Paratise

by luvrxhan

Summary:

The one who got away.

or;

Og!Cale and the ghost that won't leave him alone. But it isn't really a ghost.

i.

It hasn’t been long since he returned. Hasn’t even been 3 weeks honestly if he can remember the exact dates. It’s not like he misses them, it’s not like he remembers their faces. It’s not like they miss him either, so it doesn’t matter.  

What’s becoming longer is the headache he’s been conjuring for the last 10 minutes. It’s starting to ache at his temples, rolling down into the clicking of his tongue and to eventually spit into curses. And it’s making him and the people around furious. His leg is jumpy, bopping up and down as his fingers fiddle with his loose drawstrings.  

And the people who look at him are staring at him with either unkept disgust or confused ignorance. It was clearer to say that Cale didn’t want to be here at all. But he was waiting and waiting was torturous. It’s not like he can do anything else either.  

He’s waiting for the bus.  

Yes, the great Cale has to wait for the next bus because he missed his original bus. It’s shameful, yes, but what can he say?  

Still, he doesn’t say much. Maybe if the music were louder, he wouldn’t have to deal with so many heaving breaths. Maybe he’d forget about the blinding sun or the sweaty bodies touching his shoulders or maybe he’ll just forget to live afterall.  

And maybe he’ll forget his frustration because he was running late. It was his turn to open the store and he was already on a tight schedule with the shipments that were supposed to be coming in. His manager’s going to be pissed again.  

Though, a cooling wind passes by, gently lifting his vermillion locks for a moment.  

Oh yeah, he should properly tie his hair up. He’s been getting lazy, and his hair has been a defiant for years. It’s past his shoulders, just barely but it’s starting to annoy him. Maybe he should try growing it out but it’s too hot for this.  

He feels like it’ll just annoy him even further.  

Faintly in the distance, he can see a bus with his number on it. Mentally thanking his patience and not just ubering home, Cale gestures for the bus as he stands. There’s an elderly lady in front of him, he’s half tempted to jump in front of her but he doesn’t.  

He’s not that much of a bastard, though he likes to believe he is. That’s just how he’s going to live his life, under the misconception that he’s more terrible than the average bastard.  

He sighs a breath of relief, airing his shirt as the air con hits. It feels better than being out with the blazing sun. It’s too bright to look at.  

However, just before his bus rides away, someone waves in his direction from his peripheral. Thinking that it was for someone else, he decides to ignore it though. In his head, he almost makes it because the figure looks too familiar, but of course, why would he be here?  

So he doesn’t dwell on it for too long.  

He opens his bag, scurrying the bottom for his headphones.  

‘Shit, did I lose it again?’, is what he thinks before he latches onto a white wire that leads to his headphones. Breathing a sigh of relief, he leans against the side of the bus, eyes beginning to unfocused. Like it wasn’t hard not to, especially when his days were this slow.   

He starts to dream, imagine a world forgotten: where the daises are dyed red, where smoke is everything his lungs know and there isn’t a sun bright enough to wipe the remnants of yesterday away. He imagines a world he swore to forgot but could never bring himself to rid.  

A life where he swore to love them forever, Cale couldn’t just coldly forget them like how he forgot everything else. But he also had his memory to blame. Just as much as his brain remembered, his body remembered it as well. No matter the rehab or efforts, his body wouldn’t forget the violent creature he forced himself to become. 

Thus, the person he was now. And it wasn’t easy to accept his new life, but we don’t talk about that.  

The bus ride is calmer, quieter now that people are getting off. His stop isn’t for a while. Now he’s just blabbering on without his actual meaning, he’s simply avoiding the topic because he doesn’t want to talk about it.  

Minutes past, memories of being stabbed, reminders of a fire that never lit. He sees blurry faces, hears distant voices and tones of the dead that haunt him. Speaking of the dead, Cale thinks he’s being haunted as of recently.  

Well, not recently. But recently enough that he’s started to notice. It started small, from the little things like a figure in his peripheral. It was harmless and quite normal. There were countless people in this world so it wouldn’t hurt to admit that he thought he saw someone looking at him. He was used to it of course, but the haunting wasn’t.  

A broken mug that was miraculously fixed the next day, his broken umbrella replaced with a name tag hanging on the handle, fresh fruit left by his door the following week. He’d honestly thought he had a secret admirer; who wouldn’t want to admire him? But he never saw the person leaving and doing all of this for him.  

Every camera he set up was slashed but then replaced the following day, every letter he left behind was either read or simply disappeared, every word he tried to say was silenced. It was as if the secret admirer didn’t want to be found out and Cale could respect that honestly.  

As the bus hums along, the world outside distorts into streaks of colour. He’s almost asleep when a weight settles beside him – a presence eerily familiar yet foreign. He doesn’t look up at first, convinced it’s another ghost of memory. But then a voice, low and unmistakable, murmurs his name.  

“Cale”  

He freezes, heart thudding. The buss is too cold, too bright, too real for ghost. Slowly, he turns his head, and the world is clear.  

There’s nothing there. No one there.  

He’s fucking hallucinating, isn’t he?  

He sighs a heavy breath, too tired for any of this shit.  

And when he’s home, he ignores the basket of fresh nectarines by his doorstep.  

ii.

The nectarines are sweet though, he’s not sure if the sender is. Honestly, it doesn’t bother him that much. What’s bothering him lately is the lack of air conditioning.  

You’d think that during the summer, the heat would be relieved with cool and fresh air, licking ice cream on the side of the road under palm trees. But no, the fucking air con is broken again for the 5 th time this month. The café itself is warm, but with no air con, it’s bloody hot in here.  

Even opening the doors and windows doesn’t make a difference. There’s no wind to save him this time.  

After finishing the last order, he wipes a trickle of sweat away from his temples. He’s tempted to buy a fan, however, he thinks his wallet will scream at him. He’s not so sure what to do.  

While he weighs his options – death by heat stroke or financial difficulty which could also lead to starvations because he doesn’t have enough money – the bell above the door rings.  

“Ah- Hello”, he replies dryly, his throat acting up on him as he swallows. He attempts to smile but he can’t really tell if it’s a smile or not.  

The light’s in his eyes and he squints to see the figure, however, something else catches his attention.  

The silhouette, posture, hell even the way their hair moves is all too familiar. Briefly, his eyes trick him and his heart drops, like a rock thrown into a calm lake.  

Shocking, loud and finally disturbing.  

He’s temporarily reminded of something – someone. And it scares him dearly.  

“Hey, are you guys open?”, the customer says. Now that they come in view, Cale can see that he was gravely mistaken. They’re nothing like him, what was he thinking? 

“Yes, it’s just that the air con isn’t fucking working”, he sighs heavily, wiping his forehead with a nearby towel.  

The customer sends him a sympathetic smile and he brushes it off.  

The day goes like that.  

People come in, people don’t. Sometimes they change their mind half way through their order and Cale’s half tempted to kick all of them out because he knows that his manager wouldn’t mind it either way. No business is still business. 

“Cale, it’s your turn to take a break”, his coworker says. He nods towards her direction, leaving without a word upstairs.  

Surprisingly, there’s air conditioning up here rather than down there. Privileges, he guesses. There’s nothing wrong with that, he ought to deserve this with the number of shitty customers that come through on the daily,  

However, someone whispers his name, echoing through the stairway. Of course, though – even if he’d recognize that voice anywhere – he ignored it. This was his rest time, not some memory lane. 

“Cale” 

Nope.  

“Cale” 

Get out 

“Cale” 

Shut the fuck up.  

“Cale” 

“What the fuck do you want”, he abruptly turns around, shouting at the person— 

Person? There’s no one there.  

