byun byun! hello—yes, this is a foreword to the chapter. it’s not required for reading, but myaooo

anyways i just want to say like a bIG THANK YOU for all those who commented, upvoted and subscribed [sobs]. like, within two days—i received 43 comments on one chapter alone. now it’s probably not a big number to you. but as a new author who joined barely two…three weeks ago? and in my very first story? that’s a big number to me. i literally squeal with each precious comment i read-- you guys are the best!!!!

now where was i… oh yes, chapter 6… 

Chanyeol breathed out quietly, closing his eyes. This was the same door that Baekhyun had once stayed in—but it was changed overnight. The windows were cleaned and the walls were stripped from its gruesome crayon drawings; the carpet cleaned and the bedsheets changed. The smell made Chanyeol gag—it was as if they’ve erased every bit of Baekhyun in that room. The plate on the door was changed too; a name Chanyeol did not recognise.

Kim Jongdae
21st September, 1988.
Severe levels of psychosis, manipulative.

Chanyeol knew that his approach would have to be different than the one he used with Baekhyun. He had to analyse the patient thoroughly before deciding on a comfortable behaviour. So he opened the door—half-expecting a boy pouncing on his chest to hug him, half-expecting a stranger staring up right into his eyes.

It was neither.

Chanyeol’s heart dropped, but he ignored the need to run over the Institute and find Baekhyun. Baekhyun—Baekhyun is null and void. There is no Baekhyun anymore, and Chanyeol worked here as a nurse; not for love. And when he looked up, he saw not Baekhyun’s direct ice-stare—but another pair of eyes altogether.

“Kim Jongdae?” Chanyeol said, sounding rather robotic and distant. The male figure, who sat at the far corner of the bed, grunted a ‘yes’ and shifted over closer to Chanyeol, looking up and down at the nurse carefully.

“Right, Jongdae. My name’s Chanyeol—Park Chanyeol—“

“Right, Baekhyun. I’m Chanyeol—Park Chanyeol. I’m your new allocated nurse. I’m sorry if you find me boring; and, uh… if you want anything, just ask, okay?”

Chanyeol froze instantly, biting his tongue. At the sudden stop, the male figure looked up at him, and rose from the bed.

Kim Jongdae looked like a rather rough boy; his jaw was sharp, and his eyes seemed to squint very hard they looked like slits. Scars marred his face, and his hair was a colour of ash-brown—almost too similar to Baekhyun’s characteristics. When he approached Chanyeol, he circled him all over—wait, no. He was sniffing him.

Chanyeol shuddered at his cold breath, his shoulders tensing. Then Jongdae stood up to Chanyeol’s face, glaring directly to his soul—and, although Chanyeol was considerably taller than him, Jongdae made it look like Chanyeol was smaller, shorter—weaker. And Chanyeol felt thoroughly intimidated; way more than he did then the first time he was with Baekhyun.

Jongdae put his finger under Chanyeol’s chin, rising it up. For some reason, Chanyeol stood there frozen-fixed; not entranced, but he was absolutely terrified. Perhaps this was what it felt like when Junmyeon had his turn to take care of Baekhyun—no, worse. What’s even more, Jongdae had started to sniff at the crook of his neck—right where Baekhyun used to nuzzle his nose into. Then, when he finished, he let go of Chanyeol and his lips curled into a smile Chanyeol did not like.

“I see.” Jongdae said to himself, laughing. He stumbled backwards to the bed and put his arms behind his head, as if to enjoy watching Chanyeol suffer under his terror.

“So—you’ve met my little Baekkie.” Jongdae said dryly.

Baekkie?
‘My’ Baekhyun?

Chanyeol felt anger rising up to his cheeks. How dare he—what was that nickname he called Baekhyun? A pet-nickname? As if they were already long-time lovers?

Chanyeol was threatened. Not directly, but he absolutely felt like Baekhyun was his and his only, and that nobody else is allowed to touch him. And here, this Jongdae—talking of Baekhyun like he owned him. Chanyeol felt jealousy slowly fill his stomach, and his fist immediately curled—but he held back.

He felt like Baekhyun now—getting angry and curling up his fist, but having to keep his temper down.

“What do you know about him?” Chanyeol hissed through his teeth, his soft smile replaced by a grim, thin line. Jongdae roared with laughter.

