For notz917
~Infinite Secret Santa 2013~ *Santas Revealed!*New day.
For notz917
Couple: Hojong
Prompt: “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”
Hoya's senses are failing him. It's so dark - like black sludge is surrounding him, drowning him. His ears are ringing from multiple blows to the head. (The voice continues to murmur in his ear). His fingers, slick with blood - his own for once - feel out the floor; the crevices between between the cool, damp slabs; the splinters of the chair they broke over his back; the chain snaking from his ankles to the wall far out of his reach.
The chain almost makes him laugh. Is it really necessary? After what they've done to his kneecaps? He'll never walk again - if he even leaves here alive. They want him to hurt and they want him to die. And Hoya won't tell them anything. He can't let it all be for nothing. He can't betray them.
Two sets of heavy footsteps reverberate on the steps outside. The steel sound that only belongs to the Legion. Descending. Into the pit. This sludge. This pain.
Hoya closes his eyes and breathes as deeply and as calmly as he can (several of his ribs are shattered). For a moment he sees the field and the stream and bright moonlight caressing the earth. The damp grass and the chill breeze. And Sungjong, like a sprite, like a dream, tramping along the rocky embankment. His laugh is the babbling brook. His smile is the moonlight.
"He's laughing," a gravelly, familiar voice growls, "Weird."
"Soon he will not be," another snips, enunciating his words with lofty refinement.
壹
The Coliseum has existed for at least two centuries. Its location has changed - from stinking backstreets to the focus of the city, rising above the throng of day-to-day life. Its ownership has changed. The crowds have remained the same - the same cries, the shouts, the blood-thirst. They've increased in number in recent decades, under the leadership of Patrician Lee, and they've diversified. It's still the proles swamping the filthy stalls, but luxurious balconies and box seats have been constructed for the merchants and leaders. The fighters are the same - following the same unforgiving rules, using the same moves. After a season in the Coliseum, even the most freshfaced and sprightly will look the same, act the same, stomping along the same moribund path. Blood, shouts and screams. The roar of 200 years of crowds are embedded in the stone. The ghosts of long forgotten fighters guard the corridors.
Sungjong can't watch. As the son of the Patrician he has a reserved seat in Box 1. He hasn't made use of it in eight years - not since his mother died when he was 10. Now it's the unofficial seat of his little brother Sungjae's girlfriend-of-the-month. He listens though, however much it makes him cringe. He sits on a wooden bench, knees pulled up to his chest and head resting on the cool metal locker. He holds a tiny radio up to his ear - an excitable commentator recounts all the gory details in near delirium. In some ways, Sungjong doesn't need the commentary. The wail of the crowd filters down to him. The rise and fall of fighters is carried in the soundwaves.
Technically, this room is not open to him. The only people permitted to enter should be the Chief of the Legion, a designated medical person and the fighter whose name hangs on the door. This room - basement really - is the ready room for the star fighter, separated from his peers to combat the likelihood of assassination. For more than six months (a record in living memory) the title of star fighter has belonged to one Hoya, property of the Lee family. The familiar scent of his sweat hangs heavy in the air. Sungjong grips Hoya's t-shirt, discarded on the bench, and buries his head between his knees. The crowd is at fever-pitch. The commentator is barely making sense. Sungjong flinches at every crunch of flesh and bone.
"With his 34th consecutive win, Hoya Lee! Competitor Junyoung Moon is being carried out in pieces - literally!"
After his charge is cleaned up and patched up, the medic gives Sungjong an appraising look.
"Will you stay long, Young Sir?" he asks, peering down his nose at the pair on the bench.
"No," Sungjong answers, holding the man's gaze steadily. He adds firmly, "I will congratulate my fighter. Thank you for your hard work today."
With a bow, the medic takes his leave. Only when the door has clicked shut does Sungjong turn to the man beside him and throw his arms around Hoya's neck.
"My friend."
In turn, Hoya wraps his arms around Sungjong's slim body, squeezing him gently. (He didn't use to do that. Sungjong had to instruct the great lump on how and why. In the early days, there was quite a bit of trial and error before Hoya understood how to hug Sungjong without bruising the boy's ribs). The heat and the weight of Hoya's presence calm Sungjong's heart. The echo of the commentator's infernal chatter is smothered inside him. He pulls back, gingerly touching Hoya's injuries. He lost a lot of blood, but the flush of his skin says his levels are already returning to normal. There's a bitemark in his nose and a sizeable slice has been taken from his jaw. Bruises in the shape of the opponent's hands mar Hoya's muscular neck. All of that will have healed by the evening. The damaged eye (Sungjong runs his fingers around the square, black patch) will probably take another day, as will the broken bones and the internal bruising. The smashed shoulder may take 2 or even 3 days, according to the medic, and he has written a docket excusing Hoya from extra duties for the duration of his healing.
"Will you come see me tonight? Since you're not on duty?" Sungjong requests, voice soft.
Hoya pats his hair. (The fighter taught himself that trick. Sungjong has no idea where he got the idea from).
"I will, Young Master. I look forward to it."
