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There's a pull towards Jongwoo.
Not at first. At first he was just a possibility. But then he sees Jongwoo go from cold and distant to open and delighted. The switch is so sudden it leaves Moonjo with whiplash and speeding to catch up. That doesn't happen often.
When he hears about the pianist, about the world Jongwoo lives in within his head, Moonjo has to keep himself from leaning in to the gravitational field that suddenly surrounds Jongwoo.
Moonjo won't delude himself into believing this is unheard of. He's had a few but intense times in his life when he found someone he couldn't stay away from; the boy when he was 16 that Moonjo was sure would save him; the criminal justice professor in college who bought him lunches; the man at the club he had a one night stand with but wanted more. He has to tell himself, over and over, that this is just adding a new player to the game.
(Tucked behind his rib cage, though, is the fluttering hope that maybe this one won't be a disappointment.)
Moonjo is seven by the time he realizes that maybe his life isn't as normal as he assumed it was. Before then he would see kids wearing tank tops and shorts and think, 'Their dad must be picky about where he punishes them,' or see mothers holding their children's hands and think, 'They must have done something special to be allowed out of the house.'
But then one of the tutors his father hired frowns at Moonjo's answer to a story problem.
"What do you mean, Moonjo? Why should the kid be 'punished'?"
Moonjo frowns back, says, "He got the answer wrong. He said it was 13 apples but he subtracted at the end instead of added. It should be 17."
"But it was just a honest mistake," the tutor says.
Moonjo frowns harder and brushes his hair from his eyes. "What's an 'honest mistake'? How can mistakes be honest?"
The tutor looks at him with wide eyes and hesitatingly tries to explain the hierarchy of mistakes. Moonjo stares down at the printed math sheet and folds the corner back and forth, over and over, until it takes no effort at all to make a clean tear.
The tutor doesn't return. When Moonjo asks his father about this, his father 'hms' and says, "You won't be seeing him again, Moonjo. He was…disappointing."
Moonjo turns towards where the kitchen is in their house. His father catches him and chuckles.
"Not that kind of disappointment. I only mean he won't be returning. We'll find someone better suited for you."
Moonjo nods and obeys when his father shoos him out of the office. He heads back to his room and as he walks by the kitchen door he can hear soft humming, interspersed with quiet sobs.
It's a small dentist clinic out in the countryside, owned by an elderly gentleman who was thrilled to have more people to fill up the roster and doesn't ask many questions. It's easy, simple work and the patrons are easy, simple people. It's more than a little boring, but that's necessary for now.
He's renting a small house that the owners called 'rustic', which really means 'old and broken', but the lights don't hum when you turn them on, the windows have sturdy locks and don't let any cold air through, and the nearest house is 30 minutes away. It is…charming, might be the word. You could probably fit 'quaint' in there somewhere as well.
The price of privacy means a long commute home, though, and two different children bit him today and his head throbs from how hard he'd been clenching his jaw all day.
He walks up the path to his front door and finds it ajar. He gently pushes it open. There's light coming from the crack of his kitchen door and noises of something moving about, a cabinet door opening and closing.
The exhaustion and frustration from the day is gone, Moonjo almost dizzy with how quickly it vanishes. It's not fear that replaces them. It’s the spark of excitement.
Moonjo backtracks down the path into the grass where he takes off his shoes and drops his bag. He makes his way into the house, making sure to stay off the floorboards that creak. There's two entrances to the kitchen and he sneaks his way further into the house to the other entry point. He takes extra time turning the knob to keep it quiet and ever so carefully inches the door open to peer inside.
There's a man in Moonjo's kitchen, thin with overgrown black hair. He's got one of the empty cabinets open and stands on his tiptoes to see the back of it.
"What's with this guy?" The man says. Moonjo freezes. "What's the point of a big kitchen if there's nothing in it?" He continues, speaking to himself. He reaches up to feel the back of the shelf as if something might be hiding there. On his wrist is a bracelet decorated with teeth.
Moonjo waits until he gets his breathing under control before he finally enters. When he calls out, "Jagiya," it’s still a little breathless. And Jongwoo turns back to look at Moonjo.
He's thinner. There's a small scar on his cheek. His eyes are red and there are dark bags underneath them. He's absolutely stunning.
"Moonjo," Jongwoo says, almost no emotion in his expression or tone. "Welcome home."
When Moonjo is eight, he starts doing his homework in whatever room his mother is in, getting up and following her whenever she's done with a chore. She smiles brightly at Moonjo and ruffles his hair when she walks by, even if her arms are full of laundry or carrying a bucket of water. He follows her around as she sweeps the entire bottom floor, then mops, then sweeps again. He stays on the couch with her as she goes through all of his father’s dirty laundry with a toothbrush and baking soda before washing them or sending them to be dry cleaned. He sits at the table and listens to her methodically chop every vegetable into perfect cubes with knives and a ruler. She does this all wearing make-up, heels, and dresses.
He can see the mistakes she makes despite her exactness and desperation. He knows exactly what his father will end up ridiculing his mother about with simmering, cutting remarks. He doesn't bring them up. When he does she gets so frantic, blaming herself over and over and apologizing that Moonjo had to see. It's so much calmer like this.
His father frowns when he sees the two of them together.
"Careful you're not learning too much from her," he calls out. "You're not made for women's work. Even if you were, you aren't going to learn a thing from her."
