Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Hello?”

Sicheng looks up at the pregnant snow clouds blanketing the sky, then across the street. A small handful of people walk briskly from store to store, their faces smudges on a canvas. The December air nips at Sicheng’s exposed hands, cupped over his mouth and nose, huffing out warm breaths to stave off the icey prickling on his face. His feet stay planted next to the cross walk.

“ Uh, yeah, is Dongyoung there? ”

A few snowflakes begin to fall in front of Sicheng’s face and his limbs move forward. The bus stop is ahead of him, taken just out of focus by the veiling winter fog. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his windbreaker and face chilling immediately at the loss of heat, his phone vibrates against his left hand. An unknown number.

“No?” He draws out the n . “I think you have the wrong number.”

“ Fuck. " The metal of the bus stop bench chills Sicheng's skin even through his jeans, fingers already aching from prolonged exposure as he holds his phone. " I’m sorry to bother you. ”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Sicheng waits for a response, but the line is silent excluding the buzz of white noise. A few moments pass and he considers hanging up, until he hears sniffling and quiet sobs.

“Is—” He switches the phone to his other ear and sandwiches it between his cheek and shoulder, shoving his hands between his thighs to warm them. “Is everything okay?”

He hears the caller swallow thickly and huff out an embarrassed laugh. “ Yeah, everything's… ” He sighs through his nose, his voice losing half its stability once he continues, “ I’m just going through some shit right now. ”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sicheng asks, his voice automatically taking a soft and well-trained tone.

“ Uh —” He sounds so genuinely caught off guard by Sicheng’s reaction, the latter's stomach flips. “ No that’s —” The caller sniffles again. “ It’s okay, I’ve bothered you enough as it is. ”

“You’re fine.” Sicheng peels his phone screen from his cheek where it had begun to sweat and switches ears, the hand holding it there feeling colder than it had before he tried to warm it. “You’re not a bother.”

A car peels past and brown snow sloshes to the gutters at Sicehng’s feet. Over the phone, slow, deep breaths quickly become stifled sobs and wet sniffles, and the way Sicheng’s own heart clenches at the sound surprises himself. But he’s patient with the other’s responses, doesn’t say anything and let’s him catch his breath in between hiccups.

“ I—sorry ,” the caller chokes out. “ Fuck, this i—s embarras—sing— ” The sigh he lets out is a cross between frustrated and defeated.

“Take deep breaths,” Sicheng reminds him softly. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

The caller does as he’s told, his sobs fading until there’s only shaky breathing coming through the line. “ You’re barely even speaking ,” he speaks up after a while, a chuckle weaved through the words, “ and I feel like you’re standing right next to me, walking me through this. ”

Sicheng smiles to himself, warmth spreading in his chest. He whispers, “I’ve got a knack for things like this.” A laugh bubbles through the microphone, an almost comfortable silence blanketing them. Sicheng bites at the skin of his chapped lips before speaking up again. “If you want someone to talk to,” he starts, “like, as an anonymous thing—you can call me again.”

It’s a bold offer, Sicheng’s stomach softly churning from nerves, but he’s surprised when the caller doesn’t even sound phased.

“ You say that like this isn’t the first time you’ve told someone this. ”

Sicheng takes notice of the stability his voice is gaining and allows a chuckle to escape him. “I work for a suicide hotline,” he allows himself to explain.

“Christ, that’s heavy ,” the caller let’s it rush out in one breath, a laugh riding on its coattails.

“Is it really?” They’re both laughing now, a warmth in spreading through Sicheng’s body that hadn’t been there before. There’s a small pause, then:

“ Do we need to stay anonymous? ” the caller whispers, and Sicheng smiles softly to himself.

Sicheng gnaws on his bottom lip to fend off s wider smile. “No,” he says just above a whisper.

“ Nakamoto Yuta. ” It's a stiff introduction, thick and tailored with a sniffle. Sicheng decides he likes it.

