The sky is greying, covered in streaks of orange, when Kunpimook slides back into consciousness.

He spends what feels like hours in the stiff morning air, shivering in his work blazer, blinking slowly, stomach twisting in a slow panic, working blood back to his hands and feet one by one. He realises he’s on a bench, in what looks like a park that he can’t recognise, head leaning uncomfortably against the backrest of it. Several men and women, and once, an entire family, pass him by, all wrapped up in jackets and probably wondering why someone like him would be taking a nap out in the cold, before moving right along.

Kunpimook finally manages to work a hand into his blazer, fingers fumbling for his phone, which, thankfully, is still there, and he unlocks the screen with trembling fingers, before calling the one and only person he can think of at this moment.

“Yugyeom?” he croaks into the receiver once the younger man picks up on the third ring.

“Hey, what happened last night?” Yugyeom’s voice is worried, but he jumps right into the call, like he’d been waiting for it. “Jinyoung said you couldn’t make it- I tried to call, but I couldn’t get through. What happened?”

“Y-yugyeom,” Kunpimook can’t say a word without it shivering violently as it leaves his lips. “C-can you come and g-get me?”

“Where are you?” Yugyeom’s words are slower, now, voice raising slightly. “Aren’t you at work?”

“I d-don’t know,” the older man confesses, looking around the strange park for a sign, or something. “It’s r-really c-cold.”

“Where are you?” there’s the sound of paper rustling, a pen being clicked shut. “Are you outside? What do you see?”

“I’m in a p-park,” Kunpimook finally catches the inscription on a wooden board some distance away. “Naksan Park.”

“Hang on, I’m coming to get you,” he hears the sound of a door closing, now, the quiet mutter of I need to get something to someone. “Can you get indoors? It should be freezing cold out there, shouldn’t it?”

“I d-don’t think I can s-stand yet,” Kunpimook tests his legs- they flop uselessly against the side of the bench. He hears the sound of Yugyeom swear over the phone, the sound low and threatening.

“What happened?” he hisses, and there’s the sound of a car door slamming, an engine revving to life. “What do you mean you can’t stand?”

Kunpimook squeezes his eyes shut, chest tightening unbearably at the tainted frustration welling up inside him. He drags himself back into the memory of last night, determined to remember even if it kills him, and gradually he recalls the sweet taste of wine, the sickening feel of artificial guilt, and finally, most vividly, the sound of shattered glass, recycled in someone’s voice box.

“I can’t-t remember, I think-…” he grits out, teeth chattering, and something burns at the edges of his eyes, sliding down his frozen face in shameful, watery tracks. “Jinyoung, he d-did something to me, I t-think he drugged me.”

I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming when he invited me earlier, should’ve seen it when he offered me drinks, should’ve known with the way he was talking about Jaebum.

There’s silence, for a while, over the receiver. Then:

“I’m a few minutes out. Stay on the line with me.”

Twenty minutes later, Kunpimook stumbles into his apartment, wrapped up in Yugyeom’s thick outer jacket, nose running and still shivering. Yugyeom guides him gently to his bathroom, steadying him when his legs wobble dangerously, still recovering from the influence of the medication.

The cold washes away under the hot stream from the shower head, but the dirty feeling of being used like that stays saturated in his skin, caked under his nails, though he scrubs until his skin is covered in red lines, till pain rakes up his body from the spray of the burning water. He washes out his mouth, over and over again, as if that’ll make him forget he’d ever willingly drank down alcohol laced with drugs, trying and failing to rid himself of that disgusting sensation of helplessness and fear, but the essence of it remains like a stubborn stain, even after he gets out of the shower and curls up on the sofa, knees drawn to his chest, dressed in the warmest thing he can find in his closet.

“What did he want?” it’s Yugyeom, setting a cup of sweet and hot in front of him as he sits next to him on the couch.

