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There was a time where the world felt big enough to swallow Minho whole. When no matter how much he traveled or how many people he met, it still felt superficial, temporary. Though not in a beautiful way, it felt more like waiting for the rotten skin to completely fall off a carcass than something more picturesque.
Then he met Chan.
It's been too long for him to remember the details, or maybe the part of his brain responsible for keeping the memories of their first meeting doesn't have enough blood flowing through it to keep functioning, so it's fallen prey to the darkness, to the effects of Chan's hunger.
Slowly — like rust eating at a sheet of metal, the inescapable immensity of the world dwindled, not to others, but to Minho.
His world had been reduced to just his quaint neighborhood and his small group of friends. He didn't have time to brace for such change, for he never noticed it. It was as if all his freedom had been wiped away, unbeknownst to him.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
He realized, a while after living in his own secluded bubble, with just Chan's presence calming him, that he didn't need anything more than this.
It's not a loveless affair, nor something Minho feels forced to do, but lately it's began feeling…detached. Almost clinical, in the way Chan's blade carves him hollow and his needles piece him back anew, like some fucked up act of necromancy, desperately holding onto something you shouldn't.
He isn't sure who is holding onto who anymore.
Minho loves Chan, he knows that. He loves him so much that allowing the older man to feast off of him time and time again feels more like a necessary sacrifice than a chore. Like being asked if you'd be willing to donate a kidney to your partner. You don't feel obligated to do it, but you do it anyways, out of love, out of devotion.
He loves Chan, but sometimes it feels like he's just trying to convince himself he does.
It's routine by now. Chan quells his hunger, gets his fill of Minho's body and flesh, then carries his limp, fragile body to the bathroom where he stitches him back together. It's also usually where Minho's consciousness slips away, leaving him to wade through the thick abyss of pain and exhaustion alone, untethered.
Eventually he wakes, exhausted, aching, the only thing reminding him that he's alive being Chan's body heat, the lasting imprint of his arms curled protectively around the younger's waist.
Sometimes, it feels like Chan's hands never leave his body, like the warmth of his fingers curled around Minho's persist like a phantom limb.
✝
At the beginning of their relationship, Chan had warned him.
They had been dating for a few months, and were out on Chan's balcony when he first mentioned it.
The cold, late fall breeze was strong, ruffling their hair in a way that promised a storm later in the night. Chan's hands were trembling in his lap, though Minho knew it wasn't from the cold.
"Minho-yah. I need to tell you something." He broke the silence, wearing a grief-stricken look on his face, like he was mourning something not yet gone.
Young and naive, Minho was convinced he was about to get broken up with. He never noticed anything odd appearing in their relationship, but maybe Chan had. He was okay with it, he'd cherish the time he got with the older.
Waiting for Chan to speak then had felt like watching a car crash in slow motion. He knew Chan wasn't going to tell him anything positive, Minho was preparing for the worst ever since he had been invited out on the balcony.
These days, when he's drowsy enough from the painkillers and still aware of the blood soaked into his clothes, he wishes Chan would've broken up with him then.
He didn't.
"I hope you can understand that I'm telling you this because I love you and I don't want you to be unprepared." He began, voice wavering with uncertainty and a fear so palpable Minho had began theorizing just what he was about to be told.
Minho remembers watching Chan's fingers shake, as if they wanted to reach for him but were holding back. He took matters into his own hands then, grabbing Chan's clammy hand in his own, running his thumb over the back of his palm to soothe him.
"I've been recently diagnosed with this condition, It's something associated with schizophrenia and some sort of deep rooted psychosis…I can't control it and-" Chan inhales sharply, doubling over the small patio chair he was sat on, resting one hand around his knees while the other remained in Minho's hold.
He still recalls receiving small, short messages from Chan back then, vague updates as to how his visits to the psychiatrist were going. "They're getting closer to a proper diagnosis" or "We're going to get through this together, right, dear?" often filled their texts back then.
"It, m-makes me crave flesh…human flesh." The words filtered out into the open air slowly, disrupted by the panicked wheezing noises Chan was making, scared by the secret he had just spoken out loud. The silence was deafening, a painfully thick cover of shock and horror which prevented Minho from speaking, leaving him mute, shell-shocked, tracing patterns on Chan's convulsing back.
It seems the storm had already rolled in.
"And what does that mean? For us? For you, going forward?" Minho asked, keeping his voice soft, gentle, though he honestly didn't want to hear the answer.
"I-I don't know," He whispered, trembling minutely, as if the admission of his problem alone caused him pain. Minho wanted to calm him down, to tell him they'll be okay as long as they have each other, but he wasn't completely sure of it. He didn't have the heart to lie to him, so he stayed silent.
"I'm not forcing you to stay." Chan had said, though there was a feeble spark of hope glinting in his eyes. "I'm just warning you of what might happen if you do."
And Minho loved him. He loved him completely, foolishly, suicidally. And maybe he didn't yet fully understand what he was getting himself into.
"I'll stay." He whispered it against the shell of Chan's ear, an oath, a promise never to be broken.
Minho doesn't regret staying, but sometimes he wishes things were different. Not completely, or in a way that would knock their future relationship off-balance, just slightly, as if Minho were a time traveler who inadvertently ended up stepping on a butterfly, altering the course of their fate just so.
✝
The first time Chan had fed off Minho was an unforgettable experience, whether that's a good thing or not, he isn't sure.
The repulsive, metallic taste of his own blood pooling in his mouth was intense, a coppery flavor which he swears he can still taste between the soft pink flesh of his gums. The thick, already half coagulated liquid was bubbling up at the corners of his lips, splashing up with each pathetic gargle to further stain the enamel of his teeth.
Desperate and hungry, Chan had suggested they try giving Minho morphine, something to ease the pain. The younger took it for what it was — a peace offering, an olive branch extended to him. He agreed without much thought.
He wanted to be good, to prove his love for Chan by letting himself be torn open slowly and feasted off of like something holy, like Chan was the shepherd and Minho was his innocent lamb destined for sacrifice.
Minho played his role perfectly, staying still and keeping his breaths deep as the needle sank in his arm, injecting soft rot into the purple network of veins unfolding beneath his skin.
There was too much of it, so much that the warm, fuzzy feeling had quickly turned from something meant to help into something overbearing, oppressive. It felt as if his lungs had been replaced with a hungry, boundless void, absorbing his every desperate heave for air. Minho's breaths turned slow, shallow, barely shifting the sweat-soaked strands of hair covering his eyes.
"Can I?" Chan asked then, pupils overly dilated, nearly drowning out the whites of his eyes. He looked scary, Minho almost wanted to say no, to shake his head fervently and drag his limp, drugged up shell of a body as far away from here as he could. But it was useless, because he understood the implications of Chan's confession, he was the one who agreed to this, so what good would backing down now be? The morphine is already in his bloodstream, it's too late.
The younger was barely conscious now, body a helpless ragdoll strewn across the bathroom tile. He had lost most feeling in his limbs, so he could only nod, head slumping forward heavily — a final, and pivotal act of surrender, giving himself over entirely.
Chan pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the skin of Minho's thigh, trailing his sharp tongue up before replacing it with his blade, as if marking where to cut with his spit.
The first cut of Chan's knife felt like divine retribution, like he was now condemned to pay for every sin he had committed.
Chan had injected him with enough morphine to keep him at the edge of overdose but it still wasn't enough. Minho was left motionless, looking up at the fluorescent lights as though he could see god himself in their meek flickers.
The pain struck instantly, simultaneous with the tip of the blade slicing into the soft meat of his thigh, a directionless burn which quickly engulfed his whole body, lapping up at his extremities like curious flames. Blood squelched and splashed as it spilled out of him in thick rivulets, already pooling on the floor, soaking into the grout between the tiles.
He wanted Chan to hold his hand through it, to tell him it'll be okay, and maybe he did, somewhere between their kisses and the first slice, maybe Chan was holding his hand right now, and Minho's palms were just too numb to reciprocate the touch.
This was also when Minho found out just how disgusting cutting meat can sound.
Through the distinct ringing in his ears he could clearly make out the sawing noise his boyfriend's expertly sharpened knife made as it plunged deeper, the soft pop it made when soft skin gave way under the blade's unrelenting press, drawing wave upon wave of deep crimson blood from Minho's thigh.
Like this, tracing a small square through Minho's flesh, Chan looked…different, as if the sight of his lover's blood changed something within him, turned him into something less human.
Minho could only watch, numb and drowsy, taking in Chan's expressions as he made the final cut, gently separating the small piece from his body. He was too drugged up to get up and look at the gaping hole in his thigh, but he could imagine the sight of the open maw, sputtering blood and trembling with each infinitesimal clench of muscle, could smell the horrid stench of metal, so strong it nearly choked him.
He wanted to cry, because his whole entire body ached, because he had no idea what he had gotten himself into. And maybe this train of thought had caused a few, salty tears to fall from his eyes, trickling down his face and leaving only a cool trail behind.
Chan was hovering above Minho's face now, eyes full of what looked like an unmoving devotion, all directed towards him. The older man leaned down to kiss away his tears, pressing a gentle peck against Minho's cold, trembling lips.
"Thank you, darling." He whispered, leaning his forehead against Minho, keeping him grounded, aware. "I love you." And in that moment, his words seemed to carry an extra weight, maybe it was because of Minho's blood staining his hands.
"I l-love you too, Chan-ah." Minho replied, voice barely audible through his pained wheezes.
His vision had grown fuzzy around the edges, a muted show of colors unfolding before him. Minho could make out Chan's silhouette as it raised itself upwards again, taking the still warm piece of flesh he had been holding and bringing it up to his lips. He watched as his boyfriend placed the piece of him within the pink confines of his mouth, chewing it slowly, as if categorizing each flavor — blood and skin and fat, all sticking to the sharp ends of Chan's teeth.
A small trail of blood had slipped past the elder's lips then, dripping down the curve of his chin and trailing down lower, over his adam's apple and into the divots of his clavicle.
