the wrong years
flailingthroughsanity

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Howon throughout the ages.

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playlist:
aimer - cold sun
the decemberists - the wrong year
portugal.the man - modern jesus

 

Time. A human construction. Over the centuries, philosophers have come up with a hundred theories – their own approach to what time is, what it does and how it affects people. Even in the darkest days that detailed the beginning of humanity, time – by itself – had already carved itself into premature society: in the seasons that pass, the harvests that are reaped accordingly: erect statues on flat plains, shadows cast across the stonework as the Sun travels westward. Myth and folklore, entwined in society as it burgeons into something bigger, holding fast to the change of season – come drought and winter, Persephone’s fall and Demeter’s anguish – time remains: a collective hold on humanity.

Even in the advent of modern day technology and philosophy, time remains as ubiquitously foreign as it is inherently familiar. Time holds a spell on us, in the ticking of our wristwatches, to the crossing out of the days on the calendar, the shrill bell of the morning train that leaves at eight o’clock. Our world is built on time – and funny, time was something we created.

∞

Manila is humid – even on the advent of January, heat blooming in December’s wake, Howon can smell the drought in the air. He guesses that he’s used to it, somewhat. The Philippines had always been on the more uncomfortable side of the tropics – but that would be unusual, as there is usually two sides to the tropics: the monsoon and the drought, and yes – Howon should be used to it, somewhat, but growing up in Seoul’s oftentimes chilly air could affect his own interpretation of what was hot, and what was normal.

As he steps out of the taxi, Howon adjusts the cuffs of his suit, surrounded by bustle and noise. The hotel before him is lavish – a somewhat worn façade, as if shouldering rain and storm — but the left-over Christmas decorations are still in place, and he takes a moment to look at the small blinking lights, of scarlets and golds and emeralds. Around him, people – not just Filipinos, but the occasional American or even a fellow Korean – continue on their business, that ading scent of post-daytime heat, the occasional belch of the passing jeepneys or the circulating smoke of a nearby smoker.

When the taxi behind him starts to move away, wheel skidding against asphalt, Howon moves – and his feet takes him through the entrance – and the bellboys at the entrance greet him and he greets back.

The interior of the hotel feels somewhat similar to how it looked on the outside – there’s the lingering trace of use, by time and by man, in the slightly unpolished ends around the thick columns rising to the ceiling; the part of the ceiling that looks soggy and old, compared to the newly painted ones (perhaps a storm or a broken pipe); the drab-looking curtains – crimson, fitting, but the gold binds and their tassels have a swath of brown, by dirt or by use – but the age gives it a handsome charm. Homey. Familiar. The thought is comforting.

He follows the crowd up the stairs, holds the end of the balustrade as he climbs up the carpeted steps, also a rich dark red – and there’s the lively chatter around him. A middle-aged woman, her tan skin glowing in the amber light of the high chandelier, is excitedly talking to her husband about a wedding or other – he’s not really sure, her Tagalog was spoken a little too fast for him but he gets the idea – as she climbs up beside him. A few steps behind, if he turned, he could imagine the face of the boy – sounding around nine or ten – complaining about the slow Wi-Fi connection and his mother telling him to stop playing on his iPad. More chatter trails down the steps from the open mahogany doors by the landing, and Howon stops actively dissecting the words apart and allows himself to bathe around the reverberating warmth they carry.

His destination is at the end of the hall from the landing, on the last set of doors, and he hears piano music crooning softly, just a note above the laughter and conversations wrapping around him. Howon walks forward, eyes sweeping to the photos framed up the walls and he stops, eyes taking in the photo set on the center frame.

It’s gilded – in faux gold, but he doesn’t really mind – and he takes in the black and white photo, and spies the handsome man smiling (mouth wide and bright, lower teeth slightly imperfect) and his eyes are scrunched up in happy crescents. Howon smiles a little at the image, and his eyes flick to the next person in the photo – with an arm around the smiling man – and he sees himself, framed in laughter, and sees the black suit that he’s wearing, his hair down and swept to the side neatly.

(“Stop it.” Woohyun bites, laughing – cheeks slightly red from the wine – and Howon can’t stop himself, grinning as he pinches the other’s side. There’s a flash before them, and an aged photographer raises a hand and they both smile for the photo. Howon pinches Woohyun’s side just as a flash of white comes, smoke trailing in the photographer’s wake, music blaring around them.)

His smile grows dim, and Howon steps back, pulling himself away from his memories, and he continues on. The interior of the ballroom is warm – dimmed in muted red and golden lights – and he grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, smells the sweet heady scent of the beef sirloin on the buffet table and hears lively chatter all around. He ducks his head and sidesteps a group of younger ladies, angling themselves up for a group selfie and takes note of the cuts of their dresses, his black shoes moving away from stepping on them.

Howon stops by a nearby booth, empty, and sets his glass and eyes the corner of the ballroom, where a spotlight is set on the grand piano and the man playing it. The tune is soft, croons slightly above the chitchat, but there’s a sweet, almost magical take to it – something that reminds him of Bach and Tchaikovsky, but not as tragic or melodramatic – it was happy and gay and Howon smiles to himself, maybe even laughs a little, as the pianist continues to look up at the ceiling, greyed out eyes blank, but bright, and the weathered lines of age on his face bespoke charming smiles more than frowns, silver hair in a neat tousle. He’s a handsome man, nearing the age of sixty, and a charm that never seemed to deaden.

Howon raises his hands and claps just as the piece ends, smiling proudly as the rest of the ballroom follows suit. Woohyun smiles down on the microphone and breathes out quiet thanks.

∞

“Happy new year,” He whispers, inhaling cedar, and Woohyun jumps in his seat, turning slightly to him.

“There you are!” Woohyun says, head turned to him as a hand grasps for his and Howon takes it in his own, wrapping their fingers together. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Howon grins, taking in the other’s knowing smile. “How did you know?”

“I suddenly smelled cow and that was it.”

Howon barks in laughter, and pokes Woohyun in the side, and the other chuckles, patting Howon’s arm – and he loves Woohyun’s humor and bite, he always had. He holds the other’s hand and moves them to the base of the glass on the table. Woohyun smiles to him in thanks, unseeing grey eyes pointed to the ceiling.

“So, I’m twenty minutes late—“

“As usual,” Woohyun comments quietly and Howon rolls his eyes.

“—what did I miss?”

The pianist shrugs, angling closer to Howon and cedar overtakes his nostrils. Howon turns to the other, arm on the back of Woohyun’s chair, ear turned to the other.

“Not much, some chatter—oh! And I think someone broke a bottle, or stepped on food—“

“—or their lipstick smudged?” Howon provided helpfully, and watched the other’s grin. He looked around, spied on the unending words mulled into background noise.

