Chapter Text
August 4, 1914
The rain started the same year as the Great War, and it didn’t stop until every boy Seonghwa had grown up with was dead and their village had washed into the sea.
But at twenty-two, Seonghwa didn’t care about the tide of war. He and his best friend were finally leaving Hallsands, and his dream of becoming an architect, unthinkable for a fisherman’s son, was about to come true.
“I hope I can find a job soon, too,” Yunho said, squinting out of the carriage window. Hooves compacted the dirt road as they climbed the coastal hills inland. The view of the Channel was fading already, their village vanishing into the fog.
“With a face like that? I’m sure you will,” Seonghwa said with a smile.
“Mother said there’ll at least be factory work,” Yunho replied, quieter now. “I’d rather be fishing, but if it means I can stay close to you–”
“Don’t sell yourself short before we’re even at the station,” Seonghwa interrupted. “You can read and write. That’s something.”
Yunho shrugged, his pale face unreadable as he gazed at the cliffs melting into the forest. The road leveled briefly before dipping into the valley. Trees gave way to squat stone buildings with pitched slate roofs. Totnes was bustling but small, a market town that smelled like the forest.
The carriage rattled to a stop outside the Great Western Railway station. They replaced their caps and stepped out, grabbing their modest wooden trunks and weaving through the crowd toward the footbridge. When Seonghwa’s grandfather was a boy, the same journey would’ve taken four days by horse and trap. Now, they’d be in London in time for dinner.
They joined a short queue in front of the ticket window, where a woman in a straw boater was arguing with a sour-faced clerk over her son’s half-fare. The boy looked mortified.
Seonghwa shifted the handle of his trunk into one hand, trying not to make it obvious that he was counting the coins in his pocket with the other. The firm had sent him a pittance for travel expenses. He’d given half to his mother, but it was still more money than he’d ever held at once.
“This tweed is driving me mad,” Yunho muttered, scratching at himself.
“Stop that,” Seonghwa said, slapping his hand. “People will think you have lice.”
Yunho glared at him. “It’s itchy.”
“I know, but it’s what people in London will be wearing,” Seonghwa replied. “We can’t go into the city wearing moleskin trousers.”
The woman at the front of the line huffed and stormed off, her son trailing behind, cheeks burning.
“If you’re headed to London, you’re out of luck,” the clerk said without looking up. “They’ve just finished boarding.”
Seonghwa’s stomach dropped. “But–”
“Surely they’ll hold it for two poor boys from Hallsands,” Yunho cut in smoothly, flashing the man a disarming smile.
The clerk blinked. “Excuse me?”
Yunho looked him up and down. “You look like you’ve got the run of the place. Surely if we’ve got the tickets, they’ll let us on?”
Seonghwa’s mother always said Yunho could talk a fish out of the sea.
“Oh, go on then,” the clerk said, blushing.
Yunho looked pointedly at Seonghwa.
Seonghwa pulled the coins from his pocket. “Two third-class tickets to London Paddington.”
The clerk counted the fare without comment, then slid two thick paper tickets under the partition.
“Last carriage. You boys better run.”
They did. Up and over the footbridge, past families waving handkerchiefs and porters pushing carts, down a flight of stone steps, and all the way to the far platform, where a uniformed man was swinging the gate shut.
“Sorry, lads,” he grunted, shaking his head. “Next one’s not for–”
“We’ll sit on the roof if we have to,” Yunho said, breathless. “He’s got a job waiting in London. First in his family not to fish for a living—if you’ll let us on.”
The man glanced between them. Earnest faces, one of them uncommonly handsome. Loose secondhand suits, patched and frayed, but neatly pressed. He sighed.
“Bloody hell. They’ll have my head for a late start. All right, through you go. Quick about it now.”
They bowed their thanks and hurried aboard. The third-class carriage was cramped and loud, a tangle of work boots, children playing, and battered trunks. Compartments overflowed with families and laborers, everyone talking at once.
“Back here!” Yunho called over the din.
Seonghwa followed his voice to the end of the carriage, where a single corner compartment stood empty, likely abandoned when the sun turned the wooden seats into branding irons.
Yunho hoisted both trunks into the overhead grate, then peeled off his coat and laid it across the bench.
“Sit on this so you don’t blister,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Seonghwa sat gingerly, hissing as the heat seeped through the tweed. “Cheers.”
