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“Yeon Sieun.”
Ahn Suho says. He’s still in the same red windbreaker, black jeans and black hair framing over small, sharp amber eyes. There’s blood on his cheek, bruises on his body. He comes up to the door just like that—the spitting image of the Suho he sees everyday in his dreams, and Sieun thinks he must have finally lost it.
It's been three weeks since he came back from the ICU, three weeks since a funeral, three weeks of finishing every night with too many painkillers and far too much silence.
"You’re dead." Sieun says, 'cause it's the only thing he's been hearing inside his mind for the past three weeks. "I—what’s the last thing you remember?"
Suho stares at him. At the corner of his eyes, Sieun sees his hands twitch, like he wants to move them. Suho looks down at his clothes, back up at Sieun (bangs too grown out, big eyes sunk under even bigger eyebags). "I—" Ahn Suho says. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know how I’ve—"
“What?”
“I just know you.”
He croaks, sucking in huge, heaving breaths that make even Sieun wince at the sound. He looks like he's about to fall over any time now, but Sieun doesn't want to touch him. Something akin to fear lurks low in his stomach. He’s afraid to come and look closer, afraid to do anything to wake himself up if this is a dream. But when Suho stares back, panicked in a way that Sieun’s never seen before, he only opens the door instead, and steps aside to let Suho in.
"How did I die?"
Suho asks again, after a while, sitting in Sieun’s bed. He keeps smoothing out his hands, running fingers over his split knuckles. He looks at his hands like he's only seeing them for the first time, then gazes up at Sieun. There's no contempt, just curiosity, and if Sieun was being delusional, maybe even a hint of gentleness, in his eyes. It's the familiar colour of amber—glowing in the darkness of his room, his entire world.
Because of me, is what Sieun thinks.
"I don't know," is what he says.
"Maybe I should find out then."
"Maybe." He agrees.
Suho stares at him some more, contemplating, before clearing his throat and looking around. "I want a shower, and these clothes are so dirty. Where the hell have I been?"
"Gym." Sieun supplies, factually, and only because he's gonna humour himself with this absolute madness—"you boxed." The way the jacket spans across his shoulders and the sharp sting of his gaze. It’s like Suho has never even left.
"Huh. Makes sense." Suho says, nodding, before shaking his head. Maybe if he wasn't dead there would have been imprints of sweat on his tee. "Because I feel like I just got my ass knocked out."
Sieun almost laughs, but he shudders instead. He stands up and leads Suho to his bathroom, shows him how to work the shower and pulls the door shut.
Once he hears the water run, he collapses onto his bed for a minute, and weeps so roughly into a pillow the fabric is soaked. There's smears of blood all over his floor, his sheets, and he wipes his hand over his face, stands up and leaves outside.
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Intense negative emotions such as stress or grief can make people particularly vulnerable to hallucinations, as can conditions like drugs or alcohol. It is believed that the mental processes that operate during hallucinations include memories and images which the brain has difficulty controlling. The way individuals react to their hallucinations also shows how they feel—
Sieun shuts the laptop close, and lets his head fall on it. Behind the bathroom door there’s still the sound of water running—water splashing against cold tiles, then a slight humming. It shouldn’t be possible. His heart hammers electric. Sieun squeezes his eyes shut, gives himself five seconds to panic, and then gets back up. Hallucination or miracle or whatever else, there’s no denying it now. He just won’t tell anyone, and hopefully it would pass.
It has to.
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"Did you know me?"
"Yes."
"Were we close? Did we...date or something? Was that why I died?"
"God," Sieun sighs. Now that's a thought. "No, you knucklehead."
A moment passes. Suho tilts his head at him.
"How was I like?"
"You're—" Sieun starts, then has to stop himself short. What was Suho like? He didn’t know, not long enough, and now probably never will. This is all that's left he ever has of Suho—nothing more than a fantastical illusion, a by-product of his wretched mind.
The thing is, he really thought Suho would always be there. Fighters don’t die, weaklings do. He should have died, but he's here, and Suho is not. And all the wrongness of that fact besieges him everyday.
It feels like a gunshot through the ribcage; an explosion straight from his mouth, down through his chest and spilling into his gut like cold shock. Sieun doesn’t close his eyes, though. His first instinct is to snarl and snap, like an agitated gator in the marsh. His second is to leave without a word.
There’s another instinct too, just beneath the surface of his skin, that threatens to gobble the first two right up if he’s not careful.
"You were good." He concludes, stiffly.
