take on the world with me

leaning on the wooden fence of the training yard, you glance down at your hands. they are calloused from years of hard work on the farm—creating, maintaining, rebuilding. the imprints of your boots have been cemented into the legacy of this land. your blood has spilled into the sand more times than you can count, and you have grown to understand that carnage is a small price to pay for the preservation of paradise.

"'careful not to think too hard on a hot summer day like this, doll. wouldn't want you to overheat."

your husband's voice is smooth; soft and airy like the butter your grandma used to churn by hand. the sound of it alone disarms you. he grins down at you from atop one of the farm's older geldings, and their combined height manages to provide a brief respite from the glaring sun. taking a rich, blue cotton rag from his breast pocket, he hands it to you and chuckles, "so, what're you over here ponderin', anyway?"

instead of offering up an immediate answer, you reach up and comb your fingers through the mane of your husband's horse. the hair is a deep, midnight black; it contrasts beautifully with the mousy gray of his muscular, dependable body. morae sighs, bobbing his head a few times before his jaw loosens and his tail begins to swish back and forth.

"i should just give him to you, huh? he's always liked you more," your husband grunts, leaning forward to place a couple hefty pats on morae's neck. mischief twinkles in his doe eyes as he glances down at you once more, "ain't that right, buddy? well, you can't have her, 'cause she's mine."

"oh, stop it." a smile dances at the edges of your lips, and you meet his gaze through your eyelashes. "you act like you're chopped liver, when you know damn well how much i love you, you dog."

"yeah, doll?" your husband simpers, dismounting in the blink of an eye. he climbs over the fence and ties morae's reins to the sturdy timber. inching closer, his sweet breath overwhelms you in the same way honeybees instinctively gravitate toward fragrant flowers. "prove it," he says, and you're never one to back down from a challenge.

hooking two fingers through his belt loops, you tug his body infinitely closer. the heat radiating between your bodies reaches dangerous heights; if a fire erupted, it would burn blue. when he kisses you, sparks fly as though two pieces of metal have just collided. you imagine this to be what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. two pairs of lips move with one another, chests heave in tandem, and the only thing keeping you grounded is the sensation of his roughened palms cupping your cheeks. desire, however, is not yet powerful enough to outweigh necessity, and the need to breathe forces the two of you apart.

"feelin' better, hee?" you chortle, jabbing a finger into his sternum.

he doesn't budge, feet fixed in place, "much."

"you do know it, though—don't you?" you press your forehead into the worn denim of his jacket, taking in the familiar concoction of patchouli, fresh-cut grass, and sweat. "you know that i love you, heeseung?"

a laugh rumbles in his chest, "is that what you were thinkin' so hard about?"

"sorta," you admit, "just thinkin' over all the trouble this place has brought us over the years. all the tears, all the blood—just wonderin' if it's been worth it, wonderin' if there's enough good seed to plant over the evil rooted here."

he hums, "i'd say so."

the answer is simple. heeseung's fingers coax you from the refuge you found in his presence, and he gestures to a point just beyond the curvature of morae's back. the relentless summer sun is beginning to sink below the silhouetted mountain range; tall stalks of wheat stand like threads of gold in an endless tapestry while your cattle graze through the sea of boundless, green grass. heeseung runs a gentle thumb over the apple of your cheek as you stare out at your land, your legacy. the good seed has already taken root, and the fruits of your labor have been sprouting before your eyes. the answer is so simple.

"i think we've done one hell of a job here," heeseung says, pulling his hand away to adjust his hat. "good and evil come and go, but as long as you and i are livin', there'll always be someone to handle 'em."

you smile, resting your head on his shoulder, "i'd say so."

quietly, you let the extra weight you had been carrying fall away and watch as he pulls a peppermint out of his pocket for morae. after a moment spent together in silence, heeseung shoots you an impish wink, "'nd if you ever need a thing, you just call, doll."

a break in the set forces you from the depths of your memories. he is almost unrecognizable as he works the crowd; a sea of people at this intimate show are screaming for him, begging for his attention, and you can't help but laugh to yourself. years ago, he used to play for you. with a timeworn guitar and a handful of hope, he shared his musings of the future. they were long-shots, pipe dreams, fantasies he entertained when his assignments proved too difficult and his imagination too wild. his voice was sultry as the nimble tips of his fingers waltzed over the fretboard; the melodies he created were happier than the ones he sings now. his stories chronicled a life with you, but now they're bittersweet—tales of olde, reminders of the past.

the show is coming to a close; the throngs of listeners are beginning to thin out. minute by minute, there are less bodies to hide behind, less background to blend into—but, you can't seem to make yourself leave. there's a part of you that wants to be seen, to be noticed by him once more. turning to the bartender, you order an elixir to forget. before you can take the first sip into oblivion, however, a shadow sits down next to you. he smells familiar—amber, sandalwood, a dark thicket. he orders a whiskey sour, and it reminds you of the first time you met. like an aged souvenir, you hold the memory delicately in the palms of your hands.

