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yeoldontknow · 4 years

Text

All Quiet

Author’s Note: wahooo! another chanvember event in the books! this is yet another personal journey for me. i call this: an ode to single living lmao. i hope you enjoy! Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: angst; romance; fluff; au Summary: After your breakup, Chanyeol moves out of the house you shared together. It’s fine, until it absolutely isn’t. Over time, you start to miss him - miss him in places and ways you never thought you would. Eventually, you realize you miss home, too - even though you never actually left. Rating: R (just being safe? there’s really nothing awful in here, but some pretty adult themes rear their head) Warnings: mentions of anxiety; dark thoughts in a depressive episode; brief mentions of death (no major characters); heavy angst; a bug in a room (if youre afraid of bugs i suppose); men in bars who dont know when to shut up lmao Word Count: 8K look mom i did it

It’s not like he would have helped in this situation.

You tell yourself this while you breathe, rather erratically, in the center of your kitchen attempting to ease yourself back to a state of calm. In one hand, you clutch the cold handle of your Swiffer while, in the other, you wield the can of raid as though it is a weapon. Chest tight and gaze unwavering, it’s hard to tell when small inconveniences such as this started to insight a deep, slow panic, paralyzing you with fear, leaving room for little else.

A brief walk through your memory clearly reminds you that, months ago, you would not have responded quite so viscerally - truly, you probably would have laughed, an exasperated sound dripping with disdain for the season or the city or the poor construction of your apartment.

If a lightbulb burst, you would change it with little complaint, standing precariously on your step stool; when the fire alarm started beeping, even after you’d changed the battery, you constructed a tower of books to remove it, calling yourself resourceful; when the popcorn machine erupted into flames, an electric fire sparking in the center of its hot dome, you unplugged it and laughed and laughed, glad to be alive.

And if you saw a bug, you would handle it - he liked to call it handling, as though it was difficult, as though it was painful, as though something like this could be considered a threat that required strategy and an iron will. You’d always laughed when he did that, all six feet of him cowering behind your small frame, desperately seeking shelter and shielded by the mystery of your majestic stoicism.

No. Chanyeol would not have helped. In cases like this, he was worse than afraid, endearingly useless, but at least then, you think, you had someone to protect. Someone who was not you. Someone who needed you.

For a long while, you stand still, impassive and frozen, not because of the insect flying around your bedroom but because you think it odd that this is what makes you miss him. For the first time in a long time, you want him here, a thing you never thought you’d crave. Not after everything, and certainly not after...after.

The first time this happened, he was a mess, a disaster - a gentle description given the way he flailed himself off the couch and bumped bruises into his knees from the coffee table. It was the fastest you’d seen him move in ages, across the room in a flash and yelling, stressed beyond reason, before you even had a chance to lower the screen of your laptop.

You laughed then, the sight of his flailing limbs a form of divine entertainment, endearing in its chaos, bemused and bewildered by the speed of his movements. Words left him, reduced him to vague wails of anguished contempt as he pointed, rather vaguely, in the direction of what he had seen. Even with his extended hand as a general marker of location, you struggled to see what he saw, expecting something more, something large and unwieldy, and something unspeakable.

In the end, it was small, a tiny thing you would have missed if you had not been so carefully looking. A spider. A house spider. An insect you had grown to expect both within and beyond domestic spaces.

For him, you were brave. Would you have been brave for yourself? It does not matter, not really. You were comfortable, rolling your eyes as you went to grab the dust pan. It was nothing - you told him it was nothing as you walked past him, catching hold of his fingers as he latched onto your hand for support. Even then, you felt you’d never find this annoying, something about watching someone so imposing and so large crumble, so dramatically, was humorous, special.

Now, you realize it was not humor. It was never humor. It was need.

In the end, the thing you relished most, always with him, was the way he made you feel needed. Wanted. Chanyeol needed you then, at least as badly as you felt, and knew, you needed him. In those moments - in that moment - your love for him finally felt fair, a balance to the improbable scale of need versus want.

Without him, the house is empty. In moments of fear, there is no yelling, no flailing - no display of panic to return to later and laugh about or through, your own expression of panic shock. Lately, you’re slow to react, calm and careful, gentle movements out of the room and a silent exclamation of disgust. More than anything, now, you are aware of the all encompassing quiet - the way you never really let anyone know you need help, not even yourself.

Now, standing in the kitchen, the silence envelopes you, enough to convince yourself there isn’t a problem at all. With the bedroom door shut, you can almost pretend the light isn’t actually on, that nothing is there, that you meant to cook a meal rather than fight a war, distracted and alarmed by something out of the corner of your eye. Now, you can almost pretend it was the quiet that scared you, and little else.

