đČ : 7. âIf I die, Iâm haunting you first.â
âSpencer, can you help with this load-in?â
Heâs useless, as always, during the beginning of his shift, doing everything but working, and generally as obnoxiously as possible. There is more reward in flicking day-old sliced fruit at Chansolâs head than there is at wiping down the tables he wiped down three hours ago, especially when there is a trainee and at least two other established wait staff to do it for him.
âNo alcohol, remember? One kidney. Doctorâs orders.â
Though the content of his words is serious, perhaps genuinely life-or-death in nature, his tone is still playful, sing-songed, as if even a bullet through his vital organs and too much of his blood outside of his body is some kind of game. Itâs how he copes, with how close he came to death, of how the hairline cracks of a heart starting to break hurt almost as much as bleeding out on The Crowâs Nest floor: humor, frivolity, a minimization of Death himself, as if it might take away his glaring powers of inevitability.
âYouâre not going to get alcohol poisoning by touching a few bottles.â
She is annoyed with him, like always, he can see it on her perfectly painted face, hear it in her thinly veiled tone. She would probably threaten him with immaculately manicured fingernails if he hadnât already nearly died in front of her, and if Jihoon werenât feet away in some back room, counting cash and memorizing inventory. Perhaps he could get used to the collateral perks that came with his near death experience.
âThatâs true,â he allows momentarily, a shit-eating grin splitting his face in half in anticipation of annoying her further, âbut, if I lift anything too heavy, my wound could open up all over this squeaky clean floor and then youâll have one less person to mop up my blood, pus, and guts from underneath table twenty-four.â
She makes a face at the vivid description, but shoves a pair of hefty unopened liquor bottles in each of his hands nonetheless.
âIâll take my chances.â
âOkay,â Spencer concedes with a laugh, moving to assembly-line the bottle to a waiting Chansol by the bar, âbut if I die, Iâm haunting you first.â
spencer is, in spite of everything, excited to be working again. he loves the crowâs nest, he has since the first day he walked through its doors for his interview. heâs seen blood scrubbed from its floors numerous times, knows his own blood painted the floor at one point, and it feels as if thatâs part of what gives it life, what makes the bustling dangerous energy of the place all the more raw and real. it is not just that he can walk into the staff room at any time and steal a kiss or two or three, or that he knows he is protected by the arms that cradled him as he floated over and back over the line between life and death. he is, still, attracted to the thrill of it, the nightly risk of a brawl or a...well, maybe heâs not so partial to the idea of the occasional shoot out anymore. but the therapist his parents insisted he see says thatâs perfectly normal.
âso, this is our pos system - insert obligatory âpiece of shitâ joke here,â he gestures to the set of touch screen monitors at the back of the restaurant, uses a game show flourish and a grin, always the court jester, even when training new hires. she is pretty and skittish and learns quickly, and spencer knows sheâll fit right in (he knew the moment heâd seen his pen, branded with the name of the hospital that had saved his life, stolen from the bedside table in his room, tucked in the pocket of her apron that sheâd fit right in because she was just like their manager: doe-eyed and sticky-fingered).
âbut i call her tina. she seems to like it when you sweet talk her. so if she starts acting up, whisper a few sweet nothings, give her a little tickle, and she should be good. you gotta be nice to the tech so it spares you when thereâs a robot uprising,â he taps one of the screens to life, types in his code and steps aside to give sohee access, gesturing to their latest ticket.
âitâs pretty straightforward. everythingâs laid out pretty clearly, except the drinks, which are weird because the bar has a whole system that makes zero sense to me, but if you ever run into trouble there just yell at chansol and seoahâll fix it for you.â he leans his hip against the counter casually, prepared to walk his trainee through any assistance she might need, then sends her an encouraging smile, âalright, go for it.â
âAh,â Spencer smiles, because, as always, he is outwardly warm, kind, nothing but well-intentioned even when faced with what could be considered temptation under any other circumstances.
Perhaps he should have foreseen this. This was his life before The Crowâs Nest, before Jihoon. There was a time he would have stayed over at the drop of a hat, at the smallest, wordless request. There was no denying the objective appeal of the other male, and though Spencer sees only the good in people, there is the ominous threat that he doesnât see, of something darker and more covetous under Hyukâs skin, something that might wrap itself around him and try to pull him away from another pair of ferociously possessive hands until heâs torn in half down the middle.
But Spencer is not tempted. The time he spent with Hyuk was friendly, certainly, warm, as he is always, but platonic. Was it a moment of naivety on Spencerâs part? Or perhaps a subconscious test of his will, as if subjecting himself to a masochistic display of putting an obstacle between himself and Jihoon, just to feel how much he aches for what isnât there, even when he has all the power to remedy the absence. Maybe itâs the relief he craves, the relief heâll feel when he crawls into a bed at the end of the day with the only person he wants to sleep next to, the relief of no more cold sheets in the morning, of living in the arms he very nearly died in. There is not, it seems, a temptation that exists that could take him away from that, no matter how appealing.
