Chapter Text
San is one who believes in second chances. It’s just that he’s too far gone to get his. Not only that, but the universe seems to hate him so much that he never even got one as an option. Still, he’s grateful to his parents that they were willing to grant him his wish of attending university, even though there’s really no need to go when you’re dying.
When the doctors told him his disease was “terminal,” they added on saying that it was “treatable” and he could “live with it” if he continued treatment and if the treatment was successful, but both statements contradict the notion of his disease being “terminal,” so San didn’t really know what to believe. With a little more research, he discovered that his condition is considered both “chronic” and “terminal” because it only gets worse over time, more people die from it than not, and he also came to the conclusion that the doctors were a bunch of fucking idiots.
He constantly asked how and why he had this disease, but no one gave him a definitive answer. The doctors were torn between it being genetic, autoimmune, or just for no apparent reason, like a wild chronic illness just decided to attack his lungs. He was told that his condition was rare for someone his age, but he liked to refer to himself as a “special case” because at least it implied he was special (the doctors didn’t appreciate this false-hopeful kind of attitude, but it kept him sane).
The doctors weren’t telling him anything, so he just assumes that God or whoever created his body hated him, and decided to fuck over his immune system or maybe poison his lungs when he was in the womb or something. Not his parents though, he loves his parents.
They constantly told him it couldn’t be idiopathic because he was so young, and San wanted to tell them that they’re a bunch of idio-pathetic idiots for not being able to figure this shit out when it’s their job. They kept on saying that it’s autoimmune, it has to be autoimmune, but at some point San just gave up on trying to figure it out.
Besides, who has time to question everything when your entire body feels like shit? Certainly not San.
He took whatever medication was given to him, went to any treatments that the doctors suggested, did anything that was supposed to help him live a longer and healthier life with an incurable disease, but even though the disease was centered in his lungs, he felt empty everywhere. If the disease was autoimmune, he hoped that it would just attack the rest of his body so it could be over with.
There are some days where he feels alright, though. If he eats healthy and gets enough sleep and drinks enough water, he can go a day without his body wanting to collapse underneath him. If he can go two days in a row feeling like that, it feels like he can do anything. If he can go three days, he considers it an actual heaven-sent miracle.
Convincing his parents to let him go to university was… difficult, to say the least. San constantly pulled the “I’m dying” card, which is borderline sadistic in his mind, but it worked. San said that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his dying life cooped up in his bedroom, watching K-dramas and letting a machine do his breathing for him. He wanted to meet people, study hard, maybe even fall in love during the time he had left. It was hard to argue with that.
So now he stands at the door to his dorm room, with the key to it in one hand and the handle to his oxygen tank in the other.
He’d skipped orientation because being surrounded by that many people playing icebreakers and talking about teamwork and sportsmanship when he literally had to have a machine breathe for him was definitely not appealing. He’d toured the campus already, though his classes and their locations were arranged so that he didn’t have to walk as much. He just has to get through the toughest part of arriving to university: meeting his roommate.
Okay, maybe that isn’t the toughest part upon arriving to university, but San doesn’t do well with social interactions especially when he’s hauling around an oxygen tank, so he’s pretty sure that’s the toughest part for him.
His parents had gone already, moved everything to his room for him while he waited in the car, so his roommate met his parents before he did. They’d said their goodbyes with tears in their eyes, begging San to call them if he ever needed anything, and while San was grateful, he just wanted to get in the room and lie down.
He must’ve made an amount of noise against the door, because before he even gets a chance to put the key into the lock, the door opens and he’s greeted by a tall, brown-haired boy with big eyes and a warm smile.
“You must be San!”
San stands there dumbfounded, thinking about how stupid he must look with a tube in his nose and a huge ass oxygen tank by his side, holding out a key when the door was already unlocked.
“Y-yeah.”
San’s roommate steps aside and holds the door open for him, giving him enough space to drag his stupid oxygen tank into the room. “Nice to meet you, San. I’m Yunho.” He reaches out for his hand to shake.
“Ah…” San glances down at it hesitantly.
“Oh shit, um, sorry.” Yunho retracts his hand immediately, opting for scratching at his head awkwardly instead. “I should’ve, um, yeah. Your parents told me about your condition, but I’m still kinda trying to wrap my head around it, if that makes sense.”
“It’s fine,” San says.
He’s quite used to it. He’s pretty sure he’s experienced all the limitations that come with his disease, from the physical to the social, and this whole awkward not-being-able-to-shake-hands-with-his-roommate-because-he-can’t-risk-any-kind-of-infection thing has definitely happened before. While it sucks, it doesn’t make him sad or angry or anything. It’s just a thing that happens. He has thick skin; he’s handled much worse than an awkward not-handshake.
