ii.

When Chanyeol got home that evening, he fell asleep on the sofa with the television still on, and woke up early on Monday morning to find Jongin trashing his apartment. He was ransacking the place, throwing things around without giving any thought or care to Chanyeol's presence. What a racket he was making — chucking CDs and books across the room, tossing Chanyeol’s Bowie and Elton records like frisbees, upending the table and chairs — anything that wasn't bolted down going straight to the floor. Chanyeol lay there and watched him, unable to move or speak. He was paralysed, but not with fear; perhaps he should have been scared, but on some level it was like he knew there was something odd about the situation — that perhaps what he was seeing wasn't really there. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up to find Jongin doing something like that, either, and so it all came off as more of an inconvenience than an immediate threat.

Jongin interrupted Chanyeol’s thoughts by smashing one of the dining chairs against the floor, making him flinch at the sound. He rolled his eyes and scrunched them shut — the only way he was able to express his displeasure at the situation. His hands lay by his sides, but he couldn’t even clench them into fists. He really liked those chairs, too; now he would have to get a replacement and spend another bloody two hours putting it together again. What a ing mess he was making… why hadn't any of the neighbours complained about the noise?

When Chanyeol opened his eyes again, he looked around and saw that he was alone. His confusion only lasted a couple of seconds before reality sank in — just another hallucination, he realised, the din of splintering wood and smashing crockery still ringing in his ears. Some part of him had known it all along. He experienced that sort of thing fairly often, especially upon waking up — ‘hypno-something hallucinations’, Doctor Kim had called them... Chanyeol couldn’t recall the term exactly. There was a lot of narcolepsy jargon he was probably supposed to remember, but didn’t. Some of the hallucinations were frightening, especially back when he first started having them; he sometimes still hallucinated vividly about people trying to rob him or strangle him to death, and often they were people he knew or had some sort of contact with in real life, but he was slowly getting used to all of these peculiarities now. He lay there on his back for a while longer, watching the ceiling fan spinning, listening to the gentle thwoop thwoop sound of the blades slicing through the air. Strength gradually returned to his limbs, the paralysis melting away; slowly, he peeled himself away from the sofa and got up.

He thought about the hallucination again while he stood in the kitchen, drinking his morning coffee. Until that day, he hadn't had a reason to think about Jongin in a while. Jongin still Skype-called him every so often, and seemed eager to maintain contact, although a long-distance relationship wasn’t something Chanyeol had ever wanted to get involved in; even so, they hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks, and nothing came to mind that could have prompted the strange vision. Chanyeol still missed him, but he was well past the pining stage, and had been for some time.

Jongin moving overseas to join the Royal Ballet had initially been a sore spot for Chanyeol, but like the narcolepsy, it was something he’d learned to live with. He’d tried his hardest to hold no grudges; they were together for three years, and although Jongin was six years younger, Chanyeol understood that the shelf-life of a professional ballet dancer could be short-lived, and he loved and respected Jongin enough to wish him the best in his endeavours. But the fact that Jongin hadn’t told him about it until the last minute was what hurt the most — a solo trip to London to attend entrance exams being covered up with the excuse that he was ‘visiting relatives’, the existence of which he’d never mentioned before. He’d broken the news to Chanyeol upon his return, saying he was moving over within a fortnight, and it left Chanyeol winded for a long time afterwards. A part of him was sure he’d never fully recover, even if the wound had mostly closed over by now. Jongin had insisted at the time that Chanyeol’s health had nothing to do with his decision, but Chanyeol still wondered if this was true; whether he liked it or not, narcolepsy coloured everything he did, and he knew even patient people like Jongin had their limits. But he tried not to speculate too much about Jongin's reasons for leaving anymore — what was done, was done. Rinsing his cup out in the sink, he pushed the morning's unsettling experience to the back of his mind, ready to forget all about it and get on with his day.

He left home a little earlier to see Jongdae at the pharmacy, planning to pick up his medication on the way to work. He and Jongdae sometimes met up for coffee or a quick bite when they weren’t too busy, but this was increasingly rare, and it was nice to have any excuse to drop by and say hello. There was already a line of people waiting when he arrived because Jongdae was the only pharmacist on duty; Chanyeol caught his friend’s eye and gave him a little wave, joining the end of the queue to wait his turn.

Most people were quick about handing their scripts over, but one old man had come to complain about a purchase, and it was just Chanyeol’s luck that he was stuck behind him. He had a session scheduled in an hour’s time, with a group of kids with special needs, who were some of Chanyeol’s favourite people to work with. Some of them were non-verbal, others only partly so, and communication had always been a struggle; but they all had an appreciation for music, and when they all played together it was like they were speaking in a different way — the joy they found in music was obvious, and did not need to be expressed in words. Chanyeol always found his sessions with this particular group to be the most challenging, and also some of the most rewarding. But he still had a bit of prep to do before the session began; he eyed his watch nervously, and shot Jongdae a pleading look over the top of the old guy’s head.

“These stool softeners are far too big for any normal person to swallow,” the old guy was ranting at Jongdae. “I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. And they taste awful.”

Jongdae glanced at the box in the old man’s hand, and gave him a withering look. “That’s because they’re suppositories, sir. You’ve been popping them into the wrong end, I’m afraid.”

