Dark Horse
Rating: R (for horror, non-graphic smut)
Pairing: Kai/D.O
Summary: He’s a beast; you’ll call him Karma. He’ll eat your heart...
Warning: Character death.
notes: *jumps on the angsty/weird kaisoo bandwagon* *toots my horn*
notes v2.0: listened to katy perry’s dark horse on repeat.
dark horse;
Kyungsoo can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. Everywhere he goes. Not just ‘ah, passersby happen to glance at me every now and again’ -- a metaphysical stabbing, little pinpricks that travel up and down his spine, across his narrow shoulders. Occasionally he’ll glance around, searching for anyone whose eyes might be lingering; but no one’s there. Everyone is in their own little world, not paying attention to someone so common as Kyungsoo.
Every time, he just shrugs his shoulders a little, rolls them until the pins and needles fall onto the floor by his feet, and then carries on.
--
Tonight it’s really hard to just shrug his shoulders and go about his business. He’s at the bar he waits part time at, a tray balanced expertly on the palm of his hand as he weaves through patrons, both sober and intoxicated. Dark slacks and white button-downs are the usual attire and don’t typically attract too much attention; he’s just the bringer of alcohol and most people tip him gratuitously because they’re pleased that he’s keeping up with their need for a top off.
He hasn’t felt those invisible eyes on him at work before. It’s unnerving, because he’s starting to think that he’s imagining it; is he going schizophrenic? Paranoid? Great. That would be a lovely letter to write home.
When he turns around, he connects against someone solid and takes a step back to brace himself -- he feels his tray slip off his palm and oh, yes, there go all the glasses, both full and empty, tumbling off the side. He closes his eyes and prepares to hear the ear-shattering sound of breaking glass that will attract every single patron’s attention, but… it never comes.
Warily, he opens his eyes, still frozen with his hand in the air. The man in front of him is holding the tray on his palm, all the glasses upright and unspilled, and Kyungsoo blinks rapidly. There’s no way it should be like that. He had lost all physical contact with the tray, it was a goner-- his wide eyes look up to his savior and first he sees a smile that glows iridescent under the black lights, and then--
“You’ve been following me,” Kyungsoo blurts, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, mortified that he’d accused a stranger of such a thing. But the man’s eyes, they’re… like pins and needles.
The man says nothing, dark skin and dark hair and twinkling eyes as he hands the tray back over to Kyungsoo, who struggles to take it without knocking anything over. The smile on his lips looks nearly sinister, but Kyungsoo tells himself it’s just the light.
“Th-thank you.” Kyungsoo can’t remember the last time he stuttered. He’s not like this. At all.
The man inclines his head in mockery of a bow, and then brushes past Kyungsoo to disappear into the crowd.
Kyungsoo doesn’t see him for the rest of the night.
He breaks three glasses behind the bar.
--
“That’s kind of weird though, isn’t it?” Jongdae isn’t nearly as sympathetic as Kyungsoo was hoping he’d be. “You feel someone staring at you all the time then some random guy magically catches your doomed drink tray and doesn’t say anything? Do you think he’s a stalker?”
“I don’t know what he is,” Kyungsoo says, chewing on his thumb, frowning at Jongdae’s coffee table.
“Who,” Jongdae says, a brow quirking.
“Hm?” Kyungsoo removes his thumb, glancing up at Jongdae, confused.
“You mean you don’t know who he is,” Jongdae says, slowly.
“Right.” Kyungsoo stands up from Jongdae’s couch, wringing his hands together idly.
“Do you feel unsafe?” Jongdae asks. “You can stay here for a while.”
Kyungsoo shakes his head, “I don’t know what I feel.”
Jongdae nods his head once, very slow and almost condescending. “Ok then… you know you’re welcome to stay here.”
“Thanks,” Kyungsoo offers a small smile, one that doesn’t show his teeth, before he slips on his shoes and leaves Jongdae’s apartment.
He doesn’t feel any more at ease, but then again, he’s not sure what he was expecting.
--
Pins and needles dance up and down Kyungsoo’s vertebrae, engaged in an intimate lambada winding through his spinal system and he’s pretty sure he’s going to turn into a paraplegic because his legs go numb. He ducks into an alley, resting against a building, trying to catch his breath. When he opens his eyes, the same man from the bar is standing in front of him.
Kyungsoo’s voice gets caught in his throat.
The man’s hands reach up, planting on the building on either side of Kyungsoo’s head. Kyungsoo’s eyes wildly glance around -- can’t anyone see them? Doesn’t anyone see a guy about to get mugged in an alley? Isn’t that what’s about to happen?
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the man says, and his voice is dark, dark, dark. Deep, a bottomless void, just like the depth of his eyes as Kyungsoo stares fearfully into them. “I’ve been waiting for you to notice me.”
Kyungsoo manages a strained, forced laugh, “Kind of hard to not notice when someone is following you all the time…”
“I’ve been following you for longer than you know,” the man says, lifting a hand. His knuckles gently brush over the apple of Kyungsoo’s cheek and the smaller shudders, violently, though not from disgust or fear. This man’s hands are ice cold. “You have a choice.” Kyungsoo’s eyes open from their half-lidded state, and he regards the other curiously. Is this when he decides what weapon the other uses to maim him with? He’ll go with a bullet straight to the eyeball, thanks. Quick and painless. The man’s expression changes, flutters into something unsure, before he pulls back. “You don’t trust me.”
