Chapter Text
flash touch / i forgive you
black velvet over the back of a friend, and jackson following it with a hand on his hat, ready to take it off.
black lace over hands, palms, fingers, feminine gloves over the hands of a male. good enough to hide both hesitation and a silver ring that never got to be replaced by a gold one.
black everything. a funeral two friends left behind together, running from an overwhelming sun of a harsh summer. because black... black feels so heavy against skin in summer.
the embroidered gloves jaebeom slides off and the black hat jackson removes from his head. the back of a hand wiping over the right side of a face, and then jaebeom asks, "would you like something to drink?"
"maybe i'll stay for a coffee... but if you want to be alone, i thoroughly understand."
yet it's similar to what jackson expected: his black coat in the hallstand along with his hat, almost-entirely-covered windows and black coffee in front of him. jaebeom's black velvet taken off in the bedroom, exchanged for peachy pink satin, tight around his waist and loose everywhere else. a bottle of scotch he opens just to pour alcohol in his own coffee. heavy silence and jaebeom's red face buried in his own palms, ashamed of the irregular discharge of tears and of the puffiness already bloomed like a red flower.
"i don't even know how to feel," the confession after jaebeom's coffee cup is almost empty. "i don't think i should cry... but i can't really help it! which is weird because i'm way more anxious and restless than i am sad. i wish i could just run away from this suffocating place..."
"then let's do that." and it's so simple when jackson says it. perhaps it's his tone, his calmness, or the simple fact that he's never been one to stir already-agitated waters. "let's get out of this place."
"just like that?"
"just like that."
teeth sinking into a lower pink lip as bare feet move in slow motion on a floor that's not cold enough — or it might be just jaebeom's fever, making him drink, having him speak like that, pushing him to take off his silver wedding ring and leave it next to his perfume.
"i planned on travelling for a while, anyway. so... just come with me."
...
a dream, a horrendous, persisting, insisting fantasy penetrating an already intoxicated brain. all he dreamt about for the last couple of weeks can be reduced to a simple, rural image of a blant sky and a golden wheat field shaking under it, lightly stroked by a breeze. black and white he dreamt about, symbolic in a way; jaebeom’s wild figure dressed in loose white, puffed sleeves that allowed movement, while jackson was tied up in a black vest, wearing a black tie as a hanging rope and hiding a scythe with a black handle behind his back.
for a while now, jackson has been dreaming of wheat as green lands, of scythe as a ring and of death as marriage. and it would always feel as heavy and suffocating as it would be comforting.
heavy like jaebeom's weight now pressing on jackson's hand, yet comforting like the satin on him, which jackson can gently touch.
heavy like the silver cross and the impregnated religion hanging by jaebeom's neck, yet comforting like the ruffled hair jackson presses a kiss over.
heavy like the unspoken feelings enclosed into silver rings and waiting, longing, hidden in a pocket. comforting like the sleepy motion of a hand, gently grabbing over jackson's, allowing it to stay close next to a heart that only beats calmly when numbed with cafeinated alcohol.
“god, i wish i’d stop having this dream…” a whisper from jackson, enough to make jaebeom’s eyes flutter open. “i don’t like the way it turns from a dream into a nightmare… i don’t like the way you don’t know.”
jaebeom’s eyes closing back, lulled by the gentle whispers. though the coffee table, the biscuits and alcohol disappear from his vision, he’s still hearing that deep voice mumbling its story like it’s caressing jaebeom’s whole body.
“you’re wearing my ring and you’re so happy about white cotton and sunflowers… it makes me smile despite my black suit tying me up as i move. then, the sun sets… the sky gets covered in grey cigar smoke. and he returns… you’re running and clinging by his neck, and it’s stealing all the colours from me, draining it out of me and slowly pulling it out from under my feet. i stay there, i become translucent as you two bleed vivid colours. behind me, something always whispers, ‘death suits you, dear sir, just like this beautiful wedding coat’...”
it’s like a voice reading a novel for him, but what it doesn’t know it’s that jaebeom has always been the child who fell asleep easily, right before hearing the end of the stories. which is the case even now, when he’s older, when his heavy eyelids have no patience to hear the end of the story.
[...]
slightly more than a light breeze, enough to spoil a clouded yet light-filled sky. enough to make a palm move, to have it pressing down a summer straw hat just to not have the wind stealing it away.
only one luggage bag they have, and jackson offered to carry it. he might have given up his stiff grey coat for a polo shirt this time, but the rest keeps a tone of elegance, as he feels the need to flaunt his title and name rather than his status. at the opposite pole, there’s jaebeom taking off his sandals to climb on the deck with feet that seem to crave coldness.
one’s wearing dress shoes and carrying a leathered suitcase while the other’s striped shirt and dark shorts are floundering freely; one’s eyes are still working properly while the other’s are just staring blindly as if they’re broken.
yet, in this scenario and background, jackson decides to strip off his name, title, status and any kind of image he’s been trying to maintain. hand lets go of the luggage he’s carrying and reaches for metal but ends up resting over flesh, over another hand. body presses against body, and all once was just a fantasy, is now unraveling with jackson as the main character of the scene.
and when jaebeom is ready to get off from the metal border, the sandals hit the deck before his feet. they simply scatter lifelessly while jaebeom has gentle and careful hands ready to catch him, ready to hold him.
the wind tries to steal his straw hat yet again, but jackson anticipates it with a small smile and stops it. his hand meets jaebeom's, which is trying to pull back with something that’s not only embarrassment.
instead of letting his lips move, his broken eyes do, two hypnotized insects searching for an escape. they only flutter close as jackson hurries to wrap both arms over a back and to press his burden against a pair of lips that barely kiss back. and by the time he’s done, he can already feel a fevered heart struggling to exit a chest and a pair of cold bare feet climbed over his lacquered dress shoes.
“forgive me for that outburst…”
“i forgive you.”
vignettes
a mild sun playing hide and seek with a few white clouds. a day of warm shadows and dry weather that’s heated enough as to induce laziness on anyone.
a table of crossword in front of jackson since he’s that bored and sick. a buzzing thought about not being skilled enough, and then another, a cool wave whispering the need of a break. eventually, some other contradictory thoughts that crash against, since he’s an overthinker.
a quiet jaebeom that lays down next to him, on the same sunbed. enough to distract him from the thoughts and also enough to make him indulge back into his lame crossword game. for a while, jackson feels exceptionally old, completing such a game under his glasses. but then the feeling dissipates into something more pleasant: a mellow sun, a few fingers smearing sunscreen over his cheeks and shoulders, a quiet and incredibly warm vacation.
“what’s a vignette?” jaebeom asks in a wrong yet incredibly sweet accent. it’s the kind of innocent mistake jackson doesn't even feel like correcting.
“a vignette is a relatively short piece of writing that’s rather vivid in imagery or meaning. it pretty much lacks a plot, lacks the dynamism, lacks the action proper.”
“so it’s something rather descriptive?”
“mhm. but it can also be a theme or an image that repeats in a novel, for example. sometimes it’s similar to the concept of flashbacks.”