“What else?” Kunpimook says shortly, not looking at the cup- he doesn’t think he can accept drinks from anyone for some time, not even from Yugyeom. He’d remembered more of last night as he’d been showering, remembered the guilt and the urgency that Jinyoung had so easily invoked in him, under the influence of the drug, to make him spill everything. “He wanted to know what was up with Jaebum.”

“What did you tell him?” Yugyeom’s voice is softer, and even through the thick layer of fabric Kunpimook’s wearing, he can feel the arm around his shoulder. He buries his face in the cotton of Yugyeom’s sweater, letting out a choked sob at the repulsive thought of it.

“Everything,” Kunpimook concentrates all the anger and despair in that one word, shoulders shaking. “I told him everything, Yugyeom.”

The arm around his shoulder doesn’t let up in the slightest, nor the soothing pattern that’s being rubbed into his back, and the tendrils of a certain warmth inexplicably begins to spread from the side Yugyeom’s sitting on to the rest of his body.

“I don’t know what he’s going to do,” Kunpimook slumps against the younger man’s body, trembling at the thought of the violation that’d just taken place, and the repercussions he would now have to face. “But he knows, and he’s going to do something, and it’s going to be-…”

“No, don’t say it,” it sounds like every word is sending knives into Yugyeom’s throat, possibly at the thought of Jinyoung doing something like this. “It’s not going to be your fault, you didn’t ask to be drugged and questioned.”

“But I should’ve known,” Kunpimook wails into his shoulder, tears staining damp spots into Yugyeom’s blue sweater. “I should’ve known, I shouldn’t have let him do this to me, I can’t believe he got to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Yugyeom emphasises firmly. “You’re not doing this now, Kunpimook-ah, it’s not your fault-…it’s them,” he exhales in frustration. "They’re-they’re sick people, okay, Jinyoung-…he planned this,” he grits it out, like the thought of it is hard to swallow, let alone say out loud. “It’s the reason why he pushed us together during that night at the party and sent us to find hyung- he knew Jaebum-hyung’s lover would be visiting that night, and he wanted us to find him,” the arm around him tightens a little, almost unconsciously, as though in guilt. “And he knew he couldn’t do it to me because I’d tell Jaebum-hyung right away if he did, so-…”

“So it was me, then,” Kunpimook’s voice is a little dead, like he’s long accepted the idea of being pushed around a chessboard like a worthless pawn, tossed without second thought into the line of fire to save the king and queen, no matter how detestable they may be.

He doesn’t know what to feel, doesn’t know what to think- the part of him that’s disgusted with himself fights with the part of him that’s disgusted by Jinyoung, which is already in conflict with the part of him that’s disgusted with Jaebum, and it all links in a messy web of blame and anger that dumps the fault right back onto himself.

The delusion of immortality’s finally been shattered- the ridiculous high he’d once felt at the complete control and power over the circumstances feels like it’s been snatched from him and snapped in half. He’d spent his life outsmarting the system, but then he’d let his guard down for one moment and walked straight into one of its many deadly, glamorised traps. Now he’s tainted, implicated in the confusing web of blame that by right, only those with all the money in the world can face and survive.

He feels sobered, pained, and so very dirty it makes him sick just to think of it.

“You should go to bed,” the circular motion of his thoughts are disrupted, then, by Yugyeom, tugging gently on his arm, and Kunpimook obliges listlessly, getting up off the couch to move, until the younger man wraps him in a sudden hug, pulling him close.

Yugyeom’s eyes are wide with an unadulterated worry he’s never seen before when they part, a soft palm coming to cup Kunpimook’s cheek, nudging him gently to look the other man in the eye. “It’s not your fault- stop thinking like that. I know there doesn’t seem to be anyone to blame but that doesn’t mean you should push it all on yourself, you’ll just shut down if you do that,” the words sound so personal, so earnest, like the words are pouring from Yugyeom’s heart, almost. “Promise me you’ll stop thinking like that, please.”

