fic; i am the fly who dreams of the spider
exo, jongin/kyungsoo, 2800~ words, R
the things jongin does for kyungsoo. (urban fantasy!au)
warnings: implied possibility of character death
Chanyeol doesn't judge. It wouldn't be beneficial for Chanyeol to judge.
He purses his lips the way he uses to, the way where you're not sure if he's trying to be cute or is just genuinely weird, and peers down at Jongin over the rim of his big glasses, perched on the very tip of his nose.
"Were you not satisfied with your last purchase?"
"Oh no, on the contrary." Jongin replies immediately, pasting a sleazy grin onto his own face. "I was very satisfied."
Chanyeol studies him through narrowed eyes. The faint humming from a vent somewhere in the recesses of the poorly lit store seeps out over the room. It is unnaturally loud in Jongin’s ears. He realizes he’s holding his breath.
Then, slowly slowly, does Chanyeol’s eyebrows sail upwards. A wide, grimace-like grin splits open over his face and Jongin has time to count to all but eight big, pearly teeth before he catches himself and schools his features.
“Oh.” Chanyeol says. “Oh. Well. I’m glad.”
“It’s just.” Jongin says. He sniffs casually and tries to pretend he’s buying shoes or something instead. Furniture. Anything. “I need something sturdier.”
Chanyeol’s brows sail another bit higher and Jongin realizes there comes a point where something like that starts harboring a different meaning. “I understand.” Chanyeol says.
“And.” Jongin adds quickly, swallowing discreetly and almost choking on his own spit in the process. “Fur-lined.” He manages. “He. He says it hurts.”
The grin on Chanyeol’s face twitches just a tad bit wider. He nods carefully. “Some.” He says. “Some like that.”
“Uh.” Jongin says. “He doesn’t.”
“I understand.” Chanyeol says again. The ventilation bellows in Jongin’s ears. He counts up to nineteen twenty twentyone twentytwo and then runs out of teeth and is just about to start over when Chanyeol finally removes his gaze, reaches for the ring of keys at his pocket and rounds the counter in three long, measured steps.
“You haven’t considered a different technique?” He asks while idly unlocking a glass cabinet. “Mono-gloves are popular lately.” He nods towards a mannequin to his left, glossy black harness sharp against her white plastic hue. Jongin strides up and turns her around. A pair of conjoined fingerless opera-gloves hang limp over her back.
Rows of silver grommets glimmer under the spotlight, the rope is twisted stiff and slightly glossy. Jongin looks closer. Latex held together by a thin polyester thread, seams dotted in intervals of a good five millimeters. He sighs.
“I think we’re more.” He says. Chanyeol’s eyebrows are soaring halfway up his forehead. “Cuff people.”
Chanyeol hums noncommittally. “Old-school.” He says, gaze again pinned at Jongin’s face. Jongin shifts his weight to the other foot. “Can’t go wrong.” He extends a matte black box in Jongin’s direction, cocking the lid open with a twitch of his wrist. The grin has closed up on his face. Jongin didn’t imagine he’d ever wish for it to come back. He hurries to reach for one of the two items inside the box and shuffles closer to the spotlight, conveniently turning his back to Chanyeol in the process.
The leather is thick and stiff, a good two inches across and clad with soft, short fur on the arched inside. Double buckles, small but robust. Long straps, each hole lined with a grommet. He flips it over. The D-ring is fastened on a separate patch, stitched and riveted. The whole cuff gleams dully with flat silver studs. Jongin rubs a thumb over one of them.
“I’ll take eight.”
Chanyeol’s brows meet his hairline.
(He turns the first corner before stopping to fish out the two folders he didn’t miss Chanyeol inconspicuously slipping down into his unlabeled shopping bag. RACK says the first; RACK in big purple letters with Risk Aware Consensual Kink beneath in a smaller, matching font. The lower half of a woman’s face sits just below the text. She has bright red lipstick and a studded collar with a leash attached.
The other tells of a psychiatrist hotline. It has both an email address and a phone number.
Jongin chucks them both into the nearest trashcan and leaves with long, swift steps.)
-
“I have to piss.”
“Then go piss.”
Jongin screws and screws on the bolt in the wall. Unscrews it and rescrews it. Twists it a bit loose, and then tightens it again. He’s still in the same spot when Kyungsoo returns a few minutes later, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.
“You’ll wear it out like that.” He says easily. “The worms will erode from the friction.”