Through all the pain blinding him and the nearly unbearable stomach cramps threatening to make him throw up, Minho still gathered the strength to properly reach out for Chan's hand, feeling like a small child in need of his mother's comfort again. He gritted his teeth and let out a pitiful whine when the simple act of raising his hand brought yet another immense wave of pain.
"You're so sweet, darling. So precious." Chan praised softly, taking Minho's unnaturally cold hand in his and pressing gentle kisses to each knuckle. He really wanted to give a proper answer, tell Chan he loves him once more, but he couldn't, the morphine having slackened his jaw completely. The only reaction he could offer was a weak, garbled whine, rattling his ribs as it left him.
"My pretty baby, let's stitch you up, yeah?" Chan murmured, already looking for his suture kit.
From there on, Minho's memory remains severed. He recalls losing consciousness multiple times from the pain of the needle piercing skin over and over again, sobbing wetly into the crook of his elbow when Chan tightened the sutures, pulling the halves of his thigh back together and kissing the skin in silent apology, and passing out while still on the cold bathroom floor, only to wake up back in their bed, his aching body cuddled up against Chan's.
✝
"What's on your mind?" Chan asks, leaning over Minho's shoulder to look him in the eyes. His scattered gray hairs are easier to notice from this close, so are the small, almost imperceptible wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He's beautiful. Minho loves him.
"Nothing much, just…reminiscing, I guess."
There's a thick layer of gauze wrapped around whatever's left of his left leg and small jolts of pain that course through it whenever he moves but it's nothing he isn't used to, he's gotten accustomed to wearing his pain like a trophy, like visible proof of Chan's love for him.
The older man reaches a hand to cup Minho's jaw, craning his neck towards him and pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss. Minho immediately melts into the touch, turning to lay on his back, allowing Chan to lean over him, blanketing the younger's body with his. Chan's lips are soft and wet as they smoothly glide over Minho's, drawing out gentle sighs from somewhere deep within his chest.
"Reminiscing you say…what about?" Chan asks, speaking the words right into Minho's pink, open mouth.
"Us, for the most part. Everything we've been through." Minho admits, carding his fingers through his husband's silvered locks, enjoying the happy, almost purr-like noise he makes as he settles his head on Minho's chest, listening to the gentle beats of his heart.
"Mmh…that's sweet." Chan hums appreciatively, running a hand down Minho's side, feeling each muscle twitch. "Should we go make breakfast?" He asks, though he makes no move to get up, comfortable in his lover's hold. Minho just nods, writhing minutely under his body weight.
Chan heaves himself up eventually, groaning as he gets up and stretches. Minho follows, albeit a little slower, wincing from the pain in his leg. He makes a small yelp when the warm soles of his feet touch the cold floor, Chan is next to him in a second, fetching his slippers from somewhere underneath the bed and gently slipping them on his feet, reverently kissing the younger's frail ankles.
Minho rests his hands by his sides, breathing deeply while preparing to carry his weight on both legs. He gets up shakily, and manages a few uncoordinated steps in the vague direction of the kitchen. Chan notices him struggling and moves to steady him, hands resting on the younger's shoulders.
"I don't know why you don't just ask me for help, darling." Chan admonishes softly, snaking a hand around Minho's waist, supporting most of his weight. They waddle to the kitchen slowly, giggling all the way at how ridiculous they must look.
He's soon placed on the kitchen counter, swaying his feet slowly while he watches Chan move around the small space, going through the motions of preparing their food. It's juvenile, nostalgic in a way that makes Minho's chest tighten. A lot of things have changed since they first met, but their love remains just as gentle.
✝
Seopjikoji beach is a breathtaking retreat on the east coast of Jeju island — a wide expanse of rocky shores blanketed by soft, green grass, framing the wide open sea, warmed by the late spring sun all throughout the day.
It was the perfect place for their wedding.
Minho had suggested it first, looking for a place that was less popular, closer to nature, something that felt like them.
Chan had agreed immediately, kissing Minho all over for making such a fitting choice. He rambled on and on about how happy he was with his pick, how the salty air from the sea would be like a piece of home. Minho loved him so much.
The day of their wedding began softly, like all their other mornings did. They kissed languidly in bed, made breakfast together, and helped each other dress up, wiping away happy tears every once in a while.
It was a lot to take in — the knowledge that this was real, that they were in love and were about to take a ferry over to Jeju and get married.
"You look so beautiful, my dearest." Chan sniffled, cupping Minho's face in his hands and just staring, taking in each small detail of his soon-to-be husband's face: his sharp, gentle eyes, the petal pink blush sitting high on his cheekbones, his acne scars, sharp, straight nose and the tiny mole on his nostril. Chan was looking at him like he was seeing him for the first time.
"I don't come even close to you though." He shot back, arms slung around Chan's shoulders, frantically blinking away his tears, smiling dumbly at the man in front of him. "I love you so much." Minho let out a shaky sob, feeling the weight of his feelings crash down upon him all at once, he pulled Chan closer, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.
"I love you too, more than you will ever know. Let's get married jagi." He spoke, cradling Minho's body against his.
The ride to the dock was nothing short of perfect, more beautiful than anything Minho could've imagined. Chan held his hand as much as he could throughout the drive, seeking a silent form of comfort, as if wordlessly asking Minho "Is this real?" "We aren't dreaming, are we?"
In the cars behind them, Minho could make out the silhouettes of their friends cheering, giddy and overjoyed to be part of such a true, devoted display of love.
Although small, the wedding party was so alive, cars honking loudly all the way, through each half-empty street — to make sure everybody knew they were getting married, just in case the flowy decorations on each car weren't enough of a sign already.
He didn't yet know how to articulate just how grateful he was to be surrounded by love in all its forms, be it platonic or romantic, it was still love nonetheless, so strong and real it was tear-jerking.
They didn't have a proper officiant, since nobody would ever agree to wed two men, but Jeongin had expressed interest in becoming a priest, and since he was their friend, he happily offered to be their officiant, all warm smiles as he already began planning for their ceremony. Such a sweet boy he was.
The strong salty breeze wafting from over the sea was sweeping through their hair like the uncoordinated touch of a lover — hasty and inconvenient, yet gentle and familiar at the same time, the sun bathed them in its warm light, keeping a rosy flush perpetually on their faces with its heat.
Jeongin was stuttering through each paragraph, fighting back tears as he looked at the happy couple before him, too caught up in each other to pay attention to the world around them.
Like this, with his long, swept back hair and his dimpled smile, Chan looked ethereal, as if the sea and the sun themselves had taken a different form, choosing to walk this earth in the shape of a human. Minho wouldn't have wanted to spend his forever with anyone else.
The simplicity and emotional depth of their love bled into the vows they spoke to one another, gentle words and promises, spoken over the sound of rushing water coming from beneath. Minho was crying by the end of it, so was Chan.
"Bahng Chahn, do you take Lee Minho as your husband, do you promise to love him in sickness and in health, through any hardship you might endure?" Jeongin's voice rang out, clear and unwavering now that his tears had subsided.
"Yes." Chan replied softly, eyes crinkling with a wide smile, running his thumbs over the backs of Minho's hands.
"Lee Minho, do you take Bahng Chahn to be your husband, do you swear to cherish and love him, through thick and thin?"
Minho's breath staggered in his chest, the cool breeze swept over his tear stained cheeks, cooling the salty tear tracks in place. He closed his eyes for only a moment, enough to ground himself, and when he opened them again, Chan was still looking at him with that soft, almost melancholic smile on his face, waiting.
"Yes." Minho spoke, over the waves, over the impatient cawing of the seagulls and over his own rabbiting heart.
Jeongin didn't even have time to finish his speech before Minho caught Chan's lips in a passionate kiss, slinging his arms around the broad expanse of his husband's shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer, as if they could meld their souls together and become one should they try hard enough.
Warmth cascaded over them from the light of the omnipresent sun, and in that moment, everything felt right, as if the final puzzle piece had fallen into place, rendering both of them complete, now forever united with their other half.
Minho loved Chan, and he knew he'd keep doing so till the rest of his days.
Once they parted and were finally able to look away from one another, they took in the sight of their friends, doubled over in their seats, wiping away at their tears. Jeongin had moved to stand by Hyunjin's side now, the two of them embracing each other as they wept, smiles bright in the afternoon sun. Changbin and Seungmin were sitting close together, faces obstructed by several tear-soaked paper towels, sobbing loudly. Jisung and Felix weren't doing much better either, both of them forming a sobbing heap of blonde and brown hair somewhere in the third row.
"We're all so happy for you guys." Felix lifted his head to look at the newlyweds as he spoke, his eyes carried more words than he could've ever expressed out loud.
Minho allowed himself to calm down, to forget about his woes, his pain and all that he'd endured to get to this point.
It was all worth it in the end.
✝
It's been a long while since he swore to Chan he'd stay, since he first offered himself as sacrifice to Chan's hunger.
Still, the sight of his mangled body in the tall mirror next to their bed never fails to make his stomach lurch.
He spends long minutes in front of that mirror, staring, assessing every inch of his frame which sets him apart from other people, that makes him look wrong, scary, almost.
He feels bad for hating his body, a more paranoid part of his mind having convinced him that hating his body intrinsically meant hating Chan, for each misshapen part of his flesh was proof of how much the elder loved him.
Hating his appearance feels wrong, yet he cannot ignore the repulsed shivers that wrack through him whenever he catches a glimpse of his reflection.
He barely recognizes himself anymore.
Minho finds himself here again, sitting on the edge of the bed, shrouded in the low light of the setting sun, ready to face whatever is left of himself, in the hopes that this time his reflection will look less like a grotesque caricature and more like a living human being.
He wraps his bony fingers around the hem of his large, threadbare shirt and lifts, gritting his teeth as if that were enough to soften the pain of what he'll see before him.
