(for everyone) 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer ✸ part 1 of 2
❊ for: everyone
❊ title: 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
❊ pairings: kai/d.o, but really it turned into sehun/kai I'm sorry
❊ rating: r
❊ warnings: homophobia, sexual references, violence, death
❊ word count: 8,571
❊ summary: to tell, or not to tell, that is the question
❊ a/n: omg...
The following is a lengthy recalling of a series of events that occurred in the town of Jerusalem. I would tell you the specifics of its location, but for the love of God I can’t remember a thing about it other than its name and its story. Perhaps it’s better that way, anyways.
There are rumors in every town, dark stories of poison and death and regret that plague the minds and taint the sanities of the residents in every small-population village. There are always gossipers about who’s the descendant of whom and who killed whom and what that one building really is over there. There are strings of tension roped tightly around the foundations of every place, tied taut between every standing edifice, structure, and pole, ready to trip any wandering passerby. You might say “ahh, it’s just a product of human boredom,” and perhaps you’re right. But like anything else, even human boredom has its exceptions. Its chilling accuracies. There are a scarce few of such towns, but when you do set foot on the grounds of such places, you’ll fall silent. Your voice will drop to the ground, the sort that trembles and whispers, “there’s something really wrong here, isn’t there?”
Jerusalem
is one of those towns.
Jerusalem is a small-population town in the middle of nowhere, USA. In fact, a more fitting name for a town like Jerusalem would, quite frankly, have been exactly that: in the middle of nowhere (ITMON for short). But maybe the creators felt too proud, or happy, or in-denial that they decided to go with something well known and familiar and short like the name “Jerusalem.” (I have my own theory, though--perhaps the creators had a hunch that something bad was going to happen to their town someday, and decided to christen their town with the name of a religious reference.)
But if you ask the residents if they think this town is ghost-ridden and doomed for death, they will most likely stare at you, dumbfounded, and ask what on earth would cause you to ask such a question.
Deep inside, though, somewhere between their intestines and their ribs, the residents know. I know. Hell, you know. That this town is, in its own twisted, unorthodox way, possessed with some demon, and doom impends on this place just like it does in any other cursed village. D-Day is due. Every day in this town, their bowels shift uncomfortably, knowing that today might be the day. Tomorrow might be the day. For what--is beyond any mortal’s understanding. But if there’s one more certainty I must add, it’s that this kind of tension doesn’t build up to a happy ending.
So where does the story start, if there is one (because perhaps I am simply a bored human and this is all an anticlimactic storytelling which ends with a county fair or a friendly block party with some barbecue and proud American flags)?
It starts at a gas station.
Jongin is staring at Sehun's ear. Unbeknownst to the lanky boy with bleached blond hair, there is a tiny ladybug on his earlobe, prancing around his stud earring.
Sehun, still oblivious, gives a low, long whistle. “Would you lookit that,” he grins, his cigarette wobbling between his somehow amazingly white teeth as he nods outside of the glass windows. The ladybug jumps away as Sehun turns his head sharply to address Jongin.
Jongin follows his gaze to see a white, pristine sports car zooms into the gas station.
“Prince Charming’s decided to drop by in the middle of No-fucking-where, desertland, USA.” Sehun turns back to his phone.
"Real funny," Jongin says dryly, watching as the ladybug crawls back up Sehun's leg. Something in between curiosity and jealousy shoots through him. Momentarily.
Jongin and Sehun have been friends since sixth grade, when Sehun was the lanky new kid who got cornered by a pack of bullies for wearing blue flannel (but in reality, Jongin knew it had to do with the fact that Sehun had introduced himself as "Hi, I'm Sehun and I'm from New York. I like dancing and I'm gay."). But that didn't matter; Jongin had resolved it all with a good roundhouse kick to their cheeks.
"Sehun--"
Sehun is busy playing Candy Crush.
"I’m playing a game, shut up."
Jongin decides not to reply. He turns to watch the sports car stop beside the filling station. A tiny man inside is arguing with Zitao.
And then his mind switches again, thinking back to that sixth grade day. He thinks about the look on Sehun's face when his foot made contact, about the flush of red in Jongin's cheeks when Sehun thanked him.
