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The bold-ribbed, cloth-bound copy of Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations” was one of Jihoon’s greatest childhood friends. He was definitely not exaggerating when he had said 'greatest' and definitely not kidding when he had referred to an inanimate object as a 'friend'. In his defense, he was an introvert who unashamedly spent majority of his time inside the confines of his tiny room cramped with a boatload of books and a variety of musical instruments back in his younger years.
The pages were lemony from overused, some were covered with blotches, he was pretty sure one brick-colored spatter was ketchup—could have been more exhilarating if it was the blood of the past owner. Some of his favorite quotations and paragraphs were underlined using those neon green highlighters he used to be fond of, with a bunch of scribbled commentaries along the margins, some indecipherable due to faded ink; from “juicy narrative, sexy plotting plus well-drawn characters” to “Miss Havisham is a cunning but obsessively vicious bitch”—he knew it was not his best reviews, his little notes (a little too mortified to dub it as ‘literary criticisms’) were either vague or awfully blunt. What would you expect from a twelve-year-old?
Jihoon could still remember the day he had purchased the said book from the quaint, weathered-down bookstore located at the outskirts of Busan, one slightly muggy Sunday afternoon. They sold tons of dog-eared titles, alphabetically organized by genre, whilst some of the newer batches were haphazardly stacked on the floor. He could remember browsing through copious amounts of classics on his own, a bit gutted from seeing the same titles and the same authors over and over again, but still hopeful that he would stumble upon something from Vonnegut and Kafka, or philosophical texts by Epictetus or Anselm of Canterbury.
I’ve read this one...and this one…and this one too, his low murmur barely audible. The collar of his shirt was soaked from sweat and the lack of proper ventilation did not help at all. The heat was stifling to the point of being oppressive. He was losing faith, until he had spotted an unusually handsome volume of "Great Expectations" displayed on the shelf near the cash register. Despite what the critics had said about him, Dickens was a prolific writer and Jihoon had enjoyed reading his most notable works “Oliver Twist” and “David Copperfield.” He had carefully pulled the Gothic masterpiece out of its place, observing it in awe. Much to his surprise and absolute delight, it was the first edition—a bloody gem! Gilt was a bit dulled, but the hinges were still strong and quite tight, terribly rare in this state of preservation. He could remember letting the smell of the old, musty tome waft through his nose (it had always been a peculiar habit of his to sniff the books before flipping through its pages). Was he even qualified to hold such a valuable item? He had scored the jackpot.
It had costed him his entire savings (and was repeatedly reprimanded by his mother for spending his money on another book) but Jihoon went home with a huge smile plastered on his face that day and the rest was history.
Family members, close friends, prying strangers even, could only shake their heads in utter incredulity and quarter amazement every time he mentioned Charles Dickens as one of his literary heroes alongside Hwang Sok-Yong, Toni Morrison, and Chinua Achebe. Jeon Wonwoo, one of his best friends, Arthur Conan Doyle’s biggest fan (no joke—his cat was named Sherlock), a photojournalist and a famed crime fiction author himself, was the only person who fully understood his love for Dickens, his flair for dramatics, his comically loathsome characters, and social criticisms.
("I don’t have any right to judge someone’s literary appetite. As long as you don’t have “Fifty Shades of Grey"—see? I could not even recall the author's name—and Bram Stoker’s “The Lair of the White Worm” in your book recommendations, we’re good.” Wonwoo had once said during their social circle’s monthly ‘tea party’—they don’t really drink a cup of masala chai or raspberry leaf tea during these tea parties. They drink soju, sometimes cheongju or makgeolli, depending on their moods. In short, a liquor night on a work day in a guise of a fancy tea party to get away from their inquisitive, tantrum-prone husbands [mainly, Seungcheol, Mingyu, and Soonyoung—Junhui, Hansol and Seokmin were dignified enough to not act like clingy five year olds with their respective partners], and to avoid rumors [some of them were influential people after all]—courtesy of Yoon Jeonghan, an editor-in-chief of a well-known fashion magazine in the country, Choi Seungcheol's husband, and a close confidant of his.)
If a fire broke out, well, hopefully not, Jihoon would immediately rush to his side of the library to save this particular book (and his battered but precious hardcover of Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own," a birthday gift from his husband on their first anniversary). Of course, he would probably box all his children up if given an ample amount of time and rescue them from eternal damnation, but this volume of “Great Expectations” said to be published during the 1860s? Truly one of his most prized possessions.
