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His therapist has told him, “You need some fresh air.”
So here he is, eyes far cast to the blurring skyline tinted with a mix of scarlet and burning golden of Apollo’s ichor. Shadows of dancing pines scattered around, branches with various thickness never once stop moving from the summer breeze idly blowing.
Jisung is twenty-one. This town was his home for five years, ever since he was a five year old boy with too many questions — like why the moon never looked the same every night or why the way ants walk are different from worms — until he grew into a ten year old boy with head still storing too many questions the adults around never bother to explain.
He had a dream in mind he chose to chase to the busy city of Seoul. And now he is back.
He lets out a small sigh, vague memories of his childhood start to unravel as he walks down the stoned path towards his grandmother’s house. The soles of his shoes are scraping roughly against the sharp rocks, he can see a few pebbles fly away to the bush every time he slips a little; losing his balance. The sky is already dark, burning ichor slowly fades into the color of burnt wood chips.
Yellow lights of the street lamps flicker alive one by one as he steps on the flatter sidewalk, the warm hues creating a certain beauty of ambiance that he realizes he would never be able to find anywhere else. A black cat — whose body is so thin and agile — beams at him with bright green eyes, and Jisung smiles out of reflex, even waving his hand a little at the small creature immediately leaps over another roof within a blink of an eye.
He lets out a soft chuckle at that — it reminds him of the black cat Minho fed next to the seven eleven a few weeks ago — and continues his walk to the small cottage standing straight and unnerved right next to the first turn of the street.
A smile blooms on his face as he bows down to nodge the low branch of the large tree, before he is greeted with the simple wooden gate, the height only slightly taller than him. He remembers how the smaller version of himself would run out of the same gate in the crack of dawn, collecting morning dew on his fingertips as he observes his grandmother picking up radish from the field.
“Halmeoni!” he calls softly, knocking on the wood while straightening his tops which wrinkled a little at random spots from three hours of bus ride. He hears a creak whining faintly from the door inside, grinning wide as a familiar voice calls for his name.
“Sungie?” Her voice is still as affectionate as Jisung remembers, slightly hoarse from the added years and yet still brushing gently against his eardrums; like a familiar song whose warmth does not fade even when the speaker is breaking.
“Yep!” he laughs, popping up his head from the gate with a wide smile. “It’s Sungie! Do you miss me?”
As the gate slides open, he is welcomed with her arms wrapping around him tightly; so warm and molded perfectly. “I missed you,” she whispers, her large hands cradling the side of Jisung’s face with a soft smile etched on her face.
“I missed you too,” he grins happily, planting a soft kiss on her forehead — he can smell a sweet jasmine fragrance of her hair oil, just like ten years ago — and says, “It has been so long since the last time I’m here.”
“It really is,” she offers Jisung the same wide smile again, the wrinkles on her cheeks stretch. “Isn’t it like… ten years? The last time you were here was when you were ten, right?”
They slowly move inside the house, Jisung sliding the gate closed and wincing a little from the loud creaking sound but his smile never once fades. “Yeah,” he nods, his shoes finding their shelter inside the wooden rack. “It was really really long ago.”
By the time Jisung gets into the room he had never gotten his feet on for ten years with his stomach full of dinner, the sky outside is already pitch black. Stars spin around the crescent moon, like a splash of golden paint splattered over a black wall, a type of painting toddlers would hold with pride hanging on the edge of their toothy smile.
“I cleaned it yesterday, since your mother said you will come,” she utters, with her hand leaning on the door frame, a proud smile crossing her features.
Jisung sits on the mattress, his fingers brushing against the soft sheet with an image of aliens on the moon printed on it; he smiles at the sliver of memories. “Thanks, halmeoni ,” he says, satisfied at the sparkles of happiness twinkling in his grandmother’s eyes.
“You should go to sleep now, then!” She pushes Jisung softly so he is now laying on bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulder and combs his hair gently, tucking them on the back of his ear. “It has been a tiring ride,” she whispers, even though Jisung is the one who is supposed to decide whether it was tiring or not. But he doesn’t say anything.
From her voice alone, Jisung finds himself already teetering on the edge of dreamland.
“You did great today,” she says again, in an even softer tone. “Sleep now, Sungie baby… Sweet dreams.”
“Night night, halmeoni ,” he whispers, curling a little smile as he watches her flicking the yellow lamp off, the warmth of familiar darkness engulfing the room with a strong taste of childhood.
His gaze travels around the spacious room, each furniture growing clearer as his eyes get used to the darkness. He blinks once, twice, thrice and so on; but the sleepiness fades away, slipping from his grasp. As the wind blows softly through the crack on the wooden window, he slowly sits up, pressing his knees together while fishing his phone from the black backpack —the only bag he brought here, since he doesn’t want to pack too many things.
The sudden light from his phone screen makes his eyes stumble into something else within the darkness. He frowns, shining his screen to a pile of books that are neatly aligned inside the bookcase. His finger skims through the spines; building dust on his fingertips until he stops on one.
Compared to the others, this one is more into the thin side, the spine has some traces of bent in a few places; the clumsy side of the owner seeping through each edge.
Jisung chuckles at the sight, the corners of his lips lifting as he lays down on his bed again, propping himself on his elbows as he starts skimming through the pages, blowing the dust away with a sigh. He can’t really remember a lot of things in this town, those fragments of memories are buried within all the new ones, overshadowed by all the bright and oversaturated — just like Seoul — ones he got in the busy city.
The first page is a poorly drawn cartoon of what he supposes to be himself and some yellow circles around it. He trails over the clumsy strokes of wax crayons with his finger, smiling at the thought of a seven year old boy with full cheeks calling this drawing a “masterpiece” with a proud giggle.
