Work Text:
Jungwon went to live with his grandmother when he was eight years old.
The year was 1881. Her place in Italy was dimly lit and crumbling at the foundation. It flooded in the spring and froze over in the winter. It suffered horribly in the crushing heat of summer. It was shoved between two other houses like an afterthought, dominated by them. And even still, it became more of a home to Jungwon than the place he grew up in had ever been.
Jungwon fell in love with cobbled streets and narrow waterways, lamppost light at night and vines crawling up walls and spreading out of control. He fell in love with every little thing, as that was what his grandmother taught him to do.
Still, he wondered sometimes.
“Why did mom send me away?” he asked once, voice quiet around the words.
His grandmother had looked away from her lace work, a grim expression thinning her appearance. But only for a moment, before it smoothed out and slipped away.
“Your mother… She was angry with me for a long time. I fell in love with someone else after your grandfather died, and she refused to let me be a part of your life. Instead of parting ways with you forever, I took you in.”
Jungwon remembers the sharp pain of abandonment that struck his heart that night, realizing just how easily his mother had given him up. Then he looked on at his grandmother in all of her weathered beauty, and realized he belonged there with her. There, he was loved, wholly and completely.
“I am not so foolish as to think this life may not be hard for you, Jungwon. But I could not bear to leave you with your mother. She is much different now than the child I raised all those years ago.”
Jungwon understood. He fell in love with sharing every moment with his grandmother. And he belonged.
Jungwon learned his grandmother’s second lover had been a woman when he was nine years old.
“Her name was Celia,” his grandmother said lightly, eyes far away. “She passed a couple years ago, but I will never forget the way she loved me. Like we were still young as could be, like we had all the time in the world. Like I was special. Like I was hers, unconditionally. Publicly.”
“Love is love,” had been Jungwon’s response, laced with a slight tone of revelation.
His grandmother had looked on at him and smiled, misty eyed.
“Yes, baby. Love is love.”
Jungwon began playing the violin when he was ten years old.
He started, initially, for his grandmother. Kind and content as she was, she never asked for anything. Once, though, she mentioned how she missed the sweet sounds of the stringed instrument. Celia had played for her often.
With granted permission to use it, Jungwon practiced with Celia’s violin day and night. Every nook and cranny of his life became a song, every moment was woven in time with music, with strings that could spin a thousand stories, with notes he replicated from a familiar tune or a melody he created on a whim.
“It is yours,” his grandmother said, referencing the violin. Pride lit up her easy grin. “She would have wanted you to have it.”
Jungwon realized how little money mattered to him, but how much he needed it, when he was thirteen years old.
The naive, child-like wonder in which he had viewed the streets of his home with had long since faded. He could now see the evil lingering late at night in alleyways and darkened stairwells, could foresee the ill intent in the faces of vile men and lying women. The world was full of suffering and deceit and poverty.
The food shelf in his house became increasingly more bare, for longer periods of time as the months dragged on. As Jungwon got older, but not stronger. He felt weak down to the bone, and was not so ignorant as to miss the signs of how significant a toll it was taking on his grandmother.
She would try to hide the exhausted shake of her hands when the day was up, after working sunrise to sunset to scrape together enough for them to make it, but Jungwon would still catch it. Jungwon would still walk to the wealthier parts of the city and play his violin in the streets for hours to try to help, even if the end means were slight.
Despite it all, his grandmother would tell him stories late at night, a single flame illuminating her deep wrinkles and wise eyes. About Celia and her high-spirited, playful character. His grandmother would recount stories that would have her chortling in laughter, and Jungwon would be helpless but to join in, wearing his tattered clothes in their dark home in the dead of winter.
In those moments, money meant nothing to Jungwon. His grandmother, and the times they shared that would eventually become a distant, precious memory, was all he needed.
Jungwon’s grandmother got sick when he was fifteen years old.
She was bedridden the spring of 1888, but she spent every moment of consciousness trying to be as strong as she could for Jungwon’s sake. Jungwon dropped out of school to work. He picked up odd jobs during the day and played the violin ceaselessly during the night, all in an effort to make ends meet and buy supplies- thin blankets and cheap medicines. Food. Clothes.
“My dear,” his grandmother muttered hoarsely one morning, holding out her hand to him. Jungwon was by her side in an instant, brushing the grey strands of hair out of her eyes.
“Hm?” he hummed, holding fast to her frail fingers, trying not to let any of the concern that choked him up most days bloom in his expression. She saw through him anyway.
“You work so hard,” she whispered with a sorrowful shake of her head. “This is not the life I wanted for you at such a young age.”
“Grandma,” Jungwon exhaled, heavy laden with sincerity. “You have given me everything. Both in the physical means and outside of that entirely. You have been by my side. I will be by yours.”
Tears sprung to his grandmother’s eyes. She laughed, and even though she was worn and tired, it was a joyous sound.
“I never thought I would feel so loved again after she passed… yet here you are.”
In late summer, his grandmother’s fever broke and her cough dispelled.
Her body still ached and her steps still slowed. Some days were drastically more difficult than others. But for a while, it was better.
Jungwon’s grandmother died when he was sixteen years old.
Her sickness had returned with the wintertime. It swept her off her feet and stole her sweet soul from Jungwon, pulling it indefinitely out of his reach.
Grief crushed Jungwon like rock, cut him like glass, followed him like a shadow. For months he wallowed in loneliness. His life’s main constant had been ripped away from him, his sole joy distinguished like fire.
Without her presence at home, Jungwon worked even more than he did when she was alive, as a distraction. He could not sleep. He hardly ate. He did not spare even a glance at his violin.
