Everlasting
Title: Everlasting
Author: vaguelynormal
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Character death
Summary: In Changmin’s mind they were invincible: Gods of the East.
Changmin knows it the moment he opens the door. It’s been quiet, not unnaturally so, but in a way that would suggest Yunho has fallen asleep after dinner except Yunho’s eyes are open and glassy, and Changmin knows. His heart catches somewhere in his throat whilst his stomach plummets sickeningly to the floor because even if Changmin’s brain is fast enough to process the image in front of him, it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
The colour is already fading from Yunho’s skin but it doesn’t stop Changmin from fumbling, shakily searching for a pulse, listening for a heartbeat and it doesn’t stop the terrified noise of panic and pain being torn from Changmin’s throat. Yunho is still warm and Changmin threads their fingers together to stop himself from breaking his friend’s ribs in resuscitation attempts when he already knows it’s far too late. Instead he gently, so so gently closes Yunho’s eyes with trembling hands and rubs Yunho’s knuckles soothingly. The pain is raw, as though Changmin has had a knife run through him, gutting him of everything, from top to bottom yet the shock allows him to push that aside and remember old heartbreak. Practicality has always been one of Changmin’s strong suits as he thinks of his grandmother, a twinge still resounding deep inside his chest but he pushes Yunho’s jaw up until his mouth closes softly, lips no longer open to pull in air. Changmin cups Yunho’s face carefully, presses his mouth to the seam of Yunho’s paling lips repeatedly and when he draws back he leaves a wet sheen of tears across Yunho’s cheek.
Changmin doesn’t want to call anyone, isn’t ready for Yunho to leave him, so he calmly retrieves a wash cloth from the linen cupboard, rolls it and presses it gently beneath Yunho’s chin. He remembers quite clinically the way bodies respond to death and positions Yunho’s arms accordingly, easing them to rest over his chest and Changmin climbs into the bed alongside him and just holds Yunho’s hands there, above his heart as though they might slip and that would be too much to bear. He curls into Yunho’s side, his face a mess now and Changmin thinks it’s an ugly thing to say that people look peaceful in death. Yunho just looks wrong, his skin waxy and greying, body rigid and lacking all the wonderful sense of life. To Changmin, it’s unnatural and garish though he aches too much to be repulsed, unable to distance himself, knowing in the back of his mind that these are his last moments with Yunho, along with the dinner they shared mere hours before, this is the last chance he has to lay beside his friend, to run a hand through soft hair and clasp their hands together. Everything is already ruined, but when Yunho leaves the apartment, nothing will be the same.
He doesn’t sleep, although Changmin’s never felt so tired or ached with so much hurt and loss and grief. Changmin keeps Yunho warm with his own heat for as long as he can and even afterwards, he doesn’t let go. He rests his head on Yunho’s shoulder and wishes Yunho was wearing something more befitting than loose sweat pants and a worn out old t-shirt that Changmin has ruined anyway with his mess of tears, snot and pure misery. He wonders if he should change Yunho but he can’t bring himself to move and when he remembers the way his grandmother’s gums receded and he’s not sure he can bring himself to look either. Changmin wonders if Yunho brushed his teeth before climbing into bed, if Changmin should do it, if it even matters. He decides it doesn’t and cranes his neck to kiss the corner of Yunho’s mouth before settling into the pain and watching the light change in the room as the sun slowly rises.
In the morning, after the time they usually eat breakfast, Yunho’s phone begins to ring. When it’s left unanswered, Changmin hears his own phone go off in the other room. He can’t motivate himself into moving, untrusting of the croak in his voice that he’s certain has taken up residence there because it feels so full and hurts so much. Changmin’s not sure how many times both phones ring, back and forth, their manager no doubt calling to make sure they’re up and ready because they have a schedule today, a car coming to pick them up and Yunho wasn’t supposed to be like this. Wasn’t supposed to die. Not this young, not before Changmin, not before starting a family, retiring and getting old- not without warning. He’s not supposed to leave Changmin alone. Yunho is the leader; he’s not supposed to go where Changmin can’t follow.
Their manager lets himself in at some point, Changmin’s not sure exactly when but he hears the key code being entered and shoes being shucked off in the entryway. He doesn't move, lies still in his spot curled around Yunho, even as the bedroom door is pushed open and both their names are being called. Their manager seems to understand quickly too, upset and distraught but he calls the company and when more people arrive, Changmin unfurls himself and sits up, manages to stumble out of the room to leave them to it. It’s not as hard as Changmin thought it would be, because it’s not Yunho anymore, it’s just a body. Every part of Yunho has gone.
