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One day, Suho is staring down the elevator doors of Sieun’s building, hands in his pockets, and the taste of blood lingering on his tongue.
The next, he’s blinking awake to nothing but whiteness, sharp and overwhelming, greater than the whole world. Beyond that whiteness there is no feeling, no body, and no one else.
I must be dead, Suho thinks. And it doesn’t bring peace like it’s supposed to. He wants to turn around. He should tell Sieun he’s sorry.
And suddenly, life-- a head swims into vision, blurry and unreal, what must be an angel. Suho tries to speak to it, tries to muster the courage to ask it where he is, where he’s going. But if he has no arms and no legs, he must have no mouth. Only his heart is left, and he imagines it beating, red, bleeding out into the whiteness and clouding it with colour.
The angel begins to speak, but Suho can only make out a high droning, and a great ache where his ears used to be. Slowly, as it makes itself more human, as the nonsensical blur turns into a real, human face, its voice becomes clearer.
“Anh Suho, can you see me? Can you hear me?”
Yes, he says, but he cannot hear his own voice.
“It’s alright. Can you blink for me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”
He must have eyes, then. With all his strength, he tries to remember where they are, what blinking feels like. The world disappears, and the darkness is so startling that Suho is afraid he’ll fall back into it; but he manages to drag his eyelids open, then forces them closed and open again.
“Good,” the angel says. “Can you squeeze my hand?”
With what? Suho asks. What a stupid request. There are no hands, not here-- nothing to feel, and nothing to touch.
“That’s alright. You’re doing so well, Suho.”
Maybe it’s some kind of test. Suho has never been good at those. Sieun should be here, telling him what to do.
The angel looks away, seeing something beyond him. “This is the first time he’s been responsive. This is a good sign, he’s very strong. Would you like to try speaking to him?”
Another face takes up some of the whiteness, one that Suho would recognise blind.
“Suho-yah,” she sighs, as if it pains her greatly to say his name.
His grandma. What is she doing here? Without Suho to look after her, she must have grown weak. Or perhaps this is her spirit, wishing him her final goodbyes at his funeral. No, he doesn’t want to see that, it’ll make him depressed. He wants to blink again and stay in that fuzzy, dark place.
“Oh, Suho,” she says, and her chin begins to quiver.
Please don’t cry. If you cry, so will I. What kind of example does that set? I’m supposed to be tough.
“It’s alright to cry,” Grandma says, and her trembling hands wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes.
And Suho realises that he is alive.
It feels awfully strange, to exist in an empty body. It’s like when Suho would buy a dozen energy drinks rather than sleeping for a few days, too busy with work, and when he finally collapsed in bed he’d wake up frozen, stomach flipping, stuck in his bed but sure that he was falling. Except he doesn’t snap out of it this time, doesn’t fall asleep and shake it off the next morning.
Instead, the nurses and doctors begin to stretch his senseless limbs, and speak to him in irritatingly calm, repetitive cadences. For the first two hours of Suho’s life, he has nothing but his eyes. But Grandma’s hands rub warmth into his cheeks, and soon enough his face is tingling, like it’s just an arm that’s fallen asleep, and his tongue becomes heavy and real and usable in his mouth.
“Grandma,” is his first word.
She bursts into tears.
Not long after, Suho can form sentences. He asks what happened, what’s wrong with his body, where’s Sieun. Everybody mumbles fake answers, telling him to take it easy, to not overwhelm himself. He’s been asleep for a long time, they say. He had a terrible accident, but he’ll be alright.
When he tries to remember what happened, he can’t. He can only picture blue-green elevator doors, and a sad, guilty shine in Sieun’s eyes. Somehow, he knows that the word accident is misleading. It sparks a fiery upset in him whenever the nurses say it.
“It’s cold in here,” he tells Grandma. “Can I go outside? Is it warm?”
For some reason, this makes her look quite sorry. “It’s been raining all day, but it cleared up this afternoon.” She turns to the nurse fiddling with his monitors. “Can he go outside?”
“It should be alright,” she replies, smiling. “Some vitamin D will be good for him, I think.”
If he could, Suho would lift up his arms and cheer. “Finally. I can’t be cooped up in here, it’s bad for my health.”
The nurse laughs as she leaves the room. When she comes back, she’s accompanied by a posse of nurses, who all look very serious. They sit him up and maneuver his arms into a familiar gray jumper, stiff with misuse.
His fingers twitch when they’re pulled through the sleeve. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s been with your things for a while,” someone answers. “It will be gentler on your skin than the windbreaker.”
