Realizing he was staring, he averted his eyes from the mound of worn jackets and scarves.
Quickly, he padded down his pants for a wallet. Pulling it out and opening the fold, he had to wonder why exactly he still had so many bills in his wallet; but he was glad he did.
He walked over to the outstretched hands, and pressed a thick band of cash into the gloves. At this, the person looked up, surprised at the generosity.
He didn't feel generous, though, for it was only on his dying day that he committed such a sum to another human. And, to be honest, it wasn't that much at all.
"Thank you." By the voice, he could tell the person was a man.
"Uhm," he replied, "no problem." But he didn't feel ready to leave yet.
"Can I maybe sit with you for a moment?" He asked the man. And the man nodded.
Together they sat against the cold wall, watching the other humans walk by as if they were invisible. Perhaps they were. He watched as the man continued to hold out his hands, and, every so often, the man received a little something.
But maybe all the man truly wanted was a smile. Some acknowledgement. Proof that he was human, too.
"How old do I look?" The man abruptly turned to his companion.
He looked at the man. His skin was dark with dust and scabs. His face was rough from the harsh winds and constant exposure. Shadows of black strands dotted his chin. "30?" He guessed. The man laughed, but he couldn't tell how sincere it was.
So, "how old are you?" He asked. "20," the man sighed. But, he realized, the man could barely be called a man.
"Oh," was all he said.
"Yeah," the man laughed, "I know I look a lot older."
Then he had an idea. "Hey," he started, dropping the honorifics, "what's one compliment you love receiving?"
And the man smiled with quite the nostalgic lean. "That it's okay that I'm alive, and that I deserve to be alive."
Oh.
He wasn't expecting that: something quite so profoundly morbid. Yet, still, he gave the compliment the man most desired.
"It is okay that you are alive, and I know that you deserve to be alive."
And they just looked at each other. A worn and rugged face at the beginning of life: a smooth and bright face at his final hours.
"Thank you, Hyung," the man said.
And they embraced. A hug, quick, firm, until they parted.
"I have to go," he said sadly, "but what is your name?"
"Jongho," his chapped and bloodied lips stuck around the words, "my name is Choi Jongho."
YOU ARE READING
Twenty-Four Hours || k.hj
FanfictionHongjoong knew the moment he awoke; he that knew today was the day. His twenty four hours. °°° The body which had been his for over twenty five years suddenly seemed peculiar to use. Memories suffused his mind, memories he thought had been long lost...
