Work Text:
gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
…
They’re the first to arrive and the last to leave.
The memorial is an understated affair— Saeyoung and his girlfriend come into the chapel somber-eyed and solemn; the silver cross Saeyoung always wears is resting over his black shirt, polished and clean, glinting in the candlelight. Eunha, beside him, as unassuming as usual, is neat and presentable in a dark ensemble, her hair brushed back from her face. Her eyes, observant and always critical, sweep over the pews and settle on the photograph resting on the little altar.
There are no blood relatives alive—or willing, Jumin had mentioned— left to attend. Only the members of the RFA trickle in, slowly, one by one, and Taeyeon realizes how much they’ve all changed, just in the span of twelve months. Yoosung looks almost apologetic when he enters, expression drawn tight; his hair is completely grown out now, back to its natural black, though he’s held onto the clips and the less-austere styling he adopted after middle-school. He’s even a little taller, a little surer of stride and stance.
Jaehee is next, and not a second over schedule. The curl of her hair is falling a little longer around her ears— she’d finally caved to the idea of no major cuts except for trims after Taeyeon had prodded her about it. It looks good on her; it softens her face even further when she smiles, and gives her an excuse to accessorize. She sits next to Taeyeon, her greeting a dignified “madam” and an acknowledging nod.
The priest and Zen practically enter together, with only a minute or two between them. Zen is immaculate in his pressed suit, hair combed back neatly and away from his face, tall, unfamiliarly grim. He says his hellos those who have gathered, offering Taeyeon a wan smile that she returns for a moment. He claims a seat beside Yoosung in a pew across the aisle, and she turns her attention back to Jumin, who has been sitting silent and subdued since the beginning. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers laced together, the burnished gold of his wedding band pressed tight against the steeple of his knuckles. Under the fine tailored lines of his clothes, the slope of his shoulders is rigid.
He didn’t sleep well last night. He kept tossing and turning, uncomfortable, restless, until even Elizabeth moved to the foot of their gigantic bed to escape the fidgeting. She hadn’t asked him what was wrong. An obvious question deserves no answer. She’d just shuffled closer, opening her arms, and he’d slid into her embrace, hiding his face in the crook of her neck, his fingers catching on the straps of her silken nightgown. She wishes she could do the same here—run her hands through his hair, kiss his brow, move near so she can feel the rhythm of his heart beating steady.
None of that’s an option, so she simply grazes his hand with hers, a light touch, nothing more than a skim of skin on skin. He looks up at her anyhow, almost too quickly, the catlike focus of his eyes instant and sharp. She’s always liked the clarity she can find there. Jumin has a gift for paring situations down to the bare minimum, for seeing things as they truly are, and disengaging to adapt when he realizes his understanding is lacking. It’s a methodical way of living, if not one that allows for a lot of room for emotional interpretation, but that only means he is different—not broken. Not strange. Just different.
Jumin doesn’t say anything. He just watches her, observantly, before he reaches over to put his palm over hers. She squeezes back at the tightening of his grip, letting his warmth seep through her.
I know this is difficult. I’m here.
The mass is respectful—not entirely long, and the bubble of isolation that’s formed inside the chapel breaks the minute the priest’s demeanor shifts, patting at his forehead with one long sleeve. He has other services to attend, no doubt, and before he goes, he thanks them for their presence with the easy grace of someone who moves around death every day. Taeyeon watches the rosary clutched in his hands sway as he walks out, wondering if she’d be a different person if she could rely on faith. She is a self-contained creature; it’s always been in her nature, and part of what attracted her to Jumin, she supposes. Neither of them truly believe in actual miracles. Being their cause often takes away from the mystery.
Goodbyes are exchanged. Jumin stands for a short while. The door shuts for a last time behind Jaehee, whose greater dedication to concern almost compelled her to stay. In the end, after some assurances, she leaves, as well.
