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Yifan has a bit of a problem with traveling. He yearns to go beyond the horizon, but once he arrives at his destination, he finds himself wanting to go home. The only problem with this trip is that it’s not so easy to return from. In fact, it’s practically impossible without Zitao. Nationalism, Yifan learns, is a sham. His joining the ambassador and his envoy as a “cultural ambassador” was a flash decision. Not well thought-out. Filled with regret, as things are. He’s not been on British soil for more than a week and yet he already hates it with every fiber of his being.
One would expect curiosity. That’s a given — Yifan’s not an idiot. But there’s a difference between curiosity and scrutiny. Though he speaks the language fairly well, his company asks fewer questions and resorts to making poorly-concocted hypotheses right in front of him. He isn’t treated like an ambassador; rather, he’s treated like a zoo animal. Yifan feels like he’s in a cage.
He’s practically created one for himself. As the Qing empire’s embassy has not yet been built (and might never be, based on the rate of construction), he, Zitao, and the rest of the empire’s emissaries were to be staying in the Queen’s House. The ladies of the House, and Queen Caroline herself, know that the drawing room is the easiest place to find “the Oriental painter.” He familiarizes himself with the elaborately threaded carpets and marble fireplace, as they are better company than the House’s residents. He paints the chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Seeing him sitting in an alcove staring out the large windows and sketching what he saw was a common sight. Seldom was he disturbed. For the most part, he was observed. A zoo animal.
On his sixth day there, he finally begins to paint the courtyard from his view in the drawing room. Surrounded by ink and rice paper, Zitao finds Yifan with a brush pinched between the fingers of one hand and his sleeve between the fingers of the other. He normally knows better than to interrupt an artist’s work, but he evidently deems his news to be more important than Yifan’s spirit resonance.
“You really have spent quite a bit of time moping, haven’t you?” Zitao drawls. He delicately takes a seat beside Yifan as he grinds an inkstone. “You don’t go to town when I ask, you draw trees and shrubbery and seem to be busy feeling particularly sorry for yourself. Could it be that you brood to gain the attention of the Queen’s lovely ladies?”
“Don’t be preposterous,” Yifan snorts. He’s well aware of the interest a few ladies have towards him. They whisper audibly about his jaw and his stern brow, some unaware that he can understand every word they are saying. “I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing, Ambassador Huang.”
‘Ooh,” coos Zitao, “call me by my title more often, Court Painter Wu.”
“Ah, see, it’s less impressive when you say my title.” Yifan cracks his neck. The noise is loud and makes Zitao flinch. He straightens his canvas, craning his head to glimpse the rose bush he’d been painting. “Do you have anything else insightful to say, or are you simply here to pester me?”
The younger watches Yifan work. If he has any critiques toward the piece (as he so often does), Zitao doesn’t voice them. It’s a rare occurrence. Being the eldest son of YIfan’s patrons, he has the right to complain. And it’s all in good faith, anyway. For all their insults and petty arguments, their shared childhoods win out over any apparent vitriol on their parts. ‘Annoying little brother’ is a role that Huang Zitao plays well. “Oh, shut up,” he says. “You love my nuggets of wisdom.” Zitao, in his itchy but ornate robes, rests his chin on Yifan’s shoulder. “You know, we’re not the only ones in this boat. The Joseon ambassador has been here for quite a bit longer. For several months, if my incredibly reliable sources are to be believed — and they are.”
“I’m not sure if that’s meant to give me any sort of comfort,” Yifan retorts. “Just because I speak the language doesn’t mean we’re going to commiserate. I, too, have been speaking to your ‘incredibly reliable sources’ and they’ve told me the man is some sort of heir.” He doesn’t intend to imbue the word with so much venom, especially given the flicker of hurt that comes across Zitao’s face. Childhood companions they might have been, it was still clear who was more ‘important.’ The Qing ambassador doesn’t come from the same lofty background as Joseon’s, the son of a merchant rather than a public officer, but his family also wasn’t as poor as Yifan’s. They were incredibly wealthy from their trade dealings with the West, which may have led to some accusations that they bought Zitao his esteemed position.
Yifan was not nearly as fortunate. His only family was his mother, a disgraced former lady-in-waiting of the Qing Court who was cast out for having a child out of wedlock. Though rumors floated about that Yifan’s father was the Jiaqing Emperor, his mother maintained that he was the fourth son of a noble family she had fallen in love with. Said nobleman had refused to marry her and claim the child, though, so out she’d went.
So, it’s rather easy to see why someone of Yifan’s particular upbringing would find those of the upper class distasteful. Zitao, for all his sympathy, could never empathize.
“Yes,” the younger says, remarkably more subdued than before. “Of the prestigious Kim clan of Andong.” A very prestigious family indeed, whose members were either military men or government officials. Just as Yifan suspected. Zitao sniffs. “Well, you may express your disdain all you like tonight. Queen Caroline plans to hold a little soirée to celebrate our arrival now that things have… relatively settled down.”
“They expect my presence?” Oh, of course they do. While Zitao has chattered them to disinterest, Yifan’s mysterious air maintains his intrigue. He doubts the rest of the Qing retinue is extended the same honor.
“Of course. Though I highly disagree, they seem to find you more handsome than me.” Zitao’s lips twitch as he stands. “Do try not to outshine me, though, my friend. “Like it would be possible to outshine Huang Zitao. Before Yifan can respond, Tao spins on his heel and exits, presumably to retreat to his own room. The whoosh of fabric is the only sign that he was ever there.
Amused, Yifan huffs and gathers his tools. There’s a crick in his back from sitting still for so long. A dinner function will be veritable torture, and there’s no refusing Tao — or the queen consort of the United Kingdom.
Yifan passes, by a few of the maids, polishing fine dining ware no doubt for dinner. Unlike Queen Caroline and her ladies, the servants don’t openly gawk at him. Like understands like, he supposes, though they do dip their heads in greeting at his approach. He acknowledges them and returns to his room. His bags were mostly packed when he’d left, but he’s not surprised to return and see formal wear spread across his bed, probably courtesy of his dear friend the ambassador. That’ll teach him to lock his door every morning as he goes to draw.
Perhaps, he thinks, rubbing his chin ponderously, I ought to wear something outrageous.
…
He does nothing of the sort.
Yifan dons the deep blue hanfu embroidered with golden, long-whiskered dragons and flowers as selected by Zitao. His queue is braided tightly, almost enough to hurt. He has somewhat unsavory feelings towards the compulsory hairstyle, but he knows how important his image is. He’s here as Tao’s guest. He would do well to honor the ostensible favor, and he does. Alas, what a loss.
His attire doesn’t mean he’s not an oddity amongst the table at dinner. He and Zitao mirror one another, the latter more elaborately-dressed. Conversely, the Joseon ambassador and his wife, seated beside them, are in clothes befitting an English gentleman and lady, respectively. It feels as though, since Ambassador Kims longer stay wore off his novelty, Yifan and Zitao are almost playing into the tittering queen’s idea of who they were. Rich silks contrasted greatly with the satin and cotton surrounding them. Queen Caroline coos over their clothes, stroking Zitao’s sleeve briefly and chirping that they were “delightful!”
Yifan suspects that a woman scorned (especially by the most powerful man in the nation) must get her amusement where she finds it. How, pitiful, for a king not to need his queen.
He therefore tolerates the snickering and the jibes. They seem to be more about his looks and art than any other part of his countenance. Yifan’s table manners, as the had fervently practiced on his voyage to England, were impeccable. Sipping quietly from the side of his spoon, sopping the sauce with his bread, etcetera, etcetera. Simple stuff that his fellow diners (save, perhaps, his friend) are surprised he doesn’t need instructions for, he’d learned it all.
“My, my, Mister Wu,” Lady Eunji says, dabbing primly at her lips with a napkin. She’s seated beside her husband, who shot her a look as she spoke unprompted, disrupting the flow of conversation. “I must say that you seem to be acclimating fairly quickly. I’m very impressed.”
“I believe I’m more starstruck than acclimated,” Yifan answers. “There’s so much about the West that I didn’t quite… expect from the illustrious United Kingdom.” Zitao kicks him under the table. Tone it down, his glare says. Yifan bites back a grin.
“Really?” The Joseon ambassador’s voice is as soft as his wife’s. Yifan would be surprised, but it’s a sound befitting the man’s visage. A crisply-knotted cravat makes him look every bit the rich aristocrat’s son Yifan thought him to be. “I’m very intrigued by what a man from the Qing Empire might find unexpected about the Great West.”
Yifan’s eyes narrow. “What would be the difference? We’re both men of the Orient.” He savors the looks of surprise on the couple’s faces as he slips into their mother tongue. “Perhaps it was only our farewells that differed.”
Queen Caroline watches their exchange with rapt interest.
“In addition to his artistic abilities,” Tao explains, looking rather proud, “Mister Wu is also very adroit at learning new languages.” His squeezing Yifan’s shoulder, however, is far too tight to be friendly.
“I’m sure you had plenty more people than I to bid farewell to.” Junmyeon seems to have recovered himself, though Eunji looks amazed. He looks impressed, but almost arrogantly so. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Yifan chooses to believe that’s simply how the ambassador’s face works. Not all rich boys are haughty snobs — Zitao is clear evidence of that. From Zitao’s sources, Ambassador Kim is also of the breed of tolerable wealthy men. Yifan surmises that his inebriation prevents this side of him from surfacing. Perhaps he’s just being playful. Perhaps he’s one of those “lonely rich kids.”
Whatever the case, Yifan smiles at him. “Just my mother. But she certainly made it feel like I was saying goodbye to an entire town.”
Junmyeon casts his eyes downward to his plate, fingers twitching among the utensils and straightening out the dining cloth. His actions are adorably juvenile, those of a child flustered and shy. The Joseon ambassador is very beautiful. His smooth, porcelain skin looks about as soft as his freshly cut brown hair. Shoulder straightening, Junmyeon’s pretty lips part to respond and his eyes flick upward to meet Yifan’s. He wonders if simple paints might do justice to Junmyeon’s magnificence.
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Junmyeon says. The way that he pats his mouth mirrors his wife to a tee. They look like two halves of a whole. “I’m afraid my excitement got the better of me. It has been too long since I’ve spoken the language of my homeland.” He lets his gaze linger on Yifan as he talks. “Indeed, it has been… far too long.”
Yifan can’t possibly imagine why. Junmyeon has more than acclimated, he thinks. He’s assimilated. Yifan has only been to Hanseong once, but he doesn’t recalls English fashion being à la mode. Junmyeon looks like he belongs at court, the collar of his shirt pulled up high over his jaw and cravat pressed into an impeccable barrel knot. His waistcoat is a yellower sort of green than his tailcoat, offset by his brownish yellow pants. His deep brown locks are carefully arranged across his forehead, sideburns long but neatly trimmed. He’s otherwise cleanly shaven. There isn’t a hint of Joseon in him, except for his facial features. But why, oh why, is Junyeon no longer accustomed to speaking his native language? Truly, the greatest of unsolved mysteries.
Dinner proceeds the way Yifan expects it to after their little exchange. The queen’s questions about his technique skew spectacularly patronizing. Zitao pouts at not being the center of attention, appeased only when Queen Caroline remarks upon his charm and intelligence. The rest of the noble ladies stare flagrantly at Yifan.
Ambassador’ Kim’s equally shameless attention, however, is a pleasant surprise. HE does not speak to Yifan until the ladies retreat to the drawing room and the men take their wine, but that does not mean he missed Junmyeon’s obvious staring. Without Eunji seated between them, familiarity softens his posture.
“i do believe, Mister Wu,” says Junmyeon, “that Eunji’s father is quite taken with your artwork. He bought your latest painting of the Yangtze River to hang in his chambers.”