“So, yeah, um, make yourself at home, I guess. I just gotta unpack a couple more things and then I’ll be all set to hang out or chat or whatever you want,” Yunho says.
“Okay.” San takes a seat on the twin-sized bed, covered in freshly washed sheets and garnished with an abundance of unnecessary pillows (“We just want you to be comfortable!” his mother insisted). Moving his tank to the side of the bed, he shifts into a lying position and breathes.
“So,” Yunho says as he’s transferring clothes over to the drawer, “what’s your major?”
Ah, the small talk. San likes small talk, if he’s being honest. He’s had plenty of it with the nurses and doctors when he’d stayed at the emergency room a multitude of times. It’s awkward, but it’s a great way to get to know people. San likes getting to know people since he knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left to do so. He tries to cherish small moments like those.
“Literature. I like reading and writing and stuff,” San says. “Plus, it’s a pretty easy major for someone like me. Dying really gives you a lot of insight into things.”
“Well, shit,” Yunho half-laugh, half-says. “You’re one of the morbid dying people, eh?”
“Yup,” San answers dramatically. “Really, feel free to make jokes about my chronic illness. I’m not even being sarcastic. Life’s too short, literally, for me to give a shit. If I’m dying, I’d rather have a laugh about it.”
Yunho chuckles. “You’re insane, man. I like it.”
“That’s what chronic illness does to you.”
San’s doctors have always suggested going to therapy to “cope.” He’d always nod, saying, “I’ll consider it,” but when the doctors looked away he’d roll his eyes, thinking that going to therapy to cope with dying isn’t going to solve shit. He’s dying. He’s accepted it, and he doesn’t need to “cope.”
Laughter is his best medicine, besides, well, actual medicine and his oxygen tank. It helps him feel a little better, though he tries not to laugh too hard for obvious reasons. Sometimes it helps him feel like he’s not dying, that he’s normal and can enjoy life just like any other human being who’s not dying can. Perhaps it’s why he makes all these cynical, situationally inappropriate jokes that doctors see as concerning rather than lighthearted. San finds all of it amusing.
Chronic illness really does make one insane, San thinks.
“What about you? What’s your major?” he asks.
“Sports medicine,” Yunho answers. San snorts with laughter. “Ironic that I end up with a roommate like you, huh?”
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” San says.
He has a feeling he’ll get along with his roommate just fine if his roommate doesn’t mind dry coughing at ungodly hours of the night and having to look after someone who could drop dead at any moment if his body decides it’s time to go.
“So, like, you don’t have to talk about it, but what kind of stuff do you experience? I want to be able to help you out if you need it,” Yunho says, the mood suddenly turning somber.
San sighs. He knew that this question was going to come up one way or another. He’s not one of those sick people who hates it when people try to help him out just because he’s sick. If anything, he’s kind of grateful for those people. He just doesn’t want Yunho to overdo it and treat him like he’s made of glass.
The scar tissue in his lungs definitely prove otherwise.
“My lungs are basically turning to stone, so it’s a lot of dry coughing, not being able to breathe, fatigue, aching, that kind of stuff,” San explains. “I don’t really need ‘help’ per se, but I just want to warn you, I might wake you up in the middle of the night with my coughing. If you need to leave and sleep somewhere else, I completely understand.”
“I understand,” Yunho says. “Well, I don’t, since I don’t have what you have, but I get what you mean. I know you said you don’t really need help, but if you need me to walk you to a class or get something for you, just let me know, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Besides, as university students, I feel like neither of us will be getting that much sleep anyway.”
San can’t agree more.
After Yunho finishes packing away the rest of his clothes, he plops down on his bed, bouncing slightly. “So, I was going to walk around campus. You’re welcome to come with me, but if you’re not up for it, that’s fine.”
Okay, maybe it is a little frustrating when people treat San like he can’t do anything. He sits up and swings his legs over the bed, sighing. “Of course I’m up for it, but I won’t be able to go very far. One of the campus’s cafés is near here, right? We could go there, have a chat and stuff.”
Yunho smiles, big and bright as he stands up again. “Yeah! Um, do you need help?”
Scoffing, San stands up and grabs the handle of his oxygen tank. “No, but one of the perks of walking around with a guy who has an oxygen tank: you get to take the elevator wherever you go.”
Yunho rolls his eyes.