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out two parcels wrapped in brown paper. Pork pie, an apple, and a boiled egg each, just like Mother packed for long days out fishing. Each had a note written under the string.
He passed Yunho his lunch just as the whistle blew and the train lurched forward.
Love yourself as well as you love my son.
Yunho unwrapped his pie, crumpling the paper into his pocket. “I’m going to miss home.”
Their fathers had fished the same waters, and their grandfathers before them. But the sea didn’t feed like it used to. The beach had been dredged to nothing, stolen by the Crown to build warships in Devonport.
Nothing built atop sand lasted forever.
“Yeah,” Seonghwa finally said. “Me too.”
He glanced down at the note on his own parcel.
Take care of my boy.
The hills pulled back like curtains, revealing a bright countryside dotted with sheep. Telegraph poles ticked past, counting the minutes. Seonghwa took a massive bite of pie, flaky and rich, then a bite of apple to balance it. They’d have to learn to make their own pies now.
He watched through the window as the view slowly changed. Blue gave way to gray. Fields blurred into factories and railyards, brick chimneys piercing the sky like tombstones emerging from fog. The poles disappeared, replaced by wires strung directly between soot-stained buildings.
Yunho leaned forward, knuckles white on the edge of the bench. His face had gone pale again.
“Almost there now?” he asked quietly.
Seonghwa looked out into the haze. He couldn’t see the masterpieces yet—not the columns of the British Museum, nor the White Tower, built nearly a thousand years prior by William the Conqueror—but he could picture them clearly. Their country’s greatest achievements and greatest shames, immortalized in brick and stone.
“Yes,” he said, his mind on Westminster Abbey and how big it had looked to him as a boy. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Yunho exhaled, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s one word for it.”
The train screeched into Paddington beneath a soaring glass roof. Iron arches rose like the ribs of a great beast. Steam rolled along the platform, swallowing porters and families the way smog had swallowed the skyline.
Yunho hauled their trunks down and nodded toward the compartment door. “Go on.”
Seonghwa picked up Yunho’s cap from the seat, setting it atop his head. Yunho smiled faintly as Seonghwa tucked his long black hair beneath the brim.
He was even more handsome as a man than he’d been as a boy. Though sometimes, Seonghwa saw him out of the corner of his eye and he looked the same as he always had, at sixteen, or at nine, his pockets full of rocks and shells.
They stepped off the train and into the noise.
The station was chaos, but the street was worse. London stank of horses, meat, and coal, like a barn on fire. Motorcars screamed past in clouds of smoke. The men looked like yellow ants in tan Homburg hats and straw boaters, while the women were dragonflies, swathed in elaborate, impractical dresses. And there were so many of them.
Seonghwa froze at the top of the steps. Yunho did too. They just stood there, watching the city roar around them.
The last time they’d been here was the autumn of 1908, for the Olympics. A flush crept up Seonghwa’s neck as he took in what the men were wearing. Tweed, it seemed, had been seasonal. Now they wore white suits, or stranger still, white trousers with mismatched striped blazers. The tailoring had changed, too—narrower shoulders, higher waists.
Shame bloomed in his chest. So cities moved faster than the country.
Yunho cleared his throat and started weaving through the crowd toward Praed Street. He raised a hand and flagged a hansom cab, a small cart on two wheels drawn by a weary-looking horse.
The driver squinted down. “Where to, lads?”
“Farringdon,” Seonghwa said, fishing the letter from his pocket. “Number seventeen, Clerkenwell Close.”
The cabbie grunted. “Long ride, that.”
They climbed in, wooden trunks wedged tight between them. The cab rolled into traffic at a steady clip. Motorcars thundered past, while boys hawked papers on every corner. They passed three marble arches to nowhere, and then the city changed. A woman in a feathered hat retched into a hedge; a constable held a boy by the scruff of his neck.
“Bit grim,” Yunho said.
Seonghwa watched a pigeon peck at a dead rat in the gutter. “It’s different.”
They rattled under a cast-iron bridge, and the buildings pressed closer together. The cobbles fought back against the horse’s hooves, jostling the cart.
Yunho leaned in. “How about a pint after we settle in? Maybe find a couple boys to share it with.”
