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There’s a boy, in the shrine near the river. There’s a boy, and he’s half hiding behind the statue of the forest goddess, in the left corner where the river water infiltrated and left a stale smell throughout spring and summer alike.
He peeks out from behind the small stone sculpture, hair brighter than ripe persimmons. He’s impossible to ignore, and yet Namjoon does his best, lays his offerings near the half-destroyed stairs. The boy sneezes. Namjoon kneels. Gathers his robes and lets the mud cool the skin of his knees. When he closes his eyes to pray for merciful weather, he hears shuffling he’s sure can’t be classified as anything but obvious, almost like the boy doesn’t think he could be discovered.
When he stands up, the boy is still there, feet poking out from both sides of the too small statue. He sneezes again, and Namjoon feels bad enough to finally speak up, hesitantly.
“Are you lost?” he asks. The boy shrinks to a size so small he wouldn’t be visible if not for the vibrant cherry colour of his hair, just tall enough that he can’t hide it entirely. “Do you need help getting out of the forest?”
No response. He gives up, makes his way out of the small shrine slowly, and waits outside. The boy doesn’t come out, even as the sun sets somewhere below the highest branches of the trees and the winds awake.
Thunder roars in the distance. The rain hasn’t stopped since morning, and he hears a worrying creak outside that tells him one of the trees is losing its cruel battle against furious weather. The flames below his chimney stay low, air so humid he’d had to put up a small barrier around it.
He picks his thickest cloak, the one patched near the bottom where he had ripped it on a lumberjack’s axe. He stuffs his five ripest persimmons in the single pocket and heads outside. Near the well, a few frogs hastily jump away when he approaches, and he meets one snake near the shrine who warns him that the danger is coming, and that he shouldn’t be out when the goddess is this upset. Still, he enters the shrine, so dark he wouldn’t know where to step if he didn’t come here as often as he does.
He lines the persimmons neatly on the floor, feels his nails sink into the skin of one and leave indents he probably should care about. The ground is so wet he feels water seeps through his clothes and shoes, tries to ignore it when he prays for a calmer night. He’s ready to leave when he hears a sneeze behind him. Then another.
He turns back, as fast as he can, and tries not to trip over the single stair as he makes his way to the statue. Behind it, huddled and shivering, is the boy from the day before, hugging his knees so close to his body Namjoon can barely make out his figure in the dark. He looks pitiful, in a way Namjoon sees in people who come beg him for potions that should rarely exist.
He goes back around, and picks up two of the persimmons, afraid that leaving four would only offend the forest goddess more. He wipes them of mud with a corner of his cloak, carefully, and presents them to the boy. Only then does he look up, eyes big and curious, features so soft he reminds Namjoon of a small, scared animal.
“Aren’t—aren’t these for the forest goddess?”
Namjoon sits, legs cramped in such a small space, and opens the boy’s palms to place the fruits in his hands.
“You look like you need them more. Plus, I have a lot of them. I can come back tomorrow.”
For a second, neither move. Then, the boy brings one of the fruits to his lips and bites into it. With the back of his hand, he wipes off the juice that dribbles down his chin, and looks up at Namjoon, surprised.
“It’s sweet,” he says. Namjoon laughs. The thunder rumbles, louder than before.
“It is,” Namjoon agrees. “Do you need help getting back home? The forest is dangerous at night.”
He hears chewing for a few moments, and when he turns to look, one of the persimmons is completely gone, and the boy’s lips and chin glisten with juice.
“I am home.”
Namjoon shakes his head—stands up, feels cold air bite through his wet clothes. “You’ve been here since the other day, right? You can’t stay here forever. You’re already starving and on your way to catch a cold. And this shrine is old, it could collapse if this storm is bad.”
He gestures for the boy to follow him, hastily going around his offerings and towards the shrine’s exit. Outside, it’s a little easier to see, and when the boy comes closer, he looks a lot less small than he did huddled behind a statue. He’s only a few centimeters shorter than Namjoon—and nearly as broad—but the elfish way in which he carries himself shrinks him down until Namjoon can’t help but find him small.
“What’s your name?” he asks the boy when they reach the big, twisted tree—one of the few who refused Namjoon’s protection, too stubborn in its old age to believe the deity looking over the forest had weakened over the last few years.
