Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chan has lived in a world of monotones for as far back as he can remember.

It’s okay though because he has his statues and his garden and the sprawling view of the ocean. He can still smell the crisp salty breeze on chilly nights, hear the waves lash against the cliff sides, feel the smooth cold marble in his workshop, taste the apples he picks from the garden. It doesn’t matter that he no longer remembers what color, if any, they’re supposed to be.

Sometimes, he’ll stand on the balcony counting the stars and he thinks some of them flicker, transforming the canvas of black and splashes of white into something he can’t quite name.

He knows at some point he was able to appreciate the full spectrum of millions of colors but those memories are covered in so much dust and a heaviness he can’t and never wants to comprehend that he prefers to simply not think about them at all.

Time has slipped through his fingers, uncounted by minutes or hours or years, most of them hazy and forgotten in the gray. Chan understands intrinsically: he’s been on his own for a very long time.

Some days, it’s harder to convince himself it doesn’t matter if he can’t remember. There’s a fragment of glass in his heart that aches and yearns and throbs from the smallest of things. Always the smallest of things.

He’d tried to make apple cider once, mashing the apples and trying to mix in the ingredients before adding water. Even with a whisk, the task proved difficult so Chan, without thinking much of it, used his free hand to transfer the mashed apples while pouring water.

Chan woke on the tiles. All he had remembered was how thick and familiar the would-be apple cider had felt in his hand, running through his fingers, flowing from veins.

His own? Someone else’s?

Too much of it. There had been too much of it once.

Other seemingly innocuous things too. He can’t stand the sound of metallic whirring, the sound sending spikes of fear and dread through his frame, his senses screaming. The sight of birds with spiky plumage on their heads and long downy feathers makes him freeze and he often blinks into awareness in a completely different place.

It’s funny because he doesn’t bat an eye at the sea monsters writhing in the waves, sometimes so close to the coast he could swim out to meet them, nor does he find it unnerving how the landscape sometimes shifts as he sleeps, waking to clouds below his feet or crystalline droplets connected to icy stalactites above him. The little cottage and its attached property, the circlet of the orchard as well as the garden out back Chan has tended to forever, always follow wherever he goes, no matter how impossible it seems.

Chan supposes it is strange. There are always vague feelings of surrealism, a tickling sensation that none of this is truly right.

He doesn’t like to listen to those thoughts or get lost in those impressions. They feel infinitely heavy, clouding his mind and squeezing his heart.

Most often though, the ocean is near and Chan can let the waves carry away the tingling of a warm touch, of tinkling laughter, of whatever or whoever he can remember in feelings and sensations but never in any meaningful way.

The skies are stormy when he wakes today – or, more accurately, becomes aware of himself again (he’s not sure if he ever truly sleeps in this world, if sleeping is even possible). The ocean foams with shattering waves breaking against the crags, sending soil and rock tumbling down into its inky depths.

Chan relishes in the rustling of the tall grasses that reach to his thighs. He can taste electricity in the air, layering over the salt spray of the ocean. When the droplets begin to fall, deceivingly slowly at first, Chan doesn’t move from his perch by the cliff side. Petrichor fills his lungs as the sky shatters and opens its floodgates to downpour.

Even as the wind batters the rain into his clothes and the heavens flash momentarily into day with arcing lightning strikes into the waters, Chan smiles, letting the water cleanse his worries.

He has all he needs here. He doesn’t need anything else.

⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

There’s something strange about the atmosphere as Chan stares up at the uneven patches of sky, the air singing with anticipation. A chill washes over his skin and raises the hair on the back of his neck as the flickers of planets and stars align, lighting a jagged thread across the heavens.

He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, letting the wind run wildly through his hair with the smells of pine and oak.

(Warm desperate fingers clutch at his own, he’s being pulled into someone’s lap and there are voices pleading over and over, pleading for him to open his eyes.

Faces swim in the thickness of a swirling world. Ghosts of presences he knows intimately but cannot pinpoint or identify. His heart rends at the pain in long-lashed eyes, in the brave curl of a reassuring smile that’s wet with sorrow, in the disbelief and the pure shock in the seven different individuals around him.)

Sparks lance across Chan’s vision as if the stars have settled before him from their perches in the firmament.

The setting changes.

(This time, slim fingers pull gently at his hand and there’s excitement bleeding into the atmosphere from giggling voices and lively shouts of surprise. Someone pulls the blindfold from his face and the world comes flooding in with confetti and candles and a whole sprawl of food across their table.

Their table. Bright sunshine smiles, teasing jokes of his ancient years, the sturdiness of a group embrace, the perfect amount of warmth.

His own lips pulled into a near permanent grin and laughing and laughing into a warm shoulder while high cheekbones take in the mess of dark eyes and round cheeks bickering over the placement of the brownie cake, of harried freckles and puppy eyes flitting around them to salvage the candles that are being snuffed out, of long legs scolding them without much fire, of a sharper tongue finally calming them down with threats of no-brownies-for-ruining-the-food.)

Something warm drips on his cheeks. Chan blinks his eyes open and his eyelashes stick. His hand, now uncomfortably cold and awfully empty, mechanically reaches up to swipe away the manifestations of misery and happiness.

An aching gnaws deep in his bones as he tries to recall the teasing voices he’d heard, frustration igniting in his chest when he’s unable to feel those same fleeting sensations of warmth.

Chan feels like he’s staring at an optical illusion, seeing only the literal representation yet missing the trick.

Now he knows for certain. There was a time in his life he didn’t simply exist in this shifting deceiving world. There was a time he wasn’t alone, a time his body and his mind were filled with sensations he can’t even re-imagine now in the numbing silence of his heart.

This place is a prison. For all its glamour and its paradisical peace, Chan is unable to leave, doesn’t even know where to begin looking for a way out.

But he can never again be satisfied with simply imagining, not when he’s had a taste of the raw intensity, of unfiltered sensations running through his veins. He’d known once upon a time, in a far different life.

He has to believe he isn’t damaged beyond repair, that he can relearn the weavings of living and want it all again, all the bitter and all the sweet. Chan may be different now, his heart more battered and bruised, but he still carries the same soul.

For the first time, Chan feels a pull in his gut, a spark igniting in his chest. It’s strong enough to physically knock him back, the visceral restless sensation of craving, of wishing, intense in the face of the muted content and otherwise blankness he’s only ever felt and remembered until now.

Wherever he’d been with those seven individuals of chaotic light and passion and comfort, it’s the first time he’s felt right somehow. He needs to find his way back.

He needs to find his way back home.

⚫ ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

The boy appears out of nowhere. Literally.

Chan is just trying to boil the ravioli that had appeared in the fridge when his ears start ringing. The sound is muted at first, annoying yet bearable, until it lasts for more than a few seconds, to the point it causes actual pain, dull throbbing in Chan’s skull.

He clutches uselessly at his ears but the reverb is somehow louder in his mind. Chan can barely form a single thought that isn’t STOP.

That is, prior to glimpsing a figure from the corner of his eye, both familiar and unrecognizable, a silhouette he associates with brightness and laughter and quiet sentiments spilling from ink and paper.

Nothing in him screams fear. Chan straightens from his hunched posture, blood roaring in his ears and overtaking the ringing as he takes in the frozen figure of the boy. He’s partially transparent, one hand raised to his ear as if tucking a strand of hair out of the way, face turned to look at a point beside his shoulder.

The transparency eases, layering over the figure until the boy – more a young man now that Chan has a better look at his features – solidifies.

He gasps, a quick intake of breath that startles Chan, thinking the figure was something he’d imagined into reality. The young man moves of his own accord though, completely uncontrolled by Chan’s thoughts. Their surroundings flicker.

For a brief moment, Chan finds himself standing in a room filled with wires and high-tech equipment. There are seven other individuals, one of them slumped in a chair while the others watch on anxiously.

The kitchen and the cabin reform around them.

Somehow, the young man doesn’t notice the changes but Chan has a tingling disconcerting hunch that the young man has just as much autonomy in this world as Chan does.

“It worked?” the newcomer whispers. He glances around, confusion and surprise lingering in his gaze, awe slackening his lips so he almost looks adorably lost. Then he catches sight of Chan and a myriad of emotions passes over the apples of his cheeks and the light of his eyes. “It worked!”

Chan clutches the spatula with both hands and raises it between them in a very threatening manner. “Who are you?”

At Chan’s words, hurt and bewilderment flick over the young man’s face, the flap of a butterfly dispersing the beginnings of a smile. Just as quickly though, a toothy grin is back in place. The young man sticks a hand out.

“I’m Han Jisung.”

With some trepidation, Chan stops waving the spatula and takes Jisung’s hand in his own. Before he can pour out any of his burning questions, Jisung tugs on his hand.

The next thing Chan knows, he’s breathing in the smell of Jisung and his clothes, a little sweet with a sharper undertone of something Chan can’t identify, can feel the slightly spiky ends of Jisung’s hair tickling his cheek. It should feel weird to be in a stranger’s embrace, especially one whose sudden otherworldly appearance is still making itself known in Chan’s rapid heartbeat.

But it doesn’t. Jisung is simply warm in his arms and comforting.

As abruptly as Jisung had pulled him into a hug, Jisung pushes back and holds Chan at arms-length. There’s something tentative written across his brow, his gaze going deeper than Chan thought possible with the softness of his almond eyes.

“We’re going to bring you out of this, I promise.”

“What?” Chan frowns. He needs to find a way home, not out, whatever that means. “Who is we?”

Jisung doesn’t appear to be listening. The pensive air surrounding him has turned into buzzing energy, excitement brimming from Jisung’s frame. His hand is once again tangled in Chan’s own. Chan finds he doesn’t mind the touch as much as he maybe should.

Mischief quirks the edges of Jisung’s lips. “I know just where to start.”

