing like before. Nor will it ever be again, Jisung’s sure.
Before he knows it, Jaemin is moving away to college. Jisung leans against the doorframe of his own apartment, watching as Jaemin’s mother tears up over the sight of her son with his final suitcase of belongings.
Though, on the other hand, Jaemin is happy— sporting the grin that suits him best. And Jisung gets it. He’s going to college with a scholarship, going to study for the career he’s wanted for as long as either can remember. What isn’t there to be happy about?
“My Jisungie,” Jaemin says when he approaches, abandoning his grip on the suitcase handle to pull Jisung into a close, tight hug. “I’m gonna miss you. And worry about you, of course.”
Jisung wonders if the hug would have felt so suffocating before his lungs had started to become infested with petals. “Don’t. You have a whole... life to worry about now. Focus on that.” He realises how serious that sounds, so when the older leans back to look at him, he forces a smile.
“But it’s my job to worry about you.” Jaemin playfully pouts. “You’re gonna do great in your senior year, Jisung. I know it.”
Oh, if Jaemin knew only half of it.
“I’ll be back for fall break, you know. That’s not too far away.” Their eyes meet, but Jisung looks away. It’s a thousand times harder to look someone in the eye when you know they don’t feel the same as you.
“I know.” Jisung nods, stare firmly on the elevator down the hall for a few seconds.
“And I’ll text you everyday, okay?”
Jisung exhales, and tries to suppress the wince that often comes along with doing that. “Okay. I’ll see you later, hyung.”
“Jaemin, honey, we should get going if we want to beat the traffic—“ The blonde’s mother speaks up from the entrance of their apartment, and when Jisung finally brings himself to look to Jaemin again, the other looks thoughtful, holds the expression he often does when he wants to say something further.
But he doesn’t, and instead clears his throat, letting his smile return as he glances over to his parents. “Yeah. You’re right,” Looking back at Jisung, he takes his hand for a moment, squeezes it. “I’ll be back to visit before you know it.”
Jisung looks at their hands, how soft and welcoming the simplest of touches are from Jaemin.
Yet a moment later it’s gone, Jaemin has disappeared into the elevator with his parents, and Jisung’s left alone in the hallway of the floor that’s never felt so empty.
He knew he’d feel like crying.
He’d have known that years ago, when conversations of futures and colleges had first come up. He knew it’d suck, and it’d hurt to see Jaemin go, for Jisung to be left like this. But he didn’t know the extent, and he didn’t know it’d be anything like this.
He didn’t know there’d be the cruel roses of unrequited love waiting for him.
Once inside, once he’s shut the door of the apartment and leant against it, the reality of everything is suddenly there, weighing down on him, and feeling so, so awfully heavy.
He’s alone. Without his parents, without his friends, without his soulmate and he’s destined to die like that; alone, surrendered.
At some point, he’s crying, sobbing. His shoulders are shaking with every movement, he’s slumped down into a sitting position on the ground with his back against the door, hands over his face, adrenaline and exhaustion overtaking him all at once.
He doesn’t know he ended up like this, and he doesn’t know why this is the cruel plan life has laid out for him.
What did he do to deserve this?
Maybe it’s a good thing their floor is empty, because he’s sure anyone could hear his sobs, his whimpers of pain that came with every breath. And soon, he’s coughing too, fierce and painful coughs, and all Jisung can think is that he’s so tired of these goddamn flowers, the petals he never seems to get used to, the roses that burden his every breath.
But, no. It’s different.
When the coughing fit passes, and when he’s left breathless and in pain with soft petals spilling between his fingers onto the wooden floor beneath him, Jisung doesn’t see white petals.
Instead, there’s red.
Petals of red roses, a crimson that Jisung can’t deny, is kind of pretty. Prettier than anything he’s seen in a while.
Why Jisung bothers to still come to school, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s the only sensation of familiarity he has left. Maybe it’s the last trace of the normal routine he has. Maybe it’s something to do other than sit around in a silent apartment and feel sorry for himself.
