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Jungwon wakes up to the sound of a whistling kettle, high and thin. He turns over to the other side of the bed, pulling the patchwork quilt over his shoulders.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Hyung?”
He keeps his eyes closed, even as he hears the unmistakable twist of the knob and the muffled creaks on the wooden floor approaching him.
“Jungwon-hyung.”
Maybe, just maybe, if he can somehow manage to melt into the bed, the other will leave him alone.
And it almost seems like he will, when the slow morning stretches into silence for a handful of minutes. It's long enough for Jungwon to hope for an extra hour of sleep, but then the bed dips beside him and he feels a finger poke his cheek.
“I told you not to do that.”
A deep chuckle.
“The tea will grow cold if you wait too long.”
“Well, maybe I like my tea cold.”
“Sure, maybe that’ll help you grow taller.”
“That’s not how tea magic works,” Jungwon grumbles, finally opening his eyes. The first thing he sees is Riki’s face, lit by a watercolor splash of sunlight across his skin. Black strands of hair fall delicately into his eyes. He’s already dressed up for the day in a knit sweater, leather boots, and trousers.
Riki laughs softly at him. “Come on, I made breakfast too.”
“Can I please have five more minutes—”
“Nope, no. The last time you said that, you slept all the way to lunch and we weren’t able to go to the lake that day.”
Jungwon sighs. Riki knows him too well.
“Alright, alright, I’m up. No need to bat your eyelashes.”
Riki pouts at that, a little duckling. He’s clearly trying to look upset, but the twinkle in his eyes gives him away. Jungwon slaps him lightly on the arm, but the other boy just laughs again as he walks out the room. Jungwon slides his feet into his slippers, yawns into his hands, and follows Riki to the kitchen.
“What did you get from the market this time?” Jungwon takes a seat at one of the dainty wooden chairs around the dining table. There are two plates of pancakes set out in front of him. He pulls one closer and begins to slice his pancake into neat triangles.
“Ginger tea, but I used something else today,” Riki replies, gently setting down two steaming mugs on the table before slipping into the other seat. “Misora and I checked the little greenhouse. The jasmine I got back in December looks ready.”
Jungwon pauses, fork hovering over his pancake. “Has it been that long already?”
It's colder in their kitchen, with the faint fingers of winter still clinging to their skin. Riki considers him quietly.
“Almost two months.”
“Oh.”
Riki slides one mug of tea closer to Jungwon. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you still up for a visit to the lake?”
Jungwon tries for a smile. “Of course.”
The lake is beautiful, even in winter. The bleakness of shadowed water. The hushed landscape. Not that Jungwon has ever seen it beyond these biting days of snow and ice.
Riki first brought him here a few months ago, not long after they arrived in the village. Jungwon had been haunting the cottage, staring out the window or into their fireplace with dark, coal eyes.
“The walk will be good for you,” Riki explained, each word a muted weight.
“I don’t know.” Even his own footsteps seemed like a following ghost.
“Please.” Riki ran a thumb over Jungwon’s knuckles. “I haven’t been since before I left for the temple.”
At that, Jungwon met his eyes. Despite the grays of Riki's youth, there was still a light in them. He’d conceded then, to the other boy's request.
Since that time, they’ve been visiting the lake every week. It’s hidden deep in the woods to the north of their cottage, though a well-beaten path easily guides the way.
“Why do you hold so much love for this place?” Jungwon asks as he and Riki stand together by the frozen banks. Riki told him a few days ago that when spring finally returns, the sparse outer edges will bloom with a merry little gathering of shrubs and herbs that they can take back to their greenhouse.
In the frosty air, Riki’s breath curls into white smoke. “It reminds me of simpler days.”
“Before they chose you?” Jungwon watches as the white wisps fade away. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his wool coat.
“Before they made me a weapon.”
Jungwon’s older sister comes to visit for his birthday. She passes him a letter and a bottle of daisy wine from their parents.
“They care, you know?” she tells him in a low voice, her hands dropping to her sides. She looks out the window, where the bare winter tree stands in the garden. “Everything’s just so different now, and we all had to sacrifice something for the war.”
They gave up their boy, and he returned as a soldier, Jungwon thinks with a pang in his chest—for his parents, for his sister. For himself.
His sister has traveled far just to see him. Spent a week’s worth of sleep on the seas, all to visit someone who feels more like a memory than a brother.