âI canât,â he admits, almost apologetically, but not because he wants to stay, and not because he is guilty of anything scandalous. He is sorry, however, sorry for the misunderstanding that is undoubtedly his fault, for having to leave Hyuk prematurely, so as not to exacerbate the situation further.Â
He stands, puts pointed space between them, smiles a crooked grin and taps the spot on his abdomen where the scar of a sewn up bullet wound is hidden under the fabric of his shirt, managing to find humor, even in this.
a smile plays at jihoonâs lips again, even as his eyes flutter shut and he listens to spencerâs heartbeat again, faster this time. there was something comforting about the slowness of it before in its own way, but like this, it is so clear spencer is bursting with life, and he is sureâ he hopes âhe will get to hear this heartbeat as long as he wants to, in all of its speeds. âyou are,â he agrees, and now, with a very living and breathing spencer, he can find a little humor in it. of course, spencer would keep even an impossible promise, like not even a shred of him can exist otherwise.
âiâm tired,â he sighs, an observation, and sudden realization, all of that adrenaline and alertness ebbing in the presence of this safety and reassurance. he knows he wonât be able to rest though, not really, until spencer is home, and the doctors are convinced there wonât be any complications.Â
he doesnât listen anymore closely to spencerâs heartbeat when he tells him he loves him, but he feels the way his heart flutters, and jihoon opens his eyes. he grins, softness replaced by something a little devious, and even in all of his gratitude and sincerity, jihoon will never tire of knowing his effect on spencer. he basks in this small moment, too long without a reminder.
âi know,â he replies, grin still on his face, and he sits up again. itâs what he wanted to say the first timeâ response more in character for him than all the tears he shed the first time spencer said it, when his blood pooled on jihoonâs hands. spencer doesnât have to tell jihoon he loves him, and he never had to, but he doesnât mind hearing it; he wouldnât mind hearing it a hundred more times.Â
âare you having heart palpitations, spencer?â he teases, and smiles as he leans closer to him, only to take his face in his hands and kiss him. itâs lighter than typical of him, but it lingers, and when he pulls awayâ but not by very far âhe smiles again, still playful. âshould i call the doctor?â
âme too,â he agrees, albeit with a hint of humorous irony, knowing now that he must have been sleeping for hours, maybe days. he strokes jihoonâs hair comfortingly, as if coaxing him to resume his nap right then and there.
âhow long was i out?â there is still humor in his voice, because he would not be himself if he could not find humor even in this situation, even as a few strategically placed stitches and a gallon or two of someone elseâs blood are the only things keeping him from leaking his life out of his stomach, âwhat year is it? do we have flying cars yet? you look the same. clones, maybe?â
he laughs at his own joke, still letting his fingers disappear every few seconds in the strands of jihoonâs hair. but he lets exhaustion subdue his smile just a little, to conserve the energy he does have, glancing down past the tip of his nose to take in the sight of the other male so close, âyou should rest, though. really. iâll be ok.â and because he is himself and he cannot resist, uttered through a signature crooked smile, âyou wanna climb in here with me? the waterâs great.â
there is no blood leaking out of him when jihoon pokes at the dead giveaway of spencerâs heart rate, which leave plenty of blood to make its way up into the apples of his cheeks, because even now, after all of the darkness that has let itself into their relationship, jihoon manages to make him blush like a fairy tale prince.
âmaybe,â he teases back, playfully, despite knowing he is not the one with the upper hand here, âdoctor help, iâm dying again,â he declares through a grin, tossing his head back dramatically against his pillow and shutting his eyes tight, as if he were in pain, though careful not to disrupt the gentle hold on his face, âmy boyfriendâs kisses are too good.â
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what now? he doesnât know if heâs ever been so full of joy or at such a complete loss. who is he now that heâs not on edge, in between love and loss, waiting, preparing for the worst heartbreak he has ever known? as much as he hoped for spencer alive, he didnât prepare for this outcome. as much as he likes to prepare for everything, he barely let himself consider the best possible scenario, and what he would do should the universe let him have it. it was always how do i live without spencer? days of trying to answer that question, days of planning for his death and trying to move on.
he does something incredibly difficult and lets go for now, resting in spencerâs warmth and light and life, illuminating jihoonâs existence once again, like he thought he was never meant to. maybe jihoon was wrong all along, and he is not so powerful that he would pull the unstoppable force of spencerâs goodness into the darkness. maybe it isnât about jihoon being a curse, and itâs about spencer being a blessingâ a saving grace for the seemingly irredeemable.
he smiles, small this time, more subdued, tired now that spencer is awake. âi knew you wouldnât lie to me,â he replies. no, jihoon is the only liar between them, but this much is true. spencer said it and jihoon believed him. he tried to talk himself out of his believing, like he was just setting himself up for more pain for trusting in the promise of a dying man with no control over his destiny. instead, his rare, persistent hope was rewarded with spencer, alive, and a real shot at love.
he lays his head back down on spencerâs chest with his lifeâs deepest sigh of relief, still taking in the sight of spencerâs face, hoping he never takes it for granted for a single day that jihoon is never guaranteed, with or without him.
