Work Text:
The wooden door groaned as Jiseok yanked it with force, loud enough that splinters might’ve flown off. Not that it mattered. The poor thing was used to this. That’s how it got shut every night. And really, if it couldn’t even close properly, maybe it didn’t deserve pity at all.
The iron padlock didn’t make things any easier. The key always got stuck, like it didn’t quite fit, like it belonged to a whole other door in a whole other place. Breaking the door down would probably be easier than unlocking it, but this was what they had and leaving the place open overnight was too risky. Thieves could slip right in, and no God would come to the rescue then.
Probably.
Jiseok didn’t know why, in all the years he’d been working here, nothing had ever gone missing. Maybe the shitty lock was secretly miraculous. Or maybe there really was some kind of divine anti-theft system going on. Sounded like a joke, though. A damn funny one.
His hands turned red and started to ache from the effort of twisting the tiny key, but he was used to it. It was just another piece of his routine. One more thing in the long, slow grind of the last four years.
Cheap cigarettes were part of that routine too.
Without turning from the door, he fished a battered pack from his pocket. The second-to-last cigarette slipped out, and he caught it between his lips, already patting himself down for his lighter.
“Miss, why are you uncovered in a place like this?” came a sharp woman’s voice behind him.
Jiseok paused, then slowly turned to face her.
“Probably because I’m not a ‘miss’?” he said, widening his eyes dramatically and holding the cigarette between his fingers so it wouldn’t fall and disappear into the wet sand left over from the rain.
The woman didn’t so much as flinch at his low voice, even though it didn’t quite match his slim, delicate figure. His face wasn’t exactly rugged either, he knew that, but it wasn’t like he had a complex about it. Still, something about that passive-aggressive jab about his head being uncovered made him scowl. His dark brows pulled together and his full lips puffed out in a bratty little pout.
“And with a cigarette too!” she gasped, stepping forward with tiny, prim little strides, her face just as pinched as her words. She reached out a hand toward him. Jiseok quickly tucked the unlit cigarette behind his back, paranoid she might try to snatch away the one thing getting him through the end of his shift. “Young man, have some fear of God!”
His scowl deepened. He took a step back and pressed himself against the cursed door, half-expecting a splinter to wedge itself into his elbow. It probably wouldn’t protect him from this lunatic either.
Then, suddenly, a hand tugged gently on the sleeve of the woman’s peach-colored coat, and Jiseok glanced sideways, only now noticing she wasn’t alone.
It was like a theophany.
“Mom,” said a tall boy quietly, almost a whisper. He had a mop of curly red hair and a face set like stone, his pale pink lips pressed tightly together. His eyes were drilling a hole straight through his mother’s skull.
And just like that, she stopped. Let out a long, dramatic sigh and seemed to deflate.
“We need to get into the shop. Excuse us, please,” she said, voice suddenly smoother, fake-politeness stretching her lips into something like a smile.
“It’s closed,” Jiseok said flatly, peeling himself off the door. “Keep peace in your heart. Guard your prayer.”
He turned to leave. “Have a nice day.”
Jiseok heard the woman tugging on the door behind him a few times, probably not buying this. A sharp urge welled up in his chest to spin around and throw out some snark, say something like “Yeah, I just locked it two minutes ago, lady,” but he bit it back. Instead, he clamped the cigarette between his teeth again, finally digging his lighter out of his deep pocket.
He didn’t light it right away because just ahead, by the front gates, he spotted two blond heads and took off at a jog. Jungsu and Seungmin were standing still, not even pretending to run off. That was another part of his routine—walking home with the two of them after work.
“Quit shoving that shit in your mouth,” was the first thing Jiseok heard as he got closer.
Jungsu stood with his hands on his hips, frowning hard. At least he wasn’t ripping the menthol stick out of Seungmin’s mouth this time.
“Oh, come on, they don’t even smell like real cigarettes!” Seungmin grumbled, blowing the smoke away from Jungsu, not in his face.