“You’re mean, but yes, maybe that’s what happened. It’s the most likely one, anyway. Anyhow,” and Woohyun turns to him. “Do you know what’s funny about New Year’s? I always feel like it’s the one night where anything is possible.”

“Really?” Howon prods, brows raised in question even though Woohyun couldn’t see them.

“Hm.” A sip of champagne, and Woohyun sets the glass back on the table. “There’s just something magical about it, Howonnie. It’s like any other night, but then, the clock strikes midnight and voila! New year, new life, new possibilities.”

“Isn’t that a tad bit childish?” Howon responds, and is not disappointed as Woohyun lightly smacks his leg.

“Well, what about you?” Woohyun asks.

Humming, Howon sets his own glass down. “What about me, what?”

“What’s your New Year’s resolution?”

Making a face, Howon turns to the other. “I don’t know, what’s yours?”

A grin on his face, Woohyun beams. “As always, true love.”

“But you already have your true love!” and Howon pokes Woohyun in the side again, and lets the lilting quality of his laughter wrap him in warmth. A couple of waiters pass by their table, carrying pots of soup and food and they both stop to appreciate the scent of the sauce trailing in their wake. “Alright, mine is to live this year as if it’s my last.”

Woohyun is quiet, fingers trailing the knuckles on Howon’s hands, and he takes a moment to appreciate how handsomely the other had grown into his age. “Like last year?”

The question is neutral, but the voice that carries it is a mixture of sad, and happy – and maybe, just a little bit heartbroken. “Well…you never know, at our age, it could be?”

Howon would like to believe that, if just to wipe away the sad smile on the other’s weathered, old face. He can already see it – a decade or two back – the lines gone, turning back to supple cheeks, jaw raised and strong, eyes grey to brown but the smile is the same, still as breathtaking and charming as it had been all these years, and Howon really wishes he could believe Woohyun.

He takes in the crowd around them, as Woohyun remains in silence, and finds someone approaching their table, a hand raised in recognition. He leans close. “Beware, bachelor at three o’ clock.”

“What, how does he look?”

“Mm. Dark hair, fair skin, bedroom eyes and a gorgeous nose.”

“Wait—“

“Good evening, gentlemen,” and Howon greets back as Woohyun grins, hearing his husband’s voice. Myungsoo reaches close and hugs Woohyun for a second, before taking the seat to the pianist’s other side. Myungsoo takes Woohyun’s other hand and angles for a kiss on his fingers.

“Ooh, suave. I have to tell you, my husband is very possessive so don’t start something you can’t finish in a minute.”

“True,” Howon pipes up. “A second longer and his pacemaker might go haywire.”

Myungsoo laughs, loud and deep as always, as he pecks Woohyun on the cheek and smiles at him, smitten. He turns from Woohyun and looks at Howon and his smile stays, just as genuine as ever, and silver on his temples just adds to the maturity of his looks.

The other looks away and ropes Woohyun into a conversation, and Howon sits up and turns his gaze around, watching the laughter and the merriment. He takes in the cuts of the dresses, the color of the men’s suits, sees the coif of a passing lady’s hair and watches as she looks back at him for a moment. She takes in his face, and ducks her head and hurries to her friends, who in turn, look back at him inconspicuously (or, at least tries to).

He turns back to the couple beside him, and smiles – watching the shine in their eyes and their laughter – and leans back on his chair, humming to the recorded track of Auld Lang Syne on the speakers.

∞

He’s climbing down the same steps, clock ticking past midnight and he glides his way through the crowd. Outside the hotel, the faint sound of fireworks can still be heard, whistling up the air and exploding in colors. Howon takes the time to stand by the entrance, looking beyond the glass and seeing buildings – some as old as stone, from a time before modernization – and sees his own reflection, almost invisible on the glass.

“Well, we’re here.” Myungsoo announces, standing next to him and Howon turns to see the two beside him, already in their coats.

“Are you sure you’re not staying?” Woohyun asks, slightly bereft. Howon smiles and shakes his head – and, surrendering for a moment — leans close and kisses Woohyun on the cheek.

“I’ll call, don’t worry.” As he says this, Woohyun doesn’t look convinced, but Myungsoo smiles all the same and makes a gesture that he would.

“Happy New Year, Howon.” Woohyun says, patting him on the shoulder, before Myungsoo leads them out and down the hotel steps.

Howon watches them go, standing by the entrance – sees them walk down the steps, into the arid December night. Woohyun now walks with a slight limp, from an old soccer injury that had never really recovered, but he leans on to Myungsoo – still strong in spite of his age – and they laugh at something before crossing the street.

He stands there, for a moment, before he follows suit and makes his way to the taxi lane. He ignores the urgent calling of the passing jeepneys and stands in line – waiting for a cab to run down the street. The air really is dry, but he makes do, looking down the street when he feels a presence next to him. He turns his head a bit and subtly feels his phone still in his pocket.

“Nice night?” The man asks, in pleasant Korean, and Howon takes a second look. The man really is Korean, taller than him, with a smooth nose and brown hair. His eyes are small, sharp, dark in the light provided by the lamp posts and his skin glows as if translucent. Reminded of the question, Howon smiles politely.

“It is – a bit hot, but that’s December for the country, right?”

The stranger nods in agreement, an expression of irony on his face. “Indeed. In Seoul, we would be freezing but not in this place.”

“Global warming?”

“Maybe. Or we’re just being audacious complainers?”

Howon laughs. “That, too. Shows in my age.”

“Really?” And the man raises a brow. He wasn’t exactly what Howon would call attractive – in the general sense at least – not the kind that is wildly popular with the girls nowadays, but there was something magnetic about him: maybe in his smile, confident and easy, or in his own stance, hands in his pockets, hair flicking in the breeze that just picked up.

“Yes, old people like me have a pass to complain about everything, didn’t you know?”

Howon hasn’t flirted in a while, tries to avoid it – and to be honest, he doesn’t even know if he’s flirting or not — but the stranger’s smile hooks him in.

“Old?” He guffaws. “Well, then, you aged quite well.”

“I try my best.”

A honk, and they both turn to see a taxi running down the lane and Howon turns to the other. The man looks surprised, a bit disappointed, and Howon shrugs. “I guess this is my ride.”

“I guess it is.” The other agrees, smiling again and, yes, Howon can definitely see the charm in that smile.

He opens the cab door and settles himself inside, the cold AC a relief against the humid air. He’s about to close the door when a hand pulls it back and Howon makes a surprised sound. It’s the stranger, holding the door open a sliver.

“There you go, putting your hand where it doesn’t belong.” Howon remarks lightly, somewhat amused. The taxi driver turns to them, notes the Korean words spoken, and turns back to the wheel.

“Maybe I just like to live dangerously.” The other comments.

