034.
warnings: death (and lots of it), suicide, mental illness/insanity, drug abuse, possible/light gore, murder, portrayal of certain super junior members as... not nice
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What most people don't know is that when you die, you linger.
Sometimes you linger for a few minutes before moving on, sometimes a week or so.
Donghae has lingered for two hundred years.
He likes to think of himself as a helper, helping as much as he can, even if it is lonely business.
The others he meet, from the prime minister at one point and his niece, old and grey at another, never join him for more than a month. He's counted -- his great-great-great-grandson lasted the longest at thirty days, five hours, seven minutes and twenty eight seconds from the time of death. Donghae misses him.
When people wake up, they're often confused and disorientated. One woman had tried to stab him because she had believed that he was her rapist, but he calmly stood there and closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder as the knife passed through his abdomen.
"You're dead," he said, trying to be reassuring, but she just stared at him before crumpling to the ground.
Those are the two words he hates more than others, lying thick and heavy on his tongue. They fill every crevice of his mouth, coming out when he least expects it, even as he stands on the opposite train and watches a teenager fling himself in front of a speeding train.
"Am I dead?" he asks, eyes wide and cheeks full of life.
It breaks Donghae's heart when he says yes, and the boy smiles before disappearing in a small flash of light.
The hardest was watching a slow process, and the gradual pull into death that when she died, it seemed like she was no different.
"Hello," she whispers to him from her bed, skin wrinkled and hands feeble.
"Hello," he whispers back, and wonders if she remembers him.
"I do," she says, and clasps his hand tight, small and barely covering his fingers. "I love you."
Her tears are what he remembers, years on, not her lined face or sorrowful eyes, her small hands or even smaller body. Not her bright smile or genuine laugh, or even their marriage. Just the tears.
Donghae falls in love again, years after Jessica's death.
He's watching the blossoms fall as high school starts, and he barely remembers school. Did he even go?
The children shuffle inside, loudly bickering as they trade stories and their laughter is high pitched. They settle down for assembly, sitting down in allocated seats as the principal addresses them, and then calls the school captain up.
Donghae falls in love, right there and then as Kim Kibum introduces himself and encourages them all to try harder for a better year, to make it a year worth remember because your school days are limited and life is not.
He gets polite laughter -- a moving speech but no feeling behind the words, and Donghae swings his legs from the awnings, watching Kibum's sleek, neat hair as he sits down again.
Kibum disappears -- Donghae loses track of him one spring afternoon as he waits for the sun to set and the birds to quieten. It's then in the seconds before twilight ends that Donghae realises he hasn't seen Kibum at all at school, and the next day, a missing person's report is filed by his parents. Donghae wonders where Kibum will end up.
The day the first sheep is cloned is the day that Donghae wonders if killing yourself when you're already dead will break this kind of limbo he's been in for the last hundred years. It's hard, though, when his hand passes through everything and he only has the clothes he died in, stiff and out of fashion now. He picks at a sleeve mournfully before sitting by the Han River, listening to some of the patrons of the cafe chat behind him.
"Amazing, what technology can do these days," one of the men says, and Donghae wonders if technology will one day make it possible for him to pass on or return to life. Maybe he should visit his grave again.
"Cloning, who would've thought it? Ten years ago the idea was impossible, inconceivable, but now?" The second man shakes his hand, and it's then that the three of them hear a distinct, motor sound and whirling.
A woman shrieks as a motorbike careens off the road, swerves to narrowly miss the cafe and plunges off the sidewalk into the water.
Donghae watches, frozen, before he notices the tell tale signs of someone waking up (from death? from life?) and floating to the surface.
"Hey man," he calls out, and the other man's head cracks up.
"Hey," he says slowly before hauling himself to shore.
"That was a stupid thing to do." Donghae grins.
The man grins back. "Life is full of stupid things."
Donghae laughs, high and cheerful and the man just grins at him. "How does death feel?"
The man cocks his head, thoughtful as emergency personnel are called and police arrive. The sirens are deafening and painful, burrowing into Donghae's ears, unwelcome like fleas.
"Less painful than I thought it'd be," the man says truthfully, and they shake hands, ghost to ghost, before the man fades.
The first one to see him when he's still alive is Kyuhyun, who looks at him with wild eyes, and Donghae's forgotten what it's like to be looked at. Truly looked at, with wide eyes and an uncertain hand before he had paused and been blind-sided by a truck.
"You killed me," Kyuhyun says, amused as they sit on the side walk.
Donghae snorts. "No, it's your fault for being able to see me."
Kyuhyun laughs, hands loose around his ankles.
"Sure."
Kim Heechul reminds Donghae of this boy who used to live around the corner, constantly testing the limit to life and how far he could push it. He reminds Donghae of quick burning fire and a spontaneity that hurts even as it thrills.
For a week, Donghae follows Heechul around, into seedy bars and his less than glamorous job of managing a noraebang until Heechul jumps into a taxi and meets his fate. When he dies, he looks at Donghae like he was expecting it and gives Donghae a smile and a salute before disappearing.
After Heechul, Donghae chooses to stick to safety and comfort, finding it in the form of an old music teacher named Lee Sungmin. Sungmin reminds Donghae of his father at times, caring and passionate about music and children but still with a quick wit and was easily eased into laughter.
Donghae sits in the open window frame, watching as Sungmin teaches the kids the scales, how to keep a beat on the tambourine and how to whistle a tune.
"The drums are the heart of a band," Sungmin tells them, smiling softly. "They keep everything in time and keep the band alive with their beat. The drums are very important because without them, the band is nothing -- even if you don't notice it there, you will notice when it's gone."
Sungmin hands over the drumsticks to Yunho, who takes them, and holds them in his hands reverently.
"What's next are the bass instruments; tubas, horns, brass and bass guitar. They're the bones of the band. They hold the band together and even if the melody fails, the bass will still hold up the band."
He stands slowly and leads each of five children to a tuba, a euphonium, a trombone and a bass guitar. He positions each of them carefully, placing fingers in their correct place and providing small stools for their feet.
"Then comes the melody. They're important because they're everything else; they keep the band alive and the music alive. They are the flutes, the clarinets, the trumpets. The strongest people are usually the melody, the people with the most energy."
Sungmin takes the hands of Taeyeon, Jonghyun and Changmin over, placing a flute in the hands of Taeyeon, a clarinet in Jonghyun's hands and a trumpet in Changmin's. They hesitantly glide their fingers over the keys and Sungmin places their fingers right.
He tells them to blow, and Donghae braces himself.
They sound atrocious.
Granted, the majority of them have never played a musical instrument before, so Donghae's trying to cut them some slack, but it's hard.
Instead, over the course of a few weeks, that turn into months, and then years, both Sungmin and Donghae watch the small band grow up. In winter with the heater blaring and Sungmin sweating buckets under his sweater, Taemin complains of the open window and the cold wind that constantly filters through.
"Can't we close it?" he complains, but Sungmin just laughs and points to his music.
"What's important is the music, not the cold. And it's better to get fresh air while you play rather than breathe in the same carbon dioxide."
Taemin sighs loudly as he puts the euphonium to his mouth, making a loud show of shivering and chattering his teeth.
"I think I found a new clapper," Jonghyun says in wonder from beside Taemin, pointing to Taemin's chattering teeth. Taemin bats his hand away and frowns, even as Sungmin laughs and Donghae grins from his perch.
"Okay, settle down. We'll start now. From the top."
They start, and Donghae lets the music wash over him, closing his eyes as he remembers how they sounded how-ever-many-years-ago that was. He knows Sungmin's doing that too as he gently guides them through the music, eyes distant as he waves his baton and lets the music envelope him.
After they're all gone, Sungmin always cleans up, closing the blinds, and shutting the windows. He turns off the electricity, and arranges the chairs neatly for the next day, before he nears Donghae's window.
"I know you're there," Sungmin says as he waits a few moments before reaching for the window frame.
"What. What are you--"
"I don't know if you can speak," Sungmin says slowly, "nor if I'm actually imagining something, but I think you're here. A spirit, right? Since as far back as I can remember, you've been here. Just, it's been nice to have you here, for so long."
Sungmin aims a smile at the left window, when Donghae is standing right behind him. Donghae wants to reach out, touch Sungmin's elbow and maybe have him turn his way, but he's scared that whatever he does might break this fragile moment of perfection. So he lets it pass him by before Sungmin shakes his head, brushing white hair out of his face.
He locks up, turning off the lights and making his way down the hallway before carefully going down the stairs. Donghae stays on his perch, foetal position as he closes his eyes and hopes that he isn't dreaming and that someone, after so long, after Kyuhyun, can sense his presence while still alive.
Instead, Sungmin suffers a heartattack in the lobby of the music school, slipping into unconsciousness like a comfortable blanket that isn't broken even as Jonghyun finds him and briefly panics. Even as Jinki arrives next and tries to take control, calling the ambulance but breaking down halfway, Taemin arriving and taking the phone from his hands, speaking into it calmly.
"Yes, we require an ambulance at the music school. A male of around sixty-five years of age. Looks like he fainted? I'm not sure. Yes please, thank you."
Taemin hangs up, and slips the phone back into Jinki's bag, greeting Yunho in a quiet voice. He turns ashen, and chooses to wait outside as Jaejoong turns up, grin slowly turning distraught and dismayed as Yunho relays the story to both him and Kibum, and then Minho.
"Doesn't look good," Yoochun says, and Jonghyun just sobs louder.
The ambulance arrives and Sungmin is taken away. Ironically, the silence is what wakes Donghae up.
The report is that Sungmin is in an unstable condition, and Sooyoung is called. She's told the news in a quiet voice by a doctor whose name tag reads Kim Jongwoon, clipboard held sternly in one hand but other hand trying to soothe the way.
"It's hard to tell," Jongwoon says softly, and Sooyoung nods. "We'll have to see, but time is the best measure right now. Your husband will be kept under observation for as long as is needed." She nods again. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
She doesn't nod at that, because she's already heard those words before, and Donghae knows what she's thinking.
It's that night that Sungmin suffers a stroke, and nothing is enough. He passes away quietly as Sooyoung holds his hand and kisses his cheek, whispering quiet, meaningless things into his ear and his class stand in the corridor.
"Come in and say goodbye," she says to them before she walks out, and each of them whisper tearful farewells at the sight of a suddenly fragile old man, a mere body and vessel for his great soul.
"We'll miss you," Changmin says softly, one of the dry eyes in the room. It's then that the heart monitor flatlines and Sungmin appears beside Donghae on the window sill.
"So I was right," Sungmin says as panic ensues and a defibrillator is brought in.
