Sehun faintly remembers his parents. They exist on the canvas of his memories like some decayed ship at the bottom of the sea.
They were barely corporeal during the early years of his childhood; they were always away on business and such with sparkling champagne parties on boats, galas in grand European hotels, extravagant festivals on the beaches of Cancun. He faintly remembers his mother, with eyes so sharp that they seemed to cut straight through him like amethyst stones. His mother was always cold, he remembers, unforgiving and relentless. Mother always disapproved of him—the younger child, the one that had hands so tiny and small, so incapable of doing anything. She was almost cruel in a way that she’d ignore him purposely. Sehun remembers her hands felt like a whip, made of stone and ice, and how her skin was pale and rough, yet soft like cream. There are days where Sehun wonders if she ever gave birth to him at all.
Then there was his father, a dull man—a useless man in all respect, not particularly particular in anything. Sehun faintly remembers how much of a specter he was to his father, and how much of a ghost his father was. They rarely ever spoke, and when they did, it was a simple static question about school and grades. Sehun never really knew his father, though his blood ran through his veins. But what was left of him, Sehun was sure that it has all disappeared within a breath. He does not think of him much.
And so, the boy with the soft locks and hazel eyes grew up like Peter Pan caught in Neverland.
Sehun never really had anyone except for Suho. Unlike other children, Sehun more than worshipped and loved his older sibling—he adored him. Suho was his whole world and encompassed every part of every breath that Sehun took. His brother was always benevolent and kind, chased away the monsters under his bed and soothed his tears during a vicious thunderstorm. He was someone who eclipsed all others in Sehun’s eyes, who took up all the space inside of the boy’s heart. When Suho went overseas to study in France, he felt so alone and abandoned. There was no one for him to play with, no one to kiss his paper cuts and tuck him into bed at night. Without Suho, there was no one else.
And Sehun hated to be alone.
So to adolescent boy, he was glad when his mother and father died, people whom he had little affection and memory for; they were objects to him, at best. After all, he never really had any parents to begin with, and how could you miss someone you never knew? In Sehun’s world, there was no one who loved him but Suho.
Sehun always lived within the Oh Estate. He hardly left the confines of the grounds. He was well informed by his mother that he was not well, so he had to stay well inside the estate, that he was not allowed to go out into the real world. But of course, like every child, Sehun rebelled, and ran away into a world where the simple taste of air felt like freedom—and Sehun wanted to be free and not some caged bird in a gilded cage. But Sehun was always caught, dragged back to the estatee and punished severely by his mother. Sometimes, he found his exodus in the landscape of his dreams; sometimes, he found it in his brother’s books. Sehun’s life became a story of a grand escape.
With Suho away, there were not many companions for Sehun, only the daughter of a family servant named Soojung, a high-spirited girl who was rather on the clumsy side. She was Sehun’s only playmate for much of his childhood, but even she was forced away, always doing chores and such with her mother in the kitchen, where Sehun was forbidden to go.
When Suho returned after their parent’s death, Sehun was ecstatic. He was so happy to finally have his brother back with him. Suho, who was patient. Suho, who was kind. Suho, whom he loved most of all, and loved him in return. To Sehun, Suho was the only one who ever really mattered.
So when his brother died, his world turned upside down and inside out. The very words that conjured his brother's demise had been a hot blade that speared his heart and burned out his insides. He realized that he would never have someone who loved him as Suho did. There was no one left. He was alone.
And so Sehun drew into himself like a wilted flower. The moment his brother died, he changed—he was no longer the person he used to be. It hurt less to be this Sehun, who expected no form of love from anyone. A lesson he knew all too well—sans amour, his mother used to say. No love for the unloved.
Sehun expected that was how things were going to be now.
That was the way he will forever expect it to be.
But then, as if by some strange dark magic, there appeared before him this man, with his brilliant blond hair and rich black eyes as dark as the twilight sky. He said he was Suho’s old friend—and Sehun could believe that, because Suho had so many friends while he had none. This man said that in his will, Suho had left the guardianship of Sehun to him, that from today forward he would protect Sehun from all the thunderstorms, the windy nights, and the shivering cold waves. The man had smiled and said that his name was Kris Wu, an artist.
