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Mark was fourteen when he last saw his brother.
It was the night of mid November. A night where the moon is at its full bloom and the whole town seemed to glow warm silver. The small windowsill by his bed left open and the crisp air of the First Snow bled through the gaps, blowing shivers on his skin like a gentle whisper rousing him wake.
That, and the sound of fabric rustling.
When Mark opened his eyes, it was to the form of his brother slumped on the cold floorboards of their room. His lids were still heavy with sleep and the moon could only do so much but to offer a faint light.
"Hyung?" he called out.
The sound stopped. Mark could barely make out the lines of his brother's hunched shoulders before he slowly turned to face him. They stayed like that for a while, the frosty air filling their lungs as no one dare break silence. Outside, the wind continued to howl and trees were brushing against each other.
"Couldn't sleep?" his brother finally asked.
"Mm, it was too cold," Mark mumbled softly before letting out a yawn as he snuggles back to his sheets.
Taeyong just sighed, shaking his head at the younger. "That's because you left the windows open again." He got up from his seat to shut the windows before heading back to the sack and pile of clothes scattered on the floor.
Soon, the rustling sounds were back again, almost frantic than it had been before. Mark willed himself to shut his eyes. Where are you going? The question seemed like a lump against his throat yet he chose to say nothing, swallowed the words as he held onto the sheets tight.
It felt like an hour had passed and Mark was almost at the brink of sleep when he felt a blanket thrown over his body, his brother tucking them to his sides.
"Use mine, it's warmer," Taeyong said, his tone something Mark had never heard before. It wasn't the usual stern voice that he used whenever Mark got himself into trouble or the cheery one reserved when they play with the tiny frogs at the nearby riverbank. It was quiet, almost like a whisper. Bare and...something Mark cannot explain. He doesn't know what it is.
"Goodnight, Mark."
In the end, he didn't get to ask the question and the only thing left by his brother was a warm blanket and the even warmer droplets of water he felt hitting against his cheeks that night.
Mark at eighteen no longer remembers how his brother looked like.
The night of mid November was already faint to him. The image of his brother's back, lit by the moon was the only thing he held onto, and even that had already gotten blurry as each year passed.
Mark knew it was inevitable. How soon, every trace of Taeyong will just vanish and the taste of honey and pancakes would no longer mean anything to him. The city does that to you. Mark knew, as well as any folk who had set foot into the place, that it was easy to get lost in the warmth that Omelas brings.
Mark lives in a city where flowers bloom all year. Foxglove, lilies, carnations–all of their bright colors a stark difference to the white snow of winter. Yet nothing could compare to the city of Omelas during summer, once the golden rays of sun started to reach its peak and their Green Fields even greener. Seagulls flying through the cream colored sky and the salty smell of ocean wafting through the air. It was also during this time that the children ran around freely with laughter, splashing themselves with cold water as the elderly watched, conversing to themselves about anything under the sun.
But what truly made summers in Omelas as ethereal as its flowers is their annual Festival of Summer. The day where the city is buzzing with life, filled with tourists that travelled all the way from their hometowns just so they could partake with the festivities. The joyous clanging of bells ringing throughout the city, as the citizens of Omelas paraded, dancing in the streets and handing out flowers from their hand-woven baskets.
Tomorrow marks the start of their celebration.
The sun was already down when Mark and other cityfolk had finished hanging the banners, nodding in delight as they finally watched their work pay off when it started to flutter against the gentle blow of the wind. The small tinkering lights were already set up, and the city glowed in golden light as if it was visited by a thousand fireflies.
Tomorrow was the Festival of Summer and Mark couldn't get a wink of sleep.
It was also during summer that the air in Omelas felt thicker. He had just gone through a week with almost no proper rest and spent the nights tossing and turning on his bed, hoping that he would get tired soon enough for his body to feel numb.
Yet Mark knows what it is.
He may be able to bury his thoughts during the day but it would always resurface at night. If he as much willed to close his eyes, then he would hear them again. A question, a small flicker that would set him on fire. The words were etched like a scar in his mind.
The city of Omelas was indeed the happiest place one could be able to conjure in their dreams. Its people's happiness was not a product of meer ignorant bliss but because of its lackness. They knew what was needed and not, the lines between helpful and destructive.
Omelas is what it is because of its people. And because every single one of them knows exactly what Omelas is.
Mark scrambles out of his bed, the feeling of something crawling underneath his skin had gotten too much for him to endure. He took the lamp to fill it with oil and was rushing out through the door in seconds, not even bothering to change out of his clothes, the thin white shirt he wore to sleep almost stood nothing against evening air.
The heart of the city was calling out to him. And for once, he would not ignore its heed.
You see, Mark knows. But he chose not to look.
The heart of the city was a building decorated with beautiful tapestries, gold threads weaved in a loop one atop each other. The gates were never close, almost inviting like an open arm to those who wanted to see.
