The Story of Us [4/?]
Genre: AU Romance
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: GTOP
Disclaimer: They will never be ours (sigh)
Warnings: Language, fluff, sexual situations
Summary: "There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life." - Federico Fellini.
They say not all who wander are lost, and that no man is an island. This is the story of Jiyong and Seunghyun. Two men brought together by chance. Two men who will change each other's lives forever.
This is the story of us.
SEUNGHYUN
Whittling had always been the one thing that could calm my mind when my thoughts became too turbulent to handle with a cup of tea and a few deep breaths. It was a hobby to some, art to others, and something most people I’d ever known had scoffed at when they learned it was my hobby, my art. Turning a block of raw wood over and over in my hands, using any of the number of special carving tools I’d garnered over the years to slowly meld the material into something else, something beautiful, made me happy. That’s all I could really ask from life. That simple joy I felt once the lacquer dried, and balsa wood had become a bear, or the delicate plume of a feather. Or a chess piece, like the hundreds already littering my loft.
Memories I neither wanted nor needed tried to sneak through the cracks in my carefully constructed mental wall, and I sighed into the open space of my loft. I’d rather fling myself naked into the storm that was currently raging outside than think about Michael and my sham of an old life. The sharp, spicy scent of the ginger tea on the table beside me brought my thoughts from melancholy to something more akin to humor. The kid sleeping on the couch, Jiyong, hated ginger tea. I’d never met another Korean, another human being in general, that didn’t like it. The very idea was ludicrous, but the fact that he was Korean somehow compounded the absurdity. How someone could not enjoy the rich, comforting brew was beyond me, but the disgusted look on Jiyong’s face after he’d taken that first sip earlier left no room for doubt that he wasn’t just being a pain.
Which, considering his behavior until now, was a perfectly reasonable thing to think.
From the minute he’d shot to consciousness, the boy had been… well, ungracious was probably a good word. A punk might not be too far from the truth. Not that he didn’t have his good points, I supposed, but from the time I’d spent with him, I’d come to the conclusion that he was your typical art school hipster: too cool for you, and he was going to let you know it. Maybe a little more directly and with a fouler mouth than some, but I didn’t think I was off the mark by much. Then again, I could have him pegged all wrong. I hadn’t spent much time around anyone besides the elderly couple who ran the general goods store just outside North Pole in almost a year; it was possible I wasn’t giving him a fair shake.
And he was kind of cute. More than cute. He was gorgeous, if I were being completely honest. The way he’d reacted when we’d accidentally collided earlier, had swayed into me and pulled back with a dazed expression on his face as he mumbled ‘sorry’, was nothing short of charming. Even though I’d played it off as coolly and nonchalantly as I could manage externally, inside the confines of my own head I was a nervous wreck. Had he felt the way my hands had trembled slightly at the contact? I’d carried him, undressed and redressed him, but somehow that touch, and his reaction to it, had elicited nothing but white noise from my brain. All I’d managed to do was grunt, like the mountain-dwelling recluse I was, before stepping away and busying myself elsewhere while he retreated into the bathroom to change.
My thoughts briefly turned toward vanity as I imagined how his eyes must have gone wide when he’d stepped inside. There were surely worse things to take pride in than one’s bathing area, and the large, custom design had been the best investment of my considerable wealth I’d made so far. Had he noticed the sauna? It was my favorite spot in the cabin, second only to my work area in the loft. It was probably a good idea for Jiyong to use it, to let the heat work its wonders on his nearly frostbitten flesh.
Any way I considered proposing the idea to him sent me into a near panic. It was weird to ask a total stranger to use something of yours in which they’d have to be naked except for a towel, wasn’t it? I’m sure he’d realized by now I wasn’t the most social of butterflies, but I wondered if he knew just how uncomfortable his presence in my home was making me. It wasn’t his fault, though, and I was going to have to get over it, because the storm didn’t seem to be letting up. Stuck overnight with an attractive stranger I’d most likely never see again…
No, Seunghyun. Don’t even think about it.
There was no reason to have the idea of this being anything other than a strictly good-Samaritan type situation running through my head. Besides the fact that I’d more or less given myself over to a life of solitude and celibacy after what had happened three years ago, thinking even slightly lecherous thoughts about the poor college student I’d saved from death by hypothermia had to put me on some sort of scale of perversion. So back to whittling I went, no further thoughts of Jiyong or Michael or anyone else invading my once again calm mind. Nothing, save for the delicate scrtch scrtch of blade against cedar, interrupted the tranquility I found in the repetitive, rhythmic motions.
I was so lost in my work I didn’t notice Jiyong’s presence in the doorway until he cleared his throat. Frightened by the sudden intrusion, the blade of my Flexcut slipped and caught the edge of my thumb. Bright red blood welled to the surface, and I grimaced. It’d happened so many times over the years I hardly felt the sting, but Jiyong didn’t know that, and I wasn’t above giving him a hard time about it.
