Even If I Die
The first time they met they didn’t really meet. He was walking by; glasses threatening to slip off his nose, holding a cup of what Junho assumed was coffee in one hand, a large stack of colourful books clutched to his chest with the other.
Their eyes barely met - his a disinterested chocolate, Junho’s a tired black. He looked away again, and Junho continued heaving slow, shallow breaths, his head lying exhausted against the starch white pillow. Junho’s mother sat at his side in a cheap chair, holding his hand, while talking about what had happened at work as if it comforted her. Junho tried to listen, but he felt his eyes slowly giving in to the comforting darkness surrounding the edges if his vision.
Junho was given a room of his own - the bed was only slightly more comfortable, and the always present chaos of the hallway was muffled behind the door and the enclosing walls and glassy windows on the wall opposite of his bed. His mother had left him for a moment to find flowers, and bring things from their home to make the room feel a bit more pleasant.
Junho didn’t care either way, it wasn’t as if the cold walls or the clean smell of the hospital was going to disappear just because his mother put posters and pictures on the walls, the sounds of people in pain, dying, weren’t going to be erased just because she brought a CD-player and all of his favourite music.
The door opened, and Junho opened his eyes, expecting to see his mother, or a nurse sent to check up on him, instead the young man from the other day stood in the doorway, his smile slowly slipping off his features. The stranger looked at the door with a frown, blinking as he read the sign on it.
“Sorry, wrong room,” he said with an awkward smile and a bow. Junho stared lazily back at the stranger as he went back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He woke up to careful poking in his arm, and as he opened his eyes he recognised the soft face of one of the nurses he had been introduced to earlier. Her nametag read some kind of foreign name - Junho was too tired to read it.
She finished checking that the IV was inserted correctly into his arm, before noticing he was awake. She reached up to his face, putting the tubing stuck up his nose back behind his ear.
“I’m Tiffany, by the way, nice to meet you,” she said with a smile and gently pressed the wrist closest to her. “You tell me if you want anything, okay?”
There were people walking in the hallway outside of his room, and Junho could almost recognise one of them as his eyes followed the nurse towards the door.
“That’s Hwang Chansung,” Tiffany said, following Junho’s gaze towards the young man. “One of his friends is in the room next to this one, I believe.”
Junho nodded slightly, not really caring, but not wanting to seem impolite. “Now, can I get you some breakfast?”
He was dreaming of his room at the hospital, and the only difference separating the dream from reality was the darker corners and reddish tones on the white walls. The CD-player was running on white noise - the CD must have been playing for a while, Junho realised in his dream.
His chest didn’t feel any lighter than it did in reality, and it wasn’t easier to breathe. The erratic beeping mirroring his heartbeats on a screen nearby was still present, and there was still a tube stuck down his nose. His feet still felt cold, and he didn’t feel alive, but there was an extra shadow in the room
“Hwang Chansung,” Junho murmured slowly, wondering why he was dreaming about the stranger. Chansung turned, surprised around from his place by the CD-player, CD cases in his hands. Either he was starting the music again, or he was planning to kill Junho with his favourite CD.
“How do you know my name?” Chansung asked, staring at Junho. He quickly opened one of the cases and put the disk inside the player. Junho wondered why the Chansung in his dream liked the same artists as himself.
“The nurses,” Junho said, opening his eyes to take in the dream more clearly. “They like to gossip.”
Chansung stepped closer to the bed, bending down to pick up a book from its fallen place on the floor. He closed the book without putting in the bookmark. Junho didn’t blame him - it was a dream after all, and outside of dreaming, his real copy of ’Mutations 101’ closed safely on his nightstand by his bed.
“So why are you here?” Chansung said, and if it hadn’t been a dream, Junho would have been offended at his lack of manners. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
Junho grabbed the one of Chansung’s hands not holding the book, and pressed it against his chest, ignoring the beeping of the machine next to him. He was glad this was a dream.
“It’s my heart.”
When Junho woke up, it was past lunch, but he wasn’t really hungry. He groaned slightly, silently reaching for one of the paper tissues laying on his nightstand, and coughed into it, wincing as pain tore through his lungs. He spit out the mucus into the tissue, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see it, and threw it into the bin he knew was standing just for that purpose beside his bed.
