moour_nm
Level 1
"Rock, Paper, Scissors!"
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
PLACE OF BIRTH
제주도 | Jeju Island, South Korea
RAISED
부산 | Busan, South Korea
AGE
17 years old | JULY 08, 20XX
HEIGHT
160 cm | 5'3
WEIGHT
47 kg | 103 lbs
** oftentimes fluctuates depending on how much he eats.. frequently drops to under 45 kg (100 lbs)
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
'He stares at you, his eyes seeming to jitter..'
APPEARANCE
His hair is messy and a fluffy, wispy pale blonde. The short strands fall just by the nape of his neck, never letting it get too long. His bangs hover over his large eyes that seem to bore holes into you, dissecting and making his way to the deepest part of your existence. He grins at you when you take notice, flashing two sharp canines. His skin is near porcelain, pale and with a tendency to be sensitive against the sun. His usually overfit clothes hide a slim and lean figure with very little body fat, sleeves draping over nimble and thin fingers— he seems to be missing his right hand's middle finger. Tilting his head, his hair falls slightly to the side to reveal that he has a severed left ear— you blink— were you imagining things?
He walks up to you with a slight spring in his step, never seeming to stay still for very long— he hops from leg to leg, although he seems to put more pressure into just one. Up close, you can see that his skin is cleared from any blemishes, the only hints of color coming from the almost constant bruises that seem to wrap around his body. Up close, it's easier to zoom in on his softer features— his doe eyes peer at you, and the only available body fat seemed to go to his face, his cheeks puffing out as he juts out a lip. He looks innocent and playful, as well as almost.. feminine. It's easy to mistake him as a girl. Haeyang looks for a little while longer, before parting his pink lips and opening his mouth—
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
'The first thing that leaves his mouth is an insult.'
PERSONALITY
Completely contrasting his pure appearance, his words are nothing but scathing and hurtful, completely uncaring of whether or not they hurt your feelings or not. He wields his tongue like a weapon, spitting cruel taunts under the guise of lighthearted teasing. All he seems to do is run his mouth. His words never dry, always a torrent of hateful spite and built up torment. It’s an infinite flood, like the ocean, the sea, and crashes into the shores of his lips, his tongue, and drags harsh fists in like the waves reel in trash or seashells.
"Honesty is the best policy."
He refuses to back down, even when it begins to cause serious issues for him. The mean words come to him like second nature, prodding and poking to see if you will snap at all. Yet if you show an ounce of kindness or compassion, his expression hardens and he seems to almost bare his teeth as his words begin to jab deeper, just becoming straight up rude comments about anything he can get his hands on. He's immediately put on guard, as if unsure what to do in the face of any act of kindness..
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
FAMILY
BIOLOGICAL
Dong-won Yu (Grandfather | 할아버지)
"Drunk bastard."
Chaeyoung Yu (Grandmother | 할머니)
"Endured grandfather's shit for more than half a century without a single protest. Pathetic.."
Jaeyoung Yu (Father | 아버지) †
"The car that killed you was a Honda, by the way. In case you were wondering!"
Siwoo Choi (Mother | 어머니) †
"Liar."
ADOPTED
Xiang Kaneko (Grandfather | 할아버지) | @Poseter
"Err. He reaaally loves his husband.."
Seok Min (Grandfather | 할아버지) | @Poseter
"He looks a lot like me. Which would make sense, since we're both albinos—"
Byunho ‘Benny’ K.F (Father | 아버지) | @Poseter
"I didn't understand why he wanted to take me in. It's confusing, but he's a good person."
Sebastian Kaneko (Older brother | (형) | @Poseter
Samuel Kaneko (Older brother | (형) | @Kryliie
Sylvester Kaneko (Older brother | (형) | @Kaito6354
"Triple the trouble, hehe."
Hana Kaneko (Older sister | 누나) | @Rosie_therose
"Drama, drama! Always finding all the fun shit."
Thoeodore The Third (Cat | 고양이) | @whans_whale2.0
"Fucking fatass cat.."
Arancia (Fox | 여우) | @Kaito6354
"Another stray. Why are there so many strays?"
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
PLACE OF BIRTH
제주도 | Jeju Island, South Korea
RAISED
부산 | Busan, South Korea
AGE
17 years old | JULY 08, 20XX
HEIGHT
160 cm | 5'3
WEIGHT
47 kg | 103 lbs
** oftentimes fluctuates depending on how much he eats.. frequently drops to under 45 kg (100 lbs)
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
'He stares at you, his eyes seeming to jitter..'
APPEARANCE
His hair is messy and a fluffy, wispy pale blonde. The short strands fall just by the nape of his neck, never letting it get too long. His bangs hover over his large eyes that seem to bore holes into you, dissecting and making his way to the deepest part of your existence. He grins at you when you take notice, flashing two sharp canines. His skin is near porcelain, pale and with a tendency to be sensitive against the sun. His usually overfit clothes hide a slim and lean figure with very little body fat, sleeves draping over nimble and thin fingers— he seems to be missing his right hand's middle finger. Tilting his head, his hair falls slightly to the side to reveal that he has a severed left ear— you blink— were you imagining things?
He walks up to you with a slight spring in his step, never seeming to stay still for very long— he hops from leg to leg, although he seems to put more pressure into just one. Up close, you can see that his skin is cleared from any blemishes, the only hints of color coming from the almost constant bruises that seem to wrap around his body. Up close, it's easier to zoom in on his softer features— his doe eyes peer at you, and the only available body fat seemed to go to his face, his cheeks puffing out as he juts out a lip. He looks innocent and playful, as well as almost.. feminine. It's easy to mistake him as a girl. Haeyang looks for a little while longer, before parting his pink lips and opening his mouth—
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
'The first thing that leaves his mouth is an insult.'
PERSONALITY
Completely contrasting his pure appearance, his words are nothing but scathing and hurtful, completely uncaring of whether or not they hurt your feelings or not. He wields his tongue like a weapon, spitting cruel taunts under the guise of lighthearted teasing. All he seems to do is run his mouth. His words never dry, always a torrent of hateful spite and built up torment. It’s an infinite flood, like the ocean, the sea, and crashes into the shores of his lips, his tongue, and drags harsh fists in like the waves reel in trash or seashells.
"Honesty is the best policy."
He refuses to back down, even when it begins to cause serious issues for him. The mean words come to him like second nature, prodding and poking to see if you will snap at all. Yet if you show an ounce of kindness or compassion, his expression hardens and he seems to almost bare his teeth as his words begin to jab deeper, just becoming straight up rude comments about anything he can get his hands on. He's immediately put on guard, as if unsure what to do in the face of any act of kindness..
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
FAMILY
BIOLOGICAL
Dong-won Yu (Grandfather | 할아버지)
"Drunk bastard."
Chaeyoung Yu (Grandmother | 할머니)
"Endured grandfather's shit for more than half a century without a single protest. Pathetic.."
Jaeyoung Yu (Father | 아버지) †
"The car that killed you was a Honda, by the way. In case you were wondering!"
Siwoo Choi (Mother | 어머니) †
"Liar."
ADOPTED
Xiang Kaneko (Grandfather | 할아버지) | @Poseter
"Err. He reaaally loves his husband.."
Seok Min (Grandfather | 할아버지) | @Poseter
"He looks a lot like me. Which would make sense, since we're both albinos—"
Byunho ‘Benny’ K.F (Father | 아버지) | @Poseter
"I didn't understand why he wanted to take me in. It's confusing, but he's a good person."
Sebastian Kaneko (Older brother | (형) | @Poseter
Samuel Kaneko (Older brother | (형) | @Kryliie
Sylvester Kaneko (Older brother | (형) | @Kaito6354
"Triple the trouble, hehe."
Hana Kaneko (Older sister | 누나) | @Rosie_therose
"Drama, drama! Always finding all the fun shit."
Thoeodore The Third (Cat | 고양이) | @whans_whale2.0
"Fucking fatass cat.."
Arancia (Fox | 여우) | @Kaito6354
"Another stray. Why are there so many strays?"
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
Goes for comfort over style, usually dressed in a heavy black hoodie and washed out grey jeans. However, he doesn’t mind putting in more effort, a big fan of a punk-ish rock style. As long as the clothes are dark!
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
'What's on him?'
☆ Cellphone
Enjoys playing games on his free time, or scrolling through the internet!
☆ Airpods
Likes listening to old genres of music, particularly rock, hip hop, and older Korean artists.
♬ No more ?s (Eazy-E) ♬
♬ 해야 Y Si Fuera Ella (SHINee) ♬
♬ 켄디 (H.O.T.) ♬
♬ Still Into You (Paramore) ♬
♬ Animal (Neon Trees) ♬
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
☆ Usually a handful of hard candy..
Just in case his sugar levels drop.
☆ Eye drops
Sensitive eyes..
☆ Sunscreen
Sensitive skin too.
☆ Disposable hand warmers
Gets cold easily. Man, what's with all these issues—
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
FRIENDS | ACQUAINTANCES
"I don't really do friends.."
TOLERATE | NEUTRAL | DISLIKE (?) | UNKNOWN
KOEN HA
》 Ko | 'Baby sibling' 《
"I'm sorry.."
BIEL SEZJA-SHIMURA | @Poseter
》 Cousin?.. 《
He scrunches his nose, thinking.
"Uhm. It's.. complicated with him. Can't say we'd ever be normal, but we ball!"
SHIRO NATAKA | @Kaito6354
》 Shiroshi | Boyfriend 《
He grins, eyes crinkling with genuine happiness.
"We're dating! He taught me a lot of things. I looove him! Too bad he made a bad choice with a certain redhead.."
TSUMUGI Y. KOJIMA | @whans_whale2.0
》 Tsumisum | Half off sunglasses 《
(He grins at Tsumugi and flicks his forehead, mimicking a 'BAM' sound. He tilts his head back dramatically as Tsumugi pushes his forehead back with the palm of his hand, both of them laughing.)
HOM ASPARA MANA | @h3IIo_kItty
》 Hommie 《
He whistles, rocking on his heels in a back and forth gesture.
"Pff, she's chill. Always in on the interesting shit. Oddly aggressive sometimes though."
IVAN DIAZ | @PurpleIvan
》 Psychopath 《
He huffs, looking irritated.
"Creeps me out."
JERMAINE CALDWELL STONE | @Kryliie
》 Crossboy 《
He blinks, tilting his head slightly.
"Hm. He's.. weird. Super religious, I think? The cross on his clothes make it really obvious.."
KE'ONI AKAU'OLA
》 Hypothermia.. 《
He grins, showing a photo of Ke'Oni in a white tanktop, a blanket of snow surrounding them.
"Pff, I'm using this photo for his portrait at his funeral after the cold finally kills him. Mindset my ass.."
KOLYA NOVIKOV | @SunBunnyAlpha
》 Kol | Carrot-top 《
He hums, fingers drumming along the side of his thigh. Was he humming a tune?
