The pills slide down Chanyeol’s throat, followed by the burning sensation of vodka tearing through his esophagus. Coughing and wiping his mouth with his wrist, Chanyeol shoves the money in the register under the counter to pay for the alcohol before a young woman ordering a gin and tonic grabs his attention. Chanyeol mixes the drink without paying much attention, his mind backing away from his body and slipping into a familiar dark corner. He slaps a tiny square napkin on the lacquered counter and sets the drink carelessly on top, accepting her money and placing it in its respective place in the register.

Exhaustion aches in Chanyeol’s joints, his legs moving to the edge of the counter to fill a tall glass of bear, neatly leveling the foam and handing it to the man. Tilting his head back to take a sharp breath, he closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself. Today will not be the day he checks out. A growl pushes through Chanyeol’s lips when he rolls his head to the side and looks forward, his eyelids retreating so he can look at his next customer and properly hear her long order. She must be getting drinks for her friends.

“You okay?” A voice startles him at his shoulder, and he jumps, sloshing the copper liquid down the side of one of the lined up shot glasses. Chanyeol pours the last two and carefully wipes up the mess with the towel over his shoulder and pushes the shots toward the woman before he nods curtly to Yifan.

Chanyeol attempts to reply in a level tone, but his baritone voice comes out strangled and pinched, choking out the word, “Fine.”

Yifan hums in disbelief, shaking his head with a tiny exhale, retreating back to his side of the bar when he’s called over by a group of giggling girls. Yifan gives them a smirk, and the lights glint in his eye. The older man charmingly asks for their order and serves it with finesse. A girl with rhombus eyes and straight, dark brown hair slides money over the counter for the drinks. Her friend leans over the counter, her blonde, wavy hair landing in the counter in gentle ringlets and her cleavage bubbles out of her low v-neck; she flirtatiously slides a few bills into Yifan’s front pocket and mouths “This is for you” with a wink.

One of the walk-around waitresses is leaning on the counter and snapping in Chanyeol’s face. He realizes he is staring off at Yifan, and shakes his head, looking to her with a sloppy, half-apologetic smile and starts preparing the order she memorized on her short run.

--

“How long have you been here?” Yifan asks Chanyeol on a Thursday night as they stack chairs and wipe up messes. It’s two in the morning, and fatigue is making Chanyeol’s movements slow.

“Not… that long,” Chanyeol lies through his teeth as he lifts a bar stool, setting it on the counter he just finished wiping down. The vinyl sticks to lingering dampness and squelches. Chanyeol reaches for another stool.

“I know that’s not true, you were here before me and I’ve been here all night,” Yifan pushes kindly and sweeps off the stage, setting the equipment to the side as the dust is cleared. Chanyeol watches Yifan’s muscles contract under his shirt and then slacken with every outward. A small lock of hair falls over Yifan’s forehead, resting on his eyebrows. Yifan flicks his head to the side to get rid of it.

“I just, I showed up right before you,” Chanyeol insists and stacks the last stool, wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs, nervously spitting lies. The bar is closed, he’s done with his work, he can just walk off and Yifan can’t stop him. Instead, Chanyeol watches as Yifan stands up straight and rests his hand on the top of the push broom. Yifan stares at Chanyeol. They are at least twenty feet away from each other, but Chanyeol can feel the impact of the glare like a blow to the chest.

“Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol’s breath hitches and he s behind him for his jacket. He left it on the corner of the counter. Clumsily slipping the jacket on, his right hand searches to find the appropriate sleeve, not looking away from Yifan.

“Chanyeol, when was the last time you slept?”

I don’t remember, Chanyeol wants to say, but Yifan and Chanyeol aren’t friends, at least Chanyeol doesn’t think they are. “I have to go.” To Chanyeol’s surprise, Yifan doesn’t stop Chanyeol as he stumbles backward toward the door and fumbles for the handle.

--

Chanyeol’s hands are covered in sticky, drying alcohol. He elbows a man in the jaw and yells, using foul language in his short outburst. Chanyeol’s jacket is being tugged and someone spits on his face. At least his hair is clean.

