Rise Apocalypse: Chapter 13
WARNINGS: Rape, violence, character bastardization
In tragedy, time stands inconceivably still, locked in continuum like the edges of puzzle pieces glued together. Frozen, thoughts halt before they can form, leaving only raw emotions that throb, red and vulnerable like exposed nerves. This is what it is like to become a feeling, to have the emotion consume you so completely that you are filled up with it until there is nothing left, no room for you or what it means to be you. There is only the pain of that one emotion. Donghae, neither in the conscious world nor the unconscious, lingered in this state. The searing flames of grief burned his soul. He knew not what had set them aflame; he didn’t even know who he was. All he knew was the agony of loss. He was sundered by the tides of anguish, crashing through waves that came too great and too quickly for him to catch his breath. Sinking, he choked on sorrow.
Within death there is rebirth. It comes violently, thrusting up through the earth like stalactites, babies screaming, red mouthed, in the faces of their mothers. Fittingly, it was red mouthed and screaming he came. Naked, molded of flesh and glowing gold all over, he surfaced spluttering and spitting. Sweat and blood and tears sealed shut his eyes. Sound ascended upon him slowly, a humming crescendo that popped open the doors to his eardrums and let back in the world of communication and depth perception. The first sound he heard was his screaming voice, at first wordless, then forming the syllables of a name semi-forgotten. Beyond it, he could hear voices outside his own.
“He is beautiful,” he thought he heard. “Absolutely perfect.”
More familiar now, “He’d be prettier if he wasn’t yelling. Can’t we shut him up?”
The hard rim of a foreign object forced at the corners of his lips and a bitter liquid swam thickly down his throat and gagged him. Memories in the form of taste filled his mouth: warm and seedy, coating his tongue with life and love, pulsing on the back of his throat. Fingers on his jaw, kind and loving, a whispered Good baby, swallow it all. He whimpered around the glass, unwilling to swallow, unwilling to open his eyes. He missed. He didn’t know what it was that he missed, only that he did and it hurt.
When he awoke, he remembered. Sleep had granted him a merciful reprieve from emotional suffering, but upon waking it consumed him once again. He felt his limbs only in their heaviness, holding him captive against the sweat damp sheets he lay in. The thin blankets on top of him, silk and lace, felt impossibly heavy and hot, pressing him down. Light was a pink, playful thing. It flickered against his raw eyes, vision blurry in its newness. Shapes had no meaning to him at first, served no purpose except to confuse and disorient him. When at last the outlines of figures moved into place and became concrete and tangible, he saw the room for what it was.
Lace curtains hung over windows that glowed from a bright, white light that lit the room from outside, casting stripes of heat and color across the floor, bending over furniture. His bedpost stretched upward in four tall pillars, topped with crystal arrowheads that glistened in the light from outside. Circular mirrors hung from the ceiling on strings, rotating slowly and catching glimmers that sparked in Donghae’s eyes and made him squint. The room was draped in girlish pink and white with him a dark, masculine blemish defiling what would otherwise be a sweet and innocent landscape.
The click of the door opening was too-loud for his over sensitive, new ears. For one blissful, delusional moment, he thought he saw someone cut from all angles, with slim hips tapered down from a broad chest. His heart soared and he thought a name, Eunhyuk, secret in his mind. For a blink of time he allowed himself to feel happiness. And then it disappeared. It was a stranger. It was a face with forever too much solemnity that might have been lit with happiness once, but now seemed to always hang on the cusp of misery and despair. It was a beautiful face, one that had seen much loss. He was too tall and too thin. Too old. Not in appearance, for Ipsuren were perpetually young, but something in the pull of his eyes spoke volumes about his age. This was an okji who had seen and experienced many things, things Donghae could not and would not know. From his ears and around his neck, on his fingers and wrapped on strings around his wrist, were crystals cut from the same stone as the pendant Heechul had given Donghae in a past lifetime. They glowed with trapped fire, flames caught in time.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” the okji said, slowly. His voice was quiet and soft, almost a whisper, and quivered around words with a deep, almost unbearable sadness. “My name is Han Geng.”
Words, Donghae would come to realize, were hard for Han Geng. Perhaps it had not always been so; Hae knew that there had been a point in time where this okji had laughed and smiled and made light of any situation with an outlook so optimistic it bordered on naïve, but perhaps, like Donghae’s own innocence, it had been in a past lifetime.
