chapter 5; surrounded

unbetaed! sorry for any mistakes!

Masks layered on, undercovered by the skins and fleshes of murderers, guns too packed and overloaded, and the laminations of smiles replaced by smirks, and smirks replaced by demonic grins. Grins, grins, and grins. Purge-masks becoming too hot but not one person dares lift up their persona, mask unveiled and lets the identity slip through, breeze through the air and just seep through the familiar boys in front of them.

“Hello,” Jongin says, and he doesn’t say it anymore in the tone’s he used, static and unbearable to the ears because it seems recognizable but then it doesn’t. Unknown. Blank identity. Just behind a boy with a mask, smiley face creepily. Derisive laughs, and the four surround the two. Jongdae’s gun pointed directly at Kris’ chest and Tao’s gun pointed directly at Chanyeol’s forehead, splintering and cold air shot through already.

The heads angle, shapes in all and they crouch in further. The breaths they exhale seem to fall to the grounds and the breaths just seem so transparent, nothing opaque except for their masks. So ghosted that Chanyeol wonders if this is all a mere hallucination. A trick in the mind or just an optical illusion that Kris is enduring through himself. But he soon realizes that it isn’t.

“Hello,” Jongdae says, digging the Ruger LC9 deeper through the chest, fabric scrunched up and in friction between skin. Jongdae doesn’t back off one bit, and he’s nervous on the inside because he’s never been one to shoot this mercilessly. But Tao edges no further, maybe digs, maybe draws blood because he likes that.

Fanfares play, ceremony and introduction ends and Tao begins speaking his plans, ways to inflict fear with their masks and their words.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asks, because he takes off his mask first and he recognizes immediately who the boys are. Park Chanyeol and Wu Yifan aka, Kris. Both basketball stars of the high, girls swooping from every side but automatically dejected once Chanyeol’s declared himself biual and Kris. Well, Kris is just a lost puppy, always by Chanyeol and it’s vice-versa. Bouncing off of one and another, elegance in no beings.

Chanyeol’s eyes droop from something horrified to astonished. “T-Tao!” he exhales, then exclaims like they’re old friends but Tao digs his gun further, and Chanyeol yelps.

Indignant probably, but he doesn’t care. The other boys still have their masks on, and their identities have no chances of being thefted so either finish this one off or...well there’s no other option. “What are you two boys doing down here? Near the school still, I mean. I would’ve thought that you would be back at the orphanages”

The damn look he gives is just so ing contemptuous, lack of respect and just hatred towards the two boys. And it’s questioning Chanyeol, because what has he ever done to Tao?

“W-we,” stutters because there’s a ing gun pointed towards his forehead, and the beads of sweat circulate, knows that that spot’s about to be gone and just dodges it, runs down his nose and seeps into his shirt, disappearing forever and hoping to be cleansed but who knows. “U-uh, we live near here, down right by Brooklyn, near the high school. W-what about you and your..f-friends?”

Tao looks around, points at the boys around him and Chanyeol nods. “These? You don’t call these boys your friends either?”

Smiley face lifts off his mask, reveals to be Yixing and the two in the middle, surrounded and pointed at perpendicular gasps. Yixing and his broken arm, one piece and all still. Eyes tired, looks fazed, blood dried. Same look as freshman year.

“You’re surprised that I’m still alive, aren’t you?” Yixing asks, and they don’t answer because maybe that’s the truth and they don’t say anything because Tao’s eyes are just glaring now, eyeliner looking more purer and morbid than ever, blacks along the edges and smearing down because it’s not waterproof.

Yixing scoffs and just backs away, the knife in his hand lighting up and just dug straight back into his pocket so forcedly. Lord knows how it’s not plunged in there, probably bleeding out of his bottom now but avast, he shows no pain.

Jongdae reveals his face next, and his light-brown hair’s just scattered along the fringes, hiding brows and stuck against eyes. Sharp jaw definitions seem to slice through anything, and he bends forward, almost nodding his head in greeting.

“S’been a while,” he says, pointing towards Kris, smirk overlaying because Kris was always a total douchebag to him and his friends. Look who’s backing down now.

The taller says nothing, nor wants to say anything but the frown that’s on his face just describes everything in pure definition, adjectives and details always supported from. He’s frustrated, embarrassed probably, and is put on the spot because the basketball captain can’t do anything but just play basketball, now can he?

Last person stands there, doesn’t take off his mask and doesn’t obliged too because his persona is the most fragile. Superego basing on not wanting to hurt others, and how best friends slash one another to get to the top, theatre business and all. But Chanyeol doesn’t need for the last person to take off his mask, because he can see through those slitted eyes and how those lips from the holes are so recognizable.

“J-Jongin,” Chanyeol mutters, staring through blankness and white and the earth from aerial, everything of blood drained out of his face and replaced with a glare that’s like glass. Clear, but sharp. Shrapnel, but doesn’t pierce for blood. “Is that you, Jongin?” Chanyeol asks again, bending to the right, gun following on point, towards Jongin who just flinches back, does nothing more and takes more steps back. Distance between distance, equalling out and never greater than or less than. Mathematical velocity, northward with an amount of speed while northward, bending backward and using feet as a leverage to just lean, dodging almost.

Jongin feels like he’s giving off too many scornful looks to his best friend. Well--used to be best friend, long lost after separation and formed cliques that were meant to be more than their own brothership. Defines how thin their camaraderie really was.

“Get away, Chanyeol,” he says with much of frustration, tensed jaws and hollow cheeks, every words aching after finally taking off his mask.

Chanyeol bends back, shocked and something surged through like betrayal. “A-aren’t you going to tell Tao to..back off?”

Question drifts off, never gets answered so Tao takes authority and just smashes the gun even harder, so it burns and probably leaves an indent with dirt grimed up on the inside falling through, tobacco if they smoke and just blackness that’s stainful. Lead, almost. Smudges of lead. Badass lead.

Jongin looks guilty, and he just steps back, drops his gun onto the floor and crouches down, knees onto ground and hands on head because he doesn’t want to hear what’s going to happen next.

Chanyeol sees this, and turns back towards Tao. “A-are you guys going to kill us--”

“Don’t ing do it!” Kris yells, back stuck to Chanyeol’s and they’ll probably die like this. Friend by friend, and hand by hand, a bar on Chanyeol’s foot but the weight feels lightless because nothing’s more heavy than of Jongin’s hatred for his long-lasted friend now. It hurts, really. It hurts because what they had was a special friendship and now it’s just shredded to pieces, thin strips of paper like canes and it’s just all gone. Left for dead like how he’ll be.

The red-haired giant gapes, and he feels someone’s hand ruffling through his hair. Turns and sees his best friend--correction, old best friend gawking at how soft his hair feels.

“You dyed your hair red, You ing idiot,” Jongin says, quietly, and then he turns towards Tao. “Don’t kill them, Tao. Don’t do it. I-I don’t think it’s worth it. Killing them, I mean.” The whisper comes off as urgents pleas, and Tao just looks surprised. Because, what?

“What? Why not?” he asks, reloading the gun again and the click moves over to the next bullet in line, methodical pattern travelling from one bullet to another. Refill, and then one to another. Another refill, probably a reload and it just continues. Continuous shooting and that many bullets into Chanyeol. He just gulps, and hopes that it isn’t painful.  

“Please don’t,” Chanyeol begs, and he can feel the shivering from Kris behind. He almost wants to jerk, hold his arm and just hold him still but he doesn’t because once inch of movement--hell, even a few millimeters can results in the splatters of raining