So, imagine his horror when he had seen the current state of his husband’s side of the library. It was an unbelievably cold Monday morning, and he was on a mission, searching for a contemporary fiction to indulge himself with while battling jet lag on their living room couch. Jihoon just got home from a week-long book conference the night before, unbelievably tired from the soul-destroying fourteen-hour flight from Mississippi back to Seoul to pay their nook a brief visit (good thing it was his day-off the next day). He had arrived at midnight, heading straight to the bedroom to plonk his exhausted body down on the bed to cuddle with his husband (whom he dearly missed but no, you did not hear it from him), only to witness this chaos the next day.
The library was his dominion, and it was under siege.
“Kwon Soonyoung, you coxcomb!” Jihoon howled across the room; whole being radiating exasperation. The more he eyed the abomination, the more infuriated he had gotten from where he stood. He had almost dropped his mug of hot chocolate and a bag of potato chips the moment his eyes had landed on it, setting the chinaware down on the cluttered coffee table before he aggressively hurls it across the room out of ire. “Why is my Dickens carelessly stockpiled in between that William Thackeray collection on your shelf?!”
Hurried footsteps patting the hardwood floor were heard tout de suite. Kwon Soonyoung—in his half-naked glory, raven hair still damp, one hand clutching a teal toothbrush, and the other one trying to keep the maroon bath towel from slipping off and exposing his front (come on, it was nothing Jihoon had not seen before but Soonyoung was a man of dignity)—instantly appeared on his side. The said man had kept a safe distance just in case Jihoon resorted to cruel, barbaric ways (e.g., flinging a hardcover on his head, stomping on his foot, enveloping him into bone-crushing hugs).
“Explain yourself.” Jihoon had raised an accusing eyebrow at him, arms crossed against his chest, socked feet impatiently tapping the floor.
Soonyoung had gulped, his mouth feeling a bit sandpapery. Jihoon seemed genuinely upset for something so trivial in the eyes of ordinary couples. Well, that’s the thing, they were not your ordinary couple. Ordinary was boring, so was social conformity.
Soonyoung was thinking about how to return the other books he had stolen from his husband’s archive—Jihoon would freak out once he finds out that he had smuggled the newly bought Albert Camus' "The First Man” only to shelf it beside the said author’s archnemesis, Jean-Paul Sartre—when he took heed of Jihoon’s eyes turning into dangerous slits because he did not reply. The mere action had Soonyoung treading forward like a fool, quickly caging the other’s buff form into a tight embrace, the towel loosely wrapped around his waist forgotten.
(It was actually a poor tactic to prevent his charming husband from thwacking his head with an encyclopedia, or that thick "The Poppy War" hardcover sitting idly on the rack—it was Jihoon’s favorite murder weapon and you surely do not want to get struck with it. And maybe, he just really wanted to give his husband a warm, energy-replenishing hug [although it was not really the right time for that].)
“Forgive me, love,” Soonyoung had gently whispered in his ear, rocking their entwined bodies back and forth, grateful that Jihoon did not shy away from being subjected to physical affection, “I know I did not ask for your permission, but I’ve missed you greatly that I had found myself curled up on the library sofa with your favorite book. Your side of the bed was too empty—too cold. A week without you around was tormenting. I was filled to the brim with unease.”
Ah, Soonyoung and his way with words. How could he forget that he had married a rising freelance writer and an English Literature professor who had published several poetry collections, magazine features, and research journals? And he knew that tone of flattery too well, it was a tone reserved for impressing sought-after publishers or those snotty members of that elite book club his husband had joined three months ago (he wickedly wanted to wring the necks of those self-confessed bourgeois). Jihoon could only roll his eyes at his lame attempt to change the subject.
“We Facetimed every day, Soonyoung.”
They did. True to his word, his husband had messaged and called him all the time, much to his chagrin but needless to say, glee. He had sent him a multitude of inquiries about philosophy ("Ji, do you think free will exists, or is every action predetermined?” ), a series of screenshots of hilarious book reviews he had encountered on Goodreads, a flurry of his most endearingly derpy ramblings ("Lasers were once a scientific breakthrough; now we use them to play with cats,” the other texted him at two am. At two am!), and obviously, an overwhelming barrage of Jane Austen’s characters' cheesiest confessions to random but heartwarming I love yous. While it was not the longest time he had been away from home (he had once attended a month-long joined literary and music camp on a whim back in college), Soonyoung had been a permanent fixture in his life that not seeing him every day made him grouchy and his mood sullen. He longed for his ceaseless prattle and pleasant company every time he was abroad for work.
