Chapter Text
Work is not done yet. It is barely half past 3am.
20 more minutes, and he is likely going to go home.
Dongrang clicks his pen repeatedly.
His mind has wandered off far away and he's staring somewhere past the dot separating two uneven numbers.
The report documents he's been working on for two days straight are not gonna get finished…
As his heart dissolves into saltwater, the wave of anxiety crashes above his head. Crabs pick at his fingertips, chipping away at his nails.
Dongrang's glasses disappear into the sea and a strange sensation pricks at his retina. Crystal salt adorns his sclera…
His eyes sting.
He faintly registers the pitter-patter of footsteps bearing a familiar rhythm and a figure briefly appears in his peripheral vision.
Dongrang's mind is lost on the shore. Sand clouds his thoughts.
The thrumming of footsteps gets louder and his shoulder…shakes.
Ah, he's fallen asleep…it's just 11 minutes past 4am.
“Mr. Dongrang, pick yourself up. It may be best to head home and wash your labcoat…your sleeves have many bloodstains on them.”
Sadly, no response was given to Samjo, which prompted him to recourse to the appellation once again.
“Mr. Dongrang?”
“Give me a moment.”
A muffled “Alright.” hangs in the air for a bit and Samjo distances himself slightly, ceasing physical contact.
Dongrang lifts his head, shakes it and straightens up. His spine pops like a machine gun.
He feigns shame and curls inwards, only to jump out of his seat and give his poor colleague a nigh heart-attack a second later.
“Want to get some fried chicken wings?”
A loud cracking sound is heard inside of Samjo's mouth. He crunches on what's left of the lollipop's plastic stick and knits his brows.
“Where?”
“We've recently partnered with a newly-built restaurant.“
Samjo bitterly rubs his shoe on a spot where light is reflected off a white tile.
“You're going to punch a hole through my forehead with that glare… It's not Bodhisattva, don't worry about that.”
“Mr. Dongrang, I highly doubt that I am available today. I came to announce to you that I was about to head home.”
“Aren't you hungry though?”
“It's past 4am, Mr. Dongrang. We have very few hours to prepare for the next workday… Is the place even open this time around?”
“We've had a rough week, Mr. Samjo. We both deserve to eat some good food.”
“I'm not paying for you.” He was quick to get that out of the way. Samjo rocks back and forth slightly, ready to go any second. He starts pacing away, with his head still turned towards Dongrang.
“That's fine.”
“More importantly, do you have a spare change of clothes?”
“Yes. Can you wait for me?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Dongrang prays that he doesn't encounter Shrenne, as he currently doesn't have the energy to deal with her shit.
With a wobbly saunter, the manager avoids the general direction of the human pomeranian's department, as she hates him on a particularly deep level, and heads straight to the changing rooms. Samjo hurriedly follows behind him.
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Something rings sharply inside of Dongrang's ears when he steps into the frigid hiemal air. In an unsuccessful attempt to steady himself, he locks eyes with the nearest lamppost…his vision blurs slightly. He feels his muscles start to tremble from the cold and forces himself to still. It aches.
“Mr. Dongrang? You look… pale.“
“...” :l
“...”
They blankly stare at each other.
“Is the restaurant within walking distance or are we going to commute?”
“Ah, no, it isn't…We're going to take trolley 24B. Afterwards, we'll go on a leisurely 5-minute walk.”
“...Right. O.K.”
The 9-minute commute to the other side of the district is particularly uneventful, since both of them are too spent to utter anything. Dongrang is in a state of pure lethargy and Samjo is sitting on his own puffy jacket at a fair distance from him. He has his arms crossed and is completely inert, aside from the apparent breathing and all.
The vehicle eventually comes to a halt, and the two get up a little too swiftly and get off. As a result, Dongrang almost falls backwards when he tries to keep up. His secretary is too focused on the doors to see him struggling and swiftly moves onward.
I should've used a regeneration ampule on myself, the man reprimands himself as he reluctantly drags his feet outside.
The clean, usually well-illuminated and vast platform is now enveloped in a faint, patchy, green-tinted fog.
