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It started with the wine. Soobin should start with the wine.
It’s generous to call it that, anyway. Yeonjun had gotten his hands on some Riesling and a minute-long video on making blueberry wine, and stormed into Soobin’s apartment hollering for blueberries, wearing the one pair of sneakers he owns that squeak with every step he takes.
Soobin hadn’t actually had any in his house. He’d had blueberry ice cream, which Yeonjun ate while Soobin spent ￦47,980 for same day delivery of a single, precious box of blueberries. The wonders of Capitalism.
So, to be more specific, it started with the wine, a box of blueberries, and ￦47,980. And Yeonjun, because every bad idea and decision in Soobin’s life has something to do with Yeonjun. Soobin likes to think that the reason he can’t get rid of him is cosmic intervention.
Yeonjun isn’t really the best at following instructions, explaining why they end up sitting in front of Soobin’s couch, drinking wine with so many blueberries in it they’re basically chewing what’s meant to be drunk. They tried to fiddle with the TV, but Yeonjun’s ex had changed her password and neither of them could force the other to call their parents for Netflix , so they ended up watching animal videos on Soobin’s phone with the volume as loud as it would go.
The consequence of them chewing on the wine, tragically, is that Soobin really forgets how much he drinks. Which meant that it was eight p.m on a Thursday evening, and Soobin couldn’t tell how many fingers Yeonjun had , let alone how many he’d held up.
Soobin now bitterly realizes that was probably his plan all along. But Yeonjun, who has the impulse control of a seventeen-year-old and a weakness for alcohol the size of his ego, also ended up absolutely hammered. Which looked something like this:
“Binnie.”
“Hm?”
“ Ray coon.”
“No, No. Ra coon.”
“ Retcon .”
“ No. ”
-And so on. Or that’s what Soobin estimates, at least. He doesn’t remember much of anything after a certain point.
And that brings him to now, tucked inside one of the cabinets in his kitchen, pots and pans strewn all over to floor and his calves touching the floor. He sees a tuft of Yeonjun’s hair poking out from the other side of the island counter, and the soles of his shoes at the other end.
Soobin notices his chest feels a little breezy through the grogginess, making goosebumps break out over his skin. He looks down in horror and finds exactly what he feared: His shirt ripped open at the buttons, and scrawls of permanent marker lining it all over. He squeezes out of the cabinet and stands up, headache pressing outwards on his skull like a toddler filling a water balloon.
He nearly slips on the tile as soon as he takes a step, noting a greasy feeling all over the soles of his feet, and swears. Crossing over the side of the island counter, he finds Yeonjun face down, shirtless, with his shoes off of his feet and standing upright against the side of the island. Soobin wipes his feet on Yeonjun's back, also checking for movement of his chest. Yeonjun is, simultaneously relieving and regrettable, still breathing. For the best, probably. Soobin doesn't want to have to find a place to dump him.
He steps out of the kitchen and makes a beeline for the bathroom, spotting his phone on the couch at the entrance and wincing when he sees a mess of blueberries strewn over the glass coffee table and the carpet beneath it. It takes him a second, but eventually he can recognize the shape that was attempted―a very poor rendition of his face, only recognizable by the large ears.
Despite himself, Soobin feels his mouth slip into a smile. With Yeonjun comatose on his kitchen floor, he doesn't have to worry about letting it fall off, so he keeps it until he reaches the bathroom. He can already see Yeonjun's face wash fallen once more, leaning on the soap holder on the sink counter, and the rest of his products again stuffed into Soobin's skincare basket. He doesn’t even live here , Soobin thinks despairingly.
He turns to look at the mirror, scanning himself up and down. The sight is worse than he feared; A streak of Yeonjun's lip tint scars over his face, starting at the mole in the corner of his eye to the underside of his jaw on the other side. His hair is glued down on the right of his head into a matted nest (with butter, he realizes with horror after staring at the yellow mass that clings to it), and his shoulders have long, nasty scratches that tilt into his neckline to rip his shirt open.
Soobin can't say he liked the shirt particularly, too up-tight and a shade of red Yeonjun called atrocious, but he is sad to see it go. He thinks it might be one that his mother got him right before he left for college. Something about ‘bad influences’ and ‘modern fashion’.
The worst part, however, is what lies on his chest. When he looks straight down, the scribbles are illegible, merely sharpie that could almost pass for the chest hair he so desperately lacks. But when reflected in the mirror, Soobin can see the proper shapes of the letters, written by his own hand.
Owe Yeonjun.
Soobin wonders if it’s too late to move countries. He thinks Iceland might be wonderful this time of year.
As if answering his question with a resolute negative, Soobin hears the telltale ruckus of Yeonjun rising in the kitchen, a multitude of pained groans and a single echo of a strike against something metal. Soobin muffles a snort at the sound of Yeonjun’s yelp, still reeling from the text inked (temporarily) into his body.
He gets an idea as he stares at the supplies in front of him, soap and water and the towel Yeonjun bought him for his face that he’s never actually used. If he’s fast enough, he can erase the evidence, leave the memory of his debt drowned by alcohol and lecithin-smoothed suds.
Soobin works fast, hearing Yeonjun begin to crawl out of the kitchen. He soaks the towel, squeezing out the excess carelessly and almost squirting some into his eye, and rubs the soap hard into the fabric. Two seconds, Yeonjun stumbling on the carpet, nothing. Three seconds, Yeonjun choking (he thinks) on blueberries, nothing. Five seconds, and Soobin finally sees froth bubble up on the surface of the towel. He throws the soap down, wincing as the side of it flattens against the counter and slides off and into the trash can, and goes to rub at his chest.
The moment the towel meets his skin, he hears, “Soobinie?”, and knows he’s doomed.
“Hyung,” Soobin greets, setting the towel down in defeat, and turns to look. Yeonjun stands in the doorway, leaning on the frame, front exposed and covered in frankly concerning marks. “Can you pretend I’m not here?”
Yeonjun’s eyes slide down, taking in the water that pools in Soobin’s navel, and reading the flipped text right off of Soobin’s chest. Soobin curses Yeonjun’s backwards brain as he sees the slow smirk spreading over his face, “Absolutely not. What’cha doing, Schrodinger?”
“Nothing,” Soobin groans, pulling the towel away and throwing it at Yeonjun’s face. He misses almost embarrassingly, instead hitting the edge of Yeonjun’s pectoral with enough force that Yeonjun jumps back and cradles his chest like he got punched. “Sorry.”
“Whatever.” Yeonjun huffs, rubbing the forming welt, “Wanna hear what you’re gonna do for me?”
“No.”
“Too bad. You have no choice,” Yeonjun deadpans, before stepping back out of the bathroom. “Take a shower, I’ll tell you later.”
Soobin watches, dumbfounded, as Yeonjun locks the door and shuts himself out. The butter on his head starts dripping down his neck, making him shiver.
