luminous

“stop pretending to care. or pretending to want me or. or just. stop. stop, stop, stop. stop touching me. or making me think bullshit.” it’s disjointed, and still – perhaps – doesn’t make a perfect amount of sense. but it’s a potential start.

there’s no part of taewoo that knows how to be soft. to even want to try and make someone like kiyong attempt to feel better. about the situation, about his shitty life, about himself or whatever. taewoo doesn’t fucking know. he doesn’t even know over what the jitterbug’s been drinking and burning pillowcases for. just assumes that that’s his default, that that’s how self-destructive he is. perhaps even stupidly self-loathing or self-sabotaging. but it’s this exact outcome that taewoo doesn’t quite understand. like a puzzle piece he’d missed to complete the bigger picture, a missing formula to an equation he’d thought he was close to solving but really isn’t, because he’s stuck. because logic is telling him that kiyong got what he wanted, that he finally managed to rile up taewoo to the point of him storming out that taewoo had been expecting a smug kiyong to ignore and endure when he got back to the motel. yet, all he got was this boy and this mess, and it doesn’t make sense.

taewoo stares down at kiyong, frown marring his features. he’s already tired of the mumbling, the incoherent words. doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s talking about or even understand it. he’s irritated at the way kiyong keeps returning back to the burnt pillow, even while he’s still coughing and it’s obviously what’s causing the fit. so taewoo grabs the damn thing, flings it away until it hits a hanging picture frame across the room and it smashes onto the floor. he looks back down at kiyong. not his damn problem. and decides to pull away kiyong’s arms to stop him from thrashing about, pinning them on either side of his head. “calm. down,” taewoo growls with gritted teeth, straddles kiyong to make him stay still.

again, there’s no part of taewoo that knows how to be soft. he’s nothing but hard edges and piercing spikes, just the way he’d sharpened himself to be in order to survive. made it so that anyone that even tried to look his way would feel compelled to stay away. made it impossible for anyone to get close to him. and no one did. no one wanted to. he didn’t want anyone getting close to him either. so he’d assumed the same with kiyong, assumed that kiyong only wanted him around for the utility he provided and nothing else. but what kiyong had said seemed to suggest something else.

"use your words,” taewoo snaps. “properly.” because it sounds like kiyong’s blaming taewoo for his bratty behaviour. that taewoo had crossed into kiyong’s lines first and made kiyong cross back. that he pretended to care. that he pretended to want him. what the fuck? “what does all of this have to do with me?” he grunts, looking down at kiyong. “you must be kidding if you think you can get me to do anything i don’t want to do. i have no time for fucking pretences. i will care if i want to. i will touch you if i want to, and i will want you if i want to. so don’t tell me what to do.”

and without warning taewoo leans down. he wants to bruise. he wants to take. to conquer. to make a point. to free himself, even for the shortest moment. to finally feel something. anything. he leans down to press their lips together, frenzied. harsh and relentless. a tinge of desperation, frustration, hopelessness and want.

he’s too emotional this time, taking jabs when he should be more levelheaded. is glad that their superior isn’t around. he needs to maintain his image with him. it’s crucial. but yoogun already doesn’t like him, so why should he censor his temper?

scorched earth.

yoogun stares at it, crouches down to gather it between his fingertips before scattering it away. it’s hot as it usually is. hot, as it should be. like the way the fire nation prides themselves in in their mission—using fire, to destroy and to obliterate. to recreate and to rule over. all because they’re building themselves a new world order, because they’re fulfilling a destiny much bigger than themselves.

fire and rebirth. purity and new beginnings. that’s what they believe in, from the songs he’s been taught as a kid right down to the propaganda speeches held at the city hall on the daily. and yoogun scoffs at it. simply looks on to the expanse of land, watches as it smokes and withers away. it’s an insignia, a show of how the fire nation has been here. how they have taken over, conquered, and will reign.

purity, his ass.

if purity is part of their self-belief, there is nothing pure about yoogun. despite what the fire nation likes to brag about themselves, he has never had that privilege. he doesn’t get to firebend just for show, to duel like the aristocrats do for the bragging rights or to fight in the name of patriotism. he does it to destroy and kill, to watch as life seeps out of another’s eyes. to watch them roast and writhe in pain. because from the very beginning, there’d been plans for him: how he could be useful, how he could be used. stepped on, controlled like a marionette, all because it’s his destiny and it is written in his blood. yoogun doesn’t get to keep his hands clean, he doesn’t have a clean slate to begin with. because he’s a bastard son, a tainted product, so it should make sense that his mind, his soul, his hands, and his body should be tainted too. should reflect the state of his blood.