❀
Getting to the café isn’t much of a challenge. It’s just annoying, especially when a bunch of people passing by all stare at the one guy lugging around an oxygen tank with a tube up his nose. So far, San hasn’t seen anybody else like him, apart from someone he saw in an automated wheelchair, but at least that person didn’t need a machine to breathe for them. Still, it’s nice seeing that he’s not the only physically ailed student prowling around.
Waiting in line at the café is a little more frustrating. There’s this one guy who tries to step around San’s oxygen tank, obviously attempting to cut in front of him, when Yunho reaches out to grab the guys arm and tells him to fuck off (well, politely). The guy scowls at the both of them but does so anyway, returning to the back of the line.
“Aish, shouldn’t people have a decent sense of common courtesy by now?” Yunho mutters to himself.
The barista is a tall, lanky kid by the name of Mingi, who greets San and Yunho with a jolly, crooked smile. His eyes disappear with his smile, and San thinks it’s kind of cute. “What can I get for you today?” he chirps cheerfully.
San orders a yogurt smoothie since his mother forbids him from drinking coffee for his health, though he doesn’t see the harm in it. He asks Yunho to order one so he can take a few sips, to which Yunho obliges, winking at him before he orders a large caramel iced coffee.
“So,” Yunho says as the two sit down at a table near the windows, “what’s your condition called?”
“Pulmonary fibrosis,” San says, sipping his smoothie. “It’s where your lungs constantly scar over.”
“Do you know what caused it?”
San shrugs. “Don’t know, and the doctors never really gave me a definitive answer. Apparently there are a lot of environmental factors that go into it, but I’ve never been exposed to harsh chemicals or asbestos or anything like that. And like, I’ve never had any sort of other disease like pneumonia that could’ve caused it. So yeah, I don’t know.”
“Could it be an autoimmune issue?” Right, Yunho is a sports medicine major. He’s bound to know a thing or two about diseases.
“Maybe,” San says. “But even so, they haven’t really given me a diagnosis other than the pulmonary fibrosis, so that’s all I have to go off of.”
“That’s bullshit,” Yunho says as he rolls his eyes. “But if there really is no definitive cause, maybe it is idiopathic.”
“They’re just confused as to why it would be since I’m so young and haven’t had any sort of risk factors. From what my parents know, it’s not genetic. I was a healthy child for the most part. It’s just like my lungs just decided to fuck me over out of nowhere.”
“That really sucks, man. I’m sorry.” Yunho smiles sympathetically, offering a sip of his coffee to him, which he gladly takes.
“It’s whatever, honestly. I could get a lung transplant or something, but I’ve accepted my fate at this point.”
That makes Yunho frown around his straw, his brows furrowing together. “Come on, man. If getting a lung transplant could save your life, I’d get one.”
“Pretty sure all the treatments I get nowadays are enough on my parents’ wallets.”
“But if you get the transplant, then you wouldn’t have to get any more treatments, right?”
San shrugs. “There’s no guarantee. For all I know, my body could completely reject a new pair of lungs. Plus, I’d definitely be put on a waiting list, and that would probably take a while.”
Yunho sighs, face deflating in defeat. “Well, it’s your decision, I guess.”
“Trust me, we’ve discussed all sorts of options. The doctors don’t really like my morbidly cynical way of thinking when it comes to my condition, but it gets me by and gives me a good laugh sometimes. I promise you, you can make all the jokes about my illness and I will not give a shit," San says with a laugh, followed by a tiny cough.
"I'll keep that in mind, but if someone calls you a cripple or whatever, they're getting their ass whooped," Yunho says firmly.
Through the small talk, San learns the most basic things about Yunho, from his birthday (March twenty-third) to his hobbies (dancing, watching animal videos on the Internet, and playing basketball), and San can't help but feel a bit inferior. Yunho speaks loud and proud about his interests, about himself, and San understands why. Yunho is somebody. He makes his life worth it, and he can, because he has all the time in the world. San can't say the same about himself, as he's spent the majority of his life in the hospital being treated or checked up on and at home in his room, eyes glued to his laptop screen as he did his online coursework. His life is so, so boring.
And when Yunho asks about him, he just shrugs. "I'm not that interesting. I have sucky lungs and that's about the most interesting thing about me."
"You definitely don't seem boring, that's for sure," Yunho says. "Tell me more about your condition, though, if that's what makes you interesting. If you're comfortable talking about it, that is."
"Yeah, I'm fine with talking about it. What do you want to know exactly?"
"Hm... well, what were your treatments like?"
