The owners look up from their work stations with flour on their faces, calling to Heesun. Heesun quickens his search for the roll of paper for the register. “Coming!” In his rush he rips open a new box and grabs one before rushing out. He straightens out his apron and uses his forearms to wipe at his face in case he had flour on it as well. The face at the counter brings him back to the other day. His brows furrow a touch. “H-Hi. How can I help you?”
There is a lust for seclusion upon an anticipated emergence, dancing fingertips retreat in a fold against his palm and reluctance has a taste so bitter against the flesh of his tongue that he's silenced, deliberating preoccupation with the walls that enclose him, an unchanging basis for some unspoken contemplation. "I," he begins, mere thoughts teetering upon his lips, ones that were shapeless and vague, bred only from some wicked ulterior motive, "was wondering if you would like to go get coffee." It's an offer he compliments with a smile, one particularly softened. These are steps necessary to recuperate defenses he knew he had raised; opportunities to exploit normalcy, swords in every day sunlight. "I recognize that this is probably very weird but, I wanted to apologize for my attitude during our last meet. I — I don't know, but I would be very grateful if you were to oblige me."
Footsteps redirect him to the entrance of a bakery, one whose door handle is graced with a familiar grip, door itself pushed open lightly so as to maintain the silence of his arrival, until distance diminishes and his fingertips strum an absentminded rhythm against the counter-top, tentative eyes scrutinizing the environment. "Heesun," reluctantly the name abandons his lips, only vaguely recalling the engraving of a name tag, "are you here?"
She’s distracted by looking at the ground beneath her feet so she doesn’t notice the presence watching her until he’s directly in front of her. Eyes slowing scan from shoes upward, landing at the face she’d recalled so many times in her head on nights when sleep wasn’t something she could grasp. Her lips part in a silent exhale, and she focuses on his extended palm. His words go right through her and it takes her a moment to process that she should probably respond instead of standing like a deer in headlights. “Mm.” Is what she gives first. “Well. It was unexpected, but I wasn’t going to ignore you.”
She’s quiet for the next few seconds or so, allowing him to lead her to the table, sitting down almost mechanically. Hearing his question, she opens her mouth to reply but then shuts it shortly afterward. Meeting his eyes, she has to force herself not blurt out the billions of things running through her mind. Instead of answering, she leans forward on her elbows before speaking.
“Why did you leave?”
And with her words the gentle pry of attentive eyes is halted, fleeing their interest and compensating the sudden loss with sideway glances at passersby, strangers who sat alone and with others; couples. They personified something he suddenly envies, some unspoken comfort or maybe unquestioned reassurance. Whatever it is that allows the woman sitting across from them to twist the ring around her finger as she watches her husband absentmindedly, wondering what could be on his phone screen, making him smile so vividly and laugh so softly, but never actually voicing it because she knows but that knowledge only leads to problems and she'd rather avoid it all, live under her veil.
Blaire could give him the same mercy but she wouldn't, because there was a spot he had unintentionally filled; a placement he knows he still conforms to the mold of, the same one he contorts to lead them to where they are now. Seated across from one another, him being still quiet, lips preoccupied with the salted glass of something alcoholic, words caught up in the swallow of its bitterness. He's waiting for her to run back beneath the veil, but he knows she won't.
"I just asked you how you're living. Do you really have to bring that up now?" He sighs, his fingers spinning the spine of the drink's glass, eyes rolling dismissively as he leans back, returning to her in a gaze that overall looked unapologetic. He sighs, asks, waits and continues, concluding that an answer is something she probably does deserve. "I got wrapped up in some bad things. I know that you don't mind me tainting you but I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want me to leave you completely ruined." It's a distinguishable lie he compliments with a fragile truth, hidden in the delicacy of an ambiguous hint. "And plus, honestly, some things just change. Nothing is really guaranteed in this life except death. With that having been said, I'm here now, back after leaving, so you shouldn't worry about things like that. Just enjoy this."
The text comes rather late in the day, a number not saved in her phone, but the context says it all. Her lips close as a soft breath escapes, reading over the words. Junhyung.. It had been a while since she’d heard from the familiar face. They’d parted on a.. heated note that had involved a little too much alcohol and resulted in a massive hangover the following day.
Why? Who knew. They were both fire, and engulfed each other in their flames. But she held onto the memory of him still. He had taught her all she knew and more, it was to say she couldn’t simply let him go. Didn’t want to.
So when the text comes she’s on her feet, out the door, and hurried as she walks to where he wanted to meet. There’s a nervous flutter in her stomach but she ignores it, remembering everything, every small detail so she can compare to how he’s changed. Of course, she too had changed. She was no longer young and stupid. Well, not completely.
Entering the quiet restaurant, she holds her breath-
and waits.
