English version of “Tóc”:

He used to imagine how ravishing that one would look with hair past his waist.

Not anymore.

Because his sole wish, his most flaming wish, was granted at last.

He was combing that one’s hair.

That one was a careless one who could not manage even the mundane daily tasks. So he took upon himself the responsibility to take good care of him.

It was something he was doing with a solemnity equal to that of performing a mystical and holy ritual.

How much caution was never enough, for even the loss of a strand was heartbroken to him.

His fingers gently dug into the hair, feeling each strand smoothly flowing through like water, like silk.

Unsatisfied, he pressed his face to the hair and greedily inhaled the exotic lingering scent absorbed by each strand.

No words of any languages was able to express his affection to the hair. He would not trade a single strand for all the treasures in the world.

How about its owner?

Of course, he loved him even more.

The hair was so precious him since it was a part of that one, the part that remained.

If it wasn’t because his love for him was too great, he would not have had him hidden from the rest of the world.

Even if he had had to detain him, to break him.

Without legs he couldn’t run. Without arms he couldn’t crawl.

And, without body, he couldn’t move an inch. Not without his help.

Fragile and completely dependent. And he was most adorable that way.

Carefully and tenderly, he placed him on the marble pedestal like he had done so a hundred, thousand times before. The pedestal was high enough to impede the lowly vermin from infesting him, high enough to allow his hair to stream down like a sleek black spring.

He kissed him, his kisses burning as his sins. The kiss on his forehead, on his eyelids, on his cheeks, the kiss of a brother. The kiss on his lips, the kiss of lover.

He belonged to him and him alone.


This was another result of a grumbling stomach and not-so-good pizza at 10 P.M and listening to Rotten Girl, Grotesque Romance.