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Italy is hotter than Joshua had expected.
And wetter.
The air clings to his clothes like a wet flannel and his hair is damp at the nape of his neck. From the moment he steps off the train, he resigns himself to never being fully comfortable in a suit again.
And yet, he feels lighter and more free than he has in months - like a puppet loose of the strings which had been tying him down, mooring him. No one here knows him, expects anything from him. He has his money and his name and the deed to his new vineyard.
If he let himself, he might worry about how he knows absolutely nothing about managing a property like this, and even less about running a business. He has people relying on him now: the house staff, the locals from the village who work in the fields - his fields - the wine-sellers all over Europe, the list piles up and up and rings in his ears on late nights when there are only the moon and stars for company.
But, when he can, he focuses on what he can manage, can control. He listens well to the people around him, cursing himself for his broken Italian, promising himself he’ll work harder.
He’s exhausted every weekend, but one of his new duties includes maintaining face and showing himself to be an upstanding member of the community.
And so he drags himself out of bed on Sunday, his head and feet and eyelids heavy. The water is cool as he splashes it over his face and neck and offers a welcome reprieve from the heavy heat he’s been living in. He dresses himself in the lightest clothes he believes he can get away with; two hundred bodies in the church quickly heat up.
His staff have Sunday mornings off - something Joshua had been quick to offer - and so his breakfast is small and simple. He eats quickly, his eyes scanning unseeingly over the newspaper his father has sent over from England. The information is a week late, but it’s a small slice of home.
The bicycle ride to the church is peaceful. The sky is so blue it verges on lavender and the clouds look like they belong in a painting rather than in the heavens. Birds flutter between the trees and swoop over the open fields, their silhouettes like loose kites. The wind dances over his skin as he builds up speed and his chest lifts, whispers of freedom in his ears.
He slows down as he approaches the town, and then dismounts as the crowd thickens. The children are weaving their way through the flock’s legs, calling to each other with laughing, high pitched voices. Joshua greets those who wave to him with a smile and a nod of the head.
At the church, he props his bicycle in a dark alley at the side of the building and heads inside. He was quietly and sharply reprimanded by his housekeeper, Maria, after he’d taken up a seat at the back of the church during his first week when she had informed him that the pews near the front were reserved for him and his family and that it would be considered improper for him not to fill them.
He had pointed out that one man hardly needed two full pews, but she refused to budge on the subject and had insisted that the rest of the congregation would feel the same, that it would seem like a snub to the whole community’s hierarchy if he refused to observe the expected seating, especially in church.
And so, here he sits, in front of the eyes of all and segregated by empty space. He can feel sweat pricking under his collar that is nothing to do with the warm, stagnant air of the building. He shifts uncomfortably, cursing himself for his haste.
Thankfully, the whistling organ swells and the congregation leaps to its feet. Joshua struggles, first with the hymn book and then with the words which he knew at home, but not now. After stumbling for a few lines, he gives up and begins singing along in English, setting the book aside. He looks up to the front and catches the priest’s gaze which has been resting on him, light and intrigued.
When their eyes meet, the priest’s eyes flicker away, reminding Joshua of the flittering birds from the morning.
The hymn finishes and the service begins, the shape of it familiar, almost comforting. There was a period of time where Joshua resented his family’s insistence on his attendance, but now he sees that it is less to do with religion and more to do with keeping up appearances. He isn’t there because of anything wider and greater than the fact that, if is were absent, people would talk.
He muses this as time moves slowly on. He feels eyes on him occasionally, some heavier than others. But when he looks up, he meets no gaze.
During one of the readings, he glances up to catch one of the youngest choirboys picking his nose freely and openly. The kid can’t be more than eight years old and the drowsy atmosphere in the church has clearly lulled him into forgetting where he is. Joshua hears someone hiss behind him, perhaps the kids mother, and sees the priest’s head jerk up.
Purely by chance, their eyes lock and the priest quickly bites his lip to smother a smirk. Joshua ducks his head to try and subdue the grin that creeps up on him, but, when he looks back up, the priests’s eyes are still on him, amused. He rolls his eyes, ever so slightly and Joshua snorts.
The reading comes to an end then and the shutters fall back down on the priest’s face as he rises to continue the service. He looks cold without the small curve to his lips, untouchable marble.
