Work Text:
Beomgyu spots him in the corridor between the palace artifacts and the model hand axes.
He thinks, at first, that it’s his mind playing tricks on him. It’s not unusual — he thinks there’s a part of him that’s always keenly aware of how tall, bashful men move around him every time he’s in the museum. It’s the association, he tells himself, because it’s never this bad anywhere else. He doesn’t see Soobin while he’s hanging around the park, or sipping a warm cup of tea at his favorite trendy cafe spot, or even when he’s home in his cozy little hole in the wall, surrounded by things indelibly linked to his past.
No, the missing is always worse while he’s in the museum, which is unfortunate because that’s where he spends at least 4/5ths of his day. Taehyun tells him as much, one time, when he’d tried to argue that his commitment to his job is a normal, appreciable amount. “No, hyung,” Taehyun replies, voice defiant and stubborn. He likes being right way too much for it to be normal. “You spend an approximate 4/5ths of a standard day mulling around this place, which would be fine if you didn’t associate it so much with him.”
Him. Taehyun always spoke about Soobin like he was this mysterious, sexy bad boy type who could break hearts with a snap of his fingers, cool and distant glint in his eye. In actuality, Soobin had a much more down-to-earth appeal to him — wide warm hands with fingers that always curled so gently around his, charming nicks on his cheeks that often deepened, canyon-like, when he smiled, a lovely bowed mouth that curled impossibly sweet whenever Beomgyu made him laugh.
He’d liked doing that, back then. Making Soobin laugh.
Anyway, going back. Being in love with someone for most of your life and not having them around for at least half of that time because of your own stupid hijinks takes its toll on you, and Beomgyu knows this better than anyone. It’s why he considers being haunted by Soobin’s visage proper penance for what he’d dragged him and his family into.
It’s also why he doesn’t bat an eyelash when he sees someone in the corner of his peripheral vision, wandering aimlessly between exhibits, even when he resembles a particular someone from his past. Beomgyu barely registers it, honestly, too busy making notations on his little sketchbook about the displays that need sprucing up and dusting to cast his gaze upon strangers loitering his workplace. Kai is eager and works hard while he’s apprenticing Beomgyu, but he also tends to overlook some spots whenever Taehyun ambles into the room, bored and seeking Kai’s attention like a moth to a flame. Or whatever, maybe something less destructive. The metaphor doesn’t feel quite appropriate for whatever is going on between the two, the way they are in constant bloom around each other.
Lucky, Beomgyu thinks to himself. They are so lucky. He doesn’t believe there’s any place more fitting to fall in love than in a place like this, surrounded by so many beautiful things.
He can say that from experience.
“Goryeo celadon vases, exhibit twelve — for fixing,” he mutters under his breath, scribbling away with purpose. Technically, this isn’t in his job description. He’s part of the research and sourcing arm of the institute, and the upkeep of the displays is usually left up to the archiving and exhibition team, but he likes doing this, likes wandering around, his eyes roaming over the items his team had secured for the museum with pride and just a hint of affection.
He loves this place, sometimes considers it more home than his own.
I know, Beomgyu-yah, the voice in his head that always sounds like Soobin says, teasing and fond all at once. It’s why we ended up like this.
Scowling to himself at the way Soobin pipes up so easily in his memory, like it hasn’t been nearly ten years, like he’s never even left, Beomgyu shakes his head and continues down the line.
This time of the week, a Tuesday, is usually their lightest. School groups tended to flock there on Mondays or Fridays and rarely in between, and tourists liked to come around towards the end of the week. Tuesdays were for the enthusiasts, the ones who were either genuinely curious about their exhibitions or just romantic enough to want to while away the fading hours of the day underneath the yawning, echo-trodden hallways of the Seoul Museum of Art and Antiquity. Contrary to popular belief, those visitors never got bored with frequenting these kinds of places, beholden to the marriage of beauty and tongue-in-cheek sanctimony on display.
If Beomgyu didn’t work here, he’d think he was a Tuesday kind of guy himself.