At this information, the old man the heel of his orthopaedic sandals and hoofed it out of the shop, red-faced and muttering. Chanyeol let out a long-held sigh of relief.

Jongdae held out his hand for Chanyeol’s script, opening and closing it expectantly. “Alright, friend, what’s your poison?” He peered at the script, disappeared out the back for a few minutes, and came out again carrying a plastic tray with a small box of tablets in it. “How’s this stuff been working for you, anyway?”

“It gives me palpitations, which I hate,” Chanyeol said. “But it does help with the alertness.”

“Mmm. Might need to talk to your specialist about that.” Jongdae frowned at Chanyeol through his glasses. “And you’re still on the sodium oxybate as well?”

Chanyeol nodded. His mornings and evenings were now a blur of various oddly-named substances. “Yeah, that stuff is a godsend for the cataplexy, but it only works properly if I wake up in time to take the second dose. It knocks me out so hard I keep sleeping through my alarm.”

Jongdae tutted, shaking his head. “You need a new bed-buddy… someone who can shake you awake when you sleep through. And give you special cuddles and all that, of course.”

“Yeah? And I’ll probably just scare him off with my weird sleeping habits,” Chanyeol muttered, handing Jongdae his card.

“Ahh, don’t worry about stuff like that.” Jongdae rang through the purchase, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. “If a guy genuinely likes you for who you are, you could probably sleep in a coffin and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Who knows… maybe you can meet him tonight when you come out with us.”

Chanyeol frowned. “Come out where?”

Jongdae looked past Chanyeol at the growing line of people waiting to be served. “Look, this isn’t the time or place to talk, but Amber said she’d call you about it.” He popped Chanyeol’s medication into a white paper bag, folded it closed and handed it to him with a wink and a cheeky smile. “Might see you later then, dancing queen.”

When Chanyeol left the pharmacy, he checked his phone and saw a missed call and a text from Amber that said 'CALL ME, BABY', followed by a rainbow of emoji love hearts. Sighing, he called her back. She answered on the second ring. “We’re gonna try out that new club tonight. You interested?”

“Good morning to you too.” Holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Chanyeol shoved the paper bag into his backpack. “And what new club might that be..?”

“You know that old -hole, After Five? Well, it’s been given a trendily ironic disco-revival makeover.” Amber sounded smug through the phone. “Apparently the dance floor lights up and everything… sounds right up your alley, I'd have thought, seventies tragic that you are.”

Chanyeol laughed through his nose — about as close as he got to actual laughter these days. After Five had been a trashy, rundown old nightclub located across the road from the beach; sticky-floored and seedy, it was once frequented mostly by underage locals lured in by the cheap drinks, and the fact that the bouncers never cared enough to card anyone. Now that the average age of the Avoca resident was increasing, the disco theme was probably an attempt to win the attentions of an older crowd, Chanyeol thought. “Right,” he said. “And has it occurred to you that today is Monday..?”

“Oh, you don’t have to stay out too late,” Amber said, in a dismissive tone. “Why don't you come? Kibum and Joohyun are coming too. Don’t worry, we’ll all make sure you don't end up on the floor somewhere. It’ll be fun.”

Chanyeol sighed, wondering how he could get himself out of this; he never had the energy to go out at night anymore. It was true that his social life was mostly down the tubes, he couldn’t deny that — his friends, all being in their early thirties like he was, sometimes still liked to go raging of an evening, but once the clock struck nine you could pretty much write Chanyeol off until the next day. Anyway, it was a weeknight. “I think I'll pass… you know I have to be in bed at a decent hour, or I’ll be up creek tomorrow. I have my first session at eight in the morning.”

“Aww, come on; we never see you anymore,” Amber whined. “You can leave early if you get tired. Don’t make me send you a barrage of texts until you change your mind.”

“Mmm… maybe,” Chanyeol said, still not convinced — he knew he was only going to end up being the fifth wheel again. He gave his best non-committal response; he had plenty of those in the bank just for occasions like this. “I’ll see how I go.”

Fast forward a few hours and Chanyeol ended up at the club anyway, ready to break in his new boogie shoes — his friends having worn him down, as they always seemed to do. ‘Starship’ was the new name of the place, and Amber wasn’t kidding about the disco revamp; for a minute or two after walking inside, Chanyeol wondered if he’d stepped into some kind of portal leading right back into 1978. He didn’t actually know what 1978 looked like, being born nearly a decade later, but it all matched the image inside his head perfectly: the light-up dance floor, the people in their tight outfits and big hairdos, all the glitter and sequins, flashes of gold and silver. There were spangled drapes and enormous disco balls spinning on the ceiling, reflecting squares of light on the walls and everyone’s faces. A light sheen of sweat on every visible skin surface; there was a lot of skin on show, and for good reason. Chanyeol loosened the collar of his shirt, trying to let a bit of air in. It was ing hot in there.

Eventually his two so-called best buddies kindly ditched him to dance with their partners, exactly as predicted. Chanyeol didn’t blame them; he probably would have done the same thing, if he’d had someone to dance with. He quickly spotted a clear patch of floor on the far corner of the room, and made a beeline for the safety of the shadows; there he stood alone with his back glued to the wall, sipping his Coke and observin