Donghae has only seen Han Geng smile once and it was not then.
Hae said nothing. It could have been because his voice was blown out from screaming, or maybe it was just because Donghae had nothing to say.
Han Geng seemed comfortable with the silence, almost relieved. He approached the bed warily, his feet silent as they moved against the carpet. When he sat on the edge, it was with such care and grace that the springs made almost no noise. It seemed that everything about this okji was quiet. It was strangely calming.
“I’m going to bathe you, now,” he said.
Donghae could hardly find it in him to care.
“I’ll help you to the bathroom.”
And so it began, the slow, agonizing journey on limbs stiff and numb from disuse, aided by Geng’s strong arms flexing as they held him up.
The bathroom was spacious, the bathtub big enough to hold at least five prokji, and Donghae was drowning himself in it. Well, he was doing the best he could to do so, but was intervened by Geng’s insistent pulling. The scent of the water, perfumed and sweet; the feeling of strong hands kneading his back, these were things so familiar they sent tears down his cheeks to drip from his nose and chin, mingling in with the steaming bathwater. There was a memory from another lifetime of Sungmin, washing him in pink foam, whispering secrets into his ear and telling him stories. Perhaps more painful was the vision of Eunhyuk, pushing inside him while water sloshed over the sides of the clawed tub they shared. These scenes, while vivid and bright in his mind, seemed to have happened to another Donghae, someone dead and burned. The pain of remembrance was like looking at pictures of a newly deceased friend, knowing you’d never see them again. Never hear their voice again. Never see them smile or frown. Had he ever been so distraught? Surely, when his brother had died it had been painful, but Donghae couldn’t remember ever suffering quite like this.
There was more pain to endure, more sadness to come. The misery he kept barely at arm’s length was what he knew he’d feel if he let himself think of love; if he let himself dwell on that face, that smile, that voice, screaming his name into the darkness, muffled by tears and grief. He thought he remembered seeing him cry. He didn’t want to remember anything anymore.
Han Geng was stroking his hair, threading substance through it, soap and oil to be lathered and rinsed out. The pads of his fingers were pressing into Donghae’s temples and other sensitive spots, softly rubbing in circles.
“Don’t think, Donghae,” he said.
Out of all the questions he wanted to ask, the one that came to the forefront of Donghae’s mind was ‘what now?’ Blankly, he stared ahead at the gold plated tiles on the wall across the room, registering them only as a cage, keeping him from love.
He was waiting for him upon Donghae’s return, standing by the window and staring out at Aethere. He was dressed as casually as Donghae had ever seen him, a too-big silk shirt sliding down his chest and loosely tucked into tight leather pants. What was more was that he was barefoot, a luxury one would expect for someone comfortable in their own home. Siwon turned to address them and smiled slightly. Perhaps it was meant to be comforting, but it did nothing but terrify Donghae, who entered the room supported by Han Geng, leaning heavily against him with the weight of exhaustion bearing down upon his shoulders.
“Geng-la, put our precious Donghae on the bed, will you?” his voice was sweet and gentle, his expression when turned to Han Geng writ with a level of affection Hae had not thought him capable of.
Geng did as he was told, leading them to the edge of the bed where Hae, in a fight to regain some level of control over the situation, pulled himself between the sheets without aid. No one spoke and time seemed irrelevant, passing by in heartbeats and bated breath. Donghae looked at Siwon, watched him curiously. Staring at him was like reuniting with a relative you rarely see, connected to you only by blood, otherwise a stranger. Siwon had invaded him in every conceivable way, been a malicious interference in Donghae’s life, past and present. Hae had never asked for him, never asked to be with him or to become him, yet Siwon had taken. He’d been a silent watcher, sharing Donghae’s memories and secrets, spying on even the most intimate moments of his life.
“Why?” he asked, finally, his voice a rough and crackled sound from strain.
Siwon stood at a distance, across the room. Geng lingered by his bedside like an abstract sculpture, out of place and superficial. Hae wondered what part he played in all of this.
“Are you asking why I chose you?” Siwon asked, a question for an answer. “Or why I had you killed?”
