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“Can we go to the fair?”
“No.”
“Can we go to the fair?”
“No.”
“Can we go to the fair?”
“No.”
Bi-Han wouldn’t have given in if he didn’t actually care for you, despite his protestations that he found you deeply annoying. He really doesn’t, he adores you, you’re the stabilising force in his chaotic and often horrific life. But he loves to pretend and he knows you enjoy the pretend bickering too, so he’ll just make you wait before taking you to the fairground that has pitched up upon the huge abandoned scrubland at the edge of town.
Before you leave home he makes sure you’re bundled up warmly, with a woolly hat (he likes it when you wear the one with little bear ears, and you like it when he calls you ‘baby bear’ when you wear it. You then tease him and call him ‘Goldilocks’ despite his thick black hair), gloves and a big warm coat. He wears a long black duster, open of course, he doesn’t wear it to protect against the cold, he’s the cold, but because he knows he looks incredible in it, like Angel or Mr Darcy or some such tragic and beautiful (and grumpy) man.
It’s dark when you get to the fairground. Each ride and stall lit up with multicoloured lights that show off the brighly painted designs that cover them all. The air is full with laughter and the screams of those already on the rides, loud thudding music, and the smell from the food vans. Your stomach growls and Bi-Han sighs in reply.
“You’ll get food poisoning. Again. We can eat when we get home.”
He’s right. The hotdogs may smell delicious but they’re probably 4 days old at this point and you don’t need to look at grills covered in congealed fat and salmonella to remember the last time you ate a hotdog at the fair. A week in bed vomiting. Joy.
Bi-Han joins you on every ride, holding your hand and laughing when you scream with joy as you’re spun around and around so fast your hair goes everywhere and your stomach lurches in that good way. He holds you to him when you’re dizzy after getting off a ride, kissing your forehead and grinning at your joy.
He scoffs at the stalls that invite you to ‘throw a hoop over the prize’ because he could do it in his sleep, but the game is rigged and he’ll get angry with the stall keeper. He takes photos when you play the ‘hook a duck, win a prize’ game. He doesn’t put them on instagram, he doesn’t share you with anyone. Instead he keeps the picture for himself, changing his phone background to his favourite one of you pink cheeked in the fresh night air, mouth wide with a smile that makes his heart clench.
He walks you home with his hand in yours, his breath billowing white in the night air and pauses to kiss you. The kiss fierce and hard. When he pulls back his eyes are shining, his smile soft. He tucks a lock of errant hair behind your ear, then takes your hand again and you walk home.
It’s nights like these that give him a purpose in life.