They didn’t leave Hallsands often, but when they did, it was always like this. Mother said Yunho just developed faster, that Seonghwa’s time would come, too. But even now, the thought of lying with some stranger—or anyone for that matter—still turned his stomach.
Seonghwa snorted. “No thanks.”
Yunho frowned. “It’s our first night in the city. Come on, one drink won’t kill you.”
“It’s not the drink that’ll kill me,” Seonghwa muttered. “It’s a crime, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Oh stop, I already know where to go,” Yunho replied dismissively. “We’ll be fine.”
Seonghwa eyed him. “How could you possibly know where to go already?”
“My penpal told me,” Yunho said. “The Cave of the Golden Calf. Opened a couple years ago.”
“Golden calf?”
“Like a forbidden idol.” Yunho gave him a meaningful look. “It’s for men like us.”
Seonghwa broke eye contact first, replying to the cobblestones.
“There are no men like us.”
The cab slowed in front of a four-story sandstone house connected to a dozen others just like it. A chipped sign read:
Clerkenwell House
for Employees of Dunn, Watson & Curtis Green
Yunho grabbed both their trunks, setting them down on the curb before offering Seonghwa a hand. He’d been like this ever since his first growth spurt. Always carrying things, always giving Seonghwa the best cuts of fish.
Seonghwa took it as he climbed out of the carriage. He paid the cabbie from his dwindling pocket of coins, then stepped up to number seventeen and knocked.
A woman in a sagging housedress opened the door. “You the boys from Devon?”
“Yes ma’am,” Seonghwa said, offering her his letter from the firm. “Hallsands.”
She gave it a glance, then handed it back. “Handsome pair, you are. Second floor, front-facing. Lav’s down the hall. Don’t leave your boots on the stairs.”
“Thank you ma’am,” Yunho said, taking off his cap as they entered. He led the way up, the stairs creaking under his weight. He had to duck under the door frame to fit.
The flat had two oak-paneled rooms, sparse but clean. A pockmarked table set with two armchairs held a large fruitcake. Behind it, a coal stove and cabinet were built into the wall. Seonghwa crossed to the window and wrestled it open, letting in a stream of warm air and the sounds of London.
Yunho dropped their luggage in the bedroom, furnished with two narrow beds, a wardrobe, a washstand, and a table bearing a single candle. He lit the wick with a match, then flopped onto one of the mattresses.
“A bed,” he said reverently. “And an indoor lav.”
“It’s magic,” Seonghwa said with a giddy laugh, popping his trunk open. “Even if we do have to share with strangers.”
He pulled out his lever harp, a modest rosewood lap instrument strung with sheep gut and brass wire. His greatest treasure. It was worn, the soundboard scratched. A few of the deeper grooves had been connected to form initials: PSH & JYH. He set it gently beside the candle, flames reflecting off the brass tuning pins.
He knelt at his trunk again for a towel, then filled the basin with water from a chipped white jug. He splashed his face, running his fingers through his hair. He felt like he was finally waking up.
Yunho sat up, eyes bright, like he could sense the shift in Seonghwa’s mood. “Still time to get that pint.”
It was easier to say yes here, in the flat, on the cusp of a new life. A life built on stone instead of sand.
“All right,” Seonghwa said, patting his face dry. “You win. But I’m not going in this suit.”
Yunho pumped a fist triumphantly. “Wear the linen one.”
Seonghwa groaned. “It barely fits.”
Mother had sewn it for him the spring he turned eighteen. The trousers were too tight around the thighs now, the shoulders a centimeter too narrow.
Yunho looked him up and down. “That’s why.”
Seonghwa pulled off his tweed jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Are you joking?”
Seonghwa turned to face him. “What?”
“It makes your skin look golden,” Yunho said. “And your waist–” He flushed. “It just looks good, okay?”
Seonghwa threw his head back with a breathy laugh. “The linen set it is. You wear the black.”
Yunho’s smirk returned. “You like that one?”
Seonghwa walked over to the bed to give him a shove. “You know I do. Stop fishing.”
Yunho let himself be knocked flat, then grabbed Seonghwa’s arm and dragged him down too. They grappled for a moment before Yunho pinned him flat.
Seonghwa wheezed. “I can’t breathe, you’re too heavy!”
“A kiss for luck,” Yunho declared, forcing Seonghwa’s head to the side. He planted a loud, sloppy kiss on his cheek before rolling off him. “There. Now I’m ready.”
