Archive of Our Own

“Some things are only bright in the darkness. Some people never have their time.
They feel as if designed especially to go through.” Killarney Clary

In his dreams Jaemin would always appear as he did on the last day of winter. He’d never known until then that he’d liked his hair best black: the color of coal and rebirth, the same shine of the firewood that emerged after a long night’s gentle burning. Up close, the air smelled of smoke and static, and if Jeno reached for it he was afraid the ashes would come loose and break. From afar, at dawn, the hearth full of cinders seemed to come alight once more.

He remembered him like this, painted the portrait of his youth in bold brushstrokes: Jaemin, rising up in the backseat to emerge out of the sedan’s sun roof with a middle finger to the sky, his laugh carrying so far and high that it could bend and reach Jeno from where he was, leaning out the passenger seat’s window.

He remembered him at his best and his worst, and all the parts in between. And how could he not, with a soul as devastatingly beautiful as his?

“I want you to remember me like this.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, forever in this moment of time.”

It was in the Spring of 1992 when the truck dropped the pair of them off at a cluster of cottages in Namwon, somewhere near the Eastern border of North Jeolla. The truck rounded the bend at the entrance, pulling up to stop properly at the front door. 

Jeno caught sight of a figure on the second floor. He leaned casually out of his window with a thin cigarette perched between his fingers, looking down at the sight of the newcomers emptying the trunk of their suitcases. Wisteria and ivy climbed sides of the cottage, up and through the latticework, intricate like a photo frame. They ended at the second floor, and that was when Jeno noticed that the boy’s hair was pink.

He couldn’t tell what he looked like from where he stood. The morning rays of light got in the way, and then it was the sound of Donghyuck grunting in the back that shook him out of his spell.

“Give me a hand, will you?” He groaned, tugging his bag on where it’d got caught around one of the hooks near the back. Jeno crawled in to release it.

Donghyuk was about half a head shorter than him, hair a deep russet brown but only when he was standing in the sun. They’d never talked much before today; Jeonbuk Preparatory was a large school. There were perhaps thousands of them. Still, Jeno had heard of him. He’d heard him too, just by the volume of the boy’s voice when he was playing in the yard.

Thankfully, he was kind. His chattering all throughout the ride to Namwon was appreciated because it blocked out the rest of his nervous thoughts. 

It was the first time any of them had stepped outside the boundaries of the Jeonbuk compound. The fields surrounding Namwon were wider and farther than he could have ever imagined. Briefly, he thought, this must be like the sea.

They moved their belongings through the narrow front door, Jeno’s suitcase bumping the frame on the way in. The cottage’s inhabitants had gathered in the living room to receive them, all standing around the television while an old rerun played in the background. There were five of them — Jeno counted — all male and about the same height, but only one of them had pink hair.

And if there was anything to remember about that first day, it would be the way that boy looked, and how he looked back at him.

“You know where we all end up after this, right?”

“Of course.”

“Here is your room,” one of them said, helping Jeno with his bags up the stairs. He slipped Jeno’s duffle bag off his shoulder and dumped it on one of the beds. Guess that’s mine, Jeno thought.

“The name’s Doyoung,” he said, arms akimbo. He scanned the room as if he were looking at something grand, but when Jeno looked he just saw two beds and a wardrobe with no hangers.

Doyoung, he learnt, was the oldest in the house and hence was designated leader, whether he liked it or not. His skin was as clear as a cloudless day, chin sharp and face as clever as a hare. 

“You get to pick a different room next year, once the veterans leave. But till then,” he said, leading them in as if in a showroom. “Welcome to your humble abode.”

Jeno nodded.

“Well, I’ll leave you both to unpack. We have lunch at noon, so join us downstairs then,” he finished with his hands clasped, then closed the door behind him.

As soon as Doyoung left the room, Donghyuck leapt onto the other bed, letting out a low whistle as soon as his back met the mattress. “Sweet,” he chuckled, looking up at the ceiling. 

The privacy of the double room was a huge step up from Jeonbuk’s dormitory, which was just a huge room lined with six bunk beds. At that moment, he was struck with the realization that from tonight onwards he was to sleep without the background sound of students fidgeting in their sheets, or the rumbling of snores. Anticipation and trepidation filled him both.

He sat at the edge of his mattress. Everything was warm, even the comforter, as though it hadn’t been long since the previous occupant departed.

“So, what’d you bring with you?” Donghyuck asked, already unpacking. He pulled open all the drawers in his dresser, placing his clothes and belongings in the spaces they were meant to be in.

“Not much,” he responded, looking at his open suitcase. It was just clothes and books, random trinkets he’d accumulated from his years at Jeonbuk and couldn’t bear to throw away. He placed those at the top of his dresser, despite knowing they’d catch dust sooner or later. 

Even after all this time, they were still nice to look at.

By the time noon rolled around Jeno had finished unpacking and was admiring the view outside the window. He sat with his back against the alcove, peering out at the verdant green slopes. The sky was so pale it was almost white, the grass and trees unmoving as if printed onto paper.

A chill draft snuck in through the loose casing. Carried with it, the smell of bbudae jjigae.

Jeno descended the steps slowly, feeling the creak in the wood with every shift in weight. Donghyuck ran ahead of him, so quickly he feared he’d tumble down the stairs. 

As expected, he’d forgotten everyone’s names already, so he introduced himself one by one again as an excuse to hear them a second time. Jaehyun was sitting with Sicheng in front of the television watching a romantic comedy; Jaehyun was enthralled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Sicheng looked bored out of his mind.

He joined the rest of them in the kitchen. There, he met Renjun as he was fishing for extra chopsticks at the back of the drawer. Doyoung nodded a quick hello, his hands occupied with glasses as he carried them to the dining table. Jeno stopped at the stove to watch the pot bubble and sizzle.

The pink-haired boy’s name was Jaemin, he learned later when someone else shouted for him. He stirred the pot quietly, pushing the ingredients in a clockwise motion. They didn’t talk very much, even though Jeno had been standing there for about five minutes. Just a few exchanges of where you’re from, how old are you, and how the journey to Namwon had been.

Jaemin had come from Iksan, somewhere near the sea. He was nineteen that year, a year older than Jeno, and a year younger than Doyoung. The newcomers came every year in the spring, right after the veterans left in the winter. When Doyoung, Jaehyun, and Sicheng turned twenty-one, they would have to leave and go to wherever it was they needed to be. 

His voice was low and raspy, the kind of sound a throat makes without enough water, but he was completely unbothered as he continued to stir the soup.

At the table, the veterans were talking about when to start seeding the crops. Renjun brought a calculator out to estimate how much money they’d need for the market. Even Donghyuck was being useful, flipping through the classifieds for a good deal. 

Meanwhile, all Jeno could think about during lunch was how good the food was. He thought this through his first serving, then the second, and said it out loud the third time he stumbled into Jaemin in the kitchen, his bowl empty and heart full.

“It’s our last meal, and you want to eat bbudae jjigae?”

“Of course. It reminds me of the time we first met.”

Thankfully, Donghyuck snored in his sleep. 

Adjusting to life at the cottages was smoother than Jeno expected; the transition from being surrounded by hundreds of students, to just six others now, was a huge one, but the gentle rumbling out of Donghyuck’s chest reminded him that he wasn’t alone.

He came to understand the system better: In their eighteenth year, students, from Jeonbuk or Iksan alike, would leave their preparatory schools and move into smaller communities. There, they would live for three years until they turned twenty-one, and were old enough to begin donations.

“I can’t believe they’re just letting us live out here and do whatever we want,” Jeno commented. He tossed a baseball idly between his hands as he leaned against his headboard, watching Donghyuck draw at his desk.

