IN THE BEGINNING

HELSTON, ENGLAND

SEPTEMBER 1854

AROUND MIDNIGHT, HIS eyes at last took shape. The look in them was feline, half determined and half tentative—all trouble. Yes, they were just right, those eyes. Rising up to his fine, elegant brow, inches from the dark cascade of his hair.

He held the paper at arm’s length to assess his progress. It was hard, working without him in front of him, but then, he never could sketch in his presence. Since he had arrived from London—no, since he had first seen him—he’d had to be careful always to keep him at a distance.

Every day now he approached him, and every day was more difficult than the one before. It was why he was leaving in the morning—for India, for the Americas, he didn’t know or care. Wherever he ended up, it would be easier than being here.

He leaned over the drawing again, sighing as he used his thumb to perfect the smudged charcoal pout of his full bottom lip. This lifeless paper, cruel imposter, was the only way to take him with him.

Then, straightening up in the leather library chair, he felt it. That brush of warmth on the back of his neck.

Him.

His mere proximity gave him the most peculiar sensation, like the kind of heat sent out when a log shatters to ash in a fire. He knew without turning around: He was there. He covered his likeness on the bound papers in his lap, but he could not escape him. His eyes fell on the ivory-upholstered settee across the parlor, where only hours earlier he’d turned up unexpectedly, later than the rest of his party, in a rose silk suit, to applaud the eldest son of their host after a fine turn at the harpsichord. He glanced across the room, out the window to the veranda, where the day before he’d crept up on him, a fistful of wild white peonies in his hand. He still thought the pull he felt toward him was innocent, that their frequent rendezvous in the gazebo were merely … happy coincidences. To be so naïve! He would never tell him otherwise—the secret was his to bear.

He stood and turned, the sketches left behind on the leather chair. And there he was, pressed against the ruby velvet curtain in his plain white suit. The look on his face was the same as the one he’d sketched so many times. There was the fire, rising in his cheeks. Was he angry? Embarrassed? He longed to know, but could not allow himself to ask.

“What are you doing here?” He could hear the snarl in his voice, and regretted its sharpness, knowing he would never understand.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” he stammered, moving toward the fire and his chair. “I saw the light in your room and then”—he paused, looking down at his hands—“your trunk outside the door. Are you going somewhere?”

“I was going to tell you—” He broke off. He shouldn’t lie. He had never intended to let him know his plans. Telling him would only make things worse. Already, he had let things go too far, hoping this time would be different. He drew nearer, and his eyes fell on his sketchbook. “You were drawing me?”

His startled tone reminded him how great the gap was in their understanding. Even after all the time they’d spent together these past few weeks, he had not yet begun to glimpse the truth that lay behind their attraction.

This was good—or at least, it was for the better. For the past several days, since he’d made the choice to leave, he’d been struggling to pull away from him. The effort took so much out of him that, as soon as he was alone, he had to give in to his pent-up desire to draw him. He had filled up his book with pages of his arched neck, his marble collarbone, the black abyss of his hair.

Now, he looked back at the sketch, not ashamed at being caught drawing him, but worse. A cold chill spread through him as he realized that his discovery—the exposure of his feelings—would destroy him. He should have been more careful. It always began like this.

“Warm milk with a spoonful of treacle,” he murmured, his back still to him. Then he added sadly, “It helps you sleep.”

“How did you know? Why, that’s exactly what my mother used to—”

“I know,” he said, turning to face him. The astonishment in his voice did not surprise him, yet he could not explain to him how he knew, or tell him how many times he had administered this very drink to him in the past when the shadows came, how he had held him until he fell asleep.

He felt his touch as though it were burning through his shirt, his hand laid gently on his shoulder, causing him to gasp. They had not yet touched in this life, and the first contact always left him breathless.

“Answer me,” he whispered. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Then take me with you,” he blurted out. Right on cue, he watched him in his breath, wishing to take back his plea. He could see the progression of his emotions settle in the crease between his eyes: He would feel impetuous, then bewildered, then ashamed by his own forwardness. He always did this, and too many times before, he had made the mistake of comforting him at this exact moment.

“No,” he whispered, remembering … always remembering.… “I sail tomorrow. If you care for me at all, you won’t say another word.”

“If I care for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I—I love—”

“Don’t.”

“I have to say it. I—I love you, I’m quite sure, and if you leave—”

“If I leave, I save your life.” He spoke slowly, trying to reach a part of him that might remember. Was it there at all, buried somewhere? “Some things are more important than love. You won’t understand, but you have to trust me.”

His eyes drilled into him. He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. This was his fault, too—he always brought out his contemptuous side when he spoke down to him.

“You mean to say there are things more important than this?” he challenged, taking his hands and drawing them to his heart.

Oh, to be him and not know what was coming! Or at least to be stronger than he was and be able to stop him. If he didn’t stop him, he would never learn, and the past would only repeat itself, torturing them both again and again.

The familiar warmth of his skin under his hands made him tilt his head back and moan. He was trying to ignore how close he was, how well he knew the feel of his lips on his, how bitter he felt that all of this had to end. But his fingers traced his so lightly. He could feel his heart racing through his thin cotton shirt.

He was right. There was nothing more than this. There never was. He was about to give in and take him in his arms when he caught the look in his eyes. As if he’d seen a ghost.

He was the one to pull away, a hand to his forehead.

“I’m having the strangest sensation,” he whispered.

No—was it already too late?

His eyes narrowed into the shape in his sketch and he came back to him, his hands on his chest, his lips parted expectantly. “Tell me I’m mad, but I swear I’ve been right here before.…”

So it was too late. He looked up, shivering, and could feel the dark descending. He took one last chance to seize him, to hold him as tightly as he’d been yearning to for weeks.

As soon as his lips melted into his, both of them were powerless. The honeysuckle taste of his mouth made him dizzy. The closer he pressed against him, the more his stomach churned with the thrill and the agony of it all. His tongue traced his, and the fire between them burned brighter, hotter, more powerful with every new touch, every new exploration. Yet none of it was new.

The room quaked. An aura around them started to glow.

              He noticed nothing, was aware of nothing, understood nothing besides their kiss.

He alone knew what was about to happen, what dark companions were prepared to fall on their reunion. Even though he was unable to alter the course of their lives yet again, he knew.

The shadows swirled directly overhead. So close, he might have touched them. So close, he wondered whether he could hear what they were whispering. He watched as the cloud passed over his face. For a moment he saw a spark of recognition growing in his eyes.

Then there was nothing, nothing at all.

A/N :

Hi guys! I'm Vanshi. This is my first time publishing a story. So, I wanna make 3 things very clear. 

1. This story is completely based on a novel that I read a long time ago. So, I don't own this story. I just wanted to present it from BTS' POV. 

2. Other than their names & faces, nothing is similar to characters' real identities. Not even their home country. 

3. If you have already read this book then I request you to not spoil it for others. 

Thank you. :)) Also, the chapters are gonna be very long so, it may take me time to update it. 

That's all for now. Happy Reading! <3