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Once upon a time, when tigers used to smoke, is the beginning. It’s finding the dusty old book with the fading gilded cover, the ink sweeping across the vellum, reading by the flying embers. It’s clamping the eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, as the glossy pages of the children’s book flip with a smooth crinkle.
It’s his mother, smoothing his hair. It’s okay, Jungkook, she would say. Stories are just stories. The older brother didn’t really get butchered, no tiger swallowed orphans whole, the fox sister who ate human flesh only existed between the pages of a book. These stories have never been true. These stories have never been false.
Even as he clutched at her legs, he remained inconsolable. He feared the way his mother would say ‘the end’ with such finality, like she would vanish into smoke.
*
He plays Nirvana, strumming his guitar. His open case has earned some spare change, though most of the pedestrians walk with their eyes tracing the ground. The sunset has dipped below the buildings, casting marigold stains onto brick and glass. Above him, the streetlamps aligned half-eclipses on the sidewalk.
He recognizes that he has an audience after a riff. A man with a thoughtful face, kind eyes, though his face was a mask of intimidating disinterest. He’s dressed in a nice winter coat, the peek of a tie beneath the open flaps, holding a coffee cup on his knee while he sits on the bookstore’s steps.
When Jungkook finishes the song, the man finally approaches him. He studies Jungkook’s shadow for a long moment, his expression tepid yet sharp.
“That was nice,” he finally says.
“Thanks.” Jungkook rests his hand on his guitar.
“Does the owner complain about the noise?” He nods towards the bookstore, a brick and mortar shop that looks dilapidated compared the sleek mall bookshops with their spiral-bound marbled journals.
“No,” Jungkook says. “I’m the owner.”
“Really?” This shocks the man enough to move his mask, a childish surprise flashing in his eyes. “What happens if you have a customer?”
“I help them. After I finish the song.”
“What if they rob your store?”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ve been inside. There’s a lot of valuable books.”
“Did you want any?” The more people took, the more he could buy. He had deep connections to booksellers who would offer him first dibs on valuable editions and rare volumes, all only awaiting space on his shelves. This, apparently, wasn’t the answer the man expected. Behind his glasses, the man’s eyes flickered down to Jungkook’s shadow again.
“I might,” the man says. He shoves his hand into his pocket, resurfacing with some folded bills. They look crisp and nice, not like the shriveled paper and dull coins in his guitar case. The man bends at his knees to place the money at the respectable neck of the case.
“Don’t leave town,” the man says, then winces. “I mean, it was a nice song.”
“Thanks.” Afterwards, in the dim store where a single lightbulb dangled above the cash registrar, he counted the money. The man had paid enough for a day’s wages. He idly wonders if he would see the man again, but the thought didn’t bother or comfort him. He places the money in the registrar and headed upstairs, past the creaky wooden door, where he slept on a bare mattress on the floor. The moonlight spills into his room, a gentle sight that makes him believe he could sleep with his eyes wide open.
*
Once upon a time, when tigers used to smoke, the world was new. The sun and moon were fresh hung in the sky, orbiting the earth with shyness. Reaching the heavens meant only stretching out a hand and feeling for the golden threads. Tigers could talk, but they also chose not to talk, so it was best not to encounter them on the road lest they be silent and hungry.
When the goblin moved into the village, an expectation settled into the village. Yoon and Hu, the town gossips, lingered by the river where they heaved their wooden buckets, eyeing the smoke arising from the hut. Eun-woo, the elder’s granddaughter, squared her brick-like shoulders and scolded them for the delay. She said nothing would happen. She was almost right.
The goblin wasn’t much particular. Different, certainly. But he kept to himself, thatching his house with paulownia leaves and scaling his fish by the door. He looked like how a human would describe a human. Even from a distance, the villagers could tell he was too tall. When he came close, he looked like he had worn his human mask too far to the right. But he was quiet and he did his part of the hunt, which was enough for the village.
Jungkook was the youngest of seven. He played alone, wandering through the thick forest, wading through the soft brook. His favorite toy was his ball, which his mother had sewn together from scraps, held together by thick black stitches that looked like welts. When his ball rolled close to the goblin’s hut, he didn’t hesitate to trot in its trail. The goblin stood at the doorway, watching him with his distorted features and his eyes of molten gold.
*
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall?” The man must get off work at this time, since he’s still dressed in a suit. He’s wearing glasses today, round ones that look almost fake. His tie has been loosened, coat in his arms, while he stares up the ladder. Jungkook peers down, his Melona bar in one hand and his book resting on the shelf.
“It’s safe.”
“You’ll fall and break your neck. And this ladder has splinters, you’ll pierce yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“That’s what they all say,” the man says. “Where’s your first-aid kit so I can tape you back together?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Really?” The man blinks at him. “That’s no good.”
“I’ll come down.” Jungkook slurps the last of his popsicle, licking the stickiness from his fingers. The ladder creaks under his weight and he feels the wood bristle, but his hands are unmarked when he plops onto the wooden floor.
“This place is a mess,” the man says. His side profile, under the dim light, reveals vague bags under his eyes. His statement is true. Jungkook isn’t a good bookstore owner. His window display changes according to his mood and he has built towers of books, spines haphazard. He mostly comes inside and reads whenever he’s not busking. Whenever a customer enters the store, he’s not sure who’s more surprised to see each other – him or the customer who spots him on the floor.
“I know where things are.”
“That’s not the point.” The man looks at the popsicle stick with pointed accusation. “And is that all you’re having for dinner?”
“Did you just come here to complain?” Jungkook means this as an innocent question, but the man’s ears flush red and he snaps away, shoulders square and coat bunched against his chest.
“No,” the man says. “But it’s important to eat balanced meals.”
“This has vitamins. Probably.”
“I just came here to look at books.”
“Okay. They’re that way,” and he indicates the floor, his right, his left, behind him, in front, and even upwards to his room. The man regards him.
“I wonder what your books look like.”
“Like that. Rectangle, mostly.”
“No,” the man says, flushing again. “Your accounting books. You must not make much of a profit.”
“Probably not,” Jungkook agrees. “I close down when I travel, too.”
“Is it porn?”
“What?” Now even his demeanor falters.
“Look at you,” the man says, indignant. “You must do porn. Camming counts, too. With a face and body like that, you wouldn’t ever be short an audience. That’s how you get enough money to stay in business.”
Jungkook doesn’t know what to say. He scratches at his ear, his face uncomfortable and warm. He barely looks in the mirror nowadays. What he saw was what he got, the same features as always. When he gets haircuts, he’ll sometimes glance at himself in the mirror, but his hair had grown long to his ears since his last. He hadn’t known so consciously that he was that handsome. The man pales in the silence, gripping tight at his coat.
“Oh,” he says. “No. I’m so sorry. No, I’m really sorry. That was – bad.”
“It’s okay.” Clumsy, but well-meaning. Jungkook didn’t mind.
“I don’t know what got into me,” the man continues, raking back his hair. “I was thinking modeling, and I said – not modeling. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to go. Buy a book,” Jungkook offers. The tips of his boots touch the castle of books, the moat of wooden floor shrinking with every purchase.
“Sure, for your silence,” the man says, deflating. “Which one?”
“I don’t know. You should read them and find one you like.”
“That’s not how it works. I’m supposed to judge books by their covers. That’s how you make sales.” The man bends to skim a book off the pile. Again, he bends at his knees, such a prim movement that Jungkook must watch.
“I didn’t know that.”
“You’re a curiosity, Mr. Bad Bookstore Owner.”
“Call me Jungkook.”
“Jungkook.” The man flips through the pages, too fast to read the words. “I’m Jimin.” He has such a lyrical voice, smooth and calm. He somehow always sounds like he’s singing a soft song, something sweet and devoted that could resound in a temple, that requires Jungkook to lean in close to hear the lilting prayer.
*
The goblin’s voice sounded like small furry animals, tethered together. Yet, somehow, not unpleasant. They didn’t talk much. Jungkook was content to play alone, having grown up the sole child of his birth year. But they talked enough, near where the pine needles had been laid as a silencing bed.
“My greatest fear is blood,” the goblin said. “What’s your greatest fear?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not how the story goes.” The goblin did not move from the door. Sometimes, his mouth didn’t move when he talked.
“I’m sorry,” because his mother always told him to respect his elders.
“You’re supposed to say something clever.”
“I’m not clever yet,” Jungkook said. “Can this wait until later, when I’m cleverer?”
