Work Text:
Soobin knocks on the studio door for what feels like the nth time, all while trying to carefully secure a package in one hand and balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder, another call that goes straight to voicemail, the robotic voice asking him to leave a message after the tone. Soobin huffs in annoyance, stuffing the phone angrily inside his pocket. He tries one more knock on the door, but there’s no answer again. He takes a look at his wristwatch, wondering if Beomgyu decided to leave early, which is too unusual to be a possibility. It’s 6:40 p.m., he doubts that Beomgyu has come back to their apartment, especially with the news that he’s working on a large painting conservation.
He tidies the slipping package in his arm, bringing his ear close to the door. He can hear music playing loudly, a muffled rock metal that doesn’t fit Beomgyu’s image at all, except for those who know him well. This is the style he likes to listen to most when he’s cramped inside the studio working more hours than necessary. “It helps me stay awake, and focus on what’s important,” he said once during lunch. Soobin shakes his head in displeasure, huffing once more before leaning his head against the door and noticing that the lock was open this whole time.
Soobin slaps his hand hard on his forehead, his stupidness making him more annoyed. He holds the package tightly with his two hands, pushing the door open with his waist and entering the studio, a place located in a shed far from downtown. To this day, he wonders why Beomgyu chose a place like this instead of something closer to civilization — something more inviting than a shed in the middle of nowhere. Beomgyu always shrugs, explaining that he prefers quieter places to work, downtown noises bother him when he’s working. Soobin sneers, that’s one of the million bullshits Beomgyu says. He knows Beomgyu almost his whole life, he knows the real reason is that the artist likes to lock himself in this shed only to get away from people and dive into loneliness. Besides, for someone that claims preferring quiet places, the loud music blasting is quite contradictory.
The studio is an average little thing wedged between two large sheds that Soobin has no idea what they’re used for — and he likes to remain unaware of what’s inside. It’s spacious and bright, white fluorescent lights that makes Soobin squint his eyes and loud music that startles him, the package almost falling before he catches it. He sighs in relief, thinking how much Beomgyu will owe him for this one. He really should be charging for receiving his packages, especially on weekends when all Soobin wants to do is sleep the whole day.
The shed is equipped with every possible tool for painting conservation, three large tables where he puts the finished works waiting for the owners to come pick it up and a large cabinet filled with Beomgyu’s precious tools. At one of the tables, a man is sitting on a wooden stool, moving his head in rhythm to the music, concentrated on a painting above the table. Beomgyu doesn’t notice another presence in the place, the loud music echoing in the shed giving Soobin a headache.
He walks to the sink, pulling the radio out of the socket, music stopping abruptly and giving space to silence. Beomgyu’s reaction is immediate, face turning towards the radio, looking confused upon seeing Soobin next to it. Even from a distance, he can see the deep dark circles under Beomgyu’s eyes, greasy hair sticking to all the places. If tiredness and carelessness had a face, it’ll look exactly like this. From his face alone, Soobin figures that the only thing Beomgyu has been doing is working on conservation and living off absurd amounts of coffee — not like he can judge, he’s the same way when it comes to his own work.
“Hyung, I was listening to that,” Beomgyu complains, annoyingly holding up a large brush that’s soaked with varnish.
“And I was trying to talk to you,” Soobin retorts, equally annoyed. “All day long, I texted and called. Why do you have a phone if you don’t use it?”
Beomgyu thinks for a moment, shrugging right next and saying, “You know I turn it off when I’m working.”
Soobin huffs, he had completely forgotten that Beomgyu is a stupid dude who likes to cut himself off from the whole world when he starts working on a new piece. He walks carefully to the table where he is, taking the large package with him like a part of his body. The brown paper texture is starting to bother him, he can’t wait to finally get rid of it and go back to his house and try to make up for the sleep lost thanks to Beomgyu’s stupid package.
“You know, someday an apocalypse will happen and all your friends will die because you don’t answer your goddamn phone,” Soobin says, placing the package on one of the empty tables, sighing in relief when his left arm is free.
Beomgyu looks at Soobin, disinterest painted on his features. “Is an apocalypse happening?”
“What type of question is that?”
“You said that someday an apocalypse will happen. Is that day by any chance today?”
“That’s beside the point!” Soobin wails. “The point is that I knocked on the door so many times my knuckles are bruised. And you didn’t hear it!”
“Hyung, you know I leave the door open,” Beomgyu replies monotonously, another proof that he’s dead tired — Beomgyu only replies like this when he’s two seconds from leaning on the couch and sleeping for more than twelve hours. “And if it was locked, I left a spare key in our house for emergencies.”
“Beomgyu, you know I don’t carry any keys with me other than the one that opens the apartment door.”
“Then why are you complaining?” Beomgyu deadpans, sounding impatient.
“I’m complaining because I was woken up at 7 in the morning on a Sunday to get this stupid package and I’ve been holding this absurdly heavy thing all afternoon because no Uber wanted to bring me to this hell of a place and there isn’t a bus stop anywhere close here because you chose to work in a fucking abandoned place. I had to beg Yeonjun-hyung to bring me here and—”
“Package?” Beomgyu interrupts Soobin’s babbling, eyebrows furrowed, staring at the man’s hands gesturing exaggeratedly while talking.
Soobin points at the package with his head. “Yeah, a stupid package that ruined my only day off.”
“But I don’t have packages scheduled for today,” he contemplates, looking at the brush dripping varnish on the plastic-lined floor.
“Well, like it or not the package has your name on it and was delivered to our apartment.”
“Who delivered it?”
“The delivery man, duh.”
Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “The sender, Soobin. I’m talking about the sender.”
“Oh, I have no idea,” Soobin blurts, pulling the large package closer and examining it, looking for names written but he finds nothing unusual. “There’s nothing on it, just your name and our address.”
Beomgyu spins around on the stool, biting his thumb as he thinks. If it was sent to him, then there’s no harm in opening it — a nagging voice tells him that there’s a lot of harm potential in a simple package like this. But another voice tells him that it’s probably another desperate dude begging him to conserve some European Renaissance painting without prior notice, hoping that Beomgyu feels pity because some nephew messed up their family’s querubs. Besides, if the money isn’t worth it, he’ll just ignore it as he always does. He turns back to the nearly-finished painting on the table, almost ready to be delivered back to its owner.
“Can you open it for me?” He asks, pushing his bangs back and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Why do I have to do everything for you,” he hears Soobin mutters, hands moving to the package, tearing the paper without care.
The sound of tearing paper echoes in the shed, Beomgyu feels like asking Soobin to be a little more careful with it so he doesn’t rip what’s inside together. It could be anything, even if Beomgyu’s mind can’t muster what’s waiting for him, but what he knows is that he doesn’t want to deal with the wrath of someone’s painting being damaged more than it came. He only bites his lower lip, finishing the last hand of varnish and leaving the package to Soobin’s enthusiastic ripping.
“The thing’s huge, full of bubble wrap,” Soobin says. “Now I can see why it was heavy as fuck.”
Curiosity speaks louder after Soobin’s words, Beomgyu takes one last look at the woman’s face in the painting he was working and drops the wet brush on the plastic-lined floor — he’ll pick it up after he sees what awaits him at the other table. Soobin whistles loudly, throwing away a plastic bag and holding what looks like a folded white sheet and a large amount of $100 bills.
“That’s, uh, a lot of money,” Beomgyu comments, slightly awestruck.
Soobin waves the bills around, looking equally awestruck. “Dude, If I knew that sitting my ass in a chair and painting an already finished painting would give me this much money, I’d have dropped out majoring in psychology in the first week.”
“Art conservation is more than that, hyung,” Beomgyu huffs, flicking Soobin’s forehead.
As much as he hates the way Soobin talked, he knows that most people think of his profession exactly like that. From outside, art conservation does look like Beomgyu seated for hours in his studio repainting something that was done decades ago, making a large amount of money out of something seemingly easy. He tries to understand that it’s easy to think that way, to forget the burden of ruining an expensive painting, the sleepless nights working on it, the body aches and mental exhaustion that comes after finishing a commission. And even with all this, Beomgyu still loves his profession deeply, truly enjoys spending hours in the studio conserving works from his culture, sometimes from abroad when he’s in need of money, but rarely anything other than paintings from Korean antiquity.
“Ouch, I know,” Soobin rubs the sore spot in his forehead, pouting. “You know I’m only joking right? I do have lots of respect for your work.”
Soobin, as Beomgyu already came to know after five years hanging with him in college and three more living with him in a cheap apartment downtown, is an overly playful person — he’s also too clingy for his own good but that’s a topic for another moment. Soobin is the kind to make jokes in inopportune moments and apologize when he notices his wrongdoings, like a child learning what’s good and what’s bad. Everytime he thinks about this side of his best friend, it strangely reminds Beomgyu of a bunny cartoon his nephews like to watch.
Soobin is his best friend in the whole world, and Beomgyu couldn’t ask for better company, even if he says otherwise.
Beomgyu shakes his head, silently accepting the apology as he always does. His attention goes back to the package. “Let’s see what we have here.”
He pushes the brown paper and remaining bubble wrap off the table, stumbling across loose sheets of silk, painted in a range of colors, cut up in squares like a puzzle meant to be solved. There are six sheets in total, the first one looking like a part of a shoulder wearing a blue outfit, but the paint is so worn out that it could easily be any other shade of blue. Beomgyu runs his fingers over the damaged sheet gently, fearing that a harder touch would cause it to tear apart.
“Hey, check this out,” Soobin calls, the white sheet that was inside the plastic bag with the money open in his hands. “ Choi Beomgyu, I believe this painting is something that will touch your heart deeply, but not while it’s this damaged. I hope the amount of money is enough for all the work you’ll have. There will be an antique exhibition in three months, I look forward to seeing it there, even if it’s on such short notice. Enjoy.”
Beomgyu takes the note from Soobin’s hand, examining the letters carefully. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, and there’s no name signed, only a simple: try to remember scribbled on the corner of the page. He has no idea what he's supposed to remember, and there’s too much on his mind now to pay attention to that. Beomgyu throws the paper on the table, biting his thumb while thinking who could have sent it to him. An idea pops in his head, a burst of excitement running through his veins as he picks one of the silk sheets out of the stack, placing it on the table. He does the same to all the others, solving the puzzle just like its maker wanted.
“What are you doing?” Soobin asks, puzzled.
“I’m putting the pieces together,” Beomgyu replies, focused on the task at hand.
“Ah!” He exclaims, coming close to where Beomgyu moved the pieces. “Like a puzzle.”
Beomgyu only nods, dragging one of the sheets across the table until it’s in its right place on the image — he doesn’t risk lifting the pieces, fearing the damage it could cause on the fragile silk. They move lightly, perfect squares lining up smoothly, creating the image that Beomgyu wants to see. It doesn’t take long before the painting, which is way smaller than he imagined from the size of the package, is pieced-together in front of him.
A portrait lays in his table, the face unrecognizable because of the damage. From the strokes and the yellowing state of the silk, Beomgyu dares say that it’s a Korean painting done a long time ago. It’s just a hunch, he can’t guarantee; the portrait could’ve been done anywhere, anytime. Besides, if the painting in his hands was anything historical, the museum would’ve called him beforehand to pick it up, and not deliver it by mail as if it was an ordinary package.
“Man, this is worse than that angel you picked a few years ago,” Soobin comments. Beomgyu hums in agreement, shuddering just from the memory of the damn painting he agreed to restore that was almost falling apart.
It takes no professional to notice that this painting displayed for them is damaged almost beyond repair. Beomgyu doubts that even he, with six years of career and a knack for perfectionism, can make this portrait go back to what it was before — especially without having a reference picture to know how it looked before whatever happened to it. Some parts of the face are missing, some the paint in the silk is fading close to the lines, the clothes almost colorless. This portrait was probably found after being lost inside an attic in some abandoned house to be in this state.
“Whatchu think?” Beomgyu mumbles, resting his hands on his waist.
Soobin purses his lips, taking a closer look at the neatly arranged silk sheets. When Soobin isn't a full-time psychologist in the school he works at and Beomgyu assigned best friend, he acts as Beomgyu's consultant in his spare time. He's the one who usually says what conservations will be worth it — as in profit and mental health. He's the person that Beomgyu always seeks out whenever his services are requested, he rarely accepts commissions, besides from the museum ones, without talking to Soobin first.
Soobin clears his throat, pointing to the sheets. "To be honest, this is total garbage."
"Well, you're not wrong," Beomgyu chuckles.
"From a realistic point, it's going to be a waste of your time," Soobin continues. "There's too much to rebuild, and silk is way harder to work with. You'll probably have to move everything to a new silk and redesign and repaint. A two month job, a little less considering you're the one doing it."
Beomgyu grins, knowing that Soobin has more to say. "But…?"
"But," Soobin smiles sheepishly, licking his lips. "The money is good. I'd venture to say it's equal to the hard job you're going to have."
"Hyung, you only think about the money?" Beomgyu reprimands, shaking his head.
Soobin raises his hands in defense. "We live in a capitalist world, Beomgyu."
"Final verdict?"
"I don't have one, at least not a certain one," Soobin replies, lips twisting. "The money is very welcome, but you just finished a commission and you're exhausted—" he raises a hand just as Beomgyu is about to retort, silently asking him to keep quiet. "Don't even try to deny, you need to rest for a few weeks before starting a new one. And we both know that you'll start this tomorrow morning if I tell you it's a good deal. This time, you have the final verdict."
Beomgyu huffs, he hates dealing with final verdicts because of his indecisiveness. That's mainly the reason why Soobin is his consultant — he's equally indecisive, but he has more confidence in his choices than Beomgyu does. He rubs his forehead with his palm, wondering what would be the best option. On one hand, he's really tired and all he could think about since he arrived at the studio was how he wanted to finish his work right away so he could go back home and sleep. A few days off would really be welcomed in Beomgyu's opinion. On another hand, the amount of money is very welcoming and the portrait is the kind of challenge he hasn't had in a long time.
But is the exhaustion that will come when working on this piece worth it?
"Any idea who this guy is?" He changes topic, pointing with his head at the disfigured man in the portrait.
Soobin thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, have no idea.”
“I don’t think he’s a king,” he mumbles, thoughtfully.
“How can you be so sure?”
“The museum has all paintings of kings from dynasties, it’d be absurd for a painting of a big dude to be like this,” he explains.
“If it’s not a king, it’s someone with a hell lot of money,” Soobin muses. “I mean, I didn’t study art history or remember lots of things of history in general, but I know that not everyone could afford something like this back then.”
Beomgyu hums, eyebrows furrowed as he gazes at the face in the silk. He stares deeply into the only visible eye, feeling the same thing as looking into a real person's eye. A big, brown orb stares back at Beomgyu, inviting him to accept the challenge of bringing this work back to life again. It’s almost as if it knew that Beomgyu likes challenges since he was in college — it was the main reason why he chose this complicated career for his life. He takes one last look, searching for any kind of signature on one of the silk sheets, finding something that looks too blurred and erased for him to understand.
He has his final verdict, but he’s still unsure about it.
“You really think the money is worth it?” He turns to Soobin once more, biting the decision on the tip of his tongue.
“I haven’t counted it yet, but I'd say it’s enough for you to go a good four, five months without taking anything,” Soobin replies, reassurance in his eyes while looking at him.
“It’s a chance in a million, isn’t it?”
Soobin puts a hand on Beomgyu’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to do this just for the money, you know.”
“I’m not doing this just for the money,” Beomgyu remarks. "This is the kind of challenge I haven't had in a long time."
"Challenge?" Soobin frowns.
Beomgyu clicks his tongue, raising one eyebrow at Soobin. "Restoring a painting almost from scratch with no base or idea of what it looked like? That's the biggest challenge I've ever had."
Soobin looks at him weirdly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I think you really lost it this time."
"Lost what?"
"Your sanity," Soobin nudges his forehead. "Are you sure you're in your right mind?"
"Yep."
"I beg to differ."
"It's not gonna change my choice," Beomgyu smirks.
"I know it won't, you're too stubborn for your own good," he says with an eye-roll. "But you know what? Enough studio for today."
Beomgyu gapes. "What? But I—"
"No buts," Soobin interrupts, a finger touching Beomgyu's lips. "You already finished that piece, and you're paying for dinner tonight. I'm hungry, sleepy and you'll have to take accountancy for what you did. Besides, it's Saturday and you need to rest too."
Beomgyu huffs, about to throw a tantrum at Soobin's parently demeanor, but the man is already pushing him away from the table with the damaged portrait. He can only take one last look at the eye on the silk, surprised to see that it's no longer tempting him to accept the challenge, but rather challenging him to bring the piece back to life — as if it knows he'll give up eventually. Beomgyu scoffs while being pushed past the large doors, he never gives up on a challenge, no matter how difficult it is.
Beomgyu is sitting by the lake, leaning against a tree while watching children play in the water, their mothers washing clothes and chatting. He doodles figures in his sketchbook, shapes that gradually become silhouettes of the people he's seeing. Beomgyu sketchbook pages are filled with things he sees in his daily life, people and animals, landscapes he risks his life to give them life onto the pages. Sketches and more sketches that later become beautiful paintings when he has the money to buy materials — or when he manages to sell an old painting for a good price, something that rarely happens.
The high-pitched laughter of one of the children catches Beomgyu’s attention, his brush dropping under the open page in his lap. He sees a large figure running awkwardly across the lake, getting close to one of the children, picking a small girl up like she weighed nothing. The others start running away, trying to escape the man’s bear-like grip. High-pitched giggles and hysterical shouting fills the lake, the women seated close not even batting their eyelashes at the man playing with their children. Soobin is well known around the village, especially between mothers and kids.
Beomgyu smiles, head hanging to the side as he watches Soobin pick another kid, tickling the little boy with a big grin on his lips. There’s something so comforting in watching his best friend play around with the kids he likes very much, the smile on his features almost blindly. It’s almost blatant the difference between him and Soobin, especially when it comes to the village children — Beomgyu likes them, but only when they’re very far from him and his sketchbook. He picks the dropped brush, switching to a clean page and doodling Soobin’s tall figure holding the boy on his shoulder.
He’s so focused on the task that he doesn’t notice when Soobin approaches, clothes completely soaked, shaking his wet hair in Beomgyu’s direction. He startles, almost knocking the sketchbook away, screeching in surprise. Soobin’s laughter fills his ears, a snort coming out of Beomgyu while he glares angrily at the man. His annoyance grows when he sees the innocent smile on Soobin’s lips, acting like he did nothing.
Beomgyu huffs, wiping away a few drops that got on his face with the sleeve of his durumagi. “Why did you do that?”
“It’s summer, Beomgyu. You looked like you needed to cool off a little,” Soobin replies playfully, shaking his hair a little more in Beomgyu’s direction.
“Stop! You’re getting my notebook wet,” he whines, looking at the page filled with drops, the black paint smudging.
Soobin peeks at the sketchbook on the man’s lap, surprised to see something drawn on the page. “What are you drawing?”
“Nothing,” Beomgyu says hurriedly, closing the sketchbook before Soobin can snoop around.
Soobin laughs, sitting down next to Beomgyu, not caring that his soaked clothes will get dirty with leaves and soil. “We’ve been friends for a long time, I’ve seen almost all your drawings. You don’t have to hide it from me.”
“I’m not hiding,” Beomgyu mumbles, putting his sketchbook and brush away from Soobin’s curious hands.
Soobin rolls his eyes, picking up a leaf from the ground. “You’re not a good liar.”
Beomgyu gnaws on his bottom lip, turning toward the children still playing. It’s not that he doesn’t like showing his drawings to Soobin; on the contrary, he’s one of the only people knowledgeable about his work. While everyone says that he’s lazy and a lost cause for doing this instead of looking for a real job, Soobin is the only one who supports him, regardless of what Beomgyu does. But the point is that he never shows his sketches, ever. He likes Soobin and the others to see only the perfectly finished work. Beomgyu isn’t ready to admit it yet, but he’s a little insecure when it comes to his paintings.
They stay in silence, looking at the children splashing water at each other, laughter sounding like birds singing in the morning. Noisy, out-of-tune birds, but Beomgyu strangely likes the sound this afternoon. The sun shines hard on Soobin’s face from where he’s seated, bothering to the point where he gives Beomgyu’s waist a gentle nudge so he can make room for the other under the shade. Beomgyu snorts, lightly shoving Soobin’s shoulder, his laugh exploding in the quietness under the shade, drawing the women's attention, stares with raised eyebrows at their direction but they ignore it.
It’s only Soobin and Beomgyu living in their little bubble, always together against the world. Beomgyu couldn’t ask for a better friend in this life.
“Oh, I have something for you,” Soobin says abruptly, drawing the other's attention. “I took that painting of yours at Jung’s store like you asked me to.”
“What did he say? Did he like it? Did someone buy it?” Beomgyu asks, beaming and anxious, holding Soobin’s shoulders and shaking it with every question.
“He said it’s normal, nothing too impressive,” Soobin replies, grimacing. “He expected you to come with something more… What was the word he said?” Soobin taps his lip, snapping his fingers next. “ Sensual. He said that current paintings have a lot more bodies, skin, carnal desire. Not just silly landscapes.”
Beomgyu lets go of Soobin’s shoulders, turning red with anger. “Silly landscapes?! I climbed the tallest tree to get that lake painted from a good perspective!”
“I know,” Soobin agrees, softly patting his friend’s shoulder in a comforting manner.
“Sensual? Bodies? Carnal desire?” Beomgyu repeats, perplexed. “He wants me to paint people fucking?!”
Soobin blushes, looking away at the way Beomgyu said. “He doesn’t value your paintings as he should,” he adds quietly, avoiding eye contact.
He already expected the painting wouldn’t be seen in good eyes to that old rag who only likes paintings if they involve naked bodies in absurd positions. Beomgyu doesn’t even know why keeps insisting on trying to sell his hardworking landscapes in that store — maybe it’s the hope that someone from a high-class family will see it and look out for him, give him the value he deserves for his works.
Beomgyu genuinely enjoys painting, ever since he was a little boy, full of hopes of a better life and all alone in a big village. When he was a child, he dreamt of being a royal painter, to live close to Gyeongbokgung and have enough money to live well and not worry about starving. He’s sure his childhood dream won’t ever come true if he starts painting such promiscuous scenes like Jung or the public is asking him to.
Beomgyu huffs. “Did he at least pay this time?”
Soobin nods, rummaging through his clothes until he finds the old pouch he uses to keep all the money he earns from helping in the market. It was a gift from a girl Beomgyu used to consider as his older sister before she moved out of town with a bunch of other girls to become kisaengs in the capital. Beomgyu misses her every day, especially when his paintings don’t get the attention he knows they deserve. Just like Soobin, she was someone that gave him the support he needed to follow his dream. While his sister is away, Soobin gets the responsibility of being the shoulder where Beomgyu cries.
Soobin pulls three coins out of his pouch, slipping them into Beomgyu’s open palm, looking away before he could see the frown turning into scowl on his friend’s face. Beomgyu looks at the coins, anger burning inside him, the urge to throw them into the lake without hesitation taking over his body. He looks away from them, he knows that if he kept staring, he’d do something regretful with these damn coins — he hopes they start melting in his palms just so he doesn’t have to feel their weight in his palm anymore.
“Only three?!” He spits, staring at Soobin in astonishment. Soobin’s forehead scrunches, an ashamed, weak smile. “Is that all he gave to the landscape?”
“If it makes you feel a little better, I think it’s worth a lot more,” Soobin says, trying to be optimistic.
“Soobin, if the landscape had been signed by a royal painter, it’d earn more than three coins,” he grumbles, clenching his hand so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He hopes the coins inside turn into dust when he sees them again. “Hell, even if some mediocre painter from a rich family sold a painted stripe on silk, he’d earn more than me.”
“But you’re neither, Beomgyu,” Soobin huffs, irritation filling his soft features. “At least you got 3 coins. There are people who would die for at least one to buy food for their families.”
Beomgyu twists his lips, mumbling a quiet apology to his friend. At times, he lets his anger and frustration take control and forgets that Soobin comes from a poor family just like him — the only difference is that Soobin still has a family, while Beomgyu has only a dead mother and a father that never cared enough to meet him or give a damn about his existence. In the end, both are the same in the eyes of the rich people that pass by them on the streets: just two lowborns who don’t deserve nothing but disgusted faces and grossed out looks.
“I just wish life was different for us,” he admits quietly, closing his eyes.
“Well, I don’t,” Soobin utters.
“Why?”
“I know most of the people in the village, they know me and treat me well. Most of the kids see me as someone incredible even though I’m nothing but a lowborn,” Soobin says, looking at the now empty lake, dropping the leaf he was playing with. He puts his arm around Beomgyu’s shoulder, a bright smile shining on his face. “I have the best friend anyone could ever ask for and a job that pays me enough so I can keep living. I won’t deny that having more money and being in a better place would be nice, but I wouldn’t trade anything I have for money.”
“You’re too optimistic for your own good,” he mocks, biting his thumb. He doesn’t want to give in and admit that Soobin’s words are right, that they hit deeper than they should.
As much as he dreams about a better life — a life just like the one the rich lords that step on him have —, he knows that that life wouldn’t be half of the one he has now. Would being so high up bring the joy that Beomgyu has in his daily life? Would it bring the women of the village thanking him everytime they receive a hideous sketch of them, saying it’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen? Would it bring talks after drinking liquor with Soobin at the bar and stumbling through streets until they got home? Would it bring the calmness of lying under a tree and watching the approaching sunset?
Beomgyu has the answer on the tip of his tongue, but decides to swallow it. It’s not like he needs to say it anyways, Soobin already can see the answer plastered on the younger’s face.
“I already told you that being pessimistic won’t bring anything in our life. Even if there are clouds, the sun still shines at some point,” Soobin hums, sneezing three times in a row right next, running a hand over his nose.
Beomgyu tsks. “I can’t believe you managed to catch a cold only from playing a little in the water.”
“I don’t have a cold,” Soobin protests, sneezing a few more times. He smiles sheepishly, dimples on display. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Unbelievable,” Beomgyu shakes his head. “You’re a big kid indeed.”
“I’m not a kid,” Soobin pouts, crossing his arms. “If you’re worried, you know what can help keep my cold away?”
Beomgyu doesn’t even need to hear Soobin’s words, but he still indulges in his friend’s strange excitement. “What?”
“A good dose of liquor paid for by my best friend,” Soobin beams, nudging Beomgyu’s shoulder.
“That’s just an excuse for you to drink for free.”
“Maybe. But would you rather test it to see if it works, or would you rather take care of your sick friend?” Soobin asks, the threat in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed.
Beomgyu chuckles, amused by Soobin’s capacity of being convincing with the things he wants. He was hoping the money would last a little longer, more than a day after he received it at least. But after the anger he went through, he’d rather spend those three coins on drinks a thousand times again than keep them in his pocket for a month.
“Well, I only have money for shots of liquor, not to make chicken broth for your stupid sick body,” Beomgyu declares jokingly.
“Shall we?”
Soobin gets up in a leap, almost losing balance and falling on his ass. The excitement in his actions is endearing, always ready to spend the whole night drinking until he’s dragging his body to their home. He extends a hand to Beomgyu, who accepts without a second thought. He picks up his sketchbook and brush from the ground, tucking it under his arm as he lets Soobin pull him away from the lake.
Maybe drinking all night is a good decision for today.
Drinking all night is a terrible decision. Scratch that, it’s the worst decision he ever made in his entire life — and that’s saying a lot because he made many bad decisions during his brief existence in this world, all with Soobin by his side.
