Chapter One - Cotton

 

London, essentially, to Jaehyun was just another big city.

He was well acquainted with big cities; he had lived the majority of his life in a penthouse in Seoul, overlooking the cold Han River, overlooking the cold city.

HIs life hasn't changed much.

 

But big cities to him were always cold. He was well acquainted with London, working at Canary Wharf, house located near Noting Hill where all the well-off loved in pretty white houses closed off by pretty large doors. But it wasn't home.

 

And as he stepped off the plane into Heathrow's airport bustling terminal, he realised - that his mother is dead. And that there really is no home for him now. Not that penthouse in Seoul or his house in Notting Hill nor in the arms of the only woman he's ever loved. The thought hits him hard.

 

But he managed to drag himself to immigration and stand in line for an hour amongst the crowd of tourists to get his passport checked where he got the usual questions- What was his job? How long has he stayed in London? Where does he live?

Jesus, he thought, even with a work permit and a long-standing VISA and so many freaking stamps in his passport and the businessman vibe that literally radiates from his pores and his shiny cufflinks; you would think Jung Jaehyun would get pass border control much quicker after all these years. But he doesn't and he just bears with it because UK customs were always so rigorous on everyone who wasn't remotely Caucasian.

 

He took a cab ride into London and just zoned out for the most of it, making light conversation with the cabbie, he slipped back into his accent quickly, eloquently complaining about the British weather that never changes - abysmal drizzle and some other topics in the news he had missed when he was at Korea for the funeral.

 

It's already late afternoon when he arrived. His house is sparse as it is boring. He doesn't quite hate it as much as his family home back in Seoul but it doesn't feel quite lived in enough to be called his home. Irene tried her best to make his house his home because "It's going to be our home soon Jaehyun," she reminded him. There's a vase full of dead carnations that used to be soft yellow but now they're withered and brown and his housekeeper doesn't come until tomorrow so he can't help but just leave them there as to not offend Irene.

He would never want to offend Irene.

 

Not when she would bring him flowers from the Farmer's market in Chelsea when really it should be him bringing him flowers. Not when she dragged him out of his house every time the Tate Modern had a new exhibit because she knew he appreciated art. Not when she stayed the night and all that he can do is whisper apologies against her sweat-slicked skin as they ed.

He wished he was better towards his fiancée. He wished they were better at this whole love, almost-married-but-not-yet kinda relationship. They try their best. They smile in front of their friends. They hold hands and kiss and say nice things about each other. But Irene was a beloved friend and a forced lover. And a whole tour de force of comfort and childhood security.

His house phone is blinking red with voice messages and he's not quite sure if he's ready to face the music but he pressed the button anyway and it's Irene because of course, it's Irene.

 

"You haven't been answering my calls and you left my messages on read." There is an ugly pause and she let out a sigh. "Look I know you’re grieving and I'm sorry I had to leave Seoul earlier. But you can't just keep quiet and pretend that you're not hurt Jae. Talk to me. Please." There's an edge of desperation in her voice but there's also annoyance- probably because he hasn't answered her messages. He knew that he could make it up to her tomorrow, buy her new earrings or something after lunch.

But he also knew he wasn't up for pretence so soon after reality had come crashing down on him in the form of a death of his loved one.

His only loved one.

 

Jaehyun doesn't ponder on his mother too long. Sadness has a way of staying with him in the rain, through the night, in the glare of lights of his office. He doesn't want to remember her so much partly because of the guilt he had for not loving her enough.

So he poured himself a glass of cognac, thick and heady as it slid down his throat and he retired to bed, hell bent on sleep and not dreams.

 

God knows he's given up on those.

 

---

 

Taeyong spent his mornings with Yuta and a cup of tea every day, in his always-cold office. It’s the only rhyme in his hectic life and he liked having Yuta’s company to calm his mornings. Maybe it’s because Nakamoto Yuta makes good conversation. Maybe it’s because he just makes really really good tea.

 

Taeyong wouldn’t be surprised. He does the Ocha or tea ceremony for visitors of the museum sometimes. Today he made lemongrass tea in a blue China teapot and it perfumed his office, making it smell like a Thai spa.

"That smells divine." He smiled over his crossword and sloshed his tea onto Yuta's fresh copy of 'The Times', Yuta grimaced. They have their respective mugs out; Yuta's mug emblazoned with UCL logo and Taeyong's Spongebob mug that he got from his roommate back in college.

"You seriously have to change your mug."

Taeyong frowned.

"Why?"

"I mean come on Taeyong. You hold a PhD. You're a professor. You've published two research papers."

"Actually three research papers."

"The point is Taeyong... you're not twelve. Honestly, this is why your flat- doesn't get laid."

"Shut up. At least I'm not drooling over Dr. Kun's new assistant." Taeyong sipped his tea, unfazed about the jab at his 'flat-'.

"He has a name! It's Sicheng."

"You're so obvious. It's actually embarrassing watching you."

"Sicheng is cute. You're just sad and lonely that you can only fawn over Gerard Butler." Yuta groused.

"Gerard Butler is a fine man. His toenail is finer that your entire being."

"My god Taeyong. Can you hear how much you through your own iness?"

"I need better friends."

"What you need is to get laid."

"Maybe I'll ask Sicheng if he wants to have lunch with me instead." Yuta purposefully sloshed his tea near Taeyong's crossword. The ink bloomed across the thin paper and Taeyong flushed in chagrin, glaring at the other.

"You're such an . The only reason we're still friends is cause you make nice tea."

Yuta laughed, loudly, unrestrained, so very him and he grinned as he helped Taeyong wipe down the spilled tea with kitchen towels, promising to make it up to him by treating him to lunch.

He left after clearing away the tea, going away to ready the utensils for his own demonstration later. There’s an hour till the museum opens its wide gates to the public. There’s an hour until the chaos began. He can imagine it already, the curators and the in resident artists and craftsmen and the streams of history students eager-eyed and enthusiastic. They would all be turning to him, asking him, demanding some nugget of wisdom or his opinion or his expertise in the field. Taeyong wished he had the same vigour to reply to such energy. Alas, he was getting old. And maybe it’s because he surrounded himself with old things that he quite literally feels himself ageing into this wise man in a very young body.

Maybe that’s why he refused to get rid of his stupid SpongeBob mug.

He contemplated the thought next to his windowsill. The lavender outside his window has bloomed into vibrant sprigs of purple in the coming of spring. How many springs had passed by now?

“My god I do need to get laid.” Taeyong lamented into the empty office.

Though he would never admit to Yuta that he was right for once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Did I really just start a new fic without finishing Perfect Places? You bet I did.

I'm so sorry for keeping everyone waiting but school is intense and I kinda hate everything my life has become dedicated to and this is just my own personal form of escapism and self-indulgence.

But hey if you like my writing too then leave me a comment ;)