(no subject)
new : fanfic : superjunior
rating : PG
focus : henry | shiwon x hangeng
AU. supernatural genre (night!verse). 3,923 words. same 'verse as swallow, nightshade, and tama.
interference
a young boy lingers on the corner as the festival procession winds past. his eyes follow the brilliant costumes, the stomping, shuffling acrobatics of the lions, the beat of the drums; for a moment, pure longing shows on his face, in the unconscious lines of his body, and it is this that saves his life, not that he will know it.
two men stand nearby--one is very tall, with classically sculpted looks, while the other is shorter and slender, in a nondescript way. both wear very nice suits, the kind that yield thick wallets with plenty of cash. some foreign actor and perhaps a manager, henry supposes, and licks his lips as he thinks of the rice cakes he will eat, for dinner.
adults don't pay him much mind, especially when he feigns attachment to the family with four or five children, watching the parade in a cluster next to the pair. his hand ghosts into a pocket; he can feel a leather edge along his fingertips, when fingers lock around his wrist from nowhere and he realizes the tall man is looking directly down at him.
"don't," he says, dimpling, and releases henry's arm.
henry bolts on instinct, unnerved by the smile and cursing his bad luck. he weaves into the street to avoid the crowded sidewalk and put a bit of distance between them before the tall man can raise a cry, but he doesn't see the horse until he has nearly bounced off its legs.
the big bay rears, startled, and he has no time to react as its hooves strike toward him, pawing the air. a glancing blow knocks him to his knees, ears ringing, but the shorter man is suddenly between him and the horse as smoothly as water, and the animal is dancing backwards, under its rider's control once again. people press closer--the gash on his forehead is bleeding heavily, henry realizes, and he feels very dizzy, just before he crumples to the pavement.
when shiwon makes his way out of the crowd, with a skinny, filthy child in his arms, geng is at his side, and no one seems to quite notice their exit. "you should have left him with them," geng murmurs, touching his arm.
"you moved first," shiwon counters, and looks down at the boy's pale, bloodstreaked face with a quizzical air.
geng is silent for a moment, then glances toward the sound of the receding drums. "he was watching them so wistfully."
* * *
henry swears like a sailor, gutter-dregs of english and canto, japanese and mandarin, when he awakens to find himself stripped to his underwear and resting on a strange couch. the largest woman he has ever seen is leaning over him, her round, implacable full-moon face hovering as she daubs a wet cloth over the crusted blood in his hair and the tender, swollen lump above his eye.
"bath," she says, and all his struggles and curses amount to nothing, when a fleshy arm clasps around him and he is bodily carried to a half-filled tub, divested of his remaining clothing, and neatly deposited in hot, soapy water. after a brief battle of wills and a round of sullen glaring, he opts to wash himself rather than be washed like an infant, and she levers herself back to her feet before swaying ponderously out of the room.
"eat," she says, later, and points to a chair at the table. he stuffs himself with noodles and rice and fish stew until he cannot possibly eat another bite, wary eyes locked on her all the while. afterward, he hasn't the energy to object as she spreads a blanket over him on the couch, and for the first time in a long while, he dreams of his mother's voice.
when he wakes, the gash over his eye has been pulled tight with a neat row of stitches; he brushes his fingers along the knobbly feel of them, marvelling that such a change could slip past him unawares, then puts it out of his mind.
the rest of the day passes in a dreamlike crawl, clean clothes a size too large for him scratchy on his freshly scrubbed skin, and all the food he can eat (plus tidbits secreted in his pockets, when he thinks she isn't looking). she asks nothing, volunteers nothing, merely moving through her house on her own business, washing dishes and folding clothes and dusting behind plates on the mantel. she reminds him of the cruise ships in the harbour, slow and stately and purposeful.
dusk has fallen before a knock at the door sends her treading to answer it. the two men in their nice suits enter the room, and henry flattens himself into the corner of the couch, eyes wide, as if he could somehow become a part of the upholstery. "you go with master cui," the woman says, and pats him on the head, not unkindly.
"thank you for your help," shiwon says, and kisses her cheek.
they flank him out the door--there is no physical grip to stop him from fleeing, but he feels with utter certainty that they could, they would if he tried. a shiny black car waits in the street below with a stolid driver, engine purring, and he is ushered in the open door. it's the first time in his active memory that he's ridden in one; the seats are leather, soft as butter, and he huddles between the two men, hands pinched nervously between his knees.
