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The tinny sound of The Beatles’ Twist And Shout filters in from the open windows of the living room, playing on the dilapidated record player his father never bothered to fix. One day, Taesan swears, he’ll get to it himself. But, as he wipes the sweat from his brow, dropping the rake with a clatter at his side, and glares up at the sun like he could telepathically turn the temperature down, Taesan knows that today is not that day.
The leaves from the pile he’d spent the past hour building up rustle lightly. He should get to this first, before a wind picks up and he’s sacrificed about half of all the moisture in his body for nothing. He takes a look through the window. The clock reads half past eleven. He’s got a bit of time before they arrive.
Your aunt’s friend’s son and his buddies from university, his mother had said the week before, after their previous guests - a group of four thirty-something expat hippies - had shoved off leaving the smell of marijuana lingering on the sheets. University? So they’re all around your age. Maybe you can have some fun too, his little sister and brother had quipped the night before they were sent away kicking and screaming to summer camp, and he had laughed as they wept in the backseat all the way to school.
Fun, huh? he thinks to himself as the record skips and the player abruptly freezes with a scratch. Taesan can barely register the death of their beloved family heirloom before a heavy, thrumming beat is suddenly growing more audible with each passing second.
Not long after, a shiny side-mirror catches the glare of the sun, peeking through the shrubbery shading the perimeter of their property. A fancy silver pickup comes rumbling up the gravel driveway.
The thumping bass is abrasive, piercing through the peaceful air of the valley. Taesan watches with vague dismay from across the yard as the vehicle slows, the music abruptly stopping. The sound of cicadas eventually overtakes his senses.
Park Sungho steps into his life with the crunch of stone beneath the soles of his leather sandals and the scent of the earth carrying upon a sudden breeze.
His porcelain skin is slick with sweat, tank top sticking to the curvatures of his body. His shaggy auburn hair curls at the nape of his neck, framing his adam’s apple as he cranes his head. There is a smile on his lips, carefree and sweet like the persimmons dotting the tree which shades the entrance to the lodge.
The air conditioning gave out halfway , he says, a little flustered, as Taesan’s father greets them with a hearty chuckle and a firm handshake. There are two others with him; one with a mess of wavy chestnut hair and a loud laugh, and another with a shock of strawberry blonde and a shy disposition.
Riwoo. Aunt sends her regards, the blonde says, bowing politely in greeting. This is Jaehyun, and Sungho , he continues as they are ushered in with their luggage in tow. Numbly, Taesan can only look on as they disappear into the threshold of the building.
Just then, Sungho – fox-eyed Sungho, Sungho with his skin flushed from the heat, Sungho whose name Taesan is already turning over in his head, round and round – is suddenly padding back out to the pickup, having seemingly forgotten something.
“It’s fine if we leave it parked here, right?” He calls out, squinting at him in the distance.
Taesan blinks, having fallen into some kind of daze, feeling his face heat up and his mouth dry. The cicadas must be really out to get him, because their noise is so relentless he can barely hear the question. Sungho waits, swaying hesitantly, fidgeting with the car keys and water bottle in his hands.
“Yeah. All good,” is all Taesan can manage before the other man nods, satisfied, and gives him a little wave before jogging back in.
He is left standing for a moment, the pile of leaves at his feet swirling about wildly as a gale picks up. The sound of Sungho’s silky, melodic voice rings in his ears, drowning out all insect noises.
Fuck, he thinks, feeling his fingers tingle around the handle of the rake.
☀︎
Taesan hadn’t been planning on coming back for the summer, but the gardener’s out with a bad back and he had been the only one who knew how to tend to the fruit trees in the way the family liked besides Taesan’s father. And so, Taesan had received a desperate plea from them in the form of a video message of his sister on ukulele and the rest of his family on vocals singing his favourite Oasis song.
With his father out in the orchard for most of the day, Taesan has been left with the odd jobs back at the lodge. Like now, setting the table and serving his mother’s homemade beef stew and watching Riwoo barely touch his food while entertaining Mr. Han, looking like he’s praying between every sentence for any of his friends to come save him.
Thankfully, Sungho and Jaehyun appear not too long after, having presumably risen from a six-hour roadtrip-induced nap, trickling behind one another onto the deck for dinner. Taesan feels his mouth dry as they take their seats opposite from him at the table. His eyes flicker to the light brush of their hands against each other, to Jaehyun’s arm resting on the back of Sungho’s chair as they crane their necks to listen to Mr. Han speak.
If anything, this first night sit-down that his parents like to do with their guests is really the only thing he dreads about being here. He’d rather be in the kitchen eating with the kind elderly cook that’s been with them since he was a toddler than listen to the blonde and his father trade dad jokes.
So he picks at his food and tries to look anywhere but in front of him at Park Sungho, whose hair is still damp from the shower, locks of it sticking to the nape of his neck. Taesan only half-listens as the conversation begins in earnest, predicting the questions he knows his father will ask them in his head:
So, what do you boys do? Law, Sungho says. Have you known each other long? Jaehyun and I are from the same town; Riwoo’s my flatmate, Sungho says. How was the semester? It was good. I just finished my dissertation, Sungho says. Oh, what’s it about? Ah- competition law. The market and such, Sungho says. What are your plans after graduation? I’ll be chambering next year, so I think I’ll take it easy until then, Sungho says.
