Bad (Part 1)

Jaehyo tastes like ash, lemon vodka and the meat they split earlier for dinner. His taste clings to Jiho’s tongue and Jiho swallows his down, his head swirling with his muddled thoughts. At this point in the make out, the kissing has turned lazy as the drugs and alcohol wear off.

This night’s combo has been the most successful yet, Jiho thinks, feeling the light thrum of pain emanating from almost every part of his body. It started when Jaehyo threw him against the table and spent half an hour eating his face while, almost successfully, trying to break Jiho’s back in half. Jiho, far too drunk and horny to even think past the hazy blur of semi-consciousness, let himself be Jaehyo’s plaything for the day.

A guy can get used to this kind of treatment.

Not only did Jaehyo jerk him off near the table but also he swallowed him later in the evening, by the bathtub, while Jiho tried his best not to choke him. Kinda. Jaehyo probably didn’t even feel it; he was so into the exchange.

“You’re so pretty,” he kept saying, touching the scratches on Jiho’s face with the tips of his fingers. “Pretty pretty pretty,” he breathed when he bit Jiho’s lips until they were red and swollen and hurt to touch. “My pretty,” he sighed against Jiho’s chest as Jiho stroked him off by the window, arching up like a cat begging to be petted more. Only drunk, drugged Jaehyo didn’t beg. After fucking in the shower and then again in the bathroom threshold, they moved, still in towels and covered in water droplets, to the couch.

Jaehyo’s always the first one to come down and Jiho can see the effects already as Jaehyo’s eyes slowly dim back to their usual, bored pallor and his tongue stops seeking all the pleasures. He’s in Jiho’s lap, a sack of bones with black and blue skin and the only color on his face despite his scratches, his bruises, his dark circles, are his lips. His cherry lips. They’re having cherry vodka next time, Jiho decides.

Jaehyo stops kissing after a few minutes and falls back on the couch, looking much like a corpse. His hair is black, his nails are black, the skin of his back from his tattoos is black: the only other color on Jaehyo lies in his snow white skin but even that’s been compromised in just one evening of intoxication.

“Jiho,” Jaehyo reaches a hand toward him.

Jiho is still a little buzzed and he’s curious as to what else Jaehyo wants so he takes it. Jaehyo pulls him and Jiho lands over him, blanketing Jaehyo’s body with his own. Jaehyo’s tired eyes widen microscopically as they take in Jiho’s scuffed appearance and he kisses him once again, softly.

Jaehyo passes out trapped between Jiho and the couch, shivering in his wet towel. Jiho trips over nothing trying to get Jaehyo into bed and he crashes face first into his pillow after his delivery is done. He tucks Jaehyo in as well as he can with his trembling fingers and blurry vision (his comedowns are the fucking worst) and ends up blacking out the moment he puts the covers over the two of them. Sure, they enjoy getting shitfaced but dying of pneumonia is not high in their agenda.




Jiho is woken up with soft lips moving against his own, teasing his own tongue out of its dormant state. There’s a curious tongue here too, stroking the middle of his lower lip and pulling at it with sharp teeth. Jaehyo must be kissing in his sleep again; Jiho is familiar with his taste and the conformation of his lips. He almost never kisses like this when he’s conscious and Jiho isn’t used to being kissed like this. It’s too soft and slow and then there’s an uncomfortable shifting in his lower stomach as his body begins to respond to the soft presence. This is so fucking weird and he doesn’t want this, he shouldn’t want this but once in a while, no matter where Jaehyo is sleeping in his dorm, he’ll find him and he’ll make out with him in his sleep.

Jaehyo acts as cold as usual in the morning and claims to never remember such events so Jiho has stopped mentioning it after the sixth time it happened. He’s grown to expect being woken up like this, with a body half pressed up against his and eager lips massaging his own.

The kisses abruptly stop, just like everything Jaehyo does, and the bed shifts as Jaehyo moves back to his side, retreating like a ghost back to his realm. Jiho exhales and rubs his face tiredly, debating on whether to ignore the pressure in his groin or squeeze out a quick one before going back to sleep. In the end, he decides against it, too tired and feeling the beginning effects of a hangover to care. He sleeps little that night, as he tries to ignore how Jaehyo’s random sleep-make out sessions fuck up his sleeping patterns.    







