How Butterflies Became
Title: How Butterflies Became
Author: Cassie
Pairing: Yesung/Sungmin (YeMin)
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine... yet...
Genre: Fairytale angst
Summary: Sungmin has always been different, perhaps Yesung can show him how beautiful he really is.
“Mother, Mother!” A little boy called, his curling blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze. He ran over to the family sitting on a woollen blanket beneath a tree, picnic spread out before them. A small river ran close by and birds chirped from the long grass of the meadow. The boy’s childish steps were laced with excitement, hands cupped tightly together in front of him. “Look! I caught a butterfly.”
“Be gentle with it,” His mother said softly, pushing her hat back slightly to better see her son. “You know butterflies are the most delicate of creatures.”
The little boy pouted softly, his pink lips pursed. His mother adjusted his jacket, “Show us darling.” She said “I am sure it must be very beautiful.”
The little boy smiled and opened his hands. On his thumb rested a large butterfly, its wings closed. “Oh Mother, it is so ugly.” He said, disappointed.
“Wait dear.” she said, kneeling up and holding his wrist gently. Slowly but surely the butterfly opened its wings and they both gasped. It was beautiful, a gleaming blue, sparkling like ice in the sun, and in that one moment the butterfly stretched out its wings and flew away, drifting on the summer breeze.
“Remember to make a wish. Blue butterflies can carry your wishes on their wings.” She said, and the little boy closed his eyes tightly, mumbling words under his breath as the butterfly disappeared into the meadow of sweet summer flowers. He opened his bright blue eyes and smiled.
“Mother? Why are butterflies so pretty?” The little boy asked, sitting down on the blanket.
“Well, let me tell you.” His mother smiled, reaching for the wicker hamper and serving him a slice of victoria sponge. “You see, it all happened very, very long ago...”
******
Sungmin had always been different from the other kids. When he was born his parents had instantly abandoned him due to his... abnormality and since then nothing seemed to improve much. He had been sent to an orphanage where the other children were afraid of him, scared to come near him in case he should infect them too. The Sisters of the Order treated him with guarded kindness but he often found himself left alone for long hours to amuse himself. He wasn't allowed a mirror, but he knew it was something to do with how he looked from the way the other children stared and pointed. He was hidden away when adults came to choose a child, only able to peer through the curtains beside the alter in the chapel and watch as others were taken to start their new lives.
He listened to the other children talk of the wishes they would grant when they grew older, and his curiosity was piqued, but the other children told him that he would never use his wishes. No-one would ever fall in love with him, he was too ugly, and if you don’t fall in love, you won’t have any wishes to grant with.
When he turned five they didn't send him to school and he would watch from the windows of the great hall as the other children walked down the tree-lined avenue towards the town, their feathered wings fluttering in the breeze and he wondered exactly what it was that made him so different. Then the sisters would call him for his lessons and he would go and learn to read the ancient stories and write his letters neatly.
He was nine when a new priest came to the orphanage. He was young and handsome with dimples so deep you could fall into them and he would play with Sungmin. Sungmin adored him, he would sit on the floor in his office and play with the toys donated from the parish. The Priest, Father Choi, gave him sweets, stroked his hair and told him he was beautiful. That our differences make us beautiful in the eyes of the Lord.
Sungmin wasn't sure about that, but one day, when the Father was called out of his office, Sungmin peeked into the cabinet beside his desk where a large silver plate was stored. He reached up and unlocked the door, gently easing the silver platter from its position and placing it on the floor.
He had stared into it for what felt like hours. His own face stared back at him and he gently ran his fingers over his own cheeks. Wide dark eyes framed by thick black hair and set in a milky pale face.
He had reached out and touched the silver, his fingers leaving prints on the surface as he traced his own outline. There was certainly nothing hideous about his face; but when he looked closer he saw that his eyes, his dark, dark eyes, were different.
The pupils that should have been round and centred, were elongated and slit-like. Feline almost. He started and stumbled backwards breathing heavily. When he had calmed himself he approached again, turning his body, wondering what his own wings were like.
