Chapter Text
How was one supposed to start a document? Yeonjun had thirty-two middle school reports to send off to the parents of said middle schoolers by that Thursday. One hundred and fifty words maximum to summarise his individual experience with each child in a way that would satisfy the parent, while still being as truthful as possible. He had been sitting behind his typewriter for three hours now, and had only been able to type a single name.
Kang Yeseo
What did he have to say about Kang Yeseo? Well, she was punctual to begin with. She was charismatic and had great leadership skills.Yeonjun fixated on this train of thought and tried to write it down. He was stopped abruptly a mere four sentences in. His typewriter called for a ribbon change - something he foolishly forgot to check earlier. He raised himself off his seat, slamming his knee against his desk during the process. Grumbling, he scoured the supply closet for a ribbon replacement. The light was broken, he’d discovered, after getting a brief zap to the hand upon flicking the switch. He searched for the replacement using muscle memory, eventually finding one in perhaps the furthest drawer compartment from the entrance. Save a harshly stubbed toe, he made it out of the closet in one piece, moving to sit back at his desk.
His chair groaned under him, reminding him that entering his thirties was not the blessing he had anticipated it to be. The mirror only showed him symbols of his age. His thinning eyebrows. The odd grey hair. The wrinkles on his cheeks that once only appeared when smiling were now a permanent feature. His mother had pointed out his apparent weight gain around his arms and thighs. He hadn’t noticed beforehand, but now had a complex about it. At the ripe age of thirty-two, middle-school teacher and medical school drop-out, Choi Yeonjun knew he was only in decline. All he could do now was type.
Yeseo is a respectable girl. Her peers treat her with a merit of significance. This is due to her uplifting personality and her ability to pinpoint a mood and lighten it. It is not often that I see her without a smile. It is known that I cherish my pupils greatly, and Yeseo is no exception to that. Each day she comes into class with perfect punctuality, prepared to learn. Even on days I expect to be difficult for her, she still upholds a degree of charisma which influences those around her. I have no concerns regarding her grades, in fact I have no doubt that she will thrive in the near future. She is particularly strong in creative writing based topics such as English literacy and Japanese history. In addition, her knowledge of Old Joseon exceeds that of most adults. I trust that you as parents will continue to water and nourish her curiosity regarding the history of our country.
Counting with a slender finger, Yeonjun realised he had surpassed the word count by twelve letters. Deciding then that today was not the day for such an obstacle, he removed the paper from the typewriter, penned down his signature in glossy ink, and placed it in the basket of completion.
In addition to his avoidance of perhaps the single most emphasised rule in the school report criteria, he had also made his first report of the semester far too personal and detailed. Now such was expected for his remaining thirty one pupils. Although it was seen to be a rookie mistake, it wasn’t one that Yeonjun found to be a setback. Despite the evident mundaneness of his current life, he found himself to be a mellow man when it came to his pupils. Each area of his life was grey, but he found that each morning, when he placed his briefcase down at his desk, being watched by dozens of glittering adolescent eyes, prepared to learn the ins-and-outs of his carefully formed lesson, he felt colours bloom in his chest.
So it was no surprise that - once finally in the rhythm of it - Yeonjun was able to finalise his thirty-two highly detailed and often over-the-top reports and file them by the end of the day, with time to spare in which he filled with marking the papers of the mere seven students that handed in their Grade 1 Japanese homework.
Upon the fruition of an afternoon’s work, he packed up his briefcase, wriggled on his raincoat, toed on his walking shoes, and swiftly made his way out of the classroom. He walked through the corridors with speed, in avoidance of room 102, Huening Kai’s Geography class. He hadn’t enough energy to encounter the enigma that was the young professor that day. Passing the conference room, he heard the ssireum teachers Kang Taehyun and Park Sunghoon discussing how they would tackle ‘slackers.’ He didn’t hang around to hear the rest of that one.
At the end of the hall with just a few metres before the oak exit doors, he was intercepted by the deputy headmistress who grabbed his shoulder and spun him to face her. Her arms were folded and her wrinkled eyes were squinted with a look that couldn’t mean anything good.
“Choi Sunghee sunbaenim, to what do I owe you the pleasure?” he bowed through gritted teeth, under the critical gaze of the shorter woman.
