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The day the man comes out of the swamp, Jisung's arms are red to the elbow.
He's skinning a snowshoe hare.
Thick clumps of blood-matted ivory fur fill his hands; warm as if alive, still. Soft. The skin peels back reluctantly, tearing in places where his hand isn't steady enough.
Jisung grips the hare's hind legs, fingers digging into its tiny pads, and draws the edge of the blade along the length of a thigh, careful not to nick the sinew.
You keep nicking it, Minho said once, watch how I do it.
Jisung's getting better at this. Not doing great in other aspects.
To heal, one must first lose all hope, Jisung has heard.
He refuses to lose.
Tender flesh reveals itself in layers—white, pink, red, then white again as Jisung's knife accidentally grazes frail bones. They glisten underneath the ghostly light of a whitetail antler chandelier.
By the minute, the warmth of the hare seeps into the log cabin's humidity.
The earthy scent of the swamp smells, now, vaguely metallic.
There's blood on his hands, on the sink, on the knife, in the air. On the walls, dry bloody lines mark each day Jisung has ventured into the swamp for a hunt and safely returned.
Jisung doesn't own a calendar.
One would make his loss too real.
Instead, marking hunt days with blood feels, somehow, like vengeance.
He peels back skin as if peeling peaches, revealing more of that pale flesh.
Using his thumb to press down on the exposed muscle, Jisung guides the knife further beneath the hare's skin.
The first leg done, he moves to the second. Tugs with more confidence, the skin coming away easier as if conceding defeat.
Jisung's winning, at last. At least.
He contorts his face with concentration, tucking his tongue between his teeth as he works around a stubborn joint, wrenching its skin free, sweat beading his forehead despite the chill that leaks through gaps in the wood.
It's solitary.
Living by himself in this cabin that was intended for two.
He flips the hare over and starts on its belly. The skin here is thinner, translucent like rice paper, veins sprawling underneath it.
His knife glides through with ease.
Jisung pauses as he reaches the chest cavity, wondering if, truly, he's willing to cut into a heart this small. If he's this heartless, already. Void.
He avoids all the guts.
The art of not puncturing organs that would spoil the meat—just like Minho has tried teaching him again and again.
Minho, who left for a hunt and never came back.
Jisung sometimes dreams there's a wild creature outside trying to crawl into the cabin, baring its yellow teeth and tearing the walls apart timber by timber.
Sometimes, in his dreams, he thinks—he wishes—that the creature was Minho, clawing through bark and boards to reach him, desperate to come home.
The nights stretch dark and cold whenever these thoughts plague him, a frost-sharp ache that burrows deep beneath his ribs and refuses to thaw. He knows Minho. He feels him. His presence lingers, palpable, suffocating.
Jisung breathes deeply, knife poised above the hare's breastbone.
Dust dances in the air, illuminated by shafts of moonlight that filter past the greasy window panes.
With a twist of his wrist, he frees another section of skin, working quickly and carefully, methodically, like Minho would, until finally only the head remains cloaked in bloodied fur.
He lifts the hare by its neck and gives it a final shake; loose tufts of fur float down to the kitchen sink like feathers.
It's limp, now; this creature. This figure. Disfigured. Raw muscles, organs, and bones.
Jisung himself feels raw to the bone.
He glances at the door, half-expecting a reprimand. What for, whom from? There's nothing inside here but him, and the darkness outside presses in like a living thing.
Silence spreads, broken only by wind, and the swamp cries in the distance. The swamp that haunts Jisung.
Jisung has been haunting it back.
In Minho's absence, he's learned how to hunt, how to cook, how to wait.
It wasn't easy—torn skin, burnt meat, overcooked mushrooms, dishes so bland they made his tongue curl. But Minho said he'd be back. He said, wait for me.
So Jisung waits.
He moves about with borrowed confidence, living as if little has changed. Lies on his side of the bed, the other half still unmade. Minho's yellow parka still hangs over a rough-hewn chair, and on the nightstand, his glasses and a worn-out hardcover of Lovecraft's The Thing on the Doorstep collect dust.
The night Jisung made dinner alone for the first time was the worst.
Nowadays he hunts alone, eats alone, stitches tears in his shabby full-length raincoat by himself, under the flickering glow of the single bulb that dangles near the mushrooms outside, where ryegrass used to grow tall and thick.
And people in town fear him.
He's wild now, Jisung. Mad, they whisper—he hasn't been the same. Hasn't learned how to deal with the way life goes.
The old shopkeeper lady and her daughter clutch their aprons, eyes darting to the shotguns hung above the register as Jisung buys butter and eggs. Taejoon, an old friend, crossed the street to avoid Jisung's emptiness three weeks ago.
All this because the swamp took Minho, and nothing else came back.
Jisung shakes his head.
His hands are slick with blood and a layer of sweat as he sets down his skinning knife and the raw corpse of the hare.
Jisung swipes a finger on the wall by the window as he's done once a day for what feels like forever, marking the cedar wood with a thin red line.
Then, he wipes his hands on the bloodstained rag that hangs from his slumped shoulders.
Jisung surveys his work before gazing through the window, eyelids weighting like boulders, so tired he almost misses the rise of a figure from the edge of the swamp.
A man.
There's a man outside.
And he's crawling.
He's dragging his body over the bare earth by the woods, leaving large streaks of dark mud and glistening sludge in his wake.
The greasy windowpane blurs further with Jisung's breath from how close he suddenly glues himself to it.
Heart hammering, he scrubs at the glass with the bloodied rag in his hand. The window fights back—these months of neglect have left a film of grime thick as lard.
