[Jonghyun / Kibum] Patron of the (Lonely)

[quagmireisadora]

Rating: G
Warning: none
Genre: multiple era au
Length:  ~7000
A/N: based on this song



희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

The man had stayed by his side for many moons, an unerring protector against all threats. His fingers were quick to nock arrows, his aim was sure to meet its target.

When Lord Kibum was given the boon of a guard to accompany him on the journey west, he did not know what to expect. Or, in truth, he had some expectation: a broad man with a broad face, large arms and legs like trees. He had thought the queen would send her emissary forth to the silk route with much pomp and preparation. Yet, he had departed before the first rays of morning found their tracks on the hoof-beaten paths of Wiryeseong.

“Jonghyun,” he turned now to his companion: a short, quiet, mysterious young hwarang who moved like a bat in darkness. “Come, have a drink. Share a tale or two with me.” Lord Kibum patted the blanket next to him.

Together, they had traveled by horse, by carriage, by ship, and now by foot, to arrive in this desert. The mornings scorched their backs and the evenings froze their lips. Their feet were callused, their arms tired, their bodies bruised. The last of the yaks had disappeared some nights before, leaving the men to carry the weight of their belongings on their own shoulders. Food was scarce and shelter forgotten; the comfort of Silla was far behind them. No more would they see wagtails flutter over swaying zelkovas on a spring afternoon, no more would the sun gleam against the palace tiles as it set against the horizon of hills. Now sand crunched between their teeth, grated under their eyelids. Now the only sight of green was in their memories.

The rest of the platoon looked as bedraggled as Kibum felt, and he felt terrible. Yet there was Jonghyun, gait as smooth as it always was and eyes as calm as the Han river on winter mornings. He obeyed the offer and seated himself close to his charge.

“This journey tries you, my lord,” there was no malice in the hwarang’s words. They steamed concern out into the cold air.

“The queen has set us on this… quest,” Kibum replied with some pity for his circumstances. “And if we should lose our lives in pursuit of what the queen wants, then… so it shall be,” he nodded.

“A sentencing,” Jonghyun spoke the words as if questioning his own pronunciation of the words. “And…” his eyebrows knit together with worry. “Does my lord accept this sentence? Does he hold guilt?”

Kibum stared at the man with a rueful smile. He had been raised a lord by the graces of luck. Deemed pure of bloodline, he had been accepted by the academy. He had studied--studied the words of other men, studied paintings from other lands, studied with inks and brushes. He had spent a lifetime hidden between parchment and tablet so that the throne may feel less threatened by his existence. But it had certainly not been enough.

“Go west.” When he had heard the words, he had flinched at them. He remembered a moment of gratefulness swimming in his belly, for the words may easily have been, “Go to the gallows.” He reminisced as he sat close to a fire, fingers spread and fur wrapped securely around his shivering frame.

But he related nothing of it to Jonghyun.

“I have committed many wrongs that could mean punishment for me, and for my sons who would come after me,” Kibum said. “Perhaps… one of those sins is my birth.”

The hwarang showed sympathy, but remained silent. It was uncertain what he perceived of court politics, but his condolences were a welcome smear of warmth in the cold night. Kibum hoped the warmth would remain unchanged for the rest of the expedition, for it is often the road that breeds mistrust and discontent in the hearts of men: with its challenging length and its vengeful terrain. Regardless of his noble nature, and his kind ways, Jonghyun would surely become roughened, much like the sand they traversed. After all, he had been sentenced, too. Someone wanted him away from the barracks in Gyeongju. Someone had wished him out of their way, out of their schemes, and this would soon infect the man with doubt. It would spread through his loyalty, fell his kindness, murder his bravery. Lord Kibum knew this as he knew his own self--knew that he may only afford his companion as long as there is silver still hanging from his belt. When he loses the weight in his pouch, he will truly lose everything.