What? The stairway behind him is empty, nothing but his own steps shadowing pervious steps. His own voice echoes through the hallway, a reminder that he came up alone.  

What the fuck.  

Though he should be disturbed – don’t worry he is – he simply scoffs and walks away.  

Why, you ask?  

Because Cale’s a fucking expert now.  

Shortly after he came back, Cale had been hearing, seeing, touching things that didn’t seem to completely be there. Be it his imagination or the memories of his past haunting him, it happened so often, Cale just couldn’t help but scoff at his own stupidity. Because who’d want to remember him.  

So fucking stupid.  

He ignores the pang in his chest, mistaking it as temporary fear as he opens the door to the aircon room. The cool air hits his face full on at first but it eventually cools into tangible breaths where Cale isn’t struggling to breathe.  

 

iii.  

Valentines day is just around the corner and vile couples flood the streets. There isn’t one alleyway he can hide in that will shield him from the public PDA. Sometimes, he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole until he forgot where he was.  

Because, he didn’t have a day called ‘valentines’ over there. There was no such celebration where they celebrated a day of being together. However to him – had it been a celebration in his world – he wouldn’t have celebrated it anyway.  

Not because he didn’t want to – well that was part of it too – he just didn’t think anyone would want to celebrate it with him. And that was okay, he didn’t need to honour such a useless day. He didn’t mind being alone too.  

So, where is he, you ask?  

He’s being a little kid. He’s hiding away from everyone else.  

He’s on the top of a hill, somewhere where he’s sure no one else knows, swinging for dear life.  

Using his frustration as kinetic energy, he propels forward onb the swingset, reaching a height he wishes would bring him relief. But from this height, he can see more couples clearer, the quantity of them making his eyes hurt with unrestrained anger.  

He doesn’t know why he’s so angry, maybe he was born to be angry. That would be a good reason to be. The wind is cool, brushing his vermillion strands back against his face. He grunts out a sigh, closing his eyes momentarily.  

Would this day hurry up and go faster?  

“And in place of us, you seek happiness”  

Oh shut up. He doesn’t need to believe that bullshit. He’s here for him, not to live on the wishes that were placed upon him. He doesn’t need to follow his words.  

“Of course though, you live your life the way you want to live it”  

Of course he will, you dumbass. He’s not an idiot. 

A smile blooms on his face, something eerily similar to a teasing smirk before he yells out, “Hah, of course I’m better here. I didn’t need your pity—” 

“Of course you don’t”, someone calls out from behind him. It shocks him to his core, losing his balance momentarily because his head turns around hurriedly, looking for that voice.  

The swing slows and so does his breathing. Like a memory uncovering.  

“Don’t do this to me now. Stop fucking with me!”, he blames the voice. That damned voice always managing to find him, “Fucking show yourself, ___” 

And he can’t even say the fucking name. What childish.  

“You can’t keep hiding—” and the words get stuck on his tongue, becoming a blood clot in his stream.  

“Where are you going…”, his voice softens, his angry demeanour losing it’s sense. He swallows dryly,  the swing losing it’s power as his feet returns to the soil underneath. His soles will get dirty and he will swallow the crumbs of his lies.  

For a brief moment, he wonders how weak he looks right now. Alone, isolated and speaking to himself like a crazy bastard, doesn’t he look like the most pathetic loser you’ve ever seen?  

“Indeed, you are the most pathetic loser I’ve met. However—”  

Fuck. Even remembering his words right now makes him want to see that bastard. That inconsiderate, annoying, worthless bastard.  

the wind passes by, riling his hair up, exposing his forehead. He should be annoyed, angry at the wind for messing his perfectly styled hair apart, but he isn’t. He’s too focused on the bastard that keeps haunting him, and for fuck’s sake, he just wants out.  

He just wants to go a week without hearing that stupid voice. Can’t a man get some piece?  

His eyes drop to the ground where his clean shoes meet the grovelling floor. For a second, a pair of black boots sit next to his and a teasing voice comes, “Are you lonely”  

“I’m not fucking lonely” 

But the pair of black boots were never there in the first place because it was a mere figment of his imagination.   

“Hah”, he scoffs to himself. How could he be thinking such a thing. That bastard would never say anything like that either way. The voice is totally different too, it’s higher than what it actually is. This imagination of his, doesn’t look like the real thing.  

But then his thoughts reel him in and he immediately stands up, kicking the dirt as if imaging he was kicking someone’s shin. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, but even that seems impossible because his body refuses to listen to him sometimes; this is just one instance.  

Subconsciously, his eyebrow scrunch and frown. For a second, he contemplates his own craziness.  

The voice, the boots, the gits, everything really. Surely, he wasn’t hallucinating him. There’s no world where he would willingly dream and see him out of all people.  

Surely.  

However, when he turns around to begin the walk back home through the streets of overdone PDA, what shocks his eyes is 

A bouquet of red carnations.  

Oh hell fucking no.  

It’s funny how it matches the shade of his vermillion hair, burning like ulcers in his mouth. Does that bastard even know what red carnations mean? 

He swallows the odd-looking lump in his throat, picking the bouquet with a hand. For a second he contemplates smelling them to see if it’s been poisoned, but he already knows it is.  

Lately, his body hasn’t been following his commands, doing something completely different. For example, Cale wants to walk away, throw the bouquet upon the ground and forget this ever happened, but he clutches the bouquet tighter, stomping away before whispering a quiet, “thank you” 

That fucking bastard doesn’t know when to leave him alone.  

Unbeknownst to him, a figure in the dark was smirking, a hand covering his smile. The sound of his scoff goes unnoticed no matter the affection it holds.  

iv.

The first letter he received was adorned in black roses, somewhere along the lines of death and apology. It scared the 8-year-old boy to his bones, sweating like he’d been running all his life. And similarly, enough, his mailbox carries something similar. 

It speaks the same dread, running a chill down his spine. In the crest of his mind, he already knows what this is, but his heart would like to believe otherwise – with whatever heart he had left. However, the letter is not adorned with black roses nor the smell of the dead.  

Handwritten with God awful writing, sandalwood painting the edges and petals of a red flower in the envelope. Either, whoever wrote this wanted his eyes to bleed from the writing and tried to make it up by stuffing flowers in hopes to make him feel better or, this was a love letter written by the devil.  

Because whose writing on earth is this horrible?  

He’s half tempted to throw the letter away, but he’s not that much of a bastard. He’ll at least hear them out. And funny enough, there was only a single line on the letter. It didn’t even fill the whole page, it was like the writer had been writing, paused to think about his words, tried to scribble them out but ended up sending it anyway because their words couldn’t be swallowed.  

Like it had too much meaning to just throw it away. Such awful handwriting, whoever sent it was trembling as they wrote these words.  

“don’t you want to see me? I want —“ 

The last few words scribbled out past the breakage of appearance made Cale eyes hurt. He could feel a headache coming in.  

It probably said, “I want to see you”, but Cale would like to believe otherwise. For reasons he doesn’t even know himself.  

Lying on the couch, he traces the words over with a finger, feeling the pressed markings of the words like they had too much weight to be held. Whoever wrote it didn’t know how to handle their strength or they were very emotional as they were writing.  

That was something Cale could at least tell.  

The faint waft of sandalwood wafted from the paper and it made his nose scrunch. And surprisingly it wasn’t out of disgust but disbelief.  

“what a fucking idiot”, he murmured to himself, unbeknownst to the subtle smile he had on his lips.  

For hours, he looked at the letter, trying to decipher whatever the person was trying to say. He kept tracing over the words as if there was more to it than he thought there was. And then when he caught himself, he proceeded to smash his head into the wall several times to see if the craziness would disappear from his mind.  

And then more letters came the following week.  