“They’re called fireflies,” it reads. “They are shiny. But halmeoni doesn’t say why.”
“They produce a chemical reaction inside their bodies that is called bioluminescence,” he mutters under his breath, feeling as if he is talking with a seven year old Jisung stored inside this book; whose wonders are so high that every existence in the universe he found questionable.
It went downhill once he got older, though. Wonders and unlimited questions can be one of the reasons why he is here; why his therapist told him to get some fresh air and stop questioning every single choice he made, to stop doubting every single existence his own presence brushed against.
In the second page, the drawing got slightly better; now both his eyes look symmetrical, not half big and half small. It’s a part of progress, he supposes. He finds a surge of relief in knowing that the seven year old Jisung does not have to spend most of his time wondering whether he made progress or not.
The drawing is still made of crayons, there is a sudden shift of pressure on a spot next to his ear that he realizes could be a spot where the crayon snapped in half from his determined grip. Seven year old Jisung had a bucket of flowers in his hands; circles of red and yellow scattered all over the page. He squints a little at another figure next to his own, the face is drawn in a shape of triangle, with careless strokes of black — that somehow managed to go over the drawing box — with a flat expression on their face.
“Picked flowers! So pretty and very good smell. Halmoni doesn't know why but hyung said it came from the pollen.”
“It’s halmeoni , Sungie,” Jisung giggles, the contrast of how sure these strokes of words are made with the accuracy almost had him laughing out loud.
“But hyung too doesn’t know when Sungie asked which one is pollen.”
Jisung doesn’t remember which hyung this Jisung is talking about, but he laughs nonetheless, still finding it funny how innocent and blatant everything in this diary sounds. He notices how upset he sounded when someone didn’t answer his question — and looking back to himself right now, he does get frustrated with things he doesn’t know or things he can’t control.
Maybe it’s something he had carried ever since he was a child, finding a shame in unknowingness when the universe itself is still full of undiscovered things and unanswered questions. Universe is filled with stardust of wonders after all.
The moon shines upon him as he reads more and more pages, to collect all the lost fragments of his childhood that he had unfortunately missed to remember. The boy with the triangle face — who yet he discovered in the much later pages whose name was — continues to show up frequently, from being an ‘annoying’ hyung (that kept following Jisung around) to ‘silly’ hyung (that brought him to a cool lake full of swans) and finally just Changbin-hyung nearingend.
“Changbin-hyung,” he whispers, trying to pluck out the needles of his memories that are hidden inside dandelion roots. Barely any moments are clear and vivid enough to see, but the rest are transparent, like ghosts bleeding out of a tall smokestack.
He can vaguely remember him. A face that seems like it was made from a mold carved with such surety; sharp and stern and never wrong. The way his dark hair looked under the summer sun; the golden glitter acted as a tiara over his head. The way the black locks flutter against the wind carrying news of the upcoming sunset with some stray strands covering his eagle-like eyes.
Rest of them are blurry. He has no idea how his voice sounds like, either it’s low or high — or maybe both? — , he doesn’t know. His voice probably gets deeper as he goes through puberty, just like Jisung’s and others.
But he doesn’t remember.
Jisung doesn’t realize he had fallen asleep in the same position until he wakes up to the bright rays of sun piercing his eyes through the window, groaning. The sky outside is painted with royal blue; the color of his mother’s favorite tee. Clouds ripple as the morning breeze blows, cotton candy of nature drifting their way to the north.
He feels sunny today. A regular weather that could change anytime, but it’s fine.
“You’re awake!” Her sweet, saccharine voice is the one that greets him as he waddles his way to the living room, mussing with his own hair — fully knowing that they’re knotted and he probably looked like a lion right now — and sits on the big couch.
“Morning, halmeoni ,” he grins, combing his hair with his fingers softly. “What are we gonna do today?”
Her smile is wide, splitting her face into a hearty grin as she says, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah,” she laughs, averting her gaze back to her knitting work. “Life still goes on even when you think we do nothing, Sungie. It won’t end just because you rest for a day or a week.”
Jisung beams at her, his bleary eyes — still prominent of sleepiness — immediately snap awake from her words. She is right. That’s why he is here. Not to work his ass off, not to be as productive as he can; but to rest.
“Thank you,” he mutters, a little smile tugs itself on his face. It’s still far from the heart-shaped of the moon’s scar that would rise whenever he is truly happy, but it’s real.
It’s enough.
“You don’t have to thank me,” her eyes still fixed to her knitting work — Jisung doesn’t know what she is making, it looks like a scarf — when she says the words, although a smile manages to rise itself on her face as well, so soft and calming. “Just take your time to rest, baby. Okay? You can walk around the town, take my bicycle with you. Just get some fresh air. There won’t be many people here, anyway.”
Jisung nods, as he makes his way back to his room to wash up and change his clothes into something else that’s not a set of pajamas with squirrel illustrations.
And now here he is; slowly riding the bike through the narrow stoned path and inhaling the air mixed with flower fragrance and morning dew. The sun is full of mercy today, carefully shining without burning but enough to balance out the remaining bits of coldness the night left.
He watches the birds chirping, singing a soft tune of morning sonata along with cicadas and crickets that Jisung can only find here. There is a certain beauty in watching them in their natural habitat, in a place where they feel belong without having to shift and adapt with all the changes humans have made in the city.
Here, Jisung can see everything just the way they are; with no covered lump or beauty hidden within a thick wound of healed scars.
There are stray cats playing with the falling leaves behind the giant trees, their movements swift and agile; leaping from one spot to another as they make more attempts to catch the crickets under the tall grass.
