[Come away now, gentle bones

The winds will take us home.]


--

I remember a path, it's not a particularly spectacular path, in fact it's unexciting for the most part. It leads towards the older part of town, bare concrete snaking between a large field on the right and something unexceptional on the left. I don't remember much of the left, because that is where I usually stand. So most of the time I'm looking towards the large field at the sunset. 



I am walking with someone. In my memories. I'm walking on the left and someone is on my right. But every time I try to remember who it is, all I see is the sun. It doesn't feel like I'm there. Instead it feels like I'm walking with a certain stirring within me that tells me it's a dream. It's a dream and I can wake up anytime I want. All I have to do is shut my eyes tight. Many times I feel like shutting my eyes. I want to wake up because it feels like I'm watching myself from afar. I'm watching the world like a movie from the cheap seats of the theatre and reality is being fed to me reel by reel. My peripheral vision limited by rows of other people in front of me and by the thick velvet curtains that frame the screen. I'm a little too far off to the side. 



We walk and we reach the older part of town. At least that's what I assume it is. The field disappears behind some buildings and the backdrop of the left is now a mirror image of the right. We stop at a bus stop and we sit. I'm on the left again. Suddenly certain things become vivid- there's more depth now. I can feel the texture of the gravel beneath my shoes and I can hear buses arriving, then leaving just as quickly. But the world beyond that is still ambiguous, like it's hastily drawn out in my mind. It changes from time to time, a building turns into a row of houses, that turns into an empty lane, then it becomes a park. 



But the steady warmth beside me doesn't change. And no matter how I want to will myself to wake up, to find myself safely back in the theatre, I don't want to lose that feeling. A bus arrives and we are standing now, the person to my right looks at me and I think I remember a smile, and I know it's a beautiful one. It's familiar and the warmth fills my bones. Suddenly the me sitting in the theatre disappears, and I'm fully here in the bus stop. I can feel the wind against my skin. It could have been raining. It doesn't matter. 



All that matters is I feel at home. 



-------



Himchan looks out the window that has somehow almost always reminded him of the holes on a belt. He watches as the wing of the plane tilts and points towards the emerging ground below. The city lights of South Korea spreads out like the lines on his palm. They are still comfortably high up in the sky, it might take two hours before they reach the airport. He takes out the folded piece of paper, feeling the aged texture beneath his fingers. He unfolds it and feels the weight of the world against his fingertips as he brushes the subtle dip of the words on the paper. 



To my baby, our past, 
and his future. 
And to myself, forgotten. 



He folds the piece of paper and puts it in an envelope. He sends it when he returns to Korea.

--

[As we watch our lives pass from the cheap seats, 
I’ll write you all the love in the world on this crumpled piece of paper.
I hope it’s enough because it’s all I have in exchange for some affection.]



--

Himchan gets the call in the night. 



He starts his car and drives fast, it isn't until he stops at the red light that he realises his hands are shaking. He clenches his fists against the steering wheel and tries to breathe. 



Himchan stops in front of door 59 a gust of air rushes to greet him as it opens. He walks esitently towards the bed. 



The man lies still in the bed, surrounded by plastic tubes and a mask that kept him breathing. The monotonous beeping rang out throughout the room and Himchan catches his breath in case it somehow upsets the balance in the room and the beeping would stop. But it doesn't, and no matter how he closes his eyes shut and opens them again the room remains the same. The name atop the patient's bed doesn't change. 



Jung Daehyun has always been beautiful. Back when they were still young and stupid, he had been beautiful. And now even with half his face hidden, even with abrasions up the side of his face, he is beautiful. 



"I'm so sorry baby..." Himchan threads careful fingers through Daehyun's hair, voice coming out hoarse through the tears, "I'm so so sorry."



--

"SHOTS ALL AROUND!" 



Someone screams and the club explodes into cheers. Everyone reeks of alcohol and people have started to dance on the tables. The club is a mess barely two hours into the faculty party. Himchan is high, his eyes are glazed over and his mind is desperately trying to come up with the right words to describe the dancing lights reflected against the glass in his hand. 



There is a faint shuffling by his side, rounds of 'excuse me's going off before he makes it to Himchan's side. Himchan looks up and sees the boy- that boy from the cemetery. His lips are moving but his voice is drowned out by the music. He leans in closer to Himchan and the latter can only hope he isn’t blushing, "can we go somewhere else? To talk?" 



Yes.



And Himchan thinks it's beautiful- that of all the people in the world, it had to be him. It had to be him that was being led by the wrist away from the throbbing club by the most beautiful boy in the world.


He thinks it’s beautiful when he loses himself in the boy’s sheets again that night and he feels something within him rekindle. He would deny this in the morning, but at that moment it doesn’t matter. He is safe.