I’m fucked , Soobin thinks, and takes off his ruined shirt.
‘Later’ is somewhat dampened by the fact that as soon as Soobin comes out of the shower, he finds Yeonjun groaning in pain on top of the couch, clutching his head and crushing a few rogue blueberries. He takes advantage of it, throwing Yeonjun into the bathroom for his own shower, and gets ready to go out as soon as he can.
He’s got one foot out the door of the building when he feels the wind get knocked out of him, the distinct feeling of a Gucci G digging into his back cluing him in that he doesn’t, in fact, have to put his occasional boxing lessons to use.
“ Hyung ,” Soobin bemoans, gearing himself up to carry Yeonjun on his back, already not looking forward to the interestingly-shaped bruise he’s going to find from Yeonjun’s stupid bag, “Why. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“I’m not letting you get away with nothing,” Yeonjun cackles, hoisting himself up properly, “On to the studio, dumbass.”
Soobin grimaces. Of course, the studio. He should’ve known Yeonjun would pick up on his hesitance to return. At least it’s not too far away―a couple of blocks, at most.
“Is that it?” he asks, barely a murmur as he starts walking. Yeonjun pinches his arm.
“Nah,” Yeonjun says nonchalantly, “I just wanna finish this one track.”
Soobin grumbles, “Then what?”, before remembering he doesn’t really want to know. Yeonjun seems to enjoy his slip up immensely, giggling in the same way he does after drinking a few shots of soju.
“Then comes lunch, and then I tell you.”
Soobin’s stomach swirls, “I can’t believe you’re already thinking about lunch.”
“ Gopchang , Soobin-ah,” Yeonjun stresses, tightening his knees on Soobin’s waist. The G digs deeper into Soobin’s flesh, “ I want it, I got it -”
Soobin mournfully walks like that, with Yeonjun singing directly into his ear and his weight on Soobin’s back, approaching the studio he’s been avoiding with the same fervor he puts off his Psych work during his courses.
Soobin sticks to Yeonjun inside the studio, pulling up his hood to cover his face as best as he can. Thankfully, he seems to pass undetected, but the fear has him zoning out the entire time, looking over his shoulders as Yeonjun whines for him to pay attention. The hours crawl by, so slow that the anxiety in him skyrockets to the point that when they finally leave his arms and legs feel like jelly, and he collapses unsteadily into a seat of the gopchang place Yeonjun takes him to without a single clue as to how he managed to get there at all.
“Sheesh,” Yeonjun sniffs, deceptively unsympathetic if not for the way he pulls out his wallet while scanning the menu, “Do you want the combo, or are you not too hungry?”
Soobin feels his stomach clench into a particularly nasty growl. Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, “Combo it is.”
Yeonjun calls out for a waitress as Soobin wraps an arm loosely around his protesting abdomen and leans his head down on the table, extending the other arm until his fingers barely brush against Yeonjun’s hand, who tangles them together easy as breathing. When she arrives, a short brown-haired girl with a long cut and no bangs, Soobin can feel her eyes burning holes into their intertwined fingers.
He doesn’t care. Him and Yeonjun were always free with physical affection ( too free, his mother would say. Soobin tries to forget the very intense asking of is it...you know , or are you two … every few weeks), and while Yeonjun is the wildest pansexual Soobin thinks he will ever meet in his entire life, Soobin himself doesn’t really know .
(“ I probably love you ,” he’d told Yeonjun once, causing him to choke on a piece of tteok , “ But I don’t know if it’s like that .”
“If you don’t know,” Yeonjun had coughed out, surprisingly serious, “It probably isn’t. Let me eat in peace, you scared the shit out of me.”
Soobin bit his lips for a few minutes before Yeonjun piped up again, “I love you too, you know. I know it’s not that way, though. Don’t think about it too hard.”
Months later, a girl asks Soobin out right before school. He remembers the pretty butterfly hair clip on her side-bang, and the way her eyes drooped happily when he said yes.
He’d never seen her before in his life.
They date for a while, and he thinks she’s sweet and kind and cute enough, even though he feels no sparks when she smiles at him, nor when their pinkies twist together when walking home.
Soobin can’t help but feel like he might be broken when she dumps him after their first kiss, saying she feels more like a friend than his girlfriend.)
“What drink do you want, Binnie?” Yeonjun asks, playing with his knuckles. Soobin murmurs out a vague cola , feeling his eyelids sink heavily. The light hangover he sported that morning is nothing compared to the drum behind his temples as he feels a wave of indescribable fatigue settle over him.
He’s almost forgotten what he’d been dreading. Yeonjun digs his index finger meanly into Soobin’s forehead, and says, “Let’s talk business.”
“Do we have to?” Soobin hums, bargaining, “I’ll buy you lunch if you just forget about it.”
“No,” Yeonjun answers cheerily, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing like you going on dating apps, or anything. I don’t think it’s that bad, myself.”
“You don’t think anything is bad,” Soobin complains, before reconsidering, “Unless it’s-”
“Ohhh kay ,” Yeonjun pokes Soobin’s head harder, snapping his fingernail into his hairline. Soobin’s head swings in pain as Yeonjun grits his teeth, “Just listen.”
“Fine,” Soobin rolls his eyes, sitting up and gesturing for him to continue. Yeonjun claps.
“I want you ,” he grins, eyes sharpening in mischief, “To go to the Lab.”
Soobin’s blood freezes. The waitress comes by with the sizzling stack of food, smiling at them in mild confusion as Yeonjun happily digs in with a polite murmur while Soobin just stares blankly into space.
“The Lab?” Soobin gasps out when she leaves, “You mean- there? ”
“Yuh,” Yeonjun shrugs, chewing aggressively and then swallowing in a feat that Soobin is surprised doesn’t disfigure his throat, “Easy, right? The place’s as abandoned as it gets. No pressure.”
“ Yeonjun-Hyung ,” Soobin hisses, cold annoyance chilling his teeth, “That’s private property! I can’t just break in .”
“It’s not like anyone will know you did it. Didn’t I give you that black face mask a while ago? You can use that if you’re really worried.”
Soobin feels a little lightheaded, “You’re asking me to commit a crime . And―why?”
“I want you to try something out there, for once. You’ve been cooped up too long after what happened.” Yeonjun volunteers, merciless, “Also, I want you to bring me something cool. Like a syringe, or something. Experiments.”
Something cool , Soobin thinks hysterically, he’s crazy . He says as much, making Yeonjun frown.
“You’re literally just walking into an unused building,” he pouts, “Don’t be so-”
“ So what? Reasonable? Pardon me for not being into federal crimes,” Soobin growls, “I can’t believe you even suggested this.”
Yeonjun twists up the side of his lip, “Nothing bad is gonna happen. All you have to do is walk inside, find a cool room, take a few pictures, get a souvenir, and walk right back out. Even if there’s any cameras, you can wear a mask, and there’s no one to care enough for what you take.”
