he took the midnight train going anywhere

---

Jongin seems to have established a never-ending staring contest with his bedroom ceiling. From the man adjacent to him, light snores emanate, almost in mockery of his insomnia.

It has been a long time since Jongin has known the beauty of sleep.

And oh, how much he wants to reacquaint himself with the feeling.

The rise of the sun is a flurry of watery colours running into one another, of unholy oranges and yellows staining the dawn sky though only a glow is visible through the curtains. Beside him Sehun is still blissfully slumbering—perhaps blissfully is not quite the most appropriate word, his partner’s breathing is strained.

Jongin can tell from the hitching of his breath in his throat and the almost invisible winces as he shifts in his sleep—probably fell over and bruised himself, Jongin assesses before stepping out of the comfort of his bed, the soles of his bare feet protesting as they touch the chilly floorboards.

He doesn’t need to look at the clock to know what time it is because he’s always awake at the same time of the day, every day, like clockwork; five thirty-seven AM, no earlier, no later. He doesn’t even need an alarm anymore.

Sure enough when he steps into their cramped living room, the digital clock that graces their dingy wall blinks back 5:37 AM proudly at him through the post-dawn darkness of their room, stinging his sleep-deprived eyes.

Breakfast, he reminds himself. He needs to make breakfast or else Sehun will get cranky.

---

“I’ll see you after work,” Sehun murmurs. Jongin is forced to lean over the counter to press a chaste kiss to Sehun’s lips. He tastes of banana and soju—probably from last night, toothpaste wasn’t nearly bitter enough to erase the acidic taste of the brown liquid—on the other man’s lips.

“Mm, alright,” the darker male agrees before buttoning his shirt up then gathering his books for the day. The blonde brushes past him, instinctively running a cursory check for essentials—phone, wallet, cigarettes and lighter (even though Jonign insists that smoking is bad and it makes his breath smell weird).  As Sehun limps towards the door, bag in one hand and keys in the other, Jongin’s keen eyes narrow at the tips of violet skin that dot his partner’s collarbone. And of course, the evident limp in his step.

“Hey—uh … Sehun-ah, you know you can talk to me any time, right? You can even ask me to pick you up if you’re faced or in a fight or whatever, seriously, I just—”

I’d rather you didn’t go away.

Sehun’s only response is a vague sigh.  “Hm, I know.”

The older male’s jaw hardens slightly as the blond leaves.

I really don’t want you to go away.

---

 Jongin is a worrier; most people don’t expect it of him, not with his relaxed face and that laugh of absolute nonchalance that normally escapes his full lips. Not when he’s never panicking, when he’s never stressed or anxious or nervous. So long as there’s no so much as a muscle on his face that reveals tension of any sort, then people assume he must be just dandy as the Americans say.

Yet underneath that mask that Jongin religiously wears like a second skin is insurmountable worry, in giant, roaring waves that overtake him and smother him; in leaping flames that singe him; in raging tides that threaten to suffocate him, that leave him burned out like a blackening candle. There would really only be a problem if he was worrying too much—and is he worrying too much, he has to ask himself.

So long as it’s about Sehun, it’s never too much.

But it’s hard to not worry about Sehun—the blonde’s like a child in more than just the physical sense and Jongin can’t help the flutter of worry than spears his heart every time. Sehun forgets he has to eat breakfast; Sehun forgets he can’t run around with his shoelaces untied; Sehun always comes home with bruises he pretends don’t exist; Sehun is always limping, is always struggling, is probably always too ashamed to ask for help and Jongin who just doesn’t know what to do can really only watch from the sidelines.

He’s not a mother hen by any means but he loves Sehun. Maybe it’s the sting of affection that keeps him transfixed to his helpless spot seemingly miles away from Sehun (when ironically they share a bed) even though he wants to help so badly. Maybe it’s his hesitance, his desire to not overstep his boundaries—

Who knew helping was such a complicated thing.

