Snow

The air carries his laughter while he jogs ahead, his figure a mere dark shape amidst the white field. Above, the clouds are full, round forms discoloured, snow about to pour on them. But it doesn’t matter, he thinks, he doesn’t care at all when life is ahead of him, tumbling on piles of fresh icicles, his voices laced on the soft wind spreading his hair, dark ink painting the whiteness of the universe. He stands and stares at the little mote moving, up and down, diffused around the edges, the only living creature on this path of stretched winter, the sun gently caressing the surface with cold fingers, painting the scene with golden hues over an eternal canvas splashed with occasional green pines emerging from between.

This moment in front of him is beautiful, with Jinwoo running in circles, smiling at him, sunshine on his back and his heart under his sleeves. Enthralling, captivating, he itches to capture it all, unfold it on pictures and photographies, emboss it beneath his eyes, always within his mind, this pure instant of joy and happiness, with Jinwoo calling his name with unending love and care, meeting his glance and grinning, waving his hand with enjoyment, urging Minho to stop contemplating and join him. But Minho can’t move from this spot from where he can view the whole field, where Jinwoo is the main character, all he can see – all that’s dear to him. It is perfection: Jinwoo, the snowy land, he doesn’t dare to tear his eyes from it, he doesn’t want to miss a thing – and he chuckles at himself for being so sappy, so enamoured, so fascinated by the only person able to unlock his senses, to own his heart; Jinwoo is capable to make him feel again, despite the creeping vines of icicles climbing on his legs, a stubborn grab on him, holding him still, painting baby-blue his veins. The same esplanade that has witnessed a war unveil, scarred with bombs and shoots, watered with blood and pain, eroded with explosions that spring has covered up, that snow has blanketed, inking the place in soft, iridescent ice, opal white, pure as morning dew – as pure as Jinwoo’s kisses, fresh and new, every time different, every time coming up as a surprise, the same lingering feeling as Christmas morning, Jinwoo the only present he wants, the only thing he longs for, dreams of, craves and crawls for, Jinwoo, the meaning of his existence, the reason why he wakes up, the gleam lifting the gloominess of a dull day.

Time freezes still, quiet and silent. All laughter subdues and there is only Jinwoo, distant and foggy, his eyes tilted, big and round, astounded, lips trembling, a smile perishing, and Minho contemplates him, unsure.

And all the stories are true, he remembers, when the blast turns snow into slush, uncovering the ground beneath, pouring ice and rocks and Jinwoo away, scarlet snow where he was once standing, the only memory of Kim Jinwoo. And it can’t be true, it can’t, but the buzz on his ears, the dizziness settled on his head, it’s real, tangible, it hurts like hell, his body sprawled on the field, snow pouring on him, smooth, erasing the traces of the mine blow-up, the blurts of detritus already dismissing under the slow blizzard. It rains red and, under it, nothing remains of Jinwoo - as if he never existed, not a single vestige of him, not a dash of ragged clothes, only a dashing flash of burning ashes and fading snow. 

It is still warm, the place where he was, ten feet under the surface. Minho spoons a bunch of snow and lets its colour sink on him, flooding his skin, drops meshing on his hand, watering the land, melting the remains of blood that belongs to Jinwoo. And he lays there, lets it cover his flesh, soaks him until Jinwoo is in him, under his bones, inside of his chest, drawn in red all over his essence, inked on his soul.

The snow falls down on him, but he doesn’t flinch, allows it to wrap him, layer after layer, his breath shaggy, a puff of heavy coughs, his eyes closed, sew with infinite whiteness, a world that ends in pearlescent. And nothing else matter, snow burying him, a shared grave for him and Jinwoo, slowly perishing under the cold of the winter, trembling with the memories, the strenuous bang mincing him in front of his eyes – but now all he can see is the falling snow.