Kyungsoo wants to scream, but people still don’t notice the two men in the alley. He balls his fists at his sides, “Why should I?”
“You were the one who called for me, Kyungsoo,” the man says, the same smile from the bar tugging at the corners of his lips.
Kyungsoo feels nauseous, “I didn’t--”
“Don’t make me your enemy, Kyungsoo,” the man coos, knuckles once again tracing over the subtle, supple curve of Kyungsoo’s soft cheek. His eyes look over Kyungsoo’s features and Kyungsoo feels like he’s going to burn alive from the inside out. “Think about it.”
Shadows seem to form at every angle despite it being the middle of a clear, sunny spring day and Kyungsoo closes his eyes, shoulders hunching up, head turning to prepare for impact.
It doesn’t come.
When he opens his eyes, he’s alone.
--
“Think about it…” Kyungsoo is staring at his untouched cup of hot cocoa as he sits at his kitchen table at three in the morning. “What am I supposed to think about?” he runs his fingers through his hair, feeling over the buzzed sides, trying to comfort himself.
The man knows Kyungsoo’s name, probably his age, where he works and most likely where he lives. Kyungsoo knows nothing about the other, aside from dark dark dark, everything’s a black void save for his slightly sharpened teeth and the twinkle in his eyes. Weird. Kyungsoo shivers, bringing the cocoa up to his mouth. The only light in the apartment at this time is coming from above the stove, the tiny light sending a fluorescent glow over the linoleum and casting a few shadows. Kyungsoo watches the shadows, and thinks about how they seemed to close in on him in the alley. And when they retreated, so had the man.
The shadows here don’t dance. They’re stationary. They don’t threaten to swallow him up, they don’t loom ominously.
Kyungsoo swears he sees a flash of the man’s smile by the entrance to the living room.
He leaves his cocoa on the table and opts for some P.M. medication to knock him out for the rest of the night.
--
Days go by and Kyungsoo no longer feels like he’s being followed. That sensation is instead replaced by hallucinations; he sees the man in the crowd tenfold, like there are multiple copies of him planted in various places-- walking dogs, smoking a cigarette, waiting tables. He’s everywhere. Kyungsoo isn’t sure he likes this better than the invisible stalker sensation. He’s starting to feel a bit frayed around the edges; no matter how many times he closes his eyes, rubs his face, and opens them again, the man is still around. Everywhere.
Kyungsoo starts to loathe going outside, starts to get anxiety before getting involved in crowds. It’s affecting his personal life (when was the last time he went to the grocery store or hung out with friends?) and his work life (he’d forged a doctor’s note that said he has pneumonia and will be out for over a week), and he has no idea what to do about it. Maybe he is turning into a nut. He has a distant uncle in an asylum somewhere, isn’t stuff like this hereditary to a degree?
He hasn’t left his apartment in days. Jongdae’s texts go unanswered (‘are you ok?’ ‘did stalker man get you’ ‘ok this isn’t funny anymore soo, pls reply’ ‘why is your phone off? i dont want to leave a vm dude call me back’ ‘i’m serious bro i’m worried’), the shower hasn’t been used in more time than is considered healthy or hygienic.
He sees the man everywhere. Even when he doesn’t see him, he sees him; in his dreams, reflected in his cocoa staring up at him with that dark, dark smile.
How can a smile be so dark when his teeth are so white?, Kyungsoo thinks deliriously at one point.
--
On the eighth day, Kyungsoo gives in. He has to return to work tomorrow and he can’t go in like some tattered homeless man. He takes a shower, eats a real meal complete with meat and vegetables and lots of rice. He dresses in comfy jeans and a sweater, and then sits down on his couch in the living room. With his hands placed on his knees, fingernails lightly scratching into the denim, he ignores the tiny prick of apprehension stinging at the base of his neck.
“I’ve made my choice.”
The television flickers on, static and white noise, and Kyungsoo jumps in surprise. His eyes are wide as he watches the channels flip, that smile a subliminal message in the frames, and the apartment gets cold. Kyungsoo can see his breath. He can’t move.
“You want to play with magic?” the smile asks, the channels jumping between some drama and a variety show. His laughter mixes with the audience cheering and it sends chills down Kyungsoo’s spine. “Have you figured out what I am?”
You mean you don’t know who he is.
Kyungsoo shakes his head. He has no idea.
“Yet you are sure in your decision?” the man’s voice is distorted, and Kyungsoo sees flashes of those twinkling, dark dark eyes between frames.
Kyungsoo nods, one of his nails breaking on the scratch of his denim.
The channels go static and Kyungsoo stares at the black and white pepper waterfalling over the screen. The frames blip, black and green lines mix with red, like his tv is trying to find reception; through one of the black lines fingers appear, crawling out of the television. The lights in the apartment flicker. The fingers reach, twitching, the joints doubling and dislocating as they reach towards Kyungsoo’s face. The arm has no body, no elbow, it just extends further and further and Kyungsoo is frozen, unable to move from his position on the couch. As the hand gets closer, the distinct popping and cracking of the knuckles and bones in the wrist reach Kyungsoo’s ears and he can’t close his eyes, he can’t stop watching--
The palm of the gnarled hand covers Kyungsoo’s eyes and everything goes black.
Dark, dark, dark.
