It does not matter how small you are if you have faith and a plan of action -- Fidel Castro

 

Baekhyun leads Chanyeol back to the dressing room. An awkward bubble separates them, making Chanyeol shift uncomfortably from time to time. He cannot help but notice the limp in Baekhyun’s step when the dancer walks.

As soon as they step foot into the dressing room, Baekhyun’s body languishes, legs giving way. Chanyeol gasps and catches Baekhyun’s arms just in time to save him from collapsing onto the floor.

Chanyeol, with gentle movements, leans the dancer against a wall. He kneels down to meet Baekhyun at eye level, but when he scans Baekhyun’s face, the dancer’s eyes droop with exhaustion.

“Hot…” the dancer mutters, voice muffled. A sheen of forehead covers his forehead.

Chanyeol is utterly unprepared for this situation. He does the only thing that comes to mind, and begins to Baekhyun’s weathered coat. He slips the article of clothing off of Baekhyun’s clammy body.

The only thing that covers Baekhyun’s pale upper body is a series of marks. Dark purple bruises are old signs of abuse that are just beginning to heal. Fresh red lines layer over the new wounds from earlier that night. Underneath the fresh marks, permanent pink scars line his back; memories that will haunt Baekhyun forever.

Chanyeol feels bile rise to the back of his throat at the sight of the injured dancer crumpled on the floor. Yet, his arms feel heavy by his side, motionless. He contemplates what he should do next. He’s trapped in a predicament in which his heart is telling him to stay, while his brain is telling him that he’s as powerless as the dancer.

But, when he glances outside the window, he realizes that returning home is not an option. The winds outside howl as the thick snow pounds against the rooftop--a formidable obstruction to stepping outside. At last, Chanyeol leans his head against the wall next to Baekhyun. Sleep weighs down his eyelids and drags him out of consciousness.

 

***

 

Chanyeol wakes up to a sliver of of sunlight breaking through the single window in the dressing room. For a moment, he forgets where he is, before the howling of the wind outside throws him back to last night.

Baekhyun is no longer by his side. His coat, too, is gone.

Both of his legs throb when he stands up. He chooses to ignore it, exits the dressing room, and walks toward the center of the tavern. Sure enough, Baekhyun sits alone at a table with an empty glass clutched in both hands. Chanyeol stands frozen in the doorway, not yet ready to start a conversation.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. You can come here,” Baekhyun begins.

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. Did Baekhyun just give him an order? Nonetheless, his body is too drained to protest. He cooly makes his way to Baekhyun and slides in the seat next to the dancer.

Awkward silence ensues, like it does every time they are in proximity. Chanyeol has the sudden urge to leave.

“It was my father.” Baekhyun speaks suddenly and coldly, words lined with a certain hatred.

When Chanyeol looks over to meet Baekhyun’s yes, he sees the same sentiment that he felt that night he ran away from home: a searing detestation for someone that desires control over the uncontrollable, disgust at yourself for becoming an object with no agency, for not being strong enough to fight back. But Chanyeol cannot reveal his background so soon. Those are memories he does not want to relive yet.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chanyeol asks. He does not intend for his words to sound laced with annoyance, but it is too late to take it back.

“I’m… I’m not sure.” Baekhyun lowers his chin and begins to fidget with his fingers. “I just…” The dancer begins digging his nails into his palms, as if physical pain would suppress the psychological agony.

 

Chanyeol does not think before his hand shoots shot out to grab Baekhyun’s wrist. The dancer turns to look at him with wide, wide eyes.

“Stop doing that,” Chanyeol urges before he releases the dancer’s wrist.

Once again, silence engulfs their bodies, wrapping them in a bubble that is on the edge of bursting. But neither wants to be the one responsible for rupturing it.

“What did you mean when you said that you could help?” Chanyeol finally initiates. He hates every word that comes out of his mouth, detests asking for help. But the protest is only two weeks away, and at this rate, he is uncertain if the revolution will ever gain enough momentum.

