A subtle disturbance ripples through the air, making every leaf and flower in the garden vibrate in warning. The Gatekeeper stirs where he lays on moss-covered ground and stretches, movements languid and unhurried as he opens his eyes to contemplate the lush canopy above. He sighs, reaching up with a gloved hand to the petal of a nearby orchid, touch gentle, and he feels his form begin to shift--limbs and features morphing easily into their new shape. An unfamiliar smile creeps slowly across an unfamiliar face, The Gatekeeper pressing his fingers to his cheek, curious.

 

“It appears,” he murmurs, voice fluctuating slightly before dropping into a lower register, “That we have a visitor.”

 

The orchid trembles in answer, the rest of his garden following suit, and The Gatekeeper laughs, enjoying how this new voice resonates in his throat.

 

“It is exciting, isn’t it,” he muses.

 

Folding his arms behind his head, his smile takes on a wicked edge, the twinge in his cheeks so satisfying as he breathes deep and welcomes the tingle of anticipation that envelops him.

 

A second ripple carries through the perfumed air and The Gatekeeper allows his eyes to flutter shut, noting the pleasant way his lashes delicately graze his skin. It’s been so long since his services were needed that impatience jerks at his thoughts like a petulant child. He in another calming breath. Their guest will come in time.

 

After all, watching them flounder is half the fun.

 

~

 

Soft. Fragrant. Warm...so, so warm.

 

Jiyong is conscious but he can’t see anything, can hardly feel the weight of his own body, just the incredibly painful throbbing in his head and the way the pavement feels like clouds.

 

Pavement?

 

He doesn’t know why he thought that. He doesn’t even know where he is. Why is it so dark? Why does he have the worst ing headache he’s ever had the misfortune of experiencing? Did he die? Is this what his hell is? Pain and endless nothing. It would certainly be fitting. Except he can’t remember the reason.

 

Inhaling sharply, Jiyong coughs, finding it hard to breathe when the air tastes like flowers and coats the inside of his lungs, sticky and sweet. He tries to move, fingers stiffly clenching around something that seems familiar. It’s cool to the touch and pliant. Cool, but not enough to stop the way his skin burns. , it’s so hot. He drags another gulp of air into his mouth and feels like he’s suffocating.

 

Desperation. Panic. Jiyong cries out, but it clings to the back of his throat and he gasps, coughing again, digging his fingers into the ground until they tear through grass and reach soil.

 

Soil.

 

Is he outside? There’s a flash in the darkness and a lance of pain explodes behind his eyes, painting the black bright with bursts of color. If he’s not really dead, he definitely wants to be. Whatever this is, please let it end. Jiyong forces himself over onto his side, face smashing into leaves and petals, the cloying scent around him only getting worse.

 

And suddenly...light.

 

Jesus ing christ.

 

His eyes have snapped open. He didn’t think they were closed, but now that they aren’t, he wishes they were.

 

Everything hurts. Colors hurt, the air hurts. If he wasn’t in so much agony he’d think he was dreaming because what he’s looking at can’t be possible.

 

Because the sky isn’t blue, it’s extraordinarily pink, swimming with clouds so puffy and large and perfect they don’t seem real. Jiyong groans, wincing as he paws at the blanket of flowers beneath him, the vibrant purple hue of their petals too saturated, like pure pigment. There’s yellow, too. And oranges and reds and greens so radiant they feel like they’re pulsing. Alive. Breathing. Jiyong’s head pulses with them as he struggles, pushing himself up to sit, stomach rolling from the change in perspective. He’s unprepared to discover how vast his surroundings are. Not like any of this is easy to digest, and the panic comes rushing back until he thinks he might actually puke.

 

Sweat has soaked through his clothes, the heaviness of his furred coat partially to blame for his feverish state, and he tears it off, vision dancing with little spots. Jiyong searches the bizarre sky for a sun and finds none. He doesn’t even bother asking himself why.

 

Haphazardly throwing the coat away, he sways where he sits, wiping a hand over his face and through his hair. The hill he’s on slopes down into infinite forest, its leaves glimmering with light that comes from nowhere. Nothing makes sense. He feels delirious; wants to blame this on the drugs.

 

Wait, what?

 

Drugs. Why drugs? Jiyong screws his eyes shut. His brain hurts too much and he can’t remember a ing thing. Just his name. His existence. The rest is all blank--a shadow of memory he can’t grasp, an impenetrable wall of fog. He yells again and this time it doesn’t get stuck, his frustration flinging itself out into space.

 

A faint, tinkling, bell-like sound drifts up from the strange trees below as if in response.

 

Jiyong freezes. He looks down. A breeze whips over the hill and shoves at his back with invisible fingers.

 

This is insane.

 

Bending his legs, he hugs his knees to his chest and closes his eyes again. Each breath is a chore, but he keeps doing it anyway, the taste of flowers never becoming easier to swallow. If not for that, he might be able to pretend none of this is happening. Except that it is. And another lightning bolt of pain explodes against his skull when he tries to mentally push his way through the fog in search of answers.