"Please, out," Jongwoon says as he charges it and a small boy helps him.
They rush out, but Sungmin just looks on, amused.
"No use now, is it?" he asks, and Donghae finds his mouth again.
"So you knew I was there? All the time?"
"You never really know for sure. I just suspected." Sungmin smiles, the sunlight tricking Donghae into seeing his hair as light brown, his face smooth and wrinkle-free.
"Oh. Well, yeah, this is it, pretty much."
Sungmin nods, propping his chin in his hand. "Not that great, is it?"
They watch as Jongwoon tries to bring Sungmin's body back to life, futile attempts as they watch on.
"Nope. But you learn to just deal with it."
"Ah. Well, I guess the only thing I'll miss is Sooyoung." Sungmin sighs and pushes his hair back from his forehead with a grimace. "I guess being dead has its benefits, though I can't say I miss arthritis."
Donghae grimaces, glad he didn't get to that stage. Sungmin starts fading around the edges, and he looks down, disappointed.
"I wanted to talk to you and see you after so long of just suspecting. I guess I'll see you later?"
Sungmin flutters his fingers and Donghae waves, smiling even as Sungmin disappears and Jongwoon collapses, spent and given up.
"Time of death: two forty-seven PM," he says to the boy, who nods and notes it down.
Donghae finds out later that the boy's name is Ryeowook, and he lives with Jongwoon. Oh, and that he's mute, but that isn't important.
He finds out that Jongwoon dotes on Ryeowook like no other, providing all he can and trading shifts with others at the hospital just so they can work together. Ryeowook doesn't seem to mind, just smiling complacently whenever he's told whatever new information comes his way, and no matter the injury, nothing phases him.
Donghae also finds out that Jongwoon has a habit he can't seem to kick, one he keeps out of Ryeowook's sight. He tries to keep it secret, but from the looks Ryeowook shoots him and the nicotine patches and gum he constantly restocks in the cabinet, Donghae knows that Ryeowook knows.
You're a loser, Jongwoon, Ryeowook scribbles on the whiteboard they keep at the dining table, Ryeowook's right hand busy shovelling food into his mouth.
"What?"
Nothing. He hastily rubs everything out. I'm not on today, so I'm going to buy some food. Remember you have a gig tomorrow at Amber's bar.
Jongwoon nods obediently around his mouthful of rice.
Shift starts in 15.
"Shhhhhhhh--"
Jongwoon runs out, and Ryeowook finishes his breakfast, satisfied.
Ryeowook's day is quiet, and Donghae likes this complacency. He's used to it, and he can't bear to go to the music school and watch Sungmin's class be taught by someone else, a fresher, younger teacher who would put Yunho, the backbone of the band onto clarinet, or Changmin, the bright, powerful trumpet onto trombone.
Jongwoon returns with a fleck of dried blood on his arm. It's almost too normal for Ryeowook to take a cloth and wipe it away gently, Jongwoon shaking slightly.
Death never gets easy to the living, Donghae learns.
The next night is when Donghae learns why Ryeowook cares about Jongwoon's smoking addiction so much, the moment Jongwoon climbs on stage and takes the microphone almost lazily, like it's a chore.
"For Ryeowook," he whispers softly into the mic, and Ryeowook lets a smile blossom without restraint.
Jongwoon sings like he was made to do it, like there is nothing easier than letting the sweet melody flow out of him. His voice is unpolished and rough, slightly husky from what Donghae guesses to be years of smoking and abuse. The curve of his spine leaves much to be desired, and his stooped shoulders are a physiotherapist's nightmare, but it's that laziness, that pure feeling of I don't care, take it or leave it, that makes Donghae sit up and listen carefully.
The moment's broken when Jongwoon cracks on a note, a G that has Ryeowook squeezing his eyes shut in frustration and his hands slamming down onto the tabletop. Jongwoon sings the last few lines carelessly, tossing them away as he stands up slowly, slotting the mic back into place and making his way back to the table.
You'd be so much better if you quit, reads the bitter napkin, but Jongwoon just pockets it and kisses Ryeowook on the cheek.
"Let's go."
As the years pass, as a surprise to no one, Jongwoon develops a tumour in his throat. He can you tell the exact location, dimensions, how it'll affect him and if it'll kill him. What he doesn't tell is that he doesn't give a damn and keeps smoking anyway, swallowing past the lump in his throat with a millimetre to spare before it closes up and chokes him. He's in his late thirties, too early to die is what the other doctors say.
Too much of a gifted singer and doctor to go, is what some of his colleagues say and those are the comments that make Jongwoon smoke a pack a day, as if the only thing that make him in some way valuable are his voice and his profession. Make them miss it and care for him as a person, is what runs through his mind as a cough tears through his throat, strong enough to make him wheeze and to double over, tears in his eyes.
Oh Jongwoon, he imagines Ryeowook's voice saying as he rubs a soothing hand over his back and Donghae watches from the doorway. He knows he's intruding but Jongwoon is only a few hair breadths from death, and Donghae doesn't want to miss the moment that it happens.
It doesn't happen that night.
Most times, Donghae chooses to leave them alone. He's intruding too much, the precious time they have together before Jongwoon gives up, because he simply doesn't care. Ryeowook cares too much, but the frustration that boils over from Jongwoon's passiveness has him punching Jongwoon in anger, eyes brimming with tears.
"I'm sorry," Jongwoon breathes, but Ryeowook knows that if he truly was, he'd actually try, give up, and get the surgery and chemo he needs. But Jongwoon doesn't.
So Jongwoon dies in his own home, in his own bed with the arms of a loved one around him.
Nothing changes in Ryeowook's day-to-day life sans his lover. He goes along as he always had, picking up groceries and obediently going to the hospital when called.
Ryeowook gets paired up with a tall Chinese transfer who can lipread and sign a bit. He brightens up immediately, and they get assigned as paramedics, their quick teamwork and communication aiding them.
"Morning," Zhou Mi greets every morning at three, when their shift starts. Ryeowook waves a hand and accepts the coffee.
The call comes at four thirty, and Donghae has a chill in his bones when he considers it. Ryeowook jumps in the front while Zhou Mi stays in the back, clinging as their driver weaves his way through Seoul at breakneck speed, almost no cars obscuring their way.
They stop at a small, kids park with a man lying on the ground, groaning and clutching his leg.
"What's wrong?" Zhou Mi asks, and the man groans. Donghae recognises him, but he can't pinpoint from where, though Ryeowook's eyes narrow suspiciously. Zhou Mi helps him up.
"My leg," the man gaps, sagging against Zhou Mi and clutches his backpack. Ryeowook stares and Donghae climbs back onto the top of the ambulance, shouting a small, "wheeeeeeeeeeee."
They arrive at the hospital without sirens, pushing the man quietly on a wheelchair, his backpack in his lap. His hands dip into it as they pass through reception, almost empty, and his fists curl. Donghae watches him, as does Ryeowook, his hands as they shift and the scream one of the nurses let out is the first sign that something's off.
"SHUT UP EVERYONE DOWN," the man yells from his wheelchair, brandishing a revolver. It looks heavy in his delicate hand, his thin wrist straining under the weight, but Zhou Mi drops down, eyes bright, and Ryeowook slowly crouches.
Donghae stares from the doorway, eyeing the bag in the man's lap. More guns? Bullets? Worse?
"I want you to listen carefully."
The voice the man on is hypnotic, persuasive without any other motive than simply making them listen.
"In this bag here, I have a bomb. I am going to bomb this hospital."
A nurse screeches, and the man calmly points his gun at her. "Please, stay quiet." She sobs, but does as she's told, sagging against the wall.
"I want you to understand that this hospital is infested with disease and is contaminating this pure city, this pure country. Everyday, hundreds and thousands of walk in and out of here, carrying germs and bacteria from this filthy, filthy place into the city, and into our country."
He turns the wheelchair, eyes trained on them carefully before he shoots through the glass door where it is, and now had been, emblazoned with Seoul National University Hospital. It is deathly silent.
"Disease and bacteria, illness and injury is the problem. And do you know what we do when we have a problem?"
He surveys the hallway, and the reception behind.
He's a speaker, a persuasive one. A born politician, able to sway the hearts and minds of many, but that doesn't make a difference. Donghae remembers he had seen this man before, furtive in the small school that Sungmin used to teach at, stealing chemicals. To make this bomb, and with a chill, Donghae knows that he could've stopped this man. Somehow set the police on him, raise the alarm. It's his fault that this whole hospital is going to die, hundreds and thousands of people. He wants to throw up, but he can't. How do you throw up without a body?
"LISTEN," the man screeches, and Donghae flinches.
"I am special," he stage whispers. "I am special; I was brought here. I am Leeteuk. I was told to do this. This must happen. To get rid of the problem, you find the source and when you find the source, you eradicate it. You destroy it. You shut it down."
He laughs, soft and breathless at first, but higher and maniacal, more than a touch of insanity in it. Donghae feels emotion bubble up inside him, thousands of lives on his shoulders, the urge to cry. But he can't.
The man, Leeteuk, takes a breath, and then spins around. He takes a moment to aim before he fires a shot, and there, lying in front of the doors of the reception, is Ryeowook, blood splattered artistically on the doors behind him. Dead.
"That is what will happen if you try to escape or defy me. I am stronger than I look. Anytime you try to separate me from this bag, a small fuse of fifteen seconds is lit. You will not find this fuse."
He takes a moment to smile pityingly at the people who will die by his hand, a hallway full, and then levels and levels above them, thousands of patients.
"Fucker," Ryeowook hisses, face dark as he stands next to Donghae. Donghae can only spare a glance before Leeteuk speaks again, and Ryeowook glares.
"Think of this as a rebirth. With death will come cleansing, a purification of the soul. With death, you will be reborn better, and purer than before."
Zhou Mi pulls his lips away from his teeth in a snarl, clutching the hand of one of the older nurses.
"Motherfucker," Ryeowook says, voice low, and it isn't as Donghae had imagined it at all. Even as Ryeowook pitches it low, filled with anger, it's higher than Donghae's voice and melodious, lighter than Jongwoon's had been.
"You will be part of a historical event, my friends," the man says, flinging his arms wide, away from the bag. Donghae hears a minute click.
"You will be remembered in history forever," he says, and Donghae lets out a cry as Ryeowook does, as Zhou Mi does and as all the other doctors and nurses do when a small flame blossoms in Leeteuk's lap before growing, consuming oxygen and dry air and flinging it back, spitting it back out with a vigor and hate that makes Ryeowook disappear in a flash of light.