“That’s not how the tale is told,” the goblin said, his eyes burning gold. “Tell me, child. What is your greatest fear? What haunts you at night when you are alone in bed? What fills your small pumping heart with dread? What would you pull your own bleeding teeth out from your sopping gums to avoid?”
“I don’t know,” Jungkook repeated. He had an awareness of his own childishness. He was afraid of all the normal things, like a hunt gone wrong or the river running dry. He disliked the insensible punishments dwelt from adults, the hand that would descend through no fault of his own. But he didn’t think these would satisfy the goblin’s hunger.
Instead, he talked about how he was the youngest of seven. Six of his brothers and sisters had been married and moved into their own houses, hands joined in matrimony. His sister had gone to another village, marrying the elder’s son with the gristly beard. His brother married a bride who trembled in her heavy clothes. His brother had married a bride who stood on the horse to hunt. His sister wept the night before, but her eyes had been dry for the ceremony. His sister stitched her own wedding clothes, grim mouth only softening once she stepped foot inside the doable house. His brother had married for gold, the coins slipping through his fingers. Now Jungkook was alone with his mother.
“Good enough,” the goblin said.
*
“Eat.” It’s a command. Jungkook shoves his hair back, ignoring the sweat dripping down his neck. Jimin has brought purple reusable bags, the winking bird logo beaming out. When Jungkook only blinks at him, Jimin sits down and opens the bag, revealing stacked dosirak boxes. Opening one reveals bulgogi, rice sprinkled with sesame seeds, and omelet rolls packed beside seasoned cucumbers.
“I didn’t have a lot of time in the morning,” Jimin says, “so you get what you get.”
“You made this?”
“Yeah.” Jimin had matching lacquered chopsticks, a pair he holds until Jungkook puts down his guitar.
“Thank you.” He’s touched. It’s been years since he had a homemade meal, not something simmering fat from the shops. He's careful when he bites into the meat.
“Eat the rice, too,” Jimin says.
“It’s good.”
“I know.” But Jimin smiles to himself, opening his own box. They sit underneath the streetlamp on the concrete planter. Even cool, the rice tastes good. He chews on every millet, appreciative of the farmers who had sown the fallow fields.
“I like your clothes,” Jimin says. “Modern hanbok is trendy nowadays.”
“Thanks.” He wonders if he’s supposed to compliment Jimin’s clothes, too, though he’s still wearing his work suit. Without glasses today, his eyes look at Jungkook’s shadow while he chews on his food.
“I people-watch, sometimes,” Jungkook offers. He waves towards a woman who pushes her Pomeranian in a baby carriage, the dog peeking out with small eyes and panting tongue.
“It’s good to have hobbies,” though Jimin sounds conciliatory.
“You can think about their lives. Like, them.” He nods towards a gaggle of students who must have bee let out from cram school, their white uniforms and dark slacks standing out against the dark of the storefronts.
“What about them?”
“Maybe that one will become an astronaut. She looks mad, maybe she got into a fight with her mom. But they’ll make up later. And he’ll study really hard and becomes captain of a ship, somewhere. He looks really smart. Maybe he’ll have the biggest ship of the company.”
“That’s nice.” Jimin sounds like he means it, even when his eyes flicker to their shadows.
“Why don’t you try?”
“Sure.” Jimin puts down his chopsticks neatly, gilded ends parallel. He swivels until he identifies a harried-looking man walking down the street, his worn business shoes like the pattern of scars on a whale’s head. “I think he has about another ten years in his life. Maybe twenty, but he won’t have good health for the last half. Family stressors, I would guess. The type to lose his job and not tell his family. His teenage daughter doesn’t speak to him anymore and he doesn’t understand her. He’s trying to put her through school, but her grades probably aren’t what he had hoped. Stomach ulcer, maybe? He’s at risk for heart disease, at the very least. Stays up too late watching variety shows that don’t make him laugh. He doesn’t watch the music award shows, but his wife probably does, which makes him feel even more left behind.”
Jungkook chews on his food. The meat still tastes juicy and the pickled ginger crisp, but Jimin looks tired and frail. His thin hand rests on his plastic container.
“What do you see when you look at me?” Jungkook asks. Jimin takes another bite of his dinner.
“Someone who wants to eat my half,” Jimin says. “I’ll make more tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Jungkook smiles at him. After a moment, Jimin reluctantly smiles back.
*
Once upon a time, when tigers used to smoke, a hunter dropped his axe into a lake. When asked whether he had dropped the silver or gold axe, he said neither. Only his axe would chop the wood well, the sturdy wooden handle and the sharpened blade hacking into the trees. Jungkook understood the hunter, attached to his own axe. That’s why it’s unexpected when the handle flies off and chipped his arm, spewing out blood.
He wasn’t far from the village and he wasn’t afraid, even though the blood spurted out until he clamped his hand over the cut. He dropped the lone handle of his axe, which he regrated through the forming hazy cloud. The handle was still good. He wanted to replace the blade, but then he would have to replace the handle when the handle wore out, and then the blade when it wore out, until it was no longer his axe, or his axe, forever.
He only stumbled once, dropping to the dirt road onto his knees. His hand staggered into the dirt road, trying to hold himself up. The arterial spray flew into a garden, splattering onto the house. He grabbed his sleeve to hold against the wound and stumbles to his mother, to the healer. The blood loss made him woozy, vision doubling and dripping. When he was brought into the house, he had a second to gauge behind him, where the goblin stood in the doorway of the blood-splattered house.
*
“It’s dusty,” Jimin complains, so he arrives on a weekend afternoon, after putting morning overtime at his work. His weekday suit made him look slim and difficult, the sting of a rose. His weekend sweatshirt swamps him, comfortable and soft, and paired with high-tops. Jimin finds a duster and a mop that Jungkook hadn’t realized had been stored and descends upon the rows of books with a vengeance.
“You don’t have much non-fiction,” Jimin says, heaving up a pile. Jungkook steps to take most of the weight, easily handling the seven tomes. Jimin scowls, jealousy evident, and Jungkook grins.
“No,” he finally answers. “Enough of it is wrong to annoy me.”
“What, you’re a historian?”
“I’m a bookstore owner.”
Jimin has done the floor and half the shelves when the pizza arrives for lunch. The bookstore apparently had a table, a chestnut antique, where they plopped the half-pepperoni pizza, the mozzarella stretching the length of his arm. Jimin had also uncovered an outdated globe, the foot pinning down their napkins from Sal’s Pizzeria.
“Has anyone ever called you a mom?” Jungkook asks, catching Jimin’s attention from where he had been gauging the last dusty shelves.
“If you’re calling me a mom, then just do it,” Jimin says. “I’ll be your mom, fine.”
“If I say something, would that be kinkshaming you?”
“We all make mistakes,” Jimin begins, “and we should learn to live and let live. So maybe I insinuated that you were a porn star. I said I was sorry. I will say I am sorry again. But this store is clearly a mess and there’s no consistent catalog and no price stickers. Not even price post-its. I’ve seen stores selling literal water by a creek having better financial acuity than this. So maybe I made a mistake because I’ve never seen such a cute guy before, shouldn’t we forgive? And forget? Doesn’t forgiveness free the heart? Stop laughing, I’m still talking.”
It’s not until Jimin shovels the books onto a creaky cart that Jungkook asks, “So what do you do?”
“I work in accounting,” Jimin says, “of a sorts. What do you think I do?” Jungkook thinks that what he’s seen of Jimin’s lanyard, which usually had been tucked away in a pocket, had a blank navy blue strap with a blank key card. This level of privacy wasn’t warranted from a regular accountant. He always arrived late with dinner, too, past the time when the work crowd had vanished into their homes. Jungkook sits with his novel, leaning against a book-themed pillow.
“I think you work for the government,” Jungkook says. Jimin had such an expressive face. He struggles through several muted emotions before he bends his head towards the cart, hair falling like a short curtain in front of him.
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Jimin says. “But has anyone told you that you’re too clever?”
“No.” The room is warm. He scans the page once, twice, and then finally just watches Jimin sorting the books with a small frown. His sleeves had been rolled up, his wrists thin against the bunching. “I thought government jobs meant less overtime.”
“That depends on the job. For me, a job worth doing is a job worth doing well.”
“Admirable.” He’s earnest, but somehow his tone always makes Jimin defensive.
“Sure, I’m last to leave the office,” Jimin says. “But I did kendo for eight years. I learned about spirit, discipline, and effort. When you work hard, you get what you deserve. If you swing that shinai every day, your swing is made up every swing.”
