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There’s a knock at the side of the truck.
A throat clears in the same direction, Seonghwa hurries to tie his apron and get to the window. It’s rare for someone to be here so early, but he won’t complain.
“Good morning, what can I—oh!”
The sweetest smile glimmers on Hongjoong’s lips, in his eyes, standing in front of the serving window with his hands in his pockets.
Seonghwa rushes to hug him through the window. He can feel the loose strings of his apron slipping down his hips, and the counter must be cutting into Hongjoong’s middle uncomfortably, but none of it matters. He squeezes until his muscles start to ache, Hongjoong’s face tucked into his neck.
He scans the area as they pull away. Only a few others are in the square, setting up like he was, and far enough away that they probably didn’t notice.
Hongjoong’s eyebrows are lifted when Seonghwa looks back, great minds and all. He rounds the truck, and the door slams shut just as Seonghwa finishes pulling the shutter down over the window—better safe than sorry—then he’s practically catching Hongjoong in a kiss.
It’s too easy to get caught up, to allow it when Hongjoong starts to tilt his head, trying to open him up, but he has to pull away.
He squeezes Hongjoong’s arm in apology as he reaches to bring the shutter back up. No customers, and the few other vendors are occupied. He lets out a breath.
“Warm welcome,” says Hongjoong, not concerned in the slightest.
Seonghwa fits their hands together out of sight of the window, can at least allow that. “Not my fault. I missed you.” He says it even though Hongjoong knows, even though it’s been years of this. He always does.
Hongjoong grins and squeezes his hands, brings them up to his lips to press kisses against his knuckles. Seonghwa blushes and pulls them away (really, no decency) and retrieves his apron from the floor.
His hands work behind his back to retie it as he fixes Hongjoong with what he hopes is a stern look. “Go to the house and say hi before someone gets suspicious.” Someone might have already seen that both of them in the truck together, and if word gets back to his—
“I went there first,” Hongjoong says, “they sent me out here. I gotta get back to my aunt’s anyway, so I can’t stay, but I wanted to see you.”
“Working all day?” Seonghwa asks ruefully.
“Yessir. Setup apparently can’t be done until I get here.”
“Convenient.”
“Yeah,” Hongjoong sighs. “Probably gonna be the rest of the week. But come Sunday, I’m all yours.” Seonghwa grins at that. He should start thinking of things to do.
Suddenly, Hongjoong leans towards him with a consternated look.
He tilts his head. “What, what is it?”
“Eyelash, right here.” Hongjoong points at his cheekbone.
Seonghwa’s hand lifts up to get it, but nothing comes away on his fingers.
Hongjoong shakes his head, beckoning, “You’re not—”
Seonghwa leans in towards him, blindsided by the feeling of lips against his cheek. His eyes snap to the window, heart starting to race, but everyone’s still on the far side. Thank god.
The door is already open when he turns back, Hongjoong throwing an amused little smile over his shoulder as he strolls off.
Seonghwa was seventeen the first summer Hongjoong came. He only stayed for a month to help out with the festival—’breaking him in’ in his aunt’s words.
Seonghwa knew his family well, it’d be hard not to, and they’d been mentioning a nephew in the city Seonghwa’s age who they hoped would take over the business someday, no children of their own. Real promising kid, interested in whatever he can get his hands on, hadn’t come to town since Seonghwa was too young to remember.
Hongjoong had been irritated at everything that moved on that first night, hating being away from home and spending a month without his friends. Dinner with was tense, Seonghwa too afraid to talk to him out of turn while the adults spoke over their heads. One question was one too many; Hongjoong shoved his chair back and left the table the second someone brought up how he’d been behaving.
Seonghwa found him after dinner, knocked on the door they all heard slam shut. He opened it after no answer, finding Hongjoong red-eyed and hugging his knees at the head of the bed.
“Go away,” he grunted, burying his face in his arms. He sounded more tired than angry.
Seonghwa leaned against the doorframe. Softly, he offered, “You wanna go for a walk?”
No response.
“I can show you better places to hide.”
Hongjoong didn’t move a muscle. Seonghwa pushed off the wall, daring to take a few steps further into the room.
He tried, “It’ll get you out of doing the dishes.”
Hongjoong flinched at hearing his voice closer, face peeking up, but he didn’t lash out, at least. Seonghwa attempted a smile, not sure how long he’d have his eyes for.
After a few tense seconds, Hongjoong slowly unfolded himself, wiping messily at his teary cheeks. Seonghwa moved back into the hall, making sure no one else was nearby. He kept himself between Hongjoong and their families as they passed the lively sitting room, as they tied their shoes and stepped out.
They ended up on the bench in the middle of the bridge stretching over the brook. The sunset was on its last legs, but the moon was close to full.
They stuck to their respective sides, Hongjoong’s legs drawn up and crossed beneath himself. He watched the stars at the very top of the treeline solemnly. His face was still pinched with distaste, it had been since he’d crossed the threshold of the bedroom doorway.
Seonghwa tried not to stare, but Hongjoong was looking far enough in the other direction that he didn’t notice either way. Or just didn’t care.
Neither of them had said a word on the way over. Seonghwa felt like he should try, now that they were alone, but he didn’t want to be snarled at. And anyway, it wasn’t so bad to be out here now that he was more sure Hongjoong wouldn’t run away. Crickets and frogs filled the silence.
He’d had seen Hongjoong in pictures before, heard about his accomplishments from his family, but had no idea what Hongjoong had been told about him. If anything at all. What was there to tell?
Hongjoong pulled something out of his pocket, then. Even in the darkness, it didn’t take more than a second for Seonghwa to recognize it–a music box, small and ornate. Old but beautiful, decorated with swirls and stars in tarnished silver. He’d seen it on the mantle before, played with it when he was young and bored of listening to the adults talk in a house with no other children.
Hongjoong lifted the lid, the little angel inside springing up. He wound the dial at the bottom, but it didn’t click. No music played.
