TWO


Drenched in sweat and now also doused in an unpleasant stench, Taeyong waddles out of class without a glance back over his shoulder, even though Mrs Richardson furiously calls after him. His hip hurts dreadfully and his arms shake as he attempts to lug his bag along. The class had been severely challenging and the other students had not taken it easy on him, instead approaching him with poor attitudes and snarky expressions, almost as though they were disappointed in his recent absences. They each reiterated the harshness in Richardson’s tone when they spoke to him, and rapidly swayed his partner into believing a bunch of bizarre rumours behind his continuous failure to appear. Thankfully, Taeyong is unbothered by such measly issues. He is far too preoccupied with matters filled with meaning, problems that are fleetingly destroying the world around him. Even the excruciating pains surging throughout his body cannot distract him from his constant concerns for the less fortunate.

Groaning, he limps down the hallway, bumping shoulders with other students and ignoring their subtle stares. Performing here at Juilliard has not stopped him from having a reputation amongst his peers, and has most certainly increased the attention he receives. Women gossip about his handsome features and delightful technique, whilst males drone on about his few flaws, trying desperately to make themselves feel significant in his presence. Taeyong is almost entirely oblivious to the chatter echoing down the hallways, and simply powers on, fighting the creaks and aches to reach his room as speedily as possible.

He sprawls out across the floorboards for a few minutes, stretching his limbs and attempting to alleviate the discomfort eating away at him. The wooden surface is frigid against his pale skin and the mixture of perspiration and other unidentifiable liquids nearly glues him down, stiffening his joints. moodily, he rolls onto his side and extends a hand, grabbing his notepad. Scrawled chaotically over the top page is an abundance of ideas and contacts; drafted speeches, scribbled designs and the names of important people, those who share his passion. His finger slowly traces the words and he memorises them all, the voice inside his head testing tones and reciting the most momentous phrases.

“You should’ve skipped class today,” a voice says, cheekily mocking, “you’re going to struggle this afternoon. How are you going to lead us all when you can barely pick yourself up off the floor?”

Taeyong lethargically lifts his head and watches through fuzzy vision as Yuta plonks down in his doorway. The Japanese man’s hair is hidden beneath a strange, fuzzy black hat – likely as a result of a bleaching mishap – and the left side of his chest is exposed, the singlet draped over him oversized and loose. Exaggerating his free-spirited nature are his bare feet and oddly tattered shorts, as well as his eccentric characteristics; incessantly wriggling fingers, prettily coloured eyes proficient in moving in opposite directions and a tendency to wear clothing from organisations linked to charities. His fluent dancing style and calm demeanour on stage also depict his liberated personality, and perfectly allude to his possible participation in activist movements. Beaming widely, he observes the endless stacks of signs and posters. “Well, at least you’re prepared.”

“I’ve been planning this one for a long time,” Taeyong mumbles, dropping his head back onto the floorboards. There is a loud thump, but the pain barely registers.

Yuta chuckles. “I’d hope so. This one is supposed to be massive. Word has spread pretty quickly about all of our recent events, so there could be in excess of a thousand people coming to march alongside us. If you don’t have a speech prepared, I doubt many of them will stick around.”

“I was never very talented in the art of essay writing,” Taeyong replies casually, flipping onto his back and letting his arms outstretch comfortably, “but I think I’ve done pretty well to compile enough words to encourage a few people to fight against racism.”

“Hopefully those words don’t offend anybody, because I’m not too keen on the idea of experiencing anymore police brutality. My body isn’t resilient enough to tolerate another lashing.”

Taeyong sighs noisily, air gushing out of his mouth to jostle messy strands of silver hair. “Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a world in which police enforce the law instead of breaking it?”

For a moment, there is a silence. The two remain still and frozen in thought – teeth gnawing against their lips and eyes unblinking – until Ten barges in, his mood no better than it had been the previous day. His forehead is dotted in sweat and his cheeks are flushed; he has evidently come here directly from a class and is definitely ready to unleash his fury. “Firstly, please tell me you didn’t miss another class.”

“I did not miss another class,” Taeyong grumbles, rubbing his stinging eyes. He is beyond fatigued.

“Good. Secondly, please tell me you aren’t heading out to act like an idiot again. Do you know how much you’re going to get yourself into if anyone catches you leading a protest? The people here probably won’t enjoy the name of Juilliard being tainted by the actions of one person.”

