Archive of Our Own

Seven summers and cold winters,

and more to come,

Many promises and memories,

and more to come

After a full week of marching, finally the battalion reached their destination, a mid-sized town off a mildly important river bend.

The spot didn't really mean much to either side, but as Taehyung understood it, from the grumblings of the men around him as they marched here, their generals just didn't want the enemy to have it, just in case.

And so they were here, in a little cleared field, ringed with some woodland. The town they were meant to be guarding was just over the hill. Taehyung had caught a few good glimpses of it as they went by, but they hadn't actually gone into town yet. The unit was slightly behind schedule—it was late noon already, and they had to set up camp, as well as help the camp followers do the same—and so there wasn't time to march through in a grand show like most armies would.

The previous peace of the field is gone now as a battalion of soldiers settled into their new home, at least for the next few months. There's the dull thud of mallets as tents are pitched in neat rows, jovial chattery as men push each other around and clinks of silver as pans and utensils are brought out to start dinner.

Taehyung crossed over to the far side of the field, where the forest clearing developed into woodland. The center of camp is the most desirable to his fellow soldiers—it's safest to be where the numbers huddle together—but he never particularly cared for his life in that way. Besides, it's quieter on the edge of camp. So he unpacks his gear there and starts a small fire.

The sun is setting soon, and if Taehyung doesn't finish before curfew, then he won't be given time for dinner.

They had stocked up on rations last week, just before the lieutenant colonel had received the order to march his men here, so for now, rations weren't too lacking.

Though of course, there is a difference between satisfactory and satisfied.

Currently, all that was available was a blend of millet and rice, really just any grain that could be scavenged up and dumped into a sack. Sometimes it was only hard baked bread that they could eat, desperately begging for some grains of salt, but of course that was a luxury only offered to the higher ranked men. Salt meant choice—should I sprinkle it once or twice?—and even a measly thing like that has independence that matters.

Soon, night fell, and Taehyung extinguished his fire unceremoniously, kicking dirt on the little bundle of kindling and listening to the hiss of the flame as its glow winked out.

The noise of the camp began to decline similarly, with fellow soldiers doing the same. Tents were then painted with blue-gray shadow and drawn tightly shut, and the shouts of life turned to whispers as officers came down the rows to check for curfew.

Taehyung’s army cot was as uncomfortable as it had always been. The blanket was scratchy and probably let out more heat than it kept in, but they had been marching all day, and the day before that, and the day before that, without much rest at all. So tonight he could close his eyes and drift off almost easily.

The harsh clash of a gong awoke everyone to the morning.

"Up!"

Oh, right, Taehyung remembered as he rubbed his eyes. They were here in this new town, and today's schedule included a morning march through town. It’s a show of strength, a message to the other side, but so many have died already. Who is listening?

But of course, nothing was Taehyung’s to decide, he was only two legs of the horrifying centipede.

So he buttoned up his bangryeong and went, the straight lines of the collar chafing against his neck. 

A man always looked smart in military dress, even if the troops themselves weren't the most well supplied. It was the effect of hundreds of men making tidy squares, backs straightened like a metal rod and chests puffed out; it was the authority of a gun on their back and the socially accepted use of it.

Once everyone was assembled, the lieutenant colonel gave a blitheringly boring talk of what he must’ve thought was motivating but really just fell on empty ears, pointed his fancy ceremonial sword a few times, and signaled them off.

Soon the soldiers all fell into a set pace, each man’s step in tune with the fellow besides him, a human drum. Right foot and left foot and right foot again, on and on and on.

The marching was mindless, and Taehyung didn’t have to pay much attention to the movement of his arms and legs, feeling much like a simple mechanism, the automated little springs of a windup toy. He occupied himself by watching the ground as it went by under his feet. With each step, the little gray rocks on the ground shook a little, jumping up into the air before falling back down. He watched the way the grass bent under the boot of the man in front of him, how the one to his right had a peculiar way of walking, stiffly kicking out his leg instead of extending it, looking even more like an automation than Taehyung felt.

A drummer led the battalion, along with someone else hoisting the flag on their shoulder. It fluttered in the wind, quite prettily, but Taehyung had stared at the colors until they all swirled together into brown for hours already on the journey here.

Quickly enough the buildings of town came into view. This place didn’t farm because the soil had too much clay, so it didn’t have a rural to urban gradient like most settlements. Instead, buildings started from the river and stopped rather abruptly after the needed buildings petered out. There was the small port the town was built around and a government office from when more trade had flowed past this way.

Everything else sprung up around that. Shops would be on the ground floor, and tiny little rooms perched on the second floor would house the shopkeep and their family.

For one reason or another, the town had less importance now, and the people here were only remnants, clinging on to an economy that was dead and buried.

But still, a battalion of soldiers was here, and so the townspeople watched them go by. Some families and their curious little children had come out to watch, expressions as impassive as the face of a rock, while others stayed inside, dark eyes peering out from behind the cracks in curtains and wooden slats.

Taehyung didn’t like how they watched, so prickly, like each soldier here was a personal affront, when it wasn’t their fault they were here, but he couldn’t fault them for it either. When they had come to his village to ask for young men, he had watched them just the same, and he knew what the townsfolk felt right now. Like mice scuttling around the kitchen floor with giants stepping over their tails.

He took note of the people he saw, playing a game with himself, trying to guess their occupation.

One burly man with a bloodstained apron was clearly a butcher, standing right next to his display of hung pigs.

A woman with two children clinging to her dress, peeking out from behind the safety of the fabric, who might have been a seamstress, judging by the permanent squint of her eyes, indicating many nights of hunched over sewing by candlelight.

Another woman, this one donning drab gray, with her hair tucked behind a tightly tied scarf, carrying a basket of radishes and things, looked to be a maidservant coming from the market.

Taehyung’s eyes flitted over to the next person visible and would have stopped dead in his tracks if his body hadn't been drilled to insanity by the lieutenant colonel.

The man he was looking at was pale as the moon, as if he was directly crafted from the refracted light of diamonds. His cheekbones were slightly prominent, but there was an appealing softness to his jaw to round them out, and a thinly sharp point to his eyes, which could only be described as phoenix-like. So mysterious and ancient and enchanting, it had the breath catching in Taehyung’s throat.

