Work Text:
I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.
When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.
And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.
Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.
Pablo Neruda - La reina (translated by Donald D. Walsh)
He had been no one notable before he became the flower thief.
There was hardly more to him but yet another nameless youth dancing for his coin in the street, yet another back-alley tumble, yet another quiet blade in the dark.
Yet another vagrant who had to steal to eat, at times, but nothing more. Too young left an orphan to be given a name, or to remember being given one. The names others had called him for the sake of convenience, he forgot as soon as they were spoken out loud. The one he had given himself, now that one was for no one’s ears but his.
The one thing he did not have to steal for it to belong to him and him only.
Until the flower.
It was no ordinary sort of flower, for it only ever bloomed in one place, fixed too firmly to the roots to ever grow beyond his sprawling garden. It did not fully wither when the cold winds came, only its vibrant orange dimmed a bit. Being the decent thief he was, he’d first spotted it in the possession of another before he came to crave it.
His flower had a lovely head of dark auburn hair, pulled into a long, messy braid no attendant could ever tame. Skin far more exquisite than porcelain, and more delicate. Cheeks and lips that could rival all blossoms of spring in their rosy lushness. Eyes dark and deep as a forbidden fascination budding where only a tragedy could bloom, but also round and naïve enough to remind one of a fickle wild animal of prey.
Lord Lee’s only heir, orphaned in early childhood by a gentle-voiced mother he resembled too much not to become his sire’s most cherished, sheltered possession. Tall for a boy his age, but with a delicate face the likes of which far more daughters wore than sons. Elegant in his speech, excelling in literature and calligraphy, skilled with a bow but – as the Lee family’s manservants were saying – with no stomach for violence despite a fiery temper.
He knew his flower well enough from his cautious observations to know the youth had not always been so temperamental.
Not until he became that which weighed on his reputation for years to come.
Young master Yoon’s mistress.
He did not care for that rotten Yoon boy laying his hands on someone so delicate. His own, as rough and calloused from labor as they were, would be far more gentle with this gift.
And yet that despicable Yoon boy was to leave an ever-lasting mark on their lives. It was him from whose lips he’d first heard the name of his cherished one.
“Come, Jihwa. Don’t bother with that rascal.”
The coarse fabric on his knee torn and soaked with blood, road dust and mud filling the deep, long, cut. Palms scraped raw. Four ribs, as it turned out later, broken after he carelessly got in the way of Yoon Seungho’s horse, or so the boy spat out, barely sparing him a glance.
The searing hot sun above.
And a pale, fine-boned hand extending to toss him a handkerchief before Lee Jihwa was pulled along and gone, gone, gone in a blink.
That day, he didn’t even get a good look at the beauty who lately haunted his thoughts.
He tore off the hem of a sleeve to wrap the bleeding cut. The handkerchief he stored in an inner pocket, to keep it spotless for seasons to come.
Jihwa. Lee Jihwa. Ji-hwa. He kept repeating the name over and over, tasting it on his tongue. He thought he would get used to it one day, that it would lose its melody, that sweet, delicate ring of a bell, but no.
He was not to have a roof over his head for years, no food in his bowl for days, no clothes on his back that hadn’t been patched up and re-stitched a hundred times over. He was only to have this.
The sort of defiance in his gaze that made everyone want to strike him down and see him yield.
A name that belonged to him, and him only.
And an obsession with a flower.
One bound to have all his petals ripped out by a careless hand of another, someday soon.
Hard labor filled his days from dawn to dusk and – more often than not – from dusk till almost dawn, with only the grey little hours of the early morning, before the light broke through the night, left for him to rest. He would get up early, then offer his blade or his muscles whenever needed; then he’d clean up as efficiently as he could and offer his body whenever needed. Face still fresh, eyes sharp, arms and legs lean; that was enough to earn a few coins. He’d never been a beauty, but there was something magnetic about him nonetheless. At least one customer once said as much, leaving a dark, round bitemark on his shoulder. It would take weeks for some to make up their mind, but they kept coming back.
