SBB 2016 ENTRY #17: UNSAID WORDS (1/2)
Title: Unsaid Words (1/2)
Pairing: General (Minho/Kibum, hints of Taemin/Minho)
Rating: pg-13
Genre: Fantasy
Warnings:Strong language, implied depression and eating disorders, mentions of death and self harm
Final Word Count: 15,627
When Kibum unlocks the bathroom door and steps out into the ocean, the first thing they do is kick their shoes off. That’s something they know, without knowing how they know it. It’s a haziness Kibum would have once troubled with, but it happens more and more often these days, so they’ve learnt to pay it little heed.
After recovering from the surprise, Kibum is content to bob, narrowing their eyes against the waves, revelling warmth of the sunlight falling upon their face. The water is, thank God, calm, and it glitters like burnished silver in the bright sun, shining like the scales of a thousand fish. Their hair sticks to their shoulders; they slurp in a cautious sip, spitting it out once they’re assured it’s just saltwater, then they duck below the surface.
All at once, Kibum’s hyperaware of the water against their skin, its softness, pushing at their relaxed body, nudging them gently through the tides and ripcurls. They love how this feels, love giving themself over to nature like this, waiting longer and longer between each breath, their hair floating away from them like wild anemone. They’d dyed it purple a while ago but in the eerie mum of the water it shimmers like glass.
After a long while, of relentless buoyancy and near drowning, Kibum emerges above the waves for the last time, blinking droplets from their eyelashes. Finally starts craning their neck to see land.
There’s nothing. Not even a bird in the sky.
Which is…slightly worrying.
And Kibum experiences that stomach-dropping, abrupt realisation that there is a billion cubits of water below them that could contain…
As familiar as the saltwater is, Kibum doesn’t think they’ve visited this ocean before, and their over-active imagination is kind enough to provide them with scenes from films and documentaries about predators of the deep; bioluminescent squid and orcas and kraken. Kibum feels their heart rate pick up, the beat thrumming through their all-too-vulnerable limbs as they flail around. Little more than a phytoplankton, really, in the grand scheme of things. (Yet even phytoplankton, the sea mumbles, is useful.)
In that case, Kibum’s a water molecule, strong hydrogen bonds and polar ends and weak instantaneous dipole forces pulling at their fingers and their toes-
Before they can start truly panicking, they catch sight of a boat. Between the dips and swells, the little green sailing boat appears and disappears. The tight knot in their chest sinks into their stomach where it unravels a little.
Kibum paddles their legs and steadies themself in the water before they yell out, “Ahoy!” in English, because they’ve found it to be a universal language in more than one sense of the word; every world they’ve visited so far has understood some basic form of it. The extent of globalisation never fails to amaze. They’d find it a shame, if it weren’t so helpful. That’s the sort of relativity Kibum lives by.
The boat cuts through the waves and Kibum has a second to wonder if calling out before ensuring there were no hostile beings aboard was a little stupid, but then the boat pulls up alongside them, and Jonghyun’s head pops up over the side.
“Oh it’s you.” Kibum sighs in relief, sagging momentarily underwater.
When they resurface again, it’s to hear Jonghyun saying, “I’ve a good mind to leave you there. Haven’t you learnt anything by now?”
Jonghyun frowns down at them for a while until he decides Kibum looks suitably penitent before finally offering Kibum a hand.
Octopus-like, Kibum flails around, sopping wet and coughing, on the floor on the boat. That is, if octopuses cough. Kibum isn’t sure they do, but they do feel quite slimy, so they suppose that counts. If someone’s keeping tally.
“I told you I wasn’t hearing things.” Jonghyun declares. He’s using his pouty voice; the one that’s equal parts infuriating and endearing. Kibum heaves themself onto their back squinting up against the sunlight, and, sure enough, Minho looms into sight. Kibum huffs in annoyance at the smug look on Minho’s face.
“Congrats Jonghyun.” Kibum can hear the grin in Minho’s voice. “This’ll feed the two of us with extra to spare.”
“I’d like to see you try!” Kibum splutters, though their anger is slightly undermined by the smile sneaking across their features. “And I’d like some dry clothes.” Minho teases them some more as Jonghyun rummages around in the small hold of the boat and conjures up some thick enough blankets. Still bickering, Kibum sheds their water-weighted, cold clothes into a puddle in the middle of the tiny deck - the boat is rather small now they’re on it too - and Jonghyun cocoons them in the blankets.
Minho takes one look at them, snuggled up like a burrito, and pushes Kibum over with a gleeful shout. They hit the deck hard and Jonghyun looks momentarily torn between checking they’re alright and laughing his head off. He chooses the latter. No prize for guessing that one, Mister Tally-Maker. Not that Kibum’s surprised. Still lying awkwardly, face down and nose hovering a centimetre above the wooden boards of the deck thanks to their mattress of blankets, Kibum asks, “So, how come you two landed on a boat?” Kibum knows they sound petulant, but they think they can be forgiven. After all, they’re the one in sodden underwear. Jonghyun perches on the bow and swings his bare feet, showing off his pretty pink nail polish. Jonghyun’s nails are always nicely painted.
Jonghyun clicks his tongue and huffs, lips bubble-gum pink and pouting. “How should I know? You’ve been doing this far longer, we should be asking you the questions.” Jonghyun always gets this way, when the worlds shift (or when they shift through the worlds, it all depends on how self-important one feels), because he hates surprises vehemently. Once, he’d mentioned his birthday coming up, and when Minho and Kibum has surprised him with a cake, he’d leapt three feet in the air and slapped them both around the face before he calmed down. Kibum’s still doesn’t think the slapping was really necessary, but Jonghyun always tells the story with relish, to people they meet, and people nearly always laugh. Even after hearing it at least twenty times, Minho still laughs.
And they don’t exactly get invitational cards or calendar notices. As Kibum can sympathise, they lets it pass, mumbling only, “I can barely remember last month.”
Before Jonghyun can reply, with a snap or an ancient apology, the little boat blows into a hot gust of wind. Kibum starts feeling a little sick as they are tossed around, rolling from port to starboard in their little sushi roll of blankets. Jonghyun and Minho are too busy fussing with sail and tiller to un-sushify them, but if there are two things Kibum has buckets of, it’s creativity and obstinacy.
“A-ha!” Kibum yells when they finally wriggle themself free, jumping up and just missing, by the skin of their nose, the boom, as it swings round when they tack.
After that, Kibum just sits placidly beside Jonghyun at the stern and acts as moving ballast when necessary. They’re mostly content to watch their companions work like a well-oiled machine; worldshifting means you get really good at getting good at a huge variety of activities and situations. They wonder when Minho and Jonghyun needed to pick up sailing. Kibum themself can clean chimneys, tap dance, build ladders and pick locks with only a piece of wire; to name but a few. (Though they maintain that the aptitude in which they have most improved is ‘bullshitting through the skin of their teeth’.) They wonder what abilities they had when they first started out, but it’s so far back the mere thought sets a headache thrumming at the base of their skull. They can’t remember a time before the worldshifting began.
Calloused hands pass ropes with assured confidence. As they successfully navigate the rough strait, Minho natters on about how, just last forever, Jonghyun and he were stuck on a boat in a fleet of warships harbouring in the bay of another world’s India (it was one of those worlds that echoed their own; those wreck Kibum’s head the most). It had been monsoon season. The fabric of the world shimmers and twists at the edges of Kibum’s vision and they glimpse Minho’s nightmares, smudged blotchy swirls of Minho spluttering awake on the floor beside his bed, drowning in his sheets, tangled and sinking.
Kibum blinks and Minho is giving them one of those worried looks so they pinch Minho’s nose just to get him to stop. The wind dies down.
It’s not long before the sun snaps back into place. Kibum focuses on the hotness of the sun - almost too hot - against their bare skin, as the clouds drift away, reeled over the horizon, chasing down the ghost of their wreckage. Not today. Not with Jonghyun and Minho around.
After a while, Minho ceases the concerned staring.
Jonghyun does some more conjuring magic - ok, not really, they’re not in one of those worlds, sadly - and pulls some sandwiches out of the hatch. Kibum learned pretty fast that worrying too much about the origins of food isn’t worth the trouble, nor the stomach rumbling, so they sit there in their underwear and eagerly devour the tuna mayonnaise sandwich. Minho practically inhales his. Since Kibum is sort of on a diet, they toss Minho their crusts. (Nothing to do with Minho’s puppy eyes, definitely not.)
When they take a moment to actually think about it, perhaps it’s odd how quickly the three of them fell into companionship; it’s not like Kibum has ever met them in real life before…or, rather, in their own world.
Sometimes they’ll look at them, at Jonghyun fiddling with his silver and pink bracelets, or the way Minho flinches if somebody yells too loud, and thinks, Do I really know you? It always throws him off. Kibum will snap at one of them and they will catch their hand, and hold it.
Kibum will squeeze their fingers, and remember how Jonghyun, for all his biting, keeps Kibum safe, under the blanket of his quiescent soul; how Minho gathers all their wayward strands and tucks Kibum in, stops them from unravelling. They’ll think of how Jonghyun will lean his head on their shoulder and Kibum will wrap an arm around him, pull him closer. (In reality, Kibum doesn’t touch people.) They’ll think of Minho listening intently - simultaneously scolding and admiring Kibum’s sharp tongue - with his dark hair curling handsomely, just above the collar of his shirt, never using Kibum’s Bad days against them. (In these worlds, Kibum touches them, and never wants to stop.)
The sail flaps and Jonghyun giggles at something Minho’s said, and the threads of fate quiver, fluff exploding, blown to the edges of Kibum’s conscious mind and disappearing beyond. Reverberations shudder to the ends of the loom - somewhere they can’t see - and back to the beginning, each radiating from this circle, in the centre of time.
Kibum follows a thread of saffron. Kibum met Jonghyun first, saving him from being beaten up by thugs in the slums of Malpuro. They’d been a little lost themself; the worldshifting had been happening a lot, and at every turn, reality frayed before them. Kibum’s never had a hero complex, but he hadn’t been able to walk past. (Sometime later, a speck of time, when Kibum had stared up at the swirling grey sky of another world’s night, Jonghyun had rest his head against Kibum’s shoulder and said Kibum was selectively sensitive. Couldn’t give a damn about most people. Achingly soft for others. Kibum had felt sick with how gentle Jonghyun’s voice was, how vulnerable each word from Jonghyun’s thin lips made them feel.) There’d been blood but it was the words that ricocheted off the alley walls that hooked into Kibum’s soul, familiar words and that pull, that drag to help, help. It was the first time their existence had steadied in eons. They’d almost gotten beaten up in the process themself, but Kibum’s tongue hadn’t earned its sterling reputation for nothing.
Then, garnet and sapphire, when Minho rescued Kibum from being trampled by stampeding Wildelephants in Sekagru. It had been quite the Lion King moment, except for the fact that, well, Minho survived. Probably not much like the Lion King, then.
After both encounters, Kibum had somehow found themself discovering Jonghyun and Minho everywhere. They’d been expecting to see Minho again, somehow, some weak ache of unfinished business, but Jonghyun had been a surprise. They’d thought that knot was tied. The natural progression had been to form a kind of ‘I’ve got your back’ trio, but Kibum doesn’t think the whole interdependency thing hadn’t been part of the plan.
Jonghyun’s soft cry brings Kibum back to the boat; they stumble against the swell for a moment, too tangled up in their own matters.
“Again?” Jonghyun wails quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. Kibum doesn’t even need to ask to know Minho’s hurt himself again. For all the man says he’s an athlete in real life, he falls over himself all the time. Jonghyun’s face pales, even as he holds Minho’s hand and squeezes the flesh around the slice across Minho’s palm, eyes widening at the beads of blood that thread themselves through the minor laceration, gulping so loudly Kibum rolls their eyes and Minho laughs.
“D’you need a plaster?” Kibum asks.