She sniffed, her nose creasing as she tucked her monocle tighter between her brow bone and eyebags. She was the sort of woman that you had to walk on eggshells around. If you were to compliment her, she would call you a wiseacre; though if you gave her only coldness, she would condemn your attitude. She had been working at the school far longer than Yeonjun had, allegedly since she was just nineteen years old. It wasn't often that a woman was in such a high up position as her own. In fact, she was one of just two women in the entire board of staff – the other being the textiles professor, Jeong Jinsol, who Yeonjun wasn't sure he had ever said a word to. Regardless, for the two of them to be where they were in such times, he had nothing but respect.
Except for now, when Sunghee had that condescending look in her eye.
“There's been some complaints…” she began, causing the man’s breath to hitch. Instantly, he went into the furthest depths of overthinking. Had he been particularly harsh to any pupil those last few weeks? He didn't seem to think so. Any notion of aggression would be warranted and only seldom displayed given that he treated each of the children in his class like they were his own. So what else could it be? Had his marking been inconsistent? He always made sure to cross mark it across the faculty, having his fellow languages teachers check over each paper thrice before handing it back.
So lost in thought, he was unable to mutter out a response to his sunbae’s statement before she continued;
“A few of your students – who will not be named – have come to me raising some… concerns.”
He gulped, straightening the collar of his coat; “And what might such concerns entail?”
“They have noticed that you have been seeming – how do I put this nicely – utterly miserable”.
Yeonjun nearly choked, but she went on.
“You see, you are so immersed in your work and keeping them all happy that it seems you have lost sight of why you applied for this job in the first place, hm? I don't see the same passion as that young, handsome boy that sat from his chair in front of my desk and laid out almost thirty reasons why he deserved this spot on the board.”
“It's because I'm not twenty-four anymore, noona. I am getting old. My back and my hips crack when I stand up. And I'm, well, I'm tired! It's same old, same old. I've been working here for almost a decade and the only thing that has changed is the kids.”
Sunghee pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “And why do you think that is, Choi Yeonjun? It's because you have not shown me any kind of passion that would perhaps prompt me to promote you.” She lowered her voice for a moment, becoming consciously aware of the sheer volume and hostility of it. “This isn't a criticism, Choi. Your pupils – they hold you to very high regard, you must know that by now. They are worried about you. About how unhappy you seem.”
Yeonjun felt a red tint spread across his face, his blood heating up. “I'm not unhappy…” It sounded more like a question than a rebuttal.
“Then why were you crying in the store room last night?”
Silence. Was he being watched?
“You live by yourself, don't you?” she pressed.
“Y-well, yes.”
She sighed, her demeanour fully softened. With one hand she clutched her files, but with the other she gently placed it on the man’s shoulder.
“What the students and I think is that you are lonely.”
He furrowed his brows, shaking his head unsurely, “I'm not lonely! Why would I be? I've got the kids I-”
“You know that's not what I mean, Yeonjun.”
He was definitely flushed now, after hearing his name spoken to him in such a motherly way. He couldn't remember the last time he had such an intimate moment with anyone. It wasn't often people actually looked out for him, oddly, considering that was all he did for everyone else.
She straightened her shoulders then, in a way that told Yeonjun that she had finally reached the point she intended to give the second she spotted him in the halls. “I have hired a classroom assistant to stay with you that might help relieve the pressure off of you and keep you company on campus outside of class time, considering you are so insistent on working here after hours.”
Yeonjun let her words sink in for a moment. He had worked independently his entire life. He despised group activities during his school years because he liked to have full control, with no outsider input. Now there would be exactly that – an outsider – sitting beside his desk permanently. Following him like a shadow, probably feeding in updates on his behaviour to the higher staff.
“Who are you bringing in? How do you know they will work well with me, or the kids? What if they're just some lunatic that doesn't know how to teach,” he blurted defensively, despite knowing in the back of his mind that a little companionship would probably save him from driving himself insane.
“He's not a lunatic, Yeonjun,” Sunghee chuckled dryly. “His name is Choi Beomgyu. He's the nephew of a long time family friend of mine. I believe he will add some depth and brightness to your classroom. He will begin his weeks trial starting this Monday. If you have an issue with him following that week, please take it up with me on the Friday. Until then, I don't want to hear anything else. Have a wonderful evening.”
