#two weirdos. sitting in the dewy dark. what weird little conversations will they have

[ehlnofay]

Travelling with Martin the second time is more an ordeal than it was the first.

There’s the Blades tagging along with them, now, with their elaborate plans and zealous concern; every time any one of them takes a step they rattle like tin cans, so loudly that if any of the cult is trying to track them down it’s a wonder they’re not all gutted already. Then there’s all the extra bits the Blades insist on – like tents, which Pax is by no means opposed to but slows them down ridiculously, always needing to be set up at night and taken down first thing in the morning, or the horses, which speed them up but Pax resents, all the same. (They always need breaks to rest or eat or what have you, and riding for too long sets them aching to hell, their legs and hips and stomach all quavering with exertion. Pax rides the same horse they found halfway through their first journey with Martin, and she is getting more familiar than she ever wanted to be with its little snorts and stomping gestures. Martin keeps patting it on the nose whenever they’re down on the ground again. Martin rides the paint horse, too – it’s two to a steed, plus bags, which Pax knows would be enough to snap their spines like dried-out twigs but of course the Blades have spelled saddles. Feathered, Martin says, like Pax has any idea what that means.) They all spend as much of the day riding as they can without the horses withering away and dropping dead, unable to divert at all from the roads without riding face-first into a tree branch, the Blades getting all serious and severe at any passing glimpse of another traveller, or the edge of a town, or a suspicious-looking boulder. It’s fucking exhausting. Maybe if they’d dressed Martin in something less impractically fancy, and left their glittering armour behind, they wouldn’t all be so conspicuous. Pax is the only one here with any sense.

In Blackwood, the trees don’t sprawl so low down; you can ride horses well off the road as long as you’re careful of the muck. For the first leg of the first trip with Martin, they didn’t have horses at all – they both just walked, past razed fields and empty buildings, the span of land around Kvatch near entirely abandoned, scrounging what they could and sleeping wherever they wanted. They couldn’t proper restock on supplies until they hit Skingrad – certainly didn’t have tents or armour that reflects every whisper of starlight so bright it blazes, and they were fine. It all feels unnecessary. And annoying. This close to the end, all the little extra things to pay attention to make Pax want to jump out of his skin.

Because they are close to the end. They’re in the denouement, now.

The Blades set up a watch routine, too – everyone crawls into their superfluous tents and leave one person up to keep an eye out, until they wake the next person for their turn, and so forth. Pax hasn’t done watch shifts like this since he left Blackwood. (It doesn’t really work, when you’re alone. Besides, he wakes easy, and he goes to sleep quick. Martin’s bad at it, so swapping watch back and forth when they were together just would have left him confused or lethargic the next day. Not worth the bother.) Pax gets watch shifts, most nights, set in the dark hours just before the sun rises; Martin, though he asks, doesn’t get any. Pax usually wakes him up, instead of whoever else she’s supposed to. It isn’t like he has anything he needs to be especially well-rested for – just sitting on a horse in an enchanted double saddle, same as the rest of them, his too-long hair getting in his face, careful arms loops around Pax’s middle. He won’t even take a turn to direct the bloody thing, because he still hasn’t learned how – the fact that he’s never managed to fall off is a damned miracle, honestly.

So she wakes him up, if the Blades won’t – and she doesn’t usually go back to sleep, right after, because there doesn’t seem all that much point. They both stay up, around whatever burnt-down firepit was constructed in the night, the small tents arrayed around them; the leaves of the trees rustle, flickered through by some small animal, owl or bat or squirrel living in a hollow. Crickets chirp, loud and endless.  It would probably be peaceful, if it could be, but Pax is keyed up, taut as a bowstring ready to snap, and he can’t really remember how to feel peaceful anymore. They’re getting ever-closer to the capital and the temple and the end of this whole strange, terrifying thing, and he wants it over and done with instead of lurking in this strange in-between space. They’ve all done so much to fix this and none of it will feel like any kind of accomplishment until the fires are lit and the Gates closed and sealed beyond reopening. It’s almost, almost, almost done – but it’s not the end yet, and in the quiet night all there is to do is waiting, and Pax, antsy, irritable, is very, very bad at waiting.

Martin’s better at it. Which isn’t to say he’s not nervous – he’s all nerves, even more than normal, which is really saying something – but he’s patient, and doesn’t complain, even though Pax knows he wants it over just as much as they do. Probably more. (Definitely more.) He just sits, in the dark and the dew, all quiet and watchful in just his undershirt and warm wool trousers, and even those are fancy, all fine-sewn and slippery as water to the touch. They wear oddly on him. He keeps the Amulet tucked under his clothes, cold metal setting against bare skin, and the red gleam beneath his shirt makes it look, at certain angles, like his heart is glowing.

The fire is well out; no owls call. Pax lies, in their own much less swish sleeping-things, in the dirt and grass, all of it wet so thoroughly with dew that it soaks the back of their tunic. Through the silhouettes of leaves and branches, they can just make out the lustre of the stars.

The old Emperor talked an awful lot about stars, when Pax met him; she wonders, vaguely, what he’d make of these ones.

There’s a shifting, up nearer the firepit; and, “Pax?” Martin whispers, sound half-swallowed by the still, drifting night. “Are you awake?”

“It’s sopping wet,” Pax replies. He props himself up on his elbow and turns his head; Martin’s got a lantern lit, and it’s just enough to make out his face by. “Even I’ve got my limits.”

Martin exhales; Pax knows he’s smiling because they can see the dim white gleam of his teeth. It’s not too cold a night – they’ve travelled far enough from Bruma to be clear of its sodden snow and ice and winds – but it’s not warm, and the wet fabric plastered to their back is chill enough to make them shiver. The stars, up above, shine cold and clear.

“I was wondering,” Martin says, voice still hushed; his eyes flicker up to the snatches of sky between the tree branches, too. “What will you do, when all this is done?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question; Pax realises, quite abruptly, that doesn’t have an answer. She sits up, shuffles awkwardly over the dewy grass. “I don’t know,” she says slowly; she shrugs. “Go back to the roads, I s’pose. Get some venturing work. Join a guild, maybe, if I get bored.”

