Oh Sehun

            He believes that time finally sits still, or, at least, that’s the way it seems because neither boy is breathing, and neither boy is uttering a single word. Suho’s scowl has long since left his face, replaced, instead, with a fragile expression of confusion accompanied by the glimmer of shock in the pupils of his eyes.  His forehead wrinkles with anxiety and his jaw is slack.

            Suho barely forms words without stuttering, but he manages a cold, “I don’t need this right now. This is absolutely the last thing I need.” It’s neither acceptance nor rejection, and Sehun feels his stomach churn in uncertainty as a result. “You don’t even know me,” the boy reasons, “There’s actually nothing to like.”

            He moves to the bedside where Suho avoids his glance, “I can reacquaint myself with you, if you’d like; I can show you why it is that I like you. Besides, you’ve probably forgotten all about me, just as well.”

            The sunlight begins to stream in, painting shadows on the bedcovers in the shapes of the flowers that sit by the window. Everything is smothered with the thick, afternoon glow of the sun, and Suho looks radiant. Even his expression, for once, is not so sour. His eyes dance as he stares at his fumbling fingers.

            “You’re dumb if you think that it will be the same.” Mutters he, “But I’ll let you give it a shot.”

            Sehun’s smile is bold and honest as he grips Suho’s shoulder in astonishment and overwhelming excitement at the chance he’s has been given.  Deciding that Suho is left uncomfortable with this slight contact, Sehun retracts, but quietly watches the older boy, in front of him, as his expression brightens just a little. “You know, you’re giving a desperate boy an entire world of hope, right now. I’m never going to give up.”

            Suho nods, albeit turning his eyes away, continuing on with this façade.

            And so, from there, Sehun decides that he won’t miss another day wondering about his actions and thoughts surrounding that boy; he takes it upon himself from there, onwards, to visit Suho in the hospital; much to Suho’s dismay, Sehun does this every single day without fail, leaving the boy in the hospital to wonder just what life was like one month ago, before the memories of high school, Sehun and more resurfaced.

            On some days, when Suho wears a scowl on his pretty little pout, Sehun doesn’t dare utter a word; he just sits and reads a book, or stares out the window, or waters the flowers, all whilst stealing peeks of his unsuspecting elder trying to discern the point of the visit. Occasionally, Suho barks, “What the hell is the point of being here? If you’re not going to talk to me, what good are you doing?” or something of the same meaning before ducking his head in embarrassment and curling into his blankets.

            Though the younger does not want to ask, and he probably never will ask, he sometimes wonders if Suho has trust issues. Even, at times, when Kai slips into the room, Suho grumbles. He even cries from time to time, overwhelmed.

            “The worst thing for him is the feeling of being pitied.” Kai hums in the hallway just down the way from his brother’s room. Sehun carries a plate of food that he means to share with Suho—if he’ll allow it, that is—and he calmly allows himself to be lectured by the boy by his side, “For the longest time, everyone could depend on him. He was the older brother, so he was always keeping me out of trouble, saving my , bandaging me up when I would get bruises or scrapes. You experienced something similar, right? He took you in when nobody else would even send you a friendly smile. He took care of you.” Sehun nods quietly, leaning, now, against the eggshell white walls, gaze, unclear.

            “He can’t bring himself to accept the fact that now, he has to be helped. He wants so badly to be that person that can take care of everyone, but it’s just not possible, and that kills him.” Kai shook his head, “To make matters worse, the boy he thought he loved up and ran away to the United States to pursue ‘his music career. That wanderer can’t stay in one place for more than a few months, though’” At the mentioning, Sehun’s glance returns to the boy standing across from him, eyes wide, mouth agape, at a loss for words. “He was the center of my brother’s life for about three months; they met at some concert in which they were both performing.”

            “His name was Yixing, and I hate him.” Sehun’s pretty sure he hates the guy too.

He whimpers a meek, “Suho’s gone through so much in the last year; it’s awful.”

            “Mind your pity, Sehun. I told you my brother doesn’t like it. Now, off you go. I have a rendezvous with the one and only, beautiful Do Kyungsoo, and I refuse to be late for my princess.” Besides feeling, still, a bit of shock and sympathy, the crushing sensation of nausea is more the prominent, and Sehun feigns a gag before kicking at Kai’s shins and skirting away in bubbling laughter.

            I recent weeks, Sehun and Kai have become close: closer than anyone at their high school would have anticipated. Even Kyungsoo has come to accept Sehun as a part of their small friend group, so much so that he often chats with the younger before band practice—mostly over stupid things that Kai does because those occurrences are numerous.

            Sehun roams languidly to Suho’s room, pondering Kyungsoo and his tormentor and love, Kai. Despite that Kyungsoo appears to want nothing to do with Kai’s shenanigans, deep down both he and Sehun know that his true feelings for Kai are true.

