SH 2015: some air'd be good for you (for nachtegael) (1/3)

[suholiday]

For: nachtegael
From: ANONYMOUS until May 22, 2015

Title: some air'd be good for you
Rating: R (for mature themes and scenes towards the end)
Pairing(s)/Focus: Suho/Lay, past Suho/Baekhyun, mentions of Suho/Xiumin and Suho/Yura
Length: 75,000 words
Summary: Joonmyun makes certain changes in his schedule to accommodate certain people. And with that comes hollowing out a portion of his heart for someone to find a home in.
Warning/s: drama, mentions of character death and accidents, mentions of blood, hints of self-destructive behavior, weird medical practices, magic shenanigans

Notes: hi ren! i sorta combined prompts 1 and 2 and this thing happened. haha! i hope you enjoy the fic as much as i had fun writing it~ i do apologize, however, for a couple of things that you’ll discover eventually… but please rest assured that despite the warnings, i do promise a happy ending! as always, many, many thanks to a for helping me iron out things in the plot and for generally being amazing, and to z and j for the endless support and cheerleading and for crying with me. you are my heroes ♥

Joonmyun barges through the doors of the operating room, all suited up and ready to work. The latex wound around his hands is hot, tight, itchy. The many layers of clothes he's wearing makes him feel like he's going to war more than anything else. And maybe he is, he muses as he nods at one of the assistants and slips on his head gear, a thin sheet of glass covering his eyes. The flurry of people moving around him is beginning to look like soldiers rushing into war. The exchange of stern glances has fast become survival signals. The steady beeping is the countdown to the next attack. Or maybe the screams of people, all of them asking to be saved. And the bloody figure in front of him – a victim of the chaos, the lone casualty of the war. The very reason Joonmyun's in the operating room, in the first place, hands held up and facing his body as he tries to even out his breathing. The bright red liquid fades into something lighter, a bit more dull. Turns into something translucent. His breath hitches. He can feel the thumping in his chest quicken, can feel the heavy beats crawl down to the back of his elbows, knees, ears, until he can hear nothing but the sound of his own heart. One shrill beep, and his body gives a tiny jerk. "His heart rate keeps going up," Jongdae tells him, eyebrows furrowed. "What do we do now?" If this were any other operation then Joonmyun would say, check the valves, we can't let them collapse. Let's open him up, see what we can fix. We'll figure this out. But it isn't. The man before him is fast losing all the color in his body, the expanse of his chest going translucent. He's completely disappeared from the knees down. The battery in his heart is running out of energy and how the hell do you take it out when you can't even see three quarters of it? Stick your hand in the hollow cavity of the man's chest without knowing what you might be digging into? Just wade your way through the vessels, try to stick a pacemaker inside, hope for the best? It's useless. They'll only complicate the situation, end the man's life much faster, get their hands all bloodied and their careers tarnished forever. "Doctor–" Jongdae grabs him by the elbow and yanks him forward, closer, back to reality. Behind them, the heart monitor beeps fast, three consecutive counts, before it slows down again. It picks up pace just a few seconds after. He takes a deep breath, then, exhaling only when he feels Jongdae's grip on him tighten. "Hyung, come on, we can still make this work–" Three years ago, Joonmyun would have said the same thing. He was still young then, naive and juvenile and foolish. He was scrubbing in for the first time. He fumbled with his surgical gloves and Kim-sonsaengnim laughed at him silly. It was his first time handling the case of a dying – no, a disappearing man. So it made sense for him to still carry around an ounce of hope, a vial of faith. That magic word for ‘survival' at the tip of his tongue. But as you grow older, as you get more exposed to disasters and deaths and lack of second chances, you lose hope bit by bit, then all at once. The monitor beeps again, loud and unsteady. Joonmyun takes a deep breath. When he shifts to his side, he tells Jongdae, "Clear the room." "What? That doesn't make sense–" "I said, clear the room–" A long and loud beep soon spills into the four corners of the closed space, crawls along the walls and snakes up Joonmyun's nape until he shivers. He feels a traitorous cold wrap around his neck, tighten its grip on him. Make him choke. "Leave," he tells Jongdae, then lunges forward, feels around for the man's heartbeat on the translucent chest and lets his hands hover. He doesn't start pumping until the assistants begin to shuffle out of the room, until Jongdae looks over his shoulder to lock eyes with him before shutting the door closed. In the silence of the room, with nothing but the low, loud beep permeating the thick walls of the white noise, he maps out a path up the man's chest and holds his hands down on where his skin, translucent, almost transparent, feels the warmest. A faint thump against his skin, close to his pulse, and he picks up his pace, pressing down even harder as he tries to silence the shrill beeping sound. He doesn't stop pumping. ☂ Joonmyun takes a deep, deep breath, inhaling noisily through his nose. His body gives a tiny jerk as he looks around, taking in the details of his surroundings. He can feel one end of his comforter bunching up to his chin; the other end, crawling up his legs. Beside him, the hotdog pillow has rolled off close to the edge. He lifts his gaze, then, takes in the sight of a field of grass just beyond his window. It's the same scene that has greeted him in the morning for the past few years, the same scene that helps keep him in check, make sure he's here, in this moment, and not stuck in the past. And it's the same scene that tells him that he'd fallen asleep last night without closing the blinds again. Fourth day in a row now, a voice at the back of his mind says. If this keeps up, he'll end up getting coughs and colds again in a day or two. It's a dream, just a dream, he tells himself. He rolls over, burying his face in his pillow, and takes a deep breath. It won’t ever happen again. It's just a dream. He shifts his glance to his right, up ahead where a wall clock rests against the wall. Five in the morning, the hands read. It's still too early to get up, roll out of bed, steady himself on his feet and drag himself out of his room. On most days, he gets up at seven or eight in the morning, feeling refreshed from whatever reading or writing he'd done the night before, but today isn't quite one of those days. Sehun's set to leave for a long overdue trip up north to see different things, sights he can't find here in their Wonju-si. Sehun hopes to get a glimpse of the sea, the one that separates South Korea from neighboring countries just beyond the expanse of water. He plans to go by foot so that he can see more things, meet more people, experience events in his life that he'd probably never do on a normal day. He's hoping to get out, no longer stuck in the place he’d been confined in for years, ever since he made a promise with the devil and sold his soul. “You’re hardly the devil,” Sehun would always tell him, then brush his knuckles along Joonmyun’s cheek. Sehun would smile, then, small and tight at the corners, before adding, “Besides, I brought this upon myself. I made this choice. And I don’t regret it one bit." "Lies," Joonmyun remembers saying then. Sehun widened his eyes. His cheek muscles were tight, tense. It made Sehun look like the same kid Joonmyun had operated on four years ago, the last operation he’d done in his career, clinging onto the last strings of survival after falling victim to a car accident. He wasn't even supposed to be a casualty – he was just walking along the sidewalk; misfortune just got in the way. Two heartbeats after, Joonmyun took it back, laughing as he shook his head. "Fine, fine, you're a nice and wonderful kid. I'm the awful one," he'd said in response and threaded his fingers through Sehun's hair. Gave the soft tuft a light ruffle before pulling away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thought of you that way." Sehun looked up at him through the slits of his bangs and licked his lips, parting them. For a moment, it looked as if he was about to say something, about to retort, but soon Sehun was pressing them together in a thin line again. So Joonmyun said nothing more, kept his questions to himself and pushed the voices in his head to the deepest recesses of his mind. If Sehun wanted to say something then he would have done so a long time ago. Sehun wasn't the best at keeping his own secrets, after all; he always had to tell someone, or at least write them down. "I see you're awake, master," comes Sehun's greeting, voice cracking somewhere along the way. Joonmyun squints just a little, trying to make out what Sehun's doing with one of his hands stuck inside his luggage. Stuffing a thick jacket inside for his trip to the mountains at the height of spring? Maybe. Sehun hasn't been outside in a while; he's just making sure he doesn't run into any temperature problems. "I've already brewed coffee but I haven't made toast yet. Or did you want a traditional Korean breakfast as my parting gift before I leave?" Joonmyun laughs a little. "You sound funny talking to me like that." He walks over, fluffing Sehun's hair, and Sehun almost instantly leans into the touch. "Snap out of it," he says, then chuckles when the hem of Sehun's sleeve gets stuck in the zipper. "C'mon, get up. Fix the table. I'll go make us some breakfast." "I'm not letting you burn down your mansion, hyung. It's too pretty," Sehun mutters, but allows himself to be dragged away, anyway. He drags his feet, maybe on purpose, and wraps his fingers around Joonmyun's wrist in a gesture that Joonmyun is sure – or at least half certain – is meant to tease more than to hold him back. "I'll cook. You make the table. Then you can sip your coffee while waiting." "Oh, you're ordering me around now?" Sehun huffs. Juts out his bottom lip as he narrows his eyes, as well, but doesn't quite tighten his grip of Joonmyun. If anything, he even loosens it a little, settles for a comfortable hold on Joonmyun that Joonmyun can easily shake off if he so desires. But then this is Sehun – Sehun who has spent too many years looking after him, Sehun who has committed himself to staying in this house, this 'mansion', as he fondly calls it, miles away from the main city. The same person who'd pick Joonmyun up from the laboratories without question, wouldn't even ask about the look on Joonmyun's face if he ever had to fetch Joonmyun after the latter lost one of this most important patients. Wouldn't think of anything else but pulling Joonmyun close to his chest until Joonmyun felt light, comfortable. At ease. "You–" Sehun points an accusing finger at him, then drops it a few seconds after. His lips hang parted, the sound of his shallow breathing spilling from his lips. The corners of his mouth are turned up, though. Half of Joonmyun wants to reach out, tiptoe, press his palms to Sehun's cheeks just to tick him off (or be allowed to drink an extra cup of coffee this morning), but half of him just wants to stay in this moment forever, where nothing but the warmth of Sehun's smile and the sound of his bright yet hiccuped chuckles matter. "You are crazy. Crazy! I don't even know why I put up with you!" "I don't why I put up with you," Joonmyun counters. He races Sehun to the kitchen, claiming ownership cooking duties for the morning even before Sehun can retort. "Please, just this once. Allow me to do something for you." Sehun purses his lips. This is his 'you don't have to, hyung, and I swear I'd have already kicked your ass already for being too nice if you hadn't saved my life before' look. The last time he wore it was two weeks ago, when Joonmyun requested that Sehun go somewhere far away to rest, recharge, see new things and explore new places. To date, it has never seen any success against Joonmyun. Still, he fashions it for the next ten, fifteen minutes, up until Joonmyun tells him to reheat the coffee, please fix the table already. "I made the stew extra spicy. You like it that way, right?" "You remembered?" Sehun asks. He cocks an eyebrow at Joonmyun, then drops his gaze to the boiling red stew Joonmyun sets down in front of him. The heat reaches Joonmyun's eyes, makes them water for a while until he's wiping them with the back of his balled fists. "Wow, that looks hella spicy." "The kimchi juice is from the first batch of spring kimchi that you made. The best of the bunch," Joonmyun comments. He fixes the food containers on the table, arranges them in the order that he knows Sehun gets his food – sundubu to his right, a couple of seasoned green leaves to his left. An entire platter with strips of grilled meat that they can share between them because Sehun doesn't eat that much in the morning. Meat for lunch is an entirely different story, though. "How long did you leave that to ferment again? A quarter–" "I missed hearing you talk like this, hyung," Sehun comments through a mouthful of kimchi. He swallows hard around the food he'd just taken in, then licks his lips before continuing, "You sound so... relaxed. Like you're not thinking about too many things for the first time in so long." Funny you should say that, Joonmyun wants to answer. Exactly five years ago from this day, he'd walked into an operating room knowing that the outcome of the first time he'd operated on the man on the table? It would be different from the result of the operation that day. The complete opposite. He'd already accepted it even before he pushed the doors open with his forearms, but until this very day the memory of the operation – or what would have been an operation if he just did something – still haunts him. It follows him around, sticks to him like a leech and sucks all the energy from his body. He's just become better at hiding it, but that doesn't mean he thinks about that event any less. Five years. Five years is a long time. It still feels like yesterday, though, that he'd felt the faint pulse against his skin dissipate, that he'd seen the man on the table turn translucent from the knees up until the only thing Joonmyun could see was his face, his pretty lips, his long eyelashes. But it's been five long years and too many sleepless nights since that happened; the least he should be doing is pushing that memory to the very back of his mind. The most, taking tiny steps towards moving on. Joonmyun lets out a long and loud exhale. He can feel the thundering pulse on the base of his throat. "It's just too early for me to use my scholar-level vocabulary," he argues, trying to summon a smile to his lips. He chuckles when he feels the pull at his cheeks. "So you're just lucky. Enjoy this while you still can." Sehun looks up from where he's been sipping the stew and laughs a little. "You bet, I will," he replies. The liquid bubbles on his lips for a moment. It's gross, Joonmyun thinks, but the the wicked grin that stretches across Sehun's lips is almost worth it. "And maybe I should make you cook breakfast more often, hyung. This is good." "Who said I was going to burn the mansion down again, hmm?" Sehun groans. "I was kidding." A tug on Joonmyun's sleeve, then, "Hyung, you have to make this again. It's been ages since we last had kimchi jjigae!" The first bus out of the city arrives at nine in the morning. It's only half past five. Sehun on his third round of the stew, but the bowl seems to never run out of soup. And the coffee's still hot, just the right temperature for Joonmyun to take a sip without any fear of getting scalded. So Joonmyun takes his time, listens to Sehun talk about his late night packing dilemma and having to go through all of his luggages for the trip at least thrice the night before. "I'm never going on a trip with you," Joonmyun mutters, frowning for effect, and Sehun only ever rolls his eyes at him in response before saying, "You know you can't live without me. You need me in your life." A half truth, Joonmyun wants to say. It's one thing to have a mansion that keeps giving without asking for anything in return, but it's another to have someone around, someone to talk to. A warm body to keep him company during cold winter nights and hold him close when the nightmares begin to get the better of him. The hours dissolve into minutes, and the next thing Joonmyun knows he's helping Sehun position his luggages near the front door. "Are you sure you'll be alright here all alone? I can– I can cancel the trip or something. Or maybe you can make an emergency booking?" Sehun asks for the third time in the past five minutes, drawling