“Deoryeonim,” Jonghyun called attention to his voice, ringing like bells against the wind. “You are a good man.” Kibum touched his own cheek, wondering if his thoughts had appeared on his face as writing.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: it was common among the hwarangs. Despite living the life of nobility, Kibum had heard the poems. He knew of talk among the public that some of these men had sworn deep affection for one another, an affection that burned so bright it incinerated all custom and tradition. Indeed, Kibum had caught wind of words that serenaded to hands roughed by the hilt of a sword, to eyes that remained vigilant in their sleep, to bodies that toiled for the safety of the throne and its subjects. And despite it being considered unnatural by some, he held no disapproval for such a love. A love held by no bounds, in his eyes, was true love. A love colored crimson and coursing through one's blood with every intake of breath--to Kibum the bearer of such a love was to be envied. And Jonghyun's golden eyes held the promise of that love. His hands offered it freely, like a well offering limitless water.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: it was well-accepted among the hwarangs, but Lord Kibum was not to have the pleasure of indulging in such a love. He was expected to take a wife, from a suitable family with means and displaying a modest nature. He was to father children that may someday be little lordlings that would be sent to academy, like their father before them. The stature that came with lordship required that all desires be disposed of, and life be lived by the heels of the queen's favor.

A hwarang may not tempt a lord, and a Kibum may not love a Jonghyun. But in the middle of this desert of silence, of solitude, the love surrounded them where they huddled by a dying fire. And like the glowing orange embers before him, Kibum restrained his voice from leaping between them to caress the other's face with tenderness.

He may never be in Kibum's arms, his lips may never kiss Kibum's name, his chest may never ring with Kibum's heartbeat, but in the light of lingering love, Jonghyun was beautiful.

When the sun rose the next morning, they were met by strangers riding odd creatures of humped backs. The strangers studied them as they offered food and water. Where some of the soldiers accepted wearily, the hwarang was as courteous as he would have been were they still in the queen’s court. He bowed, strolled back to Kibum’s side and shared his portion. “It is not poisoned, my lord,” he assured.

The other considered his empty belly before he refused with a smile. His protector needed it more than he did. “Feast,” he approved.

“They say there is a town some ri away to the west,” Jonghyun munched.

“Do you speak their tongue?” Kibum asked incredulously.

“There are ways for travelers to speak without words, my lord,” Jonghyun laughed. “They simply pointed me to their home, and they did not appear to have been traveling long.”

It was something to ponder on. Did Jonghyun’s ears discern every silent utterance around him? Did he deduce confessions on people’s foreheads before they were expelled by their lips? Did he answer questions in advance of their arrival, fully formed and coherent? As Kibum watched the other chew through bread and meat, humming his appreciation, he wondered if any of his own thoughts had spilled out in the open. He fretted over the idea that perhaps… perhaps Jonghyun had already walked through the gateway of his miserable field of rumination, scowling at the desert inside Kibum like he scowled at the one outside. He shuddered at the notion.

As they approached the town, there was a synchronous thud as every man undid his burdens and ran forward to bathe in the air of the marketplace. Fires burned in homes, children ran in circles, men yelled orders to other men, and women laughed in balconies of brick and stone. Clothes fluttered in the wind, wheels rolled across paving stones, animals complained about the heat, and somewhere--somewhere in the distance was the sound of flowing water.

“Home,” Lord Kibum muttered.

“Could it become a home away from home?” Jonghyun smiled. His shoulders were relaxed, and his hand no longer gripped the hilt of his sword. The shadow of vigilance had cleared from his eyes. They shone like honey in the sunlight. Only now, after all the distances they had crossed, did it seem like they were finally free of their titles. No more were they lord and servant, no longer did one stand beneath another. Only now, after all these moons, did they become equals.

“A worthy consideration,” Kibum smiled in return.

Above the starving peasants and greedy merchants, above the palace that demanded obeisance and the temple that forbade dissidence, above the fiefdoms and injustices and inequalities of blood; above the rivers and valleys and deserts, above all the parched fields of paddy and every sward of wild flowers--there is a hill. At the end of his life, Kibum wished he would meet Jonghyun again on that knoll, untouched by everything around it. Then they would truly be free.