"Dong Sicheng," he returns.

“Ah, a fellow foreigner." Yuta speaks with much more inflection now.

“How do you know I’m a foreigner?”

“ Your name. And your accent. " Sicheng's cheeks warm instantly.

"You're from Japan, right?" Yuta hums. "I was guessing by your surname. You speak really good Korean."

" Why thank you, mister Sicheng. " Sicheng decides he likes the sound of a smile in Yuta's voice, too.

Another silence consumes them, teetering on the edge of comfortable and awkwardly running out of conversation. Sicheng looks out into the street, watching as the snow swirls delicately to the pavement, all the stores and passing cars taken out of focus, blurred just slightly.

“ I’ll leave you be for now ,” Yuta states, the edges of his voice soft.

“I told you, you’re not a bother,” Sicheng replies, voice just as delicate.

He can almost hear the smile that spreads over Yuta’s face. “ Talk to you later, Sicheng. ”

Sicheng doesn't chew on his bottom lip to restrain his smile anymore. “Yeah." He fights down the warmth jumping in his chest at the silent promise. "Later.”

“ Grape or cherry flavored Koolaid? ”

The light coming through the curtain is gray and hardly provides enough light in Sicheng’s living room. He squints at the coffee table where his assignments lay from his cram session for a Psych quiz last night, eyeballing his phone screen as it lights up with a phone call.

“ Sicheng? ”

“Yuta?” His voice is scratchy and thick with sleep.

“ Okay, so you are listening. ” He actually sounds relieved.

“I picked up the phone, of course I’m listening.”

“ So grape or cherry? ”

“I—Cherry,” he picks randomly.

Yuta half groans and half whines. “ I always get cherry though. ”

Sicheng rubs his cheek with his wrist where he drooled. “Then get grape.” He tries not to sound exasperated; he’s more confused than anything.

“ I don’t like grape. ”

“Then wh—get another one then.”

“ What’s your favorite flavor? ”

Sicheng stretches as he groans out, “Watermelon.”

There’s a pause on Yuta’s end. “ Generic, but I guess it’ll work. ”

“What’s this for?”

“ I like Koolaid. ”

Sicheng feels a laugh almost bubble from his throat, biting his lip to resist the tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You know it’s six a.m. right.”

“ You can’t sleep the day away, lazy bones. ”

This time, Sicheng allows his chest shake with a chuckle. “Is this all you needed?” He says a touch softer than before.

“ Yeah, that’s all. ”

“Okay.” Sicheng realizes he’s smiling when his split lip starts to sting from the stretch. “You know, this isn’t what I was expecting when I said you could call me.”

“ Is that bad? ”

“No.” Sicheng isn’t exactly sure how Yuta calling him about Koolaid flavors makes him feel, but he’s at least glad the other sounds like he’s feeling better since the last time he called. “You can talk to me about anything and I’ll probably listen.”

“ This almost sounds like a challenge to bore you. ”

“Please, don’t,” Sicheng chuckles and he can hear Yuta laugh brightly on the other side of the line.

“ I’ve gotta go, but thanks for your help ,” he says quickly, as if suddenly in a rush.

“I—” Sicheng rubs the heel of his hand into eye. “No problem, Yuta.” The line cuts, dialtone taking Yuta’s place, and as Sicheng adds Yuta’s phone number under his contact list, his morning alarm goes off.

It’s been three days since Yuta first called Sicheng on accident.

“ I don’t —” There’s a choked sob, the microphone muffled temporarily. “— know, Sicheng. ”

The rich smell of coffee is thick in the room as Sicheng leans his hip against his kitchen counter, the granite chilling him through his tee-shirt. His grip on his phone is delicate, as if he were holding Yuta himself. “I know,” he says quietly, smoothly. “This is difficult for you, Yuta. I know it is.”

