terragro

[terragro]

i will be extremely intermittent for the next few months, forwarning. the tldr is a family member was diagnosed with cancer and i don't have the energy or time for writing on tumblr as much as i used to. i'll still be here, i just won't be replying to 3-5 threads in a day anymore, maybe 1 or 2 every couple weeks or smth

[terragro]

it has been three years, one month and twelve days since kai last got drunk.

sure, he has had a splash of wine to dishes, the alcohol content cooked out over a dancing flame and charring meat; he's had a shot of soju with his mother and two sisters to commemorate the new year as is customary, he's sipped off a beer politely at a friend's birthday party before leaving it in the trash. but the last time he drank—truly drank, with the intent of being absolutely demolished, on his knees and gathered around the rim of a toilet bowl in a fruitless attempt to upheave the poison out of his body—was three years, one month, and twelve days ago. it seems like so much less, kai thinks. and yet time trudges ever-forward, a fraud assembly merely there for people to measure their lifespans on the infinite endlessness of spacetime.

here, sitting listlessly at a cafe near yonsei, having his usual order of pain au chocolat and a lavender latte for breakfast, to help start his day before classes as he waits for a journalist to beeline toward him once the other recognizes kai at the table, he finds himself thinking, quietly, privately: i would really like to be wasted right now.

at 7:55AM.

it isn't the journalist's fault, of course. yonsei loves to torture him like this; all the needling little ways that they can poke and prod the infamous astrophysicist to get their net's worth out of him. he is the young, handsome, intelligent bachelor they need to help expand the renown of the college. after all, it was on yonsei's good will—the expectation of a return investment—that they allowed kai to graduate despite his alleged truancy. despite his initial expelling due to poor attendance. they took a calculated measure at what kai was going to become and opted to invest in his future with the understanding that that future would be orbited around yonsei. two binary stars, tidally locked, and yonsei will be much the richer with their name tied to kai's success. a strategic, business-like idealism.

a board member of the university once joked during a meeting that kai was their show horse.

kai heard something very different, in the way those words bubbled through the air with mirth shadowing greed like frothing acid: he is a pinata, and the board and dean have the sticks, and they will beat him until he produces the riches they desire. why else would they take him back after dismissing him for truancy? why else would they allow his return to graduate if not to lock him into contract and force him to do their bidding?

he has seven years, ten months and twelve days left in said contract. he does not have a lawyer's eye, but his scouring over his binds does not show a visible loophole.

he is trapped.

kai hates his job. he hates his title. he hates when people call him doctor. there is no respect in that title, not for kai, only revulsion and abject refusal, and he had to fight for many, many months for the media to call him professor kim instead of doctor kim. too many emotions and memories tied in with the word doctor. his old pulmonolgist, dr. sunmi choi, comes to mind. a woman in her fifties who had rearranged her gravid schedule to sit beside kai's sickbed and gently guide him toward a hopeful future, rather than the shackle of his inevitable fate. who had perused a travel magazine with him and helped him find a place to inspire the will to live to go see.

the only happy memory with a doctor he has faced. handfuls of specialists, dozens of emergency room physicians, hundreds upon hundreds of lab coats and clinical expressions and practiced verbiage of sorry to bear the bad news and there are treatment options and may prolong your course and do you have a will yet?

he hates 'doctor'.

his ruminations slide to a halt when a man who appears to be in his early-thirties approaches his table. kai is too practiced, his mask too well-formed, to allow the distaste to ripple across his features. he raises his gaze and meets his fate head on.

this is what kai knows about life: nothing about it is appealing.

he is immediately pleased, then, at how the journalist before him does not call him doctor, but professor. he must have been warned about kai's distaste. that, or he has a level of sensitivity that most journalists do not. kai finds himself, against his will—guarded as he is against such things—warmed toward the other.

"greetings, journalist," kai replies, his scarred voice husky and low. to the journalist's credit, he gives off a very personable air; something that is imbued with companiable lightness, a comradery of sorts, as if they are friends. had junji spoken the word 'doctor', derision would have bloomed like a toxin in his veins. instead, kai regards him with a level of subdued interest.

he does not want to wait on the photographer. he hates his photo taken. this is the first truth that he allows the journalist to glean: while he stoically tolerates the chore of posing like a model, he hates it. a molten disgust bursts within his heart every time he sits in front of the flashing snap of a camera shutter, a life lived of being told you are ugly in a world that demands perfection. the bullying, the mocking, a thousand childhood memories onslaught through his psyche.

