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Hunger.
Jeong Yunho knew hunger.
His mother would reminiscine with a fond gaze, when the topic of his childhood came up and it was time to talk about how frequently she had had to mix up baby formula for him, and how greedy his hands had been reaching for the bottle once he started recognizing it.
He had always been the kid who asked for seconds. As a teenager, it had helped him be doted on by mothers and aunties alike for eating well. You’ve grown so tall, my Yunho-yah, his grandmother would say, endeared, to match your hunger. A pat on the head; a squeezing of his cheeks; a hot plate of food placed in front of him; a snack thrusted into his always awaiting hands.
It had been hard when he first enlisted and had to make do with the portions dealt. Even then, he was too lovely of a comrade to be denied just a little more put on his plate by the one in charge of division each night.
But moving the ranks meant migration. Migration meant war. War, famine. There are only too many half-cans one can try to pretend is a full meal. And famine; famine meant learning to take the role of the hunter. It did not take long for Yunho and all his underlings to see just how easy it came to him. Almost like second nature, there was a different type of fulfillment in having put the meat on the table. It felt good to be relied on, to feed not just the people who looked up to him but also his own hunger.
He is the one who needs it the most after all, they joked, eyes brimming with mirth and satiation, sprawled behind their plates licked clean out of every last brown fat juice.
Yet, when it is time for celebration after the war, best parts of a pork on the barbecue sizzling, and all the best of the militia around him, Yunho cannot bring himself to eat.
The smell hits him first; undeniably divine. When the meat is placed on his plate, he cannot stop staring at the sheen of juice. It is rarer than medium, but not raw. Maybe that is the reason, maybe that is the thing furtherest from the reason. It is no place to be asking for a well-cooked meal. These are important men surrounding him, gone through all the hardships he had, and then more. If the meat is uncooked, Yunho will have to eat it uncooked.
He cuts and picks up a piece with his chopsticks. The way it dangles and jiggles because Yunho’s hands are shaking is hypnotizing, nauseating. A pinkish drop falls and hits the empty part of his plate. Yunho’s stomach turns. His mouth sours and he feels the disgust in a full body shiver. He cannot do it. If he puts that in his mouth, he will have to deal with what is coming back up.
Aside from hungry, Yunho has always been called lucky. That must be one of the biggest reasons as to why he never had to starve, they said, even on the battlefield; even when his men died one by one from the hunger as it pierced their stomach and skin from within.
He is called to give a speech, placing the chopsticks back on the plate. The meat sits on top of the uncut, larger piece, making it look almost as if Yunho had never touched it. He clears his throat, willing the bile down as he steps up to the platform. Walking becomes an act harder than normal to execute. It is a flash of something; red in his hands he makes sure to check is not actually there; taste of metal on his tongue, and a saliva brimming mouth. When he swallows, it is nothing but the past on his palate.
Afterwards, no one notices when he balls up a few napkins under the table, heavy with the meat that threathens to come alive and pierce through the paper. The celebration is too important to take notice of such trifle things; Yunho is a good actor even when he is not facing a mirror.
How blessed life would be, if time could be reversed and all sins could be forgiven. It is cold in the dingy cabin where he arrives, maybe even colder than the weather surrounding them. Yunho thinks he recognizes the start of a fire in the mountains of far, a calming red. But life is nothing but cruel; cruel and tiring of a thing, and the ending of it is almost tangible, almost alive in the back of his mind where all the unwanted things go.
He can hear the sound his empty stomach makes over the loud greeting he gets from a sturdy looking man. Jongho is his name he later learns. But then, Yunho’s eyes dart to lock on a pair sitting on an angular, tan face, gaze torching. He can feel the thumping of his heart in his constricting, dry throat as he scrambles to put together a greeting of his own.
I think there’s a fire in the mountains, he still mumbles. Hongjoong is silent, studying him, not rushing from where he is lounging in front of the hearth. His gaze is piercing even in the dark, even after a month of knowing him. Fair and enough, Yunho thinks. Fair enough; after all, how high can the flames reach before they too are swallowed by the night like everything they devour. After all, Wooyoung is in the other room, fast asleep; after all, it is Yunho’s hunger and no one else’s.