Jisung observes them with a smile as he sits cross-legged on the cold bench, hand busily sketching with the iPad on his knees. He doesn’t know what to do to spend the time, so he just sits here; messily sketching his guilt out onto the screen with white hoodie hugging him from the cold.
He is ripped apart from his spiralling thoughts by a raspy voice; “Do you mind if I write something for you?”
Jisung snaps his head up, so quickly that he thinks he might hear some cracks. “I- what?” he asks, his eyebrows drawn together as he locks eyes with a guy in front of him; snapback on his head, hoodie and jeans all in the same color — black. Contrasting with the various hues of their surroundings.
The stranger offers him a kind smile, curling above his sharp chin like a waning crescent moon. “I was wondering if you,” he elaborates, and just now Jisung’s eyes manage to catch a sight of a blue typewriter on his side, hanging from his shoulder by a leather strap. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I write something about you.”
“Write- about me?”
He laughs, although there are no signs of degradation in his tone. Jisung would never expect such a crisp and serene sound to come from a face made of sharp features. “I’m kinda stuck with writing,” he explains, still grinning. “I came here to find some inspiration so yeah, just asking if you wouldn’t mind.”
The thought of someone finding inspiration in him still weirds Jisung out, but he nods nonetheless, not wanting to wipe the smile away from the other’s face with a disagreement. “Sure,” he says, letting the other sit on the same bench next to him. “Anything you need me to do?”
“Just be you,” he says, taking a look at Jisung for one last time before setting up the typewriter on his lap, fingers dancing along the tickling sound which echoes faintly around them; like sparks of glitter sprinkling dust of warmth.
He can feel the same warmth flooding inside of him, a spark of familiarity that doesn’t terrify him like all the strangers in the city do. Flowers bloom instead of thorns piercing and ripping his stomach, his fingers stay still instead of trembling with nerves, everything feels serene; for some reasons he can’t name.
He doesn’t even realize he is staring until the other man looks up from his typewriter and stares back, holding a piece of paper in his hand. “Done,” he says, a look of pride crossing his features. “Do you want to see?”
Jisung blinks. That fast?
“It’s short,” he says, somehow sensing Jisung’s thought. “That’s why it’s fast. Here,” he hands a piece of paper to Jisung with a kind smile, his eyes gleaming with anticipation under the morning light.
He trails the line of his gaze on each word, not fighting a smile that’s begging to rise on his face. As he reads the written words one by one, repeatedly as if he never wants to let it fade from his memory like others do.
Withering leaf taught us stories
Of a pure soul; eyes gleamed in curiosity
Monochrome stained universe
And yet, flower blooms
A star, a moon, lights of the night sky.
“This is so pretty,” he finally mutters, ignoring the faint brittle of his voice. He hands the piece of paper back, but the other pushes it back to Jisung’s grasp; shaking his head.
“You can take it with you,” he says, pulling another piece of paper out of his waist pouch. Jisung watches as he places the paper and rotates the roller, chewing on his lips a few beats before starts typing again, soft gaze fixed to nothing but his creation.
When he finishes, he takes the paper with a proud smile and looks over Jisung again, saying, “I finished another one. This is weird,” and stores it inside his pouch.
“Why is it weird?”
“I can’t write for almost a week. I said it earlier, right? That’s why I’m here. Trying to find some motivation or inspiration,” as he finished another one, he shifts aside, placing the typewriter next to him and turns to face Jisung — who is still quietly observing everything he does with an amused gaze.
“What about you?” he asks, propping himself on his elbow. “What were you doing here?”
Cicadas thrum inside his ears, a song thick of childhood’s innocence. “I wasn’t planning to do anything,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his flushed neck. “I came here to get some fresh air, but then I feel guilty for not drawing for a long time…”
The other hums, listening to Jisung’s words as if it’s a fairy-tale he should listen to and get some morals from, as if it's so important that he doesn’t want to miss anything.. Even when the silence creeps around them, his gaze still softly beams on Jisung, waiting if he wants to say something else.
“It just happens sometimes,” Jisung drifts his gaze down, staring at the black screen of his iPad with a heavy sigh. “I can’t really rest… I work with art, you know… it’s the only thing I’m good at. If I stop drawing for a while I'm just, always scared that I won’t be able to pick it up anymore.”
“I understand that,” he carefully says, and adding, “It’s okay to take a rest for a few days. If it’s something that you love, I believe it will never leave your mind. It’s just hiding under some other stuff, and you may need to dig a little deeper to get a hang on it again. And that’s okay.”
He stills for a while, he doesn’t know what to say. It’s always funny to him how his friends in the city — Minho, Seungmin, Hyunjin — always tell him that he is so loud while in here; surrounded by honesty of nature and people, he finds it so hard to find an answer.
For some reasons, there is something relaxing in the knowing silence they share. Unspoken words that never get said yet the colors seep through, like observing a painting from the back of a canvas; to see through all old lines buried within layers of fixes and covers.
“I will be back here tomorrow,” he looks over to the west as he speaks, where the royal blue of the sky had shifted to the hue of a scarlet rose. “Are you going to go back to the city soon?”
“Not really,” Jisung smiles as the autumn wind whips on him; damp with the dropping temperature. “I can stay here as long as I want.”
The other smiles at that, packing up his stuff and stands from the bench with a satisfied look on his face. “Let’s meet again tomorrow,” he suggests, his eyes crinkling under the reddening sky; the remaining light of the sun outlined his sharp features.
“Sure,” he can feel a smile stretch on his face as he nods. “Thank you for the poem. You sure you don’t want to keep it by yourself?”
