Work Text:
I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There’s nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began – I loved my friend.
“P’Shin, do you ever see P’Saint in your dreams?”
Even asked in Chingching’s sweet and guileless voice, the question still lands like a slap. For a moment, Shin cannot breathe, the world around him fracturing like a broken bone.
Does he ever see Saint in his dreams?
Before, he didn’t really ever dream of Saint. Didn’t have to. Instead, he would see him every hour of the day: sitting next to Saint in class, their knees bumping, eating lunch in the cafeteria while play-fighting over every other bite, riding on the back of Saint’s bike to pick Chingching up from the kindergarten, getting into fights behind the internet café, or simply lazing around somewhere with the rest of the Tsunami gang.
With Saint by his side all day long, what was there for him to dream about?
And then everything came crashing down, smashed into pieces along with Shin’s leg and his dreams.
Now, even three years after Saint had walked out on him, the answer is yes.
At first, stuck in the hospital bed and high on painkillers, every time he closed his eyes, he would see the same thing again and again: Saint and his stupid puppy face looking at him through the glass window, before turning around and walking away. A never-ending, nightmarish loop, that would jolt him awake and leave him gasping for breath, Saint’s name traitorously close to spilling from his lips. Of course, he wouldn’t be so pathetic as to actually call out to him. Not when the darkness pooling around the hospital bed seemed particularly suffocating, reminding Shin of how alone he suddenly was, and especially not when his leg throbbed painfully as he tried to walk to the hospital room’s bathroom on his own, no one by his side to offer their shoulder for Shin to lean on.
As time passed, Shin learned to live with the glaringly empty space in his heart. So what if loosing Saint felt like loosing a limb, felt so much more painful than the broken bones of his leg. He would not let Saint’s absence hurt him even more than Saint himself did.
Except for as much as he’d tried to convince himself he was over it, had managed to let go of Saint for good, his dreams didn’t seem to agree.
He would fall asleep, and then he’d be fifteen again, him and Saint playfully fighting over a bowl of noodles from his father’s cart. The sun would shine, and Saint would look at him with a lop-sided grin, his eyes more pitiful than those of a stray dog begging for scraps. Shin would sigh and let Saint have the last piece of meat in the bowl, secretly pleased to see Saint enjoying himself so much because of something so simple. A droplet of sweat would slide down Saint’s neck and pool between his collarbones, glaringly obvious where he’d unbuttoned his school shirt. Instead of following the absurd impulse to wipe it with his thumb, Shin would knock his head into Saint’s, and then they would scuffle playfully, the bowl and utensils forgotten on the side of the road.
Sometimes he’d dream about playing football, Saint cheering for him louder than anyone else in the crowd. Shin would score a goal, and then Saint would be there, hugging him so tight it would be impossible to breathe, picking him up and spinning him around, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And Shin would allow himself to melt into the embrace, his joy doubled by sharing it with Saint.
Other nights, he would dream of the rain, stormy clouds gathering on the horizon. They would stand on that football field, just the two of them, Saint’s eyes burning with something like anger. Something like fear. He would grab at Shin’s shirt and pull him closer, his hands shaking, only there would be no punch landing on Shin’s face, no foot kicking him in the leg and stomping all over his dreams. Instead, they would stay face to face, Saint’s erratic breaths hot on his skin, the air between them full of static, as if the lightning would strike any moment.
Shin would wake to the lingering smell of ozone clinging to his skin, and goosebumps scattered all over his body.
The worst of all were the dreams where Saint would protect him, curl his body around Shin’s, like he’d done a million times before, and take the heavy kicks from the thugs for him. Shin would lay there, shaking, Saint’s pained exhales hot on the back of his neck, and his heart breaking more and more with every hit landing onto Saint’s back. After the beating, Saint would lay down beside him, grinning, as if taking the pain for Shin was his proudest achievement. There would be something soft in his dark eyes, bone-deep satisfaction that seemed to be stronger than any physical pain he could feel.
Haloed by the streetlamps, his hair in disarray, and blood drying in the corner of his mouth, Saint would look like something too good to be true. Like something straight out of a dream.
And then Shin would wake up, alone in the room that used to be more theirs than just his, the dull ache in his leg reminding him that all of it was just a dream. That Saint had looked at him, broken but hopeful, and chose to walk away.
Now, having met Saint again after three years, and with the idiot haunting his every step at school, the dreams have somehow become even worse.
His dreams are no longer just snapshots of the past, however diluted by his wishful thinking they might have been before. Instead, every time he closes his eyes, he seems to stumble right into the colorful kaleidoscope of could-have-beens.
The Saint that greats him in these new dreams is the most recent version: taller, so much broader, and with an abundance of quiet strength. He brings Shin his lunch, and then sits down beside him, their shoulders touching. Here, they are still best friends, the two of them enjoying the peace and quiet of the rooftop.
This Saint fits right in, sat on the floor in Shin’s room, like he’d never left, his hands gentle as he brushes Chingching’s hair and twists it into two uneven braids. Their laughter rings through the house, warm and bright, and suddenly it feels like home.
This Saint shamelessly takes over more than a half of Shin’s bed, his hair damp and carrying the scent of Shin’s shampoo. He is also annoying, keeping Shin up well after midnight with some ridiculous stories, until he finally succumbs to sleep and starts snoring softly.
Except when he inevitably wakes up, Shin is still alone in a room Saint hasn’t stepped into for three years. His leg still hurts. He can still remember the sight of Saint leaving him behind.
In the depth of his heart there is a question he cannot really answer. Does he want to stop dreaming, or does he wish to never wake up instead?
Coda:
As a stray ray of sunlight spills over his eyes, Shin wakes up. Saint is still asleep, his snores the only sound disrupting the otherwise silent house.
Shin feels something fragile bloom in his chest at the sight of it: Saint in his home, Saint in his bed, Saint in his clothes. His Saint.
Sometimes, the real thing turns out to be so much better than anything you could have dreamed of.