So it had been him, then. Donghae had known, had always known, but denial had fueled his perseverance. How long had he felt the attendance of someone other than himself in his day to day life? How often had he impressed upon Eunhyuk the necessity of travel, that they had to keep moving and never settle down in one place for too long? It had been his ultimate flaw, he discovered, getting comfortable with the Timechasers. They should never have stayed in Disanji so long, felt so untouchable, as if nothing could hurt them and they were safe. They were never safe, had never been safe. The reality of Donghae’s situation, his whole life, was so obtrusive now, so obvious. How long had he been a pawn in Siwon’s game? How long had he been used and manipulated?
“How long?” he asked, burying his face in his hands. His skin felt hot and feverish, his hair wet and greasy, even after just being washed.
“Do you remember the Gutter, Donghae?” Siwon asked. “Do you remember the discomfort, the paranoia, the-“
“Feeling of always being watched.”
There was nothing to say, Donghae found. He had questions layering upon questions, but his desire to ask them now was fleeing.
“Do you remember Garahim?”
“Yes, of course.” He remembered.
Sungmin’s cooking, always tangy and full of spice, burning down his throat. Rooms full of vibrant smoke, drinks that tasted like fire and left your head a mess of puzzle-piece thoughts. He had never known a home such as that one, never felt so happy and wanted and loved. His friends were there, Shindong and his jokes that would make you laugh so hard you’d choke on your own spit. Heechul was there, his first teacher and the one who had taught him more than anyone else.
It was in Garahim that he lost himself to the okji he respected above all others, the one he loved. Afterwards, they could never be apart for even one night, had been inseparable, never even considering leaving each other’s side. Now they were miles away, on opposite ends of Jiscada, with plates and cities between them. Eunhyuk was at the bottom and Donghae was on top in the one place Hyuk had always wanted to visit, missing him and wishing he could reach out and find him, buried beneath the blankets.
Siwon’s voice invaded Hae’s thoughts, bringing him back. “Do you remember what I told you?”
“Yes.” And he remembered how he’d disobeyed.
“What am I, Donghae? Am I a god?”
Hae shook his head, “No, I don’t know, I don’t.”
Siwon neared him and the floorboards creaked his approach. Hae was pulled taught with anticipation. When he risked a glance, Siwon was right upon the bedside, glaring down at him with eyes of yellow fire. His pupils were blown out and gold, filling up the whites of his eyes and Hae could only remember Yesung, whose eyes had looked the same as he stared down at his brother. Suddenly, Donghae was afraid. Sometimes fear comes slowly, sneaking upon you when you’re unaware and unprepared, sitting bone-deep inside you and twisting up your insides. More often, fear starts as panic, fast and sharp, choking you immediately and blanking your mind. Donghae was panicking on the bed, every muscle tense as he prepared to get away. Siwon smiled wide and his teeth, as Yesung’s had been, were sharp.
“Hold him, Han Geng,” he spoke, his voice echoing inside Hae’s mind.
No! No! Not him, not him!
Hands were wrapped around his arms from behind with strength that Donghae could not even hope to match. He was weakened, he was new, he was unprepared for this. Memories of Higher City blistered behind his eyes, when he had been strong and confident and full of rage and hate. Then, he’d had Hyuk beside him, giving him strength, lending him power, a solid constant. Now, he had no one. He had an awkward, limp body he couldn’t use properly and useless memories of events he hardly believed happened at all. There was no training inside him, no education, no strength. Siwon had all of it, had everything, had all the power Donghae had once possessed and more. So much more. It soared around him in a violent wind, throwing the blankets from the bed and picking up their hair and clothing. With his bangs lifted off his face, Siwon’s expression was even more terrifying and unrecognizable, his mouth an open, sharp vortex of yellow fire, his tongue escaping his mouth pointed and snake-like.
“Are you ready for me, Donghae?”
No, no, never him, never like this.
“You understand, it must be this way.” His voice was so loud, screaming over the sound of all his energy sucking up the room like a vacuum.
Donghae whimpered, thinking of his brother beneath Yesung’s storming presence. Submissively, he had been prepared to surrender his life unaware to the flames of a sick, perverted lust for power. Now, Donghae would surrender the same way, but it wouldn’t be for lust or greed. Siwon’s motive remained unclear, his egotistical lust for himself overwhelming whatever momentary lust he would have felt for Donghae. His cock was hard just from his hands caressing his own face and neck and it glowed differently than any Hae had ever seen. Red at the tip and flaring orange down the shaft, like iron pounded in flames, it glowed red-hot and burning from the inside. His nails elongated like the claws on a cat, pressing into Donghae’s sides and pricking his skin.