When he closed his eyes and bit on the insides of his cheeks to keep his thoughts off unwanted hands, he kept counting. One back-alley fuck converted into a shard of treasure. Maybe one day he could gift his beloved the sweets he loved so much and still have enough to fill his bowl at the end of the day.
With hands full of work, the mind was free to roam and it always wandered past the walls around the estate of the Lee family. His flower often hid in the garden, like calling to like. At times, he was found perched by an open window, messy brain tumbling out, with a book of poetry in his hands. Jihwa liked to hum to himself, or tap one foot to the rhythm of a melody only he was hearing. When lessons bored him, he fled his teacher at times but the older he grew, the more often he stayed to suffer through the boredom. To stay close to Yoon Seungho.
The autumn after Lee Jihwa’s fourteenth birthday brought a change. He could not name what caused it, but from then on he rarely saw his flower without a feverish blush staining his cheeks, eyes shifting from side to side, biting on his lip.
Young master Jihwa had a secret. So did Yoon Seungho, it seemed; he knew that much from what he could catch wind of.
Since then, his mornings got bitter and his afternoons seemed to stretch into eternity.
That winter, he was down with fever from an infected wound. His own hands were always careful and steady, but the man he chopped wood with that day had had one cup too many. No work meant no coin; only the kindness of strangers saved him from starving to death before the infection did its work.
Apparently he was too stubborn to die, in the end.
He was not the only one who was not faring well; that winter, word on the street had it that Yoon Seungho was confined to his room. Apparently both him and young master Jihwa had caught the same illness, and one infected the other.
He wasn’t worried for their young bodies – he knew what sort of illness was kept from the merciless scrutiny of wagging tongues – but he was nearly sick with worry nonetheless; it was no illness one could recover from. No matter the cure pushed down one’s throat, no matter the beatings, or the confinement.
For whatever was to come, he was wrecked by the fever that bore the name of Lee Jihwa, who in turn was ruined by Yoon Seungho, who in turn–
Damned if he knew, but if there was a shred of compassion for young master Yoon in him, it flickered in and out of his consciousness each time he glanced towards the tall, imposing walls keeping the other contained.
After that winter, spring came in full bloom sooner than usual. He was back on his feet before he knew it. Out of bed, working to get better, stealing more often to get better even sooner, he made some honest attempts at deliberating over what he felt and why. Wasn’t it shameful, to be this vexed over someone he would never get to touch? Wasn’t it pathetic, to develop such a deep-running obsession with someone he’d never exchanged a word with, not even once?
Dancing for his coin one day, the world a whirlwind of bright colors and restless gusts of air, he swore to himself ten times over he would have himself thoroughly cured of Lee Jihwa by the end of the month.
There were other youths stealing glances his way.
There were other towns.
The roads were wide and the world was vast, with nothing keeping him here.
Nothing.
He would be cured of it, he kept telling himself over and over deep into the night with teeth closed around one hand, the other hand relieving the tension of desire too long left unfulfilled until he came once, twice into the mussed-up sheets. He kept promising that to himself when he washed those sheets the next day, rubbing them until his hands felt raw. What was there to Lee Jihwa anyway but a set of rosy cheeks and doe eyes far more sensual than a boy his age should be allowed to aim at men?
What was there to him anyway, he kept asking himself, until one scorching day on his way to toil in the heat he caught a glimpse of a messy braid.
And he was back to sleepless nights, back to biting on his fingers as he came to hold back a name from spilling from his lips, back to daydreams bold above his station, back to scaling walls and feasting his eyes.
All of his resentful wows were not worth a spit.
His obsession came back with its force renewed, raw and aching with impossibilities. And what a splendid time had it picked…
With springtime, the flower started leaving the garden.
The one that still had him in a merciless grasp and kept tightening it with no regard for the fragility of his heart was still confined to his rooms. More often than not, the relentless young master Jihwa was seen with his hair more wind-tossed than usual, hands scratched, with clothes askew; he’d learned to sneak in and out, to climb trees and walls, to flee his guardians whenever he pleased. But surely the wild chase for a way out was not the sole reason why he was so often left breathless.