“Maybe.” And Howon remains silent, patiently waiting for the other to continue.

“What’s your name?” He asks, and Howon simply smiles – he’s been in this situation far too many times (he’s gone past feeling exhausted about it).

The man doesn’t relent, though. “Will I see you again, at least?”

“Happy New Year.” Howon responds – and slowly closes the door as the stranger releases his grasp. He apologizes to the taxi driver and doesn’t look back as the taxi pedals into the forever busy streets of Metro Manila, garish mechanical light trailing in his wake.

∞

 

A ring on his phone and Howon presses it against his ear. “Hello, Woohyun.”

“Hi, Howonnie. How’s Seoul?”

“It’s lovely,” Howon answers as he shifts his phone from hand to hand as he takes off his coat, setting it on the hanger by the door. Securing the lock, he takes off his shoes and walks in his socks, settling down on the couch. “A big turn-out compared to Manila, but it’s been a long time. I’ve missed home.”

“That’s great, dear. I would have preferred that you stay with us…” and Howon sighs, because he can hear the unsaid frown of curiousity and he could imagine the pointed look in Woohyun’s eyes.

“Woohyun—“Howon began, but he’s cut off by the other.

“Shush, I know. Anyway, forget about all that – how’s the moving in going on so far?”

Howon rolls his eyes at the diversion, but he lets it go as Jongie bundled up to him. The white-furred Shih Tzu whine and pawed at his legs and Howon bent down to scratch him behind his ears. His place is on the edge of Mapo, down a little street called Hieul – the third floor of a little complex fronting a Chinese restaurant, and a few plant stores and a pottery. The apartment isn’t a mess, per se, but he was still getting halfway to moving his stuff in. There were boxes strewn around, some opened and others still packaged up. Outside, Seoul’s grey morning light seeped in through the white curtains and if the weather sustains, he might head out for lunch before he runs down to the gallery for work.

“A little slow, but that’s mostly because I just got started.” He stands and walks to the drawer, pulling out Jongie’s food bowl and setting it on the counter. Grabbing the box of dog food from one of the opened boxes on the counter, Howon filled the bowl and set it on the ground, Jongie’s happy yapping silenced as he started digging into his food. “I’ve forgotten that having my boxes moved into my apartment was additional cost.”

Woohyun’s laugh cuts through the occasional static on the other end. “Got used to Filipino hospitality?”

“I don’t think it was hospitality that got me help in putting my stuff up, maybe it was my way with words.”

“Ah, yes, because you stumbling in English and littered Tagalog surely appealed you to people.”

Howon laughs, resting his hip against the counter. Even nearing sixty, Woohyun still had that bite to his words that never failed to amuse Howon, even if it was at his own expense. “I miss you.”

The line on the other end is silent, save for Woohyun’s breathing. “I miss you too.”

Howon opens his mouth, about to say goodbye, when a thought surfaces – a thought that has been in his mind for a long time – and he changes his words. “It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“It’s just…” and Howon laughs. “there are days where I wonder why I still talk to you, and there are days where I wake up and can’t imagine my life without you.”

“I’m pretty unforgettable, babe.” The other chuckles, his laugh occasionally raspy (“Why do you insist on smoking?” Howon asked, ignoring the frown on the other’s face as he takes Woohyun’s cigarette and steps on it). “To be honest, I can’t imagine my life without you, too.”

Howon smiles, and there’s that pain his chest coming up – a pain he only remembers being there whenever he remembers and looks back. “Words like that can sweep a guy off his feet.”

(“So, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” The other asks, and it’s such a blatant attempt at flirting – even a blind man can see it – that Howon couldn’t do anything other than smile and laugh.

His name is Woohyun, and they spend the entire night sitting next to each other, drinks unattended on the counter, the bar’s noise dimmed into almost silence around them.)

“Well, I may be fifty-eight, but I’m still Nam Woohyun.” The other pauses, and then speaks to someone in the background and Howon deduces it was Myungsoo. Smiling to himself, Howon can’t help the affectionate tone leaking into his voice as he says goodbye. “Say hi to Myungsoo for me.”

“You’ll be alright, Howon. I know.”

And he raises a brow, interested to know how. “And how do you know that?”

Woohyun sounds amused. “I know you, Howon. You’re a survivor.”

∞

Leaving Manila should have affected him more than it really did – or maybe that’s what Howon thinks should be the normal reaction, anyway. Manila had been home for the last ten years, moving should have left him with a feeling of displacement and separation – funny, he just feels like he’s rowing on, letting the waves take him. It had taken him a while to get used to the environment, to Metro Manila’s humid air and her people. As the capital, he was not surprised to meet an influx of people – coming from different backgrounds, different cultures – bumping into fellow Koreans, a few Westerners and a myriad of Filipinos coming from all parts of the country. They were such a diverse race, roots in Spain and Indonesia, from China and the United States, forming into a people far resilient than he ever gave them credit for. Funny, he would like to think he was one of them – in terms of resilience, but he doesn’t lie to himself enough to do that – and maybe he did manage to become one of them (one of the thousands going to the capital, to the fabled city of dreams) if the feeling of unfamiliarity with Seoul was any indication.

But, and he thinks of this in the most honest way possible, that would be a little contradicting as well because he knows leaving Manila wasn’t the reason why Seoul had become strange and alien to him.

Seoul had changed. Seoul had grown.

Seoul was now filled with steel-lined skyscrapers, neon lights and mechanical glow. His Seoul was gone.

∞

The gallery he works at is set near an intersection, down at Gangnam, across a local coffeeshop and stacked at the sides by dress shops. The gallery is old-looking – worn a little – but still standing, and the woodwork on the entrance was lavish and handsome, handmade. Its tall windows were beset by black rails, seeping in light inside. It wasn’t as extravagant or as well-known as the other galleries in the city (or as lavish as the gallery he worked at in Makati), but it had a reputation of being home-grown – older than most – and run by the granddaughter of her original owner. Howon works as a records keeper – it was his job to take inventory of the artworks and the items on display, take notes of who cleaned them and when, what artworks were installed, what were sold and what were damaged – and if their head curator wasn’t around, he would be the one to assist the customers.

He didn’t consider himself particularly artistic – he used to dance, but not the type to paint, to mix oils and creams and dyes, brush color against paper and turn them into idyllic figures in repose. He didn’t have a penchant for figure studies, or drafting and sketching (that was more for Myungsoo’s lane), but he did like surrounding himself by it. Call him nostalgic and melancholic, but there was something comforting being surrounded by art – it doesn’t even matter if he can ever hope to reach their level of skill – and the routine of his job meant he was always in their vicinity. Howon liked it that way.

“Hey” and Eunji, their curator, walked into his office and he looked up from his books. “Don’t forget, we’re expecting Mr. Kim in a few minutes for the donation.”