He’s failing his classes— an incurable disease and losing the friend that was the only person that offered to help him does that, typically.
And there’s the petals. He’s lucky he can get a few hours into the day without having to rush to a bathroom or empty classroom to cough up a heap of the red petals.
Sitting on the floor of a bathroom stall, struggling to breathe, with petals littering his lap and the surrounding tiled floor isn’t anything close to how he imagined his senior year going.
Yet, there he is.
For a while, he has Jaemin’s texts to get him through the days, the weeks, the months.
Updates about his classes, his dorm, his roommate, —a guy named Mark from Canada, who laughs at Jaemin’s cheesy jokes more than Jisung ever did— and persistent questions about Jisung and how his senior year is going.
Half of Jisung wants to lie. To tell him it’s going great, that his grades are fine and he has friends and definitely doesn’t spend every moment of the day alone and in some type of pain. Then Jaemin won’t worry in the way he does, won’t insist on talking more about it and getting to the bottom of what was truly wrong with Jisung. Jaemin doesn’t exactly deserve anything but honesty, though. So as much as he can, the younger avoids the questions.
Yet slowly, the texts stop coming so often. From a few times a day to once, then to two or three times a week, and soon one, if he’s lucky.
Maybe Jaemin’s busy with studying, with exams— It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d put any thought of Jisung aside to focus on that.
But oh, does it hurt to be more without him than ever.
It’s not long until he stops attending school entirely.
There’s no use. At this rate, he isn’t even going to graduate anyway. His parents haven’t been home for over a month, they won’t notice. No one will.
Pushing open the glass doors of the dance studio, Jisung earns a scowl from the woman behind the counter.
With Renjun moving away for college and quitting, the position had been taken by a woman in her thirties with a particular dislike for anyone younger than herself. Or maybe that’s just towards Jisung, who happens to come in closer to closing time than she’d like nowadays.
Regardless, he gives her a polite nod before heading down the hall to his usual room.
He’s surely lost his touch, he knows that. But if there’s one thing he still has, one minuscule light in an infinite darkness, it’s dancing.
He’s weak and fragile and exhausted all the time, but he can still dance to some extent, he knows that.
Dropping his bag by one of the fold-up chairs, Jisung stiffens briefly at the sound of a notification from his phone, the noise so foreign these days he barely registers the source.
Sitting down in a chair that had been left up, Jisung pulls his phone from his back pocket, tapping the screen to reveal the notification.
na.jaemin just posted a photo.
Jisung frowns. Since when did Jaemin use Instagram more than once every six months? He remembers joking the year prior that the older had probably forgotten his password with how infrequently he posted.
Slowly, he brings a thumb to press the notification, directing him to the post in question.
And his heart drops.
There’s Jaemin, with his bright, lively smile. Yet, it’s not towards the camera, not towards anything but the other male in the photo, who Jaemin had fingers intertwined with, eyes met with. It’s sickeningly candid and sweet, as if the post had been taken right out of the resume of a wedding photographer.
Captioned with a simple red heart.
Ignoring the way his lungs suddenly feel much tighter than usual, Jisung presses the photo, and sure enough, the other is tagged: jeno_00.
Immediately clicking on the user, he’s greeted with a page full of selfies, bikes, animals, one photo of him outside the campus Jisung knew as Jaemin’s looking all too celebratory, and most recently, a picture with Jaemin.
Taken in the same time and place as the one Jaemin had posted, but this one— they’re kissing.
Jisung can’t look at it for more than a few seconds, locking the phone and tossing it atop of his bag.
So that was it.
That’s why Jaemin’s so busy, and that’s why Jisung’s coughing up these stupid fucking roses and pathetically in love with a man who’s in the kind of cliche and ridiculous relationship where he can post cheesy photos on Instagram without even bothering to tell Jisung—
Why him? Why?
Standing up, Jisung impulsively kicks away the folded chair he’d sat on, one Jaemin would have once sat at, watched him dance and praised him all throughout the walk home.
He runs fingers through his hair.
Why had it all had to change?
Why couldn’t he still be here?