Yunho knows when he is being a stuck-up, fulfiling his role of having the higher status, and Wooyoung hates him for it. Yunho hates him for so much more. He hates the grease smell that engulfs him when he drapes himself on top of the cook to reach deeper, a bruising grip in his hair, his arms, and scraching nails on his back, pain matching the teeth sunk in the juncture of his neck; Wooyoung is always so much braver than him. Yunho hates to lick his tongue after a hearty meal; the pooling of his saliva he cannot control; knowing eyes that mock him after the owner of them leaves him in a rage so enourmous Yunho feels it bubble and stir in his empty stomach.
The idea comes to him like an old friend coming back into one’s life. If they were dead, they would be safe; they would all be so much safer if they were all dead. Right now, in their beds, deep in their dreams; it would be merciful to save them from the painful fate his old men had fallen victims to.
Yunho runs in the white smoke of the night to clear his head; wakes up to a full stomach and searching eyes of the man in charge of the sizzling eggs, almost like he knows; almost like Wooyoung can actually fester something tender for him because he knows; because the sight of Yunho is actually beareble with no hunger blinding his eyes.
But then Wooyoung straddles him with eyes hungrier than his, with spit pouring down Yunho’s throat and fingers fast and merciless, all to feed him. And then, when Yunho feels brave enough to rip his eyes away from the ceiling, Wooyoung’s teeth seemingly multiplying endlessly the more his grin grows, he leans down to whisper things Yunho can never admit to himself, tone appeasing despite the crudeness of his words. And Yunho has never felt fuller, cock and stomach throbbing in tandem. Things from within him bursting and spilling, and spilling.
What is it, War Hero, Seonghwa looks up to smile, fully serious, and Yunho long came to accept the fact that he can never fault him for anything. Afraid of a little blood?
Wooyoung snickers from where he is wrestling the skinless boar. There is blood everywhere, a trail of it slowly reaching him the more Yunho stands frozen in the enterance of the cabin. Wooyoung’s arms bulge with the strain. If Yunho looks too close, it almost feels like he can spot a mirror of himself from his night escepades in front of him; unsightly.
Its skin sits to the side, carefully stripped and spotless of meat. He knows Wooyoung is good with his hands; it ignites a fire deep down to be hit with things he already knows. Slick hot desire down his throat, past his guts and down, down. His fingers spasm. He wants to touch; it must be warm. The smell would annihilate all his senses, but he wants to feel Wooyoung’s hands in his, fingers slimy against his. He wishes the blood was his own.
You have to kill, to live, Jongho announces teasingly, from where he is sprawled on the bench, hands still bloodied from carrying the thing back.
Yunho knows. Yunho knows. When you push past the ribcage, you can feel the crack in your own body; when you hold the still beating poor thing in your grip, yours’ rhythm follows. He has to run before things get worse; before Wooyoung says anything, or looks at him a second more with those knowing, red eyes of his.
He comes back to boiling stench still holding the area captive. Everyone else asleep, Wooyoung embraces him with vigour and embraces him deep. His teeth itch to follow in Wooyoung’s marks. His smell drowns the awful tastes around; delicious, and Yunho is so hungry; a man starved for ages. It is hard to not give in, when the pleasure has him subdued, when Wooyoung roughly grips his nape to position him, neck hanging off the bed, as if readying him for the guillatione, and looks down at him with something akin to warmth to feed Yunho himself throbbing. It is almost satiating enough.
In the eyes, back there, you’re a dead man desperately running, but here, Wooyoung says, you’re just walking around. Dull and lifeless, like you just desperately need something vital.
How come you were the only survivor again? Jongho questions, drunk one night.
Yeah, just what kind of wild things do roam around here, I wonder, Wooyoung says, when the topic of animals tearing each other near the woods is brought up by Hongjoong, eyes boring into Yunho’s over the rim of his morning coffee.
You’re fine, Lituenant, we’re no longer at war, Hongjoong reminds him in the midst of a scouraging, eyes ignoring the shaking rifle to his side. Get it together for god’s sake, he means.