“Probably the most humane thing they could do,” Donghyuck responded so casually it sounded sardonic. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“You cannot leave Jeonbuk not knowing who you are. What you’ve been created to do.”

Jeno had always found boys attractive, but it was only until he’d met Jaemin he realized that he liked boys too. In that exact way.

It happened on a cold, grey, blustery day in the spring. The rain had finally let up after a whole night of pouring, and when they drove out of the gravel driveway it felt like they were treading water.

“You both have never been out, have you?” Doyoung had asked earlier during breakfast.

Jeno set down his spoon and it clinked against the porcelain.

“Nope,” Donghyuck replied.

“Would you like to come with us?”

Jeno shared a look of concern with Donghyuck and knew that he would have understood.

“How much interaction have you had with the outside world?” Jaehyun asked.

“Um,” Jeno answered honestly. “We did, uh, role plays and stuff.”

“Well that settles it then, we’re all going,” Doyoung clapped his hands together, then flashed Renjun an apologetic smile. “Sorry mate, you’re going to have to sit this one out.”

“What!” Renjun grumbled, casting Jaemin a dirty look. “Why does he get to go?”

Jaemin, grinning slyly at him, chimed, “Because, unlike you, I have self control when I go shopping.”

The five of them got in the car — Doyoung drove and Jaehyun called shotgun, while Donghyuck sat in the middle seat because he was the shortest. The drive to the nearest town was about an hour away. On the ride there, Jaehyun slipped in an upbeat jazz cassette, one with extravagant saxophone solos and a deep crooning voice, which certainly kept Jeno awake.

Doyoung pulled the car up outside a roadside diner, a standalone hut by the highway that looked like a tent in the distance. But now, right in front of it, Jeno held his breath at how large it became. It was unreal — the movement of patrons within its walls; the blinking neon sign, bright amidst the fog, a runway signal for passengers returning home.

“Can someone wake Jaemin up?” Doyoung turned around, looking at the boy fondly. Jaemin’s head lolled against the car door, the pink in his hair bright against the black door. Donghyuck gave him a gentle nudge at his shoulder. Once, twice, then Jaemin was shifting in his position, grumbling an unintelligible five more minutes.

Jeno didn’t notice when Jaehyun had climbed out of the car, but then the passenger side door opened, and he caught Jaemin by his shoulders right before he tumbled out.

“You lazy ass, let’s get going. I’m hungry,” he chided, hauling Jaemin to his feet.

Jaemin slowly blinked himself awake as he trudged into the diner, trailing behind the group. He slid in next to Jeno in the booth.

Jeno sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden realization of where he was and who he was. His eyes darted around to the other patrons: old truck drivers, flipping through the morning newspaper; travelling businessmen, their shoulders sagged and faces sunken. He fretted about the possibility they would turn to look and stare.

He clenched his fists on his pants, all of a sudden forgetting how to read the words on the menu, and when the waitress came around to ask for their orders Jeno almost had a heart attack.

“What can I get you boys?” She asked, uninterested, pulling out a notepad from her apron.

“English breakfast for me,” Doyoung said. He slid the menu to Jaehyun, who added, “English breakfast for me too.”

Jeno’s heart beat like a drum in his chest, and when he looked up all the eyes were on him. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then a hand came to wrap around his clenched fist, warm and tight enough to ground him. He glanced down at it, the sharp knuckles and faint green-purple lines that showed through the flesh, and realized that it was Jaemin holding his hand.

“English breakfasts for everyone,” Jaemin smiled easily, sounding practiced and in control.

“Got it,” the waitress repeated, unimpressed. “Five English breakfasts.”

All it took was just a modicum of Jaemin’s attention.

His attraction to Jaemin should have struck him then, in between bites and sneaky glances to Jaemin when he talked. It should have manifested in awe, in lightness, a prickling sensation on the back of his nape. But no, it manifested in an ugly manner in the pit of his stomach sometime later in the day, when the sun had just set, and it was just Jaemin, Jaehyun, and him in the car. 

After loading the trunk with several cartons of seeds and supplies, Doyoung made a final pit stop at the bank to make a deposit. Donghyuck, the more courageous between them, joined him in line at the branch. 

“Sit in the driver’s seat for me, will you? So they don’t tow the car,” Doyoung gave Jeno a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Jeno climbed forward, navigating his limbs through the jumble of belongings, careful not to hit the emergency brake.

He watched Jaemin and Jaehyun through the rearview mirror. Jaemin hadn’t talked to him much after lunch, especially since they’d split up to run errands, and he’d gone off with Jaehyun to pick up household supplies at the supermarket. Now, they sat comfortably in the backseat. Jaemin leaned casually against Jaehyun’s side, casual in the same way he had held Jeno’s hand that morning. It could have meant something, or not.

Jaehyun wound the window down with the crank handle, letting in a cool draft.

He pulled out a box of cigarettes and shook them so that Jaemin could pluck one out.

“Want one?” He asked, sticking the box towards the front of the car.

Jeno shook his head no.

Jaemin dug in his pockets for his lighter, holding his cigarette between his lips.

“Hey, light me up too,” Jaehyun said.

Leaning over, Jaemin touched the tip of his cigarette to Jaehyun’s, and in the flare Jeno saw the fullness of Jaemin’s face: his sharp cheekbones, almond eyes, the flicker of recognition within them when they made eye contact through the rearview mirror. The car returned to its sullen blues and greys, and in the twilight there was only the dull red smoulder of Jeno’s balled up fist.

He unfurled his fists and realized then, running a fingertip over the crescent imprints on his palm, the extent of his want. Want that coursed through his veins and flooded across the plains of his skin. Want that burned so brightly he could glow with it.

Smoke shrouded Jaehyun’s and Jaemin’s heads like a veil.

Feeling oddly intrusive, Jeno looked away, winding the driver’s seat window down so that he could breathe again.

In the days that followed, Jeno caught a glimpse of Jaemin less than a handful of times. Jaemin stayed in his room most of the time; probably ate in his room too if Doyoung didn’t catch him doing it. Sometimes, he even left the cottage without telling anybody where he went off to.

To be fair, Donghyuck never saw him around either, and that made Jeno feel a tad better.

But when Jaemin was around, Jeno found himself hovering around the boy like a small satellite, grateful to just be in his presence. He couldn’t help himself.

In the fields, Jaemin taught him how to clear the tall grass with a scythe. He demonstrated how to do it, swiveling his body as he swept his radius clean. Breaking out in a sweat, he’d then shuck off his baseball cap, revealing skin as pink as the hair on his head. 

Jeno observed him like this. Guiltily, he reveled in it. When Jaemin stood up straight he was still an inch or two shorter. When the wind blew, the boy’s white t-shirt would billow around his wiry frame, like clothes pegged to a thin line.

Jeno held his breath to stop his hands from shaking.

Jaemin was absolutely beautiful. 

“He follows you around like a puppy.” 

Jeno overheard a conversation one night from inside the shed. There were two dark shadows in the crack under the door, but he could tell who it was just from the voice.

Jeno willed his body still. He felt like something might betray him, like a tool falling off its place on the shelf, or maybe his own breath itself.

The two shadows hovered near the door, and for a split second he feared the door would open, and he’d know for certain who was behind it.

But what followed was stillness, so large that it could have swallowed him whole. Then thundering footfalls — the sound of someone running away.

Jeno swallowed his pride, resolving to carry on as if nothing had happened. He didn’t bat an eye (or at least, tried not to) when he walked past Jaemin and Jaehyun watching TV on the couch. Instead, he busied himself with errands around the house.

