Work Text:
Title: Soul of the Rose
Rating: PG
Fandom: EXO
Pairing: Jongin/Sehun
Length: 3174 words
Summary: Jongin is trapped in his house and garden with no one for company but his middle-aged parents. His life is an endless stretch of monotony until he meets Sehun, who delivers milk to the house every day.
Notes: This fic is inspired by John William Waterhouse's painting Soul of the Rose. It was written as part of the 
ateliers fic challenge project, which seeks to bring together multifandom fics inspired by literary works of art, prose, poetry and film.
|
Jongin reaches his left arm out, placing his palm gently against the sun-toasted brick of the garden wall. The uneven surface is coarse, just as it always is, but Jongin doesn't care that it hurts his skin if he pushes too hard. He puts up with the discomfort because oftimes, it seems like his only connection to the outside world. Pressing his hands against the rough brick, he can almost feel the pulse of the world beyond his garden walls. Horses clip-clopping past...carriage wheels trundling along. He used to take all these things for granted—before he got sick. Before that difficult time when he had to cough up gobbets of mucus stained in red. Before that time he had to struggle for the next pained breath. Before that time when a sharp ache in his chest was his constant companion. It's been so long, though, since that difficult time. Now his coughs are few and far between and there's only a ghost of an ache residing in his chest now. Jongin's body is almost healed and yet he's still caged here. It's a beautiful prison cell, but a cell nonetheless. After seven weeks of incarceration, he longs to see and hear all the mundane things firsthand— Horses clip-clopping past...carriage wheels trundling along. Surely his parents will release him soon from his prison of ivy and Sombreuil climbing roses? Before his soul withers entirely from the isolation? But there seems to be no convincing Mother that he won’t crumble to dust if he ventures beyond their front gate. She is adamant that if he breathes in anything other than the rarefied atmosphere of their garden and two-storey home, his pneumonia will return with a vengeance and send him back to hospital. Countless times, he’s thought about sneaking out—after his parents retire for the night. If he really wanted, he could let himself out the front gate and venture out. But where would he go? What would he do? Who would he talk to? And more importantly, what if he really did catch pneumonia again? The thought of having to endure another long confinement fills him with dread. Thus, he remains within the soulless walls of his bedroom each night, with nothing for company but Tolstoy and Hardy and his guilty pleasures, the works of Jane Austen and the Bronte Sisters (which he pilfers from his mother’s personal collection in the downstairs library). He has considered leaving the house in the daytime, but such an endeavour would be foolishly risky. His parents had had him late in life. His mother had been almost thirty-five when Jongin was born, and there had been no further offspring. All these factors have contributed to them being overly protective of Jongin. He feels smothered sometimes, but at the root of things, he knows they need him close by and he loves them and doesn't want to worry them. So he stays put, even if the edges of his soul have been curling up over the months—dry and crisp from lack of human company. He's not even allowed to go back to university because Mother has taken the liberty of deferring his studies till Michaelmas Term. There are only so many poems and novels one can read, and things one can sketch and paint before everything is reduced to a mind-numbing cloud of grey nothingness. Jongin needs the color and noise and distraction of the outside world. It's a need that laps at the edges of his soul, clamouring for release. But Mother and Father and that blasted wall are standing in his way. The garden wall is both his lifeline to the outside world as well as the thing that keeps him most firmly separated from it. It’s maddening .Careful to avoid the thorny tea roses, Jongin leans closer to the wall, palms stretched out against the leaf-covered brick. There's nothing but the sound of horse hooves now—no voices beyond the wall as far as he can tell. Disappointed, he turns his gaze to the Sombreuil antique roses. The blooms are layered and delicate, and the creamy white petals are tinged with a hint of peach so pale it's almost invisible. Summer sunlight warm on his eyelids, Jongin inhales the sweet fragrance of green apples. He's not sure he's completely enamored of the cloying scent, but at least the the roses are beautiful in that kind of way that steals your breath. Just for a second, maybe two. There isn't much else to do in the garden anyway so he might as well admire the perfection of his mother's climbing roses. "What's it telling you?" A deep, calm voice asks the question. "I beg your pardon?" Startled, Jongin responds straight away without turning to see who it is. He's more than a little disturbed because it is only ever his parents who speak to him here. There's the man who comes around every day to deliver two bottles of milk, but he never speaks to Jongin. He’s a craggy-faced, taciturn man who strides purposefully to the closed kitchen door with two gleaming glass bottles of milk, which he exchanges for two empty ones. Sometimes he grunts at Jongin and sometimes he doesn't. Words never play any part in their encounters. "The wall, what's it saying?" “Are you making fun of me?” Jongin finally turns around, face set in a defensive glare. “No,” the boy says simply. “Who are you and how did you get into my garden?” Jongin doesn’t sound affronted exactly, but