glass chrysalis

"As he dies, a tiger leaves behind its skin; a man leaves behind his name." --Korean proverb.

 

Luhan was chosen when he was three.

He was lucky, they said. They had found him so early. “But of course, we could have taken you much earlier. Made better changes.” Made a grim face, then, like it was something that was regretful, like it would have been better off for Luhan if they had pampered him at age one and not three, making the right incisions and the right recontourings at a less-than-potty-trained age that would make him more perfect--more perfect than he would become at age twenty two--now.

He grew up like that. Chosen at three--an alarmingly early age at that time; during those times, they were taking kids at ten or eleven. Three was unthinkable.

“But you were just so beautiful,” Jongdae said, shrugging as if there was no other way to explain it. And there really wasn’t. He was beautiful at age three. Perfect for Jongdae, the emerging humanist artist. There was nothing Luhan could do. Nor his parents, who weren’t so well off, either. They had been promised the best for Luhan with an additional tubful of money. They could do with all of that money, they thought. Besides, we never planned this one.

Now, the cage is all he remembers as home; all remnants of some whispering shadow of playgrounds and kisses brushed against cheeks and dinnertimes are part of some long-lost past, a foggy memory that surfaces in his dreams only once in a while when he feels oddly nostalgic on rainy days.

Like today. Raining, humid, oddly melancholy, but also simultaneously soothing in an eerie way, as if the soft chaos of pattering raindrops is enough noise to allow Luhan to slip away between the wet droplets, maybe even enough for him to run away and never return. He shudders a little under his skin, feeling the diamonds studded in his wrists and along his face scratch against his muscles.

Luhan turns to Kyungsoo, who is staring empty-faced at him with his habitually wide-open eyes. They weren’t like that in the beginning, Luhan knew. Kyungsoo had been chosen when Luhan was ten and he was eight. But Kyungsoo was less tameable, more ferocious, more rebellious. But after some discipline that was all gone, too, leaving just his eyes ripped open to a permanent depiction of fear.

We have another exhibit today, Kyungsoo signs. His face is grave, as if today’s exhibit is something different. He lets out a soft sigh. There’s an important person coming. A rival. Baekhyun.

Luhan shudders. Of course. There are only two prominent (and successful) humanists; Jongdae is one and Baekhyun is the other--or more importantly, the more ruthless one. He’s heard too many rumors about it--the ual abuse, the punishments, the malnutrition, the surgeries without anesthetics. It almost makes Jongdae seem like the good guy.

Luhan nods to Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo has a knack for languages; even though his tongue was cut off at age eleven, he was able to adapt to their method of communication almost instantly. He had taken about two weeks to learn the basic syntax, and in six months, he was speaking like a native--like Luhan. He became more adept at the language than Chanyeol, who, even now, is still mixing up his words much too often. Sometimes, even, Luhan feels as if Kyungsoo is omnipresent, always drinking in information and observations with those eyes, always noticing something Luhan would miss. Something crucial. Like the news of this next exhibit.

Luhan knows Kyungsoo best--only because their cages are so close together. He can touch Kyungsoo on the shoulder if he ever feels like it--but of course, his arm can’t fit through the wires because of all of the diamonds in his arm. And the only time he touches the diamonds is when he feels depressed and masochistic after an exhausting day of exhibition. Or, of course, when Jongdae is checking for any loose gems.

The door suddenly swings open. Fresh air--putrid smells of chemicals and books and anxious phone calls--wafts through the gaping hole in the otherwise dimly lit room. Jongdae is standing in front of the hole, clad in his iconic yellow windbreaker, and beige pants. His black turtleneck is a given.

“Exhibition time,” he announces with a grim face. Luhan looks over at Kyungsoo and raises his eyebrows (and winces immediately--he’d forgotten about the recent addition of gold above his eyebrows just a few days ago). Kyungsoo makes no move, no change of expression. He is looking at Jongdae.

“Get yourselves ready to be presented,” Jongdae’s voice is shrill as he marches over. He opens the cages as Luhan and Kyungsoo emerge from the compartments like creatures crawling out of a cave. Kyungsoo’s hands curl into fists.