They’re supposed to be discreet, but Changmin knows it won’t take long and there are people who need to know, deserve to be told by someone other than a newsreader or website. Changmin’s not ready to call Yunho’s mother, so instead he pulls his phone from the charger and takes a seat on his bed, numbly flipping through his contact list for that one number he’s had tucked away for a few years now. The loud echo of the dial tone fractures Changmin, reminding him too much of a heartbeat as he waits for the call to connect. He has the other numbers, just in case, doubts they’ve changed, but Jaejoong is the eldest, in ways the strongest and knew Yunho the best before everything changed. Jaejoong is good at hurt, believes men only cry three times in their lives and absently, Changmin wonders if now will be one of those times.
His breath hitches when Jaejoong finally answers, choking on the words.
‘Hello?’ Jaejoong’s voice echoes and Changmin knows he has to answer, has to force the words out before he hangs up.
‘Jaejoong,’ comes out as a sob and that wasn’t what Changmin intended, swallowing back the thick whimpers that catch in his throat.
Jaejoong’s voice comes back through, calling his name questioningly, asking him what’s wrong as his breath shudders down the line.
And suddenly, Changmin doesn’t know how to say it. Can’t say it. Doesn’t want to, but he knows he has to communicate it somehow. They deserve to hear it from him, not anyone else.
‘Yunho,’ he gasps out the next time he remembers to exhale. ‘Hyung,’ Changmin croaks and Jaejoong must know it’s serious because Changmin never calls Jaejoong his hyung. That’s a consideration he makes only for Yunho.
‘Is Yunho hurt? What happened, Changmin?’ Jaejoong’s voice is concerned, laced with panic but he doesn’t push, just waits.
‘Yunho,’ Changmin manages again, struggling for air, searching for the delicate way to put it, for the right tense to use.
And then Changmin finds the words, and they’re just as ugly and painful to speak aloud as Changmin thought they would be.
‘Yunho died last night.’
There’s a sharp intake audible over the line and then Jaejoong makes a guttural sound, wounded like an animal that’s just been shot- like he’s breaking- and Changmin wishes he could do that, wishes he could scream.
But Changmin can barely speak, blinded by his own tears and he knows in that moment, nothing will ever be the same.
It was his heart, the coroners decide. No way of predicting it, no way of screening for it earlier and no way to prevent it. A natural, yet rare defect and Changmin thinks it’s a poor exchange for the desecration of Yunho’s body. It’s a closed casket but Changmin hates knowing Yunho’s body is marred with ugly stitches underneath the suit his mother selected from his wardrobe. The funeral is huge, Yunho knew too many people, made too many friends and everyone attends. It’s too petty to prevent anyone from attending and Changmin’s glad for the company, even if they don't speak. There are so many people that it has to be held in a large hall and not the church Yunho would have preferred, but Changmin thinks maybe it’s a good thing. This is about Yunho and not any god. Changmin’s supposed to give a eulogy, but so is Yunho’s father and neither of them can manage. The whole ceremony is muted, the friends, colleagues, families, company staff and fans are silent except for their grief, unable to say much at all. There’s so much sadness in one room and Changmin finds it cloying to his every cell, leaving him with fresh pain as it seeps in.
He’s supposed to be strong, stoic in front of the crowd because this is still an audience and really it’s just like a stage and Changmin’s not allowed to let his image slip. There are no cameras allowed though he knows they’re waiting just outside but Changmin can’t stop the emotion that floods his lungs, making it difficult to breathe and see through swollen eyes. Yoochun tugs him into his arms and Changmin cries harder, remembering what they were - who they were - as the priest reads from his cue cards about Yunho’s life and loves. JiHye offers him a watery smile and Changmin hates himself for being unable to offer her any comfort.
It’s a long service and Changmin stays even longer after it ends, sitting in the hall with the vast amount of flowers, fan made tributes, framed photographs and Yunho’s coffin. There’s nothing left to do, everything is organised, Yunho’s family have already taken the possessions they wanted from the apartment, including Yunho’s car and Changmin feels more lost than usual without that feeling that something still needs to be done.
He returns home quietly, slipping out of his suit before climbing into Yunho’s bed and pulling the covers up around him. At first Changmin thinks it’s not a good idea to lie there, in Yunho’s space and ruining the dents made by his body and the scent clinging to the sheets, but as his eyes close, wet with tears, Changmin couldn’t care less about preserving Yunho’s things.
It doesn’t get easier, though everyone keeps promising him that it will and all Changmin can think is: ’how can they know that it will stop hurting?’ Because Changmin can’t see an end to his pain in a reality where he continues to live and Yunho continues to be dead. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair that it wasn’t him instead. It’s not fair that Changmin’s left alone now with no one to comfort him because the only person Changmin let close enough to do that is gone and Changmin doesn’t know how to go on living when everything is wrong.
