(for baekmebacon) Rêverie part i
For: baekmebacon
Title: Rêverie
Genre: romance, angst, drama
Rating: R
Side-Pairing: onesided!lukai
Warnings: vulgar language, substance abuse
Length: 14,000 words
Summary: Just hold on, we're going home.
Notes: I don't know what I'm doing. Happy kaisoo everyone! Cheers!
I
He experienced his first encounter when he was ten after flattening an animal with his front tire. To be frank, he didn’t mean to kill it; the squirrel came out of nowhere when his bicycle tire flattened the poor critter. After tumbling off his bike, he crawled to the bloody body lying still on the hot summer pavement, tears dripping down from the small boy’s face. Water blurring his vision, he looked up at the plastic red slide across the park wishing he could go back in time and play with the other kids instead of becoming a murderer. His eyes squinted as the tears intensely stung his delicate eyes. A loud wailing could be heard for blocks and not one person stopped to console the poor kid.
He wiped away his tears with his snot-stained sleeve when he noticed the skies becoming suppressed with an impenetrable murkiness. He waved off the ebony entrails that snuck up to his face and encompassed his body, to which he found it to be cold as ice against his palm. The dark haze became more prominent to a point where he could barely see anything directly in front of him, and he wailed to try and supersede the noisiness of the wind that he didn’t notice was there. He doesn’t remember it being windy earlier, but the invasive dust barraged his face and he brought his tiny hands to his face to shield himself.
The tears stopped thankfully, but his face was cold and his palms were sweating ice, knees pinned to the sun-worn concrete. A dark figure loomed in front of him and reached out to the small boy kneeling on the ground and gently caressed his alabaster cheeks. Though he couldn’t distinguish at hand with his eyes, he undoubtedly felt the bony and frigid fingers linger across his face as if it were an actual person. A small thumb stroked his cheek and pulled away shortly after, leaning down to the lifeless bloodied animal in front of him.
A white wisp relinquished the body and danced around the smoky black figure, eventually making its way to the remorseful boy. It hesitated before coming closer to the boy and he reached out his hand to touch it. It was warm contrary to the ghostly figure that had caressed him a moment ago. The wisp intertwined with the boys fingers, warmth bringing the pink back to his cheeks. The wisp fell out of the boy’s delicate hands and slowly dissipated into the black haze.
The wind came to a stop and the thick mist slowly died out along with the shadow figure, revealing the bright sun that struck down on the vacant Seoul park. He sat there on the walkway confused with his hand still out in front of him, dried tears leaving devoid trails across his face and when he looked down, he couldn’t help but let out a shrill scream.
The squirrel was gone.
~
He tried his hardest to not let the water building up escape his eyes. His lip was bruised from his teeth grinding onto his bottom lip, scabs and dead skin clinging onto his plump mouth. Echoes of society creep into his thoughts as he clings onto the bed sheets, whispers telling him to be brave and to not let the tears drip down his face.
With this inner conflict raging in his head, he let a single droplet dripped down his flushed cheeks. One turned into two and two turned into three droplets. He couldn’t handle it anymore, the sight of the one he loves most is dying right in front of him and he can’t do anything to save them. The sound of the respirator machine echoed throughout the room and was the only source of sound between the two of them. Her breathing was hard and heavy, chest rising and collapsing prominently.
“Mom, please don’t abandon me in this world,” he pleaded, hand gripping her hand tighter, bringing it up to his wet face. “I have no one else left in this world.”
Her tired eyes gazed over to her son, tears welling in her tear ducts as well.
“I’m not going anywhere honey,” she whispered huskily. Her hand caressed his face, bringing back a distant and haunting familiarity.
Her icy palm held her boy’s cheek, stroking her thumb across his cheek to wipe away the sorrow that trickled down his innocent face.
“Promise?” He murmured. A smile was the only response she gave, one that reassured and frightened the teenager at the same time. Burying his head into sterile hospital sheets, droplets crept down his face and covered them with snot. Running her fingers through his dark locks in an effort to comfort him, his mother cooed him until his sobbing came to a halt. Jongin’s eyes grew heavier, caving into the lethargic medley of Hypnos’ murmurs.
Overcome by despair and melancholy, he soon slipped out of reality and hoped to be taken to a place where there was no pain or fear or corruptness. He just wanted to go home.
~
It was windy. He doesn’t remember it being windy beforehand.
Crusted eyes slowly opened to view pitch-black room, the only source of light being from the life-support machines. Countless nights were spent here and yet he couldn’t recall it being this disturbingly dingy. Reaching for a light switch, he fumbled with wires and buttons for different machines until he sighed with submission. The darkness was better anyway.
Panic set in as wind picked up a considerable amount since he awoke and he had a hard time hearing his own thoughts over the storm of black smoke. Legs paralyzed, he didn’t have the energy to run away and escape the recurring terrors.
“Who’s there?” He clamored quickly, though it was useless since his voice drowned in the deafening wind. His hand never left his mothers and he squeezed her hand to wake up. “Mom, wake up! Something’s wrong.” He shook her hand, but there was no response.
“Mom please,” he pleaded, “wake up.” A string of tears hot fell from his eyes consecutively; he couldn’t hold back anymore.
Cold slender fingers inched along his wrist, causing him to flinch but nonetheless relentlessly held his mother’s hand tightly. The phantom’s hand pried stubborn fingers away one by one and a sinking lump formed in the back of his throat.
“No! You can’t take her!” He screamed, clutching her hand again. The icy hand reached for him again and rested on top of the teenager’s and his mother’s bounded fingers.
“It’s time. She is home,” the shadow’s high-pitched voice soothed. He gently removed his hand away from his mothers. It was defeat, the teenager knew, but he couldn’t go down without a fight.
He hunched against in his plastic chair in defeat as the wind calmed to a breeze and a golden fog emerged out of the obscure cloud. It permeated the room with a deafening silence and a flabbergasted Jongin couldn’t help but gawk at the brilliant yellow light. The wisp floated its way to the boy and paused in front of his face. Corrupt thoughts and sinister feelings vanished at the sight of the light, bringing a soothing comfort and slowing down his pounding heart. The familiar warmth brought Jongin back to a memory he couldn’t shake nor did he want to try to recollect.
In a fleeting moment, the golden fog mixed in with the black haze until it dissipated completely.
Moments after it faded, Jongin swore he caught a glimpse of a small apparition standing idly across the room. Only this time, it wasn’t the phantom figure like last time.
Instead, it was a child. And he was holding a dead squirrel.
~
“Fuck you Jongin.”
“Yeah, I’d bet you like to,” he spits back to his mildly annoying friend, taking a swig of vodka from his red cup. The music is loud and there are people crowding his personal space next to him. Floral perfumes mingle with the musky cologne, which induce a nauseating headache for Jongin; though it was nothing that a large amount of vodka couldn’t fix.
He’s lounging on a tattered musty auburn couch with a drink in his left hand and a girl on his right. He doesn’t know her name. He never knows their names. Was it Sooyoung? Soohyun? He’s pretty sure it’s Sungjoo, but since he is too drunk to remember or care he just calls her pet names to be safe.
Their fingers are intertwining and before Jongin knows it, the petite girl climbs onto his lap and straddles him, snaking her slender arms around his broad shoulders. Slowly grinding to the music against his lap. She leads his hand to her upper thigh to bring up her skirt, revealing a creamy patch of white of skin. Giving her a gentle smile, he traces his fingers up her thigh and stops until he gets to her laced panties. With the tips of his fingers, he hooks onto the hem of her panties and tugs at them slightly. She giggles, as they all do.
Gazing up at her soft features and pale pink lips, he finds it hard to resist temptation as he feels his pants painfully tightening. Tilting his head slightly, he leans up to touch his lips with hers, blocking out the blaring noises of cynical laughs and empty promises. Lowering her head to meet his, Jongin takes that as a sign of consent and parted his lips, inching closer and closer. Barely grazing her lips, he is surprisingly interrupted by his mildly annoying roommate who pulls his head back from behind.
“Hey, what the hell?” He moans irritatingly. He turns his head around to see Zhang Yixing, a Chinese exchange student that he met during freshman year of high school and has been living with since then. To say the least, Jongin gives him the benefit of the doubt when he’s being a pain in the ass because it could be just a “cultural difference.” That’s what he likes to tell himself at least. Generally, cock blocking is a fundamental and universal rule friends don’t do to each other, and Zhang Yixing is the quintessence of a non-conformist.
“Let’s go home dude, I tried making a move on this chick and she spilled her drink on me.”
“Can’t you s-see I’m busy?” Jongin gestures toward Soojung.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” She seductively asks, turning Jongin’s face back to hers and grinding her pelvis deeper into his lap.
“Nothing, don’t worry.” He smiles lazily at her before turning back to Yixing.
“Get the f-fuck outta here, we’ll go home later.” He slurs.
“We’re going now.” Yixing demands, yanking the cup out of his hand and hurling it on the ground, soaking the dirt infested rug underneath. There’s an audience now, eyes shifting to the drunken girl on the couch on top of an even more drunken Jongin. He stands up heatedly, causing Soojung to fall on top of crushed beer cans and burnt out cigarette buds. Wobbling over to his roommate, he reaches out to grab his shirt collar, but misses by only a few inches.