"Hmm," Suho hums, non-comically. "And you're not?"
"...No."
"Is it because you beat up some punks? Because if so, that's pretty vain."
"You don't know me."
He says lowly, enmity laced to his voice. He could see it in Suho’s eyes then, the way the wheels are turning in his head, as he watches Sieun’s defense pull up so quickly. Ahn Suho simply half-smiles at him, before looking away.
"I kinda want to, actually. I mean, you're the only one I can talk to anyway."
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Days move on. Ghost Ahn Suho drifts in and out of his place, follows him outside and sees through his days at Eunjang, and asks him questions about himself Sieun never really knows how to answer right. Suho doesn’t appear to mind Sieun’s nonchalance—but Suho probably knows Sieun’s nonchalance is an act.
He must think it's a game to him, Sieun thinks irritably. The way there's a spark in Suho’s eyes whenever he sees Sieun’s voice get stuck back in his throat at his inquiry. The way he makes Sieun’s hands twitch in the air and his eyes roam around for a figure that nobody can see.
"You're pretty strong. For a shortie," Suho comments. "Smart with your ways."
"You’re strong too." Sieun counters instead, voice taut. "You fought so well."
"Until the end?" When he doesn't answer, Suho just smiles. "Was it a bet? I doubt I cared much about money, though."
"…No."
He shakes his head, and stupidly enough, remembers their first meeting. Facts are facts—Suho socks a punch to his face and he tries to slam a chair on him in return. The black and blue bodies crisscrossing behind them like a contrail. All that strength in Suho and he still touches Sieun so gently, makes a cradle out of his palm for Sieun’s hands—that awful smile tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting, focused, bright.
Honesty presses against his chest, tight and dislodged like a misplaced bone. “You just shouldn’t have come.”
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The first time someone hits him back hard enough, Sieun is amazed how good it feels. Part of his brain flushes out from endorphins while the rest of him just shivers with it.
He wanted someone to fight him.
Hard, long, brutal fight with an enforcer for one of the gangs running the schools in this area, because they've more or less assumed that any guy with an ounce of guts is looking to take over from them. And yeah, Sieun knows he is a threat now—he just hasn't decided what kind, yet.
For now, this will have to do.
Cartilage gives under his fist and he watches Hyoman gurgle and fall limp to the ground. On some level he knows the fucker’s going to get loaded into ER. That he deserves it. His little gang might visit tomorrow for payback.
It doesn’t matter. Let them come.
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"This is unexpected."
"What?"
He says flatly, turning to see Suho watching him at a much closer distance than he's initially anticipated. Sieun immediately leans back, but not fast enough for the taller boy to miss his wrist as he snatches it up to study non-comically.
"Your hands. They're really rough."
"…What?"
Ahn Suho rolls his eyes, like Sieun is supposed to get it already. The idea strangely unnerves him, and he hotly glares at Suho through the thick strands of his bangs.
"To think that with that pretty face, you'd have something a bit softer than these calloused hands."
Suho, for all his reckless smiles, fight stains on his clothes, and stupid jokes, no matter how others think otherwise, was not a child. He knows how to hot wire motorcycles and work three jobs at once while still attending school with perfect attendance—all on account of helping his grandma, the only family he has left; how to take down an entire group of thugs and how to take care of himself—better than Sieun ever could, despite his much better financial conditions—also a sign of his adultness, much to Sieun’s surprise and respect.
The thing is, Sieun is smart, smarter than Suho or any other kids in their grade. Too smart for their little fun and games. There is an infinity of secrets Sieun keeps to himself. They’re unorthodox in the why of their stigma, but he’s always had his very own code of morality (neglect, violence, justice, death). Somewhere in between close to dying then living again, the pathological hunger is replaced wholesale. Time heals some wounds and pokes open fresh ones beneath the topmost layer of his skin. He shouldn't have fought, but he did. Suho should have left him alone, but he didn’t.
Sieun knows. He’s heard the whispers. They’re all just kids.
Cut and broken and stained with blood.
“I’m not a child,” he says and he kind of wishes Suho would be, the child who accidently slipped in the ring and passed out, innocent. But he also kind of wishes he knew what Suho was thinking that day, in that adult brain of his, so Sieun could know if he thought about him the same way he has grown to think about Suho: tinnitus in their ears, blood in their mouth,…and anything in between if it means the other person is safe and sound. They were never soft skin and smooth curves. It’s all scraped knees and bruised elbows with Suho, and Sieun knows even if the ache remained, he wouldn’t mind it.
