Into your End of the World 4/16

[keyllastic]

title: Into your End of the World
chapter rating: PG
warnings: mild language
summary: Park Chanyeol works for the quasi-governmental System in the post-apocalyptic Seoul, leading a simple, dull life without close friends or keeping contact to his family. When he is given the job to trail a university student called Byun Baekhyun, everything seems to go smoothly - until Chanyeol gets an unexpected visit and a warning and finds the case he's involved in is much more cruel than he has expected.
story notes: See the foreword for more information on the story.



He arrives at dusk, the sun slowly crawling down the darkening cloth drawn over the world. Its last rays are feeble, cold and longing, like it was afraid there wouldn’t be a new day for it to return, as if it was bidding farewell for the last time. There is gentleness to the way it moves so slow and graceful, like that of a mother leaving their child: cruelty, but it is quite lovely in its painful demeanour. The sky is different from what he has known. It is serene, even, dotted with the tiniest growing stars. There are thin clouds like brush strokes on a large canvas, reflecting the dying light of the sun, colouring the horizon into a beautiful pink and purple with orange ribbons like silk that is slowly tearing into strings. There is something familiar about it, yet it is unknown to him. Has he been here before? Has he, perhaps, seen this sky somewhere else? The sky he can recall is dark without stars, the horizon littered with sharp mountains both at day and night. But where is that, he does not recall; what is the world called, he can't bring to his mind. He listens to the drawing day and the gentle, small waves that hit the old, wooden pier. The sound is soft, like a lullaby of the nature; it comes in fixed intervals that still vary a little every time.
Then, there is song.

The sun falls into the horizon above the ocean like a mirror laid to the ground, and for the shortest heartbeat the sun looks whole as its mid hits the distant line between earth and water, drawing a perfect, burning circle to the faraway distance. It sinks into the ocean, its light dying, only a memory. No painting could describe this feeling of sorrow he feels as he looks into where its rays have gone. His eyes hurt, but he ignores that, as his ears train on the melodies carrying from across the hill ahead. The ferry hits the pier with a clunk, and the man steps over the edge to the wooden surface, tying the thick ropes around a few poles jugging up from the otherwise even surface.

"Do you hear that?" he asks.

"The song?" asks the man in return. As he nods, he can see his lips curl into a smile. "Newcomer, what was your name again?"

"Chanyeol", he says, but the name feels strange on his lips. It has come from inside him with a sense of automaticity, pushed to his tongue by a knowledge he can't quite grasp, but it feels foreign like he needn't know it. He doesn't recall how long has it been since he had to speak his own name. Who gave it to him, he wonders. Was there someone else who decided upon it, or is it something his heart has made up? It's strange, but maybe it just takes time to get accustomed to it. It doesn't sound wrong to his ears, only saying it feels out of place. The man nods, a sign of understanding, but whether he has memorized it, he doesn't know and he does not ask. It probably does not matter.

"They sing every night", the man says without introducing himself, without further questions. He gestures toward the hill, then nods toward the pier, urging him to get off the ferry. It's small, but well kept with care and love. Only two can comfortably fit its deck at once. One by one, he said as they travelled the noon, only him and the ferry and one newcomer. But what it means, he didn't explain.

They stand still, the water against the pier and the growing song the only voices in the world. The silence of the night feels like large hands pressed on his ears, and sound is distant, strange, like listening to a shell. Yet, when a small breeze passes them by and plays in his hair, its sound is there, almost touchable, and he knows he has not lost his hearing. The man nods slow and deep, as if responding to a message spoken only to him. "It is what they do, here. At night, they sing."

"What do they sing about?" Chanyeol asks quietly, listening to the melody carried in the air.

"You shall ask them yourself", the man replies. "You'll get used to life, here."

Taking a step to go, he looks back at the man who has sat down on one of the poles, hands on his knees, his eyes on the distance where stars sink into the sea. "Aren't you coming?" he asks from the man, wondering if he should stay, too, to listen from here, or if he should go see what is this song. The man shakes his head, and waves his arm toward the melody as if to say he would stay here with his ferry.

Still hesitating, his step wavering, Chanyeol finally decides to go. His heart is drawing him, the voice of the song beckoning, almost as if someone was speaking to him, whispering his name into the air.

He walks up the hill. It isn't a large one, nor is it quite a small one, either. It is a medium-size hill, with flatter summits here and there, but only a single path running up between tall leafy trees. The trees do not appear sturdy; their many branches are thin like the bones of birds. Even in the dim of the night their trunks are not dark: they shimmer off-white like they were made of stone. The leaves, small and plenty, are light green. The spring can be smelled in the air. The breeze is fresh and gentle like a flower that has just sprung open its first petals, and the air is quite warm for early nighttime. But the sounds he'd expect from a night, those of insects and certain birds, are not present in the embrace of the nature. It is a mixture of natural and unnatural, and he can't decide if it's worrisome or quite all right.

