He walked carefully past the lacquered door, half expecting to see Xiaoyu
emitting rays of white light and levitating above the ground. The sight of
her enveloped in peaceful sleep, lying on her side under a heavy earth-
colored blanket, greatly eased Hwoarang's anxiety.
The blanket had slid down to her waist with its end twisted tightly around her calves, hinting that Xiaoyu's sleep was not as tranquil as it seemed. He crouched down and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Hwoarang unconsciously kept his breath light when he knelt on the edge of the mat, not wanting to inadvertently awake her.
'Aura,' whispered Natalia's voice in his head. 'Yours changes.'
He tried to envision it. If his was ugly and blotched, which surprised him not at all, then what would Xiaoyu's look like? Hwoarang couldn't bring himself he see a cloud of color floating around her, the way it'd once been described to him. Xiaoyu's aura, in his neglected imagination, vividly took the shape of a set of mist-wrapped wings, expansive and ethereal. Not angel wings, since Hwoarang had no love of theology, and tended to picture angels, on those rare instances when he thought of them at all, as simple cookie cutter shapes hanging from Christmas trees. Phoenix wings, perhaps. Powerful and broad enough to fill the room.
Hwoarang was jarred out of his contemplation when Xiaoyu stirred beneath his hands; he'd absently left them by her shoulders after he had drawn the blanket up. Startled, the Korean pulled back too quickly, overbalancing and falling onto his rear. Hwoarang winced at the loudness of his fall, and waited for a sign of her awakening. Perhaps she would yell at him; funny how he almost seemed to look forward to this possibility.
Xiaoyu didn't wake up. She rolled onto her back, her legs freeing the blanket and then catching it again. Hwoarang realized he heard a pained whisper, and had to strain for the syllables.
"Bu," she said, the sound dampened as she moved her face away from him, into one pale arm that had been flung over her head. "Shui. Huai shui." Xiaoyu chanted it as if it were a mantra, the words slurred together and gaining speed as her breath grew shallow in her distress. Hwoarang watched with growing alarm, but couldn't find it in him to breach the taboo of actually waking her. With helpless dismay, he saw his hand brush and linger against, for lack of a safer place, Xiaoyu's collarbone. Like a miracle, she stilled. Her face was flushed but clear as though a fever had broken.
Hwoarang was left irrationally shaken. He tried to retrieve his hand, pulling it away slowly this time, but soon after its absence Xiaoyu resumed muttering her indecipherable, horrible mantra. At his wit's end, Hwoarang emitted a soft desperate noise, returning his hand to her collarbone, the awkward movement forcing him to kneel by her head. Immediately, her sleep was serene again.
He stared at his hand against Xiaoyu's skin like it was a new life form, evolved from another creature that had nothing to do with Hwoarang. He could feel how her skin was almost hot, slick with a sheen of sweat, and he felt obscurely guilty, as if the touch was more intimate than it was, less innocent than he'd intended. Wake up, firefly, he begged her in his thoughts, wake up wake up and push me away. Her brow furrowed like she'd heard him, feeding the guilt that settled somewhere in his stomach, a growing tumor. Why should he begrudge Xiaoyu her sleep, when it cost him so little to stay there?
But it costs me so much.
"Gun," she whispered, her eyes moving beneath their lids, "duck."
"You're safe. There's no danger anymore, it's okay. It's okay." His voice slipped on the first "okay" and cracked on the second. Nonetheless, it seemed to calm its intended audience, who was thankfully not fully awake to hear.
Traitorously, Hwoarang's other hand moved to brush away the hair that fell across her eyes; he clenched it beside him, making a fist angled towards the ground. This was insane. This was insomnia. Yes, insomnia. Tomorrow he would wake up and not remember.
Xiaoyu flopped gracelessly back onto her side, flinging her arm outwards as she did so.
"Jin," he heard, and finally there was silence.
Hwoarang froze.
