guess whos back? back again. shady's back, tell a friend. lmaoooo i dont think anyone remembers/knows me but uh, it's been a minute since i was on ffn.
pls nobody read my old stuff, but if u do... try not to clown me too hard. lol rip
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The silence sits so heavy on his chest that the pressure under its solid weight manages to raise him from a deep sleep.
Very slowly, he wakes to find a vast, unending sea of silence. Unmoored and adrift in this quiet, he needs to anchor himself and so instinctively focuses his attention inwards. He hopes, thinks, this is where he'll find the steady and familiar rhythm of his heart and so searches for this marker of existence for an unknowable length of time. But it's to no avail.
Does he exist? Does he possess consciousness? There are no answers. There is nothing. Everything is oppressive silence.
That's his reality, and he may have remained there indefinitely, in nothingness and the uncertainty of his own self, but then a surprising impulse, some new and unknown instinct, forcibly stirs his mind into sharp lucidity. And then, all at once, he's reeling with intense fear and pain, both of which find a home in the center of his chest.
Is he dead and is this hell, he wonders.
What had previously been nothingness, unfolds before him then. He's able to grasp this reconfiguration and it allows him to realize that he's actually laying down in unbroken darkness and not nothingness.
It's a dark so deep that it swallows everything up. He feels small.
The strange impulse from before, the one that had harshly thrust him into lucidity, continues to grow stronger still. And to his dismay, the fear and pain he feels in his chest grow along with it. Despite this, or maybe because of it, he's urged into action and so attempts to sit up, but then quickly realizes that he can't and so goes into a frenzy. His hands, possessed by panic, begin slapping against the hard surface that surrounds him, frenetically mapping out the darkness which cages him, until he's discovered the exact boundaries of his enclosure.
It's small.
He writhes against the walls around him, but he has very little space to move. It's pitch black and deathly quiet.
Relentless waves of panic begin to come over him. His head is spinning, drowning with each subsequent submersion and he's beginning to fear that he might lose his mind. Feeding off of this tumultuous energy, the strange impulse, again, grows stronger. Rocked by unabated panic, it doesn't stop growing until it's pushed him out of his own mind. Everything quiets.
Again, he wakes.
He's idly aware as he comes back to himself, but it takes some time before he's really, fully conscious. As before, his lucidity comes accompanied by fear and pain, though this time their respective intensities are stronger. These two forces, gripping his chest in equal measure, are enough to force a broken cry from his throat. Startled by the noise, he realizes the silence is gone.
A cacophony of sounds erupt in his ears then, each louder and more intrusive than the last. And he realizes, with some confusion, that the silence had been within him, not out in the world. Whatever barrier had isolated him is gone now.
But it's too much, the world is too harsh. Without the barrier, his senses accost him with an overwhelming amount of information and he can't make sense of anything.
He wants it to stop, but he doesn't know how. The best he can do, he finds, is try to focus on one thing at a time. So, he chooses to hone in on the deep chill that's permeating the length of his body. Eventually, he's able to make out that he's lying face-down and that his left cheek is pressed against a cold, wet floor.
Opening his eyes is difficult. His lids are heavy, glued together like on an early morning after not enough sleep. With enough willpower though, he's eventually able to open his eyes and take in the outside world. His vision is blurry, at first, so he spends some moments sluggishly blinking and his sight sharpens with a nice clarity. But it keeps going. His sight keeps on sharpening and sharpening and then it's too sharp. Detail is everywhere and his eyes are trying to take all of it in.
Over a few short moments, his world has gone from blurry to an incomprehensible kaleidoscope of detail and color. Made sick by this visual assault, he closes his eyes again.
He clutches blindly at the ground beneath him and his palms close over wet blades of grass. Soaked and cold, he pushes himself up to standing. Then, as he's stood shaking like a leaf, he has to fight an internal battle in order to remain that way. Because part of him, a loud part, wants to buckle at the knees. For a few moments, he has to listen to a reedy voice in his head as it begs him to fold up as small as possible back on the grass.
He's never thought of himself as a coward, so it surprises him how difficult it is to reign in the urge to cower on the floor. He succeeds, eventually, even if only just barely. It takes him another moment though to find the courage to open his eyes again.
The ensuing kaleidoscope, the one he'd glimpsed before, is just as blinding, if not more so, than not having sight at all. The world is a magic eye, but he can't see the figure it's hiding. And without being able to see his surroundings, he feels vulnerable. So, it's this fear of the unknown that drives him, forces him to persevere until he finally finds a way to distinguish individual shapes and figures. Then, once able to make sense of the world around him, he realizes two things.
One: it's night. And two: he's standing in a graveyard.
At least, that's what his eyes are telling him, but truthfully he isn't sure if anything is real. And so, he has to wonder if he's ever had a nightmare as strange as this before. But then if this is a dream, when had he fallen asleep?