⚫ ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Chan had never thought to push the boundaries of this world but Jisung has no inhibitions. They recreate a scavenger hunt that’s so labyrinthine, they have to conceptualize an exit for it to manifest into the world.

It’s more accurate to say Jisung builds the pieces and comes up with the amalgamation of themes and convoluted storylines on what they’re trying to find and what they need to do, horror with an undertone of a detective mystery and mixed with what feels like misplaced historical scenes and romantic scenery. Chan could never think up something this insane or this impressive.

Jisung makes it work though and by the end of the game, Chan is breathless from the unexpected surprises and Jisung’s out-of-the-box thinking.

His sides ache from laughing so hard. His eyes are sore from staring awestruck at the fantastical landscapes Jisung paints with only his imagination, down to the details of lock combinations and hidden glass boxes. Chan takes in the flush of Jisung’s cheeks, his excitement sated for the moment.

For a fraction of a second, Jisung’s headband flashes, the edges shining. It’s gone immediately and Chan wonders if he’s hallucinating.

Then Jisung jumps up from the couch, features painted bright, his eyes holding excitement and laughter as words spill out of his mouth so quickly Chan is surprised he still has breath left in his body. The headband is gray once more, drifting to the back of his mind as Jisung manifests umbrellas in their hands, his imagination taking them high into the sky.

Chan yells at the plummeting free-fall, the crisp cold swooping against his cheeks. When they finally touch down on solid land, Chan adamantly refuses to move. After failed coaxing, Jisung lays over him, cackling in delight, full-belly laughs that rumble in his chest.

He can’t find it in himself to scold Jisung for the impulsive surprise, not with the way life and quiet beauty dapple Jisung’s cheeks, not when the heady dangerous rush of adrenaline fills Chan’s heart close to bursting.

Jisung happily chatters about his life, fragments of which sound familiar to Chan and yet completely alien. He’s still brimming with energy and when Chan leans against his shoulder, Jisung tugs him closer. He’s so warm.

Chan happens to glance up at Jisung’s eyes which are fixed tenderly on the baby ducks waddling after their mother, the apple trees dwarfing them in late afternoon shadows. His headband glistens between a fuzzy shade of gray and something else that makes Chan’s thoughts itch as he searches his memories for the right term, coming away with a yearning for another life and a description slipping through his fingers, unable to be felt.

Jisung catches him looking and takes Chan’s hand, guiding his fingers to the soft material.

“It’s in the colors, Chan,” Jisung says simply and he looks older like this, the lines of his face serious, a taste of the iron resolve beneath cute smiles and a witty tongue. “Follow the colors. Let them in.”

⚫ ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Soft strums of guitar chords drip from delicate fingers. A melody trickles slowly into the gentle waves of sound, a hum at first, then solidifying into a voice.

A deeper backing beat filters in, giving the song weight. The voice sings beautifully, heartfelt and clear over the guitar, yearning seeping into the rising swell of instrumentals as the singing becomes lyrical rapping, the longing turning the chorus into a bittersweet plea to wish an unspoken love back.

Chan doesn’t realize the song has come to an end until round eyes peer up at him from a messily parted fringe, hair framing soft cheeks and strong brows.

“What do you think?” Jisung asks. He’s nervous, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt which fall over his fingers.

Chan doesn’t think there are any words good enough to describe the song, the music evoking a sense of missing something or someone he’s never even met. “I feel like I was placed right into that movie or um, maybe trying to grasp at something slipping through my fingers.”

Jisung grins then. “Well, that’s good. It’s the vibe I was going for.”

“What are you trying to wish back?”

It’s clear Jisung doesn’t expect the question. Chan is thinking of attempting to swallow down the words by replacing them when Jisung smiles, a spark in his eyes.

“Happiness,” he whispers, looking at Chan with something so undeniably fond Chan has to look away, “For a friend.”

⚫ ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Jisung is gone by the time Chan floats into awareness, the memory bleeding out from his mind and Jisung’s presence and physical manifestation fading from this world. Chan can’t feel him in the inexplicable way he’d been able to trace his brilliance when they were together.

Jisung’s kiss still lingers on his forehead and he isn’t sure if that was an old memory or a new one they’d created together.

The sense of loss is acidic on his tongue and it’s difficult to relearn how to function without Jisung by his side, without his spouts of creativity, without the spontaneous activities of the most random things.

That is, until he catches a strange sight. In a world of blacks and whites, any dash of color is a spotlight. It takes him longer than it ought to, identifying what it is that’s different after settling for colorless blanks, for murky grays and shadows for so long.

Orange.

He sees Jisung’s smile in every shade.

Chan finds the first pearl by his bedside later when he’s thoroughly but happily exhausted himself searching for hues of orange in the world around him. The orb turns on its tiny axis like the world’s smallest tangerine and it warms Chan to his very core.

💗 ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Time is difficult to track in this realm of fleeting idea-chaos (as Jisung had put it) but Chan is certain he’s not alone for long before he receives another visitor.

There’s no ringing this time though their surroundings do take on a sort of fuzziness as a young man materializes in the sand beside Chan, miniature galaxies glittering on his skin and crescent moon eyes to accompany his smile.

“Hey, Chris,” his voice curls deep with the warmth of sunshine, “It’s been a while.”

Chan jolts a bit at the name, a tugging at the back of his mind. The moment he reaches for whatever it is though, the wisp of the thought or memory is gone. He returns the smile politely and the light in the young man’s eyes flickers, his expression shuttering for a moment. He fervently searches Chan’s face.

“Is something wrong?”

A beat passes in somewhat strained silence before the young man shakes his head, an easy twinkling grin on his face once more. “I’m Felix, by the way.”

Felix grasps Chan’s hands in greeting. Chan marvels at how his own hand seems to swallow up Felix’s smaller fingers but there’s something poignant about the gesture too, a symbol of courteous distance that feels so very wrong between them.

The high tide interrupts the weird palpable sensation, causing both of them to flinch back in tandem at the icy temperature. Felix frowns at the cloudy sky as if it were doomsday and then glares at the calving glaciers in the distance which haven’t stopped crumbling jagged rocks of ice into the ocean.

In a minute, they’re sitting on a far different beach and overlooking a drastically changed ocean. The atmosphere burns orange, the swells of saltwater blinding despite the shades of gray and rumbling murk, and when Chan leans back on the palms of his hands, the sand feels iron-hot beneath his fingers.

Felix doesn’t seem to have the same heat tolerance, hissing as his skin brushes the scorching beach and moving to stand instead. The burn barely affects his exuberance however as he bounces on his toes, scanning the water.

Chan has an uninterrupted view of Felix soaking in the sun, shining somehow without any color, before there’s a tiny turtle being shoved into his face. Its shell is an accented shade of marmalade, startling amidst the rest of the dull ashen hues.

An impressive pout rests on Felix’s dainty features. “I think the baby turtle lost its mother.”

“Baby turtles live their whole lives without their mothers.”

“What?!” Felix glances between Chan’s eyes as if he could be lying. “That sounds so lonely!”

Chan chuckles helplessly at Felix’s wide eyes, guileless and hurting for an animal he himself has imagined. “They have the entirety of the ocean and they have each other.”

He nods towards the sand to their right where broken eggshells and clumsy little turtles take their first steps into the world.

Gently, Chan pulls Felix’s hands closer to the sand. The second the turtle deems it’s free, it scurries from their palms and launches itself onto the beach, disappearing into the water in the span of two heartbeats. Its brethren follow until only sand and the dissolving gray of the eggshells are left in their wake.

“The ocean is so big. It’s unlikely they’ll ever meet again.” Felix’s words are pensive, not somber. Gone is the doe-eyed look of innocence.

“You never know,” Chan says gently, feeling the need to reassure. “Coincidences exist for a reason, right? Pathways cross in the most bizarre ways.”

Felix hums. When he glances over at Chan, he has an intuitive feeling Felix isn’t talking about the baby turtles anymore. “They certainly do.”

💗 ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Warmth etches a glow behind Chan’s ribcage, growing with every moment he spends in Felix’s presence. Chan glimpses smiles thrown over shoulders when he closes his eyes, feels the blanketing ambiance of tenderness.

Then he blinks and he’s in the world of monotones with the sparks of orange and the ocean outside the little cottage and the flashes dissipate with the mist.

The restlessness finally explodes when Chan sees the reflections of warmth on the edges of Felix’s smile, achingly close yet unidentifiable still. He winds up blinking tears into the chocolaty desserts he’d helped Felix make, the other rubbing a hand up and down his back, endlessly patient.

“It’s going to be okay,” Felix says, gentle like the sea breeze.

The words are cheesy but Chan believes him. Simply being near Felix makes Chan feel both comfortable and comforted. “We’re going to be okay,” he finds himself correcting.

Automatically. Naturally.

Felix startles and then he’s blinding Chan with the force of all the stars in the galaxy, Chan happily staring into the heart of the incandescent grin, the tiny scrunch of his nose, the sweetness in his eyes stitched easily into his body.

He’s unsure who initiates the hug but it hardly matters, their bodies curving around each other like they were never far apart.

Felix rubs a kiss onto Chan’s bare shoulder, affectionately intimate. Chan pulls him closer, the more solid weight of Felix’s lithe muscles melting in Chan’s arms. Felix brings his hands up to play with the curls of Chan’s hair, still damp from another swim in the ocean.

It feels like curling up in a warm blanket by the fireplace after walking through ice. What Jisung had begun to thaw inside softens all the more as Chan holds Felix just a little tighter.

💗 ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Chan repeats like a broken record, barely looking up.

Felix looks at him and then pads into the room. “Simply never feeling again keeps the pain away, doesn’t it?” Felix’s voice is placid, washing over him.

Chan takes several long moments to focus on Felix’s carefully drawn features, compassion dripping from his frame, from the warmth of his hands where he’s removing Chan’s own from raking violently through his hair.