(“I’ve missed you, love. I am taking you with me next time. Kindly clear your schedule!” He told him over the phone once sotto voce, pink coloring his cheeks. He had a crummy time that day, bumping into an ill-humored festival attendee who yelled at him for ruining his photo op on the State Capitol sidewalk, humiliating him in front of a huge crowd. But despite all that commotion, hearing his lover's voice that lonesome evening quashed his weariness in a fraction of second.)
Soonyoung had slightly yanked himself away to look at him, frowning like a kid who was not handed extra cookies. He was adorable, not that Jihoon would ever admit that out loud. It inflates his exceptionally huge ego, he groused.
“Jihoonie! It was simply not enough! I had to sleep alone for 7 days! For 7 days! Well, not really alone, Yongmengie occasionally sleeps on your pillow or under your clothing rack, places where your scent lingers. Although she sleeps on the top of the fridge most of the time because she doesn’t like it when I smother her with love. But that's not the point of this conversation! See? Even our lovely cat had missed your presence!” Soonyoung had muttered animatedly, prowling closer again, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Jihoon already knew where this was going.
"But nothing could beat you being here with me.”
Jihoon did not even get the chance to retort as Soonyoung had drawn him closer by the waist, one hand cupping his cheek, fingers lightly stroking along his jaw before he leaned in, leaving a sweet, lingering kiss on his forehead. His lips slowly traveled down to his eyelids, then it lightly brushed his nose. He left sloppy ones on both of his flushed cheeks and lastly, a searing kiss on his lips. Jihoon gasped, head tipping back as his husband’s grip on him tightened. He unequivocally missed this.
They made out for a while until both of them were panting, out of breath. A comfortable silence had settled between the two right after, standing in the middle of their chic home library, foreheads pressed together. Jihoon opened his eyes, dizzy from an equal dose of tenderness and nerves. He was reminded of their first kiss right outside the National Library of Korea, with Soonyoung reciting a treacly line from Margaret Mitchell’s “Gone with the Wind” before swooping down for a kiss (which was undoubtedly longer than a lovers’ customary first kiss, truth be told). It was embarrassing, to say the least, and he had lectured the living daylights out of Soonyoung regarding excessive public displays of affection on their way home, but Jihoon had never once regretted it.
(“Are you familiar with ‘Gone with the Wind’?” Soonyoung had suddenly asked, the tepid summer breeze blowing his fringe softly. They had just clocked out of the library after searching for reference materials for a joint composition project. Soonyoung seemed ill at ease for some reason, shifting on his feet every now and then. But Jihoon had decided to ignore it, not wanting to dwell on it that much and just nodded in reply, having read the aforementioned book three winters ago out of sheer curiosity. He blushed when his boyfriend inched closer without a warning, growing more conscious at their sudden close proximity. What was he up to this time? Jihoon had pondered.
“Good. Then you’ve probably encountered this line."
"What are you even talking about—"
"'You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."
Albeit nervous, that was when Soonyoung held his cheeks and dived in for a hungry, flickering kiss. Jihoon was stunned for a moment—it was their first kiss—but he did not know what came over him as he swiftly tugged his boyfriend closer, his body trembling against him. They kissed, long and deep, hearts fluttering in their chests. Soonyoung had kissed him, and kissed him, over and over again that by the time they broke away, Jihoon was clutching on to him for support, chest heaving. Soonyoung had boldly left one last peck on Jihoon’s reddened lips before enveloping him into a reassuring hug, his face contorting into a broad, sunny grin.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” )
“Am I that good of a kisser that you went into that kind of trance?” Soonyoung had teasingly chided, pulling him out of his flashbacks.
“I mean, you are a good kisser,” replied Jihoon. Soonyoung went crimson, obviously taken aback from his sudden admission. He chuckled as he mimicked his husband’s stance, wrapping both of his arms around Soonyoung’s waist, devilishly pleased for seizing the upperhand. “I would not stay in this relationship if you weren’t.”
“You wound me, my love. I could not believe you are only here for my phenomenal sexual prowess and natch, it would be rather convenient for the both of us if you profess it proudly, my blinding good looks, terrific intellect, and kindness. A total package I am telling you, Jihoonie. I am quite the catch, aren’t I? You are quite lucky!” Soonyoung quipped as he caressed his abs and flexed his arms, sensually biting his lips. “So...am I forgiven?”
