Part IX. The Sky, Torn
 

The Izu peninsular, or at least what Kyungsoo had seen of it, was beautiful. 

In total he had spent almost three months in hospital. A low level case of pneumonia had warranted enough concern to delay his release by several weeks and by the time he had finally been given the all-clear, winter had come to its final days. He saw it in the hills he passed — the signs of life in the scenery he would have otherwise missed, had he not been actively searching. 

Ito was a small city surrounded by hills that slid down to the sea. Beyond the city rolling mountains had grown, spreading across the landscape until they met the coastline and would turn abruptly into cliffs of dark volcanic stone that would drop down into the churning water below. The Japanese pines would sway in the ocean winds, branches bent from enduring the harshness of the changing seasons. It was beautiful and unforgiving, the perfect kind of place for Kyungsoo to banish himself to. 

They had passed through the city without stopping — Kyungsoo had wordlessly taken in the strange combination of its more modern aspects contrasted against the traditional wooden buildings that were scattered almost haphazardly throughout the city centre. Japan was strange, in a way. The nation was so rich in history that there was no possible way to organise it all away for the sake of preservation — things of historic value sat in plain sight, like pieces of furniture that you had grown so used to that you would walk past without batting an eye twice. Some nations were lucky to have fifty years worth of history, untouched and unblemished, and would hoard evidence of their national identity fiercely. Japan, on the other hand, had too much to possibly keep track of: beautiful, hundred-year old buildings sat on modern shopping streets, at the mercy of the elements, unchanged despite the years. 

Something about this made the past seem much closer and alive, in a way. It wasn’t as if there was a divide between the two, rather it was all just one present continuous that spanned from hundreds, if not thousands, of years back to the very moment Kyungsoo found himself in. It was reassuring, in that Kyungsoo could see that no matter what happened, the world would continue. But at the same time it was frightening to recognise his own smallness in the grand scheme of things. Who were the people who had built they buildings he passed, so long ago? Who had these people been, before they had been lost to time? He couldn’t miss a person he didn’t know, but it made him wonder if there was anyone who would search for him, should he vanish in a similar way.

Jongin’s luxurious Audi drove smoothly along the winding roads that climbed through the city and up into the surrounding hills. It was misting slightly, patches of fog having settled on the mountainous road. As the buildings around them grew fewer and further between, Kyungsoo allowed himself to relax into the passenger seat and close his eyes, the purr of the cars engine hypnotic. Jongin remained wordless besides him. Kyungsoo knew that the peace within the space they inhabited would vanish the moment the car stopped and he opened the door. The scar in his stomach throbbed vaguely, and he frowned ever so slightly, eyes opening.

Sometimes Kyungsoo would catch himself staring at the scars on his body, angry, jagged and red against his flesh, wondering just how things had played out the way they had. He tried not to dwell, however, and more often forced himself to move on from the topic than not. Avoiding his own reflection had become commonplace, however, and whenever he got changed he would try his best not to look down at his own body. The wounds he had received were still fresh, barely healed and prone to aching despite the months that had passed since he had first received them. When he did take the time to look at his own reflection, he would fixate on the face that stared back out at him. He scarcely felt present — the person reflected at him was too thin, shadowed eyes and sunken cheeks a precursor of ill-health. The gauntness had been startling, the fragile, childlike expression somehow infuriating. Even his hair, which had grown out, softened him — it curled around his ears and framed his too-large eyes. Kyungsoo felt disconnected from himself. Surely the person he saw was not actually him: he tried to locate the divide between the person he was on the outside and the soul housed within him, but there was none — any discrepancies he felt were within his own head and he was left feeling tormented.

“Can you give me a haircut?” Kyungsoo asked abruptly into the silence of the car, twisting a lock of his too-long fringe between his thumb and forefinger.

Jongin glanced at him. “Of course. The house is fairly well stocked so I should have some scissors available.” His reply was easy.

“Thank you.” Kyungsoo murmured.

