Burnout ⊗ Jeongchan

④② Pavlov's Dogs

Forewarning: Abusive/neglectful language and behavior.

Light curses spilled from his mouth as he fiddled with the door lock. The spare key slipped out of his shaking fingers for the umpteen time in the few seconds he attempted to unlock the front door to his dreaded house. Jeongin never thought he'd return, never wanted to return, yet somehow here he was standing at the door like a criminal attempting to break into a house with nothing but the cover of the night. As he finally slotted the key into the lock, turning it and hearing a proper click on the knob he enveloped with his hands, his heart pounded in his chest. When he opened the door wide enough for him to slip inside, his heart felt as if it were about to collapse.

He prepared for the worst, and stepped inside.

There were noises in the kitchen, the sound of a cup being placed on that wooden table his parents placed in there for no reason other than to provide a place to spy on whoever left and entered this prison. It was followed by footsteps. Heels on the linoleum floors. Jeongin held his breath.

When the sink faucet switched on, he scurried past the kitchen, and up the stairs.

He tried to keep low, quiet, mimicking the rats that hid under city streets as he navigated a familiar yet unrecognizable hallway to his room. When the sink faucet turned off, he pressed his palms to the floor in attempt to keep his footsteps silent. To anyone else, it would've looked pathetic but to him, every bump in the house was enough to send the scenarios in his head racing. That confidence he had on his way, up to the point he entered the house, all drained away as he heard his mother's voice in the kitchen.

With unsure steps, he soundlessly made his way to his room and clicked the door open.

Without glancing too much anywhere else or even caring, Jeongin made his way to the other side of his room. He laid down on the floor in front of his dresser and stretched a hand underneath the furniture, his fingertips brushing against the leather pockets, before he successfully extracted Chan's jacket from under the dresser. With an unsteady arm, he sat against the dresser and laid the jacket out on his lap. It looked perfect. Unharmed, like it had never been disturbed since he had placed it there. For a few minutes, he ran his fingers across the fabric, afterwards clutching it tightly to his chest as he wiped tears from his eyes and tried to remember why.

Taking a few moments to calm himself, Jeongin scanned his room as he stood. Nothing inside had changed. It was all untouched, as pristine as the day he left it, his unfinished history homework still open on his desk. But, the room felt lonely. A frown found it's way to his lips as he brushed his knuckles on the end of his bedsheets.

This wasn't the time or the place to be sentimental and get caught up reminiscing about all the lost memories of his childhood. What he could've had. And now, the pieces he was left to put together.

None of it made sense.

But it's not my fault. It's theirs. It's my parents, and Chan's, Seungmin and Felix, even Mr. Park. Stop crying for them.

No one wants you.

His fists tightened their grip on the jacket. What kind of mind couldn't even make a decision on what to feel? One second it's trying to clutch onto a memoir of distant feelings for comfort, and the next it's blaming the memoir's owner with a wrath he didn't know he was capable of possessing.

He slipped on Chan's jacket and began to head downstairs.

Who cares what happens next?

As soon as the sole of his shoe connected with the bottom floor of the house, a call for his name came from the kitchen. A shrill voice, one of a warden he never wanted to hear again, one he just wanted to shut up. Yet, as he was called for, his legs carried him to the opening of the kitchen while he was trapped armored in a daze of jerky movements and a racing mind.