My dearest Sehun,

 

I shot myself through the mouth this morning. They say that only cowards take their own lives, but I beg to differ. It takes tremendous courage to kill yourself, to fire that one shot before you begin to regret everything and question your own intentions...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yixing wakes to a heavy pounding on the door. He is spooning Sehun, neither of them clothed after the previous night’s escapades. Outside, the pounding escalates and becomes paired with angry yells. He hasn’t paid for his stay at the hotel yet (he doesn’t plan to either), and management is sure to be on his tail. Hurriedly, he rushes off the bed to dress, hoping to make a quick escape. His movements do not go unnoticed by his lover, who sits up groggily and leans against the pillows, smiling softly. Yixing turns back to Sehun and grins, holding up Sehun’s nicely embroidered waistcoat with a teasing expression. Sehun nods, and Yixing quickly pulls it on before throwing on his coat and jumping out the window, leaving his lover to deal with the rampant hotel officials.

 

He dashes through the streets of Cambridge, barely catching his passage to a new life, a ship to Zedelghem.

 

My dear Sehun,

 

I dreadfully regret leaving you in such a hurry. It will be our last time seeing each other for a long time, and I doubt jumping out of the window of a hotel and running around Cambridge half dressed has left the best impression. I would like to thank you for the waistcoat - I took it because I wanted something to remind me of you during my time away.

 

As you know, there resides a great composer in Zedelghem. A certain Mr. Yun Youngjin, who has become too old to compose anything of significance in these past years. However, I feel that as long as I can earn his trust and work as his assistant, help him write a few songs, I will be able to convince him that the poor and insignificant Zhang Yixing is his long lost and disowned son. Then, my dear, Zhang Yixing will no longer be a penniless fool.

 

Please do wish me luck; I hope to return to your side soon.

 

Yours, Yixing

 

Yixing looks up as he hears knocking on the door. He stands and opens it, revealing a pretty looking man shifting awkwardly in front of him. His uniform deems him a steward on the ship, and Yixing starts thinking.

 

“Who are you?” He asks.

 

“L- Lu Han,” the steward replies quietly. “I came to see if you needed assistance with anything?”

 

Yixing grins devilishly. “Yes, I do actually.”

 

Minutes later, Yixing and Lu Han are pressed together in a passionate kiss, bodies wriggling and clothes long gone. He moans when Lu Han kisses and touches him in all the right places, eagerly wanting more.

 

They rest, sweaty bodies entangled in an embrace, sheets and blankets haphazardly thrown to cover the evidence, the smell of quite evident in the air. Lu Han sleeps as Yixing stares tenderly down at him. He is beautiful, yes, but Sehun is just that much more stunning, he thinks, before finally drifting off to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old man paces agitatedly, muttering something about a tune he has in his head. Yixing obediently takes his place in front of the piano, blank staff paper and pen ready. As he sings (more like hums brokenly, but Yixing is in no position to criticise) his melody, Yixing jots down the notes amusedly, because this is just so simple.

 

“Play it back to me, boy,” the old composer demands. Yixing does, but pairs the melody with all the wrong chords, chuckling in amusement at the old man’s discomfort despite the fact that his own delicate ears feel like bleeding too. “No, no, no! This is all wrong!”

 

A stunningly beautiful woman walks out of a room, closing the door behind her to stand next to the composer. “Are you alright, dear? What’s bothering you?” She inquires.

 

“This boy must leave the house tomorrow. Have him pack his bags, I don’t want to see him again! See to it that this is done.” The woman nods and helps to move him from the piano room. But Yixing only smirks and sits down at the piano again, playing the song in a manner he knows the old man would like to hear. And sure enough, halfway through the exit, he abruptly turns and acknowledges the music. “Yes! This is exactly what was in my head...”

 

Yixing smiles knowingly. “Shall I still pack my bags, sir?” The man simply dismisses the inquisition with a wave of his hand, which Yixing takes as an offer to stay.

 

Yixing later learns that the beautiful woman is Song Victoria, Mr. Yun’s young trophy wife. And he has to say, she does always looks gorgeous.

 

My lovely Sehun,

 

How I miss you so. Mr. Yun and I have come up with a curious arrangement, in which he creates the basic structure of the music, and I the rest. Recently, a friend of his (but mostly Mrs. Yun’s) has come to hear the first piece we have created. This friend is apparently also of high standing in the musical circle, and he did nothing but sing praises about “our” composition. I did not have the heart to tell him that most of this piece was composed simply by me, Zhang Yixing, and only numbly sat there as he rattled off astonishing point after astonishing point to Mr. Yun.

 

During dinner, which our guest stayed for, I saw him casting longing glances at Mrs. Yun. Considering they were friends before Mrs. Yun met Mr. Yun, I could not help but wonder if they had something going on before the young Mrs. Yun married her now-husband. He pines after her, you know, much like how I pine after you.