He won’t eat them rare, Wooyoung says, tone barely scolding, that one time he has a running fever but still comes out of his coocoon of blankets to serve Yunho a well-cooked piece of meat. Here, this will do, he says to Jongho, like Yunho is not there; like he is feeding a wild thing he still loves despite its tedious demands.
You’re running after something you cannot kill, Jongho taunts, all too knowing, always a little too mouthy whenever he is encouraged by alcohol.
The rest admire him for surviving the enemy, voices boasting on his behalf. When there is booze running in their veins, it is easy to believe Yunho wants to protect them, that he was not exiled here like Yunho secretly fears, but was sent on a sacred mission. Still, Yunho cannot help but feel a domesticated glint in his chest at moments. He catches Wooyoung’s always seemingly knowing eyes, gaze as if accepting, before it hardens back to normal. It would be so easy to save them from it all when they are weak like this, Yunho cannot help but think.
There is something red in the distance; there is red in the corner of his vision always. Yunho sees fire; avoids looking directly at Wooyoung. Some colours are quiet, unlike red, and every shade Wooyoung carries screams trouble. Yunho will never admit what he fantasizes the reds turn into. He will not acknowledge when now a distant dream of a future to him comes crawling back. His insides have been long tainted beyond what his luck can get him. His brain says that; that luck of yours is rotten and the only thing it will get you is the carcasses of those who are innocent; it screams it at his face.
Wooyoung is different. Three more months of cooking for all the mouths around, and he will have completed his service. They will send in a new cook for them. Someone who is a good soldier, but unlucky enough to be assigned the role, and even unluckier to have ended up there. Few can carry it out as gracious as Wooyoung, as nurturing. When Yunho is sane enough, at times he thinks this is how God created Wooyoung to be, someone easy to exist alongside, someone who is silent but strong in his nourishing, someone whose smile puts all the other reds to shame, someone Yunho cannot want.
Wooyoung has been kissing him more bruising, fingers marking his cheeks to keep his head in place as he devours; punishment to keep Yunho back from his own acts; a reward for a good night’s hunt.
Wooyoung’s excitement shows in how reccurent his retellings of family get; Yunho has never known hunger quite like this. When it gets particularly bad, he feels it beneath his ribcage, not just below it; a hollow ache, thorns around muscle tightening and tightening, and stinging. His vision swivels and swirls; his stomach churns around acidic nothingness. His head spins with primitive urges. I want to, Yunho thinks. I want to. I want to.
But logic is enemy bridled with societal norms; Yunho is aware he shouldn’t. He knows he can’t.
Yunho writes and writes, to all the people he knows. Rejection letters sit ashen in the leftovers of a fire outside each day a new response arrives; they cannot have Wooyoung stay longer; Yunho’s troops cannot be dispersed before the wild thing in the woods is hunted.
You are stuck there; you are trapped even if not caught, they say. The night embraces him before Wooyoung can, though its arms harsher.
On one week left mark, Wooyoung jokes he had to appear presentable to his mother, standing in the middle of the cabin with his hair trimmed to the scalp. His shades get lost in all the red Yunho sees after the revelation.
There is an end to all of this, Yunho knows. And it is closer than ever, he can feel.
Litueanenth Jeong, Hongjoong tries to argue, but even he cannot stand tall in the face of the authority Yunho’s barking order holds.
Wooyoung looks startled when no one else sits on the dinner table; it feels wrong to look at him like this.
They eat in silence, and Yunho pushes Wooyoung's head into the matress in his attempts at feeling in control for once.
It is a momentary mistake; his teeth graze Wooyoung’s strong shoulders as if to memorize before they sink in. Wooyoung’s response is a release with a gasp and his head whipping back to look, his panting growing louder, faster.
His head pushed back down, Yunho hopes Wooyoung can’t tell his tears apart from excessive saliva.
He thinks Wooyoung will finally take the leap, ending this game he has been keeping Yunho prisoned in. Wooyoung losing would make Yunho despise him more; would turn things eaiser.
He is uncharacteristicly timid, one hand smoothing the bed sheet and eyes locked on the movement.
What are you so afraid of, huh? He asks instead, and his barely there tone makes it apparent he already knows all the whys.
