Soundtrack: "Summer: Overture"
Breathe. The rush of chemical pleasure was sucking the mouth of his soul, and he was only two seconds into riding the smack horse.
In. Out. In. Out. In. In. In. Where? How? In, in, out, out, out, out.
Asphyxiation was coming fast.
Cold water. Cold, wet water. Wet, wet water. Cold, wet... red.
He was breathing on the floor, syringe still plunged deep into his arm. Well, somewhat breathing. Cross-eyed when looking straight; drooling when aware of it; shivering when it wasn't cold. Grasping air, his back arched on the green tile, his mouth opened, speaking beautiful, loving words without a sound.
He wasn't completely there anymore. In fact, he had been gone since he was forced into the hostel.
But it was alright. There was nothing left to live for, anyway.
DPRK's anthem played soothingly in the background.
smack horse: heroin. is actually redundant, as smack and horse both mean heroin.
DPRK: Democratic People's Republic of Korea, also known as North Korea
April 15, 1992
The anthem floats distinctly in the air; a stout man walks in, humming happily. He takes his sunglasses off and places them in his Versace shirt. His humming is stopped short by the conditions of the hostel, but he's not here for the atmosphere. He's here for business. For his country.
"Is that one a boy or a girl?"
"When did you pick him up?"
"Yes... Uh-huh. Absolutely. I know you never hear of anyone doing this, but there's a special cause. This is in the name of our beloved dictator."
"How old is she?"
"A dead brother? Hm. Good riddance."
"Oh, more children. Why do you waste your time?"
A long, stuffy silence.
"What's his name? What? . . .Kim Jaejoong?" said the man.
The lady speaking to him had already turned around and started filing her nails. "Yeah. Perhaps it's something else, I don't really know or care. You can call him whatever you want. I like to call him 'dog,' sometimes." The red nail polish chipped.
"Jaejoong, you're coming with me." The man took the dirty, anaemic child, waded through the somewhat endless expanse of dirty, anaemic children in the hostel and sat him the Mercedes Benz. "Jaejoong. Do you know why you're here?"
". . . ."
"Hm? What did you say?"
The little boy swallowed dry spit and tried again. ". . . ty."
"Alright, try one more time." The man smiled and sounded friendly, contrary to his attitude when he was first witnessing the other children.
The boy didn't know anymore. He was just going to take a shot, it wouldn't matter anyway if he was going to be thrown outside again. "I'm thirsty, sir."
The man sniffed and looked directly into the eyes of the small child. "HAHAHA, oh, you kids these days. I am Lee Sooman, by the way. Perhaps you've seen me on TV? Or not. I don't know if they provide TV to you kids. HAHAHA."
He chuckled like he coughed. Gigantic, heaving sobs of breath to support every short bark that was supposed to be laughter.
Sooman continued. "I'm the Entertainment Director for this fine country. See, I don't know if you've seen it on TV, but as North Koreans, we have an intensive program from kids your age. You're going to be enrolled in the Schoolchildren's Palace. Aren't you excited?"
Little Jaejoong wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure of the luxury car he was sitting in, cool air blowing against his face, leather seat taut on his malnourished thighs.
"Let's get you cleaned up."
April 15, 1992
Kim Junsu woke up in his lavishly decorated room. His head emerged from the several laced pillows of his queen sized bed, which was enormous for a child his age.
It was a Wednesday, the day of the Arirang Festival, the day when Junsu would sing his solo for the Glorious General and Savior of the Homeland, Kim Sung-il. The five year old climbed out of bed and was greeted by his housemaid to be ushered into a bath. Junsu walked into the hot water and gleefully slid around in the slick tub, playing with suds as he washed.
"A ch'im un pinnara, i kangsan ungum e / Chawon do kaduk han samch'olli..." sang the young lad. "Where is my father, maid?"
"Your father is out doing business for our amazing country, he will be back in time for the Supreme Comrade's birthday, I promise you. It's time to clean your back now..." said the maid in a sing-song tone.
Junsu nodded and continued to sing.