Jaehyo is a pill popper. He takes one with his “breakfast”, two with his “lunch” and two for his “dinner.” It wouldn’t seem too bad to Jiho if Jaehyo actually ate for a change. He’s a recovering anorexic who relapsed a little before he met Jiho and has never been more fucked up. It doesn’t make sense to Jiho, who smokes and does every drug under the sun. What’s so bad about eating? People need to eat to live.

“I don’t want to live,” Jaehyo says one night when Jiho brings it up, tapping the excess ash from his cigarette.

“So just kill yourself and be done with it,” says Jiho who is blunt and thinks in black and white, good and bad, stupid and smart. Jaehyo had smiled and said it wasn’t that easy and gave Jiho a three-minute head start before he tackled him and fucked his brains out. Jiho likes to think Jaehyo is getting better, slowly. He’s still too fucking skinny but Jiho has at least seen him eat in the last few days. Maybe not every day but he does eat; if he keeps it down is another question entirely.

“You should eat,” Jiho will say even if he’s not supposed to care because he’s Jaehyo’s fuck buddy, not his boyfriend or even his friend.

“You should stay out of my fucking business,” is always the natural response and Jaehyo will go back to smoking. He’s always smoking.

He’s smoking now as they make the trek to their college a couple of miles from Jiho’s apartment. They walk so close the backs of their hands brush against each other. Jiho pretends not to notice, too engrossed in his philosophy book. Jaehyo, still looking like the ulzzang he was in high school, stares up at the sky.

At the crosswalk, Jaehyo keeps walking and is only saved from being run over by Jiho pulling on the back of his hoodie on instinct.

“Don’t die,” Jiho says, eyes still on his book, voice monotone.

“Oh,” Jaehyo blinks as the car that would have hit him passes by, honking. Jiho closes his book and gives Jaehyo a look, dropping his hand from Jaehyo’s back. They don’t talk on their way to school. They don’t talk at the school gate. They don’t say goodbye as they depart to their first classes.

The only time they talk is when they meet up at noon between Jiho’s Philosophy and Introduction to Korean Poetry classes.

Every day is the same schedule: they meet up in a little used bathroom in the Psychology department to smoke and touch a little, if they’re feeling up to it. The joint is passed around until there’s half left and Jaehyo pulls some pills from his bag and offers Jiho a few. Painkillers. Does Jiho even have pain to kill? Jaehyo does.

Jiho refuses, as always, but he is always down to share his weed and cigarettes.

Today, Jaehyo does something new: he cuts. Jiho is not unfamiliar with cutters, he’s caught some old friends red handed when their stress became too much, but he’s never seen it happen from beginning to end. He usually came in just as the friend was trying to cover up the wound so he gives himself a pause as Jaehyo starts. In the back of his mind, he thinks he should stop Jaehyo and confiscate the blade. He knows this isn’t healthy but nothing they do, either together or apart, is fucking healthy so Jiho should not start giving more fucks now.  

Jaehyo acts calmly, almost like a surgeon, as he rolls his sleeve up. He makes no effort to hide his act away from Jiho’s curious eyes and even invites him to join in by moving closer to his side and offering his intended arm for full view.

“It hurts,” Jaehyo says, brushing the tips of his fingers against the skin on his wrist. Old scars, faded with time, litter Jaehyo’s wrist like an eternal bracelet. “Sometimes, the pills don’t work. I took a lot today and still…I still feel it.” Jaehyo takes a razor blade out of his pocket and holds it to the light. “I don’t know what else to do, how else to feel…better, so I do this.” Jaehyo’s face is pale and drawn as he slides the blade across his skin, cutting a very thin line with his shaking fingers.

Blood blooms almost too brightly on his white skin and Jiho’s cigarette lies forgotten as he watches the blood drip. “Do you feel better now?” Jiho asks after a beat.

Jaehyo shakes his head with sad eyes. “No, it hurts but I...I think it helps…”

In light of knowing what to say, Jiho offers his cigarette. Jaehyo takes it and they turn again to his arm to watch the blood drip. It’s a little hypnotizing: the way the blood rolls out, in tiny drips, rolls around Jaehyo’s arm and finally drips down to the floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Wouldn’t it be better just to kill yourself?” Jiho asks. “You won’t hurt if you’re dead.”

