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Great Britain, Cambridge, 1921
Kyungsoo has turned twenty when he’s allowed to attend university. The morning sun sits high up in the sky over Cambridge on his very first day, and the streets in town are bustling with life. It's a little windy, pages of the Daily Mail chunked together by the sewer grates. Boys clad in school uniforms are rushing about, the heels of their shoes clacking against the pavements. On the outskirts downtown, Kyungsoo gets ready to leave with his older brother, bag with notebooks and pencils tightly clutched in his hand. His black hair has been washed and cut, falling nicely over his forehead. His shirt has been ironed, and the buttons on his vest have been stitched back into place. He looks himself in the oval mirror by the bookshelf each time he happens to pass by, hands pushing the dark strands of hair to the side, to no avail. Seungsoo laughs and tells him he looks rich enough, even without curls.
“Mighty handsome, little brother”, he salutes, giving him a once-over and whistles through his front teeth. “Will have the women swooning.”
Kyungsoo blushes and shakes his head at the other, black eyes shining. He feels rich, too—even if he knows he’s not. It’s been hard for their mother to raise them both on her own, but she has done everything in her might for her sons to grow up to be good men. She values education, and every last penny she manages to save goes to fund their studies. They’ve learnt to count their blessings. Kyungsoo counts them all, day in and day out, trying to set his tongue right. The money’s never been enough to cure his stammering, and his early school years were spent being kicked into lockers and laughed at in class. But he’s older now—braver, too. He’s heard great things about university, and he hopes they are true.
When he finally sees it, it is as luxurious as promised—a massive building akin to a fortress. Kyungsoo’s left lost in the hallways, tiled floor under his feet and expensive crowns in the ceiling. He glances at the numbers printed on his acceptance letter, counting the classrooms he passes until he’s on the right floor, in the right wing. The classroom is a spacious lecture hall with comfortable wooden chairs and big windows. There are already students sitting by their desks, and Kyungsoo flushes as he realises he’s been blocking the doorway for a couple more. He scurries over to an empty seat and smoothes over the wrinkles on his shirt as he sits down. He’s chosen to major in English Literature along with another forty young men, and Kyungsoo takes his time looking at them, as subtly as he can. They all look neat and immaculate. They’ve got patent shoes and Gladstone bags, with their hair in perfect back slicks. There’s a boy right by the window who looks richer than the rest, with his back straight, and his brown locks combed back attractively. When the boy shifts in his seat, Kyungsoo averts his eyes as if burnt. His momentary embarrassment is interrupted by the entrance of their professor, who introduces himself as Ivor Armstrong Richards, a middle-aged man who carries himself with an aura of pride and wisdom. The man doesn’t waste any time on further introductions as he proceeds to go over the list of attending students, who stand up when called upon. They go through George Ives Heart, Albert Ho, Thomas Wales, Martin Hemmings and then Jongin Kim, and Kyungsoo’s eyes follow suit as the boy from before stands up. He’s tall and slender, and Kyungsoo eyes the curves of his long legs in awe. The trousers the boy is wearing have been tailored to fit his proportions, ending just high enough to show some of his ankles. Kyungsoo studies him from where he sits, forgetfully brazen—until the next name called is Kyungsoo Do, and he almost misses it, jerkily pushing himself up.
“Y-Y-Yes”, he answers as loud as he can, resisting the urge to shrink in on himself when he stutters.
But nobody utters a word. The professor gives him but an affirmative nod, and he hurries to sit back down. The boy, Jongin, has turned ever so slightly in his seat to smile at him, but Kyungsoo can’t quite manage to smile back—only gawks, until Jongin turns away.
***
University proves to be difficult, but better. There are no snide remarks from heaps of teenage boys, no more legs propped out to topple him over in gym class. He even finds a group of friends, not soon after the first week has passed. It requires a lot of work, and a lot of time, but Kyungsoo has time on end, and the will to work himself weak if such is expected of him. Professor Richards gives them books to read every other day, and Kyungsoo sits up long past dusk to indulge himself further.