yoogun has never been pure so he doesn’t feel remorse. he left that behind him about twenty towns over. it doesn’t matter that he wakes up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, the guilt emerging only in the cover of darkness when his eyes are closed and he’s left with nothing but his demons. it doesn’t matter that he spends his sleepless nights in the shower room, his body plunged in water, hands scrubbing furiously at his skin just so that he can get the phantom traces of blood out. no, yoogun is not pure. which is why he’s pitching to have an entire water city executed before they move on to the next. and just like clockwork, there’s one particular person standing in his way. as always.

yoogun walks into the tent where he knows lee seul is. where the tactician will undoubtedly try and argue for a less genocidal alternative, for something more politically correct and humane. and it doesn’t surpise yoogun how he does just that, eyes aflame, words coloured with a distinct tone of anger. 

yoogun grits his teeth. from day one, he’s never liked the guy. has always thought that there was something very off about him. and if he could burn all of the city’s residents just to oppose him, he would. he could. because he knows seul would do the exact same thing. if there’s something one particular thing he has against lee seul, it’s that despite all of the fire nation’s teachings, he somehow manages to retain a sense of purity, nothing like the beliefs that’s been instilled in them from their childhood. like there’s something in him worth saving, who still believes in humanity and mercy and saving people. and that is something yoogun has been trying to get rid of his entire life.

yoogun narrows his eyes. “for a tactician, there are a couple of obvious loopholes that you’re missing.” he sneers. steps threateningly closer to seul. and hates how he still wants to throw him against the table, to mar his skin where it’s exposed despite everything about him. “one, it’s a waste of even more hands getting my men to get rid of everything related to water, let alone babysit every single waterbending prisoner. unless you suggest i kill them by letting them dehydrate, which isn’t a bad idea.” he raises his eyebrow, but continues to check off the list with his fingers.

“two, how would you suggest getting rid of water? there’s water everywhere. in the soil. in our blood, sweat, saliva. in the rain. so unless you know a way to drain all of them and also control the weather without killing my men, i should be the one wondering if you’re smart after all.” 

taewoo snaps up angry, kiyong realizes half a beat too late he’s pushed too far. the cycle keeps spinning, until it makes the both of them sick. he bites at the tip of his tongue as taewoo shoves past him. ambles out after him slow, one hand jammed into his jeans pocket. watches as he ducks into the car and drives off. he knows that he’ll come back. he always does. so kiyong lets himself into their motel room. cracks open one of the little bottles of soju and drinks himself past tipsy as he stares at the off-white stealing, tries to make pictures out of water stains.

it’s not a natural state, taewoo doesn’t get angry. he doesn’t snap, doesn’t spit out words in rage or stomps off just because he’s pissed off. taewoo doesn’t get angry simply because he doesn’t. he doesn’t care, doesn’t form attachments to things or people that could in any way tie his emotional wellbeing to them; that, he’s made sure of. whatever obscenities that’s been yelled at him, he’s heard it all before. whatever derogatory remarks or insults that’s been thrown his way, it’s nothing compared to what he already knows about himself and has accepted. acceptance, that’s how he has always kept his cool. distance. apathy. self-depreciation. perhaps it’s a part of him that’s been burnt away a long time ago, seared blistering flesh that just might never heal over, fingers relentlessly clawing over the scalds from childhood to adulthood. reminders to never forget, reminders to never let it heal.

yet it’s irony in the making. he’s boiling beneath his skin, the engine hitting a hard 160 as he flies past crossroad after crossroad. all because moon fucking kiyong wanted to get his wish, because he pushed and pushed until he finally managed to get taewoo to snap. 

there’s a part of taewoo that wants to be vindictive. to leave and never return. to drop kiyong’s bags off at the motel before flying off to the next city. to break off their deal because there’s no tangible, profitable trade-off to what he’s risking and expending—his life, his energy, his know-how, and his resources—to a boy he met at a sharehouse. they’re stuck at an impasse, no one’s come for them yet but they’re not trying to formulate a solution to get out whatever hellhole situation kiyong has gotten himself into either. but the jitterbug’s been getting more and more jittery, pushing taewoo more and more. it’s repetitive, it’s predictable, and taewoo’s fucking sick of it.