They’re right. The fabric is soft. It smells clean, but not hospital-clean, not like everything else. Suho’s wondering where he’s seen it, why it’s with his things, and for some reason can’t remember.
They tell him he’s a miracle. He’s making great progress, he’ll recover in no time. He could be brain dead, or catatonic, and instead he’s talking and holding up his own neck. You’re so strong, they keep saying. Suho doesn’t want to waste his energy on disagreeing.
The hallway is a change of scenery, but Suho wouldn’t call it pleasant. With the return of his senses has come that tangy, uncomfortable smell of cleaning products and illness, like someone’s spilt a bucket of bleach in a retirement home. Suho peeks in the door to see all the people in their rooms, laying in bed and covered in wires, surrounded by cards and flowers.
“Hey, where were all my balloons?” he asks.
“You had plenty,” the nurse replies. “I was here when you first came in. For weeks, there were different kids coming to visit, leaving all kinds of gifts. Balloons deflate eventually. But your room looked like a rainbow.”
Suho feels uneasy with the image. People have always flocked to him, for whatever reason. He’s never been particularly interested in them. Not that he’s a hermit, not like Sieun-- he just doesn’t have time to entertain everyone, is all. He has to work, and take care of Grandma.
Well, he probably doesn’t have to worry about work anymore. That sends an anxious churning to his gut. How has Grandma been paying for his hospital bills, let alone her own food?
He realises he’s been quiet for too long. “Does anyone still visit me?”
“Oh, yes,” the nurse says. “Everyone knows him. Your friend, Sieun. He signs in every night. I used to ask him how he is, but he doesn’t seem to talk much.”
Suho’s heart skips a beat. “Sieun. Does he know I’m awake?”
The wheelchair slows. “It wouldn’t be typical to call him straight away, since he’s not family. Would you like me to?”
Suho would like to call Sieun himself, but so far everyone has refused to give him his phone, even when he’s asked nicely. “You have to.”
“Alright,” the nurse replies. “Let’s get you outside first.”
“Okay,” Suho says. “Hey-- since you won’t tell me anything else, can you at least tell me how long I’ve been gone?”
She’s silent for a long moment. “It’s been nearly two years.”
If Suho had anything in his stomach, he’d throw it up. God, two years? That’s unfeasible, it’s too much-- that’s more time than he can really comprehend, It can’t have been two years. The world still looks the same. Suho is still the same. And he’s supposed to believe that he’s, what, eighteen?
“It’s okay, Suho,” the nurse says, her tone gentle. “Your life isn’t over. I know this feels like a lot, but you’re already recovering so well. Before long, you’ll be back to your normal life. Just remember to be patient.”
He wants to argue. No, he wants to scream-- to demand answers and cry until someone fixes this. But he swallows the sickness with his words, and lets the nurse push him in silence.
In every window he’s passed, he’s been eyeing the sunlight, trying to remember the feeling of it on his skin. It still catches him by surprise when they’re finally outside the last set of doors. All the people outside seem much happier than the patients he passed-- much more alive. It feels kind of like vindication to Suho, that he can be out here with them. As if it means he’s alive too, even if it hardly feels like it.
The nurse parks the chair so he’s half-facing the hospital but still with a clear view of the gardens and streets beyond. He wonders if he should ask her to turn him more, then realises he isn’t sure which way he’d like to look. When he is neither dead or alive, is it worse to watch people who are dying or living?
He keeps his eyes on the hospital.
One moment, Suho is watching the front doors swing open and closed, thinking about all the different people coming and going, and all their different reasons and different stories.
The next, he’s looking at Sieun.
At first, Suho doesn’t notice anything unusual. Just that familiar feeling of, Oh, there you are. But Sieun is wearing an unfamiliar uniform, and he’s holding himself in a way that is less drawn, less tense than Suho is used to, and hasn’t it been two years? That’s too long, too much time to not know what Sieun has done or who he is.
Suho saw Sieun yesterday. Recognising him is second nature. Does Sieun still feel the same?
Their eyes meet for a moment too long, and Suho’s mouth aches as if he’s fighting a smile. “Have you been alright?”
Even from ten feet away, Suho can see Sieun’s expression as it quivers; as his eyes shine, shoulders shaking, breath trembling in sharp exhales. He’s flushed as if he’s been running, and Suho prays to whatever god sent him back here that after all this time, he can still read Sieun’s face. Because all he sees is joy, relief, and right in Sieun’s round, stirring eyes-- something like love, or something close to it. Maybe he should call it awe.
