Chapter Four: Blends
Time began to trip along much more quickly than before. Over three weeks: Work, Christmas, sleep, and Razer - though not necessarily in that order - created a neat and effortless pattern to follow. And Hwoarang had a wish: try not to be angry about Jin anymore. Of course, he couldn't fool himself completely. When he stopped to take stock of his life, which he tried not to do too often, he couldn't ignore the implications of his behaviour. Hwoarang was like a lost moon - his planet destroyed in some post-apocalyptic, disaster movie scenario of desolation - that continued, nevertheless, to circle in a tight little orbit around the empty space left behind, ignoring the laws of gravity.
As expected by Hwoarang; in Razer's mansion, Christmas was no fun at all. Firstly, Jin would not stop interrogating her, totally exhausted from whatever he'd been doing early on in the morning - not even wishing her a Merry Christmas. Secondly, Hwoarang didn't visit until noon - so Razer just walked around the confines of the large garden, mindlessly flicking her gaze tree to tree, looking for something decent to see. She'd called nearly every one of her friends to ask them if they wanted to visit or something; but, as she should have guessed, they were at home with their families, laughing and opening presents and generally having a good time. It was a little saddening that Razer didn't even get a present from Jin that year. But Hwoarang made up for that - he'd practically bought out the whole of HMV for her. The year before, she'd gotten Hwoarang a brand new pair of red converse high tops - he was over the moon.
It wasn't like her boyfriend to forget. Although, it wasn't like him to remember, either.
Razer wasn't one to praise the current Jin but he was just so fucking strong. She had stood up against him a few times; only to get knocked down again. She had to be honest, her boyfriend was one strong guy - apart from all the tournaments he'd participated in. He may not have looked it, but within that fragile shell was a hell of a fighter.
A young boy wandered into the kitchen, throwing his bag into the corner of the living room next to a pile of dirty washing. "Mum?" he yelled, "Mum, where are you?" He turned to his little brother, noticing him walk over to the table and picking up a small piece of paper. "What's that, bro?" he asked him, wandering over to his side.
The green-eyed male shook his head. "I dunno," he murmured, beginning to read.
My darling sons,
You don't know how hard it is for me to write this letter, knowing that when it is written, the pen I used to write it with will no longer be within my grip - much like you two. I've spent so much of my time protecting you, holding you in my arms, never wanting to let you go - keeping you out of danger. I always said it was a harsh world out there, but I never realised that the real danger was here. And that danger is called 'father'.
"What? What does she mean?" the youngest thought aloud, squinting at the rushed handwriting on the paper in his brother's grip. The raven-haired youngster shrugged, reading on.
I'm sure you are struggling to understand what I mean by father being the dangerous one. You've seen what he's done to me, covered me in bruises, shouted hurtful things to me, even threatened to kill me, but I never let it get to me because I wanted to look strong to you. I wanted you to think that I was capable of looking after two teenage boys, able to provide for you like any other mother could. I'm rambling, I know, but I want you to know what I've felt like over the past ten years. I've felt angry, sad, happy. All the emotions you can think of, I've experienced and felt...Yet, every good feeling was shot down in flames by, well, I think you two are intelligent enough to realise who I'm talking about...
Their gaze flicked towards a family photo and they glared at it.
But, anyway, I can't apologise enough for what I'm about to say to you two. I've left. I've left home and I'm never coming back. That probably doesn't shock you, I've left a few times before, but I always came back. I'm not coming back this time. I'm sorry. You two mean the universe to me, I hope you know that. I've always been proud of you and I always will be - remember that. Draw strength from each other, and follow your heart. It will never fail you.
Lots of love and forever,
Mum
The youngest sibling's eyes began to blur with disbelieving tears and he heard his brother's heavy breathing behind him. He sounded almost like he was trying not to cry. blinked when he realised that his hands were trembling. The auburn-haired boy screamed inhumanely and fell to his knees, fisting tufts of hair in his fingers, threatening to pull it straight from the roots. But he didn't care. He wanted it to hurt, to cover the inexplicable pain that he felt after reading that letter. His mum was the only one he could trust and confide in when he was sad or angry. She knew that dad was getting worse and more violent every day. How were they...going to protect themselves from that monster that they shamefully called their father?
They would have needed a miracle.
The raven-haired Japanese turned to his brother, "The phone. Where's the phone?"
