Archive of Our Own

In front of time, the ultimate treasure, we are all equal. Unconditionally.
Yang Haiying

On summer nights, time drips by like the remnants of spring rain. It sluices off the eaves and collects in lazy puddles long after the clouds have departed. The air thrums with the chirp of cicadas and laughter, distorted through the filter of one too many bottles of makgeolli. Amber light spills across Wonwoo's paper and shimmers on the lines of wet ink. He is yet to be truly satisfied with the words produced by his hand, but there is no use in wasting another page of fine paper.

He writes and writes, and he thinks of raised red welts across his knuckles.

As his brush carves out the tenth stroke in the hanja for 'firefly', a small plate of tea sweets makes its way to his table. Beneath the indistinct chattering surrounding the scene, the one-two knock of ceramic on wood makes such a delicate sound. Wonwoo finishes the character with precision before he lifts his gaze to meet a pair of bright eyes.

"Does Aunty know that you're handing out free food again?" he asks with a raise of his eyebrow, looking pointedly at the colourful rounds arranged in a neat circle.

"How will Aunty find out if nobody tells her?" Mingyu fires back with that charming grin of his. He winks as he pushes the plate a little closer, and Wonwoo wonders where Mingyu had picked up such roguish behaviour. "It's our secret, okay? I don't do this for just anyone, you know."

Humouring him, Wonwoo hums in a manner that suggests he is unconvinced, though it doesn't stop him from plucking a pink-hued sweet from the centre and nibbling at it. His book lays open, momentarily forgotten as the ink dries. Honeyed tartness blooms on his tongue, perfumed with magnolia berry.

"What makes me so deserving of such preferential treatment, hmm?"

"Because you are my favourite," Mingyu answers breezily as he drops himself onto the low seat across the table.

Privately, Wonwoo muses that scholars and poets will dedicate their life's work to stirring the heart, and yet nothing could ever compare to the simplicity of honest words. He finishes the sweet, licking at the specks that cling to his fingertips, and presses on, "And why am I your favourite?"

"You ask too many questions, Wonwoo-hyung," Mingyu frowns, though his mouth shapes into more of a petulant moue than anything else. He nudges the ink stone away so that Wonwoo won’t stain his sleeve as he reaches for another sweet. "I don't have a reason. I don't need one. You’re my favourite, and that’s all."

It is far from the first time that this exchange has happened between them. Wonwoo would have to be a complete fool to miss the way that Mingyu's gaze softens whenever it lands upon him. Yet each time, without fail, Mingyu will give a similarly vague answer and expect Wonwoo to be satisfied with that.

Though perhaps, if Wonwoo is so endlessly curious about Mingyu's non-responses, he needs only to look at himself. If Mingyu were to ask him the same question, Wonwoo would not be able to articulate a reason in words, either. He has not yet had to worry about that, thankfully, for Mingyu still hasn't realised that his feelings are returned. Of course, it would be easy to tell him with equal honesty. Mingyu's attempts at courtship, though wholly unnecessary, are quite endearing.

Simply put, Wonwoo enjoys the attention. He accepts the gifted treats and shy compliments, and he lets Mingyu sit by his side to watch him write under the light of the lanterns.

Sometimes, there is a certain kind of longing in Mingyu's eyes as they trace the winding path of Wonwoo's brush. It resembles the tug that Wonwoo felt behind his ribcage when he was younger, wondering what it would be like if he skipped his lessons to play games in the street with Mingyu and the other children. It was a desire to trade his Thousand Character Classic for scraped knees and boisterous laughter, if only for a single afternoon, for a fleeting taste of a youth that did not belong to him.

It is somewhat of a wonder how they became so fond of each other despite their differing paths. Mingyu’s unwavering persistence in making Wonwoo his friend deserves the bulk of the credit, no doubt.