He writes a poem during lectures the next day. Reconstructing the previous night on paper. Himchan sees the boy in the world around him, the sun against his skin, the wind in his hair and the memory finds permanence in words. He returns to the memory once in a while, and he continues to find himself in the boy’s sheets, while the boy himself lives in the pages of his book. He doesn’t speak of him in the day when everyone’s watching and his mother is expecting him to bring that girl home, the one he kisses in the morning. He feels braver after each memory and in time he allows himself to title his poems. He calls the first one Jung Daehyun. 


--

Himchan thinks it's some sort of sick joke that Daehyun is washed up on his shores, barely alive. He takes the wet cotton ball and dabs it on Daehyun's lips, constantly checking for the rise and fall of his chest. Then he prays to whoever, whatever that the monitors will not stop beeping. 



Himchan has never liked hospitals. The sterile smell mixes in with the faint hint of wet food that lingers in the cold and it makes him sick to the bones. He gets frustrated and scared by people rushing here and there- the people who know what's going on. Himchan doesn't. But he knows it can never be a good thing and he can't help it. 



He's awaken by a tap on his shoulders and it is then Himchan realizes he had fallen asleep. The hospital closes in on him again and the world resumes. 



"I'm sorry I had to wake you sir," Himchan notices the mild frustration on the nurse's face and he doesn't look at all sorry, "but I have some administrative stuff to settle with you if you don't mind." 



Himchan nods and stands, smoothing strands of his hair in place. 



"My name is Yoo Youngjae and I'm the nursing intern attached to this ward. May I know your relationship with the patient?" Youngjae's smile is slight and stood in contrast with the crease of his brows and the 'pleased to provide you with excellent service' badge on his chest. 



"I'm a friend." Himchan says and he tries to ignore the skepticism on Youngjae's face. 



"Alright. Does Mr. Jung have any relatives we can contact? Parents perhaps?" Youngjae has an annoying habit of clicking his pen. 



"No." Himchan watches as Youngjae's lips press into a fine line.



"Okay... Thank you for your time Mister-" Youngjae leaves the last word having as a question. 



"Himchan. Just call me Himchan."



Youngjae nods again, expression visibly relaxed as he bows and exits the room. 



---

Himchan recalls a story he read when he was younger about a boy who sinks into a coma and wakes up in another world in which darkness grows around him like trees. It's a strange story and Himchan hopes Daehyun isn't going through anything quite as harrowing as the boy in the story. Himchan doesn't remember much of the story but he knows the boy wakes up eventually, so he clings to that. 



That his boy would wake up and come back to him. 




-----

"Hey! You're still here." Himchan hears the door click from behind him and the man enters the room with a file. Himchan nods and offers a polite smile as he steps aside to allow space for Youngjae. 



"His condition is stable now. It's just..." And Youngjae trails off, making a vague gesture with his free hand as he struggles to find a subtle way to put it.



"We have to wait for him to wake up." 



Himchan quotes Youngjae's words from a day ago when they had just met 



He nods, "you should get some rest." And Himchan says he will. But youngjae sees him in the hospital too much.



"Mr. Jung is lucky." Youngjae says ambiguously, eyes trained on the vase-full of daisies on the side table. Himchan wants to ask him what exactly it is he means but there's a beeper on Youngjae that goes off and he pulls a mask to cover the lower half of his face. He smiles and it shows in his eyes, "gotta go, the other patients need me." And he disappears, leaving Himchan to be swallowed by the soft humming of the air conditioning. 


--

"My son isn't- Tell me you aren't, Himchan. Tell me you're normal. Please." 



His mother is crying as she shuts the door behind her, leaving his father shouting profanities in the living room. He isn't going to help with the situation, but no matter how much his mother tries, she can't either. Himchan is crying too as he tries to forget everything. Forget that he's in his room. Forget his attraction towards this one boy in class, the one with the dark, short hair and glasses. Forget how he always wanted to take his glasses off his face and stare into his eyes. Forget that he had kissed him, and forget the bad reaction he got after. 



"Tell me what your teacher told me isn't true, Himchan. Tell me son. Tell me you're normal!" His mother is begging and he hates to see her like this- He has never seen her like this. Himchan wants to run away as he tucks his body further into himself. He's screaming, and the noise makes his head explode.



It isn't true. Himchan screams. I'm normal, I'm normal, I'm normal.



He feels arms around him and he's in his mother's embrace. He shakes, body torn by sobs. He tries to breathe but it comes out ragged. He tries to convince himself he's telling the truth.



I'm normal, I'm normal, I swear I'm normal



--

The hospital is alive. 



The symbiosis of patients and doctors keeps it breathing. Himchan can hear its heartbeat, quick and strong during the early hours or the morning and he isn't part of it. So he watches as it swallows him alive. 



Himchan has his hand around Daehyun’s and his mind wrapped around a memory. Himchan has run out of things to say to Daehyun. All he can offer are repeated ‘sorry’s and ‘I love you’s. It’s almost two days after the accident, the flowers by Daehyun’s bed have assumed a sad-looking droop.



Daehyun stirs in his sleep. 