Now, without anyone to need you, you can almost pretend you don’t even need yourself.

Almost.

Closing your eyes, you take in a deep breath, existing within the feeling of lack and the feeling of loneliness, the realization that there is nothing here except you and this thing and only one can stay.

You open your eyes. You grip the handle.

Your steps to the bedroom are quiet, but, at least they are steps.

Even before you settle on the barstool, you can tell he will come talk to you.

Thursday night and you've been drawn out, head empty and focus dulled as you walk toward the bitter sting of cold gin. You're not really looking for conversation, mostly just looking for noise, the cacophonous hum of others, indistinguishable voices serving to remind you the world is peopled even, if they aren't your people.

He sees you as you walk in, eyes catching your vacant scan of the room and demanding your attention. For a moment you’re grateful for the reminder that this is a place where you need to be aware and astute, ready to leave or ready to stay, and, conversely, aware that neither option is ideal.

The point is that he sees you and makes sure that you see him, deftly reminding you that eclipses are always known even if they aren't truly witnessed.

He’s new to the bar, your regular haunt with a broken card reader on the jukebox and the barely there space between the tables. The brown liquor in his cup has put confidence in his spine and false hope in his roaming eyes, a smirk pulling at his lips as he looks and looks and looks, waiting for his voice to be heard. Helen slides you a Gin and Tonic, your usual, offering a welcoming smile before glancing sidelong with a grimace as the heat of his sudden proximity radiates into your shoulder.

Even before you settle on the barstool, he's ready.

‘They make ‘em strong here,’ he says with a smile, regarding your glass with an expression of feigned interest.

The gravel in his voice is uncomfortable, an itch at the back of your throat that you swallow three times to alleviate, lips pulling into a sneer, scorning the upturned pretentiousness of his syllables. His shoulders roll back to puff out his chest and your thighs tighten around the seat, heels anchoring onto the support bar at the base of the stool, perched and ready to depart. Offering him a curt nod, you study the military edges of his short haircut, deciding, almost immediately, that you will not be here long.

At this, you smile, aware that people on barstools rarely are.

A smile he mistakes as an invitation.

Pride cascades over his features and settles in the dark corners beneath his cheek bones, cutting shapes into his expression you wish did not exist. As he settles on the stool next to yours, your stomach drops, the light putting a foreboding glimmer in his eyes, the kind that makes you want to scoff, and to mutter this fucking guy.

Offering him a once over, a look he reads as interest, smiling wider and feeling encouraged, you confirm he is relatively harmless. Even standing, he’s slightly shorter than you, already balding, soft in all the ways Chanyeol was not, and different enough to make you think it would be might to forget, at least for a little while.

But he rests his arms on the bar top, still smiling and still feeling like he's tasting the precipice of control, proud that it’s barely seven and celebrating like he’s already found his moment. The new position offers you a glimpse of the hidden strength nestling in the grooves of his knuckles, muscles in the forearm that disappear under his rolled sleeves, and you remember to be careful. Now, you remember that trust is earned, not worn, and so you lean back, pulling out of his orbit just enough to remember you aren't looking for a game tonight, and he cannot make you play.

Emboldened by your silence, he begins to tell you a story, the kind that meanders over ice cubes, breath and lies hot enough to put condensation on the glass. He talks about boxing, a topic you know next to nothing about but enough about men to know it's a tactic, a subject they know you can't argue with because you don't have enough details. But you can always hear it, the gaps in the spaces between the words - Russia, a boat, a large sum of money, the rehearsed pauses and the smile that doesn't seem to fade. Words and more words, demanding that you feel impressed and that you feel special.

He chose to tell you this story. Aren't you so lucky?

It's when he talks about a scar on his arm that your mind wanders, rather your heart wanders. Thursday's gin was meant to be an escape, but instead you miss Chanyeol and the almost spectacular way he could talk shit - because that's what this is. Shit. Endless nonsense to make you feel interested or curious enough to give him a number, a blowjob, another drink, something that reminds him he's valid and not entirely worthless.

Chanyeol talked shit as a hobby, without any desire to receive and mostly as a means of satire. But even in jest, he was still entertaining, captivating, the best storyteller you ever knew.

On your first date with Chanyeol, he was nervous, shy. He smiled a lot and laughed in all the right places, kept his eyes on you like he was watching the dawn - but then, you never really thought of that night as your first date.

The night you met, it wasn't that he saved you from a disastrous conversation with a man and his friends and their over eager hands. Rather, he enticed you away, a paradoxically nervous glint in his eye that said he was unsure you wanted his help while protective enough to remind you he was watching, and that you weren't alone.