He hadn’t forgotten about them. He had just stored them in a box somewhere forgotten so that it wouldn’t weigh on his mind. 

But then more letters started coming. Each spread out with different words with meanings he didn’t know how to decipher. But he’d slowly been learning about the individual.  

Firstly, they had too much to say with little time to spare. It was as if their hands were tied, having to use their mouth to grab the pen and write these words.  

Secondly, their words sometimes and most of the time don’t make sense without context. It was clear that the person knew Cale, but Cale didn’t know anyone who could harbor such heavy emotions. He was certain that he hadn’t left any impression on anybody and kept himself scarce of substantial emotions with people he saw.  

Thirdly, whatever impression they had of Cale is very close to the real thing. They must know Cale very, very well. He’s not sure if he was drunk and decided to pile 2 lifetimes of problems onto them or, it was someone who knew him from the other world.  

Which is very unlikely because he was the only one who came over as well as the idea that no one would want to follow him. He made sure to sever all the brides he had that still connected to that world.  

So whoever the sender was, Cale prayed it wasn’t who he thought it was.  

And then the letters went something like this:  

“Do you remember me? I hope so”  

“You should dry your hair before you sleep. You’ll catch a cold”  

“Do you like apples because they’re as red as your hair?”  

“What do you think about the flowers?”  

So, whoever it was, knew him well. They were probably the sender of the flowers too and the gifter of the basket of fruits he’d been getting for quite some time. It was possible Cale had forgotten someone, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t.  

He also noted that they were informal, so they were either very friendly, older or just knew Cale enough that he had allowed them to speak informally, or they were a bastard.  

He placed his bets on the latter.  

Though, the box of letters is getting quite full, he’ll have to buy another one.  

v.

 

His throat is dying. It’s so hot here, Cale will probably faint from heat stroke. Somehow, his fan is always broken and there’s no ac in his room, yet he refuses to sleep in the lounge.  

Sigh. He literally jumped worlds; a realm of magic and convenience into this hot, stuffy room where not even his neighbor knows his name. how pathetic.  

He sits up with a sweat soaked shirt, pulling at the sleeves before he decides to hit the shower. It’s so hot here for what?  

The steam fogs up the glass and the hot water hits his skin. Isn’t it funny how he wants the water boiling hot after sweating in his bed? Why is he like this?  

He doesn’t know but the heat is warm and comforting. It’s warmer than his bed, closer to the right temperature where his limbs loosen. It’s comfortable because where the water hits, every thought disappears from existence momentarily.  

Warm. So, very warm. Could he suffer from heat stroke if he’s here for too long? He doesn’t think he’ll mind that. Steam stems from his body, a testament that he needs to get out. But he doesn’t. he spends a few more minutes there.  

And by the time he decides to step out, his mirror is fogged to the max, leaving no room to spot his face, though his dripping vermillion hair remains dormant. If he hadn’t noticed, he would’ve slipped out of the bathroom and gone back to sleep.  

In the corner of his fog covered mirror was a small message – one that had been probably drawn from a finger – that said, 

“Don’t pass out. You’re too heavy to carry.” 

And instead of ignoring it as he usually does to these weird things, he wiped it away because a part of him knew that it wouldn’t just go away if he wiped the fog away. Because it was still there, the message remained on his  mirror regardless of the fog.  

And it pissed him off badly.  

“Shut up. I’m light as a fucking feather”, he accused right back at the mirror as if it’ll conjure another message. Of course though, it did not conjure another message for its ass.  

By the time he placed clothes on, there was another basket of fruits and a cup of orange juice on his table. He scoffed to himself, grabbing the glass of orange juice and downing it before picking a red gala and biting into it. It felt like he was doing it out of spite, to put on a show to prove that yes, he did eat them and that they didn’t go rotten or thrown into the bin.  

That fucking dumbass won’t stop giving him this shit too.  

And by the time he slips back into slumber, the figure hiding in the corner of his bedroom smirks. It walks over, kneeling over Cale’s sleepy figure and presses a half-arsed kiss to his forehead.  

Though, Cale doesn’t have to know that.  

 

vi.

his house doesn’t carry a landline. He prefers it that way because he didn’t want to receive spam callers and it was too expensive just maintaining one. Besides, no one nowadays uses them.  

That’s what he likes to argue to hide the fact that he doesn’t know how to work it. There was just too many wires and it caused him a great headache that gave him an actual splitting head.  

Still, he scrolls through his phone. Whether it be the newest newspapers or stories that he saw online, he just scrolled through them.  

Only then did he remember that he indeed did have a number and that he could call people. It was just that when he scrolled through his contacts, it was very limited to his coworkers. He hadn’t anybody that he could call for fun, someone where he could just call randomly in the middle of the night out of boredom.  

His chest swallowed his lungs, momentarily preventing his breathing. Again, he’s so lonely. It feels like nothing has changed but it has. Maybe because he refuses to feel different.  

He places his phone on the table, closing his eyes as he lied on the couch. He pushes the thought about the day away, ready to embrace the night as is but something stops him.  

Suddenly, his phone lights up, beaming on the table continuously. It creates a loud buzzing sound that brings annoyance back into his brain.  

Can’t a man get some peace and quiet in the privacy of his own apartment? 

Annoyingly, he picks his phone up from his position, slightly shuffling over before picking the phone up as he presses the screen to his ear. He drags an arm over his eyes, sighing heavily before he responds,  

“What do you want?”, he asks crudely, short and cursed.  

For a few seconds the line is silent and he uncovers his eyes to check if the person hung up but they didn’t. It’s no caller id. He thinks about hanging up but a voice stops him when he places it back against his ear tiredly.  

“You?”, the voice responds. The voice is husky, darker than the usual voices he knows, yet the playfulness it carries makes his heart lunge into a hole he filled up.  

“What?”, his voice responds before his brain, “Are you fucking crazy?” 

“For you, yes” 

“Are you being fucking for real?” 

“Is your vocabulary only limited to ‘fuck’?” 

“Hah?! Who the hell do you think you are to ask me that, fucking idiot” 

The voice over the phone chuckles – a surprisingly soft laughter – and it sets him back. Fuck.  

Fucking hell. He’s fucking hallucinating, isn’t he?  

“…What the—” 

“Cale” 

“How are you—” 

“Cale” 

“Shut the fuck up and ans—” 

“Cale” 

“Is my name the only thing you know, you fucking—” 

“You’re not lonely.” 

“Hah? Of course I’m not—” 

“Why be lonely when you have me?” 

And those words set something off in him. Like a bomb. Like a butterfly birthing itself.  

“Oh shut the fuck up. You don’t get to say that—” 

“But I still wanted to say it at least once” 

The words should melt his heart, it should bring down his walls and make a person yearn for company. But it doesn’t make Cale’s heart feel like that at all. Instead, it’s filled with anger, frustration, something like regret and the rest of is like something he couldn’t vomit out.  

Like it was something to be rejected.  

“Then why did you—” 

“Cale…”, the voice trailed off, like something caught it’s throat.  

And then the phone call ended. 

When Cale’s brain caught up, anger flooded his senses.  

“You fucking idiot! You fucking hung up on me, you stupid—“, and then he took a deep sigh. He would breathe for air but instead it felt like he was forced to swallow air from the punch he just received.  

How dare he call him?  

Cale was so filled with anger, confusion and everything in between, he had forgotten how lonely he truly was. He turned on his side, the phone sliding from his hands. Sometime after the anger, Cale realized how dimly lit his room was normally. Only then did he look at the time. It’s night time so it’s fine.  

Though, the lamp is starting to look funny.  

 

vii.

