[...]
“Ah… You’ll just want to sign with your first and last name. No, uh… Nicknames or anything, I suppose.” There’s a slight tinge in his voice as he considers that Dosuk’s name might actually be something else, but he pushes it away. No need to be upset or to assume strange things. “So just… You’re full name, if you will. That should work just fine. I… guess if you want to sign in blood the contract will be stronger but…” His voice drops and octave and gets quieter. For a split second, he’s eyes flash a strange yellow.
As absurd as the fear of two simple words is, he can’t find it in him to laugh. A writer by trade and yet here he is, brow furrowing and jaw tensed at the thought of lifting a pen. Worse than any document he’s been presented with thus far, eviction notices and job dismissals paling in light of the written gift.
Perhaps if it’d been given by someone official, a high member of the staff, someone with access to his files and records, someone with whom knowledge of his real name couldn’t be helped, he wouldn’t feel nearly so nervous. Default trust of professionals, those fully aware of him and able to adjust accordingly, unbiased - they have to be, he believes, if only for his own comfort - in their views of him. But that isn’t what Hansol is. He’s an occupant of the campus, another potential like himself, a peer. Someone kind hearted and self sacrificing. Someone that might warn others of him to keep them safe if he ever had a bad experience with Namjoon’s aura. The thought almost makes him nauseous.
“No, no this is more than enough. But thank you,” because the suggestion of more than a day just feels like too much, no matter how great an offer. He can barely handle this, he’s sure if he trains enough at the facility he won’t have to burden the man like this ever again, willing to let himself be selfish just this once. Namjoon can’t ever let his aura take Hansol’s kindness away from him like it did his parents, even if only temporarily. But he can’t let this opportunity go, either. He has to be so, so careful with this, grateful more than ever that the man honored his agreement to stay away. Ignorant of the action in itself having been a contract as well, only focusing on the reassurance of space as his hand shakily writes out ‘Kim’ in small font.
His heart’s almost in his throat, and as he stares down at his written surname he finds himself thinking about what vegetables his dad used to say were good for blood pressure. Fidgeting, rereading the note, straying off subject, anything to calm his nerves because it’s been so long since he’s simply enjoyed the bustle of a crowd. Getting by is what he likes to think he’s good at, but now with such an opportunity right there in his hands it’s like the sun after a storm and he wants it so much more than he thought he would. The very gift the facility had given him, a night with his family that prompted him to join, that memory further pushes the contract he holds to something far more precious.
It’s way too scary. The very coping methods he’d developed are threatening to take it all away from him, and he feels as alienated now as he had when he’d really felt the full midday sun on his skin through his dorm’s windows. So long since he’d allowed himself to think that he could actually have what he needed, so long since he’d allowed himself to really think about it at all. Out of sight out of mind doesn’t hold up so well when it comes right down to it, it seems. Somewhere inside he feels a little guilty for how strongly the notion of a day out pulls at him. He feels almost greedy. This is something he can survive without, and so he should leave it be… but is the craving for interaction just a want, or is it a need? Namjoon would rather not fully acknowledge being deprived, and so a want is what he’s called it, but there’s been plenty of times when his heart has had more sense than his head and for once, even if it’s trying to pound its way out of his chest, he’ll listen to it.
There’s barely any sound when he writes again, and the way his fingers tremble skew it to a completely different style than his usual handwriting. In a moment he’s staring hard at half the first character of his name and there’s a tiny leap of excitement beside the nervousness and guilt. He has to sign his name, a signature by his own hand, but… Namjoon’s eyes dart back to his surname, just as shaky and crudely written, then returns to the task of completing the signature. Plenty of people had bad handwriting, how legible did it have to be, really? He’d know it’s his name, and even if the actual penmanship is complete garbage it’s still faintly Korean. It should work, right? Squinting at the horrible chicken scratch in the dark nearly gives him a headache, picking out pieces of characters here and there, but it almost looks like a different language.
Too busy sweating over his hasty decision, he almost misses Hansol’s remarks about blood and demons. More than thought there’s sympathy. He’s sure there’s a tale out there to represent every one of them, a story with a monster, at least one to which each potential could relate. Actually considering the other man’s words, though, lends him a moment of confusion, Namjoon too unfamiliar with the darker aspects of life to immediately identify what Hansol’s alternative signature method would entail. He wonders, briefly, where one would even get blood for said signature, realization drifting in with a quiet ‘Oh’ and faint, slightly absent minded musings.
“Yeah, getting hurt is scary, even if it’s for a good cause.” He can see both sides of the coin, and not only because he shares the status of mutant with the other man. Unfamiliar things can be terribly frightening, and superstitions tend to run high, especially with things resembling the ability Hansol’s body seems to have developed. He wonders faintly how Hansol could have learned such a thing, but remembers ‘symptoms’ and aspects of his own ability being described to a T by the official Daybreak sent to inform his family when he hadn’t even been aware he was anything but human. Ever curious of others stories, eager to relate, though admittedly the idea isn’t exactly one that appeals to him, either. It seems too much like an act of desperation, something not meant for someone like him, closer to a last resort when there’s no other way because hurting himself on purpose… He isn’t that desperate, is he?
“It’s okay, I know you’re a good person Hansol-ssi. I’m sure there’s other people that understand, too. If you ever just want to vent… I’m good at listening, I guess,” spoken quietly, for once glancing up from the note, and no matter how sincere it sounds there’s still an element that rings hollow to him. What kind of reassurance is that, from so far away, heard through a little handheld radio? The least he could do is put a hand on the guy’s shoulder, show him that while they aren’t exactly in the same boat that they’re at least riding the same waves, but he has very little confidence in approaching even if his aura’s been taken care of. He doesn’t want to accidentally hurt Hansol, but he doesn’t really feel like he can help him this way, either.
“Is it okay to… do I have to give this back?” Because even if his signature is near completely illegible he still really doesn’t want Hansol seeing his real name, perhaps a bit childish in the way he clutches the paper closer to his chest.