"what's your name, child?" the shorter man's voice is soft, susurrating with an indistinct north-eastern flavor; gentle, like his features.
"henry," he mutters, head bowed. "henry lau."
* * *
the massive old stone building they approach reminds henry of a cathedral, all angles and high-peaked gables and a bell-tower tolling the hour as they pull through the gates. he drags his feet, walking up the steps, until geng's hand brushes his back and he shies forward again. their footfalls echo down the marble corridor, inside, and henry's eyes search the dim portraits lining the walls, the further he goes.
an office at the end of the corridor is lit, and the balding man behind the desk looks up when they enter, his gaze flicking from henry to geng to shiwon, with an assessing air. "mister cui, mister han," he stands, bows, motions them to three large chairs. "i do understand that you wish to enroll young mister henry, here, in our facilities. it is, you realize, highly unusual for us to accept students lacking in certain academic records, let alone to arrange for extensive private tutoring during our summer holiday." he pauses, settling back into his chair and steepling his fingers. "yet in light of your family's generous... support over the years, we wish to make every possible effort to oblige your unexpected request."
henry squirms in his seat, feet dangling off the floor uncomfortably, and wonders if the pen-stand on the desk is made of real gold.
the three men talk for what seems like hours, and after a time he no longer listens to the details he cannot comprehend, instead twisting to survey the shelves lining the walls, the grandfather clock in the corner that is taller than all of them, the tiny figurines and strange devices poised over the mantel of a gaping fireplace, the statue of a stone lion with a gaping mouth and a paw stretched forward as if to attack.
it is very late and henry does not argue when he is led up and up a narrow flight of stairs, to a tower room with moonlight streaming in the high window, and told to sleep. it is 'his', and he has no clear idea what that means, but shiwon looks down at him, seriously, and says "make of this what you will."
it takes him two tries to pull himself onto the tall, old-fashioned bed, after shiwon and geng and a sleepy-eyed maid leave the room and close the door, and he ignores the striped pajamas resting across the foot of the bed in favor of curling into a ball under soft, thick blankets and hugging the real feather pillow to his chest.
* * *
he doesn't see shiwon or geng again that year, days passing in such a dizzying flurry that he can scarcely think of the matter--he rises with the sun every morning, races headlong down the stairs to the kitchen to dine with the maids, then meets the first of a series of bemused tutors that have been set with the task of correcting his language, his comportment, his woeful gaps in knowledge.
by christmas, he is reading with the boys his own age, cheeks flushing with chagrin when he stumbles, and none of them suspect that quiet, watchful henry lau ever slept under newspapers or filched food from half-eaten plates at outdoor cafes.
one evening, during a short break when most of the boarders have gone home for visits, he is prowling the lowest levels of the school (there are a great many basement rooms, some with furnishings as fine as the headmaster's office) when he comes across a piano. he stands and studies it for a long time, peeks inside to look at the myriad strings and tiny hammers, lifts the cover over the keyboard, then takes a careful seat at the bench and depresses a single key. the tone is clear, almost bell-like, and he nearly flinches away but holds the key down to let it ring and ring, subsiding slowly into silence.
he is slowly, clumsily picking out a melody he half-remembers hearing, note by note, when he hears the creak of a distant door. in a flash, he closes the cover and dives off the bench, scooting into the deepest shadows beneath the piano and holding his breath. he doesn't creep out until several minutes later, after waiting and waiting and hearing no sign of approach.
when classes resume, a teacher he rarely sees pulls him aside in the hallway, one day, to inform him that his schedule will now include an hour of introductory music study every other day with a class of older boys. he flushes guiltily, but says nothing. so begins the love of his life.
two weeks before the end of the school year, while his classmates chatter about their summer plans (europe, new york, the andes), it occurs to henry to wonder what is to become of him. he approaches his favorite tutor, a perpetually rumpled fellow who teaches chemistry to the higher grades and owns a marvellous collection of old phonograph records, and curls up in a wingchair with a cup of tea. "will i stay here again, this summer?"
the man looks mildly mystified, then abashed. "i suppose you might, we haven't heard anything from your guardian."
"my guardian?" henry doesn't understand, at first, doesn't draw the connection because no one has ever, ever explained.
"mister cui," he prompts, with a puzzled frown.
he remembers a very tall man in a suit, his companion with the soft voice and swift movements. "oh," he says. "but why did they bring me here, anyway?"
"i believe an ancestor of his helped fund the school's construction, and the family has looked after it ever since. you're the first student the family has ever actually enrolled, though." politely, he doesn't ask why, which is just as well since henry has no answers.
