There is no reason to help the boy. There is no benefit associated with this interaction â logically, it doesnât sit well with him. Yet, heâs got him on his bed, with a whole box of items to aid to his fresh wounds. Thereâs simply no reason for such good will, yet he stands in front of him, observing the red and purple decorating his skin. He does not dare admit such a notion, but the boy sitting in front of him feels familiar. There is fire in his eyes, and they burn with the same fuel that ignites his own. He is familiar because there is something beneath his skin that also crawls between his own bones:chaos.
âYou should adventure into places you arenât supposed to be sometimes, itâs quite fun. Get in trouble other ways, if youâre going to already.â His eyes arenât capable of hiding the insidious nature that holds his skin together. Instead, they reflect pure corruption, something riveting and crooked â something he wishes the other might reach out towards.
His hands are steady as they near the other boy, eyes kept open for longer than natural to peruse him. âTaeyong? Yong? What are you, secretly a dragon?â Heâs dabbing at wherever blood paints his face with a spare shirt of his, then providing pressure against his cheek. âPress against wherever your bleeding, your face has to stop before I can do anything about it.â Once he motions off the task to the other, heâs filing through the small box again, until he finds some bandages and some faux, knock-off Neosporin.
âWon. Juwon. Kang Juwon.â Thereâs some strange poise in his voice as he speaks of the name, giving the other a half-lit grin. Heâs crouching a bit on the ground while he lifts the otherâs shirt to access the injuries around his back, shoulders and stomach. Seeing more bruises there, he only gives an irked sigh, thrashing through the box until a small cold pack is found.
With some uncomfortable silence floating between them, he decides to speak again, while he shakes up the small packet. âWeâve met before.â Science magic works and the pack turns cool, as he pushes it up against Taeyongâs shoulder, where the purple is darkest. âAlthough, you probably donât remember.â He shifts the small packet to the other side of his shoulders, as he meets eyes with him. âYou gave my sister your portion of porridge that one time, when they refused to give her more after sheâd spilled her own bowl stupidly.â
Taeyong tries to move, but weariness spreads through his entire soul and keeps him pinned to the bed. He tells himself that it is understandable â a violent physical fight is bound to shake anyone. But the outcome is much worse than that, for an outsider had approached the band of rebellious misfits and saved him from further damage and harm. He was surprised, more so that this boy had chosen to stick by his side and tend to his wounds. No one had ever stuck up for him before, not when their overall safety and well being were placed on the line. Better him than me, was a thought heâd read whenever looking into bystandersâ and witnessâ eyes. It was different with them, however.Â
He makes a mental note to repay the latter later.Â
âYou certainly make a valid point.â He admits it as his gaze meets theirs, momentarily disregarding the fact that pain will soon ensue once the other approaches him with an antiseptic drenched shirt and proceeds to swipe the blood stain across his bruised, marred skin. But the feeling eventually disappears, his wounds stinging upon contact with said cloth. He squeezes his eyes shut, features contorting as his fingers curl against the wool blanket beneath his frame. Itâs been months since heâs had this kind of treatment; last was when he was admitted into the hospital, nurses and doctors nourishing his burns. âFunny,â he practically seethes out, a short, arid chuckle leaking past his lips. It was not the first time he has heard this joke before, many of whom heâd met in the past made the same reference as the boy. He then takes the shirt from them and presses it against his own cheek, suppressing the pain that comes along with it. âIâm curious,â he begins, breath hitched. âWhat else have you found in this place? It seems to me like you know of all the ins and outs the staff have desperately tried to keep hidden.âÂ
Flattening the palm of his free hand on the cushioned surface, Taeyong shifts his body to the side to make things easier for the other down below. The last thing heâd want to do is give them a hard time since theyâve branched out to aid him during his time of need. âJuwon.â He mutters their name under his breath, registering where and when he had last heard of their name. It sounds familiar enough, yet he does not recall the memory. He moves the cloth away from his cheek, the sight of the blood-ridden fabric sending light tremor down the epidermis of his exterior psyche.  âWhen's your birthday? What year were you born?âÂ
And there it is, the answer to all his questions.Â
Now reaching for the cool pack with his free hand, he takes it from the otherâs grasp and keeps it positioned against his own shoulder. He may be thankful for what the help that Juwon has given him, however, Taeyong does want them to do everything on their own. He wants to be of some use, too. Their gazes meet when he turns his head, his eyes remaining over the otherâs visage as he glances down their features, trying to assimilate his memories of their first encounter. He remembered it as though it were just yesterday â he stood back and watched as the cafeteria workers denied the poor girl of another bowl of porridge, telling her to take said incident as a lesson and learn from her mistakes. Though he and the female had no affiliation with one another, he couldât stand the sight of the way he treated her; accidents happen, theyâre normal. âI do remember now,â he glances down, something akin too a smile threatens to spread across his lips, but he bites it down. âThat girl I saw earlier, the one who was staring at us, was that your sister?â
