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“They took my glasses,” He said.
He looked pissed.
You watched him blankly, taking in his bruises, the scrapes and the blood.
“Did you lose?” It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, and boy does that get him worked up.
“No.” He snaps, louder than before. Maybe he regrets it, maybe he’s tired, but he lowers his volume immediately after. “No. I fucking didn’t.”
Silence falls over the both of you. Over you, drenched, standing over him in a moldy, stinking alley. Over him, shielded from the rain with your umbrella, lip busted and knuckles bruised.
The red and blue lights of a police car soaring through the night carry into the alley. It throws hues of neon colors upon Wolf’s face, he’s so belligerent even like this, you think you might just leave him here.
“If you’re done asking me questions, you can fuck right off now.”
He’s a nasty little thing, but the way his eyes glint like diamonds in the sliver of yellowed streetlights intrigue you.
“How long were you planning to stay here then?”
He doesn’t respond. Shifts half an inch away from you, like he kinda wants you to leave and also not really.
“It’s real cold out tonight.” You say. And he looks seriously hurt, but you don’t say this aloud. You wonder what the fight was about, if it was worth ending up next to a dumpster for.
You move closer, kneel so you’re eye-level with him despite his adamancy to not even glance in your direction. The moon bounces light off his damp hair, first silver, then purple. The city lights tend to play tricks on your eyes.
“Let’s get somewhere warm, alright?”
You present a palm to him, face up and already starting to pool with rainwater.
It hangs in the air for a long moment, long enough for you to begin to retract it. But then he reaches out and grabs it, a large, calloused hand wrapping over your own. Even in the chill of twilight, a warmth blossoms there.
“You’re fucking annoying.” Is all he says.
You roll your eyes and hoist him up to the best of your ability, which included almost dislocating your elbow as he slowly picked himself up. It’s only when the top of his head hits your umbrella do you realize how much bigger he is than you.
“Here, you should take this.” You hold out the umbrella to him. He takes it wordlessly, placing it right between the both of you.
He’s shivering, despite his best efforts to hide it, you can feel the tremor of his body when it brushes against yours for that golden split second.
You look up at him, eyeballing the furrow of his brows, the slight twitch of his lip, eyes cast somewhere far into a long distance. Just what was he looking away from?
You make it to a nearby hole-in-the-wall eatery without serious injury. He flops down onto the seat like a wet fish and grills the patrons who look at him funny.
“Play nice.” You hum, moving beside him and drying him out as best you could with takeout napkins.
He grunts and exhales deep and heavy from his nostrils, hair matted to his forehead and neck.
You dab at it, wondering if the purple color would bleed like cheap tye-dye. Of course, it doesn’t.
“You have such an interesting taste.” You coo. Fingers find strands of hair and pinch, rolling.
He turns his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes cold yet burning. Like this hasn’t happened before, like he hasn’t absolutely taken you apart and pieced you back together before.
“I know.”
Just those two words are enough to send electricity down your spine. You pull away before you’re zapped by this high voltage man.
You take a seat but never break eye contact with him.
The low buzz of the yellowed restaurant lights above you hum life into your fingertips, into your ears, into your heart. It’s nauseating to see the dark red and purple bruising on his cheek and browbone.
“You should find some hobbies,” You offer, voice quieter now. “Like knitting, or something.”
Your lips begin to quirk up, but his straight face drains you of that energy.
“Maybe later.” He says, and you remind yourself to start keeping a tally of each time he says that.
“Right.” You look down at your lap and laugh, but it sounds dry. “Let’s eat, and then I’ll bring you home.”
He doesn’t argue.
The next time you see him, he’s got his glasses again. He’s still scuffed from the last fight but at least he can walk straight now.
“Are you alone?” You ask, bumping hips with him behind the slushie machine.
He takes one crinkling bag of chips off the shelf, cellophane crackling under his fingers. There’s a black motorcycle helmet wedged under his arm and he’s got his riding sneakers on.
“Yeah.”
You peek at the door and true to his word, you only spot his motorbike and pedestrians cursing how it was parked.
“That’s rare,” You tease. You’re standing close to him, so you dare to brush your pinky against his. Nearly have a heart attack when he hooks his with yours.
You look up at him but he’s not looking at you. To anyone who wasn’t watching for a sign, he’d just be pondering the selection. But you were watching, always watching for anything. A glance, a flutter, a chance that he was really there with you.
Today, he’s generous. Staring straight ahead, he graces you with a slight upward curve of his lips. Just a bit, just enough to dimple his cheek, just enough for you.
Play it coy. You pull away from him and tiptoe between the fridges with a sway in your step. You pray and pray he’s following you. When you catch sight of his figure in the reflection of a coffee pot, you feel like a million bucks.
“Ah, I wonder what I should get for tonight.”
