Chapter Text
The reflection in the mirror stares back like a possessed clone.
It’s supposed to be him, but Juhoon finds its gaze too empty and lifeless to be a living being. But then again, maybe he is just a possessed clone of someone else. He wouldn’t be surprised.
He glances through the bathroom door to the alarm clock on his nightstand, neck craning so he doesn’t have to physically move from the sink. It reads 1:36 in blocky digital lines, and the blaring light they emit is something a normal person would call red, but Juhoon finds the color off. The color isn’t red enough, or maybe too red to deserve the name. The wrongness in the light makes his stomach twist in dull nausea. He finds the will to refocus his eyes, away from the wrong red of the alarm clock, and back to the comfortable darkness and the clone in the mirror.
The reflection looks normal enough, but something feels off. Juhoon thinks the figure facing him is most definitely a person, but he cannot reconcile its image with his own. In the back of his mind, he thinks just like the clock, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a sort of faint amusement at the poetic irony in the notion. He stores that for later, a metaphor he can spin into a piece of writing when he finds the will to do something other than stare at the mirror like a half-dead narcissist.
He stays there for who knows how long, his mind not wandering, but crawling. His thoughts feel like ants in honey, dragging slowly and painfully, losing limbs and will as they fight to not succumb to the sticky, sweet sensation of exhaustion. He can feel his eyes strain to stay open. It’s a combination of spite and something he can’t quite isolate enough to name that keeps him upright and staring. He knows he won’t sleep anyway, and he doesn’t feel like suffering the false hope that trying would bring.
Instead, he just disassociates, staring, but not looking at his reflection. His thoughts jumble clumsily, their movements slowed and numbed by the hour, mixing with each other in a mess that causes a muted headache that feels like TV static buzzing over the bone of Juhoon’s skull and under the skin of his scalp. Faded song lyrics mix with memories and fragments of writing, the sounds eventually looping and going in circles.
Finally, he can’t stand it and blinks, clearing his head as much as he can. The world snaps into focus again, albeit still fuzzed at the edges of his vision. He looks at the clock once more with the hope that he’s burned some time until morning.
The not-red blinks back at him, plain and unapologetic.
1:37
Juhoon stares back for a second, before he walks over and picks it up, hardly even conscious of the fact that it’s in his hand. Until it’s not, and he’s at the windowsill watching the trees of the neighbor’s backyard that it disappeared into.
He blinks, looks at his right arm still out the window, and turns on his heel. The window’s left open as he grabs a hoodie tossed carelessly over his desk chair and walks out of the dark bedroom.
The house is silent; the only sound is the creaking of the old steps as the wooden frame is swayed by the night wind, and the thud of careless steps as Juhoon walks out, not caring to close the door quietly. It doesn’t particularly matter to him, if his parents wake. It’s not like they’ll be able to stop him when he’s already left.
His phone sits in the pocket of his pajama pants, bumping loosely against his thigh when he steps. He instinctively reaches for it, to check the time, his messages, something to do so he doesn’t have to go in sooner, only to see a jet black screen. Just for confirmation, he clicks the power button, and his eyes instinctively roll as the image of an empty battery flashes across the phone’s face. Amazing.
He stops on the sidewalk and squints up at the sky. It’s still dark and cloudy. A flash of annoyance flickers in his chest at the fact that the street lamps make it hard for him to distinguish the light of the moon and stars above. He stays a minute longer anyway, before continuing to walk.
Somewhere along the way, Juhoon steps onto the street to avoid a pair of trash cans obstructing his path, and ends up never moving back to the sidewalk. He’s only reminded of the fact that he is in the middle of the street when he crosses at an intersection, and hears a horn blaring through the air paired with the screech of tires stopping. He pauses briefly and looks to his right, where a pair of headlights illuminate him. He can’t really see the driver through the glare, but he can hear faint curses and yelling that drift in one ear and out another. Juhoon doesn’t react or try to decipher what they’re saying, though; he just stares blankly at them before continuing to walk, only looking away from the windshield when the car passes.
He eventually moves back onto the uneven sidewalk, and continues walking aimlessly.
He ends up at an old destroyed lot, torn asphalt and debris littering the ground as he walks past the dirtied and ripped caution tape the government has forgotten to enforce. Juhoon crosses it with a practiced familiarity, sidestepping broken bottles and treading on carelessly tossed cigarette butts as he reaches the old church abandoned at the edge of the lot.
Behind the wreckage is an empty field. Sparse clusters of grass litter its barren surface, desperately clinging to life with what little nature gives them. The wind rushes across the desolate landscape, chilled by night, and the weak blades tremble, but don’t give. Juhoon is almost impressed by their determination to survive.