“Does it matter?”
“Well, no—I just figured it would be easier to call you by your name. I’m Namjoon.”
The boy remains quiet for a second, two, three. Namjoon glances over his shoulder, sees him furrow his eyebrows and scrunch his nose. “You can call me Jeongguk,” he settles on.
“Jeongguk,” Namjoon tries. From where they are, he can see the soft light of his dying fire through his little window, a diffuse orange he wouldn’t see if he didn’t know exactly where it was. “Isn’t your family worried about you?”
“My family lives here with me,” he replies—like it’s the most obvious thing he’s ever said.
(He’s lying, Namjoon thinks. The trees tell him of everyone who steps onto their roots, and not one human but Namjoon lives in these woods. The lumberjacks come and go—empty-handed, always. They inexplicably misplace their axes, and if they could pass through Namjoon’s wards they may find it somewhere in the pile next to his chimney. But no one’s supposed to live in the forest—not on this side of the river nor across. The trees don’t lie. The boy may.)
“Let’s just get you inside for now.”
(When they reach Namjoon’s house and he removes his cloak—heavy with rain and mud—and turns to offer Jeongguk a rag, he finds him already dry, as if he’s never been soaked to begin with. But it’s too dark and the forest can be peculiar. So he makes sure he’s comfortable for the night instead.
He can ask about it tomorrow.)
Namjoon isn’t the tidiest. He rarely remembers where he puts his herbs, no matter how much Yoongi had insisted on how important is was to understand your environment. It’s not that he means to do it, he just gets distracted easily and then misplaces whatever is in his hands. No, Namjoon is not the tidiest witch in the world, but.
He knows for sure he never lined up five perfectly round rocks near his bed.
It would be fine, had he not woken up and immediately rolled out of bed only for one of them to dig so painfully in the sole of his feet that he’d crumbled to the floor without a second thought. Now, though, he stares at their blurry form and wonders how they could have possibly gotten there.
After the initial numb prickling, his foot feels completely normal, so he knows they aren’t cursed either. He can’t figure out why they’re even there, if not for a curse or a warning; he can always ask the trees later if they’d seen anyone enter his house. For now, he cradles them in his hands carefully and heads downstairs.
Jeongguk is sitting at the end of his table, looking outside the small window. When Namjoon steps closer and he turns towards him, his face is pink in a way that makes Namjoon worry he may have gotten a sunburn, if he’d been gazing outside for too long. His stare falls to the rocks in Namjoon’s palms, and a faint, mischievous smile adorns his lips.
(It’s the first time Namjoon sees him smile, and if he didn’t know better he would think the boy is a fairy. As it is, fairies don’t step on this side of the river—or anywhere near it—and Jeongguk towers five feet something over the tallest of them.)
“Oh, yeah. Someone or something left me a gift,” he says as he heads for the door. He throws the rocks out towards the path, making sure they’re far enough that he won’t step on them again. When he comes back inside, Jeongguk’s smile is gone and he looks just as small as he had when he hid behind the crude statue of the forest goddess.
“You’re not keeping them?” He sounds almost guilty, the same ways pixies who try to trick him do, after their parents force them to apologize to the nice witch.
“I don’t really have any use for them. It’s better to return them to the forest. Speaking of which—” He reaches for two mugs on his tallest shelf, casting a quick spell to boil the water in his cauldron. “You said your family lives in the forest too, right? Did you mean the shrine?”
It takes him a few tries before he opens the right drawer to find his tea leaves, shoved at the back behind an half-empty bag of cinnamon. He puts a few in each cup, then pours water in both and brings them to the table, where Jeongguk is fiddling with his thumbs.
“No, no. Only I live in the shrine. My family lives in the river.”
(There are whispers, amongst the oldest trees, that the souls of those who wander too far into the forest to come out lay at the bottom of the river, next to the abandoned path to Seoul. He doesn’t question it.)
“But still,” Namjoon insists. “Wouldn’t it be better to live in a house?”
Jeongguk brings his steaming cup to his lips—takes a moment to simply smell the scent of green tea and then takes a long sip. When Namjoon does the same, he burns the tip of his tongue, hisses in shock and sets the cup back on the table.