“But it robs you from the healing too.”

“It’s easier this way,” Chan says numbly. His face feels frozen.

“In the beginning, sure,” Felix agrees. “But for how much longer? You can’t internalize all of that pain.”

He’s right. Chan has tried, oh, he’s tried. Maybe there’s something to be said about how he’s never been successful in burying that pain, trying to lock it behind other memories, and hoping the iron was forged in titanium.

“Then why am I not getting better?”

“You are, Chan.” Felix pauses, his brows pulled together into a harsh line as he works to marshall his thoughts. Chan registers the lines of pain marring his face. Chan’s hurt pains him but Chan hiding that hurt, pains Felix even more.

“Of course there will still be days where all your thoughts are gray and being okay seems like an abstract idea but you don’t have to be alone in that. There can be people beside you, reminding you life is worth it. That your life is worth it, Chan.”

His heart stutters with a myriad of sensations, a twisted beauty in the burning ache replacing the numbness. “When did you get so wise?”

Felix smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you implying I was stupid up until now?”

“Considering how much time you spend around Changbin these days…” Chan shrugs, pressing the corners of his mouth down in an effort to stifle his smile at Felix closing his eyes and dragging his lower lip between his teeth.

He fails as Felix begins indignantly defending Changbin, the pitch of his voice rising several octaves, the spark in his eyes giving way to a soft pride and affection the more Chan grins. Something unwinds in his chest.

“Come here,” Chan manages through the flurry of emotions swirling inside him. Felix complies happily, snuggling into his chest. He’s still slight, unlike Jeongin is now, and Chan delights in bringing his arms completely around Felix’s form.

He thinks though, that no matter how much they may physically change, how much their hearts and minds may become hardened by the world, hugging Felix will always feel like a soothing balm.

A piece of home in his arms, in his soul, in his heart.

💗 ⚪ 🧡 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Felix fades soon after the memory but his brightness lingers. There had been a promise in his eyes, in every brush of his hands over Chan’s, in the dessert sitting untouched on the counter, made with care and unspoken love.

The little orange pearl gains a twin. A bobbing orb spun in silky starlight and strawberry pink twirls around its compatriot, the two tiny spheres uplifting one another in their energy.

In Chan’s eyes, he sees Jisung’s bright heart-shaped grin and Felix’s lovely smile, can almost tangibly grasp sweet words and nonsensical sharp-witted humor.

He swears the hues of orange glow brighter with the presence of rose and peach and fuscia. When he glimpses the colors together, his heart beats a little stronger.

💗 ⚪ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

A flame dances in the dark, oranges and whites swirling together in mesmerizing rhythm. It’s hard to judge the distance, the padding of Chan’s footsteps delicately echoing in a sprawling space of absolute darkness.

He’s not afraid though. The flame fades and reignites with each of his footfalls and line by line, a lean figure is drawn upon the shadows.

The curve of a smile flickers in the fire and Chan is met with high cheekbones and the sharp diamonds of obsidian eyes, warm and glittering despite the pressing weight of black upon their shoulders. Now that Chan is closer, he can see a small square lighter resting gracefully in long fingers, gray and monotone unlike the soft healthy blush on the young man’s features.

Chan watches the young man blow out the simmering flame.

When the slight whoosh of sparking gas lightens the world around them once more, the flame is no longer a singular beacon of waving fire.

Thousands of softly glowing lights stretch out into the distance, chasing out the dark and outlining their surroundings. Chan lets out a breath as he turns slowly in a circle, taking in the sharp spires and sprawling city in front of his eyes, tiny moonbeams reflecting in the tallest windows and upon the glittering shingles.

The pathway he’d walked upon leads to a sheer drop. When Chan edges forward to peer over the side, he doesn’t expect to see rolling mist tumbling down towards twinkling lights below, clustered like the pinpoints of civilization and yet, just as akin to a galaxy of wonders.

“Do you like the view?”

Chan can only nod, words escaping him in describing the ingenuity and creative finesse of a floating city in the sky. Or perhaps, it’s the sky that is moving around this little island of imagination.

Said sky blooms with sudden color as if there were paints waiting impatiently to be splashed onto its endless surface. Little popping noises accompany each explosion of light.

It takes Chan a moment to realize they’re words, spilling into a message.

You don’t always get to choose what you have in life but I will never forget how you chose me, how you chose us, over and over again.

Sheer joy jolts through Chan like an electric shock, both past and present. Although the sensation is fleeting, the traces of memories washing over his heart and mellowing into a warmer simmer beneath his skin, the hum of energy remains.

A name darts over Chan’s tongue but when he tries to grasp the syllables, to form the sounds, the familiarity tapers off.

The young man catches his eye and sparks the lighter in his hand. Instead of a raindrop-shaped fluttering of light, the flame arches to shape characters.

Characters Chan realizes he knows by heart as he murmurs them into the fire and stars, “Jeongin.”

His voice is clear when he speaks, a glint of delight in the sparkling of his eyes. “And that’s how you make an entrance.”

“Hell of an introduction.” Chan has the sudden urge to ruffle Jeongin’s hair at the roguish smile spreading over his sharp features. “I can almost picture your superhero origin story.”

Jeongin’s grin widens, settling over the veneer of cool composure. His voice is quieter when he speaks though, something more solemn bleeding into the lines. “You did teach me well.”

Chan blinks and his struggle to remember must be etched into his face because a flicker of an unreadable emotion passes over Jeongin’s face before he takes Chan by the arm, his smile a little sad but somehow consoling too.

“Now it’s my turn to return the favor.”

💗 ⚪ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Chan never knew he’d feel so delighted simply basking in the sunlight. He doesn’t think it’s simply the burning star cradling the sky though.

Jeongin’s presence at his side is a shining beam of life, his smile infectious, his laughter even more so. Chan is a moth drawn to the flame, knowing it won’t end in disaster because Jeongin is never blindingly bright. He’s a softer version of the constellations that hang embroidered in the tapestry of the sky, warm like the hearth on a snowy day.

The earthy scent of rich soil changes into a lighter fragrance, almost sweet. When Chan pushes up from the ground, fluffs of white cover his vision, falling to sprinkle around them.

A light cloud cover is sprayed overhead. Chan reaches out towards the falling snow, expecting it to melt in the heat of his hands.

It doesn’t feel cold.

Jeongin snags a tuff of wispy white from his palm and before Chan can so much as blink, he’s stuffed it into his mouth, humming in satisfaction. He catches several puffs of white in his own fingers and Chan notices the light streaks of rose and tangerine and different hues of gray through each miniature fluffy cloud Jeongin captures.

The younger holds them out under Chan’s lips. With little hesitance, Chan opens his mouth and lets Jeongin tilt the little puffs onto his tongue.

Immediately, bursts of flavor light warmth through his body, all the way down to his toes. He’s walking through sunlight, holding his hands out towards an ocean of sea foam, raised voices yell after him, a presence by his side clicking to capture the moment, laughter rings in his ears, the taste of joy heavy in his lungs and heated in his bones.

Chan senses them so vividly he doubts they’re mere imagination, emotions swirling in the cage of his heart, his mind working through the sensory information and associating them with solace and safety.

“We created this?” Chan half-mumbles, distracted in chasing after the fading warmth. He reaches out for Jeongin, looping their arms together, and the spark of fire reignites inside.

“I’ve always wanted it to snow cotton candy,” Jeongin says with a breathy laugh.

“Sunny with a chance of memories.”

Though the words are light, there’s something rueful in the quirk of Jeongin’s eyes. “I hope the brightness of the stars chases away some of the clouds.”

There’s an undertone Chan can’t determine but that’s alright. Jeongin cuts a sweet image with the puffs of memories cushioned in the darkness of his hair. Chan imagines a message traveling along to a home he can’t quite remember but craves with inexplicable urgency.

The swirls of cotton candy phases out into divots of water beneath their feet, separated by transparent glass and the floorboards of a ship. They discover it’s made entirely out of chocolate when Jeongin rips off the rudder trying and failing to steer the ship.

Jeongin points him towards the billowing notes scrawled in midnight and curving alone the mast. Lines of music without words, tunes from the heartstrings. Chan and Jeongin’s.

Together, they sail down a winding river in a bottle of light and Chan doesn’t simply hope the message reaches its destination safely, he knows that no matter how many stones and turns are in the stretching path before his feet, he’ll make it home eventually.

💗 ⚪ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

The recorder chokes out another squeak and it takes all of Chan’s efforts to press his laughter down behind the palms of his hands.

Despite Jeongin’s fingers darting to all the correct notes, a frown so severe on his face he’s nearly cross-eyed in concentration, the muscle memory of playing a recorder is clearly no longer at the forefront of his mind as he slaughters the lullaby piece into broken eardrums.

The most dissonant C Major scale Chan has ever heard rings through the room, signaling the end of a section, and Chan absolutely loses it.

Jeongin takes the recorder from his lips and gives Chan a look of pained patience. “This is more a punishment than a prize.”

“I never realized—” Chan tries to catch his breath, blinking Jeongin into focus as he finally peels his eyes open “—you were raised in a haunted house.”

“I should have taken Jisung up on his tone-deaf version instead,” Jeongin grumbles. “At least that way, I wouldn’t be slandered.”

Chan laughs harder, more breath than actual sound at this point. Jisung had lost their aggressive game of ddakji, smacking the floor more times than hitting Chan and Jeongin’s folded paper, let alone flipping anything.

“He’d probably want a kiss at the end of it,” Chan reminds him. “Be grateful he’s out getting us food and I’m here instead.”

Jeongin throws a scathing look at Chan though there’s no real heat in it. “How many times have you asked for hugs already?”

Chan pretends to think. There must be something on his face that gives him away because Jeongin is frantically removing himself from Chan’s vicinity. “If I recall correctly, I haven’t received any.”

