Work Text:
From this day forward he will be blue
“I will remember you in every imperfect gesture
every lost dream found again in a drawer,
in those days that passed in an hour.
The tenderness, your hair and the bed sheets,
because if you are happy every smile is gold”
Purple.
"San came to the store and smiled at me today. In that moment, it almost seemed to me that the world had stopped; everything revolved around his electric blue eyes and the sparkles that highlighted the color of the roses on his cheeks even more. He’s so beautiful, he’s too beautiful, as beautiful as the violets that populate the meadows in spring. Today, if San were a color, he would definitely be purple."
He had placed the vinyl in the record-player provided and very carefully placed the needle on the brittle edge of the record, then the notes of Bad Medicine had invaded the dull, vitiated air of the store. Wooyoung had sung the words under his breath – he didn’t know the lyrics well and would occasionally improvise murmurs that made him laugh to himself – as he swayed to the rhythm of those notes, now completely lost in the melody, sitting on a disused stool positioned behind the counter. That morning, as was often the case moreover, the store was empty and Daejung, the old owner, was holed up in the backroom with a bottle of aged Soju in his calloused hands. Wooyoung had known him for years and knew that, despite his bad habits, he was a good man – and the fact alone that he had allowed him to work with him proved it: Wooyoung is rather clumsy and awkward, definitely not the most suitable guy to work in an old vinyl store.
He had sighed and then run his hands through his thick, long hair, quickly straightening the black bandana he was wearing to keep them away from his face with accustomed gestures. He hadn’t even heard the high-pitched bell tinkle loudly when the door had been opened, and had almost jerked on the spot, risking toppling to the floor from his chair, on seeing before him the boy who had occupied his head and heart for the past few weeks. He had recomposed himself immediately, hiding his embarrassment with a few coughs, and smiled at him – a full, huge smile. "Hi. How can I help you?"
His cheeks had flushed and he had begun to air himself with a flyer og the guitar class taught by Daejun's nephew. He had blamed it on the heat, but in the Korean countryside temperatures were quite low in the middle of November. He had heard San snort a laugh and had noticed the way he had tightened his lips into a funny thin line to try as hard as possible to restrain himself in the face of Wooyoung's naiveté.
"Hello Wooyoung" he had greeted him, raising one hand slightly and clutching his jacket tightly to his chest, because of a gust of wind that came in through the strangely open window. "Do you happen to have the first edition of Bowie's Heroes? I've been looking for it for some time, but between other purchases it's always been shelved at the bottom of the list."
Wooyoung had merely nodded, keeping his gaze locked in the other's crystalline one. Then he had motioned for him to follow him into the backroom – not that he could take customers there, but San was still San. The shelves were dusty and filled with boxes, from which vinyls and records spilled out on all sides; every time, Wooyoung was forced to cover his nose and mouth with his hand to prevent all that dust from causing an allergic reaction, and to do so in front of San felt pretty stupid. As he checked the inventory, he had noticed old Daejun sitting on a rotten wooden chair in the dark, his lips glued to the neck of a half-empty bottle – he had never understood how he managed to ingest gallons of alcohol even at ten o'clock in the morning, when he could barely hold back a cup of coffee. San looked around with his eyes wide open – those fantastic eyes – and his small, manicured hands clasped around the hems of the sleeves of his winter jacket. The place was really cold, the heating system had stopped working even before Wooyoung's arrival a year and a half earlier, and the boy therefore could not blame him – he himself felt the chill seep into his bones and leave a deep imprint of his passage.
"Here it is" he had exclaimed, pulling the case out of a box tagged “BOWIE” in permanent marker and brandishing it in the air. The space had filled with dust and he had been struck by an endless coughing fit. San had chuckled, stopping beside him and gazing enraptured at the pile of vinyl surrounding them: it was surely the perfect definition a music lover like him would have given to heaven.
When they had left the back and got back to the main counter, a lady in her fifties who had been watching the latest arrivals had turned circumspectly toward them. Wooyoung had greeted her cordially, showing willingness to help her if she needed it. After that he had stuffed the Bowie record into a transparent plastic bag on which the name of the store was printed and dropped everything on the counter. "That's sixteen pounds" Wooyoung had stated, peeling off the receipt and inserting it into the bag, before San had picked it up.
