Zitao was 19 when they got married, and nearly 30 when they finally divorced.

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” Xiaoyu said to him, the day after he had discovered her in bed with another man, “It’s just that I’m not in love with you.  Our relationship has just… fizzled out over the last 8 years.  You understand, don't you?”

“…oh.”  Had been his only response.

Because he did, and there was nothing more to say about it.

It had been a surprisingly easy process – they had had no children together, no home, just a small apartment.  All Zitao had to do was to sign the papers.  More than a decade of marriage, ended with the clicking of a pen and a single flick of his wrist.

Her boyfriend had come with her that day, and looking at him, Zitao honestly couldn’t blame Xiaoyu for losing interest in him.  He was rakishly handsome and young, everything that Zitao had once been but was no longer.

“I’m sorry,” The man was apologizing to him, bending over to bow several times over.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know –“

“It’s okay,” He found himself taking the man’s arms, patting him lightly on the back, “It’s okay.  I’m not – I’m not angry.”

He was just so tired.  That was all.

Punch in at 8, punch out at 5.  Punch in at 8, punch out at 5.  Punch in at 8, punch out at 5.

Zitao’s days were long, monotonous, 9 hour days spent in front of a gray desk with endless stacks of grey paper in front of him and a growing ache between his shoulders.  The short breaks whenever he could slip away were spent sipping bland, lukewarm coffee, trying not to fall asleep in the break room as the copymachine noisily spat out papers behind him.  He hadn’t had to wear glasses until he had started the job, and now he could barely see without them. 

But Zitao never said a word.  He worked hard, came in before everyone, left after everyone and never once complained despite having stayed stagnant in a low-paying, entry level position within the company after five years of working there.

They’re taking advantage of you, using you for cheap labor, his friends had told him.  But he had waved them off. 

It’s better to have a job in this economy, than to have none, had been his response back.

Besides, it’s not as if he had anything better to do.

There was nothing and nobody that waited for him at home, opening the door with welcoming arms.  His apartment was always cold, always empty, nowadays.

Zitao’s friends were concerned about him. 

He was slowly slipping, right in front of their eyes, into depression. 

“Maybe we should pool our money together - send him on a vacation.” Lay suggested.

Luhan readily agreed to the suggestion – as a flight attendant, he would be able to get discounted tickets on a second’s notice.

But when they had pitched the idea to Zitao, he had just given them a typical Zitao response – noncommittal, passive.

“I don’t need a vacation.  I’m doing fine on my own, really.”

But his friends took notice of how little he ate nowadays, the way his attention wandered, the fact that he would almost fall asleep during conversations with shoulders hunched over, glasses slipping off his nose.  Zitao looked exhausted.

“It’s because you keep letting people step over you,” Sehun muttered, flicking a finger into the middle of Zitao’s forehead, “instead of standing up for yourself.  Why don’t you ever do something about it?”

“I don’t know,” Zitao muttered.

“It wouldn’t change a thing, anyhow.”

Sehun was sighing, turning away from him.  “And that’s why she left you.”

Zitao did what he hadn’t done in a long time since he had gotten married and had begun working full time – he visited the local movie theater.

This particular theater was smaller.  It was the type which, instead of showing current movies, always showed selection of art-house and classic movies that the manager chose to play at his own discretion.  Add to the fact that their repertoire never changed, year by year, and the fact that the current movie being shown was in a foreign language, and Zitao found himself completely alone in the tiny theater, sitting in the third seat of the third row in the dark, quiet room as the movie began to play.

La Lengua de las Mariposas, the movie was apparently called, as the title card pulled up onto the screen. 

Zitao had no idea what it meant – he didn’t know Spanish at all (he had only taken a semester of Korean, in college, you see), and hadn’t even bothered to check what the movie had been before he had walked in. 

It didn’t matter though.  He wasn’t here to watch – he was here for some quiet time alone.  Away from the office, away from his prying friends who asked too many questions, away from the dark rooms of his apartment. 