* * *
late one evening in the middle of the summer, a knock at henry's door awakens him. when he opens it, one of the younger teachers stands outside, a bit out of breath from the climb. "you have a visitor, in the headmaster's office. hurry down."
he only slows outside the office door, to smooth his hair down with a few half-hearted pats and gulp for air before being bidden inside.
shiwon is there, standing by the window. his eyes pass over henry, at first, then turn back to him, curiously. "you've grown," he says, "i scarcely recognized you."
geng rises from his own seat, touches the small white scar over henry's brow with cool fingers; henry isn't sure how to react, so merely stands with his hands knotted together behind his back. "we thought you might like to take a short holiday."
"yes sir, thank you, sir," henry blurts, when the headmaster clears his throat.
"we leave tomorrow evening, and return in a week. pack your things and be ready to go." shiwon glances down at him as if his input is meaningful, and he mumbles assent, bowing.
he has seen his classmates pack for trips, before, but has few belongings to call his own; several changes of pajamas and underwear and uniform, his pens and notebooks, all provided to him by the school, a record he was gifted, and a fancy switchblade knife an older boy once tried to threaten first-years with (it vanished from the bully's pocket during his next trip down the hall, never to be seen again). when he explains to the headmaster, a bit shamefacedly, that he has no luggage to pack anything in, a small leather suitcase is procured for him almost immediately.
if it seems strange to leave so late in the day, henry doesn't remark upon the oddity, merely carrying his suitcase to the trunk of the waiting car when directed, and sliding into the back seat. conversation is stilted and awkward, the occasional 'how are your studies' and 'what have you learned' lapsing into silence after a time.
he watches the city lights flicker and glide by, all around them, and chews on his lip before venturing to speak again. "where are we going, sir?"
"to see a performance," geng replies, with a small smile. "you'll enjoy it, i think."
* * *
the dance troupe is like nothing henry has ever seen or heard before, it grips him and moves him in a way he cannot explain, and he is on the edge of his seat from the time the first strains from the orchestra rise over the murmuring crowd until the last spotlight dims. his eyes are wet, and he suffers a brief pang of horror that they will see, but neither shiwon nor geng make any move to rise from their seats or usher him out, for several long minutes.
"what did you think?" geng turns to henry at last, paying no mind to shiwon's fingers teasing the hair at his nape.
he squirms in his seat, searching for words. "i didn't know such a thing existed. the music... the dancing... everything."
"would you like to meet the performers?"
wide-eyed, he is escorted backstage through a bustle of dancers and musicians, costumes being loosened and instruments cleaned and tucked away. shiwon and geng are greeted as if they are familiar faces; henry merely tags along and tries not to be lost in the chaos. when they strike up a conversation with a man and woman in the orchestra, his attention drifts.
a girl, looking scarcely any older than himself, is sitting on the edge of the bench where the woman laid her violin down, and is playing a soft melody with a practiced touch. he stares until the woman looks back and strokes her sleek hair. "liyin, darling," she says, "please put it away." she smiles, turning back to them. "this is my daughter, liyin. liyin, this is henry."
their eyes meet, and for a moment henry thinks he might hate her for playing so well, so young. she curtsies, he bows and avoids looking at her again, even when the adults chuckle.
they don't take lodging until late, late that night, and henry can scarcely keep his eyes open as he is introduced to a housekeeper. over the next week, she cooks for him and takes him places during the afternoon, since shiwon and geng have business they never seem to return from until night. it is fortunate, he decides, that she doesn't require him to wake early, since oftentimes he and his guardians are out and busy with a thousand things to do and see until the sky begins to lighten in the east.
when his holiday ends and he returns to the school, the first thing he does is find his music teacher and beg to be taught the violin. he redoubles his efforts at study with the piano, as well, sometimes spending hours at a time in the practice room, or sneaking down to the piano in the basements, for the pure, rich sound of it.
* * *
when shiwon begins sending him a weekly allowance, he doesn't spend it on candy or expensive toys. he saves and saves, and one day he asks for a ride to a violin shop. inside, a white-haired old man peers down at him through thick glasses and laughs when henry solemnly explains that in a year, he will buy one for himself, but first he wishes to learn how they are made.