He nods. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

Eunji’s look of disbelief has him smiling. “Exciting doesn’t even come close to cutting it. He’s donating a full on complete set of 19^th century chinaware from Jeonju, all intact and in good condition. My plates at home aren’t even in that good enough shape and I bought them last week!”

“Maybe you should stop using them to hit your husband all the time.”

“I would if he stopped acting like he deserved it,” and Eunji walks off. Howon smiles in her wake, amused at the image of the little curator throwing plates at her broody husband Inguk, and after setting his books on his table, decide to join up with Eunji and the rest of the team.

He saddles up next to Eunji, who was in a conversation with their security guard. A little curious about their benefactor, Howon turns to their accountant Sungyeol. “Who’s Mr. Kim?”

“Hm? Oh, he’s this son of a rich family or something — I think his father owned a planetarium in Jeonju and come from old money.”

Nodding to himself as he faces Sungyeol, he doesn’t hear the doors open and when Eunji starts her enthusiastic greeting, Howon takes a look and pauses.

It’s the man – from Manila, from outside the hotel.

The man, Mr. Kim, is also looking at him – face in surprise (delighted surprise) – and Howon knows his own face is mirroring the same expression. Eunji is shaking Mr. Kim’s hand, and he half turns to her as she babbles on about her gratitude but he occasionally looks back at Howon and, unsure about what to do, Howon merely stares at him from his place next to a Dali painting.

“Oh, I think we can have them loaded in already—“Mr. Kim begins and Eunji nods, calling for their security guard to help, and Howon finds that his signal to start edging away because—

“Mr. Kim, we honestly would like to have a photo of you donating. This would really boost our image for the gallery.”

Mr. Kim’s voice sounds distracted and trailing. “Oh, of course. That’s not a problem.”

And it’s when he’s about to walk behind another artwork that Howon feels someone stand next to him, and he sighs. He looks to his side and sees Mr. Kim, smiling.

“Fancy meeting you here?”

He looks the same as he did that night, minus the formal suit. He’s casually dressed, in a tan bomber jacket and jeans, but his chestnut hair is slicked back up and he looks decidedly better, in Seoul’s gray light than Manila’s mechanical lamp posts.

“Very fortuitous.” Howon comments, and he’s not sure how it’s possible to meet the same person in two different places, in different cities, but – and he sighs – life is funny like that.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have flowers with me.” He says, and Howon smiles, tight-lipped.

“Oh, that is very disappointing, and here I was expecting them.”

Mr. Kim chuckles, and Howon feels the team looking at them in curiousity and he really should step away now, because Mr. Kim smells like sandalwood and his eyes are bright caramel in the afternoon light. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some donating.”

“Well, donate away.”

Mr. Kim frowns. “What? No, you’ll be the one to receive them in behalf of the gallery.”

Howon feels, rather than hears, Eunji jump but he really doesn’t pay it any mind as his attention is stuck to the other’s words, and the bells in his head are ringing. “Oh, no, no – I’m not one to be in photos.”

Mr. Kim pauses. “What are you talking about—you look stunning!”

Howon’s voice is calm but firm. “It’s not about vanity or anything like that, I just don’t like having my picture taken.”

“Then, go on a date with me.”

“What?” Howon asks in surprise, at the same time Eunji asks the same thing in a squeal, to the discomfort of Sungyeol who was the recipient of her harsh whispering.

“If you’re not gonna be in the picture with me, then one date. That’s all.” And Mr. Kim shrugs, still smiling and he doesn’t look like he’s pleading or anything of that sort, but Howon feels like he wants to say yes. But he pauses, and shakes his head. “No, that’s not possible.”

Maybe it’s in the firmness of his voice, or the set look in his eyes but Mr. Kim’s smile loses its light and he steps away, a hand raised. “Oh, uh, um — you know what? Just forget about it, I’ll just leave the artworks here and uh—“

And, damn it, Howon doesn’t enjoy feeling like this, seeing the other stammer and before he knows it, he’s taking a step after and— “Where?”

Mr. Kim pauses, takes his question, and smiles. “It’s a surprise.”

Howon knows he’s making a mistake – ignores the jumping Eunji from behind Sungyeol – and he knows it with intimacy, but Mr. Kim’s smile is bright and charming and Howon isn’t infallible, has his own weaknesses and Mr. Kim’s smile reminds him of a far older time (in a far different time) and maybe, just maybe, he wants to enjoy that for as short a time as possible.

“I find that hard to believe, Mr. Kim.” He responds.

“It’s Sunggyu—oh, and try me.”

∞

Howon’s on the floor of his apartment, Jongie on his lap and there are photobooks around them. It’s a Tuesday evening, the curtains shut and the orange lamps . His living room is flooded in amber light, and he looks about, at the old photoframes up on the walls and on the books set on the floor of his little study.

“Seoul is a little colder than Manila.” He says, munching on bread, as Jongie curls on his lap and follows the point of his finger as he goes through old photos. “But your grandfather was from here, you know that?”

Jongie sniffs at the edge of the album’s cover. Howon raises a hand and combs through Jongie’s fur.

“Yup. My grandfather was from Seoul too, but yours wasn’t from the same place of course.”

He smiles again, takes a bite, as he goes through the photos, at Jongie’s parents – all Shih Tzu, almost mirror images of each other, generation to generation – and Jongie’s little brown spot on his left ear was a fluke, but Howon doesn’t mind it at all.

He turns to the next page, and there’s a photo of him and Woohyun, atop a picnic table, a gorgeous lake in the back. His arms are around the other, and Woohyun smiles brightly at the camera.

“What am I doing, Jong?”

A whine.

He doesn’t know.

∞

He knocks on the door, and the face that greets him is far younger than Howon expected. The boy looks young, maybe just rounding off high school and beginning his college years. It’s not the man he expected to receive him, but he keeps his surprise quiet. He’s had too many surprises already, and this one shouldn’t be anything new (or maybe it’s just the growing sadness in him, seeing such a thing wasted).

“Jihyuk?” Howon nods, and the man – the teenager – lets him in.

“It’s alright, my parents are away doing the groceries.” The other leads him into small adjoining room, and Howon looks around. He takes in the set-up: the sturdy-looking dining set, the clean walls, the refrigerator with magnets stuck to its front, phone and electricity bills altogether. The adjoining room has a television placed against the wall, a couch before it, and on its counter is a Playstation and a set of family pictures. A diploma rests on the wall, beside two others.

“So, all I did was added in textures like dirt and stuff to make it really old and worn. They never look at those details,” the other says, handing him a passport and a visa. Howon opens them, trails his eyes over his own face and the fake name. “They’ll think you’re just a regular thirty year old man – or twenty-five, you look like it.”