“F-fine dude. Whatever. S-Soohyun is coming with us.”
“It’s Soojung.” The drunken girl corrects, scowling at Jongin with her beady eyes.
“Yeah whatever.” Jongin waves off.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to drive home? You looked pretty fucked up.” Sehun ambles over to Jongin, raising his eyebrow when he sees a trotting Sungjoo following behind.
“Ye-yeah man it’s all good.” Jongin drags out, arm wrapped around the younger girl. “It’s only-y down the s-street.” He lazily grinned, pulling Sungjoo even closer to him.
“Whatever dude.”
The three partygoers stumble out of Sehun’s house and into Jongin’s 2010 black Toyota Camry. Yixing directs Jongin to sit in the backseat with Soojung because he apparently doesn’t want to “risk ruining his favorite shirt” if Jongin decides to show him every alcoholic beverage he drank that night.
Soojung cuddles next to Jongin in the backseat, bringing her palm over Jongin’s crotch and gently massages it. His breathing quickens and he felt cold at his head and hands, with all the heat traveling south in his body. This is wrong, he thought. Yixing is driving and he’s letting a girl give him a hard on in the backseat. To be frank, Jongin would’ve let her blow him if she wanted to. The amount of shits Jongin gives when he’s drunk is little to none and he won’t stop
Yixing starts turns the key in the ignition and the car is brought to life with a haunting vibration. Winding and weaving throughout the booming streets of a moonless Seoul night, Yixing is driving a little more erratically than normal. Warnings from Jongin didn’t stop him from slowing and down and he sped up to try and break his record on the time it took to get home.
“Yixing, slow down you’re gonna get us killed!” Jongin barked, Soojung glaring at him with distress and apprehensions.
“Jongin, what’s wr-“
“I’m not even going that fast just calm down man.” Turning to look at Jongin in the back, he spun the wheel too sharp and slammed into something that must’ve been made of cement.
Jongin’s vision zeroes in on Sungjoo’s body lying lifeless through the windshield.
And then, nothing.
~
Jongin awakes in minutes, maybe hours later with vomit trickling up his throat. He crawls out of the front seat to escape the toxicity of the situation and spills out his insides on the side of the road. A thin layer of sweat and alcohol coats his skin, but he can’t feel anything else besides the stickiness of his neck and the bitter taste of iron that won’t leave his mouth no matter how much he swallows. Crumbles of asphalt stick to the side of his face as he lays on his stomach motionless on the desolate street, praying that he’ll be with his mom the next time he wakes up. After all, it’s not like this is an unfamiliar feeling to him; to be left stranded in a cold and cruel world.
It’s quiet. The sound of the cold March air and his own breathing is the only thing that is keeping him from completely passing out. He twists his head to look at the pulverized wreckage and sighs internally, realizing that everything Jongin has come to love and know about the world has been ripped out of his hands like a weak and puny child.
Drifting in and out of conscienceless, he hears footsteps nearing him in a quickly manner. Grinning to himself, he can never get what he wants. Shouts of “Hello?” and “Are you okay?” are heard from every direction, he’s not even sure if the voice is right next to him or not.
His body is rolled over to his back and Jongin is momentarily happy he didn’t black out yet. Kneeling over him is a man about his age, maybe a few years younger than him. Fear and doubt fills his eyes and he raises his palm to Jongin’s forehead to brush away the hair from the bloody gash mixed with sweat and dirt. His eyes are dark, just like Jongin’s, but they have an innocence to them like a child. The stranger gives him a heart-shaped smile to comfort him and Jongin can’t help but smile weakly back.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he tells Jongin, “stay with me.” Blackness is taking over his vision, eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. Sleep is inviting him and begging him to give in. “What’s your name?”
“Kim Jongin,” he croaks, taking a deep inhale of the crisp air.
“My name is Kyungsoo. You’ll be okay, just don’t fall asleep,” Kyungsoo reassures, taking a portable pack of tissues from his pocket and wipes away the dirt and sorrows from Jongin’s injured face.
“Wanna get a drink after this?” Jongin proffers, corners of his mouth showing a sly smirk. “I’m okay, I just need a minute to sleep an-“
“No,” Kyungsoo interrupts, “you need medical attention. We can talk about drinks afterwards.”
“That’s not fair,” he whines, voice growing quitter with each response. “Just one drink.” He can feel the blackness taking over him and he can’t help but give into his demanding desires. “Are you going to leave?”
“No, I’ll stay here with you,” Kyungsoo smiles as he takes Jongin’s hand as he slips into a place far from this world. Somewhere where Jongin hopes he never wakes up from.
~
It’s windy. He doesn’t remember it being windy beforehand. Scattering his hand in this direction and that direction, he dazedly searches for a light switch. Pressing numerous buttons and fiddling with different cords, he meekly surrenders with a groaning sigh. The darkness never bothered him anyway.
A bony hand is resting on top of his, a thumb stroking gently back and forth for reassurance. Hot tears coat a thin layer of perplexity on his skin, dripping down onto the fabrics beneath him. He doesn’t know why he’s calling out for his mom or why he’s telling her not to leave. Searching for a familiar body in the darkness other than the hand resting with his, he stops when his hand finds the edge of the bed.
He’s alone. Head hitting against the pillow behind him, he’s petrified of the phantom hand holding his as he lies still in the confines of a stingy hospital bed.
“Where am I?” Jongin whimpers.
“You’re safe,” a familiar voice replies, “I’m here with you.”
“I want to go home.”
The wind turns into a gradual breeze and the cold fingers escape Jongin’s grasp, leaving Jongin deserted in the black abyss of his consciousness.
“We’ll be there one day.”
~
A merciless fluorescent light awakens Jongin from his deep slumber. His face looks to dig into something rough and unforgiving, but instead finds a bleach-scented pillow under him. He doesn’t want to wake up unless he’s in a different world or somebody else, but he never gets what he wants. Antiseptics and various chemicals leave his mouth dry as he consciously listens to the compelling melody of the heart monitor. The hard stiff sheets cover his yellow and purple imperfections that blemish his body and he is glad they are hidden from his view. Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, he lets out a petulant groan and the nurse turns around in surprise.
“Mr. Kim! You’re awake!” She exclaims, pacing over to his side to check the machines beside him. “You had quite a night, didn’t you?”
“What happened?” He mumbles weakly.
“You were involved in a car accident last night. Your injuries aren’t too severe, just a couple of minor bruises and fractures in your left wrist. However, your blood alcohol level was well above the legal and safety limit,” her expression softens and she rests her palm on top of his neon green cast. “There’s something you need to know Mr. Kim, and I’m truly sorry, but your girlfriend Soojung passed away last night.”
“Oh,” Is the only thing Jongin can say. Normally people feel sad or upset that someone they know is gone, but Jongin can’t help but feel nothing. Gazing at the petite nurse, who strikingly resembled Soojung with her jet-black hair and plump pink lips, he wonders why he was spared to live on in this hell of a world. He glances down at his constricting armor, as Jongin likes to think, and studies the nurse’s delicate small fingers. Peering up at her, she gives him an aporetic stare behind her thickly framed glasses and sporadic fringe. “Why did you give me a hideous color for a cast?”
“Excuse me?” She asks incredulously, the wrinkles on her forehead creasing as she furrowed her eyebrows. “Your girlfriend just died and you’re asking why you have an ugly cast?”
“Yes. And she wasn’t my girlfriend,” he corrects. “Surely you could have given me a nice blue or a somber black, but neon green?”
“What’s wrong with green?”
“I hate green,” he pouts, staring blankly across the room.
“Well too bad, you’re just going to have to live with it.” The nurse explains, scribbling something mindlessly on her clipboard. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow and you’ll keep your cast for the next eight to ten weeks. I’ll send in the doctor to check on your vitals later.” She finishes, clipping the paper work on a board at the end of the bed.
“Where’s Kyungsoo? And Yixing?”
Hallow footsteps stop just before the door as she turns around curiously. “Who?”
“Kyungsoo was the stranger that found me,” Jongin describes, “And Yixing is my roommate. He was in the car too. Please tell me that poor bastard doesn’t have many injuries, I don’t feel like caring for a cripple.”
Scowling from across the room, the nurse has no sympathy for the apathetic boy. “I don’t believe there was anyone else besides you and Soojung. Maybe the stranger helped your friend? If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.” She bows, exiting the room in a swift manner.
An absent Yixing is no surprise to Jongin since the foreign boy is known to be out for days at a time. Back in high school during sophomore year, he recollects Yixing being gone for three weeks, claiming that he went on a “sky high” trip once he got back. After seeing his report card with three F’s, all he did was use it to roll a joint that night.
Examining the too white surroundings while trying not to inhale the sterilized air deeply, Jongin looks for something decent to pass the time. The television remote is too far from his reach and he rolls his eyes with frustration, and instead tries to sit up and reach for the end of the bed. Swollen discolored legs and a pounding head cause him to moan in silence, fearing that if he made too much noise someone would come in and check on him.