Kunpimook realises he’s expecting a reply, and looks down, giving one shameful, silent nod. It’s a little odd, he thinks, as Yugyeom walks with him to his bedroom, how the younger man knows what he’s feeling so well, and though on any other occasion he would just attribute it as usual to his exceptional perceptiveness, something tells him there’s another reason for it.

“Did any of them-…” Kunpimook blurts out all of a sudden, as Yugyeom’s pulling the covers over him in bed, and the other man looks over questioningly. It’s strange, how he feels the need to be careful with his words now, when he’d been so brazen with whatever he’d said in the past. “Did any of them ever-…?”

A light goes out behind Yugyeom’s eyes for a moment, but it’s back on so fast Kunpimook barely catches it. He chuckles, continuing to tuck him in.

“Yeah,” he says casually, smoothing a lock of hair away from the other man’s face. “Mark.”

“Mark?” Kunpimook’s eyes widen in shock. That sinks something new in him- he’d always seen the oldest of the four as the most detached from any of their illicit activities- the man focused on his business, calm and reclusive, only connected to any them through Jackson. “What did he do?”

“Don’t remember,” Yugyeom shrugs, and it’s a testament to how much that event must have shaken him, because even in Kunpimook’s current state he can tell right away that the other man’s lying through his teeth.

“Didn’t you tell Jaebum after that?” Kunpimook says, the faintest hint of urgency in his voice. “Wouldn’t he have had to know? You’re his cousin, he can’t just ignore this.”

“Of course I told him,” the younger man laughs bitterly. “I was nineteen and an idiot,” he straightens, seemingly indifferent, but Kunpimook knows better. “He didn’t care.”

The ache of solitary despair that had knotted itself into Kunpimook’s chest seems to loosen unconsciously, then, replaced by a sort of righteous fury, that a boy barely out of his teens would have to be subjected to a thing like this, then be rejected by the only person he could ever rely on for help in this stupid, twisted world, and forced to suffer in silence.

He wonders how on earth Yugyeom had ever survived something like that.

“Just-…just don’t think about it, it’ll make you crazy,” Yugyeom says again, like he’d read his mind, repeating himself like it’s a mantra he’s fixed into his own mind. “Promise me you won’t-…”

Kunpimook doesn’t let him finish- he struggles up in a spur of the moment decision, messing whatever Yugyeom’s done to his blankets, before he pulls the other man down with an insistent tug to his sweater, pressing their lips together in a messy, aggressively affectionate kiss, his arms winding around Yugyeom’s back almost pleadingly, as if afraid to let go, lest he dissolve and change, like every other constant Kunpimook’s once known in his life.

It takes about half a second for Yugyeom’s lips to start into motion against his, strong fingers cradling the back of Kunpimook’s head, pressing him impossibly closer, and his hands tilt the other man at an angle to open him up, their lips fitting perfectly together.

It frightens him, how they click in tandem so much more quickly than the last time, the progressions of their kisses a juxtaposition to the detached, gradual nature of their relationship. It’s risky and exhilarating, thoughtless and irrational, little quirks to Kunpimook that have stayed stubbornly ingrained in him despite the business he’s in, and it hurts, almost, the discharge of emotions that burst through the dams of his heart in their ecstasy at finally being free.

Kunpimook is the one to break the kiss, wondering if he’ll feel this breathless every time he does this and deciding that he won’t mind if he does.

“I don’t know how to-…to say this,” he stutters between heated breaths, cheeks suddenly burning at the haze in Yugyeom’s dark eyes, the desire burning so strongly which he’s sure is mirrored in his own eyes. “But thank you. For everything.”

Yugyeom moves forward suddenly, and for a moment Kunpimook thinks he’s asking for another kiss until he feels the arms around his back, pulling him into a breathtaking embrace that spreads a warmth from his chest to the tips of his toes, dizzyingly familiar and affectionate, and he leans into the younger man’s shoulder, relishing in the security only he can provide.