Why couldn’t he love him back?
He’s coughing. Dropping to his knees. Curling in pain, not breathing— he can’t think straight, he can’t make sense of anything other than that it hurts. Worse than it ever has.
Bleeding. He’s bleeding too, there’s blood on the floor, and in his mouth, trickling from the corner of his lips.
Everything is agonising. His body’s in the control of something else, something that wants him to suffer.
There’s blood on his fingertips now too, and petals, there’s red petals, more than he’s ever seen, and his lungs feel so incredibly tight that he grabs at his side, hoping desperately that’s going to somehow help him breathe.
And Jaemin. Jaemin is all that’s on his mind. Jaemin hours away, Jaemin doing what he loves, Jaemin who’s found a soulmate that isn’t Jisung, Jaemin who hasn’t a clue of the state Jisung is in on the floor of the dance studio.
When he’s able to gather something of a coherent thought, amongst a heap of petals stained with a dark blood, Jisung takes notice of something small, something a brown-ish purple amongst the pile of crimson.
With one hand still at his side, he brings the other to take it, and the moment he registers it’s sharp, he knows exactly what it is he holds between two fingertips.
“No.” Jisung mutters, so quiet he barely hears it himself.
And desperately, he’s bringing fingertips through streaks of blood, through petals until he finds another.
Thorns.
He’s coughing up thorns. Thorns in his lungs, in his throat. Thorns.
He’ll be lucky if he makes it long enough to see Jaemin again.
Jisung doesn't bother to attempt to dance after that.
Dancing had been the closest thing he’d had to a dream, a future, and like everything else, it’s gone. Out of his grasp.
There’s nothing he can do about it, really. Thinking of it as his destiny is rather comforting.
It's been months since he’d last attended school. It wasn’t a choice, exactly. It was the last of the normality he had left, but he just couldn’t will himself there every morning anymore. His grades were at an all time low, there was no recovering them in the time left until he was supposed to graduate. He was going to fail anyway, if he managed to get that far, so there was simply no point. No friends, no dancing, no school, and no Jaemin.
No calls, no texts, not even the occasional update from the older’s mother on how he was doing. Though, that was likely more due to Jisung barely ever leaving the confinement of his apartment than anything else.
Surely, his parents knew something was up. They had to be well aware of his absences from school by now, not to mention the way he’d barely even get out of bed in the rare instances they were home to see him.
But maybe, they just simply didn’t care.
It wasn’t much new.
His life had always played out that way. In fifth grade, Jisung was convinced he’d broken his arm falling while playing during lunch, and yet no one seemed to believe him. Not other students, not a particularly mean teacher, not even Jisung’s mother. It was only Jaemin, and without the other Jisung is sure he never would have been taken to the hospital, and left with a cast that got him what’s probably the most attention he’d ever had throughout his schooling.
It felt a lot like that. Except, this time, it wasn’t people not believing him, but rather, people not seeing. Not noticing.
And this time, Jisung decided, he didn’t want Jaemin to notice either.
It was a disease of selfishness. If Jaemin were to find out, the Jaemin that’s happier than he’s ever been, studying what he loves and doing it alongside a boyfriend that seems nothing but sweet, he’d be crushed. Guilty. Hurt. Sad. That’s the last thing Jisung wants.
So he chooses not to tell him, not to let him know. For the first time in his life, he was actively keeping something from his best friend. From the person that he loved.
When Jaemin comes home over his break, even only peeking through the peephole of his apartment door, Jisung can see how different he seems. Different in the best possible sense. Bright and full of life. He’s always been the kind of person to smile more than necessary, but the smile Jisung sees now is something so real, he can’t quite explain it.
Sure enough, Jaemin’s knock comes a little later. After what Jisung assumes is a brief unpacking of his bag, a conversation and a meal with his parents. He misses those.
He’s gotten fairly decent at covering his coughs by now, or at least suppressing them long enough to get somewhere else. But oh, that doesn’t make it the slightest less nerve-wracking to open the door for Jaemin.
