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Jongdae hooks his chin over Baekhyun’s shoulder, becoming more of a hindrance than a help. “This would go faster, if you helped,” Baekhyun remarks, up to his forearms in sudsy dishwater.
“I’m sure.” Jongdae pecks his neck and pats his hip. “Keep up the good work.” He dodges a towel snapped at him. “You want popcorn?”
“Yeah. Try to not make a mess.” Jongdae waves off the remark and tears off the plastic of a bag of microwavable popcorn.
Baekhyun finishes drying the freshly washed dishes and drops the knife into the last slot on the knife block. He likes this cabin. It’s fully furnished; everything is provided, but that also adds pressure on his mind to keep things clean. He can’t imagine renting out his own property. He would be a terrible landlord.
The pops of the kernels slow until it’s just one every couple of seconds, and Jongdae removes it from the microwave. He juggles it hand to hand to avoid the steam and dumps its contents gracelessly into a large bowl. White popcorn falls across the countertop, and he grins sheepishly at Baekhyun before sweeping the loose pieces into his hand and dropping them in his mouth.
“Happy? No mess. I cleaned up the evidence.”
“Uh huh.” They leave the kitchen and go down a short hallway to the end room. Jongdae pushes open the door with the back of his hand, full of popcorn. “You keep eating like that, and there won’t be any left for the movie.”
“Then I’ll make more,” Jongdae replies flippantly, smiling as he throws popcorn in the air and catches it in his mouth.
The downside of the rental is the lack of cable or internet, but that’s also part of why it was chosen. Neighbors aren’t particularly close, with trees and ponds in-between properties. It’s a location that invites its occupants to enjoy the tranquility of nature and live in the moment rather than the constant go-go-go of the city.
Baekhyun rather misses the ambient urban noises, though. Birdsong is nice, but he’s not big on silence. Without enough noise, his head gets fuzzy with static, and his limbs become restless.
Another reason for this rental vacation was for him to relax. Since around college, probably, and entering the workforce, he’s developed a nagging voice that urges him to do something, anything, and to stop wasting time.
But it’s his time to waste, Jongdae says, and he’s right.
Jongdae takes the pillows and fluffs them against the wall to sit against, narrowing Baekhyun’s options: If he wants to be comfortable, he has to use Jongdae. Baekhyun doesn’t mind, except Jongdae has always been slim and rather bony.
With the crunch of popcorn at his back, Baekhyun digs in his backpack for the movies he brought along. The one they agreed on earlier is still in its store plastic, and the little folded flaps on the ends are too short for him to catch with his nails.
“I’ll be right back; I need scissors or something.”
Jongdae hums. Half the popcorn is gone.
The knife block in the kitchen has a pair of scissors. Baekhyun cuts the plastic and blindly reaches to put the scissors back. They clunk but don’t go in their place, catching the empty slot of a skinnier knife. Baekhyun drops them in their center slot and returns to the bedroom while crumpling the plastic in his fist.
With a mechanical hum, the disc drive opens and shuts. Jongdae takes the remote to navigate the disc menu, and Baekhyun yanks the blanket from beneath Jongdae’s legs to bunch it up against the wall. He settles against Jongdae’s side as the credits open.
“I’m impressed,” he comments softly. “There’s still popcorn.”
“I’m not a complete glutton.”
Baekhyun hums. “Not for popcorn, anyway.” He scoots further and leans into Jongdae more.
He’s not so absorbed by the drama on screen that he doesn’t feel Jongdae check his watch and sigh. “What’s up?”
“When is Chanyeol coming?”
Baekhyun glances at Jongdae, then back at the TV. “Tomorrow. He says he has a surprise for me,” he mumbles.
“I’ll head out after this, then.”
"My keys are by the TV. I'll ride back with Chanyeol."
"You sure?"
Baekhyun shrugs. "If not, I'll just call a ride. It'll be fine."
They sit in restless silence. “If you want me to stay, I will.”
“No… I gotta talk to him myself. I couldn’t bring it up on the phone at all, but he deserves to hear it in person, anyway.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I have no idea. The truth, as clearly as I can? It’s not like we planned this. I think he’ll understand. Hopefully.” The popcorn bowl sits empty; Baekhyun moves it to the side table.
“He’s a good guy,” Jongdae agrees. His tone doesn’t carry as much conviction as Baekhyun would like, feeding the guilty anxiety that’s been slowly knitting his insides into knots. “It’ll hurt, no matter what, but this wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t like a plot against him or anything.” Baekhyun thinks he might be trying to convince himself, too.