Jihoon’s lips thinned and poor Soonyoung had visibly shuddered upon seeing his expression.
“If you think your sophisticated but borderline narcissistic speech and erotic display could cover up your atrocities, you are mistaken. You still haven’t explained why a bunch of my books–” Jihoon had blustered, untangling himself from his husband to gesture to the books he was talking about, “–are uncomfortably sitting on your shelves. Your crimes will not remain unpunished, mister!”
“But Jihoonie! Dickens and Thackerey made up a few months before the latter’s death, when will you get over their feud? Both were central figures of Victorian literature and I know you got a thrill out of ‘Vanity Fair’ as much as I did with ‘Pickwick Papers.’ ”
Soonyoung had plopped down on their fancy, reupholstered couch (he was very surprised at how much this vintage chesterfield had cost them), patting his lap as an invitation, an enticing invitation at that—no one asked but his lap was quite homely. Instead of giving in, Jihoon sat himself in the space beside his husband, wanting to stick his tongue out just to childishly taunt him. But Soonyoung was not having any of it, skidding very close to Jihoon, snaking his arms around the other’s waist and burying his face on the latter’s neck. Jihoon hummed in content as he smelled his strawberry-scented body wash on Soonyoung. They were sickeningly domestic, not that he was complaining, Jihoon would not trade it for anything else.
“Plus, we’ve known each other for seventeen years, been married for four and dated for seven before that—and let us not count the woeful years of mutual pining—isn’t it appropriate to finally merge our libraries?”
Truth be told, Jihoon hardly thought about it. Having completely different literary interests, organizing systems and more importantly, personalities, the couple had decided to not conjugate their libraries when they had first moved in. Jihoon was obsessed with classics, lengthy reads usually assigned to you by your villainous world literature teachers during high school. Essays, science fiction, true crime, and historical fiction were also on the top of his list. Soonyoung was easily caught up with any array of books that quenched his literary thirst, be it fiction or nonfiction. He was particularly fond of science (biology, medicine, astronomy, name it!), poetry, philosophy, and literary fiction. But the both of them share the love for some genres like history, political satires, travel, women’s fiction, memoirs and graphic novels.
While they wore each other’s clothes (oftentimes, caps, socks, and even undergarments), drank tea on each other’s mismatched mugs, and added deplorably loathsome tunes from Billboard Top 100 on each other’s Spotify playlists without any drawbacks, Soonyoung could not stomach the idea of his “As I Lay Dying” mingling with Jihoon’s “A Farewell to Arms”—not that they would ever lift a finger to put it together in the first place, just like how they could never imagine contemporary heavyweights William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway hanging out and drinking wine in the same room.
Jihoon had begun to observe the entirety of the room—walls in white to complement the neutral, earth-toned color scheme Mingyu (a friend he had mentioned earlier and their interior designer), insisted on using, an expensive monroe bisque-colored coffee table with tempered glass base (it’s a staple and something to throw your feet up but the glass base was still pretentiously unnecessary, he complained to Soonyoung once), his acoustic guitar Godori quietly perched on its stand, and his assemblage of cactus arranged on the window named after every Marvel cinematic universe character there is, and that one tiny juniper named Groot. Their shelves were located at the opposite ends of the loft, Jihoon had called dibs on the right side (because he was always right, he argued) and Soonyoung had stingily occupied the left (just because he was left with no choice). Soonyoung did not look like it but he had taken a liking to putting displays on his racks like globes and that Newton’s cradle gifted by Wonwoo for a more scholarly vibe ("makes me look smarter," he had said); whilst, Jihoon does not have a single unused space in sight, books meticulously organized alphabetically and author-oriented, like James Dickey’s archives (although, he used to employ the double-shelf route but had gotten tired of it after a period of time). Their collections might be segregated but the overall interior of the room was mutually agreed upon, opting for a built-in elaborate, ebony wood bookshelves that stretch up to the ceiling, accentuating its height plus, a clean-lined ladder. His husband, being the sunny but tasteless person he was, originally wanted a spunky, reflective yellow lacquered étagères, tiger-patterned carpet and cushions, and hideous orange velvet sectional sofas. It was...horrifying. But Soonyoung promptly dismissed the idea when he had threatened him with divorce.
