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I. PROLOGUE: IN THE END
And so, when they’ve made their decision, knowing fully well that there will be nothing left but everything that already was before them, and everything that will stay after them: the dry Earth, the acid water, the red sky and the big burning ball about to emerge from the horizon, Jongseong will think about how he can no longer remember the warmth of the sun on his eyelids, or the way light reflects off snow or still water in a million little fractions, the vivid color of the sky when it sets, the soft pastels of when it rises, Heeseung’s back in the sun under a sky that had once been blue, honey skin, warm eyes, green grass, morning dew, his boyish cadence, it’s so warm, I feel like I’m going to die. He no longer remembers any of it until now, moments before it’s all about to wash over him.
II. THE FIRST PRAYER
One night, Jongseong, eighteen, a marriage he never asked for looming in front of him, asks, on his knees, his hands folded on his bed in prayer, head bowed: What do I do when I’ve run out of time?
And God replies: You outrun it. Faster, faster, let your legs carry you, the way they were meant to, come on, you’re almost there, he’s right ahead of you, come on, you’re alive, feel it, feel it, feel it, he’s right there around the bend, chase his back the way he’s chasing the sun, you’re almost there, almost, keep going, keep going.
III. TREES
When Jongseong had been a child, the summers had been vivid with color. The trees exploded with heavy fruit that made their branches curve down over the grass like the bent back of his grandparents. He and the Lee brothers would steal from gardens around town, Jongseong nearly pulling a muscle while stretching his arms high above his head, standing shakily on Heeseung and Heedo’s folded hands to reach the highest branches, where the fruits were sunkissed and sunwarmed, come on Jongseong, there’s a cluster to your left, a bit higher, faster, if Mr. Yang catches us he’ll skin us alive. They’d sit in a circle and eat until their stomachs burst, juice running down their fingers and chins. Fat, yellow plums, sweet, crispy pears, blood-red strawberries.
Fruits are a rarity now: they can’t ripen in time before the weather turns, the conditions are never right, there simply isn’t enough time for them, not enough light. It’s the sixth month, at least Jongseong thinks so, because the fruit trees are as ready for harvest as they can get these days. He’s lucky this time; when he returns to a dark apartment, his lover is still sleeping, and Jongseong’s pockets are full of plums, small and solid like pebbles. He’d left right after sunset, had wanted to return before Heeseung woke to surprise him.
The weather forecast promises rare, beautiful sunny days ahead and reminds people to wear UV glasses when heading outside.
IV. AFTERIMAGE
They’re in the grass and a drop of sweat marks a wet line down Heeseung’s neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. He’s beautiful in the sun. Jongseong follows its trajectory, aching. Longs to put his mouth there, longs to taste it. Is it as salty as he imagines? Maybe it’s sweet, from all the stolen plums and strawberries they’ve gorged on. Heeseung’s mouth is so red. If he was the type of boy who spat on the ground, like some of the other village boys, it’d be slightly pink, bits of chewed fruit in the grass.
The distance between them is wide, the air so thick it's impenetrable. Not even Heeseung’s wooden practice sword would be able to pierce through it.
Heeseung, he says. His throat is unbearably dry. Heeseung looks at him, brows raised. Jongseong turns his gaze to stare directly at the sun. Looking at the sun is easier than looking at Heeseung right now.
Yes? says Heeseung, waiting.
Jongseong swallows, thinks about the girl and the letter his father had penned on behalf of him, the future the future the future, he’d turned eighteen in the blink of an eye and here it is, the future, arrived at his doorstep. There’s something I need to tell you. When he closes his eyes, a neon blue afterimage of the sun blooms in the vacuum of his vision, pulsating like a heart, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.
But his heart has only ever beat for one person, and they’re only eighteen and nineteen and already, he’s slipping through his fingers.
V. COW
A green field of grass, tucked snugly between a square of wheat and another square of rapeseed flowers. Dead cow, drained dry, it’s eyes a dark mirror of the sky. Puncture wounds on the side of its body, the distance between them measuring about 38 millimeters. There are two pairs of puncture wounds; twin bites. The wounds are neat and precise. Not a single drop has been wasted.
VI. SLEEVE
The night Jongseong vanishes, his family hires an entire search party of skilled huntsmen to look for him. Dogs sniff around in the woods surrounding the village until he’s declared dead, the only trace of him being seven drops of blood splattered on ferns by the forest clearing and the torn sleeve of a shirt stuck to a thistle, reluctantly handed over by his best friend at the promise that he’d get it back. His funeral follows swiftly. Aristocratic friends of his family surrounding his grave in the front, his family and the girl and the family of the girl he was supposed to marry in the very front, the rest of the town in the back. The best friend stays at home, tending to the animals while his older brother and his parents attend the funeral. They’d wanted him to go — he was the one who refused to visit a hollow grave, where the only bodies buried were those of the worms and the bugs.
Under his pillow: the torn piece of clothing he’d found that night, returned to him. It’s the last thing he has left of Jongseong.
VII. CONSTANT
They’ve lived long enough to watch the night sky change from an almost pure black, to purple. By now, the world has changed all around them, above them, beneath them. By this time, there are deep fissures that reach through the Earth like roots, all living and half-living things cloistered in the only liveable cities, where skyscrapers poke their spires into the sky, and the slums are filled with rats and heaps of trash. The night sky is rust colored, the stars a mere echo of what they had once been.
