Do you think you can heal pain by causing it? beijing siheyuan estate; 2002
Wenhan stares at the tips of bare toes blanketed in the cold touch of dirt. Knees stay tucked under his chin as he hides underneath the tangled purple arms of a wisteria tree outgrowing short courtyard walls. Silence is broken by the opening yawn of a sliding door and a splash. He wonders if it’s Yumei tossing whole red bean buns in for the fish again and bites down on a snort.
Then a second pair of feet appear under eyes trained to the ground. Black leather shoes with thin laces knotted tight. He looks up and exhales at the sight of his grandfather’s wrinkled brow. Eyes drop to follow quick hand signs.
‘Why are you hiding again?’
Wenhan raises his hands to answer, but his grandfather is leaning down to meet him eye to eye. Wenhan sees another man in a suit waiting outside the flowering clouds of dark branches. He doesn’t move as his grandfather takes his arm and rolls up the sleeve. Narrow red welts trail all the way up his forearm and disappear under the hem of his shirt.
“Some of your father’s training methods are worse than what I went through in opera at your age.” That stern, soft voice had become a foreign relic ever since he lost his hearing completely. His grandfather preferred to only sign now. “But you should not make running away a habit.”
Wenhan’s eyes turn to the ground again. His lips seal tight together.
“Your name creates a shadow bigger than you. Do you want to be a part of this family, or disappear inside it?”
His grandfather stands, signing to someone behind Wenhan.
‘Take him from here.’
“Yeye–” but the call is answered by his grandfather’s back as Wenhan is dragged from the courtyard. His head is forcibly turned away from the stranger collapsing in a kowtow at his grandfather’s feet, pistol trained at their skull.
Like killing some sort of ouroboros twisting inside you. shanghai lotus center of the arts; present day
The 10,000 seat concert hall is swallowed by the empty echo of Wenhan’s footsteps across a bare stage. Red curtains are drawn back, exposing high ceilings and gold walls carved with motifs from beijing operas. Stories of war, politics of love and family tragedy captured within shallow sculptures. This theater was the epicenter of a childhood spent on busted dancer’s feet wanting to run until he recognized nothing.
“Are you done playing now?”
Wenhan is seated at the lone piano center stage and lifts the keyboard cover. He lets the voice stay disembodied and doesn’t turn around to greet it.
“Didn’t you warn me it’s dangerous for us to be in the same room?” Bare fingertips settle over cold keys. “I haven’t even started.”
“You’ve wasted enough time playing around in Seoul. I allowed it because of you keeping an eye on the choi girl–”
“Minseo,” Wenhan interrupts, a sharp hum of slammed keys cutting through silence.
“Minseo…” Cheng repeats with the same empty charismatic detachment. People were only potential investments and he knew what to offer. “That family will ruin themselves soon enough. It’s time for you to come home.”
Wenhan’s answer is a string of chopin’s melancholic chords until it’s broken by a slip of fingers and shriek of the wrong key.
His father appears at his side then. Cheng plays the same song– perfectly, and without hesitation. It’s as if Wenhan is a child again, having his hands burned and then gently treated.
“All you're doing is wasting time. I didn’t teach you to be arrogant. Naive.” The key cover closes with a quiet snap. “You say you don’t want my power, and you have nothing to show without it.”
“And what have you built with it?” Wenhan finally looks at his father. A face he’d run over and over in his mind, trying to find something familiar. Maybe his eyes were like his. The nose. The mouth. Something had to be the same, something that could fit like it’s supposed to. Hands that hit keys until calluses are rubbed raw and painful. “Your power means giving away control. You promise pieces of yourself until nothing is left but paranoia–”
Wenhan’s lips part on an exhale and a smile when his father raises an open hand.
“You’re going to hit me– here? On the face? That’s a bit sloppy for you, baba.”
Cheng folds hands behind his back, watching Wenhan with a calm coldness that for a moment, almost reminds him of Xian.
“Nothing can be gained without taking something away. If you move against me–”
“You’ll kill me?” There’s no shift in Wenhan’s expression, but he watches his father’s brow furrow. “You know how well that works.”
“Always these empty words with you."
His father turns away, and Wenhan begins nocturne in F minor again. This time perfectly surviving the arpeggios and exposing his little red herring with the tap of black and white keys.
“I’ll come home.”
Cheng stops. The doors open to the sight of his mother wrapped in a blue satin slip dress, lips stained red and twisted in a frown. A wild cacophony of voices from the main hall spill into the theater. Cheng watches Wenhan for a moment longer before his mother’s arm slides around his, leading him into the throng.
His father knew just as well no promise in this family came without a price. --
I cut you as you cut me.
seoul martial arts academy; present day --
Wooden floors are cool under bare feet that slide with practiced ease toward the center of the room. He’s dressed loosely in sweats and a tank top that do little to escape the chill of an oncoming winter and watches dark hairs on arms follow a rising trail of goosebumps. This training studio was among a line up of properties within his family’s carefully spun web of connections in South Korea. The owner was also stingy enough to wait and turn on the heat only when the breath of whiny students formed clouds in the air.