(They haven’t thought about it; they’ve been busy. A part of them – quite a large part, if they’re being honest – kind of wishes the Crisis would never end, one way or the other. Wishes it would keep on in this sort of suspended state forever. But it won’t, and it can’t, and it would be ridiculous to say as much. Just – they’ve never done anything this exciting, before. And they don’t really know anything that could measure up, once it’s done.)

(Pax has never really been one to plan for the future. Back in Blackwood, he didn’t have to; he knew he’d just run with the same crew he always had, and he learned only from them. Learned letters and archery and what dregs of mage-craft he had any aptitude for – learned to scamp on the roads and crack locks reasonably well. And then he left, and became a hero, and that’s a good occupation in itself, but it’s not going to last forever. He’s not sure what his other options are – he could try to work square, but he doesn’t think it would last. He’s not one suited to an apprenticeship, or an honest job, or much of anything, really. The only thing he really knows is this.)

In the lanternlight, the shadows are so stark that Martin’s face looks creased with ink. “Oh? What guild? Fighters? Thieves?”

“Thieves’ Guild wouldn’t take me,” Pax tells him loftily; they wriggle a bit closer, goose-pimples rising on their shins. “They don’t like independent operators, and I’ve been one since I was born.”

Martin clucks his tongue. “You can’t say things like that around me, Pax. I’ll have to have you arrested.”

“Like you could,” Pax tells him, grinning, and leans over about as far as she can reach to elbow him. She has to lever herself back up, afterwards. The watery-pale stars are winking at her.

Martin is looking up at them again. “There’s always work for a hero, I’m sure,” he says, and waves a hand. “You’ll have endless people to save and feats of derring-do to perform. Perhaps you could write an autobiography.”

“Ha.” Martin’s received their letters, sent on longer stretches away from Cloud Ruler; he’s read their writing, their chicken-scratch hand and the less than delicate way they pick their words. Pax is fine enough as a communicator; they get to the point quickly and clearly. But metaphor and flowery prose is rather beyond them. And they’ve seen the speech Martin gave in Bruma, the endless editing of his drafts, debate over this word or that. “You know you’re the better writer of the two of us, Martin Priest. Reckon you should pen our book.”

Martin tips his head further back. “I wasn’t even there for most of the interesting parts,” he points out, “and I’m sure to be far too busy, besides.” His eyes are closed. Pax shunts themself another bit across the grass.

“Oh, I’m sure you can take a half-hour every evening to scribble out a few paragraphs in your four-poster bed and your kingliest pyjamas,” he says, unsympathetic, and flicks him in the shoulder. “With a silk canopy, and duckling-down blankets, and a pen nib of solid gold.”

“All right, all right.” Martin opens his eyes; they look grey, in the dim light, the orange lanternlight flickering off their whites. He reaches out an arm, and Pax rolls his eyes but shuffles damply into it all the same. “I suppose I have no choice.”

His arm, settled around their shoulders, is heavy-warm. Pax leans their shoulder into his ribs, under his armpit. This close, they can see the faint gleam of the Amulet through his undershirt. Quiet, they ask, “Still nervous?”

Without missing a beat, Martin replies, “Excruciatingly.”

He’s always nervous. But on this, Pax can’t even really make fun of him for it – if someone told her that she was the heir to the whole Empire, and tried to thrust her into court to take it all over, she’d tell them to eat shit. If the fate of the world depended on it, though, that wouldn’t really be an option anymore. And Martin’s too nice, most of the time, to tell anyone to eat shit. And Martin’s too nervous not to take every bit of it so painfully seriously. Not just the world-ending bit, but all the etiquette and legalese, too. Jauffre gave him some books to read to try to acquaint himself with it all; none of them seemed to help much.

“You’ll be fine,” Pax says, and leans their head on his shoulder, the post of their earring jabbing into the skin behind their ear. They gesture out at the silhouetted tents. “You’ve got all this lot, and the Elder Council – they’ll help you out. If they won’t let you take a piss by yourself they’ll definitely be there to assist with the stuff that’s actually important.” Martin exhales; it’s almost a laugh. The earring is beginning to hurt quite badly, so Pax lifts their head. “Besides, you’re trying. You want to get it all right. That’s more than some would do.”

“Thank you, Pax,” Martin says, and then they’re both quiet.

The stars above look watery-dim. The silhouettes of trees have slightly more dimension. Martin is pressing his palm, fingers splayed, to the smooth-cut bump of the Amulet under his shirt. Pax is still shivering, a bit – lying her whole back down in the dew was a bad idea. Now she’ll have to wear her one other tunic and hope this one dries out in time not to wet everything else in the bags.

“I hope,” Martin says, voice silver-soft in the dark, “that when you’re out roaming, shocking everyone with your valour and intrepidity, you’ll come to visit a great deal. You won’t have the excuse of being out saving the world anymore.”

Pax leans her shoulder harder into his ribs. “Only if you’re not boring when I’m there,” she replies. “You won’t have the excuse of saving the world either.”

“No,” Martin says. “I’ll be running it instead.”

Already, the stars are beginning to snuff themselves out, like candle-lights; in half an hour or so, the sky will start to lighten properly. The Blades will all wake, springing up like little clockwork puppets, and the tents will be packed up, and the horses saddled – they’re tied on slack ropes to trees down the other end of the clearing, and now, if Pax squints, he can just make them out – and then the day will begin, the timer trickling down.

Pax wets his lips. “Three more days,” he says. “Thereabouts.”

Then they’ll reach the city.

Martin breathes out, slow. “Then I’ll really be Martin Septim.”

The Amulet glows under his shirt, royal-red, rising and dimming like a heartbeat. If Pax hadn’t been arrested, that day – by chance, for one of the few robberies they actually didn’t commit – then they wouldn’t have been taken to the gaol, dribbling blood all over the floors, antagonising the guards trying to mark them down in the records, and they wouldn’t have ended up in that dust-coated cell with the shitty neighbour across the way, and the old Emperor would never have glanced at them twice, and the door never would have opened, and they wouldn’t be here.

Pax is not one for gratitude, generally, but they have never been so thankful to be falsely imprisoned in their life.

“My census name’s Camilla Patesco,” he says.

He’s looking at the first watery dregs of dawn in the sky, not at Martin’s face; but he can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “I won’t tell anyone.”