Someone, you can't remember who because immediately after Chanyeol spoke they stopped mattering, and, for years, no one else ever mattered again, had mentioned the time they went skydiving in Australia, their malfunctioning parachute, and the way they almost passed out, so close to the ground.

Several pairs of eyes walked over your skin, waiting for your reaction, your gasp of shock and concern, the euphoria of a near death experience so similar to the ecstasy of orgasm bleeding into a hum of interest. With their eyes on you, you knew it was a trick, and you cocked an eyebrow of polite derision, looking past them for an exit. They did not move, just nodded and continued. You felt Chanyeol behind you, isolated from the circle that had formed but still at the bar, still a body that gave way to a malformed shape that meant he had to be included, regardless.

'I once almost got a tattoo when I was in Australia.'

He announced this information like he'd been asked, as though the attention had belonged to him the entire night, the deep thunder of his voice cutting through the deluge of unwanted contact.

Brow furrowed in confusion, you turned to look at him, placed a protective hand over your drink, just in case, and cocked a wary eyebrow at him. He smiled, warm and inviting, but only at you. His eyes wandered over the thick gaits of the others, skeptical and cautious before the expression disappeared altogether, resting his head on his hand as he leaned casually against the bar.

'Yeah, it was wild,’ he explained, sounding bored. 'The tattoo gun was shaped like an alligator claw, but I think that's because I was under a boardwalk and I'd lost a bet while drunk.'

Behind you, someone snorted, annoyed. 'That's not true.'

Chanyeol shrugged, nonchalant. 'It was a lucky thing I got sober. Always been kind of afraid of the sea, you know? Love the beach, hate the waves. Anyway, you know that feeling that you're being watched? Like something is lurking behind the corner, watching you, unfurling its claws and waiting for you to turn around, fixing its cold stare on your skin. And you know, right? You just know that if you turn, you'll see it - because you have to, even if you don't want to, just to prove. yourself correct? That you're not crazy?'

'What are you talking about, man?' came another voice, generic and empty of the music Chanyeol naturally carried.

Even as you watched him speak, you knew it was a lie, a jab at all the bullshit tossed around between men who felt like they had something to prove. Even as he spoke, tone dry and words quick, you knew he found the bravado of hyper-masculinity just as amusing as you.

'I'm talking about that space of time between knowing something is wrong and knowing something is fucked up,’ he continued, feigning a passion that made you press your lips together to keep from laughing. ‘That sliver of difference in between. It's fragile there - like, if you look at this napkin and you only look at the napkin, you can almost believe something is lurking behind it and it wants you. It wants to break you. That's the fucked up thing lurking in the distance, the kind of threat that feels good enough to see even if you don't want to.'

'Fuck you,’ someone spat. ‘You're drunk.'

'Anyway,’ he carried on, unaffected as though he hadn’t heard anyone at all. ‘That's why I was under the boardwalk and also why I left. Also, you really don't want to get a tattoo somewhere that smells like a cross between dry fish and burned butter. This guy on the boardwalk was making popcorn at his stall and all I could imagine was the yellow paint as the butter, just five too many pumps and it sticks on your arm long enough that you feel greasy forever.'

Everyone knew it was a lie, but that didn't matter. You really didn't care that it had been so obviously fake, fake enough that you laughed at the insanity of it. All that mattered was that he smiled through it, used words and details so obviously, ridiculously untrue that you believed he was naturally funny, and unafraid to be utterly silly, childlike and bold in all the ways you were not.

The rest of the night, you watched him, watched him watch you, without any hope your expectation, simply glad that you were smiling.

He was always like that, creating magic from nothing, holding the world in a story, his hands, his brown eyes and your brown liquor. Chanyeol was always like that, making the world spark just because he could.

'And I went down hard, you know?'

The guy is still talking, talking about boxing and Russia or maybe neither of those things anymore, but. your drink has melted down into cold water, the memory of gin only lingering on your teeth. He keeps talking like he means every word, like it's important that he survived whatever match he was in, no cushion on his fists and his hands still hurt. It's not fun, it's not creative, it's just angry.

Glancing down at the wet rimmed paper of your napkin, you frown. Thursday brought you here to be alone, not to share another night and another story with Chanyeol, even if it's only in memory. Even if, more than anything, you want to share this with him - want to hear what he'd have to say about Russia and boxing, and how many boat jokes he could fill in between.

‘Sorry,’ you interrupt abruptly. Hand in your pocket, you pull out your wallet and leave a ten dollar bill. ‘I forgot to change my tampon.’

