Chapter Text
Kyungsoo pushed the carriage return lever on his typewriter, the platen gliding to the right, taking him back to the beginning. Kyungsoo loved his typewriter. He had found it sitting on top of a bureau on the side of the road a few years ago—abandoned and forgotten. Though he knew little about typewriters, Kyungsoo couldn't let it sit there—no case, no home.
Even though the possibility of it being broken, damaged by rain or neglect, was high, he lugged it home anyway, and after setting it on his desk, he let his pale fingers ghost over the glossy black keys with white symbols on top, like 48 eye-balls peering up at him. Kyungsoo nearly jumped out of his skin when he had heard the click-clack sound for the first time. It worked.
Kyungsoo and his mother moved out into the countryside two years ago, and he believed they had become happier. He didn’t miss the hustle and bustle of the city, the honking of cars, and the blaring sound of time passing you by. The wind caressing the leaves and a cat purring softly under a stray sunray was enough noise for him, but Kyungsoo told himself he could make an exception for his new typewriter, even if it was a bit loud and clunky.
Kyungsoo rested his hands above the keys once again, contemplating what to type next. He liked not seeing a blinking cursor, reminding him time was ticking away. With a typewriter, things were different. It was as if time froze, waiting for him to catch up. Kyungsoo wasn't a writer—he barely even read—he just liked to hear the click-clack-ding fill the silence in his room. Or maybe it wasn’t click-clack-ding. Maybe it was ticka-ticka-zingggg. Whatever it was, he loved it.
Typing again, Kyungsoo pressed each button with the tip of his finger, making sure to look up after every word in case the machine jammed. Although he typed whatever came to mind, the typewriter made every keystroke sound important—like he was writing the next greatest novel or something.
When he reached the end of the paper, Kyungsoo released the white sheet filled with black words. He set it beside him, and lifted his mug of lukewarm tea. He brought the cold porcelain to his plump, pink lips, but jumped when a shrill voice rung throughout the house. The tea sloshed out the mug, the dark liquid falling onto the newly printed paper below. Kyungsoo paused as the blotch spread, the color going from brown to tan as it moved outward. It was kind of beautiful, he thought as he slammed the mug down, his wooden chair scraping against the floor as he stood.
“Kyungsoo!”
Kyungsoo flinched at the top of the stairs before running down the two flights.
“Yes, Mother,” he answered, panting when he reached the bottom.
“I thought you were gone,” his mother called, rushing over to him, her eyes wide with unshed tears.
Kyungsoo frowned. Everyone had always said he had his mother’s big, round, dusky colored eyes, and he wondered if he looked just as sad too.
Kyungsoo gathered his mother into his arms, shushing her as he ran a hand through her salt and pepper colored hair, thin and stringy from stress.
“No, Mother. I’m here,” Kyungsoo reassured her.
He walked the thin woman over to the plush sofa before tugging the knit afghan hanging over the back of the couch and laying it over his mother’s lap.
“My boy,” she cooed, smiling as Kyungsoo smoothed the fringes of the black and white blanket.
“How about I make you some tea?” Kyungsoo suggested, feigning a tired smile.
Kyungsoo set the kettle on the stove as he peered out of the small window above the sink. He watched as the sun hid behind tall evergreen trees, and he noticed that with the sun hiding, the trees no longer looked green and full; they looked black and flat—like words on blank pages or shadows on white walls—but the menacing scene didn't frighten Kyungsoo; The darkness made the trees more alluring, and he wished to know what else they were hiding behind their branches.
Kyungsoo's heart paused when white steam came barreling out of the spout of the tea pot. A loud whistle sounded throughout the small kitchen, and Kyungsoo cut the heat source immediately, and only then did his heart resume beating.
After a cup of tea and a hundred brush strokes, Kyungsoo was able to convince his mother to go to bed. It was their routine and the only way she could sleep. Gathering her hair into a loose pony tail, Kyungsoo tied a blue ribbon in a bow before leading her to the bedroom, and when she finally settled, her head against the white of the pillow, Kyungsoo pecked her on the forehead and reassured her he'd be there in the morning.
Kyungsoo sighed once in his room. He looked over at his abandoned station, finding everything just as he had left it, the only difference being the paper he had printed earlier was now lying on the floor—probably plucked off of the surface by a gust of wind. He walked over to pick up the sheet, eyeing the tea stain, long dry, at the bottom of the page. He changed his mind. The colored stain wasn't beautiful; it was ugly, messy, and clashed with the black and white behind it. He ran a thumb over the rough, textured, and unique spot before crumpling the paper and tossing it into the trash. Good riddance, he thought as he closed the window in front of his desk, sliding the latch over. Rooming in the attic came with the perk of a woods filled view. The scenery was calming and never dull, especially when black birds played atop dark green trees, fluttering from one bristled peak to the next.
Kyungsoo shivered slightly as he slid between his white sheets. Nights were always freezing. The cold air easily squeezed through the cracks and nestled into the corners of their old home, so Kyungsoo took note to start gathering firewood soon. He and his mother loved sitting in front of the fireplace. It was less noisy than the furnace, and watching the embers come to life, screaming in vivid color, before dying forever in a silent heap of black and white was Kyungsoo's favorite part.
