v.

Kyungsoo opens the door to Jongin’s room, nodding briefly at the tidy sight. Jongin is careful for the most part. He knows Kyungsoo dislikes it when things get messy, and when Kyungsoo dislikes something he tends to get angry, eventually giving way to promises of beatings hours-long. It is fortunate then, the child thinks sometimes, that Jongin himself craves order and perfection in an almost desperate manner.

(it’s been a year or so)

Jongin wakes up without an alarm clock, at 7:30a.m. sharp every morning. He uses the bathroom and makes his way to the kitchen, arranges the utensils in a most precise pattern and waits for Kyungsoo to set down his breakfast. It’s cereal with milk on odd days and buttered toast on even ones; pancakes or omelette if Kyungsoo has finished a song the day before. He eats everything even if the toast is mostly burnt or the eggs taste bad – complaints on two occasions had only given him markings of the kitchen knife, so Jongin settles with the conclusion that his father isn’t quite a cook.

He goes to the bus-stop by himself, Kyungsoo only walking as far as their front door. Jongin waves to the man who stands with one hand on the doorknob, eyes looking into the distance but never at Jongin, as though he’s waiting for someone else. The eight-year-old has only one person in mind but he’s never dared to question.

Jongin doesn’t talk about school when he returns home. Kyungsoo doesn’t ask.

vi.

If there’s one thing Jongin ever requests for, it’s the convoluted tales that Kyungsoo doesn’t really mind spinning. They make him queasy sometimes, a tad too raw for his taste but at the same time they comfort. And Kyungsoo thinks it’s real selfish of Jongin – to find joy in knowing there’s someone worse off out there; real selfish of Kyungsoo to take pride in making someone else just a little more broken, even if they don’t quite exist.

“I’ll tell you a story today, Jongin.

This tale is of two beings named Yixing and Kai.

Yixing is powerful, or so he’d like to believe; he makes others disappear to nothingness (empty, hollow, barren – Empty) and sometimes he tries to let himself vanish too because someone who exists this way shouldn’t exist at all.

Kai’s kisses are butterflies on tippy-toes, there for a moment and gone the next. They leave behind powdery touches and ghosts of shadows lingering, and the skin craves these ghosts because one is not enough and infinity doesn’t come close either. Trailing behind these ghosts are death tolls ringing loudloudloud but the harbinger’s bell’s inaudible to those who pretend they cannot hear.

Yixing travels with a magical eraser and Kai’s cousin to the tidal waves.”

vii.

“Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three…” Kyungsoo strides out of his room and glares at the boy sitting against the wall. Jongin scrambles to his feet immediately and runs out of sight, seeking refuge in their kitchen. He fills a pot with water, easily shifting it onto the stove. Drags out a chair, momentarily forgetting that Kyungsoo hates noise, and watches the orange tendrils darkened metal. Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two…

He buries his head into rough palms, migraine screaming its loudest within his mind. It’s been occurring too often – face-to-face with a blank grey slate that refuses to budge; lyrics dash to his hand and then retract in mockery, grinning at him with traces of her smile.

Kyungsoo titles this piece Gift, and the only word he can think of is ‘pain’.

“Three hundred and forty-nine.” There comes a knock.

He shoves Jongin to the floor as he passes by.

Frowns at the steaming pot in the kitchen and switches off the gas immediately.

Kyungsoo returns to his studio to witness Jongin setting fire to his scores.

Two hours later. Faraway studio’s covered in powder. Kyungsoo’s sitting in perspiration. Jongin’s asleep in red.

He glances at the unconscious figure, eyes travelling to ugly welts decorating his skin and fists clutching onto wrinkled sheets.

I suppose you deserve a bedtime story.

“Kai likes watching Yixing play the piano. Yixing’s song has a sort of eerily pretty tone to it, somewhat intangible, that’s played for Kai and Kai only.