--
When he wakes up, the sun is spilling in through the blinds, tiger striping the sheets on his bed. Kyungsoo groans and feels like he’s got the worst hangover in the world, as he rolls onto his side and blinks blearily at his alarm clock. Barely seven. His phone vibrates and he flings an arm to pick it up, reading the screen.
[text from: Jongdae]
still on for lunch today? game starts at 3
Kyungsoo frowns. Game? As in, soccer? He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, before checking the date on his phone. For some reason, he feels like he’s missed something. He’s pretty sure that, last time he checked his phone (or, well, ignored it), it was the tenth. It’s now the fourth. He either slept for four weeks, or maybe just thought it was the tenth when he checked his phone?
[text to: Jongdae]
yeah, i’ll meet you at 2
He takes his time getting ready. His cupboards are full, his fridge is stocked fresh. He scratches his damp hair, more than confused. There’s a note on the fridge in handwriting he doesn’t recognize, Milk, eggs, lube ;---), and he wonders if Jongdae had gotten ahold of his Totoro sticky note pad again.
Little things around the apartment let Kyungsoo know that he’s been going to work, having a social life, keeping up on his laundry. There’s an extra set of shoes at the door and Kyungsoo doesn’t drink coffee, but there’s a coffee maker on the counter. Odd. There’s something nagging at the back of his head, and he ruffles his now dry hair once more, opening up the fridge to check it again. There’s a jar of something… pickled?, and he wonders if his mom sent a care package or even came by for a visit. What’s in the jar? He picks it up, turns it over. It looks like a chunk of pork. Pickled pork? Odd.
Odd, odd, odd.
He’s wrapping his scarf around his neck when the sound of keys in the lock of his front door make him glance up. Why is Jongdae coming over when he said he’d meet him?
The person that walks in isn’t Jongdae.
Kyungsoo nearly faints, his hand resting on the back of the couch.
“Hey,” the man greets, with a bright smile, twinkling eyes, and dark dark skin. “Jongdae texted me about the game, are you ready to go? I just need to change,” he says, and he starts unbuttoning the shirt of the uniform he’s wearing.
Kyungsoo catches his nametag; Jongin.
Jongin?
“Jongin?” he says it out loud, a bit dazed.
Jongin arches a brow, pausing in unbuttoning his shirt. He moves over to Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo flinches when Jongin presses the back of his palm to Kyungsoo’s forehead.
Jongin’s skin is cold as ice.
“You’ve still got a bit of a fever,” Jongin says, frowning softly. “Are you up for going out? You had a hard time sleeping last night.”
Jongin is talking like they shared a bed. Like they’re close. More than friends.
Kyungsoo slaps Jongin’s hands away, “What are you?”
Jongin blinks, surprised, “What?”
Kyungsoo takes a step back, his hip hitting the kitchen table, but he’s starting to panic too much to register the pain. “What have you done?”
The surprised look on Jongin’s face melts away and it’s replaced with a sly smirk, dark around the edges and bright in the middle. His hand reaches out again, those gnarled, disembodied fingers heading straight towards Kyungsoo’s chest.
Kyungsoo lifts his hands, ready to defend himself, a scream building in the back of his throat--
--he wakes up in his bed, drenched in cold sweat, sitting bolt upright and looking around his room frantically.
He checks his phone; the eleventh. He flops back on his bed, and feels his chest heave with the beginnings of dry sobs. His hands cover his eyes, heels pressing into the sockets, trying to alleviate the growing hysteria inside of him.
It’s too dark in his room.
He turns on every light in his apartment before he unplugs every appliance, moving back to his bedroom to curl up in the blankets, eyes closed tight.
He dreams of nothing.
--
When he wakes up again, he has no choice but to actually try and become a functioning human being once more. He’s wary to go outside -- what will be waiting for him? -- and he ends up calling Jongdae.
“Dude,” Jongdae sounds exasperated, angry, and worried all at once. “I’ve been fucking worried sick, I was about to break into your fucking apartment. I almost called the cops, man, what happened?”
“That’d be a little extreme,” Kyungsoo says flatly, stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes and wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Can you run some errands with me today?”
Thankfully, Jongdae loses his anger and instead worries. Jongdae has always been a good friend, no matter what his first impression is (read: jackass), and he accompanies Kyungsoo on his errands. He doesn’t ask about Kyungsoo’s apparent stalker problem, doesn’t pry about where Kyungsoo has been for ten days straight.
At the grocer, Jongdae helps Kyungsoo pick out the usual healthy foods that Kyungsoo usually chooses to eat. Jongdae pulls faces at the vegetables and the rice and the tofu and Kyungsoo chides him, telling him that maybe he’d get laid more if he ate healthy and got fit instead of flabby. Jongdae makes a show of lifting up his shirt and yes, his stomach is nicely flat, no flab, and Kyungsoo rolls his eyes, deciding to punch Jongdae in the spleen.
Jongdae chokes and Kyungsoo feels vindicated.
At the check out line, Kyungsoo is busy opening up his wallet and trying to decide if he has enough cash or if he needs to pay with his debit card. Jongdae’s elbow in his side has him frowning and he glances up at his friend, and then follows his distracted gaze.
The man scanning groceries is bright in the middle and dark, dark, dark around the edges.
Kyungsoo wheezes.
“He keeps looking at you,” Jongdae says, quietly.