Kyungsoo woke to the steady beeping of his alarm clock. Fading to life, he sat up and reached a pale hand over to mute the device. The numbers on the old flip clock read six o’clock. Stifling a yawn, he pulled back the covers, hissing when his bare feet made contact with the wooden floor. Kyungsoo hated waking up to the jarring sound of his alarm clock. He thought the sun heating his face or birds chirping in his ear to be a more pleasant way to greet the day. But he wasn't afforded that luxury—not since his father walked out, shattering his mother’s heart with the slamming of the door. Deep down Kyungsoo reckoned he took her mind with him.
It was important Kyungsoo wake before his mother. He had to be the first thing she saw in the morning because if she didn't see him, she’d think he had left her too. It happened before when they lived in the city. Kyungsoo can't forget seeing her in the middle of a busy crosswalk, barefoot, confused, her large black eyes searching, lost in her worn nightgown—red. And it was all too loud—the beeping of the cross walk, the unseeing stares, the deafening car honks, her own piercing fear.
After that incident and her diagnosis, Kyungsoo left school. They moved out to the countryside and lived off of the money his father and the government sent every month. It wasn't much but enough, and everything Kyungsoo did, he did for her.
Kyungsoo brushed back the curtains hanging in front of the small kitchen window as he waited for the water to boil. The scene from yesterday had been sprinkled with snow, transformed overnight. The tree branches looked like they had been dusted with fine powdered sugar, and Kyungsoo smiled at the innocent thought. Winter made everything brighter, cleaner, simpler, and quieter. The thought of typing in front of such serenity excited him.
He prepared breakfast like he usually did before creeping up to his mother's room, and setting the food down on the nightstand, Kyungsoo walked over to draw the curtains. He didn't envy his mother’s view to the outside world because it looked out toward the west. West was just miles of fences with nothing to keep in or out, framing a lonely road with no one to walk on it.
“Kyungsoo…”
Kyungsoo turned as his mother woke, her eyes fluttering open. They were still sad and just a little mad.
“I’m here, Mother,” Kyungsoo replied as he turned from the barren view.
And there began his routine of feeding her, getting her to take her medicine, shower, and dress. Life was made up of a series of routines and rituals anyway, and so Kyungsoo didn't think much of theirs. His mother needed them to survive, and he told himself things were easier, simpler, predictable, better, this way.
As he smoothed the covers on his mother's bed, Kyungsoo heard a light knock at the door. No one ever came to visit, so Kyungsoo chalked it up to his imagination and ignored the sound, but while fluffing the pillows, the knock sounded again. He looked at his mother.
"I'm going to go see who's at the door."
She shook her head from side to side from where she sat at the vanity.
“I have to see who it is,” Kyungsoo said, his tone soft. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Maybe it’s your father,” she replied as she clasped his small hands in her own.
Her eyes shone brighter at the thought, but Kyungsoo’s heart dimmed. He had given up on his father returning a long time ago. He was never coming back.
“Yes, Mother. Maybe…,” Kyungsoo lied as he descended the stairs.
The knocking began again, and Kyungsoo‘s heart was pounding in his rib cage. He twisted the lock, and a burst of loose snow swept into the house as the door was slowly opened. Snowflakes swirled into the space between him and the stranger.
“Hi.”
Kyungsoo just stared. The man, no boy, in front of him didn’t look like winter. No, he looked like late summer, early autumn, because his skin was tanned like the last days of July, and his hair was thick and brown, like fallen maple leaves or acorns lying in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry for bothering you…”
The boy smiled, his teeth white like the snow he tracked onto Kyungsoo's porch, and his eyes crinkled at each corner.
“It’s okay,” Kyungsoo replied, his hand tightening around the door knob. "Can I help you?"
“Yes, my Grandma lives down the road, and our truck's battery drained because of the cold last night. We were wondering if you could give us a jump or something?”
Kyungsoo found his voice quicker than he thought he would. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear about that… But we don't have any jumper cables.”
The smile fell from the boy’s lips. “Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you. But nice to meet you. I’m Jongin.”
The boy unwrapped his hands from around each other and stuck one out to Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo grasped it, his hands warm inside of Jongin’s much colder ones. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“I’m Kyungsoo. Nice to meet you.”
Kyungsoo smiled as he pulled his hand away to hide behind the door a bit. A gust of wind pushed more loose furls of snow between them. A few landed on Jongin’s coat sleeve.
“Wait!” Kyungsoo called as Jongin turned to walk away. “Um, I can ask my mother if I can drive you into town.”
“Really?”
Kyungsoo nodded as Jongin's bright smile returned.
“Please come in while I ask her. It’s cold out.”
Kyungsoo closed the door as Jongin stood in the doorway.
“Just a minute,” Kyungsoo said as he sprinted up the stairs.
“It’s your father, right? I'm right, aren't I” his mother asked from her vanity table.