They're everywhere — scars and divots and missing pieces of flesh, all drawn over his sensitive stomach like a canvas depicting something akin to the loss of self. He drags his gaze up, allowing his sight to fall upon his own face, with his sunken eyes and prominent dark circles that never leave no matter how much he sleeps nowadays.
Instinctively, he knows the face in the mirror belongs to him, but it's getting harder and harder to believe, to accept that this is what's left of him. A sorry excuse of something that had once been beautiful.
Soft thumps of footfall echo from the hall, warning Minho of Chan's approaching presence moments before he opens the door. Minho drops his shirt as if it burned him, softening his mournful gaze into something loving as he smiles towards his husband.
He stands there for a moment, silent, looking at the slump in Minho's shoulders, at the way his body language betrays what his eyes managed to hide.
"Oh, baby." Chan coos, expression crumbling when he notices Minho's white-knuckled grip on the hem of his shirt, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The older man closes the distance between them, stepping closer slowly, as if any sudden movement could scare Minho off. "Can you lay down for me?" He asks, hands gently grasping his shoulders, kneading the soft flesh.
Minho goes willingly, a pliant, docile creature under his husband's touch. He settles into the sheets without much fanfare, allowing the soft material to soothe his sombre thoughts.
"I love you." Chan whispers into the soft curve of his neck, warm breath colliding with cold skin. His hands roam over every inch of Minho's body, feeling every imperfection of him with a silent reverence, he spends more time massaging the disfigured muscle of his hips, kissing languidly along the column of Minho's throat, feeling it bob beneath his lips. "Can I take this off?" He asks, pinching the hem of Minho's shirt with two fingers. "Wanna see all of you."
He doesn't know how to respond to that. A part of him truly wants to allow Chan to see him like this, to witness his body in all it's ill-shaped glory, as he's done many times before, though a bigger, uglier part of him wants to hide, to cover up all the nauseating parts of him and never allow them to see the light of day again, as if hiding them away would make them disappear, would help him feel more normal, more like a person than the physical representation of affliction.
The confliction within him is near painful, he so desperately wants to please Chan, to make yet another worthy sacrifice towards him, if his flesh and blood weren't enough, but he can't bring himself to. Fear and something more carnal than disgust towards his own self bubble up inside him, threatening to overflow.
Involuntarily, Minho writhes away, trying to force Chan off of him, to shield the deep scars running all over his flesh from his husband's adoring gaze.
The look in Chan's eyes is nothing short of heartbroken as he looks at Minho, at the younger's quivering lips and the furrow in his brows that refuses to soften.
"I'm so sorry darling, we don't have to do anything, I would never force you to. Can I just hold you?" He asks, hands coming up to cradle Minho's face, Chan's touch is warm and gentle, and Minho is helpless to resist melting into the touch, allowing himself to settle, to feel his touch and not run away from it.
"Yes, of course, my love." Minho whispers it, voice frail with disuse, he'd do anything for Chan, would fall apart and piece himself back together so he could spend another lifetime by his side, and so would he.
"Thank you, so much. For everything." Is the last thing Chan says before burying his nose underneath the sharp jut of Minho's jawline, inhaling his scent softly, like he's trying to get drunk on it.
They lay like that for a while, Chan covering Minho's body with his own, blanketing him in warmth, and Minho willing his breathing to slow, fighting the dark thoughts that threaten to surface again.
"You can. Look, I mean." Minho whispers after a few minutes, still unsure, still sick to his stomach with fear of Chan seeing him again and being disgusted, but he knows it'll never be the case, for Chan loves him too much to ever react in such way, the fear still eats away at him despite it.
"Are you sure? I don't want to force you darling." Chan replies, gaze soft, understanding.
"Yes, please." The words leave his lips slowly, a soft exhale of syllables filtering out into the darkness of the room.
"Thank you, I love you." He says, slowly bunching Minho's shirt up, revealing inch after inch of shame, of self-loathing and everything he still struggles to accept as his reality. "You're perfect." His husband murmurs, helping Minho take the shirt off completely, leaving him bare to the elder's eyes.
Chan's eyes are as expressive as always, carrying the intensity of emotions too complex to explain with words, and he looks at Minho like he's hung the moon and stars. His hands retake their rightful place around the younger's hips, caressing each scar gently, remorseful for causing Minho such pain, such immeasurable suffering.
The soft press of Chan's wet lips gliding across each scar feels like being reborn, like the string of spit connecting every imperfection of his will pull him back together, and Minho burns, threatening to turn to ash under his husband's touch.
Chan remains unfazed by the small breathy sounds Minho is making, continuing to massage the supple skin of his hips, slowly trailing kisses up his stomach, then his sternum, over his beating heart.
It's odd, the way Chan rewires his brain so quickly, so effortlessly. His earlier insecurities have fizzled out for the moment, replaced by a blind, directionless sort of need Minho doesn't quite know how to vocalize, so he speaks with his body, with his hands tangling in his lover's long hair, with another heavy breath exiting his lungs. Minho begs, in his own silent way, and Chan responds eagerly, irises flaming with restraint when his gaze catches Minho's.
He can't help the way his body, broken and dysfunctional as it is, craves Chan's touch more than his mind fears his reaction. He parts his legs in silent invitation for Chan to crawl even closer, to allow him to press their ribcages together, heartbeats syncing as if trying to become one.
Minho doesn't fight it when Chan — without saying anything above a questioning look, moves his body gently, sits him up to face the mirror, legs spread and relaxed, like a doll, pliant and open and waiting for its maker's next move.
Chan settles closely behind Minho, allowing the younger to lean his weight on him, his breath is warm against the side of Minho's neck, and the hand that trails its way from his throat down to his chest is soft, featherlight, not forcing as much as coaxing.
He runs his hand even lower, resting it over the outline of Minho's steadily hardening cock, teasing, or just waiting for the younger to give him permission to go further.
Minho doesn't even have a moment to think about it before his hips involuntarily buck up against the palm of Chan's hand, desperately trying to snuff the flames of desire that had ignited inside him.
"My pretty baby," Chan coos, sucking a bruise into the side of Minho's neck. "You wanted this so bad, didn't you?" He asks, his hand pressing down harder, ripping a desperate whine from the back of his lover's throat.
"Yuh-yes, please, Channie." Minho hiccups, pushing against his hand frantically, moaning wantonly when the pressure drowns out the pain.
Chan obliges, diligent and careful as he slides his hand down the front of his pants, pulling his cock out and giving it a few slow strokes, just to hear Minho moan his name again. He's so heartbreakingly attentive as he does it, having spent the last twenty years learning the intricacies of Minho's body, when to push and when to pull, how to listen when his body spoke what his words never could.
He knows Minho better than he knows himself.
His grip is dry and a bit uncomfortable, but Minho is too desperate, too overwhelmed by sensations to really complain, choosing to instead whine impatiently. Chan notices, because of course he does, the hand wrapped around Minho's cock coming up to his face, palm facing upwards.
"Spit, baby." He urges, left hand thumbing at his hip encouragingly. Minho opens his mouth slowly, letting saliva pool under his tongue and pushing it out into Chan's open, waiting palm. It glistens against the pink skin of his hand like raindrops on a rose petal, threatening to drip down between the gaps of his fingers.
The slide is infinitely better, Chan's hand now slick and warm with his spit. Minho tips his head back in blind pleasure when his husband's grip tightens, stroking him slow and tight, thumbing over his flushed cockhead on every other upstroke, just how he likes it best.
Chan has always been possessive of Minho, but nothing makes him feel as claimed, as owned as the elder's hand cupped around his throat, restricting his airflow just enough to knock the edges of his vision out of focus, inevitably heightening every other sensation as his eyes fall closed.
"Open your eyes darling, look at yourself, look how beautiful you are like this." Chan speaks, lips brushing against Minho's earlobe, sending shivers all throughout his body.
Minho obeys, because during moments like these, his only goal is to be good, to prove to Chan that he's still worthy of his affection and patience.
He opens his eyes, staring at his reflection in the large mirror he's still facing, at the glint of the tears pooling at his waterline, the undeniable flush enveloping his face and chest. Minho watches the sweat-slick muscles of his stomach clench in waves as Chan's hand stays wrapped around the length of his dick, squeezing firmly around the base, dragging him back from the edge.
Through the soft haze settling over his mind, Minho cannot deny that he feels beautiful like this — now completely bare in his lover's hold, porcelain white skin dusted with rosy pinks at the extremities. The prettiest doll, pliant and willing to let Chan do anything to it.
"F-fuck, baby, please…m'close, m'so close." Minho sobs, trying to arch up and away from the constant stimulation, the feeling both too much and not enough at the same time. Tears spill freely down his face now, salty droplets pooling in his philtrum, tickling his neck as they slide lower.
"You look so pretty like this, all worked up and needy for me," Chan whines reverently, his sharp tongue eagerly lapping up the sweat gathering along Minho's shoulder, replacing tongue with teeth every so often. Chan isn't going to feed from him anytime soon, but the hunger in his actions persists, boiling just beneath the surface of his skin. "Poor thing," He coos sympathetically. "Just hold on a little more for me, okay? Wanna admire you like this."
Minho isn't sure if he can, but Chan's question seems rhetoric, so in reality he doesn't have much of a choice. The pitiful, reedy whine which rips itself from his throat when Chan's hand slows is downright pathetic, but he cannot bring himself to care. He's so close he can feel it like a pressure behind his eyes, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.
Chan doesn't rush, keeping the languid, torturous pace, slowly fisting Minho's cock as he whispers soft praise in his ear, digging his thumb into the slit meanly to pull soft moans from the younger's mouth. Minho tries to keep still, not wanting to disappoint Chan, but the erratic, uncontrolled twitches of his hips are inevitable, the tension in his gut pulling tighter, ready to snap.
"Mhhh, Channie, j-just like that-" Minho chokes out, stomach clenching in time with each stroke, each squeeze of Chan's hand around the base of his cock.
