themedpop challenge fic
Title: Fates Turn Around in the Overtime
Rating:PG-13
Fandom/Pairing: MBLAQ/ Joon-centric
Word Count: 5098
Disclaimer: The characters herein are real people, and nothing but the plot is owned by me. This story is purely fictional, written merely to entertain. And no profit is made out of it whatsoever.
Summary: Joon wakes up blindfolded and bound at the wrists.
Warnings: Use of cuss words. Slight mention of bondage as a kink.
Music Video Used: Spark by Tori Amos (can't find an official Youtube channel)
A/N: written for themedpop's 5k challenge and many many thanks to my beta and sister, mary-whom-we-love. &hearts
A nagging pain in his shoulder roused Joon from sleep. His brow furrowed as he swam out of subconscious meanderings. He was damned if it didn't feel like a stone digging into his shoulder, biting into the flesh, feeling like it trying to pierce to the bone. But it made no sense. He didn't have rocks in his bed. Sure he wasn't the neatest of people in the world. Hell, he wasn't always the cleanest either. God knows the other members loved to remind him, the media, and the fangirls about his often-infrequent showers frequently. So he didn't shower four hundred times a day like G.O. did. So what? He didn't smell bad either. All that aside, why did he seem to be sleeping on a rock? He was pretty sure his sheets were clean. Washed a minimum of three days ago.
And he didn't tend to drag rocks into bed with him. He thought he would notice a pebble, rock, stone, or whatever clinging to him before he crawled between the sheets.
He muttered a complaint and squinched his eyes more tightly shut. He didn't want to get up and deal with a stupid rock. Sleep was far more appealing. He remembered being roughly shaken awake by a growled "Damnit, Joon, I'm your producer, not your mother. I shouldn't have to wake you up. Haven't I told you that you can sleep when you're dead?"
No matter what Rain said, sleep was for the living, not the dead. And Joon felt very much alive. Discounting the headache stabbing at his temples. Though he supposed the pain also indicated his aliveness. He wiggled his shoulder slightly while wondering if he'd drank too much soju the night before.
Not that he remembered the night before but typically these headaches hit him the morning after he indulged a little too much in the bottles. This time the little jackhammers behind his eyes picked up intensity with the sound of birds singing. He couldn't remember ever hearing the birds so loudly before. Normally there was the hum of the refrigerator and the subtle drone of the heater. Or the air conditioner. He didn't hear any of those ambient noises. He didn't even hear the other four guys moving around or breathing or talking.
Maybe the power was out and the others left for work or to go shopping. They wouldn't bother him if he had a hangover. Not right away, at least. He wondered if they'd all left before the electricity went out. A chilly breeze slid over his body, piercing easily through his clothes which felt an awful lot like the clothes he'd been wearing yesterday. Though when he tried to focus on yesterday, it slid out reach behind the jackhammers in his head.
He shivered and shifted to reach for his cozy quilt. Only he was laying on his arms, wrists crossed near the small of his back. It was fucking uncomfortable. He tried to move them to his sides but couldn't. What the hell? He wiggled his fingers and felt circulatory pins and needles stab into his hands. He moaned a little at the pain but continued to wiggle his fingers, his hands. He tried moving his wrists but felt was seemed to be coarse rope cut into his skin. Ow, ow, ow, fuck, he thought. Bound and laying on a very hard, rock-like object.
Exactly how smashed had he gotten last night?
Reluctant because light would just sear his hungover eyeballs, Joon squinted his eyes open. There was blackness. No light. Just dark nothingness. He opened his eyes wider but the nothingness refused to fade or lighten. Oh shit! I'm blind! His stomach clenched and ice slid through his veins. Blindness terrified him. He liked light and color and pretty boys dancing in tight pants. Being blind meant he'd never see any of that again. Except in his imagination which hardly counted.
Working desperately to free his hands, clenching his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and in his wrists, Joon wiggled and writhed, only vaguely aware of the desperate animal sounds escaping his mouth. Blind and tied up. It made no sense. And where were the other four? Where were the four men who were his lighthouse in the fog and the storm of their celebrity lives? For that matter, where was the manager? Where was Rain, for crying out loud?
A bit of logic sheared into his brain. There was no way to get his hands free as long as he was laying on them. Whoever had tied him up was gonna pay. He'd make sure of that. First he needed to roll over. Bending his elbows as much as possible, he gained leverage on the ground. Ground? He scrabbled his fingers against what felt like damp grass and cold dirt. He was outside. On the ground. No wonder the damn birds seemed so damn loud.
Anger caused him to clench his teeth. "I'm so gonna hurt somebody when I get free." He sighed. "Even if I can't see a fucking thing. I'll get one of those blind people canes and beat the guilty person with it." The visual made him smile but only briefly.
The seriousness of his situation reasserted itself, and he began leveraging himself up. Bending his knees, he braced his feet and pushed. It took more effort than he expected to roll over, face smushed into the ground, fingers wriggling uselessly behind him, kneecaps encountering other small rocks. On the plus side, he thought, at least I know now I'm not permanently blind. He could feel the cloth blindfold rubbing against his forehead and cheekbone. Temporary blindness seemed far more tolerable than permanent darkness.
He thought he might still invest in a cane and beat some ass with it.
He lay with his nose half-buried in grass. It was prickly grass unlike the soft kind he was used to. Where the hell was he? He didn't hear any traffic sounds so he doubted he was in one of the city's parks. Plus the parks generally had people in them during the day, regardless of the time. Under the bottom edge of the blindfold, he could see hazy light that looked very much like sunlight. And the birds were still singing so it had to be daytime.
Tired of smelling grass and soil, he pulled his knees into his chest and pulled his raised shoulder toward the ground. It was like a super respectful and pleading bow except for the whole hands tied behind the back thing. The muscles in his shoulders protested the extended period of being awkwardly stretched behind him.
"Motherfucker." He spat the words into the grass. He wondered if the person or persons responsible for this were somewhere out there, watching and laughing. Then he wondered who would do such a thing. "Fangirls? Anti-fans? Terrorists?" He was mumbling to himself just for the sake of hearing a human voice.
