Chapter Text
To dismantle, reassemble, and recreate. For the longest time, he had known this as the way of all the great artists.
Now, standing in front of his greatest masterpiece, he saw it differently. To recognize beauty where all else saw ruins. To carve away and set free what lay hidden. Art beyond its artist.
Crimson light snuck its way through cracked windows, cascading over the contours of his mangled face, illuminating him and all his splendor. Even the universe recognized he was a sight to behold.
Moonjo tilts his head, admiring him in his glory. In his minds eye, he could still see every swing of the man’s weapon cutting through the air with grace, each fatal swoop painting him in red. It was a performance like no others he’s ever had the honour of witnessing.
Desperate to touch, he raises a hand towards the young man in front of him, fingers caressing the crook beneath his chin, lifting his head into the light. Tear brimmed eyes grace his own with their gaze.
“Jagiya… Now, you and I will be together forever.”
Feeling the tremble of his throat under the pads of his fingers, Moonjo smiles. The man’s lips waver to disagree, but words fail him, as though he knew it was true. They were hopelessly and completely bound. Knit into each others’ veins. To sever them apart would be fruitless.
Moonjo swept his thumb of the swell of the man’s throat. He wouldn’t go far as to say they were two beings made of one soul; he wasn’t one for clichés. Rather, every moment since the night they met on that rooftop had woven them together. They could no longer exist without the other, a tug in the opposite direction would have them unravel at the seam.
In the distance, hurried footsteps sound barreling through the long hallway, fast approaching.
“Moonjo-yah, the police will be here just about now.”
He doesn’t pay the woman any mind, all his senses consumed by him. Yoon Jongwoo.
“Yes. We will be down soon.”
Ms. Eom scoffs at Moonjo’s lack of urgency. She crosses the threshold, breaking his trance as she approaches Jongwoo and himself.
“Aigoo, look at him,” she laughs meanly. “He’s been making such a fuss lately, I thought he’d be stronger than this.”
She shakes her head tutting, not noticing the steely eyed look being thrown her way. What did she know of strength?
“Well. Come out quickly so we can burn this place already.”
“No.”
She blinks. Quick and dangerous.
“What did you say?”
Moonjo straightens his stance. “We aren’t burning this place. I want it to remain as it is.”
Ms. Eom huffs in disbelief. “Moonjo-yah –"
“Please, eommoni. Wait in the car. Don’t worry, we’ll join you shortly.”
She stands unmoving, calculating eyes sweeping over the two of them.
“Why should I worry foolish boy? I have the car keys,” taking them from her pocket, she shakes them threateningly in his direction.
Fortunately, she made no further argument, leaving them not without mutterings of ungrateful children and what not.
Moonjo sighs, turning back to Jongwoo, who was rocking on his feet, hands over his ears, murmuring to himself. He regards the man for a moment, fascinated.
Moonjo brings a hand to his nape, fingers brushing the ends of his rain-soaked hair, pressing water droplets into skin. Jongwoo recoils at the touch, gasping as though he were choking the life from him.
“We have to go now.”
“Please… Please, spare me.” Jongwoo begs. “Please, let me live.”
With slow fingers, Moonjo moves his hand around the side of the man’s face to cup his cheek, thumb brushing a runaway tear over swollen skin.
“Jagiya, how could I kill you? Look at all you’ve created.”
Jongwoo slaps his hand away.
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me!” he screams in his face, pointing an accusing finger his way. “You need to die.”
Moonjo smiles.
“Okay.”
Jongwoo’s eyebrows twitch.
“Stay here if that’s truly what you want.”
He takes a step away.
“I won’t ever force your hand.”
Wet eyes clouded with confusion stare back, questioning whether Moonjo truly meant his words.
“Stay here. Tell them what really happened here tonight. I’m sure they’ll listen.”
Folding his hands behind his back, he bends, bringing their faces close momentarily. Jongwoo flinches at the sudden proximity.
“Let them see who you truly are,” he says in a low tone, words a whispered secret amongst themselves. Jongwoo’s breath hitches.
Frantic eyes lock with his own. Standing still yet searching.
Moonjo steps backwards towards the exit. The echo of each departing fall of his foot a tick on a clock running out of time. The space between them grew wider with each slow stride.
Jongwoo made no move to follow.
Moonjo tries to draw out his steps as much as he could, his pulse thrumming beneath the press of his thumbs at his wrists. Eventually reaching the end of room, Moonjo stops and stands in the doorway.
He glances back.
Jongwoo is no longer looking at him.
Swallowing down the foreign swell of rising panic, he turns his back to the man.
The erratic pounding in his chest out of sync with his heavy steps as he starts down the hallway.
“No...”
It was quiet, yet the voice echoes off the thin walls, stopping Moonjo in his tracks just as he was about to turn the corner.
Turning back, he looks towards Jongwoo. He stands rooted to the spot where he left him, staring straight ahead. Moonjo follows the line of his gaze. He finds the man’s unconsious girlfriend. She lay still, the slight rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life.
He glances back at the younger man, his stance lined with conflict. Would he choose to stay with her? After everything?
He had promised she would be spared. However, he was certain Jongwoo would have chosen the same path that led them to this moment, regardless of whether his girlfriend’s life was in jeopardy. Still, Moonjo held his breath as he waited for his next move.
Jongwoo shut his eyes, unclenching his balled fists.
Resigned, Jongwoo takes a step towards him.
“Take me with you,” he says in a hushed voice, looking at Moonjo with tired eyes.
Moonjo exhales.
He did not need to be told twice.
He leads them though a back exit that Jongwoo was not aware existed, the door at the end of the staircase bringing them to the opposite side of the building’s main entrance. Moonjo briefly squints against the barely risen sun, eyes adjusting from the darkness. Sounds of police sirens could be heard in the distance, quickly approaching.
Shortcuts through puddled alleys, careful not to be seen, the two move at as quick of a pace as injury allows. Moonjo tries to offer Jongwoo support when he notices him limping, only to be harshly brushed aside. The haze of bloodshed still fresh in the man’s glare. He was the reason for his injuries after all. Flattening his lips, Moonjo bows his head in half-hearted apology.
They stop behind an abandoned pharmacy, a modest silver car parked by the shop’s side door. Ms. Eom seated in the passenger’s seat.
“Finally,” she calls through the open window. “My goodness, a minute longer and I would have left you both here. Hurry, get it, get in.”
Moonjo opens the back door of the car for Jongwoo, ushering him to sit.
“Yah, Moonjo-yah! Make sure the young man is wearing his seatbelt we can’t afford to be pulled over right now.” Ms. Eom said, pulling down her overhead mirror, admiring her reflection as she places a pair of round sunglasses on her face, a cheap silk scarf tied over her hair as if she were a Hollywood actress from the old days preparing to film an escape scene.
Moonjo taps his fingers on the roof of the car in controlled annoyance. Still, he bends down back into the car.
“Jongwoo-ssi.”
No response.
“Jongwoo-ssi. Please put on your seatbelt.”
Jongwoo does not register he’s been spoken to, instead picking at the drying layer of blood that coats his hands, dropping the flakes onto the clean floor of Moonjo’s car.
Moonjo blinks. When it seems Jongwoo was not going to move on his own, he reaches over to buckle him in.
Jongwoo suddenly grabs his arms as he moves over him.
Their eyes meet.
“Don’t.”
Moonjo swallows. “Okay.”
So, Moonjo leaves him to it and gets behind the wheel. Without bothering to spare a final glance at the residence, they pull onto the road, finally leaving Eden behind.
Jongwoo dozes off sometime after they exit Seoul into Guri, Moonjo notes through the rearview mirror.
He should have offered him some water. He must be exhausted.
“Moonjo-yah. Keep your eyes on the road.” Ms. Eom scolds.
Moonjo glances at her sideways. He had hoped she would have fallen asleep by now too. He supposed he could not count himself so lucky.
“You didn’t use to be this careless. I hope you know this mistake will cost you.”
It takes Moonjo a second to realize she was not referring to his driving.
“I wasn’t careless.”
“Ah, is that right? You left behind three survivors.”
He left behind one. The two in the basement had been her own doing. He did not comment at that fact, wanting to end the needless conversation there.
“It was not for a lack of caring. They just did not seem to be worth the effort.”
She scoffed.
“You’ve gotten lazy. What effort? The place was all prepared, all you needed to do was light the match.”
Moonjo ignores her, focusing instead on the road ahead.
“Don’t become reckless Moonjo-yah.” He grips the steering wheel.
“That’s not how I raised you.”
It was almost dark again by the time they pull up to the house. The car wobbled along as he drove up the uneven dirt path. The roads muddied in this part of the countryside, the storm having just passed over. The smell of earth a welcomed change from the constant odour of garbage and pollution he had grown accustomed to.
“It’s smaller than how you described, isn’t it?”