Bar fights rarely happen, but when they do the fight is usually very violent and very fast. The bar isn’t located in the best area of town, if the cracked, wooden floors and wet alleyway on the other side of the door doesn’t give that away. Tonight, a larger white man is angry that another, short but muscular black man claimed to sleep with his wife. Chanyeol saw the fight start, he knows the black man was only joking, but the white man was too far gone to see the playful hint in his eye and the sloppy grin.

Chanyeol’s slight figure isn’t a match for the two, but he wedges himself in between them regardless, using his elbows and his loud, deep voice to get them to stop. Bystanders, eager for action, tug at both of the men from the fight, and the chaos stops. Chanyeol’s large hand wipes the saliva from his face and he coughs, his left hand settling flat against his stomach. Chanyeol tells the men in a stern voice to get out.

Yifan is waiting behind the counter with a towel. Chanyeol’s hands grab it, and he’s wiping various grime from his palms before he’s fully holding onto the cloth. He doesn’t look at Yifan’s face; Chanyeol isn’t sure if he likes Yifan yet, and he’s not ready to find out. Tossing the towel onto the floor and rubbing a puddle with his foot, Chanyeol fishes in his jacket pocket for an unlabeled, orange tinted bottle. With shaking hands, he frees the bottle from the pouch and cracks the container open, dumping three pills onto his open palm. He hesitates, weighing the consequences of taking a fourth.

“Chan?” Yifan addresses Chanyeol from across the bar, but the older’s long strides get him over to Chanyeol’s side pretty quickly. Chanyeol ditches the fourth pill and throws the three in his mouth to swallow them dry before Yifan can stop him. The lumps squirm down his throat, and Chanyeol shivers, groaning in distaste and shoving the bottle back in his pocket, all before Yifan can say a word more.

“Chanyeol, what was that?” Yifan asks. Chanyeol doesn’t hear the question, all he can think about is Yifan’s warm hand on his lower back and breath by his ear. Soojung glances at them and makes her way behind the counter to start serving drinks in their absence.

Yifan moves his hand about an inch to the right, and Chanyeol sighs softly. Yifan’s hands are large, larger than normal, and it feels nice, reassuring. Everything but Yifan’s hand becomes a blur, momentarily.

“Chanyeol,” Yifan repeats, his voice a little more urgent.

“Ah, uh—for anxiety.” Chanyeol takes a long blink and turns his head to face Yifan. Their noses brush, and Yifan pulls away, his hand halting contact. A low whine bubbles in Chanyeol’s throat, but he swallows it.

“Go home, Chanyeol,” Yifan says and starts feeding an order into a tray without fully paying attention to what he’s doing. Chanyeol studies Yifan’s face and thinks of a valley, the kind that have the blue mountains resting comfortably against the skyline and flowers sporadically places around the naturally green landscape. Yifan blinks, and Chanyeol sees a deer. “I’ll cover you Chanyeol, go home.”

You look terrible, Chanyeol! Why did you do this to yourself? Chanyeol’s sister’s voice rings in his ears instead, and he backs up, shoving one hand in his back pocket. The other hand yanks the towel off of his shoulder and throws it on the ground next to the other towel already there.

His hand wipes over his left eyebrow. Chanyeol parts his lips and nods, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Yura’s voice follows Chanyeol into the alley, and into his truck.

Get some rest, Chanyeol. Stop this act; stop being stupid.

--

Yifan.

Chanyeol wakes up with the name in his mouth. It his taste buds and presses against the roof of his mouth. The name expands in the back of his throat, closing off his trachea and making his breath hitch in his throat. His co-worker’s name hums under his tongue until Chanyeol is forced to wheeze out the name.

Yifan.

Chanyeol’s chest deflates, and he runs his fingers through his hair, letting the greasy strands fall back on his forehead after his failed attempt to remove them. Chanyeol can’t sit up because his large chocolate lab is asleep across his legs and hips, snoring. It’s the middle of the day, and Chanyeol feels like hell.

Blindly maneuvering his hand over his nightstand, Chanyeol hears three things drop to the ground before his fingers close around a rectangular object. The cool metal presses against his palm as Chanyeol brings his phone up toward his face. He presses the unlock button and slides the phone open without looking at the screen. Chanyeol lifts the device to his face, and the backlight of the screen so bright is makes his eyes water.

