Raven

いくつもの季節を過ごしてきた              
この体ひきずりまわすように                 
古ぼけた時計を巻き戻せば                    
悲しみの痛みはやわらぐのか                 

I’ve lived through so many seasons,

It’s like I’m dragging my body around

If I were to turn back the worn-out clock,

Would it ease this sad pain?

The view from the window is an unending green.

It’s been quite sometime since they’ve officially entered the countryside.

Honestly, Chanyeol didn’t mind it. Didn’t hate being in the middle of nowhere. This was the kind of nothingness he’d always been searching for in the middle of the city, the kind of quietness he could only get a taste of if he went and sat by the Han River in the wee hours of the morning.

He presses the button to roll his window down, and he is greeted by a blast of fresh air.

“Yah, you’re wasting the airconditioning.”

“Just turn it off, hyung. The air’s nice.”

His manager gives him an eye roll through the rearview mirror before complying, muttering something about celebrities and their eccentricities.

Honestly, if it were someone else, Chanyeol would have fired them on the spot. “You’re lucky I like you hyung,” he says as much.

“Ha!” comes the scoff from the driver’s seat. “Lucky enough to make me drive 8 hours straight? I wish you’d stop liking me, you punk.”

Chanyeol grins and focuses back on the flashes of green outside his window. At least he had Heechul-hyung. This was something he had taken a habit of these days—being thankful of the at leasts. At least he wasn’t going to prison. At least his family stood by him. At least Sehun didn’t hate him. At least he still had a career to go back to once this all blew over.

Chanyeol has always been an optimistic—this was something people always noted about him, next to being compared to an over-enthusiastic puppy. And Chanyeol agreed, he liked looking at the positive side of things. But these days…these days it was a bit hard.

He spun his phone on his hand, itching to make the screen come to life, to look his name up and scroll through the results one by one. It was addictive, seeing his name mentioned by all sorts of people. It wasn’t a healthy habit, he knew. But it was one of the ways he used to evaluate himself. Did people like their song? What did his fans think of the album? What about that magazine cover? Was SC doing well? Were they loved?

Chanyeol sighs and throws the phone to the empty seat beside him. The google search would just yield the same results as the past week, anyway.

SC’S CHANYEOL INVOLVED IN A FIGHT

AN UNHEALTHY DRINKING HABIT? DOES CHANYEOL NEED HELP?

A DRUNK CHANYEOL CURSES AT AND ATTACKS MAN IN A CLUB

SC’S CHANYEOL BEATS UP A COLLEGE STUDENT

IT’S TRUE: VIDEO OF SC’S CHANYEOL BEATING UP A STUDENT SURFACES

The headlines got more and more ridiculous as the days passed by, and if Chanyeol did a search now, he was sure he’d be associated with drugs or probably even organized crime. Someone even accused him of kicking their dog on a twitter comment. It all made him nauseous.

It was like no one was even bothering to find out if anything was true. All they saw was a video of Chanyeol drinking with his friends, and they assumed that all the other lies were gospel.

Chanyeol hadn’t even been that drunk. And even if he had been, he was the type of drunk that clung on to people and cried (a fact that he would admit to only if he were held at gunpoint). But hitting someone? It was unimaginable, for even in his worst all Chanyeol was partial to doing was crying in frustration.

His memory of that night was clear as day: he was celebrating his sister’s birthday with their friends. The night had been peaceful enough until an attention-seeking brat decided to make advances on a clearly uncomfortable Yoora. Chanyeol knew that Yoora liked to fight her battles by herself, but that had been one of the rare times that she needed her brother. She’d looked at Chanyeol with pleading eyes, and that was all it took for the singer to step in.

In his mind, it had just been a little brother protecting his sister from a malicious person; but, as everything usually were in the celebrity world, not everyone seemed to think the same. What others saw was an idol, rich and famous and a clear giant, mouthing off to a poor college student who was hardly half his size. It didn’t matter that there were dozens of witnesses, that there were a book’s worth of sworn statements in the singer’s defense—once news broke out that Chanyeol had been in a fight in a bar, it was game over.

People believed what they wanted to believe. It was as simple as that.