They say the sky during the daytime is scarlet. They say the sun barely comes out anymore, save for during noon, when it stands at its highest, and every once in a while, it’s visible as it sets or rises. Of course, Heeseung has never seen it himself. Isn’t willing to risk burning up, just for the chance of seeing how the sky during the day has changed. For him, life goes on the way it always has; he is used to changes, is used to moving around, uprooting his home, his sparse belongings, to avoid suspicion, hunters. And anyway, the only constant in his life is, and has always been Jongseong. That’s all that matters.
VIII. GRAVE
Moss creeps up along Jongseong’s headstone. I think he’d prefer to leave it, Heeseung tells Jongseong’s mother one day, when they bump into each other at the graveyard.
Oh. I suppose you’re right. He’s always been so sentimental. Kind.
And so it grows. A marker of the slow passing of time. One day, perhaps it’ll be a mound of moss, with all sorts of animals living inside of it, like the side of a tree. A microcosm of life, spiraling into eternity.
He still sleeps with the fabric under his pillow. It’s just laying there. Unworn, untouched by all but one side of Heeseung’s bedsheets.
They were supposed to run away together, is the thing. To where, none of them had known. An impulsive decision spurred by the end of life as they knew it. I’m running out of time, Jongseong had said. Then outrun it, Heeseung had replied. They’d make a life for themselves in another town, far, far away where no one, least of all Jongseong’s parents, would be able to find them, they’d get a lazy cat like the one Heeseung had as kid that had wandered off one day, they’d open a bakery together and bake loaves of bread and cake during opening hours, and laze around on the grass during closing hours, they’d be so, so happy, Heeseung would finally know what it would feel like to press his mouth to Jongseong’s sweet, heart shaped birthmark—
Hypotheticals and wishful thinking. None of it matters any more. By the time Heeseung had packed a bag, and snuck out to the clearing where they’d planned to meet, all that was left of his best friend was the scrap of fabric now pressed underneath Heeseung’s pillow.
Jongseong is gone. And he’s never coming back.
IX. HIKE
Deep in a forest, eight kilometers from the field with the dead cow. A man, lifeless on the ground; a hiker. He looks to be about forty. The same twin wounds, a pair on his left wrist, another on the right side of his throat. The wrist wounds are neat and precise. The neck wounds are not; there’s a pool collecting by his neck, blood on the forest ground. Signs of a scrimmage: trampled leaves, sticks cracked in half.
X. SACRED
Something strange is happening in town. Wolves are most likely. Witchcraft, others say. Look, they say. Torn up cattle, the smell of rust and rot in the air, flies swarming every house, dead birds with missing heads piled around tree trunks like fallen leaves, rats and mice strewn on the grass, wrung dry like rags.
No blood. Just flesh. That’s the strange part. It’s uncommon for wolves to leave the carcasses there to rot in the sun, brittle bones crushed, squeezed empty. Words travel fast in a semi-big town. Look, they all say, it’s only a matter of time before they start killing humans. It could be you next! Boarded up windows. Deadbolts. At night, the town closes. No one comes out, no one comes in.
On the dawn Jongseong would’ve turned twenty one, Heeseung feeds the remaining animals before heading into town to open the bakery with Heedo, only to find half of their chickens hollow, and the grass littered with dead goats. He sobs into his brother’s shoulder even though he’s beginning to get much too old for tears. There’s only one survivor; calling out from underneath a bigger female goat; a little baby, its legs still scrawny. The wolves must have overlooked it. Heeseung cradles it to his chest like something precious, and names it after something sacred.
XI. WAKE
Night. Maroon sky. Heeseung stirs awake to an empty bed, pats blindly around for Jongseong.
The vague smell of plums. He hasn’t seen any in a while. Months. Years, maybe. Knows they’re hard to come by these days, when the rain is more acidic than it’s clean, the dirt dry and cracked devoid of life. He burrows a sleepy smile into his pillow, mumbles a soft hi even though he’s alone in the bedroom.
XII. SKIN HUNGER
Blood on the corner of Jongseong’s mouth. A soft, white feather, splatters of blood dusted across it like the delicate flick of paint across a canvas. The Lees’ last chicken, crumpled up by his feet. Jongseong’s sorry to see it go, most of all because the loss will crush Heeseung. Heeseung who traded his childhood dreams of becoming a soldier with helping his brother man the bakery when their parents passed from illness, Heeseung who Jongseong watched wail over dead animals, who refuses to let the last goat out of his sight, who still visits Jongseong’s grave to tend to the flowers.
But he’s starving. He craves food, yes. Most of all his skin craves touch. His skin craves—
Heeseung’s beauty changes at night, the way his hair catches the moonlight, the way his eyes still sparkle, the way his skin becomes silver. But Jongseong misses the sun. Most of all, he misses watching Heeseung under the sun. There, he may have been a distance away, always, that neverending, insurmountable distance he couldn’t cross, but at least he knew what it felt like to have Heeseung’s eyes on him, his attention. The loss Heeseung feels at the death of a few animals is nothing in comparison to the loss Jongseong feels when he looks at him and doesn’t feel him looking back.
In the forest, Jongseong gets on his knees. He doesn’t know what he believes in, if he believes in anything at all. Still, he asks: What do I do with all the time in the world in my hands?
And Time answers: You keep up until your legs burn, until your lungs have evaporated, until you’ve outrun everyone you’ve ever cared about, and still, you keel over, fail, again and again.