"Heh, carrot-top's cool! He doesn't like Shiroshi very much.. I don't know how he can tolerate redhead over him though, tsk.."
KOSTYA Y. LACROSSE | @kuma
》 Bloodbag | Redhead 《
He scowls, looking pissed off.. "
That jackass? Seriously pisses me off. Have you seen him? Who the fuck dyes their hair that color willingly? He reeks of Kool-aid too— out of all the drinks to choose, he chose that nasty shit? Eww. He gets on my nerves— stupidest guy I know. Super weird too. He's also got serious problems, like a staff fetish or something. He also keeps trying to feed me birth control— did I mention he was weird yet?" + (he can go on forever..)
MICHA
》 ??? 《
"..."
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
QUIRKS | MISCELLANEOUS
Texting style
Surprisingly texts in an almost.. cutesy manner. He uses a lot of emoticons and kaomojis, as well as typing in either all capital letters or all lowercase.
➤ iii dont know what youre talking abt ٩(˘◡˘)۶
➤ jump (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
➤ i literally could not give a rats ass abt ur issues, stfu ദ്ദി •⩊• )
➤ read 15:24 pm
Food preferences
Almost never eats three meals a day, physically unable to stomach it. Instead, he opts to eat snacks periodically, as well as at least eat a little heavier for lunch or dinner so he doesn't die of malnourishment.
✓ A big fan of candy and things sweet, especially things fruit flavored..
✕ Dislikes heavy meals, as well as the feeling of being full.
✕ Hates salty things.
Body condition
Blatantly unhealthy, his joints sharp and boney. Can almost always be seen with bruises and scabs that never seem to disappear, new ones quick to cover up over the old. Has pretty low insulin— not enough to be written up as diabetes, but still causes trouble sometimes, with how often he's moving around.. hence the candy. Surprisingly doesn't get sick very often.
Voice
Despite his rough words, he has a squeaky, higher pitched vocal range. His voice usually holds a teasing lilt to it.
KOREAN | Has a weird accent, a mix of both Jeju-do dialect and Busan dialect. Home language.
RUSSIAN | Fluent— he talks smoothly, familiar and comfortable with the language. Has been learning this language for around 8 years.
JAPANESE | Also fluent. Has been learning this language for about 12 years.
JSL | Struggles if it gets too complex, but knows enough to hold a simple conversation. Better at translating it than doing it himself. Has been learning this language for around 5 years.
♬ Theme songs | Lyrics ♬
Lost Kitten — Metric
♬♬
Don't say yes if you can't say no
Victim of the system, say it isn't so
Squatted on the doorstep, swollen on the blow
Leaving without you, can't say no
Halfway starts with happiness for me
Halfway house, lost kitten in the street
Hit me where it hurts, I'm coming home to lose
Kitten on the catwalk, high-heeled shoes
No more hard-headed Saturdays
They got it, they want it, they give it away
Tell me one thing you would never do
Hard Times — Paramore
♬♬
All that I want
Is to wake up fine
Tell me that I'm alright
That I ain't gonna die
All that I want
Is a hole in the ground
You can tell me when it's alright
For me to come out
Gonna make you wonder why you even try
(Hard times) gonna take you down and laugh when you cry
(These lives) and I still don't know how I even survive
(Hard times)
(Hard times)
And I gotta get to rock bottom
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
BACKSTORY
⚠︎ TW FOR SENSITIVE TOPICS !! PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION ⚠︎
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
'What's on him?'
☆ Cellphone
Enjoys playing games on his free time, or scrolling through the internet!
☆ Airpods
Likes listening to old genres of music, particularly rock, hip hop, and older Korean artists.
♬ No more ?s (Eazy-E) ♬
♬ 해야 Y Si Fuera Ella (SHINee) ♬
♬ 켄디 (H.O.T.) ♬
♬ Still Into You (Paramore) ♬
♬ Animal (Neon Trees) ♬
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
☆ Usually a handful of hard candy..
Just in case his sugar levels drop.
☆ Eye drops
Sensitive eyes..
☆ Sunscreen
Sensitive skin too.
☆ Disposable hand warmers
Gets cold easily. Man, what's with all these issues—
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
FRIENDS | ACQUAINTANCES
"I don't really do friends.."
TOLERATE | NEUTRAL | DISLIKE (?) | UNKNOWN
KOEN HA
》 Ko | 'Baby sibling' 《
"I'm sorry.."
BIEL SEZJA-SHIMURA | @Poseter
》 Cousin?.. 《
He scrunches his nose, thinking.
"Uhm. It's.. complicated with him. Can't say we'd ever be normal, but we ball!"
SHIRO NATAKA | @Kaito6354
》 Shiroshi | Boyfriend 《
He grins, eyes crinkling with genuine happiness.
"We're dating! He taught me a lot of things. I looove him! Too bad he made a bad choice with a certain redhead.."
TSUMUGI Y. KOJIMA | @whans_whale2.0
》 Tsumisum | Half off sunglasses 《
(He grins at Tsumugi and flicks his forehead, mimicking a 'BAM' sound. He tilts his head back dramatically as Tsumugi pushes his forehead back with the palm of his hand, both of them laughing.)
HOM ASPARA MANA | @h3IIo_kItty
》 Hommie 《
He whistles, rocking on his heels in a back and forth gesture.
"Pff, she's chill. Always in on the interesting shit. Oddly aggressive sometimes though."
IVAN DIAZ | @PurpleIvan
》 Psychopath 《
He huffs, looking irritated.
"Creeps me out."
JERMAINE CALDWELL STONE | @Kryliie
》 Crossboy 《
He blinks, tilting his head slightly.
"Hm. He's.. weird. Super religious, I think? The cross on his clothes make it really obvious.."
KE'ONI AKAU'OLA
》 Hypothermia.. 《
He grins, showing a photo of Ke'Oni in a white tanktop, a blanket of snow surrounding them.
"Pff, I'm using this photo for his portrait at his funeral after the cold finally kills him. Mindset my ass.."
KOLYA NOVIKOV | @SunBunnyAlpha
》 Kol | Carrot-top 《
He hums, fingers drumming along the side of his thigh. Was he humming a tune?
"Heh, carrot-top's cool! He doesn't like Shiroshi very much.. I don't know how he can tolerate redhead over him though, tsk.."
KOSTYA Y. LACROSSE | @kuma
》 Bloodbag | Redhead 《
He scowls, looking pissed off.. "
That jackass? Seriously pisses me off. Have you seen him? Who the fuck dyes their hair that color willingly? He reeks of Kool-aid too— out of all the drinks to choose, he chose that nasty shit? Eww. He gets on my nerves— stupidest guy I know. Super weird too. He's also got serious problems, like a staff fetish or something. He also keeps trying to feed me birth control— did I mention he was weird yet?" + (he can go on forever..)
MICHA
》 ??? 《
"..."
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
QUIRKS | MISCELLANEOUS
Texting style
Surprisingly texts in an almost.. cutesy manner. He uses a lot of emoticons and kaomojis, as well as typing in either all capital letters or all lowercase.
➤ iii dont know what youre talking abt ٩(˘◡˘)۶
➤ jump (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
➤ i literally could not give a rats ass abt ur issues, stfu ദ്ദി •⩊• )
➤ read 15:24 pm
Food preferences
Almost never eats three meals a day, physically unable to stomach it. Instead, he opts to eat snacks periodically, as well as at least eat a little heavier for lunch or dinner so he doesn't die of malnourishment.
✓ A big fan of candy and things sweet, especially things fruit flavored..
✕ Dislikes heavy meals, as well as the feeling of being full.
✕ Hates salty things.
Body condition
Blatantly unhealthy, his joints sharp and boney. Can almost always be seen with bruises and scabs that never seem to disappear, new ones quick to cover up over the old. Has pretty low insulin— not enough to be written up as diabetes, but still causes trouble sometimes, with how often he's moving around.. hence the candy. Surprisingly doesn't get sick very often.
Voice
Despite his rough words, he has a squeaky, higher pitched vocal range. His voice usually holds a teasing lilt to it.
KOREAN | Has a weird accent, a mix of both Jeju-do dialect and Busan dialect. Home language.
RUSSIAN | Fluent— he talks smoothly, familiar and comfortable with the language. Has been learning this language for around 8 years.
JAPANESE | Also fluent. Has been learning this language for about 12 years.
JSL | Struggles if it gets too complex, but knows enough to hold a simple conversation. Better at translating it than doing it himself. Has been learning this language for around 5 years.
♬ Theme songs | Lyrics ♬
Lost Kitten — Metric
♬♬
Don't say yes if you can't say no
Victim of the system, say it isn't so
Squatted on the doorstep, swollen on the blow
Leaving without you, can't say no
Halfway starts with happiness for me
Halfway house, lost kitten in the street
Hit me where it hurts, I'm coming home to lose
Kitten on the catwalk, high-heeled shoes
No more hard-headed Saturdays
They got it, they want it, they give it away
Tell me one thing you would never do
Hard Times — Paramore
♬♬
All that I want
Is to wake up fine
Tell me that I'm alright
That I ain't gonna die
All that I want
Is a hole in the ground
You can tell me when it's alright
For me to come out
Gonna make you wonder why you even try
(Hard times) gonna take you down and laugh when you cry
(These lives) and I still don't know how I even survive
(Hard times)
(Hard times)
And I gotta get to rock bottom
✮ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆｡°✩
BACKSTORY
⚠︎ TW FOR SENSITIVE TOPICS !! PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION ⚠︎
Mikhail
(Micha, Lover)
Noun.
Haeyang is nine years old, heading home from school when he meets him.
He’s waiting for the cars to stop passing by, a blur of flashing colors. He watches, mesmerized, and is only broken away from the haze when a figure enters his peripheral vision.
He cranes his head up, and the newcomer smiles down at him. The man is tall– slim, fit, young, maybe, and definitely a foreigner, with jet black hair and blue-grey eyes that remind him of cloudy Mondays. The sun shines from behind him, fluttering Haeyang’s sensitive eyes and casting the man in a golden glow.
Thinking back on it, Haeyang wonders if he should have fallen in love right then and there.
Instead, he’s young and blinded still, and only grins at him, flashing two sharp canines. The man blinks, and offers a small smile back, a sliver of his teeth glinting. The light turns green, the whirr of cars stop, and they head off in separate ways before Haeyang could open his mouth to start up a conversation.
He doesn’t have to wait long to see him again. He’s watching the cars again the very next day, rocking on the balls of his feet when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around, and looks up, up, up. It’s cloudy.
The man smiles. What’s your name? he asks, eyes creasing as he stares expectantly, and Haeyang Yu is more than happy to answer. He repeats the question back to him, and the sun moves out from where it’s hidden in the clouds, light lining buildings and cars and the man.
