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Yeosang had wings strong enough to take flight on his own – the little blue bird who had lost his voice had resumed singing – but every time Seonghwa saw him moving away from the nest they had created in that unforgiving world, a knot would form in his throat and would not allow him to breathe while a weight settled on his chest. Those were small, natural steps, something that should have happened sooner or later, but Seonghwa could never hear the rumble of the engine of Yeosang’s motorcycle with a light heart and he would always turn his back to the road in order not to be forced to look at the wake left by the headlights disappear and mix with the bright lights of a parasitic city that never slept.

The city was a monster, a vampire that fed on the light and emotions of others, devoured everything and left no escape for anyone, returning only inhabitants who had the appearance of empty shells and glassy eyes. That was also why – because he knew the city and feared it – Seonghwa hated to see Yeosang infiltrate its alleys on his motorcycle, terrified by the idea that a street might open its jaws in front of him, that the white face of an Android Guardian might glimpse Yeosang’s features and recognise him, that those merciless mechanical fingers made to destroy and annihilate might tamper with the motorcycle and clench around Yeosang’s throat, stealing his breath.

Torn to pieces and devoured, both destroyed, that was how all of Seonghwa’s nightmares ended, that was the ghost that lurked behind his big eyes, a shadow of greater concern that slithered between the rational and the irrational and grew larger and larger. For Seonghwa kept that fear to himself, under lock and key deep in his heart, and refused to inject similar paranoia into Yeosang’s veins. But in the long run, poison knew how to dull his senses and make him weak; it knew where and how to strike.

Seonghwa always decided to swallow it and die a thousand silent deaths rather than show how it rotted his mouth, brain, and heart. In the end, no matter how handsome, strong and intelligent Yeosang was, he was still Seonghwa’s precious dongsaeng.

Seonghwa had full confidence in Yeosang’s abilities: in the past, where many had seen an insecure young man, Seonghwa had seen a reserved boy, where many had spoken of lack of confidence, Seonghwa had noticed commitment and perseverance, where many had squinted at long silences, Seonghwa had perceived a penchant for reflection and an unassuming goodness that appeared unpretentiously in the most difficult moments.

Yeosang did not need that strange kind of twisted protection that Seonghwa swallowed down as he was not worse or better than others. He was still a grown man capable of surviving on his own and providing for himself, and Seonghwa was more than aware of his resourcefulness. However, sometimes Yeosang still needed a shoulder to rest his head on and strong arms to call home because his greatest weakness was his goodness. The kindness that flourished in his heart did not allow him to conceive of cruel worlds in which human nature had been diverted by a mind that had obliterated any trace of emotion.

Yeosang could not imagine that a human being – or a machine, the boundaries were all too blurred in an empty world – could cause pain to someone else out of his own personal will. In a terrifying and ruthless world, Yeosang always chose to believe that the desire to hurt someone else was imposed rather than caused intentionally by a sick heart that was spoiled to the core.

Perhaps Seonghwa’s deepest fears would never have been magnified to such an extent if their role had not been so vital and dangerous, if they had not dealt with thugs and people who would gladly sell their souls in exchange for what they wished to obtain. It was a task that had been entrusted to them and one that required care and a steady hand, and no matter how excellent they both were at completing each transaction, Seonghwa couldn’t avoid being crushed by tachycardia every time Yeosang followed him to deal with some smugglers.

Seonghwa knew it was foolish, but he was not rational and could not explain the visceral pain and sheer terror that created such reactions. He could not admit that the thing that upset him most was not the possibility of losing his life – he who had never been free – but the possibility of losing Yeosang forever or, even worse, being forced to witness him go through excruciating pain.

It had happened once and Seonghwa had stood guard every night praying to the heavens – or whatever deity was watching over such a disgusting place, granted that it still existed and it hadn’t turned its back to its own creation – and asking to be allowed to bear the pain that Yeosang felt in silence, gritting his teeth with a sweat-soaked forehead and a faint voice. Seonghwa would have preferred to die and, at that moment, Seonghwa had vowed that he would destroy every single thing or person that dared to cross their path and cause pain to a soul as sweet as Yeosang’s.

The fact that Yeosang held no grudges and desired no revenge did not relieve Seonghwa from harbouring deep resentment and quietly nurturing dark feelings, to the point that he was sometimes convinced that he contained enough malice in himself for both of them, that he had claws sharp enough to defend them both from every kind of beast that hid beneath neon lights and a tongue treacherous enough to overpower anyone who dared to disrespect them.