“Is that so?” Yifan hates that one. He’d only done it for the money, considering the Imperial Court was rather stingy. Even after all the portraits he’d slaved away — Oh. He knows where this is going. He’s Of course. He’s had this conversation many times before. “you want me to paint her.”
Junmyeon has the decency to look chastened. “i’d be paying you handsomely for saving my marriage.” He savors his wine, then places his hands flat on the table as if bracing himself. He lowers his voice as the topic of conversation turns… slightly inappropriate. “Eunji’s father is… displeased that we have no children. We’ve been married for several years, you see. I hadn’t been made aware of his desire for grandchildren until recently.”
“How unfortunate.” Yifan’ can’t relate.
“Quite.” Junmyeon licks his lips. “So will you do it?”
Yifan laughs. He’s certainly straightforward, if nothing else. Yifan was always partial to depicting nature — even casual purveyors noted the ratio of his uncommissioned works leaned heavily toward landscapes. It just so happened his occupation required drawing others for money. “What do I get out of it?”
“Besides payment?”
“Humor me.”
The way Junmyeon puffs his cheeks up and exhales is criminally (and equally) adorable and ungentlemanly. Yifan is endeared enough to say yes, but he still wants to hear what the ambassador has to offer. “My unending gratitude and admiration?” he smiles when Yifan laughs, brows raised. “Name your price, Mister Wu. I’m sure I can meet it.”
“The gratitude and admiration will do, Ambassador Kim,” Yifan says, lightly patting the other’s arm. “It would be my pleasure to present Joseon with one of my works.”
Junmyeon’s posture softens. “Thank you, Mister Wu. You’re very —”
The doors open and the women file in one by one. Eunji plops down between Yifan and her husband, interrupting the latter. Junmyeon informs her of Yifan’s agreement, making her face light up. In a flash, whatever he meant to say has been forgotten.
As Junmyeon converses animatedly with his wife, Yifan, for the first time since he’s been on British soil, feels invisible.
…
Eunji is very beautiful, but she cannot, for the life of her, sit still. Yifan becomes well acquainted with her large smile and the squint of her eyes as she grins and laughs at whatever’s distracting her at the moment. In comparison to the austere reticent Imperial Court, Eunji spoke to him often — and there was no topic she knew nothing of. Yifan can see why Junmyeon married her. These inconveniences were, after all, particular only to him.
But soon enough, Yifan knew that he’d need something to keep her still as he worked. For her sake and his. Mostly his.
The only thing he’s yet to try is to keep her occupied by a third party. To say there weren’t many people to aid him in this venture wasn’t … entirely true. Zitao said he was busy but had also proffered a disgustingly lewd grin when he told Yifan that most of the ladies in the Queen’s House would be more than willing to help him. Yifan is sure that asking Lady Ellenborough, ever unhappy in her marriage, to aid him is the last thing he could ever be compelled to do.
Luckily for him, however, Ambassador Kim happened to overhear him and his adamant refusal. He should’ve been Yifan’s first choice — of course. Eunji is his wife. If anyone, Junmyeon would be the one to know how to calm her down.
(It wasn’t as if Yifan was consciously avoiding him, at any rate. He just felt… unsettled by the other. That was all.)
So now Yifan’s fiddling with his paints as the married couple converses in low voices. Eunji’s back is ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap and her face alight with happiness as she chatters with Junmyeon. One of them says something funny, the quick bout of laughter causing Yifan to knock over a few of his brushes. They speak to each other in English, ostensibly to practice. Eunji is less familiar with forming the words as Junmyeon is, but Yifan would still consider her fluent. She murmurs something and then points in Yifan’s direction. Junmyeon nods in agreement and approaches him.
Something about his saunter makes Yifan a little nervous. He’s not entirely sure why. “Thank you again,” he tells the ambassador, “for agreeing to do this. I’m sure a plenipotentiary has far more important and interesting things to concern himself with.” Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Zitao’s job, mostly interpersonal relationships and socializing, is actually a job. The same goes for Junmyeon, whom Yifan has seen schmoozing at dinners. He must be very good at his job, as he’s also eavesdropped on several trade deals and what might have been collusion against the Qing empire. The sort of things yifan ought to have been reporting to Tao, if Yifan had any semblance of loyalty to his homeland. (He doesn’t.)
“Of course,” Junmyeon responds. “I’d like the portrait I commissioned to be finished, after all>” He bounces on his heels for a bit, eyes flickering between Yifan’s face and the canvas laid out before him. “May I see your progress?” He has every right to, as the patron, and yet Yifan still feels a sense of trepidation. Part of it is because there isn’t much progress to show. The rest is simply because it’s Junmyeon who wants to see his work. As the scion of a wealthy and powerful family, it’s likely that Junmyeon has seen and owns art from the Empire’s greatest. Yifan was making a name for himself, but only as an up-and-comer. He’s never felt this self-conscious about a piece before.
“Of course,” Yifan says. He shuffles slightly to the right so that Junmyeon can look without craning his neck oddly There’s not much that he’s put to paper, simply tracing out Eunji’s form. It’s a bit all over the place, neither artist nor subject knew which pose to make, and it showed. Given that she now decided to sit up straight with her hands clasped gently in her lap, it was easier to define. He was in the midst of sketching details on Eunji’s dress when Junmyeon walked over. “I’ve never drawn or painted Western garb, so…”
“It’s exquisite,” Junmyeon tells him. His brows are lifted in rapt interest, but the quickness of his words made them sound a little patronizing. He smoothes the paper with gentle, almost reverent fingers. “If even a few wayward scribbles can produce such finery, I can scarcely imagine what the finished product will look like.” Junmyeon smiles encouragingly. “Well, carry on. I shan’t keep you.”
Yifan resumes his sketch, keeping his hand quick and light. He works in silence. Awkward silence. At first, he thought Junmyeon might placate his wife with conversation as he had done before they started, but it seems as though even looking at her manages to keep her still. It’s a strange sight to witness. The pair matches each other well, but there’s still a bit of discomfort between them. Though they’ve been married for several years, Yifan’s starting to realize why they are also childless. He clears his throat. “Lady Eunji, could you please lift your chin a bit? Yes, just like that — there.” Licking his lips, he carefully sculpts her jaw. He nearly flinches as he feels the slightest tickle of one’s breath on the back of his neck.
“Fascinating,” Junmyeon whispers. Yifan fights back a shudder. “You know, Mister Wu, I’ve always had quite an interest in art. I have appreciated it aesthetically, at any rate -, but I never gave much thought to the process. How does life — three dimensions, depth, and texture — translate into two? I believe the styles of our homelands bear great similarity, though that is to be expected.” Leave it to the politician to approach art pedantically. “What school do you ascribe to, Mister Wu? Your illustrations are rather distinct.”
“Just Yifan is fine,” the artist says offhandedly. “I prefer to think of myself as an individualist.” Eunji flinches as if she tried to stop a sneeze and he waits for her to find the pose. “My passion for art was a boyhood one that’s stuck with me ever since. I was never really classically trained. I don’t focus on theories and technicalities and ratios.” Setting his charcoal down and dusting off his hands, Yifan throws Junmyeon a sidelong look. “Do you want to know how I translate reality into two dimensions?
“I do so with feeling. At the core of it all, art is a reflection of reality in its basest form — not physicality, but emotion. When you see a landscape, what does it make you feel? Majesty? Wonder? It is one thing to illustrate a cluster of mountains and a ravine. It is another to capture the power of such a sight. Accordingly, every artist puts a bit of himself into his works. We direct our emotions towards our subjects into paper pi and ink. “He smiles at Eunji, who lifts her brows almost challengingly. “For instance, I feel vindicated that your customarily energetic wife is currently immobile. Now, I can see the grace and poise she exudes, and that is what I am trying to portray.”
“When will you know that you’ve succeeded?” Eunji asks.
Yifan chuckles. He begins to slide his sleeves up, fingers gliding across his brushes as he searches for the right one. “That, milady, is easy enough. I’ll have succeeded when I take someone’s breath away.”
“I… I see,” Junmyeon murmurs, sounding contemplative.
…
Yifan realizes the reason he’s so disconcerted near Junmyeon is because he doesn’t know what to make of him. He’s accustomed to identifying people easily. Part of being an artist is observation, and Yifan has spent a large part of his life examining his surroundings. Junmyeon, despite being flesh and blood right in front of Yifan’s face, is still an enigma. There’s also the pressing issue of Yifan’s very obvious attraction to the man — though that is, really, secondary to his puzzlement.
At first, Yifan believes it might have something to do with Junmyeon’s station. Besides the fact that they come from different lands, there is a fundamental difference to how they approach their time in England. Yifan has no doubt that the women of the Queen’s House would have flocked to Junmyeon’s side (whether or not he had a wife), simply on the basis of his looks, which paralleled Yifan’s. Perhaps they might have cooed over his hanbok, or the lilt to his words as he spoke — barely there now, but most likely evident months ago when he first arrived.
That would explain why he and Eunji both adopted English mannerisms. By assimilating to the culture, there left nothing to be harassed over. Yet, it doesn’t seem like a desperate response. Rather, the pair look at home in Western garb and sitting at a Western table. Yifan, knowing the Imperial Court has its own intricacies, finds it all too complicated for his liking. Maybe that’s why Zitao is the ambassador and not him.
He’s nowhere near beginning to paint when he lightly questions the couple about their choice of attire. “Considering this portrait is meant to be a gift to Lady Eunji’s father,” Yifan says, “should you not be wearing traditional clothes? I do not mean to meddle. Only a curiosity.”
Junmyeon and Eunji pass each other a look. Yifan was once a master of nonverbal communication, though that was only selective to certain friends. “We are fine as we are,” Eunji says eventually. She sounds reluctant to say the words, and Yifan surmises from this that Junmyeon is the one enforcing their Western garb. He thinks about telling her to change into her nicest hanbok so that he could send a pretty picture home to her father but thinks better of subverting Junmyeon’s authority over his wife right in front of him.
Would he be angry? That’s the thing — Yifan has no idea who Junmyeon is or how he’d react.
It was customary for a man to have control over his wife, and while Yifan found the attitude disrespectful and believed the world would be better off if it started respecting women, he knew better than to challenge this. Yifan was aware of which battles to pick as well as the fact that Junmyeon had — for all intents and purposes — a home field advantage. Yifan versed himself in England as much as he needed to in order to live an easy life there. He memorized manners and customs that only pertain to being viewed favorably on public. He did not study their philosophy or their beliefs. Junmyeon might have, or he had learned after several months in the country.
“I must ask,” Yifan begins, his inquisitiveness getting the better of him, “why you conduct yourselves in a very… for lack of a better word, British manner. Zitao and his retinue are but newcomers to the country, yet they see no need to adopt British customs. Is this something I’m to expect in the coming days?”
Junmyeon lifts his brows at him. For a moment, Yifan thinks he’s offended him, but then Junmyeon breaks out into a gentle smile. It’s rather patronizing, like a father explaining the simple things of life to his son. “No, you needn’t worry about having to go out and purchase a suit for yourself,” he chuckles. “Your hanfu is more suited to you all the same, I suspect.
“Customarily, if Her Majesty posed this question, I would make up something fanciful on the spot about adoring her culture and its complexities. However, as I can see that nearly everyone except for my wife and the maids are clamoring for your attention, I know that I can empathize with your plight. It is truly dreadful, isn’t it, to be treated as an object rather than a person?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Yifan sees Eunji shift, something akin to a soundless scoff, then resume her pose.
“I would not give them a reason to pester me for my otherness, and I have done the same for Eunji,” Junmyeon continues. He places his hand on his wife’s shoulder, a touch so light that Yifan isn’t even sure if he made contact. “If I remove all that has changed, then I am simply one of them. They are more inclined to listen when they are not distracted by silks and your inability to form the letter f.”