I will still be there, when you’ve caught your breath. I will always be there.
He’s so lonely. He’d give anything for one last look from Heeseung.
XIII. CHASE
Sometimes, they play this game of chase. Hunting for clues of the other, finding each other in different parts of the world: big metropolitan hubs, small mountainous villages, idyllic coastal towns, fields in the middle of nowhere, dark forests, far-off islands. One time, Jongseong travels the world thin, only to find Heeseung lounging at their apartment back home, watching a movie while sipping from a bag of blood. About time, he’d said, feet propped up on the side table. Now, did you actually figure out the riddle, or did you just give up and go home?
It’s a good way to pass time. And the thrill of hunting Heeseung down rivals that of hunting for prey. That first taste of his blood. The thrill of being found, of getting caught between Heeseung’s sharp incisors is perhaps even more exhilarating. Jongseong is all too willing to be prey, if the predator is Heeseung.
XIV. REUNION
The night they meet again is carefully orchestrated, which is to say that Jongseong’s tired of waiting, his hunger scrubs his skin raw, so overcome with need and desire for something to change, which is to say that Jongseong steals the goat Heeseung is fond of and presses his nose to its back where he’s seen Heeseung pet her with affection, searching for any trace of him. The goat bleats itself hoarse, and Jongseong nearly rips into it then and there, wants nothing more than to know the taste of its blood, driven by the off-hand chance that Heeseung’s gentle touch has somehow seeped through the walls of its skin. He traps it in his arms instead, heads into the woods, where the tree growth is thick and the cicadas sing, back to the clearing where another vampire had turned him. For Heeseung, he will wait a little while longer.
He waits, veins thrumming, until he senses movements in the trees, and Heeseung steps through, stopping still in his tracks, there by the edge of the clearing, the trees building a wall that stretches between the ground and the sky. Stares straight at Jongseong for the first time in two years.
The goat’s thin legs thrash in Jongseong’s arms to break free, her distressed little voice calling out miserably. He can smell the fear he evokes in her, can smell the adrenaline.
What are you doing? asks Heeseung in a small voice.
Heeseung. It’s the first time he has uttered his name out loud in two years. The shape is a merciful comfort in his mouth: plums, strawberries. So sweet. Fruits bursting in his mouth. I didn’t know how else to get you out here.
Who are you?
It’s me. Jongseong.
No, says Heeseung. He shakes his head, voice thick. No, you’re not. Jongseong’s gone. He’s dead. He’s dead and he’s never coming back—
Heeseung—
Don’t. Don’t say my name like that.
Jongseong flinches as if Heeseung had hit him, and he might as well have. Heeseung has never spoken to him with such resentment. The goat uses his distraction to leap from his arms and pelt through the trees, free at last. Heeseung steps backwards, once, twice, and then he’s running too, and some primal base instinct in Jongseong wants to hunt, wants to tackle Heeseung onto the ground, pin his neck in place, claim, feed. A brand new instinct in comparison to his nineteen years of mortality, and yet, it feels as ancient in him as the nursery rhymes his mother used to sing to him. It belongs there, has long since made a home inside his body. Parasitic. It takes every muscle in Jongseong to not succumb to it. He stares at the spot where Heeseung had stood, mere seconds ago, fists clenched hard enough to draw blood, and promises to never bridge the gap between them.
XV. ROT
Heeseung holds one of the plums Jongseong picked for him up to the light of the lamp in their living room. It’s inedible, a hard lump of a fruit. Even if it had been perfectly ripe, he wouldn’t be able to eat it. He’s tried: plums, pears, apples, strawberries, all the fruits he’d used to love as a child. Everything he eats comes back up, no matter how many fond childhood memories time has braided into the fabric of the fruits.
Still, he and Jongseong like to leave them around the apartment when they’re in season, when the air is heavy with their sweetness. They even like when they start to rot, and they can watch the soft growth of mold, the way their shapes, initially bursting with roundness, begin to sag. Their hollowness. Their wrinkles. The slow passing of time.
XVI. MONSTER
The moon is a thin, white smile in the sky on the night Heeseung dies and gets revived.
Revival isn’t the right word. The life Jongseong lives is only a half-life. But it’s the most fitting word.
On this night, they’ve met thrice already: first because Jongseong had lured him out there, second and third of Heeseung’s own volition: I had to know if was really you, he'd said.
Being with Heeseung is a dance where none of them touch. When one steps forward, the other steps back, the distance between them a constant. His eyes don't soften, nothing is the same between them and will never be the same again but at least—
At least, Jongseong has his attention. And Jongseong will always bask underneath Heeseung’s attention. It’s better than nothing at all.
The fourth time Heeseung comes to Jongseong’s part of the woods, snow lays thick on the forest ground. Winter means less wildlife, means Jongseong is starving, and Heeseung is always difficult to look at, the desire to devour hovering over Jongseong like the Fates, but he’s especially hard to look at right now. Draped and covered in the fur of wolves, the only part of him exposed to the night air is his face. Breaths escape his lungs in warm clouds, the red tip of his nose, flushed cheeks, the sound of his blood roaring underneath. Jongseong could rip up the fur with ease, imagining a wide, pale expanse of winter skin, all his for the taking. Boy meets vampire. Prey meets predator.
Don’t come any closer.
Why? There’s the inflection of something curious in his voice, the hint of something that sounds like a challenge. Maybe Jongseong’s just hearing the things he wants to hear. He can’t trust his own ears, his instincts. When Heeseung steps forward, Jongseong doesn’t have the power to keep up with their dance. He remains rooted in place like a tree. Why, Jongseong?