“We’re not the only ones exhibiting today,” as Jongdae’s slender fingers snap up to Luhan’s chin, lifting his face and examining his neck, lifting his shirt to touch his abdomen, to observe his collarbones, to press on his shoulders and his cheekbones. His moves are quick, practiced, efficient, and slightly hostile. As usual. He flicks the diamonds embedded into Luhan’s skin, the ones on his face, the ones on his shoulders, the ones on his arms. Wrinkles blossom on Luhan’s face as he closes his eyes tightly, tears welling up under his eyelids. “Make sure to behave better than usual.”

“Smile a little,” Jongdae adds, emotionlessly. Luhan finds himself spreading a smile on his face despite himself.

Jongdae then moves over to Kyungsoo, who is much shorter but no less powerful; Jongdae tests him by punching his shoulders, slapping his cheeks, lifting his shirt to knee him in the abs and Kyungsoo lets out a soft cry--

“You’ve gotten weaker,” Jongdae snaps. “I’ve let you off for too long. I’ll be giving you some more exhibitions in the coming future.” He eyes Kyungsoo who returns the gaze with a look of utter fear, his entire being a perfect encapsulation of pent up rage and hopeless dread. “That’s better.”

He turns on his heel, ready to leave the room. Except he pauses at the door. “Get ready in five minutes. The car’s waiting for you. Today it’ll be you two and Chanyeol. Suho won’t be there.” He leaves with a swish of the door.

Luhan glances at Kyungsoo knowingly. Kyungsoo makes an invisible nod, as if he knows what’s up.

Suho’s gone?

Pretty much. Broke after the second exhibit.

Seven years worth of surgery. You’d think he’d be a masterpiece.

Kyungsoo shrugs. Luhan sighs.

You can never tell.

 

 

This time, it’s SBS sponsoring the fair. Which means a much larger audience. Kyungsoo’s face is morose, glancing emptily out the window past the shrieking fans who are pounding at the car window, screaming Fear! Fear! Fear! As if that is his real name, as if that’s his entire life, as if there’s nothing more to Kyungsoo than what they see on television, nothing more to him than the appearances and the performances, as if he has no past and no middle name and no parents, as if he wants to be there, as if he really chose to end like this--

But the people who love him love him for the very reason he acts the way he does. They love him for his fear. Kyungsoo knows that the moment he steps out of his cage, there is nothing to trust but himself, that everything after that is a performance, even his car ride, even his melancholy walk into the car, even when he leaves the car--he is always being watched, always labeled, always Fear.

Luhan, though, is something entirely different. Luhan is purity. In some ways, he enjoys more popularity because of his beautiful nature (“You’re beautiful,” Jongdae had said the moment he saw him at age three. And the beauty had never stopped. Jongdae never let it.). Luhan’s side of the car is swarming with security personnel and the occasional maniac throwing their body against the car, ready to do anything to look at the delicate purity of Luhan’s face. Luhan simply smiles as he watches another passerby disappear with the shot of a taser gun right outside of the car. Smile mildly, make sure your eyes twinkle, look forgiving. Jongdae’s commands echo in his head.

“Purity!”

Something about the shrill desperation and insanity stitched between those syllables snaps Luhan out of his characteristic trance. His eyes focus on the desperate, fearful face of a passerby right outside the car--it’s a fleeting face that disappears quickly with another taser gun, but it leaves Luhan startled, thinking about that expression--pure horror--for the rest of the ride to the exhibition hall.

 

 

On one side of the exhibition hall are Jongdae’s art pieces--humanist art, as they’ve come to call it--and on the other side are Baekhyun’s. Jongdae’s are known for their beauty, their tenderness, for Jongdae’s knack of ingeniously capturing human emotion into a single entity. Luhan chuckles bitterly under his breath. They don’t even think of them as human anymore. Simply art pieces, products of human genius.

Baekhyun’s are known for their intensity, their raw, gut-wrenching allure. Something about them makes you feel uncomfortable, but in an oddly satisfying way. Maybe it’s the craze in their eyes or the veins lining their necks. Baekhyun’s arts are undoubtedly powerful. Charismatic. “A revolutionary change in the modern humanist era,” as KBC called it. No amateur humanist artist could replicate Baekhyun’s ferocity. But then again, they didn’t have the government funding.