Yifan supposes the reason is understandable enough. He, personally, would rather fight for the right to be seen as a contemporary, but Junmyeon probably doesn’t have the luxury. He is here to appease the British, and if he allows this duty to consume himself, then Yifan has no right to complain. “I see.”
“Does that satisfy your curiosity, Yifan?” Junmyeon’s smile is tight; Yifan realizes that his answer was nothing but bull. It is perfectly sound when first presented, but it’s clear from the way that Yifan stares pointedly at him that Junmyeon does not want Yifan to ask any questions. If he had, there was the possibility that he might poke logical holes in his defense. Why, then, did he not have an actually suitable reason for osmose the English way?
“It does,” Yifan says instead of voicing his true concerns. Another realization hits him: Junmyeon is so amorphous in his mind’s eye because Junmyeon himself does not know who he is. Most people have a general sense of who they might want to be, thus adopting that into part of their identity and confidence. If they have no confidence, it becomes even easier to pinpoint a persona. And yet, Junmyeon seems… adrift. Yifan does not know if he is further intrigued or if he is disappointed.
…
Junmyeon speaks to him more than he does Eunji in their time together, though she manages to find ways to find moments to respond and Yifan tries his best to include her. She has a great many things to say, but he wonders if her husband even hears her. The finer points of matrimony continue to elude him despite his many potential suitors. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t think what Junmyeon and Eunji have is as picture-perfect as he once thought. While they may share certain traits — she seems to have the same boyish charm as her husband, amusingly — they’re simply not a good fit.
Everything Junmyeon is revolves around propriety and manners and custom, his wife everything butt. Yifan finds himself constantly amused when Eunji shouts down the table during dinner to join an interesting conversation and by her frank candidness. It’s refreshing, coming from the wife of a man ever so prim and proper. She’s easy to read.
Junmyeon, contrary to his spouse, is still impossible to decipher. Every time Yifan believes he’s pinend the man down, something new surfaces to disrupt his analysis. The only thing Yifan is entirely sure of is that Junmyeon has no idea who he is. It’s the only feasible explanation for his malleability. He has an idea of who he wants to be, but he has no idea how to go about becoming that person. It’s unfortunate. He’s too handsome to be that troubled.
“Yifan,” Junmyeon says, derailing his thoughts, “which do you prefer? My wife or myself — in respects to conversation, at least.”
Eunji makes a scandalized snoise. Yifan prays to his ancestors that she doesn’t move her arm; the way the fabric sits is just perfect. “You can’t just ask him things like that! Yifan is a good man.” She scrunches up her face. “He’d never dare to humiliate you outright by choosing me. His words will be neutral, but we all know who he’s actually choosing.”
Yifan laughs. “Well, if I’ve been exposed, I might as well confess. I do appreciate the honesty of her countenance more.”
“Honesty!” Junmyeon splutters. “I’ve never lied to you, Mister Wu!” Though his words suggest offense, his visage averts it. Junmyeon’s mouth is trapped halfway between a smile and a pained grimace. Yifan can’t imagine Junmyeon cares much about what Yifan thinks of him anyway.
“I never said it was honesty towards me, did I?” Eunji’s amusement ceases at his words. Junmyeon looks a little stricken; Yifan’s touched a nerve. How interesting. “She seems very certain. Secure. Honest, like I said, in her countenance.”
Eunji clears her throat daintily, hand pressed to her throat. “Yifan, while I appreciate the compliment…” She trails off. Though sure that he understands what she wants him to do, he continues to speak.
“I enjoy her boldness. Her confidence in how she conducts herself. Though dressed as a demure, timid Englishwoman, Eunji makes it evident that she is anything but. She does not allow herself to be defined her appearance. I believe I find something of a kindred spirit in this.” Yifan sets his charcoal aside. “Her refusal to compromise to the world around her is, if I may be so bold, a desirable trait. I would be very proud to have a partner as audacious as she. Can she say the same for you?”
The ambassador makes a noise of protest — not sentences, not enough to form a stalwart defense for himself. Yifan knows that he’s right, and Junmyeon knows that he’s right.
“I don’t mean to accuse you of cowardice, Junmyeon, but known many diplomats in my life, and I cannot recall one who has so easily shucked off his homeland, stranger still as the sole job of a diplomat is to represent his homeland. I understand your defense of presenting yourself as an equal to your English acquaintances. However, I do not feel that you believe that excuse, and that consequently leads me to believe that I should not either. I’m afraid you simply lack the conviction of your wife.”
Junmyeon quiets then. He doesn’t quite sulk, but his conversation remains solely directed toward his wife. There’s no substance, merely an exchange of words slightly beyond pleasantries. In spite of the fact that he’s just been accused of dishonesty, Junmyeon seems content to retreat further back into deceit. Yifan should not have expected any less.
….
The ambassador accosts him after breakfast the next day, grabbing Yifan’s forearm with such aggression that Zitao looks a little surprised and opens his mouth to rebuke him. Yifan waves him away. He throws the younger a sharp look, and the latter acquiesces — but not without glaring at Junmyeon as he steps away to give them privacy.
“You know nothing about me,” Junmyeon hisses as son as they are alone. “You know nothing about me, my wife, or the dishonesty of my countenance.”
“I meant no disrespect, Ambassador Kim,” Yifan says coolly. “It was merely an observation. I apologize for any offense I may have caused.” He’s never seen this fire in Junmyeon’s eyes before. It’s alluring, hypnotizing where Yifan ought to feel chastised and ashamed, he instead feels intrigued. Yifan wants to paint Junmyeon’s fury so he can keep it forever.
“You know nothing about me,” Junmyeon repeats, this time a whisper. He looks so small. Given that they’ve spent the majority of their time together sitting down, he’s almost forgotten how little Junmyeon is beside him. Something gives Yifan the idea that Junmyeon wouldn’t like being called tiny.
“That’s to be expected, for we are mere acquaintances,” Yifan says instead. “But do you know anything about yourself?”
Junmyeon face twists. Whatever retort he’s about to throw dieson the tip of his tongue. Yifan waits patiently for words that don’t come. Junmyeon spins on his heel and marches away.
Zitao calls Yifan over and introduces him to a famous painter named William Turner.
…
Yifan half-expects to be fired, but Junmyeon seems to have taken his words to heart. He chats comfortably with Eunji when Yifan enters the parlor with his tools, holding one of her hands gently. It’s a very romantic image, one Yifan imagines is in an abundance of romance novels detailing clandestine meetings between star-crossed lovers. As they are married, however, it’s very obvious that the pair are not star-crossed. Nevertheless, it’s still an intimate moment Yifan feels that he’s intruding on. He clears his throat to announce his presence and the couple looks up at him.
Junmyeon flushes. “Yifan,” he begins, “I wish… I wish to express my utmost remorse for my behavior yestermorn. You were correct about me. I was… afraid, I suppose, of the implications and reacted poorly. You have my deepest apologies.”
“Apology accepted,” Yifan says slowly. He was expecting little, least of all that. Too often, he’s witnessed men of Junmyeon’s caliber being unapologetic about all that they do. “Sometimes truths are what men wish to hear the least.”
Eunji giggles. “Oh, he’s so wise,” she murmurs, not quietly enough, to Junmyeon. “Quite the philosopher.”
Junmyeon shrugs. “Men of the arts spend their lives contemplating and depicting the human experience. It would be stranger still if they did not gleam anything from the craft.” His lips form a fond smile as Eunji nods and ponders this. Squeezing her hand gently, Junmyeon gets up from his spot at her side to take a familiar place next to Yifan. He pulls up a chair and rests his chin in his palm, slouching. Junmyeon speaks, so soft that Yifan initially believes the ambassador isn’t speaking to him. His voice is like velvet, sending light shivers up Yifan’s spine. “Perhaps you should take some time to examine me further.” The implications of his words aren’t lost on him, but Yifan doesn’t rise to the bait.
“I’m certainly adept at tearing you apart at the seams, aren’t I?” Yifan whispers back. Junmyeon hums — possibly in agreement — and their conversation ends there.
Though Zitao is likely to credit his prickly attitude as an indication of his work ethic, Yifan is, in fact, a hard worker. His neck aches and he fights the urge to crack his knuckles every twenty minutes, but it all results in a job well done. Several hours after he sits down to paint, he’s completed Eunji’s portrait. It’s very much in the traditional style, and probably shouldn’t have taken so long to finish, but he’s a perfectionist. Yifan refuses to let either of them touch the portrait before it dries. They are welcome to gawk at it, though, and they do — openly. Yifan’s not afraid to say he preens a little under their praise.
Eunji tells him she wishes she could stay and compliment him longer (and Yifan believes her), but the Queen is apparently planning a dinner she must rush to get ready for. With a rustle of her skirts, she’s gone.
Just like that, Yifan and Junmyeon are alone.
“It’s lovely,” Junmyeon says after a brief silence. He’s said that before. He stretches his fingers towards Eunji’s portrait but seems to remember himself and stops. Chuckling lightly, Junmyeon instead steers his hand to adjust his cravata. “You finished faster than I had expected, and yet it’s as exquisite as the rest of your works. I find my self impressed by you every day, Yifan.”
“To be frank, I might have finished earlier had there been fewer distractions. Would you be more impressed then, Junmyeon?”
Junmyeon laughs. “Oh, you’re just trying to wring all the compliments out of me, aren’t you?” He quiets, and Yifan thinks for a moment that they’re finished.He watches Junmyeon shift on his feet, lips pursed and brows furrowed. His fair skin shines, enhanced by the darkness of his wardrobe. “I’m going to miss our little philosophic talks, Yifan,” he says finally.
Yifan’s mouth goes dry at the way Junmyeon looks up a thim through his lashes. A light pink duts his cheeks. Yifan wonders what he has to be embarrassed about. His lips, rosy and parted, draw Yifan’s eyes the most. “You… you don’t have to,” he says before he can really comprehend his own words. “You see…”
Junmyeon lifts his his brows and steps a little closer. “What?”
“I have found a new muse,” Yifan says. His hanfu feels a little warm all of a sudden. “I… admit that, prior to this project, I hadn’t been very interested in portraits. But after I met you, I realized that I had just… been missing the right subject.”
Junmyeon’s eyes widen. “You don’t happen to mean my wife, do you?”
“No.”
“You mean… me?” The ambassador’s voice is quiet and full of wonder. As if he cannot believe that someone could find him amazing enough to paint. “I am your muse?’
“You are,” Yifan breathes. “And I would like to paint you. Perhaps it can be a set. Or something to help me experiment. I have recently begun to study Western art. I could make a piece to go with Eunji’s. Something for your children to inherit.”
His words are sudden, he knows. There was never any forethought given into his actions. Yifan is flying by the seat of his pants. He does not expect Junmyeon to respond favorably, if at all. That would be hoping for too much.
Junmyeon throws a quick glance at Eunji’s portrait, then looks back at Yifan. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “When would you like to start?”
…
It’s never been just them before. Yifan almost doesn’t know how to behave around Junmyeon, who looks just as painfully awkward. He readjust the arrangement of his tools several times as Junmyeon struggles to find a pose to hold. They’re both quiet save for the occasional clearing of throats. So much for missing their talks.
Yifan shifts restlessly on his knees, jumping when Junmyeon calls out “Um.” He flushes a little when he meets Junmyeon’s gaze. The other must have been staring at him for a long time. “Yes?”
“I am ready to begin when you are." Junmyeon’s hands clench and unclench atop his breeches. He sits up tall, regal as ever. His pink lips, forming an uncertain smile, leave Yifan flustered. The ostentatious crimson of his attire speaks of Eunji’s influence. It may explain why Junmyeon looks so uncomfortable.