Sungjong smiles and Hoya smiles back. It's a simple, warm smile and Sungjong believes it's true. Accepted wisdom would claim that it's nothing but a trick, a fighter unconsciously mirroring his owner's expression. But Sungjong can't believe that's the case, not with his friend. After all, every fighter was human once, before their owners altered their bones, their skin, their hearts, their emotions... Sungjong can remember Hoya when he was still human. The painfully thin street boy, a little older than Sungjong, was covered in grime, skin marked with sores. So different to the man holding him now. Tall with sharp cut muscles. Dark eyes that lost their fear long ago. The black combats and vest are a sign of what he is. The dressed wounds are sign that he's the best - that he is one with a chance of winning his way out of the Coliseum.
A clanging rhythm of steel-capped boots approaches down the vaulted corridor. The Chief of the Legion is coming to his charge. Sungjong pats Hoya's thigh to tell him to let go.
"I ought to go. Until tonight."
He springs up and takes his leave. He marches shamelessly past the Chief. Let that brainless army man think what he like, he'd never have the courage to report the son of the Patrician.
When the Chief pounds into Hoya's room, he finds the fighter fiddling with the fabric covering his thigh, a far off look in his eyes. Concussion? the Chief wonders with alarm, Better take it for a scan.
貳
Hoya sits cross-legged, straight-backed on his brick bed. He has pushed his blankets aside and, for the 1000th time in two days, is counting off the notches scratched into his headboard. (He's not allowed metal in his personal cell - other than that which is embedded within him - and so was obliged to use his finger nails to tarnish the solid birch). ...25, 30, 34. Only 41 more wins to go until his owner will have to remove Hoya from competition. There's exactly one fighter alive who has ever accomplished such a feat, Woohyuk Jang. Hoya's seen him a few times. At 112 years old, the signs of age are beginning to be irreparable - a dragging knee, black eyes turning grey. As guardian to the Chancellor's grandson, Dongwoo - a notably kind and gentle boy - Hoya's sure the fighter must be content. Hoya's sure fighters can be content. Maybe even happy, as ridiculous as that sounds. He won't tell anyone his belief, not even Sungjong. Someone would be listening in and they'd assume he was malfunctioning.
Hoya jumps off the bed to stretch. He has a view out his small, round window to the exercise yard beyond. The Patrician, the Chief of the Legion and another man in the bight suit of a merchant are crossing towards the barracks, deep in conversation. Hoya drops down to stretch his thigh muscles, still somewhat tender from the intense healing process over the last two days. Hoya's success thus far is not merely a matter of winning. It is also a matter of not dying, and the reasons for him having not died yet can largely be traced to Patrician Lee. Where most fighters live together in one dorm, Hoya, as soon as he showed promise, was given a separate cell in the barracks. Where most fighters have only their own wits to rely on when it comes to finding off would-be assassins, Patrician Lee's monitoring and control of his property and family is intense. No one moves without his knowledge. Nothing is said which does not reach his ears. Hoya is thankful for this. He would not still be here if he weren't under the Patrician's protection. Sungjong, although the boy squirms against the knowledge, would not still be here without his father's methods.
Hoya smiles, thinking about the boy. The other night, they sat on Sungjong's cushioned window seat. The glass rises up almost to the ornate ceiling. The glare of the city and the barracks is far away from there. Sprays of stars cast their glow upon the flower gardens below. Sungjong wrote their names in condensation on the windowpane, giggling with embarrassment when he couldn't tell Hoya which celestial body was which.
Nam Woohyun is driving the van. As leaders' offspring go, the son of Propaganda Minister Nam is one of the most harmless - potentially why he's been given such a menial job as transporting for the Legion. Rumour has it that Young Master Nam has pretentions to joining the intelligence service, infiltrating the tenacious resistance movement. One look at him and you'd know there's nothing to it. Woohyun's too gormless, too simple, too focussed on life's more basic pleasures. Although, admittedly, tonight his demeanour is uncharacteristically tense and serious.
The black van speeds through one of the proles' quarters. The markets, the bars and all the other small businesses are shuttered up at this time of night. The only people openly walking the narrow, cracked streets are a few and the odd member of the civil guard. In the van everyone is silent but for Woohyun's interminable singing. Hoya is on the backseat, squeezed between Minyoung and Jaeho, two of the Lee household's other fighters. Hoyoung and Dambi of the Son household are sitting in front of them. The Son household are loyal supporters of the Patrician and Hoya has worked with them several times in the past.
Woohyun screeches to a stop in the middle of an unremarkable street and reminds the fighters of tonight's duty. It's the usual story - two gangs are planning to bring illegal weapons into the city. The fighters have been rented out for the night, so to speak, to the Legion to swiftly bring the situation to an end. Destroy it all. Never hold back just because proles are human. Never hold back even if you recognise a merchant or a leader. The targets are dangerous criminals. Kill them all.
The five fighters march down the street while Woohyun hangs outside the van, blowing cigarette smoke into the summer breeze. It is a residential area. Curtains twitch as they march by. Lights blink out. Windows slam shut.
"Unusual spot for planning a bit of gun running," Dambi Son comments.