He swallowed hard when he saw them. They weren't the long, lustrous wings of gleaming feathers and silent flight that he saw on all the others. They weren't even the downy, stubby wings he'd seen on the new-born babies brought into the church from the cold. No, his wings were different, ugly, dark brown and ragged. No feathers for him but strange, powdery scales that shed in little clouds as he experimented with flapping them.
"Are you satisfied with what you see?" Father Choi asked in the silence of the room.
"I... I understand." Sungmin whispered, placing the platter face down on the floor.
"Vanity is a sin Sungmin, you are beautiful for who you are." The Father continued, placing his hand on the nape of his neck, the warmth reassuring.
"Yes Father." He replied, but he knew he wasn't being fully truthful. The Father smiled at him and he wondered why a man so beautiful, his great black wings flawless and folded like a raven across his back, would spend his time with something so ugly. So un-natural.
"May I leave Father?"
"Of course." Father Choi held the door open for him, "But Sungmin, remember you are beautiful. God makes no mistakes."
"Yes Father." He repeated, leaving at a steady walk, running as soon as he was out of sight. He ran and ran and ran, out of the orphanage, through the gates, out through the town and into the fields until he could run no further. He collapsed to his knees by a stream, his tears falling as his breath hitched. His reflection stared back at him and he shouted, an incoherent yell as he slammed his palm down into the water. It was the first time he remembered being so hurt, so angry with himself, with everything and everyone.
When he returned to the orphanage that night he slipped into his room silently and prayed just to be like the others.
Sungmin was 14 when Father Choi managed to persuade the Bishop to allow him to attend school. He was afraid of what the others would say, scared of how the children would react, but at the same time excited. Excited to be acknowledged, to be a part of the world outside.
Father Choi had fussed over his uniform, brushed his hair and checked he had all his stationary before sending him off out into the brisk September air to line up with the others. He was paired with a boy named Donghae, a wide eyed, slightly simple boy who held his hand the whole way and chatted about flowers and the wishes he would grant when he was older.
School was terrifying, immense to Sungmin's sheltered eyes and full of harm. Older boys pushed him around, girls laughed at his ugliness and teachers ridiculed him for his lack of understanding.
He left feeling smaller than when he arrived, but more determined. More certain he would succeed.
The year passed and he worked hard, harder than he had ever worked in his life and slowly, slowly there was acceptance. The girls no longer laughed and pointed, but accepted his presence. The teachers became used to his questioning, treating his naivety with tolerance, and the boys who pushed him around soon changed their outlook when he proved his ability in sports.
The following September things changed again.
A new boy in their class arrived, cold and dark eyed, he ignored everyone and everything, but Sungmin could see something he recognised, a loneliness he knew too well.
He had approached him. Sat by him. Talked to him. Learned his name was Yesung, that his wing had been broken and he would never fly.
Sungmin had never thought of flying. He had no idea if he could, or would ever be able to. When he told Yesung the other had stared at him. Truly looked at him for the first time since he arrived, and, with a quizzical expression had said;
“Don’t you want to try?”
Sungmin wasn’t sure. He shook his head. He was happy with his feet on the ground.
Yesung had smiled at him, “But how will you grant your wishes if you can’t fly to those who need you?”
Sungmin frowned, “I can’t grant wishes, I’m too ugly.” He said, reciting the words he had heard so many times and then Yesung had frowned back at him.
“You’re not ugly. Who told you that?”
Sungmin wasn’t really sure what Yesung meant, “Everybody.” He had whispered, “but it’s OK.” He had smiled reassuringly, and Yesung turned away, back to his books and his drawings of feathers tangled in ivy leaves.
School had carried on much as before.
Weeks and months passed by slowly and Sungmin spent more and more time with Yesung. They played football together on the lawns after school, and Sungmin would accompany Yesung on piano or guitar alone in one of the music practise rooms each morning as the elder sang. Yesung had the most beautiful voice Sungmin had ever heard, even more beautiful than the chapel choir that he heard rehearse every evening. When he told Yesung this the elder just smiled and ruffled his hair.
Sungmin was not an especially good student. His years of isolation had somewhat limited his understanding of the world, and he would often feel left out when the other children talked about the things they had seen, the places they had visited.