Yuta’s sniffling and hiccups hadn’t lessened as Sicheng spoke. “ But I — it shouldn’t —” He hears how Yuta takes deep and shaky breaths before he continues.

“ I just want to be able to —” he cuts himself off, not sobbing but still catching his breath. Sicheng stands there and doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting Yuta calm down and even his breathing.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he reminds the other, voice just barely above a whisper. He hasn’t heard Yuta this upset since his first phone call, and Sicheng wouldn’t tell Yuta this but it almost scared him how hard he’s been sobbing.

“ Sicheng? ” Yuta chokes out, and Sicheng hums and listens attentively. “ Have you ever lost someone you loved? ”

Sicheng is taken a little back by the question and pauses unintentionally when he realizes this is the most specific Yuta’s ever been about his situation. “No,” he responds as softly as he can. “I haven’t.”

“ It sucks ,” He states matter of factly. The way Yuta’s voice quivers is possibly the most heartbreaking thing Sicheng’s ever heard. “ It sucks more when you never even got to tell them goodbye. ” He’s feels like an icicle shoots through his heart when he barely hears Yuta whisper: “ When you never even knew they were gone in the first place. ”

For once, Sicheng isn’t silent because he wants to give Yuta a moment to breathe; he doesn’t know what to say.

Yuta silently sobs into the mic and Sicheng’s eyes sting, blinking hard as he gnaws on his lip. “I’m sorry,” he finally gets out, his voice barely even there. Yuta’s crying doesn’t stop, but Sicheng continues, hoping he’s listening. “I can’t imagine going through something like that.” He swallows the growing lump in his throat and adds in a wavering voice, “But I know you’re strong. You’ll get through this. And I’ll be here to help you whenever you need me.” He’s nodding to himself, like it’s a subconscious reassurance.

There’s shuffling against the microphone, Yuta’s breathing ragged and hiccuping occasionally, punctuated with a loud sniff before he speaks up. “ I should get to class. ” It’s forced, Yuta’s voice is almost completely wrecked, broken and quivering, and Sicheng is certain he hasn’t stopped crying.

But he knows not to push Yuta, that these calls were cemented in the idea that Sicheng was here to listen when Yuta needed him. If Yuta wanted to tell Sicheng something, Sicheng had faith he would when he was ready.

“Okay.” The professionalism makes a nauseous burn roll in his stomach, but he makes himself busy with stirring his coffee idly, the metal spoon scraping the ceramic.

Another loud sniffle before Yuta adds in a thick whisper, “ Thank you. ”

Sicheng’s presses his lips together as he wills the lump in his throat to go away, then hums. “You know I’m always here for you.” And he hears Yuta huff in a way Sicheng knows he’s smiling on the other side of the line.

Neither of them say goodbye, something they’ve made a habit of, the line beeping as Yuta hangs up and Sicheng places his phone in a wet spot on the counter, lifting his coffee cup and taking a sip. It’s grown cold and he blanches as he swallows.

It’s been one month since the first time Yuta called Sicheng.

“ Okay, but why’s it called a grapefruit if grapes already exist and they’re fruits. ”

The light above Sicheng’s kitchen table glows soft yellow on his open textbooks and notes, his phone hidden under the hardcover of his opened textbook, Yuta’s voice almost muffled.

“Yuta, I don’t—” Sicheng laughs, somewhat exasperated, but a familiar fondness stitched through his tone. “How do you even think of this shit?”

His back aches and his ass hurts from sitting on the pea green cushion of the dining room chair, but he doesn’t get up. He doesn’t get good enough reception in his bedroom for a phone call, and he wouldn’t put it past himself to fall asleep if he laid down.

“ But you agree it’s ridiculous! ”

Sicheng chuckles. “Yes, but I don’t care.”