“Jisungie!” Jaemin greets enthusiastically. Jisung imagines it’s the kind of voice he’ll use for his young students someday. He’ll be great at it, though that’s nothing of a new revelation to Jisung.
“Hi.” He greets in the very best attempt at sounding normal, nodding and stepping aside to pull the door further open.
There’s no hug, no kind of contact at all. It feels empty, and all Jisung can really do is watch as the older steps inside, quietly shut the door after himself.
“I’m sorry I haven’t gotten around to contacting you in a while,” Jaemin eventually speaks up, clearing his throat in a way Jisung knows tells that it’s a subject he’d rather avoid. “I’ve just been so busy with my classes, with—“
“Your boyfriend.” Jisung fills in. “You didn’t, um— Tell me about that.” He’s still close to the door, and decides that’s something of much more interest than looking to the best friend he’d fallen for.
“Yeah, I know... I just— It was something I wanted to tell you in person, and then it kind of slipped away from me.” The other explains, and Jisung shakes his head, turning away.
Though the action isn’t as simple as it should be— Standing for longer than a minute or so at a time tends to leave him dizzy, at best. So when he turns, he almost completely loses balance. Jaemin’s instinct must kick in, because within a second the older’s there, taking Jisung’s arm into his grip and steadying him. “Hey,” He frowns, pressing the back of his hand to Jisung’s forehead, despite him trying to swat it away with the little strength he has. “You don’t look so great. Are you sick?”
“No,” Jisung lies impulsively. “I’m just a little tired. I’m fine,” And what a perfect time for him to feel that all too familiar sensation in his chest, in the back of his throat. “I’ll be one second.” He quietly dismisses himself, shakes off Jaemin’s touch and heads in the direction of the bathroom.
It’s a miracle he gets there without mishap, and can quietly shut the door behind himself before collapsing in front of the toilet in a heap, coughing heavily, greeted by the red petals he’s grown accustomed to seeing.
He’s not sure how long he’s in there, but when the sensation has passed, —in the broadest sense, because nowadays there’s never a moment where his lungs don’t ache— he forces himself up. But it hurts, everything hurts. Hurts to breathe and to move and to even think.
Jisung feels so selfish. So burdensome, so heavy. All he wants is to live in the facade that things are okay for as long as Jaemin’s there, but he can’t. He so desperately wants to try, but he can’t. He’s worse with every passing moment.
When he returns, Jaemin’s immediately by his side, urging him to take a seat at the couch. The apartment is on the messier side, and Jisung feels a little guilty for not having cleaned it before Jaemin arrived, but like most things, he can’t.
“What’s going on with you? You caught the flu at school, or something?”
If only it were that simple. “I don’t know.”
“Jisungie,” Jisung wishes he’d stop calling him that. “You remember that soup you used to like? My mom would make it for us whenever one of us were sick?”
If Jisung, reluctantly sitting at the couch now, had the energy or the motivation to, he’d smile. Even the mention of it brings memories of something so much better. “Yeah. ‘Course.”
“I’m gonna make some for you, I’m sure we have the stuff.” Jaemin hums thoughtfully, straightening when Jisung is completely sat down and not at any kind of risk of losing his balance again.
Jisung shifts uncomfortably, the couch feeling unlike it usually does. “Hyung, I’m probably fine.” Appetite is far from him, even regarding something that seems so comforting.
Jaemin shakes his head, dismissing him. “I know you better than anyone, Jisung. You seem to forget that.”
“The classes are really fun. I mean... a little more stressful than high school, and the ones at eight in the morning aren’t the best, but it’s what I actually like, you know? And the campus is really nice, there’s these fountains in front of the main building, my roommate’s always talking about them,” Jaemin pauses just a moment to take the last spoonful of his soup. “Did I tell you about him? Mark? I must have. He’s funny. I met Jeno through him, actually...” Jaemin seems to trail off at that. “I think you’d like both of them.”
Jisung pushes the soup around his bowl. He’d expected an appetite to come to him by now, but all the sight and smell is doing is making him feel ill. Or maybe it’s hearing about Jaemin’s life without him. Maybe both.