---

When Sehun returns with a bleeding lip, an all-too prominent limp and enough bruises to make his face look like an oversized blueberry, Jongin’s heart leaps into his throat and instantaneously his face becomes a canvas of colliding emotions—anger, shock and nervousness. His first guess is a fight; a bar fight probably because Sehun hangs around all the wrong crowds at all the wrong places and Jongin doesn’t even care if Sehun’s sleeping around with people (well as long as they don’t have STDs, he rectifies internally) or if he’s cheating on him.  

He wants Sehun to be safe.

That’s all.

That’s it.

But it’s so hard when Sehun has no concern for his own safety. And Jonign swears, if it were anyone else he would have snapped a long time ago and packed his bags up—he doesn’t take anyone’s (save for Sehun’s) and honestly, he’s come to realise that he’s not tired of bearing the brunt of Sehun’s problems. He’s not tired of making excuses, he’s not tired of repeatedly bandaging Sehun’s wounds or fetching him icepacks and tea, he’s not tired of the many sleepless nights he spends making sure his partner is comfortable and he most certainly isn’t tired of hearing repeatedly from his mother that he could do better with a girl.

He should exhausted—sick—frustrated—of the blonde’s immaturity and evidence lack of the capacity to ensure his own safety but

but Jongin is none of those adjectives.

It’s the emotional wounds he can’t heal with equipment in a first aid kit—it’s why Sehun is so rash and what activated his metamorphosis from the laughing young man Jongin met in high school to this firecracker that he can’t put bandages and sorbolene over and expect to fix.

Really if he had answers, Jongin would be the most satisfied individual on the universe.

---

“You know I care, right?”

Jongin looks up and sets his chopsticks down.

It’s been so long since he’s heard that honest clarity in Sehun’s tone—so long since it hasn’t been defensive or annoyed. The dark-haired male nods very slowly in apprehension and affirmation following which Sehun continues.

“I’m … I’m not cheating on you or doing drugs or anything, I swear Jongin-ah.”

 There’s an earnestness in the younger male’s tone, coupled with a teariness that makes Jongin’s suspicions dissipate, that makes him want to forget every concern he’s ever harboured and live for the moment.

That night is best one Jongin has had in months; it’s the simplest thing they’ve done in the two or so years they’ve been in a relationship but the act of lying together in a warm embrace allows Jongin to sleep peacefully.

He wishes every night were the same but wishes aren’t made to come true.

And oh how well Jongin is acquainted with that feeling.

---

The first time Jongin experiences serious concerns about Sehun’s life is when the blonde staggers in with a stab wound. Who is this stranger, Jongin is desperate to ask—who is this stranger who has swapped places with the stubborn man Jongin would playfully hit around the head? Who is this stranger who shares a bed with him, who wakes up with him and mechanically plods through the day with him?

It’s only when Sehun collapses into a chair that Jongin realises the extent of their distance.

“Sehun-ah, we—we need to go to a hospital … and call the police, I’m calling the police. Did you walk here? Can you walk now? Do I need to call an ambulance? What—”

“I’m fine.”

The statement is so blunt that Jongin’s jaw hits the floor.

“Do you see yourself right now Sehun-ah? You’re not alright—”

The blonde interjects with an apathetic roll of his eyes and staggers towards the dark-haired male, arms clumsily wrapping around his partner’s muscular frame and lips crashing unwaveringly against Jongin’s.  The older can feel liquid his skin and soak the fabric of his nightshirt but he can’t help his response; he can’t help but hold Sehun closer and kiss him in response because these moments are so few and far between. Jongin is scared to let go. He’ll never be able to reach back in time and savour this moment again.

Five seconds later logic catches up with emotion and Jongin forces them apart. “We really need to get you to a doctor, okay? Okay?” He hopes the seriousness in his tone reaches the blonde as his fingers curl around the fabric of his coat that hangs innocently on the coatrack.