“ You honestly should, I’m basically opening your third eye for you. ” Sicheng flings the notebook page hard enough for the microphone to pick it up the sharp rustle of paper. “ Fuck you, I’m a genius. ”

That makes Sicheng lurch forward with the laughter that rumbles in his chest, Yuta continuing over Sicheng’s cackling: “ I know I’m blowing your mind right now, don’t act like you’re above this. Like — okay ,” Sicheng moves his phone to lay on an open page instead of underneath the cover of his Psych book as Yuta talks, “ do you ever think about how there are so many different languages in the world but we all nod for yes and shake our heads for no? Or how it’s universally understood the middle finger means ‘fuck you’? Like, who coordinated that? ‘Cuz there’s no fucking way —”

“Yuta—” Sicheng rubs a hand over his eyes, giggling still bubbling from his throat. “I don’t have enough brain cells to process anything you just said, please stop. ”

“ Like you had any to begin with. ”

“Literally shut up.” Sicheng tries to sound serious but he’s smiling too wide.

There’s a beat of silence, the line rustling as Sicheng tries to look over his notes, but can’t help to flicker his eyes to his phone screen as he bites his bottom lip.

“ Ya know, ” Yuta starts, “ am I the only one who finds it weird we haven’t met each other yet? After we’ve been talking for two whole months ? ”

“It hasn’t been two months.”

“ Yes, it has. ”

“No, it hasn’t, there’s, like, a few more days before then—”

“ Is that your way of saying you’ve been keeping track? ” Yuta teases.

“Is this your way of saying you want to meet up?” Sicheng fires back.

“ Yes, yes, it is. ” Yuta deadpans, and Sicheng snorts at him, waits for him to say something else.

He doesn’t.

“What?”

“ You gonna come? ” Yuta spits out impatiently.

Sicheng almost chokes. “ Now? ”

“ Why not now? ” he quips.

“Maybe I’m busy.”

“ No, you’re not, now come meet me. ”

Sicheng considers arguing more, but he’s been waiting for an excuse to take a break and his Psych test isn’t for a few days, so he stands up for the first time in hours, stretches his arms over his head and pops his back in the process. “Fine,” he lets his words take a biting tone. “Where do you want to meet?”

“ You know the Seven Eleven on Huamdong? ”

“I live, like, a block away from it.”

“ Good. I’m at the payphone outside of it, meet me here .”

“Why are you at a payphone?”

“ Because I finished my shift at work and felt like calling before I went home. ”

Sicheng almost chokes on his disbelieving laugh and he tugs his shoes on. “You’ve been using a payphone this entire time?”

“ Yes, and what of it? ” Yuta asks defensively.

“You don’t own a phone?” Sicheng takes the phone off speaker and holds it to his ear, grabbing his coat off the back of the couch.

“ No, I’m poor ,” he says in the same tone as before.

Sicheng switches the phone to his other hand as he slips his arm through the coat sleeve. “So you’re alertnative is paying for these long ass calls one by one instead,” he deadpans.

No response.

“Yuta?”

“ Did you just— ” Yuta cuts himself off with a sigh. “ Did you really just say alertnative ? ”

Sicheng flushes and his stomach flips in embarrassment. “You know Korean isn’t my first language!” he whines in defence as Yuta groans, “Alternative , Sicheng, it’s alternative . ”

“I’m not gonna show if you don’t shut the hell up.”

“ Yes, you will ,” he says cheekily. “ Now make it snappy, it’s freezing . ”

“Who even says that?” Sicheng sighs out.

“I do, you fuck. ” Yuta adds, just a hair softer than before, “ Don’t hang up, okay? ”

Sicheng’s chest fills with warmth as he shuts his apartment door and makes his way to the elevator, a sweet smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I won’t.”

“I’m outside.”

There’s no working streetlamp on the sidewalk in front of the store, the only light source coming from the bright fluorescents inside Seven Eleven itself.

“Where are you?”