Because I think I’m going to hurt you, whispers Jongseong.
Heeseung stops in his tracks. Jongseong?
Please go. Please.
Mutely, Heeseung shifts his weight, the crunch of his boots in the snow like cracks in the ice. His steps are agonizing; slow. One, two, three, his eyes never leaving Jongseong’s. It’s coincidental, really; the gust of wind, delivering Heeseung’s scent directly to the boy who has spent his entire life wanting to receive him. Waiting, ready. Within seconds, Heeseung is sprawled underneath Jongseong, chest heaving, warm, warm breaths fanning out on Jongseong’s face. Sharp metal points at Jongseong’s gut, the little knife Jongseong knows Heeseung carries whenever he’s come to see him. But weapons turn to sticks when wielded against a monster.
Maybe, if Jongseong hadn’t met his end that day, in the same clearing, this scene would be happier. They’d be far away from this town, where his heart would beat fast when Heeseung smiled at him, where they’d cook dinner together and eat at the kitchen table, where Jongseong would tackle Heeseung to the ground, play-fighting like when they were children, where Heeseung would explode with laughter.
But here’s what you do, when all the time in the world rests in your hands: you find someone to kill it with.
And Jongseong hasn’t felt warmth such as the heat of Heeseung’s breath since his last day in the sun; not in the light from the moon, not in the warmth he can generate from rubbing his palms together, not even in his prey, not until now. Tears form in Heeseung’s eyes as he pleads for his life, his body struggling meagrely, like the little goat when Jongseong had snatched it from the field. The very picture of innocence. Jongseong presses his forehead against Heeseung’s to the point of pain, one last attempt at regaining control of his instincts. The pull is too strong, his greed too heavy to bear.
The cold tip of Heeseung’s nose, the pounding of his heart. Metal, piercing through the side of Jongseong’s stomach, blood, spilling, blooming on his shirt, Heeseung’s blood trickling into his mouth, at long last. An exchange of spilt blood. When one boy grows into a monster instead of a man; bones elongating, teeth sharpening to points, chest cavity expanding to make room for an unending craving; then the other is bound to follow.
Because childhood love is hard to shake. Because they will follow each other — one way or another.
XVII. CARELESS
One night, approximately in the middle of their lives, Jongseong admits to what he’d done to Heeseung’s pet goat after Heeseung had refused to feed the many weeks after he’d been turned. It’s a careless admission, an offhand mention. It’s just a dead goat, nothing more. It results in the worst fight they will ever have.
You did what? says Heeseung, stiffening in his arms.
Later, Jongseong will think about the dangerous undercurrent in his voice, so rarely directed towards him. About how, at this point, they’ve held each other through it all: hunger, evading hunters, pointless disputes with other vampires, the loss of Heeseung’s brother, the relentless march of time. When they fight, they wreck the apartment, go cold for a night or two, then, when the silence drives them mad, they make up over a good fuck. Maybe TV, if the sex doesn’t knock them out. But immortality has also changed both of them, as it would do anyone, for better or worse. He will think about how he’s gotten callous, in the way he treats others, the way he moves through the world, the way he treats Heeseung. He will think about how he’s slipped into restless carelessness, without even noticing.
Now, Jongseong isn’t thinking about that at all. Oh please, Heeseung, he says. The poison was so thinned out, you could barely taste it.
A long, pregnant pause follows. Jongseong can’t even hear him breathe.
Then Heeseung sits up in bed, frowning down at Jongseong. That’s not why I’m upset. It’s not about that. You lied to me. You said she’d died of illness—
Which, in a way, she did—
Because you killed her! The only reason I fed from her was because you said it’d be a waste, don’t—
When Jongseong attempts to reach out to him, Heeseung shoves him away.
Heeseung, it was to save you. You would’ve wasted away from hunger! You wouldn’t eat!
You could’ve used another animal. I really cared about that goat.
He leaves the next night, under the guise of another game of chase.
Jongseong prefers not to count time passing in days or months or years, these mortal inventions, rather, he uses the thickness and height of the trees, his own hunger, and the occasional human newspaper Heeseung brings home, nicked from someone’s doorstep right before the early hours of dawn. And yet, he knows that they go exactly 720 nights without speaking. It’s a mere drop of water in the grand scheme of their long lives. These kinds of disputes are normal for other vampires; certainly, Jongseong’s heard much worse.
But to Jongseong, every second of silence from Heeseung is torture.
XVIII. SACRIFICE
Heeseung isn’t speaking to him. He isn’t even looking at him, not when he can help it. He refuses to feed, which is the worst part. Jongseong can’t stand to see him like this, sickly and brittle. It’s worse than the resentment. Jongseong would take his blows, his sharp words any day over Heeseung vanishing into nothing.
Heedo, please, he begs, on his knees in front of Heeseung’s older brother. Heeseung has to eat. Please. He’s hurting himself.
Hesitating only once, Heedo hauls him to his feet with unexpected roughness. Get up, Jongseong. My god.
He looks away. I don’t like seeing you like this.
Jongseong stumbles to his feet. Outside, the goat bleats as it prances around. Heeseung is too afraid to let it into his room. He’s too afraid to let his own brother into his room, even.
What?
You were my friend too, you know? And now both of you are… This is hard for me too.
Heedo…
What does he need?
