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tw // mentions or hints about: depression, panic attack, suicidal thoughts

[their breakup through Hyukjae's eyes] 1/2

He was so sweet; that boy was so sweet. Eyes twinkling with lights that could rival the sky of stars. They were right; Donghae was a sweet boy. With his sunshine smile and a heart brimmed full of love that Hyukjae couldn't bring himself to echo. He was the bonfire, but Hyukjae was the one who put him out. The fragility of Donghae's confession, his little hands clinging onto Hyukjae like a lifeline. I love you, Hyukjae hyung. He told him, he told him over and over again, his doe eyes wide and hopeful, so many things left unsaid as realization dawned over his sweet boy. Say it back, Donghae's eyes spoke louder than his words. Don't you love me, hyung?

Hyukjae saw the cracks forming, the way Donghae's lips trembled at the absence of the attended love, the way his  grip faltered into a hesitant distance. A stark contrast to the once hopeful sunshine that he was, when he first said the three cursed words. The flickering fire dimmed out and died, leaving Hyukjae dead-cold.

Cold that was an irony, even as he gently pulled his boy into his arms that night, acutely aware of Donghae's hesitation to delve into his arms, the way he was accustomed to. There were tear tracks on his flushed cheeks, the remnants of his earlier outburst over the photograph—like a token of Hyukjae’s deception. 

He reached out, brushing Donghae’s soft cheek, and nearly crumbled as his precious one flinched at his touch. 

“Come here, baby.” Hyukjae’s voice came out strained. “Are you still mad at me?”

Of course he was mad. He would hate you, he would hate you forever. That sunshine boy, you have broken him apart. 

Guilt gnawed at the bottom of Hyukjae’s heart as Donghae stubbornly shook his head. He was clearly hiding his feelings; but Hyukjae hid his own as well for so long. Consider it was fair; but the man couldn’t help feeling dejected. Donghae wore his heart on his sleeves. He was a melody; a vibrant, joyful tune that filled Hyukjae’s gray life with sunshine and warmth and made everything easier. Now he was a distant echo, a faded photograph—his gaze casted down, no longer up and proud.

“Darling boy,” Hyukjae tried again because maybe, maybe, he could still cling to this fragile hope and wished that everything was okay. “Talk to me?”

He imagined the light in Donghae’s eyes, the dimples on his cheeks when he grinned or laughed, the excited lilt in his voice when he was whining. But it was all memories now and what he had in his arms was the shell of the boy he loved, the boy who was once a bright sun to his rainy days.

.

.

I love you, Hyukjae thought, as he watched Donghae move around the house with a practiced stealth, like he was walking on eggshells. Donghae, I love you. Frustration shrouded him like a blanket. He wanted to tear down the walls and shouted the truth. Just so he could bring back the stars in Donhae’s eyes. Each night felt like a hollow shell of what they once were, and as Hyukjae squeezed Donghae tighter against his chest, he felt like they were drifting even more far apart.

He had him in his arms, as pliant as he always be, the smell of Donghae’s shampoo became a balm to Hyukjae’s raging storm. I love you, Hyukjae’s heart trembled as his lips connected with Donghae’s, please, please, hear me out.

A distant fear had him between its claws, trapping Hyukjae so he couldn’t get out. He loved him. Why couldn’t he say it back? Why are you so quiet, baby? “You're getting a little bit quieter,” Hyukjae whispered, desperately wanting to cling onto their frayed edges. Donghae was a putty in his arms. He was the knight to Hyukjae’s looming monster. As long as Donghae was here, the monster wouldn’t be able to touch him.

He lifted his boy up, laid him on his back on the bed. The kiss was bitter and sweet. Donghae’s lips tasted like a sugar-spun strawberry candy, hesitant at first yet they softened and molded against Hyukjae’s the deeper the kiss became. It was a symphony of a heartbreaking trust. Donghae trusted him, no matter how much of an awful man he was. Even when they were not okay, Donghae still leaned into his touch, still grasping onto Hyukjae’s shirt like a lifeline. Still soared Hyukjae’s heart with the feelings of being protected. Donghae thought that Hyukjae was his life saver. The truth was, it was the other way around.

