we build our dreams (on broken land) [ii/iii]

[uponinfinity]

one //

‘What was that?’ asks Chanyeol, tone clipped as Kyungsoo sits himself down opposite the elder. His voice is laced with worry that hides itself between the ridges of his irritation, and Kyungsoo winces when the elder directs a cold glare at him.

‘Something happened,’ says Kyungsoo, aware that he’s being vague, even more aware that he can’t seem to care. Chanyeol sits with his arms folded across his chest, but Kyungsoo’s still got the fragmented remains of a hangover clinging to the corners of his mind, so he doesn’t push a conversation. Instead, he picks up the menu, completely ignoring his friend as he places his order.

‘Tell me,’ presses Chanyeol, as soon as the waitress bustles off and takes the menu with her. There isn’t anything to guard Kyungsoo now, no glossy plastic barrier to keep the elder’s eyes off his own, nowhere for him to hide. Chanyeol deciphers the look on the younger’s face easily, and the light brushing of fear just under his irises tells Chanyeol that something big happened.

He leans a little more forward, lets his voice lower just a pitch.

‘Was it another dream?’ he asks, previous irritation replaced with worry. His gaze is searching, and even though it’s Chanyeol - even though it’s his best friend, who’s been with him through thick and thin and, he’d promised, come what may - Kyungsoo didn’t like this feeling. The look Chanyeol was giving him made him feel like the elder was trying to probe his thoughts, and given how well they knew each other - that could well be the case.

Kyungsoo had been an open book for Chanyeol for so many years, the ink on his pages smudging the elder’s fingertips every time they were turned. Kyungsoo had let all that ink seep into Chanyeol’s skin until his every thought and expression had melded itself into the soft tissue of the latter’s brain - and he hated himself for that.

He hated the fact that, even though this was Chanyeol he was talking about, he felt so vulnerable, so transparent, like he couldn’t even trust the one person a months-younger Kyungsoo would have trusted with his life.

‘It was nothing,’ says Kyungsoo, dismissively, in a way that has Chanyeol hesitating. It was no secret that, between them, Kyungsoo shared everything he felt like sharing from the get-go - his refusal to say anything told Chanyeol that it was the end of their discussion, no questions asked. So Chanyeol drops it, scrounges around for something else to talk about to dissolve the tension that’s begun to stew in the air between them.

‘I heard you’re going to Sehun’s party tonight,’ says Chanyeol, trying to relieve his shoulders of the tension they bore a few minutes ago. There’s a slight tinge of irritation in his voice, but he tries his best not to show it. Kyungsoo appreciates the gesture.

‘Yeah,’ he replies, thanking the waitress with a nod of his head when their food comes. ‘He took me out last night, with that scary tall Chinese guy and Baekhyun. A warm up, he said,’ says Kyungsoo, picking up his chopsticks to scoop up his noodles.

‘Oh,’ says Chanyeol, realisation dawning on him. No wonder Kyungsoo looked like he’d just decided to fall asleep on the road at peak hour - Jongdae had let Sehun get his hands on him the night before. Kyungsoo never stood a chance.

‘Are you coming?’ asks Kyungsoo, words muffled through his mouthful of food. Chanyeol grimaces, thinks about his agenda for the rest of the night and weighs catching up with Law & Order against a night of catching Kyungsoo should the younger drink too much and fall flat on his face.

(Which, from past experience, Chanyeol knew he was wont to do.)

‘Yeah,’ says Chanyeol. ‘I don’t have anything better to do tonight, anyway,’ he shrugs.

The rest of the day passes them by just like that - easy conversations laced with just the lingering traces of an edge, Chanyeol’s eyes suspicious with every tremble of Kyungsoo’s fingers. Before they know it, it’s time for them to get ready, and they head back to Kyungsoo’s to freshen up.

‘Here,’ says Kyungsoo, handing Chanyeol a towel. The elder takes it with a muttered thanks before he goes into the guest bathroom, and Kyungsoo sits at his dining table to dry his hair. He’s scrolling through his Twitter timeline, smiling at stupid jokes Jongdae had just retweeted, when he feels a subtle shift in the air that carries with it the ability to make Kyungsoo’s hair stand on end.

He decides to ignore it. I’m just being paranoid, he says to himself, rather dismissively. He keeps staring resolutely at his phone as the atmosphere gradually grows colder, more unsettling, until it comes to a point where he can’t resist anymore. He clicks his phone off, looks up - and there, sitting perched on the armrest of his couch, is Jongin.