 

He’s so distracted by the misery that he doesn’t notice the breeze has returned. Doesn’t notice the invisible fingers tenderly caressing his arms, his face, ruffling his hair. Doesn’t notice until the pain subsides and it feels like something is trying to lift his chin. But there’s nothing there. Jiyong frowns when the wind his cheek because it’s weird and this is seriously freaking him out now. The fingers press harder then, nudging him. Urging. He ignores it. He’s imagining things. He’s--

 

Falling.

 

Jiyong’s entire body lurches forward unexpectedly, arms and legs clambering to catch himself as he yelps and starts tumbling down the hill. The ground is softer than he thought it would be and it doesn’t hurt when he lands with a thud at the edge of the treeline. Still, he groans. Apparently “no” was unacceptable.

 

He stays there, sprawled and uninterested in moving, but the wind hasn’t given up yet, prodding at his shoulder until Jiyong snaps.

 

“Enough!” he barks, voice scratchy beyond belief.

 

The wind fingers vanish instantly, whooshing into the branches and making them sing. Then there’s a bell-like tinkling sound in another bough. It gradually sweeps around the radiant leaves and Jiyong imagines the wind inching towards him on tiptoe, afraid to go any nearer. He almost laughs.

 

Which creates an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, because Jiyong hasn’t laughed at anything in months.

 

How long?

 

Longer than that. A spark of pain hits him right between the eyes before he can recall more and he curls in on himself. Oh my god, please stop. Jiyong whines through it, startled when a ghost finger trails along his arm, hesitant and fleeting. He chokes on a cough and scrambles to find his feet, stumbling over the gnarled root of a tree and huffing as a wave of dizziness slams into him.

 

“Just--” his words hitch. “Just stop.”

 

Silence.

 

Jiyong’s ragged breath is deafening in comparison. He rests a hand on the closest tree trunk--tries to steady himself but recoils just as fast, his heart beating even faster. What the …

 

He squints at the glowing handprint left behind, then stares down at his palm. He reaches out again, carefully touching two fingers to the odd, textured bark, feeling it give under the pressure and then swell with bioluminescent light. His eyes widen as he steps backwards, gaze shifting to peer into the forest. It’s dark and he can’t see much. Though for whatever reason the air is less dense here. Less overwhelming. And there’s this peculiar tugging in his chest.

 

When did that start?

 

It’s like a thread tied to one of his ribs, drawing him in, and his legs begin to move without his permission. Jiyong trips over another tree root, catching himself on a low-hanging branch. Leaves chime musically. The thread gives an insistent yank and he stumbles forward again into the shadows.

 

“Jeez, okay,” Jiyong mutters.

 

With shaking hands, he brushes purple and yellow petals from his clothes and his hair--adjusts the red suspenders that got twisted when he fell. He’s trying not to think about details. Like how he still has no idea where he is or where he’s going. No idea who--or what--might be at the other end of this magical ing thread.

 

He’s not afraid. Not exactly. He just wants answers.

 

The flowers disappear once he’s in ten feet past the treeline, the ground turning into springy moss that lights up just like the tree trunks when he steps on it with his boots. I swear to god, this is some Alice in Wonderland . Though he didn’t take a nosedive down the rabbit hole, did he. A weak ache pushes at his temples. Jiyong gets the message and releases a tired sigh as he shuffles through the semi-darkness.

 

It’s cooler here. His sweat-soaked t-shirt makes him shiver, hands lifting to rub at his arms. The jangle of leaves overhead claims his attention and Jiyong looks up, lips parting in wonder, because their strange light glitters in the shadows like countless stars.

 

He knows that appearances can be deceiving. That this place, in all its surreal beauty, doesn’t mean he’s not in danger. Even if it isn’t real.

 

Wind fingers poke him from behind, seemingly in protest, just as the thread tugs at his center and Jiyong falters, jogging to keep up.

 

“Would you off?” he grumbles.

 

Sailing into the canopy, the breeze rustles bell-leaves excitedly. It sounds like laughter. Jiyong scowls and trudges on.

 

He walks. No clue how long or how far, time doesn’t exist here. The forest is endless and unchanging and if there wasn’t the occasional fluttering chime up above from his obnoxious new friend, he’d think he hadn’t progressed at all. Jiyong is also exhausted, a soreness in his muscles assuring him that he’s not totally delusional. Not yet, at least.

 

But just when he thinks this is it, this is his fate, to walk forever in monotony, the space between trees begins to narrow. Jiyong’s footsteps slow, branches grazing his shoulders. The air thickens, humid in his mouth and his lungs. It tastes like dirt and something sour and panic once again flares to life in the pit of his stomach.