Fingers fidget with the letter. Jungwon still feels the searing brush of fire. The day before, he threw a dozen unfinished letters into the burning embers and watched until all that remained were ashes.
He has enough words left unsaid to last a lifetime.
Jungwon finds Riki polishing their picture frames. It’s a humble collection, displayed atop one of the vintage wooden drawers Riki had inherited from his grandparents. Jungwon skims over Riki’s childhood photographs with his parents and siblings, then his own with his grandmother, and lastly, their photographs with their hyungs. Every single one is black and white, but Jungwon can still picture it. The apricot flowers behind those seven gray uniforms.
There’s a delicate furrow between Riki’s brows as he concentrates on his task. His hair is getting longer—he had mentioned that he wanted to grow it out. Stepping closer, Jungwon notices a new array of piercings adorning Riki’s right ear.
“Are these new?” He gently brushes his fingers over the silver.
Riki hums. “Konon gave them to me.”
“They look good on you.”
And it’s true. Riki looks best when he’s covered in pretty things. Jungwon chuckles quietly as the other boy's ears redden.
“Let me work in peace,” Riki grumbles. He’s got two piles of frames set up on the table—cleaned, and to be cleaned. He finishes wiping down a photograph of himself and his sisters.
“You’re so diligent with that,” Jungwon murmurs, sitting next to Riki at the dining table. “Sunghoon-hyung would be proud.”
It only takes a second for his words to sink in. They both go rigid in their seats.
“I’m sorry.”
Riki shakes his head, putting down the picture frame and cloth in his hands. It’s their group picture, from their tender days as novices at the temple. “It's alright. At least we know he’s okay.”
Jungwon swallows hard. “Jaeyun-hyung has heard from him, then?”
“No, but they’ve seen him around the ports in the Heron Islands.”
“He’s still working on the ships?” Jungwon can’t help but think of what a waste it is. The seven of them were trained to fight for the gods. Not to be sellswords for merchants and local governors.
Riki resumes his task of wiping down the frames. Almost insistent, in the way he does it. “I get it,” he mutters. “He’s as far away from the temple as he can be. From all the memorials and prayers.”
“But Sun—”
“He’s dealing with it in the way he can,” Riki interrupts, not unkindly. His eyes glisten like the silver in his ears. “We all are.”
On the first day of every month, Riki travels to the city next to their village to collect their veteran’s pensions and to send letters to Jaeyun and Jongseong. He never asks Jungwon to accompany him. In return, Jungwon makes sure there’s freshly baked bread waiting for him when he comes home—warm from the oven.
Every time, Riki comes back with a satchel full of parcels and letters. Some of them are letters addressed to Jungwon. They smell of ink and dry, crisp paper.
Jungwon stuffs the envelopes into one of the old drawers, already filled with stubby candles and stamp seals. He leaves them unopened.
Thunder roars like a great beast above his head. On the prowl, inching closer and closer. Jungwon curls into himself in the corner of the bedroom. His whole body trembles with fear, down to the marrow of his bones.
“Hyung?” he hears Riki call from outside. “Where are you?”
Jungwon yearns to reply, but his tongue feels heavy, like a bag of rocks in his mouth. Instead, he cowers violently as another flash of lightning pierces through the window.
“Jungwon?” The door opens. “Hey.”
Riki crouches before him, worry scratching lines across his face. He brings Jungwon into his embrace as the older boy breaks down into tears.
“It was my fault,” he gasps. “My fault. I shouldn’t have let him go to the Godsieve—”
“No, hyung.” Riki pulls back to cradle Jungwon’s face in his hands. Tearful eyes meet firm ones. “He made his choice. He chose to go.”
“But—”
“You didn’t know. None of us did.”
“Except for Heeseung-hyung,” Jungwon mutters bitterly.
Riki pulls him closer. Jungwon feels him sigh into his hair.
“He did it to protect Jongseong-hyung.”
“But nothing good ever comes out of trying to escape fate.” Jungwon sniffles. Riki doesn’t reply.
Rain batters the roof of their cottage. They’re a brittle mess of limbs and warmth. Just the two of them.
“Why did you ask me to come with you?” Jungwon picks at the dirt beneath his nails, remnants of helping Riki repot their chamomile seedlings.
Though bad luck follows his every move, Jungwon is confident the seedlings will survive. Even without his magic, Riki still has a way of coaxing plants into full bloom.