"Arumdaun nae choguk,
Panmannyon oraen ryoksa
E ch'allan han munhwa ro charanan
Sulgiroun inmin ui i yonggwang.
Mom gwa mam ta pach'yo,
I, choson kiri pattuse."
You know, I don't get much response. I can't even tell if I'm writing incorrectly.
Mainly because my main characters aren't girls with names like Soojin, Mijin, Yoonsun, Jenny, Heewon, or anything like that. Oh, and I don't have anyone telling girls to call them oppa and treat them out to dinner to make them fall in love. OH, AND MY FICS DON'T GO LIKE THIS.
Yunho: But why?
Sooyoonwonjin: Oppa, I don't know.. your brother (from Shinhwa, NRG, TVXQ, Super Junior, SS501, etc) is confusing me so much T^T
Yunho: Do you love me? I love you. Please be with me forever. <3
Someone please tell me why this is appealing, because all of the fics here are like that.
Soundtrack: "Pulse" Yoko Kanno
April 15, 2005
"What the hell is that noise?"
He clicked rapidly on the mouse before his friend can could creep up on his shoulder and breathe down his neck. Sexual. But not at all. That's how South Koreans worked; guys were completely comfortable with each other, making jokes about jerking each other off, things of the like.
"Oh, no, no, no, no, no. You don't do that to me, baby. What was it?"
The friend reached for the mouse, sliding his arm under his friend's.
"Haha, stop. People will think we're gay." Park Yoochun nudged his friend with his left elbow.
"Not me. You're so gay, you snort cocaine off of your dad's wiener," shot Shim Changmin.
"Dude, that's pretty gay," they both heard someone else say from the other aisle of computers.
Yoochun rolled his eyes and shoved the massive teen under his arm away from him. "If you really want to know, I was looking at North Koreans."
Changmin raised a brow. "That's a pretty sick-ass fetish. Whatever gets YOUR rocks off. I guess."
"You're an idiot."
"Oh, you mean you weren't looking for YADONG? For PORUNO?"
The teen clicked back on his browser and pressed play.
"Hello, today is April 15, 2005, and this is CNN. The North Korean Mass Games of 2006 were fired off with the patriotic performance of QXVT, North Korea's only boyband to date. After the obligatory singing of Aeguk-ga, QXVT proceeded to sing a majestic version of "Kim Jung-il Janggooneh Norae", followed by the amazing 15,000 participant Mass Games. Kim Junsu, the Entertainment Director's son, was seen running into one of the many groups to meld seamlessly into the perfectly synchronized child and teenage acrobats."
The video showed an enormous stadium with little pixels of color bouncing to and fro in perfect geometric patterns. Each little bundle of rainbow burst with every beat in the measure of the music, matching each and every other bundle of rainbow. Changmin didn't know where to look. The aerial cartwheels, tong feis, back handsprings were overwhelming; people were defying gravity, and they were all doing it at the same time. In North Korea, it's not about being the sexiest or the most outstanding. That's already been determined for the country.
The backdrop was filled with pastels and contrasting colors, switching every few moments in a brilliant display of harmony, efficiency, and communist propaganda, complete with smiling, bright eyed children and round-faced adults with a consuming seriousness to them.
"Wow, what is that? A huge moving billboard?" Changmin rested on Yoochun's broad shoulders.
"No, it's more like people sitting on the other side of the stadium, changing color cards when they're directed to."
"No fucking way. They're so crazy, what the hell? How come we don't have those? How come North Korea's beating us at something that we should be so good at? I mean, check out our women–"
"They practice everyday, Min. That's where the taxes go to; practicing for things like Mass Games. Not to mention the fact that the majority of those people are intensely jingoistic and feel that it is a duty to their nation to perform in these games."
"Nuh-uh.. so, how come– wait, wait, wait. Since when did you get to know so much about poorass North Korea, anyway? I don't remember going to the library with you since the second grade."
". . . Since I realized that I want to save them."