He is walking blindly in the dark. Everything is black and darkness is growing around him like trees. He doesn’t know where he’s going anymore but he wants to get out. And then there’s a ball of light. A flickering on the earth beneath his feet. And Daehyun follows behind its little dance. He runs after it and he’s breathless, the static whips against his body and he wants to scream past the deafening rush by his ears. He feels like he’s drowning when suddenly the ball of light explodes and he’s engulfed in light. It takes him a while to get accustomed to the light, he sees it even with his eyes closed, swimming in the form of little threads and bright spots behind his eyelids. Daehyun is on a path, bare concrete bleached white and there’s a field a little over to his right. He looks back and the darkness disappears. The path seems familiar and he’s led forward by intuition. He walks and walks and there seems to be no end, like the path never runs out. Daehyun is running again, he feels the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the cold against his skin. He hears something in the distance and he stops. Someone is calling his name and Daehyun closes his eyes and wills himself to listen. 



Daehyun. Daehyun. Daehyun.



The voice sounds urgent now, it's growing closer and suddenly everything around him is swirling. The ground beneath him gives way and he's falling, he wants to open his eyes but he's afraid. This must really be the end. Daehyun thinks and at that moment he hears the voice again-



Daehyun please. Please wake up.



Daehyun opens his eyes before the fall, but he feels the impact of the contact nonetheless. The air is knocked from his chest and he struggles to breathe. The white light disappears behind his eyes, taking with it the darkness. Everything is a blur and someone is shaking his shoulders.



"Daehyun wake up! Daehyun!"



It's that voice from before and everything becomes solid. There are needles in his hand and the machine beeps quicker as he regains consciousness. He’s in a bed and there are people around him. The owner is holding onto Daehyun’s shoulders. 


Daehyun panics. 


He tears the mask off his face, where am I? He says and he sits up on the bed. 


“Calm down, Mr Jung. You’re in the hospital. You were in a car accident. You have been asleep for two days.”


Daehyun feels the cotton sheets beneath his fingers. He’s here now. He’s here and his head is hurting, the needles in his arm are real and he feels the tautness of his skin there. 


“Daehyun?”


The voice says again and Daehyun looks up to see a man about his age looking at him, there are tears b in his eyes and Daehyun wonders if he’s part of the hospital staff. Daehyun looks at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation. He had been in an accident, that’s what the doctor said. Where? How? Why? Had he been drinking too much?


“Daehyun? It’s me.” 


The man says, and a smile pulls at the corner of his lips and the smile fades when Daehyun’s frown deepens.


“It’s me, Himchan.”


Who are you? Daehyun says, suddenly afraid as the world explodes into a cacophony around him, leaving him buried under the rubble of the silence from before. 


You know me, Daehyun. The man is visibly shaken as Daehyun shakes his head. You know me. You know me. You know me, Daehyun. 


Daehyun presses his palms to his ears and shuts his eyes. The world around him has gotten too large. He doesn’t know the man. He knows him as the voice from his dreams. 



--

One of the nurses ushers Himchan out of the room and Himchan lets her. She waits until the door shuts before she speaks.


“I think maybe we should take this slowly, Mr Jung just woke up so he might be in a bit of a shock. Let’s hope it wears off a little while later. Maybe you can sit out here for a while.” 


In the evening Himchan finds himself in the same room. Everything has changed in the room, and Daehyun sits up on the bed in the middle of it all, he’s fiddling with the corner of his blanket, his brown hair sticking up in tufts from beneath the bandage. Daehyun is looking at him with that same expression, like he’s seeing Himchan for the very first time and the latter tries to convince himself that this is only temporary. Himchan stops in front of the bed and they look at one another. Daehyun opens his mouth to speak but bites down on his lips just as quickly. Daehyun’s eyes are warm sepia, they only ever appear brown in the sun, which now filters through the blinds in streaks. Daehyun is looking straight into Himchan’s eyes and his heart stops. There are butterflies in his stomach- those are the usual- he has gotten so used to them living in his system when Daehyun had been around. Everything stills and Himchan’s mind is running through it all, he tries to calm himself, think of something, anything. He thinks of the day’s headlines. A playground from the mid-fourties has been demolished. The playground near a cemetery. There’s going to be a new establishment in its place, it’s strange, but the renovation starts in a week. There’s a picture included in the newspapers and Himchan tries to imagine that he’s there instead, on the carousel. 


He’s sitting on a bench outside the hospital, the skies are darkening, rainclouds rolling in from a distance. 


“Hey! Why’d you do that? Mr Jung looked pretty shocked, I’ll give you that.” Youngjae is short of breath from making the sprint from the hospital stairs to the bench and he still manages to laugh.


“I don’t know.” Himchan says, he smiles at Youngjae’s amusement, the boy had a strange sense of humour. He could have told Youngjae the truth, that he’s afraid, so he ran. You spend your whole life loving someone and now he cracks his skull and looks at you like it’s the very first time he’s meeting you. But Himchan knows if he says anymore, he’ll break down. 