Neither Seonghwa nor Yeosang had a driving licence, and learning to ride a motorbike with a roaring engine that thundered on all kinds of roads had been a long process of trial and error. The bikes were still blazing – stolen, but no one would miss them, after all, it was for a good cause – when Yeosang had been forced to step on the accelerator to save his life, risking it in the process.

Seonghwa had stayed behind that day, in the abandoned building where they had settled and were going to spend the night. Staying in one place for a long time without cover was never a good idea when they were in contact with other rebels – were they real rebels or were they moles? – and were wanted by the central government, so periodically they would move in and out only to rejoin the nerve centre of the city. They could not afford the luxury of a permanent roof over their head like Jongho and Yunho, nor that of San and Wooyoung whose home was a van that always travelled with them.

The deal had been straightforward that day: Yeosang would drop by Hongjoong and Mingi’s to update them on the situation and then travel to Yunho and Jongho’s workshop where Wooyoung and San’s van was being repaired. It was an easy journey that did not involve any risk, simple but effective, a sort of patrol that would allow everyone to check on everyone else and give Yeosang the possibility to see the others for a couple of minutes and then report back to Seonghwa.

There had been nothing to worry about, rationally. After all, Yeosang had faced worse and had always come out unscathed.

But the previous evening, something had gone wrong: Yeosang’s motorbike had struggled to start even after several attempts, and Seonghwa had only agreed to surrender his for that one simple mission where the exchange of information was vital.

The dark tentacles of the most visceral fear had slowly tightened around his stomach and bowels, had slipped between his lips and crawled until they had clung to his heart, squeezing it in a lethal grip. Something was bothering Seonghwa – a thorny, vague feeling – and it was preventing him from breathing and thinking properly. That night he had not finished his dinner and had closed the plastic box where the food was stored earlier than usual, had stood for hours staring at the barrel containing the reddish fire they were warming themselves with, had spoken little and answered mainly in monosyllables only to ask Yeosang if they could sleep sharing the same heavy blanket, huddled close to each other as if they were an integral part of each other’s bodies and souls in an eerie fusion of thoughts and breaths.

When Yeosang had fallen asleep, Seonghwa had stroked his hair and watched him for a long time, like an apprehensive mother afraid of losing her child, and if he had had the courage, he would have woken him up and begged him to abort and postpone the mission, to complete it at a different time with the aid of his trusted motorbike.

Instead, the next morning Seonghwa had watched Yeosang get up and eat breakfast with the leftovers of the greasy dinner from the day before. Seonghwa had run his hands through Yeosang’s long, black hair while he had sat in front of him and carefully repeated the steps he needed to follow to complete the mission. Then he had helped Yeosang into his padded jacket and greeted him with a light but desperate kiss halfway between the warm, soft skin of his cheek and the plump corner of his mouth.

When he had climbed onto the motorbike – Seonghwa’s motorbike, an engine that did not belong to him – Seonghwa had wanted to run up to him and yank him to the ground to get him off, he had wanted to shout Get off that monster immediately, it is a beast who does not know or trust you, it cannot serve you in any way, for it belongs to me! but he had not done so. He had stood still and watched Yeosang start the engine and accelerate a couple of times before his face disappeared under his helmet.

He had wanted to whisper Don’t go, Yeosang-ah, because I am nothing without you and I can’t go on alone in this horrible world that’s trying to turn me into a monster, because everything is too much and I am afraid, but he had not. He had not moved and his eyes had remained glued to the motorbike until even the powerful roar of the engine he knew well had been swallowed up by the intricate maze of streets winding between soulless skyscrapers.

Too unfamiliar with the alleys that crisscrossed one another in an intricate web, Yeosang had been recognized by sensor-like eyes that had no mercy toward what they rested on. Yeosang had done his best – Seonghwa knew he really did – but human strength was rarely able to overcome the temper of steel, and even a motorcycle driven by an inexperienced hand was prone to failure.

It was the motorcycle, or perhaps a trembling hand, or a moment of weakness and fear that had failed him. Yeosang had slipped on the wet asphalt and fallen, he had abandoned his motorcycle and dragged his hurt body into a forgotten and decaying building. Yeosang had been injured and had been alone for half a day, immersed in his despondency and left to his own devices, and Seonghwa had only known about it after hours, when he had not seen his dongsaeng return and had become suspicious, taking the malfunctioning motorcycle that Yeosang had left behind and scouting the streets they knew.

