aim, hurl, catch - kaisoo
angst/romance; r
one-shot, wc: 3,136
mentions of sex, profanity, violence.
They don’t talk about what they do, it doesn’t matter what they are or what it’s called. Kyungsoo sneaks into Jongin’s room some nights; pulls his trousers down and sucks him off. It’s routine, it’s nice, it’s also theirs. He’s pretty sure Chanyeol knows - hell, Junmyeon probably knows, too - but no one comments on it.
He can’t remember the exact moment the ball touched the wall for the first time and bounced back to him, getting trapped between nibble fingers and the palm of his hand. What he can remember is the feel of it against his skin and the rush he felt at the plop that followed every collision. He can remember the simplest yet the most important things.
He remembers his name, too - light and breezy with just the right amount of pressure on the vowels - Kyungsoo. His skin was icy cold, flesh soft and creamy; it was a nice contrast to Jongin's darker fingers.
He can’t remember his birthday, though, not that he ever wants to, not that he even needs to.
“So,” breathy voice, a little louder than a mumble. “You’re the resident freak, I’ve heard stories about you. I don’t really believe them, you know? You don’t seem like a socio-”
He never paid much attention to his words as much as his eyes steered from the boy's and focused on a set of full lips. Plump, rosy, irresistibly kissable. Whether he knew it or not, he was a natural tease, his body moving in sensual ways, captivating even to those uninterested.
Kyungsoo was the abandoned masterpiece of a tormented artist, he was sure - how he met him was one of those things Jongin couldn't remember. He was always there, present within reach, convenient.
“Do you ever shut up?” His mother always said he was tactless, graceless when it came down to words. “We’re all freaks here, anyway. I’m the sociopath, you’re the schizophrenic.”
Two peas in a pod.
His mother would have let out a defeated sigh and reclined back in her old reclining chair, glasses resting perfectly on the bridge of her nose as she continued to read the homecare section in one of her magazines.
She wasn’t a great mother either.
*
Aim, hurl, catch.
Aim, hurl, catch.
Aim, hurl, catch.
The ball bounces back again and he can feel tiny drops of sweat starting to drench his shirt. Light grey today. They don’t let you wear light grey often; they prefer white. They say it’s to purify their souls.
He bets twenty bucks to it being bullshit.
“’Sup, Freaky Pants.”
Twenty-three, big eyes, lanky form. He can hear Chanyeol's battered shoes gliding across the asphalt before he reaches the bench, flopping down as he leans back on his elbows. He can't remember the moment the guy first walked through the gates. He can only recall seeing him staring at the wall in his cell whilst flicking his lighter on and off, on and off, on and off.
He guesses it suits him. The pyromania, the love for flames.
"Lookin' gloomy today," he chuckles as he offers Jongin a pack of cigarettes, handing him the lighter once his lips wrap around the filter. "I saw your boy-toy in the halls."
"He's not my boy-toy."
"Boyfriend, then."
"Piss off."
He inhales and takes a moment to savour the stale taste of nicotine on his tongue, rolling off his gums and he revels in the feel of smoke clouding his lungs. A cigarette is a step closer to killing yourself, his father would say. He never paid much attention to the important things back then, busying himself with the hot-headed rebellions of teenage years instead.
"He was talking to Lu Han about peaches again," an exhale, "mentioned your name but I didn't stay long. Lu Han gets squeaky when I'm around and Sehun always tries to save the day, y'know."
He knows.
He never really understood their relationship. Sehun was there because of Lu Han, for Lu Han - he never left, he never said how they got themselves landed in here. He just stands behind Lu Han, slightly to the left, a glassy stare in place as he chews on his bubblegum bar. The thing is, Lu Han doesn't like Chanyeol. Lu Han doesn't like the way Chanyeol just speaks loud enough for everyone to hear, or how he chooses to burst into his shower stall every day.
Sehun doesn't like Chaneyol either. He doesn’t like Chanyeol because he makes Lu Han uncomfortable.
"Why does Kyungsoo talk about peaches so much?"
"He likes them. They remind him of home."