Chan's voice is thin when he speaks again, restraint and arousal clearly audible in his tone. "God, you look so beautiful darling. Can't believe I get to see you like this." His breaths are labored, ruffling the choppy strands of blonde hair swooping around Minho's ears, but his pace never falters, remaining painfully slow as Minho whimpers desperately, still looking at his own reflection because Chan didn't tell him he could stop. "Go ahead, let go for me. Wanna see how good I make you feel."
His body listens before his mind can catch up, and his orgasm crashes into him with such a force he can't hold back a few pained hiccups as his cock kicks, spurting thick, white ropes along the scars on his stomach, covering the ugly marks in a pearly sheen.
"Open up." Chan orders, tapping at Minho's bottom lip with two fingers while his other hand sweeps up the cum on his belly, bringing it up to the younger's mouth, making him taste himself. "So good for me, c'mon, clean it all up." He chuckles darkly, scooping up more of it on his fingers before feeding it to Minho, who happily opens his mouth, drooling all over the digits as he cleans them to the best of his ability.
Chan cleans him up minutes afterwards, lays him down on their bed again and doesn't stop praising him until he's done, tired and spent as he cuddles up to Minho.
It's only a temporary fix, but tonight Minho feels beautiful, truly beautiful, and he doesn't want to take that for granted.
✝
Minho remembers how he got all of his scars.
On some nights, when he needs a reason to keep going, a reminder of how much he's endured, he peels away each layer of clothing and looks at them all, reminiscing about how he came to bear each one. They fill his body almost completely, spanning over his arms, stomach and legs like a spiderweb, like shatter lines on a window pane.
Small, thin lines sprawled out over his upper thighs, mimicking the bare branches of a tree, forming a pattern that looked almost intentional, like Chan had been purposefully layering each cut in a strategic way, so it'll look prettier, so Minho would be able to romanticize his suffering.
His hips were blessedly bare, though Chan always made sure to have his teeth marks embedded proudly in the otherwise unmarred skin there. Higher up, the cuts deepened, forming deep indents and divots in the places where he's got more fat and less muscle.
Each scar bears a story, and Minho is cursed to remember each one. Whenever he looked at one of the light pink, jagged lines littering his flesh, he could see the image of them split open and still bleeding, could smell the metallic tang of the deep red liquid which spilt from them, pulsing with pain that no drug and no amount of time could ever wash away.
Among the litany of misshapen marks painted by his lover's knife into his pale skin, one stands out more than the rest. He relives the day he got it each time his gaze lingers upon it.
When Chan first got his diagnosis, when he was still learning to live with what he had become, his hunger was more persistent, less controlled. Nothing like the fuzzy, indistinct emptiness which made its place beneath his ribs these days.
Minho had spent most of those days fearing for his life, feeling like a helpless mouse thrown into a snake's enclosure, enjoying the last few moments of his miserable life before the serpent's fangs sank into his fragile flesh.
The summer was warm and unforgiving, a suffocating pressure which pressed down on the air around them constantly. Minho had left for a week-long work trip, after Chan had assured him countless times that he'd be fine by himself.
He didn't like patching himself up in a lonely hotel room without Chan by his side, but he didn't really have much of a choice.
When Minho returned to find the house eerily silent, he immediately knew something was wrong.
"Jagiya? I'm home." He announced lowly, afraid to raise his voice for whatever reason.
When he never got an answer, Minho dared to wander further, taking off his shoes as he ventured deeper into his own home, though the atmosphere was so wrong he felt as if he was trespassing.
With each step he took, Minho couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone deeply wrong, couldn't stop the hairs on the nape of his neck from raising, making him shiver.
Then, from somewhere farther within the house, muted steps resonated, causing his chills to subside.
Chan rounded the corner slowly, plump lips stretching into an odd grin as he looked at Minho, his eyes seemed darker, his already brown irises shadowed by something less, or more than human. "Darling, you're finally home," He whispered, kissing the younger quickly before settling into a hug.
The innate wrongness of Chan's demeanor wasn't lost on him.
"Missed you." Chan murmured, nosing at the underside of Minho's jaw, trailing kisses down his jugular.
"Missed you too-" Minho began speaking, only to have his sentence punctuated with an awful gurgling noise when Chan drove the knife inside his lower abdomen, expertly missing all his vital organs.
Minho doubled over like a house of cards in a windstorm, unable to withstand the sharp pain fraying each nerve ending, overtaking his entire body so quickly it felt at if it was trying to replace the blood in his veins.
Chan helped ease the fall, laying him down gently with a hand cradling the back of his head as the blade remain lodged inside him, dangerously close to his guts.
It was the first time Minho had ever tried to fight back. The first time fear and instinct won over the blind trust he held for Chan. His body thrashed aimlessly, senses overthrown by pain, actions driven purely by impulse. He had concentrated all of his quickly dwindling strength into a kick which landed straight to Chan's sternum, winding the older man and giving Minho a moment to run away.
Blood poured from the open wound in unrelenting waves, painting the wooden floors and making him slip clumsily as he tried to crawl backwards, still he insisted, dragged himself as fast as he could across the floor to try and escape the man he foolishly thought he could trust.
It was useless, as he was weak and blind with pain while Chan had quickly recovered, springing to his feet and catching Minho's arms above his head, leaving him sobbing in agony while still weakly trying to push the older man off, thrashing hopelessly.
Minho was going to die if he kept trying to fight back, if Chan didn't snap out of his daze soon and drove him to the hospital, though with the amount of blood gushing from his stomach wound, he feared he was going to die anyway, gutted open and bled dry like a pig.
"Stop fighting baby, you don't want me to accidentally gut you, now do you?" Chan had asked, his tone both hungry and condescending. Minho felt a strong spasm wrack through his stomach when Chan ground his hips down against the handle of the knife, burying it inside him almost to the hilt.
He was stuck in what felt like an almost dreamlike limbo, toeing the line between a blissful unconsciousness and the brutal, white-hot pain eating away at his guts.
Chan's eyes were still glossed over, still carrying that inhuman quality when he gripped a steady hand around the knife's handle, pulling the blade out and inspecting the puncture wound it had left behind — a heavily bleeding maw, contracting and convulsing with each agonizing clench of Minho's stomach. He was dry heaving now, choking on his own spit and tears as he struggled to hold onto his consciousness, afraid he'll never wake up again should he close his eyes. His involuntary gags and sobs made the two mutilated halves of skin touch again, producing filthy wet squelches as they did.
He knew the routine that followed by heart, was already swallowing back sobs in preparation for the second cut, for Chan to press the now warm metal down until his flesh gave and spilt yet another river of blood on their floors.
The second cut never came, the knife instead replaced by two of Chan's fingers, sinking into the wound and igniting another wildfire of agonizing pain inside him. Minho screamed until his voice thinned out, until his motor function seeped from his body completely and he was left motionless, already half-dead.
Chan's fingers kept pressing, feeling the velvety soft texture of his insides with an interest which bordered on obsessive, he pushed deeper, scissoring the two digits as if he were stretching Minho's hole open. The younger couldn't stifle the gag he made upon hearing the filthily wet sounds his own flesh made as it was pulled and stretched.
How hungry had Chan gotten to ever justify him acting like this? In his entranced state, did he realize he was going to kill Minho if he kept going?
"Do you really love me, Minho-yah?" Chan had asked, scooping out more blood and staring at it for a moment, as if the answer lay beneath the scatter of red blood cells slowly coagulating on the tips of his fingers, his tone was dull, accusatory almost.
Minho couldn't breathe, couldn't force the muscles in his lungs to contract and allow a sliver of air in, his vision was blurry, a thick veil cast over his eyes. Was Chan aware of what he had done? Could he feel the muscles in his lover's body slacken under his insistent touches? He had claimed once that they shared each other's pain, did he also feel the way Minho ached at that moment?
Chan apparently didn't appreciate his silence, for the darkness in his eyes deepened, twisting his previously comforting, beautiful features. Minho was scared of him. "You don't actually love me, do you?" He spoke, and it angered Minho, that he had the audacity to make such accusations, he had given himself over entirely, had offered Chan his flesh to keep him alive, and this was what he got in return? How dare he?
While anger boiled up inside Minho, Chan kept his unimpressed gaze on him, heavy and oppressive. The younger wanted to speak his mind, but he also wanted this to be over. He couldn't understand why Chan was dragging it out now, but he knew that trying to argue would only prolong his own torture.
"W-why would yuh-you s-say that dear?" Minho asked, the words ripping themselves out of his throat like a thorned stem, burning all the way out his esophagus. "Of-f course I love you." He managed to speak, breaking out into a violent coughing fit, sputtering blood all over his and Chan's clothes.
The older man didn't respond, which only amplified the uneasy feeling taking root in Minho's chest, instead he placed his fingers, still soaked in Minho's blood, to his lips, carefully cleaning off all the blood from them, sharp tongue running along the edge of his nails to catch any stray flecks that might've ended up underneath them.
When Chan finally picked the knife back up, Minho felt a small wave of relief crest over him. Not because he liked the pain, but because he preferred the agonizing, sharp jolts of another stab over the heavy feeling currently crawling its way from the tips of his fingers up like rot.
Minho loved Chan, he understood this was the only way to keep him alive, so he gave, and gave, he knew that eventually, something would go horribly wrong.
He just hadn't expected it to happen so soon.
He gritted his teeth hard enough to hear the enamel squeak from the press, threatening to splinter under the pressure of his jaw locking from the pain, every breath was a struggle, every minute twitch of muscle burning like molten metal throughout his body.
"P-please." Minho begged, teeth chattering, though he didn't know what for. For Chan to stop? To stitch him up now and feed from him later? Or for him to get the job done, get what he craved from the younger and hope he'd make it out alive?
Luckily, the haze in Chan's eyes lifted ever so slightly, and he was now focused on prying the small slice of meat out of Minho. He did so hastily, uncaring for Minho's desperate screams and begs for him to stop. The piece of flesh separated with one last violent noise, similar to skinning a fish, the sound was horrible on its own, but the knowledge that it was being torn off Minho's body made his stomach churn and twist with something closer to disgust than fear.
