Le Pathétique No. 6 by lumienarc

Le Pathétique No. 6.jpg


Eun Jiwon’s muddy path began with room number 6 and a blond intruder (later: neighbour) who thoughtlessly attempted to hang himself in that (presumed empty) room the moment he unlocked the door.

He came to play safe, avoiding limelight and befriending shades, but he didn’t understand that minor might he pose, grandeur would always be his core. He failed to foresee that the building was preoccupied by problems soon he would find himself untangling and cherishing. It didn’t matter what he thought of himself right now: Ce n’est pathétique pas. Это Патетическая.[1] Even though it seemed to him this piece ended with morendo[2].

[1] Literally means: “This is not pathetic. It is Pathetic.” The Russian word of pathetic used in this sentence, however, refers to Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B minor, “Pathétique” that was originally called “The Passionate Symphony” as “Патетическая” here is an old word that is better translated as “passionate” or “emotional” than “evoking pity”.

[2] The musical term for “dying away”; indicates a decrease in volume or tempo, but often affects both; to make the sound slowly die away.


Greetings, once-upon-a-time-forsythias (and general people and sentient, perhaps even animated non-living beings I would love to hear from)! Lumienarc Hanayuki at your service. I absolutely have no idea what I am doing right now (lol)

First of all, excuse the music terms usage. It won’t continue in the chapters, except the chapter titles, for the worst or best—I don’t know (lol).

The title comes from, certainly, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovksy’s sixth and final completed work, The Symphony No. 6 in B minor Op. 74, “Pathétique”, which has been long perceived as a “musical suicide note” or the work of “dying man” while the name itself was a grave mistranslation of the Russian word Tchaikovsky’s brother chose for him. The truth is it might be about death, but it’s the piece he termed “the best thing I have composed”—and many people agreed. And so, the warnings come next now.

Warnings: as the complications presented by the title itself, this story contains dark themes such as mental disorders, bullying, suicidal thought and attempts, violence, and other things I haven’t figured out whether or not to put in (I’m evil, you know). If you are uncomfortable with any of those (and I warn you, passionately, that when it comes to descriptions, I am extremely graphic), I will suggest you to leave now.

As for the pairings, don’t worry, there will be bromance all over the place (lol) but really, I don’t pay much attention to romance this time, so if you expect lovey-dovey stuff, I reckon you won’t enjoy this story (but maybe I lied, who knows? I mentioned bromance, right?).

Anyway, this is some sort of experimental work for me. I am trying to associate music pieces with a piece of the story and fragmenting each scene as I imagine it in a cinematic picture. I don’t know how it would work—or would it work at all—but I’ll just do it anyway. I hope you would as well as enjoy my experimental work while I myself am formulating the story.

Before anyone points it out, I do have the habit of mixing real life facts band members I am writing about into the AU setting I choose, and twist them all as I like, so pardon me. *evil laugh* Also, final warning: I have no idea when I will update the story since I rely heavily on divine interventions. It could be a week or two, but sometimes it might take a month if I am so very busy with real life (you know, adult-stuff, working and such). Comments will definitely give me boost of motivation, but “Update pls” and variations without substansial, human-like commentary are definitely zero motivational. So, don’t expect me to reply if you plan to leave such robot-like comments. Please don’t be a robot. We already have one Jang Suwon with us here *bricked by the Robot Maknae*

The Currently-covered-by-blood Author whose Spectacles Miraculously Not Cracked,

Lumienarc Hanayuki



I: Allegro Non Molto

Nothing could be worse than his situation right now, in his opinion. He was moving from the lively heart of South Korea to the suburbia where a two-storey apartment building stood. The building itself was probably as old as himself, if not older—he was informed, though, that it was half his age, but he couldn’t never be too sure. He pulled up his hood back in place as he stepped out of the cab. It had begun to rain lightly—not for long, his hunch told him. It would be stormy this afternoon. He knew this Wednesday, the tempest would come. He walked as fast as he could, after all he didn’t have much to bring; only a luggage and a backpack, so he was comfortable enough to bring them upstairs, where he was going to live from now on.

There were only six rented rooms in this building (there actually were ten spaces, but only six were claimed suitable for living); all other rooms were occupied. He wasn’t surprised, though, with the cheap rent the landlord set despite the dimension of the rooms. The landlord’s ad was suspiciously boasting the existence of one bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen and breakfast nook, and one working desk. He thought upon running into the ad, “Is there any living being that could live with 113,500 won income per month, just outside Seoul? This person is nuts?” Then, he realized that it wasn’t the case (also, he didn’t do the maths). Just looking at the building from outside answered his questions effectively. Abandoned building should be a fitting description.