“i understand…”
to face him, jackson needs a good reason, so he gives up the crossword magazine for an intoxicating ritual of a clinking zippo and american tobacco. it’s good enough for now, but it puts him in this awkward situation where he has jaebeom staring at him intensely, as if waiting for god knows what.
but finally, jaebeom plucks up his courage and approaches just to awkwardly rest a restless head on jackson’s shoulder. which is good enough to get a subtle, cigarette smile out of jackson while also leaving him incredibly confused about more abstract and complicated things.
at night time / no longer your journal
a back drenched in cold sweat, a mind filled with a voodoo smile. scarecrow, hanged by cross-shaped wooden sticks; scarecrow, bleeding from his neck and staring at a scorching red sun with dead eyes. scarecrow, half-flesh, half-hay straws, with a suicide rope tightened by his neck, digging into the drying blood and rotting, wounded flesh. scarecrow who’s become the crows’ favourite, as they have altering organs to nibble at and an ugly figure to lay on to rest.
scarecrow, a mark in the golden wheat field. and jaebeom, jaebeom who always gets horrified by it, yet who still remains staring at it every single time. jaebeom, still in bouffant sleeves and loose clothes, jaebeom with a dirty apron tied around his waist, jaebeom, dragging after him a heavy scythe that’s still impregnated with the smell of blood. jaebeom, his knees kissing the land, his hair tied up, sweat on his nape and neck, announcing an irregular, ugly, country-working-the-land-peasant-like tan.
there’s dirt under his nails and sweat that falls on the land at the same time as a few silent tears; under such a brutal summer sun, there’s no difference between his sweat and his tears, as they both become salty water meant for the dry land. sometimes he’s crying loudly since no one is ever around the wheat field to hear him therefore, he sobs and cries as if the sharp fang of grief pierces through him. he cries his prettiness out in front of the most horrendous scarecrow that’s simply waiting to melt into pieces of putridity that would eventually infect the summer crop and pester the crows away.
the image is enough to make a chest tremble, and to force a feverish body drenched in sweat to bump into another. eyes dilate after consuming such imagery, fingers become desperate to cling, and a mouth feels the need to let out a sharp exhale, along with a sound that’s enough to scare lanquidity and sleep away from jaebeom.
“huh,” the sweaty body above jaebeom manages, then continues to breathe heavily. another sharp exhale and a hand wiping off sweat from a forehead. the light chill of the late night is incredibly cold against jackson’s wet and feverish back. all while jaebeom’s dressed in puffy cotton and tucked in a thin blanket, so much drier and warmer than jackson is.
“i had a nightmare…” a whisper as an incredibly cold forehead rests against jaebeom’s. “i’m sorry… for waking you up.”
some fumbling under the blanket until warm hands manage to escape and to caress jackson in slow and repeated motions, an useless countdown until the man with a cold body, climbed all over jaebeom, slowly peels himself away. he does look back at jaebeom though, as if searching for something, and sighs before unexpectedly mumbling, “you’re so pretty.”
“do you want a pill?” jaebeom offers instead, sleep-filled figure finally lifting to sit. “i also have sleeping medicine, if you’d like some. or… there’s new cold champagne and there’s some of your vodka left.”
“i think i am going to go smoke a cigarette…”
“jackson, what did you dream about?”
a small smile, not a natural one, but a forced one. “about you being pretty.”
“i mean it! what was it about?”
“i’m going to go have a smoke and it’s going to ease my mind.” he explains so calmly that it’s difficult to tell that it belongs to a man who just woke up in cold sweat from a horrible nightmare. fingers to the tobacco pack and cigarette to lips, he delivers one more forcely-reassuring smile before putting a blank and necessary distance between the two of them. because the bedroom feels slightly too suffocating for him.
and jaebeom, who remains in bed and can watch him smoking on the balcony, lets his head fall on jackson’s pillow; the night doesn’t seem as complicated, it’s only quieter and filled with more questions, and he wonders whether he should mumble this to jackson when he gets back, but…
but his hand already pulls from underneath jackson’s pillow a gun. a gun that’s been poking his temple, a gun that’s been a hidden extension to jackson’s deranged thoughts, it seems...
(...)
“can i ask you something?”
“after you tell me about the gun you keep under your pillow. do you plan on murdering me?”
a snort, as if it’s funny. suddenly, an increased craving for yet another dose of nicotine. “i got it from your dear loverboy, actually. right before he disappeared, he showed up at my place and gave it to me. didn’t say why. so i assumed… i assumed he was going to kill himself. or maybe it was his way of saying that i should kill myself, and i misunderstood.”
“that’s why you offered to arrange a funeral in his memory?”
“yeah, it only seemed right. i knew he wanted to have a tombstone, a place for rest. because he was greedy like that, wished people would remember him, wished his dear ones would keep him in their memory for a long time. tombstones, he considered them similar to houses; the business behind them is similar to the housing system, and since he was pretty wealthy, he desired one of those, too.”
“i still don’t understand why would you sleep with a gun under your pillow…”
“my wealthy best friend vanished into thin air and i just took his lover on a vacation. i might be paranoid, but it makes me feel safer.”
“what did you want to ask?” a low tone impregnated in hesitation; it looks like jaebeom is slowly borrowing some of the fear jackson has been building up, all compressed into his tone.
“i was just curious to know whether you really loved him, and maybe why did you love him if you truly did, that’s all.”
“i did, but maybe it wasn't that kind of passionate love you read about in novels. he didn’t trot out his money or status first, he rather showed off his intelligence and interests, and i’ve always looked up to people like him, whom i could learn a lot from. but you know the devil is as green as money, so… i couldn't be rude or leave his side after he started investing into my art.”
a knowing grin on jackson's face, “grew up poor?”
“not exactly dirt-poor, but i guess i grew up modestly.”
“mhm… do you like women, too?”
“i really don't want a relationship… or any kind of partner. for now i’m grieving and i don't have my heart open for someone new.”
as much as it would heal jackson’s wounded ego to make a rude joke or to suggest sex, he keeps his mouth shut. because he learned grief is a delicate matter, and if jaebeom chose to mourn over the disappearance of a lover, then jackson shall, at least, respect that decision.
in the end, he lost a very good friend, too. but for him it’s a bit more complicated, due to a green flame of jealousy and a red one of desire. in jackson's situation, an old good friend became just a protective hand holding a sweet apple, so ripe and rosy that jackson wanted it, too.
“use this to deal with grief.” a swifter tone, really close to jaebeom's ear as jackson lowers himself gently over jaebeom's turned back and lays down on the bed a leathered book. his journal. or, just a journal. one he has been writing into. “writing is a good way of dealing with emotions. it doesn’t have to be good as long as you can let it out.”
a loud gulp before jackson’s engulfed by warmth, cotton and hot skin; fever breath against his shoulder and dry skin pressing over his hip. jackson’s still cold and calm as the loaded gun lays close to his head, while jaebeom's heating up so much, filling himself up with terror.
in the end, there’s death behind jackson, death shaped like a metal gun which never lets jaebeom’s eye close and rest.
in retrospect, there are so many filled pages laying by jaebeom's head. heavy with secrets, tied with neat leather.
untitled
a nauseous figure rolling on the other side of the bed, slightly waking up, nostrils filling up with the smell of coffee. limbs moving and the body waking up before the mind. feet dragging heavy weight, following the smell.
in the kitchen, jackson’s making coffee. it smells like it’s too boiled, too hot, it smells like it might burn their tongues to blood and rot.
on the tv, they’re talking about whatever. jaebeom registers a middle-aged woman with a high-pitched voice. it’s as if he dreamt about it last night, it’s as if he heard that succession of words before, not a long while ago.
on the tv, they’re talking next to a picture of that man jaebeom was supposed to marry. lady with the distorted voice says vacation cottage and in jaebeom’s head pops up the key to that place. bare legs say cold , his cotton-covered back says too warm . teeth want the biscuits on the plate, the ones he refused for the past two days, for the last five times jackson offered. tongue wants the burning coffee. blood wants a sugar injection. trembling hands want to hide behind him and his eyes start counting all the sweet things in the kitchen.
butter biscuits. chocolate plums. a small jar of sugar. bread and jam. but the mind stays fixed on the butter biscuits.
jackson drops a china cup and breaks it into so many pieces, and by the time he swears about it, jaebeom’s wobbly knees and cravings crumble together.
(…)
there’s such a heavy gaze stuck to jackson’s back that it becomes harder for him to pick up the broken china pieces. there’s hot coffee on the little table, butter biscuits, painkillers and his cigarettes, too. and jaebeom's torpid body on the couch, laying comfortably between stomach pain and soft pillows.
a sharp inhale. a thin blanket over jaebeom’s hazy figure. cigarettes, grabbed by the hand they belong into. a soft peck on jaebeom's temple.
“was it… on tv?”
“hm?”
“about him. did they find his body? is he alive?”
“jaebeom, there was nothing on tv about it. i think you need to sleep, you haven’t got a lot of sleep lately.”
“can you bring me my sleeping pills, please?”
“without them… sleep without them.”
