Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

To look inwards and be met by the abyss is the greatest honor God can bestow upon you.

The best part of living in a dusty, abandoned cathedral is that the walls sing back to Hyunjin. He can hum a hymn and hear it hummed back in return, as if God has given him his own personal choir to perfectly praise Him.

He’s not the best singer, but he sings. Old hymns, songs he heard growing up. The psalms, but in different languages, in Arabic and Spanish and Korean, all of the knowledge he gathered over his childhood come to life in solitude. The arched rooftop of the church resonates with the husk of his voice. Birds take off from the rafters, wings aflutter. He hears his song echo, hears God singing back to him. A reminder of His presence, a reminder that he isn’t alone. Or, well, that is only as alone as he allows himself to be.

Time moves slowly here. Autumn days melt into each other, syrup through sticky fingers. Hyunjin manages to stomach another rodent. The fire he has built for himself out of decaying pews burns low through the nights. The smoke is contained for the most part. No wandering hiker should know that he’s in here. He sleeps in an alcove all the same, back to the wall and mind always alert even in sleep. The slightest hint of noise snaps him awake.

(It is never anything bigger than a mouse, though.)

The blood doesn’t wash off even a week after he finds the place. Or well, not all the way. It crusts underneath his fingernails, burrows deep into his cuticle. The black nail polish on top chips off, but the rusted red remains. He’s tired of the color. If he could live the rest of his life without the smell of iron, it would be the ultimate blessing.

God only gives what one can bear. Hyunjin is reminded of this when he wakes up one morning to more blood than usual. Nothing is amiss, not at first. He hasn’t bothered washing in weeks and there is mud on the hem of his jeans and he can smell his own sweat rising in the air. His hoodie holds on to the stench of sweat, and Hyunjin knows it smells terrible. It’s a horrendous reminder that Hyunjin, despite all odds, is here. Alive enough to sweat through his clothes.

The optimism doesn’t stop Hyunjin from staring in disgust when he squats outside to pee and finds the gory mess in his briefs. He only has three pairs of underwear. When he left, he didn’t think he’d be outside for longer than a few days. Definitely not long enough for his cycle to sneak up on him.

He does his business and pulls his pants back up. The damp spot in his boxers makes him want to gag. He rubs a hand over his face.

The river is an hour’s walk to the west. Sweat beads at the back of his neck as he walks, and his mouth is dry. He swallows around nothing and ignores when his stomach growls, pleading. Even saliva can become a luxury if you starve yourself for long enough. He hasn’t gotten desperate enough to kill another small animal.

Sunlight filters through the foliage. Balmy air surrounds him— he’s unsure why the humidity won’t let up. Isn’t October supposed to be cold? He holds up the front of his hoodie to let air seep in underneath and circulate through. It does the bare minimum in cooling down his overheated body, but he’ll take what he can get. The seam of his jeans is slowly dampening, blood seeping and soaking through denim. He can feel the thin material of his boxers sticking against the skin of his inner thigh. It makes his breath violently stutter when he focuses on it; he’s too aware of himself, of the drag of his legs, of the dull ache nestled deep in the bottom knob of his spine. His teeth are too big in his own mouth.

The river is overflowing. Twigs float on top of tumultuous waters, and even at the bank where Hyunjin chooses to dip his feet, water swirls dangerously. His combat boots lay in the dirt off to the side. He’s trying to avoid getting his jeans wet— they’re a bitch to dry, and he already has to wash the inseam— but the rolled hems still get splashed despite his best efforts. He sighs and leans forward to dip his hands into the cool water and splash his face.

It doesn’t take long for his fingers to prune. He stubbornly stays still, legs dangling from his perch on a rock at the very edge of the water. When he leans over to brush his fingers through the water, pain ripples its way across his abdomen. He grits his teeth, exhales slowly, and douses more water over his face. It does little to distract him.

Hyunjin pulls his hands out of the water and the dappled sunlight illuminates the pink underneath his fingernails for a split second. He looks away immediately and makes to get up.

The moment he shifts over, wet fabric unsticks itself from the rock underneath him. It’s an uncomfortable sensation. Crimson blooms vividly across where he sat. There’s no coming back for these jeans. It’s not like he has many options, though, and so he flicks open the fly and works them down his legs. Pale skin emerges, untouched by the sun for far too long.

The blood is hard to ignore. A lump grows in his throat. The thought comes to his mind unbidden: he wants to be clean. Pure. If the sin is innate, he wishes to understand why it is that God would offer even the possibility of redemption. His body betrays him anyhow.

His clothes come off easy. The humidity has led to sweat stains in the pits of his t-shirt, and they merge with the damp darkness of river water. When he steps out of his boxers, he sucks in a breath and tries not to gag at the massive stain spreading across it. It greedily sucks in water when he submerges it, and he scrubs at it fruitlessly between his hands and sets it aside to dry. There is no soap.

It’s a repetitive task. Scrub, soak, scrub. The deep red in his jeans gradually fades into a rusty orange. It warps into a strange shape. Bathwater would run a funny pink when he would have to wash his stained underwear as a kid, but the river doesn’t discriminate as it washes everything anew. The jeans fade into a permissible color, and Hyunjin wrings it out with a huff. The tendons in his forearms bulge.

Wading into the river is a risk, but there is no other option and so he holds himself steady with one hand on a rock as he descends. The water swirls around his legs, makes every hair follicle on his body stand on end, and he holds his breath and grits his teeth against the icy chill. The skin across his thighs pulls taut when he bends down to submerge his arms into the water as well. Folded over like this, he’s eye-level with his knees. A rivulet of blood runs down the inside of his thigh and merges with a water droplet.

It takes longer than he expects for his body to adjust. Weeks of exposure have still not acclimated him to the varying temperamental climate of autumn. Actually, it somehow has accomplished the reverse and made him crave steadiness more than ever before. It’s the reason for the meagre fire in the church. He can’t stand it anymore, the cold, and it’s worse out here without any solid walls around him to keep out the chill.

And so, when he finally plunges full body into the water, it isn’t because he wants to. It’s entirely unnatural. He forces his head underneath the gurgle, lets the rush of water untangle the mess of his hair for a few seconds before picking himself back up and blinking water out of his eyelashes. His hair hangs too long and brushes against the nape of his neck disconcertingly. Goosebumps rise, sharp and prickly, down his arms.

It's uncomfortable, but he’s new. Clean again.

Washing up is slow. His hair is matted, and it takes several more dunks before his fingers run through it without tugging out whole knots. The ache in his body is exacerbated by the freezing run of water over his skin, but he lets it wash over him. At least the water’s chill is a surefire sign that he isn’t going to remain sticky and gross anymore.

Once he has done his best, he picks himself up and out of the water carefully and drapes himself on a rock. Sunlight is fading, but the last of it casts its warmth upon the rock and soothes the ache in his back with his warmth. He closes his eyes, and the world fades to a pleasant gray behind his eyelids.

When he awakens, there is no light. Night-time has descended upon the woods. The gurgle of water by the rock is louder than it was in the daytime, unfiltered by vision, and Hyunjin swallows drily as he sits up. He’s still nude. At this point, he’s going to have to get back into the water to get clean again before putting his clothes back on.

The benefit of living in the middle of nowhere is that there is absolutely nobody he has to answer to. The vulnerability of his bare skin does not fester in the forefront of his mind as it would elsewhere; he accepts it faster than he expects. Even in this state, the worst of it is the mess he leaves behind wherever he sits.

For once, he doesn’t hunch his shoulders in and loop arms around his chest to hide.

It takes a while to figure out what he’s going to do to avoid creating a mess all over again in his clothes. He can’t viably just put his jeans back on after all this work. And stuffing leaves in his underwear feels like a recipe for disaster. He does not want to deal with a UTI on top of all that he has going on, thank you very much.