Oftentimes, when I suddenly become aware of my surroundings, I find myself wishing to fall asleep under a starry sky. He hears low thrumming noises and feels a dull, painful throb in the back of his skull.
He becomes aware of how the cold air pricks at his cheeks in a way that makes him visualise several tiny, invisible climbers lodging their pickaxes into a towering block of ice that looks like his face. His skin could fall off any moment.
It's a nasty sensation, really.
Yet despite his decaying state of mind, everything else surrounding him is integrated into a whole, as time is flowing uninterrupted. He's disconnected from the present.
Samjo's ears and nose are tinted red.
The trolley silently leaves.
Dongrang leads the way, doing everything in his power not to hunch over or express anything through body language. Since he hears no words of concern, it seems to be a success, although his stride has a peculiar stiffness to it.
They walk on and not before long find themselves near a terrace with iron tables and chairs scattered around.
The door jingles when they enter and the two are met with the humid, warm air and the overall homey interior design of the eatery.
Samjo stubbornly sits on one of the sofas and glares at his companion. He's met with the image of a tall man wearing thrifted clothes, with greasy muted green hair, slumped shoulders, trembling lips and puppy eyes bulging out slightly from under a pair of crooked glasses.
Dongrang looks ugly and pitiful.
Samjo relents.
“You're still paying for yourself.” He groans. “At any rate, what do you want to get?”
“Whatever they recommend.”
Pleased, he softly sticks a warm grin on his face and occupies a table. He watches Samjo as he struts towards the counter and takes mental notes of his surroundings: there's afghans on each of the sofas, most of the furniture is made out of lacquered wood and there's multiple shelves on the walls, adorned with various trinkets. There's digital art and cooking utensils right next to the menu board. Some houseplants are placed on the counter, along with a few particularly large jars of spices. Yellowish light bounces off of them. The colours blend nicely into each other.
The smile doesn't linger for long and his already drifting consciousness is steadily pulled away from the heat.
The increased pressure and darkness signify an out of the blue worsening of his state. In the midst of the sensation of something biting at his temples, a passing concern pops up in his head as he drowns in the marine expanse.
His nose hurts. It smells of salt and rust.
Dongrang's mind blanks and he loses grasp on the concept of time.
He's woken up by a series of unrelenting pokes at his left shoulder.
He flinches.
“Mr. Dongrang. Dongrang. Dongrang. Dongrang. Dongrang. Dongrang. Wake up and eat. Otherwise. I'm. heading. straight. home.“
Mr. Dongrang rolls his head on his elbow and groggily looks up. Just then, he feels bitter liquid flow down his throat. Something thick and carmine in colour trickles down onto his lips and sleeves.
“Ah.”
A few tissues disappear from the metallic holder in front of him and vague sounds of paper tearing pierce his eardrums. His nose is then abruptly stuffed with some bunched up tissue bits. His head is slowly tilted forward and nothing happens for a moment…until Samjo's tie comes into focus on the other side of the table, along with the chicken wings in front of him. His body is lax and his head is tilted towards the ceiling. He hasn't touched the food.
“For how long was I gone?”
“N…Not for long, don't worry about it. You should drink some water and eat. I can help you get home after you feel better.”
It's a bit awkward. Samjo starts munching on a drum in silence.
Dongrang drinks some fizzy water and his face is painted with a slight wince at the sensations of nausea and unadulterated stomach emptiness he gets.
Fortunately, the chicken is well-seasoned and tastes good, or something.
Well, it's hard to appreciate the complexity of its flavours when you're scarfing it down.
“Are you alright, Mr. Dongrang?”
His eyes are dull and foggy.
“I'm fine…I think I'm feeling better now. We can go in a bit.“
“I'll lend you my support if you cannot stand properly.“
“Mhm. I’ll see if I need it.“
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Spectacularly, the madman is fully capable of hastily trudging towards the bus stop. His cool coat and multiple layers of torn up skirts quiver in the wind. He tries to push away any thoughts he may have and solely focus on the destination…
Following behind once again is the other guy, who is unfortunately his secretary. He's walking with his shoulders shrugged and he's wearing a puffy jacket on top of his suit and part of his face is obscured by its dark collar. His face vaguely brightens as an impulsive thought tugs at his mind.