“My phone’s dead again. Aish, I should have thrown it away,” he muttered angrily to himself. His attempt to peek on his phone’s clock bore no fruit other than flickering list of recently opened apps and his home screen—his eyes grew immensely tired just from looking briefly at it. He shoved it back to his pocket and continued upstairs, dragging his luggage behind. He panted heavily when he reached the upper landing. His body was much weaker these days, he mournfully admitted. His knees were hurting the most even though it was just one level travel. So, he took a moment before he continued to his flat.

His was in front of his new living space, the room with the ominous number 6 on its door. He had been here the other day with the landlord, settling the rent for next three months and set of keys, but it was still unbelievably foreign for him. He knew it wasn’t much and he knew what to and not to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect to find a man standing on tall stool in the middle of his kitchen, hands around a designated loop of rope that gave anyone who saw as an attempt to hang oneself. He locked eyes with the man, shocked to the core, but only flinched slightly. The man, however, was frozen solid.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was number six. I must have been given wrong keys. I’ll contact the landlord, excuse me,” he said, drawing himself away from the doorway nervously. He smacked his lips, subtly showing his uneasiness as soon as he turned away from the stranger’s line of sight.

“Wait,” the stranger called. He heard rustling sounds and a thud. “No, I’m sorry. This is number six—I’m so sorry.”

The stranger fumbled towards the doorway, apologetically bowing to the new occupant. It was darker inside than outside, despite the weather was slowly shifting greyer than it was ten minutes ago. He could see the stranger was a man in white clothes, bleached blond hair styled as if it was still ‘98. He eyed the man suspiciously and stepped back further, unsure about his next move. He had never accidentally run into someone in the middle of hanging himself, and it wasn’t remotely a good experience.

“Just…” he opened his mouth, trying hard to hold back whatever running amok inside himself, “Just get the fuck out of here.” His voice came out weaker than it was expected, unfitting for the quite rough words. The stranger straightened his back slowly, but only after he was several steps away from the door. The blond man walked away hastily—apparently he lived in room number ten, near the stairs.

“At least try it in your own room, bastard,” he mumbled, covering his shock with what seemed to be tone of annoyance.

He sighed loudly and grunted along his ungratefully-stuck-at-the-entrance luggage. He cursed under his breath, throwing jinxes at the slightly higher tiles and his incapability to think through—such as turning on the lights first before trying to enter. He didn’t run out of misfortunes even after that—thanks a lot, fate. The water was brown because the pipes were unused for too long. The electric kettle was rusty, too, but thankfully only on the outside. It didn’t produce good degree of water to brew his standard of perfect coffee—he needed Americano direly. The fridge required some cleaning as well.

“At least I still have a decent place to live,” he comforted himself, staring at the hanging rope next to the counter. He sat on the same stool the stranger was standing on earlier, with a cup of hastily brewed coffee. He sighed again and drank his coffee, thinking pensively for a moment.

He then stood, leaving the cup on the counter, to take the rope down. He threw it at nearby plastic hamper. He rummaged through his backpack, and then luggage, beginning to make himself at home. First: Clothes into the humble polymer wardrobe’s drawers; then, a single framed photograph on the top of it, and lastly, papers thrown carelessly to the desk top. He spent a full minute staring at the photograph, nostalgic look palpable on his face.

It was a picture of himself with a teen girl, slightly thicker than normal Korean girls in almost all her body parts. He wore a white suit and she a modest pale blue dress. There was an extra hand that hugged the teenager from behind, but whoever owned that hand had their portion in the picture ripped for good. The remaining two of them seemed to be filled with overflowing happiness, although sadly it looked nothing more than a distant memory for him now. He caressed the frame gently, eyes even more softened. He clenched his jaw and swiftly left it all behind. He watched as storm arrived at his window.

You are nothing but a fragment of illusionary perfect man I fell in love with.

The look on his face hardened and a frown appeared right away. He glared into the dancing wind, fists clenched.

His blood runs in you.

He gritted his teeth as his blood boiled. He felt the anger in his every cell, every breath he took spoke of fire inside. Distrust. Malady. Fallacy. A bullet and a fancy dinner. An empty room adorned with only glass walls. It wasn’t his fault, but yet:

Leave now so your life shall be spared.”