Then he wondered where the others really were. "Oh shit." He pulled himself into a kneeling position then rose unsteadily to his feet. It was damn hard to stand when he could see where to place his feet.
He needed to get out of this blindfold and rope. He needed to be able to defend himself and find the others. And defend them. Please, God, let them be alive to be defended.
Inhaling, trying to swallow down panic for himself and fear for Cheondoong, Mir, G.O. and Seungho, Joon stood still, straining to hear anything other than nature sounds. Not hearing anything, he tentatively stepped forward. The ground was solid. He took a few more steps, paused, and took a few more. He rammed his knee into something hard. Stifling a yelp of pain, he turned to try to run his fingers over the object.
Smooth and cool to the touch, it curved down at one point into what felt a lot like hard plastic. Joon turned this over in his mind. A car. Whoever had done this had left him by a car. Excitement began to build in his chest. If he could get his eyes and hands free, he could get back to civilization. Call the cops. Or the military.
At the very least, he could call the other members of MBLAQ and check up on them.
Then his fingers discovered open air where there should've been car. He bent his knees, fingers searching until they came into contact with something solid and furry. Furry? He gasped at the implication. A trunk. An open trunk on a car near where he'd been laying all tied up and unconscious. Remembering the headache, he muttered, "Probably drugged."
He wanted to pass out, scream, cry, or just lay back down and give up. The person who'd done this to him was still here. Swallowing, he frantically searched his brain for possibilities. All he got was a screaming message to flee, to get away as quickly as possible, so he obeyed.
He began running away from the feel of the car. As he stumbled over something in his path - a log? a body? - he heard giggling. He stopped and nearly fell over.
"Run, Joonie-ah. Run as fast as you can. We'll still catch you." More giggling. "We like the chase."
The voice, even the giggles were of indeterminate gender but blatantly mad.
Obeying both his instincts and the voice, he started running again, nearly tripping multiple times, and running into a tree. The impact knocked him on his ass, and there was more giggling.
"Watch out for the trees, Joonie-ah. The trees help us. They are our friends." The words were almost whispered but still seemed to come from a distance. The person was playing with him. He knew that but he figured if there were trees, there was some cover, some chance of hiding.
Not that he knew shit about the woods but it was better than nothing. First he needed to have his sight back and his hands available. He had no idea how to go about getting either of those accomplished.
"No giving up, Joon. You managed to survive grade school, Hollywood, and Rain, you can survive this," he muttered to himself. Or die trying but he didn't say it out loud. He refused to even think it too loudly.
Being a ballet dancer hadn't exactly endeared him to the more macho factions of his early school years. As he got older, girls started flocking to him because he could dance. The other boys, the same macho ones from the early grades, hated him even more. The taunts of "faggot", "queer", "butt-fucker" still echoed in the back of his mind. Still, he'd held his head up, made some good friends, and achieved his dreams on a grander scale than he'd believed possible. He had one Hollywood movie behind him. He still dreamt of the rigorous training and filming schedule. Then there was Rain with his dominating personality and star quality which tended to overshadow everybody around him. Surviving being Rain's co-star and protege certainly proved Joon's mettle. At least to himself.
He was a survivor. Sometimes it got lost under the glitz and glam of his career. Sometimes his own moodiness made it hard for him to remember but there it was. Survival, overcoming the odds was one of his strengths. Conquering this situation seemed impossible but he would manage. Somehow. His instincts demanded nothing less.
Not to mention his pride. And his concern for the other members. Back on his feet, he moved towards the tree he'd knocked into, carefully using his elbows to locate it. He heard the birds singing, a buzzing that might have been bees or mosquitoes, and his own pounding heart. Taking an intended-to-be-calming breath, he leaned forward slowly and located the rough bark with his temple. Unsure if it would work, he carefully rubbed the blindfold around the bark, hoping it would snag and allow him to pull free of it.
He nearly fell over when the blindfold slid up and off his head. The surprise of it sent him stumbling back a few steps. The weak sunlight filtering through the trees nearly blinded him after who knows how long in darkness. It was definitely a forest of some kind somewhere but his city-boy self couldn't distinguish any special characteristics. Overall, trees were trees were trees. There were just big, hulking trees with rough bark, thick trunks and semi-bare branches. It was autumn, after all.
He squinted around the woods. There were far more trees than he'd expected. He tried to figure out the direction he'd come from but it all looked the same to him. There was no flash of sunshine on metallic paint. Maybe he'd managed to get further away from the starting point than he thought. He also kept a look out for bits of clothing or skin or hair hiding among the trees but saw none. He wondered where the owner of the taunting voice and scary giggle was.
He wondered where he was. Now he could see, he should feel braver but didn't. The thought of his realization he was a survivor flashed through his brain but the terrified voice inside mentioned this wasn't like anything he'd ever dealt with before. "Shit," he muttered.
Negativity was not his friend.
"Think, Joon, think. What next?" He struggled with fear and the insistent need to flee. Both reasonable responses but he considered his bound wrists. Getting free of the ropes would be a good idea. A really good idea. "How the hell am I gonna manage that? I'm no fucking Houdini." He gnawed on his lower lip, a habit Cheondoong teased him about.
"Don't ever play poker, Joonie-ah." Cheondoong had smiled across the kitchen table at him a few weeks ago.
"Why?" He slumped in his chair after a particularly grueling schedule.
"You gnaw your lower lip when you are worried or anxious about something. It's a tell everybody at a poker table would pick up on." He reached over and patted Joon's hand.
Joon narrowed his eyes at Cheondoong. "How do you know so much about poker and tells?"
Sunny smile. "Wouldn't you love to know?"
The memory made Joon smile softly inspite of his plight. He'd get out of this and see Cheondoong's slow, bright smile again. And he'd coerce the story of how the younger man knew about poker out of him. One way or another. Because Cheondoong would be okay. He had to be okay.
Now to find a way to free his hands. Joon consciously withheld from gnawing his lip again and glanced around. His eyes adjusted to the light so he could make out what seemed like endless trees and thick deadfall on the ground. No handy knives or rescue party appeared so he set off in search of a sharp object. There was bound to be sharp rocks or branches or something somewhere. He considered trying to find the car on the off chance the creepy kidnapper had left something in it. He dismissed the idea as a bad one on the possibility the kidnapper was lurking there or had a cohort who'd stayed close for that reason.
