#1618e

Gently, brilliantly: radiantly. 

Xihe watches her here, a palm to Chang’e’s cheek. “I must leave here. I must leave here, soon.” Chang’e looks elsewhere, anywhere away from Xihe’s eyes. “I must go. I must go where he is. I must find him, even if it means without knowing the way how.” Her words begin to start a riot on the surface of the moon, the ground beneath their feet starting to shift -- 

History beginning to change. “I must leave the moon, 羲和.”

“But you certainly must stay,” She pleads. She holds Chang’e’s hand, their respective lights bleeding out from the spaces they do not hold each other in. “Who else, I dare to question --” Her words escape quickly, afraid of the light running away from her grasp just the same. “...who else would rule the moon, and it’s surrounding lost stars, if not 嫦娥?”

Chang’e pushes her hands to rest on her knees. They both watch as the moonlight comes to follow, gliding across Chang’e’s hair, then soon, passing along to dancing by Xihe’s palms. “You, ruler of the sun.” 

The light begins to surround them. “Now ruler of the sky.”  

Some time, where the days are longer than the nights, where the sun never lets you forget of it’s warmth and existence. Another space, where people can relive a single moment for eternity, if desired, stuck in a daydream rather than the daunt of the everyday, stuck in the same routine. In another, she doesn’t speak to him like she doesn’t know if this conversation will be the last, doesn’t touch him with the lulled tremble in her hands like it’s the last time.

He thinks that in some alternate place, she won’t look at him like this, as if she is so afraid to forget how it is like, for the two of them to stand here, without the rest of the universe ready to pull them elsewhere but each other.

“Hanui.” He calls to her, watching from the side as the lights flicker on and off her face. She’s staring at the screen, but he knows she’s really staring at nothing, lost in some scape he has yet to understand. “Hanui.” He’s softer this time, her name falling from just the tip of his lips. He doesn’t dare to allow his teeth to touch the syllables, her name never having anything less of tender on his lips. “The movie’s over.” His hand slips from the arm rest, finding hers. His fingers slide in between the spaces of hers, holding them with a kind of fear of his own.

The lights come back on, revealing an empty theater. Amongst the unfilled chairs, they are the only ones left. He thinks he’d argue that even holding her hand, it feels as though he’s the last one remaining here, with her elsewhere. It’s always been like this, for one moment too long. 

“It’s been over for a while, now, Hanui.” Even if her eyes aren’t on him, he hopes she’ll hear the smile in his voice. “Let’s go grab your favorite pastry before we head home, hm?” 

late night self reflective asks 🌙 · accepting

ponder: what do you want to do with your life?

Jaffe Road, Wan Chai, Hong Kong 9:32 PM, March 1978 @1618e

“Any time now, eh? We’ll help you out.”

Chungseun slaps him on the shoulder with no regard for the piercing and painful echo it elicits, laughing in his gargled stupor. Yukching reckons this might be the eighth? time tonight, and hopes that eight is as magical as tradition dictates and that this won’t go on indefinitely as the formal qualities of the number might suggest. It’s hot, so he’s worn his thinnest shirt. It’s translucent enough that he can see his skin turning an angry red beneath papery cotton.

“Your generosity is no doubt appreciated, but I think I can manage,” Yukching rubs absently at the sore spot and laughs and scoots away from Chungseun to his furthered amusement and curls his fingers around his drink. Everyone at the table is nursing a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other except him, his other hand visibly empty and picking instead at his thumb. A bad habit. Distracts him from the horrible smell wafting all around him. A necessary habit.

The floor’s sticky here. Yukching taps his shoes to the beat of the song, caught halfway between reverie and general disdain. Ho-yin’s honey sweet vocals accompany the unabashedly Western record bouncing off the walls of the club, some jazzy number with a bright brass. Nancy is enamored and Wai-lam is doing everyone a favor and forcing water down Chungseun’s throat so none of them have to deal with the consequences of his abysmally low tolerance tonight. Ho-yin stops singing when he spots another group of young clubgoers entering the venue.

“Over here!” He shoots up from his seat and waves them down. Yukching steels himself for introductions while Chungseun nudges him—make that nine—hard in the abdomen. The group maneuvers their way around the throngs of bodies on the dance floor until they arrive safely at their booth. “How’d the audition go?” Ho-yin asks in earnest before quickly remembering himself and the darting sets of eyes behind him. Yukching leans forward. “Ah, these are my friends—”

“Tam Chungseun. Master of flute and piccolo.”

Yukching has learned to abstain from drinking when Chungseun introduces himself as he can’t help but splutter every damn time. Today is no exception, and Yukching hunches over to cover his mouth and catch any residual spit.

“I’m Nancy. I play violin at the conservatory as well. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Wai-lam, clarinet.”