One morning, hours before first light, Jungwon started walking. He walked out of the city, to the rolling hills of the countryside. He scaled a grassy hill and sat as the sun rose. Italy was drenched in delicate pinks and bright yellows, and Jungwon thought of how much he once loved life, when he was young. Before.
And somehow, the serene morning and the clarity that came with the sunrise was enough to bring forward what had previously been buried in the deep recesses of Jungwon’s mind: what his grandmother told him just before she died.
“Find peace, Jungwon. Look for hope and hold on to it. You will fall in love with life that way, and it will give you the purpose so many spend all their days searching for.”
Jungwon got up when the sun had risen over his head.
And when he arrived home, he picked up his violin.
Jungwon devoted time to music again.
It became his passion, his craft. His every waking moment was dedicated to four strings which were his canvas, and a bow which was his brush.
The darkness did not diminish with the night, not completely. But Jungwon saw hope, far off in the distance. Though he had not yet arrived, and would not for quite a while, for the first time in the year on his own, Jungwon believed peace truly could set in once more.
So maybe, he could learn. Learn to fall in love with life again.
The first concert hall Jungwon performed in was severely dilapidated and stunk of mildew. It was a proper stage, though, and an indoor one at that. Jungwon’s heart nearly burst with nervous jitters before he stepped out into the beam of the single stage lamp.
But when that warm yellow light fell upon him, every doubt and distraction slipped from his mind. Years of practice following his grandmother’s passing- spent in crowded tavern bars and at cobbled street corners- prepared him for this: an audience.
He had heard the whispers- “Boy does not have a penny to his name,” “Only nineteen,” “All on his own, that one”- but paid them no mind.
Song flowed from his fingertips as easily as the breaths from his lungs. The hall was filled with echoes of the past, present, future.
Jungwon felt as close to his grandmother as ever. And he belonged.
Despite the attitude of contentment Jungwon took after his grandmother, there were distasteful aspects of the performance role he stepped into. Humans were fickle and deceiving, and there were times leeching men and snobby, uptight individuals would try to cheat Jungwon out of his payment. There were times they would get away with it.
It was backstage at a concert hall in Switzerland in 1893, dealing with the aftermath of one of those very situations, that someone spoke up about it.
“You should not let people take advantage of you like that.”
Jungwon turned his gaze from the retreating backs of the conniving men who took their tickets sales and went, refocusing on a young man standing a few feet behind him, hands tucked away in the pockets of his slacks.
“I have what I need,” was all Jungwon said. He did not know the man, and did not feel the need to go out of his way to explain himself.
The stranger regarded him silently, a strand of hair falling out of place over his forehead. He made no effort to adjust it, simply watching Jungwon with an unidentifiable expression fixed on his defined features.
Finally, his low, cool voice returned. “If I may ask, how old are you?”
Jungwon saw no harm in revealing the truth. “Twenty.”
A hint of disbelief twisted in the man’s easy smile. “Impressive. That only settles it even further, then. You are far too talented to be so humble.”
“I do not perform for the money.”
“I did not say you should. But that does not disregard the fact that those businessmen should be begging you to merely step foot on the stage of their venues, not walking away without consequence after ripping you off.”
Jungwon narrowed his eyes marginally, chin lifting in the same manner. He held his violin at his side, bow in the other hand, in a posture of simultaneous ease and professionalism he had mastered over years of practice.
“And who are you to care about such matters that concern me alone?”
The stranger’s eyes twinkled.
“Merely a man who appreciates beautiful things. And justice.”
Jungwon thought that was a silly thing to say.
In the months that followed, the man appeared time and time again. Not at every concert, as Jungwon traveled quite a bit and had a habit of choosing available places mere hours before he performed. The announced concerts, however- the man did not miss a single one.
He was there after each show, strands of dark hair falling across his forehead, hands in his slack pockets, long coat fitted across his shoulders. Jungwon’s name spread like wildfire in Europe; he had more and more sets of eyes trained on him with each passing day, yet he found himself thinking of only one individual’s reaction.
Jungwon learned the man’s name was Park Jongseong. He learned the man was two years older than himself. He learned the man was a music connoisseur, of sorts. Jongseong’s words, of course. Silly.
“Do you not have a job, Mr. Park?” Jungwon asked him once, long after the night’s performance ended. Jongseong had been standing patiently by the side in the concert hall’s foyer, waiting for the throng of praising audience members to disperse. Jungwon had only been joking with the question, but Jongseong still scoffed good naturedly.
“Always a judgmental tone, hm? I am a journalist. My work can be completed on the road.”
“Apologies,” Jungwon sniffed, finding it in himself to feel mildly embarrassed by the other’s clearly teasing tone. And Jongseong just laughed, rippling and full and loud.
Jungwon wondered why it was the warmest sound he’d ever heard.
Perhaps it was curiosity that led Jungwon to consider Jongseong’s proposition, or perhaps it was that- despite the unlikely story of their continued interactions following their meeting- Jungwon thought of him as a friend.
“Have you ever considered hiring someone to travel with?” Jongseong asked. “To handle affairs, book venues, ensure details are set in place. Escort you.”
“Escort,” Jungwon snorted. He had his back to Jongseong, packing his violin away with practiced hands.
Jungwon could see the sour expression on Jongseong’s face when he countered, “Surely you are aware of the sheer amount of fame you have to your name now- and rightfully so. But it is not practical- nor safe, frankly- for you to be carrying out such responsibilities alone.”