There was too much blood, so much that it had formed a macabre outline around Minho's body, splayed out on the floor like a pinned insect. The dizziness from earlier had worsened, turning Minho's lucidity into something fragile, gossamer-fine, like smoke.
Trying to hold onto his cognizance was as futile as Chan's attempts at stopping the bleeding were, a worthless trial that would yield no satisfactory results in the end. Minho had bled too much, too quickly, and soon, without any final words, he succumbed, losing consciousness in Chan's arms.
He recalls waking back up for a few fleeting moments, now on the bathroom floor, still in unimaginable pain. The ache fell over him so suddenly he couldn't help but gag again, horrified and desperate for respite, instincts driven haywire by blood loss. When his body tensed with another harsh convulsion, Minho heard a sound — almost like a thread snapping, and watched, vision swimming, as the panic on Chan's face intensified, witnessed his features darken, shift from distress to utter horror.
The void which swallowed him was a lame parody of comfort, though after all the pain he'd endured, the safety it brought felt convincing, it was heavy, like a weighted blanket, warmed his limbs, making it feel as if he were melting, converging with the darkness, falling into a bottomless pit.
He remembers praying he'll wake up, he wouldn't want Chan to worry.
Waking up wasn't as much of a gentle return of awareness as it was a slap to the face. The lights above him were bright, harsh, a shameless mockery of divine light. Feeling in his limbs was limited, though one thing he was fully aware of was the pain — it settled in gradually, fizzling to the surface of his skin like carbon dioxide bubbles in a drink, like swallowing a fistful of pennies before an MRI.
The first noise he made was a weak, pitiful groan, amplified by the apparently barren interior of whatever room he was in. Pain stung him all over, concentrated especially around his stomach. Minho blinked a few more times, valiantly trying to accommodate his eyes to the oppressive intensity of the light.
He was in the hospital.
He turned his head as much as his rigid muscles allowed, taking in the sight of Chan's frame, hunched over in the small plastic chair by his bed, when Minho let out a little whine, his body's own way of calling for the other man, Chan sprung up, frantically raking his gaze over Minho's frame, as if he was seeing him for the first time.
"Oh thank god you're awake." He sighed, reaching to rest his hand atop Minho's. Chan's eyes looked sunken in, dark circles prominent around them, his skin was pallid and looked almost sickly. How long had he been waiting for Minho to wake up?
Unable to move without putting himself in unbearable pain, Minho offered a gentle, tired smile, trying to relieve his boyfriend's worries. "How long have I been here?" He asks, still recovering from the confusion of sleep.
Chan paused the rhythmic caress of his thumb against the back of Minho's palm, seemingly calculating the days spent by his beloved's bedside. "Three, four days." The worried furrow between his brows was still present, though the relief was evident regardless, his words were breathier, relaxed but not completely. And then, like an afterthought: "I thought you wouldn't wake up."
Minho simply sighed, the soft, pinkened flesh of his lungs expanding and compressing to force a long, heavy exhale from him. Even breathing hurt tremendously.
"I'm sorry. For making you worry." Minho's voice was weak, though in the dead, heavy silence of the room his words were as loud as if he yelled them. Chan choked back a sob, getting himself back together quickly.
"Please, god, you've nothing to be sorry for." Chan's voice cracked halfway through his sentence, carrying something deeper than heartbreak, he looked as if guilt and fear had drained all the color from his face. Minho figured he didn't look much better either. "I'm so sorry darling, I won't ask for your forgiveness, I'm just so happy to see you're awake." He gave a warm, tired smile, and kissed the back of Minho's hand.
Minho had forgiven him before he even opened his eyes.
✝
The darkness was thick and neverending as it stretched before them, its merciless weight retreating, like a scared animal, before the car's headlights. Trees formed a barrage between the forest and the two-lane road, stretching their barren crowns up, up — like greedy hands reaching for the light up in the heavens.
There was a dead deer in the middle of the road.
"Oh my god." Chan whispered, eyes wide in surprise. He steered the car and stopped it off to the side of the road, getting out slowly.
The animal lay sprawled out across the road, a morbid painting of deep reds and reddish browns contrasting the light gray asphalt. Its entire body was split open, nearly halved by a cut beginning at its neck and ending between the hind legs, spilling all its guts on the pavement before them. Through the thick mess of blood and viscera, the yellowish cage if its ribs stood out, resembling a pair of clawed hands cradling whatever organs had yet to fall out.
The stench of decay and blood hung low around them, compressed and thickened by the humid autumn air, attacking Minho's senses and making his eyes water. He didn't want to get any closer to it, overwhelmed by the irrational fear that it might come back to life and attack him, rip his throat out with its blunt herbivore teeth.
Minho didn't know what came over him back then, but he remembers his feet betraying his instincts, forcing him to approach the deer. Its eyes were wide, glassed over and reflecting the silhouettes of the trees behind him, it's jaw was undoubtedly broken, hanging off from the rest of the head by a thin strip of flesh.
An odd sense of deja vu had befallen him then. He'd seen this exact scene before, in one of his nightmares, the one which haunted him every time he closed his eyes, that had him waking up in a cold sweat, shaking like a leaf.
Though this deer, along with its glassy eyes and the graceless, unnatural position it had died in, was nothing like the ones in Minho's nightmares. It had no sharp teeth, no hand-like antlers stretching out to reach for his neck. It was just an animal, dead, harmless and already in the early stages of decomposition. Minho let out a shaky exhale, still unable to look away from its carcass.
"What do you think did this?" Chan asked, voice cautiously low, as if he was afraid of alerting something lurking just beyond the treeline.
The deer's skin was pulled back like peeled fruit, exposing its insides like a flower in full bloom. There was no way an animal, no matter how large, could've done this, the cut was too clean, too large, precise like a surgical incision. It was horrifying.
Minho wasn't superstitious, or so he liked to pretend, but he wasn't dumb enough to ignore a clear bad omen when he saw one. "I-I don't know… doesn't look like an animal did it though." Cold sweat beaded around his hairline and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking.
"We're gonna have to move it out the way," Chan said, a dreadful look in his eyes. Deer are heavy as is but a limp, dead one is even harder to drag around. Minho will probably have to help, and he'll have to do it without bursting into tears, so as not no scare Chan. "Can you help me darling?" Minho just bit his tongue, nodding mutely.
His hands wrapped around the deer's mutilated back legs, its soft, rotting flesh squishy in the palms of his hands, making a horrible noise as it gave under the pressure. Both him and Chan ignored the bloody bits of meat remaining on the road as they carried it. Minho purposely dismissed the stinging at his waterline, focused on getting the animal out of their way instead.
They carry the animal without so much as a disgruntled glance in each other's way, setting it down gently to avoid being splattered with its blood.
They don't speak in the car either, Chan with a blood stain soaked into his pants and Minho with a new figure to haunt his dreams.
✝
Minho is, for lack of a better word, withering.
He's surprised he even managed to hold onto his strength for so long, with all his body's been put through, keeping himself on his feet for all these years seems — in hindsight, herculean.
Lack of muscle mass and days upon days left bedridden by his pain have caused his muscles to atrophy, turning him weaker and weaker with each passing day. Even the simple, menial task of opening his eyes drains him of his energy, but he'll put up with the exhaustion if it means seeing Chan again.
Denying it would be pointless, bordering on hypocritical, his days are numbered and he's merely counting them down now, trying to make the most of his remaining time with Chan.
Chan worries, because worrying is built into his DNA, he was concerned even in the beginning, when Minho's minimal wounds would hurt and he'd let out little winces, but now that he's deteriorated even more, the uneasy furrow between his brows is permanent, not even his loving looks are enough to soften it.
He finds himself here again now, laying in bed, scouring the sunlit ceiling for an answer to his woes. Chan is somewhere in the room too, picking clothes from his dresser and putting them on, starting his morning leisurely. Minho turns over to look at him, really look at him, at his broad, muscled back, at the defined outline of his biceps clearly contoured beneath the fabric of his shirt, his steadily growing hair, dark and curling up softly at the ends. Minho can sense the subtle vanilla in his shampoo from where he's laying.
Sometimes he wishes he'd be the sick one, and Chan would be his fated sacrifice, his loyal lamb, eager to spill his blood for him.
Sometimes Minho wishes he could eat Chan instead.
"It's nice out today." Chan muses, turning away from the dresser to face Minho, a saddened smile etched on his pretty face.
"Yeah? Wanna come drag this shell of a body out to get some sunlight?" Minho asks, self depreciating but in a way that tries to come off as satirical, a very poor joke made at his own expense.
Chan's smile falters, morphing into more of a pained, defeated frown. "Don't say it like that darling, you know you're way more than that." And in that moment, Minho really wonders, is he? Is he more than the bones and muscles that have been rendered unable to carry him? After all, isn't he just a summary of all his wounds? The physical embodiment of ache? Minho knows Chan would never lie to him, that the elder truly means what he says, but he can't help but disagree.
His husband's expression softens indefinitely as he walks over to Minho, peeling the blanket off of him and scooping him up like he weighs nothing, his strong hands snaking underneath Minho's knees and keeping the other one splayed on the small of his back. As soon as he lifts him up to his level, Chan leaves a chaste kiss on his lover's forehead, eliciting a slew of soft giggles from the younger.
Minho instinctively curls up closer to his chest, ear pressed up against the hollow of his ribcage, listening to the strong beats of his heart, letting the familiarity of its unfaltering rhythm soothe him.
Chan carries him over to the living room and sits him down gently on the couch, and in that moment, Minho is painfully reminded of just how little autonomy he still has, how much he's grown to depend on Chan as his condition has worsened. He doesn't really mind it, because he loves and trusts Chan, but losing so many parts of him inevitably forces Minho to be vulnerable, which still ignites some unpleasant feelings within him.
After opening the back door, Chan returns to carry him the rest of the way, his hands as sure as always around Minho's frail body when he carries him outside, through the soft, well-kept grass of their backyard and onto a large blanket. Minho can't help the small giggle that leaves him when he sees it. Chan really hasn't changed in all these years they've been together.