there are underlying meanings behind his anger, he knows. it’s starting to get more and more obvious to him that he would sneer at himself if he could. because as much as he knows and it’s fact that he doesn’t care, he also cares about the stupid self-destructive bratty pyromaniac. he let himself be attached and more than anything, he’s mad at himself for that. kiyong’s only with him for the protection. he doesn’t even like taewoo and everything else is just obligation.

taewoo tears down the road and eventually swerves back to the motel. but he continues sitting inside the car, idles away his time smoking stick after stick. smokes until he’s done with his pack and makes his way back inside with all of their bags in tow.

taewoo steps inside, deposits the bags on the countertop and he sees that kiyong’s made a small nest of soju bottles and burnt pillowcase for himself, disheveled, on the floor, all while the television is still playing in the distance. taewoo stares at him, a mess, for a good minute before crouching down in front of him. and tugs on kiyong’s ear hard. he needs him awake and passably sober.

“done, no more waiting.” kiyong mumbled out, thumps his shoulder against taewoo’s as he inches around him shoves his way out the door and listens to the manic chime of the bell calling out after him. he doesn’t look back over his shoulder. either taewoo will follow after him, or he won’t. either he’ll be pissed, or he won’t. that’s all there is to it. all there is to them.

there are things taewoo observes about kiyong but never says aloud. times where he simply stands by idly, a lit stick perched between fingers, lungs sated with nicotine as he watches the restless boy fidget about or steals his cigarette from him for the nth time that day. watches him hide behind his wiseass remarks and haughty attitude at every turn as if they’re stitching together a coherent message that he’s fine and dandy and put together, but taewoo very well knows it’s all a lie. not when there are times kiyong briefly disappears for no reason at all and then appears as if nothing had happened. 

it’s taewoo’s natural predisposition not to care, so he doesn’t. doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t poke around where he’s not needed or wanted because he does neither of those things ever. he just does what he’d promised to do and caring about kiyong’s mental wellbeing isn’t one of them. but when kiyong’s busy testing his patience, taewoo’s tempted. wants to map out just how to scramble kiyong’s psyche in a way that would get him to shut up. taewoo rolls his eyes. “after dark, i promise.” taewoo makes a motion to shush kiyong, mutters the words sarcastically.

taewoo stares at kiyong. taewoo is nothing if not honest. serious. “make sure your face is blurred out,” taewoo deadpans. “steal gifts from your ahjussi fans.” knows that they are the richest, the ones most willingly to splurge.

taewoo is used to watching people with indifferent eyes. is used to seeing the worst states of mankind. in slums, in pools of blood, in all forms of excrement. in addiction, pretence, desperation. in contemptuous lust, and raging anger. yet kiyong is still the closest taewoo will ever be to a normal human being, a warm presence beside him, unrelated to his work, no longer a passing resident at whatever sharehouse he rents in whatever city he decides to stop by. someone he has to at least put up with for a part of his life now. so taewoo has a habit of observing kiyong, his own anomaly, this human stuck in the liminal space between what’s normal and what’s not.

so taewoo knows that kiyong pushes. he’s always testing his boundaries, his limits. almost doesn’t have the capacity to be serious or perhaps he’s just running away. but it’s been getting on taewoo’s nerves lately how kiyong can’t even answer an honest question without diverting or making a fucking joke out of it. he may be feeling sorry for himself, he may be swimming in self pity or running away from reality. but moon kiyong isn’t the only one with a sob story and it’s starting to prickle his skin. he doesn’t care if kiyong steals his name. if it gives him a kick, he can fucking knock himself out. but buried beneath the name “kwon taewoo” lies years of a certain history, a plague at taewoo’s side. but even he’s moved past his ordeal despite that and kiyong can’t even brush past his without behaving like a child. can’t even face something as serious as a new identity when it’s one of the few things helping taewoo keep him alive.

kiyong should know the implications of his little joke. it feels like he’s mocking taewoo’s past in the process.

kiyong walks out of the mart and taewoo follows him. grabs him roughly from behind by his shirt, halts him from leaving. “you want to feel sorry for yourself, fine. drown in your own misery,” taewoo snarls into kiyong’s ear. maybe this is what kiyong wants all this time. testing his patience just so that he can see taewoo snap, to see some form of reaction other than his default. “you want my name, fine. but get your head out of your ass and don’t inconvenience others with your games and tantrums, kwon taewoo. you’re not the only one with a shitty life.” releases kiyong with a shove and walks towards their car without looking back, digs into his pocket for the keys.