“Right,” Yifan barks. He sends Junmyeon a reassuring look and picks up some charcoal, tracing out the other’s form. “Stay still — wait, lean back a bit? Ah.” He rises and approaches Junmyeon to gently correct him. His hands may accidentally linger a bit too long on Junmyeon’s body as he shifts his shoulders and tilts his head up slightly. “Is this comfortable?”
Junmyeon swallows roughly. From his proximity, Yifan can see every minute detail — the steady rise and fall of Junmyeon’s chest, the restless tapping of his boot. “Yes,” he says at last. Almost took quickly, Yifan retreats.
The silence resumes.
Junmyeon, unlike his wife, stays very still. He looks as if he’s made of marble except for the occasional blink. Customarily, Yifan would be pleased by this. It’s not what he wants from Junmyeon.
“I’m not used to the quiet,” Yifan admits aloud. He isn’t loud, though he’s not certain that he alone was the intended audience to his own words. Junmyeon chuckles lightly. “I never realized how much noise Eunji made until she was no longer with us.”
“You have to give her skirts some of the credit,” Junmyeon jokes. “With the way she rustles about, it’s clear they do all of the work.”
“Oh, so you’re saying I should put you in a dress?”
“Or, perhaps, you might want to try speaking to me.” Yifan’s embarrassment must show on his face, given the way Junmyeon laughs. “I admit, I have been remiss in contributing to our discourse. A conversation requires at least two participants. So, I shall start.” Junmyeon ponders for a moment. Yifan remembers that he’s supposed to be drawing. “How would you define happiness?”
Ah — a difficult prompt. Yifan did not expect any less from Junmyeon. While the question falls in line with their previous discussions, Yifan is still taken just a little off guard. What does he think of happiness? He has felt it before, of course. But it’s always been fleeting. True happiness, of which he presumes Junmyeon is asking, is something he’s never spent much time pondering. Rather than changing the topic, however, Yifan says what comes to mind.
“It is the purest of satisfactions. True happiness is not the momentary pleasures we feel in everyday life, but a deep contentment belying our lives. It is the understanding that who you are, who you want to be, and who you are meant to be are one and the same. It is the affirmation that your truth exists and the satisfaction that derives from it.” He details Junmyeon’s coiff as he speaks. “That is how I define happiness.”
“I see,” Junmyeon says. His brows furrow and his lips tug up at the corners. His expression is melancholy. It would make an amazing image if yifan was attempting to create something other than the visage of triumph. Perhaps next time. “And how attainable do you believe true happiness is?”
This time, Yifan’s answer is immediate. “Almost impossible.”
Junmyeon barks out a laugh. “Not a lick of hesitation, was there?”
“Absolutely none,” Yifan agrees. “The world is meant to be a challenge. What fun would it be if everything just fell in to place? We are meant to have strife.”
Junmyeon hums quietly. “If I am being honest, I find peace more agreeable than strife. I’d rather be happy than suffer.” There’s more to this than Junmyeon is letting on — something more intimate and central that Yifan shouldn’t be privy to. It is dark, heavy, and it weighs on Junmyeon’s shoulders so heavily that his entire form slumps, forgetting to hold his pose. Something must have happened in the two days since their agreement to break him so.
Yifan sets aside his work — already mostly sketched out anyway — and moves so that he sits on folded legs. “Junmyeon,” he says kindly and as tenderly as he can. Are they friends? They enjoy each other’s presence, and their interactions were amiable. Were they close enough, however, for Junmyeon to confide in him? He wants to help. Zitao’s fluctuating moods differ from Junmyeon’s apparently persistent gloom. Yifan may not be equipped to aid him. But at least he tries. “Are you… unhappy?”
The ambassador’s snort makes Yifan’s heart sink. “Unhappiness seems to be my general state of being.” He looks up and sees that Yifan is no longer drawing. Junmyeon crosses his legs, fingers playing with the toes of his boot. “You said that happiness is satisfaction, yes? A convergence of your wants, being, and destiny? Somehow… somehow my life feels as though that is the complete opposite. All three are diverging — what I want, who I am, who I’m meant to be. I know that strife is a certainty, but is it meant to drag on for so long? Even our dialogue on honesty did not help me to combine the three, let alone see where each was going.” He looks so helpless, eyes wet, shoulders drooping, and skin drawn taut over his knuckles, that Yifan wants to walk over and hold him.
He doesn’t, for that is a boundary he is too afraid to cross. Yifan does, however, clasp Junmyeon’s shoulder. It’s a masculine gesture. It is one of camaraderie, one that does not expose the truth of Yifan’s scrutiny and concern. Junmyeon’s muscle flexes beneath Yifan’s palm. For such a sturdy man, Junmyeon is falling apart at the seams.
“I’m sorry,” Junmyeon murmurs. “I did not intend to — I didn’t.” He covers his face with his hands. A heartwrenching sob explodes, muffled, from him, and he begins to shake. The dam has burst and Junmyeon is laid bare. He’s raw, his cries visceral, and the shudder of his frame agonizing. Unraveled, exposed, Junmyeon crumbles.
Guilt blossoms in Yifan’s chest. He’s not quite sure of its source — is he furious at himself for being a terrible, ignorant friend? Or, perhaps, he feels responsible for Junmyeon’s disintegration. It was the latter who had introduced the topic of discussion, but Yifan could have easily diverted to an easier subject to stomach. Cowardice isn’t one of their traits though, is itt? At least for Yifan, it isn’t. He knows that in the reverse, Junmyeon would not have backed down to spare him the hurt. Their conversations have never done anything but push each other, even when Eunji was still present.
Yifan steps closer and gathers Junmyeon into his arms. The younger allows Yifan to drape himself over him, Junmyeon’s face pressing into his chest. Junmyeon’s fingers slip and slide across the fine silk of Yifan’s hanfu before clawing around the small of Yifan’s back. “It’s all right,” Yifan whispers. He strokes Junmyeon’s short hair and rubs his scalp gently. “You’re all right. Let it go. Release your burdens.”
Junmyeon cries in a very childlike manner. His shoulders jump with every hiccup and his small hands, balled into fists, remind yifan of a little boy clinging to his parent. The speed at which he regains composure, however, is much like an infant whose needs have just been met. Yifan thinks he hadn’t been holding on for nearly long enough for Junmyeon to compose himself, but he still lets go. From what he sees as he pulls away, it is still a herculean effort.
“I don’t believe this is what you predicted for today,” Junmyeon says in jest. Were it not for the redness in his nose and splattered across his cheeks, one would not have realized that he just finished crying. Junmyeon pulls away, and Yifan releases him with some reluctance.
“No, it isn’t,” Yifan agrees. He reaches out again to run his fingers through Junmyeon’s hair, an action that gives them both pause. He draws his hand back with haste. “Though I tend to keep my options, regardless. Are you feeling better?”
Junmyeon nods. “Quite. I apologize again. I do not make it a habit to burst into tears and soil such fine robes-- “
“Please,” Yifan says with a wave of his hand. “We are friends, are we not? Sometimes we need to have a good cry every now and then. If I am in want of finer robes, I would steal some of Zitao’s.”
“Friends,” Junmyeon repeats. He sounds as though he’s testing out the word, seeing how well it sits on his tongue. Though it’s more surprise than discomfort scoring Junmyeon’s expression, Yifan still hopes he hasn’t overstepped any boundaries. “Yes, I suppose we are. Thank you, Yifan. it has been quite a long time since I’ve had a friend. He pauses, looking off somewhere behind Yifan. “I… I haven’t disrupted your work too much, have I?”
Yifan blinks. Oh, yes. The artwork. He laughs a little, then shakes his head. “To be frank with you, Junmyeon, I hate it and want to start over. It happens quite frequently — not your fault.” He’s not being frank.
“Did it happen with Eunji?”
Junmyeon may be too inquisitive — or clever — for his own good. “Will you make me start over if I tell you I’m not very satisfied with her final product either?” He winces playfully. “I suppose I was so eager to finish that I took anything she and the muses were willing to offer me.”
“I might.” Junmyeon’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “But we ought to get me finished first, yes?”
Yifan dips his head. “But of course. However, I believe we’re done for today.” He turns to look out the window. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon. The natural light is fading, but the shadows it casts a cross the planes of Junmyeon’s face is nothing short of breathtaking. “I’m far too frustrated with myself to continue, and dinner ought to be soon. We may resume tomorrow.”
“Ah, I’m afraid not tomorrow.” Junmyeon looks vaguely apologetic. “I have some business in London, but I shall return in three days’ time.”
Yifan nods again. “In three days’ time, then.”
…
Junmyeon wastes no time upon his return. Though Yifan presumed he might be fatigued by the constant travel and sitting still would be the last thing he’d want to do, the diplomat dutifully reports to Yifan’s quarters to resume work on his portrait. Yifan himself has come down with something, Zitao prescribing (rather, insisting upon) bedrest, but he refuses to slack off and so works in his bed. Junmyeon had smiled when Yifan insisted that he persist, and it made him feel very warm — no doubt enhanced by his possible fever.
They decided to illustrate Junmyeon in a more natural manner. His work had piled up, and it was simply more efficient to complete it while Yifan drew him. As such, they rearranged the painter’s bedroom to fit their needs. Yifan has no doubt that Junmyeon will be questioned about the ruckus as they (mostly Junmyeon) pushed Yifan’s bed in between two walls and into a corner, shifting his table so that it sits in the light of the window. The new position has Junmyeon’s back facing the light and thus frames his face in shadow, but the halo effect it generates at high noon is well worth the near-guesswork in dealing with Junmyeon’s visage. Yifan’s wagers he’s observed Junmyeon so closely that he doesn’t need a reference anyway.
“Yifan,” Junmyeon calls. He’s an adept writer, able to speak and pen official letters without overlapping either. Junmyeon’s competence never fails to amaze Yifan. Sometimes he forgets that he ever accused the younger of nepotism. “What do you suppose love is?”
Yifan is so startled that he coughs. The sounds of Junmyeon’s pen stops, replaced instead with an apologetic “Oh.” Yifan can’t see the other from how he’s pressed into the pillow, instead waving an arm behind to ward off any concern. So far, both of them have been working in total silence, complete absorbed by their respective assignments. They were so comfortable that Yifan hadn’t even minded the silence. “Love?” he repeats after getting his bearings.
“Yes," Junmyeon confirms. Revising his fully composed notation, he leans backward. “Or romantic love, if you are asking for specificity.”
They have touched on a great variety of themes in their time together, often philosophical in nature, but never love. At the risk of sounding prudish, Yifan felt it was too intimate and personal to touch. Witnessing Junmyeon’s breakdown was one thing. Discussing Yifan and his proclivities — which he never bothered to hide, not even on British soil — is even further beyond his area of expertise. He wonders if Junmyeon’s opinion might change if he knew how smitten Yifan is with him.
“Have you ever been in love?” Junmyeon asks in the wake of Yifan’s silence. Had he read Yifan’s mind?
“Once.” Or, he thought so at the time. He was young, Zitao younger still. They quickly learned they were better off as friends. Nevertheless, there was a lingering affection that teetered on the precipice of friendly. Yifan always supposed that if he could get no other to fall in love with him, he might crawl back to Zitao so long as the latter was alone too.
“Did you enjoy the feeling?”
Was there even much of one to begin with? Maybe that’s why he and Zitao fizzled out so quickly. His heart wasn’t really in it. Yifan had never been lacking in passion until he began consorting with Zitao. “I don’t know,” he says instead. It’s an honest answer.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever been in love,” Junmyeon admits. Yifan would like to say that he’s surprised, but the words make sense given what he’s seen of Junmyeon and Eunji’s marriage. They don’t even behave like close friends, let alone a married couple. They seem compatible, and that is the all the depth of their relationship. It appeared the few moments of intimacy he happened upon were firsts, rather than their normal romantics.