Moonjo pulls the keys from the ignition.
“We lived together with more people in that suffocating place. I’m sure we will be able to manage.”
The house itself was a quaint old single-story farm house that he’d recently had refurbished. Though it appeared small on the outside, compared to Eden’s third floor, it was a welcomed luxury. A large forested area surrounded the plot, their closest neighbours a miles walk away, providing them with privacy.
Moonjo unfasted his seat belt, about to make way out the car to unload the trunk of the little luggage they packed, but stopped at the sound of Ms. Eom giggling beside him.
“Ah, he’s finally woken up, hasn’t he? My my, I really didn’t think he would be this sensitive. Are you sure about him Moonjo?”
Moonjo turns to look at the man in the back seat.
Jongwoo’s hair stood up awkwardly. There were lines on his cheeks from where he had been leaning his head against the seats, his face now purple and puffy from the bruises. He blinks away his sleep as he takes in his surroundings. Moonjo was able to pinpoint the moment he registers he’s now far from Seoul.
“Where am I?” he croaks, the question directed at Moonjo.
Before he could respond, Ms. Eom turns to him.
An awful grin grows wide on her face. She tilts her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, eyes full of malice glinting in the dark.
“I told you didn’t I, young man? There will only be good people around here from now on.”
To Moonjo’s surprise, Jongwoo makes almost no protest when he helps him out of the car and to the house. He begrudgingly lets himself lean against Moonjo; his injured leg having gotten worse cramped in the car’s backseat.
“Watch your step,” he says gently, the stairs of the porch slippery from the rainfall.
Moonjo leads them inside and turns the corner towards the bedrooms. Practically carrying Jongwoo to the master bedroom, he drags him over to the in-suite bathroom and helps Jongwoo balance himself on the edge of the bathtub.
Making sure Jongwoo is able to keep himself upright, he leaves him to fetch the first-aid kit and a bottle of water he had packed in his bag.
When he returns Jongwoo was once again transfixed by the blood on his hands. Lost in his own head, his mind a safe haven, his thoughts his own personal hell.
The red of his hands a stark difference against the white of the bathroom. It was as though he was trying to engrave every bit of the image into his memory; each stroke of red, the coppery smell turned foul through the hours car ride, the itch of it dried to his skin. Moonjo almost did not want to clean him off.
He did not bother trying to pull Jongwoo from wherever he’d gone to. He was sure it was a beautiful place.
Moonjo kneels before the man. Though Jongwoo makes no acknowledgement of his presence, he silently takes the water and painkillers he’s offered, swallowing them in a single gulp.
“Drink some more. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
Jongwoo stubbornly screws the lid of the bottle shut, placing it on the ground beside him. Moonjo smirks, amused at the childish behaviour.
Moonjo goes to fill a basin of water and brings it over. Jongwoo lets him clean the blood off his hands and swollen face. Shallow breaths warm Moonjo’s face as he works the washcloth over bruised skin. Jongwoo’s body limp and compliant yet posture rigid as Moonjo washes away the now day-old sweat and grime.
Tendrils of pink swirl in the clear water with each dip of the washcloth. Moonjo brings the cloth through Jongwoo matted hair. His breath betrayingly hitches as he swipes over the crown of his head. Likely in pain, he knows. He brings the cloth back over the same spot to hear it again.
Once he’s washed away all the blood, he cleans and bandages his wounds. The ones on his face not so deep as they were messy.
His hands another story, Moonjo muses as he holds them. He brushes his thumb over the juts of his wrist underneath chained ivories as he inspects the damages. His knuckles mangled with new injury over unhealed wounds. He’d also gained a long cut awkwardly placed between his index finger and thumb, from when he stabbed room 306. Moonjo disinfected and stitched it up. It would scar quite beautifully.
Mechanically, Moonjo reaches to unhook the top button of Jongwoo’s shirt. His wrist is suddenly caught, stopping him from moving further. Moonjo sighs.
“You were stabbed.”
Jongwoo eyes harden at the statement. As if Moonjo was not the one to have stabbed him.
Moonjo smiles. The pressure around his wrist grows.
“If left untreated you could get sick. We don’t want that.” He drawls.
Jongwoo’s face twitches ever so slightly at the statement, but he doesn’t release his hold.
“I’ll just clean it up. I promise.”
Staring at him without emotion, Jongwoo silently drops Moonjo’s hand.
Hesitantly, Jongwoo unhooks the first three buttons of his shirt, the material sticking to his skin as he moves it aside, just enough for Moonjo to access the small stab wound. Luckily, for the most part it had clotted over. True to his word, Moonjo surgically cleans and dresses it.
“You brought her too.”
Moonjo glances up at the small voice. Jongwoo is pointedly looking over his shoulder, refusing to make eye contact.
“I did.”
Jongwoo hums, displeased.
The corners of Moonjo’s lips curve up. “Would you have liked to kill her?”
Jongwoo doesn’t say anything, but Moonjo can feel the faint quickening of his heart underneath his hands. He smiles.
“Don’t worry. We will. Eventually.”
He leans back on his heels, buttoning Jongwoo’s shirt for him.
“She has a few gifts for us first. Once we collect those, we’ll give her one of our own. You’ll see.”
Moonjo avoids Jongwoo’s confused look and packs the medical supplies back into the kit. He keeps the painkillers and water out, sure that Jongwoo will need it again soon. He rises from where he sat, knees popping as he stands. He packs the kit away into the cabinet above the sink, leaving to the kitchen.
Retrieving a cold pack from the freezer, Moonjo returns, handing it to Jongwoo.
“Apply this to your knee and the bruises on your back, and wherever else you feel you need it,” he instructs, briefly shifting into his doctor monologue. “When that melts there are more in the freezer in the kitchen. You can get one yourself or ask me for it.”
He steps away towards the door.
“This bedroom is yours. Make yourself comfortable. When you need something, tell me. I’ll bring it to you –”
“Stop it.”
The whispered plea interrupts him. Jongwoo sat with his closed eyes, hands gripped in his lap. Exhaustion weighing on his shoulders.
“Just leave me alone.” He breaths, defeated.
Moonjo unmoving, regards the man seated on white porcelain, his head bowed towards him. On the end of a prayer misguided.
How peculiar.
Moonjo’s hands itch to go over and lift his chin, but he restrains himself.
Instead, he nods at the request, and without another word, steps out of the room into the hallway.
“Get some rest.” He calls, before shutting the bedroom door behind him.
Less than two weeks. That was how long it took for Jongwoo to lose his mind and any semblance of his life. It had only been less than two weeks since he happened across the garden and ascended to Hell.
Jongwoo lay in his still bloodied clothes atop the covers of what he supposed was his new bed.
The ice pack he had been given lay unused and melting on the bedside table, droplets escaping and swallowed by the hardwood in a slow rhythm. If somebody did not clean the mess of water soon, the expensive material was sure to damage under the moisture.
The room was dark, save for beams of moonlight shining through the window on the wall. He didn’t know what time it was or where he was, the room barren of a clock, his phone lost somewhere along the way.
All he knew was he was trapped with two cannibalistic serial killers in the middle of nowhere.
What makes you any different than them?
Jongwoo swallows against the ghost taste of bitterness in his mouth.
His clothes weigh heavy with the blood of two dead men, but Jongwoo did not feel burdened at all. Rather, for the first time in his life, he felt a foreign sort of calm sat over him, freeing him from the constant weight he carried around on his back.
What does that make you?
He wasn’t like those bastards. It’s not like he killed innocent people just for kicks. He got rid of two lowlifes that did not deserve the life they had been given in the first place.
It was the only way he could protect himself, protect Jieun.
“You had fun, didn’t you?”
Jongwoo turns onto his back, staring upwards, his eyes tracing an undone cobweb dangling from the ceiling.
Fun?
He churned 304’s words over in his head, ruminating over the events of the previous night.
He can’t say it was not satisfying smashing a wrench into that pervert’s face, after all the shit he used to spew about killing Jongwoo. Or slashing room 306’s throat, finally putting an end to his incessant giggling.
But fun? He’s not sure that was the right word for how he had felt.
More like relief.
The relief of giving in to destruction.
He ran a thumb over his bandaged knuckles, the wounds stinging with the slightest bit of pressure.
Any sane person would feel regret. A life is a life, they would cry down from their moral high ground. Who was he to decide whether someone lived or died?
Who was he to decide?
It couldn’t even have been an hour since he told 304 to leave him alone, before he hears a knock. Jongwoo’s eyes flit to the door, waiting for it to open. It never does.
Instead, 304 says something through the closed door about leaving food out for him and walks away.
Jongwoo scoffs to himself.
He’s not so stupid to willingly consume any food he’s offered by the freak again.
Jongwoo was unsure of 304’s motives for bringing him here, he’s not positive he really wants to know.