I want to check his pulse.
Samjo's arm bends slightly and stretches outwards as he tries to reach out for his colleague's hand. His tendons stiffen upon realising the possible consequences of this action and slides his hand into his pocket.
Almost feeling a pang of regret, he exhales and watches the tiny cloud of warm air condense. He sneaks a glance in Dongrang's direction…his shoulders bunch up again.
At the same time, Dongrang glances back. His eyes express something strange, smeared with a tinge of sadism.
As if it has never existed, it's gone with a simple smile.
“You are allowed to stay for a few hours if you are too tired to get home.”
With that, the fleeting emotion melts away into the night.
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Dongrang's one-bedroom is far from showy in appearance; the almost overbearing white is accompanied by lots of beiges, browns and other light colours.
Nothing in particular breaks the monotony, other than a multitude of random plants placed haphazardly on the windowsill, each with tags, as well as a few old photographs collecting dust on the nightstand.
“Make yourself at home. The coat hanger is right behind you.”
Dongrang takes off his shoulder bag and hangs it on one of the prongs and unties his shoelaces. The bloodstained coat is going on a round-trip to the laundry basket. Samjo leaves his boots next to his, after zoning out for a moment.
“Where can I sit?”
A hand gestures towards an armchair facing a TV and then to the couch next to it.
“I'm going to take a healing tablet and change into my pyjamas, if that's fine with you.”
“It's fine. Tell me if you need help with anything.”
Dongrang half-heartedly takes an armful of clothing from under his pillow and drags himself into the bathroom, unwilling to change out of the pretty clothes that he only got to wear for close to two hours.
He lets his shabby pyjamas fall to the ground as he vacantly stares into the mirror. He rubs his glasses with a piece of cloth. He can vaguely make out some round shapes within the blurry surface, painted in cold colours.
Yet again, he's led astray inside a parallel dimension.
If only you knew how worthless you were.
Some water fills a third of the elephant mug that typically sits on the side of the sink.
The waves are slow to ebb. Many patches of green algae and alien-looking sea anemones litter the coastline. He steps out of the wet sand and distances himself from the chalky sea foam, not looking back.
The room is cold. How nice.
He steps into his sea bunny slippers and finds Samjo buried into the cushions of his armchair, paying 0 attention to him.
Dongrang inches closer.
A shadow slowly comes into Samjo's view as a figure clad in grey and white stripes towers over him.
The man doesn't even flinch.
He seems to be sorting and proofreading documents and, while Dongrang should admire his diligence, he concludes that he'd much rather either play some tabletop games with his secretary, drink some tea or have a lengthy, philosophical 6am(-ish) conversation.
…Or the last two combined.
Dongrang waits for a bit.
No response.
Hurt and devastated, he twirls, turns and leaves. Catching him in his peripheral vision, the busy bee cranks his neck up and looks over the armchair.
“I think that I'll have to take my leave shortly. Apologies for my intrusion…I count on the healing tablet to be in full effect with the help of some rest.”
“I insist that you stay over. The way back home must be exhausting after all that went down. Do you want to serve some tea?”
“Hmmm. Ginseng, please…if possible.“
“Mhm. One moment.“
He fetches two of the kitschiest mugs in existence and two tea packets, connects the water heater to a port and comfortably sits on the floor.
He's leaning on his arm and facing away from Samjo…who isn't exactly sure of what to do but quietly empty his mind and stare into a tiny dot on his broad back.
Well, tea is served! After 5 minutes,of course.
One mug has a wonky guitar as a handle and the other is decorated with archaic illustrations of teddy bears, flower bouquets and balloons. “Happy birthday, mom!” is written in comic sans bold italic. Naturally, the first one is meant for the guest, who is curious about how wacky the rest of the crockery is on a scale from 1 to 15 but decides not to inquire for the time being.