"it'd take you fifty years to make anything worth making, boy." he slides off his stool and stumps away to the back of the shop, shoulders bowed. "but if you want to watch, sit still and keep your fingers out of things."
it's six months of visits before he hands the boy a brush and a cloth and shows him how to work the varnish into the wood with painstaking care.
henry performs his first solos in front of the school in his last year as a primary student, on a violin the shop-owner lends him, one he's watched being built from start to finish. the last years of steady allowance haven't given him enough to buy the instrument, for all his bravado and determination, but he still rides to the shop on days when he has a few free hours, to watch and help with minor repairs.
after his recital, the old man comes shuffling up; he moves to return the case, but a gnarled hand waves it away. "keep it, boy. it's yours."
* * *
he's the best musical talent in the school, he knows by now, and is placing increasingly highly in city-wide youth competitions, but the world is so much larger. shiwon and geng congratulate him for each new achievement, but they've taken him to hear virtuosos that can make him weep.
he travels widely with the two of them, when classes are not in session; has seen and explored obscure corners of cities he'd never heard of until the day he set foot in them.
he is nearly of a height with geng, now, but while he grows and grows, neither of them seem to change in the slightest from one visit to the next. long ago, he asked geng what he ought to call them, since they didn't seem quite like uncles, and certainly not fathers (he could scarcely term one so and not the other, after all, as he almost never sees them apart); shiwon was korean, he learned, and 'hyung' seemed to please him inordinately. it fits more than ever, these days, and both of them could pass for men in their twenties, with ease.
the suspicion is vague, unformed, but present. something, henry knows, is not quite usual about them, above and beyond their relationship. he reads up on cui shi yuan's family, on his own--can find little mention of them outside of the school's list of donors, and none at all from the time of the school's initial opening--then changes tactics and begins to look for records of choi shiwon in korea, with even fewer results. geng is an unknown; he alludes, now and then, to a dancer's career, but mentions nothing concrete.
he's never, ever seen either man before dusk, and while he doesn't argue when he is given free rein to explore during the days, he doesn't buy the casual excuses to explain their strange hours.
sometimes he wonders what they want from him. sometimes he wonders what he wants from them.
* * *
"what's the price?" henry asks at last, standing at the rail of the yacht and watching the reflection of the moon in the waters below. his hair hangs long over his forehead on one side, veiling the scar, then lifts with a breeze. when he hears no response, he turns to face them, bare feet squeaking on the deck.
shiwon studies the stars in silence, while geng looks to the man beside him, then to henry, expression somehow sad. "why do you want to know?"
he grips the rail behind himself, tightly, and takes a deep breath, heart pounding. "i want to be the best. i don't want to stop improving... i don't want to be crippled when i've only just begun to learn."
"is it worth so much to you?" shiwon interjects, quietly. "so much that you could give away the chance to have a normal life, so much that you could close your eyes knowing you'll never see the sun again?"
they've given him the chance to see the world by daylight, henry thinks, the opportunity they may not have had. "it's worth everything to me, hyung."
geng moves closer, takes him by the shoulders. "is it worth hearing every flaw, every tiny imperfection magnified a thousandfold? is it worth relearning how you play, as if you were to become a rank beginner all over again?"
"gege, don't you see? knowing that i could become so much better... i have to pursue that. i can't turn my back and stay where i am." henry bites his lip, as near pleading as he knows how to be.
"you're so young," shiwon says, "sometimes i forget what that is."
"don't make a hasty decision," geng murmurs, as he gives his shoulders a tiny squeeze, then steps back. "do you want to look this age, forever? think about it, please... you must finish out the year at school, at least."
"i'll think about it," henry promises. "i will... but when i ask you next, will you refuse?"
there is a long silence, broken only by the lapping of the waves against the hull. "no," shiwon says, finally, and henry's shoulders sag with relief.
* * *
henry studies himself in the mirror every morning for the next six months, familiarizing himself with the face, the body that may be his forever. he isn't classically stunning in the way that shiwon is, but he does quite well enough, he thinks. he is slender and flexible, and has little desire to see himself become otherwise. he thinks of piercing his ears, getting a tattoo, but changes his mind.
he has sex with a girl, fast and messy and a little awkward in her room while her parents are away, mostly to say he has tried it, then lets a classmate who idolizes him suck him off, one evening, just in case.
he spends every waking moment he can spare outside, soaking up the sun and practicing his violin until the teachers shout out the windows at him to take it somewhere quieter.
when henry sits his exams at the end of the year, he is roughly seventeen years old--roughly, because he doesn't know his birthdate and has never found indisputable records of his own existence.
shiwon and geng arrive to pick him up, the next night, and can see his choice before he so much as opens his mouth to ask.