"Ours not to question," Hoya reminds her gruffly. The Son fighter sniffs and moves a step away. She's right though. This isn't the stomping ground of the clans behind the city's gang culture. There's something very strange going on.
They reach the assigned address. The Son fighters go to the rear of the property and Jaeho breaks down the front door. A woman screams. Figures dressed in black are already scrambling out windows. Hoya, Jaeho and Minyoung crash through to the rooms. Hoya catches a human by the hair and snaps his neck. A brave woman, violently shaking with fear, points a carving knife at him. He easily smashes her head open on the wall. The sounds of violence and death carry on the warm June air as Dambi and Hoyoung fulfil their duty outside.
The slaughter lasts barely three minutes. Hoya is standing halfway up the wooden stairs. The banisters have been snapped by the impact of a human body - a boy about Sungjong's age with loose, curly hair matted with blood. Sticky human blood covers Hoya's face and hands .He breathes deeply. There are people still alive, cowering in the attic and the crawl spaces. He can smell them - which means the others can too.
"We should scout the house. The Son units can scout the wasteland nearby," Jaeho growls, boldly staring up at Hoya. (Jaeho has 19 wins in the Coliseum. If he were to murder Hoya then, after a stint in gaol, he would be awarded at least three honorary wins. Hoya must watch him carefully).
"No. Our mission is complete," Hoya replies.
Jaeho tilts his meaty head to the side.
"Is our duty fulfilled?"
Hoya stomps past him.
"Our duty is fulfilled," he confirms as their shoulders bump.
The others have no option but to follow. Soon they are back at the van. Woohyun gives them a once over. None of the blood soaking their uniforms belongs to them. Any minor bruises they sustained are already healing. Woohyun's eyes are read and shining. Hoya pretends to not notice. He is unsure if the other fighters know the meaning of tears.
Sungjong requests Hoya as his . Who can say no to the Patrician's beautiful elder son? Who would dare? The whispers and filthy looks don't matter as they ride out of the city boundaries - Hoya driving Sungjong's motorbike because the boy claimed he was too tired to, Sungjong clinging tightly to his broad back.
The place they arrive at is lush and verdant. Not like the perfect, pristine gardens maintained for the Lee family and nothing like the sandy exercise yard outside the barracks. The ground here rolls and rambles up towards wild woodland and a clear brook littered with boulders. The water rises to a torrent in winter and drops to a pleasant stream in summer. A few people can be spotted wandering about dressed in rags. They keep their distance from the fighter and the beautiful boy. Sungjong says they're migrant workers and this is a rest stop on their route.
Sungjong has taken Hoya here twice before. He believes that no one can hear them here (and Hoya so wants to believe it too).
Hoya dips his feet in the stream. Sungjong explores under his 's (his friend's) watchful gaze. He hops onto a flat, pinkish rock sticking up in the middle of the water. He wobbles this way and that on one foot, gradually regaining some equilibrium.
"Hoya, you're too quiet these days. Has something bad happened?"
Hoya arranges his features into a smile. He knows it's not a good one when Sungjong doesn't return it.
"You worry about me excessively, Lee Sungjong. Young Master shouldn't do that."
With a humph, Sungjong hops to another rock and then another and another, rotating his arms wildly to keep from toppling. When he's reached close enough to the bank, he gives up on balancing and collapses into Hoya's arms.
"But I do," he mumbles into Hoya's shoulder. The wind stirs the leaves.
Sunlight sparkles on the water and the scaly fish darting about below. Sungjong's hair smells of jasmine. Hoya feels something tumbling inside himself.
"I hurt someone," he breathes, "I hurt someone innocent."
Sungjong whispers in his ear, an impossibly soft puff of air, two words flowing through his brain that he struggles to make sense of.
"I know."
參
Rumours have been circulating for the past three weeks regarding the nature of the relationship between Nam Woohyun and Lee Sungjong. That is to say, for three weeks the two have been carefully cultivating rumours about themselves such that now the rumours are as good as fact. The Nam household staff are far too polite to bat an eye when Sungjong sashays into the minister's son's bedroom one afternoon and locks the door behind him.
"Are you sure it's safe?" Sungjong hisses. They are in Woohyun's closet. It is a large closet, as closet's go, but it is still a claustrophobic arrangement. The cool silk shirts brush Sungjong's skin. Shoeboxes (many never opened) restrict where he can place his feet. Woohyun’s leaning against one side, arms crossed petulantly and a miserable moue on his face. It's something of a balancing act to be close enough to communicate without embarrassingly falling against Woohyun's chest. (Not that he doesn't have a very nice chest, but that's really neither here nor there).
"Yes. It's OK. We scared my dad off the previous time." Woohyun's lips twist into a slight smirk. Sungjong blushes ten shades of red remembering his last visit to Woohyun's closet and the utterly humiliating acting Woohyun had insisted upon. That man's idea of was astonishing. It was all part of their cover plan.
"It's getting worse. The ghettos are being decimated. The Resistance are on their knees," Sungjong mutters, keen to get to business. Woohyun nods, staring daggers at a spot on the floor.