“I was afraid of being alone,” Riki answers. He’s carefully arranging the chamomile pots in their little greenhouse, lined up like schoolchildren in one corner. “I figured you’d understand that the best.”
Jungwon frowns. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve always needed other people.” Riki meets his gaze, then stands and brushes away a speck of dirt from Jungwon’s cheek. “You do, too.”
There’s a forgotten shrine on the outskirts of the village—barely visited, dedicated to a god who has long since disappeared. Even so, one of the fruit sellers he frequently buys from tells him it’s well-maintained by a caretaker. Out of respect or fear, Jungwon doesn’t know.
He sees the effort, though. The caretaker must have come by earlier in the day to sweep the wooden floors. There are barely any offerings, but the pocketful of cloth-wrapped gifts are laid out neatly before the altar.
Jungwon has come alone. Put on his best suit, shined his shoes, everything.
He had distracted Riki for the morning with a complaint about running low on bath oils.
“Not my fault I want to smell good,” Riki grumbled.
“Exactly why you should go out and buy it for us,” Jungwon countered with a roll of his eyes. Then he sent him out the door with his coat and coins.
The walk to the shrine was unnervingly quiet. A stillness hung in the air, as if every living being around him was holding its breath. The only presence Jungwon could sense was the overwhelming scent of damp earth. The kind that lingers when graves are freshly dug.
The shrine itself is small compared to the ones he’d known at the temple complex. Not even bigger than his and Riki’s cottage.
Jungwon has come alone today.
He doesn’t kneel.
He glances around. The age of the structure comes through in the cracks of the stained glass portrait of its patron. He can’t quite place their image among his history books and their lessons at the temple. If he were to hazard a guess, they were likely one of the many gods of the sun, with their golden horns and foxlike features.
It is achingly familiar. When Jungwon turns his mind away from the shrine and the rest of the world, he sees only a bright smile and kind eyes. Like sunlight after a storm.
“Is this all that I was chosen for? Is this it?” His voice echoes around the empty hall. He doesn’t know who he’s asking. A god or a ghost. All he knows is that whoever it is, they are no longer around to hear him.
The war ended in July. Jungwon does not remember much—only the lingering taste of ash and dried blood on his palms.
It is April now. In their bed, Riki takes his shaking hands and holds him through the nightmares.
“Hyung, wait—”
A hand grabs his shoulder. Jungwon rounds on him, an ugly sneer cutting through his features.
“They’re idiots, Riki. Blinded by faith and state propaganda.”
Riki blinks. A flash of that deep-rooted pain he always tries to keep hidden.
Jungwon turns on his feet, his storming strides followed by hurried ones.
“Hyung, come on, it was just a puppet show.”
He glares at Riki over his shoulder. “A puppet show about the Battle at the Godsieve!”
“Jungwon—”
“A puppet show where they praised and glorified the all-knowing and benevolent gods. A puppet show where they framed him as a martyr who died for the sake of the world.”
He stops in the middle of the dirt road. Dark clouds loom above them, heavy with rainwater waiting to fall.
“They don’t know any better.” Riki’s voice is fraying, like old clothes falling apart at the seams. “We didn’t know any better.”
Jungwon scoffs. “We were made to believe we were meant for something greater, to serve the hero’s destiny that was laid out for us. But it’s never been about good and evil. It’s about power. The never-ending consolidation of power by those who already have it. Fuck, what were we even fighting for, Riki?”
Perhaps that was what enraged Jungwon the most about the puppet show. Not just the cover-ups and mistruths, the indoctrination and unquestioning obedience. It was that the puppets reminded him of who he used to be—nothing more than a toy, subject to the whims of those who merely saw him as a means to an end. But even broken toys still have something to say.
“Now look where it’s left us—Heeseung-hyung and Jongseong-hyung don’t talk anymore, even though they were supposed to get married. Sunghoon-hyung is working himself to pieces just to forget, while Jaeyun-hyung is running himself ragged to fix things. We’re both so traumatized we can’t even sleep without waking up screaming, and Sunoo—” Jungwon chokes on his tears. “Sunoo-hyung’s dead.”
Riki makes a small whimpering sound. Droplets of rain begin to fall, slowly soaking their hair and shoulders.
“He’s dead,” Jungwon croaks. “He’s not coming back.”
The rain grows stronger, filling up the terse silence. Before them, the road is long and empty, stretching into the gloom of the woods.
