And to our Great Returns
And to our Great Returns.
homin, pg-13
romance/historical drama
6,911 words
Sequel to Promenade, for kallistei ♥
War approaches and their golden era is at the beginning of its end. As time moves forward, so too it moves them apart, and it’s up to them -to navigate among socialites and servants; to weather threats of peril and ruin; and to keep finding their way back to each other.
Being a continuation, it's pretty necessary to read Promenade in order to understand the majority of this fic. In that first post you can also find the various sources of inspiration for this Edwardian!AU -as for research sources, none listed atm, but ask away if you’re interested in knowing more!
~ February 1913 ~
Things are going far too well. For much of his life Yunho has lived in perfect balance-expectation, gratification, contentment. But ever since he met Changmin, life is different. These days, when things are perfect, Yunho finds himself on edge, knowing that some great havoc is most likely waiting just around the corner. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On one hand, he finds it makes life interesting. On the other, he finds it infuriating.
However, when the shoe drops this time -and what a delicate shoe it is, with an expensive arched sole and stitches made of silk, dropped by a woman he’d dismissed for so long- it takes him by complete surprise, falling fast and sharp as its heel pierces right through his heart.
“Those are your choices,” she says plainly. She hasn’t smiled once since he arrived; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so serious.
“It’s not much of a choice,” says he. Either he goes along with her plan or he’s ruined forever. It’s no choice at all.
“That’s the point,” she replies.
His mouth is dry, his tongue heavy and hard to speak around. “Then so be it, I agree,” he says, closing his eyes. “But I certainly don’t hope you expect me to get down on one knee.”
Yunho knows Changmin will come. He expects him to be angry. He expects him to come screaming in and knock down the door, if necessary, and rant and rave and fight, and Yunho knows it’s going to happen and so isn’t at all surprised when he finds Changmin suddenly in front of him, hissing like a cat on fire.
“How dare you!” he says, slamming his hands onto the desk.
Yunho closes his eyes for a brief moment and keeps his cool. “Changmin-”
“How dare you- and not even have the decency to tell me! I had to find out from Jaejoong of all people, and damn him for grinning the whole damn time-”
“Changmin,” says Yunho, firmly, seeing a whole different fight of its own brewing in that phrase. Better to cut it at the quick. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” he spits. “Sorry for not telling me, or being engaged in the first place? I had a right to know!”
“You did,” Yunho concedes, and they’ve been going at this for years but it’s still sometimes hard to believe that he’s been somehow caught up in this… relationship, whatever it is they are, that blossomed out of what he thought was a quick-burning affair, hot and powerful and most importantly, short-lived.
Changmin doesn’t seem the least bit mollified. “Then why?!”
Yunho sighs. “It’s not… genuine.”
“What the hell does that mean.” The words are flat but no less aggressive.
“It means that the Honorable Dana Shapley is a little more intelligent than I supposed. She gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
For that he gets a growl, and Yunho looks down, tugging on the lapels of his jacket in a rare act of nerves. He finds he can’t lift his head again. “She knows,” he says abruptly.
Changmin’s doesn’t stifle his gasp quick enough. “What?”
“She knows of my… inclination,” Yunho admits, softly -ashamedly. “She knows nothing of our involvement, of course, but her father is pressuring her into marriage, and it’s either me or the Earl of Shawol, and Taemin’s barely out of puberty. So either we marry or she goes to the press. She says she has proof.”
In his peripheral he sees Changmin falls back into a chair. “And you’re going to do it,” he says, sounding -for the first time since Yunho’s known him- resigned. “You’ll marry her.”
“Of course,” Yunho says, fiddling with papers so he won’t have to look at his expression.
“How does she know? What proof-?”
“I have no idea. Supposedly she saw us leave the party together in Lewes, something of the sort. I didn’t exactly stick around to find out.”
Changmin huffs. “Just long enough to propose.”
His hands still. “Just,” he admits.
A long moment passes and then he reaches out to grab the bottle of brandy that’s sitting on the corner of his desk. He refills his own snifter and pours a new one for Changmin, pushing it over to him; Changmin takes it and downs the whole of it in one go.
Yunho can’t help but look up at this, Changmin’s head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When Changmin sets the glass back down he meets Yunho’s eyes, and Yunho, inexplicably, finds himself drawing strength from it.
“What does this mean?” Changmin asks.
“She wants a marriage, not a husband,” Yunho says, allowing relief to creep into his voice. “She wants to go to New York and become an actress.”
Changmin’s expression is dubious, and Yunho can’t help but laugh -quietly, but a laugh nonetheless. “My thoughts exactly. But it will work, in the end. We marry and she goes and I pay her way- the dutiful, love-struck husband, sacrificing a warm marriage bed for his wife’s dreams.”
“Do you think anyone will believe that?”
“No,” Yunho says. “But it doesn’t matter. Once it’s done, it’s done. I found I've grown weary of caring what's being said of me, these days.”
Changmin smiles then, suddenly, beaming- and for the life of him Yunho can’t understand why.
Instead, he changes the subject. “So, you’ve heard the dreadful news about Captain Scott, have you? Beaten to the Pole by the Norwegians! Such a shame…”
~ June 1913 ~
Two months after Yunho marries, and one month after Yunho sends his wife off to America, Changmin appears unexpectedly at the door of his hotel room in London. They haven’t seen each other since the ceremony and Changmin is the picture of composure -or so he would seem, if Yunho didn’t know him better.
But know him Yunho does, and he sees the way Changmin’s eyes twitch to the side too often, the way his shoulders are held with a forced rigidity. “What’s wrong?”
Changmin doesn’t answer. He looks down the hall both ways before pushing his way inside. He walks around the room like he owns it -which, to be fair, he and Yunho have spent many a day hiding away in this hotel, in this room or one just like it. Some familiarity is to be expected, but…
“What’s wrong?” Yunho repeats, patience running thin.
“Bosnia’s invaded Greece,” Changmin says, after a long pause.
Yunho raises a brow and drawls, “And?”
“And Serbia.”
Yunho scoffs. “Of course they have. Keep your hair on, Changmin. The Balkan League’s been a mess from the start, what’s a spot more of conflict-”
“A spot of conflict? Don’t be naïve, Yunho, this is a very, very important fight.” His words are harsh, but after he’s spoken them, some of the life seems to drain out of him, and he drops onto the settee with a heavy motion.
Yunho watches him carefully. He uncrosses his arms and goes over to the bar, popping the cork off a bottle of Pimm’s. Bad news shared over a drink or five; it seems to be their theme, lately. He pours two glasses over ice and says, “Very important for you, I would think.”
Changmin looks up in surprise.
Yunho clucks his tongue. “I’m not completely ignorant of the world and its workings, despite what you might think… Certainly not where you’re concerned,” he adds after a second’s hesitation, almost sheepishly. At least Changmin has the good graces to look guilty as well. He doesn’t quite meet Yunho’s eye when he takes his drink.
“I know you’re not fond of business. I didn’t think you knew about-”
“Your many military contracts? You’ve had a hand a considerable number of armament project over the past two years… armored car technology, those Ford ambulances- even a few naval projects in the Mediterranean, don’t pretend otherwise. You’re neck-deep in this conflict, and most likely, you’ll lose some heavy returns-”
“I’ll lose more than that,” Changmin says, and something in his tone stops Yunho in his tracks.
“Changmin,” he says. “What have you done?”
The younger man shakes his head and takes a shaky, too-quick sip of his Pimm’s, coughing when he comes back up for air. “You- I shouldn’t- I can’t involve…”
“And yet you have,” Yunho finishes for him. He sighs. “What do you need? Money? A good word in Parliament? A place to hole up? What can I do?”
Changmin’s shoulders hunch even further, as if each word is another burden, a shame on his shoulders. The clock on the mantel goes off, a light chime one, two, three, four that’s almost saccharine in the heavy silence between them. Yunho’s eyes dart to the clock’s ornamental face, the painting hanging above it -Pissarro, one of his Impressionist pieces of London and an original, no doubt- to the opulent, gilded wallpaper and the twenty-point chandelier hanging over their heads. And he looks at the suit-clad figure huddled on his settee, looking smaller and smaller every second, and thinks how this man has brought himself up from the ranks of mediocrity and how easily he could lose it all and war brewing on the horizon- and thinks again, What a world we live in.
“I told myself,” says Changmin, finally, “When we first began... I told myself I would never ask you for anything. I would never.”
Yunho thinks of pride, then, and what it means to men like them. “And when we began I wouldn’t have given it. Don’t think of it as asking. Think of it something I’m able and willing to give.”