The silence settled between them once more and Kyungsoo turned to look out the window he sat beside, eyes blank as the car continued smoothy along the road. The misty rain fell heavier the further they climbed, the budding spring greenery startling in its brightness against the darkness of the tee branches they grew on. Everything was damp, the sky a cloudy grey above them. He could have stayed that way, forever, if given the option. 
 

Jongin’s holiday home was an elegant and traditional Japanese home that had been built in the crook of a sloping hill. Wooden and solid, it sat nestled and tucked away, blending naturally into its surroundings. The dirt road that led up to it curved into a circular turning junction that was shaded by well established maple trees, their bases covered in a thick green moss, so lush it almost appeared to be grass. Jongin slowed the car gradually before parking directly in front of the house.

“I bought the home a number of years ago on a whim. It was in a state of disrepair and renovations were finished just recently.” Jongin said as he turned the ignition of his car off.  

“Its beautiful.” Kyungsoo said truthfully as he eyed the building that sat nearby.  

“Thank you.” Jongin smiled. “Let’s head in before the rain picks up.”

The two men exited the car and made their way quickly to the entrance of the house. Jongin carried Kyungsoo’s bag with ease and Kyungsoo focussed on walking smoothly, ribs still twinging with pain.

The floor of the lower level tataki was solid packed dirt, shaped from the very hill the house was built, and the wooden walls enclosed and darkened the space. Kyungsoo slipped his shoes off carefully, movements slow so as to avoid causing any hurts to flare up. Jongin stood waiting just inside the entrance, having already removed his shoes and carried Kyungsoo’s bag up the one wooden step into the main foyer of the home. When Kyungsoo joined him, the Doctor smiled a small smile.

“Welcome.”

Kyungsoo smiled in response. Doing so felt strange, however, so he quickly looked away from the Doctor and opted to instead look at his surroundings. Jongin moved silently and Kyungsoo followed him — the house was, in all respects, traditional. However, Kyungsoo could see Jongin’s influence in the way it had been renovated: modern features for the sake of comfort that had been carefully placed so as to blend in. The Fusuma sliding doors had been opened to rearrange the living space within the home into one large, open room and the two men padded quietly across the tatami flooring. Jongin didn’t pause, instead leading Kyungsoo onto the wooden engawa veranda that circled the house, enclosed by the tasteful modern Amado storm shutters he had obviously had installed during renovations. 

“Once the weather clears you can open the shutters in this section of the house to let in some air.” Jongin said quietly as they walked. “The view from the veranda is pleasant, too.”

“That sounds nice.” Kyungsoo said simply. 

The engawa veranda circled around the house before splitting off, a new path leading off the main section they had been walking along. Kyungsoo glanced at Jongin apprehensively and the Doctor smiled. 

“This is actually the main living section of the house. What we just passed through would have once been reserved for receiving guests.” 

Kyungsoo nodded dumbly in response as Jongin led him down the enclosed passageway. It was short — spanning only two or so meters from the main section of the house, and opened to a similarly fashioned living space, albeit far more modestly sized. 

Jongin had already started sliding open the storm shutters to Kyungsoo’s left. The rain fell steadily outside and Kyungsoo stared out unabashed, admiring the garden. There was an air of carefully planned wildness to the view — Kyungsoo could tell it was the kind of garden that had been deliberately sculpted to look the complete opposite: although it looked for the most part untouched by human influence, this was certainly not the case. Kyungsoo recognised that appearances were deceiving — every leaf had been clipped, every rock strategically placed, and every branch carefully shaped in order to maximise the beautifully designed view before him. Water trickled down the hanging Toyo rain chains that extended from the gutters and a cool breeze rose goosebumps across Kyungsoo’s arms as he stepped from the tatami mat flooring onto the wooden engawa veranda space. Almost an arms span away was a beautiful camellia, the glossy leaves dark green and speckled with drops of water. Kyungsoo reached out to brush his fingers across the closest one and was surprised at how tough the leaf felt under his fingertip. 

“That particular camellia has white blooms, but we just missed them. They tend to flower in late winter.” Jongin’s voice sounded from behind him. “I’ve been contemplating obtaining some Camellia Sinensis.” 