Marriages of convenience are not few and far between, Yifan supposes. Especially not among nobles. Zitao is lucky his parents adore him too much to pair him with a woman he doesn’t love. “I think about it sometimes — love,” Junmyeon continues. “I found myself pondering it more these days, however, given our discourse on happiness. I believe love is integral to happiness, don’t you?”
Yifan purses his lips. He sniffs and coughs again. “I agree. But I don’t necessarily believe romantic love is the key to happiness. Some prefer solitude. They feel happy because of platonic love from their friends. other times, loving oneself is enough. Acceptance and pride can work just as well as love from one’s spouse.” Yifan resumes sketching, then looks up. “I am not any sort of authority on love, so I would advise taking my words with a grain of salt.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Junmyeon says, cracking his neck. Sighing, he gazes at the ring on his left hand. Western custom yet again. “English honorifics don’t flow quite as easily, but I do see you as a hyung.”
“Big brother,” Yifan muses. Of course; why had he been expecting more? There’s but a scant six months between them, though that’s hardly worth assuming anything. “You know that you can always speak to me in your native tongue.” He switches to Mandarin. “Or mine, if you’d like to practice. Though I cannot promise I will speak without an accent.”
“Your offer is tempting,” Junmyeon responds. His pronunciation is good, though he seems to be hesitant in speaking. “But I’m afraid I will abstain. And no, big brother doesn’t quite encapsulate my feelings either. You are a close friend, but I do not equate you with my actual hyung.” His smile mystifies Yifan. He’s saying something, Yifan just can’t figure out what.
A close friend. Yifan doesn’t dare to hope.
He instead lets them both lapse back into a cozy silence. The sound of charcoal and steel scratching at parchment fills the room. It’s nice. Quaint. Both of them are allowed to focus without forgetting that they’re not alone. Yifan steals a few glances at Junmyeon as he draws, taking in the slight crease between his brows and the subtle pout of his lips as he reads. He still isn’t quite sure if he wants to portray such a stern, severe expression in the final portrait. He always could (and probably will) excuse himself by saying he’s still making preliminary sketches and thus would like to leave himself with a variety of artistic options.
Junmyeon, without looking up, asks, “Do you believe romantic love can only exist between a man and a woman?” At first listen, it sounds so very certain and confident, authoritative, that Yifan’s blood runs cold. Has he been caught? As he recalls the moment over and over again as his brain scrambles to concoct a response, however, he detects the slightest waver on the final word. Not so certain anymore. Junmyeon tries to put on a brave face, but the way that he finally looks Yifan in the eye speaks volumes as to his true disposition. His gaze is unsure, mouth set in a mildly concerned line. His query isn’t an accusation. It’s an honest to God question. “Do you believe love between two men is unnatural?”
Yifan swallows. “No.” The singular word comes out as a croak. “No, I don’t.” He puts his pen and paper beside him. “I don’t seem like a hypocrite to you, do I?” He does not know what compelled him to reveal this. But it’s out there now. Yifan has never been one to take back his words. He also isn’t about to start now, even though his heart flies up into his throat and makes what seems like a permanent residence there. Yifan stares at Junmyeon’s face a lot, but this time he’s closely examining the other for any possible changes in his expression. He’s not even searching for an emotion in particular. Anger, disgust, acceptance, pride — anything so that Junmyeon’s face unfreezes.
When it finally does, it seems a little anticlimactic. “Oh,” Junmyeon says. It’s such a short word. Monosyllabic. Two letters coating a tiny seed of ardor that Yifan dares to believe is hope. The way Junmyeon’s eyes light up lends credence to his assessment. His affirmation makes Junmyeon feel hopeful. “Oh, thank God.”
Junmyeon doesn’t quite break down like he did before — there are various differences. For one, it’s relief that floods his person rather than grief. He also seems more in control. He vibrates, most likely out of excitement, and while his voice shakes with unshed tears, Junmyeon remains composed. “Thank God,” he whispers again. Momentarily, Yifan is amused by his blasphemy.
“Might you…” Yifan’s eyes dart to the sole door of his room, making sure it is closed shut and there are no shadows beneath it. Were he more prudent, he might go over to take a look outside. Yifan, as a rather reckless main, doesn’t. “Might you chase the same inclinations I do?” It is a powerful question. What Junmyeon asked him wasn’t the same thing as acknowledging one’s own homosexuality.
Naturally, Junmyeon’s response isn’t a direct yes or no — though his avoidance implies the former. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so conflicted,” he says, looking almost like he’s talking to himself. “In Goryeo, kings had male lovers. It isn’t estranged from my culture.” He looks up at Yifan. “Neither is it from yours. The former Song, over a millennium and a half ago, considered same-sex love equal to—”
“Junmyeon,” Yifan interrupts, seemingly snapping the other out of a trance. “If you’re implying that who I am is suddenly acceptable because of my forefathers, I am going to stop you there.”
The ambassador’s eyes widen — nearing comical — and he scrambles out of his seat. “No! No. I’m just… we’re normal. You and I. You and me, and the kings of Goryeo, and the Confucian scholars of the Liu Song.” His chest heaves, volume rising wildly. “We’re normal. There’s nothing strange about us. About me.” Junmyeon’s entire frame trembles and Yifan’s chest swells with warmth. He wants to get up and hold the other, though that might be a tad unappreciated. He can practically see all of the thoughts racing through the other’s head. Yifan hadn’t come to his realization (which wasn’t even much of a realization in the first place) this late in his life, but he’s glad Junmyeon. Perhaps it’s given him some closure, explained to him why he’s so unhappy with his marriage. Maybe even why he’s so unhappy in general, spending all his life pretending that he’s something he’s not.
He wants to say something, anything, to encourage and reassure Junmyeon. Before he can, however, the dinner bell rings. Junmyeon whips his head to look at it. A forlorn look spreads across his face.
The spell is broken.
…
Junmyeon kisses him the next time they sit to paint. Yifan is feeling much better, though Zitao had to be warded off like a stubborn fly. Yifan sometimes wonders if he actually gets any work done, or if Zitao just spends his time fretting over him. Junmyeon, at least, seems very grounded in his duties as plenipotentiary. He makes good use of his time settling affairs while Yifan draws, meanwhile conversing with his contemporaries over dinner and discussing state affairs just before his contemporaries over dinner and discussing state affairs just before dessert. All in all, Yifan believes Junmyeon to be a very responsible man.
That is why he’s surprised when Junmyeon walks over to him one day just before sunset and pulls him into a kiss. His — surprisingly soft for one who spends most of his days writing and shaking hands — cup Yifan’s jaws as plush lips press against his own. The kiss is very innocent. Yifan is no stranger to chastity. Junmyeon’s kiss is just so... so pure and so very earnest that Yifan can’t help but blush when he pulls away. Had it been anyone else, he might’ve said something teasing. Now, Yifan is just struck dumb.
Junmyeon misconstruing his taciturnity is to be expected. His face, originally a cherubic rose, turn to a deep vermillion that colors the rest of his face and travels beneath his collar. “I — I. That was… I overstepped, didn’t I? You don’t — of course, you don’t. It was presumptuous of me to believe that, simply because we both prefer the company of men, you would reciprocate my —” As he speaks, he clasps his hands together as though he’s in prayer. Like he’s begging God to free him from the confines of Yifan’s room, legs bent like he’s about to break into a run.
“Junmyeon,” Yifan says. The other shivers, eyes fluttering shut. “you simply took me off-guard.” He steps off his stool, approaching the shorter man gingerly. He takes Junmyeon’s hands and tangles them with his. Palms pressed together, they simply stand there. the sound of their breathing echoes across Yifan’s chambers. “I enjoyed that very much.”
Junmyeon’s head shoots upward. Incredulity paints his features — eyes widen and lips part in utter surprise. His hands are clammy and his fingers as Yifan squeezes them. “You… what?”
Yifan laughs a little. Junmyeon is customarily not in want for words, but he can’t seem to form a coherent sentence. Yifan does the talking for him. “I hadn’t been expecting that,” he murmurs. He keeps his voice low.These words are for them only. Not for the walls surrounding them, nor the world beyond. “If I had, I would have better expressed how ardently and deeply I love you, Junmyeon.”
Junmyeon’s breath catches in his throat. Yifan watches with satisfaction as his pupils dilate and his Adam’s apple gives one telltale bob. “How would you do that?” Junmyeon whispers.
Yifan snorts, not expecting the banter. “How, my dear?” His face inches ever so closer to the other’s. Junmyeon’s gaze darts from Yifan’s eyes to his lips in anticipation. “Like this.” Junmyeon makes a delicious noise of pleasure as Yifan closes the gap between them. His grip on Yifan’s hands tightens, nearly crushing the appendages.
The kiss is the first one Yifan’s initiated in a long time. He hopes it doesn’t show. Junmyeon presses up against him as their mouths move together. Desperation colors both of them, hands separating to grasp at each other’s back. When they part for air, they’re both shaking. Yifan strokes Junmyeon’s cheek and rests his forehead against the other’s. Junmyeon’s hands grip the back of his robes tightly, hot breath fanning Yifan’s face. “Yifan,” he says softly. “Yifan, I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Yifan tells him. His heart hammers away in his chest. Yifan is practically euphoric. He’d dreamed of this, sure, but for Junmyeon to actually come to him and confess his love — were it not for the younger man’s weight against him, Yifan wouldn’t have believed it was real. “I love you so much, Junmyeon. I can never get enough you.”
Junmyeon kisses him again, slow and gentle. “Is that why you’ve only been painting the background this entire time?” Yifan turns to stare at his easel. Junmyeon’s right. He sits in the middle of the canvas, studiously poring over documents and correspondence and not at all covered in any paint whatsoever. The area surrounding him, from the window to the mahogany table before him, and the ornate wallpaper in the background, is replicated perfectly. Painting in three dimensions is, admittedly new to him. Yifan likes to think Turner would appreciate his work. They both know, though, that is not why Yifan has pored so painstakingly on the background.
“I may be… stalling,” Yifan says, not at all begrudgingly. He snickers when Junmyeon presses their lips together again, hands tracing little circles on Junmyeon’s sides. “Could you blame me for wanting to spend as much time as I could with the most beautiful man in the world?”
Junmyeon colors. “Stop,” he protests, burying his face into Yifan’s shoulder. Pecking his temple, Yifan readjusts his arms so that they’re draped loosely around Junmyeon’s midriff. They’re still just standing there in the middle of his room. The dinner bell had rung just as Junmyeon kissed him. Yifan has the slightest inkling that neither of them is willing to move.
“What excuse will we give?” Yifan asks.
Junyeon shrugs against him. “ I’m not particularly interested in that right now, Yifan.”
“Oh?” He grins as he asks a question he already knows the answer to. “Pray tell, what are you interested in, then?”
Junmyeon removes himself from Yifan’s embrace, and while he briefly mourns the loss, Yifan’s pulse quickens in anticipation as the younger locks the door with a click.
…
Some days, when they meet, they don’t even paint. they lay everything out so that they can pretend they’re working should an unsuspecting soul somehow wander past the locked door. (If Yifan thinks about it, anyone who would do such a thing really doesn’t have the best intentions, though he has other, better things to ponder). Rather than toiling away, however, they find solace in each other’s arms.
Some days, they lay on Yifan’s bed and hold one another, kissing each other senseless. Other days, they make love. Yifan is out of practice and Junmyeon is entirely new to the experience. Though it should be a recipe for disaster, they fit together well. Or maybe they’re soulmates, and that’s why they make magic.