The cloth squeaks against the glass, smearing crimson instead of clearing its surface. Through the mess of blood and dirt, the crawling figure becomes a dark smudge, then clearer, then muddied again as Jisung's frantic movements redistribute the filth.
He presses harder, hands shaking. The old wood frame creaks in protest.
The rag catches on a splinter, tearing a hole, but there, a clean patch emerges. Big enough to frame the thing that drags itself through the bare earth patch. Crystal clear.
The rest of the window remains opaque, boxing his vision like a spotlight on a stage.
Like a rifle scope.
Except Jisung's the prey.
Blood pounds in his ears as he leans closer, nose almost touching the glass. His breath fogs the clean patch.
He wipes it away.
Outside, the man writhes forward like a marionette; disjointed, wet limbs sliding against the dry earth. Grotesque. Still, it's a man.
Undeniably human.
Is Jisung insane? His mind reels.
Townspeople say the mushrooms warp his thoughts. Rumours that spread through the markets and bars, whispers as he trades fish for salt. A pity, they murmur—such a nice young man.
He pinches the back of his hand, unkempt nails digging into flesh, leaving crescent-shaped indentations.
It hurts. Real pain. Not a dream, not tonight.
Why tonight?
The swamp man pauses at the edge of Jisung's yard, head tilted to one side as if listening.
His mouth gapes, revealing sharp teeth stained with thick, blood-like mud.
Inching forward again, drag by drag, he navigates around the cluster of mushrooms that grow all around the cabin—the only thing that seems to thrive here since the day Minho left.
Jisung's fingers clench around the bloodied rag. The mushrooms—he's eaten two handfuls today. Or was it three? Pale ones with black gills growing in perfect circles.
Sometimes they blur the edges of his vision until tree branches twist into reaching hands and shadows pulse with phantom heartbeats.
Other times they sharpen the world to knife-points, make the cabin walls breathe, the floorboards ripple.
But never, not once in all these months, have they conjured something so solid, so real as this crawling figure.
The mushrooms make the swamp cry with Minho's voice, make phantom fingers trace his spine in the dark.
They make visions dance at the corner of his eyes, disappearing when he turns his head. But they don't leave trails of black mud, they don't press divots into the earth.
They don't move with such deliberate purpose.
Moonlight casts an eerie glow on the man's skin, an unnatural sheen that distorts beneath the dim illumination. Patches of muddy scale-like marks mar his naked body, shimmering brown like the underside of a cockroach's shell.
The swamp man's eyes, dark and hollow as if carved, flicker up to meet Jisung's through the window, making a shiver run down his spine.
A lump forms in his throat. With unsure fingers, Jisung grabs the knife again.
He imagines Minho's voice—hallucinates his presence, calm and steady, urging Jisung to stay safe, to stay hidden.
Jisung squints through the clean patch in the glass.
The man's face is unsettling, ambiguous, his features half-familiar. Has he seen him before, maybe during a hunt?
Have they met?
Mud cakes the swamp man's arms and legs, sticking to him like a second skin, his shoulder-length hair hanging in clumps, matted with algae and grime.
Each time he moves, a low, guttural sound escapes his throat—part growl, part whimper—audible even from inside the cabin.
Jisung can't tear his eyes away.
The man pulls himself forward with bony hands that dig into the soil, fingers curling around thin roots and loose stones. His nails are cracked, yellowed, sharp edges tearing at whatever they grasp.
The closer the swamp man crawls towards the cabin, the faster Jisung's heart slams against his chest, heartbeats echoing like a war drum.
Is this because of the hare, should Jisung not kill fragile beings?
It's the first time he's hunted an animal so small. The hare caught his attention. The way its fur gleamed under the early sunlight, nose twitching like Minho's used to.
He's stalked larger game before, but something about this hare. Jisung's hands shook with the urge to capture it. But his knife had felt heavy then, at first, too heavy to bring down.
The fragility.
Should he only murder that which could fight back?
The swamp man's eyes linger, unblinking, as he gets closer to the unlocked cabin door.
Jisung hasn't been locking it, in case Minho came back. A knot tightens in his lungs.
He stands rigid in the kitchen, the knife in his hand trembling.
Or maybe it's Jisung who's trembling all over.
He tightens his grip on the knife, the handle's cold steel pressing into his calloused palm, worn smooth from years of gutting fish and deer. Metal bites into the meat of his thumb where he grips too hard, but the pain anchors him.
Jisung hesitates for a moment, but then, he makes an impulsive decision.
He must go down fighting.
Jisung dashes across the room, bare feet slapping against the worn and patchy floorboards, the knife quivering in his white-knuckled grip as he lunges for the door.
This cabin holds the last remnants of Minho, and will be kept sacred. Every creaky floorboard, every wall, every musty corner preserves a fragment of their life together.
Jisung's breath hitches.
He gets to the entrance before the man does, and looks through the peephole, watching him crawl closer until he lies at the front porch.
The man's shoulders twist at an impossible angle as he raises himself onto his elbows, exposing his back, the motion puppet-like as if pulled by strings.
He pulls himself upright with jerky grace, motioins disjointed as his spine arches, vertebrae crackling, and his limbs contorting until he stands.
The peephole magnifies every detail: the way his joints bend backward, the glint of small stones embedded in his throat, the familiar curve of his jaw that reminds Jisung of—
No.
No.
Jisung's grip on the knife handle turns painful. The slope of those shoulders. That specific way of tilting the head, even now, even like this.
The swamp man's body shudders as if shedding invisible weight. Mud drips from his form like wax from a candle. His hand inches closer to the doorknob, muddy fingers unfurling like a carrion flower, revealing palms webbed with algae.