“i can’t.”
“then stay here. i’ll be back in a few minutes, alright? i’ll come and read to you until you fall asleep. alright?”
a humile sigh and a small nod. “but where are you going?”
“to smoke a cigarette.”
and it’s not like jaebeom doesn't let him. maybe he doesn't want to stay alone, but at the same time, he doesn't want to be an inconvenience. so he remains there, unmoved and unaware of jackson’s hand grabbing the leathered journal and taking it under the mild sun.
(...)
“too proud, huh?” hum against a cigarette, a stolen glance at the cloudy sky.
jaebeom’s lyricism is simple and unexercised, but it somehow works. he writes like a scholar, on the left side of the page, with the title above, in the middle of the row. he adds dates, too, something jackson often struggled with.
his lyricism is sweet, but his confessions are rather sour. and jackson, he’s not some critic — if anything, he hates critics. he can appreciate the lyrics in their raw form, created by a non-poet; he can appreciate the rhymes and rhythms from an actor.
it’s flawed, but it’s beautiful because of that. and jackson, the twelve-year-old enamoured soul, feels the need to barge in with his ink pen. but he writes on the right side of the page, a parenthese to jaebeom’s “untitled” poem.
he’s not great with lyrics, but he studied prose and poetry for as long as he can remember. so he settles for a rhythm, for crossed rhymes that could sound like the chorus of a song. and it’s not the greatest, but it’s enough and it looks different on the page. a different writing, a different length, and jackson's choice of not using uppercase at all. in the end, writing rules are objective and there is no “good” or “bad”.
the few published books he has, taught him that there’s no good or bad. these come from criticism, who pretty much enforces bars and cages on authenticity. in the end, what the reading society doesn't understand is that writing is not meant to be “good”. it’s meant to be authentic.
“couldn't stay in bed?” he doesn't lift his head to face the sun-shadowing jaebeom, but he knows he’s here. him and his maroon sandals and that thin blanket that becomes a safety net at night.
“do you mind?”
against a weird sun, jackson squints his eyes and slowly presses jaebeom’s lyrics and confessions back into leather. “not at all! feeling better?”
“i had a bite or two. i’m better.”
“i’m glad to hear that.”
awkward silence as jaebeom settles with his blanket on one of the sunbeds. jackson continues to smoke in silence as jaebeom crams his limbs and his bones within himself, afraid to take too much space.
he doesn’t know, but on the back of jackson’s mind is pressing a thought: a rope, a neck, a shotgun and dirty clothes. a burning sun and dry lands. a cigarette between chapped lips and a shovel in hand. but also, there’s something at the tunnel of this apocalyptic view: a genuine smile and a pair of arms ready to wrap around his neck.
so now, he grins against his cigarette, an after effect of a certain childish confession he got stuck on ever since he read it. “how do you know though?”
“know what?”
a hand signalling for jaebeom to come closer, and he abandons his blanket to do so. it’s like he already knows on which side of jackson’s to sit, so he does in silence. waits for a hand to wrap around him and for another to hide in a pocket. before anything, jackson smiles bitterly, preparing himself for rejection. then, he takes the silver rings from underneath fabric and lets them be examined by jaebeom’s glossy and knowing eyes.
he should ask, but he doesn’t. he’s standing there, unmoved, a statue that cannot speak. a thumb presses on one of the silver rings, and since he doesn’t have the guts to say it again, jaebeom decides to speak for him. he’s never said “no”, but he’s never said “yes”, either.
“would it make me a cheater? because cheating on my man doesn’t allign with my morals.” still, jackson doesn’t know what to say, his only reaction is that of gulping down the knot in his throat. “if he’ll ever come back, i fear he will murder the both of us.”
“he won’t come back.”
“but you said in your dreams, he keeps coming back.”
“if he comes back, i have a gun…”
if jaebeom’s eyes dilate in fear, his lips plump up with numbness. so, in the worst case…
“you’re not unfaithful if he’s the first one that decided to leave. we’re people, not gods. in the papers, it says that his body is rotting in the ground right now. but if, by any chance, the dead decides to walk again, i’ll send him back to sleep so as he won’t disturb you ever again.” shaking hands and a slight jolt of fear; while jackson’s calm, only caressing lightly at a hip. “on the condition that you won’t ever speak of it. it’s a promise.”
“i won’t speak of it…” barely moving lips, and a trembling hand, stretched in front of jackson for him to seal with a ring. over the silver of a promise, he presses a kiss as long and painful as his yearning for this moment. and he loses his patience as jaebeom’s shaking hand tries to imitate the gesture and slide the other ring on jackson’s finger.
but the hand hurries to grab a chin because lips have to kiss lips. and jaebeom, he’s still shaking in fear, even when he’s held tightly and even as he’s promised nothing bad is going to happen to him. they’re finally kissing and it’s suffocatingly warm, so good, so sweet, everything jackson ever wished for; it’s like heat in the summer.
yet the heat in the summer gets absorbed into a sudden coldness, some sort of shadow. a droplet on jaebeom’s hand, a sob that breaks their kiss. blown-out wide eyes as jackson leaves one more kiss, then a mumble, “let’s get inside”.
droplets and droplets and droplets. a rain as mild as it is cold. wet maroon sandals and a blanket that’s comfortable no more, but soaked in coldness instead. jackson saves the journal and follows jaebeom inside, though he’s not one to mind the rain in the summer that much.
(...)
inside, it’s warmer, quieter. with no exaggeration, it feels like they’ve run till the end of the world and reached this place, where everything might silently end tonight. calmly, patiently, warmly. peacefully.
because if jackson looks over his shoulder, the windows are covered in dim light and droplets. outside it’s pouring and inside, there’s only the sound of boiling water. for a moment, he wonders if this is an apocalypse, the kind his grandma would tell him about while breaking nuts in her palms. the thunderstorms outside are similar, bringing this kind of thought to him.
somehow, it falls into place. it doesn’t have to make sense, it just unveils naturally.
jaebeom’s head on his shoulder and a mug of warm tea. the yellow pages of an old book and jackson’s dirty glasses. the couch, the window, and a blanket that’s enough for the two of them.
“i think i’m going to sleep…” and jackson feels that hesitation, the unspoken allusion about not being able to wake up. or rather,... it goes like, “i think i want to be dead for a couple of hours”. something like that. “stay with me, alright? don’t leave.”
“i won’t leave.”
an impulse to shift and get up, stopped by some sort of hesitation. a frown reflected in the remaining warm tea. “do you think we should make love?”
“well, do you feel like it?”
a gulp. only now does jaebeom get up to put his mug away. “n-no, it’s… i mean… this is embarrassing.”
jackson doesn’t really need his glasses to read through that, so he takes them off and lets them over the page he got to. moves them both away and rubs his eyes. checks the window again, the droplets still sliding down the glass. make love, huh? could that mean he wants to be held? sleep, but sleep peacefully and securely, lulled by a whispering voice of someone else instead of rolling from one side to another as if trying to run away from agony? because jaebeom has been sleeping like he has been tortured lately, rolling around, going to the bathroom many times, rubbing his legs, benting his spine, holding his pillow.
“i’m sorry, nevermind! really!” and with that, he grabs his sleeping pills and swallows one before allowing jackson to protest against it or say something about it.
“if you want, i can hold you until you fall asleep.” because that, about the pills, is a conversation for another day.
for now, jaebeom laying down and having arms wrapped around him lovingly is good enough. cramped bodies, intertwined fingers, and a simple story jackson whispers for a silent, sleeping husband, entombed comfortably between love and a sheet that’s slightly too thick for an ending summer.
synthetic baby
“enjoying yourself?”
a small nod against the palm that is holding jaebeom's temple. the journal gets abandoned for a moment, the focus switching on a bowl of strawberries.
“i’ve been wondering…” jackson says after laying on the grass next to the bowl, next to the journal, next to an already comfortable husband. a finger moves a strand of hair over an ear and rips a small flower just to place it there. silently, he gives up trying to copy jaebeom's position and simply lays down on his back.