Kyungsoo feels his blood run cold, the apartment flooding with silence save for the sound of Chanyeol showering - but even that’s getting drowned out by the rapid beating of his heart.

Hello

Kyungsoo’s back goes rigid when he hears Jongin’s voice. It doesn’t bounce off the walls and embrace his ears the way it used to anymore, no - instead it echoes eerily in a quiet corner of his mind, a spectral whisper in a place that’s never known sound.

Kyungsoo swallows.

‘You aren’t here,’ he says, trying to shave off the stubborn patch of fear that grows with every word he says. ‘You haven’t been here for months,’ he says, sounding firmer, now he’s got a firm grasp on his emotions.

Jongin, again, just tilts his head to the side, right ear hovering inches above his right shoulder. Kyungsoo clenches his jaw - there are demons he’d just learned to bury, demons that had spent so long tormenting him - he wasn’t going to let them win again. Not when he’d finally got a firm grip on his own sword.

Kyungsoo

‘No,’ whispers Kyungsoo, a tiny spark igniting in the back of his mind, reminding him that Chanyeol was an inches-thick board of plywood away from hearing him speak to himself - and he was tired of making his best friend worry. He thinks Chanyeol must be tired, too.

Kyungsoo

‘No!’ says Kyungsoo, a little louder this time, screwing his eyes shut and gripping at his ears, clawing at the outside even though he knows the sound is coming from the inside.

Kyungsoo

‘NO!’

‘Kyungsoo?’ Chanyeol’s head appears from behind the bathroom door, hair dripping, brows curved in worry. ‘Is everything alright?’

Kyungsoo opens his eyes again, and he’s surprised to be greeted by an empty couch - in fact, there’s nobody in the room aside from him and Chanyeol, and he tries to push the panic out of his heart before he faces the elder.

‘Yeah,’ he says, fighting down the flutter of his heart in his chest. ‘Yeah,’ he says again, more firmly this time.

The creases in Chanyeol’s forehead dig deeper into his skin. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks again, concern mixing with skepticism as he eyes the younger.

Kyungsoo nods.

Chanyeol wouldn’t believe him, anyway.

The atmosphere at Sehun’s house makes Kyungsoo want to turn tail and run home. The air is heavy with the scent of alcohol and recklessness, and Kyungsoo already wishes he could wash the smell out.

He’s standing by himself in a corner, a cup of beer in his hand, watching as the people around him meet, greet, talk and hook up. He smirks into his cup when he sees Chanyeol disappear upstairs with a girl with long, dark hair and an alluring smile, but he’s glad. It’s nice to know that Chanyeol, at least, is having a good time.

‘Hey,’ greets Zitao, long fingers strangling the neck of a bottle. He takes a swig and leans against the wall right next to Kyungsoo, wincing when the alcohol begins to prick at his mind. ‘Having a good time?’

‘Yeah,’ lies Kyungsoo. From what he’d seen from the night before, Zitao was a good friend of Sehun’s - he didn’t want his friend thinking he had thrown a shit party when it was Kyungsoo who wasn’t participating enough. ‘Yourself? Found anyone interesting?’

‘Nah,’ shrugs Zitao. His eyes scan the crowd for a bit before he shakes his head. ‘Nobody interesting tonight,’ he decides. Kyungsoo thinks that the taller is about to let the silence thicken between them before deciding that Kyungsoo wasn’t exactly the best conversation partner and excuse himself, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Zitao rounds on him, the shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. ‘But don’t make this conversation about me,’ he says, turning so his whole body is facing Kyungsoo. ‘A little birdie told me you deserve to have fun tonight - something travelling along the lines of what happened last night?’ He says the last few words coyly, but there’s an air of practice that surrounds him and Kyungsoo can’t seem to shake it off.

‘I don’t know,’ says Kyungsoo, shadows of reluctance skimming the top of his words. Zitao can already tell that Kyungsoo’s resolve is wavering - the glint in his eye grows just that much more mischievous, and he offers his bottle to the latter. Kyungsoo considers the glass bottle (and its contents) somewhat apprehensively, worry dawning on his face in the form of creases between his brows.

