Without You, There Is No Me 

When Kim Joonmyun was 8 years old, Jongin – a kid at his school – had pushed him harshly into the pumpkin patches behind the science block. Joonmyun had always remembered this instant well; he thinks it may have been his first ever memory and often wonders why his first was so late. The Korean reluctantly recalls the muddied squares on his sunny patchwork jeans tarnished from vibrant yellows and oranges to a harsh, vindictive brown. Little Joonie really couldn’t help but cry at that time as he tried to stand up, yet Jongin was a big boy and only pushed him back down more violently. Joonmyun had sighed in defeat as he hugged his cut knees to his chest. He hadn’t realised the jagged pumpkin vines had attacked his skin, but after the sting set in it was impossible not to acknowledge it. Lay stood at the side, opposite the bullies and called to his friend.
“Come on Joonmyun!” He encouraged “Get up, your cardigan is getting soil on it!” 
​Little Joonie recognised this at once, his navy blue button-up was covered in ill-tasted splodges of dirty soil. It was Joonmyun’s absolute favourite garment of clothing, mainly because his dear umma knitted it for him last winter, the terribly cold winter of 1998. In all honesty, it hadn’t fit him well since spring, but the cherub still insisted it did its job perfectly. Now it was ruined, and Joonmyun wanted to vanish as the kids began to laugh.

“Sehun! Look! Joonie is a weed!” Jongin played harshly as he kicked a clump of soil at the 'weed', it dispersed mid-air like a vile variation of a firework and fell over Joonmyun’s little body, showering over like rain drops.
From the side, Lay could only shake his head; this was so wrong as Joonmyun was such a sweet boy, in fact, that was what made him an easy target. Still, every time the small Korean boy was picked on, Lay’s heart broke a tiny bit more.

Lay sat silently before his plate at dinner, it was ivory and blue just like Joonmyun’s, decorated with all sorts of animals.
Lay knew the names of each and every one.
Joonmyun didn’t. 
Lay was very different to Joonmyun; He was clever, he already knew how to read and write perfectly, he was Chinese of origin and very, very cultured, heck! Lay could even sing! He sang all the time, to Joonmyun mostly, especially when the Korean couldn’t sleep during the dark, relentless nights.
“What happened to you at school, Joonie?” Umma requested as she dished up food for both of the boys; they always had the same particular thing to eat because Joonmyun liked them to be on the same page concerning every little detail. Still, Lay could only stare at his piping hot dinner and wait.
“You were all muddy when you came in baby, what is it?” The woman requested as she sensed something terrible was going on and sat down on the other side of the table, Lay side-eyed the two from where he was precariously sat, swinging his pale legs as they hung from his brown shorts.
Joonmyun shook his head as to indicate the fact he didn’t want to talk about it. However, his mother wasn’t to let it go as she clasped his hands and sighed lovingly.
“Is Raena Kim’s son giving you trouble again sweetie? Jongin? Is that his name?” Joonmyun burst out into tears immediately, he hated crying like this in front of Lay; it made the Chinese angry. As the young boy checked in on his friend’s reaction he could see his own teary orbs reflected in the darkness of Lays shallow, oil-like, eyes:  the Chinese was emotionless, as if looking to Joonmyun to make the next move, he didn’t.

“Joonmyun, please, talk to me. Did he hurt you?”
Joonmyun could only nod and cry even harder, his throat choked up, and his little head began to pound as he recalled the pain of that day. The cut on his pained knee throbbed hard for a dazed second and Joonmyun swore his nose had started to run, no… wait… The small Korean reached up to wipe the liquid from his philtrum and brought his hand before his sight to inspect the properties of the substance leaving his face: blood.
His nose bled, and His head pulsated acutely.
His ears rang.
His feet burnt.
His palms sweat.
His eyelids dropped.
And Lay’s voice penetrated the noise. Stopped it all. Very suddenly.
‘Jongin won’t do it again.’  The Chinese whispered. ‘Okay?’

Joonmyun breathed slowly. He opened his eyes that had appeared to shut tightly on him and embraced the surrounding’s, somehow he had ended up in his mother’s loving arms as she held him close to her chest.
“I love you, my sweet, strange boy.” She whispered, yet Joonmyun cared not for what she was saying as he whispered gormlessly, not clear about who he was answering.
“Okay.”

Now Joonmyun is fifteen years old, and Lay pushes him harshly onto their shared bed. At one time Joonmyun and Lay had owned a bunk bed of which Lay occupied the top bunk of, but now that they had grown out of it, and umma had said: “Joonmyun, grow up.” When he asked where Lay would sleep from then on, they had no choice but to share. 

Some nights Joonmyun draws the conclusion that Lay has always been so violent and that the Chinese wasn’t the one to change, yet he has just wisened to the person his best friend is. 
Joonmyun liked this conclusion the best; Lay is his constant, Lay isn’t allowed to change. Joonmyun however is - that’s what the doctor said - ‘Joonmyun, you need to change’. Joonmyun needs change, Lay agrees too and promises to help induce that.

