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act one

they called him ju: to bind, to assemble, to hold together. the glass of water spilling from its lip, the uncorked flask, a contained kind of chaos the same way you try to bottle the stars. it opens with hands, soft palms and cool fingers pressing to his brow when he learns to recognise the interlocking lattice of his own anatomy. hands which ask from him the femininity he wasn’t born with and hands which then forgive, plying laughter sweet as the summer from his mouth[break][break]

                  ( in fewer than three summers he learns to love and to lose[break]

                  acrid failure sharp in his belly when they tell him[break]

                  what his name means )[break][break]

act two

there are two constants in his life: wei and xuan, and that is enough -- will always be, he promises them. there are sacrifices, of course. if his hands shake from the cold, he learns to tuck them under his knees; if hunger breeds a monster beneath his too-prominent ribs, ridges of quilted blue and pink, he learns to wait. for xuan, who always has an answer, who indulges his selfish little demands with his quick fingers where wei can or will not, but of course ju loves them both equally as much.[break][break]

he knows fragments of things, and has to piece the unmatched edges together when answers are not forthcoming. he doesn’t wonder if wei evades his questions, doesn’t pry when xuan smiles with flint between his teeth, doesn’t want --[break][break]

doesn’t want answers, really. tries to ease the knots in wei’s back and not to cry when xuan comes back with blossoming sores every shade of violet on his windbitten cheek. when it looks like they’ll fall apart, he recalls his name, salvages an unwavering smile, traces runes into the loose soil and listens to his brothers fall asleep, thinking of nothing and everything at once.[break][break]

here: the frail, ticklish stirring of another nature in his bones. when he listens hard enough, the sky shares its contemplation in light synapses -- stardust gathering in his palms, he glows so bright it gets harder to breathe[break][break]

                  ( peace snared in the frost like a hare )[break][break]

when wei cracks with a web of hairline fractures across the translucent jaundice of his skin, ju thinks this must be it. but wei has taught him to believe in threes, and this isn’t finished yet --[break][break]

act three

with the sound of wei’s folktales and xuan’s pensive murmurs, ju eases into his most turbulent lease of sleep, hands clutching at bedsheets as he is quicksanded into the breach of soft mattress, afraid that this will be another dream when he opens his eyes -- [break][break]

                  ( it isn’t )[break][break]

-- and his world opens up, all red and white and summer in honey-gold. voices hushed in mundane conversation, the scrape of plates, hot meals scarfed down that come back up as he laughs, cries, holds onto whatever he can to steady himself as wei smiles for the first time in a long time. there's a fickleness to their security, but ju is tired of cynicism and doubt; he's enchanted instead by the new people, the possibilities, the magic.[break][break]

there’s a boy who talks to him, eyes brighter than his hair with a mouth full of mischief. maybe trusts him, maybe thinks well of him. ju is inching on his second decade and the winter is behind him now, he wants to learn magic with devotion, wishes he could perform illusions to make more people smile but the stars keep him company enough; he would be nothing, now, without them.[break][break]

unknowingly, he makes a pact with death. and in the half-light of hours hung crookedly from midnight, meets two pairs of eyes -- one familiar, the other strange -- chokes on a mouthful of cold fear the same shade as xuan's eyes when he quirks his lips up in a shy smile. gives in, hates himself for this moment of unforgivable cowardice,
swallows.[break][break]

act four

this is the constant his brother taught him: that night ends and fairytales close on a tranquil third act and this is reality, ju. we’re walking towards the light. [break][break]

but ju wakes from the velvet vise of an almost-death, resigned as hope flutters feebly in his chest, changes colour, shifts direction, looks forward to reuniting with his family --[break][break]

wakes up and the world hasn’t changed; he has.[break][break]

ju doesn’t know who taught him to believe in threes but they must have been a liar, because this is the dawn of his fourth act and it’s the emptiest yet. there are things he remembers, shapes and sounds and vague impressions of people billowing into each other like pillars of ash, the faint accusing whisper that you did this.[break][break]

the truth is this: ju doesn’t know how much he does or does not recall from the mirage of his past. the lie is this: ju doesn’t know how much he does or does not recall from the mirage of his past. he elects to ignore the ghosts, purges his conscious memory of faces and names and the inescapable sweetness of peach cake that sours under his tongue like fruit rind -- for now, he tells himself. just for now.[break][break]

                  ( there’s a wildfire hot and painful in his heart and[break]

                  this winter, he makes his peace with the cold[break]

                  the pyre burns higher )[break][break]

it’s easier to smile than to mourn, if for no other reason than practicality. ju wears something paperthin with so much illusory grace he could almost deceive himself -- there’s a longing in him still, though. a painful anticipation, a bloated vessel ballooning out and the stars clamouring in the cage of his ribs, to reach for a true north he isn't sure he's ready to face.[break]