Donghae. Autumn.
“Happy birthday, son.”
Damp skin against the chilled ground. Donghae watched the sky move past him, felt the leaves rustle their way around him impatiently. He was just an empty shape, a brittle shell pressed dry and thin, like he lived between the pages of a book.
The card had been tucked away in his old journal, resting against October 15th. Really, it was more of a planner, and since Donghae never planned much, the pages were still crisp and clean, slicing against his fingertips when he dared to disturb them. But Appa used to plan. He used to bury Donghae with letters, filled to the brim with soft curls and slim loops that detailed their time together, both past and future.
“Donghae, I took eomma into town today to buy a new dress for the next time you come home. We can’t have a rising star return to Mokpo and be ashamed of his parents!”
“I want you to forgot about what the doctors told you, Hae. How can you enjoy your time with me when you’re always worrying? I’m your father. Let me do the worrying for you.”
“I know that your mother is right – your friends probably think it’s silly, still getting letters. I know that you all have handphones now, just like you’re already adults. But I like having something to hold onto, don’t you?”
As if he had ever been ashamed of his parents. Donghae tried to recall the feeling from every teen movie and shared story – what does it feel like, to be embarrassed? To have a sea of red rise up inside you and burn at your cheeks? He couldn’t say. He’d never known. Anything that rose up inside him stopped at the lump in his throat and curled in on itself, washed down into the pit of his stomach, and then there was nothing left to do but cry.
He let gravity weigh down the tides brimming against his lashes, eyes wide open until they stung and spilled over.
Blink.
Appa, slicing fish while his mother stirred at something bubbling on the stove.
Blink.
Appa, holding Hyukjae’s hand in both of his, looking towards Leeteuk with a broad smile on his face.
Blink.
Hyukjae sitting across the table from him as Appa’s voice crackled to life through his shitty new cell phone, a little fragmented, a little disoriented, but warmer than ever. Hyukjae’s fingers peeling his fruit, lips pursed in concentration as Donghae strained to hear the shapes his father’s mouth made, miles and miles away.
He had come back to ask his father for this one thing, this one indulgence. This one sin of a birthday present. All he had for every October 15th, for the rest of this life, was this little card that meant so much. But it wasn’t going to be enough.
Rolling over, he pressed his forehead to the sprouting earth and breathed out, “I don’t have to ask, do I?”
Because all you’ve ever wanted is for me to be happy.
And Appa, I think I finally know how.