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It had started when he was a kid, Dongju remembers.
It didn’t happen to his brother, it only ever happened to him.
(“It’s not what they wanted, is it?” A hush, something unintelligible—reflection off a closed window, curtains drawn to a sliver of light—Dongmyeong under the covers in the bed next to Dongju’s, whispers from the living room in the dead of nothing—
“Will they be okay?” Shuffling, whispering—an odd melody, eyes from the corner of the room, eyes from the shape of the ceiling light— “It’s not what we promised, but—” Fear, movement, fear—Dongmyeong moves, turns, blinks—
“Are we supposed to give up?” a low rumble in response, something, noise—Dongju reaches from under his bedsheets, crosses the bridge of nothing to take his brother’s hand, breathes, breathes, breathes—
“Will he—” it’s not soothing, it’s not good—Dongju swallows back fears, holds on tight—
“Go to sleep, Dongju” A sleepy little whisper—childish innocence and wonder in hazy eyes, in a careful hold— “It’s nothing”
“But—” and the melody halts, and it restarts—and Dongmyeong can’t hear, and Dongmyeong doesn’t comment, and Dongmyeong is his only warmth—
“Move over” and steps, and the eyes blink—and the world turns, and the ceiling light flickers—
“I want to go home” under the covers, safe, hidden, safe— the curtains draw themselves shut, the corner of the room turns to nothing, a void, a second— “This isn’t home”
“This is home” and Dongmyeong pats his hair, and Dongmyeong hugs him close—and Dongju chokes, and he holds on tight—
The ceiling light whispers, the curtains laugh, twist, turn—Dongju closes his eyes, Dongju stops listening, thinking, turning, thinking—
“This is home, Dongju” and Dongju can’t breathe, and the void laughs—and Dongju can’t breathe, and the world twists, and the ceiling light flickers, changes, flickers—
This isn’t home.
This isn’t home.
This isn’t home.
“We’re home” and the bedsheets are safe, and the world isn’t there, and the bedsheets are safe, are home, are soothing—
“We won’t know” and Dongju’s half asleep, and something is laughing, and something is watching—“We can’t know yet, so—”
So,
So,
So,
“Let’s wait, okay?” and the house is empty, quiet, empty—and there’s whispers of nothing, of something, of someone, of no one—
And Dongmyeong doesn’t seem to hear, and Dongju doesn’t seem to breathe—
And then they fall asleep, and Dongju doesn’t feel like home.)
There were whispers, eyes, things—just at the edge of his vision, watching, waiting— wrong colours in the mirror, wrong colours on the sky, the world, the world— shapes in the mirror, shapes that laughed, odd colours, eyes, tears, colours—
(Waking up in the morning, reflection off the window, off glass—reflection that watched, followed, laughed, twisted—
“We need a new mirror” Teenage years, childish wonders—Dongju’s voice is a little unsure, a little wary— “This one’s not right”
“It looks fine to me” Dongmyeong walks closer, turns his head to the side, to the other—taps at the mirror in unfamiliar rhythm, pattern, movement— “You sure it’s not something else?”