He didn't understand why they'd left him like that. Nor did he understand why the disembodied voice wanted him to run, wanted to taunt him. A game, maybe? One he had no chance of winning? Sort of like how he felt some days with fans. He didn't dance well enough or he was too graceful. He showed too much skin or not enough. Nothing he did was ever good enough. A losing battle. Probably this was simply another version of those. Still, he needed to view it as a chance to get away. Sometimes all a person needed was one chance. This was his, and he wasn't about to let it pass him by, regardless of the gut-churning, mind-boggling fear he'd battled every second since he'd swam into awareness.
Leaves rustled behind him, and he spun around, nearly losing his balance in his haste. "Who's there?" he asked then felt like an idiot for asking. Anybody with an modicum of common sense would have kept his mouth shut but, oh no, he just had to go and pinpoint his location for any crazy who might be roaming the forest.
To say nothing of the crazy, creepy kidnapper somewhere out there.
"You're not running, Joonie-ah." The voice sounded like it was whispering from behind him, right into his ear.
Jerking away, he didn't bother to turn around, merely took off in the opposite direction of the wicked little whisper. He tripped over exposed roots and slid awkwardly down a small embankment. Branches caught at his clothes, his hair, his skin. Thankfully, he still wore his sneakers or his feet would be cut up painfully by forest floor debris. If asked, he would've said no thoughts would pass through his mind other than those of fear or trying to reach safety in terrifying, probably life-or-death situations. Now he knew it to be untrue. As he fled, in a clumsy fashion - who would've thought arms were so vital to balance? - through strange woods, flickers and flashes darted through his mind.
He saw Seungho's serious leader face, the one the older man wore when trying to assert his authority. The odd expression which sat like a mask on his features for a few minutes before he either rolled his eyes in exasperation or crinkled his eyes in laughter. G.O.'s smoothly handsome features, with their easy appearance of authority disguises one of the most juvenile and, often, perverted senses of humor Joon had ever encountered, followed Seungho's. He wondered if the leader duo, for that's what they were with the way they balanced each other and worked in tandem for the group, was alright. If they were safe, healthy, happy, at home, or out with friends.
He hoped to the core of his being they weren't part of whatever twisted game was being played with him. Even more, he hoped that object he'd tripped over not long after he started away from the car was a log or some other natural forest detritus and not the body of a group member, a friend. A brother.
A shudder racked his body at the thought so he pushed it back behind other more random ideas. He thought of Mir's itchy-scratchy excitability and how he looked so much like a little boy when he pouted. He thought of Cheondoong's small face and quiet humor. That quiet humor was one thing he could count on to help put events and situations into proper perspective.
They were a team, his team. The four guys he'd trained with and, in many ways, grown with were his support network and family. If anything happened to them, he didn't know how he'd survive it. They were the foundation and stability in the crazy glitter and hustle of stardom. He needed them.
His eyes stung, and he growled. Like hell he was going to cry in this situation. He was tough. He was a man. More than that, it would be sheer stupidity to give into tears while trying to escape a tormenting voice and the forest. He blinked rapidly to try to stem the tears. Slowing his pace, he tried to wipe his eyes with his shoulders, stumbled and ran headlong into a tree. Stepping back, dazed with tears of physical pain springing to his eyes, Joon groaned at the throb in his head. Something warm and wet slid down his forehead. He rolled his eyes up in a vain effort to see what was sliding down his face.
Confusion cleared and he realized he was bleeding. There was simply no other explanation for the wet warmth leaking from the area on his head where he'd hit the tree. He squinted at the guilty oak (birch? pine? They all looked alike to him.) and saw it seemed undamaged despite their collision. Damn trees, he thought, always jumping in the way. Squatting down, trying hard to maintain balance, he wiped the blood from his face on the left knee of his blue jeans.
He straightened, inhaled, and began running again. In mid-stride, the toe of his shoe caught on some unseen object. He began to fall forward and flailed his arms. Managing to catch himself on the low hanging branch of a nearby tree, he mentally took back all the nasty things he'd previously thought about trees. Bracing his left hand on the tree trunk, he wiped sweat off his forehead with his right. The sky seemed to be darkening causing the foliage to press close. It felt like the forest wanted to absorb him, consume him into itself until he no longer existed. Until he was nothing.
No! He'd fought too long and hard to become something. He wasn't about to let a nasty little voice and foreboding woods turn him into nothing again. He'd been there, done that. Lee Joon of MBLAQ was somebody with four other somebodies. There was pain, heartache, suffering in that life but also joy, happiness, pleasure.
He bolted through the fall-nude branches, shoving vines aside, hands being cut open by random thorns and rough bark. There was blood. His blood dripping off his palms and into the thick leaves underfoot. The forest, the voice could have a little of his blood. He was more than willing to sacrifice a bit of skin in order to get out alive. Time could and would heal those small wounds but not his loss, not his death. Living, oh yes, living was the sweetest revenge he could play on that abominable voice and threatening trees. The nasty words of fans, antis, even managers and producers quailed beneath his determination to be more, to be better. Because the only way he could get back at them was to live being more and being better.
His thoughts ran round and round over the past, the tears, the disappointments. Finally, he understood how to be free from all of it. All he needed to do was live. He howled. Let the trees, the dead leaves underfoot, and the mist-like voice hear and know his triumph. He would be free. He was free.
The roar of triumph stuck in his throat as he tripped again and fell forward into an abyss. His arms flailed fruitlessly in the air. The suddenness shocked the breath out of him. Instead of terror though, he felt loosed from the bonds of gravity. He flew as he fell.
Then he hit the rough cold waters below with a bone-numbing splash. Sinking, he struggled to achieve the surface. As his head broke free, a wave crashed over him, shoving him under again. He swallowed water, ended up inhaling it through his nose. The shoes and jeans he'd been grateful for during his mad dash through the forest quickly became weights dragging down his legs. He kicked and waved his arms around until he gasped air. Waves rocked and bounced over and around him. Trying to float on his back, he did his best to ride the choppy water. Panting and coughing, he studied the leaden gray sky. Looks like rain, he thought. The wind picked up and tore through his cold, wet clothes. He shivered and wondered if this was the end of Joon. He would die in an unknown river somewhere and his body wouldn't be discovered for years.