The late spring sun is as bright as it is gentle, warming up the blanket and Minho's unexposed skin as he splays out languidly, enjoying the feeling of the soft grass yielding beneath his body weight. He waits for Chan to return with whatever snacks he's prepared for their romantic picnic. It's sweet that he's so thoughtful, but Minho can't shake the bitter feeling welling up inside him at the knowledge that he once used to help Chan prepare meals, that there was a time when he wasn't completely and utterly useless.
When Chan finally returns, carrying various plates of triangle cut sandwiches and kimbap and a cup of pudding because he knows the younger has been craving some, Minho was just about to doze off, lulled to sleep by the warm sunlight and the birds singing cheerfully above him. He pokes his head up when he feels another body lay down beside him.
"Feeling alright?" Chan asks, pushing a plate of homemade pizza rolls towards Minho.
"Mhh, yeah…jus' tired." Chan looks saddened to hear just how little energy his husband has these days, but Minho's never been one to lie just to avoid scaring him. He stretches out his sore muscles and attempts to lift himself up into a sitting position but to no avail, his hands aren't strong enough to hold his weight and he struggles, much to his poorly concealed embarrassment.
Ultimately, Chan ends up helping him, his soft hands guiding Minho to lean his back against the elder's front. Minho melts into him immediately, fatigue already clouding the edges of his vision, numbing his limbs. A painful reminder of just how weak he now is.
He hopes he'll be able to stay awake for a little while longer, he wouldn't want Chan to eat alone.
"I hate that I'm so tired now," Minho sighs, voice laced with disappointment, with disdain for his own self. "Wan' stay with you."
"I know darling, but it's okay, not your fault." Chan responds, hand caressing his lover's hair softly, watching him slowly chew a piece of kimbap, using all his leftover energy for the simple task. "How's it?"
"Good," Minho nods eagerly, leaning his head down on Chan's shoulder and pressing his lips to his neck. "S'really good."
Minho allows his eyes to fall closed for a short moment, enjoying the sensation of the sunlight beaming down on him, of Chan's sturdy frame supporting what is left of him. The sun's warmth grows overbearing quickly, and he's painfully aware of the sweat beading at his hairline, threatening to drip down the curves and bony ridges of his back.
He reaches a hand down to drag his pants over his knees, exposing his unnaturally thin calves to the warm air and Chan's guilt-ridden eyes.
The backyard of Minho's childhood home, the one he inherited when his parents died, is vast and well kept, he's enjoyed running through the soft grass ever since he was young. Their only neighbors are far from their home, too far to ever notice his thin frame resting in the sun. Still, he can't help but worry about what Chan thinks of him, despite the fact he's reassured Minho countless times that he'll never be repulsed by the younger's physical state, it's a weird feeling Minho wishes he'd be strong enough to overcome.
"D'you wanna lay down, darling?" Chan asks, resting a hand over Minho's stomach, peppering soft kisses along his hairline. The food lay forgotten beside them, flies and other insects already swarming it.
"Yes, I'm sorry." He whispers, overwhelmed by fear that he's pushing Chan away, that he's left unable to participate in his conversations with more than just a few nods and half-uttered sentences.
"Please don't be, you're perfect," Chan enunciates his statement with another featherlight kiss to his temple, resting his lips there for a moment longer. "I love you."
Minho feels like crying, hollowed out by pain and disappointment, but he loves Chan, and he doesn't want to leave his confession unanswered. "I love you too."
Time passes in its own stilted way, the sun dragging its heavy, burning body across the pale blue sky, Chan has resorted to laying down beside him, drawing patterns on Minho's forearm while the younger fends off sleep, trying his best to keep their conversation alive.
The sun sits proudly above them by the time Chan speaks again, his own voice slurred, Minho can barely hear him. "You're too tired darling, we should go inside." He suggests, face pressed up into his neck, breathing in his scent.
It's merely late afternoon by now, but Minho has felt deeply exhausted ever since he forced himself to creep his eyes open this morning, a decent five hours ago. Realistically, he doesn't have any reasons to be so tired, but he's aware of the deplorable state he's in, so he doesn't beat himself up about it too much. Chan is as understanding as always, surely he won't judge Minho for becoming so unresponsive this past month, right?
He ignores the sinking feeling clawing at the soft parts within him, reaches his arms out for Chan to pick him up instead.
He's carried back to his bed, eyelids impossibly heavy, his whole body dead weight in his husband's arms. The last thing he's aware of before falling prey to his exhaustion is Chan's loving, worried look which warms Minho more than the sun ever could. He loves him so much.
✝
Waking up becomes even harder the next day, a task now so difficult Minho is terrified he might not manage to open his eyes at all. He knows his body is awake, functioning to the best of its abilities, but he can't bring himself to drag his eyelids back enough to actually see.
After spending three minutes struggling to concentrate all of his energy on the task, he's glad the first thing he sees is Chan.
The odd feeling returns, now increased tenfold. The hollow beneath his ribs expands, swallowing everything inside him like a hungry void. He doesn't tell Chan about it, how he's sure what it means and what will happen to him. Minho has never been one to hide things, but he doesn't want Chan to worry.
He wants to enjoy this day to the fullest, and he refuses to let grief overshadow their love.
"You still haven't stopped looking at me like that." Chan says instead of a "Good morning.", assessing each and every one of Minho's features with loving attention, gaze lingering too long on Minho's sharp, tired eyes.
"Like what?" Minho asks, confused and maybe a bit taken aback by his statement.
"Like you used to when we were back in college, and we were happy and unaware of what would happen to us." Chan's voice broke, as if uncovering the memories of their past caused him physical pain.
Does Chan know how bad those few words hurt him? Does he know Minho won't be here come morning? There's no way. His hand is on Minho's face, not his chest. He can't feel the slow, staggering beats of his heart, can't feel his body as it struggles to fight the rot softening the already fragile parts of him.
He doesn't know Minho is dying, doesn't need to know that he's slowly fading away, slipping through his fingers while he's busy drowning in his own self-loathing and guilt.
Minho doesn't make much of an effort to move, just sighs softly when Chan shuffles closer, nuzzling his face underneath the younger's chin, arms wrapped securely around his scarily thin torso. He's been having trouble keeping food down lately, so it makes sense that he's lost a lot of body fat, truly a shell of himself now.
"Wanna watch something?" Chan looks up at him, already reaching for the remote.
Minho doesn't reply for a good half minute, suddenly entranced by his husband's face, determined to commit every detail to memory.
Maybe it's because he innately knows this is the last time he gets to look at him properly, or maybe Chan is just that gorgeous. Still, Minho stares, at the crow's feet in the corners of his dark brown eyes, at the smile lines permanently etched into his face and his deep dimples that only show when he's smiling at Minho.
Minho will miss a lot of things — the soft sheets and the early morning sun, the painfully ordinary life he lived before, his friends, the cherry tree in their backyard which he'll never get to see in full bloom again.
Above all, he'll miss Chan, his dearest husband, the one and only love of his life, both the reason behind his rapidly approaching death and the reason he even held onto life for so long. He thinks, as a dying man usually does, about all he'll leave behind, at all the sorrow and grief his death will cause.
He's truly sorry.
"Mm, of course." He says, hugging Chan closer to him, desperate for his body heat.
The light of the early afternoon sun shines inside their bedroom in thick beams, leaving a trail of raw warmth in its wake. Their white sheets reflect the light, spreading its golden hues all over the walls, like a small corner of heaven forgotten down on earth.
Chan lifts his head up, pressing his lips against Minho's, kissing him softly, they glide smoothly against one another, fitting together perfectly, letting their hands roam reach other's body in a well practiced manner, like dancers rehearsing a choreography.
"Always so sweet, my love." Chan says in the second they pull away, diving back in on Minho's lips, slick and flushed from earlier. "I love you." He says it softly, sure of himself, like he'll never get tired of saying it.
Minho stifles a surprised whine when Chan bites down on his bottom lip, leaving an imprint of his teeth in the flesh. "I love you, too." He replies, throwing his leg over Chan's hip and resting their foreheads together, breathing each other's air.
The movie Chan put on is no more than a device to fill the empty air of the room with something other than silence, they remain tangled up in each other's hold, only sparing the tv a glance or two when a character yells or says something inadequate. It's not necessarily interesting, but he distantly remembers watching it a few years ago, cuddled up in bed like they are now, it's a nice memory to look back on.
Minho has come to terms with death ever since Chan had warned him of his condition, but as the sun falls closer and closer to the softly curved line of the horizon and the previous numbness in his body is replaced by a burning pain, he's left unable to hide the visceral fear clawing wildly inside of him, feral and completely unrestricted now.
"Fuck," Minho sighs, gritting his teeth from the sudden spikes of pain shooting through his calves. "My legs, could you?" He asks, making a small kneading motion with his hands to indicate what he needs.
"Of course dear, anything…" Chan trails off, as if he suddenly caught on to the gravity of what is happening, like he too knows the imminent disaster lurking just out of their peripheral vision. "Anything you want."
The sun is hovering just above the horizon, but the light years between their corner of the world and the burning star dims its light inevitably. Chan switches the bedside lamp on, peeling the covers off of Minho's aching body, layering kiss upon kiss on his legs to soothe him. His husband's hands are precise and gentle as they knead the tension out of Minho's calves, diligently massaging the muscle to ease the pain, even if only sightly.
Minho sighs happily at the feeling of Chan's hands easily circling his ankles, undoing the ropes of pain keeping his muscles tensed, like they're bracing for what's to come. He relaxes eventually, body loosening to the point he feels like he's about to melt through the mattress, seep into the floors and become one with the very house that shelters them, find solace in the tunnels chewed by termites in their floorboards.
The pain is making him feel weird, inadequate, like the pit inside him is not only bigger, but also heavier now, dragging him down. He hopelessly reaches for Chan, weak, bony arms extending in his general direction, needing his husband's grounding touch more than anything.