“ I’m still at the payphone. ” There’s a breath of silence. Yuta continues, slower than before: “ Are you sure you’re here? I don’t see anyone. ”

“Yeah, I’m looking inside the store.” Sicheng bounces on his toes as he bites his lips, eyes scanning the parking lot. “Uh, I see a payphone beside the store, but no one’s there.”

A thoughtful hum comes through the line. “ Maybe ,” Yuta starts, dragging out the m , “ we were talking about different Seven Eleven’s? ”

“You said the one on Huamdong right—”

In that moment Sicheng stops breathing because the only sounds he hears on the other line are scraping metal and screeching tires before the dial tone fills the silence.

“ One-one-nine, what’s your emergency? ”

“Um, I—” Sicheng clears his throat and swallows. “My friend, he—I was on the phone with my friend, and it sounded like there was a car wreck near him, and now my calls aren’t going through and I can’t get a hold of him.” Sicheng breathes out the last word through his nose, trying to expel the nerves that are eating away at him.

“ You were on the phone with your friend and it sounded like there was a wreck in his area? ”

“It sounded like it was right there next to him, and I can’t get a hold of him, the line isn’t—my calls aren’t going through.”

“ What’s your friend’s name? ”

“Nakamoto Yuta.”

“ What’s the location? ”

Sicheng’s breathing hiccups. “I don’t know. We were supposed to meet up, but he isn’t where I thought he would be.”
“You don’t know his location?”

“He said he was at the Seven Eleven on Huamdong but he’s not here, I-I think we got our locations mixed up.”

“ But he said he was at a Seven Eleven in your area, though? ”

“I think so, he-he said he was,” he breathes out. “I don’t know how to get to him, I don’t know what—” Sicheng cuts himself off, trying his best to stay calm.

“ Okay, honey, just breathe for me, ” the operator starts out. “ We’re going to pass what you said onto law enforcement in your area. They’ll check in with the store owners to see if we can locate the accident, okay? ”

At this point, Sicheng is leaning his forehead against his forearm as it rests against a wooden telephone post, his knees weak. He takes painstakingly deep breaths and he retells the operator what happened when she asks to clarify the situation. He doesn’t remember when he hung up or how long he’s been listening to the dial tone. He stands there for a little longer, tries to will feeling back into his limbs and suppress himself from hyperventilating.

Sicheng has his arm folded under his cheek as he lays on his side on the couch, flipping between the local cable channels to the only other news station. The previous one had come to an end for the night and a late night variety show took its place, but Sicheng knows it won’t be long before this program ends as well.

He scrolls idley through news reports on his phone, always flinching when he catches eye of anything mentioning an accident, and immediately deflating when he continues reading the details of each story. Barely any of them mention bystanders. None of them mention Yuta.

By the time it’s one a.m., Sicheng’s arm is tingling but he doesn’t move it out from under himself, just keeps refreshing the news app on his phone. At this point, there are few, if any, new stories being posted, and Sicheng blames the brightness of his phone screen for the soreness behind his eyes. He opts to move the small screen out of the way to look at the television instead. The news report has long since ended, nineties sitcom reruns playing instead, and Sicheng thinks he recognizes the current broadcast from when his mom would watch Korean shows when he was younger, the soundtrack mildly nostalgic.

Sicheng lifts the phone back up and stares at the screen, and he doesn’t realize he’s opened his contacts until he’s staring at Yuta’s profile. The gray default contact icon above his name makes Sicheng uncomfortable, and before he knows it, he’s scrolling through their call history, not bothering to read the dates or call length. It takes three minutes of scrolling for the list to halt. Sicheng stares at the detail of the first call recorded, and he realizes Yuta had been right: it has been two months since he first called Sicheng on accident.

It’s been a week since Sicheng last heard from Yuta.

Sicheng had tried his best to not let the situation get to him, since there was nothing more he could have done. He’d gone in for his Psychology test and felt like he’d done decent. He caught up with Kun, who he had accidentally started to ghost in the last few weeks. Exam season , Sicheng had explained. He went to work and he couldn’t tell what the pull in his chest meant when he answered hello . He blamed it on the weight of his job catching up to him.