The following days had been a nightmare. His phone rang nonstop. From worried relatives, to college friends thirsty for gossip, to journalists hungry for an interview, to his manager and even some of his non-celebrity friends… he let his phone ring endlessly until the battery ran out. His photoshoots were cancelled, new projects axed, brands with him as the model hired new ambassadors. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was the treatment towards SC.

SC was his life, his dream. It was his life’s work, his greatest achievement. Making music with his bestfriend Sehun, writing their own whimsical lyrics and experimenting with all sorts of instruments and musical styles until the wee hours of the morning—that was SC, that was Chanyeol’s everyday life. It was the one thing that made him smile as he woke up each day: knowing that he was actually living the dream he’d envisioned as a child. He could do without everything else, but taking his music away from him…

“It’s not the end of the world, you know that, right?”

Chanyeol focuses back on the rearview mirror and regards Heechul with a weary look.

“You’ve said that a dozen times already, hyung.”

“I know. Just making sure you drum it in your head. You tend to get discouraged easily, you know? It’s why you need people like me to keep reminding you that you’re great and awesome and all that.”

“Tch,” Chanyeol scoffs even as his cheeks are dusted pink. “I got it already.”

In truth, he didn’t believe it.

He found it hard to believe anything people told him these days.

People meant well, Chanyeol knew. But to tell him that the world wasn’t ending? It was easy for them to say. They weren’t the ones rendered helpless as years of hard work shattered to pieces before their eyes.

Junmyeon wakes up to another morning, another sunrise filtering through the gaps of the trees and landing on his eyes through the open doors. He scrunches his eyes at the light and he gets up, his body automatically going through the usual motions of starting the day.

He makes his bed, carefully folding the futon and putting it away in the closet. He changes out of his sleeping clothes into his work robes. He folds up his sleeves, getting ready for the chores ahead.

With light footsteps that echo through the emptiness of the house, Junmyeon goes to take his rag. The tatami flooring is spotless, but he wipes it anyway. He stands on all fours, rag held in place on the floor infront of him with his hands. He wipes from one end of the mat to the other, paying particular attention to wiping along the direction of the straw and not against it, just like Mother always reminded him. From his room to Mother’s and Father’s to the kitchen and the living room. They’re all clean from misuse. But swish swish Junmyeon’s rag went, like a brush trying to paint colors on a canvas.

Once done, Junmyeon puts his cleaning tools away and grabs for the wooden pail by the kitchen sink. He has to go fetch his water for the day. His bare feet skip along the rock steps of the house, onto the soft grass below. The morning dew always made them a little damp, the soil slightly muddy. But the coolness of the ground was always a pleasant way to completely awaken oneself—if the previous cleaning had not been enough, that is. The chill travels from his toes to the rest of his body, making his tails wiggle in excitement.

The well is barely a dozen steps from the house, conveniently placed at the backyard. Junmyeon fetches his water, and does not dawdle. (He does look into the well to smile at and shout at his own reflection, but he thinks that it did not last long enough to count as dawdling.)

Some of the water sloshes out of the pail as he carries it, but he doesn’t mind. There were rags for that. With a small huff, he lifts the pail and places it beside the sink. He scoops some of the water out with his dipper and takes a few gulps. The refreshing coolness trickles down his throat, and he smiles at the sweetness of it.

He washes his face with more of the water, carefully cleaning his ears as well just like Mother had told him to. One always had to be presentable at mealtimes, she’d always say.

Junmyeon quickly prepares a couple of onigiri, the rice a fruit of his own labor. It had been quite difficult, but somehow he had managed to maintain Father’s small rice farm by himself. It was nothing grand, barely half an acre. But it gave him enough wild rice to eat for the entire year, with seeds to plant the next year’s harvest, even.

There is no salt to flavor the rice with, nor seaweed to wrap the bottom with. But a kitsune didn’t need those, Junmyeon thought resolutely. It has been almost a year since he’d last had a meal with any flavoring in it. If only he could sneak out of the forest and take some from the humans living nearby. He wouldn’t steal. Stealing was a deplorable act. No. He would leave the humans with payment of some sort, maybe some of his rice? Maybe a bit of blessing for the household, too.