Before long, Kyungsoo’s spent a month at the university, and the blue skies of March welcome him with open arms. So do the poetry assignments. He struggles a bit with the phrasing, battles back and forth with his own thoughts, until he gets it down on paper. It’s easier for some. Kyungsoo has learnt that Jongin Kim is twenty-one years old, and loves poetry. The boy didn’t tell him himself, of course—Kyungsoo has this irrational fear of talking to him, because when Jongin presents his work in front of the whole student body, the young man's voice sounds like lukewarm honey. It flows perfectly, and the words sound so nice in his soft-spoken timbre. He's so, so confident—and Kyungsoo's not. So he avoids him, but Jongin also happens to always be on his mind. He sees him in the halls during recess, sees him laugh with others before the bell rings. Kyungsoo's not afraid of talking around his own friends, but with Jongin things are...different. But it all changes one day when Kyungsoo's staring, gaze unblinking on Jongin a few tables away in the cafeteria. The young man's brown locks are wavy and fall down his face in a middle part, and Kyungsoo's thin reading specs have slid down the bridge of his nose. This time, Jongin catches him looking, and Kyungsoo doesn't know if the other makes a move to stand up before he excuses himself and leaves. He’s much too shy to face Jongin like that, so unprepared, and caught red-handed.
But Jongin talks to him on Monday morning, at 8am, the time when Kyungsoo usually comes into an empty auditorium. Jongin's sitting by the window, writing words in squiggly letters into his notebook, and the unexpected sight makes Kyungsoo stop by the threshold. Jongin looks up just then, acknowledging his presence.
“Good morning”, he greets, and Kyungsoo bows his head politely. He doesn't expect Jongin to jump down from the windowsill and slide into the seat by the desk next to his own. Kyungsoo must've been staring again, because Jongin arches an eyebrow in question and smiles warmly. Kyungsoo looks away promptly, face hot.
“Kyungsoo, isn't it?” Jongin asks. Kyungsoo nods, to which the other offers him his hand—“I'm Jongin.”
Kyungsoo's heart beats twice as hard in his chest. Even his hand is warm, he thinks, and blinks, a little taken aback by his own thoughts.
“Do you want to read?”, Jongin hands him his notebook. “I wrote it just now. It's easier when it's quiet like this, don't you think?”
Kyungsoo takes the notebook and reads Jongin's pretty words in neat handwriting. He thinks that it is, indeed, beautiful, not only the way Jongin utters his words, but the way he writes them, too.
“Do you like it?”, Jongin asks, sounding a little unsure, but Kyungsoo nods again, and Jongin's eyes crinkle. “Not much of a talker, are you?”, he chuckles lightly, “that's alright.” Jongin's smile is the brightest thing Kyungsoo's ever been basking in, even for the short moment it lasts.
When the bell rings and students begin to fill the empty seats, Jongin remains by his side.
**
Tuesday morning comes, and is the same. Not Wednesday, because they don't have literature on Wednesdays, and not Thursday afternoon, because Jongin is not there. But on Friday, at 5:30pm, Kyungsoo's running a little late, and enters an already half full classroom, just to find Jongin Kim occupying the seat next to his regular one, once more. The young man tilts his head to the side, his full lips gently curved into a faint simper. It has Kyungsoo spluttering in an unsightly manner.
That day, Jongin walks him home after class. Kyungsoo wants to complain and tell the other it's not necessary, because he knows Jongin has wealthy parents and lives somewhere closer to the heart of the city, in a house that looks like more of a mansion to Kyungsoo. But he refrains from speaking, as he always does, and therefore Jongin walks beside him, all the way to his porch. The other doesn't bat an eyelash, and waves happily at Kyungsoo when he leaves.