Luhan shifts uncomfortably in his new clothes, fashioned loosely enough to show most of his body but carefully enough to cover his vitals, something nobody shows--except for some of Baekhyun’s. He glances over at Fury at the other side of the exhibition hall and shudders to look back at his feet.

Luhan is covered in diamonds, delicately implanted into his skin at age seven, then widened a millimeter every year to expand them into full-grown gems in order to add an otherworldly shimmer to his body. His skin is like silk, a complexion he had gotten from, thankfully, genetics. It would have been painful if he had to go through the whole deal--skin, face, accessories, and all.

Luhan looks over to his right at Kyungsoo with envy. He has a much easier job. Kyungsoo is covered in black, his eyes wider than usual, his body shaking, his clothes thin, pathetic, and needy. Fear: frankly, a natural emotion in them all.

But Luhan knows that the one who has it the hardest is Chanyeol.

For one, Chanyeol, at Luhan’s left, is an example of the full-blown surgical operation. His eyes are blue--they had never been blue in the first place--that turn pink when he laughs. His skin shimmers with a glow, a little like Luhan’s but with a tint of artificial flavoring. Surgically modified skin every year on January first. There is a layer of gold glitter under the outermost layer of skin, making Chanyeol refract gold and blinding light at every turn of his shoulders. His laughter is gold, his teeth pure white, and his body, beautifully shaped, breathtakingly tall. Chanyeol is laughing, smiling, looking around happily.

But in his head, he remembers flashes of that night when he saw Chanyeol shuddering in fear, crying endlessly because he was so miserable, because there was nobody who could understand him, because he felt alone. It was two days after his tongue was removed. One day after his skin was replaced. And yet he was able to smile like a beautiful god of happiness the next day on his first exhibit.

You have to do what you have to do, he had said helplessly a year later when Luhan couldn’t resist the urge to ask Chanyeol how he did it.

Luhan turns to look at Baekhyun’s exhibit. He shudders. Today, Baekhyun’s exhibitions are Fury and Affection. There seems to be a new exhibition being prepared, but the art pieces aren’t clear--Luhan can’t quite tell what they are. Which is unusual, because humanist art pieces should embody human emotions so well that you feel such emotion as you look at the person.

He nudges Kyungsoo. Nods at the two sleek-bodied boys beside Affection, eyes shaped into half-awake nonchalance and backs arched into casual slumps leaning between disinterest and laziness. Who are they?

Kyungsoo shrugs. Beats me.

Seems a little different.

It’s Baekhyun. What can you expect?

You know, Baekhyun’s art pieces are definitely better than Jongdae’s. There’s something powerful about them.

Kyungsoo looks at Luhan, then, with a cryptic look in his eyes. Maybe a tinge of disappointment.

Luhan looks downward, quietly. Then, he looks up, resuming his mild smile at nobody in particular.

 

 

The lines are always long. And for a special VIP invitation event like this, they’re even longer. People pay security guards to get in without tickets, exchange favors for easier admission, make faux passes to cut to the front of the line. Passive aggressive hostility is ubiquitous.

The exhibit is ready. Luhan is standing atop his pedestal, Kyungsoo hovering above his rock, Chanyeol sitting in his chair. Beside them are Affection and Fury. Affection is standing on the ground without a base, and Fury is, as usual, encased in a glass box. And of course, the two mysterious art pieces. Luhan is too far to see what their museum labels read.

The first few visitors trickle in from the left. Jongdae’s exhibit is first.

The first art piece they see is Fear. Kyungsoo. One of the girls stares at Kyungsoo’s eyes, mesmerized by his trance. She reaches out slowly to touch Kyungsoo’s arm. He recoils, snaps back in terror as if a bug had touched him. The girl giggles.

“These are good,” she says to her friend. Her friend nods. “Realistic.”

They turn to Luhan, who is standing straight, his chin tilted slightly upwards and his face welcoming, knowing, loving. Sometimes Luhan can’t even recognize himself when he sees his own photos in the papers.

“Oh my god,” the girl gasps, “this one is, like, so good!” She delicately touches the diamonds on Luhan’s arms. He tenses momentarily, then endures the pain. Every touch feels like a needle poking into his skin.

