"You little !" Smack.

"You're so ing useless!" Smack.

"Get the out of this ing house!" Smack.

He scrambles to his feet. On the way out, his brother blocks his path, arms crossed over his chest and smirking smugly. It's always the brother. Always. He needs to have the last word, every time.

"Go kill yourself."

The door slams behind him and he's tempted to crumple to the ground like paper right then and there, but he can't. If he does, they'll open it again and see him and he would be a lost cause.

So he runs. Though his legs ache beneath him and there's a cramp in his stomach, he runs as fast as he can to the first place he can think of, where no one will find him and no one will look for him. The only place he calls his own. Tears blurring his vision, he crosses streets and sprints through traffic like a madman, ignoring the car horns and swearing drivers. Because nothing can hurt him now. Not when he's heard it all.

The good thing about the city is that it ends. Past those suffocating cement buildings and high glass windows is a nature wonderland, and he is the Alice to this imaginary peace. However cliche he finds himself, the forest is the only place he can escape to. And water? Water is his best friend.

His spot by the river is reserved all for himself. The only thing to mark that his existence was ever there is a red ribbon knotted on one of the branches on a nearby bush. 

He settles by the river, flinging his shoes off and dipping the tip of his toes into the cool water. The river itself isn't very deep, and it's only a few meters wide, but it's loud and welcoming and the only thing that hides him from people.

God. He hates people. And they hate him too.

He's considered it before, what he calls the "last resort". A five minute walk east of the river is a steep cliff. He thinks it's beautiful if it could happen that way. The wind rushing against his ears as he plummets, his body never to be seen or found again. How many times has he stood there, with his heels hanging over the edge, testing himself as he leaned back the tiniest bit? Too many times to count. 

But every day, and every time, he stops himself. Because they take him back in the morning. No matter what they say, they need him to do the chores and menial jobs around the house, only to kick him out again and again. 

He scoots closer to the edge of the river and lets the water circle around his legs, wincing at the sting. The run here had resulted in some shallow cuts into his bare calves, but he doesn't mind. It's the thing to do, right? Physical pain to get over mental pain. 

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, breathing in. Little tears crawl down his cheeks and he imagines them mixing in with the river water, swirling around before dissipating into it. Dissolving into it. Becoming part of it, and gone forever.

Warm air against his neck, he threads his dirty fingers through his hair before lying down on his back.

He can go back tomorrow. He'll walk through those front doors and they won't even look at him. When his work is done, he'll come back here and look at his options again. There aren't many. But with every occurrence of this lonely disaster, he's ever closer to his last resort. 

He wonders what will push him over the edge?

For now, he'll sleep. 

The trees will let him stay and the grass will shield him from other lifeforms. 

And the wind will blow him away.

They didn't let him back in. 

This has never happened before. Here he is, doorknob in his hand, and they don't let him back in. He turns and turns, but the damn thing doesn't even budge. Locked. They locked him out.

A rush of panic overwhelms him. Why? What is he to do? Where is he to go?

His stomach growls.

That's okay. He's gone days without meals. He's gone days without sleep.

It's okay. He can do this.

It's not a problem.

Seriously.

The stinging in his eyes is just allergies or something. 

Waiting a few minutes produces no sounds from inside the house or any satisfying answers. He's alone. Again. As usual.

He turns and leaves. No matter. There's a river with his name on it in the forest. The spot is his and, he thinks with a bitterness, it probably always will be.

He zips his sweater up to his neck. The wind seems to be blowing harder. It whips his hair back from his eyes and dries his tears.

Thank you, he silently thinks. The wind is his companion. He loves the wind.

Its breezes push him past the city line, his hands on his shoulders as he huddles into himself. Smaller. Less noticeable. He sits down at his usual spot, ignoring the rushing waters, the fluttering ribbon, the calling songbirds. 

He curls up and hugs his knees. Rocking back and forth gently, he sings himself to sleep. 

All those nightmares that come to me in my sleep, All the dreams they said I couldn't keep. I wish I could just run away, run away, run away...

Wind, blow me away, blow me away, blow me away....

By the time he wakes up, there are two things different.

One is that it is around mid afternoon. He'd slept at least a good nine hours. He feels as if he could keep going. Sleeping forever. That sounds nice. It has a ring to it. He doesn't really want to die, he thinks. Just sleep for a very long time. Let this lifetime pass and wake up when the world is better made for him.

If the first had struck him like lightning, then the second thing hits him with a muffled thump. There is someone next to him. He turns his head to hear where the source of that sound is, that light inhale and exhale, and finds this sleeping boy next to him.

He is so beautiful. Simply put, the boy is beautiful. And very, very pale.

He's almost like a blank canvas. His alabaster skin is almost translucent. His white eyelashes flutter over his cheekbones as he sleeps. He is very essence of the fairytale of Snow White, minus the black as night hair. In fact, his hair is just as frosty as him, silvery strands falling in straight, smooth locks. He wears a white button up and white slacks. The only color on him, it appears, is his pretty pink lips, small, dainty, and slightly open as he breathes. 

He cannot imagine how this boy got here, or who he is, or why he's in the middle of the forest. A fleeting thought in him thinks maybe they are here for the same reason, but he pushes the idea away. 

Should he wake him? Let him sleep? He doesn't want to have to talk. Doesn't want to interact. 