With time, the only thing that changes are the sheets on Yunho’s bed because his scent is no longer there and the night Changmin realised he couldn’t smell Yunho anymore in the linen, he got so drunk that he ended up vomiting on the sheets anyway. The next day, he blearily makes it out of the bed and his filthy clothes and finds his last place of respite in Yunho’s closet, amongst the remaining clothes. Ugly things that they wore on set and Yunho hoarded out of sentimentality, scarfs hand knitted by ahjumma fans and the truly hideous reindeer sweater that Yunho would bring out every Christmas and laugh cheerfully as Changmin flung his disdain at him as though it would have any affect on his friend’s decision to wear it.
But when their manager finds Changmin in the ugly reindeer sweater and his underpants, sitting inside Yunho’s wardrobe, his expression is nothing like Changmin’s would be. There’s no repulsion or irritation. There’s only pity there, and Changmin sees that a lot these days- it’s why he stopped leaving the apartment, that, and because everything outside somehow reminds him of Yunho even more than their shitty apartment. And because Changmin sees that pity in his manager’s face, he apologises and pulls the closet door shut until he’s alone in the dark with the clothes that smell of Yunho’s soured, stale sweat and the cologne Jaejoong bought Yunho one birthday and the man never stopped using.
Sometimes, Changmin forgets. He wakes up and enters the kitchen, glances at the clock and turns towards the hallway to shout for Yunho to get out of the shower.
Those are the good mornings.
For those twelve minutes, Changmin forgets that his eyes feel painfully dry and swollen. That his head hurts. Forgets that the shower isn’t running and Yunho would be singing if he were in it.
For those twelve minutes, the world spins on the right axis for Changmin. And then he remembers and his whole world shatters again and the ground seems to slip out from underneath his feet.
They have to cremate Yunho. His family would like a burial, but the fans might disturb the grave and that would be far too much for anyone to bear. So Yunho’s body is cremated, his bones turned to a dull chalk that rattles softly inside a delicate blue urn.
Changmin doesn’t like the urn. It’s too small to contain someone as vibrant as Yunho, too staid to represent the beauty of all that Yunho was and it’s far too flimsy for someone so strong. Changmin doesn’t visit the Jungs, or pay his respects to the glorified jar. Sometimes though, Changmin and Yoochun will get drunk along Han river and release trapped fireflies from thick mason jars and Changmin thinks it’s almost as good as scattering Yunho’s ashes.
Sometimes though, Changmin viciously tears the wings from the bright insects.
Yoochun stops coming when the weather turns icy and there are no fireflies to be caught. He has a tour to prepare for, something to honour Yunho, he tells Changmin, but Changmin knows they’re all just trying to distract themselves from the gaping hole left in their lives. Bitterly, Changmin thinks it’s a little unfair that his old band members have had much longer to practice being without Yunho than he has.
He keeps going, even when he has to sit in the snow and he drinks until he can’t tell if the lights glittering over the water are blurry from the tears or the alcohol.
Changmin can’t stand on stage anymore. He can’t step into a studio, even when he begins to make it out of the apartment more often. Rather than being haunted by Yunho’s ghost, Changmin feels as if he’s turning into a phantom himself, as if he’s fading into the background. The more time that passes, the less relevant the tragedy is to the outside world- the less relevant Changmin is. Changmin’s okay with fading into obscurity; he addresses the media just once, knowing that if he remains reclusive, they’ll start making up rumours that will be more difficult to deal with. The company lets him out of his contract without too much hassle, allowing him to bow out quietly whilst still in good graces and before he can become a liability to the company. Changmin lets them handle the press release.
His family urge him to move back in with them but Changmin’s not ready to leave the apartment yet, not ready to let other people trample on the sacred ground he once shared with Yunho- the bathroom Yunho used to flood with water, the kitchen where he’d watch Changmin try to cook before they gave up and ordered take out and the couch where Yunho slept sometimes and where Changmin always sat waiting for Yunho to get home on nights drinking with friends. There are too many memories trapped within the walls, most of them good and a few of them ugly screaming matches they’d waged over the stupidest things.
Changmin wishes he could take those back.
It feels surreal most days, and also, unbearably cruel at times. Everyone grieves for Yunho, and yet, Changmin feels that it’s not enough. He’s been left with this huge gaping hole in his life where Yunho should be and there is absolutely nothing and no one to fill it with. Yunho was so much of his life, his friend, colleague, roommate and now everything else is inadequate. The outside world is too cheerful, too bright and garish, and Yunho would love it, especially this close to Christmas, but to Changmin it just seems like merciless twist of the knife in the already bleeding wound. Changmin doesn’t understand how he’s still breathing when every inhale feels stifled by the heavy lump in his throat and the pain in his heart. He doesn’t understand how everyone else who loved Yunho seems to just keep going when Changmin just wants to scream, break everything and hurt himself to mirror the pain he feels.
