(I / XI) . Indigo

            Mama had a scent of four o’clock, is a fragrance that guide you back to sleep when you find yourself awake in the middle of the night; your hiccups in the air.

            Mama had it stayed around her pale nape for a couple of lukewarm weeks, and me—I liked to hide in the shelter that was her palliative hug, contented and child-like. That feminine balm had been good to her ever since I always remembered; but of course she also smelt bad sometime; more like, she did smell bad often, like a cheap drink from across-the-street store and I hated it when Mama couldn’t resemble any kind of flower—Hana, she should’ve forever remained with her given name. But Mama’s breath was a mix of tears and liquor and a hundred nights of painful headache, and on the day she died her blood was nothing but a tint of iron that wouldn’t leave my nose holes.

            Mama said, good boy eats his tomato.

            I disliked tasting the savorless flavor of tomato in my mouth; but on the day they put my Mama inside the wooden coffin and dressed me all black, bowtie done in a sloppy heartbeat, everything had suddenly turned red—gone were the days of tainted four o’clock; the sky of Hokkaido after that particular twilight, and the tomato that I shoved forcefully into my young throat; thinking that perhaps Mama would be back to life, which of course had never happened.

***

            Kyungsoo had two round, red, tomato cheeks.

            I disliked tasting the savorless flavor of tomato in my mouth, and I againts the idea of moving back with my father to Seoul—but Kyungsoo was beautiful. And round.

            Kyungsoo lived in a big house; his Papa, his other Papa, two loud brothers, he was the youngest. The cutest. It was funny how he had two Papa, it was actually not when I grew older and able to put two and two together and shouted loud like any would, “Oh, isn’t it you, a kid that grows up with gay parents?” and I wasn’t scared of the loudest thunder but I cried on my Dad’s shoulder and confessed of my wrong-doings and he asked, “Do you, by any chance, like that guy?” That—Kyungsoo?

            I do. “No, it’s not that, I just feel—bad.”

            “Then apologize.”

            “How?” It was not a simple matter.

            “Just be a gentleman,” Dad emptied our last cup of hot chocolate and we cuddled under the thick blanket until one in the morning before I found him snoring; he said before he dozed away, the next time I better be acting like a nice kid towards my classmates and maybe he would consider taking me to LotteWorld if I succeed. I was not more than twelve at that time, and change I did. Wore my shoes high-top sneakers; hats with matching funky watches—befriended countless numbers of cool kids at school. But Kyungsoo was still a sole exception.

***

            I figured in my 13th birthday that Kyungsoo hated me to the core. With a deep disgust shown in his pair of big eyeballs, and-but-so I remained the biggest . Ever.

            It wasn’t like we talked; we grew even apart—5 years, to be exact, without me realizing one bit of things. It wasn’t like we were even friends to begin with. We lived in different areas, he’s on the north of Han River and I’m on the South; he was my stupid first love, though. Had a small shoulders and lips that bloomed a funny-shape of heart when he laughed, Kyungsoo offered me the desk next to him—at lunch, his back to the canteen entrance, small and fragile.

            It had been a tragic crush.

            Kyungsoo was ten and I just barely celebrated my 11th birthday. He was one of those nice kids that had his uniform tucked tight inside his pants and sat straight throughout tiresome lessons. But he was beautiful; or maybe it was the fact that Indigo was being played from Baekhyun’s secondhand iPod, which wasn’t unlikely because he always boasted about listening to Yiruma, when I spotted Kyungsoo patting the empty seat—his voice soft and sincere, “You can sit here, I’m almost done.”

            Our first dialogue ended with him finishing his food in one go and then he rushed out—I haven’t asked for a name, yet.

            Several times in the next week we met again, this time he wasn’t sitting alone at lunch. This—that time, he hummed a song, there was an enigmatic bitterness from the way he flicked the book he was reading (more to my heartache), pages to pages (which I forgot the exact name), and I thought, I thought, “Isn’t that Yiruma?”

            The blinking of his eyes grew faster.

            Baekhyun was right, I should’ve paid more attention to my mouth. Kyungsoo stopped two racks away—I got my face super red, muttering an apology under my breath. The library was nearly barren; it didn’t help that we were in a really awkward position (two pair of big eyes, looking intently at each other) and the Harry Potter books that I kept in my clasp were almost slipped down.

            “Yeah, it’s Yiruma. Indigo. Do you play piano too?”

            I needed three seconds to answer his question. “No.”

            He blinked at me again. Slowly, this time. “Do you want to?”

            Kyungsoo learned piano since he was five. The early prodigy, he told me one of his mentors had given him that high title. In our fourth meeting I asked him what kind of song he usually played and he laughed hard; I think he might have been thinking of me as stupid. Which was sort of spotted on, but somehow in those lazy following weeks I brought my guitar along and Kyungsoo sang, his voice wasn’t as deep as it is now and I made several mistakes with my picking, yet Kyungsoo smiled at me instead and long after that I released some hot tears I didn’t realize I was holding in. Because I know that wasn’t right—those feelings. That wasn’t right, not even a bit.

***

            It was six months of pure bliss—being close to Kyungsoo, that is.

            The last I said to him was something about his gay parents and the last he spatted to me was, “ off, Park Chanyeol. Just—,” go to hell.

            And then we became strangers, no greetings, no secret me-playing-guitar-and-you’ll-be-singing sessions. There were glances here and there, though, apparently all was mine. And somewhere over the five years I turned myself into the school jock, while Kyungsoo was still the same, at least in my vision; small, and proper, and owned a voice of a golden.

***

( II / XI ). Baby’s Hammock

            The house looked nothing like it was years ago.

            “Will you go home early tonight, brother? Please?”

            “Hm? Let’s see...”

            “Please? Please? Please?”

            A crisp of laughter escaped my troath. “I’ll manage. Now, hush, go back inside, you haven’t finishid your breakfast yet, have you?”

            “But promise me we’ll play later, alright?”

            “If you be a nice kid, sure, here’s a pinky promise.”

            Dad married one of his co-workers just after I graduated middle school.

            She had it with her, a four-years-old son, which made 12 years age difference with mine. The day after they moved in, he declared me as his bestfriend—my brother Jongdae, previously a Kim (and now a Park), was small compared to his classmates, the sight of him crying between my legs when I fetched him at preschool was nothing new. First, however, it was a little bit strange, as I grew up being the