Perhaps he should go somewhere else. But moral value tells him it could be very dangerous to leave this boy sleeping alone in the woods and selfish claim tells him that this is his spot and, if anything, this boy should leave.

The boy awakens, and he jumps for he sees the boy's lips are indeed not the only color on him.

His eyes are dark, dark, dark. Darker than black, darker than nothingness and horrible nightmares and death. As he stares into the boy's eyes, he feels himself sinking into a sort of trance, so taken is he by those pupils, which stare directly back at him as well.

"Hello," the boy says, and his voice is just as calm and gorgeous as he is. It's so soft, so breathy and airy and light. His mouth barely moves as he says the one word, as if it takes no effort for his voice to escape his throat. 

It takes a second before he can respond. "Hello," he says back. He wants to ask an endless number of things. Why is he in the forest? Who is he? Where did he come from? Why is he so pale? Why did he sleep next to him? But what comes out instead is, "What is your name?"

The boy replies, "My name is Sehun. What is yours?" He asks the question in return, tilting his head to a side. 

He is entranced by Sehun's very aura. It him in. "My name..." he tries to remember, his mind too busy being captivated by Sehun-the-snow-white-boy's everything. He continues slowly, "...is Zitao." Yes. That's right. That was the name given to him, and taken from him.

Sehun smiles and Zitao loses awareness of his surroundings. "Zitao. It is very nice to meet you."

Zitao kind of wants to say you too, but only nods. He turns back to the sky, looking at its endlessness, suddenly too blue for his eyes to bear. He focuses on the puffy clouds flying by instead. "Who are you?" He asks when he hears Sehun turn his head to look up too.

Sehun answers, "I am perhaps not a 'who.' I control the winds. I am the wind. Baram." He speaks in a strange tongue, a mix of Zitao's language and his own, something Zitao cannot understand. 

Though these words are so foreign to Zitao's ears, he takes them. Sehun controls the winds. He is the wind itself. Zitao adores the wind. "Do you really?" He asks, as fascinated as a child hearing about faeries.

"Yes, I do."

"Then I love you." Zitao says, closing his eyes. He can feel it. The wind. "I love you very much. Can you blow me away? Somewhere far away."

Sehun sighs, and even that makes the wind pick up a little. Zitao, curious, peeks over to see that Sehun's eyes are closed again. His eyelashes are very long. "Would you like that?" 

Zitao nods vigorously. His face contorts as he thinks about his life here, but the twist in his expression only makes the bruises on his cheeks sting. He stops. "I would like that very much."

And Sehun sighs again. "I wish I could, Zitao. I really wish I could." Those dark, dark eyes run their gaze over Zitao's injuries and he gives him a piteous look. "How I would love to do that, Zitao."

Zitao does not need to explain anything. He stands and turns away. "Good bye, Sehun." He spares one last look. He wants to see if they will finally let him in again. The door can't still be locked, can it? "Will I see you again?"

"I hope so. If you don't, then you can feel me." At this, a short, strong breeze blows by. 

One last nod, and Zitao is gone.

"Hey you lil er, where've you been?"

Zitao internally cringes. His foster father is drunk again. He decides against answering, but his silence earns him a slap. He winces. The pain is doubled with the added bruises on his face.

"Stupid . Get to work. Your list is on the table."

With that, the wretched man leaves.

The house is empty. His foster parents have work, and his foster brother is off at school or some other excuse of a place. 

He prefers calling them that. Why give them the power of family relations with things like "mom" and "dad"? And why bother implying that he'd been adopted in the first place? Terminology doesn't matter to him. They needed someone to work for them and he needed a roof over his head.

That was that. This is this.

He stumbles into the kitchen and rips the taped list from the counter top. As expected, it's impossibly long. He'll finish with by the width of a hair before they all get home.

First is washing whatever dishes from the breakfast the three of them had had. And no eating anything from the fridge himself. Of course. Because why waste meals on him?

A rumble sounds from his stomach. Whatever. He doesn't need it.

Before turning on the tap water, he pushes open the window next to the sink. As if on cue, a soft wind blows through, soothing past his face and brushing against his bruises with the touch of an angel.

He almost smiles. Almost. But doesn't.

He knows though. It's nice knowing. Hello Sehun. Perhaps he will go back tonight. They make him sleep on the floor anyway; a forest bed ought to be more comfortable. He will lie on the moss and fall asleep to the sound of water and perhaps the smooth drawl of Sehun's serene voice. Sehun rather looks like an angel. Maybe he is Zitao's guardian angel. 

He wants to go back. Quickly. Faster, faster, faster. He scrambles through his chores and leaves their dinner on the table. He doesn't need food. He needs relief. From misery. From pain. 

Zitao runs out the door. They won't miss him anyway. They won't even know he's gone. All that matters is the wind blowing against his face as he sprints. Forest, forest, forest.

Sehun, Sehun, Sehun.

How nice he looks there, his arms folded behind his head as he leans his head against a tree trunk. The bark looks black in comparison. 

Sehun lifts his eyelids as Zitao approaches hesitantly. "Hello, Zitao," Sehun greets him with a small smile. 

Zitao relaxes, glad that the wind boy even remembered him. He is so easy to forget, after all. Someone who blends in with all the shadows around him. Someone dark and meaningless, with no purpose in life. "Hello, Sehun. Thank you for remembering me." 