“It sounds nice.” It isn’t supposed to sound bitter, but maybe it does, because Jaemin looks at him strangely.
“Don’t worry,” The older sets his empty bowl down at the table ahead of the couch, shifts closer to Jisung. “You’ll be there before you know it. School’s going fine, right? And dancing?”
The soup looks more unappealing with every passing moment. “Same old.” He answers with so much dullness it’s a surprise he doesn’t cringe at himself.
“Jisung—“
“I just... I don’t wanna talk about it right now, hyung.” He says, words perhaps holding the most sincereness of the night so far, and he really hopes that’s apparent.
Jaemin frowns, but nods. “Yeah, of course. That’s fine,” He clears his throat, brushes the palms of his hands on his jeans. “Hey, why don’t we have one of those cheesy old movie marathons we used to always do? You still have those DVDs, right?”
Jaemin was always great at avoiding awkwardness.
“Yeah, I do.” Jisung answers gratefully.
Maybe, somewhere deep within himself, with whatever hope he’d had left, Jisung had wondered if being with Jaemin again would make things better.
Maybe, in the very least, he’d stop getting worse.
When really, it was the opposite.
Jaemin had fallen asleep, face lit up by the TV, playing one of the many movies they knew well enough to quote every line. It’s comforting, having him there, but it also hurts. It burns Jisung's chest and tightens his lungs and scratches his throat. Reminds him of the petals, the thorns.
The other looks peaceful, content.
When Jisung looks at Jaemin, he sees the same Jaemin he’d met in the hallway all those years ago. He sees the Jaemin that’s taken care of him, that’s cooked his meals and helped him with his homework and spent more nights at his apartment than his own. Jisung sees his best friend. His soulmate.
He’d hate to disturb the peacefulness with a fit of coughing up petals, though something tells him he’s disturbing it enough by just being there.
He forces himself up, stumbles a little, barely managing to grip the armrest of the couch to prevent himself from falling. But he does, straightens, checks Jaemin hasn’t stirred and moves down the hallway.
And Jisung spends the night as he does any other.
Feeling petals fill his lungs.
It isn’t long until Jaemin’s gone again.
And it isn’t long until things ease into how they were. Just Jisung. Just the petals. Just the thorns. Just the ache that they bring.
He knows he doesn’t have much longer.
He knows there’s only so much time left, and there’s only so much more coughing he can do, and only so many more petals he can flush down the toilet.
So eventually, he stops trying. Jisung stops bothering to hide the petals. Each time they’re less of the bold crimson they once were, and more faded of color, slowly and beautifully turning to black. Jisung had never given much thought to roses other than white or red— Did nature even make such a thing? Or were black roses only something within himself, something foreshadowing a death so inevitable?
Either way, Jisung thinks they’re pretty.
He thinks they’re pretty when he first sees them, and he thinks they’re pretty when he’s surrounded by nothing but them, gorgeous black petals that litter his lap, the surrounding floor.
Maybe they remind him of Jaemin in more ways than one. Finding something beautiful in something he wouldn’t expect.
Even a mere year ago, he never would have thought he could love Na Jaemin. Jaemin was his person, his everything. But in the sense of being his best friend, someone meant for him. Though the more thought he gave to it, the more sense it made. Of course he had been in love with Jaemin. Maybe from the moment they’d met.
His soulmate.
He could think of this fate as cruel. But Jisung doesn’t really think he can find it in himself anymore.
Instead, he wants to see it as prettily as he sees the petals. As he sees Jaemin.
Jisung thinks the black roses are especially beautiful when they’re the last thing he sees.
“Jisung, sweetie, it’s just a bruise.”
“No, it’s not,” Jisung insists, shaking his head and holding his arm out again for his mother to inspect once more. “It hurts. It’s broken.”
“I’m busy. Put some ice on it if you need it,” His mother exhales, lifting the phone to her ear again. “Yeah, sorry? What was that?”