#FAY WRITING JUMPSCARE. #I don't know if this is any good honestly - it's a rewrite of an old piece and I wrote it too recently to be able to judge #but it's been forever since I posted anything so. I'll toss it up regardless #because I have been thinking about them a great deal #I should get to posting all the fucked up miserable stuff. it's been in my docs for ages #I need to get on that #anyway #hope you enjoy! #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oc tag #pax #martin septim #oblivion #microfic #my writing #fay writes #two weirdos. sitting in the dewy dark. what weird little conversations will they have

[jiminnamoro]

blu oltremare

sanghyuk/hongbin; angst; pg-13; 7563 words; unbetad (english isn’t my first language so pls have mercy ;;)

i.

Sanghyuk has always wanted a treehouse. He has dreamed about it for ages- even now he thinks about painting it yellow, just like the big bright yellow ball shining in the sky. He thinks about filling it with warm pillows and tasty snacks and funny comics, maybe with a mattress and blankets too so he could spend summer nights there. His Naruto notebook is overflowing with drawings and notes and drafts, stickers, pictures and a very weird tutorial that he made up because there’s no way a ten-year-old boy could build a treehouse on his own, but the beech near his house is still the same and his father still complains that it would be way too expensive, so he keeps decorating his notebook with poorly drawn projects until he gets bored. Sanghyuk rarely gets bored anyway, and when he does, he just stares at that old tree through his window and sighs.

Sanghyuk has always wanted a treehouse. He thinks about painting it pitch black, dark and deep, with small white dots that look exactly like stars. It should be not too big, not too small, just a place where he could simply isolate himself from his responsibilities- and his parents, his damn science homework, mass on Sundays, tasteless vegetable soup for dinner and boring stuff like that. Hyuk dedicates an entire page of his notebook (and an entire afternoon too) to that particular design, switching from pastels to paint and mixing colors until he’s satisfied with the result.

Sanghyuk thinks about painting it red as well, kinda like a poppy, mostly because it’s his favorite color- red makes him feel alive, happy, full of excitement.

He thinks about painting it turquoise like the sea, lilac like his mother’s favorite necklace, grey like the sky when it’s about to rain, dark brown like chocolate, white like the first snow in December.

“Why don’t you make it blue?” Wonshik asks on a humid afternoon in June, teeth lazily chewing his straw and feet dangling off the bed. Sanghyuk bites his inner cheek, not really sure about his friend’s choice. Blue makes him feel sad. Gloomy, empty. It makes him feel like he’s tiny, useless, trapped. He listens (but not really) to Wonshik as he makes a never ending list of reasons why blue is totally the best option among the others, eyes traveling to the ceiling and mind trying to imagine a blue treehouse. There are so many shades of blue, and yet none of them looks appealing to Sanghyuk.

They end up dropping the conversation for some kind of reason, and to be honest Sanghyuk is grateful for that, since he’s too coward to tell Wonshik that no, he could never paint his beloved treehouse blue. He’d rather talk about his bad grades at school, or the grasshopper that visits him every morning, or the blueberry cake that his mother baked last Saturday.

“My parents and I are going to the movies for my birthday, are you coming with us?” Hyuk asks with a wide grin on his face, fingers carelessly playing with the white band-aid on his scratched knee. Just the mere idea of going to the city makes him shiver with anticipation. The skyscrapers are so tall, so cool, and all those bright lights stick behind his eyelids like glue until he falls asleep in the car.

“I’d love to, seriously, but we’re moving out this weekend.”

Sanghyuk stops playing with his band-aid and stares at Wonshik’s apologetic smile until the tightness in his tiny chest feels less painful. He completely forgot Wonshik’s parents decided to build a wonderful future for their son- new city, new school, new opportunities, new friends. Hyuk actually forgot it on purpose, wanting to bury the ugly feeling of being left behind deep down for as long as he could. He kinda understands the whole situation though, he surely doesn’t blame his friend, I mean, no one would refuse an opportunity to live in the city. The big, living, breathing city. The countryside doesn’t offer anything to someone with such big dreams like Wonshik.

“My parents sold our house to another family, you know, and I’ve met their son. He’s cool I guess” Wonshik mentions with a tiny smile, patting Sanghyuk’s back softly.

“Maybe he’s a fanatic of treehouses like you, who knows?”

Sanghyuk ends up laughing, his big nose occupying half of his face and hands ready to smack his friend with a random pillow. Wonshik laughs as well, hitting Hyuk back until they are breathless on the bed. Hyuk will miss this, he will miss this so damn much, he will miss sharing stories and laughing and staying up late with his only friend, he will miss running down the hill before sunset comes, he will miss Wonshik like crazy.

“Build that treehouse” Wonshik’s serious tone makes Sanghyuk turn his head towards him, ears listening and fingers holding the hem of his ugly brown t-shirt with nervousness.

“I expect a full tour when I come back, understood weirdo?”

Sanghyuk only nods, already feeling the knot in his throat getting bigger and bigger with every second. He doesn’t tell him that the idea of building it doesn’t appeal to him anymore because he already knows that Wonshik will never come back, so instead he simply offers his pinky and fights back the tears when Wonshik wraps his own around it.

Wonshik leaves on Friday morning after the sunrise, tilted snapback on his head and mp3 player already in his hands. He hugs Hyuk quickly before getting in the car, fingers brushing his eyelids every now and then so the tears don’t stain his cheeks- he hopes Sanghyuk doesn’t notice them (he does) and Sanghyuk hopes Wonshik will come back (he won’t).

The remaining days of June feel like a blur. Sanghyuk spends hours, if not entire afternoons, sitting on the windowsill with his hands pressed against the glass, eyes staring at that white van that keeps delivering boxes in front of his best friend’s old house. He sees furnitures getting replaced with new ones, people painting the walls and cutting grass, he sees Wonshik’s old sofa disappear inside another van and that’s when he feels his eyes wet again, so he closes the curtains and goes to sleep.

The new family officially moves in at the end of the month, when the air gets more humid and the trees gets greener, and Sanghyuk has to admit that those people seem quite rich. They have a pool, a porch, statues all around the backyard- he could go on forever, honestly. Hyuk sees a man and a woman talk near the doorstep, so he guesses those are the parents, and then a boy that looks slightly older than himself. Wonshik was right, they do have a son, but Sanghyuk doesn’t feel ready yet to meet him (will he ever be ready to meet him?) also because he doesn’t seem very friendly from afar. The grasshopper that lives in his room seems way friendlier, and that says a lot.