The slope grows steep toward the top, and he has to push himself. It's like the forest was asking him if he was certain, if he wanted to go, if he knew what would happen. He pauses, asks himself the same. He doesn't know what will await him. Until now, he has been lulled into the call of the melody, but now, he has broken into thought of his own. Will there be consequences? The man says he will grow used to life in this place, but is it what he truly wants? He looks down the hill to realize what a climb it really has been. Going down wouldn't require much effort, but it would definitely signal his weaknesses. His heart wants to continue, but his mind isn't sure. At the bottom of the hill lies the pier, and the man is still seated, looking into the distance. If he has followed Chanyeol's climb, he is very good at giving the impression he hasn't; but his demeanour implies the young man does not concern him, either. It is very much possible he does not care whether he'll see Chanyeol again. If he were to return to the ferry, what would happen? Would the man take him on board upon leaving and carry him to where he came from, return him to wherever it was his home had been?

The thought of home makes his chest ache. He cannot recall where this home is, or its name, but the thought of it makes him feel a longing much like that of the sun's demise. He is torn. The song that is now much better audible beckons him to come to its source, but home is desperately calling to him from a distant world beyond the ocean. There is someone waiting for him; that he knows quite well, yet he can't put a finger on why does he know it is so. It simply is that way. Someone in that world elsewhere is waiting for him to come home. Maybe it is the person who gave him his name, if his heart did not make it up for him. But if he will simply take a look? He shall listen to the song, and return at dawn. There is no harm in doing so, is there?

He continues the climb.

Arriving to the top of the hill his eyes fall upon a town. It isn't built so much in a valley that it's built in a dent in the summit of the medium hill. There is an opening in the surrounding climb toward the ocean at the other side, and the hills themselves appear much taller because of the white trees that spread across the woods. The town itself is void of this growth. Its multiple small streets disappear from his view between shaggy buildings. They are white like the trees, but the glow is long gone, like that of metal that has been polished too many times and has grown old. The rooms behind the windows are dark, but in every window burns a colourful light, making the town a rainbow of bright shades of red, pastel rose, sky blue, pearl aqua, multiple colours he has not imagined so vividly. He cannot see people, but the song is clear, it breaks free from the darkened rooms, echoing off the hills surrounding the town. They must sing inside, and the white wood must amplify the gentle melody into this sound that can be heard all around. It is a sensitive song, but what is it about, he can't quite tell. It isn't as sad as it is wishful. It brings back the same longing he feels for home, and once again he looks back toward the pier. But he has come this far, already. It would feel futile to turn now. His curiosity to know what is it he is listening to drives him.

There is a path lined with palm-size pebbles running down to the town. The climb down isn't effortless, as at first the hill is steep on this side as well, but it becomes easier much faster than on the other side. The path is not direct but slithers along the grassy slope until it arrives to the first buildings that stand on a slightly higher ground than those at the other end of the town. Here, the path joins the pebbled small street and disappears. He takes his time walking down admiring the song that has a touching melody much like one he is sure he has heard somewhere else. He can tell there are both women and men singing, their voices blending and creating a wonderful choir. Is there anyone else just listening beside him and the man who waits by the pier? His eyes seek people, animals, anything moving in the night, but there is none. He is the only one descending down the hill, beckoned by the song, the only one invited. His thoughts cling to what the song reminds him of, holding on to remind him he has promised to go back, to return to whoever it is that awaits him elsewhere. Is this place evil? He wonders to himself. It does not feel that way. It is simply strange to him, alien, foreign, he does not know his way, and yet, there are things that remind him of bygones he can't remember in detail. The feeling is odd, disquieting.

He enters the narrow street, runs his hand along the pale wall. It feels cool to the touch, very much like stone, yet it's obvious it is wooden. It has kept its faint pattern of a tree trunk cut into pieces. How thick the walls are, he isn't certain, but the makings of the houses are not the best. It's an unkempt village. The people here must dedicate their time to the song that has overtaken the darkness embracing their world, too much so to care about their town crumbling. He passes windows where pink and turquoise lights burn, peeking inside, but while he can see furniture and drawn curtains, there is no one. Still, he does not feel fear. He knows in his makings there are people here, real people he can see and speak to, leading lives; this is not a ghost town. The singing townsfolk are simply out of his view, maybe in the higher floors.