As Taesan chews on the last of his meal, committing every new piece of information to memory, his mother chimes in, Taesan’s got you if you need anything; a porter, a nature guide, she laughs, Just give him a knock on his door.
Sungho’s gaze flits across the table to look at him with those kind, brown eyes. It is only a moment, and when Taesan blinks, his father’s already speaking and he is spared the prolonged attention. We hope you like it here, his father says.
And when Sungho’s eyes meet his once more, Taesan feels his face begin to burn, and is thankful for the dim, warm glow of the solar lanterns to hide the colour.
☀︎
“You should join us,” Sungho says later, startling him.
They are sat in a clearing by the lodge, fanned out around the makings of a bonfire. Taesan is crouched by the pit, a pair of metal tongs in one gloved hand and a woven fan in the other. The embers burn steady and bright. Up above, the moon casts a pale grey hue upon the halo of clouds surrounding it.
“I’m good,” Taesan replies, clearing his throat, gaining his composure. He stands with a grunt, satisfied with the result of his labour, and wipes the sweat off his brow.
“Oh, come on, we’re the same age, aren’t we?” The other one with the dark hair–Jaehyun, he recalls–asks with a teasing lilt to his voice. The inviting smile on his face is a genuine one.
Taesan shrugs stubbornly, pulling off his gloves, making to leave. “For now,” he says with–what his mother would say–an improper lack of shame.
The blonde–Riwoo–laughs, throwing his head back. “You’re funny–c’mon, sit.”
“You know our birthdays?” Sungho asks, amused. And he could be embarrassed if he wanted to, but Taesan’s own brand of cockiness is one that toes the line between arrogance, hostility, and easygoing sarcasm.
“‘We care deeply about our guests’ profiles, for a more tailored experience,’” he deadpans, reciting the promotional line on their website’s registration form. There is a pause, before the other guys burst into laughter.
It is easy to talk to them about this and that, though less easy to forget the flip of his stomach everytime Sungho laughs beside him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his hand reflexively flying up to cover his mouth. The light of the fire softens the sharp edges of his feline features. His eyes dance with the crackling embers, mirthful and warmer than any flame.
Taesan can barely look away.
It is a misty morning when Taesan guides them up the river path from the lodge. There’s still an overcast of fog from the previous night’s rain. Their shirts become damp within minutes the further upstream they go. The moisture of summer sticks to them much like the mosquitos of the same season; unrelenting and unforgiving.
“How much farther?” Riwoo calls out from a little ways away, obviously struggling through the trek. Taesan and Sungho watch on, perched upon a large boulder at the peak of the second-last hill of their hike.
“One more!” Taesan calls out. Immediately, there is a disembodied groan from Jaehyun, hidden behind some shrubbery down below. Beside him, Sungho laughs, shaking his head with an unmistakable fondness.
Taesan watches him out of the corner of his eye; watches as he leans down to grab something from his pack, watches the curved ridge of his spine protruding through his flimsy linen shirt, the flex of muscle under supple skin as he produces a canister and holds it out as an offering.
“Hm?” Taesan blinks.
“Have some,” Sungho says in that disarming, gentle way of his. There isn’t any way Taesan can say no, not at such close quarters. So he takes it and unscrews the cap. A sweet but pungent scent hits him; pomegranate juice, fermented, something he’s seen his friends at college drink sometimes. Sungho prompts him with a reassuring nod and a quirk of his lips.
Hesitantly, Taesan lifts the canister to his mouth, at first tasting metal, then something sour. It is cold, and wonderfully refreshing. The sensation of it, however, isn’t enough to distract from the feeling of Sungho’s gaze intent on him.
“Like it?” He asks. Taesan nods, handing it back to him. Their fingers brush, and Taesan pulls away feeling scalded.
He feels Sungho’s eyes still trained on him for just a second longer, before there is a rustle of leaves and Riwoo appears, mounting the final ledge of the hill, with Jaehyun in tow.
The moment passes and immediately, Sungho is holding the drink out to them. Taesan watches on with some strange inkling of disappointment, a dangerous pit opening in his stomach. It must be the pomegranate.
After a time, when they’ve all had enough of a breather, Sungho is the first to stand, seemingly invigorated. “Shall we?” He asks aloud, addressing no one in particular, before taking the lead ahead of their guide.
Upon passing the final peak, the trail opens up to a sequence of step-pools surrounded by pine trees and fern. The rocks on either side are flat and smooth, with thick moss growing in between them, closer to the banks. It is quiet here, away from the tourist spots.
The water is clear and cold enough that it takes some splashing around on their feet to get used to. By now, the sun is out, and any trace of the morning mist has dissipated, leaving nothing but a clear, blue sky and the blinding shine of the sun only filtered by the thin canopy above them.
Taesan watches from the side, dutifully unpacking their lunches, as Riwoo and Jaehyun strip without preamble and jump in, delighted. Further up the bank, Sungho is more meticulous, folding his outerwear and carefully tucking them back into his pack.
