Chapter Text
I won’t be blue like I always do, ‘cause somewhere in the crowd there’s you
“Here,” Junmyeon slid the prescription across his pristine white desk, the paper whispering over the surface. His handwriting looked like dehydrated crumbs stuck on tablecloth, illegible. He felt like sweeping his hand over it.
Make them disappear.
But they weren’t crumbs, and Chanyeol was used to deciphering these kinds of scrawls. It was glaring at him, just like the verdict of a court. A sentence.
“Diazepam?” He frowned, his index finger tapping on the desk, while his feet shook under it, jittery. A recent stubborn habit.
“It’s only short-term,” Junmyeon sighed, propping his chin on his clasped hands. Concern softened his features, but beneath it Chanyeol sensed the familiar layer of exasperation. He was used to this particular kind of concern. “I know you're not fond of these types of treatments, Chanyeol, but don’t worry, it won’t replace your therapy sessions. It’s just a quick fix, if you want. For your… mishaps.”
Mishaps. Chanyeol wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He just stared at Junmyeon, studying his friend. He looked good, in his lab coat, with his black slick hair perfectly parted in the middle, and his gold rimmed spectacles sitting on his symmetrical features. He fit perfectly into that big black leather chair. Anyone could see that Junmyeon was made to be a doctor.
Could he really call it a mishap, the occurrence of a perfectly potent adult almost peeing himself at work out of sheer panic?
Chanyeol stifled a sigh, his lungs feeling heavier than when he had entered the hospital, but he took the prescription and neatly folded it, putting it away in his briefcase.
Junmyeon didn’t seem convinced by his quiet compliance, so he added gently, “This isn’t me giving up on you, you know?”
Chanyeol froze at these words, feeling exposed.
“I know you will get better, I’m sure of it. But you need some help right now, and this treatment could be the breath of fresh air that helps you take a step back and reassess.”
He pushed another piece of paper. One that he had left in his printer tray up until now, “Use it, Chanyeol. You need a break.”
The latter took the paper he was handed and stared at it. It was a leave of absence he could submit to his supervisor. A sick leave.
He sucked his lower lip between his teeth, blocking another intake of air. He couldn't take more, his lungs were already saturated. It felt like they would burst, if he took in any more air. So why did he feel so breathless?
A failure…
The halls of the hospital were grey, shining, the bay windows letting the light filter in, making the space seem even more vast than it was. But it felt so dark, to Chanyeol, like going through a never ending tunnel, crawling, unable to raise his head to look ahead for fear of bumping it against the walls. But maybe that was his problem. That cowardice.
He didn’t really have time to dwell on that thought, for something slammed him violently in the shoulder, and he almost lost his balance, dropping his briefcase in the collision.
“Sorry…”
The apology left Chanyeol’s lips like an instinct.
He looked up just in time to lock eyes with a startled young man. His eyes were bloodshot and empty. They screamed for help the way Chanyeol had too. Still did.
But before he could even look away from those eyes and analyze the rest of the man's face, he found himself staring at a disappearing figure. The young man was sprinting down the corridor, a mess of black hair and the hood of his deep blue sweater flapping as he ran like his life depended on it.
And maybe it did, or maybe someone else's life did. They were at a hospital after all, so Chanyeol felt like he couldn’t blame him for the rudeness.
He bent down to retrieve his briefcase from the ground, when he saw it.
A small transparent bag, so small it fit exactly into his palm. And inside, a single pill, that Chanyeol recognized. It was a brand of antidepressant that he sold too often. There was no name on the bag, just the posology scribbled with a blue marker. And a worn out sticker, from a fruit it seemed, however, the brand was washed out.
He looked up, but the deep blue sweater was long gone. People around him were passing and going, as if he had been the only one witnessing that person. Considering how fleeting that moment had been, he could have almost believed it himself, that it had been an illusion, if not for the pain in his shoulder and the bag of medicine in his hand.
It’s okay, he tried to convince himself, there wasn’t much left anyway.
He stashed it into his pocket, continuing towards the exit.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the hospital, a young man in a deep blue hoodie wept into his trembling hands, breaking in the quiet way people do when no one is watching, when they feel like no one will be present to stop them from falling further.
*
Routine wasn’t just something Chanyeol followed; it held him together. People who didn’t know him well liked to call it rigidity, and perhaps they weren’t wrong.
His mornings always began with the same brand of instant coffee, he brushed his teeth three times a day, counting to one hundred each time, and he left his apartment every morning at exactly 6:14, careful never to set foot on the threshold. Even his socks had an assigned weekday, and he never stepped outside without the reassuring weight of his bag, packed with every necessity he could think of and a few he probably didn’t need.
It was how he’d been raised. Keep the world predictable, and maybe it would stay quiet. Maybe nothing would slip out of place.
Yet, for some reason, Chanyeol hadn't followed this deep-rooted routine that day.
It started when he had realized that his last box of instant coffee had expired. As a faithful rule follower, and proud man of science, he hadn't dared risk his life, and had settled on a glass of orange juice instead. Regret came to slap him quickly in the face when he almost choked on it.