“Why do you support the revolution?” Baekhyun’s question is out of place, like a mismatched puzzle piece.

Chanyeol furrows his brows. Is it a habit of Baekhyun to ask sudden, off-topic questions? “That has nothing to do with what I asked,” he responds.

“I know. Why do you support the revolution?” the dancer repeats.

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. Is this a trick question? “What do you think? You’ve attended my speeches already.”

“I know.” Baekhyun bites his lower lip. “But, why does all this,” he gestures around, “ matter to you?”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Chanyeol clenches his fists. “My parents indoctrinated me to believe the Consulate’s filthy bull. Turns out it was all fake. What else do you need? You think I’m doing all this because it’s funny?” Only when he sees Baekhyun’s startled eyes does Chanyeol realize that he was shouting.

Baekhyun responds with a trembling voice. “No. It’s just that… Aren’t you wealthy? How can you understand what it is like to live at the bottom of society?”

Chanyeol grits his teeth as he responded. “I don’t need to see anything to understand. People have told me enough.”

“Who told you?”

Baekhyun’s continues questions begin to irritate him. Would the dancer help him already?

“My professor. He grew up poor.” Chanyeol responds tursely, eager to end the interrogation.

“Your professor…” Baekhyun’s voice no longer trembles but is still soft. “The fact that he became a professor...he was adopted by a wealthy family, wasn’t he?”

Chanyeol looks up and stared into Baekhyun’s eyes. “How did you know?”

The dancer blinks and draws his eyes away. “If he was poor, there is no way he could have become a professor. He would be a peasant, as would his children, and grandchildren, and great children.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

“How can I not be sure?” Baekhyun answers. “I see it...I live it everyday.”

A pause interrupts the flow of their conversation as Chanyeol is unsure how to respond. Baekhyun is still avoiding his question about how the dancer will help him. Chanyeol knows--but does not admit verbally--that the Revolution lacks the momentum that it needs, that support mainly comes from disillusioned youths, educated by secretly revolutionary professors. But he needs something more. And if Baekhyun can truly help him...

“And the point of all this is?”  Chanyeol finally breaks the silence.

“Well,” uncertainty lines the dancers voice again. “How can you represent a population that you don’t understand?”

“What, are you suggesting that I go visit your village?” Chanyeol sneers.

Baekhyun blinks at Chanyeol, without any other clear reaction.

Then it clicks, and Chanyeol wants to punch himself for his own stupidity. How did he think the Revolution would gain momentum if he never reaches out to the outskirts of Cathay? Villagers have no idea that the Revolution is in the works. Strategies to start a revolution from the Old World will not work in a New World country as expansive and diverse as Cathay.

Why is he so slow at picking up Baekhyun’s hints? But also, “why didn’t you just say so?”

The dancer lowers his head, but makes no vocal response.

Chanyeol lets out a sigh of surrender, realizing that cooperating with Baekhyun necessitates letting go of his cold front. “Nevermind. How about this, why don’t you tell me about your village?”

Baekhyun lifts his head, eyes lighting up for a moment. “Or, how about you come with me?”

 

---

 

The days left until the demonstration are trickling down. Chanyeol should be spending the day organizing logistics and giving speeches at the tavern. Instead, he finds himself huddled on a crowded bus headed for a village on the northwest border of Haiqing , the province where the Tavern is located. Baekhyun is by his side, no longer dressed in a wig or a dress, yet still sporting feminine features and the same soft gaze.

The bus is a separate microcosm than the large cities of central Cathay. It is a sight never seen on the urban monorail systems in central Cathay, where citizens are taught to stay silent, to avoid eye contact at all times, like manufactured robots. Here, cloaked figures chatter and gossip like a herd of birds, bubbling with vivacity, despite their visual state of poverty.

A pang of doubt intrudes Chanyeol’s otherwise peaceful mind--would these happy villagers even want a Revolution?

A sudden jerk on the bus almost throws him off his seat. Last minute, a hand on his arm holds him in place. Baekhyun’s grip is firm despite his visibly feeble body, and Chanyeol wonders if Baekhyun is as weak as he presents himself to be.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol mutters before retracting his arm.