There is a grace to him, Taesan thinks, as he wades in calmly with his skin so bright under the light of day that he looks like a refraction on the water. The lines of his body are like the few willows scattered along the river, poised and reaching, always reaching for something.
Taesan shakes his head, dislodging a few mosquitos and keeps it down, but it isn’t long before there isn’t anything else to do other than to observe; how Riwoo doesn’t seem to care for his silverware submerged in water, how Sungho sits on a boulder at the center of the pool, studying a rock, the sun caught in his hair and how Jaehyun is right there beside him, leaning in so close his lips look as if they’re grazing the other man’s shoulder as he speaks, his words inaudible over the rush of the water.
There is that ease of touch between them again, as Sungho swats him playfully, causing him to slip off the boulder. But there is also something Taesan can’t seem to ignore as he watches Sungho stare at Jaehyun swimming away, a tension in his shoulders and a dimming in his eyes as his hand goes slack and he lets the rock fall back into the river.
It isn’t something Taesan thinks he should’ve seen, but Sungho’s caught his eye again, and there is something like a plea in it. Please don’t notice. But it’s gone so quick, he thinks he must’ve imagined it.
☀︎
It is late afternoon. The sound of leaves dancing on the summer breeze is like the murmuring of the mountains themselves. The sun is a golden tint, casting tilted shadows on the floor of the common area which reverberates with the music of a piano.
It’s the best replacement he can get, playing the piano, rather than sacrificing one of his vinyls to test the viability of the record player. Taesan’s hands fly across the keys in some amalgamation of a Beatles tune. It sounds wrong to him, after years out of practice. His college flat only has space for his keyboard which already takes up a good chunk of his half of the shared dining table.
“What’s that?” Comes a voice at the other end of the room, disrupting his thoughts. Taesan turns to find Sungho leaning in the doorway. The yellow light filtering in through the persimmon tree framing the window catches his eyes. They glow like the embers of that first night.
“It’s good,” Sungho says, walking in, his feet dragging with the aftereffects of a noon nap. There is a smile on his lips, too sincere for this time of day. Taesan turns back to the piano, swallowing.
“Nothing. Just a feeling,” he says, his voice like two sheets of paper rubbing against each other. He doesn’t usually play for people, least of all no one beyond his family. His music is reserved for the quietest confines of his bedroom and a corner of the internet no one will discover.
“Sure,” Sungho drawls, unconvinced. “And what’s this?” He asks aloud, forcing Taesan to tear his focus away once more to see Sungho wrapping a hand around his father’s dusty acoustic standing against a bookshelf.
“You play?” Taesan asks dumbly, though anyone could tell Sungho does with the way his fingers curl appreciatively around its neck. His nails are cut short and glisten with some kind of polish. He settles into the nearest chair with the guitar on his lap. It looks like it was made for him.
Sungho shrugs, “A little.” There’s a strum as he tries it out, screwing the pegs, tightening the strings. He plays a chord or two, seemingly satisfied, then looks up at Taesan, nodding a chin towards the piano.
“Play something. With feeling,” he says, and somehow Taesan thinks that’s all he’s been wanting to hear since Sungho walked in the room. He turns to the piano, considering the black-and-white of the scale as he runs a hand across it. It feels heavier, suddenly, laden with the weight of the season.
He goes with his first instinct; a familiar tune, slowed, with inclinations of jazz. A couple of bars in, a groove presents itself–he rides on it. He’s on the verge of a switch-up when Sungho joins in with a series of major chords and finger-picking that turns their song into something that rattles Taesan’s spirit, something like a feeling .
They seem to go on forever, the song flowing like the river rushing–until they don’t. Taesan slips on a note, his hands damp with sweat, and finishes weakly, sighing to himself. Sungho rounds it off, the vibration of the strings thrumming in the air even after they have stilled.
Soon enough, through the silence, their heavy breathing devolves into laughter bubbling in their chests. It feels good, Taesan thinks, in the way a jog in the morning feels good. He’s a little light headed, and his fingers might cramp up at any minute. When he turns to look at Sungho for what feels like the first time that day, he feels the fog clear.
They hold each other’s gazes, a continuation of some kind of unnamable game. Taesan feels his throat itch, like he should be saying something but for the life of him, he doesn’t know what–
“It needs tuning,” Sungho says, as the dust settles around them. Setting the guitar down in its original resting place, he stretches languidly with a groan before turning to walk out towards the pool.
He is gone as if in a dream before Taesan can even wrap his head around it.
☀︎
It is hours after dinner, and Taesan is lying awake in his bed, spread-eagle, entranced by the intricate plaster moulding on the ceiling. Music flows in one ear; the electronic glow of his iPod is the only illumination in his room. In the other, the sounds of the night drown out most of his thoughts, and any hope for sleep.
There are the crickets chirping in the bushes. There’s a moth caught between his shirt hangers fluttering about in his closet, unable to find its way out. There’s the distant rush of the river, and the gurgling of the stream feeding into it from down below. Then there’s the barely-rhythmic jerking of wood against the wall of the adjoining room.
Taesan would have half a mind to tell them to keep it down, if he weren’t half-hard from the snatches of sound drifting through the gap in the open window next door. They are not noises that are particularly pleasurable; mostly aggravated hisses and muted groans of pain. But in between; a shaky exhale, pitched high and melodic, or a strained whine.