“…Huh.” Jongin says. He screws it in one last time, wriggles it a bit to make sure that it’s hard and tight and won’t move, then attempts to give it another little twist just in case, and then gets to his feet. Kyungsoo has produced a banana from his bag and is now sitting cross-legged and munching on the mattress.
“There’s one for you too.”
“I brought a sandwich.” Jongin confesses.
“Huh.” Kyungsoo hums.
Jongin shifts on his foot. “What time is it?”
“It’s okay. The sun is still up.”
Jongin shifts to his other foot. “So you’re not. Feeling anything?”
“What, am I getting hairy?” Kyungsoo says, patting his cheek with a hand. A chuckle clucks in his throat. “I know my own body, trust me.”
Jongin makes a noise and shifts again. Not until he catches Kyungsoo’s softly narrowed eyes peering up at him does he realize he’s pursing his lips.
“Just let me finish, okay.” Kyungsoo says.
“Yeah.” Jongin says. “Yeah. Sure.”
The narrowed eyes stay pinned at him, and Jongin lets them hold him down. He realizes his thumbs are hooked into his back pockets, elbows jutting out behind him, and feels something smooth out over his shoulders when he slacks his arms along his sides. There is a twitch at the corner of his lips when Kyungsoo crams the last piece of fruit into his mouth and then extends the peel in Jongin’s direction. A merry grin curves over his bulging cheeks. Jongin takes the peel between his thumb and pointer and crosses the naked room to place it atop of the long, narrow bag by the door.
Kyungsoo’s standing up when he turns back around, standing right by the end of the dirty mattress and curling his toes over the edge. His grin is so careless. He weighs on the balls of his feet and looks almost expectant.
“You done?” Jongin says, sauntering up to him.
“Yeah.” Kyungsoo grins. He curls one hand around other behind his back and tilts his chin upwards as Jongin reaches for the top button of his shirt, carefully popping it open and tucking the tips of the collar away before moving on to the next in row. The shirt hangs loose on his meager frame, the cuffs easily slide over his hands but Jongin unbuttons them anyway, slowly, before smoothing the fabric off Kyungsoo’s narrow shoulders. He tries to fold it, awkwardly bringing up a knee to tuck it into itself and finding a smile cracking up over his lips when Kyungsoo laughs. After a few scarcely successful attempts and some perilous wobbling he simply stuffs it into the backpack the way it is.
“I think it’s that anti-wrinkle kind.” He decides.
“You do, don’t you.” Kyungsoo muses.
“Yeah.” Jongin says. “The ones with all the chemicals. You’ll probably get cancer.” Kyungsoo tucks his hands behind his back again as Jongin reaches for his fly. “You’d think you’d rather want to wear wrinkly clothes, right?”
“Mm.” Kyungsoo hums. His eyes have sailed away over the dented walls and Jongin’s not sure if it’s a hum of agreement or a hum of not-really-listening-anymore-but-do-keep-talking-if-you-feel-like-it, but doesn’t really care which. He kneels as Kyungsoo steps out of the jeans, and smooths them out on the mattress to fold them properly. Folds the underwear too, tucks them into the pants and stuffs the whole package into the backpack. He then extends a hand towards Kyungsoo’s left foot but Kyungsoo takes a step back.
“It’s cold.” He says.
Something cramps in Jongin’s stomach. A short, panicked second briefly doesn’t seem to want to end.
“I’d rather keep them on.”
“Okay.” Jongin says. Maybe a little too quickly. He’s not sure. He stands anyway, takes a step back as well and flits his gaze up and down Kyungsoo’s body. Over the dark bangs cut short over his forehead, the hands still tucked away behind his back, over the twitch of his lips and the curve of his belly. Butt-naked, aside from the thick woolen socks on his feet. Toes wriggle inside of them. Jongin gives a hearty snort in the back of his throat.
“What?” Kyungsoo grins. He’s weighing on the balls of his feet again. “I can buy new ones.”
Jongin feels the smile drain from his face like a startle. Much too quick this time, much too quick.
“Yeah.” He says, hearing something stiff over his voice that makes him wish he hadn’t said anything at all. “Sure you can.” His voice continues, and Jongin wills it to stop.
“I bought.” He says instead. It slips out, without purpose or direction and Jongin finds himself thrown under the bus by it. “Fur.” He finishes lamely.