His eyes move to the bracelet that adorned his wrist. Lifting his hand to examine it, the metal chain falling down the length of his arm to hang limply. Lines of teeth glint in the moonlight as he twists his wrist left and right, the chain jangling with the movement.
He remembers the gentle way 304 had clasped it around his wrist. Less like it was a shackle, more like it was a gift.
His gaze moves to the bandages that had been delicately wrapped around his hand, thinking back to the careful administrations that dressed his wounds and the soft touches that grazed his hairline as a damp cloth swept over his face.
If Jongwoo were any wiser, he would begin to suspect that 304’s obsession with him went beyond stalking and manipulation.
He immediately squashes that train of thought. He touches a light finger to his swollen eye. Not even twenty-four hours ago the guy had been beating him half to death. To think 304 was capable of a human emotion as simple as caring was unfathomable.
Aroma from the kitchen made its way into the bedroom. His stomach betrayingly growls at the smell. It had been nearly two days since he’d eaten anything. He rolls onto his side, curling in on himself in attempt to distract from the pangs of hunger.
He listens to the sounds of dishes being washed and cabinets opened and closed. The voices in the kitchen low as they talk amongst the two of them. Jongwoo is unable to string together the words, the walls of the house thicker than the ones of the rundown goshiwon, but he has a sneaking suspicion they were talking about him.
Just a day ago, he would have cared. Would have pressed his ears against the doorframe to catch what they were saying, suspicious of their every move.
Now, he was just tired.
He’s not sure how long he stays there laying. Jongwoo watches the moon descend from its peak, eyes growing heavy as he waits.
Eventually, footsteps retreat into the other bedrooms for the night. He strains his ears, waiting for the house to go silent.
Slowly he lifts himself off the bed, muscles stiff as he stands, the pain in his knee flaring with each step.
Carefully turning the knob of the door, not wanting to make a single sound, he peeks through into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Fortunately, there was nobody.
He moves to leave the room, immediately cursing under his breath as he steps on something sharp. Shaking his foot in pain, he looks down at the culprit. A fork lay atop a napkin beside a plate of food.
“Why did he leave it on the floor?” he grumbles to himself, rubbing his foot. Jongwoo gathers the offending utensil and plate, carrying it to the kitchen, ignoring the contents of the artfully arranged meal.
Dumping the food in the sink, he goes to rummage through the cabinets hoping to find something quick he can steal for himself.
The cabinets made also from the same expensive wood, a drastic difference from the cheap vinyl of the goshiwon. Despite its quality, they were empty.
He sighs, looking around the small kitchen. He shuffles to the fridge. His hands twitch, hesitant. Flashes of Tupperware filled with raw meat tormenting his paranoia.
Squashing down the wave of nausea, he opens it, squinting against the sudden onslaught of white light. Empty – save for miscellaneous ingredients and a carton of eggs.
“Did you not like it?”
Jongwoo freezes.
His muscles knot, holding him in place, the cruel realization that unfortunately the voice had not been hallucination.
He turns cautiously. Straining his eyes, Jongwoo tries through the pitch blackness of the room, his breath held captive.
Then, a quiet click. The dim glow of a table lamp leading him to the source of the voice. His stomach drops to see 304 sitting on the couch of the dark living room that connected the kitchen. The couches still covered with white cloth, a contrast against his black shadowy figure. Had he been there the entire time?
He stands, his tall silhouette growing as he slowly saunters into his space. Jongwoo backs away as he nears close, heart racing.
“I did not take you for a picky eater.”
Jongwoo clenches his teeth, straining the veins at his temples. The bastard had been waiting for him.
304 tilts his head, pinning him against the sink with his stare, his large eyes all the more unnerving in the dark.
Averting his eyes from his piercing gaze, Jongwoo frantically looks around the kitchen, eyes falling on a bowl of oranges sitting on the centre countertop.
He quickly bolts around 304, grabbing one and hurries back to the relative safety of his room, locking the door behind him.
Jongwoo leans his forehead against the door, swallowing gasps of air.
It was pathetic really. He practically begged the man to bring him here, and now he was avoiding him.
He lets out a shuddering breath, walking backwards till the back of his knees find his mattress. Jongwoo turns the victory of his escapade over in his hands, slicing his thumb over the fruit’s textured skin. His stomach wanes with a sad growl. Still, it was better than nothing. He goes to peel it, a rather difficult task given the state of his hands.
Not wanting to run into 304 again in the morning, he eats only three slices. The claws of hunger are ignored as Jongwoo wraps the orange back in its peel and places it on the bedside table.
The human body can survive up to three months on water alone he muses. A healthy human body, the voice in his head not so helpfully provides.
He goes to the bathroom, fills his stomach with tap water and forces himself to sleep.
Strangely, for once his dreams aren’t plagued with nightmares, despite the monsters that loomed beyond his bedroom door.
When Jongwoo wakes the following morning, he wonders if he’s finally died and truly went to Hell. Pulling his pillow from underneath his head, he smashes it over his ear, trying (and failing) to block out the sound of Ms. Eom loudly singing as she moves around the house doing her morning chores.
He’d nearly forgotten about the second resident of their new house of horrors.
With a squinted eye Jongwoo catches the hazed glow of the barely risen sun through his curtains and groans, annoyed at his early and rude awakening.
He stays in bed, willing himself to succumb to sleep once more. To his dismay, the large amounts of water he drank the night before makes it difficult.
Eventually, his bladder wins, forcing him to the bathroom. He finishes his business then sluggishly drags his weight back to bed.
Flopping down onto the mattress, Jongwoo tries to ignore his growling stomach and aching body, willing his mind blank.
Just as he was about to drift off again, he hears a knock at the door. The polite rasp has him clenching his jaw.
He ignores it.
After a pause, there’s another knock, now more insistent.
He stubbornly ignores it again, wrapping his pillow around his head.
“Jongwoo, open the door.”
Jongwoo ground his teeth at the sound of 304’s voice.
What was he going to do? Force feed him his breakfast?
Jongwoo tries his luck and ignores him once more.
He holds his breath through the few moments of silence, a premature smug naively convincing him 304 had given up.
Then, a click and the door swung open.
Jongwoo whips his head towards the man walking into his room.
304 exhales at the sight of him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jongwoo chokes out aggressively, his voice rough from disuse.
“Forgive me. You weren’t responding.”
“I was asleep,” he lies.
Jongwoo spots the key in his hand. His throat clenched. So, he was a prisoner here.
304 held a plate of food in the other hand. He leaves it on the small desk by the door.
“You should eat something solid,” the man says eyeing the half-eaten orange on his bedside table.
With a glare, Jongwoo sits up, rearranging his blanket around his exposed legs.
304 stares back. Conflict stormed his usually blank eyes. Jongwoo broke contact, unnerved.
The emotion was quickly filed away as the man grabbed a black bag he had dropped at the door upon his forced entry. He dumps the heavy weight in front of Jongwoo.
“I’m sorry. I was preoccupied yesterday. I had forgotten to give you this.”
He stands at the foot of the bed, waiting for Jongwoo to open the bag.
Something in his stance tells Jongwoo he hadn’t forgotten whatever it was. He wanted Jongwoo to ask him for it.
Foregoing his stubbornness for curiosity, Jongwoo unzips the bag removing its contents.
It was clothes, some new and some familiar, taken from his room at the goshiwon. There were also towels, new house slippers, his lost copy of The Metamorphosis and… his laptop.
“You’re giving me this?” he asked, gesturing to the laptop.
304 smirks. “It’s yours.”
Jongwoo sweeps his eyes over the man’s face.
“You know, I could contact the police?”
“Mm. I’m aware,” the man flicks away a stray eyelash, unbothered.
“And you’re still letting me have it?”
304 shifts his weight onto one leg.
“Are you going to contact anyone?” he asks, with a smile.
The man knows the answer. He knows why Jongwoo is here. Even if he wanted, there’s no where he can go.
Jongwoo drops his gaze, not wanting 304 to see the defeat in his eyes.
“It’s already programmed with the internet password.”
Jongwoo glowers at the implication that the man had been on his laptop.
He places the computer delicately beside him, removing the rest of the bag’s contents, feigning interest in the menial items to avoid further interaction with the man.
Suddenly, 304 approaches, standing to his left. Jongwoo shifts sideways into the center of the mattress, adamant on keeping his distance.
However, the man had simply noticed the melted ice pack at his bedside. He turns the watery mess over in his hands, smile straightening into a line that Jongwoo almost mistakes as worry.
Jongwoo quickly averts his eyes.
304 sighs, swiping a hand though his hair.
“I’ll leave you alone now,” he says after a silence, an echo of Jongwoo’s request from the previous night.
With a courteous duck of his head and a final look, the door falls shuts behind him.
Jongwoo waits a moment to make sure he is well and truly alone before he pulls open his laptop.