Chanyeol has Yifan’s phone number, it’s posted in the back room along with every other employee’s number. Chanyeol’s is on there, third from the top. The paper is ripped, and the tear stretched from the edge to the capital C of his name. Yifan’s name is two below his. The paper is worn and the ink has faded from Chanyeol running his finger over Yifan’s name so many times.

The pads of Chanyeol’s lanky fingers pat over the screen, tears clouding his vision and making the digits blend and swirl together, a kaleidoscope of LED-produced technological illusions. Chanyeol presses on Yifan’s contact and stares at the blank caller ID image. The automatic white outline with a grey backwash stares back at him. A salty drop of water streams down Chanyeol’s face, stinging him when it runs over a patch of picked-at acne over the apple of his cheek.

Chanyeol presses the green call icon, and he sighs in relief as Yifan and he are digitally connected. It takes three rings for Yifan to pick up.

“You’re talking to Wu Yifan,” Chanyeol’s co-worker drones into the receiver, like he’s done it a million times before. It’s the greeting to an unknown number, Chanyeol realizes with a pang, and he swallows hard, forcing saliva down his dry throat.

“Hey.” Chanyeol’s voice sounds level, almost surprisingly normal. His dog shifts and puts a large paw on Chanyeol’s knee. Chanyeol bounces his knee until the paw slips off, leaving the dog’s ankle resting just below Chanyeol’s patella. The chocolate lab sighs in its sleep.

“Is this Chanyeol?” Yifan asks. There’s rustling, and at once the sounds of voices in the background cease. Yifan closes a door behind him, and Chanyeol hears a tiny sigh on the other end of the call. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Chanyeol answers in the same level tone. He’s not sure why he called Yifan, nor what to say. The two of them have never really had an actual conversation before, their talking mostly consists of Yifan asking questions Chanyeol doesn’t know how to answer. “I’m feeling better.

“Good, that’s… good.” Yifan nods and Chanyeol can hear the rustling of Yifan’s shirt collar. Chanyeol wants to crumple the fabric in his fist and pull Yifan on top of him. He thinks of Yifan’s lips on his neck, on his chest, on his lips, and hands all over. Chanyeol inhales sharply, and his dog wakes up, raising its head with a start. It pushes a paw on Chanyeol’s upper thigh, hitting him in a sensitive spot. Chanyeol groans in pain. “Are you okay, Chanyeol?” Yifan’s voice explodes in Chanyeol’s ear, and Chanyeol’s dog barks.

Chanyeol hangs up the phone.

--

Yifan pours every drink like it’s wine for the queen. His large hand grasps the bottle near the bottom, and he tips the bottle over just so it’s barely slanted enough for the liquid to flow out. The clear liquid flows neatly into a glass; no alcohol splashes, not a drop is wasted. When the glass is filled the appropriate amount, Yifan sharply tips the bottle up and twists it, so any remaining drips fall back into the neck of the bottle. The bottle is set back down and the glass is exchanged for dollar bills.

The same goes for shots: the spout on the top of the bottle is clamped on with Yifan’s index and middle finger, and he grasps the neck of the bottle with his thumb and remaining fingers. He lines the shot glasses up and pours in a horizontal line, filling each glass so the meniscus lies evenly at the brim of the glass before moving onto the next one. His movements are effortless.

Chanyeol’s are sloppy. Alcohol sloshes and bills are crumpled in the short path from the customer’s hands to the register. Sticky rings litter the counter where Chanyeol pours drinks. Wet towels surround the beer keg, and there are splashes on the floor. Chanyeol’s shoes squeak when he walks, the stickiness of dried liquor sticks to the soles of his shoes and then to the floor momentarily, only to be torn away when he lifts his foot. Chanyeol tries to stay as still as his job will let him.

Yifan hasn’t tried to talk to him yet, not since Chanyeol hung up on his earlier and proceeded to get into the shower with his dog and scrub sickness and sweat from his skin until he felt raw and glowed pink. His dog shook out his fur all over the bathroom and Chanyeol didn’t even attempt to clean it up.