Sehun gives him this look, as if he's confused at this statement. "Why would I forget you?"

But Zitao does not want to answer. Instead, he responds with another question. "Can I touch you?"

And those four words send them both into a silence.

He does not know why he has asked this. He does not know why he wants to touch Sehun, to see if his skin is as smooth as it looks, or if his hair is as fluffy, or if -- blasphemy -- his lips are as soft. Sehun is an angel. He is unreal.

So maybe that's why. To prove he's real. He wants to make contact with Sehun, just once.

But to his dismay, Sehun says, "No. You can't."

It's okay, Zitao tells himself. He is used to the feeling of rejection and the following disappointment. It is a sad life, but it is the truth and he does what he can to muffle the pain.

Sehun senses his dejection. "Not yet," he whispers, patting the spot next to him, motioning for Zitao to sit. He does. 

Zitao turns his head to a side to look Sehun in the eye. They are so close. He could lean over and... and... and what? 

"Yet?" Zitao pleads for details.

Sehun smiles. "Soon. No worries. I would love to..." His voice trails off as his gaze travels down to Zitao's bruises. He reaches a finger up as if to the purple welt but, centimeters away, he drops it. "I'm sorry." 

There's a lull in their conversation. The wind blows Zitao's hair from his eyes and skitters across his face.

"Is that you?" Zitao asks, eyes closed.

"Yes," Sehun answers. Zitao can hear the smile in his voice. 

Maybe to other people, it sounds crazy. Maybe he should be that person, who does not believe it when someone tells them they are magical or have super powers. Maybe he should be a little skeptical because Sehun is the closest to a miracle he's ever had. But, simply put, he doesn't want to. 

Why would he doubt something that gives him so much joy?

Another pause.

Zitao breaks it again. "I don't want to go back there."

And Sehun gives him the most simplest solution. "Then don't. Stay with me."

Oh how he would love to. "Sehun, I'll starve."

Sehun furrows his brows. "Ah, yes. I forgot."

"You forgot? As a wind boy, do you need to eat?" It certainly doesn't look like it though. Sehun is much too skinny.

"No," Sehun says, shaking his head.

This is certainly a fascinating thing to hear. All Zitao can think of saying is, "That sounds nice." His conversation skills are not to par.

Sehun doesn't respond. Zitao supposes his aren't either.

The sun glides slowly across the sky as they sit in their mutual quiet. Zitao knows if he doesn't go back soon, he will miss his chance to get back in the house. He is scared they will lock him out again.

He stands, and Sehun locks eyes with him. He knows he must go. 

Zitao would love to put out a hand and give Sehun a goodbye pat on the shoulder. He wants to rub his thumb over Sehun's cheek once in a fond way before departing. 

Instead he waves. Sehun frowns -- he can see Zitao's reluctance -- but he cannot stop him. 

Sehun watches Zitao walk off, and even when the latter becomes a dot in the distance down the forest path, he is fearful of what kinds of things he will see on Zitao tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He can touch tomorrow.

Zitao does not like to sleep under that roof, in this room, in that house. He does not like to hear the sounds of a scarred family when he is the reason for the majority of the screaming that goes around here. He does not like recalling all the things that happen to him here.

He is very good at pushing memories under the rug. And never, ever checking this rug.

In fact, Zitao cannot remember dinner yesterday. He can't remember the woman who used to take care of him at the orphanage. He cannot remember how his parents died, or if he has any siblings. He can't recall a lot of things.

But when he closes his eyes in that dark, tiny room, he can see shimmering white and feathery wings and the feeling of something airy dancing against his entire being.

He keeps this bit on top of the rug.

And despite all the stings he feels on his cheeks and back and wrists, he sleeps just fine. Until he is woken up, that is. Then he must face hell again until his angel can whisk him away.

Said angel already said he cannot blow him away. That's okay. He can wait.

When Zitao goes to see Sehun again some days later, he is trudging. Hard. His feet can barely lift themselves from the ground only to take that painstaking step forward and pull his body in that slow movement.

Sehun turns, smile ready and prepared to greet him with his usual "Hello, Zitao" when he sees this. He jumps to his feet and rushes over to Zitao, getting dirt on his perfectly white clothes in the process.

Zitao is close to tears, biting heavily down on his bottom lip, which is quivering. He opens his mouth, only to let out a gargled sound and close it again. Sehun hovers over him, his hands looking as if he is about to hug him, but he doesn't.

When Zitao finally lifts his head, he asks again, "Can I touch you?"

And Sehun doesn't say anything.

Only pulls Zitao into his arms as fast as he possibly can. 

Sehun's fingers thread through Zitao's course hair as he croons with a breaking voice, "It's okay, I promise. It'll be okay. Where did they hurt you? Cry, okay? Let it all out. Tell me where they hurt you."

He steps back to let Zitao tell him -- or show him -- the answer. He does not expect what happens next.

Zitao stands there, sullen, and then he turns around and pulls off his t-shirt.

Sehun gasps as he takes in the angry red marks around Zitao's spine, lower back, wrists, and shoulders. "They didn't. They couldn't have," he whispers. But of course they could have. And they did.