He learnt how to change lightbulbs with Doyoung’s and Renjun’s help. He almost dropped them the first time because he didn’t realize how hot they could become, even if the light had been turned off for a while. He accompanied Donghyuck to the general store to buy more art supplies — from canvases to acrylic gesso — and balanced the bag precariously in his little bike basket on the way home. He even dropped by Sicheng’s room and ended up with a mini-guitar lesson.

Sicheng was the youngest among the veterans, but he looked the oldest. Mostly because he never really smiled, and when he talked he did so haltingly, as if he were calculating the number of words he needed to say. Jeno was surprised that Sicheng even called his name when he saw Jeno passing by. 

“You looked really bored out there,” Sicheng explained, looking up from his guitar.

Jeno found a space to sit near him on the floor. He shared a room with Jaehyun, but the other boy wasn’t around.

“We typically find something to do to keep our time occupied,” Sicheng explained when Jeno had asked: Why the guitar ?

“Gives me a sense of purpose, at least.”

He handed the acoustic guitar over to Jeno, who cradled it awkwardly in his lap.

“Here,” Sicheng said, moving Jeno’s hands for him. He positioned one hand over the strings and wrapped the other around the frets. Pulling his hand gently, the guitar produced a small sound.

“Did that stir something in you?” Sicheng asked, his tone so flat Jeno couldn’t tell if he was joking. But when he met Sicheng’s eyes he realized he was being sincere.

“Um,” Jeno mumbled. “I don’t really know how I’m supposed to feel.”

“That’s okay. We have a bunch of instruments to pick from in the living room, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Sicheng offered in return. 

Jeno handed the guitar back, and for the first time he saw Sicheng smiling.

Jeno did decide to go to the instrument corner, but on his way there he realized he wasn’t alone. Notes from the piano filled the air — Jeno didn’t know how to describe it. Closing his eyes, he conjured the image of koi fish twirling around each other in a pond, or a pair of figure skaters gliding on ice. The music rose up the scale; like ascending a flight of stairs, the room felt brighter. Light enough to lift his mood.

When he approached the source, Jaehyun’s back came into clarity. Jeno considered running away, but the music drew him in closer.

He stood by the stairwell until the song was over. Sensing Jeno’s presence, Jaehyun turned behind to greet him.

“Do you play as well?”

Jeno blinked. 

“Uh, no,” he eventually remembered how to speak. The weight of Jaehyun’s expectation rested heavy on his chest. He twisted his arms behind his back to hide how fidgety he’d become, now that the room plunged back into silence.

“Wanna learn?” Jaehyun asked, and Jeno was terrible at hiding his surprise.

“Sicheng told me he taught you how to play some guitar,” Jaehyun continued. “But we all know the piano is the superior instrument.”

Jeno walked over to the piano bench and eyed the score sitting on the rack. 

“It’s Claude Debussy. 2 Arabesques, L. 66: No. 1 in E Major,” Jaehyun read from the top, but his words sounded as jumbled as the foreign words on the page. “Luckily the notes are not in English as well, or we’d have a tough time.”

He let out a low chuckle. Jeno wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh at that, but he did so anyway, and it came out sounding rather pathetic.

He cleared his throat.

“Could you play it again?” Jeno asked.

“Of course,” Jaehyun agreed. When he smiled his dimples showed so clearly it seemed carved in, and it was hard to believe that Jaehyun was being nice to him. Despite this, he went along with it.

Jeno perched on the edge of the bench. 

Once he’d settled in, Jaehyun set his hands on the keys again and played.

“You.”

Jeno was walking down the hallway when he heard that voice. Jaemin emerged out of the doorway, dressed in the same sweatshirt he had on yesterday, his hair messy, looking like he’d scrambled just to get to the door. 

He blocked Jeno’s path, face fierce as if Jeno had done something wrong.

But what he said was altogether different from what Jeno had expected:

“You’ve hung out with everyone in this house except me.”

Oh.

Jeno had a good reason for it. Obviously, because the whole purpose was to get over his stupid little crush.

“Your door was closed, and I didn’t want to bother you,” Jeno said instead.

Jaemin ran a hand through his hair and clutched his head in realization. “You’re right. Fuck. I can see how that might’ve looked.” He straightened his back against his door frame and extended his hand out, an offering. 

Jeno took it, and his skin was pleasantly warm.

“Sorry. I do that often. That’s what happens when you get the only single room in the house, I guess.”

“You got the single?” Jeno asked.

“Yeah,” Jaemin breathed. “Doyoung got attached to his room and didn’t want to move when Yuta moved out. So,” he extended his arms, “here I am.”

A beat passed. “You wanna see?”

Jeno nodded, following behind Jaemin.

The sweet scent of fresh flowers greeted him first. Jaemin’s bedroom opened up, just barely so, given its small size, but the open picture windows filled the room with light and air. Many potted plants lined the foot of the alcove, some hung from the ceiling, suspended with thick, white yarn, framing the same window he’d caught sight of on the very first day. There was just enough room for Jaemin’s bed, a narrow sliver between that and his desk, where Jaemin kept a few books on his table. Only when he approached the window did the familiar smell of cigarette smoke hit his senses.

On the ashtray by the windowsill, wisps of smoke rose from the butt of an extinguished cigarette.

“That’s my hobby,” Jaemin said. “The plants,” he thought to clarify.

“Oh,” Jeno said, dumbly. He wished he had something smart to say to impress him. “What do you like about it?”

Jaemin shrugged. “I guess I like looking at pretty things,” he said, sliding into a smile so lovely and mean at the same time, it made Jeno giddy just from looking at him.

“It’s like caring for a pet. Since we can’t keep any, this was the next best alternative.”

He pointed to the different planters and explained the great lengths he took to make sure they bloomed this spring — from optimizing the positioning of his plants to his schedule of watering them — to be honest Jeno couldn’t care less about plants until today. Deeply, he regretted not having paid attention in biology.

“I didn’t think growing plants was that… intensive,” he admitted after Jaemin was done with his spiel. 

Jaemin hummed in recognition. “You wanna try?”

“I’ll probably kill it,” Jeno joked. His eyes followed Jaemin as the boy walked over to his desk, hands gesticulating as he searched for something. 

“Ah! Here.”

He placed in Jeno’s hands a small succulent, its small leaves thick and fat like thumbs. Jeno cupped it like a small bird — held it like it was something precious.

“This one won’t die on you, I promise.”

He placed the succulent squarely on his dresser.

Donghyuck asked offhandedly where he’d got it from. Upon hearing that it was a gift from Jaemin, he gave Jeno a suggestive wink, and ended up with a pillow to his face.

Everyone in the house had some special thing they did: Sicheng played the guitar, Jaehyun played the piano, Donghyuck and Renjun both drew, Jaemin planted, and Doyoung was busy enough running the estate as it was. Jeno attempted to find something else to keep himself occupied. 

Sometimes he plucked books off the shelf in the common room to read. They were old and stale, pages speckled with yellow dots, but they served its purpose. More recently, he began to take bike rides around the country road, now that the weather had improved and the ground was firmer to ride on.

He’d never really been one to like the outdoors much, but something changed after coming to the countryside. Perhaps it was the crispness of the air, or the quietness of the fields that made him feel as though suspended in a strange, unending block of time.

It was near five in the evening when Jeno ran into Jaemin by the front porch, just as he was about to leave for a ride. Jaemin was reclined in a wicker chair reading a book, his feet propped up on a stool. His hair was lit golden in the setting sun — enough time had passed since the beginning of spring, and his hair quickly was becoming more blonde than pastel pink. 

He wasn’t smoking this time, and the ashtray was empty. Peace washed over his features, and it suggested to Jeno that Jaemin only smoked when something bothered him.

The sound of gravel crunching under Jeno’s bike tires drew Jaemin’s attention, and he lifted his gaze to catch Jeno fiddling with his bike gloves.