“hm? what?” teeth bite into a strawberry as dark eyes are ready to bite on jackson’s liquid thoughts.
“remember when we first met? at that event he gave you the ring and asked you to be his fiancé. and he introduced you and i thought, ‘he’s actually way younger than i expected’. but it only made sense afterwards.”
“what made sense?”
“well, i met with him a few days before that. and he’d told me that he’s been busy, that he bought a new property. so i asked him, ‘what for? some new business? or another vacation house?’. and he’d told me he bought it on his husband's name. he’d said ‘i’m getting married’, to change the subject, but it was a smooth transition, it made sense. who cared about business when a good friend was getting married for the third time, right?”
“jackson, i’m sorry to disappoint you, but i don't think he bought any property on my name. none i’m aware of, anyway.”
“maybe he didn’t tell you about it.”
“do you think he had something arranged there? that he could be hiding there, maybe?”
“it crossed my mind that he might have used that place to hide something or to kill himself.”
head resting on the pages of the journal, the strawberries suddenly a bit too sweet to eat. “your theory has always been this, that he killed himself. him, such a powerful man! he had everything, jackson, so why would he kill himself? why like that, out of the blue?”
a heavy frown weighing on jackson’s forehead. “i’ve known him ever since i was a student, i… have my reasons.”
“mmm, won’t you tell me your reasons?”
a sigh, a loud one and closing eyes. the end of this subject, for now at least. some fumbling jackson tries to ignore and soon, a pair of legs straddling him. gently, if anything. not letting the whole weight of the body onto jackson’s stomach just yet. elbows over jackson’s chest, lips pressing a kiss on his temple, then on his mouth.
hand caresses lightly over the back of jaebeom’s head. and when jackson opens his eyes, there’s the sun behind jaebeom’s head, like an angelic aura of some sort. so the hand traces and caresses, makes jaebeom smile. all while jackson can’t ignore those striking features he has seen before. but on a woman, a particular middle-aged woman, features enframed beautifully by the passing of years.
jaebeom kisses again, as if he’s under a spell and actually feels affectionate towards jackson. then he pulls away just to unbutton his loose shirt, which is the moment jackson takes to observe everything: the bare legs and thighs over him, the pants and some underwear tossed over the journal. then, the loose shirt jaebeom sends in the same pile, and the bare, natural body he presents almost shily.
it’s an invitation, “let’s make love in the garden”, despite jaebeom not saying it out loud. his body, which is slowly warming up under the sun, sweating, is an invitation on its own, one which jackson gladly takes.
a light laugh against jackson’s lips and jaebeom stealing his glasses away and placing them securely over his clothes. smiles that melt into kisses and kisses that fuse into sweetness. a hand around jackson’s nape, a hot body above him and jaebeom’s knees buried into the grass. a sudden pause, not for jackson to get undressed, but for him to taste sweetness in his mouth again, a sweetness in the form of a strawberry this time.
and jaebeom, he’s just as cheerful and warm even as his bare skin sets in the grass, even as his limbs spread apart, making room for jackson in the middle. “can we go out later?” jaebeom asks as groping a back and a nape with both of his palms, trying to touch more than just jackson’s skin.
“uh-huh,” jackson’s sweaty palm lifts a thigh, and when he sticks the slightly-wet skin against his shoulder, there’s an added detail jaebeom says, something that contains the word “husband”, but something that gets mixed with a whiny long moan. something that jackson might never decipher. perhaps something that he doesn’t need to decipher.
underneath him, jaebeom is all tense muscles, skin flushed pink, mouth as red as strawberry jam. a mess of white and red, all splattered in the grass. something to keep jackson grounded and away from his thoughts for a while.
because as his cheek and heavy breaths fall in the middle of jaebeom’s chest, there’s an albeit odd image getting traced in his mind. and though he will never admit it out loud, he thinks that jaebeom has similar features to the first wife of an old, very good friend.
[...]
a pointing finger, a reason for jackson to stick his cheek to jaebeom’s while in public, even if only for a moment. a too-messy, too-loud, slipshod background, a circus of fading, dusty colours and tired smiles. melodies that are simply annoying and all kinds of smells. it almost reminds him of those carnivals he used to enjoy as a child.
but after coming from the army, a shotgun is not just something displayed at a carnival game. he needed years to process that, and maybe that’s why he avoided carnivals of any sorts during his twenties. now, those years of youth are almost gone, and he finally has the guts to place his hands on a shotgun yet again. all while jaebeom, the sweetheart that he is, holds their ice cream cornets and jackson’s hat.
this is the game and he aims towards the target. and despite it not being perfect, it is good enough. it’s all it takes to lure him in the game, and he only allows himself to breathe when it’s over and when the guy behind the counter slides a medium-sized, pink teddy bear over. not without a roll of the eyes, of course, because how dares a random guy win a prize that’s not as useless as a thin plastic mask?
“do you have a girlfriend? or a daughter, maybe? women like these kinds of prizes.” the seller asks as tucking the participation fee into that pouch wrapped around his waist. “or do you want to try, too?” and this one is addressed to jaebeom, whose eyes are fixed on the cotton bear. “what do you say?”
“maybe later.”
“can i still take the bear?”
“ah, sure. hope your girl likes it.”
a forced smile and a nod from jackson. a “thank you, have a good day”, and then his open mouth and his teeth biting back into his ice cream cone. it only feels easier to breathe as they walk away. jaebeom also feels slightly weirder, as if he’s locking himself inside a shell and sealing it with a small smile that’s not genuine.
it’s only when he has to hold the bear as jackson settles for a smoke that they get to talk about what might go on. “if you’re not having fun, we can leave.” jackson says, as if he doesn’t mind.
“i am having fun! but i never got to ask whether you feel uncomfortable about… this, us. i was selfish enough to ask you for a date without even realising we can’t even hold hands here. so i’m sorry!”
“that’s alright! i would really hold you, but i’d rather us be safe.”
“pretend we’re friends?”
a small smile on jackson's face. a sudden longing since his eyes take in the image of jaebeom hugging something he won. it has the power to melt his logic away for a few moments. “it makes me so happy to see you liking that toy i won…”
“i love it…” it’s just a whisper, but it’s one of jaebeom's realest moments, and jackson knows how to absorb it and keep it close to his heart.
“a baby for my baby.” he mumbles back, a soft smile stretching his lips just a bit more than he had it planned.
(...)
teddy bear swinging from jaebeom's hands to the bed, watching them calmly with shiny button eyes. while jaebeom lifts just to be held by his husband. cheek against cheek they’re standing, fingers intertwined so tightly, as if to numb the fear still lying somewhere inside, sound asleep.
a hand grabbing a chin and turning a head to press a kiss on a mouth. a mind burning with a few mixed images that had been bothering jackson lately; hands pulling clothes off, hands pushing bodies, hands grabbing a neck and bending it once with a spine. hands, almost too rough, pressing.
“jackson, it hurts,” a hiss that makes hands let go, as if they lost their ability to grip. so jaebeom falls forward, sweaty palms and elbows hitting the mattress, head shamefully between the plush bear’s limbs, ass still in the air, thighs flexed. pressed lips, frown, some sort of numb pain where his body gets split. jackson still behind him, fucking slower and slower until he pulls out.
it feels like the beginning of an argument, but it’s something else: jackson spits, makes a sound that’s almost disgusting, and jaebeom curses. but it slowly eases the pain and the ache, that thumb that keeps rubbing and teasing dirtily, even when the mood closes the window behind it.
if jaebeom is guided to turn on his back, he also brings sweaty legs he tries throwing as if he’s trying to purposefully hit his husband above. but jackson, even glassless, has the sharp reflex to catch them before they can hit. “sorry, i got caught up in my mind.”