“Sunoo-hyung didn’t die for the gods, or the rest of the world,” Riki whispers. There are raindrops running down his cheek. “He died for us. Sacrifice or not, you owe it to him to live your life. We both do.”
The next day, Jungwon wakes up to a single yellow rose and a cup of brown rice tea on his bedside table. With a heavy heart, he finds a clean sheet of paper and writes about all the good little things they have. Then, he folds it up and leaves it next to Riki’s jewelry box.
Riki buys him a book of poems. “You used to devour all the poetry in the old library,” the other boy explains as Jungwon carefully unties the blue cloth wrapping.
He takes the book with him, the first time they go to the meadow. He’d rather not risk dropping it into the lake. Riki brings his sketchpad and charcoals.
They stretch out across a picnic blanket, snacking on a tin of butter biscuits as they busy themselves with their occupations.
Jungwon adores the poems. They remind him of the folk tales his grandmother used to tell, about flower fairies and garden ghosts. She always had a sprig of baby’s breath in her kitchen for what she called her “secret little visitors”. Jungwon remembers collecting bundles of the white flower when she died.
“Hey.”
Jungwon looks up from the page. Riki holds out his sketchbook with stained fingers. He’s wearing his glasses today. Jungwon takes the sketchbook from him, and immediately, he’s stricken by what he sees. Riki has drawn a portrait of him reading in the meadow. Thoughtful lines construct his face—in the slope of his nose, the shape of his eyes. Creating an image of someone as kind and as gentle as the breeze playing with the flowers.
It’s beautiful. Riki has made him look beautiful.
“I love it,” he tells the other boy, pouring his heart into each word. “You’re really good.”
A shy smile blooms on Riki’s face. He scratches the nape of his neck.
“I just tried my best.”
Jungwon returns the sketchbook to him, almost mourning the loss. “And your best is really good.”
Riki turns a rosy shade of pink. There’s something delightful about it—like an unexpected birthday gift or a cup of strawberries after a long day.
You are good, Jungwon thinks, as he watches Riki start another sketch. Too good to me.
Jungwon likes baking. It’s one of the few things he has that is entirely his. No attachments to anyone he’s known, or to any place he’s been.
There’s a preciseness to the process—knowing how many cups of flour and slices of butter are needed, how much salt, yeast, sugar and milk to use. Measures he can manage.
The sweet scent of butter and the nuttiness of milk float in the air. Jungwon rolls up his sleeves and kneads the dough with flour-dusted fingers. It’s just the right amount of stickiness and tension.
He is not as strong as he used to be, before the magic left him. But he has enough to make bread. For himself, and for Riki.
“They look just like you.”
Riki pouts at him, further proving Jungwon’s point.
A duck squawks, flapping its wings. His remark is instantly forgotten as the other boy goes back to delightedly feeding the brown-feathered birds. Oats and peas slip between his excited fingers.
Riki’s mother had visited their cottage the day before, mentioning that the ducks had finally come back. A childlike glow sparked in Riki’s eyes at the news. Jungwon wasn’t too surprised when he later asked him, as they shared a pillow, if they could go to the lake the following day.
Didn’t even need to ask, Jungwon muses. I’d follow him anyway.
And so, as soon as they woke up, the two of them slipped on their trousers and shoes, buttoned up their shirts and coats, and rounded up whatever oats and peas they could find in the kitchen cupboard. Riki took the basket with one hand and held Jungwon’s hand in the other.
As Riki had promised months ago, green has steadily seeped back into the woods and the banks. Bonny flowers raise their heads from the dirt, their subtle floral scent a promise of things to come.
Luckily, they didn’t need to search for too long to spot a flock. Not far from the path, around half a dozen ducks nestle among the reeds.
“Oh.” Riki’s eyes are round with joy. “Look, hyung.”
Jungwon observes the way he grins—so boyish and free. A rare sight.
“I am.”
It only takes a few minutes for Jungwon to toss away his oats and peas. Riki, on the other hand, still has half of his bundle left. He's taking his time, savoring the moment.
“You like them that much?” Jungwon asks, amused.
Riki nods vigorously. They don't say much after that, but it feels right. One boy feeding the ducks, and the other watching him.
Jungwon exhales, gazing out across the water. The morning air is cool against his cheeks.
Squawking still, the ducks waddle closer, oblivious to anything but the food in Riki’s hands. He tosses the last of the oats. Happy and fed, the ducks swim away, their movements making gentle ripples on the lake.