Mark steadies his breath once he entered the building. Of course the interior is as beautiful as it is outside, what with it's ceramic pots and vases and vastly colored flowers strewn over the place. But Mark wasn't there to see the beauty or what else the city of Omelas has to offer.
With heavy feet he headed towards the stairs, one that would lead him to the basement.
The floor underneath though was a different story. Mark could hear the creak in every step he took. It was damp and the whole place smells of rotten wood. Dust gathers in his feet and unlike outside with tapestries adorning the building, there was nothing but cobwebs and dirty mops, rusty buckets pushed in the corner. The small flickering light from the lamp his only guide.
Right at the center was a wooden door, worn and filled with small cracks. Mark reaches out with trembling hands to touch it, the feeling of grime under his fingertips.
"E-Eungh…" Mark stumbled back as if he had been burned. He felt it vibrate when he heard a noise, too guttural and parched, the sound of sandpaper against wood, like someone who had their throat dried out.
Mark could only gasp as he covered his mouth, biting the flesh right under until he tasted the metallic zing of blood in attempts to quell his nerves.
It was true. He knew it was true. The story his brother and the cityfolk would tell him since he was old enough to understand. The basement and what is underneath the city of Omelas. He knew it was true. Yet nothing could have prepared him to see the truth. He wanted to run away. Drop everything and forget that this night had ever happened. That all of this was simply a nightmare and he had finally gotten his sleep.
But Mark knows.
Mark knows that this was the only way to go. That if he ran away, the heart of the city would still call out to him and no matter how many days, months, even years have passed, he would still be back in the same spot he was tonight.
So he gathered the strength to bring up the lamp near his face, with his hands uncontrollably shaking and breathing uneven. Slowly, the light seep out through the cracks and Mark felt the slow rise of bile in his throat as he finally saw what was behind the door.
There was a boy sitting on the floor, naked and skin marked with bruise. His hair was thin and falling out, bones jutting from his side. His lips were cracked and blackened with dirt, his wounds both fresh and old. For a split second, their eyes met but Mark knew that he wouldn't recognize, for those eyes were drained of life, hollow and cloudy and was only seeking out the light.
Mark was brought down to his knees for he could no longer carry his weight. He started vomiting, throwing up the bitter liquid that was running down through his chin, mixed with spit and blood. For the first time in his life, he had the urge to cry, and he was filled with remorse and sadness and guilt and disgust. Everything came back to him all at once; the hurt he felt when their parents vanished out of thin air, that they had to do everything they can to fend for themselves, and that years later Taeyong would have left him too. He doesn't need the cabin or the stupid blanket they left him behind. He clenched his fists as tears streamed down his face, the room filled with his gut wrenching wails.
He wanted to open the door, free the boy for no one deserves to be in such place. But he knew, that this is what Omelas is. That the music filled glee of the city was solely dependent on the boy's misery. That doing so would mean that he was willing to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of happiness of one. Mark knew that the reason he was able to smile was because someone had cried in his place and received the pain tenfolds.
And he couldn't forgive himself for that. Especially since he recognized those eyes, even in their dull gray state.
The whole city was buzzing with the preparations for the Festival of Summer.
Mark was sitting near the riverbank's edge, swinging his legs as he watched his brother help putting up the town banners. He wanted to help too alright, but the adults wouldn't let him near the site, telling him that he wasn't tall enough to do so and he had to wait a few more years to help.
He was in the middle of sulking when he felt someone sat beside him. He looked up to see a boy, quite around his age, narrowing his eyes at him and face scrunched up in thought. He had honey brown hair and tanned skin, and Mark was almost uncomfortable with how he was saying nothing.
He was about to speak when the boy beat him to it. "You look like you've got nothing to do," he said with an amused lilt in his voice and a cheeky grin.
Mark was struck for a while with how upfront he is, before he turn his head away and started picking on the wooden bridge. "I'm doing something," he grumbled quietly.
"Ri-ight," the boy snorted, prolonging the word too long to be genuine. He uncrossed his legs, sliding them by the edge like Mark's current position. They stayed like that for a while, the birds chirping above them, watching the water hit the rocks.
"What's your name?" the boy asked him suddenly.
"Mark Lee," he replied.
"Okay Mark Lee, listen here," the boy said before facing him, "you said you were doing something and we've been sitting here for god knows how long now but to me, this looks like...nothing!"
Mark looked at him incredulously, "hey, you said a bad word."
The boy's jaw dropped, opening and closing his mouth as if lost for words, "I didn't say a bad word! What are you talking about?"
"You did." Mark pointed out to him before getting up, patting the dust out of his blue shorts. "You can do what you want, I'm no longer talking to you."
"You can't do that!" the boy whined behind him, getting up as well from his seat to follow him. "You see, you have to help me. I'm lost and I don't know my way through the city, the adults were too busy to help and I have no one to go to. I'm a young, poor, lost child and you're just dismissing my anguish? Oh! What had come to you, good ol' chivalr–"
Mark sighed as he turned back to him, defeatedly. He could feel his eye twitching at the boy's poor attempt at dramatics. "Where are you going?"
