Chapter Text
╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
❝ halcyon days pt i ❞
Portals.
The things that connect our world to another dimension, one filled with monsters. Creatures that are more gruesome than your worst nightmare. They have no regard for human life. Humanity is practically bugs compared to the likes of them, and they are willing to stamp them out without a second thought.
The people who fight these creatures are known as "Hunters". Hunters risk their life daily, and so they are treated well. They are cherished, respected, loved.
Case in point: Hunter Eden.
Named after the legendary garden in which Adam and Eve resided in the Bible, she was one of the most powerful S-Rankers ever known, despite being a Healer. She was incredibly strong in her own right, despite rarely ever relying on her healing abilities. Known to crack steel with a single punch, she was usually depicted with a triumphant fist in the air. Up until her untimely death, she was so popular that she had her own clothing line.
Even so, her civilian identity was a closely guarded secret. The reasoning behind this was to protect any people she might have cared for, as her title of “Incredibly Powerful S-Ranker” would have garnered her quite a few enemies. Truly, only a few people knew her real name.
And even fewer knew what she left behind after death.
When you’re little, you meet a boy. It’s nothing special. He’s nothing special, even with his eyes that shine like miniature moons. But to you? To you, he’s everything.
It starts like this;
It’s your first day of your new school. You, newly turned 13 years old, are inexplicably nervous. Which is so weird because? You're strong. You know you’re strong. This was supposed to be trained out of you. You have no right to be nervous. You’re supposed to be strong. But right now, you're still a kid and all you have is yourself, and the Charizard plushie you’ve lovingly named Jiho. But you can’t show your nerves. No weakness, no fear.
You take a deep breath. You can do this. Definitely. Totally. Absolutely. You’re the strongest here. You can protect them. You can protect everyone. You take a breath, followed by your first step into the school courtyard.
There’s. . .
. . .so many people.
There are going to be so many eyes on you, watching you. Staring. Looking for weakness. But you’re supposed to be strong, you can’t—
You can’t be weak. You can’t.
If, if you were weak, then. Then everything was for nothing and that—
That stings.
Okay, who are you kidding. You can’t do this.
Nope. I’m out. Not dealing with this, not today. Nope nope nope nope—
You turn on your heel and walk right back out.
But there is a throng of students gathered at the front, so many of them (1—3—8—12—so many, too many), and they are all tightly packed together like sardines. Milling around, a mix of skin and fabric and hair and. And. And. They’re blocking the exit.
They’re blocking the exit.
You feel your chest start to constrict. A band wrapped around your lungs, squeezing every breath out of you. There’s no way out (—the windows are too small, too compact to fit you; the classroom doors are filled with eyes; there is skin brushing against yours—), you feel like a live wire. Every sense heightened, a rush of adrenaline, a spark of something. Like when you break a rib, the sensation of bones splintering like old branches. Hard enamel rubbing viciously against the elastic of your rubber lungs, stretched tight like a cord over the bare spaces in between your clockwork heart. The band tightens with every inhale.
You suck in quick breaths.
You can’t breathe.
Oh, your air is gone, you can’t feel it your lungs are tightening tightening tightening—
The crowd jostles you along with it. Every touch of fabric against your skin is sending your nerves alight. Adrenaline. The drugged slowness of fear, terror. Cortisol. Tears well up in your eyes. Stop, you think. You’re supposed to be strong, why are you so weak? Stop, stop, stop, stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop, I can't, I can't, I can't. . . You claw at your head, desperate to get rid of the fog. You need it to go away. You need to breathe. Air. You need air. Go away, go away, go away, goawaypleasepleasepleaseplease—
Your breaths come fast and shallow. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts hurts hurts hurtshurtshurtshurtshurts. . .
A hand grabs your elbow.
You barely notice, too out of it. It tugs lightly—skin on skin on skin on skin on flesh on bone—and you are helpless to follow. Please don’t hurt me, you whimper, I’m sorry, please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .
Your eyes are blurring up, unshed tears clinging to your lashes. You can’t think through the haze of smeared thoughts like bugs on a windshield. Your head feels like it’s stuck in a blender at full speed, whirring whirring whirring. You can’t do anything, you. You can’t think. Fuck.
You can’t think.
You’re so stupid. If you can’t think your way out of a situation, then you’re in danger. And if you can’t think your way out of the danger, then you’re useless.
Danger, your mind screams. Danger. Danger. Danger.
You curl up into yourself. Making yourself a smaller target, so there’s less of you to hit. Stupid. You thought you would be over this by now. You should be over this by now. But clearly, you’re not. You’re so useless. So stupid. So weak.
Coward.
I’m sorry, you beg. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry—
“—ou okay? Hey? Can you hear me?” A voice disperses the wisps of smoke clouding your head and you jolt. You didn’t notice. You didn’t notice. Fuck. You didn’t notice. The blurry figure leaning over you seems to take your silence as a negative, and begins to speak slower. “Can you hear me? You don’t have to say anything. Just nod or shake your head.”
The voice is strangely soothing. You feel your body loll towards it, it cuts through the messiness in your head like a razor’s edge.
You blink away the droplets that cling to your lashes, partially obscuring your view. You need full visibility. You need to keep track of all your threats, all your assets. “I. . .” The figure solidifies into a boy kneeling in front of you. Messy dark hair and big grey eyes. They look like moons, you think, fascinated.
He reaches out to touch you and you flinch away instinctively. Please, don’t. A hand hovers in the space between you two. Hesitant. “Okay. That’s good. Okay.” The boy says quietly. He withdraws his hand and says nothing about the tear tracks that carve their way onto your cheeks.
You tug your knees up to your chest, arms encircling the width of your thighs. You’re okay. You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.
“. . .”
“. . .”
An awkward silence blooms between the two of you, wherein you tuck your face into your knees, trying to snuff out thoughts of the waking world and the boy plays with the fraying hems of his hoodie.
Then:
“Did you know, that Flareon is the only Fire-type Pokémon that can’t learn Solar Beam?”
The question is so random, so unexpected, you blink. Huh? You find him smiling nervously at you when you lift up your head to shoot the boy a confused look.
“Ah. . .sorry, I just didn’t know what else to say. . . Do you like Pokémon? I saw a Charizard on your backpack.”
“Mn. That’s Jiho.”
There’s another pause where the two of you scrutinize each other as tentative allies instead of two hostiles colliding, like a supermassive black hole. You won’t go so far as you say you trust him, but he proves himself to be. . .significantly less likely to stab you in the back, at the very least. You watch the boy with unabashed curiosity and he does the same, though he’s more subtle about it. A thought occurs to you.
“Why did you help me?”
“You looked scared.” He says, simply. “I didn’t want you to be.” And, really? That’s it? That’s all? You shake your head. How can someone be so simple? If you were back there, the others would have wrangled multiple favors out of you as payment. Even still, there would be the matter of punishment to consider. He wouldn’t like your weakness, and so your moment of hesitation would be rewarded with discipline. Of course, you couldn’t be punished if you were dead. . .
But there’s this boy, this stranger, who doesn’t know you. Yet he still helps you, looking for nothing in return. You stare at him blankly. He begins to sweat. You like at him like you’re mentally cataloging a list of all his sins.
“Sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for. . .”
“You apologize a lot for things that aren’t your fault.” You note blandly. The boy flinches.
“Sorry. . .” Then he seems to realise that he’s just proving your point and shuts up.
Watching him stare at the ground, you decide he would be a better ally than an enemy. There are people who would take advantage of his kind nature. Besides. You owe him a debt now. “My name is [l/n] [y/n].” You say. His eyes widen as he sees it for what it is. An olive branch, a peace offering. The idea that someone—and a complete stranger at that—could understand your motives so easily makes you nervous. You bury your face in Jiho’s plush fur.
“It’s nice. . .to meet you, [l/n].” He says, slowly. “My name. . .is Sung Jinwoo.”