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[terragro]

about kai's family

kai's mother:

she is an extremely kind, extremely gentle woman. she has never had a cruel thought and has never had a mean sentiment leave her mouth.

miyoung met the love of her life when she was twenty-two, while working in the ICU at a hospital overnight. the man had come in after a vehicular accident and had a broken clavicle that needed surgery, and for miyoung, it was love at first sight. the man was 15 years her senior, kind, patient, and gentle, and despite her guileless naivety did not find her innocent air-headedness off-putting. the two were quick to marry, and she settled into a happy life: the wife of a man who traveled often for work.

it was quite lonely for miyoung. there is no one she loves more in the world than her husband. her children, of course, but it is hard not to place him on a slightly higher pedestal; he was her first love, worldly and cultured and smart. every monday he would leave to hawaii for work, and every friday he would return. she would trade shifts with coworkers to be there with him, often pulling doubles during the weekdays and leaving her youngest children in the care of her eldest daughter, working hard during the days so she could swap her weekend hours. she did this all in order to be there waiting for him when he comes home, to share the weekend with her most beloved life partner. she did not make this sacrifice to be there for her daughter's music concerts or her son's practices, but she did this for her husband; of course she felt guilty, but she saw her children five days of the week, and her husband only two. so after ensuring her weekend was free, miyoung would stand by the door, fixing her dress and patting at her hair, flushed and flustered as she waited for him to come home, like a school girl with a crush.

there is nothing miyoung looks forward to more than reuniting with her spouse, nothing that settles her yearning heart more than being able to take his hand and lead him into their home, sit him at the head of the dinner table and plate his meal and pour his soju. she would turn the sun for him, if he asked. even though she knows that, overseas on the american island of kailua, her beloved has another woman in his life. he never tells her this, but she knows. it changes nothing for her.

when her husband—so much older than she—died from a spontaneous heart attack, miyoung wanted to go right along with him. she mourned him as if she were mourning her own life, her children's lives though they still survived around her, her entire being. her heart began failing with the force of her grief. nothing hurt her as badly as losing the man she loves. it took many hospitalizations and many cardiac catheterizations to continue on in the world without him.

miyoung is now an elderly woman in her early sixties. she has retired from being an overnight ICU nurse at the suncheon hospital due to her many health issues, and now lives at home full-time in the hanok she keeps with her two daughters. she spends her days watching her grandchildren grow, knitting sweaters, and missing her spouse. her softness has never calcified into meanness or cruelty. she remains as she was the day she was twenty-two and fell in love too fast: gentle, naive, and soft. all who enter her life and her arms are hers to cradle as her children, even if they are not the body she wishes she was cradling. she will dote, fawn and love each and every person with the undeniable intensity of a lioness with her cubs.

in kai's opinion, his mother is weak, and love is her sickness, though he does not mean this as an insult: he means it in that she has a delicate, terribly soft heart, and loving as hard as she does is going to put her into an early grave. he is right.

kai's father:

cheosu has since passed away when kai was sixteen. during life he was a kind, patient, considerate man, one who would rather sit and listen and observe than join a conversation. he worked in textiles, and traveled often for work, flying to and from hawaii every week. he would leave behind a wife, two girls, and one boy every time he left for the factory in kailua, to oversee the production of silk that his family would have never been able to afford.

it was in kailua that he met the love of his life, a free-spirited local who had two kids of her own and ran a tourist shop on the beach, selling surf boards and flowering hibiscus leis. their love affair would last the rest of his life, because he is too loyal to leave his wife and children, but too selfish to break up their dalliance. every weekend he would return to a life in seoul that felt less and less real, less and less his own. every time he returned his younger daughter jungah would level him with a cold look that spoke volumes as to what she suspected about his second life. he does not believe his daughter ever told his spouse, nor does he believe his wife suspects; the soft-hearted woman is far too trusting and faithful to ever doubt his fidelity.

it makes living the lie easy. he can pretend to be something he isn't when he returns to south korea, and for the majortiy of the week he is home with his lover in kailua.

his relationship with his second daughter grows estranged the longer the silence between them broadens. to speak what is pulling them apart into air makes it real, and making it real means hurting his wife: he is too kind to do this, and so instead he pretends nothing is amiss.

his son is growing more and more to look like the people that live on kailua. dark skin, dark eyes, loose black hair framing wide lips and a tapered jaw. the boy is only ten, and already his legs are the majority of his body. jongin put them to use through dancing before his mother pulled him from the public ballet academy he used to be at, and enrolled him in private lessons with a retired dancer. dancing is not something cheosu ever really understood; instead, he finds himself thinking, what a surfer jongin would have made if he had grown up on kailua, where cheosu wishes he could live. his son does not fit in, here. the cultural expectations of what a man should be, the sexist toxic masculinity is so apparent, not like in hawaii. jongin is constantly bullied, he comes home with bruised eyes and split lips, and cheosu's wife hens over him, telling jongin to stop chewing your lips, they're already chapped due to winter winds, i'll get you some lip balm, as if she couldnt face the fact her son was being beaten up at school. every saturday night he and jongin go to the ocean and he teaches his son to swim. it is there that he decides to give his son a new name: "kai", the hawaiian word for sea, and half of kailua; he hopes that the strength of the ocean will be enough to keep his son buoyant above the waves of trouble he seems to constantly find himself drowning in. he hopes, that by giving him a new name, he will be able to help his son create a mask to hide behind, a depiction of strength for him to face the world with so that he does not become quite so brutalized. and if he does, so that others do not know.

it works a little too well. he is long buried, resting in a grave tended to three times a week by the widow he left behind, before he realizes this.

kai's eldest sister:

jungmi is a woman seven years older than kai, three years older than jungah, and—some would argue—the woman single-handedly trying to repopulate suncheon. she has ten children and another on the way, so with the addition of her sister's two, there are eleven girls and one boy living in the hanok in suncheon. miyoung, jungmi, jungah, ten baby girls, one nephew, and the new man of the house, kim kai. of course, there are her mother's three sisters you should count, and the grandmothers (no grandfathers) still alive and well in suncheon, though blessedly moved out of the hanok. jungmi likes to lay in bed every morning before she rises to help her mother prepare breakfast for their large, large family, and count on her fingers all of the lives she has been blessed to know and help support. if she were a thoughtful woman, she'd wonder why there were so many women in the kim family. she does not think about this, which is well, because there is no true reason besides fate.

jungmi takes after her mother in many ways. she loves to knit, she loves to cook. she loves to sing as she does her laundry. she wears long, flowing dresses in bright pastel colors, and keeps her hair long and free as her mother used to do before age made it improper. jungmi is a deeply family-driven woman, and there is very little she would deny her many children should they ask or plead. the notable difference between her and her mother miyoung is: she prioritizes her ten beautiful baby girls before prioritizing her husband.

jungmi met chihun in university, when she already had a four-year-old child, safe at home, being raised by her brother who had assumed mantle of surrogate father. her first boyfriend had raped her in high school, taking her "no" as feminine coyness (after all, what girl wouldn't want to put out for her boyfriend? his friends expect certain stories. it is evident, isn't it, and by god it is his right to take, she is his woman). afterwards, when she discovers she is pregnant, he breaks up with her and spreads rumors about how she cheated on him and it's someone else's kid. people begin staring, then they tease, and then they bully. she finds her friends growing distant. when she comes to school and sees "WHORE" painted across her locker in blood red acrylic, she drops out of high school; reputation in tatters, anxiety and depression sky-high, sixteen and pregnant and with no one but family to turn to.