But he was still afraid, still wary of the world outside of this forest. He wondered again how Baekhyun used to do it. He had always been fearless. Unlike Junmyeon, Baekhyun would make monthly trips to the human village, easily procuring spices, paints, books and treats for the both of them.

With a sigh, Junmyeon places his onigiri on a small plate. He should be thankful for food, for any food at all. He places the plate on the table and he lowers himself on the floor, carefully folding his legs underneath the table.

He brings his hands together in a clap. “Thank you for the meal!”

His voice echoes through the walls, through the hollowness of the rooms. It is almost too loud, but it rings like a momentary spell, ripping through the thick silence that engulfed house.

The three other sides of the table are empty, but he can almost fool himself into thinking that he could see their faces smiling at him, talking animatedly as they slowly eat their breakfast. The table is full, there are bowls filled with Mother’s miso soup, plates with grilled fish that Father caught the day before, there are even sweets—small treats that Junmyeon and Baekhyun acquired from the village beforehand.

The picture disappears as fast as it came, and there is only Junmyeon, with his lone plate of badly made rice balls. The lull comes back, the heavy emptiness with it.

He forces himself to smile as he bites down his tasteless onigiri.

He was alright, he assures himself.

He was alright.

A week after the so-called scandal took place, Chanyeol was at his apartment. The TV is on, and he is letting it run in the background, the noise providing him with the comfortable buzz to keep away the suffocating silence. He is busy going through his clothes—there’s a meeting for the title track of their upcoming album today. He is pushing his head through a hoodie when he hears it.

“On our latest news, SM announces an indefinite hiatus for their idol duo SC.”

Chanyeol paused, thinking he’d been hearing things. A hiatus? He just talked to the executives yesterday. They knew the truth, Chanyeol had told them. What the hell was this news anchor saying…

“…following the uproar against member Park Chanyeol, all scheduled activities, along with the upcoming comeback of the duo have been put on hold.”

Still unbelieving, Chanyeol had whipped his phone out to call his manager. He was met with Heechul’s frustrated grunt, telling him that he hadn’t been informed of this either. He was just as blindsided as he was. A call to Sehun was of the same tone. What on earth was going on?

He finally gathers the courage to call one of their executives. His call goes unanswered. He dials again. And again. Waits. And dials again.

It takes him twenty-four calls before he finally understood. They were not going to accept his calls today, nor anytime soon.

“They’re actually doing this,” Chanyeol gasps in disbelief.

His entertainment company was really throwing him under the bus.

It was then and only then that his knees buckled, and he let himself fall to the floor, ears ringing, chest bursting with sobs he couldn’t cry out because what about Sehun? He didn’t deserve to get caught up in this. What about SC? What about their plans, their promises to their fans?

What now?

“We’re just minimizing our losses.” So they said.

“It’s not that big of a deal! Think of it as a vacation, and you’ll be back. Good as new.” So they said.

“Oppa shouldn’t have picked a fight like that…”

‘I’m a fan, but Chanyeol should not have been in a bar in the first place.”

“See this is why I don’t like idols. They always make themselves look perfect but they’re the most disgusting pieces of shxt.”

Chanyeol thought of his life as this one big puzzle. He’d been working at it for so long, carefully choosing the pieces out, flipping them all in sorts of ways to make them fit perfectly. And just when the picture was coming together, someone yanks it out of his hands and hurls the pieces away. Now he has no idea where the pieces are, where to start looking.

He doesn’t even know if he wants to form the picture again anymore.

A familiar bungalow appears over the curve of the road and Chanyeol is forced out of his thoughts. Just the view of his grandmother’s house lessened the weight on his chest. The house is graying and weathered by time but still homey-looking as ever. From his window, Chanyeol can see that his favorite peach tree has grown into a giant. There are chickens running around, clucking at the car irritably. The roof of the house sags to one side, roof tiles seeming to hang on for dear life just like they did all those summers ago.

He can barely stop himself from bouncing out of the car as the familiar form of his grandmother comes out of the front door, clad in her favorite flowerprint work clothes and her hair much grayer than Chanyeol remembered. She sees the car approach and raises her hand in a wave.

Chanyeol feels tears gather in his eyes at the sight.

He was home.