He finds that he can't remember a lot right now.
Feeling oddly detached, his eyes lazily trace over the tombstones before him and then he turns slowly, so that he can look at the ones behind him. His eyes catch on one in particular, though its appearance isn't outwardly special. It's a simple, flat headstone.
Its image comes in and out of focus, as he stares at it for a few moments.
The little headstone has been placed recently. Or so, it seems to him that way, because its respective plot is all freshly overturned earth that hasn't yet had the chance to be covered by grass like an older grave might be. He also notes that it's messy. Dirt has spilled over onto the plots next to it. And when he looks closer, he sees that some of the dirt even covers part of the headstone, obscuring the engraved name and dates on it.
The little rectangle sits quietly in the distance, facing the night sky. Shrouded by disturbed earth, its engraving remains a mystery to him. And though it is thinly veiled, he doesn't care enough to investigate it.
A queasy dread begins to grow in the pit of his belly then, so he turns away from the grave.
He looks at the night sky.
A gentle rhythm makes itself known then. It beats in time with the pulse of a far-away star he's looking at. It's a staccato song he's familiar with, one that's found its rightful home at last. Though now, it shares that space with a burgeoning pain that has yet to cease within his chest.
Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum, it goes.
Without meaning to, he fixates on it and his skull becomes like a bell tower, where the steady beat resonates thunderously.
Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum.
He should feel light, relieved, but instead his chest is tight like it's going to burst and he doesn't understand why.
It wasn't so long ago that he'd been desperately seeking out this steady rhythm. And now he's scared by it.
His heart skips a beat.
Ba dum, it pauses. Ba dum, ba dum, it starts back again, faster.
The beat of his heart morphs into something disconcerting, something unfamiliar. In its rush to go faster still, it skips another beat and he gasps.
Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum, it hammers. Each beat is a rapid blow that drives him down like a nail, securing him deeply, firmly into place, and though at some point, he'd wanted nothing more than to feel anchored, he would take it all back if he'd known it'd be to a nightmare.
This is real, he thinks. I'm alive.
But everything is happening too fast and he doesn't understand what's was going on.
He's alone.
He's scared.
Another frenzy bubbles rapidly up within him. Its momentum is too great to stop and soon it's a gaseous, fizzing mess in his mind. Inside his head, it crackles, static-like and a noxious cloud forms, growing denser with each burst of bubble. This pressure builds, until his head is threatening to explode.
He staggers forward and without consciously deciding to, begins to run. He's sprinting in the next moment and his mind begins to clear, so he runs harder.
But if he's learned anything in his 23 years of life, it's that it's impossible to outrun what lies within. So he isn't surprised when everything fades to dark.
When he's cognizant again, he finds himself in a city.
Between the harsh in and out of his breath, there's the flutter of tiny wings overhead, dozens and dozens of tiny wings. The thrum of their gentle beating is strange and underscored by an electric buzz.
He's on an empty street, standing in the center of a lone cone of light.
Awash in an orange glow, this is where he slowly comes to. Why he'd stopped under a light pole, he isn't sure, but he's here now and that's what he'll focus on.
So what now, he wonders.
A moth flies by. It loops around him several times, then swoops around just a short distance in front of his face. He follows its erratic dance. And as he's watching the moth, it idly occurs to him that the night won't stretch on indefinitely. The sun will rise.
This fact of life impresses on him in a way he's never experienced before.
The moth flies back up towards the light. No longer occupied by its presence, his senses expand beyond it and in the distance he hears that there are people. Some of them are young and drunk, out prowling the streets at night. There are others too, quieter ones: the vagabond and destitute, folks who're just trying to survive the night. And still others, those asleep in their homes, those awake at their TV's. Curious of all these people, he listens to them for a few moments and ends up losing himself to their activities in the process. He's engrossed, listening to the small details of what their doing. And in this state of high focus, a perturbing thought occurs to him: there isn't anyone near enough to hear this clearly, and yet he can anyway.
His stomach churns, queasy from discovering this alien ability. Simultaneously, he feels an overwhelming urge to put distance between himself and any others.
He takes several hurried steps then stops. He doesn't know where to go.
But like a leaf finds a path in the wind, eventually, he too is carried along by some force on a directionless path. It takes him away from his spot at the light pole. And for some time he wanders in the shadows.
As he walks, he maintains rapt attention on the sky, watching it closely. And with each passing moment, he grows steadily more obsessed by its hue. When the sky finally goes from a deep black to a dark blue, he's seized, entirely overwhelmed, by a sudden urge to cry. And so, his eyes begin to pour and his sight goes blurry for a while.
When he goes to wipe his face, he finds that his tears are bloody.
But the sky is indifferent to tears, even his bloody ones. It does not pause as he cries out in horror at his discovery or as he begins crying anew. Unfazed by any one person, it simply ambles through the hues and gradients of its liking.