But Jongin doesn't recall the details. On that day (which was a Wednesday, a very mild and windy one), the kick hadn't been all. There was also his statement, which was along the lines of Don't listen to them. You look great in blue flannel. And then the Jongin likes the new kid, Jongin likes the new kid, Jongin is gay, Jongin is gay. No I don't. No I don't. Stop it, stop it. He doesn't remember going home and crying, doesn't remember feeling like he was betraying something every time he thought of Sehun whenever his mother asked him "Do you like anyone at school? Krystal, maybe? She's a nice girl, you know." Remembers nothing but the kick. Perhaps it's a good thing.
In the present, Sehun, also twenty two, spreads his legs out, covering most of the small space. After a long silence, Jongin kicks one of Sehun's flimsy legs.
“Ow,” Sehun hisses.
“Move over.”
As Sehun gives him a look and obliges, putting his legs together again, the door jingles open to a well-groomed, pale-faced, tiny man.
“Prince Charming,” Sehun snorts under his breath. “Welcome to the dungeon.” He makes no move to attend to the customer.
Jongin stands up. The man is standing in front of the counter, blank-faced.
“How can I help you?” Jongin asks, leaning forward and touching his elbows on the glass counter.
No reply. The man gives him an empty look, the sort that, if translated into a sound, would probably be the echoing silence of an alleyway. After the delay, the man grumbles, “No thanks,” and then promptly disappears into an aisle.
Jongin turns around, his face colored into an amused expression. The fuck is that guy?
“Did you see his clothes? Tight-ass suit, like he’s a top class mafia guy, or a government worker or something,” Sehun sniggers, joining in. The cigarette (which had long since burned out) drops from his mouth. “Shit,” he looks down disgustedly, lets out a deep sigh, and leans down slowly to pick it up and throw it into the trash can. He misses.
“What a freak,” Jongin says to himself. “Fucking freak.”
For some reason, though, Sehun doesn’t continue his frequent customer-teasing. He just stares into Jongin wide-eyed. With a gulp. It takes Jongin a moment before he lets out an embarrassed, “ah!” and turns around to see the man at the counter, tapping his foot.
“I-ah, sorry,” Jongin grunts, blood rushing to his ears. He gathers the boxes blindly and throws them in a plastic bag. “Ten of these… is… uh,” he pauses, “fifty dollars.”
When the man leaves, Jongin lets out a long sigh and sits down. His cheeks are red.
Sehun is laughing.
"You're such an idiot," he wheezes.
"Shut up,” Jongin snaps.
"Fine," Sehun crosses his arms. "Anyways, did you even see what the guy bought?”
Sehun doesn’t wait for Jongin’s reply.
“Condoms.” Sehun gives a snort. “Ten fucking boxes of condoms. Talk about Prince Charming, eh?”
Morning dawns on Jerusalem in slathers of red and orange. Jongin wakes up with a jolt, then sinks back into his bed. His eyes flutter shut as he listens to the cars through his slightly open window. It takes him a few minutes before he finally decides to crane his neck upwards to look at the alarm clock. 6:23. Shit.
“Shit,” he mutters, and he jumps out of bed, nearly tripping on the pile of clothes right by his feet. “Shit shit shit.”
He pauses, then, wincing as he grabs his back in pain. His entire backside is sore, as if he had been climbing, or doing some intense exercise the entire night. It takes him a moment to massage himself a little before he resumes his rush to the bathroom to turn on the shower faucet.
His phone, which is sitting on the bathroom sink, screen side up, flashes with a text from Sehun: “where r u?” He ignores it.
As he frantically brushes his teeth (with the hot water running in the background), Jongin turns on the television. He likes having people-noise in the background whenever he’s getting ready. Sometimes, you need even the most meaningless noise to make you feel less alone.
Flashing on the screen are shots of a mutilated body that “had been dead for a few days; the police have yet to find suspects…” and Jongin shakes his head in dismay before stepping back into the bathroom with a new set of clothes and a towel.
He jumps into the bathtub, snaps the curtains shut, and pours some shampoo into his left hand when he hears the door creak. He pauses, mid-movement, waiting for another sound. Nothing happens. He resumes, thinking about how much shit he’s going to get from the manager with OCD, Kim Junmyeon.
“Fucking Sehun and those dumbass messages he keeps sending me in the middle of the night,” he mutters as he scrubs his scalp.
Another creak.