Soobin is hugging the jug of liquor as Beomgyu regrets this decision, a blissed-out expression on his face as he tumbles from side to side, giggling at everything and nothing at the same time. Beomgyu’s eyes are fluttering shut, face resting on his almost numb hand, staring boringly at his completely drunk friend. There is no one else in the bar but them and the owner, who doesn’t seem to care about the two drunk men sitting at one of the tables. The moon shines above them, mixing gray light with the yellow ones coming from the bar lanterns, too bright for Beomgyu’s tired and inebriated eyes.
There are four jugs on the wooden table, all the money earned early spent in a way that some would find unproductive and irresponsible — Beomgyu is actually glad that he no longer has to look at those three damn coins. Two jugs are already empty, both men have been drinking nonstop since early afternoon. Some people tried to keep up with them, admitting defeat and leaving so drunk they could barely walk back to their homes. One of the advantages of having Soobin as a drinking buddy, is that he’s the only one in the village who can keep up with Beomgyu when he decides to get really drunk.
Soobin slams the jug on the table harder than he should, pointing a finger at Beomgyu, misdirecting it to the point that it looks like he’s pointing at somewhere behind Beomgyu. “You know you’re my best friend in the whole world, right?” His words come out slurred, almost sounding like another language no one understands besides Beomgyu.
Beomgyu scoffs. “You’re only saying that because I bought you two jugs of liquor.”
“That’s one of the reasons,” he giggles, eyes slightly shut just like Beomgyu’s. “But we’re not friends just because we drink together.”
“I know Soobin,” Beomgyu sighs. “I know.”
“When my parents died that winter, you were the only kid who didn’t feel sorry for me, didn’t treat me like a weirdo,” Soobin hiccups, burping afterward.
“My parents are dead too. I understood what you were going through at that time,” he shrugs, trying to pick up his half full jug. He’s so drunk he can barely get the jug right, closing his hand on nothing for a second. It’s funny, he didn’t even realize he was that drunk already.
“Your father isn’t dead yet,” Soobin points out, pulling a piece of grass from the ground around them and putting it in his mouth, chewing like he usually does when they’re drinking.
“I’d rather think he is.”
Parents are one of the topics that Beomgyu hates talking about the most. It’s not that he hates his mother, on the contrary, he loves her even though he hasn’t had the chance to really get to know her more than the glimpses of memories he has. On the other hand, his father is the main target of all the hatred inside him. All the bad feelings inside him are the man’s fault, all the difficulties he had to experience were the man’s fault. If Beomgyu had the chance to ever meet him, he’d spit in the old man’s face and punch his guts without a second thought. Beomgyu clenches his hand into a fist at the thought of his father.
“There’s something I keep thinking about lately,” Soobin changes topics as he notices Beomgyu’s face turning redder than before. “What’s going to happen to us when you finally become the royal painter.”
“As if it’s gonna happen,” he says, trying to mask his sadness.
Soobin rolls his eyes. “You know it’ll happen someday.”
Beomgyu finally manages to pick up his jug, looking inside through the spout, unsure if there’s anything left inside — he doesn’t even remember drinking from this jug. He swings the thing around, humming contentedly as he feels the liquid sway inside. “Something inside me says that’s never going to happen.”
“That’s just your annoying pessimism talking,” Soobin remarks, taking a long sip straight from the spout of his jug, hissing from the strong taste going down his throat all at once. “Your paintings are so good they could impress even the king if he saw them!”
Beomgyu swallowed the lump in his throat with the liquor, insecurity once again eating him alive. “Are they?”
“Of course!” Soobin hiccups loudly, stretching his arms upward cheerfully. The jug still in his hand, Beomgyu follows it with his slightly blurry gaze, fearing that Soobin will drop it accidentally — he doesn’t have money left to pay for a new jug, nor Soobin. “Your landscapes are incredible and you’re the best person when it comes to portraits too. You have a talent that’s only yours, Beomgyu. There’s no painter like you in Gongju! Actually, there’s no painter in the world like you!”
He wants to smile, wants to believe in the compliments — he knows that Soobin is telling that truth, knows that he wouldn’t say those things only because they’re friends. The thing is, the low voice of uncertainty is already destroying his hopes, like a plague running free through fields. It doesn’t matter how many compliments Soobin showers him with, this nagging part inside his head won’t let him believe it for more than a few seconds.
“Then why does it seem like no one values it besides you?” Beomgyu turns away, staring at the empty table next to theirs at the closed bar.
“There are many people ‘round here who value your paintings, Beomgyu,” Soobin replies, slamming the jug on the table with a little more force than necessary. “Most of the kids adore the drawings you do, they think you’re incredible! Lady Woo even has the portrait you did hanging in her store, and the other ladies treasure the ones you gave them. That old pervert Jung can choke on all that erotic paintings that are trash compared to yours.”
For a moment, there’s only silence. Until a sniffle leaves Beomgyu, the first sign that he’s gonna cry if he doesn’t stop himself. He doesn’t want to cry, but he always ends up like a baby crying for his mother whenever he drinks too much and has heartfelt talks like this with Soobin.
“Thank you,” he says in a broken whisper, smiling weakly to prevent the tears from falling.
“Ah, come one,” Soobin whines when he realizes that Beomgyu is about to cry, stretching out his arm to touch his friend’s shoulder; he gets the direction wrong once again, accidentally slapping Beomgyu’s chest. They giggle together, like they always do after almost crying. “Don’t cry! You know I cry whenever I see you cry and there’s nothing more pathetic than two men crying in an empty bar at this hour.”
“I’m not crying,” Beomgyu protests, running the sleeve of his durumagi over his nose.
“If you started being more optimistic, good things might happen to you,” Soobin remarks, something that Beomgyu is so used to listening to by now. “Maybe someone is looking out for you to paint a portrait of someone who has money. Who knows, maybe even some Lord!” he adds, cheerfully.
Soon after saying that, Soobin passed out, head hitting the table hard, arm resting in an awkward position on Beomgyu’s shoulder. He chuckles, carefully taking his friend’s arm and laying it on the table. Soobin must have had a lot to pass out like this, he usually makes it home before he blacks out; he makes it back stumbling and almost falling over, but still gets home. He smiles affectionately at how cute Soobin looks in his drunk-indulged sleep — lips pouting, eyelashes making shadows on his cheeks, soft face in a perpetual serenity. Beomgyu pours himself another glass of liquor, sipping quietly all by himself, the strong liquid going down his throat and warming everything up.
He takes a moment to look around. The bar is finally closed, the owner probably left while the two were talking, not bothering to hurry them away. Besides, she never does that when it comes to Soobin drinking, all the ladies in the village have a soft spot for the tall man, it’s only natural that the bar owner has it too. It’s a summer night, the wind blowing lightly in his face. Beomgyu closes his eyes and lets the sound of cicadas singing away fill the silence around him, the silence inside his own head.
He thinks about Soobin’s words, about how his friend always finds a way to make him feel a little better whenever insecurity starts to chew his mind until he’s doubting the talent he knows he has. A thought from before comes to his mind, Soobin’s words about not wanting to change his life for nothing in the world hit deeper again. That night, sitting alone in a place he knows for a while with the person he cherishes the most in the world, Beomgyu is sure that even if he doesn’t become the royal family painter as he dreams, he won’t feel that this life has been in vain. The paintings given to the people he knows in the village are treasured as if they were painted by the best hands of the dynasty. Beomgyu smiles to himself. Maybe life isn’t as bad as his pessimism makes him think.
Beomgyu is so lost inside his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the weight of a hand on his shoulder. His eyes are still closed, and he thinks the hand comes from Soobin, who has woken up and is calling him to go home. He keeps sipping the liquor in his glass, ignoring the hand on his shoulder, a touch too rough compared to the gentle one Soobin usually uses.
A cough, followed by a thick voice saying, “Are you Beomgyu?”
His numb brain takes a while to process that someone unknown is talking to him. He peels his eyes open one at a time, blinking until his vision stops blurring altogether. A man is standing near where they’re sitting, annoyingly waiting for a response as his hands are still over Beomgyu’s shoulder. He’s dressed just like them, the same attire that silently shows that they’re nothing but lowborns — this man isn’t someone from a higher class, but he behaves as if he were a young lord. Beomgyu stares at him for a while, trying to remember if he knows him from somewhere, but he can’t see the man’s face properly from where he is.
“Are you Beomgyu,” he repeats more strongly, a gentle shake on Beomgyu’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Beomgyu hums, pouring the rest of the liquor inside the jug into his glass. “Who wants to know?”
“Are you the kid who paints the landscapes that are selling in the Jung store?” The man asks, ignoring Beomgyu’s last question. It feels like an interrogation, if Beomgyu were in his right mind he’d suspect where this is going — but again, he’s not in his right mind.
“I’m not a kid,” Beomgyu replies, annoyed.
The man huffs. “Are you the painter?”
“Yes, I”m the one who paints and sells it to that pervert Jung to get a bargain,” Beomgyu complains, hiccuping. “Can you believe I spent a month painting that last landscape for that scumbag to give me only 3 coins?” He babbles, words slurred, that language that only he and Soobin can understand perfectly. “I doubt he’d pay only that if I was a mediocre painter from a rich family. I only get less because I’m poor, isn’t that fucking unfair? Guess what, I didn’t choose to be born like this, y’know?”
“You want to earn more for your work?” The man says, seeming unfazed by Beomgyu’s pathetic complaints.
Beomgyu raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I work for a young lord from an important family in the capital. He sent me to look for you,” the man explains. Beomgyu rests his head on his hand to get some concentration, trying to ignore the world spinning around him. “A while ago he received a landscape painted by you as a gift from another lord that lives here. He said he wants to make an offer to you.”
It’s too many words for Beomgyu’s fuzzy mind to understand properly all at once, so he’s doing his best to understand everything in tiny parts while staring dumbly at the man. “An offer?” He asks the first thing that stands all to him, the other parts sounding like a jumbling mess swaying in his head.
“That’s right, kid,” the man agrees, kneeling beside the table. Now that he can finally see his face better, Beomgyu is pretty sure he never saw this man in his whole life — he should start suspecting right now, but he’s strangely curious to know about this offer. “An offer to do a painting for my Lord. A portrait, to be exact.”
Beomgyu chokes on the liquor he poured in his mouth, spitting what was inside almost in the man’s face. He widens his eyes, coughing as he understands perfectly those last words, almost sobering up just from the offer. Soobin stirs and mumbles something unintelligible, but doesn’t wake up from his alcohol induced nap. Beomgyu shakes his head repeatedly, slapping his cheek twice to sober up enough to see if the man’s offer isn’t a scam.
“A portrait?” He asks, wiping his mouth with his hand.
“My Lord is a person very fond of the fine arts and the beauty that comes from within. He said he wants to have a portrait painted only by the best hands of the dynasty. Your hands, to be exact,” the man replies sharply, a grimace on his face seeing the puddle of liquor and saliva spattered on the table near Soobin’s hair.
“Your Lord?” His mouth repeats. Best hands of the dynasty? His mind repeats.
“You probably don’t know him. He’s the son of a powerful yangban in the capital,” he says. “He’s willing to pay whatever amount you want for a portrait.”
“Any amount?” Beomgyu is so surprised he can’t even form sentences properly, only repeating words like a toddler learning to speak.
The man nods. “Not only that, but he offers you food, a place in his house and all the materials you’ll need for the portrait. All this for the time you spend there.”
Beomgyu shakes his head again, probably looking like nothing but a drunk in the eyes of the other man. He blinks until the words are digested by his still hazy brain, forcing them to pass through the fog. There’s really a man next to him saying that he was sent by a lord in the capital who happened to receive a landscape painted by him and now wants a portrait — not to mention he’ll get whatever he wants for it, food and a roof to sleep under. It’s a one in a million chance, too surreal to be happening specifically to him. Either Soobin’s optimism is that strong and works in unexpected ways, or Beomgyu is dreaming about all this.
“Am I dreaming?” He mumbles, eyebrows furrowing.
He feels a pinch on his arm, a painful hiss leaving his lips as he pushes the other man away, rubbing his palm hardly on the place. Beomgyu mutters a string of curses, looking at the man with anger, holding himself back from repaying the pinch with a nice punch in the stranger’s face. “What the hell? Why did you do that?”
“To show you that it’s not a dream, you stupid drunkard,” the man says, sounding as angry as Beomgyu.
“You could’ve said it’s not a dream, you moron,” Beomgyu mutters, grimacing while still rubbing the place where the skin was throbbing.
“Kid, I don’t have the whole night,” the man huffs. “Are you going to accept the offer or not?”
“How do I know you’re not tricking me?” Beomgyu asks, eyebrow raised in suspicion.
The man clicks his tongue impatiently, pulling something from inside his durumagi. Beomgyu steps back instinctively, fearing that maybe the man will put out a dagger and kill him right there after being pushed and annoyed — Soobin too, the poor guy would die without even knowing what happened. He only relaxes when the man throws a pouch on the table in front of him, looking heavy and very suspicious at the same time. The man points with his head, silently ordering Beomgyu to examine the pouch.
There’s coins inside, more than he can count only by seeing. So many that his eyes widened at such a large amount of money in his grasp, something he’d never see even if he worked his whole life for all the men in the village. Only rich people have this amount of money, only rich people doesn’t get fazed upon seeing so many coins — thieves and murderers too, but Beomgyu isn’t so desperate to go down this path. He gulps, looking from the pouch to the man, a smug smile displayed.
“An advance payment for your services,” he clarifies. “If you accept the offer, of course.”
Beomgyu looks at the pouch full of money in his hands, Soobin’s serene sleepy figure right behind in his vision. This money is everything they need to live peacefully for a few seasons. This money would prevent Soobin from working as hard as he does, he’ll be able to slack a little during work. He could think of everything in this moment, but Beomgyu’s mind only thinks about Soobin’s back pain, how the village doctor said it tends to get worse if he keeps pushing himself as hard as he does. This money could be a lifesaver, their problems would be all solved. He bites his lip as he thinks about what Soobin would think if it was him — he knows that Soobin would never accept that amount of money without getting into a fight about selling himself out to some petty lord in the capital. Beomgyu pushes the voice away, pushes any other thoughts away.
Tonight, Beomgyu decides to be selfish on behalf of both.
“The money is going to be mine if I accept the offer?” He asks cautiously.
“Yes, kid.”
“All of it?”
The man nods. “Everything.”
Beomgyu takes one last glance at Soobin’s sleepy image before turning to the man by his side. He’s waiting for an answer, the smug smile merging to something more friendly. Beomgyu’s not sure if he’s going to regret his choice when the sun rises, but now he’s set on choosing what’s best for both of them — what’s best for Soobin, his best friend who’s always supporting him the best he can. Beomgyu hopes that Soobin doesn’t get angry once he knows his way of paying back.
“When do we leave?”
The capital is more alluring than Beomgyu imagined it would be.
There are decorations everywhere and it’s way busier compared to Gongju. People of all kinds living together, walking down streets without actually caring about each other. Vendors offer products in his face, Beomgyu almost startling as he walks close to the man who introduced himself as Yeonjun — he only got the name after accepting the offer and much prodding during all the travel to Hanyang. He talks closer than usual, afraid that if he goes too far from Yeonjun, he’s going to get lost in a place he knows nothing about. An odd guy is Yeonjun, easily annoyed and has a knack for walking with too many daggers in places inside his clothes, but he’s cheerful and laughs a lot at some of Beomgyu’s lack of knowledge of big places and his silly jokes. It wasn’t a bad trip per se.
As alluring as the capital is, it’s also frighteningly dangerous for a newcomer like him.
It’s been a few days since he left Gongju behind bringing with him only the clothes on his body and the few painting materials he had left. Yeonjun told him it wasn’t necessary to bring anything, but Beomgyu is a material person, he’s attached to his brushes and sketchbook. After accepting the offer, Yeonjun helped him carry a still passed out Soobin to the small house they live in together, dropping him on one of the mats. Beomgyu spent quite a few minutes staring at his friend’s slumped, sleeping figure, the familiar face he has known ever since he was a child, now a man with striking visuals, a face everyone falls in love with eventually. He has to hold back tears, he has never been away from Soobin, they’re attached to the hip since… ever. There’s not a time in his life that Soobin wasn’t there. He tells himself this is not a farewell, only a see you later, a goodbye that’s gonna last only a month at most.
Beomgyu kisses Soobin forehead and whispers a soft see you later, leaving the pouch full of money on the mat he uses to sleep and a message to one of his neighbors to tell Soobin when he wakes up. He’s direct and simple, asking the old man to say that he will be back and that he will send news when he can, evading all questions about where he’s going. He’s afraid that if he speaks, the old man will tell Soobin and Soobin will leave everything behind to come after him in such a big place like Hanyang, bringing him back to where he belongs — Soobin is that kind of friend, Beomgyu come to learn with years of living together.
When he wakes up, he’ll probably be very angry and confused with Beomgyu’s disappearance. But Soobin will forgive him in a few days, he can never go that long without talking to Beomgyu again.
As the sun began to rise, he mounted one of the horses that were near Yeonjun, without asking where the man got them — some things are better left undiscovered. Beomgyu could still taste liquor in his mouth as he rode to Hanyang silently, leaving behind for an indeterminate time, passing by still sleeping houses and stores. He has a feeling that he should have a nice look at everything, for this will be the last time he’ll ever see Gongju again. Beomgyu chases the feeling away, holding the horse’s reins and telling himself he’ll finish that portrait and come back here.
The Kang family manor is equally alluring. Almost the size of the village where Beomgyu lives, there are several small houses beside the main one where the young lord and his family must live. There are servants everywhere he looks, some looking back at him, curious to know who Beomgyu is and what’s his purpose here. He sees two kids running, almost bumping into his leg before apologizing and running back to their mothers extending sheets on the clotheslines. Beomgyu smiles at the familiarity of it, it’s almost as if he’s still in Gongju.
Young lord Kang is even more alluring than the capital and the manor together. He’s waiting, patiently seated near the courtyard, rising in a leap when he sees them approaching, a big smile that almost leaves Beomgyu breathless. His dark blue hanbok looks like a piece of the starless night sky — which is fine, since the stars are in the man’s eyes. Beomgyu is astonished by his beauty, his eyes unable to look at anything besides this man. In all his life, he has never seen anyone like him, an unrivaled beauty, one that not even the young kisaengs who pass through the village sometimes have. He gulps when the young lord approaches, looking as excited as a child about to receive a present.
“My Lord,” Yeonjun greets, bowing respectfully. Beomgyu bows too, looking more awkward than respectful. He hears a soft chuckle, his ears burning on cue.
“That’s him?” The young lord asks, probably pointing a finger. Beomgyu keeps bent over, staring at the sand on his feet.
“Yes, my Lord,” Yeonjun replies, patting Beomgyu on the back twice to get him to stand up.
Beomgyu does as requested, biting the inside of his cheek as he looks at the young lord. Seen up close, his beauty becomes something mystical, something that is described in stories about creatures that allure you and steal your heart — Beomgyu wouldn’t mind having his heart stolen by such a mesmerizing creature. He feels like fainting at any moment if he has to look at the man in front of him for another minute. The young lord has eyes so bright that it definitely makes him think that someone stole a few stars to put them there. Big, brown orbs stare curiously at him, Beomgyu looks away when he realizes he’s been staring for too long.
“What’s your name, boy?” The lord’s voice is sweet, like honeysuckle being put into Beomgyu’s tongue, the authority in the tone perceptible. It dawns on Beomgyu that as beautiful and alluring this man is, he’s not just a simple villager graced by the gods with beauty unparalleled. He’s a young lord from the capital, someone who has power beyond Beomgyu’s acknowledge. He keeps repeating this over and over in his head so he doesn’t forget his place.
“Beomgyu… my Lord?” He hears Yeonjun hold back a laughter beside him, the fire in his ears slowly moving to his cheeks. He grimaces, biting the inside of his cheek harder, the metallic taste bit by bit filling his mouth.
“You don’t have to call me your Lord,” the man mentions. “Yet.”
As soft as the young lord speaks, it sounds like a masked warning. A shudder runs through his body at the imperceptible change in the man’s voice. Beomgyu startles when he hears the low chuckle filling the awkward silence, noticing the sound coming from the lord in front of him.
“I’m only joking, Beomgyu,” he says, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m not a haughty lord. You can call me Taehyun when no one important is around.”
“Taehyun?” Beomgyu whispers, uncertain, testing the name on his mouth.
“That’s right,” Taehyun beams, clapping his hands together happily, a toothy smile shining at him. “I’m so flattered to have you in my manor.”
Beomgyu chokes, coughing embarrassingly to cover it up. This is insanity, another thing he’d think is an alcohol-induced dream if he wasn’t sober for days. A lord flattered to be in the presence of a lowborn? Soobin would laugh for minutes if he heard that. “Flattered?” He blurts out.
“Of course,” Taehyun replies, fazed. “I’m standing in front of one of the most talented hands in our dynasty. How could I not be flattered?”
Beomgyu wants to laugh hysterically like a madman. The idea that a young lord sees him as a talented person is already weird to him, to have him say that out loud makes him want to double check that he’s not having a weird dream, sleeping in the forest in one of the stops that Yeonjun declares during their trip. He pinches his arm slyly, praying to all the gods that this isn’t a dream.
“Would it be weird if I said I’m enamored with your paintings?” Taehyun says, giggling. Beomgyu shakes his head, too surprised to be able to reply with actual words. Taehyun smiles openly, turning and motioning for him to follow.
Beomgyu looks to the side, slightly uneasy to not kind Yeonjun by his side — he won’t lie, Yeonjun kinda is the only person he knows in this place, and Beomgyu hates being left all alone. He must have left while he and Taehyun talked briefly, the conversation not as entertaining for him perhaps. Beomgyu takes a deep breath, he already came this far technically alone, he can get to the very end. He follows Taehyun with a safe distance between them, the weight of their social difference acting like the barrier he needs. Even though Taehyun is friendly and treats him with unusual equality, Beomgyu wouldn’t risk walking side by side as if they were truly equals. He clutches the small bundle with his sketchbook and brushes tightly over his chest, walking closer to the house.
“I suppose Yeonjun already told you the story behind this meeting?” Taehyun says, pulling open one of the doors leading to a room, entering unceremoniously. “If he didn’t… I received one of your landscapes as a gift from a Gongju lord.”
Beomgyu isn’t properly listening to the lord’s words, hesitation making him stand in front of the open door, watching as Taehyun walks over to a small table with a teapot, sitting comfortably. He glances at Beomgyu, inviting him in with nothing but his gaze. Beomgyu enters, standing near the door, ready to leave at any sign of danger — now that he’s no longer drunk, his suspiciousness is acting stronger. Taehyun doesn’t look dangerous per se, but Beomgyu learned to never trust appearances, especially if the person is a lord.
“Yes, he told me about it,” he says quietly, looking at the floor.
“From the moment I received it, I was in love with your way of portraying the world in that painting,” he gushes. “I asked about the merchant who sold the landscape, having him here to ask if he had more of your works. He tried to sell me some erotic paintings, claiming they were yours—”
“I don’t paint this kind of thing!” Beomgyu interrupts hurriedly, disrespectfully speaking loudly. He gapes and widens his eyes when he realizes what he has done, bowing apologetically. “I’m sorry for interrupting you, my Lord.”
“You don’t have to act so cautiously around me, Beomgyu,” Taehyun says calmly, pouring some tea. “I won’t hit you or have you punished. I don’t do this kind of thing with people who I invite and work in my manor.”
“I understand, my Lord,” Beomgyu nods, straightening up. “I want you to know that I don’t paint that kind of thing.”
“You don’t?” Taehyun stops the glass mid-air, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s a shame,” he muses, finally sipping his tea. The slight disappointment in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed, Beomgyu’s ears and cheeks burning with embarrassment at the innuendo. “Anyways,” Taehyun continues, smirking upon seeing how flustered Beomgyu is. “I don’t want you to paint that for me, I have no need for sexual displays on silk. I was looking at one of your landscapes a few days ago, it’s actually amazing how you manage to capture every small detail in the picture. It’s breathtaking the talent you have.”
The embarrassment inside Beomgyu only grows. “Thank you, my Lord,” he says, bowing slightly.
“Then, I thought, could he capture that much detail in a portrait too?” Taehyun rests his chin on his palm, staring thoughtfully. “I hope that Yeonjun delivered my offer correctly.”
“He did, my Lord,” Beomgyu quickly replies. “You wish for a portrait painted by me.”
“By the best hands of the dynasty. Your hands, just to emphasize,” he adds, sipping his tea again. “Judging by your visit, I suppose you’re accepting my offer.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Beomgyu says, nodding.
“So… tell me your price, Beomgyu.”
“My price?”
“The price to have a portrait done by you,” Taehyun explains, even if his intentions were obvious enough. Beomgyu feels foolish, embarrassing himself for the nth time in front of the handsome lord he’ll have to see almost daily while working. Beomgyu wished the floor could open and swallow him right this moment.
He gulps. “As much as the Lord wants to pay me.”
Taehyun clicks his tongue, placing the glass on the table. “300 coins is fine or do you wish for a higher payment?”
“Higher?!” Beomgyu splutters. “My Lord, that’s too—”
“I’ll pay whatever amount you want,” Taehyun declares, eyes sparking.
“300 coins it’s too much for a simple painting made by me.”
Taehyun shakes his head, sighing. “A painting made by you is worth more than that, If I may say so.”
“You are very kind, my Lord.” Beomgyu says, still baffled by the amount of money — an amount he has only heard rich people talk about, an amount he only sees in his dreams.
“Is that enough for you?” Taehyun asks, patiently waiting for Beomgyu’s answer, which comes in the form of a hesitant nod. The smile that spreads on Taehyun's lips is scarily attractive. “Shall we close our deal?” He drums his porcelain glass on the wooden table.
Beomgyu uses words this time, hesitant and uncertain words that he tries to mask with faux confidence. “Yes, my Lord.”
“Perfect!” He claps his hands together, pouring another glass of tea for himself.
The smile turns into a grin, something that would make even the sun jealous of its brightness. Beomgyu feels tipsy upon seeing the young lord’s smile, as if he had a sip of the strongest kind of liquor in the world. One that he’ll become addicted if he doesn’t stop having it; but how could he stop when Kang Taehyun has such a pretty smile, a smile that makes you want to do everything to see it again.
“Thank you for your generosity, my Lord,” Beomgyu says, bowing appreciatively, pressing his belongings tighter against his chest.
“Look for Yeonjun, he’ll show you to your room,” Taehyun says, pulling out a scroll beside him and opening it. “If you need anything, tell him and he’ll get it for you.”
This is a wordless dismissal, the end of their conversation, Beomgyu isn’t such a fool to not understand that their meeting is over. He bows and thanks once again, taking one last look at Taehyun, saving his features for drawing later on his sketchbook — he tells himself it’s for training purposes, but he knows the truth. Taehyun looks attractive when he’s focused like this, eyebrows slightly furrowed, an intimidating gaze, lips in a thin line. Beomgyu holds his breath, wondering how someone so beautiful can exist.
“Ah, Beomgyu,” Taehyun calls, gaze lifting from the scroll. Beomgyu startles upon having his name being called abruptly, thinking that he got caught staring at the lord for more than he was supposed to. He nods to show that he’s listening, eyes going back to looking at the floor again. “I’m in no hurry to have the portrait ready, so there’s no need to rush,” he says, voice filling Beomgyu’s ears with sweetness. “You can take your time. I’ll be waiting.”