As for him, he could do naught but watch from a distance that could never be crossed as Lee Jihwa was ravaged by Yoon Seungho. He could only hope the ruin and despair did not run as deep as whatever had been done to young master Yoon himself, a terror so inconceivable it left him in no state to be seen by the world.
Until a day came where he dared to do more than watch, in grave circumstances.
Passed out, with his cheeks pallid in place of the usual rosiness, Lee Jihwa looked like a broken doll abandoned in the grass by some reckless child that got bored with an old toy and tossed it aside in search for a new one, and maybe that was not too far from truth. He was resting in the treeshade and probably hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but the deep circles under his eyes and his uneven breath were quite telling.
When he dared to get closer, his heart sank.
There was alcohol on his breath. And a trail of dark bruises – teeth-shaped – blooming from under his collar and up the side of his neck. His long, elegant fingers also bore marks of teeth; deep dents, vicious and dark, with a purplish hue.
What had Yoon Seungho done…?
Had young master Jihwa allowed any of it?
Then he was reminded of how Lee Jihwa always did whatever he could to humour his friend, from eating flowers on a bet to stealing expensive wine. Whether young master Jihwa had allowed it or not, he certainly bore it and would do so again.
The world was drowning in birdsongs and yet it was oh so silent.
Someone was screaming, but no one heard.
He was screaming in his head.
Picking Jihwa up from where he was sprawled came so easy. He should not have dared to touch, by no means, but he could not leave him there in such a state. Holding him up close and carrying him towards his estate, he could not ignore the scent of sex lingering in the folds of his clothes, in his hair.
Jihwa shifted in his arms; those wild curls that had been driving him wild for ages caressed his cheek and neck. Only then did he realize he was holding in his breath; a sharp exhale ruffled a stray lock of tousled hair. As he breathed in, his lungs were filled with a scent he could not quite identify. It was fresh, elegant and delicate. Whatever it was, he could not get enough.
As they walked, what he’d smelled earlier dissipated, and only the natural scent of the boy in his arms remained. To haunt him for days.
He could not get rid of it from his clothes.
He kept catching whiffs of it in the air, kept seeking it out. There was no use.
It kept returning and then eluding him until he thought himself half mad.
Hopefully young master Jihwa appreciated being brought near the entrance of his garden, considering the price his helper was paying for it.
After that day – fully reconciled with his insanity now – he kept stealing in and out of the Lee estate’s garden, with each languid afternoon getting closer and closer to young master Jihwa’s window.
He watched him read poetry and browse books of erotic pictures for hours. Bored out of his mind, Jihwa often napped in pools of late afternoon sunlight, his collar loose, hair a mess, a graceful wrist propped on his thigh and exposed.
That boy was a poem himself, one yet unfinished. Heavens only could tell what was to become of him.
They were stuck at this delirious impasse until one day he saw his flower shed tears in his shallow sleep.
What demons possessed him, he would never know. There was a stunning orchid growing within his grasp, one of those young master Jihwa particularly liked to admire. He picked it before he could collect his thoughts, and headed towards the path he’d spotted days ago, one he could take to approach Jihwa without being too easily spotted.
“Some beautiful loot you have there.”
He paused in his tracks. The voice coming from behind him was deep and melodious, with a playful tone to it that nevertheless rang a warning. Soft and hushed. Unsettling.
He turned around.
Yoon Seungho was strolling through the shaded path, hair in a neat braid, face deathly pale yet with a fresh smile of one free from captivity at last.
His heart sank.
Had Yoon Seungho escaped…? Had he been released…?
His youthful arrogance could well be his downfall, but he turned to face him without a slightest hint of the respect he was expected to offer a noble, staring ahead tall and proud.
He refused to yield.
Same to you, young master Yoon. I came here for yours.
Yoon Seungho passed him with that playful smile still lingering, but not without a hint of irritation. No jealousy at all. He would simply not stand for his favorite toy to be tainted by such lowly company, not when he needed Lee Jihwa just as pure as he needed him to be, just as disgraced as he needed him to be in a given moment.