Leaving the stool is a liberation, a relief that eases the tension in your shoulders. You don't bother another glance at the man whose gaze of disgust lingers at your back. Pushing through the door, you smile.

You were always good at talking shit, too.

Hell, you learned from the best.

Home is a lie society likes to sell to the lonely, the needy, and the unsuspecting.

You tell yourself this - or rather, this thought grips you, holds tight and refuses to leave - as you sit on your couch, the couch you bought from someone else, just to be rid of him, anxious and alone and utterly, completely overwhelmed. The world sells the concept of home - a location, a place, a thing that delivers comfort as though it was never someone who held you, touched, loved you. Home, they will tell you, is a plaque on the wall where your heart should be, a picture frame of smiling faces and, most of all, shelter.

Society tells you home is a thing that does not leave.

Your home left months ago, left you with a roof, some walls, and a TV too wide for the stand. Biting your lip, you watch as it teeters at the edges, secure but unstable, a memory of the fragility of the things people like to build together. Outside, a car honks. A bus passes. The noise of the world comes in through the loose seal of your closed window and you hear the way life exists, entirely separate from you.

Work was too much - too much and conversely not enough. All of you, down to the very base of your soul, craves the stimulation of a challenge or a conversation full of passion, words shared and knowledge exchanged, something new and something hard, something that fights back. You've been numbed into silence and acceptance, things that never sat well against your skin, leaving you drained of the all things that make you you.

Tonight, you miss the laughter, the way he'd always talk and make you laugh, even against your will. Tonight, you realize you miss him, miss the way he held you, nurtured you, comforted you, even against your will - even before you realize you miss him at all. Your dinner, a frozen pizza, usually so warm and inviting, sits on your coffee table, untouched and uneaten.

He would have hated this.

Years into your relationship, he adopted the habit of kissing at your fingers with an erotic smile as he pressed them against his lips, praising the way they smelled of garlic. With your fingers at his lips, he said you smelled of magic and creation, a kitchen witch that had possessed his heart. Always, he'd approach you from behind, wrap his arms around your waist and watch you cook - studying the care and the gentleness and the way you unfurl when surrounded by food, bringing it to life.

Tonight, your meal is lonely. And Chanyeol always knew something was wrong when you didn't want to cook, having learned the aggression and the disheartened angst that came with putting something in the oven, a meal that existed without love. Nights like this, he would cook for you instead, making you laugh and making you smile - making something.

Without him, you wonder what you've made since.

You certainly haven't made a home. When you keep still, while not altogether keeping calm, you let your mind wander to the empty expanse of the future, an extension of this moment that seems to bleed onward into eternity. Nothing is here. No one pays enough attention to your light footsteps, coming and going of you too erratic to truly form a pattern. When you are sick, it is just you. When you are hurt, it is just you. And when you die, likely, it will be just you - found only when the smell seems to linger.

Glancing around the walls, you remember the act of picking your apartment together, the eager way he suggested you move in - with fire on his lips and light in his eyes - and the unfathomable way the broker's fees seemed to unmake you, broken instead. Defeated, you told him you wanted him to do it, that one more call and one more unfulfilled wish would convince you to stay in your own apartment until time had healed the wounds of your pride.

Sometimes, you think you made a home in the way he came alive with excitement, delighted to do something, to be in control and in command, not out of greed but out of the pleasure of being alive with you. In just under a week, he'd found the apartment, always so much more optimistic and prepared for the battle of negotiation than you ever had been. When he called, his words came fast, almost negotiating you into being convinced, announcing, victoriously, that he'd found it.

By the time you arrived, he wasn't calling it home, he wasn't calling it good - he was calling it ours.

Pushing through the door, one look at his face, at the jovial delight and the urge to make something igniting his soul, you decided quickly it would be, if only because he decided to share something with you, anything at all. The kitchen lacked a dishwasher, but with his hands at your hips and his lips at your neck, the enthusiasm he poured into your veins assured you that he'd help - you would not be alone.

He'd do the dishes, he'd kiss your hands, wear the tight, yellow gloves to keep his skin soft, and let the smell of soap and passion replace the stoicism of mechanized convenience.

Somehow, the tangibility of him felt better, more real. Special, because it was him.

Neither of you wanted to admit it, but the first night in the space was uncomfortable, sharing a new bed rather than a bed, feeling lost and feeling unsure. You missed your apartment, the way it was yours, something that belonged to just you; he missed the freedom of coming home or not coming home at all, unattached and unfettered. Between the sheets, you were scared to let your skin touch, wondering if you had rushed into romance beyond rushing into real estate.

