Chapter Text
♰
The grand clock ticks idly behind the trebling boy, as the hour hand strikes midnight. Gunil kneels quietly at the foot of the chapels crucifix, a marbled depiction of Jesus only some feet above the boys head.
A hiccup escapes him, his body curling in on itself with every ticking second. He clasps his fingers tightly together, and scrunches his eyes shut with just as much force. His voice is shrill as he attempts to quiet his whimpers, ghosts of a prayer lying gingerly on his tongue.
A tear slips pasts his eye lashes, mimicking the blood that drips from Jesus's fingers. Gunil breathes sharply, puffs of air cutting and scraping at his throat as he tries to breathe through what little life is left of him- what little sanity slips through his fingers, falling from his begging hands. His huffs, however, only do so much as blowing out the candles that sit solemnly on the altar below him, adorned by flowers and rosaries.
Without much warning, his body buckles under his weight, his knees groaning against the wooden floor. With a raw gasp of air, Gunil lifts his head to make one last plea,
"Jesus- God, . . . please. Save me."
♰
It's nearly seven in the morning, and a pit is already settling itself in the poor girls stomach. Her nails have been chewed, raw and reddened, so she flicks the small tag on her luggage handle instead.
Hyeongjun follows a priest through a wide, sunlit corridor. The man fiddles with a set of rusted keys as his shoes clack across the tiled floor, florescent lights reflecting off his heals with each step. Hyeongjun watches the gold bounce and twinkle beside the man, and wonders if his nails have been gnawed off too.
The windows are barred, lined with copper diamonds that curl in the middle. Maybe they would be pretty, if they weren't so old, Hyeongjun thinks. Maybe they would be less suffocating, if they weren't so obviously locked and framed. An italic reminder of Hyeongjun's fate. Barred, cramped, locked and suffocated. Plucked straight from the outside world.
Hyeongjun never thought she'd actually be in a place like this. The threats had been empty, she'd thought. Father was never serious, she'd innocently assumed.
But she was wrong.
Wrong just like everything else seemed to be. She was careless- she was stupid and careless and now she's packed up and lugging her life down a stuffy hallway with dried streaks of bleach and prison curtains.
What a joke, she thinks.
It actually makes her laugh. All it really took was one step too far to the left. One word slipped up. One decision in the opposite direction- to get her thrown away.
It's not like she's difficult. She's not rude, or greedy, or loud, or defiant, or troubled, or perverted- at least not openly, she doesn't even have any fun. She's just- she's just . . . a girl.
She's a girl. That's all.
She likes when her hair touches her shoulders. When her lips are smooth and pink. When her shirt fits her nicely and her pants hug her hips. She likes when her voice comes out softly. When her words wrap around her tongue just the way she wants them too. When she choses to be heard, and when others are willing to hear her.
She likes it when she receives respect. Respect she relentlessly gives. She likes when her needs are met and her wants are considered and her dreams are indulged, rather than ignored.
She likes to be seen, but not perceived. She likes to be enjoyed, but not judged. She likes quiet when it's loud. Warmth when it's cold. Average things. Tolerable things. Things she can't have. Things that are ripped from her hands. Things she is neglected.
Because she's a girl.
She's a girl. But God didn't want her to be.
Girlhood wasn't God's plan.
No.
God's plan was this. She supposes.
God's plan was crusted gel dragged through a comb and scraped across her bare forehead. Chapped lips and wrinkled button ups. Dress pants that pinch her crotch and flatten her butt.
God's plan was a voice caught by embarrassment. Tangled and tied by the fear that weaves itself into her veins, through her blood stream and onto her tongue.
She doesn't receive respect. Not when her Adam's apple bobs in her throat. Not when her words quiver.
Her needs are ignored, her dreams are stomped down the drain, her confidence crumbles and her nerves implode.
She's not difficult. She's not snobby, or messy, or juvenile.
She's just a boy.
A boy who 'never learned how to be a man'.
A boy who won't.
A girl who never will.
That's it. That's all.
But God doesn't like that. Father didn't like that.
So, she stumbles her way down every corner, across every turn, and eventually trips over herself at the sight of a door. A door with a big rusted lock, just as rusted as that obnoxious clump of keys held tightly between the priest's wrinkled hands.
The reverend stops, turns on his shiny heals, gives the golden wring a little tug and hands Hyeongjun a key.
"Please, don't lose it." He says.
The man's voice is rough. Probably worn down by countless sermons. Scuffed by confessions and filtered by prayers. His eyes are shallow, unmoving yet so extremely perceiving. Hyeongjun shivers, moves to cover her eyes with her hair, frowns when her fingers meet only skin- and takes the key.
♰
"Kim Jungsu- you bastard!"
Gunil came rushing to the window, pencils and books flying from his lap as he leapt out of his desk chair. Jungsu huffed, "Now those aren't very kind words Mr. Koo."