 

Cale has a hobby of reading books. All sorts of books regardless of genre. In fact, he liked books that didn’t match the normal books and stories he read. Back in his world, the books were all the same 

The same story 

The same messages 

The same voice that spoke 

It was boring to read them so when he finally got his hands on a book in this world, needless to say that he enjoyed his solitude where he delved into lives that weren’t his. They were adventurous, shy, loud and crass, loving and affection and everything from beginning to end.  

He sort of envied the characters that didn’t have his life. Characters that had similar lives to him, he always avoided those types of character stories. He didn’t want to read them. Or simpler, he didn’t want to read another version of him that had a happy ending because he never got his. But that’s depressing and stupid so he always avoids reading books with protagonists like him to avoid feeling that way.  

So he read something else. There was a book he’d been dying to read ever since he came to this world, but of course, it proved to be difficult to find.  

From memory, that bastard said it was “ The birth of a hero”  

It was such a terrible name, yet Cale wanted to read it at least once in his lifetime here on earth. It was something that had been on his mind ever since he came, yet he could never find the book nor the author, “ Nelan barrow”.  

It stunned him but it’s not like he didn’t have time. In this life of solitude, Cale probably had more time than anyone else to linger and loiter. So he didn’t bother trying to find it immediately.  

It’s about midday when Cale steps into the local library. It’s somewhat far from his apartment but he enjoys the quiet walk home when he’s blasting music through his headphones. The air was getting colder so the nights feel longer.  

The air conditioning hits his face and for once in what felt like forever, he breathed a sigh of relief. It’s getting fucking hot lately.  

The library is silence filled with paper flipping when Cale walks through the aisles. There’s so many books here, something small in his god forsaken heart cheered with ecstasy. So he grabbed the closest book in the romance section.  

Who can blame him for wanting to read something sweet?  

Was it surprising? For someone like Cale to read a book from the romance genre? Was it strange for him to be into those types of things?  

He doesn’t know because he doesn’t care. No one here knows him, no one here remembers him so he can do whatever he wants because he’ll never see these people again.  

He takes the seat in the middle, placing his bags down before he decides to start reading. He isn’t persay a fast reader, but he does like taking his time reading. The sound of flipping, steady breaths and exciting stories, Cale felt at peace here.  

And it was sort of funny to him.  

He felt most peace reading fictional stories where the protagonist were the exact opposites of him. Where they were kind hearted and helped those in need, those who obtained revenge for the sake of others and took everyone else’s burden upon themselves.  

A small part of his heart tried to remind him of a certain person that fit those descriptions – someone who’d he like to forget – but his mind told him otherwise. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten, he just chose to finally live for himself.  

Because by the time the book fell from his hands, he was fast asleep against the table.  

That to what he didn’t know.  

Could you blame him though?  

He had to be woken up by the librarians because it hit nighttime. The sun was no longer out and there were lesser people now that were starting to exit. Sleepily, he thanked the librarians and headed back home. He slowly woke himself up during the walk, the music blasting through his headphones. People who walked by him could probably hear the music, not that he cared about their opinions.  

By the time he walked through the gates of his complex, he walked past his mailbox marked 1108. Normally, there wouldn’t be anything there because it was a Sunday, however, something did catch his eye as he slid the card through the lock.  

It was another letter probably.  

How do they smell the exact same?  

Taking a deep sigh, Cale grabbed the letter and headed upstairs to his apartment. He told himself he wouldn’t open it until tomorrow, that he needed sleep and for his head to clear. But of course, his body knew him better.  

Ceremoniously, he grabbed a nearby knife and slit the envelope open. 

However, what fell from the envelope was not a single letter with few words nor petals of the familiar flower, but a single photograph. It fell face first and landed on the table in such an abrupt manner, Cale thought the sender this time was playing tricks with him.  

But what he saw on that photograph unknowingly his heart fill with helium.  

Because it wasn’t something errie, no it wasn’t anything like that. It wasn’t a hideous painting nor a scene of absolute ugliness. It was something he hadn’t expected.  

What fell from the letter was a photograph of something recent, perhaps merely hours ago when he’d been asleep. Because it was a photo of him.  

Sleeping. At the library. With his head in his arms. Hair over his shoulders covering his face. His eyes closed.  

He doesn’t know but it makes his chest warm. Maybe because of how warm that photo looks.  

His posture isn’t the best he knows and his eyebags carry weight his shoulder don’t. To be sleeping in the library out of all places, with his guard down, only meant exhaustion. Yet, the photo doesn’t show that at all. Whoever took a picture of him like this, knew what they were doing.  

Because in the photo, Cale – for once – looks— 

What’s the word?  

Beautiful?  

Even that sounds excessive. Maybe,  

Calm?  

Gentle?  

God, those words did not match him at all, but the photo.  

The fucking photo.  

It is fucking beautiful and Cale knows beauty.  

He’d seen it before. But this?  

It was something more. His body lit up with an unfamiliar emotion. He should be angry that he was caught off guard and that some weirdo took a picture of him while he was sleeping, but.  

Just listen to him.  

Listen.  

There’s effort in this. There’s – dare he say – love . There’s affection, deep and rooted, inside the photo. And none of this makes sense, but that’s the best he could say. That’s how it makes Cale feel.  

Loved. Seen. Even in the stupidest, vile, vulnerable positions ever.  

Because he knows damn well he ain’t the prettiest sleeper.  

This, doesn’t look like him, yet it is him. Perhaps a side of himself he never knew he had. And it caught him off guard so badly, his cheeks began to hurt.  

Fucking bastard. 

 

viii.  

Soaked to the brim, his clothes are drenched. The cup will soon overflow if he doesn’t turn the tap off but his wet clothes are pissing him off. It’s as if people want to see him suffer. He was already late for his afternoon shift.  

But it was so weird. One moment, the sun was out in the sky, pouring it’s entirety onto earth’s surface before it decided to say “fuck all of you” and pissed down on them as if to spite us for not loving it back. Cale just happened to be in the middle of it all as he was walking to work.  

Truly, he was going to be early for once, but when the rain started pouring, all he was tryin to do was find shelter. And of course, his work uniform was drenched and there just happened to be no more spares because they’d been sent to the dry cleaners.  

His luck was super doper awesome right now. Though his body is dry and his hair is messed up, his clothes stick to him like clingy lovers. He wants to get out, this is a prison. He should’ve cancelled work, should’ve not shown up at all, but double time is what gets his ass moving.  

Slowly but surely, customers stop giving him empathetic looks, stop offering towels or words of enthusiasm. Everything goes back to normal and his clothes slowly dry. Slowly, but surely.  

Except, it takes fucking forever. Only now does the air conditioning decide to work and it pisses him off badly. Whoever fixed their aircon is a fucking dumbass because what do you mean he can’t turn it off and it needs to stay constantly on or else it won’t ever turn back on? How the fuck do you mess up this badly? What the hellieonte?! 

Anyways, it truly seems that whatever luck he thought he had would bring himself anew did not show up that way. It really did seem as if Cale was cursed from the beginning. However, that doesn’t change the fact that he has to survive merely 30 more minutes before he can close the store.  

Somehow it still feels as if his clothes are wet but they aren’t. It’s beginning to urk him. He’s tempted to steal a shirt upstairs so he can walk home in cleaner, drier clothes.  

But of course – of fucking course – the weather hates him to the max. because what did Cale do? Exist, that’s what. It’s still bloody raining outside, are you being for real at the moment? 

Yes, deadass.  

Kill me now.  

But then— 

Lightning fucking strikes the tree outside.  

Oh.  

Fuck.  

No.  

Yeah no, he thinks he’ll just sleep on the floor tonight. Except, there’s 10 minutes til closing. He’s practically done, who on earth would come in now— 

Are you being fucking for real right now, you fucking asshole?  