this is the point in time where kiyong’s supposed to scrape his brain for the last name tag he’d seen and reinvent himself, or accept whatever taewoo’s dubbed him if he gets them ID’s ahead of time. he does it, he needs to do it. but it always feels a little weird. like he’s losing pieces of himself along the way. like eventually he’ll be whittled down. no point in running in the first place if he was just going to unravel. he jams the rest of his kimbap in his mouth, chews slow on his wad of food and pretends not to noticing the feeling of taewoo’s eyes sticking to him.

taewoo doesn’t hate his name, doesn’t hate his identify. he probably doesn’t have as much attachment to it as he assumes any ordinary other has to their own. as long as he’s concerned, a name is just a name and as long as he gets to live life however he wants to, he could be called whatever the fuck and he wouldn’t even care. he already has people cursing at him anyway, from the snarls of bloodied lips and broken ribs to the slurs of shaking hands and drawn out withdrawals. son of a bitch has always been his favourite, easily seen from the way his lips twitches whenever he hears it directed at him. it’s hardly an insult to him. in fact, it even puts him in a better mood than usual.

living as ‘kwon taewoo’ had never been a hardship. it was just annoying in the way that it had too much history, too many labels attached to it. a total of 22 years of it, starting from when he was young and he was known as the pitiful kid, all frail, a figure of skin and bones holed up in the shoebox-sized apartment before being intermittently released into the wild once there was a couple more years on him. and then he grew up, got kicked out into the streets and he was the homeless teen, the wandering kid who had nowhere to go and was forced to rebuild his life from scratch. soon after, he became the local drug dealer, the guy who always provided as long as you had the cash for it, as well as the money grubber who would do almost anything for a quick buck. in the streets, he had quite the reputation on him. but perhaps, only that bit hasn’t changed much. 

now, kwon taewoo’s dead and lee chanwoo lives. it would be ridiculous to say that taewoo threw his life away for kiyong, but in a way, maybe that’s what he did. it was a cheap commodity. he’d given it up too easily, that permanence, for something only temporary.

he takes another bite of his sausage and finally fixes his stare back to kiyong. is used to kiyong always wanting to push the boundaries of what he can say and do, like a little attention-starved child. sometimes taewoo indulges him, other times he doesn’t. “lee chanwoo,” he says, tries to get used to the name on his tongue. “he murders mouthy know-it-alls in convenience stores.” raises his brows. are you fucking satisfied? it signals. “would you like to indulge in his perversion?”

if taewoo’s identify was a cheap commodity, something he could easily let go of, he assumes it wasn’t quite the same for kiyong. taewoo’s hardly normal, but kiyong is. taewoo willingly threw away his, but kiyong didn’t. and it makes him watch kiyong whenever they have to dump their identity for a new one. wants to see clearly just what he feels. if there’s a conflict of emotions, of pain, of regret or misery. maybe kiyong could show him just what he should be feeling. or he just wants to see how good kiyong is at hiding it, for his own curiosity. perhaps taewoo’s too used to indifference, to apathy, that he knows flickers of emotions whenever he sees them. has been observing people too much in his youth not to catch it. and then kiyong’s taking too long to respond, too insistent on stuffing his face.

“moon kiyong,” taewoo calls out. a reminder, if kiyong has some sort of need for it. that taewoo still knows of the existence of the boy, that he knows that he’s an idiot who probably masturbated to the sight of a burning fire. who is the definition of a brat and a child. who makes terrible life decisions and also has a death wish. he points his sausage at kiyong. only does all this because he doesn’t want him puking, or having a panic attack in the middle of nowhere.

then offsets the gravity of his words and the meaning of them. “decide within the next ten seconds,” he warns casually, offhandedly. “or else i’m making you park shibal, the exhibitionist hentai addict and amateur camboy, podo.” then taewoo finishes up the remainder of his sausage, dumps the stick in the nearby bin. waits for kiyong instead of grabbing his bag to leave the store because he did give the pyromaniac ten seconds.