How would the other members handle it, he wondered. Would they believe he had abandoned them or would they know he could never leave without a word? Would they search long and hard for him? Would they shed tears or search out the cause of his demise? What about Rain? The almighty Rain who was mentor, hyung, producer, and confidante. Would he care or just be pissed that Joon wasn't there?
Maybe everybody would believe he'd flaked out. Joon grimaced then shivered. He hoped not. He hoped those who mattered most would know something bad had happened. That he would never leave them in a lurch like this. He hoped those who mattered most were alive and well in order for them to believe that.
He shivered continuously and found it increasingly difficult to stay conscious. Drowning seemed like a not unpleasant way to go, all things considered. Once, he'd read somewhere that by the time you went under for the third time, drowning was actually pleasurable. Perhaps he was going under for that last time but didn't realize it.
He began to sink beneath the waves. Watched the sky and surface retreat above him. His lungs burned which wasn't totally unpleasant. The water seemed to warm as he drifted further and further into its depths. It embraced him like a mother, like a lover and he was pleased. The burn in his chest intensified. The pain shoved the awareness he was drowning, dying into his brain.
Valiantly, he gave one more try to not give in to his own mortality but discovered his arms and legs uncooperative. The spirit was willing but the body was unable. Not an unusual circumstance in his life so it made sense it would occur in his death. Out of habit, he inhaled deeply, or tried to, and water poured into his mouth.
Gasping, he sat straight up in bed. Cold sticky sweat covered his body and he shivered in the breeze of the floor fan. His mind argued that he was in the woods, no he was in the dorm, no he was in the woods. Joon simply gasped and shivered while his thoughts argued fiercely, nearly coming to blows before his eyes stepped in and won the argument. He was, in fact, in his bed in the dorm, in Seoul. The sounds of Seungho's gentle snores and the whir of the fan sunk into his awareness.
Inhaling, trying to steady his breathing, he caught the scent of air freshener and the underlying smell of young, often sweaty, men. It wasn't something he was normally aware of but his perception seemed heightened. Fear, adrenaline tended to do that, he guessed. The sounds of footsteps padding to the kitchen caught his ear. He wondered who was awake. Mir? G.O.? Cheondoong? Their manager? Maybe Rain sneaking in to deliver goodies like a fairy godmother.
The image of Rain in a floaty pink dress with wings and a wand with a glittery star on the end made Joon smile and helped slow his heart rate. Wrapping his comforter around his shoulders, he got out of bed and sought the company of whomever the footsteps belonged to. The rattling of dishes led him to the kitchen. From the doorway, Joon watched Cheondoong pour cereal and then milk into a bowl before getting a spoon and turning towards the table. And the doorway.
He startled. "Joonie-ah! You scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry." Joon moved to the table and took a seat. "I heard someone moving around and thought I'd keep them company."
Cheondoong plunked the bowl on the table. "You normally sleep like a rock."
The word "rock" sent a shudder rippling down Joon's spine. He'd woken into that dream because of what felt like a rock digging into his shoulder blade. "Okay, okay. No need to look so skeptical. I had a bad dream and wanted company."
"A bad dream?"
"Yea."
"What about?" Cheondoong ate a mouthful of cereal, crunching absently, eyes locked on Joon's pale face.
"It was about....trees. And a voice." He fell silent as wisps of the dream floated in and out of his memory. "I was tied up."
"Sounds kinky. Bondage in the forest. Were you blindfolded too?"
Joon flipped his middle finger at Cheondoong. "Yes I was. But I was also fully clothed."
"In leather? Lace? Silk?"
"Christ, you're a smart ass at-" Joon glanced over at the microwave's clock. "Four in the morning."
Cheondoong just smiled at him and didn't comment on the fact color was finally returning to Joon's face and his eyes no longer looked dull and glassy.
"Anyway, I was dressed in a shirt, jeans, and sneakers. My hands were tied behind my back, a blindfold over my eyes. I felt hungover when I first...woke in the dream." He drummed his fingers on the table, eyes on Cheondoong's face though he wasn't actually seeing him. "I didn't know where I was, what had happened. When I realized, I was outside, tied up, and blinded...." He trailed off as his breathing sped up.
"You thought you were in a porn, huh." Cheondoong swirled his spoon through the now soggy cereal.
Joon snorted. "I realized I'd been kidnapped. And I wondered about you. All of you." He began tracing patterns on the table. "I wondered and I worried. I hoped all four of you were alright. I cared more for that than for my own safety." He looked up into Cheondoong's brown eyes. "I cared more about all of you."
"Of course you did. You're not as selfish as you think." Putting the spoon down, Cheondoong asked, "What happened next?"
Joon related the painful process of ending up among the trees. He skated over the icy, gut-clenching fear and worry. As he danced his gaze back to Cheondoong's, he realized the younger man saw what he, Joon, could not put into words. He explained about getting the blindfold off, the voice whispering so creepily from nowhere and everywhere.
"And the voice didn't set off any alerts it might be a nightmare?"
Joon shook his head. "It didn't seem odd. Just..."
"Terrifying."
"Yea." Joon continued until he reached the end of the dream as he remembered it. It felt odd to remember so much of a dream when he rarely remembered even dreaming. "I felt trapped. And then I was drowning."
"And now?"
"Now? I feel...free. And like I can breathe fully and cleanly." Joon stood, pulled the comforter back over his shoulders. "I haven't felt this open since we came out with 'G.O.O.D. Love'."
Cheondoong smiled but stayed seated at the table. "No longer feel trapped, hounded, and drowned in this celebrity life?"
"I guess not." Joon smiled back. "Never even realized those feeling were lurking inside."
"Glad you feel better. And thanks."
"For what, Cheondoong?"
"Keeping me company."
"Anytime. It's what brothers are for, after all."