“He knocked his head up pretty bad. We’ll take this one step at a time. We’ll put him through therapy, see how much he’s forgotten and hopefully he’ll remember again.” Youngjae has his hands in the pockets of his scrubs, his fingers toying with something behind the fabric. 


“It’s not easy. But maybe you can try and find a way to help him remember?” Youngjae takes something out of his pocket and holds it towards Himchan. It’s a flower, the petals, now slightly curled like a sad bow towards the earth. “It’s the flowers you put beside Mr. Jung’s bed. Saved one before they removed them.” Himchan takes the flower from Youngjae’s hand and looks curiously at the boy. 


I’ve read somewhere that daisies represent hope.


Himchan thinks about what Youngjae says as the flower lies on his lap. It’s raining by the time Himchan gets home and he presses the daisy into his leather-bound notebook. 



--

“Do you love me, Himchan?” 


“Yes.” 


Himchan is seventeen and he’s looking at the most gorgeous girl in school. He knows she’s beautiful, she’s funny too and Himchan enjoys her company. They’re in his dormitory, it looks relatively clean now that he has kicked whatever laundry and stray stationery that lay on the floor under his bed. “Yes,” Himchan says, a little louder than before.


“Then show me.”  


Himchan wants to. He loves her. He’s been spending so much time with her, she’s been there for him and him for her. He does love her, he does. So he closes the distance between them and kisses her, tenderly at first but she wants more. Much, much more and soon they are lying on the bed, their clothes strewn all over the place. She has her lips on his collarbone and he closes his eyes. 


“I want you to make love to me.” She murmurs against his skin and he shuts his eyes tighter.


“Himchan.”


It starts to sound like a command more than anything. 


I can’t, Himchan says. I can’t.

---

Daehyun wakes up in the morning to find an envelope underneath his pillow. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads, 

the authority!

Daehyun raises a brow at that, the completely random sentence that’s written on one side of the paper. He turns it over,

That’s it, those were the exact words you said to me when I first saw you. The first time we met was in the first year of Middle school. We never spoke during the course of Middle School. You got transferred out halfway anyway because you got into too much trouble. You were screaming at the top of your lungs as you skateboarded past me down the halls. Anything with wheels was banned in the corridors, but you didn’t really have a thing for rules. But you weren’t so smug when you had detention. I told on you because I was the prefect. It was cold out that day, and you had to clean all the classrooms on the ground floor. You were so terribly slow, and it was getting late. I took pity on you. You looked really sad then (I’m sorry), you had these big glasses and braces and you couldn’t close your mouth very well because of all the metal in your mouth. I told your friend to tell you the teachers said you could leave.

I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but the teacher never said anything like that. 

You are Jung Daehyun. You’re twenty one going on twenty two now.

And I’m Kim Himchan, twenty three. 



That night Daehyun recites Himchan’s name over and over again before he falls asleep. But no matter how he allows himself to be washed along the ebb and flow of Kim-Him-Chan, the tides return him to shore and the only thing he remembers is the pain on Himchan’s face when he walks out the room. 

---
Daehyun is lying on the hospital bed, there’s a doctor taking notes beside him. His pencil scrapes against the paper and Daehyun cranes his neck to see what he’s writing, but the writing stops and the doctor turns his attention back to Daehyun.


“So Mr. Jung, tell me about yourself.” 


“My name is Jung Daehyun. I’m twenty one. I was born in Busan, I came to Seoul in Middle school because my parents wanted that.” Daehyun thinks about the letter that Himchan wrote to him. He remembers that particular memory, so he talks about that. He talks about his parents disowning him when he was in high school because they had a big fight. He tries to remember the years after that. He tries but he’s faced with a shut door. 


The sound of lead on paper resumes.


--

Daehyun is seventeen when his best friend sneaks him home. It’s late and his parents are asleep.  They are in his room and Daehyun is kissing him. It’s messy, there’s drool running down the boy’s lips as Daehyun shoves his tongue in his mouth. Daehyun crawls on top of him and feels his best friend’s against his own hardness. It’s weird, Daehyun laughs as he wipes the drool from the side of the boy’s mouth. They definitely need more practice but their hearts are beating so fast and Daehyun wonders if they’ll ever overcome this clumsiness. They pull apart and his best friend wrinkles his nose, like he always does when he’s feeling nervous and Daehyun presses a gentle kiss there.



They’re kissing again when the door flies open and the shouting starts. Soon Daehyun is on the streets, stopping at the entrance of the apartment to listen. He hears his best friend and his parents and Daehyun feels the words impale him. He closes his eyes and waits for the silence, like what he does later on when his parents find out that their youngest son has been sleeping with boys. 


But the silence doesn’t come.


And it hasn’t been quiet since his best friend’s funeral a few years later.


They tell the guests who sit in rows in front of the coffin that he had slipped and hit his head. He was a good student, a good son. Everyone nods, the boy is worth mourning now. Hypocrites, all of them. Daehyun knows his best friend had hung himself with a rope attached to the ceiling. Daehyun feels something inside him shift, like he wants to disappear, he wants nothing more than for the wind to carry him away.