Mikhail, he says, and his voice is a low, melodic thing. It reminds him of long-forgotten lullabies, of the gospels that the church people sang on the streets.
Okay Mikhail ahjussi, Haeyang says, because respect was everything. The man laughs, and a hand ruffles his hair– gently, warmly, lovingly, and suddenly respect is nothing.
Hyung, he corrects, and Haeyang beams. The lights turn green, and Haeyang never questions why the man turns and walks down the same street despite going the other way yesterday. Instead, he pays attention to the hand he rests on his shoulder, tingling, and the arm he raises in the air to keep the cars at bay. His eyes shine, and Mikhail stares.
Call me Mikhail hyung.
Coalesce
(You, Me)
Verb.
The curry is hot as it slides down his throat, and Mikhail pushes the glass of water towards him without Haeyang having to say anything.
They’re eating in the local family owned restaurant tucked between two alleyways, and it’s only them in the building. Haeyang can hear the buzzing of dishes being washed from the kitchen, the vegetables being chopped, the sound of the two people arguing distantly behind the restaurant. He eats another spoonful of curry, chewing slower.
Mikhail watches, and nods in satisfaction. Haeyang grins at him, and then they’re talking– a tirade, a tsunami, an outlet of sorts– they talk until they’re narrowed down to nothing but words and pointless conversations, opinions. Until the space between them is crammed with thoughts said out loud.
Haeyang tells him about the Japanese learning class he takes after school, and Mikhail talks about how he learned Korean. He brings up the nice lunch he had earlier, Mikhail mentions the company dinner he attended the day before. The good grade he got on his test, the promotion into a higher position. A conversation he had with his classmate, a lecture he got from the boss. The primary school field trip coming up, the new place he’s renting out.
Everything.
Haeyang’s a quick learner, and a curious talker. Always interested, greeting strangers on the street, asking tourists cluttered at the aquarium by his house where they came from, telling the old homeless man how his day was. It comes easy to him, wanting, yearning the concept of other beings, other people. Mikhail seemed to do the same.
Mikhail Lebedev, he learns, works in the radio host company that was located a couple blocks from school. He was a news reporter, sometimes one of the translators for their global news team. He came from Russia, but lived in Korea for the past 6 years, an accent still noticeable in his voice.
Haeyang is nine, turning ten soon, and cool, handsome Mikhail hyung is freshly thirty. He tells him that the man looks younger than he should at such an old age, and Mikhail hyung’s blue-grey eyes bore into him before they crinkle up, his voice ringing in Haeyang’s head as he laughs.
Not that old, he says, his voice a lilted teasing. You know it’s only a couple years. I’ve seen people who dated with a wayy bigger gap.
Really? Haeyang asks, because he’s not stupid, and he knows thirty is an old age. He knows about stranger danger, about the evil men roaming on the streets, but Mikhail’s light-hearted chuckle melts it off of his very foundation, rewrites the little he’s known about it. The Russian man explains how it’s okay, how people always make it sound much more dramatic than it should be, and he looks honest.
He doesn’t talk much with his parents, a conversation always turning into an argument, a stray bottle, crying. Strangers outside are easier to deal with than the strangers that live inside his house.
Yet the only clear memory he has of any of them– maybe he was three, four, five, who knows– is of his mother, face flushed with just one soju bottle over her limit, leaning beside his bed. He pretends to be asleep, a bruise still aching right under his ribs.
His mother runs her slim, trembling fingers in his hair, nearly impossible to pinpoint it with the way it blends into soft blonde, nearly white locks. She hums an old nursery rhyme that Haeyang can’t remember again, but he thinks he may have envisioned the waves crashing into the beach downtown.
Her humming stops, and the waves are still roaring in the background. Instead, she talks as if Haeyang was her only way out– about her asshole of a husband, asshole of a father– she kneels by his bed like a sinner confessing her sins, her prayer tucked into the bottle in her hand.
Haeyang is the Father, tucked away behind a wooden door lined with wrongdoings aged like wine, and listens. He hears of missed opportunities, of the want to become a doctor, an actor, a good mother– of the unravelings of a dishonest man.
The sea in the backgrounds finally come crashing in– dragging, pulling him into the dreamworld– and he feels chapped lips brush his forehead, whisper into his left ear–
Be honest, Yu Haeyang.
If all else fails– if kindness misses, courageousness falters–
Honesty will stay.
Haeyang shuts his eyes, and dreams.
Mikhail’s eyes twinkle at him, and honesty has always been the best policy.
Love
(Artificial)
Noun.
His parents are dead by the time Haeyang turns eleven.
The funeral is quiet, save for his grandmother’s pathetic sniffling and his grandfather’s loud, coarse coughs that rattle his body, shakes the building, shatters the tranquility of the whole ordeal. Haeyang kneels, the uncomfortably crisp black suit restricting him, straining against the yellow and purple marks on his upper arms, on his torso. He looks up to his parents smiling portraits, and blinks.
Death by drunk driving. A true tragedy it was; such a hardworking couple caring for their elders, raising a bright and brilliant kid, trying their best in a tough lifestyle– at least, that’s what he hears the random people outside of the funeral room say.
Personally, he couldn’t care less. He wants to tell them to Заткнись (shut up)– he ducks his head again to hide a grin, remembering the new vocabulary Micha had spent the last week teaching him. He keeps his head down until his grandmother rests a cold hand on his shoulder, readying themselves to go.
The car ride home is dead silent, no half-assed whimpers from his grandmother and rough hacking of lungs from his grandfather. If he strains his ears, he could hear water– sloshing, slipping, sliding in and away. His grandfather picks apart the meal his grandmother makes, dissecting the food and tearing into her with harsh complaints. Haeyang leaves his rice bowl full, and pulls out his phone.
(17:24) Ko: Are you okay?
(17:24) Ko: Didn’t have anyone that could take me to the funeral :( Sorry.
(17:26) Ko: Text me when you get this!
(17:52) Micha Hyung: Are you done yet?
(17:55) Micha Hyung: Let me know when you’re ready for me to pick you up ^^
Haeyang sends Koen a simple Kakao emoji– the bear saluting– before opening up Mikhail’s messages to reply.
He hears a dish fall, but it’s lost in the sound of a car engine outside, and Haeyang is up and out of the house before he can even click send.
Nothing changes. He feels like it should– his parents are dead, and he was legally considered an orphan. Yet the world keeps spinning, the days keep passing, and the bruises on his body fade. The dread of going home goes away, and he thinks this is what real, raw freedom tastes like, huddled up with Mikhail on the couch of his comfortable apartment.
It’s just him and Mikhail most of the time now. After school, dinners, night routines– the clock ticks the hours they spent together, and Haeyang thinks this is what genuine love feels like. The hand he holds as they pass the street, as though Haeyang was still young enough to be protected– the fingers that run through his unnaturally light hair, the futon Mikail leaves out beside his bed, cluttered with Haeyang’s belongings.
It’s home. It’s wonderfully warm for a long period of time.
Mikhail questions him one day, when they’re out eating ice cream after their usual curry– Haeyang can remember it as clear as the ocean waves. They’re sitting on a bench outside the apartment, the sun setting over the tall buildings looming, shadowing the looming man right next to him, staring at him.
Do you love me? he asks, and Haeyang is halfway into biting his chocolate and strawberry ice cream cone.
He tilts his head up, up, up– high, because Mikhail was a tall man, all broad shoulders and lean muscle mass– and smiles, sweet stickiness coating his lips.
Of course Micha, is the only reasonable answer at the time, because what wasn’t there to love about him? This was what love should have been from the start– everything from this, and nothing from what he thought it was.
Something easy, natural– natural in the way the nickname slides from his tongue from ease, in the way Micha gently wipes the residue ice cream from his lips, in the way they’re suddenly at the apartment, and Micha is pressing him to their bedroom wall, kissing him.
Haeyang's brain spins, and he doesn’t mean it when he tries to push the taller (tallest) man off, gasping for air. It trembles his lungs, clogs up his throat; he doesn’t understand why Micha’s heavy hands gently press closer, roaming, roaming–
It’s okay, Hae, he sighs, patiently waiting until he stops tensing his shoulders, until he relaxes against the concrete wall behind him and the mountain in front– then Micha is on him again, lips warm and devouring Hae’s dry mouth as if he’s been waiting for centuries, lifetimes– he’s whispering again.
It’s okay. This is love.
He moves them towards the bed, and Haeyang (accidentally) jabs out an elbow, trying to create space, trying to breathe– Micha keeps moving.
You’re okay, со́лнышко– just follow Micha, okay? You said you love me too.
Haeyang doesn’t recognize that term. He makes a mental note to search it up and shoves that note to the back of his mind as he tries to keep up– this was love? He sees blue-grey staring at him (hungrily) and a mouth quirking up to a gentle smile (a sneer) and feels hands climb down, down, down–
The bed is soft, and Micha’s softer– gentle, asking him if it hurts, if he can move, if he needs him to kiss it better– Haeyang chokes on a no, because it’s so confusing, the way he feels a part of himself shrivel up and die while the other flourishes from such care.
He tells Micha to stop– he protests in a way he’s never had to, never wanted to with him, hands scrambling for purchase in the white sheets under him and legs kicking up in a feeble attempt to get away. Micha moves them apart like he’s flipping open a book– easy, with only a flick of a finger.
You said you love me. Do you not?
Haeyang does love him, but he doesn’t want this. Micha kisses him again, and Haeyang feels his eyes well up, slipping down the sides of his face and uncomfortably wetting his ears. Micha coos, kissing them away.
This is what people do when they love each other.
A hand brushes his chest, wraps around his waist, tugs his closer–
I know your parents didn’t love you enough to do this, right? My poor куколка– Micha will teach you.
He knows that one. ‘Doll’.
Micha liked to call him that a lot.
You have to be a big boy.
What time was it again? He’s losing track. He tilts his head all the way back so he’s staring at the ceiling instead of the man. Micha takes it another way, and pain (pleasure?) shocks him.
You can’t say no.
Why?
That’s just how love was made to be.
Why? That’s so confusing.
I love you so much, со́лнышко.
That term again. Was that a combination with the word for sun?
You’re so, so pretty. Such big eyes– you’re so small, тонкий– it’s so cute. Like a girl.
Delicate.
I’m so glad you kept your hair long– my, it’s nearly past your shoulders! We should keep it long. Are you okay with that? Micha likes it better longer.
Okay. Haeyang can keep it long.
Your skin is so soft too– it’s восхитительный when you blush. It’s so easy to mark you– aren’t you a pretty little thing? So unique.
Haeyang was born weird– even paler than his usually light-skinned peers, with hair an unnatural soft blonde and white. His eyes jitter sometimes, even though he doesn’t have the classic red eyes.
Albinism, the doctors called it.
Beauty, is what Micha said.
I love you. I love you so much, Haeyang.
