in a world where spirits are dreams, dreams become reality, and reality is a nightmare

Jongin sits, relaxed but still, watching his life tick away. The second hand of the clock is moving forward, forward, forward without him, mocking him in a way no human could. But he much prefers the indifferent tick, tock of a battery-powered device telling him that he's wasting seconds and minutes and hours by just sitting there over the pity looks he gets in sterile hallways, in his own home.

The silence is suddenly filled with a crack, clatter, and bloody knuckles. The smell of iron and humanity ades the stale air of the room, marrying life and death. Which is which, Jongin can't tell.

There's a frantic woman at his side in record time, worrying and nagging and trying to decide whether to call the doctor or clean Jongin up herself. She decides on the former, and Jongin hates but expects the stern look in the white-coated man's eyes, exasperation etched into the wrinkles that surround his eyes and pull down the skin below them to bruise them blue.

Jongin doesn't care. His own eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with dark purple that isn't from simple exhaustion. His skin is frail, almost pale were it not for his naturally sun kissed complexion. Jongin's frustration runs more than skin deep; it's carved into his bones, making them feel far too heavy. It races through his bloodstream and circulates through his organs. It somehow keeps him alive while simultaneously killing him, his life away from him and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

The doctor grabs Jongin's wrist none too gently and holds it close enough to his face that Jongin can feel the breath on his fingers.

Jongin pulls back, a defiant look in his eyes when the doctor shoots him a subtle glare.

The man sighs, mumbling to the nurse to just get the glass out and bandage it up "like usual."

She looks nervous, and Jongin feels the corners of his lips wanting to curl up into a cheshire grin, but also pull down into a frown that will mar his pretty face all at the same time. He likes the effect he has on others, but also knows that this effect induces fear in most people he meets, including this woman who is around him almost every hour of every day. It’s a constant fight between Jongin’s natural weakness as an actual human being and the thing inside of him that tells him he’s far from being human.

Jongin allows the nurse to pull out shards of glass from his skin with a pair of tweezers, letting her do all the wincing and flinching. Jongin keeps his eyes steady on the blood that is beginning to crust over, dark maroon replacing bright, vibrant red. Some of it got on his white shirt, and he thinks that it looks nice. Everything in the hospital is white and cold with no hint of comfort anywhere. Jongin thinks it to be ironic. People come here to either live or die. Those who are to live should be surrounded with positive things, not unforgiving white walls and sleek metal. Those who are to die should live their last moments in peace, not immersed in hushed whispers and beeping machines that remind them of their imminent fate.

The press of coarse fabric to Jongin's knuckles brings him back to reality, medical tape following soon after. The nurse has already applied antiseptic and is now fretting over the fact that, even though she has just wrapped the gauze around Jongin's hand, there's already blood seeping through the soft white material at a frightening pace.

Jongin eventually swats her hands away, claiming to be fine and that he can change the bandage himself later, if need be.

The nurse is all too quick to agree and flutter out of the room, leaving Jongin alone again.

*

Kyungsoo trudges through the snow outside, hood pulled over his head and hands buried deep in his pockets. He stares as the flakes of partially solid condensation fall from the sky like pieces of clouds tumbling down from the heavens. He watches them fall right before his feet, only to be crushed by his drenched sneakers seconds later.

When he finally makes it to his apartment, he curses under his breath. He left his keys inside again. He walks down the three flights of stairs again to the landlady's office, knocking on the glass window lightly. Last time he was more frantic because it had been raining, but he'd gotten an umbrella to the head for that (the landlady isn't the friendliest elderly woman Kyungsoo's ever met).

There's no response and Kyungsoo supposes she probably went grocery shopping or something of the sort. He opens the door himself and pokes around until he finds his spare key sitting near the edge of her desk, like she knew he would be back soon to use it again. (Kyungsoo is a bit forgetful.)

He releases a sigh when the key turns in the lock, albeit after some time, the cold wrapping its fingers around Kyungsoo's own and making it difficult for his hands to stop shaking. There is no one to greet him at the door, no parent or roommate or pet that's excited or even remotely interested in seeing him again.

Kyungsoo offers a small "I'm home," to the quiet air around him anyway, toeing off his shoes at the door and hanging his heavy jacket on the coat rack to his right.

*

That night, Jongin wakes to more quiet whispers and a faint light filtering in from the hallway. The lights in the hospital corridors constantly stay on, but the fluorescents in the rooms are turned off and curtains are drawn at night. Jongin always pulls them back when the nurse leaves, liking the way the moon's light bathes the room in a way that makes it seem alive. The shadows move with the moon, like the ocean tides on the beach's sand. It comforts Jongin in a strange way knowing that at least something around here is living and moving.

He doesn't have to strain to hear the conversation. There are no incessant machines in his room that measure his vitals ("You've done well lately. We'll take the machines away as long as you behave."), so the rising voices in the hall are becoming clearer and clearer with each word spoken.

"How much longer?" it's his mother.