Daehyun only finds the words to describe how he feels a few years later when he meets Himchan. The older boy tells him that loving someone is like burning to death on a stake. 

--





“So Mr Jung. How are you today?” Youngjae asks, absolutely serious as he takes Daehyun’s blood pressure.


“Please call me Daehyun, I don’t really respond to Mr. Jung.” 


“Was it that same unresponsiveness that sent you tumbling onto the road when the car was coming?” Youngjae says, dead-pan as he checks Daehyun’s bandages.


It was night on a street near Daehyun’s university. And Daehyun stepped off the curb and crossed the street. He had seen the headlights of the approaching car but he did it anyway. That’s what they told him. Daehyun doesn’t remember anything of that night, nor did he remember anything that happened in university. 


“Well, you’re a right ball of sunshine aren’t you.” Daehyun retorts, drawing laughter from Youngjae who winks at his direction.


“Sure Daehyunnie. If you say so. The patient is always right.”




--

"Hello?"



It's six and Himchan is barely awake as he picks up his phone. He sees an unknown number and hopes it isn't his boss. He never saves the number of anyone at work. An unknown number usually means he's running late on a dateline. 



"Himchan?"



Himchan hums a reply and thanks whatever higher power that it isn't his boss.



"This is Youngjae. From the hospital-"



"Is Daehyun alright?" Himchan interjects, feeling his head throb from sitting up so fast. Himchan hears laughing from the other end, "I love it when I get that reaction. Yes, Daehyun's doing just fine." 




Himchan lets out a frustrated growl as he kicks the sheets off childishly, "what the hell Youngjae."



"I just wanted to let you know that Daehyun's undergoing therapy now. It seems he doesn't remember anything from the past three years or so. There's a lapse between what he remembers from the end of high school or something. The hospital says they aren't obliged to tell you anything because you aren't related to Daehyun. But I think that's bull."



"Okay," Himchan says. His lips are moving but the word escapes as a strangled breath. He feels his chest tighten and the tears are pushed to the corners of his eyes. 



"Are you going to come see him?" Youngjae's voice is quieter now, like he's coaxing a young child from beneath the sheets. 



"I don't think either of us is ready." 



Youngjae changes the topic and talks a bit on the weather before someone on the other end calls for him to get changed and they both hang up. Himchan doesn't realize that he has been holding his breath, he exhales in short, stuttered breaths. He doesn't try to fight the delirious urge to cry, and he does. 




--

“You sure are durable aren’t you?” Youngjae says absentmindedly as he flips through Daehyun’s report from the doctor’s rounds. 


“Excuse me?” Daehyun replies, half-meaning his hostile tone. It’s a little too early and Youngjae has never failed to rile him up every morning.


Youngjae looks up from the file, oh, he says as if noticing Daehyun’s presence for the first time, “you’re recovering really well. That’s not too bad after taking such a hard hit.”


“Thanks. I’m glad to know.” Daehyun mumbles as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, but he already knows the grogginess only goes away sometime later when they give him his tasteless lunch on a tray. 


“Oh your letter’s here again by the way. I’ll come check on you again later, Daehyunnie.” Youngjae smiles and Daehyun thinks that maybe it had been a bad idea to be nice to Youngjae because now the younger man is walking all over him. He feels around for the letter and tears at the brown paper. 


You used to tell me you fell in love with the way I smoked. This was when we were friends. Before you loved me. I would ask you why and you said it was because I looked distant. I would stare as the ashes trickle towards the ground and close my eyes as I exhale through my nose. You said you didn’t know why but all you wanted to do was to sit beside me and watch me. I quit a little later when I realised the smoke gave you a headache. After which you took a liking to the way I wrote. It was all I ever knew how to do- write. I would write little poems, little sentences and drop them from the rooftop of my dormitory while I smoked. And after I quit, I wrote them down in a leather-bound notebook. You told me you wanted to read them, but I never let you. I never let anyone. You were angry- sort of- you never really stayed angry for long. But you didn’t speak to me for a week. To make it up to you I wrote you letters. One for each day of the week. It’s something we did when we disagreed. We would write to each other. 

I could never say angry at you for long. You always had said the wrong things, but somehow, it’s the wrong things that seemed right. You never let me keep the letters you gave me, because you always say they’re a thing of the past, they’re sad little things and we’re happy now. So we’d burn them in an old biscuit tin. 

You are Jung Daehyun, your eyes are only ever brown in the sun.

And I’m Kim Himchan, I’ve seen your eyes dance by the light of the fire. 


--


Himchan is twenty and he’s surrounded by textbooks, loose sheets of paper and undone laundry. He tells himself that today will be laundry day, but it sounds all too familiar- he said the same thing yesterday. But Himchan is too busy for laundry, he pours over the sentence written on the paper in front of him as the calendar picture of a scantily clad lingerie model watches over him. It’s an obligatory item to have, really. His hall head had gifted it to him at the beginning of the year and it stagnates at the month of January, even though it’s already September and the wind seeps into Himchan’s room through the crack in his windowsill. He snaps from his reverie when he hears a knock on his door. 