You cannot aver your innocence. You may not.

The judging eyes and crossed arms welcomed him that night, firm-sealed lips waiting to pour their own poison into his vein.

I have always known.

But he didn’t lose his temper, unlike the tempest—raging so freely, having no sense of responsibility, no one judging it and no price would it pay, although everything was wrecked and innumerable cost arise from the havoc it had done. He closed his eyes tightly. His breath was slowly released from the heated chains.

The innocence embodied a pair of eyes questioning his leaving. Sadness engulfed him at once. He opened his eyes and greeted again the storm before him. His heart was full of pain. Those eyes he would never forget.

Where are you going?

It was never spoken, but he heard it as clear as crystal. He could not reply, not even a single word uttered as he stepped away. He was not allowed. There were only dark eyes on him, but this pair of eyes, and yet, he must not associate himself with them anymore. He regretted only this.

II: Adagio

The blond man left his room once he knew that the new neighbour in number six wouldn’t come out anytime soon. It took him about fifteen minutes to finally peek through the door to check it. He tiptoed down the stairs, eyes still unfocused. He found himself standing in front of their letter boxes, about to open the one labelled with “Kang Sunghoon”—that was him—but he stopped midway and mumbled darkly, “What am I doing? No one will ever send me anything here.”

He leered away and saw the name “Eun Jiwon” was now written on the slot under number six. Flashes of pictures and sweet voice replayed in his head the moment he remembered the recent incident. He began to sweat profusely and hatred boiled inside him, as dark as tar in jet black pewter pot. It swallowed him from toe upwards. He craved death so much—he could no longer bear this torture. Please! The sincere voice slipped into the erratic mind of his, and erased his utmost need to vanish from this world. Sunghoon breathed in and out slowly, getting a grip of himself, and reminded instantly of the reason he had come down here in the first place. He dialled a number on his phone and leaned on the wall.

“Hey, hyung, sorry to call on you at this hour,” he said with stuttering laugh, “I just feel so stupid.” He paused, thinking, listening, and then spoke again, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes were glassy now and his voice was hardly audible. His hands and voice trembled as he talked to the one he was calling, “I tried not to think about it—I swear, I tried—but whenever I am alone, it’s catching up to me. I-I s-saw the news and I—and I just… I don’t know. Why am I so weak, hyung?”

He lamented pitifully for a while, but he still listened closely to the words spoken to him. Whoever at the end of the line must have done great job motivating people because the blond man slightly smiled after listening to them.

“Yeah, all right. Yes. Thank you, hyung. You’re the best.”

It was merely a three-minute talk, but Sunghoon had felt much better. He pocketed his phone, certain that it was the perfect time to go back to his room, but he was startled by a thunder’s strike, sudden additional pouring of rain, and even more than ever because of an unexpected appearance of a teenager amidst the said blizzard. He was suddenly a functioning human again because of this unwanted surprise. He jumped at the first sight of a girl walking towards his direction. It was close to a horror movie’s scene imitation. He shrunk at the corner, quietly waiting.

The girl didn’t go to him, though. Instead, she merely entered the hall and ignored his very existence completely. She let out a heavy breath and dropped to her knees. She was drenched head to toe, shivering badly. She wore clothes unfit for such horrible weather—casual trousers, sandals, shirt under thin jacket, no coat whatsoever. He, then, realized that ghosts didn’t shiver because of rain—even though it was stormy. No, the outfit definitely ensured that she wasn’t any pseudo-sentient and that Sunghoon wasn’t imagining her. He calmed himself first, and then he evoked his socially accepted persona and walked away from whence he had been hiding in fear.

“Hey, are you all right?” he greeted tentatively. He showed a sweet smile as he approached the girl. She, however, didn’t respond to him positively. She skittered away, clearly refusing his approach, but she hit something thus unable to move further. He only realized that she had a bag with her that moment.

“Are you looking for someone?” he tried to ask again with honey-fuelled voice he unconsciously let out when he was his positive self. “Are you lost?”

It took her a few moments to stop staring darkly, invisible walls around her high and thick, and begin to think about his reasonable offer. The girl, then, scrambled through her wet jacket’s pocket. With her shaking hand, she wrote something on a tiny notebook. She showed it to him. It simply read “Eun Jiwon”, but in Chinese characters rather than in common ones. It took him a while to realize.

“Oh, he has just moved in,” he said, “I know where he lives. Upstairs.” Sunghoon pointed to the second floor. He would rather not to meet him this early after their unfavourable encounter just some twenty minutes ago, but this girl would suffer if he didn’t set it aside and help her.