His familiar default wallpaper lights up the screen. A shiver crawls up his spine as he realizes the time. In Seoul, he would be waking for work around now. Jongwoo looks to the door. He wants to believe it’s a coincidence, but the past two weeks have taught him that there’s rarely such a thing.
Jongwoo clicks his tongue, shaking away the thoughts, seeing no point in further muddling his mind trying to understand the motives behind the man’s strange actions.
He checks to see if all his documents are still as he left them before he opens the internet browser. Hesitating, he types Eden Goshiwon into the search bar. He holds his breath as he watches the loading icon go round.
To his surprise, there’s very little articles written. The ones posted containing only the most basic details; four people found dead and three alive at a residence in Gyeonggi province. Names of the victims were not listed for privacy’s sake. The police were probably still trying to keep it under wraps as they got hold of the situation, he muses.
He clicks on another more recently posted article and sees his own face staring back at him. His picture alongside that of Ms. Eom and 304. He chews his lip as he reads through the information posted underneath the pictures.
As of now, Jongwoo has been labelled as a hostage and Ms. Eom and 304 (or Dr. Seo apparently) wanted by the police.
Jongwoo stares into the innocuous eyes of his ID picture on the screen.
Yoon Jongwoo, age 27, suspected hostage.
A hostage. He mulls over why that leaves an odd taste in his mouth.
Not even a moment ago, he was considering himself the same thing. Then, why did he feel lightly offended to read somebody else call him that?
He scrolls through the rest of the article, eyes following the words, but mind far away.
He may have followed 304 out of the goshiwon on his own accord, but that didn’t make him a willing participant. If not a hostage, what else was he?
“I will never force your hand,” 304 had whispered into his ear as he sweetly threatened to leave Jongwoo there for the police to find him.
No, he would never force him.
He just wouldn’t give him an option where going against him would work in Jongwoo’s favour.
The screen goes dark from inactivity, letting Jongwoo catch a glimpse of his reflection in the black screen. He does not recognize himself.
Met with the image of his disarray, he remembers he was still wearing the same clothes from that night. Ghosts crawl under and over his skin. Itching at his arms, he feels the desperate need for a shower.
Stashing his computer underneath his pillow, he gathers a change of clothes and toiletries from the black bag before making way to the bathroom.
Jongwoo struggles to remove his clothes, growing frustrated as the thick wrap of bandages snag on his shirt’s buttons.
It’s pathetic how long it takes him to undress.
Finally free, he adjusts the waters temperature, stepping into the shower. The water hits his skin, and he can’t help but groan in relief, the pressure heavenly against his knotted muscles. Eyes shut, relishing in the almost burning spray, Jongwoo is unable to remember the last time he had a hot shower.
His relief is short lived, however. His knee protests, not allowing him to stand for too long. Cursing, he drops down onto the floor of the shower, folding his legs. The offending knee swells yellow and purple. Ugly to look at.
From down here, the pressure of the water is less intense. Feeling more like. Rain.
He swallows, watching as all evidence of that night disappears down the drain.
Working on autopilot, he washes away itchy red remnants, rubbing at his skin until it was raw. As if he was stained. Like he’d never be clean again.
Jongwoo stays there under the hot spray until his skin numbs, steam engulfing him. His vision blurs, mind clouded. He could fall asleep here. That would be nice, he thinks leaning his head against the tiled wall. Maybe he would not wake up this time.
He’s drifting off, surrendering his senses to the onslaught of water spraying down from the shower head.
Steaming mist surrounds him, catching itself on the tail of his inhale, filling his lungs.
A calm nothingness. He just feels… warm.
Suddenly, he startles awake, an aggressive knocking – rather banging – at his bedroom door.
“Yah! 303! That’s enough wallowing! We can’t have you use all the hot water! Do you think you are the only one staying here?! This isn’t a sauna!”
Jongwoo blinks slowly, brain fogged. The banging on the door persists. He wonders if she’ll break it off its hinges.
Eventually he gives in, silently turning off the tap. Despite his compliance, Ms. Eom continues to shout complaints of him to 304.
The loud screeching eventually settles, though Jongwoo does not doubt that she was still spewing carping mutters to herself.
Goosebumps litter his skin as the steam disperses around him, the damp warmth that lingers growing cold the longer he sits.
His knee locks the longer he sits on the tub’s floor. He should stand. Jongwoo struggles out, feeling pitiful at the effort it takes to regain his footing.
Drying himself, he pays no minds to his bruises. He scrubs aggressively until the beginnings of abrasions lines appear down the length of his arms.
In retrospect, maybe he should have removed his bandages before he got in the shower; changing out of his wet dressings proving to take longer than it should have given he only had one useable hand. Despite the difficulty, he takes the first-aid kid out from the cabinet, redressing his wounds himself. He refuses to willingly ask 304 for anything.
They turn out messier than before.
It’s good enough, he exhales, clumsily fitting a t-shirt over his head.
He limps back into his room, flopping onto the mattress, springs bouncing at the impact.
The sun had climbed to its highest point as Jongwoo showered. He flushes realizing he must have taken at least two hours struggling to clean himself.
304 will knock on his door soon, bringing lunch. Jongwoo won’t answer.
He sighs, eyes swiveling around the empty room.
He grabs his orange off the beside table, popping another sad slice in his mouth. The sweet citric taste gone sour having laid exposed all night. Maybe he’ll try and sneak into the kitchen again tonight for something better to eat. Until then, he has his laptop to keep him occupied.
Moonjo taps his knuckles against the wood of the door. As expected, there is no response on the other end.
Wordlessly, he sets the plate of food down at the foot of the door.
Jongwoo is not eating properly. He’s not eating at all actually. Moonjo should have anticipated this, given how little the man used to eat back in Seoul. Besides the occasional packet of ramyun, or company lunches, Moonjo rarely saw the man eat (not including their one-off late-night snack).
It’s concerning. Especially considering the amount he exerted himself not more than 48 hours ago. He needs to eat something solid soon, or his body will crash.
“Goodness, just let him starve.” Ms. Eom tuts as Moonjo drags his way back to the kitchen. “I don’t understand why you are letting yourself get so worked up over him.”
“We risked so much to be here with him. What good would his death bring?”
“Well, if he wants to be a brat, what can we do? There’s no use wasting perfectly good food,” she turns her back to him, putting a newly restocked jar of MSG into the cabinet. “Honestly, you will make him think you’re desperate.”
Moonjo flattens his lips, seeing no point in responding.
He eyes the bowl of oranges on the countertop. Moonjo had not put any meat in the meals he was giving Jongwoo. He knew that was likely the man’s reservations about the food he was receiving. It was only natural for him to be suspicious of what he was putting into his body.
Moonjo leaves to his own room. He comes back dressed, his keys in tow.
“Oh. Where are you going?”
“Out. This place is too empty. I’ll bring back a few things.”
“Hold on. Let me bring a list. I need some things too.”
Moonjo blinks tiredly back, but still waits obediently by the door. A few long minutes later she hands him her long list and sends him on his way.
He pauses momentarily, hand on the doorknob. Would it really be wise to leave the two of them in the house alone? He turns his eyes towards the woman humming to herself as she washes old pairs of hand towels in the sink.
She has no reason to bother Jongwoo right now. He’ll be fine.
Moonjo gets into his car, driving towards the closest market. He picks up whatever fresh produce he can find. It bothers him that he doesn't know exactly what foods Jongwoo prefers.
Before making his way back to the house, he stops at a grocery store. He stands in the ramyun aisle, thinking, trying to recall the one Jongwoo had eaten at the goshiwon. There are two that look awfully similar in packaging. He gets them both.
Picking up three cases of beer and the remaining items on Ms. Eom’s list, he pays and stuffs the food into the car. He stares at the bags, unaccustomed to the bulk of groceries. Moonjo cannot recall ever having had so much food before, raised on the principles of portion sizes and rationing.
Pushing away unwelcomed memories, he gets behind the wheel, driving back to the house.
Tuning out the scolding he receives upon arrival; he stocks the fridge and cabinets of his new purchases. He retires to his room for the night, hoping to come back and find a little less than what he brought back with him. In the morning however, the only evidence that Jongwoo had been here at all was his uneaten dinner plate in the sink and one less orange in the bowl atop the counter.
For the next week it becomes routine. Moonjo would leave Jongwoo all three meals at his door. Moonjo would pick up his untouched breakfast and lunch and find his dinner in the sink every morning.
Ms. Eom grows frustrated with every bit of wasted food thrown into the trash. Moonjo tells her to leave it, which she would after giving him an earful.
One night, Jongwoo must have thought Moonjo and Ms. Eom had gone to bed already. He slinks into the kitchen in the late hours of the night, startling when he notices the two sitting on the couch, quietly folding laundry.
“Oh my, look who it is.”
Jongwoo visibly startles though he tries to conceal it and peeks awkwardly between the pair and the food he had just dumped into the sink.