“Yeah, but this way you’re getting more nicotine, you dumbass. You’ve got a bigger chance of croaking from lung cancer now. Did you think about me? What the hell am I supposed to do without you?”
Jungsu folded his arms across his chest like he was trying to hold his heart in place.
Seungmin looked down at the damp asphalt but didn’t put out the cigarette.
Jiseok finally caught up with them by the arched triple gate and struck a flame, shielding it from the wind with his hand.
“Another one,” Jungsu muttered, scrunching his nose and covering it dramatically with his tiny palm. Jiseok’s cigarettes stank a whole lot more than Seungmin’s menthols he’d switched to after being threatened with a total kissing ban because “you reek of tobacco from a mile away.” It hadn’t helped much, though. That smoky smell would cling to Seungmin no matter what, as long as Jiseok stuck to his poison of choice.
“At this rate, none of us are gonna make it to thirty,” Jungsu said darkly, his voice nasal from the way he was holding his nose. It came out sounding like a cartoon, not serious in the slightest.
Jiseok snorted and choked a little on the smoke.
Maybe Jungsu wasn’t wrong.
Honestly, Jiseok didn’t think dying before thirty was such a tragedy. What really scared him was the thought of living to old age and rotting in this village, like some kind of incorruptible relic, those preserved bodies of so-called saints, locked up behind seven doors in the middle of the church. That was the only reason anyone even came here in the first place. “Incorruptible,” sure. In quotation marks. Jiseok knew better. It was all just a well-polished lie, but for the sake of his job, he had to pretend he believed in all that holy crap.
Out of nowhere, Jungsu shoved a neon-green plastic bag into Jiseok’s hands without a word of explanation, then took a few steps away, retreating into his unofficial smoke-free zone. The air there was cool and still carried the damp, earthy sweetness of recent rain, a small pocket of safety from the sting of cigarette smoke.
Jungsu didn’t need to explain. This was just another small piece of their routine. Not a daily one, but familiar enough. On holidays and some weekends, the entire tray of baked goods in the church cafeteria would get wiped clean by the end of the day, but on ordinary days like this there were always leftovers, the kind Jungsu handed off to Jiseok, Seungmin, and Father Goo like smuggled contraband.
The best ones, the cherry-filled triangles, always ended up with Seungmin, naturally. Which was pretty damn unfair, considering the guy could just bat his lashes and ask Jungsu to bake them fresh at home, while Jiseok had no such privilege. Jungsu didn’t exactly see the meaning of his stale little life in him, after all.
But, to be fair, Jungsu really did worry about all of them. Just… some people more than others. Jiseok wasn’t going to name names.
And maybe that was how it should be. Apple pies were fine by him. Let Seungmin smear his lips in cherry filling, odds were good Jungsu would be more than happy to taste that sweetness for himself later.
Jiseok was happy for them, genuinely. He wished they could get the hell out of here, far from the church, far from the people who’d damn them the moment they found out. To a big city. The capital. Another country, even. Though honestly, Jiseok wasn’t convinced city folks were that much better when it came to people like them.
They weren’t all that different from other boys, anyway. Which made it even harder for Jiseok to wrap his head around the kind of hate the church spewed at them.
They worked here, damn it. They did their part for this place, and none of the regulars saw anything sinful in them. Jungsu baked the pies, stirred the soups, stayed in the background. Seungmin was always in plain sight, standing behind the little counter at the dining hall. Nobody ever cursed him. Quite the opposite, actually. He was the one who got all the thank-yous. He just gave off that polite, sweet, harmless vibe, the kind of boy you wanted in your cafeteria, the kind of boy who belonged.
Because really, who else would bust their ass for peanuts at a rundown church unless they had a silver crucifix stuck in their heart? That’s probably what everyone figured, but the truth was, they weren’t even that religious. They just had nowhere else to go.
