Yongguk shifted in his chair absentmindedly, ignoring the glare of he teacher as he strove to find comfort in the hard plastic of his assigned seat. He could feel every bruise, every bump, every cut and scrape along the length of his body with a terrifying sense of clarity, and vaguely wondered if he had a concussion. He knew he'd have time, during his extended lunch period, to bandage himself up if need me, but this pleasant though was interrupted by and odd feeling of pain, and of wetness on his lower back.

'.' He thought, hissing under his breath as he discovered that one of his wounds had reopened and was swiftly on its way to bleeding through his thin t-shirt. He excused himself quickly, flitting through the open door and ignoring the teacher's disgruntled cry. The student fled to the bathrooms nearest his locker, spinning his combo lock and opening the door loudly, pulling out the sign he'd made for these occasions – 'Bathroom closed for cleaning.' Pasting this on the door, he locked the room from the inside and pulled off his shirt. Or at least, he thought he locked it. With this ancient door he could never be sure if it would stay shut or not. A few red drops, not noticeable enough to cause undue alarm, showed brightly through the pale aqua-blue cloth. He pulled a wad of paper toweling from the rusty dispenser, wetting it and wadding it into a ball. Yongguk carefully dabbed at the 6inch gash on his back, hesitantly skirting the puckered edges of the already-healing wound. He'd meant to hide the knives somewhere, after school, but his father had gotten to them before he'd even walked in the door.

He noticed a pause in the melancholy violin's playing that came from far down the hall, and tensed while he waited for it to resume. He could hear faint footsteps padding down the hall, and he wanted to cross his fingers, to hold his breath until they went away.

The only warning he had was the squeaking of rusty hinges on the broken-locked bathroom door, and he scrambled to shove his makeshift first aid operation into his backpack, to hide until the ignorant usurper went away. Yongguk'd hidden in the far stall, the one with a broken door you had to hold shut with your feet, and hid crouched on the toilet seat, muscles tensed and ready to fly. He heard a shuffling of soft footsteps, and realized dully that he was still shirtless. He couldn't risk moving and making a noise, so he sat and waited and sweated, frustrated by his powerlessness. The door to the stall next to his thudded open as someone pushed it with reckless force, and slid shut softly, as if in repentance.

Yongguk heard the sound of a zipper being pulled, a metallic grating as something flicked open, like a switchblade or a Swiss army knife, and then no sound at all. For several endless seconds the silence was absolute, Yongguk breathing gently and straining his ears to hear what was happening. He heard a low moan, a quiet hiss, and then the sound ended abruptly again. Then a faint rustling, like shirtsleeves being pushed out of the way, and another delicate little hiss. He waited another endless moment and heard the metallic click of a blade closing, of a zipper being drawn, and the door thudding back open. He stood warily, still perched precariously on the toilet seat, and he looked out over the door. A taller boy with a violin case beside him and a messenger bag slung carelessly over his shoulder was rinsing something off his arm, delicately adjusting the water to no more than a tepid trickle. Yongguk froze, chills running up and down his spine, as he saw the water in the sink.

Blood ran, swirling like fire-flower as it gurgled down the drain, and Yongguk watched in awe as the boy removed bandages and rubbing alcohol from his bag, sterilizing and binding the marks on his wrist with smooth, practiced movements. The boy saw a latticework of scars, old and new, faded and pink like mischievous wrinkles. So the boy cut himself for the hell of it, the thrill? Yongguk filled with a trance-like anger, clambering loudly and haphazardly off his roost and yanking open the door to his stall.

The taller boy startled as he heard the loud noise, pulling his scarred arms into the fleecy lining of his oversized jacket and moving surreptitiously to hide the makeshift operation behind him. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as he took in Yongguk's appearance – scars, wounds, purplish bruises left a pattern of terror along his neck, his chest and arms. Marks like purple fingerprints around his neck, a circle of bruise, evidence of attempted strangulation. The taller boy moved wordlessly to Yongguk's side, pulling him gingerly to the counter with one hand barely touching his arm. He positioned Yongguk in front the mirror, grabbed his bag of cotton balls and swabs, and went to work.

He cleaned up the wounds gently, careful to avoid causing excess pain. Once his scars were clean and pink, lacerations and slashes throbbing dully and smarting at the cool air, the mysterious boy wrapped Yongguk in gauze and bandages and gently tucked in all the loose ends, the rolls of cloth covering him and holding him together. He took Yongguk's shirt from him and eased it gently over his gel-stiffened hair, pulling it loosely over his wide shoulders, the too-big garment thankfully not rubbing against sensitive skin. The boy, blue hair obscuring his face while he packaged up his products, merely shrugged off Yongguk's hand when he reached for his scarred arms. Yongguk kept his hold and pulled him closer.

The pushed the fleecy soft sleeves even farther up the skinny arms and searched for the end of the gauze, unwrapping it smoothly and wincing sympathetically when fibers stuck to blood stuck to skin, making the brutal slashes sting anew. Yongguk surveyed the damage like a general at battlefield, empty of anything but sorrow and desolate loneliness. He traced the old wounds with soft, hesitant movements, index finger meandering down paths and twists. He cried over each cut, careful not to let salty tears touch raw, angry skin. The wrappings were sowly rolled back over the sad, thin arm, re-tucking the end gently and laying one small kiss on the pale, thin wrist before shouldering his own backpack and escaping back to the quiet, monotonous haven that was education.

If he succeeded here, he could be free.