Jaehyo shakes his head again, “I’m a coward, I can’t. I’ve tried but I just can’t go through with it. Death doesn’t want me but I don’t want life.”

Jaehyo goes on, speaking of death as if it’s an old lover who won’t return his phone calls. It is now that he fully opens himself up about the severity of his illness. He tells Jiho about his time in Japan: how insane the modeling world is, how it really is hell on Earth, how they beat the models they caught eating more than once a day. He talks about falling in love with prescription drugs because they made the beatings and the hunger easier to deal with; how he fucked and was fucked and never remembered what he did the previous night.

“It wasn’t supposed to turn out like that, Japan was supposed to save me but…Japan is still killing me. I’m not hungry anymore, I don’t feel anything, I just want to feel…again. I wasn’t perfect before Japan but at least I didn’t hate myself, at least I could stand to look myself in the mirror. Sex, drugs…I’m just trying to feel like myself again, I just want to forgot everything and just…just…try to live again.”

Jaehyo’s cut still runs and in the course of his narration, he’s moved even closer to Jiho. His blood now drips near Jiho’s hand and splashes on the floor near his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Jaehyo ducks his head. “You didn’t need to hear all that, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I need to stop fucking talking.”                    





In Introduction to Korean Poetry, Jiho writes in his margins about a black bird that’s caught between life and death and can’t make up his mind which one he wants more. Jiho’s still writing when Jaehyo knocks on his door two nights later. It’s not a Fuck Night and although Jiho had been procrastinating with his rap a bit he still was doing actual work but he answers the door anyway, for reasons currently unknown. If Jaehyo wants to die, he doesn’t know why he continues to seek out Jiho, who is very much alive and wants to remain alive.

Jaehyo’s dark circles are more pronounced than ever and he looks like a zombie, confused about where he’s supposed to be.

“What do you want?” Jiho sneaks a look at Jaehyo’s arm to find it bandaged and he wonders how many more cuts he’s hiding under there.

“Jiho…can I stay with you tonight?”

No.

“Alright.”

Dammit, that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “What’s wrong with your place?” Jaehyo steps around him and doesn’t answer, heading straight for Jiho’s kitchen. “I said what’s wrong with—“

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jiho opens a bag of shrimp chips and sniffs, wrinkling his nose. “I just don’t want to be there.”

They’re not dating. They’re not even friends. All Jiho knows about Jaehyo are his problems, his addictions, the reason why he can’t sleep at night sometimes and the meaning of his tattoo (which he has forgotten so that doesn’t count as much as it used to). 

“Eat some,” Jiho says after Jaehyo has stared into the shrimp chip bag for five minutes.

Jaehyo swallows nervously and offers the bag to Jiho, who takes it, sighing. He moves to the couch and slaps all his homework to the floor but it’s too late, Jaehyo is already captivated by the miles of black ink all over Jiho’s notes. “Is this a poem?”

“A rap,” Jiho takes a chip and passes the bag back, urging Jaehyo to take one with his eyes.

Jaehyo looks unsure, “What do they taste like?”

“Chicken,” Jiho says, gesturing to the word ‘shrimp’ on the bag.

“But it says shrimp…”

And so the joke is lost.

Jaehyo takes a chip slowly from the bag and eats it just as slowly, as if waiting for it to attack him.

“It’s not bad,” Jaehyo says but he doesn’t take any more, instead turning his attention back to Jiho’s scattered notes.

Turned in such a way, Jiho can see the faint outlines of Jaehyo’s huge Japanese tattoo that spans from his left shoulder to his left hip through his white shirt. It seems like a century ago Jiho asked him what it meant; time and drugs have dulled Jiho’s memory and the only character he can remember is irrelevant because it’s not in the tattoo. Jiho is intimately familiar with the tattoo: he has traced every stroke with his fingers and tongue. He has bitten red all of the small spaces in between the characters and he’s stared at them, too high, until he’s felt like their shape with never leave his retinas.

“Don’t you have homework to do?” Jiho asks.

Jaehyo shakes his head, “I didn’t sleep for two nights and did all my homework for the week. I have nothing else to do now.”