“Ouch,” I hissed exaggeratedly. “You scared me.” Well, that part was true, anyway. I sucked my thumb into my mouth and peered at him over my shoulder. The sight of the angelic-looking boy wearing my old, faded flannel pajamas did a number on me, most notably my libido. This entire situation was starting to feel like one giant, cosmic joke.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he apologized, bringing a hand up to cover his slowly reddening face. So much for angelic.
I shook my hands, mostly to distract myself from my own, completely inappropriate thoughts, and started putting away my knife set. “Did you need something? The weather’s just gotten worse. Looks like you’re stuck here tonight,” I rambled, wishing, for once, that I’d had more human contact in the last year than just Betty and Dale at the general store.
“No, actually. I heard the noise… and my curiosity got the best of me.”
Jiyong’s eyes roamed the small space, lighting upon every woodland creature I’d carved since I’d moved here. The number was considerable. He took everything in for a moment before flicking those feline orbs back to my face.
“Did you - did you make all of these yourself?”
“Yeah. This is what I do in my spare time...” I replied, looking down at my scarred, calloused hands. “Which is all of it.”
I regretted the words as soon as they’d left my mouth. He didn’t need to know that; he didn’t need to know anything about me, especially the fact that I was a lonely man, if by choice, who had only the wooden imitations of animals for friends. It was a depressing thought, even to me, and one I’d been able to studiously avoid until the red-headed catalyst that was Jiyong had entered the equation. His presence was beginning to unbalance things I’d been carefully stacking in neat mental columns and shoving into the recesses of my mind, never to be seen or dealt with again.
“May I?” he asked, breaking me from my reverie and drawing my attention back to him once more. He’d wandered closer, and was now casting an impressed eye over the carving of a stag’s head I’d done last Christmas. One thin finger gestured at it, and I couldn’t help but nod.
Jiyong lifted the basswood piece as though it were a baby. He held it loosely in his grip, using the same finger with which he’d pointed at it a moment ago to stroke its nose as if it were a living thing -like it would jump from his hands, skittish, if he used too rough a touch. It was the first real sign of maturity I’d seen from him in the past twelve hours, and it sent my heart parading around my chest for any number of reasons. All I could do was stare and watch him admire something on which I’d spent countless hours, scraping and sanding and working my fingers to the bone. No one had looked at my art like that since-
“Seunghyun, this is beautiful,” Jiyong said, eyes flicking up to meet mine. The depressing road of memory on which I’d been about to embark crumbled like a dreamscape, and the elation I’d felt at completing the carving paled in comparison to the intense rush of satisfaction that swept through me at that compliment.
“Thanks,” I managed to murmur through the thick layer of emotions that had just wrapped themselves around my chest and piled up in my throat. I could feel my face burning, but looking away from Jiyong right now didn’t seem to be an option my brain or body wanted to consider.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, smiling. “I haven’t worked with wood in forever, I always get distracted by something else.”
That’s right. Cornish College of the Arts. I’d found the ID in his wallet earlier, but somehow I’d forgotten. He placed the statuette back on my work station, then continued to meander. While he let his eyes, but not his hands, roam over each piece I had strewn across the room, I pondered asking him about himself. Why was he in Alaska? How exactly had he ended up at my place? What was an actual art school like? I’d been a CPA before… before I’d left that all behind and moved out here. Accounting wasn’t the most exciting of professions, but it had given me plenty of time and opportunity to explore my creative side. What was Jiyong’s creative side? His fingers ghosted over the pieces in my studio, floating above them like butterflies on a summer breeze. He must work with something tangible as well, then, to hold so much respect for my bits of shaped basswood and balsa.
Jiyong bent low to examine one of the carvings, and a high pitched whine and gurgle erupted from what I assumed was his stomach. Then I remembered the boy probably hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours, and the urge to slap myself was almost unbearable. The way he froze at the sound was comical. A snort of laughter forced its way out of me before I could stop it.
“I was just about to make dinner,” I announced, hoping I hadn’t embarrassed him by laughing. “Would you like to eat?”
“Sure.” He turned to me, a tiny grin lighting up his face. As soon as it came, it was gone again, and I was a little more than surprised when he slapped his hand over his mouth.