Chan gives him a sweet, saddened look, offering his left arm for Minho to hold on to, relying on the soft, yielding flesh of the limb to tether him to reality, keep his grim thoughts from eating him alive. His beloved's hand is warm to the touch, obvious proof of the life stirring just beneath its surface, a network of soft blue veins wrapping around his naturally pale skin.
As Chan continues to knead the atrophied muscles in his legs, Minho is aware he must look deeply weird like this — a stark white silhouette contrasting the dark background of the night stretching just outside the window, with its sunken eyes and thin, bony fingers wrapped around his lover's still healthy arm, inspecting the things which keep him alive from closer up, tracing his veins with a shaky finger.
"That's alright…" Minho begins, breathing labored from the effort of keeping himself upwards on his elbows. "Thank you so much, my love." His voice is barely above a whisper, but Chan hears him, nodding softly before leaning down to kiss Minho.
There's no heat behind the kiss, no sinister feeling of impending doom looming over them in that moment. Minho is terrified, rightfully so, but he doesn't want to let that weigh down on him, not right now, so he kisses Chan back, slots their lips together in their well-practiced dance, empties his mind of anything that isn't Chan.
"I love you so much, come over here." Minho beckons him over softly, wanting to be as close to Chan as possible. He's scared.
The elder is cuddling up to him when Minho's body is suddenly overtaken by such a strong wave of pain it leaves him reeling, clutching his chest out of fear his heart might give out because of it. He can't help but squeeze his eyes shut, in the hopes that it'll shield him from the terrifying reality of his fate, like his death will be less daunting if he faces it with his eyes closed.
His harmless, blunt nails sink into the meat of Chan's forearm, leaving small crescents behind, a visual proof of his fear. He wasn't supposed to let it show, but here he is, fighting back sobs in his husband's arms.
"What is it darling? Are you alright?" Chan asks, panicked, frantically searching him for any injures, any scars that may have been torn back open.
It's useless, as the damage is far too great, too well hidden underneath layers of marred skin and sinew, imperceptible from the outside. Can't Chan smell the scent of decay coming off of him?
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Minho sobs, bursting into tears as reality comes crashing down all around him. He buries his face in Chan's chest, wetting the elder's shirt with salty tears. They soak into the fabric immediately, warm and undeniably real as they spread across his heart. "I'm scared." He whispers, words muffled into the solid muscle of his beloved's chest, he tries listening to his heartbeat, trying to mirror his steady breaths to calm himself but to no avail. The certainty of his death is too terrifying to be overshadowed by Chan's presence. "I'm so scared."
"It's okay darling, it's okay," Chan assures him, smoothing a hand over Minho's head. Minho knows it isn't, but he allows himself to bask in the absurdity of his promise, in the sheer delusion it provides. "Just breathe, please." He murmurs, kissing the crown of his head.
"I'm tired," Minho admits, voice trembling with each violent sob that wracks through his body, rattling his ribcage each time the air leaves his lungs. "D-don't wanna fall asleep."
He's tired, but he's scared to go to sleep, for he knows what'll happen once he succumbs to his exhaustion, wants to stay by Chan's side for as long as he can.
Minho doesn't want to die.
"S'okay, my love, it's alright. I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." Chan pulls him impossibly closer, kissing every bit of Minho he can reach, all while his hands continue roaming over his body, committing the shape and feel of Minho's fragile frame laying on top of him to memory, the final page in a two decade long photobook. "I love you, Minho."
Chan's earnest confession makes Minho's chest ache more than his fear of dying does, tearing another pained wail from between his gritted teeth. He can't help the way his hands clutch desperately at Chan's shirt, the way his heart feels like it's splitting apart, each atrium and ventricle separating to float aimlessly within the void inside him.
He knows he'll have to go to sleep eventually, and he'd rather go willingly than to just unceremoniously pass out in Chan's arms.
Despite the fact he had previously deluded himself into believing he's accepted his fate, Minho shakes in his husband's hold, wishing he could've spent his last days doing more than just letting Chan haul him around the house like a useless ragdoll.
"I love you." Minho confesses, and it bears an odd novelty, the way his slowly slackening jaw moves around the words is foreign, disturbing. He's sure of what he says regardless, pushing through the numbness crawling up his limbs to remind Chan that he has never doubted the way he felt for him, that everything he's done in this life was because he loved him.
"I love you too, my sweet, you're so beautiful."
Minho doesn't have a chance to say it again before Chan speaks once more.
"I love you." He breathes deeply, lifting Minho slightly as his lungs expand under him. "I will never stop loving you,"
A moment passes, and the younger can see his husband's eyes sparkle with unshed tears. He's sorry for making him so sad. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
They keep exchanging love confessions as Minho's energy slowly depletes, and when he's too weak to keep speaking, he kisses Chan, slow and sluggish because he cannot feel his limbs anymore, but still charged with the pure, unfiltered reverence he holds for the elder.
They've spent the last twenty-seven years of their lives sharing countless kisses, but this one feels pivotal, charged in an irreplicable way, like they're doing it for the first time. Chan's lips trap Minho's with a gentle movement, no bite behind his actions, because he'd spent long enough sinking his teeth in the younger, and right now it isn't about that.
Somewhere around the third kiss they share, Chan starts crying too, adding to the saltwater waves trickling down their faces and seeping between their lips, another flavor in the cocktail of grief mixing between the two.
Their sobs intensify, first Minho begins properly weeping again, realizing that he cannot feel his limbs at all anymore, that he's never going to feel Chan's hand holding his again. The elder follows, mirroring the fear in Minho's eyes, like he's grieving him while he's still alive.
Maybe he's been grieving since Minho's condition worsened, and the feeling is simply surfacing now. He doesn't want to think about it.
"My darling, my sweet Minho, go to sleep love, you're too tired to stay awake." Chan cries, voice breaking several times throughout his sentence. He too knows what will happen once Minho falls asleep, he knows he'll lose him the second his eyes close, but he's urging him to do it anyways.
Minho assumes it's not out of selfishness, because if it were up to his husband, he'd be immortal, but only to calm him. Chan is trying to ease Minho into the idea he'll die before the sun peeks above the horizon, that he's only making things worse for himself by staying awake.
"I d-don't want to, Chan-ah, I don't wuh-want to die." And he's crying so loud as he says it, grasping at Chan's body like a terrified child, he can't kiss him properly anymore, so he just holds on, begging whatever god may listen for just one more day. "I love you too much to let you go."
"Me too darling, but you're only hurting yourself by staying awake. Please, just rest." Chan begs, and Minho can still feel as he squeezes him tighter, urging the younger to rest his head on his chest again. "I love you." He still hasn't stopped crying.
And what is Minho to do? He knows delaying it any further would be pointless, but he still has so much to say to Chan. There are still thousands of "I love you"s sitting just on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free.
For the last time in his life, Minho closes his eyes, distantly aware of Chan's soft voice humming their wedding song, a soft tune, lulling him to sleep.
He loves him so much.
⸸
Minho is dead.
Chan knows it the second he wakes up, his body is cold, muscles slowly slackening as the rigor mortis ebbs away. He's still laying on top of Chan, and he's as beautiful in death as when he was alive.
While his body is still heavy with sleep and half crushed beneath his husband's…body, because calling it a corpse sounds too harsh, too impersonal to refer to the man he'd spent more than half of his life beside to, the realization doesn't settle in properly. It lingers at the forefront of his mind, repeating itself over and over like a mantra. "He's dead, he's dead because of you."
"You killed him."
Then it hits him. All at once. A violent torrent of emotion, coursing through his body like a parasite, rotten and filthy as it overtakes his entire being.
It's his fault. He's the one who caused this.
He feels like throwing up.
"Minho!" He whisper-screams, frail voice startlingly loud in the awful silence. "Minho darling, please, please no." Chan sobs brokenly, sliding from beneath his husband to grab onto his shoulders and hopefully shake him back awake. "No, no! Minho please wake up…please." Chan's head comes to rest on his cold, unmoving chest, listening for a pulse like his desperation alone is enough to make Minho's heart start beating again.
He wails like a wounded animal, hyperventilating with his hands tightly gripping the younger's shirt, now soaked through with tears. This cannot be real. Minho isn't dead, right? He can't be.
"Please."
Chan presses his ear to his chest, holding his breath like he could give it up so Minho could breathe in his stead, but it's horribly and utterly fruitless, there is no pulse, no matter how weak, fluttering from beneath his ribs.
Minho is dead, and no plea or prayer is going to undo that. Chan's sobs are only a way to distribute the ache to his lungs too, so his heart won't give out completely under the weight of his grief.
There are no words violent enough describe the pain Chan feels, no proper way to vocalize just how disgusted and ashamed he is of his own existence. He should've been the one laying lifeless on their bed, not Minho. He was innocent, he didn't deserve to suffer, to live such a pain-addled life at Chan's hands.
He bolts up from the bed suddenly when his stomach clenches with a wave of anguish so visceral it makes him gag. He almost doesn't make it to the bathroom, knocking gracelessly into several walls before dropping down in front of the toilet, vomiting acrid bile into the porcelain bowl. His throat burns with the disgusting aftertaste. Chan spends a while there, knees going numb from the hard tile, resting his forehead on the cool material like it'll help.
Truthfully, he has no idea how he's going to get through…anything without Minho. The younger was always there to keep him grounded, to keep his thoughts from spiraling out of control. So what is he going to do now that Minho's dead?
He retches into the toilet one more time, tears and snot running down his face as he throws up the contents of his stomach, making him look as disgusting as he feels.
Chan cleans himself up haphazardly, panicked and feeling inadequate, wanting to have his beloved's face back in his sights. He can't accept the fact that he's dead, and he's dead because of him. He misses him like he's still alive.
The bedroom is dim, bathed in the first weak traces of dawn's light, Minho's limp body lay sprawled out over the mattress, occupying most of the bed despite his now smaller frame, thinned down by pain and sickness. At first glance, Chan can delude himself into believing he's just sleeping, judging by the peaceful tranquility of his sharp features, but the truth weighs down on him too heavily to be ignored.