(what now? what does he do in the face of a spencer that knows he loves him?)Â
say it again. âi love you,â voice soft, sincere. spencer deserves to hear it in stillness; surely now, heâll know he means it. it still scares jihoon to say it, and thatâs how he knows he needs to; maybe he has never meant anything so much.
it is, at the very least, a relief to see this side of jihoon upon waking up from his near death experience. perhaps he did not survive after all, and this is the beginnings of his heaven, ironic bright white lights and the warmth of jihoon, of genuine jihoon, of unhardened, real jihoon, of the jihoon who isnât afraid to open up and spill out love.Â
âi *am* a terrible liar,â he smiles back, golden and inviting, admitting what is perceived as neither fault nor virtue, another irony, uttered without a hint of sheepishness, laden with fondness, a sitcom playing out in real time. maybe this really is too good to be true. maybe the ache in his side is heavenâs way of making it feel a little more realistic, a gradual introduction to the perfect eternity, so as not to be too jarring or overwhelming all at once. itâs a strange tactic, but he canât complain even a little bit. itâd take a lot more than cold steel and plastic tubes and a few stitches in his side to ruin this moment.
and then jihoonâs head is on his chest again, like a weighted blanket, comfort and safety wrapped in a single, lovingly concerned gesture. he sighs, and spencer, instinctively, as if their very souls have locked onto each other, sighs with him, his hand finding itself, again, in jihoonâs hair.
i love you.
his breathing catches, or he stops it on purpose, as if the head on his chest is a rare purple butterfly that might fly away forever if spencerâs lungs move his chest with another breath. there is the dead giveaway of a stutter in his heartbeat, obvious in the rhythm of his heart monitor, and probably even more so with an ear pressed against his ribcage. this has to be the afterlife; or else the world turned upside down the moment that bullet passed through his body. it doesnât matter; he doesnât care, either way. thereâs no ocean here, and he thought thereâd be an endless ocean in heaven, but heâd happily accept this as his eternity.
hi! iâve been meaning to open this up as a plot for a while, but just havenât gotten around to posting it. back in december, spencer, a reckless civilian, was caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting and basically put himself in line of a bullet to save a child and who he perceived as the kidâs innocent civilian parents (one of which was actually the real target of the shooting)
itâs been canon in my mind that the shooting was gang-related, which is a big no-no on crowâs nest territory, as the crowâs nest is completely neutral. but because the shooting occurred outside, on the sidewalk/in the street, someone may have seen it as a loophole, or, perhaps, was just careless.
the plot is open to anyone who may have been involved in the shooting (e.g. the actual shooter, the driver of the vehicle, the person who determined the target, and anyone in between), anyone who may have known or been related to the family spencer saved, any of the law enforcement who may have worked the case (e.g. immediate/emergency response mpd, detectives investigating the perpetrators, any officers who may have interviewed spencer after the fact, etc.), any medical personnel who may have been on the scene or at the hospital (e.g. EMTs, doctors, surgeons, nurses, etc.), and anyone who may know spencer from university (professors or students) and heard about what happened.Â
miscellaneous possibilities include reporters, nosy b/vloggers, tcn patrons, anyone offended by the act occurring on neutral ground, and anyone concerned about international relations (lawyers, government officials, assassins??, etc.) as technically spencer is a foreigner and it may have been a pain dealing with the american embassy if anyone important were to get wind of it.
please feel free to like this post if any of the above sounds like something you might be interested in! or jump straight into my dms for a quicker response.
please note that this plot is heavy on mentions of firearms, blood, and violence, for obvious reasons, so if that is anything that makes you squeamish, please let me know and iâll be happy to adjust the content of our threads accordingly!
sunlight is one of spencerâs happy places, which is fitting considering his tendency toward presenting as sunshine personified. a child of summer, his early childhood years were spent in australia, his parentsâ home country, while the latter half of his life saw him raised in southern california. before moving to myeongcho for university, he had never seen a real winter, and still seems out of place when outside on a rainy or snowy day. and while he appreciates the biting chill of a korean winter, he still appears golden in contrast to the silver of the cold, often under-dressed and pink-nosed, gleeful while falling into snow drifts and losing feeling in the tips of his fingers. but ultimately, he will always prefer the sun, because it brings with it promises of music festivals and surf trips, outdoor barbecues and swimming pools, long days and warm nights; the sun brings him unbridled joy, because it brings with it similarly unbridled fun, and the time he spends in it seems to leak out in bright crooked smiles and distinct freckles. there comes, with his recklessness, the occasional burn, pink peeling off of his nose and shoulders, bringing an ironic sting to the term sun-kissed in a way he usually finds amusing, in spite of the scoldings from his loved ones and the sticky layer of sunscreen and aloe that follows. yes, the sun has a tendency to hurt, but it always warms, and spencer is happily one of its most dedicated disciples.
he breathes, long and slow, for the first time in days. it feels preemptive, but he lets himself relax a little anywayâ exposes himself to the potential heartbreak of losing him, accentuated by letting his guard down. maybe, if he didnât, he would regret staying so rigid. maybe he would regret not taking in spencerâs enduring warmth while he still could. itâs this realization that truly eases some of the tension in his shoulders, muscles that stiffened over days of sitting on the edge of his seat loosening up. he listens to spencerâs heartbeat and feels the soothing rise and fall of his chest beneath his ear, and jihoon breathes.