Taehyung of course could not stop to admire the sight, but he could swear that the man caught his eye. Or at least, he wishes that he did—likely the beauty that's so quickly shocked his heart is just like the rest of them, watching the soldiers go by his home, stony and cold as they march through.

Then he noticed, his eyes imperceptibly widening a little when he did, that the man was dressed all in black. His hanbok was dreadfully dreary, especially compared to the whiteness of his face and his hands like little doves peeking from his sleeves, so pale and lovely. The effect was elegant, the long and thin lines of the man's body emphasized by the sharp color and contrast, but Taehyung was not an idiot, he knew what his style of dress meant.

Black is mourning.

Black is night and quiet homes and sunless skies and bullet holes after the shrapnel is shot clean through.

The lieutenant colonel gave a shout of something, but Taehyung couldn't hear anything past the beating in his heart and the rush of blood in his ears.

They were nearing the edge of town already. Taehyung could see where the port, where the last building, a little warehouse that looked more like a shed, stood.

The sun was just breaking over the horizon, but the warm hued rays didn’t seem to touch the black-clad man’s skin at all. He stayed white as a ghost, pallor free from even a light flush of lovely rose on the apples of his cheek.

He wondered if the man had always been that pale and lovely, or if it was the mourning-wear that only created the illusion of such an extreme look.

Taehyung was solidly in the middle of the movement of soldiers, and he could see the front line stopping. He followed everyone else, halting their steps smoothly, the whole machine like a disgustingly overgrown bug.

The lieutenant colonel got up with a few other titled men and talked for a bit. Taehyung had no idea if anyone actually listened. He was just here because he had nowhere else to be; his family had sent him off for a soldier’s paycheck instead of keeping another mouth to feed, and so here he was. And today, especially, the officers up front could have been putting on a stage play where they all dressed in women’s clothing, garish rogue on their cheeks and kohl-lined eyes like giant raccoons, and Taehyung wouldn’t notice a single thing. He was busy trying to discreetly turn his head when he felt no one was looking, to try and catch another glimpse of the man in mourning.

Taehyung almost convinced himself that the man did indeed look back at him a few times, but then he remembered his place, the fact that he was just another scale on this snake, and that he likely wasn’t being looked at as a person at all.

It was alright. Taehyung could barely remember a different kind of life.

The troops turned and marched back to camp.

And Taehyung looked solidly in front of him, at the back of a soldier’s head, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. By the time they could end the formation, it felt like he’d counted every hair on that head.

“One two!”

”Three four!”

”One two!”

“Three four!”

The trainer repeated over and over, to the beat of a drum. The drummer boy’s arms must be as sore as Taehyung’s legs right now, stepping back and forth and back and forth, silly action over silly action. He raises his knee. He swings his arms. He kneels down. It’s all in tune with everyone else, and together, perhaps they don’t look as stupid, but Taehyung doesn’t care. He only knows that he hates drills, hates the early morning sun burning his skin, hates the shrill shout of the numbers being counted.

But he can’t do anything about it.

So he follows the directions he’s given.

Oh well.

Eventually the time is up, and the soldiers are dismissed to do other duties.

Taehyung was assigned to chop wood. He was given an axe and he went to chop down some trees. The thwack of it as it swings is the same rhythm as the one the instructor drills into them. One man next to him almost chopped his arm off.

One two, three four.

The lieutenant colonel wasn’t having them gather wood for themselves—most certainly not. It was to be for himself and his officer buddies, who apparently physically could not make plans in a tent and absolutely needed a nicely built headquarters cushioned against the harsh autumn wind, while for some reason his soldiers ought to be completely satisfied in tents.

That was alright. Taehyung was used to being uncomfortable, so much that threadbare straw and hard dirt was all he needed. He wouldn’t find anything better than a life here, so complaining did no use. Fussing bred dissatisfaction, and if Taehyung was perfectly able to live like he was told to do, then it would be best not to let too much vex him.

As the sun traveled across the sky, the pile of wood he and the other soldiers were adding to, grew to a respectable enough size that the task was considered completed for the day, and they were let go for other miscellaneous duties. A few were made to split the wood further into usable planks while others were off to do even more drills or polish their guns.

Taehyung didn’t particularly know why they were fighting. He didn’t care too much either. Reason after reason has been repeated to him until they blur together before they even hit his ears. Officers announce grievance after grievance constantly, as if any of it matters to him. They stole our land. They burned our crops. They killed our men.

Hell if Taehyung has any idea who 'they' are.

They dressed the same and looked the same and talked the same language. Sometimes the accent would be a little different, like they were from the mountains instead of the fields.

It’s all the same to him anyway. It might be religion or money or an ear of corn. Maybe a stray cat. Whatever it is, soldiers will die for maps in grand palaces to shift around a little, and the world would move on.

He didn’t even mind it. He’d prefer to live, of course, on some intrinsic level, but the call was more like an afterthought than a crutch. His family had packed him off to the graveyards of war and so he would follow.

But he could only think to be melancholy. 

-

The sky was gray and downcast. The rest of the world could be described as the same, dull plants and dull faces and dull murmurs.

They were given time to go into town every three days. Soldiers had to fight for something, after all, and men who had nothing but the company of other brutes would have little care to survive. If every so often they could go into town and soothe their eyes with some young maidens, the officers reasoned, then they would bring some better passion into battle.

Today it was his section’s turn. The whole battalion had about 400 or so members—the exact number fluctuated every day with soldiers deserting and joining and dying—and so the unit was divided into multiple parts, so that they didn’t overwhelm the whole town on their time off.

They had an allowance to stay from noon to dusk. Most men had already left and had been eagerly gossiping about their plans since the day they arrived here. Every town had pretty maidens and brothels after all, though a few had gone off immediately to eat at food stalls.

He stared at his feet while he walked. It wasn't hard to guess why he was going into town, but Taehyung loathed to admit it to himself.

In the past, he really had never cared for meeting people.