Yesung had been brought up in the city, many miles from their small village. He had been part of a football team, drank coffee in coffee shops and visited museums, galleries and parks at weekends. Sungmin listened to Yesung’s stories intrigued. Each tale wove a web of enchantment and Yesung’s soft, husky voice lulled him into his imagination.
Winter came around again all too soon and sadness descended each day that Sungmin realised that the weather was too bad for football after school with Yesung. One Saturday, he was sitting alone in the courtyard of the chapel, watching the frozen spiders’ webs as they blew gently in the breeze, when Yesung walked through the archway and came to stand beside him.
“Why are you here?” Sungmin asked, standing in his surprise.
“Here.” Yesung held out two wooden things with what looked like pretend blades attached to the bottom. “Let’s go. The river has frozen.”
Sungmin was confused, but he followed Yesung, wrapped up in scratchy gloves and scarf knitted by the sisters. The wind was cold against his wings, but he tried his best to ignore it. The icy winter never seemed to bother the other children, but he was always shivering. Yesung pulled him close and hugged him tightly when his shivering became too much.
“Do you want to go back?”
“No.”
They walked the rest of the way with Yesung’s arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders and Sungmin smiled despite the chill.
The river was frozen and beautiful. Many of the local children were already there, their feet encased in the strange boots and gliding across the ice.
“I... I don’t know how.” Sungmin said, panicked. Yesung smiled at him and stroked his hair back from his forehead.
“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you. I won’t let you fall.”
They had tied their wooden skates to their shoes before walking, stiff-legged down to the ice. Yesung had skated around once, twirling small circles and even twisting on one leg. Sungmin clapped enthusiastically for his friend’s prowess. Then it was his turn. Nervously he stepped onto the ice, almost falling instantly, but Yesung was there to hold him up. He regained his balance slowly and, clinging tightly to Yesung’s hand he hesitantly began to skate. The other children instinctively moved away from them, but for once Sungmin didn’t care. They played for hours until he could no longer stand the cold, then they buried their ice-skates in the snow, wrapped up in Yesung’s scarf, so they didn’t have to carry them home. Together they marked the tree next to their skates with Yesung’s blade, carving their initials into the bark.
Sungmin knew they were in-love, and for the first time, he dared to lean up and capture Yesung’s lips in a kiss. Yesung had kissed him back, his wings fluttering and Sungmin could feel the wishes filling him, a bright amber glow that reached from his toes to the top of his head.
“I knew you could grant wishes.” Yesung whispered to him, kissing his cheek softly.
Sungmin’s smile broadened as Yesung carved a tiny heart next to their initials. They walked back to the orphanage holding hands, all bright smiles, glowing wishes and rosy cheeks.
Sungmin didn’t see Yesung again after that.
On his way back home a carriage lost control on the icy roads and slid across the street, crushing Yesung beneath its wheels as he walked to the door of his parents’ house.
Sungmin went to the funeral with Father Choi. Rows of people dressed in black, and black horses pulling a black carriage with black feathers tied in their black manes. He didn’t cry. Yesung hated it when he cried. The chapel choir sang, but it did not compare to the sweetness of Yesung’s voice and Sungmin felt nothing. The service was long, Yesung’s parents and brother weeping into their silk handkerchiefs, and all the while Sungmin could feel the burning stares of the other children, as though it was his fault.
He already knew that.
If only he hadn’t been sent to school. he would never have met Yesung, they would never have been friends, he would never have been ice skating and would not have been outside just when the carriage...
The casket was closed. Sungmin did not want to think about it.
When the service finished Father Choi took him home. Everything felt cold and empty now. School resumed on Monday, but no-one spoke to him. Not the children, not the teachers, not even sweet, simple-minded Donghae.
After school he decided to walk home alone. The snow was thick on the ground but it was easy to find their tree. He sat beside it for a long while, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was cold, and he was shivering, but he didn’t care. Instead he dug deep into the snow and pulled out the skates, tying them to his boots, and made it slowly down to the ice.
Tears froze to his cheeks as he skated, remembering the feel of Yesung’s warm hand in his own, the gentle whispers of encouragement that seemed to echo in the moonlight.
