#author:phi

The other stablehand, however, didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm, not even bothering to look up from the pile of dung he was currently shoveling.

“They’re trying to find a suitor for Prince Jinyoung?” Yugyeom wrinkled his nose, clearly unimpressed, “Would anyone even want to marry him?”

“Why would anybody not want to marry him?” Youngjae sighed. “He’s so pretty, and sweet, yet also a little bit sharp. Like a perfect tart!”

“Ugh,” Yugyeom groaned, snatching away the small engraving of Jinyoung’s profile Youngjae was drooling over. “All you have to do I bake him some sweets when he asks. I have to clean his room.”

“It would be an honor to clean the Prince’s room!” Youngjae pouted. “I bet it smells like roses.”

“It’s a pigsty,” Yugyeom deadpanned.

Youngjae gasped, “Do not slander the great Prince Jinyoung’s name!”

“I’m sorry, what about my name?” a new voice inquired.

It was the same voice that Jinyoung heard in his nightmares. The ones where he’s pantless in front of his high school crush, slave to a village of unicorns, or some other acid dream he had after binging anime while eating ice cream straight from the bucket and fell asleep on the couch.

But Jinyoung wasn’t dreaming. He’s standing in the kitchen, smuggling ramen from the cabinets, stuffing them in his shirt in preparation of his all-night cram session for Psych. And the new voice wasn’t a dream-like apparition, but a breathing body waiting for some type of explanation.

When Jinyoung turned back to greet the new voice with a sinking sense of something like regret and guilt morphed together, he dropped all his ramen and gaped because he was not expecting that.

He’s not quite sure if anything could’ve prepared him for whatever strange thing was lurching in front of him, his heart hesitating just as his bowl shattered to the ground. Jinyoung vaguely registered something hot against his feet, barely protected by thin socks covered in faded thread and dust, and he blinked. His eyes were frozen wide, unblinkingly caught between gears as his mind worked desperately to apply logic to the situation. It was impossible, he knew that, but he’d always been a skeptic. Panic started to filter into Jinyoung’s thoughts as the figure stalked forward, feet scraping against the ground.

He quickly turned to run, the sound of his steps echoing against the pavement. It only took him a moment to realize that whoever was following him had begun to chase after him as well. He willed himself to run faster, desperately trying to ignore the burning in his lungs and the way his legs began to protest with each step, but it was so hard. His body began to slow down, despite his internal pleading, and soon he was collapsing onto the pavement with a pained gasp, tears already springing to his eyes.

“Please,” he whispered as they approach, feeling the eerie presence of the figure staring down at him.

“Please what, pretty boy?” The figure was still hazy in his sight, still none but a silhouette as he swallowed down the nervous pool of saliva in his mouth.

The footsteps came to an abrupt halt, leaning over him dauntingly as he tried to find the words lodged in his throat. The figure tilted its head curiously, shuffling was heard, and it’s voice was a little closer this time.

“What is it you wanted to tell me, hm?”

His body trembled and quivered out of fear, still wracking his brain to find his pleading words in hopes of getting his way.

Defeat weighed his shoulders down as he came to realise his impending doom. Slowly, slowly the arm of the the Masked Singer™ lowered itself down onto his shoulder. There would be no turning back now.

“I am your father” the distorted voice intoned.

Shock filled his body. Trembling, he made his demand.

“Prove it. Sing to me the songs of my people.”

Jackson took a deep breath and paused for a moment to gather himself, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his veins. He opened his mouth, hand resting over his frantic heart, and to the tune of Pompeii by Bastille, sang, “Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop–”

A single tear rolled down Jaebum’s cheek as he watched, and Jackson blinked away his own tears. Then, very suddenly, Jaebum fell to his knees in front of the two-storey tall Paul Blart: Mall Cop poster and began to cry, “Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop–”

“Oh, praise thee,” Jackson shrieked, “praise thee Paul Blart: Mall Cop!”

He fell to his knees.

“What are you doing.” It was phrased as a question but the words fell from his mouth as a statement. Jinyoung had heard a shrill, panicked scream as he passed by the room, and immediately regretted following his curiosity to find a writhing Jackson on the floor, panting and shrieking.

Jackson did not answer; instead, he proceeded to scream different variations of “praise” as Jinyoung slowly backed away. His Plan A was originally to run away as far as he could, rename himself “Junior,” and live his life peacefully in a small country town where no obnoxious young adults by the name of Jackson could ever disturb him again. His goal, however, was shattered as he backed away straight into Jaebum’s sturdy chest and questioning, narrowed eyes.

“What the hell is going on in there?” Jaebum demanded, startled by the fear reflected in Jinyoung’s eyes.