“I wrote it for you,” he says, the simple words make Jisung’s stomach flutter. “I will remember each word I wrote as long as I see you, anyway. So yeah, see you tomorrow!”
And with that, he rides his bike towards the sun. Leaving Jisung that somehow manages to take the hue of the dusk and paint them onto his cheeks; his face continues to heat up as he walks home with the figure of the boy with a blue typewriter etched in the back of his mind.
He can’t remember when was the last time he looked forward to tomorrow.
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Tomorrow comes slower than he expects.
It’s still sunny. And Jisung feels a spring sun despite it’s already autumn.
He doesn’t remember at what time he came to the small park near the forest yesterday, so he comes early; with a yellow hood of his jumper hanging low above his head and a sketchbook in hand. He had decided to not bring his phone today, not wanting to let any glimpse of his life in the city to have a hand on his healing.
It doesn’t take so long for him as he waits on the same bench, sitting cross-legged like the other day while letting his hand guide the pencil on the rough surface of the paper absentmindedly, enjoying the sound it makes. The guy with a blue typewriter shows up from the other direction, pushing his bike aside as he sees Jisung is already there.
“Good morning, Jisung,” he greets, in a voice that has already recovered from slumber. The simple black top he wears outlined his body, flexing biceps peeking from the short sleeves. Yet the one that struck Jisung the most is his eyes. They’re glimmering under the morning light, slightly covered by the strands of his equally dark hair but the shine seeps through.
“Morning,” Jisung grins, his gaze still fixed on the other’s eyes. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well,” his voice is deep yet there’s lightness to it, a sense of knowingness and freedom. He sits next to Jisung, pointing at the unfinished sketch. “I love that,” he says, smiling.
Something flips inside his stomach from the sudden compliment, the same force warming his cheeks. “It’s nothing,” he tries to say, clasping his hand above the sketch — light enough to not smudge the graphite — and adding, “I’m not really good at it.”
The other scowls at that. “What do you mean you’re not good at it? Your drawing is pretty. I like them.”
Jisung can feel the nerve creeping at the back of his throat. “Thanks,” he musters up another smile. “It’s not something I’ve always heard.”
“Maybe I should say that to you often, then.”
Jisung doesn’t know what to say. So he keeps his mouth shut, his feet playing with the fallen leaves the stray cats played with earlier; enjoying the way the scraping sound brushing against his eardrums and keeping him on earth.
He laces his gaze to the movement of the tall grass, idly waving under the wind.
“You always look down,” the other says, his fingers tapping on his thighs. “It’s not good. To me you look like someone that will run around the field with a proud smile, waving your drawing and telling people around that you just made a masterpiece.”
Jisung lets out a heavy sigh to that, he can feel the air around them thickens. “I’m not someone like that,” he whispers, wincing a little as he realizes he is starting to spiral into the same hole again.
“You were,” the two words coming from the other’s lips make Jisung cast his eyes far in front of him; pages of the diary seven year old Jisung wrote fluttering inside his mind.
A drawing of two people; Jisung was carried by a boy with a triangle face as he held a piece of paper — that was drawn way bigger than his face — with a drawing of a flower on it; daisy and aster.
Hyung! Look at this drawing I made!
The sky was filled with the color of royal blue, the sun pouring around them and tinting the green grass with highlights of golden. Strong wind with the taste of mountain rattled through his hair, as the face in front of him broke into a wide smile.
That’s pretty! he said, patting his head. I like it. We should show it to everyone!
The other boy looped his arms around Jisung’s torso, picking him up easily while telling him to hold his drawing as high as he could. The world looked bigger that way, he was able to see everything from the view of an adult — a figure he had always wanted to be.
Jisung blinks.
The memory fades.
“Are you-” he murmurs, staring back into the other’s eyes who still looks at him with a gaze that’s flooded with something Jisung can’t yet decide what. “Are you Changbin-hyung?”
“Oh,” he laughs, nodding with a smile. “You remember.”
Not everything, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead he offers a wide smile at the older, his feet swaying freely. “I do,” he says, averting his eyes to their surroundings again; the waving branches of trees, the birds happily nodding along to the tune they’re chirping, he can imagine a smaller version of himself running around the tall grass.
“You don’t change that much,” Changbin leans back on the bench, his hands crossed upon his chest. “I never thought you’d be back since you always said you don’t like it here.”
“I said that?” Jisung shrieks, his eyes widening almost comically. “Why wouldn’t I like it to be here? It’s peaceful. I like it.”
Changbin laughs as he shifts aside, fiddling with his keychain. “Yeah well seven year old you weren’t.”
“I miss seven year old Jisung,” he mumbles, not really thinking before speaking. Perhaps it’s an effect from all honesty of his surroundings laid bare for him to see, no more cover up or patches of hidden scars. “He seems very confident and sure about everything. So determined.”
Changbin hums, stilling for a few beats of silence before standing up from the bench, reaching out his hand in front of the younger’s face. “Let’s go somewhere else,” he has that smile on his face again, the same smile that always makes Jisung want to stare into them for a long time. “I know a good place for us.”
Jisung follows the older to the forest, riding on their bikes as they both find comfort under the trees offering canopy from the merciless sunlight. He doesn’t know if he would enjoy going inside a forest at first, he is never good at exploring such a spacious place with unpredictable threats. But as they get deeper and deeper; with the autumn breeze cradling their skin, all he could feel is tenderness.
“We’re here,” Changbin proudly says, his bike is thrown mindlessly to the side as he leaps over the bush.
Jisung frowns, but he jumps off his bike as well, placing it carefully next to Changbin’s with a clanking sound. “What place is this—” he asks, but his words are cut by a gasp as he sees what Changbin is showing behind the parted bush.
