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.
A sound like gunfire drew me from what was both the best and worst dream I’d had in a very long time. Jiyong, still looking a little mussed from sleep, had burst into my room, throwing the door open with such force it had slammed into the wall behind it. His hair was a wild mess, and his eyes were wide and full of worry.
“Seunghyun! Snow, there is literally fucking snow everywhere.”
I sat up slowly, still groggy, and frowned at him. “There was a storm last night, remember?”
Jiyong pursed his lips, unhappy with my dismissal. He stalked over to the heavily curtained double doors on the other side of my room, and yanked the dark blue material out from in front of them. The doors were steel-lined glass. I’d gotten them installed so I could wake up and look out onto the beauty of nature every morning from the comfort of my bed. But when Jiyong pulled the curtains back, I didn’t see the beauty of nature. All I saw was white. Snow, drifted as high as I was tall.
“Oh, shit.”
“Would I be freaking out this much if it was just a little powder?”
My toes curled against the cold wooden floor in shock when I leapt from the warmth of my bed. Jiyong leaned back, eyes going wider still as I rushed toward him. I could barely see over the edge of the snow piled high against the doors. The window above my bed still had the curtain drawn, so I climbed back up onto it and drew back the thick ruffle. More snow up to my eyeballs. North Pole had had a few winter storms in the years I’d been here, ones that had dumped several feet of snow on top of the town in a night, even, but never anything like this. I could feel a bit of panic welling up inside of me at the prospect of being trapped inside the cabin for a week or more before Jiyong and I could dig ourselves out, or a snowplow made its way this far outside the city limits.
Without even glancing at Jiyong, I swept out of the bedroom, down the hall, and to the front door. Another wall of white greeted me when I slung it open. A little noise of disbelief slipped past my lips as I closed it again. The only window from which I could see anything other than packed snow was the one in the loft, and even from there, the only thing visible, besides the tops of pines, was the roof of the firewood shack. Thank God I’d shut the door last time I was out there; at least we’d have firewood. If we could dig ourselves a tunnel over the 50 feet that separated it from the cabin, that was. I sighed wearily as I made my way downstairs, shaking my head at Jiyong’s curious expression. My feet hit the last step, and wouldn’t move any further, so I slumped down onto the stairs in defeat.
“This is bad,” I murmured, feeling a little dazed at the situation in which we’d found ourselves. “I mean, it could be worse, but this is bad.”
“Has it ever snowed this much since you’ve lived here?” Jiyong asked. I could hear an edge of worry in his voice over the superficial calm he was apparently trying to project. It made whatever protective instinct I had flare to life.
“No. Last winter was pretty mild, and it’s so early...” I drifted, finally chancing a look up at Jiyong. I didn’t want to see fear in his eyes. “You know we can’t leave, right? Not until we dig ourselves out of here, find the snowmobile, and figure out where the road is. It’s gonna take... I don’t know, days, maybe a week for a snow plow to make it this far out.” I didn’t want him to be afraid, but I needed to be realistic. Surprisingly, he laughed at me, a little huff of air that broke the tension in the cabin.
“Thank you, captain obvious,” he said, voice as amused as I’d ever heard it. He was grinning at me, arms crossed and hip leaned into the wall beside the stairs. It seemed I had underestimated Jiyong.
“I’ve got a pantry full of food, and as long as the electricity stays on, we’ll have heat and hot water,” I continued, now hoping to calm myself as much as him. Hermit I might be, but being trapped in a 2,000 square foot space with no hope of rescue for at least a week still strung my nerves precariously tight.
“I just hope you can maintain your sanity, being stuck in this house with my sorry ass.”
“Well, I can always escape to the loft,” I bantered, grinning genuinely now at his self-deprecation. “I’m more worried about you. There’s no TV in here, no computer... I don’t even have board games.”