 

The urge to turn back is a physical force, reluctance humming in every atom, but he can’t, because the hold on his rib is unrelenting as it drags him along a path he doesn’t see. Shadows converge--more liquid than air--and Jiyong feels the way it glides against his skin. The way it shifts around him like a living thing, swirling at his ankles and pressing in until the inky blackness devours everything recognizable.

 

Jiyong’s heart stutters, breaths coming quicker. Shorter. The thread tugs fiercely and he resists, hand shooting out to brace himself on what he thinks is a tree trunk, but it’s hard to tell when his surroundings have faded into oblivion.

 

He grunts, a strangled cry leaving his lips. The pain in his chest is almost unbearable now. So much so that he almost doesn’t feel the caress along his jaw. Jiyong gasps. Gentle fingers his brow and smooth over his hair--his neck, the length of his spine. He closes his eyes, shaking with the effort it takes to keep himself there. The wind whispers against his ear and for a split second he relaxes, muscles uncoiling for the briefest moment.

 

It’s a mistake.

 

Every wisp of breath gets knocked out of him in the next instant, the blow to his back so powerful he rockets forward into the black and crashes to the ground. Or what he assumes is ground. It doesn’t feel like anything, just solid, the only reference he has for up or down as he wheezes, fighting to inhale.

 

His lungs burn, body vibrating with adrenaline. Jiyong coughs and gasps and coughs again, boneless. There’s no strain on his rib. No teasing caress from invisible fingers. Only the void and the surge of blood rushing in his ears.

 

But he’s wrong. Because even though he can’t see , the air is still as dense as water and he can tell the exact moment when something, somewhere, is displaced. Like an undulation. A distant echo in the far reaches of his mind. Jiyong’s hand slides against the ground and he angles his head, grimacing when his body objects to the movement.

 

Light.

 

Just the tiniest, shimmering pinprick in the darkness.

 

Trusting that pinprick would be stupid. Heading towards it may be even more stupid. But his options are severely limited and he knows that’s where he needs to go. Doesn’t know why he needs to. Doesn’t matter.

 

Jiyong uses what little energy he has to roll onto his back and thinks about nothing until his breathing regulates.

 

Flowers.

 

He inhales steadily. It’s faint, but it’s there. And different. Not as cloying. Jiyong sits up with a groan. Standing takes him more than one try and he wavers, disoriented, limbs weak. The pinprick seems so far away. Almost unreachable. But it glows brighter after his first step, encouraging him.

 

After a dozen steps, the distance lessens so much that he can see colors, the scent of flowers stronger. It looks like he’s walking towards a garden and Jiyong stumbles forward on uncertain legs.

 

The pitch black recedes the closer he gets, peeling away like dark curtains until his boots meet grass and suddenly everything is so bright again that he has to shield his eyes. He makes out the shapes of orchids, smells lilacs and sunlight, can hear the muted trickling of water over stone. And there, lounging in the middle of it all on a soft bed of moss, is a man.

 

Jiyong comes to an abrupt halt, hand falling limp at his side.

 

I know you. I know you, how do I know you?

 

He feels nauseous. So ing nauseous. The man smirks, staring at him with a strange, mismatched gaze.

 

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

 

God, that voice. Jiyong’s head is splintering, the pain causing his vision to blur at the edges. He doesn’t understand. I know your face.

 

“You should,” the man responds to his thought, smirk curling a bit tighter. “You’re the one who chose it.”

 

Wincing, Jiyong moans and slumps over, hands on his knees. He can’t breathe anymore. His brain is caving in on itself. He can’t--

 

Jiyong’s stomach lurches. The agonizing throb hits a crescendo. And again, his world goes black.

 

~

 

Gracefully, the boy loses his battle with memory, crumpling onto the grass in a lifeless heap.

 

The Gatekeeper rolls his eyes.

 

“Ridiculous,” he utters.

 

They’re all the same. They all cling to their humanity in order to make concrete sense of a reality that is anything but. Pain is an illusion. Breathing unnecessary. It’s the soul believing it still has a body. Jiyong receives pain because he doesn’t want to remember. A defense mechanism against unpleasant thoughts.

 

Rising from his sprawl, The Gatekeeper removes his suit jacket, folding it loosely and draping it over a large, moss-covered stone. He rolls his sleeves next, up to the elbow. The gloves, however, he leaves on. He doesn’t like to touch his guests directly, always wary of what might get transferred in the process.

 

The Gatekeeper studies Jiyong’s form briefly before approaching, lowering into a crouch and maneuvering him into a less awkward position. A slow sigh bleeds from his lips. This one isn’t going to be as easy as the others.

 

Although, to be fair, none of them are easy. That’s why they find their way here instead of elsewhere.

 

Calmly, he brings a hand to Jiyong’s face, index finger traveling along the curve of his cheek. Then in one swift motion, The Gatekeeper smacks him firmly--just painful enough to rouse him from the imagined depths of unconsciousness.

 

Jiyong wrestles with his first breath, eyelashes quivering and brows knotted so tight. The Gatekeeper squanders the impulse to smooth it out. His role is not caretaker. Not this time.

