kidelune

[kidelune]

Nov. 26 2024

Dear dust caked journal,

This is the longest I've gone without a word to you. Without the debilitating need of your familiarly, your tacit comfort. It feels strange– almost novel, to stroke your back and split you open again. Your blank pages nearly blinding me out of thought. It would seem that people hardly ever stir unless they're upset, depraved, or content. Today I'm here to confess that finally, finally, I'm the latter.

The year's close to ending and reinventing itself again. I remember where I was at this time a year ago; skin between my teeth, on my stomach, my eyes jaded and sleepless. The pain sewed throughout my vertebrae, unending. I remember everything, as does my body. I shiver at the thought of turning my back to the stove. I never do, but that's the only remaining tendril I've left of that person I was last year. Maybe someday he'll find the courage to rest alongside the ones who came before. Make more room for whatever or whoever else I'll become in the future.

That's not to say that I have any inklings of who I am today, though. I still don't fucking know. In my head I'm still six, eight, twelve, sixteen, seventeen, twenty-one, twenty-six. In my head, I'm still just surviving, even in the secure safety of mundanity. Still figuring out what exactly I'm supposed to do with this life I've repeatedly been given a second chance at, for whatever reason. (What is the reason?) Only thing I'm aware of is that I'm alive, that many graves are full because of me, and that somehow, by some sort of divinely conjured up miracle, exactly twelve days ago, I got married.

In Thailand, the knot was tied. 14th of November, ten days after my 30th birthday. Neither of us could speak Thai and yet we signed their papers and welcomed their cheers. Then it was about ten of us combined in a party room, including our photographer and makeup artists. I never knew I could cry so much. Never even thought I'd hit this particular milestone in this life, let alone bawl my way through my vows like a broken dam. Now I understand why marriage is so sought after among all generations. It's not about the wedding itself, but the feeling of it. Like a once in a lifetime high; like the first drug you ever do. Humans are notorious for chasing after euphoria, to the point of inevitable divorce. Or death. As it's only death that could do two apart, after all.

Upon landing back in Seoul, just married and very exhausted, I quit the office job my husband gave me about a year ago. Instead, I'll be opening a bar with my dirty money and setting us up with a second stream of income and thus securing our early retirement in place. Found the perfect spot a while back; a tiny, obscure nook in Itaewon. The alley elevation slightly downturned. Barely touched by the light, drowned in the shores of night. Byungwoo did not trip once on the way up to it, which is how I knew it was perfect. L.32 it'll be called; serving as the perfect little spot for my husband to swing by and hang out after work–alongside others, of course. Who knows? Perhaps while I'm doing this, as I adapt to and grow from it, I'll finally manage to figure out for good what kind of man I am. Or want to be. Will this new thing keep blood off my hands long term, or will I find and hide the crusts beneath my fingernails while fixing a framed wedding photo on my desk?

Only one way to find out. But for now, it's needless to say that I'm happy. I've stopped collecting scars. I've stopped running for my life. I'm sober and have gained weight. I no longer flinch in my sleep. I sleep. I've never been more safe and content than I am right now. My fists have no need to fly anymore, not to protect my life.

And I guess that's enough.

[kidelune]

2024.

I don't really know what to say or ask for anymore. But ideally, as I do every year, I still hope to smoke a couple less cigarettes and see pops a lot more often than I did the year before. Ideally.

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine (1/2), nine (2/2)

Let all the vile and suppurating venoms of the night spit in the eyes of God and blind her to our evil.

[Breaking News (31 October, 2023): Notorious drug ring gang members arrested en masse after a major brawl breaks out near Incheon Port in broad daylight]

[30–31 October, 2023. Somewhere between Yongsan and Incheon]

Have you seen the news going around on the 31st? Do you recall the full context of the coverage articles? Let me jog your memory for you: written by an obviously politically motivated prick, spreading bullshit about violent gang members, mass arrest, and body counts. Then something else about a notoriously wanted drug ring leader turning up dead a few hours after, his leaked identity shocking the general public into an instant uproar. Yeah, I mean that news, something about... trouble, trouble, and more trouble.

Was not my cup of tea in general as you would imagine, at least not that abysmal holier-than-thou attitude it'd been written with. But I can't deny that the evidence was still all there. And as per usual, it made the population anxious. What the president of a well known major corp. being the mafia all along implied for the rest was that any thriving day-to-day establishment they adored so much could also have been sponsored by the 'bad guys'. Any neighbor or relative a pawn to other men and women who would reach all horrifying ends with their lives to get what they wanted. This allows me another chance at reminding you, though, that crime organizations have always been deeply ingrained in our society, even more than they are today. It's just a matter of getting caught at the wrong moment and having no connections to back yourself up with.

I'd been heavily medicated and asleep when it all first blew up in the early morning. Didn't even notice my body being dragged from one room to another and finally laid to rest, despite all the excruciating aches and sores I'd earned during the many hours spent in captivity. My dad had to read it to me twelve hours later, twelve hours of the final escalations and then de-escalations of the day before being real and strictly unrefuted. I didn't somehow dream it all up. It was real how all it took was one night for more of my old friends to end up dead. My boss had been killed on his own turf, the drug ring he'd lead for most of his life and the life of his father before him crippled beyond repair. A legacy left behind to rot on the bloodied doorsteps of history. Finally, scores I've taken part in rousing all these years have been settled and I was allowed to walk free. Everybody lost, everybody won. But at what cost?

My dad had been caught by the same people who had me in their custody, tied at the same joints I was and thrown around along with some other guys on our side. They'd recognized him, though, and news of him being at large again spread far and wide enough in the ranks to reach my ear within an hour or so, if I had to make a guess. We didn't even catch him, I heard them whisper behind my back, he came and purposely gave himself up. He'd been pretty roughed up, and I could tell for sure by just looking at him, though it wasn't nearly as bad a hand as the one I'd been dealt.

"They were afraid. And they didn't exactly know what I wanted, though it was obvious," pops had said after I asked him why. "I could tell. They were perplexed and afraid". Even after all these years and secure layers of thick rope, they were still afraid of Kim Junseo. They had not washed the blood off my back the night before. Not until after I'd heard of my father's presence, almost a day later. I wonder what they'd say now if they were to see him in the kitchen, humming around a cigarette while he cooks dinner in an apron.

I do wonder if Yunho had heard he was here, too, and what his presence meant in terms of the future. Did he linger on purpose? Is that why he'd disappeared entirely?