Putting this blunder behind him, he went to brush his teeth. However, for some odd reason, he had lost track as he counted to a hundred, distracted by the faint traces of blood on his gums. To top it off, as he hurriedly rushed out of his flat, his departure delayed by a minute after all these unprecedented events, he had stumbled over the threshold of his entrance, barely catching himself to the doorframe. He hadn’t even had the time to check which pair of socks he had blindly grabbed.
On the way to the subway station, he hugged his precious bag against his chest, fighting away the creeping feeling of unease that was bubbling in his chest as he realized that they did not match.
These aren't signs, they definitely aren't, he blinked his eyes repetitively, fighting the bad omen away.
The sound of the subway sliding over the tracks had the same lulling rhythm as every morning, and every night, placid metal nonchalantly sighing under the weight of the passengers it was carrying from one point to another. The carriage was full, so full it was nauseating. The heat was probably making everyone regret at least one layer of clothing.
Stuck in the middle of these foreign lives and stories, Chanyeol couldn't feel any particular interest, despite the setting. It was the same as every morning, and every night. People commuting, not talking, barely breathing. Occasionally, someone’s music would leak from their earbuds, tinny notes chirping through the thick silence.
Thankfully, he managed to get a seat before the carriage had been flooded by morning rush. Leaning a bit more into the backrest, he buried his nose in his turtleneck, but for some reason, Chanyeol didn't feel like hitting a few more minutes of sleep.
It was a really strange morning.
The row of shoes in front of him shared the same dull palette of white to black, and every weary shade of gray in between. Everything was gray around him, if he had to be honest. To some debatable extent, obviously, but the city was majoritarily made of concrete, he was stuck in metal, and people around weren't daring enough to add a pop of color to their attire. Not that Chanyeol could judge though, he was the grayest of them all.
Maybe that was why he caught his eyes that morning.
Or maybe it was simply because, in thirty-two years of riding the Seoul subway, he had never seen anyone wearing muddy rubber boots.
They appeared suddenly among the neat row of polished shoes, deep blue rubber boots, dulled like old sapphires and crusted with dried mud.
At first, Chanyeol rubbed his eyes, half-expecting the image to dissolve like a daydream. But the boots stayed. They were there, planted firmly amid glossy heels and pristine sneakers, impossible to ignore. Something about them seemed to call him out, demanding his attention. He tried to crane his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of their owner but the crowd prevented him from managing to do so.
Just at that moment, the train stopped. The jingle echoed on the speakers as the name of the stop was announced. The flow shifted, like a mass bubbling, stretching itself as it slipped out, before it grew thicker again with the addition of new passengers. An old woman had managed to dig her way through that mass, landing just in front of Chanyeol with a disapproving glare. Sensing the underlying request, he shimmied out of his seat, motioning her to take it, which she did with a haughty guff, her chin wrinkled in displeasure.
But Chanyeol didn't care, because in that moment, he could smell the sea.
In the middle of an overcrowded subway in central Seoul, while the mechanical voice warned against the closure of the doors, Chanyeol smelled the sea. Just then, a stranger stumbled against him.
Chanyeol caught him in his arms.
For a moment, his mind lagged behind his body. A strange sound filled his ears, like continuous, ragged gasps, echoing inside his skull, as heat bloomed between his body and the stranger’s.
Breaths, he realized, uneven and strained.
The person in his hold was swaying, fingers fisted in the hem of Chanyeol’s sweater like a drowning man clutching for air. Instinctively, Chanyeol tightened his grip, steadying him. The stranger’s hair brushed his nose, soft and tousled, carrying the faint scent of salt and wind. Fresh. Briny. Impossibly out of place.
It was in this position, with that stranger flush against his chest, that Chanyeol identified him as the person who smelled of the waves, like salt and freshness sticking to his skin. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the labored breaths and trembling told him enough.
Something was wrong.
Without thinking, Chanyeol began to guide the man through the dense crowd as the train screeched to a stop. The stranger’s grip on his sweater only tightened, his body shivering and his skin fever-hot. It took effort, as well as a few firm nudges through the sea of commuters, but Chanyeol managed to pull them both out onto the platform.
There, beneath the harsh fluorescence, he eased the panting stranger onto a bench, watching as he tried to catch his breath, his chest still heaving like the tide. For a silent second, Chanyeol took notice of his attire. Aside from the dirty boots, he was wearing jean shorts and an oversized baby blue zipped hoodie that seemed to be swallowing him. He had blisters on his calves, drawing the linear shape of the edge of his boots into his flesh.
“You alright, kid?” Chanyeol crouched in front of him, trying to get a glimpse of his face.
He hadn't expected for his breath to be taken away, but it was.
The man —definitely not a kid— in front of him had one of the most startling types of beauty Chanyeol had ever witnessed. It was nothing bold, or striking, but for some reason, it stuck to Chanyeol the way flesh sticks to ice at a certain temperature. He leaned in a bit, hoping to get a better view.
