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A crunch under his foot. A mere nuisance for a passerby, a big red sign for Jisung, who knows exactly what it is. A bug. Its legs still moving with last remnants of life.
And that's when he knows to turn around, knows he just needs to catch glimpse of it— to make sure. And, of course, right there, in the shadow, there's a gaunt silhouette. Watching him.
A shudder shoots down his spine and his legs hare off before his mind can catch up. If he wavers a shade better, he'll end up like the bug. He feels its ghostly touch everywhere on his skin, burning cold, almost firm enough to capture, but not quite. They're weak yet desperate.
The air thickens. A low, impending hum muffles up his reasoning. His chest spasms with the in-built will to live, eyes wild as he scans across the dimly-lit street, heart pounding in his chest, he runs from it but well he knows it won't jump him from the shadows. It is shadows. Lurking, always near, following him anywhere he goes. The wind swishes behind him and he can't hear the footsteps because it isn't running. It's cornering, cynical and bloodthirsty.
But Jisung can't not return. What will Felix do without him? Caught up in a thought, it's too late when he notices the curb and then a pang of pain, his barren knees scraping against the emery asphalt, a prickly grip on his ankle. Tightening. Its legs still moving with last remnants of life. His vision turns blurry, but he can't die here. Not now. He'd rather throw himself off a bridge than die like this.
So he clenches his teeth at the sharp pain and jumps up to his feet, legs begging him to stop, but he runs, his vision turning tunnel-like at the crossing, the traffic light nothing short of a knell as Jisung only speeds up. This or death.
The cars' engines are roaring like the blood in his ears, a rope around his neck pulling him back, choking, digging into the skin. He can't breathe. He's half-way through when they go off like bullets. The sound of the cars honking, him maneuvering between them mingles with a low howl of the wind that chases after him, the stench of rot stuffs his nostrils, and he risks a glance behind himself and right there, sharp claws reaching for him. His stomach churns. He turns around and his knees buckle and he comes face to face with the ground. Yelps. To his right, a car is not stopping, racing at full-speed. The hum is deafening, closing in, but the light is right there, just one last push away. A mere bug, 's that what I am? He musters up the last drip of strength and throws himself forward onto the sidewalk, the car zings right behind his back, sending this obnoxious tingle up his scull but he doesn't look back, eyes shut. A shrill wail echoes in the distance, farther and farther away, retreating into the darkness.
And Jisung is alone.
For now.
He rolls onto his back, chest heaving as he gasps for air, every function still in overdrive. He can tell they're starving. Worse than before, too. Usually, he makes it through this street just fine, but this time it seems like they were desperate for the first breathing creature they could lay their eyes on.
Still a bit dizzy, Jisung is this close to tripping somewhere on the way, but, thank god, he makes it to the college safe and sound, and his knees covered with dirt and half-curdled blood stay rather unnoticed (by his standards)(what's a couple of head-turns? Nothing he's can't handle). Likewise, no one pays him any mind when he walks through the rows and— and he stops in his tracks when he sees a motionless figure next to his seat. Like a wet, icy cloth to the back of his neck. A brash wake-up call.
Fleeing from umbras usually does a great job at waking Jisung from his delirium, it's grounding to feel endangered, to be reminded of one's own heartbeat in the ears, but this though, this is so out of ordinary he even does a double take just to make sure he isn't hallucinating. See, usually, there's no chair next to his (since no one had taken this place the first week, some enthusiasts filched it and he's never seen it ever since), but today there is a chair, and— upon further inspection— a tad too slim guy adorning it.
His stare is heavy when Jisung pulls his chair, suddenly worried if he should like— ask for a permission or something? Both of them flinch when the chair creaks a bit too loudly. Even as he rummages through his backpack, he feels the painfully familiar tingle on the back of his neck but lets it slide. Maybe he's just awkward— or curious... or both. He spies a notebook there, in the corner, on the the guy's side too, and his shoulders slump down with an ounce of ease at the misconception they share.
A question he knows an answer to cuts the carefully woven braid of his spiralling. Everyone is silent. Everyone. It's mesmerising.
"Auger effect?" he but breathes into the silence, but it's so quiet it bounces off the walls.
"Uh-huh, I see," the physics professor says finally, fixing his huge goggles with a weird look on his face, "well, we'll have to freshen up your memory—"
Jisung's mouth snaps shut. His hands are eager when he leafs through his notebook with intent and confirms that his answer is correct.
