Work Text:
One day I will be a
beautiful
Tree,
silently settling my roots in your garden.
Saffron leaves might not hide
my rotting seed,
but your flowers will, and so will the bugs nurturing the soil, and so will the
rowan fruits,
swinging on my slender yet
resilient branches
The poet—or “not necessarily a poet, but something close to it”, as he likes to call himself—uses the image of a growing tree to describe how it feels to slowly become fonder of another person, building a bond based on comfort and trust with them. The starting point, the “rotting seed”, is a symbol for the insecurities held at the beginning, venturing in unknown territory on his own; but it's also his most naked self in a broader sense, buried underground all alone, surrounded by an unfamiliar affection he needs to become accustomed to.
And he does: just like the seed grows its roots, Ngan Chauyuet slowly learns what it feels like to be loved as well; and he holds onto a slim hope that one day people will come to understand him in the same way he does with them, too.
As random as it may look, the structure of the poem is also intentional: the irregular length of the verses allows the readers to focus on the key words of the composition, and the unnatural pacing perfectly depicts his struggle to convey his innermost feelings the way he would like. There's no period to end the poem either, just as there's no end to this process of self-acceptance and the appreciation he feels for his partner; and the word “Tree” being capitalized and isolated from the rest is almost some form of reverence from the author, holding the soil like he wishes to maintain the stability in others’ lives, filtering the air just like he wants to filter out the negativity.
And yet, despite how meticulous he is about the words he uses, Ngan Chauyuet can’t communicate as effectively as he'd like.
He realizes this at four in the morning on a random autumn day, all while his fingers gently caress Zheyi’s palm, now spread open on his pillow; they glide over the sheen of sweat covering the youngest’s skin, and they trace the way to his heart, steady and slow. It's precious, and beautiful, and it fills Chauyuet’s heart with a warm, fuzzy feeling he can't quite describe.
It's always like that with him: the concept rests in his brain, dormant, still unprocessed; and whenever he tries to elaborate it into coherent sentences with the words he knows, they scatter around like orange leaves on a chilly autumn day. He rakes them all in a neat pile away from the sidewalk people walk on, but he’ll never be able to put them back on the trees, nor will he be able to do anything productive with them if he only sees them in relation to what they once were. And what about the children who will play with those leaves, just as their childish instincts drive them to do? Maybe they'll pick one or two out of the pile, press them between the pages of their diary, and draw their doodles around it; maybe they'll kick the leaves, and stomp on them, and scatter them around again purely for the thrill of causing a mess, leaving Chauyuet to sort them again, in vain; or maybe they'll just ignore them altogether, too busy to look up at the trees and complain about them, their branches too bare, their barks too dry. Whatever they do, it'll never be what he wanted. And it'll be just like back at home with his relatives, the younger ones playing around in a way so foreign to him, annoying yet endearing all the same.
Haa…
Ngan Chauyuet realizes he's lost focus yet again, his brain pondering over hypothetical children and imaginary leaves while his partner shivers under his touch, even in his sleep. If only he could hear his thoughts right now! Zheyi would probably laugh heartily—like he always does—amused by his train of thought, and Chauyuet would laugh alongside him.
Suddenly, the metaphors he's come up with don't sound nearly as powerful as they once did, and whatever value they held loses itself in the cold autumn wind blowing outside. He will probably remove them from the final version anyway.
Chauyuet continues to brush Zheyi’s features under the faint orange light of the bed lamp, and with each digit, he mentally notes down all the words he'd love to use. He doesn't even know where to begin, if it'd make more sense to start with the general attributes of the room as he sees it now, the feeble light of the bed lamp kissing Zheyi’s face and accentuating his plump lips, and the shadows it casts on his face make his lashes look longer; or maybe he could describe the few things he can see beyond the four walls of their room, autumn leaves swiftly dancing in the air and occasionally hitting the window as the wind hisses and whistles outside, in the dark.
The point is, none of this matters: something will always be lost regardless of how detailed he is. There’ll always be as many rooms as readers care enough to visualize, and there'll always be as many Chauyuets people care to perceive.
"Good morning…"
Zheyi’s voice comes out as a whisper, drowsiness evident in his glassy eyes, his slightly parted lips, and the way he slurs his words as he speaks. This rare view will last for a few minutes at most, but it will take days for Chauyuet to write it down to the finest details, and the warmth it brings will stay in his heart for much longer. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
“Good morning,” Chauyuet replies, his hand now gently stroking his Zheyi’s. Just a look at his face, and the oldest can tell something is going on. “Did you have a nightmare?”
“Mhm,” is all Zheyi says before what feels like a very long pause.