Seonghwa groaned and wiped his face with the sheet. He propped himself up on an elbow, fingers trailing over the mattress.
“I think this is stuffed with horsehair,” he said in awe. “Not straw. Actual hair.”
Yunho was already digging through his trunk, swapping out his collar for a fresh one. “This place is better than I expected.”
“Because your standards are down in Dart Valley,” Seonghwa laughed. They’d both grown up in single-room houses with soft pine floors, waking up early to fetch water from the village well.
“Everything’s a nice surprise when your expectations are low,” Yunho said wisely. He moved to the basin, splashing his face with the same water Seonghwa had used. “You almost ready?”
“Just about.” Seonghwa stood, unbuttoning his trousers. He rolled his eyes at Yunho’s wolf whistle, swapping his threadbare suit for the linen set. “Where’s this cow of yours?”
Yunho barked a laugh. “Soho. Thirty minutes on foot, but if my penpal’s not a liar, it’s a different world.”
Seonghwa wrinkled his nose. “I’m not walking thirty minutes in dress shoes. Let’s take the Underground. It’s only two pence.”
The landlady was sweeping the stairs when they came down, her hair pinned into a massive bun the size of a cabbage. Her eyes narrowed on their suits.
“You boys off for a pint?”
Yunho flashed her a winning smile. “What gave it away?”
Her face turned stern. “London’s not Hallsands. Mind your pockets, and keep your heads.”
“Yes ma’am,” they chorused, nearly tripping over each other to escape before more advice followed.
They emerged onto the cobbles giggling. Sweltering heat sagged into the street, damp and heavy with city smells. Late afternoon sunlight flickered through the buildings as they headed south toward Farringdon.
Near the station, Yunho stopped short. A tall man stood behind a wooden handcart selling eel pies and chips wrapped in yesterday’s Daily Mirror. Grease stained the wooden slats beneath the food, a kettle of green sauce steaming behind him on an overturned bin.
Yunho elbowed Seonghwa. “Dinner?”
Seonghwa made a face. “It’s wrapped in newspaper Yunho, you don’t know where that’s–”
“No chips for you, then,” Yunho said, already stepping up. “Two pies, one cone of chips.”
“Three pence,” the vendor grunted, not looking up as he ladled green sauce onto the pies.
Yunho dug his hand into Seonghwa’s jacket pocket, digging out three coins. Seonghwa rolled his eyes. The vendor handed Yunho the cone of chips first, headlines coiling around it in bold letters: Germany Refuses to Remove Troops from Neutral Belgium and Prime Minister Pushes for War.
“Cheers,” Yunho said, passing one of the pies to Seonghwa. “You’re gonna regret not getting chips,” he added under his breath.
The crust crackled under Seonghwa’s thumb. The filling was rich and warm, chunks of eel swimming in parsley gravy, with a thin layer of mashed potato tucked under the flaky lid. He finished it in five large bites, wishing he’d savored it. It tasted like the pies Yunho’s father made on their birthdays.
“I could eat three of those pies,” he said wistfully, eyeing the cone in Yunho’s hand.
Yunho caught the look and fed him his last three chips. “Told you.”
They descended the station steps, bellies warm. The platform was narrow and dim. Posters curled along the tiled walls: Sainsbury’s: Shop of the Empire, and Drink Bovril.
Steel wheels shrieked in the tunnel. The train emerged slowly, electric lights glowing behind brass-rimmed windows. The wood-paneled cars gleamed, the varnish catching the low light.
Yunho tugged open a door and bowed. “After you.”
The ceiling was low enough that Yunho had to hunch. They sat side by side on the green leather seats, knees knocking together as the train jolted forward. At King’s Cross, the doors stayed closed, but at Euston Square, a little boy in a flat cap boarded, flicking a cigarette butt onto the tracks before wrestling the door shut behind himself.
At Baker Street, Yunho opened the door again. They stepped out into a vaulted, arched stone platform lit by flickering electric globes. Then they followed the enameled signs for the Bakerloo line, descending another flight of stairs. The air grew staler, thick with oil and brake dust.
The next train groaned and clattered on the tracks. Yunho wrenched the door open. “Dirtier than the Metropolitan stock,” he remarked.
Seonghwa stepped in, settling into one of the faded moquette benches. “That’s because it’s deeper,” he said. “No ventilation, just coal dust and sewer steam. The Met rides closer to the air.”