it is only because of her sister and brother that she does not fall to depression and suicide. her mother is gone, working long hours at the hospital to make up for the week-day absence of her husband, and jungmi is six months pregnant before her mother even notices anything amiss. miyoung is beside herself with joy, though, ever-supportive, ever loving, and ever willing to welcome another spirit into their family. jungmi continues to raise her younger siblings as if they were children—cooking their meals, doing their laundry, reading her sister bedtime stories, and helping her brother balm wounds that seem to be self-inflicted—before she gives birth to her first real child, almost one month before her 17th birthday.

motherhood comes easily to jungmi. perhaps it is the practice she has received from raising jungah and jongin—no, kai, now—but she finds herself well-suited to the work, and soon enough, she finds herself thriving in it. she does online classes to obtain the equivalent of her high school diploma, and even goes to university just to prove that she could. but she knows what she wants to do with her life, and it is not sit in a business talking to customers: she wants to work by being a mother for the rest of her life.

chihun is a good man. he is playful and romantic and ever-so-sweet. he took in her first daughter as if she was his own child. he gives her nine (soon to be ten!) more beautiful babies, and she wonders if the one currently baking in her belly will finally be a boy. she is sure jungah's son would like the company. her husband works at an editorial office making terrible money and stressing himself out too much. one could argue he puts more work in between her legs, and she would laugh heartily at the crassness of the joke...: but chihun always comes home with a happy smile and a bouquet of flowers every thursday for her, and he has never insulted her or implied they have too many children, and he always asks what she has planned in her day even if it is the same plan she has every day. every sunday they go out for a lunch date despite the boisterousness of their ten-child party, and every night they hold hands as they fall asleep.

and every night she, again, counts all of the souls in her family, and considers herself blessed for every one.

she is, perhaps, the only one in kai's family who is truly, blissfully happy.

kai's 2nd sister:

jungah watched, for her entire life, as her family toiled and struggled, and her rage only ever grew.

her mother—knowingly, quietly—allowing her husband to cheat on her, and still greeting him at the door with that simpering, love-struck glaze to her eyes. her father, living a life he wished he did not have to live, yet dutifully providing money for the family he helped create even as his thoughts were across the water. her sister: forced to be a mother to her siblings before she was in the double-digits, taking care of her and her brother while their mother worked late hours at a hospital all to see a man who did not lover her. her younger brother, brutalized at school for the crime of being different in a society that demanded perfection. her rage grew, and grew, and grew until it fueled a fire that has never quite gone out.

growing up, jungmi, the eldest, was always surrogate mother. the one making their meals and tucking them into bed, scolding them about their homework. jungah bonded most closely to her younger sibling, four years apart in age and best friends despite it. the two of them grew in tandem, into shapes of people starkly similar to one another: neither emoting often, both of them aloof, private, and fiercely distrustful of others and their intentions. the notable difference is that jungah is polite and courteous at all times, speaking in a very elegant manner, while her brother's manners are perfunctory and curt at the best of times.

she threw herself into her studies when growing up. she does not have the natural proclivity for absorbing knowledge as kai, but she is as sharp as a ballista bolt, and as focused to match. she graduates high school as valedictorian. she masters etiquette classes. she learns brands, trends, watches oh-so-carefully the stock and financial trades of seoul. jungah moves immediately into business school, with that terrible focus, that terrible storm of rage. even if kai cannot do it on his own, she will ensure that he gets into a dance school. even if she has to become CEO of one of these schools herself.

twelve long, long years of school, tedious and exhausting, memorizing algorithms and spreadsheets and driving her future forward with the sole goal of helping her brother. flirting with the wealthy and powerful, using her looks to advance to her goals. sleeping with the ones she could not talk business to, until finally all of her work has paid off, and she has an in with a company...as soon as she obtains her diploma in three years. they are willing to give her the experience she needs to replace the soon-retiring CFO. and it is not just any company: KNCDC, the korea national contemporary dance company.

but three years before obtaining this great achievement, six years before she is guaranteed to have CFO status with a well-established and respectable company, she had met a man who would soon destroy her.

one would think given jungah's inner strength—true inner strength, not faked and performed like kai's—that she would be too strong, too proud and too willful to tolerate the great beast of domestic abuse. she would have thought so too, if one had asked her before she met junsu.

but it often begins so slowly that one does not even know it is happening at first: it starts with comments that could be antagonistic, and when you remark on them you are told you are over-reading things. it starts with a firm hand on your arm when you try to leave, and then being pressed to the wall to force you to stay. it starts with grand gestures and expensive gifts after even the slightest argument, and it devolves more and more and more until the mess you could have pulled yourself out of months ago is now all-encompassing, and you are trapped.

even though this was the choice she made, she still runs to seoul to stay with her younger brother, freshly accepted into yonsei university, every time junsu hit her and hurt her. in and out of doing her internship at KNCDC, in between long screaming matches and hands raised to protect her face.

in between her drunken boyfriend holding her to the bed and assaulting her as he pants hatefully into her ear: you'll sleep with everyone in an office if it gets you what you want, but you won't bed me, filthy fucking whore. this is how she ends up carrying twins. she names the boy yeonghon and the girl haneul: soul and sky. she did not want to be a mother. she had never wanted to be a mother. that was jungmi's calling, not hers; her destiny was in pencil skirts and in handling accounts holding millions.

her mother, her poor, ignorant mother, crippled by the passing of her husband, encourages jungah to marry junsu. "we can't raise them out of wedlock, now, can we?" the woman says serenely, as if she is totally unaware of what is going on in the west wing of the hanok every night. under jungah's perceptive, knowing gaze, she knows her mother truly is just that: unaware. jungah throws herself into her work to escape the hatred and pain of her home life. she gives birth. she struggles with post-partum depression. she works harder. she ascends to valedictorian for the second time in a row, and she finally graduates.

for a long while her brother had dropped off the face of the earth. he stopped returning calls, when she visited he would not answer the door. he appears like mirage on a cold winter morning before christmas three years later as if nothing has changed. she notices that something has changed. the way he carries himself, the way he so subtly limps, the unblinking, predatory focus of a stare that he did not have before he left.

somehow, mysteriously in the years of kai's elongated absence and his subsequent return, junsu disappears from her life permanently, but not before he has left an imprint of her psyche so strong that nothing can help it. she does not sleep. she does not eat. she drinks, all the time, and knows that these are mental illnesses. her spouse disappears, but not before her body has been covered in scars, injuries obtained that she has had to use such cliche excuses for. suddenly, her spouse is in a missing persons case, and her brother coolly replies he has no idea where the man went. when questioned by police, it is the same answer jungah gives.

she knows kai killed her spouse.

she does not care. she is happy the bastard is dead.

with her paychecks, chihun's pitiful income is unnecessary. useless as his money is, she knows he would feel emasculated if she told him that he couldn't even afford property tax on the hanok for half the month. she gives him the water bill to pay and handles the rest; business is what she has known, what she has done her entire life, and she knows how to navigate the delicacies of men's egos. jungah is the one who supports the entire family, put her eldest niece through figure skating school in london. she purchases the food, she pays the health bills, she buys the cars and dresses for parties and birthdays, and still has more than enough left over to live a life of grand luxury.

