PENUMBRA

That’s a good question, honestly, and not one he hasn’t thought about at least a handful of times every single week up until now. What does happen next, when every part of him has run dry and nothing has changed? It’s just weird hearing the words come from another person’s mouth instead of somewhere filed inside of his thoughts, frantic voice cracks and strained emotions included. Was this a fight he was willing to take with him for the rest of his life or was there going to be a definite point during all of this where he could decide to throw in the towel and move on? Would his friend want him to spend the prime years of his life chasing ghosts and letting the search for resolve? Probably not, but he’s still in Seoul and he still flinches when he hears noises behind him at night, and he still sits in a hospital room talking to someone who physically can’t answer him anymore. The exhaustion sometimes is in the forefront, sometimes is the last thing he thinks about. Compartmentalizing it is easy, but when there’s nothing dragging him along by the heels and his thoughts have room to roam free, the vast list of outcomes and the time he’s spent bleeding himself into the pavement for answers hits him like bricks. It’s funny in a pathetic sort of way, but he really does think this is easily the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. The rock stops just a few inches from Yohan’s feet and he waits for it to be kicked back, staring and readying himself to catch it with the sole of his shoes again, but it never moves. Zhixin looks back out at the river, trying valiantly not to show how occupied he is with the idea of the rock being a symbol for himself, of knowing when to stop, of just stopping, but then maybe it’s just a rock and he’s just a hunter and it’s not that serious. Maybe sometimes endings just happen and no one has control of when or why.  But then Yohan is thanking him and he almost forgets that he did just offer himself up to be a security net when he isn’t very secure in the first place. He does really have to stop doing that, although he can sincerely say he doesn’t regret it. That’s something he has going for him, at least; he’s never been the type to give empty promises so when he promises Yohan a place in himself to fall from grace, he takes pride in knowing that even if it’s not perfect, even if he’s not perfect, he’ll still be there. Sure, they haven’t done much together besides run laps around the same park around the same time but it’s been a constant that Zhixin has relied on for stability more than he’s willing to let the younger man know. There’s never a simple way to tell someone that you depend on them, regardless of how much or what for, and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment by possibly making Yohan feel responsible for yet another thing so he smiles and pretends that the whole conversation is smaller than it actually is.  “The only thing that’s too much for me is your ego, right now,” he says through a veil of fake annoyance, even though it’s very obviously hilarious to him. Nothing is really ever a competition even if they make it out to be. Just the company is enough, and he thinks Yohan probably feels the same way. One day they were just two runners on the same path and then one day they were side by side, shoulder to shoulder ( on the off chance Yohan didn’t want to run literal laps around him). One day Zhixin went from solitude to something that feels like friendship and it still makes his head spin and his stomach feel like it’s filled with helium when he thinks about how fast it happened without him calculating every step of the way. Before he realizes he’s doing it, he has a hand in Yohan’s hair, messing it up like that’s just supposed to happen and he does his best not to overthink it like how it’s the very first time he’s gone out of his way to use his hands for anything other than being a hunter or for serving tea. Don’t be awkward. Please don’t point out how awkward it is.

A lot can happen in ten seconds and Zhixin isn’t counting, really, but he does take into consideration that he has roughly ten seconds to make a point or ready himself to fight someone in broad daylight in front of basically everyone on campus. Not that many students even pay attention to what’s going on outside of their own little worlds anyway, but were they to decide to for once, he would certainly be to blame. It’s the hefty weight of two choices that sit on his shoulders, one completely opposing to the next, that eats away the majority of the passing time between them, with each second feeling shorter than the next. There’s so much residual anger in him that the thought of just doing something to pacify it is tempting. Even if the target gets placed on the wrong back, it’s still a target and he hasn’t ever taken pleasure in the concept of violence before, but then he thinks of fairness and justice and it almost feels right to be ignorant if it meant he could just get that sentiment off of his chest; the one that keeps chanting an eye for an eye, the one that just wants someone to hurt like he did.  Then, humorlessly, he looks at the spilled coffee on the ground and snorts because the logical part of him knows better, knows that answers aren’t hidden in fists or blood, only endings. No matter how good it would feel to just punish something — for the suffering, for the sleepless nights, for all of this — other than himself, it wouldn’t get him anywhere closer to finding honest solutions to those problems and what good was momentary relief when it wouldn’t mean anything in the end. He can’t wake up his friend or forgive a family ( or himself for that matter) with savagery.  “I need names.” He says, making eye contact again, without letting go of the other’s shirt, because he can’t risk someone running off with the information he desperately needs. The man could tear his arms off, for all he cares, he wasn’t letting go any time soon. “The people you were with, I need their names and, if you’re feeling generous, I need to know where I could find them.” He thinks back to the smile that curled on the lips of the one individual in particular he was hoping for information on, thinks about how it only took that one gesture and zero words to confirm intentions and to fill in a good ninety-seven percent of the blanks in his head. Subconsciously, his grip tightens. He’s so locked in place with the rush of anger, Zhixin nearly forgets to breathe, studying the far from pleased expression staring back at him and forcing himself to really notice who’s staring back. If he had a more in depth grasp of the language he knows he would say something equally as witty and threatening, but he’s stuck with what he has and at the very moment all he can muster is an ugly sounding “You wouldn’t be giving me something I don’t already have.” He realizes he doesn’t have much, and the feeling grips his throat without mercy. Distance happens between them but it isn’t much, just enough to wedge away from the wall at least. 