“Do you have any?” Minho counters. He knows Kibum does. Kibum always has little pink plasters in their pockets; has done since they can remember. They snort out a laugh at the phrase, fishing around in their sopping shorts. They chuck them at Minho who, hand still clasped in Jonghyun’s smaller ones, can only half-heartedly duck out of the way. The plasters hit his cheek and Kibum laughs. Jonghyun makes use of Minho’s indignant bickering with Kibum and rests Minho’s hand on his knees. Minho squats to accommodate, face softening at the small crease between Jonghyun’s eyebrows as he snatches up the fallen plasters, licks the blood from Minho’s hand, and fusses to plaster the cut as best as possible.
“Did he just-“
“He did.”
“He licked you.”
“Yummy.” Jonghyun pipes up. There’s a beat of silence then Minho giggles, and when Minho giggles everyone else does too. It’s a rule, a law of the multiverses. Well, Kibum, at least, thinks it should be.
“I remembered something.” Kibum says then, eyes fixed on Minho’s long-fingered hands; veins looping round his joints and dancing up beyond the sleeve of his shirt. Minho looks at them sharply.
“I’m glad.” Jonghyun smiles.
Minho says, “And?”
Kibum wants to tell the truth, to say ‘When I met you’, but the words weigh heavy on their tongue. “I remembered you’ve always been annoying.”
Jonghyun cackles and Minho splutters and the whole boat is in uproar for an hour, or maybe a day.
“So, any idea where we are?” Kibum muses, finally, eyes on the hazy distance where sea blends into sky, thinking maybe Jonghyun or Minho might’ve been here before.
Minho makes a humming noise, in the way one does in gathering thoughts or casting back into memory. He takes up Kibum’s gazing, and Jonghyun and Kibum exchange fond, frustrated glances when he doesn’t tell them what he knows straight away.
Kibum cracks eventually, “Minho?”
At the very same time, Minho lurches across the boat, nearly throwing himself off the side, staring wildly across the waves. Jonghyun and Kibum rush to counter-balance the boat, then simultaneously scowl at his back.
Minho glances over his shoulder at them, excited smile on his face not faltering even when he clocks their disapproving and confused glares, “Other people!”
That gets their attention.
“Where?” Jonghyun rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if that could somehow help him see further. Meanwhile, Kibum trusts Minho’s 20-20 vision and tries not to look directly at Jonghyun’s candyfloss hair, glinting brilliant pink, far too bright in the sun.
As they sail in the direction Minho dictates, thankfully with the wind at their back, he explains everything he can remember. “I haven’t been here since I was young, mind you. There were floods, devastating flooding, seasons screwed up, Green Party proven right and all that. They built cities on the water and created the…NSL? No, the NLS - New Land Settlements. Only there wasn’t enough room and there was all this trouble with wealthy people bribing their way in and the masses starving away into shark bait, yada yada.”
Jonghyun’s face scrunches up indignantly. Before he can launch his lecture, no doubt about capitalism being an unjust system of governance employed solely by people who’ve sold their souls to the devil, Minho continues, “People built large rafts and lashed them together to form huge floating communities. It’s a delicate business.” An emotion flashes across his face too fast for Kibum to register but there’s an edge present in Minho’s tone now. Kibum thinks, these memories are jagged shards of broken mirrors.
“Too big or too small, either can lead to wreckage.” Minho says, in that voice. They pause momentarily to tack, and then settle again. Minho decides to conclude with, “It’s really shitty but our ability to…their tenacity? It’s just awe-inspiring. Uplifting, in some perverse way. You know.”
Jonghyun nods approvingly at this, like he does know. Kibum has to hit him because sometimes Jonghyun gets so righteous he needs a good kick up the arse to bring him back down from Cloud Descartes. Or whoever that philosophical anthropologist is, whom Jonghyun always quotes. Jonghyun sticks his tongue out in response.
“So they’re nice people, then?” Kibum says, faux-casual. They note the twitch of tension in Minho’s shoulders; the hot sun has stripped him of his button-down and Kibum’s grateful, that twitch raising Kibum’s alertness. Plus, Kibum isn’t going to lie, they appreciate the wife-beater; that’s what friends do; they appreciate each other’s biceps. They make sure to look away before Minho catches them.
“Most of them are good people. But you know how it is. Pleasantries aren’t the priority for those who have to fight every day to survive.” Minho clears his throat. “No, I’m, I’m doing them a disservice. ‘Cause I’ve been to a lot of places. But I’ve never met people with so little willing to share so much.” None of them comment on the way Minho starts blinking rapidly. He coughs a little and, slowly but surely, a smile reappears on his face. “I wonder how they’re getting on. This probably isn’t their colony but you never know! Hey, get your shirt?”
Kibum obeys without question, scooping the half-dry white shirt from its place draped over the bow. They steal Minho’s button-down as they do so, shrugging into it to protect their shoulders from the blistering heat. Minho enthusiastically waves Kibum’s white top back and forth in an intercosmic display of peace and Jonghyun and Kibum have to lurch to the other side of the boat to stop Minho’s movement rocking it too much.
Minho catches sight of a waving flag and squints at it.
“Well?” Kibum doesn’t hesitate this time, sick of waiting for Minho to get himself together.
“It’s yellow and black?”
“Yellow and black?” That gets Jonghyun and Kibum precariously stretching out over the port side alongside him.
Ramshackle houses of patched-together driftwood and corrugated metal sit upon the ocean, waves lapping up to rust away the edges, slowly corroding the sprawling raft town. The levels nearing them are darkening, as people, skin tanned black with the relentless summer, crowd along the narrow ladders and plastic pathways. They’re shouting something, arms waving at them wildly, but none of them can understand the words.
As they draw closer, the sun striking off the aluminium rooftops blinds them.
Jonghyun turns to Minho, eyes scrunched up and forehead crumpled with frustration, “I’ve never seen a black and yellow flag before, what do you,” It’s in that split second when Jonghyun takes a breath that Kibum hears it, the snap of scissors, “think?”
“Oh God.” Kibum gasps, backing away to the starboard side on trembling legs. Black thread slashes like a scythe across all other colours.
“Ki? What’d you hear?” Minho asks, voice tight with tension, forcedly calm.
Kibum bolts into action, flinging themself at the tiller to steer them away.
“The fuck?”
“Can’t you hear them?” Kibum yells, and Jonghyun takes a step back, affronted. Kibum feels like all the salt in the air has lodged itself in their throat; each word hurts, hurts, hurts. The confusion on Jonghyun’s face and the dawning on Minho’s have Kibum choking on a sob,
“Plague, Jjong. They’ve got the plague.”
Now they’ve heard it, they can’t stop hearing it; the roar of their voices calling out, raw and harsh. Across the water rushes a tsunami of human devastation. It trembles in the screams of a mother, holding out her stick-thin child towards them, begging them to save him; in the high shrieks of warning from the tiny, sunburnt children doing jumping jacks on the tin roofs to scare them away; in the wild, white-wide stares of the elderly, bodies shaking with each brittle yell.
Kibum thinks they hear, “Plague, plague! Leave here! Don’t come closer!”
Then, another, “Save yourselves!”
And, “Save my child!”
They sail past. They sail parallel to the seemingly neverending sea-town, the people eventually quieting when convinced they aren’t going to dock. Silence settles heavy over the ocean, oppressively hot in the midday sun, smothering the waves and shrouding the island of twisted plastic and eroding metal in despair so opaque it’s hard to pick out the individual faces of the statue-still rafters. In the shadows of a shack perched precariously at the last edge of the ramshackle settlement, Kibum’s eyes are drawn to an emaciated young man, sharp shadows painting the youth into a spectral water-wraith. Their gazes must lock, despite all the sea between them, for Kibum can feel the vague bleakness of the young man’s vastly apathetic stare; a second passes and the boy smiles, softly, emptily.
Within Kibum’s ribcage, intent floods, thick as blood, desperate and relentless. Intent for what, they don’t know, only that they have to, have to do something, something, for that boy, for their chest to stop aching, something-
The infected town disappears behind the rolling waves, finally. Kibum is shaking so much they’re steering the boat all over the place. A particularly large lurch breaks the spell keeping the others captive, and Minho comes to the stern, nudges them aside and takes the tiller himself. Kibum sits, plastered to Minho’s side, leeching Minho’s heat as if that could warm them, as if anything could raise them out off the bone-deep chill they’re sinking in, scorching sunlight be damned. They try not to think of the tiny sunburnt baby or that skeletal boy. At one point, Minho kisses their fringe. Kibum reaches out and clutches onto Minho’s bicep and makes their lips form the words, “Don’t worry, it’s a lot of ocean. I’m sure that wasn’t them.”
They’ve always been shitty at comforting people and this time doesn’t seem to be an exception. They’re not even sure if Minho has recognised their effort, until Minho hums quietly and kisses their forehead again. His lips are chapped and soft as dawn, and his eyes are less guarded, less painful to look at, when he draws back. Kibum feels suddenly overwhelmed, with the feeling of having done something. Something right. Something devastating. A keen sense of loss stabs them in the gut, the feeling gone just as fast as it came. A knot tied.
Kibum closes their eyes and lets themself shiver out the cold and breath in the warmth.
When they open them again, it’s to see Jonghyun standing on the edge of the boat. Minho has his back to him and hasn’t noticed. Jonghyun’s toes curl over the edge of the boat - when had he taken his shoes off? - and he bends his knees, drawing back his arms.
“Jjong!” Kibum pushes Minho aside, and dives to stop Jonghyun from leaping into the sea. The next thing he registers is the shock of water, freezing after the intense heat, then Jonghyun writhing in his arms. Kibum can’t open their eyes underwater, salt stinging too much, and they start panic, as Jonghyun pulls them along. Judging by the way the water is grows colder still Jonghyun is swimming deeper and deeper, and Kibum’s drowns in confusion and betrayal and the single instinct of self-preservation.
They break the surface.
Kibum is too busy hacking half a lung up, to realise they haven’t surfaced where they were before. When they start breathing properly again, they finally notice where they are; on a beach, with sand the colour of spilt blood.
They make a surprised noise in the back of their throat that escalates into another coughing fit. Jonghyun, who had his eyes open for the whole world shift thing, is stumbling around dizzily, but he manages to pat Kibum on the back, and so hard Kibum thinks they’re going to have bruises. They appreciate the good will, though.
That’s when their brain actually clocks the crimson sand and the black skeletal trees at the edge of the beach and the anaemic sky. They swear colourfully and Jonghyun immediately tenses. “Izwe Mamlakat.” Kibum spits, climbing to their feet. “Fucking cannibals.”
---
Kibum awakes in their own bed, back in their own world, with a crick in their neck from where they and Jonghyun had fallen asleep, locked in a cage after being caught by the cannibals and - thankfully not eaten - being sold to merchants in exchange for vegetables. Apparently the bloody, sandy soil isn’t fertile and even cannibals need a balanced diet. Kibum feels simultaneously disgusted at the thought of food and ravenously hungry. They laugh and a thread snaps.
Kibum just hopes Jonghyun managed to make it out alive, too. In the faded dark of early morning light, Kibum’s fingers trail over the white expanse of pure cotton sheets, and they miss Jonghyun. It’s this heaviness in the base of their stomach, that leeches energy from the outreaches of Kibum’s limbs, engulfing it impatiently, like a black hole, leaving them drowned. Floating facedown. They turn their head and in the sun slanting through the curtains, their hair looks glass-like. Shattered across the pillow.
What they have with them, with Jonghyun and Minho both, feels, despite the distance, closer.