He settled back in the chair, and waited as the lights in the theater finally dimmed, his pupils dilating as they adjusted to the darkness.

It started with a sniff.  And then his glasses had begun to fog up.

He wasn't sure why, but the more he watched, the more Zitao found his breath hitching.

Maybe it was the combination of the beautiful music and cinematography. 

Maybe it was from what little he could glean of the plot based solely off of visual cues.

Maybe it was the nature of the movie - the culture and lifestyle so far removed from his own that he couldn't help make comparisons.

Zitao hadn’t cried when he had found Xiaoyu in bed with another man, and hadn't cried when he had come home to an empty apartment for the very first night. 

But now, sitting in a tiny, dingy theater in a seat that was too small, Zitao found himself sobbing over a bucket of cheap buttered popcorn, crying harder than he had ever remembered, the buildup of eleven years of a one-sided love, of mediocrity and inadequacy, of the complete disappointment of a life that he lived.

He was so lonely.

« Y como dijo el poeta, dejó «desierta cama, y turbio espejo y corazón vacío.»

 …Quiere decir que me quedé más solo que la una. » ¹

“Spain.  How is Spain?”  Zitao offered one night, offhandedly.

Lay, the only one close enough to hear Zitao's mutterings, immediately tapped Luhan on the shoulder, pointing at Zitao in poorly hidden shock.

“What, what about Spain?”

“I—I think I’d like to visit there.  Can I?”  Luhan looked to the others, expression changing from shock to wonder before turning to Zitao, nodding his head quickly.

“Sp—why Spain?”

“Oh I don’t know.”  Zitao muttered, eyes glazed over as he drew patterns into the table.  “I heard it is beautiful there.  Is your offer still open?”

 “Of—of course, darling!  Of course!  Spain - it's a wonderful country!  In fact, I have a friend who lives there who might be able to lend you a room in his apartment.”

“…Will he be able to rent it to me for an entire year?”  

Zitao gave the second small smile in years at their shocked faces. 

Zitao had given his first when he handed in his notice earlier that day.

“He’s a professor, so he lives by the university.  You don’t mind living in a smaller city?”

He had spent the last five years sleeping on a couch, the last ten years trapped in a cubicle.

So no, he didn’t mind now.

It was a ten hour flight to Madrid, and then a three hour bus ride from Madrid to the small college town of Salamanca.

Zitao sat by himself in the last row of the bus, clutching a suitcase full of his hopes and dreams.

Zitao balanced Touring Spain: A Beginner's Guide! under one arm, a camera under the other, flipping through a dictionary briefly until he came to the stock list of phrases that populated the back.

“H-hola,” He began, muttering to himself as he walked out of the airport doors.  “Me ll—llamo Zitao.” 

There, that wasn’t so hard.  He coughed, straightening his back before trying it again with more conviction.

“Hola, me llamo Zitao.”

«Hola, Zitao.  Mucho gusto.» 

Zitao looked up over the top of his glasses, recoiling in surprise at the sight of a man standing smoking just feet in front of him, staring at him in amusement.  The man was kind looking, shorter than he was himself, but giving off an air of handsome congeniality that Zitao wished he had.

«How was the flight?»

Zitao stared at him, baffled, shaking his head.

“No—no hablo—“

The man was laughing, shaking his head before sticking out a hand to him, this time speaking to him in heavily accented English.

“Seems like Luhan was right.  You really don’t speak a word of Spanish, do you?”

Luhan's friend - the man he'd be staying with.  Zitao reached out for his hand, flushing when instead of shaking it, the man pulled in closer, bumping one cheek against his, and then the other.

“My name’s Suho.  And from your introduction, I'm guessing you’re Zitao.  Now that we’ve met, let's not stand around like fools - I'll show you the apartment.”

Zitao felt Suho snatch away the single suitcase from his hand, frowning when it came away with ease.  Suho snorted, lifting the suitcase up with one hand before setting it back down to the ground.