He kept up with the news reports, fell asleep to watching the news every night and woke up on his living room couch every morning to his phone alarm going off, the morning news already on. Car wreck reports were a rarity Sicheng felt guilty for finding disappointing. There were still no reports of accidents outside of convenience stores, still no mentions of Yuta’s name.

Nothing Sicheng does quells the tight knot that’s made a home in his belly since Yuta’s last phone call.

And as Sicheng sits here, searching Yuta’s name, retyping his last name over and over more times than he can count, because he has no idea if he’s even spelling it correctly, the knot only builds and crawls from his stomach and nestles itself into the back of his throat.

He’s been having no luck finding any social media Yuta could have; in fact, he couldn’t find anything on just a Yuta Nakamoto in Seoul. He goes back to looking up wreck reports and records for any Seven Eleven in this district of Seoul, but all the immediate results that come up are ambiguous and not what Sicheng is looking for.

When he tacks Yuta’s full name to the end of his search, however, is when Sicheng feels like his brain has turned on auto pilot. An article that was written two years ago comes up, the headline vaguely reading something about a twenty-year anniversary, and Sicheng doesn’t even realize he’s clicked the link until he’s reading the first paragraph:

Twenty years ago today, tragedy struck the city as a bystander, Japanese transfer student Nakamoto Yuta, was killed in a traffic collision. The official police report states a car in the left lane drifted into oncoming traffic, forcing the driver, Kim Siyeon, to swerve into a Seven Eleven parking lot and crash into the face of the building, where Nakamoto had been standing and hitting him directly.

Sicheng’s throat tightens and the knot is replaced with the burn of bile. His eyes drift from the text to an attached photo of the victim. Of Yuta , he let’s himself think.

His skin looks milky white thanks to the flash of the camera, eyes as rich as black coffee, bangs choppy and uneven while the hair at his nape looks unkempt and overgown. Sicheng stares at it—at him —taking in his gummy smile and how his eyes still look wide and innocent as they crescent just slightly. He forces his eyes back to the article itself, scrolling past any more details of the accident. He glances at the bottom of the article where it gives a few statements from the victim’s friend with an attached photo of the two, and Sicheng feels a hot flash run over his shoulders and down his back.

He almost hopes he’s mistaken, but he’s staring at the face of the man who works the front desk of his apartment: Moon Taeil.

It’s been three weeks since Sicheng read that article.

Everytime he passed through the lobby, his stomach would do a flip and goosebumps would rise in a wave over his arms and legs, even though Taeil wasn’t there most times, a young woman working in his place. The occasions that Sicheng had happened to see Taeil, the elder was staring at the desk monitor, most likely playing Solitaire, and Sicheng felt too nauseous to even consider approaching him. Sicheng had gained enough fleeting courage to approach Taeil once, stared at him from the coffee maker and bailed after psyching himself out, and hadn’t tried since.

Until now.

Sicheng hadn’t been sure what he was going to tell the man exactly, but he’d managed to convey he was writing a paper as a test grade and wondered if Taeil would be willing to let Sicheng interview him. Sicheng tried to hide his relief and surprise when Taeil agreed easily, led Sicheng into a break room behind the front counter, where they sit now.

“Is it okay if I record the conversation?” Sicheng holds up his phone screen to show the default audio recording app he set up. “Just so, um—it’ll be easier for me to quote you.”

Taeil nods and waits for Sicheng, who puts his phone face down without hitting record and clears his throat, looking down at his phone case instead of making eye contact.

“I don’t…” He looks up and hopes his voice doesn’t sound weak. “I want to focus on who Yuta was, not what happened that day,” he says slowly, and part of his heart jumps from worry of offending the elder. “I think there’s plenty of stories covering the accident, from what I could see. I wanted my report to be more… of a remembrance piece?” he tries, unsure of the correct word in Korean.