Seonghwa’s eyes lifted back up to his face—brow pinched, mouth bitter. Grieving this, too. No chance he couldn’t see Seonghwa’s face in his peripheral, he must have been trying to keep it together, but his eyes were glassy.
“It broke?” Seonghwa asked, before he could think better of it.
Hongjoong startled a little, but nodded. A crack in the wall.
Seonghwa held his hand out for it. He didn’t know a thing about how it worked, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Hongjoong hesitated, mouth twisted slightly in distrust, but he handed it over. Seonghwa just barely nodded his thanks.
It was difficult with only moonlight, but if he held the box up and out of his shadow, he could see well enough. The mechanism, he knew, must have been under the platform that the angel sprang from.
He fiddled with the figure and found the piece loose, it must have fallen or been dropped and both parts had been damaged. He felt a little resistance, but the platform dislodged with pressure.
Hongjoong gasped to his side as he pulled it out. Seonghwa’s eyes flitted over to him, no idea how true it would be, but assuring, “It’s okay.” He turned the freed piece over and found dried glue, easy enough to redo. “We’ll put it back together.”
He handed Hongjoong the angel so he could fuss with the guts of the thing. A few tiny metal and wood parts sat inside, simple enough that touching them showed him how they worked. He turned a tiny metal drum, and the raised bumps on the surface plinked out the notes as they struck against cut-out keys in a flat metal piece.
He looked to Hongjoong, who was just as surprised, eyes locked on the box.
“We’ll just tighten it,” Seonghwa realized, thrilled and forgetting himself. “It still plays, it’s just the dial. There’s tools at the house.”
He could see the moment Hongjoong started to believe him. He encouraged it, pressing the box into Hongjoong’s hand with both of his, watching on as Hongjoong fit the angel back in, closed it, and tucked it back in his pocket for safekeeping.
The moment shone but threatened to burn out fast, Hongjoong withdrawing again as the quiet sunk in. Seonghwa’s olive branch now just an indent in denim. He searched for something even half as cherished to keep bonding over, but came up empty, scrambling for—
“Thanks.”
It was so hushed Seonghwa almost thought he misheard, but when he looked up (measured, not too fast), Hongjoong’s mouth was as close to smiling as it had been all night, and he held Seonghwa’s gaze for a few seconds before he turned his head away again.
Seonghwa took it and ran.
There’s a knock at the door.
“I got it,” Seonghwa’s mother calls, and the door squeaks open.
“Morning ma’am,” comes a familiar voice, and Seonghwa hurries to get his other shoe on. “Seonghwa home?”
“Yes, he is, he’s just about ready. Can I get you anything?”
“That’s alright, thank you.”
“You’re coming with us tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. We wrapped up ‘round seven last night, so we’ll all be there.”
“Wonderful. Ah, here he is,” she says, stepping to the side of the door to make way for Seonghwa. She puts a hand on his shoulder as he reaches them, and he flinches in surprise. She gives a warm, “Nice to see you, Hongjoong,” and slips away, Hongjoong tipping his head after her.
Finally Seonghwa can take him in, backlit with June sunshine and grinning on his porch. He takes Seonghwa’s hand as soon as they’re close enough to each other, “Morning, darling,” and Seonghwa can’t resist looking back over his shoulder to make sure his mother is gone.
“Morning,” he says as soon as he’s sure the coast is clear. Just to be safe, he urges them out the door and closes it quickly.
He squeezes Hongjoong’s hand before he drops it as they make it out onto the sidewalk—Hongjoong makes fun of him, but there’s no such thing as too careful.
To placate, he asks, “So what d’you wanna do?”
“Anything,” Hongjoong says, restless. “Go out on the river, drive in to a movie, sit on a park bench and talk. Whatever you want.”
Seonghwa chews at his lip a little. Those are all very broad-daylight activities. They’re headed further into town, and Seonghwa is already too aware of each person they pass. They’re friends, everyone knows that, it’s not unreasonable for them to walk beside each other, but still.
“What,” Hongjoong asks after it’s been too long, “you don’t want to?”
Seonghwa sighs. “I’m just worried. We cut it close sometimes.”
It’s Hongjoong’s turn to be quiet. Seonghwa has to tamp down an apology, they both know he’s not trying to be mean, but it feels that way sometimes. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Alright,” Hongjoong declares, “let’s go to the library, then. We’ll sit at separate table and read silently for hours. Something romantic, like applied mathematics.” He nudges Seonghwa’s shoulder. “I’ll cast longing glances your way when I think you’re not looking.”
Seonghwa smiles despite himself, and Hongjoong mirrors it. Actually, “Can we seriously go? We don’t have to stay and cast longing glances, but I’m supposed to check today if a book came in.”
“Sure,” Hongjoong nods. “This the fancy French one you were telling me about?”
“French and Italian.”
“Right. If you need a taster while you’re trying any of those out, you should let me know.”
“I’ll add you to the list.”
Hongjoong gasps. “The list?” He blessedly waits for the two teenage girls chattering past them to clear a few paces before scoffing, “I thought you loved me.”
“I do,” says Seonghwa, powering through the urge to frantically check for eavesdroppers. “But, you know. Nine months is a long time. I can’t wait around.”
Hongjoong brings a hand to his chest, the other reaching up to wipe a fake tear
Seonghwa scoffs over his theatrical sniffles. “Like you’re sitting around reading magazines all year.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You know it. I clip the coupons, too. 10% off summer linens, Hwa.”
Seonghwa rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lip is tugging up.
The book is ready for him. Just came in last night, the librarian says, and he thanks her profusely as he skims the pages. Not only do the contents look delicious, but, looking at the table of contents, it’s organized so thoughtfully.
When he closes it and looks up, Hongjoong’s head is tilted sideways, reading the covers on the nearest shelf. Folk stories. He didn’t peg Hongjoong as the type, but it still seems
He sidles up to him. “You wanna pick something out?”
