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A winding highway, desolate, save for a pinprick of bright red that stood out in a sea of tarnished oats. There, he lazily stood leaning against the rusty, white barrier, an expression of complacency dressed in an eye catching attire of red. Strikingly red hair, red sweater and red gloves adorning his ring less fingers.
The cars that passed the road less travelled by, spared a glance at him, before speeding past, entranced by the rumours of the city. Them, in their pristine bubble, called him the anomaly. If only they knew that they swam in inky, black tartar everyday, weighed down by the venom that spills out of fabrications. Amiably, he shoots each passerby a toothy grin, pitying their mundane limits.
The time would come. He hummed an unfamiliar tune, mouth dry with the absence of something sweet, chewy. It seemed as if yesterday, he had been suffocated by the lore of modern era, promising pleasure where there is no pain. The bland blacks, whites and greys painted over his eyes a slander, over his forehead, a confining title.
There is a tremble, and hooded eyes catch the gleam of maroon and splashes of violet. In response, he steps forward, hooking their thumb upwards, signing for a promise ever broken. Dust soars in the air as the illustrious, antique van comes to a smooth halt, the front window patiently rolling down. They remind him of ashy shadows and smoldering coal, whole attire dark, ominous, with eyebrows raised.
“Need a ride?” The voice that sounds is bellowing and unforgiving, odd for the tempting contours of a privileged face. Only yesterday would he have cautiously snubbed the offer of strangers; but, this is the future. Smirking, he brushes a lock of curly, horizon hair behind his ear while nodding.
“Where to?” He asks, though it reminisces a demand, opening the side door. Eagerly, he clambers in beside the driver, senses tingling at the presence of ruffians in the background. The seats are a cream white, and are many in number, from the front, to the middle, then the back. They sneak a peek at the dastardly bunch filling the van, eyeing him back either ravenously or drowsily. There’s a fellow with the curly, bright blonde- akin to the rising sun- hair that openly stares, beside him a prince-like figure of dimples, and another foreigner that reminds him of the ocean. In the back, an incredibly tall person and one agreeable brunette that shrugs, sheepishly, eyes glossy with wisdom.
“Anywhere.” Their saccharine voice that captured the attention of the city dwellers and built him a fragile pedestal of blemished clarity, is rough, echoing due to misuse. “Anywhere.”
He repeats softly, peering at the shadowed driver. They have a smile short of maniacal, a heavy tune strumming inside of the rapid vehicle, intensifying the exhilarating mood. There is no destination, that much is easy to tell considering speed without coordinates. Briefly, he notices the shiny beads entwined into their black hair, obscure under the veil of midnight.
It hits him gently then. These are his people.
Discreetly, Haechan smiles. Unnaturally, its not entirely as discreet as he intended.
-
The oddballs form an unlikely group, one without a label.
The first of them is naturally the leader, an ebony eyed Taeyong that writes words into the wind, a melody echoing in his touch. Due to the charisma in the crevice of his heart that seeks an outlet, he is able to gather these nine strangers at his abandoned warehouse. He calls it home.
At the edge of the world, in the remains of a different world, they are able to find passion from the solace of the blank cities. Perhaps it’s the distinguished characters among them that have become star-struck, but the petulant, white robes search for them, adamant to return the stars to a hollow, grounded sky.
Haechan, once a song bird for a household of the unspoken, revels in the flight he takes here on the lost island. Similar to his title, he is perched at the top of the welcoming abode, idly scanning the murky skyline and the profiles of his brethren. There is a new addition to the household; one who speaks in broken languages and moves captivatingly in the sunlight. Winwin; a swan at his core, resonant of a fortuitous past possibly. At least that’s what Taeil surmised, features positively blank, with a gaze full of chilling awareness, a spray of ice water.
The simply tall Johnny catches his attention, an overgrown wolf of a man, with the orange haired fellow whose clear voice carries nautical miles of stories. This man doesn’t stay entirely long, a wanderer at heart, though it leads him to this house over centuries to come. Their chatter is infectious, laughter rambunctious, and a tune fills his small heart. Predictable, but he is the youngest in their abode, the closest to zero thus the most susceptible, according to the dapper man from across the sea, Yuta. Vehemently, he will repeatedly refuse such audacious claims, climbing up the windows to sulk from a higher vantage.