She has a particular taste, one like wildfire, flames so vehement he's sure he can feel their incineration before she's even arrived. Memories are like antiquated wine, being an intoxication to him, certain text messages being sent spontaneously out under the guidance of nostalgia tainted by ulterior motive. He doesn't have much else and with that came the eventual conclusion that there was nothing else he needed beyond himself, though there were things he liked, people; he took them when he could and kept it all in unabashed monopoly. Maybe she hadn't been victimized by the objectification but she wasn't an exception. She knew him as human, an idealized version of self — in his mind she is a threat to him; he has to watch closely.
These are thoughts left unvoiced because anticipation binds him to the moment, optimizing piqued senses to better differentiate her from an environment he's already ignoring, the seat he patiently takes being almost immediately abandoned. Absentminded footsteps place him at the edge of the entrance, a wry smile being the first to welcome her to the restaurant, fingers extended a politer gesture towards a reserved table and an opened hand beseeches her own grasp.
"I didn't order anything yet; I figured the least I could do was at least give you the chance to make your own decision." That smile persists, a momentary silence being usurped by the softness of a laugh. "It's been so long since we last spoke, I'm kind of surprised you even acknowledged the text, though I'm definitely grateful you can still oblige me." Voiceless then, he watches her in a subtle scrutiny, reminiscence lingering in the gaze, the present crashing back to him like a wave he shakes off, leading her to aforesaid seats, being seated and continuing to scrutinize.
“Uh-huh,” Tongue in cheek, Kol crossed his arms and felt a complexity overcome his logic. After all, the gaze that Junhyung just gave was out of the ordinary. It was a look that he gave Kol when he felt that he was being worked too hard, or when words have brought an offensive taint to his being.
Upon leaning against the nearest wall, the older wolf waited. He had an underlying curiosity about Junhyung. Where he came from, was his only venture at the moment, he’d seen the other wolf flinch and duck for far too long to even bother with trying to fix such habits.
Now that’s not to say that, perhaps, this could help with a bond. Kol was one that constantly got into trouble for one of two reasons; either because he cares enough or because he doesn’t care enough. He’s reckless, abundant in bad decisions, and yet he’ll have nightmares about ill-happenings trickling into his pack. He’ll have sudden arbitrary thoughts, gore and emotional tolls affecting his daily facade. He’s close with his members, for the most part. But Junhyung was the newest member, there was nothing quite awkward in general. Frankly, the other already knew too much about Kol. But knowing how it feels to be disregarded, Kol couldn’t help but at least reach out.
It was easy to admit, though, seeing the other act so sly was satisfying. Rendering the feeling of mentor-hood, seeing someone grow even in the slightest bit.
Kol scoffed, producing a smile only briefly before eyeing Junhyung. The man had no shame when he pointed at his elder, after all, it was the only way Kol would somehow feel beholden in the rookie’s favor. He followed the taller male until he was beside him and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“You want me to call you alpha while we’re at it?” Kol smirked and nudged the other while nodding his head and sighing in excess. “Fine, do what you want. I’ll be right behind you.”
As he said the last five words, he spoke far differently than he had actually meant for it to be. He sounded as though he were reluctantly playing a game of ‘following the leader’ but it was, truly, a pact of protection. For whoever, or whatever, was to come.
The words incite a rebuttal opted to be left unvoiced, expressionless lips closed in concentration on the craftsmanship of impeccable silence, quiet being deliberated and spent in recollection, hope was underlying and now unearthed its existence was in contribution to the analysis and comprehension of the steps that led him here.
There was appreciation in aspects he typically leaves imperceptible, views he shrouds in shadows that metaphorical hands now reach into, being undaunted and possibly ignorant, unscathed by the incineration of hidden flame and roused by its own invincibility, their exploitation of adversarial blazes illuminate revelations he would have otherwise kept buried. Darkness made a catalyst of his bones and bred a cataclysm within confines now hollowed. The elder's presence is the white of that warfare, uninvolved and with an innocence untainted by ulterior motive; unspoken truth nests in their benevolence and it yields a power unswayed by the opposition of ambiguity, defiance — he doesn't deserve it.
Junhyung has long since been consumed by emptiness, not in despair but in apathy; being solidified and unabashed, indifference had tempered him in the way of selfish nullification. There had always been an opportunity to reach out and he had always left it as that, the potential of enjoining destinies being unmet and bearing no real enticement to him. Distance was not a mechanism activated in defense but in typicality, he is the sun that centralizes his own universe and he is the stars he seeks at night; skyward flare scintillating an unwanted presence, singular and lonesome.
"What do you want?"