she buys expensive diamond bracelets, scintillating gemstone earrings, she covers her body in name brand attire, delicate feet clad in louboutins. she gets plastic surgery to fit in to south korea's ridiculous beauty standards, she hires a professional cosmetologist to prepare her hair and face every day for work. she wears chanel custom-tailored to her every curve, black black black as if she is mourning the loss of a man she wished she had killed with her own hands. she showers herself in luxury as if she would ever feel worthy of it, as if it could hide the scars that her deceased husband has left on her.

the wealthy business woman of the family, the one who "has their life together", who has no troubles and no problems. she wants to laugh with bitterness over the words when her mother says that, so proudly, into the phone to one of her aunts.

appearance is everything, they say.

overall:

kai's family remains living in the same hanok the kims have had for the past century and a half. it is located in suncheon, about three hours south of seoul. though they grew up in lower middle class, it is through jungah's ferocity that the family has a comfortable income, and it is through kai's connections that his nieces will have their futures set forever. his family is large, loud, and boisterous, with many gleeful children around screaming and playing all the time: all of varying ages, the youngest being a couple months shy of his first birthday and the eldest being nineteen. they are all terribly involved in each other's lives, though generally are generous and upbeat group of people.

the house is filled with a lot of joy now that junsu is gone.

kai visits his family regularly, scheduling about 3-4 days per month to go back to suncheon to spend time with his mother, siblings and nieces (and one nephew). dinners are active and lively with a lot of jokes and food being fought over in a good-natured manner.

his family is extremely supportive, extremely loving, and despite the issues they are all struggling with they remain a very close part of one another's lives, working hard to take care of each other.

they are completely unaware of kai's ascension to godhood and kai plans to keep it this way, until his age is no longer able to be hidden: this is also likely when he will retire from yonsei and diminish into obscurity.

of note, his family also assists in setting up and running the suncheon plum festival, which is a festival in the beginning of every september where the town harvests plums from the groves of fruit trees there. there are numerous stalls at this festival to offer classes on how to turn the plums into various canned wares or bottled goods (jams, juices, wines, et cetera), as well as festival games, a basket-making class, and even a petting zoo. most of these are run by kai's extensively large family, his aunts and grandmothers, his eldest sister and own mother. they are active members of the community and despite the reputations of kai and his eldest sister, remain well-known and in good standing in the community.

[terragro]

when kai was a young child of only three, dance had been all he'd ever wanted to do. two wide, doe-like eyes had gazed up at a television while ballerinas danced across the screen, foreign and otherworldly like swans descending from the heavens. "i want to do that," he told his mother, jittery with excitement and stammering over his own words. and when has her little boy shown such interest in something? of course she enrolls him in classes.

the three fates—clotho the severe, lachesis the inflexible, and atropos the stern—gave him only two years of true peace before tearing it from his still-child-shaped hands. at five years old, the purity and joy of ballet and free-form was taken by those around him: scoldings by teachers and other parents in his dance group, that kai will require plastic surgery, that he is unfit for being a dancer given the color of his caramel body. he will need skin bleaching, he will need rhinoplasty. his mother removes him from classes, upset by the bullying of those he cannot even recognize are bullying him at all; too young, too naive, barely more than a toddler.

and when he hits puberty, he was forced to dance in secret, away from judgemental eyes and the cruel, taunting jeers of his peers, lest fighting break out and he be required to defend himself physically against the cruelty of others. alone, in his room, old gnarled atropos the stern watches him dance in the milky florescent light of his desk table, and the wrinkled fate continues watching him—as he at twelve years old—climbs into bed to tear at his skin, raising red, welting scores across his flesh, wishing he could pry off what others loathe so much.

in his early twenties, he grew too sick to expend energy through exertion in any way. kai is bound to a bed, nasal cannula in his nostrils, wondering when his last breath would be just that: the last.

after his change, he toyed with the idea of doing it again. it was his passion; his long, dancer's legs stretch to the sky, nimble and elegant movements begging to be placed. tiny, delicate steps, ginger and slow, a pirouette, a shift of weight that makes him look as fluid as the sea he is named for. he could do it. even if he never goes further than for enjoyment in his own living room, he could do it. something he'd long given up on, unfurling in his chest like a sickly little rose, that hope. maybe, after so much time, he could do it again.

yet clotho—beautiful, young clotho, seductive and enchanting with her angelic visage and her euphonious voice, a songstress oracle that could be aphrodite's likeness with her hourglass body and ample bosom—tore from him that thought until it was crippled into the sands. laughing that bell-like laugh, plush, succulent lips showing white teeth that may as well be jagged canines. come here, crooked the finger of the most severe of the three fates, a manicured nail coyly curling with intent and promise. come here, it is predestined. has yong ever been able to ignore a pretty face? he rises to her call.

two dragons fight, storm versus earth, locked in airborne combat. before kai was able to end his ugly, too-long life, yong—older, weaker, prideful—sank his conical teeth into kai's bird-like femur, shattering it beyond repair. it heals this way: shattered.

kai has rarely danced again. even walking causes pain, shifting his leg in bed, adjusting his weight when standing too long. pain lances through his hip and down to his knee, and he tolerates it with the stoic mask he has worn his whole life: what else can he do? he masks his limp with the skill of only the best actors.

kai is an exemplary actor.

as kai opens the door to the bar—black velvet, it is named, with its lustrous black and gold walls, its posh decor and expensive air—he walks (ever hiding the limp, steps even, faultless, weaknesses eternally concealed) through the pathways between chairs and tables, and toward an oft-empty booth by the wall. the bar veneers its seedy reputation in luxurious interiors and a sultry disposition. it is late, later than he likes to be out and about seoul. particularly because it is a near twenty-minute drive back to his district, but also because he has to leave sejun with a trusted friend if he needs night trips. it is nearing zero hour in south korea, though itaewon never rests, its neon lights illuminating a never-sleeping machine of activity. kai works the next day, and even though he values sleep more than his own life, he sits on the plush velvet stool and waves away a helpful waitress. not with any rudeness—while perfunct, his actions are never dismissive or careless—but he does not plan to linger, and he does not often drink, so her services are unnecessary.

why is he here, at such a late hour? because in only a few minutes, a certain jazz singer will be walking her dark, elegant silhouette upon the stage, returning from one of her breaks. she will be crooning soulful, alluring intonations from those plush, crimson lips. dark, full, airy melodies, a lustrous, velvety tone more marvelous than the bar itself echoing through the din, soaking into the walls like a sponge. if you told a patron of the bar that the bar was named for ilana's compelling voice, they'd likely believe you.

he has not seen ilana in quite some time; a couple months, at least, he believes. his schedule makes dipping into the area and reuniting with friends a few and far between escapade, but he has found himself craving connection and intimacy as of late, and what better time to scratch the particular itch of intimacy than through dancing (arguably, one of the more intimate of art forms)? he has not done it in a very long time, but like sex or riding a bike, it is something the body never forgets.

kai knows it will be painful. he knows tomorrow he will be in agony, and the typical effort he goes through to mask this detestable weakness will have to be further amplified. expedited healing will never be able to erase damage done by another god to a god's body, when he had been unable to shift back in order to recalibrate it. he will suffer this injury the remainder of his long, long life, but there are some exacerbations that are worth it.