"what does it feel like, hm?" there's a momentary pause, then you hum into the thick, musky air, "to be a star?"

he takes in a labor-ridden breath. when he lets it out, it seems like more than air escapes him; the heavy exhale is almost painful as he ponders the question. a minute passes, and the quiet is stifling. "it feels good, at first. everything you want, anytime you want. but, it becomes hollow after a while—all the drinks, all the blurry faces, all the memories melting together," he admits. "it's like i'm floating, y'know ... aimless, in space, millions of miles away."

"is it lonely up there?" you ask.

"most of the time, yeah," he answers, stopping for a few seconds to think. "but, it's what i wished for. it's what i wanted."

glancing over at him out of the corner of your eye, you see he's still nursing his drink. the fingers of his left hand trace circles around the rim of the glass while he itches at his wrist with his right. the blonde streaks in his hair are tousled with a mixture of gel and sweat, and the darker parts fall forward to shield his gaze from yours. remnants of the boy you used to know, used to love are resurfacing from the deep recesses of your mind—where you had kept them hidden for years.

"you're still a terrible liar," you say.

his body tenses at the comment. as his muscles remain rigid, he scoffs, disbelieving and defensive, "what do you even know about me, anymore?"

"nothing, really ..." behind your blasé facade, there's a particular ache. his words cut you, a serrated blade shoved between the gaps of your ribs; it hurts because you know he's right. he is no longer yours to know, no longer yours to love. soon, you fear that he may not even be yours to remember—disintegrating, falling, lost to the sands of time. "i knew who you were, though. kind and gentle, the guy who would buy me flowers for no reason. every day, you would call me to tell me you loved me. you would cook dinner, light candles, wash my hair ..."

it grows quiet again; the only sounds filling the air are a symphony of closing ambience. dishes are clattering, glasses are clinking, and chairs are scratching against the floor. this time, however, the silence is not deafening. in a way, it is almost familiar—reminiscent of spring nights spent in the diner close to campus, faces full of pancakes and hearts full of joy. but, this quietude—while being peaceful—also breeds cruelty.

"i'm sorry," his voice pierces through the wisps of smoke and the faint scent of burning incense off in the distance. he leaves the rest unspoken—for leaving, for not saying goodbye, for not giving you an answer. but, you hear it. in spite of it all, you hear it. the words don't penetrate the toughened shell around your heart; instead, they echo in your mind. everything you wanted but nothing you needed.

you hesitate, "i don't know if i can believe you."

"why did you come then?" he asks, voice solemn.

pins and needles prick at the skin of your cheeks as the question makes the tips of your fingers go cold. it's almost unreal. he shouldn’t have the right to question you like this, to interrogate you like you’re the criminal—like you’re the one who left. his words make slow work of you like a bullet to the stomach. as you pour out everything for him, you come to the bitter realization that it ended this way all those years ago. it would always end this way. you, dead on the floor; him, gun in hand. “i wanted to see for myself, i guess—” you spit, “if it was all worth it.”

turning towards him, you break down the wall that time and distance had erected between the two of you. there's a ferocity that shines in your eyes; it makes them glow with a certain conviction. he avoids your pointed stare, instead choosing to swirl his watered down drink. only now do you allow yourself to take a closer look at him. his skin is pallid, a ghost of the deep, tawny beige you used to run your fingers along; the dark circles under his eyes accompany sunken cheeks and slumped shoulders. fatigue seeps down to his very being, and this life the has managed to sap the life from his veins.

"was it worth it, jongseong?"

hearing his name fall from your lips seems to send a bolt of pure lightning down the length of his spine. no one has called him that in years; the thought makes you wonder who else he left behind. the corners of his eyes crinkle as he shuts them tight, trying to be anywhere but squirming under the weight of your gaze. after a few moments, he shakes his head. it starts slowly, a gentle back and forth movement before it becomes violent and erratic. when he stops, the man finally connects with you.

his rich, umber eyes are the one of the only things you still recognize. behind the severity of his face, there is a softness dancing within them; at his waterline, tears twinkle like diamonds under a jeweler's light. jay has never cried, never felt the touch of someone who loves him for who he is—but, jongseong? jongseong misses that feeling. the freedom of being loved unconditionally, the all-encompassing warmth of not just being seen but being known.

a break in the set forces you from the depths of your memories. he is almost unrecognizable as he works the crowd; a sea of people at this intimate show are screaming for him, begging for his attention, and you can't help but laugh to yourself. years ago, he used to play for you. with a timeworn guitar and a handful of hope, he shared his musings of the future. they were long-shots, pipe dreams, fantasies he entertained when his assignments proved too difficult and his imagination too wild. his voice was sultry as the nimble tips of his fingers waltzed over the fretboard; the melodies he created were happier than the ones he sings now. his stories chronicled a life with you, but now they're bittersweet—tales of olde, reminders of the past.

the show is coming to a close; the throngs of listeners are beginning to thin out. minute by minute, there are less bodies to hide behind, less background to blend into—but, you can't seem to make yourself leave. there's a part of you that wants to be seen, to be noticed by him once more. turning to the bartender, you order an elixir to forget. before you can take the first sip into oblivion, however, a shadow sits down next to you. he smells familiar—amber, sandalwood, a dark thicket. he orders a whiskey sour, and it reminds you of the first time you met. like an aged souvenir, you hold the memory delicately in the palms of your hands.