The friend reaches out to touch his face. “Yeah, his skin--how did they get this texture? This is amazing.”

“Told you,” the girl looks smug. “This place is top notch. The other one was so crappy.”

“Yeah,” the friend breathes, “these look so... real.”

I am real, Luhan wants to say. But he doesn’t.

“This one’s so cute! Oh my god!”

“He’s so tall, though--”

“Are we allowed to hug him?”

“Have you ever even been to a top-notch humanist museum before? Of course you are.”

Luhan glances over to see Chanyeol embracing them in a warm hug. The girls blush. Chanyeol smiles. One of the girls brushes a kiss against his cheek before giggling and moving on to the next exhibit.

For a split second, Chanyeol looks terrified.

At Baekhyun’s side of the exhibit, the art pieces are more intimate, more involved. Interactive. The girls giggle as Affection brushes the bangs out of one of the girls’ eyes, his eyes shaped in soft almonds that brim with care and concern.

Fury is pounding against the glass walls, screaming into the soundproof surface. He is stark , but they don’t mind; he displays ridiculously toned muscles. His dark circles and furious eyes the girls into a terrified trance. Despite the protection of the thick glass, the girls slowly back away, watching instead in awe from a distance.

“This one is so scary,” the girl finally gasps.

“It’s Fury--what do you expect?”

They stare, mesmerized, for a few minutes before the museum guide at the back of the room pipes up, “two minutes left.”

The girls move on to the last exhibit. Kyungsoo and Luhan tilt their heads to watch their performance. Chanyeol is too tired to care.

One of the girls gasps sharply.

Luhan nearly falls off his pedestal in an attempt to watch the performance, and he, too, gasps--

Lust.

They aren’t two separate exhibits.

Baekhyun had crossed the line, if there ever was one. This is a two in one exhibit--the two boys are together in one art piece.

“Lust and desperation,” the girl gasps. “That one is lust--” she points at the tan, lean-bodied boy passionately kissing the other boy, “and that one is desperation--” to the other boy, tears streaming down his face as he returns the kiss.

“This is so--” she sighs sharply, “--raw.”

“It’s amazing, oh my god, how did they capture it so well--who is this?”

“Baekhyun.”

“It would be nice if we had one of these in our offices, don’t you think? A nice decoration. It’s always so bland, you know?”

“Oh my god, you’re right!”

“Time up,” the museum guide announces, opening the door. “Have a nice day.”

 

 

Luhan goes through this routine four hundred ninety nine more times with old men, young women, businessmen, politicians, elitists, skepticists. And at the very end, it is Jongdae and Baekhyun who walk through the door. Baekhyun’s face is jestful and pugnacious; Jongdae is stoic and furrowed.

“Good work, m’dears,” Baekhyun claps loudly, strutting over to his art pieces. He unlocks the glass door for Fury, who sighs as his shoulders slump and his face sags. “I’ll be giving you your prizes soon.”

He glances over at Jongdae with a wink. “I liked your work today, by the way,” he says.

“Thank you.” Jongdae’s face doesn’t move. But it’s not to anyone’s surprise--the only time Jongdae really emotes is when he is angry or sadistically satisfied.

“What’s that one? Purity?” Baekhyun walks over to Luhan, who flinches a little as Baekhyun suddenly reaches his arm out to trace Luhan’s jawline. “Beautiful. Absolutely stunning. I love the detail.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you selling this one?” Baekhyun looks at Jongdae. “Of course, it’s not for commercial use--”

“No.”

“Alright.” Baekhyun smiles, then makes another decisive clap. “Well, I’ll see you around then. It was nice seeing you.”

He turns on his heels and clicks out of the room, his art pieces trailing behind him. The sound of his shoes echo long after the door has shut closed.

 

 

They’re walking out of the building, along the long outdoor corridors that lead to their car. The sidewalk lights change colors under Luhan’s feet as he steps on each tile. Of course. A government sponsored building would have lavish decorations, even in the lighting.

He blocks out the screaming around him--fans are relentless, following them even in the latest of nights--and stares at the ground, his hands in his pockets, thinking about today’s exhibition.

Sometimes he’s too tired to go on exhibition, too exhausted, too worn of everything to get back up and smile as an angel for multiple museums, for thousands of people, for people to criticize him, critique him, analyze him. But of course, there are no breaks.