That, Kibum thinks, is the advantage of sub-reality. Secrets, they’ve found, come easier when real life isn’t lurking around to fuck things up. Of course, there’s certainly a caution that still remains, underpinning every interaction, a push-and-pull of reaching out and withdrawing, clandestine silence and secret-spilling. They’ve told Jonghyun things nobody else alive knows about, and had the same returned. Minho’s less talkative by nature, and Kibum isn’t one to hand out stories without due return, so there’s more silence between them. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Kibum finds themself enticed, drawn ever closer. Once, a time they don’t like to dwell on, Minho had been dragged through the veil and spat out, bruised and battered, his nose broken and his eye black, and had burst into tears. Kibum’s still not sure how much the veil is to blame.
(Occasionally there’s this tingle, whenever they’re about to world-shift, the slightest forewarning. The tingling starts in their fingers and spreads through their bloodstream the closer they gets to the tears in reality, until they find the rips and pull themself through. Jonghyun says his warning is far less pleasant, pins and needles sticking into his limbs so he searches for the shredded shroud just to ease the pain. Minho doesn’t like talking about the whole process of intercosmic travelling much, but he usually has bruises on his arms. The black eye though? That had been new.)
For as much as they antagonise one another, they’ve somehow developed a bond strong enough that even the multiverse keeps throwing them together, over and over, on their world-shifting journeys.
Thinking back, the last time Kibum shifted alone, without discovering either of their companions, had been lifetimes ago. There’s a deep contentment that comes with such knowledge, the sort of contentment Kibum should know doesn’t last.
---
Kibum walks down the stairs out of their apartment (for the first time in a while) and doesn't think about the next stride, safe in the knowledge that there are five steps, in the same way they know the colour of their front door; pink, though they have no idea which shade.
So they’re understandably thrown when, despite the floor stretching out like it usually does, their next stride takes them down yet again.
Kibum halts so fast they have to whirl their arms to stop themself from falling. Their left foot is still on the last step and their right one is through the floor. He bends, swaying to keep their balance, and taps the floor right beside their submerged foot and it is still rock hard. Tentatively they straighten, and then move their left foot; and sure enough, it passes through the floor like it's not there at all. Kibum can feel the firmness of another step beneath their feet and it's doing their head in to look down so they just look straight and walks forward.
The ground rises to meet them and Kibum squeezes their eyes shut as their head disappears through it.
When they open them again, they’re at the top of a rickety wooden staircase. They blink furiously to adjust to the darkness.
For a second they keep still, listening for movement nearby, then down the stairs they go, each creaking under their weight despite their best efforts to keep quiet. They flatten themself against the wall and spies around the corner carefully. They’re in an abandoned bar, empty. Probably due to the early hour, if the faint light filtering through the grimy windows is any clue.
Kibum sneaks across the room cursing every loose floorboard, approaching the window with trepidation.
They look outside and feels their heart plummet. If Kibum's not much mistaken, they’re back in Rossalem. Spiralling pink, the pink of flesh, repeats itself over and over. It’s a pattern they’re too familiar with.
Heart in their mouth, Kibum flees to the shadows behind the bar, crouching down in the dirt and grime and other questionable substances without a second thought. The Omatiyor of Rossalem are far more daunting than dodgy sticky patches on the floor. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Kibum isn’t breathing. They see themself shiver. They see carbon dioxide, the dense grey of tarnished ten pence coins. Out. Their chest shudders on the inhale. Out. Look out the window.
Judging by the sight out the grimy glass - distant shining monolith domes painted in gold, towering over blackened roofs, crumbling shacks nearby - they’re somewhere in the bowels of Rossalem's capital city, Tikanlar.
They’re not sure if that's a blessing or a curse; on one hand, they’re safer in the teeming slums edging the city where they can blend in with the nameless Omadsiz. (As much as it hurts, an age-old hurt, to be Omadsiz when they’re not, they’re not, why are people only seen in boxes?) On the other hand, last time they found themself here, there’d been an upsurge in purges and raids on Omadsiz-populated suburbs. Kibum feels torn, but before they can truly evaluate the best course of action, the door is slammed open. Kibum peers around the edge of the bar to see five Omatiyor come streaming inside, stun guns in hand, handcuffs looped through their belts, pouches of tear gas attached at their hips.
Kibum doesn’t dare breathe, shrinking into themself. They tuck their toes in; ensuring every part of them is hidden. Cursing silently, they guess the building is deserted due to warnings of police raids.
The Omatiyor find them easily enough.
One second they’re curled up small as could be, the next there’s a hand in their hair yanking them up and pulling them back over the bar. Shocked, Kibum can only lie sprawled across the tabletop and stare up at the Omatiyor’s upside-down face smirking down at them. She shoves them off the bar top and they nearly fly into the wall of alcohol. The shelving bites into their hands as Kibum throws them up to stop themself from eating glass.
Every nerve tingling with adrenaline, Kibum faces her. She’s gorgeous, in the way that all Omatiyor are gorgeous; each different, but with universally striking features and beautiful bodies, carrying themselves self-righteously whilst exuding an air of entitlement. Dark blonde fringe and wavy locks frame a round face with unblemished skin complete with amber lips, straight nose and eyes lined with black. Behind her, the other Omatiyor have similarly long, luscious hair and intimidatingly perfect faces. They look like dolls.
The Omatiyor who grabbed Kibum now talks, the eyes roaming over them containing a mixture of disgust and curiosity. “Well, well, well, this is nice. I thought they’d all figured out when we come raiding, but apparently something didn’t get the memo!”
Kibum tries not to shiver at being called a ‘something’ but they tense nonetheless; the Omatiyor seems to actually look at them for a moment, perhaps surprised at the reaction, before her gaze glazes over again. It’s disconcerting how distant her expression is, when her entire body is quivering with suppressed energy. The suppression makes Kibum glance at the other four Omatiyor in hopes of discerning the leader; sure enough, members of the Troupe seem to be sending regular side-glances towards an Omatiyor with loosely coiled, honey blonde curls and the prettiest face Kibum has ever seen.
“What shall we do with it?” asks another abruptly, in the tone of one speaking out of turn but too filled with anticipation to be silent any longer. Sure enough, she gets a sharp glare from the leader, but she appears oblivious, edging forward towards Kibum like she can’t wait to get her hands on them.
Kibum decides it’s time to speak up, their tension and anxiety forcing their hand, “I’m terribly sorry to-“
“It talked!” The wayward, black-haired Omatiyor, scurries back to her place near the open door in her shock. At the same time, the Omatiyor who first discovered them leaps neatly over the bar, grabs their collar, and punches them in the face, before Kibum can react.
“How dare it talk to us!” Her face crumples with gleeful fury.
“W-wait! Listen to me! I’m a-“
“Listen to it?” The Omatiyor screeches in their face, raising her hand to pull Kibum onto their tiptoes and punching them in the stomach, leaving Kibum unable to double-up, groaning in pain as she controls them completely. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages!”
“Wendy.” rings the leader’s high, clear voice. Wendy’s already halfway through a punch but she pulls it enough that Kibum doesn’t feel like they’ve been hit by a car. (They know that feeling from personal experience - not something he wants to relive again). Wendy’s eyes scrunch with disappointment and Kibum can see her reining in the energy that thrums around her, slashes of white and blinding.
“Irene?” Wendy demands, low voice tight with frustration.
“Let’s hear what it has to say.”
“Hear?” a whine sneaks into Wendy’s tone, her bottom lip slipping out to form a pout. Irene’s face twitches in anger and an Omatiyor that has yet to speak, with brunette hair and thin eyes, touches Irene’s arm in a reminder of restraint, before reprimanding Wendy herself.
“Do what Irene says, Wen.” Kibum blinks at that, intrigued at the nickname; it’s the first time they’ve ever heard an Omatiyor use a familiar abbreviation with another. Wendy lets them go roughly and Kibum focuses on breathing normally again, raising oxygen levels in their bloodstream once again so their muscles are ready for either defence mechanism. “You. Omadsiz, speak.”
Kibum straightens their shirt and doesn’t spare Wendy a glance, focusing their efforts on their leader, Irene. “Firstly, my name is Kibum.” There are hisses at its impertinence - to name itself! Surely that’s illegal! “That’s one of two things you need to know about me. The second,” it’s a risk, but one he has to take. Two needles are threaded and he pricks their thumb on the sharpest. “I’m a world-shifter.”
Kibum can’t quite put their finger on it, but the whole atmosphere of the room seems to change. The glances they shoot between them increase in frequency although they speak no words aloud. As the silence stretches on, and Kibum watches their faces intently, they can see the nexus is no longer Irene, but the final Omatiyor, yet to contribute.
She stands nearly hidden behind Irene’s left shoulder, beside the lively black-haired girl; her brunette hair shines rich auburn in the pale light coming in through the doorway and her fair skin is speckled with golden freckles. There is a youthfulness about her, a fierce devotion to seeming aloof that’s almost innocent, that suggests she is the youngest. Finally, she comes forward, until only the bar separates them. Kibum reminds themself yet again that breathing is a good thing.
“You’re a world-shifter?” Kibum subconsciously relaxes at the acknowledgement of them as a person, not merely a thing.
“Yes,” Kibum answers cautiously, “And I mean no disrespect.” Their gut lurches, their head thrumming at what they need to say next. Oh God, oh God. How many times have they sheltered them, looked out for them- “But I don’t think that warrants me being treated like an Omadsiz.” The words taste like dirt in their mouth and they gulp back a shudder of self-disgust.
“No, no, no, of course not.” She rushes to reassure them, as if it were the thought of Omadsiz that made Kibum so shiver. Kibum wants to be sick, but they don’t have the right to. And the needle jabs into their spine when Kibum even thinks of giving themself away. “Though you’re lucky we found you.”
“You won’t pack me off to prison?” Kibum asks.
She purses her pink lips; “It’s labour camps now.”
“Oh, great.” Kibum says lightly.
A small crease appears between her eyebrows. “We don’t want to do it, but we have to.” Kibum isn’t so sure about that, glancing over her shoulder at where Wendy (Kibum has no idea when she moved) is frowning at Irene, the leader’s face in a state of continual detachment.
The Omatiyor in front of him, as if she senses where they’re looking, thrusts a hand across the bar, “I’m Yeri. Don’t bother about Wendy, she’s just stir crazy. She’s usually the most reasonable of us all, but the problem with being in a Troupe with a reputation for ‘letting the Omadsiz off lightly’ is that you don’t really get sent out much. And Irene’s…” Yeri bites her lip, making it flush crimson before it blushes rose upon release. “She’s working on it. But she’s got to uphold our image and,” Yeri leans over the bar conspiratorially, “She’s a product of our society.” Yeri straightens, “It’s hard to go against the grain.”
Kibum smiles at her tentatively. “Believe me, I know.” When Yeri returns the smile with an equally crooked one (like a dusty journal stuffed at the back of a bookcase for solely private enjoyment), Kibum’s limbs finally stop shaking with adrenaline.
“So how should we get you out?”
Suddenly, the Omatiyor, with black hair that curls just below her shoulders, reappears beside Yeri, “Joy! I’m Joy, you need a portal, don’t you?”
Kibum hasn’t really thought of them as portals - for some reason their head hurts when they start inspecting the whole world-shifting thing too closely - but it’s an apt description. “Yes. But they’re not exactly well advertised. That’d be just too helpful and the multiverse is eternally dedicated to making everything as long-winded and complex as possible. Which is just fabulous.”
Yeri hums, perhaps in agreement, and then muses, “The palace has many permanent intracosmic gateways and temporary intercosmic portals are often drawn to them.”
“That’s a suicide mission.” Kibum blurts out, much to Yeri’s apparent amusement. She and Joy exchange grins and Kibum groans in anticipation.
“Don’t worry! You’re pretty enough as it is-“
“Hell no!” Kibum wails, making Yeri’s smirk widen exponentially.
“If you want to escape you will. You’ll make a beautiful Omatiyor,” she insists, pulling Kibum out from behind the bar and pushing them back towards the staircase. “Go there and we’ll do some clothes rearrangement and throw some things at you.”