Sanghyuk’s opinion of his new little neighbour doesn’t change even after a week spent spying on him. He just sits all day on the carpet made of dewy grass and draws, and draws, and draws, and draws until the sun is about to set. He doesn’t do anything else- he doesn’t swim, he doesn’t play soccer, he doesn’t even wander around the village. The boy simply opens his silly case and takes out his silly crayons and Hyuk secretly wonders what’s so special about not moving for an eternity. Then he remembers that he does the same when it comes to planning his treehouse, so maybe this kid has a talent for drawing stuff- or he just really doesn’t have anything else better to do, which might be true since the countryside isn’t really the most fun place to live in.

They sometimes meet before mass starts, on hot Sunday mornings when the sun is already up in the sky and the lady that usually sells candy sells ice cream instead. Sanghyuk sits with the other kids, thin t-shirt stuck on his skin like glue and nails scraping the wood of the bench in front of his own. He watches as his neighbour sits on a bench as well, an empty one, with little fists rubbing his sleepy eyes and feet barely touching the ground. Hyuk would like to think that his friends like the new kid -they have always been so nice to Hyuk- but they don’t, oh they really don’t, and the mean comments he hears leave a bitter taste on his tongue that lasts even after he’s on his way back home. He later decides that he doesn’t want to sit next to them anymore.

“Why don’t you give Hongbin a chance? You two might become friends” Sanghyuk’s mother suggests on a Friday evening while chopping some carrots. Hyuk stares at his vegetable soup until it becomes cold, and when his father asks him why he’s not feeling hungry, he can’t decide if it’s because of the ice-cream he ate earlier or because he keeps thinking that Hongbin owns a name as pretty as he looks.

The next Sunday almost feels the same, except that Sanghyuk isn’t sitting with the other kids- he’s sitting on a half-empty bench right at the end of the church, knees pressed against his chest and eyes fixed on the polished shoes belonging to the boy sitting next to him. Hongbin doesn’t talk much but his slightly wavy hair smells like cherries and the dimples on his cheeks make Sanghyuk’s stomach feel weird, so maybe they could really become friends after all.

“Thanks for sitting next to me” the boy mutters to Sanghyuk when mass is over, and Sanghyuk, maybe because of witchcraft, can’t wait for the next Sunday to come already (he doesn’t want to admit that his cheeks felt redder than usual after that, but they did).

Hongbin, Hyuk eventually finds out after spending a few Sundays together, is quite friendly. He’s two years older than him but somehow he’s shorter, and that makes Sanghyuk laugh until the priest scolds both of them. They don’t chat during mass mostly because Hongbin wants to finish the drawing he started last week, and Hyuk has never been happier to look at someone literally drawing little ugly red stars on an ugly green sky.

“It’s so pretty” Sanghyuk whispers when Hongbin glues some gold glitter on a few clouds, and the way Hongbin’s eyes light up haunts him for the rest of the day (in a good way, that is).

Their friendship starts quietly and slowly, but it starts anyway. It begins with them waving at each other through their windows in the morning, breaths fogging the glass and shy smiles on their lips. It begins with them sitting on the same old hill until the sun sets, drawings scattered everywhere and knees bleeding from falling over way too many times. It begins with Sanghyuk sharing his snacks with Hongbin right before going to bed, their backs pressed against Hongbin’s roof and soft wind dancing through their hair. It begins with Hongbin sharing his precious crayons, it begins with Sanghyuk helping him climb a tree that really doesn’t seem stable, it begins with all of this and they don’t really realize it until summer ends.

Their friendship starts quietly and slowly, but it starts anyway. It begins on a windy night in August, when both of them are looking at the stars without their parents knowing- heartbeats loud and darkness dancing between those centimetres that separates them from each other.

“I wanna build a treehouse one day” Sanghyuk admits without even thinking, his eyes patiently waiting for a falling star and a piece of walnut from the chocolate bar he ate earlier still stuck between his teeth. He can’t see much but he can imagine Hongbin nodding, and he surely can imagine his smile as well, thought that paints his cheek dark pink- he’s not even that mad about it.

“Can I see it when it’s done? We could make it blue, it’s my favorite color!”

When Hongbin’s voice reaches Sanghyuk’s ears, it’s just a soft whisper. The younger finds that question pretty dumb, they’re friends and friends do everything together, so he reassures Hongbin that yes, they should totally hang out there. He doesn’t tell him that blue is absolutely out of question, though. Hongbin’s laugh sounds like one of those bells that ring in heaven, and even though Hyuk has no idea of what it would sound like, he decides that it should sound like that.

Sanghyuk still doesn’t forget Wonshik- he could never, ever, replace him with someone else, but as time flies by, Hongbin’s company feels so right and so nice that he literally finds himself thinking about the older twenty-four seven. They see each other everyday, they eat together- play together, watch movies together, draw together, grow up together. Their friendship is sincere, and loyal, and perfect, and no one could ever break them apart.

Sanghyuk is barely twelve when his dad surrenders and starts building that damn treehouse. He buys wood and nails and pieces of plastic and Hyuk feels a river wetting both of his chubby cheeks, but Hongbin is right next to him and he holds him tight, telling him how awesome it’s gonna be when it’s done.

The treehouse is pretty indeed, with that tiny hole in the roof that allows people to stargaze and a small television that Hyuk’s dad found near the trashcan. Hongbin brings stickers and pillows and blankets as little gifts, and Sanghyuk makes sure every little detail is perfect- the treehouse still needs a lot of work, especially outside since they can’t decide what paint would suit it best.

Hyuk presses his notebook to his chest with so much strength that his knuckles turn a light shade of white, and when the shop owner asks him what color he wants to buy, his mouth gets as dry as the desert. He planned so many designs, drew so many pictures, filled page after page after page after page and now his mind is completely blank. Or maybe not.

He decides eventually, and when Hongbin finds himself being dragged by Sanghyuk to their brand new treehouse, the first thing he notices is the ugly blue stain that his friend’s hand left on his wrist. Then he lifts his eyes up and he sees it, bluer than the deepest of the seas, bluer than the night sky, bluer than all of the blue crayons he owns.

