Chapter Text
Poor, unfortunate soul.
"Do you think you'll go to heaven, when it's over? Do you think you're truly that pious? One of god's flock?"
A choked cry. The dry creak of wooden joints being strained.
Mark sniffs his own blood back up his nostrils. It's going to trickle down the back of his throat, Chenle is sure of it. An appetizer, perhaps, for what's coming later.
He presses the pad of his index finger in the center of Mark's forehead. The contact makes Mark flinch, not knowing it was coming. He can't see, can't speak. There's duct tape over his eyes, wrapped around his head, sealed over his mouth. It's a wonder he can breathe. His nose is broken, leaking blood like a faucet, mixing with snot while he cries.
Chenle taps at Mark's forehead idly. He tries to shrink away from the contact, whimpering, but the straight back of the chair he's tied to allows for little room to move.
"If I were god," Chenle continues conversationally, "I'd have made your mother miscarry you."
Mark whines into the adhesive branded to his lips. There's a beat of silence, and then Chenle digresses.
"I'd be your daddy for real, wouldn't I, if I was god?"
He laughs a little breathlessly.
"I know that's what you believe. We're all god's children, aren't we? Imagine it, Mark."
Chenle presses the nail of his index finger into the skin of Mark's forehead as hard as he can, as though he's chiseling the image he's describing straight into Mark's skull.
The sound of Mark crying is becoming a little irritating. Chenle crouches in front of him, cups his cheek gently. The duct tape is slippery against his hand. He realises his palms are sweating, and it throws him off for a second- how could he be nervous? It's the anticipation, he decides. It has to be.
"Just like we used to joke, Mark-hyung."
Chenle lets his voice warm, lets the fondness creep back into it. It isn't hard to fake, not when it used to be genuine.
"Mark Lee, my favourite son. The cutest out of everyone. That was you, hyung."
He taps the tip of Mark's nose playfully.
"You were my favourite. Even when Donghyuck got his hands on you."
Mark sobs louder than before. Blood bubbles from his nose, a few drops splattering. They hit the sleeve of Chenle's hoodie.
Chenle looks down at the stains, already seeping into the fabric deeply. His mind is suddenly blank. It would be blissful, if not for the jet-black clarity it douses Chenle in like a raincloud, rolling thunder far on the horizon.
Mark seems to sense the change in his demeanor- he's perfectly still in his confines, but his chest is heaving in little pants. His heart must be beating itself to death in his ribcage, like a caught rabbit's.
It makes Chenle smile, but there's no feeling in it- his mouth curves into the shape of a smirk, but he isn't laughing.
He draws his arm back, and hits Mark so hard that his head cracks against the back of the chair.
Chenle's voice is quiet, completely even.
"Careful, Mark, this is Gucci."
There's muffled protests trying to escape from Mark's lips.
Chenle does smile, now, but it's mirthless, a flash of teeth.
"Thought I was gone, that I was finished with you? And why be finished, when I can drag your corpse around for a while?"
He's almost yelling now, he knows he is, but he's gently losing hold of himself. It feels like tearing tissue paper, like missing a step on a flight of stairs in the dark.
He can't trip over his feet right now.
Chenle steps back from Mark's trembling form. Shuts his eyes tight. Smoothes his palms on the fabric of his pants. Counts back from 10.
He flicks through the images in his mind's eye, the way he always does when he feels himself unraveling.
A calm lake, black water still, like glass.
The night sky- full dark, no stars.
A blank chalkboard, scrupulously clean.
Mark flinches when he feels Chenle's hand on his cheek once more.
"It's okay, chill out. I can't have you suffocating on your own snot."
He peels the tape off Mark's mouth roughly.
Mark sucks in a few gasping breaths, until Chenle's finger is pressed against his lips, shushing him.
"Do not start talking, hyung. I'm warning you this one time." His voice falters almost imperceptibly.
"Please. Or I'll tape your mouth and your nose. Okay?"
Mark nods. Just two movements, tilting his chin up, then back to center.
Chenle steps away again.
"Bet you're thirsty, huh?"
His tone is conversational again, as though the last few minutes never happened. Maybe they didn't- Chenle's memory can be a little patchy at times. Unreliable. Maybe it's been getting worse, but that's the dilemma, isn't it? He wouldn't know for sure if it has or hasn't.
"'course you are," Chenle answers himself." It's been, what, nine hours?"
It's been nine exactly, he knows, because he's been tallying the hours up on his wrist with an exacto knife. Nine, neat little incisions, breaking up the milky skin with mortal ink.
"Nine! What a number. Do you know the rule of nine, Mark?"
No answer. Good. Chenle fills a tall glass with water from the faucet before he goes on.
"It's how to work out the size of a burn on the human body."
The glass is cold in his palm, a little spilling over the rim as he walks back to where Mark sits.
"Head and neck?" Chenle caresses Mark's cheek delicately. "Nine percent."
"Arms and hands?" he runs a finger over the perspiration that covers the length of Mark's arm. "Nine percent."
"The upper and lower back is nine percent. Chest and stomach? You guessed it, nine percent." He punctuates his words with a harsh twist to Mark's nipple through the fabric of his shirt. It makes him jolt in his seat.
"Legs and feet are 18 percent, combined."
Chenle kicks at Mark's bare feet idly, presses down on his toes with his heavy steel-toed boots.
"How's your math, Mark? Know what that comes to?"
Mark whimpers, but doesn't speak.
"Ninety-nine. All nines so far, fitting, for the rule of nines. There's only one percent left to account for, a little leftover that doesn't quite conform to the rule."
Chenle steps closer, calm and calculating, and lays a gentle palm over Mark's crotch, squeezing ever so slightly.
His voice drops to a whisper, saccharine and breathy, like he's intimating a secret.
"Genitalia. One percent, Mark."
His hand is gone as soon as it appears. Chenle holds the glass of water up to Mark's chapped lips.
"Drink."
Mark drinks, slurpy gulps that run down his chin and dampen the collar of his shirt.
There's silence except for the sound of Mark drinking. Once the glass is drained, Chenle takes it back to the sink, rinsing it dutifully. Tidy house, tidy mind.
He sits down on the kitchen tile in front of Mark, cross-legged, with his elbows propped on his knees.
"The rule of nines, hyung. An odd thing to know about, don't you think? I've thought about it for a while now. When I came across it, something clicked. It really... Resonated with me."
He laughs dryly.
"I started to wonder. How much have I burned for you, Mark? How many multiples of nine? How much of my body have you burned with your own?"
Chenle has to pause, take a breath. He can't afford to muddle his words here. Mark needs to understand. He needs to feel it.
"And what about my soul? I've searched for that equation a thousand times, hyung. There's no formula. No way of being mathematically accurate, of calculating the percentage."
Chenle stares at Mark's mouth, at the way his delicate lips tremble around words he's forbidden to utter.
Chenle's voice turns pensive, soft.
"I don't need it, though, Mark. I finally realised. The answer was right there, dangling in my line of sight, this whole time. A hundred percent of my soul is burned. I don't need a formula for that after all, hyung."
There's a strangled sound caught in Mark's chest, but he doesn't speak, still. If he did, Chenle likely wouldn't have heard it. He was in his own head, now, insular, looking over memories projected on the inside of his skull.