It was not something Jungwon had failed to contemplate before. And he knew what Jongseong was implying, what he was asking. Jungwon thought about it for a mere moment, realizing in the same instant that he had not felt nearly as lonely as he used to since he met Jongseong.
Jungwon turned to face the older. He made up his mind.
“Yes, well. Do you know anyone who would be interested?”
Jongseong bit back a grin. Hands in his pockets. Hair in his eyes. “It just so happens that I do.”
Thus, began their travels together.
Every moment Jungwon experienced once Jongseong started traveling with him was tinted in a golden light. The brightness illuminated the dark corners of Jungwon’s mind, urged him to rise in the morning, moved him to fits of laughter and made him smile so wide his cheeks ached.
Jungwon learned. About the ins and outs of living with and moving seamlessly around another, something he had to relearn after years of independence.
Jungwon learned about Park Jongseong, and all the little things. Jongseong always skipped fastening the very top button of his coat. He managed, without fail, to get his shoes wet every time they were near a body of water. He had a habit of hunching over horribly while doing paperwork, in hilariously complete opposition to his usual upright bearing. His initial disposition was intimidatingly unapproachable, but his laugh was unapologetic in volume and his smile stole the very brilliance from the sun in the sky.
He poured Jungwon’s tea first every morning. He stood right off the wing backstage as Jungwon performed, beaming with pride. He clapped louder than everyone else. He recognized every shift in Jungwon’s mood, interpreting every flick of his gaze with an ease so natural, it startled Jungwon at times. He was not averse to speaking up, putting his past work with words to use, and there was never again an issue with payment, though Jungwon was not entirely sure how he managed that. Jongseong was, simply put, good with words. Impressively so.
One night in Spain, it rained so hard that the two of them were soaked to the bone in under a minute. Through the haze of pelting water, Jungwon managed to spot a lodging inn tucked between a bustling pub and towering business building.
Jongseong hurried inside to see if there were any available rooms, while Jungwon insisted on staying outside under the awning of the pub instead of tracking an even greater puddle into the inn lobby. He shivered against the cold, knowing full well that on a night like this, in a busy part of the city where plenty of travelers like themselves would have already sought shelter from the weather, there would likely be no room.
But Jongseong came out to meet him again, water dripping down the crease between his eyebrows, a guiding hand snaking around to press against the small of Jungwon’s back and lead him inside.
“How did you get a room?” Jungwon murmured as they climbed the stairs.
“A much needed miracle tonight, I suppose,” was Jongseong’s response.
Once they had both changed out of their wet clothes, Jungwon sat at the end of the bed, legs curled up beneath him. Jongseong had already blown out all the candles, but Jungwon could still make out the concerned expression marring his normally relaxed face. He knew to be gentle with Jungwon tonight, as he had been since they woke, as it was the anniversary of the day Jungwon’s grandmother died five years prior. Five years, and some days, the wound still felt as fresh as a new affliction.
“I wish I could have known her,” Jongseong said quietly.
Memories of a time long past, but never forgotten, came back to Jungwon full force, and still, Jongseong’s words did not hurt him. Rather, they carved a place in Jungwon’s aching heart and found a home, blooming in warmth. Comfort. It was less about the truth that Jongseong never would meet her, and more about the fact that he cared enough about Jungwon to know how much she meant to him. And by extension, that he wished to have known her because of him.
Jongseong had a way with words, and somehow, he always knew what to say.
Jungwon learned about Park Jongseong, and willingly let him in so that the older could learn about him too.
Acclaimed Violinist, Yang Jungwon- Italy’s Sweetheart- Performing at the Teatro Dal Verme, November 4, 1896.
“Have you seen this?”
Jungwon shook his head at the newspaper Jongseong was holding up in the air, swallowing the last of his breakfast. Jongseong leaned across the table to place it before him. Jungwon glanced at the headline for only a second before looking away. Jongseong chuckled at his reaction, knocking their knuckles together in a playful gesture as he stole the paper back.
“Italy’s sweetheart," he crooned. Jungwon, pointedly, did not pay that comment any mind. Instead, he gazed out the window, enjoying the quiet stillness of the morning.
The last three years of their travels had passed in a blur- a colorful array of chaotic, beautiful memories, yes- but a blur all the same. Thinking back, the moments melted and molded into one other. Jungwon had met countless esteemed people and had the honor of performing before countless gorgeous monuments, on countless famous stages, in countless crowded streets.
His gratitude was never ending. He loved making music. He loved sharing it with others. He loved the opportunity to move them. He loved having Jongseong by his side every step of the way. Still, the quiet moments had become more and more of a rarity, and when they arose and fell gracefully into Jungwon’s lap, he enjoyed them more than he could express in words.
“Are you nervous?” Jongseong asked later, long after tossing the paper aside and taking up the book he had been pouring over since they traveled from Turin.
Jungwon inhaled deeply, broken from his trance. He turned away from the window, looking across the table separating them at Jongseong’s depthful eyes, at the relaxed set of his mouth, at the hair falling across his forehead. “You will be there, won't you?”
Jongseong knew what Jungwon meant by answering his question with a question, and Jungwon could tell. The older man’s lips quirked up just slightly, not in the usual teasing way the two of them tended to regard each other with. It was soft, and private.
“Always,” Jongseong answered him, and Jungwon’s breath caught in his throat. Italy’s sweetheart, Europe’s acclaimed violinist, a performer in every sense of the word- and Jungwon was never as shaken in relation to those titles as he was in the presence of the man sitting across from him.
“Then I am not nervous,” Jungwon said, and he turned back to the window to avoid looking into Jongseong’s piercing gaze any longer.