Kibum’s sags against the wood, splinters pricking their bare arms, and thanks the lord Jonghyun isn’t here. Last time they’d had to wear feminine clothes and use female pronouns for disguise Jonghyun had been so distressed by the whole ordeal he hadn’t stopped world-shifting for a week after, flitting through intercosmic rends like a butterfly caught in a hurricane. Jonghyun’s never said quite why female-designated clothes work him up, but Kibum is good at guessing.
Kibum emerges from the shadows in slim-fitted, black trousers and a long, cobalt tunic sashed with a black ribbon. Irene makes a little noise of approval and Wendy positively bounds over to them, her whole face transformed from it’s earlier mask into the energetic, expressive features they’d known were hidden just below the surface.
Eyebrows drawn together in pleading, she takes their hands and says, “Look, I’m so sorry for earlier. It’s how this society works, y’know, and it’s awful and we’re trying to change it but we can’t do that cooped up within inner Rossalem so we have to at least pretend we want to beat people up in order to escape the confines and actually reach those most in need of help.”
“Those punches didn’t feel like pretence.” Wendy’s long eyelashes flutter and God, why can’t Kibum just keep their mouth shut?
“I know, I know-“ Wendy opens her mouth, no doubt to justify her actions, but instead she swallows the words and just hangs her head. “I got a little over-excited.”
Kibum bites back their retort to that and merely asks, “So, how do I look?”
Wendy’s expression changes in a heartbeat, eyes lighting up, and suddenly Yeri is there too, both tripping over their words to compliment them. “…and your hair is just amazing!”
Kibum flips their lilac hair over their shoulder and is somehow reassured by its familiar weight, the heaviness against their shoulder blades. They smirk. “Thanks.”
They think that’s how an Omatiyor would respond.
The fifth Omatiyor - Irene’s right-hand, whom Kibum learns is named Seulgi - is hovering by the door, looking up and down the narrow, empty street. Kibum gulps down their nervousness before following Wendy outside. They aren’t about to be labelled as a coward; they think back to the way they hid behind the bar just a little while ago. But no, that was self-preservation, they convince themself, though they don’t know why they need such conviction; what’s so bad about being a coward anyway? Without them, how special would heroes be?
Anyway, Kibum’s always been good at acting. Though it kills them, a cold splash of pain in their stomach, to play into stereotypes, they do so nonetheless; smoothly straightening their posture, swaying their hips more - not that they don’t always slink - and holding their head high, their features arranged carefully into a mask of self-possession and frigidity. Out of the corner of their eye, Kibum thinks they see Irene smile slightly in approval, but that may just be a trick of the light.
Swiftly they sweep through the slums; Kibum curls their lips in sufficient disgust at the grovelling, homeless Omadsiz, nods self-importantly at other Troupes of Omatiyor they pass. At the edge of the shantytown, Irene momentarily pauses to exchange greetings and updates with another Omatiyor leader, a woman of similarly lithe build, sable hair swinging straight to the base of her spine. Kibum, feeling eyes on them, looks up to meet gazes with another Omatiyor.
Shockingly, this one’s hair is worn short, spiking up puckishly. The suspicious glint in her eyes contrasts the laugh lines at the edges of them. Kibum purses their lips and tilts their head, fluttering their long eyelashes. Kibum fusses slightly with their hair then runs their fingertips over the handcuffs attached to their sash, so effortlessly he should really get an award for their acting skills, until the Omatiyor stops glowering.
“Amber?” Her leader says, and the shorthaired Omatiyor immediately turns to her in subordination. “Irene, I trust your information about the South-West, we shan’t bother going there. I’ll see you later?”
Irene smiles graciously, “Of course, Victoria. Good luck.” Victoria disappears into the grim of the slums with her eager entourage and a flick of black hair, and Kibum lets out a shaky breath.
Thin fingers slip between their own and they smile at Yeri when she squeezes their hand tight for a moment before letting go.
Moving in neat formation, the six of them arrive at the palace far too quickly; Kibum isn’t half ready.
“Ready?” Yeri whispers in their ear as the eldest three negotiate with the palace guards. Joy stands protectively on their other side and Kibum tries not to think about how the whole arrangement feels like they’re being escorted to prison.
“As much as I’ll ever be.” They say, and off they go. The heavy, gold-plated palace doors close behind them with a resounding thud.
The tension throughout the Troupe is palatable, bubbling beneath the surface. Judging from the moody, barely-suppressed glares they’re receiving from the palace guards, it’s nothing to do with Kibum’s additional presence but an on-going struggle; perhaps Yeri had been telling the truth about the antagonism facing them due to their clemency towards the Omadsiz. The clicks of Irene’s heels echo along the neverending marble corridors, earning Kibum’s respect through her disregard of the looks and unsubtle mutterings. They can tell it hurts her to be talked about thus, but her passive-aggressive aloofness never falters.
“Nearly there.” Joy whispers, just as Kibum is about to ask that very question.
Then they round the next corner, and Irene stops dead in her tracks, her Omatiyor Troupe halting in perfect synchronisation behind her. Kibum can feel the sweat beading at the nape of their neck.
It’s a shade that’s not right. It’s a moment of panic. Somehow they manage to bow low alongside the others, staying folded at a 90-degree angle, until the Queen tells them to straighten.
The Queen. Hair the colour of ripe apricots plaited and piled up, elegant strands floating down to frame her heart-shaped face, loose coils in the dips of her collarbones. Her skin is ivory silk, her lips soft pink, her eyes lined with gold, dark irises sparkling. Dressed in cream chiffon from head to gold heels. A droplet of sweat trickles down Kibum’s spine.
Flanking her are two Omatiyor, armed to the nines, and beyond them a gaggle of advisors and handmaidens. The Queen consults one now, the tall, finely dressed Omatiyor whispering in her ear until the Queen waves her away.
“Bae Joohyun?” Voice strong soprano.
“Yes, your Majesty.” Irene bows again, one hand behind her back. Kibum can see her fingers twitching. The Queen’s gaze passes over all of them, before falling back upon Irene’s bent figure.
“Do stand up. You enjoyed your outing?”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Irene’s tone is clipped and cautious; only now does Kibum appreciate how affectionately she addresses her Troupe.
“You have someone new?” She doesn’t even glance at Kibum, but nonetheless they carefully don’t react.
Irene nods and clicks her fingers in Kibum’s direction. Kibum steps forward then bows low, straightening only when they hear, “Up you come, Miss. Oh, you’re rather gorgeous.”
Kibum panics again. They have literally no idea what the right response to that should be. Do they let Irene talk for them? Do they thank the Queen themself?
Luckily, the Queen seems to find how flustered they are amusing. One of her party laughs and she joins in, blinking the intensity away, waving her hand dismissively at him. Kibum steps back hurriedly and, once they have their breath back, searches the Queen’s company for their saviour.
Kibum nearly gawps in shock. It’s a male; or at least, they look masculine. That the Omatiyor would tolerate a male in their midst! It’s so outside reason and all prior experience Kibum has with them that they decide it safer not to classify their champion, in case they do so inadvertently incorrectly.
They stand near the back, with their head hanging low so their hair falls into their eyes. An Adonis, with their golden skin and hair like midnight gloss, the bright, creamy fabrics swathed around their figure, blurring their silhouette. As if they can feel Kibum looking at them, they raise their head, tilting it slightly, as their lips twitch upwards prettily.
It’s a knowing smile, and Kibum’s legs feel weak with helpless gratitude.
“Sooyoung.” The Queen has been talking to Irene - caught up in the exchange of glances with the Queen’s masculine escort, Kibum has missed the entire conversation - and now turns to her advisor.
“Your Majesty?” Kibum thinks Sooyoung’s legs should be illegal.
“Ensure Irene and her Troupe receive all assistance they need.”
“Of course. Taemin?” Kibum’s rescuer moves forward, gliding through the air as a boat with full sail slices through waves, each bronze limb infused with Omatiyon grace. Taemin. Kibum swirls the name around their mouth, and appreciates the taste of it. Saccharine. Oddly familiar. They wish they could call it out loud.
Taemin bows to the Queen and she rests a hand on their ebony hair fondly.
“You are excused from this afternoon’s needlework.” She says, and Kibum stumbles with the sudden flash of golden hands and deft fingers, the weaving of threads and the loom, reflected in dark eyes. Kibum’s shoulder aches under the indomitable pressure of the vision, the swash of cloth against cloth overwhelming, the hunger to know who, the silence of the sewing room deafening-
“You’ll look after them well, won’t you?” The Queen continues. Yeri’s hand is at Kibum’s elbow, steadying him. To the Queen, Taemin nods, smiles in a way that doesn’t reach their eyes. It’s a smile too mature for such a youthful face.
They plaster themselves to the walls and bow as she passes. The second the Queen and her entourage disappears, Irene is murmuring softly to Taemin, though they do not respond. Their eyes stay fixed ahead, their hands tucked neatly together behind their back. Kibum leans forward, is drawn closer, to see, to see, if those white marks are pin scars, if those beads of red on Taemin’s palms are needle-pricks.
“Taemin will take us to the portals.” Irene informs them, relief evident in her voice. Kibum hurries to straighten as she sweeps her gaze over her ducklings. “Apparently they’ve moved them since I lived here.”
(Irene lived in the palace? Did that mean-?)
Under her breath, Yeri mutters, “I can’t believe she treats you that coldly when you’re her-“
Irene clicks her fingers angrily and Yeri bites down her words, though her eyes fix on the back of Irene’s neck as though she is trying to burn a hole there.
Onwards they march, Taemin floating ahead of them with all speed and no signs of exertion. Kibum studies them from behind; the soft black hair brushing Taemin’s shoulders, their poise, how terribly thin Taemin’s wrists are, how slim their legs. Golden hands and deft fingers- Kibum wants to talk to them so badly they can feel each individual word as it sits heavily on their chest.
“Kibum?” Yeri whispers. They’ve dropped back to the rear; though Kibum wasn’t aware of slowing down, from the way Yeri’s facial muscles twitch it was planned. They nod, a small incline of their head, highly alert to the presence of the guards as they pass through doorway after magnificent doorway. “We’re.” They can feel the worry shimmering off her like waves, this small, young Omatiyor, her hands trembling as they brush against Kibum’s. “We’re normal, aren’t we?” They were right, then, about her being a world-shifter.
Kibum falters in their stride. Normal? “What’s normal?” They say. Yeri looks ready to argue, snap back, but she bites her tongue for the length of one corridor, and when she looks back up at them, she’s less afraid.
“But we’re not. Cursed?”
Kibum huffs out a laugh, chest tight. “No. You’re not cursed. You’re not wrong. I’ve met so many world-shifters, Yeri, you’re not alone. It’s difficult, yes, sometimes painful and often,” pause, for a passing Troupe, “terrifying, but it’s not the end of the world. It’s not the end of your world. You have so many possibilities and opportunities and I can tell you’ve got your wits about you and.” Something impels Kibum to take her hand for a moment, squeezing her fingers tightly. “You’re so good. You’re so right. You’re going to be fine.”
Yeri breathes shakily, glances around, and tugs Kibum enough for them to pause, time enough for her to press her lips to their cheek, so swift that had Kibum not been so on edge they wouldn’t have caught it. The deep, oddly familiar ache of bittersweet satisfaction is unmissable. Kibum doesn’t think they’ll return to Rossalem anytime soon.
They reach the portals and, sure enough, Kibum detects the rip with Yeri’s help. They whispers their thanks to Yeri, kissing her cheek back. She blushes as she promises to pass on their gratitude to the rest of the Troupe, who stand guard, Wendy talking Taemin’s ear off to distract them. Kibum doesn’t think Taemin’s buying it for one second, but they keep their eyes steadily averted, even as Kibum clambers through the veil with all the finesse of a seven-legged spider. They send one last glance in Taemin’s direction. The bones in Taemin’s jaw shift below the dark skin.
Even when Kibum finds themself back in their own world, in the middle of their living room carpet, their heart still aches with unsaid words.