Everything goes black and he can’t see for shit. Did the lights just go out? Yes, it fucking did.  

Okay, this is officially the shittiest night he’s ever had.  

He takes a deep breath, half tempted to yell, before he reaches for his phone. He turns the flash on, trying to navigate through the dark. He turns the emergency light on, emitting a soft yellow glow in the dark. Though, it only reaches to the door, Cale runs a hand through his hair tiredly.  

Who on earth put him on the night shift?  

No one, he picked this shift up.  

Okay, this is what he gets for being nice.  

There’s 7 minutes to closing, 7 long minutes before he can screw everyone over and go home.  

Of course it’s still raining outside but that doesn’t stop Cale’s urge to just go home and sink into the warmth of his empty bed.  

6 minutes and 30 seconds.  

6 minutes and 13 seconds. 

5 minutes and 49 seconds.  

5 minutes and 46 seconds. 

5 minutes and 39 seconds.  

Why the fuck is time so slow. He bends over the bench, half stretching, half steadying himself from dashing out of the store.  

He’s also half tempted to just sleep here tonight but— 

The fucking door opens.  

Are you being fucking for real right now?  

Are you fucking kidding me right now?  

“Ah sorry- we’re not taking anymore orders now. We’re actually close—” 

“I know”, the customer responds back dryly. The tone, the voice is— 

Oh.  

Oh.  

His eyes raise from the counter, meeting a dark figure; tall and absolute. So terrifyingly— 

Oh.  

It’s familiar and it makes his chest hurt. Actually, scratch that, everything hurts. From his headache to his annoyance to his hands to his chest and finally his heart, everything fucking hurts.  

Oh.  

He’s hallucinating, isn’t he? His mouth drops open, but closes. And then it opens. Then it closes. Like a gaping fish.  

Oh.  

His eyes trail down, upwards, sideways, left to right, up and down, diagonal and crosswise. 

Oh.  

“What? Miss me?”, the bastard teases. His voice is exactly how he remembers it, if not more tired. Heavy, deep, lonely eyebags. Dry, chapped and lonely lips. Ruffed up, ugly, lonely hair. There’s dirt on the floor he just mopped, there’s fingerprints on the glass he just wiped, there’s a person in the store he’s meant to be closing in 11 seconds.  

And when Cale doesn’t respond – his mind surprisingly blank – the figure takes a step closer. And another. One more. Actually two more. More steps actually. Until he’s just over the counter.  

So close. 

But so far.  

If Cale wanted to, he could reach over the counter— 

Actually no, if he jumped over the counter, he could grab the bastard— 

Drag him by the collar, force him onto the ground and stab him until there’s blood everywhere.  

If Cale really wanted to, he could demand answers.  

If Cale really wanted to, he could leave this moment and— 

And if Cale really wanted to, he could pull Choi Han closer.  

Yes.  

Yes.  

It was bloody Choi Han.  

Fucking Choi Han.  

Out of all fucking people, it just had to be Choi Han.  

That fucking—  

So yes, if Cale really wanted to, he could have Choi Han closer. But he doesn’t do that.   

Instead, he throws himself over the counter. He re-enacts that scenario he just played in his head; lunging over the counter, throwing his weight over Choi Han and catching him off guard. They land on the floor with a loud thump, Cale over Choi Han, tears over beers, free over flee. And when burgundy strands land over a caramel face, cold fingers reach for pale cheeks as Cale reels an arm back to punch Choi Han’s face.  

Of course, though, why once? Choi Han – offguard surprisingly – takes the punch with a grunt with a hint of surprise and anticipation.  

From what it looks like from their shadows, Cale is reeling multiple punches at Choi Han’s face, but to his luck – again – he only landed the first one. The next ones were promptly dodged from Choi Han’s swerving head. If he blinked, it would look like Choi Han’s head disappeared.  

“Hey—that’s not fair”, Cale grunts. 

“When have I ever played fair” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be righteous and loving—” 

“But I am”, Choi Han bites back harsh.  

“Hah!?” 

And Cale attempted punches didn’t stop there. What did stop though was Choi Han’s reluctance as he pulled Cale closer, hands-on hips, bodies flushed and grunts that weren’t supposed to be made. Cale’s skin is awfully cold, Choi Han notes. His hips are awfully skinny, there’s barely any meat on the skin. The punch that had landed first was – of fucking course – lacking in the strength Cale would’ve normally had.  

But he does note Cale’s insistent punches.  

“Cale”, Choi Han whispers as he pulls Cale down with him. He effectively rolls them over, switching positions as Choi Han pins Cale to the granite floor. “You haven’t been eating well” 

“ huff— hah? Are you fucking—” 

“Answer me, Cale”, Choi Han insists. He locks Cale into place, hand over neck as he chokes him there. For moments, Cale considers struggling to act as if Choi Han’s shaky grip is enough to keep him there, but he guesses Choi Han severely underestimates him.  

He throws a scoff, half hearted grin as he lies dormant. Fuck, he even embraces the touch even. He’s going to hit the bastard at the back of the head again.  

“So what?”, he grins ear to ear. A lazy hand slips up Choi Han’s wrist, reaching to his bicep before his legs wrap around his torso, “what does it matter to you?” 

“Everything”, Choi Han – unexpectedly – growls back into him.  

And when I say ‘into him’, I quite mean literally.  

Or perhaps that’s not the right word for it.  

Rough, dirty and everything in between, were the only words that could describe their relationship. And Cale wouldn’t change a single thing about it. So, when dry, chapped and lonely lips met his, Cale snagged an opportunity to pull at those ruff, dirty, and lonely strands. He dragged his fingernails against his scalp down to his neck before grabbing his neck for payback. This time, Cale was keeping him here, leaving his own special marks. 

It made Choi Han yelp but he didn’t surrender there either. For a second, Cale needed breath and Choi Han leaned in to bite a softer lip: particularly the bottom lip. Tugging the flesh, he pulled Cale closer, the thin – fragile? – legs up his torso where their pelvis’s met until he couldn’t feel his own bitterness. Choi Han would like to believe he didn’t need breath because he would keep stealing Cale’s, but Cale thought otherwise.  

It was like he was running away.  

Coward.  

But still, Choi Han wasn’t as soft as he used to be.  

“Did you like them?”, Choi Han muttered into the kiss. He dragged a hand down Cale’s torso, feeling for what was Cale’s body now.  

“ Hah— what do y-you think?”, Cale panted back, slowly losing breath as his headache slowly disappeared.  

“You loved them” 

“I didn’t. I fucking hated them”, Cale bites back. Literally.  

Choi Han’s tongue starts to bleed but that doesn’t bother either of them. Choi Han – the fucking bastard as always – smashes things back tenfold.  

“You loved them”, Choi Han reconfirms, his hands tightening around Cale’s hips. Not that it mattered to Cale. Either his body was on fire and Choi Han’s hands were like coal to the flame, or, his body has been lit up with hidden excitement tinted in ecstasy that he had forgotten about the concept of ‘pain’. 

He pulled back, panting in breath to see the redhead struggling for air. Subconsciously, his lips began to curl into a grin as he looked towards his art piece.  

Cale was always his muse but he didn’t need to know that.  

“They kept me busy”, Cale broke Choi Han’s line of thought. Times like this, Cale brought him back to the harsh reality.  

“You just can’t say the right words, can you? Henituse?”  

And Cale’s reaction was everything to him.  

Of course though – as fucking always – nothing ever goes Cale’s way. Just when his frustration dies, Choi Han always manages to bring it back.  

“How Dare You—” 

“Me?”, Choi Han teases.  

And then the next few moments are disaster as whatever Cale had cleaned previously, was now wrecked in dirt and blood.  