"What are you writing about this time, hyung?" Mingyu asks, cupping his cheeks in his hands as he rests his elbows on the table. His gaze is curious tonight, flickering between the paper and Wonwoo's face in anticipation.

"Evenings in summer," Wonwoo answers as his eyes sweep over the characters stacked upon each other in neat columns. He knows that this page will end up in the very back of his bookshelf. Not quite discarded, but as good as abandoned. "I don't think this one is working out very well, though."

"Hmm, why not? Will you read it to me?"

Without hesitation, Wonwoo obliges.

He tells Mingyu what he wrote of cicadas and laughter and amber light, and he cannot help but think that it all sounds rather distant, even in his own voice. It's almost as though he had tried to reproduce a scene described to him by another, and he hasn’t quite been able to capture the atmosphere. The right words remain elusive, teasing at his fingertips, just beyond his reach.

"I still think it's pretty," Mingyu shrugs. However, he is an incorrigibly biased judge and says that about almost everything Wonwoo writes. "Missing something, maybe."

Wonwoo murmurs in agreement, having some idea about what it lacks. But he's all too aware that if he lets himself begin to write about moonlight in dark eyes and the curve of a sharp-toothed smile, his books will be filled with love letters. Besides, no one wants to read about the yearnings of a boy from a small village outside of the capital. If Wonwoo is going to use his brush to carry him into a respectable profession as he is supposed to do, he’d better start penning down great tales of heroism and war and triumph, or perhaps poems about the allure of nature.

He lets out a slow sigh, hoping that Mingyu won’t ask him what he’s thinking of, and reaches for another sweet. Just as he’s about to let out a pleased hum at the nutty flavour of toasted black sesame, a looming presence materialises by the side of their table.

“Ack-!”

“Slacking off again, Kim Mingyu?”

Wonwoo very nearly chokes on his bite of food as he laughs at the scene before him. Mingyu has both hands clasped protectively over the crown of his head, and his aunt towers over him with a steely expression and a wooden spoon in hand.

“Wonwoo-yah, is this boy here bothering you?” she asks as she gives Mingyu another rap on the head with the handle of the spoon.

“Terribly so, Aunty,” Wonwoo responds, his features automatically arranging themselves into his most innocent expression. “He disturbs my work every day and refuses to leave no matter what I do-”

“Hyu-ung…” Mingyu whines, dragging out the vowels into a string of petulance. For a split second, Wonwoo is afraid that his teasing had crossed the line, but there is a twinkle in Mingyu’s eye, one that says he knows Wonwoo’s true intentions and would not dream of deliberately misconstruing them.  

It does not matter that Mingyu cannot read the words on Wonwoo’s page, not when he is perfectly fluent in reading Wonwoo’s expression. And so Wonwoo has no choice but to let the corners of his mouth tug upwards into a returning smile, his eyes darting down towards the table once more.

Mingyu's aunt observes their exchanged glances with a small smile of her own before she says firmly, “A quarter-hour and not a moment longer, you hear me, Mingyu-yah?”

“Yes, Aunty,” Mingyu chirps dutifully with a hand over his heart. Satisfied, his aunt turns to Wonwoo.

“I’ll bring you more dasik, how about that? Was it the black sesame you liked best?”

“Yes, thank you, Aunty,” Wonwoo beams, and he receives a fond pat on the head before she leaves to answer the calls of another table.

When Wonwoo turns his attention back to Mingyu, he finds those familiar features arranged into a scandalised expression. He arches an eyebrow and asks, “Why are you making that face?”

“All this time…” Mingyu mutters, his mouth setting into a frown as he folds his arms across his chest. “You’ve been getting food from me and Aunty?”

“If you offer me free sweets, what else am I to do? Only a fool would refuse,” Wonwoo shrugs back. Mingyu should have no reason to be so shocked, really.

“Hyung, you’re a real sly fox, aren't you?”

“It can’t be helped.”