“Going for a ride?” He asked, sliding in his bookmark.

“Yup,” Jeno replied, fastening the velcro. He paused to gather his courage. 

“Wanna join?” He ventured.

Jaemin pursed his lips in thought, and from where Jeno was standing they formed a perfect heart, red and glowing like the head of a match. 

“You’re going to laugh at me for this but I don’t know how to ride a bike,” Jaemin admitted. He laughed, embarrassed.

“I’ll teach you,” Jeno insisted. He rolled the bicycle forwards, coming so close he could see, clearly now, how the sun traced lines on the Jaemin’s forehead, which was furrowed in thought.

“A little too late for me to be learning new skills, don’t you think?,” he said, glancing up. “I mean, what’s the point?”

“It’s never too late.”

Jaemin pressed his lips into a thin line, considering.

“What if I fall down and break all my bones?”

“It won’t happen with me around,” Jeno assured. 

“Fine, since you’re so insistent,” Jaemin over exaggerated. “I’ll go get socks.”

“I look like a fucking idiot,” Jaemin complained, sticking his arms out like a scarecrow. Over his joints Jeno had strapped on all the padding he’d found in the shed — over his elbows, his knees, his wrists — and if he were to stand in the dark he’d appear as a silhouette of the Michelin man.

“Mm,” Jeno studied him. “You look like a normal idiot to me.”

“Why you—” Jaemin seethed and gave Jeno a playful shove.

They barely made it down the country road.

Jaemin resolved to put his feet down every ten seconds, and it went on for about thirty minutes — Jaemin complaining, Jaemin clinging onto Jeno’s sweatshirt, even if Jeno assured him that he wasn’t going to let go. 

“You trust me, right?” Jeno asked. “Then I’m going to push you from behind, it’ll be easier that way.”

Slowly, they picked up the pace, and Jaemin tried his best to not give up. It’s all about the momentum , Jeno had repeated. And just as he’d got it, Jeno secretly let go. The bike wobbled but found its balance, and it would have been perfect, had Jaemin not turned around to check if Jeno was still there.

“You bloody bastard!” He heard Jaemin shout. “You didn’t teach me how to stop!”

Jeno knew he was being selfish. And yet—

He did it time and again.

Finding Jaemin in the garden with Jaehyun, he walked over to offer help. The hem of Jaemin’s khaki trousers were wet from brushing against the grass, and his hands were stained with dirt after clearing the weeds. The tomatoes were almost ready to harvest — any day now. 

When they finished washing their hands by the hose, he wrapped a hand around Jaemin’s arm and pulled him aside. Jaehyun, thankfully, was nowhere close.

“Biking? This evening?”

A small flutter registered in his stomach as he awaited his answer. It rose, like Jaemin’s silk collar, battered by a strong gust of wind.

“Yes,” Jaemin replied, smile moony, and it was enough for Jeno to keep trying again.

Even if he could only have him like this, it was still the best feeling in the world.

Summer.

Time outside was marked by the deepening skins of ripened fruit; time in the cottages was marked by a change of Jaemin’s hair. He emerged from his bedroom one morning with a head of honey brown hair, messy like a nest. In the sunset, however, it looked regal in the way it caught the sunbeams. Threads of gold, copper, bronze weaved themselves into a crown.

And in the summer, Jaemin learned how to drive. Doyoung taught him how to. Jaemin was terrified of driving, but between him and Renjun he stood a better chance of mastering manual stick shift, and Doyoung was willing to take his chances. He kept Jeno in the backseat to watch and learn, because god knew who was going to teach Jeno once he was gone.

“You’re going to learn how to drive up this slope,” Doyoung said on the third or fourth lesson. 

“Why are there three pedals if I only have two feet,” Jaemin complained. He adjusted the seat belt, which was chafing his neck. 

Slowly, they ascended the slope. Like the way Jaemin learned how to ride a bike, he stalled the car every time he changed gears, or when he lifted his feet off the pedal too early.

“Fucking piece of junk,” he cursed under his breath. As if in retaliation, the car slid backwards, pulled by gravity and vengeance. 

“Wasn’t the way I thought I was going to go,” Jeno joked, holding onto the car side handles.

“Just. Relax. You can do this.” Doyoung sighed. “It’s just like learning how to ride a bike.”

Jaemin scoffed, “You can ask Jeno how well that went.”

“Yeah, yeah, and you lived to tell the tale,” Doyoung dismissed that. “Now put your hands back on the wheel and try again.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Why you keep changing your hair.”

“What, you think this color’s ugly?”

No, Jeno thought. Never.

Jeno learned what possibles were on a rainy day mid-summer. Doyoung had come back from one of the other cottages down the road, where he’d gone to hang out with some of his old friends from Iksan Prep, and he came bumbling in, sopping wet and yelling Renjun’s name.

“What’s a possible?” Jeno asked, in between Doyoung’s incoherent shouts.

The chemistry in the room shifted noticeably.

Sicheng stopped playing his guitar and turned to address Jeno.

“They’re the people we’re cloned from,” Sicheng put it bluntly. 

“Supposedly,” Jaehyun chimed.

Sicheng continued, a beat too late, “You know that, right?”

Jeno nodded dumbly. The circumstances surrounding their existence had always been a mystery; he'd been happy to leave it unsolved — they had no parents, but were not orphans. There was no explanation of where they began, but it was clear where they would end. Honestly, Jeno would rather not know.

“Kun had gotten a call from Johnny, who visited Gochang last week. Said he saw someone who looked just like you,” Doyoung exclaimed, his voice travelling up the stairs to reach Renjun. 

“Are you serious?” Renjun asked, coming down the steps. His eyes were about as wide as tennis balls. “Where’d he see him?”

“In one of those offices,” he said. “Real estate, or insurance, or something, I honestly can’t remember right now because I came back here right away.”

“Shit,” Jaemin cursed. He released a long sigh. 

Jeno raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“We always know how these things turn out.” He fixed his gaze on Jeno, face solemn. 

In the other corner of the cottage, Renjun was clutching Doyoung’s shoulders.

“When can we go?”

Because it was Renjun, Jaemin had to go with. And because Jaemin was going, Jeno found himself in the car too. 

“A trip without the veterans!” Donghyuck cheered initially, but when it was apparent that Jaemin would be the one behind the wheel, Sicheng unwillingly became their chaperone. He sat next to Jaemin in the passenger seat to make sure they didn’t die on the way there, but thirty minutes in he’d fallen asleep, heading bobbing silently over his crossed arms.

Renjun sat in the middle seat, throwing out conjectures of his possible and the double life he might be leading. 

“Stop enabling him, Donghyuck,” Jaemin chided lightly. 

Jeno met his eyes through the rearview mirror and saw the scrunched eyebrows and worry written all over his face.

“Come on, don’t be such a party pooper,” Renjun chuckled. “This is just good fun.”

Jaemin returned his attention to the straight road ahead and tried to concentrate. He said, evenly, “I’m just saying — don’t get your hopes up.”

Renjun waved off Jaemin’s negativity and directed his energy onto Donghyuck, who was very much willing to entertain him. Meanwhile, Jeno slouched in his seat and leaned against the window, where he watched the golden fields blend into each other like a long piece of cloth, unchanging, mile after mile. 

Halfway, Sicheng awoke to Jaemin nearly falling asleep at the wheel and grumpily took over. They shuffled seats in the car; Renjun moved to the front so that his talking could keep Sicheng awake, Donghyuck finally caught some shut-eye after talking non-stop, and Jaemin did the same. 

“You’ve got the window,” Jeno mentioned when Jaemin chose to rest his head on Jeno’s shoulder. Jeno was about to scream.

