Ship/Member: Seungkwan/Hansol/Chan, Chan-centric Major Tags: major character death, kind of inspired by hereditary (that one scene, yeah) Additional Tags: mourning, grief mismanagement, trauma, hurt/(little)comfort? Permission to remix: Yes
i'm sorry to be ringing in 2022 with this. this prompt just made me go a bit insane i think. happy new year everyone, especially our lovely mods!! <3
***
When Chan came home from the party, the first thing he did was scream. He opened the door, staggered in through the doorway, and yelled so loud it woke up their neighbors. They called the police, and the police found Hansol–most of him, at least, in the car, and then the rest, in the driveway.
At least that was how it happened, according to Seungkwan.
Chan doesn’t remember that part. He only remembers the ride home. Driving, windows open, night breeze whipping his hair around. He remembers Hansol’s drunken laughter, so loud and so bright that it filled Chan with a permanent kind of love, and then–
He can’t remember who he screamed for when he came home. If it had been Seungkwan or Hansol. Chan could ask, but he doesn’t think it’d matter. Calling for one of them had always meant calling both of them. It’s the same, even now. It’s why Chan can’t bring himself to say Seungkwan’s name. Even if he wants to, so badly.
He keeps his mouth shut, lodges Seungkwan’s name in his throat. It’s a little like piling rocks, Seungkwan’s on top of Hansol’s.
It isn’t a graveyard, Chan tells himself. Not yet.
Hansol has always had a quiet presence. In between Seungkwan and Chan talking over each other, Hansol would mostly nod and listen. He picked up on their back and forth with an ease that came as natural as breathing.
He was good at that, even if he never picked sides. He’d tuck a strand of hair behind Seungkwan’s ear and ruffle Chan's hair whenever they made him choose.
Sometimes, Seungkwan and Chan would argue just to be soothed by him. They would argue over movie night picks, laundry detergent brands, and pasta sauces. Once, they argued over Chan’s It’s not for me, It’s for the baby! shirt for date night, and Seungkwan only stopped huffing until Hansol tucked him underneath his arm, with Chan, still in the same shirt, underneath the other.
That was the kind of person Hansol is–was. Hansol used to be that person. Chan and Seungkwan’s person. The person who cradled Seungkwan’s face and brushed Chan’s hair back. Dried their tears and shushed their mouths.
Now, Hansol’s just a point in time. This ghost sitting in between before and after, at a middle ground that Seungkwan and Chan can’t reach.
Sometimes, when they eat dinner together, Chan imagines himself back in the car. The blissful seconds before, the cut of silence after. Holding Hansol’s hand tightly even as it slackened against his own.
He remembers that part so well. If only because that’s how it feels now when he hears Seungkwan’s fork scrape against his plate. Dinners have turned into Seungkwan making small quick bites that Chan knows Seungkwan will throw up into the toilet right after.
Chan always waits for Seungkwan to finish, just because he refuses to be the one to leave the table first. He has it memorized now. Seungkwan gulps down his water, wipes his mouth on the napkin, and excuses himself without a word.
This time, after Seungkwan sets his glass on the table, he asks, “How are you?”
Chan blinks and waits, just to double-check. To make sure it happened. That Seungkwan, after six weeks and four days of radio silence, has finally spoken to him again.
“I said,” Seungkwan clears his throat. His voice is strained, like he forced the words out, pushed them through his own pile of rocks. “How are you? Are you okay?”
Before Chan can reply, Seungkwan continues, “Don’t–don’t sneer at me. I’m asking you a question. Properly. Politely.”
We’re never polite with each other, Chan thinks. “I’m not sneering at you. I don’t sneer at you, Seungkwan.”
“Hyung,” he corrects. “Listen, if you don't walk to talk about it–"
"I don't want to talk about it?" Chan asks, incredulous. "You're the one who hasn't talked to me in weeks!"