Suho’s never seen Sieun cry. Is it sick that he wants to now?
Rather than replying with words, Sieun lets out an affirmative hum, simple and heavy, as the light reflects in his eyes.
Suho isn’t sure what he wants to say, but he can feel something rising in the back of his throat, ready to spill over. Before it can, he catches the boys behind Sieun, dressed in the same uniform, watching tentatively.
He bristles, alert. “Who are these guys behind you?”
They look kind of like idiots, all lined up with their hands in their pockets, as if they’re bodyguards of some kind. Suho nearly laughs, imagining Sieun moving schools and becoming a thug, forming a little gang of misfits.
“They’re my friends,” Sieun replies.
For a moment, Suho expects to feel jealous of these strangers who have known Sieun while he couldn’t. But he doesn’t. For some reason, he sees these boys and feels warm. He feels glad.
When he finally smiles, it doesn’t feel wrong; it doesn’t feel like he’s not used to it. “That’s awesome,” he says.
Sieun’s lips quirk, the same way they did in the hospital not that long ago, or all that time ago, when it practically sent Suho into shock. At the same time, twin tears wet his eyelashes, stain his cheeks. Suho wishes he would come closer so he could follow the droplets and see where they stop.
“What are you doing all the way over there?” he calls. “Come here, let me see you. You’re all grown up, huh?”
As Sieun comes closer, he uses his sleeves to scrub at his eyes, and Suho pretends not to be disappointed.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “I’d cry too. It’s not every day you see a handsome face like mine out in the sunlight.”
Sieun laughs wetly, and it nearly startles Suho from his wheelchair.
“Suho-yah,” Sieun breathes, once he’s close. “Suho.”
“Did you forget how to say it?” Suho asks.
Sieun takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then, without warning, he barrels into Suho’s chest, collapsing on his knees by the chair. His hair is messy and ruffled, tickling Suho’s nose, and he wills all of his strength to return so he can at least raise his arms, so he can at least hug Sieun back.
“I’m sorry,” Suho chokes. “I’m weak. I can’t move.”
Sieun’s voice is muffled, but Suho feels it vibrate against his chest. “It’s okay. I don’t care. Your eyes are open.”
Is there anything Suho could say to make it better? To make up for all that he’s lost? Everything seems so out of place, so out of touch. He’s struggling not to resent it. But Sieun is here, and the hospital set is so thin that Suho can even feel his breathing, and can’t that be enough?
When Sieun finally leans back, still knelt in the grass, he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
“I missed you,” Suho says.
Sieun’s lips pull into a pout. “Don’t say that. Aren’t you worried? For you, nothing has changed. But you-- I-- I’m different.”
“You’re Yeon Sieun,” Suho says, because isn’t that obvious? “You look grown up. But you-- I know you. I don’t care how much time has passed.”
He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince more. But he wants it to be true, so badly, and apparently Sieun does too, because his face crumbles before he nods fervently, and then he’s clinging to Suho’s hoodie, pressed so close it’s like he’s trying to disappear inside Suho’s chest.
“You’re gonna make me cry in front of all your friends,” Suho mumbles.
It must be a testament to how much Sieun has changed that he doesn’t seem to mind. Those friends of his are acting awfully rude, Suho thinks, just loitering in the distance.
“Yah,” he calls. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourselves?”
They take turns exchanging unsure glances, eyeing Sieun on the ground before them, until one grins widely and jogs forward, the others in his tow. Sieun straightens, rubbing his eyes again and irritating them, making them red and puffy.
“Go Hyeontak,” says the tallest, nodding politely. “But Gotak is fine.”
The boy to his right, who first ran forward, pats Suho on the shoulder. “Hey, are we technically older? Do you have to call us hyung ?”
Gotak elbows him with a sharp look and the other boy yelps, drawing away. “Ignore him. That’s Baku, he’s stupid.”
“Park Humin!” Baku shouts, enunciating each syllable like he’s in the military and raising his hand in a salute. “Don’t listen to him, Suho-yah. Before we met Sieun, I was the brains of the operation.”
Suho raises his eyebrows. “Sieun-ah. You’ve made friends who can make jokes? I thought you were allergic.”
Sieun doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but Suho knows that look. “Ah, sick of me already?”
“I’m Seon Juntae,” says the third boy, shyly fiddling with his school blazer. “We’ve heard so much about you, Suho-yah.”
“So you talk about me,” Suho teases, ignoring the gentle shove Sieun aims at his shoulder.