Quickly he reached the market in the center of town. He gave only a cursory glance around. The stalls were neat and well-kept with polish, but in contrast, the vendors behind them all seemed to be the ones run down. Hunched old women selling cabbages and sinewy old men bent over radishes smiled dusty smiles as he passed, tanned farmer's skin crinkling in the corners of their eyes like paper.

The quiet air of the first time Taehyung had been here was gone, and now it was as jovial as any place would have been, with chubby-cheeked children tottering around, of lovely red faces and loose sack dresses, and their parents run ragged shouting after them.

A few other soldiers were dotted around the place, the bright marks of uniform scattered among the dull fabric of the civilians, but they paid him no heed, busy haggling over prices and talking to people that weren't the same few battle worn men they'd been with for the past few years.

Taehyung had just come here because he had nothing else to do. Ordinarily he preferred to just sit in his tent on his time off, happily in solitude waiting for night to fall, which would just give him another few hours of unbothered peace in sleep.

But Taehyung hadn't felt like doing that today, despite not knowing why himself. He had gone back to his tent after wiping the gloss of sweat off his dark brows and looked around and suddenly had the desire to go into town. He had buttoned up his coat again and ran a quick hand through his hair.

It was thus that the typically lone wolf Taehyung had entered the busy market square, feeling a bit overwhelmed by just how plain and simple everything was.

Not in a belittling sort of way, but more so that even when the country was tearing itself apart from the heart, and so many had died already, and so much productivity had been lost when war took up the minds of men instead of agriculture and self cultivation, people still had to live. Civilian folk would always need to bargain for bread loaves and give candy to the sweet little girls in neatly brushed hair.

The way humans are built, some kind of instinct that has colored their ways ever since they first opened their eyes as part of a recognizable society, it was like order has always been instilled into their hearts, and even if battle are fought just a ways down the plains in the next town over and news arrives every other day with some development of whichever side gaining ground, there is no reason for the wheel of organized society to ever stop turning.

But Taehyung had had his life uprooted from this, and to see anything normal would always be jarring, because after years in the army, he still hadn’t gotten used to the routine of it all, still hadn’t fit in the other men and their horribly rough view of the world, all in shades of brown and black and red.

But then, Taehyung spotted him.

Halfways hidden behind a stack of barrels on one side and a group of women on the other, the dark shadows of the man’s clothing had escaped his notice at first, but now that Taehyung had seen him again, no force in the world could physically tear his eyes away.

There truly could be no one more beautiful in the world, no one more ethereal and delicate, untouchable like stars.

Taehyung didn’t know what he was doing, but somehow his legs were moving of their own accord, and he found himself pretending to inspect a cabbage at a vendor’s stall close by the group of people around the man.

The cabbage could have been rotted through with maggots falling into his hands, and Taehyung doubted he would have noticed, too busy discreetly trying to catch a good look through the corner of his eye.

”Are you going to buy that?” The cabbage seller sniffed and gave Taehyung a meaningful look that said shoo.

Awkwardly he put the cabbage back down and just went over to the group.

As he got closer, he heard what they were saying.

”Oh, poor little thing,” one said, “still in mourning.”

The words themselves were fine and acceptable, but the time she said them in was a sort of venomous coo, soaked in fermented honey.

”I know,” another tutted, “you’ll never find anyone to remarry this way. Isn’t it hard enough?”

”Not a lot of people like widowers. They’re cursed, aren't they?” A third smiled, her thin lips stretching over crooked teeth. “Oh, not you, darling. Forgive this old woman.”

”Yes, yes. The black is awfully dreary. It’s unfortunate with your features, Jimin-shi. Especially with your features.”

Jimin. Such a lovely name for the man, one that did not deserve to come out of the mouths of these catty women, looking at him with narrowed eyes. They were no longer so bold when Taehyung, taller than the average man in this town here by a good degree, went to stand behind Jimin. Though admittedly, it was also the gleam of the buttons on his uniform’s coat and the gun slung over his back, the metal barrel glinting like a midday star.

“What’s the matter?” Taehyung cleared his throat and asked.

”Oh, nothing,” a woman in front said hurriedly. “Just the dull talk of old wives.”

“Pay us no heed, sir,” another added, “I’m sure you are very busy!”

Taehyung cleared his throat again, and gradually the women dispersed, mumbling and whispering to each other.

“Thank you,” Jimin whispered when the women had fully gone. “But you didn’t have to bother, it really was all right…”

Taehyung smiled and stepped to the side to look at him. “But I did. They shouldn’t have said things like that.”

”It’s really nothing… it’s been years, I ought to be used to it by now.” Jimin tried to laugh, but it came out in a stutter, faltering and awkward.

No one should be used to pain, Taehyung wanted to say, but it would have been meaningless to hear from his lips. Who was he, anyway, to talk about such things with a widow he only just met?

A widower with the kindest voice he’d ever heard, with the softest eyes he’d ever seen.

“It’s cruel no matter the time,” Taehyung said.

”Ah… still…” Jimin hesitated, “I guess I ought to thank you… what is your name?”

”Kim Taehyung,” he replied.

”Park Jimin.” Jimin smiled lightly, the corners of his full lips tugged upwards just a bit, but even the restrained action displayed such a kind expression, Jimin’s eyes crinkling upwards sweetly, apples of his cheeks round and bright. “I could invite you over for some tea?”

Taehyung knew he probably should decline, as he hadn’t done much of anything at all, and no one deserved to spend time with a person like Jimin besides an actual angel. But he found himself incapable of saying no when the offer was right there in front of him.

So he nodded, and Jimin lifted his head a little to incline it towards the direction of his home. 

“Oh—” Jimin said as the thought hit him, “you were born…?”

“Year of the Pig.” 

Jimin nodded and replied saying he was twenty six, and so Taehyung called him hyung and followed him from a respectful distance, just slightly behind him. It gave the added opportunity to take in Jimin’s unique figure.

In that black clothing, Jimin was so strikingly like chrysanthemums left on a dusty grave.

Each petal of his face was pristine and lush, enchantingly beautiful, but not untouchable. A flower can be picked up and appreciated, fingertips may dance lightly over the silken bloom.