Heeseung’s goat bleats again. Jongseong looks down at his feet. Blood, he says. Nothing else will do.
XIX. CHIPPED
His head in Heeseung’s lap. Heeseung draws shapes on his forehead, lines down the slope of his nose. The notes of a familiar tune.
Jongseong has lived long enough to become callous, cruel, power hungry, long enough to become kind all over again. Long enough to know that the state of all things is fluid, malleable; the Earth wouldn’t spin itself on its axis into eternity, and it would be naive to think so. He has seen manmade, monstermade kingdoms fall. Doesn’t want any of it. He’s content in the familiar crook of Heeseung’s soft neck. But he’s also getting tired. Memories slip through the deep haze of his mind, his remembrance is a long tunnel that reaches as far as the sky is wide. He has long forgotten what he and Heeseung looked like at thirteen. Doesn’t want to keep forgetting, wants to bury it all somewhere safe, by his own grave, that at this point must be trapped under layers of growth.
Penny for your thoughts? asks Heeseung, and Jongseong smiles at the saying: how human it is, how archaic. Probably, there are no humans left who use this phrase. Only Heeseung. So many words have become obsolete while the two of them have walked the Earth, forgotten with disuse. He’d once read that words bounce, but he can no longer remember from where. That they, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do. How their meanings will change if you use them enough, how you can love them to erosion, to transformation. If words bounce to create language, some will chip upon impact. Some will bounce elsewhere entirely.
During the recent months (or is it years?), Jongseong has been keeping his own ever-expanding dictionary of obsolete words, so he won't forget. Edelweiss (n): European mountain plant which has woolly white bracts around its small flowers and downy grey-green leaves. Often associated with eternal love and fidelity. Smultronställe (n): a place where wild strawberries grow. Swedish term. 木漏れ日 (n): sunlight filtering through trees. Compound of 木 (tree), 漏れ (coming through, leaking), 日 (sunlight). Japanese term. Often associated with you you you–
There was no rhyme or reason to his entries, one page leading to the next through a game of association, up until a few months ago (or is it years?), when Heeseung took it upon himself to sort all his entries in alphabetical order, letter by letter, notebook by notebook.
Jongseong smiles again. Just thinking. About nothing in particular. He rubs a plum between his palms. An old memory finds him, of Heeseung’s mom. She’d told him rubbing fruits like this would help them ripen. He doesn’t know if it’s true or if it’s just another old saying. Doesn’t even know how he still remembers it.
What kind of nothing?
You, thinks Jongseong. Always you. In the grass. All the plums we can’t eat. Impermanence.
He gazes. Their windows, taped shut. Behind them: scarlet daylight.
XX. AFFLICTION
The little goat is a crumpled heap of clothes in Heeseung’s bed. There’s sick all over it. Heeseung’s been throwing up for the past fifteen minutes, now into a bucket Jongseong had fetched from the kitchen. He’s sobbing as he throws up. It’s the poison. Jongseong had only used a few drops; just enough to make the baby goat wither away, succumb to a perceived illness. It’s also the taste of blood; it had taken Jongseong a long time to enjoy it too.
Heeseung is too powerless to push Jongseong away when he takes him in his arms. He resigns instead, folding over like an empty sack, sobs, I hate you for doing this to me, I hate you, I hate you.
Jongseong apologizes over and over again, but for what he never says. The list is too long, the lives he’s stolen piled on top of each other to make a tall tower. All the animals, Heeseung’s chance at a normal life, and now this. All because he’d given in to his monstrous desire. He knows he’ll spend the rest of his miserable life begging for forgiveness, undeserving of it.
XXI. BLOODSOAKED
The hiker stares up at them, like how the cow had stared. Empty. The air is thick. Anticipation stirs in Jongseong’s gut.
You go first, Heeseung says, holding a limp wrist up to Jongseong’s mouth. I wanna watch you. His thumb delivers the ghost of a touch to the corner of Jongseong’s mouth. Instinctively, Jongseong’s mouth seeks the faint grooves of his fingerprint, kisses him at the heart of it, the source of its outwards spiral.
Don’t let him go to waste, says Heeseung.
Heeseung’s eyes are dark, clouded, as Jongseong sucks from the man’s wrist. None of them blink away from each other. It’s not really about this man, the blood roaring in his veins. In the end, everything Jongseong does is always about Heeseung.
When Jongseong’s had his fill, he closes the wound with his tongue. It’s a clean, precise job, not a single drop spilled or wasted. Exactly like how Heeseung had requested. Heeseung crowds over the corpse, rubbing his thumb over the wound. Look at that, he murmurs. His voice sends a tingle through Jongseong’s spine. You did such a good job.
The tame monster in Jongseong preens at his praise.
Their lips meet in a kiss. Heeseung sucks on his bottom lip, the kiss lingering, lingering, parting to mumble: Good boy. You’re always so good for me.
Then, it’s Heeseung’s turn. He makes a real mess of it, like Jongseong had thought he would. Gets blood all over his lips, his teeth, the front of his shirt, the tip of his nose, down his neck. Everywhere. The first time Heeseung had fed from a human, the months after they’d left their hometown together, his teeth had punctured a hole in an artery. Blood, spouting like a fountain onto the floor of an abandoned barn, Heeseung’s eyes wide with panic, the air heavy and thick with rust, blood dribbling from his chin. By now, it’s routine. Heeseung knows very well how to do a clean job. The mess is just for Jongseong’s eyes.
