surrender ; minsung

make believe

tw : discussion of self harm

When Jisung and his company began climbing the ladder in merchantry, he thought success would mold him a certain way, make him more like the merchants he'd met, with their thick skin and booming voices. But he couldn't be reshaped. He isn't built of the same stuff. He's made by salty water and gentle waves, he feels the pull of the moon as if they were connected by string. He mourns.

Then there was Minho.

Jisung found him easily in the crowd of merchants. His outfit was garish, his strut like a peacock's. He says he enjoys making the Guild roughnecks uncomfortable. Jisung admits to taking a vicarious pleasure in watching it, Minho's shamelessness, his imperious presence.

That was before. Then, for only a second, Minho's facade broke. He looked at Jisung like he held his heart in his hands.

Jisung knows there are parts of Minho that aren't confident and arrogant and irreverent. He resents those parts, because whenever they show, Jisung wants to touch him like something delicate, something precious.

It's a vice. Jisung can't cut himself off. And Minho holds him like he's still bleeding.

—

"People think I'm strong."

They're lying in Jisung's rumpled sheets, listening to the ambient hum of space. Jisung tries to focus on Minho, his lazy-lidded eyes, the way his hair falls on the pillow. Anything but the great big emptiness on the other side of the window.

"Say more," he murmurs.

"I think people think I'm strong. Heartless. An untouchable king. A faultless god."

"Modest too."

Minho smiles sleepily. "Yeah, that too. Do you see me that way?"

"No."

"How do you see me then?"

Jisung thinks about his answer. 'A brazen prick' maybe. Or 'recklessly, frustratingly thespian.' Or 'beautiful with kiss-red lips.'

"I don't know," he says aloud. "I see what you let me. Is that a good answer?"

"It's a safe one."

"Why are you asking?"

"You know how I'm strong?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not. I pretend. It's make-believe."

"I don't think so. Not all the time."

He's tracing a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, whispering as if he's telling a secret. "Then why is my skin so... frail? Why do I bleed and bleed?"

Jisung reaches out, slowly, touching the same tattoo. It's smooth, bumpy, smooth under the dark ink.

"Tell me about your tattoos."

"What about them?"

He taps Minho's wrist. "How'd you get this one?"

"Got caught shoplifting. The keeper sent me off like this. Hurt like hell, getting it marked."

"Did you cry?"

"I don't cry."

"Is that more make-believe?"

Minho cuts his eyes away and keeps talking. "I got these when I was eleven." He shows the smudges on his palms. "Neighbourhood kids forced my hands into a fire. My father liked these scars. Came with a mean infection."

"What do you mean your father liked them?"

"Made me look tough. He wanted me to be safe. If you had your marks, no one fucked with you."

"Seems like they fucked with you plenty."

"That's how it goes. What doesn't kill you gives you a better chance of survival."

Jisung can't wrap his head around it. Growing up on the isle, his family protected him, the ocean protected him, cooled him in the heat, washed the dirt from his cuts. It was a blessing to cry — it meant God, Mother, Her divinity, was in your body. He still believes that.

"Means fuck all up here," Minho murmurs. "None of these snobs get the culture. I haven't met any 263 locals in ages."

"I haven't either. From 22, I mean. People have recognized my piercings before. Usually they just throw out an insult and move on."

"A buyer called me a cutter once, right to my face. Wanted to kick his teeth in."

"Why 'cutter'?"

"It was a local insult. It means someone who cuts themselves on purpose to gain status. Guess the wider universe caught on."

"Would people really hurt themselves? Only for status?"

"It's not... It's more complicated than that. Status is the same as pride in a family. Sometimes it's all you want, all you need. To make your father proud."

They look at each other for a moment.

"Which one?" Jisung whispers.

Minho draws a finger down his cheek, past his mouth, following the narrow, jagged tattoo.

"Minho."

"Face tats are coveted. I just wanted to be worthy."

Jisung has to bite it back. You are worthy. You are, you are, you are. Safety shouldn't be conditional, pride shouldn't come at a cost. Now no one even respects the scars he was left with.

"You're, um..." Minho looks confused, a little daunted. "It doesn't hurt, if that's why you're..."

Jisung turns on his back, wiping his face. "Nothing, it's nothing."

Minho looks away too. The silence is strange and audible. Then Minho shifts closer, reaching out to take Jisung's hand. He presses Jisung's fingers to the back of his head; Jisung can feel the pinch of a scar under his hair.

"You know who gave me that?"

"No?"

"You. First time we met."

"What? How?"

"We were casing that auction on 110. You recognized me from the grapevine, pulled me aside and said 'this location has been claimed by the Stingray, graciously shake my hand and yield.' You, always saying the stupidest shit in the most polite way. So I — politely, of course — told you what you could put where, and you punched me in the face. Fell over and hit my head. That day I got my first unmarked scar. Because of you."

Jisung can't help smiling, remembering the dashing, insolent Minho, so caught up in bravado that a single punch floored him. Minho, who Jisung hated more than any other merchant. That killer instinct and cockiness and success, that face and body and crooked smile. So much for Jisung to want and hate and want.

Now Minho is in his bed.

He smiles wider. "I like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." He combs Minho's hair. Black locks fall through his fingers. "It's okay, you know. To be made of gentler stuff. I am too."

"You're perfect."

"No, I'm not. I'm mourning."

Minho nods slowly, holding his wrist again. "I think I am too."