 

But alas, no more of this grave news. I have begun reading. Mr. Yun’s mansion is filled with an assortment of rare and exotic books, and among these I have found an interestingly half-written book (though I call it a book, it is more of a journal). It is titled, The Pacific Journal of Kim Joonmyeon. It is quite a good read, and nothing bothers me more than the fact that it is incomplete. After all, “a half-read book is a half-finished love affair.”

 

Missing You Dearly, Yixing

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sehun,

 

Today I began writing my own piece. I call it, the Cloud Atlas tet. It will be grand, it will be amazing. I am sure of it. When I have published it, I will return home - to you. It has been too long without you by my side, and my yearning has amounted to an uncontrollable feeling. I am grateful for your waistcoat, which I have still kept with me all this time; I am grateful for holding a piece of you near me at all times.

 

A few days ago I became lovers with Mr. Yun’s wife, Victoria. Women are so very different from men, Sehun. She is needy and clingy, always asking me to be quite affectionate. But fear not, my dear, for our relationship is purely physical. You know that I only hold you so close in my heart, do you not? After our night together, she thanked me for bringing life back into this house, and for giving Mr. Yun his music back.

 

Speaking of, Mr. Yun has not suspected anything yet, thank the Lord, but I suppose it is only a matter of time before he finds out. Yesterday he burst into my room right after Victoria had left, requiring me to quickly jot down a melody he had heard in a dream. His dream was quite intriguing - he dreamt of the future, Sehun. In a cafe with flashy lights, where the waitresses all looked the same, and the customers ate soap. And throughout the dream, one melody kept playing. He could not remember, no matter how hard he tried and how stubbornly he refused to admit that he had forgotten it. But, Sehun, he heard me playing my composition today, and he told me, quite seriously, that my Cloud Atlas tet was the melody he had continuously heard in his dream. I told him he had simply heard me composing before and my song had integrated into his mind, but he refused and adamantly insisted that this was his song.

 

I hope you will get to hear my music soon, my love.

 

Yours Forever, Yixing

 

He sits at the piano, playing his composition over and over. He is almost done now, only needs a few more days before everything will be complete and all the loose ends will be tied up. But the old composer walks in then, and silently sits by Yixing’s side. Although he knows distractions are the last thing he needs right now, he attempts to give this ludicrous idea a shot. As he finishes up playing what he has, he turns to the old man. Their eyes meet and he tenderly brings a hand up to caress the other’s wrinkly face. “Oh, Youngjin,” he says as he offers a faint smile. For a second, he thinks the composer has fallen for his tricks, but a loud laugh distracts him.

 

“Did you really think that would work?” Youngjin demands.

 

“I- It didn’t mean anything,” Yixing stutters.

 

“The song was beautiful. I hope my name will also appear on this piece.”

 

“No,” Yixing argues, “this is not your song. Every note, chord, and time signature in the Cloud Atlas tet originates from my mind. Nothing is yours.” He needs to leave, Yixing thinks. “I’m leaving. I can’t work here anymore.”

 

“Did you really think you could leave?” The wicked old man laughs in an uproar. Yixing stops in the middle of organizing his music. “Do you think I would not know what kind of person lives under my roof? I have done research, Zhang Yixing, ‘disowned son of Yun Youngjin’,” he snarls. “I know that you are nothing but a male e who sleeps around with anyone. How pitiful. No, you will not leave. You will stay here and finish this piece, which will then be published in my name. What do you think would happen, Mr. Yixing, if the musical society found out what kind of person you were? Rumors travel fast, my dear, and no matter how beautiful and amazing your music is, it won’t matter, because no one will hear it.”

 

Lovely Sehun,

 

It is getting unbearable here. I don’t think I can stay much longer. The sly old Yun Youngjin wants to steal my work as his own, and he is threatening me for it. He does not allow me to leave, at least until I finish my composition. Promise me you will wait, Sehun, I will find a way out of this. And if not, promise me that you alone will listen to my music, even if you are the only one, and you will know that it is I, Zhang Yixing, who composed it.

 

I stole Mr. Yun’s pistol yesterday, while he was away. I sincerely hope I will not have to use it, but if the need arises, I will. My music is more precious than anything else, and I hope you understand that I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. Your waistcoat offers me comfort in my dark hours.

 

Yours, Yixing

 

P.S. Darling, I wish you to know how I love you so.

 

Yixing steels his gait and packs his bag, knowing that he needs to get out of this mansion soon. “Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Yixing?”

 

Yixing grits his teeth. “I’m leaving.”

 

“Oh are you now? Do you honestly not care about a tarnished reputation?” The old devil drawls out, completely unconcerned.

 

“It does not matter, only my music does.”

 

“Does it really? Fine, you may leave, but this stays.” The composer snatches the manuscript for the Cloud Atlas tet before Yixing can do anything.