“I can see that. I’ve seen those strikes cut open throats.”
“No, we use bamboo swords. But what I mean to say is you are what you do. Imagine what you would be like in a hundred years if you practiced the sword every day. No, better. What you would be like in a thousand years if you practiced being kind every day.” Jimin doesn’t look back at him, busy with re-shelving the books, but Jungkook feels something melt inside him and he studies the elegant way that Jimin holds things that are heavy. He’s not used to people sweeping into his life and sweeping his floor, so he closes his eyes for a nap.
When he wakes up, a blanket has been dragged over his shoulders. He stares at the auburn ceiling, the dusty chandelier only glinting from the sunset colors striking the prisms.
*
“I must curse you,” the goblin said, apologetically. His golden eyes stared at Jungkook.
“It was an accident,” Jungkook said, surprised. “I’ll make it right.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Why?”
“That’s how the story goes.” The goblin had approached him in the woods. They were alone, but Jungkook was afraid no more of the goblin than the small forest spirits that passed along a single leaf. His arm had healed well, the poultice still smelling thick with weeds. He had seen himself in the lake, a blurry reflection that seemed healthy enough.
“You should have chosen money for your fear. Greedy men are simple. The lecherous, the wrathful. It is those who want things you cannot hold that are troublesome.”
“Can I change it to money, then?” A noise distracted him. Above the pine trees, the dragon arched through the sky. The white scales shimmered, the long whiskers pulled forward the clouds. The length of the dragon lacerated the sky. The way the dragon looks against the pitch blue makes Jungkook feel like he has cool glass stones in his mouth.
“It is almost time,” the goblin said. “The age of gods and monsters will be over. Men will inhabit the earth.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Jungkook said. The leviathans that rise from the sea, the tigers that lurk with their padded feet, the crops that wilt or flourish depending on transient will. They wove together the fabric of his life in the village.
“It is too late now, but if I were to say a fear, I would say that we were not made the same. In the age of men, will we survive? The moment a man deigns us only his imagination, a figment of the light, explained away by his sciences, will we made lesser? Absorbed into man’s being, no longer our own?” The goblin had not moved, but Jungkook had the feeling that he was also watching the faint glimpse of the dragon that had the ethereal feel of the moon. “I would say only time will tell, but my eyes have seen what will become of us.”
By the next sunrise, the goblin had left the village. His house had been vacated, dirt-ridden and dusty, like nobody had lived there for years. Those who washed the linens said he had ridden off in the thick of night to travel to the other villages. The harvesters said he had gone to marry a human who had been enamored with his face, his child an abomination of half-birth. Jungkook said nothing, keeping his eyes to the sky.
*
Jimin arrived late, then even later. Jungkook didn’t have a particular time to eat or sleep, so he never minded the knock on the glass door and the tongueless bell clunking when Jimin entered the shop at midnight. Jimin always seems tired and irritated, kicking off his heeled boots to lounge on the beaten sofa. Jungkook becomes mesmerized with the navy-blue socks with a line of white. His tie unravels and gets thrown onto the clean coffee table, his shirt collar parts open to reveal his collarbone. He looks vulnerable until he speaks.
“You should fix the chandelier,” Jimin says, arm thrown over his forehead. “It’d give the bookstore a rustic appearance, raise the draw. Was this a ballroom?”
“It used to be a hall. Before that, a candy store. Before that, an herb shop. There actually had been an embroidery shop here, too, though that was destroyed. The street was a market street where the nobles would sometimes come and pick their goods.”
“I could use some candy,” Jimin says. “And what’s that sound?” A thumping resounding in the background. Jungkook looks up from his book.
“My laundry machine,” he says. “Do you want to see it?”
“You sound so excited. It’s just a washer.” Jimin swings his socked feet over the couch. “Sure, let’s see it.” He doesn’t bother putting on his jacket or his shoes, padding into the backroom. The sleek white machine rumbles with the load and Jungkook runs his hand over the top.
“It’s an LG front loader. Stainless steel drum, 1300 RPM. It has a steam cycle, too. There’s quiet wash, color care, wool, dirt, quick wash, rinse and drain, economic wash, and here’s the temperature control, and where you put the fabric softener. I always use fabric softener since I’m sensitive to the smell. I find detergent sometimes too harsh, but I found a brand I liked. Isn’t it wonderful,” Jungkook marvels, “how far we’ve come with modern technology.”
“It’s a washer.” But Jimin kneels to watch the colors. “Do I smell?”
“You smell like you.”
“Maybe I should shower before I come over.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Then come here, smell me.” Jimin waves him down. Jungkook doesn’t kneel as nicely as Jimin, knees thumping against the ground in obedience. Jimin pulls down his collar, revealing more of his neck and his shoulder. Jungkook takes a polite whiff, though Jimin frowns.
“That’s too far away, you don’t know what you’re smelling.” He crosses the distance between them with a single lean, Jungkook’s nose almost touching the smooth skin. He wasn’t lying when he had said Jimin’s smell didn’t bother him. He smelled like Jimin, a faint scent of soap and a gentle cleanness. He swallows, trying not to think about how close Jimin was leaning against his knees, head bent and the softness of his throat exposed.
“Good,” Jungkook says. “You smell good.”
“If you say so.” Jimin withdraws, returning to watch the cycle. “Is that your underwear?”
“Yeah.”
“Scandalous.” Jimin snorts, but he doesn’t stop watching. “This isn’t the sort of thing to show strangers, you know. And you should lock the door. And don’t keep your spare key in such an obvious place, everyone will check the sconce.”
“I don’t think you’re a stranger.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.” Jimin hides a smile behind a wavering frown.
“You can sleep over, if you want. I know you’re tired after work.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, you’re too innocent. That’s the invitation you’d extend to someone you’re dating.”
“Aren’t we dating?” He grins at Jimin’s stiff turn. Jimin’s mouth opens and closes, his eyebrows comically arching together as his finger wavers.
“You,” Jimin says. “There’s an order to things. An order! If we’re dating, then we need to do things in order. Haven’t you heard of baseball? There’s going out on an official date, and hand holding, and all sorts of things. We live in a disciplined society.”
“It’s just sleeping,” Jungkook says, tilting his head in his best puppy-dog imitation. “What do you think I’m asking you to do?”
Jimin splutters.
*
The village didn’t notice at first. Jungkook didn’t either, chopping wood and building fires. But the little boy he’d carried on his shoulders has fast become a hunter and Jungkook looked the same. The toddler with the chipped tooth grew into a woman who bore three children of her own. Jungkook looked the same. The village treated him with wariness, then fear, then disgust. He whittled the wood and the children ran away from him, mothers holding them against their leathery apron folds. Those who remember the goblin were buried in soft mounds of dirt beyond the hill. He was left in an empty house. When he returned home at night, only his dark bed welcomed him.
One day, he looked at the village and recognized only the children’s children’s children of his friends.
He didn’t own much of sentimental value, but he packed those into a cloth bag. He took a horse, a descendent of the elder’s stallion, since the village wouldn’t fault him for that much, not for his exodus. In the night, he rode off. Behind him, the village breathed a long sigh of relief that sounded like wind rustling through the thatched roofs and the whistling woods.
*
Jimin looks haggard. Jungkook finds himself cooking dinner in his sparse kitchen and bringing that down to the bookstore table. Once, a customer walked into the store, and Jimin had looked up with such gaunt surprise that the customer slammed into the door in their haste to leave. Jungkook now locked the door after Jimin had arrived, drawing shut the curtains.
It’s been a while since he felt this way until he finally recognizes the emotion. Helpless, as Jimin pressed his hand against his forehead, getting four hours of sleep before he headed back to his office. He’d brought a toothbrush, towel, and an assortment of suits to store in the bookstore’s closet, as if unable to comprehend casual clothes to relax.
“People hurt people,” Jimin says, pushing away his half-finished meal.
“They do.” Jungkook puts the dishes aside, the vintage pottery scuffed by use. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s disturbing and I don’t want to disturb you.” Jimin rubs at the wrinkle between his brow, finally glancing at Jungkook’s shadow. “Besides, I can’t talk about open criminal cases.”
“Then let’s talk about something else. I saw a cat today.”
“Really?” Jimin perks slightly. “Who was it?”