Chanyeol was always more brave than you were - not confident, not assured, just courageous, curling over your body to pull you to his chest, demanding your closeness. He stole your lips the same way he stole your breath, kissing and kissing until you believed all that ever mattered was your complete and total possession of his heart.

'It will be okay,' he said, hope still lingering in his voice, turned then into a vice rather than a virtue. 'I promise it will be better in the morning.'

'Maybe it will be better when we paint,' you mused, unsure a morning could make anything really better, the sunlight only serving to remind you of all the ways you could never make a space feel full.

That morning, you woke to the smell of pancakes, sugar and butter and Chanyeol, fresh from a shower, the steam still lingering in the en suite bathroom.

You walked out into the kitchen and saw him, hair a mess and old boxers worn to a state of tattered, faded grey. He made one pancake at a time, the fry pan too small for such large circles, all your useful kitchen supplies still residing in unmarked boxes. Leaning on the frame, you watched him, the long line of his spine, the way the sun caught his skin, the gold of it making the universe shimmer, he your Midas, as he looked at you and smiled. The trust in his eyes taught you to believe - that it is not the lungs that breathe, but the soul; that you could float if you wanted to, but it was choice that kept you rooted to the earth, the choice to be next to him.

That home was a place that smelled like him, always and forever.

When he looked away, the edge of it all turned, felt yourself hanging on the lack of words, the nausea that lingered in between, ready for this - that chilling moment when there was nothing left to say. You'd found home and found Chanyeol, a new space without anything that spoke of yours, and the emptiness learning to take hold.

But it never came, just shifted. Into his skin and his kisses, and the way he brought you pleasure even when he wasn't touching you. Always, you would hear him.

You could always count on him for words.

Reaching over to the coffee table, you flip over your phone, pressing the home button to illuminate the screen. Some texts, a few emails, no sound. His name doesn’t show up - you weren’t expecting it to, but the lack of it hurts, years and years flashing through your mind when his name was the first on your screen, his picture the first you saw.

Now, it’s the moon. Now, you want to call him, to fill the gap with anything, even if it’s anger.

You could always count on him for words.

Now, alone, trapped in the marrow of absence, you find yourself wondering.

Can you count on yourself?

You start to sing. It sounds empty.

But, at least now, there is sound, even if it is hollow.

Fifteen hours into your drive, with only thirty more from home, the flat tire defeats you. Something about this torn rubber breaks you in a way that harsh words and colds stares never could, a shame pressed upon your shoulders that makes you feel despondent and ignorant.

Standing on the side of the road, you eye the flat with an empty stare, willing it to fix itself. Images run through your mind, the memory of greasy hands and sore backs from kneeling at such an odd angle - the rain, the mud, the cell phone light, and the way the sky opened up to gift you the stars. Once upon a time, you knew how to do this - someone taught you when you were sixteen; someone showed you when you were twenty-eight, and so you know the knowledge exists within you. You've done this before.

But then, the memories turn, and you realize those experiences weren't yours, they were shared. It was always him turning the jack, him pulling at the bolts, always Chanyeol.

Tipping your head back, you close your eyes and release a hissed sigh through your clenched teeth. The road on either side is empty, unusual for a stretch so close to the city, your decision to go home on a weeknight nowhere close to a holiday leaving you abandoned. Above you, the bruising of the sky as it turns to night seems to haunt you, the moon taking on a gleam of deceit, one that says your failure is being watched with keen interest. Not an hour before, you had marveled at this purple and pink and golden shade, smiled to yourself at the luxury of witnessing the beauty that comes from simplicity.

An hour ago, you were glad and finally learning how to feel it - learning how to feel okay with being alone.

Now, the world around you is quiet, empty of life apart from the crows that wander over the yellow lines, hungry and searching and waiting. Chanyeol's voice resonates in your ear, whispered words from a conversation long ago.

'The most difficult jobs are the most rewarding,' he said, showing you how to fix an air conditioning vent. 'We have to earn our independence.'

You need him.

The feeling of it hits you in the center of your chest, weighing you down as you turn and bring yourself to the ground, back resting against your car. This is no longer a missing, this is need. You're too dark, too serious, too frustrated, too proud to see the humor or the joy in this situation. Once, you thought maybe you were, that you could be, but that person left with him, the ghost of that shell holding his hand tightly as he walked out the door.

