He doesn’t deserve that bastard.
The nights he comes home much too late. His voice when it’s dry and lagged from too much time spent with someone else. The curses he spits, the accusations that echo against the stark white ceiling and utterly blank walls. Every last glass he shatters on the granite countertops, every wayward kick or punch he throws.
He doesn’t deserve them.
There’s no explanation.

The outsider can only watch from behind a Plexiglas wall, pleading for recognition and begging to be heard, shouting advice and banging against his barrier. Silence is forced upon him.

The bruises aren’t hidden well enough when he visits. Seunghyun was never a makeup artist, though he seems to try. His cut lip only stands out further against the blank canvas his face becomes whenever Jiyong shows up.
The cabinets get emptier. Glass is replaced by plastic. Paper substituted for china. Jiyong has to ask twice  where the knives are before Seunghyun hears, finally standing up and shuffling off to somewhere else, coming back with the utensils Jiyong needs to cook him a proper meal.
The mirror above the bathroom sink is cracked.

That bastard leaves his phone on the table one day. Seunghyun watches as it buzzes persistently, not daring to touch it. The number is unknown but the voicemail notifications show up every time there’s a gap. He gets up and leaves the kitchen so he’s not even slightly tempted to pick it up.

Most of the time Jiyong acts like he doesn’t notice anything is different. It’s hard enough for Seunghyun to talk about anything, hard enough to distract him enough with Jiyong’s own anecdotes to get him to eat. The weakening man tries desperately to get him to smile just once, just twice, watching just how long the expression lingers before it fades and is lost completely. Notes what he’d said that resulted in that reaction, stores it for possible future use.

The outsider just worries, his hands pressed against the partition, leaving faint fingerprints on the glass that vanish without a trace.

Other times Jiyong can’t stand not knowing. He asks Seunghyun what’s happened to his arm, why he doesn’t laugh at his favorite joke anymore. Isn’t he happy to see his best friend?
He’s met with casual tones, attempts to diffuse the tension in the air, promises Jiyong knows are empty by the way Seunghyun’s dark eyes never confirm his words by meeting his own.
Seunghyun is anxious and jumpy. If that bastard shows up, it’ll ruin his time with Jiyong; he might never get to see him again. Seunghyun learns to accept that every time Jiyong calls or texts, it might be the last he hears from him. Every time he closes the door to his apartment when Jiyong leaves, he understands that he may never get to see his agonizingly open and understanding face again.

The outsider screams every time Seunghyun is left alone, pounding desperately at not knowing, not having any control. He doesn’t feel nearly as helpless as he should, but he doesn’t have time to care about himself anymore.

That bastard comes home laughing, and Seunghyun thinks everything is fine, despite his eyes being hungry, his voice still half a beat behind his tongue. He offers Seunghyun dinner because he’s a master cook tonight, snatching what’s left of the vegetables and a cutting board, yanking open the knife drawer for a sharper utensil.
Seunghyun isn’t fast enough. The drawer is empty, and butter knives just won’t cut raw carrots.

He doesn’t let Jiyong come in the door the next day, too paranoid to let him see what had happened and too terrified of what might happen if he came home early.

He doesn’t deserve that bastard.
The nights sleeping alone. The mornings waking up in the morning on the couch. The threats. The empty bottles. Each small but deep cut. Every minute but dark bruise. Each in a well-thought-out, easily hidden location.
He doesn’t deserve them.

Jiyong’s eyebrows knit together when he hugs Seunghyun. At the way the older man is stiff and brittle, how fragile and unassuming he’s become. As soon as Seunghyun’s initial shock of being touched gently vanishes, the contact is almost nice. But the enthusiasm, the tight way he used to grip Jiyong’s waist, is gone.
The hesitance in Seunghyun’s voice whenever he speaks should be an alarm. A direct warning, that something is wrong, something darker, something even farther beyond Jiyong and his control.
Jiyong thinks he understands. He sees the way Seunghyun’s eyes dart to the clock in the kitchen that’s three minutes behind, he knows that he’s waiting for that bastard to get home.
He reminds him that while he’s there, nothing is going to happen to him. It’s just Jiyong. There’s nothing for him to worry about.
When he leaves him, he brushes a hair off of Seunghyun’s shoulder, and the taller man flinches.

That bastard is later getting home than he’s ever been. He’s drunk far too much, far more than his small body can handle. Instead of when he finally wakes up from his coma in the morning, his stomach needs to be emptied now, in the bathroom, as soon as he can bust through the front door, hardly able to stay stable on his own two feet. He pulls his own hair back from his face as he convulses violently.
A stomach as practiced as his is highly efficient in ridding his body of the nearly-poisonous levels of pollutants.
Seunghyun cowers in his room, wide awake, prepared to jump up and retreat to the couch, even run out of the apartment if he needs to. What Jiyong said rushes through his ears in different directions and speeds. While Jiyong is there, nothing will happen to him. It’s just Jiyong. There’s nothing to worry about.
But where is Jiyong now?
And then in one movement, in one lock of eyes across an empty room in the dead of night, it’s over. That bastard knows about Jiyong, and it’s over.

The outsider crumples to his knees, resting his head against the wall and sobbing desperately.

Seunghyun thinks the day he’s been preparing for has finally come the next morning, pinned against the wall and having his shirt collar lifted and tugged.
Why does he stay? Jiyong yells, pulling up Seunghyun’s sleeves and revealing grip marks on his shoulders. Why can’t he just leave that bastard? He doesn’t deserve him! He should be happy, his happiness should come first! Why can’t he please, run away from him and never turn back? Why does he have to let himself go through this? Please, just please; leave him before he comes back. Seunghyun. You can’t stay.

The outsider loses his voice, but he’s won.

All that’s left over the bathroom sink are two bent nails, and glass litters the floor.

A/N: If you're not sure what the that was, ask me and I'll be happy to explain.