Communion comes and Joshua is near the front of the queue, just behind the small nose-picking choirboy. He smiles at the back of his head, ushering the boy to move forwards in his place.
An unsmiling server places the bread in his palms, saying some brief words which Joshua gets the gist of if not the specifics. He swallows the bread quickly before shuffling sideways to face the priest. His eyes are much darker this close and Joshua wonders why he hasn’t noticed before.
The rim of the chalice is cold against his lips and he has to tear his eyes away down to the blood red contents. The priest speaks lowly, in English, “Blood of Christ.” The wine is dry on Joshua’s tongue and he swallows with difficulty. He murmurs the response, unable to bring his eyes back up.
His ears are warm as he makes his way back to his pew, kneeling once he gets there partly for something to do. He sits up when the choir starts singing again and lets the music replace the humming of his own heart. With difficulty, he keeps his eyes trained on his own hands where they rest in his lap.
The service ends quickly from there, Joshua stumbling through another hymn and then sitting for an age for the organ voluntary to finally come to a close. The last note hangs in the air for a second, followed by a beat of silence, and then the shuffling and murmuring of the congregation which quickly swells into chatter.
Joshua waits a few more moments for the majority of town to filter out before rising from his seat and moving towards the door. As expected, the priest is there, talking quietly to everyone as they leave. Most get a quick handshake or a quiet nod, but others stop for a slightly longer discussion.
Hoping to pass with minimal notice, Joshua makes his way towards the door, but he sees Maria’s dark hair come into view, watches her clock him, and resigns himself to an introduction.
“Father,” she is speaking in English, clearly for Joshua’s benefit, which obliges him to smile awkwardly, “this is Mr Hong. He has taken up residence at Villa Sogno.”
The priest nods his head, of course he already knows this. The departure of the previous family and Joshua’s subsequent arrival had caused quite the stir in the town. He looks straight at Joshua, those dark eyes piercing him once again. “I remember. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to be properly acquainted before now.” He reaches out his hand which Joshua shakes, unsure whether he is being gently reprimanded or not. “I’m Wonwoo.”
Wonwoo’s hand is firm in Joshua’s, his grip is sure. “Joshua,” he says, forcing himself to hold eye contact and hoping his palm doesn’t sweat too noticeably. “I am sorry I haven’t been able to introduce myself properly before, things have been terribly busy up at the house.”
A glimmer of humour twinkles in the dark of Wonwoo’s eye as he quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure it has, Joshua.” Joshua’s spine tingles when he says his name. “I must admit, I was keen for it to happen, though, but mostly for selfish reasons.”
Joshua feels like pinching himself. He drops his hand back to his side. Surely Wonwoo was not totally out of his mind. “Selfish, Father?”
“Yes,” Wonwoo replies, “I may need to beg your assistance with something.” Someone behind them coughs politely and Wonwoo smiles genially. “Is it okay if I pop round about tea time? To discuss?”
Joshua has no reason to say no, and so he agrees. Maria comes with him to where he’d left his bike and he offers to walk with her back to the house. “No, no, I have to call in on some family. You go ahead.” She seems pleased that Joshua accepted Wonwoo’s proposal of a visit with such little outward hesitation and her wave as he cycles off is merry.
The ride home is less freeing than the ride into town. The day has heated up so Joshua is forced to remove his jacket and drape it over the handlebars, but still his shirt sticks to his back uncomfortably. The path is slightly uphill and his lungs are tight by the time he reaches the house.
He leaves the bike by the door and trudges inside, the shade of the house offering some relief. He changes his shirt and settles down in the front room with his paper from this morning.
Nothing much seems to be happening at home other than the usual tensions on the mainland and disgruntlement. There is an article complaining about parties held by someone Joshua thinks he might have attended university with, but is pretty sure he didn’t like. A few marriages - some notable, some scandalous.
The afternoon creeps up on him, the heat suppressing his appetite, and the clock tower in town rings three much sooner than he was prepared for. He heads down to the kitchen to let the cook know that he is expecting company for tea, apologising when she sighs slightly.
He resumes his place in the sitting room, this time with his well thumbed copy of Persuasion. He lets himself be soothed by the familiar shape of the novel, by the friendly sound of the language.