As for me, the abrupt news of my father's captivity had shocked me so profoundly I think I had slipped into some sort of comatose state for a while. I swear I couldn't breathe nor feel the pain of my injuries ripping apart all the sinews in my back, thighs and arms with every miniscule movement. I could only stare at the ground and hold in my mouth a tongue that felt far too large for it, and a desperate series of pleads and cries that may get me burnt again. He was so close yet so far away from me. Was supposed to be in Kyoto. Was supposed to be far away from all of this. And yet he was there, and with him came an opportunity the syndicate would've never again gotten. A bone made of gold for the wildest dog.

They struck the deal with me over the phone as though they knew they had hardly any time left to relay the message, let alone come in personally to slap or carve it into me. A man whose voice I scarcely recognized growled to me, and I quote, "It's either you and your father's lives, or Lee Gun-pyo's life. Two piglets to a boar. We let you go, you take us to him. Kill him, and you and your father will never hear from us again." Later, my father would tell me that he leads the Reds.

I said only—or rather croaked, "Yes."

And only truly felt the sheer gravity of that choice after waking up to my pops beside me the next day. After seeing my partner for the first time in two eternities. Only then could I finally grasp at and understand the one and truest meaning of my life. Love so hard that it kills you.

They let me go just shy after our location had finally been leaked. Bound, still, though, I couldn't run even from myself. Only talk, for the lives I intended to save. This had been my bone, and I no other choice but to chew on it blindly while it was still intact and mine to bury. I've recently been such a bad dog to my owner, anyway. Give a dog a bone and he'll find his way home.

We got there sometime past twelve in the morning when they finally began to untie me. It's was a really small and narrow 떡볶이 restaurant cornering two empty streets, and was often empty. I knew the area and place very little, except that it was ran by the unfortunate mother of a man who'd passed away serving Gun-pyo years ago. I believe he was their sponsor. Before, I had been there only twice to eat and then exchange information for pay and new tasks with the same one man that sat inside every time. October 30th would it's last day in business for a really, really long time. If only the food had been any good.

Now, I don't want any of this to read as though I'm an innocent saint that harbored not even a fraction of desire to kill my patron myself. Believe me, the size of my desire had grown fucking behemoth at this point. I was thirsty to bite off the same hands that had been feeding me scraps all my life. That's how bad of a dog I was, and still am. I don't even consider myself a victim at this point. It's just karma. I might even forgo surgery and instead bear these scars on my back for the rest of my life, as I already do the rest.

What particulars I had against this was that me gutting my patron with kitchen scissors that night had not been a choice I'd decided on by my own terms. My hands, breaking the law and fixing another all at once, were forced, the fighting a brutal blur in time, and my back fucking ached. I was hanging by a thread exhausted and tattered to such awful degrees that I'm sitting here now, writing this and considering the fact that I'd been one of the only survivors alive in the end to be a complete miracle. The van had been full when we arrived on location, and left only with three in the end.

I'd just killed a man, I thought. Before he slipped out of my grip he managed to grab my shirt sleeve with what had been the last of his strength, looked up at me and said, "I should've put you down when I had the chance."

I hadn't been able to register it in the chaos of the moment back then, but as I think of his eyes now I can trace back no hatred in the brittle frost of them on me, despite his words. He'd made me into the dog that I am now, after all. He knew all along that this day would come for the both of us. So I killed him and simultaneously, part of myself, knowing that it would've, too.

Give a dog a bone and he will bury it.

[kidelune]

what are your thoughts on stab wounds?

sexual in any context

[kidelune]

babygirl are you a cigarette

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine (1/2)

I'm writing this down now while it's still fresh on my mind, so in the case I'm ever found and arrested for it, I'll have this log as some sort of proof. Or even a confession.

[October 29, 2023, Somewhere between Yongsan and Incheon]

On the 29th of October of this year, four days ago, I was supposed to land safely on Japanese soil by 6 in the evening. My dad had agreed to pick me up from the airport and together we planned to grab a meal and some beer on the way back to Kyoto, where we live. It cuts me deeply now to remember how happy I'd been that day. After such a fun weekend spent with my boyfriend and friends, and of course, getting back to pops, which always excited me to all ends. I spent all morning holding my precious partner before he went to work, then gave him my afternoon, too. We had some lunch together right before my flight, though eating had been a challenge as parting for us was nothing short of bittersweet. We already knew we'd be apart for four days; he had work. And yet it had never occurred to me then that on top of that, I'd disappear entirely.

In hindsight, my joy had been a red herring of sorts.

Something strange happened around eleven, same day. The other gangs have been more aggressive lately, especially the Greens who've recently suffered a few greater losses than they've had to deal with in a while. The general goal had shifted from yielding for peace to blood for blood. They wanted Gun-pyo's head and would not stop until the hit is finally made on the right man. So around eleven that morning, I heard the burner phone I'd stolen a while back ringing for the first time since I found it. At first I had no clue what the sound was, until I realized during the second time it went off from somewhere in my closet. I found it but waited for the call to go dead prematurely, then waited until the very last ring to pick up. Up to my ear, while standing within the darkness asleep among my jackets I heard someone on the other end murmur, "I know it was you."

And for a horrifying moment the voice sounded like it came from the other side of my closet door. It didn't, but remembering now how I felt back then, how I held my breath and flushed with ire, I'm sure, despite everything, that I would've killed him on the way out.

Instead I quietly shrugged it off, drowned and then smashed the phone, blackmail material be damned. Because according to my logic and possibly greed, yeah it was me, so fucking what? Everything has already gone to shit and I was not about to be in Korea at all after the three following hours anyway.

At least I thought I shouldn't have been, but life wouldn't be life if it didn't have other plans in store for me, of fucking course. Halfway to the airport I'd asked my hyung to drop me off somewhere quiet so I could get a taxi instead, right after I noticed we were being followed. He has a kid so I didn't want him to get in trouble along with me if it came to it, although he'd stubbornly refused to abandon me at first. I hope to tell him soon that although my insistence got me kidnapped almost immediately after, I don't regret it. I could've died like he said, but I lived, after all.

As I expected though, my kidnappers were an odd mix of Greens, Reds and Blues, all guys we did business with. And I'm under the impression, still, that they'd followed me from home or somewhere too close to home for my comfort. I tried to fight them off and run, but I had nothing to protect myself. Next thing I knew I was somewhere in an abandoned building, disoriented as all hell. I didn't know in the beginning where exactly I was, though it couldn't have been too far from where they'd first apprehended me as I likely was not out of it for long. Alas, in that short amount of time they'd moved my unconscious body on location, stripped me of my clothes and belongings entirely, and was bound by the wrists and ankles on my knees.