The ride is bumpy to say the least, but Chanyeol finds that sitting still only increases his attention to the churning of his stomach. Looking out the window also provides little comfort, despite the stretches of natural scenery that provide a peaceful contrast to the populated urban centers that Chanyeol spends his time in.

“Do you miss home?” He finally asks, realizing that if he does not talk, he will end up with half the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Baekhyun turns to him, startled. “Me?” he asks, pointing to himself.

Chanyeol scoffs, almost laughing at Baekhyun’s oblivion. “Yes, you.”

Baekhyun’s eyes begin to drift to stare outside. Chanyeol notices that this is a habit of Baekhyun’s anytime he is in deep thought.

The dancer takes a big breath before answering. “Sometimes I miss my mother’s food and the liveliness of the community. My father doesn’t live in the village, so it’s not as bad, But I still can’t be myself completely.”

Chanyeol nods, expecting that answer. Rural Cathay, despite being shielded from the Consulates control, still holds onto the traditional values of patriarchal confucianism from the Old World. Someone like Baekhyun does not feel welcomed without molding into traditional gender expectations. Even Chanyeol, despite his masculine appearance, would not fit in if anyone finds out his ual orientation.

“What about you?” Baekhyun’s question throws Chanyeol off guard. He did not expect that the dancer wanted to maintain their conversation. “Do you ever regret leaving home?”

Chanyeol answers sternly, without hesitation. “No. Never. Remember? My parents… they lied to me. They made me believe in the world that the Consulate constructed.” He clenches his fists. “I can’t forgive them for that.”

“Why do you blame them? Aren’t they fooled by the Consulate as well?”

Chanyeol draws a deep breath before shaking his head. “No. My father would invite members of the Consulate over for dinner when I was younger. I only realized much later as a college student that their late-night conversations were actually plans to solidify separate social classes.” He inhales sharply before the next words left his mouth, fused with disgust. “My father would laugh. He said his business would now thrive.”

Baekhyun does not respond immediately, but eventually he rests a hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Chanyeol flinches slightly, but does not pull away. Instead, he finds that Baekhyun’s hand offers him a source of comfort, a reminder that he is not alone. “There’s nothing you should be apologizing for. None of it was your fault.”

Baekhyun’s eyes lock with his own. “Saying I’m sorry does not always have to be for something that is my fault. Sometimes, it is a question of understanding.”

A perplexed look must have flashed on Chanyeol’s face because Baekhyun drops the topic and withdraws his hand.

“There are a few things that you should be careful with when we get to the village,” he starts again. “The first being, they don’t know that my father still contacts me. He was banished a few years ago, after what he did to my mother….”

Chanyeol thinks he saw Baekhyun’s eyes begin to water, but the dancer lowers his head before Chanyeol can confirm. Chanyeol nods in silent understanding, not pressing further.

Baekhyun’s hiccups before he continues. “Second, people are judgemental and rumors travels fast, especially when there’s a newcomer. But the aunties are harmless.”

Chanyeol raises an eyebrow. “Are there few people outside the village who visit?”

“No, there are. But the capital boy will no doubt be the focus of gossip for weeks,” Baekhyun chuckles. “But you should be more worried about the third thing. Most people know--they live in the inequities of Cathay, but to them, revolution seems hopeless, let alone a demonstration.”

Chanyeol’s face darkens. “Then why am I here? I could be focusing on more important things right now.”

“But, how are you going to organize a revolution for the poor without the poor revolting?” Baekhyun replies patiently. “The people here might not want to revolt now, but they will be willing to listen.”

“But, how do you know they will listen to me ?” The doubt is back again, the voice in the back of Chanyeol’s mind asking him if he could succeed, or if he should revolt in the first place. If he could not even gain the support of the poor, why should he even bother trying?

“Don’t worry.” Baekhyun rests his hand on Chanyeol’s knee and squeezes gently. “ I will help you.”