Changmin grimaces; he still can’t quite accept it. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the perfectly styled locks -the unkempt look doesn’t suit him. It makes him look more desperate than he is. “This’ll be war, you must know. It’ll be war and it won’t end any time soon.”
“Come to bed, Changmin.”
“Yunho-”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Come to bed.”
~ July 1914 ~
It’s war, just like Changmin said it would be.
All of society is in a pother; London itself seems to be caught in a daze. Everywhere Yunho goes -be it parties or gentleman’s club or the tea rooms, where nothing of important is ever discussed- now all he sees are men grouped together, talking in solemn whispers of the Archuduke and the German offensive and Belgium, and women talking too, just as soft, wide-eyed and jittery.
They’re calling it the July Crisis. When Yunho doesn’t hear from Changmin, he thinks he’s having something of crisis, too.
Changmin has been back and forth from the continent since May, trying to untangle his many burdensome business dealings so as to keep himself afloat in the coming tide. He’d come to Yunho if and when he had the chance, but it was never often or long enough. It did however allow Yunho to receive much more reliable news as to the state of things abroad, rather than the sort of frou-frou talk that circled through London’s Upper Ten Thousand. That is why Yunho is only surprised, rather than flabbergasted, when the true reality of war comes upon them all.
Nothing, however, could have prepared him for Changmin’s absence. The last they’d seen of each other, Changmin had made a special trip to Smenton Park, and they’d spent the weekend in an indolent pleasure of each other.
“I’m taking a ferry to Brussels next week,” Changmin had said. “I’ll be moving about the area a lot; I won’t suspect you’ll be able to send a letter.”
“You could always write,” Yunho teased, knowing that Changmin was the worst at keeping up correspondence. Besides, his penmanship was terrible.
“I’ll send word as soon as I’m back in England,” he’d replied instead. “Expect it no later than the end of August.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Yunho had said, and kissed him full on the mouth, ready to be done with words and words. Changmin had chuckled, and not spoken another until morning.
Yunho thought he’d be pleasantly surprised, when he got that eventual sent word. Now, the weeks go by and every day, when a knock is made on his door, he has to pause and wait for air to come back to his lungs -when Junsu brings him the post, when the new telephone rings shrill in the silent hallways, when a name like Shim comes up in conversation- he is looking, waiting, hoping. He prays like he has never prayed before.
~ October 1914 ~
He receives a postcard, tucked between a lengthy letter from his wife, asking for more money, no doubt, and an invitation to spend the week at Yoochun’s house- his friend thinks he’s been too blue, lately. The postcard is of a painting of a crowded beach in Normandy, France, and is postmarked from a week ago.
ML,
Sorry, got stuck behind lines. Landing with the RAF at Shoreham-by-sea Oct 17th. Coming in to London, Victoria, on 18th. Grosvenor?
- C
Yunho thinks he could cry with relief. Instead, his knees go weak and he has to struggle to steady himself, to maintain his composure, in front of his bemused butler. He books a room at the Grosvenor Hotel that day, and it’s torture to wait idle at Victoria for Changmin’s train to pull in; he has to fight the urge from driving down to Shoreham himself, onto the very airfield to pick up Changmin in person.
He restrains himself, but just barely.
~ September 1915 ~
When Changmin tells him that he’s going back abroad -when he’s going to northern France, practically on the Western front, as a civilian attaché on some sort military assessment for some new weapon, they’re calling it a tank or tonk or something like that- he tells Yunho over dinner at their favorite Pall Mall gentleman’s club. The choice of a public setting is not lost on Yunho, and he has to control his reaction, as immediate and volatile as it is. At least Changmin had the decency to get them a cabinet particulier, set aside from the general crowd (which is not a big a crowd as it once might have been; the war has already wreaked havoc on the number of men, rich and poor alike).
“No,” he says, a fierce undertone.
Changmin shoots him a dark look.
“No, of course,” Yunho repeats. “You won’t go.”
The reply he gets is the very essence of stubbornness. “Oh won’t I?”
Yunho pictures what Changmin was like when he first returned, dressed in clothes that no longer fit him, too skinny by half, with shaded eyes reflecting a story Yunho couldn’t fathom to read, and his brooding silences that could last for days (god, has it been almost a year?). He remembers holding Changmin in the hotel room that first night, holding him so tight and feeling his hands shake.
Yunho has done his best to look after him ever since, and he feels he has a right to ask Changmin this.
Instead Changmin lights a cigarette and explains to him again why he must go, why it’s good for business, for the country, as if he actually believes in this war. “You can’t expect me not to fight.”
“I damn well can,” Yunho says.
Changmin chuckles darkly and puffs away. “Of course. You don’t know what it is to fight. You’ve never fought for anything.”
His words are sharp and meant to hurt- they do hurt, but Yunho won’t let himself be distracted by rash words and anger. He sits for a long while without saying anything, buying time in long, slow sips of his drink.
“Last year… I truly thought you were lost to me,” he says at last.
Changmin pauses, and then rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so sentimental. It won’t be so bad-”
“Hush,” Yunho tells him. ““I’m trying to express that I care.”
“You’re rubbish at it.”
“Damnit, Changmin,” he sighs, softly. He hears that note of wistful hope so thinly disguised in Changmin’s voice, and can’t be anything but honest. “I don’t think I will ever understand you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t sound so vulgar.” He is still set in his calm, studying his companion in his own time. “You say I can’t expect you to- but why can’t I? You were the first to expect things of me, if you remember. You wanted me to yourself, not so long ago, and yet now, you don’t want me to want you.”
“This is different, Yunho. That was you, refusing to stand up for yourself because you were scared of losing your reputation. This is you standing in my way, just because you’re scared you’ll lose control of me.”
Yunho takes a deep breath and tries not to glare. “I don’t control- hmph,” he stops himself, knowing there’s no use in protesting. He finds his coffee has become more bitter than he can stand. “Either way, it seems you find me a coward.”
Changmin shakes his head. “I think you should have more faith,” he says, coolly. But he no longer meets Yunho’s eye.
“Faith? I had to hold faith for months, even when you were gone, even with no word… and yes, fine, I admit- I was afraid for you. It’s not that I doubt you; I think I know better than anyone your will to overcome and succeed. But I also know how you like to take risks, and right now the risks are higher than ever, and they’ll only get worse. It is not safe, and I don’t want you to leave again.”
“It’ll be too hard to replace me, I suppose?”
He senses a sore point, there, and he hurries to heal it. “It would be impossible, Changmin,” he murmurs. “You should stay here.”
Yet- “With you?” asks Changmin, his voice already back to unyielding enmity. So quick is he to respond to the answer he thinks Yunho will give.
And maybe he’s right to be defensive. They’ve certainly had this conversation before. Their affair has lasted longer than either of them expected, but it’s lasted because of discretion… or so Yunho once believed. Discretion he certainly always enforced.
But the world is changing, and he must change with it. He cannot be the eternal bachelor, because he does not have eternity. They have so little time, all of it dear and fragile, and the past few years have taught him that all too harshly.
So he says, “Yes, with me,” and Changmin snaps to look at him so fast that Yunho’s afraid he’ll get whiplash. “Stay with me. For me,” he stresses. “It can’t be… open, it’s not marriage-”
“I know that-”
“-I don’t think you do, Changmin,” he says, and is grateful again for the semi-privacy as he leans close over the table. “You despise the secrecy but God knows I don’t know much else, and it will never be accepted, what we have. I can never ‘stand up’ as you want, we may never be what you want, but I’m willing to give you as much as I can, if you stay. Stay for me.”
Changmin looks away, down to his cigarette, back to Yunho, and away again. “You’re right. I’m not a man who can live deceitfully; I’m not made for that. But… I’ve waited a long time to hear you say just that.”
The admission surprises Yunho. “You have?”
Changmin laughs wryly. “You really are a fool sometimes… I love you, my vain, selfish Lord. I’ve loved you for years.” There is much more beyong that, Yunho knows, endless demands and regrets and recriminations, but Changmin doesn’t utter a word of them and Yunho feels them all the more keenly.
“Oh,” is all he can think to say, and Changmin laughs again, swiping tiredly at dry eyes.
“I should have expected that-”
“Do you really think I don’t feel the same?” Yunho interrupts. “I guess I’ve gotten too good at hiding, if you don’t know. I thought I was too obvious,” he adds, snorting in amusement.
Changmin pierces him with another look, his pupils so wide in the dim light his eyes are nearly black. “I-”
The curtain that separates them from the main room is swept aside, cutting off Changmin's words, as their waiter pushes in the dessert cart. He’s an enthusiastic fellow, young and healthy- Yunho wonders how long it’ll be before he’s gone, drafted into this damn war. The Great War.