Dongrang's hand is freezing cold, so Samjo nearly flinches when given the beverage.
He takes in the golden shade of the ginseng tea and his muddled reflection, obscured by a steady stream of steam.
Dongrang takes a seat next to him and sluggishly lowers his head to let the fragrance of the tea sink in. Despite his glasses getting foggier and foggier little by little, he doesn't take them off to clean them. Meanwhile, Samjo's are decorating his birdnest.
As the two wait for the tea to cool down, they don't make any eye contact whatsoever…and don't talk about anything either. And so, they fall into a balmy silence.
Abruptly, the tenant gets up after an unclear amount of sweet time.
“The tablet should be metabolised in a few hours. I'm going to doze off for a bit. Goodnight.“
“Uhmn…goodnight, Mr. Dongrang?“
Dongrang languidly waves at him and slinks away. He switches the lights off, blindly reaches out to put his glasses on the nightstand and pulls a thick, fern green quilt with flower motifs over himself.
Speechlessly, Samjo stares at his colleague as he serenely goes to bed.
The visitor awkwardly wonders if he should pick his stuff and leave without a word, but he physically cannot get up.
After glaring at the couch for a bit, he reluctantly slides down his reading glasses and returns to formatting text on his tablet.
Unsurprisingly, the paragraph in front of his eyes looks like an extended family of ants circulating on different car lanes with no clear destination in mind…
He's overworked as well, but at least the weekend is free, since he's crammed many hours in very few days and, as a result, his neurons have ceased all proper function. They're completely fried. Charred, even. Beyond self-repair. Nothing can help his neurons recover.
Originally, he had hoped to spend the weekend playing MMORPGs at home but here he is. At Dongrang's. Trying to complete some boring tasks he can postpone for a day or two.
This is his first time visiting a colleague from work. As part of a group, they've all been to restaurants on numerous occasions, but this informal setting seems to negatively affect his poor heart in lieu of his liver.
Deep breaths.
His sluggish brain cogs start to spin yet again, albeit loudly screeching, as he thoroughly draws circles into his temples.
He bottles up a deep sigh.
It might be a terrific idea to put his puzzling assortment of silly and imature thoughts on the backburner and actually get something done, regardless of how scant the amount.
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Dongrang is well-rested because of the pill’s effects, but doesn't feel like waking up yet…Maybe he can fall asleep again.
Feeling uncomfortable and stuffy for no apparent reason, he tosses and turns for a bit.
Tough luck.
He stretches his body under the blanket, exhales sharply and rolls out of bed. 10am.
He rises to his feet and looks over to his snoring subordinate. With exaggerated movements, he robotically marches forward and holds in a derisive snort.
Samjo is stuck in a metaphorical glue trap, his colleague's extremely comfortable armchair, with the company-issued tablet in his lap, arms limp and his head lolled sideways, pressed into the cushion. His reading glasses are resting just below his nasal bridge and he's drooling. Looks peaceful…And particularly stupid.
The manager decides to capture this silly moment.
This picture is going into my gallery.
His eyelids droop.
And I’m sticking it on his desk.
His gaze lingers on the picture for a prolonged moment.
The lack of expressiveness on his face cannot betray the whirlpool of irrational grief, loneliness, self-hatred and unpleasant warmth that crashes over him simultaneously after only a short night out and an inadequate amount of sleep.
It's foreign, abstract…I don't like it.
It's all billowy.
He gazes at the picture too fondly for his liking.
A briny taste wells up in his dry mouth.
He grits his teeth. His aqueous humour threatens to melt away and overflow.
Foreign sensations ink shaky landmarks into the map of his scattered nerves, on the blurry line separating the expanse of navy blue and the barren shore.
He's already got enough obsolete concerns to waste his energy pondering upon and, therefore, resolves to fend off the irrational giddiness that pricks at the tips of his fingers.
These are not sensations he's willing to go through ever again, so he should learn to take care of himself moving forward; lest caterpillars start munching on the insides of his stomach and bloom into white butterflies.
After all, love is the loss of ego.