Chanyeol doesn’t flinch this time and instead, a slight smile plays on his lips as he welcomes the feeling of warmth and consolation that the dancer’s touch brings. They ride in contemplative peace. Baekhyun gazes out the window with a nostalgic expression, as if reminiscing about his past train rides back home. They respect each other’s boundaries, yet never forget that, despite meeting each other not too long ago, they are not alone.

 

---

 

It’s evening when they finally arrive. A sudden wave of noise and clutter bombards Chanyeol as he steps off the bus. He thought the bus was lively, but the village is an entirely different level. Dozens of citizens, both young and old, crowd in a small but vibrant marketplace, bargain for produce and textiles. His senses are instantly magnified as he takes in the overwhelming sights and smells: the sharp aroma of spicy noodles, the scarlet lanterns that hung from the top of each booth, the sound of high-pitched shouting, to which he turns around and is almost hit by one of the dirt-covered little children scampering around the streets.

“I knew you would like it,” Baekhyun laughs. “It must be very different than what you are used to.”

And different it is. In the Capitol, any noise louder than the smooth woosh of the monorails, or anything that would ruin the city’s pristine, sterile image, is immediately cracked down upon by the National Guard. Here, west of the Consulate’s control, are signs of not only life, but culture . The village is a haven of Old World Cathay, captured in delicacies, language, and traditions.

For a moment, Chanyeol forgets that they are there for ulterior motives. His palms grow clammy when he remembers that he is not here for relaxation; he is here to convince these people for their support. He glances at Baekhyun, who is smiling fondly at an old grandma feeding tofu pudding to the group of children to calm them down. Almost immediately, Chanyeol’s nerves calmed down. He takes a deep breath. He is not alone.

“We should get going. Follow me closely and make sure not to get lost,” Baekhyun warns. He begins to walk toward the village homes, away from the chaos and toward tranquility.

Despite Chanyeol having longer legs, he can hardly keep up with the dancer. Baekhyun seems accustomed to navigating through the marketplace, smoothly dodging the village shoppers and merchants while occasionally shouting a greeting to a few of the old ladies selling fruits.

Chanyeol finally realizes why Baekhyun warned him about not getting lost when they reach the entrance of the village residential area. They make their way through the dirt roads that are too narrow to fit cars. Identical rectangular homes line block after block, making each street indistinguishable from the next. They are hovels, to say the least, with dirty concrete walls and roofs that need repair.

They eventually reach a small group of old villagers sitting around a table, playing what Chanyeol assumes to be mahjong . The villagers bicker back and forth, but while most Capitol-born-and-raised would frown at the sight, their liveliness brings warmth to Chanyeol.

Yet, as he stands watching, a sudden gut-wrenching feeling of anxiety grows builds in the pit of his stomach. How will people react to a Capitol-born revolutionary, someone who has never lived in poverty, telling them to organize? Despite the confidence that he radiates during the rallies at the Tavern, Chanyeol is someone who keeps his insecurities hidden behind brashness. Insecurity builds and builds, until he relinquishes it through working sleepless nights. But here in the village, he has nowhere to hide.

When the villagers finally pause their chatter to reshuffle for the next round, they look up to see Baekhyun, smiling patiently, and a flustered Chanyeol (failing at) hiding behind the shorter dancer.

“Gosh, Byun Baekhyun! Is that you?” The old woman seated at the right side of the table slowly stands up while she holds onto the table to stabilize herself.

Baekhyun takes a step closer to her and takes ahold of her hands in his own. “Yes Mrs. Lee, it’s me. I’m back.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “How is your family doing?”

“You ask me this question now but don’t bother to pay us a visit in an entire year?” Mrs. Lee scoffs, but her annoyance fades as quickly as it arrived. “We’re doing our best, just trying to make it through the winter.”

She gazes fondly at Baekhyun for a moment, before she notices the awkward figure behind him. “Oh, and who is this?”

Before Chanyeol can open his mouth to speak, Baekhyun comes to his rescue. “Mrs. Lee, this is Park Chanyeol. He’s a friend of mine.”