he doesn’t begin to move until taewoo starts back toward the car instead of bee-lining toward the main desk to return the card. it means it was taewoo approved, by whatever nebulous standards he carries around with him. whatever, kiyong doesn’t care. just pops open the door, shivers against he night air, not quite warm enough yet for the hoodie he’d stripped himself down to. jacket forgotten somewhere in the back seat a good couple hours back. grabs his backpack from the trunk when taewoo pops it and slings it over his shoulder. “sleepy? or should i go buy soju?” he asks him, head tipping in the direction of the mart, lie up in dying neons. 

it’s routine. taewoo gets out of the car, most of the time not bothering to utter a word before heading straight into the lobby of whichever motel he chooses to stop them by, expecting kiyong to already know, to already be used to this. there’s no use pretending so he doesn’t, doesn’t say anything about it that might invite conversation or questions about it either. reckons kiyong thinks of it as nothing more than a quirk or an inherent pickiness and taewoo would much rather have that over the exaggerated reactions of pity and concern. the “poor boy”s, the “what monster would do such a thing?”s, and the “i wish i could’ve done something sooner”s. they irk him. he’d rather have them look at him in fear than in sympathy, in anger than in consolation. at least then they’d be genuine about it rather than a piss poor attempt at compassion. and he doesn’t need that with kiyong. he would rather kick the boy out of the car if he ever found out, their deal be damned.

taewoo walks to the reception and in the most unenthusiastic manner says, “show me a room,” a thin wad of cash clasped between two fingers. enough for a room and more. he doesn’t care if they give him a king or two singles. all he cares about is if it’s spacious and clean enough and if it means he’ll be able to view the room without question, he’ll pay a little extra for the special service. lets the cash talk in place of the charm that’s beneath him for any sort of persuasion. he has kiyong for that but he’s in the car at the moment, most likely making a poor life decision. but it doesn’t matter, taewoo needs him out of sight anyway.

with an unwavering gaze he bores into the receptionist, she fumbles a bit before handing him the cardkey and with some vague directions on her part, he finds his way to the room. taps the card to reveal a large room with a king sized bed shoved to a corner to make way for a small sofa and a high table good enough to sit two. everything else is empty space. it looks clean, well-maintained, and new, so he turns and heads back to the car without another word. at least his child doesn’t need to be told what to do, knows to get out of the car on his own and taewoo goes to the boot to retrieve his things.

there’s a pause, a contemplative silence before he tips his head towards the mart. “soju,” he decides. feels a thrumming need to match it with a smoke or two after the long drive, too used to pushing his lethargy to its limits. he hasn’t had a well-rested night in years and heading to bed earlier wouldn’t help with that anyway. so he follows kiyong into the mart, leaves the soju to kiyong to pick up a couple of mints, boxes of condoms, and sausages, already knowing what he needs, popping in real quick. then goes to the drinks section and grabs two more bottles of soju from the fridge before proceeding to pay for his items first (and two more packs) without waiting for kiyong. then moves to microwave his sausage before popping it into his mouth once the wailing alarm rings, the stick poking out as he chews on it lazily. he then walks towards the high table and drums his fingers on it.

“nostalgic?” he asks when he feels kiyong nearing, turning away from the glass wall to look at the cashier. pulls the stick out of his mouth to finally bite off the end of the sausage rather than just chewing on it. and continues staring. “lee chanwoo,” he then says, seemingly abrupt but kiyong should know how it isn’t. “house repairs.”

“hurry the fuck up,” he hides the words behind the smoke as he calls out past the open door of the car, one heel still planted on the pavement outside. one hand rubbing at the stinging patch of skin, pink from the pressure. fading slow in the direction of purple.

taewoo’s used to being alone. it’s very telling in his demeanour. he doesn’t share, he moves at his own pace, does whatever he wants and doesn’t compromise easily. even with the pyromaniac around because it was something he never had to do. never had to think about having another person in his life, to pretend to be remotely considerate of their needs, wants, or even unnecessary opinions, let alone allowing them to affect his own actions and decisions. where to go, what to do, how much to tolerate. so kiyong’s presence feels like a shitty test of tolerance and control. one that was dumped into his lap, one that he still decided to pick up anyway.

half of the time, taewoo feels like a masochistic parent, making sure kiyong’s fed, sheltered, and safe. making sure no one’s able to find him. making sure he doesn’t get himself killed in some way or another because he sure seems to have a death wish for someone who’s been trying to escape death. first by taewoo’s hand, the next by his own reckless actions if he doesn’t maim himself first. the other half of the time, it’s a sharp contrast how kiyong either gives taewoo a headache or makes him want to pin him against a wall, fingertips digging bruises into his hips, hints of purple marking up where taewoo once were. sometimes it’s one or the other. but most of the time, it’s both and it makes taewoo mad. but at least then he’ll get kiyong to finally stop fiddling with that lighter or stop with those mouthy replies, either by walking away or by distracting him.