“Surrender,” he hissed. “Give up control to me.”
Hyuk, I want you. I want all of you.
There were so many voices inside his head, uncontrollable thoughts and audible memories. He felt like he was stuck between two worlds, neither human nor Ipsuren, a weak, unwanted thing. Behind him was a life restrained by class and social status, a life shared with someone less than him, unworthy of him. Before him was a life filled with choice, protection, knowledge, where he’d have all the answers and could do what he wanted with them. If he had to make the decision to go forward into the light or retreat back into darkness and ignorance, he’d choose the latter.
There’s one thing that’s missing, the most important thing.
A lonely life in the sun or a life in darkness, shared with others. Wealth and power meant nothing without someone to share it with. Donghae would give up everything to be with one okji.
I’m not sorry for confessing this…
Tears were coursing down his cheeks, dripping into his ears and hair.
“I’m not sorry,” he blurt out around his tears, high pitched and strangled. “I’m not sorry.”
Siwon ripped into him. His nails were razors that cut, patterns of red beading onto Hae’s skin and filling into dripping, running lines. When his cock pressed against his new hole, untouched, unstretched, unviolated, it burned like a hot iron brand. Hae’s skin seared against it and smoked like fire as the flesh singed. His press inside was the most painful thing Donghae could remember, never cooling down, getting hotter and hotter as it opened him up with sharp, deep thrusts. Darkness took hold of him, unconsciousness sparking behind his eyes in white bursts as he began to black out from the pain.
Siwon made no sound of enjoyment or pleasure. He bent over and opened his mouth against Hae’s, the acidity of his spit bringing him back to consciousness, keeping him aware. Siwon’s body was a lantern lit from inside, his blood visible as it flowed through his veins in dark branches along his arms and neck and chest, the unidentifiable colors of his iridescent skin burning Hae’s eyes. He felt things moving inside him, rats that used their tiny claws to tear through Hae’s stomach; snakes that curled and twisted around his chest and heart. Perhaps this was how that human prostitute had felt when she was fucked to death by the strange looking young man in a dark alley, her womb clawed open from the inside and her vaginal cavity burned by his acidic come.
Every thrust felt like a blow to Donghae’s head, bringing stars to his eyes and making his mind throb and pulse in his skull. Bruises bloomed everywhere Siwon touched him, shaped like his fingers and hands. Sharp, bestial teeth marks dotted in the fleshy parts of his chest and arms, circling a nipple or shoulder. Eventually, Hae stopped crying, whimpering and screaming. He bit his lip so hard it opened beneath his teeth and turned his mouth red with blood. When Siwon finally, finally finished, Donghae began to slip.
Blurred, he saw Geng shaking his head. “Never again, Siwon. I’m never doing that ever again, do you understand?”
The words were muffled, falling away from sound as Hae drifted from consciousness. Siwon was dressing himself, his visage back to normal. “You won’t have to, Geng-la. If this takes as it should, you won’t have to.”
Donghae found that his second death came much easier than the first.
Reconstruction: building up again something that was lost, reforming and recreating in a previous image. It is not always the case that when one sets out to reconstruct something the end result must be identical to what it once was. Most often, the reconstructed is modified and improved. Better than before. This process can take days, months, years. Wonderful things are not created overnight. The reconstruction of “Donghae” took two-hundred and ten days. For the majority of this time his consciousness waxed and waned. Moments of clear, painful lucidity came and went, during which he was fed and bathed with a full, warm sponge of fragrant water. His bloated, malformed body was wrapped in bandages, the changing of which was always painful enough to drive him back into the merciful embrace of unconsciousness. Han Geng stayed by Donghae’s side, quietly standing guard over him and seeing to his care. His constant presence could be felt through the cracks of Hae’s awareness, his soft voice heard like familiar and comforting static.