“how about you not get caught up in your mind while with your dick up my ass, hm?”
a sigh and a kiss on a thigh, “there’s something you should know.”
something inside jaebeom’s stomach twisting painfully and making him arch his spine and bury his heavy head in the mattress. a jolting leg, then jackson’s hand that pulls the plush bear’s tummy right under jaebeom’s head. another sigh, from jaebeom this time, and because jackson is still a massive shadow towering over him, he gives up and hooks his hands over his man’s neck. “what is it?”
delicate horrors
the car parked in the middle of nowhere, under a setting sun. an inhale and a hand reaching for the leather gloves and sliding them on easily. a heavy atmosphere, suffocated by both tension and warmth.
yet, jaebeom’s sweaty palm on a thigh, a mute pleading for an extra moment. while hazel eyes examine the wheat land he has been dreaming about for quite some time. a reunion with an old friend awaiting behind all that’s golden.
“i think it’s going to take me about three minutes to cross the wheat field. and i think… you might be able to hear a gunshot from here.”
“do you really think he killed himself in a place like this?”
“it’s the middle of fucking nowhere… nothing would really shock me.”
“please come back to me safely… please come back fast and let’s leave this place…”
it looks like the sun above has fangs, just like the wheat field before them has scythes for mouths. it looks like they are ready to bite into jackson’s knees and break his bones, worse than they do in his nightmares.
“i will be back. give me fifteen minutes.”
an audible gulp from jaebeom and a pat on jackson’s thigh. “take care… i love you.”
and so jackson jumps off the car, having his husband staring at the way his whole body gets swallowed by the golden wheat field.
(...)
the wheat is so high, as if it’s trying to reach the sky. for three minutes, it feels like it’s a demon feeding off agony, fear and all the suspicion jackson has been trapping inside of himself for years. instead of talking about it, he enclosed it into a notebook and locked it in a drawer; sealed it with self-criticism and that etiquette of a not-good-enough-journalist.
now it comes back to him and it reeks, as if he has forgotten the core of an apple in that drawer years ago. it stinks of rusty metal and rot, and though he’s in front of a ghost property that might hide answers to his suspicions, he’s not sure he wants them anymore.
but there is a cracked window somewhere, on one side, and it only requires a hit of an elbow to break. from inside there’s a horrible smell although nothing seems to be wrong. even if jackson sticks his head inside, he cannot see any trace of anybody. although there is something that makes him grab his heart between his teeth and get inside the place.
some of jaebeom's paintings. some he remembers all too well about.
(“this is jaebeom lim, maybe you’ve heard of him. he’s an actor and a soon-to-be painter.” a cheeky smile from an elegant man and a shier smile from the actor who’s been stuck to him all night. it makes jackson believe that this new lover of his friend was even less accustomed to luxe than the past ones.
“i’m nowhere near worthy of this description, but i’m… really glad to meet his friends!”
‘talks nicely’, jackson scribbles down on his first impression note. ‘but is modest’. “my name is jackson wang. i’m an author and your husband’s best friend.”
“jacks, you’re more of an arts person than me, so i think you might really like jaebeom's paintings! go show them to him, love. i’ll go greet the new guests.”
the actor next to jackson's friend looks young, so it’s only natural he comes off as timid and inexperienced. the paintings are not bad at all, jackson's actually charmed by the displayed palette of colours, but it’s obvious jaebeom has a hard time opening his mouth to give more insight into his art interpretation. the first painting jackson gazes at portrays a nude woman with a melting face; the background contains blurred elements, all greys and blues, vaguely reminding jackson of a circus.
“oh… is this a metaphor for society? or does it have any kind of political connotation?”
“actually…” and jaebeom's hiding his hands behind his back, almost shameful. “some of those were his ideas… he likes distorted or dissected bodies, and i painted quite a few for him.”
“ah, is that so?”
“mhm. they’re more interesting than the natural elements i usually paint. my ideas are pretty overdone and not very creative.”)
small red splatters over the woman’s melting face and a heavy frown on jackson’s forehead. he decides not to touch, and instead, he does notice her long black hair belonging to that preference pattern of his friend. brunettes with thin noses, usually kind, shy or silent. usually easy to split and manipulate.
next to this painting, another one of a crucified distorted body. small breasts and little to no nude intimate parts. genderless and ageless, faceless. featureless. sewing marks tracing the contour of the head and nothing more. despite the horrifying imagery, the palette of shades and shapes keeps its odd softness. it’s jaebeom's style made out of light pinks, blues and greys and gentle rounded curbs and curves.
if jackson turns his head, he sees that mediocre painting of the well. he remembers it, but there’s something added to it this time.
(“let me guess, a wishing well?” jackson means no harm, he only tries a joke because the atmosphere is slightly tense. at least that's how it feels when he looks towards jaebeom who’s incredibly nervous for an actor.
“i did it after a real picture from the village he grew up with. he would often say there’s a story about that fountain, but i don't think it would be adequate to say it…”
“please, i’m fond of stories that get born from rumors.”
“i have no idea if it’s true, but your friend would say a pregnant woman used one of the metal hangers from there to get rid of her baby. but god punished her and made her throw herself in the well afterwards. legend says someone found blood instead of water in the fountain, and ever since then the people have been afraid to use it.” a small shake of shoulders and jaebeom's hands that finally cross at his chest. a gesture that makes jackson notice the cross hanging around his neck. “i’ve had nightmares about this story and i just couldn't sleep until i finished painting this. it still has a certain weight on my soul, a weird grip… i wish i could just throw it away because it scares me to death, but my husband loves it, so i can’t.”
jackson stays silent, disturbance engraved on his expression. with his hands in his pockets, he turns his head and stares at jaebeom without realising how rude he looks.
“i apologize, i shouldn't have—”
“no! no… but i wasn't aware my best friend is fascinated by… such dark things.”
“i guess he is…”)
on the painting, in the middle of the well, there are scribbled two symbols of people: the first one is two times bigger than the other. judging by the messiness and sketchiness of it, by the style and blackness of it, it’s not jaebeom's hand anymore. it’s also not hard to associate the symbols to the pregnant woman and the baby, and it makes jackson swallow the knot in his throat at the thought that the well may exist somewhere close to this place.
he tries to keep his calm even as he thinks of the fountain as a tomb for a first brunette wife and her unwanted daughter.
to the collection of horrors and uneasy images, there is a painting of the sea. it used to be all beautiful shades of blues and greys, but now there are two kinds of splatters ruining its essence and calmness.
(“this one is so serene… calming.”
and it’s not a lie jackson throws for the sake of it. he loves it especially after having noticed all the water hiding behind jaebeom's eyes. he barely met the man, yet he would go as far as to say it describes jaebeom the best.
“it’s such a peaceful way of dying, swallowed by cold, calm water.”
a turned head from jackson, the same frown and disturbance as earlier. this time, he’s genuinely shocked at how the gently traced ocean gets associated with death. while impulse tells jaebeom to cover his mouth, as if to erase what he had just said.
“i’m terribly sorry!”
“that’s… alright.”
jackson has always had an eye for the little things, and he can tell jaebeom's hands are shaking, even though he hides them behind his back again. then he goes on showing his real acting skill, finally.
“i just got stuck on the last story, i think!”)
right, jaebeom is still in the car, waiting for jackson with a heart that must be beating like a bell. it’s time jackson moves from all the paintings despite his emotional attachment to the works that only got destroyed.
but the work is ruined now, and if there is anything left to save, that is jaebeom himself, whose heart has already been tainted.
with another deep breath, jackson takes in the abandoned molding food on a plate. insects carving it, using it as both food and home and instead filling it with an unpleasant smell. if there is cold food on the plate, that’s not older than weeks, it means the place is not abandoned or forgotten about.
leather-covered hand touches the gun hanging by his belt, just to remind himself he is safe. there seems to be a bedroom behind this joke of a kitchen, so jackson approaches the door silently and sets a firm hand on his gun as he slowly opens the door.
there, an even worse smell hits him so hard he has to cover his nose. but he forgets about it quickly as he realizes this bedroom serves as a macabre slaughterhouse. a play-pretend circus, self-made by a madman. it never leaves jackson’s mind, which is still able to function coldly, even as he’s at the tip of a massacre chamber.
on the bed, there is a rotting body with a cut-out face sewed backwards. bloody cloth underneath, long strands of hair, a home for flies and ants.