Cheondoong watched Joon walk out of the kitchen and grinned.
Rating:PG-13
Fandom/Pairing: MBLAQ/ Joon-centric
Word Count: 5098
Disclaimer: The characters herein are real people, and nothing but the plot is owned by me. This story is purely fictional, written merely to entertain. And no profit is made out of it whatsoever.
Summary: Joon wakes up blindfolded and bound at the wrists.
Warnings: Use of cuss words. Slight mention of bondage as a kink.
Music Video Used: Spark by Tori Amos (can't find an official Youtube channel)
A/N: written for themedpop's 5k challenge and many many thanks to my beta and sister, mary-whom-we-love. &hearts
A nagging pain in his shoulder roused Joon from sleep. His brow furrowed as he swam out of subconscious meanderings. He was damned if it didn't feel like a stone digging into his shoulder, biting into the flesh, feeling like it trying to pierce to the bone. But it made no sense. He didn't have rocks in his bed. Sure he wasn't the neatest of people in the world. Hell, he wasn't always the cleanest either. God knows the other members loved to remind him, the media, and the fangirls about his often-infrequent showers frequently. So he didn't shower four hundred times a day like G.O. did. So what? He didn't smell bad either. All that aside, why did he seem to be sleeping on a rock? He was pretty sure his sheets were clean. Washed a minimum of three days ago.
And he didn't tend to drag rocks into bed with him. He thought he would notice a pebble, rock, stone, or whatever clinging to him before he crawled between the sheets.
He muttered a complaint and squinched his eyes more tightly shut. He didn't want to get up and deal with a stupid rock. Sleep was far more appealing. He remembered being roughly shaken awake by a growled "Damnit, Joon, I'm your producer, not your mother. I shouldn't have to wake you up. Haven't I told you that you can sleep when you're dead?"
No matter what Rain said, sleep was for the living, not the dead. And Joon felt very much alive. Discounting the headache stabbing at his temples. Though he supposed the pain also indicated his aliveness. He wiggled his shoulder slightly while wondering if he'd drank too much soju the night before.
Not that he remembered the night before but typically these headaches hit him the morning after he indulged a little too much in the bottles. This time the little jackhammers behind his eyes picked up intensity with the sound of birds singing. He couldn't remember ever hearing the birds so loudly before. Normally there was the hum of the refrigerator and the subtle drone of the heater. Or the air conditioner. He didn't hear any of those ambient noises. He didn't even hear the other four guys moving around or breathing or talking.
Maybe the power was out and the others left for work or to go shopping. They wouldn't bother him if he had a hangover. Not right away, at least. He wondered if they'd all left before the electricity went out. A chilly breeze slid over his body, piercing easily through his clothes which felt an awful lot like the clothes he'd been wearing yesterday. Though when he tried to focus on yesterday, it slid out reach behind the jackhammers in his head.
He shivered and shifted to reach for his cozy quilt. Only he was laying on his arms, wrists crossed near the small of his back. It was fucking uncomfortable. He tried to move them to his sides but couldn't. What the hell? He wiggled his fingers and felt circulatory pins and needles stab into his hands. He moaned a little at the pain but continued to wiggle his fingers, his hands. He tried moving his wrists but felt was seemed to be coarse rope cut into his skin. Ow, ow, ow, fuck, he thought. Bound and laying on a very hard, rock-like object.
Exactly how smashed had he gotten last night?
Reluctant because light would just sear his hungover eyeballs, Joon squinted his eyes open. There was blackness. No light. Just dark nothingness. He opened his eyes wider but the nothingness refused to fade or lighten. Oh shit! I'm blind! His stomach clenched and ice slid through his veins. Blindness terrified him. He liked light and color and pretty boys dancing in tight pants. Being blind meant he'd never see any of that again. Except in his imagination which hardly counted.
Working desperately to free his hands, clenching his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and in his wrists, Joon wiggled and writhed, only vaguely aware of the desperate animal sounds escaping his mouth. Blind and tied up. It made no sense. And where were the other four? Where were the four men who were his lighthouse in the fog and the storm of their celebrity lives? For that matter, where was the manager? Where was Rain, for crying out loud?
A bit of logic sheared into his brain. There was no way to get his hands free as long as he was laying on them. Whoever had tied him up was gonna pay. He'd make sure of that. First he needed to roll over. Bending his elbows as much as possible, he gained leverage on the ground. Ground? He scrabbled his fingers against what felt like damp grass and cold dirt. He was outside. On the ground. No wonder the damn birds seemed so damn loud.
Anger caused him to clench his teeth. "I'm so gonna hurt somebody when I get free." He sighed. "Even if I can't see a fucking thing. I'll get one of those blind people canes and beat the guilty person with it." The visual made him smile but only briefly.
The seriousness of his situation reasserted itself, and he began leveraging himself up. Bending his knees, he braced his feet and pushed. It took more effort than he expected to roll over, face smushed into the ground, fingers wriggling uselessly behind him, kneecaps encountering other small rocks. On the plus side, he thought, at least I know now I'm not permanently blind. He could feel the cloth blindfold rubbing against his forehead and cheekbone. Temporary blindness seemed far more tolerable than permanent darkness.
He thought he might still invest in a cane and beat some ass with it.
He lay with his nose half-buried in grass. It was prickly grass unlike the soft kind he was used to. Where the hell was he? He didn't hear any traffic sounds so he doubted he was in one of the city's parks. Plus the parks generally had people in them during the day, regardless of the time. Under the bottom edge of the blindfold, he could see hazy light that looked very much like sunlight. And the birds were still singing so it had to be daytime.
Tired of smelling grass and soil, he pulled his knees into his chest and pulled his raised shoulder toward the ground. It was like a super respectful and pleading bow except for the whole hands tied behind the back thing. The muscles in his shoulders protested the extended period of being awkwardly stretched behind him.
"Motherfucker." He spat the words into the grass. He wondered if the person or persons responsible for this were somewhere out there, watching and laughing. Then he wondered who would do such a thing. "Fangirls? Anti-fans? Terrorists?" He was mumbling to himself just for the sake of hearing a human voice.