rating : PG
focus : henry | shiwon x hangeng
AU. supernatural genre (night!verse). 3,923 words. same 'verse as swallow, nightshade, and tama.
interference
a young boy lingers on the corner as the festival procession winds past. his eyes follow the brilliant costumes, the stomping, shuffling acrobatics of the lions, the beat of the drums; for a moment, pure longing shows on his face, in the unconscious lines of his body, and it is this that saves his life, not that he will know it.
two men stand nearby--one is very tall, with classically sculpted looks, while the other is shorter and slender, in a nondescript way. both wear very nice suits, the kind that yield thick wallets with plenty of cash. some foreign actor and perhaps a manager, henry supposes, and licks his lips as he thinks of the rice cakes he will eat, for dinner.
adults don't pay him much mind, especially when he feigns attachment to the family with four or five children, watching the parade in a cluster next to the pair. his hand ghosts into a pocket; he can feel a leather edge along his fingertips, when fingers lock around his wrist from nowhere and he realizes the tall man is looking directly down at him.
"don't," he says, dimpling, and releases henry's arm.
henry bolts on instinct, unnerved by the smile and cursing his bad luck. he weaves into the street to avoid the crowded sidewalk and put a bit of distance between them before the tall man can raise a cry, but he doesn't see the horse until he has nearly bounced off its legs.
the big bay rears, startled, and he has no time to react as its hooves strike toward him, pawing the air. a glancing blow knocks him to his knees, ears ringing, but the shorter man is suddenly between him and the horse as smoothly as water, and the animal is dancing backwards, under its rider's control once again. people press closer--the gash on his forehead is bleeding heavily, henry realizes, and he feels very dizzy, just before he crumples to the pavement.
when shiwon makes his way out of the crowd, with a skinny, filthy child in his arms, geng is at his side, and no one seems to quite notice their exit. "you should have left him with them," geng murmurs, touching his arm.
"you moved first," shiwon counters, and looks down at the boy's pale, bloodstreaked face with a quizzical air.
geng is silent for a moment, then glances toward the sound of the receding drums. "he was watching them so wistfully."
* * *
henry swears like a sailor, gutter-dregs of english and canto, japanese and mandarin, when he awakens to find himself stripped to his underwear and resting on a strange couch. the largest woman he has ever seen is leaning over him, her round, implacable full-moon face hovering as she daubs a wet cloth over the crusted blood in his hair and the tender, swollen lump above his eye.
"bath," she says, and all his struggles and curses amount to nothing, when a fleshy arm clasps around him and he is bodily carried to a half-filled tub, divested of his remaining clothing, and neatly deposited in hot, soapy water. after a brief battle of wills and a round of sullen glaring, he opts to wash himself rather than be washed like an infant, and she levers herself back to her feet before swaying ponderously out of the room.
"eat," she says, later, and points to a chair at the table. he stuffs himself with noodles and rice and fish stew until he cannot possibly eat another bite, wary eyes locked on her all the while. afterward, he hasn't the energy to object as she spreads a blanket over him on the couch, and for the first time in a long while, he dreams of his mother's voice.
when he wakes, the gash over his eye has been pulled tight with a neat row of stitches; he brushes his fingers along the knobbly feel of them, marvelling that such a change could slip past him unawares, then puts it out of his mind.
the rest of the day passes in a dreamlike crawl, clean clothes a size too large for him scratchy on his freshly scrubbed skin, and all the food he can eat (plus tidbits secreted in his pockets, when he thinks she isn't looking). she asks nothing, volunteers nothing, merely moving through her house on her own business, washing dishes and folding clothes and dusting behind plates on the mantel. she reminds him of the cruise ships in the harbour, slow and stately and purposeful.
dusk has fallen before a knock at the door sends her treading to answer it. the two men in their nice suits enter the room, and henry flattens himself into the corner of the couch, eyes wide, as if he could somehow become a part of the upholstery. "you go with master cui," the woman says, and pats him on the head, not unkindly.
"thank you for your help," shiwon says, and kisses her cheek.
they flank him out the door--there is no physical grip to stop him from fleeing, but he feels with utter certainty that they could, they would if he tried. a shiny black car waits in the street below with a stolid driver, engine purring, and he is ushered in the open door. it's the first time in his active memory that he's ridden in one; the seats are leather, soft as butter, and he huddles between the two men, hands pinched nervously between his knees.
"what's your name, child?" the shorter man's voice is soft, susurrating with an indistinct north-eastern flavor; gentle, like his features.
