It’s not that Jaeseop really loves him, not exactly; love is a fickle emotion prone to ebbing and flowing like the tides, picking away at a man’s conscious and morals as if they were as meaningless as a grain of sand on a beach. Love cries, screams, swims across oceans for impossible dreams. Love sends you soaring into the heavens, only to beat you down and reprimand you for ever believing you belonged in a place so holy. Love is a fool’s game.

No, Jaeseop doesn’t love him, he wants to own him. He wants to possess him, lay claim to every eyelash, every freckle, every tear; he wants to mark his name across every inch of his skin. It’s not adoration, it’s obsession. It’s not a need for affection, but a need for power, for control. He desires nothing more than to consume him, leave him broken and bleeding but more importantly, his.

It is not with fondness that he observes the boy’s actions. He watches as he runs his hands through soft hair, dark brown this time, and bites gently at a plush lower lip. Fingers tremble where they grip a water bottle, the beginning of dark circles dancing below his eyes. He looks so lovely like this, nearly passed out with exhaustion and dehydration. Sweat-soaked skin glistens, catches Jaeseop’s eye even when he isn’t looking and he can picture so easily the bruises and rope burn adorning his delicate wrists like fine jewelry. He can imagine so clearly the way he’d cry out, tears flowing unconsciously down his flushed cheeks, begging for release or to be released or a mix of both.

He doesn’t care about him, but on the days when his voice is a little rough, coming out soft like breaths and falling off before he finishes sentences, Jaeseop always notices. Concern is the farthest thing from his mind, his thoughts occupied with the many ways he could ruin his voice even more. Muffled screams from a worn out body, head held in place and mouth full. Jaeseop could hold him there for hours, breathing rapidly through his nose, gasping and shaking when he’s let up for air. He could paint his face, stripes crossing his delicate features like police line reading DO NOT CROSS. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT LOVE.

It’s not jealousy he feels as he eyes love bites on shoulders, barely concealed with a drooping sweater. It’s not envy settling in his stomach when the boy’s shirt rises as he lifts his arms and Jaeseop can trace the path of black and blue like winding side streets in a small town. In New York City the streets are all straight, perfect ninety degree angles; he would mark the other boy like that, scratch 5^th avenue down the curve of his spine with blunt finger nails.

He could mark the entire map on the boy, use his hands like road blocks gripping tightly to his sides, but Jaeseop would always hear the whispers of other people hiding in apartment bathrooms, feel the roar of car engines slipping between the cracks of his fingers, hear airplanes soar as they fly before his eyes, coasting easily through the places he can’t reach. He could never hold them all in, never keep them all out. The boy will never be his to lock away.

Even when he tries to hold on to a small part—fingers wrapping around his wrist, the Hudson river flowing through veins and arteries—he finds there are already barricades, spike strips stinging his fingers as he lets go. There’s no police tape, but eyes across the room reach his and the message is still clear. DO NOT CROSS. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT LOVE. Hands clenched tightly to his sides, fingertips still burning with desire to touch but knowing that he’ll never know the tricks to get past defenses set up by another. DO NOT CROSS. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT LOVE. Jaeseop’s best armies crumble in defeat as possessive hands slide across a pale neck, palms pressing into fading bruises, the unavoidable collateral damage one finds in a complete takeover. DO NOT CROSS. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT LOVE. Airstrikes miss their target, rocket launchers face the wrong way, grenades go off in his stomach, his heart.

It’s not that Jaeseop really loves him, not exactly; love is a debilitating force capable of bringing entire countries to their knees, crashing through barbed wire fences and brick walls as if they were as weak as a sheet of paper. Love cries, screams, aims perfectly timed bullets into the heads of innocent men. Love waves a white flag in surrender, only to kidnap your children and detonate bombs when your back is turned. Love is a fool’s game, but Jaeseop was never more than a court jester in a king’s clothes.