‘It won’t kill you,’ says Zitao gently, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip himself. He winces, again, when the liquid hits his throat and sends sparks straight to his brain. Discomfort is still etched clear on his face when he offers Kyungsoo the bottle again, thrusting it at the elder coaxingly.

‘Come on,’ says Zitao, slight urgency in his voice. ‘Try it,’ he urges again, and this time, he can actually see Kyungsoo’s determination flicker.

‘I don’t think this is such a good idea,’ mumbles Kyungsoo, not loud enough for the words to hold any kind of conviction, but still loud enough to anchor notes of worry in his voice. ‘You look like you take some pretty strong stuff, Zitao. And judging by your face every time you take some of this - frankly, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it.’

Zitao lets out a long, dramatic sigh. ‘Don’t you have something that needs forgetting?’ he asks, an idea suddenly surfacing in the back of his mind. ‘Something you’d rather not think about?’ he asks.

Kyungsoo looks away. He isn’t sure how much Sehun’s told Zitao, doesn’t want to delve into the details - but then again, no one’s asking. Zitao’s merely offering him another respite from the pain, another promise of a dreamless sleep in the form of liquid magic in that bottle of his.

Kyungsoo thinks back to the horrible dreams, the nights spent thrashing, yelling, clawing at covers - and then he thinks about last night, when nothing but endless black silence greeted him when he finally let himself sleep.

It’s so tempting.

‘One little sip won’t hurt,’ says Zitao, smiling as he swirls the liquid around in its bottle, just under Kyungsoo’s nose. The smell that comes wafting up to ambush his nostrils tells him Zitao’s wrong - the hangover he’ll get tomorrow is going to hurt like a bitch - but, then again…

There are pains that exist that are worse than the mother of all hangovers, the type of pain that resides in the deepest crevices of his heart, the pain that finds its roots in the holes Jongin had left behind. A hangover was a problem he could handle - a hangover, he could fix, but this…

Kyungsoo clears his throat, exchanges his cup for the bottle that dangles from Zitao’s hand.

‘One little sip won’t hurt,’ he says, and with that, he drinks.

Kyungsoo was never one to fight to be the centre of attention. He didn’t like the feeling of eyes all around him, boring into him, scrutinising his every move - he didn’t feel comfortable knowing that there were people around him watching him, hated how the attention made his skin crawl.

And yet, there he was, all eyes on him, in the middle of Sehun’s living room floor. His jacket had been tossed aside somewhere, his worries and inhibitions along with it, dancing like his life depended on it. He rolled his hips and swung them to the sound of catcalls and hoots of approval from the crowd, some of them daring enough to go up to him and touch him, dance with him.

They’re chanting his name.

It’s been a while since he’d enjoyed the sound of his own name.

A tall, nameless man comes extra close, presses his front all along Kyungsoo’s back, and grinds their hips together, lips hovering just by the latter’s ear. It isn’t long before words are being fed to him, of praise, of want, of lust, and Kyungsoo just tilts his head to the side and listens, enjoying the attention.

Normally Kyungsoo wouldn’t hesitate to disentangle himself from this man, wouldn’t have thought twice about getting himself away from him - but tonight, Kyungsoo didn’t feel like being normal. He didn’t feel like letting his insecurities crush the fun he was having - and he reaches up behind him, caresses the nape of the man’s neck as they sway, his eyes clamped shut.

He doesn’t think it’s been more than a minute before a large hand finds purchase on his shoulder, and he’s being tugged forward, eyes flying open, only to come face to face with a rather angry Chanyeol.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ asks Chanyeol, shooting venom through his eyes at the strange man, who throws his hands up in surrender and mouths something that looks like all yours. He throws Kyungsoo’s jacket around his shoulders and gives him a bit of a shake, tries to make his best friend focus on him.

‘Lemme go,’ groans Kyungsoo, wriggling in Chanyeol’s hold. The elder’s fingers are digging into Kyungsoo’s upper arms, his biceps probably close to bruising, and the jacket’s too hot and Chanyeol’s too annoying and that grip is too strong he wants to dance. ‘I’m having fun! Lemme go!’

‘No way,’ says Chanyeol firmly. He glances over at Sehun, who watches with some amusement lingering on his expression and tugs Kyungsoo over to the host, grip still firm on his friend’s arm.

‘Had a drink from Zitao’s magic bottle, hyung?’ enquires Sehun, tilting his head down to look at Kyungsoo. The elder gives him a sloppy smile in return, face dusted red, and nods.