Kyungsoo starts gathering his items off the belt, “Let’s go to a different checkstand.”
“Don’t be a homophobe,” Jongdae laughs, taking the items from Kyungsoo’s grappling hands, putting them back on the conveyor belt. “He’s not bad looking, you should be flattered or something.”
Kyungsoo’s feet are like lead when he comes up to the register, keeping his gaze averted from the cashier.
Jongdae engages in polite conversation, and reassures the man that no, they’re not a couple, and yes, Kyungsoo is very available. Mortified, Kyungsoo lifts his gaze to the cashier, his eyes catching the other’s name tag (Jongin, Jongin, Jongin). and then he shakes his head.
“I’m--”
Jongdae nudges him again and clears his throat loudly. “He’s like a little birdie,” he says, and Kyungsoo blinks. “You have to earn his trust before he eats from the palm of your hand.”
Kyungsoo turns to ask Jongdae what the hell he’s on about, but instead of Jongdae, Jongin’s head is on his friend’s body. Kyungsoo stumbles back, and Jongdae’s voice calls, “Kyungsoo?”, but it’s Jongin’s face. Jongin’s eyes, Jongin’s smile, Jongdae’s tshirt.
Kyungsoo turns on his heel and leaves everything on the conveyor belt, bags and food and even his wallet, fleeing from the supermarket in a haze, before his body gives out and he collapses on the sidewalk.
He wakes up in his bed.
He screams into the emptiness of his apartment.
--
Once more, he sits in front of his tv. He left it unplugged, but he knows it doesn’t need any power to work when he speaks, “What are you?”, directly at the black screen.
A few moments pass, and he wonders what he’s doing. Talking to his powerless tv. Another few moments pass, and he’s about to stand up and call the hospital and ask what it would take to be checked into the mental health ward, but the tv crackles to life, the white noise startling and making Kyungsoo flinch.
The channels blip and switch and those lines scroll, but instead of fingers this time, eyes appear. First black, then red, then green, all over the screen, disappearing only to reappear again half a second later.
“Am I going crazy?” Kyungsoo whispers, and he feels so hopeless. “What do you want with me?”
The walls of his apartment vibrate and Kyungsoo closes his eyes, only to have them fly open when a hand caresses the line of his jaw. Jongin is right in front of him, flickering in and out of existence like the unplugged tv behind him, but his touch is so real, so cold.
“You’re mine,” Jongin fizzles out of existence for a moment, before he’s standing solidly in front of Kyungsoo. “I’ve searched for so long. Waited for your call.”
Kyungsoo lets out a soft pant, eyes hooding as he looks up at Jongin.
It’s the middle of the day but Kyungsoo’s apartment gets swathed in darkness. He feels Jongin everywhere; kissing over his neck, fingers dancing over his sides, the weight of him on his lap. It’s flashes of clothes being removed, Jongin’s dark lips tracing over Kyungsoo’s pale skin, leaving marks in his wake. Kyungsoo can’t focus; he’s kissing back, his hands are touching a solid body, Jongin is really here, Jongin is real. Kyungsoo’s fingers curl over Jongin’s hips and he doesn’t know when or how it happens but he’s thrusting up into tight, deliciously wet heat, his head tipped back against the couch.
Jongin’s hands roam over Kyungsoo’s chest and Kyungsoo is too drunk with euphoria to take note of what he’s doing. There’s a dull, throbbing pain in his chest, and Kyungsoo just squirms a little, his hips relentless as they fuck up into Jongin’s writhing, perfect body. All he can see are Jongin’s twinkling eyes his bright smile, and the blood dripping down Jongin’s chin, a neon beacon in the darkness.
Kyungsoo hands himself over.
He doesn’t wake up this time.
--
“And you say he was… suffering from delusions before his death?” the detective asks, notepad and pen in hand as he interviews Jongdae outside of Kyungsoo’s apartment.
“Yeah,” Jongdae’s eyes are rimmed red and puffy, and he can’t look inside where CSI is processing the scene. “I-- I tried calling him, I came over once and he was just.. I don’t know. Something was really wrong. He was convinced he had a stalker.”
The detective nods, writing everything down. He glances inside at the crime scene, and then writes a few more things down. He closes his notepad, and then pats Jongdae sympathetically on his shoulder. “You did what you could, Jongdae. Sometimes people are beyond help.”
Jongdae shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face. “I should have stayed with him.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” the detective says, consolingly. He gives Jongdae’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.”
Jongdae nods, taking the dismissal. “Thank you, Detective Kim.”
Detective Kim flashes a smile, dark around the edges, bright in the middle. “Any time.”
--
After the crime scene is vacated, Detective Kim lets himself back in. Kyungsoo’s body has been hauled away, but the scent of death and blood is still fresh, staining the couch, the floor, permeating the walls and making the neighbors sick.
He opens the refrigerator and grabs the mystery jar, unscrewing the lid and taking a whiff of the pungent smell of rotting meat.
Kyungsoo’s heart is his.
Darkness encases the apartment, and Jongin Jongin Jongin puts his lips to the rim of the jar, taking a sip of the blood and bodily fluids it’s floating in. The heart is bright, like Jongin’s smile, like the twinkle in his eyes.
“Once you’re mine…” Jongin murmurs into the darkness. He can feel Kyungsoo’s soul lingering around, attached to the heart in the jar. “...there’s no going back.”