Mass Games: a mass festival of children and adults, each trained to either flip cards or do acrobatics held in Pyongyang every few years. This link provides you with a little taste of what Mass Games are. Mass Games 2005; Children's Section
thank you for the responses on my previous authors note.
i suppose that was just my being a spiteful, bitter person, haha.
but anyway. i decided to add what song i think should be playing when you read it;
this time i chose "pulse" because it's got this stripper beat. which is sexy.
much like max.
oh god, my chapters are so short. they take so long to write, too.
i feel like this chapter almost takes away from the atmosphere of before,
but this is who changmin and yoochun are. that's what they told me, at least.
i hope the jumping around is not too confusing for you. please do not hesistate to tell me.
Soundtrack:"애정대학살" Gotan Project
November 12, 2005
Office of Lieutenant General Jung, Pyongyang
The young man paced the room, dark, expensive fabric clinging to tight abs, tight thighs, and a tight Richard Simmons. Italian shoes clacked on the marble tile as his anxiety leaked out of his designer clothing. He cleared his throat and began to finish his speech.
". . . And in effect, the population of South Korea will be deeply concerned with the issue. This problem does not distinguish between dialects, customs, and ideals of the North and South. This problem engulfs us all."
Yawning, Kim Junsu half-heartedly clapped. "Amazing. That was so boring. Now I can't even remember what the original issue was, nevertheless find my own opinion on it."
The other man defended himself. "How about you shut up? Just because you're a stupid singer and do not have to involve yourself in affairs of the state..."
"Excuse me? I am just as much a representative of this country as you are, Jung Yunho. Just through different means, assface. Do you mind...?" Junsu propped his leg up on the arm of the couch he had sprawled himself across.
"Get your foot off of there, my dad will flip a bitch if he sees dirt anywhere." Yunho scoffed a bit at the other's pompous remark. "And don't make me laugh, 'representative.' I can't say much, though. At least you're not like Shinhwa; do you remember that 'Perfect Man' performance? Hilarious. Our side couldn't even respond to how ridiculous that act was."
"They deserve more credit than you give them. At least they get the chance to perform in North Korea. How about me, hmm? Do you see me prancing around with back dancers and flashy costumes in South Korea?" Junsu shook himself out and stood up, dressed somewhat similarly to Yunho. "Let's go. The luncheon isn't for another three hours."
The taller youth agreed. He didn't really think around Junsu; trust was the most important thing in a friendship, and Yunho had given him all of that trust awhile ago.
He could only hope, however, that Junsu felt the same way.
November 12, 2005
Yonsei University, Wonju Campus.
Short bursts of speed, then long minutes of pure pain mixed with an uncertain pleasure.
Changmin hissed a short "oh christ" before exerting his body harder.
"Please, Changmin, please! We have to stop!" Yoochun was yelling now, but Changmin was too concentrated on the matter at hand. Panting, he kept at it: urgently, viciously, furiously. He was almost there, almost...
"Ohh, God, it hurts... I can't.. it's too–" Yoochun gasped pathetically.
And Changmin finished, sated, sweat gleaming on his evenly tanned body.
Yoochun began having problems with athleticism since he started smoking heavily a few years back, so running against a toned guy like Changmin was a shoo-in.
"HA! I WON! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT?" shouted Changmin from across the track. Ah, sweet victory. His nubile body and young mind didn't really care for much other than that. The present.
Yoochun collapsed onto his back on the grassy field and rummaged through his pockets. Through the reciepts, money, change, and gum, he finally found his safe haven; a box of Marlboro Red. Taking the box out, he unpatiently hit it against his palm a few times in rapid succession, and pulled a cigarette out. Smooth and sweet, thought Yoochun.
He fumbled a bit and held the stick to his lips before looking for a lighter. He lit it, and inhaled deeply, light smoke traveling through his lungs, that light-headed feeling rushing through his head.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Yoochun wished he could smoke five at a time to attain that ultimate tobacco high, but he wasn't stupid enough to try that. He exhaled.
"Hey. Yoochun. You alright?" said Changmin as he laid down next to him. "Ah, really. It's a beautiful day." He rolled over onto his stomach. "Did you read the bulletin board? It'll make you cream your pants."