his syllables this time like it makes a difference. It doesn't. It does make Joonmyun's chest tighten, though, make his throat go dry and the pulse at the back of his elbows thump even harder. He can't hear anything beyond the loud beating in his chest, or the voices at the back of his mind, saying, You keep pushing people away, Joonmyun. Are you really doing this to him, your brother? Are you really making Sehun leave? So he takes a deep breath, tries to flush all the noise from his system, and focuses on nothing else but the sound of Sehun's voice. "Hyung, I told you, I don't need this vacation–" "You do," Joonmyun whispers. He reaches for Sehun's hands and gives them a tight squeeze. "You just don't know it yet, but you need this," he continues. He laughs, then, when he feels his lips tremble, when he feels a traitorous cold wrap around his throat to pull out all the words he's been pushing down to the pit of his stomach for the longest time for fear of letting them out in a clumsy enunciation. "I mean, maybe I'll be able to catch some sun now. Water the flowers at the back or... plant some new trees? I won't get bored." "That's the least of my worries, hyung," Sehun replies. He chuckles, then shakes his head, one corner of his lips pulling down to a tight frown. "But eh, you do what you want to do. Build a new garden in the backyard, or maybe even a forest. And if you ever get lazy, just turn on the sprinkler system." Joonmyun furrows his eyebrows. "We have that?" Sehun snorts. "Hyung, you're the one who built this place." He takes a deep breath, then lets out a long and breathy sigh. "How could you forget?" He hasn't forgotten. He still knows where he'd kept his old clothes from when he was in primary school. He still knows where he'd dumped the old exercise equipment he never got to raffling off or giving to charity. He still knows where his old research materials are for the first ever project he's worked on after being accepted into the institution as a neuroscientist-slash-jack-of-all-trades. And he remembers, more than anything else, the feeling of stepping inside this mansion for the very first time, his hand rested on the small of someone back, ushering his companion inside– He shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath. There are some things that he should have forgotten by now; it's just that they keep coming back to haunt him, plague him. It's like an itch that won't fade even long after he's washed himself clean or emptied out a bottle of alcohol onto his skin, only to end up feeling like he's burnt his own skin. It's stupid. His memory is impeccable; it's both a blessing and a curse. He says none of those though, instead answers, "Because you don't let me near the knobs, I guess?" He massages his nape, trying to ease the tension at the base. It's feels a bit too cold outside, what with the winds blowing against his face. He hasn't felt real breeze in a long, long time. "Because you keep telling me you're capable of doing everything, yourself, and I, being the wonderful person that I am, just let you do your thing?" "Yeah, yeah, keep praising yourself. You love yourself too much," Sehun groans. He picks up the last and the heaviest luggage from the other side of the door, then takes careful steps as he sets it at the foot of the stairs. One loud exhale, then he turns to look at Joonmyun with lips pressed together in a thin, thin line. "I guess this is it, huh?" Joonmyun gulps down hard, forcing the corners of his lips to pull when he finishes. He can feel the strain on his muscles, can taste the sick mix of blood and metal in his throat. He can hear the winds of spring howling, can feel them slapping him on the cheek and making his skin burn. And he can see the light trembling of Sehun's lips, the way the wind messes up his hair and paints his cheeks a warm glow. So this is how mothers who send off their kids to school feel when they have to let go, Joonmyun muses. There's a promise of coming home, yes, but in those few hours of being apart there's also the risk of getting into an adventure they'd never signed themselves up for. "This is it," he whispers in response. He smiles. "Go. You'll miss your bus to the drop-off point. You weren't serious when you said you wanted to walk all the way, were you?" Sehun laughs, bright and brazen, cutting through the whistling of the winds. "I would've if you just let me," he says, half grumbling, half chuckling, but for the most part he's just trying to keep himself together, trying not to cackle again. So Sehun takes a few steps back, wraps his arms around Joonmyun for one last time and whispers into Joonmyun's hair, "I'll be back, hyung. I promise, I'll come back." "You better," Joonmyun whispers. He pinches Sehun in his side, then offers him one last smile before pulling away. "I'll make sure to cook jjigae for you again when you come home." With one last wave over his shoulder, Sehun starts walking forward, dragging his luggages behind him. The sound of the wheels scraping the asphalt makes Joonmyun shiver; the heavy thumping at the back of his ears makes his knees shake. A few more seconds and Sehun's now out of sight, disappearing around the block and well out of Joonmyun's perimeter. Joonmyun shuts the door, then, pulling both handles in and listening for the gentle 'click' that the locks make when the doors align. "Have fun," he whispers to nothing, no one in particular. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. To himself, he says, don't do anything weird again. Don't you dare look back. ☂ When you live ten long years of your life without attempting to do chores other than making sure that your work desk isn't housing bugs yet, actually rolling up your sleeves to do housework becomes more of a chore than anything else. The first day Sehun was away, Joonmyun took twenty minutes – twenty whole minutes – to wash the dishes that only he had used, pots and pans included. Sweeping the floor on the first two levels of the mansion took fifteen minutes each, mostly because of the sheer size of the place than anything else. Sure, the mansion was built to clean itself, repair whatever is broken and polish it until it looks brand new again, but magic, even with the help of technology, can only do so much. There will always be that one spot that Joonmyun has to wipe, or a corner of a room, hidden from the public eye, that has accumulated more dust than necessary. There will always be a smidgen of dirt somewhere tainting the walls of the house that Joonmyun had built to be perfect. And there will always be traces of the past scribbled on every surface there is. "So how have you been living your life, Kim Joonmyun?" he asks himself when he looks up from where he's been washing his hands, rubbing the grime off his arms. His reflection on the mirror is laughing, the corners of his mouth tugged up, but his cheeks feel like they're being pulled all the way down. The tension makes him shiver, makes his stomach lurch. Years ago, he would've looked at himself in the mirror and said the same thing, except there would be some behind him, chin tucked on his shoulder. And he wouldn't even get the chance to look. He'd be busy trying to breathe through the tight press of his lips against someone else's, too busy trying to think where to put his hands – the man's waist, his face, his hair? Or would it be better if he stuck his hand down his pants– He blinks a few times, trying to refocus his vision. Things are different now. It's been too long to be holding onto images of the past. Now, years after that mishap in the operating room, he's alone in the bathroom without someone to steal all of his attention. His bangs are pulled back instead of just covering his eyes. And there are dark circles under his eyes that he's never taken notice of before. He runs his thumbs along them, then, wincing when some soap gets in his eyes. "You just love hurting yourself, don't you?" he grumbles. The sting makes his skin red, makes his eyes burn. He'll regret this later, when he shuffles back to his study to work on research materials and read another one of the books in his shelves that he has already read, but for now he'll content himself with this – water wrapping around his skin like a quilt, easing the pain of the burn, and reminding him that there are things that he can brush off and let time wash away. He just has to want it, want is so badly. He just has to try. ☂ His second day of solitude in the mansion sees him making progress in living alone and doing things for himself. He wakes up to soft sunlight, diffused by the blinds in his room, spilling on his skin. His back doesn't hurt as much as it normally does; maybe he'd slept flat on his back for hours instead of being curled up in one side, comforters bunching around him. Cooking has never been a problem for him, but he's never been able to work with the coffeemaker so somehow coaxing two good shots of espresso from it for his Americano is a pleasant surprise. Then, while setting the table, he discovers that he'd actually put back the utensils in the proper place last night, before going to bed. Sehun will be proud of him, even more so when Sehun learns that from yesterday up until this moment when Joonmyun rinses soap off of his dishes for the morning, he hasn't broken anything. Yet. "I'm not clumsy. It's just that my motor skills don't cooperate with me sometimes," he remembers arguing with Sehun before, when he'd somehow twisted his ankle going down the stairs. Sehun chucked a couple of ice cubes in his direction, but pressed an ice pack to the swollen area, anyway. Joonmyun tried to smile through the traitorous cold crawling up the back of his knees. "And the stairs were slippery. So don't blame me; blame the stairs." "Yeah, you're blaming your creation," Sehun had said then. He pressed down harder on the ice pack. Joonmyun grimaced in response. "Everybody does stupid things sometimes, hyung. No need to get so defensive about twisting your ankle–" But a moment of weakness is a lifetime of regret, he wanted to tell Sehun then. Wants to tell himself now as he grips his glass tight while he rubs the suds off the surface with his thumb. He doesn't break this one, either, but he might as well have with the way he's gripping it so tight that his skin squeaks against the surface. He loosens his grip a bit, then, and places it on the rack once he's done. Tells himself, it's just a glass. Don't take out your problems on it like you do with your research work– He looks up where he's just finished arranging the plates in a neat column and cranes his neck, trying to locate the source of the sound. He's pretty sure he'd heard the sound of bells earlier, but where? It's too bright a sound that not even the sound of rushing water drowned it out just a few seconds, too bright that it rings in Joonmyun's ears until now, seconds after the sound drops, cracks, then peaks again. "Can't be too far," he mumbles as he walks to the front door, pace quickening with every second. He can feel the burn in his thighs, in his calves from walking too fast. He's never had a reason to rush in a long, long time, after all; here, in the comforts of his mansion, everything adjusts to his whims, to his needs. But the ringing just won't stop. It's out of his control, and it grows louder with each forward step, with each forward movement he makes, thinning the distance between him and the source. The ringing comes to a halt. Surfaces for a few seconds, until it gains full volume again. Joonmyun presses his ear to the door, then, moving inch by inch to his side as he tries to move closer to the source, to pin down where that noise is coming from and make it stop– "Hmm, looks like no one's home," comes an unfamiliar voice. It sounds light and faint, almost like a whisper. There's a bit of melody to it, though, in the way the man's – that's a man, right? – voice lilts. It's almost as if he's singing. But then Joonmyun hasn't heard much human voices in a while. Not that he has to when he gets an earful of Sehun's own when Sehun talks his head off four hours, just telling him about what he'd seen in their backyard, I think we've grown garden gnomes there, hyung! "Strange. I'm right on schedule. It's... ten in the morning–" Joonmyun peeks from a corner of the window and blinks a few times, trying to get a glimpse of the man better. He catches sight of stripes of red and blue on the man's shirt. Khaki, as well, for the man's pants, tattered in some parts. Fashion, he remembers Sehun telling him one Sunday when Sehun sauntered around the house in torn jeans. He remembers grimacing at the sight, as well, and telling Sehun to 'wear something more house-appropriate', but the way the material hugs the man's legs is... different. Sort of like it makes his legs look longer and his shoes that have seen better days actually acceptable. Joonmyun gulps down hard. He's tempted to turn the knob, swing the door open to tell the man that, your shoelaces aren't done, sir. You'll want to tie them if you don't want to trip? But then he hasn't had human interaction in years. All the research work he's done for the institution? He sends those through mail. He needs to collaborate on some data analysis? He buzzes his fellow scientists on messenger and talks with them there. Somehow, he's never felt the need to pick up a phone and hear a voice other than that of Sehun's, or even seek a different brand of warmth for the past five years. There were times when he had to do video conferences with people, but given the chance he'd tap out at the first opportunity and seek Sehun out, ask how his day has been, have you done the dishes already? Sehun has always been just beside him, after all, just an arm's length away. And the last time he'd craved a touch much more personal than that of Sehun's warm hugs, he lost someone dear to him. He isn't ready to take another blow to his chest just yet. He probably never will be. "–some other day, then," comes the same voice, and then the man's walking away, his footsteps swallowed by the shrill ringing of the bell. Joonmyun pulls away, then, inches away from the sides of the window and moves to the other side, but he doesn't tear his eyes from the man's retreating figure just yet. Instead, he follows him until he disappears around the block, right of his mansion, stays just close enough to the glass to hear the last few beats of the bell before they fade into silence, to feel the heat of the sun prickling his skin. He takes a step back and presses his palm to his cheek. It burns. ☂ The thing with building a house as big as this, Joonmyun muses, is that you're bound to get lost in it at some point. There are too many doors, too many passageways to go through. Too many wicked turns of the corner that can and will inevitably lead you to the last place you'd like to be in. It's almost impossible to find your way back unless you've lived in the house your whole life, and even then there's always the chance of arriving at a different end point. "Screw magical mansions," he remembers a familiar voice saying one time. "I swear to God, if I could just walk faster then I'd be out of here in a blink of an eye–" Joonmyun stops in his tracks, eyes widening when he sees a huge brown wall pressed to his forehead. He takes a deep breath and looks at either side of him, then over his shoulder. His forehead feels numb, sort of, but the dull ache leaves just as soon as laughter begins to tickle his throat. This is stupid. He feels pretty stupid right now, almost running into a door in a house that he, himself, had built. Already the fifth day of being alone in the mansion and you'd think muscle memory has somehow reminded him of the places he has to go to, but no – he's old, worn down, tired. He has been for the past half a decade. He's only just started picking himself up again and trying to walk away from the past that has tied him down. He looks outside the window, craning his neck to see if there are people passing by the mansion. There's nothing but emptiness, though, nothing but the flowers lined along the front of his mansion breathing color into the place. A few tiny birds landing on the mailbox from time to time, as well, but for the most part there's nothing, no one else in the area. It's the kind of silence that makes Joonmyun shiver, makes him shake a little and wrap his arms around himself. He rubs his hands up and down his arms before before pressing his ear to the door right in front of him. With only ten minutes left until the clock strikes ten, he's supposed to be looking for the chimes Jongdae had sent over from Jeju as a present last Christmas. He'd seen one on the lifestyle channel last night, while he was trying to not let the silence get to him too much and too hard, and got the weirdest urge to hang one up near the door. All the doors they use here in the mansion on a daily basis, at least. "Sehun would like that," he remembers telling no one in particular, words tangled in the wind. Sehun won't have to get all jumpy when Joonmyun walks into any of the rooms he's in anymore, won't have to shoot him a stern glance and mumble, "Never do that again, hyung, or I'll kill you. I swear to God, I will." Joonmyun snorts. He swings the door forward, coughing as soon as he gets a whiff of– "Wow, I need to fix the auto-cleaning system," he mumbles. It smells like old rags and murky water in here, smells like the room hasn't been cleaned in years. Or even checked the slightest bit, because Joonmyun felt the resistance in the knob earlier when he'd turned it to undo the lock. It's dark all around and he runs his hands up the sides of the door, feeling for a switch, any switch at all, but to no avail – there doesn't even seem to be a light bulb in here, not a single window or a hint of an opening where light can come through. He walks even deeper into the room, taking slow and careful steps as he looks around. He can make out the figures of a counter nearby, a long table beside it and two stools pressed close to the surface. Somewhere to the right, there's a sink, and then clotheslines hanging from one side of the room to another. There are still these tiny pieces of paper hanging from them. More like boards with something drawn on one side, scribbles in black ink somewhere close to the bottom of each board and images up to. Joonmyun takes a deep, deep breath. Chokes on air, as well, as soon as he feels dust clogging his nose and stunning him, keeping him rooted in his spot, keeping him from running away. He can still remember the last time he was here, ten years and a couple of months ago – he was watching over someone's shoulder, mumbling through the press of the mask to his lips, "How can you stand this scent? It's awful. Makes me want to throw up." But the man pressed on, didn't even look at him, just kept pouring the liquid onto the rectangular tray before laying one of the papers on it. "This is only step one, isn't it?" "You can't stand the scent of a developer but you're okay with staying exposed to all sorts of chemicals all the time?" The man chuckled that time, bright and right. Joonmyun shivers now, ten years after, at the mere memory, at the mere thought of the man's smile, the feeling of his warm breath against his skin. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep as he hears a voice at the back of his mind say, "C'mon, hyung, just say it: you hate it when I've got my hands on something other than you." "That's the worst pick up line ever," Joonmyun whispers, the words tumbling from his lips like they've always been there, just waiting for a clumsy enunciation. He curls his fingers in when he feels a traitorous cold crawl up his arms, wrap out his elbows. Journey further north until it can choke Joonmyun by the throat and make breathing a chore. "The absolute worst–" He takes a step back, then another, and another, until he feels his back hit the door. Turns around and twists the knob, as well, swinging the door open at the first opportunity. Fresh air hits him, flushes inside his system like he's been deprived of it, and soon he's breathing out in dry heaves each three seconds apart. He still can't see clearly – his glasses must be... somewhere down there, knocked down to the floor when he'd rushed out of the room – but he can make out the familiar blotches of color now – the lighter brown of the other door, the greens and yellows on either side of him, reminiscent of how the corridors look. The flesh of his hands, and the bright white of his pants. “Still here,” he whispers to himself. He can still see all of his fingers, albeit blurred, against the material of his trousers, can still see the veins drawn along his skin. He can still feel the strong pulse in his palms, can still hear the loud thumping at the back of ears. The voice at the back of his head that can only belong to that one person other than Sehun who he’s let inside his room at two in the morning, all of his defenses down, his heart worn brightly on his sleeve. Three rings of the bell, then he bolts up from his position. He drops his gaze to his wrist watch and takes a deep breath. It’s only been ten minutes since he’d entered the room but already feels like he’s been stuck there for hours, for an entire lifetime. And he'd know how it feels to be stuck – he's been trapped in that state for the past ten years now, he might as well be floating in space and just existing instead of truly living. His body gives another jerk at the next ringing of the bells, three beats to the five counts of the heavy thumping in his chest. "Two more," he mutters as he moves closer to the door, steps drawn out, dragged one after another. Bells boy (still unnamed; he isn't wearing a name tag, after all, and Joonmyun's not the type to just give real people legitimate-sounding names on a whim) should be a few good meters away. Five, maybe six? He doesn't walk fast. Or he hasn't been walking that fast, at least, in the three days that Joonmyun has been spending his 10 a.m.'s just near the window, the tuft of his hair peeking from the base of the window sill as he tries to get a good look at the man who keeps passing by his house at a specific time. He'll crane his neck when he catches sight of the front of bells boy's cart, then try to get a glimpse of his face and what he's selling. It’s almost always milk, the bottles arranged in these neat lines. Sometimes, he sells some rice cakes and other snacks. Joonmyun will try to create a profile of bells boy in his mind as the man spends a good three minutes ringing the bell so close to the door. Routine – it's one of those things that puts Joonmyun's heart at ease. In those three days that he's been watching the bells boy, he's somehow carved a small space for that stranger in his strict schedule – ten in the morning without fail, always wearing a bright smile and not a hint of fatigue despite the heat of the sun outside. Another set of shrill beats. Joonmyun shivers and pulls away a little, just enough for the distance to soften the sound. Now here, from where he is, he can make out the details of the man's features better, just snapshots of who the man is – the shallow shadow on his cheeks when he smiles as he hums a song while going on his merry way, the way his dimples color his cheeks when he grins at nothing amusing in particular. Or maybe there is something interesting out there, close to where the flowers he'd planted years ago are supposed to be because bells boy keeps staying there for three minutes before leaving completely and stepping out of Joonmyun's line of sight. Maybe he's grown cacti there over the years and he just doesn't know it. Maybe there's an abandoned cat or dog at his doorstep; who knows? He hasn't been out of his house for years that he won't be surprised if the rest of the world has moved on without him. Joonmyun takes a leap of faith, then, eases the burn in his knees as he tries to stand upright and just peek from the frame of the window. He still won't get seen, after all; no harm done. But his body gets the better of him, makes his knees lock and makes him cringe in pain when he feels a sharp, cutting sensation in his joints. "Fucking old age," he groans, resting his forehead against the window. He seethes when he feels the force of the contact, stunning his vision for a moment. "Sehun's going to have a field day if he sees me like th–" "Oh, hello," comes a familiar voice from the other side of the window. It sounds a lot like a whisper, a distant cry. Like bells ringing in Joonmyun's ears in the morning and shaking the last few dregs of lethargy off his shoulders, or even soft humming that lingers in the air long after someone has turned around a corner. Three raps on the glass, then, "I... have the three bottles of milk that you always order? You probably want to get them now–" Joonmyun widens his eyes and pushes himself away from the window as soon as everything clicks. The tone, the lilt, that distinct humming between words, those cute little dimples coloring his cheeks and the gentle curls at the corners of his lips – they paint an image too clear in Joonmyun's mind and an image too real right in front of him. He's a good eight, nine inches away from the glass now and it's been close to a minute since he's pulled away from pressing his forehead to the window, but he can still feel the burn on his skin, the back of his eyes when he alternates between staring and blinking far too many times. Can still feel his knees shaking as the man on the other side of the window waves at him and offers him the brightest smile. He gulps hard. Tries to pull up at the corners of his mouth to offer a smile in return, but he can't even feel his cheeks right now. Can't even feel his fingers even when he keeps tightening the once loose fist he'd curled them in. Without the shadows of the brim of the man's sombrero covering his face, Joonmyun can see the man better. His eyebrows are arched a little. His head is tilted to the site, just a gentle nudge that exposes the curve of his neck. And his eyes are crinkled at the corners, brightening up the rest of his features and taking away the fatigue from the dark circles under his eyes. He has thin lips, Joonmyun notes. A small mouth that looks like it's been molded to wear a smile all the time. His face is the perfect size and shape for Joonmyun to cup with his hands and maybe pull him closer to examine the tiny details of his face and– The man disappears for a while, ducking, and the next thing Joonmyun knows the man is dangling two bottles of milk before him. "I have your milk! It's still... warm, though, so I guess it's alright?" A scratch of the nape and a sheepish smile, then, "Sorry for coming late!" Joonmyun blinks a few times, trying to make sense of things. He heard none of the words bells boy has just said, just caught hints of the muffled sound with the barrier between them keeping Joonmyun from hearing clearly, but he can still remember the movement of the man's mouth mouth, the subtle quirk of his lips set to the sound of every syllable that spilled from them just now. Bells boy enunciates his words well, takes time to pronounce every sound, and by the end of his statement Joonmyun has already listed down three possible things that might get Joonmyun in trouble if he doesn't step to the side and out of the man's line of sight: One, his lips have a life of their own, always pulling up then down then up again like he hasn't decided how to feel just yet. It's the same brand of uncertainty that leaves Joonmyun feeling so weak, exposed, vulnerable. And he's not sure how he feels about seeing that on someone else; Two, there's a light in his eyes that Joonmyun hasn't seen in ages. It's as if the man's absorbed too much sunlight and now he's set to explode, ready to wreck havoc upon people. If staring were a superpower well, then, this is it, Joonmyun thinks – he's a lost cause; and Three, it's six minutes past the hour. Bells boy is sort of late for his milk delivery appointment and Joonmyun's running on a schedule. The first item on his list right now is to inch further away from the glass, step back into the shadows, hide. So Joonmyun shakes head. He drops his gaze to the floor, his feet, his shaking knees, his hands that are clasped together so tightly that Joonmyun can feel the tension in his muscles at the back of his palms. He takes one step to the side, then another, and another, until all that he can see in front and around him is a his house, pastel yellow walls, the door to his right and the hall leading to his study to his left. He doesn't move even when he hears bells boy's voice again, even when the latter says, "Sir, I've got your milk– Or at least this order's supposed to be dropped off here but I'm pretty sure the guy who picks up the bottles is taller? Sir–" A heartbeat, a hitch of the breath, then, "He–hello?" "Nobody lives here!" he calls out, then thunks his forehead against the wall when he realizes what he's just done. But then it's a half truth – Joonmyun hasn't been living. He's been floating in space, passing time, just waiting for the house to crumble on him or eat him from the inside then out. He's a shell right now, hollow and without direction. He's right. So instead he just retreats even deeper into the hall, away from the light and the noise of bells boy knocking on the door once, twice, thrice. He shuts the door behind him and locks it, hoping that no distractions will come sauntering in. But the sound of bells still rings in his ears. ☂ The reality is that there are limits as to what the magical mansion can provide for him. He can ask for protection from all sorts of harm, manmade or otherwise, can ask to be recharged to full health so that he can face the new day feeling energized. Heck, he can even ask for the vegetables at the back to regrow as long as he leaves part of the stalk of the brocolli or some seeds from the fruits he loves eating in the ground. But that's the thing – there has to be a tiny kernel of that being still left for the mansion and the magic surrounding to breathe life into, a little something that magic can work on to prolong that piece of matter's existence. It can't just conjure something out of thin air. The mansion is no god, and neither is Joonmyun. Joonmyun laughs a little, but frowns soon after he sees the state of his fridge. He should have listed the items he's about to run out of. He was supposed to do that last night after dinner, eight in the evening, and right before settling in his study to do some reading and maybe a bit of writing. He has three journals due in two weeks, after all, and Lord knows it's never easy to do academic writing. But then he'd spent a minute too long in the morning thinking of what he should and shouldn't be doing, the many reasons why he hasn't gone out of the house in half a decade and why he actually should. And going off-tangent by just a minute ticks him off, screws up his schedule altogether, messes up with his mind. He shifts his gaze to his right, to the wall clock nearby. It's only eight in the morning. If he leaves now then he should be able to still catch bells boy at ten. Then maybe he can finally ask for his name five days into watching him from a corner of the window. Not that Joonmyun finds bells boy intriguing; it's just that he's the first human Joonmyun has ever had interaction with in a while. And that's only through a glass. What more if he actually twisted the knob and– The hands of the clock move. Joonmyun's breath hitches. It's five seconds past the time he's supposed to start preparing for his trip, five seconds off-tangent yet again. There are better things to do than to just stand and stare at his blurry reflection on the sink. He should be getting a move on. He never makes it past the rug just behind the front door, though. Instead, he takes the passageway at the back, heading to the gardens instead of actually exploring the world outside the perimeters of his property. The fruits are almost ripe and the vegetables are good for harvesting already. The cabbages look like they'd be great for kimchi, too. At an early age, his mother taught him how to pick good vegetables from the overly ripe ones, how to spot good fruits from a pile of ripe-looking ones by the texture of the fruit's skin and the scent that they give off. It's a skill that he's developed through the years and was forced to put into good use when he started living alone. He was only twenty-three then, on his final year of med school, studying the science practicing it on the side. He was concocting all sorts of weird food for himself while thinking of the next antidote to put together for a recently discovered sickness. He was testing things on himself, studying how his body would react to whatever he felt was good to try out on himself at that time. It sounds silly now, almost juvenile and pathetic, but that did the job, didn't it? It earned him his degree and all the distinctions that came with it. It earned him the respect of so many people in both the academe and the industry that he didn't even know was possible. All the experimentation and exploration paid off. Two years into his medical residency, he'd earn the nickname 'Miracle Maker' after successfully concocting and administering a drug to a veteran, a solider from the war, and be able to prolong his life for ten more years. At the age of twenty-seven, one of his mentors would approach him and tell him that if he ever needed help on reviewing for the licensure exam, if he needed anything at all, then, 'I'm your man.' It was tempting, but he knew he still had a lot of things to learn. There were so many advancements in medicine, after all, that all the information he knew one day might as well be proven fallible only twenty-four hours after. He'd stop practicing for two years to render military service, but return much more equipped with experience and knowledge on medical practice in the military. Two