mine

and i've been disappearing ever since

Luhan likes writing letters to Jongin. Letters whose words are slashed harshly into the flesh of the page, whose is are dotted with tears and whose ts are crossed with hate. These letters tell everything--the anguish rotting away Luhan’s heart, the desperation lending hope to his illusioned mind, the loathing for the person who is their source. They are letters signed with blood and pain, but they are all Luhan has, his soul encapsulated in sentence fragments and violent cross-outs.

This is what he writes.

When Luhan had Jongin, nothing mattered except keeping him. Luhan lived for Jongin’s lips on his own, for Jongin’s voice wrapped around his name, for Jongin’s eyes on him, for Jongin. If Luhan had Jongin, then he was content, because for him Jongin was everything. He was the only one Luhan wanted, he was the only one who understood, he was the only one Luhan needed. Luhan would do anything to keep Jongin for his, and his alone--he would give all of himself and more, until he was nothing but skin and bones imprisoning a heart red as passion. He would be a forgotten thought, lost in the pages of time. If Jongin’s mind even brushed over that thought, Luhan would still be happy.

When they were together, everything else fell away. Nothing was important as staying by Jongin’s side every minute of every day, sharing everything that could be shared and more. Luhan fell asleep in Jongin’s arms hoping to dream of him, and woke up begging to see his face. Luhan’s life was Jongin, and nothing else. He saw nothing else and he felt nothing else, because Jongin was his. All that had to be true in the world was that statement, and Luhan was happy.

But that all changed when Jongin left. When Jongin left, Luhan didn’t eat, didn’t speak, didn’t sleep. He watched himself cave into himself with a feeling almost like satisfaction. He felt the ridges of his bones threatening to break the translucent white of his skin, and he seasoned his flesh with the salt from his tears, watching his eyes become swollen and red to match the emptiness inside him. As he let himself break into a thousand fragments, he mourned what had been, and plotted what would be.

Because now that Jongin is no longer his, nothing matters except getting him back.

…

Luhan likes wearing oversized sweaters, heavy, dark things that out whatever color is left from his skin. They fall past his shoulders, and expose the skin of his neck and back. He likes this because it means everyone can see the story he’s written there for Jongin to see, long scratches and bite marks glowing red and purple against the white of Luhan’s skin. It says, this is yours. Come and claim it, before someone else ruins it for you. The boys that mark Luhan’s skin like this don’t ask questions, and that’s the way Luhan likes it. They have their way with Luhan, and the rougher the better, because then he can pretend it’s Jongin’s fingers digging bruises into his hipbones or Jongin’s nails slicing open his skin. Every scar and every ounce of hurt is something else that Luhan has given up for Jongin, something that he will hand over gladly if it means getting Jongin back.

He likes rolling his sleeves past his elbows, so when he’s bored he can trace his fingers over the long lines forming a spiderweb over his skin. Sometimes he presses hard, so hard that he remembers how it felt when he first cut the skin open, the razor gliding smoothly along his vein so the blood overflows as if from a river. If the scar is healed, a new line of pink skin puckered over the surrounding flesh, the pressure on the sensitive skin makes Luhan bite his lip. If the scar is still covered with dried blood, red and black like hardened lava, he picks at the blood with his nail. Then the skin breaks open again and the blood runs out even more easily, along the same paths where it flowed the first time. Luhan watches, because even if it hurts at least he feels something.

There are other times, of course, when Luhan runs his fingers so lightly over the skin that he’s not sure if they touch at all. And it’s strange, because the feeling is so painful, somewhere inside, that he’s only willing to touch himself like this when he’s lying alone in bed at night. His fingers whisper over the scars and he shivers because he’s feeling the phantom of what was, the skin that he destroyed and the person that used to be his. The touch is so light and so deceiving that Luhan cries, and wishes that he could hurt more, instead of feeling this regret.

The only thing that hurts more than Jongin’s leaving, is his indifference.

The bell rings and the students file out of their seats. Luhan pretends to drop his notebook, spilling the papers out like pain from his heart. No one pays any attention, so he uses the opportunity to slowly gather them back up again. In the time it takes him to tuck the papers back into his notebook, Jongin finishes asking the teacher his question.

“Jongin,” Luhan calls as he races out the door after him.

Outside the hallways are mostly deserted; the next period is a lunch period. Luhan’s voice echoes through the halls and Jongin’s footsteps are crisp against the linoleum, each foot hitting the ground one after the other and cutting off suddenly and abruptly.

“Listen to me, please!”

Jongin doesn’t pay any attention, but he does stop at his locker. Luhan sprints to catch up to the younger boy. He’s out of breath from the small exertion, his chest heaving and fingers trembling as he reaches out. Everything previously kept locked inside pours out, until Luhan can’t stop it. This is his only chance, to grab at the smoke that is Jongin, before it disappears entirely.

“Please, Jongin. Look at me. Why are we like this? You won’t even look at me anymore, you won’t even listen. What happened to what we had before? You said that you loved me, that you would never leave. But now, it’s like I don’t even exist. Don’t you know that I love you?”

Jongin turns, and for half a heartbeat Luhan thinks that nothing has changed, that Jongin will lean close with a smile and wrap him up in those strong arms. For half a heartbeat, he deludes himself that Jongin still loves him.

It is a silly illusion. Jongin’s eyes are focused on something faraway, past Luhan. He brushes past, and Luhan lets him go, because somehow he knows trying to stop Jongin is hopeless. His knees give out and he drops to the ground, lowering his head to his knees as he leans back against the row of lockers. The tears are familiar pricking at his eyelids, and the suffocating feeling in his chest even more so. It feels like he was only at this place not long ago, crying out every feeling of rejection and hopelessness by himself as Jongin walks away.

Jongin is black smoke and gray ashes, a fire that’s finally burned itself out. He is what was, what used to be, but is now only the prickling of tears at Luhan’s eyes and the slow poisoning of his lungs. He disappears faster than Luhan can catch him, smoke slipping through his fingers, and this is what hurts the most. Jongin is supposed to be Luhan’s, but he only disintegrates in Luhan’s too-tight grasp.

He’s gone.

…

Luhan likes seeing Jongin, because if Luhan can’t have Jongin, just seeing him is acceptable. He likes leaning on his knuckles in the middle of class, watching Jongin chew on the tip of his pencil as he ponders a math problem. He likes seeing Jongin’s body react instinctively to Luhan’s closeness, leaning in and then jerking away when he remembers what has changed. When he remembers that he’s supposed to disappear.

And this is the best. Because this means Jongin is not completely gone from Luhan’s life. Luhan might not be able to grab the smoke in his fingers, but he can still see it. He can still chase it, watch the pain in its eyes and delight in the fact that maybe, just maybe, Jongin is still his. Maybe when Jongin turns away, it’s to hide the longing in his eyes, and maybe when Jongin gets home, he thinks about Luhan just as much as Luhan thinks about him. There’s still hope, and Luhan doesn’t know what he would do without it.

And Luhan falls asleep to the mantra mine, mine, mine, alone but, he knows, not for long. The smoke curls around him.

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