“No,’ he can barely hear the words, murmured against his skin with a sort of reverence that, for a moment, makes him forget that they’re the paupers in a society of indulgence, makes him feel like he’s priceless, and will stay that way forever. “Thank you.”

And Kunpimook understands, he finally understands because he can feel the ghosts of tentative, lonely fear that’d once existed in the man whose arms are now around him, can feel the muffled agony and confusion and anger of unspeakable years past. So he wraps his arms around him as well, hoping he’s soothing him as effectively as Yugyeom has done for him, trying to reach out with his soul to exhume those pained spirits, so he can free their master at long last.

(And if veil after veil over the world are thrown off to reveal the shambles he knows it’s in now, Yugyeom’s heart is in his hands, and his in the younger man’s, and he confesses that’s all he can bring himself to care about now.)

*

Choi Youngjae’s body is discovered hanging from the ceiling fan of his tiny apartment barely a week later.

It’s found by the landlady, who’d gone in three days after his rent was due and she’d been unable to contact him. She kicks up a ruckus- she’d been planning to sell the flat, and reports of death here would just bring the price of the property down.

The police, on the other hand, label it a suicide automatically, closing the case neat and tidy, moving on seamlessly to the next case in line, and just like that, Choi Youngjae fades- becomes just another statistic in black and white on a printed sheet of paper.

(For if any of the police had happened to see the evidence of forced entry past the flimsy door, the chairs and magazines upturned in a scuffle, or the obvious laceration marks of restraint around Youngjae’s slender wrists, they apparently hadn’t said a word.

AQ Corporation does, after all, regularly donate hefty sums to the works of the civil service.)

The media dubs it the lonely end, one of the many that young men and women, lost in the endless drivel of city life, succumb to, dying alone and crushed and meaningless. The tiny section in the newspaper dedicated to it opens his funeral, because they haven’t been able to contact any relatives or close friends of his.

It’s an unspoken thing between Kunpimook and Yugyeom, that both of them know deep down somewhere about the true cause for Youngjae’s death, but like the secrets of every one of those rich lovers who’d once fawned for his love, that truth dies with the man. It’s no surprise that the two of them are part of the sparse handful that turn up, and as the older of the two bows to pay his respects, something burns him from the inside out, knowing it’s his fault things ended up this way.

(The fingers that intertwine themselves with his afterwards try to convince him otherwise, though.)

It’s ironic, almost. The whole thing is a quiet, sorry sort of affair, unlike the fast-paced, glamorous outlook that Kunpimook had once associated with Youngjae’s life. No friends, no family to visit, only the ghosts of wealthy lovers past, as materialistic and useless at his death as the multitude of gifts bestowed upon him when he’d been alive.

*

Kunpimook lies awake for hours that night. He thinks about life, thinks about the whole state of things, even though Yugyeom had told him not to.

He digs up memories as he’s drifting into an uneasy sleep, all the way back to when he was ten and his mother would bring back prettily printed and enclosed complimentary tickets to plays, high teas, or movie premieres, all by courtesy of some celebrity or another. He remembers turning the flimsy, sparkling things over in his little fingers, a little apprehensive and a little enamoured, and his mother would get down on one knee in front of her youngest son, smiling with a serene sort of excitement, like she’d discovered the secret behind a magic trick. She’d tell Kunpimook, softly and slowly, that while money and diamonds and cars were the currency of the world, nothing was more valuable than secrets, especially those of the rich and famous.

Secrets that were gossiped or complained about as aforementioned rich and famous were getting their hair done, for example, or mumbled about as they were being driven home drunk in the backseat of a chauffeured car.

Those murmurs had stayed with him, infected his mind, he realises then, and had grown with that ten-year-old boy into a tumour, of sorts, malicious and ravenous, until it possessed him completely, the notion of taking what he could from those so unfairly blessed with so much more. The memories of his life after that come as a series of flashes, glitzy, hasty comic book panels that flip much too fast for Kunpimook to remember properly.