Yixing’s pale, almost translucent hands move in this manner. They dance towards each other, like in a tango. Close, closer, then away. They cross, tangling, like a beautiful, broken spider web. They slide, burning with friction, and yet no melody is produced. And then they’re gone, grasping at thin air in the wake of paper once white, now swallowed by the scorching flames.

Yixing plays paper pianos. Kai burns them to ashes.”

(pain, grief, cane, red, imbecile, why, fault, wrong, fire, hit, notes, scar, you, gift,

loved.)

viii.

“Is it pyromania?”

“No. As far as the answers he’s given me tell, it doesn’t amount to the impulse control disorder. It’s probably just a one-off incident. Still, please keep all fire-starting devices out of his reach and forbid him access to the kitchen. Take note of his behaviour and if he repeats it again, bring him back for consultation immediately.”

“He’s ten. How am I even supposed to control him?”

“He happens to depend on you a lot and looks up to you as well. If anything, you’re the one and possibly only person he’ll open up to willingly because of his condition. Treat him well. I understand that it may be difficult without your spouse around, but it’s essential that he receives the appropriate care if he’s ever to get better.”

Kyungsoo finds Jongin slumped across the coffee table, scribbled papers laying over one another on the disfigured surface. He remembers fervently (uselessly) scrubbing at the pen markings a summer ago, Jongin watching from the side, crying incoherently and spluttering apologies. The boy went to bed with a new skin of decorations that night.

After two minutes of convincing himself, he sits down beside the sleeping figure and moves Jongin’s head onto jeans-clad legs. The object previously hidden under Jongin’s arms comes into view and Kyungsoo chokes a little as he recognises the book of large, plain, seemingly stationary structures. He places one hand on the book, runs the other through Jongin’s coarse untidy hair and murmurs soft (cruel) nothings. It takes a whole great deal of forced smiles and deep breathing to not slam his fist straight down on that heavy, suffocating, burdensome skull.

“We can destroy each other.”

Short, staggering gasps in through chapped lips.

He’d get a glass of water and dump Jongin’s head on a chopping b– on a pillow, he has no qualms about that, really, but Kyungsoo prefers to torture himself sometimes.

Ragged breaths escape. Don’t lose control. Don’t.

“We can destroy each other, Jongin, because I don’t treat you quite right and you’re killing me.”

Every.

Single.

Day.

ix.

It’s one of the rare times they are seen together on the streets. Man of average height dressed in sensible black clothing, grim lines etched in his face and eyes seemingly focused – on accomplishing a pre-written list of obligations. For survival, out of necessity; the first veil over Kyungsoo’s eyes reeks of these.

The boy beside him, gaunt child yet to meet puberty, dons splashes of grey, brown, and beige, messily thrown together in a lump (but it’ll keep him warm. he won’t die of the cold. it’s enough). Knitted beanie yanked over unkempt hair and scarf in similar dirty maroon hanging off him. Jongin makes an ugly sight and Kyungsoo knows.

They take a relatively long time in the mart, Kyungsoo mechanically picking out daily items while Jongin clings onto his left sleeve like a lifeline, casting furtive glances at the hoard of strangers surrounding them in all directions. The adult attempts to ignore him (they’d call the cops on him if he lashed out at a fragile child), stumbling and cursing under his breath whenever Jongin stands too close and steps on his shoes. By the time they walk through the exit, Jongin’s constantly rubbing the right side of his face, attempting to get rid of the soreness from the endless jabbing of a sharp elbow. Contact, Tolerance, and Kyungsoo don’t click after all.

Kyungsoo can’t help but to turn when a flash of white catches his eye. He stares down a bridal boutique, a familiar gown standing in the display window. Taking slow, tentative steps, he approaches the glass and touches the surface subconsciously with gloved fingertips.

“Look, Kyungsoo.”

“…As much as I’d love to marry you, don’t you think that’s a tad too direct, Seon?”