Donghae stands there, unaffected but for the emotion, as thousands of people die by his own hands, as the foundations of the hospital crack and tumble, concrete falling and floors collapsing. The rubble falls through him, but he can still see the souls of the people in the hospital disappear, flashes of lights like firecrackers all over the place, and Zhou Mi climbing through the rubble as a ghost, face pulled back into a scowl, but eyes red like they would've been crying if they could.
"It's no use," Donghae calls out, and Zhou Mi looks up as the rest of the hospital collapses on them, and he gives a pitiful smile.
"It doesn't hurt to try," are the words Donghae thinks he hears, but there's nothing more to be heard before he has to leave.
After that, just around the corner, Donghae sees a boy with shaking fingers, a joint being rolled. Some of it spills out the side, but his harsh breaths pay it no heed as he fumbles and produces a lighter, squashing one end in his mouth and breathing in.
"Hyukjae?" someone asks around the corner, and he hurriedly stuffs it behind his back, jabbing it out on the wall.
“Hyukjae?” A boy walks into the alleyway, and Hyukjae greets him with a broad smile, pupils dyed black and stretched.
"Hey," Hyukjae replies, and Donghae watches as his fingers skip nimbly over the makeshift smoke, checking it's out before slipping it into his back pocket. The other boy's nose wrinkles.
"You smell off."
There's a fleeting look of panic that crosses Hyukjae's face before it relaxes into a grin.
"Not as bad as you, Junsu."
The boy, Junsu, rolls his eyes and pushes at Hyukjae's shoulder lightly.
"C'mon, we're going to be late to practise."
"Sir!" Hyukjae salutes him, grabs his bag from the ground beside his feet. He grandly bows, his right arm outstretched. "Lead the way."
Junsu laughs and grabs Hyukjae's hand before pelting full speed down the sidewalk, dragging Hyukjae with a dopey grin on.
"If we're late, we are sooooooo fucked."
They get to the soccer field just as the coach is telling everyone to run around the field. He eyes them both before jerking his head, telling them to follow, and Junsu nods, sprinting before he catches on to the tail end of the group, giving another boy a high five. Hyukjae takes his time, jogging slowly, letting his steady pace catch him up to the group.
When Hyukjae calls a quick toilet break, Donghae follows him into the bathroom, where he sits against the wall and lights his joint. He inhales deep, eyes going bloodshot and a slow smile spreading. The smoke spirals out of his mouth, curling lazily around the end of the cigarette, burning bright when he breathes in again.
He finishes it in a few minutes, faster than anything Donghae's ever seen. So Hyukjae stands up, washes his hands and splashes his face with water before going back outside.
Donghae follows him curiously, and also because he's never really seen a drug addict at work.
While Junsu farewells Hyukjae to go home to his family, Hyukjae walks a lonely road, whistling softly before he nears a dilapidated home, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk.
He opens the door and ducks in, smoke thick against the ceiling and everything hazy.
"Hey," he greets, and the girl lying on the floor raises a hand before it falls limply back down. Donghae squints but can't make out her face.
"Good practise?" a man asks as he walks through the doorway, smiling cheerfully. He's large, rotund and healthy, as Donghae would've put it back in his day, but in today's world, he's just fat.
"Alright," Hyukjae says as he spreads himself out on a couch. "Couldn't resist finishing the joint in the bathroom though. Great stuff."
The man chuckles, lifting a box of takeout.
"Want some food? I've already eaten and thought you might be hungry after practise."
Hyukjae sits up and takes it from his hands eagerly, snatching the chopsticks next.
"Thanks Donghee."
Donghee laughs again, ruffling Hyukjae's hair as he digs in.
"You're a good kid. I've got some stronger stuff if you wanted any. Surplus that no one can't be bothered selling, and Amber looks too drugged out to really do anything right now." Hyukjae spares a glance for her before continuing to eat.
"I'll see."
"That's right." Donghee heaves himself up, and Donghae eyes him wearily. Just feeding Hyukjae more drugs?
"See you later."
"See you."
Donghae watches in some despair when Hyukjae takes the bong from Donghee's hands, fitting his mouth over the end and breathing in. Immediately, his eyes widen and then relax, his whole body going lethargic.
"What kind of shit have you been feeding me if this is how good it can get?" Hyukjae says, smoking trailing from his mouth. Donghee smiles winningly at him.
"You need to build up to it, can't feed you this first go. Come on, is that all you're going to take?"
Hyukjae shakes his head before taking another long drag, his mouth awkward but his eyes roll in the back of his head. Donghae has a bad feeling, and he leaves the room before he can see Hyukjae destroy himself.
Instead, he wastes time away with Amber for a bit, learning that she only comes to the house occasionally, maybe once every two months to get a hit before she goes back to college, going back to dorm life like there's nothing out of the ordinary.
Donghae does that for a few months before he gets bored of how many bathrooms he can walk to while the water's on, or how many bras he can find on the floor before he creeps back to the house Hyukjae's at.
It isn't pretty, but there's a reason that Donghae usually follows the quiet ones.
Hyukjae's lying in a puddle of his own puke, reeking, the house empty. He's slowly drowning in it, unconscious and t-shirt stained beyond belief. It's only maybe thirty minutes before Donghee comes home, looks at Hyukjae on the floor and steps around him, walking on to the kitchen. He opens his plastic container of food, the smell mixing with the spell of spew, and Donghae wants to throw up.
It's with grim satisfaction and not some form of redemption that Donghae hears the sounds of someone choking, a piece of chicken gone the wrong way.
"Now that was fun," a voice remarks dryly as it nears Donghae before he gives him a disbelieving glance.
"Fun to die, and to see your friend die, just like that?" Donghae asks, pointing at Hyukjae on the floor. Donghee shrugs his heavy shoulders.
"His own fault -- he sneaked into my supply and got something he wasn't ready for. That's what happens." Donghee shrugs again before disappearing, and Donghae makes an indignant sound as Hyukjae's ghost rises up, looking at him in curiosity.
"Hello," Hyukjae says, and Donghae nods, trying to smile.
"Hi."
"Lee Hyukjae," he smiles, sticking out a hand. Donghae tries not to smile at the gums.
"Lee Donghae," Donghae says back, shaking the hand before Hyukjae starts disappearing as well.
"Oh." He says it a bit sad. "Well that was anti-climatic. I'll catch you later then." He wriggles his fingers and Donghae waves back. He can't think of someone less deserving of death.
At the university Amber goes to is a Chinese lecturer who has crow's feet kilometres deep and a generous smile. Donghae looks at Amber when she goes to his lectures (Chinese mythology) and she looks so engrossed as if it's the Subject She Was Meant To Take. Really, Donghae just stares at the lecturer as he talks, his mouth shaping old Mandarin syllables before Donghae walks around the campus, enjoying the sunshine for a few brief moments.
It isn't hard to find Han Geng's office, locked and closed off. It's small and cosy, ancient books on the shelves and a sleek laptop on the desk. There's a couch in the corner and a first generation iPod on one of the shelves.
Donghae is curled up on the couch when Han Geng returns, a few folders in his arms before he dumps them on the desk and sits heavily into the chair. He sighs before turning on the laptop and muttering to himself in Mandarin, before Donghae doses off.
Han Geng isn't the most interesting person, but his quiet phone calls in Mandarin and his Chinese is sleek and professional. Well, that's what Donghae thinks since he can't really read it.
He keeps a quiet private life with only a few acquaintances beside his students, and Donghae can see why Amber likes him. He's helpful and doesn't preach. He appreciates his students and is here to impart his knowledge, not simply to do a job.
Which is why Donghae's sad when an electrical fault in Han Geng's small, slightly dilapidated apartment causes a fire. Smoke inhalation is what ultimately causes his death, and they watch it burn down together. Han Geng gives him a small smile before telling him something in Mandarin and disappearing.
Donghae figures it's time to visit his hometown on a sunshine-filled Friday afternoon, walking the road to the convenience shore that certainly hadn't been there two hundred years before. He visits the lot of land his house used to be on, where there's now an apartment block and goes up to level seven, apartment thirteen.
Slowly, he walks through the doorway, pausing at the small shrine and then proceeding, hearing some loud and obnoxious singing. He pokes his head through the ajar bathroom door, chewing his tongue thoughtfully.
The man turns his head, eyes squinting and hands freezing. Donghae's eyes travel appreciatively downwards, past the dip of the man's collarbones, the nipples, soft from warmth, and down to his -- holy shit, Donghae's eyes widen because those are certainly more defined than his ever was and will be -- abs, sharp, deep ridges that curve inwards, and Donghae's eyes skip down before the man screeches, covers his privates, and turns around. Donghae spies buttocks.
"Whoever the fuck you are, please get out of my home," the man says in a harsh whisper, ever so polite. Donghae takes an automatic, but disappointed step backwards.
He sighs before he freezes and hesitantly stares at the ajar door before it's yanked closed.
"YOU CAN SEE ME?"
"HEAR YOU TOO," the man shouts back, water turning off. Donghae's hands rub up and down his arms, eyes gleaming. Hot man can see him; this can't end badly at all.
The man steps out of the bathroom three minutes later -- Donghae's been counting and following the clock. He's wearing loose sweatpants, a white shirt and towelling his hair dry, and Donghae can't admit he's a bit disappointed.
"So," the man says. He drops into a chair and hangs the towel around his neck, all casual. "Why are you in my apartment?"
"I used to live here," Donghae says back, trying to be casual but just grinning instead, eyes wide as they rest on those humongous hands.
"That doesn't mean you can just walk into my apartment. How'd you get in, the door's locked and it's not that easy to pick a lock you know."
Donghae shrugs. "I'm not exactly a human being."
The man's hands drop. "What."
"I mean! I was a human being once, I'm a person, so don't freak out or anything, but I'm not exactly alive, you know."
His mouth hangs open, eyebrows raised.
"What."
Donghae stands for a moment, smoothing out his clothing a bit self consciously, before he runs. The man has about half a second to shout a warning that Donghae is running at full speed into a solid wall before Donghae disappears through it and emerges through the open bathroom door, face sour.
"How dirty is your bathroom."
The man gapes at him intelligently, staring as Donghae drops back into the chair opposite.
"Nice clothes," the man manages before getting up and slamming the door to his bedroom. Donghae calmly gets up and walks through the door.
"That's a bit rude, you know, to just slam the door in my face and ignore me."
"What're you, a ghost or something?"
Donghae inclines his head, smiling brightly. "Actually, yeah I am."
The man stares for a long, long moment in which Donghae's smile starts to wilt, before falling backwards on his bed.