Jiseok, Seungmin, Jungsu—they were all like that.
The cigarette helped. It took the edge off all the shit that had been weighing on Jiseok’s mind since middle school. He didn’t know how Jungsu—easily the sunniest of the three—had managed to avoid every bad habit out there. Maybe his vice was Seungmin. Or the pies. Seungmin and the pies.
It sucked, knowing they’d probably never leave. They could’ve opened a bakery in the city, made something better of themselves. But at the same time… it was good they were still here because Jiseok sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere, and without his friends, he doubted he could drag his depressed, nicotine-soaked life much further.
Smoke tangled with the heavy clouds above as Jiseok leaned back against the church gate, eyes on the sky.
Another pointless day in the bag. As usual.
Seungmin’s cigarette burned down faster than his, and the moment it was done, he looped his arms around Jungsu’s neck and leaned in. Jungsu tried to resist at first, squirming a bit, but eventually gave in and laid his hands over Seungmin’s biceps, letting him press cheek to cheek with a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“What blasphemy is this?”
The sharp voice made Jiseok flinch and exhale a noseful of smoke. Never a pleasant feeling.
He rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. The woman shot him a scathing look, then glared at Seungmin and Jungsu with thinly veiled disgust. The two of them turned pale in an instant. A boy trailing behind her tugged at her sleeve, throwing Jiseok a guilty look, one that practically screamed, “Sorry about her.”
“Bless your day, too,” Jiseok muttered hoarsely once she passed, giving him only her back. “May the Lord be with you.”
She didn’t even glance his way—whether that was a mercy or a curse, he couldn’t decide—but he could hear her annoyed tsk as she walked off.
The boy looked back one more time with an apologetic expression, eyes round and sad.
Jiseok didn’t blame him. He gave a small wave to show it was fine, that the kid didn’t need to beat himself up over whatever his mother had just done.
“Who even was that?” Jungsu blinked, still a bit rattled.
“Your boyfriend?” Seungmin added, blinking just the same, mouth falling open in mock confusion. “What was his name again? Ju…? Joo…?”
“Jooyeon is not my boyfriend,” Jiseok snapped, frowning. “Never seen that guy in my life.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Looked like you two just had your date crashed.”
“He didn’t ask me out.”
Jiseok shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette.
“Then you ask him out,” Jungsu said without missing a beat, face unreadable. Seungmin burst out laughing right in his ear, and eventually even Jungsu cracked a grin.
“And when are you gonna ask me out?” Seungmin whined, nuzzling his cheek.
Jiseok clicked his tongue in fake annoyance and rolled his eyes.
“Let’s go home, you dumbasses,” he said, the smile tugging at his lips anyway.
***
A million—Jiseok swore, at least a goddamn million—painted eyes watched him from the walls with their usual judgment. Maybe the artists had tried to give them expressions of kindness, mercy, whatever, but all Jiseok ever saw in those saintly faces was disdain. Even with their gently arched brows and calm gazes, they looked like they wanted him out. Like he didn’t belong here.
Hell, he’d love to leave, but it wasn’t like this village had a bunch of job openings. Wasn’t like he had anything but a middle school diploma, either.
Good thing his grandma had wrapped him in the Bible from birth. He knew enough scripture to fake being holy and sell icons to out-of-town believers like a pro. Not exactly what he’d imagined doing in the prime of his youth, but moving to the city would’ve meant leaving his grandma behind, and neither his wallet nor his conscience could take that.
So here he was. Year four in the church shop. Seven days a week. Eight a.m. to seven p.m.
The job wasn’t all that hard. Most of the time, Jiseok just stared at the ceiling and wiped dust off the endless gold frames. Crowds only poured in during Catholic holidays; the rest of the time, it was usually just him and the beat-up black tomcat with a torn ear. Jungsu and Seungmin dropped by during their breaks to liven things up with their dumb flirting. Lately, Jooyeon had started stopping in too. A city boy with long hair and daisies tucked behind his ears. His laugh was like the jingle of a bicycle bell, and he and Jiseok had clicked pretty fast. Though for some reason, Jooyeon mostly preferred hanging around inside the church.