“It’s way too hot! I don’t want to touch your sweat,” Jeongin screeches.

As Chan feigns lunging for Jeongin, the younger raises the recorder in defense and blows a descending five-tone melody, slightly scratchy and way too harsh but melodious nonetheless. Chan pauses, his mind whirring at triple speed, bringing together the drifting pieces of noise and pitch and rhythm into a nearly tangible thing.

“Minho was complaining about Changbin’s voice on the EDM track I made for him, wasn’t he?”

Truthfully, Chan knew Minho secretly appreciated the track, barely able to keep a straight face whenever it came on while they worked out together.

A slow grin splits Jeongin’s face, the earlier annoyance fading into impish childlike glee. “I bet he’d appreciate the recorder much more.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Chan says, pulling out his phone to record a rough cover.

Jeongin holds nothing back and while the hollow notes of the recorder sing loud and obnoxious in the video, so too does Chan and Jeongin’s giggles.

💗 ⚪ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

In the darkness of the room, a new color lights a path, unbeknownst to the curly-haired sleeper wrapped in light rest. The golden pearl bursts to life as if unfurling from an impatient blossoming flower, eager to battle the shadows seeping into the floorboards, dashing across the walls and the ceiling in vibrant flames.

Chan wakes to pinks and oranges fusing with the vivid boldness of yellow highlights. He decides that today he will try out a new landscape and hike through the terrains of a different realm, the pieces flying together and pulled from the depths of his mind and Jeongin’s too, his words lingering, creating raw inspiration for Chan to work with.

Smiling, he starts the day with a clear voice trickling in and out of his ears and laughter ringing in the folds of his walls.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Chan feels him before he sees him.

A surge of confidence greets Chan while he walks along the pastel coastline of blooming poppies. His heart beats with a steadier rhythm, heat spreading slowly from his gut.

There’s a young man lying in the midst of the flowers in a tight shirt that accentuates his shoulders and his arms where it’s stretched to pillow his head. Everything he touches seems to spark with a more fiery hue, the orange softness of the poppies brighter where they outline his form, and Chan wonders about the gray of his figure.

Dark narrow eyes meet his, as warm as they are deep. A lopsided smile spreads lazily on his features and from Chan’s periphery, the world ripples outward too.

Chan only catches he’s staring when the young man raises his brows, his gaze taking on a weighted meaning Chan can’t decipher though he knows he’s seen it before, many times, in many places, through many years.

At the same moment the young man opens his mouth to introduce himself, his name rolls off Chan’s tongue without conscious knowledge of grabbing it from memory.

“Changbin,” they say at the same time.

He reads his own surprise reflected in wide eyes and a slackened jaw. Changbin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, pink and distracting.

“How much do you remember?” The hesitation, the quieter words, the ache of something far deeper rings in Changbin’s tone.

Chan frowns, shaking his head, “Fragments, loose pieces.”

He expects disappointment to bleed into Changbin’s eyes as the fragile thread of hope is cruelly shattered but Changbin only looks back with a raw tenderness that makes Chan’s knees a little weak, resilience shining from his core.

Changbin’s presence lends strength and a soothing comfort, not entirely forgotten in the recesses of his mind – Chan feels like he can do anything, go anywhere, face every single one of his fears as long as Changbin is by his side.

Changbin touches the nape of his neck, quietly, steadily. He brings his fingers up to press against the creased skin between Chan’s eyes, smoothing warmth firmly across his forehead, his temples, his cheeks. “Don’t force it,” he whispers.

“I won’t.” Chan is beginning to understand with frustrating coherence: he cannot rush into opening all the doors of his past. Of their shared past. All eight of them. It might just break his mind permanently and he will truly be left with nothing.

Changbin leans forward the scant few inches between them, their foreheads pressed together. “Let’s relearn the world together.”

Chan thinks the smile dancing on Changbin’s face is a fire he’d gladly let consume him.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Hearing Changbin’s giddy laughter, the flush of his cheeks as the wind whips through his dark hair, makes a piece of Chan melt from the inside, all gooey with sentiment.

Changbin peers over the smoky iridescent tendrils of the moving coiling beast beneath them and lets out a squeak at the tiny swirls and geometric shapes of the world below, quickly tugging Chan’s arms around him once more.

Chan can feel the thunderous beating of his heart through his chest but he definitely isn’t complaining at the simple excuse to hold Changbin close. He’s warm and his presence burns at Chan from the inside out.

“Are we there yet?” Changbin complains, his voice higher than normal.

“We’re there when you imagine we’re there.”

Changbin twists as much as he can, pouting enormously, and Chan’s eyes flicker down to his lips, his breath catching in his throat. “Are you saying we could have just teleported?”

The spiraling mass beneath them lets out a puff of smoke as if indignant. Chan smiles, “Well, if you say so.”

The smoky whorls of the dragon they’d manifested becomes tangibly immaterial beneath their fingers and Changbin screams, diving to connect their hands as the world twists on its axis. The sensation is far from dizzying but the pulling in Chan’s gut is certainly a strange feeling, a pinch of heat with a heady rush of adrenaline and the urge to hold Changbin tight with all he has.

Then Chan opens his eyes and finds themselves in a great hall of some sort, ancient yet incongruous. He marvels at the anachronism of his and Changbin’s imaginations, how despite thinking far different timelines and surroundings, a sense of connectivity prevails.

There’s tragic beauty in the ruins of the crumpling columns and structures, in the cracked murals and broken statues of majestic artistry. Vines crawl into the spacious empty halls and sparks of fireflies hover in patches near regrown gardens and mossy ceilings.

Chan knows without the memories that they’ve never been anywhere like this before. Maybe it’s only familiar because Changbin stands beside him, face still scrunched with the force of squeezing his eyes shut.

He nudges the younger. One look at the surprised amazement in Changbin’s features as he finally turns his gaze beyond Chan’s eyes makes him laugh. “Such a scaredy cat.”

Changbin turns towards him with blazing flames in his eyes. “Race you then!”

Chan shoots off without warning, leaving Changbin only empty air in his wake. “Winner eats the loser’s share,” he yells to the wind.

“The only thing you’re eating is my dust,” Changbin yells back.

With barely a hitch in his step, Chan slides to a halt and catches Changbin around the waist, grappling for an advantage.

It all feels familiar. The back and forth, the whining, the teasing, the stolen glances.

They trip, Chan tumbling onto Changbin without much grace but with quite a lot of laughter. Changbin shoves him half-heartedly, weak with the residue of awestruck grandeur and his own shaking giggles. Perhaps the remnants of a ruined empire should be more haunting, painful even at the reminder of the impermanence of life, of everything Chan has lost.

But Chan only feels a bit of wistfulness. Everything good will inevitably topple but the bad doesn’t last forever either. Having the strength to accept both makes the whirlwind of life worthwhile.

With Changbin’s hands in his, he knows he’ll be okay.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Chan shivers as another gust of freezing hail nearly slams him off the sidewalk and directly into a line of traffic. He burrows unsuccessfully into his jacket which should be waterproof or at least water resistant but clearly isn’t with how much his clothes are sticking to his skin.

He sighs and diligently marches up to the crosswalk sign.

The sloshing of tires is the only warning he gets before he’s somehow even more drenched than he already was, only this time, with pollution-mixed rainwater too.

Chan supposes whatever higher power exists in the universe decided getting cut off from his parents wasn’t enough punishment for choosing the things and the people he loves. He absolutely needed some added hypothermia as well.

Distantly, he thinks he hears Changbin’s voice calling his name, an almost desperate shout.

But then he looks up and Changbin is really there, running over the battered crosswalk and through the pounding rain and ice in ripped skinny jeans, his backpack in one hand and an unopened umbrella in his other.

Chan’s so shocked at his presence he doesn’t realize Changbin has reached him until the younger pulls him into a tight hug, strong and steady and familiar.

“I heard about what happened,” Changbin whispers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…couldn’t keep us under wraps.”

Something in Chan’s chest cracks right down the middle. He tilts Changbin’s head up, a gentle hand on his cheek. “It was going to happen sooner or later, not your fault.”

“Then where are you going?” Changbin’s brows draw together and there’s rain and tears adorning his features. “Your studio isn’t this far from campus.”

Chan realizes with a jolt. His feet have taken him in the direction of Changbin’s apartment. With how long he’s walked in the freezing cold, they’re only a block away now.

Changbin is strength and courage and late nights spent talking and grilling meat together and penning an ode to the stray pathways they walk upon, his passion fiery to Chan’s organized mess, safety and serenity in the quieter moments.

Changbin reaches up with a tentative hand, wiping at the steady rivulets running from Chan’s eyes and down his cheeks even though the downpour from the skies and from Chan’s heart renders the movements impractical.

It’s the tenderness that breaks him and Chan curls into Changbin, rocking him back a half-step though he holds their combined weight without complaint.

The umbrella rests unused and forgotten in Changbin’s hand. Chan doesn’t care. Changbin is a far better protector from the cruelty of the world.

“I guess I was trying to find you,” Chan laughs wetly, “To tell you how much I don’t regret us.” As he speaks the words, he knows them to be true.

He feels Changbin’s smile against his neck and his voice is thick when he speaks too. “I don’t either.”

Sopping wet and under the shitty gauzy lights of the city, in a busy intersection filled with red traffic lights and glaring headlights from the streets, they hold each other without a care for tomorrow.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 ⚫ ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Chan blinks hard with the rushing wind still whipping through his hair. The sensation of running through the palace ruins with another color splashing slowly across the canvas of grays and pockets of peachy hues still beating strong in his heart.

His lips tingle slightly and the softness of Changbin’s smile comes to mind, the sensation of combusting from a dizzying warmth sits tight in Chan’s heart.