“N-no,” Donghae’s stammer hit him harder than a whirlwind. “No.”

Hyukjae unhanded him like he was burned, like he was toxic. Donghae’s eyes flickered with unshed tears; in his eyes Hyukjae saw the pain that was his own, a reflection.

“Baby,” he heaved out, his heart racing.

"Do… do you love me?"

And here was the thing; Hyukjae, without doubt, loved him. Fiercely and unconditionally. The way Donghae looked up at him like Hyukjae was his whole world, the way he fit perfectly in his arms. Love was an understatement; he would die for him.

But then Hyukjae said, "You're precious to me."

And Donghae spitted out. 

"Lies."

A suffocating silence stretched and overcame all his senses. Panic clawed at his throat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream the truth of his heart from the rooftop. Paint it across the sky if he could. But the fear had set a rusty padlock around his vocal cords. Every fiber of Hyukjae’s being yearned to respond, yet his tongue was a testament of a dead weight.

"What do you mean?" Hyukjae breathed sharply. The monster’s eyes gleamed in the corner of the room, its hunched figure posing for a strike.

"If I'm… if it's true that I matter to you," Donghae sniffled, hope and light drained from his eyes, replaced by a tremendous pain Hyukjae could feel in his own heart. "You wouldn't have… it won't be too hard for you to say that you love me too."

"Donghae," Hyukjae warned—warned over what? "It's not like that."

"Then like what?" The boy cried, lips quivering from holding back his tears. "I love you… I told you many times. But you never say it back. Never even acknowledge it… did I do something wrong, hyung? Do you not love me back? Did I mistake everything about… about whatever we are?"

"Donghae—" 

"Why won't you say it back? Why is it hard for you to say it back? Don't you love me, Hyukjae hyung? Do you," Donghae sniffled. Furiously rubbing his sleeves over his eyes. And Hyukjae wanted to reach out, to gently take his arm away so he wouldn’t hurt his eyes. "Do you still love Jongwoon hyung, then?"

Baby, it was never Jongwoon, it was never about Jongwoon.

"I never—"

"Why did you lie to me about him being no one?"

"This—this is not about him, baby. I told you that—that I can't ruin the bond between the both of you—"

"—then do you love me?"

And Hyukjae stayed quiet.

And.

And then Donghae would fade away from his vision. He wouldn’t see his hopeful eyes nor the sweet voice of his, nor the ground Hyukjae was standing on right now. In turn, he was transported years into the past. He saw nights huddled in the cramped closet, a refuge in the shape of a box posing as a coffin to the storm outside the thin wooden door. He wanted to retreat into his box. He wanted to erase all the hurt that came with the word love, wanted to forget the silhouette of rage that was his father, wanted to throw away the shadow of his mother as with each step, she was leaving him behind.

And Hyukjae stayed rigid like that, shutting himself out.

And it. Hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

"Hyung," Donghae sobbed—begged. "Hyung, why won't you say something?"

Hyukjae’s breath hitched, sharp and shallow. The world narrowed to a pinprick, each Donghae’s sobs posed as a sledgehammer blow to Hyukjae’s crumbling stance. The monster, a slithering serpent in the shape of panic, coiled around him, squeezing him tighter each passing second, cutting his airflow.

"Hyukjae hyung," baby cried, throwing his fist against Hyukjae’s rigid chest. "Hyukjae hyung, please."

A phone call breaks through the air like a silver dagger piercing the suffocating silence, a lifeline thrown in the storm raging within Hyukjae. The relief was sharp and unexpected. A reprieve to escape the death sentence. 

“H-hyung?” Donghae squeaked as Hyukjae moved on autopilot, his betraying legs carried him further away from Donghae. He was rigid with tension. His heart ached at Donghae’s growing uncontrollable sobs as with each step, he was leaving him behind.

How much of his mother has his mother left in him?

.

.

The day passed like a blur; Hyukjae’s mind was a broken record of Donghae’s frustrated question. He woke up. He passed Donghae’s locked bedroom. Something was missing and it was the lingering warmth of his boy in his arms after a good night’s sleep, it was the softness of his skin when Hyukjae kissed him goodbye every single time before work.