When finally Hae hatched from his catharsis, he shed his former skin like a snake, with an odd, grey crust crumbling to dust in the bed with him. He stared it at in horror and again at his body, glowing gold upon the sheets. He felt rested as if he could never sleep again, his body stretching and popping with the desire to move and stand and walk. For the first time he appreciated the many mirrors stationed throughout his chamber and stood before them in shock at what he had become. His hair was long and in need of cutting, falling in his eyes and curling under his jaw. It was a burnt, wheat-gold color, the same as his skin yet lacking the luminescence. Had his chest always been so defined? Had his arms always held such bursting strength, with long veins prominent down the inside of his forearm when he flexed and moved? He felt powerful, his hipbones cut in a wide V, creating a hairless ravine at the end of which his sex hung heavily, thick and dark between his thighs. He was a god. He had become something beyond Ipsuren, equivalent with Siwon. Curiously, he tilted his neck to the side and watched the muscles and veins move beneath his skin. He tried to remember what the other Donghae had looked like, the one before, but he couldn’t.
“You’re awake,” Geng said by the door, clicking it shut. “I brought you some clothes.”
Almost every piece of fabric Siwon seemed to own was either silk or leather, it seemed. The tan robe and pants were light and cool against his body heat, the fabric glowing muted gold where it lay upon his skin, as if it had been hung over a fire-lit lamp. The robe had no tie or buttons, so it hung open on either side of his glistening chest, fluttering behind him when he walked across the room to sit on a cushioned stool. He allowed Geng to cut his hair, although the length was kept in the back and his bangs were still long enough to fall just over his lightened eyebrows. They didn’t speak and the sound of the scissors opening and closing, metal sliding against metal, slicing through soft hair, was fast and harsh.
Finally, Donghae cleared his throat. He’d forgotten the sound of his own voice and when he spoke, his words held the same slight echo as Siwon’s.
“Han Geng,” he said. His silent, solemn companion didn’t respond. “You have to talk to me.”
Geng finished with Hae’s hair and brushed the fallen locks off his shoulder and back. After cleaning up, he moved to stand in front of Donghae and offered him his hand, which he pulled until Hae was standing and led him over to the bed. They sat side by side, Geng continuing to clutch Hae’s hand in his own.
“Donghae, you have been chosen,” he said. “When Siwon took hebia with you-“
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Hae interjected, disgust clouding his features. Donghae remembered hebia, remembered the warmth and building passion, the storm of emotion and gentle, sweaty touches. What Siwon had done to him had not been that, nowhere close. It had been savage, barbaric rape. Murder.
Geng was not discouraged. “When Siwon took hebia with you he raised you to Nokhiri. You are Kajako now. What is more, I have been appointed to you. All your thoughts, all your fears, all your feelings are to go directly to me and me alone.”
What he should have said was that Geng was his in servitude to do with as Hae saw fit, but there was spite enough remaining in Han Geng to keep him from admitting that he was at the mercy of anyone. Geng is a tortured soul, one who has seen horrors beyond anything Hae has. The violent, cruel reality of the world and his stolen, captive life had made him merciless and unsympathetic. It was possible that he really cared very little about Donghae, was probably incapable of caring about anything at all. Someone had destroyed him, ripped him apart and sewn him back together as a mockery of a creature, molded him into someone else’s idea of what he should be. Truly, he had no identity of his own, his only defining feature being the pain and suffering evident in the blacks of his eyes. At that moment, from that conversation, it became gut-wrenchingly apparent to Donghae that he was not the first to endure this torture. There had been other contestants in line for his current spot, ones who had failed. Maybe just one other.
“I’m sure you have realized by now where we are?”
Donghae realized. It had been a nagging detail he had been reluctant to accept, but it seemed he had no choice.
“Aethere.”
Memories of Eunhyuk pierced the surface of Hae’s mind, visible in the pools of his eyes and across his face. It was unavoidable that Geng knew all about Donghae’s past, knew everything from his kani onward, including every intimate detail about his discovery of love. He knew as if he had been there, an extension of Donghae himself. As Siwon had spied on every moment of Hae’s life, Geng was also informed of it, having seen it through Siwon’s eyes. He showed no visible sympathy for Hae’s loss, nor would he ever.
“It is here you are to take your rightful place,” Geng continued. “The place Siwon has made for you as the eternal ruler of Jiscada.”
He felt ice in his veins as if he was Tinrian, turning hot and sharp, his blood slow as sludge. He thought of Kangin, the mocking parody of a King sitting on his imaginary throne, rendering his people no more capable than the humans they were supposed to have surpassed. He found it hard to believe that a single okji in Jiscada would bow to him as “eternal ruler” and even harder to believe that that was Siwon’s grand master plan.