A droplet of red catches Chan’s eyes and he turns to find warm colors hovering beside him in the sands of time, a pearl of crimson igniting the sparks of gold and tangerine, bringing out the rose of magenta.

The color of blood, of life in its beauty and its tragedy, of pain and passion, of loving and living. Chan holds onto the vibrancy of their love, amazing and beautiful in its strength. He no longer has to imagine Jisung’s hearty laughter, Felix’s embrace, Jeongin’s simpering grin or the taste of Changbin’s lips on his own. They’re in his heart.

They always have been.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Chan wakes to an unseen rippling sensation, the world shifting around him without truly changing. He recognizes the disorienting prickling now. It’s a feeling he’s come to greet with wondrous curiosity rather than trepidation.

Little pockets of starlight gleam a pathway through a field of bursting crops and butterflies, golden wings fluttering and mixing with darker crimsons, soft roses and sparkling oranges.

Most of the field remains gray, the plants darkened no matter how close the starlight glows above its reaching stems, sucking in the silvery might of the stars. Chan treads carefully, stepping near the pathway of light. The skies are shades of ash with the occasional dashes of brightness in chrysanthemum pink and pale yellow.

Only the slightest press of longing swirls in his heart as he wonders what the grays truly look like. He bets the view, with the delicate rustling of butterfly wings and the starlight warming the field, would be even more marvelous.

Chan eases through the crops, his thoughts distant and his mind peaceably quiet. There’s something healing and safe surrounded by ethereal wonders of another artist’s creation.

The artist must be beautiful, both inside and out.

His intuition is confirmed when the crops finally part to a crystalline lake, the sky and the single silhouette beside the calm waters reflected in perfect symmetry along the lake’s depthless surface, head tilted skyward, gaze pensively relaxed.

As the figure turns, a swirling kaleidoscope of butterflies dance above them, flying over the lake. For a phenomenal moment, they’re standing on the cusp of two worlds.

The ribbons of the sky blanket one, crops swaying in a crisp cleansing breeze as Chan takes in artistically drawn features, symmetrical and handsomely beautiful, full lips and gentle eyes curved in kindness. In the water, a whirlwind of twilit butterflies form a pair of angel-like wings against a backdrop of blank canvas.

Then the figure speaks, the soothing tones of his voice melding with the world he’d painted so daintily and carefully, “Hyunjin, at your service.”

He extends a hand which Chan takes, his heat a welcome respite. “This is beautiful,” Chan whispers, awe shining bright in his voice.

“It’s just an attempt at capturing emotions,” Hyunjin says, a little sheepishly. The beginnings of a blush line his ears and Chan almost coos out loud.

“I’d love to see more.”

Hyunjin smiles like they’re sharing a secret. He tugs Chan closer and maneuvers their bodies so he’s comfortably resting his chin on Chan’s shoulder, the touch intrinsically soothing. Hyunjin tilts their heads up to stare at the endlessness of the sky.

Moons, or perhaps planets and other celestial bodies, move across the skyline. Hyunjin murmurs words into Chan’s ears, “Mysterious, wonderstruck, seraphic…”

They stay wrapped up in each other’s arms as the scenery shifts and the world collapses and rebuilds itself again and again, the two of them quietly exchanging evocative thoughts into the endless depths of emotions and memories.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

The garden is peculiar, delightful in its quirky impossibility. Hyunjin guides their hands along the dangling vines, the twisting arms of rough silk framing the other plants, brushing them in greeting as they float by.

A water bubble filled with a tulip streaked with red and gold and a random stray goldfish drifts between their faces. For a moment, Hyunjin’s eyes are twice as wide on his face.

Chan snorts at the sight. Hyunjin swipes a hand through a water bubble, droplets flying to soak into Chan’s hair, darkening his clothes. Something about the placement, spilling down Chan’s torso, sends an unwelcome chill down his spine.

Hyunjin only giggles in delight, unaware of the pause in Chan’s movements. Their fingers are still threaded together and Chan uses that as his anchor. It’s just water, nothing more, nothing less, neither thick nor sticky on his skin. But the moment slow-dripping liquid comes into his mind, the nearest ball of water flickers, the plant inside wilting and crumpling into a different shade of gray that Chan knows by now, isn’t really ashen in hue.

(Blood staining the wheel and spilling onto his hands, his forearms, his clothes—)

Something brushes against his cheek and Chan startles. Hyunjin stands much closer than before, his eyes a little tearful yet encouraging and warm all the same.

Hyunjin’s palms are cupped beneath his jawline and Chan finds his breath once more, feeling the calm wash over him as bubbles of water float in and out of his periphery. The plant he’d seen crumpling is slowly re-growing, its tiny sprouts reaching for the skies, revitalized.

Healing.

Hyunjin seems to sense the shift in mood, his smile back. He flicks more water onto Chan. In very grown-up behavior, he retaliates by shoving Hyunjin face-first into a blossoming flower.

Hyunjin shrieks as soon as he spits water and leaves from his mouth. “You did not just try to drown me in snowdrops.”

The flower name gives Chan an idea.

Chan pauses, pretending to mull over the words while pulling for the sensation of snow in his memory, the fluffiness and the cold but not bitterly so. Hyunjin is still wiping his mouth against his sleeve when Chan pelts him with the first snowball, packed lightly enough to scatter into dust as it smacks Hyunjin directly in the face.

Their environment flickers through countless changes but Hyunjin remains steady and present by his side, his hands calming and grounding when the flashes hit.

Chan grasps at the flashes, the painful ones too. He wasn’t in a good place but he was trying to do better, even now. That has to mean something.

Later when the sun rises over the trees, a different color crawls over the gray, brushing away the monotone and the edges of darkness. A soothing hue that makes the forest more inviting, the plants and the lichen thriving with life.

It complements the warm colors nicely, makes the brightness of orange and yellow, of magenta and vermillion, easier to accept. Chan can pinpoint the green splatters of paint over Hyunjin’s apron, decorating warm palms and long careful fingers.

Hyunjin’s eyes reflect the sea of refreshing emerald, serene.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

Sometimes, Chan wishes he could turn back time.

But he’s human and he makes mistakes and as much as he hates his imperfections, he can’t do anything to change the past.

It’s rare for him to argue with any of the boys but it doesn’t mean disagreements don’t exist. Usually though, they feel salvageable given some time and space for clarity to ring through their minds and point them towards a solution, a path forward.

He can’t even remember what instigated the increase in pitch, for Jisung to lash out, for Chan to respond in turn, his tone sharper than a whip.

The thing about vicious words bleeding into a disagreement means it’s suddenly more than just a simple conflict, it means becoming an army of blades flung at every exposed point, feeding off any vulnerable uncovered parts, tense and satisfyingly hurtful in the moment.

Chan wants to snatch everything he’d spat and choke it down with the glass shards of the aftermath: avoiding each other, marking up the group dynamics with concerned looks and awkward atmospheres, every room colder without Jisung’s chatter and larger-than-life attitude, the studio even with Changbin’s mediating presence is stiffly professional.

Felix tries to get him to talk about it, Minho tries to get him to forget about it, Jeongin tries to ignore it and Seungmin tries to fix it himself.

Hyunjin though, gently nudges Chan to take responsibility for it, encouraging without pushing or pressuring or guilt-tripping. He’s simply there by Chan’s side.

“I think I took it too far this time,” Chan murmurs. It’s late in the night, perhaps late enough to be considered early morning, the clock ticking through the devil’s hour where all of his regrets come to haunt him. “Jisung won’t even look at me anymore.”

“Do you want him to?”

He startles a little at Hyunjin’s question, taken aback. “Of course. I want things to be easy between us again, not—” Chan mimes with his hands, unsure what exactly he’s trying to express.

Hyunjin reads his frustration, the chaos within, with an understanding gaze. “You can’t heal something if you don’t mean it with your entire being. It goes both ways.”

Chan slows. He hasn’t exactly been doing anything about the bubble of hurt between them either, avoiding Jisung similarly too, brushing the others off when they only had good intentions.

“And if Jisung doesn’t want things to be fixed?” he says quietly, dreading the words as they manifest into the air. There’s real fear in Chan’s heart, a blade twisting and twisting.

Hyunjin is silent for a long moment. “Then you’ll know that at the very least, you tried.”

The next morning, or more accurately, a few hours of lying in bed later, he stands on the threshold of Hyunjin and Jisung’s apartment. Hyunjin claps a hand on his shoulder and nods toward the closed door down the hallway.

Chan feels a knot in his chest untangle and unwind, pulling with it some of the heaviness that had been clouding his mind. Avoidance had only piled the anxiety and the guilt and the hurt inside until it had him by the throat. Even though he’s nervous, one look at the understanding and reassurance in Hyunjin’s eyes settles the raw fear in his veins.

Accepting and himself and present when it matters. That’s who Hyunjin is, Chan thinks with amazement and something giddy that tastes like love.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 ⚪ ⚫ ⚪

They’re in the field of butterflies again but this time, the shadows have turned to sunrays and the stalks of gray are rich with brightness, connected by deep green.

Chan knows what’s coming now, can sense the shakiness of their surroundings as a warning that their time is nearly up. Hyunjin takes Chan’s hand in his own and leans forward.

Chan’s knuckles burn with the warmth of his kiss long after the world has shifted to overlook sprawling hills and prairie roads. The calm and quiet is akin to being pulled along another journey rather than being left behind. He thinks he could get used to this.

Blooming and unfurling in the presence of four other pinpoints of light, a green pearl shines among the searing radiance of warmth.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 ⚫ ⚪

A voice of liquid honey greets Chan as he surfaces into awareness. The smooth richness of the baritone and the softer falsettos awaken the swell of pride and the ringing sound of clear laughter, teasing sarcastic comments mingling with honest answers and trustworthy advice.

The name spills from his tongue even before Chan has fully registered his features.