Her stray hand covered the one he'd clenched tight.
She thought he was Jin.
The two thoughts warred in his mind until they fused together and he thought of Jin holding Xiaoyu's hand. He was beginning to feel light- headed, but not in the happy frolicking-in-the-meadow way, unless frolicking in the meadow had been updated to include a mother load of Aspirin. Eventually, his self-control returned from its coffee break, and Hwoarang managed to force the rate of his heartbeat down to a more tolerable level, squeezing his eyes shut in search for some scrap of inner equilibrium. She thought he was Jin. Well, that was all for the better, because if Xiaoyu knew it was him, she'd likely recoil from him in distaste, and ask where Jin was. Or she'd slap him. Or, most likely, she'd cock her head, with uncertainty in her wide brown eyes, and ask him what he was doing.
Seventeen, Hwoarang moaned silently. A fucking high school student. Seventeen going on twelve.
* * *
In the morning, when Natalia walked in, she saw Xiaoyu curled tightly on the mat and fast asleep, and Hwoarang leaning against a wall, staring at a point in the air suspiciously near the girl's hand.
"Sleep well?" she asked him.
"Shut up, Nata."
"Touchy touchy," she said, smirking knowingly at him. Hwoarang frowned at her. That was his smirk. She'd learned that smirk from him.
"I think I'm going to pass out," he stated, so bleakly that Natalia had to have mercy on him.
"Well, go pass out on your bed then. You can nap until late afternoon. And wear this." She unwound the red jade necklace that had hung around her wrist and put it in his palm. Hwoarang looked at it, trying to understand its existence, what it was doing in his hand.
"For your insomnia," she explained. He blinked, once. Then the synapses fired, and he gave Natalia a smile that shone with inexpressible love. The redhead opened his mouth, presumably to proclaim his undying affection, but she hauled him up and drove him out the door.
"Go sleep already," she said, "looking at you makes me tired."
.
.
Author's notes:
Hmm, I don't know if I got the pinyin right on that. Oh well. Thanks Sam!
.
.
Constructive criticism will be printed out and framed. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows. Yum.
The blanket had slid down to her waist with its end twisted tightly around her calves, hinting that Xiaoyu's sleep was not as tranquil as it seemed. He crouched down and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Hwoarang unconsciously kept his breath light when he knelt on the edge of the mat, not wanting to inadvertently awake her.
'Aura,' whispered Natalia's voice in his head. 'Yours changes.'
He tried to envision it. If his was ugly and blotched, which surprised him not at all, then what would Xiaoyu's look like? Hwoarang couldn't bring himself he see a cloud of color floating around her, the way it'd once been described to him. Xiaoyu's aura, in his neglected imagination, vividly took the shape of a set of mist-wrapped wings, expansive and ethereal. Not angel wings, since Hwoarang had no love of theology, and tended to picture angels, on those rare instances when he thought of them at all, as simple cookie cutter shapes hanging from Christmas trees. Phoenix wings, perhaps. Powerful and broad enough to fill the room.
Hwoarang was jarred out of his contemplation when Xiaoyu stirred beneath his hands; he'd absently left them by her shoulders after he had drawn the blanket up. Startled, the Korean pulled back too quickly, overbalancing and falling onto his rear. Hwoarang winced at the loudness of his fall, and waited for a sign of her awakening. Perhaps she would yell at him; funny how he almost seemed to look forward to this possibility.
Xiaoyu didn't wake up. She rolled onto her back, her legs freeing the blanket and then catching it again. Hwoarang realized he heard a pained whisper, and had to strain for the syllables.
"Bu," she said, the sound dampened as she moved her face away from him, into one pale arm that had been flung over her head. "Shui. Huai shui." Xiaoyu chanted it as if it were a mantra, the words slurred together and gaining speed as her breath grew shallow in her distress. Hwoarang watched with growing alarm, but couldn't find it in him to breach the taboo of actually waking her. With helpless dismay, he saw his hand brush and linger against, for lack of a safer place, Xiaoyu's collarbone. Like a miracle, she stilled. Her face was flushed but clear as though a fever had broken.