I braced myself for a beatdown as soon as I was conscious again and rightfully so, as a beatdown I received after every question and threat of theirs I refused to answer (Tell us where your boss is. Do you know what will happen to you if you keep secrets? If you just talked, we wouldn't have to kill you). So their priority hardly was to keep me alive and that's the thing, I didn't mind it. I never could mind a split lip, some deep and tender bruises and black eyes, not even a stab. Even if they broke my bones and spit in my swollen eye and open wounds, I wouldn't snitch, though not for loyalty—not even fucking close. I have people to protect and if I had to die to guarantee their safety, I would.

Realizing this, the bastards started to burn my shit. Threw my suitcase and handbag into one of the braziers in the area. I lost my phone in that fire, alongside a lot of precious memories, messages and some of my skin. Which they burnt with a rod that's been cooking in the flames, dragging the thing down my back with a slowness so infinitesimal the space momentarily became hell itself. I saw red, I saw white, and then I couldn't see at all but just squirm there with the smell of my burning skin. While I tried to hold in my tears I imagined: this is what it must feel like to an angel having its wings ripped off.

That was the first night I disappeared.

[October 30, 2023, Somewhere between Kyoto, Japan and Seoul, South Korea]

The following section will be literal word of mouth, though as verbatim as I can help it. I trust my pops wouldn't lie to me.

He said and I scribe: he knew something was up within the first hour after I was supposed to land in Japan. I've warned him in the past before that while apart, if I ever went for more than 24 hours without replying to his messages or calls, assume I'm missing or dead. So he was more than prepared for situations like this though he also thought about waiting a while—maybe my phone had ran out of battery and I somehow forgot to charge it, while simultaneously forgetting he was picking me up. He went home, he said, and waited precisely another two hours before finally booking himself a flight to Korea for the morning. Nothing could get in the way of him finding me at that point, dead or alive, he said.

Much to my dismay, that's how he met Byungwoo for the first time. Instead of how I'd planned to introduce them in Japan, they were forced to meet prematurely at the expense of my safety. In front of my apartment proper, both of them desperate for some kind of sign of life from me. Maybe one of them might've even hoped it was all a bad dream and that they'd wake up in the next minute to me back in their realities. I would've hoped the same, yet that was our reality: his immediate suspicion upon seeing my boyfriend—who at the time to him was just another stranger, possibly some unsavoury figure from another gang waiting by the door for me to show up or come out. But pops' ability to read people is really impressive. Always has been. He could tell right away after getting closer that Byungwoo meant no harm, that they were both vulnerable flies approaching the same trap.

He told Byungwoo straight up about my position: his guess on point, being that I'd been taken somewhere and my phone had been shattered to limit contact. I don't really want to repeat what he'd said about Byungwoo's reaction to this, though. It truly breaks my heart to disastrous degrees to think about his face, the horror overtaking the beauty he'll always possess. The instantaneous panic, then a worry so raw and harrowing that it'd probably kept him up at night, waiting for who would not return so soon, nor as whole as he'd left. Who might've never returned. All I ever wanted was to do better for him. To not leave him behind to sleep and eat alone again, or have him worry to the point of tears and anger he hardly knew. All I wanted and will want, breathing or six feet under, is for him to be happy. Yet I've failed him again, to the point where my father had to warn him about getting near my apartment, lest he wanted to get hurt.

But in scenarios like this, I'd noticed, he becomes as determined as he is afraid, my partner. Last time I returned home hurt, he swore that he'd kill the people that wanted to hurt me. The hatred in his eyes at the time shocked me more than anything ever has before. It was real. Have you ever loved someone so much that you'd risk in a heartbeat something so incredibly horrendous for their sake? That'd make the two of us, at least. They ended up tracking my phone together. Two months or so ago Byungwoo and I decided to install a tracker app on our phones so he could track me in the case of an emergency. This was life or death, pops'd said, after they finally came across a distinct crosshair on the map that would serve as the first clue to my location.

Desperate but hopeful, my father rushed to Incheon with his eyes wide open, diving headfirst and alone into a full blown brawl between too many gangs to count. Kim Junseo, a legend of his own time, returned and purposely falling within the same trap his son did.

In the name of love. In the name of blood.

[kidelune]

How Festive the Ambulance, Kim Fu

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

It is said death with the tongue is useful, but I find words too soft an instrument to smash a man’s skull. And tongues useless.

featuring @chenosias

[August 29, 2023, location: confidential]

The basement is a fleeting nightmare you enter with your conscience and cognition far detached from yourself. And as you ascend to the surface again, everything you've seen and heard below, unless significant in any way above, stays behind on the backdoor's threshold. These were the rules for as long as Kijun could remember, an onslaught of repeated relays to you in the car on the way; and really, of such importance they were that everyone who dared come and go here were adamant on the notion of colouring within the lines of this rule. At least if you wanted to keep your head.

Valuing his sleep and sanity, Kijun never dared bring even a toe overline and nevertheless, he couldn't ever truly get accustomed with the unseeing nor the forgetting. But coming here had sometimes been a necessary part of his job as a mediator, and given how seriously he took mediating, he'd eventually taught himself brute force and found enjoyment within the process of tricking his mind with the pleasure of pulling teeth. Thus forcing himself apart from lesser men that cowered, while mitigating some the guilt that often came with memories and dreams.

This they called bravery or balls, and said that if you did it enough times a numb void would become of your heart, as his did—a silence that he could never return noise to again. It grew like a tumor, held his heart hostage and made his work easy, much like a basement in and of itself, for many years of reflex. But for how long could the heart remain obscured and content in the dark?

Car tires come to a screeching stop in front of a plain-looking duplex residence, unobtrusively sitting between two others alike and in an alley so narrow it can only fit one car at a time. Behind the veil of tinted windows, it appears as some sort of anomalous, jagged figure bled into reality by helter-skelter shadows and the sun. Off it wafts the unease of staring into a void you can sense is bottomless. Yet that's all it takes—one glance as a flicker of the switch inside Kijun's heart. It retreats into the darkness with one final warning from the driver, before the car door unlocks for his emptied ribcage.

Expectedly, Yunho is the first to greet him on the way in through the backdoor, which extends to a naturally lit alcove preceding one of the empty living areas. As it is outside, the abode's pale bowels are cold and barren as a wasteland; made in plain sight that this was, after all, not a home made for living. After all these years, eerily, it hasn't changed.