They both acknowledge him briefly. Yunho stares at the spread of desserts, the colorful tarts and cakes, and Changmin stares at Yunho, even when he speaks to the waiter. There’s a strange air between them- not uncomfortable, because uncomfortable had been before, when they’d revealed themselves so bluntly, so roughly (so like them, it makes Yunho’s lips twitch just thinking about it) but they certainly aren’t at ease, either.
When the waiter leaves, the curtain dropping back down, the need to speak has disappeared with him. Changmin stubs his cigarette out in the tray, and they start eating again.
“Mmm, this is delicious,” Changmin says of his pudding. “Do you want to try?”
Yunho shakes his head, but offers Changmin a bite of his own, which the younger man is only too happy to take. “Mmm,” he says of it, a crumb of cake on his lip, and Yunho chuckles.
“Don’t go,” he says, the fondness in his voice beyond question.
Changmin swallows and sighs. “I have to go. I’ve already agreed, the contracts are drawn-”
Yunho drops his fork with a clatter. “I don’t like it.”
“I know,” Changmin answers slowly. “But I promise I’ll come back. As long as you want me, I’ll come back.”
Lord Yunho, 6th Duke of Cassington, is not used to not getting his way. But if this is all he can have, he’ll take it.
The countryside is dreary when he arrives home, Smenton itself decreased in height and majesty by the burden of low-hanging clouds. A sharp wind blows through smelling of dust and storms, and the ivy that’s spent decades claiming dominion over the manor walls now flails wildly, undulating without grace or control.
Yunho takes the car to the garage himself. His mechanic enlisted five months ago, and Yunho had let him go with good feeling; he’d even paid for the man’s train to Southampton. He’d helped any man who’d wanted to leave his employ for the service -his second and third footman, two of his groundskeeper’s assistants, his groomsman’s son; a maid who’d joined as a nurse, he’d put down a hefty sum for all of her training.
He’s willing to send his own people to war - people he lived with, people who’d known him since he was a boy, or who he himself has seen grow into maturity. He let them go and will welcome them all back, when (and God willing, if) the time comes. Should he not give Changmin the same luxury?
He comes in one of the back doors, ignoring the surprised grunt of the cook, who is huffing and red-faced from carrying old game out from one of the pantries.
“Your Grace-” she cries, fumbling to curtsy and still keep hold of her burden.
“Nevermind that, Cook,” he says. “Might I help-?”
“Oh no, your Grace, o’course not!” she says, scandalized at the very idea. “I’ll manage, but thank y’very much, sir, very much.”
She gives him a truncated bow and shuffles around him, down the kitchen stairs, out of sight and taking all sign of life with her.
The manor is disconcertingly quiet. It is large, even for a country house, the sort of home in which a person could easily lose themselves in a set of rooms and never come across another soul. Yunho has done it himself many a time, relishing in the calm and quiet and privacy away from judging eyes. The silence itself a sort of freedom.
But this is not silence born of aloneness; the silence now is imposed by the absence of those who would otherwise be here to fill it. Yunho cannot escape into it because it is already inescapable.
“Your Grace?” It’s Junsu, the only footman left, come to greet him in the manor’s more inhabited rooms. “Welcome home.”
“Hello, Junsu,” he sighs. “All is well, I presume?”
“As you left it, sir,” he says, but then chews his lip considering. He has something he wants to say, Yunho knows, and for so long in his life, he would have ignored it. He had no care for the thoughts of a servant. But that was once, before, and now, in the spirit of change…
“Yes, Junsu?”
Junsu frowns, like he wasn’t expecting his desire to be picked up on. Like he’s being tricked. Yunho actively resists the urge to roll his eyes and say ‘Out with it, man!’, instead putting on his best expression of masterly concern.
Junsu gulps, but takes the bait. “Your Grace… I was wondering, simply, if- if Mr. Shim were planning to visit again, soon… sir?”
Yunho frowns, then, but then he also remembers that Changmin would often converse with Junsu. Yunho usually dismissed it as another quirk of Changmin’s more common, “modern” upbringing, but what’s the meaning behind this question? Is Junsu simply curious? No, he wouldn’t risk being impertinent. Changmin has been at Smenton Park so often the past year; is he worried over secrecy? No, Junsu has managed to keep mum well enough so far. He can’t figure out Junsu’s bunch.
“Why do you ask?” he demands.
Junsu blushes and stutters. “I d-didn’t mean any disrespect, your Grace, I was just… I was worried, you see, he told me he might be gone awhile again, and I didn’t know if he meant to go to war…” he trails off, looking at his shoes, his impeccably-kept white gloves wrinkling under the pressure of his fists.
Yunho finds his throat struck tight, his heart undeniably softened. He, too, looks away. “Yes, Junsu, I’m afraid he’s gone again.”
“I…I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
Yunho looks back; the boy seems genuinely distressed, unable to lift his gaze from the reds and golds and green-blues of the Persian carpet, a fine specimen Yunho’s father brought back himself from the Indian Empire.
He takes a deep breath, and swings a companionable hand up to Junsu’s shoulder, not letting go even when Junsu flinches involuntarily. They’ve never before touched. Yunho thinks, In for a penny…
“I was as well, Junsu,” he says. “I still am.”
They stay that way until Junsu nods. Whether it’s in discomfort or in honest understanding Yunho cannot know, but he lets his hand fall away and rolls his shoulders, back into a posture upright and proper, while Junsu fidgets and looks up with cautious hope.
“…Would you like some tea, sir?”
“Tea would suit me just fine, Junsu,” he sighs. “Thank you very much.”
~ June 1916 ~
The drive to Suffolk leaves Yunho feeling strange. He shares a car with Jaejoong and Boa, who sit across from him, leaning into each other and gossiping something wicked, no doubt. Yunho thought he would be glad to join in, to indulge in the frivolity that used to be his life. Once upon a time he thought to be too serious was bad form, but now that he has entered the world of consequence he cannot easily escape back into this idle negligence. It seems almost… tawdry.
They are on their way to the Derby. It’s one of the few events of the Season that hasn’t been cancelled for the sake of the Great War -but even it has suffered changed. Rather than being held in London on the Epsom Down, the race has been moved to the Newmarket course.
Yunho had been looking forward to returning to Epsom, to spend time with old friends, members of the peerage who are no doubt affected but at the same time unchanged by the war. Instead he cannot concentrate at all; he watches the passing greenery, swaying with the rough rocking of the car, lost in no one particular thought.
“Cat got your tongue, old man?” Jaejoong says eventually, giving him a wink. Yunho gives him a bland look and Jaejoong seems taken aback- but then again, it has been quite a while since they’ve seen each other. Surprised I can resist you, old friend? You can’t get your fun by getting a rise out of me, not anymore, he wants to say, but manages to stay his tongue.
“Our dear Duke has a lot on his mind,” Boa speaks for him, and Yunho’s grateful to her. She doesn’t know -can’t know- what sets his heart ill at ease, but she knows him well enough to know to leave it well alone.
Jaejoong tuts. “I was hoping we could leave the war behind, if only for the day.” It’s the only sort of apology the Viscount ever gives, but he sounds genuinely disappointed and Yunho, as much as he has discarded old feelings, still hates to see that look in his friends’ wide eyes.
“I’m sorry, I should be more attentive, but it is difficult…” He shakes his head.
“It’s difficult times,” Jaejoong says- but lightly, shrugging as if it’s really nothing at all.
Boa rolls her eyes but leans forward to take Yunho’s hand. “All we want is to see you smile, darling. It’s been far too long since I’ve heard you laugh.”
Yunho hasn’t seen Changmin in four months. He sends letters, but it seems like for every five he writes -essays in and of themselves- he gets only a few token words in response.
War is such a terrible thing. Widows and orphans grow in number every day, such horror stories appear in the papers… Changmin is not dead, only distant, and Yunho feels guilty for desiring more, for wallowing in his absence.
But he can’t help himself. For the first time in his life, he’s at the mercy of someone else. He has given his most prized possession away. He has give Changmin his heart, and only Changmin can bring it back. Damn the man.
He sighs. Boa and Jaejoong watch him expectantly, hopefully, and what can he do but carry on? Pretenses must be upheld, after all, and not everyone at the Derby will be a friend.
Giving Boa’s hand a squeeze, he smiles and says “There’s talk that it’ll be Fifinella to win, this year.”
And Jaejoong says, “Oh God, I hope not-!” because he’s placing his bet on an American-bred, Cicerone, to win. Yunho’s all-in for the filly and they squabble finely. Even Boa joins in, though she’s not betting at all, and the rest of the ride passes quickly from there.
He will carry on, as must they all.