Sure, he is young, but he is a weathered storm in his own regard. The gloved clutches he escaped from were downy and unspoiled, yet still held at his throat in a constricting, manipulative manner through deceit, wings tethered to the earth. A bird in a cage; truly, the worst thing imaginable.
“Try,” They say. “A lion without eyes.”
A counterattack from him, arises a blossom of heat from his chest to his fingertips. He doesn’t need to turn around, because he always comes without a whisper. Their presence is strangely outspoken, radiating volumes from meters away, outwardly due to his curly, tangerine locks and pale skin. Since arriving here at the warehouse, there has been one man besotted by his novelty, or more specifically, the song that enchanted an emperor.
Get out of my head, he murmurs half heartedly, unwittingly aware that the linear bond that joins the brethren together cannot be severed by mere mortal words. Still, it is strange having their words in his mind, since the others revere the secrecy. Only Mark Lee would break down all barriers that stand in his enigmatic path, no matter the person or world. He takes a seat beside him on the edge, ignoring the clandestine, opaque view.
There’s the scent of bubble gum hanging in the air, and it makes his nose twitch, mind stimulated by pure excitement. Before he can ask, there is a silver stick pushed up against his face.
“Want some?” Mark chews audibly, politely sarcastic and teasingly conniving. Below them, the familiar purr of an engine starts, signalling the older members to retreat to the outer cities, searching for a wanderer, a lost muse in a forest of bland. Its vital that the calm older man Taeil is taken along for the arduous ride, because he attracts an epiphany of individuals, all of the wild, irrational sort. Just like them.
Driven by want, he bites forward, but the other is expectant and calculating, jerking it back into their hand. A proportional smirk is placed on their objectively attractive face. There is a positively dangerous glint in their spangled gaze, and he can’t help but shiver to the static that jolts up his spine. Mark knows all the tricks; and it prompts him to remember that they are two incredibly different characters. Mark, raised by artists, fighters that preached of colour and fire, born in a battlefield that sang orchestral melodies. On the other hand of the universe, he, another pawn for a marbled chess match of singularly white, bathed in milk and who willingly wore chains around his wrists, blinded by the immaculate reality that cocooned his every move.
Peevishly, he pouts, almost surprised by how easily his facial features flurry downwards to accompany the annoyed feeling that wells up in his heart. If there is anything this man taught him, it is how to smile, cry, laugh, and feel. Likewise, Mark laughs stridently, a sounds that cuts through the north wind and brings the moon to a pause.
“You can have it if you give me a kiss.” Mark teases, laughter dissipating, leaving a fond hum to the air around him. But he is still entirely new-fangled to this emoting experience, and cannot differentiate between a joke and not so much a joke. There’s an erratic thrum in his chest, akin to the novels he read on dying and midsummer.
Haechan steels his small self, not the stone cold mask of a performance, but an aged suit of armour put on to not be blown away by the gusts of spring. Turning, the other, brightly haired man is quietly observing the ruddy grounds that hold his brothers, puzzling considering his archetypal impulsive, fervent reactions. Following the lead of his favoured eccentric, impulsively, he leans forward, pursing his lips in the way he’s never seen, only imagined.
Their skin is cold from the blistering winds of the precipice, and it momentarily chills the brush of lips against cheek. Hurriedly, he leans back, bizarrely aware of his own body’s heat rise exponentially from the tips of his toes to his rounded ears. There’s a word for such a feeling, and he deems it as to be flustered, or embarrassed based on his lengthy studies of etymology in the past ages.
He startles when there is chaste kiss on his own flaming cheek. They are outside, yet he is simmering in the winter weather. Then, cold fingers press gently against his lips, urging him to take the sweet strip of gum that he had forgotten. Slowly but surely, he takes it in, practically melting at the sugary, unbridled goodness.
In his fleeting ecstasy, he does not register that they head back down to solid ground, where the sea meets the green but never pursue the skies. A coldness forms at the pit of his stomach, that has his hands clasping desperately for contact. Lethargically, he peruses his kin, hesitating at the twin sparks that watch him with a hint of animosity, although their gaze relaxes dramatically after interaction. Another one born in a white castle, the appealing, Jaehyun. In a previous tale, he knew of the elder as an immaculate public figure. The last person he could possibly imagine would evolve into the rhetorical, witty blonde rascal that strolled along the bare gardens.