They can’t focus on the movie anymore. After some restless shifting, Jongdae wrestles Baekhyun onto his back and kisses him. “It’ll work out.”
“Can you stay the night? Leave early morning?”
“Sure.”
Baekhyun opens his eyes on instinct–something told him to be more aware, and he immediately meets dark eyes. There’s no time to say anything; he gasps a sort of shout and shoves Jongdae off of him, rolling the other way and feeling a tug at his T-shirt. He drops off the edge of the bed and strikes his head on the leg of the side table.
Ringing fills his ears, and his vision swims. The strike was dull but hard; he feels for blood and is surprised to not find any.
As he tries to clear his head, the thudding from his temples continues, and he realizes some of the thuds are coming from the other side of the bed. He looks over the mattress and doesn’t see Jongdae, but he hears him gasping for breath around broken pleas.
“Calm down! …We didn’t want to hurt you! …Chanyeol?!”
His boyfriend arrived earlier than expected. If he could think of the irony, this unexpected arrival is probably the surprise Chanyeol had in mind.
“Chanyeol, stop it!”
Words can’t reach him. With his left hand clamped around Jongdae’s throat, he brings his right fist down like a hailstorm, pummelling whatever he touches.
Baekhyun’s focus shifts; there’s a knife embedded in the mattress between them.
Trying to ignore the surging pulse in his temples and throat that seems to make his entire body twitch, Baekhyun yanks the knife free. The torn piece of his shirt flutters and falls. He clamors over the bed and rears his arm back. He hesitates a moment and brings it down in a rough arc at Chanyeol’s back. It hits bone and shifts. Chanyeol jerks back, and Baekhyun lets go. The knife stays in Chanyeol’s back, and he reaches back with either arm.
For a second, Baekhyun sees Jongdae. He’s unnatural shades of red, violet, and blue, but he’s still breathing.
Then Chanyeol speaks, and Baekhyun’s blood freezes in his veins.
“Backstabber.”
He has never been violent. For as long as Baekhyun has known him, Chanyeol has been sensitive and warm. The sort to cry at sad stories and openly laugh at anything funny. He could never hide his emotions, and he’s not about to start.
When he looks at Baekhyun over his shoulder, there’s no hint of affection or even sadness. Tears drip off of his chin, but his jaw is set and he bares clenched teeth.
“Chanyeol–we need to talk.” He steps off the bed as Chanyeol gets to his feet. “Let me call an ambulance, and-and we can talk.” The floorboards creak beneath them. “Okay? Don’t do this.”
“What do you want to talk about? How long you’ve been running around behind my back? Were you just that lonely? Was Jongdae convenient? Did he come on to you?” A step punctuates each question. Chanyeol steps forward; Baekhyun steps back.
Since before they dated, Baekhyun has admired Chanyeol’s body; he always takes a lot of pride in his appearance, but in recent years, he followed a gym regimen that developed strong muscles and broad shoulders. Baekhyun loved to cling to those shoulders and worship the dips and lines of muscle with his mouth and hands. Now, seeming to fill the doorway, Chanyeol stalks after Baekhyun with deliberate care, each step firm and heavy.
Eyeing the pile that used to be Jongdae left behind on the floor, he doesn’t know if running would even make a difference.
When Baekhyun crosses the threshold into the hall, he tries to think how long it would take to reach the front door. It opens inward, so he has to stop a fragment of a second. The steps leading to the porch are short; he can jump them easily. His car keys are behind Chanyeol, in the bedroom, so he’d need to run to the next house for help.
It’s entirely ridiculous. If he had a thought to spare, he’d tell himself just how ridiculous this whole ordeal is. Never in his life has ever been afraid of Chanyeol, who has the soul of a Golden Retriever.
But even Golden Retrievers have teeth and can bite.
He learned martial arts as a child, but competition versus survival is completely different. He manages to get a leg between himself and Chanyeol and kick, throwing Chanyeol backwards. He falls against the bed, driving the knife deeper into him, and he chokes in pain and shock.
Rather than slow him down, it seems to fuel his rage. He breathes through it, heavy and slow, and Baekhyun imagines writhing steam under a lid over boiling water. The more the pressure builds, the more the lid starts to lift with bubbles, releasing steam and hissing.
He takes the opportunity to bolt for the door. It’s locked; he doesn’t remember locking it, and his hands shake too much to work the lock.
Partway to the backdoor, Chanyeol emerges from the hall. Blood drips behind him and onto his sock from the knife in his hand. Baekhyun turns, slips, falls, and scampers like a rabbit. He catches the banister and hurls himself up the stairs.