It was a shame that the gravelike black clothing was cut so severely, tied up to his pale throat, like the cotton fabric was chicken wire, keeping out pests like Taehyung.

He didn’t care whether he died or whether he killed, it just so happened that neither had yet occurred.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and eventually, the whole nation would just be bones crushed underfoot.

But he knew of the type of soldier that fought for wives and children and a warm home to return to, eventually.

And maybe, if he had something like that, something like the enchantment that he felt when he looked at Jimin, maybe he could care about something greater than day to day life.

Too quickly they arrived at a house and Taehyung was shown inside. The grounds around it were neatly kept with trimmed plants that he didn’t spend too much time looking at, too distracted with the thought of Jimin.

He stomped his boots on the ground to shake off the dirt before taking them off to step inside, and the noise rang much too loudly, so brutish and indelicate, compared to the niceties of Jimin’s house, the obvious care taken with the landscaping and brightly washed pathway.

Jimin offered him a seat, sitting across from him only after Taehyung sat. The sitting room was nice, certainly much nicer than anything Taehyung had been in for the past couple years, probably nicer than anything Taehyung had been in for his entire life. His folks were farmers, through and through, and before he'd been conscripted, the only socially respectable place he semi-frequented was the village temple. But Taehyung had never had any offerings besides wildflowers, sad and limp, their color all sucked dry, as they were placed on the altar next to fatty goose, pastries made with white sugar and white flour, and rice liquor aged to sharp fragrancy.

In front of him now, Taehyung had the visceral recollection of the same instance. His coat was a little dirtied from the rainy this morning, despite his best attempt to brush the dust off it before he'd entered Jimin's home, while the house was neat, completely spick and span, decorated not exactly lavishly—it was wartime, after all—but it was obviously an affluent home.

The chairs were mahogany and lacquered, the table of the same material and set with a pretty vase of a few blossoms that were in season. The walls were cleanly painted a pure white and framed in wood that matched the furnishings, and on them hung a few silk paintings of mountains and things. When Jimin’s husband was alive, he must have been a well-to-do merchant or official.

"Would you like something?" Jimin pulled out a small tin from a side table and opened the lid, revealing candied mandarin oranges.

According to the rules of propriety, it should have been Taehyung offering a gift. He was the visitor, in Jimin's home for the first time, intruding on his hospitality with little excuse, but Taehyung had nothing to offer besides his company.

So he smiled and declined, politely shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

Ordinarily it would have been rude to reject something from a host, but this was wartime, and everything was on its head, and it was accepted that saving the host the burden of food was also not impolite.

”Alright, well…” Jimin twisted the hem of his sleeve, looking down at the floor. “I don’t mean to keep you. I just wanted to show some thanks for your trouble.”

“No trouble.”

"I insist," Jimin said. His eyes became thin crescent moons when he smiled, and it was so lovely, Taehyung found himself accepting.

Jimin also produced some loose tea leaves from somewhere and made two small cups before Taehyung could object. Getting good tea was hard these days, and Taehyung could tell from the tint of the roast on the leaves that these had been given sufficient enough care to be called good quality, which was hard to find these days, most tea being commandeered for the war effort, mass processed quickly and sent around the country, not given the time to let flavors age and bloom. 

Watching him work in silence was a little uncomfortable. First, it wasn’t like Taehyung could politely decline to Jimin bothering with making tea when those tea leaves were already in the water and leaching a warm tint into the hot water. 

And perhaps even worse, he didn’t know where to keep his gaze. Jimin’s face, the brow furrowing slightly in concentration as he arranged the porcelain accoutrement with care? Jimin’s hands, in their delicate movements like the orchid fingers of opera performances? Or should he look away entirely?

A few moments later, faster than Taehyung would have liked, Jimin stood up to pass over a teacup, their hands brushing up against each other for the briefest of seconds. 

“Here,” Jimin said pleasantly. Taehyung nodded slightly and he sat back down in silence. 

The tea was softly bitter, with a sweet aftertaste. Taehyung was no authority on tea, and thus he could not tell himself if it was the leaves themselves that produced such or flavor or if it was Jimin’s presence. 

Taehyung snuck glances over at Jimin over the rim of his teacup, watching how his head was lowered slightly. The delicate whorls of steam rising over the surface were as delicate as Jimin’s own subtle movements, and it was hard for Taehyung to take his eyes away. 

After the awkward quiet had grown too strong, Taehyung spoke first. “Thank you for the tea,” he said simply.

Jimin looked up and smiled. “Thank you for joining me.” 

They didn’t really have much to say after that. Somehow Taehyung made small talk about the weather and the pretty vase to his left, but it didn’t have any meaning, just something to fill the silence. 

As he left, he realized the scent of orange blossom was from numerous mandarin trees lining the outside of his house. They were starting to be in season now, and little oranges were beginning to grow, not perfectly heavy and plump but sweet enough to eat.

Jimin smelled like orange blossoms too, the scent strong but not oppressive, lightly fragrant like sugar crystals instead of honey. His skin like white porcelain was the same, incorporeal and insubstantial, fragile enough to shatter.

-

"You there! What do you think you're doing!" A voice suddenly blared in Taehyung's face, spittle flying.

Taehyung started and jumped to attention, but it was too late to do anything about the anger on the official's face. Obviously, he had been daydreaming about someone much sweeter-faced than the fat man in front of him with drooping jowls.

“Not paying attention! Not taking this seriously! Who do you think you are to slack off! All you are is a footsoldier! How bold, how disgraceful!”

The official scolded him for a full few minutes, slinging boring earfulls after earfulls, and in the end, gave him a week of punishment. This meant chopping more wood, washing more dishes, doing more drills, and no privileges, like going into town or getting meat occasionally when the rations were restocked.

Oh well was his first reaction, but then he had the thought that that meant not being able to see Jimin.

And that mattered to him.

But it wasn’t like Taehyung could do anything, so he just nodded and let the officer continue and accepted his faults.

After that wrongdoing was settled and the officer warned the whole group over further infractions with a forehead so scrunched that the wrinkles there must have held enough pressure to shoot a bullet, they did some more drills and were released for the day for other things.