But his eyes are closed and he’s on his palms when it happens, suspending his weight over his head, so it’s really hard to distinguish if he’s hearing footsteps after or his own heartbeat in his ears, while trying to fight against the sway of gravity.  @feyhyeseong

Even that action in itself, if he’s being frivolously self analytical, is for the comfort of Yohan more than himself. He can assume neither of them would want to take a sharp turn into the less than desirable details of their lives. The sun over the river looks beautiful and in the distance he can hear other admirers giggle and bicker about taking photos. He doesn’t want to ruin this with a debate. “You’re right,” he offers, sighing softly. “It’s hard to walk that fine line of making sure other people are happy without neglecting your own happiness in the process. I guess, in some ways, making sure other people are content does bring me contentment too, but I can admit sometimes it just doesn’t feel as good as I wish it would. Sometimes it feels like giving pieces of myself away that I can’t get back.” Each piece just looks a little bit like the person his parents wanted him to be and not the person he tried so hard to become instead. Each piece is a part of a puzzle he’s trying so hard to solve, and sometimes it feels like the picture is blank and the edges don’t fit correctly.  “But I think it’s far more selfish to want someone else to change if you know it’s not going to make them happy.” His own convoluted situation aside, he feels unfortunately versed in yearning for the courage to grasp independence. The tone of Yohan’s voice makes him feel whiplash and sympathy and he doubts either of those things could help him in the way Zhixin wishes it could. It was his own decision, after all, to swallow his insecurities and veer off the predetermined path initially, but he does know things probably could have been a hell of a lot easier if he weren’t so alone in that leap initially. “If you’re going to be brave, then I’ll be there for you if you stumble.” He offers a delicate sounding scoff. “You may run faster, but I can almost guarantee my balance is better.”  

…protect your muse. You count how many times you’ve had a best friend on one hand. You keep wavering on if you need to a put a finger down or not because technically you haven’t lost the last one but it still feels like you did and it feels like your fault so you bend one finger at the second knuckle because that seems accurate, half down, half up, half heartbroken over the concept of considering someone as anything other than their full selves anymore, half just heartbroken in general. It starts to all feel the same so you don’t think about that even though you understand you can’t, that even when you’re not actively thinking about them you are.  But then you look at your hand and think about raising another finger because Noel pulled you from the wreckage of everything going on with his kind eyes and soft voice and he doesn’t judge you for how you flinch when something good finally comes into your life. Noel is warm and polite and it terrifies you because the impermanence of your existence makes it hard to ignore the idea that he could disappear one day and you would be left there waiting for him to put his hand on your spine like he always does in the wake of all of the difficulty and that reassurance would never come. It terrifies you because you think about all of the things he’s done so far to nurture all of your disjointedness and wonder how you could ever return the favor, but then again it’s Noel and you know he would never expect any form repayment from you. It terrifies you because you look at your fingers, all scarred and calloused and that one you raised in question somehow holds so much hope and so much risk. “What are you doing?” You vaguely collect from the mumble into your shoulder, one eye open to you staring stupidly at your hands in your lap. The breath stops short of your lips, going back to hiding them in your sweater pocket. “Nothing. I’m sorry if I woke you.” 

His eyes close and he shoves that memory deep, smothered by equally beautiful recollections that he’s too scared to file through. The lump in his throat doesn’t yield. “I don’t know enough on my own to make the best decision for them while I figure this all out, but...but I wish did. I just know that if this were me, my family ⁠— ” Another deep, pacifying breath. If it were years ago, if he had just shut up and listened like the son his father always wanted him to be. If he didn’t break his mother’s heart or leave no trace of himself other than a sticky-note on their kitchen counter. “My family would want to help. I think. I know their parents love them. At least that home is still a home.” 