suspended by the pipe above, there are ropes, some heavy with liches, some split at the end with something sharp, as if cut off. a suspended garden of hanging bodies, some of them still whole and disintegrating into rot, others barely hideous heads with unkempt hair and ugly expressions of horror engraved forever on their faces. most of them have chopped off limbs or digged out bellies, out of which some miss organs.
all jackson can distinguish are some features or body parts that resemble women. each and every one of them has black hair, beyond shoulder-length. a simple count of the horrors goes like this: there are four hanging bodies and three heads, and there is another laid down on the bed. eight bodies, eight crimes, out of which jackson doesn’t seem to be able to make out whether he knows or has ever met any of those poor victims.
with a gulp, he ignores all the dried blood and all the decaying flesh, already infected with a heavy air inside, the warmth of summer, insects and dust. gloved hands look over the few stuff displayed on a table: books, papers, newspapers. a few letters and many attempts at writing letters. bills and some other documents jackson chooses not to look over when he has a limited amount of time to search for his friend’s body.
still, there is an address on one of the letters, an address of a boarding christian school. a few words stick to him, “i miss you, i cannot wait to meet you again during the next holiday season”. horrified and already running low on time, jackson takes out of his chest pocket a small note he intentionally carried here and his own pen. and with gloved hands that tremble, he scribbles down an address and a name before putting the letter back into the envelope.
even though he’s horrified, jackson leaves everything as he found it. meticulosity, he thinks, is compulsory in this situation, where the police are going to reconstruct his journey and step over his invisible vestige.
finally, he chooses to also check what looks like a dusty basement, already expecting to find even worse images down there. mostly, he’s fueled by the need to know whether the figurehead of this horror circus is really dead or whether he is still breathing somewhere, living with the spiders, preparing something even more horrible for a lover he abandoned.
the door of the basement cracks, revealing yet another persisting, moldy odor. surprisingly, the lighting is on, and since jackson has an uneasy feeling about this, he takes out his gun just to feel safer.
facial muscles get numb as hazel eyes get fixed on two hanging corpses of another two women: this time jackson can identify them both as his best friend’s past wives. two slaughtered bodies, roped by the neck, chopped out like sacrifice pigs. their hangman is nowhere near, and jackson’s pocket watch already announces how he should go back. fear settles as well, whispering to him to get out as soon as possible.
and as he hurries out of the ghost house of massacred corpses, his heart starts pounding faster and faster, suddenly terrified for having left jaebeom alone in such a place. the wheat seems older and higher, repulsive, tugging jackson’s body back inside the golden field and sending him closer to the ground. stain your knees and hands with dirt, stay down, disappear.
(...)
the heat of summer even at the beginning of autumn. moreso between the glasses, metal and comfort of a car. after jackson disappears in the wheat field, jaebeom stays and waits. keeps his eyes on his pocket watch for about two whole minutes.
then, he sighs loudly and it gets slightly easier to breathe. two minutes passed already, and in about fifteen more, jackson is going to be back. he busies himself with gazing around at the dry land and at the wheat field. it’s a calm and quiet place, forgotten by everyone, somewhere at the edge of a really small village.
(“i grew up in a really small village in the countryside. i was raised by my grandparents there, so i’m… you know, a bit old-fashioned.” a few fingertips getting lost into the thick strands of dark hair covering a nape. they play there a bit, taking their time to feel, touch, and inspect as if the eyes following the movements were counting the seconds until the head in front of him reacts. and it does jolt a bit, willing to free itself of the light grip, but time and movement stops with a cold kiss that’s pressed against skin. it’s enough to freeze everything.
“i can’t paint if you keep doing that. but i’d love to hear more about you and why you consider yourself old-fashioned.”
“because…” another kiss on a neck and fingers wrapping around the brush, slowly stealing it away and using its wooden end to caress over a spine until it stirs the lover in his lap so much, he jumps in fear.)
disturbed and almost thrilled, jaebeom decides to check his watch again only to get disappointed after seeing how only three minutes have passed since jackson left. so he waits, tries not to think. grabs jackson’s cigarette pack and counts its faces and sides. he’s not much of a smoker, never been fond of american tobacco, but he decides to get out the car and try one anyway. choke and cough for a minute just to lose another minute.
instead of lighting a cigarette, he has an odd feeling that pushes his hand back inside the car. after pocketing the car keys, he walks slowly towards the wheat field and doesn’t dare touch it.
(“in the village i grew up in, it was normal to… bury your dead pet in the garden, for example. it was tradition, like going to church every friday and sunday.”
“oh… this is not as unusual.”
“maybe, but my grandparents were poor and didn’t have a garden. still, there was this cornfield not far from their house. it was… well, the corn actually didn’t do well, and i remember one year after my grandpa took me across it to bury my dog, the drought killed all the corn. it felt like a weird exchange, because i gave the land a dead body and it bit back, taking our reap for the year.”
a gentle hand coming to caress over a cold chest, bare, slightly sweaty. it strokes lightly, as if saying “i’m sorry that happened”.
“a few years later, after grandma died and i helped grandpa bury her in the same place, we had our first wheat harvest. it was odd how that place became our small cemetery, and how the field served as a garden for us.” a small sigh and a cold hand grabbing jaebeom’s, pulling it to a pair of lips and delivering a kiss to it. “it’s a quiet place, forgotten by the world… i’d like to die there.”)
a light breeze caressing both the high vault of wheat and jaebeom, who barely stretches his arm to touch it. it would have made such a rich harvest, it’s such a pity.
ten minutes and even less, they’re enough for him to find that family cemetery and say a prayer for those buried there. so he doesn’t listen to jackson’s words, doesn’t stick to jackson’s plan, just because the passenger’s place in the car is burning his skin in jackson’s absence. by the pocket watch, there’s enough time to look around for a while, to crawl his feet towards this dry land and to be back by the car before his husband.
he walks and walks. with the watch in his hand, he walks and mumbles to himself an old song to keep him company. all until he thinks he found the cemetery: bumps in the land, as if the place would still suffer from a bubonic plague.
(“jackson, what is it?”
jackson is still fully naked, but on the balcony, with smelly american tobacco burning between his lips. he’s been acting weird ever since they got home, and at a time like this, jaebeom almost ran out of ways to talk to him. and for now, he hugs the pink bear to his chest and waits.
and it takes jackson… a few long moments.
“you know, for a while, i worked as a journalist for a newspaper. which means i would come across information. women would disappear, i remember, and though it wasn’t the field in which i was allowed to activate, i would ask and i would do research. then… his first wife disappeared, and no newspaper wrote about it. i wondered why, and when i dared say it’s the same person who kidnapped the other two brunette women who disappeared the same month, i got fired.”
jackson’s head turning and searching for a reaction on his husband’s face, but nothing changed there. the same waiting eyes full of water which much know he’s not done.
“i was told stuff… it doesn’t matter anymore, but it made me put down my stupid suspicion i had over a person who was a good friend for me. at that time, i could tell he was infatuated by… he followed a certain pattern in partners. and i thought he may be linked with the disappearances of these women. i thought, ‘this sick bastard killed his wife and his daughter’, and i hated myself for thinking like that.”)
thirteen bumps in the ground jaebeom counts, his hands already shaking because he doesn’t even know thirteen prayers. dug in the land, one next to each other, a blanket of soil covering a row of corpses, most likely.
breathing becomes harder and harder against the heat, against the silent tears he can’t really hold in any longer. he knows jackson said not to touch anything, but there is a rope buried in one of these bumps in the land and though jaebeom wants to grab and tug it, he doesn’t. instead, he allows himself to fall on his knees and mumble a prayer for all the innocent people buried here.