“Should we?” he had asked, lazily tracing shapes on Soonyoung’s back. “Do you want to?”
"Well, I want to, but I want to know how you feel about it first. I have been meaning to ask you about it a few months ago, seeing you borrow my stuff all the time and sometimes, putting it on your shelf, claiming it as yours.”
“Excuse me? I am not the only one who does that! You’ve been looting my bedroom shelves and you think I didn’t notice your act of thievery? You borrowed Marcelo Hernandez Castillo’s ‘Children of the Land,’ Yu Miri’s ‘Tokyo Ueno Station,’ and Han Kang's ‘Human Acts,’ didn’t you?”
Soonyoung had snuggled impossibly closer, trailing airy kisses on his shoulders. It tickled a little, but it was comforting.
“Now, now, Jihoonie. I’ve been letting you off the hook every time you raid my closet and my side of the library. When are you going to be lenient with me?”
“When you stop shelving literary rivals together?” Jihoon had teased.
“I am not promising you anything, love.” Soonyoung giggled. “Anyway, about the proposition, if you are not fully comfortable with the idea, I would respect it. I never want you to feel like I am coercing you into things you don’t want to do. My decision will always depend on yours.”
Was it possible to fall deeper in love with a person you have been in love with for the longest time? Kwon Soonyoung was probably the most considerate, kindhearted and thoughtful human being he had the privilege to meet, be friends with, and get married to. They had spent half of their lives together, attended the same middle school then eventually, the same university, dreamt of pursuing their dreams of taking the literary scene by storm, chins held high, watching each other’s backs. Now, at thirty, both were successful in the field of literature, and both had invested money, time and so much love in building their home—building their very own private reading nook, which was presently housing more than three thousand books, his and Soonyoung’s combined. His husband used to call these books horcruxes, to pay homage to his favorite series growing up, “Harry Potter” ("I imparted fragments of my soul in these books. As long as this library remains standing, I will stay alive," Soonyoung had once said; he had sneakily changed his contact name on his phone from Love to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that day).
Sharing a bed seemed a relatively easier endeavor than sharing his copy of T.S. Eliot’s “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats” (he could recite all those whimsical feline poems with his eyes tightly shut) or Soonyoung’s “War of the Foxes” by Richard Siken (which was actually a birthday gift from his dad; it was almost impossible to nab this particular book away from Soonyoung’s bibliotheca). But after four years of marriage and seeing how elated his husband looked at the thought of conjugating their libraries, Jihoon thought maybe it was the right time.
“I think I am prepared enough to finally take that step with you.” Jihoon had taken Soonyoung’s right hand in his, slotting their fingers together, their wedding bands flickering under the light peeking through the gaps of their curtains.
Soonyoung had suddenly jerked away from his hold. He took note of the wide-eyed, stirred look on his husband’s face. He seemed positively thrilled upon hearing him utter those words. It made Jihoon want to further breach this uncharted territory and trudge toward a more profound level of intimacy.
“Wait—are you quite sure? You are not forcing yourself, right? Is it really okay? I mean, I am honestly vibrating in excitement right now, but you don’t have to do it for me, love. I am ready when you are ready—”
“Yes.”
Jihoon had gently pecked him on the lips to shut him up, before pulling back, face a bit tinted but gazing at Soonyoung in a way that could nearly be described as fond. “But we have to set some ground rules and we have to agree on one organization system. No offense Mr. Kwon, but I do not think I could trust your current one. Your Shakespeare anthology was reshuffled by the way, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ was written before 'The Merchant of Venice’—wait, why are you looking at me like that? "
For a few minutes, his husband just stared at him, his eyes gleaming with unparalleled devotion. And he was doing an awfully lousy job at hiding his Cheshire cat-like grin. Jihoon could not help but mirror the expression. He was unreservedly whipped for this man.
“God, I love you so much, my dearest.” Soonyoung mumbled as he cupped Jihoon’s nape, rubbing soothing, circular motions there. His hsuband's touches had always been hypnotic that Jihoon had found himself leaning his forehead against his husband's bare shoulder. “I will always be unconditionally, irrevocably and passionately in love with you.”
“I love you too.” Jihoon had whispered, basking in his husband’s warmth and affection. “I adore you so much, my love. Enough to get dizzy.”
Love could truly conquer anything—even libraries. Now, it would not be just his books anymore—it would be their books.
They were really married.