“The school nurse already did.” Jisung grumbles, turning away and making his way back to his room, sitting at the edge of his bed with a dramatic huff.
“It didn’t go well?” Jaemin guesses from where he sits, putting down the comic of Jisung’s he’d been skimming through while waiting for the younger.
“No,” Jisung whines. “No one ever believes me. Not our friends, no teachers, not the nurse, not even my parents—“
“I believe you.” Jaemin interrupts, shifting closer.
“Why?” Jisung feels the need to ask, carefully resting his injured arm in his lap. Okay, maybe it was his fault. Maybe he was running around without looking and maybe he’d slipped on something because of that, but still, it would help if at least one adult was willing to believe him just this once.
“Because you’re my best friend,” The older shrugs. “And because I know how many times you get yourself hurt by being clumsy."
“I do not!” Jisung defends.
Jaemin nudges his shoulder, —his good side, that is— and smiles at him. “I saw you run into a pole last week.”
Jisung whines again. “Jaemin.”
“I’m just teasing,” He sticks out his tongue. “But, I do believe you because you’re my best friend. Best friends are there to be the one you tell everything to, who always take your side and believe you, be there for you.”
He’s always good with words. Jisung never knows how, but he thinks he’s better than adults are at them.
Jaemin really is the best friend he can ask for.
“Yeah,” Jisung answers. “I guess so. But what do I do about this?” He holds up his arm, winces a little at the movement alone.
Jaemin hums in thought. “My mom will take you to the hospital if you think you need it.”
“Really?” The younger asks, though before Jaemin can answer, follows up with another question. “Will you come?”
“Of course,” Jaemin nods. “Best friends stick with one another too.”
Jaemin hasn’t been sleeping well lately.
It’s odd, to say the least, because he’s never once been the type to have trouble sleeping. If anything, he’s the type to sleep too much, Jisung had told him that plenty of times in the many sleepovers they’d shared, where Jaemin would fall asleep halfway into the second movie of a marathon, —sometimes even the first, which would make Jisung whine for the rest of the night— even if in the most uncomfortable position imaginable.
But these days, it feels impossible to get a good night’s rest. Even when Mark’s fallen asleep while reading on the bed opposite his own, and even when he’s run out of apps to aimlessly scroll through, he still can’t find any trace of tiredness behind his eyes.
He’s happy to be back, of course. He loves being on campus, he loves learning, he loves everyday he gets closer to doing what he wants to do, and he loves spending time with friends new and old, but ever since returning from his break, there’s been a sense of incompleteness that’s followed him, lingered above him and weighed at his mind.
And he knows exactly why. Jisung.
He'd never been able to rest properly knowing that the younger, the one he'd vowed to always take care of, was sick or injured or even had a mere headache.
And though Jisung had insisted otherwise when Jaemin had left, told him he'd be fine, that it was some cold that would pass, the older simply couldn't get it out of his mind. So much had been off about Jisung, almost as if it weren't the Jisung he knew, the one he'd grown up alongside.
He's seen Jisung injured, from dancing or clumsiness, or sick, with every flu or cold in the book, he's seen Jisung in all of those states, but never like he had been in his days at home. He'd caught him sneaking off to cough a lot, like he couldn't breathe, seen him clutching his side, his lungs—
Oh no.
His lungs.
No. Jisung couldn't. There's no way.
Jaemin would know if his best friend had Hanahaki disease, right?
Yeah. He would. Absolutely.
He would, unless— Unless Jisung was keeping it from him. And he wouldn't do that. Unless...
Jaemin sits up, with a horrible feeling settling in his gut, a chill sent throughout his body. Could it be possible that he'd neglected his best friend enough for him to hide a deathly disease? Could it be possible that the disease was his own fault?
No.
It couldn't.
He's thinking too far ahead.
Jisung is probably fine. He has to be.
Jaemin leans over to his nightstand, sparing a glance in the direction of his roommate's bed. Mark's a heavy sleeper, surely heavy enough to not wake if Jaemin happens to make a phone call in the middle of the night. He registers his fingers are shaking, and his heart races loud enough for him to hear, quickly unlocking his phone to call Jisung. He'd be awake at this time if he's alone, right? God, Jaemin hates that he doesn't even know anymore.