He wanders in and among the attendants, nods cheerily at the ones he’s seen often enough to consider them regulars. When they smile and bow back at him, the delight that fills him is ridiculous, the pride rolling through him making him want to puff out his chest. With the leaves turning and the chill lingering in the air, he likes to think of the museum as a place of refuge for wandering souls, the way it has always been for him, long before he ever worked there.
Humming a soft melody under his breath, he tries to control the skip in his step as he makes his way over to the section of the building that housed the guest collection for the season. Nobody tell his teachers at university but Beomgyu’s always been a fan of Western art, and this curated selection featured some of his favorites — Rossetti, Monet, van Gogh and Vermeer, just to name a few. He’s always loved being around pretty things, but the reverence he held for genuine art was a lingering theme he carried his whole life.
Beomgyu knows his way around a sketchbook, but he’s never felt the pull of creation, the need to leave a mark. He’s a very simple guy, despite what his friends will lead you to believe, who just wants very simple things — someone to hold his hand while he waxes into twilight about his day, a person to share laughter with, who knows and understands him without need for much more than a word, a touch, a look.
It’s funny, Beomgyu ponders, his mood turning wistful the way it always does when his musings turn to his childhood friend turned first love. It’s actually really funny how he thought he’d be able to have it all, back when he was barely a teenager, and how it was that certainty that led to him securing one thing but losing another.
He could say he regretted everything, and to be certain, the hopeless romantic in him doesn’t quite rule it out completely, but he doubts that if he hadn’t pushed through with that silly little pipe dream, he wouldn’t be here, smack dab in the middle of doing work that he loved, work that he genuinely could see himself doing for the rest of his years.
Beomgyu has, in time, learned to be philosophical about the things he’s lost and, alternatively, the things he’s gained. He supposes it isn’t fair for any one person to have everything they could ever want — the greatest of art is always born through the knowledge of some form of strife. At least, this is what he tells himself. His friends say otherwise, mentioning all the times he bemoans all the shit he’s suffered through when he’s two and a half bottles of soju in.
Anyway, he’s been digressing a lot. He should be making his way back to their offices at the back of the building, but he’s just having too much of a good time loitering today. While he doesn’t disdain the paperwork he usually has to go through like Kai does, even enjoys going through it more often than not, he is much too charmed by the floor this afternoon to hasten back. The batch of Joseon pottery has waited for hundreds of years — surely it can wait twenty four hours more?
Beomgyu puckers his lips, pursing them in a thoughtful moue while he taps his pencil against his chin, distracted by a small group of fashionable-looking girls bemoaning the latest episode of a currently airing TVN drama. When he realizes they’re talking about a show he’s watching but still isn’t caught up to, he balks and spins around, determined to speed walk in the other direction.
“Oof!”
He collides harshly into something behind him, his face running straight into a wall of wool. “Excuse me, watch where you’re—”
Hands, large and warm and familiar grab at his elbows, steadying him even as his knees knock and threaten to weaken. Beomgyu’s jaw drops, his head tipping back to look up, and up, and up. It isn’t… it can’t be…
Except it is.
“Beomgyu-yah?”
He steps back, a breath shuddering through him, leaving him frozen in place as his eyes rake over the person he’d bumped into, the person he’d kept noticing out of the corner of his eye wrapped in a khaki trench coat that was fashionable two autumns ago, his hair wavy and wind-tousled. He looks exactly the same, except a touch leaner. Sleeker, somewhat. Regretfully, even more devastatingly handsome than Beomgyu remembers.
“Hyung?”
The boy — the man — gently lets go of Beomgyu’s elbows, letting him step back to stare. “Hi,” he says to Beomgyu, a touch breathless, a little wondrous. “It’s… yes, it’s me. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”
Soobin tilts his head, the smile spreading across his face slow and sweet and devastating.
At the sight of it, Beomgyu does what any self-respecting boy who comes face-to-face with the love of his life for the first time after ten odd years would.
He turns on his heel and runs.
—❦-
Not… his finest hour.
