Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jeffrey became acquainted with Mark on his commute to work: It was a day where warm sun rays intertwined with the cool wind; leaves swayed in the air, covering the ground in warm colours and its brittle veins making crisp sounds.

Just like the other times, but this once, it was online; Jeffrey was the one to speak out first. One shy greeting turned into renewed curiosity. Each question brought them closer to one another, and likeness strengthened their bond, even more.

In another lifetime: but with the very same trees shedding their leaves.

Wherein celestial bodies
had ruled heaven and earth.
Wherein Jeffrey went by Jaehyun
and resided deep within a mountain.
Wherein solitude had become his companion.

He had stumbled upon Mark, who introduced himself as Minhyeong later: his soft melodies pulled Jaehyun to him. And even closer by his warm-toned skin, glistening under dappled lights. After flustered greetings, Minhyeong introduced himself as a passer-by, and he probed Jaehyun for stories when he learned the fair-skinned deity was a chonggak dokkaebi. Afterwards, Minhyeong kept coming back until Jaehyun missed him.

That had been their very first meeting.

The first time Mark went offline to focus on his publishing studies, Jeffrey was stuck to his phone. His fingers numbed whenever he refreshed his notifications as he waited for the bus. A sharp wind made his body shiver. Red nose and rosy cheeks. Throughout his shift at the record store, questions streamed through his mind, wondering about his other half.

It always felt surreal when Mark called him his kindred spirit. Especially for this instance, since Jeffrey had known him for less than a month and his parents had taught him of stranger danger since young. Nevertheless, he and Mark had always found an affinity in each other for all past lifetimes, and before he knew it, their conversations ranged from their favourite songs to family woes. Calling each other soulmates felt natural, this incarnation too.

Mark came back on a Sunday morning. Jeffrey’s dimples settled on his face throughout the day. The sun bloomed over the grayscale trees and pavements. The wind settled its temperament despite it being late autumn.

They continued to chat about their daily lives and their shared interests. From dawn until the next. Mundane yet special.

From Mark’s simple “Good morning” or “Good night,” strong currents shifted toward Jeffrey’s heart, in which feelings picked up like the wind. Nevertheless, Jeffrey wasn’t the only one to feel such tender warmth for the other.

Mark also expressed how easy it was to converse with him, despite their meeting as strangers on a fan forum’s post, in which Mark had shared about his writer’s block that tormented him for months. While Jeffrey had mourned for the disappearance of his favourite fanfictions in a separate post.

Later, when he took Mark’s romanticism for human creativity for himself, Jeffrey shared his well-hidden poetry with his favourite author. The reader became the writer.

“I feel inspired to create after your poetry and some other reading I did,” Mark told him. “I need to capitalize on this small burst of inspiration!”

Little stars burst inside the dimpled man. Jeffrey wrote more poetry.

The second time Mark went away; it was a few days before Christmas.

In the meantime, Jeffrey brought up Mark to anyone who would listen, at any conversations and opportunities. He saw how his childhood friends’ eyes held mirth at his storytelling. His own telltale sign that he crushed on someone. Eventually, the mentions of Mark’s name piled up like snowflakes. A winter storm that raged to be let inside a heated home—but snow was scarce on the streets and the wind was abundant. It pushed and coiled around Jeffrey, in and around his body layered in clothes. He fought off the chills with sweet liquor, soothing and warming him.

The Porto wine left him dreaming about sweet escapes and picket fences. The next day, the desolate man swore off alcohol. He was scared he would fall deeper into his fantasies. Sinking until he drowned.

When Jeffrey had an infatuation, he wove tales of it into the knowledge and memories of his listeners, weaving intricate anecdotes or stories as his attraction turned into something deeper and richer. He transformed back into his jeongisu-self, a Joseon storyteller, reciting poems from his well-caged heart.
Mark was Yi Minhyeong in that life, the son of a high-ranking Official. That was their second meeting. Jeong Yoonoh, as Jeffrey was then called by, had accompanied his father, the sole jeongisu who read English, to the Yi’s household for his father’s work. Minhyeong and Yoonoh met there as childhood friends. Only adulthood had separated their fates as the son of a storyteller and the son of a noble.

The next day of Mark’s return, Jeffrey sent him a poem.

Sometimes my view blurs
And a fog emerges,
Like the condensation
On my window
From the snow thawing
Under the sunshine.
Or, is it from my own breath?
When lines and melodies spill
From a cage inside me.
Where a little bird
Keeps trying to escape,
Outside in the cold
Flying and trying
To reach you.
Hoping you will welcome it
With warm words,
And it won’t be turned away
When it sings you a song.

Mark had responded with notes. Complimentary notes.