Howon smiles, politely and hands him the cash.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks as they’re walking back to the front door, the teenager yammering about offering his services to his other friends.

“What?”

“Forgery is a crime, punishable by law. A steep bail.”

The teenager’s face grows pale as he stops in his tracks. “Oh…. You’re a cop?”

And Howon laughs. “I’m the furthest thing from law enforcement. I just really hate to see you waste your potential, Jiho."

“Zico.” The other says. “It’s Zico.”

Howon smiles, opening the door and stepping out. He turns to the other. “The diploma made out to Jiho.”

Jiho pauses, eyes wide at him.

Howon keeps silent and closes the door after him. He hopes the other would be more careful. It was always the little things that trip you up.

∞

“Are you sure this place exists or you’re just set to murder me?” Howon asks and Sunggyu smiles at him. It was going almost dusk, and they’ve ridden out to the edge of Seoul, to somewhere he’s not really familiar with, and Howon takes a look at the tall trees and the foot of the mountains climbing up to the sky.

“A few more minutes, okay, and no – I’m not planning to murder you.”

The smile sent his way has a touch of mischief in them and Howon can’t really help but respond to it, smiling back. He was playing a dangerous game, even allowing it to bloom, but (and he reasons: it’s for a short time only, just one date – what can one date possibly do?).

He’s never been to the outskirts of Seoul, unless you count the bullet train that whizz past it, but he’s never really set foot in this part of the city. He knew Seoul, then (a long time ago), but this new one is foreign to him. Strange, then, that the trees call for an older time – and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was younger, maybe back when the deepness of the darkness setting in between would have scared him.

The sunlight is fading on the edge of the horizon, and the pale orange light slowly overtaken by coming night. To the other side, if he would bend his head and look past Sunggyu’s side, he can see the stars coming out – and it really is different, away from Seoul’s harsh lights and into the rural borders, where the stars can come out and dance.

They’ve been on the road for the last hour and Howon had yet to feel uncomfortable, the trailing notes of a rock song in the air, and Sunggyu turns to him. “I really didn’t expect to see you back here.”

Howon grins. “I feel the sentiment is shared.”

“Indeed. Were you in the Philippines for a vacation?” The other asks, hand on the wheel and the other tapping his leg to the beat of the music.

“Work,” Howon says. It’s a safe answer. It was the only answer. “And what about you?”

“I was there for the Christmas break, and just slid in to New Year so, I thought ‘hey, might as well enjoy the festivities’.”

Howon nods. “That’s very…”

“YOLO?”

Frowning, Howon turns. “What?”

Sunggyu hums, looking at him in amusement. “You don’t know YOLO?”

A pause. “What is that?”

Howon doesn’t know what’s funny but Sunggyu laughs. Instead, he simply smiles and resumes looking out to the trees passing by.

“YOLO,” and he turns back. “You know. You only live once. YOLO.”

“Is that…an actual thing?”

“Yes!” And he doesn’t really get Sunggyu’s exclamation, but Howon lets it slide as part of the things he’s unused to for these times. “Don’t you go on Facebook?”

He smiles at the other’s confused expression. “The internet isn’t really my specialty.”

Sunggyu nods, and shrugs – accepts his hurried out explanation – and resumes humming to the song being played over the radio. Dusk had already fallen when Sunggyu stops at a clearing, set by the curve of the road. The other steps out and Howon, well, he’s still a bit unsure about this but decides to humor the other and steps out of the car as well. The cries of the cicadas reach his ears the moment he steps out, and it’s quite dark save for the headlights Sunggyu left open and Howon watches as the other busies himself at the back of his pick-up, searching for something. When Sunggyu pulls out a basket and a roll of what seems to be a mat, Howon raises a brow and blurts out.

“A picnic? At night where there is no light?”

“Shh,” Sunggyu hushes. “Stop being a killjoy.”

He holds his comments to himself for now, and watches with amusement as Sunggyu walks off deeper into the clearing and sets the mat and the basket against the trunk of a tree. Howon ambles closer, grateful to be wearing his coat as he slid his cold hands into the pockets, and watched Sunggyu return to the car and pull out a battery-powered lamp, locking the doors and turning the headlights off as he came back.

“If your surprise is us dying here in the middle of nowhere, then I must admit, I am really surprised.”

Sunggyu’s grin is noticeable in the almost-darkness. “Do you even have blood or is sarcasm what’s running through your veins?”

Howon shrugs. “I’m actually a machine, I run on sarcasm alone.”

“And a penchant for secrets?”

Howon doesn’t even deign that with a response, looking back to the set up. There was something, over by the edge, it looked like white stalks – or tulips – and they were striking even at a distance, at night. He follows Sunggyu to the trunk of the nearby tree, and helps the other in setting the mat out on to the cold grass. The other turns the lamp on and they’re inundated in a small flood of amber light, just bright enough for them see each other’s faces, enough not to disturb the cyclical pattern of cries of the cicadas.

Sunggyu pats the space next to him on the mat, and Howon sits down – happy, once again, to be wearing his coat and his boots as he spreads his legs out onto the grass, faintly noting the cold – and Sunggyu opens the basket, and he smells something like chicken jerky and sour cream – and actually laughs as Sunggyu pulls out a take-away chicken sandwich, diner name printed on to the paper wrapper.

Sunggyu’s wide smile is both embarrassed and indignant. “Hey, I really didn’t expect to bump into you, much less score a date. In spite of how I may look, I am horrible in planning things ahead.”

Howon is still laughing as he takes the sandwich in the other’s outstretched hand. “What I expected was wine and cheese, maybe even pasta, but not this. Definitely not this.”

The other’s smile dims, and Sunggyu looks anxious. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t really able to come up with something better—“

Howon has the faintest idea – maybe it’s in the way Sunggyu’s acting less of his usual confident self and acting anxious and shy, or maybe in the abject enthusiasm he had when he asked Howon out, or maybe Howon’s just become so used to being by himself, being alone for so long – grown used to quiet dinners at home, Jongie asleep by his feet – that he’s willing to let one other person see him, even for just a moment.

“Hey.” He says, and Sunggyu stops. The smile on Howon’s face is genuine, he knows. “This is good.”

“Yeah?” The hope on Sunggyu’s face was undisguised.

“Definitely.”

∞

He stands at the edge of the dock, the rolling waves of the sea unusually calm for once. Howon doesn’t really know what time it is – perhaps an hour before dawn, or maybe two, he’s not really sure. He doesn’t really care.

Even in the darkness, amidst the lone lamp post by at the other end of the port, he can still see the ripples on the surface, hears the faint, lonesome cry of the gull soaring above. There moon is silent and covered tonight, dark tumultuous clouds rearing over the horizon from the afternoon half a day before.