"Is it true the merchant Jung Hyungdon was...?"
Sungjong twists the fabric of a sleeve between his fingers. He can't meet Woohyun's eyes. Jung Hyungdon was his father's longest supporter and an old friend. He'd thought that meant he was in a position to question the Patrician's methods. So Jaeho snapped the old man's neck.
Woohyun understands Sungjong's shamefaced silence.
"Damn it," he spits.
With a deep breath, Sungjong reaches out, hesitatingly holding Woohyun's arm. (Woohyun believes in touching and holding, in community and that everyone has a right to happiness. He's a good man, but his beliefs are all wrong).
"Have you heard from him?"
Woohyun's eyes flicker up before sinking back to glaring at the floor.
"Sort of. I got this two days ago."
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows Sungjong a message from a withheld number.
loving some1 deeply gives u courage ♡
Sungjong reads and re-reads it a dozen times. He almost wishes he didn't understand.
"He's not leaving."
"No," Woohyun mumbles.
"They'll kill him."
"I know." His voice cracks. Sungjong allows himself to tip forward. (Soft fabric caressing his face, reminding him of something distant). He wraps his arms around his friend's waist. Woohyun squeezes him back gratefully.
Hoya's fingers trace over the 37 notches on his headboard. He retracts his hands and hides them behind his back. They're always covered in human blood lately. He can feel it even after he's washed and scrubbed them 10 times. Hoya doesn't like human blood. It smells different to his opponents'. It's hot and sticky, tastes of iron and pinches as it congeals.
The human targets aren't the usual. They haven't been for weeks. Hoya's used to men in suits, fat and with rough stubble, their teeth yellow from cigarettes. Lately there have been men and woman and whippet-like teenagers. Not one of them's been wearing a suit. He thinks the other fighters are curious about the change. (He knows Dambi Son was curious, but Eunji Park slaughtered her at the Coliseum last Sunday).
These humans are different when they die. The expressions. The vows that spill from their lips. How they pointlessly shield their younger comrades bodies with their own.
Hoya turns away from the 37 notches. He decides to run on the spot. He will do so for two or three hours because he must think. He feels something, he's concluded, and he doesn't know what it is. A memory of Sungjong - his scent, his shape - grasps Hoya's senses. As such memories often do. Every time Sungjong comes to see him recently, the boy's eyes are full of unshed tears. Sungjong's gained too much sadness, Hoya muses. He ought to comfort him. Hoya wracks his brains to recall everything Sungjong's taught him about 'comfort'.
肆
Twenty-four fighters have been gathered in the Patrician's conference room. The Chief of the Legion trails his eyes over the stock while he waits. A tingle of excitement vibrates through him. Even allies who usually keep their fighters strictly for gambling in the Coliseum have been encouraged to contribute to tonight's push. His eyes linger on Gyuri Nam, the Propaganda Minister's only fighter. Were it human it would be beautiful, he ponders, wetting his lips.
Speaking of female fighters, the merchant Heo's pair, Choa and Way are sitting in the aisle, playing cat's cradle. Why program such behaviour? The advancements that have been made in recent years are truly astonishing. If he hadn't personally witnessed them cutting their opponents' vital organs out last weekend, then even he might think they were real girls.
There is doubt. Hoya's decided that's what the bug in his head is. During the brief journey he tried to pick up the signs of it in his comrades. A flickering eye, shifting in their seat, something, anything. He couldn't tell. How would he know anyway?
It doesn't matter because there's something else in his head, in all their heads. The Patrician's voice - high and formal, repeating their orders over and over. It's rare for the highest leader to deliver their instructions personally. Doing so ensures prompt completion of a mission. (It hurts to disobey. It hurts until all goals have been fulfilled).
Hoya finds himself on the top floor of an abandoned four storey factory. It was a blood bath to get here. He has pushed through a sea of bodies. He is soaked in human blood. It disgusts him. (He must not say so. Such a thing would be considered a malfunction).
Hoya is not alone. He is the only fighter left in this building. He sees no humans. But he smells them. The smell of their life. Pacing slowly back and forth, Hoya locates the weakness in the ceiling. Punching a hole through is a quick job. With a good leap he has hauled himself through to a hidden loft. Ten pairs of human eyes gaze unblinking at him. Their fear is surprisingly subdued.
The bug of doubt in his head makes him hesitate. This is all so strange. The voice in his head tells him to be quick. It makes his brain itch.
A man steps forward. He has spiky, reddish hair and fox-like eyes. His clothes, a black shirt and matching pinstripe slacks, are fine but torn. He has a star tattooed on his neck - that's new.
"Young Master Kim Sunggyu?" Hoya asks, his voice hoarse.
The man, who has been missing since his mother's funeral last spring, nods and comes closer.
"Yes, I'm Sunggyu. Are you Hoya? I've heard about you."
The humans behind the Education Minister's son draw closer together. Their fear is still nothing but a low undercurrent and Hoya doesn't understand why. (His head is pounding. The Patrician's voice drones calmly inside his ear).
"Hoya, did Patrician Lee instruct you to kill us?"
