Chapter 9: Destruction

It took but a second to destroy what had taken Baekhyun years to construct. He felt the walls of his life collapsing in on themselves, a fault in the foundation, something sinister and shameful trapped inside him finally clawing its way out, unlocked from its cage by a soft press of mouth to mouth.

For a moment in time, he wanted nothing more than that destruction. He wanted to go up in flames with the beautiful stranger in a fedora, with his selfless acts of generosity and his dizzying cologne and his big knowing eyes.

Baekhyun hated himself in that moment. Hated the way his heart leapt in his throat, the way his blood rushed in his ears. He hated how his head tilted just so, how his eyelids slipped closed. He hated how his breath stilled but his lips didn't, how they parted slightly and pressed with thirst and how the sound that issued from his throat was so needy and wanton and weak--

A hand pressed to Phoenix' - no, Chanyeol's - chest and pushed. "Please, don't." Baekhyun's voice caught around the lump in his throat. His gaze dropped - he feared his own transparency. "I can't--" he swallowed thickly, drawing away from the heat of Chanyeol's body. Clambering off the bed, he fumbled blindly with the buttons of his shirt. His gaze swung frantically around the room like a trapped deer looking for a way out. Spotting his jacket on the drum stool, he grabbed it and fled to the entryway, stuffing his feet into his shoes. A brief fight with the doorknob slowed but did not stop him as he flung himself out of the apartment without another look back.

Outside, the sun was starting to emerge from the clouds, and for all its promise of light, there was nothing Baekhyun wanted more than to close his eyes, hide away in the dark, and never come out again. He fled down three flights of stairs onto an unfamiliar street. Looking left and right, he headed towards the sound of cars honking. He eventually stumbled onto a main street and hailed a cab.
 

The city flew past him, a blur, unseen. When the car came to a halt before his building, he barely moved, and paid his fare mechanically only when the cab driver barked at him. He stumbled out of the car and into the lobby, past the doorman and into an empty elevator. The ride up felt longer than ever before, as he avoided his reflection on the mirrored-lined walls. Those eyes, too, were knowing. Hurrying down the hall, he kept his gaze down and punched his entry code on the keypad.

When the door was closed and locked, he slid down against it, hands clutched over his chest and the thundering muscle within. His throat burned and his eyes prickled, and the frightened sob that was trapped in his chest finally burst forth, ugly and sharp and shameful. Quivering with the force of it, the tears came hot and fast, rolling down his cheeks to soak the collar of his shirt. Collapsing under the pressure of the cracking dam, he his side and curled in on himself, as sob after sob wrenched violently from his gut and a pitiful, hopeless keening echoed through the empty halls of his home.

Shadows grew and stretched across the floor. The sun burned swathes of light across the walls from the west-facing windows. How long he sat there, Baekhyun did not know. His phone buzzed at times. Calls from JaeHee came and went to voicemail. Texts from colleagues went unchecked. 

Only when he felt empty, hollowed out from within, did he finally pull himself up from the floor. Blindly, he fixed himself a drink in the kitchen, something strong and candid that made no excuses for itself. Clutching the small glass, he wandered like a shade from room to room. The bedroom was still, prim with neatly tucked sheets and a lack of decor. The large double bed wore dark covers, and the walls were bare.

Why don't you decorate? JaeHee had asked him. Or let me?

I don't like clutter, he'd said. A photo in a frame had made its way, nonetheless, onto his bedroom dresser - the precise sort of decor he'd hoped to avoid. One of spare few photos of them, their smiles appeared genuine. He supposed at some point he'd believed his own lies enough to smile like that.Taking a long sip of his drink, he felt it burn its way down. He slapped the photo frame down, dousing the moment of apocryphal happiness in darkness. The sharp clatter of glass and metal to wood was jarring, but satisfying.

He slipped into his office, closing the door behind him. The air here was different, the scent of old textbooks and worn paper mixed with wood and leather. It was a scent that reminded him of his father, and in that was both comforting and terrible, and thus felt most like home.

He stepped over to the desk and curled into a ball in his tall leather chair, feeling small and foolish. Tired eyes traced the lines of a bookshelf, filled with records and textbooks, sheet music, and old programs. On the wall beside it, in two neat rows, hung plaques and framed certificates. Best Vocal Talent. First Place. Citywide. Best In Province. Countrywide. Bachelor of Music, Vocal Performance. Master of Arts, Music Business.