It is better to to die standing than to live on your knees. - Che Guevara

He could do this ten times, a thousand times, every day until his life’s end. The way his fingers tighten around the microphone, knuckles white with indignation, or how his strong legs are positioned in a powerful stance that even The Consulate’s twenty high-profile bureaucrats cannot knock down, will never fade. A certain fervor surges through his veins every time he is about to speak, an idiosyncratic passion that nothing can parallel. Because, when a broken institution leaves perpetual emptiness in their citizens’ stomachs, when every part of his life is slowly falling into shambles, what is there to do besides fight?

“ Tongzhimen, my comrades.”

The frenzy and urgent whispers that circulate the room hushes as his lips graze over the microphone. The only sounds that break the otherwise silence are the distant police siren that serves as a constant reminder of the outside chaos, and his deafening heartbeat that pulses through his eardrums.

“I speak here, on the eve of 26th of December, like I do on every 26th of the month. Today is the day after Christmas, when The Consulate and the wealthy are celebrating with their pretty little families by their pretty little fireplaces, counting the money that piles at their feet. They do not care that this money was stolen from us--this money is the people’s money.” His voice starts off slightly soft, but becomes louder as his confidence collects in his chest.

“When we speak of the people we do not mean the comfortable ones, the conservative elements of the nation, who welcome any regime of oppression, prostrating themselves before the master of the moment until they grind their foreheads into the ground. When we speak of the struggle, the people means the vast unredeemed masses, to whom all make promises and whom all deceive; we mean the people who yearn for a better, more dignified and more just nation, for we have suffered injustice and mockery, generation after generation.”

He pauses, and notices that everyone is staring intently with passion reflected in their eyes--the same glow that fills his chest with warmth.

He continues. “These are the people who struggle:

“Seven hundred thousand Cathanians without work, who desire to earn their daily bread honestly without having to emigrate in search of livelihood.

“Five hundred thousand farm laborers inhabiting miserable shacks, who work four months a year and starve for the rest of the year, sharing their misery with their children, who have not an inch of land to cultivate, and who existence inspires compassion in any heat not made of stone.

“Four hundred thousand industrial laborers and stevedores whose retirement funds have been embezzled, whose benefits are being taken away, whose homes are wretched quarters, whose salaries pass from the hands of the boss to those of the usurer, whose future is a pay reduction and dismissal, whose life is eternal work and whose only rest is in the tomb.

“Three hundred thousand families in Cathay who live cramped into barracks and tenements without even the minimum sanitary requirements, drinking water infested with parasites.

“These are the people, the ones who know misfortune and therefore, are capable of fighting with limitless courage!”

A roar erupts from the crowd and everyone stands on their feet with their fists raised in the air. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The right side of his lips lifts up into a half smile, almost like a smirk, with a hint of conceit. He raises his arm and lift a single finger. The crowd once again grows silent.

“The future of the country and the solution of its problems cannot continue to depend on the selfish interests of a dozen financiers, nor on the cold calculations of profits that ten or twelve magnates draw up in their air-conditioned offices.  The country cannot continue begging on its knees for miracles…The problems of Cathay can be solved only if we dedicate ourselves to fight for Cathay--fight with the same energy, honesty, and patriotism our liberators had when they created it.

“There is no excuse. Cathay could easily provide for a population three times as great as it now has. Markets should be overflowing with produce, pantries should be full, all hands should be working. This is not an inconceivable thought.  What is inconceivable is that anyone should go to bed hungry, that children should die for lack of medical attention; what is inconceivable is that 30% of our farm people cannot write their names and that 99% of them know nothing of Cathay’s history.

“We all seek a common goal--for a country of sovereignty, of social justice, of education, and of liberty. And thus, we must stand in unison, to fight for a world that now only seems like a utopia. But I will tell you that this life is possible. But only if you join me in this fight.

What do you say?”

“Yes! We are with you! Duizhang ! Duizhang ! Duizhang !”