“I’m thinking I should start billing you for all this food. We can’t afford to be wasteful in this economy.”
Jongwoo ignores her, he snatches two oranges from the bowl this time, attempting to make a quick escape back to his room.
Moonjo blocks his path.
“Move.” Jongwoo tries aggressively, but it comes out weak and scratchy.
“Eat something. Please.”
“Fuck off.”
Jongwoo looks awful. The bags under his eyes extenuated by his unhealed bruises, his cheeks having hollowed slightly over the past week, his skin sickly.
“Moonjo-yah. He’ll probably drop dead tomorrow. You’re wasting your energy. Just let him be.”
Moonjo doesn’t even bother sparing her a glance. Despite Jongwoo’s protests, he herds him into the kitchen, pulling out a packet of ramyun from the cabinet, dropping it into his hand.
“Eat this at least,” he says gently. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
It probably was not wise for Jongwoo to eat it on a practically empty stomach, but Moonjo was getting desperate.
Jongwoo stares down at the instant noodles.
“Nobody touched it. I promise,” he whispers. Jongwoo looks up at him through his lashes. Strangely enough, he believes him. He cooks himself the noodles and runs back to his room.
When Moonjo finds the empty bowl in the sink the next morning, he feels he can finally breathe.
Moonjo is not sure what it was about the offering of ramyun, but slowly Jongwoo starts making appearances around the house.
The first instance is when Moonjo’s throw blanket goes missing from the place he left it on the couch. He asks Ms. Eom if she had taken it to wash perhaps. She says she did not.
“You must be getting old, Moonjo-yah. Already misplacing things.”
The second is when Moonjo finds a full trash bag leaned up against the side storm door.
Ms. Eom had been nagging Moonjo the night prior to take out the garbage, so surely it hadn’t been her. He smiles recognizing the green coloured bag from the roll he had put in Jongwoo’s bathroom.
The third makes Moonjo’s heart leap. Jongwoo’s converse are at the foot of the front door set neatly beside Moonjo’s own slippers. They’re a bit scuffed and muddy. Jongwoo must have gone for a walk at some point.
Moonjo steps outside. He finds his throw blanket on the porch swing. Rubbing the knitted material between his fingers, he sits down. The seat was no longer warm, but his blanket smells like Jongwoo. He wraps it around himself, content with the distant proximity.
One morning, before the sun has even risen, Moonjo finds Jongwoo in the kitchen, peeling himself some oranges and putting bread in the toaster.
“Good morning.”
Jongwoo turns his head. He looks Moonjo up and down but doesn’t reply. His shoulders tense more than they already had been as Moonjo moves around the room.
“You’re up early.”
“I’m going to sleep.” Jongwoo replies shortly, putting his toast on his plate, getting ready to head back to his room to eat his breakfast – or dinner, Moonjo supposes.
Moonjo glances at the clock. “It’s five in the morning.”
“Hm.”
Moonjo sits on a stool against the island. “You’re having trouble sleeping.”
“So are you.”
Moonjo raises an eyebrow at the comment.
“You’re always fucking awake.” Jongwoo grumbles. He seems annoyed, as though Moonjo’s lack of sleep has been inconvenient for himself.
Without further comment, Jongwoo picks up his plate, making way to leave the kitchen.
“You can eat here.”
Jongwoo stops. He faces Moonjo, eyebrows tight, glaring as if he had suggested something utterly ridiculous. Moonjo pulls out the stool next to him.
“You’re not a prisoner darling. This house is yours as much as it is mine.”
Something flashes across Jongwoo face he doesn’t give voice to.
Moonjo sits waiting. Jongwoo turns his back to him, retreating to his room. Moonjo sighs. He supposed it was still too early to expect so much from the man.
Perhaps, just a few days too early.
Two days after their brief encounter in the kitchen, Moonjo finds a bowl that he’d unconsciously designated as Jongwoo’s, drying in the dish rack.
Moonjo touches a finger to the ceramic surface. It was still wet.
With light footsteps, he makes his way to the living room.
There’s a sleeping man on the couch wrapped in Moonjo’s throw, snoring soundly against the cushions, his computer slipping out from his lap.
He’s thrown off by the casualness of the image. A glass of water sits on the coffee table – Jongwoo hadn’t bothered to use a coaster. Rings of water stains will likely appear.
Moonjo watches him fondly for a few moments. Jongwoo wakes, sensing eyes on him.
“Hello.”
Jongwoo blearily blinks back.
“Sorry.” Moonjo says. “I did not mean to wake you.”
Guard falling back into place, Jongwoo scoots himself into a sitting position, rubbing the kinks out of his neck. He clumsily sets his laptop down beside him, arms caught in the blanket, avoiding Moonjo’s gaze.
“What time is it?” he croaks, squinting out the glass of the backyard door.
“Early. Or late. Depends on how you wish to see it.”
Moonjo walks over, seating himself on the armchair. Jongwoo scoots further away.
“Ahjumeoni will wake up in an hour or so,” he provides.
At that bit of information, Jongwoo rushes to stand, but fails, falling back into the seat. Groaning, he rubs his knee. He glances sideways at Moonjo, cheeks warming, embarrassed at the needlessly laborious task.
“Is your knee still bothering you?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The corner of Moonjo’s lip curves. Always quick with the hostility.
“Let me see.” He leans forward in his seat.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He tries to stand again. His legs must have fallen asleep as he slept. They wobble underneath him as he attempts to gain balance. Moonjo intervenes, sitting him back down on the couch.
Moonjo himself sits on the coffee table, lightly touching the offending knee, careful not to apply too much pressure to the still swollen joint. Jongwoo shifts uncomfortably at the contact.
“It could be dislocated,” he thinks aloud.
“Oh really?” Jongwoo throws back icily.
Without further comment, Moonjo stands, coming back with a cold pack from the freezer.
“You should keep it elevated as much as possible.” He sits down next to Jongwoo this time.
Bending down, he hovers his hand over Jongwoo’s ankle. “May I?”
Jongwoo gulps, eyebrows furrowing. Moonjo can practically hear the gears turning in his head.
Still, he slowly leans back against the armrest, letting Moonjo pull his leg onto his lap. He asks again before rolling Jongwoo’s sweats up his leg, over his swollen knee.
The bruising was fading, but still puffy. Moonjo pressed his hand against the injury. Jongwoo’s hand reaches forward on reflex, his muscles tense with every touch.
If it had been dislocated, everything seemed to have popped back into place. With the proper care, it should heal in no time.
Jongwoo hisses at the cold against his skin. Moonjo lifts and sets the pack against the swelling, so he grows accustomed to the temperature.
“Lack of physical activity is not ideal for healing either.” Moonjo murmurs, swiping a thumb over a residual droplet left from the ice.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
He said it lowly. A breath of a whisper. An edge to his voice that has Moonjo pause his administrations, looking over at the man.
He’d asked something similar one night back in Seoul. Under florescent lights, his words thick and frantic, through bloodied stitches. The fear filled question had sent electricity to the tips of Moonjo’s fingers. An unfamiliar eagerness to be seen. To be known.
Now, looking into the man’s dark eyes, a different sort of electricity hung in the air. Duller, but just as exhilarating.
A strange tug at the tightness tucked away neatly behind his breastbone.
“Why…?”
A pull. Unravelling.
“It’s confusing.”
Jongwoo’s eyes seem far away. Moonjo aches to be held in their depths.
Moonjo swallows, mouth dry. “It is.”
This is the closest they’ve been since the aftermath of that night.
Jongwoo’s eyes flicker downwards. Moonjo’s breath catches.
There’s a shift against the cushions. Closer.
“Moonjo-yah!”
The moment breaks.
“Moonjo-yah! Are you awake?”
His grip tightens around the forgotten icepack held between the pair; hand now numb. “In here.” He calls back, voice low. Jongwoo shifts backwards, coughing.
The loud pattering of slippers against hardwood signals her entry.
“Tsk. Up early again?”
Moonjo looks over at the clock hung over the mantel. She’s woken earlier than her normal schedule.
“Oh – 303. Wah, this is a surprise,” she laughs jovially.
“Will you be joining us for breakfast?” she calls over her shoulder, pulling the fridge open. “How about I fry you some eggs?”
Her oh so kind offer goes unanswered.
Jongwoo doesn’t look at Moonjo again. He drops his leg from his lap, this time standing with little issue. As much as his limp allows, he rushes back to his room, not even sparing a glance towards Ms. Eom.
Moonjo sighs, leaning back against the cushions where Jongwoo sat not moments ago. He holds onto the interaction for the rest of the week.
Jongwoo pushes the interaction to the recesses of his mind.
It has now been almost three weeks since Eden, and Jongwoo’s initial plan of all together avoiding his unfortunate housemates has proven to be harder than it should be.
