Chapter Text
This time, Kenta doesn’t have a knife.
This time, Kenta stands frozen, recoiled in Kim’s dining room, cowering behind Pete like a dog.
This time he’s staring at the ground, unwilling to look into the forgiving eyes of a man far less threatening.
Kenta seems far less threatening.
He’s the scared one now.
After Pete leaves there is silence. The refrigerator hums gently as Kim rocks forward on his heels, staring awkwardly out the window. An attempt at making conversation: “Would you like anything to drink?”
No response.
This is fine. Kim did not expect one. “I made up the guest room for you. Follow me.” A command, he guesses, will result in action, rather than a request. But as Kim takes a step forward Kenta flinches.
Their eyes don’t meet. Kim turns and goes the long way around the table and Kenta follows a few paces behind.
It feels unnatural to turn his back. Still unclear the safety of the arrangement. Sure, Kenta betrayed Tony, but that doesn’t necessarily ensure he won’t stab Kim in the back in a similar manner. In order to get through this… this… whatever it was, Kim would have to be the brave one. Even if Kenta’s presence still feels like a blade to the throat.
The guest room is small, wide enough for a twin bed and a dresser. The closet is small. The apartment is small, but Kim doubts his guest will occupy a great deal of space. A large window pours warm sunlight into the room, emphasizing the otherwise colorless palette.
“I wasn’t sure exactly what you needed. We can get you some clothes and stuff tomorrow. You’ll let me know if you need anything?” He asks it like a question. Kenta nods hesitantly and Kim knows that he’s lying, but doesn’t push the subject. “There are towels and soap in the hall bathroom. I’ll show you how laundry works tomorrow.” Again, an affirmative nod. “I’ll knock to let you know when dinner’s ready.” Kenta doesn’t nod at this, but instead makes a small hum. Which is progress.
Kim begins to leave but freezes at the soft call of - “Wait.” Kenta looks up and for a brief moment looks straight into Kim’s eyes, pupils blown wide.
Hesitantly-
“Thanks.”
A nod. “Of course.”
He shuts the door.
**
For Kenta, this felt like betrayal. Pete’s betrayal. Pete shedding Kenta like a rotting exoskeleton, an unwanted burden. Maybe Pete was the love of his life, or maybe he was just the first person to pretend like he cared. Stepping into Kim’s apartment was that final admission; the words Pete didn’t dare to say: “I’m done with you.” Not that they were anything to begin with.
There were more important things to consider. Tony was alive. Everyone was in danger, especially Babe, who Kenta for some reason felt obligated to protect. He felt obligated to protect all of them. It wasn’t his responsibility, but it was his fault. If he couldn’t save all of them from Tony the first time then now could be his redemption.
Look, Pete didn’t matter. Kenta’s relationship with Pete—or, the absence of one—didn’t matter. And, for some reason unbeknownst to Kenta, Kim was kind. Kenta guessed it was amnesia because there’s no way Kim would actually forgive him.
Even though he’d gotten them out.
Both of them. Kim and Jeff. And Babe.
And Pete.
And somehow not himself.
Even so. Kenta trusts Pete. And Pete said it would be safe here. Pete had told him not to cause trouble. Pete had insisted that he not run away.
So Kenta does what he knows best.
He stayed.
**
Pale yellow, the faint shade of light spilling through the curtains, and it’s far too early to wake. Soft padding footsteps from the guest room suggest an overly proactive biological clock, or maybe just habit. Either way Kim will have to get used to this.
He stretches, throws off his sheets, and crawls out of bed. The clock reads an offensive 4:32 am, which is both appalling and impressive. Not that Kim expects any less.
The creaking of Kim’s bedroom door opening has Kenta stopping in his tracks. He stares at Kim like a deer in headlights, eyes wide with guilt.
A whispered, “Did I wake you?”
Kim shrugs. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind!” The exclamation unfortunately elicits a flinch from the other man. Kim inwardly curses himself for being so insensitive. “I promise it’s fine. Thin walls.” He taps the doorframe with one finger and smiles sleepily. “I’ll make tea. You can shower first.”
He passes by into the kitchen and fills a kettle with water, searching around in the drawers for a match. Striking a flame to light the gas, he sets the kettle atop the metal grate.
Often Kim finds himself here, standing in front of the stove, watching as bubbles begin to bloom and rise. Here was where he spent so much time after he was rescued. After Jeff saved him from the foundation. After Kenta saved him. Funny now considering Kenta had been the one to lock Kim up in the first place.