Taehyung went to do his chores of chopping wood and each swing of his axe sounded like a taunt.

Long after the rest of the men had finished and left, Taehyung was still there, trying to finish his work.

For the next seven days, it was a silent, slow, burning inside, like impatience stretched taut and about to snap.

At night, when he came back to crawl into bed, body aching, but nothing compared to the dull throb in his ribcage, like something had been snatched out of it.

And, whenever he went inside his tent, he’d think about the little silver tin tucked safely within the inner pocket of his pack.

He thought the smell of sugared mandarins would follow him always. Like a vengeful spirit, howling, only, it was that frustratingly subtle scent of fine orange blossoms, fragile as the petals themselves in his nose.

While Jimin had probably meant well, Taehyung knew from his appearance that he was better off than most, and Taehyung was worse off than most. He could count the number of times he'd tasted things like white cane sugar on one hand and have the majority of fingers left over. To eat something like that wouldn't be very comfortable. Taehyung certainly could not stomach it, physically nor mentally. So he didn't.

He had an opportunity, one night, when he awoke in those hours between midnight and early morning, when everyone was asleep. And too, he noticed, was the watchman who was supposed to be on duty that night.

He secured his clothing, tying the ribbons of his hanbok neatly, to dawdle just a bit, giving himself one last chance to back out. He hadn't ever been the rebellious type since he was a young child still learning to crawl, and it didn't come as something easy when the whole of society around him pressed filial piety and deference and acquiescing.

But still, Taehyung slipped on his shoes and went, looking over his shoulder all the way, jumping at every little rub of a cricket's legs and every twig cracked underfoot. He thought he could sense the eyes of an entire regiment at his back and the nape of his neck was beginning to be damp with sweat even as the night wind blew.

All the work Taehyung had done these past few days of lugging around firewood and the like had done him some service though, and he was intimately familiar with the environment, able to walk without accidentally tripping over some small rock hidden by the challenge of dark, so while Taehyung was keeping strict watch of any movement, he made it rather quickly to the edge of the soldier's camp and into the forest, where he planned to slip through before emerging into the far end of town where the temple was.

He made it without incident, never stopping once.

The night air was crisp and cool, with the sharp taste of oncoming cold seasons. Taehyung was always cold; the supply trains never gave enough coal. So he wouldn't have noticed it was autumn transitioning into snow if not for the fact that his section of the army was settling down to weather the winter. It was so easy to get caught up in the daily cycle of things, to feel automatic, to feel that it was all normal and healthy and good, that it was easy to miss the happenings that people ought to appreciate.

Finally he was there.

The only temple in this town was a Buddhist one. Standing on a small acropolis-like hill, with its shiny black roof like someone had just poured fresh calligraphy ink and wood walls of deep oak, it looked pristine against the backdrop of blue sky, and appeared well cared for.

That fact was a little odd, as most nowadays were rather run down, a little haunting in the emptiness that proved how a supposedly holy place that was quite literally perched above most things had not been strong against worldly and political men. Taehyung's father had explained to him in his childhood, when Taehyung questioned what that old building no one ever seemed to go into at the edge of their village was, that Buddhism had been cracked down on a long time ago, and places like that were to be looked at with suspicion now.

Most of his superiors did not particularly like religion for reasons unrelated to the imperial decrees—peace, harmony, charity, love, all that feel-good nonsense didn't exactly tie in with wartime—but there were a few who were decently devout, and they all had been raised in it the same, so Taehyung knew that he should he be caught, nothing much at all would come of it.

Maybe the officer would narrow his eyes somewhat, as if trying to remember if Taehyung had shown to be a pious man before this, but he had spent all his time in the army in such solitude that the officer surely could not even recall his face the minute he looked away, like a mere echo in the forest.

He trudged through the gates, kicking a mound of fallen leaves and feeling a little blasphemous as the sound crunched under his feet, interrupting the serenity of the place, agitating the religious sort of silence settled around him.

The doors of the temple were open, though the inside was dark and unlit, except for a few sputtering, burnt candles that must have been lit many hours before as the wick burned down to the surface of the melted wax puddle. In the center of the place stood a decently grand altar, probably the best the town could afford in the time the temple was built. It was large and spanned the whole whole, a few folk statues painted in imitation paint or gold leaf in niches, and on the surface were a few bowls of plates of offerings.

He brought out a tin from his jacket.

If Taehyung closed his eyes, he could see it smelled just like the orange blossom in Jimin's home.

Jimin was so lovely. He had wealth and a home, a place he belonged to, a place he had decided to stay despite hardship. Something kept him here, while Taehyung drifted across the country like the wind, shifting from province to province when he was called.

False desire could not be entertained. It only meant something to him because of the loneliness of his life. He had just latched onto something lovely, that was all. Something a little brighter than the world around it.

But his name and face likely hadn't even registered into Jimin's mind. Likely it was just a kind courtesy to talk to him, because Jimin seemed the type to be kind to everyone, his gracious light smile and warmth of his eyes inviting like the stars in the night sky, delicate and refined.

He placed the tin of candied oranges on the altar table and murmured a few words that he remembered his mother would say, praying with his hands, palms pressed together, thrice. He turned to leave, and only made it five steps forward, not even out of the doors, before he faced smiling eyes.

Jimin’s face was quite full, moonlike, in its soft dumpling white cheeks and plush lips, and it contrasted so enticingly with the thin point of his eyes and the delicate bone of his nose, so sharp.

"Hello," Jimin said, slowly. His voice was soft like always, but it was cautious, hesitant to speak.

Taehyung felt like his throat was closed up and stuffed with feathers, but he managed to nod and say something indiscriminate back.

When looking at Jimin, Taehyung felt like a child again, in the sense that he was experiencing the wonders of the world for the first time. His first birdsong, his first autumnal change of the leaves, his first taste of candy. Everything was wrapped up inside Jimin, every sense of awe that Korea could provide.

"I wondered where you were." Jimin pursed his lips, twisting his sleeve cuff. "I didn't... see you. For a while."

