84
Those Born of Two
Battle (Taehwa/Chris)
924 words. PG-13. Third person.
Taehwa stumbles into the hall, coming home from a late practice in the gym, and his legs feel like dead weight, the muscle dripping from his bones. He shuts the door behind him and shucks off his shoes, leaving them strewn, unordered, across the entranceway. It’s after midnight, and he expects that everyone is asleep, if the darkened hallway is any indication. He pads down the hallway, steps slightly uneven as his exhaustion catches up with him. The living room is dark, also, but the patio door is open, and Taehwa shivers at the breeze whirling through the opened glass door.
He slips out onto the concrete, sucking in a quick breath at the cold against his socked feet. The chill slides up his ankles and over his calves, but with the patio light on, he recognizes the back of Chris’s head, the tight shirt once black, but now a washed out half-grey.
“Chris?” he asks, tentatively, “what are you doing up?” Chris’s hands are wrapped around the metal railing, and when he looks at Taehwa, it’s with eyes rimmed with thick black, stark against his pale pale skin. Taehwa gasps before he can stop himself, pauses in the doorway, and Chris turn so his back rests against the railing, crossing his arms protectively over his chest (and Taehwa can see the ten black smudges across his fingernails, rough and inexpert like charcoal on paper). His lips are also stained black, but worn away where his teeth catch on his lips nervously.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Chris says, and his voice is low, softer than Taehwa has ever heard him before. His fingernails, shiny black, dig into the flesh of his arms.
“What’s with the, um,” Taehwa pauses, gesturing at his face, indicating the black smeared around Chris’s eyes and across his lips, “stuff,” he finishes lamely, wincing at how it sounds.
“Felt like it,” Chris says with a shrug, and Taehwa realizes that his voice is emotionless, something that Taehwa hadn’t ever thought he’d see. “What,” Chris continues, almost like it would be a challenge, if there was any emotion at all, “you don’t like it?”
Taehwa’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands, placating. “What? No, um. It’s not that -”
“It’s okay.” Chris’s eye slide away and down, and he bites into his lips again, turning back to the railing.
“Chris? What’s going on?” Taehwa can hear the uncertainty in his own voice, and he can see Chris shiver, still turned away, facing out to the silhouettes of tall buildings, all glimmering glass and dimmed lights. From here he can’t see the stars, just the sheet of pure black above his head, touching the tops of the skyscrapers
“Don’t pretend,” Chris says, and his voice is wounded, somewhere deep under the deadpan cover, “don’t pretend, Tae, please. It’s all you do, all of you. Pretend that you’re happy, that we’re successful,” his voice dips low, and Tae takes a step closer so that he can hear it, “that you like me.” And he’s seventeen, Taehwa realizes, seventeen and here. Chris turns, and there’re tears in his eyes and wet on his cheeks, the black smudged down over his cheekbones. He rubs at his eyes with the back of a fist (smearing eyeliner onto the back of his hand, further down his cheek), turning half away so that Taehwa doesn’t see, that American thing that he just doesn’t get, like the sharpness of their vowels and their clasped handshakes.
“Chris,” Taehwa says, reaching out and putting a hand on each of Chris’s shoulders, not letting Chris shrug his touch away. “C’mon, Chris, it’ll be okay,” he says, even if he doesn’t actually know, he just knows that he wants it to be. “C’mon, shhh, it’s okay.” And Chris turns and presses his face against the side of Taehwa’s neck, and Taehwa can feel the tears against his skin, wet and warm. He wraps his arms around Chris’s back, fits his chin to the top of Chris’s head, and he waits.
“I want to go home,” Chris says, voice sobbing, more hurt than Taehwa had thought possible even ten minutes earlier. “I want to go home, Tae. I want to go home.” He says it over and over, and when he slips back into English, Taehwa still knows what he’s saying.
“Let us be home,” he says, not because he thinks it will help, but because he wants it to be true, “we’ll be your home if you let us. We want you here.” His voice is a whisper, and he pulls away slightly, looking at Chris’s face, makeup smeared down his cheeks, and he pushes his thumbs over the skin there, feeling the residue come off onto his finger. He presses his mouth there before he can think about it, salt and skin and artificial black against the tip of his tongue, and Chris gasps with lips still mostly dark, and then Taehwa kisses him, pushes him back against the railing. Black tipped fingernails wind into his shirt and pull him closer, and the lipstick is almost waxy against his mouth but not unpleasant. Chris’s lips taste like tears.
He’s sure that there’re streaks over black against the side of his neck, smears of it on his lips, now, and he doesn’t care. Chris whimpers into his mouth and hooks his fingers into the muscles in Taehwa’s back, pulling him impossibly closer, needy.
“Home,” Chris says, and his voice doesn’t quite smile, yet, but it doesn’t cry.
“Home,” Taehwa says, and kisses him.