Sanghyuk decides that giving up all his past designs is worth it when Hongbin smiles like he has just seen the sun for the first time after having spent an eternity under the rain. It’s worth it, it’s so damn worth it and when Hongbin holds his hand, Hyuk thinks that blue might be his new favorite color, too.

ii.

The first morning Hongbin leaves for high school, Sanghyuk can’t help but feel that ugly emotion he felt when Wonshik moved away. He waits for Hongbin to come back in the afternoon, but the truth is that they are not kids anymore, and soon their video games turn into history essays, their Friday nights turn into study sessions, and it’s no surprise when Hongbin kinda stops visiting the treehouse.

Sanghyuk watches him study through his window- he sees his curly hair covering half of his face, piles of books sitting on his desk, his uniform all ironed and perfect hanging from his closet, and he feels alone all over again.

When they do find some time to hang out, Hyuk listens as the older talks about his classes and his new friends. It turns out that Hongbin is very much likable, maybe thanks to his pretty face or perhaps because of his natural charm, and Sanghyuk swallows his sadness away with another glass of orange juice. He doesn’t even like orange juice.

Hongbin talks about how much he loves science, he mentions the fact that he really wants to be a painter when he grows up, he tells Hyuk about another student he really admires, and in the meantime Sanghyuk wonders if his friend can actually hear his heart slowly breaking.

“You should meet Hyoshin, he’s such a cool guy, he’s so smart! I wish I was his friend” Hongbin sighs with his chin resting on his hand, and that’s when Sanghyuk excuses himself because it’s late and he has homework to do.

“But it’s Friday?”

Sanghyuk’s answer is the sound of the bedroom door closing, and it’s funny how the pumping muscle in his chest felt basically the same.

On Sunday they meet again before mass starts, and for a second it feels like they are kids again, with Hongbin too busy drawing stars and Sanghyuk too busy trying not to jump from happiness because Hongbin is there, he’s there for him, he’s got him all for himself-

And then he loses him again right after the priest ends his speech.

Youth hurts, whether if you want it or not, and those two years that separate them from each other sometimes feel like an eternity, especially when Sanghyuk is stuck in middle school and Hongbin looks like he has figured half of his life out already.

Spring comes quickly, greeting the village with its colourful flowers and warm sunlight. The river flows fast, trees get taller, birds slowly starts filling the air with their sweet songs and Hongbin’s beauty blooms like the prettiest rose in the entire garden. Sanghyuk feels lucky enough to be alive at the same time as him, watching day by day as his jaw gets sharper and his shoulders get broader, and he wonders how much time he has left before someone steals him away.

They do end up attending the same high school, and they do end up getting closer all over again, but this time it feels different. Sanghyuk doesn’t expect Hongbin to sit next to him during lunch break, he doesn’t expect him to study next to him in the library, he doesn’t expect him to walk him home, and he surely doesn’t expect him to stay at home on Saturday nights to help him with math, but Hongbin does this and so much more, and Sanghyuk feels safe like when they were kids.

He does grow up as well, but he doesn’t notice until he finds himself standing next to Hongbin in front of a library, picking out books for his suddenly shorter friend. He hears Hongbin joking about finding a way to stop his growth- they both laugh, but Hongbin’s cheeks aren’t pale anymore and his eyes somehow won’t meet Hyuk’s ones, so everything feels weird again and Sanghyuk tries not to pay too much attention to his friend’s odd behaviour.

They don’t talk about that for the rest of the day; they just sit with their noses buried in a few books, minds worried about the upcoming exams and teeth chewing the tip of their pencils. If Hongbin notices how Sanghyuk steals glances at him, well, he doesn’t say anything about it, and if Sanghyuk notices how Hongbin’s ears turn red whenever it happens, he doesn’t say anything either.

Summer comes too eventually, and that’s when Sanghyuk realises he’s in love with his best friend- the fact that he has always been hits him like a truck on the highway, and for a certain period of time he thinks he will never come out alive of all this mess. Hongbin doesn’t seem to notice, but when does he ever notice anything anyway, and deep down Hyuk is secretly thankful because he doesn’t want things to turn awkward between them.

They spend afternoons drinking ice cold tea and evenings staring at the indigo sky, sometimes chatting non-stop and some other times just enjoying the silence, waiting for the stars to dance around the moon. They spend mornings in that old treehouse that’s slowly becoming way too small for two young adults to fit in, but when Sanghyuk sees Hongbin’s body struggling to get inside, hands filled with random stuff and pretty hair falling on his eyes, he thinks that he wouldn’t change a thing about their small blue cave. Hongbin would ask Sanghyuk to take his t-shirt off, fingers already mixing paint and brushes ready to get dipped into warm water, and then he would paint on his back- on his torso, on his shoulders, on his arms, on the palms of his shaking hands. He’d draw trees and mountains, doodles, faces, lyrics of songs stuck in his head, trace veins like his skin is a map and then he would take pictures of his little masterpieces to add to his collection.

“It’s a project for school” Hongbin explained once, saying nothing more and nothing less, but that project lasted for months and Sanghyuk silently decided that he didn’t mind being covered in colors if Hongbin was the painter. Being softly caressed by the tip of the brush still feels really nice, especially when Sanghyuk pretends it’s Hongbin’s finger instead.

On the fifth day of July, when the candles on Sanghyuk’s birthday cake are finally sixteen, Hongbin shows up at his door at seven in the morning with two train tickets in his hands and a tiny backpack resting on his shoulder. He apologises first, blunt nails scratching his temple lightly, because he says he totally forgot it was his birthday and he didn’t buy anything special for him, but Sanghyuk laughs and replies that it doesn’t matter as long as they spend it together. Both of them decide to go to the beach, the closest one they can think of, even though the sun is covered by thick clouds and the wind feels colder somehow- who cares about the weather when the sand is so soft and the water is still a bit warm? Sanghyuk doesn’t really care about anything at all, especially when he’s about to blow a single candle on the vanilla muffin Hongbin just bought.

“If you really forgot about my birthday, why did you pack that candle?” Sanghyuk eventually asks but Hongbin doesn’t reply, he simply shrugs and smiles, and Sanghyuk hates when he does that (it’s a lie, he doesn’t hate Hongbin at all).

