Chanel's Fics

Until Then: Take Care Take Care, Take Care - ChanKai

UNTIL THEN: TAKE CARE, TAKE CARE, TAKE CARE

PART 1

In the passenger seat is a map. It's new and glossy, having only been unfolded once and then refolded to show the region Jongin will need help navigating. There's a GPS device in the passenger seat as well. The night before, Jongin spent nearly an hour trying to attach the damn thing to the dashboard; he nearly pummeled it out of the window in the end. The map and GPS device are useless without the two envelopes occupying the seat along them. One is thick, containing several pages worth of legal documents given to Jongin by Chanyeol's lawyer, Choi Sanghoon. There's a faint outline of a key in one corner. The other envelope is thin and contains a one-page letter from Park Chanyeol himself.

Jongin's palms are clammy. The denim of his jeans feel coarse against the skin. He stares at the grime covered wall through the window shield. Jongin feels empty. He puts the key in the ignition and turns it, flooding the wall with light. He's leaving Seoul.

"It's well-kept," Choi Sanghoon had said, both sounding and looking bored as he handed Jongin the thick envelope. "It shouldn't be difficult to sell, despite the location. You won't miss it, it's the only house around there."

When Jongin finally reaches the crossroad, it's already five hours since he left Seoul. The light from the sun still lingers despite day pushing towards evening, easily allowing Jongin to make out the dirt road that leads up to the property, and the line of trees behind it. Once the house comes into full view, he slows down, looking up at it. According to Choi Sanghoon, it was built in the mid-seventies, heavily influenced by Western styles. Jongin only notices the blue front door.

He hasn't brought much with him. The water and electricity are still going strong—Chanyeol set away money for both to be paid posthumously for six months—and Jongin doesn't plan on staying for more than a week at most, albeit taking off two weeks from work. Sometimes, being a workaholic has its merits.

At the last gas station marked off on his map—the GPS had turned into little else than unnamed roads and green stretches of nothing at that point—Jongin had picked up instant noodles, some fruit, and several large bottles of water. Tomorrow, he'll drive into the town a few miles over to do some proper grocery shopping.

He scrambles the envelopes together from the passenger seat along with the GPS, and hefts his duffel bag and the plastic bag from the gas station. After a small struggle, the door unlocks and swings out with a whine.

You know how every house has its own smell? And how this smell clings to the person who lives there and, somehow, it'll be the most comforting thing; almost like it's welcoming you, bringing you into its warmth and slowly clinging to you as well, if only for a little while. This house has a smell, too. Not of dust, for it hasn't been lonely long enough for that, but it smells like Chanyeol, or that's what Jongin assumes. It's not what he remembers from his childhood—the place he'd always considered a second home—but it's Chanyeol, nevertheless.

It smells of every day, every routine, every breakfast and lunch and dinner and midnight snack, of soap and detergent and summers and winters and springs and falls, of every little thing that makes up a person. Every thing that says, 'I live here'. Chanyeol lived here for seven years.

Jongin stands in the hallway motionless, the duffel's strap chafing into his shoulder, the plastic ropes of the bag digging into his fingers.

It doesn't feel empty. No-one has lived here for five weeks—no-one has set foot inside this door—yet it doesn't feel empty. It's almost as if Jongin expects Chanyeol to walk up to him, greet him like no time has passed, and then continue to go about his business. Jongin sighs. It rattles slightly in his chest, like his lungs are filled with the gray grime from the garage park's walls. He toes off his shoes and continues into the living-room, the kitchen.