A retort falters on the tip of Mingyu's tongue before he closes his mouth again, pressing his lips into a contemplative line. Wonwoo has seen this expression many times, though he can never quite predict which combination of words is going to leave Mingyu’s mouth once the cogs in his head have finished turning.

Mingyu ducks his head, abashed, and glances off to the side before mumbling, “But this means you don’t like me just because I give you free things, right?”

“Don’t tell me you honestly believed such nonsense,” Wonwoo snorts, somewhat relieved. “Do you truly think so lowly of me, Mingyu? Am I that shallow in your eyes?”

“Of course not! To me, you- you’re…” Mingyu snaps his gaze back to Wonwoo, then trails off into silence.

“I’m what? Finish your sentence, go on.”

A gentle nudge, playful coaxing.

Mingyu takes a rather deep breath before he speaks, and Wonwoo begins to think that he is going to get far more than he bargained for.

“To me, hyung is… someone very special.”

There is no mistaking the faint shade of pink that creeps across the tops of Mingyu’s cheeks, even under the low light. The private admission is like a shower of sparks to the kindling of Wonwoo’s ribcage, encouraging flames to bloom deep in his heart. It turns him shy, too, and he finds that he cannot bring himself to return Mingyu’s sentiments. Not quite yet. The moment is not right.

Mingyu seems to understand, judging by the way that his expression softens. He says nothing more as Wonwoo touches his brush to the paper and continues to write in elegant, practiced strokes. Only when Wonwoo reaches the end of his page does Mingyu ask quietly, hopefully, “Do you think I could learn to write, too?”

Wonwoo knows what he truly means to say. This is Mingyu finding the courage to face the barrier that stands between them, seeking to scale the towers of unknown characters that make Wonwoo’s world inaccessible to him.

“I don’t see why not,” Wonwoo smiles back. “Shall I teach you?”

“Would you really?” Mingyu gasps, sitting up a little straighter. His eyes take on a wondrous shine.

“Of course. I could teach you to write anything you wanted.”

“Then... how about your name?”

“My name? Why would you want to write that?” Wonwoo asks, taken aback by the request.

“Mine isn’t all that special. One of my friends in town is named Lee Mingyu, you know? But no one else is named Jeon Wonwoo.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that you had the time to take register of the names of every single citizen in the country.”

“Is that your attempt at a joke, hyung? Well, whatever. You’re the only Jeon Wonwoo that I’m ever going to meet in this lifetime. So if you teach me how to write your name, I promise I’ll remember it until I die.”

Mingyu says it with such sincerity, such an earnest look in his eyes that Wonwoo’s face begins to grow warm.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Wonwoo breathes, barely louder than a whisper. “If you have the time. I’ll be waiting.”

Mingyu arrives at Wonwoo’s doorstep when the sun is high, a small bag of candied ginger in his hand. “From Aunty,” he explains, holding it out somewhat bashfully, and Wonwoo accepts it with a gracious smile.

Everything has already been prepared. Paper and brushes, an ink stick and ink stone, a mat to protect the wooden boards. Freshly brewed barley tea and his family’s finest porcelain cups. Wonwoo had not been able to focus on anything else for the entire morning, far too preoccupied with the anticipation of spending time alone with Mingyu. His father would find it appalling how readily he had neglected his studies for frivolous play, but that is the least of Wonwoo’s concerns right now.

Mingyu hesitates slightly before he kneels on one of the cushions that Wonwoo has laid out, mouth drawn into a slight frown as his gaze sweeps across the writing materials.

“Is something wrong?” Wonwoo asks gently as he kneels beside Mingyu.

“No, just… is it really alright for me to do this? To use your ink and paper, your time?” Mingyu answers, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I can think of no better use for them.”

“You and your silver tongue, hyung... well, then. Where do we start?”