Kyungsoo thinks Jongin's going to keep his distance after that. But he's wrong. Jongin keeps insisting on walking him home, his boyish charm and stubborn resolve working wonders on Kyungsoo’s resistance. The other boy pleads to read through Kyungsoo's notebooks, and when Kyungsoo lets him, he looks so happy it makes Kyungsoo's insides churn. He earns compliments that puts colour in his cheeks, but it is all worth it if it allows him to see Jongin glow in such a way. Kyungsoo never says much, but he likes listening to Jongin talk. It’s nice, and he hums to let the other know he’s interested in his ideas and his views, that he’s paying attention. Sometimes he says a word or two, and it makes Jongin smile. It chimes pleasantly in his ears when the older boy chuckles at his hushed voice.
But somewhere in between midterms, something happens. Something that marks a turning point, alters things just a bit.
Jongin is walking him home, and he's making Kyungsoo laugh softly with something he's said, when they hear screaming. It’s shrill, furious, bordering on harsh wails. They're close to Kyungsoo's house, and he knows, instantly, that that's his mother's voice. His breath hitches and he chokes on the laughter. Kyungsoo runs, and Jongin follows suit, and when he rips the front door open, his mother is in tears. Seungsoo is there, too, and he looks deflated. Something gnaws in the pit of Kyungsoo’s guts. On the small dining table between them rests Seungsoo's graduation diploma. What should have been a graduation diploma. Seungsoo won’t graduate in June. Kyungsoo realises this at once, with horror contorting his face. Seungsoo will have to walk out the back door without celebrating his success during the ceremony. No happy smiles, no friends patting his back and no clinking glasses of champagne together, yelling “we did it!”, at the top of their lungs. No diploma. No qualification. No future. Seungsoo's wasted the money their mother earned for him—Kyungsoo doesn't know if he's angry, or if he's feeling the heaviest of pity for his older brother. He doesn't know if he's allowed to say he knows what it's like to truly fight, to really struggle, but he knows they both only have one shot at luck each. They can't afford not passing exams because they cannot pay for another try. Kyungsoo's mother sobs into her quivering palms, because she'd believed Seungsoo could've saved them. All this time, she’d been hoping Seungsoo would become something more than a fatherless man from a poor family.
“Apologise to your brother", she says, and Seungsoo's eyes turn to Kyungsoo, silently. “Apologise!!”
Seungsoo is only twenty-three, not much older than Kyungsoo himself, and yet he has always had so much more on his shoulders. Kyungsoo doesn't want him to apologise, and he doesn't even know what his brother would ever have to beg him forgiveness for, but Seungsoo does, anyway.
“I'm sorry”, he mumbles. “I'm really sorry, Kyungsoo.”
Kyungsoo wants so badly to tell him that he is forgiven, for everything, for all that he has ever done wrong. He wants to embrace him, too, like Seungsoo did to him when his doubts weighed him down. But then it's anger that pours from their mother, and she screams about how everything is ruined, how it has all been for nothing, how Kyungsoo won't be able to graduate university, either, because they don’t have enough money to pay for another semester, how Seungsoo should've been the solution, how she had been praying, and how they're all going to rot in this God forsaken house.
And Kyungsoo cannot take it anymore. His arms are shaking and his fingers twitch.
“S-S-S-Stop!!”, he screams, louder than he thought he ever could. “Sto-Stop ye-ye-yelling!”
It all halts at his outburst. Stunned into shock, everything is silent; terribly so, and in this silence, Kyungsoo remembers Jongin. He remembers well-off Jongin Kim, with pocket money worth more than his own life, with a nicely tailored suit and shiny shoes, and Kyungsoo remembers he's standing right there, seeing all of this mess unfold right before his almond eyes. He finds himself so ashamed and so upset that he doesn't spare the other a glance or a word of excuse when he slams the front door shut. He imagines Jongin's warm eyes wide in bewilderment and a scandalised expression upon his heavenly features, and he doesn't want to think about it any longer—so he rushes up the stairs and locks himself into his room.
Kyungsoo doesn't sit next to Jongin in class on Monday morning. It's not Jongin's fault. He's just mortified, and humiliated, and he doesn't think he will be able to ever face the man again. But as Kyungsoo is with a lot, he is wrong, because Jongin stalks up to him after lunch and grabs ahold of his shoulder, right among all the other students filing out of the canteen.
“Can I talk to you?", he asks, ever as tender, always so well-mannered.