“Hyung!” his voice was warbled, strained and pitchy and his knuckles were gripped white from where he was clenching his hands. Jaebum tried to stitch the whole scene together, eyes frantically darting around every incriminating corner of the room.

Jinyoung was by the open window, its curtains billowing out. The toppled lamp stand on the other side of the room, Coco petrified and shivering behind it. The amassment of dirty laundry across the furniture (not that that was particularly new). Yugyeom curled into a ball in the centre of the room. A figure covered by a blanket, unmoving.

Jaebum’s eyes bulged open, “Why is there a dead person in our dorm!??” The stress he felt, it was consuming at this point.

Despite the completely, very goddamn serious moment, Jinyoung scoffed and rolled his eyes. “That’s not a dead body, hyung. That’s just Jackson. he’s taking a nap.

“A nap?” He questioned. The doe-eyed youth only threw him a halfhearted nod. Jaebum squinted his eyes narrowly at Jackson’s figure before looking up suspiciously back at Jinyoung. He ultimately decided to let the questions in his mind stay unvoiced, opting for a small shrug and smile. He’d known the younger male for too long to question his antics, especially since he’d witnessed the wrath of Jinyoung for all this time. Jaebum reckoned that obliviousness was the true key to a peaceful and long life. “I don’t even want to know,” he let out.

“What are you talking about,” Jinyoung questioned. “Are you trying to evade this conversation?”

Jaebum laughed nervously, gaze still looking back and forth from the boy in front of him to the boy lying splayed out on the ground. “Just pretend I was never here today.” He blurted out, “We can save this conversation for another day.”

He threw the younger male what he hoped was a convincingly amicable grin before hurrying his steps towards the door. He should’ve known that he didn’t drop toothpaste on his shirt this morning for nothing—t’was all a warning from the deities above. And so Jaebum stumbled his way out the door, leaving behind Jinyoung to dwell on unfinished conversations.

“I know it was you! Don’t try to deny anything!” Jackson shouted.

“I swear! Let go of me or you’ll really regret it this time,” Bambam grunted. “It’s not as if anything you own would even fit me anyway,” he mocked.

“You bastard, you did not just say that to my face.”

“Oh yes I did,” Bambam sing-songed.

At that, Jackson had had enough, and charged at Bambam with the full force of his body. As they flew out the window, Jinyoung could be heard in the background, lamenting, “We just had the new glass put in last week!”

As if Jackson cared about the new glass put in when he was sitting on top of Bambam’s chest, all his weight balancing on the younger’s ribs in a way that had to be painfully uncomfortable. Luckily they had landed on the fire escape, or there would’ve been hell to pay.  

“Tell the truth,” Jackson demanded roughly.

“I didn’t do it!” Bambam insisted angrily.

“I’ll make Coco pee in your slippers,” Jackson warned.

Bambam stilled at this threat, face falling immediately.

“No, not the Gucci! What kind of sick world do we live in when a dude can’t even have some decent Gucci? ” he wailed miserably, sucking in his bottom lip as he glared up at Jackson. “Fine, jerkoff. I wore your leather kitten suit and I ripped it. You would have been way too big in it anyway.”

“It wasn’t for me,” Jackson admitted, uncharacteristically chagrin.

Bambam rolled his eyes, ignoring the way the older boy glared at him.

“Sure it wasn’t.” He pushed at Jackson’s shoulders, relaxing a little when Jackson finally moved off of him. After a few moments of unusual quiet, Bambam sighed, watching as Jackson stared over the edge. “Fine, who was it for?”

“None of your business!” Jackson snapped quickly, and Bambam had to fight the urge to laugh.

“Who else would wear a kitten suit?” Bambam countered, and when Jackson opened up his mouth to respond, Bambam held up a hand, “A leather kitten suit?” At that, Jackson went silent.

“Ya’know,” Bambam spoke up after a moment, leaning back onto his palms and crossing his legs at the ankles. He waited until Jackson met his gaze before continuing, “I’m not surprised Jinyoungie is a freak, I mean, the guy reads erotica novels for fun, but you,” he giggled as Jackson shot him a glare, “You always seemed like the vanilla type to me, hyung,” he finished, a teasing grin on his face even as Jackson quickly leaned over and dead legged him.

“It’s not like that, you brat!” Jackson shouted as he plopped back down on the floor, brushing the hair out of his face with a huff.

Bambam groaned, leaning over and smacking Jackson’s arm. That didn’t stop him from snickering at the elder, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “What’s not like what? You being vanilla isn’t like that? So after all this time, my assumption that you weren’t kinky was wrong?”

Jackson glared daggers into Bambam’s profile, hand quickly finding his way to the younger’s slim thigh, giving it a squeeze - nails included. “You mention this to anyone else, you’re dead to me, you hear me?”