Part Two
Pairing: General (Minho/Kibum, hints of Taemin/Minho)
Rating: pg-13
Genre: Fantasy
Warnings:Strong language, implied depression and eating disorders, mentions of death and self harm
Final Word Count: 15,627
When Kibum unlocks the bathroom door and steps out into the ocean, the first thing they do is kick their shoes off. That’s something they know, without knowing how they know it. It’s a haziness Kibum would have once troubled with, but it happens more and more often these days, so they’ve learnt to pay it little heed.
After recovering from the surprise, Kibum is content to bob, narrowing their eyes against the waves, revelling warmth of the sunlight falling upon their face. The water is, thank God, calm, and it glitters like burnished silver in the bright sun, shining like the scales of a thousand fish. Their hair sticks to their shoulders; they slurp in a cautious sip, spitting it out once they’re assured it’s just saltwater, then they duck below the surface.
All at once, Kibum’s hyperaware of the water against their skin, its softness, pushing at their relaxed body, nudging them gently through the tides and ripcurls. They love how this feels, love giving themself over to nature like this, waiting longer and longer between each breath, their hair floating away from them like wild anemone. They’d dyed it purple a while ago but in the eerie mum of the water it shimmers like glass.
After a long while, of relentless buoyancy and near drowning, Kibum emerges above the waves for the last time, blinking droplets from their eyelashes. Finally starts craning their neck to see land.
There’s nothing. Not even a bird in the sky.
Which is…slightly worrying.
And Kibum experiences that stomach-dropping, abrupt realisation that there is a billion cubits of water below them that could contain…
As familiar as the saltwater is, Kibum doesn’t think they’ve visited this ocean before, and their over-active imagination is kind enough to provide them with scenes from films and documentaries about predators of the deep; bioluminescent squid and orcas and kraken. Kibum feels their heart rate pick up, the beat thrumming through their all-too-vulnerable limbs as they flail around. Little more than a phytoplankton, really, in the grand scheme of things. (Yet even phytoplankton, the sea mumbles, is useful.)
In that case, Kibum’s a water molecule, strong hydrogen bonds and polar ends and weak instantaneous dipole forces pulling at their fingers and their toes-
Before they can start truly panicking, they catch sight of a boat. Between the dips and swells, the little green sailing boat appears and disappears. The tight knot in their chest sinks into their stomach where it unravels a little.
Kibum paddles their legs and steadies themself in the water before they yell out, “Ahoy!” in English, because they’ve found it to be a universal language in more than one sense of the word; every world they’ve visited so far has understood some basic form of it. The extent of globalisation never fails to amaze. They’d find it a shame, if it weren’t so helpful. That’s the sort of relativity Kibum lives by.
The boat cuts through the waves and Kibum has a second to wonder if calling out before ensuring there were no hostile beings aboard was a little stupid, but then the boat pulls up alongside them, and Jonghyun’s head pops up over the side.
“Oh it’s you.” Kibum sighs in relief, sagging momentarily underwater.
When they resurface again, it’s to hear Jonghyun saying, “I’ve a good mind to leave you there. Haven’t you learnt anything by now?”
Jonghyun frowns down at them for a while until he decides Kibum looks suitably penitent before finally offering Kibum a hand.
Octopus-like, Kibum flails around, sopping wet and coughing, on the floor on the boat. That is, if octopuses cough. Kibum isn’t sure they do, but they do feel quite slimy, so they suppose that counts. If someone’s keeping tally.
“I told you I wasn’t hearing things.” Jonghyun declares. He’s using his pouty voice; the one that’s equal parts infuriating and endearing. Kibum heaves themself onto their back squinting up against the sunlight, and, sure enough, Minho looms into sight. Kibum huffs in annoyance at the smug look on Minho’s face.
“Congrats Jonghyun.” Kibum can hear the grin in Minho’s voice. “This’ll feed the two of us with extra to spare.”
“I’d like to see you try!” Kibum splutters, though their anger is slightly undermined by the smile sneaking across their features. “And I’d like some dry clothes.” Minho teases them some more as Jonghyun rummages around in the small hold of the boat and conjures up some thick enough blankets. Still bickering, Kibum sheds their water-weighted, cold clothes into a puddle in the middle of the tiny deck - the boat is rather small now they’re on it too - and Jonghyun cocoons them in the blankets.
Minho takes one look at them, snuggled up like a burrito, and pushes Kibum over with a gleeful shout. They hit the deck hard and Jonghyun looks momentarily torn between checking they’re alright and laughing his head off. He chooses the latter. No prize for guessing that one, Mister Tally-Maker. Not that Kibum’s surprised. Still lying awkwardly, face down and nose hovering a centimetre above the wooden boards of the deck thanks to their mattress of blankets, Kibum asks, “So, how come you two landed on a boat?” Kibum knows they sound petulant, but they think they can be forgiven. After all, they’re the one in sodden underwear. Jonghyun perches on the bow and swings his bare feet, showing off his pretty pink nail polish. Jonghyun’s nails are always nicely painted.
Jonghyun clicks his tongue and huffs, lips bubble-gum pink and pouting. “How should I know? You’ve been doing this far longer, we should be asking you the questions.” Jonghyun always gets this way, when the worlds shift (or when they shift through the worlds, it all depends on how self-important one feels), because he hates surprises vehemently. Once, he’d mentioned his birthday coming up, and when Minho and Kibum has surprised him with a cake, he’d leapt three feet in the air and slapped them both around the face before he calmed down. Kibum’s still doesn’t think the slapping was really necessary, but Jonghyun always tells the story with relish, to people they meet, and people nearly always laugh. Even after hearing it at least twenty times, Minho still laughs.
And they don’t exactly get invitational cards or calendar notices. As Kibum can sympathise, they lets it pass, mumbling only, “I can barely remember last month.”
Before Jonghyun can reply, with a snap or an ancient apology, the little boat blows into a hot gust of wind. Kibum starts feeling a little sick as they are tossed around, rolling from port to starboard in their little sushi roll of blankets. Jonghyun and Minho are too busy fussing with sail and tiller to un-sushify them, but if there are two things Kibum has buckets of, it’s creativity and obstinacy.
“A-ha!” Kibum yells when they finally wriggle themself free, jumping up and just missing, by the skin of their nose, the boom, as it swings round when they tack.
After that, Kibum just sits placidly beside Jonghyun at the stern and acts as moving ballast when necessary. They’re mostly content to watch their companions work like a well-oiled machine; worldshifting means you get really good at getting good at a huge variety of activities and situations. They wonder when Minho and Jonghyun needed to pick up sailing. Kibum themself can clean chimneys, tap dance, build ladders and pick locks with only a piece of wire; to name but a few. (Though they maintain that the aptitude in which they have most improved is ‘bullshitting through the skin of their teeth’.) They wonder what abilities they had when they first started out, but it’s so far back the mere thought sets a headache thrumming at the base of their skull. They can’t remember a time before the worldshifting began.
Calloused hands pass ropes with assured confidence. As they successfully navigate the rough strait, Minho natters on about how, just last forever, Jonghyun and he were stuck on a boat in a fleet of warships harbouring in the bay of another world’s India (it was one of those worlds that echoed their own; those wreck Kibum’s head the most). It had been monsoon season. The fabric of the world shimmers and twists at the edges of Kibum’s vision and they glimpse Minho’s nightmares, smudged blotchy swirls of Minho spluttering awake on the floor beside his bed, drowning in his sheets, tangled and sinking.
Kibum blinks and Minho is giving them one of those worried looks so they pinch Minho’s nose just to get him to stop. The wind dies down.
It’s not long before the sun snaps back into place. Kibum focuses on the hotness of the sun - almost too hot - against their bare skin, as the clouds drift away, reeled over the horizon, chasing down the ghost of their wreckage. Not today. Not with Jonghyun and Minho around.
After a while, Minho ceases the concerned staring.
Jonghyun does some more conjuring magic - ok, not really, they’re not in one of those worlds, sadly - and pulls some sandwiches out of the hatch. Kibum learned pretty fast that worrying too much about the origins of food isn’t worth the trouble, nor the stomach rumbling, so they sit there in their underwear and eagerly devour the tuna mayonnaise sandwich. Minho practically inhales his. Since Kibum is sort of on a diet, they toss Minho their crusts. (Nothing to do with Minho’s puppy eyes, definitely not.)
When they take a moment to actually think about it, perhaps it’s odd how quickly the three of them fell into companionship; it’s not like Kibum has ever met them in real life before…or, rather, in their own world.
Sometimes they’ll look at them, at Jonghyun fiddling with his silver and pink bracelets, or the way Minho flinches if somebody yells too loud, and thinks, Do I really know you? It always throws him off. Kibum will snap at one of them and they will catch their hand, and hold it.
Kibum will squeeze their fingers, and remember how Jonghyun, for all his biting, keeps Kibum safe, under the blanket of his quiescent soul; how Minho gathers all their wayward strands and tucks Kibum in, stops them from unravelling. They’ll think of how Jonghyun will lean his head on their shoulder and Kibum will wrap an arm around him, pull him closer. (In reality, Kibum doesn’t touch people.) They’ll think of Minho listening intently - simultaneously scolding and admiring Kibum’s sharp tongue - with his dark hair curling handsomely, just above the collar of his shirt, never using Kibum’s Bad days against them. (In these worlds, Kibum touches them, and never wants to stop.)
The sail flaps and Jonghyun giggles at something Minho’s said, and the threads of fate quiver, fluff exploding, blown to the edges of Kibum’s conscious mind and disappearing beyond. Reverberations shudder to the ends of the loom - somewhere they can’t see - and back to the beginning, each radiating from this circle, in the centre of time.
Kibum follows a thread of saffron. Kibum met Jonghyun first, saving him from being beaten up by thugs in the slums of Malpuro. They’d been a little lost themself; the worldshifting had been happening a lot, and at every turn, reality frayed before them. Kibum’s never had a hero complex, but he hadn’t been able to walk past. (Sometime later, a speck of time, when Kibum had stared up at the swirling grey sky of another world’s night, Jonghyun had rest his head against Kibum’s shoulder and said Kibum was selectively sensitive. Couldn’t give a damn about most people. Achingly soft for others. Kibum had felt sick with how gentle Jonghyun’s voice was, how vulnerable each word from Jonghyun’s thin lips made them feel.) There’d been blood but it was the words that ricocheted off the alley walls that hooked into Kibum’s soul, familiar words and that pull, that drag to help, help. It was the first time their existence had steadied in eons. They’d almost gotten beaten up in the process themself, but Kibum’s tongue hadn’t earned its sterling reputation for nothing.
Then, garnet and sapphire, when Minho rescued Kibum from being trampled by stampeding Wildelephants in Sekagru. It had been quite the Lion King moment, except for the fact that, well, Minho survived. Probably not much like the Lion King, then.
After both encounters, Kibum had somehow found themself discovering Jonghyun and Minho everywhere. They’d been expecting to see Minho again, somehow, some weak ache of unfinished business, but Jonghyun had been a surprise. They’d thought that knot was tied. The natural progression had been to form a kind of ‘I’ve got your back’ trio, but Kibum doesn’t think the whole interdependency thing hadn’t been part of the plan.
Jonghyun’s soft cry brings Kibum back to the boat; they stumble against the swell for a moment, too tangled up in their own matters.
“Again?” Jonghyun wails quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. Kibum doesn’t even need to ask to know Minho’s hurt himself again. For all the man says he’s an athlete in real life, he falls over himself all the time. Jonghyun’s face pales, even as he holds Minho’s hand and squeezes the flesh around the slice across Minho’s palm, eyes widening at the beads of blood that thread themselves through the minor laceration, gulping so loudly Kibum rolls their eyes and Minho laughs.
“D’you need a plaster?” Kibum asks.