Kyungsoo holds his gaze with his own, holds it stable and secure. Jongin’s frozen, staring back, clinging to the gaze for dear life. Shredded socks materialize before his inner view, just short pieces of yarn strewn around by sharp claws. The memory of last month is still fresh in his mind. Kyungsoo cannot understand what it was like, Kyungsoo wasn’t there. Having to sit in the corridor and listen to the sounds of striking against the door, over and over, hour after hour, and just hope hope hope it won't give in.
Then come back at dawn and find him peacefully asleep on the floor, curled up into a ball with big pieces of torn leather littering the floor. Jongin knew it. The cuffs were old and fragile, seams thin after just five times, five months. Just one breaking would mean increased strain on the other three, and maybe even canine-Kyungsoo, no matter how far away from regular-Kyungsoo, had mind enough to seize his chance, to start tugging. Systematically.
There were two big craters in the wall, opening wounds of matte plaster against grey paint. Some plaster still stuck to the hooks attached to the ends of the chains tangled at Kyungsoo’s feet and one nightmare scenario after the other dawned thick and heavy in Jongin’s belly. If he had gotten out, if Jongin had been too slow with the rifle, if Jongin for just a short second had thought of the Kyungsoo buried deep inside of that creature, if Jongin had hesitated.
A small, small part of Jongin wanted to shoot him there and then. Put the pipe between his serenely shut eyes and pull the trigger, bury the silver bullet deep into his brain.
But he put the rifle away and kneeled beside him on the floor. Curled hands around his shoulders and shook him carefully. "Hey." He had said. "Hey, wake up." And he's always a little afraid there, for a short moment struck by a ridiculous fear that when Kyungsoo opens his eyes there will be something left of it in them, that he won't yet be himself. Even though Jongin knows it's over, even though the sun is already casting groggy rays of light through the tattered curtains out in the corridor, he's still always afraid he's just a tad too early. It flashes; piercing, nauseating images flashes before his inner view, barely more than swift movements and temporary pain, a sting of panic fading away.
But Kyungsoo opened his eyes, always opens his eyes, blinking and bleary and blessedly black. "Hey." He had said. And opened his mouth to say something more, but then closed it again. "Hey." He just said, once more. "Good morning."
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo says, and Jongin startles. Kyungsoo’s gaze holds him still, gentle but strong.
“Yeah.” Jongin’s voice says. A little more high-pitched than usual.
Kyungsoo’s lips fit together in a brief smile. “Go get them, then.”
Two on each arm, two on each ankle. Four in the wall, four in the floor. Duct tape around every buckle, layer after layer Jongin winds around them, diligent. Kyungsoo winces every time a hair gets caught in the glue and Jongin sucks it all in, cherishes every complaint, prints his brain full with the fact that Kyungsoo can afford to whine, that Kyungsoo lets himself bother with mundane things like minor physical pain.
The buckles are set at the second grommet but Jongin can still fit a finger between the cuff and Kyungsoo’s shin. The fur is smooth against his skin. He realizes he forgot to ask whether it’s real or fake. If an animal was killed to line his accessories. What kind of animal that was.
“Does it still chafe?” He asks, hooking his finger over the edge and tugging a little.
Kyungsoo takes a few steps out over the concrete floor. Jongin stays on his haunches, watching the chains stretch out behind him, hanging tense and straining in the air. He lifts his leg a bit, and the cuff digs into his skin.
“No.” he says, inching back to turn around. “No, it feels good.”
“Ah.” Jongin says. “Good.”
Kyungsoo smiles down at him, reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks.”
Jongin swallows. He can’t even see it coming, has no chance at holding it back; suddenly it washes over him, his brain clamps up in denial and a wave of nausea hits in his belly but it’s too late. He’s back in the corridor, it rings in his ears. Thumps and thuds, claws scraping against metal, and those… Those cries that Jongin can't even think about thinking about, can't even begin to bring up to the surface of his mind. There is nothing, his brain says immediately. I heard nothing. You heard nothing. I don't know what you're talking about. Holds it in, keeps it down, locked up tight in the corners of his mind but when the dams break there is no stopping, it runs on a frantic, defiant loop in his ears, sped up and distorted to a chorus of high-pitched shrieks, layered and unharmonized, like hundreds of fast-forwarded Kyungsoo’s at the same time, and -
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo says. “Jongin.”