The corpse is still yet drained when Jongseong forces Heeseung up by the hair on the back of his head. Their mouths meet in a harsh clash of teeth and tongue, blood spills from the man’s neck, gathers in a dark red pool on the ground, mixes with the dirt. It’s a shame, the waste of blood. None of them can find it in themselves to care. The first time Heeseung had fed from a human, it had ended like this as well, both of them high on adrenaline and bloodrush. Their first kiss; turned to biting, turned to Jongseong hungrily licking the blood off Heeseung’s face, turned to hot breaths, Heeseung panting into his neck, turned to Jongseong rutting desperately against Heeseung’s thigh like a dog, turned to Jongseong’s hand shoved down Heeseung’s trousers, his spit-slick blood-slick hand wrapped around his cock, Heeseung’s moans in his ear like a song, the woman they’d killed bleeding out on the floor, forgotten.
Even after lifetimes upon lifetimes, Heeseung, bloodsoaked, still has the same effect on Jongseong. The scent of rust is intoxicating, clouds Jongseong’s head. Blood touched by Heeseung tastes different from blood taken directly from a mortal’s fresh wound. On Heeseung’s neck, by his Adam's apple, where Jongseong loves to lick long stripes from the collarbone up his chin, it tastes of salt. The phantom taste of his summer sweat. Splattered on his face, it tastes sweeter. When sipped from the hollow of his collarbones, it’s tangy, like wine. In his mouth, on his tongue, it tastes of nothing at all; nothing but the feeling of Heeseung’s mouth on his, slick and wet. Blood is the purest when it has passed through Heeseung’s mouth, into his veins, out in his body, puncture in skin, Jongseong’s tongue, his mouth. He’s addicted to it, the taste, the idea that he’s not only drinking mortal blood, he’s drinking Heeseung’s as well. Consuming him. Being so close to him, Heeseung’s lifeblood, inside of him, Jongseong’s lifeblood inside of Heeseung. Melting into one.
Their kind are supposed to be coldblooded, but Jongseong swears Heeseung is furnace-hot, that he leaves a trail of fire on Jongseong’s skin. Maybe he's just imagining it. But someone like Heeseung was meant to run warm. Makes Jongseong feel alive again, gives him something pulsating to believe in.
Bite me, Heeseung breathes into the shell of his ear, heady from lust for more as he climbs into Jongseong’s lap, and Jongseong obeys like he always will, palms wrapped around a waist, chest pressed against a chest, teeth puncturing skin.
XXII. FLESH
Weeks pass in a blur, and Heeseung lies in bed, first shivering, then sweating rivers, an unending cycle. He smells people before he sees them; his brother, Jongseong. His body tears itself apart at the seams from hunger, his ribs form the cage of a still heart, spots moving behind his closed eyelids.
I’m not going to be nice about this anymore, says Jongseong, sitting on the side of his bed, bathed in the light from a petroleum lamp. And he grabs the back of Heeseung’s head in his palm, forces it down to the side of his neck, a poor imitation of an embrace. Feed. You must. If not for yourself, then for your brother.
Heeseung can hear the blood rush through his veins. Against his own volition, his mouth waters. No. His speech is muffled against Jongseong’s cold skin. I won’t.
You will. Jongseong pushes his head closer so Heeseung’s mouth is all pressed all the way up to the side of his neck, and Heeseung pushes back, all that he can, attempts to wrest out of Jongseong’s grip. He’s far too weak, Jongseong’s far too strong, stop it, stop fighting me, stop, Heeseung turns his head and ends up with his cheek squished against Jongseong’s shoulder instead. He breathes in and out, superficial breaths, already worn down, feels a hand on the back of his head, another on his back, anchoring him. Tender in their brutality.
I don’t want your blood, I don’t want to bite you.
You have to.
Why? Heeseung whispers. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to live like this.
A beat passes. Jongseong rocks him gently from side to side, a barely noticeable tilt. It reminds Heeseung of being a child again.
I was selfish when I turned you, says Jongseong finally. Let me be selfish one more time. I’ll never ask for anything ever again.
Heeseung’s eyes glide shut. He isn’t drifting off to sleep, just resting them for a bit. There’s light behind his lids; the muted gold of the petroleum lamp. He thinks of how, underneath his pillow, the torn rag rests, one speck of dried blood so faint it hadn’t even penetrated to the other side. How Jongseong’s grave will remain hollow till the end of time, how afraid he’d looked in the clearing, the night he’d bit Heeseung.
He keeps his eyes closed when he bites through Jongseong’s skin. It’s messy. But the first taste is like coming up for air. Almost sweet. The phantom taste of plums.
XXIII. TENDER
The years where they don’t speak are horrible, much more horrible than Jongseong had first thought it’d be when Heeseung had first left. Worse than when Jongseong had first turned; now, when he knows what it’s like to have Heeseung by his side. When he knows that the only thing that makes eternity worth it, is to wake up next to Heeseung, night after night. He is the only thing Jongseong has any faith in. Without him, even blood loses its taste.
Jongseong searches for him, follows the rules of their game of chase, but Heeseung has made it near impossible for him, as if he doesn’t want to be found. Worst of all: he has never known Heeseung to hold a grudge. He’s just hiding to punish him. It’s petty revenge.