There aren’t a lot of other options though. As he glances around, he realizes that being trapped in the woods makes for a beautiful picture but leads to more problems than solutions. Even the leaf pad would require fresh leaves, a commodity that is running low this time of the year. If fresh leaves would give him a UTI, he’s sure that dead leaves would leave him even worse off.

There aren’t a lot of choices then. Right.

The shirt rips easier than he expects. He has always wanted to wear crop tops— the idea of showing so much skin used to be terrifyingly enticing. The past hangs over him like a spectre as he shrugs his shirt back on and considers his midriff for a second. No one is here, and he doesn’t really want to sweat through a shirt again… His hoodie can stay off for now.

He folds the fabric over twice before setting it as a neat rectangle in his boxers. There’s just enough space for it. He shimmies it back up his hips as high as it’ll go and prays that it won’t go sliding down. The jeans ought to hold it up somewhat better. The denim is still a bit damp, but he puts it on anyways, huffing. It’s gross, everything about this is gross, and he’s about to walk all the way back to the church in the darkness with the vague hopes that he doesn’t bleed through his makeshift pad and ruin all of his hard work.

God really does have favorites, and it isn’t Hyunjin this time.

The self-fashioned crop top is a small blessing. He wishes desperately for a mirror to admire his handiwork, he doesn’t want to look like a complete idiot even in the privacy of his own company, but he has to resign himself to his own downward gaze. He’s fairly certain that he has torn his shirt unevenly; it hangs lower on the right than on the left. Oh well.

The trek back takes forever, the darkness making it harder to see where his footsteps land. Constellations have been his friends since he was a little kid and so he lets the stars guide him, and they lead him back north unfailingly. He ignores the snap of twigs, the creak of the branches above him. Refuses to let any of it freak him out. After coming this far, he’s not about to be a pussy in the face of nature. Hyunjin is better than that.

He still sighs in relief when the silhouette of the church comes into view again. It looms at night, illuminated by the moonlight. No passerby could miss it. He goes around the corner to find the side door propped open with a brick, just as he left it. It only lets in a sliver of light so when Hyunjin steps into the cathedral, he has to blink furiously to force his eyes to adjust. Times like this, he berates himself for not bothering with packing thoroughly the night he left. A flashlight would be incredibly useful.

(There is no way that he could have known the night he left, though. Besides, he is lucky to have the little possessions that he does now. It’s easy to up and leave when there isn’t a trace to leave behind. It’s a blessing and a curse all in one to travel so lightly.)

His fire has reduced to ashes, and he doesn’t bother trying to light it again. Instead, he drags over the scratchy threadbare quilt that he has tucked away in an alcove and curls up near the blackened stain of the fire, abandoning his usual alcove. Cicadas screech, loud and unsavory, right outside. It is impossible to free oneself fully from nature when in the woods. Hyunjin knows this, he learned this truth as a small child left to his own devices in the vast expanse of the forest surrounding his childhood home, and so the hum is a welcome companion. It keeps the worst of his loneliness at bay.

Sleep still doesn’t come easily. If he shifts the wrong way, the edge of the quilt slips off his shoulder and allows cold air to rush into his cocoon. No matter how tightly he curls up, he can’t make himself small enough to conserve warmth. His extremities have been permanently cold to the touch for weeks now, and the chill is spreading up his arms and embedding itself into his skin permanently.

He wonders as he falls asleep if loneliness can change body chemistry.

-

There is a stranger in the cathedral.

Hyunjin couldn’t have been sleeping for more than three hours. The past flashed alarmingly through his dreams and so it was a useless endeavor anyways. His mouth tastes like dust from when he turned over in the middle of the night and smushed his face into the floor, but he can’t even taste it right now. Blood rushes loud in his ears as he holds his breath and stares across the nave.

A shadow, long in the morning sunlight, stretches across the floor from the back door that Hyunjin forgot to close last night. It has been unnervingly still for a few minutes. Hyunjin’s heartbeat is jackhammering so loud, he’s worried that the stranger who has joined him can hear it from across the room and has stopped to savor the horrible sound. His fingers are curled too tightly around his pocketknife— he knows that he is going to end up with marks all over his palms, but he can’t find it in himself to give a shit when the only place that he has ever carved out and trusted to hold his shape is no longer privy to him.

He tightens his grip. The plastic’s harsh edges sink unforgivingly into the flesh of his palm as he shrinks into his alcove.

The person is still standing in the doorway. For a second, Hyunjin wonders if they even know that it is possible to walk in here. This place is abandoned for a reason; its decrepit nature keeps out the rain and the bobcats. It doesn’t even seem structurally sound at first sight and Hyunjin likes it that way. It’s why he whispered words of gratitude under his breath when he first found it, soaked through with rainwater and desperate for shelter.

It's not just his though. Not if someone can walk in as they please.

The figure rocks back and forth, the first hint of movement. Their shadow follows, long and lithe, and Hyunjin tracks every minuscule shift with the eyes of a hawk. His breath is loud as it whistles through his nose, and on a particularly audible exhale, he presses a hand against his face to muffle it. There’s no way he’s going to start hyperventilating. Fuck, there’s no way the imposter is even going to hear him breathing from across the nave.

There’s no relief at the thought, though. His possessions might not be out in the open, but there are soot marks on the floor. Footsteps through the dust. The meager space he cleared out when he got here is too obvious to be mistaken for anything but human presence.

The swaying stops. Hyunjin and the stranger are stuck at an impasse once again. Pins and needles bite through Hyunjin’s calves as he stubbornly holds still. He has all the time in the world. If this person wants to stand around through the day, then he’ll wait here, knife at the ready in his aching palm. He isn’t easy prey.

The shadow shifts, the slight shuffle loud in the church, and Hyunjin reflexively takes a strangled breath in through his palm, barely manages to swallow back a cough when air goes down the wrong pipe. The grip on the pocketknife turns too harsh in his panic. When he flexes his fingers, red stains through the seams. The start of a cut from the plastic ridge of the pocketknife. He’s gathering open wounds these days, it seems.

The figure shuffles again, and Hyunjin leans back into the shadows as the stranger finally sticks their head in.

The sun haloes the man. The first part of him that comes in is a mop of blond curls, too unruly. And then his clothes, which make no fucking sense for the weather: a black tank top, endless pale skin on display, and tight black jeans. None of it is practical, and the black snapback on his head has no function when it’s this overcast. He doesn’t fit here. He’s man without desire or desperation.

His eyes are curious as they sweep across the vicinity. Hyunjin’s small life lies naked across these floors, and he feels as though he’s sitting in the nude. Posing unwillingly, a part of this strange ecosystem.

He can’t press back any further. He’s already at the wall, and it’s cold and hard against the jut of his shoulder blades. The alcove faces the open air of the church. There is nowhere else to hide. Hyunjin has three seconds, two— no, one— and then the stranger turns to look his way.

“I knew someone was living here.”

Hyunjin freezes. The stranger boldly walks forward and the air around Hyunjin presses in on him suffocatingly.

Then his reflexes kick in. He straightens up in the blink of an eye, ignoring how his legs scream in protest, mouth hard and knife stuck out in front of him as a promise.

“Hey!” The stranger steps out of the threshold immediately, stumbling as he walks backward. He puts his hands up in surrender. “It’s all good, I come in peace!”

Hyunjin doesn’t bother gracing him with a reply. The stranger makes a fool out of himself as he walks backwards right into brambles. He lands flat on his ass, and when Hyunjin stalks over to claim his place of power towering over him, he looks up. Despite his reassurances and clear awareness of the danger he’s in, his expression is oddly void of fear.

“Listen man,” the guy starts with an awkward laugh, “This is a misunderstanding, I swear. I’m not out to get you or anything.”