A sharp trill from outside makes him look up. Wonwoo is pulling up on an ancient, rickety looking bicycle. He waves when he spots Joshua through the window, the bike wobbling beneath him. Joshua lifts a hand in reply and heads towards the door, ignoring the way his steps and his chest are already lighter.
Wonwoo’s cheeks are red when Joshua swings the door open, but his black shirt doesn’t betray his sweat marks. Joshua refuses to allow himself to look at his wind ruffled hair or the way his pulls his glasses out of the inside pocket of his jacket, instead raising his hand awkwardly again and calling, “It’s a nice ride, right?”
Wonwoo shields his eyes from the afternoon sun and smiles thoughtfully. “If I were you, my car would never leave its garage,” he laughs. “The view is exquisite.” There is a pool of sweat at the base of his neck, where his clerical collar was resting earlier. Oddly, he looks younger without it, less official.
Jerking his gaze away, Joshua pulls the door open wider to usher Wonwoo inside. “It’s easier on the way back to town,” he comments, gesturing vaguely to the way Wonwoo’s legs falter slightly as he clambers off the bike, which groans underneath him. “It’s cool in here, though, do come in.”
He hopes the way his stomach is somersaulting inside him isn’t obvious as he shows Wonwoo through to sitting room, tucking his book back into the bookshelf where it belongs and ringing to let the kitchen know his guest is here.
Instead of settling into the armchair Joshua gestures to, Wonwoo approaches the crowded bookshelf, hands lazily tucked into his pockets. With most other people, this might feel like a judgement, like they are trying to catch Joshua out on some hidden flaw revealed by his reading habit. But Wonwoo’s eyes light up as his eyes scan over the books, chuckling when he sees the duplicate Aeneids. He scoops one off the shelf with a long finger and flips it open to a random page, smiling when he sees Joshua’s scribbled notes. “Private school, huh?”
Joshua laughs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah,” he chuckles, cringing internally at not having more to say. “You too?” Weak, but it’ll have to do.
Wonwoo shakes his head, setting the book neatly back in its place. “It was grammar school for me,” he starts, but Maria comes in then with the tea and they gravitate towards the chairs and small table. Wonwoo helps her unload the tray with eager hands, asking after the family she’d just visited in town and Joshua hangs back uselessly, catching snatches of the murmured Italian.
With tea laid out, they settle into the chairs, facing each other but not quite looking at one another. Joshua feels restless so he bites the bullet. “What is it I can help you with, Wonwoo?” He reaches for a teacup to keep his hand busy.
Wonwoo smiles, mimicking his movements, picking up a daintily cut sandwich at the same time. “Ah yes,” he takes a bite then continues around his half-mouthful, “I’ll admit it’s because I heard about your access to a car.”
Joshua nods, it had been an expensive gift from his father, but his pride and joy nonetheless. He had yet to drive it very far, but the motor purred like a tabby cat and the paint gleamed wickedly. “I do indeed,” he says hesitantly.
“So,” Wonwoo sits back, crossing his legs comfortably in front of himself, “I also have responsibilities at a small church about half an hour’s drive from here. Normally it’s not a problem for me on the bike, but I have need of an organist this time.”
Feeling his stomach drop at the inevitable question, Joshua narrows his eyes. “You have an organist, no?”
Wonwoo chuckles, “Ezio? You’ve met him, I assume, Joshua. Do you think he could cycle for half an hour on country lanes?”
He has met Ezio and he remembers being amazed at the time that the man had made it up the stairs to the organ loft. He was tiny and worn down by the passing of his years. Joshua agrees that the cycle ride might just finish him off. “I’d be more than happy to give you both a ride in my car, Wonwoo.”
He is surprised when Wonwoo laughs again, full bellied and louder than before. “I’m not asking for a lift, Joshua. I’ve heard from…certain sources that you’re a pianist.”
Not for the first time - and, he expects, not the last - Joshua curses Maria’s talkativeness. “I can play,” he admits.
There is a smile on Wonwoo’s lips as he says, “I’ve heard it’s more than that, Joshua, but I’m glad. Are you free tomorrow for a funeral?” His face is passively pleasant, head tilted waiting for an answer as Joshua stutters. Taking pity, he continues, “Normally, I’d run a spoken service, but the deceased particularly requested some hymns and I’m not in a place to deny him when I know we have someone who could provide sat in our congregation.”
