Chapter Text
See, perhaps it is true that Sieun is a little delirious.
His head still aches, a hot throbbing above his brow, and it seems to act as a blockade between his reasonable thoughts and the empty space between his skull and brain. Everything he thinks is bouncing around in there, incoherent and recoiling. It’s been worse since he took his medication-- since his father left. Even though Sieun’s bed felt exactly like cold concrete, he couldn’t find the strength to move, and so he fumbled through his bag until he’d found the prescription he never planned to take and downed a small handful. The safety instructions were written in a print so small that the characters blurred, so he didn’t mind how many he took. Now, though the soreness in his arm has become a little more bearable, his head still aches the same. It’s worse, even, when he thinks. If he studies, he’s worried the pressure behind his eyes will swell until his brain explodes.
(Part of him enjoys the reprieve. Part of him worries that now that he’s stopped trying, he’ll never be able to start again. He’s broken his right arm. Every pen he holds seems to twist the bone, grind it.)
Sieun’s been back from the hospital for forty-three hours. His father has been gone for fifteen. If there’s one thing he can do, it’s count. He’s counting upwards, for a while, and wonders what he’s waiting for; struggles to remember, really, what he’s afraid will come. The doorbell rings, and someone is by the door. Sieun remembers.
Now, his numbers dwindle. He counts the seconds down as he drags himself from his room.
“Who is it?” He calls-- though through the fog in his mind, he already knows.
“Delivery,” Suho replies, voice muffled and a little weary.
Now, Sieun just thinks-- shit, and wonders how he’s ever supposed to face Suho like this, or ever face him again at all. He’s losing control of things too quickly. He hates this-- hates this feeling of uselessness, this anger, this pain; hates the earnestness in Suho’s voice, the familiarity in his words.
“What is it?”
“What is what?” Suho whines. “I’m thirsty. Give me some water.”
The first time this happened, Sieun was so annoyed that he imagined pushing Suho out the door and over the railing outside. Then Suho was on his floor, drinking all of his water, and the apartment felt full; it felt busy, bright, as if it actually had some semblance of life in it. Then, Sieun had suddenly realised that he’d never considered himself to be life, that he’d always thought of his home as hollow and empty since his mother left, and abandoned whenever his father was gone. And he imagined that he’d like some of Suho’s spirit, if he’d be willing to share.
In the hallway, Sieun pauses. His gaze strays to his arm, that stupid cast, as his thoughts race and jumble. He’s lost. He doesn’t know what to do. He grabs a hoodie, the one he wears to school, and pulls it on-- winces at the stretch of his ribs, the jarring of his arm. His hand stills by the handle, ready to open, as he counts beneath his breath. 4, 3, 2…
The door opens. It’s bright. When he looks at Suho, it feels oddly reminiscent of staring up at Yeongbin-- daring him to say something, to take action. If Suho wraps his hands around Sieun’s neck, Sieun can fight back and he won’t feel wrong for it. He won’t be the one to strike first. He averts his eyes, then, and lets them bounce between the collar of Suho’s shirt and the space between his eyes.
Suho makes a sound, like a laugh that he doesn’t quite have the energy for. “Have you been well?”
“Yes,” Sieun says. He shuffles on his feet; fights against finding Suho’s eyes. “What brings you here?”
Suho nods towards the city. “I’m just stopping by on my way somewhere.”
When Suho finally looks down, Sieun follows it. He draws his arm behind his back, but feels exposed. He feels like an idiot, actually. Suho can see right through him, can’t he? Can’t he always? But the skyline behind Suho is swimming, and Sieun’s eyes sting as if he’s washed them with soap, and everything feels too bright and like far too much-- all he can concentrate on is getting Suho to leave, making him go home, where he can eat his grandmother’s food and be safe.
“Are you okay?” Suho asks.
Sieun is nauseous. “What do you mean?”
For a moment, he can’t look away. Then Suho’s mouth twitches; the slightest dragging of his lips, like he can’t control it. It’s half a second, but it’s like he’s cracked down the middle, and Sieun feels nothing but shame.
“You’ll come to school tomorrow to take the finals, right?”