“You musn’t worry about me, Namjoon-ssi. I’m much sturdier than I look.”
He takes another sip, and sets his empty cup down with both hands.
The wind warns him before he sees them. He expects them to knock—once, twice—like they always do. Instead, he hears a loud clank, a muffled curse, and a heavy, dull noise.
When he opens the door, he finds himself looking at a scene he’s not sure he has the mental capacity to unravel. On the ground—face covered in mud that the rain can’t completely wash away—lays his best friend. Around him, Namjoon’s entire mug collection. The rain fills them constantly until they overflow, and Yoongi’s trying to salvage whatever Hoseok dropped in his fall.
“Seok-ah,” he scolds, bending to pick up an appropriately moist loaf of bread. “I told you not to go too fast.”
Hoseok grumbles. “How was I supposed to know Joon-ah was airing out all his dinnerware?”
He wipes a glob of mud of his face and Namjoon rushes to help him up, fingers cold around his arm. Then, he bends down to pick up a mug, emptying it of rainwater.
“I wasn’t. I don’t know how they got here. Probably a pixie playing a trick on me again. You know how they are.”
He picks another.
“Joon-ah,” Yoongi says. “Don’t you think you have too many cups?”
“No, I don’t.” He bends down again, reaching for another cup—an old thing that was made by a blind witch, a little uneven, with discoloured, earthy tones—when an orange toad jumps out of it and directly onto his hand. He yelps, quickly shaking it off, and drops the two other mugs he was holding. The toad hops around, finally free, and it takes a few seconds for Namjoon’s heart to start beating at a normal pace again.
When Yoongi, Hoseok, and his 47 cups are all safe and sound inside, he finally takes a look at what they brought him and can’t help the smile that overtakes his face.
“Oh, Jin-hyung sent bread!”
“Yeah, it may just be a little—” Yoongi pokes it and some water comes out. “—moist.”
Hoseok grumbles, trying as best as he can to get rid of all the dirt on his skin and clothes while Namjoon struggles to remember where all his herbs are, and exactly where he’s supposed to put away the human-sized bag of rice he just acquired.
(When they leave and he’s left alone again, part of him misses the chaos they bring with them. The noise that’s so completely human and the contact he hasn’t had since he was Yoongi’s apprentice in Seoul. There’s a thing about humans that the birds and the trees and the flowers, no matter how much they try, can’t replicate.)
(When the pine tree in front of his house gets distressed about an incoming storm, when the flower near his well tells him she wants to be Offered, when he can hear even the old tree with the twisted trunk get nervous, he doesn’t think about what going to the shrine means.)
(He doesn’t.)
(The flower feels heavy in his hands—the clay pot is a little cracked and he can feel water trickle down into his palms. His heaviest cloak weighs his shoulders down and the old tree with the twisted trunk doesn’t even try to trip him, and when he enters the shrine, he can see a tuft of cherry hair sticking out from the side of the statue of the goddess.
He breathes out.)
When the flower is reassured that Namjoon will come back to plant it outside the shrine tomorrow and the goddess has heard his prayer, Namjoon climbs up the stairs to the statue as quietly as he can. Right as his feet touches the platform, Jeongguk’s face appears, holding onto the side of the goddess, peering down at Namjoon’s offering. His cheeks turn a little closer in colour to his hair, in a way that makes Namjoon want to beg every flower to offer themselves to him—just to see it happen again.
“Namjoon-ssi, you’re back!” he happily chirps. Namjoon tugs on his cloak, tries to cover himself a little more and smiles at the boy.
“Ah, well—you know.”
“Did you enjoy your tea?” he asks, face turning a little redder.
(Today’s tea had been a new brand of black tea that Hoseok had insisted he take—one that was apparently trendy in Busan and impossible to get your hands on.)
“Yes, thank you,” he simply answers. He chuckles, half out of embarrassment and half out of nervousness. He tugs on his cloak again, slightly. “Are you going to sleep out there? It’s raining.”
“Well, I don’t really have anywhere else to—”
“Come with me,” Namjoon says. He realises too late how it sounds, clears his throat to avoid thinking about his burning cheeks. “I mean—I don’t mind, and no one else lives in this forest. I’d worry if you slept out there in the rain.”
