Chapter Text
The mattress is stiff beneath Jong-woo’s back. Not exactly hard, there’s some give. But there’s just enough rigidity to press deep against his shoulder blades, his tailbone. Rasp against him when he twitches. He tries to muster up the strength to turn over, but he doesn’t have it in him. He lies in bed, catatonic, staring at the ceiling. That dark, tall ceiling.
He doesn’t remember much from after the fire. Bits and pieces. Stills from short films, from blocking cuts. Too low a frame rate, bit-crushed. Rough drafts covered in red ink and scattered across the floor, torn bits of paper glued to the wallpaper from static and dust. Nothing is whole, nothing is certain. But it’s there. It’s all there and his mind is flooded with it.
The smoke and taste of the fire. The ache in his head and arms from being bound and beat. The clinking of teeth on his wrist, the blood-slick hammer that kept slipping from his fingers. The tightness in his face from his swollen eye.
The cold of the air. Of the ambulance. Of being stripped naked, bathed, and put in a gown. The scratching of the hospital sheets, not unlike the ones beneath him now. He remembers his fingers tapping against his keyboard over and over. The same keys, over and over. The same sentence. Over. And over. And over.
And then that night. When he was allowed to leave. Someone came to pick him up… a cop, maybe. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know why he was allowed to leave. The bracelet kept chiming on his wrist. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.
Scarred hands led him from the hospital and into a car.
He’s been here ever since. In this apartment.
Something’s wrong with him now.
He feels different. Very different. Ever since he beat the shit out of that miserable pig at that dead-end job, something inside Jong-woo has shifted. Like a dislocated hip slingshotting into place. Something painful has corrected itself and it’s likely going to stay that way.
The door to the room creaks open and that pale man walks through the door.
Save for some new scars on his arms, Moon-jo looks the same as the day he died. Jong-woo has no idea how he’s back, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to know. He’s back. That’s it.
The sight of Moon-jo is enough to make Jong-woo turn to his side. He doesn’t speak or try to run. There’s nothing to say or do.
Moon-jo sits on the bed beside him, the small of his back resting gently against Jong-woo’s hips. He strokes the younger man’s hair off his forehead, humming softly. Jong-woo’s eyes flutter shut as those slender, pale fingers card through his hair, gently rub the back of his neck. Moon-jo’s fingers slide down to his throat.
“You have such a beautiful larynx. It’s a shame you don’t use it much these days…” Moon-jo pouts softly. “I miss that voice of yours,”
Jong-woo doesn’t say anything. Moon-jo tilts his head to the side, trying to make eye contact. He would is Jong-woo could truly see him. Those deep dark eyes are looking right at nothing.
“When are you going to get out of bed jagi? It’s getting boring without you. You know I need your help.” His hand keeps roaming Jong-woo’s body, massaging his neck and upper chest.
“I suppose it’s not the easiest. You’re so attached to the idea of being normal, this must be quite a shock.
”But I assure you, this is what’s best for you. We’re going to do beautiful things together, jagi. Beautiful things.”
Moon-jo puts his lips against Jong-woo’s temple, his lips and the tip of his nose ghosting along his skin. He allows himself to really breathe him in. He’s warm, soft, still. He resists the urge to gnaw, to lick, to truly taste him. The medley of emotions that swirls around in Jong-woo’s head is palpable, and it’s almost sweating out of his skin. He grips Jong-woo’s shoulder, feels the soft ridges of muscles and smoothness of fresh scars that mark them. He’s still so fresh. He’ll become something gorgeous. Something so so gorgeous…
Moon-jo’s eyes flutter open as he takes a sharp inhale through his nose. He’s pushed Jong-woo far enough the past few weeks.
Besides, the poor boy hardly knows where he is. It would be boring to bat him around when he’s in such a bad way.
“Why don’t we get you in that bath? Stand up,”
And for reasons unknown to both of them, Jong-woo listens. His feet swing over the side of the bed and he stands up, naked body still tangled in the sheets. Moon-jo doesn’t bother to pull them off. Jong-woo stumbles as he walks, trying to get out of the fabric. Moon-jo just watches.
They make their way to the small bathroom and Jong-woo stares blankly at the tub. His jaw tightens.
“You’re alright.” Moon-jo says, hand on his shoulder. He half-guides, half-shoves Jong-woo down into the tub, backing away from the splash.
Moon-jo watches as Jong-woo robotically bathes himself. He doesn’t do a very good job at it. His muscle memory might’ve gone, too. Moon-jo huffs and pulls his thin sweater off.
“When are you going to remember how to do things for yourself?” He asks, starting to rub Jong-woo’s arms down. “I can’t have you staying like this. I need you. I need you to be back to normal.”
He reaches around Jong-woo’s body, lifting up his teeth-decorated arm.
“See, jagi?” He whispers in the young man’s ear. Jong-woo’s eyes drift back down the bracelet. He hums assent. “You still have it. You know that you’re meant for this. You know. I know you know. I made sure of it. But you can’t be great if you don’t know how to take care of yourself. I can’t be both of us,”
Jong-woo nods.
Moon-jo runs cold. He feels like a corpse, smooth chest rising and falling slowly against Jong-woo’s bath-warm side. His nose, his lips, his hands, his arms. He’s not freezing but… he’s odd. By very nature he’s off-putting. And yet some sick part of Jong-woo is desperate to cling to it. To that cold. When his body retracts to find a washcloth, it feels like the air is leaving his lungs. And when his hands return to scrub him down once more, the air rushes back into his lungs. He breathes again.
He lets his eyes and leans against the walking corpse beside him. The warmth of the bath washes over him and pulls his mind far, far away from this tiny, dim bathroom. He goes somewhere. Somewhere warm, safe. Somewhere where the thoughts quiet down. He doesn’t want to hurt himself. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. He’s never hurt anyone, actually. He’s calm. His mind is quiet. He’s back home in bed, with soft blankets wrapped around his skin and the curtains floating in the warm night breeze.
He doesn’t open his eyes back up. He can stay there, safe in his mind. He’ll be safe there. Safe and calm and quiet.
Moon-jo leads him out of the bath, towels him off, brings him back to the bedroom. He lies him down and slips in bed beside him, slender hands exploring his body once again.
There are not words to describe how it feels.
He wonders, as he drifts off, if he’ll wake up devoured.