While this bedroom was certainly more spacious than his one back in Seoul, Busan even, being confined to the same four walls days on end was making him antsy. Sit still for too long and the shadows grew taller against the walls, begging for his notice, closing in.
Even at his worst back at the goshiwon, he never spent this much time in his room. Restless, he soon resigned himself to the fact that he needed a change of scenery.
In a few short days, Jongwoo had gotten good at figuring out at what times the house would be empty, allowing him to roam without restrictions.
Ms. Eom always woke promptly a little after sunrise, loud and obnoxious as usual. She recently had acquired the nasty habit of vacuuming countlessly up and down the hallways, barraging the machine into the doors (apparently, the area in front of Jongwoo’s room was particularly filthy).
She would do some more chores throughout the day, an old drama or a musical variety show playing loud on the television as she worked. She never stayed up too late. Like clockwork, he always heard the click of her bedroom lock around midnight.
Not wanting a repeat of that one night he found the pair still awake, as a precautionary he’d sit with bleary eyes waiting for the clock on his laptop screen to strike 3:00 am. Only then would he risk venturing out for his small doses of freedom.
However, a certain somebody must have figured out what Jongwoo was up to, because of course he did.
At first, he had given him space. Only speaking to Jongwoo when necessary. He must have lost his patience, however. Jongwoo wasn’t dense. It was no accident the man began starting his day an hour earlier than he used to.
For the first couple of days, 304 followed a predictable enough schedule. Wake early, leave Jongwoo his meals at his door, and then retire to his room for the night, albeit a little later than Ms. Eom.
Some days Jongwoo heard the jangling of keys in the front door, and the distant rumblings of a car’s engine. He tried mapping out 304’s escapades into town, but so far, there did not appear to be a discernable pattern. Unfortunately for Jongwoo, he never left the house after dark.
He was always up and about doing something. Unnaturally so.
In effort to avoid the sleepless man, Jongwoo’s circadian rhythm was fucked to say the least.
It was now four days since they last spoke. He knows the man was trying to force another encounter. For what reason, he does not care to find out. He cannot afford to let his guard down around 304. Not again.
He was being… too nice. In retrospect he was always nice. Where he spoke to others with practised politeness, Jongwoo never once felt his kindness towards himself had been ingenuine.
Jongwoo was so used to being an afterthought. A spectator in his relationship. Always second priority in his own home, as though he were the burden. In a lifetime where cordiality came with a price, he should have been more cautious.
In hindsight, it was no surprise the man zeroed in on Jongwoo. He was ideal bait. Falling trap to his easy smiles and words of affirmation. He felt sick whenever that first night up on Eden’s rooftop rolled forward into mind.
Would things be different now had he turned around and went back down to his room that night? If he hadn’t accepted that can of beer. Hadn’t let the coolness of the drink wash away his qualms.
He shifts onto his side, folding his hands underneath his cheek. Teeth that aren’t his dig into his skin.
It was a clear night outside his bedroom window, stars twinkling. Jongwoo exhales. He hadn’t been able to see the stars back in Seoul. It made him feel lonely.
With little thought, Jongwoo slides off his mattress, bare feet touching the cold ground. He massages the kinks out his knee, pushing himself up to stand. Pulling on a hoodie, he ventures out his room, through the backdoor.
He creeps down the wooden steps into the yard. Dewed grass fold over his slippers, wetting his toes, a pleasant chill running up his legs to the tips of his fingers.
His breath catches as he looks up. There’s a sparkling dragon stretched across the sky. Constellations he hadn’t heard of hung glittering amongst each other. Billions of vast balls of gas whose existence were known by a simple spot it in the sky. If they ceased to exist, Jongwoo would never be the wiser.
As morbid a thought, he feels peacefully insignificant under the bright sky. All the death, the blood. It did not matter in this moment. A welcomed solitude.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walks. The fragrance of late summer apple blossoms tickles his nose as he trails his feet through the long grass around the yard’s perimeter.
There’s a neat row of flowerbeds lined against the side of the house. A stem held up with a supporter stick, the starting of a white hibiscus bush sits proudly as the centrepiece. He holds the single bloom between his fingers. Odd to think something so delicate was tended to by Ms. Eom.
He lets go of the petal, admiring the other blooms. At the end of the garden is a patch of marigolds. He stops. Faded memories of his mother pinning the orange flower in her hair after Jongwoo cluelessly picked them from a neighbour’s garden as a child flash forward. He pushes down the ache of longing lodged in his throat.
He hopes the sky’s as beautiful in Busan as it was here, wherever here was.
Taking a shuddering breath, he continues around the side of the house, listening to the trees bristle in the light breeze. He walks along the dirt path leading up to the steps. There’s a faint creaking on the deck. He halts.
304 is sitting in his spot on the porch swing, wrapped in the throw Jongwoo liked to use, glasses perched low on his nose, a book held loosely between his fingers.
Jongwoo wavers, unsure what to make of the scene. It was too ordinary. Too human. And human was not a word he closely associated with the man.
Without comment, Jongwoo tries to walk past into the house.
“Are you ignoring me now?”
His hand falters on the doorknob. He turns his head. The man sets his book down next to him, looking at Jongwoo expectantly, waiting for a reply. He doesn’t give him one.
304 tilts his head under Jongwoo’s stare. “How is your leg?”
He opens and clenches his fist, schooling his face. “It works.” He retorts meanly.
“That’s good to hear. I hate to see you in pain.”
Jongwoo spits out a sharp laugh. “Yah,” he starts lowly, voice shaking dangerously with unresolved anger “don’t think for a second I don’t remember exactly what you are.”
The man leans back against his seat unfazed, the swing moving slowly under his weight. It was utterly ridiculous. The man was a serial killer and here he was wrapped up in a knitted blanket like some fucking grandmother.
His face twitches, lips curling into a snarl. After everything, he’s still unable read 304’s face. A blank slate, his eyes unsettlingly controlled. It drives him crazy.
Jongwoo, irritated that his somewhat tranquil mood was spoiled, shoots a final glare at the man, turning away ready to head back inside.
“I miss you.”
Stop.
Time stands still. The temperature seemed to have dropped, a bone seeping chill in the air, his blood running cold.
A creak behind him has him face back around.
The words should have had him seeing red, swinging a punch. Another trap. However, he stands unmoving.
He could never be sure, but there was something in the simple way he said it that had Jongwoo foolishly consider the man was sincere.
A tremor runs through his body. “You don’t have the right.” He breathes, void of emotion.
304 nods, carefully folding the blanket. “I know. I just wanted to tell you.” He says plainly, smoothing out the wrinkles of the fabric. Jongwoo feels like he’s going to be sick. He should get back inside.
“Why don’t we make a deal?” the man continues, standing up. Jongwoo on reflex takes a step backwards. The man persists forward.
Jongwoo’s heart is hammering in his chest. What more could he want from him? He’s taken everything already.
The man stops in front of him. Jongwoo’s throat clicks. He reaches to take Jongwoo’s hand. He lurches backwards, not wanting him to touch.
“What the hell are you –?” he’s cut off by 304 holding the book he had been reading out to him.
Eyebrows scrunched, Jongwoo’s gaze flickers between the book and the man. “Take it.” 304 insists, holding it closer to Jongwoo. Confused, he takes it.
No Exit. Jongwoo’s read it before, in college. Given their current living situation, it seemed a bit on the nose. “What’s the deal?”
“Spend some time out of your room. I’ll bring you more to read.”
He scoffs. “Forget it,” he hands the book back. “I can just download them on my laptop.”
The man smirks. “That’s fine. Just take this one though.” He forces the book back into his hands.
“I’ve already read it,” 304 continues, stepping backwards so Jongwoo cannot reject it again. “Perhaps we can grab a beer on the porch, and you can tell me your thoughts?”
Jongwoo’s heart squeezes. He coughs, blinking away the unwanted emotion he refuses to put name to.
“What are you trying to do here?”
“Give you a book.” He shifts his weight onto one leg, fondly staring at Jongwoo. “Every one of my actions do not have an ulterior motive jagi.”
“I doubt that.”
304 smiles, amused. He seemed to smile no matter what Jongwoo said to him. It was infuriating.
“Anyways, I hope you like it.” He gathers his blanket from the swing, folding it over his arm. Sliding his glasses off his nose, he hooks it to the collar of his ill fitted grey Henley.
“Good night Jongwoo.” He says, patting Jongwoo’s shoulder. He heads inside, leaving him alone on the porch.
Jongwoo’s fingers caress the raised letters of the cover.
“Good night.” He whispers into the wind.
Dead! Dead! Dead! Knives, poison, ropes—all useless. It has happened already, do you understand? Once and for all. So here we are, forever.
The book’s covers snap together as Jongwoo drops the pages from his loose grasp, the weight falling atop his chest.
A slow laborious sigh escapes him. Citric acid coats his throat as hunger creeps its way into his consciousness, painful reminder of his liminal state of living.