The day slipped through Jungwon’s fingers like water. Night arrived, and with it, the upcoming performance.
The Teatro Dal Verme was magnificence in the physical form, drenched in marble, with echoes of art and songs of the past resounding in every corner. Its frames arched so high one had to crane their neck to see the intricate details engraved in white stone, and even then, fingers of light could only extend so far. The floor consisted of great slabs of wood, the columns were shining pillars of strength, the audience seated hundreds.
Jongseong stood behind Jungwon’s shoulder as he waited backstage. His name was announced, and the spotlight burned bright in the middle of the stage. The applause that welcomed him, awaiting him, thundered in volume. Jungwon turned to smile briefly at Jongseong, who returned it without a word, squeezing his elbow. Jungwon slipped away from the subtle touch, out onto the stage.
Violin to his chin, light in his eyes, Jungwon began. He wove a dozen stories into one another like his grandmother’s old lace work. Each piece was seamless, a flawless representation of his passion. His craft.
And for a while, it was perfect.
Near the end of his set, Jungwon registered a commotion offstage. It was distant enough that he dismissed it and continued playing; an interruption-free concert was never a guarantee, after all. Just moments later, though, the noise morphed into yelling backstage that became increasingly louder at an alarming speed.
Jungwon stopped playing just as a stage worker burst through the side curtain onto the main stage. He watched the man heave in a deep breath, his own caught up in his chest in confusion, before the man bellowed, “Fire!”
Jungwon stared at him, shell-shocked, but it took only a mere moment for the fire in all of its destructive might to arrive. One second, the stage was clear, and the next, wild flames were there, spreading rapidly, scaling the grand curtains and eating away at the wooden planks of the floor.
The hall erupted in chaos. Deafening screams rang in Jungwon’s ears, and he hazily observed the audience surging away from the stage, toward the back of the hall. Toward the single exit. Flames swept toward the front of the stage, licking at the edge, and Jungwon’s senses slammed back into him just as a firm hand gripped his arm and hauled him away from center stage. Jongseong.
The two of them tore offstage in the opposite direction, an unspoken understanding between them that exiting the same way as the audience was not an option- Jungwon glanced over his shoulder for a split second to see the stage engulfed in flames.
Backstage was worse. It was clear the fire had already escalated out of control before the stage worker alerted the front of house. Jongseong tugged him along amongst the tumultuous crackling sounds and flickers of orange light with an unrelenting grip on his wrist. Jungwon nearly rammed into his back when the older stopped short, craning his neck down an unfamiliar hallway, presumably searching for an exit. Jungwon cursed himself for not looking around earlier; he did not know where they could escape.
Jungwon urged Jongseong into motion with an arm around his waist, down the dark hallway. They came upon a door. Jungwon tried the handle. It did not budge. Jongseong threw his weight against the wood. It did not budge. Jongseong swore loudly, whipping around to meet Jungwon’s eyes, his own blown wide with distress.
“Here,” he rasped, grasping at the collar of Jungwon’s shirt and drawing it up, over the younger’s mouth and nose. Jungwon took the hint and held it there, watching the older copy the action with his own shirt. Then they were running again, poorly protected as they were, back the way they came.
The vigor of the fire had increased tenfold. Smoke, thick and choking, burned Jungwon’s eyes as he squinted at their surroundings. Desperation clutched his heart in the same manner- We have to get out. We have to. I do not want to die here. Jongseong does not deserve to die here. He cannot, we cannot-
Jongseong shouted something that was lost to the roar of quickly encroaching flames. But as he moved, Jungwon followed closely behind because in the same moment, he saw it too. Another door.
Each step, it became more difficult to breathe. Smokey gray and fiery orange danced across Jungwon’s vision, but he forced himself to move with the diligence of a man about to lose his life. He forced himself to stay alert. And perhaps that’s how he saw it.
It happened in an instant- a towering wooden bookshelf to their left, weakened and splintering by the impact of the heat, crumbled at the foundation and tipped, the top shelves still fully intact. Jungwon acted on instinct. He shoved Jongseong forward as hard as he could.
The force of it threw Jungwon to his hands and knees, just as the older hit the floor ahead of him, clear of the descent of the falling shelf. Jungwon’s fate, however, was already sealed, for it truly was only an instant, and that instant was up.
The bookshelf fell with a thunderous crash.
It landed on Jungwon’s left hand.
In a hospital in Milan, a doctor whose name slipped Jungwon’s memory the moment he introduced himself delivered the news.
Jungwon’s left wrist was broken. His left hand, and all five fingers, were crushed. The damage was too severe. It was irreparable. His wrist would heal with time, but his fingers would never bend again. His hand, mangled and marred, would never function properly again.
The doctor did not linger. He swept out through the curtain separating Jungwon from the other patients, leaving him sitting up against stiff pillows, brain leaking out of his ears.
Jongseong stood at the far end of the bed, sorrow written all over his face. Jongseong, who had heaved with all his might and lifted the bookshelf off Jungwon’s hand the night before. Jongseong, who had carried him toward the exit, shouldering the door open and stumbling out into the dark street as Jungwon’s vision tunneled into unconsciousness, hand throbbing in excruciating pain.
Jungwon looked up into the older’s face as he approached him; his world was closing in on him, and there was nothing else for him to hold on to. Jongseong clutched the back of his neck, eyes rimmed with tears. It was clear, by the state of his stuttering movements and uncharacteristic speechlessness that he was similarly devastated by the news. It was clear he understood what it meant for Jungwon. How drastically it would alter the trajectory of his life from that point on.