There’s nothing Sieun resents more than that forced cheeriness in Suho’s voice. “Yes, I should,” he nods.
Suho smiles meanly; the kind he’d give Yeongbin. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”
He scoffs before he turns-- just a little noise, under his breath, like he really can’t believe Sieun would lie right to his face and expect him just to take it. Sieun can’t believe it either. He’s waiting for Suho to grab him by the collar, or something, and shake some sense into him. Waiting for him to scream, yell, hit, swear he’ll never talk to Sieun again and go back to what he used to be, the napping guardian angel in the back of the room.
But Suho doesn’t do any of that. He just walks away, silhouette so bright that it’s blaring. Utter red, like a beacon; he’s consumed by it, disappearing. Maybe Sieun is delirious, but never has he been dumb. The red of Suho’s jacket is about to be eaten by the hallway. The minty blue-green doors of the elevator will close and he will be gone. Sieun has a sudden, vivid image that behind those doors he really will dissolve into the air, into nothing. His arm is beginning to hurt again. The cast is so bulky, so hard to hide. Sieun’s lips taste like blood and he can’t stop reopening the cut because he can’t stop biting. Suho knows him, doesn’t he?
“Suho,” he calls, from the safe space behind his door.
In the distance, Suho is growing smaller. His head is turned down, watching his feet, and his hands are in his pockets. The tense lining of his shoulders is familiar-- he’s trying to look casual, but he’s poised as if to strike. In that elevator are his enemies, every one of them-- all of Sieun’s too, because he’s made everything worse for Suho, hasn’t he? Because he’s made a friend, and they’ve each suffered for it.
The seconds in Sieun’s head are becoming faster, growing senseless. His fingers are so numb that he thinks they’ve disappeared, but they twitch with the ticking time. Suho is running through them, turning into dry sand which he can’t hold.
“Suho!” He calls again, nearly desperate.
Has his hallway always been this suffocating? The door holds Sieun back as if it weighs a thousand pounds, and he is shrinking beneath it. He scrambles to pull it back, to slip between the gap. Outside, the sun is blinding. Squinting, holding his good arm up to his face, Sieun shuffles as fast as he can in Suho’s direction. With his broken arm, he reaches for the sleeve of that red windbreaker, but his fingers encircle the warm, soft skin of Suho’s wrist instead.
Suho turns suddenly, hissing. “Aish, your fingers are so cold!”
“You weren’t listening to me,” says Sieun, tightening his grip.
Suho blinks, taken aback. “What?”
“I was calling you,” Sieun insists. “You weren’t turning back. Just-- don’t leave, not yet. I’m sorry we left you on your birthday, alright? Come back, I’ll make you miyeok-guk.”
“There’s something wrong with you.” Suho’s tone is not mean-- more like he’s realising something. “Sieun-ah, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Sieun nods. “I’m tired. It’s bright out here, and my eyes hurt. You need to study anyway, don’t you? I bet you haven’t revised at all. Come in, and I’ll let you watch something American while I study English.”
Suho tugs at Sieun’s grip, but not enough to pull away. “No, I have to go. You can go back to studying, alright? Do well on your exams.”
Sieun finally lets go, stepping back. “Where are you going?”
“What?”
“Where are you going?” Sieun repeats. “I’m not an idiot. I know you. You’re not going home right now, or to work. Where are you going?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Suho shrugs. “Does your arm hurt? You should go inside. I’ll see you at school.”
Sieun’s arm does hurt, so he uses both hands to cling to Suho’s sleeve. “No. Tell me where you’re going.”
Suho jaw clenches. “What are you asking for? My honesty? When we both know that you just lied to me?”
“I was protecting you.”
“You could have died, and I wouldn’t have even known. What business do you have, fighting my battles?”
“They’re not your battles! Beom-seok can’t stand his ego being hurt, and he’ll do anything to destroy yours. Do you get it? He doesn’t understand what he’s doing, and eventually he’ll get you killed!”
“I don’t care about what he’ll try to do to me, and I’m not a coward!” Suho yells. “How’s it better for you to get hurt than me, huh? I told you, run away. One day you’re going to be beat so bad that you don’t get back up, and what if I’m not there?”