“Yeah.” Jongin’s voice says.
Kyungsoo’s hand squeezes at his shoulder. “It’s cold.”
“Yeah.” His lungs draw in a breath. “Yeah. I’ll get it.”
Jongin’s fingers dig into the folded blanket while Kyungsoo makes himself comfortable on the mattress, folding his legs in and arranging the chains. Eight of them, each link thick as his little finger and cold against naked skin. The wool is rough and worn, but warm. Jongin kneels before him to give him a kiss, thinking of sheep. Sheep and wolves.
“Well.” Kyungsoo says.
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
“The banana’s in the backpack if you change your mind.”
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
“Don’t forget the…”
“No.” Jongin says. How the fuck could he. It’s been sitting there in its narrow bag by the door the whole time, reminding him. It’s heavy, so heavy when he grabs the handle and lifts it off the floor. He rests his free hand on the doorknob, counts one beat for every two of his heart.
“So.”
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo says.
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
There is a small twitch over Kyungsoo’s face. He looks terribly small under the blanket, terribly small in the naked cellar. His lips fit together in another brief smile.
“Sorry.”
Jongin swallows. The bagged rifle hits the floor with a muffled thud. “You fucking asshole.”
His knees meet the concrete, skidding a few painful inches but Kyungsoo’s arms are already around his neck, lips hitting his cheek before finding his mouth and he claws at Kyungsoo’s waist, unable to care that it probably hurts.
“Fucking asshole.” He repeats to Kyungsoo’s hair. His hands are tangled in chains and Kyungsoo’s arms are wound so tight, cramped locked around his neck, nose pressing into the crook of his nape and blanket heaped behind him.
“Yeah.” Kyungsoo mumbles against his skin. “I know.” His arms tighten a bit further. “Don’t forget to bolt the door.”
The gun is heavy, so heavy when Jongin puts it down next to the stool down the corridor. The banana peel sprawls limp and sad-looking over the zipper. He rests his arms on the sill of the small window by the low ceiling. Somewhere, the sun is just setting. The alley outside is already dark. Not that it matters. Jongin has seen the full moon before. He doesn’t need to see it again.
Jongin will kill him if he has to. He has promised. But he won’t have to. Not this time.
He might as well eat that sandwich now.
the things jongin does for kyungsoo. (urban fantasy!au)
warnings: implied possibility of character death
Chanyeol doesn't judge. It wouldn't be beneficial for Chanyeol to judge.
He purses his lips the way he uses to, the way where you're not sure if he's trying to be cute or is just genuinely weird, and peers down at Jongin over the rim of his big glasses, perched on the very tip of his nose.
"Were you not satisfied with your last purchase?"
"Oh no, on the contrary." Jongin replies immediately, pasting a sleazy grin onto his own face. "I was very satisfied."
Chanyeol studies him through narrowed eyes. The faint humming from a vent somewhere in the recesses of the poorly lit store seeps out over the room. It is unnaturally loud in Jongin’s ears. He realizes he’s holding his breath.
Then, slowly slowly, does Chanyeol’s eyebrows sail upwards. A wide, grimace-like grin splits open over his face and Jongin has time to count to all but eight big, pearly teeth before he catches himself and schools his features.
“Oh.” Chanyeol says. “Oh. Well. I’m glad.”
“It’s just.” Jongin says. He sniffs casually and tries to pretend he’s buying shoes or something instead. Furniture. Anything. “I need something sturdier.”
Chanyeol’s brows sail another bit higher and Jongin realizes there comes a point where something like that starts harboring a different meaning. “I understand.” Chanyeol says.
“And.” Jongin adds quickly, swallowing discreetly and almost choking on his own spit in the process. “Fur-lined.” He manages. “He. He says it hurts.”
The grin on Chanyeol’s face twitches just a tad bit wider. He nods carefully. “Some.” He says. “Some like that.”
“Uh.” Jongin says. “He doesn’t.”
“I understand.” Chanyeol says again. The ventilation bellows in Jongin’s ears. He counts up to nineteen twenty twentyone twentytwo and then runs out of teeth and is just about to start over when Chanyeol finally removes his gaze, reaches for the ring of keys at his pocket and rounds the counter in three long, measured steps.
“You haven’t considered a different technique?” He asks while idly unlocking a glass cabinet. “Mono-gloves are popular lately.” He nods towards a mannequin to his left, glossy black harness sharp against her white plastic hue. Jongin strides up and turns her around. A pair of conjoined fingerless opera-gloves hang limp over her back.