“The tea species?” Kyungsoo asked simply.

Jongin stepped next to him. “Yes. I thought it might be interesting to try making my own green tea from scratch at least once. I find the store bought teas sadly lacking in depth a great deal of the time, too. Perhaps if I made my own teas I wouldn’t be as disappointed.” 

Kyungsoo smiled slightly at the sentiment — it was such a typical Jongin type of thing to say. He forced himself to look up at the Doctor. 

Jongin was looking out at the garden, side profile chiseled in the weak afternoon light. Suddenly, Kyungsoo was overwhelmed by an emotion he couldn’t place.

“Thank you, Jongin.” Kyungsoo said sincerely. “The house is wonderful.” 

Jongin looked down at him. “I’m glad it’s to your liking.” 

The two men turned back out towards the garden, shoulders brushing and a silence settling as they watched the soaking rain falling from the dark clouds above. For a moment Kyungsoo closed his eyes as the breeze dispersed the rain and sprayed a fine mist of damp coolness across his skin. Jongin felt solid and stable beside him and Kyungsoo wondered vaguely if how he felt in the moment was as close to peace a person like him could get. He wanted to dig his fingers into the feeling even if it meant begging Jongin not to leave him alone, where the horror could get him. If this was peace, it was too brief and easily lost. An unexplainable sadness filled Kyungsoo so he forced his eyes open and pushed the thoughts from his mind. 
 

The morning after arriving, Kyungsoo had watched in silence as Jongin moved about him, the sound of scissors snipping accompanied by the sight of clumps of his dark hair falling to the ground around their feet. 

“How short do you want it?” Jongin had asked him before starting. 

“Get rid of it all.” Kyungsoo had replied simply.

When he had taken a trepidatious glance at his reflection in the bathroom later on, his hair had been buzzed to his head, dark and spiky against the paleness of his face and scalp. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but the person who stared at him with dark eyes wasn’t the same fragile person he had seen before, which placated his uneasy heart. The softness had been replaced by something else that Kyungsoo wasn’t sure what to name. Whatever it was, though, he found it preferable and tolerable to the weakness he had exuded.  

“You look like an adult.” Jongin said from behind him.

Kyungsoo’s lips twitched. “What on earth did I look like before, if not an adult?”

“A youth.” Jongin replied simply. “I always found it disconcerting to see you in the situations you were in because of how young you appeared. When I found out your age I was very much surprised.”

It wasn’t the first time Kyungsoo had heard such a thing and he let out a huffed breath of laughter — his wide eyes and soft features were beguiling, he supposed. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

Jongin’s lips had quirked upwards. “Of course.” 
 

Jongin had driven them into Ito after cooking a light lunch for them to eat — Kyungsoo’s stomach still hurt frequently due to the injury he had received and he had to be careful of the food he ate, lest it irritate his stomach. Jongin, like always, was more than willing to accomodate him.

The winding road back to Ito was wet with the previous days rain and Kyungsoo had gazed out the window quietly, a mixture of apprehension and anxiety rolling in the base of his chest at the thought of going out into public. His experience of leaving the hospital after his discharge had been unexpectedly traumatic as a large group of journalists, who had somehow gotten wind of his release, had gathered at the main entrance. The sight of their cameras had sent Kyungsoo into a panicked tailspin and Minseok had had to lead him to an alternative back exit to avoid the press while Jongin dispersed the crowd that had gathered. 

They wanted to catch a glimpse of the person who had killed the notorious Kanagawa Killer. Kyungsoo didn’t blame them, but it didn’t mean he was willing to let them have their way at his expense. He was the murderer of a murderer — a different kind of killer, that much could be said, but a killer none the less. He was cut from the same cloth as a rest of them. Surely he had the justification of self-defence — the use of deadly force was justifiable, under the circumstances. But it wasn’t whether he was justified or not that was the issue — the issue lay in the manner in which he proceeded to act out his justice. Kyungsoo wasn’t stupid — he had made sure to say in the loop, and he knew that the press had made sure to spread all the details — the savagery of his actions in highest priority. Could self-defence be claimed? Kyungsoo knew that a lot of people had doubts. In the eyes of the normal citizen, he was just another freak-show exhibition, a macabre display to be ogled at and dissected.