“You should sleep early then—“

“I’m not tired. Do you have any weed? Cigarettes?” Jiho fishes out a loose cigarette from his pocket and hands it over, mourning in his head his lack of nicotine. He can’t say no to Jaehyo.

“Thanks.” Jaehyo takes the cigarette but doesn’t light it, turning it instead in his fingers over and over again. He looks exhausted and Jiho just wants him to sleep. Even if it’s not his place to care for Jaehyo, even if they’re just strangers who get wasted together, seeing Jaehyo like this is not his cup of tea. It’s classic I’m fucked up but you’re really fucked up, to the point where I don’t know what to do syndrome.

“Jaehyo,” Jiho says lowly, taking his cigarette back.

Jaehyo lets it go easily.

“Go to sleep. You look terrible.”

“Does this mean we’re not fucking tonight?”

“Not tonight. Come on, let’s go.” Jiho hoists him up by the arm and Jaehyo is dragged along like a rag doll, sagging into the covers of Jiho’s bed once he is deposited on top.

“Sleep,” Jiho hisses when Jaehyo rises up to fuss. “Just fucking sleep already, you’re driving me crazy.”

Jaehyo finally settles down at that and Jiho returns to his books to get some work down. As expected, he can’t focus. He ends up writing the characters to Jaehyo’s tattoo on the back of his Mathematical Reasoning homework and has to rewrite it all over again.

He passes out earlier than usual on the coach and is awoken, just like clockwork, with lips pressed against his and a soft weight on his chest. Jiho really needs to start locking his bedroom door when Jaehyo sleeps over. This sleep-kissing thing is getting a little out of hand. Jiho opens his eyes half way and sees Jaehyo on top of him, illuminated by the light of the muted TV. Jaehyo’s eyes are closed and he continues his soft kissing routine, slowly teasing his way into Jiho’s mouth for the nth time. Sleep hasn’t been coming easy to Jiho and he’s not in the mood for a midnight make out session, not when his feelings are so…confusing. He wants to stop but he doesn’t, he doesn’t want to stop but he does…

He opens his eyes and flinches back into the couch when something wet lands on his nose. A second drop comes soon afterwards. His eyes open again and he sees, shining there like trails of shooting stars, Jaehyo crying into their kiss. How Jaehyo can sleep-kiss and sleep-cry at the same time is beyond Jiho’s understanding.

Jiho’s raises his arm and wipes under Jaehyo’s eyes with the pad of his thumb, brushing the moisture away from the top of his cheeks. The action causes Jaehyo to open his eyes and he looks at Jiho with confusion as the situation slowly falls on his shoulders.

“What are we…” His tears fall as he talks; Jiho continues to wipe them off his thin face.

“You kiss me in your sleep sometimes, you were doing it now again.”

“And…and you just let me?” Jaehyo sits back, out of Jiho’s comfortable grip, and Jiho drops his hand, Jaehyo’s tears still chilling the tip of his left thumb.

“It’s not like you’re a horrible kisser…”

The excuse doesn’t even make sense. Jiho let him continue to do it because he liked it.

When they met, they were like two shapes with sharp edges. Over time, the longer they stayed around each other, they chipped their sharp edges down until they were nice and smooth. It’s the only explanation Jiho can find as to why he suddenly has no problem cuddling or slow, teenage kisses or the thundering of his heartbeat when Jaehyo looks at him. Like right now.

“I…” Jaehyo clears his throat. “I…I’m sorry, I’ll leave now.”

Jiho catches him before he flies away. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to, the kissing didn’t bother me—“

“It bothers me. You should’ve stopped me after the first time it happened—“

“I tried to tell you—“

“You should’ve pushed me away,” Jaehyo continues. “But you didn’t. You’re getting too attached, Woo Jiho. I chose you because I thought…no, I knew someone like you would never want to be associated with someone like me but apparently I made the wrong choice.”

There are too many things going on here.

“Someone like me?” is what sticks out to Jiho the most. He decides to, perhaps not consciously, ignore the jab about him being too attached because he’s obviously not. He can walk away from Jaehyo and their little drug chain any time. He can.