Kyungsoo probably looks like he wants to leave, so Jongin grips a little tighter, adding a bordering on desperate “please”. Kyungsoo gives in far too easily, and follows Jongin’s steps not far behind.
“I won't allow this”, is the first thing Jongin says, as soon as they're standing alone in an abandoned hallway. “You're way too talented, Kyungsoo, and I swear to you that I shall drop dead before you leave this school without a diploma.” He sighs afterwards, in frustration, Kyungsoo thinks, “or a bestseller, if that may be so.”
Kyungsoo doesn't know where all of this is coming from, because he's really not that brilliant, and he was hoping he'd manage to become no more than a literature professor one day—but Jongin's eyebrows are creased together as he ruins his perfectly combed hair, and Kyungsoo doesn't dare to refuse. He smiles, instead, and melts a little, when Jongin smiles back.
***
When summer comes, and the end of the semester is closer than far, it is almost time for admission exams. Students wishing to proceed need to pass, and Kyungsoo has no plans on taking them at all. It is about three months to examination week, and as Kyungsoo scans the list of requirements, he notes that it's for the better he calls quits, anyway. He cannot recite his own work, no more the work of another student, in front of a full audience, and the board, in a packed lyceum. So he gives up, just like that. And he feels awful. It stings deep down, and he doesn't go to school for three whole days. He ponders on his choice, and the more he lets his mind reel, the worse it gets. He feels as if he’s betraying himself.
When he returns, Jongin sits himself down next to him.
“We're going to fix this”, he says. “All of this. You will pass those exams.”
Kyungsoo almost speaks up, then, because he's nearly come to terms with his decision already—but Jongin shakes his head and beams.
“Trust me.”
**
The first time Kyungsoo visits Jongin's home, he feels terribly out of place. His threadbare dress pants have nothing to do in the presence of Jongin's carpeted floors, and he squirms when introduced to the butlers and maids. It makes him want to leave, but Jongin takes him by the hand up three flights of stairs, and into the round room closest to the sky.
“The last rays of sunshine always thrive on these floorboards”, Jongin explains. “This is my favourite place in this house.”
There are seconds of silence, until Jongin pats the space by the windowsill across from him.
“Come sit with me.”
Kyungsoo shuffles over, awkwardly fitting his short legs into a comfortable position. Jongin looks like a deity where he leans onto the white wall, yellow and orange hues dancing languidly over his jawline, flecks of dust raining in the air in front of him and landing in the curve of his eyelashes.
“What's the most beautiful thing you know, Kyungsoo?”, he asks.
Kyungsoo looks at him and gulps, and Jongin turns to face him, eyes meeting his.
“Say it”, he urges.
“Th-The-The-The—”, Kyungsoo tries, abashed in an instant.
Jongin shakes his head. “Try again. Easy.”
“The–The”, Kyungsoo swallows, “The tre-tree-trees, du-during su-summer.”
Jongin doesn't say anything after that. He just smiles. Kyungsoo leaves Jongin's house hours later, when the dark has swallowed the whole of Cambridge into its mouth, quietly sneaking out the enormous doors.
But he comes again. Jongin takes him back to the round room, over and over, and he always makes Kyungsoo talk. Sometimes a lot—sometimes less. They go through manuscripts and prose until Kyungsoo can read them with calmness and confidence. When it's warm enough to sit in the garden, Jongin takes him out to drink tea, bathing in the afternoon sun, and then they climb the oak trees that have grown large and green. And in the greenest crown, Jongin cups Kyungsoo's cheek, and kisses him.
His fingers burn hot on Kyungsoo’s skin when they part. They’re still so, so close, Kyungsoo can feel Jongin’s warmth radiate and heat him up. A blush adorns the apples of his cheeks, and Jongin’s thumb sweeps over the colour, so gently it has Kyungsoo’s throat in knots. They’re only centimetres apart, and Jongin looks slightly winded, the soft auburn in his eyes swirling. The more Kyungsoo stares, the headier he gets, the closer they come, until they collide once more. Kyungsoo braces himself on the branch behind him, and the other boy kisses him so passionately it has them both gasping for air. It’s wonderful—Kyungsoo feels the joy bubble up and into Jongin’s mouth, and then they’re laughing, and laughing, and kissing, and Kyungsoo doesn’t want to do anything else for as long as he lives.