"Thank you very much, Wooyoung" the boy had greeted him before leaving, giving him a smile – and it was quite normal that Wooyoung had thought he wanted San to smile like that to him only, with him and for him. "See you!"
"Sure" he had whispered in response, when by then San could no longer have heard him. Under the judicious gaze of the woman who continued to wander among the shelves, he had dropped onto the stool and sighed defeatedly.
San always made him feel so small and important, at the same time, that it scared him.
Yellow.
"San came by the store again today and he asked me if I would like to have a drink with him. His eyes were shiny and his cheeks mottled with the color of poppies, which stood out against the pale skin of the same shade as the daisies, in an extremely sweet and picturesque way. At that moment I would have liked to have been a painter so I could have pasted to the paper every single shade that played on his face, illuminated by the pale rays of the November sun. San is so beautiful, so beautiful that there is no one more beautiful than him in the world in my eyes; as beautiful is the sun more than any other star shining in the night. If San were a color, he would surely be yellow today."
Wooyoung had dropped the revenue budget sheets for the last month on the floor when San had made that proposal to him. At first, he had even thought he was teasing him or imagining it because, come on, someone like San could never ask someone like him to have a drink together. San had looked at him with an amused sparkle in his electric blue irises, and Wooyoung hadn't understood anything anymore.
Twenty minutes later, they were both sitting at a small table in a diner on the opposite side of the street, and Wooyoung had his gaze lost beyond the window, because the chocolate he had ordered was still too hot and looking at San would have embarrassed him extremely. He wasn’t good at starting conversations: he always ended up taking it to inconclusive and unseemly topics, he blushed, and his lips stuck to each other.
Fortunately, San must have known from his mere glance what he was feeling like. As he took a sip of his warm cinnamon tea, he had called his attention back. "How did you end up working in that old store?" he had asked him, setting his cup down and crossing his arms on the mahogany wood of the table. He had seemed genuinely interested, and Wooyoung had been pleasantly surprised, although the fear of disappointing his expectations had made him shiver deep inside.
"Well, Daejun was an old acquaintance, and I've always loved everything music-related" he had begun, turning the little spoon with the inlaid handle very slowly. "I thought it would be a good opportunity to do what I like and save some money in the meantime, so I wouldn't have to be a burden to my parents anymore." He never thought he'd be able to talk for so long without losing his train of thought and getting tangled up in his own words, the same way his damn earbuds got tangled up every night when he stowed them in the worn shoulder strap. Yet he had succeeded, and San was smiling at him, impressed by that answer.
"I really like music, too" San had animated himself, sitting composedly in his chair and straightening up against the hard backrest. "I've been playing piano since I was eleven, and I even started a cello class when I was a kid. I was always told I had potential – you know, the usual thing you tell all children to encourage them – but I had to stop when my sister was born."
And so Wooyoung had found out that San was twenty-four years old – three years older than him – and worked part-time in a small downtown bakery, had as many as four younger siblings – three girls and a boy –, whom he loved with all his heart, a mother he would have given his life for, a father he hadn’t seen since he was still struggling to tie his own shoes, and a stepfathers who, although he had no obligation to him, had always been there for him. He loved soccer and cheered for the Red Devils, the walls of his room were still lined with autographed photos and Manchester United posters, he had been the captain of his high school team, and because of this everyone at the time considered him a step above everyone else. San had described himself as just another guy, nothing special – at which Wooyoung had shaken his head, chuckling, because San was the most perfect creature he had ever seen plying the streets of the entire country – with a brilliant and inquisitive mind. According to him, he was extremely stubborn and moody, the classic boy with a difficult temper – as his mother used to tell her friends whenever she talked about him. He loved to pay attention to even the most insignificant details and occasionally wrote songs, but he wasn't that good so they always ended up segregated in a desk drawer so that no one would find them. Wooyoung had noticed that he often wrinkled his forehead in concentration as he spoke or played with his ruined fingernails when he had to say something that made him feel uncomfortable; when he smiled, however, his eyes surrounded themselves with tender wrinkles that resembled the ripples of sea water under the force of a winter breeze.
Wooyoung, on the contrary, had told few things about himself. "There really isn't much to tell."
San had peered at him in outrage. "Come on, Wooyoung! There is always far too much to say about oneself."