Zitao drops to his knees, tears already continuing to stream down his cheeks. Sehun runs over and embraces him again, gingerly making sure he isn't in contact with the cuts. He does not say anything about Zitao's bare arms or how he's so thin, his ribs are poking out or anything about how positively destroyed he looks there, kneeling as his eyes swell with every rough swipe of his palms.

The marks don't look as deep as they could be. "What... did they hit you with?" He asks delicately. Once the words are out, he wants to take them back. Why did he ask? What an insensitive question. He is about to profusely apologize when he hears Zitao answer.

"Rope," he hiccups out. "They found rope in the shed, Sehun. Why did they find rope? And he was drunk again. And I couldn't leave."

Sehun lets him sob in his arms. "If I could, I would heal every single wound on you and blow you away with all my strength, just like you asked." It's true. Even if it means Zitao leaving, he would blow him away from this terrible place.

"Don't let me go back," Zitao says between chokes. 

Sehun tightens his hold. "Never." 

He brings Zitao over to the tree that he'd been resting on before and helps him put his shirt back on. Once the clothing is in place, he envelops Zitao in his arms and Zitao cries into the crook of his neck until the both of them fall asleep.

Zitao wishes this was all a dream. He wishes that burning feeling on his body would go away once his eyes open and he wishes this could be a nightmare he can awaken from.

Even in his dreams, Sehun seems a little dimmer than usual, not the bright angel that Zitao had met the other day. Zitao wishes he'd met Sehun sooner. Maybe he would have run away. Maybe he wouldn't have thought of that last resort and maybe maybe maybe things would be a little better.

But he didn't.

They find him.

Zitao awakens with the word "" in the air, and he almost wants to scream.

Almost wants to run. Almost wants the last resort. 

They found him. His spot. No. 

Sehun's hold is loose. When Zitao wiggles out of his arms, he wakes up with him. "What is it?"

"They're here," Zitao says, eyes wide and full of fear. 

Sehun doesn't know what to do.

And then the father is there, dragging Zitao away with his nails digging into his forearm, yelling out a rainbow of profanities unveiled in pointless questions like "where the were you?" and "what the do you think you were doing?"

All Zitao can do is bite down on his lip until the rusty flavor of blood washes over the tip of his tongue, and he glances back at Sehun. He keeps turning his head, begging for help.

Sehun cringes. It almost feels like he's the one being dragged away and not Zitao. Almost as if it's his arms that are being clawed out of their skin and his body that is covered in cuts and scars. But he can't leave the forest. He can't leave the wind here and the air here and the atmosphere here. He's stuck.

And as Zitao silently screams, the last words Sehun hears are the ones that the father growls at Zitao. 

"What in 's name do you keep looking back at?"

Zitao is locked in his room for the next three days. 

It gives him a lot of time to think.

He is too sad to feel embarrassed that he took off clothing in front of Sehun. That is nothing compared to wanting to die.

See, there is a system to wanting to die.

When you want to die, nothing is comparable. Wanting to die is drowning yourself in the pits of sadness because you don't wish to have any good feelings left when you take your own life. Wanting to die is blacker than black because all around you is this huge cage ready to squish the life out of your lungs. Wanting to die is sitting in your room, not sleeping, and just thinking about all the terrible things that have happened to you. Wanting to die is a big numbness that you can feel, so empty is this emptiness that you can throw your heart into its depths. Wanting to die is waiting for the right time for you to do it. Wanting to die is the lack of motivation and determination to even die because you are wallowing so heavily in your own pain that all you can do is look around and see if there's any way out. Anything.

Zitao... does not want to die.

Well, yes. He does. But he doesn't want to kill himself. He wants to find Sehun. He wants to see his angel, his wind. He wants to feel his arms around him again and the sense of being okay. Warm. Comforted. And then he wants to be floated away from life. If that makes any sense. 

He doesn't know what to do.

He spends the three days wide awake and pondering. Saying no to all the food that is slipped through his doors. No to water and no to sleep.

When the family finally opens Zitao's doors, they find him collapsed against the floor, barely breathing.

They at least have the decency to bring him to the hospital. After all, they cannot lose their precious scapegoat. He must keep doing the work lest another child fall victim to the household.

Zitao is sent home being told that he'd out from overwork and exhaustion. When questioned about the cuts on his body, his foster parents butted in and said he was an "extremely clumsy child" and the subject was left as such. The hospital took his files and then he was sent off with a questioning look from his doctor, a Mr. Wu.

All through the car ride back, he hears a string of muttered curses from the father. "ing useless" and "can't take " are the most commonly heard.

Zitao, on the other hand, thinks of Sehun and much nothing else.

Oh how Sehun fills his mind like a blinding snow. He is embedded in every thought like a dab of glue, sticking to his head and never letting go. This snow falls endlessly until the Zitao that Zitao thought he once was is buried in piles of these white flakes, and the snow keeps falling in his system until it touches his heart, and he turns cold. But it is a good cold. A numb cold. An ice pack to his wounds.

He likes the cold. Very much.

His return home is greeted with the usual verbal bashing from the three of them and a long list of chores. He goes right to work, gets kicked out before dinner again, and runs to the forest, a renewed vigor in him from the hospital leave.

How long ago was it that he first met Sehun? It feels like years. In fact, he forgot already. Under the rug.

He just knows that Sehun brings out a kind of relief and want in him that he hasn't felt all his life. 

The wind is bitingly icy against his neck.