"This is a dream," he says loudly, slightly muffled by a pillow. "This is a dream an any moment now a train is going to come crashing through the room and I will wake up to my perfectly normal apartment with no ghost peeping in on me or sitting across from me. I will go live life normally tomorrow and pretend that this, this dream never happened and get a good night's rest. Goodnight, ghost."
When the man wakes next, it's eight in the evening, perfect time for dinner. He stretches, yawning as he slips out of bed and scratching his stomach, eyebrows furrowed as he squints in the darkness.
"Hullo," Donghae greets from his perch in the doorway. The man trips over him.
"Jesus," the man breathes. "What the fuck, who are you?"
Donghae jumps up, smiling. He holds out a hand. "Lee Donghae, pleased to meet you!"
The man pushes past him. "Please get out of my home," he says courteously as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. Donghae rolls his eyes.
"Sorry, that isn't going to happen."
He closes the fridge door forcibly, locking eyes with Donghae and looking furious. "Get out of my home or I'll call the police."
The laughter that comes out of Donghae's mouth is a touch hysterical before he stuffs his fist in it.
"And what? Have the police come to an empty home? No one can see me except you, and that's a first in about two hundred years. I'm a ghost, don't you get it? Aren't you religious?" Donghae waves a hand at the small shrine that's next to the door, the golden cross and small statue of Jesus crucified sitting innocently. "Or do you not believe in ghosts?"
The man heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing his face. Donghae waits.
"Okay. Let's. Talk this out. Please sit." Donghae sits on the couch. The man sits opposite, on the bean bag.
"I'm Choi Siwon, you are?"
"Lee Donghae."
Siwon -- it's good to finally attach a name -- nods, trying to focus.
"Okay, Donghae, so you're a ghost?" There's a nod. "Okay, okay that's completely normal."
Donghae sits, waiting. Siwon rubs his hands together. He looks ridiculous, being engulfed by a football bean bag.
"Are you sure you're a ghost and not just someone who can walk into walls? Because you feel pretty real to me."
Donghae suppresses a shiver at the remembrance of someone's warm skin on his, the first since his death. He grabs Siwon's hand instead, the warmth intoxicating, dragging him to the bathroom.
"Stand in front of the mirror," he instructs, and Siwon does as he's told, raising an impressive eyebrow. Donghae takes a deep breath and stands in front of him, Siwon's hands on his shoulders, steadying him.
"Can you see anything?" Donghae whispers, staring at the mirror and Siwon's shocked face reflected. There's no trace of Donghae in the mirror -- not his saddened eyes, downturned lips or his hanbok.
Siwon shifts his hands so they're passing over Donghae's ears, entangled in Donghae's hair, but the mirror shows only his hands grasping at thin air. He clenches a fist and Donghae hisses, his eyes watering as his hair is pulled, but Siwon appears as only making a loose fist of nothing.
"Wow," Siwon utters, dropping his hands back to Donghae's shoulders as Donghae bows his head and pats at his hair.
"Well that hurt," he says. His scalp itches.
"Sorry about that," Siwon says, hands heavy on Donghae's shoulders. His voice is soft and low, somewhere above Donghae's head, and he turns.
"It's alright," Donghae replies, just as soft. "It's not like I'm alive."
They sit in silence for a while, contemplating. Donghae sneaks glances at Siwon from time to time, but he's silent, eyes closed and chin resting on his hands.
"So." Siwon clears his throat. "Can you eat?"
Donghae shakes his head.
"Drink?" Shake. "Sleep? Feel? Breathe?"
The shakes are automatic. He can't touch anything -- anything he moves is with some weird, psychological mind power that he gets when he focuses, where he can make his hand 'real' enough to move objects, open doors and push buttons. Most of the time opening doors is a chore though, so he just walks through, no fuss about it. By that distinction, any food or drink he puts near his mouth drops to the floor, and while he can doze off, it's just an unconscious state of mind; he never feels any more awake or tired than before. Breathing is automatic.
Which is why Siwon is such an anomaly. Siwon can see him, Siwon can touch him and Donghae can feel the warmth of his skin, the hot breath that Siwon had exhaled on the top of his head in the bathroom. Theoretically, Donghae shivers, he could touch Siwon's skin, reach through clothing to place his hand above Siwon's heart right now and feel the beat as it raced and tried to contemplate the concept of ghosts.
"But I can touch you. You look and feel pretty normal to me... except for your clothes." Donghae looks down at his hanbok, what he used to wear when he was alive. He frowns.
"Actually." Siwon clears his throat. "You're pretty good looking." Donghae beams. "But you're still a ghost..."
Donghae frowns again. "Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll just leave or something. I'm intruding anyway, so you don't owe me anything or whatever, just say the word and I'll go."
"No, no, it's okay. You must be pretty lonely, not having anyone speak or touch to you for... how long?"
"Give or take two hundred years?" Donghae shrugs. No big deal.
"Two hundred, holy shit." Siwon runs a hand through his hair, breathing out. "So. When were you born? Or when did you die?"
Donghae looks on, amused. "Born in 1786, died in 1810. Executed because I slept with the king's wife."
Siwon's eyes widen before they crinkle into an amused grin. "Why am I not surprised?"
Donghae chokes on something. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry." Siwon grins, waving a hand. "Um, you want to stay? I'm probably going to grab some dinner or something, and you can stay here... or come with me? I don't mind." He makes a non-committal shrug.
Donghae looks around, at the neat apartment and the soft lighting. It's been a while since he's been inside as a guest.
"I'll stay. If that's okay."
Siwon looks surprised, but nods. "Yeah, sure. I'll see you in twenty minutes then." He grabs his jacket, wallet and keys, and leaves.
The apartment is still with Siwon gone, and Donghae takes a moment to pretend that this place is his, and that he did live here, before he hops off the sofa and goes on a quest to find out who this Choi Siwon really is.
The results are disappointing. The only things he can find remotely related to Siwon are his chequebook from the Bank of Korea and a planner with reminders like: Yehee's birthday! Minwoo's birthday! Jaehyun's birthday! Pay the bills. Jihoo's birthday! Send Yuri an email. Daehyun's birthday!
Siwon must be a pretty popular guy used for his money, Donghae concludes.
It's actually kind of boring that Donghae can only do so much, and Siwon's out getting food. Donghae entertains himself with how many buttons he can push on the microwave before he gets too tired and reaches for the fridge handle but misses. He frowns.
So he sticks his head through the fridge door, and who has better timing that Choi Siwon, opening the front door as Donghae mournfully eyes the large carton of milk and four eggs.
"Uh..."
Donghae withdraws his head and waves cheerfully.
"I'm admiring your large array of wonderful and delicious foods!" He smacks his lips loudly, and Siwon gives him an amused grin along with a raised eyebrow. Donghae feels the urge to giggle but choose to manly close his mouth and flare his nostrils instead, breathing out.
It's impossible to be with Siwon -- every second and minute that passes feels like another one he had missed out on while he had been alive. He wants to live again, be a kid and kick through autumn leaves and enjoy snow as it melted through his fingers. He wants to read books and be able to flip the pages himself, enjoy actual warmth from the sun and the bite of the wind.
Even if he died at twenty-four, already halfway to death, Donghae feels cheated of life, of a loving wife and children and friends. Knowledge of past events he's lived through, whilst alive and all the people he had met while lingering come to mind, and the sudden rush of moments causes him to crumple, the tip of his head going through the fridge door.
"Donghae," Siwon asks, unsure, and Donghae blinks fast to keep his emotions, and not tears that refuse to appear. A breath rises in his throat and his hands quickly cover his mouth, biting his lip to make sure he doesn't break down in front of this almost-stranger.
"I'm fine," he says quickly, taking a quick breath and then letting it out.
"Are you sure?" Siwon asks again, and Donghae refrains from clutching his chest, in hope that pulling the skin away from his bones will give his lungs more room to expand, make breathing easier.
Donghae breathes in short gasps, and Siwon approaches slowly, placing the takeout container on the counter and putting a hand on Donghae's shoulder. It sinks through Donghae's clothes to touch, skin-to-skin, finally some warmth, before he falls forward and Siwon catches him.
"Just lie down," Siwon mutters softly, and Donghae's eyes close, oblivion welcome.
Donghae wakes up to sunshine and a glass of water on the coffee table. He snorts when he wonders how he's going to ingest the water, and feels himself go a bit looser, a bit more not-there before the blanket sinks through him and he laughs.
There's a note next to the glass.
Donghae,
I had to go to work at 9, and I'll be back at 5.30. Sorry, but I didn't wake you :( I hope the sleep was good!
Siwon
It's so normal and so everyday, so complacent and ordinary that Donghae has to stare at the note for a few minutes before absorbing the message and kicking back.
He sighs, cheeks puffed and already bored.
Siwon takes care of him. He always asks if he wants food or something to drink, maybe some comfortable clothes or maybe even a bed, would that be good? Donghae would like to say yes, except he has no idea what he'd do with any of these. He wonders if Siwon's this nice to everyone he meets or if Donghae's special.
He ponders this and even goes as far as the plan out how to phrase the questions, where to place the inflections and what words to emphasise, before Siwon asks him to accompany him on a Saturday morning.
"Where we going?" Donghae asks, testing how far he could go through the seat before Siwon freaked out.
Siwon slid the key into its slot, hand reaching for the brake and turning his head to reverse out of his spot.
"Seat belt on--" he started to say automatically, looking over before panicking, his hand slipping onto the horn and his eyes going wide. "What the shit."
Donghae laughs to himself before reemerging, eyes opening like he's coming up for a breath of air and lips pulled into a grin. Siwon has a hand over his heart.
"Please don't do that," he says formally before he starts reversing again, hand on the headrest of the passenger's seat and eyes darting over to Donghae every few seconds.
Donghae is silent and obedient the whole trip, smiling smugly to himself.
They pull up in front of a large, slightly run down home. As soon as Siwon swings off the road and into the driveway, beeping the horn, kids run out.
(donghae finds out that siwon regularly donates to various orphanages and comes down when he can to celebrate a kid's birthday. teddy from andy lau!)
"So that's what you do with the money you earn? You give it to some kids?" Donghae tries to keep the slight disgust from his tone, but he had been taught that every money earned by your own hands was yours and yours alone; spend it how you wished, indulge yourself, because you never have an obligation to repay someone in any way.
Siwon keeps his hands on the wheel in the ten and two o'clock positions, steady and firm. In the few days Donghae's known him, that's what he's come to regard Siwon as; steady and firm.
"I earn quite a lot in my occupation," he replies stiffly. "And I'd rather help out others, especially kids so they have a better future, than to just spend it on myself. It isn't a bad policy to live by."