There is a subtle venom slathered to his words, footsteps now guided by city lights reached soon in the preoccupation of running thoughts, hurried life's cacophony the first to break his veil. He stops then entirely, halted and breathing reminiscence, far off humanity so close he can recall its conceptualization, manifestation in the form of a child's grip to the anchor of his mother's touch; in that same child's jovial laughter in the chase said mother gave, memories all short-lived because he recognizes their reality of blackness that usurps them, monopolizes him and finds solace in a beating heart.
His lips part, exhaling nostalgia in exchange for audible words still left unvoiced, lips pressed in concentration on specification, a magnitude of questions shaven to befit the moment. "What do you want to do when there's only so much that you're actually capable of doing? You should be honest incase you were thinking not to be. I'm curious as to what you hope to gain by being here." His countenance gains signature in a smirk's condescending curve, bitterness he stifles in the shift of his body, redirected towards the other now. "Our bounds have long been overstepped and I don't think I'm too welcomed here anymore, so what did you want? Tell me."
Heesun blinked. And blinked. And blinked once more, in rapid succession. His fingers pushed the bottom of his frames up and massaged his eyes momentarily. He wished he could’ve gotten angry instead. Even a vague annoyance was better. Just anything more definite and justified than his bubbling sense of confusion. So many questions formed in response.
Who are you?
Why does this matter to you?
Why do the things I do matter to you?
What is the point?
But he knew raising such things would only further the conversation. He knew he shouldn’t continue interactions that could end up being bad for business, or even bad for himself. Experience had taught him that he lacked the wit and the words to contend with anybody in an argument. What was true years ago in primary and secondary school still stood to be true now.
“So if I do this,” the words came out in sync with his exhale. “Things between us will be even.” That line of logic seemed easy and clear enough for him to follow after hearing it in his own voice for clarification. How someone could hold such anger and uphold a grudge for something Heesun thought was a kind gesture remained muddled, but he had to admit he didn’t care enough to ask. The complexity of some people’s minds and emotions didn’t intrigue him, so much as it intimidated him.
A push of a few buttons on the cash register later, the money compartment slid out. He places the won in the right spot along with the other bills worth the same amount, though it still felt wrong to him in general. He faced the display case and sighed once more. He had neither the appetite nor the mood to eat, but the customer must be pleased. Kindness helped to bring customers back, but somehow he doubted kindness would be the real reason that’d bring this one back.
He stared at the variety of muffins but could only see the faces that he came to associate with certain kinds.
Since he lacked a favorite of his own, he closed his eyes and grabbed one at random. Blueberry. His least favorite.
“Will that be all for today, sir?”
Obedience yields a momentary cessation, uninvolved and analytical until passive observation solidifies what would otherwise be presumptuous convictions, the delicacy of underwhelming motions exposing spoiled secrets as telltale truths, the ambiguity of their validity beseeches a personal lust for clarification. Faintly does curiosity scintillate an abyss, whose depths had been caught within unending pits and its shadows creep like murder, the intimacy of an unwavering stare caressing the human, isolation in its bitter touch.
“Blueberry.” It comes as a delicate remark, one he nigh breathes with piqued interest whose concern was synthetic but indistinguishably, falsehood overridden by the curvature of a smile. “— Do you like it?” The slow cant of his head beckons his palm for steadiness, a mockery of some lighthearted conversation. “I like it, a lot. Where I'm typically and ironically not too heavy on sweets, blueberry is always nice, it has a tender sugar; it's probably my favorite, actually.” The smile persists even in the manufacturing of silence.
To the beast, quiet is always synonymous with emphasis, this particular impasse one that he hopes is signified through the underlying pressure slowly unearthed within the minutes of excavation that that aforesaid stare burrows. His eyes still like blades being wildly thrust, crude and unabashed, ravenous vultures drawn to scent of impending death he surmises hides within the gentle compliance that rose to weakly challenge undeserved belligerence. His eyes still like blades crazed with bloodlust; there are lacerations he longs to leave on the other, cuts whose depth is but a tantalizing fantasy to him, a necessity. They'll open the cage and he will pry through it, avaricious and starved until that lust for clarity is sedated, an unwarranted devastation is left to tear their pith asunder; such is the ritual of his hunt and the unknowing human marks themselves as prey.
“Are you uncomfortable? You should eat it.” The suggestion although feigning liberty left no room for choice, eyes still like blades; still unrelenting, apathetic but scrutinizing. “I don't think anyone buys something for it to be unappreciated, no?” There is laughter although its circumstances feel awkward and uncharacteristic. “Plus, I ate the one that you gave me all those years ago, so it is only fair. I mean, if you're serious about wanting things to be even, that is.”
Nobody likes to be indebted. He imagines it even worse to be placed in unnecessarily.
A core impediment with the eternal life she was “blessed” with was her stunted youth. Though many would render it as a gift, Sunny saw it as a hinderance. Unable to grow, mature and develop like those around her, humanity turned into a thing to be coveted rather than a plague. It’s ironic how things turned out.