“Do not make a fool of yourself. What do you think he will think? Ah, what a tragedy, to lay down so much for a glimpse of a pretty face… Worry not, though. I will deliver your gift.”
He knew what was coming the moment Yoon Seungho passed him, but it was too late to run.
“Guards!”
Out of the garden his flower was rooted into, he was dragged away in shame.
The memory of his brief imprisonment was a blur of hunger and indignation. After they led him out of the cell to brand him with the mark of a thief, when he came to after passing out from exhaustion and pain, he was shocked to see the brand inked low on his chest, where it was easily covered by clothing.
“You are free to go now. Get lost, little pest.”
“… That is all…?”
His lips were dry and he was swaying on his feet, head burning with fever. Nothing was making any sense; was it a delirious dream? He’d expected a lot, but he sure did not expect the prison guard to speak words of salvation.
The man shrugged and rolled his eyes.
“They say young master Lee learned a boy not that much older than him would be branded a thief over a stolen flower and had a tantrum that shook the whole household. Lord Lee spoils him to bits, so naturally he asked for you to be let off as lightly as possible.”
And then he was free to go indeed.
Left to stare up at the sky for hours upon hours. Breathing in the dark.
After that, the roads were wide and the world was vast.
There were other towns.
Over and over, for as long as the itchy skin around the brand was healing, he kept swearing he would not return.
Until one blinding early morning, years later, he was roused from a nightmare of his flower with a sword in his trembling hand, cutting up the books of poetry he had so adored and shedding tears in a darkened room.
And he found that he was not to be ever free, and that all his vows once again were for nothing.
***
His flower was running oddly late.
Where could he be at that hour? He had no qualms about ditching the company of other noblemen when they had a meeting set, so it was unlikely for his friends to hold him back. It was as unlikely for him to be held up by his sire, who had long learned to accept his willful son would never take a wife and who was secretly glad to know Jihwa had discreetly settled down with someone instead.
He had saved Lord Lee from a hunting accident in the early winter of the previous year, and received thanks far more kind than he would have expected of a noble. He should not have dared to look him in the eye but his arrogance had him put reason aside, so he did. They exchanged glances of something akin to mutual understanding that day.
Lord Lee knew of him, and somehow he did not mind.
So it was not him holding Jihwa back. Was it Lord Min’s doing? Or did he fall out with Yoon Seungho again? What brand new trouble–
A knock on the door.
Damn it. What was becoming of him now? Was he so afraid of losing what he’d never hoped to have?
Jihwa did not bother waiting for his reply; as always, he let himself in and welcomed him with the usual chatter. It was drizzling outside; so many damp curls were slipping out of his lover’s topknot he might as well reach out and let them loose…
He was stopped in his tracks with a peck to his cheek.
“Would you look at this hour… I seem to have lost track of time. Nevermind, I made plans for us tonight. I even stole a thing or two to show it off to you. Now, sit with me.”
Jihwa made himself at home in his favorite spot by the fireplace and placed a bottle of wine in front of him, two cups, a handkerchief, a freshly cut orchid, and a sheet of paper with a pressed flower inside.
Then he looked up at him with a sweet, self-satisfied expression that meant chaos and ruin for one who would not go along.
“Tonight, you are telling me a story.”
He was left stunned in his spot, his mouth dry and thoughts racing.
How–
The handkerchief, of course. That first night they spent in each other’s embrace, he used it for the very first time because no other fabric would do, too coarse for Jihwa’s delicate cheeks. He let go of it when Jihwa leaned into the touch, bold enough to kiss the next tear away.
After that, he must have forgotten it entirely, too preoccupied with the mess its previous owner dragged him in. What man would care about a keepsake when the real thing was in his arms?
He couldn’t hold back a smile.
His flower was proving quite the thief.
“How long have you known?”
Jihwa already let his hair down and shook them from one side to the other with a coquettish toss of the head, then kicked his socks off and nudged him with a foot.
“Why, kiss me like in a pretty picture book and I might tell you. Not until you tell me what I want to hear, though.”
So he sat by his side, pulled him into his lap, and told him the story of the flower thief.
Only this time, the thief in the story had a name.