It’s Monday night, so the bar closes at midnight instead of two AM. The short shift means eighteen less dollars Chanyeol can put towards his rent, or three and three fifths less cigarette packs he could buy; one and a half beer cases, or one third LSD prescription refill. Not even counting tips.

Chanyeol sips from a glass of beer. He’s sitting at the only bar stool he didn’t stack, watching Yifan dry the dishes Chanyeol previously washed through the door to the back room. The lights to the main area are out, so no one tries to stumble in, so Yifan is almost a silhouette as he hunches over the counter, rubbing a clean towel over the polished glass.

Other than the clink of glass every once in a while, the rooms are completely silent. After a moment of the stiff silence, Yifan steps back from the sink, his hands holding a shot glass. Yifan’s fingers dip into the glass and his other hand twirls the glass. Yifan’s long finger gathers all of the droplets from the inside. Yifan retracts his finger and flattens his palm over the bottom of the glass, tapping and twisting it. Chanyeol his lips and watches.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Yifan asks Chanyeol, startling the latter a bit. Chanyeol sets his glass down and clears his throat.

“Happy,” Chanyeol answers shortly. Wiping the corners of his mouth with his index finger and thumb, Chanyeol closes his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again to look at Yifan, who has grabbed another shot glass to dry. “She’s a service animal. My brother-in-law named her sarcastically, and it kind of stuck.”

Chanyeol shrugs to try and dismiss the sound of the harsh retort: Maybe if you say “come here, Happy,” enough, you’ll stop complaining.

“Happy,” Yifan repeats softly to himself, nodding. His eyebrows furrow a little, probably registering the second part of Chanyeol’s answer, but he doesn’t comment on it. “What breed?”

Chanyeol appreciates the conversation initiative, but he’d really rather not sit around small-talking. “Chocolate lab. She’s a year and a half old.”

Yifan finishes drying the dishes and starts to put them away. Chanyeol comes around the counter with his glass and washes it before helping Yifan put things away. Once again, the only sounds are clinking glass and shuffling feet.

“I know you’re working thirteen hour shifts.” Yifan breaks the silence again, looking to the side at Chanyeol as Chanyeol squats and puts the last of the beer glasses under the counter. Chanyeol pales at the announcement and stands up, brushing his hands on the thighs of his pants.

“It’s not that bad,” Chanyeol immediately defends himself and wipes off the counter again before he tosses the dirty towel into a bin in the back room. Chanyeol stacks the last stool and takes another look around the room. Yifan is staring at him.

“You should work shorter shifts,” Yifan lectures, like Chanyeol is his little brother. A pang hits Chanyeol in the chest, at the thought of Yifan thinking of him as kin, but he doesn’t break their newly formed eye-contact. Shivers slowly creep up the knobs of Chanyeol’s spine, like they’re climbing his vertebrae like a ladder, pausing every few to look down and see how far the ground is.

“I—Yifan, I need the money, I can’t just—” Chanyeol is stumbling over his words and it’s disgusting. Yifan cuts him off before his tongue can sloppily pronounce more useless syllables, and Chanyeol wraps his long hand in a fist and shoves his hand into his front jeans pocket.

“I’ll give you half of my tips,” Yifan starts and turns off the lights in the back. The older man makes his way through the dimly lit bar and digs into his back pocket to take a neatly folded wad of cash out. Yifan starts to sift through the bills, muttering the numbers to himself. Yifan’s lips shine with a thin coat of saliva, and Chanyeol can see the folds of his pink lips glisten and reflect the image of the overhead lights sparsely arranged on the ceiling. Chanyeol wonders what it would taste like to sink his teeth into Yifan’s bottom lip.

Yifan extracts several bills from the mix and folds them all in half, shoving the paper in Chanyeol’s hand. “I’ll give you half, and you work eight hours. Deal?”

Chanyeol doesn’t respond right away, but instead he looks at the money in his hands and quickly counts one hundred thirty dollars. “H-how do you…?” Chanyeol runs his tongue over the corner of his mouth, back and forth.