Hongjoong turns to face him and shrugs. “Got any recommendations?”
Seonghwa’s gaze shifts to the shelves behind him. Largely unfamiliar, but he recognizes a few. A gold cover sticks out to him particularly—”Oh, I remember this one.” He slides it out from between the others. “The cover fell off the copy we used to have, I read it so much.”
“I’ll take it,” Hongjoong says.
Oh, he didn’t mean—“It’s—I read it when I was a lot younger. It has nice morals, and stuff, but it’s not really the most,” he fumbles, “complicated of stories.”
Hongjoong takes it from him. “So what? If you liked it,” he shrugs. He flips the book over like he’s trying to figure out how much it weighs. “How do I check this thing out?”
They end up in the loft. Hongjoong didn’t say anything, just steered them in that direction, but Seonghwa is grateful. He’ll grow out of the hypervigilance one of these days, but sometimes he just can’t shake it.
A long, long time ago, before Hongjoong’s grandparents, even, animals were kept in this barn, but it’s only housed old equipment for the past few decades. Flannel blankets they brought up somewhere between two or three summers ago cover the few hay bales left over in the loft.
Hongjoong strums his guitar while Seonghwa leafs through the recipes, making notes on a separate paper he asked the librarian for. Which ones he’s most excited about, which ones he can make from ingredients he already has, what he’ll need to request special for others.
“You don’t have to play so quiet,” he says after a while.
Hongjoong just tilts his head. “I don’t wanna distract you.”
“It’s not distracting,” he assures.
“That’s ‘cause it’s quiet.” Seonghwa snorts at that, and Hongjoong smiles. “I’m just messing around, anyway. ‘s not ready to show off yet.”
Seonghwa shrugs. “Either way, I don’t mind it.”
Hongjoong hums, and goes back to strumming.
He hits a roadblock a few minutes later, sighing and slinging the guitar strap off his shoulders.
“So,” he says, carefully laying it down beside them, “you’re not working the stand for the festival?”
Seonghwa tucks his notes into the book to keep his page. “Not while all the kids are out. I’ll probably take some of the early shifts.”
“What’re you doing instead?”
“Face painting.”
“Really? Since when do you paint?”
“A lot goes on around here while you’re away,” Seonghwa teases.
In reality, he’d been helping bring the tents and tables out of storage and found a booklet of simple step-by-step designs from a few years ago. It jogged his memory—face painting used to be part of the kids’ tables back when he was younger, but it’d been quite some time since he’d seen it. He’d always loved to watch them scamper past, butterflies and cat noses and superhero masks, smudging in the sunlight. A small price for that much simple joy.
“Look at you,” says Hongjoong. “Your folks need any help, then?”
“No, we found some extra hands.” Come to think of it, “Your folks need any help? You’re gonna play this year, right?”
Hongjoong looks taken aback.
Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “What? Aren’t you?”
“I am,” Hongjoong says, “I just didn’t think you knew.”
Oh, “Was it a surprise?”
“Not exactly.” Hongjoong feigns nonchalance, “But maybe I was gonna serenade you.”
“You’re not,” Seonghwa says, with no grounds. He’s pretty sure it’s a joke, but sometimes Hongjoong does things that make him nervous.
Hongjoong shrugs. “You don’t know.”
Seonghwa squints at him in warning, but he just sits back and moves on.
“Yeah, I’m gonna play, but not the whole time. At worst, it’ll be twenty minutes without me.”
Seonghwa lets it go. “Alright.”
Unsurprisingly, Hongjoong gets bored quick once he’s abandoned his guitar. He worms his way into Seonghwa’s lap, back tucked against Seonghwa’s chest so they can read Hongjoong’s new book together.
It’s nice. For a time.
“Turn the page,” Hongjoong nudges.
“I’m not done.”
“I finished it five minutes ago.”
“It has not been that long.”
“Feels like it’s been that long.”
“‘s only gonna be longer if you keep distracting me.”
“Bet I could reread it before you even start the second one.”
“Shhh. I’m focusing.”
“Fine, fine.” He lays his head back on Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Wake me up when you finally get to the end of the page.”
Seonghwa shifts a bit to see better over Hongjoong’s shoulder. Without looking away from the book, he drops a kiss on his neck, right where his collar ends. Then the corner of his jaw.
Hongjoong makes a preening sound that Seonghwa feels all up his chest, he shifts in Seonghwa’s lap, Seonghwa sets the book facedown to save the page just in time. He catches Hongjoong’s lips, it only takes a second to work out the angle, then he’s tilting his chin up, melting into it.
Hongjoong’s hand trails up to cup his cheek, the press of his lips ripples out through Seonghwa like a wave. He lets out a happy hum, they part and reconnect, languid.
Hongjoong tugs Seonghwa’s hair free of his ponytail, drawing out a wet gasp—it’s loud, and Seonghwa has to retreat.
He sits up, fear lancing through him. Tries to cover, scolds, “Don’t do that. It’s hot.”
Hongjoong’s eyes are still lidded, unfazed. “Yes it is.”
“The temperature,” Seonghwa tries not to snap, snatching the tie back and reaching up to redo it. Breathing helps.
They’re fine. He scans the barn below, no one’s there. Just them and the rusting tractor.
“You never wear your hair down,” Hongjoong pouts. He’s drawn back too, giving Seonghwa some space.
“You never come here in the winter.”
“S’getting long, too,” Hongjoong says, with all those stars in his eyes. Seonghwa wishes it didn’t make him so nervous.
He does want to enjoy it. He wants to let them get swept away, but he can’t force his guard to go down. Anyone could walk in—it’s happened before, right here in this loft. They weren’t doing anything suspicious, but he doesn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if they had been. And everyone knows everyone in this town, word would get around.
“I’m surprised,” Hongjoong says softly.
Seonghwa nods. Regulating. Picking back up. “Yeah. They’ve only told me to cut it three times this year.”