He knows that his mother wouldn’t have wanted him to do this – the locket was made of genuine silver and lined in gold and it could have landed him a small fortune – but he doesn’t want to sell it. A part of him asks that he keeps it – lock it in the drawer, wear it around his neck – but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to keep living in the past. He’s tired.

Dongwoo wouldn’t have wanted him to hold on to memories.

The locket in his hand has grown warm from his hold, and he brings it close to his face. He opens it, lets his eyes rake over the same photo – the same one he’s looked on in so many years, from the moment he first got it (a gift on his birthday, eighteen, given over the lone light of the fireplace, a promise of friendship) and he takes in Dongwoo’s bright smile, Dongwoo’s happy eyes and he smiles to himself: no matter how long Dongwoo had to sit and smile like that – an hour, maybe even more – his smile never wavered, and yet such a memento could not hold a candle to the bright flame his friend was made of.

He kisses the edge of the pendant, tastes the same metallic tang, and with a heavy heart, flings his hand back and throws it as far as he can reach.

The locket soars in the air – a faint whistle – and an even fainter splash as ripples float outward in the distance.

1912, Busan.

∞

“As much as the sandwich kept me full, I must say – this is turning out as not that big a surprise as I expected.” This can be a slight problem Howon has, how fast he can turn on wit and sarcasm when he feels like it – he’s had people taking it as a problem – but Sunggyu doesn’t seem affected in the slightest.

“Hey, I actually still have something up my sleeve, you know,” Sunggyu answers, pretending to look disgruntled as he stretches out on the mat, leaning on an arm. The amber lamplight gives him a sort of ethereal glow, his fair skin almost as bright as the lamp, chestnut hair lightened to a faint flamelike glow, eyes glimmering. Howon sips more of the wine (and wasn’t that one more surprise when Sunggyu pulled the bottle out of the basket).

The white tips in the distance pull his attention and he looks back to the other. “I guess that’s part of the surprise.”

The other looks visibly offended. “How do you notice everything—“

And Howon can’t help but laugh at the other’s pout. “Well, to be fair, I don’t know what that is so you still have a chance to surprise me.”

“Fine,” and the other sits up and drains his glass and sets it next to the basket. “This wasn’t something I found by myself. It was my dad, actually. He found it.”

Intrigued, and more than a little curious, Howon leans close. “Really? Why do I feel like this is going to be a fairytale-like story?”

Sunggyu chuckles. “It might be. It was where he first met my mom.”

Sighing, Sunggyu looks up to the sky and Howon follows his gaze, sees the flickering stars in the distance. The moon isn’t clear yet, covered by a few clouds, and night had just settled. The smell of pine, and something that reminds him inherently of winter, lingers in the air and, if he leans any closer, he’d smell sandalwood. “My parents had me very late, when dad was almost forty or something. Mom was turning thirty-five I think, and you know how challenging it’d be to have a kid by that age.”

Howon nods, and allows himself imagine the scenario to the sound of Sunggyu’s low voice.

“Dad’s retired now, but when he was really young he used to work for this factory out in Jeonju. Before that, he used to travel a lot. On the road, with his car – that was his thing. I never met my grandmother and grandfather, but my aunt – my dad’s sister – would tell me how he’d call them from Busan or from Gwangju, sometimes in the dead of night. He loves to travel. So, when he started working, the factory he worked for had him for delivery all over the place.”

Something about the story seems out of place, but Howon can’t really put his finger on it. He continues listening though.

“He loved it, even when it meant travelling at night. So, one day, he was asked to make a delivery for some important guy in Seoul, for a big-time business or something. On the way, he passed by this route – the exact same place where we are right now. It was night, and almost winter and as he drove by and turned the curve and—“

Sunggyu raises his arms and makes a motion from the curve of the road to the clearing they were at and he points to the edge, over by the white-tipped stalks.

“—by that area. He sees those white things, and guess what happened?”

Howon smiles. “What?”

Sunggyu grins. “He crashed his car.”

A beat, and Howon’s brows furrows. “Seriously?”

Sunggyu nods, laughing. “Yes, he did.”

“Was he okay?”

“Fine, he was fine. It wasn’t that big of a crash, more like a fender-bender to one of the trees there but it did put the old truck he was driving into a bit of a hamper, with one of its front wheel messed up. The truck wouldn’t move, and he had a delivery to make.”

Howon sits up, setting the glass next to him. “What did he do? I assumed he had to do something.”

“Not my dad. He tried calling for help, but he was in the middle of nowhere, with no cars coming in and no telephone booth nearby. So, what he did, he hiked it out and sat on the back and waited.”

“For how long?”

Sunggyu shrugged. “He forgot how long, but he remembered falling asleep because the next moment he woke up, there was someone poking him with a tree branch.”

Howon squinted. “Is this going to be a horror story?”

A hand pushes at him and Sunggyu chuckles. “No, it’s not. He wakes up and finds someone poking at him with a tree branch from a distance, and this someone turns out to be someone driving out of Seoul. She was this business lady who had to go home because her father fell ill and on the way, saw that this guy had crashed his car into the tree and looked down and out.”

“Your mom?” Howon asked, voice quiet.

Sunggyu nodded. “Yup, it was her. Normally, you wouldn’t find anyone, much less a lady, driving in the middle of the night back then – but my mom was different, she wouldn’t take from anyone. The only reason she quit her job in Seoul was because she loved her father too much to let him get sick alone.”

“So, she drives home and meets this guy – who apparently crashed the truck because he was distracted by flowers, of all things – and taking pity on him, agrees to drive him to Seoul to call his boss.”

“Wasn’t she afraid? Taking a stranger in?” Howon asked.

Sunggyu smirked. “Like I said, mom was a hustler. She had a baseball bat ready for that, apparently.”

Howon chuckled. “That is amazing. What happened next?”

The other crosses his legs, and leans back on his arms. “What happened next was the fairytale magic part. After my dad was dropped off at Seoul by the lady, he called his boss and was able to get a ride back – apparently their buyer had left the city as well. He comes back to Seoul, and his boss tells him that the stocks that were originally for Seoul was now transferred for delivery to Gwangju, so his boss sets him on that.”

Howon sits up. “Wait—“

“And guess who that business contact ended up to be, when he delivered those steel beams to a shabby-looking building that would, in twenty years or so, become a planetarium he would later manage?”

“The contact was your mom?”

Sunggyu nods, grinning. “What were the chances, right?”

Howon smiles. “Wow, that’s…well, I have to admit, that was magical. Or fairytale-like.”

“That’s not even the best part yet.” Sunggyu continues, sitting closer. Howon inhales sandalwood and doesn’t move away. “They went out, and it was dad’s idea of all things, and decided to spend one of their anniversaries here – just something to remember the first time they met. When they got here, they had a picnic and all that, and mom brought up how ridiculous it was of him to be distracted by flowers and crash his car.”