And he loves it.

When he sees Sehun, he slows down his jog to a standstill.

Sehun turns his head ever so slowly, and when his eyes meet Zitao's somehow ragged shape, his eyebrows tilt down and his mouth stumbles for words. 

So he just says, "Hello, Zitao."

And Zitao sputters out, "Sehun, I love you."

Sehun cringes. Because he doesn't believe Zitao knows what he's saying. But he covers it up quickly with a small smile, and pats the spot next to him. Zitao sits obediently.

"One day," Sehun says, trying to explain his response to Zitao instead of just saying "I love you too" or "I don't love you." 

"You will take me away?" Zitao asks hopefully.

That makes Sehun understand. Makes him stop him from saying what he'd meant to say.

One day, I will be gone and you will miss me. You will miss me, but after a while, I won't be in your heart, Zitao. And that place that you reserve for me in there is the commitment that you have just confessed to me. I'm not quite there yet, am I? Do you understand?

Zitao loves him because he is his guardian angel. It's because of the feelings he gets from Sehun, not the emotional attachment or the want or the desire. It's the things that Sehun gives that no else ever gave him.

Sehun smiles. Zitao should not get attached to him anyway. It's no good for him. He's relieved, Sehun tells himself. It's a good thing. "I hope so." 

Those three words make Zitao smile back. That's all Sehun needs.

Sehun lets the wind pick up a bit until that strand of black hair over Zitao's eyes is flipped over his bangs.

"How are you feeling?" Sehun asks softly, barely over the sound of the river.

Zitao hangs his head, but Sehun can see his lips are tipped up the tiniest bit. "No one has ever asked me that, so I never thought about it."

"You should think about it."

"I will."

They fall into their usual state of self reflection. Sehun peeks over at Zitao, who stares up at the sky like he always does, and sees that his bruises are fading into his pale skin. He raises a finger and ghosts over the spot, testing.

"Does it hurt?" He asks.

Zitao makes sure not to move his head, only his pupils, as he looks at him. "No," he says. "I barely feel a thing."

Sehun makes even a bolder move and cups Zitao's cheek, moving his fingers slowly down until they run past his jawline and down his neck. Zitao stares at him in a calm, emotionless kind of way, deep into his eyes and beyond.

"Do I have to go back?" Zitao questions, like he always does.

Sehun nods. "Yes. You will die if you stay here forever."

"That's okay."

Sehun gulps, but does not reply. Too scared. Too afraid to give Zitao the wrong response. "You can stay for a long time, but at the end of the day, you must always go back. Okay?"

Slowly, Zitao nods. 

"And then come back to me the next day."

Zitao nods again.

As the day recedes, Zitao stands and leaves with a wave. It's hard to see Zitao's back to him, growing smaller and smaller until he is a nothingness just like everything else.

Sehun does not know why he insists on binding Zitao's presence to him with that last line. Perhaps it is fear. If he doesn't, then who knows how bad it could get.

Sehun looks down at his hands, the prominent lines racing across his palms and the pink of his nails. With every day, it seems to get worse.

Zitao lives for those hours he can lie next to Sehun and forget that he belongs to that god-awful family. Or any family. He spends days here, then weeks here. 

He eats less, sleeps less, all for the sake of being able to talk, to spend time, with Sehun. The latter urges him to take care of himself, but he can't help it. To do such is to abandon his sole source of relief. Not happiness, but relief. The closest he can get.

And every day, he tells Sehun, "Sehun, I love you."

The words hang heavy between them. Zitao doesn't think it's a big deal that he's said this so many times. Sehun knows better. Every time, he gives Zitao a small smile and pulls him into a hug, holding Zitao's head to his chest and rubbing circles into his back. 

With every day, Zitao gets a little more... emotional. Once the numb and spirit-like boy, now someone who can give slow tips of his lips and little displays of affection. 

He doesn't ask Sehun to fly him away anymore. Sehun, after some thinking, decides to ask why.

"Because when I am with you, I am already somewhere far away," Zitao tells him.

The feeling in Sehun's heart when he hears those words. It scares him.

"Sehun, I love you," Zitao says. Sehun is so used to hearing these words that it doesn't even faze him anymore.

Sehun is about to do his usual smile and hug, but there's a hand on his arm that keeps him from moving.

Zitao holds tight and hovers over Sehun. He repeats, "I love you."

His lips meet Sehun's in a soft kiss. He presses lightly, making sure to convey everything he thinks and feels with every little dip and every little breath. It's not long until he feels Sehun kiss back, just as gentle. Just as loving.

When Zitao pulls back, he whispers again, "I love you." More tender than he ever had before.

And for the first time, Sehun mutters, "I love you too" back.

"er!" 

Zitao comes to with a painful kink in his neck. He jumps out of his hard-as-wood bed and scrambles out the door. He hates that voice. But he fears it more. 

When he makes it to the living room, he's greeted with the heel of his foster father's palm on the side of his head. "What took you so damn long?"

Zitao bites his lip. To hold back pain, to hold back tears, to hold back words. He knows the man isn't expecting a response.

"Where the were you last night?"

His teeth are starting to dig into skin. Don't give him an answer. Don't say anything.

And then the father laughs as he says, " yourself or something? Get yourself a buddy?"

Zitao cracks. "He's not a buddy," he mutters under his breath.