The meadow teems with life—clusters of daisies and dandelions, circles of violets and primrose. Sweet and good heralds of spring.
Jungwon returns from gathering flowers to find Riki dozing in the shade of a tree, uncaring of how the grass may stain his dress shirt. He places his basket of flowers among the roots, the undergrowth crunching beneath his feet.
Riki blinks up at him. A fond smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, slow with sleep.
“Oh, hello,” he mumbles.
Jungwon laughs breathily.
“Hello.”
Riki holds his hands out like a toddler, all soft and demanding. Jungwon kneels down beside him on the grass and laces their fingers together. As soon as he does, Riki tugs him down. He settles them so that they're both on their sides, facing each other.
The grin on Riki’s face grows impossibly wider.
“What?” Jungwon laughs again.
“Nothing. You’re cute.”
“Yeah? Well you’re cuter.” Jungwon squishes Riki’s face between his hands. Riki pouts at him, and they both burst into blossom-bright giggles. “My little duck.”
When Jungwon and Riki first arrived in the village, they each had only one suitcase, carrying weathered hands and weary hearts. Their former living quarters had been destroyed in the battle, much like the rest of the temple complex. Five years of life, reduced to an old, beaten-up leather suitcase.
They had shoved the suitcases under the bed after they settled in. No second thoughts.
Months later, Jungwon opens them up, looking for things to donate or give away. He comes across old amulets for protection, a ceremonial knife from the Trials, and history books on ancient, godly wars.
Then, there is his prayer book, which he received on his first day at the temple. He ghosts his fingers over the yellowing, musty pages. These lines were meant to be imbued with magic, memorized by every devotee. Once, the words filled up his heart. Now, they are only good for the flame, like the poppies they burned at the memorials. At the final prayers and funerals.
Jungwon sighs, and puts the prayer book in the donation pile. This magic stopped working for him long ago.
“No! Please, don’t take him!”
The moon casts sharp, jagged shadows across their bed, illuminating the shrieking boy beside him.
“Riki, wake up.” Jungwon shakes his shoulders, heart aching at each painful cry and twist of his body. “Riki, it’s just a nightmare.”
The other boy’s eyes fly open. A scream rips out of his throat as he jolts up frantically, hands searching.
“Hyung? Jungwon-hyung—”
Jungwon draws him into his arms, running fingers through his hair. Riki goes willingly, shaking as though struck by lightning.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Jungwon soothes him. “I’m here.”
Riki weeps into his chest as he rubs small circles into his back.
“Want to talk about it?” Jungwon asks, his cheek pressed against the crown of Riki’s head.
“You were dead. All of you.”
Jungwon’s heart splinters. Like the cracked stained glass of the shrine. He pulls away to cradle the other boy’s face in his hands.
“But I’m not.” He leans his forehead against Riki’s. “I’m alive, and I’m not leaving you.”
Through bone-hollow eyes, Riki looks at him as if every word is a promise of salvation.
When Jungwon wakes up, he glances down to find Riki curled up against his shoulder. Fast asleep, Riki looks as young as he truly is. His face unmarred by the violence of war and prophecies.
Jungwon absentmindedly threads his fingers through Riki’s hair. He recalls the time when he, Riki, and Jaeyun had gotten drunk on daisy wine. The others were already gone by then.
Riki was the first to doze off. Only alcohol could put him to sleep in the early days after.
“How do you do it, hyung?” Jungwon stared up at the ceiling of the infirmary. “Keep going, after everything.”
Beside him, Jaeyun slouched against the wall, pondering the question. “The world doesn’t stop, not even for heroes.”
The wine was sickeningly flower-sweet in Jungwon’s mouth.
“Is that what we are?”
A glimpse of sadness swept across Jaeyun’s face. “It’s what we have to be.”
Fueled by an almost obsessive mania, Riki practices his cartwheels and flips on the grass. Jungwon snorts as he tumbles then flops into a bundle of dandelions.
“I heard the local theater is looking for a clown,” he hollers. “You should apply.”
Riki sits up, wearing a face of mock betrayal. “You wound me.”
Jungwon puts on his sweetest smile. “I suppose the truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
Without warning, Riki tackles him. They crash into their picnic blanket, rolling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Like the children they never got to be.