희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

When the eunuchs were all ordered to gather in the courtyard for an evening performance, Kibum rushed to prepare everything beforehand.

The Crown Prince did not much like leaving his palace, and he rarely ventured as far as the courtyard, where his father’s keen eyes would judge him harshly. Instead, he kept to his books and scrolls, wandered through the archives late at night, sent for scholars from Sunkyunkwan to meet and converse with him. The noble families called him a loner and weakling in the courts, some even plotting to depose him. But the prince’s attendants knew. They knew better.

“Musicians!” someone yelled from across the room. “All this fuss over musicians!” Kibum chuckled under his breath as he laid the silk robes out.

When he’d first been brought here, he remembered being afraid. All the orphans in his village had been rounded up and loaded onto the backs of bullock carts. “You are to be taken to Hanyang for serving the palace,” they were told, among other fairy tale-like stories of the capital. They’d traveled a long way from Gyeongsang-do to the city gates, and when they’d finally arrived, he remembered how everything had been spotless and shimmering. Gateways taller than the tallest trees and palaces larger than the largest hill he had ever seen. The people wore fine clothes and spoke in a fine dialect. There was no sweat from tilling the land. No one complained about hunger--palace guards and magistrate officials ate, drank, laughed amongst themselves in the streets.

He'd been awe-struck and frightened by it all, then. But as the years went by, everything about the city had shrunk in size. Everything became familiar to the touch of his palm.

An attendant pulled at his sleeve in panic. “Ah, listen to me!” she urged. “The prince cannot go out in those clothes! They’re finding him a suitable match, how will any nobleman give their daughter to someone who looks so… shabby?!”

“Yah! Does it matter?” Kibum complained. “He won’t listen to me, he’ll just do as he pleases. Just hurry before the head eunuch catches you!”

“B-but the royal consort must be chosen--!” she tried again. Kibum made threatening eyes to make her back down. When she let out a squeal of frustration, skittering out of the chambers, the prince's servants took a moment to laugh at her retreating back.

She was not wrong: the king had been receiving offers from many distant parts of the kingdom to marry the Crown Prince. He would look at the girls’ portraits and send back a token with a messenger. But he would never sit down with his son--his heir--to talk about it.

It had put the kingdom in a strange bind. An heir as advanced in years as Prince Jonghyun should have married and fathered a pair of children by now. The old king was long overdue to retire from the throne, letting his only male child succeed him. But it had been years since the two men had gotten along. It had been nearly a lifetime, Kibum thought, since father and son had sat by the moonlight and poured each other drinks.

“Fighting again?” the prince’s voice called the room to a shocked silence. “Yah, you all are the reason those sycophants make fun of me,” he jested. The doors of the chamber slid open and all the servants bowed deep. “How will I ever be king with a noisy group like you, eh?” he continued jovially.

Kibum straightened and smiled at Jonghyun. “If the day ever comes, we will do our best to serve you, your highness.”

The prince laughed in his throat. “If the day ever comes, he says. You certainly have a way with words, Bum ah,” he said affectionately, then suddenly clapped his hands together. “Fine! I will make an appearance. You may all do as you please,” he allowed.

They raced around at that. His arms and legs were clad in the softest white silks, and his royal blue robes were arranged to look impeccable. He did not like ornamentation, so his attire was always simple, but Kibum ensured the Crown Prince looked regal despite his simplicity. When they tied his hanbok and secured the belt around his waist, Jonghyun complained about how long and arduous all of this was. But it was widely known the man enjoyed the attention. He was always happier being cosseted and indulged by attendants than he ever was in the company of maidens and ministers.

When they’d combed his hair and secured it above his head, Kibum sat the prince down to serve him his meal. He washed the other’s hands, ensuring all the bowls were licked clean, and prepared to usher the prince out.

"You are very kind to me, Bum ah," Prince Jonghyun thanked, humor playing on his lips. "Ah~ how nice it would be to have a wife who cared after me like you do..."

"A fine dream, jeoha. But a queen would never be allowed near dirty utensils. So unfortunately," Kibum looked up from his task and replied to the joke. "I will look after you until my hair is grey and my back is bent."

