Does This Look Like An 800 Number To You? - K.hj

does this look like an 800 number to you? - k.hj

spirit!kim hongjoong x gender neutral!reader

tw - implied suicide (do not read if such topics will trigger you), mild description of wounds, very brief fluff in the beginning, angst

word count: 3k

a/n: i know this is a half hour late for halloween i'm sorry don't @ me about it

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was so sudden and loud that it made you tip over as you scrambled to get away from the ouija board in the middle of your living room floor. Your head hit the floor hard and you winced, the pain making tears sting your eyes.

“Ow,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut. You made no attempt to get up and no more words came from anywhere near the ouija board. You must’ve imagined it. You let out a soft sigh. In your desperation for company you’d imagined that the cheap board you’d gotten from a thrift store had actually summoned some sort of presence in your crappy, dank apartment. Now the tears welling in your eyes were less from the pounding ache in your head and more from how pathetic the whole situation was. Who the fuck uses a ouija board to find company anyway?

“Hello? Did you knock yourself out? I asked you a question.”

You huffed softly. Why was the voice still there? You sat up, pressing a hand to the back of your head to try and quell the pain while you sniffed away your tears. There was no point in crying now. You should probably just order take out and get some sleep. Your vision cleared and you went to get up, only to find a man sitting cross-legged across from you. Oh.

“So?” he asked, clearly irritated. “Can you explain why I’m here?”

His mouth was pulled into a frown but otherwise he looked pretty normal. Like any other person you’d see on the street or at the grocery store. Surely this isn’t what ouija boards were supposed to dredge up, right? But he was here and clearly waiting for an answer anyway and you figured you might as well give him one.

“I wanted company,” you blurted out. You cringed at the overly honest answer. Judging by the look on the man’s face he had definitely expected a better excuse.

“Does this look like an 800 number to you?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the ouija board.

“No,” you said, feeling shame crawl up your chest. It was just your luck that you’d summon a dickhead spirit. The tears came springing back and you could feel your cheeks start to burn from holding them back. Spending Halloween night alone with nothing to do and nowhere to go was bad enough but now you were being scolded for wanting something better to do, which was definitely worse.

“Hey, did you hit your head hard? Why are you crying?” the man asked, his voice suddenly much softer than it had been just a minute ago. You shook your head, hiding your face behind your hands.

“No, I’m fine,” you mumbled. “You can leave, it’s whatever.”

“I’m already here now,” he replied, now only slightly annoyed. You heard shuffling and suddenly there was a cold hand on the back of your head. You uncovered your face and found that the man was kneeling in front of you, his frown less intense and his eyes fixed on yours. “Did you hit your head hard?”

“Yeah,” you said, voice still unsteady. He grunted, letting go of your head and taking a hold of your face instead, wiping away your tears roughly and with little care.

“Well you kind of deserved it. Being dragged here like this is annoying. Ouija boards don’t bring us here by choice,” he said, letting go of your face. Now that he’d reprimanded you a little more his frown disappeared entirely, a neutral expression taking its place. “You’ve got your company now. Do you have any food?”

You blinked, your brows furrowing as you tried to understand what he was saying. Was this really how ouija boards worked? What kind of spirits turned up to scold you and then ask for food?

“I was going to order take out,” you told him, at the sound of which he pulled a face.

“Let’s cook something,” he said firmly before standing up. He took a moment to dust himself off, looking around your small living room to inspect your belongings. When he turned his head you noticed a wound in his head. It was bloody and the flesh around it was mangled, although you couldn’t see much of the damage thanks to the dark dry blood. It sat almost at the back of his head but slightly to the side of it, and now that you knew where it was you noticed it when he was facing you directly again. He turned the other way, eyes dragging over the shelves by your TV, making another wound visible. This one was significantly smaller and significantly cleaner as well. You chewed on your bottom lip, suddenly very aware of the nature of the man standing in front of you. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard. Come on, let’s cook.”

He turned his head a little and you found that he’d been looking at you the whole time. Or more so watching you look at the wound in his head. For the second time since he’d shown up you felt your face burn with embarrassment.

“Yeah, sorry,” you mumbled, standing up and walking the few steps it took to get to your kitchen.

The man wasn’t particularly helpful but you supposed you couldn’t expect much after summoning him from wherever he had come from. He boiled noodles and ate crisps while you fried and cooked the few vegetables you’d found in your fridge, the silence between the two of you a little awkward but not tense. You were still frying the vegetables when he sidled up to you, his shoulder almost pressing into yours.