‘Excitement is what you need Joon.’ Lay suggests as he straddles Joonmyun’s hips and plants messy kisses along his jaw line much to the Korean’s dismay.
“Not tonight Lay,” he exasperates; Joonmyun doesn't mind Lay’s games on an upright day, but the Chinese is getting too liberal, and the kids at the school stare as Lay insist they walk hand in hand. “Not again.”
Lay’s black eyes widen as he aggrevately sees black and manages to engulf Joonmyun - half entice him back into the game - through fear mostly.
‘Why not? I thought you love me.’ 
Joonmyun can’t break the hold Lay’s ominous stare has over him. The Chinese’s eyes are so black and Joonmyun wonders where the iris begins, and the pupil ends, he wants to know how such dark eyes still appear so shallow and, even why, no matter how deep he looks, Joonmyun can find no sign of life.
“I do,” Joonmyun mutters unconvincingly as a small red bead strategically scales the side of his nose and draws a straight line from the corner of his bloodshot eyes to his thin upper lip. Joonmyun is no stranger to the irregular, impromptu bleeding that curses him.
High blood pressure or something, the doctor said.
Joonmyun firmly believes it may be something else.
As the viscous fluid now leaks from his right nostril and even the right side of his pale gums, it is as if his whole circulatory system is migrating south. Crimson pours from his ear and wells like thick syrup in the cartilage conch that Lay had shambolically pierced last summer with a cork-board pin and diamanté stud, Joonmyun hates it but hasn’t taken it out since; it makes Lay happy. All Joonmyun wants to do is make Lay happy because Lay is the better side of himself, investing in the good is always wise, Joonmyun thought; bad things are condemned from the start. Why waste time and effort putting into something that won’t give out?

The right side of the Korean’s face is now a mess, a mess of drying fluid and clumping mucus. It replicates that of a decaying marabou stalk, like rotten meat or even a chaotically skinned angel as the porcelain white of his remaining untarnished skin peeks through the cracks in hell and surfaces optimistically. All the time, Joonmyun and Lay never break the gaze, studying each other’s souls and lack-there-off for times lost in enamoured bliss.
Painful, but still blissful –peaceful.
“I do love you Lay,” Joonmyun smiles through bloodied gums, eyes still sad as ever.

Joonmyun’s mother watches her son through the crack of the ever-so-slightly opened door. It is at times like this, as she watched him bleed and smile, Talk illogically and smile, stare erratically into space and smile that she wonders what had happened to young Kim Jongin a decade ago.     

At school Joonmyun and Lay are rather reclusive, in fact, they don’t truly participate in mainstream school and, therefore, have little time to mingle. Joonmyun has always seen this as a plus; since all the bullying he went through at the primary school, getting away from the dangers other people pose is a godsend.  Lay and himself, are tutored in a private room within the school labelled ‘inclusion’ and despite the sanctuary it provides, Lay hates it. He claims it gives off bad energy, he says things move in there when Joonmyun isn’t looking, Joonmyun has never believed any of this, but that doesn’t stop Lay from refusing to participate in their lesson.

“Come on, you answer one; I don’t know the answer.” Joonmyun moans as he slams his head on the desk. The teacher, Mr. Byun, sighs once more. It seemed that is all he ever does when teaching this ‘class’; Joonmyun is always like this. He spends the whole lesson that he doesn’t know the answers, asking Lay to help and then miraculously coming out with the right answer as if he had actually known all along.
“Joonmyun, please, 6 5x 47 isn’t a hard equation.” Mr. Byun proclaims. Joonmyun is a bright boy yet still struggles with any question he is asked, the Korean seems to have to check with his friend before speaking all the time or even get the answers to what he had been asked from the Chinese altogether.
“Come on Lay –” Joonmyun whispers to his friend who slumps on the desk next to him in an exhausted stance “ – help me out here.”
Lay sits up “Its 2412 Joonie.”  He whispers and gives the Korean a slight ‘smile’ before flopping back on the desk.
Joonmyun wonders why Lay never gets in trouble for such a foul attitude.
“2412 Seonsaegnim.”
Mr. Byun nods, “Good Joonmyun, how did you come to that result?”
Joonmyun looks over to Lay, who is now seemingly asleep, how did this kid get away with it?
“Lay told me Seonsaegnim.” Joonmyun bows his head in disgrace.
Mr. Byun rolls his eyes and averts his gaze to Lay’s seat; somehow Joonmyun notices that the teacher isn’t quite looking at the Chinese, rather past him. “Of course he did.” Neither Joonmyun nor Lay knows how to reply to this; Mr. Byun sounds somewhat sarcastic, annoyed a little. Joonmyun can’t fathom why; Lay is sat right there, he leant in to tell the Korean the answer not 10 seconds ago, it is impossible not to have noticed. Sure enough, after a few seconds and a slight epiphany, Mr. Byun’s face lit up.
“I tell you what, let’s do some drawing Joonm- boys” Mr. Byun suggested as the psychiatrist in him came out  “Joonmyun you draw Lay for me and-“ the teacher paused and stared into space “You draw Joonmyun, Lay.”