"is the photographer truly necessary? i don't like photos of me taken. there are hundreds online for you to use. i'm sure my secretary has several posed shots that weren't used in other magazines or articles." the words form out of kai's plush lips like he's savoring them, an elegantly-long finger tapping slowly on the lid of his to-go cup of tea. with junji's initial greeting of professor, kai finds his guard down. he will not make the journalist's job difficult, as he may have been inclined to prior to his appearance, given his spoiled mood this morning. "instead of waiting for them, would you be willing to explore...a whim, with me?"

the words hang, a tantalizing tease, in the air for the space of two heartbeats and one slow breath. and then kai stands and slings his satchel over his shoulder. "ditching the photographer is unorthodox. we will both be scolded. but i find myself in a running sort of mood, and as you said, you are to be my shadow. so will you keep up?"

professor KK.

his reputation is known by media to be cool, eloquent, distant as the mountain. he is known for his sharp responses and sharper intellect. known, by the public, to be quiet, reflective, and—at times—complacent.

this image likely does not strike the journalist for the daily as what he has gleaned kai's public persona to be. kai does not give him a choice, either. he turns on his heel with his tea and immediately heads to the door with no further word.

his legs are long. high, high as the ceiling. he was born to be a dancer, and forced to be an astrophysics professor. his steps are wide, and within the space of one breath to the next he is already at the door.

"class begins at nine. i am usually there by 7AM, to help students who need additional aid, struggling with the mathematics." kai's job rotates around math that most people do not even know exists. he levels a gaze at the other from over his shoulder. "thankfully, it is the weekend, and there are no classes. the photographer will look to the university as the obvious place for me to be. so we will go somewhere unexpected."

this is the second truth kai offers junji.

he is a collared animal, true. loyal to his master, though not very obedient. discussion of kai's work—his numerous achievements, his scientific exploration, the formulas he has created that rival einstein's in their novel breakthrough—need not be done in a lab. he seems content to run, boldly, from the hand that feeds.

he is asking if junji will run with him.

[terragro]

"it is of rare occurrence, the experiencing of both mortality and divinity. We do share that, you and i."

the words that fill the space between them. he is too well-trained to let the blow of her statement reflect across his visage, cooled in an eternal tranquility. lamias are created from humans, then. like dragons, like were-beasts, like vampires. so many species piggybacking off the creature that, boldly, with untold hubris, considers itself evolution's finest work. kai wonders—distantly, in a nearly clinical way—if homosapiens are a malleable enough building block that other life forms naturally bound toward such a creature. the proclivity of creation. evolution is tricky. the beast of nature cannot be contained. as if it were clay. to mold, to create, to transform.

to destroy.

he understands her question is half-rhetorical. a challenge, imbued with the expectation of an answer.

he could choose not to give it. it would be an insult. the supposition, while airily spoken, hides the true manner of her being: the twisting, writhing mess of loathing and fury and pain and self-hatred. he could choose not to give it. after all, she is the invader. she entered without so much as a knock, joined him on his three-way warring beach, leveled him with her glimmering, sun-blazened eyes. she stands now, spine erect as if refusing to be crippled, as if unaware of how to be crippled.

as if unaware of how to be vulnerable.

kai could choose not to give it.

instead, he walks close to her. the dragon god's darkly tanned feet do not make imprints against the sand as he approaches the other, as he watches the wind toy with the white fabric obscuring a body his focused eyes knows to be flawless. curvy in all the right places, sinew and marble. his body language is not hostile, despite the fact he holds himself like a predator: all lithe muscle, whipcord strength and intent. instead he has a nearly open curiosity. he circles her as a jungle cat would to a delectable boar. slow, steady, each light-stepped foot placed with delicate care. as if he would pounce at any moment.

he will not, of course. he is merely gauging her, the creation of her, as she likely has him. he is not intent on grooming bad blood between them. and kai senses, distinctly, that they are not adversaries: the way she tolerates his extensive, intimate scrutiny tells him that she is not here to groom bad blood either.

they are both saying the same thing to each other: stand down, soldier, i'm not an enemy.

"you of all people should know, lamia," kai's voice, still buttery-smooth despite his new proximity, spoken close enough to flutter the thick white hair rooted from her head, "that immortality is a curse, and not a gift. one forced upon both of us against our will. human autonomy has no consideration in the eyes of a being that considers themselves heavenly."

thrusted onto him, despite his yearning for death. how long has he craved the end of it all? since he was ten? since he was eight?

"the power to 'transcend death' is nothing more than a narcissist's fantasy. we are meant to pass on and rot. to continue the cycle of rebirth and decay." for long, now, kai has watched too many unending creatures, spoiled by their immortality, by their power, cocky and self-righteous. yong was the pinnacle of his kind; indulgent and self-satisfied. there are a hundred more like him. possibly even a thousand.

she had sought out yong. she had found kai. still she remains, not disappointed by the development, but nearly encouraged by it. kai senses deep down what she is truly here for; violence, but not between them. a far-reaching goal. re-learning what it is to form alliances, to trust someone with power equal to or greater than your own with your lofty ideals. he finishes his slow circling of her. and he levels her with a heavy gaze. physical contact, the weight of this look.