“That’s so gross,” a voice said, and Junho snapped his eyes open, not quite feeling the pain of his heart skipping a beat. He clutched his shirt above his heart, feeling it hammering away, too fast.
“What the hell, Doojoon,” he wheezed, leaning over slightly in cramp, trying not to dislodge any of the tubes attached to himself. “I knew it, you actually are trying to kill me.”
“I thought you knew I was here,” Doojoon exclaimed, his face showing his guilt, as he rose to his feet, gently pushing Junho back onto the bed, making him take slow breaths. Slowly the pain disappeared a little by little, and Junho could barely see Doojoon fumbling with one of the wires beside his bed, and suddenly he felt calmer.
“Morphine,” Doojoon grinned, even though his smile didn’t quite make all the way to his eyes. “Maybe we should keep some for when you get out of here, it would help so much if we were fighting.”
“Or we could sell it,” Junho grinned and stared at the ceiling, sharing a conspiratorial look with his friend. “I hear there’s good money in that business.”
They grinned at each other, even though none of them found anything funny in the situation. Doojoon reached down to pick up his bag from the floor, and pulled out several thick books from it, placing them on top of Junho’s legs.
“I don’t see why I have to carry all of you books to you,” Doojoon said, heaving a sigh. “Someone in your class should be able to do it.”
“Admit it, you just like watching me sleep,” Junho said, not even giving the older boy a glance, much more interested in the new books. “Creep.”
“It’s just because you’re quiet when you sleep,” Doojoon said, standing up from his chair, slowly putting on his jacket as he thought about it. “Quieter, at least.”
This time Junho did look up at the other, surprise and surprise in his eyes. “What? What did I say?”
“You didn’t exactly speak,” Doojoon said with a teasing grin and walked closer to the door. “Hwang Chansung, who is he? Chansung-ah?”
Doojoon quickly shut the door after him, a book bouncing off it. He grinned knowingly through the window; his breath leaving fog on the glass, giving thumbs up and wiggling his eyebrow. Junho chose to ignore him.
His mother was sitting by his side, holding one of his hands clutched in her own, her eyes fixed at the tall doctor in the room. Junho leaned against his the pillows that had slowly been stacked up behind his back; it was too uncomfortable to lie down.
The doctor’s black hair was an un-modern cut, dark bangs hanging messily over dark-rimmed glasses. Junho was distracted by the doctor’s face that seemed to be too big, too many for his face, being too tired to concentrate on the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth.
The pressure over his chest had increased slightly over the past few days, and the beating on the screen next to his bed had grown slightly more erratic. He could barely take deep breaths anymore, and the few times he did, he always felt the need to cough.
“Basically, if Junho doesn’t get a new heart in the next few weeks, he’s not going to be able to live,” said the doctor, and Junho’s mother clutched his hand even tighter as she fought her tears. Junho relaxed as the steady beating of her own healthy heart echoed through her hands.
Chansung started visiting him, and Junho was pleasantly surprised. The TV had lost its charm even before he was moved to the hospital, and most of the books in the room were too boring to be read. Junho’s mother had to work during the day, and Doojoon couldn’t entertain Junho all of the time, Junho had never asked that of him.
Chansung’s short visits brought him entertainment and company, sometimes even food much better than the hospital’s standard meals of tasteless porridge and rice and vegetables. When Junho felt well enough he ate the treats together with the younger man, other times he forgot about them, and Doojoon ate them instead.
Junho sometimes thought about Chansung’s friend lying in the room on the other side of the wall, but he never said anything. Junho didn’t want to lose the company.
He wasn’t feigning sleep, and he wasn’t sleeping either. Junho had difficulties finding enough peace to fall asleep knowing that he’d just wake up a few hours later coughing his lungs up. His eyes were closed and he was breathing slowly, trying not to feel his aching body.
The door was opened and closed, and he tried to hear who it was based on their walking, but all he could figure out was it wasn’t a nurse, or his mother, or even Doojoon. Junho slowly opened his eyes, focusing at the young man standing by the CD-player, picking through the various albums.
