THREE


The discordance of petrified screams and infuriated yelling makes Jaehyun’s ears ring, every shrill sound starting to blur together whilst the scenes unfolding in front of him begin to move in slow-motion. His head spins wildly and his heartbeat races at an uneven pace. He can feel the fear of those around him oozing rapidly into his own body, flowing through his blood and making him shiver so violently that one would guess that the sun and its warm rays had suddenly vanished, leaving him stranded in a frozen, desolate version of this vivid city. Any positive judgments that had been lingering have now entirely evaporated and he cannot think clearly. There is an unconscious man resting against him – a man whose face shines brighter than the ball released on New Year’s Eve – and there are people dropping like flies in every direction, forming a barricade of limbs around him, making him feel like a small child who has lost his mother in the supermarket. He feels so disoriented and perplexed, and yet he knows all too well that he must escape before he becomes caught up in this horrid mess. But he cannot leave this man here unattended.

Without hesitation, Jaehyun’s fingers dial a familiar number. He mutters under his breath as the ringing commences, praying that his call will be received, that his desperate cry for help will be heard. Every second that passes makes his stomach knot more intensely.

“Hello? Jaehyun? Why are you calling me? You know I have class on Wednesdays.”

Tears prickle Jaehyun’s pretty hazel eyes as relief flushes the frustration out of his system. “Doyoung, you know I’d never distract you from your classwork unless it was an emergency. And trust me, this is a serious emergency.”

“Are you hurt?” Doyoung’s tone rises with panic and in spite of the strident noise in Times Square, the sound of him hastily packing up his gear crackles through the phone. “Where are you? Do I need to bring anything?”

“Do you remember that old retro theatre we used to visit together? Just meet me there as soon as possible, and prepare yourself for some manual lifting.”

The moment Doyoung agrees – even though his voice is tainted with genuine scepticism – Jaehyun ends the call and musters up the strength to lift the near lifeless man over his shoulder. His legs almost give out beneath him and he grunts in pain as the man’s sharp ribs harshly poke into him, but he battles against his weaknesses and pushes on. Forcing himself to become oblivious to the injustices occurring, he knocks and shoves people to form a slight path, and sluggishly slumps towards an open space. Each step becomes more difficult, the air around him starts to seem thinner and thinner, and sweat tickles his skin once more, like a thousand tiny critters running up and down along his spine. Yet he does not let anything get in his way and with miraculous willpower, makes his way to the theatre, to where his rescuer awaits.

When Doyoung sees Jaehyun approaching lethargically in the distance, his bag slips from his grasp and his feet lurch into motion. He sprints frantically with arms outstretched, ready to catch his exhausted friend and the unnamed stranger draped awkwardly over him. “You look absolutely terrible,” he exclaims. As the handsome figure falls into his embrace, he lets out a strident gasp and frowns, puzzled.

Jaehyun tumbles to his knees, palms pressed firmly against the pavement as he attempts to regain his breath. Inhaling hurts far more than it should and his vision has been outrageously obscured by a constant stream of perspiration. He holds a single finger up just to let Doyoung know that he needs a minute to regain his senses. “I think,” he starts, breathing in deeply, “I think that I’ve found a lead for my article.”

“What, this guy?” Doyoung questions incredulously, legs wobbling as he gently lowers the man to the ground. The handsome stranger’s whitish hair slips away from his face to reveal gorgeously thick, lengthy lashes.

“I don’t know if he’s the person who has been arranging all of the protests or not, but he certainly played an important part in today’s event. Everyone seemed to follow him as though he was the leader,” Jaehyun huffs, crawling over. As he peers down to examine the man’s faultless features, a red tint creeps into his cheeks. “There was another guy standing next to him, but once chaos broke out, I lost sight of him.”

Doyoung purses his lips, eyebrows knitting together and forehead creasing. He observes Jaehyun’s expression carefully. “We should probably turn him into the police.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in. One moment Jaehyun is staring intently at the chiselled jaw of the protest planner, and the next he is on his feet, glaring angrily at Doyoung. “I’ve found someone who could help me with my article and you think we should turn him in? You can’t be serious.”

“I know it might sound ridiculous, but this guy has clearly caused some serious trouble in the city these past few days and he should be punished for it. I don’t think your article is worth the risk of getting involved with him.”

“If I don’t have this piece written perfectly by the time Tuesday’s edition is set to be printed, I will lose any chance I have at getting a job at The New York Times,” Jaehyun says through gritted teeth. His fingers curl into tight fists.