A strange sound draws Kim from his thoughts and he starts to look outside for rain before he realizes it is his guest in the shower. Of course. This will be the new normal. Kim knows he should be alert, ready to protect himself from the dangerous stranger in his bathroom. But for now he simply turns up the heat a little, reaching up into the cabinet for two mugs. In his mild exhaustion the presence of another person feels reassuring. The thought is subconscious and Kim is too tired to regret it.
**
Two weeks with little progress. Pete, who promised to regularly update, has been silent for days. As much as Kenta craves his attention he craves more to comply, and it hasn’t reached past the point of direct disobedience. Kim hasn’t yet sensed Kenta’s unease and continues to move around the house in his normal patterns. Kettle always somehow on the stove. Kenta has discovered this is an anxious habit of Kim’s. He hates to think that maybe he is the reason Kim is anxious.
In the mornings, Kenta still wakes up before Kim. While he showers first Kim goes to the kitchen to stand, eyes heavy lidded, to make tea and prepare breakfast for his guest. Kim doesn’t seem to be getting much sleep, staying up so late and waking up before dawn. Neither of them are getting much sleep. Everything feels too urgent to close their eyes for more than a moment, at the chance they could miss something important.
They’re both doing all they can. But it never feels like it’s enough.
Finally Kenta snaps. “It’s been too long. I’m going to go see him.”
They are in the living room, Kim focused in on his laptop with a steaming mug beside him and Kenta leaning against the doorway, keys in hand. Kim looks up and arches an eyebrow. Doesn’t even ask who he means. “You can’t go out by yourself.”
“I know.”
“Do you need me to drive you?”
Asking for favors is not something Kenta is used to. “If you want.”
Kim shrugs. Some time outside of the apartment should do some good for his restless roommate. “Sure thing. Give me a second to get ready.”
When they reach to Pete’s place Kenta immediately pulls at the car door handle, trying to get out. “Calm down,” Kim says. “We don’t know if it’s an emergency yet.”
And now, standing in Pete’s doorway, it is clear that it very much is not. Well, maybe not to Kim. Kenta’s face is unreadable, considering the image of Chris basically sitting on top of Pete. Clearly they aren’t much worried with urgency, as Pete lazily turns his head to acknowledge the intruders. “Hi.”
The whole room smells like sex. Neither of the two men look particularly embarrassed at being caught; rather, they appear only very slightly annoyed. Nobody speaks, which only makes the situation more uncomfortable. The deafening silence amplifies Kenta’s shaky, panicked breathing, although his face remains emotionless. Hands clenching at his sides, Kim watches his roommate’s face intently, deciphering layers of deep hurt. And—as Kenta’s lips begin to twitch and quiver, Kim frantically blurts, “We’ll come back another time,” backing out of the room. He doesn’t grab Kenta’s wrist to pull him away but instead motions for him to follow. Which he does.
Kenta does not look at Kim for the entire drive. Kim does not attempt to make conversation. When they arrive home Kenta walks straight to his room, shuts the door, and lights a cigarette.
Of course. How had Kim not realized already? No wonder Kenta only really listened to Pete’s commands. It wasn’t entirely clear their history but from what Kim could tell it was completely one-sided. Was now, at least. For god’s sake— Pete didn’t care about Kenta or what happened to him. Obvious from the way he was unceremoniously dumped on Kim’s doorstep with little explanation and no belongings. Instinctually Kim feels a need to protect Kenta. From Pete, he guesses, or from the voice in Kenta’s head that makes him need someone like Pete, or from whatever it was that had traumatized the poor man. Kim couldn’t be Pete but he could be better. Kenta could do better.
Not that Kim wanted—no, he only meant that Kenta deserved to be taken care of and Pete was very evidently not the man for the job.
Kim looked down at the tea bags in his hand, suddenly registering the familiar roil of water boiling. Funny, he hums to himself, that the habit came so naturally. Moments later, holding Kenta’s dedicated mug in his hands, Kim loiters outside of his roommate’s bedroom door. Herbal blend teased with a splash of cream and an ungodly amount of honey. Observations Kim made over the course of the first few days, pretending not to be endeared by the adorable behavior.
Adorable?
Um. No. It’s just that, no, he means, never mind.
Kim is a good roommate. Good roommates just notice little things like that, like the way Kenta likes his tea.
And of course he knocks, like a good roommate would, and hands Kenta his tea, inwardly beaming at Kenta’s gentle gratitude. And like a good roommate he respects Kenta’s wish for solitude.