His heart is pounding as he leaves the room, sliding the doors close and finally taking a deep breath after holding it for so long — he didn’t even realize he was holding it this whole time, Taehyun’s voice and figure making him forget of anything that isn't the young lord of the Kang family. He places one hand on his chest, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. He’s still in front of the door, trying to understand why he’s acting this way. Lord Taehyun has done absolutely nothing out of normal during their entire meeting. So why is Beomgyu so sure that this won’t be the first time his heart will be like this when he’s in the presence of Lord Taehyun?
One thing that Beomgyu comes to know and that leaves him astonished is the fact that Taehyun is someone easy to have around, to befriend. He’s sweet and friendly, spending most afternoons walking around the garden or talking to the servants, always acting as if he’s equal to them, not the young lord who can have them dismissed in a blink of an eye. It’s strange to Beomgyu to see someone from such a high class act like this, most highborns usually ignore their servants and treat them as if they’re inferior. So unlike Taehyun, who plays with the children, helps older servants to load baskets, even eats lunch in the kitchen while watching the women prepare other dishes. It’s easy to get lost in the faux feeling of Taehyun being someone like them.
Taehyun is unlike anyone Beomgyu has ever seen.
Especially when it comes to his beauty — Beomgyu’s new and a little embarrassing fixation. Taehyun is frighteningly beautiful, terrifyingly handsome, and several other adjectives to describe him that Beomgyu could tell from the heart. It’s an out of this world type of beauty, Taehyun manages to take his breath away at every moment Beomgyu looks at him. In the mornings, when he comes out of the gates wearing dark-colored hanboks and a gat covering his head, about to visit some other young lord who lives nearby — Kai, he remembers the name correctly, not like he can forget when Taehyun laughs and smiles so prettily when the other man is around. In the afternoons, when he visits the garden full of wild flowers, kneeling among them, looking like a spring deity with the sun shining on him. In the evening, when he passes Beomgyu’s room on the way to his own, wishing him a goodnight, ready to lie down with his durumagi open, exposing his strong torso that plagues Beomgyu’s mind all night long.
Beomgyu doesn’t want to admit it but maybe he's been thinking a little too much about young lord Taehyun ever since their first meeting — much more than he should, considering he’s here for business, only to paint a portrait. There are lines that should be drawn and respected, Beomgyu feels like they’re getting blurred each day by Taehyun’s pretty smile.
Besides, there's another thing dwelling on his mind. He has been at the Kang's manor for a few weeks now, but he hasn't even started a sketch for the portrait, no ideas coming in his mind. Taehyun doesn't force him to report on progress either, like the portrait is the least of his worries. As understandable as he is, Beomgyu can't muster the courage to say that he can't start because he's haunted by the young lord's beauty and the things his mind conjure — images that are too vivid and makes him wonder if they're just figments of his mind, his chest heaving and loins burning. When he thinks about it, his reason sounds even more pathetic if he ever came to say out loud — he can hear the lord's low laugh in his mind, laughing at his expense.
The truth is silly, but Beomgyu is terrified of working on the painting in the confines of his chambers, drawing Taehyun's angelic features by the glimpses of memories, staring at the face in the silk. Beomgyu shudders just from the thought of it, too nervous to pinpoint why he's feeling this way.
Beomgyu is sitting near his room door, the view of the large courtyard of the manor where some men are carrying hay and feeding the animals greets him. He makes a sketch of the scene, nothing too far-fetched as his final works, just lazy strokes forming faceless people, animals that look like shapeless scribbles. Some would look and say this doesn't even look like art, but it's a way to kill time for him. The pages are filled with sketches of the people who work in the Kang manor, sketches that help Beomgyu understand human complexity — well, that's what he says to himself, and not that he's avoiding the portrait of a certain lord.
"What are you drawing?" Taehyun asks, sitting next to him as if they were long-time friends. He didn't notice the young lord's arrival, he always sneaks around the house like a shadow — a beautiful shadow, ready to keep haunting Beomgyu as if it's his life purpose.
Beomgyu closes his notebook tightly, hiding it in his sleeve, an embarrassed small smile. "Nothing, my Lord."
"I already said you don't have to call me lord when there's no one important in the house," Taehyun remarks, the slight hint of annoyance in his tone.
"I'm sorry, my—" he stops, face burning where Taehyun's annoyed glance is staring at. "Taehyun.”
Taehyun smiles, bright as ever. Beomgyu sees it from the corner of his vision, pretending he’s watching the chickens walk around the yard. He comes to a horrifying conclusion that moment. He’s not only afraid to make Taehyun’s portrait, he’s afraid to even look at the young lord more than necessary.
He has this strange feeling inside him that he can’t explain, doesn’t have the knowledge to understand it. His heart beats fast, like he’s going to explode any second without prior warning. His hands sweat so much, soaked as if he had plunged them into a well. His throat becomes dry as sand, and not even drinking a whole river would make the thirst go away. He feels all this in a millisecond of having Taehyun close to him, just one look from the young lord, one simple exchange of glances, just the knowledge that Taehyun is equally looking at him.
As much as he keeps repeating to himself that he’s afraid to draw Taehyun, is almost embarrassing how there are three pages in his sketchbook filled with too much Taehyun — far more worked out than the lazy drawings he does to pass the time, his mind wants him to depict Taehyun’s perfectness as real as he can. He draws his soft nose, his defined jaw, his glossy lips, his small hands, his strong torso from the glimpses he has at night, and especially his eyes. Those big and brown eyes that are gentle when looking at people and sharp when looking at parchments and other old lords — eyes that change everything they stare at Beomgyu, even if he doesn’t recognise the emotions in them. The window to Taehyun’s soul, those eyes that always silently challenge Beomgyu whenever he looks at them directly. Look at me, I dare you, they say in a mean tone that makes him shiver. Look for more than a second before you run away like a coward. Beomgyu doesn’t think he’s brave enough to accept such a challenge.
“Would you be interested in knowing something about me?” Taehyun asks, stretching his arms until they almost touch the ceiling, a hint of skin peeking from the action.
Beomgyu gulps. “If you wish to tell me, I won’t refuse.”
“I’m not sure if you already knew this, but I’m a very curious person,” Taehyun comments, finger tapping his lips softly where a smile is blooming. Beomgyu follows the movement with his eyes, ears burning at the thought of the texture of the young lord’s lips. Will they be soft like silk or more like cotton? Will they taste sweet like tea or salty like sand? Will they bend under Beomgyu’s control or will Beomgyu be controlled by them? “You don’t have to show me anything, as I’m in no place to order you to do it, but it’d kill my curiosity if you told me at least what inspires you so much. What makes you draw all the time I lay my eyes on you?”
Beomgyu blushes, nibbling his lips, trying to ignore the lord’s last words. Is not what it sounds like, he keeps telling himself over and over, while a nagging voice fills him with scenarios he didn’t even think he could imagine — nowadays he feels like his mind is his worst enemy. He fidgets with his sleeve, wondering if at some point Taehyun has noticed the times he watched him in the garden, drawing the young lord amidst flowers that enhance his beauty and are as sweet as him.
“I draw the people who live here,” he replies, once the silence stretched for too long between them. “Sometimes the house, the animals, the garden. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Am I one of them?” Taehyun asks, head tilted to the side, blinking his eyes with curiosity.
Beomgyu brings his thumb up to his mouth, nibbling it hesitantly. It’s the tipping point for him, whenever Taehyun decides to act so adorable, so fascinated and curious about Bemgyu’s drawings — so mesmerizing with his doe eyes and lips slightly parted, a sweet temptation. It makes him wonder if Taehyun would have a little mercy for him if he knew everything he’s causing inside of Beomgyu. Or maybe, he’d use that to make his life more complicated, a torture delivered by soft hands and honeyed words.
“Maybe,” he mumbles timidly, going back to fiddle with the sleeve that’s hiding his sketchbook.
“Excuse me?” Taehyun says, lips twisting mischievously. “I’m afraid I couldn’t hear you right.”
Beomgyu lowers his head to hide the blush on his cheeks. “Yes, Lord Taehyun.”
Taehyun beams, lightly nudging his shoulder with his. "You don't have to be embarrassed for drawing me."
Beomgyu nods, but doesn't raise his head, doesn't want to look directly at the man by his side. He's not embarrassed because of the drawings, he’s embarrassed of admitting doing it. Embarrassed of Taehyun knowing that he draws him in secret, of knowing that maybe he’s aware of how much Beomgyu thinks about him. His cheeks are scorching, as hot as the summer sun.
“Beomgyu, look at me,” he calls softly, lifting Beomgyu’s chin with a single finger, a touch as soft as his voice, cool in his burning face.
Another thing Beomgyu came to learn is that everything about Taehyun is strangely soft. His voice, his smile, his touch, his glare, his demeanor. He’s the calmness after the storm, the feeling of things coming back to their place — even if right now, he feels like Taehyun is a storm wrecking everything inside him. A calm storm, destroying things silently, that’s how meeting Taehyun feels like.
Beomgyu is sure he never felt anything like this touch. He musters the courage to stare at him, blinking, suddenly breathless. Taehyun looks more beautiful today, as if it was possible. Dark green hanbok adorning his seemingly slim body, dark hair pinned up. Beomgyu stares for a moment, and he can’t take his eyes away no matter how much he wants, hypnotized as always. Each passing day brings him the thought that maybe Taehyun isn’t real, that he’s actually a deity walking on Earth; or perhaps, he is real, just another human being like Beomgyu and he’s making up mystical reasons to explain his scary growing attraction to the young lord.
“You’re here to draw me. There’s no need to be ashamed of it,” Taehyun says in a soothing manner, finger still holding Beomgyu’s chin in place. He gets close in a blink of an eye, whispering softly on the painter’s ear, “If you wish, I could even pose exclusively for you. In a private place.”
The teasing in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed. Beomgyu gapes, a fish freshly taken from the lake, trying to survive. It’s hard to breathe under Taehyun’s killer gaze. There’s a visible smirk on his lips, he probably doesn’t seem to care about the implications in his words. Beomgyu knows that Taehyun doesn’t care about this sort of thing, what curious ears might hear from him, curious eyes might see him doing, curious minds might think about his scandalous closeness to young men. Especially his closeness to his new painter, or the way he looks at said painter.
In only a few days in the Kang manor, Beomgyu learned more about Taehyun than anyone else. Taehyun, who doesn’t care about politics even though he’s the son of an influential yangban — a man that Beomgyu comes to know that spends more time outside this house than inside. Taehyun, who has a brother but doesn’t seem to be close to him, doesn’t seem to care about him. Taehyun, who says things in provocative connotations and seductive lilt in his voice without caring.
Taehyun, who maybe likes men more than he should, if Yeonjun’s chuckle when Beomgyu asked him about it was enough of an answer.
Taehyun, who seems determined to make Beomgyu surrender to a desire he didn’t even know existed inside him.
Beomgyu gulps. “My Lord—”
“As much as it’s interesting talking to you, I need to leave,” Taehyun says, getting up. His robes float as he stops in front of Beomgyu — he looks exactly like a deity coming to deliver blessings. “It was nice seeing you, Beomgyu.”
“Leave?” He asks airy.
Taehyun chuckles. “Just going to visit some of my father’s companions. I’ll be back for dinner.”
Beomgyu listens absentmindedly, biting his lips. An old doubt that has been inside his head for a while comes back. Yeonjun vaguely commented during one of their midnight talks that young lord Taehyun isn’t as present in politics as the rest of the Kang family. When Beomgyu asked the reason, Yeonjun shrugged and said that in time he’d find out — Yeonjun always answers his questions like this, which is infuriating at most. Taehyun stays still, as if waiting for what Beomgyu has to ask.
“My Lord, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t you take part in politics like your brother?” Beomgyu watches wearily the way Taehyun suddenly goes rigid. “You don’t have to answer me. I was just… curious,” he adds, desperation slipping with his words.
Perhaps this wasn’t the right time to ask, perhaps they’ll never be a right time to ask such a question. They haven’t been friends for so long to the point of revealing personal things. In fact, he doesn’t even know if they can be considered friends. It dawns on him that Taehyun and him aren’t friends, more acquaintances than anything, completely strangers. He knows a few things about Taehyun, but that means nothing when you look at the bigger picture. They’re only a painter and a young lord who’s paying for a portrait, nothing more, nothing less.
“Curious?”
“Yes.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Taehyun asks, he doesn’t wait for Beomgyu’s reply. He moves closer, leans in until his face is so close that Beomgyu pulls back on instinct. “Politics don’t appeal to me as much as it does to the rest of my family. It’s exhausting dealing with them, especially with old men who think they know everything just because they’re older. It’s boring, and I hate boring things.” He stops momentarily, licking his lips and smiling. Mischievous and dangerous. A shiver runs through Beomgyu’s body. “I mean, it’s not that boring sometimes. Politics are only interesting when I get to have these men's sons naked above me at night, making me scream their names in pleasure.”
He walks away calmly, leaving as if he hadn’t unabashedly admitted he sleeps with men. Even after Taehyun passes through the gates, Beomgyu stays in the same place, surprise making him wordless. So that’s what Yeonjun’s chuckle meant that night, that’s the secret that Taehyun keeps under the roof of the Kang manor — it doesn’t sound like a secret, doesn’t look like something that’s kept locked inside the gates of the manor. Taehyun’s preference is something freely roaming around, just like the owner of such preferences.
In his mind, Beomgyu can’t push Taehyun’s words, the image of what he says away. He’s not disgusted or surprised about the thought, can’t even give attention to that. He doesn’t think about the other men, nor about the act of them taking Taehyun, but about only Taehyun. There’s a twinge of something he can’t name inside him at the thought of Taehyun. Taehyun, displayed on his mat, hair like a dark halo around his head, chest heaving, face contorted in pleasure and sweet sounds coming from his pretty, pink and glistening lips. Beomgyu shakes his head so hard that his neck snaps, trying to push introspective thoughts away.
Beomgyu has an epiphany as he faces the gates of the manor, the gates that Taehyun slipped through to talk with old men — to maybe lay down with their sons later. Taehyun, young lord of the Kang family, will be the reason for his downfall someday.
Beomgyu is leaning his head on the cold surface of the table, trying not to give up to sleep that keeps forcing his eyes closed. He usually doesn’t get this tired when he works in conservations, but he never had spent three days in a roll locked in his studio living off bread rolls and unhealthy doses of coffee before. At this point, he’s slowly going crazy for real, almost falling on the tip of giving up this commission. But something in the portrait seems to tempt him to finish, keep calling his name and reminding him of their challenge.
When he accepted it, he knew it would be difficult. It’s a damaged silk painting that everyone on his field would deem irretrievable, a junk that would go straight to trash. He knew what he was signing for when he said yes to that eye. What he didn’t expect was for it to be more difficult than planned, bordering on the impossible even for him. Beomgyu has years of practice in conservation on his back, especially in old paintings made of silk and tapestries. He knows how to make something eroded by time come alive again, with its vibrant colors and recognizable features. This is his work, something he prides himself in knowing how to do masterfully.
But this portrait — this damn portrait! — is making him rethink all his skills over the years. When he picks the silk, it’s like it doesn’t want to be touched. When he paints over a line, the paint doesn’t stick when he looks back. When he stares at the man’s only visible eye, it’s like he’s laughing at his failed attempts, at Beomgyu’s incompetence and despair. He spends more time complaining, pulling his hair and huffing than actually having word done. Not even his music seems to make him feel better, the radio turned off on his sink, long forgotten by Beomgyu’s annoyance.
He’s really going crazy, but that’s part of the process.
He turns his head, his cheek still resting on the table, looking at the piece of silk with a part of the man’s robe. He has assembled the portrait using tape, turning the puzzle into the image of an unknown young man. Every time he stares at the damaged face, Beomgyu wonders who he is, who painted it, when it was painted. Who is he? There’s many questions swirling in his mind, and he knows he’ll never have answers for them.
His phone rings loudly on the table where he left, scaring away his moment of self-deprecation — he was about to doubt himself without having a second thought. Beomgyu should’ve turned it off, but ever since Soobin complained that he should leave the damn phone turned on in case of an emergency, he opts to leave it on. He huffs, stretching his arm toward the device that rings incessantly an annoying tune.
“Are you still in the studio?” Soobin’s voice comes over the line, muffled and tired.
“Hello hyung,” Beomgyu greets wryly. “I’m great, you?”
He hears Soobin clicking his tongue, probably rolling his eyes. “Taking from your bitchy tone, you’re still holed up in that place.”
“I’m still in the studio.”
“It’s been three days, Gyu,” he sighs. “It’s not healthy, and you know it.”
“The things we do for money, right?” Beomgyu chuckles bitterly, running a free hand through his hair. The strands tangled in his fingers, almost begging to be washed as soon as possible.
“There’s still time left until the art exhibition.”
Beomgyu bites the inside of his cheek. “I feel like I don’t.”
“And you won’t have it if you suddenly die of fatigue,” he retorts in a wry tone.
“I’m not tired.” A yawn escapes his lips as soon as the words leave his mouth. His treacherous body gives him away to the only person who worries a little too much.
“Even your body is begging for help,” Soobin points out.
“I’ll take some time off, okay?” Beomgyu reassures him. “I just need to start this damn thing.”
“Start it? What do you mean?” Soobin sounds confused. “Didn’t you say you started a few days ago?”
“That’s the point,” Beomgyu bites his thumb, his nasty habit. “I started it, but for some reason the paint didn’t stick on the damn silk. I thought it was the paint, but I’m using the right one. It’s like I didn’t put anything on it, it’s the same way as when it got here. Damaged and destroyed, even though I spent two days working on it.”
“Beomgyu, just a reminder that I don’t understand shit about conservation mechanics,” Soobin remarks. “I hope you can do whatever you want to do.”
“Thanks. Any reason for the call?”
“Just called to let you know that we’re having dinner tonight at a fancy place.”
Beomgyu frowns. “Did I forget someone’s birthday?”
“Nope. But you did forget Hyuka’s birthday and he got very sad.”
“I already said sorry, and I made it up to him later.”
“Today’s Valentine’s Day, Gyu. I got a discount coupon, you know I’m not one to turn down fancy food for almost free.”
“I don’t think I’m following.”
“I don’t want to embarrass myself by going totally alone like a fucking loser. So, as my best friend, you’re going with me.”
“Hyung, are you asking me on a date?” Beomgyu gasps, fake surprise.
“Ew, no.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed to admit that you’re in love with me, your roommate and best friend,” Beomgyu continues, ignoring Soobin’s groan. “Actually, that’s totally something you’d do, hyung.”
“I’m not falling in love with my roommate and best friend, and I’m not a fucking cliche!” Soobin whines.
“But you’re in love with Hyuka, and he’s your best friend,” Beomgyu pinpoints, laughing by himself.
“That’s not even the topic!” Soobin complains, as he always does whenever Beomgyu wants to tease him about the almost four-years-old crush he has on Kai. “Beomgyu, I just want to eat free food with my equally hopelessly single friend. Is that too much to ask?”
“Just a reminder that you’re only single because you don’t man up and confess.”
“Beomgyu.”
“Okay, okay,” he huffed a laugh, giving Soobin a break — he can tease him later during dinner, it’ll be funnier. “What time are you picking me up?”
“Picking you up?” Soobin scoffs. “You’re the one with a car, you’ll pick me up.”
Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “Hyung, you want me to bring a rose bouquet too? Or perhaps chocolates will be better? Oh, I could drive to your house and serenade—”
Soobin disconnects the call before Beomgyu can finish. He types a quick message asking dinner’s time, putting his phone back on the table and wiping a few tears from how much he laughed. It’s always funny to joke at Soobin’s expense, especially when it comes to his singleness and his crush on Kai — Soobin always complains that a romantic like him shouldn’t be single for so long, while doing absolutely nothing to change that by confessing his feelings for Huening Kai. It’s not like Beomgyu is any different, taking into account that he can’t even remember the last time he had a date or liked someone enough to go on a date. They’re in the same wooden boat sailing on the high seas of singleness — except that Beomgyu doesn’t have a long time crush on a best friend.
His happiness doesn’t last for longer. One look at the portrait that isn’t making any progress and Beomgyu is back to sighing defeatedly. He rests his chin on his hand, he can even think of something to do at this point. Starting with the clothes has made no difference, they’re still the same as they were when he received the package. Beomgyu bites his thumb harder, feeling the skin on his teeth and the prickle on his finger, eyes running over the large painting, scrunching his nose while thinking about where to start.
Something inside his head lights up suddenly, like the broken light bulb inside him has finally been fixed. He picks up a brush with the same thickness as the one used originally, smiling victoriously for the first time. He gets up from the chair, approaching the sheet with the less damaged side of the man’s face. He dips the brush in black paint, gently swiping it across the silk.
He drops the brush into a glass of water a few minutes later, tucked away from the delicate yellowed silk sheets. He looks at the final result, a strange feeling arising in his chest. One of the eyes is repainted, black paint bringing the form back to what it was millenia ago. Seeing it now, it’s not a simple look on this man’s face. It’s something much more, penetrating, intimidating, deep, staring at Beomgyu mercilessly. He shivers, moving away to flee the stare in vail.
The man’s gaze is etched on his mind, something there that Beomgyu should understand, a hidden meaning made only for him to find out. He huffs, rubbing his eyes hard and moving towards the sink, ready to make another cup of coffee. Now that he knows the secret to make progress on his work, his break can wait a little bit more, he won’t be able to rest until he has the rest of the face ready.
Maybe Beomgyu is going crazy, but he won’t give the eye the taste of seeing him surrender so easily.
Beomgyu stands in front of Taehyun’s room door, silk scroll wrapped under his arm and brushes in hand. Breathing heavily, hesitant to slide open the door, to call Taehyun’s name. It’s nighttime, such a mundane but obscene time for him to be in the place he is. Any servant who spots him there, about to enter the young lord’s room, will think something improper, something that makes his hesitation go tenfold.
It’s by chance that Beomgyu wants to start Taehyun’s portrait that night. It has been three days since the conversation they had in the courtyard, when Taehyun admitted explicitly his preference towards men, the things he does with them once night falls. Beomgyu never felt such desires, never wanted a man to touch him that way, never ached to be under or above them. Now, he feels something coiling inside, something demanding and begging to feel — what it wants to feel he can’t point out, but he’s sure is connected to his dreams. Beomgyu dreams of something between those lines almost every night, about Taehyun doing to him what he does to those other young lords. He wakes up aroused, whining and muttering the young lord’s name in a pitiful way while pulsing in his hand.
Things would’ve been so much easier if they hadn’t had that conversation.
Since then, Taehyun has become an even bigger fixation. There’s no more other drawings of anyone or anything from the manor. Only Taehyun, face and features drawn on the remaining pages of the small sketchbook. Taehyun playing with children, Taehyun leaning against his room door while looking at the animals in the courtyard. Taehyun sitting among the flowers in the garden, Taehyun with his naked torso watching the moonlight. There’s only him, inside Beomgyu’s mind, everywhere Beomgyu looks. It’s almost as if he’s intoxicated by the essence of Kang Taehyun, hallucinating about his constant presence.
He’s still in front of the door, the candles are lit, he can hear footsteps and see the young lord pacing inside. Beomgyu holds his breath as he hears the door sliding open, a surprised Taehyun standing in front of him now, wide eyes staring at the young painter. Beomgyu’s eyes go down to the floor, catching a glimpse of Taehyun’s, thank god, closed durumagi. He wouldn’t know how to react if he got a view of the young lord’s naked skin.
“Beomgyu? What are you doing here?” Taehyun asks, both hands on the doors.
Beomgyu bows, swallowing his hesitance. “I was wondering if you’d like to start your portrait, my Lord.”
“Now?”
“Yes, my Lord,” he replies, head down. “If it’s not a nuisance, of course.”
“You’re never a nuisance, Beomgyu.”
Taehyun moves away, making room for Beomgyu to enter without them accidentally bumping into each other. Beomgyu raises his head, but remains still in the same place. Now that his mind is thinking clearly, maybe this was a bad idea. Actually this is a very bad idea. thirsty he drank an entire jug of water in his room, chest heaving and mind spiraling. He shouldn’t have picked up his materials and walked in hurried steps to Taehyun’s room, shouldn’t have waited until he was caught by Taehyun.He shouldn’t have acted on impulse after another dream about the young lord, waking up so
He shouldn’t be here.
“Are you sure?” Beomgyu asks, weighing the pros and cons of shamefully rushing back to his room and locking himself there until dawn. “I imagine you’re getting ready for bed, my Lord. I don’t want to—”
“Beomgyu, you’re not a nuisance,” Taehyun reassures him, taking Beomgyu’s arm and calmly pulling him inside the room. Tonight, he lets himself be pulled along, feet stopping only when Taehyun lets go of his arm.
“Are you sure?” He asks again, standing in the middle of the room.
“Totally,” Taehyun states, closing the doors as calmly as he pulled Beomgyu inside. “I’m sleepless tonight, actually. So you’re going to be a good company.”
“You’re alright, my Lord?” Beomgyu says, a worry that would be considered inappropriate in his tone. He bites the inside of his cheek in reproach, he needs to constantly remember his place. It’s easy to get lost in the idea that Taehyun is an equal, that he brings him the same feeling of being next to a friend.
“A fleeting insomnia, nothing out of the ordinary for me,” Taehyun replies, a small smile. “It happens a few times a month when there’s a lot in my mind. Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix.”
Taehyun walks gracefully to the small wooden table, passing so close to Beomgyu that he feels the silk of his robes brush against his hand. It’s fleeting, but he holds his breath as if Taehyun was touching him bare. Taehyun sits down, licking his lips as he pours himself some tea, the pouring in the cup the only sound between them. It strangely reminds him of his first day at the Kang manor, insecure and hesitant — nothing changed, except this time he knows Taehyun is teasing him on purpose.
“Tell me,” Taehyun says, signaling for Beomgyu to sit down. He does it slowly, taking forever until his legs are on the ground. Taehyun watches his every move like a hawk. “What made you want to start the portrait so suddenly?”
It’s on the tip of his tongue, the right and only answer to this. You’re in my head all the time and I think it’s better if I finish this portrait right away and leave before I start to have feelings beyond desire for you.
“I had a burst of inspiration.” It’s what he says, shrugging non-committedly.
“A burst of inspiration,” Taehyun repeats, taking a sip of his tea. He offers a cup to Beomgyu, who politely refuses with a shake of his head. Taehyun looks taken aback by the refusal, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t like tea?”
“Not much.”
“You’re the first person I’ve seen refuse a cup of tea.”
“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Beomgyu comments, not sure if he’s talking about tea or something else too. Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s only the tea, maybe it’s his weird addiction and fascination over having something from the young lord in front of him, maybe it’s none.
Taehyun raises a brow, as if he knows what’s inside his mind. “Yes, Beomgyu. There’s a first time for everything.”
“Is this the first time you’ve hired a painter to do a portrait?”
“Yes,” Taehyun sips his tea, chin resting on his hand, eyes never leaving Beomgyu. “Is this the first time you’ve ever done a portrait?”
“Of someone rich? Yes,” he huffed a laugh.
Taehyun smiles sideways. “A toast?”
“To what?”
“To first times.”
Taehyun swings his cup of tea, gulping down the rest as if it was a glass of liquor. Beomgyu follows the movements, his adam’s apple bobbing, his tongue licking the remaining tea off his lips, his fingers leaving the cup on the table. He watches mesmerized, as everything about Kang Taehyun leaves him. Taehyun’s mouth moves in words he can’t understand nor listen, eyes straying from his mouth back to his eyes. Taehyun has a puzzled look on them, staring directly at him.