He has to be. He'll answer and grumble about the time, and the sinking feeling will stop and Jaemin will be able to sleep.
But he doesn't. The phone rings and rings until it doesn't anymore, and the feelings worsen and sleep is the furthest thing from the blonde's mind.
And he's all of a sudden moving, pulling on a pair of jeans and a shirt he'd set out for the next day of classes, and fuck— Where did he keep the spare key to Jisung's apartment? He'd kept it, even after leaving, simply because it felt like his. And he'd put it somewhere, but it isn't at his desk, not in a set of drawers of clothing and not under his bed. Finally, he finds it amongst a set of pictures he'd never gotten around to decorating his half of the room with— many of his parents and himself, some of other friends, and several with Jisung, varying in age from the year they'd met, with nervous smiles for their first day of school together, all the way to Jaemin's graduation, a day Jisung had seemed so distant.
"Dude, what time is it?"
Jaemin realises he's been standing in place, looking at the particular photographed Jisung. He hadn't bothered smiling, at least not the real kind of smile that reaches his eyes, which instead looked so empty, and how on earth had Jaemin been so wrapped up in his own graduation that he hadn't realised?
"Jaemin?" Mark sleepily questions again, and this time Jaemin shakes his head, putting the photos down, turning to face the other who now sits up in his bed, looking confused and only half-awake.
"Sorry," He apologises, bringing a thumb over the cool metal of the apartment key. "I— I've gotta go. I think something's wrong." He should be moving, why isn't he moving? Hurriedly, Jaemin takes his phone, his car keys.
That seems to make Mark wake up more, shuffling in his bed. "What, home? Isn't that like, a three hour drive?"
A three hour drive he should have found more time for.
"Yeah," The blonde breathes. "It can't wait."
In quite literally any other time, Jaemin would have appreciated the drive. The empty roads, the stars bright in the sky, the cool night air from the driver's side window he'd hastily half-opened. But instead, he spends it panicked, barely breathing, with a sickeningly restrictive feeling in his lungs. With shaky fingers and vision that occasionally blurs.
He so badly wants to be wrong. He wants that horrible pit in his stomach to be an illusion of his sleeplessness and anxieties, and to come to Jisung's apartment and find everything normal. Maybe Jisung's awake playing one of those complicated-sounding games he doesn't quite get. Maybe he's asleep. Maybe he just hadn't thought to answer a call in the middle of the night.
It's probably close to three in the morning when he finally gets there, but Jaemin doesn't bother to check, not wanting to spend even a second delaying anything.
Slamming his car door to a shut, and hurrying towards the side entrance of their building, —because the main one was gated off for non-residents during the night— Jaemin quickly makes his way to the elevator. It's very much the usual time it takes to get from a higher floor, but it doesn't make him any less impatient, itching with nerves and anticipation.
Unsurprisingly, it's empty when it finally comes, and Jaemin shakily presses the button for the seventh floor. When the doors don't immediately close, he presses it again, several more times rapidly. "Come on." He mutters, until finally they stubbornly close, with a slight, unpleasant creaking sound to show the resistance. When did that start?
It feels like it's the longest ride in that damn elevator he's ever had, but finally he's there, he's on Jisung and his floor, and he doesn't even have to think about it— His feet guide him towards the other's door, he finds the key in his hand, the one he's had to use so many times because Jisung's so forgetful, and Jaemin thinks it's one of the most endearing things about him.
"Jisung?" He calls upon entering, closing the door after himself. It's pitch black, which Jaemin desperately hopes is an indicator Jisung's peacefully sleeping. Though he knows the layout well enough to find the somewhat close light switch, flick it on.
Now bathed in light, neither living room nor kitchen reveal any recent sign of Jisung being there. Everything is messy, out of order, and that certainly doesn't help the feeling within Jaemin's chest, nor his stomach. "Jisungie?" The name feels odd. Does he even deserve to use it anymore? "It's me. It's hyung."