Hoya stares at the imperturbable man in his crumpled suit. The instructions did not mention names, but it is not for him to know names.
"Yes. Personally."
The smell of fear spikes. Still the other humans don't move.
"I see. It's inside your head, isn't it? Does it hurt?"
Something in Sunggyu's expression reminds Hoya of Sungjong. Pure, gentle concern. Why is it being directed towards him? Is it a lie? he wonders.
"Do you know that you can resist?" Sunggyu continues when Hoya gives him no response, "If you push through the pain, it won't hurt anymore. They don't want you to know that, but I promise you it's true."
(Truthfully, Sunggyu is scared. Of course he is. The fighter is still, like the muscles he's bred to be. But he'd drenched in the blood of Sunggyu's friends and comrades. In a breath, he could massacre everyone in the room. Sunggyu is as terrified as he is everyday and more. He simply happens to be good at hiding it).
"Promise?" Hoya checks, square head cocked to one side. No one's ever promised him anything.
"Yes, I promise. You'll need to be strong."
The fox-like man smiles. His smile is beautiful. Not as beautiful as Sungjong's. However, Sungjong does not smile anymore, so Hoya doesn't want to compare.
Sungjong tries to wait. He sits on his windowseat, attempting to read a book of poetry. He remembers sitting here recently with Hoya. Hoya who smiles. Hoya who holds him without being instructed to. Hoya who Sungjong insists on thinking of as a friend, despite being too nervous to say so to anyone but the man himself. Sungjong smacks the heavy tome shut and shoves it away from him. He buries his head between his knees. He can't cry. He mustn't. Someone would hear him.
It's easy for Sungjong. So long as Sungjae goes to the Coliseum, no one expects Sungjong to. So long as he is polite and outwardly filial, his father gives him a lot of freedoms. So long as he doesn't ask questions, he can pretend he doesn't know what the fighters do when the Legion hires them. If he forgets that his father has ultimate control, he can pretend that Hoya is his. (Would Hoya break Sungjong's neck if his father ordered it? There's no reason to believe he wouldn't). Sungjong's room is large and luxurious. It looks out over perfect, pretty gardens, the horizon crowded with apple orchards. This is what his life is. This is all his life needs to be.
Why couldn't he be happy with that?
Sungjong swings himself up. He can't wait anymore. He needs to get out of here.
Hoya does not have enough time to hide his bloody uniform before Sungjong storms into his room. He catches Hoya stuffing something into the back of a drawer. Hoya is looking at Sungjong with an unusually caught-out expression and the boy almost wants to laugh out loud. (He supposes he ought to have knocked first). Sungjong strides over to the drawer and slides it back open. He stares at the bloody garments, unable to make himself touch them.
"Young Master shouldn't."
Stiffly, Sungjong turns to him. Hoya looks tired, Sungjong notices with a shock. Hoya rarely tires. Now he looks ashen faced. Sungjong is reminded of the first time his father sent his investment to fight. Afterwards, Sungjong had thought he'd seen signs of the boy Hoya used to be - the weariness, the twitch of an eye, the bite of a lip. At the time, the idea had seemed too absurd to mention. Besides, the gear inside Hoya kicked into action quickly and those anachronistic human ticks disappeared. For a while, Sungjong had been able to pretend he'd never seen them.
"Young Master?" Hoya prompts, rousing Sungjong from his daze.
Sungjong punches him. It's like hitting the wall or a great lump of frozen meat. He punches him and slaps him and scratches his face. Stupid. I'm so stupid. You're awful. His knuckles hurt and it's not long before the boy's drained. He musters the energy to give Hoya's chest one last shove - budging him not at all.
"Why won't you stop me?" he demands, voice terse. He'd give anything to scream right now.
Hoya takes Sungjong's arms and draws him closer. This is new behaviour and the Patrician's son is shocked into silence.
"Does it bring you comfort, Young Master?" he enquires in his low steady voice. His rough, cold thumb wipes a tear from Sungjong's cheek. Sungjong gasps. He bites his lip hard. After a moment’s hesitation, he throws his arms around Hoya's neck. Hoya lifts Sungjong up and carries him to bed like a child.
"Young Master," Hoya mumbles when they're seated on the bed, Sungjong safe in his lap, "My head hurts."
Sungjong blinks at him, questioningly. Hurts? What could...
Asking too much here would be dangerous. Sungjong will find out, but later. For now, he combs his fingers through Hoya's hair and kisses his forehead. He can feel Hoya's breath on his neck. When he hugs him tight he thinks he can feel the rush of his blood and the beat of his heart. He can't pretend. He mustn't.
伍
They came for Hoya before daybreak. In the mournful light they marched him through winding identical corridors till he was completely lost. The Chief of the Legion was in front, four human legionnaires flanking him and two members of the civil guard behind him holding syringes to his spine. Hoya was scared of the syringes.
They descended. Hoya had had no idea the cellars extended so far below ground. Eventually the Chief stopped in front of a metal door. He unlocked it - three rusty keyholes and three large, iron keys - and the legionnaires pushed it open. A weighty creak resounded, a door that hadn't been disturbed in decades. Following a signal from the Chief - and despite Hoya's obedience throughout this march - the two guards injected him. The pain was instantaneous.