“A hoesanglog ?”

Sicheng hadn’t heard that word before and makes a mental note to look up the translation later. In the meantime, he lies and says yes, and when Taeil nods in understanding, Sicheng takes that as his queue.

“So, I read that Yuta was an exchange student?” Baby steps.

“He was, at first, but he decided he wanted to stay and live here in the middle of his Sophomore year.” At college? Sicheng clarifies, and Taeil nods. The younger sees how easily Taeil is smiling and attempts to put up a similar facade, worried his emotions will be too lucid. “Once he graduated, he planned to move in with me and start his career.”

“What did he want to do?” Sicheng feels an immediate rush of embarrassed at the juvenile phrasing and quickly tries again: “What degree was he working towards?”

“He was going to become a translator.” Taeil nods and tilts his head, thought clouding his face more and more, eyebrows straight and relaxed. “He was a language major,” he finishes.

Sicheng is leaning his mouth against his hands, elbows on the table. “He must have been a genius,” he lets slip out in Mandarin, repeating himself in half-assed Korean to Taeil when he gives him a wondering look. The elder nods, snorting a smile out, and Sicheng feels nervous.

He swallows. “What was Yuta like?” He clears his throat and sits up more. “Like—his personality, his habits.” He nods to reassure himself. “Anything you think is important if someone wanted to, um—to get to know him.”

His stomach swings from side to side when Taeil’s eyes glass over and he smiles, licking his lips briefly. “Honestly, he was a dick,” he laughs out, then hesitates. “Can I say that?” he asks, gesturing to Sicheng’s phone. Sicheng looks at it too, realizes the elder he referring to his class paper, and proceeds to wave his hand flippantly and reassure Taeil it’s fine.

“He was so snarky and always knew how to push your buttons. I couldn't tell you the amount of times I threatened to send him back to Osaka, and he’d just laugh because he knew I wouldn't.” Taeil presses his lips together and meets Sicheng’s eyes. “But he was just— so caring , too. Like,” Taeil leans forward and starts talking with his hands, “he always made you smile, like it was his job —and he just—” Taeil cuts himself off and sighs, sitting back against groaning leather. “He was always there and willing to help any one of us out.” He pauses, fingers laced and placed in his lap, eyes focused on the edge of the table.

“There was…” Taeil pauses and clears his throat, but doesn’t move to look at Sicheng. “Around six months before the accident, Yuta went through…” Sicheng watches Taeil’s jaw clench and his adam’s apple bob when he swallows. “He went through a—a rough patch would be an understatement.”

“What happened?” The moment it leaves his mouth, Sicheng sits up straight with wide eyes. “Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, hand hovering over his chin. “It wasn’t my place to ask.”

The elder gives an understanding smile and shakes his head. “It’s okay, really.” Taeil finally looks Sicheng in the eyes, covered in a thick, glassey layer, and Sicheng feels his throat constrict.

“He was going through some shit,” Taeil continues, voice weak. “And he didn’t bring it up to any of us, not really. He had mentioned it a few times, when it was recent, but other than that he kept quiet. He wasn’t the kind of person to open up to others. Not willingly.” Sicheng feels a lightning bolt crack through his spine when Taeil says, his voice cracking at the end, “And, sometimes, I was, honest to God, worried I would lose him.” Taeil looks down at his hands, sniffles and takes a deep breath.

“But suddenly, there was…” Taeil bites his lip, eyes still focused on his fingers. “It was like the weight of it was lifted off of him, layer by layer. And he started smiling again, God, he was laughing with us all.” Taeil leans back in the chair, looking at Sicheng now. “Something just came over him, and I don’t know who or what to thank that for. That—” Taeil’s voice quivers along with his bottom lip. “That he got to be happy again , before he passed.” His voice is barely a whisper now. “I’m so grateful.”