The night became colder and Sungmin was tired and hungry. He wondered if the sisters were worried, if Father Choi was looking for him. He supposed he should go back. It happened so fast that he never had a chance to stop it.
As he made his way to the river bank the ice cracked. Sungmin fell, dipping below the water, the air rushing from his body as the cold shocked his system. He flailed and gasped and managed to pull himself onto the bank.
Blue with cold he crawled back to their tree and dug out Yesung’s scarf, wrapping it tightly around his neck. He cried for all the wishes they would never be able to grant, and as he closed his eyes he made one wish, his only wish, before allowing the winter to take him.
In the morning Father Choi and the sisters were frantic. Sungmin had not come home and no-one knew where he was. They spent the night searching the orphanage and its grounds and when morning came they began to search the fields and meadows. It was Father Choi that found the names carved in the weeping willow and a set of foot-prints in the snow that lead to no-where. The young Father ran his fingers over the carved heart and knelt, broken hearted in the snow beside the tree, whispering prayers for his young charge. As he whispered he felt something gently touch his hand and opened his eyes from his prayers. On his thumb rested a small, delicate creature with ugly, brown wings. Father Choi frowned at the creature when suddenly it opened its wings and revealed a beautiful icy blue, then it fluttered away, delicately hopping through the trees and disappearing up into the branches, appearing so out of place in the winter snow. Then he looked up, and he realised he was surrounded by thousands of tiny blue butterflies, their little wings shimmering in the morning light as they flew, wrapping around the Father, and disappearing up into the sky.
By the time the sisters found him, Father Choi was left holding a red scarf and two sets of wooden ice skates. They never found Sungmin.
*******
“What happened?” The little boy asked, his eyes wide.
“No-body knows for certain, but they say, that in these parts, if you ever wish on a blue butterfly, your wishes will come true. That each blue butterfly represents one of the wishes Sungmin and Yesung never got to grant.” His mother said softly, her eyes gentle and somewhat sad.
“So, Sungmin wished for wishes?” The little boy said softly.
“No-one knows. Now wipe your hands darling, they are sticky from the cake.”
They did not notice the carving in the tree where they sat, now old, worn and partially covered by moss, that read YS SM next to a small heart.
Author: Cassie
Pairing: Yesung/Sungmin (YeMin)
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine... yet...
Genre: Fairytale angst
Summary: Sungmin has always been different, perhaps Yesung can show him how beautiful he really is.
“Mother, Mother!” A little boy called, his curling blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze. He ran over to the family sitting on a woollen blanket beneath a tree, picnic spread out before them. A small river ran close by and birds chirped from the long grass of the meadow. The boy’s childish steps were laced with excitement, hands cupped tightly together in front of him. “Look! I caught a butterfly.”
“Be gentle with it,” His mother said softly, pushing her hat back slightly to better see her son. “You know butterflies are the most delicate of creatures.”
The little boy pouted softly, his pink lips pursed. His mother adjusted his jacket, “Show us darling.” She said “I am sure it must be very beautiful.”
The little boy smiled and opened his hands. On his thumb rested a large butterfly, its wings closed. “Oh Mother, it is so ugly.” He said, disappointed.
“Wait dear.” she said, kneeling up and holding his wrist gently. Slowly but surely the butterfly opened its wings and they both gasped. It was beautiful, a gleaming blue, sparkling like ice in the sun, and in that one moment the butterfly stretched out its wings and flew away, drifting on the summer breeze.
“Remember to make a wish. Blue butterflies can carry your wishes on their wings.” She said, and the little boy closed his eyes tightly, mumbling words under his breath as the butterfly disappeared into the meadow of sweet summer flowers. He opened his bright blue eyes and smiled.
“Mother? Why are butterflies so pretty?” The little boy asked, sitting down on the blanket.
“Well, let me tell you.” His mother smiled, reaching for the wicker hamper and serving him a slice of victoria sponge. “You see, it all happened very, very long ago...”
******
Sungmin had always been different from the other kids. When he was born his parents had instantly abandoned him due to his... abnormality and since then nothing seemed to improve much. He had been sent to an orphanage where the other children were afraid of him, scared to come near him in case he should infect them too. The Sisters of the Order treated him with guarded kindness but he often found himself left alone for long hours to amuse himself. He wasn't allowed a mirror, but he knew it was something to do with how he looked from the way the other children stared and pointed. He was hidden away when adults came to choose a child, only able to peer through the curtains beside the alter in the chapel and watch as others were taken to start their new lives.