Pairing: Kai/D.O
Summary: He’s a beast; you’ll call him Karma. He’ll eat your heart...
Warning: Character death.
notes: *jumps on the angsty/weird kaisoo bandwagon* *toots my horn*
notes v2.0: listened to katy perry’s dark horse on repeat.
dark horse;
Kyungsoo can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. Everywhere he goes. Not just ‘ah, passersby happen to glance at me every now and again’ -- a metaphysical stabbing, little pinpricks that travel up and down his spine, across his narrow shoulders. Occasionally he’ll glance around, searching for anyone whose eyes might be lingering; but no one’s there. Everyone is in their own little world, not paying attention to someone so common as Kyungsoo.
Every time, he just shrugs his shoulders a little, rolls them until the pins and needles fall onto the floor by his feet, and then carries on.
--
Tonight it’s really hard to just shrug his shoulders and go about his business. He’s at the bar he waits part time at, a tray balanced expertly on the palm of his hand as he weaves through patrons, both sober and intoxicated. Dark slacks and white button-downs are the usual attire and don’t typically attract too much attention; he’s just the bringer of alcohol and most people tip him gratuitously because they’re pleased that he’s keeping up with their need for a top off.
He hasn’t felt those invisible eyes on him at work before. It’s unnerving, because he’s starting to think that he’s imagining it; is he going schizophrenic? Paranoid? Great. That would be a lovely letter to write home.
When he turns around, he connects against someone solid and takes a step back to brace himself -- he feels his tray slip off his palm and oh, yes, there go all the glasses, both full and empty, tumbling off the side. He closes his eyes and prepares to hear the ear-shattering sound of breaking glass that will attract every single patron’s attention, but… it never comes.
Warily, he opens his eyes, still frozen with his hand in the air. The man in front of him is holding the tray on his palm, all the glasses upright and unspilled, and Kyungsoo blinks rapidly. There’s no way it should be like that. He had lost all physical contact with the tray, it was a goner-- his wide eyes look up to his savior and first he sees a smile that glows iridescent under the black lights, and then--
“You’ve been following me,” Kyungsoo blurts, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, mortified that he’d accused a stranger of such a thing. But the man’s eyes, they’re… like pins and needles.
The man says nothing, dark skin and dark hair and twinkling eyes as he hands the tray back over to Kyungsoo, who struggles to take it without knocking anything over. The smile on his lips looks nearly sinister, but Kyungsoo tells himself it’s just the light.
“Th-thank you.” Kyungsoo can’t remember the last time he stuttered. He’s not like this. At all.
The man inclines his head in mockery of a bow, and then brushes past Kyungsoo to disappear into the crowd.
Kyungsoo doesn’t see him for the rest of the night.
He breaks three glasses behind the bar.
--
“That’s kind of weird though, isn’t it?” Jongdae isn’t nearly as sympathetic as Kyungsoo was hoping he’d be. “You feel someone staring at you all the time then some random guy magically catches your doomed drink tray and doesn’t say anything? Do you think he’s a stalker?”
“I don’t know what he is,” Kyungsoo says, chewing on his thumb, frowning at Jongdae’s coffee table.
“Who,” Jongdae says, a brow quirking.
“Hm?” Kyungsoo removes his thumb, glancing up at Jongdae, confused.
“You mean you don’t know who he is,” Jongdae says, slowly.
“Right.” Kyungsoo stands up from Jongdae’s couch, wringing his hands together idly.
“Do you feel unsafe?” Jongdae asks. “You can stay here for a while.”
Kyungsoo shakes his head, “I don’t know what I feel.”
Jongdae nods his head once, very slow and almost condescending. “Ok then… you know you’re welcome to stay here.”
“Thanks,” Kyungsoo offers a small smile, one that doesn’t show his teeth, before he slips on his shoes and leaves Jongdae’s apartment.
He doesn’t feel any more at ease, but then again, he’s not sure what he was expecting.
--
Pins and needles dance up and down Kyungsoo’s vertebrae, engaged in an intimate lambada winding through his spinal system and he’s pretty sure he’s going to turn into a paraplegic because his legs go numb. He ducks into an alley, resting against a building, trying to catch his breath. When he opens his eyes, the same man from the bar is standing in front of him.
Kyungsoo’s voice gets caught in his throat.
The man’s hands reach up, planting on the building on either side of Kyungsoo’s head. Kyungsoo’s eyes wildly glance around -- can’t anyone see them? Doesn’t anyone see a guy about to get mugged in an alley? Isn’t that what’s about to happen?
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the man says, and his voice is dark, dark, dark. Deep, a bottomless void, just like the depth of his eyes as Kyungsoo stares fearfully into them. “I’ve been waiting for you to notice me.”
Kyungsoo manages a strained, forced laugh, “Kind of hard to not notice when someone is following you all the time…”
“I’ve been following you for longer than you know,” the man says, lifting a hand. His knuckles gently brush over the apple of Kyungsoo’s cheek and the smaller shudders, violently, though not from disgust or fear. This man’s hands are ice cold. “You have a choice.” Kyungsoo’s eyes open from their half-lidded state, and he regards the other curiously. Is this when he decides what weapon the other uses to maim him with? He’ll go with a bullet straight to the eyeball, thanks. Quick and painless. The man’s expression changes, flutters into something unsure, before he pulls back. “You don’t trust me.”