Of course he did, Chauyuet thinks: his ragged breathing gave it away, and that was why he’d started caressing him to begin with. Had he written this down, this detail would've gone unnoticed, just like he had failed to mention his furrowed eyebrows, and his quivering lower lip; and Chauyuet wonders just how he could've ignored such obvious signs before now. It doesn't matter. Zheyi would never know, and even if he did, he would smother Chauyuet in kisses and reassure him it's alright; even now, he leans into the oldest’s touch, the rhythm of his strokes instantly soothing him.
“But you were here all along,” Zheyi adds, now looking up at Chauyuet from his pillow, “so it felt less scary. You treat me so well, even when you're not sure I’ll see it. It makes me feel special.”
“Because you are.”
And Zheyi knows he truly means it. Chauyuet loves everything with an intensity he's never seen in anyone else, and his love permeates in everything they share: the meals they cook together, and the way the oldest always saves for Zheyi anything from his plate he knows the other likes more than him; the laundry they hang outside to dry, swaying as the wind decides, and the smell of the detergents and softeners they use—sometimes citric, refreshing like an orangeade on a hot summer day; at times earthily sweet, evoking memories of dewy grass on autumn mornings like this one—or even their shoes on the rack in the entrance, and the way Chauyuet always leaves the same exact spot for Zheyi to put his.
No one loves life as much as Chauyuet does, in its greatest and smallest pleasures, in its best and worst moments: he's a romantic at heart, and he will never stop finding joy for as long as he keeps looking, even when things go wrong.
(And Zheyi would be lying if he didn't admit his sentimentalism didn't rub off on him a bit, too.)
“I’m so lucky to have you.”
“That should be my line,” Chauyuet chuckles, and his gaze softens as his eyes lock with Zheyi’s; his hand finds the other's, their fingers intertwining as they hide under the blanket. “I will never feel as safe as I do when I'm with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
He takes a break, feeling somewhat nervous: no matter how many days, weeks, months pass—soon enough it will be a year of cohabitation, now that he thinks about it—Ngan Chauyuet will always be madly in love with Fan Zheyi, and he will always feel the same overwhelming anticipation as the first time.
“I often lose myself in my thoughts,” Chauyuet begins, his eyes still locked into Zheyi’s, and the latter seems to be listening attentively, “and I end up overthinking everything I do. I fear hurting people without even meaning to, and so I pay extra attention not to overstep boundaries and to make everyone comfortable… but I wonder… is it enough?”
Another break. Chauyuet tenses up. Zheyi holds his breath. Both their hearts palpitate concerningly fast. Something in the air is shifting; both can feel it, even if they can't exactly tell what it is, and neither one wants to risk breaking this precarious equilibrium by saying or doing anything wrong.
“Every night I go to bed feeling numb, wondering whether I was able to convey what I feel to those I cherish the most… or if I ever felt anything at all. Even you always tell me my thoughts and words are rather abstract, but what I feel is very much true.”
“I know,” Zheyi replies, with warmth in his voice. “Your feelings have reached me long ago already, Chauyuet. And those doubts are what make you human… It's proof that you care. That's what you always tell me, too, right?”
Chauyuet’s lips tremble as he smiles, untangling his hand from Zheyi’s, only to gently pull the youngest’s face closer to his. Their noses brush against each other, their breaths mingle with expectancy, and as they close the distance under the faint orange light, Chauyuet can't help but think he's the luckiest man in the entire world.
By the time he wakes up tomorrow, Chauyuet might forget he’s ever allowed himself to be vulnerable out of his will; he might decide it's not worth showing Zheyi the poem he wrote for him, after all—way too embarrassing even as someone who doesn't fear sounding cheesy—and that with each kiss they exchange, the words he recites in his heart will reach his partner and linger in the air, too.
However, he might also just leave it somewhere for Zheyi to find—maybe while he cleans their room, or as a post-it on their fridge—and read on his own, and he will smile thinking of how loved he is; his analysis of the poem would be the closest to what he originally meant, and he’d probably pick up on details Chauyuet might’ve not realized he added in the first place.
Regardless of what will happen next, he knows his home is where Zheyi is, and as his hands wander in the blond’s hair, gently tugging on his golden locks to deepen the kiss, Ngan Chauyuet remembers that he, too, will always be Fan Zheyi’s first choice. He will always be his tree, for he has already sown his roots a long time ago, and Zheyi will always pick up his leaves: no matter how weird some might look, or how much they keep slipping off his arms, he will take them all.
And maybe, from this year onwards, Zheyi will add rowan trees to the list of things that remind him of his dear Chauyuet.