Each of the man's digits elongates, stretching beyond natural limits until they're more tentacle than finger, before curling around the door handle.
Jisung's heart pounds against his ribs, relentless. He can't move. Can't breathe. His pulse thrums in his ears, hamming against the walls of his skull.
The thought of letting this man—this thing—take control makes his skin crawl. No one invades the cabin, he thinks.
But if there's a chance that—if there’s even a sliver of the slightest possibility that—
He glances once more through the peephole. The man stands inches away, mud dripping from his outstretched fingers, separated from Jisung by rotting wood and rusted hinges.
Jisung’s heart clenches, a sharp, physical pain that spreads across his chest—the way the creature's—the man's—fingers curl around the handle matches a gesture burned into Jisung's memory.
Are the mushrooms playing tricks?
But the mud tracks outside are real. They're etched into the ground.
And something in Jisung's chest, deep beneath muscle and bone, recognises the way this thing moves. A thousand mornings of watching Minho open this same door, returning from dawn hunts with game slung over his shoulder.
The knife slips from Jisung's sweaty palm, almost falling to the floor. He fumbles, muscles rigid, but catches it again.
Before the handle can turn, Jisung's hand shoots out, his body making the choice for him. With a sharp crack, his palm slaps against the door. The wood shudders, the collision jarring through his bones, but Jisung doesn't pull back—can't pull back, not with whatever waits on the other side.
He grips the brass knob with clammy fingers, knuckles white around the metal.
The knife in his other hand weighs heavy.
A voice screams in his head to run, to barricade himself in the bedroom, to wake up from whatever psilocybin nightmare this must be. But his muscles remember. His body knows this, the anticipation of opening the door, greeting, welcoming.
This has been drilled into him.
The handle turns under Jisung's grip with a familiar squeal of metal on metal. He twists it slowly, feeling each mechanism click into place, until the door creaks wide enough to spill moonlight across the cabin's floorboards.
A gust of swamp-thick air rushes past him, the door hinges groaning a low, metallic sound that echoes through the empty house.
The swamp man fills the doorway, shadowy and immense, leaking thick trails of mud that pool on the floorboards.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in Jisung's throat.
How many nights has he waited, watching the door, praying it would open, tracing words in blood on the walls, marking each day of absence like a prisoner counting time?
The swamp man's shoulders brush against the side of the door frame, leaving smears of black silt across the splintered wood.
With slow, deliberate steps, he enters the cabin, bare feet squelching against the floorboards, which creak under his weight.
His eyes never leave Jisung's.
This is not like his dreams.
A new sort of rawness claws at Jisung's insides, the acrid stench of decay wafting through the open door, the reality of the creature—no, the man—before him suddenly too visceral.
Too vivid, too immediate.
His nightmares, frequent as they are, have never felt this tangibly terrifying.
His breath fogs in the chilly air that rushes in, crystalline puffs dissipating into the night. Cold seeps through his thin nightclothes, raising goosebumps on his skin.
What is Jisung going to do now?
Brain dead, he can't do much other than stare. Jisung stares at the way the creature's flesh undulates, as if alive with parasites beneath its surface.
Stares at the way mud oozes from the pores on his face, mingling with blood that seeps from countless tiny open wounds across his body.
The way in which crimson marbleizes his flesh, the colour contrasting his pallid, swollen skin.
Jisung can't stop fiddling with the handle of his knife, blood pulsing inside his ears and setting his nerves alight. There's something else too, other than fear, other than disgust—a flicker of recognition, a tug in his chest.
His stomach churns, bile rising in his throat as he fights the urge to retch.
The primal instinct to flee battles against a morbid fascination that roots Jisung to the spot.
He glances at the open cabin door and then at the creature.
Fuck it, he thinks.
Jisung takes a second rash action tonight, reckless and impulsive.
He reaches out with one trembling hand.
The swamp man flinches, a low, wounded sound escaping his throat and causing specks of mud to lift into the air.
Jisung wants to mumble, more to himself than to the man, if you don't hurt me, I won't hurt you.
But he can't.
Jisung can't speak.
His throat constricts, vocal cords frozen, words trapped behind a wall of his own doing.
His eyes dart across the creature's form, searching for a hint that this thing might comprehend his silent plea for peace.
Jisung doesn't pull his hand back. Keeps it extended, wide open. Come inside, Jisung wants to say, I could… help?
The creature stays motionless. Does this man comprehend the gesture of an outstretched hand?
Jisung wants to ask but it's been ages since he's last spoken.
On occasion, he etches messages into tree trunks, straightforward things, like I miss you, or I'm still waiting, his knife tracing the rough bark of trees on the edge of the swamp.
Carving thoughts into living wood brings somewhat relief, as if the forest itself might carry his messages to Minho, but still.
The swamp ignores him.
Jisung opens and closes his lips like a fish, his throat an atrophied muscle.
There's nothing he regrets more than his last words. Their echo haunt him like a sharp-toothed beast.
Don't come back unless you bring us another whitetail, Jisung said that morning, or something even better. The first whitetail Minho brought home gave them a chandelier and two weeks of lean meat.
There hasn't been a second one.
The void Minho left is immense.
Slowly, tentatively, the swamp man lifts one muddied hand and places it in Jisung's palm. The touch is cold and clammy like a slug's belly slithering across Jisung's palm. Mud squelches between their fingers.
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut, willing his heart to slow its frantic pace. His chest heaves with each breath, the darkness behind his eyelids offering no respite.