So, in the end, he had told him about his family and how much he loved his mother, who had supported him in every choice he made, and about the beautiful relationship he had with his brothers – especially, the youngest. He had told him about the Korean countryside he grew up in and the Vietnamese coast where he spent his summer vacations as a child, about his passion for poetry and reading, and about his dream of leaving that small suburban town to travel the world. He had explained to San that the savings he had earned so far from working at Old Daejun's store would be used for that someday, when he was ready to leave all his life behind. He had stated with a small smile on his lips that the thing he loved most about himself was his hair and that he always adorned it with a wreath of colorful flowers or a bandana to set it off even more.
Later, when the sun had given way to the first darkness of the late autumn afternoon, San had accompanied him home. They had walked side by side in the narrow alleys of the suburbs lit by terraced streetlamps, huddled in their jackets to protect themselves from the breeze and the cold. San had told him jokes that wouldn't have made anyone else laugh – but Wooyoung was totally enamored with everything about him and nothing else mattered. Every now and then, San would swing his arms to keep himself warm and prevent them from becoming shivering, and in doing so he would brush Wooyoung's long, tapered hands; and he would find himself hopelessly short of breath and with chills running up his back.
Green.
"Today I was in Seoul with San and we walked around the downtown streets as tourists do. We went to the Han river and lay on the grass, even though it was still wet with fresh morning dew. His low-pitched, gentle voice blurred among the screams of the children and the shrieks of the parents, but I could still hear him clearly, above everything else. I would hear and recognize his voice even during a rock band concert, among thousands of other voices singing the same words together. San is beautiful, he’s as beautiful as the nature that provided the backdrop for our words today. What am I saying…San is absolutely much more beautiful. If he were a color, San would definitely be green today."
"Come on Wooyoung!" San, at least a dozen yards ahead of him, had called him back. "Those ducks will starve to death if you don't get a move on!"
When he had seen children throwing pieces of breadcrumbs at ducks quacking by the side of the lake, San had gotten it into his head that he wanted to do it. He had bought a hot-dog from the hawker stalls and had broken off a piece of bread. Wooyoung had burst out laughing when he realized that he was serious and that nothing would be able to dissuade him from that idea. He had caught up with him in long, quick strides, eased by the mile-long legs that made him sway unbalanced every two by three.
At that moment he wished he had a camera with him to take a picture of the boy, but luck wasn’t turning on his side: even his phone was dead. The wind caressed his hair, which was more messy than usual, and a bright smile played on his pale face; every now and then he closed his eyes, which were surrounded by small, almost imperceptible wrinkles, and his long, delicate eyelashes floated until they rested on his flushed and full cheekbones; he had thick legs and broad shoulders that curved slightly forward – Wooyoung would gladly have spent the rest of his existence observing the soft crease of his hips, and the thought of tightening his fingertips on that flesh had clouded his mind. San was so beautiful that Wooyoung felt like a useless parasite in comparison.
"Wooyoung, you have to try it, too!" San had urged him, handing him some crumbs and inviting him to imitate the children beside them.
In that childlike act, Wooyoung had found himself and what he had been and realized that he and San were more alike than either of them thought.
-
Later, lying on his stomach, with his elbows on the ground and his head resting on his open palms, Wooyoung was again lost in gazing at the fine, docile features of San, who was fiddling with blades of grass and had his gaze lost in the void.
"I'm writing about you" he had told him without thinking, before he managed to stop himself. When he had realized he had actually said it, he had cursed himself – this was exactly one of those many moments he wanted to smack himself.
San had raised his head sharply, and Wooyoung, his cheeks colored with embarrassment, had fixed his gaze on the grass that had been crushed under the weight of the other man's body. "What?" he had asked him, as if he hadn't really understood.
For a moment, Wooyoung had thought of deflecting the conversation and pretending that he had never said those five words, but then he realized that there was really no way out. "You once asked me what I talk about when I write" he had begun then, suddenly feeling hot. He had unbuttoned his jacket and sighed when the cold air had passed through the wool sweater he was wearing, then he had begun to play with the hem of his jacket to work off his nervousness. He had looked up to meet the electric blue of San's wide, surprised eyes, and only then had he continued. "I write about you because I don't want to let a single second of the time we spend together and what we share slip away, so I imprint it on paper. And I also do it to prove to myself that I know you and why you worth, you worth so much."
San had smiled at him, and Wooyoung had felt the urgent and almost painful need to rest his dry, chapped lips on the other's plump ones.