Jungwon’s eyes grew hot and itchy, his mind frighteningly blank. Numb. Filled with static.
The sea of grief, sharp and unforgiving, tugged at Jungwon’s form and pulled him under, much like the waves that tortured him when he lost his grandmother. That, above all else, was what cut into Jungwon like a knife.
It made his chest burn and his nose leak. It stole his breath, made his body shake. For the last thing Jungwon felt connected him to her was no longer something he could do. His ability, his talent, his life’s purpose- it was no more.
Yang Jungwon would never play the violin again, and he could not fathom how he could possibly go on.
The papers called it a tragedy.
The Teatro Dal Verme was irreversibly damaged. Nearly half of it had collapsed, and the rest was burned beyond repair. There was talk of complete demolition, of rebuilding from the ground up.
The state of Europe’s famous violinist, however, was spoken of more. The hospital did not disclose Jungwon’s condition for as long as they could. They kept him for several days, but Jungwon eventually insisted on taking his leave. There was not much of anything they could do for the pain, and he could not listen to the others who were sick around him any longer.
Reporters were waiting in the street like stray dogs, yapping and jumping for any opportunity at scraps of details. Jongseong chased them off without moving even an inch from Jungwon’s side, threats on his lips and anger in his eyes.
Jungwon struggled, every waking moment, under a stifling sort of weight. Hopelessness pumped through his veins like his very blood. It was impossible to do anything but sit in the inn room they had holed away in and clench his jaw against the pain.
And oh, the pain- it never left him. It ached like a rotten tooth, deep set and out of reach, unable to be helped. It clung to his every conscious thought like a leech. It was unbearable, but the looming reality of what he had been stripped of was even more so.
A week after the fire, Jongseong asked him, so gently Jungwon hardly heard him, what he wanted to do next.
Jungwon was sitting by the window, staring out at the bleak street. The rainy afternoon had the walkways glistening in misery, the sky devoid of sunlight. Jungwon hated it- the lack of light- but he could not take his eyes off the water droplets racing each other down the expanse of the glass windowpane.
Next. What was next?
He could not even remember the past couple days except for the hurt. The haze and panic characteristic of feeling lost had been clouding every ounce of his thoughts. It came down to the bitter truth: Jungwon did not know what to do next. He had never felt so powerless, so out of control.
He had fallen in love with music, with making it, but now that was gone. What could he do? What was left for him?
Jungwon watched as the drizzle outside transitioned to steady rainfall, and his grandmother’s words came to him.
“Look for hope. Hold on to it.”
Turning his head, it was like Jungwon saw Jongseong sitting beside him for the first time in days. Look for hope. You have to look for it.
“I want to leave,” he croaked. His morning of clarity in the countryside, years ago, flitted across his mind. The countryside. Away from all of this.
And Jongseong- dear, sweet, unwavering Jongseong- did not so much as bat an eye.
“Then we will leave,” he said without a hint of hesitation. “Where do you want to go?”
They boarded a train to France the next day.
“You do not have to do this,” Jungwon said, voice strained. Jongseong turned in the seat next to him, pressed flush against his right side, an unmistakably incredulous look on his face.
“Do what?” he asked, practically daring Jungwon to confirm it aloud. At the younger’s silence, he said it for him. “Come with you?”
“Move with me,” Jungwon said quietly, though there was not much of a difference in his clarification. “Leave your entire life behind.”
Jongseong glanced away, at the platform that was steadily clearing out, sunlight gracing his sharp features. The train jolted, preparing to pull out of the station.
“You are my life,” Jongseong said without preamble.
Jungwon stared at him, lips parted. Jongseong met his eyes, firm demeanor softening.
“I will move with you wherever you go,” he said, and it sounded like a promise.
They chose a cottage in the hills, overlooking a small town by the sea.
The town went by a name Jungwon had never heard of prior to their move, but the people smiled kindly in the street and the sun was warm against his face, even in late November.
The house was quaint and functional. There was a fireplace and a reasonably sized wooden table next to the tiny kitchen. The sink basin was positioned under two identical windows, which, if swung open, let in sounds of the surf crashing against the shore in the distance.
A short, winding set of stairs led to the second floor, which could hardly be called a level of its own as it was only one room with little more space than was needed for the bed. The singular bed.
Jongseong made a great deal the first night of trying to sleep on the floor and allow Jungwon his own space- a squabble the latter ended by dragging the older up out of the crevice he had squeezed his body into with his good hand and telling him “Hush,” and to “Go to sleep.” Following that instance, Jongseong did not protest and contentedly laid down beside him each night when it came time to sleep.
But sleep, no matter how badly Jungwon desired its embrace, was not Jungwon’s friend. It treated him as a stranger for months after their arrival.
One night found him downstairs, hours after he had slipped out of bed, leaving Jongseong’s unmoving form alone in the dark. Jungwon had not bothered to light the fire, sitting at the table in the pool of moonlight shining in from the windows over the sink instead. The fingers of his right hand were reverent against the strings of the instrument he used to play day and night, the fingers of his left crumpled and useless against his chest, thrumming with phantom pains.
The violin resting on the table was the one that had belonged to Celia. When he was traveling and performing on the road, Jungwon had resorted to using a different violin so that his very first would not be damaged. He was thankful, at least, for that small victory, that the one he lost the day of the fire was not the one sitting before him. Despite it, he could not help but feel that it mocked him, resting there but now forever out of his reach.
He was crying when Jongseong came down, steps light and eyes heavy.
