Work Text:
i. namgoong, calligraphy
On the rare quiet days where they have no classes to teach, they lay together in Namgoong's bed, enjoying the early morning. Namgoong, to no one's surprise, is early to bed and early to rise, and so Suryong always gets up later than him.
Sometimes, Suryong wakes to an empty bed and a steaming cup of tea on the nightstand; Namgoong knows he doesn't take breakfast in the mornings because it upsets his stomach. Other times, he wakes to Namgoong pressed against his back, arms draped loosely around his waist. Due to the yin nature of Blood Arts, its practitioners often run cold, and that is not to say of Suryong's already deficient internal qi; Namgoong, who is practically brimming with it, is a wonderful respite to the chill. So it is alright if Suryong curls a little closer towards him — he just wants some warmth, that's all.
On occasion, however, he'll wake up to the feather-light touch of a writing brush against his skin, Namgoong tracing elegant characters dark with ink onto the canvas of Suryong's naked back. Even without looking over his shoulder, Suryong can imagine the neat, immaculate script; steady and true, just like their writer. Namgoong inscribes lines of classical poetry on the broad width of Suryong's shoulders; crafts words of beauty and affection on the delicate curve of his spine as well as ancient symbols of protection, of blessings for happiness and fortune and safe travels, so that no matter how far he goes he will always find his way back home.
"Home? Haha, well, my compass always seems to point me southwards."
"...Be quiet. You're making the strokes uneven."
Suryong laughs at him, calls him cheesy and sentimental. But he always indulges Namgoong with a patience he rarely displays, and melts into Namgoong's touch when he gently traces the characters with his fingers. Slowly, Suryong learns to associate him with slow mornings, the pale sunlight filtering through the curtains.
When he dozes off to sleep again, he feels the warmth of Namgoong's hand resting lightly on the small of his back, where he knows the character for 南 has been inscribed.[1]
ii. yeonho, exploration
Yeonho, in contrast, brings him around the city, dragging him along to the crowded market stalls and food stands — sometimes with their other teaching assistant colleagues, but mostly with just the two of them. He insists on buying Suryong every colourful trinket and piece of food that catches Suryong's eye, patiently waiting for as long as Suryong needs when he spends ages looking over everything the city has to offer.
Suryong always acts exasperated, but it's hard to hide the curiousity in his eyes whenever he sees the bustling marketplaces and people of all origins and ways of life, the rows of shops stocked with brightly-coloured wares and the joy of children's laughter as they weave in and out of the crowd, playing the games that children play.
There had never been time for leisure in the Blood Cult, and the only children he had come across were dead children or his ‘students.’ He'd hurt them, the kids under his 'tutelage,' run them through brutal training again and again until they'd collapsed, bloodied and crying, onto the floor, and he doesn’t regret it even now — it hadn’t mattered if they flinched away from him, tension in every line of their bodies and eyes filled with hate, because kindness had been only a liability in the Blood Cult and having them hate was much better than having them die.
A hand rests softly over his own. Suryong jerks, before quickly stifling his reaction; he's not in the Blood Cult, not anymore.
"Hyung? Is everything alright?"
They're standing at a stall selling a variety of intricately crafted crockery. Yeonho must have thought they'd caught his eye. "...Yeah. I was just looking at the wares."
Yeonho blinks, studying his face as if looking for something. His expression softens into something a bit more gentle, and his hand tightens around Suryong's ever so slightly.
"Of course, hyung. Take as much time as you need. …I'll be here with you." [2]
Somehow, Suryong doesn't think he's talking about the crockery anymore.
Yeonho never gets tired of taking him outside, especially since he now takes to dragging Yeonho along with him whenever something catches his eye, instead of just going off on his own like he used to when they first met. Suryong is used to acting alone, but the way Yeonho's face lights up when Suryong takes his hand makes him want to learn otherwise.
Suryong learns to think of him alongside busy afternoons and the bustling noises of the city, full of energy and life.
iii. cheong cheon, moonlight
Cheong Cheon meets Suryong in quiet teahouses, ordering good food and drink with a beautiful view by the wide-paned windows. They mostly talk about work and future plans, but on less busy nights they speak of other topics: life in the city, Cheong Cheon's childhood in the slums; Suryong's life in the countryside before he came to the academy.
"It wasn't easy," Cheong Cheon says at the end of another childhood anecdote, taking a sip of alcohol. His gaze is distant, looking at a spot over Suryong's shoulder, three feet and two decades away. "It never is."
"But you made it," Suryong replies, because neither of them are men of useless platitudes.
Cheong Cheon's gaze refocuses on him, clear as crystal jade. For a moment, he says nothing, an emotion that Suryong can't place flickering in his eyes. It gentles his expression into something more relaxed — perhaps even content.
"Yes," he says, "yes, I have."
Cheong Cheon complains — as in, he narrates events with a tinge of frustration in his usually dispassionate tone, which is the equivalent of ranting for someone like him — about his colleagues and the idiotic mistakes some of his subordinates make, and Suryong chortles as he listens, egging him on. Suryong, in turn, whines about his students and the mischief they get up to, and Cheong Cheon retorts that it's not like he gets up to any less trouble.
Over a pot of tea or alcohol, they can talk through the night; good food, as they say, is best enjoyed with good company. At the end, they clink their cups and down the last dregs of their alcohol, smiling at each other in the same way schoolboys sharing a secret might.
To Suryong, Cheong Cheon is quiet evenings at the teahouse and the pleasant flow of food and conversation, illuminated under the silver moon.