Changmin thinks about dying a lot. About how he would end it, how it would shame and hurt his family, how disappointed Yunho would be in Changmin’s weakness.
The longer Changmin thinks about it, the more he realises he can’t do it.
The longer Changmin thinks about living without Yunho though, the less sure he is that he can cope.
On the morning a week before the anniversary of Yunho’s death, Changmin disconnects the television, already tired of the flashbacks to candlelit vigils and hearing their old songs on the radio. He packs a bag instead, posts a letter to his parents, shoves his wallet in his pockets and locks the door to their apartment as carefully he can to preserve what’s inside.
Changmin takes a train out to the country and then a couple of buses to the coast, his baseball cap pulled low. He finds a house along the seaside, pays the rent in advance for six months and at night listens to the wind howling at the windows, rattling the glass as waves roll in the distance.
The weather is warm and Changmin hates it, but the sun beating at his back at times feels closest to Yunho’s warmth and affection. When Changmin catches a tiny bus into the town for groceries, no one bothers him, except the ahjumma that sells him preserved vegetables and asks if he’s eating well. Changmin is eating, but it’s not with the voracious appetite he used to have. He doesn’t drink as much either, because the bottles are too heavy to carry back to the cottage and Changmin doesn’t like making the trip into the city more than once a week. Sometimes though, he’ll buy a bottle of wine and wander along the sand outside his cottage at night, drinking until the water begins to lap at his feet. Changmin doesn’t like summer or the beach; the humidity and sunburn, nor the sand or gritty seashells beneath his toes, but he does like the noise of the ocean, at times calm or tumultuous but never silent. Changmin hates silence most of all.
Despite this, Changmin talks rarely, though he keeps his cell phone on and pays the bill, he never makes the effort to contact anyone, although he always answers when someone calls. His voice sounds rough when he makes polite conversation with the ahjumma, and part of him wonders if he decided to sing if his voice would still sound the same, or have taken on this rough edge like the rest of him has. Changmin thinks he might like that, but he doesn’t want to sing.
Seasons pass quickly for Changmin, and he gathers and chops wood for the fireplace. It smokes a little too much like there’s something caught in the chimney, but Changmin doesn’t mind how the scent of it settles quickly into his clothes. He has a car now, and that makes trips into the town a little easier, especially as the shuttle bus won’t run when the snow sets in. Changmin even uses it to help ferry some of his older neighbours back and forth, although mostly he travels in solitude. The elders always want to listen to the radio in his car, and Changmin’s lost his taste for music. In the town, he posts gifts to his family and cards to his few remaining friends. Although he’s lost track of days, Christmas is fast approaching. Changmin makes sure to count the remaining days.
On Christmas Eve, he puts up lights in his cottage living room and settles in front of the fireplace with his favourite book and rich red wine. He falls asleep on the sagging couch and dreams of nothing.
On Christmas day, Changmin drags out the bag he arrived with and puts on the ugly reindeer sweater. For the first time in months, Changmin looks at his reflection in the mirror. The knitted reindeer grins dementedly back in what Yunho would describe as festive joy. Changmin finds himself smiling back, and then suddenly, snorting back laughter as he remembers the Christmas morning when Yunho nearly toppled the tree in his excitement to give Changmin his present. It hadn’t been a surprise at all, but Changmin had pretended it was none the less, flushing with warmth when Yunho kissed his cheek and wished him a merry Christmas. That afternoon, Changmin pours wine for two, drinks them both and finds himself humming as he warms up food for dinner.
It’s then that Changmin realises that he’s not happy, but he’s not miserable either.
In the coming spring, Changmin picks up his razor for the first time in months and shaves his beard. The warm sea breeze makes him feel naked and break out in goosebumps as he steps into the ocean. For the first time in a long while, Changmin doesn’t feel angry. As the water swells around his chest, soaking his clothes, Changmin feels peaceful, the current drawing the heavy weight of grief away until Changmin can pull in large breaths of salted air into his lungs. When he emerges from the water, he still carries the loss of Yunho with him like the salt residue and sand left on his skin, but his skin feels stripped of lingering despair and finds it easier to breathe.
Changmin leaves in the summer with jars full of preserved vegetables and his clothes. He leaves behind a little of the hurt in his chest, and the lump in his throat.
When he returns to his old apartment, Changmin hangs the ugly reindeer sweater back in Yunho’s closet and plays music for the first time in years. It keeps him company as he wipes away the dust that’s gathered on old memories.
