A thud resounds in the room.
Asher picks himself up, his hands on his hip as he stares at the fallen chair. Shadows shift; a hand cupping his chin, a leg on the chair's back that once supported his, a laughter that even darkness cannot tame. The lavender scent pricks his nostrils. Asher shuts his eyes and lets the night consume him, lets the cold air subdue his nerves, lets the rain drown the guttural noise.
Taps on the floor send tiny creaks about his feet. Styx and Acheron roar and claim him. Asher squeezes his eyes tightly and bounces on the balls of his feet. The ice on his crotch tries to dominate him, but the fear of the shadow of Belphegor unleashed into the room quells him more. Perhaps it isn't so far-fetched to say that he's been the Faust he's looking for.
"You heard what I said, mate."
Asher snaps his eyes open and clutches the cold hand on his chin. "You could've doctored the video. You lured me to your house so I would see this. You will now exsanguinate me."
Varen drops his hand and jabs Asher's shoulder. "The video is unedited." Another jab. "But you're right. I killed myself when I heard your voice at the counter, and resurrected myself, so we could finally talk like this."
Asher grabs the finger and cracks it with a smirk, reminiscing the sound of popping a bubble wrap. Sure, Varen might have spilled his iced water on him, but it will never as satisfying as this.
"After we talk, you will kill me?" Asher eyes the sling bag on the bed while Varen sucks his finger.
Shaking his head, Varen bites a nail and spits it into Asher's face. "I am not your murderer, mate. I just needed to do something to get your attention, to let you know I'm on your side. You can't pursue them alone when you don't have a plan."
Asher cocks his head sideways. "I don't need your help."
"I gave you a second chance at life because you still have many years ahead of you. Of course you'd seek vengeance, like the noob you are." Varen props his chair up and sits. "I can help you. And afterwards, you can return to your normal life—"
"There's no 'normal' anymore. That's for fools!" Asher smacks the youth's temple. Warmth tinges.
That's right. This heat... Varen said he doesn't need wrath, but I do. It's the only thing keeping me alive, besides Jun.
Staccato breaths fill the space between them.
"I kept checking in on you," Varen murmurs. "I don't want you to hurt yourself and the people around you. When I saw you play BL, I thought you decided to live out the life you always wanted. But you used the demon's weapon on me."
Asher steels himself and turns away, diverting his attention to the window. "You could've just left me to rot. That way, there will only be grief."
Varen's gaze penetrates him as the youth clasps his hands together. "What do you know of grief? What do you know about life and death anyway?"
Asher blinks and closes the video. He doesn't need to relive that night, but the floodgates have opened, the bitter scenes breaking his heartstrings. The odour of loneliness sinks in as a raven soaring above a city partially obscured by clouds emerges onscreen.
Varen's cracked voice comes on again. "It hurts, mate. When a stranger reminds you so much of your dead brother that you got to resurrect him, hoping this time round, just this time, it would succeed."
A bunch of stationery rolls across the table and pelts the wall, then disrupt the rain's syncopation as they slip onto the floor. Asher glances at the youth whose eyes attempt to conceal a polluted sea and lips zip to hide clenched teeth and a tongue ready for war.
"Every time I see you, the more I see Xion in you." Varen lowers his gaze and bangs his chest. His trembling heart returns a blow.
Asher winces at each impact till his eyes sting from the pathetic display and he grips Varen's fist.
"What you said at the café, about the blood..."
Varen pulls away, sighs, and runs a hand across his hair. "When Xion died from jaywalking, I sought ways to get him back. I found it in the occult. Necromancy. I got him back, everything was fine, then he killed everyone else and grew overprotective of me. No, possessive. We were supposed to move to Kuron together, the seven of us. His wrath destroyed our futures."
He turns to the painting, says it's Xion's magnum opus, and stares. Varen walks to it and strokes the damask dreamcatcher, the memories of the life he put behind him all resurfacing. A small smile twitches on his lips.
Asher tiptoes to his side and hugs him from behind. His sleeves are soaked once again.
"I killed my brother," Varen whispers. His head jerks a little. "I don't want you to be him, or surpass him."