 

ix.

“I hate you” 

“No, you don’t” 

“I do hate you” 

“Uh huh”, Choi Han scoffs – free of bite – as he looks towards the redhead mopping the floor.  

Cale lost scissors-paper-rock. Of course, he’s grumpy. Choi Han’s laughing at him and it doesn’t help Cale’s mood. Though, Cale’s not actually mad.  

He doesn’t think Choi Han knows, but he knows.  

“So”, Choi Han trails off.  

“So”, Cale brings back.  

Silence follows and Cale can feel a vein pop out of his forehead.  

“What were you going to say, asshole?” 

Choi Han doesn’t answer for a few moments, so Cale leaves it at that for now.  

“Get out”, Cale abruptly breaks Choi Han’s silence. His words make the raven flinch – out of fear? – and glossy obsidian eyes turn towards him like he’d been wronged.  

Of course though, that trick doesn’t work on Cale.  

“You’re in the way. Go wait outside”, in which Choi Han’s glossy eyes immediately brighten into half moons of a nightmare.  

So when Choi Han exits the store, Cale breathes a sigh of relief as he mops the area. Quickly, he goes over the spot where Choi Han was standing before he goes back inside to the staff area to drain the mops. 

“Of course though, that trick doesn’t work on Cale”  

Who are you trying to fool, boy? 

Certainly not yourself.  

He ignores his heating cheeks, ignores the slight tremble in his hands as he lifts the bucket over the sink. He ignores the way his heartbeat pounds through his chest and the way his mind reels back to moments prior.  

But it never goes away.  

That was a kiss, right?  

Right?  

Right?????  

His lips don’t sting anymore but he can certainly still feel Choi Han on his lips. It’s as if he’s trying to remember what they shared, to memorize their breaths, to remember what Choi Han tastes like.  

That’s a bit silly isn’t it? The man himself is mere metres away from him. He subconsciously grabs his shirt where his heart lies beneath, afraid that it’s become evident what Cale’s been trying to hide all this time. 

He tries to cool his flushed cheeks, breathing out slower breaths to catch his stolen air, but as soon as he walks out of the staff area to where Choi Han is–

His heart can’t keep up anymore. 

Is this the result of his loneliness? For his stone heart to suddenly crack open and reach for Choi Han?

Fuck no. 

He grabs the keys off the board, closing the emergency light as he grabbed his phone. He headed over to the door, abruptly opening it roughly before locking it. He shakes the door a couple times to make sure it’s locked - as if anyone would steal from it - and turned to face Choi Han. 

Except, Choi Han is already looking at him and his breath hitches. 

Did he always have such a dark look? 

“What–”, Cale trails off. 

Why? 

Because Choi Han pulls an umbrella - from his ass? - and opens it. He steps out into the rain first under the umbrella before asking, 

“Are you coming?”, the corner of his lips slightly shifting upwards. 

“Hah? Why would I go with you?”, Cale strikes back as he also slips under the protection of the umbrella. He doesn’t really give a damn that his actions don’t match his words, but it’s not like Choi Han isn’t familiar with it. 

“because I’m the only one you got”, the raven whispers back. 

Cale shouldn’t have heard it over the rain, shouldn’t have been able to tell what Choi Han was trying to tell him, but his reddening ear chose to listen to that voice rather than nature’s gift. 

“As if”

And then Choi Han walks Cale back to his apartment through the rain. Now, it seems as if the weather actually hates Cale. 

How come when Cale’s alone, trying to do anything, the world turns against him and everything goes to shit? But when Choi Han comes,  not only does he magically have a drier way to enter his home, but the rain becomes lighter? 

Why does it seem to favour Choi Han and not him? 

What the fuck?

His mind furies itself over the events of today and his shitty luck, but he cannot even dwell on it for too long without being interrupted again. Because thunder strikes again.

Once more and it echoes. 

“Stupid fucking weather”, Cale curses under his breath, his shoulders unknowingly shivering from the cold. He doesn’t notice how Choi Han takes a step closer despite their close proximity. 

“It’s cold, why are you wearing thin clothing?”

“Because it’s my work uniform?”, Cale replies dryly. 

“Hm”, Choi Han hums to himself while looking at Cale. it urks him to no ends so he hurriedly enters his apartment complex. Come to think about it, Choi Han probably knows where he lives too. 

Out of habit, Cale checks his mailbox again but he’s snapped out of it when Choi Han chuckles quietly behind him. His cheeks - that were cooled down - immediately heat up again out of embarrassment.

“Shut up”

“I didn’t say anything”, Choi Han trails off before pulling the umbrella away. He walks towards Cale, leaning down slightly to whisper in his ear, “Why bother looking when it’s right here?”

A chill runs down Cale’s spine, making his fingers twitch before grabbing the bastard’s collar and pulling him down to eye level, “You didn’t need to say anything”

Baring his fangs, Choi Han is almost infatuated with such a sight, but that lies beneath his poker face. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that I still said it”, he smirks as Cale pushes him away. 

“Stop following me, you fucking bastard”

“Stop leading me there then”

And then they continue bickering as they walk up the stairs together. They should take the elevator but Cale’s not so sure if he wants to be stuck with him in the elevator for a whole 30 seconds. So he takes the longer way there even if Choi Han’s on his back. 

However, Choi Han doesn’t say anything during their walk up, so Cale does. He abruptly turns around, 3 steps in front of him before demanding answers. 

“Why are you here?”

And when his eyes meet obsidian drenched in off honey, something flickers in them that Cale can’t decipher. “Can’t I be here?”, Choi Han whispers back. 

And something about the way he says it makes Cale mentally take 2 steps back. As if he’s not ready for this type of vulnerability. 

Because it isn’t doubt or fear. It’s not reluctant or tiredness. It’s momentum. 

Because he stomps down the three steps between them - effectively eliminating the space between - before he grabs a fistful of greasy hair. 

“Fucking idiot”, he mutters against those dry, chapped, and lonely lips before letting them moisten. He pulls harder against the strands, he’d probably pulled some of them out, but he doesn’t care because Choi Han will let him pull as many strands out and he wouldn’t care. 

That - to his knowledge - he will take from him. 

It’s payback when he steals Choi Han’s breath, licking for what he deemed was his. It takes Choi Han too long to catch up, but it’s not like Cale’s going anywhere when he whispers into the kiss, 

“You’re not going anywhere if I’m not there, huh?”

To which Choi Han has to agree, reluctant or not. So Choi Han leans into the kiss, letting Cale win once more. 

“God, I hate you”, he says in between kisses. 

Cale can’t say whether he likes this version more of Choi Han or not, but at this point, he’ll take every and any part of him regardless of what everyone else says. 

Choi Han’s calloused hands rack up Cale’s body, wrapping around his waist before pulling him closer. He considers moving Cale down to the same stair level, but it’s Cale’s win so whatever Cale wanted to do, Choi Han has to follow. 

A game per say. 

So how Choi Han got into Cale’s apartment is beyond him. He shuts the door behind him with a loud kick resulting in a hair pull from the redhead in his arms. 

“Don’t disturb the others”, Cale growls into the kiss. 

“So now you care about others?”, Choi Han whispers back, letting his bottom lip be chewed out.

He pushes Cale against a wall, threading his hands through the vermillion hair he missed. They’re as soft as he remembers, taking a breath to taste the same bitterness. Except it’s his bitterness. 

He can’t tell if Cale’s shivering or he’s the one trembling. So, he asks the question that’s been dying to be asked, choking his neck half way of course before Cale pulls away. 

God forbid Choi Han almost let out an all pathetic whine when Cale left him. He’s half tempted to pull him back, to make Cale come closer so that he’ll never leave him again. 