He’s locked himself in the little cube of a workspace that he and Kai are sharing, unfazed by the fact that it’s office policy to keep their doors open. Bringing his phone out of his pocket with shaky hands, he punches out a number, hardly a thought in his head until the call connects and the ring starts to trill in his ear.
“Beomgyu-yah, what the fuck? It’s six in the morning.”
Oops. He’d forgotten about the time difference between Seoul and Paris.
“I… sorry hyung, I wasn’t thinking,” he apologizes, a touch meek. “You, you can call me back later, if you want.”
It’s funny how even a thousand miles away he can hear the exhausted yet fond exasperation in Yeonjun’s sigh as it’s exhaled into the speaker of his phone. “No, it’s fine. Knowing you, you wouldn’t be disturbing your ancient hyung’s sleep if it wasn’t an emergency. What happened? Is everything okay?”
Beomgyu’s heart, so unsettled and jilted, calms a bit at Yeonjun’s obvious concern. He wishes he were here to give him a bracing hug; he thinks he’d feel a lot steadier about facing Soobin if Yeonjun were here to cheer him on. “I… things are okay at work. I just finished going through the shipment you had sent over last month.”
“Oh yeah? That’s good,” Yeonjun says, yawning. Beomgyu thinks he can hear him in the kitchen now, opening cupboard doors and pulling out a mug from his collection, which probably had a silly dad joke emblazoned across it. He’s predictable like that. “I’m popping down to Amsterdam next week after I wrap up a couple of things here. Someone I went to school with is part of a contingent hosting guest lectures at the Rijksmuseum, so I thought I’d come by and see if they knew anyone we could arrange to have visit us over there.”
There’s a click and a soft hiss, and Beomgyu knows that Yeonjun’s about to ingest an ungodly amount of caffeine to help get him through the day. “Okay, hyung, let me know how that goes then. You’re working hard.”
Yeonjun chuckles, his voice still scratchy with sleep. “Thanks, Gyu-yah, but that’s not why you called, is it?” Beomgyu wants to pout at how transparent he is to him, despite an ocean between them. “Tell hyung what’s got you spooked.”
“So, uh,” Beomgyu starts, not really knowing how to say it. “Soobin came into the museum today.”
Beomgyu winces when he hears a loud clatter on the line, pulling the device away from his ear a little. Evidently, Yeonjun has dropped his phone.
“Sorry, sorry, fuck!” Yeonjun says hastily after he’s picked it back up. “Did you just say that Soobin came to see you today? At work?”
“Well, he was there. I don’t exactly know if he came in there to see me.” Beomgyu indulges in the cloud of pitiable despair hanging over his head and crawls underneath his desk, curling into himself. “I was just walking around Room 11 when suddenly I turned around and he was there.”
“I’m sure him being there wasn’t some kind of accident, Beomgyu-yah,” Yeonjun says, words gentle because he knows that’s what Beomgyu needs right now, none of the aimless bickering they usually engage in. “How are you feeling then?”
Beomgyu’s fingers trace nonsensical patterns over his kneecaps, and he knows Yeonjun is waiting patiently for him to speak more. “He looked good,” he continues, weakly. “He’s like. Taller. Prettier. I don’t know how I feel. I really… really thought I’d never see him again, hyung.”
“Well, if he went through all this trouble to find you, what are you doing sitting here talking to me about it, huh?” Yeonjun teases, but there’s no bite to it, only an inquisitive, careful prodding. “Don’t tell me you ran away?”
Beomgyu refuses to put into words that Yeonjun is right, only letting out a small, high-pitched whine that makes Yeonjun bark out in laughter.
“Gyu-yah, don’t make me fly all the way back there just to hit you upside the head,” he says, amused. Beomgyu hears him pause to take a sip of his coffee, before he continues. “Or I could ask Taehyunnie to do it. I’m sure he’s willing.”
“Stop,” Beomgyu mutters, petulant. “I just didn’t know what to do, hyung. So I ran.”
