The Bomb’s Heart

April 26, 2018

Alexandra Ryokakku

Takayama, Japan. 12:45pm

I would never get used to Japan; there was no way. I couldn't forget the blood running through my veins—wild and cold, completely out of line with the standards of good behavior in Japan. I never fully understood Japanese people, always avoiding conflict, always placing order above all else, even the language had to follow certain rules. How could I possibly get used to that? My mother would always quiet my doubts with kindness, saying: "Don't say 'it's impossible'; say 'I haven't done it yet.'" But no matter how hard I tried, it always seemed more complicated.

There wasn't much I could do about my destiny. My mother dreamed of me following her steps, inheriting her position as oyabun. She taught me the traditions, the rituals, and how to carry out my future role, but all I wanted was to lock myself in my room and play with my pencil, creating designs and more designs, each one more perfect than the last.

My brother would never understand, because his sole reason for existence was to be my father's right-hand man, following his footsteps as a merchant. Even though he was stuck in the same country as me, he had more freedom, more brutality, and did not have the unfortunate fortune of living behind a mask of forced identity. That didn't mean I hated him, though, even though envy grew within me as roots I tried to prune so they wouldn't flood my mind. He had always been there for me, in his strange way of showing love. Like a cat bringing a dead bird to its owner as a sign of affection, he kept me safe from the world and from himself.

But maybe I wasn't the only one in the world who felt this way.

Lee Taeyang was my refuge, the one with whom I unintentionally reflected my own desires. When he walked into the classroom, he attracted a lot of attention—perhaps more than expected, especially because he was surprisingly charming, which eventually stunned the girls and annoyed the boys. Although I had heard from my father that all Asians looked the same to him, Lee Taeyang was different. He was taller than average, a little shorter than me. His skin was darker than the rest, a caramel red that made him seem alive. His black hair was quite short, which made his thick eyebrows even more prominent, giving him a curious, yet handsome, appearance. Though his figure was slender, his back was wide, and his arms and legs were muscular, maybe he worked out. His dark eyes had a natural gleam, yet he looked so tired that it only made me believe I wasn't the only one in the world, right at that moment, who hated Japan.

I wanted to hug him. Even if it was strange. Even if it made no sense.

My parents had often told me to be careful about my friends; there was a whole protocol to follow before I could form any kind of relationship with someone. But today, I would forget that. Just today, as I tried not to feel so overwhelmed by the expectations and desires of others. Just today, I wanted to feel free.

I bit the eraser of my pencil, waiting for the bell to signal my temporary freedom. Just a few more seconds, counted with the tips of my fingers on the desk.

The bell rang: lunchtime. Time for my small freedom.

Taeyang turned to me with a soft, kind smile. His mouth revealed fangs that, to me, looked sharper than usual. But as soon as he tried to say something, a flood of people gathered around his chair, asking all kinds of questions.

"Taeyang, do you have a girlfriend? Taeyang, what's Korea like? Taeyang, is it true that there are celebrities on every street? Taeyang this, Taeyang that." I wasn't going to let them steal my freedom, not again.

As soon as I stood up, the loud crash of the door opening abruptly filled the air. With a strong voice, one hand resting on his stomach beneath his clothes, caressing himself, and the other pushing his hair back from his face. My dearest brother. My twin.

My freedom was completely gone.

—Саша, я чертовски голоден, пойдем купим обед. ( Sasha, I'm fucking starving, let's go get lunch.)

The harshness of the language that only both of us understood echoed through the silence. For better or worse, most people feared my brother. Maybe it was his lack of tact, his hunter's eyes, his carefree way of speaking, his accent, or his massive frame, but to the Japanese, my brother wasn't just another hafu—he was a monster.

I looked at Taeyang over the heads of the people around him, who had started to disperse, seeking a way to leave the room without drawing attention. His eyes, his body, his posture revealed no fear, but rather the opposite—he observed my brother from head to toe, blinking repeatedly as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

No, maybe my freedom wasn't totally lost.

—I've got your lunch, no need to buy anything. —I replied in the same language, but softer, turning to grab the small lunchbox where Mom had packed the bentos. — I'm helping an exchange student with some classes he didn't understand, get lost.

With heavy steps, he approached me, yawning. He looked at me, but I couldn't look back; his eyes had always been two sharp knives. Then he turned to face Taeyang.

—Vasya. —I warned, understanding his intentions.

But he never listens. He grabbed Taeyang by the skull, unable to hold his hair tightly enough to pull it, an instinctive groan escaped Taeyang's lips. Though I knew he wouldn't do anything too strange, not even I could tell what was going on in my brother's head. Taeyang's hands tried to move my brother's, but it was simply impossible. The strength he had, all he had trained for, the things he had lived through: I had never known anyone stronger than Vasiliy.

I could only stand there and watch, because deep down, I understood the fear of the others.

—How vulgar. —He said, still in Russian, after staring at him for a long while. He let go of him roughly, causing Taeyang's face to crash against the desk. And just as he had come, he left with long strides, another yawn escaping his lips.

I rushed to Taeyang as quickly as I could, taking his face in my hands to make sure there was no further damage. His lower lip was cut. I moved back and kneeled, making a small bow.

—I'm so sorry, my brother has behavioral issues. I'll make sure he gets punished. —I said in soft Japanese, with embarrassment, sadness, and anger.

I hated my brother for stealing my freedom.

—Don't worry, it's just a small cut. —He kept his kind smile, wiping the small amount of blood that dripped from his lip with the sleeve of his uniform. — But you could make it up to me by explaining the classes we have left, because honestly, I didn't understand much.

His laughter was refreshing. There was no way to lose my freedom, if that freedom knew no barriers. Because for some reason, Taeyang's eyes never showed fear. He was never truly intimidated, and his curiosity overflowed from his body like a spring. That was what Vasiliy had considered vulgar, I understood. That curiosity, and his eyes devoid of hope, with a strange hunger to live.

Who was Lee Taeyang?