“I beg your pardon?” Beomgyu breathes.
Taehyun chuckles. “I asked how do you want to start the portrait?”
“Oh, I—” he stops, no words coming to mind. The truth is that Beomgyu has no idea how to answer that question. He hasn’t thought of anything except going to Taehyun’s room and painting the damn portrait right away, forgetting altogether that there are more things to take into account. As in, all the things necessary to start the portrait.
Which brings him to the current situation: Beomgyu sitting in front of the empty silk parchment, brushes at his side waiting to be picked, ink forgotten on the other side, palms sweating and trembling. Taehyun in his vision when he raises his head, the moon behind him through the window, watchful eyes on their favorite star. It’s a stunning view, something that knocks the breath out of Beomgyu’s lungs whenever he raises his head. He blinks a few times, wondering if this is another dream that will leave him itching in the morning. It doesn’t look like one when he stares at Taehyun’s face.
The Taehyun in front of him crushes the pitiful excuse of Taehyun that his dreams project.
Beomgyu sighs, shutting his eyes tightly, trembling hand going toward the brushes on the wooden floor, picking one up harder than necessary. He feels the wood texture in his palm, deep breaths before dipping into the black ink. He looks down at the silk, nervousness chewing his insides like he never felt before. Perhaps, the fault lies in Taehyun’s doe eyes on him, capturing every measly movement of the younger painter like an eagle. He bites his thumb, wondering how to begin while trying to ignore his surroundings and his own mind.
“Are you alright?” He hears Taehyun’s voice, soft and low, the nervousness inside him gnashing his insides now.
“Y-Yeah.”
“Not so sure how to begin?” He asks, no teasing this time. It’s concerning in his tone, like he just read Beomgyu’s mind and is trying to ease his fears.
“Yes,” he agrees, fidgeting. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say that you’re so beautiful that I don’t know where or how to start portraying all that.” He admits quietly, lowering his head until he’s almost leaning against the silk, too embarrassed to look Taehyun in the face. Would running away now be too shameful? He’s tempted to find the answer to that question by himself.
“Only hypothetically?” Taehyun muses, fascination in his tone. Beomgyu only nods, head still lowered. “I don’t think it’s such a problem.”
“I think it is,” Beomgyu whispers. The night is so quiet that Taehyun can hear it as if he said it loud and clear — as if he whispered those words directly in his ear.
“You think my beauty is a problem?” Taehyun asks.
Beomgyu lifts his head so quickly he almost gets dizzy. “Never.” He replies, looking past Taehyun — trying to ignore the slight pout he can see in his lips, the itch to kiss those lips almost real. “The problem isn’t your beauty, my Lord.”
“What would be the problem, so?”
“What it causes to me.”
Taehyun stays silent for a moment, surprise blooming in his features until he croaks, “I’m causing something to you?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Beomgyu mutters, the humiliation of admitting that leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He feels like laughing, how someone can have such bad luck as he.
“That’s funny,” Taehyun mumbles, contemplative.
“What’s funny?”
“I thought I was the only one feeling something.”
Beomgyu can’t answer, the ability to form coherent words seems to have vanished from his brain. He finally stares directly at Taehyun, gaping slowly, watching as the young lord comes closer, crawling over to him, knees brushing past the silk parchment without caring whether it crumples or gets torn. Taehyun is close, like he always likes to be, like it always leaves Beomgyu unsettled — too close for comfort, too close for what would be considered a right distance between two men. If Beomgyu leaned a little bit, his lips would be able to brush against the young lord’s, finally able to know what they taste like.
Taehyun moves again, facing Beomgyu like lovers, giving the young painter enough time for him to catch his breath without getting drunk on Taehyun’s scent — a forest, wood on his palm, lavender on his nostrils, raspberries on his mouth. Beomgyu swallows as he feels two hands grabbing his own, the brush throwed away somewhere, none seems to care about it. Beomgyu wants to say something, feels like he needs to say something; push him away, pull him closer, it’s a lost battle in the end when Taehyun’s sparkling eyes prevent him from speaking and thinking clearly. He’s being hypnotized without trying to fight back, a fly caught in a spider’s web about to be eaten alive.
Tonight, Beomgyu doesn’t care what Taehyun will do to him, as long as he remains close.
Taehyun holds his hands like they’re fine china, slowly bringing them up to his face. Beomgyu gasps as his hands touch the soft skin of Taehyun’s face, he’s touching burning embers that leaves a weird feeling in him. He’s not in pain, he’s actually relieved. Taehyun’s face is soft, warm, cozy, a fire in winter and liquor going down your throat. Beomgyu is bubbling in the heat, feeling like tea leaves inside a teapot. His cheeks are scorching as he looks at Taehyun, who’s looking at him with equally blushed cheeks, a reassuring smile. It’s sweet, raspberries in his mouth, all Beomgyu needs is to swallow them — he doesn’t do it, he keeps them inside and ignores the desire to savor them.
“For now,” Taehyun says softly, leaving Beomgyu’s hands on his warm face, not minding the touch. “You can start with my eyes.”
Beomgyu doesn’t need to be told twice. Taehyun’s eyes are his favorite part when it comes to the man, it’s only natural that it’s his favorite part to draw too. Almond eyes, small eyelashes, double eyelids, a small mole close to the inner part, brown pools of kindness. It comes natural to him, all the formats and emotions in those eyes, portrayed almost in perfection from how much he spent time drawing only them. It’s the window to Taehyun's soul, and if Beomgyu sometimes can’t understand the things it says, he still listens to it attentively. He’s about to take his hands away from Taehyun’s face, but the young lord holds them gently. A soft kiss on each one, before he leaves them in Beomgyu’s knees and steps away, back to the window.
Beomgyu’s hands burn as he holds the brush and draws the soft lines of Taehyun’s eyes on the silk, but it doesn’t feel bad. It feels good, the type of burn that makes him want more.
The garden is prettier up close. At another moment, Beomgyu would love to sit among the flowers and draw the landscape around him until it does justice to the beauty he sees, but now there’s no room in his mind for anything other than Kang Taehyun. The landscape goes completely forgotten in his mind, all he’d like to draw is the young lord amidst the delicate flowers, his light blue hanbok floating in the wind like a piece of the sky, his dark hair impeccably tied as always, his beautiful face filled with serenity that can only be seen when he’s in the garden.
Young lord Taehyun could easily be considered as divine as a jade stone, a rare jewel amidst flowers and dark robes, blue skies and magnificent movements. A rare jewel that Beomgyu’s hands had the gift of being able to touch, had the gift of being kissed by such a jewel. A rare jewel that resides permanently in his thoughts — it drives him crazy little by little, Beomgyu is ready to turn into a madman but he likes the feeling.
Beomgyu’s hands still burn from the kiss he received a few nights ago, the sensation slowly becoming commonplace for him. When he closes his eyes before falling asleep, he can still see Taehyun near him, sparkling eyes and confident steps, an image that haunts him later in his dreams. Beomgyu wakes up everyday with the rising sun, sweating and panting, head picturing things that’ll never happen — it’s better that they don’t happen, for the sake of his heart leaving Hanyang intact.
Something that he finds incredibly difficult is taking his eyes from Taehyun’s elegant figure. The young lord walks a little forward, arms behind his back, robes swinging to the sides. The warm sun shines on Taehyun, a halo forming around him, a deity once again descending from the skies to deliver blessings to those who worship him. Beomgyu is sure that if he had the chance, he’d kneel in front of this man and worship him as diligently as he can. Taehyun looks like a god — speaks like one, walks like one, loves like one. Beomgyu shakes his head, mind filling again with daydreams, making reality and imagination blend into something he can’t distinguish.
Beomgyu walks a little further away, trying to step away from small flowers trying to grow. He doesn’t know why Taehyun asked him to come, but he wouldn’t deny an invitation coming from him — even if he has no idea why they’re here. It’s late in the evening, less than an hour before the sun sets, they walk in silence through the vast fields. Beomgyu’s eyes are split between watching his surroundings or the young lord. Both are stunning, a thing he has never seen before. This walk isn’t helping his feelings at all, if anything, it’s making things more difficult. Beomgyu feels his heart beat faster, rising in his throat everytime Taehyun looks back to check if he’s still following. There’s always a smile breaking through Taehyun’s lips whenever he sees that Beomgyu is still behind him.
“You’re silent,” Taehyun comments, soft voice floating along the wind, swirling until it kisses Beomgyu’s ears.
“I don’t want to disturb the silence, My Lord,” he replies, fidgeting with his sleeve.
They’re alone, only the two in such an open space. It shouldn’t feel suffocating and weird, the majority of times he spends next to Taehyun they’re always alone. Never in an open space, where everyone can see you, his mind reminds him. Maybe that’s the reason he’s so restless, looking around to see if there’s any eyes. In the open, it’s possible for everyone to see the stupid feelings Beomgyu is bearing for Taehyun, so easy to take a look at him and see how he’s head over heels for someone so unavailable. In closed rooms, where there’s only him and Taehyun, it’s easy to pretend that Taehyun’s inquisitive eyes aren’t seeing his overbearing feelings. Sometimes he wishes these feelings would go away, but how could he when he can dream that Taehyun feels the same?
Taehyun chuckles, head slightly turned sideways to glance at him. “Your voice would never disturb this place.”
“My Lord—”
“I thought I already said you don’t have to call me lord when it’s just the two of us,” he sounds annoyed, having to remind Beomgyu once again.
Beomgyu doesn’t do it on purpose, calling Taehyun by his name seems too intimate — makes his mind conjure the possibility of being able to call him like that whenever he wants. Calling Taehyun by his title creates a barrier that prevents him from latching onto the idea of having a chance.
“I’m sorry, Taehyun.” The name leaves a strange taste of lavender tea in his mouth, even if Beomgyu has never taken a single sip of tea in his life.
“That’s better.” Taehyun grins. “I like when you call me by my name.”
Beomgyu tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Taehyun shouldn’t say things like this so recklessly — things that don’t do any good to his poor heart. As kind and generous as Taehyun is, he’s also too careless, someone who doesn’t watch his words or actions. Someone dangerous, Beomgyu came to learn along the months. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the image of Taehyun’s pleased grin remains vivid.
“Taehyun, what are we doing here?” Beomgyu asks, voice coming weaker than usual.
Taehyun stops calmly, ducking down amidst the grass. He plucks a small flower from its greenish stem, twirling it between slim fingers. Beomgyu watches the bluish flower sway from side to side, like Taehyun’s robes in the wind. The young lord turns to him, movements so light and elegant it seems like he’s floating, the wind carrying him to his most devoted worshiper. The smile never leaves his lips, teeth like pearls scattered in his palms, everything inside Beomgyu melting in seconds.
“I was waiting.”
Beomgyu furrows his eyebrows. "For what?"
"For you to ask me."
“You were?”
“Yes, my dear painter,” he replies, moving a little closer. Close to the point of Beomgyu feeling the robes hit his heels, but far where he can still think straight. Taehyun's closeness leaves him breathless, at the same time that Taehyun's awayness makes him ache for closeness so he can breathe properly — it doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense ever since he stepped foot on the Kang manor.
"Why?"
"I expect you to ask me things, always. Things about me, meanings to my words, anything." Taehyun sighs, adding in a low tone, "It makes me think that you could be interested in me too, even if just a little bit."
He holds his breath. There it is again, hope spreading through him once again. Ever since that night he showed up at Taehyun's room with the excuse of starting the portrait, all words that leaves Taehyun's mouth sounds like a veiled confession, sometimes so direct it makes Beomgyu's heart beat faster and faster, the pound in his ears the only thing he can hear. Taehyun is acting without prudence, not caring that Beomgyu will leave the moment the portrait is finished — which won't be long.
Beomgyu looks down at his feet, disappearing amidst the multi-colored wildflowers and tall grass. "Taehyun, you shouldn't—"
"Don't say it," he interrupts. Sounds like a warning, but his voice isn't harsh. "Let me fantasize that things are easy, that you're equally interested in me. Would you give me that?"
"But I am interested," Beomgyu breathes out, desperation flooding his tone. It's suffocating the thought of Taehyun thinking he isn't equally wanted by him, his stomach clenches and turns into a hundred knots in his gut.
"Then why do you act so cautiously around me?"
"Because we shouldn't be together. Not like this ," he whispers.
"Who said we shouldn't?" Taehyun raises a brow.
"No one," Beomgyu replies, mouth becoming dry under Taehyun's gaze. "But I think—"
"If no one said, then why do you keep acting like someone is stopping you from doing what you want?"
"Because what I want isn't something I can have," he admits in another whisper. "It's not mine for me to have it."
Beomgyu isn't one to belittle himself, to put himself lower than what society already does to him, but he knows exactly his place is in the Kang manor. It's not being Taehyun's lover, isn't laying next to him and tasting something that isn't rightfully his. For the first time in his life, Beomgyu doesn't feel worthy. Of such feelings, such desires, such wants for this young lord.
"Beomgyu," Taehyun calls, a melody in his ears. "Do you want me?"
Taehyun's voice is an echo in the open field, in Beomgyu's ears. The words throb like a fresh scratch on his exposed skin, a low hiss leaving his throat. Yes, I want you more than I can understand. It's on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't let them slip away. A statement that once is left in the open, it's gonna make his heart stop. Beomgyu knows the power Taehyun's beauty has over him, he admitted minutes ago that he desires him equally. And Taehyun knows all this, he's aware of what's in Beomgyu's heart — an open book for him to flip through whenever he wants. Still, he keeps waiting, longing for confirmations that Beomgyu cannot give in words.
"I want you," Taehyun continues. "Unconditionally and irrevocably." He doesn't get anything from Beomgyu, but it's not like he needs words. The truth is all over the young painter's face. "There is no one I want in my life as much as I want you. No other man stirs my curiosity as you do, no other man burns embers of desire inside me as you do, no other man keeps me up all night thinking about what it’d be like to be kissed. I don’t think you understand what you caused in me ever since I first saw you.”
Beomgyu wants to shout. To the winds, to the open field, to all the servants in the manor. He feels the same, his insides burn with overwhelming desire to be in Taehyun’s arms all the time, to be the one Taehyun’s eyes search for in a place full of people, to taste raspberries directly from his lips, to be drunk from his lavender smell, to be the one who spends days and nights in Taehyun’s mind. He bites his lips, words slowly dying in his throat. Beomgyu doesn’t know how to deal with this, he never had to deal with feelings like this, never felt anything like this back in Gongju. It’s lacerating, dealing with feelings so intense that it turns him into a useless mess. Beomgyu can do nothing but listen to Taehyun’s confession and feel the wind pinch his cheeks to tell him he’s not dreaming.
“Taehyun,” he tries, voice coming choked out. “Taehyun, I feel—”
Taehyun puts his index finger on Beomgyu’s lips, shutting him up. “There’s no need.”
He’s close, lavender filling his nostrils like a warning, an omen of something that’s about to happen. Taehyun’s hands could touch Beomgyu’s body if he wanted — and Beomgyu longs for this touch, longs for any touch coming from Taehyun’s soft hands. He hadn’t known he needed to have Taehyun always this close since that night, body clamoring for him, mind calling out Taehyun’s name like a prayer.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Taehyun’s hands slowly cradling Beomgyu’s face. He feels the cut stem of the flower Taehyun’s holding run across his cheek. It’s rough, but the softness of Taehyun’s hands makes him ignore it. “I want you to tell me only when you’re sure, not because I’ve said what I feel,” he says, thumbs caressing skin, warmth against coldness. “My feelings will remain in the same place until yours comes to meet mine. I’ll be waiting, today, tomorrow, a hundred years, Beomgyu.”
Beomgyu feels the sudden urge to be kissed, to be enveloped in Taehyun’s softness in all the ways the young lord can give him. He can almost taste the tea Taehyun’s drunk before in his own mouth, raspberry and cranberry, sweet and sour at the same time. The urge increases tenfold when Taehyun brings his face closer, the warning of a kiss that is about to happen. Beomgyu closes his eyes, but doesn’t feel lips on his, only the gentle caress in his cheeks. He doesn’t open his eyes, fears that he’ll beg Taehyun to kiss him in a very undignified way.
“I would like to kiss you,” Taehyun whispers, a sweet sigh floating in the little space left between them. “I want to kiss you. Right now.”
“I’m at your service, Lord Taehyun.”
Beomgyu waits and waits. Waiting once again for a brushing of lips that never comes. He feels the hands pull away from his face, holding back the whimper that tries to escape his lips at the loss of warmth. Beomgyu wants Taehyun to keep close, keep touching him, keep filling his mind with hope and lavender and raspberries — wants him to finally kiss him, to finally cease the annoying itch.
Nothing happens.
He opens his eyes to see Taehyun a little farther, he could pull him back and cross that almost invisible line between them, but he doesn’t do it. He doesn’t want the kiss to be something forced, something coming only from him, even if Taehyun said he wants to kiss him as much as Beomgyu wants. If Taehyun has pulled away, there must be a reason for it. Beomgyu looks puzzled at him, waiting for the young lord to tell him his reasons — to change his mind and come back to him.
“I don’t want you to kiss me out of obligation,” Taehyun says, answering the question hanging over Beomgyu’s head. “I don’t want you to kiss me because I’m a lord, because of my title and my family’s name, because I’m of a higher class,” he sighs, dropping the flower on the grass. “I don’t want you to be at my service as if you’re hired to be my lover, to kiss me and tell me what I want to hear whenever I ask you. You must want it, as much as I do.”
Taehyun is too far away when Beomgyu finally manages to arrange words in his mind into something coherent. To be able to say that he wants him the same way, that he’d never kiss Taehyun just because of his title, that he’d never treat his feelings for him as an obligation. But the moment is gone, forgotten in this open field just like the flower Taehyun dropped somewhere in the grass.
When night falls, Beomgyu is in Taehyun’s room again, brush in hand and silk parchment with the nearly finished portrait stretched on the floor. He's kneeled, silently painting the young lord's dark robes, the same color he used on the first day they met. Beomgyu pretends, but he's restless; his mind, his eyes, his hands, trying to stray from his task. Taehyun no longer stands by the window like the past nights, Beomgyu doesn't need him to pose for the portrait, but he misses the glimpses he could've gotten whenever he lifts his head. Taehyun isn't in his focal point like this, he's behind him, sipping tea and pacing back and forth while looking at the portrait — looking at Beomgyu, watching the top of his soft, dark brown hair, hands tingling with want to touch them.
Tonight, Taehyun is drinking tea with a strong smell, not the usual lavender or chamomile the servants bring him before bed. The smell fills the room, suffocating until Beomgyu's mind is hazy. He knows the teas are made to help Taehyun sleep, since his insomnia makes him stay awake until sunrise. Beomgyu wishes he could stay awake with him at these times, staying close until Taehyun falls asleep in his arms. He shakes his head vigorously, this isn't the time to have such thoughts.
He runs the brush lightly over the silk, coloring Taehyun's robe the darkest blue he could make. He would've liked to paint it light blue, like the robes he was wearing in the afternoon, but it's too late to change. Maybe in a drawing made just for him to remember, Beomgyu will paint Taehyun in light blue as he wishes. Between brushstrokes, he lifts his head to come face to face with Taehyun sitting near the window, long hair falling on his shoulders like a veil, pale moonlight shining at one of their lost stars.
"You're quiet, My Lord," Beomgyu murmurs, lowering his head back to the painting. He doesn't use Taehyun's name on purpose, to see if he can get any reaction out of him. Since the evening walk, Taehyun has been strangely quiet, a consequence of Beomgyu's wrong choice of words.
Taehyun drinks from his cup. "I thought the silence would help you concentrate better."
"Your voice helps me concentrate more than your silence."
"I'm sure it'll hinder more than help."
"I beg to differ," Beomgyu retorts, briefly raising his gaze before painting another stroke of blue. "Those few words alone have already helped me focus more than the silence from before."
"Since you wish to hear my voice so much," he scoffs, putting his empty cup down next to his feet. "Tell me, what you intend to do when you finish the portrait."
"I thought I would hear your voice, not mine," Beomgyu mocks, ducking his head to hide a laugh.
Taehyun's lips twist. "What if I want to hear your voice instead of mine?"
"Then we'll reach a dead end, My Lord."
"Let's make a deal," Taehyun proposes, raising a brow.
Beomgyu hums. "I'm all ears."
"You answer what I asked you, and I'll tell you something in return. Both talk, both win," he says, tapping fingers on his thigh, slightly uneasy.
"Sounds fair," Beomgyu shrugs. "Let me see…" he bites his free thumb in thought. When he lifts his head to look at Taehyun, his eyes are already set com him, motionless and focused on the painter's kneeled figure. Beomgyu clears his throat before continuing, "I'll probably leave the day before, as agreed. I still don't know how I'll get back to Gongju, but that can be easily solved with the amount of money I'll receive."
Taehyun clicks his tongue, a crease in his forehead. "You're just going to leave?"
"Yes," he replies sincerely, swallowing the lump in his throat. "What else do I have here?"
"There's a lot of things in Hanyang," Taehyun breathes out. "Many things for you to see and do, Beomgyu. Maybe this is the only chance you'll have to see this place."
"Now that I think about it, there's a few things I wish to do before I leave." Beomgyu licks his lips, looking at Taehyun's portrait instead of the real Taehyun a few steps away — it's easier to confide to the Taehyun he made, the one that has the same eyes but can't affect his as much as the real ones.
"Care to tell me?"
"Unfortunately, My Lord, none of the things I wish to do technically involve Hanyang."
Taehyun frowns. "Is that so?"
Beomgyu smirks, the surprise and confusion in Taehyun's voice amusing to his ears. "The things I want to do involve a person," he says, leaning in until his fingers touch Taehyun's painted cheek in the portrait. It's not as soft as the young lord's skin, but he keeps running his finger lightly over it, tracing tiny circles as he'd do to Taehyun's cheeks if he ever has the chance.
"Would you mind telling me who this person is?" Taehyun asks, voice low and hesitant.
"It's someone very special. A young lord, from a noble family, very important here in the capital." His finger moves toward the eyes made of ink. A touch so delicate it's almost as if his finger isn't touching the material, fearing he'll damage the paintwork if he applies pressure. "It's someone who has caught my attention ever since the day I arrived. His beauty is a delight to the eyes and his words torment my dreams and thoughts, but not in a bad way. Nothing this lord does is in a bad way. I dare say I even enjoy having him in my mind all the time. It makes me feel…" he stops, trying to find words but coming empty handed. "Things. He makes me feel things I've never felt before."
It's freeing, to finally admit what’s been inside him for almost months. His feelings for Taehyun grew seemily faster, like flowers blooming in spring, coloring his insides in shades that brings him feelings he thought he couldn’t understand before — he’s still unsure about their extent, uneasiness crawling between the flowers but never making him doubt what he feels for Taehyun. It’s love, a beautiful rose with no thorns, something so precious and fragile that he keeps inside a porcelain vase so nothing happens. It’s love, and Beomgyu never felt something so exhilarating and frightening at the same time.
A small smile appears in the corners of Taehyun’s lips. He doesn’t need to hear his name to know that Beomgyu is talking about him. “This lord is a very lucky person,” he comments.
“Don’t fool yourself,” Beomgyu says, shaking his head. “I’m the lucky one to have a young lord like him blooming feelings so intense for me,” he continues, suddenly breathless at the idea that Taehyun’s feelings are so real that he can feel it under his gaze. Beomgyu’s fingers stop close to the lips drawn, he trembles at the thought of touching Taehyun’s lips — he trembles because his body knows that he shouldn’t touch those lips, shouldn’t think of touching them. “He even said he’d wait until I could tell him how I feel, he’s so understanding that leaves me nervous. I was a fool back then, couldn’t even say anything at that time.” He stops, sighing. “Feelings are strange things, don’t you think, Taehyun?”
“There’s no more peculiar thing in our world than feelings, whatever they may be.” Taehyun hums, looking out the window. “But I must admit that desire and love are ones that fascinate me profoundly.”
“They scare me, actually,” Beomgyu chuckles, words flowing easily out of his mouth. It’s a conversation like any other, almost as if they’re not confessing their feelings for each other. It’s always easy with Taehyun, especially inside closed doors. “How will I see the fine line between them when love and desire walk hand in hand? How will I cut one off without cutting both?”
Taehyun turns back to look at Beomgyu, eyes gleaming — Beomgyu’s favorite stars, it always feels like he’s stargazing whenever he stares at Taehyun’s eyes. “You don’t have to cut any of them. They walk together so no one can separate them. Desire can turn into love and vice versa, they’re the same side of a coin.”
Beomgyu is no longer sure what direction their conversation is going now, but he doesn’t care where his feet are taking him, as long as he gets somewhere — especially if the place is where Taehyun and his feelings are waiting for him. Getting lost in Taehyun, that’s where Beomgyu’s feet are leading him to.
“What would you do, if my desire became love?” He asks, breathing heavily, lungs collapsing and begging for air. Taehyun’s intense gaze on him is drawing all the air out of him with each word they exchange in this strange conversation.
“That depends on you.” Taehyun rests his chin on his palm. “Is your love an obligation or something you feel because you want to?”
He looks away, another deep breath, always breathing, always breathless. He knew eventually it’d revolve around Taehyun thinking Beomgyu’s feelings are out of a non-existent obligation. He turns his attention back to the portrait, fingers moving away from the face, picking his brush again, painting the rest of Taehyun’s dark blue robes. A river at night, for him to drown and forget those damn words he said earlier in the garden. Beomgyu would never do anything to Taehyun that wasn’t on his own volition, not even think about his image if it wasn’t something he desires so much. Words are piling up in his throat, trying to break free, trying to prevent Taehyun to keep thinking about him like that, trying to save something that can still be fixed.
“This afternoon, I didn’t get the chance to say something to you,” Beomgyu begins, fingers trembling slightly as he holds the brush tightly without running it on the silk. “But if I were to kiss you someday, it’d never be out of obligation or because of your social status. I truly long to kiss you too, just as I have longed for your touch since the night we started our meetings.”
“What’s stopping you?” Taehyun asks, brows furrowed. “Why do you keep longing for something you can have?”
“Taehyun,” he breathes, closing his eyes. “There are things I don’t feel worthy of having. One of those things is your feelings, doesn’t matter if it’s your desire or your love. To be honest, anything you’re willing to give me, I don’t feel worthy of having it.”
There’s silence in the room, deafening, suffocating. Beomgyu feels his throat tighten until his lungs collapse once again. The room seems too small, too stuffy, compressing itself around the painter until he can’t move a muscle. Through the silence, he hears Taehyun’s clothes moving, he keeps his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to see him. He hears the silk parchment being slid away from him, Taehyun’s body getting impossibly close, knees touching, electrifying. He shudders when hands touch his own, gently taking the brush away and dropping it somewhere, not afraid of paint getting on the floor. Beomgyu opens his eyes slowly against his will, losing all control over his body with Taehyun this close. The young lord is kneeled in front of him, body bent over, mouth moving closer to Beomgyu’s hands. He lets out a gasp when Taehyun’s soft, warm lips kiss him with the same delicacy from that night months ago — it’s deja-vu, that night happening all over again, playing exactly like a dream.