It's still dark, but the sky is getting a little lighter each passing moment.
He needs to hide.
The stars are fading.
He needs to hide.
Dizzy with a sudden panic, he gives into thoughtless instinct and it guides him to a large dumpster in a remote alley. Without pausing to think, he climbs in and closes the plastic lid over himself. Then, sitting, situated snuggly amongst the trash, he feels a buzzing comfort radiate through him. For some time, he's delirious with this feeling. Then as the buzz quiets down into a low thrum, he realizes how pathetic this all is.
It seems more and more that it matters very little what he does or doesn't do, so he indulges in self-pity and sobs.
He knows exactly when dawn finally breaks, because it's announced by a quick and heavy heat. A stark change between two extremes, from one moment to the next, it's as though he's been thrown from a cooler into an oven.
The heat is disgustingly strong. It's amplifying the smell of garbage. And inside the dumpster, it's growing brighter as the sun climbs higher over the horizon. Small rays of light are finding their way in through the cracks and holes of the dumpster's old plastic lid. For reasons he can't explain, he's terrified by these wispy columns of light. And in an attempt to avoid them, he ends up partly buried in trash.
As the sun continues to rise, so too does the temperature. And he begins to feel sick. Surrounded by a putrid pungency, at first he just has nausea. But as the morning settles into day, a bubbling, just beneath the surface of his skin, begins to sting him. Then as the sun continues to rise, that bubbling turns into a deep, rapid boil and his insides begin to gurgle away like a hot, viscous soup.
The day progresses and the heat continues without reprieve.
At some point, his body, exhausted from endlessly enduring, begins to shake violently. For a moment, it's as if it's attempting to denature into a million ribbons, but, mercifully, the moment passes. It's as he's catching his breath, that he realizes it had been a convulsion. Still racked by slight tremors, he stutters out an anguished prayer with the hope that it'll never happen again.
But it happens again and then again. He's dizzy and confused after each attack ends. And every time, it takes him a just little longer to come back to himself, only for what little sense he regains, whatever he has left, to be cruelly stripped from him as it happens again. These episodes do not cease until the sun begins its descent.
Over the course of hours, the heat lessens and then it's cool again, as the sun slips underneath the horizon. Immediately, he wants to leave the dumpster, but his body trembles with exhaustion when he tries. Eventually, he gains enough strength from the desire to put distance between himself and the smell of garbage, and so he emerges into the night.
Stumbling out into the shadows, he takes to wandering the streets again and does much of what he'd done the night before. Shortly before sunrise, he returns to the dumpster again.
He's stuck repeating this cycle for several nights. Not long after sunset, he crawls out of the same putrid dumpster, swears to never return to it, and then returns to it all the same. Nothing changes, except that he grows considerably weaker with each passing night.
Naturally, there comes a night where he's reached his limit and as he's wandering, collapses. He doesn't pick himself back up, both because he's too weak and because he finds little reason to get up anyway.
He lays there and welcomes his fate. Water from a nearby puddle begins to soak into his hair.
Sharp, little rocks are digging into the side of his face. And a sudden scurrying makes him think that a small animal, perhaps a rat, has crawled over his leg, but he doesn't check to make sure. He doesn't find any of these things particularly uncomfortable or bothersome. It doesn't matter anyway.
He's so tired.
Time escapes his notice, as he listens to the night.
A sharp tug on the ever present ache in his chest, nearly stops his heart. Then, he feels it again.
It's pulling him, insistently, in one specific direction.
The urge to follow this pull is like the urge to surface for air after spending too much time submerged underwater. An oxygen-deprived brain doesn't stop to provide explanation, it just forces the body into action. Likewise, this pull doesn't come with any precursory thoughts. It's a primal need that, if he could, he'd act on without hesitation.
Something or someone is calling for him and he needs to answer, needs to be at its source.
His muscles twitch in effort, but they can't coordinate any movement. He can't get up, can't go after the call.
The tug on his pain shifts then and he realizes that must mean the source of whatever beckons him is likely moving as well. He panics, begins to scramble crazily to try and move after it, but this simply wears him out further and so he has to give it up. It's useless, he useless. A sad, silent observant, he can do nothing, so he simply feels as the source of the pull moves further away from him.
The pull gets weaker as the distance increases. And as it's fading, a strangled cry gets caught in his throat, but he's too weak to dislodge it. He can't call out.
In a deep dismay, it wildly occurs to him to try and pull back on the tug. But by then it's already too late. The pull's source is too far away.
A few, short moments later he has ceased to feel it altogether.
He's left feeling hollow and strangely worthless. Abandoned.
As he lays there in a despondent fog, he wonders what will become of him. And then he thinks, dawn is coming, and immediately has to stop there, because he doesn't want to know what'll happen when the sun rises. His mind quiets and goes blank.
Two voices cut through the silence of the night.