Taehyung wondered why Jimin had noticed. It'd only been a week. "I got extra work from the lieutenant colonel," Taehyung said. "But... I'm almost done."

Jimin nodded and stepped a little way back, realizing how close they'd stood just then, where Taehyung could pick out each of Jimin's dark lashes. It hurt a little now when he wasn't able to anymore.

The candlelight was bright enough to illuminate the altar, and out of the corner of his eye, Jimin could likely see what had just been placed on it. Or perhaps he'd even seen Taehyung take it out earlier; he didn't know how long ago Jimin had arrived here.

And what for?

But it wasn't as if it was Taehyung's place to push, and so he didn't.

"Hope you've been well, then, Taehyung." Jimin said. He reached out to touch his sleeve, and even in the cold night, his fingers were warm through the fabric of his clothing.

Jimin remembered his name, which rendered Taehyung mute for a moment, but he couldn't just leave such words hanging in the air, so he replied, "thank you... Jimin. You as well."

A delicate, sweet brush of his fingers later, Jimin bid him goodnight and left the temple.

The spot under his sleeve tingled where the warmth of Jimin's touch still lay. It kind of hurt, like bee stings, when the soothing sensation of Jimin wasn't there.

"Goodnight," Taehyung whispered, long after Jimin's back had become a tiny black dot against the landscape, just an ant. Maybe if he thought it hard enough, Jimin would feel it.

The encampment, par for the course, had an assortment of camp followers around it. There were old women who did laundry and cooked food, there were young and middle-aged prostitutes, there were men selling liquor, and there were wives and children. Of those, many cooked for the soldiers, but they were young virile men, and military life was harsh and exhausting. There was never enough to go around.

So when Jimin came to the camp with a few sacks of rice and some blankets, he was welcomed quickly. Besides, Jimin had a kind, unassuming sort of presence, comforting for everyone, and no one raised much objection to him looking around. There were only 400 or so soldiers around here, and everyone knew this town was not the most important kind of strategic location, so it didn't really warrant much aggression or secrecy.

Word did spread among the men that an attractive widow was walking around the military camp, and they kept getting yelled at by the officers as they tried to keep a lookout. It was funny, then, for Taehyung to see the moments their faces changed when they realized he was a widower and not just a widow.

But then they looked more closely at Jimin, and realized how elegant he was, and then they tsked appreciatively, making certain comments among them.

There was a visceral feeling inside Taehyung, cold and sharp anger, but the feeling underlying it was wrong, he knew. No matter which way one looked at it, Jimin didn't have anything to do with him.

Until he did.

Because Jimin turned his head his way and came over to Taehyung, with his eyes smiling like crescent moons, and Taehyung felt a flutter in his ribs.

Standing right in front of him, Jimin held out a little linen pouch.

Taehyung outstretched his hand and took it in his palm. Through the linen, he could feel the shapes of things with just a little give.

“I was a little silly,” Jimin said, his own hand retreating quickly after Taehyung accepted the bag. “I was a little silly with… giving you those. Maybe this is better?” 

Taehyung peeked through the hole the drawstring created at the top of the bag, and he could glimpse the contents. Fresh mandarin oranges.

Everything about Jimin was sweet.

“Thank you…” Taehyung was unsure of what to say. He couldn’t refuse; Jimin had come all this way, specially carrying a little linen bag in his small fingers. So he awkwardly took it, with inane thank yous. In Jimin’s presence, where every good quality was manifested into living flesh and blood, Taehyung’s mind could never stop running.

A small group of other soldiers were watching from a distance, talking amongst themselves, glancing over at the pair, not discreetly. Contrary to common belief, soldiers were childish, ridiculous gossips.

"No need to thank me," Jimin said. "I came to ask the officers if you were free. I heard you finished training now. Would you come help me with something?"

Of course Taehyung said yes.

That something turned out to be just a few odds and ends—moving some large crates, dropping off some documents together, sorting through scrolls, and such.

"The man I hired forgot to do these last few things," Jimin said, “and I can’t find anyone else to work.”

It was a pretty decent excuse, and so Taehyung happily obliged, asking Jimin about his business. When his late husband, a relatively well-to-do merchant, had died, he hadn’t had any other relatives to pass on the operation to, and it had fallen on Jimin's shoulders alone. He was able to support himself thusly with no issue, living a comfortable life as any. Jimin seemed almost apologetic as he talked, pushed on by Taehyung’s questions. Looking at the plain uniform Taehyung wore, of the lowest foot soldier, even if Jimin, socially, was not even that notable, the world between them seemed to stretch for eternity.

But there were only a few things to do, and soon Jimin and Taehyung were awkwardly standing in silence.

“I’ll go now?” Taehyung averted his eyes, feeling a little strange to be alone like this.

“Don’t,” Jimin said quickly, then added, “well, if you want to. But... I wanted to... talk with you. Here, come inside the yard?"

Taehyung followed Jimin, who led him through a path along the side of his house. There was a small garden and a chicken coop tucked away in the back, small but well looked after.

The walls around Jimin’s home were gray stone, and the tops were tiled in shiny black pieces, the sunlight glinting off in a glare. They were enclosed around the pair fully, and in this place, it was silly to think like this, but Taehyung had the fleeting notion that it was like stepping onto some isolated paradise, like an island, with no one else for miles.

Just the two of them.

“What’s it like, being part of the army?” Jimin asked. 

Taehyung really didn’t know how to answer him. He hadn’t really known anything else, and he had no idea what Jimin had experienced in his life to compare it to. He settled on saying “predictable. I… I guess some people think it’s sinister, and some people think it’s so heroic. But it’s really just a lot of waiting around.”

”I heard we probably won’t see any fighting around here.” Jimin’s eyes flicked to Taehyung’s. “I hope that’s so.”

There was something in his voice, a certain note to it that was detectable, like how solid oak has a different ring to it than hollow wood.

”We all hope that,” Taehyung replied. “I’ve only ever actually seen combat a few times. My division is really just a bunch of farmers. Not really important.”

“Are you a farmer?”

Taehyung hesitated for a moment. “My family is.”