The window— he doesn’t think about that—the ceiling light—he doesn’t think about that—the surface of the water—he doesn’t think about that—the colour of the sky—he doesn’t think about—
“Maybe your face isn’t right?” a teasing cock of his eyebrow, hand away from the mirror as he flicks at Dongju’s forehead, laughs—
“My face is fine” and he swats at Dongmyeong’s hand, returns the smile with a frown, sulking— “Yours isn’t right”
“Mine’s perfect” Dongju swats again, Dongmyeong dodges, moves, walks— the mirror doesn’t move, the mirror doesn’t laugh— the mirror stays, watches, changes—
Dongju stands in the bathroom, stares at his hands, stares at the mirror—his reflection blinks with him, his reflection smiles, his reflection waits—
The mirror’s fine—and he swallows, picks up his toothbrush, himself—
Nothing’s wrong—and the mirror stares back, and the mirror laughs—
Dongju drops himself, the toothbrush, the world—Dongju hits his back against the door and waits, waits, waits—
The mirror doesn’t change, the world doesn’t change—Dongju’s not home yet, Dongju’s not home yet—
“I’m not waiting for you” a huff, a knock on the door that brings Dongju back—a knock on the door that switches the colours of the world, takes him back home, takes him back somewhere—
The red of the mirror is gone, the blue of the porcelain sink is white—the world switches colours, the world switches axis—
Dongju breathes, clenches his hand on nothing—feels cold tiles to his skin, senses—feels eyes on his reflection, feels nothing on his eyes, the ticking of analog time, the ticking and skipping of his breathing—
“I’m going” Fake annoyance, fake normalcy—he lets himself stand up, breathe, return—the mirror’s clear, stained with water, with years—everything is fine, everything is home, everything is fine, everything is home—
He steps out of the bathroom and doesn’t think—he hears a laugh, he hears a voice—the ceiling light watches, the curtains drawn open—the ceiling light flickers, the windows await—
The mirror’s not right—and Dongju swallows, hands in his pockets, uniform heavy, uniform wrong—
The world is not right—and the colour of the sun is purple, is blue, is yellow—and Dongmyeong’s there, and Dongmyeong doesn’t see—
And Dongju’s world is on the mirror, and Dongju blinks—and the world is back in front of him, and he simply walks.)
The world hasn’t been right—ever since he was a kid, the world hasn’t been right.
No one else seemed to see it, but Dongju could feel it—on one else seemed to see it, but Dongmyeong tapped the same patterns, whispered the same words—
Dongju knew, but he didn’t know—Dongju knew, but he didn’t—
(“If the mirror’s fine” Dongju crowds into Dongmyeong’s space, hands on worn-out keys as he stops Dongmyeong’s practice, music, tune— “If the world’s fine, then—”
“Dongju?”
“Why is it always the same?” dry throat, tongue out of lead—the window besides them rattles, laughs, haunts—
“What is?” and Dongmyeong’s hands fall off the keyboard, fall to his lap, to the old chair—
“The pattern” and Dongju taps, follows, repeats—and the window’s louder, and the lights of their new home flicker, pause, flicker— “It’s always the same”
“What pattern?” and an awkward laugh, a nervous smile—and Dongju scowls, repeats, repeats—
“This one” tap tap tap—and his breathing is a little erratic, and Dongmyeong looks lost, worried, lost— “It’s always this one—”
“It’s not” and it’s sharp, weird, sharp—Dongju’s breath hitches, stops, returns—“There’s no pattern, Dongju, I don’t know what you’re—”
“It’s always—” and he stutters, shakes, stutters—and the window laughs, and the keyboard’s off tune, and the lights are wrong— “the same words, the same—it’s always the same, Dongmyeong—”
“Nothing’s the same” and Dongmyeong stands, and the chair creaks, mixes with the laughter, the flicker, the light— “There’s nothing wrong”
“There’s something wrong” and it’s a whisper, and it’s lost strength—Dongmyeong steps back, holds onto Dongju’s arm, breathes, waits— “The windows laugh at me” a blink, a breath, a blink, a laugh— “The mirror’s wrong” a breath, a breath, a breath—“I’m not wrong—”
“You’re fine” and Dongmyeong’s grip hurts—and Dongju’s eyes burn— “It’ll be fine” and Dongmyeong licks at his lips, frowns, waits— “I can promise that, just—”
“What will?” and breathing burns, itches, skips—and Dongmyeong laughs, pats at his head, his arm— “I don’t know what’s wrong, I—”
“Nothing is” and the same pattern—against his arm, his back, his face—the same whispers, the same colours, the same moment— “It’s okay if you don’t know” and another pattern, another, another— “You don’t need to know”
“Why?” and the world flickers, changes— and the world fills with static, with fear, with nothing—“Why can’t I know?”