“Sehun?” Jongin calls out, softly. The water is too loud. Nothing happens. A few minutes pass before he remembers that he’s late. “Shit shit shit,” and he resumes lathering the shampoo on his hair.
When Jongin rushes into the store for work, Sehun is bent over his phone, biting his tongue and playing candy crush.
“Overslept,” Jongin huffs as he puts down his bag and stretches.
“Fuck yeah you overslept,” Sehun doesn’t look up from his screen. “Myeon wants you to organize the stack of candies in the back closet. Thanks for covering me. I almost thought I’d have to do it for sneaking a skittles pack from the shelf.”
“Alright,” Jongin says.
Sehun follows him to the back door.
“Sucks to be you,” he laughs, then quickly composes himself. “Oh, and did you hear about the murder?”
Jongin swallows. He walks into the closet and closes the door.
“Are you mad at me?” Sehun says, again playing Candy Crush on his phone with his legs crossed when Jongin finally emerges from the closet with dust on his shoulders and his sleeves rolled up.
“What do you mean?” Jongin kicks a chair into the right orientation before he sits down with a sigh. He glances at the clock. Five twenty four. Still a few hours left to kill. “I’m not.”
“You ignored me. You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” Sehun is always like that, sensitive like a flower ready to wilt at the touch.
“I said,” Sehun lets out a sharp sigh, “did you hear about the murder?”
“Oh,” Jongin says after a pause. “That.”
“Well.” Sehun shrugs. “If you’re not mad then I’m fine.” He puts his phone down again and opens the sliding door of the front counter to get a snickers bar for a customer. “Anyways-You’re welcome, have a nice day-I said, did you hear about the murder this morning? It’s on the news. It was probably on TV when you were getting ready.”
“How do you know that I turn the TV on when I get ready?”
“How do I not?” Sehun stares at him. “Everyone does, right? Anyone who lives alone, I mean.”
Jongin can almost taste the saliva in his mouth. “I guess.”
“So you did?”
“Yeah.” Jongin shrugs.
Sehun laughs.
“What?”
“It’s so crazy,” Sehun shakes his head, “I knew something like this was going to happen, you know.”
“What? You knew a murder was going to happen?”
“This place is such a sketchy-ass town--I mean, I’m only here because the living costs are cheap. I hate this place. Look at it. Look at that fucking abandoned train station over there.”
Jongin glances at the dusted, monochromatic, dead heap of forgotten iron and train tracks at the other side of the street. The last time it was running was probably in, like, 1973.
“We live in the middle of the fucking desert.”
“What are you talking about? This is just a murder--it like--it happens all the time.”
"Yeah, well," Sehun says. "The people here are shitty. You've been my only friend this entire time, you know. Maybe there will be more murders until all of the shitty people are all dead."
Jongin swallows. But it's true; Jerusalem is an awfully old and conservative town. Jongin has to agree.
"Whatever. That was kind of morbid," Sehun says quickly. "I take that back. Murders aren’t cool. I’m just pissed because someone confronted me this morning again before you came. Bad day."
In a town full of devout, conservative people, Sehun often gets unfriendly treatment. Jongin, his heart suddenly steaming hot, spits, “Don’t give a fuck about them, alright?”
Sehun looks at Jongin curiously, as if he is withholding information.
“Yeah, thanks.”
The door jingles.
Jongin stares as the same man from yesterday walks into the store. This time, he is wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans. Jongin’s eyes flit to the parking lot, where there is only one car-a red pickup truck.
For a moment, the man surveys the faces of the two workers standing, mid-conversation, behind the counter. His eyes are nearly bulging out of his head, his pupils a weird shade of black (are there shades of black? some are quiet blacks and some are loud blacks. Something about this one isn’t normal). He disappears into another aisle and comes back, in a few minutes, with two cigarette boxes in hand.
Jongin doesn’t move. He’s frozen still, anger mixing through his blood at the thought of another confrontation. Sehun sighs and stands up in his stead.
“That would be $18.46.”
The man grunts a thank you before leaving.
“Anyways,” Sehun says, turning around. He pauses. Stares at Jongin.
Jongin is staring at the pickup truck zooming away.
“You know,” Sehun says slowly. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’m not stupid."
For a few seconds, he pretends to ignore Sehun. He waits until the pickup truck is out of sight.