His contact information looks strange without the heart and puppy emojis on either side, somehow off-center and wrong. For a while, you stare at his name until the letters start to become unrecognizable, until you think his name has been spelled wrong since the moment you changed it, unsure you know how to read it at all. Your finger hesitates over the call button as though it lingers over his skin, like he can feel you through the glass and choosing to let your souls touch means choosing to let yourself get hurt again.

Looking up, you realize the sky has started to darken and, now, you don't really have the choice to be selfish.

Chanyeol answers on what must be the first ring, his voice confused and sluggish in contrast to his quick response. ‘Hello?’

He still sounds like honey. He still sounds like power. He still sounds like yours.

The deep richness of his voice pulls the air from your lungs and puts wetness in your eyes, and you bite your lip to keep your voice stable. ‘Chanyeol.’

‘What’s wrong?’ He was always too aware, too observant, to hide from, seeing straight through to your heart like it was his to bare. ‘Are you okay?’

Six months into dating, your grandmother passed away and, for some reason, it was understood that he would go with you to the funeral. The bitterness of the news hurt, but the knowledge that he was the first person you chose to call, that he had become the thing you needed more than you needed silence and space to grieve, cut through the dull ache of loss and replaced it, just partially, with change. It was understood, then, that this was something more serious than dating, than exclusive interest, than sex and the morning, sometimes even the night, after. Calling him meant you were making space for him, allowing him the room and the opportunity to ache with you.

Even then, so early into your relationship, he heard your voice and he knew.

Tonight, he uses the same tone, the same speed of recognition and care, and you exhale thickly, the heat of your tears lingering on your cheeks. How strange, you think, to feel truly seen.

‘I’m okay,' you lie.

‘No, you’re not,' he presses, stern and adamant. 'What happened?’

Releasing a bitter laugh, you look down between your legs, sheepish. This should not hurt as much as death and grief, but then that's precisely what this is. For months, you've been mourning the loss of him.

‘I got a flat tire,' you murmur.

Chanyeol releases a sigh of relief, and when he speaks you can hear the smirk that pulls at his lips. ‘Where are you?’

Picturing that smile puts the sun in your chest, and immediately you regret calling him. How stupid, you think, to just want to see him smile. ‘Don’t come. I can do it myself.’

‘Where are you,' he repeats, this time not as a question.

Raising your gaze, you stare at the mile marker, the last sliver of dying light illuminating the numbers. Still, you don't speak, waiting for this mistake to pass, finding you luxuriate in the sound of his even breathing.

But Chanyeol speaks first, voice soft and gentle, sweet in all the ways that made your heart learn to crave him. ‘Please let me help you.’

And without hesitation, you reply. ‘I’m at mile marker 67 on I-95 North.'

You hear him gathering his keys, the metallic jingle making your chest lurch, haunted by the sound of his keys at the apartment door.

‘I’ll be there soon,' he says, hanging up before you can protest.

The white light of his Mercedes headlights put a halo around his head as he approaches, not twenty minutes later in a pair of sweatpants and your favourite hoodie. On sight, you grimace, wondering if he wore this on purpose, to remind or tease you, forcing you to recall all the times he ran his hands over your skin, hidden under the cloth, cupping your breasts and whispering into your neck I love it when when when you wear this.

But then, you remember that this was his favourite hoodie, too, the one he wore when he needed comfort the most.

In this light, all you can see are the tips of his ears, comically pronounced thanks to his backwards cap, and his smile, warm and affectionate and understanding.

He says nothing as he takes the jack from your hand, your grip on the metal tight enough to be a lifeline, his own strong fingers easing it from your grasp with a tenderness he used to reserve for your spine. Your fingers touch as he does this, the electric current of contact running up your arm and making you shiver, still there, ever present, refusing to vanish no matter the distance of time or geography. Chanyeol keeps still, jaw set and arms tense, a sign he felt it too but refuses to give himself away, more obvious just from his concentrated effort.

Nudging at your shoulder, he guides you closer to the hood as he settles on the ground, getting to work without complaint. You keep your eyes on him as he moves, on his hands and the barely there curve of his ass beneath his oversized sweats - two sizes too big for his lean frame and still not large enough for one of your thighs. With him in such close proximity, your heart starts to race again, like it always did, your brow furrowing in the recollection that this was always your heart rate. With Chanyeol, you always felt excited, enthralled, awake - hands warm and blood hot, teetering on the prospect of a fever that only his touch could keep at bay.

With him so close, you remember the constant state of craving that seemed to consume you, the love in your spirit suddenly dusted off - not dead, just dormant - and reminding how it really feels to need someone. Crossing your arms over your chest, you swallow thickly, hoping to combat the lump that's settled in your throat.