With a deep breath, he wraps his fingers around the creature's hand. A memory flashes through his mind: Minho, laughing as he hoisted a freshly caught fish from the river. The joy. The contrast stings. This hand, now, feels alien.
The swamp man's grip tightens.
What is—how did—
Jisung's gaze darts between the creature's hand and the cabin's interior. The logical choice would be to throw him out, bolt the door, and never speak of this again. Or to run into the swamp, across the forest for refuge in the city—which would, likely, be denied.
But something about those dark eyes seem… tired. Weary, almost. The way they scan the room, lingering on specific spots—
The table. The old, sturdy oak piece where Minho used to spread maps, planning hunting routes through the swamp. Without thinking, Jisung tugs at the cold, muddy hand, guiding the swamp man toward it. The creature's movements are fluid yet stilted, each step marking their path with wet footprints.
The man's head swivels, taking in the cabin, moving with eerie familiarity.
He avoids the loose floorboard near the kitchen entrance—the one that made Minho curse when he'd sneak in late from fishing. His gaze catches on the wall where dried animal blood spells out come back to me.
The swamp man's head turns again, attention drawn to the corner where Minho's bow still leans against the wall, and dried herbs hang from twine—rosemary and thyme that Minho planted seasons ago, untouched since that last morning.
A low sound rumbles from the man's throat as he spots the collection of arrowheads on the shelf above the fireplace, arranged in the precise pattern Minho always insisted upon.
When they reach the table, the creature doesn't wait for direction—he slides into Minho's old chair, the one with three notches carved into its back from a botched attempt at a new design.
His mud-caked fingers trace the knife marks on the table's edge where Minho used to sharpen his blades, following the grooves with deliberate precision.
He knows this place. Jisung's skin prickle.
What now?
The creature's eyes dart back to stare at his, wide open. Static. Black pupils that stretch across sclera stained the colour of earth.
Jisung backs away for a moment, glancing at the half-skinned hare on the counter. The ghost of cardamom and star anise lingers in his nostrils from their last bowl of steaming broth shared together.
Should he—would it be a good idea to—
Well.
He picks the snowshoe hare gingerly and places it on a plate—blood pooling around it—before turning back to his new guest.
His guest.
Is this another dream? A different dream, for sure. Different ending, he hopes for.
Less destruction.
He sets the plate down in front of the swamp man, who doesn't hesitate before lunging forward, his mouth opening wide to reveal those sharp teeth again. He tears into the raw flesh with a ferocity that makes Jisung take a step back.
Ripping sounds fill the room as teeth shred through muscle and sinew alike. Blood drips from the man's chin onto his filthy chest, devouring the hare with animal fervour.
And Jisung stands there, heart pounding so hard it feels as if his whole chest shakes with it.
The hare disappears into the man's gaping maw, bones crunching loudly between his jaws. Jisung watches as the man, now barely a feral ghost of something human, finishes devouring the raw hare.
As the last mouthful vanishes, silence returns to fill the space between them.
The swamp man's gaze dart around the cabin, eyes lingering on certain objects as though emerging from a trance—Minho's old parka draped over a chair, then the collection of river stones arranged on the windowsill; smooth grey pebbles Minho gathered on their walks, claiming each one had its own story.
Jisung has recently added more pebbles to it.
The silence grows thick. Jisung shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do next.
The creature's gaze settles on the far wall, where Jisung's bloody tallies mark the days since Minho left, and a low, guttural sound escapes the his throat, like a raw, ragged cry, a sound dredged from the deepest part of his belly.
The knot in Jisung's throat tightens. He wants to ask, to demand answers, but words stick in his tongue like tar. Instead, he watches as the man's filthy hands leave muddy streaks on the table's surface.
Suddenly, those stained fingers reach across the table.
Jisung's muscles lock, wanting to flee but yearning for... something. Anything, really. Those cold digits brush against his wrist, leaving sticky trails of crimson and deep brown. The touch sends electricity crackling down Jisung's spine.
He feels a pull, a deep ache, he feels Minho's absence. This man's presence somewhat fills that void.
Jisung's skin remembers warmth. But this... this is different. Wrong. The man's grip tightens, pulling Jisung closer with surprising strength. Mud squelches between their joined hands.
A voice in Jisung's head screams to grab the knife, to fight, to run—
But months of isolation have carved a hollow space in his chest that terror can't fill. The creature's thumb traces circles on his palm, achingly familiar despite the inhuman texture of his skin.
Jisung's free hand trembles at his side. The knife slips from his grasp and skitters across the ground, lying forgotten on the floor, too far to reach. He should be disgusted. Jisung should be fighting. Instead, his heart leaps at each point of contact, drinking in the attention like a man dying of thirst.
The swamp man's other hand rises, reaching for Jisung's face. Fresh blood drips from his fingers, mixing with the mud.
Jisung should stop this. He should pull away.
The weight of loneliness presses down on his shoulders, and the creature's touch, although twisted, stirs something buried deep, a longing far within him he thought had extinguished.
A voice in Jisung's head screams.
Is this happening? Is this a mushroom dream?
The copper-bright blood marking his hand feels real enough, and the earthy stench of decay fills his nostrils with an intensity dreams couldn't ever achieve.
The wall behind the swamp man bears words in dried blood: Minho, Minho, Minho.
Perhaps the swamp heard his plea.
Jisung's legs move of their own accord, ready to lead this creature somewhere, maybe to their bedroom, to the bathroom, or maybe outside, but the swamp man jerks upright in a series of disjointed movements.
The chair scrapes against the floorboards with a screech that sets Jisung's teeth on edge.
The creature's movements become urgent, as if the cabin's walls are pressing in on him, those cold fingers tightening around Jisung's wrist, and suddenly he's being pulled toward the door.