Hyunjin vaguely registers in the part of his brain that is still somewhat rational that the man has the strangest accent he has ever heard. He can’t really place where it’s from— it isn’t British, a bit too twangy to sound like a Harry Pottermovie, but it curves around the vowels and bites into the consonants in a similar manner. Whatever it is, it definitely isn’t from around here.

Doesn’t matter anyways. In a few minutes, this guy will be history, and then it won’t really matter what accent he had.

Mind made up, Hyunjin raises shaking hands above his head. His breath is picking up again, but the inside of his mind is nothing more than static. He has killed before and he will kill again if that’s what it means to stay safe. Everyone always underestimates him— it’s the scrawny arms and thin legs and baggy clothes. No one expects how vicious he can be, how an animal lies dormant underneath his skin. He looks at the human below him, lying in horrendous wait, and puts his full weight behind the plunge downwards—

Only to be met with dirt.

The man rolls at the last second, leaving Hyunjin to stumble face first into the soil. It’s still damp from the slight fog of the morning, grass sticky with dew, and the refreshing taste is at odds with the deathly pound of his heart. It’s all he can hear in his ears. He picks himself up on his hands, drops the pocketknife. The faint taste of copper rises in his mouth as he gasps.

Fuck. He missed.

“Oh shit.” There is a hand on his back. Hyunjin only vaguely registers it, too preoccupied with trying to get air into his lungs. He really doesn’t want to start hyperventilating. This is the worst time for that. “Hey man, you’re okay. You’re safe, I promise.”

To Hyunjin’s own horror, he leans into the touch. Some part of him is screaming at him to run, to save his own sorry ass, but he’s too tired to listen. His vision blurs. The pocketknife is lost in the glare. Hyunjin has always had a habit of looking gift horses in the mouth, but he doesn’t this time as he slides his knees forward to sit up. His own blood drips down to water the greenery underneath him, staining it. He swipes at it clumsily and his lip stings.

Wound number three.

“There you are.” The man pats clumsily at his back. Hyunjin holds back a hysterical laugh at the thought of how similar it is to burping a baby. “You’re okay, see? Crap, that’s a lot of blood though.”

A finger swipes at his chin. Hyunjin bats at it instantly without even thinking. The slap of flesh on flesh is loud, and he prides himself on this small feat. Some sort of self-preservation remains intact underneath this embarrassing debacle.

If the man is offended, he doesn’t show it. He instead retreats, hand leaving its spot on Hyunjin’s back. The heat of his hand dissipates instantly and the cool air presses through the layers of Hyunjin’s clothes and chills him to the bone. He shivers, swallows hard.

“I have a first-aid kit in my truck.” Before Hyunjin can figure out how to bring his voice out of his diaphragm, the man continues on: “I also have some food, and water. Let me get it, it’ll take me only a few minutes, and you don’t have to move or anything, I’ll just bring it to you. Really, it would be no skin off my back.”

There is a pause, an expectation for an answer.

Hyunjin knows what this man sees. He hasn’t looked into a mirror in a long time, but he isn’t stupid. He can count his own ribs when he looks down. God knows what his face looks like. His hands are always shaking, and even now, they tremor in his lap. He breathes in once, twice, shaky on the intake but steady on the exhale, and pulls himself together enough to mumble: “Who are you?”

“Oh! I’m Chan.” The man extends a hand outwards. Hyunjin glances at it and pointedly doesn’t take it. Chan gives it a second then retreats, continuing, “I live nearby, half hour out. Just came to the woods to get some firewood. Winter is coming, so we have to stock up, you know?”

Hyunjin blinks down at his lap and licks his lips. “Chan.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” The man’s reassurances are endless, as if Hyunjin will run if he phrases something wrong. Hyunjin has half a mind to tell him to cut the bullshit. He doesn’t have time for petty politeness and forced geniality. It’s disgusting and it’s all that anyone has ever had for him: small talk and pointless comfort. He doesn’t want that anymore. And yet…

Inhale, two three four. Hold, two three four. Exhale two three four. Hold two three four. Inhale…

It’s an impossible feat, but he finally manages to get his breath to stop stuttering.

Chan is still prattling on about the different types of trees in the forest and their utility towards creating a good fire when Hyunjin finally pays attention to him. The guy seems quite content hearing himself talk and Hyunjin isn’t sure how to feel about it; Chan doesn’t seem to do it out of any particular sense of arrogance but rather an uncanny awareness that Hyunjin is not capable of holding conversation. It shows in the cadence of his voice, gentle as if he’s talking to a frightened animal.

Honestly, it’s slightly condescending, but Hyunjin lets him have it for now. It’s on him for not having the balls to pull it together when he missed with his knife. He should have gotten back on his feet immediately and caught Chan off-guard. Next time, he’ll do it right. His fingers have gone too numb to do anything now.

“So yeah, that’s why I’m out here. I have to leave soon though, it’s 10 already! Who would have thought, huh?” The guy laughs to himself as if he has said something amusing. Hyunjin personally can’t see the joke. “You coming?”

Hyunjin’s brow furrows as he stares at him. Why the fuck would he go with a stranger back to his fucking car? He fingers the rosary around his neck anxiously and digs the long end of the cross into the flesh of his raw palm in place of his pocketknife.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly. When he isn’t singing, he doesn’t really know how to make noise anymore. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Chan shuffles, gets ready to lift himself to his feet. It gives away more about him than he realizes; for example, there is absolutely no way he has ever gone hunting if he makes this much noise. He continues on, “I really mean it, you know. You can just get the first aid kit then go back on your own. I don’t know these woods that well, so I wouldn’t be able to follow you and find you again or anything.”

You found me once though, Hyunjin thinks to himself hysterically. He jerkily shakes his head no, avoiding eye contact. “I’m alright. I know how to take care of myself.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

Hyunjin snorts despite himself. “I’ve been out here for a while dude. Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

“Right.” Chan clears his throat. “I’ll just, uh, get going then.”

When Chan rises, his body heat seems to travel with him. He doesn’t bother with any goodbyes, just turns on his heel and walks off. Hyunjin doesn’t bother to watch him go. The crunch of his boots gets further and further away, and the knot in Hyunjin’s chest unravels like a spool of yarn. There is a thread that follows Chan out of the woods in a desperate wish for an escape. Hyunjin stays put.

When all that surrounds him is still once again, Hyunjin finally lifts his head. Red and orange leaves drift through the wind. The clouds have hidden the sun once again and in the dim light, and the leaves have lost some of their glamor. Footprints are the only evidence that Chan ever was here.

Hyunjin sniffs. There’s gravel embedded in his dirty jeans. He brushes it off as he gets to his feet. That’s enough embarrassment for the day. There’s a reason he never goes seeking company. Keeping to himself is the only solution that works— Chan is not about to change that.

Mind back in the present, he’s acutely aware of his lower stomach cramping horribly as he stands up straight. He drags himself back into his alcove with a hand pressed against his abdomen. It twists uncomfortably. The blood on his chin is drying, the cut on his lip superficial enough to sew itself back together, and he isn’t sure what ache to focus on anymore. There are too many.

The alcove no longer holds his body heat. A cold blanket of stone surrounds him, and he wraps his quilt around himself and curls into a ball so that he can stare warily at the doorway.

Everything is off-kilter. He had plans for today and now it all seems moot. The floors of the cathedral are scrawled with haphazard drawings, scratched with his knife into stone, and he was thinking of adding to it last night. Sure, it’s inadvisable to leave behind any mark of his presence here, but he can’t stand having nothing to do. He has sung his way through every Psalm he knows, in unlearned Aramaic and broken Korean and perfectly pronounced Latin, but there’s only so long he can go through hymns before his voice gives out on him. He isn’t used to speaking anymore, and the endless songs have turned his vocal box thorny.

(It’s still worth it. It always will be.)

