[while reading, it would be good if you could listen to this and then this, switching wherever you deem fit. I wrote this story based on the pace of the music, so i swear it will really better the experience if you listened to it!]

He stares at the sleeping man’s lashes, watches them flutter even in the still air. The rise and fall of his chest under white linens, the gentle murmurs that slips between his chapped lips.

He loves this guy, he thinks.

--

Sunlight creeps between gaps in the canopy of autumn leaves, shines above footsteps on crispy fallen foliage, slowly deterring into soft shuffles on fallen petals of spring and the smell of fresh flowers evident in the air.

Chanyeol stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and strolls aimlessly. Another pair of feet—a couple of beats slow—shuffles quickly and tries to match his. He links his right arm with Chanyeol’s left, deliberating putting his entire body weight on him. Chanyeol laughs and tries to shake him off. He turns, and cold linens greet his face.

Chanyeol wakes up to audible silence and still air. The autumn canopy is replaced by white ceiling, fallen foliage turns into a mess of blankets between his feet. His breath still reeks of alcohol from the previous nights—he isn’t even sure how many days it has been since he last left the apartment. He glances to his left, searching for the hand that held his, but in its place instead is a thin silver necklace with a microphone charm dangling between his clenched fingers.

It is when Chanyeol starts to remember that he begins questioning himself as to why there is liquid spilling out of his eyes, and why the name that rings in his mind hurts more than all hell combined.

This is all his fault, he thinks. He has no one else to blame but his impulsiveness and probably blunt ignorance as well—he did not notice Baekhyun’s muffled cries and the tears that plead for mercy that fell fast between his fingers.

--

They hold a promise to each other for the first of first times in high school when Chanyeol blocks a punch from Tao—the school bully with a horrible reputation for hitting pretty boys—for Baekhyun with his right arm. It leaves a huge red mark and a throbbing ache across his dominant hand, the one he uses to strum the strings on his guitar.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Terrific luck,” Chanyeol scoffs, evaluating the damage with two fingers.

Baekhyun bites down on his lower lip a little too hard, a really bad habit, “Are… you angry?”

“No,” Chanyeol snaps, two beats too quickly.

“At all?”

He drops his guitar bag and exhales, “Guess I won’t be playing the guitar for awhile.”

Baekhyun looks down at his feet, and back up again when nothing else returns except the noisy attrition of gravel beneath soles.

“I’ll be fine, hyung. Quit worrying about me. You should be more worried about yourself, I may not be there to protect your sorry the next time Tao and his bobble heads come looking for you. It still amuses me though, you’re the older one but I’m taking care of you?” Chanyeol takes in a long drag of his half burnt cigarette, watches the smoke dissipate into thin air. A horrible habit, but he doesn’t stop himself.

Baekhyun falls quiet at the thought, but he forgets as soon as he remembers why he came to this side of the academy in the first place.

“Guess what?”

Chanyeol doesn’t reply.

“Come on, guess.”

“I won’t. Either you tell me now or shut up. You’re giving me a migraine.”

Baekhyun’s eyes roll involuntarily, “I’m moving in next-door to you. Surprise?”

Chanyeol grins so hard that he looks nearly angry, “Ecstatic. Totally. Now you’ll be in my face for more hours of the day than I’m comfortable with. Careful, hyung, I’m already feeling the urge to punch you in the face.”

Baekhyun frowns at his terrible sarcasm, “You’re horrible.”

“And your reprimanding stare, my friend,” Chanyeol smirks, “is my favorite.”

It is because of the look in Chanyeol’s eyes that promises security, protection and affection, Baekhyun swore to himself that he would return his promise by making the only promise he is sure he can keep—that Chanyeol receives all the love that he can give.

--

They hold another promise to each other for the second of first times in their university’s summer break, when the inseparable two are scouted by an entertainment company—one which Baekhyun has never heard of and have no interest in—while eating ddeobbeoki. Chanyeol, however, is the total opposite, he is ecstatic. From the strong nods and the slight raise of pitch at the end of his sentences, it is hard not to notice how much he wants this.

Baekhyun isn’t a performer. He never liked things that had to do with the arts—he doesn’t think he has the talent for it. But all of that changes when he finally gives in to the scout’s persistent urges for him to sing a short verse of any song—says his face is the perfect portrait of the look they are going for.

He assumes that his rendition of the chorus of Sunny Hill’s ‘Pray’ is not too bad, judging from the grin and nod from the scout, and the size of Chanyeol’s eyes. Technically to Baekhyun, music is merely about strategically placing beautiful sounding words to match endearing melodies, but to Chanyeol, it is about forming words out of thin air, wave after wave of pretty sounds, closed eyes and faint sighs embracing his passion. Music is about his dreams.