Joonmyun loves these tasks, he loves being able to create; he never knows the right answers to any of the questions asked in class, yet this is easy. In addition, Joonmyun loves being able to draw Lay; the Chinese has such an unusual form. Some may consider his long limbs that appear estranged from his body alarming, even his giraffe-like neck is slightly out of the ordinary, and his soulless black eyes do have certain eeriness about them.
Joonmyun admires all of these things none the less.
He doesn’t care that Lay stands a good few feet taller than him despite having a waist the size of an average person’s thigh, Joonmyun thinks this must be because the Chinese hardly eats a thing. He doesn’t care that Lay’s skin is paler than the heavy snow that falls profoundly every January without fail. He doesn’t even care that his friend has a peculiar smell about him, It’s not a bad smell as such, just a very particular one that reaps a certain feeling inside Joonmyun – maybe a sad feeling, a little scared at times.

Baekhyun watches as one of the pieces of paper is scribbled on relentlessly and as the other lays flat on the desk still. Joonmyun’s work is coming together nicely, and the Korean teen finds himself peculiarly wondering if he should do this professionally. Mr. Byun is less enthusiastic as he set eyes on the piece – The disturbingly detailed description of what he was once blissfully unaware of but now is seeing too clearly for comfort.
“This… This is Lay?” He rather asks than states and Joonmyun nods as if the young teacher is crazy.
Joonmyun smiles and rolls his eyes lightly, “Of course, it is Seonsaegnim, can’t you see? It looks just like him!”
The short teacher shakes his head as he stares at the contorted limbs of the creature on the crisp paper, it is like nothing he has ever seen before, not like a boy - barely like a human. It has ghostly eyes and crazed sharp teeth. Never has Mr. Byun received such a disturbing drawing from a boy of Joonmyun’s age and character, it is haunting, terrifying. Somehow, this confirms a hunch Mr. Byun has felt for a while, he knows Joonmyun couldn’t be making all this up;
no one could invent such revulsion.
“Uh… Yes, it… does, undoubtedly Joonmyun… w-well done.”

Mr. Byun internally shivers as he sceptically looks at the pulled out seat and empty desk next to Joonmyun, relieved that he can’t see what the child is able to.

Joonmyun sits on his single bed throughout the unusually dark night of the 6th of October. Annually, such a night brought strangeness in the world of Kim Joonmyun and… Lay. Lay would always arbitrarily disappear for a good 24 hours – just vanish and not come back until the 8th at the least. As a child, Joonmyun always believed the lie that Lay went back to China to see his biological family every year but now that seems strange. Joonmyun wonders what other lies Lay has been telling him since the beginning of time, seeing as the boy is bizarre, to say the least.
For someone who is never ever alone, these few days are bloodcurdling – so, so scary – and considering Joonmyun is a 15-year-old boy reaping sympathy from anyone is a difficult thing; he should know better than to believe in monsters. But then again, why wouldn’t he?
A part of him knows he’s been living with one his whole life. 

4 agonising years later and Joonmyun is 19, he lives alone and attends university to study psychiatry. Lay hates this idea and has hence done everything in his power to prevent Joonmyun from doing so; literal fights have taken place, and Lay insists Joonmyun is way too stupid to do such a science of the brain. The Korean has asserted he must at least try and thus Lay eventually complied. 
As if by surprise, the anticipated night of the 6th rolls around as it does every year and is accompanied by a promise of fear as always:

Since growing older and more intelligent Joonmyun had made sense of the terror in his situation and learned to differentiate the dissimilarities between the fears reaped from the foreign shapes on the ceiling and that inflicted by ominous sounds and auras that hung in the air on these two nights when Lay vanished completely…
Without a trace…
Without any warning apart from the common trend Joonmyun successfully identified long ago.

From when he was 15, Joonmyun remembered the silence. The lingering silence that hung over him all night long as his eyes remained wide open and alert. It wasn’t the fact that Lay wasn’t there that scared him, the fact someone else was present instead, so aware of Joonmyun, so mindful of the fact that they had to stay hidden, left the teenager paralytic.
The consciousness of this… entity, was distressing.

When he was 16, Joonmyun laid dead still in bed as the time struck 11 pm and the soaring grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ominously, reminding him that nothing would be okay as the ultimate bell rang and the sickening silence came down over him once again. Every hour the muteness was abruptly penetrated, and Joonmyun felt some relief: he would roll over, breathe freely or adjust the thinning pillows beneath his weighted head, his disturbance drowned out by the sound of the clock as was everything else. Still, as all this took place, he swore something was getting closer to his being every hour, playing him at his own game and using the long clangs of the clock to mask the stealthy movement to his bedside.

As the sun rose and sneakily peeked through his extensive bedroom window, Joonmyun swore he sighted an obscure shadow slink out of the door. The piece of wood creaking ever so slightly as the teenager watched on in horror.
Joonmyun wanted to be sick yet found he had lost the use of most of his bodily functions – he couldn’t breathe.