Arriving to a wider street he finds himself at crossroads between buildings. The doors and roofs are made of darker wood, and for a moment, he wonders where this wood comes from. There must be different trees elsewhere in the hills or then, as the seasons change, the white wood will grow dark resembling the wood he has seen elsewhere. It doesn't as much bother him as it makes him wonder. This place he has come to is so different, so unknown to him.

Wishing he'd remember where he has come from so he'd know which questions to ask to properly compare, Chanyeol is about to step to go to the right as above his head, hung on strings running above ground between houses, small lanterns come alit. Their lights are the same as those in the windows; lanterns in yellow, a beautiful shade of purple, sapphire... Counting each lantern would be like counting the stars in the sky, they seem to go on and on, probably through the whole town. As he stands there looking at the lamps that every now and then swing in the breeze he comes to realize the song has died into silence, and there is no sound left. Do they sing only for a while? Or will the melody continue soon? He looks around, again trying to find someone in the windows, but there is nobody. He continues his slow walk along the streets, not remembering which way he has come, anymore.

Then, a boy appears in his line of sight. How long has he walked, Chanyeol isn't certain; his feet do not feel achy, but it has been a while since the song came to an end like the sun fell behind the horizon line. His shoes make small sounds against the cobblestone, but as he stops upon seeing the boy further ahead, the world is rendered into a deafening silence. Even the breeze doesn't carry a sound, not a whisper, not a single word. The ocean cannot be heard here. It's like falling into a void. The high starry sky looks darker now that the lanterns cast their bright, almost unreal light down to the streets, the white walls of the houses illuminated in brilliant colours that, for the night, return a similar glow to that of the trees to the cut wood. It is a magical shine, the faint radiance feeling otherworldly. He can't find the words to describe it, but it evokes a strong feeling in his heart. Is this a dream, he wants to ask, but the silence suggests otherwise. If he would voice his question, perhaps no one would hear.

They look at each other for a while, surrounded by the celebration of colour and silence. It is a truly strange mixture: the lanterns are happy, their lights joyful, yet the lack of sound holds sorrow to it, like this was a place long forgotten, showing its best to a visitor, flickering in its finale. The boy extends his hand, then, as if inviting Chanyeol closer, and he does so, closing the distance that has held them apart. No words are spoken, for what reason he can't understand, as the boy takes his hand and pulls him along. They walk the cobblestone streets engulfed in silence, a mutual agreement not to speak it seems, as Chanyeol does not voice his questions and the boy does not give any sign that he should.

The street twists and turns here and there, and they arrive at a square where there's a small fountain in the middle. It is surrounded by beautiful flowers that hang their heads, and in the middle of the fountain stands a statue. On a closer look, Chanyeol finds it is that of an angel, tranquil and looking lost in thought amid the bright lights of the lanterns and the cold glow of the white wood. They do not stop here, but cross the square and continue down the streets until finally coming to a slow halt outside another white two-storey house. It lies secluded, almost a little outside of the town, separated from the rest by some invisible wall. The lanterns are fewer here, but there is no other visible cause as to how it feels so faraway and lonely. The boy pulls open the dark door that appears a little heavy, and they step up the two low stairs and into the house. As the door closes they are swallowed by deep, warm darkness.

The next thing he sees is the boy standing in the light of the candle he has lit on a small table pressed against the wall. It is littered with objects: worn pieces of paper, pens that have an odd feel of lack of belonging, shards of porcelain. It looks like items that the ocean has washed up on the shores. There is a story to all these things, but nobody can read these memories. In the light of the colourful lanterns the boy's features have been difficult to make out, the shadows cast in different hues having made him a blur, but here, in the dim orange shine he looks like he was aglow like the trees on top of the hills. His skin is beautiful, pale and even like ivory. His hair is dark, most likely a shade of brown, the strands askew, and a thick fringe hanging over his forehead. His eyes are unnaturally dark like ebony, but kind like an animal's as he looks back at Chanyeol in the light of the single candle he has picked up to hold from the candlestick made of something silvery. It is easy to imagine how holding his frame would feel, so easy it feels strange; he has only arrived here, after all. They look at each other, and as time passes, the song reawakens outside the off-white walls that stand outside the light's reach.

"You've come", the boy speaks finally, his voice smooth like light itself, and Chanyeol knows he has heard this voice in the song earlier. It is a voice that reaps his heart and soul, yet puts his mind in peace, one that relaxes his thought and replies the longing. It is like having been blind but hearing speech, and finally, that voice has a face. And yet, in his reasoning, Chanyeol believes there is no other place where he could have heard this voice, seen this face. "You heard the song."

"Yes", he replies, his voice raspy from the long silence he has been condemned in. "It was beautiful." For a moment, he listens to the new one. It is a different tune, but it carries the same emotion as it sweeps the streets like the wind. "Where is everyone?"