There's a sigh. Jongin identifies it as the doctor's, and he can't help but roll his eyes. That man hates his job so much that Jongin isn't sure why he's the one being treated; the doctor is more delusional than he is. "I know that I originally told you three months maximum, but he's not... improving."

"It's been six months, doctor. Our boy has been cooped up in that room for six months, and nothing is happening," his father's voice is the loudest, the most stern.

"He's just... not responding to treatment as well as I had hoped," the doctor says with a tone of finality, indicating that the conversation is over. There’s nothing more to be said, yet the air hangs heavy with unspoken words.

Jongin grits his teeth, clenches his fists. The only thing keeping him from punching the new clock that's already been placed on the wall is the fact that's it's out of reach. (Most things are out of reach in Jongin's room, save for the bottles of water at his bedside and an overabundant supply of gauze and bandages that are locked away in a cabinet below the sink. No extra pillows because Jongin tried suffocation once. No extra clothes because a shirt makes a pretty good noose if you don't have anything else. No medication because... Well, that was frightening enough to keep Jongin's pills locked up in the desk just outside.)

There's a rising anger that's boiling under Jongin's skin, blood curdling just beneath the surface and threatening to spill over as cutting words and lashes out against anyone who dares to come near. This is why Jongin scares people. He can't help it, though. He doesn't have a temper; no, that's not it. It's just pent up chagrin, resentment for everyone that he's ever come in contact with since he was locked inside four white walls and told to be a good boy until he got "better."

Jongin thinks that the doctor is awfully wrong. He’s responding to treatment terrifically, just not in the way that everyone had wanted. Jongin responds with cold eyes, empty words, and bloody knuckles at least once a week.

No one seems to care, though, or even notice for that matter. He hears people use words like "mentally ill" or "unstable" when they talk about him, but can't help but think that they're all the insane ones, deluding themselves with the idea that everything will be okay in the end, that nothing is wrong. They're all living in a dream while Jongin is painfully aware of the reality that's slipping through the cracks in their minds, making its way into Jongin's very being and keeping him there.

*

It's 1 AM when Kyungsoo finally collapses into bed, having tackled his homework (that isn’t due until after break) and anxiously cleaned the house for no apparent reason. Maybe he was hoping that someone might come over tomorrow, maybe the next day. Maybe.

His bed seems stiff under his even stiffer muscles, and no matter which way he tosses or turns, he can't get comfortable. The glow of his digital clock seems brighter tonight, casting the whole room in an eerie red glow. It reminds Kyungsoo of blood. He shakes these thoughts from his head and resolves to fall asleep with a blanket over his head and the clock facing the window, mixing with the blazing lights of the city.

Kyungsoo rises in the morning running late, having hit the snooze button one too many times. He has to volunteer at the hospital today, considering he hasn't in about three weeks, and he has fifteen minutes to get there. The bus ride alone takes ten (and that's on good days).

Luckily, today is a good day because Kyungsoo makes it to the building of white death in record time, still panting slightly when he hurries through the automatic doors after a crowd of people and up to the third floor. He signs in at the desk, the receptionist not even glancing up with her tired eyes to acknowledge his presence. She must have worked the night shift.

As he signs his name on a line, he notices that the list for volunteers tending the fifth floor is quite short, while the one for his current floor is almost full. Kyungsoo makes a last-minute decision and scratches out his name on the first list, copying it down onto the one for the fifth floor.

He takes the stairs up; he doesn't have time for regular exercise, so he makes the most of his opportunities. He's a bit nervous, considering it's his first time working in the psychiatric ward when he's used to the third floor that houses elderly patients. As Kyungsoo heads down the hallway, he overhears a doctor and a nurse discussing something. He doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but the word "hopeless" happens to catch his attention.

"Room 534. I just can't get through to him," the doctor sighs, sounding far beyond tired.

"Oh, that's Kim Jongin, right?" the nurse confirms, sounding just as frustrated as the doctor. "He is a teenager. Maybe he just needs a change of pace."

A change of pace, Kyungsoo thinks. From his knowledge, Kyungsoo figures that only middle-aged adults volunteer on this floor, as most of the patients are middle-aged themselves. Maybe this Kim Jongin does need someone close to his age, someone who would understand his life more.

Kyungsoo decides that he's going to try; he's finally going to step out of his comfort zone for once and just go for it. So he sneaks past the break room where the doctor and nurse were conversing, knowing the receptionist wouldn’t care even if Kyungsoo just pulled the fire alarm.

He's having second thoughts about just going for it when he opens the door with a soft click and the body seated on the bed, facing the sun outside, doesn't even flinch.

Kyungsoo stands by the door, back pressing uncomfortably into the door handle and hands clutched behind his back like his life depended on it. For all he knows, right now it does. He can converse with elderly women all day, sing them their favorite songs from when they were young, talk about history with the men who can only recall the years before they were barely thirty. But this, interacting with someone closer to his age who has most likely tried to take his own life... Kyungsoo isn't sure if he's able.