A/N: I don’t even know.
Author: vaguelynormal
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Character death
Summary: In Changmin’s mind they were invincible: Gods of the East.
Changmin knows it the moment he opens the door. It’s been quiet, not unnaturally so, but in a way that would suggest Yunho has fallen asleep after dinner except Yunho’s eyes are open and glassy, and Changmin knows. His heart catches somewhere in his throat whilst his stomach plummets sickeningly to the floor because even if Changmin’s brain is fast enough to process the image in front of him, it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
The colour is already fading from Yunho’s skin but it doesn’t stop Changmin from fumbling, shakily searching for a pulse, listening for a heartbeat and it doesn’t stop the terrified noise of panic and pain being torn from Changmin’s throat. Yunho is still warm and Changmin threads their fingers together to stop himself from breaking his friend’s ribs in resuscitation attempts when he already knows it’s far too late. Instead he gently, so so gently closes Yunho’s eyes with trembling hands and rubs Yunho’s knuckles soothingly. The pain is raw, as though Changmin has had a knife run through him, gutting him of everything, from top to bottom yet the shock allows him to push that aside and remember old heartbreak. Practicality has always been one of Changmin’s strong suits as he thinks of his grandmother, a twinge still resounding deep inside his chest but he pushes Yunho’s jaw up until his mouth closes softly, lips no longer open to pull in air. Changmin cups Yunho’s face carefully, presses his mouth to the seam of Yunho’s paling lips repeatedly and when he draws back he leaves a wet sheen of tears across Yunho’s cheek.
Changmin doesn’t want to call anyone, isn’t ready for Yunho to leave him, so he calmly retrieves a wash cloth from the linen cupboard, rolls it and presses it gently beneath Yunho’s chin. He remembers quite clinically the way bodies respond to death and positions Yunho’s arms accordingly, easing them to rest over his chest and Changmin climbs into the bed alongside him and just holds Yunho’s hands there, above his heart as though they might slip and that would be too much to bear. He curls into Yunho’s side, his face a mess now and Changmin thinks it’s an ugly thing to say that people look peaceful in death. Yunho just looks wrong, his skin waxy and greying, body rigid and lacking all the wonderful sense of life. To Changmin, it’s unnatural and garish though he aches too much to be repulsed, unable to distance himself, knowing in the back of his mind that these are his last moments with Yunho, along with the dinner they shared mere hours before, this is the last chance he has to lay beside his friend, to run a hand through soft hair and clasp their hands together. Everything is already ruined, but when Yunho leaves the apartment, nothing will be the same.
He doesn’t sleep, although Changmin’s never felt so tired or ached with so much hurt and loss and grief. Changmin keeps Yunho warm with his own heat for as long as he can and even afterwards, he doesn’t let go. He rests his head on Yunho’s shoulder and wishes Yunho was wearing something more befitting than loose sweat pants and a worn out old t-shirt that Changmin has ruined anyway with his mess of tears, snot and pure misery. He wonders if he should change Yunho but he can’t bring himself to move and when he remembers the way his grandmother’s gums receded and he’s not sure he can bring himself to look either. Changmin wonders if Yunho brushed his teeth before climbing into bed, if Changmin should do it, if it even matters. He decides it doesn’t and cranes his neck to kiss the corner of Yunho’s mouth before settling into the pain and watching the light change in the room as the sun slowly rises.
In the morning, after the time they usually eat breakfast, Yunho’s phone begins to ring. When it’s left unanswered, Changmin hears his own phone go off in the other room. He can’t motivate himself into moving, untrusting of the croak in his voice that he’s certain has taken up residence there because it feels so full and hurts so much. Changmin’s not sure how many times both phones ring, back and forth, their manager no doubt calling to make sure they’re up and ready because they have a schedule today, a car coming to pick them up and Yunho wasn’t supposed to be like this. Wasn’t supposed to die. Not this young, not before Changmin, not before starting a family, retiring and getting old- not without warning. He’s not supposed to leave Changmin alone. Yunho is the leader; he’s not supposed to go where Changmin can’t follow.
Their manager lets himself in at some point, Changmin’s not sure exactly when but he hears the key code being entered and shoes being shucked off in the entryway. He doesn't move, lies still in his spot curled around Yunho, even as the bedroom door is pushed open and both their names are being called. Their manager seems to understand quickly too, upset and distraught but he calls the company and when more people arrive, Changmin unfurls himself and sits up, manages to stumble out of the room to leave them to it. It’s not as hard as Changmin thought it would be, because it’s not Yunho anymore, it’s just a body. Every part of Yunho has gone.