“What are you talking about?” Jongin snaps at the window. “I don’t get you.”
“Alright,” Sehun says, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not stupid.”
“Of course you’re not stupid.” Jongin swallows. “Anyways, I’m going to go rearrange the food aisle now.”
At ten o’clock, Jongin is walking home into his apartment, thinking about Sehun.
Through the years, there has always been a sort of wall in between them. The wall that Jongin had made by saying nothing.
He thinks about confessing to--
“Are you fucking kidding me,” he hisses to himself.
He stops in the middle of the street. Well, he tells himself. He knows, obviously. And then he hesitates, thinking about what specifically Sehun could have been alluding to by saying “you can tell me” and “I’m not stupid.” Perhaps it was actually about his stealing a few Kit Kat bars? Or was there something else Jongin was holding back, perhaps something less private than the…
“Fucking kidding me,” he mutters again, shaking his head. Sehun knows. There’s no denying it. Just tell him, just tell him, just tell him...
In the apartment, the lights are out (a common occurrence-the apartment owners aren’t good at making sure the place is well-kept). He walks up the stairs, thinking about the ladybug on Sehun’s ear when his shoulders brush against a stranger’s.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. Momentarily, he glances into the stranger’s eyes. Something about the glance stops him. His breath hitches.
Those eyes. Black orbs swirling, eyes in eyes in eyes in eyes. He feels like there is a set of eyes within those pupils staring into him. They grow arms and grab him by the shoulders. His head starts spinning slowly, and he almost loses balance. His hand falls onto the railing.
The person doesn’t reply. He just… he moves closer, his face unclear but his eyes oddly mesmerizing, pulling him into a trance. A car honks outside, jolting Jongin awake. Surprised, he swallows, then blinks. He mutters some haphazard apology before he scurries upstairs.
“Sehun,” Jongin’s breath is hard and he can still feel the number pads under his fingertips from a speedy dial just seconds ago, “I have to tell you something.”
“What is it?” He can hear crunching. Lays chips, probably. Sehun’s ‘obligatory night snack,’ as he calls it.
“The thing you said earlier today.”
“What?”
“That man we saw today? Prince Charming?”
“What?”
“The guy with the sports car and the suit?”
“Dude, we saw him yesterday, not today-“
“It’s him.”
“What’s him?”
“He’s the murderer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Prince Charming guy--I just saw him. He is the murderer. We need to turn him in.” He glances out the window. Something tells him he’s being watched. He half expects those goddamn eyes to be staring at him through the dark night glass.
“Woah, woah,” and Jongin hears crunching at the other end. “First of all, we saw him yesterday. Not today. Second of all, we don’t have evidence. And third of all, are you fucking kidding me? The guy was caught. It’s over.”
“No, we saw him today, too. Two cigarette packs.”
“What?”
“The Prince Charming guy. He came in today, too. When you said Jerusalem was a fucked up town?”
“Are you talking about the guy with the big ears and the moustache?”
“No, the Prince Charming guy-“
“Who the fuck is the Prince Charming guy?”
“The sports car!”
“Look, the cigarette guy had big ears, big shoulders, and no moustache-you’re clearly thinking about someone else-“
“The cigarette guy didn’t have a moustache-“
“He did have a moustache. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, Jongin. Go take a break. You’re spooked out by the murders. Why are you taking this shit so seriously?”
Thump thump. Someone knocks on the door.
“Shit,” Jongin says. “Shit shit shit.” He gulps. “I hear the door. Someone’s knocking.”
“Jesus Christ, Jongin. Then don’t answer it!”
Jongin swallows. “Okay.”
“Fine. Is there anything else you have to say?”
Silence. The line is quiet. Jongin thinks about--”Imgay”--he disconnects the phone.
The line ends. Sehun’s gone. Jongin is standing in the middle of his apartment, the lights not even on. The pounding is consistent. He stays still. If whoever it is looks into the peek hole, they might see him. But Jongin doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He stays still, because maybe if he’s quiet enough, his existence will dissolve into an invisible mass of nothingness-
Silence. It’s gone, mid-knock. Jongin stands there, frozen, gripping his phone until he can’t feel his fingers. He can feel someone pounding on his ears. Blood, his heartbeats, his impending death, whatever it is. When the clock finally strikes eleven, he lets his shoulder muscles loose and finally walks into his room to get some sleep.