Taehyun straightens, staring deeply in Beomgyu’s eyes, adoration shining in his brown orbs. It’s the same one that he sees when people of the village look at statues of deities, asking for blessings. Taehyun looks at him as if he’s much more important than he is, as if he were a long forgotten deity, worshiped for the first time in millennia by a single human — a human that’s willing to show him adoration for nothing in return. Beomgyu feels out of breath, finally staring into Taehyun without turning away, waiting as he always does.
Taehyun moves closer, body leaning forward, hands wrapping around Beomgyu’s face, the same way he did earlier in the afternoon. His eyes don’t stay open for long, a single touch is all Beomgyu needs to surrender, a silent sigh escaping his mouth. He hears Taehyun sigh as well, a single movement would make their lips collide, touch for the first time. Taehyun doesn’t move, neither does Beomgyu. They remain still, motionless like statues, two young lovers in an intimate moment made to be seen and admired.
“Beomgyu,” he calls, a sweet melody in Beomgyu’s ears. “You’re the most worthy person in this kingdom to have not only my desire, but my love as well.”
“Taehyun, I—”
“I would like to kiss you,” Taehyun continues, a finger in Beomgyu’s lips to shut him up. “I want to kiss you. Right now.”
It’s the same words from the afternoon, this time in a sweet whisper made only for Beomgyu’s ears to hear. There’s no wind, there’s no open skies, there’s no flowers and grass, there’s no sun. But there’s Taehyun here, and that’s all that matters to Beomgyu. The place and time never matters to him, as long as Taehyun is in it. Beomgyu licks his lips, this time the answer comes fast, ready to be spilled from his mouth.
“Kiss me then.”
Taehyun’s lips are on his in a blink of an eye, any room for further words between them. There’s no need for more words anyways, they’re talking with lips, touches that burn and soothe at the same time. The hands that were on his face moved to his neck, holding tightly like a lifeline while pulling Beomgyu closer, knees knocking and teeth clashing, but neither of them cared, too busy satiating the overwhelming desire within them, the long that was starting to ache.
Something that he discovers before his mind gets filled with cotton, is that Taehyun’s lips are softer than he imagined. There isn't any lavender or raspberries he so closely associated with him, Taehyun’s mouth tastes bitter from the tea he drank not long ago. It’s funny how sweet words and sounds can come from such bitterness, but Beomgyu doesn’t mind it. If anything, that spurs him to kiss Taehyun deeper, tongue collecting all that bitterness and moving until they’re interlaced like vines on a fence. A prolonged sigh escapes between their connected mouths, Beomgyu can’t tell if it was him or Taehyun. Maybe both, so lost in each other.
Between candlelights and moonlight, they kiss until they’re breathless, lips swollen and red, love promises in hushed whispers and giggles in between soft pecks. It’s enough for the night, but not enough for this to be their only kiss. When the sun is close to peek in the dark sky, Taehyun rests his head on Beomgyu’s chest, their bodies tangled in the mat, whispers of how much he has been waiting for this since that afternoon where he confessed his preferences. Beomgyu chuckles, dozing off at the sound of Taehyun’s soft voice talking, a lullaby he didn’t know he needed to hear until now. Taehyun lifts himself, staring at Beomgyu’s blissed and sleepy figure, adoration never leaving his eyes. He leans in, soft kisses on his lover’s forehead, his eyes, the tip of his nose, his cheeks, the corner of his lips, his jaw, the moles in his neck. He kisses him one last time on the mouth without warning, passionately and calm, smiling in between.
Before sleep can come to claim him, Beomgyu has the final thought that maybe he’s worthy of anything Taehyun wants to give him. Especially his love, the thing he’ll cherish with his whole being for as long as he has it.
Beomgyu rests his forehead against the cool surface of the small table of the coffee shop he visits when he has time, almost giving in to the urge to fall asleep. Lately, he spends more time leaning his head against surfaces than keeping his body upright. He's incredibly tired, he hasn't been able to sleep properly for a month, working non-stop on the conservation of the unknown man portrait. This is the first day off he has, sleep is overwhelming his body to the point he had almost dragged himself there to meet his friends.
"Wow, you look like shit," Yeonjun says in lieu of greeting, sitting down on the chair in front of him.
“Hyung, don’t say it like that,” Kai protests, placing three cups of coffee on the table, taking the chair by his side.
Beomgyu raises his head slowly, picking up one of the cups carefully, still sleepy. “Good morning to you too, hyung.”
“It’s actually two in the afternoon,” Yeonjun sneers. “But I don’t think you’re too keen on the time, or the passing of it.”
“You called just to mock me in my face?” Beomgyu takes a sip of his own coffee, burning his tongue in the process from how hot it is, the shock waking him up a little.
“Beomgyu-hyung is working a lot nowadays,” Kai comments, blowing the dark liquid inside his cup. Yeonjun takes his, ignoring Beomgyu’s complaint and focusing on downing a big gulp of his probably iced coffee. It’s funny the contrast between them. While Kai only drinks black coffee and Yeonjun has a craving for cold things, Beomgyu can only drink it with milk and many spoonfuls of sugar. “He’s not even sleeping in his house.”
“How do you know I’m not sleeping in my house?” He asks, brows furrowed.
“Soobin-hyung told me,” Kai replies, shrugging. “He actually asked me to try taking you out of your studio at least for the afternoon. He worries, a lot.”
“Unreasonably,” Beomgyu yawns, resting his face on his hand. “I already told him I’m fine.”
“Well, you’re clearly lying,” Yeonjun comments. “When you told me you dive into your work, I didn’t imagine it was in the literal sense. Beoms, you look like you haven't slept for weeks.”
“Very funny,” he snorts, sipping from his cup. He should be avoiding caffeine, but it’s the only thing keeping him awake lately, the only thing preventing him from passing out whenever he blinks. “The new project I’m working on is harder than I thought.”
“I know,” Yeonjun hums. “Hyuka told me that Soobin told him you were greedy and took something complicated, again.”
“Since when have you and Soobin been chatting so much?” Beomgyu turns to Kai, confused. The last time he checked, Soobin couldn’t even hold a conversation with Kai without stuttering or needing someone as a mediator.
“He told me when I went after you a few weeks ago,” he replies, shrugging.
“Why didn’t you go to my studio?”
“Because I don’t like that place,” Kai grimaces. “It looks like a place straight out of some post-apocalyptic movie. Everytime I go there, I feel like I’m going to run into a horde of zombies when I open the door.”
Beomgyu shakes his head, amused by Kai’s way of thinking. “Stop being silly.”
“Besides, Soobin-hyung is giving me daily updates about you so I don’t have to go there looking for you,” he adds, trying to hide the smile at the prospect of talking with the older man.
“Would you look at that, You and Soobin are finally exchanging more than five words,” Yeonjun goads, poking Kai’s arm.
Kai blushes a little, trying to squirm away from Yeonjun’s incessant touch. “Hyung, stop.”
“It seems like yesterday that you could barely keep a conversation with him,” Yeonjun teases, eyebrows wiggling.
“It wasn’t me who couldn’t keep a conversation, it was Soobin-hyung,” Kai complains, lips closing into a pout.
“That’s right, I forgot Soobin can’t talk with anyone except Beomgyu.”
Beomgyu spends half of their conversation only listening, mind turning on and off with drowsiness. He loses himself between Kai complaining that Soobin never talks about anything other than Beomgyu and that he’s not sure if the man feels something for him, Yeonjun badmouthing Soobin for being a pussy and making Kai sad, and something about a new fling that Yeonjun have with a guy that’s working in the museum reception. It’s a lot of information for his tired mind, but he tries his best to pay attention to what’s going on in his friends' lives.
Yeonjun was the first friend Beomgyu made in college, Kai was Yeonjun’s roommate at the time and Soobin was a fling that didn’t go right but that didn’t shake their friendship, both came right after by association and stayed by his side until now. If it weren’t for their silly jokes during exam weeks, Beomgyu would’ve gone crazy and dropped it out in a heartbeat. If his job is thriving is all thanks to them, each in their own way. Soobin helped him study while knowing absolutely nothing about art history, Kai helped by giving him encouragement after he got a bad score on a test, and Yeonjun helped by winding him up whenever Beomgyu was a nervous wreck. Their good friends, people that Beomgyu would do anything they asked him — which is exactly why he’s in this coffee shop instead of taking a nap on the couch.
“So, Beoms,” Yeonjun calls, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on it. “What are you working on this time?”
“Yeah, I’m curious,” Kai says giddily, taking one last sip on his cup and leaving it aside. “Soobin-hyung don’t tell me about it, he’s no fun.”
Beomgyu takes another sip of coffee, feeling a headache come back at the thought of the portrait still on one of his studio tables. “Something I was too ambitious to accept.”
“But you’re always ambitious,” Yeonjun points out. “What’s the difference this time?”
“It’s a conservation almost from scratch. No one in their right mind would agree to do it, not even someone in this field for years,” he says, biting his thumb. It’s something that’s been drumming in his head since the first week, how ambitious he was for letting himself get carried away by a non-existent challenge — a challenge that if he talked about to any of his friends, they’ll think he’s officially going insane.
Yeonjun hums. “But you did.”
“And that’s why you’re better than all the others in this field, hyung,” Kai croons, petting Beomgyu’s hair like one would do to a dog, an action that it’s comforting and playful at the same time.
“Thanks for the compliment,” he says, letting himself get lost in the caress.
Kai smiles openly. “Anytime!”
“Now, tell us the real reason you took the painting,” Yeonjun says, playing with the straw in his cup. “We both know you too well. It wasn’t just because of your enormous ambition or whatever you keep telling Soobin.”
Damn friendship of almost six years in which all his friends are able to read Beomgyu like a child’s book. If he had to make a list of people who knows him like the back of his hand, Yeonjun, Kai and Soobin would probably be in a solid second place — only losing to his mother, because obviously she’d know her son like an extent of hers. Beomgyu is still thinking if it’s good or bad that three people who are not his mother know him this well.
Beomgyu sighs. “You guys wouldn’t believe me.”
“C’mon hyung, of course we’ll believe you,” Kai reassures, hand leaving his hair to touch his shoulder.
“There’s an undamaged eye in the portrait, and that eye was challenging me to restore it.”
There’s silence for a minute, and then cackles. Loud sounds coming from both Yeonjun and Kai, it draws attention from other customers, side glances and scowls in their direction. Beomgyu tries to make both stop by nudging their arms, but it doesn’t work — if anything, it spurs them more. Beomgyu lowers his head, staring at his almost empty cup until the bubbles begin to touch the edges, a tug on his head, headache on the way.
“The eye on a painting challenged you?” Yeonjun says incredulously, wiping away a tear that’s falling from the corner of his eye.
Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Hyung, I’m sorry but how can this be any serious?” Kai says, laughing by himself once again.
“You’re taking the crazy painter persona very seriously,” Yeonjun comments, trying to hold back his laugh by shutting his lips tightly.
“I don’t have a crazy painter persona,” he complains.
“You don’t, but you’re going straight that way,” Yeonjun says, grinning in a failed attempt to hide his laugh. “Maybe toning down the oil paint will help.”
“I don’t use oil paint,” Beomgyu retorts, slightly annoyed. “At least not that often.”
“Even though it sounds crazy, I want to know more about this portrait you’re working on,” Kai says, his laugh finally dying in a last wheeze, eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“So you can laugh at me again? Not happening.”
“C’mon Beoms, we’re interested.”
“Now you’re interested?” Beomgyu leers.
“We’re always interested in your work, Beommie,” Kai says in that innocent tone that always has Beomgyu doing all the things the younger one wants.
“Besides, it’s way more interesting than ours,” Yeonjun adds, huffing.
Both Yeonjun and Kai work at the national museum as tour guides, Yeonjun gets the locals while Kai handles the tourists, their great knowledge of general history and languages securing their jobs for a long time. Yeonjun attracts attention with his handsome face and witty and intelligent trivias — sometimes unprofessional flirting that leads him to tons of numbers in his contact list. Kai attracts attention with his calm voice and funny comments, his face shining among the lights but he has eyes for only one guy. Beomgyu doubts that his work as a conservator stuck in a studio for weeks is more interesting than working as a guide at a museum. However, he decides to not get into this discussion again. Last time, Yeonjun and he spent a week without talking, but Yeonjun kept leaving aromatic candles in Beomgyu’s mailbox as an apology.
“It’s a silk painting, all damaged. And when I say damaged, it’s like it could easily have been found in a dumpster behind my apartment,” he says, frowning. “The worst thing is that nobody seems to know this portrait and who’s in it. I tried photo search, but I couldn't find anything. I’m doing a restoration without having a visual reference,” he chuckles bitterly, shaking his head at how insane this commission sounds when said out loud.
“At least the challenge is paying off?” Yeonjun jokes, dodging in time to miss the slap that Beomgyu intended to give him.
“Just so you know, it’s worth it,” Beomgyu replies, showing his tongue.
“Doesn’t look like, hyung,” Kai butts in, sounding a little worried — just like Soobin, almost like a deja-vu.
“I swear I’m fine, I always get tired like this whenever I’m working hard,” he reassures. “I like working in this portrait, it’s a nice painting now that the person’s face is visible. He looks like someone who would’ve had several people running after him in his time. It’s some model level beauty, y’know?”
“Beoms, are you perhaps in love with the man in the painting?” Yeonjun wiggles his eyebrows, shoulders moving languidly.
“Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you’re really in love with that man,” Yeonjun gasps. “Like that Greek myth. You know, Kai?”
“Pygmalion?” Kai replies.
“That’s right!” Yeonjun snapped his fingers. “You’re the modern day Pygmalion. Except you’ve fallen in love with a painting that wasn’t made by you.”
“Oh, that’s very romantic,” Kai whistles, indulging in Yeonjun’s silly jokes as he always does. “Maybe if you pray diligently, he can come alive.”
“You wish Soobin was this romantic,” Yeonjun scoffs.
“Hyung!” Kai whines. “Soobin-hyung is romantic too.”
“Tell me one time he—”
“Can you guys stop?” Beomgyu interrupts, massaging his temples. “First, I’m not in love with the man in the portrait. Second, Soobin is very romantic and you know it, he’s just shy,” he says, watching as Kai and Yeonjun exchange glances before staring at Beomgyu once again. “I need to ask you guys something. I wanted to contact one of you, but I got bogged down with work.”
“Well, depending on what it is, we can answer for the minimum price of a slice of pie,” Yeonjun says, lips pursed.
Beomgyu raises a brow. “Are you charging for an answer?”
They exchanged another glance, a silent conversation happening right in front of Beomgyu’s tired eyes. “No, hyung,” Kai is the one who replies this time. “But if you want to buy us a slice of pie, we would be very happy.”
“And answers would come out more voluntarily,” Yeonjun adds.
“You guys are a menace,” Beomgyu mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Go buy that damn slice of pie.”
Both men get up so quickly from the table they startle a girl who’s sitting nearby. Beomgyu mumbles an apology before seeing her shake heads and turn back to the book in hands. He watches as Yeonjun and Kai discuss among themselves which flavor would be better to share, since they always have this habit of sharing food. It’s an endearing habit, something that always made Beomgyu smiles whenever if happened during college — is no different now, a smile blooms in the corner of his lips.
He takes his time to grab his phone from his jacket pocket, unlocking it and clicking on the gallery, looking for the portrait picture he took and sent to Soobin a few days ago amidst random pictures of drawings the kids make for Soobin and unfunny memes they share. He finds the portrait in a row next to what looks like a Soobin stick version a child made and three Kermit the frog memes — this screams time to clean his gallery. He clicks on the picture and leaves the phone on the table, watching his friends return with a plate on Kai’s hand and grins on their faces.
“I’m all ears and eyes for you now,” Kai says, sitting in his chair and putting a piece of what looks like blueberry pie in his mouth. Yeonjun does the same, eyes flutter shut and mouth slightly stained purple.
Beomgyu smiles. “I wanted to see if any of you would recognize him from any part of our history. I have a feeling that maybe he was important, but I’m not sure.”
Yeonjun picks up the phone, bringing it close to him, Kai bending a little to the side to have a look too. That’s something that has been pounding in his mind for a while, the possibility of this man being important and becoming unknown nowadays. He could be wrong, but something tells him the man was important in some way, even if minimal. He seems too noble to be just anyone painted by an artist with enough knowledge on paintings — from the basics he remembers from college, it wasn’t everyone that had the chance to have a portrait done by skilled hands in that time.
“I don’t recognize him from anywhere,” Kai says between chews, turning to Yeonjun. “What about you, hyung?
“I don’t think it was anyone important,” Yeonjun says, shaking his head. Beomgyu frowns, crestfallen that his guess was wrong after all. “But it sure was someone with lots of money to have such a well made portrait.”
“I thought the same while working on it,” Beomgyu nods. “The lines are clean and the colors are strong, it reminds me a lot of royal family painters style.”
When it comes to the technicalities of paintings, he knows exactly what he’s talking about. Beomgyu does conservations of ancient dynasties paintings every two years for the national museum — one of the reasons why his friendship with Yeonjun and Kai stays stronger even after years.
“If he hired someone who has already painted a royal, then it must be someone with a lot of money,” Yeonjun whistles, taking another fork from the slice of pie.
Kai takes the phone from Yeonjun’s hands, leaning a little closer to the screen before turning it back to Beomgyu. “Now that I’m looking better, I think he was really rich.”
“How come?”
“See his robes?” Kai points a clean finger at the screen. “They’re nicely made, good material, probably silk and cotton, with strong colors. This means he had money to buy good quality clothes. He was probably a yangban, or—”
“Yangban?” Beomgyu interrupts, confused. If he had to be sincere, he doesn’t remember much of history like he used to in the beginning of his career. There comes a time when your brain accumulates so much information that some end up getting lost in the big mazes. Beomgyu has lost lots of information about history over the years since the end of college.
“Nobility in the Joseon dynasty,” Yeonjun says, mouth full.
“Judging by his face, I don’t think he was necessarily a yangban,” Kai continues, playing with the last piece of pie.
“Maybe the son of one?” Yeonjun guesses.
“Maybe,” Kai agress. “He doesn’t look that old to me, and young yangbans weren't so common in that period.”
“Sometimes I forget how intelligent you guys actually are,” Beomgyu comments, staring at the painting while faintly paying attention to Kai and Yeonjun’s complaint about how he should give them more credit, since they’re the ones with History degrees and are working on the National Museum goddammit! — the last words are from Yeonjun, Kai doesn’t like to rub in people’s faces that he works in the National Museum.
Now that Beomgyu has a small chunk of information, he can see that the man isn’t old. His face is smooth, no traces of age in the corner of his eyes, nothing but the image of youngness. But neither does he look like a teenager, maybe someone in his early twenties, maybe someone who just got out of his teenage years. Beomgyu spends more time than he’d like to admit wondering who this man was, tracing the lines of his face. He wonders what his life was like, how he spent his time, what his voice sounded like. And the thing he wonders more than anything: what his name is.
“Earth to Beomgyu-hyung,” Kai snaps his fingers in front of Beomgyu’s face. The plate is empty, the pie has lasted less than ten minutes under their hands. Yeonjun is sucking on his slightly purplish fingertips, savoring the last remnants of the goods. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Actually, I do,” he replies, picking his phone and searching through the mess in the gallery for another photo.
A few days ago, he discovered something that looked like a secret message written in one of the sheets behind the portrait, worn black paint almost imperceptible on the blue robe piece. Unfortunately, it’s written entirely in hanja, and Beomgyu never learned it in his whole life — his grandparents made his mother teach it to him when he was younger, but Beomgyu found it too difficult and threw a tantrum saying he didn’t want to learn it anymore. The message was slightly erased, but thanks to magnifying glass and his years of training, Beomgyu was able to trace the characters until the message was completely visible again.
Since he found it, curiosity has been eating him up. What if it’s a clue to who the man in the portrait is? A clue to who painted such beautiful art? He has tried to find the translation with Soobin, but his knowledge of hanja is as non-existent as Beomgyu’s. Perhaps, Yeonjun or Kai could be his light during the massive blackout his search for the story of the man is being.
“Do any of you know how to read hanja?” Beomgyu asks before sliding his phone towards the duo.
“A little,” Kai replies, the uncertainty in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed.
“A little?” Beomgyu says incredulously. “What about you, hyung?”
Yeonjun shakes his head nonchalantly. “I have zero knowledge in it.”
“You guys work for the National Museum and don't know hanja?” Beomgyu huffs.
“You work for the museum too and don’t know how to read it,” Yeonjun retorts.
“I work in painting conservations, I don’t need to know that,” he bites back, pointing a finger that goes from Yeonjun to Kai, judgmental. “But both of you work as a guide. It should be an obligation to know.”
“Hyung, hanja is a dead form of writing, no one cares or uses it anymore,” Kai explains, trying to defend himself.
“You literally know latin. What’s your point exactly?” He accuses, turning his finger in Yeonjun’s direction. “What’s your excuse?”
“It was only a complementary class. I didn’t want to waste my time with that,” Yeonjun replies, shrugging.
“Let me see this,” Kai huffs, picking up the phone from the table before Beomgyu could complain about the topic.
It takes a while for Kai to say something again, his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes squinted and mouth moves in silent words, zooming in and out in the picture. Beomgyu spends that half time watching Kai struggle for a bit, Yeonjun by his side is too busy checking his own phone to tease their younger friend for struggling so much. Beomgyu holds back his laughter the best he can, he knows that Kai has no idea what’s written. Six years of friendship has also made him an expert in knowing little habits from his friends — especially Kai’s habit of pretending to know something that he clearly doesn't.
Beomgyu crosses his arms. “You have no idea what’s written there, right?”
“To be sincere, I only understood the word water,” Kai giggles with Beomgyu, handing the phone back.
As much as he’s a little disappointed, his friends gave him valuable information today. As he and Soobin predicted when they first saw the portrait, the man really is someone rich; unlike what he thought, he’s not someone important. Maybe this man is premeditated to be an unsolved mystery for eternity, something no one should know about it. But then, why would someone send this to him and put it in an exhibition in a few months from now? It makes no sense to puth both a muse and an unknown painter in an art exhibition.
“It’s a shame,” Beomgyu mumbles.
“Hey, don’t you have that nerd who likes hanja?” Yeonjun says absent-mindedly, still looking at his phone with a little smile — Beomgyu keeps that information to ask for later, his ears are too perked up with the prospect of someone that can give him concrete answers.
“Oh, that’s right!” Kai agrees, clapping his hands together, turning to Beomgyu. “Hyung, I have a friend who works at the museum too, not as guide because he’s kinda shy and likes to be more in the planning part and everything else—”
Beomgyu flicks his forehead. “Hyuka, focus.”
“That’s wasn’t very nice of you, hyung,” Kai grimaces, rubbing the place. “But anyways, this friend of mine knows a lot about hanja. He’s fascinated by it, he could probably translate that in seconds. Not exaggerating.”
“I’m sure you’re not exaggerating,” Beomgyu agrees jokingly. Kai has the tendency to maybe go a little overboard when it comes to complimenting his friends. He even told once that Beomgyu could repaint Mona Lisa better than Leonardo da Vinci if he wasn’t so busy with his work.
“If you send me the picture, I can show him and see if he can translate it.”
Beomgyu feels a spark of hope, curiosity piqued again at the premise of being able to know what’s written in the message. “That would be great, Hyuka!”
“It’s settled then. It’ll take a few days because he’s off duty this week,” Kai explains, frowning next. “That reminds me, shouldn’t you be off duty this week too?”
“And I am,” he replies, matter-of-factly.
Kai crosses his arms, clicking his tongue. “Hyung, if you keep thinking about work, then you’re not off duty.”
“The portrait doesn’t want to leave me alone,” he admits in a low tone, running his hands through his hair that desperately needs a cut.
“You usually don’t seem that invested in your work,” Yeonjun utters, finally putting his phone down.
“Is the first time a painting genuinely attracted my curiosity.”
“Any reason for all this curiosity, hyung?” Kai asks.
“I feel like I need to finish it,” Beomgyu breathes out, staring at Yeonjun’s phone next to their empty plate smeared with crumbs and purple streaks. “It’s not just the challenge or the large amount of money or that urge to finish so it can get out of the way once and for all. Something inside me says I need to finish it, even if it takes a long time,” he babbles, all the things hidden in his mind running free. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Beoms, I have some news for you,” Yeonjun rests his hand on Beomgyu’s arm across the table. “I think you’re really going nuts after spending all this time locked in that studio.”
“Stop mocking him,” Kai says, swatting Yeonjun’s hand away. “I’m looking forward to how it’ll turn out in the end.”
“Me too,” he whispers, an answer for both, mind still on the paint.
He’s anxious to know what will happen once he finishes it, even if he knows that nothing much will happen. Still, Beomgyu likes to think that maybe something will happen when the portrait comes back to life, when the man is complete once again. There’s a thought running through his head, but it disappears every time he tries to think about it. It’s like a dream — a forest, wood on his palm, lavender on his nostrils, raspberries on his mouth. He can never reach it, no matter how much he tries.
Life is sweet, a thought that permeates Beomgyu’s head. It’s sweet like the scent of flowers in the garden, the lavender tea the servants prepare, the smell of Taehyun against him. Beomgyu has never experienced anything as sweet as his days in the Kang manor, he personally doesn’t long for the bitterness of departure any time soon. This is one of the reasons he stays in the capital, even if the portrait is finished and already in the safe hand’s of the owner — who seems to care more about the man who painted than the portrait.
The reason that keeps Beomgyu in Hanyang takes the form of a young lord, with deep brown eyes and sweet lips that taste like a variety of tea flavors. A young lord that finds Beomgyu worthy to have his touches, his kisses, his adoration and burning love. A young lord with whom Beomgyu is hopelessly in love, in a way he never felt before, feelings he doesn’t comprehend swallowing him from the inside out. It’s scary, but Beomgyu still dives deep into them, seeking those sensations like his life depends on it.
Taehyun spends most of the mornings and afternoons away, dealing with minimal political matters for the sake of keeping in his father’s good side, even if he hates politics. Beomgyu finds it admirable to see Taehyun talking so eloquently with old men, saying words he doesn’t know the meaning properly due to his lack of education, talking in a soothing but intimidating tone. In the evenings, when they’re together in Taehyun’s room in a mess of tangled legs and heaving chests, he asks the meaning of those same words, said in a soft and honeyed whisper in his skin while Taehyun kisses him, never satiated.
From all the words he learned in those nights, his favorite is endearing. He’s not sure why, but it sounds like something that suits Taehyun. Whenever he thinks of this word, Taehyun’s name comes side by side, a complement that can’t be pulled apart.
He’s crouched near the kitchen, the smell of the dishes the women are preparing for lunch makes his stomach rumble, he’s almost tempted to go inside and try to get something out of the ladies. Beomgyu has a nice friendship with most of the servants, it’s easy to make friends with people that are just like you. All the servants speak highly of young lord Taehyun, how polite, how pleasant, how he treats them as equals. Young lord Taehyun, who’s adored by everyone that has the chance to know him. Taehyun truly is endearing, it doesn't matter if it’s from other people’s or Beomgyu’s point of view. Taehyun is cherished, and it’ll be a crime if Beomgyu didn’t cherish him as much.
“Daydreaming about Taehyun?” Someone says from above him, a tall figure blocking the sun.
"Yeonjun," he greets, not moving from the place he's crouched.
"You know, I think we never talked about your infatuation with our young lord," Yeonjun comments, crouching by his side, pointer finger drawing shapes on the sand under their feet.