The man's dark eyes avoid the hunting trophies and the stack of Minho's books that gather cobwebs in the corner. Each step leaves a trail of mud, marking their path to the door like breadcrumbs in a very fucked up fairy tale.
Beyond the entrance, moonlight bathes the yard in a sickly white glow, the swamp's edge creeping closer each day to the point it threatens to swallow the whole cabin.
Tonight, the air hangs thick with petrichor. Mushrooms dot the ground, their caps glistening with dew.
The swamp man's grip loosens as he sinks to his knees, then onto his back, limbs spreading across the damp earth like spilled ink. His body melts into the ground, shoulders relaxing as mud seeps between his shoulder blades.
A gurgle escapes his throat.
It's as if he can rest nowhere but in the soil, muscles unspooling into the loam beneath.
His eyes dart between the cabin and the swamp, brows furrowed in frustration, but when they land on Jisung, they soften.
One mud-slicked hand extends upward, beckoning. Jisung hesitates, his somewhat clean clothes a final barrier between him and the absolute filth.
But who is Jisung to say anything, when his arms are still stained red, crimson flakes cracking in the creases of his skin, dry blood still caked beneath his dirty fingernails?
How different is he, when his cabin walls drip with blood, when animal carcasses hang from hooks in his shed, their flesh carved into neat strips?
How much better is he, really, than this other wild creature?
The creature's fingers wiggle impatiently, and something in the gesture reminds him so much of Minho his chest aches with guilt.
Jisung lowers himself onto the cold ground. Immediately, the swamp man's arm wraps around his waist, drawing him closer, pulling him in.
His elongated fingers trace delicate patterns across Jisung's back, leaving trails of grime that seep through his shirt.
The earth beneath them squelches, and Jisung finds himself sinking into its embrace. The swamp man's other hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing away specks of blood.
The last time someone held Jisung, autumn leaves clung to branches. Now this monster holds him, and he can't bring himself to care.
Despite the chill, despite the wet earth seeping into his clothes, despite the wrongness of it all—his body melts into the touch. His muscles unlock one by one, tension draining into the soil, his back settling against the ground as if sinking into moss.
Jisung should feel revulsion. Instead, his fingers dig into the creature's shoulders, pulling himself closer, desperate for contact.
His throat burns with unshed relief. The hollow space in his chest, carved out by loneliness, slowly yet steadfastly fills with something visceral, alive.
Even if that something reeks of rotting leaves.
The swamp man's fingers trail across his shoulders, then down his arms, and the touch should repulse him.
Instead, Jisung's skin tingles.
A beetle crawls from the creature's wrist onto Jisung's forearm, its tiny legs tickling as it meanders across his skin.
Jisung refuses to brush it away.
The swamp man's chest rises and falls beneath him in an uneven rhythm, each stutter of breath pushing out droplets of murky water from between the cracks in his ribs.
The smell of decay, this up close, is earthy and thick. Jisung breathes it in, lets it fill his lungs. His nose has gotten used to it faster than expected. Perhaps the mushrooms release spores that dull his senses, or perhaps sollitude has made him immune to repulse.
The creature's hand cups the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Mud trickles down Jisung's spine, and the sensation sends shivers through his body.
The ground seems to pulse beneath them, or maybe that's Jisung's heartbeat echoing through the soft earth.
His clothes stick to his skin now, soaked through with grime. The weight of it should bother him, should make him squirm with discomfort, but it feels like an embrace—as if the earth itself is wrapped around him in a cocoon.
The man's arms, too, wrap around him in wet warmth, his chest rumbling with that strange sound again, halfway between a whimper and a growl. The vibrations travel through Jisung's body. Is settles in his bones.
His eyelids grow heavy.
This is surreal. What is he doing?
Jisung's breath hitches as the swamp man's thumb traces the curve of his jaw. The touch mirrors how Minho would cup his face before leaning in for a kiss—gentle pressure on the exact spot that makes Jisung's skin burn.
The careful precision.
His fingers drift down to Jisung's collarbone, dancing across the skin, feather-light. They pause at the small dip where bone meets flesh; Minho's favourite place to rest his hand, thumb stroking lazy circles until Jisung drifted off to sleep.
When the swamp man's hand slides to the small of Jisung's back, it settles there with familiar weight, like how Minho would guide him through the cabin door after a long day, palm pressed firm against his spine. Even through the mud, the pressure points match perfectly—four fingers spread wide, thumb tucked into the curve above his hip.
His touch makes Jisung stutter, and his body responds before his mind can process the wrongness of it all.
It's muscle memory. Their bodies remember.
The swamp man's fingers find the hem of Jisung's shirt.
He's gentle, careful, as he peels the fabric away, like Minho used to help him out of rain-soaked clothes.
The creature's hands pauses at the small scar on Jisung's shoulder from their first deer hunt together, then on the birthmark just below his ribs. Cool air hits Jisung's skin as the shirt lifts away, but the night's chill doesn't bite as expected.
Instead, the earth beneath him is starting to radiate a strange warmth that seeps into his muscles.
The man, too, radiates now this same warmth, heat soaking through the cracks between his fingers, through the spaces where earthworms tunneled beneath his flesh.
Next come Jisung's trousers. The creature remains careful, clinical almost, as he wiggles Jisung free of the clinging fabric. Each piece of clothing joins the growing pile beside them, crumpled against the dark earth in a messy heap.
The air feels thick against his naked, exposed skin.
More beetles emerge from the swamp man's arms as he works, their tiny legs skittering across both their skins.