The father stops, a fake smile on his face as he says, "What was that? Did you say something?" He his ear towards Zitao.

Zitao sees his opportunity. Straight into the man's ear, he yells as loud as he can, "He's not a buddy and he says he loves me!"

The father only laughs harder. "You sound like a ing teenage girl! Love you? Who the loves you?"

But Zitao's on a rage. He can't get himself to stop. " you!"

Everything. Stops. 

"What did you just say?" The father's eyes turn to glare at him, a dangerous glint in his irises.

Zitao loses resolve. Only a tiny bit. ". You."

The fist makes direct contact with his cheekbone faster than he thought possible and the sting comes moments later. There are no words, only hit after hit after hit, endless. Every second in between the screaming that never leaves his lips, Zitao struggles to get to his feet.

And then he does.

He takes his first step away to run, but the father's hands clench around the back of his shirt and he's jerked back. Another hit makes its way to his skull. Zitao slips out of the grasp, but not without some scrapes. 

He's out the door in seconds, too winded to even look back. He lets his legs do their job, dashing far away and, unconsciously, towards the forest. It's only when he reaches the forest path does he realize that no one is following him.

He limps to the river and when Sehun hears him coming, his faces lights up. He turns his head to say, "Hello, Zitao."

But the words don't make it out when he witnesses Zitao collapse.

Zitao wakes up with dried blood on the corner of his mouth and just below his nose. His head hurts like a thousand hammers drumming against his temples and there are a million different aches in his body. 

He also wakes up in Sehun's embrace, Sehun himself asleep next to him with his arms around Zitao's body, holding him close. 

Protecting me, Zitao thinks. He wants to smile, but it hurts.

He thinks Sehun is asleep until he hears Sehun mumble into his hair, "Where did they hurt you?"

"My head," Zitao answers. "My face." Just moving his lips causes a dull thud against his jaw to resound through his bones.

He likes that Sehun doesn't ask who 'they' is. Just asks where he is hurt. It doesn't matter who deals the blow to him, it matters that they did it at all. And that makes Zitao's heart lift.

Sehun pulls back to cup Zitao's face in both his hands. He leans forward and plants a kiss on the tip of Zitao's nose. "Here?" He asks.

"Yes." 

Sehun kisses his two temples and then the middle of his forehead. "Here?"

"Yes."

His lips move to Zitao's jawline, down to his chin. "Here?"

"Yes."

And finally, they move up to meet Zitao's in a kiss. "Here," he says, no questioning tone whatsoever.

"Yes," Zitao breathes.

Zitao's hands tangle in the silky strands of Sehun's silver hair, one on the back of his neck to keep him close. Sehun's are placed sturdily on Zitao's lower back, tracing shapes into the muscle he feels beneath his thin shirt.

"Why do they hurt you like this?" Sehun asks as Zitao winces when one of Sehun's fingers touch a still-healing bruise. His eyebrows scrunch and turn up, and his mouth falls into a frown.

Zitao only gives a small laugh and goes back to kissing. "As long as I have you to fix me."

Sehun pulls back to hug Zitao, let him fit onto his body and chest like two puzzle pieces. 

"Sleep," he tells Zitao.

"Okay," Zitao obeys. He promptly closes his eyes and, moments later, falls unconscious. He feels like death froze over, but it's okay. It's okay if Sehun's there. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay....

There are no words to describe a dysfunctional family. It is like trying to fix a clock to go backwards, but having to face the fact that you cannot rewind time. You sit in the dark, alone, as horrible and terrifying word after word is heard until you can't take it anymore and simply rip out your own heart. They make you want to leave and never come back.

And sometimes... you don't.

Zitao doesn't. And Sehun doesn't make him this time. 

Sehun doesn't understand. Because there is no way to understand. Until you have experienced what a broken family can be like, there are no texts or books or novels enough to tell you. But Sehun understands empathy and he knows Zitao should not go home. Maybe not ever. He has to, though. Sehun can't take care of him here.

He does stay the night. Unmoving. Sehun has to almost periodically check to see that Zitao is breathing at all. The light rise and fall of his chest is enough to assure his lifespan is still running. Sehun tries to coax Zitao to get up, maybe get some food and water somewhere in the city and take care of himself.

And Zitao always responds with one of two things. "I don't have any money, Sehun" or "Do you want me to go, Sehun?"

Of course he doesn't have any money, and Sehun should really stop asking because it's not as if change and bills can magically appear in his pocket. And of course he doesn't want Zitao to leave. But that all in itself is a dangerous feeling that should warn Zitao to get away at all costs.

There is a feeling in Sehun's stomach that makes him writhe inside. He has to say something.

"Zitao, I--"

"Yes?" Zitao replies innocently at the sound of his name, tilting his head up from Sehun's chest to look him in the eye.

And Sehun stares at him with his mouth open like a fish out of water. Zitao with his baby cheeks. Zitao with his beautifully sharp eyes. Zitao with his cat lips.

"I... I...." He flounders for the right words. "I'm..."

Zitao blinks at him, waiting.

"I love you," he ends up saying instead. Which is true, but not what he'd intended to tell him.

The wide smile that Zitao gives him, however, is worth it. 

Zitao pushes down on the ground to meet Sehun halfway in a messy kiss, overflowing with affection and feeling, and Sehun knows how much he means to Zitao, how much having those emotions mean.