-
What most people don't know is that when you die, you linger.
Sometimes you linger for a few minutes before moving on, sometimes a week or so.
Donghae has lingered for two hundred years.
He likes to think of himself as a helper, helping as much as he can, even if it is lonely business.
The others he meet, from the prime minister at one point and his niece, old and grey at another, never join him for more than a month. He's counted -- his great-great-great-grandson lasted the longest at thirty days, five hours, seven minutes and twenty eight seconds from the time of death. Donghae misses him.
When people wake up, they're often confused and disorientated. One woman had tried to stab him because she had believed that he was her rapist, but he calmly stood there and closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder as the knife passed through his abdomen.
"You're dead," he said, trying to be reassuring, but she just stared at him before crumpling to the ground.
Those are the two words he hates more than others, lying thick and heavy on his tongue. They fill every crevice of his mouth, coming out when he least expects it, even as he stands on the opposite train and watches a teenager fling himself in front of a speeding train.
"Am I dead?" he asks, eyes wide and cheeks full of life.
It breaks Donghae's heart when he says yes, and the boy smiles before disappearing in a small flash of light.
The hardest was watching a slow process, and the gradual pull into death that when she died, it seemed like she was no different.
"Hello," she whispers to him from her bed, skin wrinkled and hands feeble.
"Hello," he whispers back, and wonders if she remembers him.
"I do," she says, and clasps his hand tight, small and barely covering his fingers. "I love you."
Her tears are what he remembers, years on, not her lined face or sorrowful eyes, her small hands or even smaller body. Not her bright smile or genuine laugh, or even their marriage. Just the tears.
Donghae falls in love again, years after Jessica's death.
He's watching the blossoms fall as high school starts, and he barely remembers school. Did he even go?
The children shuffle inside, loudly bickering as they trade stories and their laughter is high pitched. They settle down for assembly, sitting down in allocated seats as the principal addresses them, and then calls the school captain up.
Donghae falls in love, right there and then as Kim Kibum introduces himself and encourages them all to try harder for a better year, to make it a year worth remember because your school days are limited and life is not.
He gets polite laughter -- a moving speech but no feeling behind the words, and Donghae swings his legs from the awnings, watching Kibum's sleek, neat hair as he sits down again.
Kibum disappears -- Donghae loses track of him one spring afternoon as he waits for the sun to set and the birds to quieten. It's then in the seconds before twilight ends that Donghae realises he hasn't seen Kibum at all at school, and the next day, a missing person's report is filed by his parents. Donghae wonders where Kibum will end up.
The day the first sheep is cloned is the day that Donghae wonders if killing yourself when you're already dead will break this kind of limbo he's been in for the last hundred years. It's hard, though, when his hand passes through everything and he only has the clothes he died in, stiff and out of fashion now. He picks at a sleeve mournfully before sitting by the Han River, listening to some of the patrons of the cafe chat behind him.
"Amazing, what technology can do these days," one of the men says, and Donghae wonders if technology will one day make it possible for him to pass on or return to life. Maybe he should visit his grave again.
"Cloning, who would've thought it? Ten years ago the idea was impossible, inconceivable, but now?" The second man shakes his hand, and it's then that the three of them hear a distinct, motor sound and whirling.
A woman shrieks as a motorbike careens off the road, swerves to narrowly miss the cafe and plunges off the sidewalk into the water.
Donghae watches, frozen, before he notices the tell tale signs of someone waking up (from death? from life?) and floating to the surface.
"Hey man," he calls out, and the other man's head cracks up.
"Hey," he says slowly before hauling himself to shore.
"That was a stupid thing to do." Donghae grins.
The man grins back. "Life is full of stupid things."
Donghae laughs, high and cheerful and the man just grins at him. "How does death feel?"
The man cocks his head, thoughtful as emergency personnel are called and police arrive. The sirens are deafening and painful, burrowing into Donghae's ears, unwelcome like fleas.
"Less painful than I thought it'd be," the man says truthfully, and they shake hands, ghost to ghost, before the man fades.
The first one to see him when he's still alive is Kyuhyun, who looks at him with wild eyes, and Donghae's forgotten what it's like to be looked at. Truly looked at, with wide eyes and an uncertain hand before he had paused and been blind-sided by a truck.
"You killed me," Kyuhyun says, amused as they sit on the side walk.
Donghae snorts. "No, it's your fault for being able to see me."
Kyuhyun laughs, hands loose around his ankles.
"Sure."
Kim Heechul reminds Donghae of this boy who used to live around the corner, constantly testing the limit to life and how far he could push it. He reminds Donghae of quick burning fire and a spontaneity that hurts even as it thrills.
For a week, Donghae follows Heechul around, into seedy bars and his less than glamorous job of managing a noraebang until Heechul jumps into a taxi and meets his fate. When he dies, he looks at Donghae like he was expecting it and gives Donghae a smile and a salute before disappearing.
After Heechul, Donghae chooses to stick to safety and comfort, finding it in the form of an old music teacher named Lee Sungmin. Sungmin reminds Donghae of his father at times, caring and passionate about music and children but still with a quick wit and was easily eased into laughter.
Donghae sits in the open window frame, watching as Sungmin teaches the kids the scales, how to keep a beat on the tambourine and how to whistle a tune.
"The drums are the heart of a band," Sungmin tells them, smiling softly. "They keep everything in time and keep the band alive with their beat. The drums are very important because without them, the band is nothing -- even if you don't notice it there, you will notice when it's gone."
Sungmin hands over the drumsticks to Yunho, who takes them, and holds them in his hands reverently.
"What's next are the bass instruments; tubas, horns, brass and bass guitar. They're the bones of the band. They hold the band together and even if the melody fails, the bass will still hold up the band."
He stands slowly and leads each of five children to a tuba, a euphonium, a trombone and a bass guitar. He positions each of them carefully, placing fingers in their correct place and providing small stools for their feet.
"Then comes the melody. They're important because they're everything else; they keep the band alive and the music alive. They are the flutes, the clarinets, the trumpets. The strongest people are usually the melody, the people with the most energy."
Sungmin takes the hands of Taeyeon, Jonghyun and Changmin over, placing a flute in the hands of Taeyeon, a clarinet in Jonghyun's hands and a trumpet in Changmin's. They hesitantly glide their fingers over the keys and Sungmin places their fingers right.
He tells them to blow, and Donghae braces himself.
They sound atrocious.
Granted, the majority of them have never played a musical instrument before, so Donghae's trying to cut them some slack, but it's hard.
Instead, over the course of a few weeks, that turn into months, and then years, both Sungmin and Donghae watch the small band grow up. In winter with the heater blaring and Sungmin sweating buckets under his sweater, Taemin complains of the open window and the cold wind that constantly filters through.
"Can't we close it?" he complains, but Sungmin just laughs and points to his music.
"What's important is the music, not the cold. And it's better to get fresh air while you play rather than breathe in the same carbon dioxide."
Taemin sighs loudly as he puts the euphonium to his mouth, making a loud show of shivering and chattering his teeth.
"I think I found a new clapper," Jonghyun says in wonder from beside Taemin, pointing to Taemin's chattering teeth. Taemin bats his hand away and frowns, even as Sungmin laughs and Donghae grins from his perch.
"Okay, settle down. We'll start now. From the top."
They start, and Donghae lets the music wash over him, closing his eyes as he remembers how they sounded how-ever-many-years-ago that was. He knows Sungmin's doing that too as he gently guides them through the music, eyes distant as he waves his baton and lets the music envelope him.
After they're all gone, Sungmin always cleans up, closing the blinds, and shutting the windows. He turns off the electricity, and arranges the chairs neatly for the next day, before he nears Donghae's window.
"I know you're there," Sungmin says as he waits a few moments before reaching for the window frame.
"What. What are you--"
"I don't know if you can speak," Sungmin says slowly, "nor if I'm actually imagining something, but I think you're here. A spirit, right? Since as far back as I can remember, you've been here. Just, it's been nice to have you here, for so long."
Sungmin aims a smile at the left window, when Donghae is standing right behind him. Donghae wants to reach out, touch Sungmin's elbow and maybe have him turn his way, but he's scared that whatever he does might break this fragile moment of perfection. So he lets it pass him by before Sungmin shakes his head, brushing white hair out of his face.
He locks up, turning off the lights and making his way down the hallway before carefully going down the stairs. Donghae stays on his perch, foetal position as he closes his eyes and hopes that he isn't dreaming and that someone, after so long, after Kyuhyun, can sense his presence while still alive.
Instead, Sungmin suffers a heartattack in the lobby of the music school, slipping into unconsciousness like a comfortable blanket that isn't broken even as Jonghyun finds him and briefly panics. Even as Jinki arrives next and tries to take control, calling the ambulance but breaking down halfway, Taemin arriving and taking the phone from his hands, speaking into it calmly.
"Yes, we require an ambulance at the music school. A male of around sixty-five years of age. Looks like he fainted? I'm not sure. Yes please, thank you."
Taemin hangs up, and slips the phone back into Jinki's bag, greeting Yunho in a quiet voice. He turns ashen, and chooses to wait outside as Jaejoong turns up, grin slowly turning distraught and dismayed as Yunho relays the story to both him and Kibum, and then Minho.
"Doesn't look good," Yoochun says, and Jonghyun just sobs louder.
The ambulance arrives and Sungmin is taken away. Ironically, the silence is what wakes Donghae up.
The report is that Sungmin is in an unstable condition, and Sooyoung is called. She's told the news in a quiet voice by a doctor whose name tag reads Kim Jongwoon, clipboard held sternly in one hand but other hand trying to soothe the way.
"It's hard to tell," Jongwoon says softly, and Sooyoung nods. "We'll have to see, but time is the best measure right now. Your husband will be kept under observation for as long as is needed." She nods again. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
She doesn't nod at that, because she's already heard those words before, and Donghae knows what she's thinking.
It's that night that Sungmin suffers a stroke, and nothing is enough. He passes away quietly as Sooyoung holds his hand and kisses his cheek, whispering quiet, meaningless things into his ear and his class stand in the corridor.
"Come in and say goodbye," she says to them before she walks out, and each of them whisper tearful farewells at the sight of a suddenly fragile old man, a mere body and vessel for his great soul.
"We'll miss you," Changmin says softly, one of the dry eyes in the room. It's then that the heart monitor flatlines and Sungmin appears beside Donghae on the window sill.
"So I was right," Sungmin says as panic ensues and a defibrillator is brought in.
"Please, out," Jongwoon says as he charges it and a small boy helps him.