“Wow.” Hongjoong’s eyebrows lift, impressed. Then, “Anything else they’re feeling lenient about these days?”
Seonghwa swallows. “Not that they’ve told me. They’re on my back about it more, though.”
“Ah, right,” Hongjoong recalls, “handsome young man like yourself should already be on his honeymoon.”
Seonghwa grimaces.
“What, you don’t want one?”
He shoots Hongjoong a look. They don’t need to do this.
Hongjoong’s hands fly up in defense, “I’m just asking!”
“Uh huh.”
“I need to be prepared.”
There it is.
“Hongjoong,” he warns. This is futile.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Hongjoong bluffs. “Don’t tell me. Surprises are more fun, anyway.”
Seonghwa rolls his shoulders. “You have an overactive imagination,” he says, relieved that his heartbeat is settling back down.
“And you need one. Mark my words, it’s happening. Someday.”
“Whatever you want to tell yourself.”
“Hey,” Hongjoong says, imperative, and Seonghwa’s eyes flick up. “Promise me one thing.”
He lets his head fall to the side. “What.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet. But wherever it is. You’ll go.”
Seonghwa closes his eyes. “It’s not gonna happen.”
Hongjoong makes shushing noises, “Ah-ah-ah. If . If it happens. If it could happen.” He looks expectantly at Seonghwa’s hands and Seonghwa dutifully holds them out for him to take. “Dream world, anything is possible. Let’s say we picked a destination, we picked a time, we have all the money in the world, all that. You’ll come with me.”
Seonghwa lets out a breath. He just doesn’t see the point. It’s cute to mention every now and then, but putting on this show, pretending like there’s any chance…why should they open themselves up for that? It only makes it easier for them to get hurt.
“If,” Hongjoong repeats, jostling their hands. His gaze is so sweet. Hard to say no to.
“If,” Seonghwa begins to agree.
Hongjoong scooches forward. “If.”
“I guess,” he says, and a grin starts growing on Hongjoong’s lips.
Then, suddenly impatient, “Promise,” he reminds, “‘s a promise.”
“I promise.”
Hongjoong squeezes his hands, kisses them. Unevenly, over the gap. It sort of aches to watch.
He knows Hongjoong can’t help expressing it, how it all spills out of his chest. Can’t help holding the torch and believing. It’s one of Seonghwa’s favorite things about him. It just means Seonghwa has to be vigilant enough for them both.
“Now,” Seonghwa says, soft to keep the moment. “Where’re you getting all the money in the world from?”
Hongjoong’s eyebrows lift. “Me? Oh no, baby, you’re the one with a year-round job at the family business. That’s all you.”
He narrows his eyes. “Funny how that works out.”
“Hey, I don’t make the rules.”
“You don’t?” Seonghwa asks, eyes wide. “Then who am I promising?”
Hongjoong laughs, leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his lips.
“Sounds a little sketchy to me,” Seonghwa says, but he’s welcoming Hongjoong back into his arms, shifting limbs to support him. Breathing under his weight. He inhales deeply, just to feel the pressure changing.
Seonghwa always gets the mail.
Early in the morning when he makes the first batches, and before they all come home for dinner. Just in case. He keeps the habit up in the summer so that during the year, there are no questions about who things are to dearly and from with love.
It makes him feel sick, sometimes, to hide it. His parents don’t suspect anything because he’s never given them a reason to. He’s always been a good kid. He doesn’t want to do the wrong thing. He never has.
Maybe he would have told them. It just happened so gradually. And now, it feels like it’s too late.
Only one letter today, from his father’s old friend, set dutifully on the desk in his study before Seonghwa went out to the square to open up the truck. Now, the letter sits folded on the desk and the open envelope saves a place to return to in the newspaper.
Seonghwa tucks white cloth securely between the lattice of his basket to protect the contents from the sun and flies. He lays his book overtop of it as he hears footsteps in the hall.
“Where’re you headed?”
Seonghwa glances up and catches his mother’s profile. “Down to the grove.”
“With who?”
He tucks the corners of the cloth tighter to keep the book’s weight off the tarts.
“Just Hongjoong.”
She brings the cutting board down from the cabinet and fixes him with a hint of a frown. “You’re going out on a picnic?”
Seonghwa doesn’t lift his head, testing the weight of the basket on each arm. He might need both once he gets farther. If only the handle could fit over his shoulder comfortably.
“Yes,” he says, “he came with me to get the book, so we’re testing the first few recipes.”
She might hum, or she might just exhale. It’s faint under the sound of running water over grapefruit skin.
He deems the basket ready to travel and takes the breath before goodbye, but her expression stops him short. The towel is still in her damp hands and she seems…weighed down.
Seonghwa takes another breath. “Is something wrong?”
That spurs her on again, glancing up at him for only a second before she’s moving the grapefruits over to the cutting board. She says, “I don’t know that I like how much time you’re spending with him.”
All the breath leaves Seonghwa’s lungs.
He swallows. Tries to carve his fear into something more presentable.
“What?”
The knife is freed from the block and slices into red flesh the size of a coin, a compass—
“You heard me.”
Pale pink liquid drips from the steel.
“Why?”
She finishes cutting the whole grapefruit before she answers him.
“He’s staying in the city.”
Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “Well, he does live there.”
Her eyes catch his for a piercing second, and he understands immediately. He’ll try something else.
“How come you’re worried about it all the sudden?”
“I’ve always been worried about it.” He didn’t know that. She pushes the slices to a corner of the cutting board and brings the second grapefruit under her knife. “But he’s out of school now. Nothing keeping him on the right path anymore. Got those tattoos…well, you know..”
After three slices of no response, she pauses to look at him. “And you know he’s working at a nightclub, don’t you?”
That’s not what Hongjoong told him. It’s…it wouldn’t technically be a lie, but that’s not what he said.