Yeonjun is something like a mystery to Beomgyu. No one knows how he got his job as Taehyun's personal servant and knows nothing about Yeonjun's whereabouts when he's off duty. He's friendly and talkative, sometimes silent and observing, sometimes explosive and angry, sometimes passionate and giddy. It's always a mystery which Yeonjun you're going to come across daily. He's a mystery, but he's the closest thing to a friend that Beomgyu has here — Taehyun is a friend too, but the lines between friends and lovers are slowly blurring to the point you can't discern.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," he mumbles, trying to deflect. It doesn't matter that his thing with Taehyun has been going on for months, Beomgyu still can't shake the apprehension whenever someone seems to realize that young lord Taehyun is having an affair with a lowborn painter. Fear gnaws inside him until he's nothing but worries.
"There's no need to hide it from me, I have eyes." Yeonjun nudges him, chuckling. "Taehyun seems happier. Shining eyes and smiling all the time, way more than before. I know it has to do with you."
Beomgyu coughs, trying to hide his surprise upon knowing that he's the reason Taehyun is happier. "It could be anything. That other lord friend of his, for example."
"Trust me, Kai isn't even close to the spot where you are," he snorts. "What he feels for you is no ordinary thing, Beomgyu."
"Yeonjun, I'm scared," he says, closing his eyes when the sun burns too much.
"What are you scared of?"
"Love," he breathes out. "His feelings for me. My feelings for him."
"There's no reason to be scared," Yeonjun reassures him, hand on Beomgyu's shoulder, a strange and comforting gesture. "Love is frightening and sometimes painful, but it’s a nice feeling. Why are you afraid of something that’s so pure and lovely like a flower?”
“I’ve never felt like this,” he admits, fidgeting with the wooden stick in his hands. “I never loved anyone like I love him. I know what love is, I know the shapes it comes in, but I know nothing of the shape that is presented to me now. I don’t think I love him like a—”
“Friend,” Yeonjun adds, as if talking about himself. If they had the same type of friendship Beomgyu has with Soobin, he’d probably ask, but it’s not his place. He may consider Yeonjun as a friend, but he has no idea where he stands in Yeonjun’s eyes. “I know this feeling. I understand you.”
“What do I do?” Beomgyu sighs, desolation in his features. “How can I stop this feeling that my heart will open my ribcage and run away?”
“You don’t,” Yeonjun replies simply, shrugging. “You do nothing. You keep loving him, because that’s what your heart wants.”
Beomgyu frowns. “But it hurts.”
“Your heart doesn’t want to run away, Beomgyu,” Yeonjun chuckles, his grip on Beomgyu’s shoulder tightening. “It wants to free itself from the shackles you keep holding it in.”
“I’m scared, too scared,” he whispers again, lips quivering.
“Free yourself from those shackles,” Yeonjun says, getting up and patting his pants. “Your heart won’t run away. It just wants to be close to Taehyun’s, wants to be in a place where Taehyun can hold it.”
Beomgyu mull those words in his mind even when Yeonjun is far from his vision, probably helping feed the animals on the other side of the manor. It was such simple words, something that any other person would acknowledge and forget next, but Beomgyu keeps thinking about them. Should he open his ribcage and free his heart if it wants to be so close to Taehyun? Does doing this will ease the suffocating feeling of his heart creeping up his throat? Yeonjun gave him answers, but they only opened space for more questions to flood Beomgyu's head.
He thinks about them, seeking answers he won't find in himself no matter how hard he tries. He absent-mindedly traces words on the sand with the wooden stick, things he saw on the scrolls Taehyun signs. Beomgyu can't write or read per se, only knows how to sign his own name and understand the few things Taehyun taught. The word in the sand doesn't look the same when Taehyun does, but the meaning stays the same.
Taehyun. Written in pale sand, signed with ink on parchments for important people, said in soft voices and filled with compliments, tattooed into the fibers of Beomgyu's heart for all eternity.
He’s so distracted he doesn’t notice the young lord’s arrival, walking towards him as he takes out his gat, smiling like he's seen the prettiest thing in the world. Yeonjun was right after all, Taehyun is happier, glowing lately, each day matching the brightness of the sun — in fact, he's almost surpassing it, becoming another sun. Taehyun walks like a god, spreading his joy wherever he goes. Beomgyu feels Yeonjun's words at his core, but he'd rather think there's another reason for all this happiness. This is not because of him, it's not because they're finally together, it's not because Taehyun is his. Even if the truth is right under his nose, reality seems too far out of reach.
One of the first things he learned about Taehyun is that he doesn’t care about discretion, keeping things a secret it’s not something that satisfies him. They turned into lovers when the portrait was done and delivered, none of the people working in the manor seems to know, but Taehyun isn’t subtle at all about their new relationship. He makes sure that everyone sees and knows that Beomgyu and he are together, whether it’s from constant displays of affection during the day or loud moans of Beomgyu’s name at night.
Taehyun is not a secretive lover, he wasn’t made to be hidden in dark places and only be seen by the moon. He’s made to be in the light, burning hot in the sun just like his touches and kisses. Taehyun was made to be displayed, a lover that people are jealous of.
Sometimes, Beomgyu feels dizzy, as if everything Taehyun gives him is too much for his body to handle — as if everything that composes Taehyun’s form is too much for his heart. Sometimes, he gets embarrassed whenever Taehyun does something to him outside their closed doors, trying to flee and pretend it’s something that it isn’t. Beomgyu is not used to all Taehyun is willing to give him, not used to being in love and feeling like this, not used to having everything he wants at the palm of his hands. Sometimes it’s too much, but he still enjoys it, acting as egotistic as he can.
This afternoon, Taehyun decides that the best way to greet Beomgyu is putting a finger on his chin to lift his face and kissing him right on the lips. It’s not obscene, nothing compared to the lust-induced kisses Taehyun gives him at night when he’s lost in the throes of pleasure. But it’s enough to make one of the servants gasp in surprise before scurrying away to the kitchen, embarrassed and aghast by what they saw. Beomgyu feels the smile on Taehyun’s lips during the kiss, but can’t push him away. As much as he gets embarrassed to get caught, he becomes addicted to Taehyun’s lips, never seems to get enough of it, like an old man addicted to their pipe.
Taehyun gives one last lingering kiss before pulling away, watching Beomgyu trying to seek more, almost pulling him back before realizing where they are. Taehyun moves, crouching down next to him, shoes touching the sand where his name is written. Beomgyu’s eyes stay closed,tasting the remnants of sweetness Taehyun left in his mouth — today, he tastes chamomile, as if he had a sip from Taehyun’s cup.
"You shouldn't do this kind of thing," Beomgyu whispers, too softly to be a warning like he intended to.
"Why?" Taehyun asks, innocent gleam in his eyes.
"There are too many eyes during the day," he says, looking down.
"I don't mind them."
"But someone might mind. I don't want to bring trouble to you or your family."
"I don't care about my family either," he says, huffing. "It's not like the people here don't know what I like. They're used to it by now."
"Still," Beomgyu mumbles, drawing again in the sand with his stick. "I just…"
"Beomgyu, look at me," Taehyun calls, a pleading sigh. Beomgyu hesitates, not meeting his eyes until Taehyun cradles his face, softly moving to his direction. He looks distressed, eyebrows furrowed and lips down, features that don't match the Taehyun he's in love with. Beomgyu doesn't want to see him like this, doesn't want to be the reason why his lovely face is marred by distress. "Don't you like it when I show my feelings for you so openly?"
"No! It's not that," Beomgyu eagerly replies, shaking his head. Even if his feelings are scary, there's nothing worse than Taehyun misunderstanding the reasons for him to act this way at any display of affection in broad daylight where anyone can see. "I'm just… scared."
"Scared?" Taehyun frowns.
"Forget it," he replies, trying to sound nonchalant, staring at the ground. "It's stupid anyways."
"Beomgyu," Taehyun sighs defeated, thumbs stroking his cheeks softly. "Don't hide from me. Don't keep me in the dark. Let me know, so we can find a solution together."
It's heartbreaking for a fraction of time, the defeated and worried look in his eyes, the tone in his voice, how much he's willing to make this work even though it's bound to never last. He lays with the young lord and stays by his side, but he doesn't forget his real place — a lowborn, lucky enough to catch Taehyun's attention. Still, he's as selfish as someone can be, and he'll keep this going until the bitter end.
"I'm scared because I've never felt like this before," he admits in whispers, the words seeing daylight for the first time. It's freeing once again, saying out loud things that he kept locked under keys inside himself, his shoulders light now that Taehyun knows what he feels. "I'm not used to being loved this deep and openly."
"How could anyone look at you and not fall immediately in love?" Taehyun says, a personal thought spoken out loud.
Beomgyu shrugs. "Sometimes I don't know what to do when it comes to you."
Taehyun stops, thumbs freezed in Beomgyu's apple cheeks, eyes widening and closing in a second. His voice is slightly hurt, a mumble made to be heard only by him, "If you want, we can stop."
Beomgyu doesn't know what Taehyun is suggesting for them to stop. Whether it's the displays of affection or the feelings floating around them — or their relationship, something new and scary and so out of place but perfectly made for them. In that moment, Beomgyu realizes he doesn't want to stop it, doesn't want things to end or change abruptly. He wants things to stay the same, he wants everything that Taehyun is willing to give. He wants stolen kisses regardless of who's looking, hold hands in daylight like bold lovers do, confessions and promises that sound real when professed close to their skin, hold Taehyun as if he's the only important thing in the world. Beomgyu doesn't know if he can go back to the way things used to be, has a feeling that he'll never be able to go back.
Beomgyu makes a decision.
"No," he replies, looking at Taehyun. The shackles open, his heart soars and runs, straight to Taehyun's hand, the place it belongs. "I don't want you to stop. Ever."
Taehyun beams, a star right in front of his eyes, warm and dazzling. Hands leave his face, roaming to Beomgyu's hand and bringing it to his lips, a lingering kiss left on the inside of his wrist. This is Taehyun's display of affection that leaves Beomgyu the most shy, feeling as if he had received the heat of the sun directly on that spot, warmth pooling inside him like a star about to combust. Taehyun could easily burn Beomgyu's entire body with his kisses alone, if he desired.
"What were you doing?" Taehyun asks, still holding one of his hands, kissing it gently whenever he feels like it.
"Nothing much, just drawing," he replies, tracing circles on the sand.
Taehyun stays silent, attentively watching Beomgyu draw in the sand, shapes made in an absent-minded state. His gat has been left aside, thrown to the ground, forgotten in the little bubble that grows around whenever they're together. In this bubble, Taehyun isn't a young lord and Beomgyu isn't a lowborn painter; they're just two men in love with each other, seizing every moment, enjoying every second together, basking in each other's presence.
"Is that my name?" Taehyun breaks the silence, sounding surprised while pointing at a crooked scribble he did.
"No," he replies, ears burning, trying to cover the name with his legs.
Taehyun leans over to get a better look, swatting Beomgyu's legs away. "I had no idea you knew how to write my name," he beams, eyes sparkling like it does with every single thing Beomgyu does.
"I learned by watching you write," he says, turning away before Taehyun can see the faint blush in his cheeks.
For starters, his attempt at writing it's embarrassing compared to how Taehyun does — it isn't as pretty, doesn't come close to the smooth way the young lord runs his brush across the parchment. But Beomgyu is trying to make it look as elegant as Taehyun does. He trains diligently, two pages in his sketchbook filled with Taehyun's name, writing it until it has become something his hands could do in a blink of an eye.
"It doesn't look as good as when you do, but I—"
"It looks perfect," Taehyun interrupts in a hushed tone. Beomgyu can't look at him, staring at the ants walking under them, trying to contain a smile. "So beautiful, like everything you do."
He takes the wooden stick from Beomgyu's hand with his usual tenderness, acting as if he's touching fine china. Taehyun traces something in the sand next to Beomgyu's scribble, shape getting meaning with each light press of his hand on the stick. Beomgyu can't actually read, never had the chance to learn it when he was younger, but he knows what's written when Taehyun moves his hand away, dropping the stick, a blinding smile on his lips.
Beomgyu's name, that's what's written on the sand.
The same name he uses to sign his paintings, the same name he loves to hear coming from Taehyun's lips — be it in hushed whispers, in soft moans, soaked in happiness, accompanied by a smile or a chuckle. His name, next to Taehyun's, mimicking the position they found themselves in. His name, in Taehyun's elegant handwriting, looks like he's an important person, not some painter from far lands. Beomgyu feels important, sided by Taehyun's gleaming eyes on him, like there's no one but him in this world.
"Your name, next to mine, exactly as we are now," he says, resting his face on Beomgyu's shoulder. "Exactly where we should be, always next to each other."
"Do you think we'll always be like this?" Beomgyu blurts out.
"I'm sure of it," he sighs, nuzzling in his cheek like a cat would do to another. It's endearing once again, lovely in a way that only Taehyun can be. "I know you're scared. Sometimes I get scared too, because I can't read your mind, I can't know how you feel about all this," he continues, voice brushing in Beomgyu's cheeks like feathers. "But I know how I feel. This is the most alive I've ever felt, being in your arms and having you by my side."
Taehyun pulls away, only to cradle Beomgyu's face once again, bringing him closer without a care to the world. He doesn't care about the men passing by, their curious, confused, disgusted looks in their direction. For the first time, Beomgyu doesn't seem to care either. How could he focus on anything other than the safe and sound place that Taehyun created for him in his arms, his touches, his eyes. The confession blazes in his brain, freedom in the form of a scorching star holding him. Beomgyu lets himself be pulled closer, looking at the only place that matters: Taehyun's brown eyes, full of love and adoration.
If Taehyun can do it, Beomgyu also can have eyes only for him.
"I belong to you, Beomgyu," he confesses, embers blazing inside. "Do you belong to me?"
"Yes," Beomgyu breathes out, a fire growing inside him. "Forever and ever, My Lord."
It's Beomgyu who closes the distance between them, kissing him in his own way. While Taehyun's kisses are confident and deep, Beomgyu's are something more shy and shallow, but just as affectionate. The chamomile taste makes his head spin, slowly relaxing under his lover's touch. Taehyun pulls him closer, as if they weren't already, deepening the kiss until his tongue is mapping Beomgyu's mouth for the nth time. Beomgyu understands the urge to be closer than is physically possible, he shares that same urge — it's like a burn that never heals, always tingling, always painful.
When they're like this, Beomgyu can't shake the feeling that they belong together, body and soul. When they're close, their souls can finally intertwine until they become one, two lovers sharing the same feeling. Made for each other, each carving a space in their shape that can only be complete when they're tied together.
Taehyun is eager with his kisses, lavish and slightly desperate, tongue touching every part of his mouth in dizzying ways, teeth nibbling his lower lip, ready to take Beomgyu's breath away each time — ready to make him stay for longer, an addiction he can get himself off. Beomgyu doesn't want to leave Hanyang, even if the portrait is done, even if everyone is wondering why he's still here, even if Soobin is waiting for him in Gongju.
He feels like he belongs here more than his own home, there's a place for him here. Not in the capital or the Kang manor, but in the arms of young lord Taehyun.
If daylight is the time Taehyun steals kisses, when night falls, it’s Beomgyu’s turn to steal something else. Unlike kisses, he likes to steal whimpers and moans, feeding solely on that like a creature from horror stories. Beomgyu likes how hot all his nights are, body burning together with Taehyun’s, two flames about to start a big fire that will burn Hanyang to ashes.
When they’re in closed doors, Beomgyu can worship Taehyun exactly as he deserves, as the reincarnation of a God that Taehyun could easily be mistaken for. He can finally show how his love burns, a slow but confident flicker walking through the floorboards. Beomgyu touches his lover’s body with the care one takes with a porcelain vase, a shrine made for him to look after. He kisses skin like it’s the air he needs to breathe, nibbles at it as if he’s a starving man.
Beomgyu is a starving man, feeding only of Taehyun’s pleads and moans, orders and whimpers, on the way his body arches so beautifully when he’s touched, on the calls of his name when there’s only pleasure in Taehyun’s mind. It’s a feast, one that fills Beomgyu for the night but not enough to make him stop coming back the next night.
Taehyun is wearing only a robe tonight, hair slightly damp from the bath he must have taken before. He can smell the roses from the bath, the scent intoxicating the room together with raspberries and wood, his head spinning as if he had spent the whole night drinking liquor. Taehyun has the power to make Beomgyu drunk even when he’s completely sober — lately, he hardly needs a drop of alcohol from how intoxicated he is by the taste of the young lord’s body.
He’s sitting with legs slightly spread, open robe covering only some parts of his naked body. Beomgyu sees it every night, but it’s mind-blowing each time. Defined muscles, glistening skin, remnants of all the other nights — blossoms of purple and blue, Beomgyu’s favorite colors in Taehyun’s body. Desire flashing in his gaze, a lust that it’s the father of all sins of the world. Beomgyu swallows, wishing that Taehyun wasn’t able to affect him so easily. He’s ready to kneel in front of his personal deity, do anything he wishes and wants, wait for blessings he’s still not worthy of having but accepts it nonetheless.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Taehyun says, voice sweet as honey, dripping into Beomgyu’s ears and sticking his body. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come to me.”
“I always come to you, My Lord,” Beomgyu assures, getting close. He kneels in front of Taehyun’s legs, as the loyal devotee he is. Taehyun spreads his legs wide, showing him his growing bulge. Taehyun isn’t big by any means, but the girth makes it up for length. Beomgyu leans in, leaving a tender kiss on his thigh. “I’d never make you wait, My Lord.”
Taehyun sighs deeply, eyes fluttering shut, Beomgyu’s kisses going up to his hips, painfully slow. He decides there’s no words that could leave his mouth right now, hands holding tight Beomgyu’s shoulders while pulling him up, pressing their lips desperately, pouring all his desire into it. Beomgyu like it when Taehyun kisses him like this, his body eager to reciprocate in the same fashion. Taehyun parts his lips, a sweet whimper escaping as Beomgyu’s knee presses hard against his hard-on. Beomgyu grips his waist, something to keep him from floating, hard enough for Taehyun’s body to become putty under his hands.
Taehyun’s always pliant under his touch, giving Beomgyu absolute power over him. Beomgyu is the only mortal who can make this personification of the Sun God bend in every way he wants, molding this powerful body to his will. He likes the feeling of being the only one capable of making Taehyun feel this way, his ego being stroked in all the right places by Taehyun’s calloused and experienced hands.
Beomgyu pulls away, looking into Taehyun’s eyes with the same burning desire. “My Lord, can I have you?” A small whimper leaves him right after the words, the thought of having Taehyun for one more night arouses him. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, and he begs that it won’t be the last either. Even if he knows he can take everything he wants, he still always asks permission to pleasure Taehyun.
“Why do you ask if you already know the answer?” Taehyun hangs his neck to the side, a silent request for Beomgyu to kiss there the way he always does, tender and warmly.
He kisses the spot behind Taehyun’s ear, a soft sigh and legs closing around his waist being the response he gets. Beomgyu pulls away for a second, whispering, “It brings me joy having your permission.”
Taehyun’s confident hands wander towards Beomgyu’s clothes, pulling the garment by the hem until Beomgyu moves away from his neck so he can remove his clothes in a fast way that makes Beomgyu chuckle. Taehyun runs his scorching and calloused fingers down the painter’s slender torso, touching it the same way he touches his hands and face; with tenderness, care, affection that makes his heart explode. Beomgyu shuts his eyes, biting his lip hard to hold back a moan when Taehyun brushes against one of his nipples, twisting the nub before the hands return to his face.
“You’re so quiet tonight, my love,” he comments thoughtfully, but the smirk and defiance in his eyes give away his teasing.
Taehyun doesn’t mind being loud, adamant in never holding back his noises, not caring if people hear his moans, the way he begs for more and calls Beomgyu’s name like a prayer. He wants Beomgyu to be equally vocal, to know how good he’s feeling, but that’s something Beomgyu can’t do without feeling embarrassed.
"I'd rather listen to you," he pushes off the piece of robe covering one of Taehyun's shoulders, running his hand over heated skin, palm burning as if touching flames. "Why don't you lie down, My Lord?"
Taehyun instantly obeys, pulling Beomgyu with him until he's on top of his body, moonlight meeting sunlight. His cheeks are flushed in the prettiest pink, a drawn-out sigh escapes at the feeling of their bare skin touching. Beomgyu stops for a minute, the sight in front of him too mesmerizing for him to just ignore. Taehyun, laying on his mat, eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in waiting, robe slung over his back, his whole body exposed in heavenly glory.
There's something terrifyingly exhilarating about Taehyun's naked body under him, all here for Beomgyu to worship the way he desires. And he does, like every night. A trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses on his neck, moving to his chest slowly, sucking bruises that only he'll be able to see. It's pride served on a platter for him, to watch Taehyun crumble under his classified unworthy hands.
When night falls, Taehyun is no longer a young lord, he's a clean, empty silk. Waiting for Beomgyu to fill him with the colors and shapes he desires. It's a masterpiece, one that Beomgyu has the pleasure to witness and add his own ideas to it. A masterpiece left for him to do whatever he wants.
"Beomgyu," Taehyun whimpers as his cock brushes against Beomgyu's thigh, arching into the touch involuntarily to seek friction. "You're making me wait for too long."
"I thought patience was a virtue among nobles," he huffed a laugh, smirking.
"I have no desire to be patient," Taehyun replies in annoyance, hips never faltering in its rocking motion.
As much as Taehyun is polite, understandable and impossible to not fall in love, he's also shameless, unapologetically and demanding. Things happen when he wants, not the other way around. He'll give control, but he's always the one in charge. Beomgyu likes this side of him, just like every other side of his lover.
Beomgyu obliges easily, never one to extend his teasing for long. Something about making Taehyun wait for pleasure feels wrong, as if he's committing the greatest sin. He strokes Taehyun's chest and thighs, touch so gentle it's like silk passing through the young lord's body, hard-on more evident against his belly, whimpers turning into breathy moans. Beomgyu kisses his chest, taking his time in a torturous pace of nibbling and sucking his nipples, until Taehyun's keening and pulling him back to his lips. Taehyun's tongue brushes against his sensually, desperate, shallowing groans and moans as they rut against each other.
"My Lord, what do you want?" Beomgyu asks when they pull apart, voice tickling in Taehyun's ear, nips and kisses on his jaw.
"I want you to call me by my name," he orders, powerful even if his voice is faint from how aroused he is, close to losing himself. "After that, I want you to split me open. I want you cock deep inside me to be the only thing in my mind the next day."
"Your request is an order, Taehyun," Beomgyu whispers the name in his ear, savoring the way he shivers and whimpers under him.
He taps Taehyun's lips with one finger, getting a quick response, lips slowly parting at his command. They usually use some kind of special oil that Taehyun has — smells faintly like him, Beomgyu's head always fuzzy for the whole night whenever they use it — but tonight, he wants to do this in a different way. He places two fingers in Taehyun's tongue, watching carefully as he closes his lips around them, coating it until there's saliva dripping down his chin. He sucks eagerly and experienced, as he does with Beomgyu's dick when he's in the mood to give the other the right amount of pleasure and pain Beomgyu is willing to accept. Beomgyu replaces the fingers with his mouth when they're wet enough, hand roaming down their connected bodies.
Taehyun breathes heavily in Beomgyu's mouth as one of the fingers circle his rim, entering him at a slow pace. Taehyun doesn't like things to go this slow, but he's no fool to deny Beomgyu's fingers stretching him deliciously and his utmost worry — if anything, it makes his heart skyrocket. Taehyun likes being fingered the same way he likes being sucked and being fucked until he's nothing but a blabbering mess, he likes each aspect of sex. He likes it even more when it's Beomgyu making those things with him.
One finger turns into three, the stretch burning so deliciously that Taehyun closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in it. Beomgyu closes his mouth around one of his perky nipple, sucking in time with his heaving chest, head spinning with all the noises Taehyun is shamelessly making
"Right there," he mewls when Beomgyu presses hard on the right spot, walls clenching around his fingers. "My love, please."
So many nights spent like that made Beomgyu know exactly what to do without needing words or orders. He pulls his fingers out, an amusing chuckle leaving his throat at Taehyun's whimper. He takes a look at him, almost fainting on the stop. Taehyun is hypnotizing, red chest rising and falling, breath warming the room, his cock hard and leaking. Beomgyu can't make him wait any longer, desire is burning violently inside his own body. He spits on his palm, wrapping his hand around himself, groaning at the relief.
He almost comes on the spot with the loud moan Taehyun lets out when he finally pushes inside, back arching prettily off the mat. Beomgyu throws his head back in pleasure, biting his lips to stop a high-pitch moan. He starts at a deliriously slow pace, until he can't wait any longer either and finds a steady pace that leaves both of them breathless.
"Taehyun," he cries out, buried deep inside him. Being inside him is as intoxicating as kissing him, touching him, being touched by him. Everything about Taehyun is too much and too little at the same time.
Beomgyu wants all of it.
"Look at me," Taehyun calls breathless, hands around Beomgyu's face. They burn, leaving non-existent marks on the skin, an imprint that only them will be able to see. "Show me your tongue."
Beomgyu obeys, sticking his tongue out, yelping at the contact of Taehyun's tongue in his. He moans loud and unabashed this time as Taehyun licks and sucks his tongue with intention. The sounds in the room are obscene, Beomgyu's ears burning with embarrassment that someone will listen — it's not a thought that lingers, his mind forgets all when Taehyun moves his hips in time with his thrusts. Taehyun stops momentarily, staring at Beomgyu, eyes full of unshed tears of pleasure shining at him. Beomgyu is stargazing, a starry sky right under him.
"Say my name," Taehyun orders.
" T-Taehyun," he moans, Taehyun's legs wrapping around his hips, tying them together.
"Again," he whispers seductively. "Say it again, my love."
"Taehyun."
"Do you belong to me?"
"For all my life," he says, gasping when Taehyun moves his hips shallowly. "I love you. Gods, I fucking love you."
Taehyun laughs breathlessly, stroking his cheeks. "I know you do." He pulls his face closer, lips almost closing around his lobe. "But how about you show me how deep is the love you have for me."
Beomgyu grows at the silent challenge, thrusting into him again, aiming for slow and deep, something that makes both go insane. Taehyun pulls his hair hard, moaning in his ear, saying his name as it's the only word he knows. Beomgyu picks up speed, watching, entranced as Taehyun is drawn closer and closer to his release. He playfully nips Beomgyu's neck, whining into his skin as he bucks his hips in time to meet the fast and deep thrusts.
"I'm close," Taehyun sobs, burying his face in the crook of Beomgyu's shoulder. A staccato of yes running from his open mouth every time Beomgyu hits the right place perfectly. "Beomgyu, touch me. Please, touch me."
He does as told, wrapping his hand around Taehyun's dick and pumping it at the same pace of his thrusts. It takes only three more deep thrusts into his prostate matches with the pressure around his cock for Taehyun to come with a cry, so loud that could probably wake all the servants living in the manor. He spurts pearly white beads in Beomgyu's hand, plump lips in a perfect round shape, moaning Beomgyu's name like a prayer. Beomgyu comes from the clenching around his dick and the sight he has. He leans his forehead against Taehyun's collarbone full of beautiful red and purple shapes, emptying himself inside his warm walls.
They remain embraced after coming down from their highs, heaving chests gradually calming down, small talk that end in soft giggles before they can finish speaking. Taehyun brushes Beomgyu's hair, a loving gesture that makes his eyes flutter close, indulging in the comfort of being in Taehyun's arms — the place he belongs.