“I can take care of myself,” Sieun sneers. “I’m not incompetent.”
Suho rolls his eyes. “Neither am I! Besides, can you? Look at yourself! You were in the hospital, and I had to find out from those punks at school? They were talking about you like they’d killed you!”
And Sieun realises-- how did he find out? “What? Who? Who told you?”
“Jeongchan, Taehoon... you know, Yeongbin’s goons,” Suho sighs. “They said it was supposed to be me.”
The past couple of days, Sieun has been secretly glad, just a little bit, for the fogginess in his head. When he does his homework, he’s mostly staring at the pages, writing mindlessly. All the people outside of his eyeline are shapeless and fuzzy. If nothing makes sense, nothing matters.
But now, with Suho swirling before him into a senseless splotch of colours, all Sieun wants is to be able to think. He wants to pull things from his brain and use them to find an advantage, to gain an edge. Deleting the messages from Suho’s phone and swearing Yeongyi to secrecy, at the time, felt like the only way to protect him. But Sieun should have known Yeongbin’s friends would talk, should have known Suho would find out anyway. He just didn’t expect Suho to look for him. He also never expected Suho to be like this ; to lie just like Sieun, to be as conniving. This feels like a whole other side of him-- perhaps the version which existed before he quit MMA, before he defined his principles. Don’t cross the line.
“If it was you, they wouldn’t have held back,” Sieun says. “I thought I could convince Beomseok to stop.”
Suho groans, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s not our friend anymore, Sieun-ah. I don’t know what’s wrong with that punk, but he’s gone. Stop trying to save him when he’s made his own choices.”
“They’re just using him,” argues Sieun. “If he wasn’t rich, they wouldn’t give a shit about him.”
Suho rolls his eyes. “He’s smart enough to know that. He’s just pathetic.”
For some reason, the words land as if they’re aimed at Sieun. “He’s not pathetic, he’s desperate. He’s lonely.”
“Lonely? He had us!”
“And he wanted more!” Sieun snaps. “He wanted to have what you have!”
Sighing, Suho shakes his head. “What I have,” he repeats. He sounds tired.
Yes, idiot, what you have, Sieun thinks, channelling the sentiment into his expression so he doesn’t have to voice it. Followers, friends, charm. All that love and ease and laughter. Of course Beomseok would want it. Who wouldn’t?
“Beomseok made his choices,” Suho repeats, speaking slowly. “Don’t excuse him. Look at yourself, Sieun-ah. That was him.”
Sieun shakes his head. “It wasn’t. I saw him. He didn’t want to. If it was you--”
“It wasn’t.”
The silence stirs, shifts. Sieun struggles to form words, to churn his thoughts out into speech. He’s sure his face is blank, but it somehow feels like Suho sees him anyway.
Suho’s lips thin disapprovingly, as if he’s an Aunty biting back a scolding. “Your eyes look weird. You’re different. Did you hit your head?”
“I’m not different,” Sieun scoffs, pressing his fingers to his eyes as if to dispel whatever’s showing in them away. It doesn’t seem to work, because when he pulls his hands away Suho is still staring, chewing on his lip with a furrowed brow.
“Why can’t you be this concentrated on your studies?” Sieun asks. “Maybe then you’d be a top student.”
“That almost sounds like a joke, Sieun-ah,” Suho replies, but he’s barely smiling. His eyes flit away, towards the elevator.
“Don’t leave,” Sieun insists. “Really. It was stupid of me to lie, alright?”
“It was stupid,” Suho repeats dully. “Why can't you just say you’re sorry?”
“I’m--” Sieun bites his tongue, averts his gaze. “Yes, I’m sorry. I told you, I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have avoided you. I thought I could keep you out of it.”
“ Aish, you punk, it’s not about that. I would have found out anyway.”
Sieun nearly rolls his eyes. This guy. He’s frustrating enough when he’s not being all cryptic, and Sieun’s head is still sore enough to jumble his thinking. The sun, free from the protection of the drawn blinds in his apartment, is an unwelcome exaggerator. Suho, still blazing red in his sharp windbreaker, is a bit of an eyesore against the cool tones of the building. Sieun needs to get him inside, in dull light; then he’ll be able to think properly.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” he admits. “I don’t know why you won’t come back inside.”