The weight of the creature's hands grounds Jisung to the moment.
The swamp man's face looms closer, blocking out the moon above, his stark features shifting in the darkness. Mud drips from his chin onto Jisung's chest as he leans down.
When his mouth parts, it reveals those sharp teeth, but the creature tucks them away behind mud-slick lips as if to shield Jisung from the sight, hesitant, almost apologetic in the retreat.
The creature's hands cradle Jisung's face with impossible gentleness, thumbs brushing away the grime collected on his cheeks where once there had been hare's blood.
Jisung's heart pounds against his ribcage.
The swamp man's face descends, close enough for Jisung to count the dirt-logged pores across his nose, to trace the path of a beetle as it burrows beneath the translucent skin of his cheek. Mud pools in the hollows beneath his eyes, dark and thick as oil.
His breath smells of earth and copper, but beneath it lies a hint of the wild ryegrass that used to grow in their garden, the ones Minho would chew during long hunting trips.
The creature's lips brush against his, and gone is the cold. A shudder runs through Jisung's body, but he doesn't pull away, no.
He won't pull away now.
Jisung deepens the kiss, and despite the chill in his spine, despite the wrongness of this and all the grime—it feels like waking up. The swamp man's mouth moves against his with a slow rhythm, and the ache in Jisung's chest breaks open, spilling through his ribs.
The man's lips taste of peat and clay, of mushroom spores and damp reeds, a flavour so potent it sticks to his gums.
His tongue traces the seam of Jisung's lips, and Jisung can only focus on the way the creature's hands tangle in his hair, the way Minho liked to do.
The swamp man presses their bodies together, skin sliding against skin, friction that sends shivers up Jisung's back, his hands traveling slowly, almost reverently, along Jisung's arms.
Mud-streaked fingers trace the contours of his biceps, lingering on the soft dip of his inner elbow.
A strange sense of worship emanates from each touch, as though there's sacred in the essence of Jisung.
Jisung thinks there's something sacred in the slow drag of this man's touch.
His rapidly warming hands slide down to Jisung's waist, digits pressing into the flesh with a gently possessive touch, and Jisung arches into it, craving more.
The man's grip tightens around his hips, pulling him closer until there's no space left between them, his chest against Jisung's, an erratic heartbeat thudding against his own.
Oh.
He's alive.
Jisung knows now, he's alive.
The truth crashes through his ribs, a thunderbolt of relief striking deep into marrow and bone. He's alive, and the weight of this knowledge shatters through every dark corner of doubt burrowed in Jisung's mind.
The swamp man's fingers drift upwards, caressing Jisung's ribs as if committing the structure to memory. When they reach his chest, they pause over his heart, feeling the rapid pulse beneath, mapping familiar territory with an alien touch.
Heat blooms beneath Jisung's skin, tiny sparks and pinpricks of warmth that spread outward like ripples in still swamp water.
The man's hands journey downwards, tracing the curve of Jisung's thighs, kneading the flesh and mapping it out with meticulous care.
Jisung's skin tingles under the attention, his blood feeling like molten metal, coursing through his veins with increasing urgency.
The swamp man’s grip on his thigh tightens for a moment before loosening again, as if afraid to leave bruises on Jisung's unmarred skin.
Their breaths mingle in the chilly night air, steam rising in delicate wisps between them. The swamp man's hands return to Jisung's waist, fingers splayed wide as they press into his lower back. The touch anchors him in place.
Jisung's eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the sensation of finally being held.
The creature's touch—so cold moments ago—now brands him like hot iron, marking paths of heat across his flesh, pooling in his lower stomach.
Jisung's fingers trace the contours of the swamp man's jaw, following the path where flesh gives way to decay. The creature's skin shifts beneath his fingertips, earthy and so different, yet the pressure points, the curve where jaw meets neck—
The familiar angles twist Jisung's gut into knots.
Minho used to catch Jisung's wandering hands and press kisses to each fingertip before letting them roam. His jaw would tighten when he concentrated, whether gutting their prey or checking hunting snares. The same sharp edge, the same proud slope.
Jisung's chest constricts.
Minho's hands were always warm, even in winter. They'd spend hours tracking deer through the frost-bitten swamp, and Minho's touch would burn against Jisung's frozen skin when they finally stumbled home.
This creature's grip, despite getting warmer, is just not the same.
Yet—
Yet the way he cradles Jisung's face mirrors how Minho would cup his cheeks before kissing him goodnight—tender and reverent, thumbs tracing the space beneath his eyes. The touch ghosts across his skin in the same pattern, now—left cheekbone first, down to his jaw, a brief pause at the corner of Jisung's mouth.
Jisung's heart threatens to crack open. He shouldn't indulge in parallels. He shouldn't search for fragments of his Minho in this creature.
But the similarities pile up like the autumn leaves from the morning Minho left.
What if—
No.
No.
This creature merely wears Minho's shape like tattered clothes, stretches his features across rotting flesh like a mask.
Yet Jisung's treacherous heart wants to give in, what if this is what remains of love?
What if rotten love is all he deserves?
Jisung's fingers still against the creature's neck, where a faint pulse beats. Mud seeps between his fingers, thick and dark as blood.
The swamp man's skin presses against Jisung's body, bony and slick but tender. His hands trace paths on Jisung's leg with the precision of an artist studying his masterpiece.
Down to Jisung's thighs, the man's mud-slicked hands roam with care, treating each inch of skin as precious. When his reaches between Jisung's legs it makes his lungs burn, as if Jisung's inhaling steam instead of air.
The swamp man's fingers hesitate, hovering above the place where his thighs meet.