After he was shoved inside, he collapsed. Writhing and shivering in spite of the humidity. Sweating and crying, mucous pouring from his nose. His heart beating much too fast. All of his joints cracking and scraping. This was nothing compared to the lingering ache from resisting the voice. He was delirious. He was in a fog. A membrane formed over his eyes and he was blind. He in rapid breaths, expelling air in wordless shouts. Time was nothing.
When the Chief returns, he finds the slick mass twitching on the stone floor. With a hammer, he breaks its knees. It screams, but makes no move to resist. The Chief knew that it would not be able to yet. He clamps the chain around its ankle. Then he leaves, satisfied for now.
Woohyun's grinning. It's something Sungjong hasn't seen in quite a while. He'd very much like to join in but he'd too confused. Also, Woohyun has obviously been on a shopping spree as there's less space than there used to be in his closet.
"What do you mean?" Sungjong questions, squinting at his friend. It's difficult to look authoritative in a closet. Woohyun just laughs at Sungjong's serious expression.
"Look. I'll show you."
He digs out his phone and brings up a picture message - number withheld again. Trees, sunlight dappling through the canopy. The unseen picture-taker's hand is visible, making a peace sign. On his slender finger is a ring to match the one hanging on a thong around Woohyun's neck. Sungjong can almost hear the babbling brook, smell the woodsmoke from the migrants' fires, see Sunggyu-hyung's kind smile.
"But how?" he squeaks.
"I don't know," Woohyun admits, tearing his eyes from his phone and slipping it back into his pocket, "Someone must have helped them."
Sungjong gazes at him, his mind struggling to process everything.
"No wonder you've got that stupid grin on your face, hyung," he jokes, leaning against Woohyun's side and letting the man ruffle his hair.
Although Hoya cannot see Jaeho, he can smell him and he can hear the fighter's deep, even breathing. The smell is different to how it should be and the sound feels off in Hoya's ears. He wonders what has changed, Jaeho or himself?
"What has been made," Jaeho's voice rumbles, "Can be unmade."
Hoya's senses are not dulled by the pain, the wounds that refuse to heal. Every sensation is sharp and hot and real. He feels alive, although he knows he must die soon.
Jaeho straddles him and punches him square in the gut.
As Sungjong gets on his motorbike to leave the Nam residence (a sprawling townhouse) an oppressive feeling surrounds him. He struggles to keep his breathing calm. For some reason, he remembers a fight a couple of weeks ago, when Hoya had to toil particularly hard to better his opponent. The commentator's hyperactive voice in his ear, detailing his friend's injuries with glee. Sungjong had felt so scared and useless that night.
Sungjong dismisses his current state as nerves. It's an extraordinary development, what Woohyun told him.
On returning home, Sungjong requests Hoya's presence. He is told such a thing is impossible for the moment. Simply not allowable. Dreadfully sorry, Young Sir.
The oppressive feeling returns like a punch in the gut.
Sungjong marches straight to the fighters’' barracks. (Impossible is a word Sungjong is unaccustomed to hearing. The poor footman who tried to prevent him entering the barracks shuffled from foot to foot, eyes darting every which way). Hoya is not there. His blanket is draped neatly over his brick mattress. His chest of drawers is empty, the few regulation garments all gone. Sungjong's heart quakes. A thousand thoughts flash through his head. Woohyun’s pure-hearted smile that morning. Hoya's head resting against Sungjong's chest. Years ago and Sunggyu scolding him for running by the koi pond whilst Dongwoo laughed and bandaged his scraped knee. The crowds pouring out of the Coliseum last weekend and how even Sungjong couldn't help but notice how the prole spectators could be measured in the dozens - not hundreds as in previous times. Running the pads of his fingers over Hoya's rough knuckles, his hands perpetually cold, but always gentle with Sungjong.
"I'm going to see my father," Sungjong announces to anyone who might be listening. He surprises himself by sounding so much less afraid than he is.
Jaeho is holding Hoya up by his armpits. Hoya's feet drag over the ground, the chain makes soft metallic sound, as Jaeho rocks in place. The middle-aged man in front of Hoya is examining him so closely that his crow-footed eyes and his spotted nose appear weirdly bulbous. Hoya's too tired to laugh.
"If you tell us, we can make you work again. You understand, don't you? We can make all this go away." The Patrician punctuates his claims by prodding Hoya's damaged ribs, making Hoya wheeze. The man's voice is high and grating and Hoya wishes he would stop talking. He can't comprehend how someone as sweet and good as Sungjong could come from this man's loins.
When it becomes clear that Hoya is not about to respond, the Patrician gives a signal for Jaeho to drop him. Hoya crumples on the damp ground, a wordless cry echoing around the cell.
"Is it possible Sungjong helped it? Taught it an escape route for those dogs?"
"There is no evidence for your son's involvement in this matter. The young Sir is only a passive sympathiser." The Chief's gravelly voice.
The Patrician tsks.