"Apples remind me of my sister's nail polish." He pauses for a moment, his wide eyes fixed on the smoke rushing through Jongin's nostrils. "I've never liked apples."
*
He wonders when Junmyeon started working here. If it was voluntary or obligatory, if he has a nice apartment or a girlfriend for the weekend. He wonders how many times he has had sex, if he likes girls or prefers boys. Most days he watches Junmyeon do his round at lunchtime, making sure everyone has taken their pills. More often than not, he wonders if Junmyeon gets to live in the outside world every day after his shift.
"Kyungsoo was asking for you this morning." He’s used to the man’s idle chatter every time he comes to check on him, supervising him as he swallows his pills, mouth open so Junmyeon can see he’s not cheating. “And Chanyeol said something about you being broody today.”
Jongin snorts derisively as he lights another cigarette, lips puckering as he lets out a string of smoke rings - he gives Junmyeon a dry smile before shrugging his left shoulder nonchalantly. “He always asks for me.”
“Yes,” it’s mumbled, not meant for him to hear. He does anyway. “And quit smoking. You’re going to end up killing yourself with a cancer stick.”
He likes Junmyeon a little less now.
*
It’s nine thirty and he’s fucking Kyungsoo in the far corner of the laundry room; hips rocking back and forth, stuttering in their pace every once in awhile when he feels his orgasm coming close. Kyungsoo’s knuckles have turned white as he grips the edge of the washing machine, bent over, his chest resting on the cool surface. Holding onto every last bit of restrain as the rest of the interns sleep upstairs, the wardens playing a new hand of poker when they think nobody’s looking.
After they’re done he makes sure Kyungsoo’s pyjamas are in place, running a hand through the boy’s sweaty hair, across his hairline - he wants to fuck him again. Keep fucking him all night.
“People don’t like my eyes,” Jongin stills for a moment before he lets out a sigh in the tense silence and continues stroking the back of Kyungsoo’s neck. He likes the boy’s eyes; wide open, round and sincere. Dark caramel pools with a dash of naivety somewhere in them. They glisten under the fluorescent lights and when he smiles they disappear into smooth crescents. “Everyone says they look crazy.”
“Yeah well, people are stupid,” he means for it to sound comforting but Kyungsoo giggles into the collar of his shirt and shakes his head, hand reaching for the pack in Jongin’s pocket. He takes out a cigarette and holds it between his lips, pretty eyes expectant as he stares at Jongin.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” he lights the cigarette. “You’re too pretty to die yet.”
They don’t talk about what they do, it doesn’t matter what they are or what it’s called. Kyungsoo sneaks into Jongin’s room some nights; pulls his trousers down and sucks him off. It’s routine, it’s nice, it’s also theirs. He’s pretty sure Chanyeol knows - hell, Junmyeon probably knows, too - but no one comments on it.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Kyungsoo arrived in July two years ago, head bowed, arms limp at his sides as the pitter-patter of the rain encompassed his every step. Jongin thought he was another depressed loner - like Jongdae. He followed the boy with his eyes as he went upstairs, worn out backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“I started seeing her in my dad’s closet,” he had said the first night he sneaked into Jongin’s room, plump lips swollen. “She begged me to fuck her all the time. She asked me to come in with her; she said it would be better.” He paused and licked his lips. Little fucker. “I never did.”
He'd felt awkward sitting in the dark with the kid whose mouth had been sucking on his cock mere minutes before, talking about the girl in his father’s closet.
“I killed my family,” Jongin shared. “I took my father’s gun from the top drawer and killed them while they slept.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just wanted to feel powerful, I guess.”
Kyungsoo looked at him calmly, eyes calculating as if he were trying to figure him out. His eyes hadn’t widened the way Chanyeol’s had, he didn’t choke the way Lu Han had done when he first heard the story. He didn't call him a sick bastard the way Jongdae did.
He just stared at him and smiled.
*
“I swear Baekhyun if you keep replaying that fucking song, I’m going to chop your balls off and feed them to the dogs,” Minseok yells at the chestnut haired boy laying on the couch - an upbeat pop song blaring though the stereo speakers. “You little sh-”
“Shut the fuck up, both of you.”