He listened to the other children talk of the wishes they would grant when they grew older, and his curiosity was piqued, but the other children told him that he would never use his wishes. No-one would ever fall in love with him, he was too ugly, and if you don’t fall in love, you won’t have any wishes to grant with.
When he turned five they didn't send him to school and he would watch from the windows of the great hall as the other children walked down the tree-lined avenue towards the town, their feathered wings fluttering in the breeze and he wondered exactly what it was that made him so different. Then the sisters would call him for his lessons and he would go and learn to read the ancient stories and write his letters neatly.
He was nine when a new priest came to the orphanage. He was young and handsome with dimples so deep you could fall into them and he would play with Sungmin. Sungmin adored him, he would sit on the floor in his office and play with the toys donated from the parish. The Priest, Father Choi, gave him sweets, stroked his hair and told him he was beautiful. That our differences make us beautiful in the eyes of the Lord.
Sungmin wasn't sure about that, but one day, when the Father was called out of his office, Sungmin peeked into the cabinet beside his desk where a large silver plate was stored. He reached up and unlocked the door, gently easing the silver platter from its position and placing it on the floor.
He had stared into it for what felt like hours. His own face stared back at him and he gently ran his fingers over his own cheeks. Wide dark eyes framed by thick black hair and set in a milky pale face.
He had reached out and touched the silver, his fingers leaving prints on the surface as he traced his own outline. There was certainly nothing hideous about his face; but when he looked closer he saw that his eyes, his dark, dark eyes, were different.
The pupils that should have been round and centred, were elongated and slit-like. Feline almost. He started and stumbled backwards breathing heavily. When he had calmed himself he approached again, turning his body, wondering what his own wings were like.
He swallowed hard when he saw them. They weren't the long, lustrous wings of gleaming feathers and silent flight that he saw on all the others. They weren't even the downy, stubby wings he'd seen on the new-born babies brought into the church from the cold. No, his wings were different, ugly, dark brown and ragged. No feathers for him but strange, powdery scales that shed in little clouds as he experimented with flapping them.
"Are you satisfied with what you see?" Father Choi asked in the silence of the room.
"I... I understand." Sungmin whispered, placing the platter face down on the floor.
"Vanity is a sin Sungmin, you are beautiful for who you are." The Father continued, placing his hand on the nape of his neck, the warmth reassuring.
"Yes Father." He replied, but he knew he wasn't being fully truthful. The Father smiled at him and he wondered why a man so beautiful, his great black wings flawless and folded like a raven across his back, would spend his time with something so ugly. So un-natural.
"May I leave Father?"
"Of course." Father Choi held the door open for him, "But Sungmin, remember you are beautiful. God makes no mistakes."
"Yes Father." He repeated, leaving at a steady walk, running as soon as he was out of sight. He ran and ran and ran, out of the orphanage, through the gates, out through the town and into the fields until he could run no further. He collapsed to his knees by a stream, his tears falling as his breath hitched. His reflection stared back at him and he shouted, an incoherent yell as he slammed his palm down into the water. It was the first time he remembered being so hurt, so angry with himself, with everything and everyone.
When he returned to the orphanage that night he slipped into his room silently and prayed just to be like the others.
Sungmin was 14 when Father Choi managed to persuade the Bishop to allow him to attend school. He was afraid of what the others would say, scared of how the children would react, but at the same time excited. Excited to be acknowledged, to be a part of the world outside.
Father Choi had fussed over his uniform, brushed his hair and checked he had all his stationary before sending him off out into the brisk September air to line up with the others. He was paired with a boy named Donghae, a wide eyed, slightly simple boy who held his hand the whole way and chatted about flowers and the wishes he would grant when he was older.
School was terrifying, immense to Sungmin's sheltered eyes and full of harm. Older boys pushed him around, girls laughed at his ugliness and teachers ridiculed him for his lack of understanding.
He left feeling smaller than when he arrived, but more determined. More certain he would succeed.
