Chapter Text
「 and if the next life won't grace me with you, i will love you to the next one 」
✩
When he was younger, Bomin lived a carefree life. He would run around at home, playing with their pet poodle and doodling in his sketchbook whenever he felt like it.
He dreamt of becoming a great artist, one whose fame and talents could rival that of Pablo Picasso or Vincent Van Gogh.
But as the responsibilities began to accumulate gradually, he eventually had to push aside his freedom and trade in his worn crayons for artist pens and pencils.
He sighs heavily, scratching out ideas on his sketchpad as he leans his weight against the counter, ideas floating around in his mind but not quite connecting together that will form a piece worthy enough to save his final grade.
“Professor Jangjun is a bit of a dick,” he grumbles to Jibeom, catching him in the midst of hanging his oversized winter coat on the coat rack by the staff door. “He knows I don’t pay attention in art class, yet he wants me to create an artpiece worthy of the opening ceremony of the art gallery. And it's due in two weeks. I can't do anything in two weeks.”
Jibeom whistles lowly and Bomin narrows his eyes at him. In absolutely no way did that sound remotely sympathetic. “I'm sure you can," he shrugs, "You do work best under pressure.” Jibeom takes his time to think of an example, lazily continuing to unpack his bag and tie the staff apron around his waist. ” Remember that piece you did for your portfolio?”
Bomin does remember. Only a little bit, anyway.
He remembers chugging down a sludgy, suspicious-smelling mix that was probably a mix of Redbull, Monster and a double-shot espresso and proceeded to run on that and a minimum of an hour’s sleep to finish painting on time.
His memory is a bit hazy after that, but Jibeom doesn’t fail to remind him that he had begun crying while painting the gradient of white to blue extending from the centre of each individual rose petal and when roughly shaken by the shoulders, he began addressing Jibeom as if they were both princes from Goryeo.
This, he does not remember.
All in all, astral-planing so hard into a possible alternate reality was worth it. His piece did get him admitted into his dream university and won him 500 dollars when they subsequently submitted it for a competition.
So maybe he does work well under pressure.
“I never understood how exactly you do it—” Jibeom pauses midsentence to smile winningly at a customer scurrying in to avoid the bitter winter cold, “Like the blue rose. How did you come up with that in like three days?”
Bomin shrugs. “Google’s my best friend.”
What he doesn’t tell Jibeom is that the blue rose didn’t just come from Google.
Every night, ever since he was a little boy no older than 7, he dreams of blue roses, baby blue hanboks and falling starlight woven into laughter and a smile brighter than the sun he wakes up to in the morning, sweating and feeling like he’s lost something very important.
Occasionally, he’ll be roused from his sleep at twilight, when the stars blink down from the dark skies above and Jibeom’s snores are the only thing punctuating the silence— he’ll feel aged beyond his years, almost as if he’s someone entirely different.
There was a time when Bomin would wake up, paint splattered across the wall, taking the vague shape of the old, gnarled gingko tree in Gyeongbokgung. Painted blue roses and mugunghwa bloom across his arms, intertwining as they wind along the skin of his wrists.
Now, he doesn’t wake up to find that he’s painted a universe in his sleep, but the mysterious figure who haunts his dreams doesn’t disappear.
The doctors say that you dream to remember. But how is he remembering memories that aren't even his?
He drums his fingers against the counter as Jibeom leaves to attend to the customers, completely unsatisfied with Bomin’s dry answer.
Bomin doesn’t quite know how to express the frustrations that come with the dreams. It isn’t that they recur every night— it is the startling realness of the dream that makes it seem more of a memory than a figment of his imagination.
He takes the order of a baby-cheeked customer and absentmindedly prepares their drinks, calling to Jibeom to take over his shift as he bustles into the cold.
✩
If there’s one thing Donghyun hates, its moving around during winter. The frosty air nips at his cheeks and makes his nose run uncomfortably, and there’s nothing more that he wants to do than to stay indoors in the thickest sweater he owns with a mug of hot cocoa by the heater.
But he has to finish his thesis. Problem is, he hasn’t even started on it. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to base it on, which is precisely why he’s coaxed Jaehyun out with him into the cold to offer some insight into this daunting task.