“I know you might think I’m some pampered princess who can’t live a day without posting my feelings on Facebook or texting my friends, but I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly as he picked at his nails, something I’d started to notice was a habit when he was nervous. “I don’t own a television, I have a shitty, old laptop that is falling apart, and the only reason I own a goddamn iPhone is because my sister gave it to me as a birthday present. Provide me with a pencil, a sketchbook, and perhaps the occasional pleasure of your silent company and I’ll be fine.”
The only part of that spiel I could focus on at the moment was the ‘pleasure of your silent company’ part. Did he mean he enjoyed being around me? Or that when we were together, he’d prefer it if I kept my mouth shut? Either way, all my brain could conjure up was a picture of us sitting in front of the fire, legs overlapping as Jiyong sketched me while I re-read one of my old Dean R. Koontz novels. It was sickeningly romantic, and my face lit up in a blush. I had to escape.
“Let me show you where some things are in the kitchen,” I coughed, standing from the stairs and ducking my head to hide my traitorously rosy cheeks. I pointed out where I kept all of the dishes, cups, and utensils, and then gestured to the coffee maker and tin of Folgers by the refrigerator. “If you’ll make us some coffee, I’ll go grab you some clothes to wear. I might even have a sketchbook somewhere.”
Before he could so much as nod, I turned and practically ran to my room.
You’re 32, not 12. Act like a man! Act like a responsible, adult man, and stop drooling over your houseguest! I berated myself as I pulled on a thick, woolen sweater the color of moss, socks, and a pair of nylon ski pants. If we were going to attempt to dig our way to the shack, water-resistant clothing was the only way we’d make it there and back without freezing our asses off. Somehow I managed to find a medium sized sweater and pair of pants for Jiyong, though he’d probably end up swimming in them, anyway. And when I imagined him wearing my clothes again, for at least the next week, my thoughts turned lecherous.
32, not 12!
I stomped up to the loft, frowning to myself the entire time. My frown only deepened when I yanked the giant sketchpad out from between my desk and the wall. I’d bought it before I’d moved here, hoping to be able to sit out on my porch and draw the animals that happened by. As it turned out, I was the worst artist in the world, a fact I hadn’t ever considered because I’d never bothered to draw anything but graphs and hand-made spreadsheets in my entire life. It was strange how my hands could shape a block of wood into anything I could conjure in my imagination, but when it came to translating those ideas onto a 2-D surface? Not even close. Luckily I’d only used the first few pages in my failed attempts, so Jiyong had about 100 sheets of the 18x24 Big Bee pad at his disposal. After swiping a flat sketching pencil I’d whittled to a wicked point, I headed back downstairs to the kitchen.
Jiyong was at the counter, pouring what I assumed was my coffee into a mug. Another sat nearby, already loaded with what I assumed was cream and sugar. I grinned at that, and then at him, and dumped the clothes in my arms onto the table.
“These are the smallest clothes I could find. They’re still probably a little too big,” I said, hoping he knew I wasn’t making fun of him for being small. He didn’t give anything away, though, so I held up the sketchpad with a smile. “And look! I remembered I had this upstairs. Just ignore the first few pages.”
“You draw?” he asked as he took the huge pad from me, a grin on his lips, fingers brushing my own. If he noticed, he didn’t say or do anything about it, but I had to grab the mug of black coffee from the counter beside him and gulp at it so I would have something to do with my hands other than wring them in front of me like some infatuated school boy.
“I attempt to draw,” I answered, once I’d taken a few calming sips. “I’m really bad at it, though. That’s why there are only a few used pages.”
“I’m sure you’re not a lost cause.”
He opened the sketchbook and immediately snorted, then flipped the page, and snorted again.
“They’re not that bad.” Jiyong’s feline eyes flicked back and forth between me and the pathetic excuse for a deer I’d put about two hours of work into before throwing the pad out into the snow last winter, but he couldn’t keep a straight face. I didn’t blame him. “I’m sorry, it’s just- maybe you should stick to the carvings?”
I shook my head good-naturedly, and together we sat down at the table, mugs of coffee in hand. “I never got to go to some fancy art school,” I teased, raising an eyebrow at him as I sipped at my black coffee.
