If You

He sees it from the window; how these guys are beating him again, crushing bones and blending skin, kicking him until he lies on the road. It’s not the first time, he has watched it before,  but today he mutters the courage to open the door and scream at them with all the impotence he feels for not been able to help him more, for all the hurt he has to suffer because of him and his lack of confidence to do so. 

“I’ll give you three seconds to go before I call the police!” he shouts, phone on his hand, ready to dial, and the boys just run away, leaving him all alone, kneeling on the streets, on this dark corner between buildings, clutching hands around his waist, red staining a pretty face he has seen before walking down the street, school uniforme too big and too short to fit this sore body.

He rushes toward him, jumping stairs three at the time. It’s painful to see, this boy who has been defeated, who can stand still. Normally he would see him getting up soon after the bullies left, tired of punching him; but today all his body is a mess, shacking and shuddering as if scared. He aids him the best he can, kneeling in front if him, making some eye contact, holding him and helping him to get up. He is so light, all bones and flesh and nothing else, shimmering in maroon, blood covering a face of beautiful eyes and soft features. He lifts him easily and carries him home, putting him down a mattress that engulfs him all, guiding him to a peaceful sleep, a rest he deserves so much. 

His lips are cut and there is blood running from there, dropping on his jaw and bruises that will paint his face red and purple, swollen eyes shaming this beautiful boy with a dancing heart. He cleans them gently, tapping his wounds smoothly, not wanting to hurt him more, not wanting him to wake up in pain.

When he opens his eyes he is at lost. There is a coldness caressing his cheeks, nice and refreshing, gentle, tenderness. Long, slender fingers are brushing him, a pale, elegant hand that belongs to the person who is staring at him, brown eyes that feels like a dream, big and sweet, he doesn’t want them to look away, he wants to stare back at him. His touches linger over him, moving up until his hair, and he them softly, brushing them away from his forehead.

“How are you feeling?” his voices is light but filled with something he can’t reach, something between care and sweetness and concerns that he doesn’t deserve. “Can you take out your shirt?” he asks, cautious, his hands still on his face, carefully rubbing his hair, so softly, so motherly, he feels at ease. “I don’t think you have a broken rib, but it will be better to check and see” and he nods in agreement, letting him undone his clothes, revealing a slim body, a frame he can hold between his hands. There are red sores all over it and more bruises and scratches on his long, disconnected arms that lie down in a perfect done bed that is turning scarlet, covered in his red and he can’t thanks this person enough or apologize to him enough for all he is doing, for this healing hands that are washing him clean, erasing memories, replacing them with soft eyes and plump lips. This person is captivating, he knows, he has seen him around the neighbourhood but it’s just a pretty face with no name. Now he wants to know, now he wants to discover everything about him, this boy who lives in a room that holds a home and that is treating him as if he mattered, not as if he was another bothering living . This boy who looks after him, who touches him gracefully for the first time in years. 

“I’m sorry” he mumbles, and his eyes go big and wide, surprised.

“Don’t have to be” he replies “I should have done something earlier, the first time I saw them striking you. I’m sorry for that” but he smiles at him, at this person who cares about him. 

He brings some medicine and puts it on his injuries. It feels cold and itches, but again, his hands are so gently, like dancing, gliding up his arms and his torso, melting with his touches the pain that beats raw under his flesh. He leaves again only to come back bringing with him the strong smell of alcohol that makes him shiver.

“It is whisky” he says, showing a towel that is dripping, totally soaked in brown “I don’t have anything else to disinfect your lip. It won’t taste nice, but try to resist” he commands in a low, slow tone, reassuring him, and he breaths at it, at this person that shines under the white of the lightening. He is right, it taste like hell and hurts on his lips, where the flavour loiters, but he presses them hard and lets him do his task.

There is no much to say but thanks and sorry; he isn’t feeling well and he allows him to rest on his bed, closing his eyes for a moment before someone collects him.

When he wakes up again he lies on a bed that has been never made and his heart misses a beat thinking about gentle hands and gentle voice and a boy made by stars.

School remains the same, bullies annoying him just because he is doing great on all the dances contests, but they don’t follow him home nor beat him, scare of that little boy; after all he doesn’t worth going to jail and he doesn’t miss the loose of their company. He misses him instead.

He dreams about him, about those precious eyes that shine, alive, so big, the crown of all his face. He thinks about him too and, by doing that, he wants to be better, he wants to deserve all the tenderness and affection that this person has showered him with. And it’s thinking about him that his body moves better, free, dancing at the beat of his own heart, imagine that he is there to see him, smiling proudly because after all the pain he has endured, his movements are gracious and perfects, and they are all only for him. 

He doesn’t know his name but where he lives, the sweet scene of his house. He knows nothing about him but how gentle he is, a pure soul he wants to reach, that he wants to keep,  and so he writes him a note three weeks after it.

He finds an envelope under the door of his house. It’s a letter filled with wonderful words, written by a boy who speaks his heart openly and beautifully. He says that he is thankful, that he has saved him, not only by curing him but by making him improve, becoming a better person, inspired all by him. And he wants to meet again, this boy of stubborn eyes, decided and stronger than he seems, long and tall and gorgeous, soft inside, like a feather; he wants to protect him, he wants to see his smile. 

The moon bright shyly on an afternoon sky, fallen leaves creping under his feet, running around. He is there, too, all alluring and smiling, walking toward him.

“I’m Lee Seunghoon” he greets him “thanks for coming”.

“I’m Kim Jinwoo, glad to see that you are alright” he says holding in his eyes his glance. He has been thinking about him, too, if he was fine, if he remembered him. But he didn’t forget and now, in front of him, he looks so good, soft hair that his fingers still recall, that he wants to touch again.

They just stare at each other, no words needed, slowly approaching, getting closer. His hands feel warm against his skin, his cheeks blushing, his eyes steady on him, lips barely touching, and like this he can feel his breath over his, latching on together until disappearing, blending in one.