‘It was amazing,’ says Kyungsoo with relish, an expression of pure bliss on his features. It quickly turns to one of displeasure, though, when he remembers his current situation. ‘And I want more, and I wanna stay, but Chanyeol - ’

‘Is going to take you home,’ finishes Chanyeol, sternness in his voice prompting Kyungsoo to shut his mouth. The eldest turns to Sehun, but before he can apologise to him for leaving so soon, the latter holds up his hand, shakes his head.

‘Don’t worry about it, hyung,’ says Sehun, amusement ever-present in the undertones of his voice. ‘I had a taste of how he gets last night. Go. Take him home.’

Chanyeol smiles gratefully at Sehun and bids him farewell, drags Kyungsoo out of the heat of the house and into cool, past-midnight air, before he calls up a cab and lets the younger slump against him. A heavy sigh escapes him when he feels Kyungsoo lean all his weight on him, but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t try to push the younger off him.

‘Stars so pretty tonight,’ comments Kyungsoo, leaning his head on Chanyeol’s shoulder, effectively shoving a full head of hair into the elder’s face. Chanyeol flinches and looks up instead, wills the cab to come quicker. Kyungsoo’s gained quite a bit of weight, he thinks.

‘Mmm,’ he says, not really listening. His eyes keep darting up and down the street, foot tapping impatiently. Why are cabs so slow?

‘Jongdae said Jongin’s in the sky,’ mumbles Kyungsoo, and Chanyeol’s ears prick up at his words. Kyungsoo hasn’t brought up Jongin in months, was always wary of even saying his dead boyfriend’s name after what happened, and Chanyeol doesn’t know if this is good. He doesn’t know what to say, how to react, so he doesn’t. He stands still.

‘Jongdae has funny ideas,’ slurs Kyungsoo, head still lolling on Chanyeol’s shoulder. ‘How could Jongin be up in the sky? He isn’t a star. He’s no cloud. He’s supposed to be in the ground, but he isn’t there either. Jongdae likes lying to me,’ he finishes, and Chanyeol feels his back grow stiff.

He wants to ask Kyungsoo - wants to shoot the question at him so badly, ask him what he means by Jongin’s supposed to be in the ground - but then his brain kicks in and he remembers the way Sehun had smiled when Kyungsoo told him he’d had whatever Zitao had given him, and decides that Kyungsoo’s probably not talking any sense. Alcohol does things to people, and Kyungsoo never did know how to hold his liquor.

The cab arrives and Chanyeol bundles Kyungsoo into it, lets the younger fall asleep against him on the way back to his apartment. When they get there, Chanyeol reaches into Kyungsoo’s pocket and pays - he’s a good friend, he thinks, and this whole situation was Kyungsoo’s fault, after all - and he practically carries Kyungsoo up into his apartment, deposits him on his bed and shakes his head when the younger’s eyes snap open.

‘Yeollie?’ asks Kyungsoo, head snapping up to look at his friend.

‘Why the fuck do you only wake up after I’ve had to lug you all the way from the cab to your bed?’ questions Chanyeol, exasperation winning out against the irritation in his voice. ‘You know what - don’t answer that. You’re a shitty drunk and I’m tired. I’m crashing on your couch,’ he says, before he turns on his heel and leaves.

Kyungsoo lets his head fall back against his pillow, tries to lull himself back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. There’s a flurry of activity humming along the inside of his skull, but his body is too tired to move too much, and it’s making him restless.

He sits up, and the first thing he sees is a man with silver eyes, staring back at him from a corner of his room.

‘Jongin,’ he says, getting up to make his way towards the other man. He stops right in front of him, looks into those silver eyes, and lifts a finger to trace the line of his jaw.

It’s cold, frozen flesh underneath warm fingers, but it’s solid - Jongin is solid.

This is Jongin, Kyungsoo knows.

Jongin just stares.

Kyungsoo lets his hand drop.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. Shame begins to dig into the gaps between his veins, filling him until he’s so full, too full, and the look in Jongin’s eyes just grows steadily blanker and blanker.

He’s aware of the fact that these feelings aren’t his own.

There’s a part of him that feels just like it did before - relaxed, calm, tired - and then there’s this new part of him, one filled with shame and a sense of detachment, and he’s afraid to admit - he knows these feelings aren’t his.

They’re Jongin’s.