Seonghwa tries to keep from showing how he startles, but it feels like he’s failing.
He exhales. Shifts his weight. “He just plays music.” Even if she’s right, there’s no way Hongjoong would’ve—
“He says he just plays music.”
Grapefruit juice pools on the cutting board. She drags the slices through it to sit beside the others. A few drops spill onto the counter and seep under the board. They’ll web out, it’ll stick to the counter when she tries to move it.
He flits back to attention as a rind falls from the knife, white membrane scraped off the flesh. His mother holds the slice out to him.
It crushes between his teeth and stings his tongue as her towel-dried hand pets over his hair.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she says, for his sake. “But I just want you to be safe.”
He nods as he swallows. It dislodges her hand.
“I will be,” he assures. Corrects, “I am. Don’t worry.”
“You know I do,” she says, which should be a comfort.
Cold water washes the juice off the blade. Seonghwa pulls the front door shut behind him.
He knocks at the well-worn door.
“Good morning,” he says, and Hongjoong’s aunt tips her head at him.
“Morning. He’s out back.”
No matter how many times they do this, he still shies at getting caught. Even if she doesn’t know.
“Thank you.”
Two steps en route, he gets tugged back by the basket handle.
“What’s this?”
“Oh,” he says, lifting the cover. Mindful of the book. “Trying out new recipes, ‘d you like one?”
She peers into the basket. Silver hairs are starting to appear at her roots, and seeing them again makes him fond for a reason he’s not quite sure of. He’s always felt more at ease here.
She reaches a hand into the basket and picks up a tea cake. “This poppyseed?”
“Earl grey.”
She smells it and nods, stepping out of the path to the back door. “Thank you, honey.”
“Of course.”
She calls over his shoulder, “Just past the shed, last I saw.”
“Thank you!” makes it out just before the door slams shut behind him.
West of the acres closest to the house, there’s a grove of willow trees, a few so weathered and sloped that they can be leaned against.
Hongjoong’s legs are in his lap. His fingers skate over the embroidered threads on Hongjoong’s pants, some to cover holes and some just decorative. He’s been meaning to bring one of his jackets over for Hongjoong to work his magic on, much better with a needle and thread than Seonghwa ever was.
“I wanna take you to the city.”
Seonghwa has to consciously keep his hands moving. He keeps his breathing even and fights the stiffness clutching at his ribs, the way his skin tightens.
He can’t freak out. He’s been freaking out too much, and Hongjoong never means to do that to him. He’s not even looking at Seonghwa, just out into the middle distance. Imagining.
“The city?” is what Seonghwa can say. His heart is too high in his chest.
“Yeah,” Hongjoong says, the corner of his lips tugging up. “Go out on the town. Get a steak dinner. Go dancing.”
Seonghwa inhales and exhales. Trying to soften the fear and let it fall off his bones, but it sits tight under his muscle. If he’s this worked up just at the mention of it, there’s no way.
He steers that way. Gently. Skeptical instead of afraid. “Where exactly are they gonna let the two of us dance?”
“There’s places,” Hongjoong says, earnest. “Safe ones. I’ve been there.”
Okay. He’s been there. He’s never brought Seonghwa somewhere unsafe—not that he could bring Seonghwa anywhere he hasn’t already been in this town. But that’s also how people get—
Hongjoong looks up at him. “If you’re really that nervous about it, I’ll wear a skirt.”
Seonghwa sighs, and Hongjoong gently knocks his forehead against Seonghwa’s. The fondness has a fighting chance.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Hongjoong sits up a little. “I mean it! Petticoat and everything. Say the word.”
Seonghwa’s fingers work over the thread. Letting it catch on his nails.
“If we went,” he begins.
“Yes,” Hongjoong says, smiling already.
“What would we tell our families?”
“That we’re grown men and we can go wherever we want and do whatever we want.”
Seonghwa wouldn’t call them grown. “Sounds great. Then what are we telling my family?” Hongjoong huffs, but, “I’m serious. They already don’t trust you.”
Hongjoong balks. “They don’t trust me?”
Seonghwa wills away the spike of terror. He shouldn’t have said anything. His fingers dig under the threads, too tight to fit, he’s going to lose circulation.
“You play at nightclubs,” he says. Winces. Presses his back further against the tree bark.
Hongjoong scoffs. “It’s one singular club, and it’s barely that. It’s a piano bar, the whole purpose is to go and see local musicians. There’s no illicit behavior going on.”
Seonghwa nods. He knows that. He shouldn’t have doubted it.
“They didn’t believe me,” he says quietly.
Hongjoong hmphs with discontent. Then he gets an idea, “They can come with, how about that? Check it out for themselves, then we ditch ‘em.”
Seonghwa smiles for him, but it doesn’t last. Hongjoong takes his hands, then, pulls his reddened fingers out of the neat lines of thread.
“Alright, what about this,” he says. “You pick up a book about outer space. Read it real showy in the living room. At the dinner table. Go out at night a couple times, look at the stars, don’t come back until they’re asleep. Then one night, we go out instead. They’ll never know.”
Seonghwa swallows. He can’t. He shouldn’t, and he can’t. Far too big of a risk. If they found out he was gone, they’d send a search party. They’d call the police. Yell at him for scaring them. He’d never be able to see Hongjoong again, probably never leave his house, either, he’d—
Hongjoong squeezes his hands. When Seonghwa looks in his eyes, there’s nothing but hope.
He squeezes back.
“I’ll think about it.”
Hongjoong kisses his cheek, so fast Seonghwa startles. He’s lit up with the challenge. “We only have one more month, Hwa. Let’s make it count.”
Cold, sweet lemonade washes down Seonghwa’s throat.
He’s meandering close to his station, stretching his legs while he has a break. He’s been touching up the little white stars around his eyes when they get runny from sweat, but he doesn’t have much time with how many waves of kids there’s been. A lot of them come back for another, which always makes him excited. Proud of himself.