“I didn’t even speak!”
“You just did. Now shut up.”
Jongin chuckles as Wufan heaves a sigh in exasperation and shakes his head at the two boys in the game room. He’s the oldest amongst the interns and the tallest (even taller than Chanyeol’s gigantic figure). Hitman extraordinaire. He loves his killing and he loves his money. He used to kill famous faces off the crowds until he got caught and thrown with the rest of them in a loonybin. He killed anyone as long as he was getting paid for the job.
Jongin had killed his family because his father cheated and his mother slept with his best friend. Wufan - alias Kris - killed for the kicks. Loving the rush of seeing someone else’s blood staining the rug and the sense of power it brought him. Jongin likes Wufan better than Kris.
“I swear, it’s like being a single parent around here,” Wufan murmurs and sits down on the chair besides Jongin near the chess table.
“How’s Tao?”
“Good. He says Bai misses me,” he snorts. “I highly doubt it, the little shit always hated me. He’s probably glad I’m locked up.”
Jongin likes hearing about Wufan’s life because he can’t remember his own before he got here. He knows Wufan is in a relationship with a martial arts student, Zitao, and he knows Zitao’s little brother, Bai, hates Wufan. The man doesn’t know his parents, never really bothered to look for them and grew up in an orphanage somewhere in China. He had vowed to make it big if he moved to Korea.
He knows he’s the only one Wufan considers sane enough to talk to.
“There’s a time, Jongin, when you don’t care if someone’s family hates your guts as long as you’re happy with them,” he turns to look at Jongin and smiles. “When you’re deep down in shit and they haven’t left you, you still feel like you’re on top of the world. Even if everyone else sees you as a whack-job.”
He likes Wufan’s smile, it’s warm and reminds him of sunny days in Seoul, back when he didn’t know his father was fucking a college student and his mother was sleeping with Jongin’s best friend every Tuesday night, back when he knew what family meant and he didn’t enjoy pulling the trigger against his father’s forehead. Jongin thinks of Kyungsoo when Wufan keeps rambling about love. He’s not in love with Kyungsoo, but it’s the closest he’s ever come to loving someone.
“You’ll know what I mean when the right time comes.”
He thinks he already does.
*
Yixing mops the floors every morning at six sharp. One of his earphones hanging off as he hums to whatever song he’s listening to this time. He sways his hips from side to side and twirls around carelessly, three steps away from tripping over the bucket. He turns, giving Jongin a sly smile with a dimple - he’s a pretty boy and he knows it. The man’s not his type but he rakes his eyes up and down, taking in the lean muscles poking out from Yixing’s short sleeves. Wavy hair bouncing as he head-bangs to a Gwen Stefani single.
“There are peaches in the kitchen,” Yixing says when he comes to stand in front of him, lowering his head to speak into Jongin’s ear. “You should save him some.”
Jongin fucks Yixing when Kyungsoo doesn’t want to come out of his room on a Wednesday. He fucks him hard, shelves rattling to his thrusts as he seeks his orgasm. And when he comes he doesn’t feel the calm fucking Kyungsoo brings after it’s over. He doesn’t run his fingers through Yixing’s slightly damp strands of hair, doesn’t nose the back of his neck or redo his trousers.
He grips the man’s shoulders, positions himself and starts fucking him again.
*
He doesn’t see Kyungsoo for three weeks.
He doesn’t see Yixing mopping the floors again.
The next time he sees Kyungsoo he’s sitting on his usual bench in the courtyard, Chanyeol sloppily sipping on his milkshake. The boy sits with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up, chin tucked between them, and Yixing had been found sprawled at the bottom of the stairs three weeks before.
“He scratched one of the nurses,” Junmyeon tells him during his first round. “He said the voices were telling him to do it,” Jongin opens his mouth and lifts his tongue. “They increased his dosage,” he adds on his way to the next patient.
That night he feels Kyungsoo’s tongue on the underside of his cock and his lips wrapping around the head as he sucks; obscene sounds ripping past his throat with every suction. He hears him moan when Kyungsoo sits on his lap, Jongin’s cock sliding into him easily. He grips the boy’s hips and pushes upward as Kyungsoo wraps lanky arms around his neck. He has missed this, the tight heat contracting around him and trapping him.