“Art school is overrated and Cornish is anything but fancy. It was logical and it was there, so I went.” He sighed, eyeing me over the top of his own cup. “Where did you go to school, anyway?”
“UA Anchorage. I grew up there. Got a BBA in accounting. Very exciting stuff. What’s your major?”
“Printmaking.” Jiyong sat his mug on the table. His eyes never left it, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I’m not entirely sure why, though.”
“Is that your passion?” I wondered out loud, before I could stop the words from leaving my mouth. “I mean, is it something you love to do?” Another blush was threatening to turn my whole face pink, and I was fervently praying Jiyong wouldn’t notice. He grinned at me, eyes crinkling in merriment. So much for that prayer.
“My passion?” he snickered, fist coming up to hide his mouth. “God, I don’t know. It’s just what I do. There’s an irrepressible urge to create, yeah, but if this isn’t what I’m meant to be doing I haven’t found an alternative yet....sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No, no it’s okay. We’re going to be stuck together for a while. We might as well get to know each other a little bit.” It was true. And if I wanted to know more about him for my own purposes? Well...
“How the hell do you afford all this shit, by the way? After seeing the bathroom, I have to admit I’m curious. It’s obvious you have no real need to work, living all the way out here in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
And there it was. I’d known this question was coming, How could it not? I did live in a modern cabin, complete with central heating and air and a sauna, in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. It was bound to come up sooner or later, I just wasn’t sure I was ready to disclose more than the very basics of my life to Jiyong. Not yet.
“Would you believe me if I said CPAs get paid really well?” I asked, grinning mildly. Jiyong shook his head, looking less amused than exasperated. “I’m... independently wealthy.”
Curious eyes lit on me, and Jiyong rested his elbow on the table, one cheek propped in a cupped hand.
“How so?”
I’d only ever told this story to Betty and Dale, after they’d fretted over the fact that I’d spent more than a month’s worth of their yearly profit in one trip to the general goods store. They stopped feeling guilty about taking my money immediately afterward. But they were good people, and hadn’t taken advantage of the knowledge. I could only hope Jiyong would be the same; I wanted to trust him.
“Do you remember a few years ago, when the California Mega-Millions lottery reached an all-time high jackpot?” He nodded at me slowly, eyes roaming the room as he searched his memory. “And do you remember there was a single winner?”
For the next three seconds, he stared at me over the mound of clothes in the center of the table, looking utterly perplexed. What I was implying seemed to hit him like a Mack truck, and his eyes went as wide and round as saucers.
“No fucking way,” he breathed.
“Yeah. That’s me.” I took another sip of my coffee, unsure of how to respond.
“Wow. I don’t know what that amount of money would even look like. My balance never makes it over three digits.”
As soon as I’d drained my cup, I stood, not wanting to continue the conversation, but not knowing how to say so without sounding like an asshole. Talking about this always brought back thoughts of Michael, and they were the last things I wanted in my head. I sat my empty mug down in the sink and walked over to the window beside the front door. I could feel Jiyong’s eyes on me as I peeked outside, trying to see over the mound of snow.
“I’m gonna have to dig through this mess if we want to have a fire. Can you help me? It’ll be easier if we work together.”
I peered over my shoulder and watched him blink in confusion before slowly nodding and standing from the table. He’d only drank about half of his coffee. Guilt at ruining the moment sat heavy in my stomach.
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, a frown marring his face as he grabbed the clothes I’d brought him. “Just let me change real quick.” With that, he disappeared into the bathroom.
I pressed a tightly-balled fist to my mouth and wondered if I’d just made a huge mistake. Wanting to trust someone and them being worthy of that trust were two entirely separate things, as I’d learned so painfully in the past. The trust I’d freely meted out to those around me had almost ruined me, and all because of what I’d just admitted to Jiyong. Could I trust any kindness he showed me from here on out without thinking it was being given due to some ulterior motive? Was I being stupid? Was I blowing this all out of proportion?
