Chapter Text
How sweet. That rain. How something that lives only to fall can be nothing but sweet. Water whittled down to intention. Intention into nourishment. Everyone can forget us— as long as you remember.
— Night Sky with Exit Wounds, by Ocean Vuong.
STAGE 1: IF I'M BEING HONEST
"He's just a boy," His mother had said between sobs, held up by her sister's arms. Jeongin could hear her even from his spot in the treehouse, out of sight but within earshot of the conversation,"Why does this have to happen to my little boy?"
The red number two hovering over Ruffus, their dog, had merely been a curious finding at first. He'd crouched near the puppy and tentatively stretched a hand to touch it, staring as it turned into mist of the same color as soon as Jeongin made contact. Ruffus, asleep, had huffed a breath that whistled out his nose with the effort, pawing at the air like he was trying to push something— or someone— away.
When he'd asked his mother about it, she had almost dropped the mug she was holding.
"When time thinks it's right, we all receive a gift," His mother had explained, her knees bent and touching the floor so she could be eye to eye with him, "It lasts a lifetime. The number you saw… it's counting down to something. To your gift," She'd smiled, cradling Jeongin's cheek in her hand, "We'll have to wait and see what it is, baby. Okay?"
"Okay," Jeongin had parroted, nodding his head.
Two days later, Ruffus was dead.
.
Jeongin had first encountered Death when he was seven. Back then, he had been too young to comprehend that it was never going to leave his side.
.
For years, his mother apologized exhaustively.
"I called it a gift," She'd say, "I made you think this was… that you deserved this."
"You didn't know," Jeongin would say, trying to avoid the number over his mother's head. He'd seen it before, of course— inevitably. The red had felt like fire against his skin; a branding iron engraving the digits in his brain. His mother was going to die, and Jeongin knew exactly when, "You had no way of knowing."
"If I could take it away from you, I would. If we could exchange, I'd do it in a heartbeat."
Although he doesn't want to, he always ends up picturing it. Jeongin imagines that his countdown means something else entirely— something far from the truth: the next time a person will visit a friend, the next time they'll watch a movie. Sometimes it is funny: the next time a person will draw a penis on a piece of paper, or the next time someone will run out of shampoo in the middle of a shower.
He never allows himself to think about having his mother's gift, because even that means that, as he envisions the parallel reality, for the briefest of moments she's experiencing his.
"You know I wouldn't let you."
.
Jeongin never knew what to reply when people asked. And when he did, they all took a step back. Oh, their faces spoke, through wide eyes and parted lips that pushed out a gasp, Death. Perhaps what hurt the most was being aware of how they viewed him: as the person holding the gun— worse, the loaded weapon itself. They acted as if Jeongin's presence would somehow trigger the end of their lives; Jeongin's hands the ones to carry their souls out of their bodies.
He was just a kid when grown people would already cower at the sight of him, only ducking their heads in embarrassment once Jeongin's mom would glare as mother's do, daring the others to move a finger so she could pounce in his defense. Kids rarely understood what death meant— for a while, Jeongin didn't get it, either— but parents did, and they would step in front of their children telling them not to look at him when he walked past.
Jeongin used to think he was Death.
"If you were Death, you'd wear a black cloak," Changbin, the youngest son of the new family that had moved in front, had argued when Jeongin had tried to warn him during their first meeting. I'm dangerous. I'm Death, "And you'd carry a tall axe with you. And you'd be a skeleton. Have you never seen Billy and Mandy?"
"People are scared of me."
"But you're so cute!" Changbin had cooed, pinching Jeongin's cheek annoyingly and leaving a small red splotch behind on his skin, "I could never be scared of you."
Jeongin made a real friend— his first since he'd gotten his numbers— when he was ten. When he told his mom, she cried.
"He says he isn't scared of me," He said, pushing rice around in his bowl, "Even if I'm Death."
"You're not," His mother had told him, quickly drying her tears as her face gave way to a frown, "You're far from something so grim. Jeongin, when you smile, you eclipse the sun. Death could never be so bright."
.
In a tent under his sheets, a flashlight held between his knees, Jeongin pressed numbers into the calculator he'd stolen from his mother's office. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth before pressing equal, heartbeat threatening to turn him into a human set of drums.
The result made him slump back onto the mattress with a sigh of relief.
Changbin was going to live until he was 87.