( part 2 )
❊ title: 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
❊ pairings: kai/d.o, but really it turned into sehun/kai I'm sorry
❊ rating: r
❊ warnings: homophobia, sexual references, violence, death
❊ word count: 8,571
❊ summary: to tell, or not to tell, that is the question
❊ a/n: omg...
The following is a lengthy recalling of a series of events that occurred in the town of Jerusalem. I would tell you the specifics of its location, but for the love of God I can’t remember a thing about it other than its name and its story. Perhaps it’s better that way, anyways.
There are rumors in every town, dark stories of poison and death and regret that plague the minds and taint the sanities of the residents in every small-population village. There are always gossipers about who’s the descendant of whom and who killed whom and what that one building really is over there. There are strings of tension roped tightly around the foundations of every place, tied taut between every standing edifice, structure, and pole, ready to trip any wandering passerby. You might say “ahh, it’s just a product of human boredom,” and perhaps you’re right. But like anything else, even human boredom has its exceptions. Its chilling accuracies. There are a scarce few of such towns, but when you do set foot on the grounds of such places, you’ll fall silent. Your voice will drop to the ground, the sort that trembles and whispers, “there’s something really wrong here, isn’t there?”
Jerusalem
is one of those towns.
Jerusalem is a small-population town in the middle of nowhere, USA. In fact, a more fitting name for a town like Jerusalem would, quite frankly, have been exactly that: in the middle of nowhere (ITMON for short). But maybe the creators felt too proud, or happy, or in-denial that they decided to go with something well known and familiar and short like the name “Jerusalem.” (I have my own theory, though--perhaps the creators had a hunch that something bad was going to happen to their town someday, and decided to christen their town with the name of a religious reference.)
But if you ask the residents if they think this town is ghost-ridden and doomed for death, they will most likely stare at you, dumbfounded, and ask what on earth would cause you to ask such a question.
Deep inside, though, somewhere between their intestines and their ribs, the residents know. I know. Hell, you know. That this town is, in its own twisted, unorthodox way, possessed with some demon, and doom impends on this place just like it does in any other cursed village. D-Day is due. Every day in this town, their bowels shift uncomfortably, knowing that today might be the day. Tomorrow might be the day. For what--is beyond any mortal’s understanding. But if there’s one more certainty I must add, it’s that this kind of tension doesn’t build up to a happy ending.
So where does the story start, if there is one (because perhaps I am simply a bored human and this is all an anticlimactic storytelling which ends with a county fair or a friendly block party with some barbecue and proud American flags)?
It starts at a gas station.
Jongin is staring at Sehun's ear. Unbeknownst to the lanky boy with bleached blond hair, there is a tiny ladybug on his earlobe, prancing around his stud earring.
Sehun, still oblivious, gives a low, long whistle. “Would you lookit that,” he grins, his cigarette wobbling between his somehow amazingly white teeth as he nods outside of the glass windows. The ladybug jumps away as Sehun turns his head sharply to address Jongin.
Jongin follows his gaze to see a white, pristine sports car zooms into the gas station.
“Prince Charming’s decided to drop by in the middle of No-fucking-where, desertland, USA.” Sehun turns back to his phone.
"Real funny," Jongin says dryly, watching as the ladybug crawls back up Sehun's leg. Something in between curiosity and jealousy shoots through him. Momentarily.
Jongin and Sehun have been friends since sixth grade, when Sehun was the lanky new kid who got cornered by a pack of bullies for wearing blue flannel (but in reality, Jongin knew it had to do with the fact that Sehun had introduced himself as "Hi, I'm Sehun and I'm from New York. I like dancing and I'm gay."). But that didn't matter; Jongin had resolved it all with a good roundhouse kick to their cheeks.
"Sehun--"
Sehun is busy playing Candy Crush.
"I’m playing a game, shut up."
Jongin decides not to reply. He turns to watch the sports car stop beside the filling station. A tiny man inside is arguing with Zitao.
And then his mind switches again, thinking back to that sixth grade day. He thinks about the look on Sehun's face when his foot made contact, about the flush of red in Jongin's cheeks when Sehun thanked him.