When he was 17, Joonmyun slept soundly; he had grown up and coped surprisingly well without Lay.
The clock chimed and Joonmyun was none the wiser,
floor boards creaked, and Joonmyun was none the wiser,
the air groaned and grew thick with malevolence, and still, Joonmyun was none the wiser. That was half the story at least, because at a little after 1 am, as the Korean snored softly and peacefully the brittle nails of a human hand were felt scraping down his soft, pink cheek. They were long and bone like, reaping thin blood from his supple skin and smudging it down past his lips and down his cherry, round chin. Joonmyun froze as he woke at an instant, not knowing if to scream, cry or will himself to die there and then. The bony hand carefully caressed his mess if a face and the coldness of the digits sunk to Joonmyun’s skull immediately. Once again the dagger-like nails pushed into his crust and prompted free flowing blood to spill out of the rapidly pulsating veins, veins so viciously throbbing due to the fearful nature inflicted on his fragile heart.  He screamed so loud and high pitched that every dog on the street could have heard even if no one else did. He screamed for so long and so relentlessly that blood welled up in his throat and threatened to spill from his hollow of a mouth, shouting nothing but pain and fear.
Pain and fear.
Pain and fear are all Joonmyun knows.

Joonmyun spent more time at the ‘School’ that week than he ever had before. 17-year-old Joonmyun had come to appreciate it after that horrific night, maybe even started to seek out the solace it so warmly provided.  Mr. Byun swiftly became his rock as other rocks – namely Lay – were hastily experiencing abrasion so harsh they would be too sharp, too dangerous, before long.
“Is Lay here?” Mr. – now doctor – Byun asked that night as Joonmyun sat before him, legs pulled to his chest as he hugged them tightly.
Joonmyun shook his head, his right cheek was covered with a plaster and the ugly scratches, therefore, were hidden from sight.
“He’s gone,” Joonmyun answered, shifting uncomfortably “He’s not here.”
Dr. Byun didn’t know if this was a good thing or not.
No one knew.
Joonmyun didn’t know anything,
He was institutionalised as a danger to himself.

When he was 18, Joonmyun immaturely hugged his juddering knees on his double bed, gawking at the shapes on the ceiling and realising the one that looked a little like a shrunken skull no longer frightened him.
He had seen too much.
Lay slowly entered the room thick with tension, drink in hand and sat down beside the trembling Korean. He didn’t leave this year due to Joonmyun’s painful pleas and tears, flowing endlessly and distraughtly since March.

That fateful night Joonmyun unwillingly fell lifeless in Lay’s resilient arms.

He woke up in a putrid pool teaming with blood, guts, and maggots. The grim mess oozed as the live spawn seemed to move within themselves –  always travelling yet getting nowhere. Joonmyun hoped it was merely an appalling optical illusion. However, the creatures lethargically ascending up his pale, quivering arm implied the contrary thus reality was free to come crashing down among the single living boy on the bed.

Joonmyun didn’t dare scream; it was blindingly light in the room, and the smell was corrupt enough to clog up his airways before opening his tight little mouth was even an option.  He was gagged by the very real smell of decay and death.
Joonmyun couldn’t say he was surprised as such; he mealy got to his shuddering feet and ambled over to the bathroom, in the aim of a shower. The young man scrubbed his white skin raw as to rid himself of the deathlike smell while he sat directly under the harsh jet of icy water that fell perpetually onto his bloodied scalp. Somehow, this outweighed the horrors of last year and Joonmyun finally let out a strangled cry.

“What… What the even are you?!” Joonmyun screeched frantically as Lay casually sauntered in through the front door a day or so later, looking no different to usual and showing no remorse for deserting the Korean in a time of need.
Lay furrowed his thick, black eyebrows “Whatever you want me to be.” He emptily proclaimed.
Joonmyun thought that was a rubbish answer.

Now, at 19, Joonmyun is alone again and anticipating a new variation of horror to come across his presence. It is days like this when he is paralytic with anxiety that all the bad he can remember floods into his twisted mind and plays on it like a rusty swing set. Creaking ominously as he is incessantly tormented over and over.
That’s how it works, though, isn’t it? Your mind starts playing tricks on you, you get irrational and for some reason begin to speculate what happened to that one little boy you haven’t seen in 14 years because unexpected disappearances weren’t really normal right?
Joonmyun didn’t think of little Jongin a lot, yet when that particular gleam of frantic craziness seeps from Lay’s eyes, he can’t help it. Lay isn’t here right now, yet Joonmyun is still thinking – always thinking – and wonders if it may have something to do with the large room around him driving him crazy. Maybe the echo bouncing off the walls – from the kitchen to the Livingroom, to the bathroom to the bedroom – maybe it is driving him insane.

Now, after last year, Joonmyun doesn’t care to distinguish where Lay goes when he leaves him alone for these two callous nights. In fact, that is one of the only things Joonmyun isn’t thinking about right now because he knows speculating about it leads to the darkest thoughts about his… companion one could ever have. Instead, he sits with the bright light on, back against the bedroom door so no one can enter, and his eyes darting from every side of the room as to monitor everything in it.
When moving in Joonmyun made a conscious decision not to place any furniture in a space that could compromise his vision of any corner of the room. Doing such could be fatal in Joonmyun’s warped opinion.