5 minutes later finds him hurriedly stepping over the threshold into the quaint little cafe not more than 10 minutes walking distance from the art building, waiting for Jaehyun to finally show his face.
He’s probably overslept. Again.
Donghyun sighs and swings his legs up on the table. He’s got a million and one things to get done, and that includes a research piece for history, which has been weighing heavily on his mind.
Carefully extracting his phone from his pocket, he texts Joochan.
ddong:
hey what shld i do for my thesis
casual reminder that im a history major
It doesn’t take Joochan long to reply.
joodumb:
idk bro u r on ur own
The tiny speech bubble pops up as Joochan types another reply, the dots in the ellipses dancing before his eyes.
joodumb:
actly u shld check out this thing called passion of the cut sleeve
there r new discoveries about it and i know u wanna check it out
He squints at his phone in confusion.
ddong:
sounds like a gang
why tf would i be interested
joodumb:
its hella gay
like u
Donghyun snorts.
That does interest him, as much as it pains him to admit that Joochan is, for once, right.
ddong:
thanks bro
“Donghyun! Sorry I’m late!” Jaehyun gasps, skidding to a halt beside his table. Donghyun feigns nonchalance. “I was in the library studying—”
“Studying?”
“—alright, sleeping.” Jaehyun relents, “I did get in some research, though. I now have a whole bunch of facts on your favourite colour to throw at you.”
“I want a caramel macchiato, extra whipped cream.” Donghyun says instead, “You can tell me the colour facts about blue later.”
Jaehyun side-eyes him with dissatisfaction. “I’m only getting you something now because I was late and my mother didn’t raise me to be rude.”
He comes back with a receipt and a card with the giant number 19 scrawled on it and slides both onto the table, slinging his bag onto the ground and plonking himself down onto the seat opposite Donghyun's. “The barista’s cute.”
Donghyun raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a crush on the kid in the front row of our math class?”
“I do,” Jaehyun admits a little too easily, and Donghyun gags openly, “But this kind of cute was cute. You know, baby-face? Totally your type. You'll see when he brings the drinks over later.”
“I don’t have a type,” Donghyun balks, affronted.
Jaehyun gives him a Look and he raises his hands defensively.
"Come on, all the people you've had a crush on so far have all been taller than you, younger than you, and have this sort of baby-faced young look to them." Jaehyun smirks smugly as he brings out his English textbook, tapping the side of his forehead. "I'm smarter than you think I am."
Donghyun's jaw slacks and hangs open as he stares at Jaehyun. "I— No I don't!"
Their conversation is interrupted when the barista comes over to put their drinks down on the table. "One caramel macchiato and one iced Americano?" Kim Jibeom, the kid who sits in the front row of their math class, recites their order from memory, smiling politely at them. His hair is slightly wet and swept up stylishly to one side. Roy Kim's latest song plays softly in the background and Jaehyun clams up immediately, dropping his textbook on the floor with a loud thud.
"That's our order," Donghyun barely manages to stifle his laughter.
Once Jibeom disappears behind the counter again, he actually does laugh out loud, pointing his finger at Jaehyun, who's blushing a violent red.
"Shut up!" Jaehyun hisses, "This isn't funny! I swear it was a different guy earlier!"
"How lucky for you," Donghyun teases, sticking his tongue out childishly at his best friend, "He must've just changed shifts. Now you get to see your longtime crush serve you drinks."
“Why am I friends with you,” Jaehyun wails miserably, “You just like to watch me suffer!”
Donghyun pays him no heed, taking a sip from his caramel macchiato. There’s a strange niggling feeling that remains at the back of his mind— as if he’s just barely missed something much, much more important than he realises.
✩
As the setting sun casts a golden glow on the empty canvas on the easel in front of Bomin, he sighs again, the sound echoing in the empty room.
It’s been weeks since the assignment was assigned and still, he doesn’t know what to do. He sends a quick text to Jibeom informing him that he won’t be getting back home in time for dinner then picks up his brush, swirling it in a sad blob of red paint.
Inspiration still doesn’t hit and Bomin’s head falls to the (hopefully) clean tabletop with a loud thunk.
The fatigue from the difficult day he had finally catches up with him, his eyelids sliding shut as he yawns loudly.
