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Baekjin was no fun. After an erratic movie night Humin always wanted to do something odd - like watching the girls in the neighbor's window with binoculars to finally learn how their sleepovers go. But Na Baekjin refused every time and wanted to either study or do anything, but what Baku wanted, so by the age of fourteen they've never played spin the bottle, or seven minutes in heaven, or even truth or dare for more than one round. Baekjin always picked truth, and watching him complete a dare was lame, since everything he did seemed robotic, and laughing felt awkward.
The lack of any stimulation in his teenage years that left both his brain and dick untouched transformed into something, someone like adult Baekjin, who only gets off from violence. All his pleasure stems from something sadomasochistic, it seems. The fact that one day his shelf will be graced by a diploma - perfect from cover to cover and done only for his parents' meaningless approving nod - probably pleases him too. What a moron.
Na Baekjin’s life is like an expansive, deep analog of the drawings on the notebook margins that come to life when you skim through them. Except these sketches turn into something that reminds a really perverted experiment. Sort of reminiscent of the kids that get closed in the illegal research facilities for the sake of creating their own society. It pretty much was like that, actually. If you add Baku as his only way of real socialization, you’ll get a formula for something explosive.
One of their lifelines has the words “bright mind” and “gifted” written across it. The other is claimed with “lost cause”. Both are brilliant examples for the history books of the near future. “How To Not Do 101”. A PSA to all parents that warns about the consequences of failing, failing, failing over and over.
Middle school comes to mind with its tender memories of being late on purpose and smashing your face into the school desk in a sleepy haze. Once again, Baekjin didn’t share such memories with Baku.
Upon closer examination it’s impossible to not notice that they don’t have much in common. Park Humin grew up a mutt from the backwoods with his teeth chipped from the fights, while Na Baekjin was always precise. Careful. He had a handkerchief on himself in case of a nosebleed, whereas Baku would dig the dried bloody flakes out with his nail and then blow his nose in the sink. There was a promise – your missed showers, your braces, your deodorant boycott, your cavities will never ever part us, not in a million years. It’s Baekjin who usually had to put up with something, but Baku also had a rough time when braces appeared.
He thought about something similar to that when the hospital bed happened. Baku was scared shitless – so bad that despite the obvious lack of a truce, he felt like he was knocked out, and the events of the last years were washed out of his brain with amnesia.
At least he survived instead of resorting to coma, like some of whom Baku had heard of. Baekjin survived – forgot how to walk properly for a while, but this wasn’t something he couldn’t fix. His speech was a bit slurred due to how bad the head punches were, and his left hand was all hidden behind a cast, which served as a canvas when Baekjin was sleeping.
Baekjin survived, which meant that all of his minor fuck-ups were forgiven and forgotten, and the ones that were serious stayed on pause for the time being, until he gets better. Baekjin didn’t soften up, even though patients in his condition turned into meek poodles just to postpone the moment when they’ll have to take accountability. Humin didn’t anticipate obedience, but a part of him hoped. For something.
“Humin-ah, help me shower.”
“Humin-ah, help me change.”
“Humin-ah, give me the straw” or “hold the bottle” at the very least.
You wish. Only silent treatment, which made Baku feel like even more of an asshole, as if he was the one who almost made his friend see the other end. As if he was caring after Baekjin because of the nagging feeling of responsibility in his head and not because of the wild, animal fear of losing him. Not necessary for anyone – especially for Baekjin – to know about that. Let him think that his parents paid Humin for the daily duty by his bed…
…And for him to move to Baekjin’s castle of a house when he was let out of the hospital for the home treatment. Well, where else from would Humin take all the money for the unsaid whims, which, as he thought, Baekjin told him about with the eye movements, like a dying paralyzed patient, who wanted to drink some water instead of, um, watching a striptease, maybe.
