“That was uncalled for,” Changmin hisses heatedly, and had Jaejoong been able to speak he’d most definitely have yelled that he wasn’t the one who gave himself the mark, and then he realises that he’s not the one Changmin’s talking to.

“You were in trouble,” A voice says, and even though his brain can’t register much beyond the last remnants of the fast-fading but fiery sting the mark had given him, he’s pretty sure that unless someone broke into the house, the voice belongs to Yunho.

“I never asked for your help!”

Jaejoong’s fingers twitch out of instinct as they try to reach for the tablet to scold Changmin for being rude to Yunho until he clamps them down in a circle around the mark as though if he dug them in deep enough he could rip the mark off.

“A president doesn’t ask a bodyguard to jump in front of him when a bullet comes either. I’m a Keeper, alright? It’s my job to protect the Owner whether he wants it or not.”

It’s those words again. Keeper, Owner…what do they mean?

If anything, the words are more of a slap to the face to Jaejoong than a clue to what’s going on, they serve as nothing more than words with meanings hidden just out of his reach, dancing just beyond his fingertips and mocking him, a reminder that he is in the dark. It’s clear now; there’s a secret that involves all three of them and possibly even his attacker called Yoochun, and it’s a secret he’s not privy to. While the walls have crumbled a bit to give him a slight inkling of what is behind it, it’s not enough to connect all the dots.

Jaejoong stays bent over, keeping his breathing laboured on purpose. It’s dawned on him that the only reason they’ve let slip such confusing but valuable clues is that they think he’s in too much pain to hear them. His acting skills aren’t the best, but considering he was cast as Romeo in their school’s annual play—they’ve picked the famous Shakespeare classic this year—he should have some talent in that department.

Changmin speaks again, his voice more subdued now, and there’s a tinge of fear in it, as if his ever-icy heart was capable of feeling an emotion he’s long denounced as something associated with the pathetic. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

For all Changmin’s rudeness towards him, Yunho is surprisingly gentle and earnest, like his teacher persona has kicked in and instead of treating a student like the the student is question is being, he’s trying to convince the student of his sincerity. “I would never hurt him.”

It’s not something teachers say every day, but it’s not something that’s unusual either. Jaejoong has no doubt that at least a couple of teachers have at one point in their lives said it, most likely to parents who aren’t convinced that the said teacher is not trying to get their child murdered by putting him on the soccer team.

So when Yunho says it, why does it sound so…intimate?

As if by unspoken agreement, both Yunho and Changmin fall into silence, and when Changmin’s long fingers start absently the hair at the back of Jaejoong’s neck, he knows the conversation is over. He waits for an unsuspicious interval, slowly returning his breathing to normal, and then looks up. Changmin is gazing off into the distance, deep in thought, but Yunho is looking right at him, expression unreadable. All the same, Jaejoong can sense it…that Yunho knows he heard it all.

But then why didn’t he tell Changmin?

A bit of the wall surrounding whatever it is they’re hiding springs up again, and Jaejoong wants to groan, because just when he finally thought he’d gotten something, Yunho’s kicked him out so that the only thing he can do is stare longingly at the wall and hope God eventually pities him enough to give him x-ray vision. The sting from his mark seems to have drained all energy from his body, and all he really wants to do now is sleep, because lately it seems like his dreams, nonsensical though they are, are more real than reality is.

Jaejoong pushes himself up, using the table to support his weight because his legs are wobbling too much to be of much use. Shakily, he points in the general direction of the stairs. Changmin abruptly withdraws his fingers, and, after watching Jaejoong stumble his way around like a drunken penguin, sighs in a strangely tender way before going over and scooping Jaejoong up bridal-style, carrying him up the stairs with surprising ease while ignoring Jaejoong’s feeble protests and demands to be put down.

Changmin sets him down in the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, and it takes some time to convince him that Jaejoong is just fine, thank you very much. Even then, Changmin’s parting “I’ll be doing my homework downstairs” is reluctantly thrown over his shoulder, and his gaze lingers on Jaejoong’s through the mirror for a long time before he disappears out of the door.

The white china of the sink, polished as it is, is nothing interesting to look at, but Jaejoong finds that his reflection, distorted by the curved nature of the sink and blurred by the water rinsing the last bits of toothpaste foam away is a lot more comforting than the mirror. At least the sink is kind enough to make his eyes so small he can’t see the questions in them so that he can stop thinking about them, even if it’s just for a little while.

“Jaejoong.”                        

It’s funny how Jaejoong feels so calm and collected. Like Yunho’s presence is not surprising, but expected. Perhaps even welcome.

Slowly, Jaejoong turns around, and Yunho holds out a sheaf of papers. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but Professor Choi asked me to pass this back to you and I thought it’ll be better to give it to you tonight.”

It’s his latest math test paper, flipped around so he can vaguely see the red marks through the paper but can’t see enough to go into a self-pitying jag over how incredibly horrible he is at anything to do with algebra.

“You’ll be having another test soon after you come back to school,” Yunho says. “I thought you might like more time to revise.”

His words are so ordinary that Jaejoong wants to laugh. They remind him of the first time he saw Yunho in school—was it really just a couple of days ago?—and how normal Yunho was, spouting scientific twaddle like any other biology teacher like one of his students wasn’t the son of a man he’d killed ten years ago for being a ‘traitor’.

Thank you, he mouths. I’ll look at it tomorrow. He hesitates, then decides he’s done with thinking. What he wants now are answers, and if he has to get them out of Yunho in a bathroom, then so be it. He opens his mouth, hoping Yunho’s lip-reading skills are up to the task of understanding his question.

Why did you kil—

Yunho clears his throat, cutting him off. “I honestly think it’ll be a lot better if you look at it before you sleep.”

Jaejoong narrows his eyes, but choosing not to question it, he nods.

“Goodnight, Jaejoong,” Yunho says, his voice caressing Jaejoong’s name just like it did ten years ago. Before Jaejoong knows it, he’s disappeared, again, as swiftly and silently as he did after killing Jaejoong’s father, and Jaejoong is left to collapse to his knees alone.

-{}-

When Jaejoong finally finds the strength to get off the tiled bathroom floor, the first thing he notices is that his math paper is lying on the floor, the pages fanned out like a crudely made fan. Taking a deep breath, he reaches out and pulls it closer to him, and the sensation of something as mundane as numbers is a balm for his heart.

That is, until he turns the paper over and what gets his attention is not a horrible, horrible score that will make him swear off ever entering the engineering department in university, but neatly written words printed at the bottom of the page.

Come to the room with the purple iris on the door when Changmin’s asleep. Make sure not to wake him up.

Bring the photo. I’ll be waiting.

It’s not signed, but it’s fairly obvious who wrote it.

Jaejoong’s not sure how he stores the paper away and gets into his bed, but somehow he does. And somehow, when Changmin comes up, he manages to act calm, despite his heart beating so loudly he’s pretty sure the people all the way in China can hear it. His mind’s in turmoil, and even after Changmin tells him to settle down and not worry about the philosophy essay, he still tosses and turns restlessly, ebony hair all mussed up. Though he’s not sure exactly how it’s linked, Hamlet’s to be or not to be question has never seemed more relevant.

Even though he still can’t answer that question, when he’s sure Changmin’s eyes are going to stay closed for a long time, he quietly leaves the room, photo frame clutched closely to his chest.