“I agree with her sentiment,” Howon comments, and Sunggyu nods in agreement.

“Yeah, but then dad told her – it wasn’t the white flowers that distracted him, it was what was happening to them.”

Howon frowns. “What?”

There was something enigmatic in Sunggyu’s eyes. “Why don’t I just show you instead?”

Sunggyu stands up and stretches, extending a hand to Howon. He grasps the other’s hand, feels the slight chill of his fingers, and Sunggyu laces their fingers together. Howon doesn’t know how to describe the way his heart started beating fast, or how all he can smell is sandalwood but he doesn’t really get to mind it as Sunggyu moves forward, to the cluster at the edge, pulling Howon along the way.

∞

The flowers are called morning glory. Ipomoea alba. Morning glories are delicate – grown only in cold climates – and they grow rather small, in green stalks with thin, closed white petals. In the distance, they resemble white tulips – petals wrapped tight and thin. The beauty, however, is when moonlight hits and the petals begin to open – slowly, gradually – like a maiden uncovering herself, becoming bare, as moonlight washes her in lucent light.

∞

“Beautiful,” Howon whispers, eyes wide as the flowers bloom and open to him in moonlit calm. Sunggyu is standing behind him, and Howon can feel his study presence – slightly pressing against his back – and the other’s breath fans the lobe of his ear.

“They are.” Sunggyu whispers, just as low, and Howon turns – looks into the brown eyes (almost black) looking down at him, sandalwood and cedar and cicada. He feels a hand hold his side, and Howon’s eyes flick down to lips – slightly open – and leans close.

Sunggyu tastes like sauvignon blanc.

∞

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Howon looks up from his drink and turns to the source of the voice. It’s another man, slightly shorter than he is – but the smile on his face is absolutely obvious and panicky – and Howon has never been the recipient of an attempt at flirtation this bad and this open that he can’t really do anything but respond.

“Hanging around.”

“By yourself?” The man asks and Howon smiles, good naturedly.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

And the rebuttal either may have been on the right point or just as obvious as the man’s previous attempt, that Howon can’t help but smile as the other’s shoulders sag and leans against the counter.

“Wow…I must be bad, huh?”

And Howon doesn’t get to reply, as the man laughs – in a self-deprecating manner – and raises a hand to wave in goodbye.

But it was March, and even fifty years later, the memory of Dongwoo was still carving into his heart deeper and deeper. So, he blurts out the first thing he thinks, looking into his glass of whiskey. “Stay.”

And the man – Woohyun – stays.

1984, Seoul.

∞

“Sir, it says here that you’re forty-two years old.”

Howon nods, hand on the wheel as the law enforcer stands outside his car. “Yes, officer. That’s right.”

(And maybe it’s the way the official looks at his license and his age and looks back at him, at his own face, that has Howon’s instincts for flight running).

He first runs away that night.

∞

The ride back to Seoul tinges close on to nine in the evening and it runs to ten when they get back to the fringes, the skyscrapers looming overhead. It’s quiet, but the silence is not uncomfortable – and Howon spends more time looking at the slope of Sunggyu’s nose and to the way his hand would hold the steering wheel, long fingers relaxed – and the radio is turned off. They ride down to the gallery, where Howon points his stop at.

As Sunggyu’s car escapes Seoul’s traffic and parks smoothly next to the closed gallery, Howon looks to the other. He’s caught silent, as Sunggyu leans over and grabs hold of his cheek and kisses him.

It’s searing, and deep, and Howon’s eyes fall close and he presses back – feeling vulnerable and warm and afire and unable to breathe – until Sunggyu pulls away, slowly, and quietly.

(Woohyun leaves marks on his nape, down the curve of his bicep and to the planes of his stomach.)

“I don’t know anything about you, but I want to.” Sunggyu whispers, his eyes open a sliver.

(“Tell me the words and I’ll never leave,” Woohyun whispered, eyes black in the darkness of the room)

Howon doesn’t respond, can’t, and he looks at Sunggyu’s eyes – sees a fire in them (and he’s seen that, so many times, too many times he’s lost count) and shakes his head, letting his fingers trail the line of the other’s jaw, sandalwood and opportunity trailing away.

It was dangerous, too dangerous.

He wasn’t made for a life like that.

Howon steps out of the car, and his finger trails the edge of the handle.

“Kangho,” Sunggyu begins and Howon wants to close his eyes, reminded. Jang Kangho. His alias.

The entire reason why he had an alias, the entire reason why he moved every decade, the entire reason why he had to let go and walk away from every chance – from every opportunity to make him happy.

“Goodbye, Sunggyu.” Howon says, quietly, and he looks into the other’s eyes. Honesty, even at the tiniest sliver, was something the other deserved.

Farewells and goodbyes.

Howon’s forever.

∞

“Why a Shih Tzu? You’ve been getting the same dog for years.” Woohyun comments, and Myungsoo beside him nods in agreement. Howon remains silent as he holds the pup in his hands and he frowns – there’s a little brown mark on her left ear – and that’s not usually the case.

But, and the pup looks up at him, it’s not a problem.

(It’s always the same dog, the only way to keep him in control)

∞

“And what can I help you with today, Joonhee?”

Howon smiles at the elderly man behind the counter. “I’m going to do a bit of travelling and I’d like to add in an inheritor just in case something happens to me.”

In a few hours, ‘Jang Kangho’ would appear beneath ‘Kang Joonhee’ in his last will and testament.

(No one’s noticed, he’s mastered a hundred penmanships in the last few decades).

∞

 

Time.

Decay.

Death.

In almost all forms of context, time always seemed to play part in the cycle of life – in one way or other. From the moment of conception to adulthood and to death, time held its magic (its spell) over all life. Funny, it was something humanity created – only to find that humanity, its own creator, was a slave to its own creation.

Or perhaps time, by itself, is just one side of a coin – existence – and humanity neither created nor destroyed time. Perhaps, it was just something to describe the decay of cells, the senescence of the human body – to put markers and stoppers, dates and years – to life, to the progression of life. Maybe it was just humanity’s way to put a limit, a stop, to infinity.

∞

On a hidden drawer in his bedroom study, Howon hides a small notebook. In the pages of that notebook (worn yellow in time), are cuts and snippets of old newspapers and photos, handwritten notes under a tree (notes hidden under their pillows).

It’s a testament to time – how long it managed to survive, but Howon takes care of it well – and he takes it out each night, sifting through the pages, remembering, reminiscing.

∞

2000, April.