“Do you have any?” Minho counters. He knows Kibum does. Kibum always has little pink plasters in their pockets; has done since they can remember. They snort out a laugh at the phrase, fishing around in their sopping shorts. They chuck them at Minho who, hand still clasped in Jonghyun’s smaller ones, can only half-heartedly duck out of the way. The plasters hit his cheek and Kibum laughs. Jonghyun makes use of Minho’s indignant bickering with Kibum and rests Minho’s hand on his knees. Minho squats to accommodate, face softening at the small crease between Jonghyun’s eyebrows as he snatches up the fallen plasters, licks the blood from Minho’s hand, and fusses to plaster the cut as best as possible.
“Did he just-“
“He did.”
“He licked you.”
“Yummy.” Jonghyun pipes up. There’s a beat of silence then Minho giggles, and when Minho giggles everyone else does too. It’s a rule, a law of the multiverses. Well, Kibum, at least, thinks it should be.
“I remembered something.” Kibum says then, eyes fixed on Minho’s long-fingered hands; veins looping round his joints and dancing up beyond the sleeve of his shirt. Minho looks at them sharply.
“I’m glad.” Jonghyun smiles.
Minho says, “And?”
Kibum wants to tell the truth, to say ‘When I met you’, but the words weigh heavy on their tongue. “I remembered you’ve always been annoying.”
Jonghyun cackles and Minho splutters and the whole boat is in uproar for an hour, or maybe a day.
“So, any idea where we are?” Kibum muses, finally, eyes on the hazy distance where sea blends into sky, thinking maybe Jonghyun or Minho might’ve been here before.
Minho makes a humming noise, in the way one does in gathering thoughts or casting back into memory. He takes up Kibum’s gazing, and Jonghyun and Kibum exchange fond, frustrated glances when he doesn’t tell them what he knows straight away.
Kibum cracks eventually, “Minho?”
At the very same time, Minho lurches across the boat, nearly throwing himself off the side, staring wildly across the waves. Jonghyun and Kibum rush to counter-balance the boat, then simultaneously scowl at his back.
Minho glances over his shoulder at them, excited smile on his face not faltering even when he clocks their disapproving and confused glares, “Other people!”
That gets their attention.
“Where?” Jonghyun rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if that could somehow help him see further. Meanwhile, Kibum trusts Minho’s 20-20 vision and tries not to look directly at Jonghyun’s candyfloss hair, glinting brilliant pink, far too bright in the sun.
As they sail in the direction Minho dictates, thankfully with the wind at their back, he explains everything he can remember. “I haven’t been here since I was young, mind you. There were floods, devastating flooding, seasons screwed up, Green Party proven right and all that. They built cities on the water and created the…NSL? No, the NLS - New Land Settlements. Only there wasn’t enough room and there was all this trouble with wealthy people bribing their way in and the masses starving away into shark bait, yada yada.”
Jonghyun’s face scrunches up indignantly. Before he can launch his lecture, no doubt about capitalism being an unjust system of governance employed solely by people who’ve sold their souls to the devil, Minho continues, “People built large rafts and lashed them together to form huge floating communities. It’s a delicate business.” An emotion flashes across his face too fast for Kibum to register but there’s an edge present in Minho’s tone now. Kibum thinks, these memories are jagged shards of broken mirrors.
“Too big or too small, either can lead to wreckage.” Minho says, in that voice. They pause momentarily to tack, and then settle again. Minho decides to conclude with, “It’s really shitty but our ability to…their tenacity? It’s just awe-inspiring. Uplifting, in some perverse way. You know.”
Jonghyun nods approvingly at this, like he does know. Kibum has to hit him because sometimes Jonghyun gets so righteous he needs a good kick up the arse to bring him back down from Cloud Descartes. Or whoever that philosophical anthropologist is, whom Jonghyun always quotes. Jonghyun sticks his tongue out in response.
“So they’re nice people, then?” Kibum says, faux-casual. They note the twitch of tension in Minho’s shoulders; the hot sun has stripped him of his button-down and Kibum’s grateful, that twitch raising Kibum’s alertness. Plus, Kibum isn’t going to lie, they appreciate the wife-beater; that’s what friends do; they appreciate each other’s biceps. They make sure to look away before Minho catches them.
“Most of them are good people. But you know how it is. Pleasantries aren’t the priority for those who have to fight every day to survive.” Minho clears his throat. “No, I’m, I’m doing them a disservice. ‘Cause I’ve been to a lot of places. But I’ve never met people with so little willing to share so much.” None of them comment on the way Minho starts blinking rapidly. He coughs a little and, slowly but surely, a smile reappears on his face. “I wonder how they’re getting on. This probably isn’t their colony but you never know! Hey, get your shirt?”
Kibum obeys without question, scooping the half-dry white shirt from its place draped over the bow. They steal Minho’s button-down as they do so, shrugging into it to protect their shoulders from the blistering heat. Minho enthusiastically waves Kibum’s white top back and forth in an intercosmic display of peace and Jonghyun and Kibum have to lurch to the other side of the boat to stop Minho’s movement rocking it too much.
Minho catches sight of a waving flag and squints at it.
“Well?” Kibum doesn’t hesitate this time, sick of waiting for Minho to get himself together.
“It’s yellow and black?”
“Yellow and black?” That gets Jonghyun and Kibum precariously stretching out over the port side alongside him.
Ramshackle houses of patched-together driftwood and corrugated metal sit upon the ocean, waves lapping up to rust away the edges, slowly corroding the sprawling raft town. The levels nearing them are darkening, as people, skin tanned black with the relentless summer, crowd along the narrow ladders and plastic pathways. They’re shouting something, arms waving at them wildly, but none of them can understand the words.
As they draw closer, the sun striking off the aluminium rooftops blinds them.
Jonghyun turns to Minho, eyes scrunched up and forehead crumpled with frustration, “I’ve never seen a black and yellow flag before, what do you,” It’s in that split second when Jonghyun takes a breath that Kibum hears it, the snap of scissors, “think?”
“Oh God.” Kibum gasps, backing away to the starboard side on trembling legs. Black thread slashes like a scythe across all other colours.
“Ki? What’d you hear?” Minho asks, voice tight with tension, forcedly calm.
Kibum bolts into action, flinging themself at the tiller to steer them away.
“The fuck?”
“Can’t you hear them?” Kibum yells, and Jonghyun takes a step back, affronted. Kibum feels like all the salt in the air has lodged itself in their throat; each word hurts, hurts, hurts. The confusion on Jonghyun’s face and the dawning on Minho’s have Kibum choking on a sob,
“Plague, Jjong. They’ve got the plague.”
Now they’ve heard it, they can’t stop hearing it; the roar of their voices calling out, raw and harsh. Across the water rushes a tsunami of human devastation. It trembles in the screams of a mother, holding out her stick-thin child towards them, begging them to save him; in the high shrieks of warning from the tiny, sunburnt children doing jumping jacks on the tin roofs to scare them away; in the wild, white-wide stares of the elderly, bodies shaking with each brittle yell.
Kibum thinks they hear, “Plague, plague! Leave here! Don’t come closer!”
Then, another, “Save yourselves!”
And, “Save my child!”
They sail past. They sail parallel to the seemingly neverending sea-town, the people eventually quieting when convinced they aren’t going to dock. Silence settles heavy over the ocean, oppressively hot in the midday sun, smothering the waves and shrouding the island of twisted plastic and eroding metal in despair so opaque it’s hard to pick out the individual faces of the statue-still rafters. In the shadows of a shack perched precariously at the last edge of the ramshackle settlement, Kibum’s eyes are drawn to an emaciated young man, sharp shadows painting the youth into a spectral water-wraith. Their gazes must lock, despite all the sea between them, for Kibum can feel the vague bleakness of the young man’s vastly apathetic stare; a second passes and the boy smiles, softly, emptily.
Within Kibum’s ribcage, intent floods, thick as blood, desperate and relentless. Intent for what, they don’t know, only that they have to, have to do something, something, for that boy, for their chest to stop aching, something-
The infected town disappears behind the rolling waves, finally. Kibum is shaking so much they’re steering the boat all over the place. A particularly large lurch breaks the spell keeping the others captive, and Minho comes to the stern, nudges them aside and takes the tiller himself. Kibum sits, plastered to Minho’s side, leeching Minho’s heat as if that could warm them, as if anything could raise them out off the bone-deep chill they’re sinking in, scorching sunlight be damned. They try not to think of the tiny sunburnt baby or that skeletal boy. At one point, Minho kisses their fringe. Kibum reaches out and clutches onto Minho’s bicep and makes their lips form the words, “Don’t worry, it’s a lot of ocean. I’m sure that wasn’t them.”
They’ve always been shitty at comforting people and this time doesn’t seem to be an exception. They’re not even sure if Minho has recognised their effort, until Minho hums quietly and kisses their forehead again. His lips are chapped and soft as dawn, and his eyes are less guarded, less painful to look at, when he draws back. Kibum feels suddenly overwhelmed, with the feeling of having done something. Something right. Something devastating. A keen sense of loss stabs them in the gut, the feeling gone just as fast as it came. A knot tied.
Kibum closes their eyes and lets themself shiver out the cold and breath in the warmth.
When they open them again, it’s to see Jonghyun standing on the edge of the boat. Minho has his back to him and hasn’t noticed. Jonghyun’s toes curl over the edge of the boat - when had he taken his shoes off? - and he bends his knees, drawing back his arms.
“Jjong!” Kibum pushes Minho aside, and dives to stop Jonghyun from leaping into the sea. The next thing he registers is the shock of water, freezing after the intense heat, then Jonghyun writhing in his arms. Kibum can’t open their eyes underwater, salt stinging too much, and they start panic, as Jonghyun pulls them along. Judging by the way the water is grows colder still Jonghyun is swimming deeper and deeper, and Kibum’s drowns in confusion and betrayal and the single instinct of self-preservation.
They break the surface.
Kibum is too busy hacking half a lung up, to realise they haven’t surfaced where they were before. When they start breathing properly again, they finally notice where they are; on a beach, with sand the colour of spilt blood.
They make a surprised noise in the back of their throat that escalates into another coughing fit. Jonghyun, who had his eyes open for the whole world shift thing, is stumbling around dizzily, but he manages to pat Kibum on the back, and so hard Kibum thinks they’re going to have bruises. They appreciate the good will, though.
That’s when their brain actually clocks the crimson sand and the black skeletal trees at the edge of the beach and the anaemic sky. They swear colourfully and Jonghyun immediately tenses. “Izwe Mamlakat.” Kibum spits, climbing to their feet. “Fucking cannibals.”
---
Kibum awakes in their own bed, back in their own world, with a crick in their neck from where they and Jonghyun had fallen asleep, locked in a cage after being caught by the cannibals and - thankfully not eaten - being sold to merchants in exchange for vegetables. Apparently the bloody, sandy soil isn’t fertile and even cannibals need a balanced diet. Kibum feels simultaneously disgusted at the thought of food and ravenously hungry. They laugh and a thread snaps.
Kibum just hopes Jonghyun managed to make it out alive, too. In the faded dark of early morning light, Kibum’s fingers trail over the white expanse of pure cotton sheets, and they miss Jonghyun. It’s this heaviness in the base of their stomach, that leeches energy from the outreaches of Kibum’s limbs, engulfing it impatiently, like a black hole, leaving them drowned. Floating facedown. They turn their head and in the sun slanting through the curtains, their hair looks glass-like. Shattered across the pillow.
What they have with them, with Jonghyun and Minho both, feels, despite the distance, closer.
That, Kibum thinks, is the advantage of sub-reality. Secrets, they’ve found, come easier when real life isn’t lurking around to fuck things up. Of course, there’s certainly a caution that still remains, underpinning every interaction, a push-and-pull of reaching out and withdrawing, clandestine silence and secret-spilling. They’ve told Jonghyun things nobody else alive knows about, and had the same returned. Minho’s less talkative by nature, and Kibum isn’t one to hand out stories without due return, so there’s more silence between them. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Kibum finds themself enticed, drawn ever closer. Once, a time they don’t like to dwell on, Minho had been dragged through the veil and spat out, bruised and battered, his nose broken and his eye black, and had burst into tears. Kibum’s still not sure how much the veil is to blame.