Out of the corner of his eye, Taesan catches sight of the jar of wood polish and string cleaner on his desk, bundled haphazardly in a towel, along with a buffer and sponge. Sighing, he flicks his earphones away, and rolls out of bed. The clock reads 12.37.
Stretching and taking a moment to recalibrate, he sits on the edge of his bed, negotiating with himself. It doesn’t take much thinking, as a sudden thud reverberates through the wall, followed by the beginnings of a hushed, angry conversation. Gathering his tools, Taesan cracks his door open and pads out as quietly as he can.
Thankfully, the noise isn’t audible anywhere else in the house. His parents would have nothing to complain about come morning. Grabbing his father’s guitar from the common area, he heads towards the deck. He seats himself on the uncomfortable wooden patio seat and sets the acoustic on the table. Then he begins his work.
It is a while later, when the polish has dried and the strings have been granted some measure of new life, that Taesan, arm curled around its body, fingers poised around its neck, is interrupted by the doors abruptly sliding open.
“Oh,” Sungho breathes out, his eyes blown wide. For a moment, his hands remain gripping the doorframe tightly, the tips of his fingers turning white under the pale light. Then, he seems to melt, his expression smoothening out, shoulders sagging, as he relents himself to Taesan’s company.
Stepping out onto the deck, he looks worn and more tired than Taesan’s ever seen him. When he speaks, his voice is raw–absent of that honey and velvet Taesan’s grown accustomed to hearing in his dreams.
“You’re tuning it?” Sungho inquires, like asking about the weather. He doesn’t take a seat, instead settles for leaning against the railings, overlooking the dense foliage that is nothing but a mass of shadows this night.
“I was just about to,” Taesan replies, with an amount of uncertainty and caution. He takes in the man standing before him, bent against the darkness.
Sungho’s undershirt is almost luminescent under the light of the moon, tinging him with a hue of blue like a painting Taesan’s seen in one of his mother’s art books. He looks caught in time, frozen. It reminds Taesan of the willows down by the river bank.
“C’mon. Do it, then. I’d like to hear something, anything,” Sungho says, and it’s unmistakable this time–the plea in his voice. His eyes are swollen and his nose is almost as red as his bitten lips. He looks a wreck.
Taesan tightens his hold around the guitar, and begins strumming.
☀︎
Mr. Han had returned from running errands in town with a radio in tow the day before the party. Soon after, him and his wife had packed their bags for a weekend getaway, warning their son of the hazards of heavy drinking, though never explicitly forbidding it. This has happened every summer since Taesan had come of age, where they were happy to relinquish their responsibilities as hosts in the valley for a couple nights to enjoy a strong breeze up in the nearby mountains.
They never really said anything about smoking, Taesan thinks as he takes a drag, relishing in the burn of his lungs and the pumping of his blood to the music on the radio. It is mid-afternoon. It is too sunny to be stoking the barbeque pit this early in the day, but Riwoo had wanted them to try his slow-cooked brisket, which, according to him, would take around six hours or more.
Taesan had been happy to oblige, because it isn’t much of a job, not really. He figured he’d just be building the fire and taking the rest of the day off by the pool. But, as he stares at the smoldering pit, he might have made a miscalculation. There is not going to be enough coal to last the process. So, firewood. Of which there is precious little in the shed, only to be used in the winter.
“I’ll go get some,” Taesan says begrudgingly, the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.
“Uh-huh? Cool, thanks,” Riwoo responds, more than a little distracted as he bastes the slab of meat with some homemade sauce. Beside him, Jaehyun prepares the vegetable roast, a colourful pile of cubes set on the chopping board.
“I’ll help,” Sungho says, appearing with a handful of herbs from the garden out front, which he leans over Jaehyun to deposit onto a tray prepped with olive oil. There’s no telltale wince, or any sign of a fallout from either of them. In fact, they’ve been manouvering around without exchanging a word the entire day, as if denying each other’s existence.
“Sure,” Taesan says, playing it dumb. It’s none of his business.
Firewood isn’t so hard to find as it is a chore getting to where they are. Wearing sandals doesn’t help, either, but for the sake of brevity, it really was easier to stalk off down the slope towards the river than to go back into the lodge, pull on socks and his boots. Behind him, Sungho doesn’t seem to have a problem keeping up with his flip-flops.
They work in quiet tandem, with Taesan swinging the machete and felling branches, and Sungho close behind with a woven basket on his back. It is barely over an hour before they’ve collected enough. They come to a rest by a small creek where a steady stream flows.
Drying his hands on his pants from washing his face, Taesan pats himself down for his carton of cigarettes. It’s the same one he’s had for months, because he’s not much of a smoker, but something about being back in the valley makes it seem like a fitting occasion.
As he struggles with the lighter, a steady hand encloses around his, gently releasing it from his hold. Sungho looks down at him, flipping a flame on. There’s droplets of water clinging to the ends of his hair. Sweat and water trickle down his neck, past his collarbones and disappearing into his loose shirt. Taesan’s stomach fills with heat.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Sungho says, watching as he leans in, lighting the cigarette with a puff.