“Absolutely crazy,” Soobin insists, picking up his chopsticks and spearing a piece of tripe from the center, “I’m not doing it.”
Yeonjun stares at him while Soobin eats, face flattening out into something unreadable. He tries to eat, considering the conversation done, but the weight of Yeonjun’s eyes on him is hard to ignore.
“If you don’t do this,” Yeonjun finally says, low and not exactly threatening, but with no room for debate, “Then I’m telling Changbinie exactly where his favorite vocalist went, and you won’t be allowed to walk away.”
Soobin swallows hard. He remembers the last time he saw Changbin ( tears, a broken flash drive, “I can’t do this,” and a door slamming shut behind Soobin) and weighs his options. Would he rather face him, or possible incarceration for trespassing and theft for god-knows how long?
The answer is easy. He knows Yeonjun knows he’s won when Soobin sighs, rubbing a hand against his temple.
“Fine,” he breathes, “Tell me when.”
The grin Yeonjun gives him is absolutely blinding.
Judgement Day, as Yeonjun calls it, is the following week; Saturday, late in the evening (“For ambiance, Bin.”) near the outskirts of the city. The secluded, wooded area isn’t too far from civilisation, only appearing that way because of the amount of trees surrounding the small field and the innocuous concrete building near the center.
“I can’t do this,” Soobin murmurs anxiously into his phone, mask pulled down to his chin, “Hyung, why don’t you come and go in with me-”
“ No ,” Yeonjun’s voice buzzes through the receiver, exasperated, “You can do this. You’ll be fine.”
“If you were here-”
“I said no .”
“But-”
“Jeez, Bin, I thought consent meant more to you,” Yeonjun exclaims, exaggerated enough that Soobin can only just register the genuine frustration in the way his voice breaks right at the end, “I’m hanging up and calling Changbin if you really can’t.”
Soobin gulps, not exactly feeling braver, but a hell of a lot more determined, “No! I mean, Okay, you don’t have to do that.”
“I still do have to hang up,” Yeonjun jokes, “Promise me you won’t chicken out? I’ll know if you just go to a pharmacy.”
Soobin curses Yeonjun for knowing him so well, “I promise.”
“Good,” Yeonjun laughs, giggly, “That’s all, now. See ya on the flip side.”
“See-” Click . “...ya.”
Soobin shudders, putting his phone back into his pocket as a chilly wind weaves through the trees and presses his hoodie into his skin. He pulls up his mask, sensation returning to his nose and lips as he feels his breathing warm up his face. The stout, sprawling gray building sits patiently, like an eldritch horror on a dog leash, waiting to be taken out on a walk.
Soobin wrings his hands together and starts walking. His legs cover ground quickly, shuffling through the tall grass and bending it out of his way, until he’s standing in front of one of the many odd entrances he’s heard about. The Lab has no main entrance, he knows, only various sets of side doors strewn all over the perimeter of the wings of the two-story facility. He’s heard of people who test each door, finding a different one unlocked each night.
It only takes him two tries to find one that works, a satisfying click of a knob in a sharp corner underneath a floating tunnel that connects two different areas. Soobin opens the door carefully, pulling his hoodie closer over his eyes and peeking into an admittedly dark hall that he can see intersect another at the end.
“Here goes,” he mutters, bending down and picking up a rock that he lodges in the lock (he’s not getting locked in, thank you) and hauling himself inside. He thanks the presence of mind to bring gloves and a flashlight as he wanders in deeper, running a hand along the wall until he reaches the next hall. Both sides look like they lead places, so Soobin makes the executive decision to turn right, following that hall for a while.
It all goes the same, for the most part, with Soobin marvelling at the surprising lack of graffiti or disarray, occasionally stumbling into locked rooms that he doesn’t dare try to open. He keeps track of where he’s come from, a bad feeling blooming in his gut the deeper he goes.
It’s only when he finally finds a door that’s unlocked, labelled with the number 304 , after walking for what feels like hours, that he realizes where the bad feeling comes from. As the door creaks open, Soobin realizes he hasn’t needed to use his flashlight for some time now.
The lights are on.
The moment he notices, all the hairs on his body stand on end. Abandoned , he thinks, No one here. If no one’s here, Hyung, who’s paying the electricity bill?
There is no answer, not even from an imaginary Yeonjun. Soobin debates turning back, heading right out the way he came and pretending he never saw anything at all, but something holds him rooted to the spot as he peeks into the newly open room.
It resembles a sort of operating room, with a long table in the middle and tools and sinks and so many things that Soobin can’t even begin to imagine the purpose of sitting on the sidelines. On one side, Soobin spots a series of desks, with a few computers lying off on top and filing drawers underneath. To the right, he spots another door, open only a crack.
Soobin takes out his phone on autopilot, snapping pictures of everything he can find. The table, the instruments, the computer, the files in the cabinet, the number of the door… It’s almost therapeutic, until he reaches the inner door, the one slightly open.
Soobin almost feels like it could be inviting him inside. He doesn’t want to accept the invitation.
However, greatly embarrassing as it is to him, Yeonjun has rubbed off on Soobin in their twenty-something odd years of friendship. So Soobin momentarily powers down his frontal lobe, sliding his feet forward on the surprisingly clean floor until his hand comes to rest on this inner door. The little tag on it isn’t as fancy as the one that goes straight to the hall, this one reading B-01 with slight wear around the numbers. From the small crack he can see a bit of a flickering yellowish light, and a shift in the floor from a flat concrete into a tile that reminds him a bit of a shower floor.
Soobin tries to push the door open, but his fingers only twitch and rest against it slightly. He hesitates. A little nervous pull swells underneath his stomach, making him sway, and the shift in his gravity moves his hand enough that the momentum pushes against the door and makes it swing open anyway.
When he can finally force his eyes to actually look inside, his stomach bubbles, a small gag bouncing up his throat.
A tall, glass tank sits at the other end of the room, surrounded by computers and monitors displaying the vitals of what lies inside. All over the floor lie little metal drains, and two valves line the bottom of the tank with two small levers beside them, and a sealed fissure of a door on the side of it. There are three light fixtures inside the room, only one of which is actually working, bathing the room in the same flickering yellow Soobin had noticed through the door.
As for the tank, well…
Something- Some one is suspended inside it, floating in a light green liquid that of which the texture doesn’t look quite right. Their hair floats in the unidentifiable liquid, eyes mostly closed, enough that Soobin would think they were asleep were they not looking straight at him. A large contraption is crammed into their mouth and nostrils, presumably to make sure they can breathe, and all over their body Soobin can see small wires linking to the tank, as well as tubes attached to the veins in their elbows where an IV would go.
The sight would bring him to his knees, but the closer he looks at the ground, he sees dry dark spots and flecks that force him to stay upright. He leans heavily on the door, staring, as the floating figure gives him a slow, painful-looking blink.