A burst of bitter laughter seared its way up his throat and Kyungsoo started at the sound of it, surprised at himself. He turned with wide eyes to Jongin, who was looking at him quietly. Kyungsoo hadn’t realised they had arrived — Jongin had already parked the car in an almost empty parking lot and Kyungsoo glanced around, noting the building dark clouds beyond the car window.

“Do you think… if I had killed Chanyeol any other way, would people have felt differently about me?” The question left Kyungsoo unbidden. He could still taste the blood in his mouth and the feeling of thick warm blood, slick across his flesh, made his skin crawl. 

“I do.” Jongin responded simply. “What you did is unpalatable to the average person.” 

Kyungsoo closed his eyes briefly. Jongin’s honesty was painful. 

“You’re not the type to want to be heroised, nor are you the kind of person who searches for praise.” Jongin said softly, his tone matter-of-fact. “But there’s still something bitter in this all, isn’t there?”

“Bitter, yes, that’s one way to put it. I was hoping that…” Kyungsoo trailed off a moment before brushing the thought away with a wave of his hand. “Never mind.” He smiled at the Doctor weakly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Let it matter to me then, on your behalf” Jongin’s expression appeared oddly tender, perhaps with pity, and something about the sentiment behind the Doctor’s words made Kyungsoo’s eyes burn. 
 

A bitterness clung to Kyungsoo. It had sunk it teeth into his heels like some sort of rabid dog and refused to let go without a good fight. 

And as of late, Kyungsoo had no fight left in him to give.

He knew life was continuing for everyone but him — Minseok called weekly to check in on him, their conversations stilted and awkward, and from Kyungsoo’s end riddled with little lies. Yes, he was feeling fine and sleeping well. No, he wasn’t having issues with nightmares anymore. They rolled from his mouth, like dull marbles that clinked emptily and the guilt trailed after him long after he hung up.  Jongin returned to his practice in Asakusa for five out of seven days of the week, making a weekly commute to Ito to spend the weekend with him. Kyungsoo had tried to be noble and offer Jongin a means out of the laborious commitment, but had quickly decided he was too selfish to do that. 

It would be easy enough to say: “I’m coping fine, you don’t need to worry anymore” — a little lie to add to the ever growing list of lies he told. 

Lies were easy to tell. It was living out of the lies that had grown laborious to Kyungsoo. He was selfish and weak, and all he could do to distract himself from the simmering wrongness was to push himself further, busying himself to the point that the thoughts couldn’t catch up to him. He split his days into segments to make living more bearable: Jongin would leave Sunday evening, and Kyungsoo would do his best to live out the days in the Doctors absence with some semblance of dignity.

But it was hard. 

The hours passed sluggishly, the passage of time torturous. He categorised each day — On Monday, he managed: he would force himself out, make himself heat the meals Jongin left for him and attempt to keep himself busy. Tuesday, he coped: following out the motions in a futile attempt at distracting himself from the nasty something that niggled at the back of his skull. By Wednesday, the disquiet burn of that terrible something began to creep its way back through his blood, uncontrolled, and by Thursday he would be consumed: anxious and jittery, filled with terrible and intrusive thoughts. On Friday he would claw his way through the day, on the edge of setting out to do terrible things while simultaneously clinging to the small relief of knowing Jongin would arrive that night. Once Jongin arrived and he was no longer alone, the terrible something that inhabited him would retract backwards into a dormant mass until Sunday evening when Jongin left, where it would then begin to stir once more into action. The process repeated weekly, over and over. Months passed in much the same way — was he getting better? Kyungsoo would ask himself the question regularly and could only assume that the way he was now was probably just the way he was now to be for the rest of his life. It was the same with physical injuries; he remembered from his childhood his father after throwing out his back:

“It still hurts?” Kyungsoo asked, eyeing his fathers pained expression as he stood up from the chair he had been sitting on. Kyungsoo could hear as his fathers joints popped and cracked, realigning as he straightened, and his fathers hand automatically went to his back, as if to support himself as he rose.