They rush out, but Sungmin just looks on, amused.
"No use now, is it?" he asks, and Donghae finds his mouth again.
"So you knew I was there? All the time?"
"You never really know for sure. I just suspected." Sungmin smiles, the sunlight tricking Donghae into seeing his hair as light brown, his face smooth and wrinkle-free.
"Oh. Well, yeah, this is it, pretty much."
Sungmin nods, propping his chin in his hand. "Not that great, is it?"
They watch as Jongwoon tries to bring Sungmin's body back to life, futile attempts as they watch on.
"Nope. But you learn to just deal with it."
"Ah. Well, I guess the only thing I'll miss is Sooyoung." Sungmin sighs and pushes his hair back from his forehead with a grimace. "I guess being dead has its benefits, though I can't say I miss arthritis."
Donghae grimaces, glad he didn't get to that stage. Sungmin starts fading around the edges, and he looks down, disappointed.
"I wanted to talk to you and see you after so long of just suspecting. I guess I'll see you later?"
Sungmin flutters his fingers and Donghae waves, smiling even as Sungmin disappears and Jongwoon collapses, spent and given up.
"Time of death: two forty-seven PM," he says to the boy, who nods and notes it down.
Donghae finds out later that the boy's name is Ryeowook, and he lives with Jongwoon. Oh, and that he's mute, but that isn't important.
He finds out that Jongwoon dotes on Ryeowook like no other, providing all he can and trading shifts with others at the hospital just so they can work together. Ryeowook doesn't seem to mind, just smiling complacently whenever he's told whatever new information comes his way, and no matter the injury, nothing phases him.
Donghae also finds out that Jongwoon has a habit he can't seem to kick, one he keeps out of Ryeowook's sight. He tries to keep it secret, but from the looks Ryeowook shoots him and the nicotine patches and gum he constantly restocks in the cabinet, Donghae knows that Ryeowook knows.
You're a loser, Jongwoon, Ryeowook scribbles on the whiteboard they keep at the dining table, Ryeowook's right hand busy shovelling food into his mouth.
"What?"
Nothing. He hastily rubs everything out. I'm not on today, so I'm going to buy some food. Remember you have a gig tomorrow at Amber's bar.
Jongwoon nods obediently around his mouthful of rice.
Shift starts in 15.
"Shhhhhhhh--"
Jongwoon runs out, and Ryeowook finishes his breakfast, satisfied.
Ryeowook's day is quiet, and Donghae likes this complacency. He's used to it, and he can't bear to go to the music school and watch Sungmin's class be taught by someone else, a fresher, younger teacher who would put Yunho, the backbone of the band onto clarinet, or Changmin, the bright, powerful trumpet onto trombone.
Jongwoon returns with a fleck of dried blood on his arm. It's almost too normal for Ryeowook to take a cloth and wipe it away gently, Jongwoon shaking slightly.
Death never gets easy to the living, Donghae learns.
The next night is when Donghae learns why Ryeowook cares about Jongwoon's smoking addiction so much, the moment Jongwoon climbs on stage and takes the microphone almost lazily, like it's a chore.
"For Ryeowook," he whispers softly into the mic, and Ryeowook lets a smile blossom without restraint.
Jongwoon sings like he was made to do it, like there is nothing easier than letting the sweet melody flow out of him. His voice is unpolished and rough, slightly husky from what Donghae guesses to be years of smoking and abuse. The curve of his spine leaves much to be desired, and his stooped shoulders are a physiotherapist's nightmare, but it's that laziness, that pure feeling of I don't care, take it or leave it, that makes Donghae sit up and listen carefully.
The moment's broken when Jongwoon cracks on a note, a G that has Ryeowook squeezing his eyes shut in frustration and his hands slamming down onto the tabletop. Jongwoon sings the last few lines carelessly, tossing them away as he stands up slowly, slotting the mic back into place and making his way back to the table.
You'd be so much better if you quit, reads the bitter napkin, but Jongwoon just pockets it and kisses Ryeowook on the cheek.
"Let's go."
As the years pass, as a surprise to no one, Jongwoon develops a tumour in his throat. He can you tell the exact location, dimensions, how it'll affect him and if it'll kill him. What he doesn't tell is that he doesn't give a damn and keeps smoking anyway, swallowing past the lump in his throat with a millimetre to spare before it closes up and chokes him. He's in his late thirties, too early to die is what the other doctors say.
Too much of a gifted singer and doctor to go, is what some of his colleagues say and those are the comments that make Jongwoon smoke a pack a day, as if the only thing that make him in some way valuable are his voice and his profession. Make them miss it and care for him as a person, is what runs through his mind as a cough tears through his throat, strong enough to make him wheeze and to double over, tears in his eyes.
Oh Jongwoon, he imagines Ryeowook's voice saying as he rubs a soothing hand over his back and Donghae watches from the doorway. He knows he's intruding but Jongwoon is only a few hair breadths from death, and Donghae doesn't want to miss the moment that it happens.
It doesn't happen that night.
Most times, Donghae chooses to leave them alone. He's intruding too much, the precious time they have together before Jongwoon gives up, because he simply doesn't care. Ryeowook cares too much, but the frustration that boils over from Jongwoon's passiveness has him punching Jongwoon in anger, eyes brimming with tears.
"I'm sorry," Jongwoon breathes, but Ryeowook knows that if he truly was, he'd actually try, give up, and get the surgery and chemo he needs. But Jongwoon doesn't.
So Jongwoon dies in his own home, in his own bed with the arms of a loved one around him.
Nothing changes in Ryeowook's day-to-day life sans his lover. He goes along as he always had, picking up groceries and obediently going to the hospital when called.
Ryeowook gets paired up with a tall Chinese transfer who can lipread and sign a bit. He brightens up immediately, and they get assigned as paramedics, their quick teamwork and communication aiding them.
"Morning," Zhou Mi greets every morning at three, when their shift starts. Ryeowook waves a hand and accepts the coffee.
The call comes at four thirty, and Donghae has a chill in his bones when he considers it. Ryeowook jumps in the front while Zhou Mi stays in the back, clinging as their driver weaves his way through Seoul at breakneck speed, almost no cars obscuring their way.
They stop at a small, kids park with a man lying on the ground, groaning and clutching his leg.
"What's wrong?" Zhou Mi asks, and the man groans. Donghae recognises him, but he can't pinpoint from where, though Ryeowook's eyes narrow suspiciously. Zhou Mi helps him up.
"My leg," the man gaps, sagging against Zhou Mi and clutches his backpack. Ryeowook stares and Donghae climbs back onto the top of the ambulance, shouting a small, "wheeeeeeeeeeee."
They arrive at the hospital without sirens, pushing the man quietly on a wheelchair, his backpack in his lap. His hands dip into it as they pass through reception, almost empty, and his fists curl. Donghae watches him, as does Ryeowook, his hands as they shift and the scream one of the nurses let out is the first sign that something's off.
"SHUT UP EVERYONE DOWN," the man yells from his wheelchair, brandishing a revolver. It looks heavy in his delicate hand, his thin wrist straining under the weight, but Zhou Mi drops down, eyes bright, and Ryeowook slowly crouches.
Donghae stares from the doorway, eyeing the bag in the man's lap. More guns? Bullets? Worse?
"I want you to listen carefully."
The voice the man on is hypnotic, persuasive without any other motive than simply making them listen.
"In this bag here, I have a bomb. I am going to bomb this hospital."
A nurse screeches, and the man calmly points his gun at her. "Please, stay quiet." She sobs, but does as she's told, sagging against the wall.
"I want you to understand that this hospital is infested with disease and is contaminating this pure city, this pure country. Everyday, hundreds and thousands of walk in and out of here, carrying germs and bacteria from this filthy, filthy place into the city, and into our country."
He turns the wheelchair, eyes trained on them carefully before he shoots through the glass door where it is, and now had been, emblazoned with Seoul National University Hospital. It is deathly silent.
"Disease and bacteria, illness and injury is the problem. And do you know what we do when we have a problem?"
He surveys the hallway, and the reception behind.
He's a speaker, a persuasive one. A born politician, able to sway the hearts and minds of many, but that doesn't make a difference. Donghae remembers he had seen this man before, furtive in the small school that Sungmin used to teach at, stealing chemicals. To make this bomb, and with a chill, Donghae knows that he could've stopped this man. Somehow set the police on him, raise the alarm. It's his fault that this whole hospital is going to die, hundreds and thousands of people. He wants to throw up, but he can't. How do you throw up without a body?
"LISTEN," the man screeches, and Donghae flinches.
"I am special," he stage whispers. "I am special; I was brought here. I am Leeteuk. I was told to do this. This must happen. To get rid of the problem, you find the source and when you find the source, you eradicate it. You destroy it. You shut it down."
He laughs, soft and breathless at first, but higher and maniacal, more than a touch of insanity in it. Donghae feels emotion bubble up inside him, thousands of lives on his shoulders, the urge to cry. But he can't.
The man, Leeteuk, takes a breath, and then spins around. He takes a moment to aim before he fires a shot, and there, lying in front of the doors of the reception, is Ryeowook, blood splattered artistically on the doors behind him. Dead.
"That is what will happen if you try to escape or defy me. I am stronger than I look. Anytime you try to separate me from this bag, a small fuse of fifteen seconds is lit. You will not find this fuse."
He takes a moment to smile pityingly at the people who will die by his hand, a hallway full, and then levels and levels above them, thousands of patients.
"Fucker," Ryeowook hisses, face dark as he stands next to Donghae. Donghae can only spare a glance before Leeteuk speaks again, and Ryeowook glares.
"Think of this as a rebirth. With death will come cleansing, a purification of the soul. With death, you will be reborn better, and purer than before."
Zhou Mi pulls his lips away from his teeth in a snarl, clutching the hand of one of the older nurses.
"Motherfucker," Ryeowook says, voice low, and it isn't as Donghae had imagined it at all. Even as Ryeowook pitches it low, filled with anger, it's higher than Donghae's voice and melodious, lighter than Jongwoon's had been.
"You will be part of a historical event, my friends," the man says, flinging his arms wide, away from the bag. Donghae hears a minute click.
"You will be remembered in history forever," he says, and Donghae lets out a cry as Ryeowook does, as Zhou Mi does and as all the other doctors and nurses do when a small flame blossoms in Leeteuk's lap before growing, consuming oxygen and dry air and flinging it back, spitting it back out with a vigor and hate that makes Ryeowook disappear in a flash of light.