It wouldn’t matter what answer Yunho gives, for Wooyoung is just as much of a coward to make any of this different. Yunho basks in the softening of his features despite himself, lines seemingly fighting to weep against Wooyoung’s own restraints.
His response is a head shake and a cruel huff; that is not the game they play, and they are too far in this one to start anew.
He comes back after his cigarette burns down to nothingess. He comes back like a well-trained dog to crawl next to Wooyoung, wishing time wouldn’t be, that it was all a tangible, single thing he could cut off of himself.
He was too scared of the consequences of drawing blood, but the feeling of Wooyoung’s flesh around his teeth will not let him sleep, taking the place of the prior many thoughts of its taste.
Come home with me. Be with me. Be mine.
Yunho knows there is a time limit when one is handling newly available meat. He knows, not even cooking will erase the taste of rot afterwards.
He knows the flesh is soft, but the muscles underneath are hard to get through, and the task requires a big knife; if he makes enough of a racket in the kitchen, Wooyoung will come out with furrowed brows, ever so protective of his things.
The sleep lines on his unwashed face ignite the fire below Yunho’s gut, churning, and churning red. The pit of his stomach hollows even when he swallows down what he is chewing.
Figures, Yunho greets him, it is just no good when not made by your hands.
There is a slur to Yunho’s words, and a towel pressed to his side by a hasty Wooyoung, reddening impossibly fast. Wooyoung looks scared, worried. Yunho’s hunger longs to jump forward to reach and take, and take. Wooyoung stills with the grip on his wrist, hands loosening in his helplessness. When he sits down, a part of him is still locked inside Yunho’s fingers.
He doesn’t keep silent for long. Yunho-yah, what are you doing?
He speaks as if to a startled, wild animal. The chopsticks scratch the plate ugly under the control of Yunho’s barely cordinated hands. He has cooked the loin less than he himself would like. In all the mist now surrounding him, he remembers that had been the tastiest part back then. It is a salvaging realization, now that Wooyoung is here, the main dish can be served soon; now they will all be safe.
Wooyung doesn’t touch his cutlery, nor the piece of Yunho’s loin in front of him like Yunho hungers him to.
Yunho picks up the knife all the animals Wooyoung gutted have been familiarized with. When he sees his own face, there is no longer jealousy in the bloodsmeared reflection there.
Yunho-yah, give me the knife and we can- we will find a way, he pleads oh so sweet.
Yunho nearly believes him, but none of this is what he wants to hear. If Wooyoung has ever seen a thing worthy of loving in him until now, Yunho knows for certain, he cannot after this.
The only thing valuable of him that he can give Wooyoung; it is unfair he cannot serve it on a plate cooked, will not get to see Wooyoung devour it like Yunho hopes he also longs to.
With a last graze against his hand, Yunho wishes to make him understand. He wishes Wooyoung still had his long hair, that he had done this yesterday, before Wooyoung selfishly cut it off for his mother, choosing family over him.
Yunho knows when he reaches in to cut his own heart out, there will finally have come the near end. He can guess the pain will knock him out before his body actually surrenders. But despite all his wants and desires, this is what Yunho deserves, and he knows this too.
He feels the squelch as he tries to manuaver the knife correctly, the way his heart rushes to pump more blood to prove its worthiness to be spared, the sharp pain that fares when compared to Wooyoung’s sharp intake of air; it is almost like Yunho is on the battlefield again, afraid and with responsibilities larger than his psychial form can carry, and hungry, so, so hungry.
Still, stubborn, he manages to place it on the untouched plate in front of Wooyoung. Action too uncoordinated to be a tender offering, it startles Wooyoung. Still, Yunho’s rotten luck blesses him one last time and he gets to look at the face he thinks he could have never learned how to stand one last time.
Red is the still beating thing in front of him; red is the hand he holds against his mouth to stifle a requiem; red are the shocked and pitying eyes on Yunho; red is his every movement; and red sees the drooping eyes Yunho stubbornly has tried to keep open just for this moment.
There is nothing left for Yunho to doubt his luck, for this is the last thing he sees: Jung Wooyoung; shades and shades of red all interwoven; not happy, not appreciative, not tasting, not accepting; Jung Yunho’s very own famishing.