~ March 1917 ~
His breakfast is already set out when he arrives at the library. The heavy curtains have been thrown back and morning light is free to wander in as it pleases; he like it like this. He loves waking every day and knowing that it is day. No matter how cracked up the new electric lights (which have finally been installed in the entirety of the house, much to his delight) are, they can never truly replace the warm touch of real sunlight.
The coffee is still steaming, the hardboiled egg warm to the touch. He cracks at the delicate shell with one hand, rifling through the morning mail with the other. Nothing of import, he thinks -or at least, nothing new. But where’s the daily paper?
He rings for his butler, irritation warring with concern. The daily is never not there, unless there’s been a problem, some great misfortune affecting the delivery system…? The butler arrives promptly, as he should- but curiously, Junsu hesitates at the doorway. He sees the paper in his hand, and impatience briefly flashes through his mind.
“Well, come in,” he demands. “Let’s have it.”
“Your Grace,” says Junsu, and though he steps forward obediently there’s a tentativeness about him that Yunho hasn't seen since he first promoted the man.
“What-?” he starts, but the butler is quick to interrupt him.
“I thought you might… Sir,” the man says, like he doesn’t know how to say it- and now he’s worried. “I thought you might want to be given the news in person.”
The paper is handed over, and he snatches it quickly, feeling the gritty cling of ink to his fingers. He unfolds the paper and spreads it out across his desk, not caring that the butler remains, hanging over his shoulder. All his attention is taken up by bold, black, screaming print. U.S. DECLARES WAR, JOINS THE ALLIED FIGHT-!
“I’ll be damned,” he mutters, eyes skimming fast over the front page. “I’ll be damned.”
For a long time, it’s just him and the words on the page, the rustling of thin pulp pages, until Junsu clears his throat and unknowingly brings himself back into existence in the scope of Yunho’s perception.
“There’s something else, sir,” he says, and Yunho spares him but a half-second glance and thoughtful hum, until Junsu clears his throat, very pointedly, and Yunho truly looks up for the first time.
“Hello, your Grace.”
Changmin stands at the door, dressed like he’s just come from the polo field in a red blazer and white trousers. His hands are in his pockets and he’s got a copy of the same paper tucked under his arm and he leans against the doorframe like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Quite an interesting turn of events, don’t you think?”
Yunho’s mouth hangs open in a most indecorous way, but he hasn’t the inclination to right himself at the moment. He tries, briefly, to untangle the mess of his thoughts, steady the erratic beating of his heart, but finds it impossible and gives up the effort entirely.
Changmin simply rolls his eyes and saunters into the room. Yunho still hasn’t got himself under control, but his eyes jump to the slight limp he spots in Changmin’s step and sticks there. His face screws up in concern without asking for permission.
“You’ll excuse us, Junsu,” Changmin says, and Junsu hurries to obey, pausing only when they cross paths to say,
“It’s good to see you back, sir.”
Changmin smiles lazily at him and continues into the library, eventually lowering himself into his favorite chair by the window with a grunt and pained exhale. “I believe the- proper thing- is to say, ‘Welcome home’.”
Yunho chokes. “The proper thing would be to let me know of your return before you show up on my doorstep! No- in my home!”
“I thought you’d enjoy the surprise,” Changmin shrugs.
Shock leaves him ungraceful, makes him snap, “I hate surprises and you know it.”
“True… I thought this might be an exception. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Yunho wants to shake him. He settles for rushing over and kneeling before Changmin, almost knocking the chair over in the process. “You’re not gravely hurt?” he demands, when Changmin winces more thoroughly.
“”Not enough to put off this,” Changmin replies, already breathless.
And much later, when the light that Yunho loves has fallen but the love that Yunho has now is more than worthy recompense, he asks again, “How long will you stay, this time?”
And Changmin’s reply- “Between this leg and the Americans? I’m out for good. I’ll be staying, I suppose, as long as you want me” -it lights Yunho’s world.
~ January 1918 ~
For his efforts in the Great War, his contributions to the military and generous donations to the war effort, they give Changmin a title.
There is no official ceremony -certainly nothing like the grand debutante ball that’s held for young noble ladies every year for no other reason than because they’ve born themselves into the right family- but Yunho and his friends scrounge up a decent soiree, a hundred or so guests eagerly fleeing the sirens of London to the countryside for the event.
Boa had originally offered to host the event, but Yunho had insisted on taking responsibility.
“It’s my pleasure,” he’d said, and Boa had smiled and seen right through him. Tongues are already wagging about them -about Yunho, who's become less than subtle about his new-found political interest and growing power in the House, much due to the influence of his "good friend"; about his absent wife, who's supposedly been involved in some scandal with another American actress (good for her, Yunho thinks, not completely unkind); and about Changmin, who's all but given up the pretense of spending his days anywhere but Smenton.
Let them wag, Yunho thinks. They've paid their dues, they've overcome more than he once thought to even imagine, let alone ever bear. They are untouchable.
And so Smenton Park is full once more, and whether people come for gossip or good will he could care less. His home is bursting with song and chatter, more gussied-up than it’s been in ages, and all to celebrate Changmin’s ascension into true respectability ...though that little detail is a matter of some debate.
“Don’t look so put out,” Changmin says, sidling up to him in the parlor where the men have congregated to smoke. He strikes a match and smirks at Yunho over the flickering light.
Yunho rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so pleased. You’ve been given a Baronetcy, Shim, not a place in the peerage. A step above common gentry, to be sure, but nothing to boast about yet.”
“You still have to call me ‘Sir’,” Changmin says gleefully.
Yunho only scoffs. “I do not.”
“I call you ‘your Grace’!”
“Pouting won’t work, Changmin. I’m entitled to your praise, very deserving, after all you’ve put me th- ow” He flinches when Changmin reaches out and pinches his side sharply. Boa, gliding past because she sometimes likes to be improper and mix with the menfolk, God bless her- she giggles at the two of them.
“You keep him in line, Sir Changmin!” she calls out over her shoulder.
Yunho huffs and ignores her, even as Changmin laughs aloud. “I’m beginning to think there has been a grave mistake. Certainly the Maxworth Baronetcy was created for someone else, someone with a much better sense of decorum-”
“Oh, stop being such a croaker. The honor is mine, and I’ll be a peer before I’m forty, make no mistake.”
“Forty? That’s a lofty aspiration. I’m not sure you’re enough of a buck to pull it off… Care to make a wager?” he adds, when Changmin only snickers.
But Changmin surprises him. Instead of playing along, he lifts his chin and looks Yunho straight in the eye. “As long as we’re still around to collect, my Lord,” he says, retreating back into that long-ago, lesser but no less loved endearment.
Yunho meets him head-on, heart-whole. “No need to bet on that,” he says -and at that very moment, Boa calls out for them to return to the ballroom, for it’s time to make a toast.
~ August 1918 ~
“Changmin,” says Yunho.
“Yunho,” says Changmin.
His answer is just what Yunho wanted- for there is no query on his lips, no statement to be made. Yunho speaks his name just to speak it, to feel those well-known syllables to pass his lips and fill the air, and to hear Changmin reply, never hesitating, never failing in his intimacy.
There is work to be done today. Changmin has business to attend to, a stack of reports and figures waiting for him on his desk in the morning room. Yunho has a pile of equal size, various correspondences and calling cards and a few matters of household to be taken care of. There is the Season to consider. There is also the war- but the end is near, or so they say. (Never mind that Changmin has never been inclined to trust the universally vague ‘they’, and Yunho has grown to always trust Changmin’s inclinations).
There is still, always, work to be done; some face to be shown to the world.
And yet today they lounge in the bedroom, without care that the sun has already risen well over the roofline of the luxurious townhouses of Curzon Street. They loll about as if there is no world- or, as if all the world is in this bedroom, and the only face they need show is the one they keep only for each other, anyway. Changmin’s eyes have the same effect upon Yunho that they did ten years -a lifetime- ago. That feeling of being so thoroughly seen, touched and known down to his very core.
“Sir Changmin,” says Yunho. The title is not so familiar -he’s still so loathe to use it- and it tastes strange on his tongue. But he speaks it anyway, feeling playful and young.
“Yunho,” says Changmin, just to be cheeky. Yunho chucks his chin and sticks out his tongue, most indecorous, and Changmin just keeps staring, most indecent.
Outside their townhouse, London bustles with life, industry and Empire, a glorious century still new and ready to be trumped and conquered. Inside, there is just the two of them, safe, together, loved. And for today, that is all that matters.