"henry," he mutters, head bowed. "henry lau."
* * *
the massive old stone building they approach reminds henry of a cathedral, all angles and high-peaked gables and a bell-tower tolling the hour as they pull through the gates. he drags his feet, walking up the steps, until geng's hand brushes his back and he shies forward again. their footfalls echo down the marble corridor, inside, and henry's eyes search the dim portraits lining the walls, the further he goes.
an office at the end of the corridor is lit, and the balding man behind the desk looks up when they enter, his gaze flicking from henry to geng to shiwon, with an assessing air. "mister cui, mister han," he stands, bows, motions them to three large chairs. "i do understand that you wish to enroll young mister henry, here, in our facilities. it is, you realize, highly unusual for us to accept students lacking in certain academic records, let alone to arrange for extensive private tutoring during our summer holiday." he pauses, settling back into his chair and steepling his fingers. "yet in light of your family's generous... support over the years, we wish to make every possible effort to oblige your unexpected request."
henry squirms in his seat, feet dangling off the floor uncomfortably, and wonders if the pen-stand on the desk is made of real gold.
the three men talk for what seems like hours, and after a time he no longer listens to the details he cannot comprehend, instead twisting to survey the shelves lining the walls, the grandfather clock in the corner that is taller than all of them, the tiny figurines and strange devices poised over the mantel of a gaping fireplace, the statue of a stone lion with a gaping mouth and a paw stretched forward as if to attack.
it is very late and henry does not argue when he is led up and up a narrow flight of stairs, to a tower room with moonlight streaming in the high window, and told to sleep. it is 'his', and he has no clear idea what that means, but shiwon looks down at him, seriously, and says "make of this what you will."
it takes him two tries to pull himself onto the tall, old-fashioned bed, after shiwon and geng and a sleepy-eyed maid leave the room and close the door, and he ignores the striped pajamas resting across the foot of the bed in favor of curling into a ball under soft, thick blankets and hugging the real feather pillow to his chest.
* * *
he doesn't see shiwon or geng again that year, days passing in such a dizzying flurry that he can scarcely think of the matter--he rises with the sun every morning, races headlong down the stairs to the kitchen to dine with the maids, then meets the first of a series of bemused tutors that have been set with the task of correcting his language, his comportment, his woeful gaps in knowledge.
by christmas, he is reading with the boys his own age, cheeks flushing with chagrin when he stumbles, and none of them suspect that quiet, watchful henry lau ever slept under newspapers or filched food from half-eaten plates at outdoor cafes.
one evening, during a short break when most of the boarders have gone home for visits, he is prowling the lowest levels of the school (there are a great many basement rooms, some with furnishings as fine as the headmaster's office) when he comes across a piano. he stands and studies it for a long time, peeks inside to look at the myriad strings and tiny hammers, lifts the cover over the keyboard, then takes a careful seat at the bench and depresses a single key. the tone is clear, almost bell-like, and he nearly flinches away but holds the key down to let it ring and ring, subsiding slowly into silence.
he is slowly, clumsily picking out a melody he half-remembers hearing, note by note, when he hears the creak of a distant door. in a flash, he closes the cover and dives off the bench, scooting into the deepest shadows beneath the piano and holding his breath. he doesn't creep out until several minutes later, after waiting and waiting and hearing no sign of approach.
when classes resume, a teacher he rarely sees pulls him aside in the hallway, one day, to inform him that his schedule will now include an hour of introductory music study every other day with a class of older boys. he flushes guiltily, but says nothing. so begins the love of his life.
two weeks before the end of the school year, while his classmates chatter about their summer plans (europe, new york, the andes), it occurs to henry to wonder what is to become of him. he approaches his favorite tutor, a perpetually rumpled fellow who teaches chemistry to the higher grades and owns a marvellous collection of old phonograph records, and curls up in a wingchair with a cup of tea. "will i stay here again, this summer?"
the man looks mildly mystified, then abashed. "i suppose you might, we haven't heard anything from your guardian."
"my guardian?" henry doesn't understand, at first, doesn't draw the connection because no one has ever, ever explained.
"mister cui," he prompts, with a puzzled frown.
he remembers a very tall man in a suit, his companion with the soft voice and swift movements. "oh," he says. "but why did they bring me here, anyway?"
"i believe an ancestor of his helped fund the school's construction, and the family has looked after it ever since. you're the first student the family has ever actually enrolled, though." politely, he doesn't ask why, which is just as well since henry has no answers.