All of a sudden, just when the Korean is beginning to relax, his only comfort flickers threateningly and then shuts off completely. Joonmyun freezes; the dark has threateningly closed in, and god knows what else with it.

Now, every time Joonmyun takes a breath he feels like he is inviting another to stop his breathing as if he is taunting all the unknown entities that have a complex regarding him. He doesn’t want to stand up in fear of being struck down and won’t dare cry in fear of being perceived. The door creaks gradually behind him and the handle rattles slightly as he adjusts the weight he leans on the fancy plank of wood. The rats under the floor seem to get louder, and the trees outside are defiantly rustling more. Joonmyun doesn’t want to stay in his flat and remembers that McDonalds is open 24/7, maybe he could crash there? A silly idea as the young man can’t even move from fear at this point and, again, wonders if it is possible to kill yourself just from the strong will to do so. Maybe he had a self-destruct button somewhere in his consciousness – Joonmyun does hope least.

As if he is suspended in the plot in a cliché horror movie an abrupt knock comes at Joonmyun’s front door and leaves him stuck to the spot.  He is unsure if he has really just heard it at first and is just as shocked as it comes again, and then again, and again until he really can’t take it and shoots to his feet. Standing steadily, he exits his room in a hurry, slamming the door out of impulse and regretting the sound it echoes through the eerie hallway immediately.  The long room, consisting of walls painted with the foreshadowing colour of putrid Crimson, seems to stretch a mile as the vibrations from the knocking continue to travel down the walls and shake Joonmyun’s bones.  Despite being scared of everything and anything, Joonmyun decides enough is enough and knocking like that at such a time is beyond rude. He tip-toes down the length of the hallway and reaches for the door intent on telling whoever it is to go away… unless it is Lay and Joonmyun really, really hopes it is because all this tautness is getting so weird and he doesn’t know if he can take it any longer.

When the knocking finally stops, Joonmyun clumsily fiddles with the lock, taking off the silver latch and unchaining each and every precaution he took to keep himself safe – God knows what would happen if he had to get out of the flat – the door is gradually opened. Joonmyun stands silently and puts on a hostile stance because a stranger is at his door and he honestly can’t pin a reason to why.
“Kim Joonmyun?” The Man asks curiously. He stands, shivering in a leather jacket, his hands are in the pockets, and his shoulders appear to be incredibly broad. Everything he is wearing is just as black as the thick hair on his head and the orbs in his eye sockets. Joonmyun considers that this may be the start of his nightmare but confirms his name with a subtle nod anyway.
The man also nods upon realising he had the right person and shuffles on his feet. Joonmyun now notices his leather laced boots and wonders why such a tall man requires heeled shoes, himself, however, probably could do with a pair.
 A mental note is taken.
“I’m, sorry, but who are you?”  Joonmyun bravely requests as the man says no more. Despite being somewhat embarrassed to be seen in his underwear and lacking a shirt, Joonmyun hopes that his dress code insinuates to this stranger that he is ready for bed, and not really up for guests.
The tall man takes an exaggerated deep breath. “My name is Kim Jongin, I don’t know if you remember me – I was – it has been a long time, I this – 11 years?”
Joonmyun doesn’t think such a horrible person could grace his presence at a better time. In any other circumstances, he wouldn’t care much for the boy, but Jongin has been on his thoughts recently, and Joonmyun actually has some questions.
“I… remember,” Joonmyun precariously confirms as he opens the door wider, not sure what he is doing because this is the first time he has talked to someone – apart from the doctors and his mother – without Lay present… in fact, Lay always tells Joonmyun what to say, and the Korean is lost right now.
“Come in.”

After lighting a copious amount of candles of all recreations and distributing them to the darkest corners of the room, as if sending them to do the work too difficult for himself, Joonmyun offers Jongin a drink as they sit awkwardly in the sombre light. Despite the visual impairments at work, the short Korean can see the other squinting as if evaluating –analysing.  Joonmyun is uncomfortable, to say the least, and he wishes Lay was around to tell him what to do. On the other hand, Jongin is company, and if Joonmyun isn’t to have Lay he will take anyone he can get.
Joonmyun can still feel four pairs of eyes on him.
Jongin definitely only has two, yet the former still finds himself checking every now and then.
“You seem well.” Jongin offers politely as he clutches his hands nervously, Joonmyun doesn’t like the way Jongin itches his wrists; it hits way to close to home and references some horrific habit that they seem to share.
Joonmyun thinks Jongin’s remark is stupid; anyone can see that he is a wreck.
“I’m not.”
Jongin awkwardly nods while avoiding eye contact and then, surprisingly, cuts to the chase. “I’m here to apologise; it’s part of my rehabilitation scheme.” He comments very surly, “so… I’m sorry.”
Joonmyun ponders what in the world possessed Jongin to do such a thing at such a time, why now? Why so suddenly? Joonmyun’s brain has a habit of malfunctioning when Lay isn’t there to sort it for him; Lay is his better sense, his filter, his brain’s left side! Without him, Joonmyun is just a good painter with a pretty face.