The man's hair was wavy, black bangs ruffled over his eyes and partially hiding them. From what Chanyeol could see, they were hooded and slightly droopy, their cuteness contrasting with the sharpness of his jaw and the enticing shape of his lips, like two pink bows, very soft-looking, above which rested a delicate mole.
“Who said you could call me kid?” A voice rose, startling Chanyeol out of his contemplation.
The eyes were visible now, staring at him, dark and slightly veiled, blinking softly as if they were refocusing.
“I'm twenty-six,” he said like it was something to be proud of, despite his speech being a bit slurred as he seemed to be still trying to regain his breath. Sweat was making some strands of his hair stick to his temples, while a bead traced the curve of his neck.
Chanyeol swallowed, his throat feeling oddly dry. Unable to find his words, he decided on rummaging through his bag instead, from which he pulled out a bottle of water as well as some band-aids, a bottle of disinfectant, a tube of ointment, and a tablet of pills against motion sickness.
“Take this,” he said furtively, avoiding the man's gaze as he felt his cheeks warm up for some reason. “It should help you.”
Somehow, the man still had it in him to crack him a smile, which effectively blinded Chanyeol, “You have a whole pharmacy in there,” he took the bottle from his hand and twisted the cap open in a swift movement —his fingers were so pretty. “Thanks, Doc,” he grinned again, his lips stretching into an adorable rectangle, and Chanyeol couldn't choose which was prettier between that smile and those graceful fingers.
“I'm not a doctor,” he mumbled, averting his eyes to the rest of the medication he was still holding. He couldn't watch him drink, it felt like he would be witnessing something that wasn't meant for him. “This is for you too. Your calves are bleeding,” he then added shyly.
The man took the box of band-aids from him, and a chuckle escaped his lips, surprising Chanyeol who looked up consequently, “Pokemon?” He waved it up, showing off the packaging on which Snorlex was having a nap.
“Sorry, that's all I have on me…”
“It's cute. Thanks again, Doc,” he said sincerely, his smile stretching with what looked like fondness as he proceeded to open the box, looking for the right size of band-aid he needed.
“Wait, you need to disinfect the scabs,” Chanyeol stuttered a bit, and he hated himself for it.
The man was observing him with a puzzled look, before his pout turned into a smile, “It's not that serious.”
“It is,” Chanyeol reaffirmed as he dug through his bag again, and extracted his pouch full of cotton pads from it. “I can do it for you, if you'd like.”
The suggestion had slipped from his lips naturally, a professional quirk, something that came with the job of pharmacist. He had surprised himself when he realized what he had said, but the man in front of him didn't seem to mind, despite the initial surprise. He extended his legs towards Chanyeol with a bashful smile, leaning back with his palms pressed into the bench as he grinned gleefully.
“I'm in your care.”
Chanyeol ignored the way his pulse skipped and carefully dabbed at the blisters, applying ointment followed by band-aids with gentle precision. He was surprised by how firm the boy’s calves were. The lines of the muscles were clearly defined. They weren’t the muscle of an ordinary civilian.
He could feel the man’s gaze on him, steady and unreadable. When he finally met it, he planted the motion-sickness tablets into his palm, more hastily than intended to.
“Take some before you board another train. Keep it under your tongue and it will melt,” he explained as he got up, his knees a bit numb from the crouching position he had kept all this long. “It might taste a bit bitter, but it will help you.”
Right then, the man hopped on his two feet, his boots emitting a rubbery ‘clomp’ on the ground, the sound echoing against the tiled walls of the platform which was now empty save for the both of them —a train had just passed. A chunk of the dried mud fell off his boots at the impact, and Chanyeol wondered just when was the last time he had seen actual mud. Probably not since he had last visited his grandmother's town. She had a garden where she loved to grow cosmos, and Chanyeol always looked forward to those moments spent together, watering the flowers as she told him stories from her young days.
It had been a while since he had thought of her.
“Thank you for the help, I definitely wasn't expecting it in this city,” the man grinned again, stretching himself, and Chanyeol tried not to pay attention to the way the smallest patch of skin was visible above his waistband. He sniffed, rubbing his nose as he proceeded to settle his bag back on his shoulder. “People are a bit stuck-up here, ya know,” he shrugged, and Chanyeol noticed that he had a slight accent, but he couldn't identify its origin. “I have to go, and you probably do too. I guess you were heading to work. I wouldn't wanna make you late.”
The man languidly swayed around as he made his way towards the stairs, walking backward in cadenced sidesteps rhythmed by the melody of his soft laughter. Chanyeol watched, struck by how much light seemed to follow him, even underground, and how colors shifted around him. He looked like a ballerino.
“We'll probably never meet again,” the man said, head cocked on the side as he smiled, and waved him goodbye. “Take care, Doc.”
Speechless, Chanyeol waved back for a while, even after the silhouette had vanished.
As his eyes stared into the now empty distance, all he could think of was how charmingly the man had walked away, despite the horrendous clomping sound that his boots had made against the ground.
It shouldn't have been so endearing.
That morning, for the first time in his life, Chanyeol had been late for work.
But for the first time in a while, he had arrived with a smile on his lips.