Right. There is this odd thing is that whenever he talks, no matter what he says, they look at him as if he's grown a third head. He's convinced it's a trait he inherited from his, admittedly, away with the fairies mother. That, consequently, makes the 'they vs me' mindset all the more fundamental for Jisung, whose presence has always stuck out like a sore thumb. He's wired differently. Ever since he turned seventeen, he realised his genius, his, for lack of a better word, transcendent mind-built. His thought processes, his reactions, his ideas— people just do not get it yet. They're apprehensive of him. Perhaps, it's something to do with his antisocial tendencies, however it's likely not the cause but the result of chronical self-alienation when his personality was still developing. So no matter what he says or does, people stare.
And this weird guy is no exception. The side-glances they keep ping ponging during the lecture are fun at first, but grow sinister with the way they touch his neck, then slide down to his collarbones, his chest, skim over his thighs, zero in on his crotch.
"Got something to say?"
The guy's head snaps up. And gosh— Jisung isn't the one to hold eye contact but his stiff, unwavering stare magnetises him. It's warm like a scarf on his neck. That keeps getting tighter. And tighter. A mechanical "sorry, I zoned out" is all he offers before getting back to staring at him. Well... Cool. Whatever. He can deal with it.
Besides, the lecture is more on an interesting side, Jisung has no clue why some people seem to be engrossed in their phones. He remembers there sat a girl in front of him and (since satisfaction brought it back and all that) he invaded her privacy out of unadulterated curiousity and saw that all she was doing is just mindlessly scrolling through— messages? None were new, just up and down, up and down, fixing her hair then again, up and down. Ever since then, he decided to give up on the idea of understanding people because it made him want to jump out the window.
Speaking of people, the stranger next to him is stock-still, so is Jisung, a pencil snug between his fingers to mask the fact that he doesn't have a phone in them. His hand buzzes with numbness. He ignores it.
They both sit there, unmoving, but Jisung's reason is wariness, and the guy's— what exactly? He isn't sure. Though, his presence feels... warm. But, again, in a 'walked into a hot spring with clothes on' kind of way. It puts him off. Luring him in a bit too intensely.
After the lecture, Jisung has a small window to hang around the college. He, as usual, attempts to wait 'til someone stands up and starts to pack up but— no one does? They all just seem to sit there. Some still on their phones, some for... No reason? He peeks to his left.
"Don't wait," the guy grumbles under his nose, as if to himself, and practically flies out of the lecture hall.
Huh.
Huh?
He lets an exasperated sigh. Needless to say, people always leave him wondering. Brows still knitted in bewilderment, he walks out of the lecture hall; it's still dark, at the end of the hallway there's a flickering fluorescent lamp, a fetch-candle of sorts, that makes his eyes swam with tears. He tosses his backpack onto his favourite bench (it's the only bench that doesn't elbow him, old and scruffy, just how he likes it) but then he stops abruptly, ears perked up.
The clock on the wall is ticking sporadically, the pointers spasming.
One. Two. Three. A quarter to 7. Jisung counts to ten and turns around.
As much as he was afraid to actually see something he shouldn't have, he didn't expect not to see a soul in the hallway. Such places aren't supposed to be deserted, are they? The persistent tick-tock is ringing louder than ever, a tail of a rat flickers round the corner. Or is it just his imagination?
One foot before the other, he tiptoes to the ajar door of the lecture hall, light footsteps following him. One at a time. Two at a time. He walks faster. It, too, walks faster. With bated breath, he peers inside. Just like he thought, the chairs are unoccupied, as if no one was there, as if everything was a mere hallucination safe for a few students still on their phones, scrolling. Scrolling.
"They're always like that, aren't they?"
Jisung twitches at the brush of cold against the shell of his ear. The needles of fingers bite into the cuff of his wrist and tug him closer to the door for a better look. They stay there, stinging.
And then, the stranger manhandles Jisung to the closest wall and, strangely, he finds himself ductile in his hold. A corner of his lips lifts in a ghost of a smirk as he towers over him, making him go cross-eyed and somehow, despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Jisung is both terrified and— and just a tiny little small bit worked up?.. Wow. That's embarrassing.