"Currently only... Leave it. Resume your interrogations in 15 minutes."
Hoya noses the ground, listening to the footsteps of the two men and the fighter receding further and further away.
His father's office is a cavernous affair. The white walls are decorated with ornate stucco panels, delicate alabaster leaves springing out and winding upwards. The high, domed ceiling is painted as a blue sky, cherubic faces peeping out from the clouds. The furniture is minimal, drawing towards a vast oakwood desk behind which Sungjong's father is mixing himself a drink. Jaeho stands by the wall, straight backed and motionless as a statue. Sungjong directs his gaze to the Heaven on the ceiling. Were he so inclined, he could trace it with his eyes closed - every bold angel, every coy goddess. There used to be a beautiful, winged figure modelled on his mother. That figure was painted out some years ago, but Sungjong remembers precisely where it was and the soft features that watched over this place.
Sungjong is being made to wait. But Sungjong is very good at waiting. If his father believes it will blunt his son's resolve, he is sorely mistaken.
The tremors of fear are still racing through him. Not fear of the Patrician, Sungjong has concluded. Fear of what the Patrician can do and has done, maybe. Fear of how his house's star fighter has supposedly disappeared without a trace. But not fear of this man hiding behind his desk, mixing a g&t. That man is nothing to be feared.
Hoya is slipping in and out of consciousness. His dreams are vivid. Grey gaseous faces rising from the earth. Cities of crumbling buildings. A fox scampering into the woods. Sungjong hopping from stepping stone to stepping stone across a foaming river. Sungjong stumbling into his arms and wriggling on his lap.
"My friend."
He's crying, tears pooling in the cracks on the floor.
"And why is that?"
"Because he's my friend!" Sungjong blurts it out in frustration, but he refuses to take it back. His father chuckles. Sungjong is infuriated. His feelings have always been treated this way. It has never been so intolerable.
(Jaeho watches them with curiosity from his station. He has never seen this sort of interaction amongst humans).
"I know it looks very human, my boy," his father patronisingly explains, "Nevertheless, you mustn't be fooled."
"He's my friend," Sungjong repeats, voice like ice.
His father smiles guilelessly.
"It doesn't know friendship. It can't deal with a concept like -"
"He does! He! Not it. He's a man, despite everything you did to him."
"Jongie-yah, I thought you'd grown out of -"
"And he's a better man than you. Now tell me where he is!"
Sungjong takes ragged breaths. The Patrician's still smiling - that terrible, meaningless smile that is so iconicly him. Sungjong paces around the desk to stand above him.
"Tell me, Father," he demands again.
"Jongie-yah, you're stressed."
"Tell me."
"After we've had a little drink -"
"Tell me!" He grabs the first thing that comes to hand, an old fashioned letter opener, and points it in the Patrician's face. His terrible smile falls.
"Sungjong-ah, you're so like your mother sometimes," he scoffs, "Now you will sit down and I will explain some things to you."
"No! Where is he? I know you know. You made him kill people. You made them all killers. Because you're too much of a coward. If you murder all your people, who will you rule over?"
Sungjong is shaking. His vision is blurry. His fingers turn white, gripping the wooden blade.
(Jaeho is not fully listening to the humans now. It seems to him that his situation has changed a lot today. His nemesis at the Coliseum is no longer his nemesis - if the warm, iron stench of Hoya's blood and his inability to heal at speed are any indicators. So would Jaeho gain anything through murdering him? It seems unlikely. Jaeho enjoyed hurting Hoya today. However, if he gains nothing through it, he sees no reason to continue when he could be employed in some other way.
The fight between the two humans is heating up. It is an uneven match. Logically, the son will be the victor. Although, humans are rarely logical...
The distinctive sound of the Chief of the Legion approaching reaches Jaeho's ears. Too far away for the Patrician or his elder son to hear, Jaeho is sure. Truthfully, Jaeho doesn't feel satisfaction being rented to the Legion. The Legion's busy-work is a distraction. Lately, the jobs have been particularly pointless, in his opinion. What reason is there to murder civilian proles?
In a burst of inspiration, Jaeho locks the doors and marches towards the Patrician's son).
"You have only about two minutes, Young Master. You should be quick."
The Patrician gapes at his new star fighter. Sungjong's eyes are wild. Beads of perspiration crowd his face and neck.
"Wh-what?"
"It's important to be accurate or difficulties may arise. May I assist you, Young Master?"
He doesn't give Sungjong a chance to answer, but holds the boys' pale, shaking hands - still desperately clutching the letter opener - in his. Sungjong gasps. The Patrician sputters, twitching in his seat. IF he were lucid enough to form a sentence, he could order Sungjong's death. (Jaeho has heard about families. He's seen recently, women and men throwing themselves in front of young children and begging him to "take"them instead of the young ones. He suspects that's to do with 'family'. He also suspects 'family' has something to do with Sungjong still being alive. But who can say?).
"Young Master should take a breath."
Sungjong obeys. Blood splatters all across him as he exhales. He will never forget the feel of the wooden blade punching through flesh then sliding out. He will never forget the sight of his father with a hole through his neck. The weapon falls from his hands. Sungjong falls to the floor, trembling violently. The Chief of the Legion is rapping on the doors, worried and impatient.