You don’t mind that you’re in the unthawed hams section because you know he’s not paying attention anyways. He’s just relying on muscle memory while you agonize over all your movements, you’ve both been through this a hundred times.
Right on beat, he asks the question you’ve been praying for.
“Do you need a ride home?”
His shoulders look broader when he rolls them, the red school blazer stretching and falling back into place. He has no idea how mad he drives you.
“Oh, I guess that’d be nice.”
He smirks, a wicked smile.
Or maybe he does.
You love riding on his motorcycle because everything smells like him, but you guess that’s easy when your face is buried in his hair and the crook of his neck.
Every time you wrap your arms around his waist, you hold onto him like you’ll lose him. One of these days, you swear you will.
Sometimes you catch him throwing a glance over his shoulder, and sometimes you wonder if today’s the day he’ll finally tell you to let go. But it never is.
The wind whips about the both of you and blisters your cheeks with the cold. He’s slowed down, and you love it because you know he rides like a demon without you.
The city lights zip by you like fireflies in the distance, the glow of commercial buildings dwindling to zero as you enter the residential area.
The scrape of rubber tires on concrete pavement makes people peep out their windows, tongue in cheek, before closing the blinds.
“How are you back there?” He asks at a red light, voice muffled from under his helmet.
“Warm.” You lie. Kind of.
His chest moves in rippling motion that might’ve been a chuckle, might’ve been a cough. And he’s off again. Your eyes close and you hold him closer to you, feel his body and heartbeat against yours, breathe in the smell of his cologne, his bodywash. For the few minutes you’re on the back of his bike, there is only you and him in the universe.
It always ends a second sooner than you remember it should, and it makes you wonder if he’s riding faster or if you’re too eager.
He shakes out his helmet hair and helps you off the bike like a proper gentleman, rare for someone as unruly as Wolf Keum.
“Thanks.” You say, and peer at him through your lashes, batting them slowly. You’re feeling cold and emboldened tonight, so you’re hoping he’ll take the bait.
He reaches out, long fingers brushing aside your windswept hair. He traces your jaw and it feels like home, like victory, like you’ve almost got him where you want him.
The warm lights of your house illuminate his face softly and silhouettes his more angular, predatory features. It brings out the Wolf Keum you know and you yearn to keep him like this forever, away from the bloody knuckles and broken bones that make him so sharp to hold.
“Do you want to come in?”
His eyes are calm, barely a trace of emotion save for keen interest. You pray to all the gods that he’ll come in just this once, after so many nights of being left empty handed.
For a second, you think the heavens have heard you when he misses his cue to shake his head like every other time. His hesitation is dizzying, and the adrenaline that pumps through you overpowers even the motorbike ride.
He ponders for just a second too long, and his phone rings.
It snaps both of you out of the reverie. From where you stand, you can see the caller ID. Donald Na.
Wolf turns away and takes a step towards his bike to pick up the call. You can’t help the hand that goes out after him. When he looks back to you, he gestures to his phone.
“Maybe later.” He mouths.
And you smile and nod, because that’s what you always do. You watch as he pulls on his helmet and gets on the bike, idle chatter falling from his lips and into the receiver. When he drives away, the exhaust from his bike billows behind him and clouds your vision with smoke.
You return home without knowing if he’d waved goodbye.
It’s a temperate day when you speak to him next.
You’re sitting in the park waiting for Wolf, shaded by trees and warmed by the sun. You’ve left the remainders of your croissant on the floor and it’s become a meal for a flurry of pigeons, cooing and flocking by your feet.
An ant crawls up to your sneaker, confused with the obstruction. You’re entertained by it’s strange dancing for a few moments before a shadow crosses your vision.
“Hey.” He says.
You smile. “Hey yourself.”
He exhales through his nose in a manner that you assume is amusement.
You pat the seat next to you and he eases himself onto it, stretching out his legs and sending some pigeons head-bobbing awkwardly away from him.
Mindlessly, you note that he’s abandoned his blazer today, opting to tie it around his waist instead.
Birds chirp overhead and the grass tickles your ankles. There’s the sound of children laughing and the rushing of a fountain a ways from you.
He’s relaxed. You can tell from the way he’s kicking his feet.
You peek at where his hands are and notice that they’re close enough to feel his warmth, but don’t miss the bandages on his knuckles and forearms.
“You’ve been busy?” You ask. You pretend it’s a joke but it’s not actually.
He raises his arm and regards it as if it doesn’t break your heart to see him like this. “This? It’s nothing. Some shithead thought using a pocket-knife would hold us off.”
Something in your chest twists.
“That’s funny.”
He hums in agreement and you want to choke him for it.
You let the sounds of the park ease your mind and his. Wonder silently if there’s even a point to all of this heartache, this outlandish game of who-gives-less-fucks anymore.