“People think they can get my number if they give me enough,” Yifan responds with a small wink. “Lock up on your way out. See you tomorrow!” Yifan leaves and the door rattles shut, leaving Chanyeol alone with the flickering lights and money that doesn’t belong to him.

--

Yifan gives Chanyeol half of his tips every single time they work the same shift, which is every time Yifan works because Chanyeol is always there. Reluctantly, however, Chanyeol compromised with his older co-worker and now works for nine hours, making sure he pretends like he just showed up when Yifan arrives.

Every wad of cash Yifan gives Chanyeol goes into an envelope. After the third portion Yifan exchanged with Chanyeol, the latter found himself at an ATM with the wrinkled, green bills ready to be inserted into the machine, but his hand shook so much he missed the insert. He ended up resting his head on the screen until the lady behind him cleared and he awkwardly left, shoving all of the money into his coat pocket.

Chanyeol is standing outside of the bar, leaning against his rusted, old pick-up truck. He was supposed to have gone home an hour ago, Yifan was going to pack up the rest of the bar, but Chanyeol couldn’t drive off again with the large envelope stashed in the backseat of his car.

Long fingers play with the corner of the orange envelope as Chanyeol stares at the wet pavement in front of him. Clouds flow out of his mouth and into the air with every sigh; the coldness is nipping at his joints, making Chanyeol feel stiff. In his hands he holds more than five thousand dollars, and it is his sole intent to return it to its owner.

The lights flicker out in the bar, but Chanyeol doesn’t turn his head at the action. He softly sighs once again and keeps his still position until Yifan emerges from the front door.

“Chanyeol! What are you doing?” Yifan exclaims, putting a large hand over his heart, which skipped a couple of beats when Yifan saw Chanyeol still standing outside.

“I can’t—I can’t spend this,” Chanyeol almost whispers, his voice cracking as he looks up at the older male, watching the mixed emotions flicker across Yifan’s face. Chanyeol extends his hand with the envelope in an attempt to give it back to Yifan.

“Why?” Yifan asks instead of taking the envelope. They both stand still and stare at each other, and Chanyeol can’t tell if he wants to yell at Yifan for not taking the money or kiss him for wanting Chanyeol to be better off. Chanyeol settles for running his tongue over his lips to lubricate them for the words to flow out more smoothly.

“Because it’s yours,” Chanyeol answers and stretches his arm a little further in Yifan’s direction like a petulant child. Yifan breaks eye contact with Chanyeol and looks at the orange envelope.

“But it’s also yours. I gave it to you.”

Instead of a response, Chanyeol just whines, his low voice cracking halfway through the childish trial. Chanyeol’s bottom lip pushes out unconsciously, and a red blush smears across Chanyeol’s cheeks when Yifan looks at the younger man’s lips for a moment.

“Why don’t we spend it together?” Yifan looks into Chanyeol eyes with a boyish smirk playing on his lips.

--

Chanyeol hasn’t been this high since he was seventeen. All that seems to erupt from his mouth are giggles and his cheeks are sore from smiling. He grabs a lighter and presses the orange flame to the of his hand-rolled stick and then presses the lit entrance to the end of Yifan’s cigarette. Smoke flows out of the corners of Chanyeol’s lips and he takes the paper from his mouth to his incredibly chapped lips.

Chanyeol watches Yifan smoke his nicotine: leaning his head back so the lines of his neck are prominent in the yellow light from the streetlamp, inhaling with his entire chest, and closing his eyes softly, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks, when he blows the smoke into the chilled air. The finished gets dropped into Yifan’s beer can, sizzling for a moment. Chanyeol wonders what the mixture might taste like; probably like paste, a mixture of ash and pungent alcohol, it can’t be good. Yifan drinks it anyway. Every few puffs, he takes a sip of the questionable mixture.

The beer in Chanyeol’s hand is cold, making his arm shiver from where his palm is wrapped around the chilled aluminum. Light reflects off of the dampness in Yifan’s eyes and it makes his eyes sparkle. Chanyeol’s hand twitches, making the hastily rolled paper shake ash onto his pants. Chanyeol doesn’t notice, he keeps staring at the lines of Yifan’s face and the curves under his thin white t-shirt.