Jongin sighs, feeling definate defeat as he gets to his feet having not earned a response, the floor board below His weight moan sluggishly. The wind blows hard, and a bolt of lightning illuminates the room as thunder bellows. Jongin swears he sees a figure in the doorway, its cover blown by the sudden radiance that inhabited the vast room. Joonmyun never claimed to live alone so Jongin doesn’t think too much of this.  The rain is pattering hard against the foggy glass, and it bounces off the window frame, sounding harmless but hiding something menacing. The short Korean isn’t a fan of noise pollution; it is a handicap to his senses.
“I’ve been at a detention centre for ‘evil’ children, I was exorcised and poked and…” Jongin’s words choke him, and Joonmyun is sure the taller is at risk of an atrocious death by asphyxiation.
“Go on.” The smaller encourages and is secretly relieved when his guest takes a seat once more. It gives Joonmyun security that he won’t leave, on top of this, the latter still hasn’t decided if Jongin is allowed to leave anyway.
“My mum – She’s crazy; she sent me to repent for my crimes as a damn 5-year-old!” Jongin raged with discomfort “She told people I was dead!” Joonmyun knows this too well, he now wonders why he wasn’t more shocked to see Jongin at his door… he guesses it is due to the fact he didn’t really know who he was at first; the initial surprise was taken away. 

Jongin’s crazy eyes suddenly get wide, they scream silently, and Joonmyun wants to take them from their sockets and squish them under his itching feet; he knows the jelly-like orbs will leak ominousity and thinks to release the pressure – the malevolent energy –will be good for his soul. Jongin’s that is… yes, definitely Jongin’s. Regrettably, Joonmyun leaves them to subside in their sockets as the tan man before him seems to shake:
“I’ve seen hell.” He proclaims with a dead tone, so dead Joonmyun thinks he may be dead… like a ghost, one of his tormenters obviously!
Joonmyun wants to take the eyes again.
“I’ve seen hell, Joonmyun.”

The objects of the short Korean’s fiction begin to water; cry, as the lights flicker back on, and an impulsive, shrill scream can be heard coming from the black hole in Jongin’s distorted face. Joonmyun wants to plug it yet withholds as he realises he is also unconsciously screeching…
In fact, he’s the only one making a noise…
Jongin is silent…
Jongin is on the floor, laid flat and lifeless. Joonmyun can still feel two pairs of eyes on himself as he looks directly into the object of his fears. It doesn’t look like Lay, Lay may be something not of this realm – Joonmyun might just admit that silently to himself –  but he’s a hell of a lot friendlier on the eyes than this. Joonmyun is accustomed to Lay’s obscurities, yet he can never see himself getting adapted to the limp hanging jaw of its face nor the nine-inch razor like nails that hang in hundreds from its rope-like arms. The short Korean can’t avert his gaze as he continues to scream effortlessly as if it’s just another part of homoeostasis. Its ‘hand’ comes up and glides over Joonmyun’s chest, easily cutting away the fabric and allowing Joonmyun’s shirt to fall off his frame like a flimsy, white sheet. He is crying uncontrollably and hardly breathing as the ‘thing’ straightforwardly tucks it digits under his skin and blood wells rapidly on his sternum.
Joonmyun doesn’t even notice he is horizontal now;
he isn’t even conscious now.

Lay once told Joonmyun about haemophilia, “It’s when you bleed and bleed and bleed and never ever stop!” the young Chinese had proclaimed with manic eyes. Joonmyun thought this sounded horrible. Now he thinks he understands.  The blood keeps pouring and, even though he’s not clearly conscious, Joonmyun is very aware; as if he is dreaming or in some state of sudden paralysis. All the Korean knows is that he can’t move and may or may not have a heart still in his skinned chest. The first thing Joonmyun experiences certainly is the firm grip Jongin has on his shoulders and uses this as an indication that the previous state they were in was over. Joonmyun can’t quite tell one moment from another, and the last and this has run together and joined inconspicuously.

“Why are you bleeding?” Jongin asks with horror plastered on his pretty face. It isn’t as pretty now, more contorted than before... just ever so slightly wrong. Jongin’s smile seems lacking, it seems empty and, furthermore, it fails to reach his eyes.
Joonmyun thinks he finally has a grip on reality yet as he sits up, Jongin isn’t Jongin… that perturbed face isn’t Jongin’s. Joonmyun stares as the skin fluidly slinks to the ground, spreading out over the rotting wood flooring and evenly travelling in a viscous manner as if someone spilt PVA glue. Joonmyun can only stare and violently shake; he wants to move, run, but he knows his legs can’t deal with this and instead sits tight.  The creature appears to dissolve entirely, seeping through the floor boards seemly to bother those on a lower level or maybe making its descent into hell – Joonmyun isn’t religious, but this concept immediately consumes his unintelligible mind. In the end, nothing is left but a black aura and, still, the young Korean doesn’t even dare move.

Jongin is undoubtedly still lifeless on the ground, Joonmyun can see this now. He looks to the younger, he wants to poke him with a stick to check his status yet Joonmyun thinks this may be rude in the end.
It’s only now that the pale boy remembers the gelatinous blood all over his body.
He faints too. 
No doubts this time.
He’s gone.