"I won't." Asher tightens his grip.
We are different. I'm the successful one. I will be fine. I can never hurt my family and friends, you know, when I have a nagging conscience.
They fall sideways onto the bed.
"But I will kill my killer somehow," Asher adds as he lets go. "I won't be reckless, really."
Varen sighs. "It's late. You should head home. We will discuss this tomorrow."
Asher nods and walks to the threshold.
"Good night, Varen."
"Good night, mate."
Asher leaves the mansion and never looks back.
×
Morisaki Jun never expects himself to be awake and walking to a playground in the middle of the night. At a junction, he steps into a large puddle and stops. The reflection in the ripples pits his windswept brown hair and bleary eyes against the cold demeanour of the city, its shut windows, flickering streetlights and Argus-eyed greenery. This is the kind of night to be lost in, to let the pitter-patter on the umbrella dictate the waning of life and reality.
Jun crosses the road with a band of green light sliding down his clothes. He is bathed in vermilion when he reaches the playground and settles down on a rickety swing. Exhaling, he closes his umbrella and swings in the rain. As he propels himself forward, his head tilts a little to the side, glimpsing a figure in a yellow poncho in projectile motion.
"Dare desu ka?" His gentle voice punctures the tension.
As he arcs backward, the figure flutters forward, the poncho's hood dropping to reveal more than just a tiny smile obscured by long carmine hair. Levelling at a trough, she turns and winks.
"Blake Wang," Jun mutters. "Where have you been? Your family's worried sick."
"Can't an adult stay in a motel and play missionary?"
She leaps off the swing and faces him with a look of concern, as if some apparition has appeared behind him, ready to snatch him from the mortal realm. Registering that, Jun skids to a halt. She rips her poncho, tosses it onto the ground and presses her palms on the chains, taking him aback as he reclines.
"You're in danger," Blake says.
"Why would I be?"
Courting harmony is a skill he mastered over time, one that wards off enemies or enemies-to-be. To be put at risk is a dubious notion he grows unfamiliar with as a result.
After he lifts himself off the swing and straightens his posture, the duo stands eye to eye with each other, their hands by their side, cupping the drizzle. Petrichor squirms around their feet and a swallowtail rests on his sneaker. They blink concurrently. Eyes search for an answer left unsaid in the teeming silence, a nuance, a hint, each calculating for an opportune moment to initiate a camisado. Their breaths scatter about their nostrils, reach their hard palates and the tips of their tongues as their mouths open, each engaged in lethologica.
"Asher," they finally say, at the same time.
"He was acting weird recently," Jun adds.
Blake nods slowly. "I found out why." She bites her lower lip. A sensation vaporises within her, the feeling of a cold bolt crossing her skull, of a jittery heart seeking consolation. She taps her breasts and sighs. "I don't want to believe it at first, but..."
"Deep breaths," Jun mumbles. "The rain cheers you on."
Blake narrows her gaze and complies.
Two emotional people forsake their obstinate beliefs and turn to reason when she fishes out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. Jun takes it and unfolds a receipt.
"I think... we have both loved his image all this while, not who he truly is."
Jun locks his teeth and slants his gaze from the receipt to take in confident eyes torn asunder by agony.
How do I look from an outsider's perspective?
Though on the verge of breaking down, Jun does not succumb like Blake does. He makes peace with his fear.
"Are you saying he bought these and... killed those people?"
Blake nods. "I've been digging evidence and avoiding him. You probably haven't seen him in a while either. I have to say this before you get hurt. Seven nights ago, he came back late and soaked in blood."
Jun lets go of the receipt. "That rich guy."
"No, it doesn't add up. I think he killed someone else, and their corpse is still hidden somewhere."
Jun frowns. Is Asher really the type to do anything without a valid reason? He's known Asher for years and he's certain that knowledge isn't constructed out of an image. It's merely that these days, Asher is in pain and wants to deal with it alone, so Jun gives him space.
"Any idea who died?"
"The shop-owner and the creator of Blighted Life, Raven Angeloff." Blake pauses. "It's too coincidental that his shop is closed during this period, and he's gone someplace for this long. Asher must be involved in his disappearance."