The chapel is empty again, and in wordlessness Taeyeon and Jumin contemplate the flickering candlelight, the portrait, propped up by a wreath of chrysanthemums—in it, Jihyun is smiling, cheeks dimpled, looking into the lens with clear eyes, blue like a cloudless summer sky. He is standing against the backdrop of Wonhyo Bridge sometime during a beautiful afternoon, flushed with exercise. Happier times, perhaps. He wasn’t fond of self-portraits—or portraits of any kind, really. It’d been pure providence that Jumin had been able to find something suitable.
She leans her head carefully on Jumin’s shoulder, relieved to feel him release some of the tension he’s holding at the contact. He sighs, a deep, bone-weary thing that saddens her, and rests his cheek on her temple.
“A year,” he says into her black hair. Two words. A million meanings.
She shuts her eyes. “We need to blow out the candles before we go.”
He nods.
They don’t move.
…
The atmosphere of the reception follows them all the way home.
He pours her some of the Cabernet Sauvignon icewine after dinner—he is, as always, conscious of her tastes and favorites—and settles onto the couch, arms open, one hand free, the other keeping his chosen book of the evening aloft. The color of his own consumed wine is still a little visible in his cheeks and the flutes of his collarbone: he doesn’t allow himself enough indulgence for it to become an affecting factor often. Drink isn’t a solution, he’d told her at one of their earliest joint dinners. It’s a pleasure. He must be truly feeling out of sorts. She sits with her back pressed to his chest, their legs entangled, his heat clinging to her.
She sips at the icewine while Elizabeth pads over the carpeted floor to leap into her lap, paws kneading the silk of her nightdress. She's glad to be out of her heels. The penthouse is never cold—she can wear what she likes, when she likes, though it might be wintering outside (like it is). It’s odd to be able to enjoy a gas-powered fireplace in summer nightwear, but she won’t complain. She is comfortable, and Jumin is here. Taeyeon strokes the top of Elizabeth’s head absentmindedly, barely registering the cat’s responding purr of approval.
“Jumin,” she says, after a minute or so, when the icewine is low in her glass.
“Hm?”
She looks at him, her husband in his loose, casual clothes (a rarity—he may as well have been born in a tailored suit), the collar of his shirt open over his clavicle, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark hair tousled from the day’s activities. He is so wonderful, and so quiet, and he’s been keeping everything to himself today, more than usual. That’s Jumin for you—ready to forge on alone, no matter what. She’d promised to stay by him. Sometimes she thinks he doesn’t know that this is a two-way street.
“I love you,” she murmurs. His expression softens.
“I know,” he says, and his fingers brush over her shoulder, thumbing at her pulse. Better than before, when he’d have remarked I don’t know why. “I love you, too.”
She presses her lips to his jaw. Goosebumps rise on his skin. “Just remember that,” she tells him.
…
She wakes up for the second time at 3:15 AM, according to their bedside clock.
Elizabeth is still bundled up in her arms, but the space behind her is still empty. She slides out from under the sheets, letting the sleepy cat take her spot. Her vision adjusts to the dark rather quickly, so she’s able to find her robe without too much trouble—she makes her way from the bedroom to the hallway, checks in the bathroom and the study and doesn’t find him there, and so moves onto the living room.
He’s seated at the edge of the couch, hands folded together, elbows propped on his knees, staring into the fireplace, the orange light turning his grey eyes to gold. He doesn’t turn when he hears her, remaining motionless while she sinks into place beside him. There are no other lights on—he didn’t want to wake her, probably, but she wishes he would have. She brushes the hair away from his brows. He's cold. How long has he been out here?
“I just wanted to know where you were. I can go, if you’d like,” she says. It goes against every urge to comfort and console—but space is space, and if it’s needed, if he needs it, he knows she’ll give it to him.
“No,” he says shortly, his gaze flicking to her. “Stay.”
“Alright,” she concedes. She makes herself comfortable, draws her legs up and tightens the robe around her.