His systems shut down, his subconscious bringing him back to an all-too-familiar palace in Goryeo where the pale pink mugunghwa are in eternal bloom.
He’s vaguely aware of the warmth of someone else’s hands on his, fleeting touches that don’t quite feel real leaving tingling sensations on his arms. He opens his eyes in the dream, revelling in the sight of two warm eyes so full of love he cannot possibly have made up, and the face of someone he knows he hasn't seen before, but feels like he's shared countless of lifetimes with.
The other boy sweetly swings their intertwined hands, lips forming Bomin's name as he calls to him, shuffling closer until they're both wrapped in a tight hug, basking in the warmth of their love that transcends centuries.
The sun hangs in the sky like a blazing ball of fire, the sunshine falling softly onto the other boy’s face, illuminating his features with a magical glow.
Everything is calm and peaceful like it should be.
“Don’t go. Stay a little while longer,” The boy’s voice is not particularly loud, but it resonates within the dream, echoing around in Bomin’s head.
Bomin brushes the pad of his thumb across the boy’s cheekbone. “We’ll build a forever for the two of us,” he murmurs, words flowing and mouth moving on their own, “I promise.” The words are said with a time-old familiarity as if he’s said them over and over again, clinging to his skin like a mantra that the universe remembers.
Even if he himself does not.
The spring wind blows gently, bringing with it the scent of the mugunghwa that wraps around them, so sweet and tangible that it cannot possibly be a figment of his imagination.
Just as Bomin wishes he could hold onto this moment forever, the dream begins to get fuzzy, dissolving at the peripherals of his vision and he clutches at the sleeves of the boy’s hanbok desperately.
Everything blurs as his hands slip right through as if the boy wasn’t there in the first place and he is yanked away by gleaming silver chains clanking menacingly as a cry of pain escapes his lips. Desperation swirls in Bomin’s stomach. He strains against the chains tugging him further and further into reality and tries to latch onto the wisps of the dream still left, trying to claw his way back to save this boy whom he knows he just has to—
Bomin wakes up gasping. His heart is racing and he feels like he’s just fallen off a skyscraper, arms and legs aching terribly. The taste of his blood is strange and tangy, bleeding from where he’d bitten his bottom lip too hard in his sleep.
He’s still sprawled on the table in the art room, head in his hands, the tarpaulin stretched across the oak wrinkled beyond repair from where he’d begun thrashing around in his sleep. Quickly, while his face is still fresh in his mind, Bomin picks up his brush with renewed vigour, lowering it down onto the canvas repeatedly to bring a memory to life with the slow, steady strokes of his paintbrush.
Finally, at dawn, as the sun begins to rise, bringing with it the sweet promises of a new beginning, Bomin falls asleep at his easel.
The wet paint drying on the canvas almost glows golden when the morning sun hits it, accentuating the orchid blue hanbok painted onto a frail boy with a smile sweeter than honey.
For the first time in his life, Bomin’s slumber is dreamless.
✩
“So how’s the research coming along?” Joochan asks, a singular shelf of books filling the space between Donghyun and himself.
The boy in question scoffs, skimming his fingers over the spines of the books. “This is all your fault. I can’t change my research question after I’ve shown Professor Lee the draft.” He groans. “Other than that one article you referred me to, I can’t find anything about Emperor Choi and his servant lover.”
“Okay, but why are we here then?” Joochan pulls a book off the shelves and flips through it quickly. “I don’t get it— why not just google the entire thing?”
“Because Professor Daeyeol likes books and his eyes sort of twinkled when I said I was doing my research here.” Donghyun shrugs, knowing exactly how silly that sounds. He promises it sounded better in his head. “I don’t know, maybe I can actually find something useful.”
He pulls the next book his fingers touch off the shelves. It's titled Blue; A Memoir. A second glance at the back tells him that it was written by an alleged servant at the time, their story passed down for centuries until it was finally translated into the thick, hardcover book he holds in his hands today.
Flipping it open to the middle, he begins to read.
What I came to learn in time, is that you cannot separate a dryad from its tree, or it will die.
As days passed and the seasons flew, the Emperor only grew weaker. His mind was no longer with us by the time winter came around. It was only a matter of time before he would eventually leave us. His tree was uprooted a long time ago, and to have him live this long without him, it was truly a miracle, but I suppose it killed him a little bit inside every day.