The prince made a disappointed face and they chortled together at that.

As a little boy, Kibum had been a nobody. Unknown blood ran in his veins. He'd been dressed in scraps from the soldiers' tailor and fed leftovers from the butcher's kitchen. They taught him to perform the most basic tasks around the palace, but his life was not much better than that of a beggar.

It all changed when he turned sixteen. Someone had willed it to change. He was to be a proper servant. He was to live his life the way it was meant from the very start--at the feet of those with gold and sway in the king’s court.

And so they made him a eunuch.

When the fever of being cut had subsided, they'd immediately dressed him in brown servants' robes. They trained him: to bow, to serve, to clean, to speak the official tongue. He took it as a second chance at life and he worked hard. He spent the coldest nights guarding gates. He spent sweltering afternoons observing the cooks. When the tiles flew off the roof in a hard breeze, when snow caved the ceiling of a granary, when stairs and floors started to show wear--he would appear, nails and hammer in hand, prepared to take on any task. The head eunuch noticed him, took special note of his enthusiasm, and in a few years' time he was chosen to enter the service of a young Prince Jonghyun.

Since then, he had known nothing but kindness. So, it pained him that a man who had been so respectful to him had never once been shown the same respect. Despite his class, despite his blood, despite him being a royal and an heir, the prince had never been given the affection he readily offered to everyone else.

"You'll stay here, for the rest of your life?" the Crown Prince softly muttered as he dried his fingers on a cloth. "I dare not ask for more."

To love a man, or to be loved by one: no. Did Kibum even deserve love? He had wondered once, as they’d been forced to watch a maid be whipped for a stupid error. He had wept in his bed that night, not out of pity or dread. But the thought of never receiving love made him feel utterly alone. He had come from being a nobody, to becoming a something. A someone. He had no past, no family, nowhere to call home. He had nothing to show of all his years alive, nothing to provide beyond a few coins in his purse and a few clothes on his back. Could he afford love? Could love be bought? Not in the way one could buy the company of a gisaeng, but truly purchased. For the length of a life. Surely love was not materialistic, given to one caste and abandoning another. For Kibum had seen--Jonghyun’s love did not measure, it did not separate, it was not partial. His love did not discriminate.

But to love a man, or to be loved by one: Kibum wondered if he deserved something like that. Neither man, nor woman, he had been rendered into a life of in-betweens. He would appear between meals, to serve. He would approach between court functions, to perform his duties. In the public grounds, he would be seated between lords and peasants. He would wake up between day and night, he would walk between quiet walls, he would pause between breaths before he answered.

A eunuch may never leave his in-betweens, and a Kibum may never be loved by a Jonghyun. But as they walked into the evening air, footsteps matching, breaths fogging, the prince’s smile was filled with love. And like the whistle of a flute in the distance, Kibum’s heart blew out its candles against fear of a lonely life.

He may be the Crown Prince, he may be next in line to be the king of Joseon, he may be of royal blood. But when he leaned into Kibum and whispered “never leave my side”, Jonghyun was beautiful.

Beyond the unfairness of law and diffidence of punishment, beyond the throne that accepted only perfection and the people who hid their deformities, beyond the ranks and prestige and easily bought status; beyond the silent stone and speechless tiles, beyond every demand and duty--there is a field. At the end of his life, Kibum wished he would see Jonghyun again among the reeds there, swaying like unsaid words. Then they would truly be free.

희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

They were not close, but they were friends.

“Every drop counts,” Jonghyun spoke at the front of the class. “When you take each one, bring it together, you make an ocean. Alone, it is small, insignificant. It means nothing by itself. But without these… little insignificant drops, even an ocean is not an ocean.” A smile shone on his face-he was very close to leaving a mark where he stood, singeing it with his words. And when that happened, people would remember those words for days. They would stand in the same spot and feel a little chill of wonder pass through them.

Kibum leaned forward on his desk, like a lot of others around him.