For a few minutes the only sound to be heard is the low, buzzing hum of the artificial fireplace; it doesn’t crackle like flames sprung from wood do, but it’s an adequate filler, and less messy than the real thing. Everything about him was like that, when she’d met him: streamlined, economic, stripped to its absolute necessity. It’s instinct for him to suffocate what he believes he doesn’t need (emotion, catharsis, small satisfactions, peace, fulfillment), to push himself to be better, to work faster, to never rely on another person, not too much, because close is dangerous, and there’s only so much he can stand being important to him. It sometimes frightens her, how deeply he feels. How far his loyalty goes. But she wouldn’t have him any other way.
“I should be past this by now,” he says, so quietly she almost misses it. Her heart jumps.
“Jumin…”
He grits his teeth. “I know it’s—foolish, but I can’t… I can’t stop…”
Taeyeon sits up, ready to reach for him. “There’s no time limit. We all grieve at a different pace. And you were so close to one another—be easier on yourself, Jumin. Please.”
He hangs his head, like earlier in the church, knuckles whitening. “I made a mistake. I should have been… I should have known. I should have pressed him for answers. I thought best to leave it to his discretion, even though I felt uneasy about it.” His voice thickens, on the cusp of breaking. “How could I have made such a mistake? It’s inexcusable.”
“Please,” she repeats, resting a palm between his shoulders. “Please don’t blame yourself.”
He is. Of course he is.
“He’s gone,” Jumin says. He sounds lost. “I should have known.”
She winds an arm around his waist, curling into his side. “You couldn’t have. There’s no way. You’re not a mind-reader, Jumin. Jihyun made his choices, and he was at peace. I talked about it with Eunha—about the time they spent in that place. She told me he always had faith in you. He believed you’d find them.”
His lips mold together in a thin line. “But I was too late.”
“Eunha and Saeyoung are alive because of you,” she says, her other hand rising to play with the downy hair at the back of his nape. “Saeran got a chance at recovery and freedom. Don’t sell yourself short. Jihyun wouldn’t want you to.”
She feels the coil of his muscles under her touch, strong and taut. “Does it matter? He isn’t here anymore.” Because of me.
“Maybe I won’t be able to convince you otherwise, no matter what I say,” she begins, nearly a whisper. Here in the almost-dark, too much sound would seem a violation. “But I know—and the others know—that you did all you possibly could. If you can’t believe yourself, then… then at least, believe me, and that I feel this way.”
He turns into her embrace. It’s as close to a yes as she’ll get, and she doesn’t mind. She accepts him, even now delighted by the way he fills her arms. He has to lean in to complete the hug and close the distance (it’s not that she’s short for her age group, really, he’s just taller), draping himself over her, holding her lightly around the waist. Every exhale he makes skitters along her shoulder, beneath her ear. His heart is drumming hard between his ribs.
“Does it ever get better?” he asks, softly.
She’s an old hand at loss.
The image of a little grave on a hill springs into her mind, unbidden; how terrified she’d been the first time she’d taken him there, scared to show him, to share with him her vulnerability. It seems silly to the Taeyeon of the present that fear had any place in her estimation of him—or rather, his judgment. He had only held her hand when her eyes burned, and waited patiently as she said her goodbyes, compulsively rearranging the bouquet she’d brought against the headstone. Burials are expensive. Almost rare. And just like Jihyun, her precious Minah had been buried. She can still see the casket in the darkness behind her shut eyes.
“Not entirely,” she says. “You learn to live with it, I think.” She blinks rapidly. “It’s been ten years for me, and I expect her to call. I still… wake up having forgotten about it. And then I realize…” Taeyeon breathes in. He smells of mint and clean linen. “It’s easier when you have the right people around you. You’re not alone, Jumin.”
He doesn’t respond.
Something wet and warm falls on her shoulder—one droplet, and then another. She kisses his damp cheek.
There is no hurry.