Their hand comes up to the glass, swirling up the liquid although the speed of it isn’t even all that great, and their fingertips meet it with a tiny, dulled sound, barely a tink .
Soobin gets a feeling this is their way of saying hello.
He spares a glance behind him, looking back into the examination room―how sinister the tools look now, with their sharp, clean edges and sterile handles―and thinking to himself if it’s not too late to make a run for it. The only one who would know is this floating person, he reasons, nothing to fear. He could turn around and just leave, and nothing would change. Maybe he could grab one of the tools, to satisfy Yeonjun, and finish this then and there.
Another tink . Damn it all , Soobin thinks, turning back around and taking a few wobbly steps towards the tank. The Person’s eyes are open much wider now, larger than he thought and staring at him with a surprising amount of what Soobin pins as joy.
It only takes him a few steps, long as his legs are, to make it all the way up. Soon enough he’s looking at them almost directly in line, because even though they’re floating a few inches above the bottom of the tank it seems Soobin is still tall enough for the advantage to be moot. He gets a good look at their face, now, at the distorted outline of their lashes and the machine that obscures half of their face.
They have high cheekbones, and if it’s not a trick of the light, long lashes to go with them. Their hair is some light color, darkened with moisture, while their skin looks a shade of camo through the coloured liquid. Their eyes are almost completely black, save for a sliver of some unidentifiable color in one of the corners of their irises. And it’s those eyes that keep Soobin looking, the way they seem to regard him with a sort of resigned, happy curiosity, like they know exactly what he’s been thinking all the way since he first stepped into the building and can’t blame him for what he’s thought.
Their hand is still pressed up against the glass, surprisingly small when he sees it unchanged by the curve of the glass and the liquid holding them up. Almost reflexively Soobin brings his own to match, pressing it flat against the convex layer and flinching at the sheer cold of it. When their hands line up, Soobin sees their fingers are a knuckle and a half shorter than his, palm barely showing up in the spaces between his own fingers.
After he manages to look away from the sight, he’s greeted again by the dark-eyes-with-a-spot, this time flooded by something inscrutable yet indescribably sad . It makes him a little hollow, punches the breath out of him to look into their pupils blown wide, before he realizes there’s an odd overlay. His own reflection is lying on top of their face, eyes lining up as best as they can. A chill runs down his spine.
When he manages to focus back in on them, they scan his face for a moment. Soobin can feel their eyes draw over his features, feeling a bit self conscious. Objectively, he thinks, they’re beautiful, and to have someone like that look at his masked face and crusty eyes makes him feel shy and ridiculous.
It doesn’t get any better when they go back to making eye contact. If anything, it’s worse ; Soobin can barely hold it, something incomprehensible blooming in his chest as he once more tries to identify what he’s seeing.
Funny , Soobin thinks, though it isn’t at all, the light bit looks like the moon . They blink at him, a little lunar eclipse, and Soobin concludes that the unidentifiable emotion is not an emotion at all.
It is, instead, a plea. Begging for something not even they know.
Please, Soobin hears, clear as day. But nobody to say it, save...
Soobin swallows harshly, and he follows the plummet of a stone in his gut down into a crouch, and presses one of the levers of the valves. It takes around three seconds for it to open, but when it does it does so all at once, spewing a torrent of liquid all over his shoes, though it doesn’t feel slippery as he presses the other lever with a bit more bravado.
He hears a thump and sees the floating person crumple to the ground inside the tank as the level of liquid recedes exponentially, their arms reaching weakly for the machinery attached to their face. The ‘door’ hisses, and Soobin twists the small, subtle handle after palming around for it for a few seconds and slides it open as violently as he dares. He leans into the tank, thanking whatever friction gods are there that he can lift them without much trouble, and shuffles them out gently, taking care to avoid the wires.
He coaxes the breathing device out of their mouth and nose, and before he can even try to get them to speak Soobin realizes they’re unconscious, which is…not good. Nevermind the implications; it throws out whatever half-baked plan he’d had as he pressed the levers. He tries not to let the panic take over as he delicately starts popping the wires off their ( oh very much naked he hadn’t seen before oh no- ) body. Most come off neatly, having only been attached with a small piece of waterproof adhesive, while others come out with more of a slight bit of blood. What bothers him the most is the needles attached at the elbows, but thankfully there’s only a bit of bleeding that he solves by pressing their arms up as he picks them up once more.
He gulps, sidestepping the admittedly loud drains and wincing as the liquid drips onto the floor of the examination room, pushing his way past all the tables and drawers until he reaches the main door.
He shoulders it open, minding their feet as he makes it out of the room, and freezes when he looks up.
Soobin makes eye contact with someone for the second time in the evening, and this time it’s not through glass.
This new person is almost as tall as he is, with a head of brown hair and a soft face that does nothing to lessen the unbridled panic now coursing through Soobin’s veins. They’re wearing a lab coat, looking him up and down (his hoodie, and his mask, and he totally looks like a robber right now, which does not help at all ) as well as the person currently in their hands.
Tense, charged silence goes by. Soobin can distantly hear the trickle of liquid into the drains. The person’s hand reaches toward their back pocket, and Soobin is ready to run for it-
Then, as quick as can be, they shut the door and put an arm behind his shoulder, whispering in a low voice, “Go, go on.”
“W-what?” Soobin croaks out, before realizing it’s definitely not good to let the could-sue-him people know what he sounds like.
“I turned off the cameras,” they say, as if it makes sense, “I won’t be able to stay out too long, so just. Go!”
“Huh? You what?” Soobin manages to get out before they’re pushing him forward, forcing him to walk along the halls. He distantly recognizes it as the route he’d taken when coming in, “Who are you?”
“I just work here,” is what he gets, “Saw you come in and not leave. I would have reported you, but then you went there , and I saw―I just-”
Soobin doesn’t have much more time to question it. The hallways get darker and darker, and soon enough Soobin can’t see a thing. The stranger doesn’t even hesitate, leading him along until they turn left and go down a hall and Soobin sees the sliver of moonlight that pokes out from between the open door.
“Why?” Soobin asks, never meaning a question more in his life. The stranger pauses, blinking up at him like they’re not sure what he’s asking. “Why let me go?”
A few tense seconds. Then, a sigh: “It’s not for you. It’s for him .”
Soobin reasons they mean the limp figure currently in his hands. At least he gets pronouns.
“Do you know his name?” He asks lastly, as they open the door fully and knock the rock carefully out of the lock. They hum, as if contemplating, before answering.
“Beomgyu,” they say, pushing him out of the facility, prize in a tow, “Take care of him, will you? He’s a bit delicate.”
The door slams shut. Soobin hears it click definitively.
The forest is loud, suddenly, as Soobin looks around, trekking quickly through the grass of the field until he’s safely back in the underbrush. He takes the time to put the newly dubbed Beomgyu in his hoodie, shivering at the cool air running down his wet back and sticking his undershirt to his body, but feeling his skin warm up as he tucks Beomgyu well into the fabric to try to disguise his state of undress.