Then he wondered where the others really were. "Oh shit." He pulled himself into a kneeling position then rose unsteadily to his feet. It was damn hard to stand when he could see where to place his feet.
He needed to get out of this blindfold and rope. He needed to be able to defend himself and find the others. And defend them. Please, God, let them be alive to be defended.
Inhaling, trying to swallow down panic for himself and fear for Cheondoong, Mir, G.O. and Seungho, Joon stood still, straining to hear anything other than nature sounds. Not hearing anything, he tentatively stepped forward. The ground was solid. He took a few more steps, paused, and took a few more. He rammed his knee into something hard. Stifling a yelp of pain, he turned to try to run his fingers over the object.
Smooth and cool to the touch, it curved down at one point into what felt a lot like hard plastic. Joon turned this over in his mind. A car. Whoever had done this had left him by a car. Excitement began to build in his chest. If he could get his eyes and hands free, he could get back to civilization. Call the cops. Or the military.
At the very least, he could call the other members of MBLAQ and check up on them.
Then his fingers discovered open air where there should've been car. He bent his knees, fingers searching until they came into contact with something solid and furry. Furry? He gasped at the implication. A trunk. An open trunk on a car near where he'd been laying all tied up and unconscious. Remembering the headache, he muttered, "Probably drugged."
He wanted to pass out, scream, cry, or just lay back down and give up. The person who'd done this to him was still here. Swallowing, he frantically searched his brain for possibilities. All he got was a screaming message to flee, to get away as quickly as possible, so he obeyed.
He began running away from the feel of the car. As he stumbled over something in his path - a log? a body? - he heard giggling. He stopped and nearly fell over.
"Run, Joonie-ah. Run as fast as you can. We'll still catch you." More giggling. "We like the chase."
The voice, even the giggles were of indeterminate gender but blatantly mad.
Obeying both his instincts and the voice, he started running again, nearly tripping multiple times, and running into a tree. The impact knocked him on his ass, and there was more giggling.
"Watch out for the trees, Joonie-ah. The trees help us. They are our friends." The words were almost whispered but still seemed to come from a distance. The person was playing with him. He knew that but he figured if there were trees, there was some cover, some chance of hiding.
Not that he knew shit about the woods but it was better than nothing. First he needed to have his sight back and his hands available. He had no idea how to go about getting either of those accomplished.
"No giving up, Joon. You managed to survive grade school, Hollywood, and Rain, you can survive this," he muttered to himself. Or die trying but he didn't say it out loud. He refused to even think it too loudly.
Being a ballet dancer hadn't exactly endeared him to the more macho factions of his early school years. As he got older, girls started flocking to him because he could dance. The other boys, the same macho ones from the early grades, hated him even more. The taunts of "faggot", "queer", "butt-fucker" still echoed in the back of his mind. Still, he'd held his head up, made some good friends, and achieved his dreams on a grander scale than he'd believed possible. He had one Hollywood movie behind him. He still dreamt of the rigorous training and filming schedule. Then there was Rain with his dominating personality and star quality which tended to overshadow everybody around him. Surviving being Rain's co-star and protege certainly proved Joon's mettle. At least to himself.
He was a survivor. Sometimes it got lost under the glitz and glam of his career. Sometimes his own moodiness made it hard for him to remember but there it was. Survival, overcoming the odds was one of his strengths. Conquering this situation seemed impossible but he would manage. Somehow. His instincts demanded nothing less.
Not to mention his pride. And his concern for the other members. Back on his feet, he moved towards the tree he'd knocked into, carefully using his elbows to locate it. He heard the birds singing, a buzzing that might have been bees or mosquitoes, and his own pounding heart. Taking an intended-to-be-calming breath, he leaned forward slowly and located the rough bark with his temple. Unsure if it would work, he carefully rubbed the blindfold around the bark, hoping it would snag and allow him to pull free of it.
He nearly fell over when the blindfold slid up and off his head. The surprise of it sent him stumbling back a few steps. The weak sunlight filtering through the trees nearly blinded him after who knows how long in darkness. It was definitely a forest of some kind somewhere but his city-boy self couldn't distinguish any special characteristics. Overall, trees were trees were trees. There were just big, hulking trees with rough bark, thick trunks and semi-bare branches. It was autumn, after all.
He squinted around the woods. There were far more trees than he'd expected. He tried to figure out the direction he'd come from but it all looked the same to him. There was no flash of sunshine on metallic paint. Maybe he'd managed to get further away from the starting point than he thought. He also kept a look out for bits of clothing or skin or hair hiding among the trees but saw none. He wondered where the owner of the taunting voice and scary giggle was.
He wondered where he was. Now he could see, he should feel braver but didn't. The thought of his realization he was a survivor flashed through his brain but the terrified voice inside mentioned this wasn't like anything he'd ever dealt with before. "Shit," he muttered.
Negativity was not his friend.
"Think, Joon, think. What next?" He struggled with fear and the insistent need to flee. Both reasonable responses but he considered his bound wrists. Getting free of the ropes would be a good idea. A really good idea. "How the hell am I gonna manage that? I'm no fucking Houdini." He gnawed on his lower lip, a habit Cheondoong teased him about.
"Don't ever play poker, Joonie-ah." Cheondoong had smiled across the kitchen table at him a few weeks ago.
"Why?" He slumped in his chair after a particularly grueling schedule.
"You gnaw your lower lip when you are worried or anxious about something. It's a tell everybody at a poker table would pick up on." He reached over and patted Joon's hand.
Joon narrowed his eyes at Cheondoong. "How do you know so much about poker and tells?"
Sunny smile. "Wouldn't you love to know?"
The memory made Joon smile softly inspite of his plight. He'd get out of this and see Cheondoong's slow, bright smile again. And he'd coerce the story of how the younger man knew about poker out of him. One way or another. Because Cheondoong would be okay. He had to be okay.
Now to find a way to free his hands. Joon consciously withheld from gnawing his lip again and glanced around. His eyes adjusted to the light so he could make out what seemed like endless trees and thick deadfall on the ground. No handy knives or rescue party appeared so he set off in search of a sharp object. There was bound to be sharp rocks or branches or something somewhere. He considered trying to find the car on the off chance the creepy kidnapper had left something in it. He dismissed the idea as a bad one on the possibility the kidnapper was lurking there or had a cohort who'd stayed close for that reason.