“thank you for this year’s rich harvest…” he adds at the end, and as he lifts up to leave, the wind blows yet again, a light caress. dry your eyes and turn your head. his pocket watch tells him he has enough minutes left, so he does wipe his eyes before shily approaching the wheat field with the thought of ripping some and laying it on the tombstones.
he has a mouthful and he’s in the middle of wheat when jackson’s voice suddenly rings in his head: don’t touch anything, don’t leave imprints, don’t move anything from its place. for a moment, he stays gazing at the wheat in his hand, then he lets go of his idea by shoving it in the back pocket of his pants. yet he crosses his hands and continues to wander in the field, wishing to abandon his mind, thoughts and grief here.
the minutes pass, he feels them. they fly almost too fast now, and by this time, he should turn his feet and try to find his way back to the car. but something inside the field lures him deeper in such a way that he cannot stop his steps. that until there is something that blocks the way and makes him stop in his tracks.
a body. laying flat on the ground, limbs buried in wheat. a sharp blade of a scythe coming out of the body’s back, all covered in dried blood. with his boot, jaebeom slowly moves the wheat away from one of his hands, revealing a bucket full of berries, laying on the ground while the fruits are rotting everywhere they got splattered. slowly, jaebeom uses his other foot to do the same and get a sight at the left limb as well, and ends up noticing a red dog leash wrapped around a wrist.
a golden ring on the man’s finger. dark brown hair and a watch jaebeom saw quite a few times. the same proportions of the man he called his lover for a while, filling him with a burning red shame from head to toe.
“was i next? were you going to dig my grave in this land?” he mumbles for no one in particular, tears running down his cheeks already. “what did they ever do to you… what did i ever do to you…”
a choked sob and a few moments he wastes simply by crying in his palms, much aware he shouldn’t spread his tears everywhere, like he already did. and with a heavy heart, a dishevelled mind and eyes pouring with water, he turns away and starts running like the feral dog who must have accidentally murdered a criminal just to exit the wheat field and take back its freedom.
(...)
“jaebeom? jaebeom?! shit!” panic sets in since jaebeom is not in the car anymore. with his hands in his head, jackson turns around, trying not to break down about the absence of his husband or about the fact that the car is locked and the keys must be at jaebeom.
he cannot lose his mind right now, not after he endured all the morbid images of a slaughterhouse. he takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and as he’s prepared to scream once again for jaebeom, he sees a disheveled silhouette getting out of the wheat land, far away; so he waits and lets the anger melt out of him until both reality and jaebeom hit him at the same time.
“ja—”
“i told you to stay in the fucking car!” gloved hands already cup jaebeom's head, and before jackson can say anything more, his frown bumps against jaebeom's forehead. a sob he lets out, a sob and twin desperate tears. he feels jaebeom's palms over his leather gloves and realizes how he would have been lost without them. “there are ten corpses inside, jaebeom…”
a fumble of the keys, shaking bodies, slowly getting inside the car for safety. jackson is too shocked to be able to start the car yet, so he tosses his gloves in his lap for now and lets his head fall against jaebeom's shoulder. moreso, takes both jaebeom's hands in his and holds them as tightly as he possibly can, as close to his beating heart as he is able to.
“tell me you didn't leave any traces, please.”
“i was about to be the fourteenth…”
jackson lifts his head and feels something in his chest dying as he has to hold jaebeom's reddening, crying face between his palms.
heavy luggage
“Most of the murders tried to replicate images from multiple paintings found in the criminal’s hiding. Young actor and close friend of the deceased criminal, Lim Jaebeom, declared the paintings were made by him and gifted to his friend as a way to show thankfulness for the support the murderer showed. “He had an albeit odd vision about things, and I would paint them for him even during our time together. He would answer work calls still and I would sit and paint for him like an entertainer. We would talk a lot about nothing and everything. At the end of the day, my heart would grow full of joy as he would smile at my painting and wholeheartedly thank me for giving him such beautiful art. In my eyes, it wasn't exactly art since I wasn't and am not a painter. But I would feel good for being able to offer what I could offer to someone I considered a good friend”, are Lim’s explanations about the paintings.”
jaebeom is only a sleeping body, natural yet heavy against the clean mattress. puffy sheet over half of him, soft and gentle with his skin. a hand wrapped around pink plush unawarely, a bare leg on full display.
a late morning in which jackson decides to push his writing machine away just to place his elbow on the table and admire his sleeping husband. the coffee he made for jaebeom got cold, just as the remaining of his own. still, it doesn't matter. and he doesn't mind.
it’s the first time in a long while that jaebeom sleeps peacefully without the help of pills. and it’s a calming view after such a big storm of tumults, horrors, media pressure, police declarations and weeks of separation. jackson truly missed him, his presence and his spirit; missed his place being filled with something special he would look at with genuine affection and adoration.
so at a moment like this, it’s so easy to pull the paper out of the typing machine, to fold it and to abandon it under his coffee cup. it’s easy to leave his already dirty glasses on the table and to move to bed without any thought of sleeping.
a kiss on jaebeom's ankle. one on the back of his knee. on his tight, his hip, his rib. kiss, kiss, kiss. “i’m awake…” a sleepy mumble and a disoriented hand searching for jackson. “i’m… awake…”
a small smile on jackson’s lips as jaebeom turns on his stomach, hugging the pink bear even tighter, tucking its head under his chin and using it as a comfortable pillow. “sleep some more, sleep for how much you want to.” jackson reassures with another kiss on jaebeom's shoulder. but what jackson doesn’t know is the fact that jaebeom is mentally awake despite his body still being filled with numbness and sleep.
“did you start writing that article?” his eyes may still be closed, but his mind and senses are functioning so quick, as if on alert mode.
and jackson knows all too well about the heaviness that still lingers and expects it to persist for more. for months, years even, he can’t tell. “not yet”, he replies, and as he settles his chin over his lover’s hand and looks at the folded coffee-splattered piece of article, he decides his answer is not exactly a lie.
“No less than thirteen bodies have been found inside and across one of the murderer’s alleged properties. The police managed to identify the identities of all thirteen bodies, out of which ten belonged to young women and three of young men. The inquiry concluded that out of the thirteen dead bodies, two belonged to the two ex-wives of the murderer, whom he might have killed out of personal or intimate issues. However, the police speculate there might have been a fourteen victim, a new-born baby of just a few weeks, whose body has been found in the fountain placed at a seven-minute-walk to the crime scene.”
if jackson lifts his eyes from his paper and gazes in front of him, he can see jaebeom, a silent man who’s only become quieter ever since he discovered the horrors tied to an almost-husband, to a man he deeply cared about. now, he resembles a shadow more and more, and now, the regrets and tumults are all plastered across his skin, spread on his face, pulling at his eyebags, crushing his eyebrows together, sewing his lips with his tongue and occasionally, making his eyes rain in silence.
the dim shadows and general gloom that fills jackson’s place is meant to keep a calm atmosphere, good for writing. yet, at a time like this, it gathers together and hits jaebeom’s face like a water wave, giving him a slightly odd and cold tone.
and jackson is not a painter, but he always thought jaebeom’s skin tone is warm; however, right now, it looks colder than ever, only a palette of greys and blues. he is the victim who didn’t get to experience the distress until his flesh got pierced, but he is also one of those victims who got their soul touched, stirred, deranged, stripped off, split, bleeding. which is not quite the luck the press makes it to be.
“accomplice” is a term that had been pushed onto him for quite a while, due to all the paintings found at the crime scene and due to the appropriation between him and a man he considered a good lover. it is also a term that made him ask jackson one too many times, “do you think i resemble him?” or “am i turning into him?”. a term that made him afraid to place his fingers on a brush again.
perhaps this is the first time jackson truly sees and starts understanding grief. it’s much more than crying over a casket, and it goes further than losing a loved one. this kind of grief is slightly different, it is about ripping out something inside of your own chest and deciding to bury it forever; it’s painful, it’s silent, it’s full of regret, doubt and hopelessness. this kind of grief is about getting stuck in a spiral, about losing both your voice and your mind. it is about going to bed only to feel the heaviness piercing through your whole body and dissecting each organ inside instead of being able to close your eyes and forget about yourself for a while.
this kind of grief is a suitcase loaded with memories and shame, labels and images of a massacre, feelings of all kinds, and jaebeom has to carry it with him unconditionally, endlessly, until its heaviness finally becomes part of him.
“Young actor Lim Jaebeom, close friend of the murderer, despite being initially accused of being a possible accomplice, has been inquired for months and found innocent. Furthermore, the police’s theory is that both 28-years-old Lim and 13-years-old student Jung Gyuri represented possible future targets the offender prepared to attack.