She’s petite by nature; slim figured with accented assets, shorter stature and a youthful face (akin to a bunny, Trinity had once told her). It was the norm to be mistaken for someone younger. Sometimes even a minor. Yet the ethereal brunette had long since grown accustomed to the fact that she’d never look her true age as she could barely maintain the look of her perpetual age.
That gives reason to why while working, she tried to maintain a mature image. Dark coloured clothing that didn’t show off too much skin but accentuated her figure. Shorts that showed off her legs and thighs accompanied with heels – mostly considering that she was around five foot one while barefoot. Her hair was pulled back to a messy low bun, her fly aways artfully framing her face to emphasis her dark makeup. Even with her rather mature and sexy ensemble she would still be mistake as one of the working staff or just another club attendee. She made an attempt. That’s what mattered.
Due to her state of being supernatural she had long since noticed the approach of the male to her club. The new employee, no doubt. She wasn’t the one to conduct the interviews but she was the one to approve afterwards. He would adjust quickly (she hoped) so she figured to make an introduction herself to welcome him to a part of the family. “Welcome,” she says calmly, offering a charming smile to ease any nerves he might have. His words proved to be no surprise to her has (once again) she was mistaken as an employee. Sunny only offered a chuckle, brushing her fingers through her bangs once to even out the hair.
“My name is Sunny Lee,” she says in greeting. “I’m not usually the one to conduct the interviews but I always meet my employees on the first day. Someone should have warned you.” She gives a soft chuckle, turning around to motion towards the rest of the club around them. “Shall we start your tour, then? I think it’s best to learn about your work place.”
"The only people that warn are the people that care; I don't expect to have that kind of gesture extended to me, considering I don't expect anyone to care about me." The initial faintness of a smile solidifies until it is scintillating; until he is correlating his countenance back to his words and reassembling his approach, wordless appreciation of her laughter otherwise being the form of a chuckling reciprocation. The underlying fervency of remorse becomes something overwhelming when he isolates the circumstances, smiling lips parting somewhat in consideration of clarification, but a single statement seemingly already shares too much, the sigh he breathes being another dismissal of the topic.
There was no need to be analytical, deceptive or coy, and yet he still was, predatory sensations more a defense mechanism than an offensive strike but still a necessary measurement on warpaths he overran. Obsidian pits withhold the employer in an encapsulation of silence albeit momentarily, an interlocking of gazes maintaining its loyalty; steadfast as he coughs in an attempt to speak. "I didn't mean that to sound as awkward as it sounded." A tender lie and a feigned joke, the smile resurfacing as he attempts to redirect his own concentration. "I'm very grateful that you're available to help me. This is actually my first employment in a long while. I had a falling out with my previous workplace."
His eyes avert then, being narrowed in scrutiny of crowds as he dots, voiceless and absorbed again into his own conscience. Should he name what it was that had urged him to apply as he did he did not know. Where he surmises others would have reveled in the opportunity to be employed, he did not. The application he had penned was written by a hand he hoped to one day raise against the people he had settled with. Figurative dogs whose unity he had had to feed on to sustain his own existence. Employment was synonymous with independence; a step towards said independence that did not actually place distance from the place he had wanted to be apart from. Some subconscious validation that his individuality was still his own; that he had not been completely monopolized by a need to stay alive and a need to stay empowered.
"My name is Yong Junhyung.” He repeats, this time casual professionalism, hand extended, easing a careful pry into her vicinity, countenancing another smile, one perfected by gentleness and subtlety. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lee, or would you rather I call call you by your first name? Like I said, it's been a while, but generally, I wouldn't want to ignore whatever you're more inclined to. After all, I'm sure memorizing preferences is going to be the key to my success.” An uncharacteristic laugh had been preceded by those words, smooth and unabashed as his head cants to reflect an unspoken agreement.
your deeds follow you, rest from your labor.
close your eyes; die in me.
{ ddxsungjae.
The indistinguishable implosion of an unheard inhale, the consumed sweetness of zephyr and its osculation with your heart beating; euphonic serenade, hominine rhythms, cacophonies overcoming intricacies to coalescence in imperfect syncopation. Each breath is a note strung in song too long-time sung, an unheard ballad, each lyric a particular choice, plea — your canticles beseech quintessential meaning, the veil of optimism you hang is dissipating. Worthlessness is synonymous with your mortality and such revelation has left you to teeter on that precipice.
The metaphorical precipice whose edge oversees an imagined abyss, endless darkness glorified by the flowers you have planted; death's promise is real and for certain, sole solidity in a flux that has left you careened and drowning, suffocation began to strangle the beauteous aria to helpless silence and aforementioned cries are that alone until the quiet beckons an impasse that heralds his emergence — your boyfriend is the sun centralizing your universe, a necessary savior though you surely forget that I have always liked you better when you are alone. Repetition however strengthens memorization; I am generous, so I will make you alone again in the way that you dread the most, the way that terrorizes you, leaves you unloved and leaves you lonely.