“Me? Me and Baek—we were real mates. I’ve known him for a long, long time… longer than you do—and, unlike you; I’ve heard his voice—and by lord, did you know that he sounds absolutely angelic.”

At this, Chanyeol let out a low hiss and Jongdae let out another cackle. He sat up on the bed and tucked in his legs—just exactly like Baekhyun had done. Then he tilted his head.

“I know. Jealous, right?” Jongdae smiled brightly. “Oh no—worry not, Park Chanyeol. You see; you’ve landed on the right timeline! How coincidental. Now, seeing as I have more knowledge than you, why don’t we get comfortable? Sit down, calm down a bit… And I’ll tell you about Baekhyun. The story of him and me.”

Chanyeol glowered, but he sat at the far edge of the bed; as far away as possible from Jongdae. The tables were turned—Jongdae was in control now. But Chanyeol had to. Jongdae was right. Chanyeol knew barely anything about Baekhyun—all he knew of him was his name and his birthdate, and his forever-tumbling mind. He had to listen to this. All responsibility abandoned, he tensed his shoulders and looked at him sideways.

Jongdae blinked and smiled. “Good choice, good choice—ah, now. Where should we start?”

He scratched his chin. Then he smiled, as if he had remembered a precious memory. “Ah, yes…”

I was nine when I first met him.

He was small, slight. Couldn’t’ve been more than six—he was down by the murky village’s rivers that nobody drank from anymore. His damp, wet hair was sticking to his forehead, and it was a rather rainy day; the storm overtook the clouds, and he sat by the riverbank, all by himself.

“Jongdae! Honey, it’s raining—please get back in the car. We’ll be going soon!” mother’s voice echoed through. But as young as I was, I couldn’t hold back my sense of pity. Looking back at my mother, I ran as fast as I could up the mounds, my new shoes soaking as I ran over the dirty riverbank. I slowed down as I approached the boy, my shoes crunching in the pebbles.

“Hey! Why are you here by yourself in the rain?” I remember myself asking—of course, I had been nine. I couldn’t really think of more sympathetic things to say, of course. But he looked up and he looked at me with his big, brown eyes. He hiccoughed and sobbed.

It had always been a habit of his. Legs tucked and curled up, with his chin tucked into his knees, rocking back and forth. He was wearing a green vest and shorts that barely covered his skinny thighs, and he rubbed his nose on his hands.

“M-Mummy…” he cried. “I don’t know… S-She was spouting up t-this red stuff from her m-mouth… And then—and then she fell asleep on the floor. I-I tried waking her up—b-but s-she… she…”

He hiccoughed and sobbed again. “M-Mummy didn’t wake up—“

Later as we both grew up, we learnt that she suffered from lung cancer, but this knowledge wasn’t made known to us at that time, of course. At that age, we simply thought that she fell asleep, and kaput. I sat down next to him even though the filthy water soaked my pants, and I patted his head gently.

Though as an older, I knew that she was dead. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that.

“Shh, it’ll be okay.” I wrapped an arm around him—but he screamed and clawed my arm, falling backwards to the bank. Then he tore up and cried harder, furiously hitting his own head with his fist.

“Stop it! Stop it!” he hissed through his teeth, pounding his temples with tiny fists. I couldn’t understand why he’d done that to himself—he was hitting himself for all his worth until the side of his head bled, and his knuckles bruised. By then, I screamed in shock and took his arms, pinned them down on the pebble floor and hushed him.

“Don’t do that! You’re hurting yourself!” I cried, keeping his wrists down. Then he started growling, snapping and biting the air with his teeth—before he once again dissolved into tears.

“Jongdae! What are you doing to that poor boy?!”

I could hear mother’s high-heels trying to step over the pebbles, raising her dress in alarm. Suddenly alert, I let go of his hands and suddenly stood up, shrieking an ‘Owwww!’ as mother yanked my ear.

“Jongdae—I tell you again, and again. This is not our hometown, and you can get easily lost—OH MY LORD!”

At the sight of the boy’s bleeding head, she instantly screamed and stepped back. She looked at me accusingly. “Jongdae!”

“H-He was hitting himself!” I said loudly. “He was hitting himself with his own hands, ma—swear! I tried stopping him! I wasn’t tryin’a hurt him, promise!” I raised my hands up, and then crouched to the boy again. Mother followed too, but she was rather mindful for the hem of her dress.

“Where’s your daddy?” I asked him as gently as I could. He