So full of symbolism it's disgusting. Some obvious, some not. XD I had fun writing this one. ~ Sage
4 – Hide and Seek
-Seoul-
Shimmery emeralds, patina green. Crimsons deep and iridescent as hummingbird feathers. Blues as deep and alluring as the sea. Amber gold and violets bold, feather-soft, like trying to hold mist.
The silks stared back at him, blinking staccato eyes blinded from the morning sunlight.
Guilt gnawed at him—voracious. Aching. After all these years of pulling open the closet door and peering at those useless pieces of fabric, he still didn't understand what she was trying to tell him the day they explored the markets. She had spoken of purpose and beauty and brevity, things a child cared not for. He shook his head. Her cryptic musings escaped him easily, though they enjoyed haunting him from time to time.
These piles of silks were his mother's last gift to him. That was one thing he couldn't erase, could never bring himself to move forward from. He had to wear them somehow, let them slip over the dried regions of skin like a dainty caress, sheathing scar and secret, limb and flesh, transforming the gray and indigo-bruised contours of muscle and sinew into all the colors of the world. Every good Korean boy needed one.
And what if he wasn't "good?" Even with the guitar in his hands, he couldn't completely eradicate blood and victory-lust from his thoughts, which in turn crept and stole their way into inspiration and melody. He was used to creating chaos—profitable chaos, that is, so he left the creation of beauty to others of more honorable hearts.
Still, this would be a last honor to the good part of him buried six feet beneath a stone memorial and magenta mugunghwa. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find a way to make that hanbok his mother desired for him—even if he didn't feel at all "good" while wearing it.
Gathering the silks, he placed them into a suitcase and began a new search. Perhaps he had a purpose now.
"Do you take me for a fool? These aren't even well-made!"
"Then there's the door."
Frustrated, Hwoarang, dragging the suitcase behind him, stormed out of the glittery suburban two-story that supposedly housed the most talented seamstress in Seoul.
She was also the one who charged the highest prices, and who didn't mind cheating the elderly and the desperate for every won they were worth. Whoever thought she was the best had to do a serious fact check. As sewing-challenged as he was, Hwoarang knew talent when he saw it, and this woman's work was fit for the prostitutes who stalked the corners of his neighborhood: frayed, used, beaten and damaged.
She'd been the fourth failure today. The teenager had been searching all morning and afternoon for a seamstress worthy of his mother's silks—his silks—but none had seemed right. Too old; their arthritis-mangled fingers might slip and ruin the fabric. Too young; they've inadequate experience to create anything wearable. Too cheap; how could that guarantee high quality? Too expensive; he would not be taken advantage of.
But now his fastidiousness had accomplished nothing. The silks, though free of the dust blankets that once smothered them, had but moved from one prison to another. The small suitcase bulged from all sides like a fat cocoon pregnant with moth. Hwoarang smirked and sat down upon the street curb, remembering his mother's moth-eaten tales.
Turning his back on the suitcase, he purchased a plate of kimbap from a nearby vendor, and wondered if he was losing his mind—honest to God, legitimately losing his mind, not a temporary spell brought on by stress and frustration.
When he turned around the suitcase was gone.
Choking on the rice and seaweed, he turned in all directions, heart rate rising with the panic in his gut. Maybe he was losing his mind.
But no, there was the boy down the street to his left, no older than seven or eight, making off with the little silk-stuffed suitcase cocoon.
"Oi! Get back here!" the redhead screamed, rice spewing from his mouth as he sprinted for the boy.
As he ran, he realized how much it would destroy him if he lost the silks.
So he ran faster.
Faster until his sides pinched and his chest caught fire and his lungs wheezed for more air.
Faster until the world melted like Dali's clocks; faster until he caught up with the boy and seized the suitcase in one hard lunge. The thief tripped over his feet and kissed concrete, but was up as fast as he'd gone down, giggling through a scraped mouth and a nose studded with gravel. To the redhead's fury, the boy fled into a woman's arms before Hwoarang could unleash his revenge.
"Huan! I've been looking all over for you! What did you—how did—did you steal—"
Exasperated, the woman looked up, red-faced, and apologized profusely.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I turned my back just for a second and he was gone, and his mother is going to kill me—"
"Miss," Hwoarang heaved, clutching his chest and suitcase as if it was his last breath. "It's. O. Kay. I've done. Worse. When I was. His age."
He didn't know what had come over him. Usually he'd be yelling obscenities by now, but he found his tongue betraying him. Maybe it was because he couldn't quite breathe properly—or perhaps it was because he found himself immediately attracted to the woman. She wasn't sex goddess Eun-Mi, or naïve girl next door Youngeun. This girl was, quite possibly, both and more. He couldn't explain it. She was deceivingly simple looking. Long dark hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, mouth like a ripe strawberry.
Hwoarang felt himself caught. Another conquest was at hand, perhaps?
"Are you from around here?" he blurted.
"Yeah."
"Is that why you have an accent?"
"So?"
"So where you from then?" he pressed, nearly forgetting his little spat with the boy hiding behind her legs.
"Tianjin," she conceded.
"You're too pretty to be Chinese."