Rows of silver grommets glimmer under the spotlight, the rope is twisted stiff and slightly glossy. Jongin looks closer. Latex held together by a thin polyester thread, seams dotted in intervals of a good five millimeters. He sighs.
“I think we’re more.” He says. Chanyeol’s eyebrows are soaring halfway up his forehead. “Cuff people.”
Chanyeol hums noncommittally. “Old-school.” He says, gaze again pinned at Jongin’s face. Jongin shifts his weight to the other foot. “Can’t go wrong.” He extends a matte black box in Jongin’s direction, cocking the lid open with a twitch of his wrist. The grin has closed up on his face. Jongin didn’t imagine he’d ever wish for it to come back. He hurries to reach for one of the two items inside the box and shuffles closer to the spotlight, conveniently turning his back to Chanyeol in the process.
The leather is thick and stiff, a good two inches across and clad with soft, short fur on the arched inside. Double buckles, small but robust. Long straps, each hole lined with a grommet. He flips it over. The D-ring is fastened on a separate patch, stitched and riveted. The whole cuff gleams dully with flat silver studs. Jongin rubs a thumb over one of them.
“I’ll take eight.”
Chanyeol’s brows meet his hairline.
(He turns the first corner before stopping to fish out the two folders he didn’t miss Chanyeol inconspicuously slipping down into his unlabeled shopping bag. RACK says the first; RACK in big purple letters with Risk Aware Consensual Kink beneath in a smaller, matching font. The lower half of a woman’s face sits just below the text. She has bright red lipstick and a studded collar with a leash attached.
The other tells of a psychiatrist hotline. It has both an email address and a phone number.
Jongin chucks them both into the nearest trashcan and leaves with long, swift steps.)
-
“I have to piss.”
“Then go piss.”
Jongin screws and screws on the bolt in the wall. Unscrews it and rescrews it. Twists it a bit loose, and then tightens it again. He’s still in the same spot when Kyungsoo returns a few minutes later, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.
“You’ll wear it out like that.” He says easily. “The worms will erode from the friction.”
“…Huh.” Jongin says. He screws it in one last time, wriggles it a bit to make sure that it’s hard and tight and won’t move, then attempts to give it another little twist just in case, and then gets to his feet. Kyungsoo has produced a banana from his bag and is now sitting cross-legged and munching on the mattress.
“There’s one for you too.”
“I brought a sandwich.” Jongin confesses.
“Huh.” Kyungsoo hums.
Jongin shifts on his foot. “What time is it?”
“It’s okay. The sun is still up.”
Jongin shifts to his other foot. “So you’re not. Feeling anything?”
“What, am I getting hairy?” Kyungsoo says, patting his cheek with a hand. A chuckle clucks in his throat. “I know my own body, trust me.”
Jongin makes a noise and shifts again. Not until he catches Kyungsoo’s softly narrowed eyes peering up at him does he realize he’s pursing his lips.
“Just let me finish, okay.” Kyungsoo says.
“Yeah.” Jongin says. “Yeah. Sure.”
The narrowed eyes stay pinned at him, and Jongin lets them hold him down. He realizes his thumbs are hooked into his back pockets, elbows jutting out behind him, and feels something smooth out over his shoulders when he slacks his arms along his sides. There is a twitch at the corner of his lips when Kyungsoo crams the last piece of fruit into his mouth and then extends the peel in Jongin’s direction. A merry grin curves over his bulging cheeks. Jongin takes the peel between his thumb and pointer and crosses the naked room to place it atop of the long, narrow bag by the door.
Kyungsoo’s standing up when he turns back around, standing right by the end of the dirty mattress and curling his toes over the edge. His grin is so careless. He weighs on the balls of his feet and looks almost expectant.
“You done?” Jongin says, sauntering up to him.
“Yeah.” Kyungsoo grins. He curls one hand around other behind his back and tilts his chin upwards as Jongin reaches for the top button of his shirt, carefully popping it open and tucking the tips of the collar away before moving on to the next in row. The shirt hangs loose on his meager frame, the cuffs easily slide over his hands but Jongin unbuttons them anyway, slowly, before smoothing the fabric off Kyungsoo’s narrow shoulders. He tries to fold it, awkwardly bringing up a knee to tuck it into itself and finding a smile cracking up over his lips when Kyungsoo laughs. After a few scarcely successful attempts and some perilous wobbling he simply stuffs it into the backpack the way it is.