After minutes of struggling to lean forward enough, he retrieves the clipboard at the end of the bed with his good hand, situating it gently in his lap.
Scanning through the first page, he finds it’s just basic information about him. Nothing new that he already doesn’t know. Skimming the rest of the page, he stops when he sees a section that contains the most writing under it.
Additional Comments: Patient isn’t distraught by death of girlfriend. Will need to check cognitive functions. Prominent signs of chain smoking, alcohol abuse, and insomnia. Patient thrashed in sleep last night, needs careful monitoring.
“Careful monitoring,” he chants to himself, disgruntled by the concept of someone watching him. “I’ll be damned if someone is spying on me.” Throwing the clipboard across the room with a loud bang, Jongin rips his IV out of his sun-deprived skin, leaving blue and green veins veiled in a thick coat of blood. Yanking tubes off his face and chest, he spots his clothes patiently waiting for him on the snow colored sofa as he limps across the room, changing out of his vice contaminated hospital gown into the dirty rags he calls clothing.
Nonchalantly strolling out of his hospital room, no one spares him a glances him as he turns the corner and heads down the stairs. Mentally counting the steps, he stops at the number twenty-seven once he reaches the bottom. There are twenty-seven steps of stairs; another fifteen steps to reach the main entrance, and another twenty-four to a phone booth. A total of sixty-six steps taken, and not a single soul stopped him. How convenient.
Pocket rattling with coins and gun wrappers, he inserts some change into the small slot in the telephone, dialing hastily before anyone behind him can see the number.
Barren trees and birdless blue skies conflict with a too warm sun for an April afternoon. Cotton clouds mock Jongin as they float indolently by, carrying heaven’s burdens with them. Phone situated in between his shoulder and neck, he tries to squeeze his slender fingers in his horribly distasteful cast, hoping he’s able to reach that irritating itch that had been bothering him since he left. Spews of profanities gabble out of his mouth as his finger barely makes a dent inside.
“Come on you son of a bitch, pick up the phone,” he mumbles soundlessly, tapping his foot against the gum infested sidewalk. An answering machine picked up his call on the other end, and shouts of “Yixing you little bitch pick up the phone” and “You better not go anywhere I’m coming home” cause strangers to pace faster when passing him.
Charging his way through the luminous city streets, he doesn’t take note of the strange looks he receives as he silently mumbles to himself about how “That damn Yixing can’t answer a phone to save his dumbass life” along with the repeated desires of needing a cigarette. Cold sweats and a heart beating too fast, Jongin stops by the cozy liquor store to buy a pack of Marlboro’s, taking a deep drag from the cigarette as he fast walks to his aged apartment building.
Once brightly red bricks are now a withering moldy brown with trash littering the base of the building, newspapers and old wrappers tumbling in the wind. Twigs and branches of an old ivy plant snake up the walls as if trying to escape the decrepit world beneath them and a pungent aroma of dried vomit and human excrement leave his throat tightening with disgust. The smell carries over with Jongin as he enters his ash infested and glass littered apartment, smashed bottles cluttering the once pristine pale carpet.
With an empty apartment and a luminous moonlight filtering through the dusty blinds, Jongin plops down on the couch with a loud thud, grabbing a glass bottle from the wooden coffee table. Yixing is nowhere to be found and the arithmetic blinking light of the answering machine binds Jongin into a hypnotizing spell. One, two, three, four… he counts in his head as he chugs five burning gulps. Aching wrist and stomach rumbling, he lets the liquor and drowsiness drug him into a quiescent slumber. Five, six, seven, eight… he continues. Drooping eyelids become heavier as he listens to the murmuring susurrations of the crepuscular city outside, unable to shut out the shrill shrieks of the traffic below. Another few swigs cause his eyes to swell with water. Honks and tire screeches pervade into Jongin’s apartment, finishing with a loud thud that vibrates the wall next to him.
Then there is silence.
Nine, ten.
~
Drool and other unknown substances dribble down his face as he hangs over the couch, vodka bottle still in hand. There’s a loud pounding at the door accompanied with a displeasing “You son of a bitch I know you’re in there! Open this goddamn fucking door!”
Echoes of a younger Jongin has followed him throughout the years and is now a part of his living reality every night just after dusk. A man that goes by the name Kris stops by his apartment, room 404, and tries to berate Jongin into opening the door. He never does.
What he did find out when Kris moved in the same complex was that his real name is Wu Yi Fan, to which Jongin recognized instantaneously. Distant memories from high school with Kris are filled with menacing grins and a tearful and acne plagued Chinese exchange student; the same group of students Yixing was a part of. Name calling, hair pulling, and knuckle bruising were all a part of a day’s work in the life of a troubled teenage Jongin, which he is reminded of nightly with an angered voice that doesn’t stop until the dead of the night.
Reporting to the apartment owners multiple times about this dilemma, he always receives the same response: “We’ve never heard Kris at your apartment. Try to lay off the booze late at night.” Heat building up in his stomach after each attempt, he wonders why the owners are always quick to defend the sadistic man.
Kicking the door with audible thuds complemented with an incoherent string of vulgarities, Jongin lays still on his ash-scattered couch trying to shun out the fuming voice beyond the wall.
“Your mother was a stupid whore!” Kris screams from beyond his apartment walls, punching in the door as Jongin covers his ears with ripped couch pillows. “How does it feel now you worthless piece of shit? To be provoked and tormented on a daily basis!?”
“Leave me alone!” Jongin snapped, hurling the glass bottle at the front door. Clinks and smashes reverberated throughout the room, wooden door soiled with empty regrets and temporary forgetfulness. A small disdainful giggling can be heard just outside his door and he rubs his eyes out of disbelief. Reaching into his pants pocket, he takes out a handful of shiny and sleek capsules, not even bothering to count how many are in his palm. Hot tears stream down his face as he downs them all in one go, swallowing them dry which leaves an acrimonious aftertaste he can’t shake off.
Stifled laughing becomes a light chuckle and the pounding of a minacious iron fist becomes a distant echo of a tap.
Only through distress and anguish does Jongin find peace.
~
They meet each other for the first time in downtown Seoul at a nightclub on a Thursday. Unspoken words, swift glances, and seductive smiles were enough for Jongin to take him home the night they met; along with the help of his friend Jack Daniels of course.
“Your zipper is down.” Were the first words spoken to Jongin, and since then he hasn’t been able to get rid of him; not that he wants to anyway.
His name is Luhan, and like Yixing, he’s a Chinese exchange student studying astrophysics at the nearby university. Long discursive rants about quarks, electrons, protons, string theory, and everything else that encompasses the subject is something Jongin has had to endure since they started having their small get-togethers every week.
After school every Thursday, Luhan spends the night at Jongin’s apartment since he doesn’t have class the next day. Their nights are filled with tousled bed sheets, bad wine, and an overflowing ashtray containing smoldering cigarettes buds.
“Is it really necessary for you to smoke?” Luhan asks one night, hinting at his distaste of the smell of burning nicotine.
“It relaxes me.” Jongin replies evasively.
“And I don’t?” Luhan says incredulously. Jongin turns his head briefly to give Luhan a once over before responding.
“I suppose you’re alright.” He concisely grins. The smaller boy leans in closer to Jongin’s chest, consciously listening to the other’s heartbeat.
“You’re a goddamn asshole.”
“Yeah, but yours is better.”
“An asshole and a pervert. It’s a wonder anyone likes you.” Exhaling a grey cloud, Jongin just chuckles to himself at the realization of the truth behind his statement. “Where is this roommate you keep telling me about? How come I never see him?” Luhan begins.
“He knows about our Thursday nights so he just goes to the arcade and to friends’ houses until the next morning.” Jongin explains.
“I want to meet him. Can I?”
“I guess.” Jongin sighs, taking another hit from his cigarette. Uncertainty behind his voice goes unnoticed by Luhan, and he hates getting someone’s hopes up. Mixing his personal life with his one-night stands has always been a rule Jongin is firmly against.
Smashing the end of his cigarette on the ashtray on his nightstand beside his bed, he loosens Luhan’s arms around him and rises out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“The liquor store, I’m out of alcohol. Want anything?”
“You’re leaving me?” Luhan pouts.
“Yeah.” He states flatly as he grabs his wallet and heads out the door.
April is a weird month, Jongin thinks. It’s the month that eradicates the coldness from the world and introduces a humbling warmth as spring breezes replaces the winds of winter. That’s not the case today as rain rinses the streets of an early Seoul morning. Once lively sidewalks are now desolate and monochromatic grey, probably since everyone is still tucked away in the warm confines of their bed and blankets. A piece of gum sticks to the bottom of his left shoe and Jongin silently curses whoever spit it there.
After a good five minutes of getting the adhesive off his shoe, he steps into the dark and inviting liquor store. A haven for Jongin, it’s like stepping to candy store for him. Except his kind of candy consists of wines, beers, hard liquors, cigarettes, and strawberry flavored condoms.
Loading his basket with various glass bottles, he makes sure he gets at least three of the white glass bottle, since vodka is his favorite.