While Jimin sits upright on the couch, Jungkook works at the knot on his back. The muscle feels hard and he grinds his knuckles down through the white dress shirt. Jimin unbuttons to the middle of his chest, leaving enough room for Jungkook to slip and press against his hot skin. His hand works, busy, to relieve the pressure, but he is also struck by the trust in him. He doesn’t recognize this feeling. It feels too long, disuse tasting like rust in his mouth. He feels along the bumps of Jimin’s spine, the shirt pulling open to reveal his sternum. Jimin is half-asleep, head sometimes resting on Jungkook’s wrists. His hair feels fine and feathery.
“I was always good at math,” Jimin says, drowsy. “I wonder if we like something because we’re good at it, or we’re good at it because we like it. But I like numbers. They don’t change.”
“When the first book about arithmetic was published, it created a stir.”
“I mean, I obviously wasn’t going to be a mathematician who makes those revolutionary changes. I liked people too much. I wanted to be liked by people too much. But becoming an insurance actuary was surprising.” Jimin smiled, a soft half-curl of his mouth that looked languid and wine-drunk. “My parents would have supported me in anything, but I was troubled by a lot of things at the time.”
“An actuary?”
“Life insurance. I calculated how long people would live and then put a price on it.” Jimin’s voice drawls into a soft purr when he’s sleepy, fading into the quiet pages. “How old you were, whether you smoked. Whether your great-aunt had a hereditary disease. That’s how much you would pay in premiums.”
“That’s a strange concept.” Jungkook brushes the hair that still fell on Jimin’s forehead. “To judge someone based on how long they live.”
“I quit. What I do now, I hope it helps people.” Jimin smiles. “I mean, I can only hope. Some things, you won’t know until the seed has bloomed.”
Jimin sleeps on the couch, which Jungkook doesn’t think helps the knots on his back. He has a stillness in his sleep, not prone to tossing the blanket around, the energy evaporated from him. Behind the bookshelf, Jungkook leaves the dangling lightbulb above the counter on, the light barely penetrating the thick wall of books. He doesn’t think Jimin wakes up at night, not when his phone alarm has been set for mere hours, but he finds himself obsessed that he wouldn’t want Jimin to awaken, disconcerted, into the dark.
*
After the dragon settled as the Han River, the world felt changed. The fresh air stirred with the smoke of villages, the farmland claiming more of the forest. Jungkook rode over the waves of grass, armed with a bow he had carved himself with his short knife. His horse would stand still while he took aim, the arrow flying true and plunging into the hollow breast of a pheasant. As his horse trotted close, he thought the red feathers fletched to the arrow’s end looked like red spider lilies, as if the bird had been plunged with flaming flowers.
When he whittled down a batch of arrows, his knife broke. He considered the blade and the handle, both dented and marked by time, and considered whether it was worth keeping either. He felt that he needed to keep one part to have the same knife, but that part would eventually wear out, sooner rather than later, and he would no longer have the same knife.
He came across a seafaring town, the signs with rudimentary words. The salt raked over the town, rusting the metalwork. This far out on the docks, the metalwork concentrated on building spear vessels that would set into the sea, but he found a suitable knife amongst the intricate pottery and cheap decorative jewels. The masts billowed out with rough sails, the seafarers mingling with the fishermen who would sit on their haunches, sun-weathered scowls, in front of their glittering collection of fishes. Through the stench of fish, the sunset dipped on the horizon and the sea broke into shattered glinting glass. When a net flew close to him, he reached out instinctively to catch the rope. The end, still tethered to the boat, dragged over his palm.
“Sorry, boy,” the fisherman called, his small boat rocking. “Cut your hands?”
Jungkook looked at the unbroken skin of his hands.
*
He’s getting take-out at the ramen place when he glances at the CRT TV. The old television set flickers with RGB colors and the customers, sitting at the speckled green tables and picking their chopsticks from old Coca-Cola canisters, pay no attention to the news. The reporter with the floral pin reports that the serial killer has been caught, while details were still forthcoming, the asset traces had left a paper trail that was evident of a thicker scheme.
“Two to go,” he says to the owner, a man with a prickled beard.
Jimin’s waiting outside the bookstore, head slumped on the rail. Jungkook feels a stab of something sharp in his chest, shoving the plastic bag on the step and reaching carefully for Jimin’s wrist. He doesn’t think he can find the fluttery heartbeat, but he digs his thumb into the soft give between the sharp wrist bones. He fumbles, almost dropping the limp hand, but he presses down hard enough to leave pale crescent marks over the reddened skin again and again. When he looks up, Jimin is watching him through lidded eyes.
“It’s not collapsing,” he argues when Jungkook helps him up, his weight barely a feather against Jungkook’s side. “That’s what they call it at work. I sometimes just fall down, that’s all.”
“Are you conscious when you’re falling down?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
When Jimin emerges from the shower, drying his hair on a towel, Jungkook takes his hand and leads him down the hall. The single lightbulb is not enough. Instead, he opens the door to his room.
“You have nothing,” Jimin says, eyes opening wide.
“If it’s important, I keep it somewhere safe,” Jungkook says.
“You have a mattress on the floor. That’s how a college student lives,” Jimin says. “I’ve seen dormitories that have more furniture. Where’s your desk? Chairs?”
“I have a book.” Jungkook points to where he had placed his book against the blank wall. Jimin gapes and then shoves his palms into his eyes, to either wipe out the tiredness or vanish the sight of the spare apartment from his mind. Jungkook just didn’t have the need to carry things with him. If he wanted a desk, he’d find a flat surface. If he wanted a chair, he could still sit on the ground. Things wore away over time, leaving him always surprised when his furniture broke beneath him.
“This is minimalistic,” Jimin finally decides. “It’s good. Probably. I should also throw away my ramen cup and worldly desires.”
Jungkook doesn’t need much, but he considers this when Jimin crawls onto the mattress. A bed frame would be nice, he thinks, and turns off the light. The new moon brings enough brightness that he feels satisfied that Jimin won’t wake up in the dark, but when he turns to leave the room, he hears Jimin rustle, unlike him. Matter of fact, Jimin pats the mattress space beside him.
The mattress only meant to fit one, but Jungkook didn’t find himself uncomfortable when he settles beneath the comforter. It’s filled with Jimin’s clean smell. He must wedge his knees against Jimin, who gives no recognition of discomfort. In the empty room, Jungkook can hear Jimin’s soft breath better, finding comfort in the inhale and exhale.
“The case is over,” Jimin says.
“That’s good.”
“Fraud cases, they’re not like this. You don’t have to look at any pictures. You just follow the numbers. I guess that’s what we did this time, too, but it feels different.”
“I wish I could help.”
“Of course you can.” Jimin twists to face him. “Hold me.” The audacity and confidence of his tone makes Jungkook swallow.
“I don’t know how,” Jungkook says.
“You do.” Jimin pulls him close until Jungkook’s head rests on his chest, cold feet pressed against his leg. He can feel Jimin’s chest rise and fall in shallow waves until even that smooths out, sleep coming quick. He’s warm, the covers keeping enough heat that even Jimin’s cold feet become mere presences against his leg. Jimin is bonier than his pillow, sharp bones, ropy muscles. Yet Jungkook somehow finds himself with his eyes closing longer and longer.
*
He worked at the Hongmungwan, his hanbok not made from ramia, but fine enough to catch the attention of palace ladies when he walked the polished halls. She was an assistant court lady, part of the embroidery department, whose fine work had caught the attention of the palace. Her sister worked as a physician. They were both pretty, faces like peonies, but her calligraphy had a stronger upward sweep.
She caught him staring at a lacquered palanquin, the tassels swinging in the open breeze.
“Is it really so interesting?” she asked. They stood on each side of the resting palanquin, looking at each other through the open awning.
“I was looking at the decorations.”
“Are the decorations so interesting to the prodigy scholar?” She had a smile that seemed practiced.
“You must be thinking of someone else,” he said. “Perhaps your eyes have been staring at thread too long.”
“Your modesty becomes you.” Her smile became gentler. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes. They’re nice.” He looked at the carved dragons on the round pillars, whiskers trailing after claws. Phoenix heads decorated the roof, the carved stillness betraying the animated cunning in the eyes.
“Do you believe in dragons?”
“Yes,” he said. They were revered, looked upon with respect and awe, but this was the era of men. The era of battles and palaces, where the kimchi was served beside the scalloped shells of oysters at the lush banquet tables, the quiet wall of books a comfort against the colorful clothes and the swords being drawn from the hip.
“Do you believe in other spirits, too?”