When the first tear rolls down Yifan’s cheek, Chanyeol’s lips are there to catch it, and the tears in his dry lips lightly scratch the softness of Yifan’s cheekbone. The older man turns his head, not surprised by the action and looks into Chanyeol’s eyes, their dark irises aligning. Yifan’s stare is genuine, Chanyeol’s is hungry.

Before either of them can fully grasp the situation, Chanyeol’s fist is twisted in the collar of Yifan’s shirt and their lips are sloppily working together, tongues at skin and teeth clashing in the heated embrace.

Somewhere in the commotion, Chanyeol drops his beer on the road, and it spills all over the cement. Yifan turns his body on the hood of Chanyeol’s pick-up, so he’s mostly facing Chanyeol, and places his large hand on Chanyeol’s thigh, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave little fingerprints. Instead of groaning in pain, Chanyeol moans in delight and wraps his arm around Yifan’s shoulders, pressing their chests together and forcing their legs into a messy tangle, almost making the pair lose their balance and tumble off of the hood and onto the pavement themselves, not unlike the forgotten beer.

Yifan’s desperate kisses, his soft bites on Chanyeol’s lips, tongue, and jaw, and the way he catches Chanyeol’s eye with an understanding gaze before the older’s eyelids fall shut once more, make Chanyeol feel like Yifan is swallowing him whole; Chanyeol loves it. Their teeth clash once more before Yifan starts to and bite on Chanyeol’s jawline enough to leave a mark, and Chanyeol lets a shameless moan escape his swollen lips. The younger tilts his head to give the other more access.

Yifan, Chanyeol realizes as a drop of drool slips out of the corner of his mouth. Yifan flattens his tongue against Chanyeol’s chin and it up before their lips are met again in an almost violently passionate kiss. Yifan is here to save him.

Chanyeol has Yifan’s pants undone before they are all of the way inside of the cab of the truck. Yifan slams the passenger door closed and Chanyeol finds himself crammed into the wheel well, a mess of long limbs. Tossing a few things to the side, Chanyeol puts his legs underneath himself and yanks Yifan’s pants down to his mid-thigh before slipping down the waistband of Yifan’s briefs, freeing the half-stiff .

Yifan watches Chanyeol through hooded lids, his breath coming in short gasps already, as the younger man a hot stripe from the base to the tip, using one hand to fully yank down the white fabric.

Soon, Yifan’s is hitting the back of Chanyeol’s throat and Yifan’s fingers are firmly knotted in Chanyeol’s black hair. Yifan guides his down Chanyeol’s throat, and Chanyeol swirls his tongue over the base and swallows around the head of Yifan’s , making the older man release a guttural moan. Chanyeol hums and bobs his head up and down, hollowing his cheeks and tightening his fist around his thumb, accepting Yifan’s uneven s.

It doesn’t take long until Yifan’s seed is shooting down Chanyeol’s throat. Chanyeol realizes, as he the last of the milky white liquid from the head, that he has a mess of his own in his pants.

--

It’s Friday night, so the bar is busy. Chanyeol is repeating orders back to himself, muttering ingredients, numbers, and doses over and over under his breath until the order is fulfilled and either on a tray or in someone’s hand. Money gets crumpled between the customer’s hand and the register, and a man just started shoving tips in the collar of Chanyeol’s jacket.

The alcohol litters the floor around Chanyeol’s station, his hands are sticky, his brain is clouded, and his throat feels like it has a hand firmly wrapped around it.

There are three of them working behind the bar today: Chanyeol, Yifan, and Yuri, who only works the three days of the weekend. Chanyeol only half-hears what one of the walk around waitresses is telling him. He took ten anxiety pills, the rest of his bottle, before coming back from his break and the nauseousness from the medication is starting to set in. People seem to slide passed him, all around him, closing him into a tight spot, even though he is safe behind the counter. Chanyeol starts taking fast, shallow breaths and backs away from the counter, much to the waitress’s dismay. Yuri steps over and starts doing Chanyeol’s job. Chanyeol trips backwards into the back room and slams the door shut.