It is an purge too careful to be rushed, redemption conceptualized and executed in the certainty of plentiful hours and days, my footsteps emulating yours and there are places you like to be so I have been there. Your workplace has seen the best and worst of your twenty-five years and so stilled in time have I sat there. Your home is a trophy to you, some emblem of personal perseverance and conquest; you said you could paint the walls whatever color you wanted because it was something that finally belonged to just you, I remember that.
I sit where you sit, hidden in the conversation of passersby normalized within routine. I hold my breath when you exhale because I am enamored by the inevitability of lungs' collapse; I want to taste you, the incalescent flames of existential fire whose ignition draws its match on your heart, explosive flares harmonized to your pulsations — devour and burn me alive, I want to bring you with me to die in your own scintillation. It's only fair; there are pieces of me inside of you and conclusions imply that everything be brought to an end.
I watch you exist, your predictability yields consistency and I begin to transform into your thoughts, your idealizations; it's all becoming too easy. Autumn has been destroyed by Winter and Summer has risen to trump the gelid demoness, you celebrate the return of sunlight within the shadows of night barricaded by the canopies of trees overhead, campfire illumination not providing the companionship you desperately seek, so many hours ago had he said that he would return with firewood and yet return had he not. You are worried, though you shouldn't be.
I told you, I love you so much more when you are alone.
It's my teeth whose grip fastened his neck, flesh bearing so tender a heat I could have melted. This is a sensation I have not felt in a while, lipids squished beneath the pressure of unrelenting incisors, claws guiding me through the cascading blood of a squirting jugular, severance only further pried so I can claim the trachea, the latch of my fangs still twisting so I can tear the esophagus out from within him with a thrust of my jaw. Skeletons are my trophies, bare ones and so there is no surface I leave unclean; arms and legs only vaguely appetizing, his taste does not quell the real desire.
You, in all your horrified beauty.
How convenient that you would find me as I am now, leaned over his empty corpse, crimson on my lips being lapped at with subconscious swipes of my tongue. You greet me with expected silence that I reciprocate, I like to focus on those subtle steps I take to leap towards you who turn to run, surely knowing how futile it all is in the end. I am too strong; my significance exceeds yours, it always has. You know it when the sudden collision of your weight against the earth is too much for your cranium, a crevice splitting wider until you can taste the blood that drips onto your lips. Until your focus wanes, hazy in vision and unable to persist with the kicks you make at me, those being annoying things actually, it doesn't take long for me to punish you for the motions. There are tendons in your ankles that I punctuate with my claws, small holes I bury my teeth into until I find those veins like small emerald streams in fields of thick roses — being like treasure to me as I tear it from your body, dismantled now so you can't escape.
So you have to take it, watch when I loom above, more silence to herald devastation, my mouth comfortably cushioned with the shredding of your stomach, soft skin torn asunder to make a bath out of your guts and blood, meat and flesh a delightful feast but the abdomen alone gives me no satisfaction. I have to know you completely, see parts of you I didn't see when I was inside of you the first time. I dig into your upper cavity, excavate its containment; a mess of scattered ligaments and lipids I'm desperately eating my way through, until like a ruby in a treasure chest I discover your heart. So gentle, so human and so exposed; the thought of your writhe at its responsive sensitivity is enough to make me whine, I make do with savoring it in my mouth. Ripped from you entirely, teeth sensationalized by the jewel, that blood that leaks with each tentative chew.
I've become you; you die with me inside of you, paws so deep in the pit of an opened stomach I can feel the solidity of the ground beneath your spineless back. I've taken that with me too — it's another reward, along with your throat whose ample surface I consume again, fervent licks cleansing an exposed trachea until I take that from you as well, teeth lifted to greet the crook of your neck so I can tear your head off of your shoulders, leave it some place random.
No one need remember you; dismembered, you're scattered now. No one will piece you together again.
You are better when you are alone, like everyone else — I've gone and made you lonely.
You don't need to express your gratitude, I already know it. There is no remorse because even after I initially saved you I have now redeemed you, you must have sought to repay me with your life surely and I have taken the gift, I don't need any more thanks.
Water washes over me, cascades whispering to me tell me their consolation, their loyalty attested when they send away the body of a useless lover to some unexplored depths of the ocean, the solidity in my words ever outlasting; even in death there will be no one to be beside you. You wanted to be lovely and you wanted to beautiful, so I have made you exactly that through permanent isolation — your hymns have been heard; you can die in me.