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The violence doesn’t end. Almost every week Sieun drags himself home with blood crusted under his fingernails and sweat beaded at his temples. Specks of red dot the blue expanse of his uniform shirt like a splatter painting.
It’s awful, he knows it—knows better than anyone. But Suho is gone, and no matter what he tries Sieun will never know how to fix that.
“What are you doing, Yeon Sieun?”
Suho-not-Suho says, a frown marring his brows—standing in front of his apartment again—and Sieun wants to scream and lash out. Suho is gone and why can’t anyone get it?
There’s a fire in him, and a thirst fueled by it. He will see it satiated.
“Come here.” Suho says. It’s soft, but still tethering on commanding. Sieun doesn’t get how he does it, but his body is doing the thinking for him anyway.
He unlocks the door and lets Suho shepherd him all the way to the living room. As soon as he’s sat down on the couch Suho drops his wrist and practically speed walks to the kitchen, going through the cupboard. Sieun doesn’t miss that Suho is familiarizing himself with this place. He kneels down on the floor in front of him, and Sieun tenses.
“What are you doing?” Sieun ventures, letting the bewilderment trickle into his voice.
Suho ignores him, leaning closer to inspect the cuts on his hands, and lets out a sigh. There’s a harsh stutter to his breathing. The tanned curve of his neck sheens over under the room lightning.
He looks up. Reaches towards Sieun’s forehead. He doesn’t miss the way Sieun tips forward into the contact, eyes slipping shut—the first increment of a collapse, before he flinches away, but even from the distance of centimeters Suho can probably feel the heat radiating off his skin. Almost blistering under his fingers. “You’re burning up,” Suho says, “and bleeding. Are you—”
“It’s nothing,” Sieun grits out. “It’s just cold today, and I got careles—”
He breaks off. When he opens his eyes again they’re dark, glittering, barely a sliver of iris visible around pupils blown wide. The flush spilling over his cheekbones feverishly bright. Mouth red and wet.
“Don’t touch me,” He continues raggedly. “If you—if I can keep feeling you like this it’ll mean this is all…”
It’s been weeks. Every day Ahn Suho is the first and last thing he sees when he opens and closes his eyes. Sieun doesn’t understand what he’s done to get this. If the price of losing someone is having them close but never closer. Feeling their heartbeat against the palm of his hand. Knowing they’re just a text or phone call away. He wants to tell this illusion to go back to where he came from, maybe go haunt his actual, real loved ones, but at the same time he doesn’t want Suho to leave.
The anticipation of seeing Suho fills his heart with anxiety along with the denial of the proposition. But denial is only as effective as his will, which is currently too frayed to count for jack shit. He couldn’t get away from it. From Suho. And it’s dragging every bit of sanity left in him away.
“Okay,” Suho eventually says. “Okay. At least let me take a look…”
Sieun’s shaking his head. He runs a hand through his hair and shuts his eyes again. Flattens himself further against the couch. “I’m tired. Just go—please.”
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Later in the night, Suho opens the door to join him in the public hallway outside the condo. There’s hardly any light pollution, but the moon has been waning for weeks and it’s impossible to make out any stars in the sky. He’s looking out at the blurry expanse stretching below them, with trees and buildings and cars jutting out of it at irregular intervals, like shipwrecks in a sea of mist.
“I didn’t think you’d fall right back into fights after everything,” begins Suho.
An exhale escapes Sieun’s mouth when he snorts. “You don't know?” he remarks, too solemn to play along in earnest. “It’s called exposure therapy.”
Suho reaches a hand over, and flicks a finger against his forehead. It’s so out of Sieun’s left field, yet so Suho that he can only whip his head to him, blinking in surprise.
“What?”
“You’re so hard-headed. Talk to me.”
Sieun sniffs, indignantly, and turns away, distancing himself for a clearer vantage point. “What’s there to talk about?”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
Suho hums.
“You don’t need to know.” It’s about you.
“Maybe we can find some help.”
“I don’t need help.” This is not in line with what Sieun meant to say. He rephrases, “I don’t want help,” as if there's strength in defiance, even if it’s unreasonable and childish.
“Sieun-ah—”
The thing is, Sieun’s own code of morality is different than what is considered socially acceptable. He’s molded it, grown with it, its depth so ineffable that it feels futile to even attempt to snub out now. He’s known enough adults to know that they’re never going to help, not at their own expense when there’s so many things for their benefits are at stake.