Suho, always expressive, really does roll his eyes. “You do know. That’s why you took my place, why you ignored my calls. You know exactly how I feel.”
Sieun, who thinks and thinks and thinks, has always believed that there is an answer to every question. For a while, he was convinced that he could know all of them, too. People, he’s come to realise, are equations he cannot solve. There are so many rules, constantly changing, and it’s impossible to speak plainly to a person without the clues and traps tripping his way. Sieun doesn’t know how he felt when he took Suho’s place. He knew what he was thinking, and he knew his own fear-- something he’s always felt, something that lives within him as a second heart, that grew and changed with Suho but never really became anything new.
“How am I supposed to know how you feel?” Sieun asks. He nearly whines.
Suho’s jaw clicks as he grinds his teeth. “Alright. I’ll come in. But if you make me ramyeon, I’m leaving.”
“I said I’d make you miyeok-guk,” Sieun says. “Happy birthday.”
Suho twitches like he’s about to say something, but bites the words at the last second. Instead, he nods, and lets Sieun lead him back to the apartment. Sieun shoots looks over his shoulder the whole time, eyeing that brilliant red in his peripheral, resisting the urge to grab Suho’s wrist and pull him along.
The moment they’re inside, Suho swings the door shut and checks the locks. Then he takes a few steps down the hall, craning his neck, checking for ghosts or intruders.
“Take your shoes off,” Sieun scolds. He doesn’t need to— he forgot to put any on when he went outside. His socks are gray with dirt.
Suho’s gaze finally lands back on Sieun. The ghost he was looking for is right here. “Let me see you,” he starts.
“What--”
But Suho is already grabbing Sieun’s jaw, tilting his head with a tenderness that makes a spark jump down his spine. His hand remains steady, grounding them both, while his thumb ghosts over the cut on Sieun’s lip. It nearly hurts.
Sieun wants to say he’s fine. He wants to pull away. Instead he holds still, staring at the bridge of Suho’s nose, between his eyes. The light in the hallway is off, and they’re only lit by the sun filtering through the drawn curtains of the windows. Sieun kind of wants to sway forward. Suho is the only thing keeping him upright.
“Aish,” Suho tuts. “This might leave a scar. Did the doctor give you anything for it?”
“Ointment,” Sieun replies. “Painkillers.”
Suho nods, hums. “Yeah, is that why you’re so funny right now?”
“I’m not funny,” Sieun says. It’s true. No one’s seen him laugh since elementary school.
“Does your arm hurt?”
“Yes.”
Suho exhales quickly, from his nose. He finally draws his hand away, then turns his head. Sieun nearly falls into him, drowsy and suddenly cold, before he catches himself. Suho has stepped away and is finally taking his shoes off. He meets Sieun’s eye for a second, and Sieun nearly says something, until Suho pushes past him and goes further into the apartment.
“Where are you going?” Sieun calls, as Suho disappears around the corner.
He realises a moment later, brain stuttering, that Suho’s gone behind the one door he doesn’t want him to. He nearly trips over himself running towards it, bursting through the door before Suho can close it in his face.
“I’ve never seen your room,” Suho says.
“I’ve never invited you,” Sieun bites.
His tone doesn’t seem to deter Suho, who’s craning his neck to see every nook and cranny of the room. It’s not like there’s anything interesting to see, or anything really personal. Still, something stirs in Sieun’s gut at the sight of Suho in here, taking in the room like he’s trying to unravel all its secrets. He eyes the photo of himself and his mother and wishes it was hidden.
Suho nods, then sits down on the bed. “Which one of them broke your arm?”
“Stop thinking about that,” Sieun scolds. “Beomseok will leave you alone now, and Yeongbin’s gotten his revenge. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
Suho scoffs. “I wasn’t worrying about myself.”
Sieun wrinkles his brow. He bites his tongue. Suho is looking at him so intently that he has to avert his gaze, eyes bouncing around the room.