“I didn’t wanna do it,” he admits when they lay spent on Jongin’s bed, sheets tangled at their feet. “But the voices made me, said I had to do it for you.”
He misses Kyungsoo’s smile and the sugary taste of his tongue.
*
“We’re here because we’re different from the rest of the world, we like crashing and burning more than we like living. We find pleasure in killing, fucking, tainting. We don’t go by the rules and it’s better to have us locked up than causing trouble outside. We’re freaks, man, and we love it.”
Jongin wonders if any of them will ever get out of this place. If Sehun’s brother will come for him one day and take him home, if Lu Han’s mum will ever visit his son; he wonders if Kyungsoo will stop hearing voices and seeing girls in closets one day. If Jongdae will ever be happy and forget the scars that run along his wrists, if maybe Chanyeol’s love for fire will extinguish and he’ll elope with Baekhyun someday. He wonders if Minseok’s aunt is waiting for him at home, or if Taemin will ever come to visit Jongin and apologise for fucking his mother.
He wonders if Yixing’s first love misses him.
“If you ever want to get out of here I need you to cooperate with me, Jongin,” Mr. Young says, fingers laced on top of the fancy desk. “It’s better for all of us.”
Jongin likes the rug on the floor, it covers the imperfections of a wooden flooring. He guesses it’s an Indian pattern printed on it, swirls of dark colours clashing. He doesn’t like the walls covered in high priced paintings and that ridiculously tacky self-portrait looking back at him. He doesn’t like Mr. Young that much if he’s being honest.
“Why did you attack the nurse, Jongin?”
“I didn’t attack her.”
“You took the needle and stabbed her in the arm. That’s attacking.”
“She was holding him down and forcing the shot on him!” He finally snaps, patience running short, the first sparks of annoyance short-circuiting through him as his hands clutch around his knees. “If anything, she was being unprofessional.”
“Kyungsoo was pushing back, she was doing her job. You’re not his mother, Jongin. You won’t get any better if you go around harming the staff or your fellow interns,” Mr. Young sighs.
“I’ll try to snap her neck next time, then.”
He makes it back to the ward before dinnertime and Chanyeol flails his arms to get his attention, beckoning him to sit with the taller boy at the cafeteria. He listens to Minseok and Baekhyun bickering, Wufan’s sighs and Sehun scowling when he catches Chaneyol staring at Lu Han a little bit too long.
“I can’t believe the asshole still has that self-portrait,” is all he says to them.
“Fucking bastard,” Jongdae replies.
They go back to eating in silence.
*
He can’t remember the year Kyungsoo was born or where he’s from. He can’t remember the name of his medication or what the girl in his father’s closet looked like. He can’t remember the date Kyungsoo came here. All he can remember is the way he exhales in the dark after they fuck, how his thighs quiver after he rides his orgasm and collapses. He can remember the moles scattered all over his back as Jongin traces them with the tip of his tongue. He can remember the feel of the boy’s hand in his and the first time he kissed him.
Jongin allows himself a moment to imagine how they’d be in the outside world and realises, although with surprise, that he’d rather have Kyungsoo inside these four walls and the courtyard.
He still hates Mr. Young’s office and the man’s self-portrait, he still chuckles every time Wufan scolds Minseok and Baekhyun for making a riot - asking him about Zitao whenever he can; Sehun still glares at Chanyeol and Lu Han still squirms in the loud boy’s presence. Junmyeon keeps doing his rounds in the cafeteria and stops for idle chatter every once and again. Jongdae still thinks he’s a sick bastard and he still imagines Yixing sweeping the floors as he bobs his head to the music.
He hasn’t quit smoking yet, he doesn’t plan to. Kyungsoo hasn’t stopped sneaking into his room at night and his hands never cease to tangle in the boy’s hair after they’re done and sated.
He hurls the ball, watches as it hits the wall and bounces back to his hand.
a/n: I had been ignoring this one-shot for the longest time ever and finally decided to wrap it up and finish it.
one-shot, wc: 3,136
mentions of sex, profanity, violence.