 

He watches warm brown eyes go wide and roam, darting in every direction until they finally land on him. His smile is more cutting than kind.

 

“Welcome back,” The Gatekeeper remarks, affecting boredom.

 

Jiyong’s head lolls on the grass, eyes slipping shut again, and The Gatekeeper stands.

 

“Get up.”

 

It takes him several moments to comply, expression a combination of bewilderment and discomfort. The Gatekeeper crosses his arms and regards Jiyong blankly.

 

“Do you know why you’re here?” he inquires, already aware of what the answer will be.

 

Jiyong frowns, perhaps a bit confused, and presses his palm to his forehead, hissing when he’s struck by another jolt of pain.

 

“No.”

 

His arms drop and he nods, dissipating into the air and reappearing behind the boy. Jiyong gasps. The Gatekeeper grips his chin, the other arm coiling around his waist to prevent his escape when he struggles.

 

“Maybe,” he murmurs, mouth hovering at Jiyong’s ear as his hand slides down a slender neck and squeezes, feeling him stiffen, “You should think a bit harder.”

 

Cutting off Jiyong’s windpipe, The Gatekeeper holds him against his body, expecting the way he claws at his forearm and lashes about. He releases him a brief moment later and receives little pleasure in seeing the boy fall to his knees and choke on every breath. Jiyong rasps out a broken sob, toppling onto his hands.

 

“Any guesses?” The Gatekeeper circles Jiyong’s hunched form, rolling his shoulders.

 

The boy’s labored panting fills the garden. When no responses are forthcoming, he grabs Jiyong  and hauls him upright.

 

Unshed tears clot in his lashes--skin flushed, eyes wild with fear.

 

Good, The Gatekeeper thinks. He could use a healthy dose of that.

 

Jiyong expels a wet cough and sways in his grasp, knees locking and giving out. The Gatekeeper can see his mind racing.

 

“I don’t-- I can’t remember,” Jiyong stammers.

 

The Gatekeeper watches his face contort in agony as he tries to access the information he buried himself.

 

“Allow me to refresh your memory.”

 

A single tear spills from the corner of Jiyong’s eye, terror written clearly on his face in anticipation of more violence, but The Gatekeeper is no monster. Instead, he lifts his right hand and presses it over Jiyong’s eyes, cradling the back of Jiyong’s head with his left. He feeds the boy a truth he can’t run from. Flashes of his life in all its pathetic glory. The people he hurt--friendships lost and bridges burned. The chemicals he abused nightly in order to forget and the hollowness that always followed. And most importantly, the man he loved and the way his face looked right before he walked away.

 

Perhaps “monster” is not such an ill-fitting mantle.

 

Jiyong shudders, noises of distress resonating in his throat. When he pulls his hand away, the flush has drained from the boy’s cheeks and fresh tears shine bright.

 

“I…” Jiyong’s shock is palpable. He stares, an intensity in his gaze The Gatekeeper isn’t ready for. “What are you?”

 

It’s the “what” that makes him withdraw, disengaging and creating distance, peering at his gloved fingers like nothing could ever be more fascinating.

 

“Surely you’re smart enough to put the pieces together, Jiyong.”

 

“Don’t say my name with his face.”

 

The Gatekeeper refuses to let the cracks in the boy’s low voice influence him. His lips tilt upwards in a smile.

 

“You gave me this face.”

 

Jiyong scoffs, arms curving around his middle as he hugs himself and mutters, “Why the would I do that?”

 

He knows the question isn’t meant for him, but he answers despite this as he reaches up to inspect a cluster of tree leaves, carefully disinterested.

 

“Because the heart never lies.”

 

“Bull.”

 

“Is it?” The Gatekeeper counters, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

 

Jiyong fidgets; can’t hold his gaze. He chews at his lip and sniffs, rubbing a hand against his cheek. The Gatekeeper notices another crystalline tear shimmer and plummet into the grass.

 

Quiet descends on the garden while they observe each other. Even the river has hushed, an odd stillness settling over everything. Everything but them. The Gatekeeper’s long legs begin to move and he paces, waiting.

 

“What are you?” Jiyong tries again.

 

So naive.

 

“A stepping stone,” he answers with a smirk.

 

Jiyong’s mouth parts and twitches, an attempt not to smile even though it’s clear he doesn’t appreciate The Gatekeeper’s guile. And yet, the poorly worded questions don’t stop there.

 

“Where am I?”

 

“Oh, come now. After my little trick, you’re still lost?” he taunts, laughing as he turns to shake his head in disappointment. “I was certain you had more of a brain than this.”

 

Arms unfurling, Jiyong clenches fistfuls of his dark hair and whines. “All right,” he groans. “All right, fine, I killed myself.”

 

“Tried to,” The Gatekeeper corrects, clasping his gloved hands behind his back. “It’s an important distinction and the reason why you’ve been granted an audience with me.”