.
"What does your countdown mean?" Jeongin asked Changbin one day, as they sat on the curb of the street and threw pebbles down the road.
"It's the next time a person will make a new buddy," Changbin replied, throwing his arm back and quickly forward, the small rock flying in a curve until it bounced repeatedly against the concrete, "I knew we were going to be friends when I noticed your number going down the more we talked."
It makes perfect sense, Jeongin thinks, that the first person to treat him like a human would have a gift as sweet. It wouldn't surprise him if everyone's numbers started changing as soon as Changbin walked into a room, always willing to meet people far and beyond the first awkward hellos.
It suits him. It's undeniably his.
People say gifts are supposed to be that way.
What does that make him?
.
Deep down, Jeongin still thinks he might be Death.
.
His mother's numbers signal the next time a person will plant a seed.
Jeongin wets the soil with warm water as she brings out the containers, which they soon fill up accordingly. His mother's fingers tint a brownish color as she digs them into the moist soil, preparing it for the seeds Jeongin hugs close to his chest. He feels unworthy of participating in an act supposed to start a life when he's most acquainted with the end of it, but he keeps it to himself. His mother hates it when he talks like that.
"Put them in their new home," She says, "Then we can find them a place inside."
Jeongin dumps a bunch of them into the small hole, stopping only when his mother lifts a hand. Together, they cover the seeds up and pat the soil encouragingly. Grow well, she chirps. Live long, he mumbles under his breath.
His mother carries the container with her into the house, going for the stairs like there's not a doubt in her steps. A place inside turns out to be Jeongin's own room, at the edge of his windowsill where the sun rays bathe the area in warmth. The soil shines under the bright light, somehow already looking lively— as if beneath it the seeds have already taken their first breath.
"This one is yours," She announces, "You'll take care of it. Of course, if you need help, you can ask me. But I think you'll do a wonderful job."
"Okay," Jeongin nods, sealing an unspoken promise. I will try my best.
.
Changbin said I'd make a new friend today.
Is it him? Ah, he didn't even look at me.
I wish Changbin hadn't told me.
Her? Oh. She was waving at someone else.
I'm not used to this.
What about—?
He crashes into another body, falling backwards and on his butt. Jeongin deems it as an accidental push, his fault for not looking where he was going, and figures that the person hasn't even thought about staying back for him— which is why he's surprised to see not two, but four hands helping him pick up his stuff.
"Sorry," A voice says, the one that belongs to the paler, veiny arms, "Minho wasn't paying attention."
"Yeah, I'm sorry, it's totally on me," Minho speaks up. He's mixing Jeongin's math notes with his history ones, and it will be a pain to organize them again later. Jeongin appreciates the help, still.
"It's okay. Don't worry," Jeongin assures them, smiling kindly. He lifts his head up a little, only managing to catch a glimpse of their mirroring expressions before the red, a piercing reminder, peeks from a corner. Jeongin abruptly casts his gaze back down.
Both guys offer him a stack of papers when he stands up, and he takes them from them with a thank you, finding interest in a stain on his shoe to avoid looking them in the eyes. They don't leave, however, choosing to linger for a moment longer.
"You okay?" The first voice asks curiously.
"Yes, I'm fine," Jeongin replies, rushedly so as to make them walk away quicker. They're nice for helping, and Jeongin hates to seem ungrateful, but he doesn't want to see it. The numbers. Ignoring them is easier in a crowd, and the saying couldn't be more wrong— three is not a crowd.
The second boy, Minho, bends down slightly to try and catch his eyes. Jeongin clips his eyelids shut.
"Why won't you look at us? I don't think I'm that ugly. Chan, on the other hand…"
"Shut up," Chan says, though it lacks any real bite. It's monotonous— it sounds like a phrase he utters often around his friend, so much so that it has lost its meaning. After a brief moment of silence, he asks, "Is it... because of your countdown?"
Jeongin nods, slowly, "It's not good."
He expects them to ask. After all, in the reality they live in, it's the most common introductory question after what's your name. It never comes— neither the inquiry nor the dreadful feeling that usually courses through him before answering. Instead, he hears:
"What if I do this?"
"Oh, right. Yeah. Can you see it now?"
Cautiously, he blinks his eyes open.