maybe he falls asleep, and thatâs why he jerks away when he feels the fingers in his hair. maybe itâs some deep-rooted, still unshakable fear of vulnerability when he should be strong. spencerâs hand moves with him, and he remembers the iv instantly. âshit,â he quietly exclaims, and he grabs spencerâs arm to make sure its still in tact. thankfully it is, but he frowns, because it mustâve hurt. âsorry,â he apologizes, and it finally registers then that spencer is awake. with all effort to remain indestructible, his eyes still prickle with tears, then stream down his face, and all he can do is fling his arms over spencer and bury his face in his chest again, the closest thing he can get to hugging him.
there was part of jihoon that considered telling spencer he didnât really love himâ that he only said it because he didnât want him to die knowing he didnât. he wanted him to go out feeling loved even though he didnât mean it. he doesnât consider it now, too overwhelmed by the sincerity of the love he has for him, bursting forth, uncontainable in time of crisis and ever-lurking loss. the tears pour and pour, relief and true surrender after days of vigilance and keeping it together, even with no one to see him. maybe he did it more for himself than anyone, but now he is finally back in the day again after the threat of endless night; he no longer needs to push himself to survive without sunlight.
i was so scared, he almost says, but whether he canât bring himself to be reduced to such emotional rubble or he physically canât speak them, he doesnât know. i love you, i love you, i love you. he raises his head again, and stares at him, mapping out his face as he has so often, but he takes special note of his eyes, and how heâs gone far too long without seeing them. they sparkle even now. heextends a hand to touch spencerâs face, like he canât believe this moment is real. as always, spencer is too good to be true, yet so honest. âhey,â he sighs at last, and he manages a breath of laughter at the ridiculousness of his reaction, and how pathetic he feels. he knows itâs justified, and the smile still touches his lips, even with tear-stained cheeks. âi missed you.âÂ
heâs got his own apology on the tip of his tongue when jihoon starts awake, but itâs dissolved by the sharp, unsettling tug sounding on the inside of his elbow. he hisses in spite of himself, he who is now well-acquainted with almost every pain imaginable, broken bones, bullet wounds, broken hearts. but just as quickly, there are small chuckles escaping him, wind chimes signaling the end of a rainstorm. âitâs okay-â but then jihoon is crying, really crying, weeping hard, the way spencer imagine his family mightâve over his casket.
oh. right. only hours ago heâd been staring death in the face, closer to it than jihoon was to him right now. hours ago, heâd vividly pictured his funeral, his plane ride home in an icebox, an eternity without sunlight or the ocean or longboarding to class or falling asleep next to the most warm-blooded killer heâd ever met. there is a moment where the comforting heat of jihoon being here with him is overshadowed by the pain in his side, dull and aching compared to when it had been a burning, gaping hole in his side. heâs aware now, of his surroundings: of the smell of hospital-grade chemicals; the stale feeling of a stiff hospital gown against his skin; the cool, unfeeling high of oxygen being pumped through tubes in his nostrils; the rhythmic beeping of the muscle movements that make him human turned into seismic pixels on a screen a few feet away.Â
even spencerâs semi-permanent cheer falters. he recalls fear, an unfamiliar emotion, not of pain, not of death, but of things left unsaid and undone, of leaving love behind. he touches jihoon again, cradles his head against his chest where his heart beats for him in that moment, thudding in his ribcage, beeping on its monitor, a wordless promise that it belongs to the both of them. the world warps around him for a moment, his own eyes watery in the face of reality. his other arm wraps around jihoon - itâs awkward, logistically, the way the hospital bed impedes them from properly embracing - but itâs what they have, and he doesnât want to let go, no matter how much it might hurt.
jihoon pulls away to smile at him and spencer smiles back. he mirrorâs jihoonâs touch too, reaching up to cradle his face, wiping at a tear track with the pad of his thumb.
âhey, i promised, didnât i?â even now, even now, he manages to make light of darkness, âiâm not going anywhere.â
Notably and remarkably so. Though Spencer comes across as chaos personified, as a rush of fire and wind carrying himself through life by the hair on the back of his neck, he is more than capable of softness, of kindness. In fact, it is his default, to be gentle.Â
He throws his own body around like a sack of potatoes, falling face first off of a longboard and onto a busy sidewalk, taking soccer balls to valuable limbs and organs during a spontaneous game in the park, cutting the thin skin of a palm while picking up shards of the glasses he broke with his bare hands, throwing himself in front of a bullet to stop it from landing in a child - Some might call it clumsiness, but it is not a lack of grace that makes him so accident prone or so good at breaking the same bones over and over again or so attractive to another blade or bullet or floor. It is his curiosity and his infamous recklessness, his staunch desire to throw all caution to the wind he travels in and let destiny do the rest.