“I do not care about the concerts or the money,” Jungwon told him, voice scratching in his throat. “I could never perform in front of another soul again and accept it, just-”
Jungwon could not speak anymore and Jongseong did not try to make him. He shuffled his chair closer and pulled Jungwon into his chest, guiding his face to rest against the column of his neck. Jongseong’s voice, warm and soft and steady, was in Jungwon’s ear. His chin brushed against the crown of Jungwon’s head, his hands were firm against the base of his neck, smoothing down his spine.
Amidst the heartache, Jungwon was able to recognize with a pang of gratefulness that at least he was not alone. Jongseong's unfiltered touch cradling his listless shell of a body up to their bed and shutting out the noise in his head by pressing close to his back in the dark made him certain of that.
Gardening proved itself to be equal parts stressful and enjoyable.
Jongseong was a bit hesitant when Jungwon presented the idea of starting one in their side yard, but the younger insisted that it would be a good use of their ample free time and would- hopefully, eventually- be a provision of fresh food.
There were plenty of approachable people in town to ask their questions, and starting the process of upturning the soil, preparing it, and planting seeds was not all that difficult. Rather, in the end, it was not all that difficult. The beginning, however, was full of its fair share of ups and downs.
One particular afternoon, Jungwon was squatting by the outskirts of the garden, observing a clump of tiny sprouts that had shot out of the ground. He looked up when he heard sloshing to see Jongseong approaching with a pail full of water clutched in each hand. He was not struggling with the weight, but he was certainly concentrating on keeping his arms steady so he did not spill the water before reaching the garden. It made Jungwon smile.
Jongseong glanced up at him and returned the smile when their eyes locked. A sweet gesture, yes. But since he was no longer looking at his footing, his boot caught on a clump of earth and sent him sprawling forward with a shout, both pails flipping in mid air. When he pushed himself up with a look of poorly concealed disdain, he seemed to realize the combination of the dirt and water had covered his entire front in mud.
Jungwon laughed so hard at the speckles of it flicked across the older’s face, he could scarcely breathe. Jongseong, rising to his feet with shaking shoulders and a matching grin, did not say a word to admonish him for it.
There was a pub in town, owned by two men named Jaeyun and Heeseung.
Jungwon and Jongseong frequented often enough that they befriended them, exchanging easy conversation and staying long after close just to swap stories and enjoy themselves.
Overtime, Jaeyun and Heeseung shared that they had met in the city, but moved out to the countryside a few years before to start their own business. That, and…
They never said it outright, but Jungwon knew. Their relationship, the truth of it, was clear as day in the way they looked at each other, in the brush of their intentional touches.
They never said it outright, but they wore matching rings, and one time Jaeyun caught Jungwon looking. They exchanged quiet smiles, sitting across the table from each other as Jongseong and Heeseung talked away, and that was that.
Jungwon’s left wrist healed with time.
Mobility came back to him, but what the doctor told him rang true in the way that it was not the same for his hand and fingers. Jungwon worked valiantly to maintain a positive mindset, and focused on other aspects of his life that he had never paid much attention to.
Reading was one of them. He poured over every one of Jongseong’s books they had brought with them, then took to the library in town. It was rough, at the start. He had learned the basics in school before dropping out to care for his grandmother, but he was much out of practice.
Jongseong helped him regain his confidence. There were many nights in which they would sit together after dinner, Jungwon reading aloud and Jongseong nodding along beside him, working him through the parts that tripped him up.
“What?” Jungwon asked, looking up from his book one night to find Jongseong watching him with the smallest of smiles tugging at a corner of his mouth.
“Nothing,” Jongseong said, turning back to his own book. His hair fell out of place, sweeping over his forehead, into his eyes. “Just proud of you.”
Jungwon hoped that if the older glanced up at him again, the firelight would conceal the color rising to his cheeks well enough.
“I have something to take care of.”
Jungwon leveled Jongseong with a glare, unimpressed by the older’s lacking excuse.
“That tells me nothing whatsoever,” Jungwon huffed when the older still would not budge on telling him anything. He could not make sense of Jongseong’s request for them to part ways for the afternoon.
“That is the point, Won.”
Jungwon grumbled some more but conceded soon enough. He gathered the book he was reading, and another, in case he finished the first while down at the shorefront.
“If you wanted to get rid of me, you could have just said so,” Jungwon teased, nearly out the door. Jongseong scoffed and swatted at his backside, sending Jungwon away laughing.
Jungwon made his way down the hill and onto the road that led into town, taking his time winding through the familiar streets. He finally reached the sea, and settled in the pebbled sand with his books.
Some time later, he was startled by a scream coming from the water. Alarmed, he whipped his head up, only to see two young men wrestling each other in the waves further down the beach. Jungwon chuckled to himself, amused with their antics, and thoroughly impressed by how loud they were shrieking for their voices to travel as far as they had.
“Apologies, on their behalf,” a voice called out to him. Jungwon had not noticed the man strolling down the beach in his direction until then. “I do not believe they realize how disruptive their yelling can be.”
Jungwon shook his head, offering a reassuring smile. “They are not a bother.”
The stranger stopped a polite distance from where Jungwon was sitting, looking out at the two boys.
“Are they your brothers?” Jungwon asked, noting the fond smile on the man’s face.
“May as well be,” he answered, a hint of laughter to his tone.
“Family is not always blood-related,” Jungwon said. He thought of Heeseung's attentive conversation and Jaeyun's quiet smiles.
“That is true,” the man agreed amiably, looking over at him again. “My name is Sunghoon. Out in the water is Sunoo, and the taller one- trying to push him under- is Riki.”