Chanyeol’s name sounds foreign on Baekhyun’s tongue, and that’s when Chanyeol realizes that this is his first time hearing the dancer address his by name. It’s not a surprise that Baekhyun knows it, anyway. Everyone at the Tavern knows who the revolutionary is.

“You don’t look like you’re from here.” One of the men still seated at the table interjects into the conversation.

“Mr. Yang, you can’t say that.” Mrs. Lee frowns.

“That’s alright. It’s true, I stand out like a sore thumb” Chanyeol finally speaks. He knows he has already been caught. There will be rumors, whether he hides his identity or not.

Mr. Yang scans Chanyeol from head to toe and his face contorts into an expression of befuddlement. “Your clothes look like you’re from Haiqing , but your mannerisms…your mannerisms are from the Capitol.”

Baekhyun steals a glance at Chanyeol while biting his lip. He is about to say something, most likely to turn attention away from Chanyeol, but Chanyeol gets to it first.

“Your assumption is correct. I’m from the Capitol.” Chanyeol waits for a reaction from Mr. Yang, but when the old man just nods slightly, he continues. “But don’t worry, I am not one of them. I hate that place, more than anywhere else.” Confidence to hide his insecurity. His voice doesn’t falter, he must paint an image of perfection. Yet, he can’t help but notice how Mrs. Yang raises her eyebrows when he expresses his loathing for the Capitol.

“Oh, how could you possibly hate living in the Capitol? Isn’t it luxurious?” Mrs. Lee gesticulates at their surroundings. “Much cleaner than this place, for sure.”

Chanyeol grits his teeth in exasperation. Why doesn’t anyone understand? A flash of anger manifests in his reply. “The Capitol is not a good place. There is no such thing as freedom when the Consulate is in a five kilometer radius from you at all times.” His face contorts into one of disgust.

Mrs. Lee opens to reply, but Baekhyun is faster. “Sorry Mrs. Lee, Chanyeol and I should get going. Come on.” He grips Chanyeol’s wrist and tugs.

Chanyeol frowns. Does Baekhyun have to be a peace mediator? He always avoids conflict at all costs. Nonetheless, Chanyeol is grateful that the dancer interrupts them before the conversation turns into an argument.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” Chanyeol asks.

Baekhyun doesn’t reply, and continues to lead Chanyeol through the same narrow streets lined with the same houses. Chanyeol almost wonders if they are walking in circles when they finally stop in front of an open gate.

This house is like the rest, but slightly more dilapidated. The windows are cracked, held together only by white tape, and there is no door but a beaded curtain. Baekhyun’s face holds a tender expression.

“Is this…?” Chanyeol asks. He doesn’t complete his question, but he knows that the same thing is on Baekhyun’s mind.

“Yeah,” Baekhyun confirms.

Chanyeol glances down at their hands. Baekhyun’s slender fingers are still loosely hanging onto his wrist. Baekhyun finally notices as well, and his eyes go wide before he pulls away.

“Ah, sorry,” Baekhyun mutters.

Chanyeol swallows, but doesn’t to respond. Baekhyun’s touch leaves a pool of warmth on his wrist, one that contrasts against the brisk winter air. Baekhyun clears his throat before he parts the beaded curtain and steps inside. Chanyeol follows a foostep behind.

They enter a makeshift living room of sorts. Two wooden chairs sit idly next to a round table in a corner of the small room. There are three doorways, one to the left and another to the right, presumably leading to bedrooms. A pleasant smell wafts out of the third doorway on the back wall of the living room. It must be the kitchen. The house is small, yet, feels empty, lacking a certain coziness that Chanyeol expected based on the liveliness of the village marketplace.

“Mother?” Baekhyun asks.

A clattering cacophony comes from the kitchen. A woman steps out into the living room. If Baekhyun is as old as Chanyeol, then she cannot be past her mid fifties, yet, she looks much older. Her hair is all gray and wirey. Wrinkles etch her face, and her eyes droop with a kind of sadness, a melancholy that is characteristic of those who have lost all their loved ones.