But where he is rough with his own body and soul and existence, he is gentle with everyone else, and with no discrimination or categorization of any kind. He is as kind and warm with a stranger as he is with a lover or with a parent or with a puppy. His own core burns at its heart, takes in chaos and melts it, so that he might spread warm, gentle, good energy to everyone he touches. It is not on purpose, has never been on purpose, but is simply in his nature: he takes in roughness, scrapes, bruises, cold, sharp, hard, and photosynthesizes it into softness, sweetness, hugs, kisses, laughter, smiles that he then puts out into the world. And lets destiny do the rest.
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jihoon can feel him fading. he hopes itâs paranoia and unwarranted panicâ that nothing is as bad as it looks and spencer will stay with him, smile unceasing, abundance of life he carries everywhere unscathed, but jihoon has never been an optimist, and never one to rest too faithfully in denial. he knows, and itâs why his tears wonât stop. thereâs nothing else he can do but stay here and try to stop the blood that he feels drenching his hands; this is entirely out of his control.
itâs the first time he says itâ now, all of the energy draining out of the room, from jihoonâs life, from everything. he says he loves him, and his cheeks nearly match the wetness on his hands, tears an unstoppable force. jihoon in full capacity might say i know with a crooked smile, because he does, but hearing it is different. he doesnât want to believe this is spencerâs version of goodbye.
spencer, of all people, is the one to apologize, and jihoon shakes his head. âiâm sorry,â he insists, and he is. his regret is overwhelming, second only to love, pouring for everything; itâs only right that it pours from his mouth, too, in this moment of desperation. it is so necessary. even if spencer hadnât said it first, if heâs going to die, jihoon needs him to know this more than anything. âi love you too. i lied to you before. i was afraid of it, iâ but i love you, spencer, i love you.â it leaves his lips too quickly, word after word in quick, panicked succession, like he wonât get it all out in time, like he has held it all in so long that it rushes out now that he finally lets it.
âspencer, look at me,â he pleads, and he wants to hold his face in his hands. he wants to be so earnest, but he doesnât moveâ doesnât want to risk a single second putting spencer that much closer to death. âi need you. my life would be so dark without you, so please.â please pull through for me. please fight. please live. this hasnât been nearly enough time to love you.
itâs harder to breathe now, every breath and heartbeat and blink labored. heâs exhausted, his limbs feel like lead and his hair sticks to the cool sweat on his forehead, as if heâs just run the worldâs hardest marathon with a hole in his side. instinctively, he wants to rest, just for a few moments, wants to close his eyes and let sleep repair sore muscles and ripped tissue, wants to wake up in his bed on clean sheets, tucked snugly against jihoonâs chest under a crisp, clean duvet. he can picture it now, as jihoon pours his heart out in return, says all the things out loud spencer would give anything to hear. maybe he gave too much, though. maybe thatâs what landed him here, bleeding into the tablecloths of the crowâs nest as if leaving a piece of himself behind.
âi knew it,â he boasts weakly through a strained chuckle, smile still present, albeit drifting and weak, the light in his eyes distant, like the peak of a lighthouse buried under a suffocating fog. he truly does believe that he knew it, that he did, deep down, have faith that jihoon had only pushed him away because he was afraid of how close heâd gotten. it was a belief that had helped make the heartbreak a little less unbearable.
but he is surprised at how far away his own voice sounds, like heâs listening to himself talk in a dream. did he dream all of this up? if he falls asleep here, now, will it actually be his waking up? will he open his eyes at the dawn of his birthday in some bizarre twist of groundhog day fate, alone in an empty bed, laughing off this terrible horrible nightmare where he has to die for jihoon to love him?
spencer, look at me.
itâs still unclear to him, when his eyelids flutter open again at jihoonâs urging, where real life ends and dreams begin. it is clear, however, that whichever way it goes, that threshold draws nearer and nearer.
âokay,â he agrees easily, quietly, because it is that easy to promise jihoon forever. he isnât like jihoon; he doesnât have to be leaking lifeblood into the floorboards as the blue flashes of an ambulance fill the room through the windows to make the promise of forever, ânot goinâ anywhere,â heâd promised forever in every kiss, even before he knew thatâs what he was doing. he smiles again, close-lipped and shuddering, mustering up the strength to reach up and touch that impossible face, only managing to graze blood-stained fingertips over the line of jihoonâs jaw, âpromise.â
he hasnât been able to breathe for three days. he is so heavy with the pending reality of a life without spencer, so crushed beneath the weight of all of the regrets, all of the things he didnât do with him, didnât say to himâ did say to him that he shouldnât have. he canât stop thinking about the days he would stay, and watch spencer wake up and smile at him, still sleepy. he canât stop thinking of a life without that, where spencer never wakes up and jihoon can never sit and watch him breathe.