“Beomgyu-yah,” Yeonjun reasons with him, like he would a toddler or a wayward puppy. Beomgyu scrunches up his nose. His dongsaeng-zoning of Beomgyu is one of the reasons why Beomgyu’s initial crush on him faded quickly, apart from Yeonjun being way too married to his work and, well, the fact that he isn’t and will never be the right Choi for him. “You’ve been pining for this guy for as long as I’ve known you, and now that he’s right there, you’re running away? That’s not the boy I trained, Gyu-yah, and you know it.”
Oh brother. Literally. “Stop talking like you raised me from birth, hyung, it’s weird. You’re weird.”
“I’m weird,” Yeonjun replies glibly. “You’re the one hiding in your office, hugging your knees to yourself because of a cute boy who obviously wants to see you.”
Beomgyu scowls, dropping his knees and spreading his legs out just to be contrary. “Calling you was a mistake.”
Yeonjun laughs, all giddy and bright. Beomgyu hopes he comes home soon so he can annoy him in person. “Go out and get your man, Gyu-yah,” he says, fond and adoring, like he always is towards Beomgyu. “Hyung’s rooting for you.”
The call ends, just like that, and Beomgyu is left staring at his phone with horror. Some big help Yeonjun turned out to be. His advice was terrible.
Beomgyu is figuring out if there’s a way to slip out of the museum backdoor without passing through certain sections of the building when there’s a knock on the door, the knob jiggling, confused. Beomgyu knows Kai is likely on the other side.
He sighs, getting to his feet with a huff. As much as he wants to stay locked in and sulky for the rest of the day, he does have a job to do, and so does Kai. A little personal drama shouldn’t mean he’s allowed to prevent others from doing what they have to do.
“Sorry, Kai-yah, I didn’t mean to lock—”
“Hyung!” Kai says, greeting him brightly. “Look who I found searching for you!”
From behind Kai, Soobin raises a single large hand to wave in his direction. “Hi. Again.”
Kai’s eyes are wide with thrill and delight, and he clearly thinks Beomgyu’s going to be grateful for what he’s done for him. Beomgyu loves Kai too much to be annoyed at what he perceives to be a good samaritan’s act, but is clearly a trap, because this time, Beomgyu has nowhere to run, nowhere to turn to, where he can’t see Soobin in the way, watching him. Waiting.
Fuck.
He has no choice but to face Soobin.
—❦-
Beomgyu did not expect to be going through an intense bout of deja vu when he woke up that morning, but his life has never been routine.
He met Soobin as a kid, the both of them going to the same grade school when his family moved to Seoul from Daegu. Soobin had moved to the area from Ansan just a year before. He was much shyer than Beomgyu was, but Beomgyu had always been the persistent type, latching onto the quieter boy to slowly but surely bring him out of his shell. Pretty soon, the two of them became inseparable — so inseparable, that people around the school and the neighborhood they both grew up in tended to look for the other whenever they weren’t by each other’s side.
You would think Beomgyu would get annoyed by the association, but he relished in it. He loved the idea that Soobin was his person, the one that would always be by his side, no matter how old they got. Soobin was the best person he knew — sure, they didn’t always agree, and they could bicker until the walls came tumbling down, but nobody knew him better than Soobin did. No one could pick up on his mood swings sooner, or hold him through his crying bouts whenever he felt misunderstood at home gentler, or make him laugh with just a stupid, silly look.
Looking back, he couldn’t pinpoint when he realized that he’d been in love with his best friend, only that his fingers started to feel fidgety and restless whenever they weren’t intertwined with his. One time, Soobin was doing his math homework next to him, complaining with a pout in his voice, and Beomgyu turned to him to tell him to pipe down, except the sunlight was filtering in through his window just then, kissing Soobin’s skin golden, and his breath backed down his throat, the urge to press his lips to where the sun was skimming over him overwhelming. His heart skipped a beat, two, and he only snapped out of his stupor when Soobin nudged him, the look on his face odd and worried.