When Seonghwa had found Yeosang, terror had immobilized his limbs and taken possession of him, a dark fog had taken hold of his thoughts and clouded his judgement. At that moment only one thing mattered: to protect him, to bring him back to a safe and familiar place, to destroy whatever had dared to cause him all that suffering, his Yeosangie who was so good and so caring, his Yeosangie who had never harmed anyone.

Road rash everywhere on his battered body, a dislocated collarbone, two broken ribs, a broken wrist and several fractured fingers. Seonghwa had collected all of Yeosang’s pieces and brought him back with his eyes swollen with tears and fire under his fingers.

He had taken care of Yeosang as best he could, retrieving first-aid kits and touching him as if he were fragile, gleaning blankets to give him a soft bed and keep him warm, trying every way to retrieve healthy and nutritious food, licking his wounds and bandaging them for a speedy recovery. But every time he had seen the reddened and flayed alabaster skin, the swollen wrist and fingers held together by rudimentary braces, and the bruises on his face and body, Seonghwa had burned with a deep anger that mingled with an endless myriad of unidentified feelings and turned into a mixture of pain, anger, and possessiveness.

Because nothing like that would have ever happened if Seonghwa had stopped him, if he had not let him go alone and had not surrendered his motorcycle to him – a motorcycle that he would have had to retrieve some other way, that had been almost completely destroyed in the fall and abandoned to rot in an alley for smugglers to disassemble and resell – and if he had held on to it.

During the days when Yeosang was the most vulnerable, horrible thoughts masked as love had resurfaced in Seonghwa’s spoiled mind. Back behind bars, back in a golden cage or a glass bell, away from the world that could cause him pain; it was irrational, it was an unhealthy and cruel feeling that suffocated Seonghwa, a thought that always intruded on his mind and did not allow him to observe the way Yeosang rested without drowning in a sea of pain and worry and tears.

The long weeks when Yeosang had been unable to move had turned into an endless hell. He could not ask Yeosang to take the night watch and sacrifice hours of sleep but at the same time he could not stay awake for entire days, he could not afford to stay in one fixed place for too long but he refused to even ask Yeosang to move around, he could not send Yeosang to meet thugs, smugglers and information sellers but he refused to even leave him alone in the place they had chosen as their makeshift and desolate home, too weak to defend himself against possible dangers that might threaten him.

Seonghwa was stuck, torn by a vicious inner struggle and his good. Not knowing whether to prioritise Yeosang or the mission they had to accomplish.

Because their contributions were invaluable and their positions were fragile: they were the mind of a body that survived because of what their eyes saw and their fingers handled. Yeosang and Seonghwa haunted the streets with their motorcycles and were ghosts impossible to locate, they had locked their consciences in a tightly sealed drawer and stooped to trade everything – legal or illegal, few things were legal and acceptable under an authoritarian and repressive government – and had turned every transaction into an opportunity to obtain useful items, riches to resell, dirty money used to survive and priceless information.

The nights when Seonghwa had cried and measured the perimeter of the room in which they had taken refuge in stride had been long, and long had been the days when he had realised that to love someone was to have a knife constantly pressed under the chin and to commit a misstep was to let his throat be cut open. Seonghwa’s affection was powerful and all-consuming, he was a long-handed monster who only wanted to embrace under the guise of immobilisation – he wanted to keep safe, he wanted to save, none of them deserved such hatred and suffering, the price they were paying was too high – and a violent and selfless creature.

It had Seonghwa wrapped around its fingers: affection demanded and Seonghwa complied, Seonghwa started to starve and obsession was there to feed him and quench his thirst, Seonghwa fell ill and the monster took care of his well-being and soothed him, Seonghwa drowned in loneliness and fear and the abomination he nurtured in his heart showed its weakness and caved in, leaving just an empty shell.

The knife of protection and affection that had been pressed against his throat was now lodged deep inside his chest, threatening to touch his already-wounded and fatigued heart.

Seonghwa was not a monster; he had a heart and mind separate from each other and could distinguish duty from pleasure, want from need, and a whim from an order. That was why he had been silent when he had slowly watched Yeosang regain his strength and get back on the motorcycle, trusting the monster who had rushed him onto the asphalt and resuming his usual patrols.

Yeosang and Seonghwa were not just smugglers and resistance fighters.