Taeil huffs out a short, embarrassed laugh, fingers running under his eyes and wiping up tears. “God, ’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he manages, and Sicheng realizes that his cheeks and neck are soaked and he quickly pats at them with his sweater sleeves.

“No, no, you’re okay.” It bubbles out of his mouth, voice broken, and he makes no attempt to fix it. “He sounds… extraordinary,” he settles. “I wish I could have met him.”

Taeil nods, tears still sitting on his waterline. “I think he would have liked you.”

It’s the day after Sicheng talked with Taeil.

It’s a sunny day, but it’s nowhere near warm, the cold still biting through Sicheng’s thin sweatshirt as he stands on the sidewalk in front of the Seven Eleven. He eyes trace the neon Open 24 Hours! sign, dull in the bright sun, gaze running over the flyers taped to the outside window to the concrete, faint skid marks now visible against the asphalt in the daylight. He pulls his eyes from the ground and glances back at the building, and he finds his eyes drifting back to the payphone he’d spotted a month ago.

Sicheng doesn’t remember himself walking closer, but he’s here, staring at old, dried and wilted flowers at the base, a single sharpie marker sitting inside a bucket along with letters inside envelopes, rain stained and gray, the papers worn and wrinkled and never to be opened. When his eyes land on a small, framed photo leaning against the coin slot, Sicheng feels overwhelmed by the realization that this was a memorial.

Yuta’s memorial.

The photo is different from the one he had seen in the article. Instead of an apartment kitchen sink filling the background, there’s a solid gray background, and Yuta now wears a pale blue button down instead of a white band shirt. But it’s the same smile, gums on display and dark eyes barely hidden by small crescents, and Sicheng feels a warmth spread in his chest when he thinks of Yuta’s laugh.

The cool blast of air that hits Sicheng when he steps inside the store makes him shiver and he rubs his sleeved hands over his arms. He finds himself staring at the candy racks, more out of habit than wanting a treat, but his eyes land on an obscure yet familiar white chocolate candy brand.

‘ How have you never had white chocolate before? ’ Yuta sighs over the phone.

‘Why would I even want to try it?’ Sicheng shoots back, scribbling notes onto flash cards as he talks. ‘It isn’t even real chocolate.’

‘ Exactly, that’s why it’s so fucking superior to your simple little chocolate bars. ’ He hears a shuffle as Yuta comes closer to the mic. ‘ It’s literally crafted , while normal chocolate is just found. In the dirt. Probably covered in shit. ’

‘What the fuck ever, Yuta.’ Sicheng scoffs, as Yuta sing-songs:  ‘ You’re literally eating shit. ’

'Do you ever shut the fuck up?’

‘ Just try it sometime ,’ Yuta coaxes. ‘ You’ll thank me later. ’

Sicheng laughs in exasperation and goes back to hit notecards, grumbling, ‘Not in a million years.’

When he steps back out, a cloud has covered the sun and Sicheng is certain it’s dropped at least another degree in the time he had been inside. He makes his way back to the memorial, staring down at the photo, a white chocolate candy bar halfway shucked from its wrapper in his fist as he slowly chews with a blank expression. He mulls over the overbearing sweetness, the chewy rice crispy and crunchy almonds, and an artificial aftertaste he can’t put his finger on. Once he swallows his bite, Sicheng pulls the crinkling wrapper back over the bar and places it on the ledge, next to the photo.

“Tastes like shit,” he murmurs, never breaking eye contact with the photo, and there’s a strange tugging in his chest that he tries to expel with a sigh.

He reaches around into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out the receipt he had haphazardly shoved inside and attempts to smooth out the wrinkles and creases against his thigh. Grabbing the sharpie sitting in the letter bucket, he places the receipt against the brick of the building, scrawling his number on the back of it. Giving Yuta one last look, Sicheng bites at the dead skin of his lip and folds the receipt, black ink smudging against his finger tips, slipping it inside the coin slot of the payphone.