"Glad you decided to show up, kid, even though you're recovering. Didn't sound like you would over the phone back then."

"Sure. Is it just us?" Asks Kijun blandly, as he tightens his signature leather jacket around himself and discards the memory of his initial hesitance. And drawing the blade tucked against his ribcage that much more within reach.

Yunho, perpetually amused and properly clad in his formal suit, extends an arm within the general direction of the basement's entrance somewhere down the right hall. "Everyone else's downstairs."

Lead by his stare alone, Kijun follows.

Two men are on standby on each side of the doorframe, and the two bow with a fleeting stiffness when they approach, their neat black suits creasing and dimpling through the motion. Used to gang formalities, Kijun keeps his head up and his scowl tightly chained across his features, his guard so high it heats his blood and draws pinpricks up to the back of his neck. Neither of them return the favour on the way in.

Soon to be discoverd below is what Yunho meant by everyone, being just the two of them and the other men that belonged here in the undigestible stiffness of the basement, rendered to inconsequential heaps by lack of light—at least for now. There are precisely two of them as well, suspended upside down on thick ropes and stagnant time by their ankles, tied wrists reaching for the floor. Like slaughter hung up to dry.

When Yunho flickers on the basement lights, irrefutable proof of days spent without a meal or much water lay palpable between concave abdomens and protruding ribs. Bruises and dried blood tell tales of long and painful beatings on either side.

The one on the far left is slightly larger, his fingers seeming to have grown swollen and purple with shatter and then neglect. Kijun, who's completely unphased by the tableau in front of him, wonders if the broken bones were a just punishment administered after an attempt at escaping. Remembers how often it had to be done before—how many times he'd partaken in the beatings himself.

After all, if given the chance, dogs on tight leashes often bite their way to freedom.

Noticing Kijun's fixed stare, Yunho chimes in from the side, "That one on the left'd almost killed you last week," He says, "But this one's your guy. Caught him sneakin' around the club on Sunday and apparently, he knows plenty. Here—"

A bucket of water Kijun knows is ice-cold immediately follows the smooth voice pouring over his shoulder, which is almost caught amidst the sudden deluge were it not for his reflexes. The water splashes as intended onto the target body hanging on the room's right, resurrecting him from a deathly stillness with some seconds of vigorous floundering. He's alive.

This is Kim Woosik, Yunho had informed Kijun on the phone earlier in the week, while extending his invitation to this questioning. Woosik'd been working undercover as a messenger for the Green Gang leader for a while, recovering and buying information from accomplices working in the club. Their job this morning was to find out just how much he knew, and who, exactly, it was that told. If there was one thing Kijun was good at, it was carving out rats with only his tongue. Then his knife.

"Kim Woosik," Kijun calls out as he finally tunes into his other self, merciless and unforgiving if he'd ever seen it. The heavy bass in his tone passes and reverberates across the damp walls and limbs with a commandeering urgency, Woosik immediately stopping his squirming to listen as he no doubt hears nearing footsteps in the echoes, then feels Kijun's presence when he crouches down by his head.

In this moment, everything happening outside the two of them ceases to exist, Yunho's lighthearted warning not to break him too soon falling upon deafened ears. This place was made for breaking, and breaking alone.

Kijun rips the soaked sack off Woosik's head to begin, and—briefly freezes. Met with two eyes he instantly recognizes, all bloodshot and reflecting shock and the vivid memory of mourning staring back up at him, Kijun feels icy blood and dread rushing up to the back of his skull. Has to quickly war confusion off his brows by aggressively ripping the piece of duct tape off Woosik's mouth. The latter screams as his dry lips split red, alive. He should be dead. I saw you die.

"Who the fuck are you?" Demands Kijun from the ghost turned rat, overtaken by a surge fury so profound it tears and shreds through him thoroughly enough to quickly become all he can feel.

But nonetheless, Woosik smiles a dangerous smile, like he knew all along that this day would come. Spits blood and teeth at Kijun and earns himself a square punch in the face—the sheer force of that singular blow so hard it cracks and skews Woosik's nose completely. It also throws him off balance, erratically swaying on the rope as the walls reflect broken moans and convulsions that can't be muffled by hands. Neither should they exist today, to begin with.

Kijun figures he'd question Yunho later in favour of satisfying his current rage instead. Grips onto Woosik's hair hard enough to sting the scalp bloody, too, and spits, "You fuckin' traitor."

"You fuckin' idiots. Yeah, it's me." Woosik chokes on every syllable he can't grind out without hurting himself, tongue too large in his mouth in this position and agony. But his eyes—oh, how the fire never falters. "Y'thought I'd ac'ually go and die for that greedy fuckin' bastard y'call a boss? Fuck 'ou— I'd rather be a traitor than a fuckin' dead on this turf."

A violent silence ensues at this, lasting only a few laboured breaths from the hanging men, but enough for everyone to feel it's onslaught ten times over. Kijun stands with it, shoving the head in his grip away from him with harsh dismissal. Takes a few extra moments thereafter to produce a smoke from his pocket and light it up, then another, for him to gather some manner of composure back into his voice, in spite of the fires that are laying waste to his insides. Blood, fresh from his split lip soaks into the circumference of the cigarette.

He stars over, while effortless, long strides bring him around this Woosik far too quickly for the other to keep up with, "So, that's why you decided to fake your own death to get out? Just so you could go die for another greedy fuckin' bastard? S'that it, Jung Hyungmin?"

The name tastes filthy and bitter on his tongue; not because he cared that much about Hyungmin's loyalty. Until this day, Jung Hyungmin was supposed to be simply a good friend from the past; someone Kijun had known well since they were seventeen and nineteen. And most importantly of all, he was supposed to be dead. Yet no matter how hard Kijun tried and tried again, life then knocked on his door and proved itself a force he could only bend when it came to his own death.

He had wondered what Yunho meant when he'd said on call, nowadays, we can't even trust death to do it's job. Now he knows; the explanation being a bloodied nose, ugly stabbing scars Kijun recalls stitching openly stretching across the length of his spine and abdomen, and a snake tattoo etched into his inner bicep. Green Gang.

"Yes, Kijun. Y'd be surprised t'know how many have done the same shit. People get sick of bein' manipulated to fuckin' hell, from bein' lied to practically all the time and worked literally to death for personal gain. I didn't choose this life t'be someone's fuckin' toy, and neither did you."