But Jongin doesn't recall the details. On that day (which was a Wednesday, a very mild and windy one), the kick hadn't been all. There was also his statement, which was along the lines of Don't listen to them. You look great in blue flannel. And then the Jongin likes the new kid, Jongin likes the new kid, Jongin is gay, Jongin is gay. No I don't. No I don't. Stop it, stop it. He doesn't remember going home and crying, doesn't remember feeling like he was betraying something every time he thought of Sehun whenever his mother asked him "Do you like anyone at school? Krystal, maybe? She's a nice girl, you know." Remembers nothing but the kick. Perhaps it's a good thing.
In the present, Sehun, also twenty two, spreads his legs out, covering most of the small space. After a long silence, Jongin kicks one of Sehun's flimsy legs.
“Ow,” Sehun hisses.
“Move over.”
As Sehun gives him a look and obliges, putting his legs together again, the door jingles open to a well-groomed, pale-faced, tiny man.
“Prince Charming,” Sehun snorts under his breath. “Welcome to the dungeon.” He makes no move to attend to the customer.
Jongin stands up. The man is standing in front of the counter, blank-faced.
“How can I help you?” Jongin asks, leaning forward and touching his elbows on the glass counter.
No reply. The man gives him an empty look, the sort that, if translated into a sound, would probably be the echoing silence of an alleyway. After the delay, the man grumbles, “No thanks,” and then promptly disappears into an aisle.
Jongin turns around, his face colored into an amused expression. The fuck is that guy?
“Did you see his clothes? Tight-ass suit, like he’s a top class mafia guy, or a government worker or something,” Sehun sniggers, joining in. The cigarette (which had long since burned out) drops from his mouth. “Shit,” he looks down disgustedly, lets out a deep sigh, and leans down slowly to pick it up and throw it into the trash can. He misses.
“What a freak,” Jongin says to himself. “Fucking freak.”
For some reason, though, Sehun doesn’t continue his frequent customer-teasing. He just stares into Jongin wide-eyed. With a gulp. It takes Jongin a moment before he lets out an embarrassed, “ah!” and turns around to see the man at the counter, tapping his foot.
“I-ah, sorry,” Jongin grunts, blood rushing to his ears. He gathers the boxes blindly and throws them in a plastic bag. “Ten of these… is… uh,” he pauses, “fifty dollars.”
When the man leaves, Jongin lets out a long sigh and sits down. His cheeks are red.
Sehun is laughing.
"You're such an idiot," he wheezes.
"Shut up,” Jongin snaps.
"Fine," Sehun crosses his arms. "Anyways, did you even see what the guy bought?”
Sehun doesn’t wait for Jongin’s reply.
“Condoms.” Sehun gives a snort. “Ten fucking boxes of condoms. Talk about Prince Charming, eh?”
Morning dawns on Jerusalem in slathers of red and orange. Jongin wakes up with a jolt, then sinks back into his bed. His eyes flutter shut as he listens to the cars through his slightly open window. It takes him a few minutes before he finally decides to crane his neck upwards to look at the alarm clock. 6:23. Shit.
“Shit,” he mutters, and he jumps out of bed, nearly tripping on the pile of clothes right by his feet. “Shit shit shit.”
He pauses, then, wincing as he grabs his back in pain. His entire backside is sore, as if he had been climbing, or doing some intense exercise the entire night. It takes him a moment to massage himself a little before he resumes his rush to the bathroom to turn on the shower faucet.
His phone, which is sitting on the bathroom sink, screen side up, flashes with a text from Sehun: “where r u?” He ignores it.
As he frantically brushes his teeth (with the hot water running in the background), Jongin turns on the television. He likes having people-noise in the background whenever he’s getting ready. Sometimes, you need even the most meaningless noise to make you feel less alone.
Flashing on the screen are shots of a mutilated body that “had been dead for a few days; the police have yet to find suspects…” and Jongin shakes his head in dismay before stepping back into the bathroom with a new set of clothes and a towel.
He jumps into the bathtub, snaps the curtains shut, and pours some shampoo into his left hand when he hears the door creak. He pauses, mid-movement, waiting for another sound. Nothing happens. He resumes, thinking about how much shit he’s going to get from the manager with OCD, Kim Junmyeon.
“Fucking Sehun and those dumbass messages he keeps sending me in the middle of the night,” he mutters as he scrubs his scalp.
Another creak.