They stay with their backs pressed against the sand even when it starts to rain, both way too lazy to find a shelter nearby. Sanghyuk curses under his breath as his fingers try to braid Hongbin’s wet hair- they both laugh so much that Hongbin’s head starts to hurt, but they decide to stay until the sky gets dark. The truth is that they end up looking at the stars all night, fingers pointing at random sparkly dots and stomaches growling from hunger, but it’s probably one of the best birthdays Sanghyuk has ever experienced.

“How many stars can you count?” Hongbin whispers exactly like a kid, incapable of hiding the obvious excitement in his tone.

“A million and one.”

“And one?“

Sanghyuk intertwines their fingers- he does that without even asking for permission. He doesn’t tell Hongbin that his hand feels so small in his own, that he can feel his pulse against the soft texture of his skin, and he doesn’t tell him that the brightest star is laying next to himself (because Hongbin would laugh and reply that it’s a silly thing to say).

The day after their trip, Sanghyuk finds out that Hongbin literally ditched Hyoshin to take him to the beach just because he could (he totally didn’t hide behind a tree to hear their conversation, and he totally didn’t shed bitter tears when Hongbin told Hyoshin his heart was already taken).

iii.

Autumn feels heavy like a big grey cloud, Sanghyuk decides while counting the raindrops hitting the glass of his window. The white peonies his mother planted last year are dead, buried under an ugly pile of dried leaves. Tea somehow tastes like dirt, which is kinda weird since he’s been drinking the same kind of tea since forever, but he pours the cup in the sink anyway.

It’s Hongbin’s birthday today, and even though the streets are flooded because of the pouring rain, Hyuk grabs his Naruto umbrella and goes out to buy a present. He doesn’t have much money in his pockets but he wants to choose something pretty, something useful too, something that would make Hongbin’s eyes light up right away. He does feel proud when he puts a few crumpled bills on the counter, watching as the shop assistant carefully wraps a set of watercolours with fancy paper. He sprints back home with his heart beating fast in his throat and shoes wetter than a puddle, fingers pressed against Hongbin’s doorbell and legs trembling.

Hongbin’s mother answers the door instead- she tells him that her son is sick.

“He has been having these headaches since last month, he’s sleeping right now” she explains with a mortified expression on her pretty face, little dimples showing lightly. Sanghyuk just nods, asking her to give him his present as soon as he wakes up.

Sanghyuk walks back home with a bitter taste in his mouth and a runny nose, thinking that he should totally be mad at his best friend for not telling him about his health conditions. He’s worried instead, so damn worried, and actually feels tears wetting his cheeks when Hongbin calls him after dinner to thank him personally.

He says he loves every single shade- the royal blue one is his favorite, and he can’t wait to draw a nice starry sky with that beautiful sparkly white. He also says he’s sorry, he’s feeling so much better already, and he promises they’re gonna have a proper party in the weekend when there’s no school.

Sanghyuk waves at him through the window and Hongbin does the same, hair sticking out everywhere and sticky sleepy eyes blinking slowly.

‘see you at school’  Hongbin mouths and then turns off the lights, leaving Sanghyuk with a warm and yet cold feeling in his chest that he can’t really figure out.

They don’t meet at school the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, because Hongbin keeps feeling sick and all Sanghyuk is able to do is press his palms against the window and stare at the doctor visiting his best friend. It’s no surprise when they take him to the hospital in order to take some tests, and Sanghyuk visits him everyday even though no one tells him what the hell is happening- he brings flowers, get well soon cards, balloons, treats.

He leaves his heart there too, on Hongbin’s small and white bedside table, because in the end it has always belonged to him anyway.

iv.

When Hongbin is discharged from the hospital, it’s already December. He comes back home with his plastic bracelet still on his wrist, there are no flowers in his garden, no painting to finish, but even though the snow bathes everything in white, Hongbin’s smile marries his face like nothing happened and Sanghyuk feels like it’s spring all over again.

“Can you believe you’re graduating this year?” Sanghyuk whispers while they’re looking for a few books in the school library. They sit at an empty table near the window, the same old table they have been using for years, and Hongbin silently shakes his head negatively.

“Let’s just focus on the present” he eventually replies with the tiniest smile he has ever wore, left hand already taking neat notes on his notebook. Sanghyuk would like not to feel ignored but the truth is that he does, and somehow he feels guilty about it because he knows Hongbin isn’t recovered yet and he’s tired- he remembers him saying that this will take time, a lot of it, but no one likes being useless.

They don’t go home together, and that’s how Sanghyuk slowly realises they are falling apart again, but this time he doesn’t know how to glue the pieces of their friendship together. How can you make someone stay in your life when they don’t want to in the first place?

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Hongbin doesn’t even have to close his locker to see who’s talking to him- no one else talks to him anymore, not even Hyoshin. Sanghyuk’s tone is frustrated, hurt, anxious, and no one can really blame him for feeling like that. He closes Hongbin’s locker with so much strength that the metallic noise echoes in the empty corridors for a damn eternity, hands cold and restless. Hongbin’s books fall ungraciously on the floor, pretty much like Sanghyuk’s heart when their gazes meet for the first time after weeks. He doesn’t know why Hongbin is crying, or why his shoulders are shaking, or even why his eyes can’t seem to focus on himself for more than two seconds.

Sanghyuk thinks that moment will haunt him forever- even after he wraps his arms around Hongbin’s trembling and weak frame, the sorrowful look in his eyes is stuck in his mind like a nightmare. They don’t talk, maybe because words can’t be louder than the sobs muffled against the soft fabric of Sanghyuk’s uniform, or maybe because no one knows where to start, but it’s alright because nothing makes Hongbin feel safer than his best friend’s warmth.

He cries many times after that, both with Sanghyuk and without, and sometimes he wonders when the river falling down his cheeks will finally stop flowing. Hyuk doesn’t really ask for explanations- Hongbin’s actually thankful for that, because if he had to tell him, he’d probably drown in his own tears.

They spend New Year’s eve together, laying on the freezing sheet of ice that used to be dewy and green in spring. The sky is beautiful and clear, and neither of them owns a watch so no one really knows when it’s time to celebrate, but Sanghyuk feels brave enough to brush his lips against Hongbin’s cold cheek in a tender kiss.