Occasionally, they perform actual labor. Yifan finally begins to paint Junmyeon in all his splendor (which earns him an approving hum from Turner when shows the other his progress). Junmyeon, like the amazing man he is, catches up quickly.
This is all that consumes in their days for the last two weeks. Work and love.
It’s hilariously sad how easily they forgot Eunji. Especially when she has apparently known about them the whole time. Unsurprisingly, she is not pleased — but only partly for the reasons the lovers feared.
Yifan freezes when she accompanies her husband one day. The marks he’d left littered across Junmyeon’s throat are usually hidden by his clothing, but he loses what cover he had when he goes to sleep by his wife’s side. Yifan, who slept alone, had simply never thought of it. But Junmyeon, who returned to his room every night to his spouse, ought to be at least a little self-aware. Clearly, it was all too easy for Eunji to find them out. Yifan wonders how long she’s known but is too afraid to ask.
Disappointment is etched across her face, coexisting with betrayal. It isn’t (in her words) because her husband is in love — and Yifan’s heart skips a beat hearing the acknowledgment from another’s — with another man, but because he’s in love with someone else. Guilt sparks through Yifan, though he can’t be convinced to let go of Junmyeon. Eunji knows this, and Yifan is so very surprised when she says she will let him go.
“Not legally,” she says, spreading her hands. Junmyeon gazes at her with such wonder, and it’s a shame it took him this long to realize what a marvel he married. “it would be better off for the both of us to stay married. With any luck, the marriage will masquerade your trysts.’
“I don’t need you to martyr yourself for me,” Junmyeon mutters. He doesn’t flinch like Yifan does when Eunji throws him a dark look.
Between the pair of them, Eunji stands to gain the most from their marriage. Though her father is indeed a man of high status, her marriage into the Kim clan of Andong was a clear display of upward mobility. Junmyeon, more so than his contemporaries, had the ear of King Sunjo. He could marry any woman he wanted — perhaps even into the royal family if he put in the effort to pursue such a match — and he had chosen (or, perhaps, had chosen for him) Eunji.
She is not martyring herself for Junmyeon. Eunji is saving her own skin. If Junmyeon were to divorce her, she would have to return home in disgrace. Childless, her father would have no reason to remarry her again. She would either be seen as undesirable or barren, and neither were good prospects for her. As things may be, though, she might find it more palatable to present herself as someone other than Junmyeon’s dependent.
“I’m not going to throw myself onto a sword for you, Kim Junmyeon.” Her eyes are ablaze, and Yifan thinks whoever dares to challenge her is a fool. “I will not ache for you. I had hoped, at first, that we would grow to love each other. However, as we can all see, that is not meant to be. I have privy to that fact since our first year of marriage.” Eunji’s gaze softens. “But Yifan makes you happy. And I am not so cruel as to deprive. yo of one of the purest joys in life. To deprive you of love.”
“Eunji…” Junmyeon looks stricken, though he doesn’t move.
“I am no your martyr,” Eunji says again. Junmyeon nods. They all know he believes her. She walks over to where Yifan is seated behind his easel. She lets out a sharp exhale as she examines Junmyeon’s portrait. It’s nearly done, with only a few details yet to be added. The expression on her face, at the very least, seems like approval. It makes Yifan slouch a little. What tension still persists doesn’t quite frighten him anymore. “This looks very nice.”
“Thank you,” Yifan says quietly.
Eunji hums. “It’s evident how beautiful you think he is.” She squeezes Yifan’s shoulder gently. “I’m glad.”
…
“You know,” Zitao drawls from Yifan’s doorway, “I really am glad that you’ve made... ah, friends.” His words ought to be condescending. Yifan should chafe under the implication that he usually cannot make friends. Rather than do that, though, he merely raises his brows at Zitao as he speaks. “You and Ambassador Kim have grown very close in the six weeks we have spent here.”
“Indeed, we have.” Yifan doesn’t elaborate. If Zitao suspects Yifan and Junmyeon are more than just friends, he is smart enough not to voice it near potential eavesdroppers. “I find him very agreeable.” At times, he feels a little guilty for neglecting his friendship with Zitao. Given the many years they have spent as companions, one might expect them to grow tired of one another. While Yifan appreciated some time apart — especially given the long trip form the Empire to England — but he hadn't meant to eliminate Zitao entirely out of his life. He had been relegated to a tertiary position in Yifan’s life. “I hope you don’t think he’s replaced you.”
Zitao laughs at that. It’s a comforting sound. “How ludicrous,” he says. “You’d never.” His hands, concealed in the sleeves of his robes, twitch as he grasps and lets go of his forearms. It’s a nervous habit Yifan would recognize anywhere. It sets him on edge. Zitao is not here to exchange pleasantries.
“What is it?” asks Yifan before Tao can come up with something to soften the blow.
“We’re leaving. “Tao sighs, arms falling to his sides. “His Majesty the Emperor is recalling us back to Peking. He evidently wants someone more experienced in charge of the embassy.” He looks genuinely apologetic. Yifan, still reeling from the proverbial pail of cold water dumped on him, can’t decide if that makes things better or worse.
Yifan swallows. “When?”
“In a fortnight.”
That’s soon. Very soon. But there’s still time. He has time. He and Junmyeon still have time. Yifan remembers to smile at Tao, just to show that he’s not angry at him. Zitao smiles tentatively back. “Thank you,” Yifan says. He truly does appreciate the warning. Sometimes he wonders what he did in a past life to have a best friend as wonderful as tao.
“You are welcome,” Zitao murmurs. He drums his fingers lightly against the doorframe before turning and walking away. A few moments later, Yifan can faintly hear him engaging in polite conversation with Junmyeon.
He listens for a bit but cannot make out what they are saying. Yifan should tell Junmyeon that their time is running out. He deserves to know. But when Junmyeon enters and greets Yifan with a warm, “Good morning, my love,” YIfan’s words die on his tongue.
“Hello, my heart,” he says instead. He swears to himself that will tell Junmyeon soon. He just has to wait for the correct opportunity, when Junmyeon is not climbing into his lap and kissing him silly.
…
‘The correct opportunity’ happens to be post-coitus, one week before Yifan is set to depart. Junmyeon is currently putty in his arms, eyes drifting shut as slumber is about to overtake him.Yifan jostles him lightly. He ought to have chosen a better time to speak (like anytime before then), but he simply couldn’t wait any longer.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he whispers. The absence of urgency in his tone likely contributes to Junmyeon’s ensuing groan.
The younger man turns so that he presses his face into Yifan’s bare chest. “Speak to me in that sultry voice of yours again and I might not be able to help myself,” he grumbles. His arm wriggles under Yifan’s to wrap around him. When Yifan doesn’t respond and stiffens instead, he lifts his head. Junmyeon’s visage bears a mixture of confusion and sleepiness. “What’s wrong, love?”
Yifan closes his eyes as Junmyeon strokes his cheek. He doesn’t deserve this tenderness. He should have been honest; Yifan had been selfish instead. “I have something I must tell you,” he says. His throat constricts as Junmyeon’s brows furrow in befuddlement. “I… I’m leaving soon. Zitao and the Qing emissaries are returning to the Empire.”
Junmyeon’s eyes widen, imperceptible were it not for the fact that they were so close together, and then his face is washed by neutrality. The impassiveness on his face startles Yifan. “When?” he asks after a pause. He sounds resigned.
“Seven days from now.” Shame clouds Yifan’s voice as he speaks, worsened still when Junmyeon rolls over with a scoff and folds his hands over his chest. “I wanted to tell you,” Yifan says as if that will help in any way. “I only learned of it a week ago, and I wasn’t able to find a suitable moment so I…”
“I understand,” Junmyeon whispers. He kisses Yifan back when the other leans over him to press their lips together in apology. Sighing deeply, he climbs out of the creaky bed and begins to gather his discarded clothes. Yifan watches, pained as Junmyeon rapidly dresses.
“Where are you going?” Yifan inquires. He doesn’t want Junmyeon to leave, not when the clock is winding down like this. The fear that he might have destroyed what they had because of his aversion to action laces quickly up his spine. He sits up, not quite sure what he’d do to try to stop Junmyeon. To his surprise, the other doesn’t exit. Rather, he walks back over to the desk and begins to write. “What are you doing?”
Yifan recognizes that crease in his forehead. It forms when the Marquess of Winchester writes a particularly confounding and nonsensical letter. It’s therefore rather obvious what Junmyeon is doing, but that is not really the question Yifan is asking. “You have a portrait to finish, don’t you?” He peers at Yifan, still in his bed, over the Marquess’s letter. “If I were you, I’d finish it before I leave.”
Yifan blinks. “Yes. You’re correct.” He gets up, grabbing his undergarments and hanfu form the floor. Junmyeon works in silence as Yifan dons his clothes and still doesn’t say anything when Yifan sits down, wincing at the slight ache, in front of his easel. If he’s uncomfortable, given their current circumstances, he doesn’t show it. Yifan doesn’t know what he expected. Crying? Screaming? Neither seemed in character for Junmyeon. Yifan supposes he just wanted something. Any sort of reaction would have been acceptable. Instead, Junmyeon just… doesn’t do anything. He acknowledged the information and then went about his business. Yifan could only wonder what was happening in his mind.
Is he angry? Hurt? Worse yet, pleased? There is nothing on Junmyeon’s person to indicate any of those emotions. — there is, apparently, nothing to indicate at all. He is just… numb. Yifan doesn’t look at him as he paints, preferring to create his own expression of determination rather than the stoicism that Junmyeon projects. In a matter of a couple of hours, he finishes. Yifan operates best not only when there are no distractions, but when he forces himself to complete his work. It is easier for him to just get lost in his art than to confront the heartbreak looming over him.
Yifan doesn’t say that he’s done. He just sits, staring at the image of Junmyeon he’s created, refusing to observe the real thing. This is the Junmyeon he loves, a playful quirk to his lips and a passionate glint in his eye. Yifan does not recognize the husk before him brooding over foreign policy. When Junmyeon (or, in Yifan’s mind, not-Junmyeon) finishes his work in turn, he gets up from the desk and walks over to Yifan.
There is a respectable distance between them as he examines his portrait. “Commendable work,” Junmyeon says neutrally. Yifan thinks so too, considering it’s his first attempt at painting something Western. He doesn’t say any of this to Junmyeon. The ambassador’s hands, clasped behind his back, reach out to touch the corners of the canvas. He picks it up and turns it to look at the work from several different angles. He sets it back down on the easel and takes two sizable steps back. “I’ll arrange for the money to be sent to you before your departure.” Walking over to the door, Junmyeon unlocks it with precise, clinical movements. He pauses, hand on the doorknob, then turns to look at Yifan. “It’s for the best, is it not?”
And then he’s gone.
So. Pleased it is.
…
Zitao, in all his omniscience, comes to Yifan’s room later that night to help him pack. Yifan doesn’t need help; he hadn’t brought much with him to England, and he also hadn’t purchased any souvenirs to take back. The portrait of Junmyeon, paint fully dried, is wrapped up and ready to be delivered to the Kim estate in Joseon. Yifan has very little to pack, and with Zitao’s assistance, the whole process takes less than an hour.
The only thing he hasn’t stowed away is six days’ worth of clothes. Further markers of the time he has left with Junmyeon dwindling. Though, Yifan supposes, given Junmyeon’s reaction, it didn’t seem as though there was much of anything left to mourn.
Zitao sits beside him on his bed with a groan, hands pressed to his lower back. He looks like an old man, and Yifan tells him this. The statement sparks a tongue-in-cheek squabble, which only serves to worsen Yifan’s mood once it’s over and leaves an oppressive silence in its wake. “Are you all right?” Tao asks. He is quiet. Sometimes, Yifan forgets how sensitive Tao can get when he wants to. He takes Yifan’s hand and squeezes lightly.