finally, the curtain parts, and before she has even reached the mic stand ilana is releasing a musical hymn that forces an instinctual hush to wash over the crowd, and causes kai's dark, serpentine eyes to level upon her. crimson satin cradles her body like a second skin, a mermaid-cut rolling veils of red fabric to spill over a waxed stage, giving the appearance she may have bled upwards like an wound directly from the wooden surface. it's interesting, he notes, that she is wearing his favorite color tonight: as if perhaps the inflexible lachesis herself had ordained them meeting, and bid his friend to don a color that naturally draws the gaze. a well-formed, slender thigh shines in the lowlights from a high slit in the gown, betraying shapely calves strapped in ruby-toned heels that grant her height.

this pleases him, inwardly, he won't have to stoop to take her into his arms. not that the bar-famous songstress knows he is here, obscured in the dark as he is. kai waits until she has taken her place upon the stage and begun her next number before he rises in the darkness and slips behind the curtain as well.

he is not one for the limelight, not really. his daily life is ever-surveilled in the terrible ordeal of publicity, and he takes this as the much more appealing kind. surrounded by denizens who fill the booths and tables purely to see her perform, kai is simply an accompaniment to the crimson star; nothing but a tool to amplify her own resplendence. it suits him much more.

as ilana's velvety purr lilts into the microphone kai walks slowly onto the stage until his form is illuminated behind her by the stage lighting. his steps are silent, they always are, but they are further hidden under the croon of her lilac tones. she likely does not know he is there at all, until a broad hand extends to rest against the silken fabric of her gown, tracing along her waist until it settles against her belly to guide her backwards against him.

there is no one who would dared to hurt the prized singer of the black velvet bar. and given that her listeners do not immediately rush the stage, furious at the trespass, he knows she suspects who's touch is upon her. kai's other hand slides oh-so-slowly along the bare skin of her arm, tracing feather-light against her elbow until he's finally taken her dainty wrist within his grasp. the body never forgets, recall: he has done this many times. his nose gently traces against the black hair spilling past her temple, and he extends ilana's captured arm out, palm up to the heavens to cradle it from underneath, moving into place behind her until his chest and stomach is pressed along her back. with a slow shifting motion, he pulls her away from the metal stand, the mic itself safe in her grip, and the two of them begin.

finally, for the first time in many moons, he dances.

[terragro]

Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky, The Ninth Wave

[terragro]

there comes a time in every man's life where instinctual reaction surpasses any verbal order or command. exempli gratia, a lightning-fast reflex shooting out to shove a child from what would be a crushing blow, or a blur of a hand pulling an unsuspecting, starry-eyed youth from a rapidly approaching thrown object. considering his history as a baseball player for the majority of his adolescence and young adulthood, kai as well has honed his craft for fast reaction speed. additionally, given his history as a surrogate father to oh-so-many children, for so very long, that honed reaction speed is tantamount to god-like reflex.

things of that sort come in handy during scenes like this. where kai is enjoying a rather peaceful afternoon, a rare, free one, with a young lady he considers a younger sister (imagine this as so! kai, the youngest adult in his family, playing the role of elder sibling!) whom he has fondly given the epithet klutzuru for her clumsiness. a rare moment where he is allowed to shed the mantle of deity, god, heart of gaia, crimson dragon of life and nature, and be simply...kai.

...and, very often, kai's skill for assuming role of 'reflexive rescuer' makes its face known in her presence.

which is a good thing, because—as he sits beside her, painstakingly showing her how to mold life from wood with only your hands and a blade, warning for the umpteeth time to slide the carving knife away from her body while working with wood—her hand slips, and the knife veers toward her delicate, baby-smooth palms.

never fear, chizuru. kai's hand is there immediately, firm, calloused around her dainty dominant wrist before either of them can blink. before he even looks away from his own, mostly-finished sculpture that he has been working on for the last couple weeks. one moment, he is listening to her soft mumbling and energetic hums; listening to her struggling to slide the blade through wood despite his example, pointed tip caught on a knot of grain, and then, out of the corner of his eye——

well. it is a good thing he's there, in any case.

he doesn't even scold her. he just looks down at her hand with mild, resigned disapproval before his slightly-too-intimidating gaze moves to settle his line of sight upon her. it's only when her bewildered gaze leaves the wood to meet his own that he speaks.

"how many times—" he begins, before drifting off. how many indeed? eighteen? nineteen? does he even want to finish this sentence? her sheepish smile tells him that he probably doesn't. she already knows what he will say, how many times he's said it.

at least nineteen, then. he forces himself to continue.

"chi-chan....out, and away, the blade," he continues. he tries very hard to keep the parental scolding out of his tone (which is a bit difficult, because he has been a substitute father-figure for his eleven nieces and single nephew since he was twelve years old, and truly chizuru brings out the parental concern with her naivety and clumsiness). is he successful? he isn't sure.

"one day you will be doing this and i won't be here. we're going to reunite with you missing your fingers."

[terragro]

"I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. only a fool would give out such a vital organ" / "i made no resolutions for the new year. the habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me" / "everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. i hate rarely, though when i hate, i hate murderously" / "i write emotional algebra" / "the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom" / "she lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. she lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others; she does not dare to be herself" / "i want to bite into life, and to be torn by it" / "i have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! i am so utterly lonely, but i also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and i no longer be the head and ruler of my universe" / "had i not created my whole world, i would certainly have died in other people's" / "i must be a mermaid, rango. i have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living" / "the secret of joy is the mastery of pain" / "you carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. i dreamed you; i wished for your existence. you will always be a part of my life, if i love you" / "we are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them" / "what i cannot love, i overlook" / "do you know what i would answer to someone who asked me for a description of myself, in a hurry? this: ??!! " / "when others asked the truth of me, i am convinced it is not the truth they want, but an illusion they could bear to live with" / "i am lonely, yet not everybody will do. i don’t know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness" / "to hell, to hell with balance! i break glasses; i want to burn, even if i break myself." / "i'm sick of my own romanticism!" / "i'm restless. things are calling me away. my hair is being pulled by the stars again" / "i feel a little like the moon who took possession of you for a moment and then returned your soul to you. you should not love me. one ought not to love the moon. if you come too near me, i will hurt you"

"what you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands; i am the keeper of fragile things, and i have kept of you what is indissoluble"

[terragro]

a stoic, brick-faced building stands obstinately before him, a stern countenance and old-growth decay wearing down the once-robust red into a dull brown. despite the obvious age cloaking its carapace, it's apparent the edifice is well-cared for. in comparison to its sister-structures, it is a sore thumb, baked rock compared to sleek, shiny titanium walls and wide, yawning windows which invite inquisitive eyes to enter, unlike the one that towers before him. kai's expression, serpentine as it may be, hides all emotion as his gaze studies the outside of the shop.

quaint. almost endearingly so, he finds himself thinking. the strip of seoul is bustling with contemporary regard, abundant clouds of people jostling to their nine-to-fives and their shopping sprees.

and here he stands outside of an art studio.

one cannot fault him for his interest. the artist in question—while not well known—has a bit of a name in his field. kai shifts his phone into his back pocket as he settles a hand on the cool metal door handle and pulls it open. a bell chimes musically above his head, though the beast of gaia pays it little concern. instead two long-legged steps (for truly, his legs are the majority of his body, dancer's-limbs clad in luxurious black silk) bring him into the foyer and he sighs shortly out of his nose, an imperceptible sound to any but he.