“How many stars can you count?”

Sanghyuk doesn’t have to turn his head to understand that Hongbin is crying again, voice broken and a lump in his throat slowly suffocating him, so he brings him closer and kisses his temple. He listens as Hongbin talks about how much he wants to become a painter, he says that he can’t wait to graduate and get into a cool college, he murmurs that his biggest wish is to become a star when he dies. He empties his heart like there’s no tomorrow, and Sanghyuk doesn’t miss a single word escaping from his chapped lips.

They kiss when the first firework paints the sky with red, blue and gold. Even though Sanghyuk can still feel the salt of Hongbin’s tears on the tip of his tongue, he swears nothing tastes sweeter than him- and for the second time, he feels like it’s spring all over again.

v.

Spring never lasts more than a few months, actually. It starts around the end of March and ends when it’s way too hot for people to say it’s still spring. It’s warm, and humid, and cold, and hot, and rainy, but it’s still nice.

Sanghyuk thinks Hongbin reminds him of spring- he’s like the first ray of sunlight after months of snow, he’s the prettiest blooming flower in hundreds of fields, he’s the soft sticky wind that makes the curtains dance in the morning. Sanghyuk then thinks Hongbin is so much more than that, he’s the sudden shudder after the cold tip of his brush runs on Hyuk’s naked back, he’s the brief second before they kiss, he’s the comforting sensation of their fingers locked together while the tv screen illuminates the whole bedroom with shades of light blue and pink.

Sanghyuk finds himself staring at Hongbin more than he should, but he swears he doesn’t do it on purpose. He knows most of Hongbin’s weird habits- the way he shakes his fringe away from his forehead, the way his short fingers rub harshly his eyelids in a poor attempt to make his eyes focus, the way he has to blink ten or eleven times before being able to read a word, the way he has to stop walking because there’s like a black screen in front of him-

“Hongbin, what’s going on?”

It’s ironic how Hongbin assures Sanghyuk that it’s okay, it’s just stress, he doesn’t have to worry about him. It’s ironic how Sanghyuk still hears his sobs on weekend nights when they sleep next to each other, and it’s even more ironic how Sanghyuk ends up believing him just to convince himself that Hongbin is fine, he’s not sick, he’s just stressed out, he won’t leave me.

vi.

Hongbin isn’t the only one who tastes like spring- their relationship does too, since he asks Sanghyuk to break up after just barely two months of being together. They’re sitting on the top of the hill, the tallest hill of the whole village, and their skin is painted by tender orange sunlight.

Sanghyuk is silent, too busy trying to find a reason after Hongbin’s sudden request, and Hongbin is silent as well, too busy trying to find the courage to get up and walk away like nothing happened.

“Why should we break up?”

Sanghyuk’s voice is a soft dagger digging into Hongbin’s back, deep, deep, deep until he feels the tip trespassing his chest. Hongbin sighs defeated, vision blurry and fingers restless in his lap, unsure if he should tell a beautiful lie or a devastating truth, but then Sanghyuk’s fingers intertwine themselves with his own and Hongbin’s walls crumble like broken clay.

“Because I’m dying,” he admits, “I’m dying, Sanghyuk.”

Hongbin speaks with a sarcastic little smile on his pale pink mouth, gaze staring at the dying sun and oh, how silly is the fact that somehow he’s gonna end up being the same thing soon?

Sanghyuk feels his heartbeat stop- he wonders if a part of him just died, maybe it did, or it didn’t after all, but words overflow from his mouth before his brain is able to stop them.

“I will love you if you don’t marry me,” he starts, “I will love you if you marry someone else…and I will love you if you have a child, and I will love you if you have two children, or three children, or even more… and I will love you if you never marry at all, and never have children, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all, and I will love you even if you’re hurting, even if you’re sick.”

They waste the rest of the day simply sitting on that silly hill, Hongbin’s head resting on Sanghyuk’s lap and Sanghyuk’s fingers buried into Hongbin’s short and straight hair, watching as the stars gently start decorating the sky with their glow and the moon bathes the way back home in its pure while light.

vii.

Oh how hard is it, to love someone whose life on this mean earth has such a short deadline?

Sanghyuk watches as Hongbin mixes drops of paint with his favorite brush in attempt to find the perfect light blue, hair pushed back with a silly hairband and cheeks dirty, a light blue that would match his oversized t-shirt and the skies of Seoul. He bites his lip and adds blue, then white, then pink, then orange, and it doesn’t really matter if it becomes a mess because Sanghyuk would love it anyway, no matter how ugly it would be.

In the morning Hongbin paints Sanghyuk’s forearms carefully, occasionally singing along to a sappy old love song playing in the background. In the afternoon he paints his torso with his own hands, not really caring if his clothes and floor end up looking like the Sistine Chapel, because his heart feels whole and he wouldn’t want to miss a second of it. He paints Sanghyuk’s back and shoulders in the evening, when the sun is long gone but its cold light still hits their skin beautifully. At night he paints his face too, using a brush made of sweet trembling lips and colors made of salty sticky tears.

Spring is late this year. February seems like December, but that doesn’t stop Hongbin and Sanghyuk when the funfair visits their village. Nothing could stop them, actually, not even the apocalypse, from stuffing their faces with fluffy pink cotton candy and crunchy popcorns. It feels different this time though, maybe because they aren’t thirteen anymore, or maybe because on the ferris wheel Hongbin confesses that he barely has got two months left before he joins the stars in the pitch black sky. It’s Sanghyuk who cries this time, with tears choking him and Hongbin’s smaller hand pressed on his own, because the idea of living without his sun feels more frightening than death itself.

“How many stars can you count?” Hongbin asks two weeks after their last date and the night before he gets hospitalised. Sanghyuk doesn’t reply this time- he can’t, he doesn’t want to. The sky looks so ugly, so empty, so plain. When he asks the reason of that question, Hongbin simply shrugs and remains silent. Not saying anything hurts less than admitting that closing his eyes and looking at the sky almost feels the same.

viii.

Hongbin’s room is like a blank canvas, white and plain, and it smells like medicine. His bedsheets are light green and rough against his skin, they smell like medicine too, and the food tray on his bedside table makes his stomach feel sick.