 

The boy’s eyes narrow into slits.

 

“So I’m not dead.”

 

“No, you’re absolutely dead.”

 

“Then--”

 

“Your attempt to take your own life was unsuccessful.” He shrugs. “However, another saw opportunity and finished the job for you.”

 

“Who?”

 

All these asinine inquiries.

 

“Does it matter?” The Gatekeeper retorts. “The point,” he sighs, “Is that my...employer, seems to believe you deserve a second chance.”

 

He watches the boy grapple with this new information, his focus drifting and his body sagging as it translates truth into a physical weight, and he sits on one of the large rocks, head in his hands.

 

“Do you?” Jiyong’s voice is tentative and weak as it spills through his fingers.

 

The Gatekeeper frowns.

 

“My opinion is of little value, I’m merely following orders.”

 

Flinging his hands away, Jiyong gives him a hard look. “I don’t care. I’m asking.”

 

Hard, yes, but not hard enough to mask the way he aches for words from these lips to show him mercy. The Gatekeeper feels something start to bend inside of him and he walks towards Jiyong, cupping his chin gently, thumb just barely grazing the swell of his mouth.

 

Such expressive eyes.

 

He grips the boy’s jaw tightly, jerking his chin higher. Bending does not mean breaking.

 

“I may look like him, Jiyong, but I am not him. You will not find absolution here. Not from me.”

 

What little light remains in his eyes sputters and expires and he rips free of The Gatekeeper’s hold to peer at the ground.

 

“What are my choices?” Jiyong asks, tone flat.

 

The Gatekeeper begins to wander again, inspecting a tidal wave of flowers that has overtaken the crumbling stone wall. Their tiny, vibrant petals shiver for his attention.

 

“Keep going or go back,” he replies simply.

 

Jiyong’s head lifts, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

 

“Back, as in…?”

 

“Yes. But not as you are.”

 

Those eyebrows scrunch and slam together and The Gatekeeper bites back a chuckle.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“Your soul will be placed in the body of another,” he explains. “All the parts that make you unique--your memories, your personality--are not guaranteed in the transfer. Usually only fragments survive. But your essence will remain.”

 

“What about the soul that was already there?”

 

The Gatekeeper offers him a thin smile. “My employer possesses a fondness for manipulating the natural order of things.”

 

Jiyong huffs, pushing away from the rock, hands animated and everywhere.

 

“Okay, let me--” The boy laughs without humor, tossing him glances as he speaks. “Let me make sure I’m understanding this. I get to be reborn, or whatever, in another body, but there’s a possibility I won’t remember…” Jiyong stalls, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. “Seunghyun. Or even find him.”

 

The Gatekeeper inclines his head. “Correct.”

 

“Who picks the body I’m stealing?”

 

His lips quirk.

 

“I do.”

 

And now Jiyong laughs in earnest, sighing and crossing his arms, the toe of his boot kicking at a pebble in the grass. “Something tells me you’re not about to do me any favors,” he murmurs wryly.

 

Cocking his head, The Gatekeeper allows a genuine smile to blossom on his face. Jiyong studies him closely and does nothing to hide his suspicion. You’re learning.

 

“That depends.”

 

“On what?”

 

“On whether or not I think you’ve earned it,” he replies, stepping closer. “You failed to hold onto the life you’d been given once already. The question is, will you fail again?”

 

Jiyong averts his gaze, shoulders curving inwards and lip automatically sliding between his teeth.

 

“I thought you said your opinion didn’t matter.”

 

The Gatekeeper takes another step and dissolves, reappearing at Jiyong’s side, more nimble than light. The boy jumps and he leans in.

 

“If you want me to help you, my opinion is everything.”

 

A tremulous breath rushes from Jiyong’s mouth as he stumbles backwards. He knows the boy has been hiding how much it bothers him that The Gatekeeper looks the way that he does. And how much it bothers him that he still yearns.

 

It’s incredible, really, to watch Jiyong cycle through anguish, confusion and desire in such rapid succession.

 

“What is it about this boy, that you would risk all that you are so readily?” he asks, alarmed by how sincerely he wishes to hear the answer spoken aloud.

 

Wide brown eyes find his and The Gatekeeper allows a sly grin.

 

“I see your heart, Jiyong, you made your choice the moment you knew you had one. Now answer the question.”

 

“I can’t describe it in a way I think you’d understand.”

 

“Try.”

 

“Does the thing you did earlier--” Jiyong pauses, indicating what he means by resting a hand over his face. “Does that go both ways?”

 

The Gatekeeper clears his throat. “In a manner of speaking.”

 

“Then let me show you.”

 

It’s telling and not asking and The Gatekeeper almost backpedals when Jiyong advances on him with a purpose, fingers already reaching up to settle against his eyes.

 

“Careful,” he warns, latching onto the boy’s wrist before he can make contact. “Without a buffer it’s harder to control.”