“Where are you going?”, his heart wonders. He wonders if his redhead will answer him this time. 

“Bastard, you’ve been stalking me. Haven’t you?”, Cale probes, a hand gripping Choi Han’s head. It almost makes the raven grin - and for reason you don’t wanna know - out of pure excitement. 

Because their relationship was weird if not weirder. Because he’s spent all this time chasing the bastard he swore he never wanted to see again. 

Be it at the fireplace or the frontlines where they both held blades, Choi Han was addicted to the poison that got him into this position in the first place. No matter if he were at a different campsite, fighting for his life against the White Star, Choi Han always looked back to see if Cale was still there. 

Except, Cale had always been a step ahead of him. And when he turned back, Cale wasn’t there anymore. 

“I couldn’t help it, I just mis–”

“Is that why you’ve been leaving me stuff?”, Cale interrupts. His slender fingers coming to cup his scarred cheeks. They’re cold from the rain, shivering from the lack of warmth, yet Choi Han leans into the familiar poison as he nods. 

It causes Cale to chuckle. Cale doesn’t know what Choi Han has done to be here and he doesn’t plan to tell him.  Because whatever peace they have right here would be tipped. Whatever delicate relationship they had, would be broken in an instant.  

“I’m– I just…I was thinking of y–”

“They were cute”, Cale finishes quietly. His voice softens into a whisper, almost leaning over Choi Han as his knees buckle. As if Cale’s the only string he’s willing to keep. 

Oh. 

“Your letters were very short”, Cale starts once more with Choi Han’s silence. 

“What were they? Red peonies?”, the curves of his lips match a half crescent moon. Choi Han is half tempted to kiss them anyway. 

“Is that your favourite smell? Sandalwood?”, It didn’t go unnoticed. His gifts did not go unnoticed–

“I do like apples actually, but you’ve given me so many I think they’ve gone bad”, tha’ts okay. As long as Cale liked them–

“And that photo? Choi Han, you–”

“I hate you”, Choi Han interrupts, “I hate you so much”

Hearing Choi Han’s words, Cale can’t help but smile. Why? Because Choi Han hasn’t changed at all. All this stupidity, the lying and silent gifts? Choi Han hasn’t changed at all.

Every apple was bitter yet held a single moment of sweetness.. Every letter was short yet written with intense strength, every letter was practically carved into the thin sheet. That phone call didn’t go forgotten because Cale would replay it every night he felt lonely. 

“No you don’t. You hate that you don’t hate me”, Cale whispers. Choi Han will think his touch is gentle and forgiving, but it’s not like that at all. He wants to keep Choi Han here, like this, so it's codependency. 

He doesn’t want Choi Han to leave. 

Choi Han trembles in his hold, his legs trembling for the truth because Cale’s the only thing keeping him standing. It’s always been like that.

“Are you going to leave me now?”, Cale spurs on, pushing Choi Han over the edge to see if he’ll fall and leave him out of spite. Just like how he left him.

“Will you leave me, Choi Han?”, rolling his name off his tongue has never been easier but it still numbs his tongue to the maximum. 

And what does Choi Han do, you ask? 

His knees drop to the floor, a testament to his weakness, bringing Cale with him. 

“If I leave…Are you going to be there waiting for me at the exit?”, Choi Han whispers, “Cale, are you going to be there?”

Because Choi Han never really left. He’s still there, looking up at Cale. Looking at Cale’s back, cowardly and small, waiting for a miracle to happen. But, Cale was his miracle. 

“Take a guess, Choi Han”

“Don’t leave me”

"I won't leave you this time"

x.

 

“Will you make a wish, Cale?”

The question rang in his mind. It echoed through the hallways and made home in his treasure chest. You see, it wasn’t the question that troubled him, it was the outcome of his actions. 

I know right, Cale was thinking bout his consequences for once. But you see, Cale had too much to lose now. Funny isn’t it? 

What was funnier was what he valued as importance. To anyone else, it wouldn’t be on their list, something so unimportant to them but valuable towards the Roan kingdom. To everyone else, this was not their most important possession. 

And that’s what made it special to Cale, because no one else considered it special to them. 

And what was this important thing to him, you ask? 

Well, take a guess. 

Actually, he’s looking at it right now. 

Cale was sitting on a fallen tree log, left leg bouncing up and down with contemplation. Though his body was directed towards his tent, his eyes were elsewhere. In fact, they were in the opposite direction. 

His eyes were pinpoint on his commander’s tent. Where the flap lay low and the wind dead. Where his most precious, treasurable possession was. Yes, you thought correct. 

Cale Henituse’s most prized possession wasn’t an item, wasn’t a thing, wasn’t anything like that. It was a person.

Can you believe that?

It ridiculed him, made fun of the walls he painted, bullied him until his ears bleed red. But Cale couldn’t help but colour his life the colour of his eyes, couldn’t help but chase that familiar damp scent, couldn’t help but just want him. 

And it just had to be him out of all people. Out of all fucking people. 

Suddenly, Choi Han walks out of the commander’s tent, his eyes momentarily scanning over the crowd before landing on Cale’s. It makes Cale’s heart jump - in fear or excitement - and he subconsciously swallows a shaky breath. 

Oh, he was so doomed. 

Choi Han eyes him darkly, walking in his direction with purpose in his strides. Cale’s tempted to run away, but he’s not the type of person to do that. He raised an eyebrow, trying his best to seem uninterested by the persistent raven. 

He ignores his twitching fingers and how they want to curl around Choi Han’s collar, to bring the man down onto his knees and–

Yes, he ignores that. He also ignores his trembling heart and how it yearns to be met from the other side, hitting itself against the glass door for any sort of reciprocation–

Shut the fuck up. 

“Well aren’t you a damsel”, Choi Han greets him roughly, immediately grabbing him by the shirt. 

“Are you my knight in shining armor then? You don’t look very shiny”, Cale bites back, grabbing fistfuls of Choi Han’s hair. 

Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’. Choi Han chooses violence and Cale bites back with ferocity. Neither of them mind it but in a different life, Cale thinks he’d still be the same. If it were any different, Cale would’ve never met Choi Han. 

“Hah? Who says I’m here to save you?”

“You’re the one who came rushing for me–”

And then the bell for supper rings, letting everyone know it was time to eat – a rarity. Choi Han pauses, but then he turns his head to look at Cale once more. He can already sense, see, tell the violence on Cale’s mind so he drags him up with him. 

Still held by the collar, Cale’s forced to follow Choi Han up to the camp, “Come eat”

And it’s bitter. And sour. And everything he should hate. But when he turns to look at the redhead eating his food, suddenly it’s not so bad anymore. Not that Cale needs to know about. 

Cale, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep himself in check. He hates how stupidly obedient his body is to his heart and how much it disobeys the brain. He should resist, to walk away and ignore Choi han’s calls, but he doesn’t. 

Fuck, even when Choi Han simply holds the spoon of contents, Cale mentally slaps himself. Even swallowing - when his adam’s apple bops - Cale’s cheeks heat from embarrassment. Not for Choi Han, but for himself. 

He remembers at one point when he thought he’d mentally slapped himself, he had actually hit his face physically. He still remembers the post-embarrassment he felt when Choi Han had heard of it. 

“Stop looking at me, shithead”, Choi Han mutters to him, slightly leaning over to his side. Cale thinks it’s the most unfairest thing ever. 

Do you know what’s also unfair? The stupid question. 

“Will you make a wish, Cale?”

He doesn’t know if he should make a wish. Why? 

Because Cale is greedy and selfish and egoistic. Cale wants and wants and will take everything he can with no remorse for others. 

Because Cale wants Choi Han all to himself, even if he has to force it. 