~ End ~
started writing: 5/7/11
finished writing: 11/7/11
master list
For realsies this time :)
Yet again thanks to kallistei. I really enjoyed working on this fic, and historical!AU’s like this aren’t very prevalent in fandom, I know, so I was quite surprised and grateful for the response to the first part - and I hope the sequel lived up to expectations ♥! Thanks for reading!
homin, pg-13
romance/historical drama
6,911 words
Sequel to Promenade, for kallistei ♥
War approaches and their golden era is at the beginning of its end. As time moves forward, so too it moves them apart, and it’s up to them -to navigate among socialites and servants; to weather threats of peril and ruin; and to keep finding their way back to each other.
Being a continuation, it's pretty necessary to read Promenade in order to understand the majority of this fic. In that first post you can also find the various sources of inspiration for this Edwardian!AU -as for research sources, none listed atm, but ask away if you’re interested in knowing more!
~ February 1913 ~
Things are going far too well. For much of his life Yunho has lived in perfect balance-expectation, gratification, contentment. But ever since he met Changmin, life is different. These days, when things are perfect, Yunho finds himself on edge, knowing that some great havoc is most likely waiting just around the corner. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On one hand, he finds it makes life interesting. On the other, he finds it infuriating.
However, when the shoe drops this time -and what a delicate shoe it is, with an expensive arched sole and stitches made of silk, dropped by a woman he’d dismissed for so long- it takes him by complete surprise, falling fast and sharp as its heel pierces right through his heart.
“Those are your choices,” she says plainly. She hasn’t smiled once since he arrived; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so serious.
“It’s not much of a choice,” says he. Either he goes along with her plan or he’s ruined forever. It’s no choice at all.
“That’s the point,” she replies.
His mouth is dry, his tongue heavy and hard to speak around. “Then so be it, I agree,” he says, closing his eyes. “But I certainly don’t hope you expect me to get down on one knee.”
Yunho knows Changmin will come. He expects him to be angry. He expects him to come screaming in and knock down the door, if necessary, and rant and rave and fight, and Yunho knows it’s going to happen and so isn’t at all surprised when he finds Changmin suddenly in front of him, hissing like a cat on fire.
“How dare you!” he says, slamming his hands onto the desk.
Yunho closes his eyes for a brief moment and keeps his cool. “Changmin-”
“How dare you- and not even have the decency to tell me! I had to find out from Jaejoong of all people, and damn him for grinning the whole damn time-”
“Changmin,” says Yunho, firmly, seeing a whole different fight of its own brewing in that phrase. Better to cut it at the quick. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” he spits. “Sorry for not telling me, or being engaged in the first place? I had a right to know!”
“You did,” Yunho concedes, and they’ve been going at this for years but it’s still sometimes hard to believe that he’s been somehow caught up in this… relationship, whatever it is they are, that blossomed out of what he thought was a quick-burning affair, hot and powerful and most importantly, short-lived.
Changmin doesn’t seem the least bit mollified. “Then why?!”
Yunho sighs. “It’s not… genuine.”
“What the hell does that mean.” The words are flat but no less aggressive.
“It means that the Honorable Dana Shapley is a little more intelligent than I supposed. She gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
For that he gets a growl, and Yunho looks down, tugging on the lapels of his jacket in a rare act of nerves. He finds he can’t lift his head again. “She knows,” he says abruptly.
Changmin’s doesn’t stifle his gasp quick enough. “What?”
“She knows of my… inclination,” Yunho admits, softly -ashamedly. “She knows nothing of our involvement, of course, but her father is pressuring her into marriage, and it’s either me or the Earl of Shawol, and Taemin’s barely out of puberty. So either we marry or she goes to the press. She says she has proof.”
In his peripheral he sees Changmin falls back into a chair. “And you’re going to do it,” he says, sounding -for the first time since Yunho’s known him- resigned. “You’ll marry her.”
“Of course,” Yunho says, fiddling with papers so he won’t have to look at his expression.
“How does she know? What proof-?”
“I have no idea. Supposedly she saw us leave the party together in Lewes, something of the sort. I didn’t exactly stick around to find out.”
Changmin huffs. “Just long enough to propose.”
His hands still. “Just,” he admits.
A long moment passes and then he reaches out to grab the bottle of brandy that’s sitting on the corner of his desk. He refills his own snifter and pours a new one for Changmin, pushing it over to him; Changmin takes it and downs the whole of it in one go.
Yunho can’t help but look up at this, Changmin’s head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When Changmin sets the glass back down he meets Yunho’s eyes, and Yunho, inexplicably, finds himself drawing strength from it.
“What does this mean?” Changmin asks.
“She wants a marriage, not a husband,” Yunho says, allowing relief to creep into his voice. “She wants to go to New York and become an actress.”
Changmin’s expression is dubious, and Yunho can’t help but laugh -quietly, but a laugh nonetheless. “My thoughts exactly. But it will work, in the end. We marry and she goes and I pay her way- the dutiful, love-struck husband, sacrificing a warm marriage bed for his wife’s dreams.”
“Do you think anyone will believe that?”
“No,” Yunho says. “But it doesn’t matter. Once it’s done, it’s done. I found I've grown weary of caring what's being said of me, these days.”
Changmin smiles then, suddenly, beaming- and for the life of him Yunho can’t understand why.
Instead, he changes the subject. “So, you’ve heard the dreadful news about Captain Scott, have you? Beaten to the Pole by the Norwegians! Such a shame…”
~ June 1913 ~
Two months after Yunho marries, and one month after Yunho sends his wife off to America, Changmin appears unexpectedly at the door of his hotel room in London. They haven’t seen each other since the ceremony and Changmin is the picture of composure -or so he would seem, if Yunho didn’t know him better.
But know him Yunho does, and he sees the way Changmin’s eyes twitch to the side too often, the way his shoulders are held with a forced rigidity. “What’s wrong?”
Changmin doesn’t answer. He looks down the hall both ways before pushing his way inside. He walks around the room like he owns it -which, to be fair, he and Yunho have spent many a day hiding away in this hotel, in this room or one just like it. Some familiarity is to be expected, but…
“What’s wrong?” Yunho repeats, patience running thin.
“Bosnia’s invaded Greece,” Changmin says, after a long pause.
Yunho raises a brow and drawls, “And?”
“And Serbia.”
Yunho scoffs. “Of course they have. Keep your hair on, Changmin. The Balkan League’s been a mess from the start, what’s a spot more of conflict-”
“A spot of conflict? Don’t be naïve, Yunho, this is a very, very important fight.” His words are harsh, but after he’s spoken them, some of the life seems to drain out of him, and he drops onto the settee with a heavy motion.
Yunho watches him carefully. He uncrosses his arms and goes over to the bar, popping the cork off a bottle of Pimm’s. Bad news shared over a drink or five; it seems to be their theme, lately. He pours two glasses over ice and says, “Very important for you, I would think.”
Changmin looks up in surprise.
Yunho clucks his tongue. “I’m not completely ignorant of the world and its workings, despite what you might think… Certainly not where you’re concerned,” he adds after a second’s hesitation, almost sheepishly. At least Changmin has the good graces to look guilty as well. He doesn’t quite meet Yunho’s eye when he takes his drink.
“I know you’re not fond of business. I didn’t think you knew about-”
“Your many military contracts? You’ve had a hand a considerable number of armament project over the past two years… armored car technology, those Ford ambulances- even a few naval projects in the Mediterranean, don’t pretend otherwise. You’re neck-deep in this conflict, and most likely, you’ll lose some heavy returns-”
“I’ll lose more than that,” Changmin says, and something in his tone stops Yunho in his tracks.
“Changmin,” he says. “What have you done?”
The younger man shakes his head and takes a shaky, too-quick sip of his Pimm’s, coughing when he comes back up for air. “You- I shouldn’t- I can’t involve…”
“And yet you have,” Yunho finishes for him. He sighs. “What do you need? Money? A good word in Parliament? A place to hole up? What can I do?”
Changmin’s shoulders hunch even further, as if each word is another burden, a shame on his shoulders. The clock on the mantel goes off, a light chime one, two, three, four that’s almost saccharine in the heavy silence between them. Yunho’s eyes dart to the clock’s ornamental face, the painting hanging above it -Pissarro, one of his Impressionist pieces of London and an original, no doubt- to the opulent, gilded wallpaper and the twenty-point chandelier hanging over their heads. And he looks at the suit-clad figure huddled on his settee, looking smaller and smaller every second, and thinks how this man has brought himself up from the ranks of mediocrity and how easily he could lose it all and war brewing on the horizon- and thinks again, What a world we live in.
“I told myself,” says Changmin, finally, “When we first began... I told myself I would never ask you for anything. I would never.”
Yunho thinks of pride, then, and what it means to men like them. “And when we began I wouldn’t have given it. Don’t think of it as asking. Think of it something I’m able and willing to give.”
Changmin grimaces; he still can’t quite accept it. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the perfectly styled locks -the unkempt look doesn’t suit him. It makes him look more desperate than he is. “This’ll be war, you must know. It’ll be war and it won’t end any time soon.”