His eyes fall on the stars dancing across the surface of the lake; where all the rays of golden sun fall through cracks of the tree leaves. Birds are chirping around them, a symphony they made to greet all the suitors — although Jisung isn’t sure if anyone other than Changbin has ever been here.
“Whoa,” he exclaims, the tall grass parting as he walks towards the older, who is already sitting on a stone next to the lake; throwing some thin rocks and watching them hops around the surface next to the glimmering stars before sinking to the bottom.
“Do you remember this place?” Changbin asks, handing a hand for Jisung to hold as he walks on the slippery part.
Jisung peers at his surroundings with excitement visible in his eyes, grinning wide as the rocks crunch under his feet. “I think I do,” he murmurs, eyes widening when he realizes his voice echoes inside here. Memories splash over his eyes like paint, forming a painting of other fragments he had missed to remember.
You should draw that tree, Changbin told him, pointing at the giant tree where they hung their bags at. My mother said if you can draw a tree then you will be a successful painter!
Jisung turns his head to the back, finding the same tree — where Changbin had hung up his pouch — and he smiles. It hasn’t changed that much even though it has been so long since he is here.
I did it! Jisung exclaimed, his high voice still has the hand of childhood’s excitement in a way nothing does. Look! Look! I did great, right? What do you think, hyung? He waved the paper as if it could make him fly, as if it was a feather of a pair of wings that would take him to his dream.
Maybe it was right.
“I’m so happy when I was a child,” he chuckles, suddenly understanding how in books he had read they always said that humans laughed over a tragedy, a disguise of coping used to throw humor on everything.
“You still are, though,” Changbin throws another stone to the lake; this time it hops for five times before sinking. “You’re still laughing, smiling, you still have stars twinkling inside your eyes whenever you see something cool. As I said, you haven’t changed that much.”
“You think so?”
He nods, with such a surety that Jisung finds himself in awe. “You know what,” he speaks again, setting his typewriter on his lap. “Get your sketchbook. You can draw something and I will write something too.”
“Do we used to do this too before?”
“Not really,” Changbin says, closing his eyes for mere seconds. “I was not really interested in writing before, and my handwriting is bad so I gave up on that. But then my mother gave me this, I think it was when I was around ten? Eleven? So yeah.”
Jisung nods in understanding, unzipping his pencil case and begins to look for something to draw. There isn’t much he can draw anyway, so he starts sketching the surface of the lake with thin strokes, adding more and more value as he goes.
Soon he drowns in it, not even aware of how the sky has shifted in color or the clattering sound from Changbin’s typewriter has stopped and the older one is staring at him with a smile etched on his face. There is a certain satisfaction in watching Jisung become so immersed in something, and the little smile which curls on Jisung’s face is proof that he enjoys it well.
“I’m done!” The euphoria gushing inside his veins grants a satisfied exclamation to slip past his lips, as he clasps his hands in front of his mouth immediately, not realizing he is yelling inside the forest.
Changbin laughs, handing him the small piece of paper. “Do you want to show me?” he asks, pointing at Jisung’s drawing with a slight nod of his chin.
He hands it to the older without doubt, fully knowing that every stretch of time will only result in more doubt and self-consciousness rising inside of him. “Don’t judge it too hard,” he throws a half joke, already feeling the insecurity creeping in the back of his mind.
“Shush,” Changbin waves his hand, still smiling. “You know I won’t even judge it.”
Jisung hums, choosing to drift his focus away from his drawing to the paper on his hand, reading the words one by one carefully. The ink is fading at the end, but it seems like Changbin wrote over it with a pen; the color is slightly different and strokes thicker from the others.
If I walk back to the path I’ve walked on, will I
find those broken pieces of myself that were left,
buried within the traces of snow, loam, and withering flowers?
If I read these fairy-tales I spent my nights
dreaming for with the moon, will I
find the innocent pieces of myself,
completely unstained and whole from the world’s hands?
“I love this one so much,” he mutters, feeling his face heating up. “Why are you always so good with your words?”
“I’m just writing from what I see,” Changbin says, still fixing his gaze to Jisung’s drawing. “I love this too,” he smiles softly, his hand naturally moving to pat Jisung’s head, fingers slipping through the pale brown locks gently.
Jisung’s eyes widen from the sudden gesture of affection, but he quickly adjusts, the nerve fades away as he nuzzles into the older’s palm, marveling with the warmth and comfort it gives.
“You’re so cute,” Changbin blurts out, his own eyes widening from the words that flew away from him. “I mean—” he stutters, the color of burning lake creeping up his cheeks. “I mean— well, you remind me of seven year old Jisung a lot. Maybe he hasn’t disappeared from you. It’s just, you know, stained with the world’s madness.”
Jisung wants to say yes, to agree and goes along with what the older said. There is guilt twisting his gut from the inability he has to answer the honesty shooting from each of Changbin’s words. He always wonders how he did it; how he can see the world with such a pair of innocent eyes when the world is always bathed with madness.
“Thank you,” he finally says. It is not a lie that he is thankful for someone as kind as Changbin to be a part of his messy life. For a color as bright and warm as Changbin to be a part of his monochrome painting.
“Am I not the one who should say thank you?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did!” Changbin whines, standing up from where he sits and reaches for his purse on the tree. “You help me to get back to writing. I haven’t written anything for a week straight but it works when it’s you.”
Jisung laughs at his words, as he takes a look at the lake one more time before packing his graphites and sketchbook into his backpack. “You’re talking nonsense,” he whines, following the older back to where they left their bikes.