Jiseok didn’t judge.
Sure, he wouldn’t mind spending more time with Jooyeon to break the monotony, but Jooyeon seemed to reserve his company for Father Goo. Jiseok had no idea why, but hey, if Jooyeon wanted to bask in the candlelight and gaze at icons littered with jeweled crosses, let him.
Jiseok squinted back at the tempera-painted eyes staring at him from the wooden panel, matching the icon’s scorn with a look of his own.
Green Day played in one earbud, clashing with the ringing emptiness around him, where he could clearly make out the sound of soft footsteps and the rain hammering down on the street. He tore his gaze from the accusing saint and turned toward the sound, spotting a lanky, awkward guy standing near the door. He had a wild mop of curly ginger hair, damp from the rain, and a flannel shirt clinging to his frame in soaked plaid.
Jiseok recognized him. He’d seen him yesterday, right after closing.
A heavy sigh escaped Jiseok as his eyes rolled so far back in his head it actually hurt. He braced himself, half-expecting that woman in the peach-colored coat to walk in behind the guy and start another moral crusade, but no one else followed him in.
The redhead wandered into the small hall, turning sideways to study the glass display of icons, eyes sweeping across the rows. He clutched a small notebook with a pale blue cover scattered with pink clouds and a freshly sharpened pencil.
Jiseok narrowed his eyes at the guy now.
He was even tilting his head slightly back and forth, like he was scanning every shelf.
“You need help with something?” Jiseok called out.
The guy flinched so hard he nearly dropped his stuff on the tiled floor. Jiseok stifled a laugh as the boy spun to face him, wide-eyed.
His glasses were speckled with raindrops, and behind them, a dark mole sat just above the crease of his left eyelid. Jiseok hadn’t noticed it last night.
He had no idea how the guy could see through all that fogged-up moisture, but Jiseok sure could see him just fine.
He stood up and pulled his earbud out, letting ‘Outlaws’ continue to hum softly from it.
“Joseph of Cupertino, patron saint of students,” he began, gesturing at a shelf. “Kiss the icon before an exam, you’ll ace it. Oh, but don’t forget to get it blessed by Father Goo first, or it won’t work.”
The redhead gave a nervous cough, raising his pinkish fist to his mouth.
“I wasn’t really planning to buy anything,” he said quietly. “But… thanks.”
“Shame,” Jiseok said with a smile. “We’ve even got one with a relic in it. Guaranteed results. Do the sign of the cross to that one before bed and you’ll get into the best university in the country.”
“I, uh… already got in,” the guy muttered, scratching his head in awkward embarrassment and forcing a smile.
“Well, then you’ll graduate with honors,” Jiseok shrugged. “Your mom doesn’t want anything? Maybe Saint Monica?”
“She can decide that herself,” the guy sighed. “I don’t have any money anyway, so don’t bother.”
Jiseok puffed out his cheeks in mock disappointment but gave a short nod, letting it go.
“And about yesterday… I’m sorry.” The boy looked down at the floor, guilt tugging at his posture as he dipped his head in apology.
“It’s fine,” Jiseok waved it off. “So what brings you here if you’re broke?”
“I just felt sick in the church, and it’s raining out.” The redhead scratched the back of his curls again, laughing nervously. “Are you kicking me out?”
“God, no, stay,” Jiseok said with a shrug, slowly easing back behind the counter and plopping down into the black office chair that looked hilariously out of place in the holy shop. “You said you felt sick in the church? What, are you possessed or something?”
He raised a brow, and the guy visibly paled.
“Kidding,” Jiseok snorted. “I get sick from the incense too. Ours is cheap crap, smells like ass and makes me wanna hurl. It’s… a very particular smell. Not everyone can take it. You’re not a little demon, don’t worry.”