“Because” and Dongju falls, sits on the same worn-out chair—breathes the same worn-out air—
And there’s no more words, and the piano’s a melody—and there’s no more air, and the world is static, is nothing, is something—)
He forgets the pattern, he forgets the magic—the world isn’t right, and his body won’t listen, remember, repeat— his thoughts won’t listen, not to the pattern, the moment, the lull—
He taps on his desk, repeats, rinses, repeats— he whispers what he doesn’t understand, he whispers and repeats, he whispers and taps, thinks, repeats, repeats—
He can’t remember, he can’t repeat—Dongmyeong moves out of home, Dongju moves out of here—
Dongju’s not home, Dongju can’t find home—something isn’t right, and Dongju can’t find home.
(“You keep looking at the mirror” Dongju blinks, comes back, breathes, leaves—his brain turns, his reflection waits—
He hasn’t seen anything in years—he hasn’t seen anything in months—he hasn’t seen his brother in weeks—
“Do I?” And Dongju blinks, turns—takes in the room, the colours, the moment—
“You do” and Hwanwoong’s figure is new, and Hwanwoong’s figure flickers, breathes, static— “Though you’re with me” and a pout that touches at the ends of Dongju’s eyelashes, too far, too close, too far—
“I wasn’t, though” teasing, lost, teasing—Hwanwoong only blinks, eyes wide, eyes cute, pulls Dongju down, away, down, away—
“You always are” and a kiss, and a blur—a touch to Dongju’s lips, a world drowned in static—a touch to Dongju’s neck, the ghost at the back of the mirror—a touch to the shell of his ear, laughter from drawn blinds, from the window, the moment, the window, the mirror—
This isn’t home—
“Hyung” choked, scared, choked, lost— “This isn’t home” and their fingers intertwine, and Hwanwoong blinks, whispers, blinks, blinks— “This isn’t home, hyung”
“What do you mean?” drowned, lost, wrong—Dongju pushes, lets go, pushes, moves, runs— “Dongju—”
“This is wrong” Dongju blinks, back to the wall, eyes to the ceiling, the void, the eyes— “This isn’t home”
“You’re not home—”
“The world” a breath, mangled, lost, broken— “The world isn’t home—the world isn’t home—”
“What do you—” and the windows rattle—loud, shrill, loud—and Hwanwoong stops, breathes, shakes— and the void laughs, loud, here, there, here— “What do you mean—”
“The noise” movement from the corner, the mirror, the window— “The static—”
“There’s nothing” a breath—something shaky, something scared— “The walls are nothing” and another breath, and Hwanwoong’s hands shake, and the world flickers, changes—and the wall is red, is blue, is purple, is black—“The mirror is nothing” and another breath, and Hwanwoong stands up, steps back, steps back, steps back— “Tell me the mirror is nothing—please, Dongju, just—”
“The mirror” it laughs, it watches, it blinks—Dongju’s reflection stares, unmoving, cold, dead— Hwanwoong’s reflection flickers, shakes, turns— “The mirror is—”
“Please look at me” and the eyes in the mirror are white, are red, are white—and Hwanwoong’s not moving, breathing, moving, breathing— “Dongju, look at me”
“This isn’t—”
“Not the mirror” and Hwanwoong walks closer again—and he’s shaking, and he’s breathing, and he’s crying— “Don’t look at the mirror”
“Why—?”
“You can’t” and the mirror laughs, and Dongju’s reflection smiles—and Hwanwoong’s reflection blinks, smiles, blinks, waits, blinks— “Dongju” pleading, desperate, pleading—
Dongju breaks away from the mirror—Dongju looks up at Hwanwoong, finds his eyes, his colour, his—
“Your hair” and Hwanwoong’s kneeling in front of him, Dongju’s hand reaching out, Dongju’s hand to his forehead—Dongju’s hand in familiar colour, in foreign feeling— “It wasn’t this—it wasn’t this colour”
“It was” Hwanwoong’s eyes close, Dongju can’t move away—Dongju can’t do anything, Dongju can only breathe, touch, feel— “I never changed it”
“It wasn’t this” so quiet, so lost—Hwanwoong shakes his head, eyes closed, smile soft, smile lost—
“What was it?” Hwanwoong’s eyes open—familiar brown, familiar shine, familiar colour—Dongju blinks, breathes, thinks, blinks—
“I don’t know”)
He saw Dongmyeong just yesterday—he saw Dongmyeong yesteryear—Dongju can’t recall time, Dongju can’t recall moments—
Dongmyeong tells him it’s okay—Dongmyeong tells him there’s still time—
Dongmyeong tells him to remember—remember the words, remember the whispers—
Dongmyeong tells him to stay, Dongmyeong tells him to stop looking—
(“There’s no home” the same pattern repeats, repeats—the same pattern to the mirror, to the walls—the same pattern Dongju can’t repeat, can’t recall— “You can’t go home, Dongju”
“Why?”