 

Jiyong’s curiosity practically drips from his pores like honey. “Is that why you wear gloves?”

 

“In part,” The Gatekeeper admits, reluctant to divulge more. He’s not the one on trial here. “Like this,” he instructs, and guides Jiyong’s hand until it’s pressed just slightly against his brow.

 

The touch is nothing, a whisper against his skin, and yet he can already grasp the magnitude of Jiyong’s emotions--trepidation, excitement, longing, melancholy. It’s a beat too late that The Gatekeeper realizes how vulnerable he’s made himself and despite being prepared for the transference, it still hurts. Like a debilitating blow to the center of his chest.

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Jiyong and a distant moan that must have come from his own lips, but all cognizance of his environment stops after that, his every sense inundated with image and memory, scent and touch, joy and sorrow.

 

Narrative is abandoned in exchange for bursts in time. The raw marrow of every moment. He feels an electric surge of laughter; the overwhelming high of a first kiss and all the ones that followed, never paling in comparison. Soft words. Sunlight on skin. Pleasure. A fleeting caress. Arms wrapped around a narrow waist. Home. The impact of disappointment. Good. Loyalty, protection, respect. Safe. An overpowering sense of peace. Forgiveness. Shame. Words aimed like arrows and a tongue that was at once too pointed and too sweet.

 

The Gatekeeper staggers in reverse, the connection severed, but his head forever singing with good, home, safe, good, good good, good.

 

He trips and lands on his back with a quiet grunt, gazing into the canopy, this unyielding tension in his chest that shouldn’t be there. If he had any real use for lungs, he’s sure his would be on fire.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jiyong blurts, popping into his line of sight, hilariously frantic. “I had no idea that’s what was gonna ha--”

 

“Stop talking,” he interrupts.

 

The boy’s teeth clack when they shut, though he doesn’t shrink away, looking so childlike in his flurry of concern.

 

It’s no wonder father likes you so much. The Gatekeeper can hear him laughing in the trees, their faint tinkling too inconspicuous for Jiyong to notice in his current state. He sighs.

 

“Humans are the most confounding creatures I have ever encountered.” The statement is meant more for their invisible eavesdropper, but Jiyong still snorts.

 

“That’s putting it mildly.”

 

His mouth tugs into a half-smile. Jiyong sits on the ground beside him and The Gatekeeper can hear the mess of his thoughts, so acute with the after-images of the boy’s memories still whirling in his mind. There are many things he will never understand and the absurd, irrational behaviors of man will always be one of them.

 

Smile wilting, he glances over at Jiyong.

 

“Why?” is all The Gatekeeper feels he needs to ask.

 

Silence hangs in the garden before the boy speaks.

 

“Because there’s something intoxicating about being reckless.”

 

“Even if it leads to ruin?”

 

“Especially then,” Jiyong replies, breathing out a sad approximation of a laugh. “Except I think I was a little...excessive.”

 

“But--”

 

“Have you ever been in love?” the boy cuts in, unsettling him with his ability to predict his next line of thought.

 

The Gatekeeper squirms ever-so-slightly against the grass.

 

“No.”

 

Jiyong nods. “Then how can you hope to make sense out of the choices I made? Loving someone is the definition of reckless,” he explains, voice depressingly bleak. “At first I thought Seunghyun could save me, because he balanced me out, but I was already a lost cause, and if I didn’t hurt him, if I didn’t give him a reason to leave, I was going to drag him down into the mud with me and he’s too ing good for that.”

 

Inhaling deeply, Jiyong grimaces and stares at his hands, heartache flickering across his face. If The Gatekeeper had any doubts about the severity of Jiyong’s regret, they were all but gone now.

 

“Did that answer your question?”

 

“Yes,” he says. “Sufficiently.”

 

“So will you help me or not?”

 

“How do I know you won’t make the same mistakes?”

 

“You don’t.”

 

And The Gatekeeper lets out a dry chuckle, because the boy is asking for his trust. His faith. So much conviction in those pretty eyes. He shifts on the ground, expression sobering, and then turns his head to regard Jiyong intently.

 

Conviction often only goes so far.

 

“Jiyong, are you prepared for how difficult this is going to be?”

 

A moment of consideration; another slow nod. Jiyong nibbles on his lip and offers a pained smile.

 

“I don’t actually think I deserve it. But some things are worth dying for. Twice.” The boy huffs, sad and amused at the same time. “It’s just...more than anything I need to see that he’s okay.”

 

Countless other souls have feigned selflessness to win his favor--have tried, unwisely, to manipulate him, believing that they could cheat the system in order to gain the upper hand. Most of them didn’t deserve one chance at life, let alone a second. The difference here, is that Jiyong’s heart is true. He has no illusions of happily ever after, no ulterior motives. Simply a wish to ensure the well-being of another soul.

 

Of course, The Gatekeeper could give him that without sending him back, but father is rather fond of his games.

 

“Lie down,” he murmurs, decision made, and moves to rise.

