somebody ; minsung

XVIII ; ghost inside

Safe to say, we take the staircase down from the roof. I shift into camouflage and Jisung wears my jacket, hood down over his face. Dusk is falling, drawing the night crowd out into the streets. I walk behind him so no passersby will bump into a nothing.

Our next task is finding somewhere to stay overnight. We check into The Panache, another cheap love hotel in East Swan District. This time the room is jungle themed, exotic plants and animals prowling and slithering across the walls. The bed is made to look like a treehouse, driftwood trimming the frame, a veil of beads hanging above it.

I pace the room, stretching my arms over my head. Despite transforming into a makeshift aircraft and crash-landing on a rooftop, I'm still brimming with energy. I might have to resort to doing pushups and jumping jacks like a kid on a sugar high.

Jisung has been staring into the microscope, whispers sneaking past his lips. He hangs his head, hands fisted, silence falling over him. I hesitate to ask what happened.

"Any... progress?"

"No. Either the virus needs more time to wake, or my hypothesis was shit the whole time and all of this was for nothing."

"Oh." I try to think of something to say, something that might reassure him, but he's already retreated into the bathroom. The shower turns on. I flop onto the bed and stare up at the wild tree canopy painted on the ceiling.

He comes out a solid 45 minutes later, sufficiently cleansed, a towel wrapped around his head. I've already tucked myself in and turned off the light, though sleep is escaping me. I can't stop twitching, waking myself up every time I start to drift off.

We lie back to back in silence for a while.

"About earlier," I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out."

He sighs. "It's alright. I've never, well, flown before. And I have a weak stomach. But it was the right call. It could have ended a lot worse."

"My landing was a little rough. More of a downdraft than I expected."

"It wasn't that bad for a first time. I thought you'd need more time to practice. Give yourself a pat on the back — you and the machine, you act as one."

I give a mock laugh, rubbing my face. "Whatever you say. Right now the machine's got a mind of its own. Fight fight kill destroy — Christ, I just wanna sleep."

We listen to the hum of traffic on the street below. Then he rolls over and moves closer, presses his hands to my back and rubs gently up and down.

"Um," I say. "Can I ask or would that make it weird?"

"Minho used to have problems sleeping too. He had big ideas, his mind never shut down. I'd help him relax when I could. But if you're not comfortable...?"

"No no, it's okay. It must feel like massaging a toaster or something."

He laughs a little. "You're not a toaster. It's just good your nano-receptors are picking up the contact."

"Yeah, sure." I clear my throat. "So... Minho was a night owl."

"And an early bird. It didn't bother me, I was too."

"Tell me more about him."

He pauses for a moment. "Yeah. Okay. He was raised in the city. He worked as a manager at a grocery store, of all places. He was on a mission to try everything from the candy section at least once; he had a ranked list from 'packing peanuts' to 'literally orgasmic.'"

I laugh. "That explains the receipt I found in my pocket. Tart gummy fingers?"

"He said those were so-so."