“There’s no home”)
This isn’t home—nowhere is home.
Dongju’s skin itches, Dongju’s reflection whispers, laughs, snickers—Dongju’s reflection taps at the mirror, Dongju’s reflection mocks him—
The same pattern, the same rhythm—the pattern Dongju can’t repeat, the pattern Dongju can’t perceive—
(He breaks the mirror—the window—the light—
He breaks his reflection until his hands bleed—he breaks his reflection down to shards, to nothing, to dust—
And yet it mocks him, rinse and repeat—and yet it mocks him, familiar and wrong—)
He bleeds red, purple, blue—he bleeds black and white and grey—he bleeds human and everything not—
He cries until he can’t breathe—he cries on the bathroom floor—cries next to the shards, the changing colours, the lack of home—
He cries over broken glass, cries until he bleeds, cries until he chokes—
(And the mirror shrieks—and the mirror hurts—and the mirror is gone, and yet it laughs—
Dongju covers his ears, Dongju stains it all red, stains it all black, white, purple, grey, red—
The mirror shrieks, the world spins—the pattern isn’t right, and this isn’t home.)
It’s not Dongmyeong that finds him, it’s Hwanwoong.
His hair isn’t right, but Dongju doesn’t know why—Hwanwoong smells a little like rust, Hwanwoong’s smells a little like human—
(“I’m scared” and Hwanwoong takes his hand, all through broken glass, broken home—and Dongju sobs until his throat is raw, and Dongju cries grey, washed out black, washed out red— “I want to go home”
“Don’t go home” and Hwanwoong bleeds on the shards, on the mirror—and Hwanwoong’s blood drowns the laughter, the eyes, the colours— “Please don’t go home”
“I want to go home” there’s no home—Dongmyeong’s words linger, spin, linger, repeat— and Dongju doesn’t want to listen, and Dongju doesn’t get it—
“Don’t go home” and Hwanwoong’s crying, bleeding, crying—and Hwanwoong’s hand is so close, so warm, so real— “Stay”
“Why?” and static, static, static—and Hwanwoong’s voice is a little drowned, a little gone—and Hwanwoong’s touch burns, hurts, burns— and Hwanwoong’s blood seeps into his veins, and Hwanwoong’s tears are clear, and Dongju’s tears are not—
“Please stay” and red mixes with grey, with Dongju, with home— “I’m sorry” and a breath, and red, and blood, and red— “I’m sorry—” and a sob, a broken thing, a broken moment—and the world flickers, and the light is broken, and the shards laugh, stare, wait, laugh— “I’m sorry, please stay, I’m sorry—”
What for? but Dongju’s voice won’t come out—but Dongju’s voice is stuck—but Hwanwoong bleeds on his skin, his clothes, his thoughts—
“Okay” and Hwanwoong kisses him, like countless times before, like no time at all—kisses him softly, so carefully, fearfully— and Hwanwoong kisses him until they bleed, until they taste like copper, until they taste like nothing—
And Hwanwoong lets go, and Hwanwoong holds him close—and the shards watch, laugh, watch—
Dongju wants to go home, but Dongju doesn’t want to go home.)