“You have another exhibition tomorrow,” Jongdae had told Luhan privately as they were changing into less expensive clothing. “Just you. It’ll be smaller in size, though. Don’t worry.”

“No” is never a viable answer, nor is “yes.” To be an art piece is to be a completely submissive semi-human. Semi-human because the only people who truly think you are human are your fellow art pieces. And sometimes, even they would think in the patterns of society.

Just then, a scream rings out into the air, cutting through obsessed shrieks and the ruckus of desperate followers. Within a few seconds, the lights go out and all hell breaks loose.

“! What’s going on?” Luhan feels Jongdae grab Luhan’s arm. Luhan cries out in pain. The diamonds are digging into his bones. People are starting to scream in terror.

“Power outage, it seems,” a guard says. “We’ll protect you. Stay put.”

But of course, amidst chaos, peace is difficult. People lunge towards Luhan and Kyungsoo and Chanyeol. Within seconds, he finds himself swarmed with desperate fans who are touching his face, his body, places they shouldn’t be touching--

“Oh my god, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful,” one of them says, “I want you, I want you. Tell me you love me.”

Luhan tries to say something, but he can’t, he makes a strangled noise, he feels tears in his eyes, his arms are stinging, people are still touching him, he wants to run away.

Where’s Jongdae? Where’s Jongdae?

Kyungsoo?

He tries to shout, but his voice is weak against the gleeful cries of fans beating each other to touch Luhan--why do you want to touch me, I’m just human, just like you, get away from me, away--

He tries to wriggle out of their grasp, tries to get away, tries to--

“You’re purity! Pure! Don’t go away from me, you’re nice, you’re pure--”

Luhan slaps people away blindly, throwing his arms haphazardly in all directions in an attempt to wipe these people away, keep them from touching me, I’m telling you, it hurts, it hurts--

He runs, then. Blindly, in no direction, aimlessly. Anywhere but here, anywhere but here, I’m tired, I’m tired. I’ve been through too much, I can’t take it anymore, someone take me away.

He runs until his legs tire him out, until the people stop chasing him, until he swerves to the right into a dark alley, until he’s lost and he doesn’t know what happened, why am I here, where is Jongdae, where’s Kyungsoo, I’m cold and my arms hurt.

But something in his chest feels relieved, because for the first time, he isn’t standing or sitting for someone else. He’s alone. Nobody is watching him. He can do what he wants.

Maybe.

He looks around, tears still streaming down his face because even if he might be away from Jongdae and everyone else, he doesn’t know what to do with himself now. Does he go back? Can he? He feels fear clutch his heart--nobody had ever run away before. Is this running away? Or maybe he was just saving himself from fans and he had gotten here. Where is he? What should he do?

Feeling hopelessly lost, Luhan sits down against the cold, brick wall. Pitch black all around him. It’s a power outage in the entire district, it seems.

He wants to say something, fill the silence in his air, maybe say something like “hello?” or “I’m lost.” Maybe something to establish his presence. But he can’t. He has no voice. He has no family. He slumps against the wall and stays there, wordless, breathless, homeless, until he falls asleep, his arms hugging his legs, his head against his curled up knees.

 

 

Luhan wakes up to a blinding light in his eyes.

“Found you,” comes a terrifyingly familiar voice. Luhan shields his eyes as he squints up at none other than Byun Baekhyun. “Come with me.”

Luhan lurches back, scrambling to his feet to run in the opposite direction because he remembers all of those rumors about Baekhyun the abuser, Baekhyun the ruthless artist, Baekhyun the violent schizophrenic--

“You’re never going to get anywhere like that,” Baekhyun shouts. “There are people who want to you inside out--hundreds of them--swarming around in this city. You’re too famous to just walk among them. It’s too late to run away. It’s not that easy.”

Luhan stops in his tracks, looking down at the silver tattoos on his wrist.

“I’m not going to take you back to Jongdae, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

He turns around, then, slowly, hesitantly. Should he go to Baekhyun? Should he trust him?

“Trust me,” Baekhyun says. He turns off the flashlight. Extends his arm.

Luhan stares at him. Two minutes pass.