He salutes to the crowd before stepping off the podium. The chants continue to reverberate through the walls of the pub, the various voices blending into one strong cry for justice. In moments like these, all the work he has done in opposition to The Consulate finally pays off. The sense of unity circulating the atmosphere reminds him that this will be an uphill battle--a long and gruesome one--but he will not be alone.

--

“How much longer will it take? We don’t have much time.” Jongin, the man who sits diagonal to Chanyeol, retorts sharply. Jongin is a loyal comrade whose emotionless face masks his hot headed nature.

Chanyeol rolls up his sleeves and downs another shot of baijiu . He swallows hard, before he lets out a drawn out sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you? We still have not reached our maximum potential.”

Jongin’s eyes narrow. “What?! You’ve got to be kidding me.” He gesticulates around. “Chanyeol, we have been doing this for almost two years now. People are tired of waiting. Everyone is expecting something, but the revolution continues to be delayed.”

Chanyeol grits his teeth. “Just give me a bit more time.”

“Seven months,” Jongin hisses, before placing his fedora on. He abruptly slams his empty glass on the wooden table and stands up from his chair. With one sweeping motion, Jongin’s long black trench coat sweeps behind him as he exits the Tavern.

Chanyeol feels the gazes of the other drinkers drift to his corner of the Tavern. Thankfully, the poor lighting of the Tavern is just enough to conceal his face from recognition.

***

Chanyeol is not a newcomer at the Tavern. Between the weekly discussions, secret congregations, and drinking as a stress reliever, the Tavern is his second most frequented place, behind the comforts of his own home. He rarely makes friendly conversation with the waiters and bartenders, as he prefers spending time alone, but he has already memorized their shifts, and even receives free drinks from a few that he is closer to.

That is why on the 26th of January, just minutes before he is scheduled to speak like he did on every 26th of the month, he is surprised to note that the Tavern has a new addition: four dancers, all with long hair down past their shoulders (breaking the appearance rules set by The Consulate), dressed from top-down in red. Not the same red as the blood that stains the Yangtze rivers during The Consulate’s secret village raids, but a bright, fiery red. Red like the hidden flags of the tongzhimen . Red like the passion ignited in his chest when he speaks of revolution and new beginnings.

It is this passion that carries him through his monthly speeches every night of the 26th, especially tonight’s. His speech planned for today departs from the simple regurgitations of the Old Era’s communist manifesto and other glittering generalities. He knows the crowd will still stir up if he does not speaks the way he has been for the last few months, but time is ticking.  

They have six months until the planned revolution. That is not enough time. Yet, Chanyeol feels that no time will ever be enough.

Although his stoic countenance never shows it, anxiety kicks him harder than anyone else. The past few weeks has been characterized by sleepless nights, constant pacing and whispering to himself, rigorous planning, advertisement, gathering supporters, etc. No doubt, his entire team has been a tremendous help, but they can never fully comprehend the magnitude of his burden. But, it is a good kind of pressure, one that propels his motivation.

Yet, as he lifts his eyes, he notices that the crowd has slowly grown and filled the full capacity of the Tavern. People talk in hushed whispers, shoulder rubbing against shoulder, b of suppressed enthusiasm. In the very back corner of the Tavern, Jongin raises a glass and winks at him. A surge of pride mixes in with his knot of nerves; the toil of the past few weeks has finally paid off. The endless campaigning, interviews, and rallies…

“Tongzhimen. We have gathered a lot of you here tonight.” Silence, like always, falls upon the crowd. “This is a sign. The support behind our cause is enormous. Every one of you today believe in a new future for Cathay--one of equality, of justice, of liberty. We are unstoppable.”

A loud whoop sounds from somewhere in the middle of the throng, ricocheting along the walls of the Tavern. Chanyeol steals a glance at the crowd, but his eyes fall upon one of the rather prettier new dancers dressed in red. Unlike the rest of the dancers, who are nowhere to be seen, she leans against the back wall of the Tavern, swirling a glass of clear liquid. She stares straight at Chanyeol. Something about her gaze sends chills down his spine.