“Not as much as at the beginning, but I’ll never be able to go back to how I was before. This is as good as it’ll get, I think.” 

It was the same for him, Kyungsoo supposed. He was as good as he would ever get again. Like his father, who had had to live with the pain until he passed away, Kyungsoo, too, would have to live with the wounds he had received until the day he died. It was an unsettling concept and dwelling on the futility of his situation caused Kyungsoo more grief than he was willing to admit — although he was loath to admit it, he was in a deep state of mourning. Mourning for the person he had been, and for the people he had failed to save. All that remained was the horror — without it, who was he?

Kyungsoo did his best to distract himself. He subscribed to a number of newspaper prints, which would be dropped at the mailbox at the entrance of the property every week. Kyungsoo would walk down to winding dirt road to check the mail of a morning— if there was something there for him to collect, he would carry it back with him to the house, where he would then spend the next hour or so pouring over the contents. It was his connection to the outside world — a world he was now hesitant to go back to. Know thy enemy, Kyungsoo supposed. Any article that piqued his interest, he would cut carefully from the page to place in an old shoebox: 

PARK CHANYEOL: THE KANAGAWA KILLER — WHO WAS HE REALLY?

“SLAUGHTERED LIKE A PIG” — JOURNALIST FOUND MURDERED IN HOME

OH SEHUN REMEMBERED AS “THOUGHTFUL, CARING AND GENTLE CLASSMATE”

FAMILY OF FIVE DEAD IN TRAGIC MURDER SUICIDE

Kyungsoo would rifle through the ever growing stack on a fairly regular basis, the niggling compulsion that plagued him hungry for something vivid to remind him who he was. The gruesome and the morbid — it was all the same to him. It consumed him: the ache for something dark, the savage churning that had him up at night. 

Some days the compulsion became almost too much to bare. He would force himself out on walks up the steep hillside, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion. The bamboo would surround him like a wall and he would weave his way upwards, fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. Setting out at daybreak and returning at nightfall, he would crawl into bed, aching and worn. If he pushed himself enough physically, his mind would quieten — a brief reprieve. 

But it always returned — the terrible hunger would unfurl and spread its way through his blood. It was in his brain now and it ate away at him like a cancerous mass that would eventually claim him. Some night it got so bad that all Kyungsoo could do was weep, stifling his sobs into his pillow as he laid facedown in bed. Equals parts disgust and shame would gnaw at him while all the while the sick compulsion continued to rage in the periphery of his mind, hungry, always so hungry. 

Kyungsoo remembered vaguely a conversation he had had months earlier with Jongin, the Doctor’s soft voice a gentle lull:

“—if you were to shed all the layers you have constructed and wrapped yourself within, what would you be?”

Who was he, without the horror? He possessed no traits of merit and his morals lay in a shattered mass at his feet. Who was he really? Kyungsoo no longer knew the answer. Nothing meaningful seemed to remain in the face of all the horror and hunger. Kyungsoo was left clutching at the shreds of something that had once that held shape: Enduring? Well rounded? Hard working?  

What a joke, Kyungsoo thought to himself bitterly. How pathetically laughable his efforts at being good had been. 
 

Chanyeol kept visiting him.

In moments of solitude and silence, Kyungsoo would register the presence of the dead man. Sometimes Chanyeol would sit across from Kyungsoo as he sat at the low dining table, forcing down a meal. Other times it was while he went through his article collection, eyes fixed resolutely on the newspaper clippings rather than the man who stood in the corner of the room. Sometimes it was while Kyungsoo laid in bed at night, eyes closed tightly as he did his best to ignore the sound of bloody, rattling breathing.

As long as he didn’t look, Kyungsoo told himself he was safe. As long as he didn’t draw Chanyeol’s attention to himself, he would be fine. Kyungsoo had become so good at telling lies that for a short while, he almost believed it. 