The stranger is scrutinising him with an almost scientific interest, as though he's a lab rat. Semi-aware they're not, in fact, alone, it still hits like they're one on one, in private. He takes a tiny step back with a gulp, his back flush against the wall. The guy glances down, and then back at his face. Takes a step forwards, fully dominating Jisung's space now.
"A bleak, ordinary crowd," he states. "You don't even know their names, do you? Yeah... That's what they are. Woesome slaves of the system, shaped by nothing but years of docile conformity. Obedient and so aimless... But you—" a briery hand finds its place on Jisung's cheek, a thumb caressing it like an ancient vase on an auction, treasuring, but also... possessive. He feels his hot breath on his face when he whispers, "I've never seen a person like you. You stand out, you know that?"
He has half a mind to register it's actually a question since the guy's voice stays so monotonous and low. I've never seen a person like you. The way he said it... no judgement, just pure admiration. Jisung chews on his lip to bite down a whimper— god, he's so fucking pathetic, thirsty for the tiniest drop of praise. He crosses his legs, and pressed his thighs together, a terribly familiar tingle flutters in the pit of his stomach.
"I— um... D' you—"
"It's okay, take your time."
Stupid. He thinks I'm stupid. Fuck. And the worst is that the way he murmurs the words that keeps Jisung struggling to catch every single syllable— he feels light-headed, breathing rugged as he glances to his left awkwardly but no, he can't look away, caged in this crazy undivided attention. No way out.
"Do you happen t— to know where they are?.." he manages weakly.
"Mmm, I think the question you should really be asking is if they are."
And how is he, prey tell, supposed to respond to that? Thank god the man spares him, probably aware of his whole body shaking like a leaf.
"Why did you go here? To check?"
He nods. "I left a rubber there."
"We both know that's not true." The stranger points out. Sunken shadows guard underneath his steely, emotionless eyes. "You never bring a rubber, you always strike stuff out."
His chest constricts, rabbit-like, an unmistakable thrill of being preyed at the realisation. He's been watched. Agape, a plea is stuck in his throat as his knees buckle with primal fear, it drips down his legs. Sticky and venomous. And yet, he preens. He's been watched by him. The crazy hot guy who he'd never dare approach on his own is now willingly conversing with him and, despite everything, a blush paints his cheeks. He's a fool. A clinically insane fool. "You watched me?" ...of all people?
A shriek makes Minho's eyes finally stray from his. Bloodcurdling, it travels across the hallway. The lamp is static. One lamp turns on. The other follows. It follows the other. Light munches on the thick darkness of the hallway piece by piece. The stranger's eyes phosphor in the greenish lightning as he watches the horror-come-ture unfold with dry curiousity, and perhaps even amusement. It stenches of dank basement, melted plastic and... he can't quite put his finger on it but— wait, no way— rotting flesh?! He retches but the stranger soothes down his shoulder and his hand is warm compared to his skin and Jisung doesn't want him to leave. Suddenly, he doesn't want to be left alone. Alone with something that's definitely after him.
"It's happening again..." he observes, then a quick, "I'll see you later."
No explanation, no promises— nothing. Confused and scared, Jisung reaches for his forearm but before he can grasp it he's gone, dusting it to the stairs and disappearing round the corner.
If confusion could taste, it'd burn his mouth like ethanol. His life has become so puzzling his head hurts (and it's not even dinnertime!).
So he lets a sigh of defeat, settling on skipping the rest of his classes.
Fortunately (suspiciously), Jisung doesn't encounter any umbras on the way back. He kicks his shoes off, and half expects for something to go wrong, like finding his roommate gone and all their belongings wrapped in wrapping paper or shit, but, again, none of this holds up, the aforementioned roommate is sitting ramrod straight in the precise middle of the sofa, unhurt and no quieter than usual, static gaze glued to the turned off TV.
"Hi," Jisung's calls.
As if controlled by strings like a puppet, he looks unnaturally constrained when he stands up and bows. Yes, bows. It's been almost a year of them living together and Jisung can't count how many times he'd asked him to stop doing that, evidently, to no avail. So he ignores it. Everything he can't explain he just— ignores. Jisung bites down a chuckle, already knowing what's coming next when Felix scurries to the kitchen in a quite gnomely manner and retrieves a shiny apple from the fridge.
"Do you want one?"
Jisung shakes his head no. Again, nothing out of ordinary here.