his hackles are definitely raised. "I'm Sehun. A nice lady with gray hair opened the gate for me." Jongin eyes the boy warily. He looks harmless enough with his gangly limbs and open expression. His features are configured in a rather attractive manner, Jongin supposes, but still, he is a stranger and strangers must always be treated with suspicion. His almond shaped, hazel eyes, strong nose and pink Cupid's bow of a mouth are distractingly pretty though. "Why would my mother open the door for you?" Jongin asks, finally, because he still can't come up with a single, plausible reason as to why this boy is in his garden— talking to me ."So you can have milk in your porridge and in your tea?" The boy says, sounding amused as he slides large, pale hands into the front pockets of his white overalls. “I'm sure I don't understand what you mean?" Jongin says, but he knows he can decipher the answer if he tries hard enough. It's not even that cryptic but he's been locked away too long and his brain is like slow moving molasses. “I brought you two bottles of milk today and I'll bring you another two tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. Except for Sundays! Because we don’t deliver on Sundays." “But you’re not middle-aged. And you’re...saying things.” “Lord, I hope I'm not middle-aged. I’m just twenty, after all. And yes, I do say things sometimes." He ends his explanation with a chuckle. "Now, I know you're mocking me." "I'm not, I promise you," the boy says, holding his hands up in a gesture of truce. He looks like a different person when he smiles. Younger. Almost impish. "Where's the other man? The one who...doesn't speak at all?" "He's delivering milk in a different area now. The boss changed the roster." "You certainly talk a lot more than him." The tactless words spill out of Jongin’s mouth and it is too late to rein them in. "Truth be told, everyone talks a lot more than Changmin. Until he's had more than three pints of ale, anyway. That's his magic number. Once he's had his three pints, he can talk the hind legs off a donkey." "I find that...extremely difficult to imagine." "I don’t blame you. He is a rather quiet man." There's a pause born of that inevitable awkwardness that strangles every conversation between strangers. Before things get uncomfortable though, the milk boy speaks up. "But you still haven't told me, young Master, what the wall was telling you earlier." The boy is watching him so earnestly that Jongin cannot actually tell if he's mocking him or whether he honestly desires to know. "I was merely hoping to catch some signs of life beyond the wall," Jongin answers at last and he can't quite keep the sorrow out of his voice. Fingernails pressing into his palm, he wonders if the boy will make fun of him. "Well, now. I can probably help you with that. You remember the sugar maple trees that line the avenue? Well...they're heavy with leaves right now. Lush and green. And the daffodils are out so the beds surrounding the trees are like seas of yellow. Pretty." "I wish I could see it for myself," Jongin says, his voice imbued with so much regret. "Can't you go outside at all?" "It's out of the question. My parents won't allow it. The daffodils...I’ve always liked daffodils. They must be beautiful." "They are indeed. But I won't lie to you—the view would be a lot nicer if one didn’t have to smell all that horse piss." The boy delivers that final line in the most deadpan manner and Jongin laughs—he can't help it. All these months, his yearning for the outside had been so all-consuming that he'd quite forgotten just how badly the streets of London could reek of ammonia. "I don't miss the horse piss," he says, grinning up at the boy who's a few inches taller than him. "I'm Sehun," the boy introduces himself with a smile. "I'm Jongin." "Nice to meet you, Master Jongin." "Please...just call me Jongin." "Nice to meet you, J—" "Who's that you're talking to, son?" His mother's voice is not exactly intimidating but it's not friendly either. Jongin hadn't even noticed her presence in the garden. Unforgivably careless of him. "I left two bottles of milk by the door, ma'am. I've collected the bottles from yesterday so I'll be getting a move on then." The boy, no, wait, his name is Sehun. Sehun bows respectfully to Jongin's mother. "Yes, you do that. Run along now," Jongin's mother says, not unkindly. His eyes trained on Sehun's retreating figure, Jongin nods distractedly as his mother reminds him not to speak to random strangers. He wonders if he’ll see Sehun the following day. That night Jongin dreams Charcoal stains on his fingertips. Jongin's hands are beginning to cramp after almost forty minutes of intense work. His silver Ehrhardt pocket watch lies on the table, inches away from the paper he's covered in charcoal shapes. The ticking of the watch is his only companion now as his mother had vanished into the cool recesses of the house about ten minutes earlier. "'Morning! What are you drawing there?" Jongin looks up, his fingers loosening their grip on the charcoal pencil. Blond hair, hazel eyes and Cupid's bow. It's Sehun from yesterday and something flutters beneath his breastbone. He’d been half expecting the usual milkman today, the one who never had any words for Jongin. "Butterflies." He'd been meticulously copying Plate 51 from James Duncan’s The Natural History of British Butterflies—the pages tethered by two flat, sand-colored pebbles. It’s hard, repetitive work and his fingers ache. "May I have a look?" His hands are deep inside the cavernous pockets of his overalls. Again. Jongin wonders if they spend most of their day sheathed in fabric. That would explain why they’re the color of alabaster. "It’s not very much like the original illustration," Jongin