“No kidding – you really traveled light, didn’t you?”

Zitao was still staring down at his now empty hand, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.  Suho laughed, patting Zitao’s cheek with one hand. 

“You’re cute.  I like you.  Don’t worry, before you leave, your suitcase will be absolutely full of clothes, books and food, trust me.  Spain is a beautiful country - you’ll love it here.”

And then Suho was off in a puff of smoke, Zitao having no choice but to follow behind him, eyes wide with wonder as they stepped out into the street and into the brilliant sunlight.

Suho’s apartment was small, compact, but full of beautiful character.  The walls were browned with age with faded, chipped flowered wallpaper that crept up and off the walls.  There were books and bookcases everywhere, as well as school papers stacked on every available flat surface. 

Zitao took a deep breath.

It smelled like an old, dusty library.  It smelled like a home.

Following Suho as he turned down the hall, Zitao had to turn sideways, sidestepping occasionally to avoid knocking down the hapazard arrangement of antique dressers, vases and light fixtures. 

At the very end of the hall, Suho was waiting for him to catch up, winking at him before he opened the door.

“Well, here’s your room.”

The warm Spanish air was blowing in from the open balcony door, causing the white drapes to softly shift and sigh.  Sunlight streamed in, casting light on the inviting earthy tones of the room, the warm mahogany of the woodwork. 

It was small, to be sure, but… it was perfect.

Suho was talking over his head, telling him how he lived alone, but how his girlfriend would occasionally come visit and would that be okay?

“That’s wonderful,” Zitao whispered, more to himself than to Suho, walking up to the open balcony and leaning over the guardrail.  Church bells were ringing in the distance, signaling midday, and Zitao watched as startled pigeons flew off from the rooftops, spreading their wings wide and soaring up into the blue sky.

"...What is that?"

Suho was handing him a fried something wrapped sloppily between two thickly sliced pieces of bread.  “No te preocupes².  It’s just a sandwich.”

“…what’s in it?”  Zitao was skeptical.

“Just try it."

Zitao took a hesitant bite, and closed his eyes as flavor burst into his mouth, taking another as Suho unwrapped his own sandwich, talking in between large bites of food.

Suho was Korean, Zitao learned, as they ate lunch that afternoon in the main plaza.  He had been born there as a child, but his parents had moved to Madrid long ago to open up a restaurant.  When he had grown up, he had become a literature professor at la Universidad de Salamanca, the town’s local university. 

And it’s oldest, Suho told him, describing the beautiful archways, the winding pathways, centuries old, that trailed through the school campus and the surrounding area.

Zitao wanted to see it already.  Suho laughed, promising to show it Zitao at another point in time.

"So, what about you, why Spain?"  Suho had asked, parroting Luhan's surprised question from before.

Zitao didn't answer, mouth full of another delicious bite of food.

“Oh, by the way.  It’s a speciality - fried squid sandwich.  I'm glad you liked it so much.”

Zitao looked down at his empty plate with surprise, wondering how and when he had eaten the whole thing.

Of course, Suho couldn’t stay with him all the time.  The man worked most of the day, and spent most of the rest of his free time with his girlfriend, and so as wonderful as the first week had been, Zitao soon found himself alone in an apartment again, in a country in which he could not speak the language.

Zitao had been a little flustered - he had never had to deal with situations in which there hadn't been anyone to fall back on for help.  But Zitao had failed before, and he refused to let it happen again.  This time, in a country where no one knew who he was and who he had been, Zitao endeavored to succeed. 

He’d set up routines for himself, he thought, and get acquainted with the town.  All the while, he’d begin to teach himself Spanish, with the eventual goal of somehow, miraculously becoming proficient enough to survive on his own.

On the first day of his plan, he woke up at 8:00 AM sharp, taking nothing with him but a dictionary, a light coat, his wallet and a pen, attempting to follow the winding path that Suho had traced onto his map the previous day, detailing the journey to the university which would take him through the Plaza Mayor. 