“Think of us all as drops. One drop by itself, it can disappear in the blink of an eye. It’ll leave no more than a tiny wet spot that will be forgotten with time,” Jonghyun gestured, clicking his fingers and gesturing to their faces. “But together, my drop with all the others-we belong to the same ocean… together we can swallow whole coastlines! We can be an army of our own. A force to be reckoned with!”

Kibum knew this as he knew everything else about the man-they were not close, but they were friends. This is what he said when someone asked. But the truth was that if anyone knew Jonghyun better than himself, it was Kibum. The lie was only what his mother had instructed him to produce, in case his father were to ask him one day. “Do you know that troublemaker? He attends your college, doesn’t he? Like all the bloody rioters… Do you know him?” Kibum anticipated the interrogation. But lying to his father was difficult, lying to his father’s leather belt even harder. He had received his share of hiding as a young boy, and he wanted no more of it.

“We have the power-to flow like a river,” Jonghyun continued. “Straight through their barricades, through their lies, through their false promises. If only we all become one.”

When the teachers approached, everyone shuffled to their seats. But Kibum could tell. Those words. They still hung in the air, resounded in every heart. He would always do this, always make little advances into their minds, their idologies. The way he spoke his words was an insipration: not a call to war but an invitation to it. And people answered: when the fliers were handed out, when a protest march was planned, when things needed to be yelled and not just spoken. People would gather around Jonghyun and amplify him.

“There will be a change, soon,” Jonghyun said later that day, at lunch time. “If we work, if we keep working the way we are right now, then democracy will not be a dream anymore.” His eyes shone whenever he spoke of such things. Like yellow sapphires, they glimmered.

“What do you think, Bummie?”

“Me?” Kibum frowned. What did he think? What did he have to offer that would insight? He had nothing besides his father’s disappointment and his mother’s feeble attempts at support. He was not smart, he was not good with words and he was worse with numbers. He did not even have the drive everyone else showed with making posters and writing speeches, abstaining from participation in demonstrations. The fear of his father, chief inspector of police… he liked to think that was what deterred him from rebelling. But were he honest with himself, were he honest with Jonghyun, he did not care. Not for the cause, not for democracy, not for his own future or that of his country. Were he honest and brave, he would admit it to the other’s face. And yet, whenever they were alone like this, the subject was never breached by either pair of lips. So it remained, quiet and unspoken in his chest with a thousand other things.

“Don’t ask me. I’m not good at anything. I can’t do anything…” he shook his head, hanging it low as they walked along the paving stones of the university gardens.

“Everyone can do something,” Jonghyun said as they approached the shade of a large tree. He slowed his steps and stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the ones he wore too high on his waist. “Everyone has a role to play in this world. Everyone has a… a place,” he said, nodding.

Kibum looked at the other’s pleasant smile for a moment. “I…” he started, but did not know how to continue. I want to be happy, he wanted to say. I want to always be able to speak my mind. To you and to everyone else in the world, if Kibum hadn’t been a spineless man, he would’ve admitted it. But he was. So he let the word hang like an unfinished thought and averted his eyes from the other’s face.

Anything else left to be said between them was stolen by someone calling Jonghyun’s name from a distance. Kibum pursed his lips and slowly walked away. He checked the time on his wrist and sighed. Days like this, when he was silenced by his timidness, days like this were always long and arduous.

As he went home that day-as he strolled with his headphones in, listening to his walkman, he passed by several pairs of plainclothes officers who simply nodded and let him go. Other young boys and girls were subjected to much more scrutiny. Their bags were checked, their books were flipped through, their motives questioned. But not Kibum. Not the son of the inspector. Nobody lay a finger on him. That was the divide between him and others. Between him and Jonghyun, specifically. That was the insurmountable difference, something he could never hope to close unless he chose to put himself in danger. Unless he gave himself over to a cause he knew nothing of.

Tonight they would riot again. Tonight they would spill out of the campus and into the streets. They would travel up the length of Daehak-ro, yelling and chanting and walking towards city hall with their banners waving. They would scream at the top of their lungs, they would demand answers and justification. They would demand things that could never be obtained without someone spilling blood.

