The horizon is tipping lower by the time Kyungsoo makes it back to his house, with the orange orb of the sun beginning to emerge between the buildings, and with it comes the orange streaks of daylight. A sleepless night barely adds to Kyungsoo’s fatigue, since he is sadly immune to deprivation of rest, and he did not hesitate to take several shots of bitter espresso before he left the coffee shop. Bitter and scalding, unkind to the taste buds. And at home, he washes down the caffeine stimulants with tonsil-burning bottles of spirits, because perhaps the depressives will balance out the buzz. He never considers the health consequences, or maybe he does, but they just don’t matter to him.

A strange emotion creeps into him when he wonders if Baekhyun is still at the bar and then realises that it will, obviously, be closed now. Of course not, he scolds himself, only idiots are up at this time. Idiots and the broken-hearted. Drug-addicts and alcoholics. Scum of the earth.

Every elevation of the chest is painful and straining, with cheeks hallow and caving. It hurts, over his heart, and the sickening agony in his stomach is almost too much to bear. His head is pounding and it all feels like the world is about to concave. Maybe it’s the drink, but everything is spinning, ceiling and all, blown out of proportion and filtered into a circular haze, blurred on the edges of his vision. Kyungsoo was never good at drinking in the first place, and the sheer amount of toxins in his body are poisoning his every thought; everything is distorted and grotesque, the imp of the erse settling rather comfortably in the deepest corners. He thinks that he is about to throw up, and with a groan rolls onto his side, but that just brings a heavier tidal wave of sickness and he retches. But Kyungsoo’s stomach is now empty and every convulsion of the stomach is dry.

‘Jongin,’ he murmurs so gently, the name breaking over his lips. His eyes flutter shut and he cries then, with deep sobs that rack his frail body, and it almost looks as though the tiniest prod would shatter him. Oddly, that’s what Jongin was always afraid of. Kyungsoo began drinking that evening in hopes that the alcohol would drown Jongin’s name out of his memory, but the only name he forgot was his own.

The telephone rings, the house phone, and Kyungsoo blindly heaves himself up, stumbling inelegantly to the kitchen. ‘Hello?’ He croaks, sniffling.

As the voice on the other side replies with formalities and ends with “I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo drops the phone. Not everything registered in his fuzzy mind, but he heard the only two words he had to...

Jongin is... dead?

**

A crescendo of paper symphony wakes Kyungsoo. He moans loudly, hand snapping straight to his forehead to the dull ache where it hurts the most. On all four sides are his office walls, dark and unwelcoming and covered in post-it notes. Sort of. It seems trashed. Broken and cluttered and distressed, and Kyungsoo briefly wonders if he was robbed.

Sometimes, it may be best not to remember things. He chokes on thin air when he recalls the events of the previous night. Jongin.

The time on the clock reads 10:15. But the open window reveals to Kyungsoo that it is evening, not morning. A chill sweeps through the room again, and he shivers. ‘Why?’ He mutters repeatedly as he goes to close the window. Pain is pulsating through his entire being, body and soul and organs and every single cell. He feels it deeply.

He drags himself out of the office, steps slow and heavy and filled with intent as he moves to the bedroom. The bed in there is still made, untouched for over twenty-four hours now. Jongin’s clothes are still there, hanging in the wardrobe, and Kyungsoo gently runs a hand over the cloth. He’s not drunk anymore, and reality hits hard. Fabric against skin, Kyungsoo wonders why this burns harder than any secret affair, why Jongin’s disappearance from existing is something so hard to comprehend, why Kyungsoo even cares. This is the worst kind of goodbye, he thinks, because at least during the delusions of crying and drinking he had hope. Sobriety brings a fresher, more stabbing pain, one that tugs at the nerves and needles its way into your veins.

A purse of the lips, a sad nod of the head, and he let’s go. This is not a metaphor. Kyungsoo doesn’t believe that he will ever let go of Jongin. Never. He will hold that boy in his mind, and probably his heart, forever. It is impossible to simply forget. Recognition and acceptance is something Kyungsoo is good at, and he knows that the next few weeks, months, perhaps a year, are going to continue to hurt. Of course it will, but he has no choice. His writing has taken him away from the social scene, however, so he is at a loss of people to turn to.

And so, Kyungsoo takes a shirt and trousers from the wardrobe, boxer shorts and shoes, and he lays them out on the bed. Next, he showers, letting the water wash the alcohol-tainted sweat from his skin and allowing the water to splash over his drooping features. The full nine yards are not wasted this evening – cologne, brushed hair, a fresh appearance that makes Kyungsoo feel a little better about himself. Then, he returns to the office. With no regards for a bin just yet, he tears the post-its from the walls until there is nothing left. Left behind is a white-washed box with a sea of colourful balls of paper on the floor, empty beer cans, chaotic and wild, with the rainbow on the floor contrasting the general depressive atmosphere of the room. He sweeps his eyes over the floor, seeing this as his last white flag of surrender. This is it.