“Namjoon-ssi, I told you I’m sturdier than I look.” He shuffles closer, and uncurls Namjoon’s fingers from their grip around the thick fabric. He takes them between his own, hand warm against Namjoon’s, despite how cold the nights can turn—answers Namjoon’s curious stare with a smile. “But lead the way.”
(The old tree with the twisted trunk does try to trip them with its roots this time, and when Namjoon stumbles, Jeongguk lets out an angelic giggle before holding his hand tighter.)
(Are you a fairy, Namjoon asks him in a daze. Jeongguk only laughs again, clear and pretty, and tells him he doesn’t have wings. Namjoon thinks maybe he’s lying.)
The sun always seems a little different after rain. Shines a little brighter, perhaps, or a little warmer. It doesn’t really matter, because as he’s heading to the shrine to fulfill his promise to the flower, all he can focus on is Jeongguk’s hand in his.
(You’re much too clumsy, Namjoon-ssi, he had said. Namjoon hadn’t argued.)
“I’m glad the rain stopped,” Namjoon sighs, when they enter the shrine. He picks up the pot and the flower greets him warmly.
“But if it didn’t rain, then the fairies would die. Their wings aren’t strong enough to carry water from the river,” Jeongguk hums. There’s a part of Namjoon that wonders how many of the forest’s secrets he knows.
“You’re rather knowledgeable,” he answers instead. He can hear Jeongguk laugh more than he can see him, as they both go back outside and towards the riverbed.
“I guess I am.”
When the flower wiggles happily in its new spot, Namjoon can’t help but laugh at it. And then—
And then he feels something tickle his palm, and he raises his hand off the ground to see another flower uncurl underneath it. The kind of flower he’s only ever seen in winter, when dryads get grumpy about the cold and entertain themselves by growing the only kind of flower strong enough to survive. Another pops up, right by its side, and then another. They quickly cover the ground around Namjoon, surrounding him until all is white and blue, and he stumbles—falls to the ground in the small area where nothing has grown yet. When he turns towards Jeongguk, he sees his face entirely pink, almost as if he were holding his breath.
“I’m sorry,” the boy chokes out. He buries his face in his hands, in the way that makes him look so small. “I didn’t mean to be so forward—I know you only just accepted my courting yesterday, but you looked so pretty just now and I couldn’t help it.”
“Courting—” Namjoon sputters. “Jeongguk, slow down. What are you talking about?”
Jeongguk whines, ears turning red as he flops to the ground to entirely hide his face in his knees. “I wanted to see the human who kept bringing me gifts, but you’re so much prettier and sweeter than I expected. I’m not sure I can properly wait, Namjoon-ssi.”
(A part of Namjoon doesn’t want to understand. Doesn’t want to make sense of the words jumbling together in his mind. But the forest did tell him no other human lived on its grounds. But Jeongguk did tell him his family lived in the river. But no pixie had knocked on his door to apologise for playing tricks, and the rocks had been lined up the same way he displays persimmons for the goddess.)
He makes his way towards Jeongguk, avoiding the flowers, and drops to his knees in front of him. Carefully, he pries his hands away from his face, and Jeongguk’s eyes look a little teary. It makes something in Namjoon break.
“Jeongguk, it’s fine—” Jeongguk shakes with a dry sob. “You didn’t scare me. I’m thankful for your gifts.”
“Then,” Jeongguk starts. He finally looks at Namjoon, face blotchy. “May I kiss you?”
Namjoon doesn’t even realise he’s nodding until he feels lips against his, soft and warm, and everything he’s ever wanted.
(Jeongguk kisses a little like he gives—clumsily, but in a way that makes Namjoon remember what it’s like to never want to let someone go. Eagerly, perhaps too much, until he’s poured everything he has to offer, and he’s left panting, grinning happily at Namjoon as more flowers bloom blue around them.
And Namjoon, for once, decides to take selfishly.)
There’s a lot he doesn’t yet know about Jeongguk, he discovers.
For example, he plays hide and seek with the centaurs every Wednesday, and he always wins, if only because he climbs so high up trees the centaurs can’t reach him. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about him yet, so when Namjoon kisses him as they’re about to go to sleep and he feels Jeongguk tense against him, he immediately stops, worried he might have hurt him.