"what does it feel like, hm?" there's a momentary pause, then you hum into the thick, musky air, "to be a star?"

he takes in a labor-ridden breath. when he lets it out, it seems like more than air escapes him; the heavy exhale is almost painful as he ponders the question. a minute passes, and the quiet is stifling. "it feels good, at first. everything you want, anytime you want. but, it becomes hollow after a while—all the drinks, all the blurry faces, all the memories melting together," he admits. "it's like i'm floating, y'know ... aimless, in space, millions of miles away."

"is it lonely up there?" you ask.

"most of the time, yeah," he answers, stopping for a few seconds to think. "but, it's what i wished for. it's what i wanted."

glancing over at him out of the corner of your eye, you see he's still nursing his drink. the fingers of his left hand trace circles around the rim of the glass while he itches at his wrist with his right. the blonde streaks in his hair are tousled with a mixture of gel and sweat, and the darker parts fall forward to shield his gaze from yours. remnants of the boy you used to know, used to love are resurfacing from the deep recesses of your mind—where you had kept them hidden for years.

"you're still a terrible liar," you say.

his body tenses at the comment. as his muscles remain rigid, he scoffs, disbelieving and defensive, "what do you even know about me, anymore?"

"nothing, really ..." behind your blasé facade, there's a particular ache. his words cut you, a serrated blade shoved between the gaps of your ribs; it hurts because you know he's right. he is no longer yours to know, no longer yours to love. soon, you fear that he may not even be yours to remember—disintegrating, falling, lost to the sands of time. "i knew who you were, though. kind and gentle, the guy who would buy me flowers for no reason. every day, you would call me to tell me you loved me. you would cook dinner, light candles, wash my hair ..."

it grows quiet again; the only sounds filling the air are a symphony of closing ambience. dishes are clattering, glasses are clinking, and chairs are scratching against the floor. this time, however, the silence is not deafening. in a way, it is almost familiar—reminiscent of spring nights spent in the diner close to campus, faces full of pancakes and hearts full of joy. but, this quietude—while being peaceful—also breeds cruelty.

"i'm sorry," his voice pierces through the wisps of smoke and the faint scent of burning incense off in the distance. he leaves the rest unspoken—for leaving, for not saying goodbye, for not giving you an answer. but, you hear it. in spite of it all, you hear it. the words don't penetrate the toughened shell around your heart; instead, they echo in your mind. everything you wanted but nothing you needed.

you hesitate, "i don't know if i can believe you."

"why did you come then?" he asks, voice solemn.

pins and needles prick at the skin of your cheeks as the question makes the tips of your fingers go cold. it's almost unreal. he shouldn’t have the right to question you like this, to interrogate you like you’re the criminal—like you’re the one who left. his words make slow work of you like a bullet to the stomach. as you pour out everything for him, you come to the bitter realization that it ended this way all those years ago. it would always end this way. you, dead on the floor; him, gun in hand. “i wanted to see for myself, i guess—” you spit, “if it was all worth it.”

turning towards him, you break down the wall that time and distance had erected between the two of you. there's a ferocity that shines in your eyes; it makes them glow with a certain conviction. he avoids your pointed stare, instead choosing to swirl his watered down drink. only now do you allow yourself to take a closer look at him. his skin is pallid, a ghost of the deep, tawny beige you used to run your fingers along; the dark circles under his eyes accompany sunken cheeks and slumped shoulders. fatigue seeps down to his very being, and this life the has managed to sap the life from his veins.

"was it worth it, jongseong?"

hearing his name fall from your lips seems to send a bolt of pure lightning down the length of his spine. no one has called him that in years; the thought makes you wonder who else he left behind. the corners of his eyes crinkle as he shuts them tight, trying to be anywhere but squirming under the weight of your gaze. after a few moments, he shakes his head. it starts slowly, a gentle back and forth movement before it becomes violent and erratic. when he stops, the man finally connects with you.

his rich, umber eyes are the one of the only things you still recognize. behind the severity of his face, there is a softness dancing within them; at his waterline, tears twinkle like diamonds under a jeweler's light. jay has never cried, never felt the touch of someone who loves him for who he is—but, jongseong? jongseong misses that feeling. the freedom of being loved unconditionally, the all-encompassing warmth of not just being seen but being known.