Though Wonwoo has come to know this very well over the years, he takes a moment to admire how well Mingyu listens. He watches attentively as Wonwoo demonstrates how to fold the paper to make a grid and explains that he does not need to worry about being too gentle with the creases despite its delicate texture. Halves, thirds, quarters. Mingyu copies his actions slowly, precisely, glancing so often at Wonwoo’s hands that it is almost too cute to bear. Once the paper has been divided into neat squares, they unfold the sheets and smooth them flat again with a soft crinkling sound.

Next, they must prepare the ink. When he first started learning how to write, this had been Wonwoo’s least favourite task. It was tedious and time-consuming, and his wrists would often grow sore from the repetitive motions of grinding the ink stick in never-ending circles. He had come to appreciate the act after learning about the arduous process of making high quality ink. Now, it is a small luxury. Wonwoo explains it all to Mingyu as he pours a small amount of water onto the ink stone.

“You must let the ink stick soak for a short while to make it easier to grind. A minute or two at most, else it will damage the stick.”

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

“That is something you can learn only through feel. But the sound of it, too, may tell you. Here, listen.”

For the sake of demonstration, Wonwoo drags the dry ink stick in a single circle around the stone’s well. The sound and feeling alike are harsh and gritty. Wonwoo lets a few minutes pass, enough time to pour tea for Mingyu and himself, then takes up the ink stick once more.

“Oh, it really does sound softer.”

“Do you want to try?”

“Sure.”

Mingyu’s expression is the picture of concentration as he grinds the ink, his gaze occasionally flickering to Wonwoo’s face to seek approval. To Wonwoo’s surprise, Mingyu is quite involved in the entire process and not simply impatient to start writing. He asks all kinds of questions, and Wonwoo is happy to tell him everything he knows.

“I could get used to this,” Wonwoo remarks as he sips his tea, eyes lingering on the veins of Mingyu’s hands somewhat shamelessly.

Mingyu shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye and retorts slyly, “Sounds to me like you want to see me every day, then.”

Wonwoo lets out a huff of a laugh, angling his face away. He had only meant to tease, but it appears that being alone together has made Mingyu bolder.

“I suppose I could get used to that, too.”

Mingyu says nothing in response, but Wonwoo does not miss the way that the corner of his mouth curls upwards into a satisfied smile.

The next few minutes are spent in silence as Mingyu continues to grind the ink stick until Wonwoo deems it enough. Finally, it is time to pick up their brushes. Wonwoo tests the ink first on a small piece of scrap paper and is pleased with the opacity. Mingyu did a fine job, and his ears redden endearingly when Wonwoo tells him so.

Wonwoo begins by showing Mingyu how to hold the brush, telling him that though it might feel uncomfortable at first, it will get better as he becomes familiar with it. Then comes Mingyu’s first challenge: horizontal and vertical lines. His preference for using his left hand has carried over into writing, and it complicates the process somewhat as he attempts to copy the movements of Wonwoo’s brush.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” Mingyu says with a grin as lopsided as the countless lines he has drawn. “It looks so easy when you do it.”

Wonwoo reassures him, “Everyone begins like this. Often, the basics are the most difficult part. You’re doing well.”

“If you say so, hyung.”

Though his words are bashful, he makes no effort to hide how pleased he is by the praise.

Once Mingyu has grown used to the way that the brush sits in his hand, Wonwoo asks him, “Can you write your name?”

Mingyu answers, contemplative, “In the people’s script? I can try. I know how to read, but I’ve never had the chance to write it myself before.”

With cautious movements, Mingyu begins to write his name. He follows the stroke order of each letter exactly as it is taught. His brushwork is clumsy, as expected for a beginner, though the result is not bad at all. Wonwoo gives Mingyu some words of gentle encouragement when he appears dismayed at the shaking of his hands, his face falling.

Kim Mingyu. Neat and square, with sharp angles and distinct syllables. Wonwoo likes the way that it softens in his mouth when he calls out, “Mingyu-yah. Very good. Can you write mine, too?”

“I don’t know how to spell it,” Mingyu admits shyly.