"I didn't say it before, but I love you," Taehyun says, voice sounding far away. "I love you so much, Beomgyu. I've never loved anyone this much in my life."
Beomgyu hums, boneless to move and kiss him, wordless to reply. Deep down, he knows that Taehyun doesn't need him to say or do something, he already knows how Beomgyu feels. And deep down, Beomgyu has known about Taehyun's love for a long time, there's no need for him to say it over and over again.
Taehyun's love is sweet and slick, like honey fresh from the hive. Beomgyu accepts it, would be a fool to refuse such a treat willingly given to him.
Sweet things never last for long, Beomgyu should've never forgotten this. Eventually, bitterness comes to claim its rightful place, showing up on the palate easily after sweetness wears off. Beomgyu was too enraptured to realize when the taste in his mouth changed.
Change arrives in the form of Lord Kang coming through the wooden gates of the manor mounted in his brown horse. Lord Kang, patriarch of the Kang family and Taehyun's father. A man with a medium gray slash white beard, a scowl on his face that turns larger when he spots Taehyun kneeled to greet him.
Beomgyu stays hidden to not be spotted — he intends to remain this way as long as Lord Kang stays. The old man barely notices his son, handing the reins of his horse to one of the servants and walking straight inside, completely ignoring his son, still kneeled on sand with his head completely down. Taehyun stays like that the whole evening, only getting up at nightfall when Beomgyu went to fetch him.
After Lord Kang's arrival, Taehyun completely ceased his public displays of affection towards Beomgyu. No more hands being held, arms linked together, kisses exchanged for everyone to see, walks through the garden, confessions loud enough for everyone to make up the meanings of the words. Nothing, all stopped abruptly like the flame of a candle being blown off. For outside eyes, they're back to being a young lord and his painter.
Now, they're lovers in secrecy. Lovers who knows they can't be caught, lovers who can't stay away too long from each other. It's dangerous, but all things seem to fall into their right place when they're together. Beomgyu is no longer ashamed to admit it, always professing in whispers near Taehyun's neck in one of the many vacant rooms in the manor.
This is the first night they spend in Beomgyu's small room, together in the dead of night but not in the usual way.
Beomgyu hears the soft knock on the wood part of the door on the first touch, getting up quickly and sliding it open. He smiles upon seeing Taehyun, relieved to see his lover, confused because they agreed to meet only after leaving messages beforehand. It didn't last long, one look at Taehyun's face was enough for Beomgyu to be filled with worry and anger.
A large cut on his once smooth skin, blood dripping from his cheek to his robes, dyeing the white in furious red. The same color as the anger boiling inside Beomgyu.
"Hi," Taehyun greets, voice choked and tired. There's dried streaks of tears on his cheeks, mixed with blood and dirt, the face of someone who doesn't want to put up a fight anymore.
"What happened to you?" Beomgyu asks, gently pulling Taehyun inside the room, sliding the door closed.
Taehyun looks at the floorboards. "I'm sorry for waking you up, I shouldn't—"
"You didn't wake me," he interrupts, walking to the water basin in the corner of the room, the cloth drowned inside in the water, picking it all up and going back to his mat. He motions for Taehyun to sit in front of him, waiting for the young lord. "Was it him?"
Saying his name it's no necessary between them — all their problems started when this man came back, the owner of all things around them.
"Yes," he replies, sitting cross-legged on the place Beomgyu pointed to him. "It's nothing."
Beomgyu wants to disagree, beg to differ that this isn't nothing. Not a day goes by that Taehyun has bruises or cuts in him, trying to hide them or give excuses that Beomgyu pretends to believe in. It’s painful to watch, his heart break in a million pieces under Taehyun’s feet whenever he sees more colors made by Lord Kang’s hands on his lover — those marks are not the same, they’re made of hate and anger, things to prove that Taehyun is submissive to his father. Beomgyu sees red when his eyes find those bruises, hands burning to hurt Lord Kang the same way.
“Why did he do this?” He asks rather than starting an argument that will lead nowhere. Taehyun never talks about it, Beomgyu knows it’s not his place to push it. He does what he needs to do, carefully wipes the damp cloth over Taehyun’s face, trying to make it as painless as possible.
Taehyun bites his lower lip to hold back groans when the cloth touches his cheeks. It’s silent for a while, their breaths and the water being the only sound around them. Not an usual night, the silence never one to linger around them for so long when they’re together. Beomgyu focuses on cleaning the dried blood and tears, making Taehyun’s face clean once again. Taehyun doesn’t look him in the eyes, not for a second, hasn’t done it since he entered the room and sat near the mat, eyes only on the floorboards, never straying, never finding Beomgyu’s worried ones.
“It’s his way of saying he missed me,” Taehyun scorns, voice as broken as when he greeted him.
"Did he hit you just because he wanted to?" Beomgyu exclaims, squeezing the dirty cloth tightly between his fingers, a few reddish drops dripping onto the floor.
Taehyun hesitates before nodding lightly. "He does that everytime I disagree with him," he says, voice low and insecure. "It's how he keeps me on the line."
"That's unbelievable," Beomgyu says, anger turning into something monstruos inside him. "A well-known lord acting like a beast with his son. No father should do this to their child."
"It's not a big deal, believe me," Taehyun tries to reassure, but his tone is far from bringing relief to Beomgyu. "He's done worse anyways."
"Just because he's done worse before doesn't mean this isn't wrong, Taehyun," he sighs, feeling defeated at the thought that he can do nothing but tend to his lover's pain, he can't protect him nor fight for him. What type of partner he is if he can stand up for the one he loves?
Beomgyu drops the cloth inside the basin, placing his damp hands gently around Taehyun's face, aware of the way the young lord shudders before turning his face away, the cut no longer in sight. He doesn't understand the avoidance, why Taehyun keeps trying to hide his pain, why he's been so secretive lately when he used to be so open. Why he can't no longer look Beomgyu in the eyes whenever they're like this, truth bare for Beomgyu to grasp before Taehyun shuts the door in his face.
He knows that Taehyun's relationship with his father wasn't the best since the day Lord Kang arrived. But never in his nightmares he thought the old man would be capable of spanking his own son, blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh. He can sympathize with Taehyun's pain, but can understand his way of acting. Beomgyu knows the pains of being beaten, not by his own father, but by men in Gongju for asking for food or stealing in times of despair; he understands the deflection and pain, not the avoidance. It's not his place to force Taehyun to talk, but he's not used to being in the dark after spending months in the sun's truth-filled rays.
As he stares at Taehyun, he notices there's absolutely no major trace of Lord Kang on his godly face. Maybe the soft shape of his nose, but it's such an insignificant resemblance that it's unnoticeable at most. Taehyun is nothing like his father, especially in his personality. Lord Kang has done nothing but mistreated all the servants, treating them as any higher class person does, nothing but lowborns, scum of society in their eyes. When you look deep into it, there’s nothing between the two that says they’re related, except their last name and the old man making Taehyun walk the streets with him, visiting other yangbans.
In the deafening silence, it finally dawns on Beomgyu the reason why Taehyun is hiding, is acting so different. A thing that was right under his nose this whole time.
Taehyun doesn’t want Beomgyu to see him like this, to see such imperfection on his once unmarred face. It’s no secret that Taehyun doesn’t like him to see the scars on his body, the faint ones in his face that can only be seen from up close, the parts of him that he’s not proud of. Taehyun may think that Beomgyu won’t adore him anymore if his beauty isn’t as pristine as he makes it seem. Is something he noticed some time ago, his heart sinks at knowing that Taehyun could think such a thing, but he can’t blame him.
Taehyun’s beauty is the only thing everyone talks about. What would be of him if he doesn’t have it anymore?
Beomgyu turns his face carefully, leaving the cut on the cheek in display, no chances for hiding. It’s not as ugly anymore, just a red streak on skin, not as eye-catching as the scars he saw on retired soldiers at the bar. It’s nothing in comparison to Taehyun’s everlasting and bewitching beauty. No change in the way Beomgyu sees him — if anything, he’s even more in love with him, because now he knows that Taehyun won’t keep secrets between them. Taehyun is still as beautiful as he was yesterday, beautiful brown eyes and soft cheekbones, beautiful as a god. Beautiful as only Kang Taehyun can be.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says in a hushed tone, thumbs stroking his cheeks, taking care not to get too close to the cut.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” Taehyun whispers, shoulders visibly relaxing. His eyes remain shut, still avoiding looking at Beomgyu.
Beomgyu sighs. “There’s nothing different about you, my love.”
“Don’t act like there isn’t a huge cut on my cheek,” Taehyun retorts, opening his eyes and looking at Beomgyu for the first time tonight. “This stupid cut that’ll leave a hideous mark I won’t be able to cover.”
There’s no fear in Taehyun’s eyes, there’s something way worse. There’s conformity, the look of someone who’s used to this treatment — but Beomgyu can see how much it still bothers him. Not the fact his father had beat him, but the possible scar the cut might leave on his face. Beomgyu can’t imagine how it feels to fall in love only with Taehyun’s beauty, and not his incredible personality. The only thing he can imagine is how unfortunate those people are for not giving themselves the chance to fall for something deeper in Taehyun, something so unique and lovely.
“I’m not acting like it doesn’t exist,” he says calmly. “I just don’t care about some stupid cut, or a stupid scar.”
Taehyun gapes. “Why?”
“Because it doesn’t change how I see you.” Beomgyu leans in, a searing kiss on Taehyun’s forehead, long enough for both to hold their breaths. “Taehyun, this doesn’t change the person you are, nor your beauty. You’re still as beautiful as you were yesterday, as you were in the morning.”
“But—”
“Besides,” Beomgyu continues, not giving Taehyun the chance to say whatever demeaning thing he was about to say. “I didn’t fall for your beauty only, it’s just another part of who you are. I intend to love you completely, scarred or not.”
Beomgyu isn’t the type to talk often about his feelings — at least not like Taehyun, who makes sure to be very explicit about what he’s feeling all the time. However, he’s getting a little better at letting Taehyun know the things that reside deep in his heart, what he feels when they’re together, what he felt even when they were complete strangers. When they were nothing but a young lord hiring a young painter, the seeds of desire were still being sorted for planting.
“You shouldn’t say things like this,” Taehyun whispers, a small smile slowly peeking in his lips.
Beomgyu chuckles. “Hey, that’s my words.”
The smile blooms, a rose opening its petals so Beomgyu can have a sniff of their sweet aroma. It’s the kind of smile that makes Taehyun’s eyes close slightly, the kind that makes Beomgyu want to draw it until is stamped on his mind and the pages of his sketchbook for a long time, the kind that makes him slowly and gradually fall more in love if it’s possible — and it probably is, Beomgyu falls more and more in love each passing day. He doesn’t want to see anything on Taehyun’s face but that smile.
“Since when did you become a hopeless romantic?” Taehyun asks, raising one eyebrow while keeping Beomgyu close, faces only a few centimeters apart.
“I’m a painter, My Lord,” he replies, hands moving from Taehyun’s face to his lithe waist. His face gets cradled by Taehyun’s hand, a position that it’s almost natural for them by now. “We have a more romantic view of the world.”
“Tell me more about this romantic view of the world of ours.”
“Are you sure you want me to spend the night talking?”
Taehyun leans in, a breath away from lips he’s dying to kiss all the time. “Maybe we can talk later.”
Beomgyu chuckles, throwing his head back. “I already imagined this would be your answer.”
“As long as you promise me I’m the only one who’s able to see this romantic side of you, I’ll listen to you until morning,” Taehyun says, words slowly making Beomgyu’s lips open on his own.
“I promise,” he says, gripping Taehyun’s waist as a way to prevent himself from floating afar too fast. “For all eternity, no one will see this side of me besides you.”
“You have no idea how much I love you, Beomgyu,” Taehyun confesses before finally closing the almost non-existent space between them, kissing Beomgyu in the same lovingly and eager way. Beomgyu wants to pull away, wants to say that he loves him too, that he knows how much Taehyun loves him. But sometimes, words aren’t necessary between them, and this is one of those times.
For the first time, he tastes bitterness on Taehyun’s mouth — probably remnants of the pipe smoke his father often smokes, and makes him take puffs too. It’s faint, a little thing hidden among all the sweetness Beomgyu is used to, just there to remind him this is not his dreamy reality anymore. He ignores it, swallowing everything until there’s only sweetness in Taehyun’s mouth. It’s ripe raspberries, lavender, honey, all the candies Beomgyu wanted as a child but couldn’t afford to have.
It’s like love. Taehyun’s love, shaped like a dessert, served on a plate for Beomgyu to have a bite. Doesn’t matter how hard he grips Taehyun’s waist, he always ends up floating through bright blue skies on top of a cloud made of sugar. He’s floating in Taehyun’s love, a place made just for him.
Bitterness fills him so fast Beomgyu can hardly understand what’s happening around him.
He remembers being in one of the empty rooms with Taehyun pressed close to him, kissing him hard in daylight as if it wasn’t the most dangerous thing, but burning desire always speaks louder than imminent fear. What he doesn’t remember is how he ended in the courtyard, a searing pain spreading through his chin. There’s an unbearable ringing in his ear, a swarm of bees flying around, ready to sting him to death. Dark spots paint the corners of his vision, his eyes slowly closing from a tiredness coming from nowhere. His body is heavy, he feels sand stinging his knees through his pants, being pushed into a kneeling position.
This is a nightmare, the kind that he’ll wake up from any minute, in cold sweat and panting.
The thing is, this isn’t a nightmare. Beomgyu knows it isn’t because he smells smoke from Lord Kang’s pipe — and his mind doesn’t have time to make the smell so real when he’s sleeping. All of this is as real as the pain in his chin, coming from punches he keeps receiving directly at his face. He hears Taehyun’s screams amidst the buzzing, a beacon in the darkness. All of this is real, especially the bitter taste in his mouth after kissing Taehyun.
He feels hands holding him by the collar, like he’s nothing more than a rag doll left behind by a child. Beomgyu waits for the next punch that never comes, a short sigh of relief leaving him for a second. His face hurts, he’s weak and sleepy, his body begging for him to lie on his mat and sleep. Sleep in Taehyun’s arms, dream of something better than the bitter reality he’s experiencing. That sounds like something nice, something to wish for. The person shakes him, trying to bring him back to the reality he doesn’t want to see.
“A sodomite! Living in my home, a weed in my garden!” Lord Kang shouts, nothing but disgust and disbelief in his voice. “Eating my food and living under my roof while leading my son down a deviant path.”
“Father, I can—”
“Keep quiet! You’re nothing but a disgrace to this house, to this family,” Lord Kang interrupts in an arrogant manner, turning red from anger. “Letting a man touch you like that, a lowborn! You’re not the only one who brought shame to this house, this boy has fault too.”
Lord Kang spits out words like they’re the deadliest poison ever created by man. Beomgyu can only feel the splatter on his face, slowly melting skin until he’s just bones and his death happens in a few minutes. Lord Kang shakes his body again, dropping him to the ground like he’s nothing — maybe that’s exactly how he sees him, nothing but a stupid lowborn, nothing but someone who led his son down the wrong path. Beomgyu feels his hair being pulled hard, head lifting against his will, scalp tingling in pain. When he opens his eyes, he sees pure flames, fury burning in the old man’s gaze.
“You don’t deserve to live, someone as promiscuous like you deserves nothing but death,” he keeps shouting, drawing all the other servants attention. Beomgyu can hear Taehyun calling his father, can hear his weak attempts to reverse the situation, trying to explain what doesn’t need to be explained. Beomgyu wants to say that Taehyun should stop, words aren’t going to change the old man’s mind. “And that’s exactly what you will get,” he continues, a deadly whisper after so much noise.
Taehyun stops calling, holding his breath. “Father, what will you do?”
“Your punishment will be flogging to death, lowborn.” Lord Kang delivers his sentence, completely ignoring Taehyun’s gasp or the hushed talks of the servants. “May your punishment cleanse the shame you have brought to my house.”
Beomgyu never imagined that love could end in death, or that they would walk hand in hand like forbidden lovers. Now, as he’s dropped inside what he used to call his room in the manor, he realizes that they’ve always walked hand in hand. Love is something that’s never satisfied with just one thing, it likes to walk hand in hand with many things at the same time, filling them with false hopes and false promises. Love holds anger’s hand, but holds desire’s hand too, sometimes it walks with hope and fear. Love is selfish, love only cares about itself — and that’s what death likes, that’s why they’re perfect for each other.
Beomgyu finds it funny. Of all the things for people to envy the most, love is one of them.
His execution is happening this afternoon according to Lord Kang’s last words before throwing him here. Beomgyu hasn’t left the room since he was thrown in. Blood is dripping from his nose, soaking his clothes, but his body is too limp for him to move to the basin and clean himself — look at least a little presentable on his last hours in this world. From time to time, servants pass in front of the door, weeping and lamenting in advance from his death, saying how a young boy like him didn’t deserve such cruel fate. Beomgyu chuckles by himself, fate is another selfish motherfucker, laughing with love and death on their private spot to see Beomgyu’s life coming to an end.
Yeonjun comes unannounced, sliding the doors open and stepping inside the room. He doesn’t get closer and Beomgyu doesn’t move from his place, still laying on the floorboards, blood staining the wood in a dark puddle. It's as silent as Beomgyu’s mind, the silence of two people who accepted their fates — Beomgyu accepting his death, Yeonjun accepting the loss of someone important.
“As soon as your execution happens, I’m traveling to Gongju,” Yeonjun says, his voice choked in a way Beomgyu never heard before. “I’ll find your friend and give him the news.”
Soobin. He’ll never see Soobin again or listen to his voice or his squeaky laugh or see his smile one last time. His best friend, the person who was always by his side all the time, the one he left in order to give them a better life. Maybe Soobin can have a better life after he leaves, maybe Soobin won’t suffer too much after receiving the news — he hopes Yeonjun comforts him, gives him a shoulder to cry on for hours, and be there for him when Beomgyu can’t anymore. Beomgyu sobs, the tears rolling down his cheeks freely, reality slowly setting in. He’ll never see Soobin again, his last memory is his best friend sleeping calmly in their shared house.
Beomgyu is selfish, just like love.
“I’m going to give your things and the money to him too,” Yeonjun continues, lips wobbling while he tries to hold back his own tears. “There’s no need to keep these things here anywhere.”
“Yeonjun,” Beomgyu calls, his voice wet and broken. “You told me that I shouldn’t be scared of love, that it’s painful and frightening, but it’s a nice feeling.”
“That’s right.”
“You were right. You are right,” he says, staring at his bruised hands. “There’s no reason to be scared of love. But you never told me it was something so dangerous.”
“Beomgyu,” Yeonjun cries, walking straight to him and engulfing his heavy and fragile body in a hug that was meant to comfort them, but the sadness in their hearts doesn’t allow the hug to be something beyond a goodbye. It’s not a see you later, it’s a goodbye. It’s a definite thing, it can’t be taken back once it happens.
“I’ve never loved anyone like I love him,” Beomgyu admits, the same words from that afternoon when things looked so uncertain. “And I’ll never love anyone like him. Is love supposed to hurt so much, Yeonjun?”
Yeonjun doesn’t reply immediately, almost choking on his own sobs, his arms around Beomgyu’s body holding tight like he could stop things from happening only with this — for a moment, he wished Yeonjun could save him somehow, give him the certainty he needs right now. By now, Beomgyu knows his death is inevitable, the men outside carrying the heavy rug that’s going to be wrapped around him and the timbers scraping across the sand. He feels everything and nothing at the same time.
“If you love him, that’s all that matters,” Yeonjun whispers in his ear, hiding his face in Beomgyu’s shoulder. “And if he loves you back, then no pain is unbearable.”
“That’s all that matters,” Beomgyu repeats, and the words make sense to him. Nothing matters besides his love for Taehyun, he’ll die a million times if it means that nothing will happen to Taehyun — even if he knows that Lord Kang will do something eventually.
“Why did you have to be so stupid, Beomgyu,” Yeonjun mutters, sniffing.
“Love makes us do stupid things,” he comments, taking a deep breath to stop his sobs, allowing only silent tears to stream down his dirty face. “But maybe, I’m stupid too. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t get caught kissing a young lord in broad daylight.”
“At least you acknowledge your stupidity,” Yeonjun laughs, weak and breathy. “I should’ve taught you better about love.”
“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu whispers, taking the last tight hold around his body before Yeonjun pulls aways.
“What are you saying sorry for?”
“For not being careful,” he replies, staring at red nose and blotchy eyes, tears that look like small rivers running down on Yeonjun’s face. He never wanted to see him cry, it’s not a sight Beomgyu wanted to take to the grave with him. “For making you cry.”
“You’re so stupid, Beomgyu,” Yeonjun says, drying the tears with the back of his hand. “You’re about to die and think making me cry is something to be sorry for. This is so unfair.”
“It’s fine, Yeonjun,” he reassures, conformity slowly coming to him. This is his destiny, as unfair as it is. “Thanks for everything. I was very lucky to have a friend like you in these past months. Tell Soobin I’m thankful too, even though I broke my promise.”
“Things shouldn’t end like this,” Yeonjun mumbles, getting up from the floor, one last look at Beomgyu before he leaves the room, mumbling the same thing with even more tears in his eyes.
There’s no goodbye, no farewell besides tears being shed together and the hug that gave Beomgyu strength enough to move his body to a kneeled position. He waits for the inevitable, tries to count how much time he still has while listening to people talking outside the room. It’s unnerving to stay here without knowing when the end is going to come for him, living his last moments in this beautiful world locked inside a room, counting the time while staring at red-stained floorboards.
Between all the things he could think about, Taehyun is the only one that matters to him. Concern over what will happen to Taehyun suffocates him, the type that makes him restless, hands picking on the fray ends of his garment. He doubts the old man will do anything serious to Taehyun, it’d be too suspicious if the most loved man in the capital disappeared out of nowhere. Maybe he’ll beat Taehyun again, cuts deeper that will take some time to heal, new scars tattooed in his skin in places where no one will be able to see. This time, Beomgyu won’t be here to clean them, to kiss all the scars scattered on Taehyun’s body and remind him that he’s still the prettiest thing in this world.
He can’t stop thinking about what will happen to Taehyun after he leaves — not to Gongju, to a place where he’ll never be able to find him.
Nevertheless, he can’t help this strange lightness inside him. Even though he has to leave, Beomgyu knows he’s leaving with a heart full of love. The type he’d never be able to explain completely in words, that makes your heart beat faster and your hands sweat, that makes you want to do insane things in order to see the person you love happy. Beomgyu would never be able to feel anything like this again, and he’s happy he had the chance to feel it with none other than Kang Taehyun. He’s happy Taehyun is the one protecting his heart, knows it’s in good hands.
Beomgyu loves Taehyun, will love him even after his last breath, even when the wood presses hard against his body, killing him little by little. Beomgyu will always love Taehyun, from dawn to dusk, from winter to summer, from life to death. An eternity that will last after everything is over, that’s how deep his love is. Beomgyu belongs to Taehyun, forever and ever — even when they’re no longer next to each other.
He hears the doors sliding open and shut again, quick compared to when Yeonjun came. Beomgyu doesn’t need to look to know exactly who’s sneaking inside, hands cradle his face before he can react. Warm, as they always are whenever they touch his face.
“Oh, my Beomgyu,” Taehyun says, voice broken and filled with the same lamenting he heard from the servants and Yeonjun. He leans his forehead against Beomgyu’s, quietly weeping. It’s not a right sound coming from Taehyun, he shouldn’t be crying, shouldn’t be suffering.
“What are you doing here?” Beomgyu asks, unable to put aside his worry even though a part of him is relieved that Taehyun is here, that he came to give him a proper goodbye — even if he didn’t wanted to say goodbye. “If someone tell your father that you’re here, things will get worse for you, My Lord.”
“I couldn’t leave you alone,” he whispers. “I can’t leave you alone.”
“You can’t stay here, My Lord,” he says, trying to sound as composed as possible. Beomgyu wants to put his hands on Taehyun’s shoulders, comfort him somehow. It’s a fruitless desire, his hands have been tied since he was thrown into the room. “Your father—”
“There’s nothing in this world my father can do that will be worse than this,” Taehyun interrupts, pulling away to take a look at Beomgyu. He knows he’s not in his best shape, cheeks dirty in a mix of blood and tears, bruises and cuts from the punches. Still, under all the sadness and sorrow, Taehyun still looks at him as if Beomgyu is the most gorgeous creature he has ever seen. “My heart will perish the moment he steals your last breath.”
“Don’t think like that,” Beomgyu laughs, too weak to be considered a proper laugh. “You’ll find someone else. You’ll love that person the same way, even more with time.”
“I’ll never do that,” he exclaims, too loud for a secret visit. Taehyun strokes Beomgyu’s cheeks, the same tenderness that makes everything inside Beomgyu relax in a minute. All the pain goes away, only a touch coming from his beloved being able to soothe all hurt inside and out. “I don't want to find someone else. I don’t want to love a person that it’s not you. How can I want or love someone else when you’re the one I want? My heart cries out only for your name, your touches, your voice calling my name.”
“Taehyun, that can change with time.”
“There’s no other person. Beomgyu, there will never be any other person but you in my heart.”
“You don’t deserve to be alone for eternity,” he whispers, swallowing the tears burning his eyelids. He already cried before, he refuses to do so again, especially in front of the only person that matters, the one he should be giving solace.
“As long as you’re here, I won’t be alone,” Taehyun says quietly, equally holding back his tears. It’s proved to be a failed attempt, Taehyun’s tears keep falling from his eyes, a star weeping pearls for an insignificant human. “I’d rather let you take my heart with you than give it to someone else.”
Beomgyu chuckles, not a very appropriate time to do so. He realizes it’s useless to hold back his tears, letting them run free one more time, staring at the tears equally falling from Taehyun’s gleaming eyes. Rivers, flowing towards the same source, two parts of a single thing, two things that belong together. The star and the human, a forbidden love that will do nothing but leave traces and marks. Beomgyu and Taehyun, lovers who belong to each other.
Even if it’s not in this life.
“Taehyun, can I ask you one last thing?” Beomgyu swallows, sniffing.
He doesn’t know how much time he still has left, and definitely doesn’t want to waste it sobbing his heart out, doesn’t want to remember Taehyun for his cries of despair, voice filled with lamentation, tears brimming in his eyes. He wants to remember Taehyun for the good moments spent togethers, talks until the sun rises, stolen kisses under the daylight, the sweetness that only he has. He wants to remember Taehyun for who he is, starkling manners and dazzling beauty, polite and kind, one that anyone who didn’t fall for would be a fool.
“Whatever you want, my love,” Taehyun whispers, eyes never leaving Beomgyu’s since he stepped inside the room. He knows the reason why, as downhearted and painful it is. Taehyun wants to see him one last time with his eyes, doesn’t want to avoid the inevitable. He’s conformed, won’t fight with destiny’s choice — just like Beomgyu, both already coming to terms that this is the end of their story.
Taehyun knows, as does Beomgyu, that there’s no way to avoid this tragic end.
“Kiss me,” Beomgyu pleads. “One last time. The last thing I’ll ask, the thing I’ll take with me to my grave.”
The kiss is salty, a taste he never imagined would come from Taehyun’s lips. There’s too many tears coming out from both of them, Beomgyu can’t even tell which are his or Taehyun’s, both mixed with the same emotions — sadness, sorrow, desolation, heartbreak. It’s not the kiss he wants to take with him as his last memory, but the feeling of Taehyun’s lips against his, calloused hands on his face. The feeling of being loved even in his last moments, he’ll always remember this. How it feels to be in Taehyun’s arms, the place made especially for him.