Morning breaks and the early sun witnesses my theft, clothes of your boyfriend fitting me rather nicely. Should the difference in my scent be recognized, they'll assume I walked through a street; assume I bumped into a stranger, met a friend. People are so indistinguishable; so much of the selfsame.
That is until they begin to sing their own songs, cry their own tears.
He sighs gently in the dormancy that ensues after the last chess piece has been moved to its final resting place, accepting that this will be another confirmation to a loss kept under his belt, but accumulated experience keeps his head upright instead of guiding it to the faded board embedded in the stone table between them like he had the first few times around. This is what it feels like to be humbled, he guesses. A shot in the dark met with countless walls and suddenly he just expects it to go nowhere. To think of it like that offers consolation just pacifying enough and he begins to quietly gather the pieces, after a moment or so, as if to collect his thoughts in tandem.
Maybe he is, but maybe he isn’t; this silence, distilled through a gentle smile that hooks further when welcomed by Junhyung’s cutting laughter, shows an adolescent ambiguity. The invitation is unspoken if it were an invitation at all, effervescent and transient under the gush of summer flooding their lungs. A honey bee whirs by as if announcing itself, a suitable afterthought, as he places his pieces in a withered cardboard box, previously stowed beneath his bench. He remembers to put them in as he would take them out, assuming that it would be his own hand to reacquaint with them after a few days time. A good rule of thumb for these occasions; he remembers how his mother stressed to leave his vacated spaces better than they were before he touched them and then he’s picturing his room back at a house he’s no longer a part of, wondering if it’s still in an unnoticeable disarray that only he could perceive, wondering if everything is in boxes by now because it’s been a year, wondering if the house is there at all. “I’m learning,” he replies, gentle in the afterglow of the other’s flame.
They never did this daily, he muses in an attempt to distract himself, while reaching for Junhyung’s collection, perhaps out of a subtle and mutual understanding that they would bore easily in that circumstance, Sungjae losing and never getting a chance to recoup into thinking he’d surely win today.
If not today, then maybe next time.
The thought never crossed his mind, that he wouldn’t at least one day win and that his time spent here in the park was a useless accumulation of his hours that could have been spent doing something more productive, because productivity was a baseless subject to him, one that if he spent searching its depths would misshape him, obsess him; he’s seen this happen to people before and knows himself well enough to understand he is unfortunately that type of individual too. These activities, on the other hand, were therapeutic, grounding, even if he couldn’t place a finger on a reason as to what from. He never liked board games much, let alone the strategic type that called for more attentive decisions and not on the hand of luck to give him a fighting chance. “If you teach me then you would be handing over to me the knowledge to beat you.” He slips the box, neatly filled back under his bench, offering an attentive glance to Junhyung that stays, unmoved even when he’s leaning back in his seat, kicking his long legs out a bit obnoxiously. “You do know that, right?” The bones under his shoulders offer a dull pop or two before falling back to his sides.
“Regardless, I’d like to learn how to do that on my own. Save you the trouble.”
Those words are as silk threaded like skin, syllables personified within the flesh of fingertips whose caution ignorance had manipulated, a deceptive coax to pry further into the metaphorical void that withheld the beast; to feel the chain of perpetual steel, contestant to only eternity, its waning fortitude whose dissipation reflected itself within abysmal pits, soundless ensnarement insinuating darkness in the refuge of a stare’s unrelenting conversation.
“If I teach you though, I gain a bit of your mind,” those fingertips smite dread; flesh chilled by the steel of internal cages, “provided, in the form of little instructions here and there that you’ll modify to better understand but they will be a derivative of me teaching you. At least, that’s how I like to see it; small lessons that you’ll keep with you, reference when you need them to win. Maybe one day you’ll have children or simple friends that you want to play the game with; friends that you’ll teach to what you learned, a compilation of you and the ever-present me.” The bind between gazes withstands, being desensitized and unmoved; exposure to a malignancy whose venom punctures with enunciation, ominous and unavoidable, toxicity he forces the other breathe, screaming silence being pressure and suffocation.
An unexpressed thought reminds him of the glorification of the hands that carve these paths to existence, the subtleties that rouse its refinement, the copious and perpetual gratitude for those that herald creation — the powerful deception of bliss, its reminiscence a smiling scar on its victimized minds. Permanence is synonymous with eternity; defeat is no bane. Black orbs display a dance of blades, one whose grace placed edges at either side of the boy’s throat; unspoken assassins hidden in the shadows of steadfast sight, death in a single blink.
“That’s not actually losing, now is it, Sungjae?”
There is an unexpected stroke of mercy however, one whose guidance sought his hand. Tempest quelled to zephyr, a smile calling sunlight to cleanse out that darkness before it can be gathered, interrogated. This transition he confirms with alleviating movement, atop his own feet and stretching, lackadaisical and smooth as he eyes the other, lightheartedness so easily and so masterfully feigned.