“What?” Taesan stands, because the heat of the smoke and the heat of Sungho in his peripheral is getting too much to handle. He takes a step away, into the shallow stream, cooling his feet down around his ankles. Sungho still remains painfully in his orbit.
“This,” he continues, eyeing the cigarette. Taesan looks down at his fingers, where the offending object rests, emitting wisps of smoke. He could be brave today, he thinks. There is nothing for a few moments apart from the gurgling of water underfoot, and the sound of the swaying trees. The lodge is a mile away. He thinks he should be.
“Well, I want to,” he says, before taking another drag, holding the other man’s gaze. Not the cigarette . Sungho seems to get it, but he responds with a scoff, rolling his eyes.
“Is that it?” Testy. A hint of disappointment.
“What?” Taesan challenges. The cigarette remains burning to its end in his hold. Suddenly, under the scrutiny of Sungho’s eyes, he feels stupid; drunk, almost.
“What else do you want?” Sungho asks, stalking towards him, the water splashing under the force of his footsteps. Taesan remains frozen in place, watching as the man comes to a stop merely inches away from him. There’s that heat again, and Taesan thinks he wouldn’t mind basking in it for a moment.
He swallows, flicking the cigarette butt away, before straightening. There’s some sick kind of delight that erupts in his stomach as the other man is forced to lift his gaze to compensate for the difference in their heights.
“You,” Taesan replies, and that’s all there is to it. Sungho closes the gap between them, pressing his body against Taesan’s, his hand snaking past his waistband.
“So, what are you waiting for?”
Taesan surges forward then, and grabs him by the nape of his neck with one hand while the other tightens around Sungho’s waist, nails digging deep enough to elicit a groan from him, while their mouths move hungrily against each other.
But it is Sungho who pushes back, guiding him up against a tree, the rough bark grazing painfully against his spine. He gasps as Sungho’s mouth travels to his throat, suckling until he’s sure it’ll leave a mark. The man’s hand begins to palm at his cock, curling into a fist around it.
Taesan, despite his stature, is reduced to shallow breaths and moans as Sungho pumps him up, slick gathering at the head, which he thumbs down. The taller man’s hips buck forward into his hold, and he cranes his neck, desperately inhaling against Sungho’s nape.
“This how you wanted it?” Sungho asks, his velvety voice a rasp despite his control. Taesan moans against the shell of his ear. Their clothes are melded into each other now, with sweat, with their closeness. There are mosquitos buzzing around their heads.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, eyes shuttering as he throws his head back against the trunk. There’s a twist of Sungho’s wrist and a long, drawn-out kiss on his pulse, before Taesan releases onto his hand, his nails leaving crescents on Sungho’s hips.
His chest is heaving and his head is spinning so fast the trees are a blur, so when Sungho inserts one finger after the other into his gasping mouth, Taesan takes it, and takes it, tasting sweat.
It is only when he’s regained his wits that Taesan opens his eyes to find Sungho staring at him, some strange glint in his eyes. He’s half-smiling, like there’s something he wants to share but can’t. So instead, he washes his hands in the stream, and turns away to haul the basket of firewood up.
They make their way back without speaking, and when they return, more people have shown up for the party–kids from the surrounding private villas and such. Sungho hands him the firewood and walks off with a simple, I’m going to take a shower.
Taesan finds his place by the barbeque pit, and returns to stoking the fire. He helps Riwoo baste the meat. He swims in the pool with Jaehyun, who doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, but probably wouldn’t show it if he did. All the while, Sungho sits by the radio, reading a book, not sparing a glance at either of them.
The day and night passes like a pleasant breeze, at the end of which, Taesan finds himself stumbling into his bed, drunk on whiskey and the heat of Sungho’s body pressed against his as they danced on the patio, before slipping into a dreamless slumber.
Jaehyun and Riwoo leave after three weeks of their stay. They are headed to Thailand, for a friend’s birthday party. They leave with excitement buzzing in their veins, shown by the thumping music that leaves the gravel jumping behind them as they pull away in the silver pickup.
Sungho sits beside Taesan on the balustrade of the second floor balcony, watching as they disappear through the trees. He is leaning against a pillar, his hair almost grown to his shoulders. He continues watching the horizon for a long time after they’ve gone.
Why aren’t you going with them? Taesan had asked several nights before, as they sat by the pool with beers in hand. Jaehyun had laid snoozing on the floatie, while Riwoo had been inside, watching television in the common area.
Sungho had shrugged nonchalantly, but the lines of his eyes were sad as he stared at the man floating upon the water, blissfully asleep.
Visa issues, he had said, and finished up the last of his beer before swinging his feet over the lounge chair and walking away.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Taesan asks now, as a hot breeze washes over them. It is a dry day; he feels his lips begin to crack. Sungho sighs, and the last of his misgivings seem to disappear. He finally turns to Taesan with a gentle smile.
“Not anymore, so it doesn’t matter now, does it?” With a yawn, he jumps off his perch and lands like a cat, stretching his arms high above his head.
“C’mon. Let’s go,” he calls out over his shoulder as he heads back into the lodge.
