Chapter Text
“Yo sueño que estoy aquí
destas prisiones cargado,
y soñé que en otro estado
mas lisonjero me vi.
¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.
¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,
una sombra, una ficción,
y el mayor bien es pequeño:
que toda la vida es sueño,
y los sueños, sueños son.”
There was nothing but a hone void. A shiver that didn’t make him tremble ripped through him, the glacial breeze hindered his breathing, his lungs struggling, and a constant sensation of being observed - he was expectant, wary, absolutely terrified.
For a second, he dumbly thought that even the nothingness was something - an attempt to convince himself that he was not alone there, wherever that was. And at the same time, he prayed that he was, unaccompanied. He noticed as well how his ragged breaths did not show the steam no doubt the icy air should display.
He could only think about the sheer trepidation that refused to leave him at any moment, about how he wished this one of those dreams where he couldn’t wake up, could not move, where his brain would fabricate the ugliest shadows and sounds it could muster. He was familiar with those, knew how to handle them, dealing with them often, when he was too stress to fall asleep but his exhausted body would shut off and force him to at least get a couple of hours of rest.
But, this time, he could move. Could run he realised as he raced in what he thought was a straight line. No finish line though, just the enormous darkness expanding under his feet and in front of his eyes, no silhouette even though his gaze was more than used to it. He should be able to distingue something, anything, and instead a blankness consumed everything.
He remembers crying, fat tears flooding his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, the burn in his calves and thigh as he pushed himself to go further. Panting, his ankle bent and he rolled on the surface. The pain felt real as well, and he looked at his hands, hoping, relief washing over him when he counted his fingers and writhed them, chuckling lightly at the ridiculousness of it all. Of course he was dreaming. He could see his body in spite of obscurity, the clothes he was wearing that day when he was with his hyungs, how his palm hit the surface and sank in the shiny black pulp and it travelled up his arms. His eyes widened until it felt they were going to pop out, and he shook his hand, desperately competing against it to try and get it off his skin.
He could see his hand, could move them and count his fingers, so why was he not able to control the dream? He could feel pain too, could run, so why wasn’t he waking up? His temples pulsed.
Battling to get on his feet again, he clutched on a round, solid object, screaming when it broke under his tight grip, turning putrid below his fingertips as he let go of it. The strong stench turned his stomach, the empty organ spamming to bring something to his esophagus. He coughed, breathing heavily through his nose, felt a bizarre desire to touch it again, to sort out what was it.
Maybe it was the fear, the hopeness to recognise anything in that endless hole, a sign that something was there. Maybe a dead animal, a cut off limp, a brain - whatever. Something that gave a clue to what was happening and what was his role in all of it.
He reached, groping blindly the cold surface that now seemed sturdy, withdrawing when it felt too liquid. He heard his own choked sobs as a background sound, some foreign music, and for a stupid moment, he reproached himself for wasting hydration in such a childish way. He wasn’t aware of how long he was going to be there, how he even got there, so he had to be cautious, thoughtful, analize every action.
Suddenly, distantly he heard a melody. Frozen, he gulped.
The circus-like notes arriving at his ears like a disgusting caress, wrapping around him and squeezing his throat. His legs throbbed, the primal instinct of survival screaming at him to run. A low snort escaped him, laughing the moment he got up and sprinted, the vivid memory of him being utterly afraid of everything related to clowns popping unannounced, incredulously accepting that he was going to die by the hands of a wicked, dysfunctional son of a bitch who, somehow, probably, got off to psychologically terrorizing their preys before brutally slaying them.
It felt ridiculous, like one of those bad jokes his oldest hyung would crack when he wanted to break the awkwardness. He was going to miss him a lot - wondered if his hyung would be mad at him for leaving.