Quickly drawing his eyes away, he continues. “Now that we are an unimpeded force, the time you all have been waiting for has finally come. Our first mission will take place on the 14th of February, when The Consulate and the rich are drowning their lovers with presents created by the toil of factory workers and the working class.

“There will be a demonstration in front of The Consulate building. Why should they go home and celebrate asinine holidays whenever they choose while we have not seen our families for months? And do not forget: these holidays are not Cathanian. No, these are imperialist efforts by Usonia to civilize our ‘barbarity’ and turn ourselves Western. We must resist this encroachment. We will make our voices heard.”

Contrary to the response Chanyeol desires, the crowd shifts uncomfortably. However, he expected this. There has never been a successful demonstration under the rule of The Consulate before. All known demonstrators are publicly shamed and isolated, some who disappear mysteriously for months, some who return with no memory of protest, others who never return at all.

Chanyeol now faces the challenge of consoling the crowd. “Do not fret. The Consulate does not have the right to arrest us if we do not make any physical damage. We will be masked so that they cannot identify us. None of you will be at risk of arrest. It will be a silent protest, so we cannot be punished for defamation.”

He pauses. The crowd is still off, still jittering and on their toes. If he does not continue, he doubts anyone will even show up to the protest. What type of mockery would that bring? He does not want to-- cannot --find out.

“Everyone--”

“Wait!” A voice interrupts his speech from the back of the Tavern. The pretty dancer in red is still staring straight at him, this time with no glass in her hand. Despite the distance between her and Chanyeol, he notes that she has undeniably feminine features. Yet, Chanyeol is certain that it was she who just spoke. She has a rather deep voice, almost masculine, but surprisingly audible from the other side of the Tavern. “Why should we trust you? Are you willing to sacrifice your life for the cause of this revolution?”

The question is abrupt, almost jarring, and it knocks his consciousness back into place. Chanyeol meets her cold eyes, and it is then he realizes that her inquiry is serious. He hesitates at first before uttering any word. He has always hoped that he will live, ignoring the worst-case scenarios in favor of inklings of positivity. But, if his work comes to it, will he sacrifice his life?

He hesitates for a brief moment. The crowd is now listening intently. Everyone seems on edge, as if anticipating what he will say next. “A revolution is not a bed of roses. A resolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past.” Each word echoes as he recites his favorite quote from the revolutionaries of the Old Era. “It will not be easy. But if I die, it will not be at the hands of The Consulate.”

Chanyeol’s words hang in the air, and any response from the audience balances on the tips of everyone’s tongues but never spills out. No one utters even a whisper. No anxiety, no nervousness. Instead, every pair of eyes stares up at Chanyeol, and he can see their admiration, their determination, and is that a glint of...hopefulness?

***

The Tavern is for the unconventional, those who do not fit neatly into the mainstream of Cathanian society: the poor working class, indigenous victims of colonialism, the exiled, the darker-skinned. Although they embody a myriad of backgrounds, cultures, skin colors, and experiences, they all share one binding aspect: ardent opposition to the Consulate.

The Tavern is also the center for insurgency, where Chanyeol spends his hours planning and discussing for his next speech, the next gathering, and eventually--that is, if all goes as planned--revolution. The Tavern is strategically located in the middle of nowhere in the mountainous side of Cathay, one thousand miles west of the nation's Capitol. Not only is it located out of The Consulate's immediate reach, but the Tavern's layout is underground, beneath one of the smaller hills located twenty minutes away from the nearest city.

The smell of cheap alcohol flirts with his senses when he pushes through the Tavern doors. He steals a glance at the back corner-- his corner --and sure enough, the figure in the black cloak and fedora is seated diagonal from Chanyeol’s own usual spot.

Jongin is staring silently toward the front of the room, stoic like always, eyes glazed over as if his soul had left the earthly dimension.

"Jongin," Chanyeol greets as he slides into his stool.

Jongin is unresponsive, except when he downs another shot of baijiu . They sit in silence for a few moments. Chanyeol watches for any break in Jongin's trance, like Chanyeol always does whenever Jongin is in one of his internal existential crises.