Yunho pulled a face as he sat. “Sewer steam,” he repeated. “Lovely.”
Oxford Circus passed in a blur of cream tiles and bold red advertisements. They stepped out at the next stop, Piccadilly Circus, and climbed up to the street.
Evening had fallen while they were underground. There were no stars, not like Hallsands, but the gas lamps had been lit, casting flickering halos along the curved street.
They walked up Regent, where music spilled from small theaters and cabaret halls. People in odd clothes strolled past, chattering in different languages. A man in a white apron struggled beneath a pot of late-season tomatoes, disappearing down a drangway.
Then, around a corner, it appeared. The Cave of the Golden Calf.
A woman stood outside holding a cigarette in her bare hand, deep in conversation with a tall man draped in a satin gown that left little to the imagination. They looked like Klimt paintings—bright, decadent, asymmetrical.
Another man in a black tailcoat leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looked Yunho up and down, then removed one of his white gloves and offered his hand.
“Aren’t you a tall drink of water,” he said.
Yunho lifted the man’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. His fingernails were painted with red varnish.
“You thirsty?”
A blush spread across the man’s face, and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, eyeing his small hand in Yunho’s large one.
“Parched,” he said. Then he opened the door behind him, revealing a dark staircase. “Come find me later—if you lose your shadow.”
He glanced sideways at Seonghwa, who did his best not to stiffen.
They descended the narrow stairs, music pulsing below like a heartbeat. Yunho opened the black wooden door at the bottom, and they stepped into another world.
The club stretched through what must’ve once been three separate basements. There were no windows, only a mezzanine winding up the sandstone walls toward the tin-coffered ceiling. In the center, the coffers gave way to a round fresco of angels playing instruments. Men in sleek suits and jeweled masks dotted the balconies, drinks in hand.
Seonghwa tugged at the lapel of his own ill-fitting jacket. He dreaded having to wear the scratchy tweed to work in the morning.
Then he looked again, and realized most of the men on the mezzanine were kissing.
He stared, transfixed by their greedy mouths. He hadn’t seen anyone kissing in nearly a decade. Masks clashed, hands slid under shirts, hips bumped together. He wondered if city men looked the same beneath their clothes, or if they were different there, too.
Yunho elbowed him, tilting his head toward the stage. A beautiful, broad-shouldered man played the piano, while an auburn-haired waif danced in front of him. The dancer shrugged off his jacket, then unhooked his suspenders. Raucous cheers filled the room as he flipped himself over, walking around the stage on his hands. He must’ve been more muscular than he looked.
Seonghwa’s chest tightened. He felt like a fish gasping on the shore, while beside him, Yunho stood relaxed, blooming like a sunflower in a field of poppies.
Yunho caught his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You look like you belong.”
“I absolutely do not,” Seonghwa muttered.
Yunho gave his hand a squeeze. “You’re the prettiest boy in here,” he said. “Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”
Seonghwa didn’t answer. They wove through the crowd. Women in evening gowns flirted with women in tailcoats, while a group of men lined up to waltz with the man in the gown they’d seen outside, white satin pooling at his feet like moonlight. Near the bar, a man in a corset leaned his head on a soldier’s shoulder.
But the uniform was all wrong. No insignia, no brass buttons. Just a fantasy.
The bar stood between two Ionic columns, like a sacrificial altar. Only one barstool was occupied. A sheer white shirt billowed around the man’s arms, gathered at the wrists. In front of him, the barman quietly polished glasses with a small black cloth.
Yunho sidled up beside him. “Two pints.”
The barman tucked the cloth beneath the counter. “Coming up.”
“Put them on my tab,” said the man at the bar. He set his martini down and stood, bowing politely.
He was a couple inches shorter than Seonghwa, which he liked, and the rest of him—God, they didn’t make men like that in Hallsands. Strong nose and brow bone, eyes lined with kohl, tendons on his neck disappearing into his collar. He wore no undershirt, the soft curve of his chest visible through his blouse, along with two small, dark nipples.
Mother was right. His time had finally come.
Seonghwa met Yunho’s gaze.
Yunho turned to the stranger. “Excuse us one moment,” he said with a charming smile.
The man raised his eyebrows as Yunho boldly plucked the garnish from his martini. Then he dragged Seonghwa to the far side of the bar and held out two fists.