He might do this again next year, he thinks, when he’s seated again and adding antennae to the butterfly on a little girl’s forehead. He likes looking around and seeing the spots of bright color running past him. Fairy wings and monster horns and rockets and rainbows. Lemons on the cheeks of the kids selling the lemonade, and they wave at him excitedly when he catches their eye.
After, when he looks up from draining his cup, Hongjoong is sitting in the folding chair across from him.
The corner of Seonghwa’s mouth turns up. “Let me guess. Full lion face.”
“You know it.”
Seonghwa sits back in his chair. “What’s up?”
Hongjoong brandishes a ticket.
“You don’t have to spend a ticket to come talk to me,” Seonghwa says.
“I know,” he agrees, holding it out further.
Seonghwa’s brow furrows, but he takes the ticket, pushing the binder closer to Hongjoong. “Take your pick, then.”
Hongjoong leafs through it, flipping back and forth between the same few pages before drawing back and huffing a sigh. “Is it rude to ask for dealer’s choice? Too many good options.”
This whole situation is rife with opportunity to tease, but Hongjoong seems genuine. So Seonghwa just nods, taking the binder back. “I’m sure I can come up with something.”
He breezes through the designs for some ideas; nothing he’s seen really screams Hongjoong to him, but they might give him an idea.
Then it hits him.
He sets the binder back on the table and turns the hand mirror face-down on it, no spoilers, of course. He doesn’t have metallics like he’d like, but he can make do. He starts with white, mixing the paint to a nice smooth consistency on his brush before beckoning Hongjoong closer, who leans forward readily.
He’s expecting a bit of conversation as he starts to paint, but he’s almost grateful when it doesn’t come. It’s already pretty loud around them, and he’s been keeping up an especially bright attitude for a few hours now. The kids are adorable, and he loves them, but it’s nice to have a break.
Out of habit, nothing but the brush touches Hongjoong’s skin, occasionally the side of Seonghwa’s palm when he needs to steady it. Hongjoong is close enough (and stays still enough) anyway that Seonghwa doesn’t have to manually angle him, either.
Hongjoong’s eyes roam around, sometimes downcast, sometimes watching him work. He tries to paint in random placements so Hongjoong can’t tell what he’s in for; he doesn’t know how well it’s working, but Hongjoong isn’t guessing, so maybe it is.
“Look this way for me?” he says softly, pointing to the side, and Hongjoong obeys.
He’s trying to draw a line near the outer corner of Hongjoong’s eye, but the lines there are creasing, and Seonghwa has to pull away.
“Stop smiling,” he chides hypocritically, “it’s gonna smudge.”
“How’m I supposed to do that,” Hongjoong pouts quietly, but he straightens out his expression.
Seonghwa starts the line again, but the skin wrinkles and interrupts him. He pulls away with a huff.
“I’m sorry!” Hongjoong is nearly laughing, “I’m trying. I am.”
Seonghwa lets him get it out, then instructs, “Okay, be serious.”
Hongjoong plays along and makes a stern expression. Seonghwa grips his jaw, fingers and thumb keeping his cheeks taut. He feels the muscles underneath working against it, the breath from Hongjoong’s laugh on his skin, but his canvas quickly calms.
Seonghwa paints a smooth crescent moon on his temple. He gets a little close to Hongjoong’s hair, and sets the brush down carefully to comb it out of the way. He can feel under his fingers when Hongjoong swallows, but picks up the brush again and just keeps filling it in.
“What the hell are you drawing,” Hongjoong mumbles, entertained. His lips are squished a little fishily with the way Seonghwa is holding him. Not that Seonghwa’s looking.
“None of your business,” he says, trying to be matter of fact to little success.
He tilts Hongjoong’s face the other way to finish the stars on the other side before he goes in with sunflower yellow, close enough to gold. He gets overzealous, adds a few little flourishes and tiny dots just because. Hongjoong is keeping still enough for him to add fine details, so his grip relaxes, but he doesn’t let go—better safe than sorry.
He’s finishing a tiny triad of gold swirls on the bridge of Hongjoong’s nose when a low murmur comes, “Wish I could kiss you.”
Seonghwa drops his brush, a streak of gold down Hongjoong’s chin.
“Hongjoong,” he scolds, picking the brush back up and wetting a paper towel to clean it off. There are people around, just at the other end of the row of tables. It’s loud, but what if they’re very good lip readers?
“What? I can’t help it,” Hongjoong practically whines. Seonghwa wipes the errant streak from his chin and goes in with the brush again. “You’re right here,” he pouts, knocking their knees together, “it’d be so easy.”
“I know,” Seonghwa admits softly. He gives Hongjoong’s wrist a soft squeeze with his free hand. “Have some patience.”
Hongjoong huffs quietly, but Seonghwa ignores it, finally finished.
“Okay,” he announces, putting his brush down and holding the mirror to his chest.
Hongjoong sits up straighter in the chair and bats his eyelashes until Seonghwa turns it around.
There’s a real gasp then, and it sets Seonghwa alight. Hongjoong takes the mirror from him and turns his face side to side, holds it far too close and looks a little ridiculous straining his eyes to see the far corners. Seonghwa can’t tamp down his smile.
“This is gorgeous,” he marvels. “I’m gonna be the prettiest one on that stage.”
Seonghwa’s jaw drops. “Oh, god, I forgot. You have time to wash it off, right?”
“Why would I wash it off?”
“You wanna perform looking like this?”
“Of course I do!” Then he gasps, lowering the mirror. “You think I look bad?”
“No—” Hongjoong’s lip is wobbling, he’s fake sniffling and fanning his eyes; Seonghwa has to bring his hands away from his face and try not to laugh through, “You look beautiful.”
“Really?” Hongjoong asks, only playing it up a little now.
“Of course.”
“You promise?”
He nods assuredly, taking the mirror back and admiring his own handiwork. Speaking of the stage, “Are you nervous at all?”