“Mm,” Jaemin mumbled sleepily. “This is comfier.”

“Then I could’ve taken the window seat,” Jeno said.

“Heh, too bad,” Jaemin smiled into Jeno’s shirt. Not that Jeno could see, anyway. He was too busy having an internal crisis with the way Jaemin was pressed up against him. And Jaemin would have thought nothing of it, but Jeno, being Jeno, thought everything of it. His neck was prickling with heat and he wondered if Jaemin could feel it.

The smell of cologne and cigarette smoke mixed and met Jeno where he was.

He closed his eyes and willed his breath steady.

Gochang was a sleepy sea-side town on the Western coast of North Jeolla. It had a grand total of fifty thousand inhabitants, as specified by the signboard at the county line. After another fifteen minutes of driving past the buckwheat fields, the scenery gradually faded away. In the distance, low concrete buildings emerged.

They stopped by the town hall for a map, and Renjun laid it on the hood of the car to decide where to go first. To their benefit, there were only a handful of offices in the small town, so it wasn’t hard to make a plan. 

Despite how Gochang appeared, Jeno found that Gochang had a distinct charm to it. Its corner stores hung its offering on its walls and over the archways, trinkets of all sorts, from spinning tops to rattle drums. He stopped to examine them once in a while when Renjun was busy figuring out directions. Donghyuck dragged them into a record store, recommending artists as he leafed through the vinyl. Even Sicheng looked impressed. 

Jeno had forgotten what it was they had come to Gochang for until Renjun announced, glumly, that there was only one office left to check.

“Maybe they save the best for last,” Donghyuck supplied, trying to be helpful.

It was nearing five in the evening when they finally made it to a property insurance branch. Sicheng had some trouble finding roadside parking, so he dropped them off at the storefront and waited in the car.

“Hurry,” Renjun said, almost running. “They’re going to get off work anytime soon.”

They crowded at the glass window, peering in with hands cupped around their eyes to block out the sun’s glare. The branch was quiet, a sea of stillness with only the tops of people’s heads peeking above the cubicle walls like buoys. 

“We’ll need to go in,” Jaemin said. 

Renjun froze.

“You want to find out, or not?” Jaemin asked.

The bell on the front door jingled when they walked in. A plump lady looked up from the reception, her neck rolls shifting like waves. “Can I help you boys?”

Jaemin opened his mouth and delivered his best performance yet:

“Our grandmother, god bless her soul. She mentioned that she was approached by a lovely agent from your establishment, but she can’t remember his name for the life of her! Would you perhaps have a roster of some sort, so that I can find the delightful gentleman that assisted her?”

He folded his arms casually on the counter, flashing the receptionist a bright smile.

“Ah, yes, of course,” she said, swiveling her chair to pull a binder from underneath the table. “Here you go.”

Renjun took the binder and started flipping through the passport sized photos, lined up like a graduation yearbook. Jeno leaned forward for a better look. When Renjun reached the end of the binder, he turned back to the beginning and tried again.

“Maybe it’s this one,” Jaemin tried to help, feeling slightly sorry. He pointed to the picture of a thin man with a ricey complexion. It could be Renjun’s possible, Jeno supposed, if you squinted real hard.

“I think he’s the one,” Jaemin said to the lady.

The receptionist buzzed for the agent to come to the front desk. They waited in anticipation. As if disturbed by a rock thrown into the water, the sea of heads rippled. Then, one body rose from his seat. 

Jeno watched as the man straightened his tie. Slicked his hair back with a tacky comb he pulled from his breast pocket. When his face came into clarity, the sinking feeling in his stomach thrusted itself to the fore. He could see how Johnny had thought he’d looked alike. In the same way you’d draw someone from memory — it comes out looking clumsy, maybe with one eye looking bigger than the other or lips too big for the face. That’s what the man appeared like to Jeno.

He stood in front of them for a long time. Long enough, in dead silence, for him to glance curiously at the receptionist and ask if he was being pranked.

When they left the building Sicheng was waiting for them by the meter, flipping coins in his palm. He lifted his head to see Jaemin walking ahead of the pack, his eyes black and his head shaking.

Don’t ask him about it.

Because it would have taken three hours of driving to get home, Sicheng took the group to a seafood kiosk by the beach, thinking that watching the sunset could, perhaps, ease the group’s sombre mood.

They ordered grilled shellfish and knife cut noodle soup. The anchovy broth was light and the warmth of the soup was comforting. Renjun didn’t touch his food very much; it was obvious because Sicheng grilled the shellfish and served them to Renjun first, knowing that they were his favorite. Renjun pushed them aimlessly around in his plate, watching Donghyuck babble about something else.

“Here.” A shot glass was shoved into his hands. “Drink up.”

Renjun looked up to see Jaemin with a bottle of soju, which he’d procured on the way back from the bathroom. He unscrewed the cap and poured Renjun and himself a shot.

“Aren’t you driving?” Renjun asked, still slightly shaken.

“I don’t think Sicheng trusts me to drive sober, either way,” he cracked a laugh. 

Sicheng swallowed his mouthful of soup. “I’ll drive,” he grunted.

Jaemin looked over to Jeno and Donghyuck.

“You two want a shot too?”

“I—” Jeno started, stopped, then looked at Donghyuck, who returned him a clueless shrug.

“The four of us are sharing this tiny bottle. You’ll barely feel a thing.”

He filled another two shot glasses, asked the waitress for more water in Sicheng’s cup, and the five of them raised their glasses.

“Geonbae!”

Jeno watched how Jaemin did it first — tossing his head back and swallowing in one go. He did the same. Soju hit the back of his throat like fire. It was bitter, acrid, a foreign taste on his tongue, and he felt it burn down his throat and pool in his stomach, molten hot. Two, three shots in and Jeno felt his face burn.

After paying for their food, they took a stroll on the beach to walk off their bloated stomachs. I don’t want to drive home with four drunks in the car, Sicheng had said, so there was that too. Renjun looked in better shape now — still shitty, but better. He dug his shoes in the sand when he walked, liking the feeling of sinking and stopping before he got too far. Doyoung was going to lose his head once he found the car floor covered in sand and pebbles.

They took a seat on some rocks under a tree. There, only the sound of waves crashing against the embankment filled the night air. 

Renjun spoke, after a whole evening of silence.

“You were right, Jaemin.”

Jaemin looked away. “It’s not about being right.”

“Well, you were,” Renjun said, firm. He closed his eyes, tilted his head up to the sky like he was bathing in the light, even though all there was, was darkness. “They don’t ever model us on people like those. Office workers, white-collared folk and all.”

He rocked forward to stand up. “I’m going to do the thing.”

“What thing?” Donghyuck asked.

“The thing they do in the movies, when they’re angry and they’re at the sea. You know, shout at it.”

“How’s that supposed to help?”

Renjun smirked. “Well, let’s find out.”

And then they’re running.

“You guys stay here,” Sicheng instructed, pushing himself up onto his feet. “I’m going to make sure they don’t fall into the water while they’re at it.”

Their figures shrunk as they walked further out onto the jetty, white t-shirts vivid and stark like small stars in the night. The ocean smelt of salt, the taste of it still fresh on his tongue. The moon lifted above the horizon, large and round as a plate.

Next to him, Jaemin shook out a cigarette from a pack, fingers trembling. His lighter refused to start the first few tries — shit, fuck — and then it caught flame. Relieved, he lit himself up, took a long, deep inhale, then let it all go. 

“Can I have one of those?” Jeno asked.

Jaemin nearly choked on air, shooting him an inscrutable look. “What?”

“It seems to help you feel better, and I feel like shit right now.”