The smoker could only imagine what could be on the bulletin board sexy enough to make him blow it in broad daylight. He inhaled.
"Our Humanities class says that we're going to go to North Korea to study the monuments and stories hidden deep within the architecture and art."
Now Yoochun understood. He exhaled, a little shiver running through his body. “Seriously? How much does it cost? Do I have to starve for the next few weeks? Actually, that might be better; then I can blend in with the children there without being deported.”
“... That was really uncalled for, man.” Changmin knitted his brow and looked at him, patronizing him with his eyes. A grasshopper chirpped in the background and was soon silenced by the two guys' laughter. “Nah, we’re going with the group tour thing. Supposedly, we’re not allowed to walk around by ourselves because the government thinks we’re going to see dead homeless people all over the place. However, I think we’re only going to government approved areas, like the May Day Stadium and the Schoolchildren's Palace.”
“I don’t care, man. We’re going to be in North Korea. We’ll have to start planning now, not to mention studying the art before we arrive there. Oh, man. This is it. This is my time. This..." He drifted off and inhaled, looking into the sky.
“Whatever, the trip is in a few weeks. We'll fucking rock North Korea. That's all the plan is about.”
Out of pink lips emerged pure, white smoke.
Soundtrack: "Pulse" Yoko Kanno
Some days or weeks later.
The pair walked briskly along the street.
Falling, it flutters. It lands, soaks, sinks, and swirls.
“Ah.. shit, I’m broke for the next couple of weeks. You’d think getting into one of the SKY universities would make a difference in how they finance these trips, but, no, this is a completely different story, this is not America, this is not the Czech Republic, this isn’t– mother fuc–” A truck passed by, and Changmin shuffled further down the street in his Pumas, hands in his jean pockets.
The smaller but older man laughed. “It’s not a big deal, knowing how many girlfriends you have anyway. All you have to do is pick up your phone, coo a little ‘Hey, baby. I’m thinking about having a smooth little dinner at your place. Are you free at 7:30? And we both know what we can have for dessert..’ and you’ll be fed like a crazy person. Not to mention the fact that they all have wardrobes of clothes for you.”
Changmin was already looking, his somewhat small cellphone in his large hands. Now, there was something about him. He was tanned, toned, tall, and deviously good-looking, but that wasn’t the best thing about him. The best thing about him was how sensual he was; every movement was so graceful, but so sexual and appealing. “Hmmm..” he purred.
“I’ve already started planning the trip. You must be as excited as I am, right? Right?”
Always so naïve.
“Yeah. I’m just bummed out that I’m missing out on two to three weeks of going out. I hear there are no clubs in Pyongyang. Or hot bitches. Neither. Oh, and I have to refrain from saying anything about illegal drugs or cocks. Or illegal drugs and cocks. And I can’t bring a cellphone or laptop either...”
“Why? Are you so worried about accepting acorns and gifts from admirers on your Cyworld?” He thought about his Myspace. “Please, Chang. It’s only for a few days.”
“Yeah, I got it, umma. So, I’m assuming you got the itinerary while I was knocked out at home.”
“Mhmm. I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit everything in two weeks..”
Two weeks of wandering off and “getting lost” with hidden cameras, two weeks of provoking tour guides and guards without explicitly stating a word about international diplomacy and nuclear weaponry, and two weeks of truly learning about North Korean society without that political spin from the media all over the world.
What was going to be so hard about the trip was the fact that they were heavily supervised. None of the tourists were allowed to walk away from their designated group and when they finally got to the hotel, they were not allowed to walk around the premises without a tour guide. Also, the schedule was so tight that the moment the group was finished sightseeing at one area, they’d already be ushered on their way to the next.
It was also no small matter that North Korean customs seized video cameras and cameras with lens larger than 150 mm.
Yoochun informed Changmin of these little “rules,” and then the both of them sat quietly in the humming bus wondering why no one residing in North Korea questioned how suspicious that was.
They entered their dorm and started going through their clothes.
The same day.