It's muscle memory, the way he turns to the side, ready to give Hansol one of his Can you believe this guy? looks, ready to receive one of Hansol's Really? You are exactly the same looks back, except–
He remembers a second too late. The back of Hansol's chair glares at him, and there it is again, just like in the car: the cut of silence.
This is the part where Hansol would laugh, hands in the air, going, “Don’t look at me. I’m not the authority on this.” This is the part where Chan gives in, because he can’t help it when Hansol laughs, and this is the part where Seungkwan does too, because he’s exactly the same.
Instead of that, there’s only Seungkwan’s hand, reaching across the table to hold his own. This is Seungkwan’s white flag. The apology written in the lines of his palm.
Chan uncurls his fist, lets go of the steering wheel to let their palms meet. He intertwines their fingers, and they hold the white flag together in a desperate grip.
They fall into bed. Or Chan pushes Seungkwan into the bed and climbs on top of him. Even in surrender, their hands are unkind. Too much teeth, and not enough licks, but it’s home. Part of Seungkwan is finally home.
Grief tastes like Seungkwan’s mouth, and Chan opens up to get his fill.
Tucked underneath Seungkwan’s arms, Chan feels himself expand a bit, like a little balloon that can take off to the skies. Before sleep can finally pull him down, he feels a soft press of lips against his forehead, right on his bumpy scar.
“Hansol,” Seungkwan whimpers, “Hansol-ah,” and Chan wants to echo the name, press it against Seungkwan’s skin too.
Instead, he pulls Seungkwan down, until they’re eye to eye, noses brushing. Their legs and arms are so tangled together that it almost feels like they’re complete.
Chan cradles Seungkwan’s face, the same way Hansol used to. His hands aren’t as big, but they fit against the curve of Seungkwan’s cheek. “I’m here,” Chan whispers.
His voice startles Seungkwan's as much as it startles him. He'd almost forgotten what he'd sounded like, when he was gentle.
Seungkwan sniffs, bottom lip trembling. He's going to cry all night, Chan knows, but he's relieved Seungkwan's finally doing it in front of him.
[FILL] empty chairs at empty tables
Major Tags: major character death, kind of inspired by hereditary (that one scene, yeah)
Additional Tags: mourning, grief mismanagement, trauma, hurt/(little)comfort?
Permission to remix: Yes
i'm sorry to be ringing in 2022 with this. this prompt just made me go a bit insane i think. happy new year everyone, especially our lovely mods!! <3
***
When Chan came home from the party, the first thing he did was scream. He opened the door, staggered in through the doorway, and yelled so loud it woke up their neighbors. They called the police, and the police found Hansol–most of him, at least, in the car, and then the rest, in the driveway.
At least that was how it happened, according to Seungkwan.
Chan doesn’t remember that part. He only remembers the ride home. Driving, windows open, night breeze whipping his hair around. He remembers Hansol’s drunken laughter, so loud and so bright that it filled Chan with a permanent kind of love, and then–
He can’t remember who he screamed for when he came home. If it had been Seungkwan or Hansol. Chan could ask, but he doesn’t think it’d matter. Calling for one of them had always meant calling both of them. It’s the same, even now. It’s why Chan can’t bring himself to say Seungkwan’s name. Even if he wants to, so badly.
He keeps his mouth shut, lodges Seungkwan’s name in his throat. It’s a little like piling rocks, Seungkwan’s on top of Hansol’s.
It isn’t a graveyard, Chan tells himself. Not yet.
Hansol has always had a quiet presence. In between Seungkwan and Chan talking over each other, Hansol would mostly nod and listen. He picked up on their back and forth with an ease that came as natural as breathing.
He was good at that, even if he never picked sides. He’d tuck a strand of hair behind Seungkwan’s ear and ruffle Chan's hair whenever they made him choose.
Sometimes, Seungkwan and Chan would argue just to be soothed by him. They would argue over movie night picks, laundry detergent brands, and pasta sauces. Once, they argued over Chan’s It’s not for me, It’s for the baby! shirt for date night, and Seungkwan only stopped huffing until Hansol tucked him underneath his arm, with Chan, still in the same shirt, underneath the other.