"You know," Jongin finally speaks, knuckles white as he grips his empty glass, "who the decided it was a good idea to form The Consulate in the first place? Like, did they just want to oppress people for fun?"

They both know the answer to the first question. Or at least, they know why The Consulate was formed according to the bureaucrats themselves. The countless history classes that indoctrinated the children of the middle and upper classes--those who could afford an education--imprinted "fact" upon "fact" into their adolescent minds. There is no room for the Old Era’s curriculum centered around historical analysis that Chanyeol has read about in his secret stash of forbidden books. Instead, students are forced to memorize The Consulate's twisted history textbook from cover to cover.

“Article One Section One: All governmental Powers is herein granted shall be vested in the Consulate of the Republic of Cathay, which consists of twenty persons including a President and a Vice President,” Chanyeol recites, word for word.

Jongin completes the thought for him. “Article One Section Three: The Consulate is the best form of government to preserve the utmost superiority and order of Cathay. The educated elite will protect against the threat of tyrannical opposing factions.”

What do those lines in the Cathanian constitution mean? Why does each class have a specific dress code? What was so threatening in the Old World that the liberators of Cathay felt the need to form a bureaucracy of twenty to dictate every aspect of life? No one truly knows the answers to these questions, but children are taught that it is in the best interests of everyone not to interrogate the superiority of The Consulate. The consequences, people know, are fatal.

“Jongin. What do you think would happen if we found out the motives behind the creators of Cathay?”

Jongin continues to gaze nonchalantly at the hustle and bustle of the other activities that goes on in the Tavern. The lack of direct eye contact, Chanyeol knows, is a sign that Jongin is not comfortable with the topic at hand.

“The question is, will we ever find those motives?”

Chanyeol should have known that Jongin would say that. “You know that is not my question.”

Jongin leans back as far as he can, chuckles, and proceeds to smirk. “You have interesting fantasies. But if we did find them, we would probably be dead. Either that, or the rulers of Cathay.”

Another shot of baijiu later, Chanyeol retorts, “I guess there is only one way to find out.” Whether his comment is a joke or not, is a mystery even to himself.

“Your drinks, sirs,” a voice breaks their pregnant silence. Someone sets two orange expensive-looking cocktails onto the table between them. Drinks that neither could afford.

“What is this?” Chanyeol asks, annoyed. Despite coming to the Tavern to relax, he holds the same intolerance toward imperfection that he carries while working. He does not particularly  enjoy being interrupted to hold unnecessary conversations with people he does not intend to communicate with. Right before he is about to knock the drinks over, Jongin catches his wrist.

“What he means is, this is a mistake. We did not order any drinks,” Jongin interjects.

Chanyeol finally looks up. It is the same mysterious dancer who interrupted his speech a few days earlier, except that she wears a black skin-tight dress this time.

The dancer bows. “My apologies. Someone told me to bring them to you two.”

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. “And what do they want? To poison us?”

The dancer hastily takes back the drinks, her arms shaking as she does so. One of the drinks tipps slightly too much, and spills the contents of the orange cocktail, soaking Chanyeol’s crisp white shirt.

“Sir, I am so sorry.” The dancer bows repeatedly. “I can get that cleaned for you right away. Sir, I deeply apologize for all my mishaps tonight.”

Chanyeol glares at the dancer. This is precisely why he does not converse with the staff at the Tavern. He pries Jongin’s grip off his wrist before redirecting his attention to the dancer. “You realize this is my favorite white T-shirt,” he states, like a fact instead of a question. Not that the statement is true, but he does not like to give an easy time to people who makes careless mistakes. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“You can come with me and I can help clean it off,” she replies meekly, staring at the ground as she speaks. Chanyeol can sense her nervousness by the slight tremor in her voice. Despite his annoyance, deep down, she amuses him. Was it not just a few days ago that she was bold enough to interrupt him in front of a full tavern? Yet now, she cowers meekly in front of him.