"They are at home", the boy replies in a tone suggesting he'd assumed Chanyeol to know. Then, he gestures toward a stairway. In the light of the single candle they climb the narrow stairs up to the second floor of the house, coming to a large room like an attic. In the window burns a gentle rose coloured light, the lanterns outside swaying in the breeze for a while. There is a bed in one corner, and a wooden drawer; a little aside from the window, a desk with more strange, loose items on top. It is a very empty and cold space, but there is heart to its simplicity. The boy sets the candle on the desk and takes a seat on the bed after pushing aside a pile of heavy bedspreads and quilts while Chanyeol walks to the window. He looks at the rose lamp and the lanterns outside. The song is faint indoors, much like across the hill. He wonders what the man at the ferry is doing.

"What are these lights?" he asks and looks at the boy.

"Feeble memories that will die with time", replies the other.

"What do the songs tell about?"

"Tonight isn't the time for that. Ask me when day has broken."

He nods in understanding, looks outside again. There is no indication of how long the song will go on, no sign of how long the night is or when the day will break. There are no clocks, nothing to display time. He gazes at his wrist where he finds a watch. It has stopped, the glass dim. There is a picture of a frog on its face, the colours faded. Where did it come from? He feels attached to it, yet can't explain why. It is useless here where time does not matter. Days will pass. Seasons will change. He knows that in his heart. And with time, he will forget; that, too, he senses in his surroundings. Others have forgot all the items on the table, and here, the people have forgotten about the others. Is it inevitable? Will he remember once he leaves? He does not know, and he senses tonight is not the time for those questions, either.

"What is your name?" he asks finally.

It seems to take much consideration from the boy. Maybe his own name isn't familiar to him, anymore; maybe it isn't of value here, and thus he has given it up. Maybe he has voluntarily chosen not to speak it for a long time. The town isn't large, and Chanyeol is certain everyone knows each other so they ever needn't use names.

Finally, running a pink tongue past his fairly thin lips the boy speaks, "Baekhyun.” It's a beautiful name, its letters soft and easy to utter. Chanyeol repeats it in his head, his lips barely moving. It's familiar, but maybe that is simply because of the beauty of it. "And yours?"

"Chanyeol", he says for the second time tonight. It feels less alien this time, as if his lips had grown accustomed to it quickly. Baekhyun nods before pulling his legs onto the edge of the bed, his arms around them, resting his chin against his knees.

Standing there, Chanyeol can't shake the feeling of having been in a situation like this before: without another place but by the brown haired boy's side. Yet, he finds comfort in this. There is something about Baekhyun that rings the bells in his head, the chime of a distant memory reverberating quietly through his whole being. He wonders what would revoke the memory, then again comes to realize here there seem to be no memories. He is uncertain whether he likes it or not. Here in the lack of any past it is possible to relax and let go, not lull into the pain caused by what has happened. But it is also painful to linger like this, to be uncertain, to long for something he cannot name. Someone is waiting for him, but why has he left, to begin with?

It is as if Baekhyun could see the debate he is having with himself, as the boy's eyes are keenly fixed on him, yet relaxed like he was simply observing.

Finally he speaks. "You come from another world."

Raising his brows, Chanyeol looks at the brown haired boy seated on the bed. It is a simple bed made of wood and metal, the mattress laid on it thick but not too soft. There are bedspreads and quilts, all made of colourful fabrics, but none of the patterns match with each other. It is like a sightless person had been given the task to choose the fabrics judging only by how they feel. He assumes they must be of the best fabrics, but having been used for many springs and winters, they, too, have grown dull.

"Yes", he says and nods, then. "But where it is or what it is called, I can't recall."

"You still have memory inside of you", the other says and there is strength to his voice, strength that almost comes off as thick sorrow. It isn't apprehension, nor is it pain, but simply loss that has grown into sadness. Whether Baekhyun is sad for himself or sad for Chanyeol is difficult to tell, as he does not elaborate.

"Where do you come from? Where does everyone here come from?" Chanyeol asks, fearing none of these questions will be answered, fearing he'll forget by sunrise. The fear shakes his heart, but he finds comfort in the other's demeanour, shifting a little closer to the bed in hopes of the boy's warmth reaching him better. Ebony eyes rest on Chanyeol and it feels as if that gaze was feeding the fire that keeps him alive.

"I can't remember", Baekhyun says. "We come by ferry; none leaves, because we forget."

"It's like a prison", Chanyeol concludes quietly.

"You must leave while you still have memory in you", Baekhyun states, his voice firm. Outside, the breeze plays with the lanterns and the song continues.