            And, he compares their blossoming relationship to that of Suho and him, one seed that has only just been planted. Suho, similar to Kyungsoo, pretends to hate the younger, but in his sparkling eyes and the smile that threatens to nudge through his tight lips, there could be something more, or so Sehun wishes.

            He sneaks into Suho’s room without having the elder notice the intrusion. It isn’t until the boy in bed notices the aroma of fresh food drifting around the space that he looks up and spots Sehun with the tray of food, “Is that for me?” He nods towards the plate suspiciously

            “It is if you want it to be. The doctor said it was alright.” He places the tray in the boy’s lap, muttering a barely audible, “I was hoping we could share, but I’d rather not push you. It’s just that, well, I haven’t eaten, and I was hoping to eat with you.” Mentally, Sehun crosses his fingers, hoping for a miracle.

            And, thus, a miracle, itself, occurs, “Dig in.” Suho motions towards the extra pair of chopsticks, sticking his own into the closest dish, “It looks delicious. The nurses only bring me the bland food.”  For once, Sehun feels accomplished.

            Weeks later and he catches himself dealing with an off day for Suho, and an equally awful day for himself. Put simply, it’s the first time in his life that he’s not prepared for a concert, let alone a recital featuring him most prominently. Terrifyingly, he has just three days to put together a solo that he’s merely sight-read a few times with a teacher.

            “I’m done for.” He paces through the room, oblivious of the annoyed scowl Suho wears, “I’m forever going to be known as the kid who choked at his recital and I won’t get a single scholarship and I will never go on to become a musician. This is my fate.” The boy collapses into the chair nearest to Suho’s bed and weeps into the blankets, “Oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m doomed.”

            Suho is compelled to slap the whining boy on the back of the head before snapping, “Is crying going to anything to help the situation, or should you, instead, be practicing?” The younger boy wipes his eyes, looking up at the boy above in curiosity, “Well, there’s still a chance that you could not , so why can’t you get that goddamn Oboe out and practice?”

            While Sehun does immediately leap at the idea, Suho does wish that his message had been entirely clear, for five minutes later, he’s listening to the tuning notes of the oboe as it rings out in his hospital room—if that’s not against the rules, then what is?—and, though Sehun is definitely a strong player, nobody ever wants to listen to an oboe player tune: absolutely nobody.

            Unfortunately for the irritated elder, the nurses find it rather cute that Sehun decided to play his music for Suho. He even overhears one of the cooing older women call the younger a ‘lover-boy’ and Suho grimaces before settling into the moment, just listening to the music. Sure, his room is quite overcrowded, now, with the younger children and old women gaping in awe at the cute ‘lover boy’ serenading Suho with the resounding notes, but it isn’t altogether too unpleasant, he guesses.

            After an hour or so, though, Sehun has had enough with his instrument and he packs it away, bowing to the visitors and winking at the boy lain in bed, “How was that?” Asks he, confidently, expecting praise that Suho decides he will not give easily.

            “You were okay, but honestly, your vibrato sounds like it belongs less to a musical instrument, and more to a cackling rooster.” His eyes dim, and his chin lowers. Sehun almost breaks because it’s his music—it’s his thing—and Suho does not seem to appreciate it, but his mood swiftly lifts when he sees a minute smirk make its way past Suho’s cold demeanor.          

            Daring to leap past boundaries, Sehun does so in jumping onto Suho’s bed, just next to where the boy’s feet poke out of the sheets, “Hi, Suho.” He laughs nervously, anticipating the worse, but it never comes; the boy doesn’t even say a word.

            So, they sit there for a few minutes, basking in the silence before Sehun, dares, again, to ruin it, “Suho, do you still play your trumpet from time to time?” No answer, “You were always so amazing at it; the other kids were always envious. I just remember walking into the older band and hearing a song in which you had a solo. It was captivating; I never knew trumpet could sound so lush—before it always just sounded brassy and dull.”

            “No, I don’t. I gave it up.” His fists clench into the fists, toes, mimicking the act, “Staying in the hospital, I had no time to practice. There was no point in even keeping the thing here anymore, so after the first few days of my stay, I sent it with Kai, home. It hasn’t been touched since.”

            Sehun watches as the boy’s eyes fall back into the cold expression that he tries so hard to break, and his heart cries out to the boy. For the younger, he cannot believe it that Suho had forgotten about his music, particularly because he, himself, cannot imagine being without his Oboe. To him, it’s absolutely unfathomable and he has to say something, “Practice isn’t everything; it doesn’t make you a great musician.”

            “Then, how come every morning you would wake up and practice in the band room? How come you would practice for long hours after school, diligently rehearsing again and again? Is that not how you became the musician you are? You worked for it; you practiced, and it’ll get you where you want to be.” Sehun wants to snap at this, to explain his situation, but he remains absolutely silent in fear of angering Suho, “I have no time to practice; therefore, trumpet is over for me.”

            “At least, until you leave out of the hospital, then?”

            “I probably won’t go back to it ever.”

            In that instant, Sehun knows that, more than anything, he has to fill Suho’s life with music again.