Jongseong’s own kind of revenge in between looking for Heeseung: he indulges in frivolous, surface-level flirtations with other vampires, starts feuds with others that nearly gets him killed, attends tacky vampire masquerades and blood orgies, goes on murderous rampages in different towns and cities that leaves him bloodsoaked, sleeps through days in a row, lets his cruel monstrosity fester and sour.
They say revenge is sweet. It isn’t.
On night 721, Heeseung is only one foot in through the apartment door, when Jongseong surges at him, fueled by some feral desire to maim and get back at him and conquer and consume. He wants to kill him. No words are exchanged; only the snarls of animals. It’s a fight at first, claws and teeth ripping through skin like fabric. It’s quick to become something else as they tear clothes off each other from livingroom to bedroom, slipping into the in between of fighting and fucking, Heeseung’s fingers leaving bruises on Jongseong’s skin, Jongseong’s grip around Heeseung’s neck hard enough to crush his windpipe as he fucks him into the mattress, new scratches and bitemarks in skin that had grown pure and unmarked in absence. 721 nights ago, Jongseong would’ve made a teasing comment about how Heeseung had been nice and loose for him already, as if he’d known exactly how this would end, but right now, Jongseong doesn’t have it in him. Can only take exactly what he’s given; even in a position like this, Heeseung writhing beneath him, drool collecting on the sheets, he has Jongseong at his mercy. Jongseong knows he only has this because Heeseung chose to come back.
In the shower, they clean their new wounds, water washing over them, until Heeseung deliberately lets his hands wander, and Jongseong shoves his fingers deep inside him, nails scraping at his walls, Heeseung’s cries bouncing back against the walls, more, Jongseong, more, missed your fingers so much, and Heeseung lowers himself to his knees, looks up at Jongseong with big, reverent eyes, wraps pink lips around his cock. When Jongseong spills into his mouth, he swallows, comes getting off on Jongseong’s foot, eyelashes wet with tears and water from the faucet.
In the bed, they fuck again, lazy and sweet, Heeseung’s legs wrapped around his waist, their fingers intertwined next to Heeseung’s head, and Heeseung kisses him again and again. Jongseong doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Heeseung wipes his tears away, a slight pout on his lips.
Oh no. Poor baby.
Jongseong hides his face in his neck, squirming with humiliation. There, he makes his apology as Heeseung lets go of his hands to wrap his arms around his back. I’m sorry for upsetting you.
No, I went overboard, Heeseung says, still with that soothing tone that makes Jongseong want to burrow deeper into his embrace. He’s missed him so much. Unbearably so. I was angry at first, but I shouldn't have left for as long as I did. None of this was funny at all, was it?
I didn't think you'd come back.
I'm so sorry Jongseong. I should’ve known how this would affect you. I know you don’t like being alone. I’ll always come back to you.
Was it really that easy for you? Leaving? Jongseong hates how insecure he sounds.
Look at me, Jongseong.
Jongseong lifts his head. Underneath him, Heeseung's hair fans out, eyes glassy. He doesn't even want to know what he looks like to Heeseung now, tears and snot running down his face.
Heeseung’s mouth curves into a fond smile, one hand combing Jongseong’s hair back. My beautiful boy, he says. Of course it was hard. But I was looking out for you. I stayed close. Getting to look at you made it easier.
He kisses Jongseong even though there’s snot all over Jongseong’s face. When they part, Jongseong whispers: Unfair advantage. I don’t wanna play this game anymore.
Okay, Heeseung says. No more games. I promise.
XXIV. NEW
The night they bid farewell to Heedo and leave town, Heeseung’s on the precipice of relearning Jongseong’s new shape, of looking at all his new parts. He doesn’t trust him, not entirely, not yet. But they’ve got a whole life ahead of them. They head East as snow comes down in big flakes. When they stumble upon a wild expanse of serene, white, snowy field; field, field field as far as the eye can see, Jongseong grabs his hand, eyes sparkling like they’d done before it all, flakes resting in his hair like birds perched in a tree, and they sprint across the snow, leap out of something and into something new, their steps breaking blank canvas, the night air whipping against his face, he feels every step reverberate from the balls of his feet up through his calves, knees, thighs, Jongseong’s laugh in his ears, they run as fast as their legs can carry them, like how wild geese fly across town in the fall, like they’ve never been anything but how they’re feeling right now, alive, and in this moment, Heeseung can convince himself that maybe the two of them will be okay.
XXV. EROSION
Just. It should be sunny the next few days.
Hm?
It’s been a long time. Since it’s been out.
Yeah.
Do you ever miss it? asks Jongseong.
And Heeseung replies: All the time.
If words bounce off surfaces, so do memories. So do Jongseong and Heeseung. Chipped. Worn. Loved by each other to erosion, loved to transformation, lost to time.
XXVI. NOSE
It’s a semi-large town, the one Heeseung and Jongseong grow up in. Small enough for everybody to know everybody, to be traversed in its entirety by foot, big enough for a boy to regard the traverse across town as an epic adventure. The Lee family live in the outskirts to the east, close by the woods. They have a herd of chickens, one rooster, a few goats, an old lazy cat that barely moves, and a slimmer one that wanders off when Heeseung is still a child. The Park family live in the western part of town, where everything is a little cleaner, a little more elevated from the rest. They have an empty estate, a few houses in other towns as well. Jongseong’s parents are rich enough to have staff, which is how they meet, Jongseong, the sheltered son of aristocrats, Heeseung, the youngest son of a baker, an errand boy. They live an adventure away from each other. It’s perfect.