His father had actually promised the family land to his younger brother. You’re too up in the clouds, his mother had sighed when she told him this. It’s not that we don’t trust you. But you have to think about stability. Before the fighting broke out, Taehyung had been expected to just keep helping on the farm, but then the draft called for an able man from each family, and his mother and father had leapt at the chance to discipline their son a little and wake him up from daydreaming. 

While agriculture was not the most lovely thing in the world to Taehyung, he didn’t mind the work, and the close knit unit a farming family possessed was dear to him. So sometimes, the present hurt.

Jimin noticed how Taehyung’s lips were slightly pursed. “Wait a moment,” he said, standing up and disappearing inside the house. A few seconds later he was back with a steamed bun, still freshly wafting its scent of clean white flour. 

"I overheard a lot of soldiers complaining about their food," Jimin said. "Is it really that bad?" 

"The supply trains have been having a little trouble getting through. At least, that's what I heard. Maybe the higher ups are just skimping." Taehyung shrugged. 

"Maybe," Jimin echoed quietly, "anyway, here, have something fresh then. My housemaid made too many this morning." 

Taehyung took it gratefully and gave Jimin a sincere smile in return. 

-

Under the cover of night, on the day they had arranged, Taehyung went out into the woods. The air was crisply cold, like the promising snap of autumn leaves, and Taehyung's skin danced with chilly wind, like pinpricks of ice. Or maybe there was no wind at all, just nervous anticipation, like he always felt when thinking of Jimin, the excitement that caused his chest to beat its wings so fiercely it was more like eagles than butterflies. 

Squinting in the dark, he caught the dim light of a tiny candle burning in a lantern, just small enough to increase visibility for the holder by the lightest bit.

“Taehyung-ah," Jimin whispered, eyes darting to meet his. Even in the faint light he seemed to shine a little brighter than his surroundings.

“Jimin?” Taehyung said, his voice raising at the end of the name, like a question. Was Jimin really here, was he really having a midnight meeting like this? This rendezvous, covertly, with furtive glances?

The clandestine nature of it all quickened Taehyung’s heart rate. There wasn’t any rule for soldiers to not meet women, but the implied meaning of that was just for needs of the flesh, quick, callous, a perfunctory kind of action by men. To grow actual attachment in a temporary camp was discouraged; the risk of deserting when the army moved onwards was high.

But all Taehyung wanted out of Jimin was to appreciate him, this gracious, considerate soul, someone who was just genuinely kind and thought of everyone before himself.

Would the world let him do that?

The pair didn’t say anything for a while. They just checked around their spot in the forest, hearts hammering, even though there was nothing really to be scared of. Meeting like this, it was really a bit of an excuse, something to feel a thrill, something to take them out of their sadness soaked lives. But it was also for each other.

They each thought the other ought to be courted with the sort of ceremony he deserved. Something special, because they were special, a type of being that had never been brought into existence before this very moment, so perfect that nothing could be good enough.

But Taehyung was not a king who had a state’s treasury at his beck and call and Jimin’s mourning period was not over yet.

They could only settle for this kind of romance, the ones young girls giggled about in storybooks, where maidens put their hands over their bosom and sighed wistfully for a prince.

Their nerves cooled, and Taehyung then said, “Jimin, are you well?”

”Of-of course." 

They talked for a moment, saying nothing and everything, seemingly desperate to dance around reality, and Taehyung, desperate to dance around the fact that Jimin's black hanbok seemed to be brand new. He remembered a woman saying that his husband had died years ago, so the neat, prim threads of the jacket seemed sharp as knives. 

If he were still buying clothes in black even now, then it meant he still intended on mourning for a very long time. 

The subdued, quiet air of the forest was a little haunting. The disturbance of the army camped right next door had driven all the usual noisemaker critters away, so it was quite strange to be within a place like this, full of life in the century old trees and bright greenery of the shrubs and grasses, but without any fauna. The silence was apt to be uncomfortable, and humans will always seek to fill it. But Jimin's eyes were cast down to the floor, like he was hesitant, his pursed lips a dam of words. 

"It's okay. No one's coming." Taehyung tried to make his voice sound reassuring. "I saw a huge barrel of rice wine brought in today. Everyone'll be busy right now."' 

Jimin nodded. 

And then it’s like Jimin can’t stop talking, can’t stop his lips from spilling out words in breathless beats.

”H-he died a few years ago. His name was Yoongi. We… we liked each other a lot. I looked up to him when I was growing up.”

Taehyung doesn’t want to ask how, but perhaps Jimin can read the damned curiosity in his eyes, because he continued.

”It… it was when the fighting started. He wasn’t doing anything. Just traveling home. But he got caught in the crossfire… and then he died. Two days later. I just remembered... it's our anniversary today.”

It’s a lot to take in. Taehyung’s eyes are smarting with hot pricks of tears, heart shattering at the whole fucking world. How Yoongi died, more meaningless than any mockery of life could imagine. How Jimin had to bear it, stained for the rest of his life with the specter of a dead husband wrapped around his chest, a shadow for everyone to see, to turn their eyes away from in the street, in case Jimin’s bad luck would spread, like it was his fault for choosing this fate.

“Ah…” Jimin’s voice wavered a little, but he didn’t let a single crack in his brave face show, keeping that polite smile that seemed tattooed on to his pale countenance. “Taehyung-ah, don’t feel bad for me. It was a long time ago. I’m only twenty six… I have a lot of time to start my life again.”

Taehyung nodded. Saying anything would make him feel like some sort of heretic, intruding on sacred grief. 

"S-sorry." Straightening his back, trying to stand proud, even as he measured a good few degree shorter than Taehyung, and gave a much softer, romantic impression than the harsher lines of Taehyung's build, Jimin felt like a knife, ready to cut into Taehyung's heart; whether the blade intended to or not, it was the force on the handle that drove it into the skin, or in this case, the horrible situation of the world. It's horrible how Jimin has to bear so much. 

What Taehyung doesn't realize is that maybe he should find it a burden on himself too, to be saddled with this kind of heavy feeling, to be placed under the role of a soothing friend, or something more.