 

Jiyong does, a hint of apprehension in the set of his jaw as The Gatekeeper kneels.

 

“You’re not gonna, like, turn me into a cat or anything, right?”

 

Smirking, his gaze narrows thoughtfully. “I don’t know, that might be an improvement.”

 

He enjoys the unexpected brilliance of Jiyong’s mirth, catching a glimpse, maybe, of who he had been at his best.

 

“Thanks, ,” Jiyong grumbles.

 

Lifting his right hand, The Gatekeeper begins removing his glove, one finger at a time. He notes the way the boy fidgets and attempts not to let his composure slip when he discovers the question he so desperately wants to ask.

 

“So I, um,” Jiyong exhales roughly. “I know I’ll probably never get to be with him like I was before, and that’s fine, I get it. It’s not about that, I just…” His hands flutter over blades of grass and he groans, eyes clenching briefly shut to steel himself. “I can’t believe I’m really asking this.”

 

“I can.”

 

Jiyong stares back at him like he’s the one who has lost his mind, but the request isn’t such an uncommon one. Not when his given form is that of a lover’s...

 

“I-- It’s not weird?”

 

The boy’s cheeks flood with pink and The Gatekeeper pulls his glove all the way off, dropping it onto the ground.

 

“Close your eyes, Jiyong.”

 

He listens, ribs expanding and contracting unevenly under the thin material of his clothing, nervous. The Gatekeeper leans forward, bracing himself with hands planted on either side of Jiyong’s head.

 

In a fit of weakness, he lets himself admire the contours of the boy’s face--the sharp line of an eyebrow, the slope of his nose, the elegant swell of his cheekbones.

 

His purpose may not be to love, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of appreciating beauty.

 

Bending at the elbows, The Gatekeeper eases lower until his face is a mere inch away. He feels the heat of Jiyong’s breath when his lips part and something snaps taut inside of him, resonating, expectant.

 

Delicate lashes stir and Jiyong looks up at him. The resonance hums.

 

“Your name,” Jiyong almost whispers. “You never told me.”

 

“You didn’t ask.”

 

The boy exhales and warmth ghosts over The Gatekeeper’s skin.

 

“Who are you?”

 

He savors the words--the incandescent gleam of fascination.

 

“I have many faces. For now,” he murmurs, “I am known as The Gatekeeper.”

 

“But do you have a name, a real name, not a title,” Jiyong presses, unsatisfied.

 

A smile comes unbidden.

 

“Aenedras.”

 

He wonders if the boy comprehends the power in a name given. Though his musing ends there, because Jiyong’s fingers have found their way to the nape of his neck. The Gatekeeper’s mind empties. Jiyong’s gaze trails to his mouth. He concedes defeat and bestows his parting gift, lips gentle against soft flesh.

 

The hold on his neck tightens, Jiyong moving against him on muscle memory, remembering exactly how these lips yield. How this body feels under the pads of his fingers. The Gatekeeper brings his ungloved hand to the boy’s face--caresses a path down to his throat, his chest, and stills at the spot just beneath his frenetically beating heart.

 

When he pulls away, Jiyong makes a quiet noise of protest. The Gatekeeper drags his lips along the curve of the boy’s cheek, soothing. He settles at the shell of his ear and offers one last smile.

 

“Breathe,” he whispers.

 

Jiyong’s gasp pushes against The Gatekeeper’s palm, body tensing as he coaxes the boy’s soul from from the depths of all that he is.

 

Leaning back, he watches brown eyes cloud with gray and go dull. Liquid light dances and twines around his fingers and The Gatekeeper only has to give it a subtle nudge for it to go--coiling in on itself until it forms a tiny, blinding pearl of energy and then blinks into non-existence.

 

An impish breeze sweeps through the garden as The Gatekeeper stands, dusting off his trousers and stretching when his form returns to its original state. There’s a peculiar weight in his stomach, made worse when he peers down at the lifeless boy at his feet.

 

Leaves tinkle excitedly and he feels the air shift to his right. The Gatekeeper turns.

 

“You liked that one, didn’t you.”

 

He stoops to pick up his glove, shaking it out. “They’re all the same.”

 

“Then why did you give him your name?” Althan inquires, voice full of ill-concealed humor, and The Gatekeeper narrows his eyes marginally before walking away.

 

Slumping on a large moss-covered stone, he eases the glove onto his fingers, flexing them back and forth, noting the way the material molds to his knuckles. His face is impassive, but tricking the one who made him is a fool’s errand.

 

Althan’s thick brows rise and he snorts.

 

“Come now, Aenedras, don’t sulk like a child.”

 

“I’m a god,” The Gatekeeper murmurs, chin in hand. “I can do as I please.”

 

His father gives him a stern look, no less imposing despite the flowers tangled in his beard, and then wanders over to inspect Jiyong’s body. The Gatekeeper watches him closely.

 

“He’ll be all right, you know,” Althan reassures. “His spirit was too strong to expire so soon.”