She was gone in a beat, leaving Yeonjun standing there, speechless, like a lousy tourist. He pushed out the exit, into buckets of biting hailstones. Not even his umbrella could save him at a time like this. He bit his lip, stepped out from the confines of the four story school, into the treachery.
— 𖧵 —
It had been two days since report submission and he was yet to receive any phone calls regarding complaints, which Yeonjun saw as a success! Although the moderately new invention of the telephone had been a blessing for those of his generation, Yeonjun felt it was more so a small box of nightmares. It would only ring when he was in trouble with the headteacher, or if a parent was yawping about their child's poor grades – something that wasn't at all Yeonjun’s fault.
He pushed open his classroom, which was lit with the dusky rays of the morning. The blooming blossoms and green horizon could be seen briefly through the window. Before doing anything else, he shuffled to the back of the classroom, past the lines of cushioned seats and low desks, towards the small altar which held his Buddhist shrine. With his flimsy lighter, he lit the candles surrounding the golden Buddha. He adjusted the plate of grapes he had placed fresh there this morning, as well as the bouquet of faux lotus flowers he bought specifically for this. Placing the lighter down, he pulled a cushion from beside a student's desk and kneeled on it lightly, shuffling his shoes and socks off and grabbing the Tibetan beads that sat by his wrist.
Closing his eyes, he sang om mani padme hum with his hand clasped together in prayer, wishing for prosperity and luck for the coming week. It was today he was due to meet his new 'assistant.’ He felt he didn't need any assistance, but his pleas to the head teacher appeared to be futile. Appropriately, he moved on to the prayer of the stages of the path. He felt that such a prayer would guide him through the tribulations of the day and keep him grounded in moments of frustration.
“By pacifying my distractions, and analysing perfect meanings, bless me to quickly gain the union of special insight and quiescence,” he bowed to the bright shrine, feeling himself cleansed and brightened for the day. “May I be well, happy, and peaceful. May my relatives be well, happy, and peaceful. May the unfriendly persons be well, happy, and peaceful. My precious Buddha. Oṃ Amideva Hrīḥ.”
He left the candles to burn. He liked the peace to remain in the air of the room. The scents would fill the noses of his students and send them the prayers of youth, to nourish them and cleanse their souls. He pushed the cushion aside and prepared to pull his socks back on, but nearly jumped back into the shrine when he saw a figure at the door. It was taller than that of any pupil he taught. Instinctively, he stood up and straightened his back, brushing down his durumagi. He had been instructed to wear a hanbok that day rather than his usual black suit, in order to display the school's ‘traditional values’ to the new assistant. He thought it was crass.
“That was touching,” the figure said, his voice deep and youthful. “I myself follow the Catholic faith but I am truly moved by that performance…”
“Performance?” Yeonjun scoffed, crossing the floor towards the odd man. “That is my faith – not a performance… and who are you?”
The man pursed his lips, stepping forward into the light. He bowed low and dramatically – almost comically, thought Yeonjun. His hair was long and dark, reaching almost below his neck. He did not tie it, though. He let it sit freely. It was messy, but in a way that was neat. His hanbok was cheap. The white magoja was crinkled and much too large for the man’s small frame. Yeonjun cursed himself for being so judgmental towards the man, but he was unable to help himself.
“Choi Beomgyu. I am your new TA, assuming you are Choi Yeonjun sunbaenim, of course.”
Yeonjun approached the boy and let his hands brush against his sleeves, across the creases and poorly sewn seams.
“When you bathe, let your magoja hang above the tub. The steam will smooth out the creases,” Yeonjun said nonchalantly, before making his way over to his desk. “You will sit in the far right corner. There is a stool in the store cupboard. If a pupil asks you a question, which I imagine they will not, tell them to come to me.”
Beomgyu nodded, clearing his throat as he waltzed over to the store cupboard, fiddling with the lock before tumbling in. He grabbed the stool and returned to the corner of the classroom, his head hung low. He let himself sit down with his notebook in lap, scribbling random sonnets down that Yeonjun was sure had nothing to do with the class he was about to teach.
The bell played its tune and the students poured in. Each of them were neatly dressed with their brass buttoned coats tight against their chests. The boys wore shorts with high socks, while the girls wore midi skirts and tights. Each pupil bowed to Yeonjun with respect and adoration, while side eyeing Beomgyu curiously.