“All the time,” Baku says wistfully. “We can never compare.”
“What have you been saying about me, Sieun-ah?” Suho asks, hardly containing his glee. “I hope you told everyone about my muscles, and my great scores at school. I’m the top student, did you know? Sieun is always so jealous.”
“Really?” asks Juntae, eyes wide behind his glasses.
Sieun finally stands, brushing grass from his pants. “He’s smarter than he acts.”
“That’s your way of calling me an idiot,” Suho sighs.
Baku claps Sieun on the back, and surprisingly isn’t pushed away. “Come on. There’s a basketball court around here, isn’t there? You should see Sieun’s moves, Suho-yah. He’s a natural.”
“Sieun, a basketball player!” Suho exclaims, craning his neck as far back as he can to see him. “I always knew you were an athlete, young man. When you win your awards, make sure you tell everyone I was your first coach.”
The wheelchair jostles as Sieun begins to push it, already knowing his way around. To Suho, this is all new-- he hasn’t spent much time at the hospital, not since his mother passed. Every time he’s been, he’s left the first chance he got. Maybe that’s what is making him feel unsettled now, as Sieun carefully maneuvers around the other patients, out enjoying the day in their hospital clothes.
There are a couple kids already at the court, tossing a ball between themselves, but they scatter as soon as they see Suho in his chair, leaving the ball. Baku whoops and jogs over to pick it up.
“I was going to ask them to play with us, but this is better. Gotak won’t embarrass himself in front of an audience.”
Gotak hisses an insult, but catches the ball when it’s thrown at his chest. He dribbles it around Baku, faking a left before knocking his shoulder and passing him to perform a layup.
Groaning, Baku rubs his shoulder dramatically, bent as if injured. “This kind of violence will get you kicked off the court, Hyeontak! What is my only rule?”
“No fighting!” Juntae chirps.
Gotak rolls his eyes. “Your only rule?”
“They’re on the basketball team,” Sieun says, quietly so only Suho can hear. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” Suho replies. “A little sleepy, maybe. Isn’t that funny? I’ve been asleep for so long, you’d think I should be able to stay awake for the next month.”
Sieun walks in front of him so Suho can see his disappointed frown. “Don’t joke about that.”
“Sorry,” Suho says, sheepish. “It’s easier than-- than--” he averts his gaze to watch the others playing, just so he won’t have to meet Sieun’s eye. “You know.”
“Okay,” says Sieun, as if he understands.
Suho clears his throat. “Go on, I want to see your moves. Can you score a goal?”
Sieun doesn’t reply, but he steps onto the court and intercepts the ball outside the key. He throws it before Gotak can jump and defend him, and they all watch it circle the backboard before falling into the hoop with a swift woosh.
“Wow!” Suho exclaims. “Sieun-ah, does this mean you’re leaving Korea to play in the NBA?”
“No,” Baku answers in his place. “Sieun’s too much of a bookworm to even join the team.”
Juntae attempts to catch the ball, but has to chase after it as it rolls out of bounds. “I’m on the team!”
“Juntae runs our water,” Gotak says in a stage whisper. “He likes to feel included.”
Suho chuckles, but struggles to pay much attention as they continue to play. It’s good to see Sieun running around, eyes smiling despite his expression staying flat, moving instinctively with his friends. The permeating numbness of Suho’s limbs reminds him that he’s stuck here, trapped in this chair; that he probably wouldn’t have the strength to lift the ball even if he could move.
It should drive him crazy. He’s not sure if he minds, though, at least not yet. He’s captured some kind of peace, and wants to stay there for a while.
After a while, when Suho’s eyelids begin to droop, Baku appears between one blink and the next. He claps Suho on the shoulder, smiling broadly.
“It’s funny. I feel like I already know you.”
“Really?” Suho muses, shaking his head to wake himself up. “I’m not sure I know you.”
Baku nods, hands on his hips. “You know, Sieun once called me by your name.”
Suho forces himself to breathe out a laugh. “What, he got us mixed up? I don’t see it.”
Baku gives him a thin smile. “I found him just before he passed out. He thought I was you, and said he was sorry for fighting.”
Suho looks down before Baku can see the look on his face, the guilt. So Sieun was getting into fights without him. Suho should have known. He should have been there to stop it. This gap between them, this missing time, seems suddenly irreparable-- there are so many possibilities, so many missed moments, and how is Suho supposed to catch up on anything? Can he ever really know Sieun after this? Will Sieun even let him?