“I’ll show you.”

Wonwoo should not know how to write the people’s script. He taught it to himself in secret, hiding his copy of the official publication between the spines of his classics. Though many years have passed since its introduction, his father, along with most other scholars, remains steadfast in his disapproval. Wonwoo thinks it is a terrible shame they oppose sharing the gift that is the ability to give thoughts and emotion a tangible form.

In the end, this wall is insurmountable. All that Wonwoo can do is indulge Mingyu like this, offer him a window to peer through. Mingyu, with his wistful eyes and awkward grip on his brush, knows. Perhaps Mingyu’s life could have been different if his civil servant father hadn’t abandoned a young woman with nothing but a son and three characters that they cannot read.

Wonwoo pushes his thoughts aside and writes his name slowly for Mingyu to follow. He glances over just in time to see Mingyu’s lips shaping into a pout as he mouths the words to himself.

“Jeon Wonwoo. It’s cute,” Mingyu smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Round and cute, just like the sound of your name.”

He promptly copies it down on his own sheet of paper, tongue poking out in concentration. Wonwoo can hear Mingyu humming a made-up melody in lilting triplets while he writes. Something stirs in the depths of his chest at the sight of their names side by side, mirroring the way that they are sitting together now. He likes it.

Mingyu’s paper soon becomes cluttered with ink. Repetitions of their names, half-finished words, random dots and lines. Without having to be shown how, he plays around with the angle of the brush and how much pressure he applies, creating thin strokes or wide, sweeping ones. While Mingyu is busy with his experimentation, Wonwoo flicks through his practice books, searching for simple exercises. He should let Mingyu get used to the way that the characters are written before diving straight in.

Once again, a fresh sheet of paper is filled with writing. With Wonwoo’s guidance, Mingyu advances from messy scribbles to simple four-character idioms. He writes each one twice, once in the sweeping strokes of hanja and once more in the compact blocks of the people’s script so that he can remember how to read it. Though his lines have a slight wobble and his proportions are unbalanced, he is learning at an incredible pace.

“No wonder you have to study for your whole life, hyung,” Mingyu sighs loudly after Wonwoo has finished showing him how to write the numbers from one to ten. “You know thousands of these? And even though some of them sound exactly the same, they mean completely different things just because they’re written differently? Seems overly complicated if you ask me.”

“Giving up already, hmm?” Wonwoo teases back, amused.

“Of course not. You haven’t taught me how to write your name yet.”

There it is again, that steadfast seriousness. If it were about anything else, Wonwoo is sure that Mingyu would have played along with their usual push-and-pull. His determination flusters and endears Wonwoo in equal measures. He cherishes the quickening of his pulse, a feeling unlike any other.

Wonwoo’s brush hovers over his page. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

It takes twenty-six strokes to write Wonwoo’s full name. A sharp incline in complexity from the basic exercises that Mingyu has been practicing with, but he is nothing if not an eager student.

“It may look complicated,” Wonwoo explains as he writes his name out once for Mingyu to observe, “but the strokes are not very difficult. See, this one is simply made of many horizontal lines.”

“Which part of your name is it?”

“‘Won’. As in a circle, or something round.”

“Cute…” Mingyu mumbles underneath his breath with a smile, just loud enough for Wonwoo’s ears to catch the sound. “And the ‘Woo’ part? What does that one mean?”

“Assistance.”

“I like that. It suits you well.”

It isn’t long at all before Mingyu is able to write Wonwoo’s name almost from memory alone. Each one turns out slightly different as he experiments with the pressure he puts on his brush and the shape of each stroke. For some reason he can’t quite place, it makes Wonwoo grow shy to watch Mingyu writing with his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth silently parting around each syllable of Wonwoo’s name. How wonderful it would be, he muses, if Mingyu could be afforded the opportunity to receive proper lessons.