‘I had fun,’ murmurs Kyungsoo, the guilt finally beginning to sink in. ‘I went out tonight and I had fun, Jongin, I - ’

He stops short. Jongin isn’t listening to him anymore, not at this point - he’s just staring blankly at Kyungsoo, letting the elder talk at him, not to him. Kyungsoo can feel the indifference carve itself into his bones, before the disappointment sets in. It begins to suffocate him - he’s drowning in it, this sense of disappointment, this shame - and there isn’t anything he can do to pull himself out of it, only surging deeper with every second Jongin stands there staring at him.

‘Jongin - ’

Jongin just shakes his head.

He’s gone.

Kyungsoo doesn’t feel disappointment, anymore, but he doesn’t feel calm or relaxed, either. All he feels is shame, and he knows. It’s entirely his own.

It makes him feel sick in the stomach.

Kyungsoo falls back on his bed, the intensity of the emotions he’d felt earlier - and the sudden disappearance of them when Jongin had vanished - wearing him down. He’s exhausted to his very bones, but he can’t let himself fall asleep. Somewhere in his living room, he’s sure, Chanyeol’s out like a light, the snoring he can just barely hear confirming his thoughts.

He turns on his side, gathers his covers up around him and curls up in a ball, tries his best to warm himself. He knows, by now, that the temperature always takes a bit of a dip when Jongin’s around, but now… Now he isn’t, and still, Kyungsoo feels cold.

He is so, so cold.

‘I had fun,’ he repeats, mumbling the words to himself. ‘I went out and had fun and I didn’t even think of you and I come home and I - ’ his words break off into a loud sob, realisation sinking in. It’s been months, been so long - but he still knows Jongin like the back of his hand. Even this ghost of him, even this spectral being that comes to him only when he’s alone and vulnerable - he was still Jongin, he still felt the way Jongin felt.

And Kyungsoo knows: Jongin wasn’t upset with the fact that he went out, that he’d had a good time - Jongin was upset with how he’d done it.

He wasn’t himself tonight, he wasn’t Kyungsoo tonight, and Jongin had hated it.

It’s all Kyungsoo can do, trying to stop himself from feeling the same way.

He feels fresh tears spring from his eyes, feels them well up and spill over, and he wants to stop himself from crying, wants to tell himself that it’s okay - but he can’t. He’d always had Jongin there to do those things for him, and now… Now Jongin is gone, and Kyungsoo doesn’t know when he’s coming back.

Now, Kyungsoo’s sure, Jongin hates him.

It’s the first time in months that he cries himself to sleep.

Kyungsoo wakes the following morning when dawn is just about to break through the gap between his curtains, eyes instinctively shooting to the corner of his room where Jongin usually stands, staring at him.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t try to approach the ghost of the man he loves.

Jongin just stares back at him blankly, before he gently shakes his head and disappears.

Kyungsoo doesn’t go back to sleep.

By the time he gets out of bed, it’s almost 9 am and he feels like he’s been drenched in dirt - there is a shadow of self-loathing coating him, clinging to his skin and he wants to rip it off, detach himself from it, set himself free -

But he can’t.

He doesn’t move to exit his room, maybe grab some aspirin and a glass of water, maybe fix an apology breakfast for Chanyeol.

Instead, he moves towards his dresser, runs his hands along the worn wood, lets his fingers trace the rings of water damage that cold bottles of liquid solace had left behind on fading oak. His nails dig into the wood as he remembers the weight of Jongin’s stare, how blankly he had looked at him, how so disappointed in himself he felt - both from Jongin’s perspective and from his.

This wasn’t the life he wanted to lead, he thinks, not anymore.

He sees a bottle that’s still open, its contents down to the last quarter, and he doesn’t think before he reaches for it, lets his fingers settle against cold, green glass.

Nothing is going to be the same anymore.

He downs the alcohol.

He swallows every last drop.

Classes, Kyungsoo thinks, are a huge waste of his time.

He watches from his seat, mouth agape, as the lecturer drones on and on about the importance of the stability of some structure or another, tries his best not to fall asleep right then and there. The lecturer speaks in perfect monotone, words never rising to paint sceneries with their sound. He could have made a beautiful landscape of Kyungsoo’s mind, just by his words alone -

But he doesn’t.

Kyungsoo’s canvas remains blank.