Jisung's own hand, trembling but curious, moves to cover the creature's. He wraps his fingers around the bony knuckles, feeling the slickness of mud against his palm.
For a moment, he hesitates too. Then he tightens his grip and guides the swamp man's hand downward.
The creature’s fingers curl obediently around his cock, mud-slicked and cool. Jisung lets out a shuddering breath as their hands move together in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his pulse racing under the foreign touch, every stroke sending sparks of sensation through his body.
He tilts his head back, eyes closing as he focuses on the feeling—the roughness of the swamp man's skin against his sensitive flesh, the contrast of cold and warmth as their movements synchronize.
Jisung's grip on the creature's hand tightens, urging him to apply more pressure, breath coming in ragged intakes, mingling with the damp air that clings to his skin.
The swamp man complies, fingers squeezing just enough to make Jisung's breath hitch. He arches into the touch, hips lifting slightly off the ground.
Friction builds between them, Jisung’s heart pounding louder.
It has been forever.
It's just been so long since—
Every stroke of the swamp man's hand feels like a reminder of what Jisung's lost. He desperately clings to it. Jisung's fingers dig into the creature's wrist, guiding him with urgency, with need.
Minho's touch used to ignite every nerve ending in him, used to make him gasp and tremble—the pressure, the rhythm, the coil of heat twisting beneath Jisung's navel, branding his skin.
A low sound escapes Jisung’s throat as he quickens their pace, muscles tensing in anticipation. The swamp man's thumb grazes over the tip of his cock, smearing pre-cum with each pass.
Jisung’s breathing grows laboured, each exhale punctuated by gasps. His other hand fists in the damp earth beneath him, bloody fingernails caked with black soil and dry leaves.
The world narrows down to this singular sensation—the creature's hand wrapped around him, moving in tandem with his own. Mud drips from their joined hands onto Jisung’s stomach, cool droplets contrasting the heat pooling low in his belly.
He can’t think beyond this—he won't think beyond this.
Jisung's breath catches in his throat, a desperate noise escaping his lips. The tension coils tighter, every stroke pushing him closer to the edge. But he doesn’t want it to end yet, not like this.
With a shuddering breath, he grips the swamp man’s wrist, stilling the motion. The creature’s fingers pause, obedient and attentive.
Jisung removes the man's hand from his cock, pushing it away, guiding it lower, placing it on his thigh. The swamp man’s eyes meet his, dark depths reflecting curiosity, confusion.
Jisung swallows hard, chest heaving as he reaches down between their bodies, his fingers trembling as he wraps them around the creature's length. It's strange under his touch—mud-slicked and cool, unlike anything he's ever felt before. Yet there's a familiarity in the shape, in the way it fits against his palm.
He strokes slowly at first, exploring the texture and weight of it. The creature’s breath hitches, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest. Encouraged by the response, Jisung tightens his grip and increases the pace, his movements deliberate.
The swamp man's hips buck into Jisung's hand, seeking more friction. His fingers dig into Jisung's thigh, leaving indentations, and Jisung can feel warmth spreading from their joined bodies. It seeps into his own flesh.
Jisung's breath trembles as he guides the swamp man's hand from his thigh to the place between them, lower, trailing through the courseness of his body hair. The creature's fingers pause at the entrance, patient, waiting for permission. Jisung bites his lip and urges him forward with a movement of his hips.
One finger slides in first, cool and slick with mud. Jisung's body tenses at the intrusion, but he soon relaxes into the sensation, muscles unclenching around the new touch. The finger moves with a slow rhythm, exploring, seeking, until the pressure increases as a second finger joins the first.
Jisung has always hated starting with only one finger. His breath hitches, back arching. The creature's fingers stretch him wider, but there's unexpected gentleness in his touch.
His fingers twist and curl until they brush against his prostate, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through Jisung's body. His hips buck involuntarily, a moan escaping his lips. The swamp man seems to take note of this, focusing his attention there, rubbing in slow circles that make Jisung's toes curl.
A third finger pushes in alongside the others, and Jisung feels the stretch more acutely now. His breathing grows ragged as he adjusts to the pressure. The creature's fingers are longer than Minho's, cold, bending, but they know where to touch.
Jisung clings to the creature's wrist, urging him on with slow desperation.
When a fourth finger slides in, Jisung loses count of them altogether. All he can focus on is the pressure, the movement, the way his body trembles under the onslaught of sensation, his mind fogging over, tipping over the edge.
Jisung's vision blurs as he struggles not to let go. Each stroke against his prostate feels like fire spreading, igniting every nerve ending in its path.
His body shakes with need, teetering on the precipice of orgasm but held back by that precise touch.
Guiding the man's cock with steady hands, Jisung aligns it with his entrance. He hesitates for a heartbeat, locking eyes with the creature. There's something in those dark depths, some sense of understanding and remembering that tugs at Jisung's heart.
Taking a deep breath, he begins to push the man's cock inside of himself, feeling the slow stretch. It's intense. The sensation. A blunt, heavy weight that makes Jisung's breath hitch. Much larger than anything he's ever taken, larger than it had been seconds before, in his hand.
How is this possible?
Jisung's heart races, full and exposed, and he bites his lip, bracing himself for what comes next.
The swamp man’s hands move to grip Jisung's hips, holding him steady as he sinks further inside. Their bodies press together, their breaths coming quicker, each exhale punctuated by a soft groan.
Jisung takes more of him, overwhelmed by the feeling, his muscles tensing then relaxing around the intrusion.
He guides them together, inch by inch, giving Jisung time to adjust, but the pressure is immense, a burning ache that threatens to consume them both.