Felix nods, gives the apple peel a sixth cut and puts it back into the fridge. A routine at this point. His eyes are too wide when he wishes Jisung a goodnight and then hurriedly retreats into his room. He'd like to find out why he closes the door so abruptly, but he knows better then to pry into his little space. Somehow, he's afraid of what he might hypothetically find there.
It used to confuse him but now he just looks forward to it. Their routine, their interactions. Despite the inherent freakishness, they've been nothing but nice so far.
His breathing hitches at the glowing-white line under the doorstep of their bathroom; their uncomfortably well-lit bathroom. Tentatively, Jisung puts his sweaty palm on the door. Pushes it open.
As expected, their sink is a tie-die disaster. Gruesomely colourful. He can't help but feel sick at the distinct metallic tang permeating the stale air, the stains of fresh blood painting the white of the fireclay, apple peels clogging the sink. Turning the tap on, he watches it struggle to swirl down the drain. He knows the peels will have been gone by tomorrow. There's one toothbrush in the cup, his own. He's yet to see Felix', who despite an apparent absence of any kind of sustenance still manages to get by. He thinks about it when he can't sleep. But not too much. Not too much. It's important not to dig too deep into things.
Jisung puts paste onto his toothbrush, wets it under the stream. It's so minty it burns. In the mirror, he sees himself blink. Hang on— did he just see himself... blink? In a split second, he dashes out of the bathroom, slams the door shut and props himself against it, trying his best to hold it with his weight when it starts to fight back; he grunts keeping it in place as it bangs from the inside, as if someone is trying to escape it. The wood is cracking, he can tell. He hears a sharp nail scrape against the surface right where his spine is pressed to it and he swears he can feel it in his body. It reeks of mould. And then, out of the blue, it turns silent, so silent it rattles, safe for the faint sound of whimpering echoing against the tiles. His brows furrow, the hold on the door loosening as he tries to make sense of it, but before his mind can calculate the matter, a shrill howl pierces the air, his ears are hit with sudden ache and the door bursts open and he falls over and—
"Left something?"
He jumps to his feet.
A lanky figure arises from the gloom of the hallway, a small amulet cradled in his hands.
Jisung snatches it, puts it back around his neck and gives him a shooing motion. "Go away."
"But—"
"Give me a fucking break, Felix!" he yells. His roommate flinches back on instinct, looking guilty. "Do me a favour and piss off!"
Silence.
"...Do you— do you want an apple?"
Jisung curses. He knows he shouldn't have. "One more word and I'll fucking—" he sucks in a breath to soothe himself, "I'm sorry, Felix. I'm just— tired."
Felix nods, far too used to Jisung having anger outbursts, retrieves a new apple and makes a new, surgical cut. Right, it's past midnight. A new day.
As he stares at the ceiling, he thanks whatever it is up there that he has a separate room with a lock on the door. He never locks it though. He knows the lock on itself is protection enough. Felix never goes near his room anyway. Not even at night. He only pours a salt line over his doorstep at 4 am every day and then leaves the apartment. He doesn't question it. Even though Felix is harmless Jisung knows a locked door might anger him.
The next day, the air is thin. He trudges to the fridge, shrugs off the rotten smell and eats in deceptive silence. He's been told it's never silent. There's no one home. At least, that's what he thinks, his mind supplies.
The lecture hall is itchy cold, but there are beads of sweat dotting his upper lip because he's been running late again. He feels hot eyes bore into him before he sees them. The guy, again, somehow looking tall amongst the rows of bent over the phones students. A closer look reveals him sitting on the desk, legs folded. There's only one chair, his own.
As if reading his thoughts— "it's okay. They won't notice me. Just sit down and don't look up."
Jisung, of course, looks up, and this very instant, a pang of pain, sharp fingers roughly digging into his hair and forcing his head down. Caught off guard, he lets an extremely manly squeak of pain. Like a schoolgirl getting her pigtails pulled.
"I said do. not. look. up, Jisung," he growls, a rumble of thunder for the silky tone of his normal voice. His own name on the stranger's tongue sounds stinging, like a nettle hitting the shin. "Do as I say, and you'll be safe, got it?"
He picks at the threadbare fabric inside his pockets but gives a timid nod, then his hair is released, a strand is tucked behind his ear gently as the leaden wrath turns into a fake-calm ocean in the man's eyes. There's apprehension in the way he scans his surrounding and then hisses, "sit next to me. Quick, act natural."