Emperor Choi lived out his days as a benevolent Emperor. He ruled with kindness and warmth that did not manifest itself in the Emperors before him. He never married and has no heirs. I fear the conflict that is sure to arise from the advisors and from Princess Dabin and Prince J̶i̶b̶e̶o̶m̶i̶e̶ Jibeom. It will be a bloodshed much unlike anything ever seen.
“This looks promising. Get your ass here and read with me, Hong Joochan.”
Joochan tsks but runs around the bookshelf, snatching the book out of Donghyun’s hands to take a look at it for itself. “Oh, hey! It’s this story!”
“What story?”
"It's said to be written by Emperor Choi's head servant, hidden deep within the palace so that it couldn't be found by the wrong person and destroyed." Joochan laughs. "They only found this when they were reconstructing some parts of the palace that had been falling apart you know, I believe that it was found near Prince–"
"Okay," Donghyun interrupts impatiently, "So it was some sort of secret journal or some shit, but how exactly is this relevant to me or my research?"
“Emperor Choi wasn’t famous only for snipping off his sleeve just so his lover could sleep, you know,” Joochan laughs, slamming the book shut with a loud thud, “He was a painter. Apparently, his servant lover was his favourite subject, and I know that there are still searches underway to locate these paintings, which this book says are hidden all over the compound. It would probably help with your research if you could find some of these paintings, use them as picture sources.”
“And I can trust you on this because…?” Donghyun asks suspiciously. He isn’t going to trust Joochan’s credibility anytime soon, having known him for quite some time now.
“You're not trusting me, per se, you're trusting Professor Jangjun." Joochan points out. "We looked into his life briefly for art history. I just didn’t think it was the same King.” He pouts. “Archaeologists found a rolled up scroll at his burial site. It was a painting— really well preserved, might I add— and they deduced it must have been the servant boy he was buried right next to.” Joochan furrows his eyebrows suddenly, peering closer at Donghyun’s face. “Hey, come to think of it, you look a little like hi—”
“Where can I see this painting?” Donghyun interrupts hastily. “If I can get a picture and attach it to my report, Professor Daeyeol’s going to be so psyched.” He takes the memoir from Joochan. “I’m going to borrow this too.”
Joochan blinks, his previous train of thought broken. “I think they shifted the painting already, sorry.” Then, he snaps his fingers. “Wait! I know what you can do!”
Donghyun turns to Joochan with a look of pure bewilderment. Joochan slings the bag over his shoulder down to the floor and rummages through it quickly. “Here,” he explains, pressing a ticket band into Donghyun’s palm. “I was going to give this to Jaehyun or something, but you should use it.”
“Why? What would I do going to an—” Donghyun squints at the fine print on the label, “—art gallery? I’m not an art major.”
“I am. Aren’t you my best friend? You’ve got to support me.” Joochan sniffs, turning his nose up at Donghyun. “That’s beside the point. I have a junior, he’s really talented— I think he’s doing an interpretation of King Choi’s painting. I saw it when I walked past the art room yesterday morning.”
Joochan beams brightly. “Rest assured, if there’s one person who’ll have a picture of King Choi’s painting, it’s him." He stands, brushing off imaginary dust particles off his pants. "Come on, I want to take you to Gyeongbokgung palace today."
"What for?" Donghyun stands anyway, turning the book over and over in his hands.
"I'm going to give you a crash course about Emperor Choi." Joochan coughs awkwardly into his palm, eyes darting away sheepishly. "As much of it as I remember anyway. Professor Jangjun chased me out halfway for shouting no homo bro in the middle of the lesson although it was, very much, homo." They move to the checkout counter where Donghyun hurriedly hands the book to the librarian to borrow it then shoves it haphazardly into his bag. "Gyeongbokgung palace is very pretty, especially in winter."
When they get there, Joochan leads Donghyun to the stone bench under the gingko nut tree in the gardens next to the rooms Emperor Choi must have used. They fish the old book out of Donghyun's bag and begin to read together, making small talk and taking down notes on the points that seem important.
You must be someone living in the palace to be able to understand that to be able to disregard everything, including their lives, for a few moments together underneath the gingko nut tree where the influence of power and wealth could not reach them was something much bigger than them both. Something much greater than what they could wrap their minds around.