years after, he'd take the exam and earn his license once and for all. The year after that, he'd be taken in by an institute focusing on special cases in neuroscience – treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder victims through chemicals found in the human body, and possibly extending life. Then, at the turn of the year, on New Year's eve, he'd be called to work to try to operate on a peculiar man, almost the same age as he was, who'd survived a car crash but didn't quite survive it in one piece. Or maybe he did. It's just that the doctors couldn't find the man's feet, one of his fingers, a patch of skin on his face, because parts of him had gone translucent. Joonmyun cracks his neck now, trying to refocus. The memories have been coming more often to him recently. Not that they've ever left; he was just better at distracting himself before, with Sehun around to talk his head off on the off chance that Joonmyun didn't have journals to work on. He snorts. Maybe he should contact the institution, ask for more work so he can get paid a bigger sum. They don't seem to have any qualms with paying him thrice as much as they'd pay a regular neuroscientist, after all. Satisfied with his harvest for the day, he takes the basket to the kitchen and washes the fruits and vegetables. Five minutes 'til nine in the morning – he's right on schedule. Brewed coffee takes a good five minutes to make, but if he's in the mood for an espresso then he only has to wait for thirty seconds to pull the perfect shot. Then all he has to do is to reheat his leftovers from last night and he's all set. He takes a deep breath, then lets out a long and loud exhale as he washes the leaves of the cabbage. Seven years ago, the food he kept in the fridge would multiply in three, four hours. He just had to wish hard enough for it to happen. He never had to go out to buy food, never had to leave his home unless he had to go to try to treat another trauma patient in the institution. His work was also at home, lounging on his bed in a deep, deep slumber until nine in the morning. A smidgen of drool flaunted on a corner of mouth as he looked up at Joonmyun and said, "'s it time for m' meds yet?" "Nope," Joonmyun would say, voice cracking when it peaks. He'd laugh at himself, sigh when Baekhyun looked up at him with the softest, most adoring gaze. And then he'd let himself be pulled back to bed, too many meters away from other work he's supposed to be doing, but ultimately closer to home. "Okay, Baekhyunnie, time to get up–" "I'm up, I'm up," Baekhyun would reply, then press butterfly kisses along the underside of Joonmyun's jaw. Then he'd roll his hips, rubbing against Joonmyun and grinning in accord. "I didn't mean that–" The next thing he knew, Baekhyun was wrapping his arms around Joonmyun's waist and pulling him close until he could bury his face in Joonmyun's chest. He stayed silent there for a few seconds, just blowing hot puffs of breath on Joonmyun's skin through his threadbare shirt instead of blowing something else, just drumming a beat with his cool fingers where he had them pressed to Joonmyun's side. A hitch of the breath, then he looked up and pressed a kiss to Joonmyun's chin before whispering, "Sorry. I know coffee's waiting downstairs but I'm losing my right leg–" "And I'll save you," Joonmyun said, leaning close to interrupt Baekhyun with a kiss. Baekhyun let out a faint mewl, the corners of his mouth curling up as Joonmyun nibbled on his bottom lip. "I promised I would, remember? And–" "Kim Joonmyun never breaks his promises," Baekhyun finished. He chuckled, breathed out loud and slow, hot air slithering through the narrow parting of his lips. "Sorry. I– I shouldn't have asked. Should've had more faith in you. You've... never let me down, after all." Sometimes things unfolded differently – it would be Baekhyun pulling Joonmyun out of bed because, "Hyung, I just made the yummiest – I swear to God it's the yummiest, I'm sure you'll agree – kimchi jjigae in the world, and I just know you'll love it so c'mon!" Sometimes they'd just lie in bed until eleven in the morning, until Baekhyun felt hungry enough that he couldn't ignore his stomach anymore. And sometimes Joonmyun would wake up as early as four in the morning, two hours ahead of schedule, and just watch Baekhyun breathe. He puts the pressure of the water on high now and relishes the surge of cold up his arms. "Wake up," he tells himself, voice almost dropping to a whisper. He can feel the vibrations of his voice on the base of his throat, though, a lingering tremble that makes him shiver all over. Five years after and it still isn't any easier recalling things of the past. You'd think that time will be able to lift pain, make it dissipate, with relative ease, but no – there are just some wounds that stay with us forever. And Baekhyun is the biggest, deepest scar Joonmyun has scrawled all over his body. He catches the sound of bells ringing in the background. He furrows his eyebrows. His ears twitch, just a light jerk that makes him take a deep breath and shiver. It's too early for his daily dose of milk, or for these thoughts to come rushing to mind, the back of his elbows, his knees. It's too early to be thinking of anything, at all, but cleaning napa cabbages and beginning his spring kimchi preparations. He won't be having kimchi for the next six, seven days. He deserves it – he was too laid-back, irresponsible. He's grown so accustomed to having Sehun around that even the simplest of things – making sure to turn off the sprinkler system after twenty minutes of usage, removing the plug of the microwave before going up to his room or even when he decides to himself up in his study. Little things, all of them piling on top of each other until they obscure close in on Joonmyun and drown out all the light coming from outside. Trapping him where he’s been all his life without realizing that he’s the one who’s gotten himself stuck all this time. But– Another ring of the bell, now accompanied by a knock on the door. "In case you've forgotten, you've already paid for these so–" comes the voice, faint but so distinct that it rings loud and clear in Joonmyun's ears. So he moves closer, gives in, takes big steps until he's just a foot away from the door. "–and you said before that you can't live a day without milk and I'm telling you, going cold turkey is not healthy–" "I–I'm lactose-intolerant," Joonmyun answers. Confesses. He slaps himself in the forehead and mutters, that probably wasn't the best thing to say in reply, especially since this is the first time he's speaking to bells boy. He shouldn't be laying down all his cards just yet. He clenches his fists until he feels his nails digging into his skin. Look, hyung, I know leaving marks on my skin is your thing but your nails are too long– "I mean, the man who buys from you isn't lactose-intolerant but he's not here right now so it won't make sense for me to–" Bells boy hums. Chuckles, as well, then drums his fingers on the door. That's what it sounds, at least, a weird kind of melody that sounds a lot like the opening beats of a song, something Joonmyun has heard on the radio too many years ago. Or maybe just a few days ago – Sehun makes him listen to all sorts of things from time to time, on the off chance that he can afford to take a break from research work. The melody bells boy makes is easy on the ears, rhythmic enough that Joonmyun begins to sway his head from side to side just a little five beats in. "Well, I figured you were too small to be him," bells boy says after a while, fingers slowing down in their tapping. He picks up where he's left off in his self-composed music, then adds, "He looked taller, long legs and all. And he was in a suit." Sehun's almost always in a suit during 'office hours'. At 7:01 p.m., right on the dot, he'd excuse himself from whatever he was doing to slip into more comfortable clothes, and in the same manner he'd already be in a suit as early as five in the morning. It helps him 'get into character', Joonmyun remembers Sehun saying one time. He'd thought it was ridiculous, at first. They were the only ones in the house, after all; there wasn't any reason for them to dress up and make themselves look presentable. And people from the institution never came over to his place without prior notice. So he tried to coax Sehun out of the suit the first few days, weeks, months, until he discovered that Sehun enjoyed sewing his own clothes. It was one of the few things that he did back when he still lived outside, in the normal human world where worn-out shoes won't ever get repaired in a blink of an eye, that he was still able to do behind the closed doors of the mansion. So Joonmyun let him be. Grew accustomed to seeing Sehun in a suit and called Sehun out on growing taller because, "Have those pants always looked too... short on you?" Sehun narrowed his eyes then and checked the label of his pants. "Pretty sure I'm not wearing your pants, hyung," he'd said before getting the message, eyes widening in accord. "Oh, I thought you're taking a dig at me again." Half of him was, yes; the other half was wondering how it was possible for Sehun to grow so fast in a house where time slowed down. How Sehun could still keep up with the world outside and how Joonmyun was still stuck in that one moment, five years ago. Three knocks on the door and Joonmyun's back, body jerking in response. He slaps his face, pinches himself in his side. Seethes when he feels the sting of his nails digging into his skin. He should get to clipping his nails sometime. Later, when bells boy finally goes away. So he takes a deep breath, running through his lines in his head – yes, Sehun's the suit guy and he's the one who loves milk. I'm lactose-intolerant. Go away. But somehow, the words get pushed down his throat, shoved all the way to the pit of his stomach when bells boy says, "You'd look good in a suit." Joonmyun furrows his eyebrows. He risks a glance at bells boy, peeking from the side of the window without making a sound, but– "Whoa." Bells boy is standing right in front of him a foot and a half away, the only thing that's keeping them apart being the glass window, the thickening air between them, Joonmyun's reluctance as he leans back, away from the window. "How– Are you stepping on my plants?" Bells boy presses his lips in a thin, thin line, eyes going wide as he meets Joonmyun's gaze. He's not wearing his sombrero today. Or maybe not right now, because his hair looks like it's been pressed down and his bangs stick to his forehead. The stray strands at the sides cling to his cheeks, along with the silly smile that stretches his mouth open. And then there it is, the shy dimples on his cheek, tracing deep grooves on his skin and making his smile shine brighter than before. Softening the hard angles of his jaw and lifting the fatigue from his eyes. Joonmyun gulps hard. His stomach jumps, hobbles, if that's even possible. Lurches like he's eaten one of those scrambled eggs that Sehun makes on a bad, bad day. He inches away. "I can't store these bottles forever!" bells boy calls out, waving the bottles in front of Joonmyun like he means to entire Joonmyun with them. It's useless. But then Joonmyun can't look away, not when bells boy hasn't stopped smiling at him and is still waving those bottles like flags – white flags that he means to hand over to Joonmyun so Joonmyun can finally surrender and take one, two, three steps forward. Joonmyun shakes his head. Bells boy's shoulders do these cute little jumps that make it look as if he's hiccupping, but that's not what a hiccup looks like, Joonmyun muses. He's studied human actions for years that he knows, he just knows, that this is laughter making its was up from the tips of bells boy's toes to his chest. It's there, in the subtle trembling of his lips and the way his eyes almost, almost, almost turn into slits. "But your friend says milk never goes rotten in your fridge so I really, really need you to take these. Besides, they've already been paid for." Sehun won't be home again for the next three weeks. Maybe he can just wear bells boy out, make him rap on the door and ring that stupid bell sometime between quarter 'til ten and ten in the morning. The sound isn't so annoying, anyway. But bells boy has been trying to hand him those bottles for the fifth day in a row now. If he ever planned on giving up then he wouldn't pass by Joonmyun's house anymore. And if Joonmyun had the heart – really had the heart – to drive bells boy away, then he would have said 'no' a long time ago. 'I'm lactose-intolerant' is such a lame excuse for keeping bells boy at an arm's length but not quite pulling away. "Just... leave them at the doorstep," Joonmyun calls out. Bells boy lifts his eyebrows and grins wider, if that's even possible. It reaches his eyes this time, makes the corners crinkle and makes him look like a kid on Christmas morning. Joonmyun hasn't experienced a real Christmas for the past five years. It's only spring. But it feels much colder, what with the traitorous sensation crawling up his fingers and making his hands shake. So he digs his hands in his pockets and says again, this time more slowly, "Just leave them at the doorstep and I'll get them later–" "How will I know that you won't just throw them away?" Joonmyun blinks a few times. "What?" "I said–" Bells boys pauses, licking his bottom lip before nibbling on it for a while. "–how will I know that you won't throw them away? Or just leave them there outside, even, to rot? C'mon, it's just milk." Bells boy chuckles. "It's not like I'm selling you drugs or my soul or something." "I don't... do soul trades," Joonmyun mutters. Shakes his head soon after because, really, Joonmyun, he didn't have to know that. Now you sound like some weirdo who's trying to deny buying and selling souls in milk bottles. "I won't throw your milk away. Just leave them there." "Take them." He furrows his eyebrows and squints. He takes a deep breath, then says– Five years ago, if a little girl passed by his home and tried to sell him cookies, he'd twist the door knob without a second thought and swing the door open. Maybe take small piece or two just to humor the little girl because what was there to lose? Three, four minutes of his time, maybe even five? Some of the feeling in his tongue because he never did fancy sweet food? Those were small things compared to the big smile the little girl was offering him. She looked hopeful. And he didn't have anything to do that time. He always had his entire day mapped out, anyway, and he knew for a fact that he had a couple more minutes to spare, take a few won bills from his wallet, hand it over to the kid and walk away feeling ten times better than when he'd opened the door. And Baekhyun was still asleep, wouldn't be awake for another hour. Baekhyun would probably love to wake up to the scent of cookies and coffee filling his senses. So it was a good idea. He had very little to lose. The thing is, this isn't five years ago. He's much older now, supposedly wiser and certainly more jaded. Bells boy isn't a little girl selling cookies. But the milk he's selling probably goes well with the cookies Sehun kept in the jar on the counter. So he presses his lips together, clenches his fists and digs his nails into his skin at the same time that he mutters, "Hand them over through the small door." Bells boy chuckles. He takes a deep breath, shoulders lifting, then lets out a long exhale. "Good enough," he says, then steps to his side, inching closer to the door. "Okay, I'm ready!" Joonmyun cracks his knuckles, then sinks to his knees just in front of the door. He undoes the lock, albeit a bit broken, on the small door, the one he built for the dog he got Baekhyun for Christmas. Kai, that was the puppy's name. He was the most wonderful dog in the world. And Joonmyun never really bothered to expand his world beyond the confines of his mansion. "Ready," he says at the top of his lungs, hoping bells boy would hear it. He knocks on the door, just in case, teases it open until he hears the sound of glass bumping against each other. "Are you alright–" "Hello," comes a familiar voice. Joonmyun gulps hard. "Hmm, the white shirt looks pretty good on you, though–" I just came here for the milk, Joonmyun wants to say, but all the words he's strung together leave him, plummet to the ground and scurry away as soon as bells boy's features come into focus. From where Joonmyun is, just six, seven inches away, bells boy looks much younger, brighter, more alive. There are no dark circles under his eyes – Joonmyun's just grown accustomed to the shadows cast by bells boy's sobrero on his cheeks. The dimples are real. There's a constellation of red dots on his skin, possibly from being exposed to the sun for too long a time. His lips are so chapped. And he's inching even closer, like the thick barrier between them isn't enough to make him stay away. "Don't move," Joonmyun