the keeper of the establishment is not there to greet him. given his propensity for frequenting such buildings, kai knows the man is likely far to the back of the store, separated by a closed door that divides the sales gallery from the work shop. the entrance is, of course, for showcasing the artist's pieces.

canvases splashed in a wide, alluring array of hues and shades. bold bronze over streaks of bitter coal and milk-pure white, baby blues meshing with verdant green and hopeful orange. they all scream emotion, at the very least, and truly seeing them all is a bit difficult for kai to bear. constantly being subjugated to other's hearts and minds comes at a steep, steep price, and his patience is growing harder to come by. far easier to manage in the body of a dragon—a god-like form created to withstand such a pressure—a human frame is not accustomed to such exhaustive immensity. he cannot escape it in the heart of the city, and staring down canvases which beam their potency directly into his irises is like a heavy, crippling blanket. even so, he tolerates it. what else has he ever done?

every piece though, of course, is lovely. there is no denying that. though none are what kai is personally interested in.

the one he wants has yet to be created, actually.

kai tugs off two leather gloves from his long, veined hands, slow and leisurely as a man exits from the back of the room, summoned by the sing-song bell. kai settles an uncannily intense stare upon the other. he's shorter than kai, by a good head at least. rich brown hair that matches the time-worn edifice of the storefront is styled in a casual way that kai supposes is alluring. slim eyes, high cheekbones, a defined and sharp nose all sit in slender features that feel delicate given the usual strength and cut of most natives he sees. his greatest feature is also one of kai's own: a plush, pouty mouth with a buoyant, arching shape, pearly-rose tiers a far more muted shade of pink than kai's. the parallels never end, kai finds himself thinking distantly.

the air is scented by curiosity, though emboldened perhaps by the appearance of a possible customer. the man expels the cloyingly sweet scent of lyrical depth. withdrawn gray and the frothy, seeking cyan of a river at dawn, hibernation, boredom, lace and silk, dreamy as a kite in the sky. kai inclines his head to one side with a clinical impassiveness, his steady gaze giving the other male a slow, calculated once-over. while the look is innocent, he has the tendency to make others feel as if they are under a microscope.

amusingly, there are faint little droplets of paint that decorate the man's pale skin and clothes, though kai knows that it is only his skill that makes the mess so slight. were it kai behind an easel, he would be drenched in acrylic.

"greetings," the taller man states. his voice is low and husky, smoky as if burning tinder lives somewhere in his throat. a withered calcification of whatever fire his species was once known for, perhaps. kai's expression is utter deadpan calm, tranquil as a windless ocean as he watches the other, gaze unblinking and unmoving, like a snake staring down at a field mouse.

despite the scarring to his right leg, his steps are even and steady, graceful as the dancer he almost was as he closes the distance to a respectable reach. he gives no indication of what wound lurks under his dark clothes.

"you can call me KK, or kai. i don't care which. i am here to commission you."

if the other were to study him, he would know at a glance at least money appears to be no object; kai is dressed in custom-tailored, name-brand attire, form-fitting and flattering and elongating a sleek jungle-cat litheness. that said, kai has never been good at small talk, niceties and the back-and-forth that is expected from meeting a stranger. surely another would have praised the pieces being displayed, or requested the name of who they were speaking to to ensure that it was in fact the artist in question. kai does not bother. he can tell from the meter and a half they stand apart that this is indeed willow.

willow, willow, willow. so fascinating, kai thinks (with no intention to ever express), that the man before him is named for a type of tree, when kai himself goes by mahogany in his own diary. he is a tree, when kai is the personification of nature and earth. green, growing things and roots that go deep.

more interestingly, the parallels do not end there. the beast of gaia is looking into the eyes of an artist who has become famous for turning his synesthesia into art. a rare disorder that kai can only think of one other he knows plagued by: that other being himself.

fascinating indeed. the blossom of a nosy interest he holds at bay struggles to unfurl. perhaps, in a kinder life—one less wrought with pain, scars, and tears—kai could live as willow is living. rather than forced into the role of scientist, traveling the world as a university's prized stud horse to speak at fellow technological institutes scattered across the lands, he too could have pursued a life of art and peace, of quiet living and obscurity. would it have been he splattered with paints, selling works from behind the safety of an old, enchanting building? if only.

but fate has never been as kind to him, and she never will be.

[terragro]

Gilded

[terragro]

sea, sand, sky.

there are places few and far between which offer such an encompassing respite, that long-sought-after peace that feels so far from kai's golden grasp. despite his best efforts, tranquility slips through his fingers during his daily life, leaving him feeling scraped-dry and grated, like an overused whetstone. his own personal inner world, the sanctum of his innermost thoughts—veneered under the numerous films that make up the entirety of kai—are carefully stripped bare, leaving him as three separate people, all gazing at one another.

one from below, trapped in the sea. one standing on the sand, unable to make imprints where his feet lie. and the third, less a person and more a great beast, floating in twisting crimson coils of sinewy muscle up in the heavens. gazing down at the two men through draconic eyes as if wondering which would overcome the other: the fabrication of ideals, or the broken vase, leaking water.

since this is his own private world—a place of dreams, and of peace, where he escapes the constant noise of too-much-all-the-time, thoughts and feelings and responsibilities and desires that will never be—it catches him all the more by surprise when another being enters the realm and joins him along the warm, sun-heated sand. overhead, the spilled azure of the sky is broken by not a single cloud, but only the bright light of the sun hanging overhead. the newcomer's steps are light, leaving the dainty imprints of heel and toe along the surf-dampened sand as she slowly approaches him.

he does not look upon her, not at first. his gaze is trained over the horizon as the dragon above watches, an ever-present, knowing eye—he will attack an enemy who threatens the center, even in the confines of kai's own subconscious. even if that potential threat is kai. the woman is no different, and she earns the beast's scathing intensity, eyes so dark they're nearly black, a predator's gaze upon another predator. but kai, the man, does not look; the fabrication is mulling over the fact that she is here at all.

it shouldn't be possible; there is only one other he can think of with the ability to enter dreams, and it is surely not a lamia. he knows her to be this species as resolute fact, some instinctual knowledge granted to him by being what he is. it is the same way he can recognize every species of flower, tree, and animal; the same way he can feel the air buzzing around a supernatural creature and know what they are. a lamia indeed. a demon out of myth, ancient, war-begotten, serpentine.

dragons and serpents have history.

perhaps, he considers, she has accosted assistance of some sort. not from the dream-threader, but an alternate outside source. or, perhaps she is a fine witch indeed, to invade a god's insensate, resting mind.

she sounds perplexed. intrigued, perhaps, though polite; stately in a way that not many speak in anymore. but the way she phrases what she says, how she says what she says, nearly makes a shocked bark of a laugh pass his lips. she was expecting someone else.

"those words have been said to me before," he murmurs. unlike in the waking world, his voice here is buttery-smooth, low, throaty, even sensual. the scars of his physical body cannot affect his own inner self. and finally, his gaze, dark, dark compared to the aurelia of her own, leaves the horizon to settle upon her, searching her, studying her. his mask is firmly in place, despite this being his private world; empty impassiveness the only perceptible thing. "though, not in the same manner."