Then again, it is very likely that Mingyu’s diligence is linked inextricably to Wonwoo’s presence. The thought brings a smile to his face, and he presses his lips together in an effort to keep it from growing too obvious.

Wonwoo drinks his tea while Mingyu keeps writing, over and over until his page beneath his hands is filled with ink from edge to edge. He takes particular care with the last iteration, his brushstrokes cautious but not dragging in a way that would cause the ink to bleed. He lightens the pressure on his brush slowly as he lifts it away from the page, finishing the character neatly just as Wonwoo would do.

Before moving on, Mingyu decides to take a break and sets his brush down. He drains the cup of tea that Wonwoo had poured for him earlier, now cooled, and rubs at the reddened side of his finger where the handle had dug into his skin. Wonwoo has a hardened callus in the same place on his right hand from years of friction. He is overcome with the sudden urge to reach over and touch, to cover Mingyu’s larger hand with his own, but he cannot find the courage to do so. Instead, he refills Mingyu’s cup, and they take a piece each of the ginger candy Mingyu had brought.  

“I like this,” Mingyu says, eyes downcast as he traces around the rim of his cup with his fingertip. “Spending time with you this way. It’s not quite the same as when you visit me at the inn. Sometimes, you’re so busy that I don’t see you for days, not even in passing.”

“I don’t have many chances to relax,” Wonwoo admits quietly, folding his hands in his lap.

“I know. I’m not holding it against you. You have high expectations to fulfil, don’t you?”

Mingyu has a rather uncanny ability to sense what troubles a person even if they have never told him directly. In harmonious combination with his smooth conversation skills, it is what makes him so well liked among the people in the village. Talk to the Kim boy at the inn over your drink, they say, he’ll lend you an ear no matter what time of day it is.

Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Wonwoo has always envied the others. Mingyu will give his attention to anyone who asks, and yet until now, Wonwoo had never allowed himself to indulge in the same way without shame or hesitation. He still remembers the Mingyu from their early childhood, how bright and toothy his smile had been as he asked Wonwoo if he wanted to play together. He still remembers how he’d turned away coldly, proclaiming that he didn’t have time to waste on silly games. Even then, the jealousy had begun to rear its head.

But now, Wonwoo has Mingyu’s undivided attention. No rowdy inn patrons calling for more liquor, no Aunty to drag Mingyu off by the ear when he stays at Wonwoo’s table for too long, no lofty expectations circling high above Wonwoo’s head. Here, there is only Wonwoo and Mingyu and their shared adoration, drawn in dark and bold strokes on the sheets of paper beside their knees.

Wonwoo calls out softly, “Mingyu-yah. Would you... like to know how to write your name, too?”

Mingyu blinks at him, wide-eyed. “How do you know it, hyung?”

“I asked your mother to show me once. The letter that your father left behind.”

Wonwoo chooses not to divulge that he had memorised the characters in an instant as he cradled the paper carrying Mingyu’s name in his hands.

“Show me, please,” Mingyu says resolutely. “I want to know.”

Mingyu’s full name also comprises twenty-six strokes, a fact that Wonwoo privately revels in. Though he has never written Mingyu’s name on paper before, he knows each character well. His family name, ‘Kim’, the only remnant of his father, ‘Min’ for a jade stone, ‘Gyu’ for a star. A beautiful name for a forgotten boy.

“I believe it is also the name of a constellation. But here it simply means a star.”

“Which constellation?”

“I am not sure. I will have to check and tell you another time.”

Mingyu watches on with an impassive expression, listens intently as Wonwoo finishes explaining each character’s meaning. He hesitates before he picks up his brush and loads it lightly with ink. His family name blossoms on the page with ease. It is near identical in shape to Wonwoo’s family name, a mere two short strokes differentiating them. He is slower to write ‘Min’ and even slower to finish ‘Gyu’, and he sighs when the final stroke is complete.

He is smiling, Wonwoo realises to his surprise. Closer inspection reveals the bitterness lining the curve of Mingyu’s mouth.