 

“Give that back!” Yixing intones, rushing forward to take back his life’s work. “Give it back, or I’ll shoot you.” He points the pistol at Mr. Yun’s head.

 

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

 

“How are you so certain?” He asks as he slowly edges for his music. The old man stands unperturbed.

 

“Because you are a coward,” he hisses, grabbing the pistol and pointing it down. “Cowards can never do anything.” There is a bang and Mr. Yun sinks to the floor, clutching his injured arm and glaring up at Yixing.

 

“I am not a coward.” Yixing grabs his music and rushes out of the house, into the bustling streets of Zedelghem.

 

My dear,

 

I have escaped from the clutches of that devil, but now I am in hiding. I only shot his hand, and he has mostly healed, but that man is out for blood. All I need now is to find a safe place to stay, where I can finish my music.

 

I am sorry that this letter is so short, but I hope to see you soon.

 

Lovingly, Yixing

 

P.S. I miss your embraces.

 

Yixing climbed up the stairs to his dusty little hotel, sighing until he looks down at the newspaper article in the hotel manager’s hands. “Ah, you are back, sir. It says here that Mr. Yun is looking for a Mr. Zhang Yixing, who is a composer and musician. You are a composer and musician, are you not, Mr. ‘Lay’? The reward for capture is quite handsome, hmm.”

 

“What do you want, Jaeho?” Yixing walks back down to the front desk, and glares.

 

“The police came to search today. I told them nobody was on the third floor. It costs quite a bit of money to keep an entire floor empty, does it not?” Jaeho grins and looks awaitingly at Yixing.

 

Sighing in defeat, Yixing takes out his wallet and empties it of the few coins that are in there. “This is all I have.”

 

The man eyes Yixing’s finely embroidered waistcoat, and smirks. “That waistcoat looks like it could be worth a fine sum of money...”

 

My beloved Sehun,

 

I have not eaten in days. Not only because there is nothing edible in this shabby hotel or the fact that the hotel manager keeps swindling me of what little money I have, but for the fact that I am too busy finishing my composition. The Cloud Atlas tet is quickly coming to a finish, and these past few days I have spent vigorously composing. It reminds me of you, this piece does. Out of all the people I have met, you are the one who has loved me dearest. Thank you, Sehun.

 

I have taken to watching the sunrises on the tops of the towers at the cathedral here. It calms me. If you are ever to come to Zedelghem, I hope you get to see the sunrise too. Nothing would give me more joy than to watch it with you.

 

Before I left the Yun household, I managed to discover the second half of The Pacific Journal of Kim Joonmyeon. The book does not end so sadly, despite its dreary beginning. Imagine, someone who you thought of as a friend, poisoning you! Though I suppose, Mr. Yun was quite like that to me.

 

When I finish my composition, dearest, I will return home to you. It would please me greatly to see your face again.

 

Forever, Yixing

 

P.S. I miss your kisses.

 

Yixing laughs somewhat deliriously as he finally finishes his work of art. The Cloud Atlas tet is complete at last, and he really doesn’t think he needs anything more in this life. His only regret is leaving Sehun behind. He has already seen Sehun this morning, though, so he supposes he can leave now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...I used to go and sit at the tops of the cathedral, watching the sun slowly rise above me. This morning, I went again. The view is amazing, and I used to think that I would never see anything more beautiful than it. But I was wrong, Sehun, for I saw you. You on the cathedral, watching the sunrise, looking for me. That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I do not disbelieve that it was fate that led me to see you before you saw me. I apologize for hiding from you, but I believe it was for the best. Otherwise, the hurt would be magnified and my intentions were never to hurt you, dearest.

 

Sehun cheerily steps into the hotel Yixing is living in, smile bright on his face from watching the sunrise. Yixing is right, it truly is a magnificent view. But as he steps towards the hotel clerk to ask which room Yixing is living in, his eyes fall on the waistcoat that the man is wearing, and a look of shock crosses his face.

 

In this letter, I have enclosed the Cloud Atlas tet and The Pacific Journal of Kim Joonmyeon. Keep them safe for me, because I am leaving now.

 

Sehun bolts up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, hoping to catch Yixing before it is too late.

 

I am so sorry to leave you in this way, to neglect you all these months, only for you to find me dead when you come. I am sorry for being a terrible lover, and I promise to be a better one in the coming lifetimes, if there are any. Please be happy, Sehun, because you deserve it.

 

He hears the bang while he is on his last flight of stairs. “No,” he cries, “no!” And he starts running again.

 

Yours Eternally, Zhang Yixing

 

Sehun finds Yixing in the bathtub, gun held limply in his hands while he bleeds from the gunshot wound in his head. “No,” Sehun wails, over, and over, and over, holding onto the lifeless form of his lover.

P.S. I love you.