“Really, the United States is our enemy, you know. I just feel sorry for South Korea because they couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them from taking over their country.” The smaller of the two stretched and leaned his head from side to side lazily.
“Mm. Agreed.” The older threw his head to the side, his short, dark bangs falling lightly on his forehead. Wisps of hair laid gently on the luxury shirt he was wearing.
“I don’t understand though. The government isn’t doing anything to force the Americans out, either. They’re like... the American’s lackeys or something of the sort.”
“Or maybe the Americans are treating them well?”
The two chuckled. They closed their eyes and breathed in slowly, letting their hot breath out in a slow, controlled manner. In for a count of four, out for a count of twenty-five.
Junsu and Jaejoong began their vocal warmups. Not a day could pass without exercising the voices of North Korea: QXVT.
Soundtrack: "Summer: Party (Modified)" Clint Mansell
The dorms, Yonsei University.
Sometime at night.
He put on a clean white shirt and a pair of destroyed jeans. "Have you seen my book anywhere?"
"Aquariums of Pyongyang?"
"Yeah. I've gone through my room twice but I can't find it. Weren't you reading it last?"
"In the bathroom."
"Cool. Did you bring your toothbrush?"
"Uh, hold on." He rummaged through his clothing. "I got it. Yours, too. I also took the liberty" while I still have it "to bring the extra memory cards for the cameras."
Yoochun threw some cigarettes in his bag (which Changmin had delightfully regarded as a murse or man purse) and a few black boxes of Djarums in his suitcase. He had considered the penalty for bringing "drugs" to the DPRK, but he took a blind eye and figured he'd need that sweet clove and tobacco smoke surrounding him, clouding his sight, clouding his mind when worse came to worst there. Only the best smokes for the best trip.
"Wha–– Put some goddamn clothes on, Min."
Min started to slur in English. "Yoo likeu my bohdee?" He trailed his fingers down his own chest and licked his lips.
Yoochun also started to slur in English, though he thought he was hot shit. "Yeh, I likeu your boty. Now, put some pantseu on, gay."
He had a little pride in the fact that he was schooled in VIRginia for a short while, Changmin could hear it when he spoke in Standard English.
"How can you not want this, baby? Ah~" Changmin rolled his body from left to right. "Speaking of sexy dancing, tonight's our last night to party for the next couple of years. I'm gonna miss it, the girls, the drinks, the music..."
Yoochun laughed. "You say it like we're ultimately going to be caught filming and running around."
The tanned one cringed inwardly. Yeah, he was a little scared; he had watched those documentaries about other people who weren't supposed to filming. He had also read articles about those people and how they haven't been seen or heard from for several years.
How could he not be scared?
He dismissed the thought with practiced acceptance and smiled. "We'll never get caught. You and me, we're straight up gangsters. Now let's go get a bunch of hos' numbers and never call."
He slipped the shirt on, the fabric hanging off of his broad shoulders and complimenting his long legs.
"Hey! Don't put me in the same category as you, I have a lot more respect for women."
"Are you saying I don't? Look here, Yoochun, the reason I get more poon than you is because my type of woman is woman, I'm not the one looking for better hair than his own–"
They hit each other on the way out of their soon to be vacant dorm, fingers scratching, and their palms slapping.
Club Juliana, Kangnam.
Before they even got into the club, they heard the song blast an overly erotic beat even for their standards.
"Hm. Maybe it's amateur night."
Slipping past the bouncer, they followed their waiter to their $350 table and sat down. Amidst the smoke, must, and heat, they settled into their seats, melding perfectly into the dark amongst the "studying hard, partying harder" college students.
Mini-skirts, tanktops, high heels, long, Magic Straightened hair.
Jeans, designer shirts, Chucks, well-styled hair.
Heavy beats, synchronized dancing.
What an attractive culture. But doesn’t everyone think that of their own?
That’s what Yoochun was thinking. Changmin was already thrusting hips on some girl’s ass while she ran her hand through her hair.