“A little,” Hongjoong admits. “Been a while since I’ve played over here.”
“Mm. You don’t have to sing over the wind at your bar?”
Hongjoong gives him an amused little smile at that.
Seonghwa sits up a little. “Well, anyway, I’m excited. You’re gonna be amazing.”
“I hope so.”
He knocks their knees together until Hongjoong meets his eyes. “You are.”
Seonghwa has the sense to wipe off his own stars before Hongjoong gets onstage. He’s had them on all day, no question where Hongjoong’s came from, but there’s a chance most people won’t remember.
He sets up his Back Soon sign and takes a seat in the middle few rows of folding chairs. He watches Hongjoong set up for a brief moment, play a few simple strumming patterns while people filter into the seats. There’s not many, and some people sitting there want to get off their feet more than anything, but it’s not that formal, anyway.
It’s generous to call it a stage, a platform that’s barely a step up from the paved square with a few instruments and chairs. Seonghwa has to wonder what it’s like to hear him at his regular bar, with a bigger crowd and fancy lights. Moody and late and with speakers that Hongjoong waxes poetic about.
But even sharing a mic with his own guitar, Hongjoong’s music washes over Seonghwa and makes him shiver. He loves the timbre of Hongjoong’s voice, how it travels. He loves what Hongjoong can do without too much flair, how it’s only his voice and his guitar or the piano, loves his tone and the way he feels the music. The way he paces words within a phrase, playing with the rhythm. It’s artful, crafted in that way that Hongjoong puts things together, creating the pieces and stringing them up all different ways.
He feels bad for getting lost in it, for listening thoughtlessly at times and missing lyrics, but he knows he can ask about them later. It’s nice just to feel it, too. One of many people in the square, hearing the music and wind in the trees and children laughing all at once. It’s like they’re all one big body, listening and singing and strumming and breathing.
He loves when Hongjoong’s eyes catch his over the microphone sometimes, shrouded in stars.
Seonghwa’s gut twists as he combs the library shelves.
He’s not lying yet. He won’t be, not for the next few days. And if he makes a habit of it, they’ll just assume where he’s gone, and he’ll never have really lied to them at all.
He greets the librarian with a smile, holds it through the pleasantries and breathes it away when he gets outside.
“It’s a new arrival,” he tells his father. He’s been reading it out in the living room, visible from the study. “She said she thought I’d like it.”
“Do you?”
Seonghwa nods, “So far.”
“Good.”
It’s not a lie. The book really is interesting. He likes the awe-filled point of view it seems to take, it smooths over the splinters of astronomical terms he has to pause and piece apart.
But at what a vast distance must those stars be that even light itself requires not only 10, 20, or 100 years, but 10, 20, or 100 thousand years to complete the journey to our Earth!
He sits out on the bridge over the brook, leafing through the pages. Looking up, trying to match the pictures to his sky.
He’s never sure if he’s really found a constellation. Wispy lavender clouds get in his way sometimes, but either way. There’s no way to check if he’s gotten it right, even with the book. No white lines in the sky connecting the shapes.
We do not see the stars, therefore, as they are now, for of their present existence we have not the slightest knowledge, but as they were 10, 20, or 100 thousand years ago.
On the fourth night—not consecutively, he’s careful—he hears footsteps on the path. He turns to see a figure approaching; in the moonlight it doesn’t take long to make out the face.
The icing of his blood is slow and smooth. Not shocking, but just as violent. They’re not even planning to do it for days, but the fear still cuts into his ribcage.
“Mind if I join you?”
He shakes his head, lips gone dry. Breathing around the blade of it.
His mother takes a seat next to him.
“You’re still up?” he asks. She’s nearly always the first to bed.
“You’re one to talk,” she says.
He hums a sort of laugh.
She sits back against the bench. Stretches her legs out and glances down at his book. “This the best spot to see ‘em?”
“Here’s nice ‘cause it’s open, but I’ve tried a few different places.”
She hums. Opens to face him and nods toward the book. “So, what’s up there?”
He lets it open to where his finger was keeping his place.
“I’m still trying to find out.”
They may have ceased to exist for many years, because we will not know till the ray of light bearing the information reaches us.
“Well, you’ve been coming out here an awful lot,” she says.
He stares at the map on the page. Swallows. “I sort of know what it all is. I understand it how it is in the book, I think. I just can’t match it up there.”
“Let me see,” she says, taking the book out of his hands. She holds it between herself and the sky. “These s’posed to match?”
“Not yet,” he replies, not sure if he was supposed to.
“Not yet?”
“That’s November’s.”
“Huh,” she muses. “Why’re you looking at November’s now?”
“I was just looking through them while I wait.”
“Wait for what?”
She’s just curious. Seonghwa’s not sure why he feels so weakened.
“The maps are only accurate at a certain time of night.”
“Ah.”
She gives it back when she sees how he’s staring at it in her hands. He holds it with both of his.
There’s a dead line between them. She knows it as well as he does. He gets the awful feeling she wants to fix it, too.
He looks up at the sky, full of a million points of light. He can’t connect any of them.
“I just wanted to check on you,” she says.
He tells her, “I’m good.” Smiles, he thinks, and asks, “Are you?”
She nods sort of automatically. Stretches her arm out across the back of the bench, her hand landing on his shoulder. Crickets and frogs fill the silence. He keeps his eyes on the skyline.
Seven breaths, and then she’s standing and ruffling his hair.
“Don’t stay out too late.”
He nods sort of automatically.
Seeing, therefore, that light takes such an interval of time to journey from one star to another, we may perceive, though dimly, how vast the dimensions of this visible universe must be.
And this is only the known universe! How great is the unknown?
They hold hands in Hongjoong’s lap on the drive over.
Seonghwa doesn’t like when he drives one-handed, but he’s willing to make the sacrifice. There’s barely anyone out on the road, anyway, and they don’t touch the speed limit.