Jaeho spares the shuddering corpse a brief glance. He seats himself beside the human boy, observing him with interest.
"Patrician, do you have instructions to give?"
Sungjong whimpers. Doubling over, he empties his stomach on the thick carpet.
陸
The interim government consists of only 16 men and women. They sit around an oakwood desk in a beautiful, airy room where blood stains have been scrubbed from the plaster walls with only partial success. There are old faces and new. Some purged minsters have returned. One woman in a pencil skirt and square-framed glasses is familiar to some as one of Sungjae's old consorts - and familiar to others as an excellent spy. Chairing the discussion is a man with a round face and narrow eyes. Flecks of red in his black hair are caught by the sunlight streaming in the window.
Outside, a TV crew is gathered in a flower garden - one that's gone a little wild from lack of care. There are a lot of things to report on these days and a new presenter has been recruited, a young man who has strong connections with the old guard and with the heads of the revolution. He has an open and friendly nature and just so happens to be very easy on the eye. His chiselled features are being seen on screens all over the region.
One of those screens is mounted on the wall in a poor apartment. These tenement buildings have been in need of massive repair for years. No one in power cared enough to fund it. Further damage was caused during the recent atrocities. The buildings now lie half empty.
Fortunately, a willing workforce has been found. Dozens of men and women swarm the tenements, busily fixing, cleaning, painting and sweeping. They move the same way, these people. They don't experience the world the way most do and they have all experienced terrible things. However, through careful exposure - and with the help of a medication that officially didn't exist until a couple of months ago - a light is returning to their eyes. The civilians who still live here watch them warily.
A few streets from the tenements there is a hospital. It is struggling to keep going, packed as it is with needy people. Passing wards and ORs, people waiting in corridors and very many harried staff, you'll arrive at the sixth floor and an uncharacteristically quiet corner of the building.
Sungjong's eyes flicker to the corner of the room. Woohyun's face is grinning at him from the TV that's humming away quietly. The corners of Sungjong's lips quirk upwards. Who would have thought that that hyung's stupid, greasy mug would earn him gainful employment?
Woohyun can't steal Sungjong's attention from the man in front of him for long of course. Hoya's arms strain, veins standing out. His hands grip the twin bars and slowly he comes closer. He's sweating. His face is red from exertion. Halfway along the short path, he falters. His arms are shaking badly. Sungjong tenses. The physiotherapist is poised to leap in and help. (Dr. Kim Hyolyn is a great therapist who's pushed past her fears in order to help Hoya. But she's half the weight of the man, if even that. Sungjong can't help but reserve some worry for her).
"You can do it, Hyung!"
Hoya lifts his head, that movement alone a great effort. Sungjong makes fist to cheer him on.
"Hoya-hyung's the best." Sungjong feels like a child. He can't help it around Hoya, not when the man's working so hard.
Hoya lowers his head. With a rough cry, he hauls himself forward. Centimetre by centimetre. The moment he reaches his goal, he collapses into his wheelchair. Sungjong emits a very unmanly squeal and flings his arms around Hoya's neck.
"I'm so proud of you, Hyung."
His skin is hot and his black tanktop is damp with sweat. Sungjong breathes in Hoya's scent.
"Really, Jongie?" the man pants, lifting a tired hand just to play with Sungjong's soft hair. The boy nods, nose brushing Hoya's neck.
"Yep. Hoya hyung's the best and the coolest."
Sungjong's arms tighten around him. Hoya drapes an arm around his shoulders and draws him closer, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. He feels happy and exhausted, the weight and warmth of Sungjong on his chest, their hearts beating together.
The only sound in the drawing room is the crackle of the fire and Sungjae ling on his dummy. Sungjong's father waits expectantly with his newest acquisition. The little boy looks like a skeleton. His face is brown with dirt and dotted with sores. Sungjong hides behind his mum, peeping out from behind her quilt. Sungjae sits in her lap, oblivious to the new arrival.
"What's his name?" Sungjong whispers softly enough for only his mum to hear. She relays the question to her husband in her gentle, tired voice. (She's always tired now, and covering herself in blankets and quilts to keep warm). His father frowns acidly for only a moment before his usual placid expression returns.
"Its name is Hoya," he explains, "It lost its mummy."
Hoya doesn't look like an 'it', Sungjong thinks. Although he does smell worse than anyone Sungjong's ever met. That probably can't he helped though, the boy supposes. He'd be smelly too if he didn't have his mum to wash him. Come to think of it, Sungjong can't imagine what it would be like. Not having his mum to cuddle him. To brush his hair. To let him hide his face in her quilts when Father makes them go to the Coliseum. To wipe his tears when he's sad and tell him to be brave.
Sungjong steps out from behind his mum's leg. He waves at the boy.
"Hello," he greets, "My name's Sungjong. Welcome to our household."
Hoya's eyes bulge at the little boy's speech. He eyes Sungjong's father carefully and bows 90°.
"Thank you, Young Master."
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