The boy nodded slightly, his posture relaxing as he turned his attention back to the glass shelves of icons. After a moment, he fidgeted, then cracked open his notebook and began scribbling. The pencil whispered across the paper as his lips pressed tight and his eyes flicked back and forth between the display and the page. Jiseok couldn’t see what exactly he was doing from where he sat, but judging by the wide, sweeping vertical movements of the guy’s wrist, he had a pretty good guess.
“You drawing them?”
The redhead jolted again at his voice, looking exactly like a deer caught in headlights.
“Am I… allowed to?” he asked, voice cracking.
Jiseok squinted. So he’d been right.
“Sure,” he said. “Though they’re kinda ugly.”
The guy’s ginger eyebrows shot up.
“Can you say that?” he asked, genuinely startled. “They’re saints…”
Jiseok didn’t see judgment in his eyes. No righteous anger, no hint of scandalized outrage. Just honest surprise and maybe a tiny flicker of admiration.
He knew the type. If this kid believed at all, it was barely. Still, there was more saintliness in him than in his Bible-thumping mom, that was for damn sure. Funny how that worked, more like a rule than an exception.
“They might be saints, but they’re still ugly,” Jiseok smirked. “Like this one.” He pointed at the same icon he’d been glaring at earlier. “His forehead looks like an ass. No, seriously, what is that crease? Why does he have two half-foreheads?”
Father Goo would’ve ripped Jiseok’s fingers off for saying that. Well, no, not really. Father Goo was actually a sweet guy, but he’d definitely have gently told Jiseok he shouldn’t say stuff like that.
The unfamiliar boy just let out a snort, covering his mouth with one hand.
No way he believed in God.
“You really work here?” he asked, voice tinged with a badly stifled chuckle. He stepped up to the counter and set his notebook down on the thick glass, hiding a few judgmental looks beneath it. On the open spread was Eleusa, all penciled out in soft graphite. Honestly, not a bad choice.
“Come on,” Jiseok grimaced. “Four years and counting.”
The boy gave a quiet little hum, mostly to himself, then asked again, a bit shyly, “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” Jiseok said flatly, just as a gust of wind slammed the door shut with a deafening bang. The notebook pages rustled, flipping backward toward the beginning, and Jiseok couldn’t help it. His eyes flicked over the pencil sketches. Upside-down wasn’t the best angle for critique, but the graphite lines still came together into clear images. He tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better view, and reached for the notebook.
“Can I?” he asked gently. The boy gave a hesitant nod, so Jiseok turned the pages around to face himself.
A nose with a delicate bump, square jawline, long ink-black hair—it all struck Jiseok with painful familiarity. Just like that, a bicycle bell rang in his memory, mingling with the scent of meadow flowers. The corner of his lips curled into a small, involuntary smile.
“Looks like Jooyeon,” he murmured.
“You know him?” the boy asked, eyes wide with surprise.
“Oh,” Jiseok said meaningfully, lifting his gaze. “So it is him?”
“Yeah… I think so,” the boy mumbled. “It’s just…”
Jiseok glanced back down and turned another page.
“…Don’t go any further…”
The kid let out a heavy sigh, and Jiseok caught the way he dropped his head, ashamed.
Jooyeon was still looking up at him from the slightly yellowed page, but this time, it wasn’t just a face. It was a body, too. From the waist up. Nude.
Jiseok gave a low whistle and looked back at the kid, one brow arched. The boy shifted uncomfortably, eyes glued to the floor, clicking his bony fingers together.
“It’s normal practice for artists,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear, clearly trying to swallow his embarrassment. But Jiseok didn’t buy it. The shame was too raw, too vivid.
“Man, I watched ‘Titanic’ too many times. Thought people only did that kinda thing for true love,” Jiseok said, trying to sound serious, but a laugh slipped out anyway.
“What? No!” the boy cried, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato.