The year passed and he worked hard, harder than he had ever worked in his life and slowly, slowly there was acceptance. The girls no longer laughed and pointed, but accepted his presence. The teachers became used to his questioning, treating his naivety with tolerance, and the boys who pushed him around soon changed their outlook when he proved his ability in sports.
The following September things changed again.
A new boy in their class arrived, cold and dark eyed, he ignored everyone and everything, but Sungmin could see something he recognised, a loneliness he knew too well.
He had approached him. Sat by him. Talked to him. Learned his name was Yesung, that his wing had been broken and he would never fly.
Sungmin had never thought of flying. He had no idea if he could, or would ever be able to. When he told Yesung the other had stared at him. Truly looked at him for the first time since he arrived, and, with a quizzical expression had said;
“Don’t you want to try?”
Sungmin wasn’t sure. He shook his head. He was happy with his feet on the ground.
Yesung had smiled at him, “But how will you grant your wishes if you can’t fly to those who need you?”
Sungmin frowned, “I can’t grant wishes, I’m too ugly.” He said, reciting the words he had heard so many times and then Yesung had frowned back at him.
“You’re not ugly. Who told you that?”
Sungmin wasn’t really sure what Yesung meant, “Everybody.” He had whispered, “but it’s OK.” He had smiled reassuringly, and Yesung turned away, back to his books and his drawings of feathers tangled in ivy leaves.
School had carried on much as before.
Weeks and months passed by slowly and Sungmin spent more and more time with Yesung. They played football together on the lawns after school, and Sungmin would accompany Yesung on piano or guitar alone in one of the music practise rooms each morning as the elder sang. Yesung had the most beautiful voice Sungmin had ever heard, even more beautiful than the chapel choir that he heard rehearse every evening. When he told Yesung this the elder just smiled and ruffled his hair.
Sungmin was not an especially good student. His years of isolation had somewhat limited his understanding of the world, and he would often feel left out when the other children talked about the things they had seen, the places they had visited.
Yesung had been brought up in the city, many miles from their small village. He had been part of a football team, drank coffee in coffee shops and visited museums, galleries and parks at weekends. Sungmin listened to Yesung’s stories intrigued. Each tale wove a web of enchantment and Yesung’s soft, husky voice lulled him into his imagination.
Winter came around again all too soon and sadness descended each day that Sungmin realised that the weather was too bad for football after school with Yesung. One Saturday, he was sitting alone in the courtyard of the chapel, watching the frozen spiders’ webs as they blew gently in the breeze, when Yesung walked through the archway and came to stand beside him.
“Why are you here?” Sungmin asked, standing in his surprise.
“Here.” Yesung held out two wooden things with what looked like pretend blades attached to the bottom. “Let’s go. The river has frozen.”
Sungmin was confused, but he followed Yesung, wrapped up in scratchy gloves and scarf knitted by the sisters. The wind was cold against his wings, but he tried his best to ignore it. The icy winter never seemed to bother the other children, but he was always shivering. Yesung pulled him close and hugged him tightly when his shivering became too much.
“Do you want to go back?”
“No.”
They walked the rest of the way with Yesung’s arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders and Sungmin smiled despite the chill.
The river was frozen and beautiful. Many of the local children were already there, their feet encased in the strange boots and gliding across the ice.
“I... I don’t know how.” Sungmin said, panicked. Yesung smiled at him and stroked his hair back from his forehead.
“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you. I won’t let you fall.”
They had tied their wooden skates to their shoes before walking, stiff-legged down to the ice. Yesung had skated around once, twirling small circles and even twisting on one leg. Sungmin clapped enthusiastically for his friend’s prowess. Then it was his turn. Nervously he stepped onto the ice, almost falling instantly, but Yesung was there to hold him up. He regained his balance slowly and, clinging tightly to Yesung’s hand he hesitantly began to skate. The other children instinctively moved away from them, but for once Sungmin didn’t care. They played for hours until he could no longer stand the cold, then they buried their ice-skates in the snow, wrapped up in Yesung’s scarf, so they didn’t have to carry them home. Together they marked the tree next to their skates with Yesung’s blade, carving their initials into the bark.