I tried not to think about why he would try to keep himself from smiling at me, but of course it was the only thing on my mind the entire time I was gathering my tools to put them away. When I realized almost every thought I’d had in the last five minutes starred the crimson-haired boy, I shook my head and walked out of the loft as quickly as my feet would carry me. Loneliness and an alluring stranger weren’t reason enough for me to drop my guard, no matter how forlorn I was, or how striking the stranger. I needed a distraction, and dinner was it. I’d made a stew a few days ago, and still had some frozen leftovers in the freezer. I’d already started the tea by the time Jiyong came ambling down the stairs into the kitchen. I could feel his eyes on me, watching attentively while I pulled bowls and utensils from cupboards and drawers. He’d been doing that recently, staring. It was starting to make me self-conscious, and I hadn’t felt that way in years, since I’d removed myself from anyone and anything that could inspire it. My beard was gone, I’d trimmed my hair; what other flaws was he picking out right now from his spot on the other side of the counter? And why did I care? He was biting his nails. There, I’d picked out one of his flaws. Besides the smoking. And the swearing. I resisted the temptation of pouring the now-scalding soup all over my head to rid it of such shallow thoughts.
Why was I letting this kid get to me? Where were these childish thoughts coming from? It was like being in kindergarten again, pushing and teasing the boy I liked because I didn’t possess the social or communication skills to express myself any other way.
Wait.
I didn’t like Jiyong. I hardly knew him! That urge to douse myself in boiling soup hit again, and I turned off the burner before I could give in to it. I scooped the hearty vegetable stew into two bowls and brought them to the table.
“Could you grab the tea?” I asked Jiyong, and he replied with a quick ‘yep’. I’d made Ceylon instead of ginger. He needed to eat and drink what he could after his ordeal. I slid him a spoon, and then for some mystifying reason my mouth opened of its own accord, and questions I’d been too uncomfortable to ask earlier spilled from my lips.
“What brought you all the way out to North Pole? This isn’t the best season for camping,” I blurted.
Jiyong puffed out his cheeks and blew air through his puckered, pink lips, and if it wasn’t the most adorable face no 24 year old man should be able to make and not look ridiculous, I didn’t know what was. Thankfully, he never once glanced up from his task of navigating his spoon through the carrots and potatoes in his bowl, saving me the trouble of hiding the blush I knew must be staining my cheeks.
“My asshole friends dragged me out here. Said it would be “fun”. I find myself inclined to disagree.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a phone.”
“Don’t sweat it. They deserve the trauma of thinking I’m dead.”
I had no idea what to say to that. Jiyong had either never experienced a major trauma, or he really just didn’t give a damn. I was betting on the former. The words ‘No one deserves the trauma of thinking a loved one is dead’ were on the tip of my tongue, but I bit them back. Now wasn’t the time to get into that. Never is when we were going to get into that, actually. Jiyong didn’t need a lecture from some recluse he’d never see again once this storm cleared. Instead, I swallowed a few bites of stew before a flash of something I’d seen earlier crossed my mind, and my traitorous lips parted once again.
“But your boyfriend must be worried…” I murmured lowly, nudging a lump of potato. Jiyong snorted like I’d just made a joke, and when I chanced a look up, he was smirking at me, amusement written all over his pretty face.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” He said matter-of-factly as he leaned back in his chair, fingers fidgeting with each other, “not anymore at least. That’s an old photograph.”
“Oh.” I was equal parts saddened and relieved at the news, and then immediately exasperated with myself for the millionth time that day for thinking about the boy as anything other than a person who needed my help. “Still, your friends,” I continued. “Your phone’ll work when we get back to town tomorrow.”
“Hopefully they haven’t completely lost their shit yet.”
If I were them? I would have. But I didn’t tell him that. If he wasn’t worried, I wasn’t going to give him a reason to be.
“I have to admit I’m a little disappointed that I can’t refer to you as The Bearded Wonder in my head anymore.”
For a split second, I froze. He’d given me a nickname after knowing me for less than 24 hours? And such a flattering one. I looked up at him and raised a curious eyebrow. He’d called my beard pathetic, and after staring at myself in the mirror for a good solid ten minutes, I’d realized he was right. Not just about the beard. My hair was a bird’s nest, as well. I’d really let myself go since coming out here. What was the point of shaving and grooming if I was only going to be seen by me, myself, and I? Now that there was another person in the picture, one I found myself desiring to impress even if it went against every bit of my better judgment, it was time to clean up my act. I’d taken trimming shears to my long, unkempt hair, and then…
“You were right about…” I brought calloused fingers to brush against my now smooth chin. Jiyong watched the motion with bright eyes, and I found myself grinning a bit. “I haven’t seen anyone in so long, I guess I stopped caring what I looked like.”
When I realized what I’d just inadvertently admitted, that I cared what I looked like to him, the blush that suffused my face could have set the cabin on fire. I could feel blood rushing away from my extremities in its intense desire to fill every capillary in my upper body as fast as it possibly could. My neck, chest, and shoulders tingled with the influx. I bit at the inside of my cheek and tried to ignore the way Jiyong’s eyes were squinted in mirth, lips curled in a poorly-concealed smile behind his hand. After a moment wherein all I could do was fidget nervously and fiddle with my tea, Jiyong grabbed his own cup and drained it.
