Let's go Cowboy

C1

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The night he found the man was bitingly cold. The sort of early spring night that promised frost nipping at any exposed skin, the moon barely a sliver in the clear sky.

Yeosang wasn't supposed to be out, but he was celebrating. And by celebrating, he really meant getting shit faced so he could forget it was his birthday tomorrow. An excellent plan, except for the fact that he didn't bring enough cash to get the job done.

Not even midnight yet, and he was already heading back to his tiny apartment behind the restaurant where he worked, cursing his lack of a coat.

He stepped lightly on the street, taking full advantage of the time of night to let down his guard. No one braved the cold but drunkards and transients, meaning no one was out to see Yeosang playing hopscotch in the horse tracks. His cheeks were warm from the drink, though with the light snow that began to fall he was sure to be cold again soon.

The restaurant Mist was at the edge of town, though he was of the belief that it belonged in a big city. Somewhere teeming with people to enjoy the food he and his coworkers prepared with pride. But owner Mingi said no, said he wanted to feed the cowboys and lone travelers of the prairies that he once belonged to.

The same prairies he dragged Yeosang kicking and screaming from all those years ago. One hop, two hops and a sliding step along frozen mud, and Yeosang was turning into the back alley behind the Mist where his front door led. Which he liked, the fact that it was so close to work. Yet too damn far from the saloon he preferred to get sloppy drunk in.

The man was sprawled in the alley between trash cans and dirty piles of snow. Yeosang had half a mind to just step right over him and continue to his door, thinking he was some drunk Mingi or Jongho tossed out of the restaurant.

Would've been nice to get a heads up, but his coworkers knew not to bother him that night. Not the night before his birthday.

He stepped over the drunkard and nearly face planted when a hand wrapped around his ankle. Yeosang barely caught himself and whipped around, intent on smashing the guy's nose in. Then he saw the blood.

The alleyway was dark, barely lit by the street lamps some ways away, and the moon didn't reach down between the buildings. But Yeosang knew what the dark stains on the man's pale shirt was, just as much as he knew it belonged to the ill-fortuned stranger.

He should've left him there to rot. It was none of his concern. So why did he have a bloody, half conscious man on his living room floor?

"You're way heavier than you look, you fucking boulder" Yeosang cursed, trying and failing to get him on the couch. Maybe that was a good thing, because he was leaving a concerning trail of blood behind him. Not that removing blood from wood flooring was much easier than fabric.

Theoretically, he knew how to help the stranger. He gathered all the medical supplies in his apartment, lit every lamp he owned, took all the linens from the bathroom, and washed his hands so thoroughly he almost scrubbed them raw.

But Yeosang was a drunk sous chef, not a doctor. When he ripped the man's shirt open to reveal a butchered torso, he knew immediately that he was out of his depth. He cleaned the wounds best he could, but his hands wouldn't stop trembling for some god for saken reason. And the cuts, there were so many, wouldn't stop bleeding.

"The hell happened to you?" He whispered, fingers hovering above the viscera.

The man reached out to weakly grab at his hand, smearing the blood between them. His eyes were unfocused, dark as ink spilling onto parchment, like blood on midnight snow.

Laying a clean towel across the man's chest, Yeosang stumbled to his feet and uttered a soft apology before he ran back outside.

For the longest time, Yeosang had shared the apartment above the restaurant with the owner. Mingi had taken him in as a scrawny brat, let him work in his beloved restaurant Mist, and even struck a deal with the landlord of Yeosang's current apartment.