“Two people,” Taeyong responds snappily, pointing at Yuta whose grin has broadened suddenly, “and no, I can’t tell you what you want to hear. I’ll be starting up an anti-racism rally this afternoon. There’ll be speeches, marching and music. You don’t have to like it. You just have to accept that it’s going to happen.”

Ten crosses his arms, glares intensely at Yuta and kicks Taeyong’s foot out of frustration. “I accept that you’re zealous about equality. I love your enthusiasm. I just don’t enjoy watching you throw everything away, everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. I’m disappointed in the way you’ve decided to handle things. You’re not only letting your partner and classmates down…you’re letting yourself down.”

“Listen buddy, we need to discuss the finer details of today’s event, so could you save your motherly rant for a later point in time?” Yuta interjects, raising his eyebrows. It is not often that he grows impatient or speaks to people discourteously, but he cannot be relaxed about today and the enormity of it all.

“I shouldn’t even be worried when you have friends as compassionate as this guy,” Ten says through gritted teeth. With a tight jaw and clenched fists, he turns his back on Taeyong and storms out of the room without another word.

Taeyong springs up and tries to chase after him, but Yuta’s hand shoots out to block his path. “Let him cool off,” he states sternly, expression now serious, “right now, we have more imperative things to deal with.”

The library is exceptionally quiet at this time of day. Most people are busy with work or strenuous studies, and the few people who venture leisurely throughout the aisles are social recluses or extremely shy, people who struggle even to return Taeil’s friendly smile. The only sound that seems moderately misplaced is that of the wind rattling the windows and the way that the building creaks and moans while it is jostled by each intense gust. Taeil listens to it intently and subconsciously taps his fingers against the front desk’s splintered surface, trying distractedly to make his boredom subside.

“Excuse me, do you have Gourmet Rhapsody by Muriel Barbery? I haven’t been able to find it any of the bookstores nearby.”

The response is a blank stare and a few hasty blinks. Taeil wipes his eyes. “Uh, sorry,” he starts, clearing his throat, “I’ll check the system for you.”

A handsome young man now leans against the desk, smiling kindly. He has round eyes, the pupils a dark shade of hazel and the whites generously large. As his lips upturn sweetly, his eyes transform into gorgeous crescents with enough power to give Taeil clammy palms. “Moon Taeil,” the man reads aloud, curious pupils scanning the crooked tag pinned to the librarian’s creased shirt, “that’s a great name. I’m Kun.”

Taeil swallows loudly. “That’s a Chinese name, right?”

“Ah, you’re smart. As expected of the man who spends so many hours in a building packed with knowledge.”

“I wish all of the reading I’ve done had really boosted my intelligence, but truthfully, I dated a Chinese girl in high school and her brother’s name was Kun,” Taeil replies, chuckling inelegantly, “and I don’t know why I just said that to a stranger. I’m sorry.”

Kun grins and leans in closer, both elbows now on the counter. “Would it make you feel better if I shared a random fact, too?”

“You don’t have to do th–”, Taeil begins, only to be interrupted by a stream of nervousness. Kun’s face sits mere inches away from his own, and he has suddenly inhaled a spectacular scent; a fragrance for men with class.

“It’s not exactly a personal fact,” Kun says coolly, thumb grazing his pouting lips, “but I heard something on the way here that was sort of interesting. A couple of guys were huddled together and whispering about an upcoming protest. I’m guessing they’re linked to the events of the past few days.”

Taeil’s eyes widen and he makes a quick grab for his mobile, immediately inputting Jaehyun’s number. “Tell me everything you know.”

Jaehyun is the first to rush out of the classroom. The moment the professor’s final word leaves his lips, he is up and running, bag draped awkwardly over one shoulder and a pen tucked behind each ear. He huffs and puffs noisily as he dashes away from the building, shoes thumping harshly against the sidewalk. The wind nips at his pretty pale skin and tries to push him backwards, but his determination forces him to persevere and to rapidly forget about the sheets of paper being torn out from the slight gap in his bag. With chunks of white billowing around him, Jaehyun sprints like a superhero in action and pretends that he is not entirely out of breath.

By the time he arrives at Times Square, he is soaked in sweat. It drips down his nape and stains his shirt so severely – the wet patches are most prominent under his arms and just a touch above his waistline – that it’s almost as though someone has dumped an entire bucket of water over his head. Somewhat embarrassed, he yanks a blank page out of his bag and uses it to dab at the droplets, tidying his appearance even if only a little. He does not want anyone to become suspicious of him or to become conscious of the tremendous douses of unease polluting his aura.

