Static & Noise

The only constant in Jihoon’s life is the noise in his head.

Ever since the death of his parents, he’s been shuttled from home to home, each stay—or should he call it a visit?—shorter than the last; each household more rugged, more quick to anger. He remembers little of the first eighteen years of his life. Perhaps no one cared enough to leave an impression on him, or perhaps the static distorted those memories and made them unrecognizable. He doesn’t know whether he should be grateful or not for that.

The men in his life come and go. Even beneath the grime of the alleyways, they’re drawn to his pretty face. None stay for long, looking only for someone to warm their bodies in the dark of night. Certainly none are looking to form a relationship with the unstable mess that is Lee Jihoon. He doesn’t blame them. He’s living in conditions where compassion is hard to find, and when his throat is seizing up and he can’t breathe, he’s not in a position to spread his legs.

-

“Hi! How are you today?”

Jihoon would respond if he could. He likes that deep and soothing voice and thinks amidst the spikes of pain that it’s a voice he would like to fall asleep to. But the lights are too bright today, and everyone is just so damn loud; he feels small and cramped and incapable of making a sound.

He holds out his hand, and the bowl of soup that’s given to him feels heavier than he can handle. Clutching the bowl between both hands—he’s shaking hard, the liquid swirling up to the edges and spilling over—he takes coltish steps to a table by the window.

He keeps his head bowed as he eats, slowly to savour the moment. Each sip steadies his hand, and his stomach that had collapsed in on itself from hunger begins a vicious clamping.

A shadow comes to loom over him and he ignores it, even when the air at his side displaces to make room for something corporeal, even when an undecipherable grating reaches his ears.

The man is too close, crowding him against the wall. Go away, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. But the man is unrelenting, breath hot and reeking against his cheek. A hand drops to his thigh and he tries to brush it loose, only for fingers to dig in hard into flesh.

“ off,” Jihoon rasps, or at least he thinks he did. He can’t be sure if he said those words, or he just imagined them.

There’s a blur of black in front of him and the man knocks his soup bowl off the table and Jihoon flinches violently as porcelain shatters. God, he ing hates that noise and what it promises. Even as he tells himself that nothing is going to happen, that he’s in a soup kitchen in public, his heart begins to race.

“Stop ignoring me you ing !”

He’s not crammed into a corner and shielding his head, he’s not seven anymore, goddammit, but that night is all his seems to remember and the room slips away into a rundown shed. There’s a knee on his chest, fingers tight around his throat and he can’t manage even a gasping breath—forget fighting back. His mind feels like it’s unravelling.

“Hey! What’s going on here?” Angry and concerned, all rolled up in one.

“Nothing! I didn’t ing do nothing—he just started freaking out.”

Someone is kneeling before him, taking his shaky, clammy hands into warm ones.

“Hey, listen to me. You’re going to be OK.”

Jihoon shakes his head furiously. How the hell is he supposed to be okay when there’s someone choking him and he’s losing his mind?

“Count with me.”

you, I don’t need no counting. I need you to get this man off me—are you blind?

“Ten.” Hands grip his own tight, until it’s at the edge of hurting, and they feel real. “Come on, count. Ten.”

Just to make the man shut up, Jihoon humours him and lets out a chest-shuddering, “Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Nine.”

“Eight.”

“Eight.”

“Seven.”

“Seven.”

He repeats after the man, and somewhere along the way, their breaths align, his throat eases, and the room begins to shift back into focus.

“Good, you’re doing just fine.” Thumbs rub circles over his knuckles.

He’s tired, unbelievably so. Now that he’s regained himself, he feels a bit pathetic that someone had to help him breathe, the most basic of human functions.

Arms pull him in until his forehead is resting on a shoulder and he vaguely registers himself reaching up to clutch at a shirt.

“‘m tired,” he mumbles, his eyelids falling shut.