Windows lining the walls are blacked out by the night before sunrise. Fluorescent lights create a sick glow across floorboards and darken the heavy shadows already under Xian’s eyes. He watches as his little brother wastes time properly securing the sash around his tunic.
“You didn’t have to wear it, you know. It’s just us. No one’s going to scold you.”
Xian pauses, levels a cool gaze with Wenhan. It’s the same glance he’d only seen in Paris.
Clear and focused.
“If we only commit to what’s right when someone’s watching, I think the decision isn’t that strong… and this is more--”
“--efficient.”
They speak the last word at the same time, and Wenhan smiles as his brother frowns.
“Remember the rules?”
Xian smooths palms back and forth over his borderline-fringe like he’s willing short hairs to grow faster with friction and a silent wish.
“Your rules aren’t real.”
“They’re real to me, which is all that matters.”
On one wall is a row of weapons arranged by use. Wenhan lets fingertips pass over the throwing knives, the daggers, and shiny glaives with glaring red tassels. He returns to Xian with two long swords. Instead of offering the handle, its edge is settled to the smile line of Xian’s throat.
“Say them.”
Xian doesn’t flinch.
None of the display swords were sharp enough to cut skin unless you ruthlessly hacked away. Most of them were used for festival performances, only handled by kids pressured into martial arts by well meaning parents or history enthusiasts romancing the past. Once symbols for fallen dynasties and war now just dull toys collecting dust.
“No direct contact. Whoever lands a fatal strike wins the round. Best of three.” Wenhan flips the blade so the hilt is offered towards his brother. What follows is the clang of metal against metal as Xian swings and Wenhan barely manages to redirect the forward strike to his chest into empty air over one shoulder. They stand eye to eye, centimeters apart, Xian’s words crushed between clenched teeth. “Why is it always three--”
“Three’s a good number in art. Any less or more and it can throw everything off balance.”
“Violence isn’t art,” Xian murmurs, and Wenhan watches his grip quiver. “--sometimes trilogies suck.”
“Martial art.” Wenhan breathes sharply through his nose. “Lord of the rings is a fucking timeless classic. I didn’t force you to watch it.”
They both step back, mirroring each other’s pace as they circle the room. Wenhan twists on his feet out of range of Xian’s next swing, grabbing his opposite wrist and striking towards his little brother’s ribcage. He stops just before making contact that would have sliced between skin and bone without hesitation thousands of years ago.
Not much has changed. They were both still fighting wars attached to legacies.
“You’re being reckless. You used to wait before going on the offensive, always had to shove you into everything.”
Xian’s brow furrows but he doesn’t break out of Wenhan’s grip.
“And you’re hesitating. You didn’t used to, ge, or I thought…” Xian pulls Wenhan forward by his incapacitated wrist and swings one foot behind his ankle. His weapon takes a spinning dive across the room once he’s flipped on his back. Xian now stands above his brother pinned to the ground with a sharp point at his throat. A gloating look is absent from dark eyes. “Now I think you’ve always hesitated to take what you want.”
Xian steps back and waits for Wenhan to retrieve his sword. They stand silently across from each other.
“I don’t think violence is necessary for solving problems.”
The memory of Xian’s bloody palm skitters over Wenhan’s thoughts. It had been a night of clumsy amends two years ago. A ritual pact between brothers that had ended with angry impulses and death.
He steps forward. The corner of his mouth edges up and his throat itches from a swallowed laugh.
“You think your help can’t be cruel? Every compromise gives someone more control. Your hands will still be dirty even if someone else kills in your name. You’re just as arrogant as uncle if you believe your path is so much better.”
There’s a dark shift in Xian’s expression. His little brother’s relaxed stance winds tight and unfurls like a coil, releasing with a violent swing that clips Wenhan’s shoulder. He twists to avoid the upswing towards his gut, one knee striking full force into Xian’s side so his brother stumbles back with a choked gasp.
No direct contact.
Wenhan ignores the pulsing throb of his shoulder as he closes the distance between them. Xian raises his sword, but Wenhan swings a fist into the same area that’s sure to bruise in the morning from an unforgiving kick. His brother’s weapon clatters to the floor as he gapes soundlessly from the shock.
Xian’s still when Wenhan aligns the blade to his throat.
“Do you trust me?”
“You’ve won with tricks again.” Xian’s words coarse from pain. There’s a quiet anger in his eyes. “I’m fucking tired of your games.”
“Xiang.” Wenhan’s voice is soft as he speaks his brother’s name. “Do you trust me?”
Xian’s anger is replaced with a shocking clarity after Wenhan steps back. He touches his neck, tips of fingers coated from the blood of a shallow wound.
No blade in this room should be sharp enough to cut.
“Don’t cry about it– won’t scar. You can still live your kdrama love story.”
Wenhan comes back with a dusty first aid kit and presses a clean cotton pad to his brother’s neck. Xian shoves his hand away but keeps gauze over the wound.
“What do you want? You can never just be clear–”
“I want to make a deal, little brother.”
Xian stays quiet, and they watch each other as the morning sun crawls over the floor.
But what peace would your understanding bring?