☀︎
The waterfall is a two-and-a-half mile cycle through the hills, past a temple and down a path through a gorge, lined with gingko trees. It’s not advertised to the public as a tourist attraction, being situated within private property as it is, but it’s a place open to all visitors on any given day.
Taesan had made it a point to make the ride at least once every summer. The road there is winding, with sharp curves and narrow shoulders. The view, however, is well worth the journey, with one side of the road hugging the mountain proper, while the other is steeped upon the cliffs, overlooking carpets of emerald green. Come autumn, it will be a sea of red, in time for Chuseok.
But for now this is the view they stop to look at, catching a breather halfway through their journey. Down below, the hills are spread out to the horizon like a field of paddy. The trees seem to sway as one, shifting in hues of green and gold under the scorching afternoon sun.
“Do you ever think about living here?” Sungho asks, staring out at the landscape before him, enraptured. They sit on a decaying makeshift bench, sharing a flask of orange juice, thighs touching just so.
“No,” Taesan says, leaning back on his arms, pressing their shoulders together; anything to get closer to Sungho, even if just this much. It is a casual enough gesture–even when it isn’t. Sungho doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t shift away either; Taesan feels his muscles relax and his breathing slow half a beat.
“It’s nice for a season,” Taesan ventures, then, upon further reflection, continues, “That way, it never loses its shine.”
“Wise words,” Sungho responds in a sort of sing-song manner that carries upon the sweet-smelling air. A wistful smile plays on his lips as he turns to Taesan, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Ready?”
☀︎
A lone guard greets them at the temple, wishing them well on their way into the gorge. Once out of sight, Sungho pokes him in the waist and jogs ahead, laughing. As they race through the path, kicking up dirt and dried leaves behind them, Taesan thinks that only summer could feel so sweet.
Each time Sungho steals a glance over his shoulder, there is a question in his eyes along the lines of Can you keep up? And Taesan finds himself wanting to run harder, wanting to reach out to him.
The waterfall at the end of the trail is all theirs when they arrive. The water sprays white as it crashes into a wide pool so clear it shines a dark aquamarine, filled with rocks larger than they seem.
Taesan watches as Sungho climbs deftly onto a large boulder, his toes at the edge of a twelve-foot drop into the water. Watches as he tilts his head up, eyes closed with a smile, to reveal the milky white of his throat. He stretches his arms out. Time seems to slow. Then, he is falling backwards.
Taesan, for some reason he can’t place, rushes over to the edge with a small panic in his throat, to find Sungho surfacing with a gasp, his laughter bubbling over the rush of the water.
“What are you waiting for?” He calls out, his hair matted to his face, eyes blown wide with excitement. Without any more preamble, Taesan drops his pack. As he begins his run up, he discards his slippers and shirt, before pushing himself off the boulder and free-falling down into the water below.
They remain in the water for what feels like ages, floating on their backs as the teardrop waves of the waterfall push them closer towards the shore. Up above, the clouds move at a snail’s pace. Taesan is more aware of Sungho’s head pressed close to his as they both look up to the sky, the water gurgling around them.
Lunch is a simple affair, with a roll of kimbap for each of them. Stir-fried chicken stuffing for the son of the valley, and beef for his guest. Taesan obliges when Sungho opens his mouth expectantly, pushing a slice against his lips. He doesn’t miss the way the other man’s tongue slides against the pads of his finger, eyes watchful under dark lashes.
They spend the better part of the day there, lounging on that giant boulder. Sungho, engrossed in his poetry book, and Taesan, content to listen to the sounds of nature around them with his arms folded behind his head. The iPod lies between them, plugged into earphones stuck in each of their ears.
At the first hint of the sky greying, Taesan jumps up in a frenzy, tugging Sungho along. They barely manage to get to the entrance of the temple on their bicycles before the drizzle becomes a downpour, compounded by the rumblings of thunder. Screeching to a halt, they duck under the bus stop with a roof so flimsy it rattles with each gale that blows past.
They sit on the metal bench for a time, watching as the trees shake and the leaves swirl, beaten by the storm. There is nothing else here except for billowing curtains of rain, casting their world an icy gray. Nothing else, except for Sungho sitting next to him, his hair matted to his face and neck, curled like the ivy on the walls of the temple. He burns like a flame, radiant even under the weak light of an overcast day.
Taesan reaches out, sliding his hand over the damp surface of the bench to cover the little distance between them. Tentatively, he nudges Sungho’s hand, and, finding no resistance, entwines their fingers together, slotting like pieces of a puzzle. He doesn’t see the soft, unguarded smile that curves into Sungho’s lips, doesn’t look at him until he feels a warm breath against his cheek.
He turns–and finds himself interlocked in a kiss that makes his heart ache, that swallows the pain in his bones. One that warms him down to his toes. One that urges him on as he cups Sungho’s face in his hands, pulling him closer. There is a sigh in his mouth, as his touch travels downwards. He presses his fingers against muscle, feeling the tension seep out as he massages Sungho, his own breath stuttering at the reaction.