as usual, kiyong’s annoying side wins over, says a whole bunch of words that taewoo either ignores or grunts at. then he tells taewoo to hurry up, so it naturally slows taewoo’s motions even more. he snaps the boot shut real quick but takes a leisurely stroll to his side of the car, leans on the door instead of climbing inside. “sure,” he drawls, and retrieves his pack and lighter from his jeans instead. “hurrying.” he sounds almost bored and then takes out two sticks, rests them between three fingers before lighting them up. “almost there.” and alternates between smoking both, takes short puffs on each just to drag out the time. one, two. one, and two.

but then he’s finally done and finally gets into the car with a slight quirk in his lips. it was only when he’d met kiyong that taewoo found out just how spiteful he could be. would do whatever kiyong hated if he could if he didn’t mind it, but it’s not like kiyong doesn’t return the favour.

taewoo starts the car, and drives.

and drives and drives. drives with the windows down, with kiyong flicking through his lighter, with his keys jangling from the keyhole as he drives down stretches of tar. mountains painted as a scenic backdrop, signs lining the way. he has the music set to a low volume, not caring about the genre, as an earthy air freshener he’d brought over from their previous car dangles from the rearview mirror. wafts a little bit of petrichor with every swing.

if taewoo’s used to being alone, nothing says it as loudly as his peculiarities, not caring if kiyong has anything to bitch about it. or maybe taewoo just doesn’t give a fuck. he had a fucked up childhood so he turned fucked up as well. only chooses them motels and apartments with clean spacious rooms, makes sure that there’s always a little bit of background noise or a subtle scent in the air. just as he’s been doing all these years, as if kiyong was never with him and it’s life as per normal. but kiyong is a steady presence by his side—has been for a while—and while taewoo often still acts like he’s alone, he’s not. he’s used to steady breaths in the dead of the night, companionable silence with wafts of smoke and soft clinks of empty bottles. and when he enters a room, his eyes searches only for moon fucking kiyong.

kiyong thumps his heel against the wall, slants a glance down at the map in his lap and picks the first city name he sees, a piece of the rectangle that wasn’t hidden from view with folds and creases. “mokpo, i guess.” he supplies. grabs at the sides of the window and leans himself back out further. until he can feel adrenaline rush him. farther, until his pulse quickens. farther, until he feels the familiar rush of danger. breathes in once, traps it in his chest before he rocks back and drops down to the floor. “lets go.” he decides, nabs his backpack off the ground and slings it over his shoulder as he leaves the artificial familiarity of their sort-of-home.

humans are predictable creatures, taewoo has learned. has put the knowledge to very good use if the fact that he’d been able to get them to blend in, undiscovered, thus far is any indication. he’s hoarded the information, compiled the years watching the way they work and interact into careful planning and precision. the way he knows how to be inconspicuous, to be just another face or boring story in a sea of thousands. they’re all planned, tact woven into every deliberate action and word so that no one suspects just how much he’s pretending to be just like them. acting normal. the thing is, taewoo may be human too, but most of the time, it doesn’t feel that way. he’s disconnected, detached.

of them all, the first thing he’s learnt is about their ridiculous need for communication, to talk. about themselves, about others, about people they shouldn’t even be concerned about yet they needlessly are. so he already knows that whenever he and kiyong move into a new town, the first thing they’ll do is fucking ask. they ask about his life and his family, acting friendly only because they want to nose into his life and pass the time. maybe to forget the mundanity of their own life so they can pretend they’re not just waiting to eventually die. so he says that he’s grieving, that he’s here to heal from a dead lover and he needs some time, wobbles his lower lip a little and it’s enough of a landmine for them to finally shut up. and they do, in the couple of months that taewoo hangs around. however, the final act is something he never wants kiyong to see, the way taewoo finally smiles at them and tells them that he’s ready to move on and rediscover life. gains their well wishes and gathers promises to visit or write back before he’s gone once again. 

fuck kiyong for making this fucking step necessary just to keep up the pretence. 