Jungwon introduced himself and then snorted, watching Riki’s ruthless attempts to splash Sunoo directly in the face. The latter screeched at him and used both of his hands to retaliate. Sunghoon shook his head at them as he accepted Jungwon’s invitation to sit.
“They are both in their twenties and still act like children sometimes,” he sighed. Tone shifting, he added, “After the life they have had, though, they deserve to.”
Jungwon allowed the heaviness of that sentence to settle before speaking up again. “Are you all just visiting?”
“No, we are staying,” Sunghoon said, propping his knees up to loop his arms around them. “We grew up in Marseille, and have stuck together since we were teenagers. Their childhoods were not kind to them, and I had a similar experience. I figured… we would not suffer more out here than we would there. Maybe it would actually end up doing us some good.”
Jungwon smiled to himself. It was his second summer living there, and it had done a lot of good for him.
“I can vouch for this place,” Jungwon told Sunghoon. “It will not fix everything, but it certainly feels like a refuge. A home.”
Sunghoon caught sight of his left hand then, and he did not shudder or gape like some did upon seeing it for the first time. He just nodded, seeming to internalize the depth of Jungwon’s words. He turned to watch Sunoo and Riki again, the two of them sloshing out of the water and walking toward them with their arms slung about each other’s shoulders.
“I hope I will be able to say the same for us soon,” Sunghoon said, and Jungwon found himself hoping so too.
Jungwon did not have to wait too long to discover what it was that Jongseong took care of the day he met Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Riki on the beach.
He was sent away from the house, inexplicably, for a second time, Jongseong’s promise that he would come fetch him in just a little while at his back. Jungwon went down to spend the afternoon with Jaeyun and Heeseung as they worked.
Some three hours later, Jongseong appeared to walk him back. It was strange enough that the older did not linger to chat with their friends, and stranger still that he was, clearly, incredibly nervous as they made their way through town and climbed the hill to their cottage.
“Jongseong,” Jungwon sighed as they skirted about their garden, interrupting the chatter that had been spouting from the older since the start of their journey back. “What is troubling you so much?”
Jognseong stopped with his back to the door, hand protective on the handle like he expected Jungwon to reach around him and throw it open before he was ready.
“I… I got you something and I am very nervous. I am not sure how you will take it. Or if you will like it at all.”
Jungwon softened. He shook his head with a fond smile. “You and your gifts.”
Jongseong relaxed, his shoulders untensing when he seemed to realize he was worrying for nothing. That this was Jungwon, and Jungwon would not judge him for whatever was in their home, waiting for him.
“Consider it a late birthday present,” he said faintly. Jungwon marveled at the way he was able to slip from one emotion to another so quickly; the man before him, staring at him with honey eyes, was not the same as the one who had nearly talked himself to an anxious death on their way back from town.
Jungwon laughed, not unkindly. “My birthday was five months ago.”
“Four and a half,” Jongseong corrected. Jungwon rolled his eyes.
“Open the door, would you?”
Jongseong did. He stepped back and allowed Jungwon to pass him in the doorway, who looked on and saw-
A piano. An upright piano, positioned against the wall next to the fireplace, sunlight falling across its ivory keys. Jungwon felt his heart in his throat, felt Jongseong step up behind him, their shoulders brushing.
“A man in town was selling it. That is why I sent you away the first time; I went to take a look at it. Today, it was so that I could get a group to help move it here. I... I hoped we could learn to play together,” he said quietly, hesitancy back in his voice. He soldiered on nonetheless. “I know it may be difficult for you. Emotionally. Since it- is not the same. But I figured you could play the right hand and I could play the left, and-”
Jongseong stopped talking as Jungwon crushed him in a hug, overwhelmed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He was touched beyond measure, in disbelief that the older would do this. For him. Just for him.
Jongseong pressed a kiss to his forehead and Jungwon closed his eyes, murmuring, “Thank you,” over and over and over again.
Jungwon told Jaeyun about the piano while Jongseong was at the library.
Jaeyun stopped wiping down the counter and looked at him with a knowing gleam in his eyes. Still, he said nothing. Jungwon had never been one to fill bouts of silence, but he did then.
“I do not think he quite understands how much he means to me.”
His friend regarded him silently for a long moment.
Then, he said, “You love him,” just as gently as the smile on his face. The statement was not a revelation to either of them.
“More than anything,” Jungwon answered, and that was not a revelation either.
It was nearly winter, and he and Jongseong spent most of their nights tinkering with the piano and reading by the roaring fire.
It was one of those nights that Jongseong stopped reading long enough for Jungwon to look up at him in question, taking in the pensive expression on his face.
“What are you thinking about?” Jungwon asked.
Jongseong did not turn his gaze from the fire, not even when his belated reply came what felt like an eternity later.
“You pushed me out of the way.”
For a moment, Jungwon was lost. Then, the haunted tone of the older’s voice, and the faraway look in his eyes clued him in. There was only one instance he could be referencing.
Jungwon shifted where he sat, closing the book in his lap.
"And I would do it a hundred times over.”
Jongseong turned his face to meet his eyes then, clearly wounded by Jungwon’s response.
“You lost so much to save me,” he said, voice gruff with emotion, and Jungwon wondered how he had missed it after all that time, if it was truly a weight Jongseong had carried with him since the moment he carried Jungwon out of that burning concert hall.
Jungwon felt a different kind of fire alight in his heart. He shifted closer so his knees were pressed to Jongseong’s leg, set on settling the older's doubts then and there.
“I did,” he allowed, as it was true. “But if that shelf had fallen on you, I would have lost you.”