Chan’s voice comes out a bit garbled and he winces a bit at how discordant it sounds as the singing comes to a pause. He tries for a smile as he finds Seungmin’s eyes, vulnerable in a way he’s rarely seen. “I’ve missed you.”

Seungmin says nothing, only moving to take Chan’s hand and threading their fingers tightly. With thinned lips, he drinks in every inch of Chan’s features like a man starved, to the point that Chan can feel himself flushing down his neck and up to the tips of his ears, burning from the inside out.

The fluttering of a light wind clinks through the open windows of the cottage and Seungmin takes a full breath, his features visibly relaxing.

“Not as much as we’ve missed you,” Seungmin whispers.

We, not I. Because no matter what happens, Seungmin never fails to put others before himself.

Chan doesn’t think the knowledge will do him much good but he’s still morbidly curious. “How long has it been?”

Seungmin frowns, a wave of emotions crossing over the softness of his cheeks, the sharpness of his jawline. “You can recognize me,” he says simply.

So they couldn’t have been separated for quite that long and yet, “It feels like it’s been forever.”

The lines around Seungmin’s eyes tighten, hardening for a fraction of a moment. “I know the exact dates, all the time that’s gone by, every day in my journal since…” His voice is dull and Chan finally identifies the hardness as barely concealed pain. Seungmin raises his gaze, defiant as he continues, “It’s better if you don’t have anything quantifiable.”

The words ring with truth. He clearly knows what Chan is truly asking for. Chan may be obstinate on a certain level but he’s starting to remember, it’s nothing compared to Seungmin’s stubbornness when he’s made up his mind. Chan feels a hint of frustration but mostly, he feels grateful, trusting Seungmin to know him well enough even as most of their memories together are still swamped in the gray haze of his mind.

There’s stability in this limbo state as Chan remains in the dark about the passage of time. Putting a number on the life Chan has been drifting through since the great blank spot in his memory wouldn’t help matters. Healing, as Chan is slowly and grudgingly accepting, can’t be rushed.

Seungmin tugs at Chan’s wrist. He doesn’t look apologetic exactly but there’s something almost delicate written in the tilt of his mouth and the fold of his hands.

“We’ll wait for you, Chan,” Seungmin smiles gently. The tiny gesture feels like an embrace as the walls of the cottage melt, a mesmerizing transition to a different landscape. “Even though our hearts may be far apart, you’re not alone.”

And Chan inhales the crispness of clear skies, flickering in its gray to something not quite monotone, finding he whole-heartedly believes every one of Seungmin’s honeyed words.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 ⚫ ⚪

Ice crystals twinkle as they walk, bouncing around the walls of gossamer thin ice. Everywhere Chan turns, sprinkles of light dot the air, misty beams of silver casting down from above.

Their silhouettes are warped hilariously on one sheet of ice, presenting a wolf and the traces of a waiting golden retriever. On the next, water droplets glisten in frozen time a hairsbreadth into the ice and Chan sees images reflected in its surface, of golds and greens marking different structures in different worlds, each a tiny motionless capsule in the rushing of time.

Chan reaches into the crisp clean air, grasping a crystal operating on its own laws of gravity. He sees his reflection in the dazzling of iridescent spray and for a short moment, there are several pairs of eyes looking back, wide with surprise and curved in relief.

Lips are moving and pulling back into smiles. Warmth surges into Chan’s fingers and he thinks a hand brushes over his cheek, a wisp of breath floating into his ears, before only his own widened gaze stares back at him once more.

The crystal becomes smooth, leaving Chan to wonder.

A light emanates from the surface, scattering dewdrops of color to the icicles around them and over the course of a few mesmerizing moments, the crystal forms a floating heart, spliced into eight congruent sections.

As slowly as it formed, the crystal just as quickly transforms into a tea cake.

Seungmin raises perfectly arched brows when Chan swivels, teasing and instigating as if begging for Chan to try and fight him on it.

Chan doesn’t, draping his weight around Seungmin instead. Although Seungmin is slack in his arms, Chan can see the edges of his grin beyond the veneer of displeasure.

He digs two fingers into the flesh of Seungmin’s stomach and Seungmin barks out a surprised shout, trying and failing to escape Chan’s hold.

Chan swears his laughter is just as, if not more, mellifluous than the chiming of incandescent icicles. He could lie down and listen to the slight sounds of plinking water and crystal showers but he thinks Seungmin’s laughter could last him an eternity.

(Seungmin reaching out to the tightened fist of Chan’s hands, smoothing over the bloodless knuckles and gently massaging his fingers until pins and needles replace the numbness there, scolding him and Felix for not wearing gloves.

Pine cones and cedar, coffee and wood smoke, safety in an exasperated sigh and warm eyes.)

His grip loosens on Seungmin and unbalanced, they fall into a forest of fireflies and curling plants in lazy morning light. Spikes of jagged flame dance buoyantly around their feet without igniting a single leaf.

Seungmin recovers immediately, taking his hand. They bend down together to cradle one of the energetic flickers. Heat floods into his veins, not unlike with the crystal. The feeling of six other presences ghosts over Chan’s skin.

And then slowly, Seungmin raises their hands until they’re staring at the sky, no longer gray but clear with sapphire brightness.

The flame in their palms burns with a different hue, brighter, electric, lightning on a dark night. Chan takes in the blue of the world and the blue of Seungmin’s presence with the myriad of warm colors and the richness of earthen shades.

Surrounded by brilliance, Seungmin’s smile is somehow bolder, chasing away the lingering dredges of sorrow and darkness Chan hadn’t known he still carried.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 ⚫ ⚪

“Can I trust you to keep a secret?” Chan whispers into the quiet of the studio.

There must be something in his tone because instead of humming like he usually would to indicate he’s listening, Seungmin looks up from his laptop and studies Chan’s face, searching, gentle eyes intense.

He closes his laptop without looking, the clink of metal echoing in Chan’s chest to the beating of his heart, heavy and muted and final.

Seungmin responds with an ever rational response, “Depends on the secret.”

Chan breaks their gaze though he doubts it matters. He can hide behind his smiles, his work, his music, his armored walls of nagging and compulsions and Jisung, Hyunjin and Felix will cast him worried looks but give him space. Not Seungmin though. He’s always seen so much.

“I think it’s back.” He can feel the weight of Seungmin’s frown. “It’s like I’m living partially submerged. Everything is numbed and toned down.”

There’s a pause, Seungmin carefully picking his next words. “What do you think you need?”

Chan stares at his hands, unmoving in his lap, no big gestures while he’s talking, no personality. “A spark to get through this slump.”

Seungmin looks unimpressed. “You can’t keep working. You’ve already run yourself into the ground and a few feet under for good measure.”

“But there’s no time. I have deadlines and nothing is sounding right and the management is stressed too and it feels like the moment I stop, everything Changbin and Jisung have worked so hard for, everything you have all done to help us, will come crashing down with me. There’s too much potential in our reach to take a break,” Chan chokes out. He only realizes he’s breathless when his chest hurts, a lump of anxiety clawing up his throat just at the vocalized thoughts. “The company needs—”

“The company can go fuck themselves then,” Seungmin says matter-of-factly like he’s commenting on how he and Jeongin bought their shoes.

He tugs Chan up from the desk chair but his hand is soft at the back of Chan’s neck. “What you need is some consecutive uninterrupted sleep, several warm meals, non-draining human interactions and your life back.”

“I have my life,” Chan protests weakly.

Sorrow dips at the edges of Seungmin’s eyes, dappling his features in bitter shadows. “When’s the last time we saw you for more than an hour, Chan?” When Chan doesn’t respond, genuinely unable to remember, Seungmin sighs, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We miss you and it hurts us to see you like this.”

Like this.

Isolating himself. Overworking again. Not sleeping. Stressing out over every little worry, anxiety laughing and indulging the spiraling. “Prone to depression,” a psychologist had diagnosed before. If he recalls correctly, each of the factors he’d listed only works in auto-catalytic destruction.

“You’re not unbreakable as much as you try to be for all of us.”

“I should be,” Chan protests weakly.

“What you should and shouldn’t be doesn’t matter. Just come back to us.” It’s a plea as much as a demand because Kim Seungmin knows how to put his foot down and exactly what buttons to press.

And Chan feels the sense of loss acutely now as if Seungmin pointing it out with blunt honesty somehow magnified every piece of the family he’s been neglecting, the cage of depression opening up to let in the first ray of light. It’s almost blinding as fondness slams into the yearning and loneliness inside that he’s ignored for countless fatiguing weeks.

Some cycles are meant to go on until time eternal but this muted cycle is one Chan seeks to end forever, jarred and breaking with Seungmin’s stable presence, fragments of loyal brilliance and unyielding determination to push through the haze of Chan’s own destructive persistence.

Seungmin doesn’t stray far as they walk through the city lights, his hand in Chan’s hoodie pocket where Chan intends to store the warmth of his unfiltered judgment and trust, Seungmin’s love harsh around the edges perhaps but no less welcoming.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 ⚫ ⚪

Chan hears Seungmin’s voice in the blue of the skies and the brilliance of the seas, blunt yet sincere, crystalline and smooth.

An orb joins the collection of lights, swaying colors across the monolith austerity of the cottage walls. The sapphire pearl bobs to a new rhythm among the other pearls, throwing organized chaos into their depths, into the vibrancy of red and amber and pinks and golds, balancing out the green with the blue of its simultaneously soothing and piercing hue.

Although there are only six pearls, when Chan closes his eyes, he can picture seven faces, can trace the lines of unique smiles and grasp the feeling of home in his very bones.

He knows he can trust what they have even if he can’t trust the twisting ever-changing landscape of his mind.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜 ⚪

Chan expects Minho’s presence, anticipates his visit with an almost violent yearning.