Jun shakes his head. "Maybe he really did go a trip?"
"Maybe it was a lie constructed by Asher? He bought the daggers from Raven, and it's enough to warrant curiosity. And you know what they say about curiosity, Jun."
Jun climbs the steps and slips down the slide. He does it for two more times. Maybe, just maybe, he wants to descend into hell and see if some demon has taken over his boyfriend's body. Maybe it just means that he has forgotten about Asher's flaws. Maybe he never recognised who truly is underneath the flesh and smiles.
"You're like a child," Blake comments, watching him.
"We all have a child within us." Jun stands on the middle of a see-saw. "Just because we're adults doesn't mean we wrap our morals with our innards and gift them to our storybooks."
Because what narrative do we weave and live, and what shall be left for you to reproach?
Jun crosses his legs, imagines himself on a lotus and places his hands on his heart.
"You should go home, Blake," he says. "I won't change my mind about Asher."
"Even if he's a serial killer?" Blake sits on a side of the see-saw. The lotus tips toward her, but still Jun remains steady.
"All the more to put my faith in him. That he may repent and grow out of his shell."
"Why?"
"He's your brother, right?"
Blake huffs and her heels clack across the street till her shadow diminishes. Jun gets up from the lotus and grabs the receipt. His gaze lingers on the swing she sat on and brushes a finger across to collect sand. He sighs.
Fixing his posture, he stares into the stars and the fading rain.
"Ame futte ji katamaru."
Jun pockets the receipt and takes his umbrella. He takes a final glance at the playground and closes his eyes.
The younger version of him would have been more carefree and appreciative of the playground.
Kami-sama, is it right to let go of our inner child and neglect our responsibilities for him as we age?
Jun pats his heart twice and opens his eyes.
On his way home, the wayfarer contemplates about the dreamlike conversation. As he passes by the ramen store he recommended Asher, he steps forward and runs his hand across the shutter, feeling the unending peaks and troughs.
Life is all about images when you refuse to look beyond the surface. His first impression of the store revolves around its immersion in its isolation, and the invitation to its guests to experience this isolation. That's when the image shatters. Solitude can provide as much warmth as company, he learns.
He turns into the alley, the streetlight illuminating his path and the quote art, seeming to guide him there.
"This is new," he says, noting how the funky, white words contrast with the bloodied wall. The faint scent hurls him back to the days he goes for shinrin-yoku and encounters various elements of nature. He remembers treating a deer's wound, remembers this smell.
He takes a step back and his foot collide into something metallic. He bends over, takes the canister and shakes. It's full. Rotating the lid, Jun peers into pitch-blackness, then stares at the wall again. A surge of adrenaline in his veins hooks dark chains on the 'G' in 'good' and the 'L' in 'evil', giving the all-caps quote a swing to support. On completion, he touches the 'soul'.
Jun becomes one with the alley till the wee hours, not once moving his hand away from its spot, not once tearing his gaze away from the quote. His hand rests on the handprint beneath the 'soul' till someone notices him while passing by and appraises the wall.
"Memento_mori, as a graphic designer, you really don't disappoint."
Jun returns a smile. "I never thought to see you again, RAVNOIX."
"I came to get my canister, but I guess I don't need it anymore."
They share a laugh.
"We have so much to catch up on," Jun says. "I need to know every detail of how you got slain by my boyfriend."
"That's a low blow coming from ya, mate." Varen pulls him up and embraces him. "Coffee at my house?"
Jun nods.
"You haven't told me why you bought the businessman's house, yeah?"
As they leave the alley, Varen says, "I'll tell you over coffee then."
The duo enters the wynd side by side when the sun hikes up the clouds, grinning and chatting as they enter the mansion.
The bosom buddies truly have a lot to catch up on.
×
Note
Dare desu ka? - "Who are you?" in Japanese
Ame futte ji katamaru - a Japanese proverb that is literally "rain hardens the ground", meaning that adversity builds character.
Kami-sama - God in Japanese, in the religion known as Shintoism, though most Japanese are pretty much atheists.