What an odd morning.
*
This afternoon was quite calm. Donghee was holding the counter, while Chanyeol was busying himself in the storage room. He was counting down the boxes of allergy medicines they had left, trying to estimate in his notebook the next order they should put in. Spring was approaching fast, meaning the demand for antihistamine would rise. However, his mind just couldn't seem to focus for some reason. His gaze kept gliding over the rows of boxes without processing anything, while his hand absent-mindedly scribbled on the page of his notebook, his accounting lines drawn over.
From time to time, the door would slide open with a jingle, and every time, Chanyeol would jump out of his skin. Something would then constrict around his lungs as he would hear a customer walk towards the counter.
It wasn’t like this, in the beginning.
When Chanyeol had graduated from Pharmacy School, his head had been full of hopes, his heart warm with purpose. On the first day in this dispensary, he had almost wept when he had received his white coat with the logo of their pharmacy, as well as his name embroidered on his chest. Here we go, helping people get better, he had thought with a grin splitting his face as he had put it on with shaky hands.
Reality had hit him back in the face with precise acuity, fast and blunt.
He had imagined his days spent guiding the unwell, offering measured advice and small reassurances. Instead he spent most of his days counting boxes of Tylenol, Betadine and Gasmyung, packing parcels for delivery men and, more often than he had ever anticipated, scrubbing the vomit left on his doorstep by late-night customers who had anticipated the upcoming hangover, but not the precursory chaos.
However, nothing had prepared him for the aggressiveness that some of these customers possessed, and poured onto Chanyeol who, soft-hearted like a sponge, always soaked it all up. He had more than once found himself repressing tears in the backroom, curled behind boxes and stifling sobs into a paper bag.
The first time it had happened was when a particularly displeased ahjussi had struck him on the head with his bottle of apparently “defective” Viagra. The man had then processed to grab him by the collar and shake him while chanting curses so inventive, Chanyeol had found himself wondering if they even existed. All the while, his senior —Donghee— had stood by silently while Chanyeol had tried to explain to the raging man that he should direct his complaint directly to the pharmaceutical company.
“Don’t piss yourself, please,” Donghee had later snickered, observing with much distaste a Chanyeol who was busy stuffing his snotted-up face with protein bars in hopes of regaining his composure, but clearly failing.
Now, Chanyeol would have loved to pretend that he had toughened up over the years, that he and Donghee had gotten over that small hiccup long ago. But every time he said as much to Jongdae, his best friend would only give him an empty look before patting his shoulder and pouring him more soju.
No, he hadn’t toughened up at all. Each day at the pharmacy felt like serving a sentence, counting down the seconds until release, praying that in the meantime no one would notice him or ask anything of him.
Chanyeol, who had once dreamed of helping people, now cowered from them. He spent his days in quiet dread and his nights collapsing into bed, exhausted from doing nothing at all, already fearing the morning when he would have to do it again.
He shook his head, trying to shoo away the bad memories and focus back on his task at hand. No matter how boring, he was paid to do it, and Chanyeol was diligent in that way. He looked down, his eyes falling on his notes while the fog in his head subdued. He almost let out a screech.
Staring up from the page were small puppy-like eyes and pretty bow-shaped lips stretched into a smile.
The face of that stranger, which had been haunting his mind for the past few days.
Feeling like he had committed an offense, Chanyeol hastily ripped out the incriminating page and crumpled it, burying it deeply into the pocket of his lab coat while his heart threatened to break his ribcage. He shyly glanced towards the CCTV in the room, biting down on his lower lip as he felt warmth spreading on his cheeks.
He could still hear it, the lightness of the man’s laughter, ringing against the tiled walls of the subway station. It had shimmered through the air, bright and melodic, splashing color across the white walls and into Chanyeol’s eyes.
For a moment there, the world had been painted anew. It had been so long, since he’d seen color in anything. His days had all blended into a single, muted hue, spent counting boxes or packing parcels before crashing into bed and hoping to not wake up the next morning. But that morning had definitely been worth waking up, he realized as his fist tightened around the crumpled sheet of paper. Its edges bit into his palm, yet he couldn't find himself releasing it, as if, if he did, hope would vanish along.
For the whole rest of the day, Chanyeol felt like he was carrying a bomb in his pocket, one that pulsed softly with warmth, waiting for the smallest spark to set it alight.
*
“I don't understand why you haven't resigned yet,” Jongdae sighed exaggeratedly as he stretched his arms over their shared table.
Chanyeol didn’t respond, munching on his piece of fried chicken, nibbling at the meat around the bone he was holding with his gloved hands. Jongdae wasn’t wearing the plastic gloves, he didn't care, but the stains of oil he would leave on the table every time he grazed it bothered Chanyeol.
They often met here, in the little chicken place not far from Jongdae’s workplace in Songpa-gu. He worked at the same hospital as Junmyeon, serving as a pharmacist. Sometimes Junmyeon joined their meet-ups, but more often than not he would wound up buried in work, leaving the two of them on their own.