the second thing he’s learnt is that they crave physical contact. displays of affection, little touches to show care and concern. they’re creatures weak to pleasure and pain, sometimes even both at the same time. so taewoo uses this on kiyong because he’s every bit human, with his snark and his propensity for fire and stirring shit. provides him the contact, presses their lips together if he thought it would get kiyong to shut up or calm down or because he looks like he needs it. just like the way taewoo takes care of kiyong’s needs, provides for the lodging and food because kiyong’s salaries can’t buy them shit but the cigarettes. that kiyong needs them all because he’s human and taewoo needs to know how to keep one around and alive. even if he’s being infuriating as hell.

taewoo raises an eyebrow. “let’s see if you’ll still have your hands if you do,” he says, because kiyong would still technically be alive even without them and taewoo’s promise could still be considered fulfilled. but then kiyong teases, playfully begs as he nips at taewoo’s neck. “not good enough,” he says. honestly, taewoo expected a more entertaining response than that. maybe even an element of surprise to break the monotony but it leaves him the thought of grabbing kiyong by his hair to pull him in and bruise him the same way. but much harder. even as kiyong spins out of reach to sit at the windowsill. then tells him about mokpo before tittering back as if he hadn’t had enough of a death wish. meaning taewoo could’ve pushed him back even more.

a wasted opportunity.

taewoo grunts at kiyong’s words in acknowledgement. grabs his bag from where it sat on the countertop, stubs the cigarette and leaves the keys on the counter with a note of finality, the door clicking behind him. he grabs the map from kiyong and quickly traces a rough route out of the dreadful city as he walks. “any last minute errands before we go?” he asks, leading kiyong towards where he’d parked the car when they’re finally outside their apartment building.

“dunno.” kiyong tells him. ‘you’ is what he doesn’t. because there’s not much of anything else that will lock him in place when he’s on the run from a couple of people who want him dead. not unless it means taewoo can cut and go before he gets too caught up in it too. he feels guilty, sometimes. he was supposed to shoulder this burden alone. was supposed to be content being miserable and lonely. “it seems kinda impossible. like there’s nothing out there for me anyway.” he admits, lifts a shoulder in a shrug before he tips himself back to glance at the sky from an upside-down vantage point. “guess i’m not privileged either.”

it’s almost hilarious how ironic their situation is. that the boy who’d spent his childhood locked up in a storeroom, the one with a fucked up psyche and an even more fucked up mentality isn’t the one being hunted down, he’s the one providing the protection. he who leaves behind a trail of overdosed junkies and starving addicts simply because he cares more about money than he does the human life. he with his severed moral compass, mind far detached from the nature of whatever unsavoury tasks he’s been paid to do. taewoo’s never admitted to being a good person—and he isn’t—yet there’s a distinct sense of irony in all this. that he’s the one freely living his life, never needing to look over his shoulder at every chance, while kiyong has a pack of big bads nipping at his heels. 

he reckons kiyong deserves it. kiyong obviously never learned about self-preservation if he managed to get himself into this in the first place by shitting on someone he shouldn’t have. but maybe taewoo’s as equally bad for initiating their deal in the first place, for sticking his neck out the way he’s doing right now. but that’s what he gets for wanting to keep kiyong around just a little while longer, for not nipping the littlest sense of attachment he has for the pyromaniac in the bud. taewoo has never had a single purpose in his life and he’d long reckoned he wouldn’t make it past his 29th birthday, so why not just kill two birds with one stone while he goes around earning his keep. his parents would only be proud of how efficient he’s being.

taewoo walks away from kiyong and he places the cigarette back where soft chapped lips once were. it tastes just like kiyong but that’s no surprise. neither is the response kiyong throws back because kiyong has always been a little shit who liked pushing his buttons. normally, taewoo would’ve either ignored him or dismissed him, rolling his eyes or flipping kiyong off if he bothered to summon up the energy. but this time, he thinks he’ll play along. okay, he’ll bite. he’s been itching for something lately. “too late for that,” taewoo says, his voice a low rumble. cocks his head up arrogantly and raises his brow before waving the stick condescendingly at him. “you’ll have to beg for it.”

the map is left abandoned where kiyong had left it to steal a drag (or twenty-seven) so taewoo retrieves it from where it lays, glancing through it briefly before folding it back and tucking it into his back pocket. leans against the wall beside the window. “well, aren’t we two unprivileged souls,” taewoo drawls. but if given the chance, he’s sure that kiyong would’ve stayed put. would’ve found a reason to settle down or a person he could call his home. yet he’s here, and there’s an indefinite future ahead of them jumping from city to city, from town to town. taewoo’s an unconventional person and this has been his way of life since he was twenty but kiyong’s only doing it out of sheer necessity, because taewoo had given him his word and his protection. it’s easy to assume that they’re the same, that they’re in this together because they want to be, but that isn’t true. this is barter trade and they’re only holding up their ends of the bargain.

to be honest, taewoo’s only waiting for it to fall apart. to have kiyong be the first one to leave.