The boy stopped in his tracks, looking at Mark brimmed with mirth. The frown on his face slowly growing wider into a delighted smirk, and Mark wanted to take back what he said in a heartbeat. "You know about this Green Fields?"
That is how his somewhat friendship with Donghyuck went. Everyday when he goes to the riverbank to wait for his brother to finish working, the honey haired boy would come along and demand that he take him to places that he supposedly hadn't seen yet.
Mark would be lying if he said that it hadn't annoyed him at first because it did, and looking back, he would surely laugh at his past self who dislike the boy so much but would still insist to go to the riverbank. Donghyuck and his antics and flare for drama had slowly grown on him. And without noticing, he learned to enjoy the other's presence beside him.
Just like now. When both of them had come up to the Green Fields and decided to lay out in the sun. The gentle wind was blowing against their skin yet Mark could still feel the growing heat on the amples of his cheeks.
"Hey Mark, look! Look!" Donghyuck beamed, patting him repeatedly at the shoulders before pointing his finger up to the sky. "That cloud looks like you."
"That doesn't look like anything except for a cloud, Hyuck."
"That's just because you lack imagination, you poor soul." Mark had to hide his grin for he could hear Donghyuck pout even though both of them are immersed in their sudden cloud-watching.
"See, that is the cloud-shaped cloud you were talking about," he said pointing out to a random cloud, "that one's a hippopotamus. A toilet. Then, a hippopotamus in a toilet."
Mark just snorted at him, his eyes started feeling heavy as he continues to listen to the younger's rambling, his voice soothing and the scent of grass and lemon in the air.
"Oh wait, that one's a–that one's a note."
He had almost fallen asleep when he felt Donghyuck stirring up, switching on his side to face him.
"Mark," he whispered softly, "do you sing?"
When Mark opened his eyes, he felt as if the air was punched right out of his lungs. Donghyuck who was bathed and glowing in sunlight might be the most beautiful thing he had seen in Omelas. Even more so than the sea when light hits its surface and it started to sparkle like diamonds underwater.
"I…" his voice croaked and he cursed himself inwardly, "I don't think I do?"
Donghyuck squinted his eyes at him, though a smile was starting to curl up his lips, "I don't believe you."
"I'm telling the truth though." Mark paused. "Do you?"
The boy rolled back to his spine, eyes trailing back to watch the clouds move again. "Yeah, I do. Sometimes," he mumbled, almost too nonchalant that Mark almost missed the blush that was slowly creeping up his neck.
"I see." He hummed.
A beat has passed and the clouds were starting to blend with the red-orange hues of the sun setting.
"Shut up, Lee!" Donghyuck struggled to get up from the grass, glowering at Mark who just looked up at him innocently. "Stop thinking so loud I can hear you!"
Mark too got up so he could face Donghyuck clearly. "Well, you can't just say something like that and expect me to say nothing–"
"Will you help me sing at the Festival?"
Mark was a mess when he got back home. There was still vomit on his shirt and tear tracks were running down his face. Everything hurts. His body was burning up yet his fingertips were numb from cold. He was heaving when he opened the closet door, throwing out the clothes mindlessly on the floor.
He could no longer feel his legs when he found it, stashed carefully inside a box that was hidden in the corner. The wooden flute that he had begged Taeyong to buy for him. The only thing that he had ever asked for in his entire life.
It still looks the same. As if five years had not yet passed since he last saw it. That it was newly bought and he was still the young kid who was excited to learn how to play the instrument.
Yet it was also five years since he last saw his friend. Since he got a glimpse of Donghyuck's honey gold hair and tanned skin. That he got to smell the scent of lemon that he had learn to associate with the boy.
Five years had passed since he waited everyday near the riverbank, hoping that Donghyuck would drag him along to whatever place he wanted to go that day. That he would practice until his windpipes hurt while waiting for him to show up. So that, when Donghyuck comes back, if he ever does and Mark was sure he will, they would go right at the heart of the city. Accompany him with the sound of flute as he finally gets to hear him sing. Mark knew he would sound good. What with the countless times he heard him speak and got lost with it.
But Mark knew, out of all people, that it was easy to get lost to the warmth that Omelas brings. That every time the Festival of Summer passed, the memory of Donghyuck comes with it.
The Festival of Summer had never changed, and maybe, never will. The city of Omelas was still buzzing with people, the cityfolk offering flowers to the newly arrived tourist. Dancing and parading merrily in the streets while the children prepared their horses with colorful manes atop the Green Fields.
Though amidst all the joy and happiness that is Omelas, a lone boy stood right at the heart of the city, playing tunes with his wooden flute. Once in a while, someone would stop and listen, smile at the boy and be on their way. None of those matter for the boy simply does not see. His eyes were closed and immersed in his own music.
The boy thought that if his eyes remain in the dark just like the wretched one hidden underneath the basement of the city sees, then he would no longer get lost to the warmth Omelas brings. And everyday he gets to play his own heart, a love song and requiem to the boy he met by the riverbank.