Kyungsoo stopped cold. His mother had put red lipstick on her thin lips, a dusting of pink blush adorned her slightly sunken cheeks, and kohl lined her round eyes making them even rounder. Kyungsoo almost lied to her so the scene wouldn’t be as tragic, but shaking his head, Kyungsoo's eyes slid to the floor.
“It wasn’t Dad,” Kyungsoo said, rushing over to his mother side, trying to calm the storm before it came.
But her lips trembled, and although Kyungsoo hoped that would be all, he felt the tempest brewing in the way she stilled. The next thing he knew, his mother’s thin arms elbowed him away as she began to yell between her tears. She wiped at her lips with the back of her pale hand causing the red to smear outside the lines. The dam broke inside her, and he tried to gather her in his arms, tell her it was okay, but she wouldn’t hear him. She couldn’t hear him when she got like that.
As his mother fought with herself, Kyungsoo remembered Jongin waiting downstairs. He hated to leave her in such a broken state, but he didn’t want Jongin to hear or see this. Sprinting down the stairs, Kyungsoo wiped at his own eyes before turning the corner. He grabbed the keys off of the console table and rushed to the front door.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Kyungsoo said trying to feign a smile, trying to gather himself in front of this stranger, the first stranger in their home since they moved in several years ago.
“Here, please take the truck. Just bring it back when you’re done.”
Kyungsoo grabbed Jongin’s hand and placed the keys inside, curling Jongin's warm fingers over the cold pieces of metal.
“Are you sure?”
Kyungsoo noted the worry in Jongin’s wide almond shaped eyes.
“Y-yes, it’s fine,” he replied nodding his head. “It's fine. I swear!” Kyungsoo exclaimed when he heard a loud crash upstairs. “Just please bring it back!” Kyungsoo yelled as he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
When he turned his head, there was a cloud of snow left in Jongin's wake when he shut the door.
“Mother, please!” Kyungsoo cried as he watched her fall apart on the floor for the umpteenth time, and thoughts of Jongin evaporated like the snowflakes hitting the floor behind him when he left.
When Kyungsoo finally managed to get his mother to calm down, cleaned up all the thrown cosmetics, and wiped all the tears, he walked downstairs. Grabbing his jacket from the hook on the wall, he walked out of the house, embracing the blast of frigid air upon his heated face.
All that remained were two tire tracks in the snow when Kyungsoo glanced at the driveway. His eyes slid to the ground. How could he have been so stupid as to lend a stranger their truck? They’d be stranded, and he’d be forced to call his father if "Jongin" didn't bring it back.
Stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, Kyungsoo crossed the snow covered grass, the sound of crunching filling his ears. Kyungsoo loved being outside. The open air and the sense of solitude didn’t seem so bad. Actually, being alone wasn't bad at all. It made things easier. No arguing, no compromising, no leaving, no lying, no explaining his family situation. Easier. Simpler.
Kyungsoo entered the woods behind his house. He never went too far, just far enough for the house to be out of sight, just far enough to where he could breathe. After walking straight ahead, he reached a tree that had been cut down by the last owners of the home. He began dusting the thin layer of snow, watching as familiar rings appeared under his hand. His mind went back to the time he went to the library to look up how to find the tree’s age. He had rushed home and ran straight to the trunk to begin counting. Even though he got dizzy when the rings were tight and numerous, Kyungsoo counted three times to make sure he was right. He remembered running inside to tell his mother but was hushed by her blank stare and catatonic state.
Kyungsoo stopped the memory as he sat down. Closing his eyes, he exhaled, then inhaled, his nose stinging from the freezing temperature mingling with his warmth. As the wind whipped around his head, Kyungsoo let his mind waqnder to Jongin. He hadn’t been aware anyone lived down the road, and his heart plummeted at the thought of being lied to. Maybe Jongin wasn’t who he said he was. He should know better than to trust people. But then again, maybe Jongin lived in the house where Kyungsoo found his typewriter. It was possible.
Plus, that house was west. Kyungsoo never went west. The day he had found his typewriter was the first and last time he walked down that road. His mother had been taking a nap, and Kyungsoo decided to go exploring. Flipping a coin, he decided if it landed on tails, he'd walk east; If it landed on heads, he'd walk west.
Kyungsoo had walked west for what seemed like forever as he tapped a long stick he had found along the way upon the ground. He kept walking until he spotted a house. It sat back from the road but was still visible, and as he neared the home, the typewriter and other things he assumed were trash came into view. After Kyungsoo left with the typewriter, he never turned back. But now, nearly two years later, he was once again thinking about west.
He was anxious as he walked back into the house and up the stairs to his attic room. How was he going to break the news to his mother about the truck? Maybe he’d lie and say someone stole it. Although Kyungsoo hated lying, they came easy these days, especially when trying to keep his mother calm. He sat down and took a fresh sheet of paper from out of his top drawer. Loading the paper carefully, Kyungsoo made sure it was straight before resting his frigid hands atop the metal rimmed keys.
Finally, he thought. Finally he had something and someone to write about.