“Winner takes all.”
Seonghwa frowned. The left hand looked slightly bigger, but that had to be a trap. He tapped the right.
Yunho opened it with a triumphant flourish. Empty.
Seonghwa groaned. “Best two out of–”
“Don’t be a poor sport,” Yunho said sharply, popping the olive in his mouth.
He strode back to the bar confidently, where the man had taken a seat again. He made a big show of how far he had to lean down to put his elbow on the counter, eyeing the man up and down. He pushed the olive into his cheek suggestively, then swallowed.
“Thank you for the pint, beautiful,” Yunho said, dropping his voice an octave. “You always this generous?”
Seonghwa mimed throwing up behind the man’s back. Yunho shot him a glare.
The man squealed, loud enough to turn a few heads. “No, only for charmers like you,” he said with an easy grin, showing both his top and bottom teeth. Pretty. “Got a name?”
“Yunho, it’s a pleasure. And yours?”
“Wooyoung,” he said, draining his martini. “But you can call me whatever you want.”
“Darling, then.” Yunho extended a hand, while behind him, Seonghwa gagged again. “Care to dance?”
Wooyoung slipped his hand into Yunho’s. “God, yes.”
Yunho glanced back at Seonghwa, sticking out his tongue before vanishing into the crowd, Wooyoung in tow.
Seonghwa took Wooyoung’s seat. The leather was still warm. On the dance floor, Yunho guided him through a foxtrot, one hand on his waist as Wooyoung shrieked with laughter.
It was probably for the best that he’d won. Yunho was the one who taught Seonghwa how to dance, so he only knew how to follow.
Seonghwa downed the rest of his pint, listening to the conversations around him. A man in a feather boa sidled up to the bar, bemoaning the future of the club to a petite blond man who looked like a fairy.
“They say it might close,” the feathered man said. “Too ahead of its time, apparently.”
“More like too many sons kissing sons,” replied the fairy, his voice much deeper than Seonghwa had expected.
“Right, mothers would rather their sons die like good Englishmen instead.”
Seonghwa scoffed into his glass. His father always said city people brought politics into everything for no reason. England wasn’t even part of the war.
Yunho returned, cheeks pink and shirt rumpled at the collar. He clapped Seonghwa on the back, wagging a finger at the barman. “Another pint and martini on Mr. Jung, good sir.”
Seonghwa slid his empty glass across the bar. “Can you lay with him at his place so I can get some sleep? I’ve got work in the morning.”
Yunho recoiled, hand to his chest like he’d been shot. “I’m not going to fuck him. I just met him!”
Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
Yunho opened his mouth, then closed it. “Fine. I’ll leave too. Let me walk you back.”
“It’s your first night in the city.” Seonghwa stood, straightening his jacket. “Enjoy it.”
Yunho looked at him for a moment longer. “You want me to stay?”
“Yeah,” Seonghwa lied. “Just—don’t bring him back to the flat. Not tonight.”
Yunho gave him a salute, two fingers to the temple. “On my mother’s grave.”
“Rest in peace,” Seonghwa said. Then he pecked Yunho on the cheek and pushed into the crowd.
Heddon Street looked different without Yunho at his side. Everyone else moved in pairs.
Seonghwa turned onto Regent. The Café Royal loomed to his left, grand as a castle in white Portland stone, crowned with gilded cornices. It had drawn all the fashionable names: Virginia Woolf, and Oscar Wilde, who had found both love and ruin there.
It was one of Seonghwa’s dreams to visit. But they would never let him in, not dressed like this.
The platform at Piccadilly Circus was nearly empty. Just a few night workers scattered along the iron benches. Too late for respectable people, too early for the rest to be going home yet.
The narrow train screeched in, and the rush of air tore Seonghwa’s cap from his head. He scrambled, catching it just before it hit the tracks. Holding it down with one hand, he tugged at the carriage door with the other. It didn’t budge.
Frowning, he tried again with both hands. Still nothing.
He glanced around, then leaned back and threw his full weight into it. The door flew open with a bang, knocking him flat.
He scrambled to his feet and stepped on board, cheeks hot. Yunho made everything look easy.
The train groaned forward. Coal smoke fogged the windows. He couldn’t see the tunnel, only himself staring back in the suit his mother had made. What did they see, back at the club? A fisherman’s boy playing pretend?