Junmyeon straightens the sleeves of his yukata as he checks his reflection on the pond’s surface. This leaf pattern yukata was quite old, but it was the best he had. He could probably make it look new with some magic, but he had too little of it as it was. He shouldn’t waste magic like that.

Nevermind, he tells himself. Mother had sewn this yukata herself, and even centuries later it still wore well. Junmyeon gives himself a final check and he nods in approval.

He had to look presentable as he went around the forest, after all.

He spares a glance at the pond, and the whitebeam trees, at the snowdrop flowers of the meadow. “I’m off!” he greets cheerfully. He keeps his smile on and he imagines their voices in his head. Have a safe trip, they would tell him.

With purpose, he marches into the forest, earnestness putting a spring in his steps. He should do well again today. Tending to the forest came next on his daily tasks. It had been Father’s job, but since he was gone…

Junmyeon clears his throat and shakes his head. No sad thoughts, Baekhyun had told him.

Anyway, it had fallen to Junmyeon to take care of the forest. There were stunted plants to coax out of the soil, hurting animals to heal, sagging trees to cheer up. It was the part of the day that Junmyeon looked forward to the most. Out in the forest, surrounded by everything at all sides—it was difficult to feel lonely.

The birds greeted him hello from their nests up on the trees, but a low whine to his side is what grabs Junmyeon’s attention. Standing not far from him is a brown wolf, a female one from what Junmyeon could feel of its energy. The wolf lets out another whine and its head, as if asking Junmyeon to follow, and he does.

The wolf leads him through the forest, to a rock outcropping. He watches as the wolf slinks behind the rocks and disappears. Confused, Junmyeon follows the path the wolf had taken. The rocks had formed a small cave of sorts, neither deep nor large enough for Junmyeon to stand in, but apparently had provided enough shelter to a mother wolf and her pups.

He finds the wolf lying on the floor of the small cave, curled in protectively over her children. Junmyeon does not realize what the wolf wanted him for until he sees one of the puppies. It is lying right infront of the wolf’s face, small and delicate and unmoving. The wolf whines at Junmyeon again and nudges the puppy’s body with her snout.

Junmyeon crouches into the cave and reaches for the puppy. He places his hand over it, and he is instantly appraised of the pup’s condition.

“I’m sorry,” he tells the wolf sadly. “I can’t do anything for you. Your child is gone.”

The wolf lets out a howl at this, a sound of anger and grief that echoes through the forest. But such is the way nature. Both the wolf and Junmyeon know this.

The mother whines as Junmyeon bows and takes the puppy into his arms. He can at least do this for the wolf.

He buries the puppy a few steps away from the cave and mutters a few words of prayer to lord Inari. The puppy was an innocent, and would surely be reincarnated. Such a pure soul would definitely have a full life the next time around.

His next tasks prove to be less depressing: he manages to coax a tree stump to grow some sprouts, he heals an owl’s broken wing. Aside from those, the forest was quiet, its creatures in no further need of assistance from its resident fox spirit.

Junmyeon continues to walk through it, anyway, reaching out to feel the life energy of the forest in its entirety. This was his way of feeling comfort in his existence—an assurance that he was still there for a reason.

He talks to every single creature he meets, he even spares the trees a few greetings.

“How are you today?” he asks a dove.

It coos back at him in reply before flying off to another tree.

He waves at it in goodbye. At least someone tried to talk to him today.

Sometimes, however…Sometimes he wished the animals could actually talk back. He adored their sounds, their barks and chirps and whines and squeals. But… voices. Voices would be nice. Conversations, too… Laughter, too. Even angry shouts would be better than the suffocating silence…

He sighs and makes his way back home. There was nothing better for a bout of unhappiness than an afternoon with his favorite storybooks. Just the thought of it already made him feel better. What lack he had in actual conversations, he made up by reading stories written by all sorts of people. They weren’t there with him, but their words were. They talk to him, their elegant flow of narration lulling him into a bubble of comfort. He is now a hero of a myth, or a mermaid in the sea, or even a boy born out of a giant peach.

He reads on, until he is not himself anymore. Until he is not Junmyeon, not alone in a house with no one else in it, not trapped in a forest where there is no hope of companionship anywhere.