They were all useless. Jongwoo has died countless a times before, swallowed by the burning torment just as many. The state of end as foreign a concept as the beginning.
He pushes the flesh of his palm into his eyes, pressing till he saw the cosmos.
304 said he had no ulterior motive for gifting Jongwoo the book. He did not believe him. The narrative a cruel taunt of Jongwoo’s own state of entrapment.
Jongwoo rubbed his hands aggressively up and down the length of his face before folding them over his forehead.
What did the man want from him? No matter how hard he racked his brain, he failed to surmise any logical explanation.
The month since Seoul had passed in an eerie charade of domesticity. 304 and the landlady spent their days occupied with menial errands and chores as Jongwoo lay wasting. Jongwoo waited, sure the curtain would fall… but it never did.
Jongwoo takes the book back in his hand holding it over his face. The cover was old and frayed along the edges, pages yellowed. Jongwoo pushes a pocket of air through pursed lips and throws the book on his bedside.
Jongwoo did prefer physical copies to reading off a screen, unable to deal with the eyestrain for too long. It was why he sometimes liked jotting ideas for his novels on a notepad rather than staring at blank document for hours on end.
There was no way for the man to have known Jongwoo’s preference, but the gesture ticks him off nonetheless.
The man was becoming increasingly bold in his advances. The deal he proposed the previous night explicitly removing any pretenses that he planned to leave Jongwoo to his own devices. On the surface, it seemed he was adamant on earning Jongwoo’s companionship, with the way he persistently set out meals despite them going to waste, or replenished his toiletries, placing a little shopping bag outside his door at the end of every week (the man had severely overestimated just how much toothpaste Jongwoo required).
Jongwoo saw the man’s service for what it was. A bribe. There had to be something the man wanted from him more valuable than Jongwoo’s company.
I miss you.
Something twists inside of him he did not dare acknowledge; made a fool too many times by the hunger of his loneliness.
Jongwoo slides off the bed. Bare feet touching cool wood, he shuffles to the desk which he never used where the black bag 304 had dropped at his feet on that first day was perched.
He pulls out his copy of The Metamorphosis.
A folded photograph slips from the pages, landing at his feet.
He squats and undoes the fold and is met with young faces now unfamiliar. He had forgotten he used to use the photograph as a bookmark. There was a crease crossed over Jieun’s face from the careless fold, worn out and separating the film around her smile.
Jongwoo convinces himself the empty weight atop his heart is guilt and nostalgia, then carefully hides the photo in his drawer, carrying the book with him back to bed.
Just as he finally made sense of the place he left off all those lifetimes ago, he hears the brush of footsteps approaching.
A pause. Then a knock.
Jongwoo pulls the door open. The sudden swing barely fazes the man on the other side.
“It’s been weeks. Take the hint.”
The man drops his raised hand, folding it behind him. He was not holding a plate of food today.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says politely. Jongwoo rolls his eyes, ready to slam the door on his face. “Perhaps, you’d like to join me for breakfast today?”
Jongwoo stops sideways, raising a brow in his direction.
“Ahjumeomi’s already eaten.”
It was clearly a trap. Jongwoo scanned the lines of the mans face, hoping to read a betrayal of his motives for the change of tactic.
He taps his finger against the doorframe, thinking. Wordlessly, Jongwoo steps over the threshold, shutting the door behind him. A smugness washes over the man as he leads the way down the hall.
The house looks different in the daytime. Warmer. Entirely opposite from the oppressive darkness off Eden’s halls. The last of summer’s gold trickled through the panes above the sink, washing the dull grey granite of the counter into a disturbingly friendly yellow. Cozy and clean, the smell of fresh linen lingered in the air. Almost as though this were a home.
304 turns on the kitchen tap. The water sparkles as he washes his hands. Jongwoo catches himself staring a moment too long. He moves past the man to pull a loaf of bread from the overhead cabinet and prepares his usual breakfast, buttered toast and a bowl of sliced oranges. 304’s eyes stay on his back as he works. He ignores them.
304 takes the bowl from him ignoring Jongwoo’s protest. “You’ll ruin your stomach lining,” he murmurs, peeling the stolen fruit for himself. Jongwoo huffs.
Grabbing a glass of water, Jongwoo sits at the far end of the island. 304 sits down at the corner next to him, having prepared the same buttered breakfast. The two eat together in a strange passively amicable silence.
He regards 304 from his periphery. The man’s mouth twists subtly with each bite of an orange slice. Jongwoo smirks into his toast. Who would have thought a cannibal would find the sourness of a measly fruit displeasing.
Then, the door to the backyard slides open. Ms. Eom walks through, humming, an empty laundry basket at her hip.
“The weather is perfect today. I think I can put out another load by the afternoon,” she mumbles to herself as she slides the door shut again.
Not having realized he had relaxed in the first place, Jongwoo’s muscles tense – alert. From the corner of his eye, he follows the woman’s movements as she set the basket down on the couch.
“303. You should take advantage of this,” she starts, as though she had expected his presence. “Have you washed your clothes since we moved? Tsk. I hope you don’t think I’ll do it for you."
Jongwoo grinds his molars down to the root. He’s been washing and drying his clothes perfectly fine in the privacy of his own room.
“And Moonjo-yah. Those clothes pins you bought are no good. They keep cracking at the slightest pressure.” She brings one of the offensive laundry pins to the island where the two men sat to demonstrate, “Oh my, look at this.” Colourful plastic snaps in her grip, dropping uselessly against granite. “Where did you even find such cheap things. Tsk tsk tsk.”
“Hmm. I’ll pick up some better ones later,” 304 drawls unbothered by her nitpicking.
With a final click of her tongue, the woman looks between the two of them eating together, then leaves down the hall to her bedroom.
“Is this part of your plan?” Jongwoo hisses at 304. The man quirks a brow at the sudden hostility.
Jongwoo gestures towards their plates then the direction the woman had just left.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” 304 says innocently, popping an orange slice in his mouth.
Jongwoo opens his mouth to continue, but then Ms. Eom returns, a jigsaw puzzle held in her hands. Jongwoo tenses as he watches her set the box down at the opposite end of the island. She pays the two men no mind as she rummages through the mess of small pieces, picking up that same annoying tune.
304 silently stands to rinse his plate and then leaves the room. Jongwoo’s eyes follow him as he goes, an anxiousness pinching under his skin. He hears the unfamiliar dreadful sound of the man’s bedroom door locking.
Did he just… leave him here?
Ms. Eom’s clicks her sharp nails against the counter, humming louder now. Quickly, Jongwoo forces dry pieces of toast down his throat.
“Finally worked up an appetite, have you?” Ms. Eom laughs. “Heh, slow down. That bread isn’t going anywhere.”
Jongwoo doesn’t give her any sign of acknowledgement, shoving another piece into his already stuffed mouth. He immediately chokes. Dry heaves shake his body in attempt to expel the excess food.
“Yah, what did I tell you. It’s like I’m living with little kids again…”
In between his coughing fit, 304 returns. Jongwoo feels a heavy hand on his back as he is handed a new filled glass of water. Jongwoo chances a glance up at the man, now dressed in a neatly ironed shirt and a pair of slacks.
With an awkward nod, Jongwoo accepts the glass.
“Oh? Heading out again?”
304 hums, making his way to the door. “Just to run some errands.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Jongwoo-ssi, do you want to come along?”
Jongwoo chokes again, mid sip. “What?” the question catching him off guard.
“Do you want to come with me?” he repeats. Jongwoo blinks back, a fist against his chest.
Jongwoo blinks owlishly back. “…Why?”
304 shrugs, buttoning his sleeve. “No reason. I just thought you’d want to get some fresh air. You’ve been stuck in the house for so long.”
He hasn’t. The man knows that. Just last night…
The realization dawns on Jongwoo that this is the story Ms. Eom has been made to believe for whatever reason. 304 pulls on his shoes, face blank as ever.
“You don’t have to. You can stay and keep Ahjumeoni company.”
Ms. Eom looks up from her puzzle, a wide toothed grin pointed at Jongwoo.
“No –” he bites his lip at his quick reply. “I mean. That’s alright, I’ll come with you.” Jongwoo scrambles up from his chair, catching himself on the counter’s edge, dizzy from the jerky movement. “Er, hold on,” he blinks rapidly, clearing his spotty vision. “I’ll change my clothes.”
Derisive laughter follows him down the hallway as Jongwoo hurries to his room, Ms. Eom amused at his haste.
“He acts as though I’ll gobble him up.”
“Would that be so irrational?” Jongwoo hears 304 joke in return before his door falls shut.
Jongwoo does not give himself a second to rethink his rash decision, brushing his teeth before throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
He makes his way back to the kitchen to find 304 still standing in the same spot by the front entrance.