His mouth goes dry when strolls into the next aisle and sees a man standing where the beers are, examining a green glass bottle before placing it back on the shelf. Short with narrow shoulders and sinister black hair, a wave of familiarity hits him that he can’t put his finger on. The stranger’s grins a heart smile when he finds what he’s been looking for: a bottle of champagne. Jongin almost giggles to himself because of how un-hardcore it is compared to his basket.
He saunters next to the boy, peaking at the bottle the stranger is reading. Conflicted with himself on whether he should say something to him, Jongin’s lips part as he’s about to say something.
“That champagne is shit.” Is the first thing that popped into his mind.
He turns the bottle around in his palms, analyzing the text written on the back. “It is?”
“Get this one instead.” Jongin reaches above the shorter boy, grabbing a faultless sharp green bottle and handing it to him with brushing fingers. “This one makes you drunk faster without the horrible hangover.”
“Thanks,” he smiles, “but it’s not for me. It’s for my friend’s birthday.”
“You should get three bottles then,” he suggests, gesturing to the other bottles, “just to make it more fun.”
“It won’t be for me since I don’t drink, but thanks.” The smaller man grins as he fills his basket with two more bottles. Weighed down by the contents in his basket, he turns around and starts heading toward the bored cashier leaning lethargically against the counter.
“Kyungsoo, isn’t it?” Jongin calls after the short boy, sweaty palms stuffed in his pockets.
Turning around wide-eyed, he stops in his tracks. “How do you know my name?”
“I never got my drink with you.” Jongin slyly commented.
Tilting his head, he studies the tall and tanned man leaning against a barren wall, bleak face and bloated eyes smirking at him. “Jongin?”
“Glad you remember me,” he smiles, “what do you say? Want to get drinks tomorrow night with me?”
Squinting at him, he shifts his body onto one leg and rolls his eyes, “I don’t know, how do I know you’re not going to drug me or something?”
“Oh come on!” Jongin grunts, giving him a faulty smirk, “I haven’t seen you in weeks and this is how you treat me? I think I’ve waited long enough for my drink.”
Checking him out from head to toe, Kyungsoo croaks out an exasperated giggle, “looks like you’ve had plenty to me.”
“Just one hour?” Jongin pleads, biting his lower lip as he bores his eyes into Kyungsoo’s, teeth grazing over a scab crusted with vexation.
Rolling his eyes in an insouciance manner, he takes one good look at Jongin, eyes trailing up and down his slim figure. “Just one hour.”
~
“So, you’re a painter?” Jongin asks, sturdy elbows digging into the sleek auburn bar top that’s reflecting the dim lights and faces of the chattering patrons sitting next to them. Laughs and giggles mingle with the musty aromas of wines and beers, which coalesce with the fading scents of dulcet colognes and perfumes. A classical tune drifts throughout the restaurant that resonates with Jongin in a relaxing way, eyelids dropping while watching the hunched boy next to him.
“Yeah. I’m not great but it pays the bills.” Kyungsoo admits, taking a sip of his drink. “Plus I’m good at it so why not make a little cash for it?”
“I’ve always wanted to become an artist.” Jongin reminisces, thinking back to the failed drawings and endless eraser shavings littering his bedroom floor.
“It’s never too late.” Kyungsoo states, “my parents were against it but when you have a passion, why let someone get in the way?”
“It’s a bit late for me.” He scoffs, tilting his head back slightly to consume the bitter poison.
“When you think like that it is.” Kyungsoo remarks, tracing the edge of his damp cardboard coaster.
“Says the man who orders Sprite at a bar.” Jongin snickers, taking another sip of his deep burgundy wine.
“Let’s not make this about me, Jongin.”
“Why not? It’s fun,” he dictates, resting his head on a propped hand. “Why don’t you drink?”
Sipping his soda through a translucent bendy straw, his eyes wander up to formulate an answer. “I have my reasons.”
“Are you afraid you’ll get drunk and fall madly in love with me?” Jongin says, running his hands through his silk hair.
“How’d you know? Drunk alcoholics and chain smokers are my weakness.” Kyungsoo laughs, round eyes forming small crescent moons. Jongin watches his child-like fingers trace the edges of his glass, rubbing the condensation that coats his skin with a diaphanous layer of water.
“But really, you won’t tell me?”
“It’s just-” Kyungsoo pauses, “complicated.”
“Are you underage? Actually, you do look kind of young.” That earns a cold glare from the petite boy.
“I’m twenty-four.”
Eyes widening, Jongin blinks in disbelief. “Bullshit.”
“It’s the truth!” The defending boy raises his tone.
“Prove it.”
Kyungsoo pulls out his withered wallet and takes out a small plastic card, handing to Kyungsoo. Scanning over the irrelevant information, Jongin sees the date of birth section on his card and tilts his head in amusement.
“Our birthdays are only a day apart Soo, that’s kind of cool.” He cheekily chuckles, handing the card back to the older boy. Neatly folding his wallet into his pocket, Kyungsoo looks up to glare at the slouching boy hovering over his wine glass.
“What did you just call me?” Asking again for clarification, Kyungsoo leans in closer.
“Your name?” Jongin states as he glances around suspiciously. Receiving disappointed groans and a facepalm reaction, he just sits there confused as to why Kyungsoo is cringing with disgust.
“My name’s not Soo,” The sober man clarifies. “Actually, since I’m older shouldn’t you call me hyung?”
“I’m pretty sure Soo is cuter.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch, that’s a bit harsh,” Jongin remarks and hovers a hand to his torso. “Who knew little Soo here is actually a big bully? Did you know bullying makes your dick fall off?”
Raising a furry eyebrow, he can’t believe he’s hearing this from a full-grown man. “Where did you hear that?”
“The Internet.”
“So in essence, you don’t have one?” Kyungsoo combats, anxiously trying to hide his smile through gritted teeth.
“Another stab, ouch!” Jongin snorts, “Did your parents not hug you as a child?”
“I’m not bullying you.”
“Name calling is bullying.”
“Then, by your standards, you’re bullying me.”
“How so?” The buzzed man questions,
“Soo is name calling,” he rationalizes, leaning his head on his palm as he leans against the bar top.
“Bullying has to be offensive though.”
“I find that offensive,” snapping back, Kyungsoo widens his eyes in hopes of getting his point across to a dimly witted Jongin.
“I still think it’s cute.”
“I still think you’re an idiot.”
“That’s offensive.”
“Don’t call me Soo and I won’t bully you then,” Kyungsoo proposes, reaching out his hand for a handshake. Instead, Jongin takes this a sign for a high-five and slaps his hand with a loud smack.
“Okay, Soo,” he grins.
“Whatever idiot,” nodding his head with forfeit, sounds of giggles and chattering fill their silence as small glances are being stolen with sweet smiles between each other.
“Can I see your work?” Jongin decides to change the subject. Kyungsoo leans closer, retrieving his phone from his cotton pocket and loads his gallery before handing it to Jongin.
“You shouldn’t have a cell phone.” Jongin observes.
“Why not?”
“People can track you down and find you easier using the GPS built inside. That’s why I only have a house phone.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Say that again when you have a stalker lurking outside your house.”
“At least my stalker won’t be dim-witted like you.”
Turning to the brightly lit screen, he swipes through each photograph in awe, studying each patch of color and effort he put into each painting. Alluring shades and bold strokes leave Jongin absent-minded, guffawing at the masterpieces the other has created. Portraits of strangers he had never met and landscapes of places he had never been leave his mouth dry.
“They’re amazing,” Jongin says as he swipes to the last picture of a detailed painting of a familiar young woman in a wedding dress with gentle features and soft expressions. Studying her short black hair and familiar large rounded eyes.
“Who’s this?” Jongin inquires. “Your girlfriend?”
“That’s my mom,” Kyungsoo spits, leaning back in his burgundy barstool. “That’s my favorite picture of her.” He trails.
“She looks like a lovely woman,” he says
“Yeah, she is,” Nodding in agreement.
“How is she doing these days?”
“Fine, she’s at home with my dad.” He says sentimentally.
Sliding the phone back to Kyungsoo, “I want to see you paint.”
“It’s nothing special.” He confesses. “It would bore you.”
“A passion is special. And a passion is never boring.”
Kyungsoo pauses momentarily, eyes boring into Jongin’s as he contemplates his request. “You don’t have a passion?”
“When I was younger, sure.”
“What did you like to do?”
“I danced. Ballet mostly, but not anymore since-“ Jongin trails, chewing his bottom lip before finishing the last droplets of wine left in his class.
“Since what?” The other enquires.
“Nothing.” Jongin mumbles, “It’s complicated.” He smirks.
“Your hour is up now.” Kyungsoo checks his watch. “Thanks for the chat, and the Sprite.”
“But I was just getting started!” He whines. “Plus, you never answered if I can come see you paint.”
“I told you it would bore you.”
“Please Soo?” Jongin pleads as he gives him a sly smile. Clearing his throat, the older boy doesn’t respond and sips the rest of his carbonated beverage in a huge gulp.
“Hyung?” Jongin corrects.