(Occasionally there’s this tingle, whenever they’re about to world-shift, the slightest forewarning. The tingling starts in their fingers and spreads through their bloodstream the closer they gets to the tears in reality, until they find the rips and pull themself through. Jonghyun says his warning is far less pleasant, pins and needles sticking into his limbs so he searches for the shredded shroud just to ease the pain. Minho doesn’t like talking about the whole process of intercosmic travelling much, but he usually has bruises on his arms. The black eye though? That had been new.)
For as much as they antagonise one another, they’ve somehow developed a bond strong enough that even the multiverse keeps throwing them together, over and over, on their world-shifting journeys.
Thinking back, the last time Kibum shifted alone, without discovering either of their companions, had been lifetimes ago. There’s a deep contentment that comes with such knowledge, the sort of contentment Kibum should know doesn’t last.
---
Kibum walks down the stairs out of their apartment (for the first time in a while) and doesn't think about the next stride, safe in the knowledge that there are five steps, in the same way they know the colour of their front door; pink, though they have no idea which shade.
So they’re understandably thrown when, despite the floor stretching out like it usually does, their next stride takes them down yet again.
Kibum halts so fast they have to whirl their arms to stop themself from falling. Their left foot is still on the last step and their right one is through the floor. He bends, swaying to keep their balance, and taps the floor right beside their submerged foot and it is still rock hard. Tentatively they straighten, and then move their left foot; and sure enough, it passes through the floor like it's not there at all. Kibum can feel the firmness of another step beneath their feet and it's doing their head in to look down so they just look straight and walks forward.
The ground rises to meet them and Kibum squeezes their eyes shut as their head disappears through it.
When they open them again, they’re at the top of a rickety wooden staircase. They blink furiously to adjust to the darkness.
For a second they keep still, listening for movement nearby, then down the stairs they go, each creaking under their weight despite their best efforts to keep quiet. They flatten themself against the wall and spies around the corner carefully. They’re in an abandoned bar, empty. Probably due to the early hour, if the faint light filtering through the grimy windows is any clue.
Kibum sneaks across the room cursing every loose floorboard, approaching the window with trepidation.
They look outside and feels their heart plummet. If Kibum's not much mistaken, they’re back in Rossalem. Spiralling pink, the pink of flesh, repeats itself over and over. It’s a pattern they’re too familiar with.
Heart in their mouth, Kibum flees to the shadows behind the bar, crouching down in the dirt and grime and other questionable substances without a second thought. The Omatiyor of Rossalem are far more daunting than dodgy sticky patches on the floor. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Kibum isn’t breathing. They see themself shiver. They see carbon dioxide, the dense grey of tarnished ten pence coins. Out. Their chest shudders on the inhale. Out. Look out the window.
Judging by the sight out the grimy glass - distant shining monolith domes painted in gold, towering over blackened roofs, crumbling shacks nearby - they’re somewhere in the bowels of Rossalem's capital city, Tikanlar.
They’re not sure if that's a blessing or a curse; on one hand, they’re safer in the teeming slums edging the city where they can blend in with the nameless Omadsiz. (As much as it hurts, an age-old hurt, to be Omadsiz when they’re not, they’re not, why are people only seen in boxes?) On the other hand, last time they found themself here, there’d been an upsurge in purges and raids on Omadsiz-populated suburbs. Kibum feels torn, but before they can truly evaluate the best course of action, the door is slammed open. Kibum peers around the edge of the bar to see five Omatiyor come streaming inside, stun guns in hand, handcuffs looped through their belts, pouches of tear gas attached at their hips.
Kibum doesn’t dare breathe, shrinking into themself. They tuck their toes in; ensuring every part of them is hidden. Cursing silently, they guess the building is deserted due to warnings of police raids.
The Omatiyor find them easily enough.
One second they’re curled up small as could be, the next there’s a hand in their hair yanking them up and pulling them back over the bar. Shocked, Kibum can only lie sprawled across the tabletop and stare up at the Omatiyor’s upside-down face smirking down at them. She shoves them off the bar top and they nearly fly into the wall of alcohol. The shelving bites into their hands as Kibum throws them up to stop themself from eating glass.
Every nerve tingling with adrenaline, Kibum faces her. She’s gorgeous, in the way that all Omatiyor are gorgeous; each different, but with universally striking features and beautiful bodies, carrying themselves self-righteously whilst exuding an air of entitlement. Dark blonde fringe and wavy locks frame a round face with unblemished skin complete with amber lips, straight nose and eyes lined with black. Behind her, the other Omatiyor have similarly long, luscious hair and intimidatingly perfect faces. They look like dolls.
The Omatiyor who grabbed Kibum now talks, the eyes roaming over them containing a mixture of disgust and curiosity. “Well, well, well, this is nice. I thought they’d all figured out when we come raiding, but apparently something didn’t get the memo!”
Kibum tries not to shiver at being called a ‘something’ but they tense nonetheless; the Omatiyor seems to actually look at them for a moment, perhaps surprised at the reaction, before her gaze glazes over again. It’s disconcerting how distant her expression is, when her entire body is quivering with suppressed energy. The suppression makes Kibum glance at the other four Omatiyor in hopes of discerning the leader; sure enough, members of the Troupe seem to be sending regular side-glances towards an Omatiyor with loosely coiled, honey blonde curls and the prettiest face Kibum has ever seen.
“What shall we do with it?” asks another abruptly, in the tone of one speaking out of turn but too filled with anticipation to be silent any longer. Sure enough, she gets a sharp glare from the leader, but she appears oblivious, edging forward towards Kibum like she can’t wait to get her hands on them.
Kibum decides it’s time to speak up, their tension and anxiety forcing their hand, “I’m terribly sorry to-“
“It talked!” The wayward, black-haired Omatiyor, scurries back to her place near the open door in her shock. At the same time, the Omatiyor who first discovered them leaps neatly over the bar, grabs their collar, and punches them in the face, before Kibum can react.
“How dare it talk to us!” Her face crumples with gleeful fury.
“W-wait! Listen to me! I’m a-“
“Listen to it?” The Omatiyor screeches in their face, raising her hand to pull Kibum onto their tiptoes and punching them in the stomach, leaving Kibum unable to double-up, groaning in pain as she controls them completely. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages!”
“Wendy.” rings the leader’s high, clear voice. Wendy’s already halfway through a punch but she pulls it enough that Kibum doesn’t feel like they’ve been hit by a car. (They know that feeling from personal experience - not something he wants to relive again). Wendy’s eyes scrunch with disappointment and Kibum can see her reining in the energy that thrums around her, slashes of white and blinding.
“Irene?” Wendy demands, low voice tight with frustration.
“Let’s hear what it has to say.”
“Hear?” a whine sneaks into Wendy’s tone, her bottom lip slipping out to form a pout. Irene’s face twitches in anger and an Omatiyor that has yet to speak, with brunette hair and thin eyes, touches Irene’s arm in a reminder of restraint, before reprimanding Wendy herself.
“Do what Irene says, Wen.” Kibum blinks at that, intrigued at the nickname; it’s the first time they’ve ever heard an Omatiyor use a familiar abbreviation with another. Wendy lets them go roughly and Kibum focuses on breathing normally again, raising oxygen levels in their bloodstream once again so their muscles are ready for either defence mechanism. “You. Omadsiz, speak.”
Kibum straightens their shirt and doesn’t spare Wendy a glance, focusing their efforts on their leader, Irene. “Firstly, my name is Kibum.” There are hisses at its impertinence - to name itself! Surely that’s illegal! “That’s one of two things you need to know about me. The second,” it’s a risk, but one he has to take. Two needles are threaded and he pricks their thumb on the sharpest. “I’m a world-shifter.”
Kibum can’t quite put their finger on it, but the whole atmosphere of the room seems to change. The glances they shoot between them increase in frequency although they speak no words aloud. As the silence stretches on, and Kibum watches their faces intently, they can see the nexus is no longer Irene, but the final Omatiyor, yet to contribute.
She stands nearly hidden behind Irene’s left shoulder, beside the lively black-haired girl; her brunette hair shines rich auburn in the pale light coming in through the doorway and her fair skin is speckled with golden freckles. There is a youthfulness about her, a fierce devotion to seeming aloof that’s almost innocent, that suggests she is the youngest. Finally, she comes forward, until only the bar separates them. Kibum reminds themself yet again that breathing is a good thing.
“You’re a world-shifter?” Kibum subconsciously relaxes at the acknowledgement of them as a person, not merely a thing.
“Yes,” Kibum answers cautiously, “And I mean no disrespect.” Their gut lurches, their head thrumming at what they need to say next. Oh God, oh God. How many times have they sheltered them, looked out for them- “But I don’t think that warrants me being treated like an Omadsiz.” The words taste like dirt in their mouth and they gulp back a shudder of self-disgust.
“No, no, no, of course not.” She rushes to reassure them, as if it were the thought of Omadsiz that made Kibum so shiver. Kibum wants to be sick, but they don’t have the right to. And the needle jabs into their spine when Kibum even thinks of giving themself away. “Though you’re lucky we found you.”
“You won’t pack me off to prison?” Kibum asks.
She purses her pink lips; “It’s labour camps now.”
“Oh, great.” Kibum says lightly.
A small crease appears between her eyebrows. “We don’t want to do it, but we have to.” Kibum isn’t so sure about that, glancing over her shoulder at where Wendy (Kibum has no idea when she moved) is frowning at Irene, the leader’s face in a state of continual detachment.
The Omatiyor in front of him, as if she senses where they’re looking, thrusts a hand across the bar, “I’m Yeri. Don’t bother about Wendy, she’s just stir crazy. She’s usually the most reasonable of us all, but the problem with being in a Troupe with a reputation for ‘letting the Omadsiz off lightly’ is that you don’t really get sent out much. And Irene’s…” Yeri bites her lip, making it flush crimson before it blushes rose upon release. “She’s working on it. But she’s got to uphold our image and,” Yeri leans over the bar conspiratorially, “She’s a product of our society.” Yeri straightens, “It’s hard to go against the grain.”
Kibum smiles at her tentatively. “Believe me, I know.” When Yeri returns the smile with an equally crooked one (like a dusty journal stuffed at the back of a bookcase for solely private enjoyment), Kibum’s limbs finally stop shaking with adrenaline.
“So how should we get you out?”
Suddenly, the Omatiyor, with black hair that curls just below her shoulders, reappears beside Yeri, “Joy! I’m Joy, you need a portal, don’t you?”
Kibum hasn’t really thought of them as portals - for some reason their head hurts when they start inspecting the whole world-shifting thing too closely - but it’s an apt description. “Yes. But they’re not exactly well advertised. That’d be just too helpful and the multiverse is eternally dedicated to making everything as long-winded and complex as possible. Which is just fabulous.”
Yeri hums, perhaps in agreement, and then muses, “The palace has many permanent intracosmic gateways and temporary intercosmic portals are often drawn to them.”
“That’s a suicide mission.” Kibum blurts out, much to Yeri’s apparent amusement. She and Joy exchange grins and Kibum groans in anticipation.
“Don’t worry! You’re pretty enough as it is-“
“Hell no!” Kibum wails, making Yeri’s smirk widen exponentially.
“If you want to escape you will. You’ll make a beautiful Omatiyor,” she insists, pulling Kibum out from behind the bar and pushing them back towards the staircase. “Go there and we’ll do some clothes rearrangement and throw some things at you.”