They were silent couriers who crept into every alley and reported everything they heard, a connection to the world of the Black Pirates and the black market that welcomed any goods in exchange for anything. Without them, there would have been no place to hide for Hongjoong and Mingi, no indication of where to find a trusted forger for Yunho and Jongho’s fake badges, and not even an indication of the places where underground recruiters were always looking for new fighters who were willing to risk their lives to bring home money. Theirs was the most dangerous and precarious role, but both knew they were vital for the survival of the rest of the group.

It was dangerous, it was a job where pity was an unknown word and feelings had to be kept well under lock and key. It had been difficult for Seonghwa at first, but it had been even more difficult for Yeosang.

It was hard to understand how a society could be so cruel: in a universe of mayhem and devastation, everyone closed their eyes and pretended to be blind in front of the death of freedom. But Yeosang was unable to; he mourned the loss of hope and calm, warmth and feelings and sometimes even love. Several times he had watched Seonghwa with big eyes dense with apprehension and terror and revealed that he was afraid he was getting lost among the city lights and motorcycles that gave false warmth. He had revealed that he feared becoming incapable of feeling sincere and genuine affection.

That was when Seonghwa had taken him and held him in his arms, had spent time by his side without uttering a word – only letting proximity speak – and had searched their belongings for anything that could dispel the darkness: diaries, pieces of letters, books that were missing pages, a radio whose antenna had seen better times. He only hoped that simple objects could loosen the noose Yeosang felt around his neck and breathe in some fresh air in his lungs. If not, Seonghwa himself would have done it with his lips and hands, helping him remember how burning the warmth of human and sincere affection could be.

Yeosang did not belong to him; that was a fact. No free man belonged to anyone else, and Seonghwa knew it well.

That was why Seonghwa knew how important it was to let everyone have their own space while leaving them the possibility to have a safe harbour to return to. Seonghwa strived to be that harbour, he knew Yeosang’s soul as if it were his own, and he knew that behind a face and body that looked as if they had been carved in marble by the best masters – behind a cold and intimidating appearance – was a fragile and lukewarm heart. They were not so different, the two of them. Their beauty equalled fragility, but being fragile did not necessarily mean being weak, it only meant refusing to kneel and accept cruelty as part of their days and lives.

Their lives were less heroic than people would think.

They were not modern riders on blazing motorcycles fighting crime. They were two lost young men desperately clinging to each other to survive and not lose the essence of what they had been. They had motorcycles that were in constant need of repair and refurbishment, and they got their hands dirty collaborating with crime and carrying the label of Outlaws over their heads like a sword of Damocles ready to behead them.

“They are coming.” Yeosang said quietly, words getting lost in the wind and carried away by the stench of corruption that surrounded the abandoned place they had chosen for the rendezvous.

Seonghwa nodded. The roar of several engines announced the arrival of the other bikers – there were four of them, and both of them knew because they had done business with that group before – even before their dark motorcycles were visible. They never removed their helmets while Yeosang and Seonghwa always dealt openly; it was a situation of obvious disparity but that was how they had both decided to work, showing the world their faces to let them know who they were. It was self-preservation, it was an intimidation tactic.

From the corner appeared the four motorcycles with their bikers clad in black and the cargo they were to deliver. It was a simple job: they were to pick up the goods and check them, Yeosang would then put on the mask of the innocent errand boy and deliver the goods to the others without arousing any suspicion. Blue Bird Delivery, a company that did not exist, and a license plate that was a birthday affixed to a motor-scooter provided by Yunho and Jongho, but the best cover was still Yeosang’s innocent face and his discreet manners.

“You go first, Yeosangie.” Seonghwa whispered and patted his dongsaeng’s back, prompting him to step forward and approach the bikers that had contacted them, “I’ll wait here.”

You go first and I’ll protect you from behind, Seonghwa had thought while he glared at the bikers who were entrusting their overnight bags to Yeosang to make sure the merch they had brought complied with the request. Everyone was afraid of Seonghwa, the man with a sharp face and high cheekbones, with eyes that could pierce holes through someone’s skull and charm while being merciless and plump lips that would only smile at Yeosang. Everyone in the underground and among the rebels knew that they should never cross Park Seonghwa and Kang Yeosang because their brains were fast and the revenge of one was cold and explosive if the other was endangered in some way.

I’ll protect you from where you can’t see, so you’ll be free from my strange shackles, Yeosangie.

What was love, if not the constant terror of loss and abandonment?