“He’s a good fighter,” Baku continues. “Strong for his size, and well practiced. I always wanted to know who taught him.”
Suho swallows thickly. “I did. I thought-- I wanted him to be able to defend himself. I wanted to protect him.” He shakes his head. He wants to drag a hand over his face, or rub his eyes. “It wasn’t enough.”
Baku considers him for a moment, some kind of glint in his eyes. “He never told us what happened at his old school-- what happened to you. We learnt from rumours, some worse than others.” He waves a dismissive hand as Suho opens his mouth to answer. “I’m not asking you to tell me. I just want you to get it. He had a hard time last year. We all did. And the worst part was, he blamed himself every day for what happened to you. Everything that happened to him, he thought he deserved it, because of the guilt.”
Suho feels his cheeks heat with some mixture of embarrassment and anger. “What are you saying? You want me to stay away from him?”
Baku scoffs. “Of course not. That would be like ripping his soul out. I’m asking you not to get hurt again. We all love him, alright? And he loves you.”
This guy’s really tugging at Suho’s nerves. Who is he to talk about Sieun like this? Who is he to talk about love? Besides, does he expect Suho to just walk into the heel of another guy’s shoe? The only reason he lost that fight was because he was pulled down, not because he was weak.
Suho blinks, startled. The phantom ache of his head, bouncing against the mat of a boxing ring, pounds somewhere above his brow. Is he supposed to be remembering this?
“And you seem like a cool guy,” Baku says.
“I am,” Suho nods, drawn back to the present. “You’re lucky to know me.”
“You’re funny, too,” Baku adds. “We need more of that. The others take everything too seriously.” He pauses awkwardly for a second, then gestures at Suho’s hands, sitting limply in his lap. “I’d shake your hand, but…”
Suho rolls his eyes. “How does Sieun put up with you?”
“He doesn’t. I just won’t leave him alone.” Baku looks over his shoulder, waving when he catches Sieun watching. “Besides, I think I remind him of someone.”
Before Suho can reply, Sieun is at his side, cheeks red and flushed from the exercise. He looks the same as when Suho would take him running, albeit a bit more relaxed. It’s almost unnatural to see him so at ease with these strangers. Did Suho ever make him feel like that?
See, when it comes to Sieun, Suho has a secret. Or-- he shouldn’t call it that, not really. It’s just that, of all the people who have fought for his attention, who invited him to meals and commented hearts on his posts, no one has made Suho feel the way Sieun does.
When he tries to think of the first time he felt that odd churning in his gut, that sudden want to be close, he sees Sieun staring down at him, unimpressed, telling him to come to lunch. And after that meal, he thought, I’ll make you my friend, no matter what.
No matter what. Suho wants to scoff at it now.
Sieun tosses Baku the ball. “Go play with the others. I want to talk to Suho.”
Baku nods, then winks over his shoulder at Suho as he jogs out onto the court.
“He’s funny,” Suho says.
Sieun hums. “He reminds me of you.”
Suddenly, Suho is empty of words, and so tired that he might fall asleep right there. Sieun is radiating warmth like he’s the sun.
“Are you sleepy, Suho-yah?” Sieun asks.
“Sorry,” Suho murmurs. “Go back to your game, alright? I want to watch you play.”
“I don’t want to play,” Sieun replies. “I don’t mind if you fall asleep. Just promise you’ll wake up.”
Ever since he woke up, Suho has been trying to force the lump in his throat to settle, to calm the heat behind his eyes. Everything feels so overwhelming, and he’s worried that if he gives into it, he’ll never claw himself out. But Sieun is watching him gently, and Suho remembers his grandma’s hands on his face, catching his tears, and suddenly has to duck his head.
Sieun takes his hand. Suho can feel it. It takes him by surprise at first, the sudden contact, but when he summons the courage to meet Sieun’s eyes, he doesn’t look afraid. The back of his hand is scarred and rough, but his palm is soft and uncalloused, untouched.
“I thought of you every day, Suho-yah,” Sieun says, and squeezes his hand.
Suho’s fingers start to tingle, stuttering to life. Somehow, he squeezes back. Sieun’s next inhale is sharp, and he stares at their interlocked hands with that same look of awe from before. After a beat, their gazes meet, and Suho’s smile falls into something quieter, perhaps mirroring that wide-eyed, almost desperate look on Sieun’s face.
Suho suddenly realises, to his own surprise, that there is a reason he is alive.
His thumb twitches against Sieun’s scarred knuckles. “I think I thought of you too.”