says, quick and sharp, and points a finger in bells boy's direction. "Hand over the bottles, now." Bells boy laughs a little. "Relax, I'm not holding them hostage or anything," he says, voice lilting, then pulls away. Soon, he surfaces with three bottles and slips them in the door one by one, careful in the way he checks and double-checks if the bottles are indeed standing sturdy and secure on the floor. "Here's your milk. Have fun," he adds, then disappears for the briefest moment before resurfacing with three packs of small cookies. Joonmyun's hand hovers the door, prepared to swing it back in place, but then bells boy's wearing the softest smile. And he's reaching out for Joonmyun's wrist with free hand, placing the packs of cookies in Joonmyun's hand until Joonmyun feels the strongest, most powerful jolt of electricity course through his body and pull them apart. "Ow." "Sorry, I–" Joonmyun drops his gaze to where bells boy had his fingers wound around his wrist, then meets bells boy's gaze. "Thanks for the cookies. And the milk. And sorry, I–" The next thing he knows, muscle memory's taking over his system and coaxing him to swing the small door forward, shut it tight before he can even think of saying 'sorry' – for the spark, the nasty bump bells boy probably has on his nose right now, for being rude, Joonmyun can't tell yet. All he knows is that his knees feel too weak for him to try to push himself up, back to his feet, that the skin on his wrist feels too hot and too sore. That bells boy hasn't left yet because he can still hear him breathing, loud and heavy, on the other side of the door. And that every part of his that bells boy has touched – the tips of his fingers, his wrists, his face from when bells boy had stared at him for the longest time – burns. ☂ Two confessions and a truth: Joonmyun isn't lactose-intolerant. He just hasn't taken coffee with milk in a long, long while. Also, he used to enjoy warm milk in the evening as a kid. With a dash of sugar, to taste. Joonmyun folds his left leg under his weight and sinks back in his seat. Takes a small sip of his milk, too, and seethes when the liquid scalds his tongue. Even when he was younger, he'd make the same mistake whenever it was him making his milk after reading books for school for hours on end. He'd either drift off for the quickest second while heating the liquid, or he'd be too paranoid that the milk was too hot already that he'd turn off the stove too quickly. He never got it right. Only when his mother was around to guide him was he able to reach the right temperature. Only when she was around to tell him that, "The technique, Joonmyunnie, is to wait for the first boil. Watch it closely, count a minute from there, then turn the flame down." "Won't it get cold quickly, umma?" he'd ask, ever the non-believer. His mother would laugh, ruffle his hair, and press a soft kiss to his forehead. And that would always make him take a step back, look at his mother for a few good seconds before turning his attention to the liquid. "Oh, there you go! That's the–" "Not yet. Patience," she'd tell him. Then she'd snake an arm around his shoulder to pull him close and hum a song under her breath, against the press of her lips to Joonmyun's temples. And Joonmyun would always feel the slow-forming smile on his mother's lips where she had it pressed against his skin, like she knew that the only way to make Joonmyun listen, really listen, was by calming his mind down through a song. "Okay. Now it's boiling." "I'll count down to the next minute, then?" he'd asked his mother that time. She nodded, laughed, then pressed another kiss to his cheek, this time wet and sloppy. He grimaced in mock disgust, but the very next second he was hugging her close. "Ah, umma!" Joonmyun laughs to himself. He might as well have been alone since his mother died, just two years after she watched him graduate from med school. Meeting Baekhyun was like getting a second chance at life, yes, but he's never felt the same sense of security with anyone else. His mother was a pillar of strength, of certainty, of all things that he has memorized like the back of his hand; Baekhyun is all about adventures and risks and taking a big leap of faith. Baekhyun was a breath of fresh air turned grossly intoxicating. And Joonmyun has never quite gotten back on his feet ever since. He makes some space on the desk for his mug and sets it down on the table. Picks up one of the bundles, as well, and leans back in his seat as he goes through the introduction line by line. He's read this at least five times already, but he can't be too sure – there might be something there that he's missed before, something that he overlooked while trying to fight the allure of sleep. He looks over his shoulder, gaze shifting to the clock on the wall. Ten in the evening, it reads. Still too early to call it a night, but too late for a man his age to just get started on whatever work he has to do. And it's been twelve hours since he talked to bells boy, twelve long hours since he'd opened the small door and let bells boy place the bottles of milk on the other side of the door. He can still feel the burn on his wrist, though, where bells boy had gripped him tight. It's almost as if someone had tied a thick rope on it and tugged so hard that his hand could've fallen off if he hadn’t been lucky. Part of him feels... weird, like something has been snatched from him without any promise of getting it back, but part of him feels oddly light. Almost as if something has been lifted off his chest, as if that thing lodged in his throat has dropped to the pit of his stomach once and for all, ready to be flushed out of his system. It feels a bit strange to have been able to talk to a human being other than Sehun after a long period of silence, but for the most part it feels comforting, knowing that he still has the necessary skills to deal with people. He snorts at himself. When he was still practicing his profession on the regular, he spent most of his days attending to all sorts of patients will all sorts of attitude problems – the angry, the ones in despair, the skeptics and the non-believers. Those who put doctors on a pedestal and considered them gods because of their ability to save lives. Nothing a bit of science and technology can't solve, really, but there's no denying that he used to be the de facto doctor for ‘the difficult patients’. And there’s also no denying that being perceived by people as a savior makes Joonmyun feel a lot like a hero. Like he's too rock and roll for danger that he can just brush it off and say, "Ah, a gun shot to the chest? I can take out the bullet; easy as pie." And then there's the Kim Joonmyun who has had very little practice in talking with people in real life, has had laughable practice conversing with them only through a tap on the door or a rap on the wall and not through words in the past few years. The Kim Joonmyun who now struggles with reaching out to the other side to touch instead of to push away when it used to come to him so easily, like breathing. "Progress is progress," he tells himself, examining the fingers on his left hand one by one. Bells boy touched the sides of his hands, then traced a few steps of his fingers on his skin, from the base of his hand to the mole he has on the underside of his arm. It doesn't burn as much as before, but there's still a dull ache prickling his skin enough to take away pain from the scald in his tongue. He drops his hand to his thigh and shakes his head. Human touch feels electric sometimes. He's felt that even with Sehun. So bells boy isn't different, he muses as he thumbs through the pages with feigned interest. Maybe he should get to doing one of those dick doodles Baekhyun used to draw on his readings for sheer amusement. Or maybe he should start focusing on what he should be doing right now – give his full attention to the work at hand and nothing else – and not on what he could have done earlier, twelve hours ago, with just six short inches between him and bells boy. He scoffs and shakes his head. Refocuses his vision on the material until the words jump out at him. Bells boy is just an ordinary guy. ☂ An ordinary guy who turns out to be persistent, Joonmyun soon finds out when he wakes up a bit too late and to the sound of bells. The sun is already up high, too hot when it prickles his skin and makes him shiver. The vast white of the sheets bunching up around his ankles is beginning to be more of an eyesore with the way light bounces off of it instead of a white flag luring him back into slumber. And that damned ringing just won't stop. It takes a few second for thing to click, and then his body's giving a tiny jerk in recognition. His first reaction is to bolt from his bed, feel around for his glasses, slip them on; his second, to panic a little because he slept in until ten in the morning? What the fuck– He furrows his eyebrows as he turns to check the wall clock. It's just eight in the morning, though. He's just right on time. So he pushes himself off his bed, then peeks through the window of his room to check if someone's really at the door and he's not just imagining things. He pries his eyes wide open as soon as he sees a familiar tuft of hair. Curls his fingers in a tight fist around the curtains, as well, and reminds himself yet again to please clip your nails, Joonmyun. Later at two in the afternoon, once he's done washing the dishes and has a good hour or so to waste or maybe dedicate to more reading. But that's for later – right now, it's only eight in the morning, and if bells boy had any respect for Joonmyun's schedule then maybe he wouldn't even attempt to ring those stupid bells at ass o' clock in the morning. Three more rings, then the knocking on the door softens. From where Joonmyun is, he sees bells boy's shoulders fall, a gradual drop as he lets out a long exhale and juts out his bottom lip. "Why do you have a thing for annoying people?" Joonmyun asks himself as he wraps the ribbons of his robe around his waist and makes his way down the stairs. He quickens his pace, nonetheless, tries to keep up with his feet and the voices at the back of his mind screaming at him. Later, he can blame lack of coffee for his serious lack of judgment, but right now he cares about only one thing – making the ringing stop and getting some peace and– Joonmyun wraps his fingers on the knob and gives it a slick twist, then he's pulling it close to his chest until he sees sunlight filter through the narrow gap. He yanks a bit too hard, almost hitting himself, but that's alright. The ringing has finally stopped and he's a bit more awake now, with the light from the sun burning a patch of his skin as opens the door even more. "What do you want this time?" Bells boy hums. He chuckles, too, and cranes his neck, peeking from the tiny gap where Joonmyun's poking his head out just a little. And that's when it hits Joonmyun – the heat from the sun hitting his face in all its glory, the cool spring winds outside blowing against his face. His nose going too red as he adjusts to the push and pull of warm and cold. The short distance between them that isn't even more than six inches, thinning even more with each passing second that bells boy leans closer. The loud thumping in his chest that isn't from all those, but because of the silly grin on bells boy's lips as he says, "And good morning to you, too. Did you like the cookies from yesterday?" "That's it?" Joonmyun asks. Means to say, you came to my house two hours ahead of schedule and woke me up in the most disruptive way possible just to ask if the cookies were good? Bells boy is weird, silly, hilarious. He's kidding, isn't he? But the smile on his lips remains, keeps his mouth stretched open into the most blinding smile he's seen in years. And that's saying a lot, because Sehun has always been generous with smiles. "You mean to say to you came here at eight in the morning just to–" "To deliver the new batch of milk, actually. Though the cookie question kind of comes with it," bells boy replies, curt and honest. He scratches his nape, then scores a long red line along the slope of his neck with a nail. It doesn't look as nasty as the bruises Joonmyun leaves on his own skin when he's fumbling with his fingers and leaving tiny crescents on his palm whenever he clenches his fists, but it does breathe some color into bells boy. Makes him widen his eyes and blink a few times like he's trying to shake off the lethargy still wrapped around his body so he can do his work before anything else. "And sorry about the bells. I didn't know any other way to get your attention," bells boy continues after a while. "You could have knocked on the door." Waited for your turn, stuck to the schedule, part of Joonmyun wants to say, but he knows better than to be rude to new people in his life. His mother wouldn't be happy if she ever saw him like this, brushing people off at eight in the morning, and ruining his entire day in the process. "Or left and then went back at 10 a.m.. Isn't that your–" Joonmyun yawns, then presses the back of his hand to his mouth as soon as he sees bells boy's eyebrows lift. "–schedule or something?" The corners of bells boy's lips curl up, tugs as his cheeks and crawls all the way to the corners of his eyes to make them crinkle. There it is again, the gentle dimples on his cheeks and that light laughter bubbling on the jut of his mouth. Wow, Joonmyun thinks – he's never seen anyone respond to the smallest of actions, gestures, cues as fast as bells boy does. In all the years he's spent practicing his profession, not once has he met a person who can shift from one expression to another in a blink of an eye, like he's been programmed to change emotions faster than he can change his underwear. A blink of an eye and wow, there's another one – a subtle squint, like bells boy has seen something peculiar just over Joonmyun's shoulder. So Joonmyun slides closer to the wall, wedges himself there so that bells boy won't be able to see anything beyond the thinning distance between them. "You... really don't sell souls, do you?" bells boy asks, laughing. He hums for a while and number three, Joonmyun notes – a sudden violent tug on one corner of bells boy's lips, a twist of the mouth, a sharp look in his eyes that betrays the soft laughter spilling from his lips. Too fast, too quick. Joonmyun just can't keep up. "Because I wouldn't know how to feel if you... recycled the glass bottles and stuffed the souls there–" "No," Joonmyun retorts, sharp and fast. He furrows his eyebrows. Takes a step back to match the one step bells boy takes forward. There are still six inches between them, and bells boy has just shifted to the first expression he was wearing earlier. Shit, Joonmyun thinks. He needs to learn more about that, how to train the body and the brain to develop a stimulus so hard to catch. Shit, Joonmyun groans at the back of his mind, gulping hard this time when he feels his stomach turn. He's in some serious trouble. "Cool," bells boy says, then locks his arms behind his back to stretch. "And I don't really follow a schedule. It's just that a trip by foot from the city center to your place always takes the same amount of time." "City center?" Joonmyun asks. When bells boy cocks an eyebrow at him, he shifts his gaze to bells boy's wrist watch. Ten minutes past the hour. He has a few more minutes to spare. "Isn't that... far from here?" The smile on bells boy's lips blooms into a grin, big and bright but soft at the corners. "Not too far. Depends on how fast you walk," he replies. He leans against the frame of the door, then says, "You don't go out much?" Joonmyun snorts. He hasn't gone out the front door, hasn't left the premises of his property in years. He hasn't even touched the knobs before Sehun left for his vacation; Sehun always carried around with him his keys, after all. He hasn't even thought of walking past the door. And it isn't normal. So bells boy doesn't need to know that, and Joonmyun doesn't really have to answer that question because who is this guy, anyway? He's just one of those people passing by, one of those people beyond this barrier living their life the way they want to. He doesn't owe bells boy anything. Joonmyun curls in his toes and gulps hard. Part of him wants to hear bells boy's voice more, though, wants to study the way bells boy shifts from one expression to another with relative ease. And really, he doesn't have anything better to do. He finished the journals before going to bed last night; the next most important thing on his list is to get a life. He licks his lips, then, worries his bottom lip before saying, "Not much. I... don't really see the need to." Bells boy laughs a little. He meets Joonmyun's gaze, tilting his head as he does so, and squints. It's as if he's looking for something – a mole, a scar, an imperfection? Answers scrawled on Joonmyun's skin, or hidden behind his eyes? But why? Joonmyun's