It’s in the spring, just when the weather was starting to revert to a semblance of normalcy and Howon is in love with this time. There’s an evolution to the world he knows – the growth of music and art, technology blooms – and he’s still wrapping his mind around how easy it was to pick up this cell phone and call someone (and he still remembers the days of lining up at the nearest telephone booth, or writing out everything in letters and filing them at the post office). He sees girls, in the prime of their adolescence, in thick make-up and in shirts and skirts (far too short, his mind tells him but he knows it’s stuck, stuck in a time from before) and they talk about this new actor, or this new idol (and wasn’t that something new – such a thing, an idea, he’s never conceived of it).

The streets are lined with teenagers, in groups, and he hears music of a beat he’s still unfamiliar with – but he adapts, that’s his strength. It’s all he’s known to do.

He’s walking out from the attorney’s office, a new co-signee under his last alias, and he’s already done with the rest of his preparations. All he needed was a new passport and a visa and in the golden millennium’s burgeoning advancement in technology, he knows he wouldn’t have a problem in finding someone to help him.

He doesn’t really look where he’s going, stepping out of the doors, when he bumps into someone. He holds a hand up and apologizes, looking up.

He sees a ghost – someone he should have never seen again (he sees forever in the darkness of the room, asking permission to stay, for forever).

“Jinho.” The other says, and Howon’s eyes blink in recollection.

The man before him is older, the lone gray strand of hair in the sweep of the rest. He looks mature, somewhere near the dusk of his age, and he has thick-rimmed glasses on but Howon can never forget the gleam in those eyes (now steeped in shock, perhaps in view of his age or his looks), or the curve of those lips. Someone else stands behind him, and Howon may note him as someone attractive, if not the quiet kind but his attention is pulled by the man who spoke his name (an alias, once upon a time).

“Woohyun,” Howon says back (he’s twenty-eight and fifty-six and ninety-nine).

∞

The road is dark – and the shadows cast almost tangible enough for him to cut, if he would just reach out – but Howon doesn’t pay attention. It was nearing midnight, and he needed to get to Seoul.

He needed to escape.

The car is shaking slightly, pebbles crushed under the wheel, but Howon perseveres – he was almost there, even if the pitch-black darkness of the mountainside plunged his sense of direction into chaos. A part of him knew that he should have moved the drive to a better date, perhaps in the daytime, but Busan had become too stifling, and he doesn’t know if he could handle any more of the pitying looks, the harsh whispering or the absent call from outside his bedroom window.

Dongwoo would have reprimanded him – would have pointed at his reckless behavior and how he ignored everyone else’s feelings – but Howon doesn’t really care right now.

He just wants to escape, to start over (and leave Dongwoo’s ghost in Busan).

Seoul would be a good place for a new start. It was the capital, a city bustling with opportunity. He’s heard it, read it in the newspapers in the last few months – more investors, more jobs opening up. He could work at a gallery, or in the office – maybe even work at the telephone companies that were beginning to pop up all over the place. It would be a nice way to start.

His knuckles are white as he grasps the wheel tightly.

Howon sighs, and he knows.

No matter where he ran, he would never be able to forget Dongwoo. He would never be able to leave that part of his past behind.

He was the happiest, then. A future was mapped out, bright and tangible, and they would take it together. There were a lot of words, a lot of promises – witnessed by stars and sky – and maybe, at least this way – even when he was running – he would be making it true.

Because if Dongwoo couldn’t do it anymore, than maybe Howon can. It may be half a lie, half a reason to justify his flight from Busan, but he’d believe anything as long as it meant starting anew.

The constant glare of the headlights flicker, and Howon’s mind grow quiet as he is struck still – in wonder – as small, flakes fall from the sky.

Snow.

He’s taken in surprise – it was October 1921 – and he leans close and looks up, at the flakes dusting the glass of windshield, the trailing snowflakes flurried out by the headlights. It was magical.

Howon looks down back on the road, just in time as he hits the fence and he’s slammed against the wheel.

A screech of metal, breaking the wintry silence, and the car breaks through the fence and rolls down the slope and into the lake below.

Howon’s consciousness is fading, as blunt pain spreads from his head down to the rest of his body and he gasps, as chilling water rushes inside.

---

It grows silent after, skid marks on the street and snowfall.

The lake’s surface resumes its calm.

A heart stops beating.

(Fortuitous lightning strikes the car, sparks spiraling outward - telomeres pause)

Howon breaks the surface, gasping.

(Time stops for him.)

∞

“Tell me the words and I’ll never leave,” Woohyun whispered, eyes black in the darkness of the room. The moonlight is filtered, the draperies pulled close. The other is panting slightly, and Howon can feel the heat of his skin as the other lies atop.

The room is cool, even the sheets, but their shared warmth is enough to dispel the chill from reaching Howon.

The aftermath is doused in heat, in panting breaths, and Woohyun’s face is pressed against his chest and tracing the slope of the planes on his stomach. Howon has an arm around the other, bare skin tinged in sweat and legs tangled and he wants to wrap Woohyun in his arms forever.

How ironic that he can, wrap him in his arms and watch as the other withers and decays, ages in time as Howon remains as he is — on the cusp of twenty-eight — the secret of forever in his veins (and a secret he doesn’t even know he had).

Woohyun shifts in his arms, and raises dark eyes and Howon takes him all in (imprints him in his mind forever, because forever is real for him – far too real).

“Tell me to stay, Jinho, and I’ll never have to go, I’ll tell my parents to themselves and I’ll stay here with you. Forever.”

­And, Howon thinks, that kind of talk can sweep anyone off their feet. It was the kind of words you wanted to hear from a lover, an affirmation of their feelings and Howon knows the clenching of his chest is something he’ll always have to be used to—

Because Woohyun is nineteen, barely on the edge of adolescence and he’s still finding his own way in the world, still getting used to his own ideas and beliefs and forever isn’t for someone who had yet to grow into themselves. Woohyun still had the rest of his life for him – still had the rest of his life to live, to love and get his heart broken, to forgive and to laugh and to learn his own lessons, to let life teach him that forever isn’t something you wish for (because forever means nothing, and nothing was too much a deep hole for anyone to bear) and that forever and infinity are manmade mistakes (and forever and infinity are just things we created to further our own happiness)—

And Howon knows that people can create their own pockets of happiness, and they need not last forever.

But solitude – loneliness – these things are eternal (and infinity is full of things that are alone and lonely).

It would be too easy, so easy, to tell Woohyun to stay – to ask him to be with Howon forever, until time and age takes him and Howon holds on to the ends of who Woohyun used to be – but it was too selfish. It was reaping the other’s life too shortly, rid him of the chances to find real love (a love that grows, a love that matures in time, a true love that dances on the edge) and Howon knows what’s it like to be rid of those chances (his life ended at twenty-eight, he’s set in stone).

“You’ll let me go?” Woohyun asks in the silence that comes, his voice light and on the edge of breaking. “You’ll let someone else have me?”

And Howon does.

Time waits for no one, but Howon had too much time on his hands.

Far too much.