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The priest's — Seokwoo, if he remembers correctly — hand is cold as it comes to rest on the side of his ribcage, holding him steady as he applies more water on his wounds, and Sanghyuk shivers, groans — forgets all about it when the wet towel is pressed upon his left shoulder blade, and hisses.
'This one hurts?'
Seokwoo's voice is gentle, strangely calming — Sanghyuk had noticed it earlier, but now that they sit alone and he's the one tending to his wounds, Sanghyuk feels he can witness its effect fully. It echoes against the walls of the private infirmary they sit in, reaches Sanghyuk's body and asks if it can be let in, wants to settle into his heart. Sanghyuk isn't too sure if this place can be trusted, if this isn't just a way for them to get him, but — Seokwoo's voice is incredibly soothing, and Sanghyuk needs something to cling to as the hell imprinted on his back ruptures.
'Yes. Especially on the top part of it.'
Seokwoo doesn't answer — never does, Sanghyuk has come to realise since he arrived, after the many explanations he had to give when he arrived, after being led here and there and being told this and that. Seokwoo is quiet, never says more than what he's supposed to say. Sanghyuk wonders, if in this place too they vowed to be silent in order to please the being that stands above them.
'We don't. We are free to talk whenever we want.'
Sanghyuk cranes his neck, out of habit — is immediately forced to look forward by Seokwoo's hand, pushing his head to the right, away from the vague silhouette Sanghyuk could make out if he squinted hard enough.
'You asked the question out loud,' Seokwoo explains, as if him knowing Sanghyuk meant to be silent is supposed to reassure Sanghyuk.
His fingers graze Sanghyuk's skin, gently poke the wound Sanghyuk said hurts — caress it, almost, and Sanghyuk forgets to care about the sixth sense Seokwoo seems to have, takes the rope of conversation that's been edging towards him.
'How do you honor your god, then?'
Fingers replaced by the towel, surplus of water trickling down Sanghyuk's back — Seokwoo's hand, holding him steady once again.
'We love each other. We love everyone. We forbid harm. We help. We forgive.'
'Sounds heavenly.'
More water, this time running down from Sanghyuk's shoulder — mostly down his back, but a few droplets reach his collarbone, roll down his chest. Sanghyuk lets them, watches as they fall and fall and fall — lets their transparency, their apparent purity cleanse his mouth from the bitter taste of blood, and his soul from the bitter taste of pain.
'We only apply what was taught to the very first people that met Them. We only apply how They lived, and how They left this world.'
'With kindness?'
Seokwoo pokes at a wound on his spine, tenderly rubs a spot at its left.
'It's more complicated than that,' he says. 'But I guess kindness would be a good summary.'
He doesn't add more, remains silent — and Sanghyuk, a little lost in the memories he has of his now former monastery, doesn't attempt to catch the rope now sliding out of his hands, lets the conversation die. He thinks, as Seokwoo cleans his back, and inspects each and every wound of his; only pays attention to the fingers and towel touching him from to time; swims in the questions the priests of his former home left forever unanswered, and the answers he believes might be true, or might not — how could he know, after all?
The room they are seated in isn't especially large: as a private infirmary, it is only here to contain what is necessary to fulfill its primary function of being there for the ill, and granting the privacy that cannot be given in a sickroom — it does exactly what is asked of it, and allows nothing more than that. But it looks decent, nice, even: though the air that seeps through the cracks of its bricks is cold, the stone is finely carved, looks soft to the touch, and the few paintings hung here and there, represent holy scenery rather than people, holy details rather than ensembles. A comforting sight, compared to the martyrs who glared at Sanghyuk from every wall of the monastery, who seemed to snicker as the archduke whipped him — things he does not miss at all, that he would much rather forget.
There is a sound outside of the room: a light knock on the door, and a figure appearing in the doorway after Seokwoo whispers a yes — a tall, almost white-haired man, holding a bowl in his left hand. He does not look at Sanghyuk, does not even look at Seokwoo — he simply walks into the room, and lays the bowl on the table before the pair, announces 'it' is ready, then leaves, as silent as Seokwoo, returning to the life he leads into this place.
Sanghyuk considers making a comment, sarcastically asking Seokwoo if they're all this talkative here — but he thinks it would not be fair to do so, would be akin to spitting in his face. If it had not been for this place, he would be on his way to purgatory by now.
'What's it?' he asks instead, curious but unable to be afraid, Seokwoo's gentle touch having proven to be even more calming than the man's voice.
'Unguent,' Seokwoo replies. 'For your wounds.'
He stands, knees slightly cracking as he does so, his robe rustling as he steps towards the table, picking up the bowl and in exchange laying down the small bucket of water and the towel he was using — Sanghyuk watches, and doesn't pay attention to how cold his back suddenly seems to be, ignores how dry it suddenly feels — he gazes at Seokwoo, shamelessly, and examines his every move, looks him up and down as he comes back.