There's nothing that can bring his Minho back.
Chan's feet feel rooted into the floor, unable to carry him any further than the foot of their bed. He keeps staring at Minho, at his lithe body, half covered by the blanket and still so beautiful Chan feels like he's going to throw up a third time.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, frozen with horror and disbelief and so much pain it's incomprehensible. By the time he sneaks over to the nightstand on his side of the bed — quiet, like Minho is only sleeping and Chan can't risk waking him up, the sun is already up in the sky, casting its light like it always does, though this time it feels wrong, too cold, foreign in a way he never expected it to be.
He realizes, dreadfully, that he cannot do this alone, that he needs something more than the cold, silent house he's currently trapped in. He should call Changbin, or Jisung, or any of his friends. He's been rendered useless by his grief, pathetic and puffy-eyed from the turmoil of sorrow thrashing around inside him, knocking his fragile, untethered heart violently against his ribcage.
Chan's hands are shaky and almost as cold as Minho's as he picks up his phone, closing his eyes with a pained whimper when his husband's beautiful face lights up his lockscreen. Changbin is the first contact he clicks on, pressing the call button with a soft wince, as if breaking the news to anybody else is physically painful.
The younger answers on the first ring, his voice laced with concern because Chan almost never calls.
"Hyung? What happened?" Changbin's voice filters through the speaker, so careful Chan is scared his friend already knows what he's going to say.
"He's dead…Minho's dead."
⸸
The only unfortunate thing about time and the world in it's entirety is that they never stop, no matter what disastrous events turn your whole life upside down and leave you clutching your chest, praying you don't make it through the night, it never stops. Time passes, and the world keeps spinning.
Chan isn't sure how long it's been since Minho's death, how much time he'd spent looking at the younger's face in the pictures placed all over the house, unable to hold back his tears as he kept staring at him with so much love, so much pain it tore him from the inside out.
It's weird how grief affects the mind, how Chan does not remember what the past four days have been like. His memories are only brief cutscenes, volatile and easy to lose grip on. His shaky, clumsy hands can barely grasp onto the images of Minho in the days following his death.
The remnants of his recent memories are shrouded in a dark veil of sorrow, but he can't forget how dressing Minho in his wedding suit for the funeral felt. The fabric was scratchy against his hands, unnaturally stiff as he gently maneuvered his husband into it. Minho's skin, once so warm, was now morbidly cold and so, so fragile it terrified him. He had lost so much weight that the suit nearly swallowed him, his fragile body engulfed by the material.
Minho's funeral was no difference. Chan can't conjure up a clear image of it, yet he vividly recalls sitting numbly in the front pew, unaware and unfazed by what was happening around him, can still feel the cool sensation of Minho's forehead as he kissed him one last time, staring dumbly at the purple veins on his eyelids as the casket was closed.
He's…stuck, to say the least.
Now that Minho has been laid to rest, offered up to the earth for the worms to feast off him, Chan cannot come up with a good reason to keep going. He's long forgotten which feeling is which, all he knows is that all of them hurt tremendously, weighing him down more and more with each passing day.
Chan prays Minho never felt this way, prays that his love was enough to placate him in the last months of his life.
There's an idea burying itself deeper and deeper into his mind, taking root in the folds of his brain, overtaking his every thought at a horrifying speed. It's not a matter of strength or willpower, he's lost those the moment he lost Minho.
Chan is no longer afraid of starvation, of what being deprived of human flesh might turn him into, for he won't live to witness himself turning into the wild, psychotic thing his doctors warned him of. There's no point in living with only half a heart, whatever's left of it is torn up and spitting so much blood inside him he often feels like a living, walking bruise.
It's simple, a glaringly obvious way out, he knows he's weak for wanting to do it, selfish and outright stupid for it, but Chan has never been a brave man, most people just never got close enough to find that out.
Suicide is, in every way that matters, the best option for him. He isn't strong enough to wait for grief to wilt his heart away, so he has no better choice.
A harsh knock at the door snaps him out of his dreamlike state, whoever it is, they seem adamant, as if they read Chan's mind and had come to try and save him from himself. It isn't going to work, but their efforts are appreciated regardless.
"Chan-hyung, are you okay? Can you hear us?" A voice — certainly Hyunjin's, asks, frantic and evidently worried as his fists keep banging against the door.
"We brought you some food, hyung-ah." Jisung adds, and Chan's heart twists with guilt and suffering, knowing he'll leave them behind. It's an awful weight to throw on the shoulders of his friends, but his conviction remains the same. He's got little worth living for.
"Yeah, m'here, sorry guys." He apologizes, more for what his death will put them through than anything else. A shiver courses through him when he hears his voice for the first time in too long, it sounds strange, like it doesn't belong to him. "You can like…leave it at the door, thank you, I'm sorry." It seems like all he's capable of doing now is apologizing.
"Don't be sorry Chan-ah, you've nothing to apologize for, are you sure you don't want us to come in?" Jisung insists, sounding tired and defeated, drained of his energy by grief. His friends have all been affected by Minho's death, he can only pray they'll find the strength to keep living through it, unlike him.
"Yes, I'm sure, sorry." Chan whispers, voice shaky as he says the words, he watches them leave through the peephole, already regretting pushing them away.
Chan has never been religious, never believed in futile things such as heaven or hell, but if there's anywhere him and Minho might be reunited in death, he's willing to believe in anything.
The walk from the front door to the cherry tree out back takes a reasonable minute or two, but Chan is dragging his feet, stalling terribly as he takes in every detail of the living space he once shared with the love of his life.
His tired eyes rest upon the myriad of couple pictures adorning almost every surface of the house, pictures of them in college, when they had been friends for only a month or two, then from their first dates, the places they visited, and most importantly, pictures from their wedding.
Other small items are scattered around the room, creating a sort of visual clutter Chan cannot look away from. When Minho was still healthy, Chan often overlooked them, but now, something as mundane as Minho's mug, still holding a few sips of tea from when Chan had made him some on their last day together, is more than enough to make him cry, forcing the weakest of sobs from him as he nearly crumples to the floor.
Still, he pushes through, because underneath their pink cherry tree and beyond the inevitable death that awaits him, Chan likes to believe he'll find Minho, that he's doing all of this for a chance at getting reunited with his husband.
The knife's handle burns in Chan's hand as he sluggishly drags his feet through the soft, green grass of their backyard. During this time of spring, the cherry trees are in full bloom, spreading tiny pink petals through the warm air like a gentle mist. They undulate with the soft breeze as if beckoning him to his forever resting place.
He doesn't even have a will, nobody to inherit his belongings, or his pain.
Initially, his grief-stricken mind wanted to lay a blanket down underneath himself, the same one him and Minho had laid on a lifetime, or some six days ago. He had grabbed the fabric on his way out the door, but decided against it when the soft scent of Minho's body wash wafted off it.
His blood wasn't worthy of marring the last dregs of his beloved's scent.
So it remained there, thrown over the arm of the couch, because it would've only served as another object to discard by the unfortunate soul who will encounter his corpse, and his death will already be a big enough inconvenience.
His heart rabbits wildly in his chest, pulse going erratic as it dawns on him that he's really about to do this, that somewhere between the next ten minutes, Chan is going to be dead. It'll all be worth it, as he'll get to see his beloved again.
He misses him dearly, can almost hear Minho's soft, airy voice beckoning him closer to the trunk of the tree.
Chan kneels before it, allowing himself to be slowly covered in its tiny petals. There are millions upon millions of them floating freely through the air, yet despite the amount of petals its flowers have lost, the tree still stands proudly, keeping its rich, baby pink crown seemingly full.
Chan wonders how it's possible to lose so much of yourself while still looking completely whole.
The knife he picked out is a deliberate decision, a sort of final, symbolic act of devotion. It's their wedding gift. The arguably small blade isn't able of cutting out more than just a small piece of flesh, but it's theirs, and Chan is sure it's more than perfect for the task. The knife has their initials hand-carved into the dark wooden handle, cursive letters painted in gold. They reflect the sunlight filtering through the branches, glinting back in his eyes.
He had planned this moment out meticulously, but right now, he feels lost, frozen in fear. How do you ever muster up the courage to take your own life?
"You'll get to see him again." He thinks, the thought insisting within his mind, filling him with a terrifying, unnatural calmness. So Chan allows himself to relax, taking a deep breath and tightening his grip on the knife, lifting it up till it hovers just above his carotid artery.
"I miss you so much, my darling." He whispers it softly, before plunging the knife as deep as it'll go inside his neck, listening to the horrible sound flesh and muscle makes as it gives under the sharpened metal blade.
There's a moment, or several, when the pain doesn't register, only a strong buzz beneath his skin and the agitated thumps of his heart. Chan is somewhat aware of the warm, metallic blood pouring out of him in thick waves, soaking into his shirt and painting the grass below a brilliant, vivid red.
Then it hits, all at once, a pain so awful it feels as though the universe in its entirety, with all its graceful asters and burning stars crashed down onto him. He screams, or tries to, managing only a grotesque gurgle as his own blood drowns him from the inside out.
There's so much, it's so bright, so red.
Chan's limbs go numb surprisingly fast, and his head feels heavy as he slumps, already half-dead against the sturdy trunk of the cherry tree. The pain is all encompassing, feeling as if he were flayed open, layers of flesh peeled back to reveal the disgusting, inevitable humanity of him.
Blood stains everything around his shaking body, even the gentle pink of the petals which had fallen on his skin bloom a second time, now the deep, vile red of rose petals, of death.
He cannot speak, but a single name keeps droning on in his dying mind.
"Minho, Minho, Minho" Over and over again, till the pain dissapears and his certain, unavoidable death claws him open a final time. And he's left there, bloodied beyond recognition, unmoving save for the cherry petals thrashing above him in the wind.
"I can't wait to see you again, my love."