Work Text:
he tightens the lacing cord, quick and practiced while it digs into his hands. a shirt is pulled over, and junhui wen starts buttoning it. his hands shake as they adjust his vest, tremble as he takes his jacket on.
presentable, almost, he looks at himself in the mirror. he grips his gloves and wills his hands to still. presentable.
the carriage is already waiting for him when he comes out, and he steps in. the coachman turns toward him.
“lord tsoi’s residence?”
breath in, breath out.
“yes, please.”
junhui leans his head on the seat behind him and breathes out. he can do this, he tells himself. he’ll be just fine, and he won’t make a fool out of himself. jeonghan- mr. yoon will be working, and he won’t talk more with junhui than strictly necessary. which means not today, because today, earl tsoi and his husband will be sitting for him, and junhui is going to be busy.
when junhui steps out of the carriage, too soon and too late for junhui’s taste, lord tsoi is awaiting him with his husband. junhui smiles and bows, and sir tsoi nods at him.
***
junhui’s wrists are aching, and he rubs them while the earl rolls his shoulders and leaves. he usually stays for a bit with the count, holds polite conversation with junhui, before he has to excuse himself yet again. junhui does not envy the amount of meetings the earl has to attend anymore, he’s resigned himself to where he is. the count stays behind though, and junhui gets up from his chair when he approaches.
“sir tsoi,” junhui bows, and continues: “may i help you?”
“i have told you, time again, dear junhui, to call me vernon.”
“vernon.. may i help you?”
sir tso- vernon, smiles at junhui, eyes crinkling, and says: “yes, junhui. you may go and find jeonghan, he should have a remedy for you wrists.”
“oh, no need, si- vernon.” the name feels strange on his tongue, even after all this time.
“yes need, i insist. your wrists look red and aching, i would like you to go and ask jeonghan for a remedy. he would not mind.”
“then i shall go find mr. yoon”, junhui says and bows again.
the corridors are as long and winded as always when junhui starts making his way towards mr. yoon’s office. were this a different life, someone would escort him. it isn’t though, and junhui walks through the halls alone.
he knocks on the wooden door, and a “come in!” is heard from inside. when junhui enters, mr. yoon is sitting behind his desk, writing a letter, pretty red ink and pretty white paper. junhui hasn’t sen ink with such a colour before. mr. yoon’s desk is big and wooden, maybe oak like the bookshelves. behind mr. yoon is a window, open to the garden. the man himself looks almost ethereal in the backlight, junhui thinks.
“mr. wen! what brings you here?”
“sir tsoi sent me, he insisted i come here for you would have a remedy for my wrists, he said.”
“ah, the hurt of a painter. let me see what i have for you.”
junhui admires the curve of mr. yoon’s waist, the blue reflection in his hair, for a second as he rummages through the cabinet in the corner. his hair reflects the light just like the feathers of a jackdaw. then he shakes himself, looking anywhere else. the room really is big, in all his time he’s been here junhui has always wondered why someone akin to a secretary has an office like this. it really is too grand for mr. yoon’s position.
luckily, mr. yoon emerges from his cabinet before junhui can ponder any more. he’s holding a little jar in his hand which holds a clear substance containing small green bits in it. a gel, perhaps? junhui startles when a hand touches his wrist gently.
“mr. wen? could you sit down, please?”
“oh, yes! yes, of course.”
mr. yoon motions for him to sit in the chair by the window. junhui sits and pulls off his gloves, folding them on his lap. the padded seat is warm from the sun. then, before he can protest, mr. yoon has gotten down on his knees in front of junhui and junhui’s heart is leaping into his throat for reasons well left unknown.
“mr. yoon! are you not afraid of dirtying your pants? there is no need to kneel!” junhui exclaims, bothered.
“are you saying my floors are dirty, mr. wen?”
junhui feels his face flush. “no, i would never, your floors are likely-“
he cuts himself off when he looks back up at jeonghan and finds him with a little smile.
“i was just making a joke, mr. wen, but i appreciate your concern with my clothes. i am fine getting on my knees for you, though.”
“oh. um.”
“give me your wrist?”
junhui does, grateful for the change of subject.
jeonghan’s hands are cool where they touch his, gentle and sure. the substance is massaged into his hand, cold on his skin, and junhui hisses. hopes jeonghan does not notice.
“not used to it yet?” he says, and something stings in junhui.
“i have not painted for a very long time, mr. yoon.” junhui’s voice is colder than it should be, and he knows it is.
but he has been stung too many times, by snide comments and barely concealed disgust. It is not his fault that his parents ended up like they did, but it doesn’t deter people from pretending like it is.
“i know.”
jeonghan takes his other wrist in hand and starts gently rubbing his thumb in circles over it.
“i apologise for coming across as mocking,” he says. “it was never my intention.”
junhui looks towards the windows, feels his thoughts whipping up a storm, his chest tightening around his heart.
“it is fine.”
they sit there, in silence, until jeonghan tells him the gel is to be wiped off. his hands are still gentle, and junhui still does not look at his face. he forgets his gloves.
***
weeks pass, the tsoi’s keep sitting for junhui wen, and his visits to jeonghan’s office become more frequent. a week after his first visit, junhui receives a letter to his residence, red ink on white, white paper. it would not do him well to assume this is the very same letter that mr. yoon was writing a week ago, so junhui shoves the thought far back. even if the dates fit surprisingly well.
still, his cheeks warm as he reads it. it’s a simple invitation for tea, and junhui feels disproportionately excited for it. it has been a long time since anybody has found it fit to invite him to anything. wouldn’t want to associate with the likes of junhui wen, no.
the following visit turns to regular visits, strolls through the gardens of the tsoi manor and stone skips on the nearby lake. junhui’s brief answer to the first invitation grows into long, winded letters. the ones junhui sends are almost always on soft, yellow paper, but the letters he receives keep their pristine white colour and stark, red ink. junhui keeps them in a pretty box on his desk.
they keep their language formal, always “jeonghan-ssi” and “junhui-ssi” and a careful distance. as if something will be let loose and explode if they get too close, if gazes linger for too long. still, the bitterness junhui has carried for so long starts to dissipate.
he’s still careful though, for the likes of jeonghan, the likes of vernon and lord tsoi, the ones he paints so prettily, day after day, are the ones who were so quick to shun his parents, so quick to push him down to where he is now.