Lay walks in to see Joonmyun sat at the quaint breakfast table with the whole room in chaos. All the furniture has been messily pushed out of the main room, and the only thing that remains is the circular wooden piece and two chairs. Both are occupied and Lay wonders who this stranger is.
Joonmyun feels his blood boil.

The reason for clearing the space around him is simple to Joonmyun: surveillance.  Jongin has also agreed upon this plan as he came to that very morning; the tall Korean is pretty messed up over the whole event and honestly believes he’s seen hell for the second time in his life, but he owes it to Joonmyun to stick around. This is why Jongin doesn’t do a runner as the door randomly creaks open, and a cloud of malevolent energy sweeps through the room.

Lay scowls in Jongin’s general direction; he doesn’t know the identity of the newcomer yet in his heart knows it can be no one else. He is the child that made Joonmyun’s head such a horrible place to live, who angers Lay more than anyone else and now he is the man who will do it all again.
Lay knows it.
Lay knows all.
Lay doesn’t believe in second chances, Joonmyun does, however, and the small “This is Jongin.” that leaves the Korean’s mouth proves to Lay that Joonmyun is already smitten.
“I know.”
 Lay says as he takes a seat in the far corner of the grand living room, under the big window. Joonmyun had decided that this is Lay’s spot; he seems to retreat to the window sill constantly throughout the day and seeing him there was somehow right. Through the light, though, Joonmyun doesn’t think Lay looks quite the same; he looks less… whole, as if the hot brightness has burnt a hole through his top layer and Joonmyun can now see right inside his sorry being.
Jongin isn’t confused, he knows exactly who Joonmyun is talking to; he does remember. Jongin is just surprised that Joonmyun never grew out of, what everyone called, his ‘phase.' It immediately strikes the newcomer as a rather sad affair, and he can’t help but feel his heavy beating heart shrink in his tight chest.
 “You still…. Lay.” He tries his hardest to form a coherent sentence but somehow fails at the simplest of tasks.
“Huh?” Joonmyun isn’t really paying attention “Lay… yes… he’s in a strop right now, I’m very sorry, he doesn’t mean to be rude.”
Jongin scowls in thought, not in a particularly critical way, however. “That’s…okay, that’s fine.” He replies while drinking his coffee, still thinking very deeply as his nose crinkles slightly, “Does he know what happened last night?” Jongin requests, not really sure if he knows himself what happened last night.

Joonmyun looks to Lay, who nods solemnly in the corner, angry and sad at the same time. “Yes.” Joonmyun projects because Lay knows absolutely everything about Joonmyun and his life alike.
“I brought light bulbs too…. The fuse burnt them out, right.” 
Joonmyun nods to Lay, “Thank you.” he speculates where Lay ever gets money from but later reminds himself that Lay doesn’t do anything by the book and is probably incline to the odd act of theft.
As he witnesses the monologue led by Joonmyun and Joonmyun only, Jongin feels uncomfortable. The room is cold, and his heart may still never recover from the trauma he has faced in the past hours. “Hey.” He says while digging a pen from his jacket pocket “this is my number.” Jongin doesn’t care if it is rude to scribble on a stranger’s furniture but he does it anyway. “Call me if you-“ he pauses “-want a friend.”

Lay thinks Joonmyun has enough friends already.

Joonmyun lays wide awake the next night thinking of the numbers scribbled on his table. They play in his mind like a code he has to crack and torment every essence of his being. Joonmyun hears Lay scowl beside him, he doesn’t know how he hears a scowl precisely yet somehow his sixth sense allows him to know exactly how his ‘friend’ feels.  Still, the short Korean ignores this the best he can and stares at the ceiling as his heart pounds; He felt both angry and happy at the same time – no wait, Lay is the angry one, Joonmyun just finds it hard to separate the two of them and their thoughts.

When he awakes in the morning, Joonmyun realises anger in his heart. Lay is ‘asleep’ next to him, and his pale skin is almost illuminating, ghost-like even as he stays perfectly still, staring at the ceiling under his closed eyelids. Sometimes when Joonmyun looks at Lay, he isn’t actually there, and this is one of those times. All it takes is one blink for the body before Joonmyun to disappear completely. Joonmyun can still see the indent in the overly soft mattress, covered with a sheet of red – red is a good colour giving the random bleeding both Joonmyun and Lay experience frequently.

After the disappearance, Lay is nowhere to be seen yet all the furniture in the main room has been put back in its usual spot. This is strange to Joonmyun as he pads in with his bare feet, cringing at the cold as it travels up his shivering form. It always seems colder when Lay isn’t around, and he can’t help but reap in the paranoia as he shifts from foot to foot on his tip toes. The white light from the sun shines into the vast room as the white net curtains blow gracefully in the howling wind, chilling the air around him as he makes a b-line to shut the window he can’t quite remember opening. That’s okay though because Joonmyun can never really be sure of remembering anything.

