006. “Defining Winter”

            On the second year he came I was fixated; emotionally attached to something I never thought I’d ever meet or will still be meeting.

            But we did, and every meeting turned to be trickier than the last. Every victim more innocent than the one before him.

            I know what I was doing was still wrong in all aspects; helping a killer. I saw the small amount of good in him, although I find it hard to believe how something as surreal and twisted as he is can actually fill the gap of goodness I yearned to see, I chose to concentrate on that than to worry myself with what he asked me to do.

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            Define winter, Kibum.

            He talked through sending me his thoughts, and I’d answer him out loud. We were standing next to each other, with him tracing the mists of my fogged up window. Time flew by so fast, yet I felt secured. It was the fifth year of our annual meeting. The sun was starting to set, and I was getting worked up already, but I tried hard to conceal my uneasiness. Doing business with him for four years didn’t help eliminate the tormenting thoughts I have of the act; his act, but those four years taught me to think of everything as merely business.

            A blood-making, head pounding, and tremendously dirty business.

           We barely talk normal anymore; even our minds seemed to be exhausted to carry our mental conversations. But that was enough for me. I yearned for the warmth of his gaze and his company.

           “Why?” I suddenly had no exact answer for his question, and with his tone I know he wasn’t asking for winter’s technical definition.

            I just…want to know your definition of winter.

            He slowly diverted his gaze in my direction, eyes boring into my own, the same warmth and assurance of company present. His expression was not unnerving and it offered me solace just by looking at his sincere eyes. He was the brother I never had; he was the summer I never experienced.

            “Winter… came in the form of a voice, a voice that saved me from myself four years ago when I was about to end my own life. Winter was my savior,” I stalled for a bit, thinking to myself how happy I was to finally find that someone who perfectly resembled everything I felt, “Winter is my warmth.” The sentence sounded so sure, so real and full of genuineness.

            He was agape, a hand rested on the windowsill as if to steady himself. I don’t know what answer he was expecting back then, but I know it wasn’t that.

            He was motionless for a few seconds, and I started to worry, “I’m sorry are you okay?”

            I was about to shake his shoulders, my hand already outstretched, but he caught mine with his own cold hand and blurted, “Thank you, Kibum.” I could’ve sworn he was fighting back his tears, his eyes watered as he cupped my warm hand in his cold ones.

           Thank you.

            “No, thank you, Winter.” And then he smiled, like it’s the first time he’s seen sun, after a decade of winters.

            I patted his shoulder and smiled, “Where to now?” And then we stalked off to the cold night, painting the town blood-red with sad hints of our brown eyes.