Yoochun was also thinking about how all of the girls looked the same sometimes. They were just some tight clothing and long legs. Nothing on the inside, but everything on the outside. He was so tired of it, but how could he live without anything else? It was all that he had ever known. Other than those white and Korean-American girls in VIRginia. They were a different, more vulgar story, however. He got up and walked over to the bathroom to fix his hair.
The music stopped for a few beats and started again.
Changmin sauntered over to the table without the girl he was dancing with. He could have slept with her if he wanted, but tonight wasn’t that night. Tonight was a goodbye party to and for themselves. He vaguely wondered where Yoochun was before sipping on a cool glass of vodka and Red Bull. Hmm.
Out came Yoochun with his hair and all. He was broad shoulders and protruding collarbones, a chill guy. Not that anyone minded. He soon found a girl and they were already dancing moments after a short “hello.”
The beat went on through the club, and the boys found themselves feeling homesick for a place they had not left yet.
Somewhere in Pyongyang.
Earlier that day.
It was unimaginable. It was unspoken of. The white-hot heat of it, the unfathomable words to describe it; all forbidden from society.
And here was one of the very few North Korean stars indulging in it.
It’s not that he wanted to do it, of course. It was just a primal urge to need it. The mighty exhortations of one’s soul only calls for it, and Junsu’s soul was no different than the Americans’ he was taught to hate.
He tidied himself up and walked out to meet Jaejoong, who was always sitting there with the most blank expression on his face. It always seemed like there was no one there if there was nothing in him, as if being someone in North Korea was never enough for him.
Yunho was on the separate side of the room, working diligently on a new speech, all while keeping a perfect 2:8 ratio in his hair, shined shoes, clean slacks, and all. He was always busy; being the son of the second most important general in the country had its responsibilities, and Yunho took all of those duties head on.
He was a fine, upstanding young leader in the country, with many ideals and feelings to express, all with the tone of a powerful commander.
Tomorrow, the new batch of touring groups would come to survey North Korea, and QXVT was preparing for their arrival. This particular group had the most amount of South Koreans ever documented, and QXVT was getting ready to prove that Noth Korea could keep up with the times with boybands and whatnot.
Yet, North Korea knew it had nothing to prove to anyone. Why else would people be coming? North Korea was amazing and magnificent without boybands, QXVT knew this.
This is why their work was of the most importance. Their existence only glorified what was already of the highest caliber in the world.
Soundtrack:"The Garden of Everything" Maaya Sakamoto
January 31, 2007.
Junsu was a normal teenager. He was around 5'10" or 5'11", with good vision and great athletic ability. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a naturally skinny body, and a nice butt (but no one ever noticed this). He enjoyed singing, reading, drawing, and dancing. He had a love-hate relationship with his adopted brother and band mate, Jaejoong. He had a close friendship with Jung Yunho, whom he had known for as long as he could remember.
Junsu was a normal teenager. He sometimes hated his studies, hated the hours of practice he had to do on the drums, the accordion, the piano, the violin, the oboe. He also sometimes hated the classes of rote memorization dedicated to men he had never exchanged more than two to three words with, if he ever did at all.
Junsu was a normal teenager. He found some girls attractive, some girls not. He was subject to dates with his mother's friends' daughters, and hated a majority of the girls chosen for him. He found himself, alone, frequently acting out on wanton desires he could not control.
Junsu was a normal teenager. He was proud of his heritage, as are many others of their own.
The only thing that separated him from the rest of the teenagers in the world was that he was North Korean.
"What?" Jaejoong's hands stroked his flute languidly.
"I'm so tired of this. Every single day. I'm one-hundred percent sure I know the scales already. I'm FUCKING TIRED of it. I just want to go back to sleep. This really blows." He closed his eyes. Soft lashes touched soft lashes, and Junsu looked up from his flute.
He always looked young again when he looked up like that. How long ago those days were: smiling, laughing, being oblivious and ignorant.
"It's alright, man. After this, we can just go downstairs and have a drive, yeah?"
"How about down to the other island, this time?"
His brother agreed with a knowing nod.