They're far away, but coming closer. And this unnerves him, because he'd rather no one come across him as he is now. But he knows that life isn't governed by his wishes. And so they may discover him, but it's just as well that they may never cross paths either.
He can't move, has no power to affect the outcome. This situation is out of his hands.
Fate is inescapable, he thinks.
The voices draw nearer.
He hears a man say, "Yea, but what's important is done. Why would we need to even bother with this? And it's almost sunrise!" Their voice had risen considerably in volume, so they pause. Then, in a level tone, the same man continues speaking, "This is a waste of time, especially with everything else going on."
"Fuck, I didn't think of any of that," another man replies to the first. "I can't believe none of that occured to me. You're really smart, you know?"
"Now you're just being a dick, Yoongi."
At some point in their conversation, the two men had stopped moving. He thinks they're stood somewhere not too far from him.
The men are quiet, until one of them sighs, then says, "Look, I know you think this is a waste of time; I don't disagree with you." They pause and then add, "Even if he won't share his reasons with us, he has to have them."
He's a little foggy right now, so he's not so sure, but that person hadn't sounded particularly convinced of his own words.
The man continues speaking, "I'll talk with the leader. He'll either have Hoseok come out or come here himself, but someone will help you cover ground. And it'll get done as quickly as possible, but until then, you're on your own. Orders are orders."
"I know." the other responds sharply. "Forgive me, though, if I'm not very eager," they add. A sharp silence follows afterwards.
He wishes he could see them then. People express so much with their body, on occasion, it can even be more than what they do with words.
Then, something about or around the men changes abruptly, though he can't explain how.
"What's taking so long?" someone asks and bells, numerous sweet, metallic clangs resonate throughout his pained body in response. He trembles with their harmonic force.
A third person has joined the other two.
It's another man. But he isn't just any man, because, though he'd heard but a few scant words, they'd been lustrous, gilded in gold. And his body hums with the memory of their resonance and the sweet force that he imagines only this voice could ever carry.
The essence of this dulcet force hints at something intangible in its owner and creates a deep, immediate yearning within him. And again, he feels a strong pull. However, this pull is distinctly different from the one he'd felt before.
The first pull he'd experienced was compulsory in nature. In fact, had he not been so weak, he might have followed it without even realizing. This pull isn't so straightforward, so simple to follow. It's a messy thing where it sits in his chest, like it itself doesn't understand what's happening. It's uncomfortably intense, half-formed, and without clear direction.
But even so, its impetus is intoxicatingly demanding and he wants to give into it, allow it to pull him in.
A single, falling raindrop is fated to find its way into the ocean. He wonders if this yearning within him is at all alike to the force that drives rainwater home.
Simultaneously though, something within him is recoiling harshly at the notion that someone's voice could have such an effect over him. It's horrifying, he thinks, that a few words could render him powerless and entranced. And in an attempt to preserve what little dignity he has left, he rationalizes that it's his current state which has made him weak to cling to anything remotely pleasant.
Circumstances notwithstanding though, a complete lack of self-possession, he thinks, is the lowest he can fall.
And so he feels humiliated, betrayed by the intensity of a desire he has no way of owning. Worse, he believes these feelings stems from desperation. And now he just wants it all to stop.
It'd be nice, he thinks, if he could just disappear into the disparate winds of the Earth, vanish like strewn dust.
He's very tired.
Someone clears their throat. The three men haven't left yet.
"Sorry, someone was being fussy about their orders," one of them says in a bored tone, adding, "I was about to head your way, so if you please, I'm at your service now."
It's clear they're speaking to that man.
The person's words hang, suspended awkwardly in the air for a moment. And then, they clear their throat again. "Or, if you wish, we could help search. I believe there's time enough before the assembly. Jimin hasn't even started looking—" They're interrupted.
"—I've just received the orders! And, I was told to prioritize the areas immediately surrounding the burial site. There's days worth of ground to cover before the search even extends out here."
There's a slight pause, before the one who'd been interrupted picks back up again, speaking like nothing had been said. "It's unlikely that it's here, but who knows? We might get lucky and find the prize." The word "prize" sounds like a taunt.
The third man doesn't respond. It's deathly quiet after that. They leave.
And he knows they've left, because the pull that voice had inspired fades. Unlike the first time though, this one exists abruptly. One moment it's there and in the next, he's just hollow again. And his heart fills with hurt, with a sadness that's more akin to the pain of rejection.
He doesn't think about it.
He's faced-down, so he can't see the sky, but he knows exactly when the first stars begin to melt into the backdrop of the heavens, because a swell of heat begins to unravel within him. This swell grows, spreading like wildfire inside his body.
In this fire's wake comes pain that's unlike anything he's ever known before.
The pain he'd experienced while hiding in his dumpster had been like a thick, bubbling honey beneath his skin. This is nothing like that. This feels like his insides have set ablaze in hellfire. A hellfire that's ferociously fighting to consume him, but can't, because it's trapped within him, and so just rages hotter in frustration.