He didn't understand why they'd left him like that. Nor did he understand why the disembodied voice wanted him to run, wanted to taunt him. A game, maybe? One he had no chance of winning? Sort of like how he felt some days with fans. He didn't dance well enough or he was too graceful. He showed too much skin or not enough. Nothing he did was ever good enough. A losing battle. Probably this was simply another version of those. Still, he needed to view it as a chance to get away. Sometimes all a person needed was one chance. This was his, and he wasn't about to let it pass him by, regardless of the gut-churning, mind-boggling fear he'd battled every second since he'd swam into awareness.
Leaves rustled behind him, and he spun around, nearly losing his balance in his haste. "Who's there?" he asked then felt like an idiot for asking. Anybody with an modicum of common sense would have kept his mouth shut but, oh no, he just had to go and pinpoint his location for any crazy who might be roaming the forest.
To say nothing of the crazy, creepy kidnapper somewhere out there.
"You're not running, Joonie-ah." The voice sounded like it was whispering from behind him, right into his ear.
Jerking away, he didn't bother to turn around, merely took off in the opposite direction of the wicked little whisper. He tripped over exposed roots and slid awkwardly down a small embankment. Branches caught at his clothes, his hair, his skin. Thankfully, he still wore his sneakers or his feet would be cut up painfully by forest floor debris. If asked, he would've said no thoughts would pass through his mind other than those of fear or trying to reach safety in terrifying, probably life-or-death situations. Now he knew it to be untrue. As he fled, in a clumsy fashion - who would've thought arms were so vital to balance? - through strange woods, flickers and flashes darted through his mind.
He saw Seungho's serious leader face, the one the older man wore when trying to assert his authority. The odd expression which sat like a mask on his features for a few minutes before he either rolled his eyes in exasperation or crinkled his eyes in laughter. G.O.'s smoothly handsome features, with their easy appearance of authority disguises one of the most juvenile and, often, perverted senses of humor Joon had ever encountered, followed Seungho's. He wondered if the leader duo, for that's what they were with the way they balanced each other and worked in tandem for the group, was alright. If they were safe, healthy, happy, at home, or out with friends.
He hoped to the core of his being they weren't part of whatever twisted game was being played with him. Even more, he hoped that object he'd tripped over not long after he started away from the car was a log or some other natural forest detritus and not the body of a group member, a friend. A brother.
A shudder racked his body at the thought so he pushed it back behind other more random ideas. He thought of Mir's itchy-scratchy excitability and how he looked so much like a little boy when he pouted. He thought of Cheondoong's small face and quiet humor. That quiet humor was one thing he could count on to help put events and situations into proper perspective.
They were a team, his team. The four guys he'd trained with and, in many ways, grown with were his support network and family. If anything happened to them, he didn't know how he'd survive it. They were the foundation and stability in the crazy glitter and hustle of stardom. He needed them.
His eyes stung, and he growled. Like hell he was going to cry in this situation. He was tough. He was a man. More than that, it would be sheer stupidity to give into tears while trying to escape a tormenting voice and the forest. He blinked rapidly to try to stem the tears. Slowing his pace, he tried to wipe his eyes with his shoulders, stumbled and ran headlong into a tree. Stepping back, dazed with tears of physical pain springing to his eyes, Joon groaned at the throb in his head. Something warm and wet slid down his forehead. He rolled his eyes up in a vain effort to see what was sliding down his face.
Confusion cleared and he realized he was bleeding. There was simply no other explanation for the wet warmth leaking from the area on his head where he'd hit the tree. He squinted at the guilty oak (birch? pine? They all looked alike to him.) and saw it seemed undamaged despite their collision. Damn trees, he thought, always jumping in the way. Squatting down, trying hard to maintain balance, he wiped the blood from his face on the left knee of his blue jeans.
He straightened, inhaled, and began running again. In mid-stride, the toe of his shoe caught on some unseen object. He began to fall forward and flailed his arms. Managing to catch himself on the low hanging branch of a nearby tree, he mentally took back all the nasty things he'd previously thought about trees. Bracing his left hand on the tree trunk, he wiped sweat off his forehead with his right. The sky seemed to be darkening causing the foliage to press close. It felt like the forest wanted to absorb him, consume him into itself until he no longer existed. Until he was nothing.
No! He'd fought too long and hard to become something. He wasn't about to let a nasty little voice and foreboding woods turn him into nothing again. He'd been there, done that. Lee Joon of MBLAQ was somebody with four other somebodies. There was pain, heartache, suffering in that life but also joy, happiness, pleasure.
He bolted through the fall-nude branches, shoving vines aside, hands being cut open by random thorns and rough bark. There was blood. His blood dripping off his palms and into the thick leaves underfoot. The forest, the voice could have a little of his blood. He was more than willing to sacrifice a bit of skin in order to get out alive. Time could and would heal those small wounds but not his loss, not his death. Living, oh yes, living was the sweetest revenge he could play on that abominable voice and threatening trees. The nasty words of fans, antis, even managers and producers quailed beneath his determination to be more, to be better. Because the only way he could get back at them was to live being more and being better.
His thoughts ran round and round over the past, the tears, the disappointments. Finally, he understood how to be free from all of it. All he needed to do was live. He howled. Let the trees, the dead leaves underfoot, and the mist-like voice hear and know his triumph. He would be free. He was free.
The roar of triumph stuck in his throat as he tripped again and fell forward into an abyss. His arms flailed fruitlessly in the air. The suddenness shocked the breath out of him. Instead of terror though, he felt loosed from the bonds of gravity. He flew as he fell.
Then he hit the rough cold waters below with a bone-numbing splash. Sinking, he struggled to achieve the surface. As his head broke free, a wave crashed over him, shoving him under again. He swallowed water, ended up inhaling it through his nose. The shoes and jeans he'd been grateful for during his mad dash through the forest quickly became weights dragging down his legs. He kicked and waved his arms around until he gasped air. Waves rocked and bounced over and around him. Trying to float on his back, he did his best to ride the choppy water. Panting and coughing, he studied the leaden gray sky. Looks like rain, he thought. The wind picked up and tore through his cold, wet clothes. He shivered and wondered if this was the end of Joon. He would die in an unknown river somewhere and his body wouldn't be discovered for years.