he can for now, though. stable, the doctors said, surgery finished, the faithful rise and fall of spencerâs chest even while heâs full of tubes. jihoon is painfully aware of the fact that this could change at any moment. the steady sound of ticking vitals could turn desperate, nurses could rush in and wheel him away the same way they wheeled him into the ambulance, whisked away, leaving jihoon behind in excruciating uncertainty. jihoon thought loving spencer was life or death before. strength and weakness, control and chaos, safety or danger, but this is a new tightrope jihoon, deep down, always knew they would walk, but was still never prepared for. even know, he canât quite forgive himself for not being ready for the inevitable pending death of myeongcho to hurtle toward them at full speed.Â
he doesnât think heâll ever be ready for a life without spencer, and itâs a fact that terrifies himâ one he tried to guard himself against, yet he regrets that now. he regrets loving him enough to so desperately depend on his survival, yet regrets not loving him harder, wholeheartedly, from the very beginning.Â
he doesnât remember the last time he properly slept, only remembers plowing on through life, working through preemptive grief and fear, filling in the gaps spencer left in the crowâs nest, at the hospital anytime he wasnât, perfecting the art of sleeping in hospital room chairs and on waiting room sofas, always waiting, waiting for the news, wanting to be the first to know, because spencerâs life or death will be his responsibility. (because he loves him.)
stable. itâs all that really matters now, that comforting beep of his vital signs, and itâs what he focuses on to drive out the fear that they will be stuck like this forever: some kind of coma, jihoon by a hospital bed, jihoon sitting with spencerâs parents, never free of the guilt that he could not protect their son.
he scoots his chair across the floor, closer, and leans forward, gingerly resting his head on spencer, ear against his chest. his heartbeat is better. jihoonâs eyes flutter closed, and he listens to the way it still pounds, a reminder that spencer is still hereâ still alive, still fighting, as he knows spencer will. like this, jihoon feels stable too.
â§â @mixspencer
tw: hospitals, surgery, mentions of gun violence
the near seventy-two hours are a blur for him. he spends most of it in a chemically-induced sleep while experts poke and prod and sew back together his insides, repairing tears and holes left behind by a single bullet, closing wounds, sealing blood away inside of his body, back where it belongs. he doesnât dream, not really. vivid imagery of the inside of an ambulance sometimes replays behind his eyelids, blurring vision, bright colors, the loud wail of sirens just overhead. there are people all around him, calling out numbers and codes, speaking over him in a language that sounds foreign, despite being spoken in a tongue heâs familiar with. it feels like heâs in a bubble, submerged underwater, a mask over his face, his pulse tangible against his ear drums. does he call for jihoon out loud, or is that only in his head? itâs unclear: the memory fades after that, at the point he drifted out of consciousness, wheels of a gurney squealing down a hospital corridor and bright fluorescent lights lulling him into sleep.
the doctor explains everything to his parents, when they arrive, a day and a half later, freshly off of a day-long flight from home. itâs the second time sheâll lay out the details for his âfamilyâ, having done so for jihoon the moment the surgery was completed, successful. the bullet had entered from behind, clipping his kidney and his liver and his large intestine on its way out through the front of his abdomen. he was lucky. but he would have a long recovery and a stern recovery regimen, diet and activity restricted, strict prescription doses of pain medicine, a long list of signs to look for in case the surgery turned out to be less successful than previously thought.
it was in these moments, moments of nurses checking his vitals, his iv, his tubes, of his loved ones helping bathe him in his bed, that he was lucky to be where he was. he spent the days resting, unaware of the world around him, while his loved ones agonized over his waking, worried about his healing, about the pain, about the fear he must have felt, about the fear they felt now.
he has no concept of time passing when he does wake; it feels as if heâd only drifted off minutes ago. mentally, at least. his body aches, muscles tight, kinks in his neck, fresh stitches in his side punctuating where he hurts most, especially when he breathes. everything feels somewhat dull, and sparkly, despite the pain, including his vision, which he tries to blink back to normal past the drugs still in his system. the weight on his chest is confusing, and warm, which is a surprise considering the last thing heâd felt had been cold. then he sees the familiar mop of shiny brown hair splayed over the crisp fabric of his hospital gown and does what he always does, automatically, when jihoon is this close.
he raises an arm with a soft smile that is only briefly interrupted by the confused frowning at the tube inserted into and taped securely to the inside of his elbow, then rests his hand in jihoonâs hair, fingers disappearing to brush comfortingly against his scalp.
jihoon tries to compartmentalize. he tries to lock his feelings for spencer away in a dark corner of his mind, pushing them even further back than heâs tried to in the past weeks, changing the dial of his thoughts to survival. his mind filters through everything he knows about gunshot wounds and first aid and he is prepared for this. he knows several possible outcomes of this, and doesnât let himself consider the ones that end in death, only considers how to avoid it. pressure on both entrance and exist wound, make sure the victim doesnât succumb to hypothermia, cpr if the victim stops breathing. the victim, the victim, not spencer. he pretends itâs just someone else whose impending death he could try to prevent without the panic. not spencer. of all people, why did it have to be spencer?