But the lies he told himself were built on crumbling foundations — 

It started off small. Little whispers and softly spoken worlds. A brush of coldness against his skin, the passing of a shadow across his face. Kyungsoo tired to ignore the sound of Chanyeol’s voice despite the hair rising on the back of his neck and the shudders that would wrack his body as Chanyeol spoke, lips almost brushing Kyungsoo’s neck as he stood behind him.

“I already told you” Chanyeol’s voice was soft as rain, wet with blood from somewhere deep in his savaged throat. “— that you’ve gained something in killing me.”

Kyungsoo’s hands shook so violently the the newspaper clipping he held fluttered from his fingers. 

“Even the article collecting…” Chanyeol murmured. “it's all just a way for you to micro-dose on the morbid. It’s like a drug, isn’t it? And you’re an addict trying to get your next fix.”

TRAGIC CAR COLLISION LEAVES SEVEN DEAD — Kyungsoo shuddered at Chanyeol’s words, covering the newspaper clipping with his foot.

“Why are you trying to fight it? Why are you denying yourself?” Chanyeol rasped. He was so close that Kyungsoo could feel a physical drop in the temperature behind him, where the dead man stood. 

Kyungsoo swallowed thickly, face clammy and cold. When he spoke, the words he forced out were weak and trembling. He refused to turn — to see Chanyeol was to see what he had done — he didn’t want to look. “I don’t want to be bad.”

Chanyeol hummed softly, cold hand reaching up to clasp the back of Kyungsoo’s neck with a stiff, cold hand. The action was familiar and oddly loving. One of Chnayeol’s slender fingers trailed back and forth the expanse of Kyungsoo’s neck, the pressure just a little too firm for comfort. “Do people blame a starving man for eating? You’re not bad for wanting what you need.”

Kyungsoo tried to reply but  he had lost the ability to speak — he gaped wordlessly, at a loss for words as the fear consumed him. He floundered in the panic — it was like a whirlpool that he was unable to escape. All he could do was wait for it to spit him out, regardless of whether the ordeal left him whole or otherwise. Abruptly, he felt the pressure of Chanyeol’s hand disappear from his neck and he turned slowly, his entire body trembling violently. The room was empty and Kyungsoo burst into terrified tears. 
 

Jongin found him later, curled tight in the corner of the traditional wooden bath tub. When the Doctor had opened the sliding door and the light spilled in from outside, Kyungsoo was sure for several moments that he had died —  when Jongin stepped into his line of sight, Kyungsoo was sure he was seeing an angel. 

No shock registered on the Doctors face as he took in the sight of Kyungsoo. He entered the room smoothly, making his way to the side of the tub in two strides. Kyungsoo noted absently the newspaper Jongin had tucked under his arm — he had been in the bathroom for longer than he realised, several days, at least. His lips trembled from a combination of the cold and his convoluted emotions, and he gazed up blankly.

“There’s something wrong with me.” Kyungsoo croaked. 

Jongin said nothing, instead opting to lean over the tub and gently hoist Kyungsoo up from under the arms. Kyungsoo swayed for several moments, his ears ringing, and Jongin held him close and steady. Kyungsoo’s eyes burnt. 

“There’s something wrong with me, Jongin.” Kyungsoo repeated.

“Shh.” Jongin soothed him as he helped Kyungsoo out from the tub, half lifting the smaller man. Kyungsoo’s legs shook, his muscles weak. “We’re going to sort this all out, Kyungsoo.”

The dam walls broke.

“The sickness is in me. Chanyeol’s sickness is in me.” The words spilled from his lips, his tone half hysterical. “What do I do? It’s in me and I can’t get it out!”

Jongin wrapped Kyungsoo in his arms. The warmth from the Doctors body felt so good that it almost hurt and Kyungsoo cried harder, fingers digging into Jongin’s flesh. He didn’t know any more — he wasn’t sure if he loved Jongin, or wanted to hurt him.

He could hear Chanyeol’s laughter — the rasping sound of air from mutilated airways gurgled wet with a combination of blood and glee. Kyungsoo buried his face into Jongin’s shoulder and tried his best to ignore it.