San clears his throat, sipping his smoothie to soothe the slight irritation. "A lot of routine check ups. Medication. I've taken so many pills I think my body is practically made up of chemicals at this point." Yunho laughs at that. "Oxygen therapy, which is like, what I've got going on right now." San points at his oxygen tank and the cannula in his nose. "And breathing exercises. All of this is supposed to slow the progression of the scarring or make the disease more bearable."
"Is it doing that?" Yunho asks.
"Yeah, for the most part," San says. "It's been a while since I've had a bad episode."
"Mind if I ask what happened?"
"I couldn't stop coughing, started coughing up blood, and I'm pretty sure I passed out. Don't remember much from that besides waking up and feeling like I just came back from the dead. Who knows, I might have actually. I don't know."
"Well, shit, how long ago was that?" Yunho asks.
"Several months ago," San says. "I was feeling better within two weeks. Haven't had any complications since then."
"That's good, at least. Hopefully that doesn't happen again. I don't want my roommate dying on me; I've come to like you quite a bit," Yunho says with a bright smile.
San decides he likes Yunho. He'll just feel bad if Yunho loses sleep over him. He's pretty sure he's kept his own parents up with his coughing before (actually, he's very sure he has). But he has to remind himself, they're his parents. This is Yunho, someone San has only just met but already likes. Being shut away at home meant San didn't get many opportunities to make friends, and now that he's in a completely different environment with all sorts of opportunities like that and more, he's ready to take advantage of all of it. He just hopes he doesn't scare away his roommate (and hopefully soon to be friend) in the process.
But then again, what does a dying man have to lose?
❀
At the very core of the university is a bountiful courtyard, adorned by an enormous fountain and an abundance of healthy, vibrant plant life. The red brick walkways from all directions lead straight to the fountain, a two-tier stone statue that spouts water from both tiers. Several students sit along the rim of it, taking pictures and chatting amongst themselves. Some sit on the benches near the plant life. Most just walk by, but stop occasionally to take pictures of the scenery.
San does it too. The fountain is beautiful. He hasn't seen anything like it in real life.
"Isn't this place amazing? When I came here for orientation, I never wanted to leave this very spot," Yunho says, coming to a halt in front of the fountain.
"I didn't go to orientation. Didn't really think it was worth it," San says, eyes glancing down at his tank pitifully.
"Ah, I get that." Yunho sighs and stares up at the fountain, which is several centimeters taller than himself. "Do you mind taking a picture of me?"
"Not at all." Yunho hands San his phone and stands up on the rim of the fountain, balancing on one leg as he extends the other out behind him, spreading his arms out, one in front and one in back of him. San swears it's a yoga pose of some sort as he chuckles and takes the picture. "Nice, dude."
Laughing, Yunho hops down from the fountain and checks the photo. "Golden."
That's one word San would use to describe the scene. It's absolutely breathtaking (pun intended), and San is glad that he managed to convince his parents to let him come here. If he's going to die sooner than most, he'd rather have it be after seeing such beautiful things. He may not be able to travel the world with the time he has left, but he's perfectly content with seeing at least a fraction of it, here, in the courtyard of this university, in the form of a marvelous fountain and magnificent garden.
❀
San knows he shouldn't be pushing himself, but it's his first day at university and he wants to do fun stuff. He doesn't want to be tucked in bed at nine o'clock; he wants to be out at the student union and eating and meeting new people. The union is a bit of a walk from their dorm, but Yunho is perfectly willing to accompany him there and offers to help him out if he needs it. He also promises San that he will have emergency services on speed dial in case his body decides to fuck him over at some random point in time. San laughs at that, and coughs.
The student union is crowded with new students and booths filled with freebies and sign-ups. San and Yunho browse the booths, though San knows he probably won't be joining any clubs since that involves more walking and time out of his day. Yunho definitely takes an interest in one of the dance crews on campus and signs up for an audition.
"I want to see you dance someday," San tells him as they walk away from the booth.
"You probably will. I always dance if I'm listening to music. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a pretty good dancer," Yunho says.
San wishes he could say the same, but he can't really do anything physical.
Among the sea of students, it's hard to stay focused. It's a little too cramped for San's liking, and as they approach the food court, he tugs at Yunho's sleeve and asks to sit down. Yunho looks at him worriedly. "Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah, just, not used to standing and walking for this long. And it's really crowded here," San says, his chest already beginning to tighten. "I just need to sit down for a while."
"Yeah, that's totally fine! Do you need me to help you?"
Again with the help. San shakes his head defiantly. "No, we're literally two feet away from the tables."