Soobin looks up, hoisting the newly well-dressed Beomgyu back into his arms, and grimaces.
It’s gonna be a long way home.
And it was, unsurprisingly. The sun was barely coming up on the horizon as Soobin finally squeezed into his apartment, thanking his lucky stars that he didn’t live in a complex with a receptionist of all things. Sneaking through back alleys and trying to avoid people while also carrying another person had taken up most of his time and energy, so much so that as he finally puts Beomgyu down on the couch he just kind of lies down next to it in a mini-catatonic state for all of his empty apartment to see. And empty it is, because he’d threatened Yeonjun with bodily harm if he found him in his apartment when coming back from the mission, which gives him just enough time to…
Soobin wakes up from an impromptu nap to violent knocking on his door, a burn in his arms, and an overwhelming sense of I cannot believe I just did that.
No rest for the weary , he thinks, confirming that Beomgyu is still passed out (and still very much naked save for his hoodie, his mind provides) before standing up and doing absolutely nothing about the fierce pain in his back and arms in favor of wandering to the door.
He opens it just enough to get Yeonjun’s hand poking through the gap like a cat’s paw, Yeonjun grunting in exertion as Soobin lays his entire bodyweight in renege of his entry, “Yo, the fuck, let me in. I brought donuts, dude!”
“They’ll have to be for later,” he says, even though he very much wants a donut right now, dangers be damned, “I’m tired, Hyung, I can’t do this right now.”
Yeonjun pauses, sensing a shift in Soobin’s usual tone and clearly gauging the merits of pressing his entry, “You sure? I got cream stuffed.”
For a brief moment, Soobin considers letting Yeonjun in, and explaining everything immediately. Then his mind flashes back to the very-much-not-decent-person in his living room, and thinks the better of it.
“I’m sure. I’ll call you when I don’t feel like I’m gonna turn to jello, and fill you in, okay?”
Yeonjun’s hand twitches inside the doorway for a few more seconds before receding, “‘Kay. But I’m eating the cream stuffed, then.”
“No you’re not,” Soobin denies, shutting the door to Yeonjun’s protesting squawk and locking it before any actual damage can be made. Ow, he thinks substantially, rubbing at his arms. Even just lifting them hurts. Thank god for his height advantage, or he wouldn’t have been able to push Yeonjun back enough to convince him.
Soobin wanders back into his living room to find everything exactly the way he left it. Table? Check. Couch? Check. Attractive unconscious individual wearing his clothes? Check.
The jokes practically write themselves , Soobin mourns, trudging to his kitchen and making a beeline for the freezer. He doesn’t have much ice cream left, just a quarter of a tub of the blueberry one that, in his honest opinion, started this whole mess. He feels a bit nauseous looking at the ice cream, but he pulls it out anyway, shucking a spoon into the tub and setting it on the living room table before going to fetch an extra pair of underwear for poor Beomgyu. And a set of pajama pants, that (despairingly enough) he has to lace up all the way to get them to fit. Whatever slime he’d gotten on the hoodie had long since crusted over, making him grimace at the probable total loss of the fabric.
After that, all he really can do is turn on the TV, and stuff himself with ice cream as he tries to process what the fuck just happened. He has a few moments where he feels like he might be going through all the stages of grief all at once, honestly.
It was one thing to find out that the Lab hadn’t been as abandoned as everyone―as the official documents―had said, and another entirely to find out they were apparently experimenting on people . But to take said person home? Soobin could barely recognize himself, and he was the one doing it.
He’s not even going to try to unpack the aid in his escape. That’s too much for now.
Yeonjun has always told him he has a bleeding heart, a habit he picks up from his father, according to Yeonjun and separately Soobin’s mother. He hadn’t really understood what he meant, however. Yeonjun had a funny way of defining a ‘bleeding heart’, and it showed when Soobin did something as simple as lean away from women on the bus to avoid creeping them out, and he proceeded to send line after line of messages about how well he’d taught him.
Weirdo. Soobin would say, It’s common courtesy . And usually, that was that.
But, he ponders through a mouthful of ice cream, eyes scanning over the sleeping form of Beomgyu, maybe there was some merit to the whole idea. But he doesn’t think a bleeding heart is the best descriptor. Maybe more of a-
A groan. Soobin pauses his train of thought for another time, staring intently at the sudden shift in Beomgyu while offhandedly turning off the television. His arms move a little, swinging this way and that as Beomgyu slowly rouses right before his eyes.
He sits up before even opening his eyes, funnily enough, leaning his back against the couch and settling against it almost like he plans on going back to sleep. But his eyes crack open, millimeter by millimeter, testing the waters and finding Soobin’s presence almost immediately.
Soobin, for his part, feels a spoonful of ice cream start to melt on his tongue as he maintains eye contact. No use pretending anything.
“Hello,” Soobin calls, making Beomgyu jump. He winces as Beomgyu’s eyes open wide, almost reminiscent of what he’d seen last night, but now clearer. They are, in fact, bigger than he’d thought, the lack of distortion showing the depth of the dark areas and the shiny light spot all the clearer. “Uh, Beomgyu, isn’t it?”
Beomgyu looks around, bemused, before turning back and pointing at himself. He opens his mouth, coughing a little, before muttering out a raspy little “Me?” that makes Soobin’s spine tighten.
“Yeah, you,” he responds, “That’s your name, right?”
After a moment of deliberation, Beomgyu nods, “Yes. Yes. I...forgot.”
“You forgot?” Soobin murmurs, narrowing his eyes, “Is that really it?”
Almost immediately, Beomgyu shakes his head, “So-Sorry. I didn’t know I had one. A real one.”
Oh . The pause before the stranger had said it makes sense now. Soobin thinks it was probably made up on the spot, or previously thought of and never used. The thought makes a knot wrap around his stomach.
“You have one now,” Soobin clarifies firmly, before adding a little more, “Choi Beomgyu. That’s you, okay?”
Beomgyu, truly astonishingly docile, nods, “Okay,” then falls silent.
Soobin is stumped. Where are the questions? The wonderings of Who what when where why ? The degree to which Beomgyu is taking this in stride is starting to be more concerning than comforting. For all he knows, Soobin isn’t any better of an option than his situation before.
Unless , Soobin thinks nauseatingly, he thinks anything is better than that .
“I’m Soobin,” he tries, fishing a bit for a response, “How old are you?”
“How old?” Beomgyu blinks a few times, round lips becoming a little questioning circle, “Twenty...Twenty four?”
“You’re a year younger than me, then,” Soobin pipes up, relieved. At least Beomgyu knows one thing about himself, and isn’t it depressing that he’s actually happy about it? “That means I’m your Hyung.”
Surprisingly, Beomgyu flinches, pulling up his bare feet and sinking them in the space between the cushions. “Hyung? You’re Soobin...Hyung? I thought you…”
“What is it?” Soobin prods gently, “Hyung is just Hyung.”