And in that, Kibum’s deepest fears lay.

It went on for hours. When they took out the streetlamps to discourage the gathered students and send them home, fires were lit along the police barricades. A bus was hijacked, sitting in the middle of the street and clambered upon by several young students, each shaking their fists in the air.

Kibum could hear them, despite living two stations away from the place. His mother tried to play trot to cover the sounds but he simply opened the window in his bedroom and stuck his head out to hear the music outside-the students had given up their chants for minjung-gayo now, forbidden songs. Forbidden words. But just because they were forbidden didn’t mean they would never cross over any lips. He’d heard Jonghyun humming them softly to himself on a cowded bus, or when he was flipping through a foreign book-forbidden texts. In fact, when Kibum thought about it that night, everything about Jonghyun was forbidden. Taboo. He was a free bird, no cages could trap him and no borders could limit him. He was free, he could soar, he could travel the world from his chair alone-a world that had no boundaries, no confines. Jonghyun was free, and Kibum had to watch this freedom from the distance. He had to contend with experiencing it from his own captivity.

Except, he didn’t.

“Eomma,” he yelled, halfway out the door. “I’ll be back in a while!” She called out to him in a panicked voice, trying to stop him from going, trying to warn him of the dangers outside the safety of their home. But Kibum wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop until he had what he wanted.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: was that truly what Kibum wanted? The thought, as taboo as Jonghyun, was not at the root of all this. This tiny binary thought, stained with the implication of punishment on discovery, did not sit in the core of Kibum’s chest. No… what one would discover in such a place was the need to love oneself. Kibum wanted to love, he wanted the freedom to feel that thick and heavy endearment spin around his every rib and cushion him from every bullet, ever police baton. He wanted to love like there was no other feeling to feel in this world, like there was no other emotion he was capable of. In this place full of hate, in this crowd of angry and wild and crazy; in this country of desperation, in this world of fury, all he wanted was love. And that made him a victim of the system, too. He had cause for mutiny. He had a reason to rally with his colleagues. He had a reason to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Jonghyun and echo his forbidden words.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: that was secondary. What came first was Kibum’s fight for self-love. He had to learn to be truthful to himself, learn to be kind to himself, learn that he mattered and that he had a place and that his life was worth something in this mess. And when he found Jonghyun despite the tear gas, when he reached out and pulled the man away before they could get hit by rubber bullets, he finally saw that. He finally accepted it.

A Kibum must love a Kibum before a Jonghyun can love a Kibum. A Kibum must love a Kibum before a Kibum can take a Jonghyun into his arms and make him his. As they hid in an alley while the rest of the rioters scurried towards safety, he held Jonghyun close and became his shield from the police-doing what he’d always wanted to do, being what he’d always wanted to be.

He wasn’t one to get into a frenzy. He wasn’t prone to catch himself on the spreading mayhem. But when he felt their hearts racing in unison, when he looked down at the other’s speeding breath, Jonghyun was beautiful.

They took the long route home, Kibum not leaving his side until they reached Jonghyun’s front gate. “You know you can’t always do that, right?” he was asked solemnly. “You know you can’t be there every time. This is going to put a target on your head. And… and I can’t have that-”

“I don’t care,” Kibum said with more bravery than he truly had. “I don’t care. I don’t want the things you want, I don’t want to be part of your… your struggle. I don’t want to have my voice heard or any of that, I just want you. To be safe.”

“Bummie…” Jonghyun murmured.

“I want you to be safe,” Kibum insisted. “And if I have a thousand targets on my head because of that, then so be it. I’ll live with it,” he reached out and gripped Jonghyun’s arm. “But I will not let you get hurt.”

Jonghyun tilted his head, his gaze softening to fondness.

In the skies, where there is no injustice and no oppression-where there are no people and no demands and no riots, where the only sound that rings through the clouds is the slipping of the moon into view, where the only ocean is made of stars twinkling in and out of existence, where the darkness is not hopeless but full of dreams and warmth-in such a sky, there is a house. At the end of his life, Kibum wished he could build a life in it with Jonghyun. Then they would truly be free.