They pull away, panting. The sound of the rain that had ceased as their orbits collided filters back in, like someone turning the volume back up on the radio. Taesan looks at Sungho, searching for some reaction, taking in the flush of his fair skin, his swollen lips the colour of mulberries. All he finds is the soft curve of eyes that tell him, in no uncertain terms, this is now. This might not last . Then–
“Ah,” Sungho breathes out, turning away. Taesan’s gaze follows slowly, towards the view of the valley, bracketed by the young green gingko. The rain has kept a steady pace, but the wind is gone, and there are no more signs of a relentless storm. The clouds have broken, revealing pools of aureate light that dapple the dense carpet of green down below, like sunrays through a canopy on the mossy forest floor.
Smiling at each other, they rush to their bikes and kick off the ground in a race down the hill. With every turn of their wheels, the sky seems to lighten. Finally, upon reaching the base of the first lookout stretch, they notice the faint, arching prism of light that has appeared in the sky.
Slowing to a stop, Sungho says, “Do it again.” His voice barely audible over the receding din of the rain. It doesn’t matter, not when there’s only the two of them in this corner of the world.
“What?” Taesan turns to him wide-eyed, his ears colouring.
“What you did back there,” Sungho says, patient and calm.
“Oh.”
So Taesan cranes his neck, leaning his weight on one leg until the handlebars of their bicycles are intertwined, and does what he’s been doing all summer: he obliges.
☀︎
“It’s your birthday,” Taesan says, sitting up suddenly. Beside him, Sungho hums in response, one hand adjusting the straw hat over his face to keep the sun out of his eye, while the other digs around in the basket of plums at his side. Around them, the fields of barley rustle as they sway with a gentle breeze.
They had spent the better part of the morning accompanying Mr. Han at the orchard, where the cherries and plums were ready for harvest. It is lunch now, and they’ve stolen away to a neighbouring property on the way back from sending the day’s harvest to the supplier in town.
“Isn’t there anything you wanna do?” Taesan asks, nudging the other man’s calf with his toes. For a moment, he doesn’t get a reaction, and keeps his foot there, tracing it higher and higher, ever so slightly.
“Not really,” Sungho says, and pushes his foot away with his own, until they end up with their legs entangled, and their chests are heaving against one another.
Taesan has gotten the better of him, pinning him down with one hand on his chest, while he takes a bite of plum out of the other, before pressing the fruit to Sungho’s lips. He watches, prompting with a smirk quirking up, as the man eats from his hand, his mouth becoming messy with colour.
“I’m older than you, now,” Sungho says as Taesan licks at the corner of his lips, cleaning him up like a cat. The younger man pauses at that to smile demurely at him.
“I’ve got a year up on you, in everything,” Sungho continues, sitting up despite Taesan’s hold and weight on him.
“In school…. In experience.” It is Sungho, older and wiser, who hovers over him now, a sweet smile on his lips. Taesan sinks backwards, his head cushioned by his backpack, as Sungho climbs over him. His hands come to rest on Sungho’s hips as he straddles him, pressing their hardening cocks together, straining against the fabric of their pants.
“Oh yeah?” The younger breathes out shakily, as Sungho begins moving his hips, creating friction that sends his head abuzz. The older man’s hands roam; flat against his chest in one moment, then squeezing his shoulder painfully the other.
So it is easy, when Sungho undoes the button of his linen pants, and slips his cock out; all Taesan does is raise his head, leaning back on his elbows and opens his mouth. He moves the one muscle, swirling it around the head, and puckers his lips as Sungho fists his hair.
When it is done, Sungho presses a cherry to his tongue, and licks himself off Taesan’s lips as the fruit’s sourness bursts in his mouth.
☀︎
It starts like this: the air is cold and the evening is purple.
The bottle of wine from his parent’s cellar is half-empty– Half full, Sungho says, and pours another glass, downing it in a gulp. Now, it’s half-empty, he concludes and tilts the last few drops into Taesan’s waiting mouth.
“ Hyung, please,” Taesan says with his lips dyed red and his skin littered with the marks Sungho had left him earlier. He suckles feverishly at the older man’s chest, tonguing over the hardening buds. It draws a sharp breath from Sungho, like a punch to the stomach.
A hand snakes down his abdomen, and wraps around his cock, the same moment his fingers curl into Sungho. They pump each other up– Sungho, his movements languid against the velvety skin of Taesan’s cock, while slowly adjusting himself to the two fingers inside him.
It is a humid night, and they are drenched in sweat.
“Can I?” Taesan asks, pulling his hand away to massage Sungho’s balls through the shock of his release. Sighing, catching his breath, he nods. He looks a wreck, his eyes rimmed red like the night he’d appeared before Taesan on the deck. His hair is matted with sweat and tendrils of it are stuck to the corners of his mouth.
Taesan pushes into him slowly, brushing the locks away to see his face, flushed with heat. There is a soft exhale as he bottoms out. Sungho’s nails are pressing crescents into his skin as he begins to move.
“I can’t wait until you’ve been gone,” Taesan says, snapping his hips forward. Sungho looks at him, his eyes glazed over with pleasure. It is not what he intended to say; it is the truth. Rather, it is part of the truth; the whole of it being, I can’t bear to wait for this to end, for you to leave me.
Sungho’s voice comes out feathery, speaking as if from somewhere far away.
