Chapter Text
La stagione delle arance
“An orange upon the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet present of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life”
Warmth of my life.
Jeongguk holds his breath, big brown irises staring at the birthday candles on top of the chocolate pie his mother baked in the morning. He counts them- one, three, five, seven, ten, twelve. His father encourages him to make a wish, but he better do it quickly, since the colorful wax is already starting to melt down.
Jeongguk isn’t thinking about anything in particular when he blows out the short and wonky candles, but he smiles anyway when his parents clap their hands, fond smiles on their faces and the faint smell of smoke filling the air.
While his mother is busy cutting a generous slice of pie (the one with extra rainbow sprinkles and a generous scoop of whipped cream on top) for the birthday boy, Jeongguk’s father places a poorly wrapped up box on the table, a proud expression wiping away the wrinkles on his face for a moment. Jeongguk wonders- he wonders if his parents saved enough money to buy that Spiderman figure he saw last month on his way back home from school, or that shiny black camera he was actually starting saving money for, or even a new pair of shoes to replace that old pair of worn out Converse he wears everyday.
He does his best not to show his disappointment when his hands fish out a brand new pair of gardening gloves, the same green and white gardening gloves his father uses to pick oranges with. Jeongguk knows they’re expensive, he truly does, it’s just- he really wanted that Spiderman figure, with the fake spiderwebs and all.
Maybe next year, he thinks, maybe next year things will be different. Maybe they’ll be able to afford a prettier cake, or a steaming stuffed turkey, and perhaps he’ll receive a dope toy that will make his classmates want to be his friends. It would be so cool to spend his birthday at the beach, feet buried in burning, pale yellow sand, with the taste of salt lingering on his tongue and the sun slowly turning the sea into a wonderful mess of pink and coral. He’d get to eat sweet and sour shrimps, bowls of fresh, juicy mangos, he’d get to build a freaking huge sandcastle, he’d even get to stay up late enough to see the sunrise.
Jeongguk mindlessly stabs the remaining crumbs with his fork, the rich taste of chocolate still stuck on the roof of his mouth as he listens to his dad talk about work.
They should move soon, he realizes.
It’s a good thing that his father found a better employer, even if Jeongguk still hasn’t really understood yet much about this whole situation. He just knows that this man- who owns a bunch of orange trees, apparently- will pay his father a nice amount of money to pick the fruits when they’re ripe.
“You’ll be a good son and help me, right, Jeongguk?”
Of course he will.
Jeongguk nods briefly, stiff gardening gloves resting in his lap. He remembers how tired his father’s eyes looked whenever he came home from work, how his hands would bleed, how he’d have to wrap band aids all around his fingertips. He remembers all those evenings spent pressing an icy piece of fabric on his neck, where the sun kissed his skin for hours and hours. He remembers everything and- and he doesn’t want his father to go through all of that all over again. If Jeongguk can help him even a little bit, save his skin from getting scraped and hurt, shield his back from the unforgiving sunlight, he will.
The birthday party ends soon, right after dinner. Jeongguk helps his mother clear the table for as long as he can, the thought of filling the boxes in his room haunting him like a monster on Halloween. The truth is that he’s pretty sure things will never be the same in their new house, even if his father keeps praising it like God built it himself with the help of the Holy Spirit. The crispy September wind would have a different smell- the cold, pouring rain in January wouldn’t feel like home, the suffocating, humid heat in August would never be as liberating as it is now.
Will Jeongguk’s room be bigger than the cramped hole he now calls bedroom? Will it have bright, big windows that allow him to see the horizon? Jeongguk hopes their new house also has a veranda, so he can read his favorite comics outside, when spring makes the weather a little warmer. He’d like to get a dog too, a little one, and if he could ask for one more thing, he’d ask for a cool swimming pool right in the back courtyard.
“Gguk, we have one more gift for you,” his mother gently tells him with a white envelope held between her fingers, “We know it’s not much.” Her guilty words make Jeongguk’s heart clench painfully, but he accepts the envelope with gratitude and hugs both his parents, a sincere smile dancing on his young face.
When he’s back in his room, Jeongguk sits on the floor and opens the envelope, placing the money his parents saved for him on the floor. Its true- it’s not much, but he knows those few bills are worth more than a million. He carefully pushes them into his tiny and faded piggybank and sighs. He probably won’t be able to buy that Spiderman figure next year, but maybe he can get something cheaper but just as nice- a t-shirt, or even a snapback.