Because he knows if he makes this wish, Choi Han will–

Not be there. 

Because if the wish is made, Cale won’t be here anymore and that isn’t the worse part. So he wants to stay, but he doesn’t know if he should stay.

But he’s seen it before. He’s seen people confessing on their death beds for a lost love. He’s seen people take hits for their lovers, only for them to die moments later to the grief. He’s seen those letters, talking about a lifetime of wishes with them. 

And Cale doesn’t wanna be like them. Either he confesses and dies, or he never admits the truth and continues living a lie. In simpler terms, Cale wanted to be by his side, even if it meant betrayal. Even when he would die, the last thing he wants to see is Choi Han.

So he won’t make this wish. 

But. 

Choi Han just has to be Choi Han. 

Because he knows this world will come to an end, Cale was given this wish. Cale knows beyond the boundary. He knows something no one else does. And he’s not sure if that’s a good thing. Because this is all a damned story that he won’t escape. 

Cale just has to leave, right? You’d think it’d be so simple, but Cale couldn’t leave. He just couldn’t leave him behind. He couldn’t leave the others behind and it was stupid because they were nothing to him. Because somewhere in his destruction, Cale still had pride. He still had virtues he thought he left behind in the county. 

And for fuck’s sake, Choi Han doesn’t make it easier. Because he knows how Choi Han will end. He knows that he will indeed - that his story - end. That if he leaves, Choi Han will end here, on this very floor, on this very land, bleeding out. 

That’s why for the next few days, Cale ends up avoiding Choi Han for dear life. Be it drill or lunch, front lines or back streets, he spent most of his time avoiding the commander because he thought if he didn’t see him, it would be easier to leave him behind. 

That his heart would eventually let him go and he could finally choose himself for once. That he could prove to himself that yes, he was far more important than others because this is his life and anyone else making this choice would’ve chosen the same. 

That he could learn how to live without Choi Han and finally choose to love himself.

But Choi Han is relentless. He chases after Cale under the pretence of checking on the inmate, to make sure everyone’s in line and Cale is the only anomaly, but Cale’s heart would like to believe otherwise. 

Surprisingly, his heart is achingly soft for Choi Han even when he tries not to be. 

Through every skipped drill, Choi Han searches Cale’s tent for his presence, scores through the barracks for a hint of the redhead, searches the earth up and down for the individual named: Cale Henituse. 

And his heart interpreted it as longing. As a means of connection, that Choi Han came looking for him because he wanted to see him, but he knows better. 

This time, Cale sits at the edge of their camp by the waterfall, throwing rocks against the water for ripples. His chin prompted by his palm, he contemplates his actions. 

For example, should he be avoiding Choi Han when he’s the one he wants to see most? Even if he doesn’t make the wish, will he be content living a life where he won’t see him? But if he did make a wish, Cale wouldn’t see Choi Han anyway. 

He doesn’t know the answers to any of these. 

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, doesn’t notice the presence leaning over his figure. It’s only when Cale’s been hit on the head square that he jumps up, deadly stare to see the enemy.

Except it isn’t an enemy. 

“Why are you here, dumbass?”, Choi Han grunts tiredly. 

Cale’s head hurts with intensity, like an overwhelming headache he can’t escape, yet it’s warm. Yes, the injury is warm. Yes, Cale thought that it was okay if it was Choi Han. 

Instead of critisizing Choi Han for hitting him or running away after being caught, Cale quietly mutters, 

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, of course”

Cale wonders if that’s out of duty or something more. How weak must he get for a man that won’t leave him alone? 

“Why- oh forget it, you dog”, Cale sighs, dropping back down to sitting. Annoyingly, Choi Han also sits down next to him with his legs crossed.

“Why are you here alone? Don’t you have friends?”, Choi Han teases, poking his shoulder. 

“It’s called alone time. Something you can’t fathom, of course”

“I’m simply checking on one of my soldiers and his current absence with–”

“Why are you here, Choi Han? Are you lonely?”, Cale bites back tenfold, eyeing Choi Han with a glare. It makes the raven pause temporarily but then he leans towards Cale with a knowing smirk. 

“It looks like you’re the lonely one, Henituse”

Immediately, Cale’s disobedient body heats up with a flush, his cheeks blooming red from embarrassment as he tries to defend himself. 

“What? Me? You’re the one who keeps–”

“But it’s like you keep waiting for me to find you”, Choi Han points out blandly, leaning against the rock next to him. He says it so dryly, so casual that it makes Cale’s - stupid - heart drop slightly. He really needs to stop having these pathetic emotions for Choi Han. 

“...I don’t! It’s–”

And then Choi Han chuckles out loud. Loud and soft, unrestrained and realistic that Cale imprints this image in his head, saved as one of his memorable memories. 

“Hah- haha- your face is–”

“Red, I know. So is my hair, dipshit”, Cale begrudgingly sighs. 

Choi Han continues to tease him. But Cale can’t forget Choi Han’s smile. For a moment, Cale catches Choi Han looking at him with a strange emotion but before he gets the opportunity to enquire, Choi Han brings him back to camp forcefully. 

His stupid heart once again if not more, fell for him. Again. 

The next day, Cale shows up to drill and he’s gifted by 10 times the usual of a soldier. Can’t tell if that was better or worse honestly. But he does it anyway before they head out for battle. 

But, when Cale’s on the frontlines and Choi Han - for once - is in front of him, Cale finds himself scared shitless. Not fear of death or betrayal, no it was fear of loss. 

Because Cale can see it so well. He can see it. He can see it coming alive. 

He can see it happening. Too soon. Too clearly. He can see the story writing itself–

And Choi Han’s death written in blood

No. no, no. no,no, no, no.

Mere seconds away, he lunges forward to Choi Han, throwing himself closer but–

He’s too late–

“The wish! I want to make a wish!”, he screams desperately to the one who will hear him, “I wish for happiness. I want everyone to be happy–”

“Is that the wish you want to make”, someone mutters. The voice is low, dark and something that wasn’t human. It made his skin crawl but—

There was something more important he had to think about. 

“Yes! I–”

And then the world turns back. His sight is momentarily blank before he is thrown elsewhere. 

And then the voice comes again, 

“Your wish - for happiness - will require a replacement. Your wish cannot be granted with these limitations but…”, the voice trails off.

“Yes! Yes…I..want to do this”, Cale’s voice is quiet, almost reluctant. 

But he can’t stand it. He would rather die than to see–

Choi Han’s death. 

“Just…make a world, where he will live. A world where they are happy”

“Even without you?”, the voice in the back of his head whispers. 

“Yes, a world where happiness is achievable”, Cale finishes, tears in his eyes. He tries to wipe them away, but his body doesn’t listen, “anything- I’ll do anything just–”

“Your wish can be granted.”, the voice tells him. 

For a moment, he considers looking back. But he doesn’t. 

And then the world goes black like the colour of Choi Han’s eyes. And when he awakens, he’s here. Away from everybody he once knew. 

Oh. so that’s what he meant.. 

“Your world will fall, but you can save this world. You will be swapped, you will live a life without them but they will be saved”

Cale doesn’t regret his decision. But he does regret something else. 

Like never confessing his feelings. But then again, maybe it was a good thing so Choi Han could continue to live a life where he didn’t need to remember such a terrible person like him. In his new lifetime where Cale doesn’t have to see him, Choi Han can learn what happiness is. 

“Will you make a wish, Choi Han?”

“Yes”

“Make a wish”

“I want to make Cale happy”

“That won’t be easy”

“Good” 

From there, Choi Han did things no other human could do just to find Cale. and be by his side again, even if it meant being in hell together. 

“Did you miss me?”

“Dearly”

“Good, because I missed you too”