They don’t talk about what they do, it doesn’t matter what they are or what it’s called. Kyungsoo sneaks into Jongin’s room some nights; pulls his trousers down and sucks him off. It’s routine, it’s nice, it’s also theirs. He’s pretty sure Chanyeol knows - hell, Junmyeon probably knows, too - but no one comments on it.
He can’t remember the exact moment the ball touched the wall for the first time and bounced back to him, getting trapped between nibble fingers and the palm of his hand. What he can remember is the feel of it against his skin and the rush he felt at the plop that followed every collision. He can remember the simplest yet the most important things.
He remembers his name, too - light and breezy with just the right amount of pressure on the vowels - Kyungsoo. His skin was icy cold, flesh soft and creamy; it was a nice contrast to Jongin's darker fingers.
He can’t remember his birthday, though, not that he ever wants to, not that he even needs to.
“So,” breathy voice, a little louder than a mumble. “You’re the resident freak, I’ve heard stories about you. I don’t really believe them, you know? You don’t seem like a socio-”
He never paid much attention to his words as much as his eyes steered from the boy's and focused on a set of full lips. Plump, rosy, irresistibly kissable. Whether he knew it or not, he was a natural tease, his body moving in sensual ways, captivating even to those uninterested.
Kyungsoo was the abandoned masterpiece of a tormented artist, he was sure - how he met him was one of those things Jongin couldn't remember. He was always there, present within reach, convenient.
“Do you ever shut up?” His mother always said he was tactless, graceless when it came down to words. “We’re all freaks here, anyway. I’m the sociopath, you’re the schizophrenic.”
Two peas in a pod.
His mother would have let out a defeated sigh and reclined back in her old reclining chair, glasses resting perfectly on the bridge of her nose as she continued to read the homecare section in one of her magazines.
She wasn’t a great mother either.
*
Aim, hurl, catch.
Aim, hurl, catch.
Aim, hurl, catch.
The ball bounces back again and he can feel tiny drops of sweat starting to drench his shirt. Light grey today. They don’t let you wear light grey often; they prefer white. They say it’s to purify their souls.
He bets twenty bucks to it being bullshit.
“’Sup, Freaky Pants.”
Twenty-three, big eyes, lanky form. He can hear Chanyeol's battered shoes gliding across the asphalt before he reaches the bench, flopping down as he leans back on his elbows. He can't remember the moment the guy first walked through the gates. He can only recall seeing him staring at the wall in his cell whilst flicking his lighter on and off, on and off, on and off.
He guesses it suits him. The pyromania, the love for flames.
"Lookin' gloomy today," he chuckles as he offers Jongin a pack of cigarettes, handing him the lighter once his lips wrap around the filter. "I saw your boy-toy in the halls."
"He's not my boy-toy."
"Boyfriend, then."
"Piss off."
He inhales and takes a moment to savour the stale taste of nicotine on his tongue, rolling off his gums and he revels in the feel of smoke clouding his lungs. A cigarette is a step closer to killing yourself, his father would say. He never paid much attention to the important things back then, busying himself with the hot-headed rebellions of teenage years instead.
"He was talking to Lu Han about peaches again," an exhale, "mentioned your name but I didn't stay long. Lu Han gets squeaky when I'm around and Sehun always tries to save the day, y'know."
He knows.
He never really understood their relationship. Sehun was there because of Lu Han, for Lu Han - he never left, he never said how they got themselves landed in here. He just stands behind Lu Han, slightly to the left, a glassy stare in place as he chews on his bubblegum bar. The thing is, Lu Han doesn't like Chanyeol. Lu Han doesn't like the way Chanyeol just speaks loud enough for everyone to hear, or how he chooses to burst into his shower stall every day.
Sehun doesn't like Chaneyol either. He doesn’t like Chanyeol because he makes Lu Han uncomfortable.
"Why does Kyungsoo talk about peaches so much?"
"He likes them. They remind him of home."