She looks dumbfounded to see Baekhyun standing in her living room, and at first Chanyeol is afraid that their reuniting will be uncomfortable. Eventually, a thin-lipped smile stretches across her face. She opens her arms and wraps Baekhyun into a tight embrace.

Baekhyun’s mother pulls back and scans her son’s face, as if double-checking if it is truly him. “Son, it’s been a while. Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

Baekhyun sighs. “I was busy. You know that I would visit if I had the time.”

Interesting. Chanyeol can tell that Baekhyun is lying. The latter had admitted that he could not be himself completely in the village. He must be telling a white lie so that his mother wouldn’t be offended. In the time Chanyeol has spent with Baekhyun, Chanyeol has come to realize that one of Baekhyun’s prominent characteristics is that he doesn’t like seeing other people struggle or hurt. He always apologizes first, keeps his pain to himself, and avoids conflict at all costs. So different from Chanyeol, who lashes out easily, blames others, and is sometimes too direct.

As soon as Chanyeol starts to wonder if he has been forgotten, Baekhyun turns toward him. “Mother, meet Chanyeol. He’s a friend from Haiqing and will be staying with us tonight.”

Chanyeol from Haiqing. Not from the Capitol. He doesn’t correct Baekhyun, knowing that the dancer wants to avoid a repeat of what had happened with Mrs. Lee and Mr. Yang.

Chanyeol bows in respect. “Nice to meet you Mrs…”

“You may call me auntie.” Baekhyun’s mother flashes the same thin-lipped smile. “Baekhyun didn’t tell us that he would be coming home, let alone bringing a friend. I apologize if we are unprepared.”

“No worries,” Chanyeol chuckles.

“Well, I got to go check up on the food. Make yourself at home,” Baekhyun’s mother comments before heading back to the kitchen.

“Your mother is nice,” Chanyeol whispers. He isn’t lying; Baekhyun’s mother is nice, definitely nicer than his own parents, even though he can’t brush away that look of loneliness on her face.

“Yeah,” Baekhyun mutters in agreement. “She’s still nice to me, even though she knows. Well, she knows that I don’t like girls, but she doesn’t know about the whole dancing thing.” He bites his lip, as if preventing himself from elaborating further.

“I see.” Chanyeol lets out a hollow breath. He wonders how Baekhyun’s mother reacted when she found out Baekhyun’s ual orientation. Was it like Chanyeol’s own father, who roared and whipped him with a belt, until he escaped from home? Or was it like his mother, who could not stop crying, begging him to stop lying?

Chanyeol recalls that night when Baekhyun entered the Tavern, purple and pink blotches scattered on his pale back. It was my father . One thing is certain--their fathers had the same reaction, but while Chanyeol had the fortune to escape the misery, Baekhyun still suffers from time-to-time.

“Oh shoot, I forgot.” Baekhyun tilts his head to the doorway on the right. “Let’s put down our things.”

The bedroom they enter must be Baekhyun’s. It is small, with a narrow bed in the corner, and a simple vanity and drawer tucked in the remaining space.

Chanyeol does not have many items with him, save for a backpack with two changes of clothes and some toiletries. Like Baekhyun, he sets his backpack on the floor. As he does so, something on the vanity catches his eye.

Chanyeol picks up a dusty picture frame. The faded photograph captures a young boy holding a badminton racket upside down with a pout on his face.

“Is this you?” he laughs. Baby Baekhyun is cute.

Baekhyun approaches from behind and peers over Chanyeol’s shoulder. He titters softly.  “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Why were you pouting?” Chanyeol asks. He’s not one to take interest in others’ childhood stories, but he is curious, intrigued even, to hear about Baekhyun’s background.

“I was sad that I had to leave the badminton racket behind.” A fond look passes on Baekhyun’s face. The corners of his mouth curl up, the hint of a smile dusting his lips. Chanyeol hates to admit it, but Baekhyun looks pretty like that.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t get to know anyone too deeply.