Beside you, Wolf leans back and lets the sunlight wash over his face, his neck, his chest.
His eyes are closed, but you can see his eyelids fluttering slightly, like he wants to look into the sun but the brightness scares him.
His messy lavender hair sweeps over his forehead and spills over his ears, just brushing the nape of his neck with soft curls. It’s nearly concealed, but you can see a faint line of a scar peeking out at you.
Just past his adams apple, trailing upwards to his jaw. When he first got it, he refused to say where or how it had happened, but you’d be a fool to not know only metal and gems cut so deep.
This isn’t the only scar he adorns. You’ve memorized the marks he has lining his body like constellations; switchblade starry sky and cigarette burn borealis.
In the sun, you can see the endless expanse of marks on his skin like a splatter of cursed stars. There’s far too many for you to count, so you turn away and rest your eyes.
It remains like this for a moment longer, but then he says something that surprises you.
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
Your head snaps towards him, blink and situate yourself further in your seat, wondering if you had somehow fallen asleep and wandered into a dream.
Wolf nods once and the action is slow, like he’s still churning the words in his head.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Everything about this situation is... Strange.”
He picks up a hand and gazes at it, brows furrowed. He clenches a fist and unclenches it, turning it this way and that in the light of the sun.
“But say I do leave, right? Then what will I have left to do? My school life is shot, and no one dares to approach me.”
He drops his hand and looks at the clouds rolling lazily over the blue sky.
“If I leave, what will I have left?”
You almost want to laugh, almost want to cry, or maybe do both at the same time. You want to ask him if he remembers who is speaking to at all, but you cannot find the courage.
Suddenly, he looks in your direction and that peaceful yet painful moment is over. A strange look crosses his face and you can feel him tensing, back becoming just a bit straighter.
As you turn, the sound of a hundred pairs of flapping wings taking off meets your ears. The shadows of pigeons in flight scatter across grass and the park path, crossing over the figures approaching briefly before ascending skyward.
The first foot to emerge from the shadows belongs to a tall blond with sharp eyes, followed by three or so other men.
You stare, but he doesn’t spare a glance in your direction.
“Keum, didn’t expect to see you in this part of Yeongduengpo.”
Wolf remains reticent. You look at him but he won’t take his eyes off of Donald.
Donald raises a hand to gesture to Wolf and you don’t miss the way his silver rings glint in the midday sun, all precious metal and shining gemstone. When he speaks, it’s almost a hiss.
“Come, I have last week’s reports to discuss with you.”
He doesn’t move from beside you, but you can hear him swallow thickly.
Donald begins to stroll again, the men beside him following suit. As he passes Wolf, he fails to even regard you and it makes you feel tiny.
A second passes as he holds his gaze with Wolf, it’s a challenge to disobey and it’s not at all unfamiliar to you.
Those dreary nights Wolf has spent with you, both a man and a husk of a man, is because of Donald Na.
It is within this essential and excruciating second that his behavior either becomes normal or abnormal, dictates whether he steeps deeper into that endless black sea or fights amidst the raging storm.
In this second, you hope he remembers himself, hope he remembers you.
Those endless nights you’ve spent picking up pieces of his shattered self, putting him back together and brushing over the cracks with adoration. Those endless nights you’ve spent despairing for him, for yourself, for all the tears you’ve cried when trying to convince yourself this won’t get any better.
You hope that he proves you wrong this one time, hope that in his heart, he knows he’ll always have you.
But when you feel him rise from his seat, you already understand his answer.
You’re acquainted with this sensation in your throat, this burning in the back of your eyes. It’s made a home in your heart, barren since the day you ever laid eyes on Wolf Keum.
Still, a final flame of hope flickers within you.
You grab his hand just before he’s out of reach.
When he looks back, he’s all sharp teeth and hard eyes but it’s nothing you can’t handle.
“Can we…” You want to speak, but your tongue feels leaden and dry. “Can we speak about this soon?”
Wolf’s face remains the blasé, brows set in a furrow and lips downturned into just the slightest scowl.
To a passerby who wasn’t looking for signs, he may seem apathetic, annoyed, even. But you were no passerby.
For Wolf Keum, you’d always be willing. Waiting. Watching. For a glance, for a flutter, for anything that meant you hadn’t been the only one foolishly in love the entire time.
And for a second, you think he regards you with a gleam in his eye, something that resembles sorrow, or regret, or anything else that may ease the stale aching of your heart.
But when he opens his mouth, it’s that same damning line again, that empty promise that keeps you stumbling in darkness for a trace of salvation.
“Maybe later.”
It will only ever be Wolf Keum that you allow yourself to be swindled by every time. You promise yourself this.
Release his hand, or he pulls it away from you. You cannot tell which came first.
“I understand.” You say, heart breaking again.
You never will.