They’re supposed to be discreet, but Changmin knows it won’t take long and there are people who need to know, deserve to be told by someone other than a newsreader or website. Changmin’s not ready to call Yunho’s mother, so instead he pulls his phone from the charger and takes a seat on his bed, numbly flipping through his contact list for that one number he’s had tucked away for a few years now. The loud echo of the dial tone fractures Changmin, reminding him too much of a heartbeat as he waits for the call to connect. He has the other numbers, just in case, doubts they’ve changed, but Jaejoong is the eldest, in ways the strongest and knew Yunho the best before everything changed. Jaejoong is good at hurt, believes men only cry three times in their lives and absently, Changmin wonders if now will be one of those times.
His breath hitches when Jaejoong finally answers, choking on the words.
‘Hello?’ Jaejoong’s voice echoes and Changmin knows he has to answer, has to force the words out before he hangs up.
‘Jaejoong,’ comes out as a sob and that wasn’t what Changmin intended, swallowing back the thick whimpers that catch in his throat.
Jaejoong’s voice comes back through, calling his name questioningly, asking him what’s wrong as his breath shudders down the line.
And suddenly, Changmin doesn’t know how to say it. Can’t say it. Doesn’t want to, but he knows he has to communicate it somehow. They deserve to hear it from him, not anyone else.
‘Yunho,’ he gasps out the next time he remembers to exhale. ‘Hyung,’ Changmin croaks and Jaejoong must know it’s serious because Changmin never calls Jaejoong his hyung. That’s a consideration he makes only for Yunho.
‘Is Yunho hurt? What happened, Changmin?’ Jaejoong’s voice is concerned, laced with panic but he doesn’t push, just waits.
‘Yunho,’ Changmin manages again, struggling for air, searching for the delicate way to put it, for the right tense to use.
And then Changmin finds the words, and they’re just as ugly and painful to speak aloud as Changmin thought they would be.
‘Yunho died last night.’
There’s a sharp intake audible over the line and then Jaejoong makes a guttural sound, wounded like an animal that’s just been shot- like he’s breaking- and Changmin wishes he could do that, wishes he could scream.
But Changmin can barely speak, blinded by his own tears and he knows in that moment, nothing will ever be the same.
It was his heart, the coroners decide. No way of predicting it, no way of screening for it earlier and no way to prevent it. A natural, yet rare defect and Changmin thinks it’s a poor exchange for the desecration of Yunho’s body. It’s a closed casket but Changmin hates knowing Yunho’s body is marred with ugly stitches underneath the suit his mother selected from his wardrobe. The funeral is huge, Yunho knew too many people, made too many friends and everyone attends. It’s too petty to prevent anyone from attending and Changmin’s glad for the company, even if they don't speak. There are so many people that it has to be held in a large hall and not the church Yunho would have preferred, but Changmin thinks maybe it’s a good thing. This is about Yunho and not any god. Changmin’s supposed to give a eulogy, but so is Yunho’s father and neither of them can manage. The whole ceremony is muted, the friends, colleagues, families, company staff and fans are silent except for their grief, unable to say much at all. There’s so much sadness in one room and Changmin finds it cloying to his every cell, leaving him with fresh pain as it seeps in.
He’s supposed to be strong, stoic in front of the crowd because this is still an audience and really it’s just like a stage and Changmin’s not allowed to let his image slip. There are no cameras allowed though he knows they’re waiting just outside but Changmin can’t stop the emotion that floods his lungs, making it difficult to breathe and see through swollen eyes. Yoochun tugs him into his arms and Changmin cries harder, remembering what they were - who they were - as the priest reads from his cue cards about Yunho’s life and loves. JiHye offers him a watery smile and Changmin hates himself for being unable to offer her any comfort.
It’s a long service and Changmin stays even longer after it ends, sitting in the hall with the vast amount of flowers, fan made tributes, framed photographs and Yunho’s coffin. There’s nothing left to do, everything is organised, Yunho’s family have already taken the possessions they wanted from the apartment, including Yunho’s car and Changmin feels more lost than usual without that feeling that something still needs to be done.
He returns home quietly, slipping out of his suit before climbing into Yunho’s bed and pulling the covers up around him. At first Changmin thinks it’s not a good idea to lie there, in Yunho’s space and ruining the dents made by his body and the scent clinging to the sheets, but as his eyes close, wet with tears, Changmin couldn’t care less about preserving Yunho’s things.
It doesn’t get easier, though everyone keeps promising him that it will and all Changmin can think is: ’how can they know that it will stop hurting?’ Because Changmin can’t see an end to his pain in a reality where he continues to live and Yunho continues to be dead. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair that it wasn’t him instead. It’s not fair that Changmin’s left alone now with no one to comfort him because the only person Changmin let close enough to do that is gone and Changmin doesn’t know how to go on living when everything is wrong.