"Someday you'll have to let me read something then" he had stated, rolling onto his side and moving slightly closer to his body. Even at that distance and despite the near sub-zero temperatures, Wooyoung had been able to feel the warmth San exuded and at that moment he only wished he could throw himself into his arms and sink his face onto his chest. "One never knows, maybe you're really just talking bad about me!"
Wooyoung had burst out laughing and had been delighted by the other's genuine, crystal-clear laughter. "It will never happen, I'm sorry," he had said, raising his hands to the sky.
"Well, that's too bad. It would be nice to see me through your eyes" San had noted, almost as if he were thinking aloud.
"You would simply see yourself as at least a thousand times better than you already are" Wooyoung had explained to him, because in the end it was the pure truth. San had leaned toward him and left a light kiss on his cheek, and in that moment Wooyoung had realized that the only thing he wanted out of life was a chance to know that contact for all the days he had left.
Orange.
"Last night he took me to the top of a hill and, lying on the hood of his car, we watched the sun rise and the sky paint itself orange. The view was beautiful, the city opened at our feet, and I felt in control of the world. The light reflected off his face and colored his eyelids closed in ecstasy, his lips slightly open in a silent sigh, and his cheeks already flushed with cold. As magnificent as the view from there was, he was an even more heavenly sight. He stroked my frosty cheek with warm, long, calloused hands, and the contrast between our temperatures drove me crazy. Then he kissed me. I felt I could cry at any moment, it was like touching heaven with a finger and discovering heaven. I tasted the stars, I was a unique thrill. If San were a color, he would definitely be orange that night."
"It's really cold" Wooyoung had said, rubbing his hands together in search of warmth. The black jacket at least one size larger, with its fur-covered interior, was not enough to protect him from the winter chill of the late Seoul evening.
San, sitting beside him on the edge of the hood, was lighting a cigarette, one hand cupped in front of the filter to shield him from the breeze, which had been blowing boldly at every hour of the day for the past few months. The flame of the lighter had illuminated his face hidden by the darkness for a few seconds and had been reflected with a sparkle in his blue eyes, which then, fragile as it had appeared, had dissolved into nothingness. Wooyoung had been so fascinated by it that he could no longer look away from the other man's face. When San had turned to him, one eyebrow raised, and had blown out a heartfelt laugh, the younger's cheeks had lit up like Christmas lights.
"God, I’m making a fool of myself" he had whispered, burying his face in his large, gnarled hands and sighing heavily. San had accentuated the laughter, like a high note that escaped control during a song, and hit Wooyoung's shoulder with his own, making him wobble on the spot.
They had been silent for a few seconds, the night illuminated by the lights of the streetlamps and the glowing spark of the cigarette that was burning between San's fingers.
"The view from up here is beautiful" San had stated in a whisper, as if he didn’t want to break the silence of the stars, which, ready to be replaced by a burning sun, were now increasingly sparse. Wooyoung had nodded almost imperceptibly, growing tighter and tighter in that jacket, in which he seemed almost to disappear, even though he was always under everyone’s eyes, as big and awkward and unconventional as he was.
"I always come here when I want to be alone" San had continued, taking his cigarette between his fine, cracked lips and filling his lungs with smoke.
"How did you find it out?" Wooyoung had asked him at that point, looking away from the inexplicably lit windows of some of the buildings and resting his gaze on the boy's pale face. "This place, I mean."
San had shrugged his shoulders, as if an actual answer wasn’t there or as if he simply couldn’t remember it. Wooyoung had wondered, for a moment, if he had by any chance asked an indiscreet question that would erect walls that couldn’t be crossed in such a short time. Then San had answered and he had almost breathed a sigh of relief.
"I was really hurt when my last story ended. We had big plans together, more like those that need to be locked in a drawer rather than the ones that are really achievable. We both wanted to leave this place, as if we felt suffocated in the streets of this country. We were thinking of leaving Korea and buying a huge mansion on the California coast, of traveling the world."
He had such a melancholy tone that Wooyoung had felt his heart clench in a painful grip, making him wince in surprise. He’d never been particularly empathetic, perhaps because he had never found someone who was really worth understanding and knowing all the way through.