“I think it’s that anti-wrinkle kind.” He decides.
“You do, don’t you.” Kyungsoo muses.
“Yeah.” Jongin says. “The ones with all the chemicals. You’ll probably get cancer.” Kyungsoo tucks his hands behind his back again as Jongin reaches for his fly. “You’d think you’d rather want to wear wrinkly clothes, right?”
“Mm.” Kyungsoo hums. His eyes have sailed away over the dented walls and Jongin’s not sure if it’s a hum of agreement or a hum of not-really-listening-anymore-but-do-keep-talking-if-you-feel-like-it, but doesn’t really care which. He kneels as Kyungsoo steps out of the jeans, and smooths them out on the mattress to fold them properly. Folds the underwear too, tucks them into the pants and stuffs the whole package into the backpack. He then extends a hand towards Kyungsoo’s left foot but Kyungsoo takes a step back.
“It’s cold.” He says.
Something cramps in Jongin’s stomach. A short, panicked second briefly doesn’t seem to want to end.
“I’d rather keep them on.”
“Okay.” Jongin says. Maybe a little too quickly. He’s not sure. He stands anyway, takes a step back as well and flits his gaze up and down Kyungsoo’s body. Over the dark bangs cut short over his forehead, the hands still tucked away behind his back, over the twitch of his lips and the curve of his belly. Butt-naked, aside from the thick woolen socks on his feet. Toes wriggle inside of them. Jongin gives a hearty snort in the back of his throat.
“What?” Kyungsoo grins. He’s weighing on the balls of his feet again. “I can buy new ones.”
Jongin feels the smile drain from his face like a startle. Much too quick this time, much too quick.
“Yeah.” He says, hearing something stiff over his voice that makes him wish he hadn’t said anything at all. “Sure you can.” His voice continues, and Jongin wills it to stop.
“I bought.” He says instead. It slips out, without purpose or direction and Jongin finds himself thrown under the bus by it. “Fur.” He finishes lamely.
Kyungsoo holds his gaze with his own, holds it stable and secure. Jongin’s frozen, staring back, clinging to the gaze for dear life. Shredded socks materialize before his inner view, just short pieces of yarn strewn around by sharp claws. The memory of last month is still fresh in his mind. Kyungsoo cannot understand what it was like, Kyungsoo wasn’t there. Having to sit in the corridor and listen to the sounds of striking against the door, over and over, hour after hour, and just hope hope hope it won't give in.
Then come back at dawn and find him peacefully asleep on the floor, curled up into a ball with big pieces of torn leather littering the floor. Jongin knew it. The cuffs were old and fragile, seams thin after just five times, five months. Just one breaking would mean increased strain on the other three, and maybe even canine-Kyungsoo, no matter how far away from regular-Kyungsoo, had mind enough to seize his chance, to start tugging. Systematically.
There were two big craters in the wall, opening wounds of matte plaster against grey paint. Some plaster still stuck to the hooks attached to the ends of the chains tangled at Kyungsoo’s feet and one nightmare scenario after the other dawned thick and heavy in Jongin’s belly. If he had gotten out, if Jongin had been too slow with the rifle, if Jongin for just a short second had thought of the Kyungsoo buried deep inside of that creature, if Jongin had hesitated.
A small, small part of Jongin wanted to shoot him there and then. Put the pipe between his serenely shut eyes and pull the trigger, bury the silver bullet deep into his brain.
But he put the rifle away and kneeled beside him on the floor. Curled hands around his shoulders and shook him carefully. "Hey." He had said. "Hey, wake up." And he's always a little afraid there, for a short moment struck by a ridiculous fear that when Kyungsoo opens his eyes there will be something left of it in them, that he won't yet be himself. Even though Jongin knows it's over, even though the sun is already casting groggy rays of light through the tattered curtains out in the corridor, he's still always afraid he's just a tad too early. It flashes; piercing, nauseating images flashes before his inner view, barely more than swift movements and temporary pain, a sting of panic fading away.
But Kyungsoo opened his eyes, always opens his eyes, blinking and bleary and blessedly black. "Hey." He had said. And opened his mouth to say something more, but then closed it again. "Hey." He just said, once more. "Good morning."