Yes. Kim would be a good roommate. And he would be better than Pete. Kim cares about Kenta, and maybe he doesn’t quite understand why or to what extent. But it’s a good step in the right direction. So it’s decided. Kim would be, for Kenta, better than Pete.
**
Kim makes samgyeopsal. The act itself isn’t unusual but the motive behind it is—unclear, something to do with making Kenta feel welcome. At least, that’s what Kim tells himself.
The man in question sits tamely on the opposite side of the table, hands folded and gaze turned slightly down. He has never eaten this meal before. An accurate guess by Kim. Kenta helplessly watches as Kim takes meat and vegetables onto his own plate, then nestles them inside of a lettuce leaf and rolls it up to make a little package. Kim, looking up, meets Kenta’s unfazed stare. Then he pushes his chair back slightly, stands, leans over the table to hold the food in front of Kenta’s mouth.
The sudden action, surprisingly, does not provoke a flinch from the guest. Instead, he looks up tantalizingly through dark lashes into Kim’s anticipatory complexion. A coaxing hum from the man and Kenta obediently drops his jaw, allowing Kim to feed him. Kenta closes his mouth around the lettuce and catches the end of Kim’s finger between his lips.
It’s too intimate, even for Kim’s feigned confidence. Before he can register the flush creeping up the back of his neck he sits back down, distracting himself by taking another lettuce leaf and listening to Kim’s thoughtful chewing.
“Is it good?”
Kim looks up just in time to catch Kenta’s fraction of a nod. “Good. Now watch, I’ll show you how to do it.”
**
Somehow Kim finds himself again driving Kenta to the home of Pete. Unhelpful, selfish, distant Pete. Every day Kim must remind himself that Tony is the real enemy and not this cool-as-a-cucumber Enigma who Kenta just so happens to be obsessed with. Jealousy doesn’t quite describe it, more of a quiet distaste for the man.
Yet, here he is, Kenta stone-still in the passenger seat, desperate for new information or “evidence” or maybe just to see Pete again.
Fucking Pete and his stupid fucking authority.
Kenta, however, is less eager to escape the vehicle when the two arrive. Kim considers this a win. After knocking twice a response still doesn’t come, and Kim gently suggests they return home and leave a voicemail.
“I need to say something important.”
There’s no convincing this man. “Okay.”
Again they enter unannounced, praying to find a hopefully more decent scene than the time before. Kenta goes ahead of Kim, turning down a hallway to the left. The sound of his footsteps abruptly halts and Kim freezes.
He doesn’t ask what’s going on. He can hear it. Moaning even heard from this far away. Which means Kenta could hear them more clearly.
Catching up to the other man, Kim whispers, “Come on.”
Kenta doesn’t budge.
“Kenta.”
Still, no movement. Kim is beginning to get impatient.
“Kenta. Please.”
The other man’s shoulders soften, and he nods once, turns, and follows Kim out of Pete’s apartment.
By now it is dark. They pick up a few beers and sit on the side of the road next to the parked car, staring out into the open abyss. The sky spills forgiving starlight into their open bottles. It could be the touch of alcohol or the lateness of the evening but for some reason Kenta speaks.
“I’m happy for him.”
Not at all what Kim was thinking, but okay. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Then: “It could never have been me.”
Brutal honesty, an efficient form of communication. Kenta is so used to brutality it now characterizes even his speech. Any words at all, however, are accepted and greatly encouraged. Especially truth.
Kim nods slowly as if he knows exactly what Kenta means. “Why not?”
Kenta takes a swig of his drink and places it on the grass next to him, then leans back on his arms, palms buried in the dirt. “He loves Way. Or Chris, I guess. Same thing. He doesn’t love me. It’s okay.”
“Is it?” All Kim seems to do is question.
“Hmm.” Not exactly an answer. “Tony and Pete were the only people I’ve ever really loved. And neither of them give a shit about me.” A strained laugh. “It’s hilarious.”
It’s appalling. Even terrible people, worse than Kenta, deserve someone to care for them. Even Tony, even Pete. By what logic must Kenta receive only abuse up until his adult years?
“You’ll find someone who loves you. I promise.” Kim doesn’t know exactly what he means when he says these words, whether or not he sees himself being someone, if the thought even crosses his mind as his lips wrap around the syllables.
Kenta, silent for a moment, picks up his beer and brings the rim to his lips but does not drink. Whatever this is supposed to mean Kim cannot interpret. For such an efficient speaker Kenta is truly difficult to comprehend. Really, Kim can’t resist being curious. He just wants to understand. To be a part of Kenta’s life. How many secrets was this man keeping?
**
When it rains Kenta cries.
Kim isn’t sure if this is because he thinks Kim can’t hear him or because the rain triggers painful memories but Kim isn’t going to ask. In these last few months while Kenta has been his guest Kim has always left him alone during storms. In a way it’s been comforting, knowing that Kenta was capable of emotions other than indifference and fear.
Now, though, something feels different. Whether it’s the timbre of Kenta’s cries that sounds more pitiful, more anguished, or if Kim’s feelings have changed. He can’t quite be sure. All he knows is that with every broken sob that seeps through the floor and into the kitchen Kim’s chest grows tighter. It hurts to hear the other man in pain. The uncertainty of this sudden connection scares Kim, and naturally the solution must be to avoid. And, of course, to make tea.
Over the past months Kim has observed his guest, noticing his mannerisms, his preferences, his constant desire to always be doing more, to take action. His hesitant affection for red bean cakes shipped from Korea. The ever-so-slight crease that forms between his eyebrows when Kim cooks using cilantro, an expression Kim has taken to mean aversion.
It’s only rained a couple of times since Kenta started living in Kim’s apartment, and each time Kim has distracted himself by finding a task to accomplish until Kenta eventually falls asleep. The susurration of the stove’s flame blends together with the howl of the outside wind and Kim decides there is no more avoiding the fact. He will be a good roommate and take care of Kenta as he ought to be cared for. Reaching up into the cabinets above the stove Kim retrieves two mugs, turns off the stove, and drizzles honey generously into one of the mugs. Alongside the tea he places a couple yakgwa cookies. What else do you give a troubled guest?
Tea and cookies is a good start. In the likely event that this becomes a common occurrence Kim will get some more practice at roommating. He picks up the tray and goes to stand outside Kenta’s room and freezes with his hand outstretched towards the door.
Somehow he works up the courage to knock.
The leftover sniffles and whimpers go completely silent.
“Kenta?”
No answer.
“It’s me. How are you?”
Very softly—“Fine.”
A smile touches the edge of Kim’s lips. “I brought you some tea. You don’t have to let me in, but I wanted to ask if you need anything.”
A pause, then: “I’m fine.” Kenta’s voice is thick with tears and his words are barely coherent. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
Kim sets the tray on the ground and places his palm flat against the door, as if comforting Kenta through the wall. “Don’t apologize. Just sit tight, I’ll bring you some tissues, okay?”
”…Okay.”
Kim turns and opens his own bedroom door, walking over to his side table to retrieve the box of tissues in the second drawer. When he returns to Kenta’s room, though, the tray is gone and the door is open a half inch.
Never has temptation been so irresistible.
Kim should knock. A good roommate would knock. Intruding on privacy is not a boundary Kim should cross. All he needs to do is knock on the door. Ignore the voice in his head telling him to just go in. Just knock.
Just fucking knock.
…
He doesn’t knock. The door makes no noise as it swings open and the other man does not hear as Kim enters his bedroom.
The vision is celestial.
Kenta sits on the edge of the bad with his back to the door. Naked from the waist up and looking more vulnerable than Kim has ever seen him. Posture shrunken inwards, humiliated and terrified. The irony is not lost on Kim as his eyes travel indulgently down the defined musculature of Kenta’s back. That such an intimidating man be curled up like a child. In a way it’s almost frightening. Nonsensical.
The wind picks up, blowing through the curtains, and the light shifts and Kim gasps. Suddenly the details come into startling focus.
Dozens of scars.
Burns, bruises, stabs. Bullet wounds. Bite marks. A ledger of pain collected over the years, a record of Tony’s anger and Kenta’s agonizing submission.
Kim drops the box of tissues on the floor. Frozen in shock and sadness for the other man and he steps forward and reaches out his hand craving to feel the warmth of Kenta’s skin against his fingertips and Kenta turns to look at Kim and his eyes are glazed over and tears silently stream down his face and suddenly Kim is so aware of the wrongness of all of this and how beautiful Kenta looks even when he’s crying and now Kim is backing away horrified at himself and he apologizes over and over and he trips over his feet closing the door behind him and tumbles to the ground outside of Kenta’s bedroom hearing only the blood rushing to his head and the screaming of the wind outside and not Kenta’s muffled voice only feet away pleading that he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, he’s so-