His mother's hands shake, but she smiles at his father like they're sharing a joke.
Jongwoo is gone the next day but the house remains full of him. Moonjo’s toiletries are spread throughout the bathroom, his shampoo on its side and leaking out. One of the couch cushions has been taken off and the stuffing pulled out. There’s glass on the floor from a cup Jongwoo threw. It’s a chaotic mess that radiates anger and Moonjo leaves it all just as it is. At work his boss comments on his good mood.
The good mood remains, even when he makes it home the next few nights and Jongwoo isn’t there. In the meantime Moonjo goes grocery shopping and starts leaving his door unlocked.
When Moonjo is a month away from being nine he wakes up by his own accord. He lays in bed, blinking the sleep away from his eyes, and doesn't know what to do with the whirlwind of emotions in his stomach. Usually his mother wakes him, tapping the foot of his bed and placing a tray of freshly cut fruits on his desk. While he eats she picks out his outfit for the day that will hide whatever new punishments he's received. Sometimes he's shocked awake by his father dragging him out of bed by his arm, lecturing Moonjo about a misspelled English word or a dirty shoe. But this morning he wakes up alone.
The house is quiet.
The house is so, so quiet.
It takes ages for Moonjo to finally get out of bed and look out his bedroom door. He hugs the wall as he walks down the hallway and then down the stairs. After breakfast is when his mother dusts but there's no sound of clacking heels or the steady shhft shhft of the dusting pads.
Part of Moonjo wants to sprint back up the stairs and into his room. He used to hide from his father underneath his bed before he was taught that hiding only made things worse. He could hide there now. Something tells him his father won't know, this time.
His feet keep shuffling forward, peeking into every room as he goes. When he gets to the kitchen he can hear humming from behind the door. It's quiet like always, but then there's a pause and then the humming gets louder, much louder than allowed and he presses his hands against his mouth. Slowly it goes back down to a quiet humming but then the cycle repeats.
He could keep going. He doesn't have to look in.
His hand pushes the door open.
His mother sits at the table with a bright, happy smile. Her hair is down. Moonjo has never seen her with her hair down. There's a line of knives on the table that she's polishing. She finishes the one in her hand and places it back in the line before moving on to the next one. Moonjo watches for what feels like hours as she steadily goes down the line until she sets down the final one; a small, curved paring knife.
Then she scoots her chair up the table and begins again.
Moonjo's lips are dry and stuck together, his throat is closed up, it's hard to breathe. His mother gets louder in her humming and starts actually singing. She sounds breathless in her joy.
Out of nowhere, she looks up and catches Moonjo half-hiding behind the door. She breaks into a wild grin and sets the boning knife and polishing cloth down before pushing up from the table. She walks over to him and she's not wearing any pantyhose or shoes, leaving visible the scabs on her knees and bruised toes and the long, thin scar on her right calf.
"Good morning, Moonjo," she says and reaches out to cup his cheeks in her hands. "Isn't it a wonderful day?" Her hands trail down his arms until she has his hands in hers and she pulls him out from behind the door and into the open. She starts singing again, swinging their arms this way and that, then twirls Moonjo around. He can't help but giggle and smile back at her, but then he freezes and looks to the kitchen door.
"Don't worry, Moonjo. He's not coming. He won't hurt us anymore."
She leans down and kisses his forehead and he can feel the sticky mark her lipstick leaves behind.
Moonjo is drawn to the sounds of life the second he opens the front door. He barely closes it behind him and shoves his shoes off before he's chasing after the source.
Jongwoo is in the kitchen again, this time rinsing off dishes and placing them in the dishwasher. He seems to have no method to this madness; some dishes are scrubbed to a shine, some are placed in the dishwasher with sauce still caked on, and all around him are small puddles of water.
Moonjo leans against the doorway and watches, transfixed. Jongwoo finishes the plates and move on to the cups, then to the chopsticks and silverware. Jongwoo grabs a handful of silverware, runs them under the faucet, then holds his hand out and drops them all on the floor. The clatter is almost deafening.
"Stop staring at me, creep," Jongwoo says, not turning around.
Moonjo huffs out a laugh and continues staring. Jongwoo's hair is getting long. Moonjo wants to cut it for him. He wants Jongwoo to close his eyes and let Moonjo run his fingers through Jongwoo's hair and feel him relax. Wants Jongwoo to let him get close with scissors.
"When I was a child my mother and I spent three months with my father's corpse rotting away in his study."
Jongwoo freezes. He looks back to Moonjo with a confused and disgusted look.
"O…kay? And?" Jongwoo turns around, grabs a dishtowel to wipe his hands off. There's a distinct line of water on his shirt where he was up against the sink. "Even if that is true, what, is that supposed to excuse what you've done? 'Yeah I killed those people, but you have to understand I had a fucked up childhood'?"
Moonjo smiles at Jongwoo, his heart skipping a beat. "No. I just wanted you to know."
Jongwoo's brows furrow and he looks around the kitchen, at anywhere but Moonjo. "Okay. Then. I know." He turns back around, closes the dishwasher and turns it on. Moonjo looks at him, at the shirt that hides his narrow waist, at his delicate ankles, at the curve of his neck, and feels like humming.
When Moonjo is nine he's taken to an orphanage.
He isn't the only one born to violence but he’s one of the few who understand it. It's better to embrace it, to find the ways it burrowed in, and see how beautiful it is watching control finally shatter.