“I can’t make any promises, hyung. This is just way too good not to share. I’m sure Jinyoungie hyung wouldn’t mind the word getting around anyway…”

Unfortunately, Jackson wasn’t joking. Right as Bambam had begun to turn away to inform the masses of Jackson’s intimate escapades, Jackson began to morph into a creature of pure menace. Skin turning green and nails lengthening, all trace of Jackson’s amiable demeanour fell away as his true self was revealed in the face of imminent danger.

“You will not tell anyone of what you know!” Jackson thundered. Bambam swore he felt the entire house shake. So in awe of Jackson’s unveiled power was he, he fell to the ground immediately and began to beg for forgiveness for the error of his ways.

Bambam could not raise his eyes, would not raise his eyes, in fear of Jackson’s festering rage. For an excruciating moment all Bambam could hear was the air flushing in and out of his lungs, the muffled clop clop of cloven hooves behind the door. “I won’t tell a soul,” Bambam promised and for a while, Jackson said nothing.

Then, with a suddenness that had Bambam’s whole body jerking, Jackson spoke, “Ogres are like onions. We have many layers.”

Bambam raised his head to look at Jackson who had visibly softened. “You have seen too many of my layers. Tell no one.”

Bambam stared deeply into his eyes, and he spoke with an unusual seriousness to his tone. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Jackson was, however, not yet satisfied. He took Bambam’s hands into his own and squeezed them with as much strength as he could muster. “You must swear on it. Swear on Coco’s life.”

Bambam gasped audibly. “How could you say such a thing? Do you not trust me that you would make me swear on the life of a living fluffball?”

Jackson jerked on his arms with an unnecessary harshness. “Promise me!” he begged. “No one must ever know.”

“Fine, I will,” Bambam huffed. “But if you tell anyone I was the one who stole Youngjae’s stuffed bear I’m telling on you,” he leaned in to whisper sinisterly, “to JYP-hyung.”

What feels like the combined power of twelve freezers shivers violently down Jackson’s spine.

“You wouldn’t.”

The sudden stillness in Bambam’s eyes, that emotionless, borderline-cruel blanket that covers his face speaks on the contrary. Betrayal is gripping. To think all those cumulative years of Jackson thinning his wallet out, meal after meal after meal - spontaneous ramen, the priciest meat, window shopping that never stayed window shopping and that already boyish voice reaching a squeaky hyung, please - would account for this kind of ridiculous threat.

Jackson feels his over-dyed brittle hair thinning.

“If I swear on Coco’s life, and if I fail still, don’t you think this is still really unfair to Youngjae? A dog and a teddy bear, how much can a grown man take!?”

“A swear is a swear hyung. PD-nim,” Bam shakes his head nervously, “there’s more to that man than meets the eye.”

A solemn, rigid nod. Jackson fights another shiver. “That’s why he wears sunglasses, Bam.”

And it’s with a swing of a door and a small breeze before Bam Bam leaves the room and Jackson to wallow in his thoughts. The traitorous image of the younger male’s backside burning into his mind. Jackson takes a small sigh, tugging at the ends of his—coarse, overdyed—hair. It’s then and there that Jackson considers the repercussions of failure and just how much compensation would be. Would it be the monetary equivalent of a pet dog? Or would it be some unmeasurable emotional equivalent that he’d spend this life and the next paying back. He considers asking Mark just how much getting Coco was, or maybe he could ask Jaebum what the best consolation for letting go of a dear pet be.

Everything seemingly falters along the slippery slope, “what-if’s” avalanching into a massive figure ready to roll across his aching (aging) body and leave him buried in the harsh, cold snow. “It’s okay,” Jackson tells himself, “I just have to not fail.” He reassures as he steps upon empty ground, gravity turning upside down as he tries not to succumb to his wavering vision. He places a hand on his chest, as if he could ease the restlessness of his heart. He wonders how much karma of all his past lives he needs to accumulate just enough luck for success. Or whether or not God would borrow him some to pay back in the afterlife.

It’s foolproof. Unfortunately, for Bambam at least, Jackson is the personification of stupidity, and knows that well. He is nothing if not self-aware (and health conscious).

He turns up the next day at the same shabby house with a crate under his arm, stubbing his toe on a step as he makes his way up. The sky is as putrid grey as his soul and the sun’s rays like feeble, unmotivated feelers poking through pathetically- it’s not a good day for an apology, but it’s now or never to change the course of Jackson’s shitty fate.

The door opens, and Bambam looks surprised and slightly discouraged- there’s also a Froot Loop on the front of his shirt that Jackson neglects to point out.