Times Square is always lively, but today the crowds come in far grander clusters and voices are heightened through blasting speakers. There are people of all shapes, sizes and skin colours, and they march in rhythmic synchronisation with one another, with movements so flawless it seems they have all rehearsed tirelessly together. Most hold banners above their heads and shout aggressively, fervently. They chant in harmonies and yell responses to those holding a megaphone to their mouths, those who are born to lead. Police attempt to dampen this passionate parade, but their efforts are utterly futile. No amount of force can oppress these people and no threat is taken seriously. They have had enough.

For a moment, Jaehyun is struck with such strong disbelief that he forgets the task at hand and instead of taking relevant notes, gawks perplexedly while people brush past him. As he rakes his slender fingers through drenched auburn strands, he accidentally knocks a pen from its position. It torpidly topples to the ground and starts to roll, unstoppable, drawn towards the avid masses. He has half a mind to go chasing after it – hands reaching out pointlessly, facial features scrunched with frustration – but it has already found its way into the maze of bodies, trampled by tenaciously stomping feet. All he can manage is a weak sigh, and before he can become distracted once again, he snatches up the other pen and begins to write.

He jots down descriptions of the people; their physical appearances, what they wear, the objects in their hands, how boisterous their voices are. He hurriedly scribbles quotes as they flutter by his ears and reports on each and every poster or billboard, sometimes even sketching their designs quickly inside the margins of his notepad. Even the actions of the police are scrawled across the pages. Though the script is hurried and nearly illegible, it is amazingly detailed. Jaehyun stubbornly refuses to miss a thing.

“Racism is the nastiest form of stupidity!”

Jaehyun jumps, startled as a voice resonates throughout Times Square. The tone is one of genuine irritation and the spacing implemented between each word indicates that this person wishes to be heard. Jaehyun’s eyes search frantically, until finally focussing on a striking figure upon a makeshift podium. Their whitish hair is partially hidden beneath a cap, worn backwards and adorned with the phrase ‘SAY NO TO RACISM’, and their skin – clear like clouds on a sunny day – makes them stand in perfect contrast to the person beside them, whose clothes consist of bright reds and blues. They take a deep breath and lift the megaphone to their beautifully pink lips once more, addressing the countless faces before them.

“We are not divided by our differences alone. We are divided – segregated – because we are not all capable of recognising and accepting these differences. We are ignorant and cruel, and we are cheating one another every single day,” the voice is deeper this time, more confident. Jaehyun watches on in awe.

“Let’s stop acting like trash. Let’s stop saying that one person’s life matters less just because of the colour of their skin. Let’s acknowledge the injustices spurred by racism and let’s work towards a world in which it no longer exists.”

Jaehyun’s mouth drops open as the last words are spoken, as the crowd screeches enthusiastically in response. “Say no to racism,” the speaker bellows, veins protruding along their neck, “and show support to those who are being oppressed, those who have been saying ‘no’ since the very beginning. Show them that their lives do matter!”

All of the banners rise together and police begin to panic, surrounding the protesters and holding their weapons up high to enforce their superiority. People slip and fall out of their formations, earning rapid beatings and terrifyingly strict warnings. The encouraging music and eager declarations are replaced with screams of pain and anguish, and what had been an almighty union only seconds earlier has become a mass atrocity, the blood on the hands of police once again. Tears prickle Jaehyun’s eyes as he witnesses it all, the feeling of hopelessness making him shiver.

The attractive speaker has been shoved and carried closer towards where Jaehyun stands, cringing and shaking on the sidelines. He tumbles, knocked away from the mess of limbs and collapses, knees colliding with the ground. The force rips his jeans and a streak of blood trickles down his arm, painting the asphalt a dark, gooey red. Yet he doesn’t seem perturbed by his own withering condition, but by the agony of all those around him.

“Are you okay?” Jaehyun questions as he kneels down, extending a hand. He has to shout to be heard.

The man looks up at him, the distress in his eyes frighteningly obvious. His breathing is heavy, jagged. “This is all my fault,” is all he mumbles.

Jaehyun opens his mouth to respond – to comfort this stunning being – but before he can make his thoughts known, the man loses consciousness and falls limply into his arms.