Jongwoo gives his converse a doubletake, flipping them over, unsure if he was imagining things again. They had been washed recently. The whites of the shoes cleaner than they have been in years. He shoots a questioning look at 304 but doesn’t comment on it.
They leave without so much as a goodbye to Ms. Eom.
It was a nice day for a drive.
Jongwoo presses down on the window switch as they pull onto the road. The glass slides down smoothly, gentle wisps of air pleasantly caressing his face. He leans back against the leather seat, taking a deep breath, squinting against the sun to contently watch the blur of lush green trees and farmers crops pass them by.
It was still early enough that the scent of dewed greens was all that existed in the morning breeze, carrying with it the lingering chill of dawn.
The car jolts a little as they make a turn onto a wider dirt road.
He looks over at the man at his side. He’s relaxed, elbow leaning out his own window, hand lax against the steering wheel as he leads them into town. From time to time, he pushes his hair away from his eyes, the wind mussing his bangs, obscuring his vision. Still, he makes no indication of annoyance.
“She calls you Moonjo.” Jongwoo says suddenly.
A flicker of eyelids. A reaction.
“She does.”
His slouched posture straightens ever so slightly. The use of the name startled him.
Jongwoo hums, leaning against his headrest, facing forward. “So… that’s your name.”
He can feel the man’s eyes on him rather than the road ahead.
“At the moment, yes,” he breathes, turning a corner onto a main road. “It is.”
The man’s voice sounds far away.
“And your real one?” Jongwoo presses.
“I don’t remember.”
He’s lying. His grip on the wheel unnoticeably tighter.
Jongwoo’s eyes fall on the scar peeking out the man’s sleeve, moving with each flex of his hand. He doesn’t pry further.
After a beat of silence, a grin creeps its way onto Moonjo’s face.
“I’m sorry, we never did introduce ourselves properly, did we?”
The man outstretches his hand towards Jongwoo. “Seo Moonjo,” he greets as though they were first meeting.
“Shut up.”
Moonjo laughs low in his throat.
The same comfortable silence befalls them once more. Birds are chirping somewhere overhead. A scene so serene Jongwoo thinks for a moment he does not deserve to experience it.
“Where are we going?”
“A local market. Not too far”
Jongwoo nods, disinterested.
“You haven’t been eating.”
He shoots the man a sideways glare, “I have.”
“Oranges and tap water hardly count.”
Jongwoo clicks his tongue, hating that he’s right. The cut hollows under his eyes hurt. He barely has enough energy to keep his head up. Still, he has expanded on his diet. The accusation seems unfair.
“What do you care?”
“A lot,” he says lowly with that same far away voice. “More than I’m aware.”
Jongwoo turns to look at him, but for once Moonjo avoids his gaze, staring straight ahead.
They don’t talk the rest of the way.
Stalls filled with produce stretched far along the street that was too narrow to be called wide, and too wide to be called narrow, the market bustling with patrons even at this early hour. This particular market was more popular amongst the elderly population of their small town, Jongwoo and Moonjo among the few younger faces save for the children that roamed the crowded street with their grandparents.
“Take this,” Moonjo holds out his wallet to Jongwoo. “If you don’t like anything here, we can go somewhere else.”
Jongwoo raises a brow at the offered leather and scoffs.
“What?”
“What?” Jongwoo repeats, drawn out and angry.
“You’re annoyed about something.”
Jongwoo spits a laugh.
“Jongwoo.”
“Forget it,” he brushes off, unbuckling his seatbelt. The younger man grumbles indiscernibly with a few audible curse words sent Moonjo’s way as he snatches the wallet from his hand.
“Stay here. Your face is more recognizable than mine,” he calls before slamming the car door shut.
Wordlessly, Moonjo watches Jongwoo’s retreating back as he approaches the food stalls. Moonjo was far from unaccustomed to the man’s anger. Rather, he cherished the passion of his worst emotions over the silence the man had sentenced Moonjo to the past few weeks.
Moonjo had expected the man’s defiance. A metamorphosis took place in more stages than one.
However, Jongwoo taking his frustrations out on his own body was not something Moonjo had anticipated. The worry that came with his deteriorating state he had anticipated even less...
The younger man had not been in public for weeks and though he tried to remain nonchalant as he browsed the stands, the tension in his posture was evident even from where Moonjo sat. He kept his head down, purposefully avoiding looking those he spoke to in the eye – which could easily be mistaken as a display of manners, but really was the man’s tactic to remain as insignificant as possible.
Jongwoo purchases a small bunch of spinach, smiling politely at the shop lady as he pays before quickly hurrying away.
The man loiters around the other nearby stalls, his shoulders tense. His head kept briefly turning in Moonjo’s direction, as if he could feel the weight of his gaze despite their distance.
Jongwoo reaches the end of the street, then turns to look Moonjo in the eye before rounding the bend to the other side of the market, purposefully so Moonjo lost sight of him.
Moonjo itched to chase after the man but resolved to stay put. He let his head fall back against his seat, inhaling deeply. He did not know how to deal with this newfound restlessness that would take over his senses when it came to the younger man. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before with a previous creation.
Because Jongwoo wasn’t his creation.
Moonjo closes his eyes, picking at his nailbeds to subdue his unrest.
The younger man spoke his name. That name that was his and wasn’t his all the same. Moonjo had no real attachment to the string of letters that supposedly marked his existence in the world, but now that he’d heard the name grace the man’s tongue, he felt less inclined to change it.
The writer had wielded his name as a sword, hoping to maim. Moonjo had felt it in the younger man’s stare. How his curious eyes swept over his scars. Jongwoo was hoping for a reaction, and much like anything the man asked for, Moonjo had given it to him.
You’re getting soft Moonjo-yah.
An hour later, Jongwoo returns, plastic bags full of produce dangling from his arms while he balances a cartoon of farm eggs in his hands.
Moonjo rushes out the car to help.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it.” Jongwoo shoulders past him making way to the car’s backside. Moonjo ignores him, grabbing the eggs and some bags from his grip and goes to load the trunk.
Jongwoo does not protest. Instead, he grumpily dumps the remaining bags he held into the trunk and stomps his way to his seat, slamming the door for extra effect.
Moonjo catches a view of the man’s tight knit expression through the side mirror.
“If you’re upset with me darling, tell me,” Moonjo starts after getting back into his seat, pulling the strap of his belt over his chest. “Don’t burden yourself.”
Jongwoo’s face is turned away from him, but even at this angle, Moonjo can see his sneer grow.
“Jongwoo.”
“This guy – tsk. I’m serious. Stop it.”
The questioning look Moonjo gives him seems to ignite the heat of the younger man’s fury.
“You know what I’m talking about. Stop pretending you don’t.”
Moonjo replies with a tilt of his head. Jongwoo sucks air sharply through clenched teeth.
“This –” he waves his hand in the space between them, trying to find the right word. “This coddling. Stop.”
Moonjo blinks, silently searching the man’s face. Then,
“This is about the money,” Moonjo surmises. “People have used it against you in the past. Tried to make you feel smaller for what you couldn’t afford.”
Moonjo leans forwards, trying to catch the man’s eyes that have now moved away from him again, becoming interested with his own hands. “I’m sorry. That was not my intention. Jongwoo, what’s mine is yours.”
“I’m not your fucking girlfriend.” The younger man snarls, his face burning hot as he says it.
Moonjo absorbs the impact of his anger and tilts back. He taps his fingers against the wheel.
“I understand,” he nods after a moment. “You’ve never had someone care about you like this. I’ve never had anyone to care about until now.”
Moonjo stares at him.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?”
Jongwoo lets a breath out at the intensity.
“Yeah. So, knock it off.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
Jongwoo deflates, a hopeless expression enveloping his face.
“I meant what I said that night.” Jongwoo finally meets his stare. His eyes were wet, his anger pouring out of him. “You are mine for as long as I live and after that, even if I’m not yours.”
“I’ll give you some space though, if that’s what you were asking for,” Moonjo ends, turning his keys in the ignition.
Jongwoo doesn’t say anything further. Rather, he takes to look out his window and ignore Moonjo’s presence.
They pull out of the market and back onto the road. The greenery of farmlands passes by in a blur, eventually becoming the colours of urbanity.
“This isn’t the way to the house.” Jongwoo mumbles.
Moonjo starts and blinks at Jongwoo for noticing.
“Hmm. I need to go into town.”
Jongwoo nods uninterested. They turn onto a main street. It was mostly empty save for a few teenagers playing hooky and patrons browsing for a spot to have a late breakfast.
Moonjo pulls to a stop on the side of the road in front of a small bank.
“I’m sorry, I’ll just be a moment.” Jongwoo does not acknowledge his words, continuing to stare blankly ahead at the street.
Moonjo clicks his seatbelt out from its buckle and gets out the car. He leaves his keys in the ignition.
He takes one final look at the man before entering the bank.
The car and its passenger are still there when he returns.