None of it matters now anyways. He isn’t about to get up and get lost in his art, not when there is imminent danger. Sure, Chan seemed harmless earlier; he’s a bit naïve, a bit stupid, but not out to get him in any obvious manner. That doesn’t mean much though. All it takes is one wrong person knowing, and Hyunjin will be sent back without another thought. It’s how the system works. He knows it well.

And so Hyunjin spends the rest of the day in the same position. He lets his thighs cramp, accepts the blood that has seeped through his pants again. He’s good at tuning out things like that. All that matters is if he’s safe. And right now, Chan knowing where he is complicates that.

He curls his fingers around his pocketknife.

-

There is no hint of Chan for five days. By the fourth day, the stiffness in Hyunjin’s neck finally relaxes. It isn’t quite a state of calm as much as a quiet acceptance that he has to pick himself up and keep going with life, so he lets himself go again. Lets himself lounge out on the dirty floor of the cathedral by himself and stare up at the ceilings. He already did a run to the river the day before and he has finally stopped bleeding. The world has been gentler today.

The cool autumn air doesn’t stop the scent of his sweat from rising in the air. There is a grit to river water and it sticks to skin and clothes. Every single time he tries to wash it off, he ends up adding on new layers of stink, and it all combines with his own sweat to create a smell that is positive putrid. He has accepted it to some extent— he can’t even fully tell how bad the stench is, after all, but still. Still. He’s gross and he knows it. The stain in his jeans isn’t going to come out anyways, and so he lets his hair pick up the dirt off the floors of the cathedral.

A crow takes off from the rafters. There must be a nest somewhere up there because the birds never bother coming all the way down to the floors. They stick to what they know, little families sharing feathers and twigs to create a home. He’s their guest, singing up at them with a voice that is growing weaker around the edges as time goes on. Yesterday, he found himself unable to go further than a line without his voice cracking out of key.

The birds never are angry at him though, no matter how awfully he sings. And so he sings for their sake. Even when the notes are all wrong— he slowly sings louder and louder, lets his voice carry in the air, tangle with the dust motes. And the birds stay, a constant audience to it all.

(But then again, they aren’t capable of differentiating the good from the bad. That’s the glory of being an animal. Hyunjin doesn’t get to enjoy such privileges and so he must tolerate his own mistakes.)

Autumn continues. The gray cover in the sky gives no way to sunlight. Rain pitters outside most of the day, loud and steady, and Hyunjin focuses on keeping sensation alive in his extremities. It wouldn’t do to get this far and then die because of bad blood circulation.

Squirrels are getting sparser though and hunger gnaws its way through his stomach. He has learned how to be quieter and quicker on his feet to not scare away the prey in the woods, but even then, his hesitation at taking a life makes it far more difficult than it needs to be. Hunting put him off his entire childhood— he turned his nose up at his father whenever he went out into the woods with his rifle and he can’t seem to shake that attitude even in his present desperation.

When he wanders out into the drizzle today, he focuses on keeping his footsteps quiet. His pocketknife has grown rather dull despite his best attempts at sharpening it into a lethal point. He tested it earlier, poked at its tip to see if it actually will do any damage. It’s a vague reminder, about what he has to do and the life he must take. A punishment, he supposes. A bit of pain in exchange for a life. He holds it at the ready as he crouches low behind a tree, breathing soft and shallow.

The rabbit writhes when he stabs it cleanly. He has somehow managed to make his aim rather good, but the first throw of his knife didn’t do enough damage to take its life. In another world, perhaps he could have been some sort of Olympic athlete. Started a new category in pocketknife throws.

The rabbit’s eyes are dull with death. The changing foliage reflects in its wide pupils. Hyunjin tries his best to avoid its unseeing gaze as he packs it away carefully in his knapsack. He piles twigs on the creature, then tops it off with a few feathers that he finds lying around, black and sleek and beautiful.

Hyunjin lets himself have this. A vision for what he can do with it already starts to fill the recesses of his mind as he makes his way back.

The rabbit doesn’t really fill his stomach. At least, not in the way that real food on a dining table surrounded by others would. He chews mechanically, swallows and tries not to think about it too hard, but he can’t help himself— the animal’s unseeing eyes seemed to glare at him in betrayal from its place above the fire, and the food now turns in his stomach. He’s too hungry to go without a meal, but he promises himself: no more rabbits. The guilt always has the first bite and he has never been a fan of leftovers.

It’s long after his meal, when he’s stepping back out of the confines of the cathedral to take a piss, that he stumbles upon the box.

That is to say, he strides outside without looking and goes tumbling headfirst before he catches himself.

It’s cardboard, taped together, laid there recently enough to avoid getting soaked through by the on and off drizzle. There’s no sign of anyone nearby. Hyunjin gently nudges at it with one foot, and nothing pops out. It’s perfectly still.

Not one to be fooled, he suspiciously does a lap of the cathedral. There are no footprints to be found. Whoever came by, they were smart enough to get rid of any evidence. When he returns, all is still, and the box sits innocently where he left it.

He drags it inside.

The tape is easy enough to peel off. He lifts the lid gingerly after, ready to run if necessary, but all the caution is for naught. There are no snakes or pop-ups. It’s perfectly mundane: four bags of chips, a pack of tiny water bottles, a loaf of pre-sliced bread wrapped in plastic, and small bottle of something called “Vegemite.” Hyunjin eyes that one with some suspicion and sets it aside.

He isn’t all that sure what he’s supposed to make of all of this. Is it meant to be some sort of intimidation tactic? The man who wandered into his home appears uninvited in his imagination. Is this some sort of message? A warning of his return?

The plastic pack of chips crinkles between his fingers as he rips it open. It’s too salty, but he swallows it down anyways, tries to enjoy the crunch of artificial barbecue flavoring. The sound of it is loud and foreign underneath the wide arch of the building.

It’s only half-finished when Hyunjin sets it aside. He licks chip dust off the tips of his fingers and breathes out through his nose. Indulgences can’t amount to anything good and his water rations will run out quickly if he makes himself thirsty from eating chips. He makes a small pile to organize the presents he has been given, pursing his lips as he stares at it. His rosary rolls between his fingers as he fidgets with it. He needs to find a new hideout.

The problem is these woods have nothing else in them. Hyunjin had looked when he first got here. The church is a perfect place, obviously, but it’s good because of its isolation. There is nothing in the likes of a settlement around for miles— the highway is a bit of a hike off, but there are no clear trails leading the way back here. Hyunjin scouted it out on foot for hours on end. These newcomers therefore can’t be people from this area. At least, not from these woods. It still leaves the question of where they are hiding though, and when they are going to make their next move.

The thought of having unwelcome company niggles at the back of his mind as he goes about his routine. Or, well, it isn’t quite set in stone as a routine yet, but he tries his best to eat at the same time every single day, to get himself to sleep at a reasonable hour. He spends the free hours of the day carefully placing the feathers on each other until they form small stacks around the altar, creatures to protect the divine.

Time ticks by on his watch. It’s annoying in a way that is hard to put words to. He needs the watch to keep some semblance of reality with him and to avoid floating away into nothing. But when it is horrendously quiet, the clock’s tick-tick is loud and incessant. He could take it off. But a world where there is no routine, nothing tethering him to time, is inadvisable. He can’t do that to himself. He’s barely hanging on as it is.

The last errand of the day is figuring out how to hide his new stock of food away from any curious animals. He has never had to really worry over this. All of his food, ever since he got here, has been a product of his own wanderings of the day. And he is always hungry enough to devour his way through anything he catches mindlessly. It works now in the milder conditions of autumn but Hyunjin is well aware that winter will not be as kind to his aversion for planning and preserving.

He sits criss-cross by the pile he made earlier. The floors are dusty again, the wind blowing in the dead leaves from outside. It’s cold. His hoodie keeps it out well enough but he can feel the chill of it against his skin.

