It takes four months.

Four months for that sharp stab of pain in his chest to recede into a dull ache.

Four months for his hands to stop shaking, when they hover over the doorknob.

Four months, for his feet to listen to him and move.

Four months, for him to finally accept.

When the door opens, Changmin takes a deep breath. His heart pounds against his mind’s orders to slow.

His eyes make out furniture in the darkness – queen-sized bed, ridiculously ornate lamp by the bathroom entrance, a 24-inch TV gleaming dully by the window – and his fingers fumble for the switches.

A click, and yellow light bathes the room, illuminating every nook and cranny.

Changmin looks around. It’s full, of all the things SM owns. All that expensive wood and steel and marble.

But it’s empty. Devoid of all the things that made it a place of living. It’s neat, tidy, clean, sterile. All hints of its former owner scrubbed off of every surface.

It’s odd, and distressing. He’s been here hundreds upon hundreds of times before. He’s spent hours sprawled across the floor on his stomach, playing video games and watching movies. His neck has hurt from being craned over that desk for too long, as he looked over beloved novels, and sheets of music and pages of lyrics – even some clothing designs. He’s intimately acquainted with every inch of this room, and yet….

It feels like he’s stepped foot into some strange, cold place that has no history, no memories. It feels like a tomb.

He shivers, hand still over the light switch. Dread builds in his stomach; he thinks of turning and going back to the living room.

But he can’t. Not yet.

His hand drops to his side as he moves, taking small, measured steps past the threshold towards the center of the room.

There are no obstacles in his path. Before, he had to carefully step around a dozen dropped articles of clothing and a dozen more random knickknacks. Sometimes, he’d tidy up as he went, muttering darkly about messy, inattentive brats.

Stopping, his eyes drop to a noticeably empty spot on top of the dresser. That’s where one of the room’s many oddities lived – a statue of an elephant doing ballet. He remembers, because he spent ten minutes staring at it the first time he saw it.

“What the hell is that?”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s ridiculous.”

A pout, then an indignant sniff. “I think it’s pretty cool.”

Changmin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the unbidden memory away. It doesn’t matter now; that time is long gone, the statue is gone. Gone to decorate some space in its owner’s new home….new life.

He walks up to the window, pulls the curtains away. Seoul glitters with its neon lights, a never-ending stream of cars and people flooding its streets.

It’s vast, even though it’s small; intimidating even if it’s safe. And somewhere in it, there’s Jaejoong. So far away, even though he’s close. Close enough to reach out to, but that’s not something Changmin is allowed – not anymore.

He brushes his fingers against the glass, presses them into it. Closing his eyes, he rests his forehead against it, tries to remember something else that felt just as pleasantly cold.

Early morning, too early to be up, but Changmin can’t bring himself to sleep again.

A smooth, pale back presses into his chest. He traces an invisible line down the spine, and feels his own tingling in response.

Smiling, Jaejoong turns over and catches Changmin’s wayward fingers with his own. Burying his face in Changmin’s neck, he hums in pleasure.

“Good morning.”

Changmin takes a ragged breath and pulls away, jerking the curtains back into place and crossing his arms over his chest.

He will not do this.

Shaking his head, Changmin turns and heads for the door. As he walks, his eyes wander just the slightest bit towards the bed.

He stops mid-step.

The smallest bit of red sticks out from behind the headboard, clashing with the beige carpet.

He blinks, not understanding how the cleaners missed it. Were they in that much of a hurry? That disinterested?

His feet carry him to the side of the bed, as if on auto-pilot. He crouches down, tentatively reaches out with his index finger to touch it.

It’s soft, plush. Wool.

Changmin rises back up, strains as he pulls and pushes the bed until the sweater comes free.

Picking it up, he holds it out in front of himself. He swallows.

“Hello, Rudolph.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.”

“But I can’t help it!” Changmin grins, pulling at the apple red sweater. “You’re all red-nosed, and you’re wearing this.”

Jaejoong reaches out and tugs at the elf hat atop Changmin’s head. “Should I call you Santa’s Little Helper, then?”

“You can call me whatever you want. I’ll allow it in the spirit of Christmas.”

“OK then. Babe.”

Changmin leans in to brush lips against Jaejoong’s. “Alright. Sweetheart.”

Against his better judgment, Changmin buries his nose in the garment, breathing in deeply. It’s been too long since that day for all the smells to have remained – none of the cologne, or the vanilla from the cake, or the cognac Changmin had accidentally spilled on it while trying to get it off. But it’s been well-worn, and there is one scent that continues to linger….

Changmin buries his nose into Jaejoong’s hair, their fingers twining together. He breathes in, deeply, smiles as his senses fill with that fragrance he loves so much.

“And good morning to you, too.”

The dam breaks, leaving the tears to fall freely. They soak the wool as he muffles his sobs against it. His legs give out under him and he drops to the edge of the bed, hands clenching around the sweater.

He doesn’t want to lay blame. He doesn’t want to let anger take a hold of him, but it’s so hard.

They had made so many promises to each other, they had placed so much faith in each other’s words. And Changmin had never imagined in his wildest dreams that one day, he’d be left alone. Left with nothing but a goddamn sweater and a barrage of memories that once felt so good but now feel like glass shards embedded in his heart and brain.

He doesn’t want them anymore. Doesn’t want all this pain.

Changmin pulls away, hands trembling. He stares at the garment, tears gathering in his eyes until it becomes a blurred red glob filling his vision. He in a deep breath and gets to his feet.

Yunho jumps a little when he tears into the living room, footsteps heavy and determined.

“Changmin, what’s---what are you doing?”

He doesn’t reply as he stops in front of the fireplace, lighting a fire and balling up the sweater with both hands. The fire spits and crackles as it starts up. Bending, Changmin feeds the garment in, and the fire jumps, spreading over it, growing. Grabbing a cast iron poker from its stand, he pushes the sweater around until it’s fully engulfed.

Yunho watches him as he steps back and breathes shakily, saying nothing. He crosses the room to drop down onto the couch. They both gaze at the fire as it burns, reducing the wood and the wool to ashes.

Changmin feels a hand settle on his own after a few minutes. Blinking, he turns to look at Yunho.

Yunho smiles, wiping away the smudged tears on Changmin’s face with his free hand.

“It’ll be alright.”

Changmin tries desperately to believe. And fails.

End