“You look very smart today, Mister Choi.” one of his pupils exclaimed, a sickening sweet smile on her cracked lips.
“Thank you, Jiwoo. As do you.”
The young girl blushed and straightened her tight neck bow proudly. Before kneeling at her desk, she leaned into her teacher and whispered.
“Who is the funny looking man?”
Yeonjun chuckled, eyeing the man in the corner who was deciding which way to cross his legs, making a fool of himself in the process. “When I find out, I will let you know.”
The thirty two pupils sat with their legs crossed, tucked under the low oak tables. Beomgyu assisted Yeonjun in handing out small blackboards with a stick of chalk for the children to practice their handwriting on. The younger man gave a smile to each of the new faces, often earning one back.
“What is your name?” a pupil at the back of the class asked the man discreetly.
“My name is Choi Beomgyu,” he whispered in response, side-eyeing Yeonjun in an attempt to not be caught. “I'm the new classroom assistant!”
The young boy grinned and bowed at the man. “My name is Riki. You are very handsome.”
Beomgyu stifled a laugh into the back of his wrist. “Thank you, Riki. Now - focus!”
That day, the pupils were taught the basics of Chinese history. Yeonjun made it his goal as a history and literacy teacher to leave no information behind when teaching a class. He would waste hours scribbling down lesson plans, making sure he could effectively drill the content into the young minds whilst still making it enjoyable for them. Beomgyu observed this from the corner, wondering that during such strong efforts to please his students, when Yeonjun ever found time to please himself. When did he fit in leisurely activities? Did he ever pop over to a friend’s house for a cup of tea and a gentle carouse? Would he ever pause his errands to touch the soft fur of a cat that approached him on the street? Choi Beomgyu wasn't sure.
“Now what followed the Ming dynasty?”
“The Manchu takeover?”
“That is right, Yujin. The Qing dynasty. Do we all remember what year that ended?”
“1912!”
“Yes Riki, 1912 - that was the year most of you were born, hm?”
“I was born in 1913 actually…”
“Well, good for you Riki!”
The students filed out at the break of noon, towards the cafeteria where they would be served a tray of warm bibimbap, tea-stained egg and a cup of milk. During this time, most teachers made their way to the staff room for warm soup, or the odd seaweed pancake. Yeonjun didn't believe in social eating situations, so he usually wrapped food from home and ate it at his desk. Today, he had company. Beomgyu appeared to have no food of his own, but the scruffy man watched as Yeonjun spooned homemade kimchi and prawn gyozas into his plump mouth.
“Why don't you eat with the others?” the assistant asked after ten minutes of silence, save the sound of gulps and chews.
“Because I prefer not to be watched when I eat.”
Beomgyu took the hint, standing up to explore the classroom. There were tapestries on the wall, laying out the basics of three standard alphabets: Korean Hangul, Japanese Hiragana, and English. He drew his pale finger along each of the characters, laughing to himself. Yeonjun watched him with a strange expression. What a curious man, he thought. He looked down at his lunch pack and sighed, fiddling with his fingers, before returning to look at Beomgyu.
“Didn't you bring any food with you?” he questioned, startling the younger boy slightly.
“I mean… It didn't cross my mind…”
Yeonjun bit his lip before urging him to come sit by him. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out another spoon and set of chopsticks, placing them down on the desk.
“Eat.” he said through a mouthful of rice.
Beomgyu opened his mouth as if he were about to protest, but he knew that such an action would amount to nothing, much like any other conversation with Choi Yeonjun. So, he sat opposite the man once again. He hesitantly took the set of chopsticks, before helping himself to a gyoza. It turned out he had been much hungrier than anticipated.
He chewed slowly and watched Yeonjun, waiting to be met with some kind of angle in return for this act of kindness. He waited, and waited, but nothing came.
“The pupils seem to like you a lot,” Beomgyu smiled after gulping down a spoonful of rice. “They respect you. In my previous school, the class was full of delinquents. The things they said to me and my sunbae… I wouldn't even say that to my worst enemy.”
The older man shrugged and placed his utensils down onto his serviette. “I think they pity me. That's why you're here, of course.”
“Would the doe eyes of children glow at a man they pity?”