Joshua is aware that guilt is being used against him, but the sunlight glints over Wonwoo’s face as he takes a sip from his teacup, his glasses misty. “I’d be happy to help.”
The grin that breaks over him feels like summer waves.
He curses himself in bed that night. Not just for agreeing to sightread at a stranger’s funeral, but for his reasoning behind it. As much as he wishes he could tell himself it was out of the goodness of his heart, Wonwoo’s smirk hangs too heavily behind his eyes for him to deny the truth for long.
This venture was supposed to be a fresh start, away from the walls he’d built around himself back in England with his family and with Jeonghan, but it appeared as though he’s simply wandered into a different, just as vexing, trap.
The next day dawns as blazing and stuffy as the past weeks have been. Joshua stubbornly ignores the brightness in his stomach and drags himself down for breakfast. Maria’s smile at him as she sets out the dishes tell him that, somehow, she already knows what his day holds.
He passes the time fitfully, reviewing paperwork and writing letters. Every times his eyes drag to the grandfather clock he frowns. And it happens more often than he would like to admit.
Eventually, it gets close enough to a reasonable hour to be setting off. He swings by the kitchen to grab some sandwiches - a strange request from Wonwoo, but one that is easy enough to oblige. Maria is beaming at him as he collects them so he scampers before she can say something that will make his stomach twist even more with guilt.
The basket she has prepared is definitely too much for two people, but he places it - along with the picnic rug and sheaf of sheet music he dug out from his bookcase and ran through last night - carefully into the trunk and sets off.
The drive is easier than cycling and the top down makes the wind ruffle though Joshua’s hair affectionately. The sun is bright because of course it is, but the heat is less aggressive and more balmy. The flowering fields fly past and Joshua taps his fingers lightly on the wheel as he drives.
The vicarage is easy to find. A tiny cottage on the outskirts of the town, it looks almost too small even for one person. There is ivy crawling up the side wall and the grey brick looks warm in the sunlight. The white painted window frames flash brightly and the flowerbox is lovingly and carefully tended to.
Joshua lets the car idle, tooting the horn lightly and watching as Wonwoo’s face appears a shadow in the window. He waves his hand and Joshua lifts his in return, hoping Wonwoo moves quickly to spare him from the warmth licking at the back of his neck.
He’s in luck, as Wonwoo’s narrow figure appears in the doorway seconds later, weighed down by robes piled over his arm and a thin leather bag tucked into his armpit. Again, he uses his hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the day and meanders cheerfully over to the car.
Hopping out to open the boot, Joshua calls out a greeting.
“Another lovely day,” Wonwoo replies.
Joshua wonders if only saying positive or cheerful things is part of the job requirement of being a priest. He wonders if that ever feels like a burden, not being able to moan or gripe to anybody, not being able to be the one having a bad day. He wonders if the happiness is freeing or constricting.
But, instead of phrasing any of these thoughts out loud, he simply replies, “I’m beginning to think it always is here.”
“You’d be surprised,” Wonwoo says, smiling at him out of the corner of his eye. The hairs on Joshua’s arms tingle as he gets the feeling Wonwoo knows what he was just pondering to himself about.
The car ride is quiet. Wonwoo’s presence makes Joshua nervous in a way that keeps his mouth shut. The fields whip by, familiar at first and then gradually more unknown. When he feels he needs to, Wonwoo will provide quiet directions. Joshua forces himself to keep his eyes on the paths and not on where the bone juts gracefully out of his wrist, the skin pale and smooth.
This church is even smaller than the one in their town, the structure stout and hardy. Wonwoo guides Joshua to pull into a road so narrow that he almost worries about his paintwork. He can hear children playing out of sight and their shrill happy laughter makes them smile at one another as the climb out of the car.
Wonwoo struggles briefly with the lock and Joshua surveys this new village. He wishes he’d explored more of the surrounding area sooner; it’s lovely here. The houses baked in the sun look long-suffering, like they’ve seen more of life than Joshua will ever truly understand. The air smells of pressed flours and bread crusts, warm and more like home than home ever did.
