[A/N: Some slightly mature themes. They're not major, but I thought I should put a warning just in case!]

With a Twizzler sticking out of his mouth, Jongin flicks through the pages of ‘The Monsters and the Critics’, brows knitted together in concentration. He makes sure to only grip the corners of the book as he filters through it, careful not to dirty the purity of each page. It is ancient and delicate, and no part of him wants to know how terrible Kyungsoo’s reaction would be if he were to return it in any worse quality. He even washes his hands thoroughly each time he pushes one of the red sweets past his lips, all too aware of their sticky surfaces.

He is a sentence away from completion when his phone rings. In such a deeply focused zone, his body vibrates, startled as the shrill sound reverberates off the walls and pierces his ears. Groaning, he forces himself up from the comfort of strewn sheets and towers of pillows, trudging over to his desk. The sound is thunderous and yet his phone is nowhere in sight. There are stacks of papers, clusters of crumpled articles and scattered pens, all obscuring the wood of the desk itself. He shuffles through it all, and soon, the entire floor is dirtied by essays carelessly tossed aside and there is an illuminated screen in his upturned palm.

The call is answered in a dull tone, one that aims to alert the person on the other side to Jongin’s lack of tolerance. ‘What?’

Jongin’s body stiffens as the voice crackles through. It is father, his father who is evidently in tears and struggling to in enough breath to get his statements out clearly. The sobs are horrid and broken, and yet Jongin can piece together the words just well enough to form a detailed picture in his mind. They become more distorted as the phone plummets towards the floor, as Jongin darts from his room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

He doesn’t care that he has classes later in the day, doesn’t care that he could get himself in serious trouble for leaving the campus unannounced. He just runs, legs pumping and bare feet slapping painfully against the pavement, pushing towards the main street. People gasp and jump out of the way as he sprints past, but he takes no notice of the scowls pointed in his direction, only running out onto the road and waving his arms about madly to hail a taxi.

Eventually, one screeches to a halt upon sensing Jongin’s urgency. The driver speeds a little, weaving through the built up traffic and earning more than a few angered beeps and irritated shouts. Though Jongin is forced to dig his fingers into the cushiony seat, gripping on for dear life, he is inwardly appreciative of the driver’s attempt to lessen the travel time.

He flops out of the taxi and takes a few seconds to regain his senses, worried that any food he has eaten in the past day will rise back up and splatter over the gravelly path extending before him. His head aches and his stomach is creating bizarre sounds and the sun is beating down on him so incredibly harshly. He doesn’t even want to push himself back to his feet, too emotionally unstable and physically unwell to begin the journey towards the house. It is so close to him and yet is so far, and he isn’t sure which fact is worse; he either passes out of dehydration and the crows eat away at him right here, or he wills himself to walk down the winding path to where his father waits, likely red-eyed and snotty-nosed. Neither option sounds appealing, but Jongin scrambles to his feet anyway and leaps over the fence as he used to when he was a child, the serrated edges and barbs missing his thighs by a mere centimetre or two.

It is difficult to drag his feet along, because the path is uneven and hilly, and sometimes it is cut off by herds of sheep or stubborn cows. He claps his hands rapidly, but the cows rarely move, just turning to moo lazily at him until he gives in and walks the long way around them all. They have grown so accustomed to his boisterous presence over the years that he could jump on one of their backs and still receive little to no reaction. The horses are not bothered by him either. They trot over and rub their faces against his, whinnying and puffing joyously at his quick return. He gives them each a decent scratch before he waddles off.

Winston’s barking is what lets him know that he has finally arrived at the house. It is excited and constant, transforming into whines and yelps as Jongin approaches and slips through the fence.

His father is on the porch, face hidden behind his hands. Though his features are blocked from sight, it is obvious that his shirt is soaked with salty tears and that he hasn’t shaved or styled his hair in quite some time. His fingers tremble violently and he taps his feet insecurely, only halting once Jongin paces over and wraps him up in the tightest of all embraces. There are more tears after this, and Jongin can do nothing but hold on and hope that his father will be able to muster up the strength to push on.

The sun is setting when they head inside. His father hardly speaks, other than to offer his son a steaming cup of tea, which is gratefully accepted. They sit around the table and sip away in silence, trying to ignore the absence, trying to pretend that there is not one empty seat right there in the middle. But there is a hole in both of their hearts, and it is impossible to overlook it.

Jongin places his hand over his father’s. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘I should have tried harder to help her, Jongin. I should have encouraged her more often.’

‘You did, dad. We both did,’ Jongin responds softly, voice wavering, ‘and now we need to let the specialists do their jobs.’

His father nods, letting a lone drop trickle down his cheek. ‘I know. I just miss her already.’

And Jongin understands completely, because it has only been a couple of weeks since he left home, but there is already an entire chunk of him missing.

Kyungsoo is perched on the bed when Jongin returns to his dorm, his vision blurry with exhaustion. He plods over and flumps backwards. An arm falls to rest across Kyungsoo’s lap, and his head is elevated by a hardcover novel. It is not comfortable, but Jongin refuses to move once he has settled in, his limbs already numbing, tumbling into a state of sleep.

There are fingers raking through Jongin’s hair, tips sometimes brushing softly against his forehead, tickling his skin. There is a soothing voice reciting poetry, easing Jongin’s confused emotions and calming the wild thoughts bouncing around inside his head. There are sheets being tugged up over his body, warming his legs and then his chest and arms, blanketing him in security. And there is Kyungsoo, shifting to press up against Jongin’s back, staying there until they both doze off.

It is early in the morning when Jongin is shaken awake, eyes fluttering open to meet the excitedly burning gaze of a smiling Kyungsoo. ‘Come on, get up. I want to play.’

Jongin mumbles and rolls over, but Kyungsoo is having none of that, pouncing atop the younger male and bucking his hips childishly. Groans and moans emit from the room, sounding like anything other than two men playfully brawling and forcing Jongin to drag himself out of bed to ensure they don’t receive a dreadful visit from campus security. He grumbles as his feet hit the floorboards, toes curling with the immediate chill.

‘Let’s play a game,’ Kyungsoo exclaims, pacing animatedly around the room, ‘let’s see who can come up with the worst scene.’

Jongin chokes on his own spit. ‘Excuse me?’

Kyungsoo is ignorant to Jongin’s shock and claps his hands together. ‘The loser has to act out a scene from the victor’s choice of movie, novel or play. I’ll start!’

The desk rattles as Kyungsoo wedges himself up onto it, gesticulating with extreme alacrity, eyes bulging. He ru