“Can we put on some music?” he asked, smiling when you nodded. You handed him your phone and he navigated YouTube with ease, making you wonder when exactly he’d passed away. His clothes were a little weird (who the hell wears pants that are half plaid and half denim?) but only in the way that fashion is weird. They didn’t look outdated at all. Before you could ask about them, the kitchen filled with the sound of music playing from your phone. You glanced over at the screen and saw a logo but not much else. He seemed pleased, lifting himself to sit on the counter while you poured sauce over the vegetables.

“ATEEZ?” you asked, squinting slightly to see the logo better. The man hummed in response. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’re gonna make it big soon,” he said, nodding solemnly. “They might have a Spotify page up, you should check it out.”

He had a different expression on his face now. In fact it’d be more appropriate to say that there was no expression on his face at all, what with the way his eyes were unfocused and his lips were pressed into a thin line. You looked at the wound in his head again. You could see into his head now that you were closer to it - could see the crater where his brain and skull and scalp should’ve been. Your stomach twisted at the sight and you concentrated on the pan in front of you.

“Can you drain the noodles and split them into two bowls?” you asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace he’d found now that he was listening to music. He hopped down from the counter and did as you asked, letting you spoon the vegetables and sauce over both portions of noodles. He grinned at you once you were done.

“This looks way better than take out,” he said, picking up both bowls and carrying them to the living room. You followed after him, picking up your phone and scrolling through the recommended videos. A few videos down a thumbnail popped up of a few guys sitting in what looked like a basement with a shoddy recording studio set up around them. They were grinning at each other - wide, childish grins that you recognised from old photos you had with your own friends. The kind of smile you can’t hold back regardless of how hard you tried. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d smiled like that. It took a few seconds for you to realise that the boy sitting in the middle was the same man now sitting in your living room. You checked the title of the video. ‘ATEEZ - Treasure’. You’d listen to it later, you decided.

You found the man sitting on the floor in front of your coffee table, shovelling noodles into his mouth and clicking through TV channels. His eyes widened almost comically when he saw you, his ears turning pink.

“Sorry,” he said through his mouthful of food. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “Sorry I started without you. Nobody’s cooked for me since-”

He stopped talking, his mouth still halfway open with no sound coming out. There was a long moment in which he looked like he might just evaporate in front of you - whether it would be out of embarrassment or sorrow you couldn’t tell. But then he blinked a few times and shut his mouth, turning his attention back to the TV.

“There should be horror movies on, right? Isn’t it Halloween?” he asked, handing you the remote control.

“Yeah, you just didn’t find the movie channels,” you explained, clicking through the channels until you found one playing a movie. “Have you seen Nightmare on Elm Street?”

“Of course I have. Johnny Depp’s really hot in it,” he said.

“Lucky for you,” you said, snorting softly at his comment. He grinned when he looked up to see that Nightmare on Elm Street was playing on the TV, looking over at you and laughing softly.

“Score,” he murmured.

The two of you ate quietly after that, occasionally commenting on the actors in the movie or the special effects. When the movie came to an end you left him with the task of finding another movie to watch while you washed the dishes, the small apartment filled with the white noise of the TV playing and the man’s quiet humming. When you came back to the living room he’d made himself at home in a corner of the sofa, eyes concentrated on a movie you didn’t recognise.

“Thanks for doing the dishes,” he mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest and picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

“You’re the guest, you don’t have to thank me,” you said, smiling a little. You didn’t want to say it out loud but you were more than happy to wash his dishes and watch the horror movies he was picking out. You hadn’t had a friend over like this in so long - not a friend or acquaintance or anybody - and you'd started to think you weren't going to have anyone over ever again. Sure, he’d been irritable at first but now that he’d settled down he was a pleasant presence. You sat down on the sofa with a soft sigh. “If you want anything just let me know.”

“I want one thing,” he said not a second after you’d spoken, looking over at you with a more serious expression than you’d seen on him since he’d turned up.

“Sure, what is it?” you prompted, his stare making you uncomfortable. You felt stripped bare by the way his eyes narrowed for a split-second, his hands completely still as he looked at you.

“Why did you use that board?” he asked. “Not in the way that I asked you earlier, like ‘what the fuck are you doing’. It’s not like you have any friends here for it to be fun. You didn’t even light candles or any of that spooky stuff. So what was the point?”

You paused, opening and closing your mouth until you realised you must look like a goldfish and you shut your mouth, looking away from him. It wasn’t a very personal question but it certainly felt like one. Maybe it was the sincere tone in his voice or the fact that he was still staring but you felt like you’d been shoved under a spotlight.