says, embarrassed, as he pushes his drawing a little closer to the edge of the table. "That's not true, young Master." "I'm just...Jongin." "This is a very good copy, Jongin. I would even venture to say that it’s a brilliant replica," Sehun announces and Jongin is yet again struck by how very articulate and, well, educated he sounds for a milk boy. Are you just a milk boy? "It’s passing decent, I suppose," Jongin says, shrugging. "I think the problem lies in the fact that these butterflies are missing a personal touch. They're just copies for the moment. You need to make them your own, if you will." Sehun watches him, eyes filled with undisguised curiosity. "I'm not sure I understand?" "They are approximations of someone else's art, as you followed the original so faithfully. Perhaps you could...I’m not sure if it will help, but perhaps you could change the shape of the butterflies’ wings a little? Add a flower or a ladybird, perhaps? And when you're colouring in the drawing, if you're colouring it in that is, you could always pick colours that differ from the original," Sehun explained carefully. "But then it wouldn't be the same picture." "But isn't that the point? Are you doing this for school or are you doing this to pass the time?" "It's not for school. Well, university, actually. I'm studying Natural History at Cambridge, but I developed pneumonia a few months ago and had to defer my studies till autumn." "So you're drawing this for your own enjoyment then?" Sehun raises an eyebrow and Jongin can't tell if he's amused or perplexed. "I suppose I am," Jongin admits sheepishly. "Well, you can choose to make a replica of the original or make it a little different or even make it altogether different. It's all up to you. Do you see?" It sounds so logical. Why had it never occurred to Jongin to not follow the original slavishly? Why had he boxed himself in for no reason at all? Feeling something uncatch in his chest, Jongin finds that he no longer wants an exact replica of Plate 51 of The Natural History of British Butterflies. Never has he felt more suffocated by butterflies, roses, walls and parental love. A fragment of his soul unfurls—trying, gingerly, to spread its still stiff, still wet wings. More and more, he wants to see what lies beyond the walls. More and more, he wants to know— what the boy sees “Sehun, I—” But his words are interrupted by the sharp rap of heeled boots on the cobbled steps that connect the French doors of the house with the garden. Mother. Sehun tenses beside him, his easy smile is still in place. He's taken his hands out of his pockets, though, and they hang in loose fists by his hips. "Good day, Ma'am," he greets Jongin's mother. "I see the bottles of milk by the door," she says, the shadow of a frown hovering on her face as she stands at the foot of the steps. “Indeed,” Sehun agrees in a respectful tone. “I was just leaving. Good day, ma’am.” He gives Mother a polite nod. Then he turns to Jongin and says, “Goodbye, young sir.” “Goodbye.” Jongin decides that it’s wiser to leave out his name. There’s no need to make Mother anxious. "Maybe you should draw butterflies in flight," Sehun whispers as he walks past. Jongin blinks, the sunlight hurting his eyes as he watches the beautiful boy walk further and further away from him. “What did he say to you?” Mother asks suspiciously. “He asked what I was drawing and I told him.” “You shouldn’t talk to strangers, Jongin. You know your father and I don’t like it.” He’s not a stranger. “Yes, Mother.” Jongin suppresses a sigh at her censorious words. When will you let me breathe? As he watches Sehun let himself out the front gate, Jongin feels his soul's fledgling wings wither and die a little. He looks down at the butterflies he'd been sketching—not butterflies he had seen and observed with his own eyes but butterflies he’d copied from a textbook. Jongin’s index finger traces the wing of a Polyommatus Argiolus, and his heart fills with an overflowing sense of bitterness for the monotony of his existence. I want more. “It’s not advisable to make conversation with the help. Jongin, are you listening?” He nods and tolerates her tiresome lecture, yes, but Jongin’s mind has already leaped beyond the boundaries of the wall, panning over imagined, golden daffodils and fresh green, sugar maple leaves, and watching as smartly dressed Londoners stroll along the sidewalks and horse-drawn carriages wheel past his house. To be outside again. At last, Mother’s cold little speech comes to an end and she disappears through the French doors in a blur of pale muslin sleeves and navy trumpet-shaped skirt. Jongin’s chest feels less constricted as he finds himself alone in the garden. Sighing, he picks up the drawing he’d been working on earlier. That’s when he sees a snowy white square on the table. Nothing is written on it other than neat, cursive script which spells out J-o-n-g-i-n. Not daring to hope, he takes the neatly folded paper and opens it up. Dear Jongin, I know this is very forward of me but I was wondering if you might like, perhaps, to see the summer daffodils and sugar maple leaves for yourself. I’ll be taking a walk in your area tonight so I’ll wait outside your gate at around ten, just in case you would like to join me. We can just walk and talk about things. I’ll wait until quarter past the hour. I’ll understand if you choose not to come, but I fervently hope to see you at ten. Sincerely yours, Sehun. Walk and talk about things. Jongin is excited to know what they’ll discuss as they walk through the streets of London. Smiling, he picks up his charcoal pencil and begins to make little changes to his drawing—just enough to make it a little different from the original. Just enough. Walk and talk about things. |