Nothing.
Jaemin walks in the direction of the hallway, and he almost misses it. Laid in the centre of the floor is something black, and upon further inspection, leaning down to pick it up, Jaemin finds a petal, one that he guesses to be a rose.
The world may as well stop then and there.
In the least, it feels like it does. The moment he registers it's a petal, and the pieces connect in his mind, everything is put to a violent halt.
"Jisung!" He's not asking anymore. He needs it. He needs him to be there, to be okay.
There's more. There's petals, black roses, closer to the door of Jisung's room.
It hurts.
Every bit of Jaemin hurts. Aches.
The Jaemin that had met Jisung that day. That had taken it upon himself to be friends with the other. The Jaemin that had grown up by his side. The Jaemin that had gone to college and found a new life for himself and left his one and only best friend in the dark. Every version of himself so terribly hurts.
He can't lose Jisung. He can't. He knows, maybe in some cruel form of punishment, he deserves it. For abandoning him, for pushing him to the back of his mind, for not even finding a few fucking minutes in a day to text him. But he can't.
He knows what's on the other side of the door.
And he knows, he so surely knows from that sickening gut feeling that it's his own fault.
And he can't.
"Here."
Jisung looks up from the cartoon playing ahead, blinks at the other holding a bowl out from him. "What is that?"
"Chicken soup," Jaemin says matter-of-factly. "My mom makes it when I'm sick. So since you're sick, I asked her to make it for both of us."
Jisung carefully takes the bowl, sniffs at the food, and makes a face. "Is it going to make me better?"
"I don't know," The older honestly answers, retrieving his own bowl from the nearby counter, and joining Jisung, sitting at the floor in front of the television. "But it's warm and yummy."
"Okay," Jisung shrugs, sniffles a little as he pushes around the liquid food in the bowl with his spoon, then gathers the courage to take a spoonful into his mouth. "Oh! It is yummy. I knew it was warm, because the bowls warm, but—"
"I know, right." Jaemin chuckles, keeping his eyes on the other.
"Your mom is really nice," Jisung thoughtfully says, between mouthfuls of soup. Some stains the corner of his mouth, but Jaemin doesn't bother to mention it. "She takes care of you. Mine is always so busy. I know I get sick or hurt a lot, but— but I wish my mom made me soup too, sometimes. Especially when it tastes this yummy."
Jaemin frowns. Of course, he knew Jisung's parents were different from his own, anyone could see that, but hearing it from him felt different than just knowing it.
Coughing, Jisung seems to turn his focus back to the cartoon. "I love this episode. The hamster and the bunny—"
"I can make you soup, you know. Well, when my mom teaches me how, and when I can cook, but I can for you one day." Jaemin tells him, yet to have touched his own. He feels the need to, feels almost responsible over Jisung, but in the most positive way possible.
Jisung looks at Jaemin. "Really?"
"Yeah," Jaemin nods. "I can help you whenever you're sick or hurt. Oh, actually—" He puts his bowl down carefully, stands up.
"What?" Jisung looks up. "Where are you going?"
"I'll be back in a second." Jaemin brushes him off, hurrying to his room and settling on the floor, where he pulls out several boxes from under his bed, trying to find what he's thinking of. And finally he does, immediately smiling upon finding it.
He rushes back to the living room, fixing the toy stethoscope around his neck. "I'm a doctor! See! I can help," He adjusts it a little. "Doctor Na Jaemin."
Jisung, immediately upon seeing it, bursts into giggles. "Isn't it just Doctor Jaemin?"
"I don't know," Jaemin shrugs, sitting back down. "But I'm a doctor, and I'm gonna take care of you."
"But I get sick a lot," Jisung reiterates, shrugs as he returns to his soup, takes another mouthful. "You'll be too busy."
"That doesn't matter. I like looking after you and making you feel better. I'm older than you, after all."
Jisung looks down to his bowl, already empty. "Okay. Do you promise you'll make me soup one day?"
"Of course, Jisungie. I promise."