Jongdae liked to grumble about Junmyeon’s absence —mostly because it meant their hyung wouldn’t be there to pick up the bill— but Chanyeol knew that, deep down, Jongdae simply missed him. They hardly ever crossed paths at the hospital anyway, since Junmyeon was in Psychiatry, while Jongdae worked in Post-surgery.
The three of them had been close since their university days, but moments like this made Chanyeol realize just how much time had passed. And that was always a little frightening to think about.
“You know Changmin sunbae, from our Microbiology class? He dropped his job and went to work at a goat farm in Imsil-gun,” his friend recounted, shaking his head as if he was approving of his own words.
Chanyeol took a pause, confused, before he stammered, “I didn't specialize in veterinary pharmacology…”
“Dude, he makes cheese now,” Jongdae said in a deadpan tone. He shouldn’t be surprised by Chanyeol’s incapacity to read between the lines. He had always been like this. “He looks happier than ever.”
The pharmacist just stared at him, forgetting the food in his hands. He just couldn’t comprehend what his friend was getting at. Chanyeol didn’t particularly like cheese.
Jongdae just rolled his eyes at him, before he pushed his hand, the one holding the chicken, motioning Chanyeol to keep eating in mock exasperation. So Chanyeol did, but the puzzled look on his face did not subside.
“I'm not telling you to drop it all and switch up your life, but you have to admit that this job of yours is draining you.” Jongdae sighed again, after a while. There was almost no chicken left. His eyes darted to Chanyeol, then back to the plate between them, a shadow of something covering his eyes, before he shyly looked at Chanyeol again. “Have you painted since…”
But he didn’t finish his sentence. The light in Chanyeol’s eyes, the one that had just faltered, told him not to. So he dropped it.
“At least try to switch pharmacies, will you? Or maybe look for a job in a research lab or a hospital? It could be more interesting for you.” It was like a plea, but the way Chanyeol nodded didn’t convince him. “What did Junmyeon tell you?”
Chanyeol didn’t respond immediately, staring at one of Jongdae’s oily fingerprints that shone on the black surface of the table. He proceeded to peel his gloves, folding them neatly beside his plate, his mind drifting to the bag with the single pill that was still lodged in the pocket of his slacks, digging ever-so-slightly into his thigh. Jongdae’s gaze was burning his forehead, like a magnifying glass filtering in the sunlight, pushing him to respond, although begrudgingly so, “He prescribed me anxiolytics.”
A small sound escaped Jongdae’s lips, like an acknowledgement, only fainter, “So it’s that bad, uh?”
Was it? Chanyeol didn’t know how to answer.
“Perhaps.”
*
He sat on the floor, facing his bed. Outside, the sun was long gone, leaving the sky lonely and starless. From his window he could see the peak of Namsan Tower glimmering in the distance —one of the few sights he still enjoyed. At night, the tower felt like a presence. I was steady and comforting, one of the rare constants in Chanyeol’s life that required nothing from him. It was simply there.
But he wasn’t looking at the tower. His focus was on the darkness beneath his bed. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. It had been for a while. Something he couldn’t touch prickled at his fingertips, like an invisible itch. Maybe it was a pull? Or a tug? He wasn’t sure. With no answer to satisfy him, he found himself leaning forward, reaching into the shadow. When his fingers brushed a grainy surface, a shiver ran through him. Still, he curled his fingers around the edge and dragged it out.
A blank canvas.
He no longer had an easel —he’d broken the last one. Trashed it, both figuratively and not, or so Jongdae claimed. He couldn’t quite remember. So he propped the canvas against the side of his bed and let his fingers drift across the empty surface.
There was a time when blankness didn’t exist for him. Every empty space had begged for color, splashes of paint, frantic streaks he could almost see before they touched the canvas, as if his thoughts themselves spilled pigment. But now Chanyeol’s thoughts were empty. His world dull. The colors silent. Nothing left. The blank canvas stared back at him, and he had to look away, almost blinded by it.
His gaze fell on the tiny plastic bag that was resting on his bedside table, the fruit label still on it, beside the crumpled note hiding a sketched smile so bright, it still hurt to look at.
Blue.
Blue felt like the right color for this canvas. That was all Chanyeol could think of. Blue, and pink, and flecks of brown. So much blue, in every shade, just like the sea. The scent of salt, and lips so pink and soft. Probably warm…
“Son of a…”
His eyes snapped open. The canvas seemed to glare at him, almost judgmental. His breath came short, the room tightening around him. Panic surged. He knocked the canvas over and shoved it back under the bed with his foot.
Not good. Not good. Not good, not good, not goo—
*
He had had enough of the barcode scanner’s shrill beep. Every box of medication he slid under it grated on his nerves, so he was relieved when he finally reached the end of the pile. After double-checking the tally, he moved on to making the parcels. Methodically, he unboxed each set of tablets, filling small plastic bags with the proper number of pills for each dosage, then scribbled the posology on every bag with his marker.
It wasn’t complicated work, and it certainly didn’t require six years of study —an old thought that lingered at the back of Chanyeol’s mind like bitter medicine he couldn’t completely swallow. Maybe Jongdae was right. Maybe he should have looked for a position in a research lab or a hospital. Maybe dispensary work wasn’t the calling he had once believed it to be.