Jaemin snorted. “That’s not a good reason but whatever. Okay. You probably won’t like it and just end up wasting a good one, so here,” he said, handing over his own and sliding between Jeno’s fingers.

Jeno paused, looking at his hands dumbfounded. Jaemin’s lips had touched these.

“Inhale, like you’re sucking out of a straw. Hold it, then exhale.”

Jaemin watched him carefully, and was ready to slap Jeno on the back when he started sputtering. 

Jeno grimaced, sticking out his tongue. “Ack, that was awful!” 

“Made you feel better?” Jaemin joked, and rightfully earned himself a shove. He took a long drag, bringing the same cigarette to his lips, the same one that Jeno just had in his mouth. Jeno took a gulp so big he was surprised his mouth hadn’t run dry.

“You knew this would happen,” Jeno said, idly.

“Of course. I knew it before we got here,” Jaemin replied. 

Far away, he caught a hint of yelling in the air. Two bodies were leaning on the jetty parapet, yelling to their hearts’ content. And there was Sicheng, of course, with his arms outstretched like a net.

“You ever looked for your possible?” Jeno asked, before he realized he shouldn’t have.

“Hm, once... If you want to look for your possible you’ve got to do it properly, you know? Like Renjun said, they don’t model us off people like that.”

“What do you mean?”

Jaemin scoffed. He tapped the side of his cigarette and it ashed itself all around his feet. When he looked up, his eyes were swallowed by darkness, pupils large and unwavering.

“They model us on trash, Jeno. Convicts. Prostitutes. The lot. Anybody respectable won’t want to have anything to do with us.”

Jaemin’s gaze was penetrating and unyielding, but the quiver of his Adam's apple gave his composure away. 

“Just because you think it, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“That’s sweet of you, Jeno—”

“I’m being serious,” Jeno said. He was looking at Jaemin now — he’d always been, since Day One. He knew the dignity he wore on his sleeve. He knew the kindness that was extended to him. Trash or not, they all shared the same beating heart, and that in itself was beautiful. He wished he knew how to convince Jaemin so.

Jaemin’s face grew hazy, bathed in a warm static buzz.

“Oh, Jen, don’t cry.”

Oh. 

A pair of hands reached for his cheeks and brushed the small tears away. Jaemin kept his hands there, and Jeno knew, for certain, Jaemin had felt his throbbing pulse, the terrible tenderness with which Jeno grasped his hand in return. 

Nobody talked about the trip to Gochang.

When Renjun returned from yelling at the jetty he returned as a different person, as if he’d truly emptied all his grievances into the ocean. 

They harvested the tomatoes. They had tomatoes for days. So many tomatoes Jeno thought he was going to wake up as one.

Meanwhile, Jaemin practiced driving. Almost crashed the goddamn car, so Doyoung designated Jeno as his rightful successor and spent the last few weeks of summer teaching Jeno how to drive before it was too late.

“A pity the car can only fit five people,” Doyoung lamented one night, looping the car keys around his fingers. 

A blessing , if Jeno were being honest.

“But rules are rules, and I’m afraid it’s you and Jaemin’s turn to hold the fort while we’re out.”

“But you’re going to the movies!” Jaemin groaned.

Doyoung raised a finger to the air. “Rules!”

“It’s Batman,” Jaemin whined, but Doyoung couldn’t hear it because his body was already half out the door. Donghyuck flashed him an apologetic smile, suggesting they pick one of the VHS tapes on the shelf. Like that’s the same, Jaemin frowned, his words mumbled only to himself.

It was just the two of them in the suddenly too large house now.

“We could watch a movie,” Jeno suggested, fingers running over the wall of home movies. There were probably enough cassettes to keep him occupied for a whole year. “Like Batman, if you want. Something action packed?”

Jaemin slumped over the side of the couch. “I'm too upset to enjoy explosions right now. I’m kinda in the mood for something stupid. Something that would make me laugh till I cried.”

Unfortunately, the tapes were not arranged in any system whatsoever, so Jeno resorted to pulling out whichever films had the most comedic cover. He laid them out in front of Jaemin to choose. They picked a romcom neither of them had seen before. Right as the opening sequence began playing, Jaemin disappeared into the kitchen for snacks, returning with a bag of chips and a bottle of red wine, nestled in the crook of his elbow.

“I’m sure Doyoung wouldn’t mind,” Jaemin smirked. 

Jeno’s lips twitched upwards. “He totally owes us.”

He then edged forward on the couch.

“What kind of wine is that?” Jeno asked, watching Jaemin fill up two glasses. Jaemin turned the bottle to examine the label and paused, realizing the name was in English. “Don’t know,” he shrugged. “Don’t care,” he smiled. They clinked glasses and took a sip.

The wine was decidedly crisp, a sharp sting on the roof of his mouth, but Jeno couldn’t stop drinking. In fact, he barely set his glass down the whole night. He swiveled the stem of the glass in his fingers, watching the liquid swirl, its bubbles rising to the surface. Within him, he felt the same bubbling of excitement — warmth fanning across the whites of his skin until it too, became wine-stained. 

And it wasn’t just him — Jaemin, when intoxicated, laughed so loud he was almost yelling. Groaned so hard, when the lead characters in the movie did something stupid, he was clutching at Jeno’s shirt until it left starbursts of wrinkles every spot he clung onto. 

“God, I feel so stupid just watching them,” his voice rang like a song, drifting closer, and closer, until his lips skimmed the tips of Jeno’s ear. 

Jeno was the one that pulled away first. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he does to me.

Jaemin’s lips had a sheen to them, candy-glazed, appetizing, and prettily plump. The kind that screamed for attention. The kind that begged for someone to ruin them. This close he could smell his wine tart breath, see the lips that parted just so, an invitation. It didn’t matter who leaned in first, as long as they got there.

He tasted as good as he looked. A swipe of Jaemin’s tongue on his bottom lip and Jeno yelped.

“Doyoung’s going to lose his mind if he catches us defiling his couch like this,” he joked, looking up at the bright light that was Jaemin. Jaemin climbed onto his lap, tilted his head, and blocked out the ceiling lights. There was only the blurred disc of the ceiling fan spinning behind him, the constant whirr of it mirroring the buzz under his skin.

So beautiful, he thought. And he must have said it out loud, because Jaemin is laughing.

“Wouldn’t be the first time Doyoung’s caught someone making out on this couch,” Jaemin snickered, wrapping his arms around Jeno’s neck, only for Jeno to push him away.

“Fuck, sorry I—” Jeno snapped out of it, refocusing his vision on Jaemin, who now looked like he’d been burned. Jeno’s mind was running all places, bitterness quickly settling on his tongue. The image of Jaemin pressed onto the upholstery, another body on top of him.

“What?” Jaemin gasped.

“Jaehyun.”

Jaemin’s cheeks inflated like a balloon, close to combusting. He clunked his forehead to Jeno’s, a bit too forcefully, but he couldn’t think about that now.

“Oh my fucking god,” he heaved, his breath, his words, his entire existence intoxicating. “You thought— Hold up.”

He sat straight up, sinking further into Jeno’s lap.

“You think Jaehyun and I are together?”

Jeno blinked. “...Yeah?”

“Oh my god. Ew. He’s like my brother.”

“I thought. You,” Jeno stuck up one finger on his right hand, “Him” Jeno stuck up another finger on his left hand, and attempted to put two and two together. Jaemin slapped the fingers away before Jeno even got the chance.

“In case you didn’t already notice, Sherlock, Jaehyun and Sicheng are dating.”

Jaemin took the liberty of closing Jeno’s mouth for him.

“You didn’t know?” Jaemin carded a hand through his hair, a little exasperated.

Jeno blinked once, twice.

“They share a room! What do you think they do inside?”

“I don’t know? Sleep?”