Minutes tick by before all the crumpled paper balls are in the bin, followed by the beer cans and half-drunk vodka bottle, and Kyungsoo winces every time he picks up another. His excessiveness the previous night is discomforting him. Soon, the room is empty bar a desk with his laptop resting on top. Something so bland opposes Kyungsoo, but he hastily takes more post-it notes out of the drawer of the desk. Blue. Jongin’s favourite colour. One per post-it, he writes himself a step by step plan, pinning them on the wall to make it a little less bare.

A step back, a little smile of admiration. I’ll make it up to you, Jongin, he thinks. Because although he did nothing wrong, the remorse and guilt is eating away at his sensibility and distorting his thoughts. Through the haze, he can only see that he still loves Jongin, and that he broke his heart right before he died. Kyungsoo must accept some responsibility for this death, and he wants to do one last thing for Jongin. I promise.

**

Step one: meet new people.

A chemical reaction is something that is irreversible, so does this mean that, as love is a chemical reaction, it cannot be undone? Kyungsoo entertains such philosophical questions that possess no real answer as he makes his way to the bar. Drinking is not his intention; his head still hurts despite the painkillers, and the thought of alcohol alone is enough to make him gag.

‘Back again?’ Bartender inquires, quirking a bushy eyebrow in his direction. Kyungsoo gives a meek smile in return, followed by a shrug, ‘Reality is a .’

Bartender laughs, ‘Aye, I hear you. Same as yesterday?’

‘Nah, I can’t bear to drink. A Coke will do.’

‘A Coke?!’ He almost snorts, before shaking his head a little, ‘Well, if you say so.’

Kyungsoo slips onto his barstool, feeling the soft jazz seep into his body. Thoughts blur into sound and his eyes close automatically. Calm. Tranquil. The first time in months, maybe.

'How’d it go?’ A voice inquires, perhaps a little higher pitched than Kyungsoo’s and several octaves above the Bartender’s.

‘What?’ Kyungsoo asks, doing his best not to seem irritated by the intrusion of thoughts as he turns. Familiarity, and his entire face soften, lips curving up into arcs of happiness and he finally feels... relieved. ‘Baekhyun.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

‘Kyungsoo,’ the other responds, almost mockingly, and Kyungsoo wonders whether he seemed a little too excited when he saw Baekhyun.

‘So. How’d it go?’ He repeats, sliding in easily beside Kyungsoo. The latter his lips and considers awkwardly, feeling the pain repeatedly throb through his chest as he says, ‘Um, not so well.’

‘What happened?’

‘He...’ Kyungsoo chokes.

A hand on the back, between the shoulder blades, right at the tender spot. Baekhyun seems unfazed by having his hands on an almost stranger, ‘It’s alright. It can’t be that bad, right?’

‘He died,’ Kyungsoo finally stutters, lump in his throat straining the words and bending them to breaking point.

What does one say in this situation? Baekhyun’s skin runs pale and his eyes widen exponentially, ‘W-what?’

‘We had a huge fight....’ He tails off. Unable to continue. Unable to bear the hideous imagery his mind whipped up. A writer’s curse; the sick vividity of his thoughts. Head in hands, bent at an acute angle over the bar, tears inflaming his red eyes as the awful feeling creeps back into him.

‘I still remember everything,’ and he’s crying, tears rolling freely over smooth skin now, ‘The way his voice sounds when it’s happy. And it’s a long time since I’ve heard that. His laugh. The way he smells. His favourite clothes. I remember everything. It’s ing destroying me from the inside out. I ended it so badly. This would be so much easier if we had been through an amiable, mutual break-up. But it was probably my fault that he was speeding. Holy ... Baekhyun – it was my fault. Jongin is dead because of me. I did this. I pushed him away and I broke everything apart. I murdered him. I’ll never forgive myself. Never. Never never never. I can’t. I’m a horrible person.’

Mania ensues as the monologue progresses, and beneath Baekhyun’s hand, Kyungsoo is growing more rigid, muscle hardening like iron. He wants to draw away but knows somehow that Kyungsoo needs this comfort, whether it comes from a stranger or not. Eyebrows furrowed into the epitome of sympathy – or is it pity? – Baekhyun his fingers delicately over Kyungsoo’s prominent spine. ‘Ssshh...’ he soothes, ‘It’ll be okay. I know it’s all awful now. It must be so hard. But, I’ll stay at this bar as long as you want me to.’ His words are soft and spoken eloquently despite their simplicity, uttered quietly like a secret.