‘Heard you had a good time at Sehun’s the other night,’ murmurs Jongdae, his voice escaping out of the corner of his mouth. It manages to clamber only into Kyungsoo’s earshot, and he wants to pretend he didn’t hear him, wants to block Jongdae out completely, but there isn’t anything else to preoccupy him. ‘Trusted that Zitao guy enough to take whatever he was drinking, too,’ adds Jongdae, mischief in his voice.

‘Shut up,’ groans Kyungsoo, the hush of the lecture theater only just reminding him to keep his voice down. He pointedly refocuses his attention on the aging man below, tries his best to keep his eyelids propped open even though the lesson’s acting like a lullaby, lulling him to sleep.

‘Come on,’ says Jongdae, nudging Kyungsoo just a little as he leans forward to cup his chin in his hands. ‘You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself. I mean, seriously. Sehun told me he had to bring you home the night before the party, and Yeol had to cart you back the night of. Said some stuff about you tearing up the dance floor, too.’ Jongdae adds the last bit in mischievously, just so he can watch as Kyungsoo’s face transitions from a light pink to a deeper red, as embarrassment leaves its mark on his cheeks.

‘Shut up,’ says Kyungsoo again, folding his arms on his desk and burying his face in them. His cheeks feel hot and he knows Jongdae’s grinning from ear to ear somewhere to his side, but he’s too tired to smack any kind of sense into the elder. Let him talk, he thinks.

‘It’s good, though,’ says Jongdae, after an extended stretch of silence. By then, Kyungsoo’s face had returned to its original colour, and the earlier onslaught of embarrassment had faded away. He doesn’t respond, though, just keeps staring straight ahead at the projected slide and lets Jongdae talk. ‘It’s nice to know you had a good time,’ says Jongdae, and this time, Kyungsoo thinks, those words weren’t meant for him. They were just a thought released without intention, and he smiles to himself.

Jongdae is a good friend, after all.

He’s in the midst of counting out all the times Jongdae had stood by him when his phone vibrates in his pocket, breaking his concentration and making his thoughts scatter. There’s no name on the screen, just a string of numbers he doesn’t recognise, and he doesn’t bother bowing or lowering his head as he makes his way to exit the hall. It’s not like anyone was paying attention, anyway.

‘Hello?’ says Kyungsoo, once he’s outside in the hallway. His voice echoes off cold walls, and he can’t help but feel a little creeped out by the sound of his own voice.

He never knows when it’ll turn into someone else’s.

‘Hey,’ says the person on the other end, in a voice that sounds almost familiar to Kyungsoo’s ears. ‘What are you up to right now?’

‘I’m sorry?’ says Kyungsoo, voice uncertain. ‘Um - who’s this?’

The caller laughs to himself, mirth dripping down the line into Kyungsoo’s ears. ‘It’s me,’ he says, and Kyungsoo can hear the lilt of a foreign tongue on familiar words, now. ‘Zitao,’ says the voice, and Kyungsoo isn’t sure whether he should smile or be worried.

‘Oh - hey, Zitao,’ he begins, fingers twisting in the hem of his tshirt. ‘Um - how’d you get my number?’ he asks, realising halfway through his sentence that it was a pretty stupid question. Off campus, Zitao and Sehun were inseparable. Zitao wouldn’t have any difficulty getting his number at all.

‘Pretty sure you know the answer,’ drawls Zitao, confidence weighing his words down. ‘I don’t have an answer for my question yet, by the way,’ he hints, and Kyungsoo clears his throat before he replies.

‘Yeah - um, I’m in class right now,’ he says, curiosity blooming in his chest. ‘Why? What’s up?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ says Zitao, feigning indifference. ‘It’s just that Sehun’s had a pretty shit morning - something about failing a test or something? - and he kind of needs some cheering up,’ he says, finishing his sentence as if it’s all the clarification Kyungsoo needs.

It isn’t.

‘Um… And… What do I have to do with this situation?’ asks Kyungsoo, confusion marring his brow. ‘He isn’t, you know, with me or anything right now.’

‘I know that, dumbass. He’s here with me. What I’m saying now is that we’re gonna go drinking, and you seem like good company, and we like having good company,’ says Zitao, measured patience collapsing with a huff.

‘Oh,’ is all Kyungsoo says in return, his mind running a mile a minute as he tries to remember his schedule for the day. His mind comes up blank - he can’t seem to recall having anything else to do today, just this class, and he has the rest of the day off.