 A sigh of relief can be heard as Joonmyun stops the chill at its source and opens the translucent curtains, he doesn’t really know why they are necessary, yet Lay insisted they were needed despite a lack of function.  Looking around the room, the kitchen table catches the Korean’s attention, and he remembers the phone number and about Jongin once more. A peculiarity regarding the inanimate object arises because Joonmyun knows for a fact the long, deep scratches engraved in the wood were not there before he went to sleep last night. They were perturbed and estranged, stretching over and masking the number that they ominously etched away. 

In a split second Joonmyun’s absent minded gawking switches to a fit of panic. He bounds the rest of the way over to the structure and runs over the scars with his hand trying his best to make out the numbers that used to be there. Now that it definitely isn’t an option, all Joonmyun wants to do is call Jongin; he has questions for the tall, dark and handsome man who has walked into his life unprompted and – dare he say it – wants to get to know him. 
It shouldn’t be like this; Jongin has offered a second chance for the pair of them, and Joonmyun wants to take it.
Joonmyun wants a chance at something real.
Joonmyun doesn’t even know what ‘real’ is.

This hurts a lot, and the Korean can only sob piteously as Lay watches from the tall door frame. He leans lazily within the wooden arch and perplexes as he observes the sorrow in his companions leaking eyes, the contort of his face and the shaking of his frail body.
Joonmyun looks particularly weak today as he falls onto a wooden chair with little regard for his bones; he couldn’t care for the pain induced right now. Joonmyun thinks that this is what regret feels like, he is wrong because this, in fact, is what true desire feels like. 
Lay has always been enough for Joonmyun because Joonmyun has always been enough for Lay.
Lay can see that changing before his very eyes as they begin to bleed gelatinous cysts that trail down his pale cheeks only to puddle on the wooden floorboards below.

A few mundane weeks of a moody Lay and Joonmyun going about his messed up life in the usual way; slipping in a and out of reality as if it had a revolving door, the Korean sees Jongin again. They seem to be living in the same area, and Joonmyun is delighted to cross paths with the taller in the streets.
Lay is not.
Still, the day is sunny, and the birds sing loudly under the thick canopy of velvet leaves, sprouting out from every tree delicately planted at equal intervals along the pale pavement. Joonmyun is finding it very hard to be miserable despite Lays opposition to his happy encounter.
The elder loves the way Jongin speaks with his hands as he gets over engaged while telling his life story as the two – no three – of them sit in a rustic café on Jongin’s side of the district.
Lay hates it, he tells Joonmyun this repeatedly: “Let's go, you do not need him; you have me,” he informs.
Joonmyun loves the way Jongin dresses in jet black all the time, it is even as if he rides a motorbike – head to toe leather. It really doesn’t matter that he is actually dressed rather inappropriately for the weather because Jongin looks amazing.
Lay thinks this looks stupid and makes sure to express his disapproval to Joonmyun again, Lay wants to get right up and walk out of there maybe bashing Jongin’s skull in before he does so.
 Lay hates Jongin.

Soon enough Lay notices Jongin become a more constant fixture in their life’s and will not stand to deal with it. In fact, he plans to tell Jongin where to stick his happy smiles and polite, caring hugs; Lay thinks they feel gross anyway.

“Whats wrong Joonie?” Jongin asks one day as the two sit on the plush sofa in the large airy room, half watching the TV half lounging around for the sake of being able to.
Joonmyun doesn’t see the point in lying as Lay shoots the pair glare from his window seat and then looks away in a childish slump.
“Lay hates you.”
Jongin scowls, not sure if this should really bother him or not, “Oh.” he manages, at first, not following with anything else as he awkwardly thinks of something to say. Jongin now notices what a high ceiling Joonmyun has and wonders why this is, maybe the latter likes wide spaces. “Lay, Huh?”
Joonmyun nods, “he thinks you’re-“ the short Korean looks to his hidden other half as Lay mouths the words on his mind, looking more and more vexed as he is forced to spend time with Jongin. “Lay thinks you’re taking me away.”

Jongin sighs as he averts his gaze from Joonmyun; he really wants this to work, he really does yet can’t see it doing so if this ‘Lay’ continues. Joonmyun is obviously ill, and Jongin does want to help. Maybe if he can lend assistance, then the two of them could start something – something normal. “And-“ he begins pausing in anticipation as he doesn’t know whether or not asking questions is wise. Jongin minutely remembers a mention of ‘Lay’ from when they were children, frankly, it is scary “-where is Lay?”
Joonmyun chuckles, not sure if he is mocking Jongin’s stupidity or feeling miserable; he has known something isn’t right with Lay for a long time, he knows other people can't see him. “He is sitting on the window sill.” Joonmyun proclaims almost monotonously “He likes it there.”
Jongin shivers as he looks over to the opening in the wall. The windowsill is rather wide and scattered with cushions, it fits the generally Victorian feel of the room, and Jongin finds himself wondering if this is one of ‘Lay’s’ preferences. “N-Now?” the tan Korean stutters “Like, you see him sitting there, just like you see me.”
Joonmyun shrugs, his eyes looking right through Jongin as he speaks terrifyingly objectively: “sort of.” he admits “not quite.”
Jongin is vexed. “what?” He questions because, honestly, nothing makes sense to him and Joonmyun is going to have to explain.
“You made him angry” Joonmyun bri