'welcome to godhood'. yong had said that to him too, when kai woke up on the beach, forced into the role of something fantastical and otherworldly. the difference is, yong meant it; the words oozing negligent conceit, self-importance at his own unending power. yong felt he was truly giving kai a gift; partially out of guilt, true—a striking fancy that rarely visited the older dragon—but mostly out of arrogance.

the lamia's echoing of the sentiment is polar opposite. she bestows the words to him as if they are a curse, one to commiserate together in.

her ancient sorrow echoes in the weight of her speech, splashing across the sky in musical shades of cobalt, coal, indigo and smoky pearl, forlorn despite her outward calm. a weight settles, whispers from the outside world—whispers that have never before made it to this private realm, as this is the first time an invader has ever before dared to infiltrate—begin to scatter across his senses, dancing along his sun-warmed skin with their impact and meaning. the gentle breeze toys with her loose, white shirt, billowing out sleeves that hide a well-toned and muscled form; a form that has indeed likely seen war, if what he knows her to be is any tell. the demon's long, milky tresses twist in the wind, an elegant snowy mantle that gives her the appearance of a wolf in a blizzard. not a wolf, he corrects inwardly, an albino cobra, and equally as venomous.

but gaia, she is a guest, the zephyr whispers as if to chide, kissing the other's skin.

he turns to face her fully. the black, silken robe hanging loosely-tied from his dark semblance is still and motionless, haphazardly wrapped around his waist and showing a deep groove of his darkly tanned chest. numerous scars are visible beyond the fabric, jagged and ugly, with his attire so incautiously secured. he does not seem to be body shy.

"greetings, lamia. i'd say 'welcome', but until i know why you are here, you are not," he finally says, after a heavy moment of silence. his words, while perfunctory and curt, and equally as formal as her own. "you were expecting yong, no? i am glad to disappoint you. you likely already suspect he is dead."

[terragro]

🌊

[terragro]

scraping it out

shhk.

slow, and steady. that's how it's done. a firm hand, practiced and moored; inflexible compared to the wickedly curved tool he is using, compared to the once-living-and-now-dead thing nestled within his calloused palm. tendons flex, muscles shifting under taut skin; knuckles strain from a dark tan to a soft pale with his constant, secure hold. that familiar and settling sound: a soft, curling shhk, the scrape a mellufluous song as a blade sharper than glass seduces its way through buttery-smooth, soft wood.

again, and again, and again. shhk, shhk. shhk.

if the material had come from the forest, the tree would have complained. groaning branches bowing with agony, years of growth and reaching heavenward toward the azure sky. kai had told his friend recently: "will you bend in a thousand directions for me, like the sun does?" is that not what a tree does as well? ancient and timeless, larger than joy, bathing in that otherworldly, milky light. only to be broken down in a matter of seconds.

the tree need not fear. the wood in his grasp was fabricated from his own will: such is child's play, for kai, to create something with an origin in nature, a block of wood in which to cut. he grows flowers, he grows trees. he creates diamonds, he exhales rivers to snake their way along the surface of his world. what good would the heart of gaia be if it could not create life? no trees have fallen to his hand, and yet the wood remains cradled by his fingers anyway.

and now, this.

mahogany has always been his favorite material to carve. the richness of the color, the swirling patterns of the grain. a burst of ecru, bronzed chestnut, red and full-bodied and burning scarlet. bright as licking fire, and his favorite shade. he feels it settle within his very blood, molten fibers twisting through vein and tissue, synapse and nerves. mahogany is dense enough to withstand a beating, yet subdued and receptive enough to allow a blade to carve it into something more than it was before.

perhaps it could be allegorical for his life. has kai not tried beyond everything to be strong? to personify the ideals bestowed on a boy of ten, only to find himself endlessly contorting into false shades of himself around other people? a steely spine superheated until it melts under a blow torch. a black carapace to protect what broken thing remains somewhere, drowning underneath his own subconscious. there is a reason, perhaps, why he calls himself mahogany in his own diary. who is the real version of him? kai, or mahogany?

shhk.

kai does not yet know what he will craft this wood into. his gaze studies the mahogany in his palm with a nearly clinical impassiveness, meticulously tracing the path of metal through bark, another smooth motion of the blade shaving off another curling lock of wood to float down toward his feet. dark eyes traces the alluring curve of what could be a throat, elongated and deeply bowed.

a swan, perhaps, some sort of bird. the shape of it oozes of elegance, a depiction of purity, beauty. if he wanted. if he willed it. does he? depictions of beauty are easy to make for artists; beauty is attractive, inspiring, eye-catching, bound to receive regard. swans most of all, with their elegant, flowing grace, downy-soft feathers, symbolic of eternal love and fidelity. it would be easy to make something palatable.

beauty, he thinks, resigned, and bitter. shhk.

conventional, boorish.

how incredibly human it is, to ignore what is considered unsightly while praising what is believed to be docile and pristine.

kai shifts course, of course. the wood within his palm, while easily a swan, is not that sort of bird, it says. treat it with respect, give it power, give it a voice. the blade continues its work: the angle of the knife is adjusted, the once-graceful neck is broadened and tapered low. a body that could so easily be slender, suave and comely is sculpted to be rotund, whittled into a large, imposing silhouette.

where once a swan requested to be free, a different creature lays in his grasp.

broad wings hunched and loose, features glistening in murky cerise, a sharply tapered beak, hooked for rending flesh apart. flashing talons that can crush bone. a nude face, a strong jaw, a stronger skeleton, and fearless daring.

a slow smile curls kai's plush lips as he nicks the blade carefully into the wood piece, prying feathers out of the material, and allowing the beast that demands to be freed to take shape.

the vulture stares up at him with striking, beady eyes. half-finished, its back and chest still locked in square mahogany, the creature boldly meets his gaze: all liquid intelligence, worn smooth as silk.

monogamous fidelity, love, and grace of a different sort, kai thinks. a swan's metaphor is obvious. a vulture's, perhaps even more-so. what stronger love could there be than to rid the land of disease and decay? than to act the role of servant, rather than queen? swan, and vulture. one regarded with awe, the other derision.

"hello, little one," kai murmurs to his creation, his raspy, eternally-rough voice smokier with how quietly he is filling the room. my hard-limbed love, my gentle-lead hunger. "you will find no derision from me."

the condor does not reply, but if it could, kai imagines it would say the same.