So what if he favored Korean girls. He was feeling bold today. Hell, everyday.
"She's only part Chinese," Huan quipped, and the woman glared at the boy to silence him.
"How 'bout we talk about this over lunch?" Hwoarang offered, oozing charm.
She didn't buy it.
"Well, I'm sorry again," she said with perfunctory smile. "But I have to get my cousin home now."
So that's who that thieving brat was.
"Wait! Irumi mwo shimnikka!" he shouted as she fled.
But the girl didn't answer. When he couldn't see her anymore, the swing of her ponytail swallowed up into the crowd, Hwoarang headed back the way he'd come. Smiling to himself, he thought he'd never see the day when he let a pretty girl out of his sight—and have her reject him in the same breath. Yet he was accustomed to rejection, infrequent as that was, as he was accustomed to loneliness.
But as he snaked through the swarms of people, locusts in a neon-polluted metropolis, he realized how small he seemed. He looked around himself, peering into faces he would never see twice, inhaling smells unique to these parts, listening for familiar voices, hoping to see the Chinese-Korean girl with her bandit cousin, or a gang member lollygagging out of bounds. Something recognizable. A constant.
But he was adrift at sea, anchorless in an ocean of ever-changing faces and white noise, with nothing but fragments trapped tight in a black suitcase too small to hold anything more than a few necessities. Turn a corner and everything changed. At home you've a big name, a memorable face, but stray too far and you're nothing but a dot on a map.
Disgusted, Hwoarang flung the thought to the back of his mind to brood later. He had big things to do yet. No need to start moping about nothing.
Huan. The thought occurred to him later as he knocked on yet another seamstress' door. She'd be number five.
He wasn't a multilingual genius, but he'd picked up some Mandarin from other students during his primary school years. Bits and pieces here and there, everywhere.
The name meant "happiness."
Hwoarang hoped one day the kid was diagnosed with manic depression. That would teach his parents to give their child a corny-ass name and then let him run rampant stealing people's suitcases.
The gang leader knocked again, louder and more insistent, until the door finally opened.
This one looked at him blank-faced, pale, as if she'd been expecting him and had become tired of waiting. Stress lines etched shadowy grooves in her face; she was young and old at the same time. Hwoarang greeted her, told her about his silks, about the price he was willing to pay, but all the while she did not speak. Her eyes were warm though and her hands talented, and she explored the suitcase contents with knowing fingers.
Genuine. Worthy perhaps.
Five evolutions to get it right.
-Soul-
The Japanese practically worship their cherry blossom trees. With cameras in tow and mouth agape, they easily lose themselves during springtime, when the black trees are bursting with pale pink and white, the delicate petals snowing upon black hair and stony ground.
Koreans aren't much different.
The first time Sun and I took Hwoarang to Gyeongju for his birthday, during the spring festivals when the trees were ripe, the boy was ecstatic. As sullen as the six-year-old could become—his father hadn't yet left them—the trees brought him joy.
On the drive home, the boy begged his mother to plant a cherry blossom tree in the front yard so they wouldn't have to make the exhaustive journeys to see them.
Sun, though pleased her son was happy, refused.
The cherry trees are beautiful, there's no doubt about it.
But that beauty is fleeting. As soon as they bloom, they die.
Better to travel long miles to marvel at lovely death than to have it sit in front of you always.
Sun had always been superstitious that way.
Of course, if you ask Hwoarang now about his cherry blossom infatuation, he'll deny it to his death. A macho eighteen-year-old alpha gang banger wouldn't dare appreciate such pristine beauty, let alone the color pink. He'd much rather drink himself blind, fight for dirty money, and color his hair that grotesque red.
Never mind that though. To preserve some semblance of peace, I've decided to nurture his free spirit rather than pull and prod at poorly hidden secrets.
Hopefully this motorcycle will serve him well.
Then again, I should return it. But it's his birthday in two days, and we all know he'd rather spend it with that brood of street mongrels rather than with someone so "old-fashioned." So why not give him an early present, one worthy enough to commemorate his day into official adulthood?
No, I think I'll return it.
-Seoul-
"Whoa."
Hwoarang gawked at the black and silver motorcycle Baek was trying—and failing—to discreetly park in a nearby alley. The older man flinched inwardly; it took all of his control not to mount the bike and speed away. His student always returned from his meanderings at the worst of times.
"Oh about, ah, this thing that I, um, have here," Baek stammered, unable to look the boy in the eye. Hwoarang didn't notice.
"Did you get this for me, sah bum nim? Is this mine?" the redhead beamed with hopeful eyes. He looked like he was six again.
Baek closed his eyes momentarily. Nonononono—
"Ne. It sure is."
Hwoarang shouted with joy, nearly shoving his mentor as he reached for the bike, smoothing long fingers over shining metal and hard black leather.
"Where's the key?" he asked Baek, a crazy grin distorting his mouth.
Baek cocked an eyebrow at the rare expression as he presented the key, which the redhead snatched.
"I got you a helm—"
But before he could finish, the bike roared awake, an angry black beast. Cackling with pleasure, Hwoarang took off down the street, his scarlet hair and leather jacket whipping in the wind.