“Yeah!” Jaemin narrowed his eyes, as if he was explaining the obvious. “With each other!”

Jeno rubbed his temple. His head was throbbing.

“Can we not have this conversation while you’re sitting on my crotch?”

Defiant, Jaemin sank even deeper, practically grinding on him. He poked an insistent finger into Jeno’s shoulder.

“I take it you didn’t realize I’ve been flirting with you for weeks — no — months.”

There was only so much new information Jeno could be bombarded with per night.

“Since when!”

“Since the day I panicked and shoved a plant into your hands!”

They stayed that way for a long time, Jaemin a solid weight in his lap. Jeno couldn’t fucking believe it.

“You mean to say,” Jeno started piecing together the fragmented pieces of information, meeting Jaemin’s gaze when he found his answer. “I could have kissed you… weeks ago?” 

Jaemin nodded. That same mean, infuriating, unforgiving smile spreading on his face, which Jeno realized was reserved for him, and him alone. He was bursting with elation.

He pulled Jaemin back towards him until their chests touched again. He felt so keenly the wild beating of his hoodlum heart, how it thundered against his bones. 

Jeno woke up alone in bed. He sat up and caught his reflection in the mirror, bed hair and cheek imprinted with lines from the pillow, and realized he was in Jaemin’s room. 

Sunlight flooded the room with light so bright it could have bleached the blue walls white permanently. The potted plants by the picture window were thriving. Everything was quiet — no wind, no sound of the tractors roaring to life, only the distant chirpings of songbirds singing the only song they knew. 

In this peace, uneasiness brewed in his stomach. He wondered where Jaemin could have gone. He’d remembered everything so clearly from the night before — the frantic touches, the kisses, so many of them his lips now felt raw. How Jaemin had looked back at him in the amorous darkness, the doors closed and light shut out, just the harlequin light that broke through the leaves of the elm tree outside. He remembered the way he climbed onto him, the way he unbuttoned Jeno’s shirt, smile devilish and hands eager. He wondered if Jaemin had made a mistake.

His spiralling thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the bedroom door. 

Jaemin stepped into the room with two plates of omelets and toast, sliding them onto his desk.

“I’ll be back with coffee,” he said, before disappearing again, leaving Jeno to stare at the food like a dumb fool.

Later in bed, after breakfast and coffee, Jeno asked again to make sure, “You like me, right?”

Jaemin sighed. “You’re asking me this right now? When I have my hand in your pants?”

“I’m just making sure I’m not dreaming!” Jeno exclaimed.

“Of course I like you, geez. Can I be any more obvious?” Jaemin crawled up next to him. He examined the marks he’d left on the underside of Jeno’s jaw, pressing them to see if Jeno would wince.

Jeno watched him through half-hooded eyes, vision hazed with desire, closing them at last when he was overflowing with it. 

Winter arrived before they knew it.

Snow covered the furrowed fields and weathered cobblestone like a blanket, smoothing out the trauma from the seasons before it. Days grew longer. The sun barely made it out behind the clouds. Almost every day they had soup.

Letters came in the mail for the veterans; Jeno saw them at the dining table filling out the forms, and Doyoung took them out to the mail the next day. 

It seemed like the whole house was running like clockwork.

Jaemin came by his room one evening, hovering at the door. 

“Jenooo,” Donghyuck teased when he saw Jaemin there. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

Jeno looked up from his book, finding Jaemin leaning against his door frame with a dorky grin.

“I’m going to dye my hair. Need your help.”

“When have you ever needed help?” Jeno said, amused. He was already putting his things away.

Jaemin’s lips twitched. “Ever since I got a boyfriend.”

In the background, Donghyuck imitated the sound of puking.

Jaemin sat on the toilet seat cover while Jeno worked the cream into his hair. First there was the bleach, which Jeno rubbed on wearing vinyl gloves. In the twenty minutes of waiting, he asked:

“When did you first dye your hair?”

Jaemin was quick to respond. “As soon as I got here.”

“Really?” Jeno asked, imaging Jaemin at seventeen at the front door with his bags. “How’d you even know where to look?”

“Doyoung, of course. He knows where to find everything. Who do you think got me my first pack of cigarettes?” Jaemin said with a wink.

“He smokes?” Jeno looked confused.

“Smoked. Stopped because he hated the taste of it,” Jaemin explained, pulling idly at the shower curtain as he talked. 

“And you do?”

Jaemin’s fingers stopped on the hem, fingering the plastic sheet. He made eye contact with Jeno, who was leaning against the sink. “Not the best taste in my mouth.” He winked. “There are other things I prefer.”

“Tch-” Jeno interrupted, unamused. 

“Mm,” Jaemin hummed in thought. “More like a fuck you I guess. When they open me up and see I’ve got shit ass lungs.” It came out a little more morbid that he thought, so he remedied it with a half-hearted wave and smile. 

“Right,” Jeno said, punctuating the end of the conversation.

Despite the dreary weather, the veterans did the best they could to liven up the atmosphere. They had a snowball fight in the backyard, shoving snow down Donghyuck’s shirt because he gave them the best reaction. They also went ice skating at the pond that had frozen over, not too far away.

But there were things that they had to do, like instruct them where all the equipment was kept, or teach them how to fix things when they were broken — a whole laundry list that demonstrated that they’d lived in the cottage for three years, and that their time was running out.

It was unavoidable. 

The mood was sombre all throughout the last dinner, and Jeno couldn’t help but look away.

The day the veterans left in the taxi that picked them up, no one cried at the door. They waved their goodbyes. Promised to meet again, if they could. Only until the taxi became a small speck at the end of the country road did tears begin running down Jeno’s cheek.

“They’ll come back. One day.”

When April came, the snow melted away and brought three news faces to the front steps: Sungchan, Shotaro, and Yangyang. They occupied the now vacant bedrooms and at the dining table sat where Doyoung, Jaehyun, and Sicheng used to sit. Jeno and Jaemin took them to the diner, as a new ritual, and watched Sungchan nearly pee his pants when the waitress took his order.

Even though the veterans were gone, they were reminded that they weren’t alone.

Jeno almost exclusively slept in Jaemin’s room now. Donghyuck loved it, and reminded Jeno how much he adored his single room every time Jeno returned for more clothes. 

Jaemin’s third drawer was his now. He slept on the left side of the bed and saw, when he awakened, Jaemin’s face in the first dawn. 

He wished he could stay like this, forever in this moment of time, like those cartoon figurines in the living room downstairs: the ones preserved in resin, their little plasticine faces frozen in happiness.

They got close enough with the package that arrived from Jaehyun. It was addressed to Jaemin and had no return address, but Jeno could tell from the neat handwriting who it was from. When Jaemin opened the box, there was a cheap film camera, several rolls of film, and a photograph of the view on Mireuksan. The words below said: I have been to the edge of the world.

Jaemin read the camera manual like a bible; his fingers traced the sentences as he read, then paused occasionally while he considered what it meant. Jeno followed Jaemin wherever he went to take photos. It started in the bedroom, with Jeno sitting among the planters and his back against the sun. Jaemin learnt, only a week later, what overexposure meant.

“I told you I’m not going to drop your damn camera,” Donghyuck assured. He feigned dropping it once before, just to get on Jaemin’s nerves, and ever since then Jaemin hadn’t put the camera in his hands again. “Just get into position.”

With Jaemin’s support, they clambered onto the roof of the sedan. He pulled Jaemin up after. Behind them, the sky had itself immolated into sunset, bright and violent like an egg that’s just cracked and spilled. Here, they were on the edge of their own little world.

Jaemin rested his head on Jeno’s shoulder, looking at the lens pointed at them. 