Kijun sneers, though he's merely playing along now after having detached himself from the past, "You know nothing about me. And I ain't surprised at all. Found that informant of yours at the club—works as one of my boys. He told me as much." He crouches next to Woosik again, this time bringing with him a confident lie and the blade he had sheathed under his jacket. Before Woosik can find the strength to surge forth, Kijun brings the tip of the knife up to the base of his throat. Smiles the smile of someone who knows.

"That's before I cut his fuckin' tongue out'ta his mouth, 'course. Future proof problem solved."

Maybe it's because he's wet, starved, desperate and upside down, because the lie connects immediately. Woosik is suddenly reduced to an eerie stillness again, his toes so white it must feel like death slowly encroaching into his skull. His mouth becomes a thin line, his eyes a thousand slices through Kijun's flesh. The latter doesn't mind.

"There it is, Yunho hyung. The truth." Lifting off again, this time off the air off success, the blade follows Kijun's generous height all the way up to Woosik's abdomen. Aimed precisely where Kijun knows his vitals are. "He knows it."

"Yes, and we only need a name."

"Fuck—y'selfish fuckin' bastards. Cut out my tongue. 'm not givin' y'all jackshi—" But Yunho shoves the water bucket under his head before he can finish disagreeing, the implication of it becoming all the more horrific when Kijun brings the sharp end of his blade back to the tender flesh at his throat. Tuning his stare downwards, he recalls how Hyungmin had been many things, but a hero had never one of them. "Wait, wait, wait, okay, okay I'll fuckin' tell you! Jus' don't—"

If anything, he was always just another traitorous coward.

"Then spit it out, bitch."

"K—Kim Namseong. He knows everything."

/

[September 2, 2023, location: confidential. / ft @chenosias]

"Now, let us pray."

Two ancient hands raise skyward in avid calling of the holy spirit. Summoned along with them are long, white robes of cotton, suspended properly by gleaming, silver cuffs, and at opposite end, presumably God in the action of thousands of feet stomping upright in the pews, hands joining. Kijun checks his watch and notes that it's been about an hour since the church hall had become fully occupied, with both him and Osias included in the mix, at whichever God's mercy. The prayer drawls on without his own participation, though wholly embraced by his searching gaze.

The pastor remained as he always remembered him; an old, hunch-backed mausoleum of sin and holy nightmares. And perpetually equipped with a frown that always haunted his face, provoking unease at rest. To the others around them, he may be a devout zealot and Messiah, drawing garbs of cotton, modest silver and a large crucifix around his neck, blessed directly by the God they pray so heartfully to. But all Kijun sees is a crook in a suit and tie, well tucked beneath a hard mask like a second skin. He was a cartel knave at heart and he was good at being so. As was Kijun, though.

In the pew next to him sits Osias, dark, brushstroke brows shifting and settling repeatedly to and fro on his face. He carries curiosity on his sleeve; catching details in the crowd ahead no average joe would ever see, then releases them with the occasional stray nudge or remark into Kijun's shoulder. Watching and listening to him quickly becomes half of Kijun's mind, counting freckles like stars whenever the hall erupts into drab musical bumps and leaves him only with long, black coils and a perfectly smooth, tan cheekbones.

The moment Osias finds the truth in backhanded preachings from the pulpit, though, by way those eyes skew dark brown and stare sidelong with did he just fuckin' say what I thought he just said? on the tip of his tongue, Kijun figures he'd done well by rejecting Yunho's company and bringing Osias instead. The growing glint in them susses out philosophy and cartel poetry he's probably heard many times before, both in Korea and America, the realization doing something most glorious to his handsome features that Kijun, satisfied and amused beyond imagination, would never forget.

Never trust the preachings of a gangster priest. Presses his elbow to the one beside him and murmurs blasphemy through repeated worship, all to be occasionally shushed by the grandmas sitting behind them.

But they steadily lose interest as the service itself ultimately has no place in their itinerary tonight. The person they're actually here for stands five pews ahead with his fingers crossed and eyes closed. In worn hoodie and jeans he appeared as benign as it got, far from the clandestine chamber of secrets he actually was. What would a man like that pray for, wonders Kijun.

It's ironic how society has always taught the next about how and when it's important to fear God, rather than fearing the immediate violence of being alive instead. After all, the only hurdle between man and the God they bend the knees at night for are themselves.

A prayer can only save you if you are alive.

"In the name of the father, son and the holy spirit, Amen."

That's their signal and purely by design, as well as everyone else's. Unhurried and careful to keep small and out of sight, Kijun raises from his seat as the crowd surges and begins to drift towards the exit doors, wordlessly nudging Osias behind him for that extra overlay of obscurity. Five pews behind them now, Kim Namseong, none the wiser, claps his bible shut and thinks of his successful attendance as a telltale sign of safety within the same breath he fails to register the head full of luscious coils sprouting ahead of him, as the only sign of yonder bloodshed.

They tail him out, that blissful ignorance lasting him four whole blocks and a brief convenience store trip to home though at his front door, it becomes a carelessness that would be taxed at the cost of a tongue.

A risky operation soon ensues within strict Green Gang turfs, and is executed by just two men and their trusty blades.

It begins and ends in a back alley apartment block just two preceding buildings shy off the main road, the residence itself a narrow and unkempt street-level hall that reminds Kijun of his days spent in Gyeonggi prison. The thought even tickles a bitter chuckle out of him given the recollection that were this to go completely wrong, he would end up either dead or in prison yet again. Osias hears him in the silence, of course, sounds self-assured enough for the both of them as he echoes off a smug grin a sentiment off the side, just his boyish excitement and encouragement pulling Kijun's shoulders back with an immediacy that arrests him into resolution.

So it goes, the Green bastards, grim reaper and pigs all be damned. Blood can only be paid back with blood.

"Go on, then." Speaks Kijun only around the last corner up to their destination, encouragement returned in kind with a firm clap on Osias' rear.

Their plan was a simple one for the sake of avoiding too many complications and potential injuries: After Namseong gets home from his usual church service schedule, Osias will knock on his front door a couple minutes later and make conversation about anything random. Which, if he's not immediately recognized, would in turn allow Kijun just enough time to sneak up to the scene once Osias gives the clear, and pounce on Namseong. Palm muffling the screaming and an arm locked beneath his jaw, they'll have to knock him unconscious as soon as time and the ferocity of Nameseong's squirming will allow. And then that'll be that.

The only thing that manages to slip past them is a stray punch in the jaw behind him, which later in the night at their own hideout, Kijun will spend nursing with a half-frozen can of Terra beer, Osias already drunk and going off about something in English.