Donghae stands there, unaffected but for the emotion, as thousands of people die by his own hands, as the foundations of the hospital crack and tumble, concrete falling and floors collapsing. The rubble falls through him, but he can still see the souls of the people in the hospital disappear, flashes of lights like firecrackers all over the place, and Zhou Mi climbing through the rubble as a ghost, face pulled back into a scowl, but eyes red like they would've been crying if they could.
"It's no use," Donghae calls out, and Zhou Mi looks up as the rest of the hospital collapses on them, and he gives a pitiful smile.
"It doesn't hurt to try," are the words Donghae thinks he hears, but there's nothing more to be heard before he has to leave.
After that, just around the corner, Donghae sees a boy with shaking fingers, a joint being rolled. Some of it spills out the side, but his harsh breaths pay it no heed as he fumbles and produces a lighter, squashing one end in his mouth and breathing in.
"Hyukjae?" someone asks around the corner, and he hurriedly stuffs it behind his back, jabbing it out on the wall.
“Hyukjae?” A boy walks into the alleyway, and Hyukjae greets him with a broad smile, pupils dyed black and stretched.
"Hey," Hyukjae replies, and Donghae watches as his fingers skip nimbly over the makeshift smoke, checking it's out before slipping it into his back pocket. The other boy's nose wrinkles.
"You smell off."
There's a fleeting look of panic that crosses Hyukjae's face before it relaxes into a grin.
"Not as bad as you, Junsu."
The boy, Junsu, rolls his eyes and pushes at Hyukjae's shoulder lightly.
"C'mon, we're going to be late to practise."
"Sir!" Hyukjae salutes him, grabs his bag from the ground beside his feet. He grandly bows, his right arm outstretched. "Lead the way."
Junsu laughs and grabs Hyukjae's hand before pelting full speed down the sidewalk, dragging Hyukjae with a dopey grin on.
"If we're late, we are sooooooo fucked."
They get to the soccer field just as the coach is telling everyone to run around the field. He eyes them both before jerking his head, telling them to follow, and Junsu nods, sprinting before he catches on to the tail end of the group, giving another boy a high five. Hyukjae takes his time, jogging slowly, letting his steady pace catch him up to the group.
When Hyukjae calls a quick toilet break, Donghae follows him into the bathroom, where he sits against the wall and lights his joint. He inhales deep, eyes going bloodshot and a slow smile spreading. The smoke spirals out of his mouth, curling lazily around the end of the cigarette, burning bright when he breathes in again.
He finishes it in a few minutes, faster than anything Donghae's ever seen. So Hyukjae stands up, washes his hands and splashes his face with water before going back outside.
Donghae follows him curiously, and also because he's never really seen a drug addict at work.
While Junsu farewells Hyukjae to go home to his family, Hyukjae walks a lonely road, whistling softly before he nears a dilapidated home, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk.
He opens the door and ducks in, smoke thick against the ceiling and everything hazy.
"Hey," he greets, and the girl lying on the floor raises a hand before it falls limply back down. Donghae squints but can't make out her face.
"Good practise?" a man asks as he walks through the doorway, smiling cheerfully. He's large, rotund and healthy, as Donghae would've put it back in his day, but in today's world, he's just fat.
"Alright," Hyukjae says as he spreads himself out on a couch. "Couldn't resist finishing the joint in the bathroom though. Great stuff."
The man chuckles, lifting a box of takeout.
"Want some food? I've already eaten and thought you might be hungry after practise."
Hyukjae sits up and takes it from his hands eagerly, snatching the chopsticks next.
"Thanks Donghee."
Donghee laughs again, ruffling Hyukjae's hair as he digs in.
"You're a good kid. I've got some stronger stuff if you wanted any. Surplus that no one can't be bothered selling, and Amber looks too drugged out to really do anything right now." Hyukjae spares a glance for her before continuing to eat.
"I'll see."
"That's right." Donghee heaves himself up, and Donghae eyes him wearily. Just feeding Hyukjae more drugs?
"See you later."
"See you."
Donghae watches in some despair when Hyukjae takes the bong from Donghee's hands, fitting his mouth over the end and breathing in. Immediately, his eyes widen and then relax, his whole body going lethargic.
"What kind of shit have you been feeding me if this is how good it can get?" Hyukjae says, smoking trailing from his mouth. Donghee smiles winningly at him.
"You need to build up to it, can't feed you this first go. Come on, is that all you're going to take?"
Hyukjae shakes his head before taking another long drag, his mouth awkward but his eyes roll in the back of his head. Donghae has a bad feeling, and he leaves the room before he can see Hyukjae destroy himself.
Instead, he wastes time away with Amber for a bit, learning that she only comes to the house occasionally, maybe once every two months to get a hit before she goes back to college, going back to dorm life like there's nothing out of the ordinary.
Donghae does that for a few months before he gets bored of how many bathrooms he can walk to while the water's on, or how many bras he can find on the floor before he creeps back to the house Hyukjae's at.
It isn't pretty, but there's a reason that Donghae usually follows the quiet ones.
Hyukjae's lying in a puddle of his own puke, reeking, the house empty. He's slowly drowning in it, unconscious and t-shirt stained beyond belief. It's only maybe thirty minutes before Donghee comes home, looks at Hyukjae on the floor and steps around him, walking on to the kitchen. He opens his plastic container of food, the smell mixing with the spell of spew, and Donghae wants to throw up.
It's with grim satisfaction and not some form of redemption that Donghae hears the sounds of someone choking, a piece of chicken gone the wrong way.
"Now that was fun," a voice remarks dryly as it nears Donghae before he gives him a disbelieving glance.
"Fun to die, and to see your friend die, just like that?" Donghae asks, pointing at Hyukjae on the floor. Donghee shrugs his heavy shoulders.
"His own fault -- he sneaked into my supply and got something he wasn't ready for. That's what happens." Donghee shrugs again before disappearing, and Donghae makes an indignant sound as Hyukjae's ghost rises up, looking at him in curiosity.
"Hello," Hyukjae says, and Donghae nods, trying to smile.
"Hi."
"Lee Hyukjae," he smiles, sticking out a hand. Donghae tries not to smile at the gums.
"Lee Donghae," Donghae says back, shaking the hand before Hyukjae starts disappearing as well.
"Oh." He says it a bit sad. "Well that was anti-climatic. I'll catch you later then." He wriggles his fingers and Donghae waves back. He can't think of someone less deserving of death.
At the university Amber goes to is a Chinese lecturer who has crow's feet kilometres deep and a generous smile. Donghae looks at Amber when she goes to his lectures (Chinese mythology) and she looks so engrossed as if it's the Subject She Was Meant To Take. Really, Donghae just stares at the lecturer as he talks, his mouth shaping old Mandarin syllables before Donghae walks around the campus, enjoying the sunshine for a few brief moments.
It isn't hard to find Han Geng's office, locked and closed off. It's small and cosy, ancient books on the shelves and a sleek laptop on the desk. There's a couch in the corner and a first generation iPod on one of the shelves.
Donghae is curled up on the couch when Han Geng returns, a few folders in his arms before he dumps them on the desk and sits heavily into the chair. He sighs before turning on the laptop and muttering to himself in Mandarin, before Donghae doses off.
Han Geng isn't the most interesting person, but his quiet phone calls in Mandarin and his Chinese is sleek and professional. Well, that's what Donghae thinks since he can't really read it.
He keeps a quiet private life with only a few acquaintances beside his students, and Donghae can see why Amber likes him. He's helpful and doesn't preach. He appreciates his students and is here to impart his knowledge, not simply to do a job.
Which is why Donghae's sad when an electrical fault in Han Geng's small, slightly dilapidated apartment causes a fire. Smoke inhalation is what ultimately causes his death, and they watch it burn down together. Han Geng gives him a small smile before telling him something in Mandarin and disappearing.
Donghae figures it's time to visit his hometown on a sunshine-filled Friday afternoon, walking the road to the convenience shore that certainly hadn't been there two hundred years before. He visits the lot of land his house used to be on, where there's now an apartment block and goes up to level seven, apartment thirteen.
Slowly, he walks through the doorway, pausing at the small shrine and then proceeding, hearing some loud and obnoxious singing. He pokes his head through the ajar bathroom door, chewing his tongue thoughtfully.
The man turns his head, eyes squinting and hands freezing. Donghae's eyes travel appreciatively downwards, past the dip of the man's collarbones, the nipples, soft from warmth, and down to his -- holy shit, Donghae's eyes widen because those are certainly more defined than his ever was and will be -- abs, sharp, deep ridges that curve inwards, and Donghae's eyes skip down before the man screeches, covers his privates, and turns around. Donghae spies buttocks.
"Whoever the fuck you are, please get out of my home," the man says in a harsh whisper, ever so polite. Donghae takes an automatic, but disappointed step backwards.
He sighs before he freezes and hesitantly stares at the ajar door before it's yanked closed.
"YOU CAN SEE ME?"
"HEAR YOU TOO," the man shouts back, water turning off. Donghae's hands rub up and down his arms, eyes gleaming. Hot man can see him; this can't end badly at all.
The man steps out of the bathroom three minutes later -- Donghae's been counting and following the clock. He's wearing loose sweatpants, a white shirt and towelling his hair dry, and Donghae can't admit he's a bit disappointed.
"So," the man says. He drops into a chair and hangs the towel around his neck, all casual. "Why are you in my apartment?"
"I used to live here," Donghae says back, trying to be casual but just grinning instead, eyes wide as they rest on those humongous hands.
"That doesn't mean you can just walk into my apartment. How'd you get in, the door's locked and it's not that easy to pick a lock you know."
Donghae shrugs. "I'm not exactly a human being."
The man's hands drop. "What."
"I mean! I was a human being once, I'm a person, so don't freak out or anything, but I'm not exactly alive, you know."
His mouth hangs open, eyebrows raised.
"What."
Donghae stands for a moment, smoothing out his clothing a bit self consciously, before he runs. The man has about half a second to shout a warning that Donghae is running at full speed into a solid wall before Donghae disappears through it and emerges through the open bathroom door, face sour.
"How dirty is your bathroom."
The man gapes at him intelligently, staring as Donghae drops back into the chair opposite.
"Nice clothes," the man manages before getting up and slamming the door to his bedroom. Donghae calmly gets up and walks through the door.
"That's a bit rude, you know, to just slam the door in my face and ignore me."
"What're you, a ghost or something?"
Donghae inclines his head, smiling brightly. "Actually, yeah I am."
The man stares for a long, long moment in which Donghae's smile starts to wilt, before falling backwards on his bed.