"Oh, right. Sorry," Yunho says, cringing visibly as they take their seats. "I didn't mean to, like, seem insensitive or anything like that."
San sighs and rests his elbow on the table, slotting his chin into his hand. "You weren't. I just, like, don't need help all the time. I guess I don't like being treated like I'm made of glass. My parents always spoiled the shit out of me and were always super protective, and for once, I can get away from all of that."
Yunho presses his lips together and nods. "I get it. I'm sorry about that."
"It's fine. I know you were just trying to help."
Yunho nods, though he still looks a bit uncomfortable. The two look around the large dining area, and San catches plenty of people looking at him before they hastily turn their heads. It's to be expected, honestly. But at least they look away. It must be an intriguing sight. It's not every day people see a college student carrying around an oxygen tank with tubes up his nostrils. San is the anomaly now. All eyes are on him (well, for a few seconds).
"So, uh, I should've told you this earlier, but I'm going to a party tonight. One of my old friends from high school is an upperclassman and he invited me to one. I don't... know if you'd wanna go."
San is already shaking his head. "Can't and don't want to go for obvious reasons," he says, chuckling.
"Yeah, I figured. Just thought I would ask. Are you just gonna hang out in the dorm while I'm out?"
"Yeah, most likely."
"Alright, well, if you need anything... oh, shit! We forgot to exchange numbers."
And after the exchanging of numbers, Yunho gets up to grab some food while San leans back in his chair, continuing to scout out the area, watching as heads turn away from looking at him and his stupid oxygen tank. It's disheartening, definitely, but he's sure they'll grow used to seeing the guy with crappy lungs who walks around carrying way too much baggage for someone with said crappy lungs. He's sure he'll grow used to this new environment, hopefully, as long as his oxygen tank continues to function correctly.
Yunho offers San some of his salad, which he graciously accepts, but San thinks to himself, is this what's going to keep happening? Mooching off of his roommate, always needing help but not wanting to ask for it? San has always been told that it's okay to ask for help when he needs it. But he doesn't want to hold Yunho back, doesn't want to keep Yunho up at late hours of the night with his dry coughing and wheezing, and certainly doesn't want to be more of a burden than his oxygen tank already is.
Yunho seems like a generous person. Even though it's just food, generosity tends to present itself in multiple ways. San has noticed this, from the doctors to his parents, always willing to lend him a helping hand no matter what, but San knows that if it weren't for his stupid illness, they wouldn't treat him that way. They'd treat him like someone who isn't sick and helpless. They wouldn't be at his side all the time, always checking up on him. He wonders if he weren't sick, if he would feel freer, not chained up by the symptoms of his disease and the people around him constantly shoving their pitiful affection down his throat. He would be able to party with Yunho, he'd be able to walk around freely without having to worry about collapsing, and he could live the life of a typical college student.
Unfortunately, that's not his reality. He accepts it, sure, but the tube up his nose and the puzzled stares from strangers make it more and more difficult to bear.
If Yunho decides to move out, he'll wholeheartedly understand why. But for now, taking small bites of Yunho's salad and smiling and laughing with him are the moments he'll have to cherish, because he's pretty damn sure it's not going to last.
❀
San ends up heading back to the dorm early despite Yunho's adamant protests, to which San tells him that he wants Yunho to explore the entirety of the campus without having a dude who can't breathe properly weigh him down. Yunho looks at him with puppy-like eyes that almost seem to shimmer, but San just sighs, shakes his head, and tells him to go. Reluctantly, Yunho obliges, but tells San that he probably won't be back until after the party. And yeah, San is fine with that. He's not Yunho's parent. He doesn't have any control over what Yunho does, and the last thing he wants is for Yunho to feel like he has to watch over him because he's sick. He doesn't need help.
He takes the elevator back up to their dorm room, receiving a few glances from some of the people on their floor. He simply bows his head and walks straight past them, knowing that he'll probably never learn their names anyway, unlocks the room, and lets out a deep breath. He looks down at his tank and has the overwhelming urge to kick it, but, knowing that it wouldn't result in anything good, he settles for scowling at it.
"Why do you have to make things so difficult?" he huffs at nobody and nothing in particular. He could be talking to his tank. He could be talking to himself, or his illness, or God, for that matter. Whatever decided to fuck him over in the end and give him a shitty body and a shitty pair of lungs and a roommate and family that are too good for him. He's not worth all the worry, all the pity. If it weren't for his stupid illness.