“Hyungs hurt me,” Beomgyu says stiffly, seeming to swallow something sour. He looks like he’d rather be caught dead than saying more, “Sangjun-hyung…”
Soobin gulps, ice flowing down his gullet and settling down in his belly. Hyungs hurt me.
“That’s not what we’re supposed to do,” he attempts to explain. He probably sounds a little patronizing, if he’s honest, but he’ll take it. “Being a Hyung to you means we’re supposed to help you. Not hurt. Yeah?”
“Oh,” Beomgyu huffs quietly, “So that’s a bad Hyung, then?”
Soobin hums in agreement, giving him what he hopes is an encouraging smile, “That Sangjun doesn’t deserve to be called Hyung.”
“Okay,” Beomgyu says, face clearing up into something brighter, but this time he doesn’t end it at that, “Where am I?”
“My―home,” Soobin half chokes, changing words at the last second. Something tells him home is a better word to use, here, than just a house.
“This is home?” Beomgyu asks for confirmation, blinking about the living room and peeking into the other rooms, “A home…”
He turns back to Soobin with a deathly serious face, and goes, “Thank you,” so deliberately Soobin has to hold back a laugh.
“For what?” he says instead, even though he kind of knows why it should be. It’s in the principle of the thing.
Beomgyu surprises him, however.
“For listening,” he says, eyes bright, moon flashing. Soobin gulps, rolling that around in his head for a moment. Beomgyu doesn’t seem like he’s talking about the current conversation.
He’d thought the Please he’d heard was his mind playing tricks on him, manifesting what he’d seen in Beomgyu’s eyes, but with this new context that kind of goes out the window.
“So you did…” He tries to say first, “Uh, how did you say things with the mask on?”
“How did I…” Beomgyu looks at him in surprise for a moment, before a metaphorical lightbulb moment snaps into place, and he points at his head, “With this.”
Soobin grits his teeth, “You mean you said it with your mind?”
Beomgyu nods. Soobin takes a large bite of ice cream, so as to not leave his mouth gaping.
“Fuck,” Soobin says, swallowing hard, “Okay then. How do you do that?”
“Dunno,” Beomgyu provides helpfully, “I just can.”
See? Beomgyu’s voice rings out in Soobin’s head, sending the near-empty tub of ice cream flying. A laugh tinkles as Soobin swears again, trying to catch the tub before it falls while also choking on blueberry-flavored spit.
“Dear fuck,” he coughs out, “What the hell.”
You're funny , Soobin - hyung , Beomgyu gleefully chuckles, beaming at him from the couch. Now that Soobin isn’t dying of fright, he can hear the slight change in tone, from spoken to mental. Beomgyu’s voice in his head is less raspy and more mellow, a hint of a lisp on his syllables and an excitable cadence that makes it feel like he has not finished speaking even at the ends of sentences.
“Does that feel better for you?” Soobin asks. Beomgyu just shrugs, It’s just there , and doesn’t elaborate further. “Then please...let’s try fully vocal, for now.”
He needs a bit more time to process supernatural powers , thank you very much. That can wait until after he tries to explain to Yeonjun why he shouldn’t lock the both of them inside a room, to never be let out again. Soobin already has a feeling that Yeonjun would take Beomgyu and flee to another country just to make him feel safe and comfortable.
He has a tendency to like adopting strays. Especially those he isn’t actually supposed to keep.
“Anything else I should know about?” Soobin wonders aloud, before it’s too late. Beomgyu puts a hand up to his chin, seemingly contemplating upon something. The gesture is exaggerated but seems genuine, which just makes Soobin ask himself Where did he learn that . It’s exhausting already.
“I can do a few more things,” Beomgyu admits, rubbing his foot against the ground, “But I don’t wanna show it right now.”
“Got it,” Soobin sighs, “Hell, this is gonna be complicated.”
“You...don’t like it?” Beomgyu sounds actually put out , making Soobin feel guilty even though he technically hasn’t even actually said anything.
“No! I mean, I do like it, or, well, I don’t know if I like it yet,” He tries to clarify, “Just give me time to wrap my head around it.”
Beomgyu instantly relaxes. God, if continues like this he’s going to start reminding Soobin of a puppy, which is ultra bad. Nobody survives the puppy comparison. Nobody except maybe Soobin’s mother, who had told him that when his eyes swelled up he looked like a bunny, then scolded him for hours for crying after eating a spoonful of red pepper paste.
“Are you hungry?” He tries to change the subject, hoping to end it there, “I can get you something.”
“A little,” Beomgyu tilts his head, devastatingly enough, “I don’t eat a lot. I can’t handle it.”
And, well, that’s something. He’d feared the reason for Beomgyu’s small constitution was something more anger-inducing, but it seems he merely doesn’t eat many big meals. Perfect for him; anything he cooks usually has enough leftovers for half a meal of his, which is probably a decent size for Beomgyu.
He ignores the thought of Maybe he’s never been used to big meals in favor of this. There’s only so much squeezing his heart can take before it gives out.
“Let’s get this started,” he concludes, beelining for the kitchen, “You stay right there, okay?”
He doesn’t see Beomgyu nod, but he assumes the sentiment is there. He steps into the kitchen, setting the ice cream carton by the trashcan and the spoon in the sink before opening the fridge to peek at what’s inside.
It’s not empty, of course. Soobin isn't quite that far gone. And maybe Yeonjun takes him to get groceries every once in a while. How he remembers to when his own apartment has several colonies of mold from takeout and his fridge is stuffed almost exclusively with Chilsung and tangerines, Soobin will never know, but he’s thankful for it nonetheless.
He decides to make fried rice after spotting a couple egg yolks left from a stress-induced angel cake baking session, and a tray of day-old rice from putting in four cups instead of three yesterday.
Now, a word: He’s not really the best chef , per se, and he knows this well enough. He can bake a mean cookie, but savory things aren’t really his forte, probably because of how much he baked when he still lived with his mom to guide him. It’s difficult to get experience making anything except sweets when that’s your main coping mechanism (and when you put cup ramen in the microwave without any water, but that’s another thing entirely and he blames his older brother for all of it ).
This all means that while he does typically cook for himself, it’s mainly the few recipes he does know, and dangerously simplified versions at the top-of-his-head kind of level. It also means that he can live with it if his egg burns a bit, or if the rice is so sticky that he barely has to chew it. It’s fine. It’s also fine even when Yeonjun comes over and devours what he makes, complaining even as he serves himself another portion, because he doesn’t care. Not really.
But the issue lies with the fact that he’s not the only one eating this. Even worse, Beomgyu is decidedly not Yeonjun, and however much Soobin just brushes off the judgement of others, Beomgyu is probably going to stay around. If he wants to, of course, which he does seem to for now.
Which means his opinion matters now. After...what, a total of an hour? That’s a record for the ages.