“The eyes of children never stop glowing until they reach highschool, you must know that.”
“I don't pity you, at least,” the younger man peeped. “But I do think there is some character development to be had.”
Yeonjun snorted, taking the last gyoza into his lips before Beomgyu could.
Day one in the classroom of the incredulous Choi Yeonjun. His lips are very voluminous. Like a cushion, perhaps. I like the curve of his hips and the way it shows through his oddly tight baji. His ears are large. Like the elephants from Thailand, but cuter. He's a man with the essence of a beautiful woman, though he has quite an attitude. I do hope he warms up to me soon. I’d like to take him for a drink.
— 𖧵 —
What Beomgyu saw the next morning after waltzing into the classroom with his leather satchel thrown over his shoulder made him gasp. The previous day he had gone home in a daze after such a display of kindness from Yeonjun. He couldn't help but dream about the man. Beomgyu grew up around women exclusively. He wasn't sure how to hold a conversation with a boy. What he did know was that Yeonjun was different from other men. Uptight, yes, but there was more beneath the surface. From what he observed, the man overworked himself, leaving no time to enjoy the simplicities of life. That was why he had been called there.
And his suspicions were further confirmed that morning. Two steps into the classroom, he was met with the sight of the older man’s head dropped on the desk, limp, with a flurry of papers spread around him. His hair was messy, unbrushed, and his glasses were askew on his face. He was entirely knocked out – asleep. Sleep must have chased him while he finished his marking. He pushed himself so hard, he never made it home.
Beomgyu approached him hesitantly, stifling a small giggle from the sight of his sunbae in such a vulnerable state, though he still had a hint of concern. The man had overworked himself until he passed out at his desk. He wondered what time the man was intending to get home the previous night, or if he had planned on going home at all.
The younger man tapped his sunbae's forehead, covered by a tangle of dark hair. Yeonjun stirred slightly, letting out a gentle squeak, but did not wake. So, Beomgyu tried again, tapping slightly harder this time, letting his fingers linger some more by the warmth of the older man's head. Finally, Yeonjun shot up.
"Where am- What's going on?" the older man gasped, rubbing his eyes as he adjusted to the morning's apricot glow.
Beomgyu realised his hands were still in the man's space for a second. He yanked them back, chuckling nervously.
"You fell asleep at your desk. The students will be here in half an hour~"
Yeonjun hissed a quiet aishhh while pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked around his desk, eyes trailing across the scattered papers, spilled coffee, drool. He checked his watch, checked his clothes, checked his hair.
"Do I look okay?" he asked Beomgyu frantically, and the poor assistant felt as if he had been caught in a paradox. Objectively, Yeonjun looked spent. The bags under his eyes could hold a week's worth of rain, his collar was ruffled, and his hair was in a state. But, the thing was, Beomgyu still couldn't breathe properly around this man. He was so beautiful, his swollen, cracked lips and his thick eyelashes. How was he supposed to articulate it without giving away his disgusting secret. He had a deep, internal attraction to this man.
But he could never say that. So instead, he leaned forward, smoothed his shirt and muttered: "You look fine."
Yeonjun returned from the washroom where had gone to splash his face with water, and now he was walking towards his altar, with Beomgyu trailing behind. The latter had expressed the desire to join him today, so they kneeled down together. Out of the corner of his eye, Beomgyu watched Yeonjun blissfully give thanks for the morning.
"Om mani padme hum," the teacher sang, before bowing down and thanking the Buddha. "Oh great, compassionate Buddha. On such a fine morning, I think of my failures, and how you lifted me up in these times. I pray you will grant me the patience to accept all setbacks on this day. I pray you to grant me the strength to carry out work on this day. I have shed tears, but I pray tomorrow will be better. May I be able to obtain the assistance of Beomgyu."
Beomgyu blushed then, biting his lip and hoping to the God's he didn't believe in that his face would not turn red.
"I understand I must be happy as that is the Way you wished. It is difficult for me, compassionate Buddha. But, you have gifted me with a companion today, and for that I thank you eternally. Oh great, compassionate Buddha; please accept my sincerest morning prayer. Namo Shakyamuni Buddha."
The two of them raised themselves from their bow in synchronisation, slowly turning their heads to look at one another. Yeonjun's tired eyes were tentative, as if he was nervous to see the younger man's reaction to his personal prayer. Beomgyu's dark eyes were soft, and he gazed at his elder intensely.