Unsurprisingly, San receives a phone call from his mother that evening. Most of her worries are about what he ate, if his tank is functioning correctly. She tells him that she's already scheduled appointments with the clinic nearby for routine checkups (and okay, he's grateful for that because he's pretty sure he would have absolutely no idea what to do or where to go for his checkups and he kind of needs those). She rambles on like she normally does, telling San to take his medication, eat and drink regularly, don't go anywhere unless he has to, to which he responds with a simple hum and nod of the head that she can't even see, but she doesn't stop talking until she's run through everything. San can probably recite all the things his mother tells him on a constant basis and create an extensive list of them.
"Please take care of yourself, Sannie, and make sure to call us if you ever need anything, okay?" she asks, her voice filled with a typical mother's worry.
"I will," San says, though he means it halfheartedly.
He's the one to hang up, because he knows his mother won't. Part of him feels bad. The other part is just glad she can't hear him now because he sighs, falls back on his bed, and coughs.
He coughs a lot, actually.
The coughing fits aren't bad, usually. They sound concerning, as they're heavy and loud, and there's always a weird taste in the back of his throat after he coughs. But they calm down after a few seconds, and as long as there isn't actual blood, everything is fine. He'll take a few deep breaths, or try to, swallow hard, and close his eyes. He's tired.
The sun is low in the sky when he drifts off to sleep to the sound of the dorm room's radiator and his patchy breathing.
❀
San is hungry when he wakes up. He should've eaten more than just a few bites of Yunho's salad. And now, he needs food, as his mother's voice screams at him in his head because that's all he ever hears.
He ends up traveling to the same café again, alone this time, because he actually quite liked their yogurt smoothie, and though he's hungry, he knows he probably won't be able to eat an entire meal despite his mother's pleas. He'll settle for a bagel or something.
It's dark out, and the café is practically empty apart from three students on their laptops and the staff. When San walks in, he recognizes the barista from earlier, removing his apron as he walks into the back room. San approaches the counter and frowns when he sees no one else there, but the barista is quick to turn on his heels and head back to the counter.
"Hello—oh wait! I remember you from earlier!" the barista, who San believes is named Mingi, says.
"Yeah, I was here earlier with my roommate," San says. "It's not hard to recognize me. I'm hauling around this oxygen tank for fuck's sake."
San can tell Mingi tries to hold back a laugh. "O-oh. Anyway, sorry that I almost left you there. My shift is literally about to end and one of my coworkers is grabbing stock and I don't know where the other one went..."
"It's okay," San tells him. "I just want another blueberry yogurt smoothie. You have any blueberry bagels?"
"You like blueberries?" Mingi asks, his lips curved into a smile, his eyes disappearing with it.
"Is it hard to tell?" San asks back, returning a smile.
Mingi just laughs and rings him out. "What's your name?" he asks.
"San. Choi San."
"Ah, like a mountain!"
"Yeah. A crappy mountain at that," San scoffs as he watches Mingi get started on his order. "A mountain that can't really stand without an oxygen tank."
"Nothing wrong with a little support," Mingi says with a shrug. He slices San's bagel in half and tosses it into the conveyor belt toaster oven.
There's nothing wrong with needing help.
"Are you new here?"
"Yeah, just moved in today. I'm a first-year," San says.
"Ah. I'm a second-year," Mingi says, switching the blender on. "Got a job here last year, haven't left since. What's your major?"
"Literature," San shouts over the noise of the blender. "I like reading. Not being able to breathe or do much of anything gives me a lot of time to do so."
Mingi's laugh is inaudible, but his shoulders shake with it. "Damn, San, you really know how to crack a lot of self-deprecating jokes about your ailment."
San just shrugs as Mingi switches the blender off and starts pouring his smoothie into a cup. "It keeps me sane. No sense in not having fun with your terminal illness when life is literally too short. Figured I'll at least make myself and others laugh about it."
Mingi doesn't laugh at that. "Terminal?" He frowns, handing over San's smoothie.
"I mean, we all die eventually. Life itself is terminal. My illness is just gonna kill me sooner than most," San says, taking a sip.
"You're so nonchalant about it," Mingi says. "Not to mention I'm basically a complete stranger."
San shrugs again. "I guess you don't have much to lose when you're dying."
"Wow," Mingi says. "I, uh, don't really know what to say to that."
"Sorry if that was a little strong," San apologizes. "I know that my jokes can be a bit much for people, but I guess it's how I cope. I'm perfectly fine with talking about my impending death and the illness that will undeniably cause it, but I understand it's not an easy topic for others to talk about. Also, I just realized that I made another cynical comment about my illness. They tend to just slip out. I'm sorry again."
Mingi cracks a small smile. "It's okay. I've just never really met someone with... a terminal illness." He hands San's bagel over in a small basket.