‘Meet us at the bar in a half hour - it’s the one a couple of doors down from the one we went to on Friday. See you,’ says Zitao, and he hangs up without so much as a goodbye. Kyungsoo stands there dumbly for a minute, thinking about the assignment he has due next week, the tests he has to sit for the week after - and the comfort he gets from a night of dreamless sleep.

The class ends a couple of minutes later, and Kyungsoo’s still standing in the corridor, trying to weigh his options. On the one hand, he was a pretty fast worker, on the other - alcohol with Zitao and Sehun didn’t sound like such a good combination. He’s still considering his choices when the heavy door to the lecture hall swings open, revealing a tired-looking Jongdae with Kyungsoo’s backpack on his arm and his own slung across his shoulders. The elder doesn’t bother covering his mouth as he yawns, arm outstretched, offering Kyungsoo all his stuff.

‘You were out here for ages,’ Jongdae complains, hands digging into his pockets. His forehead creases. ‘Did the person like, call you and then put you on hold? Because that’s just cruel, man. Also cue for you should hang up.’

‘Sorry,’ says Kyungsoo.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jongdae sighs, and then he stretches, works out the kinks in his neck and back before his trademark cheerful grin is back, firmly in place. ‘D’you wanna grab some early dinner and then maybe work on the assignment? I mean I know you’re probably gonna think I’m going to copy your work and shit, but I swear I won’t. I just, you know, might need some help, is all,’ says Jongdae, and his tone is coy and pleading but Kyungsoo isn’t paying attention to him.

The bar isn’t all that far from here, I can still make it if I hurry, he thinks.

‘Um - Earth to Kyungsoo? Dude, are you there? Because if you are, I’m going to have to remind you that you promised to help me. Kind of. Even though you’ve been blanking out this whole semes - hey!’

Kyungsoo doesn’t spare a word of explanation to the elder, just turns on his heel and begins making his way to the nearest exit. He’s going to see Sehun today, he thinks, he’s going to see Zitao.

‘Kyungsoo! Where are you going?’ Jongdae yells after him, half-walking, half-jogging to catch up with him before he decides he’s doing a pretty bad job of it, so he stops in his tracks, hands on his knees. ‘What about our assignment?’

‘I’m going to do it alone first!’ calls Kyungsoo, throwing the words over his shoulder. ‘I’ll let you take a look at it tomorrow!’ he says, and then his hand grips the doorknob and he’s out, he’s breathing in fresh air, he’s free.

He breaks out into a run, heart doing somersaults in his ribcage.

He isn’t going home to Jongin, to disappointment.

Not yet, at least.

Kyungsoo arrives, panting in front of the bar Zitao mentioned. It’s called - rather uncreatively, Kyungsoo thinks - The Stool, and the words are moulded in neon lights that aren’t even switched on yet above the doorway.

Kyungsoo checks his watch. He’d made it with two minutes to spare.

He straightens up, pushes the door open and is greeted by a bar that is barely occupied, and he isn’t surprised. It’s only 5pm on a Monday evening, after all. He spots Sehun and Zitao over at the bar, the younger’s head hanging over the drink he’s nursing.

‘Oh - hey! Look who’s here!’ Zitao greets Kyungsoo with a smile on his face, his features nothing but welcoming, but there’s a shadow of something else in there that Kyungsoo can’t bring himself to trust. At least Sehun was here, he thinks.

‘Yeah - sorry I kept you waiting,’ says Kyungsoo, settling in the stool next to Sehun’s. He asks for a light beer and Zitao shakes his head, asks the bartender instead to bring him something a little stronger.

‘Don’t worry about it, hyung,’ mumbles Sehun, dragging his glass around in circles. It leaves a large ring of condensation in its wake, and the bartender just shakes his head wordlessly.

‘Um - what’s wrong?’ asks Kyungsoo, gingerly patting Sehun’s back. He takes his drink from the bartender with a mumbled thanks, takes a swig of it and winces. It’s a little too early on in the session for him to be drinking something that’s this strong, he thinks.

‘Let’s not talk of unpleasant things,’ says Zitao, attention sliding back to Sehun and Kyungsoo. ‘We’re not here to think about things like exams and tests and stuff. Drink to forget,’ he says, lifting his own glass to his lips and taking a long swig, head thrown back as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. When he’s done he lets his eyes remain shut for a bit, before opening them with a look of pure bliss on his face.