Something like love.
Princess Dabin forbade us servants to speak of this incident. I still have scars from the one time I did in front of her— but that will not stop me from making sure their tale will live on forever.
But please, if you have a moment, stop to think. Stop to remember two foolishly brave souls, who knew the rules of the game and dared to play it.
Even if they lost in the end.
✩
“Well done.” Is the first thing Jibeom says when he walks into the art room and sees the finished masterpiece that sits by the window in the morning sun, drying. “Look at you, all grown up and actually finishing your work before it’s due.”
“That’s not for the opening ceremony,” Bomin protests, washing his brushes by the sink. “It’s private. My own thing.”
Jibeom traces a finger over the dried bumps of paint making up the hanbok with unconcealed awe. “It’s really pretty. Apparently, rumours are spreading that you reimagined an artpiece that used to be on display at the museum.” He winces. “Professor Jangjun heard. He wants you to show it. I think he’s even giving you a bigger space to work with now.”
Bomin curses, kicking his easel, then rushes forward to make it stand upright it as it teeters unsteadily. “Even if this is the centrepiece,” he gestures towards the aforementioned painting, “What can I paint around it? I don’t really have any ideas— this came to me in the middle of the night two days ago and the deadline’s only drawing closer and closer.”
“You’ve heard about King Choi, right?”
Bomin shuts up. He has. It was the only topic taught during an art lecture that remotely interested him, for reasons still unknown. There’s a sense of understanding that runs deeper than normal, and he found himself on the verge of tears as Professor Jangjun retold the simple but painful story of a King and his servant.
Jibeom laughed at him after that, so they don’t speak of him crying on that day.
“I have.”
“So, you understand him a little, right? Then try to portray what it was like for him. Imagine how they fell in love, what they would have done together and finally, how it all ended.” Jibeom says with a note of finality. “If you can do it, then, I think ideas will come easier to you.”
This leads Bomin on an impromptu trip to Gyeongbokgung Palace, his safe haven and the only place he's ever truly felt comfortable in, to get inspiration for the remaining pieces of his artwork that still has to be finished in less than a week.
As he strolls through the gardens, stepping over stones and ducking under overhanging branches, he begins to mull over the situation. They would have started out as children, he decides. A Prince and his servant boy. He can almost see them climbing the gingko nut tree, swinging their legs from its branches as they share red bean tteok in the shade, away from prying eyes. A bittersweet smile tugs the corners of Bomin’s lips upwards.
He continues to walk along the worn stone paths, melting snow and ice crunching underfoot, and envisions two boys walking side by side where he stands. They would probably play tag, he supposes, running around and hiding from the other in good sport. From the corners of his vision, he spies the great swing and his feet move on their own accord towards it, bringing him closer and closer with each step he takes.
Bomin lifts a foot onto the swing, resting his weight on the old wooden plank that acts as a base and begins to swing back and forth with ease. It's queer, how his body knows exactly what to do to make sure he doesn't end up eating the dirt without having actually tried to swing on this traditional swing before in this lifetime of his.
From where he is, he can see everything going on down below in the gardens. There are two people sitting on the stone bench (preserved since it was made in the Jin Dynasty) underneath the gingko nut tree, looking at the ducks swimming peacefully under the rickety wooden bridge extending across the small pond in the middle of the garden and he wonders, briefly, if the Prince and his servant ever sat down underneath the gingko nut tree and just enjoyed each other's company.
Later that night, after he returns to his shared flat with Jibeom to sleep in his bed for the first time in a week, he sighs and drags his heavy feet to the bathroom to wash up.
He's done enough character development on Emperor Choi to have ideas on what to paint, but what is lacking is the certainty that they'll add the extra oomph to complement the painting he's already done.
He proceeds to prod at his skin in the mirror. A dreadful combination of the lack of sleep and stress leads his skin to be at its absolute worst. Then, as the lights flicker overhead, he notices something amiss about his reflection and leans in.
It’s one of those times that he stares into the mirror on the wall and someone else looks back. In these fleeting moments, he doesn’t quite feel like himself— not the Choi Bomin who lives in 2018 and studies at Seoul University, but a Choi Bomin of another time, another place.