He pushed the thought aside the moment Donghee stepped into his peripheral vision, his fingers turning cold and clammy at the sight. His senior was busy checking their shelf inventory. Chanyeol exhaled and shook his head, refocusing on his task. The pharmacy was calm at this hour; it would get livelier as the sun dipped, when students and workers would fill the streets. During these quiet stretches, he liked to clear the orders they’d received, packing them for the delivery drivers, or sometimes, like today, preparing them for the customer to pick up in person.
This order was an unusual one, Chanyeol had noticed. It was a bulk request from several people, and some of the medications weren’t commonly stocked, which meant he had had to place special orders. To avoid any confusion, he packed one parcel per prescription and labeled each clearly with its recipient’s name.
He was taping the last parcel when the door’s jingle rang. The sound made him jump. His breath caught in his throat as it always did and his heartbeat picked up, while a faint sheen of sweat bloomed at the nape of his neck. But when he saw who had walked into the shop, Chanyeol nearly dropped the parcel he was holding.
The lips he had dreamt about last night —all nights, since the past two weeks at least— were smiling at him. And then they moved.
“Well, if that isn’t a coincidence.” That laugh. That exact laugh. “Hi, Doc.”
Chanyeol’s knees went weak. He leaned against the counter to stay upright.
“Hi,” he managed, coughing as his voice cracked. A tingling crept up the side of his neck. “Hello,” he corrected himself. “How may I assist you?”
The man was wearing a navy blue vest this time, and jeans. A bit more weather appropriate. No rubber boots in sight, though, which Chanyeol found himself somewhat disappointed about. Still, his hair was tousled over his eyes and his smile was rectangle shaped and Chanyeol could smell the scent of the sea on his skin, despite the few meters separating them. The counter between them felt like an embankment, preventing him from falling into the water.
“Had I known you were working here, I would have kept a box of blueberries for you,” the man said with a pout, which was short-lived, because he immediately brightened again. It was endearing, how his accent thickened with every emotion. “Oh well. Now I know where to find you.”
Heat flared across Chanyeol’s cheeks. He could feel it, and he knew the man in front of him could see it too. He didn’t even know what the comment about blueberries referred to, and he wanted to protest, to say that he didn’t need to be thanked, that he was only doing his job, fulfilling the duty he’d once believed was his calling. But his tongue felt dry and heavy, and Donghee was very obviously watching him from the corner of his eye. Chanyeol could only take so much.
“I came to pick up my order,” the man said, pulling a few folded papers from the back pocket of his jeans. The pages were dog-eared, so he pressed them flat on the counter, smoothing the wrinkles with the tips of his fingers. A beauty mark beneath the nail of his thumb drew Chanyeol’s gaze.
So pretty.
“I was just finishing the packing,” Chanyeol replied after clearing his throat, studying the prescription. “The bill has already been taken care of.”
He was about to ask where the man’s vehicle was parked when the customer grabbed three of the five boxes and propped them beneath his chin. He flashed a smile bright enough to blind. “Care to help me carry the rest to my truck?”
Wordlessly, Chanyeol nodded. He picked up the remaining boxes and followed him out of the pharmacy. He couldn’t help but notice that the man was limping as they turned down a side alley, but that thought was quickly brushed away by what he saw next. There, an old Kia Pregio was parked —a dark blue minivan that matched the color of its owner’s sweater. Despite the clear efforts to maintain it, the paint was chipped in several places, and the van looked like it was nearing the end of a long, hard-working life. Was it even legal to drive something this old?
“That colleague of yours sure likes to stare,” the man chuckled, jolting Chanyeol out of his musings.
He was trying to balance the boxes against his leg as his free hand fumbled with the back door. Chanyeol instinctively came closer to help, then realized both his hands were full. So he simply stood there, lips parted, feeling painfully useless.
They were close. Close enough for Chanyeol to notice again how much he smelled of the sea, as if he’d lived in it his whole life. If he leaned in just a little more, he was sure he could hear the chant of the waves. Instead, what startled him was the words that came out of the man's mouth.
“But I get why he’d stare. You’re cute to look at.”
Chanyeol froze, “Pardon?”
The man grinned at him, eyes crinkling into bright crescents beneath his dark hair, and for an instant, Chanyeol forgot how breathing worked. The only answer he received was a soft, airy laugh, like waves breaking into foam. And in that moment, Chanyeol decided he had to get this person’s number.
Deciding, however, was one thing. Acting on it was another.
“Are your calves better?” Was the best he managed, still preoccupied by the limp he had noticed in the boy’s steps.
The man blinked at him, mildly incredulous, then let out a stifled little laugh which made it sound almost like a fart, “My calves are good, yes. Thank you.”
He arched a brow as he relieved Chanyeol of his boxes, tucking them neatly into the van. Mischief glinted in his eyes when he shut the door with a smooth flick of his wrist, before he leaned against it with effortless grace. Chanyeol wished he possessed even a fraction of that ease.