“Do you?” he asked. This was apparently the right answer, to not answer her question, since her smile lightened into a genuine tilt.
“They’re a nice tale,” she said, “but I am interested in what our scholars can explain about the world with their own two eyes.” This was the era of aqueducts, bringing water to withered crops, Hangul scrawled with ease, and celestial globes carved of wood, the dark lacquered sphere charting the celestial bodies in precise numbers. He found himself often staring at the wooden rings orbiting the sphere, careful hands on the wood to turn it, rotating, whirling, a cartography of heaven.
It was a month later that she kissed him beneath a plum blossom tree, the small white flowers clustered on the branches like clumps of snow.
*
Arguing permeates the store. Jungkook, in his plastic slippers, plods to the front door. Jimin’s dressed in his suit and tie, waving his arms in futility against another man who has crossed his arms over his chest.
“Taehyung,” Jimin says, as Jungkook opens the door. “Isn’t there still more work to be done?”
“And it will be done,” Taehyung says. “By your team.” He has a handsome and kind face, a resting beauty. His sharp suit makes him stand out amongst the other people weaving in the street, his tie a deep speckled yellow that spoke of confidence. When he notices to Jungkook, he breaks into a sly smile.
“Welcome,” Jungkook says.
“Ignore him,” Jimin tells him. “Taehyung doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He works in legal, that’s something different. I should go to work.”
“They want you to rest. You’ve been working nonstop for the last few weeks.” Taehyung nods to Jungkook. “Take the day off. Go on a date with your boyfriend.”
“It’s not official. I haven’t agreed to dating him,” Jimin says.
“But we slept together.” Jungkook smiles peacefully when Jimin turns on his heel, mouth open and finger raised at him. A flush works its way to his cheeks.
“Sounds nice,” Taehyung offers.
“If you’re asking me out,” Jimin tells him, lowering his voice, “then we’re going to go on a proper date. With – nice things and everything. Holding hands. Are you serious? Do you want to – go?”
“Yeah. I’ll take you somewhere nice.” Jungkook holds his smile. Jimin eyes him with suspicion.
“I’ll be taking the day off,” he tells Taehyung, stalking down the steps while waving to Jungkook. “I’ll be back in a date outfit, so don’t go anywhere. Just stay still, stay here.” His giddiness betrays his steps, almost tripping over a sidewalk crack. Jungkook, who has lived his life around strangers, isn’t bothered to be left with Taehyung. Perhaps Taehyung was the more impressive, coolly eyeing him with his arms still crossed over his tailored lapels.
“He’s quite a character,” Taehyung said, with a laugh that said he wouldn’t take Jungkook’s agreement. His stance screams a shield, elbows pointed out but hands ready to fly, but Jungkook likes Taehyung’s atmosphere. He’s reminded about summers on a porch, sitting with a cooling cup of tea, and watching the sunset land onto the spindly garden leaves.
“You care for him.”
“I do. We’ve been friends for a long time,” Taehyung says. “Ever since he worked in the private sector. They called him the monster.”
“Why?” To Jungkook, Jimin has been a pleasant whirlwind into his dusty little shop.
“He was always right. On the dot, the nose. Trust me, his move to forensic accounting was heavily fought.” Taehyung smiles, only with his mouth. “He always overworks himself, so take care of him. He’s more sensitive than he seems, so don’t lead him on when you’re not serious.”
Taehyung keeps his light tone, but he checks his watch with mechanical overacting, a dramatic sweep of his eyes to the street.
“What makes you think I’m not serious?”
“Who knows. I don’t work in divorces, so I’m not an expert.” Taehyung regards Jungkook with some warmth that finally feels genuine. “I do like you, though. I think we could have been friends.”
“We could still be.”
“No,” Taehyung says. “I’m not friends with people who will break my friend’s heart.”
*
She had a laugh like bells and a scream like a howl of the night. He heard the first when they strolled together in the gardens, her curiosity exquisite to what the scholars discussed. She listened with bright eyes to the quarrels of philosophy, the waxing of filial piety and the debates over war strategies.
He heard the latter when a dark-cloaked man emerged from the shadows, metal blade glinting in the candlelight. As the sword struck his neck, he thought he hadn’t done enough to make enemies. He regretted not doing enough to make friends. She screamed behind him when the sword broke into two, the sharp end flinging into the wall.
She gave him her finest work, silken thread and pearl buttons, trick pockets within pockets, as she wrapped him in cloaks. She had a plan, as she always did, her physician sister already spilling blood in the hallway, masking the scent of the unreal and the unnatural. The lantern swung from her hand as she leaned up against his horse, hand tangling in the rough mane.
“I had hoped for more,” he told her.
“I know,” she said. “I thought I’d love you forever.”
“Don’t.”
“I won’t,” she said, laughing like mourning bells. “I can’t love you for your forever. But – thank you. For what you’ve given me.”
“I haven’t done enough.” His days had been filled with small monotones, eating meals at tables, listening to lectures. He had wanted to hold her hand at least a moment longer.
“You’ve never mistaken me for my twin sister. That has meant more to me than you know.” She smiled at him, visible even in the dark.
“Soon Suk-”
“Ride to the west. Find a temple. Don’t look back.”
*
“Wow.” Jimin has returned in a simpler sweatshirt and thin jeans. He ogles at Jungkook, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“It’s a bit old.” Jungkook plucks at his jacket, the thread fine and woven by machine.
“What? This was on a magazine cover last month.” Jimin runs his hands over the embroidered black flower, the intricacies subtle against the black fabric.
“Is that not old?”
They make plans over ice cream, sitting on a park bench. A woman with a scrunchie types at her laptop, glasses on the bridge of her nose. A mother with a baby stroller passes by them, the baby staring with wide eyes. Jimin glances at their shadows as they pass, then makes a list on his phone of where they should go, trying to lick his ice cream with one hand and type with the other.
“Not museums,” Jungkook tells him.
“You work in a bookstore. Isn’t that the same, except without books?”
“A bookstore without books is just a building.” Jungkook ponders at the curved pathway leading to a modern stone lantern. “I’d just prefer not going to a museum.”
“There’s the aquarium, the movie, an amusement park, or – well, there’s ice skating,” Jimin says thoughtfully. “Actually, I know a company that just went public with an IPO, that was a big controversary, actually, one of their investments had been with a rink… Not that I’m suggesting that we go there for that, of course. It’s silly, let’s choose something that’s not a museum.”
Jimin turns out to be a good ice skater. He glides on the ice, the metal blade scraping in clean sounds. Jungkook had never been bad at sports. When he follows behind, he’s reminded of the tension of an arrow against a bow. Though he doesn’t want to perform theatrics, he’s curious about whether he could pull off a small jump.
“Hand holding,” Jimin says, thrusting out his hand. “That’s a must on dates.”
“I think I read about this in a book.”
“That’s a good book.”
When Jungkook takes his hand, Jimin curls his fingers without hesitation. They skate in silence in the slow loop, the small orange cones marking the boundary of pristine ice. The store colors blur around them, the children laughing and playing in their helmets. Jimin smiles at the people around them, receiving returning smiles in response. They talk in snippets, Jungkook telling him about how he runs a lightly used bookstore because he lightly uses the books before he sells them. Jimin tells him about spreadsheets and cash and cash equivalents, accounts receivable, and goes on a long, vindicated speech about a fraud case that had gone to trial. Even through the scraping of the ice and the cold, Jungkook likes to listen to Jimin speak. He verges on loud and brash to soft and sotto within a breath.
When they emerge into the sunset, Jimin inhales softly. The shadows of people stretch long on the sidewalk. His eyes flicker, almost frantic, though Jungkook couldn’t tell if he was looking at them or avoiding them. Inside the mall, the lights had centered their shadows beneath them. In the sunlight, they walked and tread over ground.
“Are you afraid of the shadow stepping?”
“What?”
“It’s a game where you step on each other’s shadow. Or maybe it’s just shadows that are frightening,” Jungkook says. “The moon’s umbra causes solar eclipses. There’s penumbra and antrumba.”
“You’re well-read,” Jimin says, smiling.
“I’m nobody special.” Jungkook takes his hand, the fingers small against his palm. “Things you understand are science. Things you don’t are magic.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“When I look around, it’s surprising. How far science has come. You’ve taken light and turned it into a knowable thing. You connect to each other on a small box that fits in your hand. You have turned epistemology into a collective.” Jungkook looks at the tall glass buildings, the panes reflecting the steeped orange. “But there will always be mysteries in this world.”