He reaches a hand out to his reflection, staring into his eyes that aren’t exactly his own. He blinks and his reflection doesn’t even look like him, lines of age and sorrow sunken into his face. He is haggard, cheeks sunken in and age spots dotting the skin on his face. A hanbok is draped over his shoulders in his reflection and he looks old beyond his years, saddened and alone. He has seen a face similar to this on their dollar bills, in the textbooks, and yet he's never drawn the connection of the similarities between himself and Emperor Choi.
Bomin inhales sharply. He has never taken a stand on reincarnation.
But he has wondered, where do souls go when they die? Do they go to heaven? Or is there a possibility that they're reborn again, given a second chance to do over, to matar the saudade and rid themselves of age-old regrets that weigh them down? He doesn't dismiss the chance that he's only but half of a soul, come down again to look for his missing half, to right the wrong that's been wrought upon them.
Then, as he thinks about it more, he decides that there cannot be any other logical explanation. How else would you explain the lingering feeling that he's missing a piece of the great jigsaw puzzle of life? The weird out-of-place feeling that he gets that only goes away when he visits Gyeongbokgung Palace, even though he was born and raised in Seoul?
The realisation comes gradually, a quiet, slow ah, so that’s who you are.
It's not that his dreams are memories that don't belong to him, but rather they're his memories, of a different time and a different place.
That’s who I am.
✩
It's the morning of the opening ceremony and Donghyun is late. He regrets ever calling Jaehyun out about his tardiness because– fuck, this must be karma– He's already missed the ribbon-cutting ceremony and he throws on a pale blue hoodie that was left lying on a chair beside his bed hurriedly, shoving his camera into his bag haphazardly in his haste to leave the house.
He ends up taking the stairs down two at a time, praying to any deity who will listen to such a miserable failure of a college student working on his research paper that the art gallery won't be too crowded by the time he gets there.
His phone beeps insistently amidst the chaos of trying to leave his house and running towards the bus stop, and it's only when he manages to dash onto the bus, drop his bag down into an empty seat that he gets to catch his breath and answer the call. Unsurprisingly, Donghyun thinks, it's Joochan.
"Donghyun! Where are you!" Joochan ends up yelling at him through the phone and Donghyun panics, nearly dropping his phone in the process.
He fumbles with it for a few heartbeats. "I'm sorry, okay? I overslept—"
"—and you scold Jaehyun for being tardy all the time." Yeah, same. The irony is unbearable.
Donghyun can practically hear Joochan's eyeroll through the phone. "You know what, it doesn't matter." Joochan's voice is higher than it normally is and his exhilaration bleeds through his tone, even though he's obviously trying his best to hold it back. "You have to get here, quickly. Once you walk through the front doors, take a left and walk straight until you see me. Come support my artwork before you go traipsing off for your research."
"Yeah, sure." Donghyun taps his bus card against the sensor and steps off the bus, standing in front of the art gallery with apprehension that he doesn't know why or where it's coming from. "I'm here. See you in a bit."
"Okay," Joochan almost laughs, an airy sound escaping from his lips with a whoosh as he bids Donghyun a temporary goodbye. "Remember, hurry here, okay."
Donghyun doesn't understand him most of the time, but he's here to get research for his thesis. Joochan's strange behaviour is a problem for another day. He steps in, weaving through the throng of people standing shoulder to shoulder, staring at large pieces of artwork on display. By the corner on the left, he can see Professor Daeyeol chatting with Professor Jangjun, so he takes a right, avoiding the both of them as much as possible.
As he walks on, he realises that Joochan had told him to take a left instead of the right, but as he turns to change direction, a splotch of vibrant blue catches his eye. Slipping through the people surrounding the exhibit, he finds it's the one he was here to see in the first place.
The name on the file holding the write-up reads 'Property of Choi Bomin' and Donghyun knows he's come to the right place. The name of the artist itself is eerily familiar but Donghyun chooses not to comment. It's probably a common name, much like his own. He steps forward, drawing his camera out from his bag and takes a few quick pictures of the paintings at the bottom.
It's as his eyes slowly travel upwards to look at the centrepiece does he do a double-take, mouth hanging open in a slight O.
