Donghae awoke from an uncharacteristically beautiful dream on a Saturday morning slowly, as though he were emerging from a pit of molasses. His eyes fluttered open softly, fingers twitching and curling into the sheets, as he became aware of his surroundings. There were flashes, bright, half-remembered images as he emerged into waking – an elephant parade, a strange chair with metal plates being lowered towards his head, Minho had been there, they were children, no adults, teenagers, he was trying to remove him, sweater paws, a smile that was all gums, ice, vague faces…someone called Eunhyuk…

It almost felt like he had lived it. 

Rolling over onto his back, he looked up at the ceiling fan. Breathed out a long breath, making his hair rustle. For the first time in the month since Minho had passed away, he felt at peace. No tears crystallized on his cheeks. No sudden smashing into his gut about everything he should have done. No desire to wallow for the rest of the day. It had stopped snowing outside. The bed was comfortable, and he snuggled deeper into his blanket, giving a contented hum. The dream came back to him in fragmented pieces, but what he recalled most strongly was how warm it felt, lying across his skin like a cosy vintage sweater. He wanted to bask in that warmth all morning in his bed.

Don’t Wake Me Up – why do I remember that song so clearly?

Shaking his head, and giving himself a good case of bedhead, he tried to clear away the fog that always came with trying to separate vivid dreams from reality. It was pretty odd, because Donghae had never been someone who dreamt so vividly. Or beautifully. Not in a long time, at least. He sat up slowly, looking down at his hands, his feet, seeing the loose cartoon character T-shirt and pants he was wearing. His eyes flickered over to the bizarre ornaments his mum had hung by his window, the cactus he was amazingly managing to slowly kill, a very faded stuffed toy that he was somewhat embarrassed that he still owned at his age, the mess of clothes and books and papers on the floor. He was in his bedroom in his apartment, of course. Where else would he be?

Slapping his cheeks a few times, he mumbled, “Get a hold of yourself, Lee Donghae.”

Flopping back down, he felt strangely as though he wasn’t supposed to be here, that he hadn’t fallen asleep in his bed and someone had brought him here. But that made no sense. He breathed on his hand and sniffed it. Nope, no pub-crawl he’d forgotten from a night knocking back too many out of unhappiness - not that he drank. Definitely not drugs at a party either – he hadn’t gone to a party in years, anyways. He must have been sick yesterday – a hazy recollection of a clinic? Had it been a clinic? Maybe he’d been feverish, and that was why he was having trouble shifting between dreams and reality.

Also, he was pretty sure he’d never met any Eunhyuk in his entire life.

Lying on his bed, groggy with sleep, he tried to consider whether he might be mistaken. And why the name seemed to cling so strongly to his brain. There was something he was meant to remember… He was pretty sure that the only person he knew with a ‘hyuk’ in their name was Sanghyuk who worked at the ice-cream parlour and had once accidentally smashed a pistachio cone into his face. Maybe it was a random name that he’d happened to hear somewhere. Some idol? It probably wasn’t important…

Yet the thought continued to nag at him. Were dreams the things you remembered, or the things you’d forgotten? It felt like he’d done it all before, somehow – and yet some of it seemed so impossible. He remembered plunging downwards, racing through a maze of himself and some other guy – Eunhyuk? –, the world distorting and turning in on itself, a frozen lake cracking beneath his feet. 

And he had the strongest urge to pick up his old notebook and start composing again.

“Weird,” he muttered. What was weirder was the fact that he had been smiling the entire time. It had been a long time since he’d done that. He could hear refrains, cords inside his head, fingers itching to grasp a pen and scrawl them down. Not since high school had they been so clear. Donghae stretched his arms towards his bedroom ceiling and grinned wider. “Good weird.”

*

As he always did, since Saturdays usually proved fruitless for job hunting, Donghae went to visit Minho’s grave. The cemetery was a short hike from where the bus dropped him off, and his boots crunched on the still-frozen ground as he passed through the gates and began to walk a familiar trodden path. In his hands were a simple bunch of white flowers, tied with a bit of string, because his mum had always insisted that you needed to be respectful and bring something. The place was quiet, but he didn’t feel frightened as he normally did. They were all people too.

He drew up in front of Minho’s grave marker, sitting down beside the slab. Choi Minho, a good son and friend, the inscription read, as well as the years he had lived. Donghae put down the flowers in front of it, saying a silent prayer.

“How are you doing?” he asked gently, “Have you seen my dad yet? You two are probably up there playing football together – let him win a few times, okay? Even though that’s probably a bit hard for you, you competitive bastard.”

He laughed softly to himself, stretching out his legs. In moments like this, it was easier to miss his father and Minho. It still hurt, and probably always would. But he didn’t feel like he was suffocating as much, and one day he supposed the hurt would ease. “I’m good,” he continued, smiling faintly, “I’ve been thinking of getting back into composing. I guess it’s kind of crazy, but I really want to. Been G