“What? I’ve been good. I’ve been so good, haven’t I?” His hands flatten against Taesan’s back, one smoothing out the scars, while the other travels past his shoulder to cup around his cheek tenderly. Taesan grits his teeth, picking up his pace, the mattress straining beneath them.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says with a shake of his head. It does little to dissuade Sungho’s touch. Then, “You’re hurting me.”
Sungho smiles sadly at that. “I can’t help it,” he says, barely a whisper.
Taesan feels himself getting closer as the bed’s groans fills the room. Underneath him, Sungho’s lips are parted in a silent cry, his pupils dilated, saliva gathering at the corner of his mouth.
“I know. It’s still your fault. It’s still you,” Taesan groans, his voice shot. It will always be you, even if we never see each other again. Even if you never return to this place that should be beautiful enough to make you stay; even if I could never be enough to make you stay.
Sungho clenches around him, gasping, and that sends Taesan over the edge. They shudder against each other, riding out their high. Taesan, exhausted, collapses atop Sungho, his head buried in the pillow next to him. Nevermind the release pressed sticky between them; Sungho's hair still smells of persimmons.
“Hm? And what about me?” Sungho asks, a long time later, as they rest on their sides, their foreheads pressed against each other. Taesan frowns, his bottom lip jutting out.
“What about you?” He echoes, puzzled. Sungho smiles forgivingly, tucking a lock of hair behind the younger’s ear.
“You think I don’t feel it too? This summer. It hurts. It makes my bones ache.” This is his truth, but not the whole truth. What he means is: I will be leaving, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.
“It’s autumn,” Taesan says, stubbornly, fighting sleep. The wine is heavy in his veins.
“No. It’s summer still,” Sungho replies, and cranes his neck to plant kisses on his eyelids.
Sungho leaves two weeks later, on the morning of Chuseok.
He shakes hands with Mr. and Mrs. Han once his luggage is loaded into the carriage of the rusty pickup, that charming smile dazzling them as it did on that first day. Taesan watches from a distance, leaning against the hood, arms crossed.
If anything, he is guarded. If anything, he is holding himself together.
When his parents wave them off, he has half a mind to stop on the shoulder of the road and drag Sungho out of his seat so they could fuck this all away on the gravel. But he does no such thing; the drive to the train station is a quiet one. That is, until Sungho presses the radio on, and turns to the local station.
It is the sound one might expect to hear in the countryside; something folksy, something trot-like, but instead of jangling tambourines and drums, there is only a piano and guitar.
Taesan thinks of Sungho the day before, his hands poised upon the keys of the piano, attempting to recreate the melody of their first duet. Taesan had scooted in beside him and wordlessly guided the song towards what he remembers from that day.
When they stop, the final notes resounding around the room, Taesan had leaned in to press a kiss into the junction of Sungho’s neck, tracing his lips down to his fingers, kissing his knuckles, feeling his skin. They had fucked on the carpet under the orange sun of dusk.
They had eaten dinner with his parents after, out on the deck, and they had ended the night with the plucking of notes on the acoustic.
That’s all gone now, and only the mournful voice of a singer from times gone by fills the space between them.
Eventually, the town comes into view over the hills. They pass by rows of quaint shoplots and homes, until finally arriving at the other end, where the train station stands; two platforms facing each other on either side of the tracks.
One for those who will return, and another for those who will go far away.
The truck rumbles to a stop in the sparse parking lot. At first neither of them budge, each staring out their windows. That is, until Sungho sighs, lifting his chin from where it rested on his arm against the windowsill the entire ride.
“I’ll get my bags,” he says, and pushes the door open without hesitation. Taesan remains seated, his breathing shallowing. He hears the tailgate unlatch and drop with a loud thud, shaking the truck, followed by the scratching of plastic against the floor of the carriage as Sungho drags his luggage out. Then finally, a conclusive metal click as Sungho locks the carriage back up.
All the while, Taesan remains with his eyes locked on the speed dial reading 0/mph, his hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white. Even when Sungho peeps his head through the window from outside. Even when he says a wry goodbye, followed by a dry chuckle. Even when he turns away after realising the futility of the situation and begins ambling up the steps to the station.
It is only when he hears the train pull in, that Taesan slams his fists into the wheel and swings the truck door open before running up the stairs with his heart in his throat and on his sleeve. The wind greets him with a blast of hot air as he emerges onto the platform, just in time to find the doors sliding close.
“Park Sungho!” he calls, as the horns blare.
Sungho stands at the doorway, a hand pressed against the glass of the window. He watches as Taesan jogs to catch up. Watches as his hair gets caught in a gust of wind, his shirt billowing about him, and thinks that Han Taesan was a boy he met in the valley, and a boy he leaves at the end of summer.
“Tell me you’ll come back to me!” Taesan shouts, slapping his hand against the unforgiving metal body of the train picking up speed. Sungho lets out a shaky breath, lowering his head.
“Tell me you’ll come back to me!” Taesan’s voice echoes, fading away, breaking as he reaches the end of the platform, his every breath feeling as if it’s being ripped from his burning lungs.
The image of Sungho with his forehead pressed up against the window, and a small, gentle smile curving into his lips disappears into the distance, leaving Taesan behind with the remnants of summer aching in his chest.