Jaehyun's head quirks, a silent invitation, hands shoved into the pockets on their overalls, dimples unleashed to force the full brunt of their persuasion. Unofficially, without the elders around to keep guard over the madmen, the duty fell upon the young guardian Mark or the wizened, accustomed Jaehyun. It’s a thinly disguised secret, but the songbird, prince and swan share an unusual link forged by white speckled blades slashed across hollow chests. As if they hear, the three exchange a pensive thought.
Within their geometric sphere, it’s easy to fall in to the rose coloured dreams of cottony clouds. They always awake to ice and fire brimming at their doorsteps. Haechan shakes his head, a daredevil afraid of heights. There is a drone of tender voices in his head, promising sugar and infinity, causing his ears to burn. Truly, his kin are as honest as they are peculiar, an anomaly throughout the spans of cosmos below their feet.
Whistling a ceremonious shanty, his eyes aflame at the way the suns avidly follows his every note.
-
When they return, they come bearing gifts of frankincense and a boy. The polish is evident on their pearly white teeth and uncharred skin, a veil of metallic vacancy that drags down his shoulders. It fools him, until the droop of eyes rise fervently, zealously, flatteringly, shouting of anarchy. He gives himself a fitting name; Jeno. Somehow, they latch onto the red haired melody, who cheekily grabs at soft hands, searching for the caress of a callous. Their silent exchanges are distracting, pale lavenders and teals compared to bolstered curly gold.
The honeyed weeks do not persist, as where there are disorderly demons there is a legion of haloed spirits in chase. Tracking their path is the white robes, heady with the stench of bleach. It takes an undertone to realize that at the head of seraphs is the forsaken Chen Le, a boy created in white light, the brightest in the cities of supernova.
It sends his heart into haywire as he watches his brethren embolden to fight, a war of sticks versus stones, a coven versus the world. Logic prevails, and it hurts his mind to tentatively create a possibility of overcoming everything that had built his meager existence. Even the wisest, Taeil urges the young souls to take shelter, following the wanderer. But he knows that the white army will not be sated until they distinguish the flames and drain the seas of their colour.
They come in an orderly fashion, robes heavy against unmarred flesh and thoughtless heads. On the side of the strange, the waves of the oceans roar at the opponents heightened by a sharp edged wind, voraciously swallowing passerby’s, the wildlife comes alive, eminent greenery expanding to entrap, and creatures of the night preying on their next meal. It takes a plea and the offering of bubble gum, to open up the endless caverns of the earth, gorging on the weak and strong alike. Mark Lee smirks impishly, radiated in the bold red and blue of chaos.
Haechan marvels at their slight supremacy, even as pleading, insistent hands push him towards the old, beautiful van in a means to escape war. They call him untouched, the incarnation of pure, not meant for the perils of the frontline. But no, he’s broken down spiralling walls, burned down citadels that held him down, and slayed the people that raised him, no mercy for those that melded him into a liable rook. Sure, he is without the prowess of Taeyong, the wildness of Johnny, the tempest in Yuta or the savageness in Mark. But there is power in mere words, that provoke a thousand pictures.
The hope that dwells in his soul flickers at the continuing revival of white robes that encroach upon their lands, white blades and immaculate winged armour cause the skies to shake furiously, the ever present blue of the heavens dimming, cowering at their approach. At the time of the waning world, they are the ones that hung constellations in the sky and mowed over civilization to form the cities. Their only opponent; humanity, that prevails to be a relentless, limitless revolution no matter how many comrades they destroy.
Once again, he doesn’t want to run away. Though the extraordinarily serious, afternoon eyes of Jeno bear witness to his soul, begging for him to turn his small back away from the wreckage. Haechan, has an serendipitous epiphany, a startling revelation, that has him murmuring apologies to his bonds, sharing a fleeting glance with considerate dark eyes- the swan in every aspect, caring but solemn, prepared to die for only one. Bending down and escaping the brusque grasp of a desperate Doyoung, the wanderer with his feet tied to his kin, the songbird leaps free, headed straight into the battle.
He can hear earnest protest, bubbling in the form of the sky colouring a pale lavender, the quiet voice that says, ‘My name is Si Cheng’, a flock of colourful birds filling the wide expanse above, and finally the deep vibration of anger, thunder crackling in the air. Naturally, Jaehyun, the prince would be infuriated, for he would attempt to give himself up, the true monster in any successor’s reality; self sacrifice.