“you ever wanna stay put?” kiyong asks him, eyes squinting against the glare of the sun outside as he glances out across the cityscape. 

taewoo has a lot of fears, he’s never denied it. they’re the reason why he smokes the way he does, lighting stick after stick as if he’s trying to shrivel up his lungs with sheer determination and obstinacy to ignore them. does it whenever he’s reminded too much of the past, whenever the demons start clawing back out from where he’d tried shutting them out, stabbing into raw flesh. so he lights one up when he locks kiyong and him into their apartment, a blanket of unease wrapping around him from the helplessness of being trapped within those four walls. it’s a feeling so familiar that he’s accustomed to it. at the very least, his fingers have stopped trembling—they have since he was twenty-one—and the open window provides him just the littlest relief. better than nothing, better than not locking the door and leaving it open when all the jitterbug needs is its flimsy protection.

he breathes in, he breathes out. lungs filled with smoke, fingers curling around the stick. “you’re most welcome,” taewoo says just as sarcastically, and proceeds to turn to lean against the window, watching as kiyong makes quick work of packing. something they both have in common. and while it’s something taewoo might never reveal to kiyong, the soft ruffling and shuffling sounds are what calms him. the way kiyong always makes it known that he’s a tangible living presence in the apartment, the way he always smells like smoke and spearmint. nothing like his haunting past and everything like the present.

“i’m not sitting through a jam,” he says by way of warning, another way of saying yes to kiyong’s question, another way of saying he would immediately turn them around and drive to a random state of his choosing if kiyong ever thought to choose ulsan. anywhere where it’s hard to start up a fire, just because.

he takes a puff of his cigarette. one breath, then two, and three, and before he knows it, it’s snatched from his fingers. he wonders if kiyong agreed to their deal only because he wants to be killed by him instead. he stares kiyong down for stealing his cigarette, eyes slowly sweeping kiyong’s features with darkening intent. followed by a pregnant pause. “has no one taught you any manners?” he asks lowly, half-heatedly. he doesn’t really mean it because it’s not like it’s his first encounter with the other’s brattiness. so he steps forward, leans towards kiyong when he grabs his chin and presses their lips together. it’s hard, rough, and very quick, his teeth digging into kiyong’s lip as he pulls away. almost punishing, but not really. “say, please,” he mocks. teases.

but he knew they’d be leaving soon. maybe he’ll be able to outpace his anxiety for a few weeks at least.

to taewoo, leaving has always been easy. just like breathing, just like falling. it seems that from the very moment he’d been left alone in the world, leaving was the only thing that came to taewoo like second nature, the only thing he’s ever been good at. it’s a constant state of being, an ubiquitous trait. like blood running through his veins, like smoke billowing through his lungs.

it just might be in his genes, an obviously unfortunate family legacy. the way his father abandoned them the moment he’d heard he was having a kid. the way his mother ran out on him the moment she’d seen a gleaming opportunity to. the way taewoo, himself, would never let himself settle down and take root just because. because all he knows is that he’s a wanderer and he’s never had a home. he just might never have one.

the thing is, taewoo has always been used to leaving so he knows all of the signs. knows when it’s time to go and when is the best time to do it. he knows it in the way the cigarettes are starting to taste more and more like incense, and the alcohol, like a dilution of piss and sewage water. most of all, there’s the jitterbug, kiyong, looking as if he’s about to vibrate out of his skin especially as of late. taewoo had noticed, he just opted not to say a thing about it just yet. so he had spent the past few days picking up a new shipment, securing their alibi, and covering up their tracks; getting ready to move on to their new unknown destination. he’d even gotten himself a new haircut that morning, no longer shaggy at the sides or covering his eyes without a snapback pulling them away from his face but clean cut and tidy. walking back to the apartment had even given him a gentle tickle of a breeze on his face.