Baek realized suddenly that he'd just given his student the perfect means to run away. Hwoarang had threatened to take off plenty of times before, but had always trudged back home due to lack of money and transportation. But now, with steady cash from gang life and a sparkly new motorcycle, Baek had all but shoved Hwoarang out the door.
"Hwoarang! Hwoarang, come back!"
He hadn't felt this scared since Sun Jung's death. For a moment, as the teen became but a speck down the street, Baek feared he would not return. But, just before he disappeared from the older man's line of sight, the boy veered sharply to avoid a bicyclist—and turned back towards his mentor. As the bike grumbled to a halt at Baek's side, he couldn't disguise the angry concern—and relief—on his face.
"What's wrong, sah bum nim? It's not like I ran over anything—yet," the redhead said, chuckling.
"Be careful, Boy," Baek rebuked. "You make sure you always come back!"
"Uh okay."
"'Okay'? That's it?"
"Yes?"
"Don't get smart with me, Hwoarang."
"Is there something wrong, Master?"
"Of course not."
Yes there was. Nowadays there always was.
"Here," Baek grunted, shoving a black helmet into the boy's hands. "You better wear it every time you get on that thing."
"Sure thing, Master." No way in hell.
Sighing, Baek retreated to the apartment.
-Soul-
Our lunch sits untouched in front of us, irritating the waitress, who hovers like a goddamn fly. When she asks again if we're ready for the bill, I swat her away with a flick of my hand.
They keep looking at me oddly, save for Byung, who stares straight ahead, still recovering from last night. I don't know where Kwan got the stuff, but we were all flying on dragons and eating stardust after a few hits. I rub my eyes, wondering if it's the drugs or lack of sleep that's got me jittery this morning. I'm not one for trying anything stronger than weed, but last night's trip had been necessary to subdue the sudden tragedy. Our youngest, Jae Hwa, took a razor to his wrists after our Jung-gu archrivals—the same bastards who tried to kill Baek—raped his girlfriend in front of him, and then robbed him blind. The kid should have called on us for help, the fucking moron. I always knew he was too unstable for the streets.
We were five once. Now it's down to a four far from fantastic.
"Why don't you guys tell me why the hell you're looking at me like that?" I demand.
"We're waiting for you tell us our next move, boss," Sung replies bluntly. "We hate sitting on our asses while Hwa is dead."
"Those Jung-gu motherfuckers think they have fuckin' free reign," Byung snaps, fidgeting with his spiky hair. "We hafta to do something!"
"We need to think about this," I begin, but Kwan cuts me off.
"What for? It's simple: we hunt them down on their own turf, and we kill 'em," the twenty-three year old snarls, the look of a rabid dog in his eyes. "No money. No games. Just blood."
"That's the drugs talkin', Kwan."
"Shut up, Hwoarang."
Byung and Sung look on in silence, waiting for me to react. The gang doesn't dare disrespect me—save for Kwan, apparently. No one doubts that he still holds a grudge against me when I usurped his leadership three years ago. Regardless, there's no use fighting amongst one another; that's what our enemies would want.
Rather, I nod, though somewhat reluctantly, and gesture for Kwan to explain his plan.
When he finishes, I agree with everything but one crucial detail.
"We're not killing anyone."
"What!" Byung explodes. "We're gonna let those bastards screw with us?"
"Calm down, or you're sitting this one out, Byung," I warn, keeping my composure. "If any of you try to kill them—I'll kill you myself. We're not murderers, you hear?"
"The hell is wrong with you, man?" Kwan blurts. "We have to take our revenge. Giving them a beating isn't enough."
"In case you've forgotten, nobody killed Jae Hwa but himself. If he had just asked us for help, no one would have died."
"Hwo's right, guys," Sung interjects. "We're not killers. That's not why we're here."
Trust Sung to always have my back. It's no wonder he's my favorite.
"Fine. We let them live," Kwan relents. "But no more holding back. No more games."
"No. No more games."
-Seoul-
That evening, and every evening from then on, Hwoarang visited his mute seamstress to check on his hanbok's progress.
As she toiled on the silken rainbows in her lap—occasionally beckoning for Hwoarang to model the fabric for her so she could make the appropriate cuts and measurements—the redhead strategized about how best to exact revenge on the Jung-gu gang without taking a life. Though he'd demanded that his gang refrain from such an act, killing was awfully tempting. Of all of them, Jae Hwa had been the weakest; he'd also been the most loved, the little brother they'd spoiled and never dared reprimand. Perhaps the Jung-gu boys had known.
Oh yes, murder was tempting.
Then again, how would it feel like to kill a man? To obliterate the light in his eyes, crush the breath in his chest?
The thought sent shivers rippling through his flesh. Hwoarang wasn't a killer, that much he knew.
Tomorrow, April fifth, he would be nineteen, considered a man. The cherry trees would be in bloom. But tomorrow, he and his gang would set out for the nearby neighborhoods of Jung-gu.
This was war now. Nothing was certain, save for the quiet unease weaving doubt in his chest.
Glossary
Irumi mwo shimnikka? – What's your name?
kimbap – rice and other ingredients rolled in dried seaweed (similar to Japanese sushi rolls)