Much to their relief, their neighbour—Dr. Kim Junmyeon—saves them an arduous wait at the E.R. by patching Sehun up himself; luckily the wound isn’t deep enough to require stitches. Jongin makes a note to invite the good doctor over for dinner one night.

Yet that’s not all that concerns Jongin; as much as he tries to persuade himself that maybe Sehun really did get mugged as he mentioned to Jongin, there’s a fleeting hint of lie in his words.

Jongin can only hope he doesn’t go too far.

---

He can cross his fingers or say prayers or bite his nails in anticipation but Jongin can’t put thoughts into Sehun’s head nor can he make choices for the blonde and it’s those thoughts and those choices that take Sehun galaxies away from Jongin.

The solution is simple; it’s really simple, all he has to do is dial three numbers and in seconds he’s talking to a professional who can find him a solution but there’s so much shame and humiliation and all sorts of second thoughts that hold him back.

And above all, it’s that he doesn’t want to find a counsellor or a psychologist because he knows the wall will thicken and harden and all Jongin will ever know is that painful distance.

If the bridge were to break, if the gap were to widen

Jongin’s life would lose meaning.

---

It’s late.

He really wants to sleep.

All he can hear is Sehun’s laboured breathing.

He doesn’t know what to do.

---

The eyes that gleam at him in the dim of the night are glassy and unfocussed. Fingertips brush the side of his face before moving upwards to brush away stands of hair away from his face. The solitary stream of moonlight illuminates sections of Sehun’s shadowy hair and face and from that Jongin can tell something is off.

“You … you’re so …” the blonde whispers, gaze unwavering; he probably sees everything in sepia mixed with psychedelic blurs of colour—sometimes he droops like the air he breathes is polluted and at other times he’s so invigorated.

Jongin gives up on trying to get Sehun’s attention; he knows better than anyone else that those ears don’t hear pleas and requests or the desperation in Jongin’s tone; those eyes don’t see anything more than mirages.

---

It has been a month—not since Sehun’s transformation, Jongin doesn’t know when that happened but since he’s been cognizant of the change.

He knows he needs to tread carefully.

He can never tell which side of the coin is going to face upwards.

---

“Going out tonight,” Sehun comments nonchalantly, running a hand through his hair and tugging a few more buttons of his shirt open.

“It’s really late.” That’s all Jongin only has to offer. It takes one misstep to set off the firecracker—one moment to activate an explosive tirade—and Jongin is scared of that. The TV show Jongin is in the middle of watching cuts to reveal a newsreader reporting a series of serial killings in one of the shadier districts of Seoul.

Jongin wishes the blonde had so much as a strand of concern for his health and safety; Sehun proves he doesn’t when he barks a hollowly careless laugh before striding for the door.

He throws four vicious words over his shoulder before leaving.

Mind your own business.

---

“Why can’t you take care of yourself for once?” Jongin demands as Sehun stumbles in indubitably injured, in extreme pain and possibly drunk (or very drunk judging by the flush of his otherwise pale face). The blonde fixes his bloodshot gaze on Jongin’s face and a guttural noise that resembles a poorly-suppressed grunt escapes his throat.

“I’m fine. You don’t understand!” Sehun insists with a huff before seating himself and rubbing at a sore spot on his knee.

“YOU’RE NOT!” Maybe he’s fallen off the edge—been pushed to the brink of insanity—burdened under the rubble of his partner’s immaturity—whatever that feeling of adrenaline-fuelled anger has ever been called. Jongin has snapped because he can’t take his fears and worries anymore. “You’re not fine. You don’t understand. You don’t understand how worried I am all the time—”

“You’re not my ing mother so stop worrying.”

“I can’t help it.”

Sehun’s response is a glare as he storms into their bedroom.

Jongin plays housewife and tries to scrub bloodstains out of the carpet for the fifth time that month as he sighs. He never quite knows what to expect; sometimes it’s utter vulnerability that stabs at his heart and at other times it’s rage and torrents of profanities.