Yes. What does he have to gain? He’ll just feel less badly about using your electricity and hot water and food, that’s all. It’s not like you’re going to fall in love with him in a week, Seunghyun. Get a grip. 32, not 12, remember?
When he returned, I’d cleared the kitchen and was ready with a coat, gloves, and shovels for both of us. Jiyong slid on his boots, the ones he’d been wearing when I’d found him, and I opened the door to the white wall. He sent me a look that said he wasn’t ready for whatever it was we were about to undertake, but I gave him the most reassuring smile I could before brandishing my shovel.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be done in an hour or two, tops.”
An hour or two ended up being four. Jiyong, for all his posturing about not being a princess, refused to go out into the snow until I’d cleared a half-pipe path in front of the door. Something about claustrophobia, at which I rolled my eyes, and he watched me dig into the snow with his hands on his hips. Though after I’d started the path, he worked diligently with me until we’d made a snowy corridor all the way to the firewood shack. Four hours of hard work later, we had a huge pile of wood stacked up beside the hearth, and I’d immediately lit us a blazing fire.
We were sweaty and tired, and probably didn’t smell great, but we had a fire, and I felt like I’d accomplished something. Jiyong pulled off his coat, gloves, and boots. I followed suit, lying on my back, letting the heat of the fire warm my chilled toes. The red-haired boy collapsed beside me, arms spread wide, fingers barely brushing my thigh through the material of my pants. I tensed, but he was either too tired to notice or care, because all he did was groan like he was dying.
“I feel nonexistent,” he moaned, head lolling back and forth as he wiggled his sock-clad toes in front of the flames.
Ten minutes of total, comfortable silence passed before my stomach began to grumble at me. We hadn’t eaten breakfast, and coffee can only suppress one’s appetite for so long. I glanced over at Jiyong’s peaceful face, and figured he was asleep.
“I’m going to start lunch,” I murmured, gaining my feet slowly. Before I could turn away, though, Jiyong sat bolt upright and grabbed my sleeve. His arm went limp, as though his muscles still weren’t quite ready to cooperate, and the neck of my sweater was yanked down, exposing my shoulder. He didn’t let go, and I didn’t pull away.
"Actually, can we sit here for a minute? I'm not entirely human yet." He gazed up at me with half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, and I thought I might give him anything he wanted if he kept looking at me like that.
I sat down next to him, eyes never leaving his. He released the sleeve of my sweater, and gave me a satisfied smile before propping his chin on his knees and staring into the fire. Jiyong’s eyes closed slowly, and eventually I heard the sounds of deep, even breathing, signifying sleep. In his relaxed state, he leaned against me, the weight of his body hardly a noticeable thing. But I noticed. Noticed the way his face was upturned toward mine, how his eyelashes laid gently on top of his high cheekbones… noticed the way his cheek was pressed into my shoulder, making his slightly chapped, perfectly plump pink lips pucker invitingly. All I’d have to do was lean down, close the six inch gap between us, and-
A beleaguered sigh left my own lips as I turned my face away from his. I couldn’t do that. What I could do, however, was make us some lunch. With another heavy sigh, I stood, lifting Jiyong into my arms as I did so. I laid him gently on the couch, and pulled a blanket over him.
I’d resisted kissing the boy, but I couldn’t resist combing my fingers through his bright red hair. Hesitantly, never taking my eyes from his face, I reached out, only to stop just before my calloused digits made contact with the silky-looking scruff. If I did this, I’d be breaking down some unspoken barrier between us, even if he’d never know. Did I want that? Could I handle it? Was I 32, or was I 12? Yes, I wanted that, even if I shouldn’t, and I could handle it, even if he hurt me. I was 32 years old, and I’d survived worse things than weathering a snowstorm with some beautiful boy with a devil-may-care attitude.
His carmine-colored locks were just as soft as I’d imagined they would be.
“Sleep well,” I whispered, and then crept quietly into the kitchen.