In the space between consciousness and sleep, Jihoon realises—there’s no static in his head,

-

Jihoon awakes in a dim room, a blessing to his throbbing head. A weak autumn sunlight filters through half-shuttered blinds. He’s used to waking up in unfamiliar places, but this room differs in that it lacks the unwashed and abandoned smell. It smells clean, like an actual home, not just a place to seek shelter. He brings the blanket over his nose and closes his eyes and inhales. This time, he smells freshly brewed coffee and he glances to his side.

“Morning sleepy head. Want some coffee?”

It’s that voice again; the one that greeted him with a cheerful Hi! and the one that settled his nerves in the middle of an anxiety attack.

“Yes, thank you,” he says, voice thick from sleep. Rubbing the crust from his eyes, he sits up. The blankets fall to pool at his waist.

“I took the liberty of changing you into my clothes. I hope you don’t mind.”

Jihoon tugs the loose collar up his shoulder. “It’s fine. Where am I?” His eyes are instinctively drawn to the windows and door in case the situation turns sour and he needs to escape. He tries not to let himself relax even though the coffee is hot in his cold hands and smooth down his throat. Instead, he studies the other man sitting at his bedside, taking in wide, honest eyes and dark hair cut close to the ears. He looks like the kind of man that makes you feel safe and want to open up, but Jihoon knows better than that.

“My place. I took you home after you passed out. It didn’t feel right to leave you there even though your vitals were OK. You had some nasty cuts, but I patched you up. Don’t worry, I’m a pre-med student.” He trails off when he realises that while Jihoon is staring, he isn’t quite paying attention. The man clears his throat and says, ”By the way, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Seungcheol.”

“Jihoon.” He should probably get going. He doesn’t want to be in anyone’s debt, and he certainly doesn’t want to be the charity case of some pre-med student that will probably twist this into a resume-fluffer: volunteers in a soup kitchen, runs a hostel for the homeless. Downing the last of his coffee, he says, “Thanks for your help, but—”

There’s single knock at the door before it swings open with such force that it bangs against the wall.

Seungcheol whips around and Jihoon yanks the blanket to his chest like it’ll do a damn thing to protect him.

A young girl with hair as bouncy as herself skips in.

“Seungcheol! Mom told me you brought your boyfriend home. How come you didn’t tell me you had one?”

Seungcheol sends a panicked glance in Jihoon’s direction, stammering over partially-formed words. “Um, Chaeyoung—”

The girl turns to him and Jihoon is taken aback by a beaming smile, and a set of fine, straight teeth.

“O~oh.” She draws out the syllable with her lips puckered and eyebrows waggling. “This is him, right? Can I guess why he’s wearing your clothes?”

“No, Chaeyoung, you cannot. Could you leave us alone please?”

“No way! I haven’t even introduced myself yet.” She smacks her a palm to her chest. “You’ve probably realised that I’m Chaeyoung by now. I’m Seungcheol’s little sister.”

It’s too noisy, the static is coming back. He just wants quiet. He draws his knees into his chest and rests his cheek there. But his parents didn’t raise him to be some uncivilized barbarian, so he smiles and says, “Jihoon.”

Chaeyoung turns to Seungcheol and gives him the thumbs-up. “You hit the jackpot. Jihoon’s a real looker.”

Jihoon hears Seungcheol swallow hard and he snorts in amusement at the clash of black hair and flame-red cheeks.

“That’s enough, Chaeyoung. Leave Jihoon alone, he’s tired.”

“And whose fault might that be?” Chaeyoung cackles and Seungcheol yells her name, affronted.

“That’s it—you’re getting out of here.” Seungcheol bends down and picks his sister up, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It’s somewhat of a culture-shock to hear Chaeyoung laughing and Seungcheol affectionately cursing at her as he stumbles out of the room.

Jihoon closes his eyes and presses the heel of his palms to them. The door slams shut again and there’s a deep sigh.

“I have a very good explanation for what just happened,” Seungcheol starts.

“Yeah, I’d love to know why you told your family I was your boyfriend.”