To Suho's credit, Zitao had been able to make it to the plaza, before getting hopelessly lost in the small, winding side streets of Salamanca.

It was noon, church bells chiming in the distance, when he finally gave up, half-asleep and tired of walking.  Spotting a sign down the streets, he trudged into a tiny, nondistinct café.

Two men were standing inside, one idly stirring his drink and studying a textbook, while the other, the bartender, had his hands on top of the counter as he looked over to watch Tao walk in.

«Hola señor. ¿Quiere algo para beber o comer?»³

Zitao panicked, whipping out his dictionary as he flipped through the pages in a hurry.  The man behind the counter laughed, leaning over onto his hands as he waited for Zitao to find his place.

Here it is!  Zitao pushed up his glasses before burying his face in the book, barely glancing up as he read directly from it.

“Kw-kwe-ee-ro, oo-nah, t-taaa—“

«What in the world are you trying to say?»

Zitao stiffened as the other man beside him spoke up with the deepest voice he had ever heard.  He looked up, taking his first look at him, only to do a double take and stare.

Zitao had been married to a woman for the last ten years of his life, but that hadn't meant that he had been completely straight.  He had always found other men 'attractive', had even dated one briefly before he had married, something which he had eventually come to terms with as he grew older.  But never had he ever seen a man this ridiculously attractive.  It made him uncomfortable.

Clearly a student much younger than he was, the young stranger was dressed in sinfully tight jeans, a fashionable peacoat and a sweater.  He stood tall – taller even than Zitao, with smooth blond hair that was combed back from his forehead to expose the sharp lines of his face.  His jaw could have cut a diamond.

Zitao must have been so shocked that his own jaw locked, because the only thing the older man had been able to say in the other's presence was a long, drawn out - “Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

Both the bartender and the stranger raised their eyebrows in response. 

When a hand was waved in front of Zitao’s face, he closed his gaping mouth promptly, standing up straight and pushing up his glasses once again from where they had been sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry— I don’t – I don’t speak Spanish.”

The young man seemed to find his response humorous, as he snorted and gave a small smile.

«¿Por qué irías a España si no puedes hablar español?  Idiota.»⁴

But Zitao just stared at him blankly, and the other man sighed, trying again in English.

“... What were you trying to say?”

Zitao gulped. 

“Oh - I just— I wanted to get a cup of coffee.”

The man nodded, addressing the bartender as he jerked his head in Zitao's direction.  «Una taza de café.»

With that, he turned back to Zitao, giving him a wink (that had Zitao flushing in surprise) before taking his coffee and walking away, going back to a seat by the window where he set his drink and textbook down.

The bartender wordlessly set Zitao’s coffee in front of him in a small styofoam cup, observing the way the foreigner hadn't even noticed, his neck turned, craning to follow the mysterious young man’s movements.

He chuckled, snapping his fingers to get Zitao’s attention. 

Zitao spun around.

“Oh—right, thanks.”

As he fumbled in his pocket for change, he heard the bartender laugh and briefly looked up.

«Se llama Kris.»

Zitao blinked.  “…Excuse me?”

But the bartender had already turned away, walking over to tend to other customers.  Zitao turned his head back, just slightly, silent in his appraisal of the young, handsome man sitting in the sunlight of the window.

Zitao frowned, picking up his coffee and slowly moving back out the door.

For the next day and a half, Zitao spent it at home alone, pouring over his Spanish dictionary.

“Una taza de café.  Una taza de café.  Una – taza – de café.”

¹ As the poet said:  An abandoned bed, a cloudy mirror and an empty heart. 

In other words, I ended up alone.

²  Don't worry.

³ Hello sir, can I get you anything to drink or eat?

⁴ Why did you come to Spain if you don't know how to speak Spanish?  Idiot.

Spanish translations credit goes to AniDarckSugaR. 

She is wonderful.