His other hand rests over the book. Tracing the indents on the spine.
Seonghwa doesn’t want to do the wrong thing. He never has. He knows that he’s betraying his family’s trust in him by being here. By holding Hongjoong’s hand. He hopes Hongjoong won’t betray his. There’s no reason he would, but as far as anyone knows, there’s no reason why Seonghwa would go off into the city.
They pull up in front of a row of shops, none of them looking particularly suited for dancing, but all alight. Open much later into the night.
Seonghwa gets out of the car and presses his back to the passenger door. Breathing. Looking around. There’s no one on the street, but another car is pulling up to the lot.
Hongjoong slides his hand into Seonghwa’s—he didn’t even hear the other door shut—and tugs him towards the buildings. They’re nearly to the hairdresser’s on the end of the row when a voice comes from behind them—
“Hongjoong!”
Seonghwa’s breath catches and he wrenches his hand out of Hongjoong’s. Terror ripcords down his spine, skin tight over his skull and his knuckles, but Hongjoong is turning around and laughing and waving—
Two women, one tucking a hand into the other’s elbow, half-run up to them. Hongjoong’s friends, he explains, and their names go in one ear and out the other as Seonghwa forces a smile and wills his heartbeat to settle back in his chest. Hongjoong’s hand finds his back, splaying warm and unshaking.
“He’s told us so much about you,” one of them tells his numb body. Hongjoong thankfully does all the talking while they make their way around the hairdresser’s to a lower-level entrance, relinks their hands as they step in.
A cheery man greets the other three, extends pleasantries with Seonghwa and lets them through another door into a remodeled sort of basement. It looks more like an attic, bare walls and cobbled-together tables and chairs in one corner, but there’s a makeshift bar and mismatched lamps glowing softly in whatever corners they fit in.
More importantly, there’s people. Groups huddled around tables that can’t fit them all, a few leaning against the walls and drinking, some dancing in pairs to the gramophone in the corner. Couples like them.
“It’s perfect,” one of the girls is saying, “we can just switch with each other!”
Before Seonghwa can ask, the other one is pulling her off to the dance floor.
“Switch?” he asks hollowly. Clears his throat.
“If the colored lights come on,” Hongjoong points around to where strings of them are tacked up on the walls, “it means there’s someone we don’t know trying to get in. You switch partners just in case it’s the police.”
Seonghwa’s eyes widen, “The police?” He’s trying to keep it at bay. He is, he is, he—
“It’s never happened,” Hongjoong assures, “it’s just a safeguard. Lotta bigger places do it, but barely anyone knows about this one.”
Seonghwa’s biting his lip, though, all new goosebumps on his skin. His hand is clammy in Hongjoong’s, then they both are when Hongjoong takes the other and leans in to kiss his cheek.
“Don’t worry. Let’s just have fun, okay?”
Hongjoong’s eyes are bright. Warm. Fearless.
Seonghwa nods. Squeezes his hands and breathes deeply as he lets him lead the way.
Seven paces and he snags. Catches like rope on a hook and Hongjoong’s unsuspecting hand falls right out of his, right on the edge of the dance floor.
“Can we get a drink first?” he says when Hongjoong turns around. It’s bitter on his tongue.
“You want a drink,” Hongjoong asks, because it didn’t work.
Seonghwa just looks at him helplessly. He’s sorry. He is.
Hongjoong gives him a solemn nod and follows him to a deserted enough corner, because they’re not getting a drink.
“I’m sorry,” says Seonghwa, guilt filling his lungs. He doesn’t want to be this hindrance. He doesn’t want to be the thorn in Hongjoong’s side, but, “I’m not—I—what if they find out?”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “They won’t. Even if they noticed you were gone and somehow found out you definitely weren’t anywhere in the entire town, they would have no earthly idea where we are.”
Hongjoong’s confidence comes so easy. He breathes it, which is as reassuring as anything can be right now. Seonghwa really loves him. So much his ribcage aches.
“You have to let yourself have this place, Seonghwa,” he says. Seonghwa’s never seen him so earnest. “No matter where we go back home, you’re on pins and needles. You have to let yourself let go of it somewhere.” He takes Seonghwa’s hands. “You deserve that.”
Seonghwa swallows and a tear falls down his cheek. He blinks, and suddenly they’re wrapped up in each other’s arms, breathing. He nods over Hongjoong’s shoulder, can feel the smile against his neck. His muscles start to ache but he can’t let go quite yet.
His breath is even, he’s concentrating on it. His heartbeat is on its way there. He thinks of the book resting in the passenger seat of Hongjoong’s car, and looks into his eyes when they pull away. The unknown is incredibly vast.
“Come on, angel,” Hongjoong murmurs, and Seonghwa’s lungs floresce. He breathes out shakily, free hand taking Hongjoong’s while he wipes his tears.
He catches again, Hongjoong doesn’t make it two steps away before Seonghwa is tugging him back. Imbued with something, inspired. He kisses Hongjoong quickly, to alleviate any inklings of concern, then takes his time to sweeten it.
It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever done. They’re in the corner, sure, but there are people on the fringes that can see. But he wanted to.
His hand comes up to cup Hongjoong’s cheek, a final press against his lips, and then he’s pulling away. He expects the pride in Hongjoong’s eyes, but the raw tenderness washes over him all new. He shivers.
The music has slowed, the couples in turn, and the pressure doesn’t hit him when they cross the threshold this time. Hongjoong keeps his hand, laces their fingers and pulls him in, other arm wrapping around his waist. Seonghwa’s settles in the nook of his. He hears laughter from the tables, whispers from a couple nearby, caught up in each other. Music from the gramophone. The string lights stay dead, only a warm, low glow from the corners.
It’s not long before Hongjoong pulls them impossibly closer, burrowing into Seonghwa’s shoulder like they’re laying together as they sway in time with the beat. In time with the others around them, embracing like them. One big body.