Junhong stumbled down the narrow streets, weighted down by one very large box of books. The end of senior year was drawing nigh, and he'd begun to clear all of his personal effects from the school premises. He'd gathered book upon book from disgruntled teens and distraught librarians, reluctant and resistant to relinquishing their literature. Junhong's locker was bleak and sparse, now containing only the bare necessities needed to ford his way through the deep, treacherous waters of general ignorance.

He smiled a private smile as he walked home, inwardly delighted by the fact that his last days of boring old public high school were at last drawing to a close. The cardboard edges of the hefty box were digging into his sore arms like chainsaws into a resilient, fleshy tree trunk, infuriating corrugated serrations driving him insane as he shifted the weight from arm to arm and back again. He'd only three blocks left to walk, but two of them were the too-long city blocks he'd come to dread on the trudge home, the monotony broken only by a massive intersection filled with buzzing, angry drivers and old ladies taking too much time crossing the road.

Junhong's arms burned dully as he paused at a street corner, hefting the books a bit higher and tip-toeing around the accumulated detritus of the city. His scars had faded in the past months, now only pink lines and pale stripes, and he was overjoyed at this private victory. He'd not seen 'bathroom friend,' as he'd taken to calling the mystery boy, in over a week. Junhong was worried, but not terrified, seeing as the boy's friends acted as if nothing was amiss. The snow had thawed and the days got longer, forcing Junhong to sneak out of the house later and later to avoid detection. Two weeks ago he'd almost been caught – he was just sticking the last can down on the worn cement step when he'd heard a loud shout – presumably 'the man' of the house – and he'd taken off running, practically flying down the driveway, thankful that the spring rain was heavy enough he was obscured as he made his escape. Junhong had been more careful even since – only wearing black when he went out, doing it in the dead of night so as not to be seen, sneaking quickly in and out.

He hummed a song of his own concoction under his breath, wondering where his friend could be and loving the feeling of the worn soles of his shoes meandering down rough, uneven sidewalks and taking comfort in the fact he was alone. He'd grown to treasure the solace he found in walking all over town, and he no longer rolled out of bed in the morning just wishing he could go back to sleep. The unobtrusive boy pushed his newly-re-dyed blue hair out of his eyes and crossed a crosswalk with little trouble, almost in sight of the street his house was on, but tripped on something sticking out from the dirty brick wall of the building he was walking past. Junhong and his box went sprawling on the pavement, books flying through the air like paper birds before settling, helter-skelter and discombobulated as they smacked the ground as well. He picked himself up carefully, only his palms smarting from the unexpected date with the ground. He picked the gravel out of the shallow scrapes, comfortable now on the cool sidewalk's slabs of concrete, and looked over to see what he had tripped on.

It appeared to be a stick of some sort, thick, with a shoe on the end and a thin, bundled-up teen on the other end. Belatedly Junhong realized - it was a person He hastily moved toward them, intending to apologize for and damage caused and go on his merry way again. Fate would not have this, persnickety she is. It was the brown haired male, the boy, his friend, his project, the one lost for a week and now found again, here, on the hard, unforgiving ground a block from his house.

Junhong pushed the fair hair out of the boy's eyes, just to make sure, and the nearly catatonic teen didn't move an inch or say a word. He pulled the thin jacket from the emaciated frame, alarmed at the scars he'd discovered on the boy's face and keen to make sure he wasn't too severely injured,

He was appalled by what he discovered. His friend was covered head to toe in slashes and cuts, crude and ugly, wide and sore and untreated. He must've been in a world of pain. Junhong peeled away the jacket even farther, and inhaled sharply. There were what looked to be… childishly carved words littering the male's arms and sides, dirty, hateful slurs carved using a sharp knife as a quill, blood as ink, and human flesh itself as a sick, pale parchment. He picked up the bag next to the small figure and peeked inside, making sure it was the boy's, and investigated. There were wads of what looked to be paper, bound in rubber bands, and clothing wadded in the very bottom of the bag. The tag on the side read 'Yongguk,' so that was who he must've been…

Junhong was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of blood as he helped Yongguk to his feet. He wasn't sure how the boy was alive at the moment, considering the sheer amount of blood loss – it was astounding. He swayed as he stood, stumbling down the sidewalk as Junhong held him up, books forgotten on the pavement behind them.

Junhong had a peculiar sense of deja-vu, pulling the boy silently past the living room where his mother was watching a car chase on the television, up the stairs to the bathroom, and stationing him on the lidded toilet. He ran water in the sink, warm enough to clean but not hot enough to scald, before pulling his Red Cross first-aid kit out from below the sink again, as he'd done so many times before. As he cleaned the mound of plasters and bandages by his side dwindled dramatically, the slices and stabs and gashes covered in a thick layer of care-bear Band-Aids and gauze. Yongguk made only one noise the entire time, a small and helpless whimper when Junhong moved to pull his pants down, to get a the wounds underneath. Yongguk practically quivered, nerves undoubtedly strung as tight as a bow, shaking violently and then eerily still.

Junhong left him alone for a moment as he raced downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing a tub of leftover spaghetti, a fork, and a bottle of water. He got back up to the too-quiet bathroom to find his friend nearly asleep as he leaned against the wall, and he set the food on the bathroom counter while he investigated the discarded messenger bag.

It ended up containing several large bundles of $100 bills, undoubtedly secreted away over an unimaginable amount of time span, waiting for an opportunity for freedom. He heard the bathroom door close and looked over- the boy had moved to shut it. Junhong was glad that he wasn't completely out of it. A few minutes later he heard the sink running, and the door opened softly. Yongguk stumbled out, the sad little shape drifting across the hall and into Junhong's bedroom.

Junhong tucked Yongguk in, the boy, the brown haired angel of the street under the thick comforter he'd dug out of his closet, bottom bunk of the bed-structure full of boy and bandage.

He left the clothes that may fit at the bottom of the bed, for when the boy woke, and moved himself to the bathroom. Junhong ritualistically put himself to bed as well, brushing his hair and teeth before flicking the lights off. He walked the length of his home, obsessive-compulsively checking windows and doors for security. Junhong stole back into his bedroom in the dark, careful to be silent, disturbing only the dust motes floating in the air as he tip-toed over to the bed containing his well-built, yet skinny friend.

Junhong couldn't help but stare for a few long seconds, the electricity from the newly-unleashed thunderstorm outside illuminating the chamber in great flashes and bursts, shining white-blue on the beatific sleeping face. Junhong leaned down and kissed Yongguk on the cheek. He whispered in his ear-

"Sweet Dreams."