“Hmph. He gave me a pretty name, as if it would mean anything to mother and I, and then he abandoned us. I don’t know how I should feel right now.”

“Mingyu-yah…”

“Do you think it’s wrong to hate someone you’ve never met, Wonwoo-hyung?” Mingyu asks quietly, turning his earnest and intense gaze to Wonwoo’s face.

Wonwoo had been concerned about Mingyu growing upset over this, but the question still manages to catch him off-guard. Unable to think of something consoling to say, his honest answer slips past his lips unfiltered, “When it is someone who has caused you and your mother so much pain through his mere absence, I think… you are not entirely unjustified in your resentment.”

“But the absence is the heart of the issue, isn’t it? I never knew him. If he were to visit the inn, if he were to speak with me and order food and drink like any other patron, I wouldn’t even know that the person in front of me was my own father. I find myself thinking about it often. It’s strange. I hate him for what he did to my mother, leaving her all alone to raise me, but I wouldn’t be able to recognise him if I met him. Is it wrong, hyung? To resent my father even though I don’t truly know him?”

Raised red welts across his knuckles. Words that were harsh and encouraging in equal measures, both cutting into him just as deeply.

The backs of Wonwoo’s eyes begin to sting and grow hot. He swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat.

“That is a question I cannot answer for you, Mingyu-yah.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m being unfair. I wasn’t really looking for an answer from you, just… give me a moment to sulk.”

Finally, a genuine smile cracks Mingyu’s sombre expression after his joke. Wonwoo smiles back. He is now assured that he was not mistaken to let Mingyu confront this facet of himself. It is so very like him to feel guilty over harbouring even a drop of resentment in his heart. Wonwoo hopes that a day will come when Mingyu is no longer plagued by these thoughts.

Mingyu traces a finger across the dried ink on his paper, a fond and faraway look in his downcast eyes. Wonwoo lets his gaze wander all over Mingyu’s face. Time has not yet taken the boyish charm from his features, yet his maturity shows in these quiet, contemplative moments. Somewhere in between those years of sparse meetings, Wonwoo had missed the sharpening of Mingyu’s jaw, his nose, his eyes. He has grown up so well.

 “Thank you, Wonwoo-hyung,” Mingyu murmurs, his voice tender. “I feel closer to you, somehow. Look, our names are almost the same. Jeon and Kim. I like that.”

He glances up to meet Wonwoo’s eyes, and Wonwoo becomes acutely aware of how close they have grown. A flush begins to creep up his neck when he realises that he was the one who had gradually leaned in closer without thinking. He could count every single one of Mingyu’s sweeping eyelashes if he so wished. He is faintly aware of the sound of his heart, its quickening pace drumming out a rhythm that makes him start to tremble all over.

“Jeon Wonwoo,” Mingyu whispers, gaze drifting down towards Wonwoo’s mouth.

He cannot hold back any longer.

The first press of their mouths makes Wonwoo feel like he has become weightless. Mingyu’s lips are soft and a little dry, and when he coaxes Wonwoo ever so gently into opening his mouth, the lingering taste of ginger candy sets Wonwoo’s senses alight. Warm spice and sweetness, a combination so dangerously alluring. A terrible noise of raw need is wrenched involuntarily from Wonwoo’s throat as he strains his neck to push back against Mingyu.

Mingyu freezes for a split second before pulling back, and Wonwoo’s eyes fly open. He cannot recall ever closing them. He feels dazed, disoriented, utterly spellbound. Mingyu is breathing hard as his gaze roams across Wonwoo’s face. The look in his eyes, glazed over with desire, is foreign and exhilarating all at once.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mingyu murmurs, his voice so low that it is little more than a rumble that rattles something deep within Wonwoo’s chest. Wonwoo only makes another soft noise in response and tilts his face upwards, yearning to be kissed again.

Mingyu does not seem to be consumed by the same urgent need. He takes his time shuffling closer to lift a hand to Wonwoo’s cheek, thumb sweeping in a high arc that peaks just beneath his eye. Rarely has Wonwoo ever felt such a loving touch. It makes him feel short of breath as he leans into the warmth of Mingyu’s palm.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Mingyu says, laying his heart bare. “Wanted you for so long.”

Wonwoo opens his mouth to respond, to tell Mingyu the words that he has been waiting years to hear, but his breath stutters when Mingyu slides his hand down to cup the sensitive nape of his neck.

“I feel the same,” Wonwoo finally confesses, voice wavering. “You must have known all along, Mingyu-yah. How much I adore you.”

“But nothing comes close to hearing you say it.”

Mingyu breaks into a grin, blinding and radiant like daybreak condensed into a single moment of joy. Wonwoo cannot help but return that brilliant smile and let Mingyu pull him close once more.

They quickly lose track of time, their work long forgotten in favour of exchanging deep kisses and hushed confessions. Wonwoo’s hands itch to write, to translate sensation into words, but they are busy tangling themselves through Mingyu’s dark hair. His heart wants to be selfish and keep the knowledge of a feeling this divine all to himself. He does not think that he will ever get enough of it. The hunger in the pit of his stomach only grows with each passing moment until he feels as though it will soon consume him.

“Am I your first?” Mingyu asks out of the blue when they break apart, panting lightly. He gazes right into Wonwoo’s eyes as he says it, so intensely that warmth simmers low in Wonwoo’s stomach. Mingyu looks so handsome with his hair tousled and falling across his brow, his lips reddened and kiss-plumped.

Wonwoo nods shyly and says back, “Does it show? Am I... bad at this?”

“No. Not at all. You’re a fast learner, hyung. Who would’ve thought that I’d be the one to teach you something today?”

“Don’t tell me that this was your plan right from the beginning.”

“It wasn’t! But... I’d be lying if I said I haven’t dreamed of a moment just like this. You and me and nothing else. No one else.”

“As have I,” Wonwoo whispers, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans in to press his forehead against Mingyu’s. “I thought I was longing for something I could never have.”

“I’ve only ever had eyes for you, Wonwoo-hyung.”

Mingyu’s sweet words push Wonwoo to the very brink of being overwhelmed by affection. Everything sinks into him in a rush, his senses overloaded. It’s the warmth of Mingyu’s hands where he is cradling Wonwoo’s face, the scent of ink and paper enveloping them, the faint sound of cicadas beginning to chirp.

When Wonwoo opens his eyes again, he pulls away and turns his face to the orange-stained sky.

“Mingyu-yah, isn’t it time for you to go?”

“They won’t mind if I come back a little later than I said I would,” Mingyu tries to dismiss the question, shamelessly leaning in for another kiss. Wonwoo blocks the attempt with a hand over his lips.

“You’re going to get scolded. And so am I, for letting you stay.”

“Hyung, come on, seriously, I just got to hear you say that you like me back, and now you can’t wait to get rid of me? Hey! Stop laughing!”

Wonwoo’s giggles do not subside at all, especially not when Mingyu is pouting at him so cutely. He only laughs harder when Mingyu tries to pinch him in the side in retaliation. He teases, “So clingy already, Mingyu. We can do this again another day, you know.”

That gets Mingyu to stop fussing in an instant.

“We can?”

“I’ll make time for you. I promise.”

“I- you don’t have to. I mean, of course I want to spend more time with you, but I know you’re busy. I don’t want to distract you from your studies.”

“I want to spend time with you, too,” Wonwoo responds, knowing that Mingyu cannot possibly argue against this.

It’s a beautiful thing, the way that happiness unfolds across Mingyu’s features like nascent blossoms.

“Another day, then, Wonwoo-hyung. I’ll hold you to it.”

“I don’t make promises that I don’t intend to fulfil.”