“Not now Daehyun I’m kinda busy!” Himchan shouts, but the knocking doesn’t stop. He groans and drags his weight over to the door, stretching like a house cat along the way. He’s greeted with Daehyun’s overbearing grin.



“It’s my free day,” Daehyun invites himself into Himchan’s room and sits himself on his bed. There isn’t much room anyway, so Himchan doesn’t mind too much, although he knows that Daehyun might have worn his pants for the entire month without washing. First years. Himchan rolls his eyes at the thought. Daehyun looks at Himchan expectantly and the older male, well? It’s my free day. 



“I’m busy Dae. I have this essay to submit-“ 


Himchan stops mid-sentence when Daehyun manages to snatch the piece of paper away. He begins to read aloud to himself. 


“What kind of topic is this?” Daehyun laughs and Himchan thinks that he’s the biggest uncultured bigot in the world.


“It’s an essay competition. It’ll be good to have something on your resume.”


Daehyun scoffs and stretches himself on the bed as Himchan groans and resumes his previous position. 



“What is love to you?” 



“I don’t know. Like burning to death on a stake?” Himchan hates when he has a writer’s block at the most inconvenient of times. It’s frustrating when there are so many words and he can’t even find one to describe how he feels. He throws himself on the bed and lands unceremoniously atop Daehyun. Daehyun winces, you’re so morbid, Himchan he’d always say, you’ve got to lay off the , Himchan. “What’s love to you then?” Himchan asks, genuinely curious. Daehyun is quiet for a while. “Maybe you could write about us.” He murmurs and Himchan shoots him an accusing glare. He’s used to Daehyun talking like that, so he finds himself writing down things that Daehyun says to him at 3 in the morning when they’re both drunk on sleep and things that he says when it’s quiet. He writes them down because they’re pretty and Himchan allows himself to imagine that Daehyun means what he says. So he waits for Daehyun’s obnoxious laughter, but nothing comes, and Daehyun is looking at him like he’s planning to paint Himchan from his memory. 


Daehyun traces the curve of Himchan’s lip with his finger and smiles when Himchan starts laughing obnoxiously. He’s ticklish and he’s looking into Daehyun’s eyes now, unguarded and pleading. For what Himchan doesn’t know, but he wants it, whatever it is. He wants all of it- 


And Daehyun gives.


They are kissing and the bed is too small for two so Daehyun holds him close and places soft kisses on the corner of his mouth. They have never kissed quite like this before. Himchan feels lightheaded, he feels himself fade from reality. 


Because with Daehyun, Himchan stops clipping his wings and waits for the timely draft to take him away. But Himchan writes to isolate the feeling. He writes to see himself, clear as day, then to forget it ever happened. Because memories are painful and the past is but a reminder of everything Himchan has lost. But he cheats and reads his writings over and over again, he leans on his memories like a crutch.


He wins the competition. 




--

Daehyun eyes are wide open now as he looks around the room and takes in everything- bedside table, check; door of room 59, check; thin white sheets beneath his fingers, check. He sighs in relief. The painkillers he takes forces him into a deep slumber, one that leaves him panicked every morning, afraid that he might wake up in the forest again and have the trees block out the sun. Daehyun reaches for the letter by his bedside drawer as if out of habit. He rips the paper from the adhesive and tries to focus his attention on the neat flow of words on the paper. 


You’re ticklish. That’s what I learnt when I first slept with you, so I avoided kissing your ribs the next time we collide, even though we were both tipsy and your dormitory smelled like damp wood and leftovers. It was after a party, you held my hand and led me past the movement of sweaty bodies and loud voices. We sat on the roof and you talked about the first time we met. You asked me why we ed the first time we met. You’ve always had a way with words and I was a er for talking about the past. I said I didn’t know. But I never told you it was because of what you said to me that night, and at that time it seemed right for us to end up kissing like we were going to die in a few hours. It was cold that night on the roof, the wind threatened to push us both over the ledge, but we were young and stupid and the sudden drafts gave us an excuse to hold on tightly to one another.  
I was seeing other people then, I woke up in an unfamiliar room every morning, guilt clinging to my bones like skin. And you’d sometimes tell me about the other boys you kiss. We’d laugh it off, then you’d kiss me and I would bite my tongue. Kiss me again, I had wanted to say, but I never asked. I waited for you to give.

You are Jung Daehyun. You kicked me in the gut by accident the first time we ed.
And I’m Kim Himchan. I still remember how your voice sounded like on the roof that night, muffled by the wind, suddenly clear when the wind fades to static. 



--

“Why are you a nurse?” 