The sound of the wooden door creaking open behind him distracts Joshua and they enter the building. Joshua half expected it to feel poky, cramped inside, but he is surprised by the way the sunshine filtering through the high windows fills the place makes it seem light, almost airy. The thick stone walls make the space chill, the fine hairs on Joshua’s arm prickling alert. Their footsteps do not echo on the hard floor, but the clacking of their shoes seems almost irreverently loud.
The organ is cramped at the back of the church, piled in amongst pews and choir stalls. Even without playing it, Joshua can tell it its a feeble creature, that he will struggle to get any noise with real power out of it. He tells himself that is lucky though, that he can blame any mistakes he makes on some fault of the machine. A part of him knows that Wonwoo will somehow know but, smiling in his shrewd way, will let Joshua try to get away with it. He ignores the part of himself that says he wants to try just to see said smile.
The pair set up in amicable silence. Joshua unsure of where to go from unpacking his sheet music; the stops and many manuals (not to mention the foot-pedals) of the organ unknown and unreadable to him. Wonwoo had let him know on the drive over that there would be some time for him to acclimatise himself before the service began.
The organ bench is slippery under him as he shuffles himself to be where feels most right. He experiments with the different stops, fiddling with combinations until he reaches something that is not too squeaky, but not too thundery. He is delighted when he finds the swell pedal, using it to compensate for how unresponsive they keys are to force under his fingers.
He runs through the Fauré quickly and quickly learns that sliding off his shoes makes navigating the pedals much easier. It doesn’t take much brain work to add in a few bass notes and he smiles to himself as the music takes shape around him, almost as easy as breathing. He moves on to some Bach, wanting to stretch his fingers around the familiar shapes and sounds.
He finishes a fugue and the sound hovers in the air, magical for just a second. He checks his watch and peers around the music to see Wonwoo in the front pew, his head bowed calmly. He begins to feel guilty, but Wonwoo looks up before the feeling can get a proper grip on him and smiles gently. “That was lovely, Joshua.” Pride glimmers in Joshua’s chest warms as he blushes shyly back and Wonwoo continues, “You were right when you said you can play.”
Joshua laughs, “What is it that Bible says about flattery again?”
The muscles around Wonwoo’s eyes twitch and his smile becomes slightly more distant. “It’s the truth, Joshua. You play well.” It feels almost like a rebuke and Joshua’s ears burn a little, but Wonwoo checks his watch before he can say anything. “It’s nearly time, I’ve got to go get changed.”
Wonwoo’s hand is warm on Joshua’s shoulder as he passes, a silent forgiveness.
Joshua checks his own watch. It’s nearly midday, but the church still sits empty and quiet. Even the noises of the outside are muffled by the thick walls. The rest of the world feels distant, untouchable.
Disgruntled by the silence, Joshua walks back to the organ. The floor is chilly beneath his feet and he realises that he forgot to put his shoes back on. He wiggles his toes against the stone, amused to think about how horrified his mother would be to see him standing only in socked feet in the Lord’s house.
He hears hushed voices outside the door and scurries back to the bench. If he leans well back, he can peep through the pipes and through the door to the outside where Wonwoo is talking solemnly to a shiny-headed man in black.
Something - perhaps divine intervention - prompts Wonwoo to look up then, catching Joshua’s gaze almost instinctively. He gives a small nod, the corner of his mouth amused.
Joshua assumes this means to begin playing and so fiddles to set up the stops in the same way he had earlier. When he’s as close as he thinks he’s going to get, he embarks on Nimrod.
Over the top of his sheet music, he sees the shiny-headed man, followed by the casket on the shoulders of four somber pallbearers. Wonwoo brings up the rear, head bowed.
When the casket reached the front and is deposited onto the rickety looking stands, the pallbearers - lead by the shiny-headed man - briskly depart the building before Joshua can tie up the music.
He frowns, perplexed, and glances back up at Wonwoo who is waiting patiently for him to reach a cadence. He hastily coaxes the music into one and lifts his fingers from the keys, the notes still hanging in the air like dust mites.
Wonwoo begins the service then, his voice deeper and more musical in Italian. Although Joshua has been to funerals before, knows the outline and shape of the service, he simply lets himself be carried along. He plays when Wonwoo lets him know to with a slow nod of his head, but, other than that, he drifts, listening to Wonwoo’s soft voice.