Doyoung is incredibly clever and can effortlessly sense changes in his friend’s demeanour. His ability to read a situation and predict the outcome is one of the reasons he is so impeccably suited to the world of law, and is also the way in which he so smoothly avoids conflicts. With his aptitude for negotiation, he eases Jaehyun into a sense of composure. “All right, I understand,” he replies softly, hands held up to declare defeat, “I’ll let you decide what we do first, but once you’re finished questioning him, you need to let me call the police.”

“Deal,” Jaehyun says, crossing his arms.

The stranger moans and rolls onto his side. Doyoung sighs and stoops to scoop him up, grunting. “You owe me for this.”

For the first time, the library is not a place of serenity. Though there are very few people sitting at the desks studying independently – and there are even fewer spread throughout the many elongated aisles – there are two students creating quite a ruckus. Their voices reverberate through the building, like a dissonance that slices the silence into tiny pieces.

Ten – his adorable features scrunched in exasperation in the same way they have been these past few days - mumbles a few obscenities, his tone almost venomous. His eyes are adorned with a horrible dullness and his skin, which is usually lacking in blemishes, has suffered from a serious outbreak of tiny red pimples. Even his posture is terrible; his shoulders slump poorly and his legs bend a little, as though ready to crumble like a tower of sand being blown by the wind. Every part of his appearance alludes to severe exhaustion, and the words spilling from his partially cracked lips are full of resentment, and just a dash of fear.

Leaning against one of the bookshelves – acting just a little more placid – is Yuta, whose lips are twisted as he contemplates what he is hearing. It evident that he is feeling somewhat uncomfortable, because his fingertips occasionally tug at his shirt and he moves his feet constantly, as though jogging on the spot. However, this is not prominent through the way in which he responds. His voice is steady and though stress has induced heartache, he tries to be reasonable and calm.

“I’m telling you, I really don’t know where he is. One moment he was beside me and the next he wasn’t. I tried to search for him, but the police were chasing us all out of there. I didn’t want to risk getting caught.”

Ten rolls his eyes dramatically and stomps his foot. The vibration is subtle, but the message it sends is clear. “I told you it was a bad idea,” he says, vein popping out on his forehead, “but you didn’t listen, and now Taeyong is missing. He could be hurt!”

“I know that, but now isn’t the time for you to be lecturing me. We need to head back out and we need to keep looking for him,” Yuta replies. He yanks his hat off, scratches his scalp in irritation, and then jerks it back on. His hair is frizzy from sweat and humidity, so it feels snug.

“And what if we don’t find him?” Ten quizzes, eyebrow cocked.

Yuta had internally guessed that this would be the next question, but he does not have a confident answer to provide. He opens his mouth and then closes it once more almost immediately. The only sound he emits is a low hum.

Taeil, who has been observing the situation for quite some time now, paces down the aisle. With his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes cast down at his feet, he approaches the two dancers. “Um, I might be able to help you guys out.”

Ten simply stares in bewilderment and Yuta seems too preoccupied to register the comment, so Taeil continues. “My friend was at the protest today and apparently one of the people involved passed out, so he’s taking care of them,” he explains, annunciating each word perfectly, “I thought that it could be possible that the person he’s caring for, and the person you’re talking about, are one and the same.”

The frustration etched in Ten’s face rapidly disappears and he lurches forward, grabbing the librarian’s shoulders and leaning in, their noses almost touching. “You’re my hero!”

A mild breeze flutters by, jostling a strand of glistening silver hair. Closed eyes twitch and pretty pink lips become damp as a tongue darts out, sliding over them. Toes wriggle slightly as they notice their exposure to the chilled air, attempting to seek warmth from each movement. A muscular arm throbs and itches, unaccustomed to the strange scratchy material wrapped tightly around it. Every sense is reawakening and noticing that something seems oddly out of place.

Taeyong springs to his feet, breathing fast and pupils darting madly. He does not recognise his surroundings; the paperwork is far too organised, the walls are frighteningly bare and the floorboards are splendidly clean, absent of spills and unidentifiable stains. Unlike his own room, which is inadequately ventilated, this room has wonderfully heated floorboards and there is an air-conditioner installed on the wall, its settings designed to maintain an amazingly comfortable temperature throughout the entire year. The window is strangely beautiful, the panes of glass each in unique colours that reflect the sunlight, patterns reminiscent of those found in a church. And, it has been left ajar.