“I told him today,” Yifan says. “I told him we were leaving and he… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It just didn’t seem like he cared.” An ache in his chest forms, spreading across his form. It burns away at his core, choking him up and bringing moisture to his eyes. “He said… He said it was for the best.” Yifan doesn’t mean for his voice to crack, but he doesn’t mind it when Zitao pulls him into a hug. Though younger and smaller, he is warm and around Yifan — a comforting warmth unlike the painful one in his heart. Yifan doesn’t cry loudly, having been conditioned from childhood to be as quiet and thus unobtrusive as possible.
“I’m sorry,” Zitao says. He undoes Yifan’s queue and runs his fingers through his locks. It’s a soothing gesture, something Zitao’s mother used to do for them. When they were little. It only makes Yifan cry harder, clutching to Zitao’s clothes like they’re his lifeline.
He had done a good job composing himself in front of Junmyeon. Completing his work, knowing full well why it sat under constant construction for weeks, was a difficult task in and of itself. Knowing that Junmyeon wanted it to be finished, likely because he was entirely finished with him? That might have been enough to break him. And it had. Junmyeon didn’t want him anymore. That was certain. Yifan can’t even be angry. Words are only words, and it is his own fault for putting such stock in them. That is his sole mistake, and he must deal with the consequences of throwing himself so wholeheartedly into disingenuous “I love you”s.
A treacherous, hopeful part of him refuses to believe it’s true, that Junmyeon still loves him. It’s only a small part, tiny, but vocal. It ought to shut up. Yifan is a rationalist and a realist, and it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Kim Junmyeon wants nothing to do with him anymore.
“I love him,” he whimpers pathetically into Zitao’s robes. “I still love him. I don’t know how to stop.”
“That’s all right.” Zitao’s throat vibrates against Yifan’s forehead as he speaks, a low rumble. “It’s okay to love him. It’s okay to hurt.” Zitao hasn’t stopped carding his fingers through Yifan’s hair, and he doesn’t stop even as Yifan falls asleep, exhausted from the heartbreak.
…
Eunji is a brilliant woman — both in terms of intelligence and personality. Yifan hasn’t seen much of her lately, and, merely a day away from his departure, likely won’t ever be seeing her again thereafter. She catches him after breakfast, which he took in his room, and follows him even as he says he has some business with Yixing, one of Zitao’s aides.
“Yifan, you see,” she persists, trailing him along with her ladies, “I really must employ your amazing skills before you leave. I had promised the queen a piece of yours — just a quick sketch, I promise! — and you are leaving tomorrow morning, so I must really ask this of you today. I would have asked you at dinnertime someday this past week, but you seemed remarkably intent in avoiding me.” which explains why she was waiting to ambush him outside of his room.
Yifan tries to side-step her, only for Eunji to skid in front of him, hands on her hips. “Please,” she says, “I have a beautiful bouquet sitting in the parlor, I would really love it if you drew that. It’s simple —”
“Beautiful bouquets are never simple,” he interrupts, making his displeasure as obvious as possible.
Eunji sighs and rolls her eyes. “You know that I’m not going to leave you be until you do as I ask, Yifan.” She is, of course, right. In all his life, Yifan has never known a woman with such tenacity. She would never allow him to pass until he said “Yes.” He concludes that her stubbornness is only charming when it isn’t aimed at him.
He really only has one option. That doesn’t mean he has he has to be happy about it, propriety be damned. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Just let me unpack my supplies —”
“there’s no need!” Eunji’s eyes are wide, manic. If Yifan felt kinder, he might have called them earnest. “I’ve taken the liberty of laying out some supplies for you in the drawing room. I am aware that you take a methodical, slow approach to your artistry. All that needs to be done on your part is your, ah, arrival to the drawing room.”
Yifan turns to the room’s direction before pausing and twisting to look back at Eunji. She nods fervently and waves her hands at him in a shooing motion. He sighs, making his way over to the drawing room. His route is familiar, though the shifty-eyed Zitao he passes on his way there is something a bit new. They usually don’t keep secrets, which makes the younger’s strained “I’m well!” even more suspicious. Zitao busies himself by speaking to one of his associates and successfully avoids conversing to Yifan.
He makes a mental note to ask Zitao about his strange behavior before finally reaching the entrance to the drawing room. It will be the last time he ever sees it. Yifan has no intention of returning to England. yet, still, he almost doesn’t want to leave. Just for one last glimpse of Junmyeon —
“Oh.” he had only been looking down, trying to memorize the lovely carpet and furniture, but when he lifts his gaze, Yifan stops and freezes. Irony seems to be a friend of his.
“You,” Junmyeon says, standing in the middle of the drawing room. He was looking out the window when Yifan entered, and his booted feet are still pointing in that direction. His torso is half-turned, eyes large as he stares at Yifan. His voice bears nothing of the indifference he’d shown before. Junmyeon sounds, instead, small and scared. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting Yifan to be there. A cursory glance around the drawing room reveals that no art supplies are in the vicinity, let alone a bouquet to draw. Everything else in the room’ seems normal. The only things out of place are Yifan and Junmyeon.
Zitao and Eunji planned this.
“I presume this means Ambassador Huang is not coming with His Majesty to discuss a formal agreement of trade.” Junmyeon, having the same line of thought, scuffs his feet on the carpet.
“And Eunji hasn’t promised that I would sketch something for Queen Caroline,” Yifan responds. He has a lot more he’d like to say to Junmyeon, but his mind only drifts towards sarcasm. The familiar mode of communication between them. “I suppose they both wanted us to… talk.”
“I concur,” Junmyeon watches with apprehension as Yifan steps closer. He trains his eyes on the ground once Yifan is merely a foot or so away. “Yifan, I wish to apologize for my behavior this week past.” Both of them have done their fair share of avoiding for the last few days. Deliberately changing the seating arrangements (with Her Majesty’s approval, of course), Junmyeon and Yifan were seated on the opposite ends of the table at dinner, placed as far as they could be from one another. This, however, is not what he is referring to — or so Yifan presumes.
“You made your feelings toward our arrangement perfectly clear.” Yifan refuses to sound bitter. He has no right to demand Junmyeon’s affection, and he will not lower himself in doing so. In spite of this dedication toward being a good person, though, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. Yifan refuses to look at Junmyeon’s face, eyes drifting from the man’s forehead to his chest and settling on his feet.
Junmyeon’s hand makes contact with his arm — just be the barest brushing of fingers. Tentative. lacking the familiarity they once had. “I — I didn’t, really.” As Yifan meets his eyes, Junmyeon falters just for a moment. Yifan sees the resolve hardening in the younger man and he takes Yifan’s hand. “Please, not here. I have… plenty more to say. But not… not here.”
Yifan nods stiffly. “My chambers are still appropriate, I suppose.”
The pair makes their way through the Queen’s House together one last time. A sense of urgency guides their pace. Junmyeon’s breath catches in his throat when he enters, and he jumps when Yifan shuts and locks it. Like old times. The room’s layout, however, isn’t the same. Everything is moved back to its original place. The bed is lined up against the wall once more, desk placed like it had when Yifan first arrived. Yifan shoulders past Junmyeon and sits on his bed. “You wanted to talk, yes?”
“Yes.” Junmyeon seems to shrink where he stands. He is generally a man who knows his way around words. Seeing him speechless is a rarity — but Yifan has seen him quieted before. It was usually under far better circumstances. Junmyeon’s feet shift like he wants to approach Yifan but thinks better of it. He keeps his distance. “I was not… I was not kind to you last we met. I became cold. My disposition soured, but it was not because of indifference. IT was cowardice.”
“I am a coward. I fear pain, and I knew that your departure would hurt me greatly, for I love you. My heart belongs to you, Yifan. I did not want you to take it with you when you left.” his hands move in grand gestures as he speaks before clenching into fists pressed into the center of his chest. “I wanted to think that by removing you from my life, I would negate the hurt that you would bring me.” Junmyeon smiles sadly. “I was wrong. I hurt you instead, just as I harmed myself. And for that, I am sorry. Deeply, ardently, I apologize.”
Yifan knows not how to respond. He hoped before that this was the case. Hearing his fantasies vocalized leaves him frozen. Junmyeon looks at him expectantly for a few moments. His discomfort at the silence compels him to speak further.
“I do not expect forgiveness. It is well within your rights to spurn me. I have not been a good lover, regardless of my fervor for you.” Junmyeon wrings his hands. “But I do love you. Really, I do. I doubt that I will ever stop loving you. I just wanted you to know this. I did not wish for you to return to the Empire believing that I never cared —”
Junmyeon lets out a muffled yelp as Yifan grabs his face and crushes their lips together. He is stiff and rigid only or a few moments before he melts in Yifan’s arms.
“I love you,” Yifan whispers against his lips. “You are the love of my life, and I will never forget you.” He strokes Junmyeon’s cheek with broad caresses of his thumb. “I wish you hadn’t thought so little of me, Junmyeon. I would not have abandoned our love, even with the distance.” Junmyeon takes hold of the front of Yifan’s clothes. “I would have written. And perhaps you might have come to visit me in the Imperial Palace when you could.” Yifan kisses him again. “I love you, Junmyeon.”
“And I you,” Junmyeon murmurs in return. He presses against Yifan’s frame. They were such fools. Perhaps if they’d only seen fit to communicate with each other, all of this could have been avoided. They might have treasured the final days they had left with each other. Now all they have is a few scant hours.
“I wish you could come with me,” Yifan whispers. “I know you cannot, but remember this. Remember me. Remember the way my lips feel upon yours.” He kisses Junmyeon, intense and zealous as though he might be able to imprint the memory of it forever. “Remember the way my arms feel around you. Remember the love in my voice when I say your name, Junmyeon. Remember me.”
“I will,” Junmyeon vows. He presses himself ever closer, feet nearly atop of Yifan’s. His warmth spreads into something hotter, hopeless and despondent and desperate to find more time. He looks up at Yifan and he struggles to maintain his smile. He wants to be reassuring, wants to prove his devotion to Yifan.
He doesn’t have to. Yifan knows that their love will be a love for the ages.
“We will see each other again, won’t we?” Junmyeon’s voice is soft, as if he fears it might never come true if he speaks too loudly.
“If I could will it so,” Yifan says. If he could will it so, they would be side by side forever. Junmyeon would be happy, Yifan fulfilled with his greatest work fully realized. They would live together in the farthest reaches of the Empire where no one could bother them and together they would feel complete. But wishing is rarely so fruitful.
Junmyeon clings to him. “Promise me,” he says, desperation evident. “Promise me that we will one day meet again. It needn’t be soon. But one day, some years from now, we will find each other, and you will hold me as you do now. You will hold me, and you will love me, and I shall love you, and we both shall be happy.” His breath fans Yifan’s chin and throat. “Promise me this, Yifan.”
Yifan seals it with a kiss.
Come morning, when Zitao cleverly knocks rather than barging in, they kiss one last time, and it takes like salt.
…
Yifan does not forget their promise. It takes seven years to fulfill it. He’s not even aware, as he travels to Hanseong alone that, he is making good on his word. All he knew when he took off from Jiao’ao was that a nobleman requested his services in painting a portrait of his family. It wasn’t strange for Yifan to be requested by name. After his tutelage under Turner, Yifan developed a style that ended up being an amalgamation of the East and West. Intrigued by the fusion, many commissioned portraits out of the sheer novelty of Yifan’s technique. While this was not the subsistence he wished for, Yifan knew all too well to get payment where he could.