'Look forward,' Seokwoo gently reprimands him as he once more sits behind him, laying the bowl and the pale green substance that lies in it next to him.
Sanghyuk obeys, immorally hopes to God this is indeed an unguent, and not something meant to hurt him.
'It'll feel a little cold,' Seokwoo says, once more as if he could hear his thoughts, 'but this is as good as it gets. This will relieve your pain.'
Cold turns out to be fresh, pleasantly so as Seokwoo applies the strange, thick pomade on Sanghyuk's skin, and Sanghyuk barely contains a shiver, focuses on how, indeed, good it feels on his wounds, covering them, giving him the impression that they're closing up, that the pain he’s felt so far was only his imagination playing tricks on him. A light scent accompanies the unguent, sugary but not too much, and Sanghyuk closes his eyes to better take in the comfort he is being given, the relief he is now experiencing.
'They didn't spare you at all,' Seokwoo says suddenly, as he covers a wound by the right side of Sanghyuk's ribcage. 'These will become scars.'
Sanghyuk shrugs. Knew already, as he was being beaten. Had figured he would die before the wounds would even start healing — he doesn't really care.
'It's fine,' he says. 'After all, I don't have eyes there. I won't be able to see it.' A pause, during which he thinks his words through, suddenly realises something. 'I imagine I owe you an apology, then. For showing you a back this ugly.'
'No, do not say that. The pain you go through should not be something for which you apologise.'
How kind, Sanghyuk thinks, and he suppresses what could be a smile — as expected, of these peculiar people.
They remain silent, but only for a little while: soon Seokwoo's fingers desert Sanghyuk's back, and he rises, once again, puts the bowl back on the table.
'Come,' he says, and he offers Sanghyuk a hand, helps him up when Sanghyuk takes it. 'The unguent has to dry a little, so you will have to walk around like that as I take you to your room. Is that alright with you?'
Sanghyuk looks down at his chest, wonders how his back looks. Not good, probably, but it isn't as if he can do something about it. So what, if he has to do a walk of shame? He isn't planning on staying here forever.
But still — Sanghyuk nibbles on his bottom lip, suddenly feels insecure. Today is not his best day, look-wise.
'Most of our people are asleep at this time of the day,' Seokwoo adds, softly. 'The ones who are awake during this time are used to this kind of sight. But, if you wish,' Seokwoo gestures to a bed Sanghyuk had failed to notice, pushed against a wall, 'you can spend the night here. I will bring you fresh clothes in the morning.'
No, Sanghyuk (his pride) wants to say, take me to my room — but it seems even his pride has been whipped and thrown to the wolves, it seems even it has been shattered.
'If you don't mind,' he finds himself saying, requesting. He opens his mouth to say more, but he doesn't know how to word himself, doesn't even know why he feels so weak out of the sudden, cannot explain the discreet, yet heavy urge to be alone.
Seokwoo seems to notice, like he has been doing since they met.
'You don't need to explain yourself,' he says, and he gently leads Sanghyuk to the bed, lets go of his hand then. 'Do you wish to be woken up at a certain time?'
'I- no, no. Or- maybe before noon? Yes, before noon. Please.'
'Alright. A little before noon it is.'
And Seokwoo smiles, for the very first time — it is barely visible, with the shadows the feeble light projects on his face, the hint of something that could be much bigger; but Sanghyuk's knees give the slightest shake, his heart almost seems to skip a beat — perhaps this is why he does so little: if he were to speak more, if he were to smile constantly, it would be harmful for the rest of humanity.
The sight remains on Sanghyuk's mind, even after Seokwoo has left, after telling him not to sleep on his back, to make sure nothing comes into contact with the unguent — it sits on the back of his mind as he tries to find a somewhat decent position to sleep in, as he starts thinking and overthinking everything, remembering everything that happened today, fearing what might become of tomorrow. It is all too stressful, has him unable to sleep — as if his soul knew, it allows the memory of Seokwoo smiling to haunt him, and lets it pull every occupied part of his brain down with it. It all drowns into nothingness, into something that does not mean anything to him — but his entire body relaxes, and his eyelids close on their own.
The scent of the unguent lingers, even in his dreams — and he could swear that Seokwoo's touch does the same: he wakes to the softest caress on his nape, the gentlest ruffling of his hair. Could not tell what time of the day it is, even if it were a question of life and death.
Doesn't need to: there are knocks on the door minutes later, and someone enters the room. Dark brown locks, finely arranged messily, a face gaunter than Sanghyuk remembers — but a smile he could recognise in a crowd of a thousand people, at only a single glance.
'It is a little before noon,' Seokwoo announces. 'Will you come, this time?'