“Didn’t you say I’m good with words earlier? What’s with the sudden change of thought, Jisungie?”
He sticks his tongue out at the older, balancing himself on the slippery surface before waddling his way up to the drier ground. Some loam are sticking on his feet, but he doesn’t really care. He enjoys it, to have hands of nature cradling his skin like he is their baby, and not a twenty-ish year old mad with stained soul.
The ride they travel back is still warm, their shadows paint the grass from the light of setting sun. The sun soon beats the ground, leaving only darkness behind. They may have miscalculated the time to get back today, the darkness quickly settles in even before they arrive at the bigger road.
But then, he sees it.
Yellow lights floating around them; coming from the tall grass that are still blown faintly by the wind. They glow as if they are stars, the number keeps increasing until Jisung can see everything; the pulses of grass below him, Changbin’s wide shoulder moving up and down as he keeps pedaling on the wheel, and the way his hair flutter from the wind; some fireflies land on his head.
“They’re pretty, right?” Changbin asks, slowing his bike down for Jisung to catch up on him. “Give me your hand,” he says, and Jisung does; palm out. Fireflies start to land on his palms, it tickles on his sensitive skin but he refuses to let go.
“You used to like fireflies,” Changbin says, grinning. “We usually always get back around this hour, just so you can play with the fireflies before we get home. Your mother will get mad but it’s okay. At least we had fun.”
“I remember that,” Jisung murmurs, they stop their bikes to play with the fireflies for a brief moment. “I asked you why the fireflies shine. But you didn’t know.”
Changbin scoffs, picking a firefly from his head and letting it fly again. “Why would an eight-year-old know about fireflies anyway,” he answers. “You’re the one that always questions everything. It’s good, though. Thanks to you I studied hard about everything.”
“I won’t do that again,” he smiles sadly, averting his gaze from the fireflies on his cupped palms to Changbin’s eyes. “Questioning everything makes me get anxious so easily,” he quietly admits.
The elder only smiles at him, as if he understands. Maybe he does, if the way his eyes spark with fairy dust of warmth are saying anything. The yellow hue merges perfectly with the stars inside his eyes. Jisung wants to imprint this image in his mind forever, to burn each particle into a canvas stored in his skull until nothing is left; so he will never be able to forget.
Something bloomed inside him that day. A field of dandelion that receives various hues, erasing blues with a softer blue and many other colors. Even when he gets into his grandmother’s house; greeted with halmeoni’s doenjang jjigae for dinner to warm him up, the smile never once leaves his face.
You look so happy today, his grandmother said, and Jisung only grinned back at her, chewing on his dinner with his cheeks full.
I had a lot of fun, he said. He didn’t tell her about the field of dandelions that bloom inside of him. He isn’t really sure about it.
Happiness exists after all, huh? His mind plays every memory he had made today, as his hand dances on the sketchbook, paintbrush leaving soft yet clear strokes on the rough paper. There is a honesty in it, a surety that he will never forget.
He glances over the palette of his watercolor; eyeing the various hues that remained untouched ever since he bought the set three months ago, contrasting with the black and white which containers are already messy of faded value and countless refills.
Freedom, he whispers, the moon shines on him as he lands his brush on the yellow, dropping circles of fireflies around two figures with wide smiles decorating their faces.
He can’t wait for tomorrow. Another day of journey he will take with the boy with a blue typewriter on his side.
───── ⋆⋅ ☽✧☾⋅⋆ ─────
Jisung is screwed.
He wakes up feeling storms. Growling and thundering inside of him, yet no rain pours out.
His morning starts too early; not even a rooster is already awake when he walks groggily to the toilet, feeling so nauseous but there’s nothing he can do about it. He searches blindly for the kitchen door, a surge of relief washes over him as his hand makes contact with the knob after searching in the dark.
The door creaks aloud when he pushes on it and he can’t help but jump at the sudden sound, trying his best to regulate his breath that’s starting to pick up the pace again. An even deeper darkness greets him as he searches blindly for the lamp switch, faint light flicks alive as he starts to berate himself of why he didn't just bring a phone with him.
It’s okay, he tells himself, forcing his shaky hands to reach for the water jug and pour it into a mug; some water splashes over the table from his shakiness. He can already feel himself getting frustrated at the sight, but he pushes through, chugging the water while leaning onto the wall.
Does he feel better? No. He doesn’t. The water doesn’t help the uncomfortable heat that swells beneath his skin, a force he can’t control. His breath coming out ragged with all the trembling and shiver running down his body, as he runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes; an attempt he makes to calm himself.
“Sungie?” By the time he recognizes his grandmother’s voice, he already has tears gathering in his eyes, turning over to say that he’s alright; but the pure look of concern in her eyes makes him break down into tears immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, trying to say more words to elaborate but they come out as broken syllables, drenched and drowned by the pouring rain which flow grows as her large hand caresses his back gently, pulling him into a warm, comforting hug.
“There, there,” she hums, guiding them into the living room and maneuvers Jisung to lay his head on her lap; as she runs her fingers through the soft locks — damp from accumulated sweat and water from washing his face — with a soft tune humming from her tender voice.
“Everything’s okay?” she asks after, when Jisung’s sobs begin to quiet down and the sun starts to rise.
Jisung hums brokenly, a part of himself feeling embarrassed of breaking down in front of her; but another part is too tired to care, or even think. “It’s okay, just,” — he clears his throat — “just feeling horrible.”
They stay like that for a while, the warmth of her humming voice flooding Jisung’s senses all at once; not in an overwhelming way. The sky is painted with royal blue, but this time Jisung doesn’t like how it reminds him of his mother; stood unnerved with pride as she swirled in front of the mirror. Instead it reminds him of the blue typewriter, the color of the lake, and the ambiance of Changbin’s smile whenever they’re together.