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo says, and Jongin startles. Kyungsoo’s gaze holds him still, gentle but strong.
“Yeah.” Jongin’s voice says. A little more high-pitched than usual.
Kyungsoo’s lips fit together in a brief smile. “Go get them, then.”
Two on each arm, two on each ankle. Four in the wall, four in the floor. Duct tape around every buckle, layer after layer Jongin winds around them, diligent. Kyungsoo winces every time a hair gets caught in the glue and Jongin sucks it all in, cherishes every complaint, prints his brain full with the fact that Kyungsoo can afford to whine, that Kyungsoo lets himself bother with mundane things like minor physical pain.
The buckles are set at the second grommet but Jongin can still fit a finger between the cuff and Kyungsoo’s shin. The fur is smooth against his skin. He realizes he forgot to ask whether it’s real or fake. If an animal was killed to line his accessories. What kind of animal that was.
“Does it still chafe?” He asks, hooking his finger over the edge and tugging a little.
Kyungsoo takes a few steps out over the concrete floor. Jongin stays on his haunches, watching the chains stretch out behind him, hanging tense and straining in the air. He lifts his leg a bit, and the cuff digs into his skin.
“No.” he says, inching back to turn around. “No, it feels good.”
“Ah.” Jongin says. “Good.”
Kyungsoo smiles down at him, reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks.”
Jongin swallows. He can’t even see it coming, has no chance at holding it back; suddenly it washes over him, his brain clamps up in denial and a wave of nausea hits in his belly but it’s too late. He’s back in the corridor, it rings in his ears. Thumps and thuds, claws scraping against metal, and those… Those cries that Jongin can't even think about thinking about, can't even begin to bring up to the surface of his mind. There is nothing, his brain says immediately. I heard nothing. You heard nothing. I don't know what you're talking about. Holds it in, keeps it down, locked up tight in the corners of his mind but when the dams break there is no stopping, it runs on a frantic, defiant loop in his ears, sped up and distorted to a chorus of high-pitched shrieks, layered and unharmonized, like hundreds of fast-forwarded Kyungsoo’s at the same time, and -
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo says. “Jongin.”
“Yeah.” Jongin’s voice says.
Kyungsoo’s hand squeezes at his shoulder. “It’s cold.”
“Yeah.” His lungs draw in a breath. “Yeah. I’ll get it.”
Jongin’s fingers dig into the folded blanket while Kyungsoo makes himself comfortable on the mattress, folding his legs in and arranging the chains. Eight of them, each link thick as his little finger and cold against naked skin. The wool is rough and worn, but warm. Jongin kneels before him to give him a kiss, thinking of sheep. Sheep and wolves.
“Well.” Kyungsoo says.
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
“The banana’s in the backpack if you change your mind.”
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
“Don’t forget the…”
“No.” Jongin says. How the fuck could he. It’s been sitting there in its narrow bag by the door the whole time, reminding him. It’s heavy, so heavy when he grabs the handle and lifts it off the floor. He rests his free hand on the doorknob, counts one beat for every two of his heart.
“So.”
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo says.
“Yeah.” Jongin says.
There is a small twitch over Kyungsoo’s face. He looks terribly small under the blanket, terribly small in the naked cellar. His lips fit together in another brief smile.
“Sorry.”
Jongin swallows. The bagged rifle hits the floor with a muffled thud. “You fucking asshole.”
His knees meet the concrete, skidding a few painful inches but Kyungsoo’s arms are already around his neck, lips hitting his cheek before finding his mouth and he claws at Kyungsoo’s waist, unable to care that it probably hurts.
“Fucking asshole.” He repeats to Kyungsoo’s hair. His hands are tangled in chains and Kyungsoo’s arms are wound so tight, cramped locked around his neck, nose pressing into the crook of his nape and blanket heaped behind him.
“Yeah.” Kyungsoo mumbles against his skin. “I know.” His arms tighten a bit further. “Don’t forget to bolt the door.”
The gun is heavy, so heavy when Jongin puts it down next to the stool down the corridor. The banana peel sprawls limp and sad-looking over the zipper. He rests his arms on the sill of the small window by the low ceiling. Somewhere, the sun is just setting. The alley outside is already dark. Not that it matters. Jongin has seen the full moon before. He doesn’t need to see it again.
Jongin will kill him if he has to. He has promised. But he won’t have to. Not this time.
He might as well eat that sandwich now.