Kyungsoo wants to scream, but people still don’t notice the two men in the alley. He balls his fists at his sides, “Why should I?”
“You were the one who called for me, Kyungsoo,” the man says, the same smile from the bar tugging at the corners of his lips.
Kyungsoo feels nauseous, “I didn’t--”
“Don’t make me your enemy, Kyungsoo,” the man coos, knuckles once again tracing over the subtle, supple curve of Kyungsoo’s soft cheek. His eyes look over Kyungsoo’s features and Kyungsoo feels like he’s going to burn alive from the inside out. “Think about it.”
Shadows seem to form at every angle despite it being the middle of a clear, sunny spring day and Kyungsoo closes his eyes, shoulders hunching up, head turning to prepare for impact.
It doesn’t come.
When he opens his eyes, he’s alone.
--
“Think about it…” Kyungsoo is staring at his untouched cup of hot cocoa as he sits at his kitchen table at three in the morning. “What am I supposed to think about?” he runs his fingers through his hair, feeling over the buzzed sides, trying to comfort himself.
The man knows Kyungsoo’s name, probably his age, where he works and most likely where he lives. Kyungsoo knows nothing about the other, aside from dark dark dark, everything’s a black void save for his slightly sharpened teeth and the twinkle in his eyes. Weird. Kyungsoo shivers, bringing the cocoa up to his mouth. The only light in the apartment at this time is coming from above the stove, the tiny light sending a fluorescent glow over the linoleum and casting a few shadows. Kyungsoo watches the shadows, and thinks about how they seemed to close in on him in the alley. And when they retreated, so had the man.
The shadows here don’t dance. They’re stationary. They don’t threaten to swallow him up, they don’t loom ominously.
Kyungsoo swears he sees a flash of the man’s smile by the entrance to the living room.
He leaves his cocoa on the table and opts for some P.M. medication to knock him out for the rest of the night.
--
Days go by and Kyungsoo no longer feels like he’s being followed. That sensation is instead replaced by hallucinations; he sees the man in the crowd tenfold, like there are multiple copies of him planted in various places-- walking dogs, smoking a cigarette, waiting tables. He’s everywhere. Kyungsoo isn’t sure he likes this better than the invisible stalker sensation. He’s starting to feel a bit frayed around the edges; no matter how many times he closes his eyes, rubs his face, and opens them again, the man is still around. Everywhere.
Kyungsoo starts to loathe going outside, starts to get anxiety before getting involved in crowds. It’s affecting his personal life (when was the last time he went to the grocery store or hung out with friends?) and his work life (he’d forged a doctor’s note that said he has pneumonia and will be out for over a week), and he has no idea what to do about it. Maybe he is turning into a nut. He has a distant uncle in an asylum somewhere, isn’t stuff like this hereditary to a degree?
He hasn’t left his apartment in days. Jongdae’s texts go unanswered (‘are you ok?’ ‘did stalker man get you’ ‘ok this isn’t funny anymore soo, pls reply’ ‘why is your phone off? i dont want to leave a vm dude call me back’ ‘i’m serious bro i’m worried’), the shower hasn’t been used in more time than is considered healthy or hygienic.
He sees the man everywhere. Even when he doesn’t see him, he sees him; in his dreams, reflected in his cocoa staring up at him with that dark, dark smile.
How can a smile be so dark when his teeth are so white?, Kyungsoo thinks deliriously at one point.
--
On the eighth day, Kyungsoo gives in. He has to return to work tomorrow and he can’t go in like some tattered homeless man. He takes a shower, eats a real meal complete with meat and vegetables and lots of rice. He dresses in comfy jeans and a sweater, and then sits down on his couch in the living room. With his hands placed on his knees, fingernails lightly scratching into the denim, he ignores the tiny prick of apprehension stinging at the base of his neck.
“I’ve made my choice.”
The television flickers on, static and white noise, and Kyungsoo jumps in surprise. His eyes are wide as he watches the channels flip, that smile a subliminal message in the frames, and the apartment gets cold. Kyungsoo can see his breath. He can’t move.
“You want to play with magic?” the smile asks, the channels jumping between some drama and a variety show. His laughter mixes with the audience cheering and it sends chills down Kyungsoo’s spine. “Have you figured out what I am?”
You mean you don’t know who he is.
Kyungsoo shakes his head. He has no idea.
“Yet you are sure in your decision?” the man’s voice is distorted, and Kyungsoo sees flashes of those twinkling, dark dark eyes between frames.
Kyungsoo nods, one of his nails breaking on the scratch of his denim.
The channels go static and Kyungsoo stares at the black and white pepper waterfalling over the screen. The frames blip, black and green lines mix with red, like his tv is trying to find reception; through one of the black lines fingers appear, crawling out of the television. The lights in the apartment flicker. The fingers reach, twitching, the joints doubling and dislocating as they reach towards Kyungsoo’s face. The arm has no body, no elbow, it just extends further and further and Kyungsoo is frozen, unable to move from his position on the couch. As the hand gets closer, the distinct popping and cracking of the knuckles and bones in the wrist reach Kyungsoo’s ears and he can’t close his eyes, he can’t stop watching--
The palm of the gnarled hand covers Kyungsoo’s eyes and everything goes black.
Dark, dark, dark.
