Hypocrite

Lonely Languid Liars
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Long after the fire in my hearth had died down, I stayed at my desk sipping my wine, smacking my lips at its rivetingly bitter taste. I recalled, with a slowly curling frown facing my rain-patterned windowpane, the slender but broad arch of his back swaying to his music, his dominant arm stimulating each lute string enchantingly. 

 

He was almost like a wizard with the lute, a confident jester playing his tricks in front of the King. He often played for the royal court - such was his calibre. He was Jiyong the music teacher by day, Jiyong the composer by night. 

 

But where had he gone, after I had disturbed him so greatly? Where had he run to, in order to escape the clutches of my ignorance and desperation? And why hadn’t my head turned to wood, of which it was evidently made of, all along? 

 

My head felt heavy on my hands, leaving red imprints on them as I straightened my aching neck. I raised my empty goblet and performed a half-hearted toast at the black mirror affixed to the wall, offering a clear view of my desolate reflection. Even though it was already April and therefore late into spring, cold currents swirled about in my living room, biting my skin till my cheeks turned pink. I peered with more focus at the mirror. 

 

A dishevelled, unshaven young man with eyes of a rather intense shade of black glared back at me, refusing to wipe tears that had formed along the rim of his eyes. I gulped at my reflection. If Jiyong were to see me in this state, he would have whipped me back into shape with a precise quip or two.

 

Whilst discussing our grand plans for the future, Jiyong had often spoken with a mixture of energetic idealism and candour, adding a welcome depth to his boyishness. As cliché as it sounded, it was his personality I had been drawn to initially. He was not a man of few words, for he liked to talk a lot, but somehow his actions always conveyed more than his words. We had spent many idyllic afternoons together playing the lute, painting, and discussing politics, of which he had no end to a rejoinder.

 

He was deeply passionate about French opera, being able to play both the lute and the flute with finesse. Their mournful cadences and high, thrumming voices filled with artful tremours or pauses conveyed the refined style of French opera. He had composed songs from a young age, learning everything from his father, who had been a mildly successful composer. 

 

Despite spending several hours composing a day, Jiyong was not wholly attached and consumed by his art, guarded by a sensible acknowledgement that immersing oneself too deep into anything precipitated self-destructive consequences. Like any young man in his twenties, he was passionate about women, but refrained out of a conditioned propensity to keep them as subjects of his curiosity and his pining compositions about love. His father had always kept a close watch on him anyway, something that Jiyong did not fail to mope about to me.

 

On the other hand, I was the opposite in that I did not find women curious, but rather repulsive, especially if they sidled up too close, staging delicate games mostly at my expense and poor social skills, and that made my skin crawl in fear.

 

Because I was such an uncultured swine, I retained the immature opinion up till the present day - something which Jiyong had always scoffed at. Of course, I later learned that this tendency of mine - to draw away when there was a pursuer - was what had ultimately displaced Jiyong from me, even if he had been a member of the same gender. I had detested our gradually encroaching intimacy: the way he sipped his tea while he worked on my desk or tucked his lute into a closet beside my coat stand by the doorway had me muttering under my breath in annoyance. The manner in which he combed his hair and laced the edges with my very own perfume, or bought and affectionately wore the same black leather gloves as me, drove me inexplicably mad. 

 

I allowed tears to drip freely down my now patchily pink face. 

 

Jiyong, come back! I’m so, so sorry! I don’t care what others think of me anymore! You were my divine, my amorous love, my sweet! Come hither, you bastard! 

 

In my memory, his gasps were husky with the fire of ual passion, and his face, cast into shadow, along with darkness and sweat dripping down his face, was contorted by a glorious mid-growl reminiscent of the king of lions presiding over a vast territory. 

 

I had learnt the ropes of male-to-male from him, because where else would I learn?  Initially, his guidance had been gentle, devoid of expectation, earnest, encouraging. Then, he had gradually emerged from his shell and taken the form of a tiger once I had learnt enough to carve channels to direct the flow of his boundless energy. It was boundless to me, anyway, for the way Jiyong loved me was so generous. He had never once made me feel ashamed of

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maler_yo #1
sorry, there won't be any more continuation? this is my first fanfiction on this platform, I really liked it, are you still writing them?