Were he able to, he'd cut, split himself all the way open so that these trapped flames might be able to escape.
Delirious, a memory or a stray thought, or neither, because it's all the same now, comes to him and he latches onto it. It's nebulous and nonsensical, but in his delirium, he believes it's a message. And so he watches, enraptured, as the luster of brilliant gold flickers in his mind's eye, then as it mutates, waxing and waning, until it takes the shape of a flame. Its metallic shimmer sits amongst the flames of the hellfire within him, but does not burn like all the others. Its presence is both reproachful and imploring, as if he's close to breaking a vow.
The fire grows, the golden flame gets lost in its uproar. He wants to die.
Someone is speaking. Their words filter idly into his head.
"I've come into the city, but I'm not sure where or what exactly you're doing."
"Jimin, wasting time is a luxury we can't afford, so I'd kindly appreciate it if you could get back to me quickly."
"The sun's been up for some hours now, so unless you call back soon, I'm just going to head to a safehouse for some sleep."
He half wonders if he's just imagined everything he's heard, but then the man who'd spoken takes a couple slow and aimless steps in one direction, and he thinks he wouldn't imagine something so inconsequential.
He's starting to grow numb.
He relaxes, hoping this is it. And it is, because a short moment later, he's drifting, falling steadily away into nothingness.
He's falling.
Falling.
Falling.
There's a steady approach of footsteps.
That doesn't matter, he's very nearly there.
More steps. They're louder now. They keep coming closer, getting louder, until each step is a thunderous pound in his ears and they've managed to destroy the peace of his quiet nothingness.
All at once, he's harshly ripped away from the dark he'd been lulling into and dragged back into fire.
The sweet peace of death had been right there and he'd failed to reach it.
A particularly nasty lick of flame sears angrily at his heart then and the pain is so intense, he sees a bright flash of gold behind his closed eyes. It passes very quickly.
He hears the man continue to approach and then he's stood at the mouth of the alley that he'd collapsed in.
"Woah, that's rough," the man says, quietly, as though speaking to himself.
"Someone must have spotted you as they passed," he adds, as he begins walking towards him. But halfway through, his advance stops, so he can sigh, long-suffering and philosophical. "But, like us, Humans also have a great capacity to be cruel."
Then the man resumes walking in his direction, until he's standing over his prone body, at which point, he yells, "Oh, shit!" And then he quickly crouches down beside him and turns him over, so that he's lying on his back.
"Fuck, I thought you were a Human," the man says in a pinched voice. His hands are flurrying all over his face, chest and neck, as if checking him over. "How did you end up like this?"
The man should know he's not receiving an answer, he thinks. And the man must realize this, because he doesn't press him any further.
But then, against wishes he isn't able to voice, the man begins to wrap him in what might be a large jacket. And around his face and head, the man places something soft and loose over him. Covered by this layer of clothes, the pain dulls by a small, but blessed, fraction.
He'd cry in relief, if he could.
The man lifts him into his arms and for a moment he's dizzy. Then the air around them shifts, as if they'd taken flight.
Maybe he could be a sparrow in his next life, he muses. Just a small, weightless bird, free to fly, free from pain.
And as he's thinking of this, indulging in fantasy, he begins to drift away again. A calm takes hold of him. He can see it now, feel it now. There's wind beneath his wings and he's soaring.
"Hey! Hey!"
The rushing wind stops, he doesn't have wings. The man is yelling at him.
"God, you must be young," the man says, mournfully, and then carefully shifts him in his arms. "Just, try and stay with me. We're almost there."
Then the next thing he hears is the tail end of a heavy door closing. And not a full moment later, he's inside a dark room and the man is placing him gently on a bed.
The man is gone, long before he even realizes it.
In the dark of the room, the burning of flames goes away in increments. First leaving his fingers and toes, it then sinks back into his chest where it coils up into a tolerable and familiar ache.
Vaguely, he tries to remember what it was like not to hurt and finds that he can't.
It's quiet and he's alone, reeling with everything that's happened moments prior, days prior. He's given up on attempting to make sense of anything though, because he can't shake the feeling that he's become an observer to a life that had ceased being his own some time ago.
He hears the other man suddenly curse and he realizes he must be somewhere outside the dark room. He focuses on him and listens as he mumbles to himself. He thinks the man sounds conflicted.
When he hears the man start to make his way back, he's filled with an uneasy tension. But then there's a knock, a gentle tapping at the door. And somehow, this small gesture eases away some of the tension.
"How're you doing?" the man asks, as he enters the room.
He's too tired to speak. And it's a dumb question anyway, given the state he's in, so he doesn't reply.
He feels the air around him shift, telling him the man is at his side. "Here, let me take this off of you," he murmurs and then gently begins to remove the cloth that'd been wrapped around his head.