hollow on the inside. He's just a shell. There's nothing to see past the exterior bells boy is seeing right now – Joonmyun's small frame, his hair almost reaching his collarbones, the cool smidgen of drool on a corner of his mouth. Still, bells boy keeps at it, holds Joonmyun's gaze but maintains the safe distance between them like he understands what it means. Joonmyun laughs to himself, at himself. He isn't even sure why he's staying away. "It's nice out there, though. Wonju-si hasn't... changed much, despite all the technology that's been developed to make people's lives easier," bells boy whispers. He hums again, the same tune he'd sung under his breath a few days ago. It's the same tune that's been plaguing Joonmyun during his quietest moments, in his bath, just before goes it bed. The same sound that makes him shiver all over now, when bells boy lets out a long, loud exhale. "It almost feels like it's the same old city, but better." Joonmyun snorts. "More mountains all around?" he asks, more as a joke than anything else, but bells boy furrows his eyebrows in question as soon as the last syllable spills from his lips. Only three seconds after does it sink in, and then bam, there it is again, the flash of expression on bells boy's features, the quick shift, the recalibration. It's as if he has an entire catalogue of expressions filed at the back of his mind, ready to be triggered by key words and events. Humans don't work that way, Joonmyun tells himself. But then some people in this world aren't completely human. He should know. Years ago, he met a guy whose body was half translucent and half going there. And five years ago, he lost the same man to the desire to find a cure to that disease. "I don't think you're new here, but just in case–" Bells boy coughs a little, leaning back as he cups his hand over his mouth. He wipes the sullied hand on the back of his pants, then crouches to reach for something from the ground. Joonmyun can't see much, not from where he is, but soon bells boy resurfaces with a bottle of milk and a pack of those stupid cookies again. "If you need someone to take you around, I'm your guy. I used to do it for my friends who spoke the language worse than I do." "Oh, you're..." Joonmyun tilts his head a little, shifting his gaze between the milk bottle and the dimple on bells boy's left cheek. It looks like a tiny crescent against his pale skin. Joonmyun sort of... wants to reach out to see the shadow really does look like a small moon, but– No, he tells himself, pushes down the many words at the back of his teeth, waiting for a window of opportunity, a moment of weakness. Instead, he digs his hands into his pants as he continues, "You're not Korean?" Bells boy laughs a little. "Take the milk bottle and I'll tell you more." "This isn't a game." "I know," bells boy says. "But you look like you could use some fun in your life." Joonmyun takes a deep breath. If he reaches out now to wrap his hands around the nozzle of the bottle, he'll get his answers. He'll spend more time than necessary out here, wedged between the door and the wall. But he'll get his answers. But then he'll be off-tangent, as well, by an hour and a half, maybe even two, or until bells boy decides he's already bored with Joonmyun and it's time to sell more of his milk and cookies. If he doesn't, bells boy will just try to find a way to make him give in, try to talk his head off again. Bells boy wins, and Joonmyun can only ever lose. He should have never opened the door, in the first place. "I could use some food in my life," Joonmyun answers. He tugs the bottle out of bells boy's grasp then says, dropping his gaze to the mouth of the bottle, "The cookies were good, by the way. You're... right – they go well with the milk." "But of course," bells boy says with a confidence Joonmyun has only ever seen in himself during risky operations. It makes him shiver, makes his knees go weak for a moment. Makes him a bit jealous, as well. The last time he'd looked himself in the mirror before an operation was four years ago. That was also the last time he went up to Seoul, the last time he'd been out of his house for more than five minutes and away from it for an entire day. He'd go home three days after with a kid in tow. And the kid would live in the house with him ever since. He spends another thirty minutes slumped against the wall, listening to bells boy explain the whole 'being a tour guide to his friends' stint he went through way, way back. His sides ache a little and the pulse in his temples aches from the lack of caffeine in his system and his stomach keeps lurching and it's too late to be having breakfast now, but a part of him doesn't mind – the milk is good, tastes fresh, makes him feel warm all over, and the cookies are delicious. And the lilts in bells boy's voice make him feel at ease with where he is, trapped between the inside and the out, toeing the line between two worlds that might not be so different, after all. ☂ "Zhang Yixing," bells boy tells him one time, during one of their early morning talks. This time, Joonmyun's sitting on the floor, back pressed to the wall, and bells boy is sitting on the topmost step of the stairs. There's a small bowl of cookies between them, then two glasses of milk on the floor. Sehun will probably kill him if he ever found out about this. "My name's Yixing. I can't believe you called me 'bells boy' in your mind for the longest time." "That's the best thing about you: the bells," Joonmyun reasons out, then shifts a little in his seat. It's been almost a week since Joonmyun opened the door and talked to Yixing face-to-face, a week since he's had to tweak his schedule a little to accommodate a new early morning commitment. And in the span of seven days, he's learned more about Wonju-si than tried to recall the many twists and turns in his mansion. Processing information isn't a chore for Joonmyun, not when he has to do it on a daily basis and even analyze those bits and pieces of data, but Yixing has a way of explaining things that he makes a history lesson sound so much like a casual conversation between friends. He sounds like a teacher slowly unfolding an entire chapter's worth of lessons in the form of storytelling, talking about the legend behind the Guryongsa Temple where nine dragons gathered in a pond during the Silla dynasty and built the temple that they're seeing now atop the pond. He sounds like an instructor talking about how the nine dragons can be like the seven dwarves and one of Korea's most precious temples assuming the 'role' of the love story between Snow White and her prince. And maybe Yixing is a teacher. He has that sort of tone to his voice, soft, gentle, honeyed, that he makes it easy for Joonmyun to stick around long enough to listen to an entire story about weird dragons and big straw mats like they're the most interesting thing in the world. "For the longest time, I thought people remembered me by the milk," Yixing says, letting out a loud exhale. When he turns to look at Joonmyun, he's frowning. "Should I change careers now? Start selling bells instead of milk?" Joonmyun laughs. Yixing has crumbs on the corners of his lips, then a small dot of chocolate on his cheek. Some of the crumbs have caught on his chin, as well, and– Joonmyun laughs even more. It's one of the first things he's picked up from the ninety minutes they spent together, talking at the front door – if there's one thing that Yixing is absolutely not good at, it's not being a messy eater. "It's worth considering," Joonmyun answers. He drinks the milk, the corners of his mouth tugging up in stimulus as soon as the the flavor of the milk tickles his taste buds. "Or you can try being everyone's alarm clock. I think it's a pretty lucrative job." Yixing shakes his head. "You'll pay me to do that?" Do I have to, Joonmyun wants to ask. He has an alarm in his room, set to six in the morning now instead of his usual eight in the morning. His body clock has somehow adjusted to that, his system booting just five minutes before he hears the first note of the shrill sound. And Sehun's absence has made it more difficult to sleep in and a bit easier to push himself to start his day early. There's no one to prepare breakfast for him, nobody else in the mansion to make sure that Joonmyun's on his feet at a certain time so he can stick to the schedule he has for the day. But then Yixing just had to ruin everything. Now, Joonmyun doesn't have coffee from eight 'til nine anymore, and he doesn't have his usual toast, egg, and jam combo in that hour-long breakfast time, either. Instead, he drinks milk from eight to ten in the morning, pops these mini cookies in his mouth as he listens to Yixing talk about all sorts of things. Yesterday's topic was waking up late, thirty minutes after his alarm, and almost knocking over the bottles in his cart even before he could leave his house. Yixing looked so distraught yesterday, eyes wide open but his attention elsewhere as he pushed the cart closer to the doorstep of Joonmyun's place, parking it just before he hit the flowers. "Sorry. Didn't mean to– I just–" "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?" Joonmyun asked then. Yixing let out a long exhale and rested his forehead against the wall. Murmured something unintelligible soon after that Joonmyun sort of understood as a 'yes'. Joonmyun swung the door fully open and leaned against the frame of the door, then gave the space beside him a few pats. He was drumming his fingers like he was so nervous Yixing would decline his invitation to come a bit closer. He wasn't. "Do you want... coffee or anything? Water? Toast? Eggs? Kimchi?" Yixing peeked at him through the slits of his bangs and offered him the softest, weakest smile. Three loud thumps – Joonmyun felt that in his chest, strong and wild. It was daunting. "Just stay," Yixing said after a while, then leaned his back against the wall. Soon, he was inching closer to Joonmyun but not quite, still keeping a good six inches between them. It was comfortable enough a distance that Joonmyun could feel the warmth of Yixing’s body even without them touching. A companionable distance, not the prickling kind of warmth. "I just have to... restart or something. Boot up. That kind of thing." "You're not a computer," Joonmyun replied, laughing a little. Yixing rolled his eyes, then fixed his gaze on Joonmyun again like Joonmyun was the only thing keeping him awake. "Hang on, I'll get you some water. Don't move." Today, it's Yixing running into this cute little girl in the city, giving her free cookies because, "She was so small, so tiny! I wanted to give her milk but I only carry about ten extras; the rest are regular orders and–" "Regular orders?" Joonmyun repeats, the last syllable rolling off his tongue more slowly that the rest. It sounds so rough, forced, like he isn't accustomed to speaking his own language. It feels a bit weird. He tilts his head to the side, then continues, "So you go around, servicing, what, thirty customers in the area?" He pauses for a moment to take a sip of the milk, but something catches in his throat and scores a sharp line there, leaving the taste of blood and metal in his mouth. He clears his throat. The fucking sensation is still there. "Visiting them in their houses everyday? Isn't that tiring?" Yixing hums. Furrows his eyebrows, as well, like he's never given it much thought or given it any thought at all. Maybe it's one of those things that you program into your system, a routine that you find yourself falling into and sustaining for days, weeks, months. The next thing you know, you're walking down the streets of Wonju-si like a robot, pushing your cart filled with milk bottles forward without any idea why you're even taking time to hand out milk to people like it's Christmas. Joonmyun gets that – both the comfort a routine brings and the hollow feeling it leaves in a cavity in your chest. "Tiring, yes, because it involves a lot of walking around," Yixing answers after a while. He reaches up his nape, massages the junction where the neck and the head meet, and tilts his back to press against the pressure of his thumbs all the more. Yixing's... saying something about the heat of the sun and the spring breeze and his greatest fear being the glass bottles breaking before they get to their owners, but Joonmyun can't make out the right words just yet. They all sound fuzzy with the spring winds howling in the background. On a normal day, he'd tell himself to focus, focus on just one thing, stop getting distracted so easily, Joonmyun, but it's almost impossible. It's a challenge, because Yixing is licking a stripe along his own lips and the corners of his mouth are curling up at the corners. And Joonmyun can't look away. He can't tear his gaze now, not when he's already guiding his gaze south, from Yixing's eyes to the gentle swell of his wet and parted lips, down to the column of his neck where beads of sweat trail down his skin. Joonmyun takes a deep, shaky breath. When he looks up, Yixing's looking at him with the most peculiar gaze, a question written on the slope of Yixing's neck when Yixing's tilts his head and reasons with him. "I mean, if there's something to look forward to every single time then it doesn't really feel like torture," Yixing explains, pausing to clear his throat again. He hasn't broken eye contact with Joonmyun just yet, though. He still hasn't backed down. "Besides, every single day is different. I learn new things about you everyday. There's always something to look forward to." There are only two things anyone should ever know about Joonmyun, though – one, that he loves his secrets and prefers to keep them that way; and two, that that truth, in itself, is a secret only two other people know. Joonmyun wonders if he should let Yixing in on the secret, but then where’s the fun in that? "Well, sorry to disappoint you but..." Joonmyun's voice trails off into a low hum, faint laughter. He shrugs and slumps against the wall even more. Yixing follows him with his gaze, heavy and focused, but the smile on his lips remains. If anything, it has become even softer, more relaxed. Like all the tension in Yixing's body has lifted and decided to plummet to Joonmyun shoulders, pin him down on the floor until Joonmyun gives into fatigue. "This is it. This is me. Just... this. No fancy tricks, nothing in between." He takes a deep breath then lets out a long and loud sigh. "This is as good as it gets." Yixing cocks an eyebrow at him and laughs. "Including the white shirt? That's all you have to wear?" Joonmyun narrows his eyes at Yixing, earning him a chuckle. He can feel something inside him bubbling, a slow and simmering heat at the pit of his stomach coming to a gradual boil. "There's nothing wrong with the white shirt." "I know. White shirts are nice. But I'm just saying–" Yixing pauses for a while, gulping hard, swallowing around whatever it was lodged in his throat. "–maybe this is just what you want others to see, and what you want to see when you look in the mirror," he continues. Yixing shifts in his position and moves forward, three inches closer to where Joonmyun is. For a moment, Joonmyun thinks of asking him what he's up to, but Yixing gives him no time to think and gives Joonmyun a light nudge in his side. It's barely a brush of skin on skin, hardly even contact, but Joonmyun feels the jolt of electricity even through the way their clothes stick to each other. And that's when it kicks in – the heat crawling from the point of contact up to his arm, wrapping around his neck in a wicked, vicious grip, the tightness in his throat. The heavy thumping in his chest that drowns out the sound of the howling winds and Yixing's soft laughter. There's nothing funny about this., Joonmyun wants to stay, stop laughing but he can't even string his words together. All the syllables threatening to spill from his lips earlier are now suspended in his system, lodged in his throat, making it harder for him to breathe. He hasn't had human contact without preamble in the past five years. And if this is screwing with his senses, making his stomach lurch even more and sending cues to different parts of his body, then what more when– "–Not that I'm saying you have to lay down all your cards right now since we've just met, but you've got to have a little faith in yourself," Yixing continues, then, voice lilting as it drops to a whisper. Another nudge of the arm and this time Joonmyun thaws out, chokes on his own spit, and takes a deep, violent breath. “You’re not as… boring as you think you are." I wouldn't want to study myself, a voice at the back of his mind says. There's nothing interesting there anymore, unless you're the type of person who fancies emptiness and a vast sea of black. There's nothing in him that will pique people's curiosity and make them wonder why Joonmyun is the way he is now. And there are too many scars on his body, too many marks where parts of