“Fine. How about we meet at the park tomorrow morning?”
part ii
Title: Rêverie
Genre: romance, angst, drama
Rating: R
Side-Pairing: onesided!lukai
Warnings: vulgar language, substance abuse
Length: 14,000 words
Summary: Just hold on, we're going home.
Notes: I don't know what I'm doing. Happy kaisoo everyone! Cheers!
I
He experienced his first encounter when he was ten after flattening an animal with his front tire. To be frank, he didn’t mean to kill it; the squirrel came out of nowhere when his bicycle tire flattened the poor critter. After tumbling off his bike, he crawled to the bloody body lying still on the hot summer pavement, tears dripping down from the small boy’s face. Water blurring his vision, he looked up at the plastic red slide across the park wishing he could go back in time and play with the other kids instead of becoming a murderer. His eyes squinted as the tears intensely stung his delicate eyes. A loud wailing could be heard for blocks and not one person stopped to console the poor kid.
He wiped away his tears with his snot-stained sleeve when he noticed the skies becoming suppressed with an impenetrable murkiness. He waved off the ebony entrails that snuck up to his face and encompassed his body, to which he found it to be cold as ice against his palm. The dark haze became more prominent to a point where he could barely see anything directly in front of him, and he wailed to try and supersede the noisiness of the wind that he didn’t notice was there. He doesn’t remember it being windy earlier, but the invasive dust barraged his face and he brought his tiny hands to his face to shield himself.
The tears stopped thankfully, but his face was cold and his palms were sweating ice, knees pinned to the sun-worn concrete. A dark figure loomed in front of him and reached out to the small boy kneeling on the ground and gently caressed his alabaster cheeks. Though he couldn’t distinguish at hand with his eyes, he undoubtedly felt the bony and frigid fingers linger across his face as if it were an actual person. A small thumb stroked his cheek and pulled away shortly after, leaning down to the lifeless bloodied animal in front of him.
A white wisp relinquished the body and danced around the smoky black figure, eventually making its way to the remorseful boy. It hesitated before coming closer to the boy and he reached out his hand to touch it. It was warm contrary to the ghostly figure that had caressed him a moment ago. The wisp intertwined with the boys fingers, warmth bringing the pink back to his cheeks. The wisp fell out of the boy’s delicate hands and slowly dissipated into the black haze.
The wind came to a stop and the thick mist slowly died out along with the shadow figure, revealing the bright sun that struck down on the vacant Seoul park. He sat there on the walkway confused with his hand still out in front of him, dried tears leaving devoid trails across his face and when he looked down, he couldn’t help but let out a shrill scream.
The squirrel was gone.
~
He tried his hardest to not let the water building up escape his eyes. His lip was bruised from his teeth grinding onto his bottom lip, scabs and dead skin clinging onto his plump mouth. Echoes of society creep into his thoughts as he clings onto the bed sheets, whispers telling him to be brave and to not let the tears drip down his face.
With this inner conflict raging in his head, he let a single droplet dripped down his flushed cheeks. One turned into two and two turned into three droplets. He couldn’t handle it anymore, the sight of the one he loves most is dying right in front of him and he can’t do anything to save them. The sound of the respirator machine echoed throughout the room and was the only source of sound between the two of them. Her breathing was hard and heavy, chest rising and collapsing prominently.
“Mom, please don’t abandon me in this world,” he pleaded, hand gripping her hand tighter, bringing it up to his wet face. “I have no one else left in this world.”
Her tired eyes gazed over to her son, tears welling in her tear ducts as well.
“I’m not going anywhere honey,” she whispered huskily. Her hand caressed his face, bringing back a distant and haunting familiarity.
Her icy palm held her boy’s cheek, stroking her thumb across his cheek to wipe away the sorrow that trickled down his innocent face.
“Promise?” He murmured. A smile was the only response she gave, one that reassured and frightened the teenager at the same time. Burying his head into sterile hospital sheets, droplets crept down his face and covered them with snot. Running her fingers through his dark locks in an effort to comfort him, his mother cooed him until his sobbing came to a halt. Jongin’s eyes grew heavier, caving into the lethargic medley of Hypnos’ murmurs.
Overcome by despair and melancholy, he soon slipped out of reality and hoped to be taken to a place where there was no pain or fear or corruptness. He just wanted to go home.
~
It was windy. He doesn’t remember it being windy beforehand.
Crusted eyes slowly opened to view pitch-black room, the only source of light being from the life-support machines. Countless nights were spent here and yet he couldn’t recall it being this disturbingly dingy. Reaching for a light switch, he fumbled with wires and buttons for different machines until he sighed with submission. The darkness was better anyway.
Panic set in as wind picked up a considerable amount since he awoke and he had a hard time hearing his own thoughts over the storm of black smoke. Legs paralyzed, he didn’t have the energy to run away and escape the recurring terrors.
“Who’s there?” He clamored quickly, though it was useless since his voice drowned in the deafening wind. His hand never left his mothers and he squeezed her hand to wake up. “Mom, wake up! Something’s wrong.” He shook her hand, but there was no response.
“Mom please,” he pleaded, “wake up.” A string of tears hot fell from his eyes consecutively; he couldn’t hold back anymore.
Cold slender fingers inched along his wrist, causing him to flinch but nonetheless relentlessly held his mother’s hand tightly. The phantom’s hand pried stubborn fingers away one by one and a sinking lump formed in the back of his throat.
“No! You can’t take her!” He screamed, clutching her hand again. The icy hand reached for him again and rested on top of the teenager’s and his mother’s bounded fingers.
“It’s time. She is home,” the shadow’s high-pitched voice soothed. He gently removed his hand away from his mothers. It was defeat, the teenager knew, but he couldn’t go down without a fight.
He hunched against in his plastic chair in defeat as the wind calmed to a breeze and a golden fog emerged out of the obscure cloud. It permeated the room with a deafening silence and a flabbergasted Jongin couldn’t help but gawk at the brilliant yellow light. The wisp floated its way to the boy and paused in front of his face. Corrupt thoughts and sinister feelings vanished at the sight of the light, bringing a soothing comfort and slowing down his pounding heart. The familiar warmth brought Jongin back to a memory he couldn’t shake nor did he want to try to recollect.
In a fleeting moment, the golden fog mixed in with the black haze until it dissipated completely.
Moments after it faded, Jongin swore he caught a glimpse of a small apparition standing idly across the room. Only this time, it wasn’t the phantom figure like last time.
Instead, it was a child. And he was holding a dead squirrel.
~
“Fuck you Jongin.”
“Yeah, I’d bet you like to,” he spits back to his mildly annoying friend, taking a swig of vodka from his red cup. The music is loud and there are people crowding his personal space next to him. Floral perfumes mingle with the musky cologne, which induce a nauseating headache for Jongin; though it was nothing that a large amount of vodka couldn’t fix.
He’s lounging on a tattered musty auburn couch with a drink in his left hand and a girl on his right. He doesn’t know her name. He never knows their names. Was it Sooyoung? Soohyun? He’s pretty sure it’s Sungjoo, but since he is too drunk to remember or care he just calls her pet names to be safe.
Their fingers are intertwining and before Jongin knows it, the petite girl climbs onto his lap and straddles him, snaking her slender arms around his broad shoulders. Slowly grinding to the music against his lap. She leads his hand to her upper thigh to bring up her skirt, revealing a creamy patch of white of skin. Giving her a gentle smile, he traces his fingers up her thigh and stops until he gets to her laced panties. With the tips of his fingers, he hooks onto the hem of her panties and tugs at them slightly. She giggles, as they all do.
Gazing up at her soft features and pale pink lips, he finds it hard to resist temptation as he feels his pants painfully tightening. Tilting his head slightly, he leans up to touch his lips with hers, blocking out the blaring noises of cynical laughs and empty promises. Lowering her head to meet his, Jongin takes that as a sign of consent and parted his lips, inching closer and closer. Barely grazing her lips, he is surprisingly interrupted by his mildly annoying roommate who pulls his head back from behind.
“Hey, what the hell?” He moans irritatingly. He turns his head around to see Zhang Yixing, a Chinese exchange student that he met during freshman year of high school and has been living with since then. To say the least, Jongin gives him the benefit of the doubt when he’s being a pain in the ass because it could be just a “cultural difference.” That’s what he likes to tell himself at least. Generally, cock blocking is a fundamental and universal rule friends don’t do to each other, and Zhang Yixing is the quintessence of a non-conformist.
“Let’s go home dude, I tried making a move on this chick and she spilled her drink on me.”
“Can’t you s-see I’m busy?” Jongin gestures toward Soojung.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” She seductively asks, turning Jongin’s face back to hers and grinding her pelvis deeper into his lap.
“Nothing, don’t worry.” He smiles lazily at her before turning back to Yixing.
“Get the f-fuck outta here, we’ll go home later.” He slurs.
“We’re going now.” Yixing demands, yanking the cup out of his hand and hurling it on the ground, soaking the dirt infested rug underneath. There’s an audience now, eyes shifting to the drunken girl on the couch on top of an even more drunken Jongin. He stands up heatedly, causing Soojung to fall on top of crushed beer cans and burnt out cigarette buds. Wobbling over to his roommate, he reaches out to grab his shirt collar, but misses by only a few inches.