Its mystifying, the way the cry of battle quiets as he runs into the center of cacophony, between the brilliant, ardent procession of souls and the monotonous, blanched soldiers. The one on the ivory throne stares haughtily at him, white speckled wings towering over his small frame entrapped by untouched, glistening armour. The one of midnight on earth, eyebrows furrowing in a thrum of distressed questions, ebony attire a glitter with the pearls of the sea and the lilies of mountains. Amongst the silence, he can sense a doleful, devoted gaze that openly weeps for his return.
Upon opening his mouth slightly, breath coming out in a spiral of fog, the sun seems to burn impossibly brighter, the whole earth still as the heavens chant.
“Take me.” Not an offer, a command from a songbird, one that is aware that the aging, withering emperor longs for a pure tone.
“Why?” Chen Le urges, a semblance of curiosity in his light gaze, that foretells of the fall of a great child of light whose greatest flaw is his pride. To him, after taking the trouble to incinerate a city, it would not make any sense to come back again.
“Because I’m in love.” The heavens sing at the answer, opening up to reveal light that pierces through unformed, stormy clouds of lightning, a bleeding sky, and the birds that continue to circle around in disorder. In response, the earth sends a branch of oak that helixes towards the light. The word felt foreign on his tongue, the type of emoting that he dreams of in long, wintry nights, the image of gold staining his mind in a flurry of red and pink.
Haechan doesn’t resist, as white shackles are attached to his wrists, the weight bitterly familiar, and as he walks forward, the heavens follow. He’s prepared to sacrifice himself if it means his brethren will smile, emote, for another melodious century, or at least as long until he can endure. There is no regret that can be made when it entails a greater purpose, yet his soul still screams, clings to the colourful warehouse and its mad inhabitants. Carelessly, or perhaps unwittingly, he lets out the resemblance of a plea in his head, a final goodbye for his dearly beloved.
“I like you. A lot.”
The earth melts underneath his feet, greenery rushing up from the underworld, striking fury upon anything white. A few white robes are able to escape the skies on radiant wings, that is before, the majestic strikes of lightning encompass the air, mercilessly jolting the soldiers, their charred remains falling into the furious turmoil of an ocean. It smells sugary, and he doesn’t make a move. He doesn’t need to, because they will always come.
Just like in every dream, universe, and reality, he appears beside him, this time with drizzly, frenzied eyes that boast ferocity and devotion. Under the crackle of lightning and the blue of the sky, his blonde hair is an astounding golden. This time, Mark doesn’t spout poetic lyricism, he doesn’t need to, because his tangerine dipped in saccharine feelings travel to the songbird. Haechan’s face heats up, indubitably a bright, reddish colour. The words that swirl insistently in his head disappear, leaving the taste of chewing gum in his mouth.
“My name is Donghyuck.” It seems to wistfully slip out of parted lips, reaching for a counterpart. That title, that name, hasn’t been uttered or heard for a span of destinies, the bearer scared that a history of blank smiles and sharp, manicured manacles would drag him back into the pallid pit.
Mark’s gaze flickers, before he breaks out into a large grin, childish, the basis of folklore, that has his heart aquiver. Their brethren gather, a mix of vehemence and sorrow tainting their celebratory auras. Strong arms gather him to the beat of their heart, tight, restricting, opposite of the actions of a thorough bred dignitary. Jaehyun, no doubt a stoic face hiding a whirlwind of greed, and his other bonds squeeze him, reprimands hanging low in the air. There’s the faintness of blue in the corner of Jeno, the spade’s, eyes and the swan, Winwin, voice cracks as they release a prayer to their flock.
The leader is the image of malevolent night beside the salt of the faithful ocean, Yuto, the latter painted with an exasperated and relieved expression that tells volumes about Taeyong’s inner premise. Sparing a pitiful glance at the imminent chains on his hands, the tall Johnny blows a kiss that incinerates the silver bands, before putting away the long sword gripped in his hand.
Victory tastes sweet, he’ll admit, gaze obscured by the reoccurring embraces of his brethren, as a woeful Taeil holds him affectionately. Through the crevices of the striking reds and exotic violets of their chaotic outfits, he meets eyes with his most favoured, dear madmen. For the first, the songbird smiles justly.
-
There is a spoil of their war, that comes in the form of ruffled feathers and a rapt gaze that roves over spectral paintings that adorn the walls of the warehouse. Strange, to witness the great general of the white robes, the crown of state, in their house enthralled by their mere immortality. A soul born of baseless pride, the wise man Taeil himself promised that the child would become a dandy peacock of laughter and cynicism in due time.