He’s ten when he leaves his old friends to start hanging out with a few of the richer kids in school, a couple of snobbish boys whose names he can’t remember, and a girl who’d later stopped school to follow in her mother’s footsteps to become an actress.

He’s just turned eleven when he swaps his school bag for a branded one that costs about six times his old one, a little birthday gift from the girl. A few months into that, a brand new MP3’s added to the pile, then a Gameboy, an iPhone, then hundreds of different electronic toys and gadgets, according to the current season or trend. He’s fourteen when he gets invited to his friend’s private yacht for a birthday party, then a private plane, and scattered in between are VIP tickets to movie premieres, concerts, and stacks upon stacks of branded clothes and caps.

Then Kunpimook’s sixteen, sixteen and standing in front of his parents with an acceptance letter overseas he’d almost killed himself studying to get, because the hunger could no longer be satisfied by whatever the measly affluent of his country could provide. He’d wanted more, and he was convinced that this was the only way he could get it.

He remembers, with a jolt of pain, convincing himself, then, that it isn’t sadness, or guilt, in fact, that he sees in his parents’ eyes when he leaves the house, hoping it’s finally for good.

It’s the lifestyle and the desire for it that infects people like poison, to the point they crave it like a drug, that they deceive and lose themselves and do whatever it takes to cling to it. The essence of it, the spring of ironic decay and immorality that conceals itself under glittering cars and credit cards, spreads from people like Jaebum to people like Jinyoung, to Yugyeom, and Youngjae, to the point of his death, and now Kunpimook realises that he too, is well and truly contaminated.

Something settles itself in the heart of Kunpimook Bhuwakul heart that night, something heavy and conflicting that he pushes aside the moment he feels it because he’s only ever seen the manifestation of it twice in his life- once in his parents’ eyes, the morning he left, stiff and unannounced, begging him to change his mind, and the second in Yugyeom’s, that afternoon he’d brought him home from the park, as he’d pleaded for him to stop thinking about it. Something wedges itself firmly there, like a crowbar, prying off one layer of deadened flesh after another to reach its core, where it breaks the raw, weak essence of himself, snaps it cleanly in half, demanding that he fix it himself, fashion it into a genuine image of himself, rather than the identity he’s paid to take.

But he can’t. He’d long given up that privilege the day he accepted those toys and bags and parties, the day Jackson walked into his life and he’d chased him down like his life depended on it, to sink his claws into his best chance for success.

(Or maybe he’s gotten so good at lying he can’t tell when he’s talking to himself, too.)

*

“Inflation’s going crazy. I haven’t seen a stable reading in weeks.”

Kunpimook puts a piece of whatever he’s eating now, that Jackson had ordered for him (the other man asks for two of whatever he’s getting automatically, now), into his mouth, chewing numbly, listening to sound of Mark speaking, voice clean and crisp over the ballads playing in the background. It’s a little odd, hearing him speak so much, mostly because Jaebum’s oddly subdued today- still talking, of course, but less so (no prizes for guessing why). Jackson too, but understandably- the media had questioned the Wang Corporation on the suicide and the name of his company had come under fire for alleged mistreatment of employees, but only for a few days, before the issue died a quiet death. Youngjae was too much of a nobody to kick up such a great fuss over.

“It’ll all be fine after a while, won’t it?” Jinyoung, on the other hand, is bright as anything, almost glued to Jaebum today, all content smiles and laughter. “It always ends up okay.”

“You’ve been reading those stupid fiction love novels again,” Jackson scoffs a little too loudly, pressing a napkin into the edge of his mouth. (That’s inaccurate, by the way, because Yugyeom had told Kunpimook of Jinyoung’s extensive collection of hardback English classic literature books, which sort of makes sense once you know what he’s really like) Kunpimook drifts in and out of the conversation, never paying much attention. They don’t feel the obligation to actively involve him anymore, like he’s become as much of a constant, a piece of the background, as Yugyeom has. “All that romantic, idealistic crap’s gotten into your head.”