He'd forgotten it was even there, couldn't feel it anymore. In fact, beyond the ever present pain in his chest, he can't feel much. His body is numb all over.
The man tosses the soft fabric aside, letting him know his face is now free. But despite knowing the room is dark, he still hesitates to open his eyes. The man, thankfully, doesn't rush him or comment.
When he does open his eyes, the room isn't as dark as he'd expected. But he quickly notes that there aren't any significant sources of light either and that it's his eyes that are making it difficult to gauge how much light there is. This small, somewhat insignificant detail makes him feel strange.
On his right, the man is sat on the edge of the bed, nearly, but not actually, touching him. He's turned away, attending to something on a nightstand beside them, so he can't see his face.
When he does turn back around, the man grabs him by the shoulders and quickly, but gently, sits him up against the headboard and says, "Here, I'll help you drink." Distracted by the sudden action and confused by the man's words, he doesn't have the opportunity to properly look at his face.
It takes a second for what's been said to register with him, but when it does, he's infinitely glad to find the man is already tipping a glass of water against his lips. When moisture reaches his dry tongue, he's surprised to find that he's parched and begins to drink greedily.
He's drinking in large, uncomfortable gulps, too fast and undiscerning to notice the taste and texture of his drink right away.
Something here is wrong, he thinks, and continues drinking anyway.
Then the liquid he's drinking coagulates and begins to coat his throat and mouth in sticky globs. A strong, repulsive smell wafts up to him and he gags. Finally, the man removes the glass from his lips.
"Oh, this is bad," he hears the other say.
Grunting, he begins to expel what he's somehow managed to drink. Gelatinous globs cling to the corner of his lips, as his stomach heaves, and, angrily, he thinks "bad" doesn't begin to aptly describe the current situation.
There's a litany of quiet curses spilling from the man's mouth. He's patting him firmly on the back with one hand, while using the other to hold him upright. And when globs aren't spilling from his lips anymore, the man cleans his mouth and chin, using a sweater.
So that's what had been wrapped around his head.
"I know you're really weak right now," the man says suddenly, catching his attention, "but please, it's very important that you try to answer my questions."
Then he asks, "Who's your maker kid?"
The question confuses him and when he doesn't respond, the man grabs a hold of both his shoulders and shakes them lightly. "If I cannot find them soon, there's very little possibility that you will continue to live," he says in a severe tone, as he shakes him.
"Tell me your maker's name," he commands.
But it makes little difference how adamantly the man asks, if he doesn't know how to respond in the first place. And he doesn't have enough strength to both, ask the other what he means, as well as, also respond. So given the question, he settles on the most sensible response he can think to give.
"My m-mom" he says on an exhale. It's quieter than he'd intended, but somehow it seems the man has been able to understand him anyway, because, though he looks confused, he's also staring at him attentively, as though expecting he has more to say and he does.
It takes an extraordinary amount of effort, but he adds, "She died."
"What?"
He isn't going to repeat himself and he has nothing more to say.
The man sighs. "Ok, alright, plan B. Which lineage do you descend from?" he asks.
What a strange question, he thinks, and then shuts his eyes.
The man jostles him by his shoulders again. "No, no, no… Look at me. C'mon, hey. Lineage, which lineage-" He jostles him harder, when he refuses to open his eyes. "What's your, what's your name, your full name ?" There's a note of panic lacing the man's words.
Well, that he can answer.
"Kim Taehyung"
"Kim ?"
The man's response strikes him as unduly strange. But again, he isn't going to ask the man to explain himself and so he says nothing. In fact, he's very tired. He's done talking for now.
His eyes are closed. And he thinks that should make it pretty clear that he's trying to rest, but the man doesn't seem to care, and is, instead, yelling at him.
"Kim ?!"
"Kim Taehyung?!"
"Kim ?!"
Taehyung wonders how long it'll be before the man tires of yelling out his name. He wants to tell him to stop, especially because with each reiteration the man gives his shoulders a hard shake, but he doesn't have the strength in him to do so.
The man repeats his name several more times, before finally giving it up. "No, there's no way. I don't know you," he says, in a defeated tone. The grip on Taehyung's shoulders loosens.
"You're really a Kim?" the man asks. He sounds lost. "And, to be clear, you're a direct descendant and not Kim by association?"
"What am I even saying, you're a fledgling!"
Taehyung opens his eyes and his vision swims a little. It's difficult to focus, but nonetheless, he finds the man's face. He isn't sure of what anything the other is saying means, but his name is his name. He isn't lying about that. And so, he looks at the man and tries to express this with his eyes, but the man just looks back at him with doubt. And Taehyung knows then, that he does not believe or maybe cannot see the sincerity that he's attempting to convey.
But that's all Taehyung has left, the truth of his gaze. Whether the man believes him or not is of no consequence to that fact.