With the window behind him, he can vaguely hear the pallbearers arguing outside, can smell their heady cigarettes. The sunlight glints off the organ keys and the shadows of birds outside flit across his sheet music. He rubs his feet along the silky wood of the pedalboard, his head already running through the next piece.
Too quickly, it feels, they reach the closing voluntary. Joshua picked something louder for this ending piece, the music almost cheerful. He sees the pallbearers creep back in and then parade back out, Wonwoo once again bringing up the rear. They smile at one another as he passes and Joshua hits a dud note, ducking his head back down to concentrate.
He lets himself see the piece through to the end, filling the building with harmony and letting the bricks resonate with noise. He pushes the swell pedal so the box is fully open and feels the notes reverberate down his bones. His feet find the pedals with increasing ease and his body feels filled with light as he plays.
Music hasn’t felt like this for him in years, almost as long as he can remember and his head is dizzy when he plays the final chord. His eyes feel steamy and he grips onto the bench beneath him.
“Are you okay?” Wonwoo’s voice is softly concerned, his presence calming by Joshua’s side.
He lifts his head, looking into Wonwoo’s dark eyes. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “I just haven’t played like that in a while.” He swings his legs over the bench and steps into his shoes. One of his feet lands awkwardly and he wobbles. A warm hand lands tight on his elbow, steadying him.
He laughs awkwardly, but Wonwoo just smiles at him. “Funerals make me feel like that sometimes as well.”
The funeral is the last thing making Joshua feeling this lightheaded, but his lungs aren’t responding properly to his brain and he can’t drum up the words to reflect the buzzing in his head. He makes a noncommittal noise of agreement and ties his laces swiftly.
His stomach growls loudly and Wonwoo’s gurgles in reply. Their laughter is louder now, shared and full. “Let’s go eat,” Wonwoo suggests.
The shade has kept the car blessedly cool, luckily for their food still in the trunk. It wobbles on its suspension as they climb in, the engine roaring jollily to life. Joshua drives slowly through the village then speeds up once they reach the more open roads. The wind rushing over them feels like its blowing away cobwebs that have crept like weeds into his brain. He feels lighter, more free than on the driver over. He hooks one elbow out of his window, steering with the other.
Wonwoo’s hand appears in his periphery, pointing at something through the windscreen. His lips are moving in words Joshua can’t make out over the churn of the engine so he slows until he works out that Wonwoo is telling him to turn off onto a small dirt path. Raising an eyebrow and hoping the track is wide enough, he obeys. It quickly turns into a dead end so he parks, turning to Wonwoo with a silent question on his face.
“You said yesterday that you haven’t seen much of the area. This is one of my favourite places; I thought you might want to see it,” Wonwoo explains, already clambering out of the car, leaving his clerical collar in the seat as he leaves.
Joshua follows, his foot sending up a small cloud of dust where it hits the path. He sighs as it settles onto his black trousers and he hears Wonwoo chuckle, amused by his discontent.
They grab the basket of food and the blanket from the trunk and Wonwoo leads the way to a narrow gap in the hedgerow, his steps buoyant and confident.
The sight on the other side of the hedges makes Joshua falter for a moment. Although the sun is high in the sky, the field of yellow looks almost like a brilliant sunset over a calm sea. The flowers sway lightly in the warm breeze, welcoming Joshua into their fold like he’s an old friend.
Wonwoo leads him to the shade of an old tree - Joshua thinks it might be chestnut - and throws out the blanket before throwing himself down onto it with a grunt. Joshua feels oddly shy, not wanting to sit too close or too far from Wonwoo’s reclining form. He finds an awkward compromise in perching at the edge of the blanket and setting the food up between them, a line of defence.
Eyes closed, Wonwoo has his arms tucked beneath his head and is breathing the warm air in, the picture of peace. Joshua pours out two glasses of elderflower cordial and nudges Wonwoo’s elbow with one, jolting him alert. He makes quiet pleased noises as he sits up and drinks heartily. They both pile their plates high in companionable silence, the flowers and fields sighing at them from time to time.
It’s all delicious, but the figs especially are a delight - soft and sweet and heady like wine. Joshua can’t stop himself going back for another every time, his hands acting before his brain can think to argue.
“Thank you for playing today,” Wonwoo says, eyes focused on peeling an orange. “I’m only sorry there wasn’t more of a crowd to hear you music.”