"This is a dream," he says loudly, slightly muffled by a pillow. "This is a dream an any moment now a train is going to come crashing through the room and I will wake up to my perfectly normal apartment with no ghost peeping in on me or sitting across from me. I will go live life normally tomorrow and pretend that this, this dream never happened and get a good night's rest. Goodnight, ghost."
When the man wakes next, it's eight in the evening, perfect time for dinner. He stretches, yawning as he slips out of bed and scratching his stomach, eyebrows furrowed as he squints in the darkness.
"Hullo," Donghae greets from his perch in the doorway. The man trips over him.
"Jesus," the man breathes. "What the fuck, who are you?"
Donghae jumps up, smiling. He holds out a hand. "Lee Donghae, pleased to meet you!"
The man pushes past him. "Please get out of my home," he says courteously as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. Donghae rolls his eyes.
"Sorry, that isn't going to happen."
He closes the fridge door forcibly, locking eyes with Donghae and looking furious. "Get out of my home or I'll call the police."
The laughter that comes out of Donghae's mouth is a touch hysterical before he stuffs his fist in it.
"And what? Have the police come to an empty home? No one can see me except you, and that's a first in about two hundred years. I'm a ghost, don't you get it? Aren't you religious?" Donghae waves a hand at the small shrine that's next to the door, the golden cross and small statue of Jesus crucified sitting innocently. "Or do you not believe in ghosts?"
The man heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing his face. Donghae waits.
"Okay. Let's. Talk this out. Please sit." Donghae sits on the couch. The man sits opposite, on the bean bag.
"I'm Choi Siwon, you are?"
"Lee Donghae."
Siwon -- it's good to finally attach a name -- nods, trying to focus.
"Okay, Donghae, so you're a ghost?" There's a nod. "Okay, okay that's completely normal."
Donghae sits, waiting. Siwon rubs his hands together. He looks ridiculous, being engulfed by a football bean bag.
"Are you sure you're a ghost and not just someone who can walk into walls? Because you feel pretty real to me."
Donghae suppresses a shiver at the remembrance of someone's warm skin on his, the first since his death. He grabs Siwon's hand instead, the warmth intoxicating, dragging him to the bathroom.
"Stand in front of the mirror," he instructs, and Siwon does as he's told, raising an impressive eyebrow. Donghae takes a deep breath and stands in front of him, Siwon's hands on his shoulders, steadying him.
"Can you see anything?" Donghae whispers, staring at the mirror and Siwon's shocked face reflected. There's no trace of Donghae in the mirror -- not his saddened eyes, downturned lips or his hanbok.
Siwon shifts his hands so they're passing over Donghae's ears, entangled in Donghae's hair, but the mirror shows only his hands grasping at thin air. He clenches a fist and Donghae hisses, his eyes watering as his hair is pulled, but Siwon appears as only making a loose fist of nothing.
"Wow," Siwon utters, dropping his hands back to Donghae's shoulders as Donghae bows his head and pats at his hair.
"Well that hurt," he says. His scalp itches.
"Sorry about that," Siwon says, hands heavy on Donghae's shoulders. His voice is soft and low, somewhere above Donghae's head, and he turns.
"It's alright," Donghae replies, just as soft. "It's not like I'm alive."
They sit in silence for a while, contemplating. Donghae sneaks glances at Siwon from time to time, but he's silent, eyes closed and chin resting on his hands.
"So." Siwon clears his throat. "Can you eat?"
Donghae shakes his head.
"Drink?" Shake. "Sleep? Feel? Breathe?"
The shakes are automatic. He can't touch anything -- anything he moves is with some weird, psychological mind power that he gets when he focuses, where he can make his hand 'real' enough to move objects, open doors and push buttons. Most of the time opening doors is a chore though, so he just walks through, no fuss about it. By that distinction, any food or drink he puts near his mouth drops to the floor, and while he can doze off, it's just an unconscious state of mind; he never feels any more awake or tired than before. Breathing is automatic.
Which is why Siwon is such an anomaly. Siwon can see him, Siwon can touch him and Donghae can feel the warmth of his skin, the hot breath that Siwon had exhaled on the top of his head in the bathroom. Theoretically, Donghae shivers, he could touch Siwon's skin, reach through clothing to place his hand above Siwon's heart right now and feel the beat as it raced and tried to contemplate the concept of ghosts.
"But I can touch you. You look and feel pretty normal to me... except for your clothes." Donghae looks down at his hanbok, what he used to wear when he was alive. He frowns.
"Actually." Siwon clears his throat. "You're pretty good looking." Donghae beams. "But you're still a ghost..."
Donghae frowns again. "Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll just leave or something. I'm intruding anyway, so you don't owe me anything or whatever, just say the word and I'll go."
"No, no, it's okay. You must be pretty lonely, not having anyone speak or touch to you for... how long?"
"Give or take two hundred years?" Donghae shrugs. No big deal.
"Two hundred, holy shit." Siwon runs a hand through his hair, breathing out. "So. When were you born? Or when did you die?"
Donghae looks on, amused. "Born in 1786, died in 1810. Executed because I slept with the king's wife."
Siwon's eyes widen before they crinkle into an amused grin. "Why am I not surprised?"
Donghae chokes on something. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry." Siwon grins, waving a hand. "Um, you want to stay? I'm probably going to grab some dinner or something, and you can stay here... or come with me? I don't mind." He makes a non-committal shrug.
Donghae looks around, at the neat apartment and the soft lighting. It's been a while since he's been inside as a guest.
"I'll stay. If that's okay."
Siwon looks surprised, but nods. "Yeah, sure. I'll see you in twenty minutes then." He grabs his jacket, wallet and keys, and leaves.
The apartment is still with Siwon gone, and Donghae takes a moment to pretend that this place is his, and that he did live here, before he hops off the sofa and goes on a quest to find out who this Choi Siwon really is.
The results are disappointing. The only things he can find remotely related to Siwon are his chequebook from the Bank of Korea and a planner with reminders like: Yehee's birthday! Minwoo's birthday! Jaehyun's birthday! Pay the bills. Jihoo's birthday! Send Yuri an email. Daehyun's birthday!
Siwon must be a pretty popular guy used for his money, Donghae concludes.
It's actually kind of boring that Donghae can only do so much, and Siwon's out getting food. Donghae entertains himself with how many buttons he can push on the microwave before he gets too tired and reaches for the fridge handle but misses. He frowns.
So he sticks his head through the fridge door, and who has better timing that Choi Siwon, opening the front door as Donghae mournfully eyes the large carton of milk and four eggs.
"Uh..."
Donghae withdraws his head and waves cheerfully.
"I'm admiring your large array of wonderful and delicious foods!" He smacks his lips loudly, and Siwon gives him an amused grin along with a raised eyebrow. Donghae feels the urge to giggle but choose to manly close his mouth and flare his nostrils instead, breathing out.
It's impossible to be with Siwon -- every second and minute that passes feels like another one he had missed out on while he had been alive. He wants to live again, be a kid and kick through autumn leaves and enjoy snow as it melted through his fingers. He wants to read books and be able to flip the pages himself, enjoy actual warmth from the sun and the bite of the wind.
Even if he died at twenty-four, already halfway to death, Donghae feels cheated of life, of a loving wife and children and friends. Knowledge of past events he's lived through, whilst alive and all the people he had met while lingering come to mind, and the sudden rush of moments causes him to crumple, the tip of his head going through the fridge door.
"Donghae," Siwon asks, unsure, and Donghae blinks fast to keep his emotions, and not tears that refuse to appear. A breath rises in his throat and his hands quickly cover his mouth, biting his lip to make sure he doesn't break down in front of this almost-stranger.
"I'm fine," he says quickly, taking a quick breath and then letting it out.
"Are you sure?" Siwon asks again, and Donghae refrains from clutching his chest, in hope that pulling the skin away from his bones will give his lungs more room to expand, make breathing easier.
Donghae breathes in short gasps, and Siwon approaches slowly, placing the takeout container on the counter and putting a hand on Donghae's shoulder. It sinks through Donghae's clothes to touch, skin-to-skin, finally some warmth, before he falls forward and Siwon catches him.
"Just lie down," Siwon mutters softly, and Donghae's eyes close, oblivion welcome.
Donghae wakes up to sunshine and a glass of water on the coffee table. He snorts when he wonders how he's going to ingest the water, and feels himself go a bit looser, a bit more not-there before the blanket sinks through him and he laughs.
There's a note next to the glass.
Donghae,
I had to go to work at 9, and I'll be back at 5.30. Sorry, but I didn't wake you :( I hope the sleep was good!
Siwon
It's so normal and so everyday, so complacent and ordinary that Donghae has to stare at the note for a few minutes before absorbing the message and kicking back.
He sighs, cheeks puffed and already bored.
Siwon takes care of him. He always asks if he wants food or something to drink, maybe some comfortable clothes or maybe even a bed, would that be good? Donghae would like to say yes, except he has no idea what he'd do with any of these. He wonders if Siwon's this nice to everyone he meets or if Donghae's special.
He ponders this and even goes as far as the plan out how to phrase the questions, where to place the inflections and what words to emphasise, before Siwon asks him to accompany him on a Saturday morning.
"Where we going?" Donghae asks, testing how far he could go through the seat before Siwon freaked out.
Siwon slid the key into its slot, hand reaching for the brake and turning his head to reverse out of his spot.
"Seat belt on--" he started to say automatically, looking over before panicking, his hand slipping onto the horn and his eyes going wide. "What the shit."
Donghae laughs to himself before reemerging, eyes opening like he's coming up for a breath of air and lips pulled into a grin. Siwon has a hand over his heart.
"Please don't do that," he says formally before he starts reversing again, hand on the headrest of the passenger's seat and eyes darting over to Donghae every few seconds.
Donghae is silent and obedient the whole trip, smiling smugly to himself.
They pull up in front of a large, slightly run down home. As soon as Siwon swings off the road and into the driveway, beeping the horn, kids run out.
(donghae finds out that siwon regularly donates to various orphanages and comes down when he can to celebrate a kid's birthday. teddy from andy lau!)
"So that's what you do with the money you earn? You give it to some kids?" Donghae tries to keep the slight disgust from his tone, but he had been taught that every money earned by your own hands was yours and yours alone; spend it how you wished, indulge yourself, because you never have an obligation to repay someone in any way.
Siwon keeps his hands on the wheel in the ten and two o'clock positions, steady and firm. In the few days Donghae's known him, that's what he's come to regard Siwon as; steady and firm.
"I earn quite a lot in my occupation," he replies stiffly. "And I'd rather help out others, especially kids so they have a better future, than to just spend it on myself. It isn't a bad policy to live by."