희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

Kibum walked home from the bus stop.

His fingers automatically reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The stress of the last few weeks had gotten bad enough that he’d smoked through two packs in two days alone. His throat itched, and his fingers fretted against his thighs as he turned into his neighbourhood lane. He coughed, spitting a fibre of something from his mouth. When he fumbled in his jacket for a lighter, he knew he’d regret it later, when the migraines arrived. But he lit one up anyway and puffed it into the damp night air.

There were lights still on in people’s homes-televisions sets playing the same popular drama everywhere he looked. Nothing had changed in the three years he had been away. Three years, eight months, and twenty-four days of Seoul had transformed Kibum into a new man. A man of the city, with sophisticated style and a wardrobe full of fashionable clothes that he’d once only seen in foreign movies. His lifestyle was as close to his dream as he could afford, what with the chump change they paid him on the part-time job. But he didn’t complain-didn’t need to, now that he was back. Now things would run their course downhill all by themselves.

“Bummie?” someone called to him, just a few feet away from the front gate of his home. He nearly jumped in alarm, but when he squinted through the darkness in the direction of the voice, there he was. There he stood. Jonghyun.

“Oh.” Kibum hurried to put out his cigarette, stomping on it in urgency. He wiped the sweat off his hands on his thighs and waved a little. He should’ve expected this--they had been neighbours for years, for almost a lifetime. They had grown up playing the same games, fighting over the same toys, learning the same tricks and laughing at the same jokes. In school, they watched each other’s backs, and shared each other’s lunches. In their teens, they whispered about girls and sniggered about teachers. One would bring his old books over, and the other would gratefully use them in his classes. One would invite the other for a few games on his new xbox. One used to be with the other almost all the time, until life refused to give them any more time. Kibum had decided to come home as close to midnight as possible, so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone for a few days. But he should’ve expected this-Jonghyun and his insomnia greeted him almost as soon as he’d arrived.

He would’ve felt happy about the meeting had this homecoming not been the result of shame. He would’ve moved forward for a long, swaying hug. But try as he might, he couldn’t even bring himself to meet the other’s eyes.

“It is you, isn’t it?” the elder chuckled, rustling across the grass of his front yard to come over for a greeting. “Yah… I never thought I’d see you back here again, eh?” his words were wistful, his face full of warmth. “Thought we’d lost you to the big city.”

Kibum chuckled back, staying a little longer even though all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and never come out if he could help it. “Ye-yeah…” he rubbed his palm across the back of his neck. “It just happened that way.”

If Jonghyun sensed something off, he didn’t let on. If he sensed something wrong, he didn’t say a word. If he’d heard gossip or met his parents at some point between Kibum’s departure and his return… if he knew, he didn’t pick at it. He simply smiled in welcome. “Well. It’s good to see you.”

The younger nodded, eyes stuck to the freshly-painted fence between them. He remembered the times they’d played hide-and-seek around this same fence, remembered jumping over it when his mom called him home in the evenings, remembered when Jonghyun had accidentally kicked a football too hard and damaged some of the slats. They’d fixed that fence together once; sanded it and painted it in the heat of the summer, their arms baking and their music loud. Everything in this town, in this cul-de-sac, between their two homes, held a thousand memories from their shared childhood.

Going to university had not been on the cards for Jonghyun. When his grades weren’t as good as they needed to be, he’d dropped out. Kibum wasn’t as sharp as other kids either, but his father had been adamant about degrees and respectable jobs. So, when another friend started inviting the elder to band practice, their lives diverged sharply. Jonghyun found his passion in music, and Kibum packed his bags.

One moved on and another stayed fixed.

“I missed this place,” Kibum admitted quietly. “Back then… I said I wanted to go away, but when I left,” he shook his head. “When I was gone, I wanted to come back. Every day, I thought-how can I go back?”