Joshua isn’t the least bit sorry, would play a thousand fugues just for Wonwoo, but, in place of telling him this, he snorts, “I’ll admit, the implication was made that there would be more people there.” He pops another chunk of cheese in his mouth then asks, “Why was it so empty today?”
Wonwoo’s hands slow and he looks up, observing Joshua heavily. Although Joshua isn’t sure what sways it, he sees the decision to share form behind Wonwoo’s eyes. “Luca wasn’t exactly popular in town,” he explains. “He spent most of his adult life behind bars, and the rest of it on the streets. He had no family to rely on, no one to call his friend, but he was adamant he wanted some semblance of a proper burial.” Wonwoo shrugs. “It’s my duty to try and provide that.”
“So lying is okay if it’s for the greater good?” Joshua is watching Wonwoo out of the corner of his eye, watches him turn his attention back to the orange in his hands. “Or is it?”
A droplet of juice trickles onto Wonwoo’s finger, runs up to his wrist as he lifts his arm. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says as his tongue darts out, pinks and wet, to catch the spill.
Joshua copies his shrug. “I feel like I read somewhere about it being a sin or something,” he says vaguely, teasing.
But Wonwoo’s face is serious as he regards him once again. “There are some…” he hesitates, reluctant to use the word, “sins which I believe the Lord would not want to weigh heavy on our souls.” Joshua frowns, not following, so he continues, “Have you ever read the Bible, Joshua?”
“I’ve heard plenty in readings, but I’ve never sat down and read it, no.” Joshua’s mother had tried to persuade him to once, had told him it would be good for him. He had disagreed.
“I have,” Wonwoo says, “and I feel that it as a text has suffered very greatly from the translation and interpretation of stuffy old white men.” He is frowning lightly now, eyes resting on the horizon at the edge of the yellow sea. “At its core I believe it is a book about love, not hate, but many people disagree with me.”
Joshua nods. “Love thy neighbour,” he murmurs and Wonwoo hums. “If you don’t like the way it’s taught, why did you join the Church? Especially if stuffy old white men aren’t to your taste?”
Wonwoo smiles to himself. “I was naive to believe I could change things from the inside,” he says. “I thought if I talked enough about love and peace it would be able to spread, maybe people would believe in that rather than in all the rules they think religion is about.”
Something large has wedged itself in Joshua’s chest. He addresses the fields as well now. “I think we can only worry about ourselves, about our own actions. I think all we can do is love truly and deeply and honestly, and others will either follow or they won’t.” He can feel Wonwoo’s gaze on the side of his face, but he keeps facing forward. “I’ve already made the mistake of running away from someone I loved very dearly before, I’ve already wasted time hating someone that didn’t deserve it.” A pale butterfly is dancing above the flowers now, its wings bright and glinting in the sunlight. “And I think love is much more powerful than we give it credit. At least I hope it is.”
He finally meets Wonwoo’s gaze, feels the thing in his chest morphing within him, start to form itself into a vague shape. Although his gaze is heavy, there is something warm in its depth. “Hope,” he whispers, almost to himself, dropping again to lie on his back, peering up at the undersides of the leaves above them.
“Hope,” Joshua echoes, mirroring his action.
They lounge in the heat and the silence for a time, both lost in their own minds.
A silent proclamation tells them that they have to start getting back and, with the ponderous mood swept away by the breeze, they make shy smalltalk as they pack up. Joshua’s knuckles graze the back of Wonwoo’s hand. Wonwoo flicks a blade of grass from off Joshua’s shoulders.
Again, the drive is quiet, almost somber as they both turn worlds over in their own heads.
Wonwoo disappears into the vicarage with a cheerful wave of his hand, the flowers in the flowerbox dancing as the door shuts firmly behind him. Although he’s gone, something is still simmering in Joshua’s gut; the remains of a fire he thought was doused.
A few days later, he is disturbed from his work by a knock on the front door. He is first to the door and is greeted by a sweaty delivery boy holding a badly wrapped package. Joshua pays, trying to remember if he’s forgotten about sending for something.
He unwraps it to find a thin book he’s never heard of before. The author is someone he’s never heard of: Mikhail Kuzmin - Russian perhaps, he thinks. He lifts the front cover to find, written in scrawly, cramped handwriting.
In sure and certain hope.