It aches in him, the care and love he has for Zitao. 

It only makes him want to fulfill Zitao's wish even more. To let out a breath and blow him far, far away.

As Zitao settles back into his arms, Sehun stares down at his own arms and palms, seeing the red marks where Zitao had gripped his fingers and forearm. 

Color. It sends a jolt through his blood stream.

"You used to look like a white angel," Zitao admits absentmindedly, as if reading Sehun's mind. "But now you look so... real. It's wonderful." He traces the lines of Sehun's veins, up and down, with his finger. The touch sends shivers down Sehun's spine.

Sehun gives a forced smile. 

He treasures Zitao's happiness. But this... this is....

Yet there is that gentle inhale and exhale again, the sound indication that Zitao has fallen asleep again.

The boy is sleeping too much. Sehun sighs, carding his fingers through Zitao's dark hair. What can he do?

One day passes.

Two days pass.

The winds get weaker.

And Zitao awakens less and less.

From the voices that Sehun carries upon the breezes, he knows things. He learns things.

The family has called on a search for him. The news comes as a shock. They care enough to look for him. But alas, how many days has it been then?

Sehun shakes Zitao's shoulder after becoming aware of this sudden development. The boy stirs, but does not open his eyes.

Sehun's shirt is a light shade of blue. His pants are dark denim.

His cheeks grow warm. His eyes get tired. His stomach feels empty. His wrists don the blue streaks of veins beneath the thin layer of skin.

So Sehun does what he needs to.

"I'm sorry, Zitao."

Before it's too late.

"I hope you will remember that I loved you."

Before it becomes too much.

A peck on Zitao's forehead. "Sweet dreams."

He picks up Zitao with the wind. 

And blows him away.

Away...

...from him. 

Where he belongs.

For a power such as wind that comes and goes, Sehun is no good at goodbyes. He is too quiet, too little, and too nothing. He is no good at watching as Zitao levitates in front of him, still out cold, still limp from sleep.

He is no good at watching as he stands up and caresses Zitao's cheek one last time.

He is definitely no good at not turning back one last time before walking away forever from the boy he loved.

Forever? Perhaps an exaggeration. Perhaps he will visit. In his head, as he tosses the idea around, 'perhaps' becomes definitely.

He runs back to give Zitao's lips one last kiss.

This time, he does walk away without one final glance. As if to add insult to injury, the corners of his eyes sting and his lip starts to quiver. 

Sehun bids Zitao one final wish. May the winds treat him better than they have.

Zitao traverses in and out of reality. He sees blurry lines in his limited vision. He feels something wrapped around him. Mostly though, he hears voices. So many voices. He hears them in clips. Together, they don't make any sense. But he's sure something important must be happening without him.

"I'm sorry, sir, you're not permitted to see him." A male. Somewhat familiar.

"Why the  not?"

Oh no. No. Not that voice, please.

Later, he hears:

"Do you think we should move him tomorrow?" A female this time.

"No, we need to wait for him to wake up. It's too soon. We can't move him there without him being... aware." The same male as before.

Another time:

"How's his state, nurse?" Nurse? Is he in a hospital? And is that male his doctor?

"The same as the other days. Slight signs of coming to, but never making it. And sleep talking. A lot of it, and all of the same thing."

"Really? What does he say?"

"Well, he keeps repeating--" 

He blacks out before he can finish hearing his own dreams.

"I'm not sure what else we can do for the poor child. Call the home again? But they're already expecting him. There's nothing to be done."

"Wait. That's all we can do. Just wait."

"Hon? Can you hear me?"

A loud groan is heard. Wait. The groan had been from him.

"Mr. Wu? Quick, he's coming to."

"What?" The doctor replies.

Mr. Wu? So he is in the hospital after all.

Zitao groans again as he peels his eyes open, instantly recoiling from the bright light from above. The room is too white. And it breaks his heart.

"Zitao? Can you hear me?"

Zitao takes that moment to ponder to himself, why do they always ask that? "Yes, I can." 

He focuses his eyes to see the relieved face of his doctor, letting out a sigh.

Zitao decides to test the waters, hold his head up a bit. But the instand he lifts the weight on his shoulders, a massive pounding begins to thrash in his head. Mr. Wu holds him down with his hands on Zitao's thin shoulders, urgently telling him not to move too quickly.

"How long have I been here?"

Mr. Wu and the nurse exchange a glance. "Well, Zitao. It's, ah. It's been about two weeks."

Two weeks.

Two weeks?

What about Sehun?

"I need to go."

Zitao sits up, dizzy, and gets on his wobbly legs despite all the efforts from the other two to hold him back. He fights his way to the door, the world spinning around him. 

"What's the rush to go, Zitao? You need to stay here!" Mr. Wu almost yells.

"I need to see someone," he says. Just barely. His throat is dry and he sounds hoarse.

"Would this someone happen to be named Sehun?" Calmer this time.

He stops. Turns. Opens his mouth.

"How. How do you know about him?"

"You said his name in your sleep."

Oh.

The doctor, seeing Zitao speechless, continues. "Zitao, sit down here." He pats the bed.

Zitao sits.

"Who is Sehun?"

Zitao shakes his head.

Mr. Wu sighs.

"Who is Sehun?" He asks again.