“Come to bed, Changmin.”
“Yunho-”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Come to bed.”
~ July 1914 ~
It’s war, just like Changmin said it would be.
All of society is in a pother; London itself seems to be caught in a daze. Everywhere Yunho goes -be it parties or gentleman’s club or the tea rooms, where nothing of important is ever discussed- now all he sees are men grouped together, talking in solemn whispers of the Archuduke and the German offensive and Belgium, and women talking too, just as soft, wide-eyed and jittery.
They’re calling it the July Crisis. When Yunho doesn’t hear from Changmin, he thinks he’s having something of crisis, too.
Changmin has been back and forth from the continent since May, trying to untangle his many burdensome business dealings so as to keep himself afloat in the coming tide. He’d come to Yunho if and when he had the chance, but it was never often or long enough. It did however allow Yunho to receive much more reliable news as to the state of things abroad, rather than the sort of frou-frou talk that circled through London’s Upper Ten Thousand. That is why Yunho is only surprised, rather than flabbergasted, when the true reality of war comes upon them all.
Nothing, however, could have prepared him for Changmin’s absence. The last they’d seen of each other, Changmin had made a special trip to Smenton Park, and they’d spent the weekend in an indolent pleasure of each other.
“I’m taking a ferry to Brussels next week,” Changmin had said. “I’ll be moving about the area a lot; I won’t suspect you’ll be able to send a letter.”
“You could always write,” Yunho teased, knowing that Changmin was the worst at keeping up correspondence. Besides, his penmanship was terrible.
“I’ll send word as soon as I’m back in England,” he’d replied instead. “Expect it no later than the end of August.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Yunho had said, and kissed him full on the mouth, ready to be done with words and words. Changmin had chuckled, and not spoken another until morning.
Yunho thought he’d be pleasantly surprised, when he got that eventual sent word. Now, the weeks go by and every day, when a knock is made on his door, he has to pause and wait for air to come back to his lungs -when Junsu brings him the post, when the new telephone rings shrill in the silent hallways, when a name like Shim comes up in conversation- he is looking, waiting, hoping. He prays like he has never prayed before.
~ October 1914 ~
He receives a postcard, tucked between a lengthy letter from his wife, asking for more money, no doubt, and an invitation to spend the week at Yoochun’s house- his friend thinks he’s been too blue, lately. The postcard is of a painting of a crowded beach in Normandy, France, and is postmarked from a week ago.
ML,
Sorry, got stuck behind lines. Landing with the RAF at Shoreham-by-sea Oct 17th. Coming in to London, Victoria, on 18th. Grosvenor?
- C
Yunho thinks he could cry with relief. Instead, his knees go weak and he has to struggle to steady himself, to maintain his composure, in front of his bemused butler. He books a room at the Grosvenor Hotel that day, and it’s torture to wait idle at Victoria for Changmin’s train to pull in; he has to fight the urge from driving down to Shoreham himself, onto the very airfield to pick up Changmin in person.
He restrains himself, but just barely.
~ September 1915 ~
When Changmin tells him that he’s going back abroad -when he’s going to northern France, practically on the Western front, as a civilian attaché on some sort military assessment for some new weapon, they’re calling it a tank or tonk or something like that- he tells Yunho over dinner at their favorite Pall Mall gentleman’s club. The choice of a public setting is not lost on Yunho, and he has to control his reaction, as immediate and volatile as it is. At least Changmin had the decency to get them a cabinet particulier, set aside from the general crowd (which is not a big a crowd as it once might have been; the war has already wreaked havoc on the number of men, rich and poor alike).
“No,” he says, a fierce undertone.
Changmin shoots him a dark look.
“No, of course,” Yunho repeats. “You won’t go.”
The reply he gets is the very essence of stubbornness. “Oh won’t I?”
Yunho pictures what Changmin was like when he first returned, dressed in clothes that no longer fit him, too skinny by half, with shaded eyes reflecting a story Yunho couldn’t fathom to read, and his brooding silences that could last for days (god, has it been almost a year?). He remembers holding Changmin in the hotel room that first night, holding him so tight and feeling his hands shake.
Yunho has done his best to look after him ever since, and he feels he has a right to ask Changmin this.
Instead Changmin lights a cigarette and explains to him again why he must go, why it’s good for business, for the country, as if he actually believes in this war. “You can’t expect me not to fight.”
“I damn well can,” Yunho says.
Changmin chuckles darkly and puffs away. “Of course. You don’t know what it is to fight. You’ve never fought for anything.”
His words are sharp and meant to hurt- they do hurt, but Yunho won’t let himself be distracted by rash words and anger. He sits for a long while without saying anything, buying time in long, slow sips of his drink.
“Last year… I truly thought you were lost to me,” he says at last.
Changmin pauses, and then rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so sentimental. It won’t be so bad-”
“Hush,” Yunho tells him. ““I’m trying to express that I care.”
“You’re rubbish at it.”
“Damnit, Changmin,” he sighs, softly. He hears that note of wistful hope so thinly disguised in Changmin’s voice, and can’t be anything but honest. “I don’t think I will ever understand you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t sound so vulgar.” He is still set in his calm, studying his companion in his own time. “You say I can’t expect you to- but why can’t I? You were the first to expect things of me, if you remember. You wanted me to yourself, not so long ago, and yet now, you don’t want me to want you.”
“This is different, Yunho. That was you, refusing to stand up for yourself because you were scared of losing your reputation. This is you standing in my way, just because you’re scared you’ll lose control of me.”
Yunho takes a deep breath and tries not to glare. “I don’t control- hmph,” he stops himself, knowing there’s no use in protesting. He finds his coffee has become more bitter than he can stand. “Either way, it seems you find me a coward.”
Changmin shakes his head. “I think you should have more faith,” he says, coolly. But he no longer meets Yunho’s eye.
“Faith? I had to hold faith for months, even when you were gone, even with no word… and yes, fine, I admit- I was afraid for you. It’s not that I doubt you; I think I know better than anyone your will to overcome and succeed. But I also know how you like to take risks, and right now the risks are higher than ever, and they’ll only get worse. It is not safe, and I don’t want you to leave again.”
“It’ll be too hard to replace me, I suppose?”
He senses a sore point, there, and he hurries to heal it. “It would be impossible, Changmin,” he murmurs. “You should stay here.”
Yet- “With you?” asks Changmin, his voice already back to unyielding enmity. So quick is he to respond to the answer he thinks Yunho will give.
And maybe he’s right to be defensive. They’ve certainly had this conversation before. Their affair has lasted longer than either of them expected, but it’s lasted because of discretion… or so Yunho once believed. Discretion he certainly always enforced.
But the world is changing, and he must change with it. He cannot be the eternal bachelor, because he does not have eternity. They have so little time, all of it dear and fragile, and the past few years have taught him that all too harshly.
So he says, “Yes, with me,” and Changmin snaps to look at him so fast that Yunho’s afraid he’ll get whiplash. “Stay with me. For me,” he stresses. “It can’t be… open, it’s not marriage-”
“I know that-”
“-I don’t think you do, Changmin,” he says, and is grateful again for the semi-privacy as he leans close over the table. “You despise the secrecy but God knows I don’t know much else, and it will never be accepted, what we have. I can never ‘stand up’ as you want, we may never be what you want, but I’m willing to give you as much as I can, if you stay. Stay for me.”
Changmin looks away, down to his cigarette, back to Yunho, and away again. “You’re right. I’m not a man who can live deceitfully; I’m not made for that. But… I’ve waited a long time to hear you say just that.”
The admission surprises Yunho. “You have?”
Changmin laughs wryly. “You really are a fool sometimes… I love you, my vain, selfish Lord. I’ve loved you for years.” There is much more beyong that, Yunho knows, endless demands and regrets and recriminations, but Changmin doesn’t utter a word of them and Yunho feels them all the more keenly.
“Oh,” is all he can think to say, and Changmin laughs again, swiping tiredly at dry eyes.
“I should have expected that-”
“Do you really think I don’t feel the same?” Yunho interrupts. “I guess I’ve gotten too good at hiding, if you don’t know. I thought I was too obvious,” he adds, snorting in amusement.
Changmin pierces him with another look, his pupils so wide in the dim light his eyes are nearly black. “I-”
The curtain that separates them from the main room is swept aside, cutting off Changmin's words, as their waiter pushes in the dessert cart. He’s an enthusiastic fellow, young and healthy- Yunho wonders how long it’ll be before he’s gone, drafted into this damn war. The Great War.