Seungcheol groans and rubs his hands up and down his face. “My parents are pretty strict. They don’t know I’m volunteering at a soup kitchen, mixing with homeless people and stuff like that. They’d wig out if they learned I picked you up off the streets. Just thought it’d be easier to introduce you as a boyfriend. If you never wanted to see me again, I could just say we broke up.” The man stuffs his hands into his sweats and looks bashfully at him. “Does it bother you?”

“Are you gay?”

“Depends. You going to make a big deal out of it?”

“No. It’s not really any of my business what you do in bed.”

“Oh, OK, yes. Good.” Seungcheol nods, and keeps nodding, maybe to ward off the awkward silence that will undoubtedly ensue.

Jihoon doesn’t even think before he says, “How do you want me to repay you? You want me on my knees?” He tells himself to shut up. This isn’t the kind of first impression he wants to make on someone that has shown him kindness, but the words come to him unbidden, rising up from a place in his psyche that has been conditioned to act in this way. “I can pretty good. Better than any man you’ve had.”

“What? I-I’ve never—Jihoon!” Seungcheol flushes a deep red all the way to his hairline. “Don’t make jokes like that,” he snaps. “I didn’t do this so you would owe me. You just looked like you needed a hand.”

Jihoon shrugs. “I was only offering.” He knows he’s made things uncomfortable; he can’t really remember how to act around normal people. There’s never been a time when a stranger offered him a bed without expecting something in return.

“Well thanks, but no thanks,” Seungcheol says gruffly. “Anyways, my mom is making lunch right now. She’ll be done in about half an hour. You should rest until then.”

Jihoon nods and Seungcheol leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

A clock ticks on the wall opposite him, a sound he hasn’t heard since his childhood, when he still had a place to call home. He looks around the room, noting the wardrobe with drawers that won’t fully close, the photos that sit atop it. It’s a mismatch of heavy volume texts and study materials in one corner, sports trophies and equipment in the other.

If he had a normal life, would he have a sister? Would his room look like this?

Probably not. He’s an idiot, not pre-med material.

His nose burns and it feels like there’s a golf ball stuck in his throat. It’s pointless thinking about things like this, and he refuses to go down that road. He drags the back of his hand over his eyes and rolls out of bed.

Seungcheol could probably spare him a jacket. If not, he’ll just return it the next time he sees the other. He picks a blue and red club jacket off the carpet and pulls it on. Socks peek out from the drawers and he thinks a pair of socks probably doesn’t mean much to the other.

Jihoon pads over to the window and looks out at the suburban neighbourhood. He slides the window up and sticks his head out. Even the air smells different here.

He swings his leg over the sill, straddling the frame. He doesn’t have to leave now, right? Seungcheol told him to rest, promised him lunch. Chaeyoung is nice; loud, maybe even as loud as the noise that thrums against his skull. They’re people he could get attached to, if he let himself.

He leans a shoulder out next, groping the exterior wall for a drain pipe. Once he has a strong hold of it with one hand, he shimmies out until he’s gripping the pipe like an overgrown-spider.

Jihoon slides down, barefeet hitting concrete, and he regrets not grabbing a pair of shoes. His feet are strangely heavy as he walks away from the house, as he leaves the quaint neighbourhood to return to his own.

He has worn holes through the socks by the time he’s back in his own territory. Grey-graffitied walls, moss-grown red bricks, fences with coils of barbed wire running along the top and heroine needles littered at the bottom. These are the sights he is familiar with. His stomach growls, and he thinks of the lunch he could have eaten, and Seungcheol, and Chaeyoung. Mostly those two. Jihoon sighs.

There are few constants in his life, and people are not one of them.

Author’s note - I wrote this on a whim, so you’ll have to excuse the cluster of tropes I employed in this piece. Since I wrote this without any prior planning, I’m not sure if I’ll expand on it. I tried my best to write it so that it could be read as a stand-alone. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the read! Comments and all that jazz are appreciated as usual.