“F-fine dude. Whatever. S-Soohyun is coming with us.”
“It’s Soojung.” The drunken girl corrects, scowling at Jongin with her beady eyes.
“Yeah whatever.” Jongin waves off.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to drive home? You looked pretty fucked up.” Sehun ambles over to Jongin, raising his eyebrow when he sees a trotting Sungjoo following behind.
“Ye-yeah man it’s all good.” Jongin drags out, arm wrapped around the younger girl. “It’s only-y down the s-street.” He lazily grinned, pulling Sungjoo even closer to him.
“Whatever dude.”
The three partygoers stumble out of Sehun’s house and into Jongin’s 2010 black Toyota Camry. Yixing directs Jongin to sit in the backseat with Soojung because he apparently doesn’t want to “risk ruining his favorite shirt” if Jongin decides to show him every alcoholic beverage he drank that night.
Soojung cuddles next to Jongin in the backseat, bringing her palm over Jongin’s crotch and gently massages it. His breathing quickens and he felt cold at his head and hands, with all the heat traveling south in his body. This is wrong, he thought. Yixing is driving and he’s letting a girl give him a hard on in the backseat. To be frank, Jongin would’ve let her blow him if she wanted to. The amount of shits Jongin gives when he’s drunk is little to none and he won’t stop
Yixing starts turns the key in the ignition and the car is brought to life with a haunting vibration. Winding and weaving throughout the booming streets of a moonless Seoul night, Yixing is driving a little more erratically than normal. Warnings from Jongin didn’t stop him from slowing and down and he sped up to try and break his record on the time it took to get home.
“Yixing, slow down you’re gonna get us killed!” Jongin barked, Soojung glaring at him with distress and apprehensions.
“Jongin, what’s wr-“
“I’m not even going that fast just calm down man.” Turning to look at Jongin in the back, he spun the wheel too sharp and slammed into something that must’ve been made of cement.
Jongin’s vision zeroes in on Sungjoo’s body lying lifeless through the windshield.
And then, nothing.
~
Jongin awakes in minutes, maybe hours later with vomit trickling up his throat. He crawls out of the front seat to escape the toxicity of the situation and spills out his insides on the side of the road. A thin layer of sweat and alcohol coats his skin, but he can’t feel anything else besides the stickiness of his neck and the bitter taste of iron that won’t leave his mouth no matter how much he swallows. Crumbles of asphalt stick to the side of his face as he lays on his stomach motionless on the desolate street, praying that he’ll be with his mom the next time he wakes up. After all, it’s not like this is an unfamiliar feeling to him; to be left stranded in a cold and cruel world.
It’s quiet. The sound of the cold March air and his own breathing is the only thing that is keeping him from completely passing out. He twists his head to look at the pulverized wreckage and sighs internally, realizing that everything Jongin has come to love and know about the world has been ripped out of his hands like a weak and puny child.
Drifting in and out of conscienceless, he hears footsteps nearing him in a quickly manner. Grinning to himself, he can never get what he wants. Shouts of “Hello?” and “Are you okay?” are heard from every direction, he’s not even sure if the voice is right next to him or not.
His body is rolled over to his back and Jongin is momentarily happy he didn’t black out yet. Kneeling over him is a man about his age, maybe a few years younger than him. Fear and doubt fills his eyes and he raises his palm to Jongin’s forehead to brush away the hair from the bloody gash mixed with sweat and dirt. His eyes are dark, just like Jongin’s, but they have an innocence to them like a child. The stranger gives him a heart-shaped smile to comfort him and Jongin can’t help but smile weakly back.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he tells Jongin, “stay with me.” Blackness is taking over his vision, eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. Sleep is inviting him and begging him to give in. “What’s your name?”
“Kim Jongin,” he croaks, taking a deep inhale of the crisp air.
“My name is Kyungsoo. You’ll be okay, just don’t fall asleep,” Kyungsoo reassures, taking a portable pack of tissues from his pocket and wipes away the dirt and sorrows from Jongin’s injured face.
“Wanna get a drink after this?” Jongin proffers, corners of his mouth showing a sly smirk. “I’m okay, I just need a minute to sleep an-“
“No,” Kyungsoo interrupts, “you need medical attention. We can talk about drinks afterwards.”
“That’s not fair,” he whines, voice growing quitter with each response. “Just one drink.” He can feel the blackness taking over him and he can’t help but give into his demanding desires. “Are you going to leave?”
“No, I’ll stay here with you,” Kyungsoo smiles as he takes Jongin’s hand as he slips into a place far from this world. Somewhere where Jongin hopes he never wakes up from.
~
It’s windy. He doesn’t remember it being windy beforehand. Scattering his hand in this direction and that direction, he dazedly searches for a light switch. Pressing numerous buttons and fiddling with different cords, he meekly surrenders with a groaning sigh. The darkness never bothered him anyway.
A bony hand is resting on top of his, a thumb stroking gently back and forth for reassurance. Hot tears coat a thin layer of perplexity on his skin, dripping down onto the fabrics beneath him. He doesn’t know why he’s calling out for his mom or why he’s telling her not to leave. Searching for a familiar body in the darkness other than the hand resting with his, he stops when his hand finds the edge of the bed.
He’s alone. Head hitting against the pillow behind him, he’s petrified of the phantom hand holding his as he lies still in the confines of a stingy hospital bed.
“Where am I?” Jongin whimpers.
“You’re safe,” a familiar voice replies, “I’m here with you.”
“I want to go home.”
The wind turns into a gradual breeze and the cold fingers escape Jongin’s grasp, leaving Jongin deserted in the black abyss of his consciousness.
“We’ll be there one day.”
~
A merciless fluorescent light awakens Jongin from his deep slumber. His face looks to dig into something rough and unforgiving, but instead finds a bleach-scented pillow under him. He doesn’t want to wake up unless he’s in a different world or somebody else, but he never gets what he wants. Antiseptics and various chemicals leave his mouth dry as he consciously listens to the compelling melody of the heart monitor. The hard stiff sheets cover his yellow and purple imperfections that blemish his body and he is glad they are hidden from his view. Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, he lets out a petulant groan and the nurse turns around in surprise.
“Mr. Kim! You’re awake!” She exclaims, pacing over to his side to check the machines beside him. “You had quite a night, didn’t you?”
“What happened?” He mumbles weakly.
“You were involved in a car accident last night. Your injuries aren’t too severe, just a couple of minor bruises and fractures in your left wrist. However, your blood alcohol level was well above the legal and safety limit,” her expression softens and she rests her palm on top of his neon green cast. “There’s something you need to know Mr. Kim, and I’m truly sorry, but your girlfriend Soojung passed away last night.”
“Oh,” Is the only thing Jongin can say. Normally people feel sad or upset that someone they know is gone, but Jongin can’t help but feel nothing. Gazing at the petite nurse, who strikingly resembled Soojung with her jet-black hair and plump pink lips, he wonders why he was spared to live on in this hell of a world. He glances down at his constricting armor, as Jongin likes to think, and studies the nurse’s delicate small fingers. Peering up at her, she gives him an aporetic stare behind her thickly framed glasses and sporadic fringe. “Why did you give me a hideous color for a cast?”
“Excuse me?” She asks incredulously, the wrinkles on her forehead creasing as she furrowed her eyebrows. “Your girlfriend just died and you’re asking why you have an ugly cast?”
“Yes. And she wasn’t my girlfriend,” he corrects. “Surely you could have given me a nice blue or a somber black, but neon green?”
“What’s wrong with green?”
“I hate green,” he pouts, staring blankly across the room.
“Well too bad, you’re just going to have to live with it.” The nurse explains, scribbling something mindlessly on her clipboard. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow and you’ll keep your cast for the next eight to ten weeks. I’ll send in the doctor to check on your vitals later.” She finishes, clipping the paper work on a board at the end of the bed.
“Where’s Kyungsoo? And Yixing?”
Hallow footsteps stop just before the door as she turns around curiously. “Who?”
“Kyungsoo was the stranger that found me,” Jongin describes, “And Yixing is my roommate. He was in the car too. Please tell me that poor bastard doesn’t have many injuries, I don’t feel like caring for a cripple.”
Scowling from across the room, the nurse has no sympathy for the apathetic boy. “I don’t believe there was anyone else besides you and Soojung. Maybe the stranger helped your friend? If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.” She bows, exiting the room in a swift manner.
An absent Yixing is no surprise to Jongin since the foreign boy is known to be out for days at a time. Back in high school during sophomore year, he recollects Yixing being gone for three weeks, claiming that he went on a “sky high” trip once he got back. After seeing his report card with three F’s, all he did was use it to roll a joint that night.
Examining the too white surroundings while trying not to inhale the sterilized air deeply, Jongin looks for something decent to pass the time. The television remote is too far from his reach and he rolls his eyes with frustration, and instead tries to sit up and reach for the end of the bed. Swollen discolored legs and a pounding head cause him to moan in silence, fearing that if he made too much noise someone would come in and check on him.