"Apples remind me of my sister's nail polish." He pauses for a moment, his wide eyes fixed on the smoke rushing through Jongin's nostrils. "I've never liked apples."
*
He wonders when Junmyeon started working here. If it was voluntary or obligatory, if he has a nice apartment or a girlfriend for the weekend. He wonders how many times he has had sex, if he likes girls or prefers boys. Most days he watches Junmyeon do his round at lunchtime, making sure everyone has taken their pills. More often than not, he wonders if Junmyeon gets to live in the outside world every day after his shift.
"Kyungsoo was asking for you this morning." He’s used to the man’s idle chatter every time he comes to check on him, supervising him as he swallows his pills, mouth open so Junmyeon can see he’s not cheating. “And Chanyeol said something about you being broody today.”
Jongin snorts derisively as he lights another cigarette, lips puckering as he lets out a string of smoke rings - he gives Junmyeon a dry smile before shrugging his left shoulder nonchalantly. “He always asks for me.”
“Yes,” it’s mumbled, not meant for him to hear. He does anyway. “And quit smoking. You’re going to end up killing yourself with a cancer stick.”
He likes Junmyeon a little less now.
*
It’s nine thirty and he’s fucking Kyungsoo in the far corner of the laundry room; hips rocking back and forth, stuttering in their pace every once in awhile when he feels his orgasm coming close. Kyungsoo’s knuckles have turned white as he grips the edge of the washing machine, bent over, his chest resting on the cool surface. Holding onto every last bit of restrain as the rest of the interns sleep upstairs, the wardens playing a new hand of poker when they think nobody’s looking.
After they’re done he makes sure Kyungsoo’s pyjamas are in place, running a hand through the boy’s sweaty hair, across his hairline - he wants to fuck him again. Keep fucking him all night.
“People don’t like my eyes,” Jongin stills for a moment before he lets out a sigh in the tense silence and continues stroking the back of Kyungsoo’s neck. He likes the boy’s eyes; wide open, round and sincere. Dark caramel pools with a dash of naivety somewhere in them. They glisten under the fluorescent lights and when he smiles they disappear into smooth crescents. “Everyone says they look crazy.”
“Yeah well, people are stupid,” he means for it to sound comforting but Kyungsoo giggles into the collar of his shirt and shakes his head, hand reaching for the pack in Jongin’s pocket. He takes out a cigarette and holds it between his lips, pretty eyes expectant as he stares at Jongin.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” he lights the cigarette. “You’re too pretty to die yet.”
They don’t talk about what they do, it doesn’t matter what they are or what it’s called. Kyungsoo sneaks into Jongin’s room some nights; pulls his trousers down and sucks him off. It’s routine, it’s nice, it’s also theirs. He’s pretty sure Chanyeol knows - hell, Junmyeon probably knows, too - but no one comments on it.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Kyungsoo arrived in July two years ago, head bowed, arms limp at his sides as the pitter-patter of the rain encompassed his every step. Jongin thought he was another depressed loner - like Jongdae. He followed the boy with his eyes as he went upstairs, worn out backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“I started seeing her in my dad’s closet,” he had said the first night he sneaked into Jongin’s room, plump lips swollen. “She begged me to fuck her all the time. She asked me to come in with her; she said it would be better.” He paused and licked his lips. Little fucker. “I never did.”
He'd felt awkward sitting in the dark with the kid whose mouth had been sucking on his cock mere minutes before, talking about the girl in his father’s closet.
“I killed my family,” Jongin shared. “I took my father’s gun from the top drawer and killed them while they slept.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just wanted to feel powerful, I guess.”
Kyungsoo looked at him calmly, eyes calculating as if he were trying to figure him out. His eyes hadn’t widened the way Chanyeol’s had, he didn’t choke the way Lu Han had done when he first heard the story. He didn't call him a sick bastard the way Jongdae did.
He just stared at him and smiled.
*
“I swear Baekhyun if you keep replaying that fucking song, I’m going to chop your balls off and feed them to the dogs,” Minseok yells at the chestnut haired boy laying on the couch - an upbeat pop song blaring though the stereo speakers. “You little sh-”
“Shut the fuck up, both of you.”