The honeyed-eyed boy with the warm hazel tresses had an initial impression that the artist was rather queer; a Cheshire cat smile lit up his face the moment his eyes laid upon Sehun. The boy thinks that he had never had anyone look at him the way Kris did—not his mother, not his father, not what little friends he has, not the servants, and certainly not Suho. There was something about the way that Kris gazed upon him that made Sehun blush. They were eyes that spoke a language completely foreign to the boy, because he was still just a child.
But he liked Kris anyways. No one as old as Suho had ever paid as much attention to him as Kris did (for all men seemed like old men to the boy). In fact, to the younger Oh sibling, it was rather nice. Kris was so kind and charming. He told the most sensational stories and he made Sehun laugh and he made Sehun feel wanted. He was strange and he was as enigmatic as the endless night, but that only intrigued the boy more.
Like his brother before him, Kris worked hard to keep the Oh Estate in its best conditions. However, he also found vast amounts of time for Sehun—more than even his brother ever did. Together, he and Sehun would take trips to the museum, and Kris would tell him of the stories behind those magnificent paintings, the story behind the hues, the blues and the reds. He’d tell him tales of the old legends, the thousands of Trojan ships that attacked Greece all for the beauty of Helene of Troy, the intricate love story of Cleopatra and Mark Anthony, the tragedy of Oedipus, and the great journey of Odysseus. He’d read him old poetry: Shakespeare and his sonnets, the star-crossed love of Romeo and Juliet, and the sweet Midsummer Night’s Dream. And together, they’d take long walks in the park, making memories along the water that ran through the grass, and the flowers that bloomed towards the bright morning Sun. Together, they’d take a day off to go see the countryside, sit amongst the sunflowers and the clouds, listening to Chopin on the radio.
It was the first time that Sehun saw how beautiful the world was.
But somehow, he found there was nothing more beautiful than Kris’ paintings.
The boy remembers well, the day that Kris took him into his studio, to show him a painting he had been working on the moment he had entered into the Oh Estate. The older man had led him by the hand, their fingers knotted together intimately. He had smiled as they stood next to a large portrait; Sehun gasped as Kris unveiled his masterpiece.
It was a painting of him—of Sehun, the fateful day the two had met. He was smiling at the blue and black butterfly that landed upon his shoulder, its wings fluttering about.
It was oddly beautiful.
The boy had been stunned at the revelation, marveled at the details—it must have taken him so long, he thought. The boy turned to the older man and found Kris smiling down upon him with that queer smile, one that Sehun would often see upon his face when they were together. A smile that was brighter than the sun, simple and tranquil. A smile that made Kris seem as if he was a man who knew the answer to the questions of universe.
You’re beautiful, he had said.
My little nymphet.
The boy blushed and felt his heart gallop in his chest like a wild mustang. Slowly, and gently, Kris knelt down till he was at eye level with Sehun, rich chocolate orbs staring into warm hazel. Sehun felt the blood rush into his cheeks as Kris smiled, holding his face in his large warm hands and kissing him full on the mouth. It was sweet and soft, neither demanding nor rushed. Sehun found that Kris tasted like ginger tea.
The boy stilled, unsure of what this all meant. He felt confused and lost, but he found Kris’ arms around him, he melted into a pool of rose water. Feel hot and warm, the boy looked up at the blonde artist. Kris looked upon him with that strange look in his eyes, that unspeakable something and made Sehun’s bones turn to milk and honey.
I love you, he had spoken, his words like tender kisses upon Sehun’s skin.
The words were like a slow burn, conquering the land of Oh Sehun with fire and blood, and the boy succumbed like a ravaged people—it was too nice to be loved, after all.
Author's Note: Forgive the really horrible French, which I haven't used in a while. Sans amour is French for loveless, if I remember correctly. I was originally going to end this with a sex scene, but I decided to cut that off because no matter how hard I tried, writing it made me feel like I was doing something illegal, I just couldn't finish it and I didn't want to write it for the sake of writing it, I wanted it to flow with the prose. Each chapter of the story will be told from a different point of view, not necessarily either Sehun or Kris' either. I tried to emulate the Nabokovian style as best as I could, but toned done the convolutedness.
Anyways, hope you guys enjoy this insanity! Thanks for reading. ^^