“You know, you don’t have to talk so formally. I’m probably younger than you.”
Chanyeol rubbed the tip of his nose, cheeks warm again. “Professional quirk. Sorry.”
“I forgive you, because it’s cute.” The man said. The spark in his eyes didn’t fade even as he reached out, plucking something from Chanyeol’s lab coat. A stray hair, apparently. “Because you’re cute.”
A silence stretched between them. Chanyeol’s lips twitched while the man’s smile widened into a grin so radiant it turned his eyes into little moons. It was incredible, how much light a single person could emit, how many colors danced around him, like a photometeor scattering the spectrum into a single band that curled and shimmered around his presence.
So splendid.
Could I get your phone number? And, perhaps, your name?
“Is that something you say to everyone you meet?” He asked instead —and instantly regretted it.
The man’s smile faltered for the briefest second, so brief most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Chanyeol saw it. And though the smile returned, the colors weren’t quite the same.
“No,” he exhaled deeply, before his smile turned more gentle, more honest. “It’s not every day you meet someone this cute.”
Chanyeol opened his mouth to respond. Anything would do, really. But he had never been a good conversationalist, and before he could decide on a single word, someone else spoke.
“Byun Baekhyun?” a quaking voice called from somewhere beyond them, though Chanyeol couldn’t see anyone.
The man in front of him —Baekhyun— perked up, his eyes widening in surprise, before he disappeared from Chanyeol’s view and ran to the passenger side of the minivan. Chanyeol followed awkwardly. He was surprised when he saw a small wrinkly face peering above the half-opened window.
An old lady.
Her skin was sun-kissed, some freckles apparent on the bridge of her nose, and on her cheekbones. Enormous dark sunglasses sat on her face, the temples stamped with a logo almost identical to a luxury brand, except for a glaring typo. She sported a ridiculously wide periwinkle hat, all velvety fabric and theatrical drama, which shaded her face. The color even matched her small pursed lips which pressed into a line radiating pure impatience.
“Sorry, Ms. Bae, we’re good to go,” Baekhyun apologized sheepishly, but said Ms Bae wasn’t paying attention to him.
Despite her shades, Chanyeol could feel her judging gaze studying him. Feeling exposed, he bowed, half-hiding behind Baekhyun.
“Good day, Madam,” He greeted her, his voice weaker than he had wished.
She huffed in apparent affront, only rolling her window closed in response, which had Baekhyun chuckle.
He turned towards Chanyeol, an amused smile dancing on his lips, “Don’t mind her, she’s nice, under her disguise,” he said as he tipped his non-existent hat at him.
Chanyeol stifled a laugh, but the smile vanished from his face when he noticed Ms. Bae again, just over Baekhyun’s shoulder. Her sunglasses had slid down her nose, and she was unabashedly staring at him, scanning him with a deep frown, before she shook her head disapprovingly. Despite being probably a foot taller than her, Chanyeol had never felt so small.
“I fear she doesn’t like me.”
“She will come around,” Baekhyun whispered, and Chanyeol was surprised by the warmth present both in his voice, and in his gaze.
He parted his lips to respond, but before the words could form, Baekhyun thrust his phone toward him.
“Care to share your number, Doc? Next time, I owe you a coffee. Maybe even a slice of cake, if we’re feeling fancy,” Baekhyun dipped into a playful curtsey, and though Chanyeol knew he was kindly mocking his formal speech patterns, he couldn’t bring himself to mind.
Not when Baekhyun was smiling at him like that, bright enough to blind him all over again.
Absolutely, he silently thought, as he typed in his number into Baekhyun’s phone. When he gave it back to him, the man seemed to study something on his screen, for a few seconds, before murmuring, “Park Chanyeol? That’s uncommon.”
“Isn’t it?” Chanyeol scratched the back of his head. “My dad came up with it, it stands for ‘ripe fruit’, shortened.”
This information seemed to elicit something in Baekhyun, as his eyes widened and sparkled such as the sun would above the layers of the sea waves.
“Such a pretty name.”
Chanyeol almost didn’t believe his ears. No one had ever called it that. No one had ever called him that. But the thought vanished when a sharp knock interrupted them. Ms. Bae was glaring at him again, glasses perched low, eyes narrowed into two thin daggers.
Baekhyun stepped back, lips parting as if to leave, and in that moment something in Chanyeol sparked. Before he understood what he was doing, his fingers were wrapped around Baekhyun’s wrist. It was all pure instinct. Urgency. As if letting him go meant letting the colors drain from the world again. As if holding on was survival.
“Is she one of the people you bought the medication for?” he blurted. It sounded desperate in his head. Maybe it was. Maybe he just needed a few seconds more.
Heat rushed to his cheeks, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Baekhyun stared at it, startled, then looked up.
“She’s one of them, yes,” he said slowly, like he was somewhere between here and there. But as his gaze flicked from the hand on his wrist to Chanyeol’s eyes, the left corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. “I’ve got a whole little squad of ajummas waiting for me back home. My groupies,” He sighed dramatically. “I’m quite popular there, ya know. A catch, they call it.”