They both acknowledge him briefly. Yunho stares at the spread of desserts, the colorful tarts and cakes, and Changmin stares at Yunho, even when he speaks to the waiter. There’s a strange air between them- not uncomfortable, because uncomfortable had been before, when they’d revealed themselves so bluntly, so roughly (so like them, it makes Yunho’s lips twitch just thinking about it) but they certainly aren’t at ease, either.
When the waiter leaves, the curtain dropping back down, the need to speak has disappeared with him. Changmin stubs his cigarette out in the tray, and they start eating again.
“Mmm, this is delicious,” Changmin says of his pudding. “Do you want to try?”
Yunho shakes his head, but offers Changmin a bite of his own, which the younger man is only too happy to take. “Mmm,” he says of it, a crumb of cake on his lip, and Yunho chuckles.
“Don’t go,” he says, the fondness in his voice beyond question.
Changmin swallows and sighs. “I have to go. I’ve already agreed, the contracts are drawn-”
Yunho drops his fork with a clatter. “I don’t like it.”
“I know,” Changmin answers slowly. “But I promise I’ll come back. As long as you want me, I’ll come back.”
Lord Yunho, 6th Duke of Cassington, is not used to not getting his way. But if this is all he can have, he’ll take it.
The countryside is dreary when he arrives home, Smenton itself decreased in height and majesty by the burden of low-hanging clouds. A sharp wind blows through smelling of dust and storms, and the ivy that’s spent decades claiming dominion over the manor walls now flails wildly, undulating without grace or control.
Yunho takes the car to the garage himself. His mechanic enlisted five months ago, and Yunho had let him go with good feeling; he’d even paid for the man’s train to Southampton. He’d helped any man who’d wanted to leave his employ for the service -his second and third footman, two of his groundskeeper’s assistants, his groomsman’s son; a maid who’d joined as a nurse, he’d put down a hefty sum for all of her training.
He’s willing to send his own people to war - people he lived with, people who’d known him since he was a boy, or who he himself has seen grow into maturity. He let them go and will welcome them all back, when (and God willing, if) the time comes. Should he not give Changmin the same luxury?
He comes in one of the back doors, ignoring the surprised grunt of the cook, who is huffing and red-faced from carrying old game out from one of the pantries.
“Your Grace-” she cries, fumbling to curtsy and still keep hold of her burden.
“Nevermind that, Cook,” he says. “Might I help-?”
“Oh no, your Grace, o’course not!” she says, scandalized at the very idea. “I’ll manage, but thank y’very much, sir, very much.”
She gives him a truncated bow and shuffles around him, down the kitchen stairs, out of sight and taking all sign of life with her.
The manor is disconcertingly quiet. It is large, even for a country house, the sort of home in which a person could easily lose themselves in a set of rooms and never come across another soul. Yunho has done it himself many a time, relishing in the calm and quiet and privacy away from judging eyes. The silence itself a sort of freedom.
But this is not silence born of aloneness; the silence now is imposed by the absence of those who would otherwise be here to fill it. Yunho cannot escape into it because it is already inescapable.
“Your Grace?” It’s Junsu, the only footman left, come to greet him in the manor’s more inhabited rooms. “Welcome home.”
“Hello, Junsu,” he sighs. “All is well, I presume?”
“As you left it, sir,” he says, but then chews his lip considering. He has something he wants to say, Yunho knows, and for so long in his life, he would have ignored it. He had no care for the thoughts of a servant. But that was once, before, and now, in the spirit of change…
“Yes, Junsu?”
Junsu frowns, like he wasn’t expecting his desire to be picked up on. Like he’s being tricked. Yunho actively resists the urge to roll his eyes and say ‘Out with it, man!’, instead putting on his best expression of masterly concern.
Junsu gulps, but takes the bait. “Your Grace… I was wondering, simply, if- if Mr. Shim were planning to visit again, soon… sir?”
Yunho frowns, then, but then he also remembers that Changmin would often converse with Junsu. Yunho usually dismissed it as another quirk of Changmin’s more common, “modern” upbringing, but what’s the meaning behind this question? Is Junsu simply curious? No, he wouldn’t risk being impertinent. Changmin has been at Smenton Park so often the past year; is he worried over secrecy? No, Junsu has managed to keep mum well enough so far. He can’t figure out Junsu’s bunch.
“Why do you ask?” he demands.
Junsu blushes and stutters. “I d-didn’t mean any disrespect, your Grace, I was just… I was worried, you see, he told me he might be gone awhile again, and I didn’t know if he meant to go to war…” he trails off, looking at his shoes, his impeccably-kept white gloves wrinkling under the pressure of his fists.
Yunho finds his throat struck tight, his heart undeniably softened. He, too, looks away. “Yes, Junsu, I’m afraid he’s gone again.”
“I…I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
Yunho looks back; the boy seems genuinely distressed, unable to lift his gaze from the reds and golds and green-blues of the Persian carpet, a fine specimen Yunho’s father brought back himself from the Indian Empire.
He takes a deep breath, and swings a companionable hand up to Junsu’s shoulder, not letting go even when Junsu flinches involuntarily. They’ve never before touched. Yunho thinks, In for a penny…
“I was as well, Junsu,” he says. “I still am.”
They stay that way until Junsu nods. Whether it’s in discomfort or in honest understanding Yunho cannot know, but he lets his hand fall away and rolls his shoulders, back into a posture upright and proper, while Junsu fidgets and looks up with cautious hope.
“…Would you like some tea, sir?”
“Tea would suit me just fine, Junsu,” he sighs. “Thank you very much.”
~ June 1916 ~
The drive to Suffolk leaves Yunho feeling strange. He shares a car with Jaejoong and Boa, who sit across from him, leaning into each other and gossiping something wicked, no doubt. Yunho thought he would be glad to join in, to indulge in the frivolity that used to be his life. Once upon a time he thought to be too serious was bad form, but now that he has entered the world of consequence he cannot easily escape back into this idle negligence. It seems almost… tawdry.
They are on their way to the Derby. It’s one of the few events of the Season that hasn’t been cancelled for the sake of the Great War -but even it has suffered changed. Rather than being held in London on the Epsom Down, the race has been moved to the Newmarket course.
Yunho had been looking forward to returning to Epsom, to spend time with old friends, members of the peerage who are no doubt affected but at the same time unchanged by the war. Instead he cannot concentrate at all; he watches the passing greenery, swaying with the rough rocking of the car, lost in no one particular thought.
“Cat got your tongue, old man?” Jaejoong says eventually, giving him a wink. Yunho gives him a bland look and Jaejoong seems taken aback- but then again, it has been quite a while since they’ve seen each other. Surprised I can resist you, old friend? You can’t get your fun by getting a rise out of me, not anymore, he wants to say, but manages to stay his tongue.
“Our dear Duke has a lot on his mind,” Boa speaks for him, and Yunho’s grateful to her. She doesn’t know -can’t know- what sets his heart ill at ease, but she knows him well enough to know to leave it well alone.
Jaejoong tuts. “I was hoping we could leave the war behind, if only for the day.” It’s the only sort of apology the Viscount ever gives, but he sounds genuinely disappointed and Yunho, as much as he has discarded old feelings, still hates to see that look in his friends’ wide eyes.
“I’m sorry, I should be more attentive, but it is difficult…” He shakes his head.
“It’s difficult times,” Jaejoong says- but lightly, shrugging as if it’s really nothing at all.
Boa rolls her eyes but leans forward to take Yunho’s hand. “All we want is to see you smile, darling. It’s been far too long since I’ve heard you laugh.”
Yunho hasn’t seen Changmin in four months. He sends letters, but it seems like for every five he writes -essays in and of themselves- he gets only a few token words in response.
War is such a terrible thing. Widows and orphans grow in number every day, such horror stories appear in the papers… Changmin is not dead, only distant, and Yunho feels guilty for desiring more, for wallowing in his absence.
But he can’t help himself. For the first time in his life, he’s at the mercy of someone else. He has given his most prized possession away. He has give Changmin his heart, and only Changmin can bring it back. Damn the man.
He sighs. Boa and Jaejoong watch him expectantly, hopefully, and what can he do but carry on? Pretenses must be upheld, after all, and not everyone at the Derby will be a friend.
Giving Boa’s hand a squeeze, he smiles and says “There’s talk that it’ll be Fifinella to win, this year.”
And Jaejoong says, “Oh God, I hope not-!” because he’s placing his bet on an American-bred, Cicerone, to win. Yunho’s all-in for the filly and they squabble finely. Even Boa joins in, though she’s not betting at all, and the rest of the ride passes quickly from there.
He will carry on, as must they all.