“You sound so wise.” Jimin laughs, leaning on him.
“I’m not that wise. I only know what people have taught me.”
Jimin insists, with gallantry, of walking Jungkook back to the bookstore. He shifts from foot to foot on the steps, looking expectant.
“On first dates,” Jimin says, “it’s customary for a kiss.”
“I didn’t read about that.”
“No, it’s a rule.”
“Where? I’ll look it up.”
“It’s just common knowledge,” Jimin says impatiently. “A first kiss is a very important part – ”
Jimin’s mouth is soft. Jungkook holds his hands behind his back, chaste, but Jimin brings up his hands to encircle Jungkook’s neck and pull him closer.
*
They knew him as the quiet student, sitting at the low desk with his single lamp. War had scored families, so his own lack of a family name no longer meant he was an abnormality. Now, he lingered amongst orphans. When he flipped through the pages, tracing lineages, he found old friends now unrecognizable in their descendants. In an obscure mention, off handed, he found Soon Suk had eventually married a man from a minor noble family and had three children.
“I’m surprised you don’t need glasses,” someone told him. Chin-Hae worked as a genealogist, a researcher who spent time in the field and in basements. He had a disarming smile, a sweet tooth, thick bottle glasses that make his eyes look twice their size. He had a bad habit of birdwatching, disappearing for long weekends to the forest. He took Jungkook on these trips, expecting to handle the water, while he twisted his binoculars to gaze at the canopy.
“Have you ever seen anything strange?”
“You,” Chin-Hae said.
“Out here. Mythic things.” Jungkook waited for Chin-Hae to lower his binoculars, his frown thoughtful. They looked at the fresh sky, the foliage rustling in a breeze.
“If you mean things like fairies, then no,” Chin-Hae finally said. “If you mean things like the devil, then not here. I think anything mythical has been chased out with guns and tanks.”
He was surprised when Chin-Hae kissed him beneath the tree. Chin-Hae had a rough kiss, shoving him against the bark. He tasted like the dalgona he always ate, and his eyes seemed large and searching, magnified by his thick glasses.
*
“You don’t have to go through all of them,” Jungkook says, bringing Jimin the coffee. Jimin frowns when he thinks hard, fingers tapping on his laptop. Three tabs have been opened for bed frames, a measuring tape left abandoned by the foot of the mattress.
“It’s a numbers game,” Jimin says.
“I thought we were shopping.”
“I just want to compare the options. This is important,” Jimin says. “You’ll have this bed for a while.”
“It won’t be that long.”
“Why? Are you planning on traveling?”
“I do like traveling.” Jungkook sits beside him, hands wrapped around his mug. He has left his latest book near him. He doesn’t use bookmarks, the weight of the pages enough to tell him where he had last left. Jimin hums in thought.
“Well, I’ll go with you,” Jimin decides. “What do you think about this one? It has carved lion heads on the posts.”
“That sounds cool.”
“See? It’s a numbers game.” Jimin, not satisfied, continues to scroll down the furniture store webpage, ignoring the loud banners with flashing chairs. “If you do anything enough times, you’ll get lucky eventually. It’s statistics, probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’m not a statistician. Monthly installments,” Jimin reads out loud. “No, there’s no need for that.”
“I was thinking about getting chairs, too,” Jungkook says. “A table.”
“Really?” Jimin perks at the thought of furniture.
“If you’re going to stay over, then it’ll be good.”
“I told Taehyung you were a good one,” Jimin says.
“Does he still not like me?”
“He likes you. Of course he does.” Jimin hesitates, glued to the screen. “He’s protective, that’s all. He has reservations about our relationships. But I think relationships can come in different forms.”
“He still doesn’t think I’m serious about you.” And he couldn’t quite verge into a disagreement, allowing himself to be vulnerable to attacks.
“It’s not like you need to be. Not all relationships need to end in marriage.”
“That’s true. Marriage doesn’t seem for me.”
“Right?” Jimin pauses, then swivels to investigate Jungkook. This catches him off-guard, mouth parted as Jimin looks at his forehead, his mouth, his shoulders. “Never mind. I think you’d look good in a tuxedo, so I’d like to see it. We’ll go to a formal party, one day, so I can dress you.”
“I’m sure you’d look nice, too.” Jungkook smiles, but Jimin waves him off with a flush.
“Or maybe even if we get invited to a wedding. I do like weddings,” Jimin adds. “I don’t always cry at them, but I’ve cried at every one I’ve gone. There’s something really beautiful about two people being so committed to each other.”
“When I was younger, it seemed like a big step,” Jungkook says. “To devote yourself to somebody else. You become someone changed. It’s – something that’s beyond me.”
He doesn’t know why Jimin looks at him with a soft smile, almost sad in his eyes, but also fond and affectionate. Jimin touches Jungkook’s hair, brushing this back from his face. His gentle touch barely leaves a mark, only a vestige of a whisper left behind.
*
Chin-Hae bought him a bagful of candy, let him hold his most expensive pair of binoculars, and took him to a spot near a waterfall to say that he was leaving on a boat.
“You don’t grow old, do you,” Chin-Hae said.
“I could go with you. I’ll pack a bag. Forge my papers.”
“To make me feel old?” Chin-Hae snorted. “It’s time we go our separate paths. Aren’t you tired of being with an old man like me?”
“I’m not.”
“The times are changing,” Chin-Hae said, now talking to himself and stroking his binoculars. “What we need now is courage and knowledge. I intend to get both, hell or high water.”
“Is there anything I could say to get you to stay?”
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. If you’re not human, then go find your other kin. If you journey, maybe we’ll meet again. I’ll be decrepit and you’ll look like a newborn.”
“It’s not like that.” The waterfall rushed beyond them, a dull roar where the water splashed and foamed into the lake. The wind skimmed over the water, bringing a scent of freshness to Chin-Hae’s frown and worn duffel bag he took with him everywhere. Empty candy wrappers littered the bottom. Jungkook had enjoyed his time while searching genealogy trees, tracing the lineages back with his finger. Chin-Hae, as the foremost of his field, had taught him to scour records for family names and mentions, news of births and obituaries, identifiers faded on wooden posts.
“My feelings for you were real,” Chin-Hae said. “But I didn’t know what I was getting into. Even if I loved you for the rest of my life, I’d just be a second in your eyes.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go.” Chin-Hae snorted. “But I can’t stay.”
*
When Jimin doesn’t come for a day, he doesn’t worry. When Jimin doesn’t come for two days, he plays his guitar outside and busks enough to buy fried chicken for dinner. When Jimin doesn’t come in three days, he barely cares, but Taehyung finally responds to his texts with ‘howd you get this number’ and reluctantly divulges Jimin’s apartment. It’s near a park, not too close to the river, a steady infrastructure, that all told of Jimin’s eye of choosing places to live. Jungkook had chosen the bookstore because he would always have a good view of the moon.
Jimin answers the door in pajamas, a cold pack hanging from his hand.
“Jungkook,” he says, surprised.
“I wasn’t worried.”
The furnishings have warmth. A picture of his family hangs on the wall, a bookshelf with bookstore offerings along the wall. In the bedroom, Jungkook hears the faint overheat of a laptop whirring, Jimin shuffling back with a heavy cough to shut the lid.
“Are you working?”
“A little.” Jimin limps to the kitchen, shivering despite his jacket over jacket. “Would you like some tea?”
“Sit down, I’ll get it.”
“It’s not proper for a guest—”
“Sit down.” Jungkook had always talked to Jimin with politeness, so the severity of the tone shocks him. Jimin blinks at him. This rusted feeling inside him, he can identify. This was anger.
“It’s my home,” Jimin says, offended.
“I can guess what happened,” Jungkook says. “You got sick, but you went to work. You were sent home, but you tried again and collapsed. Now you’ve been banned from the office, so you’re working at home, even though you need rest.”
“Did Taehyung tell you?”
“He didn’t say anything. If he knew, he’d ban you himself.” Jungkook rose from the couch, where he had been sitting with his hands in his lap. “You need to rest.”
“It’s fine. This work needs to get done—”
“You’re overworking yourself.”
“I’m fine. I can do it.”