To your chagrin, he changes it in less than five minutes, surely some kind of record, carrying the flat to your trunk as though it is weightless.

Staring straight ahead, you look out at the field, the sparse trees, the new dark sky, and sigh. ‘Don’t you realize what a problem this is?’

‘What is?’ he questions, the slam of your trunk echoing over his words. He comes to stand beside you, leaning against your car with his hands in his pockets. 'That you can’t change a tire? Trust me, I’m deeply aware. What would you have done if I wasn’t here?’

‘No -' Shaking your head, your protest comes quickly, without thought, only to cut yourself off, realizing he's partially correct. ‘I mean, yeah true, but I meant that you’re still the first person I call in a crisis. When I need someone, I’m calling you.’

Your gaze lingers on the softness of his cheeks before you find the small freckle on the bridge of his nose, so trained to look for it even without the light to put it on display. Biting your lip, you sigh, refusing to let yourself get distracted. ‘You’re still my emergency contact.’

Dropping his chin to his chest, Chanyeol regards his feet for a moment, pensive as he takes in your words. With a hum, musical and rich, a sound that belongs solely to him, he looks at you once more, resolute. ‘I don’t see that as a problem. You should think about why you still want to call me. Really,' he presses, 'think about why you still trust me.’

‘Yes, exactly!’ you exclaim. ‘I still trust you even after you left me!’

A hollow laugh bursts from his chest as his eyes go wide, regarding you defiantly. ‘You were never careful with blame or accusations,' he mumbles, shaking his head as he looks everywhere but your face.

You scoff. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Turning his gaze back to you, the heat and ferocity of his expression makes you step back, just a bit, startled by the intensity. ‘You really want to talk about this here? Now?’

Refusing to back down, just like always, just like you always couldn't with him, you roll your shoulders back, standing tall. ‘We’re alone, aren’t we? I struggle to see the difference between here and home. The location and setting for our arguments was never an issue.'

‘Fine,' he bites out, impassioned and embittered. 'Yes. I left, but you didn’t give me much of a choice.' Angling himself towards you, he pulls his hand from his pocket and presses his fingers to his chest, emphatic. 'I left, but I still love you.’

‘Jesus, Chanyeol,' you chuckle, looking past him into the shadows, feeling bereft. It hurts to see him so wounded, just as visceral and difficult as it always was, likely always will be.

‘What?' he snaps. 'Too uncomfortable for you? Too honest?’

Mimicking his pose, you turn to face him, matching his intensity. ‘No,' you sneer, aware that the sound is cruel. Immediately, you grimace, backpedaling from brutality of your tone, never really able to be hurtful with him. At least, not intentionally. ‘I just struggle to understand why you’d leave if you still love me. Why didn’t you try to make it work? I loved you with all of me.’

Chanyeol's expression morphs from one of combative disbelief to one of pained dejection, all at once appearing lost and small and so like the boy you promised to never let go of.

‘You never let me love you,' he tries, an urgency tucked between his words that makes your heart sink. 'It always caused you pain to let me in, like loving me hurt you.’

Tears burn at your eyes in the wake of his words, the house of cards you'd constructed out of your memories together neither collapsing nor tearing, simply changing from red to blue, taking a new shape and a new colour, his perception casting shadows over the world you'd built.

The words you said, when you were happy and in love and it was easy, collide with the words you yelled, when you were hurt and jealous and scared, and all you can remember, on either end, was a love you felt into your bones - a love that always made you feel like you were breaking. Loving Chanyeol, from the moment you met him until the moment you watched him leave felt like learning to love an earthquake, breaking yourself open to fit him inside. In love, the tectonic shift of your soul was merely collateral for way he made you feel - everything, all the beauty and the horror of it, everything more visceral than you'd ever experienced it before.

In love, he found you scared, aware that if it ever ended, there would be nothing left of you, all the good parts of your heart shattering to a raw, sharp edge of sorrow.

‘Because it always ends like this, Chanyeol!’ Even as you speak, you know you’re pleading with him, but for what you cannot be sure. Forgiveness? Maybe. Understanding? You never had to ask. Perhaps, you think, just for him to tell you he was scared, too. ‘It always ends in pain!’

Unable to stop himself, moved beyond any semblance of control, he steps closer to you with both hands outstretched, making to cup your face, to make you listen, before he remembers himself, dropping them awkwardly to your arms. He grips your biceps, touch gentle and eyes wide, searching your face, bold and, just like always, courageous.

‘But it wasn’t hurting in the moment!’ he exclaims, his grip tightening on your arms before he loosens, eyes dropping to his hands hold you. ‘You rushed us here,’ he finishes, tone soft.

