there’s a devil on my chest.
@xiaomeimi
CONTENT WARNING: prostitution, allusions to sex
the first time he saw her he felt relief. a familiar face, a person who knew his language and his name and his story. a friend.
they had been close once, despite her father’s objections. as children they had played together, puppy love blossoming as the boy shared his ambitions and held her dreams as closely to his heart as his own. the only touch shared between them then was only the most innocent sort; brushing fingers and holding hands, eyes that held flowers and starlight that they couldn’t find anywhere else in a big city like beijing.
but the girl from his past was not the woman beside him now. she shares her name and face with the person he knew, but it’s all wrong. her touch is cruel now, her eyes colder than he had ever remembered them. he rolls away from her, the bedsprings groaning under the movement. they’re done, the heat of the moment passed, and if he did his job right she should be sated and satisfied. weijun, however, feels no less betrayed than he had the first time she did this; the metaphorical knife she drives into his back is just as dull, just as painful and merciless. there’s no satisfaction for him, not in this job.
“if you want anything more you’ll have to pay for it,” he speaks hollowly, distantly, a korean script still a little clumsy on his lips. he doesn’t want to speak to her more than he has to, he doesn’t want to hear what she has to say after what she’s done to him.. done with him. he knows she’s hydrus, the same gang that treats him like a thing instead of a person. so he takes what little power he can; he treats her like a stranger, like any of the other johns and janes that buy his time. she’s obviously forgotten about their history, so weijun does as well.
he ignores her in a sense. he stands as far from the bed as the room will allow, refusing to look at her. it’s still hard to see the woman without remembering the girl.