hey you. choked back tears return to his eyes, and he shakes his head, like thatâll clear them, like no, please donâtâ like he doesnât deserve the fondness like nothing has changed when he ruined so much. spencer is so full of life and love even now, and jihoon is so keenly aware of it slipping through his fingers, like sand in an hour glass he wants to turns over again and again, like he can cheat the system of it ever running out. itâs agonizing: spencer still looking at him with that enduring affection, jihoonâs hands pressed so tightly against the gunshot wound in his side, spencerâs blood on his hands. jihoon canât even speak. he canât even say hey or youâre an idiot or tell spencer what to do to keep himself alive; all it takes is a single hey you and jihoon sobs, silently, only the smallest whine deep in his throat. he squeezes his eyes shut, willing the tears away, because if heâs going to help spencer survive, he needs a clear head, and spencer needs to survive. jihoon needs him alive. jihoon needs him.
spencerâs hand on his wrist keeps him rooted. itâs a reminder that spencer is still here with him, still hanging on to life. âsorry,â he whispers as he keep his firm grip on the tablecloth pressed over spencerâs wound, when he sees the pain on his face, but jihoon isnât that sorry. heâs sorry it hurts, but not sorry for doing it, if itâs to keep him alive. itâs uncharacteristic of jihoon to apologize for causing spencer pain at all, after all of the damage heâs done, so much of it intentional, so maybe the apology runs deeper than that. the realization of how much he has to apologize to spencer for sinks him like a stone, weight so heavy, but he tries to stave that off too. he can apologize later. later.
jihoonâs fragments of fragile composure shatter when spencerâs grip on him loosensâ when that hand falls limp. this is something that happens right before someone dies. jihoon is so determined. this happened at the crowâs nest, under jihoonâs jurisdiction, and if it wasnât that, it was because jihoon broke his heart, and spencer was outside to get away from him. thereâs so much he would never be able to forgive himself for. he doesnât want to consider the possibility of losing him.
he feels all of spencerâs smiles in his chest, like reverse butterflies, like heartburn, like each one could be the last he ever sees and he is in love with him. we shouldâve gone to disneyland. it sounds so final, like spencer has given up and accepted a fate jihoon refuses to. âspencer,â he says, firm, forcing the fear out of his voice. âif you survive this, iâll go anywhere you want with you.â he wants to go to disneyland. he wants to go there and every mundane place on the planet with him. he wants to follow spencer to the end of this earth, into every possible world, everywhere they do and donât belong. âi want to.â
if you survive this, iâll go anywhere you want with you.
iâm never going to love you.
i want to.
tw: blood, references to death & funerals
in spite of everything, spencer believes him. in seconds that tick by with a stifling finality, all he wants to do is believe him. so he does, because even as his heart rushes to pump blood toward leaking organs it reaches out with invisible glowing tendrils to tether him to jihoon even now. the restaurant still rings with screams and shouts and excitable chatter, and his fingers are sticky where his blood has started to dry in the spaces between them. he sucks in a breath through a chattering jaw, another wave of distinctive burning before he softens it with another smile, hand weakly searching for jihoonâs.
âyou promise?â
donât leave me, say his fingertips when they find the skin of jihoonâs hand, weak, but determined. donât leave. reminiscent of the times heâs fallen asleep in the same arms holding him now, limbs tangled, skin warm, sky dark, knowing the other side of the bed would be stale and cold by the time the sun rose. donât leave. donât leave until i fall asleep.
but his smile is intact, regardless of heart-aching memories, or of the sudden realization that he is terrified of dying alone.
he stares up at jihoon, mapping the familiar planes of his face through the cracks in his mask, in case, just in case, itâs the last thing he ever sees, just in case thereâs no more of jihoonâs face wherever he ends up next, dead or alive.Â
itâs the nauseating turn of his stomach that tells him he is nowhere near ready to die. and heâs so cold.
âyou gotta call your shady friend to c-clean-â he pauses, clenches his jaw against determined shivers, smiles, still he smiles, humor where there should be none, âclean this up.â
itâs a reference to a more pleasant memory, if it can be called that, if a memory of blood and gunpowder can come circle and somehow feel warm and fuzzy. at least itâs warm. maybe this is the darkness behind jihoonâs eyes come to life in a very real, very tangible form. maybe some of his life force will seep out of him and through the palm of jihoonâs hand, maybe this was written in the cards the moment they kissed against a table only inches away from where he lies now.
as if heâs traveled in time, he imagines his parentsâ reactions to his fate, plays out in rapid-fire imagery his arrival home in a refrigerated box, still so unbearably cold. itâs too easy to picture his mother wailing inconsolably over his corpse, never stopping, not even after theyâve buried the box in the cold ground, thousands of miles away from the island (the person) that sucked out his soul. as if it can hear his thoughts, his wound pings again, dull razors, hungry flames.Â
âyâknow-â he manages, through gritted teeth, locking onto jihoonâs gaze with his own, stubborn and tenacious, as if fighting off the pain long enough to get a full sentence out, smile weakened now, but no less persistent, âi kinda love you.â
then he releases the pained gasp, lets his jaw rest, settles back into the embrace as the pain seems to set in a little more permanently, shuts his eyes against this new wave and feels something warm and wet fall from them, just a drop or two, prompted, mostly, by the searing in his side. then he realizes what heâs said, in the face of the one who broke his heart on purpose, thinks it cruel to chain jihoon to that when he himself may soon be at the bottom of a cold and crushing ocean, âiâm sorry.â
with no birthday boy, thereâs no party, so he only lingers for a moment before making his way back to the bar again. heâs preocccupied, howeverâ painfully aware of the way time ticks on with spencer outside. heâs already leaving the bar to check on him when he hears the gunshots, and people run in from the street, but jihoon doesnât care. he should play the proper manager, welcoming and reassuring, spectacular customer service, but all he does is push through them, because he doesnât see the only face he wants to. when he sees him, itâs mixed with the red of jihoonâs worldâ everything he ever wanted to protect him from.