‘Every time…’ Your words drift into nothingness as your close your eyes, recalling every argument, the hours you spent awake or alone, afraid of losing him and afraid of losing yourself. Chest tight, your breath comes in shallow inhales, your hands coming to rest over his, the warmth in his skin helping you ground. ‘It felt like you were asking for my soul.’

‘Did you ever think maybe,’ he begins, gentle and kind, inching closer still as he pulls you to him, his affection a gravitational pull drawing you to him. ‘You already had mine? It would have balanced us out.’

Opening your eyes, you cast him a pained expression, knowing, down to his core, he was always too independent to love you the way he said he did. ‘That’s too much.’ You shake your head, weakly protesting his words. ‘What about you? Sometimes you wouldn’t come home until dawn, needing the space, and I got that -’

He cuts you off. ‘You are the only person who gets that, and you know it.’

‘Let me finish,’ you press, falling back into the ease of softness you always provided him, feeling like, finally, you are home. ‘We are both too independent to give one another our souls. That’s too much of your heart for one person to hold.’

Without hesitation, he pulls you directly to his chest, moving his hands away from yours and to your face, emphatic and devastatingly present.

‘You aren’t listening, my love,’ he murmurs. ‘I found myself in you. I had myself and I had you,’ he explains, smiling as though he understands a secret you can only just touch, tangentially and at arm’s length.

He keeps smiling even as he finishes speaking, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. The intimacy of it sends your hands to his chest, ready to push him away but halting upon contact, feeling his heart beat like thunder against his sternum.

‘Chanyeol…’ you mumble, a protest that splinters on impact.

He lets one hand walk down your face, your neck, lowering to the small of your back as he tucks you against him, protective and nurturing. Forehead unmoved and nose touching yours, he smirks. ‘Stop me,’ he challenges, knowing, even now, even when you’re not really his, you will not.

Sliding your arms around his chest, you let yourself hold him, aware, even as your heart begins to adorn itself in feathers, that this is a bad idea. ‘Chemistry was never our problem. You know that.’

‘I know,’ he agrees, a million words living and dying between you both, all unspoken while still understood, his thumb gliding gingerly over your cheekbone. ‘And you know I’m a glutton.’

‘One day,’ you whisper, leaning up into the warm cascade of his breath over your lips, mouth and soul suddenly ravenous for him, ‘you’re going to love someone more than me.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’ This close, his words are embers of a dying breath, and your eyes flutter short, ready to kiss their ashes. ‘And I know,’ he continues, quieter still, ‘you will never love anyone as much as you love me.’

The familiar fog of his adoration clouds your mind, limbs heavy and skin tightening, parched and longing for his touch, your words jumbled together into a single breath. ‘Were bad at this, Chanyeol. You know it.’

‘You’re learning it.’ Chanyeol doesn’t need further explanation to know you mean love - learning to love and live and crumble beneath the wait of yearning for another person. ‘Me? I’m great at loving you, and shit at it with anyone else.’

Unable to hold back any longer, your mouths come together in a kiss that makes your hands fist into his hoodie, pulling at his shoulder blades. Chanyeol hums into your mouth, slanting over your lips with a possessive growl, hard and deep as he runs his tongue over your bottom lip. Whimpering, you open for him, never truly able to deny him access to the things he craves most, always offering him more and more, satisfied only when you have your fill of one another.

It’s almost innocent the way he kisses you first with his soul and then with his mouth, tongue sliding against yours as a reminder that he means it - rough enough and powerful enough to make it clear he was not moving on, never wanting to move on, waiting for you three steps ahead. It’s not innocent, the way he moans into you, hands needy and fingers rough, pressing into your back to ground you, possess you, swallowing your breath and demanding you never leave again.

When you separate, his pupils are dilated, lips pink and swollen as he struggles to come down. The tips of your fingers starting to tingle, head empty and heart full.

‘Where do we go from here?’ he manages, the delicate hopefulness of his words much like crystal in a storm.

Closing your eyes, you let the burn of his optimism eclipse against your skin, illuminating the deep navy of the sky in a way the sun never could. It’s rare, you know, for people like you to have second chances - to kiss the sun twice and come away unharmed, wearing only your callous, self-inflicted wounds. It’s rare to be let in, and only now, watching Chanyeol breathe into the totality of his fear, do you realize you let him in long before you accepted that you did.

And with a smile, you reach up, cupping his cheek and feeling your blood race at the way he nuzzles into your touch. Sometimes, you think, it’s easy. Other times, it’s a torment. And that, you realize, is the only way to make a life.

‘How about we start with home?’

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