“Would it be all right if I used the shower? I probably smell disgusting.”
“Sure. There should be a clean towel on the rack,” I managed to reply without looking at him.
“Awesome, thank you,” he said, sounding relieved. “Do you need help cleaning up?”
Another sign of maturity, a quality it seemed I was completely lacking at the moment. I lifted my eyes from the bottom of my mug, smiled at him, and shook my head. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.” This time it was he whose face bloomed with color, and I experienced a surge of satisfaction. I did that, I thought as he darted off to the bathroom. I made him blush. It felt like some kind of victory, even if I had no idea what battle I was fighting.
Ten minutes later, Jiyong reappeared in the doorway of the kitchen. His footsteps were heavier than mine, which was funny, considering how small he was. He paused, watching me once again as I finished up the last of the kitchen detail. When I turned around, I was greeted by the sight of him with damp hair and cheeks rosy from the hot water of the shower. That, added to the fact that he was still wearing my pajamas, stole all of my good sense.
“I guess, uh, just get me up in the morning if I’m not already awake?” he asked.
I nodded dumbly. My brain kicked in to gear suddenly, and I remembered this wouldn’t just be some easy jaunt into town.
“You might have to help me dig the snowmobile out of this new layer of powder. Think you’ll be up to it?”
“I’ve slept more in the last twenty-four hours than I have all week,” he answered, lips quirked up into a grin. “I’ll be fine.”
Neither of us said anything after that, we just… stood there. Staring. I’d caught Jiyong watching me so many times in the last day that it almost felt normal to have his eyes roaming me like a panther stalking its prey. I took the opportunity to study his soft features; his button nose, pillowy lips, delicately arched brows and warm, brown eyes. He really was lovely. Of course, the last lovely man I’d let into my life had almost taken it from me, and what did I know about Jiyong, anyway? Hardly anything. I’d known Michael for six years, had loved him from the very depths of my being, and he’d tried to murder me. So what gave me the idea I could even contemplate trusting this near perfect stranger?
“Well. Goodnight,” I ground out from between stiff lips and gritted teeth. Jiyong blushed then, like I’d given him a compliment rather than practically growled at him, and bit his lip. His eyes darted over me once more, and this time, I thought I saw lust in them. It could have been my imagination. In this state, it was more than likely. I had to restrain myself from saying ‘to Hell with it!’, pushing him up against the jamb of the doorway, and ravishing that pretty mouth-
“Night, Seunghyun,” he whispered. I blinked. “And thank you, again… for putting up with me. I know I can be a bit rough around the edges.”
Suddenly, I felt very ashamed. My lips twitched upward in a mockery of a smile, and I nodded. What else could I do? He pivoted nimbly on a heel and disappeared into the living room. As soon as he was gone, I brought my hands up to my face and scrubbed roughly. What in God’s name was I doing letting some beautiful, foul-mouthed hipster affect me like this? I was 32 years old, and acting half that. Desire for another person hadn’t been a factor in my life for so many years I’d forgotten how to handle it. Every time I thought about love or lust, or the aching hunger for another’s touch, I remembered Michael and his betrayal. And I was afraid. Slowly, I made my way back into my bedroom, threw on the oldest, most comfortable pair of pajamas I owned, and buried myself under layers of soft cotton and goose down. Tomorrow was a new day. Tomorrow, the storm would have passed, and Jiyong would be gone, back to his friends and his life.
Tomorrow, everything would be okay.
But in the night, while my waking mind was shut down, things were never okay. This time when the dreams slithered into my subconscious, they weren’t only flashes of images and whispers. This time, my nightmare came to me in Technicolor and stereo. It played back like a memory, because it was; one of the last memories I’d ever made with the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life loving.
“This drink’s a little sweet. Are you sure you know how to make a whiskey sour?” I tease Michael, who watches me with rapt attention as I sip at it. The party we’ve thrown for our 6th anniversary is in full swing around us, and I have to bend down a bit to speak into his ear. He turns his head when I do, and kisses me, then licks his lips.
“I know exactly what I’m doing. But that’s not just a whiskey sour; I added a little amaretto. Do you hate it?” he asks, giving me puppy eyes. I can never resist that face. Besides, the drink doesn’t taste that bad, and I know after I have a few more I won’t care, anyway.
“No, I don’t hate it,” I reply, smiling. He grins then, and gives me another peck on the lips. Our foreheads stay pressed together, noses touching, completely ignoring the crowd around us. I tilt his chin up with my fingers and whisper, “I love you,” into his mouth as I kiss him again and again. “Happy anniversary.”
“I love you too, baby.”
Part Two