Jiseok wasn’t buying it for a second.
“That why you’re here?” he asked in a low voice. “Your mom trying to scrub the ‘liking boys’ thing outta you?”
The kid pressed his lips into a thin line and swallowed hard. His ears stayed crimson, but his face turned ghost-white.
The door groaned again. Heels clacked against the floor right after.
“Hyeongjun-ah,” came a sharp, disapproving voice.
The kid turned around, somehow even paler now, and made a few frantic steps toward his mother, totally forgetting about the notebook still in Jiseok’s hands.
She gave him the same disdainful look she’d tossed at Jiseok the day before. Jiseok just rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. Didn’t say a word. Again.
So Hyeongjun, huh?
On the plus side, he finally had a name for the awkward little artist. On the minus, his mom still pissed Jiseok off just by existing in the same room.
She wandered deeper into the shop, inspecting the shelves like she was judging the life choices of every saint painted there.
Hyeongjun followed behind her, hands clenched tightly together, rocking slightly on his heels. He glanced at Jiseok, almost like he was looking for rescue, but Jiseok couldn’t help him. All he could do was sigh, close the notebook, stash it under the counter, and push himself off the old chair that looked like it had survived a war and a few alley cat turf battles. Where was that tomcat today, anyway?
Helping the lady pick something out wasn’t even part of Jiseok’s job. He just had a habit of storytelling to make sales. Lucky for him, or maybe not, Hyeongjun’s mom didn’t need the help. With a firm voice, she pointed at the exact icon Jiseok had tried to pitch to her son a few minutes ago.
Jiseok slapped on his most charming smile as he thanked her for the purchase and wished her a good day but his eyes were fixed on that reddish crown of hair as the two of them turned their backs and left.
On the way out, she was scolding Hyeongjun for slipping out in the middle of the service. She clearly considered it a cardinal sin. Headaches and nausea? Apparently not enough to justify his escape.
Once Jiseok was alone again in the shop, he pulled out the forgotten notebook, ran his fingers along the edge, and opened it, flipping page after page. No one was going to pat him on the back for snooping, but hey, Hyeongjun had left it right in his hands.
Maybe he should’ve just given it back instead of waiting for a request, but curiosity won out, and deep down, Jiseok hoped the kid would come back for it on his own.
Hyeongjun had dated each drawing. Jiseok found it weird, but also kind of logical.
The first one was from last September.
At the start, it was the usual artist fare: vases, folds of cloth, plaster busts, trees. Sometimes the pages had scribbled notes instead of drawings, they were mostly about computer guts. Hyeongjun had a messy kind of handwriting, and the diagrams of controllers made more sense than the actual text. Was the kid studying to be a programmer? Or just a tech nerd? Jiseok left the question unanswered and kept flipping.
By February, Jooyeon started showing up. At first, the drawings didn’t quite look like him, something was off. Jiseok couldn’t put his finger on it, just had a gut feeling the portraits were drawn from memory. The likeness improved gradually, still mixed in with more “standard stuff” and the occasional note.
From April to May Jooyeon was on every page. His face from every angle. His body first hidden under oversized clothes, then nude. Isolated details: eyes, nose, lips, hands… Hyeongjun had practically taken him apart piece by piece.
One spread had two photo strips taped in. Four shots each. Both of them, Hyeongjun and Jooyeon, making faces, goofing off, forming a lopsided heart with their fingers that looked more like a squashed oval.
Jiseok seriously doubted this was just “normal artist practice.”
The next few pages were just scribbles. The paper was completely smudged with chaotic lines, almost violently so. Maybe it was the work of Hyeongjun’s little brother or sister, but Jiseok doubted any kid would have the patience to fill five whole pages with just a dull gray pencil. Every stroke looked like it hurt. Some lines were pressed so hard they’d ripped straight through the paper.
So much pain.