He takes a seat on one of the more intact steps. Then, with his arms resting atop his knees and chin propped up by one hand, he stares at the empty road and waits.
—
The sky has lightened maybe a shade or two by the time Juhoon finally hears him. He’s memorized the footsteps—intentional, yet careless at the same time, skipping one beat occasionally, loud as if trying to prove something to the ground. He glances up, and is met with the familiar sight of his best friend.
Martin is the kind of person who stands out by nature. Physically, he’s striking. He towers over most at 6'3”, and when coupled with his lanky, lean build, badly dyed blond hair he somehow pulls off, and striking features, he instantly draws attention wherever he goes. More than that, though, there is something inherently magnetic about Martin that Juhoon can’t name. His energy is infectious, drawing people in like moths to a flame, and explosive in the way he takes up space without even trying. There is an effortless charisma in his every move that leaves people hanging on his every word.
Martin is the kind of person who doesn’t need to look for friends. He has an extensive catalogue to choose from, a number of people who would be more than happy to hold his attention. He could truly have anyone he wanted, which is why Juhoon still doesn’t understand that out of anywhere he could be, Martin chooses to be here, standing outside a deteriorating church and standing over Juhoon with that small, infuriatingly charming smirk he always wears in the middle of the night.
“Hey,” the taller waves slightly, a canned energy drink in each hand. Juhoon just blinks before nodding in a silent acknowledgment. He shifts over slightly, making room for Martin to sit beside him, and accepts one of the cans without complaint. It’s some trashy convenience store brand. He doesn’t need to examine the ingredients to know it’s probably made from rocket fuel and cancer.
They sit in silence for a bit, both taking small sips despite the god-awful taste of the drinks. It’s apparently human instinct to consume any edible thing placed in front of you. Juhoon’s always found comfort in this kind of quiet, where he and Martin can just exist near each other. He lets it stretch on a moment longer before finally speaking, his eyes fixed on the treeline across the lot, a rare piece of nature not yet flattened in the name of urban expansion.
“I threw my alarm clock out the window today,” he says flatly, as if that is a completely normal and mentally stable confession.
Martin glances at him over the rim of his can, one eyebrow raised in dry amusement. “Did it deserve it?”f
Juhoon tilts his head in careful thought, before nodding. “...yes.”
“Good job then,” Martin shrugs, patting Juhoon’s knee as if giving an award.
Juhoon feels the warmth linger—Martin has always run warmer than most people—and then immediately snips that warmth in the bud before it can spread. He responds a beat too late, a faint hum that makes Martin glance over.
“You good? You seem kinda out of it,” he asks, leaning over to examine Juhoon’s face.
He nods, lightly flicking Martin’s forehead to push him back to his original place. “Fine. Just thinking.”
Juhoon thinks he can see a flicker of something more concerned in Martin’s expression, but it’s masked by his usual humor so fast that Juhoon concludes he’s just delirious from insomnia.
“Hm. Stop.”
“Stop what?” Juhoon blinks. Martin stares back, unrepentant.
“Stop thinking so much,” he responds, shrugging.
“Not how it works.”
“It should. Work like that, I mean.”
Juhoon takes another sip of his energy drink, forcing it down his throat with a grimace. Martin doesn’t even comment on that, just switches their cans. “Mine’s better.”
Juhoon takes a tentative sip. It really isn’t. “They’re the same kind.”
“Mine’s better spiritually.”
“And how is that?” Juhoon raises an eyebrow.
Martin grins back, taking a swig from the spot Juhoon was just drinking from. He forces himself not to analyze that. “Because I drank from it.”
“I’m leaving,” Juhoon says immediately, standing up as he tries to suppress a faint laugh at the absolute ridiculousness of this conversation.
Martin immediately grabs his wrist, playing along. “No, don’t leave me,” he wails, lightly tugging Juhoon back.
“I am,” he replies dryly, removing Martin’s grasp to step away. Before he can, though, he feels the grip around his wrist tighten to something almost violent, desperate, pulling him back.
“Don’t,” Martin repeats, but there’s no humor in it now. His voice is cold, almost threatening, freezing Juhoon where he stands. Martin finally seems to register what he’s doing, because his eyes drift up to Juhoon’s face and he retracts his hand.
Juhoon stares at him, trying to process what just happened, before slowly, silently sitting down. He doesn’t look at Martin, just stares into the distance and lets the silence, no longer comfortable, fill the space between them.
“Sorry,” Martin mutters roughly, looking down. Juhoon just hums, barely audible, in acknowledgment. His gaze doesn’t drift from the slowly lightening sky, but when Martin shifts closer, their shoulders almost press together, and he doesn’t move.