Micha’s fingers bruise his hips, digging into pale flesh like a wolf tearing into their prey. Haeyang thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe, chest heaving. It hurts; it hurts so much, and he can’t stop himself from the tears flowing, the hiccups that accompany his ragged sobs. Darkness folds around him, and Micha presses a kiss to his forehead.
What a pretty crier.
Haeyang closes his eyes, and dreams of a clear sea with the most pristine of beaches.
Honesty
(A lie wrapped in satin)
Noun.
He lets the punch connect with his cheek, the same one Mikhail kissed last night, and feels the residue of Micha’s love fly right off. The unbearable itch of a tender kiss is replaced by hard and heavy pain, his head cracking to the side.
The stranger is fuming, lips curled into a snarl as he fists the front of Haeyang’s uniform, dragging him closer, and Haeyang’s heart momentarily plummets, but the anger in the stranger’s eyes is too bright to be anything from lust. He relaxes, and grins with sharp teeth and even sharper words, wielding his tongue like a sword.
Haeyang’s laughing, even with blood leaking from his nose and staining his teeth, his lips; he jabs insult after insult, picking apart the guy by his seams– vitriol about his hair, his face, his swings fly out of his mouth before he can think about exactly why he was doing this in the first place.
His head is starting to spin, and the stranger kicks him into a garbage pile. He spits at Haeyang’s feet, giving him a look of pure disgust, and all Haeyang can feel at the moment– spinning, spilling, overwhelming him– was pure gratitude.
Fucking freak, the stranger shouts, sneering as he stares him down, and Haeyang giggles because the words hurt, and is infinitely better than Micha’s со́лнышко. Sunshine, darling.
The raw skin on his palms sc**** the feeling of warm bed sheets tangled into his fingers, the bruises blossoming on his torso relieves the careful hickies under his collarbone, the split lip and bloodied nose stings in the open air in a heavenly comparison to the soreness he wakes up with.
He sits in the pile of garbage hours, years, centuries after the guy leaves, his head tilted up to look at the sky. It’s a pretty combination of pink and purple. Haeyang scrunches his nose and wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.
It’s disgusting.
He grabs his dirtied book bag tossed against the wall of the alleyway and stumbles his way back to Micha’s apartment.
Micha frets over his injuries, and his hands burn when they attentively roam him, applying salve and lube and bandages and a finger. Haeyang’s too tired to even say no, and Micha’s even kinder with him today, careful of his wounds. He stares up at the ceiling– it’s a simple, blank white.
It’s disgusting.
He wakes up with a strong and heavy arm hooked around his waist and blanket pulled up to their chests. Micha tucks his head into his thin shoulder, tightens his hold on him.
Happy birthday, he hums, voice low and rumbling. It sounds like the mountains moving, the earth quaking, the wolves before they start feasting. He tilts his head away, checking the clock on the wall to his left.
He closes his eyes, and prays that turning twelve kills him.
It doesn’t. He’s thirteen and then he’s fourteen, and the world might as well just end. He’s falling, landing in water that refuses to let him up, let him out, let him breathe; he’s choking on love and hate and an uproar of lies, lies, lies–
His head started spinning at eleven, and hasn’t stopped at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, nearly fifteen. There’s an ache behind his eyes that never seems to fade, and the confusion depletes him of whatever he was meant to be. He looks like a ghost, and he can see the concern in Koen’s eyes when they walk home, watching him sway on his feet. He can’t seem to pay attention, instead focusing on not hurling up the light breakfast Micha had made him that morning.
Haeyang starts to beg. He’s never been religious– no one in his family is, and Micha wasn’t either, but he finds himself kneeling on the side of his and Micha’s bed, hands clasped tight as he spills prayers out of his dirty, filthy mouth.
He kneels in the same spot later that night, lips wrapped around Micha and hands on his lap, and thinks religion isn’t his thing after all.
He can’t escape. It follows him from school to after school lessons to Micha’s house, leering over his shoulder, pulling down– there’s nowhere to run to. He hates Koen’s asshole parents, and hates the random addition of another stranger in his house.
The new stranger. He’s been assigned to Haeyang’s grandfather’s outpatient treatment, making himself comfortable in the house. Haeyang can’t be bothered enough to remember his name; Byung something. Byungha? It gets lost somewhere along his thoughts– he can tell the guy’s curious. He looks young, younger than Micha for sure, but a lot older than Haeyang. He stares at him during the very few times he stops by the house, and Haeyang promptly ignores him, hating the crawling feeling that climbs up his spine when his eyes linger.
He’s maybe thirteen, maybe fourteen, maybe nothing at all when Byunhee tries to talk to him. He’s stopping by the house, a cut on his cheek bleeding and an eye swollen and rummaging through the kitchen’s cabinets to find salve when he feels a presence behind him. He whirls around and has to look up, up, up–
The man’s eyes are blue. They’re somehow darker than Micha’s, clouded with a sort of grief that he’s seen in the old war veteran that eats alone in the curry shop and in Koen’s after another dispute with their parents and maybe in his own, if he can stand to look at himself in the mirror long enough to see it. He’s tall too, with broad shoulders and defined arms and he’s starting to look a little too much like Micha, pupils staring, searching, wanting something–
Do you need help with that? He asks, and Haeyang hates himself when he flinches. The man has a hand held out, and Haeyang realizes that the man was staring at the medicine in his hand instead of elsewhere. He scowls, muttering a no and shoving past him. He’s surprised when the man moves aside– not to corner him, but let him walk by.
Okay, he says, and Haeyang has to stop in his tracks. He doesn’t turn around, hand tightly gripping the ointment, waiting for a hand to reach out, to make sure he listens, to tell him that no wasn’t an option– but he feels the sickly feeling of being stared at fade, and glances behind him to see him reorganizing the first-aid kit that Haeyang had left out.
Okay? Haeyang repeats, slow and careful and quiet. The man doesn’t look up, instead humming out a response–
Okay. That’s okay. Just let me know if you ever do need help.
Haeyang’s chest clenches uncomfortably, an iron hold around his heart, and he says fuck off before turning and fleeing. He can feel the words already crawling up his throat like rabid beasts, begging to be let out, to be crass, to fuck him over once again.
All he does is run his mouth. His words never dry, always a torrent of hateful spite and built up torment. It’s an infinite flood, like the ocean, the sea, and crashes into the shores of his lips, his tongue, and drags harsh fists in like the waves reel in trash or seashells.
He finds the ointment to be pointless anyway when he ends up in another alleyway in another pile of trash, the sun setting today in blue and yellow. Micha ends up patching him up that night, and Haeyang regrets not accepting the stranger’s offer.
He’s fifteen soon, maybe now, maybe never, and even fighting is starting to lose its effect. The pain isn’t loud enough to cover the screaming voice in his head telling him that he might begin hating Micha. It overrides his entire body, seizing his limbs around the man and leaving him paralyzed in school, in bed, in Micha’s arms.
He spits the words I love you to Micha like it disgusts him, like it’s a lie, and there’s blood-hot rage that simmers under his skin when Micha refuses to let go– he lashes out once, just once, shoving him off with every bit of force he has, sobbing and screaming and telling him to just stop–
Micha gets angry.
He’s never been angry. Disappointed and upset, yes, but the fear chills the rage when he sees Micha stare at him blankly, lips pressed firmly together without a single smile in sight. Haeyang’s too scared to move.
The entire time is seared into his head, and Haeyang despises that he can remember every detail– Micha’s voice, cold and mean, and a roughness in his movements that haven’t been there before. Or maybe it always has been. Haeyang can’t be bothered to care anymore.
He falls asleep with Micha whispering a soft sorry, I love you into his ear. His breath melts like acid, but Haeyang’s head is spinning, and not even a beating has ever left his body this aching, this immobile before. He wonders if the teeth marks on his bicep will be visible forever.
Haeyang says it’s okay, I love you too back, and wonders when he had become such a dishonest man.
Fighting completely loses its effect after that.
Haeyang
(Unwanted)
Noun.
He’s dying.
He can feel it. Even breathing feels like a chore, weighing him down, tying him to this shitty place, this hellhole.
His feet seem to sink as he drags him along the Earth, and he starts wearing sneakers with two extra inches added in them. They keep him from being pulled six feet under, from feeling loomed over. Everyone’s taller; even Koen seems to be catching up, building lean muscle mass from extracurricular swimming and from those boxing lessons they seemed to pick up. It makes him feel small.
It’s humiliating.
He wants to add another inch to his shoes, but Micha tells him he looks cuter when he’s shorter, so he sucks it up and hunches his shoulders down impossibly more. He keeps his head down, his overgrown hair falling over his face; it’s long now, nearly reaching his waist, another burden heaving tons on brittle bones.
He refuses to look at his reflection. He’s near positive he looks wrecked– lips swollen, fingertips gnawed off, ribs poking out from skin painted black and blue. His eyes avert when he sees a puddle of water glinting the streetlight above him and press tightly shut when he shatters the mirror in his grandparent’s house with a bloodied fist. He doesn’t see the strange senior nurse walk in, too busy pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes until he’s seeing stars.
When the darkness ebbs away, he looks up from the mess to see Byungho. He’s finally gotten the name right– one too many patch ups and one-sided conversations imprinted enough into Haeyang’s brain to keep him remembering.
He’s standing by the door, the first-aid kit he always seems to insistently carry around in his hand. He waits in silence until Haeyang slowly dips his head in acknowledgment before smiling, stepping around the glass shards with the house guest slippers. He places the kit down inside the sink, before offering a hand to him.
Can I pick you up for a second? He asks, and Haeyang squints at him suspiciously for a long time. The bathroom is quiet besides for Byunho’s soft breaths and Haeyang’s rapidly beating heart. They might have stayed there for infinity, but Byunho raises an eyebrow and the teenager reluctantly nods.
The hand reaches to his shoulder and trails down, and he freezes, feeling his limbs lock up subconsciously. He’s barely given enough time to do anything else but that though, with another hand quickly moving to follow. In a second, two hands are on his waist and it burns scalding, unbearably– before he blinks, and suddenly he’s being seated on the toilet seat, hands never lingering a moment longer.
Oh, he finds himself saying, looking up at Byungho. The man raises an eyebrow again, eyes glinting with something different. This one doesn’t make Haeyang want to crawl out of his own body.
Oh, Byungho repeats, and kneels on the ground in front of him, unbothered by the glass that dug into his pants. Haeyang watches, cautious, his eyes darting from the medical kit to the warm wet towel– when had he gotten that?– wiping residue shards and blood from his knuckles and his bare feet.
The man’s gentle, and it should set Haeyang off– should piss him off, scare him, make him want to escape– but he stays perfectly still until Byunho tapes off the last of the bandages. He tells him to stay still, leaning the room and coming back with a sweeper. The sound of glass clinking against each other rings out, drowning out breaths and a heartbeat.