"are you hoping i will kill you?" he asks the question without qualm. no veneer of niceties or shadow of euphemism. only their hearts, beating in rare unison. the understanding that they are looking at a possibly comrade; the distrust of knowing the other could be an enemy. "or are you hoping i will help you kill others? which is it?"

[terragro]

when the owner of the establishment finally makes himself known, pausing in front of kai in watchful interest, softened by a day of his working passion despite the frustration flowering in his stomach, kai looks at him much like a jungle cat would a new variable in their enclosure. observant, focused, unblinking. he would circle around him, even, predatory even in such a physical expression, if they were in kai's environment. but they are not, and kai respects the territorial shift. he remains rooted in place, waiting for the drop.

and then watches, in muffled interest, the shudder of the blow landing when willow realizes that kai is exempt from the gift he has made his art through. it is as kai hoped. he is not prideful enough to say he suspected, but he did hope. and with that realization comes the strange, budding cocktail of relief, disappointment, and most notably. reassurance. kai is not human. he is far above such a plain of existence, lost somewhere in the ephemera of the heavens. more fur than skin, more god than man. it makes sense that a human's synesthesia—limited to only a couple of the senses—would not adeptly grapple with the meaning behind a deity.

cortisol and adrenaline still flood his system in waves. what he had, unconsciously, prepared for. he had not been sure, only hoped. there was a time—a great stretch of time, in fact—where he was mortal, as human as any of the billions of specks on the crust of the world. he had been worried. contending with the possible perception of the self: both uncomplicated and yet enormous, like an animal recognizing its reflection for the first time.

to be felt, against his will, as he now feels so many others.

kai understands that this is hypocritical. that he should feel relieved, instead of forced into that openness as well, the sheer hypocrisy of it. fair is fair, they always say. it is a fact he struggles with nearly every day when he walks by students, crippled under the academic stress of their perfectionist society; working-class people fueled by their own inner turmoil, burdened by familial and corporate responsibilities; private thoughts and emotions blasting through the air space like an event horizon, spilling across the sky like a lodestar to a soul space. his closest friend, a spirit he treasures above most things, who has erected a barrier specifically created toward kai himself, to block that intimacy from one another, separating the amalgamating spheres of heart and mind. it is hard to know sometimes, where one begins and another ends, when one is grappling with the weight of numerous, invading emotions.

he knows the hypocrisy.

and yet the relief he feels—knowing that two decades of fierce, immolating work to permanently erase the effect of words and emotions from his visage. that it remains intact, that he is still guarded, still protected—is a greater relief than he knows what to do with. he could have cried, his expression close to shuddering, if he did not have a role to perform. and kai is an excellent actor.

meeting with willow had been one-third test, one-third curiosity, and one-third true interest. endorphins skirt through kai's nervous system. the slow backing-down of kai's defenses, abstract. the effort it takes to stand down coils like a wraith through kai's veins.

he does not move, aside from a blink. even as willow offers the small little corner area for the two of them to sit, tidying up. willow's delicate fingers, fingernails trimmed modestly down to the tips of his elegant digits, likely perfunctory in it's own right. longer nails get in the way, catch paint, scuff work. kai understands, yet still he watches and notes these small personal facts as willow makes time to listen to kai's request. despite the fact "commissions aren't open". interest in his own way, showing that the older is willing to hear kai out.

kai doesn't take the offer.

"is the gift of your particular technique not to see, rather than hear? do i need to tell you, or can i not simply show you?"

the words are level and nearly inquisitive, but without an undercurrent of brusqueness. kai knows to play civil, especially since the other is working kai into his schedule. give and take. his gaze, slowly, drifts down to a shapely little splotch of goldenrod yellow staining the white fabric covering willow's abdomen.

white is a brave color for a painter to wear.

"it would be a short walk. if you find yourself not indisposed. though i think i mistimed my entrance," he murmurs, voice calm and raspy and steady. kai had been hoping to catch the nouveau artiste either during, or after lunch, when the painter had been cleaned, contented post-meal, uninvolved mid-piece. again his gaze flickers down the path of paint, artfully splattered against willow's lithe musculature and attire. and again, kai is met with a burning envy at the sight, at the parallels between them, at the what ifs that fill his heart with an ache. what could have been, in another world.

"what i want you to paint is only a block or so away. it wouldn't take long either, i think. he's very small. there is only so much his heart could share."

[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