Another sleepless night awaits him.

---

Sometimes Jongin feels like he’s looking at a mirage—a Sehun that can’t possibly be the real one he fell in love with years ago. He didn’t fall in love with this shell of a man. He didn’t fall in love with this pendulum amongst emotions—not with this unstable man who ricochets between smirks and tears in the blink of an eye.

Not with this person.

But he doesn’t love this person any less; he’s come to understand that even if it’s only an illusion of Sehun—even if it seems so unreal, so impossible, Jongin possesses the capacity to love only Oh Sehun.

---

He dreams of fields of daisies and holding Sehun’s hands that night—paler than marble, softer than silk.

Jongin wants to dream forever, if only to be with the man he knows.

However much of an illusion it is.

---

The crash that explodes mere centimetres away from his left ear leaves Jongin cringing. The beautiful porcelain dish his mother had given him eons ago is now reduced to shards on the wooden floorboard.

Sehun is frowning.

Sehun’s fingers are bleeding; there are cuts from the porcelain shards he gingerly picks up in an attempt to compensate for his actions.

Jongin fumbles for bandages—but bandages won’t fix anything; they’ll cover the wound, they’ll hide it from sight but they won’t heal it.

He still finds them anyway.

---

He finds Sehun slumped on the couch one evening.

Ordinarily silence is of the norm for them; Sehun spends almost every day avoiding Jongin and Jongin, left with no choice internally questions what could possibly be wrong. Tonight is different; Sehun is solemn and red-eyed and doesn’t ignore the darker male as he sits down beside him. No—a solitary tear traces the contour of his face and suddenly Sehun is saying something that is smothered by his sobbing.

Jongin has never seen such a rush of emotions before; it frightens him.

In a display of strength, Jongin draws Sehun close until the blonde is cradled against his chest and wisps of his hair tickle the older male’s neck. Arms creep around his back and cling to him, like dewdrops to the undersides of leaves; with such strength but they’re slipping—slowly, surely, just like those dewdrops.

Jongin wishes he could fight Sehun’s demons, that he could somehow take on at least parts of everything that troubles his lover if only to ease the burden.

“What’s wrong?”

It’s not a coherent answer he receives but fragments of sentence, saturated in panic.

“D-don’t leave me—don’t—” the blonde hiccups. Slender fingers run through his pale hair. Jongin’s heart constricts—where did this idea come from? Has he ever done anything to imply being at the end of the line? It’s only as he holds Sehun that he realises how fragile the blonde is; Jongin can feel bone under his touch, directly under skin. He sees black crescents punched under bloodshot eyes. It’s straw-like hair that touches his fingertips, it’s dried lips that are pressed against his.

And if I have, I’m so sorry Sehun-ah

“I would never,” Jongin promises in a rushed breath, mind hazy from both exhaustion and concern. Sehun’s sobs continue, spontaneously rising and falling until his reddened eye converge and he dozes fitfully with his head on his partner’s lap.

“I really would never leave.”

As uncomfortable as it is, they don’t bother with dinner and fall asleep on the couch.

---

Three days later Sehun has swung back into his previous habits—alcohol, fights and late nights, like a ghost, out on the streets of Seoul. And Jongin has dutifully returned to worrying as is his role in this poisonous cycle.

Though he knows that even if he doesn’t scrabble past the surface no matter how much he scratches at it, even if he never digs past the first centimetre (let alone to the root of the matter) Jongin will make sacrifices to ensure Sehun’s safety. If it takes up his time, energy or money then so be it, the dark-haired male decides—in the end

it’s Sehun

or a meaningless life

and if needs to bandage wounds or rush for hangover medication

then he’ll do it.

and if nothing changes

then Jongin can only be that support—that emotional crutch, if you will

and hope his sacrifices weren’t in vain