Kyungsoo finds the voice calming as it drifts into his subconscious, a tender hug to the more negative thoughts. ‘I ed up.’ He mutters, stifling more sobs.

‘No, no you didn’t. Everybody makes mistakes and it just so happens that you made one at the wrong time. This doesn’t mean it’s your fault.’

Kyungsoo is silent, then. Baekhyun retracts the hand from his back, sensing a prickly aura around him now. Defences up, like a hedgehog.

‘Kyungsoo, go home.’ Baekhyun starts.

‘I can’t.’ He says dejectedly, sick and tired. He can almost feel how heavy the bags beneath his eyes are, or perhaps that’s the weight of his tears.

‘You have to. Kyungsoo, you need to rest in this situation.’

‘My entire house reminds me of him, and I don’t want to be alone right now.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

Full of confusion and a little startled, Kyungsoo looks up from his palms. His heart just skipped a beat. Baekhyun wants to smile, seeing the little twinkle in his eyes. ‘What?’

‘I’ll come with you.’ The smaller repeats, ‘Just to make sure you’re okay.’

‘You’re too nice,’ Kyungsoo muses with a hint of suspicion, narrowing his big eyes.

Baekhyun shrugs, ‘It’s a curse.’

Heart-shaped lips turn up into a brief, maybe a little broken, smile, weak and defeated but disguising underlying relief. A wave of excitement veiled by grievance and clouded eyes.

‘Alright,’ he shrugs. Once everything is gone, Kyungsoo realises, it doesn’t matter. He wonders if spontaneity will become regularity for him, and he will invite strangers over to his house often now. After all, he does not really mind the prospect of death anymore.

Steadily, the two men climb to their feet and start out of the bar. ‘Do you believe in life after death?’ Kyungsoo pries, never making eye contact despite Baekhyun’s interrogative glance.

‘Hmm,’ he hums thoughtfully, ‘Maybe.’ Baekhyun does not believe in life after death, but the most he will offer in this situation is a tentative judgement, because he feels cruel announcing the imminent oblivion of someone who is in a state of remorse.

‘I don’t think I do.’ Kyungsoo offers, ‘But. Maybe Jongin is still there, somewhere. And maybe when I die, I’ll know that he’s out there somewhere too.’

Baekhyun shrugs a little, ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

It is apparent that Baekhyun doesn’t particularly believe him. He just turns his face upward to the night sky. ‘Tell me about him. About Jongin, I mean.’

Kyungsoo isn’t even remotely surprised by the question. He expected Baekhyun to ask at some point. A hum, a brief moment of concentration, an organisation of thoughts scrambled among the stars. ‘He was... Something.’

‘Something?’ Baekhyun snorts.

‘Yeah,’ Kyungsoo manages a small chuckle at the weakness of his words, coming from a supposed writer who should be shredding an entire dictionary into his speeches. ‘I’m not always very good at talking. But okay... I’ll try. Kim Jongin is hard to describe. No harder than myself, though. When he met, he was sort of a bad boy – he used to smoke and linger in hallways after lesson had started. Very mysterious, a complete enigma to everyone. But when we started to speak, I realised that he was just lonely. But then again, he was always happy when we talked. God, his smile was so heart-warming. It melted me every time I saw it. He was gorgeous, tanned skin and deep eyes and built like an athlete. When I saw him dance for the first time, I fell in love all over again. He moves like a ballerina, yet injected with several ounces of masculinity. Beautiful, really. He dances street sometimes, and it’s so powerful. Mostly, he dances contemporary, and you can’t take your eyes off him. So graceful and elegant, like all the emotion he has ever experienced goes into the mere extension of the arm.’

Baekhyun notes the use of the present tense, as though, if Jongin’s soul truly has left his body, it’s still dancing like this somewhere among the cosmos. Twirling between the meteorites and pirouetting through nebulae, a grande jette over the sky and a sissonne to cut through the expanse blackness.

‘When I watched him, I knew that his “bad boy” exterior was plastic – produced through a combination of self-consciousness and strict parents. Anything to escape, I suppose. He was sweet, really, tender and loving and an absolute God-send in bed. I won’t go into that, though. He was amazing. Everything I had ever dreamed of. Smart, but never exceptionally academic – definitely more physical. Though, once, he tried to write a poem for me, because he knows I love literature. I can’t remember it word for word, but I have it handwritten in a box at home. I might show it to you.’

Baekhyun pauses, lost in translation as the words sink into him. ‘I wish Chanyeol had talked about me like that.’