“You know what all of this made me realize?” He’s trying to translate it for Suho now. It’s hard—telling the truth when you’re only used to lying, even if it was for their own sake. “I can’t be a good little son or student anymore. And I didn’t look out enough for you when you have so much for me. I wish I had.”
Somehow, Suho’s hands reach him despite the distance. Sieun can only feel where Suho wraps his arms around him, when he presses his chin atop the crown of Sieun’s head. “Oh Sieun-ah, it’s okay. Don’t cry.” Sieun hasn’t even registered the heat behind his eyes until it spills over, forcing the tears out of his body then, as if on cue. His sadness feels so ostracized from the rest of him, a muscle crystallized from conscious unuse, melted down by Suho's physical touch that he's been starved for. “I’m here now,” Suho says into his hair.
And it’s strange. It’s so strange. Suho’s chest is warm. His hands move further, one raking through his hair—the distant way Sieun remembers his mom used to do to him years ago, the other smoothing down his back—resting just over the middle knob of his spine. He’s almost tempted to break away just to wake himself up. But the comfort overwhelms him into submission, and Sieun decides he can let it stay, at least for the moment.
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He's not really surprised when he awakens at three the next morning and Suho is standing next to his bed.
He says, "You know why I’m here?"
Sieun gazes up at him.
“I’ve missed you.”
There are still holes in what this Suho knows. Maybe the reason why it’s only partial because this is all Sieun will ever get now. So. Get up, all in Suho's personal space. Make a point of being almost naked—stripped down to his sweatpants since last night before bed. Almost perched on his tiptoes to look Suho in the eye, and this is probably as tall as he's ever going to get.
Kisses him.
They’ve never done this before, though Sieun remembers he had wanted to. He cranes his neck and Suho has to bend down to meet him and dammit that's fuckin’ annoying.
Open his mouth and rub softly against Suho's. Stubble and hard lips. There’s a crack on his lower lip; Sieun can feel the tiny healing place with his tongue—soft just long enough for Suho to breathe in and out once, then harder, raw around the edges.
Big arms wound around his waist so tight Sieun almost can't breathe, dragging him in. Wide open mouth against his and yeah, this is what he has seen coming. The part of him that knows Suho loved him, and that Suho is angry at him. That they’re both just sad and frustrated and can’t let go of each other. An eye for an eye. A leg for an arm. Why did you run after him? You came after me.
Open him wide and kiss him right down his throat.
He remembers all in a nauseating rush being seventeen and sitting behind Suho on his scooter, blazing down the streets and speeding through the people. This feels exactly the same, only amplified by a hundred times. When he gets cornered to fall back into bed Suho is there right after. Pushes him up against the headboard and kisses him again. Suctions and bites on his lips. Nothing gentle. Two guys wrestling to take each other’s clothes off, taking elbows and knees and digging in wherever their hands reach.
Romantic psychos.
Behind them, Sieun sees the glass window and blood specks and their reflections. Moonlight refracting. Suho’s bare back, heaving and closing around him. In his ears is the shushing whispers Suho pants against his lips, in his mouth is the taste Suho leaves behind with his tongue, and everything—
Everything’s okay.
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He doesn’t wake again until morning dawns, light filtering through the curtains and painting Suho’s form in golden hues. The last few days of fall, or so says the news.
Sieun stares. An eye slips open to stare back.
“Wh’ is it?”
It doesn’t escape Suho anymore. Sieun goes still a little at that, wondering how long he has noticed, how long he has been looking until Sieun finally looked back.
There’s a lot they’ll need to say to each other, later. For now, though, Sieun just lets Suho draw him closer, still groggy from sleep, but awake. Warm. Real.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” it bursts out before Sieun can stop himself, sudden, and the words sound like they’ve been dragged syllable by syllable out of the depths of him. Land like a blow to the ribs. It’s Suho’s turn to go still.
“Hey,” Suho whispers, shifting closer until their foreheads bump into each other. He pulls the blanket over their shoulders just as Sieun sucks in an earthquake of a breath. “Hey,” he says again, even quieter than the first, fingers finding their place against Sieun’s cheeks.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Gentle fingers close Sieun’s eyelids, warm through the body heat. “It’s okay. We’ll be alright.”
And things aren’t alright, not by a long shot, but maybe staying here together, right now, they can pretend. For a while.
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In the single ICU room of a hospital in Seoul, Ahn Suho's eyes open to the sight of bare white ceilings.
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