Which means, ad finitum, that he rummages through his pocket for his phone, praying to any and every lord above that it has charge, all because he has to put effort into cooking something that doesn’t just classify as ‘edible’.
He’s rewarded by his phone’s screen lighting up, low brightness, and a stout 15% in the corner. It’s more than he expected, but less than ideal. So he works fast; reads the instructions as quickly as he can, throwing things together in the one deep-bottomed pan he has as a housewarming gift from his mother.
He does end up burning the egg anyway, and adding a bit more soy sauce than he meant to, but his phone dies right as he turns off the stovetop, so. He counts it as a win.
By the time he makes it out with two plates at the appropriate food levels, Beomgyu is sitting down on the couch, hands resting tidily on his knees. The remote to the TV is resting in front of it, and the TV itself is off. Beomgyu seems to be merely staring at the wall. Soobin assumes looking around his living room isn’t all that entertaining.
“You didn’t turn on the TV?” Soobin says, incredulous. Beomgyu blinks at him, looking between him and the screen as if asking for confirmation.
“I didn’t know I could,” he huffs, fingers drumming on his thighs, “Or how. This is what a TV looks like?”
“Yeah,” Soobin can feel another headache coming on already. He sets down the plates and grabs the remote, watching as Beomgyu grabs a set of chopsticks and cautiously pokes the rice like he’s not entirely sure it’s edible. “Eat. I’m not that bad at cooking.”
Beomgyu throws him a (joking) incredulous look, but does as he’s told anyway, just in time for Soobin to turn on the TV and watch him nearly choke on the admittedly small bite he’d taken.
“Fuck!” Well, that’s new. While reaching over to pat Beomgyu’s back while he coughs out little grains of rice, Soobin debates on the merits of trying to teach him to not swear, or at least to be subtle about it, before concluding that it’d be hypocritical of him.
If anyone’s earned themselves the rights to an f-bomb or two, it’s the guy who was (probably most definitely ) experimented on, not the one who’s problems come from himself.
Bitterly, Soobin takes a bite of his own portion of rice, switching through the channels quickly for what feels like at least a good half hour until his chopsticks have already met empty air and he feels the end of the remote tilt back. When he looks, Beomgyu’s eyes stare between the screen and the remote with a sparkle of fascination, tips of his fingers delicately touching the edge of the remote.
“I’d read the diagrams, but…” he murmurs, leaning in closer until Soobin can smell an odd mix of stale chemical traces, his own cologne, and a spicy, cinnamon-y scent that makes him lightheaded. “I never really thought about it beyond the tests. So it really works?”
“Uhm,” Soobin says, like a fool, “Yeah? I don’t know how, myself, since I didn’t exactly study technology, but… It works.”
Beomgyu claps, a delighted half-cry half-laugh leaving him, “Wonderful!”
Soobin feels a bit like he’s missing something as Beomgyu quickly grabs the remote and starts fiddling through the channels with it, half-eaten rice abandoned. He , however, is hungry, and not particularly inclined to waste his food, so he finishes his rice while watching Beomgyu switch between a mid-episode drama and the weather channel.
He’s surprisingly… carefree , Soobin thinks, tilting his head when Beomgyu lets out a squeak after pressing the mute button. Warms up quickly, I guess.
The thought of warmth reminds him of his state―of his shirt, probably more than a little sweated-into, with god-knows-what sort of chemicals already dry at the front, and wow he kind of wants a shower?
He says as much, and Beomgyu seems to understand what he’s talking about. At least he knows he won’t have to help him when it’s Beomgyu’s turn, at least, he thinks, eyeing up the suspiciously crusty front of his hoodie. Definitely right after.
He leaves Beomgyu to continue… actually, he’s not quite sure what he’s doing anymore. All sense of decorum seems to have been abandoned, now that he’s been awake for more than two minutes, and Beomgyu just lets out a hum from the ground as he looks underneath the TV stand.
Whatever , Soobin dismisses, fetching himself a towel, he won’t break anything. I hope.
With that thought, Soobin goes into the shower, carrying his clothes to get dressed inside the bathroom.
It turns out to be a good idea, when he opens the door to the bathroom and he nearly bumps into Beomgyu’s face emerging from the hip-height steam that escapes like some sort of fucking Silent Hill creature. He’s sitting on the back of his heels, even, lying in wait.
Soobin almost brains himself on the doorframe, dropping his wet towel with a quick “Holy Shit!” and feeling a bit of righteous vindication when it smacks wetly across Beomgyu’s face.
That’s what you get, is about as mean as he gets before he starts feeling bad when Beomgyu just kind of. Sits there. It’s been more than thirty seconds, actually, the hell?
“You don’t have some sort of wool allergy, do you?” he half-jokes, slightly concerned. Beomgyu shakes his head and knocks the towel off, ears bright red and glowing. “I can go get clothes for you to wear after your own, if you wait inside.”
“Oh,” Beomgyu huffs. “Yours, right? Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Soobin lies easily, slipping past Beomgyu and to his room to fetch a set of clothes and an extra towel. By the time he comes back, Beomgyu is sitting on the edge of the toilet, fiddling with a can of facial serum, with the ties to his sweatpants undone and hanging loosely from his now-bare torso. Soobin’s hoodie―his poor, poor hoodie―lies at his feet, brushing the edges of his toes.
Soobin can see a few reddish purple indents all over Beomgyu’s torso―lines over his skin that look a little bit old already. He feels a sense of relief at not seeing any scars before it’s misplaced by a crawling, chilling thought. Even the places that he clearly remembers bleeding the night before seem to have become nothing more than bruises, and some of the lighter spots have already faded entirely. What’s to say that past ones wouldn’t heal just as quick and neat?
Soobin’s tongue freezes as Beomgyu grins at him, oblivious to his train of thought as he scampers over to grab his supplies before locking Soobin out of his own bathroom without so much as a thank you. Or so he thinks, until-
Thank you , Beomgyu’s voice rings out clearly once more in his head, and it’s strange to think that he can almost feel the gratitude. Certainly it makes it more fulfilling. I’ll use these well .
“It’s no problem,” Soobin answers through the door, aloud. He feels silly, given that Beomgyu probably was expecting no answer, but it’s easier to swallow a bit of embarrassment than to try to consolidate some sort of mindlink conversation. He’s not done freaking out about it, actually.
The shower turns on after a few frankly terrifying minutes of silence, and Beomgyu’s clear yelp ringing out brings a small involuntary smile to his face. Soobin goes back to the living room and finds it in a surprisingly neat state. Beomgyu’s plate of rice has been finished despite going cold, and he and Soobin’s empty dishes are piled up on top of the table, ripe for washing. The pillows are straightened and the remote is in front of the TV. Even his decorative tables look a little less dusty, and it’s a bit disturbing to try to think about how.