Chan and Minho are shaking their hands over their heads, wide eyes expecting Jeongin's reply. The movement is fast enough to prevent the mist from gathering together into something intelligible, miniscule specks of red left floating into the air stubbornly instead. Jeongin's lips part slightly in surprise.
"Shit. Is it not working?" Minho says, eyebrows knitting together in worry.
"It is!" Jeongin finally finds his voice, "I can't see them."
"Great," Chan smiles, "I'm Chan. What's your name?"
"Jeongin," His heart is beating fast, though this time not out of fear. As the shock subsides, he lets a chuckle escape his lips, "You guys look funny like this."
"Brat," Minho squints playfully.
Changbin said I'd make a new friend today.
Turns out they were two.
.
When he turns 16, there are five people at his birthday party.
Still, his mother has cooked enough food to feed a small army. Four teenage boys might not be similar to one in quantity, but their stomachs growl loud enough to make it seem like there's at least a dozen people in the room nonetheless. When Jeongin's mom lowers two plates of cookies in front of them, they jump like hyenas to a bone.
"You'll choke in five seconds," Minho warns Changbin, who snaps his head up, startled, and promptly begins coughing up a chocolate chip that had gone down the wrong pipe. Minho shrugs, "Told ya."
"You didn't think about telling me sooner?" Changbin groans, hitting his chest with a closed fist and blinking away the initial shock.
"No. Why would I? You would've choked anyway," Minho leans back against the couch, throwing an arm over Jeongin's shoulders, "Plus, it's funnier this way. Isn't it, birthday boy?"
Jeongin laughs around a mouthful of cookies, "Yeah, it is."
Changbin looks baffled beyond belief. He turns to face Chan, who has chosen to stay out of the conversation until now, "Can you tell Minho to stop stealing my best friend from me?"
"How about we're all friends?" Chan suggests, amused by the interaction.
"I'm not stealing him," Minho rolls his eyes, "We're bonding."
"Over how funny my possible death by chocolate chip was?"
Jeongin's eyes snap up immediately, for once seeking the hideous red color over Changbin's head. He knows Minho can feel his suddenly tense muscles where they touch, but he doesn't even think about masking his full-bodied reaction as his pupils scan the number over and over. It hasn't changed, still the one Jeongin remembers, and only once he's sure about it does he release the air in his lungs.
It's hard. Even with strangers he shouldn't care about, knowing the most harrowing when while they're blissfully unaware makes Jeongin's stomach churn painfully. He's gotten better at ignoring them, at forcing a different thought into his brain immediately after. With every-day people on the streets, it usually works, but with friends… With his mom…
The hardest part is watching them decrease one by one, a front row seat to the inevitable end he wishes he could forget, in a lonely room that only fits him. Sometimes days can go by without Jeongin thinking about it, and it feels like a nice all-inclusive cruise away from the usual turmoil. In the end, however, it sails in a circle, and Jeongin consistently finds himself where he'd started.
"I'm fine, Innie," Changbin says, the calm in his eyes spilling out in waves that reach Jeongin's feet and seep the same sense of serenity into his body, "It'll take more than that to take me out."
.
Despite the bad moments— and as cheesy as it may sound— laughter outweighs it all.
By the time they're all settled in Jeongin's small room, fighting over pillows and blankets and who gets to share the bed with him, the knot in his stomach has untied swiftly, like it hadn't been there to begin with. He smiles absentmindedly at the chaotic noises in the background as he picks up the watering can by his nightstand and walks over to his windowsill.
The smallest of sprouts peeks from underneath the soil, but it is also the greenest. Jeongin lets it rain above it, water droplets clinging to the beginning of what wants to be a leaf, and then wets the pad of his index finger when he caresses it tenderly. It's a reminder that life blooms inside his room as it does everywhere else irrevocably, and that Death only seems bigger because it's surrounded by darkness. It's smaller than the sprout, he tells himself, smaller than his nail, and definitely not as huge as Minho's shriek when Chan tickles him under his arms.
Jeongin pivots, kicking his slippers off his feet before jumping onto his mattress with a happy yahoo, dissolving into a fit of giggles when Chan bounces once and promptly rolls onto the floor.
"Do it again! Do it again!" Changbin chants, ducking when Chan aims a pillow at his head.
Tomorrow, the sprout will wake to the sun.
Tomorrow, Jeongin will wake to his friends by his side.
(Same thing.)