It is then that Baekhyun remembers the promise he made years ago, and decides to bring it up to another level. With an uncertain grins and an arm around Chanyeol’s, he makes another promise to himself—to achieve the guitarist’s dream with him, no matter what it takes.

--

They hold the last of first promises to each other in a hospital ward a month following, with beeps from heart monitors audible somewhere in the near-distance.

Baekhyun wakes up to white ceiling—meters too low for his comfort—a thick needle sticking out of his forehand, green tubes running here and there, off-white blankets—the really rough kind—tucked up to his waist, and hand holding a sleeping man.

He doesn’t exactly remember the series of events that lands him there with clear fluids running in and out of his body, but what he does remember are the sounds of track-shoes against gravel and the eagerness to return home and decorate white walls.

“You’re awake,” the hand holding his tightens and slight groans slip between Chanyeol’s lips. Baekhyun barely manages a nod.

“What—happened?” He coughs hard between each word, eyebrows furrowing, lips shivering.

“A man brought you to the ER. Apparently he said you were a brave young man and tried to rescue a young lady from being in broad daylight by some drunken sleazebag?”

Tightened grasps, a woman’s screams, physical struggle, a heavy blow to his neck—they came in bits and pieces, but Baekhyun thinks he’s starting to recall.

“My throat hurts,” he whispers, creases forming beside his tapered eyes. Raises a hand and he feels something rough and stiff covering his throat.

“The doctors said you were hit in the neck pretty hard. It’s bruised pretty badly, I think. Don’t talk, I’ll get the doctor,” His hand sliding out of Baekhyun’s grasp.

“Hyung, next time, don’t try to be a hero for someone else. Aren’t I supposed to be your hero?” Chanyeol grins and takes large strides out of the ward, skipping the lines on the tiled floor.

A wave of discomfort flushes through Baekhyun’s body, the kind that gets stuck behind the nose and through the septum. He doesn’t know why, he thinks, the increasing loneliness spreading with each tiny gasp for air, and the neighboring patient’s insistent tapping of gel pens against tables.

--

The first time he realizes of his inability to fulfill his promises is two steps out of the hospital’s main entrance and into the yard. The night washes multitudes of motor vehicle hums and muffled sounds of stray animals in the distance.

Dinnertime has passed hours ago, but more than his loss of appetite—not that he could consume anything solid anyway—the piercing silence in his own mind confuses him.

Surrounding Baekhyun, Seoul at eleven o’ clock smells of antiseptic detergent, dust after rain, faint gasoline and Chanyeol’s cologne—of which he drowns himself in to get rid of the bitter smell of disease and death.

Kyungsoo, Baekhyun’s childhood friend from way back, even before Chanyeol, taps him on the shoulder and spins his wheelchair around, slamming his neck-guard against the handles.

“Funny how you’ve gotten yourself into this,” Kyungsoo smirks, “I saw your boyfriend on the way in, he told me about your little act of heroism. Bravery’s pretty ing intriguing coming from someone who's afraid of cats. Says I should probably talk to you about something serious, huh?”

Baekhyun blinks, suddenly aware of how there is no status between Chanyeol and himself, how they were definitely more than friends but much less than lovers. Met in middle-school, moved in to Chanyeol’s apartment in his last year of high-school ‘to cut costs’, brushed knees and touched lips somewhere in the middle of spring before graduation, made some ing intense love to each other here and there—Baekhyun doesn’t exactly remember the dates now.

Baekhyun keeps blinking until the redhead sighs and nudges him, “What’s up?”

They’re in a relationship approximately summarized by random announcements of ‘you look cute today’ and ‘what do you mean today’ and ‘go make me a sandwich’, tinted cheeks, soft lips, gentle cradling and fumbling against buttons and zippers. ‘I love you’ are the words left unsaid.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” he manages a something slightly above a whisper, “We’ve never really talked about this.”

“Then explain to me why he is your emergency contact and I’m not? We’ve known each other since little Tao perpetually steals your crayons and you’d cry over how colorless your rainbows are,” Kyungsoo remarks as Baekhyun’s eyes fall back into deep thought, straightening out and reorganizing the digits in his head.

“Whatever, you’re never going to admit to yourself that you’re ing in love with him anyway,” Kyungsoo doesn’t continue to broach the subject, because he already knows the same darting answers he will get, “But why the hell are you whispering anyway?”