“I didn’t even speak!”
“You just did. Now shut up.”
Jongin chuckles as Wufan heaves a sigh in exasperation and shakes his head at the two boys in the game room. He’s the oldest amongst the interns and the tallest (even taller than Chanyeol’s gigantic figure). Hitman extraordinaire. He loves his killing and he loves his money. He used to kill famous faces off the crowds until he got caught and thrown with the rest of them in a loonybin. He killed anyone as long as he was getting paid for the job.
Jongin had killed his family because his father cheated and his mother slept with his best friend. Wufan - alias Kris - killed for the kicks. Loving the rush of seeing someone else’s blood staining the rug and the sense of power it brought him. Jongin likes Wufan better than Kris.
“I swear, it’s like being a single parent around here,” Wufan murmurs and sits down on the chair besides Jongin near the chess table.
“How’s Tao?”
“Good. He says Bai misses me,” he snorts. “I highly doubt it, the little shit always hated me. He’s probably glad I’m locked up.”
Jongin likes hearing about Wufan’s life because he can’t remember his own before he got here. He knows Wufan is in a relationship with a martial arts student, Zitao, and he knows Zitao’s little brother, Bai, hates Wufan. The man doesn’t know his parents, never really bothered to look for them and grew up in an orphanage somewhere in China. He had vowed to make it big if he moved to Korea.
He knows he’s the only one Wufan considers sane enough to talk to.
“There’s a time, Jongin, when you don’t care if someone’s family hates your guts as long as you’re happy with them,” he turns to look at Jongin and smiles. “When you’re deep down in shit and they haven’t left you, you still feel like you’re on top of the world. Even if everyone else sees you as a whack-job.”
He likes Wufan’s smile, it’s warm and reminds him of sunny days in Seoul, back when he didn’t know his father was fucking a college student and his mother was sleeping with Jongin’s best friend every Tuesday night, back when he knew what family meant and he didn’t enjoy pulling the trigger against his father’s forehead. Jongin thinks of Kyungsoo when Wufan keeps rambling about love. He’s not in love with Kyungsoo, but it’s the closest he’s ever come to loving someone.
“You’ll know what I mean when the right time comes.”
He thinks he already does.
*
Yixing mops the floors every morning at six sharp. One of his earphones hanging off as he hums to whatever song he’s listening to this time. He sways his hips from side to side and twirls around carelessly, three steps away from tripping over the bucket. He turns, giving Jongin a sly smile with a dimple - he’s a pretty boy and he knows it. The man’s not his type but he rakes his eyes up and down, taking in the lean muscles poking out from Yixing’s short sleeves. Wavy hair bouncing as he head-bangs to a Gwen Stefani single.
“There are peaches in the kitchen,” Yixing says when he comes to stand in front of him, lowering his head to speak into Jongin’s ear. “You should save him some.”
Jongin fucks Yixing when Kyungsoo doesn’t want to come out of his room on a Wednesday. He fucks him hard, shelves rattling to his thrusts as he seeks his orgasm. And when he comes he doesn’t feel the calm fucking Kyungsoo brings after it’s over. He doesn’t run his fingers through Yixing’s slightly damp strands of hair, doesn’t nose the back of his neck or redo his trousers.
He grips the man’s shoulders, positions himself and starts fucking him again.
*
He doesn’t see Kyungsoo for three weeks.
He doesn’t see Yixing mopping the floors again.
The next time he sees Kyungsoo he’s sitting on his usual bench in the courtyard, Chanyeol sloppily sipping on his milkshake. The boy sits with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up, chin tucked between them, and Yixing had been found sprawled at the bottom of the stairs three weeks before.
“He scratched one of the nurses,” Junmyeon tells him during his first round. “He said the voices were telling him to do it,” Jongin opens his mouth and lifts his tongue. “They increased his dosage,” he adds on his way to the next patient.
That night he feels Kyungsoo’s tongue on the underside of his cock and his lips wrapping around the head as he sucks; obscene sounds ripping past his throat with every suction. He hears him moan when Kyungsoo sits on his lap, Jongin’s cock sliding into him easily. He grips the boy’s hips and pushes upward as Kyungsoo wraps lanky arms around his neck. He has missed this, the tight heat contracting around him and trapping him.