He went straight to work.

He drowned himself in his work, in meetings he attended and proposals he had to approve. Years ago, it would do the trick—but this time he couldn’t get his mind away from the sight of Donghae’s tear-stained eyes. Of how dim his sun was; flickering and eventually facing its death.

Hyukjae slammed his hands and grabbed the mug on his desk, the ceramic cool against his trembling, supposedly steady fingers, then flung the mug across the room.

It hit the wall with a loud crash, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces, a resemblance to Donghae’s broken heart when Hyukjae couldn’t bring himself to echo the genuine love his heart had soared. A surge of footsteps followed, and then the door to his office was slammed open, and there stood his secretary, her eyes wild with concern.

“Hyukjae-ssi?”

Gathered behind her were the senior employees, confusion and maybe slight worryness etched in their faces. Her eyes found the broken mug, and widened as realization dawned her.

“It’s okay,” Hyukjae growled, the impatience in his voice shrunk her back. “It slipped from my hand.”

But she knew that the shattered ceramic would not end up across the room if it was actually slipped from Hyukjae’s fingers. She eyed him warily as Hyukjae wobbled towards the door, his stance a looming figure over her.

“Go back to work,” Hyukjae nearly barked, and it took a world in him not to slam the door into their faces.

He needed to go home. He needed to get to his baby, needed to get to Donghae—his life, his reason to live. Before it was too late. Before he shattered the only real thing he had ever known. Before he lost him.

Hyukjae passed the speed limit; the city blurred into a vibrant neon light, a resemblance of Tokyo, a remembrance of Donghae’s carefree laugh and the weight of his smaller frame clinging onto Hyukjae as he spun the boy around the landscape of Disneyland. It clenched his hammering heart; an echo of the panic simmering under his throat. His legs were shaking when he ran up to his unit; the elevator ride felt like an eternity. Hyukjae bursted through the apartment door, his hoarse voice unfamiliar even to his own ears.

“Donghae?!” He called out. “Donghae, baby, forgive me, I was wrong—”

Hyukjae halted. The apartment was bare of Donghae’s presence, the echo of his own voice mocked him. His simmering panic morphed into a cold, horrifying dread, a monstrous hand squeezing the air from his lungs. 

He dashed around the apartment like a madman. Donghae’s clothes remained in the closet, giving him a small leverage that lasted only a few seconds. Those are the clothes that Hyukjae bought for him. The coats—the fluffy ones, the bright colored ones—all remained. The rest of them, Donghae’s old clothes—were gone.

Dread tasted like metal on his tongue, dropping heavy at the base of his coiled stomach. Hyukjae ran to their bedroom. Donghae’s books, his most precious trinkets, books that were supposed to line neatly in the shelf under Hyukjae’s architecture and planning books—were gone.

The dolls and souvenirs he bought for the boy from Disneyland remained.

Donghae’s old backpack, his treasured one, usually hanging precariously at the back of their door—gone.

Gone, gone, gone like him.

“Donghae?!” Each missing item was a fresh wound, a confirmation of his worst fears. “Donghae?”

His mind was loud, while at the same time, was quiet. He didn’t think. Before he knew it, he was out the door, his feet treaded the cold earth. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have a direction in mind. All he had in his mind was that Donghae was gone.

Donghae was gone.

My baby left me, the voice of a longing singer crooned a cruel melody from the music store nearby. Never said a word.

His phone weighed a ton, and Donghae never picked up.

My baby left me, never said a word, the song continued, a requiem to Hyukjae’s hollow heart. Was it something I done, something that she heard?

Tears broke over his face. The bustling street, the blurred faces and honking cars, offered no solace. Hyukjae stumbled, phone cradled against his ear, hoping that maybe, eventually, Donghae would pick his call up. But with each passing moment the hope dwindled, replaced by a cold truth—that Donghae was gone.

But I stand at my window, wring my hands and cry

His fingers hovered over the name that should become his last resolve.

But. But.

But Donghae was gone, Hyukjae’s inner self echoed. Seek his help. Ask. Ask. Ask.

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