Still, he isn’t remotely prepared for Minho to manifest in all his effortless finesse and soft curling smiles, still bowled over by the sensations within despite not remembering any of the details.

He’s not sure what he expected. After all, Minho has always been unpredictable.

Minho doesn’t say anything, not yet at least, simply marching up to him with determination burning in his eyes. Chan is surprised but not completely taken aback when Minho plants the warmth of his mouth straight on Chan’s lips. Perhaps, a part of Chan was anticipating and hoping more fervently than he can ever know.

The kiss is slow and languid and achingly familiar. Chan captures the petal softness of Minho’s lips, pressing against him for more, more, more.

When Chan pulls back, they’re both breathless, their clothes rumpled. He still thinks Minho looks beautiful under the starlight though he knows his imagination could never hold a candle to Minho’s ethereal grace.

His hair is different from when he’d first appeared and Chan isn’t sure how until he registers the color gradually creeping into the strands of gray. Violet is a good shade on Minho, sparking intrigue to the multi-layered enigma of his presence, the dainty strength of his beauty and the softness of his heart.

“Minho,” Chan sighs as he tucks a strand of loose hair behind Minho’s ear, disbelief edging away to take in the sly sharp curve of Minho’s lips.

“I’m finally here.” His words are light but there’s a hint of shadow along the edges of his eyes.

“You took your sweet time.”

Minho laughs and his voice rings with the clear sweetness of bells after a long night. “Saved the best for last.”

A sea of lavender curls over their feet and spreads to a glowing shore. The purple swirls a solid pathway through the papyrus they’re standing upon, filling the canvas with the tangles of every color imaginable and giving way to let the hues of brightness and calm shine in their glory.

Minho’s reliability, the strength in his presence, spreads an inner fire through Chan’s core. Shared responsibility, kindred spirits. In his soul, Chan knows he can cross any ocean and walk through the ice and fire of life without the fear of facing anything completely alone.

Their feet follow the lines of a book – of their story – through the fields of memories. Colors swirl in the skies above and greet them in the starry earth below.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜 ⚪

“Why are we at a hot springs and not in the hot springs?”

Minho glances at the water dismissively, moving onto a different equally spine-cracking stretch. “The ambiance is nice.”

“Just admit you can’t swim,” Chan says, a grin pulling at his lips despite the glare Minho shoots his way. “I’ll save you from drowning. Probably.”

Minho shifts his weight to his arms, flipping sideways in smooth fluidity. As he does so, a spray of water douses Chan to the bones.

When Chan finally dries his face, blearily blinking water from his eyes, he sees the loose rock Minho had shifted to allow for a different flow in the current. Minho raises an eyebrow at his drowned puppy state, giggling at Chan’s misery but a second later, Chan is wearing dried clothing once more, warmer than the ones he had on before like the material had soaked in all the stray sunrays in the sky.

“Come on, old man. You’re literally just standing.”

Chan sigh, begging for patience though there’s something so very light in his heart too. “We are literally not that far in age,” he retorts.

“And yet, you’d probably literally fail a balance test before it begins by walking into the entrance,” Minho says snippily, emphasizing the overused word in triumph.

Chan knows any attempt to defend himself will be futile, Minho twisting his words and his own clumsiness working against him. Along his skin, he can feel the ghost of a healed bruise painting his elbow as one of the boys surprises him at the studio. The memory hinges on bittersweet and Chan scrunches his eyes in the hopes of bringing another one to mind.

The mischievous sharpness of Minho’s smile paints its Cheshire stretch behind his eyelids, marble features carefully controlled even as his hands wander over Chan’s body.

(“What are you doing?” Chan tries to squirm away from Minho’s hands but he’s stronger than he looks, dancer body lithe with muscle.

“Checking you charged up your phone. Last time the wind was this wild, there was a power outage and I had to miss out on some very important meetings to come rescue your sorry butt,” Minho exclaims. His argument would be practical enough if his palms didn’t land on Chan’s stomach, sliding slowly to his hips.

Chan leans in closer and the curve of Minho’s lips sharpen, his eyes darkening. He very well knows what Minho is doing, very well knows if he takes a step, Minho will too and Chan will be late to the studio once again.

He doesn’t care. Chan snags Minho by the collar and drags him closer—)

Chan readjusts his posture and the memory floats into the air. A different type of warmth is settled low in his stomach, spreading to the rest of his body as he sneaks a glance at Minho who remains oblivious to the buzzing in Chan’s veins.

The moments pass in tensed agony. He winces as the stretch pulls at the stiff muscles of his hamstrings.

Minho barely wavers in his perfect triangle stance, one hand balanced flat on the ground in front of his legs and the other raised to point towards the turquoise hues of the sky. Meanwhile, Chan holds some melted version of the stretch, his fingers dangling just above his toes.

Maybe Minho is right. Chan certainly has the flexibility of an old man.

He focuses on the melodious trickling of the nearby stream and concentrates on counting the number of spots on the ladybug trying to crawl around his shoes.

When Minho finally decides he’s tortured Chan enough with this particular stretch, Chan doesn’t even bother straightening up, simply imagining a field filled with the softest rose petals to collapse face first into.

“The cool down stretch is the most important,” Minho grumbles for the fourth time, nudging Chan’s thigh with his foot. He looks comfortable among the warm pastel petals though.

“I think not pulling my muscles is more important.”

Minho rolls his eyes and without preamble, throws himself on top of Chan, their legs tangling. Chan freezes, at a loss, but it’s the most natural thing in the world to curl steadying arms around Minho’s waist, fingers dancing along the knots of his spine.

“What did I tell you?” Minho’s voice is softer now, the blink of his eyes indulgent. “The cool down stretch is absolutely needed.”

(“You all mean so much to me. I know I don’t say it or show it nearly enough but I do love you.”

A chorus of exaggerated heartfelt sentiments are thrown back and Chan laughs despite himself, tears mingling with his smile. Seungmin grins proudly beside him, happy Chan has finally listened to reason and was willingly dragged away from the studio.

Among them, “I guess I don’t hate you.”

“You’re the worst.” There’s a laugh in there though, shared.)

Chan buries his nose in Minho’s hair and fills his lungs with the comfort that he won’t face the mystery of tomorrow alone.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜 ⚪

The nightmare follows Chan in every wisp of his movements, every gaze turned his way, a film over each of his thoughts, lurking and waiting to pounce. He’s unable to brush off the slackened feeling of cold hands in his own, the same ones that had bid him a harsh farewell years ago.

They may not have been the best people, certainly not the best parents. Chan hadn’t even been present in their last moments, hadn’t seen them in so long he had trouble recalling their faces beyond blurry features, faded with the chasm of time and distance between them.

Years had gone by, the days flickering and tumbling until Chan hadn’t even hesitated to put Changbin, Jisung and Felix as his emergency contacts in university, didn’t even question signing Jeongin’s work authorization as a witness, always accompanied Minho to his business events to “soothe” his boredom, nearly cried when Seungmin and Minho alongside Hyunjin and Jeongin signed the mortgage, their signatures nestled under Chan and Changbin’s, beside Jisung’s and Felix’s.

He had his family. They were right beside him every step of the way when things mattered the most, when nothing seemed to matter at all.

So why was Chan grieving for two people who had grown to become strangers?

The others notice. (Of course they notice.)

It’s Minho who barges right through the side-stepping and firmly takes Chan aside, out of earshot but not quite out of sight. Seungmin and Jeongin at least pretend to focus on their food while Jisung tries to redirect Changbin and Hyunjin’s attention though he and Felix throw so many concerned looks at them, Chan wonders if they’re even attempting to be inconspicuous.

Minho gives his elbow a shake and Chan tears his gaze back to the stern lines of worry etched into Minho’s face, subtle if Chan hadn’t learned to read Lee Minho a long time ago.

“You’re scaring us, Chan,” Minho murmurs, cutting right to the chase. “You haven’t spoken a word to us in days.”

Chan shrugs. His heart beats on but he doesn’t feel alive. He’s not sure he can summon the energy to speak when he finds it so hard to simply breathe.

Minho sighs and though his lips are twisted in displeasure, clearly wanting to push more yet knowing better, his tone is kind. “We’re here, okay? Whatever you need, we’re here.”

Somehow, Chan manages to nod, already turning his body to step back. “I know we can do something to help but you have to let us in.” For once, Chan can’t identify everything in those words. Minho slides his hand lower to Chan’s wrist and it’s a mystery as to why Minho is begging. “It hurts to see you like this—”

Minho lets out a wet choking sound that splices the sentence and Chan almost staggers back at the sharp throbbing ache inside his chest as Minho starts to cry. Minho rarely lets his tears fall, let alone in front of anyone else.

Something clicks inside Chan and really, he could punch himself for being so blind. Minho is scared of losing him again. They all are. It’s happened before where Chan has pulled away though he’s always returned, albeit not completely of his own volition.

Minho is scared that this time, none of them will be able to pull Chan back.

Oh.

Chan isn’t sure if he’s able to come back completely anymore either. He’s so tired. He’s so damn tired.

But Minho is terrified out of his mind and willing to confront Chan anyways, risking a permanent crack in their relationship, for all eight of them. Brave.

The least Chan can do is try his hardest to grasp at them a little tighter.

Chan doesn’t realize his eyes are wet and he’s suffocating because he’s sobbing so hard into Minho until there’s a cloth wiping at his face, Felix’s eyes reflected in broken fragments of anguish, Chan’s pain his own too. There are more presences around them now, warm bodies and tender words and reassuring touches.

The scars, the hurt, the pain of simply living in the midst of an uncaring world, is still molded into the depths of Chan’s form. No one can ever really take that away, just as he’s unable to take away any of the burdens or choking despair from the boys he loves as family.