--
When he wakes up, the sun is spilling in through the blinds, tiger striping the sheets on his bed. Kyungsoo groans and feels like he’s got the worst hangover in the world, as he rolls onto his side and blinks blearily at his alarm clock. Barely seven. His phone vibrates and he flings an arm to pick it up, reading the screen.
[text from: Jongdae]
still on for lunch today? game starts at 3
Kyungsoo frowns. Game? As in, soccer? He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, before checking the date on his phone. For some reason, he feels like he’s missed something. He’s pretty sure that, last time he checked his phone (or, well, ignored it), it was the tenth. It’s now the fourth. He either slept for four weeks, or maybe just thought it was the tenth when he checked his phone?
[text to: Jongdae]
yeah, i’ll meet you at 2
He takes his time getting ready. His cupboards are full, his fridge is stocked fresh. He scratches his damp hair, more than confused. There’s a note on the fridge in handwriting he doesn’t recognize, Milk, eggs, lube ;---), and he wonders if Jongdae had gotten ahold of his Totoro sticky note pad again.
Little things around the apartment let Kyungsoo know that he’s been going to work, having a social life, keeping up on his laundry. There’s an extra set of shoes at the door and Kyungsoo doesn’t drink coffee, but there’s a coffee maker on the counter. Odd. There’s something nagging at the back of his head, and he ruffles his now dry hair once more, opening up the fridge to check it again. There’s a jar of something… pickled?, and he wonders if his mom sent a care package or even came by for a visit. What’s in the jar? He picks it up, turns it over. It looks like a chunk of pork. Pickled pork? Odd.
Odd, odd, odd.
He’s wrapping his scarf around his neck when the sound of keys in the lock of his front door make him glance up. Why is Jongdae coming over when he said he’d meet him?
The person that walks in isn’t Jongdae.
Kyungsoo nearly faints, his hand resting on the back of the couch.
“Hey,” the man greets, with a bright smile, twinkling eyes, and dark dark skin. “Jongdae texted me about the game, are you ready to go? I just need to change,” he says, and he starts unbuttoning the shirt of the uniform he’s wearing.
Kyungsoo catches his nametag; Jongin.
Jongin?
“Jongin?” he says it out loud, a bit dazed.
Jongin arches a brow, pausing in unbuttoning his shirt. He moves over to Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo flinches when Jongin presses the back of his palm to Kyungsoo’s forehead.
Jongin’s skin is cold as ice.
“You’ve still got a bit of a fever,” Jongin says, frowning softly. “Are you up for going out? You had a hard time sleeping last night.”
Jongin is talking like they shared a bed. Like they’re close. More than friends.
Kyungsoo slaps Jongin’s hands away, “What are you?”
Jongin blinks, surprised, “What?”
Kyungsoo takes a step back, his hip hitting the kitchen table, but he’s starting to panic too much to register the pain. “What have you done?”
The surprised look on Jongin’s face melts away and it’s replaced with a sly smirk, dark around the edges and bright in the middle. His hand reaches out again, those gnarled, disembodied fingers heading straight towards Kyungsoo’s chest.
Kyungsoo lifts his hands, ready to defend himself, a scream building in the back of his throat--
--he wakes up in his bed, drenched in cold sweat, sitting bolt upright and looking around his room frantically.
He checks his phone; the eleventh. He flops back on his bed, and feels his chest heave with the beginnings of dry sobs. His hands cover his eyes, heels pressing into the sockets, trying to alleviate the growing hysteria inside of him.
It’s too dark in his room.
He turns on every light in his apartment before he unplugs every appliance, moving back to his bedroom to curl up in the blankets, eyes closed tight.
He dreams of nothing.
--
When he wakes up again, he has no choice but to actually try and become a functioning human being once more. He’s wary to go outside -- what will be waiting for him? -- and he ends up calling Jongdae.
“Dude,” Jongdae sounds exasperated, angry, and worried all at once. “I’ve been fucking worried sick, I was about to break into your fucking apartment. I almost called the cops, man, what happened?”
“That’d be a little extreme,” Kyungsoo says flatly, stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes and wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Can you run some errands with me today?”
Thankfully, Jongdae loses his anger and instead worries. Jongdae has always been a good friend, no matter what his first impression is (read: jackass), and he accompanies Kyungsoo on his errands. He doesn’t ask about Kyungsoo’s apparent stalker problem, doesn’t pry about where Kyungsoo has been for ten days straight.
At the grocer, Jongdae helps Kyungsoo pick out the usual healthy foods that Kyungsoo usually chooses to eat. Jongdae pulls faces at the vegetables and the rice and the tofu and Kyungsoo chides him, telling him that maybe he’d get laid more if he ate healthy and got fit instead of flabby. Jongdae makes a show of lifting up his shirt and yes, his stomach is nicely flat, no flab, and Kyungsoo rolls his eyes, deciding to punch Jongdae in the spleen.
Jongdae chokes and Kyungsoo feels vindicated.
At the check out line, Kyungsoo is busy opening up his wallet and trying to decide if he has enough cash or if he needs to pay with his debit card. Jongdae’s elbow in his side has him frowning and he glances up at his friend, and then follows his distracted gaze.
The man scanning groceries is bright in the middle and dark, dark, dark around the edges.
Kyungsoo wheezes.
“He keeps looking at you,” Jongdae says, quietly.