For now, they work in silence, speed and efficiency of it's use within their tandem paramount to their success. This was neither of their turfs after all, so a throbbing jaw would have to wait until their fates are once again only theirs to determine. While Kijun strips and ties up the unconscious body by the joints, Osias searches the room for anything that might alert the Greens of their meddling, smashing Namseong's phone and watch for good measure. Then he's hauled into the only armchair in the neglectful goshiwon space and gagged. His head silently hangs as though shame plagues him hushed and visionless, his neck bruising purple from their recent struggle. Kijun almost allows a pang of guilt grip his heart, except he can't seem to find it anywhere himself.

"A'ight, we shouldn't wait." Scarcely speaking, Osias murmurs as he pulls off his hat, then mimics Kijun by sinking into a relaxed crouch. "Gotta get what you need and get the fuck out posthaste. Surely they'll know somethin's wrong after an hour or two."

"Did'ya find anythin' in his stuff? Just to be sure. Still don't think we should kill him, 'least this— ain't the right place for that..."

"Yeah, yeah whatever y'say. Found these, though."

From Osias' jacket pocket to the center of a palm, then the next, appear a pocket knife and a burner phone. Kijun has to refrain from rolling his eyes and laughing too loud, but the approval is there, resonating in thick contorting eyebrows, his snickering and the soft popping of his knees as he stands again and casually cracks a slap across Namseong's right cheek, so unforgiving even the walls reflect the sound.

Kim Namseong jolts violently awake in the chair, his eyes falling wide as the moon upon a living nightmare he's probably had before. Once his gaze at last crosses Kijun, the air in his fury shifts to an alternative avenue; icy and tart with a fear he can't expunge quickly enough off his smooth face. The same reoccurring snake tattoo peeks at him from an inner left bicep, thus defining the other's ultimate stance. And that twists some ugly, raging, swelling thing inside Kijun as it clearly spells a dreaded mistake out for him: a massive oversight on his part, that'd almost costed him his life.

After laying out all the warnings and going through necessary intimidations, the captive emerges with dense pulps all over his body and two deep black eyes, sponsored by Osias' uncontrollable fists and Kijun's unrelenting refusal of wanting his partner to halt the pummeling. Until Namseong is choking on blood and air and begging through tears.

"Tell me what exactly you know now about the Green Gang's intentions with the ring and we'll leave it at this. Simple." Kijun attempts with a firm clap on Namseong's shoulder, "Why did you fuckin' traitors attack us?"

The next few minutes stretch for what feels like eons and naught, every second spent stalling another sentence of death upon the two who didn't at all belong in this space. Kim Namseong was a stubborn opponent, the type of gangster that rarely fought with his fists. He was slightly older and thus a handful wiser; better informed than most, and Kijun could tell. But Kijun has also learned over the years that to win against the odds, you must first take away their greatest asset. And we gotta do it quickly.

The idea emerges through the heat and pleasures of the moment like a fish out of water,and Kijun finds himself impulsively knocking Namseong out cold, for this final stretch. His fist flares bright red and purple with a fresh pair of reaped blotches, when he says, all wide-eyed and feral, "Hold his head back f'r me, O."

"What? The fuck're you doin'?"

"...Makin' sure he'll never snitch again."

Totally contrary to the wild, searing numbness overtaking his hands, the knife feels light and icy in Kijun's fist as he lifts his sweater and unsheathes it. So light it is that he feels he could toss it upwards and it would somersault on and on until it skewers the sun. But he grips it with a surgeon's precision, and sees only red.

"May God bless you."

The tongue is a soft collection of muscles and nerves that yield with mind-boggling ease to the blade. Such is the enormity of the cruelty behind survival.

[kidelune]

Anaïs Nin, mirages: the unexpurgated diary of Anaïs Nin 1939-1947

[kidelune]

June Gehringer, “EARTH IS AN ANAGRAM FOR HEART, U FUCKING IDIOTS”

[Text ID: “I don’t want to talk about it. / I want to lie in what little grass remains / and try to fit your heart inside of mine.”]

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

[August 19, 2023, Gangnam-gu]

When you exist outside all boundaries of the Law's tapestry, life quickly becomes a comically long series of misfortunate events and unforeseen circumstances. Like carrying a bomb in your breast pocket, active and ticking down. Every minute spent alive starts to count, every hour suggesting egregious possibilities no one else could dare stomach as their reality. And that reality, being his, once again reinforces itself upon Kijun's shoulders tonight and reminds him that a minute off his guard could cost him nearly thirty years.

In one breath, his wristwatch reads one o'clock or so in the morning and then he finds himself ensnared in some suffocating minutes of it, facing abrupt assault in the building's parking lot floor. In the next instant, it's two, three people are dead, and he's battered and broken but still alive, and seated at the far end of the longest oblong table they have in the club upstairs. Unlike how it were just the hour upon the incident, the dance floor now lays barren in abandon, and the doors are closed. Only the moon dares to interrupt urgency, stepping in through curtains after bulletproof glass.

Fury, smeared blue-black across Kijun's knuckles especially, waits with him here for the emergency meeting to start, a pack of frozen steak on his brow holding the rest at bay, for the safety of everyone else in the room. The cook had hesitated passing it on, the steak, maybe because he knew it wouldn't help much with saving anyone. Ire will bring man to places he would never go even in death.

As he shifts deeper into the shadows and his seat, the chair underneath him creaks feebly with the effort of supporting his size, crying out in tandem with the zippo he flicks as he lights his fifth smoke of the hour. This one in particular reminds him of how he may have more in common with the steadily burning anger in the embers than any of those slowly filtering into the room with him tonight, as the hour wanes. Each drag signifies a minute's passing, his patience cascading just as slowly. Until, finally, the table is full save for the seat his opposite, at the other end of the table. The largest chair available, perfectly suited for a king.

Finally, Lee Gun-pyo arrives five minutes late to the meeting he'd ordered himself, a bowing Yunho preceding him and a cane supporting half his weight. It would appear that he can no longer hide his limp anymore, another case of vulnerability or—another potential catalyst towards his downfall Kijun is certain he'd earned himself.

All present rise from their seats in favour of bowing to their king. All but Kijun, who merely rolls his eyes at the unfolding pageantry as he repositions the pack of thawing steak on his temple. As though he expected no less, Gun-pyo heeds no mind to blatant disrespect and sits on the opposite end at the table, thick wrinkled palms resting almost too gracefully for the occasion atop glossed black oak. If it weren't for the continuous rapping of his fingers Kijun knew he always did when he were nervous, he'd even take offence of the tardiness.