Kibum’s sags against the wood, splinters pricking their bare arms, and thanks the lord Jonghyun isn’t here. Last time they’d had to wear feminine clothes and use female pronouns for disguise Jonghyun had been so distressed by the whole ordeal he hadn’t stopped world-shifting for a week after, flitting through intercosmic rends like a butterfly caught in a hurricane. Jonghyun’s never said quite why female-designated clothes work him up, but Kibum is good at guessing.
Kibum emerges from the shadows in slim-fitted, black trousers and a long, cobalt tunic sashed with a black ribbon. Irene makes a little noise of approval and Wendy positively bounds over to them, her whole face transformed from it’s earlier mask into the energetic, expressive features they’d known were hidden just below the surface.
Eyebrows drawn together in pleading, she takes their hands and says, “Look, I’m so sorry for earlier. It’s how this society works, y’know, and it’s awful and we’re trying to change it but we can’t do that cooped up within inner Rossalem so we have to at least pretend we want to beat people up in order to escape the confines and actually reach those most in need of help.”
“Those punches didn’t feel like pretence.” Wendy’s long eyelashes flutter and God, why can’t Kibum just keep their mouth shut?
“I know, I know-“ Wendy opens her mouth, no doubt to justify her actions, but instead she swallows the words and just hangs her head. “I got a little over-excited.”
Kibum bites back their retort to that and merely asks, “So, how do I look?”
Wendy’s expression changes in a heartbeat, eyes lighting up, and suddenly Yeri is there too, both tripping over their words to compliment them. “…and your hair is just amazing!”
Kibum flips their lilac hair over their shoulder and is somehow reassured by its familiar weight, the heaviness against their shoulder blades. They smirk. “Thanks.”
They think that’s how an Omatiyor would respond.
The fifth Omatiyor - Irene’s right-hand, whom Kibum learns is named Seulgi - is hovering by the door, looking up and down the narrow, empty street. Kibum gulps down their nervousness before following Wendy outside. They aren’t about to be labelled as a coward; they think back to the way they hid behind the bar just a little while ago. But no, that was self-preservation, they convince themself, though they don’t know why they need such conviction; what’s so bad about being a coward anyway? Without them, how special would heroes be?
Anyway, Kibum’s always been good at acting. Though it kills them, a cold splash of pain in their stomach, to play into stereotypes, they do so nonetheless; smoothly straightening their posture, swaying their hips more - not that they don’t always slink - and holding their head high, their features arranged carefully into a mask of self-possession and frigidity. Out of the corner of their eye, Kibum thinks they see Irene smile slightly in approval, but that may just be a trick of the light.
Swiftly they sweep through the slums; Kibum curls their lips in sufficient disgust at the grovelling, homeless Omadsiz, nods self-importantly at other Troupes of Omatiyor they pass. At the edge of the shantytown, Irene momentarily pauses to exchange greetings and updates with another Omatiyor leader, a woman of similarly lithe build, sable hair swinging straight to the base of her spine. Kibum, feeling eyes on them, looks up to meet gazes with another Omatiyor.
Shockingly, this one’s hair is worn short, spiking up puckishly. The suspicious glint in her eyes contrasts the laugh lines at the edges of them. Kibum purses their lips and tilts their head, fluttering their long eyelashes. Kibum fusses slightly with their hair then runs their fingertips over the handcuffs attached to their sash, so effortlessly he should really get an award for their acting skills, until the Omatiyor stops glowering.
“Amber?” Her leader says, and the shorthaired Omatiyor immediately turns to her in subordination. “Irene, I trust your information about the South-West, we shan’t bother going there. I’ll see you later?”
Irene smiles graciously, “Of course, Victoria. Good luck.” Victoria disappears into the grim of the slums with her eager entourage and a flick of black hair, and Kibum lets out a shaky breath.
Thin fingers slip between their own and they smile at Yeri when she squeezes their hand tight for a moment before letting go.
Moving in neat formation, the six of them arrive at the palace far too quickly; Kibum isn’t half ready.
“Ready?” Yeri whispers in their ear as the eldest three negotiate with the palace guards. Joy stands protectively on their other side and Kibum tries not to think about how the whole arrangement feels like they’re being escorted to prison.
“As much as I’ll ever be.” They say, and off they go. The heavy, gold-plated palace doors close behind them with a resounding thud.
The tension throughout the Troupe is palatable, bubbling beneath the surface. Judging from the moody, barely-suppressed glares they’re receiving from the palace guards, it’s nothing to do with Kibum’s additional presence but an on-going struggle; perhaps Yeri had been telling the truth about the antagonism facing them due to their clemency towards the Omadsiz. The clicks of Irene’s heels echo along the neverending marble corridors, earning Kibum’s respect through her disregard of the looks and unsubtle mutterings. They can tell it hurts her to be talked about thus, but her passive-aggressive aloofness never falters.
“Nearly there.” Joy whispers, just as Kibum is about to ask that very question.
Then they round the next corner, and Irene stops dead in her tracks, her Omatiyor Troupe halting in perfect synchronisation behind her. Kibum can feel the sweat beading at the nape of their neck.
It’s a shade that’s not right. It’s a moment of panic. Somehow they manage to bow low alongside the others, staying folded at a 90-degree angle, until the Queen tells them to straighten.
The Queen. Hair the colour of ripe apricots plaited and piled up, elegant strands floating down to frame her heart-shaped face, loose coils in the dips of her collarbones. Her skin is ivory silk, her lips soft pink, her eyes lined with gold, dark irises sparkling. Dressed in cream chiffon from head to gold heels. A droplet of sweat trickles down Kibum’s spine.
Flanking her are two Omatiyor, armed to the nines, and beyond them a gaggle of advisors and handmaidens. The Queen consults one now, the tall, finely dressed Omatiyor whispering in her ear until the Queen waves her away.
“Bae Joohyun?” Voice strong soprano.
“Yes, your Majesty.” Irene bows again, one hand behind her back. Kibum can see her fingers twitching. The Queen’s gaze passes over all of them, before falling back upon Irene’s bent figure.
“Do stand up. You enjoyed your outing?”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Irene’s tone is clipped and cautious; only now does Kibum appreciate how affectionately she addresses her Troupe.
“You have someone new?” She doesn’t even glance at Kibum, but nonetheless they carefully don’t react.
Irene nods and clicks her fingers in Kibum’s direction. Kibum steps forward then bows low, straightening only when they hear, “Up you come, Miss. Oh, you’re rather gorgeous.”
Kibum panics again. They have literally no idea what the right response to that should be. Do they let Irene talk for them? Do they thank the Queen themself?
Luckily, the Queen seems to find how flustered they are amusing. One of her party laughs and she joins in, blinking the intensity away, waving her hand dismissively at him. Kibum steps back hurriedly and, once they have their breath back, searches the Queen’s company for their saviour.
Kibum nearly gawps in shock. It’s a male; or at least, they look masculine. That the Omatiyor would tolerate a male in their midst! It’s so outside reason and all prior experience Kibum has with them that they decide it safer not to classify their champion, in case they do so inadvertently incorrectly.
They stand near the back, with their head hanging low so their hair falls into their eyes. An Adonis, with their golden skin and hair like midnight gloss, the bright, creamy fabrics swathed around their figure, blurring their silhouette. As if they can feel Kibum looking at them, they raise their head, tilting it slightly, as their lips twitch upwards prettily.
It’s a knowing smile, and Kibum’s legs feel weak with helpless gratitude.
“Sooyoung.” The Queen has been talking to Irene - caught up in the exchange of glances with the Queen’s masculine escort, Kibum has missed the entire conversation - and now turns to her advisor.
“Your Majesty?” Kibum thinks Sooyoung’s legs should be illegal.
“Ensure Irene and her Troupe receive all assistance they need.”
“Of course. Taemin?” Kibum’s rescuer moves forward, gliding through the air as a boat with full sail slices through waves, each bronze limb infused with Omatiyon grace. Taemin. Kibum swirls the name around their mouth, and appreciates the taste of it. Saccharine. Oddly familiar. They wish they could call it out loud.
Taemin bows to the Queen and she rests a hand on their ebony hair fondly.
“You are excused from this afternoon’s needlework.” She says, and Kibum stumbles with the sudden flash of golden hands and deft fingers, the weaving of threads and the loom, reflected in dark eyes. Kibum’s shoulder aches under the indomitable pressure of the vision, the swash of cloth against cloth overwhelming, the hunger to know who, the silence of the sewing room deafening-
“You’ll look after them well, won’t you?” The Queen continues. Yeri’s hand is at Kibum’s elbow, steadying him. To the Queen, Taemin nods, smiles in a way that doesn’t reach their eyes. It’s a smile too mature for such a youthful face.
They plaster themselves to the walls and bow as she passes. The second the Queen and her entourage disappears, Irene is murmuring softly to Taemin, though they do not respond. Their eyes stay fixed ahead, their hands tucked neatly together behind their back. Kibum leans forward, is drawn closer, to see, to see, if those white marks are pin scars, if those beads of red on Taemin’s palms are needle-pricks.
“Taemin will take us to the portals.” Irene informs them, relief evident in her voice. Kibum hurries to straighten as she sweeps her gaze over her ducklings. “Apparently they’ve moved them since I lived here.”
(Irene lived in the palace? Did that mean-?)
Under her breath, Yeri mutters, “I can’t believe she treats you that coldly when you’re her-“
Irene clicks her fingers angrily and Yeri bites down her words, though her eyes fix on the back of Irene’s neck as though she is trying to burn a hole there.
Onwards they march, Taemin floating ahead of them with all speed and no signs of exertion. Kibum studies them from behind; the soft black hair brushing Taemin’s shoulders, their poise, how terribly thin Taemin’s wrists are, how slim their legs. Golden hands and deft fingers- Kibum wants to talk to them so badly they can feel each individual word as it sits heavily on their chest.
“Kibum?” Yeri whispers. They’ve dropped back to the rear; though Kibum wasn’t aware of slowing down, from the way Yeri’s facial muscles twitch it was planned. They nod, a small incline of their head, highly alert to the presence of the guards as they pass through doorway after magnificent doorway. “We’re.” They can feel the worry shimmering off her like waves, this small, young Omatiyor, her hands trembling as they brush against Kibum’s. “We’re normal, aren’t we?” They were right, then, about her being a world-shifter.
Kibum falters in their stride. Normal? “What’s normal?” They say. Yeri looks ready to argue, snap back, but she bites her tongue for the length of one corridor, and when she looks back up at them, she’s less afraid.
“But we’re not. Cursed?”
Kibum huffs out a laugh, chest tight. “No. You’re not cursed. You’re not wrong. I’ve met so many world-shifters, Yeri, you’re not alone. It’s difficult, yes, sometimes painful and often,” pause, for a passing Troupe, “terrifying, but it’s not the end of the world. It’s not the end of your world. You have so many possibilities and opportunities and I can tell you’ve got your wits about you and.” Something impels Kibum to take her hand for a moment, squeezing her fingers tightly. “You’re so good. You’re so right. You’re going to be fine.”
Yeri breathes shakily, glances around, and tugs Kibum enough for them to pause, time enough for her to press her lips to their cheek, so swift that had Kibum not been so on edge they wouldn’t have caught it. The deep, oddly familiar ache of bittersweet satisfaction is unmissable. Kibum doesn’t think they’ll return to Rossalem anytime soon.
They reach the portals and, sure enough, Kibum detects the rip with Yeri’s help. They whispers their thanks to Yeri, kissing her cheek back. She blushes as she promises to pass on their gratitude to the rest of the Troupe, who stand guard, Wendy talking Taemin’s ear off to distract them. Kibum doesn’t think Taemin’s buying it for one second, but they keep their eyes steadily averted, even as Kibum clambers through the veil with all the finesse of a seven-legged spider. They send one last glance in Taemin’s direction. The bones in Taemin’s jaw shift below the dark skin.
Even when Kibum finds themself back in their own world, in the middle of their living room carpet, their heart still aches with unsaid words.
Part Two