A chinese philosopher once had a dream that he was a butterfly. From that day on, he was never quite certain that he was not a butterfly, dreaming that he was a man.



Hyukjae remembered a time before the camps, although the memories were a bit hazy and the perspective came from the distorted view of an eight year old's eyes. Back then 'camp' meant something very different than it did now. It meant sleepovers with his best friend Junsu, complete with s'mores and stargazing. Bellies full of chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers, the two boys would lay on their backs under the moonlight, pointing out constellations and having earnest discussions about aliens and what the future would be like (a future that included soccer and dancing and dreams of stardom so different than the heavenly bodies above). Occasionally they would catch fireflies in mason jars, sitting back and watching their underbellies flicker - a morse code that only insects knew.

"Flicker butts!" Junsu would exclaim, then dissolve into a flurry of giggles so uniquely his own - only to nudge Hyukjae in the side when he heard the muttered "look who's talking" in response.

Bugs had always fascinated his best friend and Hyukjae remembered many nights with fireflies, always releasing them before their glow died - not wanting to ruin the miracle. During the days they would huddle around anthills, watching the industrious insects fulfill their life's goal of building a home. They'd use twigs and branches to try to divert the ants' path but the creatures would always return to their endpoint, to their Queen. He remembered the butterflies too, 'flying flowers' that would alight on Junsu when he held perfectly still, eyes wide and bright with pleasure when the delicate insects graced him with their tiny bodies. wings flickering like heartbeats. They never landed on Hyukjae, his nervous energy always making him move at the last moment, no matter how often Junsu encouraged him to stay still and wait.

If Hyukjae had to pick out one thing he best remembered from those times it was color - the vivid reds and yellows and oranges from the campfire and the lesser hues of the insect bellies, the inky blue-blackness of the sky, and the pinpoint of sparkling white and silver that were stars hanging above them. There was no vivid color now, everything seemingly awash in muted greys and browns. The once green grass was the color of straw and just as brittle, the line between grass and dirt blurred until he didn't know the difference. The sun never shone anymore, the haziness of smoke and pollution creating a blanket of sickly pale clouds. He hadn't known what 'nuclear winter' had meant at the time it occurred. All he knew was that they had to stay in the bunkers and he never heard from Junsu again. Junsu's father had been high up in the previous government and they were the first to be taken away when the military had stepped in. The camps were formed not long after that, self-contained cities behind barbed-wire fences where gangs ruled. Hundreds, if not thousands, had disappeared in the years following - Hyukjae's father among them.

There were gangs and there were gangs. The first where just collections of neighborhood ruffians who would strut around like roosters, stealing rations and bullying little old ladies. It wasn't like the rations were much - usually weevil-ridden bread and watery, near-tasteless soup - but it wasn't theirs to take and it gave them a sense of power to do so. However, the gangs were another matter entirely, hardened men who often spoke a language other than Hyukjae's own, their eyes cold and their reflexes trigger-quick. It was obvious that these were the men who ran everything - and everyone. The most notorious were the Essjae - a group of seemingly pretty men, boys really. The youngest had a cheerful face, full cheeks and pale skin, and he played a violin whose lacquer was chipped and whose horsehair bow was fraying to near-oblivion. However, Hyukjae had also seen this boy - for he had to be younger than him - cut the throat of a man who had refused to pay with merely a blink and not a drop of regret in his dark eyes. The others weren't much better and Hyuk took care to stay out of their way, his gaze dropping whenever he caught their eyes. What he didn't expect was to be noticed by them, a crooked finger and a silent beckoning bringing him over to the group. They needed a runner, the girlish one with flame red hair murmured through lips that never seemed to lose their smirk - and in that instance he was recruited. After all, you didn't refuse these men. Yes, life was easier but there still was no color, no life - no butterflies.

Hyukjae first glimpsed him the day after his 18th birthday. The man was as slender as a walking-stick, hair a lighter shade of dishwater-blonde - as fake as the circumstances surrounding the situation they were in. As slender as the man was, it didn't make him weak. He moved like a shadow, graceful and quick. His chosen weapons required silencers to keep up with the man's fluid grace and he used them well, a silent Angel of Death. He couldn't have been much older than Hyukjae but there was something old and road-weary about him. He came from some faraway place called the "mainland" and only spoke to the redhead and the tall, handsome man with the gold cross draped around his neck, a mockery of a god who no longer existed. Actually he didn't really speak to Heechul, at least not in words but more in grunts and sighs when night fell and the two thought they were alone. Hyukjae pretended not to hear - and pretended that he didn't dream about this Geng, with his deadly grace and beauty, drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

It took months before Hyukjae realized what Geng reminded him of. Although he was often clad in somber greys and blacks and looked more like a moth than anything else, this man moved with the lightness of a butterfly, alighting from one target to another. Remembering what Junsu had told him about butterflies and how to attract them he did just that - he remained still and waited. The waiting seemed to be endless but soon enough the butterfly landed, not with a flourish of passionate sounds like were heard with Heechul but more like a delicate curiosity. Hyukjae found himself sharing a bench with Geng at meals, the assassin quiet but the atmosphere comfortable, their fingers brushing as bowls were passed and eyes meeting and holding their gaze longer each time. A little longer and Geng began to speak to him, his words soft and stumbling but honest in their sincerity. They spoke of family (both shared sisters they missed), best friends (in Hyukjae's case Junsu, in Geng's a smiling singer named ZhouMi), and dreams. Both men had wanted to be dancers, those dreams shattered but still alive inside.

More months passed and Geng smiled a little more, Hyukjae's heart lightening at the expression. The world seemed not quite as grey now and he began to notice flickers of color - sprigs of green grass peeking from beneath the dead brown, a hint of blue just past the rainy drizzle...and the pinkish tint in Geng's lips. The assassin spent less time with Heechul and more with the runner, something the redheaded leader didn't take well, if the tantrums and thrown pottery behind closed doors were any indication.

"We're getting out of here," Geng murmured in his ear one day as they were standing at the edge of the camp just beyond the barbed wire, breath warm and sending a chill down Hyukjae's spine.

"Here? But it's the camp - it's home."

The assassin shook his head. "There is more out there, Hyukjae...more than the cities, more than the camps. I've seen it."

Hyukjae must have looked skeptical - but that all changed when the other man beckoned him closer, close enough to see something that gave Hyukjae hope, a hope he hadn't held since those days camping with Junsu. Cupped in Geng's hands was a flutter of wings and a flash of color. With a smile the former assassin let his fingers part and a tiny pale blue butterfly escaped, pausing long enough to land on Hyukjae's hand, beating its delicate wings in a gentle cadence.

Hyukjae knew then that no matter what happened there would be hope - hope on the wings of a butterfly.