Surprisingly, especially for a person as prone to highs and lows as he was — his parents could never really understand him like this, not the way he wanted them to — Beomgyu took this epiphany in stride, not wasting time dwelling on the hows and whys and just laser focusing on whether or not it was reciprocated. He kept leaving behind hints, kept flirting with him, his touch lingering and bashful, but he could never really tell if Soobin could feel it, the seismic change in their dynamic that Beomgyu feared was only felt on his side.
“Beomgyu?”
He realizes he’s been zoned out in contemplation of the tragedy of his life when someone calls out his name and his vision clears from behind the mostly prescription glasses perched on his nose, his eyes focusing on the piece of art he’s been staring at for the past few minutes. — 1040, Angel in Stained Glass, Unknown.
Beomgyu stares at the way the cut up pieces of glass fit together, snug and delicate and colorful, gaze raking over the picture they all made when seen as a collective — a calm, yet somber seraphim, wings folded in, the sword in her hand lowered but her grip steadfast and true. So full of grace, and yet so resigned.
Despite all the iconic artists and pieces the museum held under its roof, from the east to the west, this one is secretly his favorite. There was something about this piece that had always moved Beomgyu, and so he stands in front of it, trying to gather his bearings, while he tries to confront the boy who’s held his heart for far longer than he’s always thought wise.
“Sorry, I was… distracted,” Beomgyu says, cautiously. His eyes slant down, still feeling too overwhelmed to look Soobin in the eye. “It’s, uh. It’s good to see you, hyung.”
He can see Soobin lift his arms, hesitating before his large palms land on his shoulders, heavy yet gentle, at the same time. It makes Beomgyu want to cry, for so many reasons — the familiarity, the readiness, the affection. But above all, it makes Beomgyu want to recoil, to flinch, not ready to welcome his touch just yet, not without an explanation, not without a reason.
So he shrugs it off, ignoring the way Soobin’s lips pinch. “We can walk,” Beomgyu says, instead, turning left to head to a more public and open space. He doesn’t have to wait long before Soobin catches up to him. Darn those stupid long legs.
“You grew your hair out,” Soobin observes out loud, and Beomgyu wants to snort, finding the whole scenario a little ridiculous. As a starting point for a conversation they should have had maybe less than a decade ago, maybe his hair isn’t the worst spot to go off of.
“I did,” he answers, as they pass the archway leading back into the entrance hallway.
The museum was divided into three large areas, all of which branched out from the strip of floor stretching out from the front doors: the main gallery, the hall of artifacts, and the little gallery and exhibition hall.
The main gallery housed paintings of Asian origins, mostly Korean, but there were some smaller rooms that displayed paintings they’d acquired regionally — Beomgyu quite liked the little corner featuring art from post-war Japan.
Next was the little gallery and exhibition hall, the place where they’d just exited from, and it contained their museum’s tiny but growing collection of art from Western sources, ranging from ancient Greco-Roman busts to contemporary and post-modern fare. It was the section closest to their offices, so Beomgyu frequented it the most out of all the wings of the museum, but seeing it more often never dimmed his appreciation of it, especially with the latest guest collection enshrined there.
Lastly, the hall of artifacts held everything they had that couldn’t be considered two-dimensional. When he was a kid growing up, this was his favorite spot. Every single corner had filled his young soul with enchantment — the way the lights hit the ancient vases and pottery, the smooth glint of the aged weaponry, the barely contained excitement in the voiceovers describing the preserved weavings and tapestries from ages past. Back when he’d yearned to escape his home, this section of the museum became a vessel for his imagination, had always made him feel welcome even when he felt alien to his own skin.
Now, he only goes there when he has to. Which isn’t really as damning as it sounds, since Beomgyu considers it remiss of him not to walk the floors to visit all the different areas at least once a week, especially when he’s not stuck in his cubbyhole confirming shipments and cargo sent over by Yeonjun and Wonwoo, the other member of their museum’s acquisitions team. But he doesn’t linger there when he doesn’t have to, especially when he’d worked so hard not to see Soobin in every shadowy spot, in every quiet nook anymore.
He’d been so privately triumphant when he’d finally managed a full afternoon there a few seasons ago, focused on fixing the new displays he’d been tasked to oversee, and he’d built on that foundation keenly, bravely, so eager to prove to himself that he was finally putting his past behind him.