After minutes of struggling to lean forward enough, he retrieves the clipboard at the end of the bed with his good hand, situating it gently in his lap.
Scanning through the first page, he finds it’s just basic information about him. Nothing new that he already doesn’t know. Skimming the rest of the page, he stops when he sees a section that contains the most writing under it.
Additional Comments: Patient isn’t distraught by death of girlfriend. Will need to check cognitive functions. Prominent signs of chain smoking, alcohol abuse, and insomnia. Patient thrashed in sleep last night, needs careful monitoring.
“Careful monitoring,” he chants to himself, disgruntled by the concept of someone watching him. “I’ll be damned if someone is spying on me.” Throwing the clipboard across the room with a loud bang, Jongin rips his IV out of his sun-deprived skin, leaving blue and green veins veiled in a thick coat of blood. Yanking tubes off his face and chest, he spots his clothes patiently waiting for him on the snow colored sofa as he limps across the room, changing out of his vice contaminated hospital gown into the dirty rags he calls clothing.
Nonchalantly strolling out of his hospital room, no one spares him a glances him as he turns the corner and heads down the stairs. Mentally counting the steps, he stops at the number twenty-seven once he reaches the bottom. There are twenty-seven steps of stairs; another fifteen steps to reach the main entrance, and another twenty-four to a phone booth. A total of sixty-six steps taken, and not a single soul stopped him. How convenient.
Pocket rattling with coins and gun wrappers, he inserts some change into the small slot in the telephone, dialing hastily before anyone behind him can see the number.
Barren trees and birdless blue skies conflict with a too warm sun for an April afternoon. Cotton clouds mock Jongin as they float indolently by, carrying heaven’s burdens with them. Phone situated in between his shoulder and neck, he tries to squeeze his slender fingers in his horribly distasteful cast, hoping he’s able to reach that irritating itch that had been bothering him since he left. Spews of profanities gabble out of his mouth as his finger barely makes a dent inside.
“Come on you son of a bitch, pick up the phone,” he mumbles soundlessly, tapping his foot against the gum infested sidewalk. An answering machine picked up his call on the other end, and shouts of “Yixing you little bitch pick up the phone” and “You better not go anywhere I’m coming home” cause strangers to pace faster when passing him.
Charging his way through the luminous city streets, he doesn’t take note of the strange looks he receives as he silently mumbles to himself about how “That damn Yixing can’t answer a phone to save his dumbass life” along with the repeated desires of needing a cigarette. Cold sweats and a heart beating too fast, Jongin stops by the cozy liquor store to buy a pack of Marlboro’s, taking a deep drag from the cigarette as he fast walks to his aged apartment building.
Once brightly red bricks are now a withering moldy brown with trash littering the base of the building, newspapers and old wrappers tumbling in the wind. Twigs and branches of an old ivy plant snake up the walls as if trying to escape the decrepit world beneath them and a pungent aroma of dried vomit and human excrement leave his throat tightening with disgust. The smell carries over with Jongin as he enters his ash infested and glass littered apartment, smashed bottles cluttering the once pristine pale carpet.
With an empty apartment and a luminous moonlight filtering through the dusty blinds, Jongin plops down on the couch with a loud thud, grabbing a glass bottle from the wooden coffee table. Yixing is nowhere to be found and the arithmetic blinking light of the answering machine binds Jongin into a hypnotizing spell. One, two, three, four… he counts in his head as he chugs five burning gulps. Aching wrist and stomach rumbling, he lets the liquor and drowsiness drug him into a quiescent slumber. Five, six, seven, eight… he continues. Drooping eyelids become heavier as he listens to the murmuring susurrations of the crepuscular city outside, unable to shut out the shrill shrieks of the traffic below. Another few swigs cause his eyes to swell with water. Honks and tire screeches pervade into Jongin’s apartment, finishing with a loud thud that vibrates the wall next to him.
Then there is silence.
Nine, ten.
~
Drool and other unknown substances dribble down his face as he hangs over the couch, vodka bottle still in hand. There’s a loud pounding at the door accompanied with a displeasing “You son of a bitch I know you’re in there! Open this goddamn fucking door!”
Echoes of a younger Jongin has followed him throughout the years and is now a part of his living reality every night just after dusk. A man that goes by the name Kris stops by his apartment, room 404, and tries to berate Jongin into opening the door. He never does.
What he did find out when Kris moved in the same complex was that his real name is Wu Yi Fan, to which Jongin recognized instantaneously. Distant memories from high school with Kris are filled with menacing grins and a tearful and acne plagued Chinese exchange student; the same group of students Yixing was a part of. Name calling, hair pulling, and knuckle bruising were all a part of a day’s work in the life of a troubled teenage Jongin, which he is reminded of nightly with an angered voice that doesn’t stop until the dead of the night.
Reporting to the apartment owners multiple times about this dilemma, he always receives the same response: “We’ve never heard Kris at your apartment. Try to lay off the booze late at night.” Heat building up in his stomach after each attempt, he wonders why the owners are always quick to defend the sadistic man.
Kicking the door with audible thuds complemented with an incoherent string of vulgarities, Jongin lays still on his ash-scattered couch trying to shun out the fuming voice beyond the wall.
“Your mother was a stupid whore!” Kris screams from beyond his apartment walls, punching in the door as Jongin covers his ears with ripped couch pillows. “How does it feel now you worthless piece of shit? To be provoked and tormented on a daily basis!?”
“Leave me alone!” Jongin snapped, hurling the glass bottle at the front door. Clinks and smashes reverberated throughout the room, wooden door soiled with empty regrets and temporary forgetfulness. A small disdainful giggling can be heard just outside his door and he rubs his eyes out of disbelief. Reaching into his pants pocket, he takes out a handful of shiny and sleek capsules, not even bothering to count how many are in his palm. Hot tears stream down his face as he downs them all in one go, swallowing them dry which leaves an acrimonious aftertaste he can’t shake off.
Stifled laughing becomes a light chuckle and the pounding of a minacious iron fist becomes a distant echo of a tap.
Only through distress and anguish does Jongin find peace.
~
They meet each other for the first time in downtown Seoul at a nightclub on a Thursday. Unspoken words, swift glances, and seductive smiles were enough for Jongin to take him home the night they met; along with the help of his friend Jack Daniels of course.
“Your zipper is down.” Were the first words spoken to Jongin, and since then he hasn’t been able to get rid of him; not that he wants to anyway.
His name is Luhan, and like Yixing, he’s a Chinese exchange student studying astrophysics at the nearby university. Long discursive rants about quarks, electrons, protons, string theory, and everything else that encompasses the subject is something Jongin has had to endure since they started having their small get-togethers every week.
After school every Thursday, Luhan spends the night at Jongin’s apartment since he doesn’t have class the next day. Their nights are filled with tousled bed sheets, bad wine, and an overflowing ashtray containing smoldering cigarettes buds.
“Is it really necessary for you to smoke?” Luhan asks one night, hinting at his distaste of the smell of burning nicotine.
“It relaxes me.” Jongin replies evasively.
“And I don’t?” Luhan says incredulously. Jongin turns his head briefly to give Luhan a once over before responding.
“I suppose you’re alright.” He concisely grins. The smaller boy leans in closer to Jongin’s chest, consciously listening to the other’s heartbeat.
“You’re a goddamn asshole.”
“Yeah, but yours is better.”
“An asshole and a pervert. It’s a wonder anyone likes you.” Exhaling a grey cloud, Jongin just chuckles to himself at the realization of the truth behind his statement. “Where is this roommate you keep telling me about? How come I never see him?” Luhan begins.
“He knows about our Thursday nights so he just goes to the arcade and to friends’ houses until the next morning.” Jongin explains.
“I want to meet him. Can I?”
“I guess.” Jongin sighs, taking another hit from his cigarette. Uncertainty behind his voice goes unnoticed by Luhan, and he hates getting someone’s hopes up. Mixing his personal life with his one-night stands has always been a rule Jongin is firmly against.
Smashing the end of his cigarette on the ashtray on his nightstand beside his bed, he loosens Luhan’s arms around him and rises out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“The liquor store, I’m out of alcohol. Want anything?”
“You’re leaving me?” Luhan pouts.
“Yeah.” He states flatly as he grabs his wallet and heads out the door.
April is a weird month, Jongin thinks. It’s the month that eradicates the coldness from the world and introduces a humbling warmth as spring breezes replaces the winds of winter. That’s not the case today as rain rinses the streets of an early Seoul morning. Once lively sidewalks are now desolate and monochromatic grey, probably since everyone is still tucked away in the warm confines of their bed and blankets. A piece of gum sticks to the bottom of his left shoe and Jongin silently curses whoever spit it there.
After a good five minutes of getting the adhesive off his shoe, he steps into the dark and inviting liquor store. A haven for Jongin, it’s like stepping to candy store for him. Except his kind of candy consists of wines, beers, hard liquors, cigarettes, and strawberry flavored condoms.
Loading his basket with various glass bottles, he makes sure he gets at least three of the white glass bottle, since vodka is his favorite.