Perhaps it is this amusement that leads him to stand up. “Fine.”

The dancer leads him behind the bar to a private room. “Hold on sir, let me get a towel,” the dancer says before exiting the door.

The room he is left alone in must be a new addition; in his past explorations of the back of the Tavern, this is his first time encountering this place. It is presumably the dancers’ dressing room. Racks lined with dresses occupy one half of the space, while the other half holds several shelves stuffed full of various accessories. One plastic bin contains what looks like brown fur. Upon closer inspection, Chanyeol realizes that it is not fur, but hair from a pile of brown wigs.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Chanyeol jolts around just in time to see the dancer slip into the room with a towel in her hand. Although he wears the same expressionless face, it unsettles him that he did not notice the sound of the door opening.

“Are you going to give me the towel or are you just going to stand there?”

“Ah--sorry. I’ll do it.” She approaches Chanyeol with the towel gripped in her hand so hard that her knuckles are white.

She hesitates before placing the towel onto the orange stain on Chanyeol’s shirt. Chanyeol is present to the proximity--the lack of a personal bubble--between them. There is only one person he allows to make physical contact with him, and that is Jongin. Even Jongin took multiple years to open up to. Strangers, of course, are an automatic no.

Yet, as the dancer dabs the stain with a wet towel, Chanyeol can only observe. From up close, he notes that her face is caked with makeup. Not the type that Western celebrities wear which is popular among wealthy Cathanian women, but the dancer has the look of the Cathanian stars from the Old Era--pale skin, straight brows, red lips--just like in the stolen movies he watches in the fleeting moments of his spare time.

Chanyeol’s eyes fall down to the dancer’s hands on his chest. Long, slender fingers work their way to clean his shirt. As he observes, something catches his attention.

“You sleeve is torn,” he notes. Chanyeol does not know what propels him to do so, but he grasps her wrist, the towel dropping onto the floor.

The dancer gasps and pulls away as quickly as possible, as if by instinct. But it is too late. Chanyeol already saw it as clear as day. There is a slight hope that he saw wrong, but in his gut, he knows his eyes made no mistake. They look like blooming purple blossoms on white snow. Ironic, because Chanyeol knows it is far from that. He has witnessed the same image when his father first found out that Chanyeol likes boys. That was also the last night he ate dinner at home.

Chanyeol does not say a word. He drops his arm to the side and swallows. The awkwardness surrounds him, the discomfort suffocates him. He needs to leave. “I can clean up after myself.” He picks up the towel, starts to walk toward the door and places his hand on the knob.

As he turns the door knob, the silence breaks. “Wait.” It sounds like a meek call for help, one that Chanyeol can ignore. Reliving past memories is not something he has time for. He opens the door.

“Wait!” It is a demand this time. A grip on his shoulder prevents him from taking another step.

“Let go of me,” Chanyeol hisses underneath his breath

The dancer releases his shoulder and draws her hand away. “I-I’m sorry.” Her apology tumbles out, each word awkwardly leaving her lips. “I just wanted to say...don’t tell anyone. Please.”

Chanyeol pauses, one foot in the room and the other out. “I won’t,” he promises tersely, before exiting the room completely. He does not turn around once as he heads straight for his seat in the corner of the Tavern. He has things to do.

What the dancer does not know, however, is that something else caught Chanyeol’s attention. Besides the bruises that bloomed like violets, Chanyeol noticed that the dancer has luscious chocolate brown hair. The same exact hair that he saw in the plastic bin back in the dressing room.

Chanyeol thinks, recalling that masculine voice--that it is not just a coincidence.

***

“Who is that dancer over there?” Chanyeol is back in the Tavern a week later. For six nights, he avoided returning--the longest grace period in a few months--before Jongin finally forces his “ out of a dungeon.”

“Oh, Baekhyun? She’s one of the dancers that the manager hired as an upgrade to the Tavern.” Jongdae, the only bartender that Chanyeol converses occasionally with, begins to prepare a drink.