jihoon is there, arms open just in time for spencer to slump into them, and jihoon holds him impossibly tight, the inconvenient shake of his hands returning to match the panic in his chest, and he has never been so afraid. âspencer,â and his voice trembles, no evidence of the firm, grounded jihoon heâs supposed to be. âspencer,â higher in pitch and volume, all overwhelming, useless terror. he grabs spencerâs hand and presses it to his side, hoping, in all of his weakness, that heâll understand to keep it there. âspencer,â and this time itâs with more certainty. listen to me. i need you to listen to me. i need you. âokay,â he breathes, and itâs like a decision; adrenaline kicks in, and he suppresses all of his irrational emotionsâ doesnât even notice the tears in his eyes as he drops to the floor with spencer.
he yells for someone to call for an ambulance, hand still pressed to spencerâs over his wound. âkeep your hand on that,â he tells him, and he rises, just for a moment, to pull the closest table cloth off the table, all survival instincts and utter refusal to let spencer die. he has to survive. he has to. he has to.
he kneels back down, pulls spencer into his lap, and presses the tablecloth where spencer bleeds, unyielding, uncaring of how much it might hurt in favor of spencerâs best chances of staying in alive. âspencer, listen to me. look at me,â and itâs now, with nothing else he can do but wait as he already feels the blood soaking through to his hands, that the panic returns. âiâm not going to let you die,â he says, and itâs supposed to be inarguable fact. itâs supposed to be reassuring, but it lacks the needed bite of certainty. âiâm not going to let you die,â he repeats. he grits his teeth; his vision blurs, but with conviction: âiâm not.â he canât.Â
he doesnât want to live in a world without spencerâ light or dark, night or day, ice or fire. it takes now, as he shifts, pressing a new part of the tablecloth to his side, delight itself dimming in his hands, that jihoon truly realizes it.
tw: blood, trauma, gun violence, gunshot wound
he doesnât know how long heâs out. there is no concept of time in the limbo he hangs in, where his ears ring and his pulse beats like a time bomb, ominous and imminent, a promising countdown. when he blinks reality back into place, stars clearing to make way for chaos through heavy eyelids, he is vaguely aware of someone calling his name, of the prickling burn under his skin, of the sounds of frantic chaos, of cold. itâs the cold that surprises him, because the pain in his side (oh, pain), is so searing hot, but his bones feel like ice, winter clinging to them with invisible tendrils as his bodyâs natural warmth seeps out of him through its newly-formed fire exit. the hand on his is warm, and he decides, in the fog of his brain, that he definitely prefers warm.Â
he hears his name again, the voice ringing bells in his mind, conscious memories pulling him back toward alertness, prompting a sudden inventory of reality: thatâs right, heâs been shot, he is not dreaming, itâs his birthday, heâs bleeding, it hurts, jihoonâs here. keep your hand on that. happy birthday. i need some air. jihoonâs here. spencer, listen to me. look at me. itâs this part of reality that feels unreal, and he glances up to make sure, peering through the black threatening the edges of his vision again, jihoon peeking through it, keeping it at bay, as if thereâs a halo around his head that isnât just the crowâs nestâs inviting uplighting.
spencer groans then, face contorting just barely, the pressure on his wound suddenly very vivid and tangible and burning. iâm not going to let you die. his own hand, still painted with his own blood, scrambles for purchase, as if to brace himself against the pain, curls around the wrist pressing a wad of fabric against him. iâm not going to let you die. it doesnât go away, doesnât dim or numb, but he is more prepared for it now that he has experienced the first wave, finds a moment or two to catch his breath, his features smoothing, his muscles relaxing. he is awake for now, and manages a weak smile for jihoon, able to find comfort in the familiarity of the arms around him and the floor underneath him.
âhey you,â he greets, somehow still fondly, as if they'd just run into each other in a back room somewhere, unfazed by the past weeks of heartache.
he grits his teeth again, another wave of pain crossing his features, his frame curling helplessly against jihoonâs. his eyelids are heavy, skin pale and cool, somehow shining with sweat, even as his jaw and his limbs begin to tremble from the cold he brought inside with him.Â
he isnât used to feeling weak or helpless, isnât equipped to cope with losing to and icy breath on his neck. but even the brightest stars eventually succumb to the unforgiving cold of the universe.
his grip on jihoonâs wrist loosens, smile returning, but this time with a light chuckle and a tinge of melancholy behind it, âwe shouldâve gone to disneyland.â