The culprit was found dead in the close proximity of the crime scene, with a dog leash wrapped around his wrist and a scythe piercing through his stomach. The court declared the death of the serial killer was accidental, after the police confirmed he kept a Doberman dog around the house, to help him keep the territory he used as a massacre table secure. The police explained the dog might have had an outburst due to the heat and the smell of blood and flesh, and might have hit his owner a few times violently in order to run away. On the deceased criminal’s lower body were found severe scratches and traces of bites, while the leash found was broken.”
[...]
a delicate hand unwrapping a purple ribbon and dark eyes inspecting the inside: a few interesting titles of novels, some soft fabric, and a little envelope which she grabs first. surprised by the content that is not a flat letter, the girl widens her eyes and waits for jackson to make a subtle sign to open it.
“a silver cross?”
of course she already has one that is engraved on the sides, adorned with beautiful details. yet jackson couldn’t stop jaebeom from slipping it into an envelope and adding it into the gift box; it weighed too heavy for jaebeom, so he simply had to let go of it. pass it to a daughter, let her have it, throw it, bury it, burn it.
“i have it from your father…”
something on the girl’s face, a clear disturbance twisting her pretty features in such a way: a frown on her forehead, fixed dark eyes, lips that want to slip a few words that won’t be adequate for such a lady like her.
so jackson searches for an apology, but he’s not a good liar. his mouth is cursed to speak the truth and the truth only despite his sharp tongue and that evil corner of his eye. “i mean, my lover has it from your father. also the one who made all these paintings in your room. if you don’t want it, i understand.”
shoes swinging back and forth, fingers tapping the gift box she keeps in her lap. “you mean that actor? lim jaebeom? the cross is from him?”
“it’s from him, yeah.”
“i would really like to meet him one day…” a dreamy fantasy of a dreamy young girl who’s living in her novels and in her head most of the time. or, at least, that’s how her carefully-finessed act sounds.
“you would?”
“yes! i’m in love with him…”
jackson’s lips curling in a smile, genuinely endeared. such a way of putting it, but jackson does understand what she means by it. “i will talk to him, then. maybe during your summer break, you can visit us. we would be happy to have you! and i’m sure jaebeom would be delighted to meet you. he actually wants to meet you, too, but he’s a little shy.”
“he is?”
a half-smile pulling at the corner of jackson’s mouth and a particular image of jaebeom sewing a dress for gyuri out of his velvet costume, still detailed, still grabbing at jackson’s lips and making him swallow it with half of his mouth. painting has been hard for him in the past few months, so he picked up sewing. destroyed his most beautiful clothes and the most expensive materials he owed just to give them away. for him, it’s still hard, letting go. he’s still hanging by stuff and learning to let go of it, hoping that his heart would get lighter; and it’s painful for jackson to watch him, because he knows that glass heart of his doesn’t get lighter, no matter how many things from the past he throws away.
“he is, yeah. but i think he’ll love you once he gets to meet you.”
“if he has the cross from my dad… i’ll throw it away for him.”
“i’m sure if he was here, he would thank you from the bottom of that heavy heart of his.” a forced smile, bittersweet, like jaebeom does when he sees his favourite flowers in bloom. “thank you.” whispered yet powerful enough to make the child in front of him smile back a smile that means more than a thousand of words.
only tolerable
“And I’ve been thanking and praying to a God that did not exist…
I wish I was you, wiser and cooler; firmer, rougher. Wish I was born with a golden hand, like you, instead of trying in vain to imitate and hang and cling and pick them all up in silence. I know I take too much space and too much time… it’s an inconvenience, it’s only ever tolerable.”
wet cherries in a transparent bowl and sugary dried plums on a plate. a light-coloured shirt of jackson’s on a husband and a knife. round pomegranate, so ripe it’s slowly smelling like it’s getting altered.
frown on jackson’s forehead and eyes that lose focus; pomegranate or apple, round, blood-red, so ripe. burning the eye and the tongue, but slowly getting the odor of rot.
—thwack!
and as jackson’s trying to gain focus, the clinking of metal hitting the ground.
the littlest dark-red splatters on jaebeom's face. halved pomegranate, sliced middle seeds. bleeding, pouring on the table, on a husband's hands, on the sleeves of jackson’s old shirt. eyes grow wide as jaebeom is frozen, as the knife is nowhere on the table. and jackson doesn't understand.
not until a trembling hand lets go of the piece of fruit, lets it bleed on the table, splatter the wood right in front of jackson. while jaebeom gets up and hurries inside, as if he’s suddenly mad. so, instead of staying with the too-ripe sliced fruit, he follows the hiss of a husband in the kitchen, a sudden alarm ringing in his head.
“did you cut yourself?”
the water running over a shaking hand. then, a kitchen towel over the palm in question, and a sigh from jaebeom.
“are you alright? jaebeom?”
“What does it matter if I’m alright when I might be just as guilty?
Tell me, is the pomegranate guilty for getting splintered? Of course it’s not… But tell me, who’s to blame for my split wrist bleeding in its juices? Who’s to blame? Myself, right? ‘Should have been more careful, darling’ , but I didn’t know…
Though this split wrist of mine, it still stings sometimes, but it’s tolerable.”
sunflowers, a whole field of them. the dying sun above, violet eyes, sharp fangs, golden swollen veins. pink blood painting the sky, with a dying star in the middle.
white cotton, loose, buffant sleeves. silver cross and silver ring, and bare feet, running through the field. jaebeom is happily running towards the sun, which seems so close that he could catch it in his palm. but he runs until he trips and falls, and before he can get up, he gets lifted up by a figure he knows so well, a figure covered in blood.
he struggles like a choking fish with the rope that’s tight around his throat, pulling him back, stealing his voice and slowly, his breath, too. sunflowers at his feet, sunflowers he kicks with his feet, flowers he destroys, sunflowers… sunflowers that soon get splattered with his blood as he realizes he’s somehow become the dying sun.
“I cannot look at the sun anymore, so I pretend I’m blind now. For me, it doesn’t set, for me, it’s bleeding and dying, each and every night, like a martyr of this cruel, cruel world.
No, I don’t want to look at the moon either. For I see—”
“jackson?” a head heavy, filled with sleep, barely seeing what’s before him. and a hand, gentle hand of a husband, caressing and slowly pushing his head back on the pillow placed on jackson’s lap. “did i fall asleep? what are you reading? because i forg—…”
leathered journal jackson closes with a hand, leaving it somewhere on the couch. “sorry, i should have asked for permission. but you haven’t painted ever since everything happened and i barged in into your intimity like that with the hope that i’d figure out why. i miss it. i miss… you.”
jaebeom’s hand intentionally falls from the couch, touching around like an unknowing newborn, hoping he would find his favourite piece of cotton to pull it to his chest. but it’s not around, it’s nowhere, and jackson seems to be against him today, of all days; pulling him back, lightly caressing his hair.
“we have an uninvited guest, between…” jackson mumbles, and that’s when jaebeom spots her, too, the cat that’s sleeping so peacefully on jaebeom’s comforting, pink cloud of cotton. “she cuddled next to you first, but she kept on moving, and you kept jolting, so i… let her sleep there.”
“jackson, do you think i’m guilty?” a hurried whisper. because it’s so hard to talk about it, most of the time.
“i simply think that you’re carrying the burden of the world on your shoulders… if you’re still searching for a ‘less evil but still evil’ in this whole story, then that’s me, not you. for endless reasons. for keeping his gun, for stealing his love, for that suspicion i had for years. but i can live with the fact that i’m the less evil, because, at least, i saved you. or maybe spared, save is a big word… my suspicion and those not-so-good things i’ve done contributed to sparing you and gyuri. or so i like to think. and i can live with that.”
“unawarely, i painted his victims, jackson… i don’t think i have the will to paint anymore…”
“then… let’s get away from here for a while.”
a small smile and a nicer memory crawling towards jaebeom’s tained heart. “just like that?”
“just like that.”