“I wish this wasn’t our last kiss,” Taehyun sniffs as he pulls away, tears soaking his face.
Beomgyu can hear footsteps coming from outside, shades getting closer to the room. There’s no more time, no avoiding what's about to happen. Beomgyu wishes he had more time to be able to say all the things he feels, draw and paint Taehyun’s figure until he’s committed to memory, stay with Taehyun until he falls asleep and he opens his eyes in the mornings. There’s so many things he wished to do and no time left, he’ll take his wishes with him to the grave and they’ll turn into ashes with him. He learns a lesson in these few hours in the cruelest way possible. When love isn’t selfish, it’s a very unfair thing.
“I belong to you,” Beomgyu confesses while looking at Taehyun, trying to buy more time before the guards come to get him. “Taehyun, do you belong to me?”
“Yes. I belong to you,” Taehyun nods, bordering on despair. “For all eternity, my Beomgyu.”
Beomgyu stands up with difficulty, body still weighing tons under his tired legs. Something tells him that in a few minutes it won’t weigh anything, there’ll be no more pain, he’ll finally be able to rest like he wants. He knows it’s a lie, his heart will be the one in pain as if they’re beating it — and that will hurt Taehyun’s heart in the process. There’s no way to avoid the pain, except to feel it until it goes away on its own.
“Let’s meet in a better place. A place where I’ll belong to you, and you to me. Without anyone being able to stop us, where our love will be free to bloom like pretty roses under the sun in a garden. I’ll be waiting for you until then, my love. My love. My Taehyun,” Beomgyu says, a soft smile on his lips before the guards open the doors, pulling him out toward the courtyard.
Beomgyu doesn’t have time to hear Taehyun’s last words to him, nor to look at all the faces and things in the courtyard. Everything is a blur of light, until it becomes the darkness he was used to before meeting Taehyun. The rug wrapped around his body is heavy, pressing hard against his bones, making them pierce his organs, suffocating him before he feels the first beat.
In his last moment, he thinks about all the promises he made that won’t be fulfilled. He won’t be able to go back to Gongju, sit under a shade of tree with Soobin sharing a jar of liquor, stay by Taehyun’s side for as long as they have. So many promises that will die with him in a few minutes, promises thrown at the winds. He thought death would be bitter, taste the same as the smoke that comes from Lord Kang’s pipes, taste like his deadly words spat at his face, taste the same as Taehyun’s pain whenever he’s beaten. But in fact, it’s sweet like all the moments spent by Taehyun’s side, all the kisses and lovefelt words.
The last thing that escapes Beomgyu’s mouth is a weak whisper of Taehyun’s name, before life escapes and carries him away from all this pain, putting his tired body to rest like it deserves after fighting.
(Later, when Taehyun’s in his room, ugly cut on his cheek once again and an arranged marriage to another lord’s daughter, he writes quickly behind the portrait he said he threw away when his father asked. It’s hidden amidst scrolls, the only reminder that Beomgyu was something real in his life. Taehyun is careful to not let his tears fall on the portrait that was made with Beomgyu’s talented hands — a glimpse of how Beomgyu saw him, always beautiful, always unreachable until they changed that.
His heart aches more than the cut on his cheek or the bruises along his body. Taehyun knows this pain will never go away, even if years come and try to take away all the memories of Beomgyu. He intends to keep them, fight with his own mind if it’s necessary. He has nothing anymore, just his memories and the portrait. Yeonjun left a few things for him to keep as a secret before taking the majority of it to give it to Beomgyu’s friend in Gongju, but his father was faster in burning the rest of things. Beomgyu becomes ashes, left for the wind to blow away to a place Taehyun can’t reach.
As the day is about to dawn and the tears dry on their own in his cheeks, Taehyun makes a promise to Beomgyu, hoping that he’s listening from whatever he is now. He looks at the poem written on the back of the portrait, a hidden proof that his love will remain the same despite the changes that can come with time. He promises that he’ll find Beomgyu, no matter how long it takes, whether it’ll be decades or millennia. And this time, they’ll be together in the way they couldn’t be.
Taehyun knows that when time comes, he’ll love Beomgyu without anyone or anything stopping him. Unconditionally, overwhelmingly, irrevocably, the same way he wished he was able to love his dear painter in this life.)
There’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of Beomgyu’s stomach that doesn’t seem to go away anytime. He wakes up earlier than usual every day, the strange urge to go to the studio and stare at the portrait on his desk for hours preventing him from going back to sleep. When he sits in front of the painting, the feeling burns more intensely inside, making him restless for the whole day. It’s like he’s forgetting something very important, but he has no idea what it is. Every day he checks his belongings three times before leaving the house, the feeling keeps tingling inside him, begging him to remember a thing he can’t pinpoint what is.
If there’s nothing to be forgotten, why does this feeling keep chasing him?
The portrait of the mysterious man has been ready for almost three days, a week in advance until the exhibition date written on the note. Beomgyu doesn’t think he’s experiencing anxiety over the possibility of seeing who asked for this restoration. In fact, he’s not even thinking about meeting the person, the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind until this morning. This feeling isn’t the same as anxiety, it’s not something that eats away his insides.
This feeling is annoying, an itch that won’t stop, a voice whispering in his head in a language he can’t understand. He should be relaxing now, his well-deserved reward after months of working on a tiring piece that stole many of his days and nights. But when he lays his head on the pillow, the feeling that started once his work was done doesn’t allow him to relax or sleep, the portrait appearing in his mind as if he has yet to work on it.
Instead of taking time off like he usually does after working on exhausting restorations, Beomgyu spends his days still stuck in the studio, sitting in front of the finished portrait. It’s calmer now when he looks into the man’s drawn eyes, the uneasiness settling down for a while. The man really is beautiful, it makes him wonder how beautiful this man was in real life to be like this on silk. It’s mesmerizing, he spends minutes staring only at those eyes without noticing the passing of time. The voice in his head speaks louder in this moment, telling him he’s forgetting something, urging him to find out.
Beomgyu knows that he isn’t forgetting anything related to restoration or conservation. He has been doing this for so long in his life that his head and hands work almost automatically, like a programmed machine. The portrait is exactly what it looked like when it was made, the freshly applied varnish making the colors stand out. He did such a good job that there’s no sight of all the damage from before, a work to be proud of. Even if it’s an impeccable work, he can’t think of anything other than this damn finished portrait.
What is missing? What important thing did he forget? Why can’t he move on?
The phone vibrates in his jeans pocket, drawing his attention. He picks it up without taking his eyes off the painting, elbows leaning on a vacant part of the table, peeking at the phone when it vibrates a few more times. Beomgyu leaves his phone on at all times now, no longer complaining as he used to — besides, it’s nice to get a heads up about Soobin’s arrival or about something that happened while he was in the studio. Silent mode is a blessing in today’s technology indeed, at least in Beomgyu’s opinion.
The notification bar glows with messages from Kai, a flock of kaomojis and clipped messages that could be written in single text. If Beomgyu were working, he’d probably ignore them until he was sitting in his car before starting up and going back to his apartment — but he simply can’t for the life of him ignore Huening Kai, it’s an impossible feature for anyone who knows the younger. Beomgyu has no reason to be in his studio, he just comes because of the damn feeling, there’s no work to be done anymore. He unlocks his phone and clicks on their chat, seeing more messages pop up.
hyuka ♡
hiii hyung (*˘︶˘*).｡*♡
ur probably in the studio so u wont see these now (｡•́︿•̀｡)
it took a while, but my friend finally got around to translate that hanja you asked (≧▽≦)
u wont believe it, but it was a piece of cake
at least thats what he said hehe
he said its an old poem, i cant remember the author name sorry (╥﹏╥)
"I came to sit by the water, however the clouds had come."
thats it! a piece of cake
hes still working on one of the hanja, he said he cant understand it yet, asked for a little more time
i didnt understand the poem (╥﹏╥)
wish i could help u with it but i have no idea what it means
answer me when u have time
take out at ur place?
ask soobin hyung to come too (◠‿◕)
Beomgyu drops the phone on the table, deciding to type a reply later. He looks at the piece where the poem is written, running his hands delicately over the dark blue paint of the mysterious man’s hanbok. I came to sit by the water, however the clouds had come. Beomgyu doesn’t know this poem, doesn’t remember ever hearing or reading it in his college years. Why is this poem here, hidden in one of the pieces? Did the painter write it himself? Did someone else do it before leaving this painting to rot? Beomgyu wished he knew the meaning behind those words. There’s no other reason for it to be there if it’s not some kind of homage.
But a homage to who?
Even if he doesn’t know the poem’s meaning, reciting it in his head brings a kind of familiarity within. As if he knows those words, as if someone has said them before to him, recited them in a sweet voice like a breeze in his ears. Beomgyu runs his fingers carefully over the portrait, tracing a path from the robes to the face in the soft silk. In his head, the same question plays over and over again. Who are you? This time, something deep tells him he knows who this man is, but he doesn’t remember ever seeing someone with a face like this.
Careful fingers draw the shape of the lips, the soft nose, the almond eyes that now urge Beomgyu to find out who he is — it’s no longer challenging him as it did before, the mischief turned into something inquisitive. His fingers tingle, the feeling so similar to touching someone’s face in real life. Beomgyu almost feels like he’s touching this man’s real face, body knowing exactly every nook and cranny of this face, mapping out paths, acting on pure instinct.
Taehyun.
Beomgyu pulls his hand away from it, fingertips burning like they were licked by flames. He has no idea where that name came from, his mind doesn’t connect Taehyun to any face he knows. It makes no sense for his mind to create that name out of nowhere. For some reason, the itching feeling subsided upon hearing that name. It still feels like he’s forgetting something, but it’s not as annoying as before. His head is too busy now thinking about where that name comes from.
Who is Taehyun?
He feels something wet running down his face, water flowing out of his eyes. Beomgyu puts a finger on his cheeks, the wetness of tears he didn’t even feel coming. He doesn’t know what made him cry, why there are tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto his clothes. There’s no reason to cry, so why is his eyes pouring out like rain? He looks at the portrait, more tears streaming down, his chest aching as if he lost someone very dear to him. Beomgyu can’t understand what’s happening, but doesn’t fight the tears, the silent cry turning into full sobs, soaking the length of his face.
Beomgyu stays seated in the chair, crying all alone, trying to figure out what’s going on with his body. Who is this mysterious person for whom he’s crying without even realizing it? Why does his heart hurt so much? Why does it feel like he lost someone he loved?
Who is Taehyun?
Beomgyu is wearing his best attire for tonight, walking through the place where his restored piece is on display, a maze of white and other paintings. It’s the last day of a special exhibition of conserved pieces of the Joseon dynasty that were never seen before. Apparently, the portrait of the unknown man is quite famous among the visitors — at least, that’s what one of the people in charge of the exhibition said when he saw Beomgyu, thanking him for the well done restoration. No one still knows where it came from or who made it, and perhaps it’s better that things remain this way. Some mysteries aren’t made to be discovered after all.
He stops in front of the portrait, hanging safely on one of the walls, fluorescent white lights shining on it. Like this, it’s remarkable how much work Beomgyu has put into it over the past months; at the same time, it seems that they found the paint like this, done only a few days ago by the painter himself. When he looks at the final result, Beomgyu can help but feel proud that his hard work guarantees great rewards in the end. A masterpiece that people can have the chance to see, it doesn’t matter if they don’t know the struggles Beomgyu went through for the portrait to be here.
It has been a while since he gave the portrait to the exhibition owner, but it hasn’t left his mind at all. On nights before he goes to sleep, the name keeps swirling inside his mind, still no idea where it came from. Taehyun, Taehyun, Taehyun, is all he thinks about from dawn to dusk, without knowing why. He decided to name it like that, a homage to the thing that doesn’t leave his mind. No one will ever find out the real name of the portrait or the man on it, so it’s fitting that the mysterious piece has a name that appeared mysteriously to him.
He’s still restless, biting his thumb while staring at the doom of his existence. Beomgyu still feels that need to remember, not as desperately as before, but lingering in the corners. Curiosity inside him seeks to find out who this man is, even if he has already come to terms with himself that the man on the silk won’t stop being a mystery just because he wants to. Besides, there’s no reason to hold onto a portrait he’ll never see again once the exhibition ends.
A man stops beside him, one foot tapping rhythmically on the floor as he stares at the large portrait, probably wondering who this man is, as most have done since it was placed on this wall. Perhaps, that’s the meaning of the portrait, instigating curiosity in everyone who sees it, as it did to Beomgyu.
There’s no more reasons to remain here. He has done his work, earned the money and needs to catch up on sleep in case another impossible request suddenly appears. Beomgyu takes one last look, about to take his leave before feeling a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He turns around, noticing the man next to him poking his shoulder, gaze full of curiosity.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but do you perhaps know the name of this portrait?” The man asks, hand back to his side again. Something in that gaze seems familiar for a moment, Beomgyu feels like he already saw those same eyes looking at him — as usual, that never happened before.
Beomgyu clears his throat. “I’m afraid it doesn’t have a name.”
“Really?” The man sounds surprised, turning his face back to the portrait. “That’s a shame.”
“I like to call it Taehyun,” he says, turning back to face the portrait as well, standing side by side with the unknown man.
“Taehyun?” The man says, slightly confused. “Why?”
Beomgyu shrugs. “It’s just a name that came into my head when I was looking at it.”
“It’s a good name,” the man chuckles.
Beomgyu nods, biting his lip. He’s not the chatty type, especially at art exhibitions. The silence of the place is what helps engage with art, what makes people look for meanings in paintings that are subjective and aren’t meant to have a concrete meaning. Maybe Taehyun is such a painting, just the face of a man forgotten by time and restored by Beomgyu’s hands, made to make people wonder who he was.
“Wait a minute,” the man says, baffled. “I know this portrait.”
Beomgyu turns to him with wide eyes, gaping. “You do?”
“I came to sit by the water, however the clouds had come,” the man recites the poem that it’s behind one of the parts of the portrait, voice sounding strangely familiar in his ears.
Beomgyu doesn’t want to fill himself with false hopes that this man is the person who sent the portrait to him months ago. He pretends not to care, trying to ignore the characteristic tug of anxiety and curiosity at the possibility of the man next to him being the person who might give him all the answers he needs. But if the man knows about the portrait, why would he ask for a name? Why wouldn’t he recognize it right away? Beomgyu sure did an incredible restoration, but the owner would still be able to recognize it, right?
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in a picture,” the man replies, head hanging to the side. “A friend of mine asked me to translate a poem, and I’m pretty sure it’s this portrait who had it written beside it.”
It dawns on him that this man isn’t a random stranger passing by the exhibit, nor is he the man who sent the painting. He’s the person who translated the person, he’s the person who made the name Taehyun pop into his head. The man next to him is Kai’s friend who knows hanja and works at the National Museum.
“Oh, you’re Hyuka’s friend,” Beomgyu comments, pointing at him.
“You know Hyuka?” The man turns to Beomgyu, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar in surprise.
“I’ve been stuck with him since college,” he chuckles.
“You’re the art conservator,” the man says, brows frowning. “Hyuka called you something, what was it…?”
“Gyu-hyung,” Beomgyu says, hearing the man humming in agreement. “You can call me Beomgyu, if you want.”
“Beomgyu-ssi…?” The man whispers to himself, the name sounding equally familiar. Beomgyu raises a brow, he doesn’t remember ever seeing this man before — he doubts Huening Kai calls him anything other than that nickname around other people. “Just like the painting.”
“Excuse me?” Beomgyu splutters.
“Hyuka didn’t tell you?” The man smiles, watching Beomgyu shake his head lightly. “There’s a name right under the poem. Beomgyu, that’s the name on it. It took me a while to understand, I guess he forgot to mention it,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Knowing his name is on the portrait doesn’t illuminate any hidden places in his head, doesn’t bring him the answer he needs. He bites his thumb, looking at the painting, something telling him the name of the man painted in it isn’t that. Beomgyu stares at the third square of one of the dark blue robe parts, the place where the poem is hidden. Some afternoons, he recites the poem by himself, words running out of his mouth silently, searching for meanings he can’t find.
“How well do you know this poem?” Beomgyu asks, eyes boring holes in that square piece.
“A little,” the man replies. “Why?”
“I’m a little curious about its meaning,” he says, slightly embarrassed by his straight-forwardness. “I’ve never heard about it until now.”
“Well, since it’s a poem it has several meanings and ways to see it. Just like paintings,” the man says, pushing his blonde hair away from his face. “I like to interpret it one way, but any way is still valid.”
Beomgyu turns to the man, looking at him properly for the first time. He’s almost the same height as him, hair in a bright shade of blond, almost gray like cloudy days — Beomgyu’s favorite weather to work in his studio. The man is wearing colorful clothes that don’t seem to match, but looks strangely stylish on him. Beomgyu is sure that if he tried to wear such a mix of pastel colors like this man, he’d look completely ridiculous. There’s a bit of shiny shadow in his eyelids, a peach hue that one can only notice if they looked carefully. Beomgyu isn’t the least embarrassed to be staring at the man’s face to the extent he notices faint scars on his cheek, unnoticeable at first glance.
“Do you mind telling me yours?” Beomgyu asks, politely smiling. “Literature has never been my forte.”
The man seems a little hesitant, taking a deep breath before starting. “The poem was written by Wang Yu, it’s called Zhongnan Mountain. I see it like this,” he turns to the portraits. “The narrator goes to where the pond was, to his disappointment the water has dried up. Above him, there’s a cloud, and that’s the way nature works. Water becomes clouds, clouds eventually become rain and the pond will return to the way it was. All things come back to their original place or state, eventually.”
Beomgyu has not once thought about the poem like this. To him, it was a bunch of words that should mean something deeper that his mind wouldn't understand no matter how much he wanted. He wonders how this man managed to get such meaning, how the words opened up so he could decipher them smoothly. Perhaps being bad at literature made things a little bit harder for Beomgyu — along with the fact that he knows absolutely nothing about hanja.
“That’s a nice way to see it,” Beomgyu comments, slightly embarrassed that he had no opinions to share at all over this topic. “I wonder what that poem has to do with the portrait.”
“I wonder that too,” the man mumbles.
They stay in silence, staring at the painting as if it were a magnet attracting them. Every now and then, Beomgyu steals glimpses of the man’s side profile, the portrait in front of him not that important anymore. As single as he is, Beomgyu isn’t an idiot yet, he knows what a handsome man looks like when he sees one — it’d be almost a crime to not notice the man’s beauty. He looks like a portrait done by this decade's best realist artist, a masterpiece who came to life, Galatea at an arm’s reach. Beomgyu would be foolish to not appreciate his beauty the way it deserves.
“I don’t think Hyuka told me your name,” Beomgyu tries to start small talk, an unobtrusive attempt to get the man’s name without making it too obvious.
“We’re not friends for that long, I came back from abroad only a few months ago,” he comments, smiling politely. “Besides, you already know my name.”
Beomgyu frowns. “I do?”
“It’s the same name you gave to the portrait.”
“Taehyun?” Beomgyu says, completely astonished.
How likely is it that Beomgyu thought of that name for the portrait? That casually it’s the name of the man who made the portrait earn a better title than Mystery Man in Dark Blue Hanbok? Beomgyu isn’t superstitious, coincidences are too far from reality, but maybe he needs to change his mind after receiving the portrait. There’s too much strangeness and mysteries around him, Taehyun and this painting to be pushed aside.
“Hello,” Taehyun greets, a big grin with pointy teeth equally greeting Beomgyu. “Isn’t it weird that we both have our names on this mystery portrait?”
Beomgyu couldn’t have used better words to explain what he thinks about this situation. How could their names be connected to the painting? How could they have met at this exact moment, right in front of said painting? Beomgyu could have come any other day of the exhibition, just like Taehyun, and they’d never have crossed paths in their lives because coincidences don’t happen like this. But for some reason, here they are, side by side on the last day of the exhibition.
The last time they’ll see the portrait. The first time they see each other.
“I’ve seen you once before, Beomgyu-ssi,” Taehyun comments, sparkling eyes focused on Beomgyu, the portrait completely forgotten, nothing but a viewer of a friendship blooming.
“Have you?” Beomgyu asks, confused.
It’s shameful to admit, but Beomgyu hardly leaves his house anywhere other than his studio or restaurants once a month with Soobin or coffee dates with Kai, sometimes double dates with Yeonjun when he can’t run away. He explicitly only leaves the house in matters of life and death — such as going to the market to fill his coffee stash that it’s empty since Soobin likes to drink it all the time. How could Taehyun have seen him before this encounter that doesn’t look so accidental anymore.
“I saw you at the museum, when you went to do conservations of the larger pieces,” Taehyun explains, fiddling with the sleeve of his denim jacket.
Beomgyu had no idea that anyone noticed him in these brief visits to the museum, where he usually goes dressed in his worst clothes and looking like someone who hasn’t slept in days. He shuts his eyes tightly, scaring away the embarrassment before he starts blushing in front of a pretty man. He should start caring a little more about his image when visiting the museum, especially if someone as handsome as Taehyun is watching him
“Oh,” he breathes out. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around,” he adds, sincerity slipping. He’s not the type to lie, don’t think he’d do it with Taehyun’s bright eyes staring at him.
“As I said, I spent some time away. Besides, I work on the inside. You won’t see me in the counter or the hallways,” Taehyun says, still kind, still smiling. “Did you know you’re pretty famous among the employees?”
“I am?”
“Not really, to be sincere,” Taehyun chuckles, a little shy. “But you’re quite famous to me. I like your work, I really admire you. Whenever I see the pieces you did, it gives me the feeling that you’re bringing them more life, more meaning to it than it had originally.”
There’s no way to stop the flush burning his ears and slowly creeping to his cheeks from being complimented like that. Never in his life Beomgyu heard such words being said about his work, he’s used to a good job or you did an amazing work in this and sometimes a few criticism and people questioning his profession, but never words like the ones Taehyun said. He feels like a teenager being complimented by the prettiest girl in the world — or the prettiest man he has ever seen. He can only get a nervous laugh when he opens his mouth, making Taehyun giggle, like two teenagers on a first date. Beomgyu internally slaps himself, he shouldn’t act like this if he wants to impress Taehyun somehow. A difficult task, he doesn’t remember anything about how to impress people when you’re nothing but a workaholic.
“Thank you,” he coughs, looking away.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’m sure you get compliments like that all the time,” Taehyun dismisses, winking in a very non-discreet way. Beomgyu he feels his heart beating so hard that he’s afraid it’ll escape from his chest and land directly into Taehyun’s hand, nuzzling his palm like a happy kitty.
“Not much,” he admits, scratching his forehead. “I hear far more that I get paid to sit around and repaint something that already exists, or that I’m stealing money from a bunch of fools.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Taehyun says in annoyance. “Those people are insufferable! If it weren’t for art conservators there wouldn’t be half of the antique paintings people fancy to see in museums,” he complains, huffing. “If it weren’t for you, half the paintings in the National Museum wouldn’t be there.”
It’s weirdly endearing to see Taehyun defending him, acting like Beomgyu’s profession is this important. He isn’t the type to belittle his work, he knows his importance in the art field, Taehyun’s words make joy spread in his veins, there’s still people who think differently about his profession. At the end of the day, only a few understand the complexity of being an art conservator — but no one thinks like Taehyun does.
"Thanks for not thinking I'm a con-artist stealing money from helpless people," Beomgyu jokes, not his best joke but it's enough to get a giggle out of Taehyun.
"I like your works," he says, showering him with praise. "Especially this one," he points with his head to the piece on display.
"You like it?"
"Yeah. I'm sure it wasn't in the best conditions when you got this," Taehyun says, blinking at Beomgyu, an impressed look on his eyes. "Beomgyu-ssi, you probably have golden hands or something to be able to restore paintings that no one else could."
Beomgyu gulps, suddenly too shy to thank once again for the compliments. He was never one to know how to act whenever he got them, and Taehyun is making things way more difficult by complimenting and praising him so much.
"You have no idea how terrible it looked," he changes the topic, praying that Taehyun isn't seeing the faint blush in his cheeks.
"I can imagine," Taehyun mumbles, thoughtful. "And I'd love to know more about it, Beomgyu-ssi," he continues, looking away, acting equally as embarrassed. "If you want to tell me, of course. It's not my place to force you to tell me only because I'm curious."
Beomgyu swallows, holding his breath. Is that an invitation for them to keep seeing each other? He hasn’t known what a love life is for at least five years now, he can’t even remember how to ask someone out without turning into something unnecessarily awkward and leaving before listening to a reply. Should he ask Taehyun out now? Should he wait until they get to know each other better? Hell, he doesn’t even know if Taehyun found him attractive or something like that. What if he messes things up by being desperate and acting like a fool?
“Of course,” he replies, a little too eager. He coughs to disguise his overreaction, biting the inside of his cheek. “When you want we can arrange a date— I mean, not a date, date, but a day for us to talk. You know, nothing big. Just two friends catching up. Well, we’re not friends yet, but—”
“Beomgyu-ssi, I get it,” Taehyun interrupts Beomgyu’s blabbering, huffing a laugh. “We can arrange a day whenever you’re free.”
Beomgyu smiles, even if he doesn’t want to wait another day to talk. He wants to keep talking to Taehyun now, the whole afternoon until the sun goes down, and maybe through the night as well if Taehyun wants to. He’s not sure where this weird desire to stay by Taehyun’s side comes from, but it’s similar to the one he felt weeks ago when he finished the portrait. The kind of feeling that makes his fingers tingle and his body waits for the unknown that’s coming to him.
He just needs to grasp and hold it tight, Beomgyu opens his palms and reaches the unknown.
“Actually, Taehyun-ssi,” he calls. “Are you busy now?”
A shot in the dark with his last bullet, he doesn’t intend to waste it. He closes his eyes and pulls the trigger, hoping to hit whatever is in the dark with him.
“No,” Taehyun replies, taken by surprise from the question. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if you don’t want to grab a coffee with me,” Beomgyu says, pretending he’s not a nervous wreck inside. “We can talk more about the portrait or whatever you want.”
He’s about to turn and run out of the exhibit, hoping Taehyun would forget this meeting. Flirting with people isn’t Beomgyu’s forte. In fact, anything involving interacting with attractive people is his forte. He has his moments of luck and bursts of confidence, but Beomgyu isn’t all that charming on a daily basis. Taehyun stands still, staring at him, blinking as if he doesn’t understand what he said. Worry only stops biting him when he sees a big grin on Taehyun's face.
“I was actually hoping you’d say that,” Taehyun admits shyly, but still beaming — a star burning, slowly but surely. “I’d love to get coffee with you. And I’d love to hear more about you. The Beomgyu-ssi, not the art conservator one.”
They leave the art exhibition side by side, walking in almost synchronized steps as they chat eagerly. All shame and shyness disappear under Taehyun’s attentive and listening eyes, a familiarity blooming between them in a few minutes of conversation. Beomgyu feels like they were old acquaintances meeting again, conversation flowing in a way that’s only possible between people who have known each other for a while. It’s unusual, Beomgyu never felt like this before. Something tells him that he already knows the smiling man seated by his side in the coffee shop, but he can’t say exactly from where. The poem comes back into his mind as Taehyun’s hand stays above his, talking excitedly about his job at the museum.
All things come back to their original place eventually. Beomgyu is finally back to the place he belonged but will never be able to know. Beomgyu and Taehyun, together once more, the place they belong.