“It’s not about what you can or can’t do,” Jungkook says. “You act like there’s no merit in resting. Maybe you’ll have a sword swing sharper than anybody else’s, but how do you expect to know yourself if you never stop? How would you learn when to use your sword, how to protect other people? You don’t unless you breathe. Let yourself take thousands of breaths. But you won’t, or can’t, because you’re obsessed. You don’t even love math so much because I’ve seen people who love math like it’s a part of their body. You just use your work as an excuse. You’d always be obsessed with something, you’ve just chosen something that makes you feel good enough that you can pretend you’re not running away and destroying yourself.” He’s breathing heavy by the end of it, his hands balled into fists. He’d forgotten anger. This sickly, hot feeling that envelops him, the self-righteousness that fills him. He’s fire, burnt into flames, the meteoric red, the wisps flying from him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jimin says tightly.
“Taehyung said I wasn’t serious about you.” Jungkook’s hands hurt. “But he just can’t see the truth because he’s too fond of you. You’re the one not serious about me. None of you were. You hold yourself back, you don’t invite me to your home. You’re scared of your own shadow, but you won’t tell me why.”
Jimin coughs. His eyes water with an averted gaze. Jungkook feels the anger fading into ashes, a cold drip in his stomach.
“Sit down,” he says again. This time, Jimin listens, abandoning the bottled tea outside the refrigerator and hugging himself until he reaches the armchair. He settles back against it, looking small and distant.
“You’re right,” Jimin says softly. “I haven’t been good to you.”
“No,” Jungkook starts, though he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. In the wake of his hot words, the embers fling into his face.
“It’s been like this since I was a kid. I—I used to see things. In people’s shadows. Or, that isn’t right. I’m sorry, I’ve never talked about this before,” Jimin says. “People’s shadows don’t look like people to me. I know, it must be my imagination. It’s not real. But I didn’t want people to think I was different, so I never said anything.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I think I do,” Jimin says. “There are monsters in our shadows. I can’t explain it, but it’s like they’re fighting to get out. I’ve seen them rip a shadow to shreds. They might look normal, but you’ll see something wicked and twisted forcing their way out. Others are good. The ones that look even a little bit like humans are usually the most stable. Dragon horns, fairy wings, that kind of stuff. It’s not like it’s always bad. But I wasn’t able to look at people. You’re right. I fell into numbers. I fell into my work, I used my—sight, if you can call it that, to figure out their lives.”
“Taehyung said you were always right.”
“I wasn’t.” Jimin smiles, though his eyes remain red. “That’s what kept me going as long as it did. The ones where I was wrong for the better. But I wanted to look at people. I wasn’t lying to you. I wanted to be loved and love someone in return, so I went into civil services. I think my reputation smoothed the way, it wasn’t as difficult as it could have been. But it was easy to throw myself into it.”
“That day we met,” Jungkook says. “You were looking at my shadow. Was it monstrous?”
“No, it wasn’t scary. That’s what was unusual,” Jimin says. Jungkook doesn’t know what he feels about that. Perhaps disappointed. Perhaps relieved.
“That’s why you talked to me.”
“You were interesting and cute. Who wouldn’t want to talk to you.” Jimin coughs again, then looks up with ferocity. “But I want to look at you, Jungkook. I don’t want to keep looking away.”
“I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
Jimin studies him. Jungkook hadn’t realized that Jimin usually searched for his shadow, first, but even though Jungkook’s shadow fell slight on the floor, Jimin only looks at his face. He lingers on his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his teeth, his neck. He watches him without touching him, waddled in his pajamas and jacket, with something soft and kind in his eyes.
“Take care of me,” Jimin finally says.
“I will.”
He’s not good at it. He hasn’t been sick for a long time, so he must search on his phone about the methods to tend to someone sick. Jimin sleeps for most of the day, unmoving and curled in bed. Jungkook uses a pot that looks new, stirring the jook while his phone props open to a recipe page. His cuts of the ginseng don’t have the slim neatness of the picture, but Jimin takes the warm bowl with gratitude and eats on his bed. Jungkook taps out the pills that come in blister packs, squinting at the small text of the box and counting the white tablets.
Though Jimin’s eyes half-close with sleep and achiness, his stuffed nose draining most of his voice, he seems to resist sleeping again. When Jungkook hands him the cold glass of water, Jimin searches Jungkook’s face for something. Whatever it is, he seems to find it, breaking into a small smile.
*
Jungkook did travel. On boat, on plane, to lands where he couldn’t speak, only gesture. He followed rivers and creeks, explored the sand dunes, looked at cities atop church towers. The curved temples faded into skyscrapers, the oceans so distant, they seemed like dreams. He studied folklore, following the trail they had left in their wake, the origins of the earth and the sun and the moon. He studied the spider’s thread, the cunning minds of tricksters, the pantheon enriched with ambrosia.
He sat in houses that could barely hold his height, listening to them talk about the grateful crane in the snow, the piper who led the children from town, the girl in a blood red hood that fled from the wolf. He was fascinated by the excitement of the beanstalk, the sleeping princess locked in a tower, the witch who lived atop of chicken feet. The kelpies that rode in a lake with their slick manes, the gentle statue and the chirping bird. He read about the cyclical tales, told time after time, the way new elements became woven into the tellings.
He dreamed of the seven brothers who waited for their sister to sew them shirts, the last who was left half a bird, wing flocked with black feathers.
*
Jungkook unlocks the door, bringing groceries. Silence covers the upstairs hallway, even when he tromps over the wood to put the cabbage sideways into the bottom shelf. He doesn’t bother to turn on the hallway lights, though night has fallen. Most of his room had been constructed, a bed frame with two chairs and a table, a bookshelf where he keeps the new books he will read after he finishes one.
When he opens the door wider, expecting to see a moonlit view of his furnished room, he’s surprised instead to see Jimin sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“How’d you get in?”
“You don’t lock the door.” Jimin doesn’t turn to face him, instead wiping his face.
“Are you crying?” Jungkook kneels, a cog twisting in his heart. Concern. This was concern. Jimin only laughs, though, wiping away another tear from his eye.
“It’s stupid,” he says.
“Did something happen?” Jungkook slides his hand to touch at Jimin’s tear, the wetness tinging on his thumb. “I’ll beat them up. All of them.”
“No, it’s not that. I was just walking here and I saw some grandparents watching their grandchild. They were holding hands and watching him play on the swings. And I just thought, how nice. Love that’s so long-lasting. That’s nice.” Jimin ducks his head, laughing to himself. “I wanted to tell you that.”
“That you love me?”
“I mean, I do love you. But it was just a nice moment and I wanted to share that nice moment with you.” Jimin makes a sound that’s gentler than a throat clearing, trying to wave away his tears. “The moon is really beautiful tonight.”
His eyes glitter in the moonlight, his face drawn and kind. Jungkook is filled with some emotion. An old emotion, something aching that he had thought he’d lost in the past. Affection. Fondness. Love. He loves him, so much that he fills that his body couldn’t hold it in. Every breath was filled with a need to be with him, every thought flying to caress Jimin’s face between his hands. He didn’t think his body could ever love again, but it creaks forward without his willingness, devoted.
Jungkook leans forward, hesitating, and then kisses him. He can still taste a residue saltiness, which fades when Jimin parts his mouth. He doesn’t know how long they kiss or how they get on the bed, the frame sturdy as the mattress creaks beneath them. Jimin kisses his ear, his neck, fingers helping along Jungkook’s belt loops when Jungkook touches his hands.
“Wait,” he says into the quiet room. Jimin pauses. Though the moon remains distant, Jungkook can still detect a faint glow around his iris. He’s panting, his low-cut shirt dropping enough to reveal how his chest rolls with heavy breath.
“Yeah,” Jimin says, almost a question.
“I’ve never.” Jungkook stares at him, struggling. Jimin’s hands have bony knuckles, shallow valleys where he rests his fingers. His own shirt has been lifted, Jimin straddling him.
“Okay,” Jimin says. “That’s okay. I mean, with a guy?”
“No.” Jungkook clenches down, feeling Jimin’s fingers brush against the belt buckle and leave scorches on his stomach. “I know. It’s dumb. To be so old and still be a virgin.”
“It’s not,” Jimin says, laughing. He leans down and presses their foreheads together, his small laughs like hiccups. “You’re fine. You’ll always be fine.”
It doesn’t hurt. He didn’t know why he thought it would. He does get hot, burning, where Jimin touches him. The trails of his hands, fingers lifting, palms kissing his bare skin. Jimin smiles and laughs, tickling his side, kissing him, licking him with a mischievous tongue, snorting when he gets tangled into his own shirt, soothing. In contrast, Jungkook feels engulfed in flames, sweating, making soft noises that come from his throat, too hot to even bear the weight of the covers. At his climax, the heat building and intensifying, he’s struck by Jimin’s angle above him, arching like something familiar, and he thinks he is fire, the devouring inferno, the blaze that consumes him and combusts and sears him when he moans and comes messy and wet.