~ March 1917 ~
His breakfast is already set out when he arrives at the library. The heavy curtains have been thrown back and morning light is free to wander in as it pleases; he like it like this. He loves waking every day and knowing that it is day. No matter how cracked up the new electric lights (which have finally been installed in the entirety of the house, much to his delight) are, they can never truly replace the warm touch of real sunlight.
The coffee is still steaming, the hardboiled egg warm to the touch. He cracks at the delicate shell with one hand, rifling through the morning mail with the other. Nothing of import, he thinks -or at least, nothing new. But where’s the daily paper?
He rings for his butler, irritation warring with concern. The daily is never not there, unless there’s been a problem, some great misfortune affecting the delivery system…? The butler arrives promptly, as he should- but curiously, Junsu hesitates at the doorway. He sees the paper in his hand, and impatience briefly flashes through his mind.
“Well, come in,” he demands. “Let’s have it.”
“Your Grace,” says Junsu, and though he steps forward obediently there’s a tentativeness about him that Yunho hasn't seen since he first promoted the man.
“What-?” he starts, but the butler is quick to interrupt him.
“I thought you might… Sir,” the man says, like he doesn’t know how to say it- and now he’s worried. “I thought you might want to be given the news in person.”
The paper is handed over, and he snatches it quickly, feeling the gritty cling of ink to his fingers. He unfolds the paper and spreads it out across his desk, not caring that the butler remains, hanging over his shoulder. All his attention is taken up by bold, black, screaming print. U.S. DECLARES WAR, JOINS THE ALLIED FIGHT-!
“I’ll be damned,” he mutters, eyes skimming fast over the front page. “I’ll be damned.”
For a long time, it’s just him and the words on the page, the rustling of thin pulp pages, until Junsu clears his throat and unknowingly brings himself back into existence in the scope of Yunho’s perception.
“There’s something else, sir,” he says, and Yunho spares him but a half-second glance and thoughtful hum, until Junsu clears his throat, very pointedly, and Yunho truly looks up for the first time.
“Hello, your Grace.”
Changmin stands at the door, dressed like he’s just come from the polo field in a red blazer and white trousers. His hands are in his pockets and he’s got a copy of the same paper tucked under his arm and he leans against the doorframe like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Quite an interesting turn of events, don’t you think?”
Yunho’s mouth hangs open in a most indecorous way, but he hasn’t the inclination to right himself at the moment. He tries, briefly, to untangle the mess of his thoughts, steady the erratic beating of his heart, but finds it impossible and gives up the effort entirely.
Changmin simply rolls his eyes and saunters into the room. Yunho still hasn’t got himself under control, but his eyes jump to the slight limp he spots in Changmin’s step and sticks there. His face screws up in concern without asking for permission.
“You’ll excuse us, Junsu,” Changmin says, and Junsu hurries to obey, pausing only when they cross paths to say,
“It’s good to see you back, sir.”
Changmin smiles lazily at him and continues into the library, eventually lowering himself into his favorite chair by the window with a grunt and pained exhale. “I believe the- proper thing- is to say, ‘Welcome home’.”
Yunho chokes. “The proper thing would be to let me know of your return before you show up on my doorstep! No- in my home!”
“I thought you’d enjoy the surprise,” Changmin shrugs.
Shock leaves him ungraceful, makes him snap, “I hate surprises and you know it.”
“True… I thought this might be an exception. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Yunho wants to shake him. He settles for rushing over and kneeling before Changmin, almost knocking the chair over in the process. “You’re not gravely hurt?” he demands, when Changmin winces more thoroughly.
“”Not enough to put off this,” Changmin replies, already breathless.
And much later, when the light that Yunho loves has fallen but the love that Yunho has now is more than worthy recompense, he asks again, “How long will you stay, this time?”
And Changmin’s reply- “Between this leg and the Americans? I’m out for good. I’ll be staying, I suppose, as long as you want me” -it lights Yunho’s world.
~ January 1918 ~
For his efforts in the Great War, his contributions to the military and generous donations to the war effort, they give Changmin a title.
There is no official ceremony -certainly nothing like the grand debutante ball that’s held for young noble ladies every year for no other reason than because they’ve born themselves into the right family- but Yunho and his friends scrounge up a decent soiree, a hundred or so guests eagerly fleeing the sirens of London to the countryside for the event.
Boa had originally offered to host the event, but Yunho had insisted on taking responsibility.
“It’s my pleasure,” he’d said, and Boa had smiled and seen right through him. Tongues are already wagging about them -about Yunho, who's become less than subtle about his new-found political interest and growing power in the House, much due to the influence of his "good friend"; about his absent wife, who's supposedly been involved in some scandal with another American actress (good for her, Yunho thinks, not completely unkind); and about Changmin, who's all but given up the pretense of spending his days anywhere but Smenton.
Let them wag, Yunho thinks. They've paid their dues, they've overcome more than he once thought to even imagine, let alone ever bear. They are untouchable.
And so Smenton Park is full once more, and whether people come for gossip or good will he could care less. His home is bursting with song and chatter, more gussied-up than it’s been in ages, and all to celebrate Changmin’s ascension into true respectability ...though that little detail is a matter of some debate.
“Don’t look so put out,” Changmin says, sidling up to him in the parlor where the men have congregated to smoke. He strikes a match and smirks at Yunho over the flickering light.
Yunho rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so pleased. You’ve been given a Baronetcy, Shim, not a place in the peerage. A step above common gentry, to be sure, but nothing to boast about yet.”
“You still have to call me ‘Sir’,” Changmin says gleefully.
Yunho only scoffs. “I do not.”
“I call you ‘your Grace’!”
“Pouting won’t work, Changmin. I’m entitled to your praise, very deserving, after all you’ve put me th- ow” He flinches when Changmin reaches out and pinches his side sharply. Boa, gliding past because she sometimes likes to be improper and mix with the menfolk, God bless her- she giggles at the two of them.
“You keep him in line, Sir Changmin!” she calls out over her shoulder.
Yunho huffs and ignores her, even as Changmin laughs aloud. “I’m beginning to think there has been a grave mistake. Certainly the Maxworth Baronetcy was created for someone else, someone with a much better sense of decorum-”
“Oh, stop being such a croaker. The honor is mine, and I’ll be a peer before I’m forty, make no mistake.”
“Forty? That’s a lofty aspiration. I’m not sure you’re enough of a buck to pull it off… Care to make a wager?” he adds, when Changmin only snickers.
But Changmin surprises him. Instead of playing along, he lifts his chin and looks Yunho straight in the eye. “As long as we’re still around to collect, my Lord,” he says, retreating back into that long-ago, lesser but no less loved endearment.
Yunho meets him head-on, heart-whole. “No need to bet on that,” he says -and at that very moment, Boa calls out for them to return to the ballroom, for it’s time to make a toast.
~ August 1918 ~
“Changmin,” says Yunho.
“Yunho,” says Changmin.
His answer is just what Yunho wanted- for there is no query on his lips, no statement to be made. Yunho speaks his name just to speak it, to feel those well-known syllables to pass his lips and fill the air, and to hear Changmin reply, never hesitating, never failing in his intimacy.
There is work to be done today. Changmin has business to attend to, a stack of reports and figures waiting for him on his desk in the morning room. Yunho has a pile of equal size, various correspondences and calling cards and a few matters of household to be taken care of. There is the Season to consider. There is also the war- but the end is near, or so they say. (Never mind that Changmin has never been inclined to trust the universally vague ‘they’, and Yunho has grown to always trust Changmin’s inclinations).
There is still, always, work to be done; some face to be shown to the world.
And yet today they lounge in the bedroom, without care that the sun has already risen well over the roofline of the luxurious townhouses of Curzon Street. They loll about as if there is no world- or, as if all the world is in this bedroom, and the only face they need show is the one they keep only for each other, anyway. Changmin’s eyes have the same effect upon Yunho that they did ten years -a lifetime- ago. That feeling of being so thoroughly seen, touched and known down to his very core.
“Sir Changmin,” says Yunho. The title is not so familiar -he’s still so loathe to use it- and it tastes strange on his tongue. But he speaks it anyway, feeling playful and young.
“Yunho,” says Changmin, just to be cheeky. Yunho chucks his chin and sticks out his tongue, most indecorous, and Changmin just keeps staring, most indecent.
Outside their townhouse, London bustles with life, industry and Empire, a glorious century still new and ready to be trumped and conquered. Inside, there is just the two of them, safe, together, loved. And for today, that is all that matters.
~ End ~
started writing: 5/7/11
finished writing: 11/7/11
master list
For realsies this time :)
Yet again thanks to kallistei. I really enjoyed working on this fic, and historical!AU’s like this aren’t very prevalent in fandom, I know, so I was quite surprised and grateful for the response to the first part - and I hope the sequel lived up to expectations ♥! Thanks for reading!