It strikes him then how he has been going in circles about something that really doesn’t matter, as least not right now, and wandering thoughts deters back into foreign medical terms and painful goodbyes.

“I can’t sing anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Doctors said I fractured my larynx when I got attacked. That guy must have hit me with something blunt, I don’t know, I still can’t really remember,” he coughs hard between words, “Crushing forces to the cricoid cartilage caused injury to my cricothyro-something, and therefore resulting in unilateral vocal cord paralysis. Basically I can’t speak loudly or clearly, it’s gonna be pretty damn hard for me to eat without choking, and I can’t ing—sing.”

Baekhyun doesn’t know when the tears started to fall, he doesn’t feel the liquid stain his blue hospital gown, he doesn’t react as Kyungsoo steps up in attempts to wipe the transcending barrage of liquid fear, confusion and regret, in between sobs of silent apologies.

There are moments where Baekhyun questions himself as to why does he spending almost all of spare time rushing between university classes and the talent academy two blocks down, why is he pushing himself so hard to widen his vocal range, why ‘feeling tired’ no longer exists in his vocabulary.

Then there are moments when Baekhyun sings and he notices Chanyeol’s slight nods, lips curved, the tapping of fingers against his upper thigh, the faint sparkle in his eyes. Everything comes together almost perfectly, inevitably, gently, as if it’s meant to be.

It is then that all becomes clear—even though he started on this journey because of someone else, singing gradually has grown to be a part of him, a part he cannot be without.

And ultimately, his silent apologies are returned by a vaguely muted “it’s okay”, through the downcast eyes of a tall man, fist clenched, shoulders surrendered.

--

The next time Baekhyun opens his eyes, green grasses and petrichor are replaced by dull walls and the horrible smell of antiseptic on his tongue. Though he is unsurprised by the state of his surroundings, he is somewhat taken aback by the number of floral bouquets and arrangements that envelopes him.

The confusion, however, subsides into a tiny smile when he shuffles out of the ward and into the corridor and notices a familiar figure crouched over.

“You brought the flowers?”

Chanyeol looks up and nods, hands rubbing his eyes hard.

“All of them?”

“I didn’t know what to get, so I got them all. Daises, roses, baby’s breath, carnations, lilies, tulips, orchids… I can’t remember if I included blue hydrangeas as well,” Chanyeol admits. If he had the strength, Baekhyun thinks his finger would have long flicked hard against Chanyeol’s forehead. Only he is capable of doing something as dumb, as redundant—and as sweet as that.

“How are you feeling?”

They are sitting cross-legged against the corridor walls, avoiding the gazes from nurses who surprisingly, don’t ask them to leave. Somehow the lips that curve skywards on Chanyeol’s face, Baekhyun thinks, don’t correctly portray the barren desolation of his eyes.

“Chanyeol,” he utters, fiddling with his IV tube, “What if I never get back my voice?”

“You’ll get it back soon enough, hyung. You have to. We still have our dreams to achieve, waiting for us, you’ll sing and I’ll be playing the guitar, preferably. When we’re accepted into the company, we’ll still bunk together, you and I—and ddeobboki Fridays. If we’re placed with other trainees, you’ll be the main vocal while I’ll rap. It’ll be great, I promise. We’re in a good place.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Baekhyun’s voice cracks on the second word, merely trying to speak normally is already too much of a strain on his larynx.

Chanyeol looks away, eyes closed, fingers digging into his palms, clenched fists, unclenched fists. He’s upset, Baekhyun decides, that much at least is clear—or perhaps even a little more than upset. He waits for him to turn back, for him to at least fake another smile, but he doesn’t break out of his routine. His nails start to leave angry red marks.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re upset and you won’t tell me. I want to understand why so you can’t—“

“No, hyung. You won’t understand. You will never understand, because you’ve always been the weaker one, you’ve always needed my protection, and when you needed me the most, where was I? Oh, where the hell was I,” Chanyeol snaps, callous and cold, “You don’t get it, do you. You’ll never know what this feels like, because you’ll always be sheltered, protected, that’s just the way it is.”

“This—isn’t your fault, you can’t—blame yourself,” Baekhyun doesn’t want to cry, but a little crack in his voice faults his strong-front façade and messes everything up. The red marks on Chanyeol’s palms grew angrier, “Why the are you crying? You don’t even have the right to be—“

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m the one losing the ability to even voice out short thoughts, I’m the one who’ll never get to fulfill the dream that isn’t even dreamt up by me, and I don’t know why you’re moving further away from me, as if our relationship—whatever this is—is all just a bunch of wishful thinking. Fabrication. Lies, a whole bunch and I’m living in it,” Baekhyun tries to shout even though he feels his throat burning, but it doesn’t go louder than a slight raise.

