Back at the orphanage, Ms. Noh would corner Jiyong in the yard and scold him for spitting on the concrete or flicking up girls' skirts; he'd stand there scrawny and puppy-eyed, peering up as silently as he'd been raucous seconds before being dragged away by the ear. Useless good-for-nothing. She'd growl and stab a finger into his chest and take his dinner away, but Jiyong had always gone running off to do the next misbehaved thing. Calling out his worthlessness wasn't pointing out anything he hadn't already known, and after all, they could only hold food from him for so long.
It was sort of like that, now, the way Jiyong stared up at Zitao glassy-eyed and silent, except this time, the scolding actually invoked fear. He watched his old friend pace the floor and pinch back his own tears, saw anger and pain take over him, pieces of him that didn't quite fit together anymore; he wasn't the Zitao who would curtail from Jiyong's physical violence and bend the instant he saw Jiyong's tears. Instead he was like a stranger intruding on a private moment, on Zitao in a moment of revelation that Jiyong had always selfishly hoped would never come.
It was awful.
It was like seeing him for the first time, not the person he'd spent years with but another Zitao, one who was desperate and miserable and rightfully self-aware, buckling under the weight of an invisible burden, Jiyong.
And the sight made Jiyong ill. Because he knew he'd gone too far this time. This was it. This was the end.
Jiyong had never asked for a reunion, but everything Zitao said was right. Jiyong hadn't always been there when he'd needed him in their teenage and adult years, had betrayed him more than once and used him as a punching bag that he would only mend in the dark. What person deserved this? Jiyong looked at Zitao, at his newly styled hair and clear complexion, and he felt sorry for this person, felt sorry that he'd put effort into his looks again, this man whose youthful appearance hinted at nothing of the trauma he'd experienced in his short life.
"No," Jiyong tried to say carefully at first, but then again with more pleading, "no."
But of course a single lazy word wasn't going to stop Zitao from scooping up the keys and sweeping past Jiyong. Neither was a pathetic, "Tao, come back!" as the younger disappeared round the front door. Jiyong flung the gun at the half-open door, the force conveniently shutting it so that the neighbors couldn't hear his continued sobbing down the hallway. A minute later, he got up and wobbled over to the window just in time to see Zitao getting into the car, his hair a spotlight even in the night.
In the hour Jiyong was left alone, he'd gone from contemplating suicide to running away, and in the end, he decided that either way, he need to hear Zitao's voice one last time. Pills scattered about the sink, he sat on the toilet and speed dialed Zitao, hoping to god he wouldn't hear his phone ringing somewhere in the apartment, and that he'd actually answer his call.
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Date: 2015-10-08 10:17 pm (UTC)It was sort of like that, now, the way Jiyong stared up at Zitao glassy-eyed and silent, except this time, the scolding actually invoked fear. He watched his old friend pace the floor and pinch back his own tears, saw anger and pain take over him, pieces of him that didn't quite fit together anymore; he wasn't the Zitao who would curtail from Jiyong's physical violence and bend the instant he saw Jiyong's tears. Instead he was like a stranger intruding on a private moment, on Zitao in a moment of revelation that Jiyong had always selfishly hoped would never come.
It was awful.
It was like seeing him for the first time, not the person he'd spent years with but another Zitao, one who was desperate and miserable and rightfully self-aware, buckling under the weight of an invisible burden, Jiyong.
And the sight made Jiyong ill. Because he knew he'd gone too far this time. This was it. This was the end.
Jiyong had never asked for a reunion, but everything Zitao said was right. Jiyong hadn't always been there when he'd needed him in their teenage and adult years, had betrayed him more than once and used him as a punching bag that he would only mend in the dark. What person deserved this? Jiyong looked at Zitao, at his newly styled hair and clear complexion, and he felt sorry for this person, felt sorry that he'd put effort into his looks again, this man whose youthful appearance hinted at nothing of the trauma he'd experienced in his short life.
"No," Jiyong tried to say carefully at first, but then again with more pleading, "no."
But of course a single lazy word wasn't going to stop Zitao from scooping up the keys and sweeping past Jiyong. Neither was a pathetic, "Tao, come back!" as the younger disappeared round the front door. Jiyong flung the gun at the half-open door, the force conveniently shutting it so that the neighbors couldn't hear his continued sobbing down the hallway. A minute later, he got up and wobbled over to the window just in time to see Zitao getting into the car, his hair a spotlight even in the night.
In the hour Jiyong was left alone, he'd gone from contemplating suicide to running away, and in the end, he decided that either way, he need to hear Zitao's voice one last time. Pills scattered about the sink, he sat on the toilet and speed dialed Zitao, hoping to god he wouldn't hear his phone ringing somewhere in the apartment, and that he'd actually answer his call.