[terragro]

love (noun)

we'll eat it anyway / yes darling / my dearest / love is always dear / love / is never a waste / love is eating scraps for fear of waste / love is / chiding you to finish your plate / love, eat up / eat up, love / what a pity / such a shame to waste love / love, how much we've wasted

[terragro]

warm maroons, robust copper, and soft gold amalgamate their way through the space between them, interweaving with her speech, the very air heavying with her pleasure and joy at reuniting. poetry, first, as is customary, and then salutations. kai inclines his head just once in a single nod, equally as entertained by the amusement used at the broach of prose. "if you envisioned the ghost of me here from the very depths of your dreams, then i'm honored to be held within such high esteem." perhaps even flattered. it does scratch an itch of his, not that he'd ever say, epecially since he knows her words are said mostly in jest to, well-manneredly, tease their reunion. kai never emotes in public, and he does not do so now, even as something warm and content settles in his chest, the unruly, desperate, caged bird beating eternally at his ribs stilling into momentary complacency.

it feels calming to be around friends; to allow himself, slowly, to pry free his shrouds of obscurity and near-perpetual defenses, even if for a short time. feels calming, to be around people who do not critique (would never do so), who do not watch like carrion-starved buzzards upon high peaks, ravenous for an inevitable downfall. he hates the high-society. the judgement, the entitlement, the selfish disregard. and the vulture-like quality of their eyes.

thankfully, gaya is a beacon radiating all the comforts of solitude while in a room full of those buzzards.

he must admit a moment of disappointment at being told jeongcha's auction won't be yet still for some time, but it's a brief dampening that is quick to fade away. it is, truth be told, the primary reason he is here, having worked such an anniversary into his overburdened schedule. kai loves watercolor. he has filled his entire home with it, spent years painting the walls of his apartment in depictions of monet's water lilies, and he wants to purchase one (if not all) of jeongcha's paintings. while not a well-known artist yet, the older woman has a skill unrivaled by all but the best; her ability to craft landscapes is unparalleled.

the way she paints the sea is a lot what love feels like, he thinks. kai doesn't believe it's needless praise to call the artist a diamond among the rough.

but gaya is quick to offer a consolation prize that is quite attractive indeed: time away from the crowd, first of all, and secondly, time alone with someone he has not reconnected with in some time. he does not respond verbally this time, no, but he does lift a cheesy little hors d'oeuvres off his plate with an amenable inclination of his head again, as if to silently say, "after you, then" as he slips the morsel between his lips. always hungry, this one; metaphorically, and literally.

admittedly, kai would love to see the workshops she is offering. the older man had no idea that the gallery hosted ateliers, and thought it was primarily a place to display works rather than a studio...but it is a thought that he is quick to dismiss after a moment of thought. gaya herself loves art. while she may not be able to allocate as much time to the growth of la maison vermillion as she would like, kai would bet a pretty chunk of won that if she is ever here after hours, she would dip dainty and curious toes in to rooms to see the creations of others. half-finished works-in-progress abandoned for a temporary overnight by their crafters, illuminated under fluorescent lights that gleam in her wide, dark eyes. yes, he can imagine it. kai can even imagine her slowly easing herself behind an easel after a quick glance to ensure her own solitude, and painting on her own; the fluid movements of a brush bedaubed with acrylic easing across canvas, slow and meticulous, only to be hastily hidden away after completion.

amusingly, kai towers over gaya as his friend guides him forward, and the beast of gaia has to incline his head quite a bit to look down at the other's slender form as he watches her advance ahead with assured movements. gaya has a strong will, he notes, her choices firm and without doubt. it's a solace, that trait of hers. but he still can't help thinking: so very little, to himself with great mirth (he knows much better than to ever say outloud). gaya leads, and kai follows, through the showroom and to the scant-used hallways of the gallery.

the further they drift from those loitering in the showroom, the more tension bleeds from his shoulders.

thick, black hair billows out behind gaya with her confident, sure-footed steps, the soft clicking of her heels sounding against polished marble loud enough to drown out his own, nearly imperceptible steps. kai slides in place behind her and to her right. he does this subconsciously, though if either of them are paying attention, it would be noticed that he has shifted to stand in her blind spot as if to protect her. not that the other requires such chivalry, but subconsciousness works on its own right.

"along the topic of contemporary art—" his words are slow, measured, and colored with curiosity "—do you favor surrealism, expressionism, sculpture, or another category?"

kai is the first to admit he does not have the strongest grasp of contemporary art. most of his expertise lingers on the older giants, geniuses in their field and well-known from ages long past.

but he does know that the gallery itself is one of gaya's greatest treasures, and he can't help the spear-point of a secondary question: "and will you be showing me your own?"

[terragro]

hope springs eternal

[terragro]

the emotions blossoming within jaeyeon eke out, spilling free like wine on silk, unguarded in a way that he never is: hope, surprise, alarm. nervousness, fear. it draws kai to pause, for his gaze to steadily raise until they are locking eyes. a weighty thing, eye contact: the intimate connection it brings.

he knows too well that cocktail, desperation, tamed only by fright. rarely is jaeyeon so candid with his emotions; his exhausted friend is perhaps the only one who has successfully, painstakingly, crafted a shield aimed specifically at kai himself. a barrier of sorts, to separate the two of them. his friend silences his emotions, until he is sleeping curled up at the foot of his own heart. perhaps this is done out of unwillingness to burden kai with either the pain or the pleasure the other knows. perhaps in a desire for privacy.

yet now, blatant and open, a plethora of intense feelings that kai himself is intimately familiar with: hope-alarm-fear, like starving dogs quivering at an outstretched hand. hope-alarm-fear, anguished and swollen, gravid with hunger. hope-alarm-fear, rendered immobile by that desperate want.

kai knows it too well. hasn't it been all he's ever known?

the older man watches, quiet in the soft murmuring din of the restaurant, as jaeyeon's pale hands make quick work of crafting a paper crane with one of kai's left over origami sheets. calloused, veined, skilled, those hands, familiar with crafting tasks despite the infrequency in which he is allowed to indulge in this hobby. kai allows his eyes to drink in the shapes, half-circles, sharp triangles, diamonds dressed in ruby, that the other man makes short work of fashioning together. and when his friend is done (and with a soft pop of amusement), kai reaches a dark-skinned hand to brush, tender and reverent, against the red body of the crane.

"another," kai muses more to himself than to jaeyeon. there are several more of these paper birds, all created by the very man across from him, lining the shelf of his locked treasure cabinet in his bedroom. an owl was the first, its white face expressionless, proud wings a yawning swoop. a bubbly canary, two-toned form gusto personified in laughing yellow and baby blue. a pair of love-sick swans, necks carefully intertwined in a delicate, private embrace. and now this: a newly-acquired, hastily-made crane for kai's personal collection, colored carmine as the rose, each sharp crease a bold promise.

quickly-crafted, true, his brand new crane, but no by no means poorly made. large wings spread in preparation for flight, graceful neck a dignified curve. jagged beak tapered to a spear's point and just as deadly. a weapon, posed to strike, tucked tenderly into its own downy breast.

and such promises, scribed within its wings, against that downy breast, the tease of half of a letter hidden under its belly. kai's fingers hesitate over the paper, as if debating on unfurling the beast and reading the very secret jaeyeon wrote prior to sliding the crane toward kai.

but he does not. instead, kai eases it, safely, into his satchel. it will join its siblings, to line his treasure shelf. he can guess well enough, regardless, what it is jaeyeon has written. a sleep, full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

he supposes that jaeyeon can likely guess what kai wrote as well.

"it is july 6th. 16:00, almost to the dot," kai finally answers. he leans back against his chair after ensuring his newest gift is in no distress in his bag, free of risk of unintended folds. "interestingly enough, i had texted you this morning to meet me here. that text remained unread, and yet here you are." no promise of permanence, the other warned. and yet jaeyeon has returned to him when kai wished it, a pull, without even knowing. kai's brows knit in the center, the only emotion he has expressed since jaeyeon sat down across from him.

send my herald thought into a wilderness: there let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress my uncertain path with green, that i may speed easily onward, through flowers and weed.

there is a shape forming between the two of them. it has formed the last few months, never-named, always-there. their silences are filled with words of a quiet variety; intentions, inflections, the subtle pause of a hand, the inclination of a head tilting. a statement, with the understanding that it is more than what it presents itself as. trust, without calling it thusly. vulnerability, without the facade of bravado, stripped naked and open, belly-up like a prey animal. again, and again, he would do this for jaeyeon and never hesitate in his actions. he finds himself hesitating now. he knows, oh-too-well, why he is hesitating now. kai's steady gaze settles on the other with that thoughtful tic in between the line of his brow, a furrow.

hope alarm fear.

quickly dress my uncertain path with green, that i may speed easily onward, through flowers and weed.