"We were thinking of getting married" San had then stated, his gaze impassive and fixed in the void, his voice neutral and steady, as if that indelible past didn’t affect him at all. His hands, however, were shaking, and Wooyoung had noticed it right away; he had hesitated for a few seconds before meekly placing his own hand on San's right one and shaking it firmly and securely, to convey to him some confidence and a courage that he didn’t even know where it came from.
"What happened then?" he had asked him, imperceptibly stroking his knuckles with the warm fingertips of his fingers.
"I found him in bed with someone else" he had explained, full of resentment and pent-up anger. "It had been going on for months and I hadn't even noticed. I must have been such a jerk to think that he really wanted me, that he loved me. The typical 24-year-old utopian cliché" he had concluded, trying to huff out a self-deprecating laugh, but failing miserably.
"He's the asshole, San. He doesn't know what he's missing" he had told him, tightening his grip on his hand.
San had rolled his eyes, then taken the pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his jeans jacket and lit one. "I expected better of you, Wooyoung. You disappoint me, with these catch phrases."
Wooyoung had opened his eyes wide, caught in the act, and in a rush of courage, flaming red to the tip of his hair, he had moved closer to the boy's body. "Let's put it this way then" he had begun, sighing nervously and hoping not to screw it up as his usual way. "I thank that prick for putting you back on the field and allowing me to be here with you now" he had said, raising his hands in the air blatantly to show himself more confident than he was. San had let a light laugh escape from his fine, violet lips from the cold and, clutching his shoulders, had shifted his eyes to meet Wooyoung's bewildered and extremely sincere gaze.
"That's better" he had proffered, cupping his cheek between his fingers as one does with children and thinking that he really does look like a child when his cheeks had turned burgundy.
When San had gently run icy fingers over his hot cheek, in the memory of a caress, which he had felt with the same intensity as a morning breeze, Wooyoung had shivered. It had been ages since he had been in such an intimate situation with someone; perhaps he had never even really been there. And now he was paralyzed on the spot like a 15-year-old and had no idea how to move. Too engrossed in finding a way to deal with his churning stomach and foggy mind, he had barely noticed San's body moving closer to his own, perhaps too close. And when he had meekly placed his lips on his, in a kiss initially so chaste that seemed unreal, Wooyoung had definitely felt himself on fire. His lips had then begun to move awkwardly over San's, vaguely bitter and with a strong licorice aftertaste. He had felt like he was floating at least two inches off the ground, and as the older man stroked the base of his neck, occasionally wrapping a strand of hair between his fingers, he had thought that kissing an angel must be exactly like that.
Blue.
"Do you know what I like best about the sky? That it is so immense that it can accommodate all the sighs and promises of lovers, all the promises that he and I make to each other and the sighs that get out of control when we love each other. I trust him so much that during our first time I gave him not only my body, but also every single fold of my soul. And never was there a better choice in the world. If San were a color, today and forever he would be blue."
While lying by his side, Wooyoung had taken time to admire him, as if, before that moment, he had never lingered to fathom the smallest details. They had finished making love some time ago, yet he could still make out the signs of it on the boy's exhausted face: his cheeks were flushed and a light layer of sweat made the skin under his eyes shiny, so much so that it almost seemed to glow under the neon lights of the room. The ghostly pallor was marred by the dark patches of dark circles under his eyes – an imperfection that probably made him look even more handsome – on the almost silken veils of long, elegant eyelashes that were perhaps what Wooyoung loved most about him. His forelock had stuck to his forehead and his matted hair was scattered on the pillow, crushed by his head heavy with sleep and dreams and, he hoped, hopes. San had the look and soul of an angel and, to Wooyoung, he had been a blessing.
"Wooyoung" he had bellowed, his voice soft and unclear, slurred with sleep. "Turn out the light." San had turned, assuming an awkward, almost unnatural pose, and the rustle of the sheets still soaked with their love had broken the silence.
Wooyoung had nodded, leaned over the bed to get to the switch, and almost lost his balance. San always told him that he was more unsteady than a child taking his first steps, and he never knew whether to laugh or be ashamed. "Good night" he had then told him, snapping a kiss on his cheek and lying down with her head resting on his chest.
"'Night" San had reciprocated, as he clasped Wooyoung's body to his with one arm and slowly let sleep overtake him again.
Wooyoung's I love you, at that point, was lost in the air; not that it mattered, because the only thing he could be sure of in life was that San knew full well that his love would be enough to fill the infinite colors of the sky.