“An upgrade?” Chanyeol inquires.

“Yeah, those were the words he used.” Jongdae swirls a mysterious green concentrate into what looks like tequila. “But I suspect that he only hired the dancers because he pitied them. Some of the girls have quite unfortunate backgrounds.”

Chanyeol smiles internally. He was right to ask Jongdae, who cannot keep his mouth shut when he is gossiping.

Jongdae motions Chanyeol to lean over the bar. “I heard,” Jongdae whispers, however, not subtle at all, “that Baekhyun comes from the poorJiangxin province in the northwest. No one knows much about her but…” Jongdae glanced in Baekhyun’s direction. “There’s a rumor that she--or he--is a man."

As Jongdae concludes his sentence, the lights in the Tavern dim and the speakers come to life with a crackle. The notes of a melody begin to echo through the Tavern hall. It is one of his favorite classics from the Old Era. The sing-song nature of Old Mandarin tugs at his voice, and he cannot help but hum softly along.

His voice falls into a decrescendo when a single spotlight turns on and highlights the center of the stage. The light falls upon the four dancers, who are all dressed in scarlet qipaos . The stage in front of him is not like the western club dances that objectify women to satisfy the desires of toxic masculinity. Rather, the dancers emulate the performances from the Old Era, fusing ballet with traditional Cathanian dance. The dancers craft legends from their performance--stories of Chang’E and Houyi , the Eight Immortals in the Heaven, the Stolen Maiden--all folklore stories that he heard of vaguely as a child at his grandmother’s feet.

Despite the flamboyant performance involving all the dancers, his eyes cannot help but be drawn to Baekhyun. The dancer is mesmerizing, the way her--or his slender body bends fluidly, back arching with grace, and arms stretched elegantly above his head. Curved lines and enigmatic shadows, so dimensional yet abstract, weaving the story of the Goddess of the Moon.

However, more magnanimous than Chanyeol’s attraction is his curiosity. Curiosity about others is not something that strikes Chanyeol normally, but how can Baekhyun not pique his interest? Who created those bruises that scatter Baekhyun’s forearm? If this is the condition he is in, why does he still crossdress and dance at the Tavern?

“They’re really good, aren’t they? Especially Baekhyun.” Jongdae’s voice interrupts Chanyeol’s distracted thought process.

“I guess,” Chanyeol replies tersely. He keeps the rest of his thoughts in his head. He has an image to keep..

***

"Your drink, sir." A glass of clear liquid is set onto the table in front of Chanyeol, throwing him into déjà vu. Before he can make any remark, the same voice says, "I know you did not order it, but please drink it."

Chanyeol looks up from the pamphlet he was just immersed in. Of course, it is the dancer again. Baekhyun stands in front of him with a towel already prepared hanging on his arm, eyes refusing to look away from the ground.

"I do not take drinks from people I hardly know." Chanyeol draws out his words, savoring each syllable on his tongue. He looks back at the minuscule print on his pamphlet and continues where he had left off.

A few moments later, when Chanyeol finally admits to himself that he cannot take in any more words, he lifts his head back up. An empty space was left behind, with the faint fragrance of lingering rosemary.

Chanyeol furrows his brows. Why Baekhyun decided to give him a drink, he is not sure. Nonetheless, he lifts the glass to his nose and takes a whiff. The scent is cold and fresh, with a slight hint of the evergreen forest. Adding to the oddness of the situation, Baekhyun brought Chanyeol his favorite drink--a gin martini infused with sweet pine. Deciding that the drink is most likely safe, he downs it in one shot. The crisp liquid chills his throat as he swallows.

“Hey.” Jongin pops out of seemingly nowhere with two glasses in his hands.

He hands one to Chanyeol, and they clink glasses before both of them incline their heads back and pour vodka down their throats like water down the drain. By the time Chanyeol sets the empty glass down, his vision has already begun to swim, the alcohol's effects taking off.

What happens the rest of the night is a literal blur. His eyes are clouded over and his hearing is muffled. All he can sense are a mass of bodies, the constant hum of people, and the sharp aftertaste of alcohol stuck in the back of his throat.