When it's June the first, they fight.
“From the top, Kyungsoo”, Jongin groans.
“I-I'm trying!”
Jongin glares. “Try again!”, he raises his voice. “Try harder!”
Kyungsoo takes a deep breath. “By the sun and the moo-moon, she says, I will love you with my wh-whole heart, drink you like water and kiss your lips until the day I d-die.”
“You say it wrong”, comes Jongin's critique. “You say it as if you have to. As if it's an obligation for her to love him.”
“But y-you said—”
“I said it's a must!!”, Jongin yells, and Kyungsoo flinches. “I said it's a must, that she loves him. An irrevocable feat. Not an obligation.” And then Jongin recites the whole passage, from start to finish, without waver, with no hesitation, and it's so beautiful Kyungsoo feels himself lose to the other man, to the world, to it all.
He slams the book shut, and chokes out a livid, an exhausted and defeated, “I-I can't do this!!”
The hideous anger stings in his eyes and lingers on his tongue when he runs from Jongin as fast as his legs can carry.
They don't speak for a while. Kyungsoo still sees Jongin laugh with others on the courtyard, seamless in his lithe demeanor, gorgeous in every word and synonym. He doesn't think he'll ever be deserving of Jongin Kim, and thus avoids him with utmost care. It's less complicated that way. Less gaps between them if he pretends they were never as much as acquaintances.
Seungsoo has left town looking for a job, and Kyungsoo's mother cries every night when she thinks he won't hear. Food is scarce on his plate every evening, but he will not part his lips to let a single word of complaint reach her ears. She has it hard enough.
It's getting closer to the examination period, as well, and Kyungsoo feels numb. He constantly feels uneasy, and he figures, with bittersweet surrender, that he needs Jongin to feel all right. He needs Jongin to feel whole, to feel like himself again. He admits that he misses the older boy, yearns for his warmth, his kindness, and his reassurance. And so he scampers to him, through summer cloudburst and puddles of mud that dirty his worn-down shoes. Jongin welcomes him into his arms the moment he rings the bell of the mansion. He holds him to his chest and kisses into his hair, kisses each of his damp cheeks, kisses down his neck, and kisses him where Kyungsoo never thought he'd be kissed by anyone. Desire licks over his collarbones and down his chest, a powerful feeling that has him at Jongin’s mercy, sensitive to every lingering touch of the man’s hands. He gasps into the skin below Jongin’s ear when they fall backwards into a sea of cushions, and he cries out in bliss when it feels so good he thinks he’s going to burst into a cluster of fireworks. He pulls Jongin impossibly close, craves his golden skin to his own, wants to feel the texture under his palms. He takes Jongin face in his hands and kisses him, pours his heart down the other’s throat and cards through his curls with trembling fingers. Kyungsoo is certain that he loves Jongin—so, so much.
But love doesn't make miracles happen, and love cannot solve everything. Love doesn't stop Jongin's parents from finding them in bed, nude and pressed flush against one another.
Jongin's mother's voice is cold, shaking with condemn, shrill when she tells her son to let go of that atrocity. Kyungsoo pleads him not to. It's been almost two months. Months of tree top kisses, months of Jongin placing his head in Kyungsoo's lap to listen to him read. Months of Kyungsoo being able to look at Jongin and tell him “you're the most beautiful thing I know”, without a stutter, again and again and again—as many times as it'd take for Jongin to keep smiling. Two months of Kyungsoo conquering the world, and a mere second for his empire to crumble to pieces. Jongin detaches himself wordlessly from Kyungsoo's sticky skin, and Kyungsoo pleads until his voice echoes raw.