Jungsu kicked his feet against the brick, straining in his school uniform in an attempt thrust himself through the small opening. Gunil yanked at his fore arms, he too straining to pull the boy inside. "What on God's green earth are you doing climbing up a building in broad daylight!?"
Jungsu laughed, his knees now perched on the windowsill, hands gripping the rooms inner walls as he catches his breath. "You say it like I'm Spider Man or something." Gunil pinched the younger boys ear, now fully throwing him into the room. "Oh, get down from there, idiot! You're going to get us in trouble."
"I miss when you respected me" Jungsu pouted, a fake frown resting over his smug face. "I'd respect you if you weren't so careless . . . " Gunil grumbled. Jungsu's smile quickly returned, dusting of his khakis as he sat to remove his dress shoes.
There's a kind of familiarity in Gunil's words. Despite the blatant scolding and disapproval in the boys tone, Jungsu finds it comforting. That is to say, there weren't many things Jungsu considered 'comforting' around here anyway.
He supposes it's the routine of it all. The constant nagging. The relentless reassurance that unlike most people here, Gunil cares. The older boy doesn't punish him, by any means. He doesn't shame or ridicule him for his mistakes. Rather, he guides him- treats him as if he's something to be watched over. Not guarded.
Jungsu supposes he's like a brother. Though, that might only be because considering him as a father figure would be too pathetic, even for Jungsu. Not that he hasn't thought about the idea, however.
And despite his words- despite his tone- he knows Gunil considers Jungsu just the same. Or, at least he hopes he does.
That sounds pathetic too.
Jungsu throws his dress shoes to the side, of course earning a snicker from Gunil as he does so. Of course, only making Jungsu smile wider. "Move those out of the way. The new student's going to need that space to unpack."
Ah, their new cell-mate. The two had been notified only two days before about the up and coming addition to their humble 'home'. Reverend Seo had come to them with as much excitement as a fifteen year-old house cat and simply said "Make room". At the time, Jungsu had rolled his eyes; Gunil had begun cleaning.
The idea of a new room-mate wasn't terrible, but it certainly wasn't great. To Jungsu's understanding, a new room-mate would mean one of two things. One, another bible humper to pinch Jungsu's arm every time he verbalized a thought. Or two, a socially confused puppy who was probably sent here against his will.
The first option of course, is annoying, but would probably be nice for Gunil after so many years of 'dealing' with Jungsu all by himself. While the second option- still annoying, could be nice for Jungsu. He's not a prophet or anything, but it wouldn't hurt to do some saving. Especially on the behalf of someone who is very well about to be either brainwashed into compliance or tortured out of his mind. Or both.
Though as far as living arrangements go, whoever this boy is, he's about to be in for a treat.
Jungsu still remembers the day he had moved in. He'd never been in a particularly religious environment before. His parents had taken him to church as a toddler, but grew out of it quickly. It wasn't until Jungsu had become 'troubled' that they'ed shoved a bible in his hand and hauled him away.
Aside from the numb shock of being almost completely on your own at thirteen years-old, knowing that your own family would rather abandon you than just talk to you like normal people- Jungsu was mostly appalled by the depressing state of the place.
Not only was he stunned by how many sculptures and paintings of a dead, bleeding, starved, Jesus adorned the building- 36, he counted- but the living quarters were down right offensive.
The pipes rarely emit anything except cold water, the wall paper is holding on for its life- God knows when the last time someone checked for mold was, and the floors are stricken with uplifted panels and loose nails. Jungsu's surprised the entire student body has survived without one person dying of an infection on the foot. Jesus forbid someone forget house slippers.
As far as first impressions go, Jungsu was unimpressed. Not that his views have changed, he's simply used to it- or, as used to it as one can get when they take cold showers everyday. And it seems having Gunil around helped.
Jungsu doesn't know how Gunil has lasted this long, living the way he does. When the younger boy first arrived, Gunil had been at that little wooden desk of his, studying like a good boy.
He'd helped Jungsu with his luggage and his Pokémon backpack, dusted off his mattress and helped him make his bed. He'd even lended Jungsu a pair of sandals when he'd learned he hadn't brung his own.
He was kind, considerate, clean, organized, dedicated, thoughtful- but most notably, he was a child of God.
That night, the older boy had folded a small blanket and laid it on the floor at the foot of his bed. He lowered his then small body to the floor, bending forward with a meticulousness Jungsu was sure was acquired over some time. Gunil offered Jungsu a blanket, small and folded like the one below him; Jungsu quietly denied. And the nights continued like that.
Even as the walls peeled, as the shower faucets froze and the floor boards lifted, Gunil persisted. Even as the days grew longer, as the nights grew more deafening, as the base of Gunil's knees grew sore and stiff with every passing prayer- he never unclasped his hands. Never put his book down- never just went to bed and slept like Jungsu knew he wanted to. Rested like Jungsu knew he needed to.