Thinking back, Jeffrey wasn’t sure if a window had closed him off from his destination, or Mark allowed him entry, only to place him in another birdcage. Jeffrey had chuckled at the reply and explained his song. They decided to stay friends and to continue chatting.

On the second day of the New Year, Mark had disappeared a third time.

Minutes turned into hours, and hours into days. The week leading up to Mark coming back had felt the longest of all of Jeffrey’s life. Like he was on stand-by, to play the next concerto. Like falling snow turning into ice, static until the arrival of spring.

The next time he took an online break, Jeffrey asked Mark to inform him. The uncertainty of Mark’s return had left him looking for him in-between the jagged peaks of a story, the ripples of a tune, and the dancing glide of a picture.

Just like the time when they had been simple university students, participating in protests against their government. Jeffrey was named Jaehyun again; he had perused each page of the newspaper for a single sign of Minhyung's safety. Every day. Since April 19, 1960, when the frenzy of police firing at the crowd openly had separated them. Their transcendent yet recurring promises of meeting up unfulfilled, and Jaehyun’s thoughts, a raging tempest until his death.

Two months later, Mark announced his fourth leave.

Jeffrey fell from the wind turning the paths into black ice. He turned to his leather-bound notebook to soothe his blues. He hadn’t heard from Mark since. Until now.

Jeffrey’s chest thumps with excitement. Hands clamming up. His irises expand at the news. Mark is back. A surge of emotions and thoughts capsize him. Does Mark miss him? Is he thinking of Jeffrey like the oldest does, from sunrise till sunset? Is he back for good? Will he get to experience the seasons with Mark once again?

Then panic settles in his bones, seizing him up. This cannot be. There is no likelihood of Mark posting with that account since he deleted it, way back in January. It’s July now. Has someone taken up his old username, besmirching his art? Why not contact Jeffrey first? Is this a surprise? The more Jeffrey thinks about it, the more ridiculous it is. But perhaps Mark has come back under a new name, wanting to let go of his past. Jeffrey holds on to that possibility. Tiny as a dandelion seed but carrying all of his hope. He doesn’t care if that’s the case, even if it hurts him.

The most important thing is that Mark is back, could be back.

Jeffrey looks back down at his phone.

Disappointment welcomes itself home. Only after his own windstorm calms down, he sees it. The additional character in the tweet that changes Mark’s username to a stranger’s. Jeffrey can’t help but laugh at his misguided excitement. Of course. Of course.

While he feels relief to know he’s right, sadness thunders within him. Small droplets hitting the cave of his heart. He's certain passers-by can hear the torrent of his feelings, if they simply strain their ears.

One moonrise, one sunset. He breathes as Mark had taught him in another lifetime. Heartbeat slowing down. Jeffrey dismisses this occurrence as a blip. A slight in his mundane. It’s fine, just another sans-Mark day.

Later that night. Jeffrey lies down on his bed. His phone screen lights up his sharp features as he scrolls up-and-down. His friend’s words ring in his mind,

“You want someone who wouldn’t do that, feed into your infatuation and disappear on you.” Ten sighs and continues, “He’s out there, doing god knows what and you’re reading your old convos”

“If you must read it, at least stop viewing it through rose-coloured lenses and look for the fucked up stuff.”

Jeffrey hadn’t replied then, letting Ten’s words interweave into his neurons and tighten into his mind. He, too, cannot figure out why he’s only annoyed at Mark’s disappearance. All his friends are mad in his stead.

To be honest, he likes being miserable over Mark. It’s comforting, in a way. Whether it’s bittersweet, reminiscent, upsetting, or yearning. He likes all of it.

I guess this is what I’m used to. Reflecting back, he notices that he never has a long hold on happiness. There is always something snatching it away from him. Like expectations, a lot of ignorance, scrutiny, or even death. Any small pieces of happiness he gains are dear to him and yet, he keeps losing them. Each lifetime. The ones he manages to keep safe in his grasp are all small pockets of miracles. Although Jeffrey is still scared he will lose them, one by one.

Let’s stop here for now. Jeffrey shuts off his phone and goes to sleep, hoping he will understand himself a bit more next time.

Then, a year has passed since they last talked. A year.

Jeffrey wonders how he’s still hung-over Mark.

Despite developing an attraction to someone else, who has been so sweet and understanding, his mind drifts to Mark. Nevertheless, Jeffrey’s mind has stop relating the falling snow to him. That’s an improvement. Although, he still thinks of messaging every month. And, ascribing all lines and stanzas to him. Little steps

Perhaps, the next lifetime will be the last.

birdsong

the way
you imprint yourself
on the fabric of humanity
is a gift.
picturesque and comforting.

how you praise

your poems.
stunning and warm,
capturing genuine and
beautiful yearning. like
moving sunlight or
watching dusk happen.