“Sehun?” Jongin calls out, softly. The water is too loud. Nothing happens. A few minutes pass before he remembers that he’s late. “Shit shit shit,” and he resumes lathering the shampoo on his hair.
When Jongin rushes into the store for work, Sehun is bent over his phone, biting his tongue and playing candy crush.
“Overslept,” Jongin huffs as he puts down his bag and stretches.
“Fuck yeah you overslept,” Sehun doesn’t look up from his screen. “Myeon wants you to organize the stack of candies in the back closet. Thanks for covering me. I almost thought I’d have to do it for sneaking a skittles pack from the shelf.”
“Alright,” Jongin says.
Sehun follows him to the back door.
“Sucks to be you,” he laughs, then quickly composes himself. “Oh, and did you hear about the murder?”
Jongin swallows. He walks into the closet and closes the door.
“Are you mad at me?” Sehun says, again playing Candy Crush on his phone with his legs crossed when Jongin finally emerges from the closet with dust on his shoulders and his sleeves rolled up.
“What do you mean?” Jongin kicks a chair into the right orientation before he sits down with a sigh. He glances at the clock. Five twenty four. Still a few hours left to kill. “I’m not.”
“You ignored me. You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” Sehun is always like that, sensitive like a flower ready to wilt at the touch.
“I said,” Sehun lets out a sharp sigh, “did you hear about the murder?”
“Oh,” Jongin says after a pause. “That.”
“Well.” Sehun shrugs. “If you’re not mad then I’m fine.” He puts his phone down again and opens the sliding door of the front counter to get a snickers bar for a customer. “Anyways-You’re welcome, have a nice day-I said, did you hear about the murder this morning? It’s on the news. It was probably on TV when you were getting ready.”
“How do you know that I turn the TV on when I get ready?”
“How do I not?” Sehun stares at him. “Everyone does, right? Anyone who lives alone, I mean.”
Jongin can almost taste the saliva in his mouth. “I guess.”
“So you did?”
“Yeah.” Jongin shrugs.
Sehun laughs.
“What?”
“It’s so crazy,” Sehun shakes his head, “I knew something like this was going to happen, you know.”
“What? You knew a murder was going to happen?”
“This place is such a sketchy-ass town--I mean, I’m only here because the living costs are cheap. I hate this place. Look at it. Look at that fucking abandoned train station over there.”
Jongin glances at the dusted, monochromatic, dead heap of forgotten iron and train tracks at the other side of the street. The last time it was running was probably in, like, 1973.
“We live in the middle of the fucking desert.”
“What are you talking about? This is just a murder--it like--it happens all the time.”
"Yeah, well," Sehun says. "The people here are shitty. You've been my only friend this entire time, you know. Maybe there will be more murders until all of the shitty people are all dead."
Jongin swallows. But it's true; Jerusalem is an awfully old and conservative town. Jongin has to agree.
"Whatever. That was kind of morbid," Sehun says quickly. "I take that back. Murders aren’t cool. I’m just pissed because someone confronted me this morning again before you came. Bad day."
In a town full of devout, conservative people, Sehun often gets unfriendly treatment. Jongin, his heart suddenly steaming hot, spits, “Don’t give a fuck about them, alright?”
Sehun looks at Jongin curiously, as if he is withholding information.
“Yeah, thanks.”
The door jingles.
Jongin stares as the same man from yesterday walks into the store. This time, he is wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans. Jongin’s eyes flit to the parking lot, where there is only one car-a red pickup truck.
For a moment, the man surveys the faces of the two workers standing, mid-conversation, behind the counter. His eyes are nearly bulging out of his head, his pupils a weird shade of black (are there shades of black? some are quiet blacks and some are loud blacks. Something about this one isn’t normal). He disappears into another aisle and comes back, in a few minutes, with two cigarette boxes in hand.
Jongin doesn’t move. He’s frozen still, anger mixing through his blood at the thought of another confrontation. Sehun sighs and stands up in his stead.
“That would be $18.46.”
The man grunts a thank you before leaving.
“Anyways,” Sehun says, turning around. He pauses. Stares at Jongin.
Jongin is staring at the pickup truck zooming away.
“You know,” Sehun says slowly. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’m not stupid."
For a few seconds, he pretends to ignore Sehun. He waits until the pickup truck is out of sight.
“What are you talking about?” Jongin snaps at the window. “I don’t get you.”