“Why did you have to leave it behind?” he finds himself blurting out the next question.

Baekhyun points to the background of the photograph.

“I was at school. It was the only place that I could play sports.” His eyes start to glisten, but he quickly blinks away any incoming tears. “My family couldn’t afford any toys or entertainment so school was my favorite place to be.”

Chanyeol purses his lips, unsure of how to respond. He has a strong urge to apologize. Should he? But, it isn’t his fault that Baekhyun grew up in poverty. Or is it his fault? No, it was the Consulate’s fault. The Consulate and their obsession with widening the wealth gap.

“I’m sorry. It must have been hard.” He still apologizes, remembering what Baekhyun said earlier. Saying I’m sorry does not always have to be for something that is my fault. Sometimes, it is a question of understanding

Baekhyun nods. “It was, but it’s alright. I was a happy child, as long as I could go to school.” He suddenly frowns, any trace of a smile gone, brows furrowed together. A pained expression replaces his nostalgia.

“Why the sad face?” Chanyeol shouldn’t be pushing any farther. He shouldn’t care, he has never cared about anyone else. But Baekhyun’s sudden change in mood is startling.

Baekhyun swallows. He starts to dig his fingernails into his palms again.

“Hey, stop doing that.”

Baekhyun doesn’t listen. He continues to press crescent-shaped crevices into his skin.

“Stop, do you want to hurt yourself?” Chanyeol snaps. He grabs Baekhyun’s wrists and yank them apart.

A moment of silence passes. Chanyeol still holds onto Baekhyun’s wrists, and Baekhyun stands there, not fighting against Chanyeol’s grip.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Chanyeol retorts. His apology is cold, lacking any empathy. He lets go of his hold on Baekhyun. But, Chanyeol immediately regrets using such an icy tone of voice. He knows Baekhyun is hurt--the dancer still hasn’t moved, and he’s now furiously biting his bottom lip.

“No, I’m sorry. I just--I don’t know. Sorry.” Baekhyun hiccups.

Chanyeol’s breath hitches as something clenches in his chest. This is a new sensation that he hasn’t felt before. Baekhyun, someone that has been nothing but kind and helpful, has so much pain. He hides it, doesn’t allow himself to inflict pain on others. Baekhyun, who despite not feeling welcome in the village, still tells his mother that he wanted to visit her more often. Baekhyun, who, hasn’t asked anything in return for agreeing to help him plan the revolution. Baekhyun, who Chanyeol has treated like the entire time. Looking at Baekhyun, Chanyeol feels hurt too. Feeling pain when others are hurt, is this normal?

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t need to.” Chanyeol’s voice is soft and low.

Baekhyun shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I can talk about it.” He takes a deep breath before starting. “My childhood was mostly laughs and smiles, until I was fourteen. That year, the entire village’s crops failed and we had almost nothing to eat except for rice porridge and insects. I remember tying a rope around my waist to make myself feel full at night.”

Hearing Baekhyun talk about his adolescent conditions makes Chanyeol flame with anger. When Chanyeol was fourteen, he never needed to worry about putting a meal in his stomach. In fact, he was overweight, and his mother did everything possible to keep food away from him. He grew up attending lavish parties where half the food became leftovers that were simply thrown away. The Capitol took the peasants’ crops, paid them nothing, and wasted a year’s worth of hard work.

Baekhyun continues, “that’s when my father started to get drunk every Friday night. He would come home intoxicated, and at first it was fine. But then, he started to hit my mother. I didn’t know what to do… my mother said not to tell anyone, so I didn’t.

“But when I was sixteen, rumors started spreading about my uality, and… it got a lot worse.” He is just barely audible now, but Chanyeol can hear his voice tremble. Baekhyun doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t detail what his father did, but Chanyeol can imagine.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Chanyeol mutters. Because, even if it was the Consulate’s fault, he had been complicit in maintaining the system of inequality. And, he is angry, just so angry.