His mouth goes dry when strolls into the next aisle and sees a man standing where the beers are, examining a green glass bottle before placing it back on the shelf. Short with narrow shoulders and sinister black hair, a wave of familiarity hits him that he can’t put his finger on. The stranger’s grins a heart smile when he finds what he’s been looking for: a bottle of champagne. Jongin almost giggles to himself because of how un-hardcore it is compared to his basket.
He saunters next to the boy, peaking at the bottle the stranger is reading. Conflicted with himself on whether he should say something to him, Jongin’s lips part as he’s about to say something.
“That champagne is shit.” Is the first thing that popped into his mind.
He turns the bottle around in his palms, analyzing the text written on the back. “It is?”
“Get this one instead.” Jongin reaches above the shorter boy, grabbing a faultless sharp green bottle and handing it to him with brushing fingers. “This one makes you drunk faster without the horrible hangover.”
“Thanks,” he smiles, “but it’s not for me. It’s for my friend’s birthday.”
“You should get three bottles then,” he suggests, gesturing to the other bottles, “just to make it more fun.”
“It won’t be for me since I don’t drink, but thanks.” The smaller man grins as he fills his basket with two more bottles. Weighed down by the contents in his basket, he turns around and starts heading toward the bored cashier leaning lethargically against the counter.
“Kyungsoo, isn’t it?” Jongin calls after the short boy, sweaty palms stuffed in his pockets.
Turning around wide-eyed, he stops in his tracks. “How do you know my name?”
“I never got my drink with you.” Jongin slyly commented.
Tilting his head, he studies the tall and tanned man leaning against a barren wall, bleak face and bloated eyes smirking at him. “Jongin?”
“Glad you remember me,” he smiles, “what do you say? Want to get drinks tomorrow night with me?”
Squinting at him, he shifts his body onto one leg and rolls his eyes, “I don’t know, how do I know you’re not going to drug me or something?”
“Oh come on!” Jongin grunts, giving him a faulty smirk, “I haven’t seen you in weeks and this is how you treat me? I think I’ve waited long enough for my drink.”
Checking him out from head to toe, Kyungsoo croaks out an exasperated giggle, “looks like you’ve had plenty to me.”
“Just one hour?” Jongin pleads, biting his lower lip as he bores his eyes into Kyungsoo’s, teeth grazing over a scab crusted with vexation.
Rolling his eyes in an insouciance manner, he takes one good look at Jongin, eyes trailing up and down his slim figure. “Just one hour.”
~
“So, you’re a painter?” Jongin asks, sturdy elbows digging into the sleek auburn bar top that’s reflecting the dim lights and faces of the chattering patrons sitting next to them. Laughs and giggles mingle with the musty aromas of wines and beers, which coalesce with the fading scents of dulcet colognes and perfumes. A classical tune drifts throughout the restaurant that resonates with Jongin in a relaxing way, eyelids dropping while watching the hunched boy next to him.
“Yeah. I’m not great but it pays the bills.” Kyungsoo admits, taking a sip of his drink. “Plus I’m good at it so why not make a little cash for it?”
“I’ve always wanted to become an artist.” Jongin reminisces, thinking back to the failed drawings and endless eraser shavings littering his bedroom floor.
“It’s never too late.” Kyungsoo states, “my parents were against it but when you have a passion, why let someone get in the way?”
“It’s a bit late for me.” He scoffs, tilting his head back slightly to consume the bitter poison.
“When you think like that it is.” Kyungsoo remarks, tracing the edge of his damp cardboard coaster.
“Says the man who orders Sprite at a bar.” Jongin snickers, taking another sip of his deep burgundy wine.
“Let’s not make this about me, Jongin.”
“Why not? It’s fun,” he dictates, resting his head on a propped hand. “Why don’t you drink?”
Sipping his soda through a translucent bendy straw, his eyes wander up to formulate an answer. “I have my reasons.”
“Are you afraid you’ll get drunk and fall madly in love with me?” Jongin says, running his hands through his silk hair.
“How’d you know? Drunk alcoholics and chain smokers are my weakness.” Kyungsoo laughs, round eyes forming small crescent moons. Jongin watches his child-like fingers trace the edges of his glass, rubbing the condensation that coats his skin with a diaphanous layer of water.
“But really, you won’t tell me?”
“It’s just-” Kyungsoo pauses, “complicated.”
“Are you underage? Actually, you do look kind of young.” That earns a cold glare from the petite boy.
“I’m twenty-four.”
Eyes widening, Jongin blinks in disbelief. “Bullshit.”
“It’s the truth!” The defending boy raises his tone.
“Prove it.”
Kyungsoo pulls out his withered wallet and takes out a small plastic card, handing to Kyungsoo. Scanning over the irrelevant information, Jongin sees the date of birth section on his card and tilts his head in amusement.
“Our birthdays are only a day apart Soo, that’s kind of cool.” He cheekily chuckles, handing the card back to the older boy. Neatly folding his wallet into his pocket, Kyungsoo looks up to glare at the slouching boy hovering over his wine glass.
“What did you just call me?” Asking again for clarification, Kyungsoo leans in closer.
“Your name?” Jongin states as he glances around suspiciously. Receiving disappointed groans and a facepalm reaction, he just sits there confused as to why Kyungsoo is cringing with disgust.
“My name’s not Soo,” The sober man clarifies. “Actually, since I’m older shouldn’t you call me hyung?”
“I’m pretty sure Soo is cuter.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch, that’s a bit harsh,” Jongin remarks and hovers a hand to his torso. “Who knew little Soo here is actually a big bully? Did you know bullying makes your dick fall off?”
Raising a furry eyebrow, he can’t believe he’s hearing this from a full-grown man. “Where did you hear that?”
“The Internet.”
“So in essence, you don’t have one?” Kyungsoo combats, anxiously trying to hide his smile through gritted teeth.
“Another stab, ouch!” Jongin snorts, “Did your parents not hug you as a child?”
“I’m not bullying you.”
“Name calling is bullying.”
“Then, by your standards, you’re bullying me.”
“How so?” The buzzed man questions,
“Soo is name calling,” he rationalizes, leaning his head on his palm as he leans against the bar top.
“Bullying has to be offensive though.”
“I find that offensive,” snapping back, Kyungsoo widens his eyes in hopes of getting his point across to a dimly witted Jongin.
“I still think it’s cute.”
“I still think you’re an idiot.”
“That’s offensive.”
“Don’t call me Soo and I won’t bully you then,” Kyungsoo proposes, reaching out his hand for a handshake. Instead, Jongin takes this a sign for a high-five and slaps his hand with a loud smack.
“Okay, Soo,” he grins.
“Whatever idiot,” nodding his head with forfeit, sounds of giggles and chattering fill their silence as small glances are being stolen with sweet smiles between each other.
“Can I see your work?” Jongin decides to change the subject. Kyungsoo leans closer, retrieving his phone from his cotton pocket and loads his gallery before handing it to Jongin.
“You shouldn’t have a cell phone.” Jongin observes.
“Why not?”
“People can track you down and find you easier using the GPS built inside. That’s why I only have a house phone.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Say that again when you have a stalker lurking outside your house.”
“At least my stalker won’t be dim-witted like you.”
Turning to the brightly lit screen, he swipes through each photograph in awe, studying each patch of color and effort he put into each painting. Alluring shades and bold strokes leave Jongin absent-minded, guffawing at the masterpieces the other has created. Portraits of strangers he had never met and landscapes of places he had never been leave his mouth dry.
“They’re amazing,” Jongin says as he swipes to the last picture of a detailed painting of a familiar young woman in a wedding dress with gentle features and soft expressions. Studying her short black hair and familiar large rounded eyes.
“Who’s this?” Jongin inquires. “Your girlfriend?”
“That’s my mom,” Kyungsoo spits, leaning back in his burgundy barstool. “That’s my favorite picture of her.” He trails.
“She looks like a lovely woman,” he says
“Yeah, she is,” Nodding in agreement.
“How is she doing these days?”
“Fine, she’s at home with my dad.” He says sentimentally.
Sliding the phone back to Kyungsoo, “I want to see you paint.”
“It’s nothing special.” He confesses. “It would bore you.”
“A passion is special. And a passion is never boring.”
Kyungsoo pauses momentarily, eyes boring into Jongin’s as he contemplates his request. “You don’t have a passion?”
“When I was younger, sure.”
“What did you like to do?”
“I danced. Ballet mostly, but not anymore since-“ Jongin trails, chewing his bottom lip before finishing the last droplets of wine left in his class.
“Since what?” The other enquires.
“Nothing.” Jongin mumbles, “It’s complicated.” He smirks.
“Your hour is up now.” Kyungsoo checks his watch. “Thanks for the chat, and the Sprite.”
“But I was just getting started!” He whines. “Plus, you never answered if I can come see you paint.”
“I told you it would bore you.”
“Please Soo?” Jongin pleads as he gives him a sly smile. Clearing his throat, the older boy doesn’t respond and sips the rest of his carbonated beverage in a huge gulp.
“Hyung?” Jongin corrects.
“Fine. How about we meet at the park tomorrow morning?”
part ii