And now, as he watches Soobin walk into the hall of artifacts, Beomgyu finds that his tenement of courage lies in shambles around him, crumbled into dust and debris.
Over the years, Beomgyu’s turned the scenario of seeing Soobin around in his head again and again, the possibility of it gossamer thin and therefore free for him to wonder about. Sometimes he’s elated, other times he’s weeping, wrapped up in blame. How things fell apart between them should have been a warning against being self-centered and narcissistic, and it is that guilt that balances out how mad he is that Soobin’s never reached out to him since that night when they were both young and stupid.
Seeing him now, in person, looking so calm and steady and still so handsome it makes his knees weak, Beomgyu wonders if he should be upset. He thinks he’s upset. He thinks there’s a part of him that feels some sort of vague sense of annoyance and anguish in equal measure. But when it comes down to it, all Beomgyu can think about is — he’s here. He’s here.
Beomgyu straightens his shoulders, and follows in his footsteps.
When he finds him, Soobin is sitting on a bench in front of a sprawling tapestry from the Joseon period. Beomgyu knows this piece well — it was one of their most well-preserved works from that period, and unusual because instead of the scenic landscapes of seas and forests that so characterized the artwork from that period, it showed two lovers in a sweet embrace. It was quite risqué, actually, especially considering that time in history, but it was that daring, that rejection of what was proper and decent, that had drawn Beomgyu to it the most.
Back then, and until now.
When he makes the connection, Beomgyu stills, feeling his limbs lock and freeze in place, and he would have opted for the coward’s way out if Soobin didn’t turn to him, head tilted coyly. “Do you want to sit next to me, Beomgyu-yah?”
The arch of his eyebrow is challenging, his little grin making the ends of his lips curl just barely. Beomgyu wants to wipe the smirk off his face with his own mouth.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself, he nods stiffly, before sinking into the seat next to him. Behind them, crowds are thinning out, and in a few minutes, Beomgyu knows he and Soobin won’t have much of an audience left. He’s not sure what he prefers at this point.
“I can’t believe you ended up working here,” Soobin says, voice placid as a lakefront. Beomgyu immediately bristles. “When your mom told me—”
“Wait, my mother told you I was here?” Beomgyu squawks; he turns to Soobin now, eyes wide and his jaw open. “Since when have you kept in touch with my mother?”
The and not me is implied.
Soobin raises his hands in defense, eyes bugging out at Beomgyu’s reaction. “I didn’t know where you were when I got back! The only place I knew was your house, and you didn’t live there anymore, so I asked.” He crosses his arms with a huff, and Beomgyu feels the years between them roll back, the familiar fondness and irritation swarming his chest like they never left. God, he’s missed him. He’s missed his Soobin so much. “I got back literally five days ago and the first thing I did after I slept off the jet lag was look for you.”
The words that tumble out of Soobin’s mouth make Beomgyu’s cheeks turn pink and rosy. He lifts his chin up and tries not to be touched. Fails. Soobin is more often than not casually devastating with his words, and the worst part was that he meant them. He always meant them. “Did she-was she surprised?”
“I suppose,” Soobin says, with a shrug. His eyes flick over to Beomgyu’s, watching him. “But I guess that happens when your son’s old friend comes back from abroad.” Beomgyu thinks he starts to inch closer; the heat circling his neck stays his fidgeting, and he takes a huge swallow, desperate for his throat to stop feeling dry and tacky. He doesn’t move away, though. He thinks he should be given credit for that. “I… I tried to find you, before then. Been looking for years now. Facebook, Instagram, and stuff.”
“I… I’m not on any of that,” Beomgyu says, frowning. He pulls on his fingers, trying to find something to do with his hands so that they don’t just lay in his lap, or be tempted to reach towards Soobin. “I don’t like posting… stuff.”
“I know you don’t,” Soobin murmurs, in a low tone. “I didn’t forget that about you. I don’t… I haven’t forgotten those things about you. But it was worth a shot.”