“Planning to steal from me?” Junho mumbled as he recognised Chansung’s lanky form. Surprised, the younger turned his head around, a frown on his face as he pressed play. One of the more played songs on Junho’s CDs started, and he smiled a little in approval.
“It’s not like you have anything worth stealing,” Chansung said as he sat down in the chair by the bed. He pulled out a deck of cards from one of the pockets of his jacket. “Want to play?”
“I thought your friend got sent home yesterday,” Junho said as he nodded, eyeing the cards. “Why are you here?”
“I thought you could use the company, you don’t seem to get many visitors,” Chansung mumbled in answer. “Besides, it’s not as if I have anything else to do.”
“I know you’re awake,” Chansung’s voice broke through the silence in the room. Junho had up to that point been able to ignore that the younger was in the room, except from the silent breathing and the slight rustling of clothes coming from the chair next to his bed. Sometimes it was all Junho wanted, sometimes all he wanted was to forget. “You’re crying.”
Junho didn’t respond with any word, he just turned his face away from the other, hiding his wet cheeks. The last thing Junho could on to was his pride, the last thing leaving him.
He slowly opened his eyes, watching the room that had grown darker in the few minutes he’d been feigning sleep, but he made no move to dry his tears.
“Junho? What’s wrong?” he heard Chansung ask, could feel the other hesitantly gripping his wrist. Junho drew a shaky breath, his throat feeling as if it was filled with tears, and didn’t answer. “Junho?”
Everything was wrong to Junho. He wasn’t supposed to be lying in a hospital bed day in and day out, wasn’t supposed to be hearing the music being played carefully next to him, wasn’t supposed to…
All Junho wanted was to be at home with his family, with his friends, to be able to dance his heart out (and wasn’t that appropriate), to be able to sing as loud as he felt like, to be able to run, walk, without having to throw up, to be able to cough, laugh, without feeling like he was drowning. Junho wanted to be able to feel his heart beating without wondering if it was the last time.
Junho felt Chansung grip his hand tighter, and the pain it brought went like electricity though Junho’s arm and he felt his head clear, just a little, little bit. He turned his head to look at Chansung’s mouth ears, forehead, anywhere but his eyes.
“I just-,” Junho interrupted himself, opting instead to gently remove Chansung’s hand from his wrist, and, whispering, he continued. “I just want to be alone.”
He could see Chansung nod his head in the corner of his eyes, and as the younger walked towards the door, Junho’s head was screaming for him to stay, to keep him company, but Chansung didn’t hear. As the door closed, Junho could feel him break just a little bit more.
Two weeks had passed since the doctor had told him the truth.
The first time they kissed Junho knew it was the last. It wasn’t sweet like Junho had imagined it to be, and all it tasted like was stale breath and the chocolate muffin Chansung had just eaten, and it was gross and disgusting and it was still everything Junho had wanted it to be.
Junho hated himself for kissing Chansung. The other’s lips were burning on his own, and as they pulled apart, Junho raised a hand to his mouth, smiling into it, trying to ignore the way his heart clenched in regret.
Chansung smiled back at him, and Junho tightened his grip on the younger’s hand, for just a second. Suddenly the silence in the room felt much more comfortable than it had been just a few moments before.
“You’re going to be alright, aren’t you?” Chansung looked so at ease, so happy, and Junho felt his heart break, even as he smiled and nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, and Chansung’s smile got just a little bit wider, just a little bit more cheerful. If it was all Junho could do, he’d lie, just so that smile could shine around him for a little while longer. “Yeah, I am.”
Chansung’s face was full of relief Junho didn’t feel, and he got up from his chair, and walked out of the room, his bag slung over his shoulder, with a soft smile and a murmur that he’d return tomorrow.
If it was all he could do, Junho would smile.
If it was all he could do, Junho would smile to the end, and laugh, and ignore his clenching heart, and say that everything was going to be okay, that they had found a donor, that Junho would live on and on.
It was all he could do, and as he closed his eyes, Chansung’s smile was burned onto his eyelids, Chansung’s voice in his ears, Chansung’s hand in his hand, Chansung’s lips on his own, Chansung, Chansung, Chansung…