With time, the only thing that changes are the sheets on Yunho’s bed because his scent is no longer there and the night Changmin realised he couldn’t smell Yunho anymore in the linen, he got so drunk that he ended up vomiting on the sheets anyway. The next day, he blearily makes it out of the bed and his filthy clothes and finds his last place of respite in Yunho’s closet, amongst the remaining clothes. Ugly things that they wore on set and Yunho hoarded out of sentimentality, scarfs hand knitted by ahjumma fans and the truly hideous reindeer sweater that Yunho would bring out every Christmas and laugh cheerfully as Changmin flung his disdain at him as though it would have any affect on his friend’s decision to wear it.
But when their manager finds Changmin in the ugly reindeer sweater and his underpants, sitting inside Yunho’s wardrobe, his expression is nothing like Changmin’s would be. There’s no repulsion or irritation. There’s only pity there, and Changmin sees that a lot these days- it’s why he stopped leaving the apartment, that, and because everything outside somehow reminds him of Yunho even more than their shitty apartment. And because Changmin sees that pity in his manager’s face, he apologises and pulls the closet door shut until he’s alone in the dark with the clothes that smell of Yunho’s soured, stale sweat and the cologne Jaejoong bought Yunho one birthday and the man never stopped using.
Sometimes, Changmin forgets. He wakes up and enters the kitchen, glances at the clock and turns towards the hallway to shout for Yunho to get out of the shower.
Those are the good mornings.
For those twelve minutes, Changmin forgets that his eyes feel painfully dry and swollen. That his head hurts. Forgets that the shower isn’t running and Yunho would be singing if he were in it.
For those twelve minutes, the world spins on the right axis for Changmin. And then he remembers and his whole world shatters again and the ground seems to slip out from underneath his feet.
They have to cremate Yunho. His family would like a burial, but the fans might disturb the grave and that would be far too much for anyone to bear. So Yunho’s body is cremated, his bones turned to a dull chalk that rattles softly inside a delicate blue urn.
Changmin doesn’t like the urn. It’s too small to contain someone as vibrant as Yunho, too staid to represent the beauty of all that Yunho was and it’s far too flimsy for someone so strong. Changmin doesn’t visit the Jungs, or pay his respects to the glorified jar. Sometimes though, Changmin and Yoochun will get drunk along Han river and release trapped fireflies from thick mason jars and Changmin thinks it’s almost as good as scattering Yunho’s ashes.
Sometimes though, Changmin viciously tears the wings from the bright insects.
Yoochun stops coming when the weather turns icy and there are no fireflies to be caught. He has a tour to prepare for, something to honour Yunho, he tells Changmin, but Changmin knows they’re all just trying to distract themselves from the gaping hole left in their lives. Bitterly, Changmin thinks it’s a little unfair that his old band members have had much longer to practice being without Yunho than he has.
He keeps going, even when he has to sit in the snow and he drinks until he can’t tell if the lights glittering over the water are blurry from the tears or the alcohol.
Changmin can’t stand on stage anymore. He can’t step into a studio, even when he begins to make it out of the apartment more often. Rather than being haunted by Yunho’s ghost, Changmin feels as if he’s turning into a phantom himself, as if he’s fading into the background. The more time that passes, the less relevant the tragedy is to the outside world- the less relevant Changmin is. Changmin’s okay with fading into obscurity; he addresses the media just once, knowing that if he remains reclusive, they’ll start making up rumours that will be more difficult to deal with. The company lets him out of his contract without too much hassle, allowing him to bow out quietly whilst still in good graces and before he can become a liability to the company. Changmin lets them handle the press release.
His family urge him to move back in with them but Changmin’s not ready to leave the apartment yet, not ready to let other people trample on the sacred ground he once shared with Yunho- the bathroom Yunho used to flood with water, the kitchen where he’d watch Changmin try to cook before they gave up and ordered take out and the couch where Yunho slept sometimes and where Changmin always sat waiting for Yunho to get home on nights drinking with friends. There are too many memories trapped within the walls, most of them good and a few of them ugly screaming matches they’d waged over the stupidest things.
Changmin wishes he could take those back.
It feels surreal most days, and also, unbearably cruel at times. Everyone grieves for Yunho, and yet, Changmin feels that it’s not enough. He’s been left with this huge gaping hole in his life where Yunho should be and there is absolutely nothing and no one to fill it with. Yunho was so much of his life, his friend, colleague, roommate and now everything else is inadequate. The outside world is too cheerful, too bright and garish, and Yunho would love it, especially this close to Christmas, but to Changmin it just seems like merciless twist of the knife in the already bleeding wound. Changmin doesn’t understand how he’s still breathing when every inhale feels stifled by the heavy lump in his throat and the pain in his heart. He doesn’t understand how everyone else who loved Yunho seems to just keep going when Changmin just wants to scream, break everything and hurt himself to mirror the pain he feels.