“But hey! I eventually told someone what was happening at home, and the entire village got together and decided to kick him out.” Baekhyun grins, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks like he is forcing himself not to cry. He blinks rapidly as Chanyeol stares at him.

“Well,” Baekhyun turns to face Chanyeol once his eyes are dry. “What about you?”

“Me?” Chanyeol points at himself, not expecting the sudden change in the focus of the conversation. “What about me?”

“It’s your turn. Tell me about what your childhood was like.”

Chanyeol stares at Baekhyun. He can’t pinpoint why it is that Baekhyun wants to know about him. They only agreed on a professional relationship. Yet then again, it was Chanyeol who first started this conversation. He really, really isn’t the type to get to know someone, and he’s even less of the type of person to get to be known. But, he’s starting to feel comfortable around Baekhyun. The dancer isn’t obnoxiously loud, and now that they’ve gotten over most of their awkward silences, Chanyeol finds himself not unwilling to open up.

“You can imagine,” he begins. “You already know how much I hated it. Hated the limitations, the restrictions.” He clenches his fist, angry at the thought of how he was brainwashed from the day he could understand words.

“Care to elaborate?” Baekhyun asks, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Well,” Chanyeol furrows his brows. He wants to elaborate, somehow express his genuine emotions and experiences, but his tongue is tied up. He’s not sure of how to put it all into words.

He remembers how his father recite virtues every morning. Virtue one--obey the Consulate at all costs. If the Consulate says to work, then work. If the Consulate says to fight, then fight. If the Consulate says to kill, then kill. Virtue two--you are worth only as much as you can make. Never stop working until you are richer than the rest. There are dozens more, but even more unspoken virtues: that Usonia, the leader of the Western World, was the supreme nation of the world; that fair skin was desired and dark skin was dirty; that the poor were poor because they were not hardworking and deserved to be punished.

“It was hell,” was all he could muster. “I know you’re expecting more of an answer, but it’s hard to explain. I’m not the best with words.”

Baekhyun his head. “Bad with words? Aren’t you the one would ramble on for ten, twenty minutes in front of a crowd?”

Chanyeol is about to snap back, but when he looks at Baekhyun, the latter has laughter hanging on his lips. Not the mocking kind, but one of light amusement.

“That’s different,” Chanyeol laughs off Baekhyun’s comment.

It’s different because his speeches in front of a crowd are never personal. It’s a shared experience, a shared sense of injustice and anger. He doesn’t have to explain his own personal sentiments.

How ironic, Chanyeol thinks. How ironic, that he, someone who never needed to worry about earning the next dollar, never needed to worry about feeding his family, was leading the Revolution against the Consulate. Baekhyun is right, how can he understand what it truly is like to live in poverty?

“I’m scared,” Chanyeol suddenly looks Baekhyun in the eye and confesses. “How can I possibly lead if… if I’m not one of you? They’ll see me as just a childish Capitol boy complaining over nothing. I’m laughable.” His voice breaks. The image he portrays to others--strong and untouchable--breaks too.

“Chanyeol, I already told you, don’t worry.” Baekhyun’s words are soothing, like drops of sweet honey that Chanyeol eagerly drinks up. “When I saw your speech for the first time, do you remember what you said? ‘A revolution is not a bed of roses. A resolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past.’ You said you were willing to sacrifice your life for this cause. I didn’t believe you at first, but now I do. You deserve to lead this Revolution. I believe in you.” Baekhyun takes ahold of Chanyeol’s hand. “And remember, I’ll be here too.”

Chanyeol swallows thickly but nods. He doesn’t pull away, savoring the warmth that Baekhyun’s touch brings. Baekhyun’s words turn Chanyeol’s regret into relief, as though a heavy burden has been eased off his shoulders. He feels comfortable and safe spilling his worries with Baekhyun next to him.

This feeling he feels with Baekhyun is rare, but he is certain about it: trust.

 

---

Notes:

Haiqing province is a reference to Qinghai province of China
Usonia, if you couldn't tell, is a reference to the United States

Apologies for such a delayed update! I had testing throughout May, so I had to put a hiatus on writing.