* * *
late one evening in the middle of the summer, a knock at henry's door awakens him. when he opens it, one of the younger teachers stands outside, a bit out of breath from the climb. "you have a visitor, in the headmaster's office. hurry down."
he only slows outside the office door, to smooth his hair down with a few half-hearted pats and gulp for air before being bidden inside.
shiwon is there, standing by the window. his eyes pass over henry, at first, then turn back to him, curiously. "you've grown," he says, "i scarcely recognized you."
geng rises from his own seat, touches the small white scar over henry's brow with cool fingers; henry isn't sure how to react, so merely stands with his hands knotted together behind his back. "we thought you might like to take a short holiday."
"yes sir, thank you, sir," henry blurts, when the headmaster clears his throat.
"we leave tomorrow evening, and return in a week. pack your things and be ready to go." shiwon glances down at him as if his input is meaningful, and he mumbles assent, bowing.
he has seen his classmates pack for trips, before, but has few belongings to call his own; several changes of pajamas and underwear and uniform, his pens and notebooks, all provided to him by the school, a record he was gifted, and a fancy switchblade knife an older boy once tried to threaten first-years with (it vanished from the bully's pocket during his next trip down the hall, never to be seen again). when he explains to the headmaster, a bit shamefacedly, that he has no luggage to pack anything in, a small leather suitcase is procured for him almost immediately.
if it seems strange to leave so late in the day, henry doesn't remark upon the oddity, merely carrying his suitcase to the trunk of the waiting car when directed, and sliding into the back seat. conversation is stilted and awkward, the occasional 'how are your studies' and 'what have you learned' lapsing into silence after a time.
he watches the city lights flicker and glide by, all around them, and chews on his lip before venturing to speak again. "where are we going, sir?"
"to see a performance," geng replies, with a small smile. "you'll enjoy it, i think."
* * *
the dance troupe is like nothing henry has ever seen or heard before, it grips him and moves him in a way he cannot explain, and he is on the edge of his seat from the time the first strains from the orchestra rise over the murmuring crowd until the last spotlight dims. his eyes are wet, and he suffers a brief pang of horror that they will see, but neither shiwon nor geng make any move to rise from their seats or usher him out, for several long minutes.
"what did you think?" geng turns to henry at last, paying no mind to shiwon's fingers teasing the hair at his nape.
he squirms in his seat, searching for words. "i didn't know such a thing existed. the music... the dancing... everything."
"would you like to meet the performers?"
wide-eyed, he is escorted backstage through a bustle of dancers and musicians, costumes being loosened and instruments cleaned and tucked away. shiwon and geng are greeted as if they are familiar faces; henry merely tags along and tries not to be lost in the chaos. when they strike up a conversation with a man and woman in the orchestra, his attention drifts.
a girl, looking scarcely any older than himself, is sitting on the edge of the bench where the woman laid her violin down, and is playing a soft melody with a practiced touch. he stares until the woman looks back and strokes her sleek hair. "liyin, darling," she says, "please put it away." she smiles, turning back to them. "this is my daughter, liyin. liyin, this is henry."
their eyes meet, and for a moment henry thinks he might hate her for playing so well, so young. she curtsies, he bows and avoids looking at her again, even when the adults chuckle.
they don't take lodging until late, late that night, and henry can scarcely keep his eyes open as he is introduced to a housekeeper. over the next week, she cooks for him and takes him places during the afternoon, since shiwon and geng have business they never seem to return from until night. it is fortunate, he decides, that she doesn't require him to wake early, since oftentimes he and his guardians are out and busy with a thousand things to do and see until the sky begins to lighten in the east.
when his holiday ends and he returns to the school, the first thing he does is find his music teacher and beg to be taught the violin. he redoubles his efforts at study with the piano, as well, sometimes spending hours at a time in the practice room, or sneaking down to the piano in the basements, for the pure, rich sound of it.
* * *
when shiwon begins sending him a weekly allowance, he doesn't spend it on candy or expensive toys. he saves and saves, and one day he asks for a ride to a violin shop. inside, a white-haired old man peers down at him through thick glasses and laughs when henry solemnly explains that in a year, he will buy one for himself, but first he wishes to learn how they are made.