“Would you prefer me to accompany you there or to get him here?”

The girl stared at him blankly through the curtain of her hair. She pondered for a brief moment with distrustful eyes. She scribbled it down: “Here.” He understood that she didn’t trust him enough to walk with him, so he immediately told her to wait and went back upstairs. Knocking the door was scary—the man looked intimidating—but he had no other options. It took him several knocks until the door was opened.

“What?” the man, Eun Jiwon, gruffly asked.

“Sorry, but… well, the—there’s a girl downstairs looking for Eun Jiwon. You are Eun Jiwon, aren’t you?” he could not help but stammer even though he forced out a bright smile. The man fixated his glare on him, merciless, boring holes if possible. It seemed to Sunghoon that the man was greatly affected by his thoughtless friendly smile. He was probably reluctant to pay any attention to Sunghoon’s words for he just witnessed a man with a hanging rope in his new lodging a few moments ago and suddenly the very same person was standing before him with a blinding smile.

“How did you know?” he asked suspiciously.

“I saw the mailbox downstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll have to talk about you using my place earlier, but let’s discuss the urgent matter first. Who is this girl? Did she mention her name?” The man interrogated, stepping outside and closing his room’s door.

“She wouldn’t say anything,” he replied meekly, dropping his smile unconsciously as the man’s voice broke into his soul and ripped it apart—the man still wanted to talk about his foolish attempt earlier—“She wrote everything down.” Before Sunghoon was able to finish the sentence, Eun Jiwon had sprinted towards the stairs in panic. He vanished from sight in an instant. The blond didn’t understand, flustered at the sudden action. He quickly went back to the hall, finding his new neighbour with the mysterious girl hugging.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You can’t be here! I told you, didn’t I?” the man angrily yelled at the girl, firmly grasping both of her arms. She looked devastated as she vigorously shook her head. She frantically pointed at her chest and then prodded the finger into his chest. The man sounded close to tears as he regretfully said, “You will only suffer if you stay with me. You should listen to your sister.” The girl didn’t back down at all and Eun Jiwon could only sigh. He grasped her hand tightly and snatched the abandoned bag from the floor, leading her to the stairs.

“Don’t you have better things to do than watching people?” he roughly commented the blond’s presence by the staircase, silently witnessing the scene.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said urgently.

Eun Jiwon scowled subtly, immediately focused himself on the girl instead. He led the mysterious guest to the stairs and brought her upstairs. Sunghoon could only watch as they passed, not wanting to make any more moves that would get into the nerves of his new neighbour—being caught in the middle of an attempt to hang himself was far too much already. He could not help but wonder who the girl was. The curiosity overwhelmed the remnants of his negative feelings. One could only be intrigued when they witnessed a man talked to a girl who spoke no word and uttered no sound, and managed to create proper illusion of a discussion. Kang Sunghoon wondered, now, that this sudden turn of event had improved his mental state—that he had since cast aside his lament.

“Maybe stormy weather isn’t as bad as I thought,” he murmured to the raging storm outside as he approached the open door.

III: Tempo Impetuoso Destate

Disembowelled bodies lined up before his very eyes. The faces were no longer there—they were all faceless—but he thought he knew them all. He denied that his hands were red because of them. He denied that he was standing here because he had his hands in cold water. He denied that he had just dropped the rifle to the ground because he had emptied the shells to ensure these faceless people were subdued. He denied that the dagger in his fist was painted scarlet of their blood. He was never a part of this—no, never!

He trembled out of denying rage, but his emotions were twirled cruelly into stone cold horror in a split second as the sky reddened. Clad in murky uniforms and heavy dark boots, the faceless men’s souls were drawn out of the shells. His eyes shook as swirl of mist floated in the air, flowing up where wind’s direction didn’t conduct. At first it was pearly white, shimmering micro beads flying curiously towards dimly lit sky, but then it gradually turned scarlet. His heart pounded harder and faster. He stepped back groggily. He knew it was coming for him. It would. He knew.

“It wasn’t me!” he pathetically screamed. “It wasn’t me! I wasn’t there! I ran away!” He yelled desperately, rejecting strongly that he, too, deserved to taste a simple graze from the unbiased reaper of death.