Together though, they can hold each other through the bloody fragments of the storm of life, making sure they each make it out as a whole, no matter how changed or different they may be.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜 ⚪

Chan stares at the sky where the beginnings of a violet twilight spreads like watercolor over the horizon, mixing with the blue and green, the dashes of rose and yellow and tangerine, the blooming crimson of the star waving goodbye to an end, waiting to greet a new beginning, no less painless but perhaps less lonely.

“I’ll kiss you on the other side,” Minho says with a little smirk and the tiniest wave. “So you better join us there.”

Chan thinks the gesture adorable and voices it aloud to Minho’s chagrin. He reaches over to reel Minho in for one last moment and Minho, surprisingly, doesn’t protest like he’s wont to do, holding Chan just as tight.

“Are the kids alright?”

Minho nods against Chan’s shoulder and his eyes are simultaneously soft and serious. “We’ll see you soon, okay?”

When Minho leaves, the world stills for a moment, the purples arching across the sky losing the clarity they hold as does every color Chan can visibly see, his heartache illustrated across the celestial bodies. Chan watches Minho’s figure fade in a parallel of how Jisung had materialized, his solidity coming undone until only air remains, the breath of warm lingering on.

A spinning pearl of violet settles amidst the ruckus of vibrating orbs, an anchor for the warmer colors of excited orange and bright pink, of dazzling yellow and deep red, and a complement to bring out the calmer aqua and lush greens.

Minho’s sharp words and sharper smile glows in the royal purple, a soothing familiarity amongst the chaos.

(Our love is every color.)

He feels a little braver knowing they’re beside him in spirit, knowing he won’t have to face the rest of his forgotten memories completely alone.

Chan smiles a little, the inkling of fire planted in his bones expanding outwards.

He wants to hear Minho’s teasing, see Jeongin’s smile, feel Felix’s hand pressed against his own, watch the way Jisung’s eyes light up, laugh at Seungmin’s sardonic jabs, taste Changbin’s lopsided grin and relax into Hyunjin’s long-limbed endeavors to drape himself boneless over Chan. He wants them all back.

Acceptance in the face of grief is one of the hardest things to acknowledge but he’s making peace with the choking lodge that’s been in his throat all this time, numbing the world.

The path he’s walked has never been light, filled with potholes of pain and stretching shadows of haunting experiences. He’ll have to relive all of that, to remember how to feel with all his heart again.

But this time, he will know each of the seven reoccurring faces, understand both their hopes and their broken dreams, intimately feel every smile and every one of their tears in his core, their trust in him and the warmth of something greater together.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜 🤍

It takes a while, longer than Chan would have liked, the loneliness haunting him now that he knows the warmth of companionship, of family, but he remembers.

Everything.

Losing one home but making another, new additions welcomed with little knowledge of how truly impactful each and every one of them would become to Chan, to each other, through the highs and through all the lows.

The studio, the exhaustion, the stubbornness that he was fine and didn’t need help that night, a bombardment of protesting messages and calls, Chan turning off his phone.

The drive and never making it to his intended destination, the screeching of crunching metal and the nauseatingly wet sound of something snapping inside him, the pain and the fear, for himself and for those he was leaving behind.

Seven presences surrounding his prone form, hazy from the few times he’s woken, almost immediately forgotten and replaced by the dulled monotones in the realm of his mind but always there, always present.

Perhaps Chan has always remembered, the tickling of familiarity and déjà vu in every little thing, hidden behind the numbing protection of denial. If he could never feel again, he’d never hurt again either.

But that mindset was a cage.

Never feeling again means never healing too.

Chan cradles the seven pearls in his palms, an interweaving tangle of feelings surging through his veins. It’s a strange sensation and a bit overwhelming.

Fleeting memories dance across his mind, a bubble of laughter here, a clear silvery voice there, the splash of a tear, tracking a line to drip onto the floor.

The pearls pulse with their unique colors and then one by one, rise from Chan’s hands, humming with energy and spreading brushes of warmth as they begin to spin.

Striking oranges flash from the pearl Jisung had left behind, joyful pinks from Felix’s and pulsating violets from Minho’s. Jeongin’s pearl explodes bursts of gold while Seungmin’s brings forth unwavering shades of blues, unstoppable as the ocean tides. The earthy and vibrant greens of Hyunjin’s mix first with Changbin’s pearl of bleeding red, brilliant and grounding, before the colors collide with the others.

The dazzle of colors pierces Chan’s eyes but he can’t bear to tear his gaze away.

There’s an explosion of light and a ripple passes through the landscape, a gentle breath expanding from the focal point. Chan feels the caress and the warmth of home.

When he opens his eyes, there’s a single pearl floating before him. It seems translucent but as Chan tilts his head, he catches the dashes of color, hues he can name and ones he may never truly feel.

Millions of them. The pearl levitates in place for another moment before it presses itself gently into the area above Chan’s heart.

He takes a breath that seems both heavier with weight and meaning yet lighter too, lively.

Follow the colors. Let them in.

Chan thinks he finally understands.

💗 ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜 🤍

Nerves drip from everyone’s frames even as Hyunjin tousles with Minho and Changbin. It’s in the way Jeongin’s dropped his equipment twice, clattering against the dim reflective coating of the floor, in the way Felix hasn’t stopped abusing his lips and fluttering his hands.

Jisung fumbles unsuccessfully with the straps around his waist, the buckles misaligning. Long fingers gently shove his clumsy hands away and braid the necessary cords and straps together.

Seungmin appears completely unruffled but Jisung can see the tightness of his jaw, the slight downward pull at the corners of his lips, worry weighing them down.

They all knew the risks. The doctors had discouraged them but with the combined forces of Seungmin and Minho’s stubbornness and Hyunjin and Changbin’s persistence, they caved. Paperwork finished and equipment set up, all they had to do now was reunite with Chan one last time.

“Just keep in mind that this could very well be a one-way trip,” the lead doctor warns again. “The machine was never built to accommodate syncing so many different individuals all at once.”

Three months and twenty-five days.

Jisung knows the others believe it’s worth it anyways.

There had been moments where it was hard, where Jisung had to practically lie to himself that what they had, these little snippets of connection with Chan’s consciousness was enough, that they didn’t need to mourn when Chan was right here with them.

“I can hear you thinking,” Seungmin mumbles, nimble fingers moving to tie the straps along Jisung’s shoulders.

“Do you believe it’ll work? Answer honestly.” Jisung isn’t sure what he wants to hear: dying together or living the rest of their lives with Chan like this, lying still in a bed and shrouded in white, connected to cords and tubes and machines.

Seungmin stares at the cord beneath the strap he’s tying. Jisung stumbles forward when Seungmin yanks the cord, causing Felix to yelp as he’s tugged along too, nearly dragging Jeongin down with him. Seungmin looks up at Jisung and then deliberately lowers his gaze to the cord still in his hands.

The same little red cord peeks out from Seungmin’s gear, from around Hyunjin’s waist where Minho is looping it around Changbin’s wrists while Hyunjin holds him in place. Jisung follows the red to Chan’s bedside where it disappears beneath the thin blanket and itchy hospital gown.

They’re physically electrically connected. But Jisung knows what’s allowed the eight of them to succeed with this technology while all other experimental research has failed isn’t purely in the tangible links.

Although they share no blood, they’ve shared sorrows and heartbreak, joys and pleasures, bared their worst and their best to one another, with one another. No matter which realm they’re in, living or dreaming or artificially real, nothing could ever keep them apart.

He closes his eyes, feeling Seungmin’s hand drop from his though his presence lingers reassuringly near, as do the others.

After a moment of what Jisung has dubbed “static” – the little sparks of sensation traveling from their temples, down their spines and all the way to the tips of their fingers and toes, the machine syncing with their physical bodies and their consciousness – Jisung hears the familiar sound of the lulling waves, the scent of apples and the warmth of lazy sunshine on his face.

Jisung sighs as he opens his eyes, the ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach unraveling. The vibrancy around him is beautiful, sure, but they’re not here for that, they’re here for something far more important.

There’s a little cottage by the cliffs and as Jisung watches, the front door flings open, the figure silhouetted against the rising sun.

Wordlessly, Jisung holds his hand towards Chan as he slowly starts to descend the steps of the porch. He’s drinking in all of their faces from Minho and Felix on Jisung’s left, to Hyunjin and Seungmin crowded right behind him, to Jeongin and Changbin on Jisung’s right.

Chan looks down at Jisung’s outstretched hand but doesn’t take it quite yet. He studies the seven of them like his train of thought has derailed, expression stuck in utter astonishment. There’s hope in his eyes though, not the fragile threaded spark that had been there when Jisung had been with him. The embers all but burn now with determination, passion, courage, trust, devotion.

Jisung smiles gently. None of them approach Chan first; they went over this. Right here, right now, this has to be Chan’s choice, his own desire to take that final step the seven of them have been guiding him towards.

Chan exhales in a breathless laugh. A toothy grin shines on his features. He doesn’t hold himself with robotic stiffness anymore, Jisung notes, the numbness that had clung to his very bones loosening with bittersweet acceptance. Jisung’s eyes feel a little wet and he knows with the sniffling to his left, he’s not the only one crying.

Even as a crystalline tear drops from wet lashes, Chan shines with a brimming euphoria, subtle on his cheeks yet almost tangible in his eyes. Chan closes the distance between them and takes Jisung’s hand.

Unlike the last time they had parted ways, Chan is warm. It makes him more concrete and more alive in the way he sees them without gazing through them as if they’re finally real for him too.

Jisung knows. He already knows what the answer will be but the words still tumble from his lips.

“Are you ready?” Are you ready to come back home?

And Chan beams and somehow they’re all hugging now with Chan’s arms trying to wrap around them all. Chan whispers, “I am.”

The world goes dark as static fills their ears, shifting for the last time. The colors though, mingle together and follow the warmth of eight souls home.

coda.