Then, after almost a month of nothing, the drawings came back. And to Jiseok’s own surprise, the first one after the long break looked like… him. Maybe he was just full of himself, but the date next to it was yesterday’s and underneath the sketch, scrawled in rushed handwriting, was “What’s his name?”
Without thinking much about it, Jiseok grabbed a pen from under the counter and carefully wrote his name in answer to the question. Then, after a moment’s thought, he added his phone number too.
Why not?
Seriously, why the hell not?
***
Four minutes till closing. Jiseok stared daggers at the numbers ticking on his phone screen, willing them to go faster. No one would say anything if he closed up a bit early. Damn, no one would even notice, but something in him just wouldn’t let him shut the shop down before the exact time and go wait for Jungsu and Seungmin at the gate.
A sharp noise made him jump. It was so late, he hadn’t expected anyone to come in. He turned his head toward the door and saw Hyeongjun, frozen on the threshold like a deer in headlights, shifting nervously from foot to foot, too scared to move forward.
“I—” he started, barely above a whisper.
“Don’t move,” Jiseok said flatly, raising his open palm like a stop sign. “I’m not mopping the damn floor again.”
“Okay,” Hyeongjun mumbled, lifting both hands in surrender. His fingers looked disturbingly pale, like they’d be ice-cold to the touch. “I forgot my sketchbook…”
Jiseok frowned for a second at the word, but then got the gist. He reached under the counter and pulled out the heavy notebook, spinning it in front of his face with a mock-serious grin.
Hyeongjun gave a nervous little nod and bit his lip.
“It’s being held hostage,” Jiseok drawled, clearly enjoying the way Hyeongjun tensed up even more, eyebrows knit together like a kicked puppy. “I’ll return it safe and sound if…”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, squinting like he was deep in philosophical thought.
“If you answer one question.”
“What question?” Hyeongjun asked, voice tight with fear.
“Do you think love can be sinful?”
Hyeongjun frowned, muttering “What?” like he didn’t hear him right or didn’t want to.
Seven o’clock finally hit, and Jiseok stood up abruptly, grabbing the light jacket draped over his chair and slinging it over his shoulders as he walked toward the exit. When he reached Hyeongjun, he stood on his toes a little, trying to meet his eyes squarely, maybe to intimidate him a bit. But even though Hyeongjun was clearly taller, somehow, he still looked vulnerable, staring down at Jiseok in pure confusion.
“Well? Can it or can’t it, Hyeongjun-ah?” Jiseok asked with a wide grin.
“…I guess it can,” Hyeongjun answered hesitantly.
“Wrong answer,” Jiseok pouted, but shoved the notebook into Hyeongjun’s hands anyway, giving him a slight push. It felt like an obvious hint, let’s get out of this damn place, but instead of moving, Hyeongjun leaned back against the door, clutching his precious baby-blue notebook like it was his lifeline.
Jiseok sighed heavily and stepped right up to him. He rose up on his toes again, this time putting his hands on Hyeongjun’s shoulders for balance. They were damp and still freezing.
“Love, my friend,” he said in a low, deliberate voice, “is beautiful and pure, no matter who you feel it for. Don’t cross it out.”
He dropped one hand from Hyeongjun’s shoulder and jabbed a finger between the other’s knuckles, pressed so tight around the notebook they’d gone white.
“Got it?”
“Got it,” Hyeongjun echoed.
There was no resistance, and for some reason, that made Jiseok so stupidly happy that he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face.
Hyeongjun reached out first. Laid one freezing palm against Jiseok’s cheek. It burned. His eyes flicked down to Jiseok’s mouth, and he licked his own lips nervously, impatiently. Jiseok’s heart thudded so hard he thought it might crash right through his ribs and land on the floor between them, but he tried to steady it, gripping Hyeongjun’s shoulders tighter.
Their lips met, careful at first, soft and warming. Jiseok kissed him like he was afraid to melt.