Hwanwoong doesn’t clean his wounds—Hwanwoong doesn’t clean his own—Hwanwoong only stays, hums, mutters—Hwanwoong only covers Dongju’s eyes, Hwanwoong only makes him bleed—
It doesn’t hurt—bleeding doesn’t hurt, bleeding isn’t right—
The shards of the mirror laugh, the shards of glass watch—the world changes colours in the darkness, the world changes axis in the light—
Dongju bleeds and feels it run, Hwanwoong bleeds and lets it mix—Hwanwoong kisses him with blood and tears, and Dongju wonders if there is a home—
(“It’s not what they wanted, is it?” a constant tap tap tap—steps and whispers to Dongju’s ears—steps and whispers to Dongju’s world.
“Will they be okay?” like rain, like something—Dongju only listens, waits, listens— Dongmyeong’s hand repeats the pattern, the whispers, the words, the moment, the words—
“Are we supposed to give up?” noise, static, grey, black, purple, red— Dongju’s home is a blur, Dongju’s home isn’t here—Dongmyeong whispers a pattern, taps at the bed, Dongju’s skin—
“Will he—” the same pattern, the same words—a forgotten lullaby and a forgotten home—Dongju breathes, remembers, breathes— “Will Dongju be—")
It had started when he was a kid, Dongju remembers.
Started when Dongmyeong repeated the same little patterns, the same little words—when Dongmyeong told him it was all okay, when Dongmyeong told him this was home—
The noises, the colours, the world—
Dongju’s world has never been right.
(He wakes up on the same cold floor—wakes up to the same tap, the same melody—wakes up to Hwanwoong’s touch to his neck, Hwanwoong’s warmth to the tip of his fingers, the edge of the world—
Hwanwoong’s face is to his neck, hidden, cold—Hwanwoong’s hold is all too tight, Hwanwoong’s hold is all too fearful—
Hwanwoong’s hold is all too human, Hwanwoong’s hold is all but so—)
“Did you know?” and Dongju’s eyes are on the ceiling, unseeing, lost—and Hwanwoong’s touch is a little shaky, and Hwanwoong’s blood is the only warmth—
“About the mirror” and a kiss to Dongju’s neck, and teeth to worn-out veins— “You told me to ask him”
“I didn’t” and Hwanwoong bites down, and Dongju tenses— “I didn’t tell you”
“You did” as he pulls back, grey to his lips, red to his skin— “In the mirror, you did”
“I don’t—” and Hwanwoong kisses him—and Hwanwoong tastes like blood, and Hwanwoong tastes like home— “I don’t understand—”
“You told me about home” and Hwanwoong cries, and Hwanwoong bleeds—and then he bites again, and Dongju can’t see— “Don’t go”
“Why?” and the world is back, and the colours are right, and the colours are wrong—
“Stay” no reason, a plea—no reason, no question— “Stay here”
“Why were you sorry?” last time, last moment—yesterday, tomorrow, today— “Hwanwoong—hyung— I don’t understand—”
“That’s okay” and Dongju’s blood is red, and Dongju’s tears are clear—and Hwanwoong’s colour is gone, and Hwanwoong’s colour is wrong—
“Hwanwoong—” but Hwanwoong steals from his lips—steals blood, tears, moments, thoughts— and Hwanwoong kisses him, cold, warm, cold—kisses red, kisses grey, kisses purple and blue—
And the shards stab and scratch—and the shards laugh and cry—and broken glass looks back at him with a smile, a laugh—and his reflection is gone, and his reflection is naught—
And Hwanwoong kisses him again, and Hwanwoong bites until they bleed, and Dongju forgets how to think.)
And the same pattern, the same rhythm—and Dongju’s reflection laughs, and Dongju’s reflection blinks—
And Dongju’s reflection flickers, breathes, blinks, flickers, laughs—
(This isn’t home.)
And rust is on his lips, his thoughts—and the ceiling light flickers, in the dark, and the mirror digs into his skin, digs until it’s gone, digs until it’s blood—
(“Don’t go home” and Dongju listens, and Dongju follows—and Dongju kisses him breathless, and Hwanwoong kisses him thoughtless, and Dongju—)
Dongju stays.