First there’s a sweet smile behind his americano, and then he’s convinced he’s never consumed so much coffee in his life than he has this year alone. Sometimes it makes his stomach even more of a bundle of knots. Sometimes he vaguely questions if he’s having a heart attack from all of the accumulative stress or the caffeine or both. Really he just wants to hear the sound of someone recognizing him through a smile whether the gesture is genuine or not. It sounds sad when he thinks about it, but he can’t really say he cares all too much if the act is just another form of emotional labor; he’s selfish enough to lie to himself for now.  First, Zhixin is ordering the same one part espresso three part water beverage over ice, biting the inside of his cheek and waiting at the end of the counter for it to be handed to him with the usual send off. But now he’s hesitating with his hand around the cup and the barista is playing guessing games with what went wrong like if he needs an extra straw or if he accidentally meant cappuccino or drip coffee, because for a whole twenty agonizing seconds it feels like Zhixin says absolutely nothing. He hasn’t even taken a sip yet and he can hear his pulse in his ears. “Truth or dare” he nearly blurts, finally fixating his eyes on a head of pink hair and then the widened eyes staring back it him.  It doesn’t really matter what answer came next because before he can eloquently pause himself he’s already sliding into another embarrassing jumble of words. Every sentence is an avalanche and he swears he feels like he’s been running for miles to get to this point. “I dare you to have a cup of tea with me, at uh,” he blinks slowly, forgetting words in both Korean and his native language and he swears he would be dead under a pile of snow were this an actual natural danger. That isn’t to say this doesn’t already feel like a danger in and of itself. “ At my work I uh, I work at a tea shop in the historical district.” 

With each passing second, Zhixin feels himself nearing an unidentified precipice in which he’s certain he’d fall from given the chance. Anything, he thinks, would be better than this reality where he’s talking to a stranger on an empty street about how he ended up here in the first place. There’s no elegant or even quick way to summarize it and he wishes there was, but time has never been a friend of his so he just stands there. In the moment, it almost feels like the only thing he can manage to do right.  And it’s not that he’s forgetting to pay attention but he only manages to tune back in around the mention of a coma, which he mulls over like anyone faced with a double-edged sword like that would: He exhales all of the remaining air in his lungs, and surrenders to the buckling of his knees.  When he finally looks up at the stranger, his eyes are glossed over, lashes wet. He wants to ask why a vampire would ever want to help someone like them instead of taking the opportune moment this presents. He wants to recoil and reach for the silver in his jacket pocket in case that thought hasn’t crossed the other’s mind just yet. He wants to, but he knows he cant. Just like how he couldn’t react fast enough to the magic, or make it all the way to their house on his own.  The weight of all that he’s incapable of makes it so much harder to get up, because he can’t ignore it like he’s ignored everything else until now. “We were just walking home together and when they — when the witch appeared — my friend tried to get between us but,” he glances down again, shakily brushing the hair out of the unconscious hunter’s eyes. “The witch kept saying something, like a mantra, and when the witch finally got a hold of them it was like all of the life just drained.” Zhixin hiccups around the recollection, thumbing the serene looking cheek of the fallen individual he held so dear.  “I should have paid more attention to them,” he says weakly while continuing to study their unmoved features. In some ways, the sentiments felt more for them than for the inquirer.  “Because I didn’t know. I didn’t know they were like me until it was too late and look where that got us.”  Truthfully speaking, he felt helpless for the first time in a long time and being in the sympathetic shadow of a being who had all of the power to take his life, only amplified the feeling within him.  “How do I face their family and the people who love them, when I lied for so long about who I am? Do I even have the right to ask for their help when I couldn’t even do anything to prevent this, as a hunter or their friend.” 

There are a handful of ways to make someone feel seen. Zhixin grew up on the approving nods of his father, translating them into cheap serotonin rushes to keep him afloat in the plethora of lessons that attempted to drown him. Some individuals learn to get their fix on surface level compliments and others need the deep seeded knowledge of their worth actually being of any value. The way she looks out into the street, crosswalk numbers flashing red in the glass of her eyes makes him painfully aware of the emptiness inside of him that wants affirmation, that the color red, when it’s not speckled over his skin or coppery on his aching mouth, can be such a lonely color. It’s a loud, ugly hue demanding of attention. She wears it like it’s what carved her into being and he wears it like a noose. In the end: it’s just a color, it’s just a stranger at a crosswalk. In the moment: he’s playing connect the dots with his feelings. He’s walking faster to catch up to her in a crowd but when he finally catches her he’s silent. When she looks at him he still sees red, her lips, her eyes. “Hey,” he chokes on the word, feels it burn like a lit match behind his teeth.  “You are going to be okay.”  The crowd thins around them and they’re left standing there like two pawns on opposite sides of a chess board. No one really knows who’s winning the game, but it doesn’t really matter.  “I just wanted to tell you that.”