He waits for his fidgety patient to answer, watches him nibble on his lower lip as all the options unfold in front of him. He doesn't have very many.

After a minute, Zitao takes a breath, and he tells Mr. Wu who Sehun is. What he has done. No, all he has done.

But before Mr. Wu can respond to his story, he asks, "Where is my foster family?"

He expects the doctor to ignore the question and say something about Sehun. Anything. Instead, he stands as if to leave.

His hand on the doorframe, body poised to exit, he says, "A report of child abuse has been made on those three. You will no longer be staying with them, and we have contacted both an orphanage and their candidate for a better home. Now sleep. I will see you tomorrow."

He closes the door behind and Zitao leans back onto the bed, feeling nauseous and sick and a wild mixture of horrible things. He just revealed Sehun's existence to his doctor. 

Had that been the wrong decision? The guilt hides the happiness of no longer having to be with the first family any more.

Sehun appears in his dreams. He places a finger over his lips, and says, "Shhh..."

"Where is this?" Zitao asks, staring left and right as he is led down one hallway after another by the long fingers of Mr. Wu.

Mr. Wu gives him a hard look, pressing his lips together. "Just come, Zitao. Go in there and do as the man inside says, okay? Answer his questions."

Zitao wants to ask why Mr. Wu is suddenly treating him like a child, but ultimately doesn't and walks into the room.

He is greeted with the warm smile of another man. "Hello, Zitao. Have a seat."

And it's stupid because lots of people say hello, but those first two words remind him of Sehun and his heart aches at the thought that maybe he is waiting for Zitao by the tree, by the river, by the red ribbon. 

Zitao does not want to keep him waiting. So he sits.

"The tests show he has--"

The word blanks out in his mind. Like the sound of a bell or an alarm. Beep beep beep. A word he cannot comprehend.

"There's no one else to inform."

They finally walk into the room, their faces placid as if they don't realize that Zitao could hear everything.

"Zitao, we need to tell you your results. You have psychosis."

Zitao blinks.

The man continues, Mr. Wu by his side. "It's a result of trauma, depression and anxiety from your domestic abuse, and various other reasons like exhaustion. A branch of schizophrenia, but not quite."

Zitao blinks again. These words don't mean much to him.

"Zitao, you suffered hallucinations."

Blink.

"Terrible hallucinations."

Blink blink blink.

"Not insignificant little illusions."

He can't take this waiting anymore.

"Zitao."

They're expecting him to say something. "Yes?"

"You went as far as to imagine people."

"What are you trying to get at here?"

The two doctors glance at each other. The man nods his head at Mr. Wu. Take charge, the gesture says.

Mr. Wu steps forward. "Zitao, what do you remember of Sehun?"

Zitao raises a brow. "Everything that I told you, Mr. Wu. He was very pale. Like an angel. And he started to get more colorful every time I saw him. He loved me. I loved him."

Mr. Wu's expression falters into a cringe for a split second, but Zitao doesn't miss it. "Zitao, Sehun wasn't real."

Silence.

A horrible, horrible silence.

Only broken by the violent ringing in Zitao's ears.

"Come again?"

"Sehun wasn't real."

But that's impossible.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't think anything.

Just sits back in his hospital bed. Closes his eyes.

He hears them leave the room some time later.

He stays there like that.

For minutes. For hours. Who knows?

"Sehun, I love you."

"But Zitao, I'm not real."

He is released from both the hospital and therapy months later.

His new home is loving and forgiving, still within the same city but far enough from his old home to not trigger anything.

They are cautious around him. Like he's a trap, waiting to be set off at any moment.

He stays with them for a few days. A week after his welcome, they finally allow him outside the house.

He runs to the forest. 

Runs to the river, runs to the tree, runs to the red ribbon. 

No Sehun.

He's gone.

And Zitao can feel tears.

What if he hadn't wanted to be helped? What if he wanted people to call him crazy and insane and mental? As long as he could see Sehun, it had been okay. But now he's disappeared. Zitao is alone. Breaking. Shattering. Numb.

He takes the red ribbon and unties it from its branch. With a flick of his wrist, he flings it into the river and walks off.

The cliff had always been his last resort. A last resort and nothing else.

He balances on his heels, letting his toes wiggle over the edge. The drop is so far. 

And no one would find him. No one would look for him. He'd be in peace. He'd be "not real" too, just like Sehun. Maybe even see him again.

But then a breeze passes by, blowing him away from the edge, and the silhouette of Sehun's being crosses his mind. He starts to crumble inside. Lip trembling, eyes squinting, throat clogging up.

He curls up and sobs.

Because Sehun was never real. To the rest of the world, Sehun was a terrible hallucination caused by his continued loneliness and oppression due to the incessant abuse he received inside a cruel household. To the rest of the world, Sehun was another side effect of a mental disorder that Zitao must now live with as a label taped to his back. To the rest of the world, Sehun was just the wind, something intangible, unbreakable, invisible.

No one can see the wind. But Zitao thought he could.

And he would give anything to see it again.

A/N: I want to say that I did have schizophrenia in mind, but upon further research, realized it was not what I had meant. I'm sorry to all the people that can point out any flaws in my mention of psychosis; what i'd looked up about that was sparse and quick.
P.S. I appreciate comments? Don't know if mentioning that is wildly appropriate for this fic though