Jimin strokes his hair, soft and affectionate. Jungkook closes his eyes, breath settling back into him.
“I love you,” Jimin says.
“Will you love me forever?” He sounds needy. He feels younger than he is, still clinging onto the silken fabrics, the candy wrappers, that flutter through his fingers.
“Forever is a long time. Let me think about it.” Jimin trails his fingers down Jungkook’s chest. “Yes, I’ll love you forever.”
“That’s impossible,” Jungkook says. “Have you heard of the heat death of the universe?”
“Why do you have to bring that up now?” Jimin laughs, resting his hand flat against his stomach. “Fine, I’ll love you for as long I’m able. Happy now?”
“I’ll love you forever.” He says this impulsively, wrapped in warmth. Jimin laughs again.
“Didn’t you just say it’s impossible?”
“Not for me.”
*
He’s the one to suggest it, which surprises Jimin over breakfast.
“All right,” Jimin says. “I’ll come over on Saturday.” Jimin comes dressed in what Jungkook can recognize as his nice date outfit, a stiff dark jacket and a plaid shirt. He’s done his hair, finer earrings swinging from his ear lobe. He doesn’t appear nervous, but he sneaks glances at Jungkook’s face when he thinks he isn’t looking. Jungkook sweeps past the crowded bookshelves with their cut paper and careful bindings, locking the door behind him.
The bus takes them over a hill, leaving behind the residential and replacing the apartments with larger, hulking buildings. The building has a square, modern look, a large banner draped along the side that advertises for their 16th century visiting display, a statue looking out at the people milling along the steps. The potted plants, blooming yellow and orange, lead them to the entrance.
“Are you sure?” Jimin asks.
“It’s a bookstore without books,” Jungkook says. The breadth of stairs has been eclipsed by the straight lines of lights strung along the ceiling, the room vast and wide. White tiles and white walls frame the room, stone and marble, the glass stretching to the ceiling. Though children linger with their parents, a toddler bundled in a blue wool hat walking on his mother’s shoes, the sound seems muted and closed. When Jungkook climbs the steps, two at a time, Jimin trails behind and gawks at the sights.
The exhibits, housed in wings, have an auburn finish to their floor. The first floor opens to large statues of Buddha sitting solemn behind glass, small scripted plaques in the corner. Softly, Jungkook points out the potteries and stone statues, pausing to remark on some inaccuracies, but describing, as best he could, the feel of the clay beneath hands. With bronze and stone, small discs and stone tools laid out beneath the glass and under the clean light. As they walk further down, Jungkook nods to an arrow that looked half-worn, the tip still somehow sharp, and a rudimentary knife that has the blade and hilt bound together. They pass through a wide-open hallway with a stone pagoda, the stories stacked upon each other, and when Jimin lingers, Jungkook describes the temple as accepting, doors opening even during galloping rainstorms.
Within the dynasties, islands of artifacts stand off in the center. Jungkook doesn’t leave any fingerprints on the glass, but still remarks on the horse passes and abacuses, fascinated by the small sundial that had somehow remained intact through the ages. He stops in front of a smaller display for pearl buttons with some fondness, pointing out the shine in color, the way they had been perfectly selected, how they must have been sewn with care. He recognizes the books with their straight lines of ink and the calligraphy, the sweeping characters with a strong upward tilt. When they look at the paintings, Jungkook remarks how even the simplest artwork, in retrospect, left ripples, like how he had only mentioned that it was nice to see a cat chasing a butterfly. On the third floor, near the half-full theater, he leads the way into a special exhibit. A researcher had tracked down the birds of Korea, painting and denoting them, inspiring a special section dedicated to their depiction throughout history, a genealogical approach to their biology. The researcher, he remarks, must have been seen many sights to inspire him, and though he had never seen him in another land, he could only hope his field notes had been free of crumbs and sweets.
When they emerge into the garden, Jimin breathes in so full that Jungkook doesn’t know if he’ll breathe out again.
“You seemed to have fun,” Jimin says. “Why don’t you like museums?”
“I like museums. I think of them as places where you keep something safe.” Jungkook frowns. “I guess I didn’t want to live in the past. There’s a quote attributed to Confucius, it does not matter how slowly go, as long as you don’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.”
“You’re really smart,” Jimin says, reverentially.
“I just wanted to share a nice moment with you. That’s all.” They stroll around the lake, rounding towards the pagoda. The pale stalks emerge from the lake, tended so their ends fan out like feathers. Trees line along the building’s walkway. The lake is still, reflecting the museum and the pagoda with replicas, the depth of the water not mirrored in the sky.
“We can eat at the restaurant,” Jimin says. “But save your appetite, I bought cake and nice candles to put on it. Actually, isn’t that useless to say that to you? You’re always hungry.”
“I’m not,” Jungkook says. Though his stomach currently craves food, he isn’t always hungry. He simply remains always capable of eating. He knows Jimin doesn’t joke about cakes, looking forward to the white cream and gleaming fruit-decorated decadence in a floral box.
“I got you a gift, too,” Jimin says. “Though I don’t know if you’d like it.”
“I’ll like it.”
“You’re a minimalist.”
“I’m not,” Jungkook says, laughing. “I just keep things in a different place. But I’ll keep your gift beside me. It’s where I want it.”
“You’re a strange one.” Jimin takes the steps that lead closer to the lake’s edge. “Though I’ve known that for a while, since I’ve seen your shadow.”
“Since I look like a human.” Jungkook, amused, follows down the stone steps. He peers at his reflection, then is struck by a strange feeling. He has always looked the same way he has looked, but he wonders if this was what he had seen so long ago. He touches his face.
“Not completely,” Jimin says. “Your shadow is—big. The biggest I’ve ever seen. It looks human, but it has rings around the head, the pristine face. Just rings that orbit around, over and over again. It has wings with feathers like flame, spread out so far, when it’s unfurled, they cover entire buildings. Like I said, it’s not unusual to have monsters in someone’s shadow, it’s just yours is the most—everything I’ve ever seen. The most beautiful.”
“What does your shadow look like?” He tries to remember what he had seen in rippling water, but his own reflection distracts him.
“Human,” Jimin says with a self-depreciating laugh. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in what I see. They’re just dreams.”
“You don’t believe in spirits?”
“What, like phoenixes?” Jimin considers this for a moment. “I mean, I do. Like you said, there are still mysteries in this world.”
Jungkook kneels closer to view his reflection, but his serious face gives no answers. When he glances at Jimin’s reflection, he stumbles back, falling and scraping his palm against the stone. In the sunlight, Jimin’s irises have a ring of molten gold.
“Are you all right? What’s wrong?” Jimin bends down, neat as always, to help him sit up. “Oh, you cut yourself. I think I have a band-aid, hold on.”
Jungkook looks at the line in his palm. The cut is small, almost masked by the pebbled rocks that have scraped onto his skin, but the blood oozes with a dark red color. This bubbles from the cut, just as a short laugh bubbles out of him. And then he laughs harder, resting his clean palm against his forehead. Though Jimin looks at him concerned, he can’t but laugh into the air, his chest somehow relieved, shoulders relaxed, breathing well.
“So was that it?” he laughs. “Was that the curse?”
“Jungkook?” Jimin looks concerned, so Jungkook reassembles himself until he’s sitting. The sky, somehow, looks more beautiful. The lake has a quality of depth, the trees a newfound green. Jimin, sitting beside him, had never looked more beautiful in his eyes. He wants to kiss him, hold him, hug his warmth close, but he settles for allowing Jimin to worriedly place the band-aid on his hand, gentle fingers light across the cleaned cut.
“It’s not so bad,” Jimin says soothingly. “It’s just like a papercut from those books you’re always reading that I don’t understand.”
“You’d understand them,” Jungkook says. “The one I’m reading now is a fairy tale.”
“I do like those.” Jimin pulls his knees closer to his chin, looking at him. “What’s it about?”
Jungkook wants to say it all, the tale of a forgotten bird, the tale of a goblin who had seen the era of men upon them and lived with humans for those who would inherit his eyes, of an era where gods ruled the earth and the heavens. This feels so much, but he knows, at least, how to begin, so he opens his mouth to begin to tell his tale.