By the time Taeyong realises just how high up he is, half of his body is already dangling loosely out the window. His position is so outrageously awkward that he cannot figure out how to turn around and he is left hanging there, flopping about as though he is a fish out of water. He grunts and fidgets, legs kicking childishly behind him like useless propellers, until he discovers that even the smallest of actions has the ability to push him closer to a terrifying painful death. So, he lets his limbs fall limp, and settles on trying to enjoy the refreshing wind whilst waiting for someone to rescue him. He laughs, disbelief overwhelming him. Though he is a dancer – a magnificent one at that – his daily choices do not reflect the gracefulness of his techniques.

“I know that jumping out the window is pretty thrilling, but my favourite way to leave the house is through the front door. It’s a lot safer, and it definitely results in less broken bones.”

Taeyong whimpers and tries once more to retrace his steps. This only leads to him slipping, hands darting outwards to grip the windowsill. He feels tepid fingers grab his ankles. “There are a lot of sarcastic things I could respond with, but I’d rather feel the ground beneath my feet again before I say any of them.”

There is a sharp grunt and then he is flailing backwards, toppling onto something solid and warm. His body becomes rigid and he does not move. The person beneath him also remains still, their chest rising and falling at a soothing pace, making Taeyong feel contented and somewhat drowsy. The comfort of another body pressed against his own is something he has not been able to enjoy in what seems like years, so he wants to relish the moment, no matter how strange it might be.

“You’re kind of heavy,” the person says. Their voice falters as they try to swallow their laughter.

Taeyong blinks, and suddenly images of the past few minutes flash by in front of him. He is struck with a realisation so powerful that it forces him to stand. “Two things,” he utters anxiously, squinting as he observes the young man sprawled out beneath him, “firstly, thank you. Secondly, who the hell are you?”

“Firstly, you’re welcome,” is the response. The stranger gets up with a soft grumble and as he straightens out, Taeyong notices how intimidating his height and build are. The dancer takes a few steps backwards and lifts his chin, maintaining eye contact to assert dominance and to contradict his muggy palms and trembling appendages. “Secondly, I’m Jaehyun. You don’t know me and I don’t know you, but you fainted and I didn’t want to leave you alone in case something was extremely wrong…”

“So you brought me to your house?”

“I didn’t know where else to take you. You didn’t have a phone or wallet on you.”

Taeyong relaxes a little as his gaze glides over the astoundingly attractive features of the young figure standing in front of him. His eyes cut laps, circling and twisting, wanting to view every curve of Jaehyun’s sturdy body and charmingly sculpted face. The aspect he becomes speedily obsessed with is the pair of robust arms protruding from a slack white singlet. “Did you uh, use those arms to carry– I mean, did you carry me here all by yourself?”

“Not exactly,” Jaehyun answers abruptly.

“I helped.”

Cocking his head, Taeyong’s eyes move across the room until they land upon the lean figure in the doorway. Yet again, the unfamiliar man is taller than Taeyong, and contrasting against most people Taeyong associates himself with, he is dressed sensibly and has his natural brown hair combed backwards off his forehead. His almond shaped eyes – embellished with irises almost as dark as his pupils and a large amount of white – are scrutinising and swimming with caution, an emotion directed at Taeyong whose thoughts have become doubly disorganised.

“I’m Doyoung,” the man states tersely. His neck is long and pretty, and his shoulders are unbelievably broad. Taeyong gulps. “I’m the guy who did a good majority of the carrying.”

Eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, Taeyong bows politely. “Thank you.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not the one who wants you here,” Doyoung says.

Jaehyun sighs. “Don’t mind him. He’s a law student, so he’s bound to think that anyone involved in a protest is dangerous.”

“You were at the protest?”

“Of course. How else did you think I came across you?”

“Sorry, I didn’t pick you for the type of person to attend an event like that. Everything about you seems too…governable,” Taeyong apologises. He masks his honesty with a short, nervous giggle. The two men watching him do not seem to find anything humorous. Their stares become more narrow.

Doyoung lets out a spontaneous snort and strolls out of the room, only after giving his friend a very peculiar look. Taeyong notices, but decides not to make a big deal out of it. “Who I am inside doesn’t match my appearance, admittedly,” Jaehyun mutters, before heightening his tone and stretching his smile, “and even in spite of Doyoung’s distaste for anything rebellious, I truly admire you. Your speech was spectacular and the way the crowd reacted to your words was one of the most marvellous things I have ever had the honour of witnessing.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Taeyong is so touched by such a compliment that he loses the capability of distinguishing the truth from the lies. Behind Jaehyun’s wide grin and friendly approach is a hidden intention, one that could have so much influence it could make or break the white-haired dancer.