Battle (Taehwa/Chris)
924 words. PG-13. Third person.
Taehwa stumbles into the hall, coming home from a late practice in the gym, and his legs feel like dead weight, the muscle dripping from his bones. He shuts the door behind him and shucks off his shoes, leaving them strewn, unordered, across the entranceway. It’s after midnight, and he expects that everyone is asleep, if the darkened hallway is any indication. He pads down the hallway, steps slightly uneven as his exhaustion catches up with him. The living room is dark, also, but the patio door is open, and Taehwa shivers at the breeze whirling through the opened glass door.
He slips out onto the concrete, sucking in a quick breath at the cold against his socked feet. The chill slides up his ankles and over his calves, but with the patio light on, he recognizes the back of Chris’s head, the tight shirt once black, but now a washed out half-grey.
“Chris?” he asks, tentatively, “what are you doing up?” Chris’s hands are wrapped around the metal railing, and when he looks at Taehwa, it’s with eyes rimmed with thick black, stark against his pale pale skin. Taehwa gasps before he can stop himself, pauses in the doorway, and Chris turn so his back rests against the railing, crossing his arms protectively over his chest (and Taehwa can see the ten black smudges across his fingernails, rough and inexpert like charcoal on paper). His lips are also stained black, but worn away where his teeth catch on his lips nervously.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Chris says, and his voice is low, softer than Taehwa has ever heard him before. His fingernails, shiny black, dig into the flesh of his arms.
“What’s with the, um,” Taehwa pauses, gesturing at his face, indicating the black smeared around Chris’s eyes and across his lips, “stuff,” he finishes lamely, wincing at how it sounds.
“Felt like it,” Chris says with a shrug, and Taehwa realizes that his voice is emotionless, something that Taehwa hadn’t ever thought he’d see. “What,” Chris continues, almost like it would be a challenge, if there was any emotion at all, “you don’t like it?”
Taehwa’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands, placating. “What? No, um. It’s not that -”
“It’s okay.” Chris’s eye slide away and down, and he bites into his lips again, turning back to the railing.
“Chris? What’s going on?” Taehwa can hear the uncertainty in his own voice, and he can see Chris shiver, still turned away, facing out to the silhouettes of tall buildings, all glimmering glass and dimmed lights. From here he can’t see the stars, just the sheet of pure black above his head, touching the tops of the skyscrapers
“Don’t pretend,” Chris says, and his voice is wounded, somewhere deep under the deadpan cover, “don’t pretend, Tae, please. It’s all you do, all of you. Pretend that you’re happy, that we’re successful,” his voice dips low, and Tae takes a step closer so that he can hear it, “that you like me.” And he’s seventeen, Taehwa realizes, seventeen and here. Chris turns, and there’re tears in his eyes and wet on his cheeks, the black smudged down over his cheekbones. He rubs at his eyes with the back of a fist (smearing eyeliner onto the back of his hand, further down his cheek), turning half away so that Taehwa doesn’t see, that American thing that he just doesn’t get, like the sharpness of their vowels and their clasped handshakes.
“Chris,” Taehwa says, reaching out and putting a hand on each of Chris’s shoulders, not letting Chris shrug his touch away. “C’mon, Chris, it’ll be okay,” he says, even if he doesn’t actually know, he just knows that he wants it to be. “C’mon, shhh, it’s okay.” And Chris turns and presses his face against the side of Taehwa’s neck, and Taehwa can feel the tears against his skin, wet and warm. He wraps his arms around Chris’s back, fits his chin to the top of Chris’s head, and he waits.
“I want to go home,” Chris says, voice sobbing, more hurt than Taehwa had thought possible even ten minutes earlier. “I want to go home, Tae. I want to go home.” He says it over and over, and when he slips back into English, Taehwa still knows what he’s saying.
“Let us be home,” he says, not because he thinks it will help, but because he wants it to be true, “we’ll be your home if you let us. We want you here.” His voice is a whisper, and he pulls away slightly, looking at Chris’s face, makeup smeared down his cheeks, and he pushes his thumbs over the skin there, feeling the residue come off onto his finger. He presses his mouth there before he can think about it, salt and skin and artificial black against the tip of his tongue, and Chris gasps with lips still mostly dark, and then Taehwa kisses him, pushes him back against the railing. Black tipped fingernails wind into his shirt and pull him closer, and the lipstick is almost waxy against his mouth but not unpleasant. Chris’s lips taste like tears.
He’s sure that there’re streaks over black against the side of his neck, smears of it on his lips, now, and he doesn’t care. Chris whimpers into his mouth and hooks his fingers into the muscles in Taehwa’s back, pulling him impossibly closer, needy.
“Home,” Chris says, and his voice doesn’t quite smile, yet, but it doesn’t cry.
“Home,” Taehwa says, and kisses him.