himself used to be that Baekhyun took with him the moment he flat lined. He looks to his right. Yixing is still smiling at him, like he isn't willing to give up just yet. So he waves the white flag and shrugs, mumbles to himself but just loud enough for Yixing to hear, "I guess you'll just have to see for yourself, then." "And until then," Yixing begins, lips parting to reveal a bright, wicked grin, "You're stuck with me." Joonmyun presses down one palm to the floor, leaning back against the wall even more. There's nothing wrong – Yixing's still a good three inches away and they're not touching, not in any part of their body, but he can feel his cheeks getting his and the pulse in his temples beat even faster. The beating in his palms catches up, like it's reminding him that hey, you haven't been this close with anyone since the day you took Sehun in. Are you sure of what you're doing? Is this something you really want? And he has no good answer to that. It's a question so simple that he doesn't even have to think of an explanation behind his answer, but it's not as easy as you think, he tells one of the voices in his head. This is him keeping the door open for a stranger to freely walk into his life, giving someone like Yixing a chance to mess up with his schedule and the rest of his days, as well. Three beats. Yixing's drumming his fingers on the floor again, dancing his fingers closer to where Joonmyun is. So Joonmyun clasps his hands on his thighs, digs his nails into his skin until he can feel the tension in his throat ease and the shaking of his knees arrive at a calm. "Don't get me wrong: I just like you for your milk," Joonmyun retorts when he feels the tension in his throat ease. He cracks his neck and pulls his shoulders back. His recovery time's faster today – six, seven seconds, compared to the full sixty it took the other day when Yixing stared at him for a good ten seconds only to point out that, You'd look even cuter with dimples, right– And then he leaned closer, index finger hovering Joonmyun's cheek but his other hand rested on the jut of Joonmyun's hip bone. –here. "And the cookies. I like the cookies more than the milk, actually." Yixing hovers for a moment, like a slow, simmering heat at the pit of Joonmyun's stomach threatening to explode, then pulls away with an easy smile. "That's it. I'm going to switch careers now. I'll do my rounds today and tell everyone that I'm retiring from selling milk forever–" The way Yixing chops up his syllables when he gets too excited while he talks is cute, Joonmyun notes. He'll never say that out loud, though. It's one of those secrets he'll keep mum about forever, maybe tell only Sehun and make Sehun swear to never tell anyone else. Another secret, Joonmyun muses as he watches Yixing break the last cookie into two and lick off the chocolate that has clung to his skin: Yixing has nice, slender fingers, the type that would fit perfectly between his own. He wraps his fingers around his glass of milk, instead, and takes a long swig. The lurching sensation is still there. It's the same thing day in and day out, except Yixing always has something new to share with him – that one time on his first year in Korea when he almost missed his bus to Seoul, then that time when he did finally miss it and ended up having to wait in the closest Dunkin' Donuts for the first trip of the bus the following day. That time he almost beat up a guy in the streets for stealing his cab after a really tiring day at work and how said guy ended up being his best friend. How they went on their separate ways after pursuing different fields of medicine but still kept in touch. "He's coming up here from Pyeongtaek in summer just in time for the Hanji Festival. I mean the end of summer. Or the start of autumn. Whatever, it should be exciting," Yixing mentions one time, just before he slips his sombrero back on and fixes the bell he wears like a pendant on his chest. He looks up at Joonmyun, eyes bright even with the shadows the sombrero is casting on his features. Half of his body is washed out by the harsh sunlight; the other half, illuminated by it. It's unfair. "You... mentioned wanting to see the capital, right? It would be the perfect time to go." Joonmyun takes a deep breath. Spring hasn't even ended yet and Yixing's already thinking of summer. That's three, four months from now. Four months is a long time. Anything that can't be contained in just a few minutes or maybe even the hour and a half that they spend talking everyday at Joonmyun's front door feels much too long for him now, even with the days feeling they're just flying by. He feels his insides turn. "What's so special about a paper exhibit, though?" Joonmyun asks after a while, scratching his nape. "I mean, you just have paper lanterns there that rain can easily demolish and–" "And you've got to see it for yourself to know what makes it so special," Yixing retorts, winking as he ends. "Give it a chance. Besides, a lot of hard work has gone into making those. Just imagine refining the paper a hundred times just to achieve a nice finish and arrive at a beautiful lantern–" Paper processed a hundred times. Baekji, Joonmyun almost whispers to himself. Baekji festival was how they used to call it. Baekhyun used to say he's as durable as the paper used for festival lanterns. Joonmyun insisted that the paper was 'stubborn', just like someone I know. Baekhyun groaned in response and jabbed him playfully on the arm, then pinned him to the closest flat surface he could find. Said he should stop being cute, that he should stop worrying his bottom lip all the time because he was going to end up scarring himself. But there was no threat in his words, nothing but the honeyed tone in his voice as Joonmyun pushed down all the words Baekhyun was about to say with a gentle coax of the tongue, a soft nip on his bottom lip, a squeeze of Baekhyun's thigh. "You do that a lot," Yixing whispers now, nudging him in the ankle with his foot. "The zoning out thing." His eyes are squinted a little, and he's tilting his head to the side. His lips are quirked up. Standard Yixing look, Joonmyun says at the back of his head, except there's something missing – the sun that used set him aglow, the strange allure of sweat crawling down the column of his neck? The laughter that always bubbled on his lips? Joonmyun can't tell yet. Three weeks in and he's positive he still doesn't know Yixing as well as he wants to. There are still parts of Yixing he hasn't dissected yet, facets of his personality that are just too difficult to crack without leaning too lose until all Joonmyun can feel is the burn of the slide of their arms against each other. Again, Joonmyun tells himself. He's spacing out again, hiding behind the beat up shield that he'd used in the past to repel Baekhyun. He should know better than to try to use it one more time. He's not the same old juvenile he once was; he's older now, more experienced, toughened up by circumstance. The last thing he should be doing is letting emotions wear down his walls of defense that were never thick, to begin with. "I just need my coffee," Joonmyun answers, then tries to wear his best smile. Yixing snorts in response. "I'm serious, I've been drinking mostly milk these days because of you–" Yixing lifts his eyebrows not even a second after the words leave Joonmyun's lips. Now there it is, that peculiar sparkle in his eyes that always, always makes Joonmyun curl in his toes. Muscle memory kicks in – his stomach lurches, the pads of his fingers grow cold, the thumping in his chest quickens. It's almost like he has a knee-jerk reaction for the magic in Yixing's eyes alone. It sounds stupid, even only in his head. And it sounds even more stupid when the words knock at the back of his teeth and he ends up making this unintelligible gurgle at the back of his throat. "You like it, though, right?" Yixing asks. "The milk, I mean." "I suppose," Joonmyun murmurs. He scratches the tip of his nose. "I told you, I'm lactose-intolerant." Yixing stares at him, just stares at him, lips pressed together in this tiny curve that makes him look like he's seconds away from breaking out into song. He'd probably sound good, Joonmyun muses, but he pushes that thought to the very back of his mind, saves it for another day. It's close to half past ten in the morning and Yixing still has milk bottles to deliver to his customers. Joonmyun has new research material to analyze and create a write up for before the end of the week. They both have more important things to do. But Yixing just stays there, not uttering a single word through his lips but instead letting his body do the talking – swaying from side to side, head bobbing to a beat only he can hear, the image of the surprise and surrender scrawled all over Joonmyun's features so clear in Yixing's eyes. ☂ With the last few packs of chocolate cookies comes the last few dregs of spring lifting from the air. There's none of the cool winds Joonmyun has come to grow fond of, none of the cool Monday mornings where the sun is already up but Joonmyun can still wear his fuzzy jacket while harvesting carrots from his field. Instead, summer slaps Joonmyun in the face, relentless and unforgiving, when he steps out into his garden, shines down on him with a heat so prickling it feels like he's done something wrong. Forecast says it will rain tonight. It always rains in summer, and it always leaves the most uncomfortable feeling ever. "That's why you should schedule all your vacations during summer," Baekhyun had said one time, rolling on the bed so that he was lying on his stomach. His eyelids were fluttering closed every few seconds. It was already nine in the morning. Joonmyun wanted to reach out and just close them, wanted to tell him, go back to bed, you don't have to see me off. I'll be back in a few hours, anyway. Wanted to whisper, stop looking at me like you don't want me to leave. I have to go to work. "Because it's humid as fuck outside and all you'll want to do is to sleep in–" Baekhyun flailed his arms about, then jutted out his bottom lip in Joonmyun's direction. Joonmyun shook his head, help up one hand, tried to look away. But he's never been good at denying himself this. He's never been good at denying Baekhyun anything, either. "I'm not falling for that. I have to go to work. It's not– I'll come home in four hours," he reasoned, but Baekhyun kept shaking his head, pushed himself off the bed, sauntered to where Joonmyun was to rest his hands on Joonmyun's hip. "But I'm your work. I'm your biggest project," Baekhyun countered. He tilted his head a little and placed a soft kiss to the underside of Joonmyun's jaw. "Work on me a little longer." Joonmyun laughed. "We won't get anywhere with this project," he replied. Baekhyun shrugged then sucked a mark there, laving his tongue over the sensitive skin once he was done. "At least you're still doing work." Joonmyun shuts the door behind him now in a loud thud and shivers when sunlight hits him, cloaks him in light. He's fully awake now. He's been up for the past three hours now. He's had toast and eggs and some kimchi. And he's already had two cups of coffee. There's no reason to be dreaming the same thing he'd dreamt of last night when he's already thrown the covers off of himself just to convince himself that none of it was real. He laughs to himself. Time can only heal so many wounds, and Baekhyun has left way too many scars on his chest when he left. Each and every single one of them, Joonmyun can map out and put a label to – the one on the lower part of his torso is from when Baekhyun crumbled to the ground, held onto the first thing he could grab for balance and support. The one on his thigh is from when Baekhyun had teased him a bit too much before taking him in whole. The one on his chest, left and center, is from those many nights Baekhyun's had spent burying his face in Joonmyun chest, counting down to the day of his final operation. And then the one on Joonmyun's palm, the freshest, deepest cut, is from when he'd decided that if there was one person he'd give up his life for, it was Baekhyun. It can't be anyone else. The wind blows against his face, tousles his hair just a little, as if fluffing it. The air around him smells like damp earth and rain and life. He should harvest his crops before the storm hits. The last thing he wants is to lose something he's poured a bit of his heart and soul into. Second to going hungry for days, of course; Yixing reminded him a week ago to make summer kimchi in preparation for the new season. Yixing. He snorts. Yixing hadn't dropped by earlier with milk and cookies. Maybe he woke up way too late again and he's taking too long to get to Joonmyun's place. Or maybe he's doing a reverse of his route because he wastes so much time just chatting with Joonmyun in the morning when he can be doing more rounds and selling more milk. Not that it matters – Joonmyun's just after the fresh milk and the warm cookies that go with it. He looks down at the cabbages lined in front of him and lets out a long sigh. It's like five years ago again, except worse because he's not supposed to be making the same stupid mistakes. Just when he thought he's already settled on a new and better routine, just as soon as he's carved out a cozy little place in his heart for someone to come crawling into, life decides to give him a nasty kick in the ass and laugh at him silly for being so hopeful. "Fuck life, really," he mumbles as he crouches low, inching closer to the cabbages. They look much thicker and bigger than before, better than the first two batches he's planted in the past. Yixing's right – applying fertilizer to the soil just before the heads of the cabbages start forming will help the cabbages grow bigger and healthier. He can still remember that quick reminder Yixing had given a few weeks ago, just before Yixing walked down the stairs to rejoin his milk cart. "Don't think that I won't find out whether you followed my advice or not, because I'll know," Yixing said then, an eyebrow cocked at Joonmyun. His right hand was saying something else, though, when he reached out to give Joonmyun's arm a light squeeze. "You'll make me taste that kimchi of yours that you're so proud of and I'll know from there if you really did follow my instructions–" Two heartbeats, then Joonmyun feels something cold and wet on his skin. It's still bright out here with the sun up high, but already these tiny raindrops greet him, landing on his face in a soft pitter-patter. So he sinks right back to his knees, pulling out the vegetables as quickly but as carefully as possible. He almost misses the last row of cabbages and tomatoes when the rain starts pouring even heavier but he manages to harvest everything in time for him to dodge the brunt force of the storm. He looks outside one last time, through the window by the front door this time, and lets out a long sigh. His stomach turns. He curls in his toes, his fingers, feels like curling in on himself. Maybe Yixing's just too sick to head out. Or maybe he had the foresight to not report to work today, knowing that it might rain anytime soon. Joonmyun won't be surprised: Yixing's deceptively perceptive for a man who looks like cares about nothing but delivering milk bottles to people and handing out free cookies to little girls who keep telling him he's 'the most handsome and kindest oppa they've ever seen'. Or maybe you're just thinking too much and too hard about this, a voice at the back of his mind says. So he turns on his heel and heads to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he goes on his way. There's nothing else to do, after all, with the gloomy weather hovering Joonmyun and breathing down his neck. There's nothing better to do. ☂ Ten in the evening and some news on power interruptions in the area after, Joonmyun hears three knocks on his door. He doesn't catch it at first. The volume of the television is up too high and he's still caught deep in thought about the new assignment he'd received from the institution. It's about stimulus training for survivors of car accidents, people subject to different forms and levels of trauma developed through these unfortunate circumstances. Exactly your kind of thing. ;), Minseok said in his email. Then Jongdae replied to the thread, saying, Better if you talk to the patients we have onsite, hyung. Primary resource is essential in studies, after all~ :) What kind of scholar even uses a tilde at the end of formal correspondence, he wanted to say then after reading the message, but the better half of his mind had convinced him to just sit back and watch Minseok take charge, steer the fun in his direction. It has been a while, after all, since they all talked to each other online. Granted, they're talking about work and traumatized patients and surviving accidents, but this is still a form of communication. And Joonmyun's not about to deny himself the pleasure of watching Minseok