Jisung's muscles clench around the man's cock, trying to hold him at bay, but the man keeps pushing, deeper and deeper, until Jisung feels like he's being split in two.
The man's hands are gentle on Jisung's hips, despite each movement sending a jolt through him. The man's cock fills him, stretching him to brim, testing his limits, pushing sounds from his chest, and he can see it, he sees the shape of the man's cock pressing against his skin, indenting his lower stomach.
Jisung's fingers dig into the damp earth beneath him, seeking purchase as the man quickly builds a pace.
Jisung can't breathe, can't think, can't move as his cock forces all the air out of his lungs, but at the same time, Jisung has never felt this alive.
The skin on skin contact intoxicates him. It's insane how long it's been since he's felt anything but his own touch.
As the man's thrusts grow more urgent, that familiar tightness starts building again.
How much longer can he hold on? The man feels too big inside of him, too overwhelming. He's everywhere. Jisung's breaking apart.
Just as he thinks he can't take it any more, the man's fingers find Jisung's cock. He strokes him in time with his thrusts, the friction sending sparks that shoot through Jisung's body, and he melts into the earth, turning one with the ground.
Jisung's body trembles as the swamp man holds him up, his strong arms cradling Jisung's weight with ease, his thrusts deep and powerful as waves of warmth crash through him, building and building until Jisung feels like he might explode.
The man's hands roam all over Jisung's body, leaving trails of mud in their wake. Jisung doesn't care.
He never cared, really.
The man's lips find Jisung's neck, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin, and Jisung moans, the sound lost in the deep humidity.
The swamp man's presence pulls him from reality, his thrusts erratic, wild, the world narrowing to the rhythm, the man's low growls vibrating against Jisung's throat.
And then, with one final thrust, Jisung can't help tipping over the edge. He cries out, the air turning static and still, the ground wet with sweat, clinging to his back as he arches, toes curling, heels digging into the swamp man's broad back.
Jisung feels the man's cock pulse inside him, gasping as warmth spreads through his core. The sensation stretches him even further, filled with an impossible flood. He might burst. He's exploding. Each pulse sends a shockwave, a torrent that surges and threatens to drown Jisung from inside out.
Jisung's body shakes as the man pulls out, come spilling out of him in a thick and continuous white stream. He's dizzy. Who is he? Where are them?
Jisung's floating above his own body.
The man's come pools on the ground beneath them, soaking into the warm earth.
Jisung breathes in short, shallow gasps.
His eyes flutter open, and he looks up at Minho, who still kneels above him, obscuring the moon. The man's eyes are soft and gentle, despite everything, despite the horrible state of them both.
The man's hand reaches out, brushing a lock of hair out of Jisung's face, tender, and Jisung feels slow waves of warmth down his spine.
For a moment, they stay like that, bodies entwined and their breaths unstable, and then, slowly, the man starts to lower himself to the ground until he's lying down, arms still wrapped around Jisung.
The man's eyes meet his, and nothing else matters.
Their lips find his once more. Jisung's not alone. He's seen, touched, desired.
Maybe that's enough.
That's when the man’s body begins to sink, slowly at first, into the muck.
Mud bubbles up around his knees, pulling him down, the wet earth claiming him centimetre by centimetre until his outline blurs against the ground.
But Minho's face remains serene, content, almost peaceful. He looks up at Jisung with eyes that seem to want to consume him in the most loving of ways.
The mud creeps higher, up to the man's thighs, then up to his waist. His grip on Jisung's hand tightens slightly, then lets go.
Jisung sits up straight before kneeling beside him, rushing to intertwine their hands once again. Don’t go again, he tries to whisper, throat trembling, please, please, don't go again.
The man’s smile is soft, accepting, bittersweet. The mud reaches his chest, dark sludge seeping into every crevice of his form.
Jisung feels it too, the mud, cold and clammy against his skin wherever they touch.
Panic flares in his chest as the mud climbs higher, swallowing Minho’s shoulders and neck. He clutches his hand tighter, as if that alone could anchor Minho to the world above.
No, you can’t—
But the man shakes his head. Mud laps at his chin, and he leans forward to press a kiss to Jisung’s hand.
Jisung stutters as he watches the mud rise until only the man's eyes remain visible.
Even now, those eyes—
Jisung won't let him go.
Jisung's hands scrabble through the mud, fingers sinking deep into the muck as he tries to claw it away from the man's face. Each handful he cleans fills back in again, thick and dark, defying his efforts.
His fingernails scrape against something solid beneath—skin, bone, the man's features—but the swamp swallows it all back up.
The more Jisung digs, the faster the mud flows.
A sob rises in his throat. His arms ache from the effort. But the man's face is still visible beneath the sludge.
Jisung's hands slow, then still.
The mud coats his skin up to his elbows like swamp itself leaks out of him, black and viscous under the raw moonlight.
His chest heaves with ragged breaths as reality sinks in—
The thought strikes Jisung like lightning.
He drops to his hands and knees, crawling forward until he hovers over the man's face. His fingers find the shape of a jaw beneath the muck, and he digs in, prying it open with trembling hands.
The man's mouth gapes wide, a dark cavern that beckons him. Jisung doesn't hesitate.
He pushes one arm into the opening, feeling the soft give of flesh as he slides deeper. His shoulder follows, then his head.
The man's throat stretches impossibly wide.
Cool darkness envelops Jisung as he pushes his other arm through, forcing his torso inside. Minho's mouth yields around him, drawing him deeper, slick and warm as rotting moss.
His legs slip in last.
Darkness fully swallows him.
Instead of fear, peace washes over Jisung.
And this, finally, feels enough.