I. (1/1)

"Round and around and around and around we go,Oh now, tell me now, tell me now, tell me now you know."  One year agoAnchorage, Alaska*"Heads or tails?""Tails," Luhan says, his jaw chattering. "I'm gonna win. I know it.""Yeah? We'll see about that," she taunts, her voice sounding like a cocked eyebrow. She flips the coin and it lands on the frosty grass, tails up."Told you I'd win." Luhan lifts his chin, triumphant.He sees her smile in response, but it's lost on him. "You did," she concedes, pulling an apple from the picnic basket."You're crazy. Really crazy," Luhan emphasises as he eyes the apple, shaking his head. "Who goes out for picnics in winter, and in Alaska, of all places?""We do," she says simply, and his mind spins. We. The both of us.She sees him staring and misinterprets it as disapproval. "Aw, c'mon Luhan. Don't be a wet blanket." She nudges the picnic basket towards him. "Eat something."Luhan rolls his eyes, but picks out a salad sandwich. Apart from the ever-present hum of the water and the song of the wind, it's silent for a while as they eat. In the heightened consciousness of his surroundings, Luhan realises she's staring. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, eyes wide. "What?"Another smile, blurry at the edges but sincere in soul; over the past year, he thinks he has come to know her. It's hard, always has been, to remember things the way they truly are when he only takes in outlines, haze. But now, Luhan knows she's looking at him, imagines the sad shades in her eyes. He focuses on her fingers instead, which are tangling themselves distractedly."I'm sorry for what happened to you," she says.The sentiment takes him by surprise, but he's relieved it's something he can answer. "It happened almost a year ago..." He laughs a little. "I'm fine.""No, that's not—" she breaks off with a sigh.Luhan frowns. "Not what?""Nothing." She shakes her head, dismissing it.There's something more in the wind than a song now. Tension? Luhan can't name it. "Is there something wrong?""No.""You promise?" Luhan presses.Her head bobs up and down. "I promise."It's the first, the last, and the only promise she ever makes him.(Inevitably, it's also the first, last, and only one she breaks.) ***Two years agoRichmond, British Columbia "Hello, I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message—""You never listened to me," Yoona breathes savagely down the line, even though all she gets is a constant cycle of the previous words. "You still won't listen to me.""Can't come to the phone right now—""Hello, I—""... but leave a message—""Damn it, you bastard, pick up the phone!" Yoona screeches, flinging the phone across the room; it hits the wall with an unsatisfying clean thud and clink.He can't answer me now, Yoona thinks, pulling her knees close and hugging them to her body. He can't answer me now, she thinks again, over and over, until she realises she doesn't just mean her phone calls. ***Now The drive up is haunting. While the roads at present lie oil-black slick beneath the white, white sky, Yoona thinks if she lost herself enough, headlights would illuminate the road with white, white spots and the sky would be oil-black slick. Starless, in another time.Yoona sucks in a breath, blinking the image away. Knuckles split white, her hands tightening on the steering wheel as she drives past the little 'Welcome to Anchorage' sign."I didn't think I'd see you again, Alaska," she murmurs.The city, still shrugging off dregs of sleep, greets her in layers of blue, the rippling tones of the Anchorage Bowl reflecting the tones of the mountains. After a moment's hesitance, Yoona rolls the windows down. The air speaks to her. In the past, this place spoke to her of bruises and abrasive words, drained and broken bottles, long nights, lying awake lonely (but not alone), wondering if there was any other way to feel.But it was (still is) also home,  somewhere that kept her coming back. Yoona pulls up on the side of the road, gets out of the car, and starts walking—just walking and breathing it all in. * Almost half an hour more in the car brings her to her destination. The house's grey and wood facade stares at her blankly, the classic peaks of the gabled roof and clerestories quiet. Yoona closes her eyes, savouring the silence.The grass on either side of the driveway is a half-hearted shade of green, thanks to recent rain. It squelches beneath her boots as she walks around the side of the house, across the expanse of grass. Right around the corner, Lake Spenard twinkles at her, and there, she sees the bushes where once his and her clothes were strewn, flesh stung by the bite of the cold but warm inside, burning, all hips and fingers and searching mouths.Something buckles within Yoona. It's real, all too real. She doesn't know what she expected, if she thought this would somehow all disappear after she left— obviously, it hasn't. Sucking in low, shallow breaths, Yoona rushes back to her car, fishing out a plastic bottle from one of her bags. It looks deceivingly like water, but the harsh taste of it in her throat is the acquired taste of something stronger.Calm floods through her, and when enough of the vodka is gone, Yoona sits the bottle on the passenger seat, and makes her way to the front door of the house. She pulls out her key, twisting before she can think about it too much.The door swings open with a slight creak, but other than that, Yoona is accompanied by the hands of silence. She takes her first steps inside......and stops.Where is the painting over the side table in the hallway? Why are the walls white again? Yoona swears--knows-- when she was last here, they were still the light yellow they painted it.Yoona's hand is at her throat, as if physically attempting to restrain a gasp. The house is clean, a foreign vision of blank walls and swept floors, the windows thrown wide open. It's the same place, and it's not.Lightness fills the corners of her mind; Yoona has to brace herself against the wall to guard herself in advance, willing the black dots waiting to fill her vision to go away. Her mind wanders back to the bottle in the passenger seat, but her feet continue wandering forward.The dining table, at least, is still there, with its chips and scratches and the faint nail marks where she had once dug her fingers into the wood, if only to assure herself that she was alive. She wonders if she is still alive—Yoona hears the unmistakable click of a gun behind her, and thinks very soon she probably isn't going to be alive in a few seconds. Slowly, she turns, catching (for a brief second) a glimpse of the person pointing the gun at her— a man, around her age, dinner plate eyes—before he collapses and the gun clatters to the ground, skidding across the floor until it comes to a rest at her feet.