“I respect your independence. That’s a good quality; make sure you keep it. You don’t want to be indebted. There’s nothing worse than owing someone something.” A momentary pause, one that reflects in the aversion of those aforesaid eyes, skies ascertaining a sudden interest but it is infinitesimal and insignificant, dismissed within another shift as he scrutinizes the other again, that meticulous examination shared also by an ever considering mind, thoughtfulness captured in the purse of lips, the eased cant of his head, exhausted within the return of his voice.
“Let’s do something else. Anything you choose, I don’t care enough to contest. It can be a reward for your excellent sportsmanship and unending perseverance. Every good dog deserves a good treat.” Sarcasm oozing, condescension in the way that he looks.
And there she awaits—underneath the vast immensity of cerulean skies clawed in crimson slashes, where the wounds of time and space decrepitates with aching flames, trailing a gradient that mimicry the hues of her topaz colored orbs. Mighty sun, the fallen warrior disappearing within the crepuscule as the newcomer stars glint tears of farewell, longing for company, for the moon would always be there for the lonely.
Slender digits lingered seconds too long over every single outline of traces that composed characters and letters, ultimately resulting on a list of names belonging to her fallen angels. Blood of her blood they were not, flash of her flash they were not either, but the lost such darling souls still taints the broken pieces of a hollow heart far too majestic to be void of mundane aches. Ethereal beauty trailed the road of redemption, dismissing so vehemently the primrose path for the inconsistencies of life, for she herself was a walking paradox.
To save all was much more than an honorary duty.
Yet, her pride was shattered in a counterpart
to the million pieces of her already slivered heart
when the wailing breath of a little one was lost.
Perhaps, pride and love shared opposite brims
of a line far more tenuous than hate could ever.
Heavy was the sigh that escaped parted couplets, intoning the morbid nature of such a classic lullaby hummed by her, the faint undertone of hopeful wishing ghastly the edges of archaic poetry of a distant land—forgiven and forgotten by the ruins and rises of empires and emperors, but never bygone in the depths of her subconscious.
Beware of the bewitching hour, beautiful one! Beware of the grotesque creatures that seek shelter in the shadows of the moonlight, our majesty! Echoes and reverberations of meaningless voices alerted the fragility of her being.
Foolish,
such foolishness almost accomplished the curl of her lips into a small smile.
Had they never heard about the danger brought upon all by temporal ghosts?
The faint resound of husky baritone captured her attention, not only by the allusion of his words, but for the apathy, that was carry to her by the evening breeze. Chilling it was, just as the intonation his voice partook in the last syllable of his words, a melancholic pity void of any compassion. Only sorrow, only hollowness remained.
“Death is not a choice; it is not an antagonist to life, but a constituent of it.” Velvet voice was strip off its commanding intonation to reverberate in dulcet whispers, for she wished not to trespass the threshold of politeness, and therefore, head was bowed elegantly in a wordless apologize. “Don’t you think silence itself is already an answer? It can be a horrifying sound for those embraced in obscurity.”
“They say that to live is to die, and to die is to live.” Her murmur was uttered in a musical pleasing manner, entertaining the depths of her consciousness as the morbid lullaby melted in korean translations as she spoke. “You have such beautiful eyes for someone with winter in his soul.” Topaz colored eyes meet his glance with overwhelming serenity and warmth, regardless of either or not the quivers assaulting her spine was caused by the wintry breeze or the opaqueness of his orbs.
Ineffable quiescence and gelidity coalesce in a white masquerade she bears like a cloak, the pernicious maiden of death. Her footsteps lissome, a nimble trek through winds she creeps, disguised by inevitability and expectation, graceful fingertips bleeding the toxin of wither until existence is utterly monopolized by the chilling grip of suffocation — a yearly massacre preceded by deceptive sunlight and manipulative efflorescence; winter should remain untouched.
Winter should not whisper her breath on the flesh of newborn souls; she should know her place. Innocence is infinitesimal, susceptible to things as inescapable as demise, especially when entombed in the catacombs of a heart whose child frost had laid with, being sinful and uncaring in a conquest that sought no mercy. Had there even been a second of impasse, he could not recall; seemingly primordial warfare whose knights drew swords called abhorrence, called woe and desperation. Thoughtless, merciless brutes, their steel tongues had slaughtered the boy he was, reconstructed him like an unavoidable monstrosity, their weaponry retiring within the pit they had excavated, lacerations making for a new home; his personification — the only love he acknowledged; he was theirs completely.
Her words summon silence, one impeccable enough to intensify the subtleties and particulars. The angle at which he held his own obsidian blade refined against her skin, unrelenting and predatory examination consuming voiceless minutes, the quiet wanes only to herald the plunge of his knife, adversarial words.