Daehyun is propped upright on the bed, inspecting the tray of food as Youngjae goes about his sequence of check-ups. Daehyun asks him a question or two a day by routine and Youngjae humours him with snarky answers. That’s when Daehyun can tell Youngjae has had a decent day so far. Youngjae is generally pretty efficient with his work, until it comes to Daehyun, then all his professionalism goes out the window. He looks at Daehyun like he’s about to swallow him whole, because it sounds like he’s implying Youngjae isn’t doing a good job when he gets perfect scores on his theory tests and relatively positive comments from his supervisors. 


“I mean- why did you choose to be a nurse?”


Youngjae’s expression relaxes and he pulls roughly at Daehyun’s hand to make sure the needles are all in. Daehyun thinks it’s a wonder he’s even recovering under Youngjae’s care. 


“Taking care of people is my passion,” Youngjae winks. He laughs when Daehyun makes exaggerated vomiting noises, the movement from which goes straight to his head and Daehyun regrets moving so much. “And besides, I get to meet lovely patients like you.” 


Daehyun draws out his laughter sarcastically. He studies the chunk of minced meat before putting it in his mouth. Hospital meats smell like wet dog food but somehow Daehyun ends up wanting a second helping and Youngjae remains disgusted by how much he eats. “Are you going to have that?” Youngjae points at the tub of mashed bananas and Daehyun shakes his head. Youngjae had sneaked an extra tub onto his tray. 


“You can have it. My treat.” Daehyun smiles as Youngjae accepts the plastic tub and opens it gingerly. He takes the first bite cautiously. 


“An old lady moved into the ward next to yours today. She fell and broke a few bones.” Youngjae pauses to smack his lips together after a mouthful of the mash, “She presses the help button every ten minutes I am sick of having to go check her pee bag when it’s not even half full.” He spoons another dollop into his mouth, “I caught her staring at my when I bent down to look at her charts.” Youngjae shudders. He’s easing himself into the visiting chair now and it amuses Daehyun because just a few days ago Youngjae had refused to even call Daehyun by his name.  


“I can see she has exquisite taste.” Daehyun mumbles, rolling his eyes when Youngjae makes faces at the dessert tub.


“What is wrong with you? How do you enjoy hospital food?” Youngjae sticks out his tongue and cringes. His whole body dries like a prune at the foul taste. “It tastes like old people and health.”


“It’s food. Food is good.” Daehyun says with an air of confidence and he proceeds to tell Youngjae all the places in Seoul he should visit for the food which scares Youngjae because you’re telling me you can remember the side dish that comes with your food in every restaurant but you can’t remember your boyfriend? It’s appalling, Daehyun knows, but he tells Youngjae that he’ll take him to one of the restaurants one day, mostly to shut him up about the mashed bananas. 


“You’ve got a deal, Daehyunnie.” Youngjae says as he gets up, mumbling yeah yeah I know I know when his pager goes off.



“Yeah.” Daehyun pulls the tub of half-consumed mashed bananas closer to his tray before Youngjae manages to throw it away, “since I owe you so much for taking such good care of me.” 



Daehyun meant it sarcastically, but does nothing to point it out, not since Youngjae is smiling like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week.


--
Daehyun has the same dream every night. 


He dreams of a long white path and wonders if he’s been there before. If it’s part of a memory he’s lost. He tells Youngjae about it and asks for him to pass a letter to Himchan.


Himchan visits in the early mornings when Daehyun is sedated by the painkillers he takes the night before and he slips the letter under his pillow and watches as his chest rises and falls. He wants to kiss Daehyun where his forehead is exposed, fringe sticking out in awkward positions from sleeping. But he doesn’t want Daehyun to wake up to a stranger by his bed. He normally leaves when Daehyun transcends the layers of artificial sleep and begins to stir. But today he comes back again towards the evening. He tells himself he needs to see Daehyun, but he freezes when his hand comes up to knock at Daehyun’s door. 



Himchan sits by the bench outside the hospital because anywhere is better than his studio apartment. Anything is better than watching drama reruns and wondering when his life became a melodrama. Anything is better than waiting for Daehyun to come home.



"Want one?" 



Youngjae pushes a pack of smokes towards Himchan and he takes one, whether out of politeness or habit he isn't sure. 



“You’re on break?” Himchan asks.



“Nope. Sneaked out. I’m supposed to take Daehyun’s blood pressure but I’m sure he won’t mind.” Youngjae takes a lighter out from the pocket of his scrubs and lights Himchan's cigarette before lighting his own. Himchan watches as the familiar glint of fire expands to greet him as he inhales. He exhales slowly, and suddenly he remembers too much. Youngjae struggles with his own, choking on his first puff of smoke. He makes a face then tries again. 



"I thought nurses were supposed to be all for healthy living?" Himchan says, raising a brow.



"After working in a hospital you'll know it isn't worth it. Besides, I don't really smoke." Youngjae is looking past the street in front of them, like there's something waiting to happen beyond and he's the only one aware of it. "I confiscated these from a patient. Now it's mine." He winks and a smile creeps up the corners of his lips, an impish smile, one that Himchan thinks is very suitable on his face. 