Packing is such a stressful task that Jeongguk already wants to take a break. Not that he has much to pack, though. If he tries hard enough, he probably could fit everything he owns into a single box.
The old stereo in the kitchen is playing an old 70’s song, one of his mother’s favorites, and it’s funny how he can actually hear her sing along.
So Jeongguk does start packing, when the sun is long gone and the first stars begin to decorate the sky. He folds his sweaters while the sweet notes of How deep is your love by Bee Gees fill every angle of the house, followed by his father’s favorite song instead- Billie Jean by Michael Jackson.
His parents are chatting downstairs, music flowing freely and the rustling of paper making Jeongguk understand that they are starting to pack their things as well. It makes Jeongguk wonder if a love like theirs still exist. Will he ever, ever find it? Will he have to fight, or will he find it knocking at his door?
He breathes- it’s barely midnight. They’re leaving in two days and he can’t help but feel like time is running through his fingers like sand.
And it is.
When he wakes up on a rainy Sunday morning, it’s already time to go. The house looks so sad when it’s empty- even the cabinets are gone. Their television, the sofa, his bed, even the small and old-fashioned stereo is already on the van. Jeongguk only now realizes that the walls have gotten yellow because of the time, and there are tiny cracks near the windows. There are stains where paintings used to be, and the curtains smell a little bit.
There’s no breakfast because there’s no table in the kitchen, but his mother promises him that they’ll stop by the nearest village to have a cup of tea and a piece of buttered toast.
It takes them two hours and half to get to a cheap diner, where the chairs are a bit dusty and the coffee tastes like battery acid. Jeongguk’s the only one getting breakfast- if a glass of water and a chocolate muffin can be considered as such. His parents reassure him that it’s alright, they’re not even hungry- but Jeongguk knows its because they don’t have enough change in their pockets.
The rest of the trip is quiet. Jeongguk follows the raindrops as they run down the window with his fingertip, wishing his father would just stop driving like a damn snail so they could actually get to their new house before freaking Christmas begins.
The countryside looks so, so, so boring to Jeongguk’s eyes. He ends up falling asleep after counting a dozen trees and a bunch of bushes, pretty sure that he wouldn’t miss anything spectacular. When he opens his eyes -after hitting his head against the window again, because his father apparently doesn’t know how to use brakes- the sky is dark and it’s still raining, but he hears his mother say that she’s relieved they made it even though the weather seems really bad tonight.
Their new house, once he sees it for the first time, looks pretty beaten up from the outside.
The process of parking, bringing their suitcases inside, unpacking and at least building a bed is just a huge, enormous blur. Jeongguk falls asleep again once his mother lays him down on a sofa that was already in the living room (or did his father drag it inside? Did it even fit through the door?) and he couldn’t care less if the fabric was covered by a thick layer of dust or if there were tiny spiders dancing on the cushions. He sleeps like a rock, his grumbling stomach long forgotten.
The process of waking up, washing up, opening boxes and actually filling the rooms with their old stuff is everything but a blur. From what he has seen, although it isn’t much, Jeongguk thinks it’s not really a bargain. His room is still upstairs, they still have one bathroom to share, the kitchen still looks like it belongs in a dollhouse and there isn’t even a proper garden.
To be really, brutally honest, Jeongguk isn’t even sure his mother likes it. Maybe they just need time to adjust to this new place, he thinks. Or perhaps it simply sucks.
“We have plenty of time to make this house look nice,” Jeongguk’s father mumbles as his hands desperately try to fix the sink, “Orange season doesn’t start until spring.”
Right. Orange season.
“I don’t think we need a couple of months, dad,” Jeongguk’s words echo loudly in the empty room, “More like a miracle or something.”
Later, after they had a warm bowl of chicken soup for dinner, Jeongguk discovers that his bedroom actually has one tiny perk: if he’s careful enough, he can reach the rooftop through his window- so he can spend his summer nights looking at the constellations right above his head, which sounds pretty damn sick. He most likely won’t tell his parents, because he can already hear his mother rant about him rolling down the rooftop and cracking his skull open like a piñata. That will remain a secret he shares with himself (and with his future friends, if he makes any).
During the months that follow September, when the sky is clear at night and it’s not foggy anymore, Jeongguk finds out that there’s a very expensive looking mansion near the woods. There are a bunch of trees surrounding it- are those the orange trees his father talked about? There’s a pool, too. Jeongguk has always wanted a pool. With a giant inflatable flamingo and a trampoline and all that nice stuff he usually sees in comedy movies. That pool isn’t even inflatable, hell, it’s build deep in the ground, with its fancy blue tiles and rose gold stairs. It probably has a jacuzzi, too.