If anything, it proves that for all his bumbling about, Beomgyu will perhaps not be quite that much of a headache. Until Soobin realizes he’s already thinking about him in the long-term.
It’s not like I’m going to make him stay here , it dawns on him, a counterintuitive twist happening behind his lungs. Is he having a stroke? He can go somewhere else once we get some documentation. This would be temporary, at most.
Even thinking about it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Soobin prays, suddenly, that Beomgyu isn’t listening in.
Of course, it’s then that his door starts echoing with a set of mighty, unique knocks, part internet meme and part genuine, unconscious rage that Soobin recognizes intrinsically. This anger is carved in jagged lines across the surface of his bones and in peeling agony on his skin.
Yeonjun’s back. For a split second, Soobin wonders if he’ll have Changbin in tow. If Yeonjun has somehow decided their agreement is no longer in place. As quickly as it comes, the thought fades. Yeonjun would never.
Clearly, the hesitation costs him something. The wood groans against the knocks, a creaking, tinkling sort of sound taking over before he hears a crunch and the door slams open with a yawn through the hall, and the sound of the shower abruptly halts. Before Soobin can register Yeonjun breaking his damn door down two things happen simultaneously:
One is Yeonjun bursting through the hall, a single bag of what is clearly now donut-flavored pastry shake swinging in his hands as he scans the room wildly for Soobin. His eyes are the widest he’s ever seen and slightly crazed, like he’s seeing through the room instead of being in it.
Two is the loud, recognizable slap of wet feet against the floor as Beomgyu races in, clutching the towel up around his chest like he fears for his impunity while his eyes betray a measure of murderous intent Soobin would not have thought him capable of.
After these two things, the natural consequence comes. Yeonjun’s frighteningly serious expression screeches to a halt with a comically twisted movement of his face, eyes landing exclusively on the wet, naked person in Soobin’s living room, and Beomgyu barks a quick “Who are you?” with the same intimidation factor as a chihuahua, which is frankly a lot more than it seems. Vicious buggers.
Soobin, for his part, feels numb with mortification. He genuinely can’t feel his fingers. Mentally, he makes a note to check if his insurance covers cardiovascular issues, just in case a blood vessel burst. Just for kicks, his mouth drops open with a "You broke my door down," that goes unnoticed. That's fine. Yeonjun will pay for it later.
“Who’re you? ” Yeonjun bites back, acknowledging the clear problem here despite Soobin’s greatest, holiest desire being his silence. Soobin makes note of his recent free days. Whaddaya know, the whole week; time to go to the ICU.
“Uh, this is Beomgyu,” Soobin intervenes distinctly before Beomgyu opens his mouth and even more distinctly before the situation gets any worse than it already is. Beomgyu’s mouth clicks shut with a little watery drip of indignity racing down his jawline. “He’s uh… It’s a long story. Can I tell it after he gets dressed?”
The air grows damp with something so thick Soobin can smell it. With narrowed eyes, Yeonjun nods at him, and Soobin herds a protesting Beomgyu back down to the shower with them buried straight into his shoulder blades.
This is gonna take a while , he mentally sighs.
“Wait, one more time,” Yeonjun repeats for the eighth time after his apology for the door, sending Soobin to the verge of federal crime. Or, well, more crimes, anyway. “So he’s a lab rat? And you found him and saved him?”
Beomgyu interrupts Soobin’s driest “Yes, Hyung,” yet with a high pitched hum and accompanying nod. He’s plastered onto Soobin’s side on the couch already, looking at Yeonjun with deceptively aggressive hostility and a kernel of true, uncontrollable fear. Against his better judgement, Soobin lets him stay there.
“Soobin-ah’s rescued me,” Aish, the brat’s already dropping honorifics so shamelessly? “He has.”
“No, I get it, I’m just processing… “ Soobin won’t even say why that seems to him like pure, raw lies. Yeonjun caught on after the second re-explanation, he’s sure of it.
Soobin can’t tell if it’s a good thing or bad thing that he’s pretending not to.
Soobin curls an arm around Beomgyu’s shoulders, feeling the slight chill transfer from their skins, “Hyung, you don’t have to push it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Yeonjun spits. Beomgyu flinches, and Yeonjun seems to catch the hint at last and lowers his voice, “Soobin-ah, you’re not the one looking at you right now.”
And, well… that hurts a little bit. Yeonjun continues, “I mean, the both of you look practically romantic , like this,” and any trace of sympathy in Soobin’s heart dies a slow, painful death by burning.
He should’ve caught on to Yeonjun’s smirks earlier, that bastard. Now that he’s not overly on edge, Soobin can clearly see the thin frown of concern as he scans over Beomgyu’s frame, and the upset, pouty tilt of his lips. The twitch of his hand in Beomgyu’s direction.
He’s already gone, Soobin knows immediately. Yeonjun-hyung, is it your mother hen instincts calling?
“Anyway, you two can get along,” Soobin declares with finality, ignoring the way Beomgyu’s nails drag along his sides. He’s already accommodated them for today, thank you very much. “Hyung, I trust that you’ll take care of him…”
Yeonjun’s unimpressed stare pushes the ‘ how long ’ question. “... as long as he’s with me.”
Of course, that’s when Beomgyu’s eyes snap up, and Soobin immediately realizes something dangerous as they start to fill with tears and Beomgyu mutters a broken little, “I can stay ?”
Yeonjun, the traitor, whistles innocently and looks the other way when Soobin turns to him to get aid for what he just started. Soobin curses him down to the very last cell, that motherfucker.
“Of course you can stay,” is what he answers, poor and stilted in what he hopes sounds like encouraging, fond stiltedness and not the hesitating distracting disaster he feels like, “I mean, as long as you want to, and-”
The hints of hands gripping at his clothes become two very distinct arms wrapped around his middle. Soobin feels a swell of blood behind his closed front teeth as Beomgyu bubbles into his shirt, muttering something about relief and tension that’s already giving him salt-and-pepper hair. He doesn’t need Beomgyu’s telepathy to know that Yeonjun’s laughing at him. Soobin vows to throw Beomgyu at him at the nearest convenience and get the hell out of dodge.
What’s he even going to do, with someone like Beomgyu in his house, doing what he pleases at his own discretion? His poor heart can’t take it. Soobin is going to die before ever resolving his own issues.
Silently, Soobin resolves to find something for him to do. There's gotta be something, right? Something to distract Beomgyu for from causing the inevitable chaos Soobin can see coming? Or to stall it, at least.
It’s already pounding now, his heart, and he’s sure Beomgyu can feel it, just as well as he’s hugging onto Soobin’s chest.
It’s only when Beomgyu lets go to respond to something Yeonjun says―embarrassing, surely―that Soobin realizes he probably doesn’t even know what it means. And somewhere in there between the oh fuck and the thank fuck is a bit of empty giddiness that he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.
It’s a terrible place for them to start from, really. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.
It’s fitting, then, that he later remembers it so fondly.