“Plea-Please n-n-no-no", he wheezes, “Jong-Jo-Jo—”
Kyungsoo sees the crystalline tear that falls from Jongin's eye and his stomach clenches so painfully he thinks he's going to die
It’s nothing but horrible when Mrs. Kim screams that she’ll never accept anything like this, nobody of his sort, and he hears her insults rain down on his Jongin, his beautiful Jongin, as he picks up his clothes and flees.
**
Jongin doesn't attend class for days after the incident. The desk by the window stands empty. Professor Richards asks for him, begs Kyungsoo to hand him papers and booklets with information—and Kyungsoo nods, but doesn't. He passes the grand mansion on his way home every afternoon, but never does more than to stop and stare. His eyes always find the window of the round room, and his stomach drops with disappointment to find it dark and vacant. He wishes it didn't have to be this way, and he misses him so terribly. He's no longer brave without Jongin by his side, and he's so sorry their hard work went to waste. Jongin had fought so patiently for Kyungsoo, fought so hard to win him over and force the stutter and the insecurities away. And all it took was Kyungsoo's stupidity to crack all the effort into smithereens. Yet Kyungsoo desists. He cannot fail Jongin like this—he owes him more than his heart and devotion—more than defeat without battle. So, he takes the exams. He studies harder than he’s ever done, and he sits through the written tests. He writes until his hands ache and his arms go stiff. The last one is scheduled on July the 4th, taking place in the great assembly hall. It's the oral seminar, and Kyungsoo's in tremors at the very thought of it. His name is on the list—he wrote it there himself, nausea eating him up as he scribbled thin lines of ink onto the parchment.
When the day comes, he doesn't want to do it anymore.
When he stands on the podium, hands crumpling the edges of his paper, he doesn't want to do it. He isn't familiar with the words, doesn't know who's written them, and he knows he can't do this. Knows he can only do this when Jongin is listening. He can read chapters for Jongin, with his hand tangled into the other's hair. He enjoys Jongin's little remarks and witty comments, and he can only ever read for Jongin. But Jongin's not there, and Kyungsoo doesn't know if he ever will be, again. Doesn’t know where he’s gone, where he stays—if he’s safe. If he’s hurting, too. If he’s longing for Kyungsoo, as much as Kyungsoo is longing for him. Something heavy and unpleasant lodges itself in his throat, and he cannot gulp it down. It feels as though he’s being watched by a billion eyes, and the paper in his hands tear a little from how he’s clutching it.
“Your glory re-rests divine on my bruised he-heart, oh son of angels”, he reads. “Y-Your lips, mine to claim, and your ha-hair mine to tug. Your wings, mine to kee-keep me she-shel-shel—”, he feels his eyes prickle, warm and uncomfortable as his vision blurs. Jongin's tears burn behind his eyelids and he knows he's tried his best, even without Jongin there—he has tried. He has spent days and nights on his own, talking, and talking, and talking, to no one, to anyone, about anything, and he's tried again, and again, and harder, and harder—but it's not enough. Without Jongin, it is simply not enough. He doesn't know if he'll ever see the man again, and in blind panic he searches desperately for the nearest exit. But his ebony eyes fall on a familiar face in the midst of his defeat, a smile so familiar, frayed, yet beautiful, that his lips part in a quiet gasp. He inhales sharply, exhales to calm his racing heart.
“Sheltered”, he breathes, and he keeps his eyes on the man's warm irises, watches as his lips move, forming silent words. Kyungsoo speaks along with him, voice shaky but clear.
“Your gleam so bright, my darling, I bask in your delight, I bloom in your palm, I grow in your grasp."
He swallows. He knows these words. He knows whom they belong to—and it feels so safe, so warm, so earnest. He shuts his eyes for the briefest of breaths, and sees expanses sun kissed skin, blotches of ivory and gold, feels the blazing flesh on the tip of his forefinger, the ghost of a hundred butterfly kisses upon his shoulder. When he opens them again and parts his lips to speak, there are peals of delight in his voice. It’s unsteady, but with caged euphoria, and nothing else.
“I adore you, I adore you, so fiercely I might burn, oh, how I wish, I could hear you say those words.”
On the third row, to the left, Jongin smiles.