Kyungsoo starts gathering his items off the belt, “Let’s go to a different checkstand.”
“Don’t be a homophobe,” Jongdae laughs, taking the items from Kyungsoo’s grappling hands, putting them back on the conveyor belt. “He’s not bad looking, you should be flattered or something.”
Kyungsoo’s feet are like lead when he comes up to the register, keeping his gaze averted from the cashier.
Jongdae engages in polite conversation, and reassures the man that no, they’re not a couple, and yes, Kyungsoo is very available. Mortified, Kyungsoo lifts his gaze to the cashier, his eyes catching the other’s name tag (Jongin, Jongin, Jongin). and then he shakes his head.
“I’m--”
Jongdae nudges him again and clears his throat loudly. “He’s like a little birdie,” he says, and Kyungsoo blinks. “You have to earn his trust before he eats from the palm of your hand.”
Kyungsoo turns to ask Jongdae what the hell he’s on about, but instead of Jongdae, Jongin’s head is on his friend’s body. Kyungsoo stumbles back, and Jongdae’s voice calls, “Kyungsoo?”, but it’s Jongin’s face. Jongin’s eyes, Jongin’s smile, Jongdae’s tshirt.
Kyungsoo turns on his heel and leaves everything on the conveyor belt, bags and food and even his wallet, fleeing from the supermarket in a haze, before his body gives out and he collapses on the sidewalk.
He wakes up in his bed.
He screams into the emptiness of his apartment.
--
Once more, he sits in front of his tv. He left it unplugged, but he knows it doesn’t need any power to work when he speaks, “What are you?”, directly at the black screen.
A few moments pass, and he wonders what he’s doing. Talking to his powerless tv. Another few moments pass, and he’s about to stand up and call the hospital and ask what it would take to be checked into the mental health ward, but the tv crackles to life, the white noise startling and making Kyungsoo flinch.
The channels blip and switch and those lines scroll, but instead of fingers this time, eyes appear. First black, then red, then green, all over the screen, disappearing only to reappear again half a second later.
“Am I going crazy?” Kyungsoo whispers, and he feels so hopeless. “What do you want with me?”
The walls of his apartment vibrate and Kyungsoo closes his eyes, only to have them fly open when a hand caresses the line of his jaw. Jongin is right in front of him, flickering in and out of existence like the unplugged tv behind him, but his touch is so real, so cold.
“You’re mine,” Jongin fizzles out of existence for a moment, before he’s standing solidly in front of Kyungsoo. “I’ve searched for so long. Waited for your call.”
Kyungsoo lets out a soft pant, eyes hooding as he looks up at Jongin.
It’s the middle of the day but Kyungsoo’s apartment gets swathed in darkness. He feels Jongin everywhere; kissing over his neck, fingers dancing over his sides, the weight of him on his lap. It’s flashes of clothes being removed, Jongin’s dark lips tracing over Kyungsoo’s pale skin, leaving marks in his wake. Kyungsoo can’t focus; he’s kissing back, his hands are touching a solid body, Jongin is really here, Jongin is real. Kyungsoo’s fingers curl over Jongin’s hips and he doesn’t know when or how it happens but he’s thrusting up into tight, deliciously wet heat, his head tipped back against the couch.
Jongin’s hands roam over Kyungsoo’s chest and Kyungsoo is too drunk with euphoria to take note of what he’s doing. There’s a dull, throbbing pain in his chest, and Kyungsoo just squirms a little, his hips relentless as they fuck up into Jongin’s writhing, perfect body. All he can see are Jongin’s twinkling eyes his bright smile, and the blood dripping down Jongin’s chin, a neon beacon in the darkness.
Kyungsoo hands himself over.
He doesn’t wake up this time.
--
“And you say he was… suffering from delusions before his death?” the detective asks, notepad and pen in hand as he interviews Jongdae outside of Kyungsoo’s apartment.
“Yeah,” Jongdae’s eyes are rimmed red and puffy, and he can’t look inside where CSI is processing the scene. “I-- I tried calling him, I came over once and he was just.. I don’t know. Something was really wrong. He was convinced he had a stalker.”
The detective nods, writing everything down. He glances inside at the crime scene, and then writes a few more things down. He closes his notepad, and then pats Jongdae sympathetically on his shoulder. “You did what you could, Jongdae. Sometimes people are beyond help.”
Jongdae shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face. “I should have stayed with him.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” the detective says, consolingly. He gives Jongdae’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.”
Jongdae nods, taking the dismissal. “Thank you, Detective Kim.”
Detective Kim flashes a smile, dark around the edges, bright in the middle. “Any time.”
--
After the crime scene is vacated, Detective Kim lets himself back in. Kyungsoo’s body has been hauled away, but the scent of death and blood is still fresh, staining the couch, the floor, permeating the walls and making the neighbors sick.
He opens the refrigerator and grabs the mystery jar, unscrewing the lid and taking a whiff of the pungent smell of rotting meat.
Kyungsoo’s heart is his.
Darkness encases the apartment, and Jongin Jongin Jongin puts his lips to the rim of the jar, taking a sip of the blood and bodily fluids it’s floating in. The heart is bright, like Jongin’s smile, like the twinkle in his eyes.
“Once you’re mine…” Jongin murmurs into the darkness. He can feel Kyungsoo’s soul lingering around, attached to the heart in the jar. “...there’s no going back.”