"Here."
He took it from the other sibling and dialed a number. After a few dial tones, a husky voice answered from the other end of the line. "Hello?"
"Uncle Hwoarang!"
There was a laugh from the red-head, "I'm not really your Uncle, kid. Your mom thrust that name upon me."
"Whatever. Mom's gone!"
Hwoarang sounded confused. "What do you mean 'gone'?"
"Me and my brother came home and found a note she'd written, saying she'd run away and that she won't be coming back!"
There was a long silence before the Blood Talon spoke again. "...Razer's ran away?""Hwoarang...Hey, dude, snap out of it!"
Hwoarang blinked and looked around, noticing that he was now on the floor and his cereal was now splatted against the wall, the plate cracked into two and the spoon lay five feet away from it, dripping milk onto the carpet. The TV remote was in his right hand - he pulled his fingers off of it and inspected the damage he'd caused - quite bad - the batteries had popped out onto the floor and the power light had smashed, including a few buttons. He looked up to Seong-Hada and cleared his throat of the bile collecting there. "Hey."
"Hey? You basically smash the living room to pieces and you just go 'Hey'?" He shook his head, "Come on, I'll get some water and a bandage," he said, patting his friend on the back.
"I don't need any help. I only hurt my knee," Hwoarang mumbled, rubbing the said appendage with his trembling hand.
"Um, Hwoarang? You've got a cut on your hand, and it's pouring blood," he informed him.
Hwoarang curled his hand into a fist. Sure enough, it was wet and sticky. He could smell nothing but the blood, and he had to fight off the unusual nausea growing inside him, "Shit, I'm sorry, SH." He pushed his palm up against his leg, soaking his jeans with the coppery substance, as if he could force the blood back inside his hand.
"Why are you apologising for bleeding?" he wondered as he wrapped an arm around Hwoarang's narrow waist and pulled him to his feet, "Come on. I'll take you into the kitchen to clean up the wound."
Seong-Hada shook his head, "Too much plastic in the wound." He reached over and ripped a long, thin scrap from the bottom of the white tablecloth. Baek was going to kill him but that could wait. He twisted it around Hwoarang's arm above the elbow to form a tourniquet. The smell of the blood was making the red-head dizzy and his ears rang, "Hwoa," Seong-Hada said calmly, "Shall we go to the hospital or shall I take care of it here?"
"Here, please. I hate the hospital. Too many bad memories," he said. If he took him to the hospital, there would be no way to keep this from Baek. A numb, dead feeling was spreading through Hwoarang's arm. Though it eased the sting, it reminded him of the gash, and he watched Seong-Hada's face carefully to distract him from what his hands were doing. His hair gleamed in the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window as he bent over the red-head's arm. Hwoarang could feel the faint stirrings of unease in the pit of his stomach, but he was determined not to let his very, very unusual squeamishness get the best of him. There was no pain now, just a gentle tugging sensation that he tried to ignore. No reason to get sick like a little baby. "Well, I know how to ruin a day," he sighed.
"It's not your fault," Seong-Hada smirked with a chuckle. "It could happen to anyone."
"Could," Hwoarang repeated. "But it usually just happens to me." He laughed again. Hwoarang couldn't find any trace of anxiety in his face. He worked with quick, sure movements. The only sound besides their quiet breathing was the soft plink, plink as the tiny fragments of black plastic dropped one by one onto the kitchen table. Hwoarang was silently amazed by how mature his little 'brother' was in times of worry and panic, and what amazed him even more so was the fact that he could play doctor even though he hated the sight and smell of blood. "How can you do this?" Hwoarang demanded. "You hate blood."
"Years of practice," he told the older Korean.
"Do you think it would be harder if you had to do it on yourself?" he pressed, turning his eyes away from his hand being operated on, breathing through his mouth to refrain from smelling the blood.
"Maybe." He shrugged his shoulders, but his hands remained steady. "I've never tried to make myself look at blood. But if it's for an important cause, then yeah." He flashed a smile in Hwoarang's direction, one that only him, one of his closest friends, could understand. "I enjoy helping people too much."
Plink, plink, plink. Hwoarang was surprised at how much plastic there seemed to be in his hand. He couldn't have squeezed the remote that hard. "What is it you enjoy?" he wondered. It didn't make sense to him - the years of struggle and self-denial he must have spent to get to the point where he could endure this so easily. Besides, Hwoarang wanted to keep him talking; the conversation kept his mind off the queasy feeling in his stomach.