Hyunjin tosses a bag of unopened chips in the air and watches it arc back into his hands. There are people who know he exists here. The thought sends him into a fit of hysterical giggles. What a joke his life has become. He pictures himself from above and is acutely aware of how pathetic he must seem.

The pack of chips falls to the floor. He makes no move to pick it up. Someone wants to feed him. A stranger. How… strange. Forgive the pun.

He abandons his pile and wanders to the nook where he has his knapsack tucked away. The twigs he left inside are sharp, thorny against his palms when he drags them out. They’re all different sizes. Hyunjin sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he drops to his knees to sort them into groups. The bigger ones are the most important for his goal, the smaller ones essential to the later part of this project. He bends each one between his hands to test their give, to see if they’re brittle or malleable. They have to be strong for this.

The knot beneath his sternum loosens as he works. Taking a picture out of his brain and turning it into something real is something he knows. He can’t always indulge in it, but when he does, it’s a balm to the bruised, tired ache beneath his ribcage. Nothing has been ignited within him for a long while. A part of him knows that the spark that used to be there is gone. He has prayed desperately for it to return, but what has been extinguished can never be renewed to its previous form.

That doesn’t mean that Hyunjin can’t try to fix himself. How blasphemous of him, to look in the face of a God who does not have a solution and offer one of his own when he is nothing more than a mere mortal. Thinking on it too long makes him sick to his stomach. His mother’s voice echoes through his mind but he pays her no attention.

The frame is held together with bits of kudzu that he manages to wrap into knots. His creation stretches across the floor, taller than him, and he starts filling in the negative space with the smaller twigs, snapping the brittle ones in half to fit. The kudzu is not going to be enough when he picks up the contraption and tries to fit it onto himself. But that’s a problem for his later self.

Hyunjin picks at his abandoned bag of half-eaten chips at nightfall. From a distance, the contraption he has created takes shape. He crunches on a chip and savors the way it sticks in the dip of his molars, hums as the shadows get longer and longer until everything is shrouded in darkness, obscuring his dream.

-

There’s a storm brewing outside.

Hyunjin doesn’t really want to admit it. But the vague hope that it’s just overcast skies building into grandiosity is rapidly dissipating as he stands outside in the grass. Those are definitely shelf clouds, dark and terrifying. Fleeting lightning glows within them. The wind blows Hyunjin’s hair into his mouth.

As they slowly creep in, he fills his arms with apples from one of the last trees willing to yield any fruit. He saves three of them for later, stuffs them in his knapsack underneath the leftover twigs, and then settles in with a new fire on the floors. Juice from the fruit drips down the side of his mouth and leaves his fingers sticky. It’s a messy affair, and when he tries to wipe them on his ruined pants, they leave behind stains.

The rain starts slow. It taps against the stained-glass windows like a polite guest and leaves behind trails of water to drip down the eternally sorrowful face of the Virgin Mary. Hyunjin watches as she cries continuous tears, mournfully staring up at the heavens. He hums a single note before getting to his feet.

The staccato of the rain provides a beat, and he closes his eyes and sways from one side to another, taking it in. Then he turns and spins dizzyingly fast. His hummed note stutters with the force of it.

His écarté is crooked at best when he comes to a stop but he pays it no mind. He dances in circles around the nave, does turns from one end of the transept to the other, dodging around his fire. The missing pews bothered Hyunjin when he got here but now, he understands. His humming is loud even with the rain, and his rosary swings in a wide arc around him as he spins faster and faster. His shoes aren’t meant for this but he still avoids wobbling as he arches his back gracefully at the end of a turn, arms held akimbo.

The rain brings in critters. He spots a few too many squirrels, a rodent of some sort at one point. He can’t bring himself to be afraid as they run past him so he lets laughter bubbles up and out of him instead. He’s the one who has invaded their space rather than the other way around— who is he to kick them out? The forest is frightening at night and the rain makes it worse. Hyunjin knows what it is like to be alone and afraid. He doesn’t wish it on any creature.

He isn’t sure how long he’s on his feet. Time disappears entirely. When he finally gives up and crumples to the floor, panting, his calves ache. He revels in the satisfying pain.

Light from the stained windows dances through the space and leaves shadows moving just beyond his line of vision. His mother stands, unmoving, out the corner of his eye. As he catches his breath, he can see the outline of her head crook to one side. She observes and he performs. He doesn’t dare turn his head to meet her gaze.

If Hyunjin could, he would reach inside his skull and lobotomize himself into reason. He doesn’t think there is any feasible way to actually do so, but he pats the back of his head thoughtfully regardless for a second before letting his hand drop to his side with a sigh.

Hyunjin’s mother applauds. Thunder claps every time her hands come together.

He closes his eyes and lets her do as she pleases. She can’t hurt him. Not anymore.

-

Felix would like to make it very clear that this was never his idea.

Chan is a convincing man, even on his worst days. He’s charismatic, easygoing, kind to everyone around him; always equipped with a blinding grin, he’s near impossible to deny anything. It makes him dangerous, Felix supposes, but he never really found it all that scary. Just a bit… frustrating. He has enough of a backbone to know when to deny Chan, but he hates having to do it. It leaves the two of them at somewhat of an impasse.

Clearly, the aforementioned backbone is nowhere to be seen right now as he sits in the passenger seat of the Jeep with his knees tucked up to his chest. He was listening to music the entire ride over, but he finally has taken his headphones off to tune in on Chan and Changbin’s debate on directions.

“It’s around here somewhere,” Changbin mumbles to himself as he maneuvers the car through underbrush. Chan’s face peeks between the two front seats above the console. His brow is furrowed in concentration, but it smooths out when Felix meets his eye.

“Another five minutes,” Chan tells Changbin. He’s still facing Felix though, as if the directions are meant for him. He grins, reaches out to fluff Felix’s hair. “There’s this massive gnarly tree, really fucked up. You can’t miss it.”

Changbin snorts. “I ain’t a plant guy, but sure. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Trust me,” Chan tells him. “Even you’ll be able to tell.”

“Or he’ll tell you,” Felix interjects. He returns Chan’s grin with a sunny one of his own as he continues: “Channie is precocious like that.”

“Hey,” Chan chides. “I’m older than you.”

“Right, right. Want me to start calling you hyung?” When Chan shoves at his shoulder, and Felix smacks his hand away. He’s graced with a pout as Chan rubs at the offended spot, and he laughs. “I didn’t even hit you that hard.”

“Your small hands carry rage,” Chan tells him wisely.

“Kids, kids,” Changbin says. “Stop fighting.”

Felix pokes his bicep. “There. You’re part of the fight too now.”

Changbin flexes. The shirt tightens around the curve of his muscle. Felix curls his hand around it, and his fingers don’t touch. It’s obscene, really, and Felix chuckles under his breath as he brings his other hand to Changbin’s bicep as well and squeezes. The muscle pulls taut in the spaces between his fingers.

“Having fun?” Changbin asks.

“How do you even get it this big?” Felix marvels.

“That’s what she said.”

Now it’s Changbin who receives a smack from Felix. He takes it good-naturedly, only whining slightly about how he’s “still sore from yesterday” (which only leads to the same joke being made once again, this time by Chan).

“Hold on.” Changbin squints ahead. The car slows down from its rampaging speed through the foliage. “I think I found your tree, Chan.”

Felix refocuses on the view out the windshield, and his eyes widen.

Massive is an understatement. The trunk spans wide enough to block their path entirely. It’s old, and the bark moves in curved lines up the trunk. When Felix leans forward to look up, the branches disappear far into the sky. Yellow and orange leaves rain down on them and cast in a golden light.

“Wow,” Felix breathes. “We never get trees like these out here.”

“And you would know because you’ve done a bunch of exploring in the woods, wouldn’t you?”