How would the other members handle it, he wondered. Would they believe he had abandoned them or would they know he could never leave without a word? Would they search long and hard for him? Would they shed tears or search out the cause of his demise? What about Rain? The almighty Rain who was mentor, hyung, producer, and confidante. Would he care or just be pissed that Joon wasn't there?
Maybe everybody would believe he'd flaked out. Joon grimaced then shivered. He hoped not. He hoped those who mattered most would know something bad had happened. That he would never leave them in a lurch like this. He hoped those who mattered most were alive and well in order for them to believe that.
He shivered continuously and found it increasingly difficult to stay conscious. Drowning seemed like a not unpleasant way to go, all things considered. Once, he'd read somewhere that by the time you went under for the third time, drowning was actually pleasurable. Perhaps he was going under for that last time but didn't realize it.
He began to sink beneath the waves. Watched the sky and surface retreat above him. His lungs burned which wasn't totally unpleasant. The water seemed to warm as he drifted further and further into its depths. It embraced him like a mother, like a lover and he was pleased. The burn in his chest intensified. The pain shoved the awareness he was drowning, dying into his brain.
Valiantly, he gave one more try to not give in to his own mortality but discovered his arms and legs uncooperative. The spirit was willing but the body was unable. Not an unusual circumstance in his life so it made sense it would occur in his death. Out of habit, he inhaled deeply, or tried to, and water poured into his mouth.
Gasping, he sat straight up in bed. Cold sticky sweat covered his body and he shivered in the breeze of the floor fan. His mind argued that he was in the woods, no he was in the dorm, no he was in the woods. Joon simply gasped and shivered while his thoughts argued fiercely, nearly coming to blows before his eyes stepped in and won the argument. He was, in fact, in his bed in the dorm, in Seoul. The sounds of Seungho's gentle snores and the whir of the fan sunk into his awareness.
Inhaling, trying to steady his breathing, he caught the scent of air freshener and the underlying smell of young, often sweaty, men. It wasn't something he was normally aware of but his perception seemed heightened. Fear, adrenaline tended to do that, he guessed. The sounds of footsteps padding to the kitchen caught his ear. He wondered who was awake. Mir? G.O.? Cheondoong? Their manager? Maybe Rain sneaking in to deliver goodies like a fairy godmother.
The image of Rain in a floaty pink dress with wings and a wand with a glittery star on the end made Joon smile and helped slow his heart rate. Wrapping his comforter around his shoulders, he got out of bed and sought the company of whomever the footsteps belonged to. The rattling of dishes led him to the kitchen. From the doorway, Joon watched Cheondoong pour cereal and then milk into a bowl before getting a spoon and turning towards the table. And the doorway.
He startled. "Joonie-ah! You scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry." Joon moved to the table and took a seat. "I heard someone moving around and thought I'd keep them company."
Cheondoong plunked the bowl on the table. "You normally sleep like a rock."
The word "rock" sent a shudder rippling down Joon's spine. He'd woken into that dream because of what felt like a rock digging into his shoulder blade. "Okay, okay. No need to look so skeptical. I had a bad dream and wanted company."
"A bad dream?"
"Yea."
"What about?" Cheondoong ate a mouthful of cereal, crunching absently, eyes locked on Joon's pale face.
"It was about....trees. And a voice." He fell silent as wisps of the dream floated in and out of his memory. "I was tied up."
"Sounds kinky. Bondage in the forest. Were you blindfolded too?"
Joon flipped his middle finger at Cheondoong. "Yes I was. But I was also fully clothed."
"In leather? Lace? Silk?"
"Christ, you're a smart ass at-" Joon glanced over at the microwave's clock. "Four in the morning."
Cheondoong just smiled at him and didn't comment on the fact color was finally returning to Joon's face and his eyes no longer looked dull and glassy.
"Anyway, I was dressed in a shirt, jeans, and sneakers. My hands were tied behind my back, a blindfold over my eyes. I felt hungover when I first...woke in the dream." He drummed his fingers on the table, eyes on Cheondoong's face though he wasn't actually seeing him. "I didn't know where I was, what had happened. When I realized, I was outside, tied up, and blinded...." He trailed off as his breathing sped up.
"You thought you were in a porn, huh." Cheondoong swirled his spoon through the now soggy cereal.
Joon snorted. "I realized I'd been kidnapped. And I wondered about you. All of you." He began tracing patterns on the table. "I wondered and I worried. I hoped all four of you were alright. I cared more for that than for my own safety." He looked up into Cheondoong's brown eyes. "I cared more about all of you."
"Of course you did. You're not as selfish as you think." Putting the spoon down, Cheondoong asked, "What happened next?"
Joon related the painful process of ending up among the trees. He skated over the icy, gut-clenching fear and worry. As he danced his gaze back to Cheondoong's, he realized the younger man saw what he, Joon, could not put into words. He explained about getting the blindfold off, the voice whispering so creepily from nowhere and everywhere.
"And the voice didn't set off any alerts it might be a nightmare?"
Joon shook his head. "It didn't seem odd. Just..."
"Terrifying."
"Yea." Joon continued until he reached the end of the dream as he remembered it. It felt odd to remember so much of a dream when he rarely remembered even dreaming. "I felt trapped. And then I was drowning."
"And now?"
"Now? I feel...free. And like I can breathe fully and cleanly." Joon stood, pulled the comforter back over his shoulders. "I haven't felt this open since we came out with 'G.O.O.D. Love'."
Cheondoong smiled but stayed seated at the table. "No longer feel trapped, hounded, and drowned in this celebrity life?"
"I guess not." Joon smiled back. "Never even realized those feeling were lurking inside."
"Glad you feel better. And thanks."
"For what, Cheondoong?"
"Keeping me company."
"Anytime. It's what brothers are for, after all."
Cheondoong watched Joon walk out of the kitchen and grinned.