Haeyang continues watching in silence, and eyes the significantly bigger shard in the pile. It glints the dim bathroom light up above, shining it a color of gold, of rainbow, or nothing at all, only something of his imagination. The smaller pieces glitter around it like diamonds, or maybe the stars in the sky. The big shard must be the sun. Cо́лнышко.
He blinks, slowly, and realizes he’s made a horrendous mistake. The shard wasn’t the sun, but a star, huge and pulsing with an uncontained pressure that eventually bursts, dimming all the stars around it. It implodes, explodes, becomes nothing but its remains.
The shard stares at him evilly, and it looks like the one that causes his inescapable doom. It seems to stare at him– from the bathroom floor, in his hand, and eventually when he jams it into Koen’s eye.
The world is spinning (has been since eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, now fifteen–) and his feet are rooted into the ground, finally starting the process of dragging him under. Someone’s screaming– who’s screaming? His shoulder feels raw, as if a wolf tore into it, leaving exposed rotting bones– there’s stars dancing in his vision tinged with black, and there’s something warm running down his hand, down his wrist. That’s familiar. He wants to throw up.
There’s something blue under him, and the stars exit the stage behind his eyes. He blinks once, twice, again and again, and then stops. He looks down.
He meets Koen Ha when he’s barely six.
His mother knows their’s, and they’re being introduced to each other in the playground across from Koen’s apartment. Koen, four and tiny with the widest eyes he’s seen, tilts their head up at him, nibbling on their ice cream.
Haeyang tilts his head, leans down, and chomps on the soft serve.
It’s cold and sweet, and he’s giggling at Koen’s dumbfounded expression as his mother pulls his back, scolding him with a hard hit to the back of his head. He turns back, about to say sorry when he sees them smiling softly, eyes crinkled up and shining with joy. Haeyang’s mouth curves into a gentle O.
They offer the rest of their cone, and Haeyang turns it down. He watched as they demanded their mother to buy another one, and the two of them eat it together on the sidewalk while their parents chatted idly on the bench behind them. They absentmindedly lick the melting vanilla, he takes big bites of his chocolate and strawberry mix. It’s quiet until a kid in front of them slip and fall silly, and the two are giggling and laughing and opening a friendship of forever into existence.
They make it a habit to eat ice cream together in the playground long after they outgrow it– sitting on the swings at midnight after a beating, after an argument, after losing people and gaining new. It’s always just them; even Micha fades to the back when his shoulder knocks against theirs, the spring air warm and ruffling his natural pale hair and Koen’s recently dyed blue.
The ice cream melts between their fingers, and Haeyang’s voice mixes in with Koen’s, looping, entangled, intertwined.
Koen cut their hair recently. It’s shaggy and a faded dark blue, and looks absolutely freeing. Koen is also screaming, voice rough and cracking from pain– pain? There’s ice cream dripping from his hand, and he’s holding an ice cream cone, and Koen’s eye is gone.
Haeyang stares. He’s holding a stray piece of glass; it digs into his palm, slicing it open, mixing with Koen’s. Koen, staring at him, hands cupped over one of their wide eyes with blood pouring, gushing, slipping between the cracks of their fingers–
They were walking. They were walking back towards Koen’s apartment before Haeyang turned to Micha’s, just like they always do. There was no time for ice cream; Micha wanted him home early. His stomach rolls. He’s not paying attention to a single thing Koen is saying– he keeps his eyes on the ground, on his shoes, on the extra inches that just barely makes him taller than them. His hair slips to cover his view, but his ears are ringing and his guts are wrenching themselves apart, and he’s falling–
A hand lands on his shoulder.
It’s just a hand. It’s smaller than Micha’s too, way smaller, closer to his size, but he suddenly can’t think. He can’t think of anything but last night, of the night before that, of Saturday morning, of every single fucking day for the past four years–
He jerks back, and feels the air slam into him, shoving him a couple (a billion) steps back. Koen– his Koen, his sister, brother, baby sibling in everything but blood, is sitting hunched up against the alley wall, blood soaking their school uniform and contrasting against the blue.
He’s stepping forward and they’re shuffling back, and it’s a waltz suddenly frozen midway. It’s never been a dance between them; no distance, no back and forths, no hesitation– but Haeyang can’t bring himself to step any closer. Koen’s eyes are as wide as they were nine years ago. There’s no vanilla ice cream this time around.
He can’t get his mouth to move. His lips refuse to twitch, his saliva runs dry, the words always ready on his tongue refuse to leave. They’re a foul taste in his mouth, and he’s dangerously close to spilling bile and wrongdoings into the mess of colors surrounding him.
Koen’s fingers are slick with blood and rain– rain. It had started raining– the heavy kind, the ones that blow down quick and hard and disappear with the sun peaking through before the hour ends. The water slips and slides around them, swirling around the crimson and drowning the two of them. Haeyang can hear the sea shrieking in the distance.
They’re at a standstill. The glass slips as he loosens his grip and he lets it shatter to the ground below them. Koen flinches, and Haeyang is wilting, dying, being condemned to hell at this very moment.
He needs to help them– the cuts on his palm stretch painfully as he shakily moves to pull his phone from his pocket– it buzzes, and his eyes flick down to see the new notification–
(19:07) Micha: Curry tonight. Come home right now.
He looks at it. Curry sounds good. Hot, warming up his insides, washing away his foul mouth, coating the underside of his skin and rinsing over bones–
The wails of the waves grew louder, clogging his ears from the sound of rain splattering around him and of gentle crying. He sees a hand reaching in his peripheral, and Haeyang–
Haeyang runs.
He runs away for the first time– not even in fights, in losing battles where he never even lifts a finger, when his words starts damaging his own tongue did he run, but he finds the ground mushy under his platform sneakers as he turns on his heels, phone in his bleeding hand and words clogged in a tattered airway as he stumbles through the rain. The waves crash against rocks, drag the new trash in, spits its old ones out.
He throws up in Micha’s bathroom that night. He’s hacking as his spine, his heart, his lungs and his soul comes up and out, emptying him and leaving him with nothing but a skin that burns with Micha’s hand gently resting on his shoulder, making its way down to rub circles on his back. The bile comes back up.
Koen doesn’t come to school for the next two weeks, and Haeyang walks alone after school. Koen’s mother greets him when he stops by, his feet taking him to their apartment complex like muscle memory. She looks wrecked, face flushed from either alcohol or stress or maybe both. Hatred boils, and he goes incredibly still when she wraps her thin arms around him, sobbing and running trembling hands through his hair. He ducks his head, and lets her.
Koen’s in the hospital for two weeks. Haeyang doesn’t visit once. He doesn’t break his routine– school, Koen’s apartment to Micha’s alone, homework and late night sex, repeat. The waves shake like earthquakes in his head, spinning his brain cells apart and drifting away his memories, his hopes, his dreams. Himself.
He sees Koen in the halls when they’re finally allowed to leave. There’s a white bandage plastered over their eye, unbudging and stark against their dark hair. He doesn’t make an effort to approach them, and he finally realizes that there’s nothing left of him to take when they breeze past, keeping their head down.
He continues to walk alone when school ends. Sometimes he grabs a vanilla ice cream cone. It’s the only thing that comes up when he inevitably vomits it back out at night.
It’s melted, dripping onto the tiles when everything finally, finally comes to an end.
It’s been radio silence between him and Koen for the past month, and Haeyang has never realized how lonely he had turned out to be. It’s a crippling, stifling thing, shutting him off from the concept of existing with others.
He starts watching cars with increasing curiosity; one wrong step. It’s been a nagging thought in the back of his mind for years, crossing busy streets and a high bridge. It lingers when he eyes the knife in the kitchen and the bottle of pills in Micha’s cabinet. He stares at them, and they stare back. Back and forth. A dance.
He’s lying next to Micha, naked with nothing but cold sheets and a hollow husk of a body, and thinks that he’s finally allowed this one saving grace. He makes a decision when he sees Koen pointedly turn away from his direction at the front of the school gates, when Micha texts him he’ll be home later that night.
He buys ice cream when he steps out of the convenience store, a boxcutter jostling around with a bottle of strong painkillers. He takes one big bite, savoring the sweetness until he makes his way to Micha’s apartment, letting it drip between his fingers as it melts, a sticky mess that leaves a trail on the wooden floor under his bare feet. He places it on the sink counter as he walks into the bathroom, softly clicking the lock behind him and finally letting himself look in the mirror.
He looks deceased. His eyes are heavy with horrible eye bags, face sallow and thin. His lips are cracking and his hair looked tangled, long and unkept. There’s a healing bruise just above his left eyebrow, an ugly yellow and purple painting him like a blank canvas.
He’s wearing one of Micha’s shirts. It’s plain white and huge on him, falling down one narrow shoulder entirely and coming near to his knees. His sweatpants hang loosely to his hips, bunched up at the bottom. He doesn’t lean any closer to the mirror. He wonders if the thing staring back at him, impersonating him, could reach him through glass.
The plastic bag crinkles as he pulls out the boxcutter. He pushes the blade up, up, up– raises it to his face, and begins to saw away at his hair. He methodically goes back and forth with the blade, letting strands fall to the floor and pile up by his feet. They look like snakes. He stops when he feels the short ends brush over his neck. He wonders why he doesn’t feel any lighter, why he doesn’t feel free at all. He looks in the mirror, holds the blade close to his chest, and moves to turn on the water.
He waits. He’s picking out the details of everything surrounding him; the small stain on the rim of the bathtub, the ticking sound of the clock above the toilet, the feeling of the tiles under his feet. He dissects himself– the feeling of his ribs jutting out, the soreness of every limb, the blood already running down his arms, the handful of pills stuck in his throat.
The water runs, filling up the tub, and Haeyang slowly sinks into it. The clothes begin to cling to his skin, to his bones, to his mottled body.
It grows murky quickly, mixing with blood and diluting into a color of pink, spilling over the tub and splashing onto the floor. There’s a clump of his hair on the ground, looking like a pile of gold until it gets wet. Then it resembles sand– the waves are crashing somewhere in the background. The sand is warm under him, sinking, dragging, pulling him in as he runs along the beach, taunting and teasing the sea to come fetch him.
The water is cold, and Haeyang closes his eyes, and dreams.
(Micha, Lover)
Noun.
- Who is like god?
Haeyang is nine years old, heading home from school when he meets him.
He’s waiting for the cars to stop passing by, a blur of flashing colors. He watches, mesmerized, and is only broken away from the haze when a figure enters his peripheral vision.
He cranes his head up, and the newcomer smiles down at him. The man is tall– slim, fit, young, maybe, and definitely a foreigner, with jet black hair and blue-grey eyes that remind him of cloudy Mondays. The sun shines from behind him, fluttering Haeyang’s sensitive eyes and casting the man in a golden glow.
Thinking back on it, Haeyang wonders if he should have fallen in love right then and there.