With the cities weakened, the elders are able to locate more lost stragglers, more kin, to bring to a haven. The youth consist mostly of wild child’s, born in the everglades or the misty mountains, evident in the bright red haired Ren Jun that shanties his way through every campfire, and Jisung, whose instincts rival the leaders. Then there is the sharp tongued Jaemin that strips his white regalia upon sight of an answer to his cravings, taking shade under the wing of Jeno, his ally.
It is a ragtag group, a family, that the oceans sing for, the earth weeps with and the sky bows to. It was never clear to the children born of white walls, why humanity that had once destroyed the worlds out of smite and self-interest, was still cherished by the earth, as if a guardian.
Haechan can see as the young scoundrels dance on star strewn meadows of bellflowers, pattering over sleeping rock, the performance of immortal youth. But, eyes once dourly clouded by gloomy, soundless cages, are wide awake, and finally perceive how the earth bends delicately at every scamp’s nimble fall, flowers shying closer to the source of elated, flamboyantly drawn voices.
The earth is in love with the mischief that is humanity; and Haechan understands, as his preferred madman is wondrously agape at the burning stars that Jaemin pulls out of deep pockets at the center of a sun kissed hayfield, vigilantly cradling the twine of light that swiftly extinguishes. Upon receiving a bold, copper star, he rushes over to where he rests under a willow tree, expression blazing.
“Donghyuck,” He deafeningly whispers, a smile that rivals the view of the stream of butterflies that pass by flowery greens in a spring afternoon or the glisten of the inebriated sea as it crashes on sandy shores. The light is dimming, but to him, it’s an infinite, inextinguishable gold that heats up the air and his heart.
Mark gingerly hands him the earth bound star, his breathe lost, as the other thoughtfully stares, mesmerized. No words are uttered, only sentiments in his mind that spindle songs of Gemini and Romeo.
The moment is misplaced when smooth, cold hands snake around his neck, causing him to stand up irritably, sugar soaked curses hushed out. The rascal, child of light melding into spawn of exploitive humour, slowly runs away while cynically giggling, headed towards the warehouse where his brethren are surely gathered.
Haechan glares darkly in that general direction, as his supposed complement laughs. Whilst huffing petulantly, ears a dark maroon, the songbird lets out an increasingly fond sigh when hands interweave and his beloved leads him back home.
Extra:
They were driving down a deserted road, not a car in sight. Mark stared out the window, fingers itching with the urge of vengeance. Joining car rides was not a favoured pastime of his, but here he was, aimlessly searching for something, anything. According to Taeil, those pure bred anomalies would escape from the cruel cities to wander in the wastelands. The only one he’d ever met, was Jaehyun, who still kept up an apathetic façade.
A flash of boisterous red has him squinting. There’s a boy, dressed in audacious reds and hair an excitable rouge, around his age, meandering at the side of the road. He whistles, signalling for the leader to stop, though it is unnecessary considering that this is Taeyong.
Up close, he can see their smooth, unblemished tan skin that glistens under the daylight, long eyelashes flutter downwards slowly, drowsily. They are a sight, something that reminds him of princes and sleeping princesses. He can’t help but wordlessly stare as they get into the van, ignoring the chuckles of Johnny and smirks of Yuta.
He swears his heart jumps when they make slight eye contact, the imprint of stars- no make that the heavens- in their dark eyes. They hold eye contact for what feels like a millennium, but is probably more like a few meager seconds, before they turn away to stare at his brothers. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Gosh, even their nape is pretty, he thinks staring at the slim column from the cut of the front seat. In his head, he can hear a few of the annoying brothers groaning, while beside him, Jaehyun gives him a bewildered look. No doubt his cheeks colour a shade of tomato as he ducks his head.
In his mental distress, he doesn’t register the leaders question, but only the soft sound that emits from the boy. Craning his head and ears prickling, he listens in intently. Their voice is mild, sweet, melodious and it has heat rising up his neck.
He’s beautiful, so naturally Mark can’t take his eyes of them. Just like Doyoung was infatuated by Jaehyun when they first met. He supposes opposites attract, in a weird sort of way.
Through the side view mirror, he accidently peers at them. His heart starts beating erratically at the small, adorably unused smile that graces their features, the corner of their eyes slightly lifting.
Oh, he’s screwed.