“If you think I’m trying to coerce you into making me your wife right now Mister, you thought wrong. Is a woman not allowed to appreciate a pretty gown?” Her tone fills with feigned anger and incredulity.

He can only laugh and bury his face into the crook of her neck, peppering soft kisses on the skin that’s become cold from the winter wind.

“Are you sure you don’t want to share?”

“Do Kyungsoo. As much as I love you, I will not, I repeat, will not, walk around in public with my neck attached to yours by a piece of knitted cloth. And no, keep your scarf on, I’m not going to baby you when you fall ill with a runny nose or the likes of it.”

“And I’m not about to pamper you either if you become sick, so we’ll just have to walk around in public with your waist attached to my arm, hm? It’s body heat – best source of warmth, they say.”

She sighs in resignation, then lets the hint of a grin play on her lips as he secures her in a half embrace.

“Just what am I going to do with you Kyungsoo?”

He looks at her slightly frizzled hair, her brown speck of a birthmark, and presses a tender kiss on her cracked, peeling lips.

What would I do without you, beautiful?

A clouded patch forms on the transparent material as he breathes out, dragging the man out of his brief reverie. He turns away from the gown, away from the boutique, and away from the memories.

(the next layer comes with the light pounding of a dull, dull ache – blank, empty, directionless.

empty)

He finds Jongin a few blocks down, palms and face pressed on a window as he gazes almost imploringly at something within the toy store. Kyungsoo’s disgust is made apparent when the boy looks up at him and then down at his feet, Jongin’s muttered plea so very desperate to his ears.

It comes into view as he leans nearer, the dim lighting in the store failing to conceal the bright colours.

The toy.

The spinning object.

The cheap tool.

That cheap, cruel, cold tool of murder.

Kyungsoo has to tow Jongin home, and the boy gains a few more scratches and bruises from the rough pavement and unfriendly sharp corners.

(it’s alright. he won’t die. that’s enough.)

Jongin seems unable to sleep at night, tossing and turning relentlessly. Kyungsoo figures it must be because of the p–that object of his sick fascination. He offers to continue the story, and Jongin sits up all too eagerly.

“Yixing and Kai have this little studio they share. It’s old and dilapidated, but they aren’t afraid of it falling because they believe that nothing can hurt them as long as they have each other.

Yixing sits on a dusty windowsill and stares.

Kai spins, looks as though he’s about to fall and barely, just barely catches himself on worn-out soles. His arms are stretched out, face contorted in anguish and Yixing thinks there are invisible beings pulling at Kai from all directions, attempting to tear his body to pieces. Kai pirouettes and leaps and spins some more and oh look there’s a grand jeté and for a second it almost seems as though he’s weightless – until he crashes onto the rotten wood in a fallen heap.

But don’t pity him, he isn’t all that broken (yet).

Kai picks himself up, flitting over to the boy by the windowsill and invites him to a duet. Yixing is enchanted, mesmerised, and slips into the trance painted out by the danseur. Little beams of sunlight cast golden traces upon their dark brown hair as they waltz, a pair of scarred feet leaving trails in the grime.”

Jongin smiles a sickeningly sweet one and settles into bed with contentment.

7:30a.m. Bathroom. Kitchen. Arranging cutlery. Breakfast. Walking to the door.

Kyungsoo stands with one hand on the doorknob, watching as Jongin’s back view shrinks gradually.

“When a dark-haired youth dies, both dancers are gone, forever.”

He closes the door, making his way to the kitchen to do the dishes.

“One of them didn’t exist, Jongin. Only one of them didn’t exist, but neither of them was real. The one who existed was so caught up in his little imaginary world, no one could tell if he was real anymore. The tales woven had him tangled in them, irretrievable and impossible to escape from because he couldn’t live without those tales, yet within them he wasn’t living either.”

Soft, soft whisper.

“And sometimes, Jongin. Sometimes I wish you didn’t exist either.”

(his second-last skin is a quiet monster, lethal and seething and b over the edge)

This monster names itself Hate.