Overseas nobles tended to pay more than those from the Empire’s mainland, but this nobleman offered an exorbitant price. Once Zitao’s agents confirmed the patron was not a man of ill repute, Yifan set sail.
A small, nearly unnoticeable part of Yifan fancied the idea that he might also get to fulfill his promise to Junmyeon while he was there. He hadn’t forgotten, but he was left in a state of indecision. Too much time might have passed for their to be anything left. Yifan still had faith that Junmyeon kept his word, but the seven years that passed reminded him that he ought to be realistic. Not every story was meant to have a happy ending.
Yifan was not being paid to daydream about Junmyeon, so he set thoughts about the ambassador aside and focused on his trade.
Though his mastery of foreign languages wavered due to lack of practice, he still knew enough to secure transportation to the lord’s residence. The manor is smaller than he expected. Though still in the midst of a sprawling estate, the building proper does not look like one belonging to a man who has enough money to pay Yifan what he offered.
Perhaps the nobleman likes to live modestly. Yifan appreciates that.
Once he arrives, a young man named Sehun greets him and offers to take his bags. He leads him through a winding complex — far larger on the inside than it appeared — and prattles away about how his master has been anticipating his arrival. The boy isn’t so much talkative as he is painfully awkward. He speaks only to fill the silence, and as such, Yifan only half-listens to him. They make a quick stop to drop off his luggage in his quarters before going to see this much-lauded master.
According to Sehun, the man is a very kind and intelligent man. Both an excellent father and husband, the man is just and treats each and every one of his servants with great respect — “Even a lowly page like me,” Sehun crow sin amazement. Yifan doesn’t put much stock into the adulation but takes the information nevertheless.
He realizes he should’ve taken Sehun more seriously when he enters the manor’s library and sees Junmyeon sitting there, a little boy on his lap. Were it not slung over his shoulder, Yifan would have dropped his bag. “Junmyeon,” he whispers softly. Both the little boy and Sehun look between them, bewildered by the fact that the two are on a given-name basis.
“Yifan,” Junmyeon says warmly. He smiles at Yifan, who almost promptly bursts into tears. Junmyeon’s cheeks look rounder, his hanbok more filled. His hair has grown (and why wouldn’t it, almost a decade later?), pulled into a topknot. There isn’t a hint of Englishman in him that Yifan can see. He hopes it is not presumptuous of him to believe that Junmyeon has finally found his happiness.
The little boy tugs on Junmyeon’s sleeve, and he chuckles. It’s still such a wonderful sound. “Yes, little one,” he says, fondly rubbing the child’s head. “This is Yifan, boy. The grand painter I told you about.” the child gawks then, staring unabashedly at Yifan. Junmyeon looks up, a minute twitch of pride playing on his lips. “Yifan, this is my son, Jongin. Can you say hello, Jongin?”
Though the child had no qualms with just looking at him, he is far shyer when it comes to actually speaking to Yifan. Jongin greets him shyly, leaning into his father, and Yifan dips his head in acknowledgment.
“Shall you go find your mother and sister for us, Jongin? You may go with Sehun to look for them.” Jongin nods enthusiastically at his father and slides off his lap. He scampers over to the page, taking his hand and leading him off.
For the first time in seven years, Yifan and Junmyeon are alone.
Junmyeon stands from his desk and walks over. He doesn’t touch Yifan, though the way he looks at him implies he’s thinking of doing more than just touching him. His gaze travels from Yifan’s feet to his eyes, and he speaks quietly. Just like he used to when they were young and afraid of being overheard. “how have you been?” It’s a very short question. And it is also one that Yifan could answer in a multitude of ways.
“Well,” Yifan chooses to say. It isn’t much of an understatement. “I am technically still under the employ of the Imperial Court, but His Majesty the Daoguang Emperor has been kind enough to allow me mostly free reign to paint what I wish. Most of my patrons have been noblemen such as yourself, and it is through their esteemed business that I have been able to carve out a comfortable existence for myself.
“I also have an apprentice. His name is Lu Han. He fell ill not a fortnight past and was not able to accompany me here.” Perhaps that was for the best. Yifan refrains from touching Junmyeon. Things have certainly changed in their time apart. He is not sure if his touch is still welcome.
“I, too, have been well,” Junmyeon doesn’t need to say it; a quick glance of his surroundings show just how well off he is. “Eunji and I have two children. You’ve already met Jongin. Our youngest is a girl, Hayoung.”
“I’m sure your father-in-law must be proud,” Yifan blurts.
Junmyeon barks out a laugh. “He’s passed on for years, but, yes, he was very pleased when Jongin was born. He was livid when I resigned from my post in England, though. I sometimes joke to myself that he got so angry he died a month later.”
“Dark,” Yifan comments. So Jongin was born when Junmyeon was still on English soil. That couldn’t have been very long after Yifan left.
“I have never been accused of having a good sense of humor.” Yifan remembers. Junmyeon’s jokes, in combination with his poor delivery, more often than not fell flat. Eunji laughed in pity, but Yifan was never afraid to tell Junmyeon how he really felt about his so-called jests. From what he could remember, however, Junmyeon was not partial to mobility.
Yifan smiles. “I know.” He sweeps his eyes across the library, lingering on the large map hung up on the far wall. His portrait, paint already beginning to fade, is placed right below it. “You have quite the… illustrious home. Was your pension so great that you were able to purchase this much land?”
“No,” Junmyeon responds. He chuckles lightly. “I resigned, but it appears the Ministry did not want to let me go. They offered me a promotion, evidently aware that I was mostly displeased with where I was stationed rather than the nature of my work.” He spreads his hands, obviously proud. “You are now looking at the Deputy-Minister of the Ministry of Rites.”
Yifan’s eyes widen. His chest swells with warmth for Junmyeon. It was an important position, and he was so young. Yifan could only dream of being the Emperor’s favorite painter. As things were, Yifan was favored, though he was never afforded major privileges and the Emperor had him mostly painting the women of the hougong. Yifan is glad that Junmyeon has managed to rise above. His life has found its direction. Yifan, conversely, has been drifting aimlessly.
It seems like their positions have been reversed.
Yifan licks his lips, eyeing Junmyeon through his lashes. There are many things he wishes to say, plenty he wants to ask, but he knows that Eunji and little Hayoung might arrive at any time. He cuts to the chase instead while they still have privacy. “Why didn’t you come to me after you resigned?”
Something like displeasure flashes across Junmyeon’s face. Yifan despises the expression. Junmyeon doesn’t look like he’s annoyed at Yifan, though he doesn’t also seem very guilty instead. What Yifan can glean from this is that the world yet again conspired against them.
“I forgot,” Junmyeon says simply. The two words pierce Yifan’s heart like daggers. “I had a son and a new house to run. Once my wife’s father died, my brother-in-law and I were forced to settle his numerous affairs. There was simply too much going on at the time. I returned home, and even more responsibility was foisted upon me, and I was overwhelmed. It took many years for me to reach a balance in my life. And now I have. And here you are.”
His explanation is understandable. Yifan, logically, cannot fault him for his lapse in memory. Yifan knows that if he were in Junmyeon’s place, he would have been the same. Yet still, the sentimental part of him still twinges. Does that say something about Yifan’s station in life, that he was able to spend so much of his time wondering of Junmyeon’s whereabouts and life? He is in love. He has been in love for the past seven years. Yifan could not definitively say the same for Junmyeon.
“I never forgot our promise,” Yifan says. He doesn’t mean for his heartache to seep into his words, but he knows it does when a pained expression makes it was way across Junmyeon’s face. “I never forgot you. I spent every day since the one I left thinking about you, dreaming of you, hardly being able to wait to hold you in my arms. Lu Han propositioned me. And all I could think about as he looked up at me, so, so hopefully, was you.
“And I wondered what was taking so long. I wondered if I was supposed to make the first move, to go out on my own and find you myself. but then I feared, if I left and you came, you wouldn’t find me in the Imperial Court. So, I waited.”
“Yifan,” Junmyeon murmurs.
“And then you asked me here. I had no idea it was you. I probably would’ve packed for a longer stay if I had. But now I see that I didn’t have to.”
“Yifan,” Junmyeon says, sharper this time. His expression softens. “I forgot, but only for a little while. I wanted to come find you, but then Eunji was pregnant with Hayoung, and I thought it too cruel to parade my lover around her home while she was with child.” He takes Yifan’s hands and presses their foreheads together. “But I remembered. And now you’re here with me. “Junmyeon kisses him softly.
Like a fool, Yifan drowns in it.
“Are you happy?” Yifan asks eventually. He loves Junmyeon — a fact easily proven. All he wants, as someone who loves Junmyeon, is for Junmyeon to be happy. Though rejection may sting, Yifan is happy so long that Junmyeon is happy. He needs to ask. Yifan needs a reason to be happy. He will be happy for Junmyeon, if he won’t be happy for himself. “You were unhappy when we first met all those years ago. So much has changed, and for the better, too. Are you happy, Junmyeon?”
The younger nods, full of confidence and poise. Even the way he moves has changed. It’s as if being on Joseon soil has truly changed him. This is where Junmyeon was meant to be. Yifan’s fantasy of running off to the edges of the Qing empire might not have worked out in his favor, then. “I am happy,” Junmyeon admits. “I feel, finally, as though I have a purpose in my life. I have a family who I care for deeply and whom I care for in return. My position in the Ministry is one that I enjoy. I am grateful for the opportunity to lead. I am happier still now that you are by my side.”
Yifan dips his head in acknowledgment. It’s good. Very good. Junmyeon was full of such turmoil when they were younger. Now that he is older and surer, he finds that he knows who he wants to be. His interpretation of true happiness, hasn’t changed. Junmyeon has attained his true happiness. Yifan is proud. “I am glad,” he tells Junmyeon, earnest and honest.
“Are you happy, Yifan?”
Yifan swallows roughly. “I am. Knowing that you are well and happy is enough for me.”
Junmyeon strokes his cheek. His eyes bore into Yifan’s, pinning him down. Junmyeon is still as mesmerizing as ever. “Does knowing that I still love you make you happy? I love you, Yifan. You are the love of my life.” Yifan wants to believe these words. They convince him that the many years of inaction he wasted were not in vain. “I want you to be happy too, Yifan, just as you wished for me to be happy all those years ago.”
Yifan has everything he needs to be happy. His work flourishes and Lu Han will keep his legacy alive. He has reunited with Junmyeon and has been reassured that Junmyeon still loves him after all this time. He is in want of nothing. Yet, why does he feel so empty inside?
Junmyeon, sensing his consternation, reaches around to cup the back of Yifan’s head. He tilts him downward so that they can press their foreheads together. After so many years, the one thing that hasn’t changed is Junmyeon’s height. Adoringly, he keeps his voice soft and hushed, “You remember what I asked of you in that promise, yes?”
How could Yifan have forgotten? “You asked me to hold you.”
“And to love me.” Junmyeon looks at Yifan expectantly. The diffident, unsure diplomat of a time long past is nowhere to be seen. He has been replaced by a blazing inferno. “Are you going to keep it?”
Yifan untangles his hands and steps away from Junmyeon, who inhales sharply. He hangs them by his sides limply as he counts the breaths they share, chests rising and falling in unison. Why is he hesitant? A promise is a promise, isn’t it? Junmyeon gazes at him with such affection that Yifan knows he will never be able to say no to this man. Junmyeon owns Yifan, heart and soul. No one else in the world would have such a hold on him. Only Kim Junmyeon.
He might not wish it any other way.
Yifan wraps his arms around Junmyeon’s waist. The younger man raises on his tiptoes to kiss him again.
Tentatively, Yifan thinks the kiss falls just short of perfect.
Then again, he realizes, it doesn’t need to be.