Chapter Text
27th February,
Gaon comes and goes, a little like a ghost, but Yohan stays. He sits by my bed and feeds me soup and water, and he doesn’t say much, but he’s there to wipe my forehead and bring a hot water bottle. He’s there to help me to the bathroom and bring me a change of clothes. He’s there when I fall asleep and he’s there when I wake up in cold sweats, and he’s there in a way that he’s never really been there before, and it’s not an unwelcome change. Change is the right word for it. Change is not always bad.
And he really doesn’t say much. He asks simple questions — “Does your head hurt?” or “How long have you been reading that book?”, and then he says simple things — “Don’t worry about your classes, I’ve notified your professors that you’re unwell” and “We’ll be just fine, Elijah.”
Gaon comes and goes with paperwork for Yohan and welcomes me with simple questions which require simple answers. If he stays for long enough, he talks to Yohan quietly while I’m resting, and once —only once— he held Yohan tenderly and my uncle didn’t pull away. Exhaustion weighed on him and he leaned into the embrace, and Gaon whispered when he thought I was sleeping, “You’re doing well. Isaac and Heejin know you’re doing well.”
That was the night that I dreamt well. My illness had subsided significantly by then, and I was at home. Mum was helping me strategically build our own kingdom where I was the Queen, Dad was the royal chef, and Yohan was the royal guard. It wasn’t entirely made up — we really did create our own kingdom, I remember that. The difference was a new addition to the palace: Gaon as the royal advisor. Dad was in the kitchen and Yohan hadn’t finished up work yet, so he wasn’t there.
It was such a simple dream. We just sat at the table in a mutual quiet and ate dinner. We had fruit for dessert, and then we went to the living room to play a board game. That was the dream. Sitting down as a family.
The dream brings me to today. In the morning, I make my way to the kitchen where Yohan is making breakfast and Gaon is leaning against the counter with an amused smile.
“Morning sleepyhead,” he says, and I smile back at him.
“Food is almost ready,” Yohan says.
“You know your uncle still can’t make egg rolls? I will admit, his food is a lot better than when he first started, but there are still a few discrepancies there.”
I think of my dad, but say nothing.
Yohan asks, “Did you sleep alright?” and I hum. Simple answers for simple questions.
Breakfast is plated and we all sit at the table to eat. There’s only room for simple questions and simple answers since the overhanging question goes unanswered. We eat quietly apart from the clanging of cutlery against dishes until we’re finished and we all let out a satisfied sigh from the full meal.
Yohan and Gaon give each other these surreptitious glances they think I can’t see, but I don’t say anything. I drink my juice and do what I’m good at; wait.
Yohan turns to me and clears his throat. His face looks better rested than it did three days ago, but there is still something troublesome in him.
“We need to talk,” Yohan starts with, and honestly, that’s never a great sentence starter. It’s blunt and harsh around the edges in usual Yohan fashion, and I find it in me wanting to scoff. I don’t.
Gaon stands up. “I’m going to head out.”
“Stay,” Yohan insists.
“This is a conversation for the two of you.”
I suppose I’m too tired to decipher any of what’s being said, but that doesn’t pass me by.
“Stay,” I say now. “Please.”
Gaon smiles gently, but something is different there, diary. It’s his easy smile, but not his smile of resignation.
“This is a conversation for only the two of you. Don’t worry, I’ll only be in the garden. That way you won’t miss me too much.”
The door to the back garden opens and closes gently. It’s just me and Yohan now, diary.
He doesn’t look me directly in the eye, but he breathes in deeply and he puts it plainly. He tells me that he can’t answer my question, not because his answer won’t satisfy me, but because he doesn’t know the answer himself. He tells me what he does know instead.
“Everyone is dying, Elijah.” It hits bluntly and harshly around the edges. Typical, typical Yohan. “With every second we spend on this godforsaken Earth, cells die and die and they die again and again, and we can’t stop that. We can’t control that, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t try.”
And that’s when he lifts his eyes to look at me, and diary, I’ve never seen Yohan cry. He’s a bit of an ugly crier even though he isn't sobbing. Red watery eyes and a few more wrinkles show up on his forehead.
“I’m going to try. I’m going to stay alive for as long as this Earth lets me, and even when it puts me in a coffin, I promise I’ll come out of it kicking and screaming. You know how good I am at making a scene.”
And the stupid guy makes me cry as well. “Why?” I ask.
He takes my hand, and he goes even more red as he utters, “Because… because my niece promised me that no one can kill me but herself. So I have to stay alive until she says so. So, Elijah, am I dying?”
He wipes my tears from my cheeks and smiles. He does what every Kang is good at and he waits. Waits until I can get a hold of myself, waits until the shaking in my hands subsides, waits for me to give the command.
I breathe, and in as steady a breath as I can manage, I tell him, “Not today.”
His grip tightens on my hands and he nods. “Okay. I’m not dying today.”
And things are lighter today, diary. The sky is bright in that greyish way, and Yohan plays Jenga with Gaon and I. And my chest is still aching, but it’s not as suffocating anymore. The question of the feathers still goes unanswered, and I vow, I will get to the bottom of that, but today is another day where Yohan is alive, and Gaon is smiling, and for once, it doesn’t feel like something is missing. As I fall asleep, in my heart a little birdsong sings because none of us are dying today. None of us. (And that includes you, diary.)
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm,
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest Sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
— Hope is a thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson.