Life is but a Dream {ChenJi} | ongoing

four

Chenle can still feel the food in his stomach at bedtime. He ate what he could, then more, then some more, choking it down while Taeyong and Johnny smiled and gave subtle praise. There was ice cream for dessert and Chenle ate some of that too. About to go in for seconds, he hit the wall. The room span and the lights burnt his eyes and Donghyuck's squawking was too much to handle. His spoon clattered against his bowl, chiming like the final warning bells, a scream for him to get out. Johnny had to sit with him on the sofa for an hour to make sure he didn't throw up in the bathroom.

Midnight is already close. Chenle sneaks downstairs, breath held, ears alert and tongue ready to make an excuse if someone were to catch him out of bed. He hears the faint clicking of a keyboard in Jeno's room, a pencil scratching paper in Renjun's, murmurs from Johnny and Taeyong. Silence from Jisung, he notes, lingering a second longer outside his room. He wonders what the room looks like, if Jisung's emotions have already turned the room into his own. It took half an hour for Chenle's to spill onto the walls, to ruffle the bedsheets, to turn the desk into a minefield. But then he was angry. And the house fought back. Jisung had barely lifted a finger all evening, so much so that the house doesn't seem to have noticed his presence, and he had no humour to offer. Not even in the sarcastic, depressive way of the others.

He anticipates the cold of the floor tiles but it never comes, but he walks faster anyway. He grabs the key off the hook in the kitchen, then slides back the patio door and slips into the night. Even through the dark, he locates his grubby Converses that haven't fit him for years. He doesn't bother with the laces. The stars twinkle down at him and promise to keep this a secret. The wind blows against his cheeks and he's eager to cross the grass to safety, to where no one can see him and to where no one ever joins him.

There's an apple tree down the end of the garden, by the fence on the left. The shed is on the right, and Chenle has never seen inside but knows from Johnny's complaints that it's full of forgotten bicycles and broken gardening tools. The grass is freshly mown, the rose bush perfect and in full bloom. The red petals gleam in the moonlight, conscious of their beauty. Many moons ago, Chenle had spent some time with the roses before climbing the tree. He'd felt the smooth petals under his fingers until a thorn pricked him. His blood ran as crimson as the new bud just opening.

Climbing the tree used to be hard. Chenle doesn't know what encouraged him to do it in the first place because he's never seen any of his brothers climb it, nor has anyone ever even mentioned the presence of the tree. They don't pick the apples when they're ripe. They don't make use of the shade the branches offer in the heat of summer. But Chenle climbs it with ease, hooking a leg over a branch and gripping another to hoist himself to the top as though the tree was made for him, then leans against the trunk and looks out over the garden.

The house resembles a painting from his perch. It's a fuzzy blend of brick and roof tiles and glass that shines under the moonlight. His breath turns to fog in front of his face. As the breath dissolves away, the house shimmers in its wake as though swaying like a reflection on the surface of a pond. The chairs arranged on the patio are like those of a dollhouse. An animal, likely a fox, darts across the grass and disappears into the bushes, never to be seen again, and Chenle wishes his life were that easy.

Closing his eyes he exhales, then opens them again to see sparks across his vision. His stomach lurches and he swallows hard. He thinks of Julie's encouragement; he would never forgive himself if he let her down now. The breeze picks up once more and a branch sways, a red apple hanging mere inches from his nose like a carrot to a donkey. He's tempted, raises a hand to reach for it. For a second he hesitates, before ultimately giving in because he always gives in to the temptation of food, and plucks the apple from the stalk.

It's heavier than expected – nothing like the apples in the fruit bowl – and the thick, red skin gleams, smooth under his tired thumb. It smells waxy and tastes sweeter than any fruit he's ever had before. The sugar soothes him, rests his upturned stomach, settles a cosy fog over his mind. He takes a second bite and an even bigger third, not caring for the juice that dries sticky on his fingertips. As he eats, he watches the house. His eyes waver from window to window, imagining what his brothers are doing, then settle on Jaemin's room with the pink curtains. The core is all that remains of the fruit but he continues to nibble, and doesn't notice the seed until he chews and it splinters. Bitter marzipan pricks his tongue and he chews harder to swallow and get rid of it, sad to lose the honey taste of the apple.

The taste of almonds doesn't fade. Rather it intensifies and Chenle runs his tongue over his teeth. He wants another apple, and just as the thought emerges the branches almost lean towards him upon request. He doesn't notice the core drop to the grass. Reaching to pick another, his arm grows too heavy and drops back to his side, and his legs flop from the branch and he slumps against the trunk, blinking slowly towards the house. He's stubborn, but doesn't fight the new easiness that his bones succumb to.

Jaemin's pink curtains glow, pulsing with their own light. Chenle watches, heart beating too fast considering the dead weight of his limbs, and the next time he blinks his eyes don't open again. But he can see inside Jaemin's room. Jaemin is unrecognisable, a mere lump under the covers surrounded by countless stuffed bunnies of all shapes, colours and sizes. His desk lamp is still on. The orange glow gives away how his body trembles and curls up impossibly tighter. Colours – images – flash and spiral and Chenle nearly falls off his branch, steadying himself just as he watches Jaemin back into a corner. Shadows swallow the room. Other shadows, equally sinister, dart across the garden. His vision swims, his limbs are paralysed, the bitter apple seed is all he can taste, and when he swallows it only comes back stronger. Jaemin throws off the covers and sits up. His hair is a mess, flushed cheeks still plump from childhood, wide eyes roving around the room as his tiny fingers clutch the bunny to his chest. Chenle watches, breathless and silent. He calls Jaemin's name, but the wind strokes his cheeks with its long, wispy, curling fingers that promise freshness but leave a chill under his skin once they carry the word away.

Child Jaemin screams. There's someone in the room with him. The wind roars through Chenle's ears to mask their voice, and the tree shakes to get rid of him but he doesn't budge despite the protests. Jaemin pleads, face the very mask of terror, and his body shakes, becomes one with the walls as he shuffles back and pulls his knees to his chest, eyes peeking over the top. The shadows circle like crows to prey, their squawks competing with Jaemin's cries for it all to stop.

Chenle doesn't know what happens next. He blinks again and Jaemin's bedroom light turns on, the curtains glowing brighter to reveal the silhouette of whoever enters his room. Voices fade in and out of focus. The bunny has tumbled to the floor, forgotten amongst Jaemin's nightmare. Johnny is there to help. He bundles Jaemin to his chest, bedsheets and all, and kisses his forehead and rocks him back to sleep, dabbing the sweat from his skin.

Chenle stares at his hands. They don't feel like his own anymore. He notices the creases that cut across his palms, then flips them over to see his ridged knuckles. His skin is papery under the moonlight. He looks up at the stars and they don't twinkle anymore. They're a spattering of paint, mess from the carelessness of the artist. Chenle takes another apple. A voice tells him to. Chewing carefully, he realises it's the wind, not a voice, that talks to him. The second seed doesn't surprise him so much and this time he lets the taste linger.

His body surrenders easier this time, too. His skin prickles all over in anticipation, and his thoughts are soon engulfed by the haze of colours. This time there are no shadows, only grey at the end. The bedroom walls are white, not yet painted to preference, but turn a muted grey in the dark, as do the curtains and the heap of clothes overflowing from the one duffel bag the occupant brought with him. Jisung lays in bed as though stargazing in his sleep. Unlike Jaemin, he doesn't move.

He doesn't dream, either.

✧˖° 🍦 🫧 ❀

I love posting but sometimes writing is hard but I have to write in order to post??!! That doesn't seem fair xD