The other said nothing, and when their eyes met for a second, there was enough affection in Jonghyun’s gaze to drown the two of them. Would he feel the same way if he knew what happened? Kibum wondered. He considered telling him, too: how university had been tougher than he had expected it would be. How, out of the ten courses he had been enrolled in, he had failed eight. How he’d wasted a lot of time on partying and drugs and shopping for unnecessary luxuries, over and above the living allowance he received every month. Kibum considered relating to the other how he’d become involved in a lot of meaningless relationships over the three years, how he’d accidentally gotten someone pregnant and then paid for the abortion with his father’s hard-earned savings. How, even at the age of twenty-two Kibum was still irresponsible, childish, unrealistic, petty. He considered relating all of that to the one person who still saw some good in him, still saw the worth in him. The admission wrestled with his will, twisting around his tongue and tying it in knots. The guilt bore down on him like an anvil.

“Hey,” Jonghyun said in that soft tone he used when playing with puppies. It reminded Kibum of floating feathers and empty notebooks. “We all want to be somewhere else, no matter where we go,” he allowed. “But you’re here now. And I would be very happy if you stayed a while.”

To love a man, or to be loved by one: Kibum had created the thought in his head one night, then crumpled it and thrown it to the other side of the room. It’s the alcohol playing games, he’d dismissed. It was simply absurdity--a moment of madness. That’s what people like that were called. Not gay, not homosexual. Psychopaths. And Kibum wasn’t a psychopath, was he? He didn’t think of the way falcate fingers danced on the frets of a guitar, or the way puffy lips stretched in a wide toothy smile, or the way strong collarbones met in a mole. He didn’t imagine them on his bleakest nights, didn’t touch himself to thoughts of them while keeping from crying. A love that made no sense, to him, was not love at all. Just delusion. A love that made him question his sanity and beat himself up--to Kibum such a love was to be buried. But Jonghyun’s thoughtful brow showed signs of that love. His breath steamed it into the air, like a cage releasing a long-captive bird.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: Kibum had birthed the thought one night, but it had been abandoned because why would Jonghyun love him? What did Kibum have to offer that could be adored, or even considered with brief affection? Even if he were to abandon society’s standards entirely… even if he were to stop caring what others thought of him, it didn’t matter. He was sharp, like a blade. He had rough edges, like a rock. He was unloveable, like an insect.

A failure cannot redeem himself, and a Jonghyun cannot love a Kibum. But as the night rustled onward and the lights started to flicker out in windows, one by one darkness closed in on them. A darkness that built an island where love was abundant, and judgement abolished. It pushed Kibum to say what he meant and mean what he said.

They may never have a moment like this again, their eyes may never meet and hold each other like this again. But in the shadows that played around their heels, Jonghyun was beautiful.

“I missed you, too,” Kibum ventured, very quietly. When they parted, he couldn’t tell if the other heard him or decided to ignore him. It would be a long night of tossing and turning in his bed, he could tell. It would be a long while before morning arrived and gave him another reason to hide himself away from the world. It would be a long while before he could face Jonghyun again.

But they did meet. The next morning, the elder stomped over and jumped onto the mattress like old times, starting a tickling match that ended with winded breaths and sprained ankles.

“Too old for this shit,” Kibum groaned against the carpet.

“Yah, you’ve missed breakfast now at least come down with me for lunch,” Jonghyun complained while massaging his foot.

“The fuck time is it?” Kibum scrambled for his phone.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s really late,” the other laughed. “Let’s goooo!”

As they walked down familiar streets and pointed out the usual haunts--the cafe where they’d tried to study before an exam, the ramen shop that served the best pickled radishes, the convenience store they’d stolen soju from, the children’s playground they would get drunk and pass out in--Kibum felt an odd comfort seep into his chest.

In the middle of the world, where every road crosses each other--where cars crash and send glass flying in the eyes of onlookers, where cyclists skid to a desperate halt and graze their knees against the asphalt; on the cross-roads of sanity and rationality, where buses careen out of control and traffic lights mean nothing--in the middle of it all, there is a tunnel. At the end of his life, Kibum wished he could meet Jonghyun in that dark place, where they would finally be free.

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