“Like, a King?” Hae asked dumbly.
“King, Emperor, President, Commander, Monarch, Sovereign-pick the title that you think suits you best. Call it what you will, the end result is the same; you are to lead the Ipsuren in all their endeavors and bring peace to a disorganized race on the cusp of war.”
“War?”
Geng nodded.
So he had been reconstructed into a leader’s image without consent, plucked from what he had thought was his own life without regard for his own wants or desires. He was a play thing, a puppet on a string. Hae could not be sure how much of what he had become was his own identity or how much was what Siwon had made him. He felt numbed from the emotions whirlpooling around inside him, as if to let himself feel each and every one would cause his already fragile sanity to crumble once and for all. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on what-ifs and feel sorry for himself. What was, was. Reality was something he had to deal with, it could not be changed; he could not go back. There was no use falling apart over it. Geng was watching him carefully for a response of some kind, but said nothing about the lack of one.
“What if I don’t want this? What if I refuse?” It was a stupid question, really, but Hae needed to know for sure.
Geng humoured him, “There is no refusal, Hae. You have no choice. Have you ever had any choice?”
“Will you kill me?”
“No, Siwon needs you. If you won’t do his bidding willingly, there are ways of forcing you. Altering your mind, changing your desires…”
Claustrophobia reared its demon head then, wrapping around Hae’s mind and making him sick. He stood from the bed and paced, forcing the room to widen up.
Siwon lived in a palace of stone domes and glass towers. It was a hulking labyrinth of reflected light and windows cut in all manners of shapes and sizes. Hae had yet to explore even half of his new home, was content to get acquainted with it slowly and through necessity. The library held his attention first. It was an open space with books shoved in the walls and floating glass stairs lit from underneath leading up and up, granting access to all the books, even ones near the slanted glass roof. The human books saved from before the Senbelzhan were what interested him the most. There were pictures of wide open prairies and massive bodies of water, locations from outside their closed city, and Hae was curious if they were still out there somewhere. He’d never considered leaving Jiscada, yet he knew now he’d never get the chance to.
Donghae paused at a picture of a large white mansion, pillared and domed, and thought of Kangin. How long had it been since Hae’s first death? Surely, at least nine months. Was Sungmin still living among the Timechasers, lured by Kangin’s spell? Had he become one of them, nearly human? He wondered what young Kyuhyun looked like now, if he had grown at all and how much, if Leeteuk still lived there, yearning for his master’s affections. Where was Eunhyuk? Had he gone back there to be with Sungmin, or was he at home, in Garahim? It was altogether too possible that he’d still wish to reach Aethere without Donghae and if he did, would they meet again?
Searching’s Hae’s memory, it was nearly impossible for him to remember his life as a human. He remembered only his father’s hands and the idea of the Gutter, perhaps influenced by what he had read later on in his studies. He couldn’t remember his mother at all, could not even recall her name. Details of Garahim were fading as well, conversations from his past breaking apart. What he remembered with the most vivid clarity was not a moment in time or an event that had changed him, not even his kani, but a feeling. He remembered the feeling of love, the feeling of being one half of a whole, a part of a team between two people, a partnership. He vaguely remembered words whispered the day of his death, although he couldn’t bring up who had said them, he could hear the voice in his mind:
“Your love for him would drive you insane if you were parted.”
Hae closed the book and pushed it back into its place in the wall, nestled between two identical volumes. The glow his skin had inherited was fading, returning to a normal flesh-toned tan.
“Don’t ever stop loving him, Donghae. Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t.”
There would be others to enter Hae’s bed, he knew. Not then, not so soon, when he was doing fine without the temptation and pain of going without hebia for so long. But eventually, he’d need to find a poor substitute for a lover. Yes, there would eventually be others to touch him, but one thing Hae vowed at that moment was not to love anyone other than Hyuk. Even if they never saw each other again, Donghae would never let anyone roam near Hyuk’s place in his heart. He belonged to one okji and one okji only. He’d take hebia enough to survive, but it would never mean anything more than that. And one day, he promised, he would find Eunhyuk again. Even if Siwon forbade it and kept him locked in the palace like the prisoner he was, he would find a way.
A/N: okay guys click here for important updates regarding how this fic is going to be updated from now on! It's important!
twitter // tumblr