Seong-Hada's dark eyes were calm and thoughtful as he answered. "Hmm. What I enjoy the most is...well, being with you and Razer, I guess. It helps me to forget; forget what our lifestyle was like and when I'm with you two it...eases the pain a little, know what I mean?" One side of his mouth pulled up in half a smile.
Hwoarang mulled over the answer he got while he poked around, making sure all the plastic splinters were gone. Then he looked around it the top drawer underneath the sideboard for new tools, and Hwoarang tried not to picture a needle and thread. "You try hard to make up for something that was never your fault," he suggested while a new kind of tugging started at the edges of his skin. "What I mean is, it's not like you asked for that. You didn't choose that kind of life, and yet you had tried so hard to enjoy what you had."
"I don't know that I'm making up for anything," Seong-Hada disagreed lightly. "Like everything in life, I had to decide what to do with what I was given."
"That makes it sound too easy."
"Hwoarang, you're older than me. Stop asking so many questions. That's my job." He examined his friend's hand again. "There," he said, snipping a thread. "All done." He wiped an over-sized Q-tip, dripping in a syrup-coloured liquid, thoroughly across the operation site. The smell was strange; it made the red-head's head spin. The syrup stained his skin. Seong-Hada put all the dirty gauze and the plastic slivers in a small, yellow box and threw them into the bin. The sudden noise made him jump. "Sorry," he apologized. "That ought to do it...So I didn't agree people's ideology. So what? But never in my nineteen years, have I ever gone against their will again." Hwoarang pretended to examine the dressing on his hand to hide his surprise at the direction their conversation had taken. First, they were talking about Seong-Hada's dislike for blood, then it took a twist to people's attitude towards the blue-haired Korean. "I know this all sounds weird coming from your goofy 'little brother'," he grinned. "But I'd hoped, when we were hustling on the streets, that there was still a point to life; me, you and Razer, I mean. It was a long shot, I'll admit," he continued in an offhand voice. "By all accounts, we were damned regardless. But I hoped, maybe foolishly, that we'd get some measure of credit for trying to live it, anyway."
"I don't think that's foolish," Hwoarang mumbled. He couldn't think of anyone, who wouldn't be impressed by Seong-Hada, no matter how naive and eccentric he was. "And I don't think many other people would, either."
"Actually, you're the first person to agree with me. Not even Razer fully believes me."
"Really? Other people don't feel the same?" he asked, surprised.
"Nope." He walked over to the sink and washed his hands free of blood and the syrup-coloured substance, grabbing a towel and wiping them, he sat down next to Hwoarang again. "You're acting so much older than me, SH."
"That's because I'm not a dope."
"Fuck you."
He stared into his eyes. "Why did you get do worked up, Hwoa?"
Hwoarang's eyes turned down to his stitched-up hand and sighed. "I...thought about Razer and Jin."
Seong-Hada groaned and put his face in his hands, rubbing it angrily. "Hwoarang, you can't go breaking things every time you think about Razer being with him. You need to control your anger."
"How?"
"Well, what I do when I'm angry - which is hardly ever - and want to let off steam is take a walk."
Hwoarang raised an eyebrow, "Take a walk? Seriously?"
"Yeah. It calms me down and relaxes my mind, making me remember the good things in life."
"Like what?"
Seong-Hada smiled, "Nature, friends. That sort of thing." Hwoarang smirked. If you stood him and Seong-Hada together, you'd think that they were really close friends. He was kind, calm and collected; whereas, Hwoarang was rude, selfish and arrogant. Opposites attract in friendship or love. "But," Seong-Hada started, "That doesn't make me forget what happened to my parents."
"Yeah," he murmured, clenching his good hand and releasing it again a few moments later. "Major drag, huh?"
"But, still, doesn't make me any less of a baby," Seong-Hada smiled.
They laughed, just for a minute they laughed, and for that minute it seemed that all the things they had shared, when they were younger; more naive, and whatever had transpired throughout the decade was now gone and forgotten. And then that moment itself passed, and Hwoarang realised that the things they had shared were now just memories and could not be re-lived. What was gone was gone.
They were no longer kids. They missed that more than anything else.