Gun-pyo's eyes though, are far more steady, and they scan the faces in the room with a fierce and starving tiger's gaze until they finally land straight upon the elephant in the room; onto a Kijun in tatters at his opposite, staring back from beneath the ugly veil of his shortcomings. And Kijun half-expects him to smile. To taunt him for this predicament because he'd been awfully uncooperative in the last year. But Gun-pyo visibly sighs and readjusts his suit with a scowl, and that's it.

"It's always you."

"Yeah, no. fuckin'. shit, boss."

Steel becomes Gun-pyo's impenetrable stare, but before either of them can open their mouths again, Yunho, standing at the precipice of eruption, interrupts by officially starting their meeting. He's succinct about it, formally introducing the happenings of the night—the five men; three of which are now dead, their findings so far, and much to Kijun's surprise, the Green Gang of Mapo-gu. The Green Gang leader has always been the closest with Gun-pyo at least from what Kijun could tell through all the years, of all the eleven leaders of the syndicate.

They would often collaborate within the scene, or sponsor each other's endeavors when when going got tough for one or the other. Most knew this to be true, and seemingly following Gun-pyo's grim expression in response to the implications of the Green Gang's betrayal, Yunho further backs his claims with certainty. He passes a phone around the table, on it photos of the gutted and dead with their arms intently laid out. The Green Gang had a signature unique only to them; a mandatory tattoo of a snake on each member's inner bicep, to communicate loyalty and fellowship of 'graduated' members. But after all, a tattoo couldn't stop a man from changing his mind—let alone from losing it entirely, alongside his promises.

Although already obvious, these problems and the incident are identified as reasons enough for the club had to shut down so suddenly, and why this meeting had to happen. At length, Yunho proceeds to demand from all present answers, if they have any that could help them reach a faster conclusion.

Kijun starts by pushing the phone away from his purchase and tossing the steak onto the table beside it, "Knew the Mapo guys tattooed their biceps already, but I didn't pay enough attention to see any matchin' tats on these guys before." Shrugs Kijun with great difficulty, the ire and residual adrenaline still boiling in his veins giving him restless legs, though not enough strength to prop himself up fast enough, "I was just fighting to stay alive. 'Bastards suddenly hopped outta' a car and hounded me down there, that's all I fuckin' know. But it makes sense now."

"What doesn't make sense's that if the Green Gang were really attacking us, they would've sent far more than five men to get the job done." Argues the cook on Kijun's left, "We've checked the perimeters and there was nothing else to be found. So is this really what it looks like?" He was five years Kijun's senior and a long time employee of Gun-pyo's. He was slight, but more versatile than he appeared. And he knew the business well. Kijun has seen him kill with a cleaver.

Yunho nods, "I've thought that as well. If the Green Gang really wanted to betray us, we would've been bombarded by now, so it's a bit strange. Three of the guys we could've interrogated have already been discarded on top of that. Of the other two, one ran while the other was knocked unconscious, scarcely avoiding Kijun's rampage. He's in our custody now and will be taken care of soon."

Should'a let me kill him too, thinks Kijun exhaustedly, now sitting with his head in both hands. The most he's been wanting was to go home, lay down next to the person he has killed for tonight and sleep off the bruises on his knuckles until morning.

But then the discourse for solutions unfolds further and further, dampening his spirits and participation almost thoroughly. A particularity mentioned just beyond his awareness, though is that they have reasons to believe that these five men had acted on their own volition rather than based off orders given by the Green Gang boss himself, considering their exceptionally poor numbers. That it could've also been a ploy or misdirection, Kijun being merely collateral. Though them recognizing him would mean that his face has now become known among the Green Gang members and possibly within other gang circles too, thus pinning him as a general target—another route that leads straight to Gun-pyo if that was their goal.

Lee Gun-pyo, who everyone's heard has become increasingly less untouchable with each passing day; a truth that cannot be lied about. One he sits quietly on his throne of bodies and riches, and refuses to acknowledge.

"What did you do with the guy we caught alive?" Asks Kijun after an entire hour of silence, his head lifting off his arms and throbbing so severely now, his vision blurs. A trail of blood down his chin confirms that his split lip is bleeding again.

"He's being brought to the basement as we speak." The basement. Kijun's spine straightens at this, skin crawling with a queasy discomfort he can't quite place. Or perhaps it's how his interest suddenly piques as he recalls what the basement has always been used for. Breaking.

Yunho pretends not to notice, as he always does and does not. "Don't know how long it'll take for him to talk, so we'll have to figure out some things on our own before then—"

The chair on the other side scarcely allows the end of that sentence, lingering echoes of Yunho's octaves forced to falter as the loud creak juxtaposes his softer, less jagged tones. The room falls still then, as if the walls suddenly hold their breaths alongside the people drowning within them.

When the silence breaks next, it's with Gun-pyo's voice, or rather—the increasing intensity of his large and imposing demeanour, and the sheer weight of the blatant accusation in his gaze. "But is that really all you have to say, Kijun?"

Picking up on this, all the sinews in Kijun's body grow stiff and taut with reanimated fury, and hostility. He all but spits, his ragtag appearance sapping away any care he can spare, "What the fuck are you implying, old man."

"Well, let's jump the gun and say we've been betrayed, for good measure. At the end of the day, there is no friendship in this sort of business after all," Gun-pyo's expression opens up momentarily, and shows to Kijun his disappointment in the most sardonic way possible, like it's all he can do for him now. "If we're dealing with betrayal, then it's highly likely they had an accomplice here, otherwise they wouldn't have known where you'd be, and when you'd be there."

"A staff member, maybe." the elder continues, hands now clasped tightly over the tabletop, "The one's most likely to be swayed by syndicate spies. Bought with money. The like."

Kijun would be dumbstruck if he were new here, if he knew less. By some sick miracle, the figure at the end of the table does not burst aflame from the throat underneath the pin of his cutting gaze.

"You sayin' there's a fuckin' rat and that I brought him in? You suspecting me or somethin'? Are you fuckin' joking?"

Yunho simply nods as he assumes his place back next to their patron. In silent solidarity, it seems. But that's no surprise, either. "We're simply laying out all the possibilities on the table, that's all. You know how it goes."

"Hyung, look at me."

"Think, Kijun."

"Holy shit— Okay, let's say due to some sort of oversight on my part, the rat really is one of my boys. What, then? Oh, let me guess, you're go'nna tell me to fix it again, right?" Scoffs Kijun, elongated arms splaying out on the table before him. And his features pull back and forth and linger somewhere dangerous, between amusement and ire. But his eyes spell daggers and arrows all across the room. To his left, the concerned cook visibly holds his tongue.