"That's true for people who choose to remember that they are alive," a remark whose words he hopes preoccupies her because his eyes revert then, disgust cascading over an aforesaid grave, "otherwise, death is completely optional. Maybe you can't understand that, since you're apparently content idealizing nothingness as 'silence' and accepting it as an answer. There is no empathy for weakness; it will never actually yield the strength, or whatever sentiment it takes, to support our little personal pieces of existence. It will take more than your broken proverbs to ever disprove that."
Genuine laughter is his next breath, spiritually cold; the omnipresent Winter caresses him once again, tantalizing and seductive, a beautiful demoness of ice whose loyalty stood proven, awkward and intrusive amongst the stranger and he.
"Of course though, life and death are the same; she killed herself, probably looking for solace she had known in a past life, wanting to go back." Silence returns, another unheard euphony to fill the time it took for him to stand once more, unabashed when juxtaposed to the stranger. Neither of them need to speak, the probabilities he referenced were already for certain, any verbal debate now hushed in the galaxies of impassive stares. "Very amusing that that is the best escape, tearing your own flesh and bleeding your own blood because you just can't take it."
A thoughtful hum beckons the dismissal of the topic, some lackadaisical roll of his shoulders keeping him light — if he had cared before, Junhyung does not now; its truth screamed in his eyes.
"Though, I think it's more amusing to be greeted in a graveyard by a complete stranger. Tell me, how loneliness stirs you, to want to come up to someone you don't even know and try to justify a life you've never saw lived?" Shapeless lips add a signature to his countenance, some ominous smirk.
"I'm interested, honestly. Death only attracts death and we’re surrounded by it."
Unsatisfied customers came with the job. Both bosses reminded him of this time and time again since his customer service skills never quite met the bar. Though he did always put his best foot forward. They liked to assure him that most people will roll all over you if they caught even a hint of weakness. But this guy wasn’t even a customer so the incident just made Heesun want to slowly retreat into the backroom, tip-toeing ever so softly around the land mines to avoid another explosion.
Heesun’s hands folded in front of him. Luckily his short stature ensured that part of the counter hid the view of his hands picking at the little lint fuzzes sticking to his apron. This was his method of keeping his mind preoccupied while blocking out the hard tone that kept steamrolling him over. Outside of the fact that arguing with a customer was against shop policies, all he had to contribute was, You’re twisting my words and making yourself mad.
People weren’t quite staring since most had their own business to tend to, but some looked up nonetheless. They snuck glances at the counter where the commotion took place and Heesun tracked each and every one of them. Four people in total with an average of five glances per person. The numbers and the small tedious task of picking lint off his apron kept him stable enough to last through the moment.
At the first sign of a pause he took another look at the won. “If it really makes you happy…” The mumbling softened all the edges of his words in the case that he came off too strongly or too loudly and would set off the guy once more. He reached out across the counter and slid the bill back. The feeling still didn’t set quite right but he couldn’t see another alternative. “Would you like to buy anything while you’re here or will this be all for today?” He bit back the words please buy something, because at least then Heesun could feel better about taking his money. It could be considered as a small tip and this whole thing would be overlooked.
Unwanted glances Junhyung only reflects with more vehemence, eyes like obsidian blades keenly drawn through expanse of their vision until they choose to make themselves blind, retreating to the respite in busy lives otherwise actualized in the form of warmed pastries, other sweets and miscellaneous conversation whose volume he hides within, masked within indistinguishable words as his eyes revert and withhold the employee yet again.
"Are you scared?" The question is accompanied by a descent in his attention towards small fingers whose tips fumbled aimlessly with laden fabric, compensation for silence excavated by speechlessness being paid in absentminded motions whose repetition he finds audible. "Or are you embarrassed?" A continuation in their silence, an unheard question, though this can be accredited to Junhyung and his minor venture, his hand embracing the back of a chair he steals and drags to the edge of the counter, seating himself accordingly and lackadaisically.
"You shouldn't care about what other people think, especially when you're already expected to serve them regardless of how they treat you. Giving so much of yourself to strangers is degrading and vaguely pathetic." He pauses momentarily, weight shifted in a reorganization of posture as he mulls over the remembered inquiry. "As for if I want anything, I personally don't." A newborn thought sparks within his eyes then, recalling the image of fiddling hands and associating them with the natural weakness present in anyone, but communized by humanity — like Heesun.
"Though I would like for you to treat yourself." These words solidify the smile whose curvature drags his lips, eerie and blatantly lost amidst his countenance, being so uncharacteristic there that the small laughter he exhausts in light chuckling may be in its dedication, entertained by unvoiced inferiority. "Maybe buy a muffin and eat." He suggests, murdering liberty to refute with metaphoric suffocation he intensifies within his eyes, still bearing their blade against human flesh. "Then I'll have done for you what you've done for me. That seems fair."
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