“Fine,” Baekhyun says finally. “I’ll be waiting in a car right outside of the alley. Nobody knows you’re here, so you’re protected for the few split seconds you hop into the car. The windows are tinted. Nobody will know it’ll be you. I can take you back to my place. I won’t do anything to you--you’re Jongdae’s. I’ve been looking for you since you disappeared last night. You’re basically gone.” He pauses, thinking for a moment before continuing, “so it’s up to you. I’ll wait for five minutes in the car, and if you don’t come after five minutes, I’ll just drive away and you’ll be alone again. But let me tell you this--the world is ruthless out there. Especially to those who are well-known.”

He turns on his heel and disappears.

Luhan waits, then. Looks at his hands, his arms, his legs. He counts his fingers. Something about Baekhyun is different from Jongdae. Something makes him doubt the rumors, all of a sudden. Because it’s as if--it’s as if Baekhyun was talking to Luhan like he was just another human--not an art piece, not a piece of merchandise or a piece of sellable material.

Luhan sighs and walks out of the alley. He opens the car door and hops inside.

“I knew you’d come,” Baekhyun smiles into the rearview mirror. “Close the door, please.”

 

 

“I’ve been searching for a while,” Baekhyun says, “going to amateur humanist exhibits, going to all sorts of places. Nobody seemed right. But when I saw you, I knew it had to be you.”

Luhan raises his eyebrows at Baekhyun’s cryptic language.

“Did you know,” Baekhyun quips suddenly as he walks over to Luhan, who is sitting carefully on Baekhyun’s couch, “I used to know Jongdae when we were little.” He hands Luhan a mug of coffee. “Dark coffee. Just try it--it’s good for you.”

Luhan observes Baekhyun’s expression before receiving the cup, putting his lips carefully to the brim and wincing as he takes a careful sip.

“In fact, we’re not the ones who started the humanist movement.” Baekhyun sits down across from Luhan. “Really, it was Sungmin who had the idea. Sungmin who thought it would be a revolutionary idea to create art out of human--literally. We were, actually, his first victims. But of course, he started out much milder. Didn’t have the technology to do all of the surgeries we can afford today.”

Luhan raises his eyebrows. Really?

Baekhyun looks at Luhan oddly, with an eerie, fogged expression. He sets his mug atop the table between them. Suddenly, he stands up and begins to his dress shirt.

“Have you ever seen Jongdae shirtless?”

Luhan shakes his head no. His eyebrows furrow in fear. What is he doing--

“That’s because of this.”

Luhan gasps. A scream strangles in his throat. The entirety of Baekhyun’s body--from his neck down to his torso--is covered in colored tattoos. Black, red, orange, swirling together in a mix of fury and excitement. Craze. Angst. Hills of screams and splatters of blood cover his toned, muscular body.

“This isn’t just any ink, Purity,” he says, tracing the dizzy swirls engraved on his stomach. “Sungmin was planning on making his last act revolutionary--he was going to pour a chemical on my skin that would make the ink turn into a bright pink and then burst into flames. Because we had that kind of chemistry, even then.”

Luhan’s eyes widen. Then why didn’t he?

“Why didn’t he?” Baekhyun says, as if reading Luhan’s mind. “He died. He died two days before he cut off our tongues--thank god. But still, we were both traumatized. Scarred for life. So what did we do?”

He leans forward, suddenly, his face dangerously close to Luhan’s, “We did to you exactly what he did to us.”

Something hot and tingling comes over his body, then. Baekhyun’s body is too close, his scent too strong, his eyes too powerful, his face too--

beautiful?

Something about the tattoos stir the pit of his stomach. Mesmerizes him. Makes him close his eyes and in milliseconds, Baekhyun is leaning in, his hands grabbing at the sides of Luhan’s face, his mouth into Luhan, gasping for breath as his tongue grates over Luhan’s teeth.

Suddenly, Baekhyun lurches back. “Tell me one thing, though,” Baekhyun says. “I’ll keep you from becoming an art piece forever. But promise me you’ll pass down our legacy.”

Luhan doesn’t know what to say, just stares at the storm in Baekhyun’s eyes and the chaos etched into his skin and he finds himself nodding, because for once he finally seems to understand the beauty of humanist art.