Jeno leaned back against him. He looked up and away, where the color was starting to fade into deep nothingness. He held his breath. The camera flashed.

“Blue looks good on you,” Jeno stared sweetly at Jaemin in the water. 

Jaemin swam to the edge of the boardwalk where Jeno was sitting. His hair was now pastel blue, and when he submerged his head into the water he nearly seemed to disappear. He emerged once again, hair flat and plastered against his forehead. Jeno was arrested at the sight of his broad chest and the undulation of his body under the water.

“Join me,” he coaxed, splashing water onto Jeno’s leg.

“We just ate,” Jeno reasoned, angling his head to the grass patch not far away, where Donghyuck was lying comatose, paper plates and half eaten sandwiches around him.

“So you don’t want to join your half-naked boyfriend in the water while everyone else is distracted?”

Jeno tutted his lips. “Well, if you put it that way…” and then he peeled off his t-shirt.

He didn’t miss the way Jaemin licked his lips.

“Like what you see?” He said smugly.

“Pfft— who taught you to say that?” Jaemin choked on his laughter. He sent up a splash of water, a small spray that was enough, in this heat, to provide Jeno some relief.

“I saw someone say it on TV,” he admitted, flushing with embarrassment. He contemplated jumping into the water right away to cool his head.

Jaemin wiggled his eyebrows, playing along. “Why don’t you get in here, and I’ll show you how much I like it?”

Of course, with Jeno’s luck, he picked the hottest day of summer to lose his virginity. 

The cottages had no air-conditioning, and even with the windows wide open there was still a Jaemin-shaped sweat imprint on the sheets. He flopped onto his back, his mind a curious mix of bliss and exhaustion, his body both his, and not his own. Jaemin was sticky and radiating heat, but every time it seemed he was shifting away Jeno protested the separation by pulling him closer.

For weeks now he’d wondered how it would feel to be with someone so intimately. Close was never close enough, until now. But Jeno always wanted more.

“I—” he opened his mouth to say, but the words lodged in his throat. Jaemin ran a thumb on the inside of Jeno’s thumb, interlacing their hands, encouraging. 

“I don’t really know what love feels like,” he swallowed. “But I think I feel it with you.”

Jaemin reached over to stroke up the side of his body and down the incurvature of his spine. His touch was painfully tender, slow as if examining. He could pluck his ribs out, one by one, to find in Jeno’s heart, in Jeno’s mind, the space that was reserved just for him. He kissed him sweetly, easing open Jeno’s mouth with a nip on his bottom lip.

“I love you too, Jen,” he said between kisses, smiling so wide he was close to bursting.

Jaemin’s hair remained blue for close to six months, all through summer and fall as a subtle defiance against time. Renjun’s and his forms came in the mail just after the first snowfall. Jeno didn’t know when they came — he was out gathering wood for the fireplace — but when he returned Jaemin was nowhere to be seen.

He eventually found him in the shed, kicking back in a chair, wearing his fuzzy black overcoat.

“What are you doing here? It’s cold,” Jeno fretted.

“I’m warm,” Jaemin replied, sucking in a deep breath to prove a point. He sent his cigarette breath to the ceiling, where it pooled like a spider’s web.

“Let’s go home,” Jeno pleaded, his hand wringing the door handle. He couldn’t remember how long he stood there looking at Jaemin, but eventually his cigarette went out, and Jaemin had no choice but to return home anyway.

They took many more photos. They drove all the way back to Gochang, just for kicks, and Jeno parked by the beach to watch the waves.

They developed the photos. They backed past a funky looking trash can while parking and Jeno pointed at it through the window, saying: “That’s you.”

Petulant, Jaemin pulled on his ear, and that was how the car ended up with a scratch after mounting the curb.

Jaemin returned his hair back to black. Jeno wanted to tell him that he liked this color best, but he knew what the change in color meant, so he kept the thought to himself.

It was past midnight and the house was quiet — only the crackling of wood burning in the fireplace. 

Out of nowhere, Jaemin said, “Sometimes I wonder if we’re really that different from the people we're meant to save.”

He was concentrated on the flames, gaze resolute. 

“Jaem—” Jeno cut in, sensing the beginning of his spiral.

“We feel the same. We love the same,” he shivered, voice small. “I’d like to believe I’m more than just a cog in a machine.”

The air in Jeno’s lungs was so dry it pained him to breathe.

“I could apply to be a carer,” he suggested. He could care for Jaemin throughout his donations. It could prolong their time.

“No,” Jaemin was firm.

Fearing Jeno would take it the wrong way, he reached over to squeeze his hand.

“I want you to remember me like this. Not…” he shuddered at the thought. “In a bed somewhere, half emptied. Looking like shit.”

Jeno wished he understood what Jaemin had meant that day. But at that moment, the only word that scored into his mind was Selfish.

“Here we are,” Jaemin released a long, extended sigh. His room was packed up, drawers emptied and mattress stripped. Only the planters by the window remained — Jeno was to replant them in the garden outside when the weather warmed.

“Here we are,” Jeno echoed.

“I’m glad I met you,” Jaemin said, voice rueful. He took Jeno’s hand and brought the knuckles to his lips to kiss them. Jeno brought Jaemin’s lips to meet his. Moved against him hungrily. Pressed him up against the wall and left a mark right above his collarbone, where it would stay for only another week.

“I’ll love you always,” Jeno said last, when they were by the front gate and the taxi was waiting. 

Dawn broke, the bell-tolling movement of the sun inching across the horizon.

Jaemin slipped an envelope into Jeno’s coat pocket. 

“I’ll see you next time, okay?” He smiled. Mean. Forgiving. 

Jeno watched the taxi take Jaemin and Renjun away, growing smaller and smaller down the country road. He stood there, long after the rest of them returned indoors. As the car dwindled in the distance, he couldn’t help but imagine the car turning back around. Even as the car disappeared off the horizon he remained, thinking that it could reappear again, and Jaemin would climb out of the taxi and wave.

He closed his eyes and stopped himself right there. 

“I will always remember you.”

In the spring a new set of faces arrived on their doorstep. Jeno watched them unload their bags, leaning out of Jaemin’s old bedroom windows. It was his bedroom now — he’d moved all his things in. He kept the furniture arranged as it was, even the ashtray on the windowsill, where he’d leave a cigarette to burn like an incense.

He reminisced about the process of moving his things, how he’d accidentally dropped the very first succulent Jaemin had placed in his hands, the one he’d reminded himself to water every other week, and realized, under the cover of soil, that the plant was made of plastic.

Of course it wouldn’t die. It’s plastic!

Jeno laughed so hard he really cried, and Donghyuck found him sitting at the top of the stairs delusional. 

In Jaemin’s absence, Jeno tried to keep himself occupied. He went biking. He tried to cook and nearly set the kitchen on fire. He picked up writing, inspired by all the books he’d read.

In his last year at the cottages, he vowed to pen everything onto paper.

After all, memory lasts for as long as the last person who remembers it, and he promised to remember Jaemin the way he was.

He jogged down the stairs and made his way to the front door to welcome the newcomers: Chenle, the one with the squarish face, and Jisung, who clung onto Chenle’s sleeve nervously.

Sungchan led them to the garden outside, giving them a short tour before they headed indoors, and that was when Jeno saw it — the plants that he’d replanted in the soil had now bloomed. Pink, yellow, white, blue. 

He approached them. The din of voices faded away, and the sun emerged from behind the clouds, showering the cottage in golden light.

Everywhere he looked, he saw Jaemin. He saw Jaemin coming back to him.

He crouched down to admire the flowers, how they bent to the wind and willingly laid in his hand. 

He cradled them gently in his palm and smiled, hopeful and grateful, thinking of the flowers blooming elsewhere.