Was this his fourth kiss? Fifth? He’d lost count. Honestly, Jiseok had stopped keeping track ever since Seungmin and Jungsu started making out in front of him like it was no big deal. They’d made it seem so normal.
But Hyeongjun’s lips, icy as they were, didn’t feel normal at all. They made something twist hard in Jiseok’s gut. Made his cheeks burn.
Jiseok could swear that love between boys wasn’t a sin, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared shitless of getting punched in the face for telling another guy he liked him. Small village life meant that once something happened, everyone knew. That’s why he kept his secret tucked away, walked on eggshells, played it safe.
And while some ancient icon watched his fourth or fifth kiss with silent judgment, Jiseok stopped giving a damn, especially when Hyeongjun caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down just a little. His lashes trembled like he was about to cry.
Jiseok hoped Hyeongjun didn’t give a damn either. About the icons staring them down from every corner of the room. About the church just outside that wooden door. About some poorly translated Bible verse that centuries ago lost its meaning entirely. About his mother, who kept trying to hammer all those so-called “rules” into his head.
When Jiseok pulled back and landed on his heels with a heavy thud, breath catching in his chest, Hyeongjun was still gripping his cheek and panting just as hard.
“Like an angel,” Hyeongjun whispered, eyes locked on his.
Jiseok let out a tiny, startled sound, then chuckled under his breath.
“What’d you say?” he asked, cocking his head.
Hyeongjun immediately flushed and looked down at the floor, clearly embarrassed, but he still answered, voice barely above a murmur, “You. Like an angel of the Lord.”
“Whoa. Fancy words,” Jiseok snorted, hiding a grin behind his palm. “Who taught you that?”
He giggled, and all that urgency to escape this cursed church shop dissolved like it had never been there. He knew Seungmin and Jungsu were probably waiting by the gate, and his grandma would be expecting him home soon, too. Someone was definitely waiting for Hyeongjun as well, but they just stood there, stuck in that silence thick with nerves.
Not for long, though. Five minutes later, Jungsu cracked and barged in with Seungmin trailing behind, both of them wearing matching faces, equal parts anxious and annoyed.
For the first time in four years, Jiseok told them to go home without him, coughing awkwardly into his fist. Seungmin gave him a weird look—half-squint, half-arched eyebrow—but didn’t say anything. Just bolted after Jungsu.
Hyeongjun looked Jiseok in the eye again. There was something careful in the way he did it, but he still held Jiseok’s gaze straight-on.
“How long are you staying?” Jiseok asked, smiling softly even though his guts were tying themselves into knots. The answer was obvious. He wasn’t going to like it, but he asked anyway.
“Till the end of the month.”
Seven days left.
***
God created the world in six days and took the seventh off. He did so much in one damn week, but for some reason, that same span flew past Jiseok like nothing. Just one more workweek in an endless string of them. The only difference is that this time, along with the usual stray tomcat, he had Hyeongjun.
He wasn’t much of a talker, but he was a good listener, always tucked into some quiet corner with a pencil in hand, sketching. Jiseok kept hoping the stars that lit up his eyes when he looked at that messy ginger mop were making it onto the paper. Maybe they looked like the ones he’d pointed to in the sky that night in the field, when they’d laid in the trampled grass side by side. God, Jiseok really hoped so.
Hyeongjun had become a memory burned into him, one of those rare kinds that felt scented like fresh summer air at night. His voice, soft and low, reminded Jiseok of crickets chirping far off in a meadow too wide to hold.
Jiseok didn’t get to say goodbye when he left for the city. He’d been stuck at work, as usual, babysitting icons. Or maybe they were babysitting him. So he just sat there, boxed in by four walls, wondering how far away Hyeongjun was now. The ache of it was so fucking heavy, he thought he might crawl up the walls.
Right until his phone went off with a hideous alert sound, loud enough to jar his spine. It was a text from an unknown number. A hesitant “Hi?” was cool and quiet, like the air beneath a night sky.