That's how Jungsu knows they aren't the same. That's how Jungsu realized there was never going to be a day where Gunil would finally understand what it was that drove Jungsu insane.
Not just the dorms, not just the barred windows and the locked doors, but the insult of it all. The idea.
The idea that any of this- the chunky rosaries, the edited scripture, the bloodied prophets hanging above each and every ceiling, watching him, demanding him, demonizing him- would solve anything. Any part of him that was considered poor enough to be thrown away. It was cruel. It was disgusting. And it killed Jungsu to think about.
He knew he was a long way from getting out of here, and he knew that with every minute that he stayed, a little part of him slipped straight through the cracked bricks above his bed. Dragged through chapel floors and cemetery grass. Soaked out of him like cheap wine in a golden glass. Shoved down his throat along with all his muffled cries- like the blood of Christ.
He was tired of it- he was losing his sanity. And it killed him even more to know that Gunil felt the same, and that he would never say it.
Not when his lips stutter over verses as he attempts to memorize them, as if he believes them, like he thinks that he does. Not when his hands pause over his heart as he makes the sign of the cross- like he's checking for a sign of life. Like he can't even tell if he's still here, or if his indoctrinated mind has deceived him.
Not even when his body relents and his shoulders fall forward atop his head. When he doubles over and opens his praying hands to clasp his mouth closed just enough to muffle his cries. During the night, when he thinks Jungsu is sleeping. When he wonders why God can't hear him.
Despite all of this, Gunil has never changed. Though, Jungsu supposed he hasn't either. He's still numb with shock, when he stares at the ceiling and allows his alarm to blare in his ears, trying to convince himself he's still dreaming. He still needs help fixing his mattress and making his bed. He still wears Gunil's sandals.
Jungsu just wonders which of them will buckle first. Or maybe they both already have. He's not sure.
Gunil leans below his desk chair, collecting the pencils and pens, of which had fallen victim to Gunil's jump scare a moment ago. "Poor guy barely has enough space for a bed," He sighs.
Jungsu observed the small corner of the room, where their class-mate was soon to be. It wasn't a lie that the dorm was unimpressive, but it was always just enough to keep the two boys intact. For all Jungsu knows, adding a third room-mate could turn the first layer of hell into the seventh.
But before Jungsu can peel himself off of the floor and back onto his feet, the two are interrupted by the jingle of keys and the screech of wood behind their door. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, Jungsu supposes.
The door opens with a groan, rusted mettle straining on it's hinges as the screws creek. Golden key ring dangling from his fingers, a boy stands shyly in the old doors wake.
His legs are stiff, his feet seemingly planted and rooted in the spot he placed them when he unlocked the door. His free hand lies fixed on the door handle, his fingers are thin and long, his finger nails raw and rugged, probably bitten by anxious teeth.
As if confirming the idea, the boy lowers his head, gelled hair staying unmoved as he bows ninety degrees forward. "Hello, I'm your new dorm-mate."
His voice is barely heard, at least from where Jungsu crouches at the foot of his bed. His words have a slight drag, an accent from somewhere assumingly very far from here. The boy nearly whimpers as he lifts his gaze, both boys eyes following his own.
Gingerly, Gunil scoots out from his chair and returns the younger boys bow. "It's good to meet you. I'm Gunil."
The boy lowers his gaze once more, nimble fingers still wrapped tightly around the silver handle of the door. "H-Hyeongjun." He mutters back.
The name rolls strangely off of the boys tongue. It sticks to his teeth and grabs onto his tongue on the way out. It sounds foreign in his mouth, even to Jungsu, having only heard the boy say five other words before his name. But, after deciding against stressing out the boy further, Jungsu doesn't question it.
Eventually, Gunil turns on his heel, making eyes at Jungsu. Knowing the look, Jungsu manages off the floor and does a small bow of his own, "Jungsu." he says.
There was something pained in Hyeongjun's eyes as Gunil- ever the host- continued to speak. Something Jungsu couldn't name. Something that began assumingly very long before today.
Gunil grabs the younger boys luggage, and roles it into the room. Hyeongjun closes the door behind himself, as he follows Gunil. Jungsu steps aside, dusts off Hyeongjun's mattress and helps Gunil make their room-mate's bed.
Hyeongjun hasn't left the door way yet, his fingers ghosting the lock. His forehead nearly touches the door, his back hunched forward in an awkward position. Slowly, he leaves the surface, back remaining arched, head remaining low, only this time his eyes rise. And again- a pain- a disparity that Jungsu can't place.
Hyeongjun's eyes meet his, and his feet stutter; Jungsu takes a breath.
Option two it is.
♰