(You didn’t hurt me, a very pink Jeongguk says, and then he’s being pushed down against the mattress and—)
(Jeongguk kisses a lot like he gives, gives, gives. Eagerly, with a lot of tongue, like he expects it to be the last kiss in the world. As far as Namjoon is concerned, it may as well be, if only he can keep Jeongguk’s lips against his own until the world stops spinning.)
Jeongguk pulls back, breathless, and Namjoon pushes back against his shoulders. Turns them around so that he has Jeongguk under him, looking up at him like he’s the night sky on a full moon.
“Let me,” he whispers, and leans in to press firm kisses against the skin of Jeongguk’s neck. He feels him squirming under him when he reaches the juncture to his shoulders and his teeth graze the skin there. He makes sure to kiss every mole he can see—every mole he can’t but knows is there from mapping his body like it’s a treasure. He vanishes their clothes and kisses Jeongguk’s lips one last time before dipping down, down, down, kissing every inch of skin he can reach.
“You’re so perfect.” He reaches Jeongguk’s hips and kisses the space right above his thighs too. “So beautiful. I can’t even believe you exist.”
He takes Jeongguk’s cock in one hand, brings the tip to his lips and waits for Jeongguk’s hips to kick up a little—desperate in a way that only makes Namjoon want to give him everything he could ever want—and revels in the moan it earns him. He suckles on the tip, wets it with his tongue until he hears a whiny please above him and only then does he sink down, takes as much as he can into his mouth. He lets Jeongguk thrust up into his mouth as he pleases—can feel his hips shaking under his fingertips after a few and pulls back. He goes back to littering his skin with kisses he knows must burn, and wobblily summons oil from his pantry.
He warms it between his fingers to the sound of Jeongguk’s pleas. When he finally presses a finger against Jeongguk’s hole, he feels him shudder under him and leans down to kiss his lips. Devour any noise he makes to remember all of them.
When he finally sinks into Jeongguk, he can’t help but moan. It’s so warm and tight, can’t help but pant for a few seconds, completely unmoving, until Jeongguk grinds his hips against him and Namjoon moves again, excruciatingly slowly. He spreads Jeongguk’s thighs a little wider, then slides his hands up his body until their fingers are intertwined.
“I can’t believe you’re real,” he repeats. His thrusts are slow—they pull a small whimper from Jeongguk with everyone, and he can’t help but praise him each time. For being so perfect, so beautiful, so sweet, so good for him.
(Jeongguk looks every part the deity he is, under him. Hair like cherry haloing his face while he moans in pleasure, eyes closing and lips trembling, skin flushed and shiny with sweat. He looks otherworldly, and Namjoon tightens his grip on his hands to make sure he’s there.)
The wind picks up outside, like Jeongguk can’t quite hold it back when his face is scrunched up in pleasure, clenching around Namjoon every time he whispers a praise in the crook of his neck, every time he thrusts into him and Jeongguk’s cock rubs against his stomach, hard and wet.
“Namjoon—ah—please—coming! ‘m coming!” he keens, and Namjoon kisses his lips as he trembles underneath him.
(And Jeongguk kisses a lot like he gives, and Namjoon is convinced he’s the entire universe, because nothing else could possibly matter.)
There’s a boy, in the shrine near the river.
There’s a boy, and he’s hiding as though he’s convinced he couldn’t be found. His feet stick out from both side of the forest goddess statue, and when Namjoon kneels to line up five persimmons, he hears a mischievous giggle.
The boy walks up to him, picks up a fruit and bites into it. Juice trickles down his chin, and he smiles at Namjoon.
“It’s sweet,” he says. He leans down, again, until he’s face to face with Namjoon. When he kisses him, Namjoon can taste the persimmon on his lips, sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted before.
Jeongguk pulls back, and there’s a moment where none of them move. Then, like the simplest thing in the world, Namjoon can hear rain outside, can already feel it sneak into the shrine from the hole in the left corner, where there’s a stale smell.
“You don’t have to make it rain every time you want to sleep over,” Namjoon whispers. Jeongguk kisses him again—quickly—a lot less sweet.
“But, you know—” he hums as he pulls back. “Fairies die if it doesn’t rain.”