There was something about that smile, how it glowed, how it warmed, how it lit something inside Chanyeol. The effect it had on him should have been studied. It was almost too much. So much that Chanyeol didn’t notice the moment Baekhyun’s fingers shifted to hold his hand gently.
Chanyeol’s heart stumbled. He tried to pull away reflexively, but Baekhyun didn’t let him. He only held on more firmly, gaze steady and anchored on his.
“Anyway,” Baekhyun continued, “I run errands for them. Some have special needs, and the medication is easier to get here in Seoul.” His tone softened, like he too was trying to make the moment last, or at least Chanyeol hoped he was.
“And where is your hometown?” He asked, smiling gently, soaking up the warmth of their linked hands as if it could seep into his bones.
“Seocheon,” Baekhyun replied, mirroring the smile.
“By the sea,” Chanyeol noted. And it felt like he was falling straight into it, through Baekhyun’s eyes.
“You know it?” A soft touch grazed the top of his hand, following the shape of his knuckles.
“Not really,” He whispered. “No.”
“You should visit. There’s a lot to love in Seocheon.”
Oh, Chanyeol didn’t doubt it. Not one bit.
But another knock came, this time harder, impatient. So their hands separated. The warmth vanished. Baekhyun looked at him differently now, shadows cast across his eyes.
“Well, it was nice catching up, Doc,” he said, and his smile was different too. Smaller. “Let’s get that coffee next time I’m in town.”
Just like last time, in the subway, Chanyeol stood there and watched long after the minivan drove away.
Slowly, slowly, the colors drained from around him. The clouds above spread into the same dull shade as the concrete under his feet, and he felt suspended between the two. Stuck. Crushed. The sound of the waves gone along with the light.
When he stepped back into the pharmacy, Donghee was watching him. He always watched, but this time, this time was different. A cold shiver crawled up Chanyeol’s spine. He tried to ignore it, but he simply couldn’t. There was just something different in that glare. Something that made him wish he could just dissolve into this air, the way he used to wish in high school when the rumors about him wouldn’t die.
Instinctively, he had walked into the backroom, the place where he would usually hide. However, a booming voice cut him in his steps.
“You're on counter duty,” Donghee reminded him, and all Chanyeol could do was to gnaw at his lower lip and bow his head down. “You sure took your time out there,” he added, and Chanyeol had to support himself against the counter so his knees wouldn't give out.
As expected, it was a busy evening. Customers kept coming and going, and with each ring of their jingle, Chanyeol felt as if his heartbeat quickened, to a point where he wondered if it would break.
Donghee kept watching him, always silent, but the judgement so loud in his eyes. There was a weird mixture that bubbled in his orbs, like a putrid magma of hatred, disgust, and sneer, which was making it hard for Chanyeol to breathe. As if that magma had been poured into his throat and he was combusting from the inside, yet no one could see the predicament he was in.
“Sir?” A voice called him, tried to ground him, and Chanyeol had to make an incommensurable effort to grab onto that buoy, and stay afloat. Breathe. “I asked you if you sell ginseng supplements here.”
He could hear the customer, but it felt like he was watching the scene without actually being inside his own body. Like his synapses weren’t connecting. Like his brain wasn’t sending its usual electric pulses to the rest of him. Chanyeol had been reduced to a small voice trapped inside the shell of himself. He could hear her talk, but the words that reached him didn’t sound like hers at all. They sounded like remnants of a past where walls used to whisper as he walked by.
What a disgusting fag. What a disgusting fag, what a disgusting fag, a disgusting fag, disgusting fag, fag, fag fag fa—
“We do,” he heard a voice respond. His voice. He couldn't feel them but apparently his lips were moving. “Let me show you,” he said, while all he wanted in that moment was to dash to the toilets and disappear from this place, Chanyeol led the customer to the aisle which held the phytotherapy selection.
His body was moving on its own, and Chanyeol was trying to claw his way back into his senses. To feel the fabric against his skin, the weight of his body anchoring his feet to the floor, to regain his own voice —the one stuck inside his head, not the mechanical one slipping out of his mouth out of habit.
A vibration buzzed in the pocket of his slacks, sharp enough to startle him. It was the first thing he’d truly felt all evening, and it dragged him back into himself. Violently. So violently that his head spun and his vision smeared at the edges.
He glanced down at the screen. It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus and see the name.
Mr Byun Baekhyun.
His heart almost leapt out of his chest, so brusquely that his phone slipped out of his hands and he barely caught it before it crashed against the ground.
There was a wide, wide expanse of blue on his screen. Baby blue, so similar to the color of the vest that Baekhyun had worn that day, in the subway. No specks, just a single shade of blue that almost blinded him the longer he stared.
Chanyeol had read somewhere that the color blue was said to induce calmness, tranquility, even a sense of safety. Maybe that was true. Maybe it didn’t matter. Because this picture, this quiet stretch of blue under his fingertips, brought him more serenity than he’d felt in weeks.
Below it, a few words sat waiting. And they stole whatever breath he had left.
The sky under which we met today was so pretty.