‘Maybe he does.’ Kyungsoo muses, ‘You never know. Maybe when he met his new boyfriend, he told him how amazing you are and how he wishes he never lost you. And then his new boyfriend said, “Damn, I wish somebody talked about me like that.”’

‘Yeah, well, either way, he loves this new guy now.’

‘My point is, you never know. Anything could happen. He could be unhappy in this relationship, thinking about you. Or he could be ecstatic, glad to move on. Maybe he thinks about you from time to time. Maybe he’s just grateful for ever knowing you. Either way, you shaped his life somehow, changed some aspects of his person, and Chanyeol is whoever he is today because of you. You contributed.’

Silence hangs between the two, lacking the weight of tension and instead filled with the sentiment of comfort. Baekhyun liked Kyungsoo, he decides. His big eyes speak words that his mouth probably never could, but when he does speak he does so with a confident eloquence. Soon, they arrive outside Kyungsoo’s house, stepping through the barrier of artificial warmth.

'Nice place.’

‘I guess,’ Kyungsoo shrugs. He tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter, and points around the room, ‘That island in the centre? That’s where Jongin made me breakfast yesterday morning. The table is where we ate. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was trying to make up for cheating on me. Maybe I should have seen the signs.’

‘Nah, it’s not your fault.’ Baekhyun grimaces, ‘You need to let go, though. Don’t think of this as “The place Jongin used to live.” Think of it as yours, now.’

‘Harder than it seems,’ Kyungsoo sighs, tracing his fingers over the lines on the wooden countertop and remembering how Jongin used to trace the lines on his palm. He can still almost feel the fragility behind his touch. ‘But don’t worry. I have a plan for myself. I’m going to buy a new place.’

‘Oh, really? But this place is nice enough.’

‘I guess, but I don’t think I’ll be able to move on properly here. I bought this house with him. It’s filled with too much nostalgia for me and it’s making me sick. I don’t even think I’ll be able to sleep in my bed tonight.’

Both of them sink into the seats across the table from one another, two acquaintances sharing stories with no real significance in the big scheme of things. Jokes and laughter, a few smiles to suppress the pain of existence, and everything seemed remotely okay. Maybe Kyungsoo could live like this.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Hours. And soon it was one a.m. again, a better one a.m. than the night before. This time, Kyungsoo is sober and smiling a little, his eyes are open and honest this time – stories pouring from his mouth like the gentle, easy trickle of a waterfall babbling over the rocks. Baekhyun listens attentively, quipping in with gentle remarks or offering an opinion. It feels comfortable, conversation flowing smoothly between them. After all, there is a lot to talk about.

Sleepy fatigue pulls eyelids down like anchors, and leaned on elbows, the two boys come to a mutual decision that it is time for bed.

‘Sleep on the sofa, if you like,’ Kyungsoo offers, ‘But you can go home if you want.’

‘I think I’d better get back. Minseok will be wondering where I am. Thank you for the offer, though.’

Numbers are exchanged, and Baekhyun reluctantly utters a “goodbye.”

‘Hey,’ Kyungsoo halts him before he leaves. ‘I’m cleaning out Jongin’s things tomorrow. I’d appreciate help. You can bring Minseok, too.’

‘Sure thing,’ Baekhyun smiles, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Kyungsoo.’

‘Eleven a.m.?’

‘Eleven a.m.’ He confirms, before he leaves the house. It feels cold and empty outside, alone.

Kyungsoo sags with relief, in a daze of relative happiness, although a small pain still lingers stubbornly in his chest, refusing to be ignored. A smile still tugging on the corners of his lips, he crosses to the office, where he tugs down the first post-it note on the wall. Step one: complete.

He falls asleep in his bed, despite his earlier wonderings, with the scent of Jongin in his nostrils. But Kyungsoo is happy, dreaming like this. He feels free, relieved. Jongin is no longer here, but he will remain in Kyungsoo’s heart as long as it beats. Kyungsoo is fully aware that he may never be able to move on – be able to love someone as much as he adores Jongin – but he is determined to treat this as a new beginning. It is what Jongin would have wanted, for Kyungsoo to establish himself as a writer and live the life he dreamed. Sometimes, you have to lose something to gain a whole lot more. And no matter how much it hurts, Kyungsoo will keep his promise.

I’ll make it up to you, Jongin. I promise.

a/n I'm so sorry THAT UPDATE WAS SO SHORT AND THE ENDING WAS CRAPPY AND I DON'T THINK IT WAS THAT WELL WRITTEN IM SORRY. But ah yeah, this is the latest chapter. Another update will be soon, and Kyungsoo will continue with the steps of re-development, but chances are I'm going to include more angst and make it sad again, which I won't apologise for because I love angst omg. Thanks for reading!