He ran faster, heart beating violently against his ribcage the same way his heels did to his butt. The music sounded closer, frenetic as if was going to peak - he thought of his other hyung, of how he had to survive just to tell him how the crescendo made the listener anticipate an immediate event, although he most likely already knew. He definitely knew, the songs he produced much more layered and sophisticated than this one, yet - nothing ever strangled him the same way this simple melody did. The trumps morphed into other wind instrument, more thunderous, closer to him, closer, closer, closer -
He collided into something, the fetor making him nauseous again, and tripped to the floor, both hands dipping deeply into the bland, sticky mash. It felt warm, a metallic sub-smell to it above the potent stink. He kept crying, cleaning his palms hysterically on his shirt, feeling like Bambi trying to get to his feet, his muscles protesting from constantly falling. The melody continued, but was not as loud as before, and for a brief moment he wished that whatever was going after him, whatever was happening, gave up on its chase. Clasped his hands together and prayed, thanking his mother for forcing him to go to church and teach him how to, asked for forgiveness, for an escape, for him to wake the fuck up.
But he was never a quitter, never bailed out a challenge without fighting, so if he was going to die - he was going to watch directly in their eyes so he could remember the face of his killer, each miniscule detail.
A spotlight spotted him abruptly, without trouble, without having to search for him in the void. The music expanded, sounded like it was underwater. He blinked quickly, blinded for several moments by the hasty, artificial flash. It hurt.
He flopped backwards, his fingers once again coming in contact with the nasty, smelly puree. He glanced, out of morbid curiosity, frowning when he found an enormous pile of rotten red apples, most of them dissolved but some with a recognizable shape and colour.
“Welcome gladiator!” A soft, firm voice said. He squirmed, a pitiful grunt as he tried to look for the source. There was an pregnant pause, like something was expected. It announced, like it was obvious, a petulant tone to it:
“ Ave imperator, morituri te salutant”.
He had heard that before, he recalled, attempting to place it, to find hint that would provide him a link to sympathy. His eyes flickered, nervous, and so so scared he worried it would become his permanent state.
Swiftly, the make-up of a clown was in front of him, so close to him it looked like one of those character in animes he loved to watch when they would lose control, those scenes always being his favourites because they meant something epic was going to ensue. He yelped, dragging himself to put distance with it. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, a huge spring returning it into a enormous box and tucking it inside. His breathing accelerated, the beating of his heart so strenuous his eyeballs vibrated at the same tempo.
“Come on!” They screamed, seemly impatient, “It’s your turn, Jeon Jeongguk.”
A thump, almost comical, and then footsteps. Slow ones, deliberate too. The soles kept clicking on the surface, his skin prickling, like tiny insects were under it, walking, nearing the light. Jeongguk knew that he had promised himself to watch his butcher, to try and make them feel some type of remorse, and yet, as it continued to be closer, he squeezed his lids tightly. Thought back to his childhood, how if he couldn’t see it, it wasn’t even there; the monsters safely constricted behind the closet door.
Because it had to be a monster, no other explication possible. He was still dreaming, or was awake and paraziled to be punished by his imagination, perhaps for that one time to entertained the idea of stealing a pack of gum from the local store. Honestly, he hoped it was the first: the heat of the spotlight, the circus melody, the rancid smell, the complete and pure void, the frenetic pounding of his heart - they were too real , and if it truly was, he did hoped that it was just a tasteless joke. Because if it really was real and not a realistic nightmare, if all that impossible elements were, in fact, not fabricated, he prefered to die there; couldn’t bare the knowledge that things like those did exist.
With the little strength he had, and after peeping and seeing the point of polished shoes entering the only circle of light in which he was inside, Jeongguk dragged himself to the darkness, away from them. Scraping his knees, his fingertips raw from trying to lift his tired body from the surface, he finally rose to his feet, racing in the opposite direction, trying, trying, trying. He needed to escape. His hyungs would be so incredibly sad.