***

Chanyeol wakes up to darkness. At first he considers that he might be dreaming, but when a headache hits him like a hammer, he acknowledges that he is, unfortunately, awake and hungover.

As he looks around, he realizes that it is not completely dark. The only source of light, albeit a dim and minimal one, comes from the back of the Tavern behind the bar. It casts long shadows that create an eerie ambience.

He is alone. All the tables have been cleared off, except for his own, which has a glass tipped over in a small puddle of vodka. It is also impossible to tell what time it is. The Tavern has no clock and he has forgotten his own watch at home.

With the headache pulsing greater every passing second, all Chanyeol wants to do is sleep in the comforts of his own bed. His home is only ten minutes away by foot, but the winters in West Cathay are brutally freezing. In his current state, walking outside in the snow is simply undesirable. Chanyeol continues to sit down and he wonders if he should just spend the night at the Tavern and wait until the sun comes up before heading back home.

His eyelids start to droop again, mind on the edge of consciousness. As his breathing grows deeper and slower, a sudden sound jolts him awake. He leaps out of his seat, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Chanyeol cannot see anything from his vantage point, but his sense of hearing is maximized. From the direction of the light comes the sound of a door creaking open, followed by labored breathing, and then soft footsteps.  An intruder of some sort. Perhaps the Consulate has finally found the rebels’ hiding spot. The Tavern will be destroyed by tomorrow, burnt to gray ashes.

More footsteps. The squeak of a floor panel. The sounds grow louder and louder, but Chanyeol cannot tell if he is imagining that or if the intruder is approaching his corner of the central Tavern hall. When the footsteps sound as if they are just around the corner, Chanyeol holds his breath and tries his best to stay hidden in the shadows. His heartbeat pulses through his ears, and for a moment Chanyeol worries that it is loud enough to give himself away.

Yet, no one comes. Silence replaces the sound of footsteps. Chanyeol continues to wait, afraid that the intruder is right behind the wall that his shaking body is pressed against. Suddenly, sharp labored breathing erupts from a short distance away. The noise is not the sound of an intruder, but more like an injured person.

Chanyeol still keeps his guard, crouching lower and slinking further back into the shadows.

The labored breathing turns to shallow whimpers that make Chanyeol clench his fists, as if he is the one experiencing pain. When at last he cannot stay still any longer, he slowly stands up and walks toward the source of the noise, careful not to step on a creaking floorboard.

The light from the back of the Tavern reveals a figure slumped against the wall while clutching their waist.

"Are you alright?" Chanyeol asks cautiously.

The figure flinches and lifted their head to stare straight into Chanyeol's soul. He will never forget that piercing gaze. Even in the dim lighting, he notices the specks of jade in those enigmatic irises. Those same eyes send a foreboding message that screams "danger." Even without the long hair, the person is unmistakable.

Chanyeol does not wait for a response before he quickly turns on his heels back to the front of the Tavern. He has no desire to tangle himself up in others' issues. Not when he is busy with a revolution.

"No, wait," Chanyeol hears from behind him. Still, he turns the doorknob of the Tavern exit. "Please, don't go."

He does not open the door, but asks icily, "Why should I listen to you?"

"I-I can help you. And you can help me." Baekhyun's reply, despite the evident pain that he is in, is surprisingly strong. Yet, Chanyeol detects the slight waver in the dancer's voice: Fear.

"And why would I possibly need your help?" Chanyeol has turned back toward the back of the Tavern again. He is not entirely sure what stops him from abandoning the dancer. He blames the cold weather, and perhaps the same curiosity that tugged at him earlier in the dressing room, and even when he was watching the dancers' performance.

"Your revolution..." Chanyeol's ears perk up as those words leave Baekhyun's mouth. "I can help you make it successful."

----

Notes:

Regarding the term "Tongzhi": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tongzhi_(term)
"Duizhang" = leader
"Baijiu" = Chinese liquor (similar to soju)