‘Zitao’s right,’ says Sehun, somewhat resolutely. They hadn’t come here to mourn - they’d come to forget, to remind themselves that they were young and they were free, and anything else - everything else - could wait.

Zitao reaches into his pocket, pulls out a red box and pulls it open. He extracts a cigarette and puts it between his lips, takes another and hands it to Sehun, before pulling a last one out and offering it to Kyungsoo.

He looks at it with uncertainty lining his eyes.

He’d never smoked before.

‘Come on,’ urges Zitao, Sehun already lighting his own cigarette. ‘You should try it. It’s just one stick,’ he says, pushing it towards Kyungsoo. Zitao leans forward a little and lets Sehun light his, before the youngest flicks the lighter off and takes a long, satisfying drag, exhaling toxic air from his lungs with a smile.

‘Helps take the edge off,’ says Sehun, half to himself, and Kyungsoo takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

Jongin hates smokers.

As soon as he has the thought he finds himself taking the stick between his fingers, pushing it between his lips and leaning forward to have it lighted, a kind of steely determination glinting in his eyes. Zitao smiles as Kyungsoo takes his first drag, inhales greedily before the smoke gets caught halfway down his throat and he coughs, nearly spitting the cigarette out.

‘First one’s always the hardest,’ murmurs Sehun nonchalantly, not even looking at Kyungsoo as he takes a long swig from his glass, before fitting the cigarette between his lips again and blowing out wisps of grey. ‘You can stop, if you don’t think you can handle it.’

Kyungsoo clenches his jaw, sees the challenge that twinkles out of the corner of Zitao’s eye. Neither man is looking at him, but still he feels as though he’s got eyes scrutinising him, a silent audience daring him to go on.

Jongin hates smokers.

The voice in his head repeats itself again and Kyungsoo flinches slightly.

I’m not here to think about Jongin, he tells himself, before he downs the rest of the contents of his glass and pushes the cigarette between his lips again.

He takes a long, deep breath.

The air that escapes his mouth afterwards tastes like nicotine and lost hope.

He doesn’t get piss drunk again, not that night. He spends most of his time trying his best not to choke on every mouthful of poisoned air that comes from his lungs, busies himself with trying to concentrate on enjoying the slow burn that’s building in his chest. Zitao just hands him another cigarette when the first runs out, and lets him have the rest of the box when Kyungsoo stubs his third out.

There’s a voice that nags in the corner of his mind about getting home in time to get some sleep, he has classes the next day, he has things he needs to do. Kyungsoo manages to push the voice out of his mind with annoyance the first couple of times it pops up, but by the time the hour hand is millimeters away from midnight he can’t ignore it anymore, and he bids goodbye to Sehun and Zitao and leaves.

His apartment feels like it’s been dipped in ice when he unlocks the door and toes his shoes off, hangs his jacket on the coat rack that’s just by the door. He reaches out to switch a light on, fingers trembling slightly from the cold - and gasps.

Jongin is there again, waiting for him, silver eyes glinting under the new light.

Not like you

Kyungsoo lets his jaw set when he hears that voice in his head again. It’s intrusive, it’s not right, it’s painful - but he isn’t about to let it beat him. He isn’t about to let this - this thing, ghost, whatever name was appropriate for the figure that bore Jongin’s face and injected Jongin’s voice in Kyungsoo’s mind standing there in front of him - he wasn’t about to let him win.

He makes his way to his bedroom, Jongin trailing along behind him. He takes off his socks, unstraps his watch, sets it down on his bedside table.

You smell different

At this, Kyungsoo stiffens, fingers stopping in their tracks. He throws a look of anger at Jongin - a look that’s painted in the dull blue of sleepless nights, the muted red of a tortured heart long ago broken - and walks over to the other side of the bed, the one Jongin used to sleep in.

He tries not to think the words when he was alive, not with the ghost of the man he’d shared a bed with staring him down with eyes that weren’t the ones he’d lost himself in for the first time, all those years ago. He digs into his jeans pocket and brings out the half empty Dunhill box Zitao had let him keep, and sets it down defiantly on the bedside table that stands there.

He tilts his head up to look into Jongin’s eyes, to dare him to intrude into his thoughts again, to break through the barriers of his mind and plant his voice in its darkest corner. But when he looks up, he realises.

He didn’t need to.

Jongin is gone again.

// three