The retort is weak. There is no point in trying to beat around the bush. These woods are wild; the townsfolk let them know as much when they moved into their house, and the underlying warning to not enter hangs heavy over them even now as Changbin puts the car in park. Felix shoves his feet in his rainboots, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and stretches the second his feet touch solid ground. The air smells green.

The mission today is simple. Befriend a new guy. Felix prepared in advance: he has a batch of brownies tucked away in his backpack. He has never met someone who has turned them down, and he’s not about to ruin his track record.

Chan’s back is broad as he carves a path through the thicket, Changbin and Felix trailing behind him like ducklings. The last time Chan went, Felix contributed to the care package he took with him in lieu of coming— classes were just starting and he was trying to not fall behind before he even got into the groove of things.

It’s all good now. He has mastered the juggling act of class, work, and down time. When he made brownies today, it was of his own volition and not as a reaction to stress. This batch almost tasted better as a result. He had one earlier before leaving, but the urge to open up his bag and try another one is strong.

He’s debating the pros and cons of eating a brownie while walking through the thicket when Chan interrupts his musings.

“Steady.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s right up ahead.”

There is nothing for a few more steps. Dead leaves and the sharp edges of fallen branches litter the way. The transitory period of this season turns the woods into an overwhelming array of orange and yellow, and Felix can’t imagine anyone trying to live here. Where would they even stay?

Felix ducks under a low-hanging branch and gapes as his question is answered.

A decrepit church rises tall. It’s in the middle of a clearing, the grass yellowed and dying around it. There are no trees here; the forest parts like the Red Sea for it, and the wood of the cathedral is falling apart as if it too is dying where it stands. A thick fog lies low in the air.

“Dude,” he says. There is a crow sitting in front of the doors. It looks at him with an eerie sentience. “You think the Silent Hill devs know about this place?”

No one answers him. Everyone’s a hater of his jokes, apparently. To be fair, Felix isn’t sure whether he wants to speak either. He glances at the bird again, but it has turned away from him. It hops around for a moment before lifting into the sky, gliding on weightless wings against a backdrop of gray to disappear behind the cathedral.

Chan plows on ahead. Felix fiddles with the end of his t-shirt and follows hesitantly. The hairs on the back of his neck have started to stan on end. The urge to turn around and run buzzes under his skin dangerously.

(To be completely fair though, he’s a bit of a scaredy-cat. He isn’t afraid to admit that. It’s why he never bothers coming out of his room when Seungmin puts on his slasher flicks in the living room— he’s good, thanks. He likes sleeping through the night.)

Music is still audible through the headphones around his neck, the synths tinny. He holds onto it like a tether to the outside world as he follows Chan reluctantly through the clearing. Grass crunches under his boots and the fog presses around them as they approach where the crow perched earlier.

The door on the church doesn’t fit into its frame. It must have been massive and imposing once upon a time, engraved without doubt. He isn’t entirely sure whether it makes him feel better that the wood has deteriorated into a mere shadow of its former glory. It makes it easier for them to step over the threshold, sure, but it leaves a bad taste in Felix’s mouth. Again, horror movie fodder.

He doesn’t bother voicing any of his foreboding aloud. Even if no one wants to admit it, this is foreign territory for all of them. There is a reason city folks and rural citizens don’t get along; Felix, despite all his optimism, knows blatantly that their presence isn’t welcome in these parts. Going to the grocery store last week and interacting with the townsfolk was harrowing enough. Whispers and stares followed them everywhere and Felix nearly crushed Jisung’s hand in his own in the dairy aisle, acutely aware of the eyes on his back.

However, he isn’t sure what sort of hillbilly would be camped out here of all places. If the townsfolk are cruel to the seven of them, he can’t imagine what the people must be saying about a stranger in the forest who doesn’t interact with anyone. It’s why he made the brownies the last go-around— the thought of someone starving alone in the forest with no one there for them was more than he could stand.

Still, Chan is too soft-hearted for his own good when it comes to taking folks under his wing. Even if he wants to help, Felix doesn’t take risks and wander into abandoned places to see who lives there. There are ways to be helpful without sticking himself in the heat of it.

The trio stand, frozen, at the threshold. A massive spiderweb stretches across the top of the doorway leading into the cathedral. The spider is missing, but Felix has no doubt that it hasn’t wandered all that far. Hell, it probably has a horrific little spider family as well, eggs and all that jazz. He shudders.

“All good?” Changbin asks. His breath is warm against the shell of Felix’s ear.

Felix rolls his shoulders back. “Don’t like spiders.”

“Mm.” Changbin curls an arm around his waist. “You wanna wait outside?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. Almost biting. Felix leans into Changbin’s touch, tries to absorb his body heat for a moment before pulling away. Instead, he tangles his fingers with Changbin’s. “Come on.”

The day hasn’t fallen into night yet, but the clouds outside cast a shadow upon the grounds. The inside of the church is illuminated by wisps of sunlight streaming through small windows of stained glass. Dust swirls in the slivers of light shining through the darkness. There are no pews. Felix tries not to squish Changbin’s hand into dust, but it’s a close call. Luckily, his boyfriend is strong enough to withstand Felix’s grip strength.

“Yeah, this is definitely Silent Hill material,” Felix mutters under his breath.

“It’s spooky, sure, but Jeongin would never lead us somewhere actually dangerous,” Chan says confidently over his shoulder.

The wind whistles high-pitched through the cracked windows. Changbin suddenly starts to return Felix’s grip. Felix winces but says nothing. They both need the comfort.

Chan walks around. He passes by a pile of twigs, burnt to crisp, and toes his way carefully around haphazard feathers laying around. The line of his back is straight, rigid. He looks around as he walks, eyes sharp, but it’s to no avail. When he reaches the altar, he pauses. Sighs.

“He isn’t here,” he announces. He points at a corner. “But his stuff is.”

In the recesses of the nave, there is a small pile. It’s discreet enough for Felix to sweep his eyes entirely over it at first glance. Nothing of importance seems to be there: a knapsack, a threadbare dirty quilt, all stacked atop each other in a messy pile. The basket that Felix sent with Chan a while ago, half empty. None of it is particularly personal— or well, at least not personal enough to give away any sort of identification.

Felix steps towards it and something cracks under his feet. He lifts his sneaker up to see blackened soot stuck to the underside. Leftovers of a fire. It’s dead, but Felix feels oddly warm regardless in the knowledge that this stranger has light, warmth, to keep them safe from the chill. The stone floors hide the fire’s remnants well.

“Maybe he knew,” Changbin says. “Any idea where he could’ve run off to?”

“I don’t think he’s gone. Not, like, permanently.” Chan kneels down beside the belongings left behind. “There’s all this stuff here.”

“Nothing that can’t be left behind in a pinch,” Changbin points out. Felix privately disagrees. He doesn’t know this guy, but if he was stuck in the middle of the woods, he would have brought along only that which he could carry around with him. Nothing heavy, nothing extravagant. He isn’t an overtly sentimental person, but he likes to think that he would have a picture frame of their self-made family. His favorite hoodie. The small things bring the most comfort in the hour of need.

Changbin lets go of his hand to squat down next to Chan. They devolve into a conversation on what to do now, while Felix is left to wander. He lifts the headphones up and sets it down snug against his ears. The cheerful music resumes and suddenly, Felix isn’t as scared anymore. It turns the space into a mystical world for him to explore to a video game soundtrack.

The church is nothing like the ones Felix went to as a kid. He hasn’t properly been in church in a few years now, but his Bible is still on top of his bedside table; part of an evening routine that he never bothered breaking. He doesn’t ever want to go back to his old church, held in a plain building with a preacher whose brow was constantly furrowed. The fluorescents had always made everyone look gaunt.