“Someone like you,” Jaehyo repeats as he stands up. “Come on, don’t act like you didn’t hate me the first time you saw me. Look at yourself: up and coming rapper? Dresses in clothes two sizes too big because they look cool? Curses and smokes and drinks and sleeps around and still manages to have every teacher eating out of his hand? I saw potential in you. I thought you wouldn’t want to get too involved with an…an addict, an insomniac, a person with too many problems and too many deficiencies and yet here you are…letting me kiss you in my sleep. Are you in love with me, Woo Jiho? Is that what this is about? Do you love me?”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” Jiho bites back. He’s starting to feel the pinch of truth in all these accusations and if he’s not ready to let them out into the open, there is no way in hell he’ll let Jaehyo talk about them. “You think just because I didn’t push you off that I’m in love with you? What kind of fucking logic is that? So I like kissing, so what? You like blow jobs, I bet you would never push me away if I fell face first on your cock.”

There it is, the spark in Jaehyo’s eyes. Jiho keeps talking, his words progressively getting filthier and filthier. It’s easy to derail Jaehyo if he’s not too sober and just a tiny bit delirious with exhaustion. “And yeah, I wasn’t attracted to a skinny fuck like you in the beginning.” Jaehyo is now leaning into Jiho’s personal space, his eyes on Jiho’s lips.

Hook…line….

And here’s where Jiho’s face takes on the rough tinge, the satiny coarse texture he has associated with wanting to fuck. “But that was before I knew how good you were with your tongue, Ahn Jaehyo.”

He’s so easy to distract if sex is involved.

Jiho would feel a little remorse for using his voice for evil but he needs time to think over just what the fuck has changed in this relationship and when Jaehyo leans all the way to kiss him and stuff his hand down his pants, he’s not complaining. Even if he feels Jaehyo flinch when Jiho accidentally presses his hand against his bandage. Even if Jiho can feel all of Jaehyo’s ribs, can feel like heart beat too strongly through his bird-like skin. Even when he’s facing Jaehyo’s tattoo again and he can’t keep his mouth off it and Jaehyo makes the most insufferable sound when Jiho mouths at the last character on his hip.

The conversation on Jiho’s “attachment” is put on hold but Jiho knows problems don’t go away by ignoring them. He’ll face it one day, in the mean time; they’ll just get high and have more sex. It seems like a nice plan.





The first time Jaehyo eats off Jiho’s plate they’re in public. The school dining hall has been remodeled and there are more food choices so Jiho packs his plate with almost everything. He’s a growing boy after all. Jaehyo, in a rare show of character, tags along after him with his empty bowl. When Jiho takes his seat, there’s a moment in which he compares his packed plate with Jaehyo’s moderately empty bowl. Some spare leaves of lettuce coat the bottom with kimchi in the center. It’s a pitiful meal but it’s something so Jiho says nothing. He’s half way through his spicy fried rice when a few of his noodles disappear. Jiho looks up just in time to catch the end of a noodle slowly disappear in between Jaehyo’s chapped lips.

“Oh,” he says, almost surprised. “It’s spicy.”

“Spices are good for the soul,” or something, Jiho doesn’t know, it just tastes good. And then it hits him. Jaehyo voluntarily ate. He’s voluntarily eating, as he still pulls noodles off Jiho’s plate with his chopsticks. He looks up once when he notices the stare on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jiho coughs and shakes his head. “No reason.”

If Jiho happens to move his plate a little closer to Jaehyo, he blames it on trying to get comfortable to eat more.

The second time Jaehyo eats off Jiho’s plate they’re in Jaehyo’s dorm and there is food in the refrigerator. If Jiho remembers correctly, the last time he was here, there was only soju and soda crackers. Jaehyo’s dorm is spotlessly clean and impersonal: there is nothing “Jaehyo” about this place. Except the walls. The white walls. White like the skin on Jaehyo’s back, white like his lips when he takes too many pills at a time, white like light behind Jiho’s eyes when he comes in Jaehyo’s pretty ulzzang mouth.

“Are you hungry?” Jaehyo asks, staring into the refrigerator. “I have kimchi ramen…what do people usually put on ramen?”

“Fried eggs sometimes.”

Jaehyo tightens his grip on the fridge door, “…Fried?”

Baby steps.

“It’s alright, we can just eat the ramen.”

They do just that. But of course, food always looks better in someone else’s bowl and Jaehyo slurps from Jiho’s soon enough and Jiho can’t bring himself to chastise him for it. He’s eating. This doesn’t mean he’s better, Jiho forces himself to remember. He’s read enough shit on the internet to know Jaehyo can easily throw everything back up when he’s not around or starve himself for the next couple of days.