Eventually, Riki pins him down, and they both lie there, panting and flushed. Their eyes meet, as if only now realizing just how close they are.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
They both giggle, averting their gazes. Bravely, Riki leans in, stopping when their noses brush against each other.
“May I?” he says, the words whispered into the small distance between their lips.
“Please,” Jungwon breathes.
Riki kisses him softly. Jungwon sighs into it, threading his fingers through the other boy's hair. He feels like sunlight captured in Riki's arms.
The world narrows to the places where skin meets skin—Riki’s hand carefully cradling his jaw, before gliding down to thumbs patterns into his waist, just beneath his shirt.
They break apart, his eyes fluttering open as Riki presses another kiss to his dimple, then to the apple of his cheek. He brushes his lips against the shell of Jungwon's ear, laying kisses along the curve of his neck, tracing a path back to the upturned corner of Jungwon's lips.
“Riki, I want you.”
Riki’s breath hitches. “Do you mean it?”
Jungwon brushes a thumb over the mole under his eye. “I’ll always mean it.”
And there, in the middle of the meadow, Jungwon and Riki find each other.
Misora’s sixteenth birthday arrives on the doorstep of May. She reminds Jungwon so strongly of her brother when he first met him—the same mischievous smiles and full-bodied laughter. Riki crafts her a flower crown, which she happily accepts.
They celebrate her birthday with an intimate gathering of close family and friends. Lanterns hang from the trees, plates of sandwiches and cups of apple juice sit on the tables, and slow music hums in the background.
Riki’s mother sidles up to him while the three siblings argue over their portions of cake. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“You brought back the light in his eyes,” she replies, with gratitude and some sense of knowing in her expression. Jungwon flushes. He feels hot in the knit sweater he borrowed from her son. Ever since that day in the meadow, it’s been so easy to tumble into Riki’s arms and into the solace of their bed.
“He’s done more for me than I have for him.”
Riki’s mother shakes her head. “No, you’ve given him more than you know.”
The siblings resolve their argument, and Riki glances at Jungwon with a winning grin.
“It doesn’t feel fair.”
“It’s not about keeping score. Just being there for each other—that's enough.” She rests a hand on his arm, warm and steady. Like the thaw, it puts him at ease.
The stars of celandine crawl along the worn path to the lake. After all these months, Jungwon knows that he can walk it with his eyes closed.
“Will you ever want to see them again?” Riki asks. There are leaves and petals threaded through his hair. He spends most of his time in the bushes outside their cottage, which have been thriving with vibrant blooms.
Jungwon looks at the flower ring Riki had slipped onto his finger. “Not now. Maybe next year.”
The front door slams shut, followed by the heavy shuffle of footsteps. Jungwon turns off the stove, then heads for the entryway where Riki is taking off his shoes.
“I’m home,” Riki says hoarsely.
Jungwon walks forward to embrace him. Their arms wrap around each other, fitting together like pieces of broken pottery.
“Welcome back,” Jungwon whispers as Riki hides his face in the crook of his neck. “Do you want me to get the bath going?”
“Please,” Riki answers. “Come join me too, if you haven’t washed yet.”
“Okay.”
Unhurried hands work to unbutton Jungwon’s dress shirt while he slowly removes Riki’s belt.
They climb into the bath together, sinking into the water. He crawls into the other boy's lap, their mouths slotting against each other heatedly.
“We don’t have to,” Riki murmurs as he traces circles around Jungwon’s hipbone.
Jungwon presses a brief kiss to the mole under Riki’s eye. “I want to feel close to you,” he sighs.
Water sloshes onto the bathroom floor.
On days when Jungwon seeks solitude, he reads at the dining table all afternoon.
Tea leaves swirl around like butterflies in his ceramic cup. The delicately floral aroma of jasmine calms him. There’s no need for tea magic. Ribbon scraps lie scattered like twigs across the dining table. Jungwon uses them to bookmark his favorite pages—lines about marshland and water, the calls of wrens and robins, and crowns of scarlet berries and white flowers. Leisurely, Jungwon takes a sip of his tea and reads.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jungwon fixes him with a pointed look. “Riki. There are sharks and poisonous jellyfish. No, I’m not going to the Coral Islands.”
In the dim glow of their bedside candle, Riki laughs. The sound reverberates through both their bodies from where he lies between Jungwon’s parted legs, propped up on his elbows over him. “Alright, I have another suggestion.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a city on the other side of the island, famous for its river festivals. We can go in the summer.”