Lifetimes from now, Jongseong won’t be able to remember exactly how it occurred. There will be too many other memories that fill his head, taking up space there. But he will always remember the dot of flour on the tip of Heeseung’s nose, how he’d wiped it away with the back of a hand, sheepish, apologetic about the way he looked, as if Jongseong could ever think he looked anything other than beautiful, the image of Jongseong’s eternal youth, past, present, future, green summer grass, the feeling of being alive, of chasing the sun.
XXVII. SACRED, CONTINUED
I really am sorry about the goat, Jongseong says, the next night after they’ve stirred awake, intertwined to the point where he isn’t sure who’s who. Their insides, turned out.
Heeseung laughs, and Jongseong feels his chest rumble, as if it had been his own laugh. I said it was fine. You meant well.
Jongseong turns around in his arms so they’re face to face. It’s not fine. At least not when we talked about it. I was too flippant with your emotions.
He doesn’t think he likes the callous part of himself very much. Doesn’t like who he’s become, the parts of himself he’s lost, the parts Heeseung has shielded from time with cupped hands, protected from erosion. Promises himself to turn around, unearth them all again, reassemble them.
Thank you for apologizing. I wish I’d come back sooner. It was stupid. Staying away. We’ve lost so much time. I know that’s stupid to say but…
Jongseong laughs. We’ve been alive for too long, haven’t we?
If I ever start acting like one of those crazy old geezers who were turned in the Dark Ages, please tell me.
Promise. If you promise to do the same for me.
Heeseung holds up his pinky, and Jongseong interlocks it with his own. Grins as soft as the second time they’d kissed, hundreds of years ago. Their hands fall back down, loosely interlocked between them.
There’s a long pause where none of them say anything, where they settle for looking instead. Heeseung’s eyes flit across Jongseong’s face, as if he’s drinking him in. Jongseong does the same: the mole over his brow, the tip of his nose, his eyelashes, pulls back his lips to trace the shape of his canines.
It all went to shit when you disappeared, says Heeseung once Jongseong has extracted his fingers from his mouth. He cards his hand through Jongseong’s hair. I was a mess. The only thing that made me feel better was tending to the animals. Then they started to drop dead. Like flies.
Sorry.
Heeseung flicks him teasingly on the forehead before continuing. I understand it now. You were starving. When I turned, I at least had you, and you were stubborn enough to stick around even though I didn’t want you around. You had no one. But back then, when all the animals started dying, it was scary. I got really attached to the baby goat. It was the one thing I had left. I let her sleep in my bed because I was terrified she’d die too. Couldn’t stand the thought of losing her too.
Heeseung’s eyes sparkle with amusement. I even named her and everything.
In all of Jongseong’s years of living side by side with Heeseung, he hasn’t known any of this. He feels a stab of guilt, but there’s no judgement in Heeseung’s eyes. What’d you name her?
Heeseung smiles. Seong, he says. Her name was Seong.
XXVIII. THE LAST PRAYER
Jongseong no longer believes in any god, and still, he gets on his knees to ask: What do I do when I’ve run out of time?
And in the end, the boy he has loved all his life and the boy who has loved him in return, the altar where he gets on his knees, and the deity he worships, the monster who feeds from his hand, the hand he eats from, replies: Beautiful boy. You can stop running. You can open your fists, you can let go. See? It’s easy. You were never supposed to be here forever anyway, none of us were. Not even the sun is forever. It too, will swallow up the world, like how the two of us have lived lifetimes swallowing up pieces of each other. The only thing that’s forever is time itself, and the wind, carrying your scent to me. You want to see the sun, then do it, turn your face towards it, only let it be with me by your side, I inside of you, and you inside of me.
XXIX. SUN
When the sun rises, Jongseong doesn’t look at it. He turns to Heeseung to watch his eyes change color, to watch the light deliver his skin the kiss of death, and finds Heeseung already looking at him in return. His eyes soften, his lips curve. Jongseong has missed this, most of all.
XXX. EPILOGUE: GRASS
They’re sixteen and fifteen. It’s hot out. They have lifetimes ahead of them, but none of them know, and nothing has happened between them yet, and Jongseong thinks nothing ever will. He’s only fifteen; where Heeseung’s getting taller, gaining muscle, growing into himself, growing into a man, Jongeong knows Heeseung sees him as nothing but a boy. His best friend yes, but still, the little kid he’s supposed to keep out of trouble. He’s sitting under a tree picking at tufts of grass, while watching Heeseung spar with his brother in the forest clearing. Even in the shade, it’s much too warm to be outside. Makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Heedo knocks Heeseung’s sword out of his hand once more, and Heeseung makes this despairing noise, falling to his knees. It makes Heedo cackle with mirth, and Jongseong laugh with something softer. Infatuation. Maybe even love.
You cheated! wails Heeseung.
Did not, says Heedo, voice still brimming with glee.
Jongseong saw you cheat! Heeseung turns to him, pointing. Didn’t you, Jongseong-ah?
Jongseong nods although he hasn’t watched Heedo even once while they were sparring.
You can’t ask your best friend, obviously he’ll agree with you! Now get up. Let’s go again. Come on.
It’s too hot, Heeseung complains. I feel like I’m going to die.
Then come into the shade, Jongseong nearly says. He stays quiet. After all, they have time. The sunlight is nice, makes the world seem wide and big and kind.
He just wants to watch Heeseung stand under the sun a little while longer.