Instead, he’s young and blinded still, and only grins at him, flashing two sharp canines. The man blinks, and offers a small smile back, a sliver of his teeth glinting. The light turns green, the whirr of cars stop, and they head off in separate ways before Haeyang could open his mouth to start up a conversation.
He doesn’t have to wait long to see him again. He’s watching the cars again the very next day, rocking on the balls of his feet when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around, and looks up, up, up. It’s cloudy.
The man smiles. What’s your name? he asks, eyes creasing as he stares expectantly, and Haeyang Yu is more than happy to answer. He repeats the question back to him, and the sun moves out from where it’s hidden in the clouds, light lining buildings and cars and the man.
Mikhail, he says, and his voice is a low, melodic thing. It reminds him of long-forgotten lullabies, of the gospels that the church people sang on the streets.
Okay Mikhail ahjussi, Haeyang says, because respect was everything. The man laughs, and a hand ruffles his hair– gently, warmly, lovingly, and suddenly respect is nothing.
Hyung, he corrects, and Haeyang beams. The lights turn green, and Haeyang never questions why the man turns and walks down the same street despite going the other way yesterday. Instead, he pays attention to the hand he rests on his shoulder, tingling, and the arm he raises in the air to keep the cars at bay. His eyes shine, and Mikhail stares.
Call me Mikhail hyung.
Coalesce
(You, Me)
Verb.
- Combine elements (people) in a mass or whole.
The curry is hot as it slides down his throat, and Mikhail pushes the glass of water towards him without Haeyang having to say anything.
They’re eating in the local family owned restaurant tucked between two alleyways, and it’s only them in the building. Haeyang can hear the buzzing of dishes being washed from the kitchen, the vegetables being chopped, the sound of the two people arguing distantly behind the restaurant. He eats another spoonful of curry, chewing slower.
Mikhail watches, and nods in satisfaction. Haeyang grins at him, and then they’re talking– a tirade, a tsunami, an outlet of sorts– they talk until they’re narrowed down to nothing but words and pointless conversations, opinions. Until the space between them is crammed with thoughts said out loud.
Haeyang tells him about the Japanese learning class he takes after school, and Mikhail talks about how he learned Korean. He brings up the nice lunch he had earlier, Mikhail mentions the company dinner he attended the day before. The good grade he got on his test, the promotion into a higher position. A conversation he had with his classmate, a lecture he got from the boss. The primary school field trip coming up, the new place he’s renting out.
Everything.
Haeyang’s a quick learner, and a curious talker. Always interested, greeting strangers on the street, asking tourists cluttered at the aquarium by his house where they came from, telling the old homeless man how his day was. It comes easy to him, wanting, yearning the concept of other beings, other people. Mikhail seemed to do the same.
Mikhail Lebedev, he learns, works in the radio host company that was located a couple blocks from school. He was a news reporter, sometimes one of the translators for their global news team. He came from Russia, but lived in Korea for the past 6 years, an accent still noticeable in his voice.
Haeyang is nine, turning ten soon, and cool, handsome Mikhail hyung is freshly thirty. He tells him that the man looks younger than he should at such an old age, and Mikhail hyung’s blue-grey eyes bore into him before they crinkle up, his voice ringing in Haeyang’s head as he laughs.
Not that old, he says, his voice a lilted teasing. You know it’s only a couple years. I’ve seen people who dated with a wayy bigger gap.
Really? Haeyang asks, because he’s not stupid, and he knows thirty is an old age. He knows about stranger danger, about the evil men roaming on the streets, but Mikhail’s light-hearted chuckle melts it off of his very foundation, rewrites the little he’s known about it. The Russian man explains how it’s okay, how people always make it sound much more dramatic than it should be, and he looks honest.
He doesn’t talk much with his parents, a conversation always turning into an argument, a stray bottle, crying. Strangers outside are easier to deal with than the strangers that live inside his house.
Yet the only clear memory he has of any of them– maybe he was three, four, five, who knows– is of his mother, face flushed with just one soju bottle over her limit, leaning beside his bed. He pretends to be asleep, a bruise still aching right under his ribs.
His mother runs her slim, trembling fingers in his hair, nearly impossible to pinpoint it with the way it blends into soft blonde, nearly white locks. She hums an old nursery rhyme that Haeyang can’t remember again, but he thinks he may have envisioned the waves crashing into the beach downtown.
Her humming stops, and the waves are still roaring in the background. Instead, she talks as if Haeyang was her only way out– about her asshole of a husband, asshole of a father– she kneels by his bed like a sinner confessing her sins, her prayer tucked into the bottle in her hand.
Haeyang is the Father, tucked away behind a wooden door lined with wrongdoings aged like wine, and listens. He hears of missed opportunities, of the want to become a doctor, an actor, a good mother– of the unravelings of a dishonest man.
The sea in the backgrounds finally come crashing in– dragging, pulling him into the dreamworld– and he feels chapped lips brush his forehead, whisper into his left ear–
Be honest, Yu Haeyang.
If all else fails– if kindness misses, courageousness falters–
Honesty will stay.
Haeyang shuts his eyes, and dreams.
Mikhail’s eyes twinkle at him, and honesty has always been the best policy.
Love
(Artificial)
Noun.
- Great interest and pleasure in something.
His parents are dead by the time Haeyang turns eleven.
The funeral is quiet, save for his grandmother’s pathetic sniffling and his grandfather’s loud, coarse coughs that rattle his body, shakes the building, shatters the tranquility of the whole ordeal. Haeyang kneels, the uncomfortably crisp black suit restricting him, straining against the yellow and purple marks on his upper arms, on his torso. He looks up to his parents smiling portraits, and blinks.
Death by drunk driving. A true tragedy it was; such a hardworking couple caring for their elders, raising a bright and brilliant kid, trying their best in a tough lifestyle– at least, that’s what he hears the random people outside of the funeral room say.
Personally, he couldn’t care less. He wants to tell them to Заткнись (shut up)– he ducks his head again to hide a grin, remembering the new vocabulary Micha had spent the last week teaching him. He keeps his head down until his grandmother rests a cold hand on his shoulder, readying themselves to go.
The car ride home is dead silent, no half-assed whimpers from his grandmother and rough hacking of lungs from his grandfather. If he strains his ears, he could hear water– sloshing, slipping, sliding in and away. His grandfather picks apart the meal his grandmother makes, dissecting the food and tearing into her with harsh complaints. Haeyang leaves his rice bowl full, and pulls out his phone.
(17:24) Ko: Are you okay?
(17:24) Ko: Didn’t have anyone that could take me to the funeral :( Sorry.
(17:26) Ko: Text me when you get this!
(17:52) Micha Hyung: Are you done yet?
(17:55) Micha Hyung: Let me know when you’re ready for me to pick you up ^^
Haeyang sends Koen a simple Kakao emoji– the bear saluting– before opening up Mikhail’s messages to reply.
He hears a dish fall, but it’s lost in the sound of a car engine outside, and Haeyang is up and out of the house before he can even click send.
Nothing changes. He feels like it should– his parents are dead, and he was legally considered an orphan. Yet the world keeps spinning, the days keep passing, and the bruises on his body fade. The dread of going home goes away, and he thinks this is what real, raw freedom tastes like, huddled up with Mikhail on the couch of his comfortable apartment.
It’s just him and Mikhail most of the time now. After school, dinners, night routines– the clock ticks the hours they spent together, and Haeyang thinks this is what genuine love feels like. The hand he holds as they pass the street, as though Haeyang was still young enough to be protected– the fingers that run through his unnaturally light hair, the futon Mikail leaves out beside his bed, cluttered with Haeyang’s belongings.
It’s home. It’s wonderfully warm for a long period of time.
Mikhail questions him one day, when they’re out eating ice cream after their usual curry– Haeyang can remember it as clear as the ocean waves. They’re sitting on a bench outside the apartment, the sun setting over the tall buildings looming, shadowing the looming man right next to him, staring at him.
Do you love me? he asks, and Haeyang is halfway into biting his chocolate and strawberry ice cream cone.
He tilts his head up, up, up– high, because Mikhail was a tall man, all broad shoulders and lean muscle mass– and smiles, sweet stickiness coating his lips.
Of course Micha, is the only reasonable answer at the time, because what wasn’t there to love about him? This was what love should have been from the start– everything from this, and nothing from what he thought it was.
Something easy, natural– natural in the way the nickname slides from his tongue from ease, in the way Micha gently wipes the residue ice cream from his lips, in the way they’re suddenly at the apartment, and Micha is pressing him to their bedroom wall, kissing him.
Haeyang's brain spins, and he doesn’t mean it when he tries to push the taller (tallest) man off, gasping for air. It trembles his lungs, clogs up his throat; he doesn’t understand why Micha’s heavy hands gently press closer, roaming, roaming–
It’s okay, Hae, he sighs, patiently waiting until he stops tensing his shoulders, until he relaxes against the concrete wall behind him and the mountain in front– then Micha is on him again, lips warm and devouring Hae’s dry mouth as if he’s been waiting for centuries, lifetimes– he’s whispering again.
It’s okay. This is love.
He moves them towards the bed, and Haeyang (accidentally) jabs out an elbow, trying to create space, trying to breathe– Micha keeps moving.
You’re okay, со́лнышко– just follow Micha, okay? You said you love me too.
Haeyang doesn’t recognize that term. He makes a mental note to search it up and shoves that note to the back of his mind as he tries to keep up– this was love? He sees blue-grey staring at him (hungrily) and a mouth quirking up to a gentle smile (a sneer) and feels hands climb down, down, down–
The bed is soft, and Micha’s softer– gentle, asking him if it hurts, if he can move, if he needs him to kiss it better– Haeyang chokes on a no, because it’s so confusing, the way he feels a part of himself shrivel up and die while the other flourishes from such care.
He tells Micha to stop– he protests in a way he’s never had to, never wanted to with him, hands scrambling for purchase in the white sheets under him and legs kicking up in a feeble attempt to get away. Micha moves them apart like he’s flipping open a book– easy, with only a flick of a finger.
You said you love me. Do you not?
Haeyang does love him, but he doesn’t want this. Micha kisses him again, and Haeyang feels his eyes well up, slipping down the sides of his face and uncomfortably wetting his ears. Micha coos, kissing them away.
This is what people do when they love each other.
A hand brushes his chest, wraps around his waist, tugs his closer–
I know your parents didn’t love you enough to do this, right? My poor куколка– Micha will teach you.
He knows that one. ‘Doll’.
Micha liked to call him that a lot.
You have to be a big boy.
What time was it again? He’s losing track. He tilts his head all the way back so he’s staring at the ceiling instead of the man. Micha takes it another way, and pain (pleasure?) shocks him.
You can’t say no.
Why?
That’s just how love was made to be.
Why? That’s so confusing.
I love you so much, со́лнышко.
That term again. Was that a combination with the word for sun?
You’re so, so pretty. Such big eyes– you’re so small, тонкий– it’s so cute. Like a girl.
Delicate.