That's definitely him. He's spent his years growing up familiarising himself with his own face, having stared at it in the mirror for the past 20 consecutive years, and this is drawn with startlingly great detail and care, from the almond-shaped eyes to the long, dark eyelashes framing his eyes prettily; even the slope of his nose is drawn with such precision that it is impossible that he does not know the artist personally.
Yet, he knows they've never met before.
The name "Choi Bomin" doesn't ring a bell. He feels like it should.
Trembling, he takes a shaky step forward, eyes flickering to the rest of the paintings surrounding the painting of himself in a vivid orchid-blue hanbok. Upper-right is a simple painting of the beach, at the point where the waves crash against the shore, spraying sea foam everywhere; upper-left is a blue lacquered box holding small pieces of powdered red bean tteok much too sweet to be eaten, but savoured all the same.
Bottom-left is a collection of bound books with blue covers, like the legends Prince Bomin would whisper to him in the safety of his chambers on nights where thunderstorms raged outside, both too immersed in the tales and each other's company to notice the scary flashes of lightning and loud peals of thunder outside.
Donghyun gives a small hiccup as the tears flow down his face freely.
These are memories, once forgotten, now resurfacing to the front of his mind. He remembers everything, from how it all began— from distant enemies to friends, playing on the swing together, running around in the gardens during winter; to his last breath— casting glances at the faint glow emanating from Bomin's quarters as apologies for leaving him behind run through his mind.
He adjusts the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and sighs, letting his eyes drift over the art piece. It's painfully beautiful, he concludes. Much like Emperor Choi and his lover.
Bittersweet.
He sniffles.
"Hey, you okay? Why are you—"
Without having to turn to look, Donghyun knows, just from the deep, rumbling baritone, that it's the one person he's been looking for across centuries. His heart thrums with a vibrancy he's never felt before, fireworks exploding in showers of sparks and joy within him. Through his tears, he takes a few slow steps to look at Bomin once again after far too many years have passed.
As the stark lights of the art gallery reflect off his eyes and bring out the gold flecks residing deep within the chocolate brown of his eyes, Donghyun smiles widely and giggles to himself. Oh, how he's missed this, being able to stand face to face with the boy he's grown to love with all his soul.
"Hello again, Jeoha," Donghyun says, voice carrying over the noise of the other people in the art gallery, "It's nice to see you again." Everyone falls silent, watching the interaction between these two college students intently.
Bomin says nothing at first, sparks of recognition gradually turning into a roaring flame, before sweeping Donghyun into a big hug. It's so much like Bomin to do something like this that Donghyun smiles widely, burying his nose into his shirt.
Everything has changed and still, nothing much really has changed. Bomin is still taller than him, squeezing his ribcage a little too tightly for comfort. They fit in each other's arms awkwardly, rusty from the lack of centuries worth of practice. But it doesn't matter.
Not when they have time.
"I'm sorry," Bomin repeats, murmuring against Donghyun's hair, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you, I'm sorry for causing you to—"
Gently, Donghyun shushes him. "Don't say that. There was nothing you could have done. It's okay, we have each other now. We'll have this lifetime and possibly the next, and the one after that."
“I'm not going to leave you. I'm not going to let you go.” Bomin declares softly only for the both of them two hear, breathing in Donghyun’s scent after far too long.
They remain locked in a tight embrace in front of the exhibition piece, unwilling to let go of the other. The people around them speak in hushed whispers, raising their cameras to photograph and document this precious moment shared in the unlikeliest of places, murmuring to themselves about fate and reincarnation. But none of this matters to the duo, both looking forward to spending this lifetime with each other.
After a long pause, Donghyun pulls away slightly. "You kept your promise. We did meet, in another place, another time." Bomin gently uses his sleeve to wipe away the tear-tracks winding down his cheeks, like he did so many years ago under the gingko nut tree as the mugunghwa bloomed.
He smiles. "You know I don't break my promises, right?"
✩
Some people like the colour yellow. They say it represents sunshine or happiness, then bring up some philosophical bullshit about Vincent Van Gogh eating yellow paint to bring the happiness inside of him.
Donghyun begs to differ. His favourite colour is blue, because blue represents the seas of freedom, blue is the colour of blue hanboks and of blue roses. But most importantly, blue is Bomin.
Blue is a forever in his arms.
「 and the next, and the next.
till death finally give up on us 」