Beomgyu inhales, a sharp little thing that makes his nostrils sting. “It… it’s been so long, hyung. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you forgot.” He hunches over, curling into himself, feeling small and fragile. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you wanted to.”
The astonishment in Soobin’s voice is surprising, even if it makes Beomgyu feel nothing but warm. “Why do you think that’s what I wanted?”
“Because… you know.” Beomgyu lets out a frustrated sigh of disbelief. Why is Soobin making this so difficult for him? He almost wants to smack his arm in irritation. “Because of what happened.”
“The… you mean the thing that happened here?”
Beomgyu’s head snaps up, whips around from side to side to check that nobody from the museum is around to eavesdrop on them. “Will you pipe down?” he hisses at Soobin, momentarily forgetting his angst. “Someone could hear!”
Soobin raises both his eyebrows at Beomgyu’s conniption. “Are you telling me the museum you work at doesn’t know that you snuck in here one night ten years ago and nearly got expelled for it?”
“First of all,” Beomgyu snaps back with a menacing scowl on his face that Soobin merely giggles at. “Namjoon-hyung, the head curator here and the person who hired me, knows what happened, but not everyone does, and I would very much rather keep it that way. Secondly, I wasn’t—I wasn’t expelled for it. You know I wasn’t.”
(You were.)
Soobin smiles at him, far too kindly for someone who took all of the blame for Beomgyu’s own foolhardy whims.
It crashes down on Beomgyu now, all of it, memories he had tried to keep at bay almost stumbling on their way to the fore. His longing to do something fun and reckless and stupid, his idea to stay behind during a class field trip to the museum, Soobin tagging along after him to make sure he didn’t get into trouble, wandering around the exhibits after dark, anxiety and adrenaline thrumming underneath their skin.
They’d held hands the whole time so as not to get separated, and Beomgyu remembers them stopping in front of this exact tapestry, staring up at the two lovers before they slowly looked at each other.
Beomgyu shared his first kiss then, with Soobin, and he wishes he could remember just how romantic and magical it was, how he’d felt like sprouting wings just so he could fly up into the sun, so giddy and thrilled and in love he was, how he felt that this was just the beginning of what could turn out to be the best thing to ever happen to him.
Instead, he steps back too far and stumbles into a nearby set of Silla arrows, spilling them onto the ground and tripping up an alarm, sending the night security guards so quickly into the hall that the two of them had barely wiped the blush off their cheeks.
Things happened so quickly after that, things so humiliating they make Beomgyu wince whenever they pop into his head, errant and unbidden. No matter how much he tries to lock them up in the most unreachable trenches of his mind, he doesn’t think he will ever forget them — the way Soobin’s parents looked at them, looked at him, the boy their son took the fall for.
Soobin had signed an affidavit, saying that it was all his idea, and nothing Beomgyu said otherwise would change the school’s punishment. The incident had been treated as extremely disreputable, and because the school they’d attended had been through a few bullying scandals, the penalty had been swift and firm. The museum hadn’t pressed charges on account of them being minors, but the damage had been done. Soobin’s family moved to America, and Beomgyu hadn’t heard from him since.
The first few years were the toughest, but eventually, Beomgyu learned to get over the guilt and the mortification, even if he could never get over his hang-up over Soobin. When he graduated from university with a degree in art studies, Namjoon had immediately reached out to him to get him onboard the museum staff, and upon confession of his crimes, the curator had only looked at Beomgyu with a sardonic smile. “Why do you think I wanted to hire you?”
“And thirdly,” Beomgyu continues, raising another finger to make his point. Except he doesn’t think he has one, and the pause he makes is all Soobin needs to finally bridge the gap between them. Wrapping his hand around Beomgyu’s, he tugs, hard, until Beomgyu tumbles helplessly into his open arms, his cheek pressing against the soft wool of his autumn coat. When he breathes, he breathes in the scent of still waters, of a calm sea, of Soobin.
Slowly, Beomgyu reaches around, and hugs him back.