They sit in silence, and after a long pause, Baekhyun thinks he hears a muffled “I’m sorry” slip. Chanyeol’s voice cracks. It is then that Baekhyun suddenly realizes that he is crying, too. Chanyeol has been crying all along, perhaps long before Baekhyun woke up.

“I’m afraid…” he watches his knuckles turn white, mumbling incoherent prayers into them, “to see myself grow old and wither, emotionless, expressionless, voiceless…” He doesn’t feel Chanyeol’s hand over his, smoothening out his fingers, “No, no.”

--

In the weeks that match up, Baekhyun does as per doctor’s orders, taking prescribed systemic antibiotics and antireflux medications and tries to stay in bed as much as possible with the head of bed angled at a near uncomfortable position.

Initially, he isn’t allowed to consume anything by mouth, only being fed through tubes in the worst shade of green. Baekhyun has never been happier when the doctors finally allow him a clear liquid diet. He has to go through tentatively half a year’s worth of speech therapy as well, or until he’s voice recovers, covering resonance, intonation, variance of pitch and other dreadful stuff. It’s a horrible six months, but it is the only way, he decides, if he ever wants to get back to realizing their dream.

Somewhere during autumn, they are leaning against each other on the rooftop, stars seeming much nearer than usual. Baekhyun is busy thinking he is nearly able to touch them, if he reaches high enough while Chanyeol flicks the last of his cigarettes down onto the little passing people far below, watching it slowly fall and disappear with a whoosh.

“How does it feel like?”

“Does what feel like?” A forced whisper.

“Having half a voice.”

Baekhyun blinks, he doesn’t think he has an answer for that. It feels like someone’s is clamping a palm over his mouth, strangling his throat with coarse fingers—it’s suffocating, to say the least.

But he doesn’t say any of that, “It’s like half-dying too, I guess. An important part of your life being snatched away,” he coughs, plays with Chanyeol’s long fingers with his right hand, before croaking out another answer, “but it’s pretty okay.”

“What do you mean?”

Baekhyun looks back up into the night sky. How he wishes just one out of the millions of stars shining would fall before them and break into a billion pieces of shimmering stardust. A miracle is what he wishes for, nothing short.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? I have you beside me,” he grins, “Besides, it’s not like I’m a total mute. It’s hard, but at least I still get to tell you how handsome you look right now, and I’ll have all the tomorrows in the world to say it again, maybe, next time, even sing it to you, ” he giggles into Chanyeol’s shoulder. Never before has he wished so bad to be stuck in the moment, hours and seconds flying by, just them two—hesitating between the fine lines of distant reality and the creases of Chanyeol’s lips on Baekhyun’s bare neck.

“You know,” Chanyeol interrupts the shorter male’s thoughts, “Before I met you, somewhere during the summer before high-school, I used to know this guy. Yifan, his name was. We met at the summer music academy I attended. At that time he was 18, I think, really tall, taller than me even, defined jaws, slight gummy smile.  It wasn’t love at first sight, I don’t think I even knew how to love, I just really, really liked him. He taught me how to rap, I taught him how to play the guitar—we were in a good place with each other.”

“And then I tried to make him love me. Funny, a 16 year old kid thinking he knows what he’s getting himself into. I wanted to fix him, change him, pick up and stick back the broken pieces from his previous failed relationship, but here’s the thing about trying to change someone else—you’ll let yourself break in the process.”

Somehow Chanyeol finds another damp cigarette in his pocket and successfully lights it between his lips. Baekhyun watches the hollows of his cheeks disappear and reappear. He doesn’t respond.

“And I fell pretty hard. Then high-school comes around and I met you. A ing brat with too much spare time on your hands, but you fixed me back up and working, filled in all the missing pieces, and you didn’t even know it. I look after you, you keep me intact. Efficiency, I guess, in other words you’re good for me, no, we’re good for each other.”

Chanyeol tugs on Baekhyun’s sleeve, and returns his ‘hmm’ with lips on his, kissing away the memories. He doesn’t taste the salty liquid spilling from Baekhyun’s eyes.

--

In between the wintery season—on days the winds are blowing especially hard—subtly, unknowingly, inexplicably, their first promise begins to falter.

Baekhyun likes coloring Chanyeol’s white walls that screamed desolati