Gun-pyo merely sits back into his chair, taking a deep breath. Dogs can only bark, and never triumph over man, he said once. And that silence is all the answer Kijun needs to gather his bones and leap from his seat. Neither of the men across him flinch nor offer their comfort as he stomps past them and towards the door.

"Of fuckin' course and y'know what? Okay, sure. Let me know when the fucker y'all're keepin' talks, or doesn't. I'll come in and make 'em and get rid of the rat after that." And then he says—swears, while staring directly into Gun-pyo's flawless temple. "But then I'm done with you fuckin' people. I'm done."

On his way out he hears a muffled and stern get him home trailing behind him like the careful footsteps of a thief in the night. Like even the echoes of his own don't belong to him anymore.

But Kijun should know that once one gets comfortable with dancing with the devil, not even their heart will really belong to them anymore. And that kills.

[kidelune]

kijun & letters.

PAST - a letter which the writer wrote in the past, that reveals a piece of their backstory, that the reader finds and reads out of curiosity. (this could also be a letter written TO the receiver of the meme, or about them, or anything at all!)

"to my lovely siho. remember to greet all your challenges with a smile. I know, you have your resentments, and I too am aware of my own shortcomings. I have always loved you and forever will. I owe my life to God for not only giving me a chance to this difficult life full of hurdles and reservations yet full of so much beauty; and for also giving me the most beautiful mission on becoming your mom. please stop drinking too much, alright? - mommy ♡"

the letter was hastily penned on the back of a portrait of young siho and her mother, sihwan. behind them was a view of a small creek, their summer clothes turning pale as time ages the printed photograph. "hey, the delivery guy j-" siho paused as soon as she saw kijun with the photograph in his hands. "i'm sorry, i didn't realize-" "it's okay. guess you've met my mom." she tried to break a joke, grabbing the photograph from kijun to look at the photo again herself, a small smile gently creeping on her lips. "if she was actually here she would've slapped your hands for being nosy." she then sets the photograph back down on her cabinet, placing her small jewelry box on top of it. "come on, food, payment, delivery guy waiting, hello?" she gave him a look before attending to the man setting their food on the doorstep.

TWIST - a letter sent in the aftermath of the writer’s alleged death, only to reveal that they are, in fact, still alive.

[ from: kijun. ] siho, i'm so sorry. i am so sorry.

[ from: kijun. ] i hope you are at peace. thank you for everything.

texts 8 days after the above messages:

[ to: kijun. ] hi, hey. i'm not dead. why are you being so sappy? can't a girl just go MIA for a few days or some weeks? geez.. thanks for the wishes though. i hope you have been well and at peace yourself for the time i was gone. i guess the world just didn't want me to experience july for some reason. was it hot? is there an ice cream shortage? see you in a few days!

[ from: kijun. ] what the actual fuck is wrong with you?

for: @eclipsenoir 🫶

[kidelune]

First base is violence second base is convoluted codependence third base is applying pressure to the vulnerable parts of their body to keep their entrails from spilling out

[kidelune]

@kidelune

Bathed in moonglow, Byungwoo becomes everything around him. The music feeds into him and the sand takes him whole bodied and breathing, weathering him into bits that will scatter and remain—here, with the parts of himself he left last time. If they make it to Gangneung enough times, maybe the entire beach will be theirs, maybe one day they’ll return only to find themselves sinking into every version they’ve been together, a mausoleum he’ll finally be able to feel good about, a celebration of life made from two.

A rose is a rose is a rose, so they say, and Byungwoo’s fingers curl around the memory of orange peel left on this very shore as he muses over the way an orange will never be an orange, will never be an orange, will never be an orange. Or a poppy, or a meal at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey, a toothbrush. How many ways can his reality be recreated? How many ways will the things he’s touched so many times be reborn into blessings?

“I love you.”

He feels his heartbeat in his head and it feels like pain. Sometimes it hurts to lend yourself to love, just as everything worthwhile seems to cost an ache, as if affliction were a form of currency exchanged for pleasure. His breath stutters through it, his pulse thrums despite the way the world comes to a standstill, a chimera of now, now, now that’ll last a lifetime somewhere within them. He’s reminded of the time he’d spun a hair’s breadth or two to the left, the last time he’d begged wholehearted and shameless for the horizon to sit stubborn at a pause. Maybe this is why the earth spins without permission, he thinks. Maybe this is why it leaves you grasping at seconds like spare change in your pocket when you’re going hungry. There are more meals to be had, to share, to be hungry for. 

“Love you, Byungwoo. Sorry that took so long.”

Growing pains used to keep him up as a child, limbs giving way to the aches for the purpose of another year and another inch or two. There’s something to be said about the way growing pains still keep him up now, a testament to how his chest is erupting to stretch and make room for something bigger than himself, painstaking yet welcome, just to give more space for Kijun and the people they’re becoming together—of all the versions they’ll be, because an orange isn’t an orange isn’t an orange anymore.

Byungwoo pours his heart in a salt language and drips sentiments down the sides of his own face, his eyes bringing tides to a shore that waits patiently for more of the two of them. There are infinite ways to speak without words, and he wonders how many languages they’ve used to date, if they’d be able to count on the four hands between them. He wonders if it’s measurable, let alone if something sacred can even be defined. He wonders how many disciples it would take to recount this divinity.

Love tastes different again today. It tastes like desperation, tastes like he might just cry out a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in just to cover all his bases, a declaration to everything that might be willing to listen that he will seek and be sought now, later, evermore. He thinks back on lore, on universes parallel or intersecting, on threads he’d cried about and been kissed over in early, mild mannered June. 

From the toothy grin of a man who has seen more than his share of terror, from the tender heart of a man who has felt insurmountable grief, from the gentle hands of a man who has had to use them in ways he never wanted to, Byungwoo receives and relishes love. For once, for a lifetime of offerings, for every time he was just outside of the reach of worth, Byungwoo is somehow enough. Through Kijun, he’s learning how to feel worthwhile just for showing up at the door with empty hands. Byungwoo has always hoped he’d be good for something, and how lucky he is to be good enough for this. 

How lucky he is to echo, "I love you."

[kidelune]

Ed van der Elsken - Kuß, Paris, 1953

[kidelune]

Ritual Is Journey, Chris Abani

[kidelune]

Cogniscient — Cognizant. Was I the fire, the fuel, the blood or the ash? What am I now?