I’m so glad you kept your hair long– my, it’s nearly past your shoulders! We should keep it long. Are you okay with that? Micha likes it better longer.
Okay. Haeyang can keep it long.
Your skin is so soft too– it’s восхитительный when you blush. It’s so easy to mark you– aren’t you a pretty little thing? So unique.
Haeyang was born weird– even paler than his usually light-skinned peers, with hair an unnatural soft blonde and white. His eyes jitter sometimes, even though he doesn’t have the classic red eyes.
Albinism, the doctors called it.
Beauty, is what Micha said.
I love you. I love you so much, Haeyang.
Micha’s fingers bruise his hips, digging into pale flesh like a wolf tearing into their prey. Haeyang thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe, chest heaving. It hurts; it hurts so much, and he can’t stop himself from the tears flowing, the hiccups that accompany his ragged sobs. Darkness folds around him, and Micha presses a kiss to his forehead.
What a pretty crier.
Haeyang closes his eyes, and dreams of a clear sea with the most pristine of beaches.
Honesty
(A lie wrapped in satin)
Noun.
- The art of deceiving.
He lets the punch connect with his cheek, the same one Mikhail kissed last night, and feels the residue of Micha’s love fly right off. The unbearable itch of a tender kiss is replaced by hard and heavy pain, his head cracking to the side.
The stranger is fuming, lips curled into a snarl as he fists the front of Haeyang’s uniform, dragging him closer, and Haeyang’s heart momentarily plummets, but the anger in the stranger’s eyes is too bright to be anything from lust. He relaxes, and grins with sharp teeth and even sharper words, wielding his tongue like a sword.
Haeyang’s laughing, even with blood leaking from his nose and staining his teeth, his lips; he jabs insult after insult, picking apart the guy by his seams– vitriol about his hair, his face, his swings fly out of his mouth before he can think about exactly why he was doing this in the first place.
His head is starting to spin, and the stranger kicks him into a garbage pile. He spits at Haeyang’s feet, giving him a look of pure disgust, and all Haeyang can feel at the moment– spinning, spilling, overwhelming him– was pure gratitude.
Fucking freak, the stranger shouts, sneering as he stares him down, and Haeyang giggles because the words hurt, and is infinitely better than Micha’s со́лнышко. Sunshine, darling.
The raw skin on his palms sc**** the feeling of warm bed sheets tangled into his fingers, the bruises blossoming on his torso relieves the careful hickies under his collarbone, the split lip and bloodied nose stings in the open air in a heavenly comparison to the soreness he wakes up with.
He sits in the pile of garbage hours, years, centuries after the guy leaves, his head tilted up to look at the sky. It’s a pretty combination of pink and purple. Haeyang scrunches his nose and wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.
It’s disgusting.
He grabs his dirtied book bag tossed against the wall of the alleyway and stumbles his way back to Micha’s apartment.
Micha frets over his injuries, and his hands burn when they attentively roam him, applying salve and lube and bandages and a finger. Haeyang’s too tired to even say no, and Micha’s even kinder with him today, careful of his wounds. He stares up at the ceiling– it’s a simple, blank white.
It’s disgusting.
He wakes up with a strong and heavy arm hooked around his waist and blanket pulled up to their chests. Micha tucks his head into his thin shoulder, tightens his hold on him.
Happy birthday, he hums, voice low and rumbling. It sounds like the mountains moving, the earth quaking, the wolves before they start feasting. He tilts his head away, checking the clock on the wall to his left.
He closes his eyes, and prays that turning twelve kills him.
It doesn’t. He’s thirteen and then he’s fourteen, and the world might as well just end. He’s falling, landing in water that refuses to let him up, let him out, let him breathe; he’s choking on love and hate and an uproar of lies, lies, lies–
His head started spinning at eleven, and hasn’t stopped at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, nearly fifteen. There’s an ache behind his eyes that never seems to fade, and the confusion depletes him of whatever he was meant to be. He looks like a ghost, and he can see the concern in Koen’s eyes when they walk home, watching him sway on his feet. He can’t seem to pay attention, instead focusing on not hurling up the light breakfast Micha had made him that morning.
Haeyang starts to beg. He’s never been religious– no one in his family is, and Micha wasn’t either, but he finds himself kneeling on the side of his and Micha’s bed, hands clasped tight as he spills prayers out of his dirty, filthy mouth.
He kneels in the same spot later that night, lips wrapped around Micha and hands on his lap, and thinks religion isn’t his thing after all.
He can’t escape. It follows him from school to after school lessons to Micha’s house, leering over his shoulder, pulling down– there’s nowhere to run to. He hates Koen’s asshole parents, and hates the random addition of another stranger in his house.
The new stranger. He’s been assigned to Haeyang’s grandfather’s outpatient treatment, making himself comfortable in the house. Haeyang can’t be bothered enough to remember his name; Byung something. Byungha? It gets lost somewhere along his thoughts– he can tell the guy’s curious. He looks young, younger than Micha for sure, but a lot older than Haeyang. He stares at him during the very few times he stops by the house, and Haeyang promptly ignores him, hating the crawling feeling that climbs up his spine when his eyes linger.
He’s maybe thirteen, maybe fourteen, maybe nothing at all when Byunhee tries to talk to him. He’s stopping by the house, a cut on his cheek bleeding and an eye swollen and rummaging through the kitchen’s cabinets to find salve when he feels a presence behind him. He whirls around and has to look up, up, up–
The man’s eyes are blue. They’re somehow darker than Micha’s, clouded with a sort of grief that he’s seen in the old war veteran that eats alone in the curry shop and in Koen’s after another dispute with their parents and maybe in his own, if he can stand to look at himself in the mirror long enough to see it. He’s tall too, with broad shoulders and defined arms and he’s starting to look a little too much like Micha, pupils staring, searching, wanting something–
Do you need help with that? He asks, and Haeyang hates himself when he flinches. The man has a hand held out, and Haeyang realizes that the man was staring at the medicine in his hand instead of elsewhere. He scowls, muttering a no and shoving past him. He’s surprised when the man moves aside– not to corner him, but let him walk by.
Okay, he says, and Haeyang has to stop in his tracks. He doesn’t turn around, hand tightly gripping the ointment, waiting for a hand to reach out, to make sure he listens, to tell him that no wasn’t an option– but he feels the sickly feeling of being stared at fade, and glances behind him to see him reorganizing the first-aid kit that Haeyang had left out.
Okay? Haeyang repeats, slow and careful and quiet. The man doesn’t look up, instead humming out a response–
Okay. That’s okay. Just let me know if you ever do need help.
Haeyang’s chest clenches uncomfortably, an iron hold around his heart, and he says fuck off before turning and fleeing. He can feel the words already crawling up his throat like rabid beasts, begging to be let out, to be crass, to fuck him over once again.
All he does is run his mouth. His words never dry, always a torrent of hateful spite and built up torment. It’s an infinite flood, like the ocean, the sea, and crashes into the shores of his lips, his tongue, and drags harsh fists in like the waves reel in trash or seashells.
He finds the ointment to be pointless anyway when he ends up in another alleyway in another pile of trash, the sun setting today in blue and yellow. Micha ends up patching him up that night, and Haeyang regrets not accepting the stranger’s offer.
He’s fifteen soon, maybe now, maybe never, and even fighting is starting to lose its effect. The pain isn’t loud enough to cover the screaming voice in his head telling him that he might begin hating Micha. It overrides his entire body, seizing his limbs around the man and leaving him paralyzed in school, in bed, in Micha’s arms.
He spits the words I love you to Micha like it disgusts him, like it’s a lie, and there’s blood-hot rage that simmers under his skin when Micha refuses to let go– he lashes out once, just once, shoving him off with every bit of force he has, sobbing and screaming and telling him to just stop–
Micha gets angry.
He’s never been angry. Disappointed and upset, yes, but the fear chills the rage when he sees Micha stare at him blankly, lips pressed firmly together without a single smile in sight. Haeyang’s too scared to move.
The entire time is seared into his head, and Haeyang despises that he can remember every detail– Micha’s voice, cold and mean, and a roughness in his movements that haven’t been there before. Or maybe it always has been. Haeyang can’t be bothered to care anymore.
He falls asleep with Micha whispering a soft sorry, I love you into his ear. His breath melts like acid, but Haeyang’s head is spinning, and not even a beating has ever left his body this aching, this immobile before. He wonders if the teeth marks on his bicep will be visible forever.
Haeyang says it’s okay, I love you too back, and wonders when he had become such a dishonest man.
Fighting completely loses its effect after that.
Haeyang
(Unwanted)
Noun.
- Of the Ocean, of the Sea.
- Micha’s.
He’s dying.
He can feel it. Even breathing feels like a chore, weighing him down, tying him to this shitty place, this hellhole.
His feet seem to sink as he drags him along the Earth, and he starts wearing sneakers with two extra inches added in them. They keep him from being pulled six feet under, from feeling loomed over. Everyone’s taller; even Koen seems to be catching up, building lean muscle mass from extracurricular swimming and from those boxing lessons they seemed to pick up. It makes him feel small.
It’s humiliating.
He wants to add another inch to his shoes, but Micha tells him he looks cuter when he’s shorter, so he sucks it up and hunches his shoulders down impossibly more. He keeps his head down, his overgrown hair falling over his face; it’s long now, nearly reaching his waist, another burden heaving tons on brittle bones.
He refuses to look at his reflection. He’s near positive he looks wrecked– lips swollen, fingertips gnawed off, ribs poking out from skin painted black and blue. His eyes avert when he sees a puddle of water glinting the streetlight above him and press tightly shut when he shatters the mirror in his grandparent’s house with a bloodied fist. He doesn’t see the strange senior nurse walk in, too busy pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes until he’s seeing stars.
When the darkness ebbs away, he looks up from the mess to see Byungho. He’s finally gotten the name right– one too many patch ups and one-sided conversations imprinted enough into Haeyang’s brain to keep him remembering.
He’s standing by the door, the first-aid kit he always seems to insistently carry around in his hand. He waits in silence until Haeyang slowly dips his head in acknowledgment before smiling, stepping around the glass shards with the house guest slippers. He places the kit down inside the sink, before offering a hand to him.
Can I pick you up for a second? He asks, and Haeyang squints at him suspiciously for a long time. The bathroom is quiet besides for Byunho’s soft breaths and Haeyang’s rapidly beating heart. They might have stayed there for infinity, but Byunho raises an eyebrow and the teenager reluctantly nods.
The hand reaches to his shoulder and trails down, and he freezes, feeling his limbs lock up subconsciously. He’s barely given enough time to do anything else but that though, with another hand quickly moving to follow. In a second, two hands are on his waist and it burns scalding, unbearably– before he blinks, and suddenly he’s being seated on the toilet seat, hands never lingering a moment longer.
Oh, he finds himself saying, looking up at Byungho. The man raises an eyebrow again, eyes glinting with something different. This one doesn’t make Haeyang want to crawl out of his own body.