Jungwon imagines it—holding hands in the sweltering heat, watching a parade of boats drift across aquamarine waters.
“There’ll be fireworks and candied fruit,” Riki continues, eyes twinkling. “And folk songs until the night ends.”
Bright lights and sweet tooths and good music.
“That sounds nice.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
Jungwon looks at him lazily.
“As long as you promise to dance with me.”
Riki leaves a kiss on his collarbone.
“Of course. Only with you.”
Then he grabs Jungwon by the waist and rolls them over on the bed. A giggling sprawl of blankets and bodies.
They talk some more about their other plans—adopting a puppy, taking a trip to the mountains, and learning how to fish in the sea. Riki glows with excitement as he lays out every detail, and Jungwon can’t help but smile as he tucks a stray lock behind Riki’s left ear.
Things aren’t completely easy. They might never be. Yet despite the winter ache in his chest, Jungwon finds himself looking forward to it. To the months they’ll have together. Just the two of them.
There is gray on his hands again. Just the dust from underneath their cupboard. Jungwon had been cleaning Riki’s collection of rings when one slipped from his fingers and rolled away from him.
Dust is finer than ash. Like powder. Ash is darker, while dust is more muted.
Jungwon looks at his hand, the mark of dust. This might be the closest he’ll get to him.
A cacophony of shouting vendors and ringing bicycle bells echoes through the village market. Jungwon passes by stalls selling squid and carp and pollock. The air smells sharply of brine.
He takes a turn into an alleyway, cutting deeper into the village and farther away from the sea. Eventually, he arrives at a quaint little art shop on the corner of a street.
“Looking for anything?” the shopkeeper’s assistant asks him.
“A set of watercolors, please,” Jungwon replies politely. “And a sketchbook, too.”
He doesn’t quite understand how to do the cloth wrapping that seems to be common in the village, so instead, Jungwon silently hands the brown paper parcel to Riki as they settle down for dinner.
“You got this for me?” Wonder lingers in every syllable, in the way he runs his fingers across the spine of the sketchbook.
“I got you watercolors too,” Jungwon adds. “You’re close to running out.”
Riki abruptly drops the items on the table and stands up. For a moment, Jungwon fears that he’s upset him, but then Riki pulls him into a hug.
“I love them.” Riki’s lips brush against his ear. “Thank you.”
Jungwon relaxes in his arms.
“Always.”
As the weather gets warmer, Riki suggests they go for a swim in the lake. Jungwon agrees.
They pack extra bundles of clothes and towels. Riki jumps into the water first, like an excited puppy. Jungwon follows with a grin, splashing the other boy in the face as he resurfaces. The muddy riverbed is slippery under his feet. In retaliation, Riki tackles him into the shallows. They go down laughing despite the water up their noses.
“He would’ve loved the lake,” Jungwon tells Riki later, as they sit by the lakeshore. “He used to drag me out to the Godsieve, and we’d swim until our limbs were frozen to the bone.”
Jungwon can picture it now—the autumn sky above their heads and a subdued amber sunset.
Like Sunoo’s eyes.
“He used to drag me out too,” Riki says with a snort. “On the days when you were busy.”
Jungwon looks at him. The faint curve of Riki’s lips. The gloss over his eyes.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Hyung would threaten to rat me out for skipping our evening prayers,” Riki laughs, but there’s a strange twang to it. Like a snapped violin string, or a dissonant chord. “I should’ve done them properly. It might have saved him.”
Jungwon huddles closer to him. Water drips from Riki’s hair.
Together, they watch as the sun sets over the lake. A golden fire upon their gray sorrows.
In the mellow evening, Jungwon and Riki lie curled towards each other, like two halves of a heart. He’s been tracing the moles on Riki’s face with his fingers. Memorizing the map of him.
“I never thought I’d find it again,” Jungwon muses.
“Find what?”
“Hope,” comes the easy reply, as he holds Riki’s gaze. “And love.”
Jungwon finds quiet joy in the blush on Riki’s cheeks, the way he averts his eyes and bites his lip to stop the giddy smile threatening to burst forth.
“I want to keep coming home to you,” the other boy admits, as their hands intertwine between them. “Now and forever.”
“Is that a marriage proposal?”
“Maybe.” Riki kisses him gently. “One day.”
Jungwon beams, his heart heavy with all the good little things.
“Okay. One day.”