Sungmin knew they were in-love, and for the first time, he dared to lean up and capture Yesung’s lips in a kiss. Yesung had kissed him back, his wings fluttering and Sungmin could feel the wishes filling him, a bright amber glow that reached from his toes to the top of his head.
“I knew you could grant wishes.” Yesung whispered to him, kissing his cheek softly.
Sungmin’s smile broadened as Yesung carved a tiny heart next to their initials. They walked back to the orphanage holding hands, all bright smiles, glowing wishes and rosy cheeks.
Sungmin didn’t see Yesung again after that.
On his way back home a carriage lost control on the icy roads and slid across the street, crushing Yesung beneath its wheels as he walked to the door of his parents’ house.
Sungmin went to the funeral with Father Choi. Rows of people dressed in black, and black horses pulling a black carriage with black feathers tied in their black manes. He didn’t cry. Yesung hated it when he cried. The chapel choir sang, but it did not compare to the sweetness of Yesung’s voice and Sungmin felt nothing. The service was long, Yesung’s parents and brother weeping into their silk handkerchiefs, and all the while Sungmin could feel the burning stares of the other children, as though it was his fault.
He already knew that.
If only he hadn’t been sent to school. he would never have met Yesung, they would never have been friends, he would never have been ice skating and would not have been outside just when the carriage...
The casket was closed. Sungmin did not want to think about it.
When the service finished Father Choi took him home. Everything felt cold and empty now. School resumed on Monday, but no-one spoke to him. Not the children, not the teachers, not even sweet, simple-minded Donghae.
After school he decided to walk home alone. The snow was thick on the ground but it was easy to find their tree. He sat beside it for a long while, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was cold, and he was shivering, but he didn’t care. Instead he dug deep into the snow and pulled out the skates, tying them to his boots, and made it slowly down to the ice.
Tears froze to his cheeks as he skated, remembering the feel of Yesung’s warm hand in his own, the gentle whispers of encouragement that seemed to echo in the moonlight.
The night became colder and Sungmin was tired and hungry. He wondered if the sisters were worried, if Father Choi was looking for him. He supposed he should go back. It happened so fast that he never had a chance to stop it.
As he made his way to the river bank the ice cracked. Sungmin fell, dipping below the water, the air rushing from his body as the cold shocked his system. He flailed and gasped and managed to pull himself onto the bank.
Blue with cold he crawled back to their tree and dug out Yesung’s scarf, wrapping it tightly around his neck. He cried for all the wishes they would never be able to grant, and as he closed his eyes he made one wish, his only wish, before allowing the winter to take him.
In the morning Father Choi and the sisters were frantic. Sungmin had not come home and no-one knew where he was. They spent the night searching the orphanage and its grounds and when morning came they began to search the fields and meadows. It was Father Choi that found the names carved in the weeping willow and a set of foot-prints in the snow that lead to no-where. The young Father ran his fingers over the carved heart and knelt, broken hearted in the snow beside the tree, whispering prayers for his young charge. As he whispered he felt something gently touch his hand and opened his eyes from his prayers. On his thumb rested a small, delicate creature with ugly, brown wings. Father Choi frowned at the creature when suddenly it opened its wings and revealed a beautiful icy blue, then it fluttered away, delicately hopping through the trees and disappearing up into the branches, appearing so out of place in the winter snow. Then he looked up, and he realised he was surrounded by thousands of tiny blue butterflies, their little wings shimmering in the morning light as they flew, wrapping around the Father, and disappearing up into the sky.
By the time the sisters found him, Father Choi was left holding a red scarf and two sets of wooden ice skates. They never found Sungmin.
*******
“What happened?” The little boy asked, his eyes wide.
“No-body knows for certain, but they say, that in these parts, if you ever wish on a blue butterfly, your wishes will come true. That each blue butterfly represents one of the wishes Sungmin and Yesung never got to grant.” His mother said softly, her eyes gentle and somewhat sad.
“So, Sungmin wished for wishes?” The little boy said softly.
“No-one knows. Now wipe your hands darling, they are sticky from the cake.”
They did not notice the carving in the tree where they sat, now old, worn and partially covered by moss, that read YS SM next to a small heart.