“Your bed is so stiff,” Suho says. “Doesn’t it hurt your back?”
It feels like an offering-- like Suho’s saying, Here, I’ll be normal. It fails to dissipate the tension between them.
“It’s more comfortable than the desks at school. Don’t be so fussy.”
Suho nods, half-smiling. “Yah, your room is so boring. There’s hardly any pictures. Do you really just study all day?”
Sieun shrugs, eyeing the open notebook on his desk. “What else am I supposed to do? If I spend all my time watching dramas, I’ll fall behind. I have to concentrate for the exam tomorrow.”
“Those exams,” Suho sighs. “I haven’t had any time to study. You keep me too busy.”
“You would have slept through it.”
“That was the practice exam!
Sieun rolls his eyes. Suho stretches arms above his head, like a cat, and Sieun watches the sliver of skin revealed when his shirt rises like a hawk waiting to swoop him away. Then Suho pulls his windbreaker off and lays back, head nearly touching the wall while his legs dangle from the bed, feet still on the ground. Sieun is sure he must be red, suffocated by the warmth of his own sweatshirt, and forms the distant idea that he should open a window.
“Stop looking so awkward, Sieun-ah. It’s your bed. Make yourself comfortable.”
Sieun sighs, but figures he should indulge Suho if he’s going to get him to stay here. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do to keep Suho entertained, or how he’s supposed to trust that Suho won’t run straight into Beomseok and Wooyoung’s fists the second he leaves. All he really wants to do is sleep.
He sits on the edge of the bed, stiff, tugging at the collar of his shirt. The sweater is overbearing, but when he tries to pull it off it tugs at his arm, and his mind sharpens with a fast, harsh clarity as he folds into himself, straining to keep his face controlled.
Suho sucks his teeth and sits up, right by Sieun’s shoulder. “Let me help. You’re like a squirming toddler.” For once, he seems hesitant. His hands hover near Sieun’s chest, waiting.
“It’s alright,” Sieun whispers.
Suho nods. He feels a lot closer than he really is, like he’s hardly separate from Sieun himself. Sieun could lean forward, could merge them into one, and then Suho could never escape. How easy would it be, to just bite and never let go?
Suho removes the sweatshirt slowly. Sieun isn’t sure what he’s afraid of. Part of him wants Suho to rip it clean off, to tear him in two, while the other part knows Suho would rather die than see him hurt. The thought makes him sick. Sieun breathes out too sharply when Suho pulls the last sleeve from his broken arm, unable to stop his own flinch. Suho freezes, eyes heavy with guilt, raising his hands as if to surrender.
“It’s alright,” Sieun repeats. “I’m alright. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Suho replies. He holds the sleeve in one hand and wraps the other around Sieun’s cast, very gently, holding his arm in place. The pain dulls. The hoodie lands in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Feeling brave, or perhaps just turned stupid by his own fuzzy thoughts, Sieun leans forward until his forehead meets Suho’s shoulder. He could sleep right here, held upright by Suho forever-- and he realises, absurdly, that Suho might let him.
“You said you’d make me miyeok-guk.”
Sieun sighs. “You can make yourself ramyeon. I’m sleepy now.”
“Come on,” Suho replies, and pulls Sieun away.
It’s enough to open a cavern in Sieun’s chest, even as Suho manoeuvres them both so they’re laying down, side by side. Inside the hole beside Sieun’s heart is an endless cacophony of noise and fear and fists and feet; beating him from wherever he can’t reach, dragging him down and through the floor. Then Suho’s fingers find the back of his neck, tickling his hair, and he guides Sieun back to the warm space between his neck and shoulder.
“Close your eyes,” Suho whispers. “Your eyelashes are so long. It tickles when you blink.”
Sieun closes his eyes, then nuzzles further into the soft skin above Suho’s collar. Nothing could hurt quite as much as this. But as long as Suho is close, he is safe.
“I won’t let them hurt you again,” Suho murmurs.
Sieun’s heart skips a beat. “Please don’t go after them,” he begs. “Promise you’ll stay here.”
Suho’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Okay. I promise.”