That was the kind of person Hansol is–was. Hansol used to be that person. Chan and Seungkwan’s person. The person who cradled Seungkwan’s face and brushed Chan’s hair back. Dried their tears and shushed their mouths.
Now, Hansol’s just a point in time. This ghost sitting in between before and after, at a middle ground that Seungkwan and Chan can’t reach.
Sometimes, when they eat dinner together, Chan imagines himself back in the car. The blissful seconds before, the cut of silence after. Holding Hansol’s hand tightly even as it slackened against his own.
He remembers that part so well. If only because that’s how it feels now when he hears Seungkwan’s fork scrape against his plate. Dinners have turned into Seungkwan making small quick bites that Chan knows Seungkwan will throw up into the toilet right after.
Chan always waits for Seungkwan to finish, just because he refuses to be the one to leave the table first. He has it memorized now. Seungkwan gulps down his water, wipes his mouth on the napkin, and excuses himself without a word.
This time, after Seungkwan sets his glass on the table, he asks, “How are you?”
Chan blinks and waits, just to double-check. To make sure it happened. That Seungkwan, after six weeks and four days of radio silence, has finally spoken to him again.
“I said,” Seungkwan clears his throat. His voice is strained, like he forced the words out, pushed them through his own pile of rocks. “How are you? Are you okay?”
Before Chan can reply, Seungkwan continues, “Don’t–don’t sneer at me. I’m asking you a question. Properly. Politely.”
We’re never polite with each other, Chan thinks. “I’m not sneering at you. I don’t sneer at you, Seungkwan.”
“Hyung,” he corrects. “Listen, if you don't walk to talk about it–"
"I don't want to talk about it?" Chan asks, incredulous. "You're the one who hasn't talked to me in weeks!"
It's muscle memory, the way he turns to the side, ready to give Hansol one of his Can you believe this guy? looks, ready to receive one of Hansol's Really? You are exactly the same looks back, except–
He remembers a second too late. The back of Hansol's chair glares at him, and there it is again, just like in the car: the cut of silence.
This is the part where Hansol would laugh, hands in the air, going, “Don’t look at me. I’m not the authority on this.” This is the part where Chan gives in, because he can’t help it when Hansol laughs, and this is the part where Seungkwan does too, because he’s exactly the same.
Instead of that, there’s only Seungkwan’s hand, reaching across the table to hold his own. This is Seungkwan’s white flag. The apology written in the lines of his palm.
Chan uncurls his fist, lets go of the steering wheel to let their palms meet. He intertwines their fingers, and they hold the white flag together in a desperate grip.
They fall into bed. Or Chan pushes Seungkwan into the bed and climbs on top of him. Even in surrender, their hands are unkind. Too much teeth, and not enough licks, but it’s home. Part of Seungkwan is finally home.
Grief tastes like Seungkwan’s mouth, and Chan opens up to get his fill.
Tucked underneath Seungkwan’s arms, Chan feels himself expand a bit, like a little balloon that can take off to the skies. Before sleep can finally pull him down, he feels a soft press of lips against his forehead, right on his bumpy scar.
“Hansol,” Seungkwan whimpers, “Hansol-ah,” and Chan wants to echo the name, press it against Seungkwan’s skin too.
Instead, he pulls Seungkwan down, until they’re eye to eye, noses brushing. Their legs and arms are so tangled together that it almost feels like they’re complete.
Chan cradles Seungkwan’s face, the same way Hansol used to. His hands aren’t as big, but they fit against the curve of Seungkwan’s cheek. “I’m here,” Chan whispers.
His voice startles Seungkwan's as much as it startles him. He'd almost forgotten what he'd sounded like, when he was gentle.
Seungkwan sniffs, bottom lip trembling. He's going to cry all night, Chan knows, but he's relieved Seungkwan's finally doing it in front of him.
He turns his face to kiss Chan's palm. “Me too."