But the boy that Kyungsoo sees is just that: a boy. Even from across the room, Kyungsoo can see the weariness in his bones, lines of knowledge of things he shouldn't know at such an age riddling the otherwise perfect skin around his eyes. He sees the same thing in his elderly patient's demeanor, and Kyungsoo thinks that this is all wrong.

"Do I know you?" The boy's voice is deeper than Kyungsoo had expected, and were it not for the exhaustion weaving it's way through every syllable, Kyungsoo would identify the sound with something like silk.

Kyungsoo shifts awkwardly, moving his hands in front of him now, still clenched tightly together. "Um, no," He clears his throat. "I-I'm Kyungsoo, and I usually volunteer on the third floor, but they were short on staff up here, and I heard Dr. Park talking--"

The boy lets out a bitter laugh, loud enough to stop Kyungsoo's words but quiet enough that it doesn't startle Kyungsoo too much. It's a scary thing, a boy so young being so apathetic in an action such as laughing. "So were you briefed? Did they tell you that I was a charity case that no one can fix? I guess I am. Everyone says I am."

Kyungsoo knows the boy doesn't believe his own words, but they hurt nonetheless. They sting Kyungsoo, and he can't imagine what they do to the boy. "No, I just thought that I could help?" It's a question rather than a statement, and it gets the boy to turn around.

Kyungsoo had been admiring his back, the curve of his spine visible through his thin t-shirt and the way his hair fell on the back of his neck, raven locks complemented by tanned skin. But the boy's face is something to behold in and of itself, something Kyungsoo thinks should be photographed and hung in an art gallery for everyone to see. His lips are pale, but plush, his nose perfectly sculpted to fit his face, and his eyes a rich brown that are dimmed by something Kyungsoo supposes is sorrow.

The boy is staring at Kyungsoo, emotionless features and emotionless eyes raking over his figure without any indication of like or dislike... or anything, really.

*

Jongin could tell from the footsteps of whoever walked in that it wasn't someone he knew. It wasn't his mother's heels clicking obnoxiously on the tile floor, wasn't his father's heavy and determined gait, wasn't the nurse's hesitant footsteps as she opened the door slowly, and it most certainly wasn't the thumping of the doctor's all too familiar dress shoes that made Jongin's skin crawl and his stomach churn.

The steps were quiet and soft in manner. Jongin could see a faint reflection of his visitor in the window that he was staring out of, and the boy that appeared there seemed soft in general.

(Jongin's words are cold, biting, and very much distant. Jongin is hard, and this person is soft. It wouldn't be good for either of them to get to know each other. It's bound to lead to problems.)

Jongin snorts, getting up from his spot on the bed and waltzing over to the boy who is as far away from Jongin as possible. The sun, bright and glaring, filters in through the window to bathe the boy in yellow, making his pale skin look almost translucent. There's a hint of fear in his eyes; Jongin can feel the emotion radiating from his body. He's afraid, and it's Jongin's doing. "And how do you plan to help?" he asks, tilting his head to the side and watching as the boy's eyes grow wider. It's amusing.

"I..." the other starts, looking down at the floor instead of into Jongin's face. "I don't know, I figured maybe you could tell me."

Jongin is taken aback. His own eyes get wider, and his mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. It's a reflex he's developed; don't speak unless spoken to. Not once, in his whole six months of being in this god-awful hospital, has anyone asked him what he wants. Now in walks a complete stranger, asking Jongin's opinion, what he wants to do.

Jongin clears his throat. "Well, I guess we could just talk," He knows it's a bad idea, and normally he doesn’t like talking to people, but this person just seems so warm and inviting that Jongin can’t help but give in to his impulses just this once. Yet he knows... They probably shouldn't talk, shouldn’t even interact at all. With interaction comes attachment. And with attachment comes affection. Affection has never gotten Jongin anywhere in life.

The boy seems to light up at the suggestion, a small smile tugging at his pillowy lips and eyes brightening. "Okay."

Kyungsoo sits awkwardly on the bed beside Jongin, both of them facing the large window that looks out over the city of Seoul, letting in sunlight that casts shadows on everything in the otherwise dull room.

"I'm Jongin," the boy offers, not looking at Kyungsoo.

"I know," isn't what Kyungsoo meant to say, but it came out anyway. Jongin gives him a curious look, and Kyungsoo's cheeks flush, a bright red beginning to crawl up his neck. "I- I mean, I heard the doctor mention you earlier."

"Oh," Jongin seems to curl in on himself even more than before, drawing his knees up below his chin.

"Um, I'm Kyungsoo," Kyungsoo finally returns, blush still burning on his face. He feels like such an idiot. "and I'm twenty."

"Eighteen."

"Still in high school?"

"Nope, graduated early."

Oh. Kyungsoo hates profiling people, but Jongin's uncaring attitude didn't exactly indicate that he was an overachiever who would have graduated early. "That's impressive," is Kyungsoo's lame response.