"Strawberry cream cheese if you have it, please. Sorry, I forgot to mention that part," San says.
"I gotcha, don't worry." Mingi hands him two packs of the cream cheese and taps away at the register. "What are you doing after this?"
"Nothing, probably. I just wanted some food and I liked the smoothie earlier. Figured I'd come back, since it's not a far walk from the dorm and I probably couldn't eat a full meal. My roommate's going to a party, so I'm on my own for the night."
"Ah, well, after you pay, my shift ends. Would you like some company?" Mingi asks as San hands him his card.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I'd love to get to know you and your terminal illness," the barista says mischievously, as if he's just now caught onto San's sarcastic cynicism.
And who is San to turn down the opportunity to make a friend?
Over a yogurt smoothie and a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese, San learns about Song Mingi, a second-year majoring in dance, who is actually a member of the dance crew that Yunho had signed up for. Mingi immediately perks up at the mention of it. "Really? That's such a coincidence! He's the one you were with earlier?"
"Yeah."
"I swear, we're really good, but not a lot of people come to this university to dance. We're a small group," Mingi says defeatedly. "But! Since we're a small group, we're really close-knit. They're like, my best friends. I'm looking forward to getting to know your roommate. What's his name again?"
"Yunho. Jeong Yunho."
"Ah. Yeah, I remember what he looks like! He's like, as tall as me! I don't see that many people my height," Mingi says, sitting up straighter as if to prove something.
San snorts. "What? I'm tall and I can dance. That's not a lot of people on campus, you know. I'd say I'm quite the minority, yet very unique and talented," Mingi says proudly.
"And arrogant, too."
"Confidence and arrogance are two different things, San-ssi," Mingi says mockingly, partially sticking his tongue out. "I'm just stating facts. I'm tall, I can dance. Not a lot of people on campus are tall, and there are barely any dance majors or people on the dance crew. Therefore, I am the minority, and please forgive me for thinking that I'm unique and talented. What am I supposed to say, that I suck? If we're going by the 'life is too short' motto, then I will say that life is too short for modesty. If you believe in your talents and abilities, say it loud and proud!"
San raises an eyebrow at the beaming barista, who's smiling wide, all crooked teeth and eyes that practically close when he does. "Whatever gets you by, Song Mingi-ssi."
Mingi bursts out laughing. "It does, honestly. Just like making self-deprecating jokes gets you by, boosting myself up and praising the things I do gets me by. Keeps me sane, you know?"
San nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yup. I really do."
Mingi's smile fades into one of sympathy rather than triumph. "I'm sorry, San. I'll stop talking about myself."
"It's okay."
"So anyway, I told you that I'd love to get to know you and your terminal illness. Care to tell me about it?"
San gives him a rundown of his illness and a paraphrased version of his life story. Pulmonary fibrosis, possibly idiopathic or autoimmune (and unlike with Yunho, San has to explain what these things mean). How the oxygen tank makes breathing a little easier. How his life consists of routine checkups and medication and a (mostly) balanced diet and water. How his mother constantly bugs him about everything he's listed and how he wishes God hadn't fucked his body up.
"So... it really is terminal?" Mingi asks after everything, his voice small.
"Chronic, terminal, whatever. It's gonna kill me one day," San says. "There's no cure, and while there are things that can be done to slow the progression of the disease, the damage done to my lungs is irreversible. If something bad happens, like if I inhale some bad shit or get an infection, there's no going back."
Mingi sucks in his bottom lip. "Better stay away from all the smokers. Some people smoke on campus. Maybe it's best to stay inside when you can?"
"I guess."
"I'm surprised your parents let you come here. Your mom sounds uptight about all of this," Mingi notes.
"She is. It definitely took a lot of persuasion, but it's hard to argue with the 'I'm dying' card," San says with a sly smile.
"It must have been tough for her, though," Mingi says, suddenly serious. "Like... making that decision. University isn't exactly the safest place. People smoke, party and whatnot. There are a lot of ways you could get sick, always being surrounded by so many people. Not to mention it's a big campus and you have to walk everywhere."
"Believe it or not, light exercise is encouraged," San says. "My mother just likes to keep me inside for the other reasons. Doesn't want me inhaling anything bad or risk getting sick with something that could worsen the disease. But, like, I don't know. I just don't want to spend the rest of my already shortened life cooped up in my room."
"I can understand where you're coming from," Mingi acknowledges, nodding thoughtfully.