"Thank you, Yeonjun-nim~" he bowed lightly, his eyes almost wet.
"Call me hyung," the older man whispered, watching Beomgyu's rosy lips as they parted in suppressed surprise. "Thank you for waking me up. I have come to a realisation that perhaps I need an assistant."
Beomgyu nodded, smiling gently. "We often realize we need something until it is in our lives. And when they're gone, we realise we need them most of all."
Yeonjun furrowed his brows and looked at his hands, "You won't leave me yet, though. Right?"
Instead of responding verbally, the assistant turned his knees to face Yeonjun, scratching the back of his long dark hair nervously. He checked the clock for a moment. They had ten minutes before the children would come in. He looked back to Yeonjun, who was breathing heavily, scanning his features. Before he could do something he would most definitely regret, Beomgyu pulled away and stood up, brushing himself down and walking over to his stool in preparation for the day of teaching ahead.
Yeonjun sat still for another minute, his head a storm of thoughts, ideas, and questions. Were assistants supposed to make him feel that? He wasn't so sure. He decided to ignore the rising heat and thickening tension, making his way towards his desk and sitting down. He neatened his files and papers before clasping his hands together.
"Can I say something?" said Beomgyu, cutting into the quiet shamelessly. Yeonjun looked up, staring at the distant man through his glasses. The younger man continued. "I think you are exhausted, hyung. Too much so to teach this lesson. Perhaps I- well, perhaps I should lead class today, so you can rest."
Yeonjun let the idea marinade in his mind for
a moment. He couldn't recall the last time he let himself pass his growing array of tasks on to anyone else. He couldn't fathom giving someone else such responsibility, though he had forgotten to imagine how difficult it would be for one to hold all of said responsibility on their own back, alone.
His faith promised rest and tranquility. Every morning he prayed on it. But he never let himself have it.
He looked down at his nails, chipped away and scratched by years of labour, working towards some non-existent end goal. There was no end to this job. He took a class of reserved children, turned them around, freed them into the wild, and then did it again.
And now, here was an offer. Yeonjun would be a fool not to take it.
He exhaled, rising from his seat and pushing it back in the process. He took something out of the small hold in his desk before making his way over to a cowering Beomgyu. Yeonjun pushed his hand out, gesturing for the younger to do the same. Then, he placed the foreign object in the assistant's hand. Beomgyu looked down at it.
It was chalk.
"I accept your offer," Yeonjun smirked slightly, sliding past the shorter man, into the small stool that had been placed there for the latter. The roles had been reversed. "But," Yeonjun began, "Good luck with getting them to like you."
Beomgyu paused for a moment, gazing down at Yeonjun. He seemed awfully smug, which was odd considering he was no longer the one in control.
Beomgyu grinned; "Tough crowd?"
"Yup."
"Well, you seemed quite stone cold too, at first," the younger grinned, fiddling the chalk between his nimble fingers. "But look at you now. You're weak for me, Yeonjun-ah."
What disrespect! Within ten minutes they had gone from hyung to extreme informalities. But, Yeonjun couldn't bring himself to be angry. Not towards the doll-faced man who was now making himself comfortable in his leather office chair behind his desk. And now his students were pouring through the door, grinning at the new assistant like the sun shined out of his cute little ass.
But, if Yeonjun had seen himself in that moment, he would see that his expression wasn't far from that of his students.
Beomgyu was right; he was weak for him.
Day two in the classroom of the tantalizing Choi Yeonjun, and I feel like I am breaking through the reserve that he has so carefully built over himself these many passing years.
When Sunghee-nim told me about this task, I was hesitant, after my old position had been hellish. But then, I saw that image of you in the newspaper. The May 14th 1933 issue, where you were photographed bowing to that soldier. I recall the women in my hostel gushing about the handsomeness of said soldier. His sweet smile and his tall and broad frame.
Me, however. I hardly spared that man a glance. All I could look at was Choi Yeonjun, teacher at Yongsan elementary. His dark hair that dangled over his face, over his sweet metal-framed glasses. Those lips. I will never forget the moment I first laid eyes on those lips. His body. His smile lines. I knew then that my assignment would be difficult, as I was utterly enamoured by this man.