They chuckled, the damn clicking resonating unhurried and alone now that the music was over. Jeongguk had no idea, no destination of where he was heading to, if even he was going to crash against a wall, but, he could not hesitate or stall; he had to go. His legs trembled, crumbling under him and then he was falling. He punched the ground, his bent ankle screaming at him, the tears blurring the vision of his own wounds, the sting a clear indication that they were there however. Jeongguk choked on his own uneven breathing, coughing and failing to muffle them. So - he crawled. His limbs felt massive, took a great effort to move them, and he thought of Bambi again, how the poor mother died by the hunter who chased her until the animal was exhausted.
He carried on until his digits touched a edge, and then a vertical plane. Tentatively, and so fucking stunned, he kept touching, confirmed that it was indeed a corner and stumbled to lay in it, gasping profoundly.
Quiet.
“Are you hiding from me, Jeonggukkie?”
They asked playfully, could imagine a lazy smile. His muscles jolted so harshly, locking up, that he whined audibly. Aghast, he pondered if begging would actually help or worsen his situation, deciding that nothing could aggravate it at this point. Except that, before he could even open his mouth, he was witnessing a small, delicate and masculine hand cutting through the blackness and swimming above his head. It felt like a slow motion, an elegant movement, fluid, the fingers deftly pushing the wall he was resting on, bending beautifully on the tips first and then the palm flat against it; he noticed the rings, silver and sturdy, big ones. The pressure moved it, the wall giving in and causing him to fall backwards.
It wasn’t dark anymore, although the atmosphere was gloomy, a grey tint to it. The cold was still there, different nonetheless, more natural, smell of snow, tickling his nose and his eyes watering due to the chilly air. Surprisingly, he didn’t need to adjust to the sudden change in lightning, his muscles weren’t sore either, having no hurt in getting up.
Jeongguk glanced around, examining the surroundings. It looked like an arctic tundra, splashes of dried vegetation painting of a deep green and brown the pure, unadulterated white of the snow. The view was flat save for the small bushes that dared to give a little dimension, standing withered, like they were ashamed of disrupting the design. He couldn’t hear bird songs, the animals probably smart enough to abandon such a unsettling scenery. He should leave too. Far, very far, he could distingue a metal structure. It was chubby, circular, and inviting enough to consider swinging in one of its seats. Taking a shuddering breath, he turned around.
A man with a red jacket looked back.
It was a rich color, vibrant, standing out in the eerie landscape, a white dress shirt tucked in fitted black pants, the silver of the jewelry shining delicately, peeking out of the sleeves. He had long legs, thick thighs, veiny hands that changed to childlike in a blink, a strong neck and a extremely defined jaw. Plump, pouty pink lips, button nose, platinum hair. Piercing eyes.
Jeongguk felt like he was staring at the Devil; the aura around him threatening yet alluring, imposing and charming. His eyes bored into him, baring him to be examined to the bone, and tilted his head forward, his pupils still on him. Jeongguk was angry at himself for thinking the stranger was beautiful, but he was , there was no reason to deny it, and for an odd, disturbing, incomprehensible logic- he was glad he got to see such a face before being murdered.
The man impromptu smiled, wide and honest, his full cheeks lifting and forming the prettiest crescents he ever had the privilege to witness. The quick demeanour change bewildered him, but if so, he gave the impression to be more dangerous now, the sweet facade didn’t conceal the appalling glint of his gaze, the clear warning that he must be feared. And yet, as he approached, Jeongguk didn’t backtrack, stayed on his place like a little bunny watching the snake show off its fangs.
“Hi,” he greeted, his voice incredibly soft, like melted honey, like sea breeze just before the sunset. Jeongguk’s eyelids fluttered. “Come with me?” He had always been weak, too willing to do everything he was asked, his hyungs had told him many times - and so, he grabbed the extended hand and rejoiced on the warmth of it. “I’m Jimin. No need to be scared, yeah?.” He squeezed his hand, the mellow grin still plastered on his face.
Nodding unconsciously, he missed the mischievous, predatory tinkle.