“Alright,” Sehun says, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not stupid.”
“Of course you’re not stupid.” Jongin swallows. “Anyways, I’m going to go rearrange the food aisle now.”
At ten o’clock, Jongin is walking home into his apartment, thinking about Sehun.
Through the years, there has always been a sort of wall in between them. The wall that Jongin had made by saying nothing.
He thinks about confessing to--
“Are you fucking kidding me,” he hisses to himself.
He stops in the middle of the street. Well, he tells himself. He knows, obviously. And then he hesitates, thinking about what specifically Sehun could have been alluding to by saying “you can tell me” and “I’m not stupid.” Perhaps it was actually about his stealing a few Kit Kat bars? Or was there something else Jongin was holding back, perhaps something less private than the…
“Fucking kidding me,” he mutters again, shaking his head. Sehun knows. There’s no denying it. Just tell him, just tell him, just tell him...
In the apartment, the lights are out (a common occurrence-the apartment owners aren’t good at making sure the place is well-kept). He walks up the stairs, thinking about the ladybug on Sehun’s ear when his shoulders brush against a stranger’s.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. Momentarily, he glances into the stranger’s eyes. Something about the glance stops him. His breath hitches.
Those eyes. Black orbs swirling, eyes in eyes in eyes in eyes. He feels like there is a set of eyes within those pupils staring into him. They grow arms and grab him by the shoulders. His head starts spinning slowly, and he almost loses balance. His hand falls onto the railing.
The person doesn’t reply. He just… he moves closer, his face unclear but his eyes oddly mesmerizing, pulling him into a trance. A car honks outside, jolting Jongin awake. Surprised, he swallows, then blinks. He mutters some haphazard apology before he scurries upstairs.
“Sehun,” Jongin’s breath is hard and he can still feel the number pads under his fingertips from a speedy dial just seconds ago, “I have to tell you something.”
“What is it?” He can hear crunching. Lays chips, probably. Sehun’s ‘obligatory night snack,’ as he calls it.
“The thing you said earlier today.”
“What?”
“That man we saw today? Prince Charming?”
“What?”
“The guy with the sports car and the suit?”
“Dude, we saw him yesterday, not today-“
“It’s him.”
“What’s him?”
“He’s the murderer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Prince Charming guy--I just saw him. He is the murderer. We need to turn him in.” He glances out the window. Something tells him he’s being watched. He half expects those goddamn eyes to be staring at him through the dark night glass.
“Woah, woah,” and Jongin hears crunching at the other end. “First of all, we saw him yesterday. Not today. Second of all, we don’t have evidence. And third of all, are you fucking kidding me? The guy was caught. It’s over.”
“No, we saw him today, too. Two cigarette packs.”
“What?”
“The Prince Charming guy. He came in today, too. When you said Jerusalem was a fucked up town?”
“Are you talking about the guy with the big ears and the moustache?”
“No, the Prince Charming guy-“
“Who the fuck is the Prince Charming guy?”
“The sports car!”
“Look, the cigarette guy had big ears, big shoulders, and no moustache-you’re clearly thinking about someone else-“
“The cigarette guy didn’t have a moustache-“
“He did have a moustache. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, Jongin. Go take a break. You’re spooked out by the murders. Why are you taking this shit so seriously?”
Thump thump. Someone knocks on the door.
“Shit,” Jongin says. “Shit shit shit.” He gulps. “I hear the door. Someone’s knocking.”
“Jesus Christ, Jongin. Then don’t answer it!”
Jongin swallows. “Okay.”
“Fine. Is there anything else you have to say?”
Silence. The line is quiet. Jongin thinks about--”Imgay”--he disconnects the phone.
The line ends. Sehun’s gone. Jongin is standing in the middle of his apartment, the lights not even on. The pounding is consistent. He stays still. If whoever it is looks into the peek hole, they might see him. But Jongin doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He stays still, because maybe if he’s quiet enough, his existence will dissolve into an invisible mass of nothingness-
Silence. It’s gone, mid-knock. Jongin stands there, frozen, gripping his phone until he can’t feel his fingers. He can feel someone pounding on his ears. Blood, his heartbeats, his impending death, whatever it is. When the clock finally strikes eleven, he lets his shoulder muscles loose and finally walks into his room to get some sleep.
( part 2 )