Changmin thinks about dying a lot. About how he would end it, how it would shame and hurt his family, how disappointed Yunho would be in Changmin’s weakness.
The longer Changmin thinks about it, the more he realises he can’t do it.
The longer Changmin thinks about living without Yunho though, the less sure he is that he can cope.
On the morning a week before the anniversary of Yunho’s death, Changmin disconnects the television, already tired of the flashbacks to candlelit vigils and hearing their old songs on the radio. He packs a bag instead, posts a letter to his parents, shoves his wallet in his pockets and locks the door to their apartment as carefully he can to preserve what’s inside.
Changmin takes a train out to the country and then a couple of buses to the coast, his baseball cap pulled low. He finds a house along the seaside, pays the rent in advance for six months and at night listens to the wind howling at the windows, rattling the glass as waves roll in the distance.
The weather is warm and Changmin hates it, but the sun beating at his back at times feels closest to Yunho’s warmth and affection. When Changmin catches a tiny bus into the town for groceries, no one bothers him, except the ahjumma that sells him preserved vegetables and asks if he’s eating well. Changmin is eating, but it’s not with the voracious appetite he used to have. He doesn’t drink as much either, because the bottles are too heavy to carry back to the cottage and Changmin doesn’t like making the trip into the city more than once a week. Sometimes though, he’ll buy a bottle of wine and wander along the sand outside his cottage at night, drinking until the water begins to lap at his feet. Changmin doesn’t like summer or the beach; the humidity and sunburn, nor the sand or gritty seashells beneath his toes, but he does like the noise of the ocean, at times calm or tumultuous but never silent. Changmin hates silence most of all.
Despite this, Changmin talks rarely, though he keeps his cell phone on and pays the bill, he never makes the effort to contact anyone, although he always answers when someone calls. His voice sounds rough when he makes polite conversation with the ahjumma, and part of him wonders if he decided to sing if his voice would still sound the same, or have taken on this rough edge like the rest of him has. Changmin thinks he might like that, but he doesn’t want to sing.
Seasons pass quickly for Changmin, and he gathers and chops wood for the fireplace. It smokes a little too much like there’s something caught in the chimney, but Changmin doesn’t mind how the scent of it settles quickly into his clothes. He has a car now, and that makes trips into the town a little easier, especially as the shuttle bus won’t run when the snow sets in. Changmin even uses it to help ferry some of his older neighbours back and forth, although mostly he travels in solitude. The elders always want to listen to the radio in his car, and Changmin’s lost his taste for music. In the town, he posts gifts to his family and cards to his few remaining friends. Although he’s lost track of days, Christmas is fast approaching. Changmin makes sure to count the remaining days.
On Christmas Eve, he puts up lights in his cottage living room and settles in front of the fireplace with his favourite book and rich red wine. He falls asleep on the sagging couch and dreams of nothing.
On Christmas day, Changmin drags out the bag he arrived with and puts on the ugly reindeer sweater. For the first time in months, Changmin looks at his reflection in the mirror. The knitted reindeer grins dementedly back in what Yunho would describe as festive joy. Changmin finds himself smiling back, and then suddenly, snorting back laughter as he remembers the Christmas morning when Yunho nearly toppled the tree in his excitement to give Changmin his present. It hadn’t been a surprise at all, but Changmin had pretended it was none the less, flushing with warmth when Yunho kissed his cheek and wished him a merry Christmas. That afternoon, Changmin pours wine for two, drinks them both and finds himself humming as he warms up food for dinner.
It’s then that Changmin realises that he’s not happy, but he’s not miserable either.
In the coming spring, Changmin picks up his razor for the first time in months and shaves his beard. The warm sea breeze makes him feel naked and break out in goosebumps as he steps into the ocean. For the first time in a long while, Changmin doesn’t feel angry. As the water swells around his chest, soaking his clothes, Changmin feels peaceful, the current drawing the heavy weight of grief away until Changmin can pull in large breaths of salted air into his lungs. When he emerges from the water, he still carries the loss of Yunho with him like the salt residue and sand left on his skin, but his skin feels stripped of lingering despair and finds it easier to breathe.
Changmin leaves in the summer with jars full of preserved vegetables and his clothes. He leaves behind a little of the hurt in his chest, and the lump in his throat.
When he returns to his old apartment, Changmin hangs the ugly reindeer sweater back in Yunho’s closet and plays music for the first time in years. It keeps him company as he wipes away the dust that’s gathered on old memories.
A/N: I don’t even know.