"The school is willing to give me the necessary accommodations. Like, if I can't go to class one day because I'm too sick or something, or if I miss anything, my professors are going to work with me online."
"That's good."
As good as things can get, San thinks.
San eventually gets Mingi's number before Mingi has to leave (being a barista is hard work and is very tiring, according to Mingi, and San believes him completely). Much like Yunho and his parents, Mingi tells San to call him if he needs anything. San smiles through the urge to cringe and thanks him, feeling both ecstatic that he made a friend and disappointed that it's another person in his life who will take pity on him.
Whatever. This is the life he's been given; he might as well just roll with it.
By now, the campus walkways are basically empty, to San's surprise. He'd expect more people to be walking around on the weekend nights before classes officially start, but he figures that maybe everyone is already partying. He sighs and walks in the direction of the campus's center, the brick walkways now illuminated by street lamps.
There are small spotlights at the base of the fountain that now highlight parts of the stone structure in a way that is almost hauntingly beautiful. San wonders if they keep the lights on all night. They better. Such a magnificent structure deserves to be highlighted like that.
San sits at one of the benches that faces the fountain and gazes up at it. The soothing sound of running water and the gentle summer breeze aids in quelling his aching lungs as he breathes in and out deeply, focusing on the air that's being pumped into his lungs. He's lightheaded.
He closes his eyes. He inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth.
Breathe. Just breathe.
If only it were that simple.
"Shit," San sighs, his shoulders slumping and head falling back. His eyes remain closed.
On the plus side, he's managed to make two friends on his first day. Well, people he could befriend. He likes them well enough. He imagines they must like him too, if they weren't scared away by his dark humor and cynical jokes about his own illness that will very well kill him one of these days. He wonders if he jokes like this to cope, or if he jokes like this because maybe it'll be easier to handle when his lungs finally decide to give up on him.
If he makes all of these jokes and downplays the severity of his illness, would people remember him in such a lighthearted manner, or would it not matter at all? Yunho and Mingi had laughed at a few of his self-inflicted jabs. Wouldn't that make his death easier on them?
He doesn't really know if it makes sense in his own head. He's trying to make it make sense.
He imagines death, for the dead or for the living, isn't easy no matter what. When his time comes, where he feels it in his bones that his body is going to finally give out, he's not sure if he will be able to keep up the sarcasm or the witty cynicism. He feels like he'd be too tired for that. Hell, he's too tired now, sitting on a bench in front of the school's gigantic fountain. If he meets another person, he's not sure if he'll be able to crack the same jokes.
He's just tired. He wants to be able to breathe properly.
When he finally opens his eyes and straightens out his head, he sees a figure in his left peripheral, about two meters away. It's leaning over one of the walls, cradling one of the many flowers planted on the sides of the walkways with both of its hands. A boy, San thinks.
And he's smiling.
San squints, attempting to acquire a better view of this person's face, when his smile suddenly disappears and his head turns towards San's. He tilts his head curiously. Startled, San's opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out.
It's a very, very strange experience. Where normally, in an instance like this, San feels like the breath would be knocked out of him.
But now, in this moment, seeing this stranger holding the head of a flower delicately in his hands, looking at him curiously...
Instead, San feels like a breath of the freshest air has invaded his lungs, and it's almost overwhelming. It has never been this easy to breathe.
"H-hi," he manages.
The stranger's smile returns, aimed at San instead of the flower. San takes another breath.
"Hi," the stranger responds, releasing the flower and standing to his feet. He's dressed in a simply purple hoodie and sweatpants, but San swears he's never seen someone so... ethereal. As he approaches, San breathes.
It's too easy to breathe. This isn't right.
"What's your name?" the stranger asks, now standing in front of him, blocking the fountain.
San would much rather stare at this beautiful stranger than the fountain, now.
"San. Choi... San."
The stranger beams at him and giggles, and San takes the easiest breath he's ever felt. It's as if the air around him is clean, like his lungs are lungs again. A gentle breeze floats by. The sound of trickling water streams through his eardrums. The stranger somehow grins even wider than before.
"Wooyoung. Jung Wooyoung." The mysterious stranger, Wooyoung, holds out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Choi San."
Hesitantly, San reaches up and shakes the stranger's hand, forgetting about the whole "don't touch other people's hands unless they're clean" thing, because Wooyoung, one of the most beautiful people San swears he has ever seen in his life, is holding out his hand for him to shake. When their hands touch, San thinks he sees white for a split second.
He breathes. He can breathe.
Wooyoung shakes his hand tenderly, like it could break, but San feels indestructible. He can breathe.
"It's a nice night, isn't it?"