Sanghyuk obviously visits everyday, just like the year before, and he brings little gifts to cheer him up. He brings flowers, blue and red ones, because he knows they are Hongbin’s favorites. He brings board games, his music player, his laptop, books, he even brings watercolours and brushes. Sanghyuk doesn’t know if Hongbin cries because he missed painting so much, or because he can barely tell shades apart.

They spend hours sitting in front of the window, simply staring at the gardener cutting grass and raindrops filling puddles. They would share shy kisses too, every now and then, when the nurse is too busy checking on other patients in other rooms. Hongbin still tastes like spring, like the sweetest peach on the entire tree, like the first ray of light right after dawn, and it amazes Sanghyuk how a creature like him can still be beautiful while feeling so much pain.

“Before I die, Sanghyuk,” Hongbin says one late evening, “I wanna see our treehouse one last time.”

Sanghyuk shakes his head negatively while replying that they still have time, spring hasn’t come yet, but the truth is that Hongbin is almost blind, days go by and he’s been stuck in that white prison for what it seems to be an eternity already, and every night he prays the sun will rise once more.

“Did you notice that my family shows up more often lately?” Hongbin asks as he plays with a few pills inside his paper cup. He watches as Sanghyuk furrows his brows, confused, sitting at the end of his bed.

“They have been counting days” Hongbin goes on, throat dry and limbs weak, until Sanghyuk takes the paper cup from his hands and places it on the bedside table. He then lays next to him, allowing Hongbin to rest his head on his chest, and waits until the light coming from the window slowly dies.

It’s March when the primroses in the hospital garden start to grow. They are so pretty, with their pale yellow petals, that Hongbin asks his father to gather a few so he can smell their scent. Soon the transparent vase on the windowsill is filled with pansies and daisies, and a few more colorful flowers he does’t know the name of. Life is beautiful, and the fact that seasons would change without him makes him want to cry his heart out.

It’s April when Hongbin loses his eyesight from his right eye. He stays in bed all day, with the thick white sheets covering half of his face and an unfinished painting waiting on the floor. Hongbin doesn’t eat- he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t even want to breathe. Mornings seem evenings, nights seem afternoons. Sanghyuk falls often asleep on a chair nearby, sometimes with homework in his backpack and sometimes without, and Hongbin wonders if he’s failing his classes too, since he’s been spending decades with him.

“I promise,” Sanghyuk whispers one late night, “we won’t get caught.”

Hongbin feels shivers running down his spine as the warm spring breeze gently caresses his cheeks. The air smells like flowers, like sunlight, like life. The sound of their shoes echoes in the streets and for a second Hongbin thinks he’s safe, he’s free, he won’t come back, and he holds Sanghyuk’s hand tightly. They have been running for at least ten minutes and he’s already out of breath- he can’t see much of what’s around them, but he’d rather fall down and scratch his knees there than die in a cold hospital room.

They take the bus to their village, and it’s probably the last one going around since it’s already eight o’clock in the evening. Hongbin curls himself in his seat, hands hidden in the sleeves of his blue cardigan and legs slightly trembling with excitement. Sanghyuk’s heart pumps loud and fast in his throat at the thought of what he did- what will the nurse say at the sight of Hongbin’s empty bed?

“Sanghyuk, I’m so tired” Hongbin barely breathes as soon as they get off the bus. Their houses aren’t really far from there, but Sanghyuk carries Hongbin on his back anyway.

Their treehouse is there, it has always been there, waiting for them to come back. Its blue walls are still the same, a mess of stickers and drawings glued everywhere, and for a second it seems that time hasn’t passed at all. There are dusty pillows on the floor, old candy wrappers, books, crusty brushes, paint stains.

But it still feels like home.

ix.

Sanghyuk has always wanted a treehouse. When he was a kid, he thought about making it orange like those sweet tangerines his father would buy at the market in autumn. He thought about making it beige like the burning sand, salmon like his mother’s gardening gloves, pink like his favorite blanket. Oh how much time he wasted, filling page after page with projects and lists, daydreaming instead of doing his homework.

“How many stars can you count, Hongbin?”

The hole in the roof is still there too, obviously. It’s not really big, but the sky is clear and those few stars shine brighter than diamonds tonight. They look so close and yet so far, and it’s funny how Hongbin reaches out for them with his tiny hands, fingers stretched out and chest rising slowly. He missed this so much, so damn much, and for the first time he wishes the sun wouldn’t hide them with its light.

Sanghyuk intertwines his fingers with his lover’s, allowing him to nuzzle his face in the crook of his neck. It doesn’t matter if his plaid sweater gets damp from the tears, or if Hongbin’s heart feels too tired to beat, because this is not the end, they will meet some other time in another life, or maybe in the sky, like sparkly white dots dancing around that beautiful moon.

Sanghyuk kisses Hongbin’s temple as he feels his grip get loose- he’s the one filling the air with choked sobs, and it’s silly how the sky seems to have welcomed another star, the most beautiful one, the one that puts others in shame.

x.

October nights always smell like sweet cinnamon and ginger. It’s a nice feeling, actually. Water puddles make it seem like there are two villages instead of one, bars start offering hot chocolate at a special price, leaves color the parks with orange and yellow and dark brown- it’s like living in a painting.

Sanghyuk leaves a few coins on the counter and thanks the old woman with a polite smile. He smells the bouquet of flowers he just bought- he feels like laughing if he recalls how the woman asked if those were for someone special. Of course they were for someone special, he wouldn’t spend hours staring at hundreds of flowers without a reason, right?

He hopes he will appreciate this little gift, he hopes he will be able to smell their scent, and he also hopes he will somehow cherish them.

It’s almost nine o’clock when Sanghyuk musters up the courage to trespass the rusty gate and greet him. He walks slowly but with confidence, eyes already spotting him between the crowd.

“Hey” Sanghyuk mumbles sweetly, posing the pretty bouquet on the polished black marble. He kneels in front of it, carefully dusting away dirt with a cotton rug.

Time never seem to pass in graveyards. Sanghyuk looks up at the dark purple sky and sighs; he lays right next to Hongbin like he always does, and with a shaky voice, he asks the same old question.

“How many stars can you count?”

#hyukbin #vixx fanfiction #vixx #hongbin #sanghyuk #YALL HAVE MERCY #SERIOUSLY UGH #;;