“I need to get up,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t move.
“What do you need to do?” she asks, her eyes half-lidded, and Jisung feels guilty for waking her up so early in the morning.
“I promised to go with Changbin-hyung,” Jisung says, groaning quietly while sitting up from her lap. “He’s probably waiting.”
“Okay,” she still has her eyes fixed on him, a fog of worry covering her stars. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” Jisung offers her a reassuring smile, cracking his neck aside while walking towards his room. “Don’t worry about me, halmeoni. Make sure to get some sleep and sorry for waking you up too soon.”
He wheels his pedals fast to the park, squinting a little from the golden sunlight unravels, stretching its yellow shade petals beautifully and piercing through the white clouds. The breeze against his face is chilly, sending shivers down his spine and making his hands tremble a little.
He smiles as he takes the last turn, humming a soft tune along with the chirping birds and stopping right in front of the familiar bench.
Changbin, however—isn’t there.
Confusion bleeds into his features, as he looks around, thinking that maybe this is not the usual bench they would meet up at, that maybe he already forgets about it — but the sight of Changbin; with his smile and blue typewriter is nowhere to be seen.
He waits, sitting on the cold iron bench with a sketchbook in hand; although nothing comes out to the paper, too focused and alerted on every little sound that always ends up to be either cats walking around with their friends or simply a flock of hummingbirds seeking taste of the ground.
Royal blue of the sky turns into the color of a burning rose. And still, Changbin doesn’t come. The dandelion field wither inside him, colors slowly fade and he feels like he’s back to monochrome again. The sun sets on the west, and Jisung regrets never asking where Changbin lived.
When the night settles in; starless and moonless, Jisung shoves his sketchbook back to his backpack, pushing his bike on his side as he watches the fireflies die one by one from the pouring rain, their wings drenched from the night’s sorrow.
He looks over to the forest; where the grave of fireflies is. It’s still eerily empty, only trees with branches moving along the wind as the rain continues to pour. The yellow hue of the garden lamp next to the bench flicks alive, and yet; no shadows are visible other than his own.
Jisung walks home while his smile is somewhere else; drenched and carried by the rain.
Three days passed. It’s a Friday in September, when Jisung sits on the same bench again, his eyes sting and burn from the lack of sleep and everything, but despite it all he wants to go. He doesn’t know when Changbin will finally show up. Doesn’t even know if he will. But he waits.
He finished reading his diary two days ago. He remembers some of the memories; like how they made flower crowns and made a territory of their castle with a stray branch, where both of them were the kings that ruled their world. Seven-year-old Jisung said he will build a castle for them next to the lake. Eight-year-old Changbin said he will wait for Jisung to do so. He also asked Jisung to make the castle from the clay and not the trees.
Nine-year-old Changbin made him a ring made of weeds. He said Jisung can be the princess in the castle too, he can be the kingdom’s princess that loves to paint everyone. Eight-year-old Jisung painted both of them in his diary; two figures with wide smiles and flower crowns inside a castle next to the lake.
This forest can be our castle! We don’t have to build anything, Changbin had said, as he fed the birds on the tree with breadcrumbs he stole from his mother.
Richard and Emely can be the guards! Jisung replied, pointing at two rabbits that were munching on carrots Jisung got from his grandmother. He patted their heads, enjoying the way their fur parted under his fingertips. We can also ask fireflies to shine. We don’t need lamps.
Ten-year-old Jisung left Changbin for the city. For a foolish dream he later spend his ten years life chasing for. Only for him to come back to this town when he got his hands on it; realizing that the light is too bright he can’t even open his eyes. His dream sets the world on fire, and there’s a bitter triumph rises in him as he realizes he is in the center of the flame, slowly burning alive from his inability.
I will wait for you, eleven-year-old Changbin had promised him. And Jisung promised him the castle. That he will bring more visitors to their castle, for Richard and Emily to not be lonely.
Changbin only smiled at his words, he held his hand close and not letting it go for the whole time. He helped Jisung pack his stuff, he witnessed Jisung kissing his grandmother goodbye. He held Jisung’s hand for the last time as Jisung kissed his cheek.
Take care of our castle until I get back, Jisung had told him. Cicadas thrummed in his ears like a sonata. He heard Changbin’s steady breathing like an anchor. His increasing heartbeat beat his ears like drums.
Changbin kissed the mole on his left cheek but he didn’t say goodbye. He had always liked the mole on Jisung’s cheek. It looks like a choco chip on a pao, he said. Jisung always told him that he can’t eat his cheeks. Changbin would laugh at his words.
Changbin was the only one who never told him goodbye. Maybe because he always hopes Jisung will never leave.
Jisung is ripped from his thoughts by the snap of his pencil. The sun is still up, mercilessly shining on his honey skin that’s already burning from the inside. He looks straight to the forest again, imagining the young Jisung running around the trees, bragging about making a castle.
He pushes his bike to the forest, goosebumps rising at the chilly breeze whipping over him but he doesn’t back off. For once he wants to stand unnerved, unafraid, like the young Han Jisung that isn’t scared of every step he chooses to take.
It almost feels like there’s a gate that opens as he steps inside, his shadow merges with the trees’. He walks, walks and walks, eyes peering with maximum interest. Birds are chirping along, cicadas thrumming like drums and more sounds he can’t identify brushing against his eardrums.
Forest has so many things he doesn’t know. Unknowingness that should have scared him; for how he never likes to feel lost and not having a grasp of his surroundings. But now, as he walks deeper and deeper, tracing the path Changbin had led him just by memory, he realizes getting lost is not as bad as his mind told him.