“I told you, I wanted company,” you said finally. It wasn’t entirely a lie after all.

“Okay. But you know that you’re alive, right? You can go out to clubs or to friends’ houses or invite people over - other living people,” he said. His tone wasn’t accusatory but you felt a little childish now that he’d put it like that. “You don’t have to call on the dead.”

You nodded, feeling a lump form in your throat as you tried to figure out how to answer him.

“I just didn’t have anyone. To go out with or visit or invite over,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t have anyone.”

He didn’t say anything for what felt like far too long and you turned around, scared that he might’ve disappeared, but he was still in his corner of the sofa, still staring steadily with his hands placed on his knees and his lips parted as though he was trying to come up with something to say.

“You don’t have to answer, let’s just watch the movie,” you mumbled sheepishly, angling your body away from him so that you wouldn’t have to feel his eyes on you anymore. Once again he didn’t reply. Instead, you felt his hand close around your wrist. His skin was so cold it made you jump, your head whipping around to find him sitting much closer to you than he had been just seconds ago.

“No,” he said. “You’re not alone.”

“What?” you asked, drawing your wrist out of his grip. He let you do so and leaned away from you slightly, his lips forming a frown.

“The last time someone cooked for me was a week before I- a week before I died,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. He visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple shifting up and down. You wondered if he had the same lump in his throat that you did. “It was my best friend. We were watching movies in my apartment - us and all of our other friends. He cooked for us. We helped him but he always took care of us, so he did most of the cooking.”

You wanted to understand what he was trying to say. From the way he was struggling to keep a straight expression it was clear that he’d made a connection you hadn’t noticed yet and you waited for him to explain.

“And they stayed over for most of the night but when they left I should have-”

He paused and you noticed how his hands were no longer still but shaking. You took them into yours and gave them a soft squeeze. He inhaled sharply, finally breaking the eye contact he’d been holding for so long.

“I felt alone, like you do. I knew I could go out or go back to his place or just ask them to come back but I didn’t,” he said. He looked back up at you, his lashes wet and his bottom lip shaking. “I didn’t mean to- I should have called someone.”

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching forward to pull him into you. He hugged you tightly, clinging to you as though his existence depended on it. His tears soaked through your shirt and your own vision blurred at the feeling, your heart sinking in your chest. “Don’t cry.”

“Hypocrite,” he mumbled between sniffles without any real bite. His hand moved up and down against your back slowly, soothing both you and himself until neither of you were crying anymore. “I made it so I can never see them again. We were gonna make it big together. My friends are really- they’re so talented and I wanted to be there with them when they-”

You shushed him, not wanting him to work himself up again. He shook his head and hugged you tighter.

“You’re not like me. You can still call someone,” he said, his shoulders shaking as he suddenly pulled back to look at you, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly. “If you don’t have anyone I’ll give you his number. My best friend. He'll answer. I know he will.”

There was so much desperation in his voice that it only made more tears roll down your cheeks. He let go of one of your shoulders and wiped your cheeks with his thumb. He was a dozen times more careful than he had been when wiping your face earlier and it made your heart ache.

“I’m a stranger, he won’t answer,” you whispered. The man in front of you shook his head.

“He knows that people need somebody sometimes,” he said gently. “He’ll take care of you the way he took care of me, okay?”

You could tell that wasn’t really the sentence he wanted to say but you didn’t need to hear him say it to know what he meant.

He’ll take care of you the way he can’t take care of me anymore.

“I know I said that ouija boards aren’t supposed to be 800 numbers but you use that board whenever you need company, okay?” he said. His voice had returned somewhat to the harsh tone he’d had when he first turned up in your living room, finding a balance between caring and rude that was reminiscent of how close friends talk to each other. You smiled through the tears in your eyes and nodded. He nodded in return and settled against the sofa to watch TV, gesturing for you to lean into him. “There’s still some of the movie left.”

The next morning the man was nowhere to be found. The only proof that he hadn’t been a figment of your imagination was the extra bowl drying on the dish rack and the notification on your lock screen from a new contact named Seonghwa in response to a message that you remembered the man typing out into your phone. He was inviting you out to dinner with his friends.

The final piece of evidence was that you were now following ATEEZ on Spotify. Their top song started with an audio clip of the man you’d met last night, giggling and talking to the rest of his friends in what sounded like the happiest voice you’d ever heard. He was talking about the next album he wanted to write. His voice was nowhere to be found in the rest of the song.

It hurt to hear.

☆⌒

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