Jiho sneaks bites from Jaehyo’s forgotten bowl, toes curling nicely at the explosion of spices on his tongue.

Later, when they’re in bed together, after Jaehyo has popped his pills and Jiho has had his blunt, Jiho tries to feel if Jaehyo’s body has changed: if he feels fuller, healthier, something, anything. He doesn’t know why he’s looking. He doesn’t know why he’s so stressed over this, why he’s paying so much attention to Jaehyo’s sides, to his ribs.

Jaehyo doesn’t feel any different. He’s a little more responsive this time because Jiho is more responsive, attentive and his hands are everywhere, touching and measuring and biting. Sunwoo, Jiho’s friend and dealer, must’ve added something else to the mixture this time because Jiho cannot fucking keep still and he’s still horny as fuck. He has Jaehyo under him, panting and muttering gibberish, as he gives Jaehyo a whole other set of tattoos on his neck with his teeth. Jaehyo’s mouth tastes like spicy kimchi ramen this time and the post-fucking make out only ends when Jiho can no longer feel his lips. He’s still pretty fucked up and almost falls off the bed if Jaehyo hadn’t pulled him back by the shoulder.

“You animal,” Jaehyo pants, flipping his bangs out of his eyes. “You almost broke me.”

“You liked it,” Jiho says as he lays back on the bed. His attention is quickly drawn back to Jaehyo’s lips and they kiss again; Jiho turns Jaehyo over to pull him to his chest. Jaehyo pulls back to breathe and Jiho is distracted again, this time by snow white skin and a prominent Adam’s apple.

In the back of his mind, he replays all he knows about Ahn Jaehyo. Jaehyo has told him little of his life as a model but he’s notorious on this side of town as being the pretty boy with the not so pretty problems. According to rumors, he was picked off the streets and shipped off to Japan after high school, and that’s where he acquired the ominous tattoo down his back. How he became addicted to painkillers, when he started starving himself, Jiho doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much about Jaehyo and yet he’s already in too deep.

Every little sigh, every look, every little freckle on an otherwise flawless white face and he’s trapped.

Tonight, after it’s all over, Jiho tries to get away, from Jaehyo, from his feelings. He’s halfway off the bed when Jaehyo pulls him back, whimpering pathetically in his drugged up stupor about monsters and aliens watching from the window. Jiho sighs and he feels his high finally starting to wear off.

“There are no aliens—“

“Yes, there are and they’ll come and get me if you don’t stay!” Jiho tells himself he stays just to shut Jaehyo up but the excuse is weak at best. Jaehyo pulls Jiho in close and cuddles him…and Jiho needs a cigarette.

“You accused me of being attached before but now you’re the one who doesn’t want to let me go…”

“I know I’m attached,” Jaehyo says in his airy, intoxicated voice. “I was the one attached from the beginning but I never wanted you to be. It’s easier for us if you don’t get attached.”

Jaehyo is talkative when he’s fucked up and Jiho will keep him talking if it means he finally gets some answers. “Why would it be easier for us if I don’t get attached?”

Jaehyo laughs, “Do you think someone like you would ever be happy with someone like me? We should keep it shallow. I would only ruin you…I’ve ruined people before.”

“Ruin me? Please.”

Jaehyo laughs again, grabbing Jiho’s chin in between his thumb and forefinger. In the half-light of the bedroom, his pupils are so dilated they almost completely overtake his irises.

“I’m bad, Jiho,” he giggles. “Really bad. When I was little, someone told me I ate hearts for breakfast, lunch and dinner because I wouldn’t stop picking at people’s feelings until they were just as depressed as I was. Don’t get attached to me, I won’t make you happy.”

“You talk too much,” Jiho pulls the covers over their shoulders. “You don’t make sense so we’ll talk about this more when you’re sober.” They’re going to ignore talking about this when they’re sober. It’s not something to talk about, Jiho hopes to suppress whatever he does feel for Jaehyo until, either Jaehyo finds someone else to play with or Jiho gets sick of this destruction.

One of these things needs to happen soon if Woo Jiho is to retain his sanity.


Part Two