“Open the window, it’s hot,” Baekjin speaks for the first time in a few weeks. Before that Humin had only heard his voice from the hall when sitting at the door of a treatment room. To honor that event Baku doesn’t just custom his cast, but his wheelchair too. On the back he draws bunny ears, which Baekjin won’t see before he can stand up.
The window is forgotten because of all the joy, and Baekjin sweats to death. The silent treatment streak is ruined. Baku stuffes his mouth with tabasco in front of him out of guilt.
In a few weeks he meets a someone. Seongje. Humin sullenly and jealously watches them – so that Baekjin doesn’t talk to Seongje much. Doesn’t laugh – Humin has already planned a carrot cake with a singular candle as an award for the day when he finally hears that sound. Doesn’t touch him.
Seongje takes the hint and reaches for bored, drowsy Baekjin like a prince would reach for a damsel in distress. Then gets punched between his eyes and, using the energy Baku’s hand transmitted to him through the hit, disappears with his ass clenched and his forehead swelling.
They fight – really fight – the next day, and it’s all twisted arms and shoulders numb from the kicks until Baku accidentally falls on a fresh bruise, and Baekjin laughs.
Seongje is now the head of the shitshow humbly called “Union”. He calls Baekjin back, practically coos and swears – “no ass-kicking for a whole month!” after returning. Baekjin sends him to hell, a single expressive glance reminding of the bandages around his head. And the canvas-cast. And the wheelchair neatly parked in the corner.
What did this fucker forget at Baekjin’s place anyway?
“What’s this here?” he takes a look on the back of the wheelchair.
“Yeah, enough,” Baku sends him to the door with a few hits under the shoulder blades at first, and when that doesn’t work reverts to regular ass kicks. “Get out.”
He’s keeping Baekjin away from unwanted revelations. Nothing must threaten Baku’s little everyday joys, but Baekjin himself is probably counting the days before they take the cast off his hand, so he can break it once more – this time against someone’s skull.
Seongje becomes their errand boy for now, since Humin gives him money, and Seongje buys a carrot cake, which they eat together for some reason, even though it was reserved for Baku and Baku only. Na Baekjin abstains from eating a piece, then another, then another again. Seongje shoots dried up mastic at them before he’s sent flying down the staircase – plop, plop, plop, but then his shoe gets caught in the space between the railing and the wall, and Humin’s rather disappointed. He finishes the cake alone.
Everything is fun and mostly done wholeheartedly, if you don’t remember the past rows. But when they do come to mind in the improper moment, like when Humin puts the cake leftovers in the fridge or caringly tucks the blanket in, Baku feels bitter. Baekjin senses the sudden change quite well – the air doesn’t feel so thick even when Seongje’s here.
“What are you thinking about?” Baekjin asks, and it’s the first time he has said that, but Baku feels as if this question has been resonating off the walls for days now.
Humin can’t bring himself to answer – he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe something vile. Worse, than Seongje and his pranks. Worse than the vigor, with which he fawns over Baekjin like a cat in heat, the vigor, which Baku now lacks.
Maybe he’ll talk about how everything happening now will end – sooner or later. And after that they’ll return to their enemy routine. Or turn a blind eye and pretend everything’s fine – and maybe that’s not even the worst-case scenario, unless Seongje and his shit-eating grin bring them down to earth. You won’t even have to ask him for that.
“Don’t piss me off,” Humin says, “Nothing. I said it’s nothing. Here.”
And puts a bottle to his lips.
Na Baekjin looks back at him guiltily. Oh, he gets everything just right. Maybe he thinks about it even more than Baku does, and his conscience torments him more, and the question marks in his head feel like a full-on ill-mannered kick that sends him under a driving truck instead of a light shove.
Seongje’s the only one who doesn’t suffer. He discreetly steals the oranges that Humin peels for Baekjin. Steals everything, actually – attention, time, glances.
Steals a spot on the bed, when all three of them fall asleep together, and Baku has to toss and turn to fit in somehow.