But standing here, in this cathedral, he understands for once. The air is still, somber, and even with Chan and Changbin with him, he still feels alone. It isn’t in a bad way. It simply is. He never has been able to fully appreciate solitude for what it is but here, the urge to be around people and to have constant company leaves him. He’s left with an impossible satisfaction in himself.

He steps up onto the chancel. A cross remains at the altar. Jesus’s face is downcast, tears trailing down in rivulets of silver. He towers over Felix’s vantage point, and his sorrowful face peers into Felix’s own as if Felix has the answers. The song in his headphones changes to some pop hit from the radio’s Top 100 station, and Felix tears his eyes away from Jesus’s to glance around the decrepit nave.

Movement catches his eye.

In a corner of the empty nave, past all of the dust, is a crumple of clothes. It’s nondescript enough for anyone to glance past without lingering too long, but Felix squints at it. With his back to the cross, he feels strange, as though he’s meant to be the center of attention for a congregation. The sensation continues even as he steps off the podium to stand at a respectable distance from the crumple. Close enough to see better, far enough to not be noticed.

The fabric shifts. It’s imperceptible unless you’re staring right at it, but there’s no mistaking it: the flutter of life.

Felix should be scared. He’s the one who pointed out how strange this place was in the first place. But he can’t help it, he’s too curious. His anxiety has one antidote, and it’s in the knowing. Even if there is something here with them, he’d feel better knowing what exactly it is rather than avoiding it entirely.

And so, he stands and waits. Changbin and Chan’s conversation fade away into a dull hum as he hones in on the pile of fabric and waits for it to move again. It could be the wind, after all. Autumn is not kind in this part of the country and cold snaps in too quick with the arrival of the northern winds. But Felix can’t help it, he just knows that that isn’t the case, and he also knows that if he approaches too quickly, it’ll end badly. Deer do not enjoy company.

There are footsteps. Chan and Changbin step away, into the eaves, and Felix makes sure they are caught in their own conversation before dropping down to sit on the floor. There is dirt everywhere. Clear evidence of a footstep is left behind, the brown outline invisible unless someone pays attention to the stone floors. Felix exhales and reaches out to trace the edge of it with a finger. It’s wet still.

“Hey,” he whispers. His voice sounds shaky, and he clears his throat quietly. “I know you’re there.”

Nothing happens. No one replies. No one moves under Felix’s gaze. For all intents and purposes, this odd crumple is just the remnants of a long-lost squatter. But Felix isn’t an idiot. He knows what he saw, and he isn’t in the habit of lying to himself. There is someone here. They might be good at hiding, but they can’t stay still forever.

“I brought food,” Felix murmurs. “Brownies. I don’t know if you like sweet treats, but you can try it and see how you feel.”

There’s a pregnant pause afterwards. The pile stays unnervingly still. Felix is about to back away as one would from a spooked horse, when there’s a sound. He leans forward, attention zeroing in.

“You need to leave.” The voice is low, raspy. Muffled through fabric. “I told your friend not to come back.”

Jackpot.

Felix hides his growing grin behind a hand. “Is that a no to the brownies?”

There’s a pause. Then, “I don’t even like brownies.”

“I think you’ll like mine.” Felix tries his best not to sound too self-absorbed and fails miserably at it. “I haven’t met a single person who hasn’t.”

The fabric moves slightly, so careful that if Felix wasn’t sitting right there, he wouldn’t have noticed. It lifts. Through the gap that’s been created, a sliver of pale skin sneaks into the dull gloomy light. Whoever this is, they are somehow paler than Chan. It’s frankly shocking. The tempting slight clue of life is nothing to go off of but Felix holds his breath and waits. Fights off the burgeoning disappointment. It pays off when the stranger finally gives in.

An arm creeps out first. Fingers long and delicate, deliberate in their movements and slow as if Felix is the one who is about to be scared off. There’s a mole on the back of the hand, the only bit visible. A thick hoodie encrusted in mud covers the rest. And then suddenly there’s hair— a head full of it ducking under the blanket to peer up at Felix. Their eyes, wide and afraid. Another mole left its mark right underneath one of them, and Felix stares at it for a second too long before finally making eye contact.

“Hi.” He speaks softly. “I’m Felix.”

The boy doesn’t say anything. Felix pats around for his bag, slow in his movements to not spook his companion, and pulls out his box of brownies. The eyes on him drill holes through his skull as he pops open the lid and pulls out the best of the batch, right off the top. When he reaches out to give it, his hand doesn’t shake. It’s a little thing, but he’s proud of himself for it.

Felix expects him to take his time on deciding whether he will eat food offered by a stranger. But to his surprise, there is nearly no hesitation when the boy plucks the brownie with long fingers and raises it to his mouth. He’s messy, crumbs all around his lips and fingers already stained with chocolate, but it’s almost as if Felix doesn’t even exist as he eats. For a blissful second, Felix is left to purely be an onlooker.

The stranger is slight, to say the least. There is barely any flesh on his bones. The clothes he wears drowns him, and he seems young. Younger than Jeongin, Felix decides. There is a delicate sensibility to his face; he doesn’t look like someone who has ever seen hardship. And yet, Felix can see the evidence— a streak of dirt mars the clear skin on his cheek. The ground underneath him is filthy with caked mud from outside. When he chews, he doesn’t take as long as he probably should, and every time he swallows, the sound is loud and obvious.

A pang runs through Felix’s chest. Choking hazard aside, the speed at which the stranger eats is telling. Hunger isn’t anyone’s friend. Felix is lucky, he hasn’t ever had to deal with a lack of food. Even when he was miserable years ago before he met Chan, it was never about the basics. It was moreso that the world moved at a breakneck speed and Felix was trying too hard to keep up. Ambition too big for his body, he used to say.

The boy reaches out for another brownie, hesitant at first and then bold once Felix nods.

“Good?” Felix asks.

“Mhm.” The nod is jerky. He uses the back of his hand to wipe at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for another one. “Where did you get these?”

“Oh, I made them.”

“Huh?” The boy takes a bite and cheeks it. “Like, on your own?”

“Yeah. I only have these brownies today, but..” Felix shrugs. “I love baking. I have other stuff I make too, maybe you can pick something you like and I’ll bring it next time?”

The boy nods. The tattered sleeve of the his black hoodie is already grimy, and it only gets worse when he wipes away crumbs on the edge of it. Felix isn’t in the position to judge though. It’s gross, sure, but he schools his face into something neutral. He fishes around for a question as his new companion finishes his brownie. His pace has slowed down considerably.

“So,” Felix starts. “What’s your name?”

“Sam,” he answers. “And you’re Felix.”

“That I am.”

“Funny name, that one.” Sam brushes crumbs off his threadbare jeans. “It means happy in Latin.”

“Yeah. I think it was the right pick for me, not gonna lie.” Felix grins. “You know Latin?”

“A bit,” Sam says. “Basic stuff. Nothing special.”

“I don’t know a lick of Latin other than my name,” Felix admits. He laughs, embarrassed. “And I grew up Catholic, so, I really should know at least a word or two.”

“You’re Catholic?”

“Was Catholic, but yeah. I don’t really do all that anymore,” Felix says lightly. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Sam asks sharply.

“Are you religious?”

There’s no hesitation in the answer. “Of course. Obviously.”

“Obviously?” Felix valiantly tries to resist laughing and fails. Sam’s expression hardens at the unexpected reaction, but Felix can’t help it. “In this day and age, it’s not all that obvious. Come on.”

“Well, I don’t know how you grew up, but I was raised to believe.” The boy— Sam has a haughty voice as he speaks. He looks down the bridge of his nose and narrows his eyes. “And you’re in a church. Have some respect.”

Felix bristles then breathes out, slow. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“Your attitude.” Sam’s eyes flicker up beyond Felix then back. “And your lackeys.”