Oh, Byungho repeats, and kneels on the ground in front of him, unbothered by the glass that dug into his pants. Haeyang watches, cautious, his eyes darting from the medical kit to the warm wet towel– when had he gotten that?– wiping residue shards and blood from his knuckles and his bare feet.
The man’s gentle, and it should set Haeyang off– should piss him off, scare him, make him want to escape– but he stays perfectly still until Byunho tapes off the last of the bandages. He tells him to stay still, leaning the room and coming back with a sweeper. The sound of glass clinking against each other rings out, drowning out breaths and a heartbeat.
Haeyang continues watching in silence, and eyes the significantly bigger shard in the pile. It glints the dim bathroom light up above, shining it a color of gold, of rainbow, or nothing at all, only something of his imagination. The smaller pieces glitter around it like diamonds, or maybe the stars in the sky. The big shard must be the sun. Cо́лнышко.
He blinks, slowly, and realizes he’s made a horrendous mistake. The shard wasn’t the sun, but a star, huge and pulsing with an uncontained pressure that eventually bursts, dimming all the stars around it. It implodes, explodes, becomes nothing but its remains.
The shard stares at him evilly, and it looks like the one that causes his inescapable doom. It seems to stare at him– from the bathroom floor, in his hand, and eventually when he jams it into Koen’s eye.
The world is spinning (has been since eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, now fifteen–) and his feet are rooted into the ground, finally starting the process of dragging him under. Someone’s screaming– who’s screaming? His shoulder feels raw, as if a wolf tore into it, leaving exposed rotting bones– there’s stars dancing in his vision tinged with black, and there’s something warm running down his hand, down his wrist. That’s familiar. He wants to throw up.
There’s something blue under him, and the stars exit the stage behind his eyes. He blinks once, twice, again and again, and then stops. He looks down.
He meets Koen Ha when he’s barely six.
His mother knows their’s, and they’re being introduced to each other in the playground across from Koen’s apartment. Koen, four and tiny with the widest eyes he’s seen, tilts their head up at him, nibbling on their ice cream.
Haeyang tilts his head, leans down, and chomps on the soft serve.
It’s cold and sweet, and he’s giggling at Koen’s dumbfounded expression as his mother pulls his back, scolding him with a hard hit to the back of his head. He turns back, about to say sorry when he sees them smiling softly, eyes crinkled up and shining with joy. Haeyang’s mouth curves into a gentle O.
They offer the rest of their cone, and Haeyang turns it down. He watched as they demanded their mother to buy another one, and the two of them eat it together on the sidewalk while their parents chatted idly on the bench behind them. They absentmindedly lick the melting vanilla, he takes big bites of his chocolate and strawberry mix. It’s quiet until a kid in front of them slip and fall silly, and the two are giggling and laughing and opening a friendship of forever into existence.
They make it a habit to eat ice cream together in the playground long after they outgrow it– sitting on the swings at midnight after a beating, after an argument, after losing people and gaining new. It’s always just them; even Micha fades to the back when his shoulder knocks against theirs, the spring air warm and ruffling his natural pale hair and Koen’s recently dyed blue.
The ice cream melts between their fingers, and Haeyang’s voice mixes in with Koen’s, looping, entangled, intertwined.
Koen cut their hair recently. It’s shaggy and a faded dark blue, and looks absolutely freeing. Koen is also screaming, voice rough and cracking from pain– pain? There’s ice cream dripping from his hand, and he’s holding an ice cream cone, and Koen’s eye is gone.
Haeyang stares. He’s holding a stray piece of glass; it digs into his palm, slicing it open, mixing with Koen’s. Koen, staring at him, hands cupped over one of their wide eyes with blood pouring, gushing, slipping between the cracks of their fingers–
They were walking. They were walking back towards Koen’s apartment before Haeyang turned to Micha’s, just like they always do. There was no time for ice cream; Micha wanted him home early. His stomach rolls. He’s not paying attention to a single thing Koen is saying– he keeps his eyes on the ground, on his shoes, on the extra inches that just barely makes him taller than them. His hair slips to cover his view, but his ears are ringing and his guts are wrenching themselves apart, and he’s falling–
A hand lands on his shoulder.
It’s just a hand. It’s smaller than Micha’s too, way smaller, closer to his size, but he suddenly can’t think. He can’t think of anything but last night, of the night before that, of Saturday morning, of every single fucking day for the past four years–
He jerks back, and feels the air slam into him, shoving him a couple (a billion) steps back. Koen– his Koen, his sister, brother, baby sibling in everything but blood, is sitting hunched up against the alley wall, blood soaking their school uniform and contrasting against the blue.
He’s stepping forward and they’re shuffling back, and it’s a waltz suddenly frozen midway. It’s never been a dance between them; no distance, no back and forths, no hesitation– but Haeyang can’t bring himself to step any closer. Koen’s eyes are as wide as they were nine years ago. There’s no vanilla ice cream this time around.
He can’t get his mouth to move. His lips refuse to twitch, his saliva runs dry, the words always ready on his tongue refuse to leave. They’re a foul taste in his mouth, and he’s dangerously close to spilling bile and wrongdoings into the mess of colors surrounding him.
Koen’s fingers are slick with blood and rain– rain. It had started raining– the heavy kind, the ones that blow down quick and hard and disappear with the sun peaking through before the hour ends. The water slips and slides around them, swirling around the crimson and drowning the two of them. Haeyang can hear the sea shrieking in the distance.
They’re at a standstill. The glass slips as he loosens his grip and he lets it shatter to the ground below them. Koen flinches, and Haeyang is wilting, dying, being condemned to hell at this very moment.
He needs to help them– the cuts on his palm stretch painfully as he shakily moves to pull his phone from his pocket– it buzzes, and his eyes flick down to see the new notification–
(19:07) Micha: Curry tonight. Come home right now.
He looks at it. Curry sounds good. Hot, warming up his insides, washing away his foul mouth, coating the underside of his skin and rinsing over bones–
The wails of the waves grew louder, clogging his ears from the sound of rain splattering around him and of gentle crying. He sees a hand reaching in his peripheral, and Haeyang–
Haeyang runs.
He runs away for the first time– not even in fights, in losing battles where he never even lifts a finger, when his words starts damaging his own tongue did he run, but he finds the ground mushy under his platform sneakers as he turns on his heels, phone in his bleeding hand and words clogged in a tattered airway as he stumbles through the rain. The waves crash against rocks, drag the new trash in, spits its old ones out.
He throws up in Micha’s bathroom that night. He’s hacking as his spine, his heart, his lungs and his soul comes up and out, emptying him and leaving him with nothing but a skin that burns with Micha’s hand gently resting on his shoulder, making its way down to rub circles on his back. The bile comes back up.
Koen doesn’t come to school for the next two weeks, and Haeyang walks alone after school. Koen’s mother greets him when he stops by, his feet taking him to their apartment complex like muscle memory. She looks wrecked, face flushed from either alcohol or stress or maybe both. Hatred boils, and he goes incredibly still when she wraps her thin arms around him, sobbing and running trembling hands through his hair. He ducks his head, and lets her.
Koen’s in the hospital for two weeks. Haeyang doesn’t visit once. He doesn’t break his routine– school, Koen’s apartment to Micha’s alone, homework and late night sex, repeat. The waves shake like earthquakes in his head, spinning his brain cells apart and drifting away his memories, his hopes, his dreams. Himself.
He sees Koen in the halls when they’re finally allowed to leave. There’s a white bandage plastered over their eye, unbudging and stark against their dark hair. He doesn’t make an effort to approach them, and he finally realizes that there’s nothing left of him to take when they breeze past, keeping their head down.
He continues to walk alone when school ends. Sometimes he grabs a vanilla ice cream cone. It’s the only thing that comes up when he inevitably vomits it back out at night.
It’s melted, dripping onto the tiles when everything finally, finally comes to an end.
It’s been radio silence between him and Koen for the past month, and Haeyang has never realized how lonely he had turned out to be. It’s a crippling, stifling thing, shutting him off from the concept of existing with others.
He starts watching cars with increasing curiosity; one wrong step. It’s been a nagging thought in the back of his mind for years, crossing busy streets and a high bridge. It lingers when he eyes the knife in the kitchen and the bottle of pills in Micha’s cabinet. He stares at them, and they stare back. Back and forth. A dance.
He’s lying next to Micha, naked with nothing but cold sheets and a hollow husk of a body, and thinks that he’s finally allowed this one saving grace. He makes a decision when he sees Koen pointedly turn away from his direction at the front of the school gates, when Micha texts him he’ll be home later that night.
He buys ice cream when he steps out of the convenience store, a boxcutter jostling around with a bottle of strong painkillers. He takes one big bite, savoring the sweetness until he makes his way to Micha’s apartment, letting it drip between his fingers as it melts, a sticky mess that leaves a trail on the wooden floor under his bare feet. He places it on the sink counter as he walks into the bathroom, softly clicking the lock behind him and finally letting himself look in the mirror.
He looks deceased. His eyes are heavy with horrible eye bags, face sallow and thin. His lips are cracking and his hair looked tangled, long and unkept. There’s a healing bruise just above his left eyebrow, an ugly yellow and purple painting him like a blank canvas.
He’s wearing one of Micha’s shirts. It’s plain white and huge on him, falling down one narrow shoulder entirely and coming near to his knees. His sweatpants hang loosely to his hips, bunched up at the bottom. He doesn’t lean any closer to the mirror. He wonders if the thing staring back at him, impersonating him, could reach him through glass.
The plastic bag crinkles as he pulls out the boxcutter. He pushes the blade up, up, up– raises it to his face, and begins to saw away at his hair. He methodically goes back and forth with the blade, letting strands fall to the floor and pile up by his feet. They look like snakes. He stops when he feels the short ends brush over his neck. He wonders why he doesn’t feel any lighter, why he doesn’t feel free at all. He looks in the mirror, holds the blade close to his chest, and moves to turn on the water.
He waits. He’s picking out the details of everything surrounding him; the small stain on the rim of the bathtub, the ticking sound of the clock above the toilet, the feeling of the tiles under his feet. He dissects himself– the feeling of his ribs jutting out, the soreness of every limb, the blood already running down his arms, the handful of pills stuck in his throat.
The water runs, filling up the tub, and Haeyang slowly sinks into it. The clothes begin to cling to his skin, to his bones, to his mottled body.
It grows murky quickly, mixing with blood and diluting into a color of pink, spilling over the tub and splashing onto the floor. There’s a clump of his hair on the ground, looking like a pile of gold until it gets wet. Then it resembles sand– the waves are crashing somewhere in the background. The sand is warm under him, sinking, dragging, pulling him in as he runs along the beach, taunting and teasing the sea to come fetch him.
The water is cold, and Haeyang closes his eyes, and dreams.
Last edited: