The Hunger Inside

— A starter for @hwanara !  Backdated: A few months prior, shortly after the mansion burning.

This was meant to be an easy job, or at least less dangerous than most. Mireu’s just the driver—his job is to take over after the others take the government driver of the truck, and anyone else from the government on board, out. It, seemingly, goes well, with the others quickly and efficiently immobilising the government workers and leaving the drivers seat empty for Mireu to hop in, speeding away from the scene of the ambush and towards the rebel base. 

It was just bodies he was transporting, but people’s friends or family could be in the truck, and he wasn’t about to let the government pack them all into a mass, unmarked grave. These people had been deemed useless to the government, as Mireu knew he would be too if he was ever capture by them. His power was useless, and he’d been with the rebels too long for his loyalty to ever waver. They’d never keep him alive, and he knew it, which is why he rarely goes on missions where there’s significant risk. He can’t protect himself. 

He’s already a good distance away from where they’d taken over the truck when Mireu begins to hear strange sounds from the back, where the bodies are piled on shelves lining both sides of the space. For a second he thinks maybe there’s something wrong with the truck itself, but then he hears the rustling. Then, a groaning, a moaning and gurgling. Mireu’s frozen in fear for a second, fearing the zombie apocalypse has started, before he shakes himself out of it and pulls over, worried he may crash if whatever is making that noise jumps out at him. 

He stumbles out of the front cabin of the truck and hurries round to the back, pulling the door open and gingerly stepping into the space between the shelves. Everything’s still for a second, before a body bag ahead and to his right shifts and the groaning starts up again. He steps closer, and then he can feel it, that thrumming of a living being nearby. God, the government can’t even kill people right. With shaky hands he unzips the body bag, his eyes falling on the prettiest boy he’s seen in his life, though there’s definitely something wrong with him. 

Panicking now at the realisation that this boy is severely injured and Mireu’s alone with him far from the rebel base still he stands motionless, staring. What should he do? Taking a deep breath he unzips the bag fully, then gently pulls the boy off the shelf, catching him against his body before he topples to the floor. Lifting him up and kicking the body bag away as it falls at his feet he takes him out of the truck, getting him away from the other body bags—he shouldn’t be confronted with the reality of what had almost happened to him right as he awakens. He sits him down on the grass beside the road, obscured by the truck, and props him up against a tree, hurrying to the drivers cabin to grab his bottle of water, before he  returns and kneels in front of the boy. 

It was around noon time and he was half way through a bottle of whiskey. Jiho’s stomach felt like it was on fire, which he supposed was justified since he had missed breakfast and last night’s dinner. To shut down his stomach’s angry wails of protest, he fetched a cookie from the tray cute little Mireu (@mireuxs)  was carrying. This kid was such a good find - loyal, hardworking and friendly. Much better than some of their other recruits. 

“Ten out of ten,” Jiho complimented, consuming the still warm cookie in two massive bites before helping himself to another. He waited to see if his stomach would be happier with this peace offering, but of course it was too soon to tell.

The kid was staring at him, or rather, the wound on his wrist. 

“Huh? Don’t worry about this, it’s just a scratch.” Jiho couldn’t even remember where or when he got that cut. 

The kid was still looking, and then something in Jiho’s drunk brain finally clicked.

“Right, I have eaten, but you probably haven’t.” He heard a few things about Mireu and his special dietary needs. “Here,” he mumbled, licking the cookie crumbles from his lips and wiping his greasy fingers clean on his gold leather pants. From his jacket pocket, Jiho retrieved his knife, and after verifying its sharpness by tilting the blade under the sun, stabbed it into his wrist with no hesitation. 

The cut that was barely healed in the first place was widened and blood bubbled up immediately to the surface. “Not sure if my blood would taste any good…here, have a sample and see if you want it.” Instead of his wrist right away, he offered Mireu his bloodied knife tip.   

Mireu’s not sure when he began baking to relieve stress—perhaps it was shortly after arriving at the rebel base. He’d not had much to do, and to get his mind off the loss of his family he’d turned to the kitchen, honing his skills in cooking and baking to try and be of some help to the rebels, since his powers were at best useless, and at worst a detriment to him and everyone around him. He cooks when he’s happy (or when dinner needs to be made and it’s his turn to cook), and bakes when he’s sad, or stressed, or anxious—any negative emotion really. The day began badly—Mireu waking with a gasp from a nightmare about his family’s deaths. 

So, cookies had been on his agenda from first thing. He’d spent the morning doing his chores; cleaning up after the animals and watering some plants, cleaning up a little around the base and putting on some laundry, before he’d gotten around to creating his favourite—good old chocolate chip cookies. Being so busy had helped keep his mind off things, and his emotions in check, but as his to-do list is quickly nearing complete he can’t escape the gnawing hunger that he’d been trying ignore for over a day now. He’d not eaten in a few days, and the last time he had it’d only been raw cow. 

As he’s making his rounds, offering cookies to people lingering around the base he stops by Jiho, watching him practically inhale two in quick succession, when he notices a small scratch on his wrist and his insides clench painfully. He hates the way he can smell it already, can practically hear Jiho’s heart beating, pumping his blood around his body. So warm. He licks his lips, barely hearing what he says about the scratch. He’s aware he’s staring, and it takes every ounce of self control to drag his eyes away from the scratch just as Jiho seems to realise what’s up with him. 

He’s about to tell Jiho not to worry about him, and that he had a steak waiting in the refrigerator, when the elder draws a knife from his pocket and stabs himself. Mireu’s eyes widen and he almost drops the tray of cookies in his hurry to set them down on the nearest flat surface. “Oh my god you’re bleeding- Are you okay?! You stabbed yourself!” He exclaims, trying hard not to look at his wound, though the metallic tang that reaches his nostrils almost knocks him off his feet.