As fast as he could, he turned and fleetingly escaped. The red mist charged towards him, hungrily. He could hear voices in the mist. A raging storm in the form of visible breath of wind. He dashed wildly through tall trees, into the darkness of forest. His body was heavier than it should. He was upset and frustrated. Fear filled his entire being. He clawed to barks of trees, hoping it would give him a boost of speed. His hands were dirty, but he could not care about it right now. The mist was closing in on him. When he turned around, he saw the mist destroyed everything it touched, drinking life out of plants.

His breath became heavier and his eyes were now blurry. All he knew now that he must keep running, and so he did. Through the darkness, he managed to reach the end of the woods, leaving the moving terror behind. He dropped to his knees, crying out his gratefulness. He covered his face with his palms, shouting into them. A moment afterwards, he realized that he felt cold. His face was cold and stiff, as if something had been applied on its skin. He touched his cheek, noticing hints of liquid stains on it. He looked at his hand. It was red as would clotted blood look. He hyperventilated. It smelled like blood. He couldn’t deny this—it was his own, not other people’s as he denied just a moment ago.

“You can’t run away forever!” the legion of eerie voices attacked his ears. He covered the ears, but it was the least he could do. The red mist arrived, buzzing as loud as thousands of bats. He reacted far too slowly. It got him—finally inside its swirling madness and pure destructive power.

“No! No! No! Don’t kill me!” he shouted desperately.

Tears flowed down his face. He could not bear it—the pain. His skin and flesh forcefully pulled out of their respective place, minced into tiny bits. It burnt. His head was unable to proceed anything. His body moved out of his designated function to survive, crawling forward, attempting to flee once again. His screeching voice didn’t help as his legs disappeared first. The pain engulfed him as a whole, leaving him less than a human. Everything was red. He remembered and saw nothing but red. The twirling mist above him was a crimson spiral and his voice cracked his eardrums—that was all he knew before everything turned pitch black.


“Jaejin-ah!” someone called, shaking his body powerfully enough to drag him out of sleep. His eyes snapped open, wide and enveloped by terror. He saw upon waking his old friend, Jaeduk, in his working clothes. His friend’s face was filled with concern and fear. His own mind and body were filled with fear. He was drenched with cold sweat.

“Are you all right?” Jaeduk asked worryingly.

“Did you bring any food?” he asked instead, diverting naturally. Jaeduk sighed, but it wasn’t unexpected.

“Yes, I put it on your table. Eat, okay? I’m going to eat with Sunghoon tonight. Are you really okay, though?”

“It’s just the heat making me crazy. Thanks, Jaeduk-ah.”

“But it’s been raining all day,” Jaeduk murmured, but it went unheard.

“I’m hungry.”

Jaejin dismissed his friend just like that, not wanting to talk about his recurring sinister dream. The man did as Jaejin wanted and left the room. He locked the front door with spare key Jaejin purposely gave him. With the state of Jaejin’s mind right now, he wasn’t confident that he would be able live alone. Lee Jaejin was fully aware of this fact, but running away was his only option. He still didn’t want to die, so he trusted Jaeduk and his other friend, Jiyong, to check on him from time to time here.

“I hate this,” he muttered to himself meekly as he swept his eyes through the room.

Paintings of red spirals with black background were scattered all over his bedroom. He shook his head, leaving bed and tossing his shirt away. He splashed cold water to his face, trying to get back his senses. He walked out of his apartment, ignoring the box of food brought by Jaeduk. His mind suddenly was at peace as soon as he heard and saw that it was stormy. He stopped before he went nearer to the outdoor weather.

A man sloppily ran through the storm in yellow raincoat and boots. For some reasons, Jaejin perceived that the man was a drop of sun in the form of somewhat grouchy man amidst cold and grey world. It was a bizarre look as the man did not seem unfit to wear such profane standalone colour, yet it fitted.

Jaejin studied the man quietly. He heard the man cursed when he found out the plastic bag he brought caught a splash of muddy water. The man let out a husky sigh once he stood inside the hall. He tipped off the raincoat’s hood, revealing his face. Jaejin had never seen him before. The man urgently peeked into the bag, rummaging with a deep frown. He quickly came into conclusion that it was satisfactory, so he wrapped it up and began to walk to the staircase. He somehow must have felt Jaejin’s stare that he turned his eyes towards Jaejin and met the eyes. He gave Jaejin a questioning look, but he greeted Jaejin anyway with a slight nod. Jaejin returned with slight bow instead, and so it was the first time Jaejin thought yellow wasn’t such a bad colour when worn alone. He quietly thanked the storm and went back inside to eat.


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