He reached out to cup Jongseong’s cheek.
“And you are worth more to me than any function of my hand. More than any song I could ever play.”
Jongseong did not waste time, as they had had plenty of it. Years of small smiles and locked gazes, years of words edging on near-confessions and touches lingering far too long to mean anything but what they were intended to.
With glistening eyes, Jongseong leaned forward and kissed him, drenched in warmth and firelight.
Winter gave way to spring, and spring melted into summer, and seven young men became friends in that small town by the sea.
Jaeyun and Heeseung hired a few people to work for them so they could get away from the pub a couple days a week. Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Riki had become quick friends with Jongseong after meeting Jungwon, which ultimately led to them getting to know Jaeyun and Heeseung. Before they knew it, their entire group had formed.
They spent some mornings watching the sunrise together, each with their respective steaming cups of coffee or tea. They spent some afternoons hiking in the hills beyond the town, or playing cards at one of the tables in Jaeyun and Heeseung’s pub. They spent some evenings talking, some crowing horrible renditions of songs, and some crowded in Jungwon and Jongseong’s tiny kitchen, as the latter had taken to cooking and had discovered quite the knack for it.
The place they visited the most together, though, was the beach.
Jongseong dunked Sunghoon under the ocean water one afternoon, laughter so loud and bright it ricocheted against the rocks surrounding the beach. He flung about this way and that, yelling and putting up a fight when Riki splashed over to join Sunghoon in overpowering him. They successfully submerged him all the way under, and he came up sputtering and shaking water out of his eyes and laughing so hard he could not catch his breath. He was the most beautiful thing Jungwon had ever seen.
Jongseong trudged out of the water and made his way toward him, where he was sitting on the beach. And truly, the grin he shot at Jungwon when he leaned over him, placing his hands on his knees, was too much. It was too bright and warm and the feeling in Jungwon’s chest, squeezing and expanding and pulling was too much, and he looked Jongseong directly in the eyes and said, “I love you.”
Jongseong stared at him, jaw going slack, before kissing him right then and there, quite fiercely. The hollering and clapping of their friends faded into background noise as Jongseong pulled away, the hand holding Jungwon’s jaw allowing him to run his thumb over the younger’s bottom lip.
“I love you too,” he murmured, before he swooped right back in to steal the breath from Jungwon’s lungs.
“Darling,” Jongseong said one night, crawling atop Jungwon and pressing him even further into the bed. Jungwon did not protest and tease as he usually did, recognizing the older’s eyes were more serious than normal.
“Hm?” he hummed, using his right hand to tuck Jongseong’s hair behind his ear. Jongseong smiled, slow and soft and private, and all Jungwon’s, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world. Jungwon melted into the blankets, melted under his attention.
“What?” Jungwon prompted again softly, since the older was still just staring and not speaking.
When he did, though, his words were smooth as silk, and missing the particular quality of nervousness that had plagued his tone when he had presented the piano to Jungwon all that time ago.
Jongseong held Jungwon's face in his hands and said, “Marry me.”
Jungwon got all choked up, even though he had had a feeling it was coming by the look in Jongseong’s eyes. Lips curling in a watery smile, he smoothed a thumb over the older’s eyebrow, down the plane of his nose, across his cheekbone. He hooked it behind the curve of Jongseong’s jaw to draw him down, pressing a firm kiss to his mouth.
“Yes," he whispered against the older's lips. "Yes. Of course." Their noses brushing. Jongseong’s intake of breath, full and shaky. Jungwon pressing ever closer to him. “Of course I will marry you." And he could not stop saying it. Could not stop leaning up to kiss him again and again.
There was no licensed officiant or grand audience. They got married on the beach at noon with their five friends in attendance. They said their vows and exchanged simple rings.
Riki wore a look so proud, one would not think he was the youngest of them. Sunghoon refrained from teasing Jongseong for a full day, and Sunoo sang a lovely song. Jaeyun and Heeseung watched them with matching grins, their own hands clasped between them.
That night, Jongseong led Jungwon outside and pulled him close to his chest under the grandeur of the sky twinkling with stars. Jungwon laughed as the older started to hum, swaying them back and forth in a slow circle, but he did not pull away. He could not dream of it.
It was everything, and more, and more, and more.
Jungwon sat at the table with his husband one quiet, still morning, and felt something shift into place.
“Find peace, Jungwon.”
Jongseong poured Jungwon’s tea before his own, pausing at the gentle smile that had dawned on the younger’s face.
“My love. What is that look for?”
The windows above the sink were open. Jungwon could hear the ocean.
Down in the water, Jungwon could imagine Riki and Sunoo chasing each other about, Sunghoon looking on at them fondly before slipping out of his shoes to join them. Jungwon could imagine Jaeyun and Heeseung down in their pub, bumping elbows and sharing smiles over their work.
The garden just outside was rich and thriving. The piano against the wall was dearly loved and well played. The shelves framing the fireplace were filled with books worn by reverence and time. The love of his life sat beside him at the table in their home on the hill. Hair in his eyes.
“Look for hope and hold on to it.”
Jungwon reached over to grasp Jongseong’s hand for a moment, giving a small shake of his head to reassure the older it was nothing. He could tell Jongseong knew it was not nothing, but not anything of concern either.
Jongseong tilted his chin in a nod, leaning forward to kiss him before releasing his hand to pick up his tea and open his book. Jungwon took a deep breath, still smiling to himself as he sat back in his chair and went about opening his own.
“You will fall in love with life that way, and it will give you the purpose so many spend all their days searching for.”