Though for him, it is not a burden at all, and even through the drowning sorrow of Jimin, Taehyung feels a warmth in his chest, that Jimin would open his heart to him in any way.

He's so unsure of what to do that he almost misses Jimin asking, "Taehyung, what about you?" 

He knows what Jimin's asking— what are you leaving behind? What would you be doing, if not war?

If he hadn't?

If he could?

"If... then maybe I would have painted."

Jimin nodded, waiting for him to continue, skin pale and inviting even in the dim cover of the trees.

"I used to like it, I think," Taehyung shrugged, glancing away to check his surroundings. "My brother and sister said I was good at it. But supplies are too heavy to carry around."

Moving his hand to lightly rest over Taehyung's, Jimin gave him a light smile, just barely etched on his face. It reached his eyes, but Taehyung almost wished that it hadn't, because it only pointed to how they reflected the light of the lantern, how Jimin's eyelashes were wet.

"It's good to carry something around," he said, "don't let them take everything."

Taehyung didn't say anything, only thought about Jimin's warm hand, thought about the cold air on his fingers where Jimin's smaller sized palm didn't cover.

Sometimes, severity can only be expressed through an understatement. Simply saying that they were comforting to each other, after being left out in the cold for so long, it was enough. 

And if Taehyung were to pick up a brush now, his palette would only be in hues of purple. A color adjacent to cold, unfeeling blue, yet also shot through with flame.

-

A few weeks later, tree leaves were rustling in the wind like taffeta, and birds were flying, their dark shadows little stains blooming across the sky. 

“Hey,” Jimin said quickly, shutting the door behind them in a rush. 

Taehyung said hello back, his feet feeling heavy and awkward as he stepped on the waxed hardwood flooring. He'd walked here in a rush, under the last bit of sun being soaked up by the clouds while it set, not even really caring if anyone was watching him.

The energy around the camp is getting ever so quietly heightened, as the officers schedule more and more training, pressing them longer, and all the while it feels like meals are dwindling in size, smaller from one day to the next, just perceptible. 

Taehyung isn't blind. Neither is Jimin. It's pretty blatant what's likely to be coming, even if it's just rumor and speculation. There's no concrete information on the movements of units on the opposite side—at least, none that either Taehyung or Jimin is privy to—and so they only need to think about it in terms of a possibility. 

Though the possibility is certainly great, and they need to talk.

But first, Jimin took from his pocket a small wooden box. It was plainly shaped, not even with rounded edges, and just naked brown wood with no paint. The only decoration was a small engraving in the corner, clearly a little amateur, with lines that were choppy and unconfident, but the essence of the carving was sweet, just by looking at it, with the groves of the characters 태형 a shade darker than the surrounding surface. 

Taehyung opened it to find a set of small brushes of decently fine hair and a few tiny pots of ink. 

“For you,” Jimin said, blushing a little at the ears and the back of his lily-white neck. His skin was so pale and lovely that it exposed blood rising in the face quickly, a sickeningly sweet trait that Taehyung could never see enough. Every detail of Jimin was endearing and appealing. “So you can… remember me…” 

As if Taehyung could ever forget this man. 

Nevertheless, he took it reverently. He didn’t want to take it, didn’t feel worthy of a thoughtful gift like this, with nothing asked in return, but he knew that Jimin must have expended quite a lot in finding this for him. Small luxuries like this were probably incredibly scarce, especially outside of cities, and not to mention the price. 

"You're too kind to me," Taehyung said, lightly brushing over the engraving with his thumb. 

Jimin took a step closer. They were so close to one another now. Each individual strand of Jimin's hair, swept into his eyes and face in enchantingly casual, messy and alluring, could be easily picked out by Taehyung, and each detail of Jimin's face—the slight curve in his nose, the heavy pad of his eyelids, the sweet and innocent brightness in his eyes that always shone—and his heart was weightless. 

Jimin raised himself up on his tiptoes and kissed the top curve of Taehyung’s cheekbone. After he lifted his lips from Taehyung’s skin, he parted them slightly and whispered something, barely an exhale, into Taehyung’s delicate shell of an ear.

Taehyung didn't dare to breath. If he did, he feared his threadbare self would shatter such a fragile moment, when shared with a man like Jimin, who he felt seemed to dance on clouds and talk with stardust falling from his lips, like the fairy tale of the maiden who was blessed with gold and gems to pour forth from her body, while he was the sister who got cursed with frogs. 

But if Jimin wanted to be with him, then certainly Taehyung would never deny him. 

-

The buzz around the officers' tents is growing. It's terribly quiet and terribly loud at the same time, the blood in Taehyung's ears both roaring and slowed down like the viscosity of honey or even black pitch. 

He should be in his tent right now, still in his cot, like everyone else, sleeping before the fateful day breaks. But he isn't. Taehyung is quickly making his way through the encampment instead, using the last bit of dusk's darkness that he can to keep cover. If he's caught now, then he won't be able to even say a word before a bullet makes its way clean through his ribcage and splatters his lungs into mush. 

It doesn't matter though, because there's a light guiding Taehyung, a beautiful, brilliant light all dressed in black, after a life of pretty white patriotic words. 

News had come in, desperate, in the thinning hours of night, through a young scout's breathless words, that an enemy force was spotted much too close. The leaders of the battalion hadn't had time to mobilize their troops properly, and the whole situation was appearing terribly dire. 

And when the sun pierces past the horizon of the forest line, creating harsh beams to reflect off steel swords and iron shields, glinting as they're drawn and drawing crimson blood, Taehyung is nowhere to be found.

Jimin is pulling his hand as they run, trampling flowers underfoot. They can hear the screams in the distance as soldier meets soldier, as they hurt and killed and died, but they can't stop the smiles staining their faces as the steady comfort of their paces grows louder in comparison to the battlefield. Eventually they can't hear it anymore, only the faint resemblance of it as the idea of death rings in their head. But the world has always been dark, the fading of life has always connected them, and their hearts are entwined now too. The happiness of each other is all that they can really care about right now, the idea of finally, finally. 

You are my soulmate

Forever, keep staying here, hey

You are my soulmate