It’s the only idea he’s got, and it’s a bad one. Even if he can lock himself in a room, there’s no telling how strong the door is and if it can withstand Chanyeol’s justified rage. The rental property has no landline, so he can’t call for help no matter what room he’s in.
He knows the final girl’s handbook from watching a multitude of horror movies. Upstairs is as good as a death sentence.
But running ahead of Chanyeol, he has the high ground.
Narrowly dodging a swipe at his Achilles, Baekhyun grips either banister and lifts his legs, swinging backwards to catch Chanyeol in the chest. Wet socks don’t grip well, and Chanyeol loses his balance. He somersaults backwards. Each crash and shout cuts Baekhyun deeper and deeper.
Static fizzes in his head. His knees shake, and he makes his arms relax enough to lower himself to kneel on the step.
He doesn’t allow himself more time to catch his breath. Jongdae and Chanyeol may still be alive; he needs to call for help.
At the bottom of the stairs, legs still on the final steps and blocking Baekhyun’s way, Chanyeol breathes shallowly. A puddle of blood pools under his shoulder. His eyes are barely open, but Baekhyun can’t discern any sort of expression and hopes he’s just dazed and won’t try to move.
Attempting the same sort of move that he did at the top of the stairs, Baekhyun attempts to swing himself over the bottom as well as Chanyeol. He’d done something similar as a kid in his family’s multistory home simply for the fun of it. His child mind thought it saved him so much time, rather than just running down all of the stairs.
He hefts his legs up and back, then sails forward.
Something catches his ankle. He stops short and falls. Tears spring in his eyes; his nose took the brunt of the landing. Blood runs down one nostril and pours down his chin. He managed to bite through his lip.
Chanyeol has him by the leg and starts to drag him backwards. One of his eyes is entirely red.
Baekhyun kicks at Chanyeol’s shoulder and wrenches free. His hands still shake, but he unlocks the front door and jumps gracelessly off the porch to the neatly maintained walkway–
And promptly spits blood onto the grass. It runs down his throat like snot during the flu, viscous and stomach churning.
He can’t run without swallowing or spitting up blood but hurries as fast as he can. Pebbles bite into his feet through his socks.
Chanyeol picked a pretty place for a weekend getaway. If he had enough mind to worry, Baekhyun might think about damages they would need to pay. Blood can be cleaned, but the reputation might be damaged, and there could be a blacklist against renters with history.
Flowers bob their heads sleepily in the late afternoon, neatly tucked into beds of mulch that Baekhyun kicks loose as he shuffles across the yard to the pair of cars parked side-by-side.
His car is unlocked. Out in the country, it seemed paranoid to lock anything. He drops over the seat and lays bodily on the horn. His arms are tired. An elbow feels bruised. One of his ankles throbs offbeat with his pulse.
He might doze off. The horn stops, and he sees flashes of pink sky through the trees. His back hits the grass. He swallows more blood.
Like a villain’s henchman refusing to die, Chanyeol looms over him unsteadily. His right arm hangs funny. The eye not bloodshot from trauma is red from tears.
“I loved you,” he slurs, “so much.”
Baekhyun chokes on blood. “Then don’t do this.”
Chanyeol steps towards him, sways, and falls when he lifts his other foot.
Baekhyun rolls his head away with a groan. Blood slips down his cheek to his ear. It should feel gross, but he doesn’t have the energy to notice or wipe it away.
Birds cautiously call to one another. Insects take up orchestral practice, preparing for dusk while the clouds stretch across a painted sunset. A breeze gently blows Baekhyun’s hair. He doesn’t hear or feel any of it through the fuzziness in his head and limbs.
First responders discover a gruesome, confusing scene. Paramedics wait at the ambulances for the officers to clear the scene and give them the okay.
Two victims in front–deceased; one inside–unconscious and barely breathing. He called it in.
Detectives arrive and meet with first officers on the scene. As they talk, paramedics carry a gurney out the front door. The patient doesn’t look alive, skin an unnatural grayish hue beneath mottled bruises.
A weapon on the stairs is matched to the knife block in the kitchen. The windows, doors and door frames are intact, showing no signs of forced entry. Blood trails run from the main floor bedroom down the hall, through the kitchen, up and down the stairs, and outside to where the deceased victims fell.
They form a theory around a home invasion gone wrong, by person or persons unknown.
A radio squawks in a squad car. The officer listens and jogs to the detectives to update them on the survivor’s condition: Dead on arrival.