As though bewitched, he plops down onto the seat without a shadow of his knee-jerk stubbornness, the laces of the guy's untied converse are the only thing he sees. The more he glares at them the more they seem to move on their own, erratically, like a snake with a chopped off head.
"Bad habit of mine."
"Huh?"
He reaches for the lace to toy with it. "I tend to forget to tie them, even now that I don't have the need to hurry everytime I leave my house."
The most burning question is, of course, what did he have to run away from? Tingle zaps his solar plexus even though there's absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Just all hat and no cowboy. Beating around the bush but the bush is actually a thrown out fake Christmas tree.
"Do you ever read whatever he writes on the board?"
Jisung smoothes the crease between his eyebrows. "I tried, but I can't make it out."
"Right. 'Cause it's not letters," he says, looming closer to him. "Don't try to read it, or else you'll become one of them."
Goosebumps ripple the skin of his forearms, the worm-view serves to only further enhance the hawkish nature of the guy's stare. It's like he's about to slash his claws into his stomach and carry him god knows where. "Can you not do that?"
He tilts his head, squinting, amused, akin to a cat playing with it's food. "Do what?"
"Plant ideas in my head," he says. "I've already got too many questions. Like— what's your name, for starters?"
"Answers are not what you should be looking for."
He rolls his eyes. It's not like he isn't used to people being cryptic, hell, Felix is probably the most enigmatic person he knows and they share a roof perfectly fine. But the stranger's mysticism puts him off in a special way that makes him see— well, not red, but definitely pink at least.
He forcefully rubs his tired eyes, hoping the guy will disappear if he puts enough effort. "See, you're doing it again."
"I'm just as lost as you are," he shrugs. "How can I help you find a way out if I, myself, lack a torch?"
Fighting the urge to hit something is hard but he manages. Through gritted teeth, he says, "I am not lost. And, also, don't switch the subject."
"You aren't? That's bold of you to assume. Everyone is lost in their own way. The thing is, most of them find it out too late—"
"Name. Now."
"It's dangerous."
Jisung groans, a counter-argument enough.
"I'm not sure if I can trust you yet," he says. "Actually, can you tell me what time is it?"
"I don't have a phone on me."
Jisung doesn't catch it. He puts a hand to his ear.
"It's Minho. My name," he mouths, lips barely moving, the whisper quieter than Jisung's thoughts. As if afraid the wind will hear. "Don't tell anyone though. Only you deserve to know that."
Jisung chuckles, because... he could've guessed. It's so underwhelming, it's like trying to solve an equation only to find out x=0. "Okay... You're weird, Minho. Very weird."
"Oh, I know. You'll understand why I'm like this later, although I'd wish you wouldn't," he says, "you can look up now."
Jisung's jaw drops as he takes in what is— has been?— happening above him— the reddish-brown mass clinging to the ceiling. The buzz of hundreds and hundreds of oily beetles growing nauseatingly loud. A tickle on his nape, a gasp, and then him, frenzied, rubbing the back of his neck in a panicked attempt to shake it off, but once he bends over, the nasty insects fall onto his hair, into his hood, make their way under his collar; he swears he can feel one of the cockroaches crawl into his ear and he swats at it hard, scared it'll reach his scull, scared it'll lay eggs inside the his head or— or even get stuck and die there. He could swear they're everywhere. An acid shower sounds like a dream with the way the bugs cling to his skin like mud.
Unable to put up with it any longer, he springs up, but— but the crunching sound makes him stop in his tracks as he slowly lowers his eyes. Afraid of what he might see. Despite his silent pleas, he's met with the sight of beetles covering the floor like a carpet. And that's the last drop. His stomach spasms in an unmistakable urge to vomit, and he hurries to press a palm to his mouth that fills up with too much saliva to swallow.
It's as if he's possessed, stuck in a nightmare that refuses to end; he's semi-aware of everyone being gone by now. And then it feels like the time has stopped, and he's paralysed at the sweet— mawkish, really— smell of something he can't quite discern and yet it's wafting closer and closer to him and then it's right under his nose. The slices of crispy flesh. The peels spilling into innocent blood right under his fingertips. The rumble of the choking drain. Silence laughs at him as an animal scream— that he belatedly realises belongs to no other than him— symphonises the terror a living and breathing being shouldn't be able to ever experience.
A hand grabs his, and his legs run on their own and all he sees is the snakes, half-dead and fizzing, flying up by the converse.