“Have you been blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault all this time, Beomgyu-yah?” Soobin teases him, but it’s soft and careful. Beomgyu sniffles, and presses his face into his shoulder in lieu of an answer. God, it feels so good to be with Soobin again. He thinks the distress he’s carried around for a decade melts in a puddle around him, seeps into the ground, leaving him just… happy. Just happy.
“I’m still mad at you for doing what you did,” he grouses, voice rough with barely restrained emotion. It’s been quite a day. “I hope you know that.”
Soobin laughs, and Beomgyu thinks he’s really going to tear up now. He thought he’d never hear that laugh again. “You have enough time to be mad, Beomgyu-yah,” Soobin tells him, fondness coloring his tone warm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You—” Beomgyu draws back, surprise on his face. “You’re not just back for a visit? You’re—” He doesn’t want to continue, doesn’t even think about what his face is doing for Soobin to be giving him such a tender, affectionate smile. Beomgyu wants to quail underneath the relentless sentimentality, except he’s still waiting for an answer.
He’d wait for as long as it took, truthfully.
“I… Yeah,” Soobin says, and the way he leans back and away from Beomgyu makes him want to chase after him, but if it’s space Soobin wants, he’ll give it to him. He’ll give him anything he asks. “I’ve decided to come back. To come home.”
There’s a lump in Beomgyu’s throat, and he doesn’t know if the words jumbling around his mouth are coming out legible the way he wants them to. “You—why? Why did you—why did you come back?”
Soobin stares back at Beomgyu, incredulity flashing over his face. Beomgyu feels like he may have an inkling about what Soobin is trying to say, but that doesn’t mean Beomgyu doesn’t want him to say it. He, in fact, needs him to say it.
“Isn’t it obvious yet?” he tells Beomgyu, eyebrows knitting together in a way that makes him appear cute and confused. “I came back… for you. Because this whole time I’ve spent away from here, all I kept thinking about was how much I missed you. And how much I…”
The tentativeness in his voice draws Beomgyu’s attention towards him, makes him look, really look.
In the dim and quiet of the room, draped in shadow, Soobin doesn’t look any less beautiful than the moment Beomgyu realizes he loved him, drenched in sun and light, so young and sweet and his. This Soobin, he’s different, but he is no less compelling to Beomgyu, and the whole of him aches, ten years of longing simmering into something deeper, richer than the childhood adoration he’s carried inside him since he’d first set eyes on that clumsy, lovely boy.
Beomgyu’s heart soars. He gives Soobin a tiny grin, the kind that used to convey just how much he liked what he heard. “How much you what, hyung?”
Soobin leans forward to knock their foreheads together, and the deja vu comes full circle, except this time, he doesn’t have to worry about being kicked out, doesn’t have to worry about losing this boy all over again. In the here and now, Beomgyu can loop his arms around his neck, draw him closer, and kiss him the way he’s been wanting to for years, and he knows that when he leans back, Soobin will still be there, smiling his big dopey smile that he cherishes, treasures, loves.
“Do I need to say it?” Soobin says, eyes half-lidded and curved with mirth. The joy that crests through Beomgyu is unbridled and electric. “I think you owe me, and you should say it first.”
“Idiot hyung,” Beomgyu giggles, his happiness uncontainable. He’s still laughing when he places a hand on Soobin’s face, rubbing over the jut of his cheekbone lovingly. His handsome Soobin-hyung. His. “Just this once, I’ll say it first.” If there are tears in his eyes, Soobin doesn’t comment on them, only gives him an encouraging smile.
By virtue of his field of work and his own life experience, Beomgyu’s an expert at looking into the past, but even though he’s still a novice at whatever Soobin is proposing they have, he’ll be an eager pupil, for as long as he has to be.
Beomgyu doesn’t think he deserves him, but he won’t question a miracle when he has it in his arms. He’s always believed it’s a gift to be able to fall in love surrounded by beautiful things, and Beomgyu is lucky to have had it happen to him twice. “I love you, hyung.”
And when Soobin leans forward to kiss him again, Beomgyu thinks that Tuesdays will now be his favorite day of the week.