"i have asked the waitress to bring you a coca cola and a bowl of samgyetang," his lips form the words slowly, as if tasting each letter before releasing it from his tongue. jaeyeon recognizes this as kai hesitating. kai knows jaeyeon recognizes this as kai hesitating. meant to buy time, true, but the simple words also say that kai remembers jaeyeon's favorites, simple as they are. that the older man has ordered his friend's meal ahead of time, hoping jaeyeon would appear across from him even if no affirmation was made. ...just like he has.

kai continues. "you should bind yourself to me."

quickly dress my uncertain path with green, that i may speed easily onward, through flowers and weed, the quote whispers again, and again, in his mind. allegorical, isn't it, he thinks to himself, that line from keats? they have always spoken more in silence than in words. this repetitive thought only gives volume to the emotion brewing inside his titanium carapace.

that kai could provide a safe place of beauty and peace, even in the face of misery and hard times.

something in his chest pops like a cork, that fear, that alarm, that hope. "you would not accidentally travel so long, nor as far i think, if you had a tether." his explanation comes a bit faster. no longer tasting the letters, more like releasing them before the flavor can sit, stagnant, on his tongue, and sour under his own insecurity. you are in my cardiac muscle memory, yeon.

"mine is a difficult soul to forget."

or so he has been told, the last handful of years. perhaps his soul did not used to be so hard to forget; perhaps it still is easy.

[terragro]

kai's gaze is an unmoving, heavy thing as it settles upon her being like a cloak. isuzu never asks. the desire blooming within her is bright as licking fire; open and eager. the taste on the air is nothing but citrus-y pops of lemon and lime zest, honeycomb to tamper it's potency with floral hints. her emotions reveal themselves to him without even the barest veneer. she has never tried in vain to hide her private heart from him like so many do, and it bleeds from her now, an open, unstoppered pitch.

she never asks, kai notes, yet the look she shoots his direction is devastating. in those enormous, yawning pools, the silence, the plea. in the self-conscious shift of her sopping-wet form, the visceral want.

and he has always been too soft.

and still, as they stand in silence—she, in half a puddle, hands knotting around the hem of her jacket, and he, one single claw connecting him to his planetary charge—no words are shared. the yearning clawing its way through every fiber of isuzu's being, every nerve alight with covetous longing, yet the words never part those cherry lips of hers. the taste of it is dizzying, and fills him with a feeling he doesn't know how to name. obligation, perhaps. compelled pride. his monstrous, draconic head slowly moves toward her. in the gravid pause between them, his other three, wickedly-clawed feet descend—ribbon-like and lazy—to curl as calm as a windless night against the softened, sodden earth.

she wishes to fly. yet she knows better, and so she never says this.

even so, that wish pelts him in its purity, intense and incessant. gaia, gaia, gaia, the hot summer winds whisper; an alluring, songlike polyphonous chorus, basking in it. what is a god, after all, without receiving reverence? without wishes given unto them that is within their power to grant? what is a god without worship, without sacrifice?

she has sacrificed. exhaustion she doesn't yet feel aches through her body, barely threaded beyond that buoyant hope. she worked all night, the herbs whisper. she toiled in the dirt, in the heavy seasonal monsoons, growing filthy and tired to help him with his request, the trees agree. it would be such a small thing, wouldn't it?

what she is offering to do—to mute the power of a god, at that god's request—is something nearly impossible, something no one should be able to do. witches cannot, for they borrow the power of the moon, and the moon is only another part of earth. other gods cannot, for he is the center, the personification of life itself; the beast of gaia. it should be impossible. and yet here she is: ready, capable, willing, wanting just one thing in return, and she never asks. she has never asked.

he is too soft.

traveling with a partner would lengthen his journey, the pragmatic part of him reminds. the world bends, when he is this way; it twists the fabric of space, the very planet working to aid him in getting to where he needs to go. a journey which would take many hours by jet takes him a matter of minutes, if he so wills it. it is hard to fly with a guest, for he has to take into consideration the temperature of frigid air as he whips through the skies, he has to take stock of his charge and ensure they are still astride his antlered mantle. he must check to see they are breathing, still, when they are traveling so fast the very wind ripping through his fur is enough to stall the lungs of little, mortal beings. he cannot blink in and out of earth's space when there is a passenger. it will add unnecessary time, and strain, and trouble. yet she is doing him a favor, and she makes no demands of him. she knows this is gift not for her.

she never asks.

isuzu has a bag, an ever-empty nothingness bag full of treasures untold. among it's many contents is a muddied shovel, two buckets. a basket full of ingredients sits beside her muck-covered boots, full of things necessary that he has asked for her to prepare. the rehearsal before the ceremony, a hole chipped into her yard that is as wide as she is tall, dug deep into the belly of the earth. a spider. worms, leaves from a half-alive mulberry bush that she harvested—the green personification of life and death. and isuzu never asks, she only wants, open and quiet. hot air exhales from his wide nostrils as his elongated neck turns into an elegant S shape, so he may better gaze down upon her. he is too soft.

the air still tastes so heavily of citrus.

"change your footwear," his voice echoes directly into her mind, a soothing babble of a brook, liquid vowels and seesaw consonants. she hesitates, of course, her expression caught painfully somewhere between hope and doubt. he waits the space of three seconds before two heavy, red lids sink over his eyes, giving him a sleepy, half-interested countenance. "if you are to come, you will need different footwear, lily. the amazon will rot those soaked feet of yours."

kai's long crimson ears swivel to the side, and then resting gently behind his antlers as he waits for her.

he is too soft.

[terragro]

i wrote a poem recently. it started, "i am", "i am", "i am". it sits, forlorn and abandoned, in my drafts, saved for the right time (it will never be the right time). self-centric, "i am", rather than the panegyrical. every day i find new wounds within me. "i am", as a means to depreciate. "I am", fouled by bitterness.

i changed it to "i am in love with—".

i am the sea. "i am in love with the sea." i am broken-heart syndrome. "i am in love with broken-heart syndrome." i am your open, unguarded heart. "i am in love with your open, unguarded heart".

slowly, so slowly. i fear hunger has grown ancient and ugly within me. more and more, i find myself thinking, what is love? is this the resplendent, iridescent world i have been begging for? el-y-si-um. it is delirious; every taste overwhelms me to the bone.

cataclysmic; silver stirred, blue-stained body. wind-chimes floating above the sea, swimming in biphase quiddity. i want to hold your hand as the wood drowns, as the water scavenges for your bones. as the clouds gnaw at your blood. blue and faltering, you, slimy liquid shadow, fraternizing with death's stratosphere. crawl back to the sun as it overthrows the moon.

speculate its kiss. how would it feel like? a whirlpool for a heart? like funeral heat? like stars contaminating your spit?

when you wander off the edge of the world, will ghosts dance in the murky fog? will flowers wander off the cliff with you?