The first sob erupts from Chanyeol’s chest and knocks him off-balance. Chanyeol falls sideways toward the sink and leans over it. The vodka he drank earlier is sliding up his esophagus, and Chanyeol’s jaw pops as his throat widens to cough the bile into the drain. His forearm rests against the cool metal of the side of the sink, and Chanyeol clutches his stomach as he vomits the content of his stomach into the sink, and keeps dry heaving when there’s nothing else to spit out.

A tear rolls down Chanyeol’s cheek, and it’s followed by another and another. Soon, Chanyeol is sobbing and choking and he feels like his organs are going to turn inside out. The first mouthful of blood explodes from his mouth the exact moment Yifan bursts through the door. There is blood splattered from the underside of Chanyeol’s nose to the collar of his shirt when Chanyeol looks up at Yifan.

Since their wild night, Yifan has stopped asking Chanyeol questions, but he started looking at Chanyeol more: sympathetically, angrily, worried. Chanyeol hasn’t said anything to Yifan since then. Right now, he wants to talk. Chanyeol wants to look Yifan in the eye and tell him he needs help. The words should be on the tip of his tongue, but all Chanyeol tastes is iron.

Chanyeol’s left hand is going numb, needle pricks are stabbing him over and over across the surface of his hand. Yifan is saying something, and Chanyeol tries to respond, but the only thing that comes out is blood. Chanyeol breaks into a coughing fit. Blood, blood. There is so much blood. Chanyeol’s arm is attacked by the needles. His vision is darkening.

--

Chanyeol’s head is pounding, but other than that he feels all right. Slowly opening his eyes, the young individual is blinded by white, circling him and enveloping him in a bright mass of nothing. Chanyeol groans and turns his head to the side, gradually becoming aware of the rest of his body.

His throat is dry, parched all of the way down into his mid-chest. Chanyeol heaves out a dry cough and opens his eyes a little more, lifting his head. Someone is holding his hand, he realizes after a moment, so and Chanyeol turns his eyes to look toward the joined hands.

Chanyeol’s eyes follow the connection up an arm and his eyes finally settle upon the face of his older co-worker. Yifan is staring back at him, his eyes blinking slightly quicker than normal, and he smiles softly. Chanyeol’s breath catches in his throat.

Chanyeol tries to say something to Yifan, but nothing comes out of his throat. Yifan shushes him and smiles, standing up and patting Chanyeol’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you’re fine.”

Running his tongue along his lips, feeling the cracks of the dry skin, Chanyeol nods. He can tell he’s okay, and it slightly annoys him that Yifan just had to state the obvious, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. Chanyeol squeezes Yifan’s hand, even though it takes a lot of concentrated energy, and sighs softly, closing his eyes and allowing his lungs to empty and his sore eyes some reprieve.

“You weren’t trying to… end it, were you?” Yifan’s tone is tentative, and when Chanyeol opens his eyes to look at the older man again, wanting to be angry, but the look in Yifan’s eyes in genuine. Chanyeol wants to tell him that of course he wasn’t, there’s not a more depressing place to commit suicide than the back room of a dingy bar. Chanyeol wants to tell him that this is the fourth time he’s been in the hospital of OD-ing, he knows what he’s doing.

Instead, Chanyeol reaches up and grasps Yifan’s chin, straining the IV in his arm, and pulls the older man’s face down for a messy kiss. Chanyeol can’t breathe as well as he wants to, and Yifan’s hand are resting on Chanyeol’s torso harshly form the sudden upset of balance, but Chanyeol tries not to notice.

Chanyeol gasps against Yifan’s lips and hugs Yifan close to him, trying to get closer and closer, wanting Yifan to make him forget the pain and forget the drugs and the harassment. Yifan groans into Chanyeol’s mouth when Chanyeol accidentally pinches Yifan’s arm between his body and his arm. The kiss is messy and painful, but neither party seems to care.

All Chanyeol wants is Yifan to make it all okay. The older man rubs his thumb on Chanyeol’s hip in a calming motion, slowing the kiss to a less violent embrace, and murmurs encouragements against Chanyeol’s mouth. Chanyeol starts to cry. Happy tears this time, however.