 

“Is that why you sent him to me instead of the others?”

 

With a glimmer in his fathomless eyes, Althan smiles down at Jiyong’s limp form, a strange fondness in the action.

 

“I did it because I knew you would understand.”

 

He frowns. “This isn’t a game, then.”

 

“No.” Althan’s smile broadens and then fades. “His death was a mistake. A misplaced thread, if you will, that wasn’t where it ought to be.”

 

The Gatekeeper lets his hand fall, too stunned to be embarrassed by the fact that he hadn’t guessed sooner. Of course. His gaze flicks to the grass, eyebrows drawn tight. Perhaps his choice was not the right one.

 

“Don’t be silly, it was always going to be the right one,” Althan drawls.

 

Glancing up, he huffs, inexplicably somber. “Was it, though?”

 

“You saw his heart.”

 

“Yes.” The Gatekeeper nods once, mind still flooded with memories that aren’t his. “I did.”

 

Mouth flattening into a grim line, he reaches out, passing his hand through the air. Jiyong’s body sinks into grass and earth until it’s gone, leaving behind a bed of moss dotted with small, white buds.

 

Althan steps towards him, his long fingers squeezing the curve of his shoulder. “Have faith, Aenedras.”

 

Have faith?

 

A single bud twirls slowly and opens.

 

You have much more than that.

 

~

 

July heat wraps around the city like a sweaty blanket. The pavement sizzles, traffic shimmering in the distance like a mirage. The park is the only safe haven in the summers and Marisol gravitates towards it, possessed. She grimaces as she crosses the street, adjusting the straps of her bag because it feels glued to her back and it’s so gross, . This is no way to live. No way to breathe. Her dark hair sticks to her cheeks and she swears she’s going to take the longest shower in the world as soon as she gets home.

 

Bright green leaves sway gently overhead, even though it seems like the air has stopped moving altogether. She’s uncomfortable, but she’s smiling, just happy to be done with her summer school courses for the day. Plus the vibe here always helps boost her mood, because everyone looks like they hate everything a little bit less. Laughter floods the trees, ice cream melts on the cement, dogs chase after frisbees with more enthusiasm than Marisol has in her ing pinky finger. It’s great. And if her foster parents had learned to trust her sooner, she’d have started coming here on her own ages ago.

 

Shoving damp tendrils of hair off of her forehead, she heads straight for the guy with the ice cream cart, determined to get her daily Choco Taco fix. Marisol pays and the tears the wrapper open with her teeth before even getting her change and takes the man’s amused chuckling with her when she wanders.

 

She likes watching people’s faces more than anything. Likes the way every part moves to create a single mood, thought, idea. The more expressive the better, honestly, because sometimes it’s like every blip in someone’s brain becomes the twitch of an eyebrow or a tongue swipe across curled lips. Her friends think she’s weird as hell. Her foster family, too. Marisol just thinks being thirteen is kind of a drag because no one ever takes her seriously.

 

Choco Taco demolished, she pauses by a trash can near the chess tables to watch an old man his chin with gnarled fingers as he stares at the pieces. She’s about to move closer when she hears the faint strains of guitar strings and it makes her freeze. She knows this song. And when a deep, soulful voice begins to sing, Marisol follows it.

 

Street performers litter the park like pigeons, but she’s never heard this one before, and she can’t weave her way through strangers fast enough, driven by a strange tightness in her gut. From what, she can’t tell. Maybe the Choco Taco was a bad idea. Maybe she’s going crazy. But the music is too familiar and that voice, that voice.

 

Marisol skids to a stop at the edge of the crowd, peering through the spaces in between to see.

 

It’s messed up, that feeling of deja vu when she knows she’s never been here. Here, as in standing ten feet away from a guy she’s never met while he plucks pretty notes from his busted acoustic guitar.

 

She feels her eyebrows furrowing the longer she looks, taking in his broad shoulders and sunny grin--the dimple cutting into his cheek, the light in his voice as he sings. Marisol rounds the edge of the crowd, her heart beating so fast she’s worried it might break, and it leaps into when he turns his head.

 

The man falters in his playing, eyes widening beneath the fringe of his bangs. He looks just as confused as Marisol feels. Maybe a lot shaken, too, which echoes in the pit of her stomach like a tiny earthquake.

 

What the hell is going on?

 

His gaze doesn’t waver, though. And for whatever reason, neither does hers. She breathes out. The man’s fingers regain their confidence. He smiles at her in this peculiar way that makes her believe he knows what she’s thinking because he’s thinking the same thing and it’s scary and not all at once.

 

The melody swells in the air. Marisol doesn’t even notice the heat anymore, her everything is too full of music and her heart pounds an odd rhythm against her ribs.

 

It isn’t until a moment later that she realizes it’s beating in time with the only thought left ringing in her head.

 

Home.

 

Home. She laughs, overwhelmed, and doesn’t stop.

 

This is home.