Besides, his food is much too putrid today to even try to fake a smile- Kunpimook legitimately feels faint, if he’s to be honest. He’s this close to thinking about ordering something different from Jackson’s choice next time around, (if there’s a next time around, but he shoves that thought away) and takes a sip of water from his glass to choke it down.

It helps, though, that he can barely taste his food, not with the disgusting normalcy of this meal in comparison to the extent of the ghastly secrets he’s uncovered at this table- Jinyoung turns to him at one point, smiling brightly, eyes devoid of any recognition to the fact that he’d drugged and forced information out of him just over a fortnight ago, as if he’d already forgotten, moved on. Jaebum orders everyone around, as usual, with a darker, more annoyed demeanour today, and Jinyoung asks Jackson one question about the scandal (that’s what he has the audacity to call it, now) and how he’s coping, and that’s it.

Kunpimook wonders if he should feel disgusted, but honestly, he just feels breathless, and kind of tired.

Really, really tired.

“Spring fashion’s ridiculous this year,” Jinyoung declares, taking a sip from his glass of Chardonnay. “Have you seen what Gucci’s been walking up and down the runways? The models are so ugly, too, I wonder what happened to the winter ones. Don’t you agree, Bambam-ah?”

“Sure,” Kunpimook replies noncommittally, and Jinyoung turns away, satisfied. Across the table, Yugyeom hasn’t taken his eyes off his food once throughout this whole meal, but his food’s barely been touched either.

This tastes like , Kunpimook thinks, as Jackson starts talking about a news flash that’d been on television a couple of days ago. He’s getting a real headache now, and he can feel a thin sheen of sweat when he rubs a hand across his forehead, which is weird, because he’s the one who’d grown up in a tropical climate and survived- why would he be perspiring in this temperature?

“Such a tragedy,” Jinyoung tuts, but Kunpimook doesn’t know what he’s talking about. His head feels unmistakeably heavy, like it would loll over and hit the edge of the table anytime soon, but light at the same time, like he’s unable to think. And is there something wrong with the air-conditioning or is it just him, because why else would he feel so nauseated?

“If those idiots would just drive properly, maybe they wouldn’t get themselves into stupid accidents like these,” Jackson interjects. Every word drops like iron weights into Kunpimook’s already spinning mind- he’s considering excusing himself to go to the bathroom now, even. He wonders if it’s the terrible food or the terrible company. Maybe it’s both.

“Wish they’d stop making such a big deal out of it,” Mark comments leisurely, taking another bite of his food. “We understand people died and everything, but there are other important things on the news, you know. Did you realise they cut the stocks section by three minutes last night to put in that special report?”

“I can’t believe they broke protocol for such a trivial little thing. Can you, hyung?”

“Besides, it’s not like their families appreciate all this unwanted attention, right?”

The knife slips from Kunpimook’s hand, hitting his plate with an unnecessarily loud clink. Jinyoung keeps right on talking, but he feels Jackson’s stare suddenly on the side of his face, slightly disconcerted.

“Kid, you okay?” he’s speaking in English, now, voice low, and Kunpimook nods numbly, hoping to ward off his attention.

He looks up across the table, ignoring the pain that bolts through his head when he does that, catching Yugyeom’s eye. The younger man’s looking at him for the first time during that meal, brows furrowed in unreadable emotion, but they light up in a horrified kind of realisation once their eyes meet, his gaze flicking from Kunpimook’s plate to the man himself.

Oh.

Something drops low and heavy in his stomach when he realises what’s going on. He knows he needs to get to the bathroom immediately, throw everything back up before it gets worse, but his limbs are starting to feel like lead’s been pumped into them, sluggish and weak.