Taehyung closes his eyes again.
The man curses.
"I'm sorry if this doesn't work," he says ominously.
Taehyung thinks he hears the man leave the room, but then he also seems to be at his side in the next instant, which strikes him as impossible. He wonders if he's dozed off, but he has a feeling that he hasn't. He lets this matter go, distracted by the sudden rustle of clothes at his side. Curious, he forces his eyes open and sees that the man has rolled up the sleeve of his dress shirt.
Then the man takes a small knife to his left wrist and with a deep slash, breaks its thin skin once. It's done methodically and precise.
Taehyung stares at the man in silent horror.
Blood begins to spill from the man's cut and Taehyung's heart spikes up in a rapid beat. His eyes lock onto the gushing rivulets of ruby on the man's arm and his jaw clenches shut, painfully tense, at the sight. Tearing his eyes away, he looks back at the man and finds that he looks uncertain, afraid. And Taehyung doesn't understand why, because he'd been the one to do this. He'd self-mutilated. He'd chosen this.
Taehyung hasn't been afforded any choices to make for a long time now, so he despises anyone who would take theirs for granted. And perhaps, the man is able to see this in his eyes, because he appears to come to a decision then.
Resolute, he suddenly places his bloody wrist on Taehyung's lips and Taehyung turns a wide-eyed, muted scream in his direction.
The man forces his blood into Taehyung's mouth.
Repulsed by what is happening, Taehyung attempts to fight back. But before the thought has fully entered his mind, his mouth begins to suck eagerly on the other's wrist, as though it's a perfectly normal, autonomic response. And he tries to stop, but he can't even think, can't understand what's happening anymore. He's become consumed by a sudden desperation to fill his belly with the smooth flow and warmth of the other's blood.
The man's wrist moves and Taehyung latches onto it even more fiercely. When it moves again, it prompts Taehyung to sink his teeth into it in an attempt to secure it closer to himself.
The man is yelling at him.
After a small battle, the wrist is finally pulled harshly from Taehyung's lips and the man falls backwards off the side of the bed and onto the floor. The room fills with their harsh panting. Taehyung doesn't understand what's just happened.
But he wants more.
He's buzzing, like there's a million bees in his body. It's a strange sensation, but it's like life is seeping back into him. The incessant pain in his chest is fading, so he sits and quietly marvels at this feeling, overjoyed that it's even possible. Of course, this doesn't last very long.
His body pulses once and a sudden rigidity locks up his muscles. Then Taehyung's stomach lurches violently and he vomits.
"You're rejecting it," Taehyung hears the man say, through his own, loud heaving.
The man's laying on the floor, mumbling, half-incoherently, to himself. "I should have-known, or… should've been certain of your lineage, instead I…" Blood is seeping from the sheets, off the bed, and onto the man's body.
"I'm so sorry," the man says and then goes quiet, as Taehyung continues to heave.
Eventually, Taehyung's stomach settles and then he's just slumped, boneless, against the headboard. He's quiet and covered in a mess of drying, sticky blood. And for a while, he's just stuck in a daze, staring at a far wall, idly sorting through a few, errant thoughts in his head.
His body isn't buzzing anymore, but he still feels better than he has for a long time.
The man on the floor has been deathly silent for a while now. Taehyung wonders if he's fallen asleep.
"Do you have a bathroom?" he asks the man.
"…What?" So he isn't asleep, Taehyung notes.
"Bathroom, do you have one?" Taehyung asks again, looking embarrassedly at the mess he's made.
The man sits up off the floor. His eyes are wide. He stares at Taehyung without blinking for a few moments.
"Yea, I do. I have a bathroom," he says, with unnerving, unblinking eyes.
The man doesn't follow his words up with any indication of where this bathroom is. He just bores into Taehyung with round, blank eyes. Embarrassed by this attention and self-conscious of the fact that he's just vomited all over himself after spending a week hiding in a dumpster, Taehyung burrows his head into his right shoulder. His face grows hot with shame.
Abruptly, the man stands up. "Can you walk?" he asks Taehyung, who reluctantly turns to look at him, only to see that the man is swaying on his feet.
"Can you walk?" Taehyung asks instead, eyeing the man as he continues to sway. Ignoring his question, the man huffs out what may pass as a small laugh and then helps him stand. For as much as he'd swayed earlier, the man's still somehow stronger than Taehyung.
Then the man begins to guide him towards a door. It's a slow walk, because Taehyung can hardly manage a step on his own and so the man has to struggle to support most of his weight.
Taehyung's staring at the man's profile, watching as he struggles to carry him, when he's floored with the sudden sense that, even if he doesn't understand how, the man's intentions have always been good. Everything he's done, he's done in a genuine attempt to help him.
And Taehyung, well he's been nothing but a burden, really.
"Sorry," Taehyung says in a tiny voice. The man turns to look at him and they stop walking.