Maybe if he had Yunho’s face, he’d pass. But probably not.
At Baker Street, a man and woman stumbled in, still laughing. They pulled apart when they saw him. The woman smoothed her coat. Seonghwa looked away, pushing past them.
He followed the curved tunnel toward the Metropolitan line. The air grew cleaner as he climbed. A few men in black suits were already boarding the next train for Farringdon, so he didn’t have to fight the door.
He wondered if Yunho had kissed Wooyoung yet.
Seonghwa had only ever been kissed once. Also by Yunho, with too much teeth and not enough air.
But Yunho’s first kiss hadn’t been with him.
That belonged to the penpal. The boy from Wroughton, the one Yunho met during the coronation at Westminster Abbey in the summer of ‘02. He was the reason Yunho could read, and by extension, Seonghwa too. They’d written letters through the winter. Then the boy started coming each summer for the grilse run, chasing fish and something else.
When Yunho was sixteen, Seonghwa found them kissing behind the old stone well. Yunho’s hand was up the boy’s shirt like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Then he looked up and saw Seonghwa watching.
The boy didn’t come back after that. They never talked about it, and they never said his name out loud again either. But that might’ve been the moment they both knew what they were.
The train shuddered to a halt. Farringdon. Seonghwa stepped off and started heading home. The darkness pressed close, but it was a short walk.
He smiled when he pushed open the front door. No need to piss outside first. A small thing, but still.
Upstairs, he slipped off his shoes, hung his suit in the wardrobe, and padded to the lavatory with the jug. The bathroom was tiny, just a white toilet and a long, shallow sink. Luxuries.
He laid his towel on the floor and stripped down. He wet his soap beneath the water, then scrubbed himself down, stress rolling down his body in gray rivulets. He pulled on fresh underclothes, then filled the jug for the morning.
Back in their bedroom, Seonghwa paused at the foot of his bed, glancing at the one Yunho had claimed. He hesitated for a moment, then he crossed the room and climbed into it. He wasn’t used to sleeping alone.
He lay on his side and closed his eyes, picturing the sea. Hallsands at low tide. Sand catching on his feet. Salt curling his hair, drying tight on his skin.
He thought he heard a rustle, but maybe it was the sea breeze. Then–
“What are you doing in my bed?”
“Christ!” Seonghwa yelped, sitting bolt upright. He rubbed his face. “You scared the life out of me. I didn’t think you’d come back tonight.”
Yunho stood just inside the doorway, his brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t miss your first day,” he said, sounding hurt. “I left right after you. I just had something to take care of.”
Seonghwa dropped back onto the pillow. “Could’ve said so.”
Yunho was already undressing, peeling off his waistcoat and hanging it in the wardrobe. He stepped out of his trousers and looked over.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t.”
Yunho cleared his throat. “Do you want to, you know, sleep like this?”
“Of course,” Seonghwa whispered. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“I don’t know,” Yunho replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re not really boys any more.”
“I don’t feel like a man yet,” Seonghwa murmured. He scooted to the wall, and Yunho climbed in behind him, wearing only his long cotton underwear. His skin was cold.
After Yunho’s mother died, they’d spent most nights with their bedrolls pushed together. Legs tangled like this, Seonghwa could almost pretend they were still home. The rush of the tide outside the window, the yeasty smell of dough rising.
“Me neither,” Yunho said against his neck. “Let’s stay boys forever.”
Yunho fell asleep first. Seonghwa lay still, listening to his breath and imagining it was also his mother’s, his father’s, Yunho’s father’s—their whole family breathing together in the dark while waves crashed outside.
He dreamt he stole the sand and built a beach in the middle of the city just for them. The water was warm.
He woke before the bell. Yunho was still pressed against him, one knee hooked over Seonghwa’s thigh, breath soft against the nape of his neck. Seonghwa extricated himself carefully, sliding to the foot of the bed like a fish. He tiptoed across the room, flipping the switch on his Westclox Big Ben clock before it could ring.
In the main room, he froze.
There, in the center of the scarred table, in front of the fruit cake: a squat vase filled with red and orange marigolds, bright like fire. Next to it, a folded piece of paper. Seonghwa’s hand shook as he picked it up.
Happy first day. I’m proud of you.
𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝒴𝓊𝓃𝒽𝑜
He stared at it for a long moment. This must’ve been the reason Yunho returned late. He pressed the note to his chest, then folded it carefully and carried it back to the bedroom. He slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, now full of worthless treasures.
“Mm—no bell?” Yunho mumbled, half-asleep. The blanket had slipped down to his waist. Freckles dotted his soft chest like grains of sand.
Seonghwa smiled. He loved seeing him like this, puffy-eyed, voice hoarse with sleep. It made him feel like they were real brothers, like they’d shared a womb and would one day share a grave.
“Didn’t need it,” Seonghwa said, filling the basin with water from the jug.
“You’re mad.” Yunho slid out of bed and stood next to him, dipping his hands in the basin. “Let me walk you.”
Seonghwa looked at him. “It’s a long walk, you don’t want to–”
“Don’t be daft,” Yunho said, running his fingers through his hair to tame it. “I want to see the building you designed.”
Seonghwa flushed. “I didn’t design it,” he said quickly, buttoning his trousers. “Just the façade, and they only used bits.”
Yunho had made him write in for a contest when he was eighteen, and he’d won. It was the only reason they’d given a job to a fisherman’s boy.
“Yeah, the most important bit. The curved front,” Yunho said, tugging on a fresh undershirt. He grabbed a tie from the wardrobe, then stepped closer. “Come here.”
Seonghwa turned to face him. Yunho looped the silk around his collar and began knotting it, their noses almost touching. It came out crooked, so he redid it, slower this time.
“Don’t be modest,” he said softly, pulling the knot snug. “You won’t fit in with the city boys if you are.”
Seonghwa swallowed. “What if they don’t like me?” he asked, voice small. “What if they can tell I don’t belong?”
“You do belong,” Yunho said, gripping his shoulders. “You’re brilliant.”
Seonghwa glanced down at himself. The suit was fine enough, but the elbows were thinning, and the shoulders didn’t sit quite right. He’d have to see what the others wore and try to find something secondhand to match.
“If anyone gives you trouble, you let me know,” Yunho added sharply, pulling a fresh button-up from the wardrobe. His hand hovered over his own tweed trousers, then shifted to the black cotton he’d worn the night before. “I mean it. Any snide remarks about where you’re from or what you’re wearing–”
“You’d probably have to fight half the office,” Seonghwa said, scratching at the tweed.
“I’d do it,” Yunho replied, adjusting his cuffs. “You know I would.”
Seonghwa suppressed a smile. He did know.
“Will you try for a job today?”
“Yeah,” Yunho said, a little sheepishly. “I’ll probably just wander near your firm, see what I can find. That way, you know... we can commute together. If no office will have me, I’ll check the paper for factory work.”
Seonghwa snorted. He’d probably have ten offers and a marriage proposal by lunch.
Yunho tugged on his cotton waistcoat, then his jacket. He looked like a Londoner. Mother had made him the suit when he turned eighteen, already over six feet tall, but scrawny, still growing into himself. Now it fit like it had been tailored to the man he’d become.
Seonghwa handed him a straw boater. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”
Yunho grinned, tucking his hair into the brim as he held the door. “You deserve a whole garden.”
Outside, the sky hung heavy and gray. Thunder rumbled low through the clouds. Every man on the street carried the same umbrella: waxed black canvas stretched over whalebone, the ribs clicking as they walked. It wasn’t raining yet, but maybe being prepared was the mark of a proper English gentleman.
Seonghwa wouldn’t know.
A paperboy stood on the corner beneath a flickering gas lamp. Not really a boy, he looked nearly a man, skinny with stubble on his chin. His voice cracked as he shouted over the wind.
They stepped off the stoop. Yunho adjusted his lapel, glancing at the clouds. “Let’s stop for coffee, if there’s time–”
“Hold on,” Seonghwa said, touching Yunho’s arm. He jogged toward the boy and pulled a penny from his coat. The boy slapped a paper into his palm without looking up.
Seonghwa glanced down at the headline. He froze, his heart in his throat.
Yunho crossed to meet him. “What is it?” he asked. “We’ve got to keep moving or I’ll be late for nothing.”
Seonghwa didn’t speak. Slowly, he turned the paper around.
Yunho’s eyes scanned the article. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. The blood drained from his face.
GREAT BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY
꧁ ─── ༺༻ ─── ꧂