The general dizziness is getting worse, so he has to force himself to push back his chair, even if it’s only by an inch, attempting to stand. He looks back across the table, going generally unnoticed by everyone except Yugyeom, sending a silent plea for help because all of a sudden he doesn’t think he can stand.

His head’s starting to spin a little but he can see Yugyeom excusing himself quietly as Mark continues to talk about stocks and money and other stupid things, and relief starts to pour in but that all stops short when he sees Jaebum’s hand close around Yugyeom’s wrist, tugging him purposefully back into his chair.

The younger man looks confused, trying to quietly explain his way out of it but Jaebum seems to be perfectly aware, because he turns to face Kunpimook for a moment, and the edge of his lips turns up in a graciously cruel smile.

Kunpimook’s starting to have difficulty breathing, eyes widening in realisation about what’s going on, and out of the corner of his eye Yugyeom tries to get up again but Jaebum’s eyes snap to the younger man, forceful and commanding, ordering him to sit.

“Something wrong, Bambam?” Jinyoung’s eyes are almost comically wide when he finally notices something up with the shallow breaths Kunpimook’s taking, the stiff, pained way he’s sitting. “You look a little off,” he turns to the rest of them, talking in that same, light tone, as if discussing the weather. “Don’t you all think he looks a little off?”

Kunpimook coughs, once, twice, but every time it feels like his lungs can’t draw enough air, like his body’s turning to stone in the chair he’s in now.

“You choking on something?” Jackson asks from his left. “Hey, you’re turning red, are you okay?”

He pushes off from the table, arms screaming with a silent, aching fatigue even at that movement, trying to get up from the chair, but his legs give out the moment he tries to stand, and he stumbles, catching the edge of the table with a shaky hand.

Another pleading glance across the table enlightens him to the sight of Jaebum keeping a physical hand on Yugyeom’s shoulder, holding him down, and for a moment he thinks that’s it, he’s done for, because Yugyeom’s his only chance and as long as Jaebum’s around, he can’t do a thing. But then-…

“Call an ambulance!” Yugyeom bursts out desperately, at such a volume the whole restaurant goes silent, the loudest Kunpimook thinks he’s ever heard him speak at all, pointing across the table despite the venomous look Jaebum’s shooting him. “It’s poison! He’s been poisoned!”

The P word has its effect, though not as either of them would have liked- a woman screams from the corner of the restaurant, and immediately the entire room breaks into chaos, everyone getting up and away from their food as though it might come alive and attack them. Someone starts to run, and this translates into a stampede out of restaurant, for what reason, Kunpimook has no idea, because he highly doubts that their food, poisoned or not, can get up and chase after them.

In his position, half collapsed on the floor, at least three people brush past him none-too-gently in their redundant attempts to get out from the restaurant, and one accidentally kicks the chair supporting him backwards on the ground, and he crumples with it.

The world’s nothing but a blurry mess of loafers and high heels, some digging sharp edges into his legs and arms, but all he can think about right now is how hard it is to breathe, like someone’s sitting on his chest, an iron cage closing around his lungs. He’s turning over slightly in pain, and through his swimming vision he makes out panicked faces, all rushing by, until one figure comes into startlingly close view. Amidst the kicks and sharp pains, then, he feels someone shove an arm under his back, achingly familiar, capable arms supporting him into a sitting position, cradling him to his chest, he realises, away from the rush of feet.

Slowly, then, Kunpimook manages to blink Yugyeom’s face into focus, and watches, dazed, as the other man shouts words he can’t comprehend in this state down his phone. There’s a sickness he feels that he knows has nothing to do with the toxins in his bloodstream and everything to do with the people around them, all the poisonous men and women in this tier of society, whom he’d once assumed he could feed off due to their incongruence, before he realised that it was really the other way around, and that he was the one being drained and used.

So he focuses, instead, on the face of the man holding him, clings on to the last dregs of security it can bring him, reassured when it’s the last thing he sees, before he slides into a now disturbingly common, unnatural darkness, hoping that this time, it’s for good.