"it'd take you fifty years to make anything worth making, boy." he slides off his stool and stumps away to the back of the shop, shoulders bowed. "but if you want to watch, sit still and keep your fingers out of things."
it's six months of visits before he hands the boy a brush and a cloth and shows him how to work the varnish into the wood with painstaking care.
henry performs his first solos in front of the school in his last year as a primary student, on a violin the shop-owner lends him, one he's watched being built from start to finish. the last years of steady allowance haven't given him enough to buy the instrument, for all his bravado and determination, but he still rides to the shop on days when he has a few free hours, to watch and help with minor repairs.
after his recital, the old man comes shuffling up; he moves to return the case, but a gnarled hand waves it away. "keep it, boy. it's yours."
* * *
he's the best musical talent in the school, he knows by now, and is placing increasingly highly in city-wide youth competitions, but the world is so much larger. shiwon and geng congratulate him for each new achievement, but they've taken him to hear virtuosos that can make him weep.
he travels widely with the two of them, when classes are not in session; has seen and explored obscure corners of cities he'd never heard of until the day he set foot in them.
he is nearly of a height with geng, now, but while he grows and grows, neither of them seem to change in the slightest from one visit to the next. long ago, he asked geng what he ought to call them, since they didn't seem quite like uncles, and certainly not fathers (he could scarcely term one so and not the other, after all, as he almost never sees them apart); shiwon was korean, he learned, and 'hyung' seemed to please him inordinately. it fits more than ever, these days, and both of them could pass for men in their twenties, with ease.
the suspicion is vague, unformed, but present. something, henry knows, is not quite usual about them, above and beyond their relationship. he reads up on cui shi yuan's family, on his own--can find little mention of them outside of the school's list of donors, and none at all from the time of the school's initial opening--then changes tactics and begins to look for records of choi shiwon in korea, with even fewer results. geng is an unknown; he alludes, now and then, to a dancer's career, but mentions nothing concrete.
he's never, ever seen either man before dusk, and while he doesn't argue when he is given free rein to explore during the days, he doesn't buy the casual excuses to explain their strange hours.
sometimes he wonders what they want from him. sometimes he wonders what he wants from them.
* * *
"what's the price?" henry asks at last, standing at the rail of the yacht and watching the reflection of the moon in the waters below. his hair hangs long over his forehead on one side, veiling the scar, then lifts with a breeze. when he hears no response, he turns to face them, bare feet squeaking on the deck.
shiwon studies the stars in silence, while geng looks to the man beside him, then to henry, expression somehow sad. "why do you want to know?"
he grips the rail behind himself, tightly, and takes a deep breath, heart pounding. "i want to be the best. i don't want to stop improving... i don't want to be crippled when i've only just begun to learn."
"is it worth so much to you?" shiwon interjects, quietly. "so much that you could give away the chance to have a normal life, so much that you could close your eyes knowing you'll never see the sun again?"
they've given him the chance to see the world by daylight, henry thinks, the opportunity they may not have had. "it's worth everything to me, hyung."
geng moves closer, takes him by the shoulders. "is it worth hearing every flaw, every tiny imperfection magnified a thousandfold? is it worth relearning how you play, as if you were to become a rank beginner all over again?"
"gege, don't you see? knowing that i could become so much better... i have to pursue that. i can't turn my back and stay where i am." henry bites his lip, as near pleading as he knows how to be.
"you're so young," shiwon says, "sometimes i forget what that is."
"don't make a hasty decision," geng murmurs, as he gives his shoulders a tiny squeeze, then steps back. "do you want to look this age, forever? think about it, please... you must finish out the year at school, at least."
"i'll think about it," henry promises. "i will... but when i ask you next, will you refuse?"
there is a long silence, broken only by the lapping of the waves against the hull. "no," shiwon says, finally, and henry's shoulders sag with relief.
* * *
henry studies himself in the mirror every morning for the next six months, familiarizing himself with the face, the body that may be his forever. he isn't classically stunning in the way that shiwon is, but he does quite well enough, he thinks. he is slender and flexible, and has little desire to see himself become otherwise. he thinks of piercing his ears, getting a tattoo, but changes his mind.
he has sex with a girl, fast and messy and a little awkward in her room while her parents are away, mostly to say he has tried it, then lets a classmate who idolizes him suck him off, one evening, just in case.
he spends every waking moment he can spare outside, soaking up the sun and practicing his violin until the teachers shout out the windows at him to take it somewhere quieter.
when henry sits his exams at the end of the year, he is roughly seventeen years old--roughly, because he doesn't know his birthdate and has never found indisputable records of his own existence.
shiwon and geng arrive to pick him up, the next night, and can see his choice before he so much as opens his mouth to ask.