Hwoarang was left irrationally shaken. He tried to retrieve his hand, pulling it away slowly this time, but soon after its absence Xiaoyu resumed muttering her indecipherable, horrible mantra. At his wit's end, Hwoarang emitted a soft desperate noise, returning his hand to her collarbone, the awkward movement forcing him to kneel by her head. Immediately, her sleep was serene again.
He stared at his hand against Xiaoyu's skin like it was a new life form, evolved from another creature that had nothing to do with Hwoarang. He could feel how her skin was almost hot, slick with a sheen of sweat, and he felt obscurely guilty, as if the touch was more intimate than it was, less innocent than he'd intended. Wake up, firefly, he begged her in his thoughts, wake up wake up and push me away. Her brow furrowed like she'd heard him, feeding the guilt that settled somewhere in his stomach, a growing tumor. Why should he begrudge Xiaoyu her sleep, when it cost him so little to stay there?
But it costs me so much.
"Gun," she whispered, her eyes moving beneath their lids, "duck."
"You're safe. There's no danger anymore, it's okay. It's okay." His voice slipped on the first "okay" and cracked on the second. Nonetheless, it seemed to calm its intended audience, who was thankfully not fully awake to hear.
Traitorously, Hwoarang's other hand moved to brush away the hair that fell across her eyes; he clenched it beside him, making a fist angled towards the ground. This was insane. This was insomnia. Yes, insomnia. Tomorrow he would wake up and not remember.
Xiaoyu flopped gracelessly back onto her side, flinging her arm outwards as she did so.
"Jin," he heard, and finally there was silence.
Hwoarang froze.
Her stray hand covered the one he'd clenched tight.
She thought he was Jin.
The two thoughts warred in his mind until they fused together and he thought of Jin holding Xiaoyu's hand. He was beginning to feel light- headed, but not in the happy frolicking-in-the-meadow way, unless frolicking in the meadow had been updated to include a mother load of Aspirin. Eventually, his self-control returned from its coffee break, and Hwoarang managed to force the rate of his heartbeat down to a more tolerable level, squeezing his eyes shut in search for some scrap of inner equilibrium. She thought he was Jin. Well, that was all for the better, because if Xiaoyu knew it was him, she'd likely recoil from him in distaste, and ask where Jin was. Or she'd slap him. Or, most likely, she'd cock her head, with uncertainty in her wide brown eyes, and ask him what he was doing.
Seventeen, Hwoarang moaned silently. A fucking high school student. Seventeen going on twelve.
* * *
In the morning, when Natalia walked in, she saw Xiaoyu curled tightly on the mat and fast asleep, and Hwoarang leaning against a wall, staring at a point in the air suspiciously near the girl's hand.
"Sleep well?" she asked him.
"Shut up, Nata."
"Touchy touchy," she said, smirking knowingly at him. Hwoarang frowned at her. That was his smirk. She'd learned that smirk from him.
"I think I'm going to pass out," he stated, so bleakly that Natalia had to have mercy on him.
"Well, go pass out on your bed then. You can nap until late afternoon. And wear this." She unwound the red jade necklace that had hung around her wrist and put it in his palm. Hwoarang looked at it, trying to understand its existence, what it was doing in his hand.
"For your insomnia," she explained. He blinked, once. Then the synapses fired, and he gave Natalia a smile that shone with inexpressible love. The redhead opened his mouth, presumably to proclaim his undying affection, but she hauled him up and drove him out the door.
"Go sleep already," she said, "looking at you makes me tired."
.
.
Author's notes:
Hmm, I don't know if I got the pinyin right on that. Oh well. Thanks Sam!
.
.
Constructive criticism will be printed out and framed. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows. Yum.