“I didn’t wanna do it,” he admits when they lay spent on Jongin’s bed, sheets tangled at their feet. “But the voices made me, said I had to do it for you.”
He misses Kyungsoo’s smile and the sugary taste of his tongue.
*
“We’re here because we’re different from the rest of the world, we like crashing and burning more than we like living. We find pleasure in killing, fucking, tainting. We don’t go by the rules and it’s better to have us locked up than causing trouble outside. We’re freaks, man, and we love it.”
Jongin wonders if any of them will ever get out of this place. If Sehun’s brother will come for him one day and take him home, if Lu Han’s mum will ever visit his son; he wonders if Kyungsoo will stop hearing voices and seeing girls in closets one day. If Jongdae will ever be happy and forget the scars that run along his wrists, if maybe Chanyeol’s love for fire will extinguish and he’ll elope with Baekhyun someday. He wonders if Minseok’s aunt is waiting for him at home, or if Taemin will ever come to visit Jongin and apologise for fucking his mother.
He wonders if Yixing’s first love misses him.
“If you ever want to get out of here I need you to cooperate with me, Jongin,” Mr. Young says, fingers laced on top of the fancy desk. “It’s better for all of us.”
Jongin likes the rug on the floor, it covers the imperfections of a wooden flooring. He guesses it’s an Indian pattern printed on it, swirls of dark colours clashing. He doesn’t like the walls covered in high priced paintings and that ridiculously tacky self-portrait looking back at him. He doesn’t like Mr. Young that much if he’s being honest.
“Why did you attack the nurse, Jongin?”
“I didn’t attack her.”
“You took the needle and stabbed her in the arm. That’s attacking.”
“She was holding him down and forcing the shot on him!” He finally snaps, patience running short, the first sparks of annoyance short-circuiting through him as his hands clutch around his knees. “If anything, she was being unprofessional.”
“Kyungsoo was pushing back, she was doing her job. You’re not his mother, Jongin. You won’t get any better if you go around harming the staff or your fellow interns,” Mr. Young sighs.
“I’ll try to snap her neck next time, then.”
He makes it back to the ward before dinnertime and Chanyeol flails his arms to get his attention, beckoning him to sit with the taller boy at the cafeteria. He listens to Minseok and Baekhyun bickering, Wufan’s sighs and Sehun scowling when he catches Chaneyol staring at Lu Han a little bit too long.
“I can’t believe the asshole still has that self-portrait,” is all he says to them.
“Fucking bastard,” Jongdae replies.
They go back to eating in silence.
*
He can’t remember the year Kyungsoo was born or where he’s from. He can’t remember the name of his medication or what the girl in his father’s closet looked like. He can’t remember the date Kyungsoo came here. All he can remember is the way he exhales in the dark after they fuck, how his thighs quiver after he rides his orgasm and collapses. He can remember the moles scattered all over his back as Jongin traces them with the tip of his tongue. He can remember the feel of the boy’s hand in his and the first time he kissed him.
Jongin allows himself a moment to imagine how they’d be in the outside world and realises, although with surprise, that he’d rather have Kyungsoo inside these four walls and the courtyard.
He still hates Mr. Young’s office and the man’s self-portrait, he still chuckles every time Wufan scolds Minseok and Baekhyun for making a riot - asking him about Zitao whenever he can; Sehun still glares at Chanyeol and Lu Han still squirms in the loud boy’s presence. Junmyeon keeps doing his rounds in the cafeteria and stops for idle chatter every once and again. Jongdae still thinks he’s a sick bastard and he still imagines Yixing sweeping the floors as he bobs his head to the music.
He hasn’t quit smoking yet, he doesn’t plan to. Kyungsoo hasn’t stopped sneaking into his room at night and his hands never cease to tangle in the boy’s hair after they’re done and sated.
He hurls the ball, watches as it hits the wall and bounces back to his hand.
a/n: I had been ignoring this one-shot for the longest time ever and finally decided to wrap it up and finish it.