Jaejoong, on the other hand, was a different sort of person. He had lost his youth before he could experience it; when he was young (no one was completely sure about the exact age), his family had left him behind for his safety to try to escape to South Korea: first through the Tumen River to China, and then to Seoul. He was left with a "family friend" who was told to wait a few weeks until he heard from the soon-to-be refugees.
A few weeks passed, Jaejoong realized that the gunshots he had heard near the river weren't just guards trying to shoot ducks or fish. They were quiet shots, unimportant. Insignificant, just like his family.
Soon after, Jaejoong was abandoned by the "family friend" and forcefully taken into a hostel around age 4, where he was consistently tortured and denied nutrients, forced to sleep in his own excrement and see children his own age and would-have-been friends die out of their own accord and not.
When Junsu asked Jaejoong why he'd sometimes wake up crying and screaming, Jaejoong would shrug it off and state simply, "I had a bit of a difficult past."
Lee Sooman saved Jaejoong, however. He saved him from what could have been his death. Lee Sooman was the holy man, his father, who provided him with everything he needed, who made him into a someone he would have never been if his whole family wasn't executed for attempting escape.
Lee Sooman also provided Jaejoong with "other activities" that kept him sane since he first heard him groaning in pain that not even he, North Korea’s entertainment leader, could imagine.
It was so long ago, but every night that Jaejoong wasn't flying over rainbow hearts and releasing mind energy, it was now. Being thrown across a room was now. Having a roommate's fingers repeatedly smashed in the door was now.
His shrill shrieks and moans were now.
What to do about a young man like Jaejoong in a fabulous country like North Korea?
Use what supplies are currently available. Lee Sooman worried his manicure off until he overheard the country's agricultural plan of 1995. A few hundred acres for corn, a few hundred acres for wheat, a few thousand acres for opium.
Opium. Opiates meant heroin. The lazy man's drug. Heroin was the drug that would be faithful to you, as long as you kept on buying it. Sort of like a bargain with the devil; you'd be showered with whatever you desired, but in the end, you were truly empty.
He wasn't all that empty, not from the outside, at least. He had grades amazing enough to keep his father happy and he was probably one of the most intelligent and entertaining people to be around. Around Jaejoong, everyone was happy because he was.
Maybe he was just that good.
Besides those small facts about them, though,
they were just like Changmin and Yoochun.
Changmin and Yoochun sat quietly in the airline terminal. The sign flashed from "Los Angeles" to "Beijing." Yoochun adjusted his white glasses frames and turned the newspaper page. Changmin whipped his head to the side to move his bangs into place. How nervous he was, going to some foreign country, although the residents there were Korean as well, but not Korean at all.
He stared at the floor, lost in his thoughts, when Yoochun grabbed his shoulder lightly and told him they were ready to board.
Changmin shivered from the frigidity of the airport and from the advent of boarding what could be his last flight for the rest of his life. He took his bag and walked up to the woman taking the tickets.
"Park Yoochun, thank you, may you have a safe trip... Shim Changmin, thank you, may you enjoy China..."
Changmin stopped and stared at her. He embraced her, said "You're welcome," and walked through the passway with Yoochun.
"What was that all about?"
"I don't know. She feels like the last South Korean I'm going to see." Changmin held a tight-lipped face.
Yoochun cocked his eyebrow but managed to keep a smile. "Please, man, it's not going to be like that. Let's get in our seats... I'm in aisle...."
Yunho was in aisle the last time he was on an airplane. Business class, no less.
Yunho stared at the ceiling. Always so much to do, none of this alone time. It was so hard sometimes, living under a modern caste system.
My father is general. I will be general. I must be general.
What if Yunho just wanted to be a lower officer? No, impossible. Yunho had to live up to the standards his father had set. In fact, Yunho had to be better than his father was. Not just for personal pride, that did not exist. This was for the fatherland. Everything was for the fatherland. He had to be stoic, almost sadistic, to live up to his father's name.
The problem with being son to the second most powerful man in North Korea was that Yunho was no sociopath. But North Korea had taken that from him. Taken his time, his effort, his body.
Even Yunho's heart.