The arisen goosebumps fall limp, nerves fading to inexistence the more Jisung lets his instinct guide him, to make a path in the forest with no directions. He watches morning light peeks in between leaves creating glowing amber below his feet, relief breaks on his face as he spots a small figure behind the parted bush, crouching next to the lake with blue typewriter aside.
Found you, he mumbles under his breath.
He discards his bike without a second thought and stumbles over to the older, he even jumps on the slippery surface, and Changbin doesn’t even notice Jisung is there until he feels the weight of the younger boy on his back; hugging him tight from behind.
“Ji—” he says, but Jisung buries his face on his neck, holding onto the older’s black hoodie like a lifeline, as if he is scared that if he let go Changbin would slip through his fingers and be gone. They stay there for a while, silence drowning them, but Changbin’s presence is always comforting for Jisung.
Changbin is blue; the lake, the forest, moon, stars and the night sky all at once. A scenery offering shelter in the journey of rough road, warmth of forest hands and a smile as soft as the moon; he tucks exhausted souls into a dark slumber with stars embedded to make sure they aren’t lost.
Changbin looks over his shoulder, his hand shakily brushes over Jisung’s pale brown locks so comfortably as if his fingers are finding home in there. Finally, he turns over to face the younger, and he looks divine. His face is littered with golden light from the late morning sky, a smile hovering above his face that looks half real.
It is then Jisung notices some purple bruises and breaking skin on his knuckles, his fingers shaky in his hold. Gently, he cradles the rough hand on his own and rubs his thumb over it; his touch featherlights. Changbin winces slightly, but doesn’t pull back.
“You feel like a storm,” Jisung whispers, staring into his eyes.
“You don’t like storms,” Changbin answers. His voice cracks, like the sound of rain beating the ground.
Jisung hums, leaning his head to the older’s wide shoulder with a sigh. “I don’t like storms because they make people feel storm,” he says, remembering the small box on the corner of the diary pages where he is supposed to track the weather each day; but he drew the weather based on how he felt instead. “You’re not a storm, just feels like it. I feel it too.”
He doesn’t need to look up to know that Changbin’s eyes are not painted with stars. He wants to wipe away the thick fog storm had left on him, to make him shine again.
“I’m sorry,” the older says onto Jisung’s neck. “I didn’t mean to ghost you. I’m just frustrated with myself.”
“I know,” Jisung smiles, it’s not a happy one, but it’s real. “I feel storm too. So we can just sit here together. This castle is safe.”
Changbin chuckles at his words. “You remember the castle too?”
“Of course I do,” he feels his smile shifts to a sunny one. “I think I remember everything, now. I like it. I like that I have someone like you. I like that you’re here, with me.”
“I like that too.” Changbin offers him a piece of paper. It’s slightly crumpled but straightened again, traces of frustration and disappointment scattered all over the place. “I write something about us,” he explains, there’s a faint blush tinting his cheeks. Jisung thinks he wants to kiss them; but he doesn’t.
Took you to the lake where all poets went to die
For us to feel alive again
We walked inside the forest, the sky painted with the color of burning rose
Golden lights littered around as the night settled
What if we never make it back?
Our blood will tint the grass
Our hearts will turn white
But it’s okay.
Haunt this castle forever
As ghosts, as humans, as swans, as lovers, as friends,
As fireflies,
As trees,
Forever and ever.
We will watch everything grow and decay; mortals moulding back to ashes
Of piled loam soaked by the rain;
And peace will bloom in our hearts.
Changbin is staring at him with anticipation, his eyes never once peeling from Jisung’s reaction. When Jisung looks back to Changbin, his sight is blurry; but he doesn’t realize why. Until Changbin shrieks with wide eyes, holding his face in his hands with such tenderness that makes more tears flow from his eyes — right, he thinks. He cries again.
“Why are you crying-” Changbin asks, but Jisung etches a hearty smile on his face, in hopes Changbin will understand that this is not a storm cry. It’s a shower sun; when cloudy rain dapples over the sun as a form of happiness.
“You’re good,” Jisung chokes out through his tears. “Your writing is good, hyung. You hold power in your words. A sense of serenity and knowingness that can knock the door of someone’s heart. It’s precious,” he takes a ragged breath, wiping away tears from his face. “It’s precious because it comes from you.”
“I waited for you,” Changbin smiles, brushing his thumbs on top of Jisung’s cheeks. “Art works when it comes to you. Art works when I write about us. All this time I keep wondering why everything I write doesn’t feel enough.”
“Who knows that all this time, what we need is each other?” Jisung laughs, his tone is featherlight, greeting the sky in a sharp joy.
They sit by the lake for the rest of the day. Chirping birds turn to hooting owls as they promise to grow old together. The blue sky shifts its color to a blooming rose when Changbin tells Jisung that he loves him. Jisung smiles as the stars above the lake dim from the lack of sunshine, his hand reaches up to the older’s face and rests his thumb below his right eye — where all the stars are painted.
“I love you too,” he whispers, planting a kiss on the older’s burning cheek. It’s not a fire burn from the dream that shines too much, instead a fire from a fireplace that keeps the house warm. A shelter of stray souls. The found to Jisung’s lost.
They share a soft kiss afterwards, content to be together. This is our castle, Jisung decides. A forest where he can get lost and be found, where they can get lost together and never make it back. A forest they will haunt together; as ghosts, humans, friends, lovers, fireflies, trees, and more.
A forest of shower sun where peace will bloom in their hearts, as they interlace their hands together and not let each other go.