"What about you?"



Himchan glances at the cigarette between his fingers and watches as the paper crumples and folds into grey ash. 



"Started smoking in high school because I liked the way it looked... Then I stopped..." 



Youngjae laughs, "doesn't look that nice when there's tar in your lungs huh..." he smiles and pulls the cigarette towards his lips and takes another drag. 



"Daehyun can't stand the smoke. It gives him a headache." Himchan says absentmindedly, tapping the end of the cigarette lightly against the side of the bench. "But he pretended to smoke. So he could find an excuse to go outside with me." 



Youngjae taps his cigarette and waits for the silence to wrap around itself before telling Himchan about the white path from Daehyun's memory. Youngjae pauses to wait for an answer. Beyond them the sky is churning. Dark clouds spill in towards them, but they're safe for now.



"I don't think I remember a place like that." Youngjae doesnt notice the hint of disappointment in Himchan's voice as the former drops the cigarette to the ground. The flames extinguish beneath his sole as the ash grinds against the concrete.



He lights another and puts it between his teeth. He doesn't think when he does inhales and that amuses him. Himchan notes the glint in his eyes. 



"Sometimes when you think about it, it's so easy to die. Some healthy people just die in their sleep. And people will try to come up with an explanation. Like maybe he has a heart condition or maybe he smokes too much," Youngjae waves his cigarette in front of him, the smoke fleets from left to right before settling by the side of his lap. "But there's no explanation, they just die."



"But people don't want to live with that. They don't want to live with the fact that they can die any moment. But people only make things worthwhile when there's some form of urgency. When they know there isn't enough time to rectify their stupid mistakes. When they realize the present is all they have."



Youngjae lets out a sigh that he has been holding since the day started. He's tired and the sudden awareness has made it spread quicker from his limbs. Himchan doesn't know how to reply, he doesn't think Youngjae is expecting an answer. Himchan tells him he'd much rather live in the past then. 



"And I'd much rather stay here and finish this pack of cigarettes." Youngjae says with a laugh, it's a charming laugh, one that fades off to giggles. 



"Here. You can have them," Youngjae says as he offers the pack of cigarettes on his outstretched palm. "Maybe it'll help with the whole past thing. And Daehyun has asked me to pass this to you." 



He smiles as Himchan accepts his offer and the letter and he waves goodbye with his back turned. 


Himchan opens the letter with shaking hands, shielding the ink from the first few droplets of the impending rain.


I tried staying up to wait for you. But they put me on too many drugs. 
If you manage to find your way into my dreams, let’s meet at the end of the path. 
I hope we can meet


Himchan smiles and tilts his head back towards the clouds. He closes his eyes and waits for the storm to brew, the smell of rain fresh in the air.

--

Himchan is eighteen. He does it again-


Again and again until his name becomes synonymous with the way in which they would groan his name and pull his hair during . He remembers his first time, he had written it down, the nervousness, how his skin is burning and it’s too hot to breathe. He presses his nails into his skin and the marks left trailing up and down his arms after are his own. And they surface every time he does it again. Every time someone tells him to take off his clothes, to give. And when Himchan lies in the dark, legs spread, eyes shut, waiting for euphoria to take over. Himchan is crying when it’s over, his body crumbles in a different boy’s arm every time.


He’s nineteen when he meets the boy. Black hair, hollow eyes, strange habit of crinkling his nose every once in a while. They’ve been talking for a while and it happened. They are two people, young and stupid, standing in front of one another. The first thing Himchan notices is how stiff his body goes when Himchan has his lips around his . The boy doesn’t reciprocate. He wrinkles his nose when he cums and stares at Himchan. His eyes hollow and his voice strained-


This isn’t natural. 


The next time Himchan sees him, his face is in the papers, a small square the size of a stamp at the bottom of the obituaries page, the same hollow expression on his face, like he’s embarrassed to exist in any form. Himchan goes to the cemetery a few years later because he might just be the last person to have seen the boy alive. They say it was an accident, but Himchan knows. He sits outside the cemetery, by the old playground. He wonders if things would have been different if he had been brave enough to attend the funeral as an acquaintance from the boy’s school. He wonders if things would’ve been different if he hadn’t let him leave that night. He stays there until the skies become unforgiving and there’s a breeze stirring up fragments of leaves at his feet. He lights his next cigarette with the fading light of the one he has finished. He thinks life is funny. He feels something for the way the smoke at the end of his cigarette dances in the wind, fleeting and so so beautiful. 


This isn’t natural.


He hears again and again and his nails are digging into his palms because his soul needs a way out. 


“Hey. Can I have one?”


Himchan opens his eyes and he sees a beautiful boy standing in front of him, gesturing towards his pack of smokes. Himchan nods and offers one. 


“It’s windy today huh…” The boy says, sighing as he lights his cigarette clumsily and places it between his lips. 


“Yes. Windy.”


And Himchan wishes with all his soul that his bones can disintegrate into dust so that the drafts can scatter him.