"Yea, that was rude," he says. He's looking at the dry blood on Taehyung's chin.
Taehyung doesn't quite know what "that" is that the man considers to be rude, but he nods in agreement anyway, because he had just thrown up all over this man's bed. He stares at the floor, ashamed. He wants to add onto his apology, because he doesn't think the man understands what all he's really trying to apologize for. But when he looks back up at the man, there's a hint of a smile evident in the set of his mouth and Taehyung thinks that, maybe, the man does know what he's trying to say.
"I'm kidding, I just never thought my first blood sharing would ever go this badly," he says and his lips stretch a little wider. "All's well that ends well, right?"
He doesn't know what to say, how to respond.
"Taehyung," the man says, when he stays silent for a beat too long, "there's nothing I can think of that you could begin to apologize for."
They start walking again.
When they enter the bathroom the fluorescent lights are flicked on and they momentarily blind Taehyung. But in this harsh light, he can see the other clearly for the first time and he's immediately shocked to realize that the man is young. He'd been under the impression the other was older, but he's about Taehyung's own age. And he's tall, a little taller than him. He has a careful gaze and sharp eyes that hint at an even sharper intellect. And those eyes are looking at Taehyung.
Under this sharp scrutiny, Taehyung's harshly reminded of his current state. So he ducks his head, embarrassed, and without thinking, blurts out, "May I shower? I smell like a dumpster."
Taehyung is then absolutely mortified when he hears the man sniff very, very lightly at the air. And for a moment, he stares down at his feet and internally debates whether crawling back into his grave is really such a bad idea.
"Yes, of course. Do you, uh," the man says, but then stops, hesitating for a moment. "Do you need me to help you?" he asks, while gesturing vaguely at Taehyung.
Taehyung takes a moment to swallow down enough of his embarrassment in order to politely decline. And then, he does his best to not drown in the ensuing embarrassment when he ends up needing help anyway, first to undress and then to get into the shower.
"I'll bring you some spare clothes, your, uh, suit looks like it could use a wash," the man says, looking at the dirty pile of clothes on the floor, likely as a means to avert his gaze from Taehyung's naked body.
The man clears his throat. He seems uncomfortable, but he hasn't left yet. His eyes are still on the tattered mess of clothes. And if Taehyung had to guess, he thinks the man hasn't left yet, because he's wants to be sure that he won't be needing any further help. The gesture is very kind and thoughtful, but the man's also carrying it out in the most awkward way possible and Taehyung is starting to wonder whether he's purposefully being this way or if this is just some latent talent of his. In any case, once the man is satisfied that Taehyung will be fine, he leaves.
Taehyung spends a long time under a firm stream of water after that.
He's surprised to find that, given everything he's experienced, he's still able to enjoy something so warm as the rush of water from a shower. And even more so, he's delighted to find that as this warmth envelopes him, wraps around his frame in cascading streams, his muscles, tight from fear, physical and mental pain, loosen as heat slowly sinks into them. So, he relaxes and then, once lax and pleasantly warm, slips into deep thought. But it's only to quickly find that his mind is a messy swirl, an opaque miasma of thoughts that are too much for him at the moment. And so he has to stop thinking.
Instead, he watches with an intense and newfound fascination as the water at his feet goes from muddied to clear.
Later, smelling of soap and dressed in a borrowed set of clothes, he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror and looking at his reflection, trying, with little success, to understand why his hair, once a dark-brown, is now an ashy grey.
There's a knock at the door.
"Taehyung are you ok? I'm coming in," the man says, as he walks into the bathroom. Taehyung sheepishly notes that he's showered as well.
The man holds his arm out and Taehyung takes it, without thinking. "The sun's at its highest point currently, so you should probably rest," he says.
They make the trip back to the bed a little faster this time.
The bed is pristine, there isn't a speck of blood in sight. The man helps Taehyung lie down and as soon as he's on his back, Taehyung sags tiredly into its softness. All of his remaining strength escapes him then and he becomes as limp as a rag doll.
Deciding to make one last effort before succumbing to sleep, Taehyung's eyes search the room for the man. He finds him. Fluorescent light is spilling over him. The man is standing by the bathroom door.
"Please rest without worry, you're safe here," the man says quietly and then the lights are off and Taehyung's alone in the room, before he can thank him.
Plunged into darkness, Taehyung is moored by a sudden and heavy exhaustion. He falls into a deep sleep.
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whats up! so, real quick, i first posted this fic on AO3 some months back. & ive currenlty got 3 chs published, so i'll be posting those here pretty shortly. anyway, pls leave me ur wonderful feedback, cause i worked really hard on this and it would suck not to know if im spending my energy on something thats trash lol. help me imrpove, by letting me know whay u liked/didn't like
catch me on twiiter negaverseBTS or tumblr as diesel-havok