Felix twists around to look behind him and there are Changbin and Chan. They make an imposing duo, arms crossed and biceps bulging and faces cool and calm. From Felix’s vantage point, he can see what Sam sees— two men who are here as bodyguards of sorts. Frightening. There’s a meanness to their expressions that Felix personally finds hot. He knows that can’t be the case for Sam though, who has never met these men in his life.

“You guys can sit, you know?” Felix comments lightly. He tugs at Changbin’s jeans. “Come on."

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice tinged with something nasty. “Join us.”

Felix does him the great favor of ignoring him. Changbin acquiesces (or rather, he decides it’s better to sit than to risk Felix tugging down his pants entirely) and Chan follows. Felix heads their trio, face carefully set to a neutral expression. Sam is entirely distracted by Changbin and Chan, eyes flitting methodically over each one of them.

“They won’t hurt you.” Felix fiddles with one side of his headphones. “Really. I won’t let them.”

Sam scoffs at that.

“What?”

“You’re a twig,” he tells him. It’s a very matter-of-fact statement. Felix doesn’t get a chance to take offense to it before he continues, “And so am I.”

"Yeah but they’ll listen to me,” Felix says confidently. “Right, guys?”

“Sure," Changbin says amicably. "If he doesn’t do anything to you.”

Sam deadpans. “See?”

Felix sighs. Reaches forward to tug the brownie box towards himself so he can have one. He needs it, what with this ridiculous situation. Sam watches him warily but doesn’t do anything to stop him from shuffling around.

“So, Sam.” Felix tests out the name in his mouth. It’s too simple for a face so delicate. “How long have you been here?”

There is an obstinate purse to his mouth, but he still mumbles an answer. “A while.”

Felix glances at Sam’s fraying hoodie paws. “It’s kinda too cold to be here for a while.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It sort of is. I mean, I’m here and talking to you. So…”

“So?” Sam leans forward. His stale breath fans hot over Felix’s face. “I don’t owe you shit.”

Up close, his eyelashes seem even longer. There’s a small, faded mole beneath one of his eyes. A streak of dirt mars the clean skin of his cheek and in his ears are piercings with no jewelry in them. His lower lip is cracked painfully. Felix takes it all in and doesn’t flinch backwards. The uncanny fear he felt earlier when he walked into this place has left him. He supposes it has something to do with the fact that there actually is a person here; he wasn’t imagining the eerie sense of being watched.

Sam sits back with a scoff. “You’re strange.”

Felix blinks. Recalibrates.

“I’m strange?” he asks, indignant.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Chan pipes up before Felix can reply asking who this guy thinks he is calling other people strange.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m strange too.” Sam eyes the brownie box. He doesn’t reach forward to grab another one though. “You don’t want to be talking to me.”

As if that’s the last word, he gets to his feet. Chan and Changbin scramble up in response and Felix is left to look up at everyone towering over him. Sam, despite his slight stature, is taller than both of them. It’s a funny sight to see him look down his nose at the pair. Felix personally hates a pissing contest, but he can’t lie: it’s entertaining to watch the three of them stare each other down. As if that can accomplish anything.

To his credit, Chan isn’t entirely attempting to intimidate. Felix knows as much. He just sort of looks like that— imposing, harsh around the edges when his face is blank. It hides the softness underneath.

“I don’t think you’re weird,” Chan offers Sam. “I didn’t think that the first time I met you either.”

“You acted like… You thought I was weird,” Sam mutters. It’s too quiet to go unnoticed.

“Did I?” Chan asks. “I treated you like I would anyone else.”

Felix scrunches his nose. He finds that hard to believe. What kind of guy just suddenly turns up in the forest? Especially in these woods. As winter approaches, there is nothing to sustain life here anymore; the nights are cold and the days are getting shorter and it doesn’t make any sense for someone to stay out here.

Chan is irrefutably good. Intentional with his kindness, all careful action and thoughtful deliberation. He’s different from Felix in that way, and it’s why he doubts that Chan was acting normal when they first met— he never acts normal, not around anyone he thinks needs his help.

“You think I’m some fragile object,” Sam says. His glare is searing. “I’m not.”

“I never-“

“Don’t deny it,” Sam spits. Chan snaps his mouth shut, the tips of his ears glowing red.

Felix watches in resignation as Sam steps back and nearly trips over the quilt behind him. He’s graceful even in his clumsiness, all long limbed and lithe when he catches himself from falling over.

“We’re trying to help you,” Felix pivots. He drops his smile. “I get it, we’re strangers and you don’t know anything about us. But… you don’t look like you really have any other options.”

“It’s none of your business what my options are,” Sam cuts cleanly. He points at Changbin. “You can try to intimidate me all you want with your bodyguards. But I chose this for myself. You don’t know shit about me.”

The brownie box lies abandoned on the ground. Felix sighs as he picks it up and gets to his feet. His back twinges with pain. Fuck. He’s going to pay for his little excursion and all the stress later. He unsubtly twists around until his back makes a satisfying crack and groans. It isn’t enough, it never is, but honestly? He has bigger fish to fry right now.

Sam watches him, guarded, as he steps forward.

When they’re face to face, there’s a clear height difference. Felix wouldn’t say he’s tall by any means (his genes leaned more towards gracing him with a pretty face and the aches and pains of a senior citizen), but Sam’s height catches him off guard— he’s unreasonably long, all stretched out when he’s standing. Felix would have never guessed from how he was curled up into a ball on the floor.

He’s unflinching with eye contact, but Felix is glad for it. It makes him more human. Felix’s stomach turns at the thought of the three of them leaving him. He inhales deep through his nose.

“You’ll die if you stay here.” Sam’s left eye twitches. His full lips turn downwards. There’s no point in sugar-coating the truth. Felix doesn’t have it in him to do it anyways, not today. “Winter is coming. And you’re going to freeze in your sleep or get caught off guard by a bear. The coyotes will take whatever the bear leaves behind.”

“And what’s it to you?” Sam shoots right back. “You don’t know me.”

The image flashes through Felix’s hyperactive mind: Sam’s mangled body left for the insects in the middle of nowhere, a mere memory fading to gray. He can’t stand the thought. It’s why he doesn’t watch any fucking horror. He just doesn’t have the stomach for it. And even now, bile rises in his esophagus if he lets himself stew for too long in what he has just said.

Sam stares at him, his face unreadable. There isn’t any getting through to some people and Felix knows that. Really, he does. But his stubbornness is winning out right now and he stares right back, nonplussed. Changbin reaches out a hand to rest against Felix’s back.

“Letting someone die in the woods is cruel,” Changbin says plainly. “No one deserves that.”

“I do,” Sam rasps automatically. He runs a hand through his hair. “Like I said, you don’t know me. You should go back to your truck and head on home. A storm’s brewin’.”

A full body chill runs through Felix. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“We’re not leaving without you,” he says stubbornly. If he was half-way convinced earlier, he’s completely sure without a shadow of a doubt now. “Either you come with us now or we come back and find you.”

“Then I’ll just leave,” Sam says simply. As if it were that easy.

“And go where? To town?” Felix snorts. “Good luck staying out of the gossip train.”

“What Felix means is,” Chan cuts in. “You can come stay with us for a little bit. Get a shower, some food. It doesn’t have to be anything permanent— I’ll drive you myself wherever you need to go after.”

Sam visibly hesitates. Felix takes it as a chance.

“You can even get the room by our porch.” He steels himself, raises his head high. “There’s a door through there that goes out. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

“What if it’s in the middle of the night? You’ll wake up from the noise.”

“Even if I do, I’ll let you go,” Felix says solemnly. “I promise.”

The silence is loud. Sam is all wide-eyed, eyes flickering away from Felix to stare at the floor. His hand curls in at his side, the hoodie sleeve too long, and he rocks backward and away from Felix and clears his throat. Then—

He looks up. Sets his jaw. And stiffly nods.