trying to maintain formal email writing language when Jongdae's already using emoticons left and right. You should visit sometime. Lunch at the caf for old time's sake? Minseok had said in a separate email. Joonmyun's fingers hovered the keyboard before typing, quick and thoughtless, I'll see what I can do. Same place, right? I can come over to pick you up or something, Minseok replied after a while. It's alright, hyung. I can get a cab to the institute or something. I'm a big boy now :D That's the least of my concerns, Minseok countered. Two paragraph breaks, then, I heard from Sehun you haven't been out of your house since Baekhyun left. How will I know if you'll even show up? Joonmyun took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on his thigh. He had no good answers for Minseok's question, but then it wasn't even a question. It was a statement – Minseok was sure Joonmyun wasn't ever going to show up and the closest thing to a reunion they'll have was one done online, in an email thread. A video chat was just stretching it. Sorry, hyung, I'm pretty busy right now. I'll catch up with you later, okay? :). he typed as fast as he could. At the sound of the bell ringing, he bolted from his seat and placed his laptop down on the couch. I'll make it up to you sometime. Really sorry. Joonmyun swore he heard the sound of an email coming in just before he turned around to leave. Still, he pressed on and didn't look back, didn't even look over his shoulder to check the display of his laptop if a message had indeed come in. A familiar chime of a bell, and Joonmyun's heart skips a beat, snaps him back to reality. He quickens his pace and wraps his fingers around the knob, then swings the door open. Nothing but an expanse of land greets him, though, when he pushes the door forward and lets the cool winds of the storm inside. The rain's pouring down even harder now, if that's even possible, and there are budding puddles nearby. Shallow grooves on the damp ground ahead, as well. They look like fresh tracks, but there's no one in sight. He cranes his neck a little, then, squints so he can see better, but to no avail – there's no sign of whoever had knocked on his door or rung that bell that he knows belongs to just one person. "Whatever," he mumbles, then, fingers wrapped around the handles to shut the door back in place, when he hears bright and loud ringing from nearby. So he takes another step forward, past the door and closer to the rain, and looks at either side of him. There are two cats taking shelter under a big leaf to his left. To his right, a weird-looking box kind of thing that looks like it has seen better days. Then a lump of brown just beside it that's– "Wow, it's... moving," he mutters under his breath. He inches closer, then, squints even harder so he can make out the details of the weird lump nearby. And that's when he catches sight of the gold chain hanging from his neck, the bell pendant resting on the man's chest, the familiar warm gaze and even warmer smile that greets him when he finally steps out of the shade and into the rain, the water pelting down on his fast and hard. "Yixing?" "Oh hey, hi," Yixing whispers, giving him a weak wave. He brushes his bangs away from his face but the strands just keep sticking to his wet skin, keep poking his eyes and making him seethe. And Joonmyun sort of wants to brush Yixing's hair off his face. He wants to reach out, cup Yixing's face in his hands so the water can meander between his fingers, so he can see Yixing's face better, but– "Sorry, I just– I couldn't leave my cart because I still have some milk here and the cats sounded like they were hungry so I thought I'd feed them but then the rain just poured even harder and–" "Shut up," Joonmyun whispers, almost breathless with how the rain just keeps beating down on him. He takes a step forward, then another, and another, inching even closer to where Yixing is and grabbing him by the wrist. "Go inside. I'll take your cart to the backyard. Grab the cats, as well." Yixing blinks up at him, then drops his gaze to where Joonmyun's holding him tight before guiding his eyes back up. It takes a while to sink in, slower than that of the rain dance but faster than the thundering pulse on the base of Joonmyun's throat – the way Yixing tenses and relaxes all too quickly in his touch, the way Yixing sucks in his bottom lip like he's keeping himself from saying things he'll regret, the jolt of electricity coursing through Joonmyun's system right now, screwing with his senses and making his sense of logic go haywire. Should he let go? Should he tighten his grip and just yank Yixing by the wrist? Should he just walk away and shut the door behind himself even before Yixing can come sauntering in? He doesn't know. There are too many voices in his mind right now, all of them screaming at him, telling him what he should do and not what he shouldn't. "Go," Joonmyun repeats, drawling the sound this time like he can cut through the thick sheet of rain with his words. Yixing only furrows his eyebrows in response, though, doesn't move until Joonmyun slips his hand south to give Yixing's hand a quick squeeze. "I still have milk from two days ago. You can feed that to the cats. Now go, before you catch a cold." Yixing parts his lips to speak, licking them open this time, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just nods, steals one last glance over his shoulder before gathering the cats in his arms and slipping in the narrow gap of the door. Joonmyun takes that as his cue, then, pushes the cart in the direction of the garden and parks the cart there, by the empty beds and tools. It looks so misplaced in the scenario, throws him a bit off-kilter because it looks so foreign to him, but it's becoming difficult to focus on anything but the traitorous cold crawling up his legs and numbing his knees. Even more when he hears Yixing's voice in the distance, the sound of rain falling to the ground muffling all the words he's saying but the two syllables of Joonmyun's name that Yixing calls out louder than the rest. Joonmyun takes a deep breath and turns on his heel. He'll deal with this some other time, maybe tomorrow when the sun is shining again. It's already too late in the evening to be staying out and walking in the rain. He shouldn't have even gotten out of his house in the first place. You haven't been out of your house since Baekhyun left– The words ring in his ears, soaring about the noise of the rain. He shakes his head, shrugs that thought off his shoulders, but his stomach still turns, like a reminder of the things he shouldn't even be paying attention to – the way Yixing's voice curls around Joonmyun's name like he's rehearsed how to say it properly at least a hundred times, the way Yixing's features brighten up when he sees Joonmyun get back from where he'd taken the cart. The way Yixing is holding the front door open with one hand and extending the other in Joonmyun's direction as if to invite him inside, join me here on the other side. We have big pillows and soft blankets and warm hugs so come closer, now, come on– "Can't believe you live alone in this mansion," Yixing says when Joonmyun inches closer. He guides his gaze to where Joonmyun's reaching out, meeting Joonmyun's hand halfway through before sliding it around Joonmyun's waist. "It's so big in here. It's easy to get lost." There are a lot of ways that Joonmyun can answer – he can laugh, he can snort. He can shrug and laugh a little, or maybe even roll his eyes. Or he can walk away and let Yixing and the cats shiver in the cold. Or he can stop acting like he doesn't care. Part of him wants to say, I can't believe I just let you in, can't believe I entrusted my house with you for two, three minutes when I went to take your cart elsewhere. But it's ten in the evening and he's too cold from walking in the rain for too long. It won't hurt to give a straight answer, one off the top of his head. It won't hurt to just let things happen without trying to control them first. It won’t hurt to just surrender, give into the allure of Yixing’s soft and warm smile. "And I can't believe I let you bring the cats inside my house." "Oh, are you allergic?" Yixing scratches his nape. "I'll just stay with them outside. Though I might have to borrow a towel or two–" Joonmyun laughs a little and shakes his head. Jongdae's right about what he said before, that Joonmyun's a shelter for lost causes. That he loves taking in the troubled and the broken because fixing people makes him feel good about himself, makes him feel capable. Helps him see his value and worth in the world without losing sight of his target. "I'll get you a towel. Just stay here," Joonmyun answers, then threads his fingers through the cat's fur. "And I'm a dog person, for the most part, but my friends say I deal pretty well with animals." "Not surprised," Yixing comments, voice lilting as he hums. "You seem like the type who'd be good at taking care of others. Or the type who'd love taking care–" He shakes his head, laughing, and he waves his hands in front of him like he's trying to erase the words he's already let loose in the air, trying to take them all back. "I'm sorry, I just get into this... mode where I start studying people based on my encounters with them and–" "Why would you do that?" Joonmyun asks, just barely above a whisper. His throat feels tight, like there are claws scoring lines along the walls and he's choking down blood instead of the words fighting their way up his throat. His stomach, still lurching in several different directions. But his chest feels a bit lighter, like sputtering those words without preamble has loosened the knot inside him and has made him breathe easier. More freely, even with the weight of Yixing's stare pinning him in place and keeping from looking elsewhere. Forcing him to look straight into Yixing's eyes so he can see himself. "I mean–" "I know what you're going to say: that there's nothing else to see. 'This is it, this is me.'" Yixing's voice trails off into laughter, low and choked, then into a whisper. He takes a deep breath, chest heaving, then looks up at Joonmyun again, meeting his gaze this time. His lips are trembling and he looks as if he might pass out from fatigue and the cold and whatever else Joonmyun can't think of at the moment, but he's still smiling. His cheeks are tense, shaking, the softest shade of pink. And Joonmyun can feel the thumping in his chest quicken, can feel his pulse pick up pace at the back of his knees, his elbows, his ears, the base of his throat. There are so many words he can be saying right now, countering Yixing with while Yixing is weak from the storm, but he can't feel his lips, his throat, his limbs. He can't even tell if he's still breathing. All he's certain of is that Yixing's moving closer and that Yixing's reaching out with ice cold fingers, reaching out for him. "I don't believe any of that, Joonmyun." Joonmyun looks away, dropping his gaze to his feet, but Yixing traces the curve of his cheek with his fingers and tilts his chin up. He almost laughs. Forty years old and he still doesn't know how to say no or how to walk the other way. How to push people away without wanting to wrap his arms around them the next second. "This is silly," he whispers, breathes out when Yixing guides him to face forward, to look at him and nothing, nobody else. "I should be giving you a towel, not arguing with you about what you think about me–" "And we should be feeding the cats," Yixing adds, then slides his hand further up until he's cupping Joonmyun's cheek. And you shouldn't be holding me like this, Joonmyun wants to counter, but it's becoming impossible to think at all with the violent push and pull of cold and warmth on his skin. He can feel the spark of electricity there, right there where Yixing is touching him, and a traitorous cold slipping between his fingers where Yixing isn't. Push him away, a voice at the back of his mind says. Walk away while it's still early. Shut the doors. Lock them, now. But Yixing's voice wraps around his throat like a gentle breeze breathing warmth and life into him, lifting the tension from his shoulders, loosening the knot in his chest. "–because they've been meowing for the past five minutes. If I were a hungry cat, I'd... I'd do the same, I guess," Yixing finishes. His fingers tremble against Joonmyun's skin, and that's what jolts Joonmyun back to this moment, to this reality – Yixing's freezing cold and his teeth are chattering. He needs a change of clothes and food. Joonmyun needs to take a step back. "Do you... have a bowl where they can drink the milk from or–" "I'll take care of it," Joonmyun whispers. He clears his throat, pounds on his chest with one fist, then reaches for his cheek with the other. "Just... stay there. I'll get you a towel. Or... a jacket. New clothes." He runs his thumb along his cheek and gulps hard when he presses down on a particularly sore spot. Yixing pinched him there earlier, somewhere between talking about cats and his pulse drumming beats on Joonmyun's skin. "I'll be back." "I'll be here," Yixing replies. He sucks on his bottom lip, then adds, "With the cats." Joonmyun laughs a little, breathing out all the air he'd contained in his chest earlier. Then he counts to three, counts the seconds until he feels the words crawl back up his throat for a clumsy enunciation. "Yeah. Don't let them run around the house." Yixing chuckles. It sends a sizzle of heat down Joonmyun's abdomen. It makes him shiver. They end up bathing the cats in the common bathroom, both of them with their sleeves rolled up and hair tied away from their faces. Yixing isn't shivering anymore, dry and warm in a fresh change of clothes. And he smells exactly like Joonmyun – from the scent of vanilla and mint and books in his hair to the fabric conditioner sticking to the white longsleeved shirt of Joonmyun's that he's wearing. He's wearing Joonmyun's clothes like he's always meant to slip them on during rainy days and cold nights, like he's always meant to drag stray cats along with him whenever he has to take shelter in Joonmyun's house. Like he's somehow orchestrated this whole thing, like they're good friends, like they've known each other for years when they've only known each other for weeks. It feels strange how easy it is for Yixing to slip into the house slippers Joonmyun had given him earlier and walk around in them like he's already mapped out Joonmyun's house even if he's only been here for two hours. It's almost frightening. But then Yixing is warm, and it's cold outside. The storm hasn't subsided just yet and they've already finished the milk Yixing had heated earlier on Joonmyun's stove. And Yixing's patting the space beside him, telling Joonmyun to come closer, come on, I won't bite. "Are you sure you don't have your aircon set to the coldest possible temperature? Because I bet it's much colder here than it is outside." Joonmyun blinks a few times, worries his bottom lip until he feels Yixing's warmth seep through the pads of his fingers when Yixing reaches out to tap a beat on his thigh. He shivers. It isn't cold here, not by a long mile, but he can feel the tips of Yixing's fingers lose their warmth with each passing second. It can't be cold, not with the way Yixing is looking at him with such soft eyes and a gentle curl at the corners of his lips. It shouldn't be cold when Yixing laughs, curt and loud, then shakes his head before inching closer to where Joonmyun is. It isn't cold at all. So Joonmyun surprises Yixing, meets him halfway, rests his warm palm atop Yixing's own and curls his fingers around Yixing's hand. There's a loud, thundering pulse in the link of their fingers. A faint gasp in the air, as well. It can't be his. "Better?" he asks after a while, risking a glance through the slits of his bangs. Yixing nods and lets out a soft hum in response. Or maybe he's saying something, just that Joonmyun can't hear it above the noise in his chest, the thumping behind his ears, the howling winds just beyond the window. The voices at the back of his mind saying, you shouldn't have let him in, Joonmyun. You should've pushed him away while you had a chance. You could have saved yourself. So he closes his eyes and listens for Yixing's heartbeat in the press of their bodies. He inches closer when he hears a hint of the sound he's been looking for, locks in on it and sets the thumping in his chest to the heavy beating of Yixing's pulse against his skin. And he doesn't pull away when Yixing leans in, resting his head on Joonmyun's shoulder and breathing out against the underside of his jaw. In the morning, he wakes up to Yixing's faint mewls muffled against his chest. It's still raining outside. It's only five in the morning. So he closes his eyes again and allows himself to breathe out, breathe easy, and threads his fingers through Yixing's hair, counting down the seconds until he has to pull away. one | two | three