He asks his father about the mansion on a chilly Tuesday morning, when the air smells like a mix of fresh cut grass and cinnamon. They’re both having kkwabaegi for breakfast, courtesy of the sweet old granny that owns a bakery in the village nearby, who also gave them a bunch of baked goods for free. It’s nice seeing a new family in the village, she said, everyone leaves after sometime because living in a town is easier. I bet it is, Jeongguk thought when the wrinkly hand patted his head.
“That’s the Park’s mansion, my employer and his family spend their summer there,” Jeongguk’s father explains while brushing off a couple of crumbs from his lap. “That’s why it’s still empty.”
“I have heard,” his father continues after a while, “That they have a son who’s about your age, or maybe a few years older than you.”
The fragrant kkwabaegi held in his hand suddenly seems tastier, sweeter. Maybe he should look forward to summer, this time.
“You two could become friends, yeah?” Jeongguk’s dad ruffles his son’s messy brown locks with a warm smile on his face.
Maybe they could, yeah.
Jimin. His name is Jimin.
Orange season starts in mid-March, when the sky is still dark in the early morning and the first shy primroses start painting the ground with little yellow dots. There are pretty purple pansies too, growing from cracked sidewalks and on the roadside. Jeongguk would rather spend his time picking them one by one, counting their soft petals one time and ten thousands more, but his father is waiting for him with a basket in his hand and a stupid hat on his head- and Jeongguk promised he’d help, so he swallows his orange juice and joins him.
It doesn’t take much to reach the orchard, which is right in front of the fancy mansion Jeongguk can see from his cramped bedroom. From up close, the mansion looks so much taller, so much bigger; even though the structure itself might be old, the walls are freshly painted with a tender ecru. The dark plum shutters, which shine brightly under the sunlight, look polished and brand new- Jeongguk isn’t really an expert in this field, but he’s pretty sure at least twenty housekeepers must spend hours cleaning that house, inside and outside. Hell, there are two greek statues near the marble stairs, and if that doesn’t say I’m so rich that I shit money, then Jeongguk must be awfully poor.
Which is- well. He does feel awfully poor, standing there, with his yellow capri shorts and a piece of toast hidden into his basket.
Jeongguk’s father spots his employer near a fountain surrounded by a bunch of lilacs. They start talking about work, about the trees, about topics Jeongguk doesn’t really care much about. He thinks about the pansies he saw on his way there, and he still would rather spend his morning picking them instead of standing there, still, arms wrapped around himself so he could feel a little warmth. It’s March and it’s cold, so cold that if he tries hard enough he can see his own breath disappearing in the air as a white-ish cloud.
The two men end up discussing inside, his presence long forgotten- leaving him with nothing else to do apart from kicking pebbles. Jeongguk wonders if those are as expensive as pretty much everything else that surrounds him, oxygen included. He ends up sitting cross legged underneath an orange tree, eating small bits of his toast (that should be his lunch) and staring at one of the open windows on the first floor.
Jeongguk meets Jimin there, at almost ten in the morning.
There’s music playing inside the room, the same room Jeongguk has been staring at for apparently the last century or so. He catches a glimpse of the boy- he sees him play the violin, soft black locks falling on his eyes and cherry pink lips pressed in a thin line. Jimin is pretty, one of the prettiest boys Jeongguk has ever seen. He’s talented too, and it’s unfair, because Jeongguk is neither of those. He listens as he plays the same notes over and over, eyes running down the score like they’re a racing car on the circuit. It sounds fine to him, but Jimin’s brows are furrowed and he keeps repeating the same notes- again, again, again- until the frustration is too much that he stops.
That’s when their eyes meet, which is funny, because Jimin’s eyes disappear when he smiles.
“Is your father the man talking to my daddy?” Jimin asks with his forearms resting on the windowsill, not really caring if his pristine white shirt might get dirty (which probably will never happen, because nothing about that mansion could be dirty).
Jeongguk nods, cheeks now red and a weird feeling slowly blossoming inside his tummy.
“I’m Jimin.”
Jimin’s hand is tiny, wrapped around Jeongguk’s cold one in a friendly shake. His fingers are short and chubby, which is cute, just like his puffy cheeks.
“My name’s Jeongguk.”
Jeongguk feels stupid talking to him through the window, so he invites him outside with a short movement of his head. Jimin carelessly tosses his violin on the sofa, and for a second Jeongguk is tempted to tell him to be careful because hell those cost a fortune but then he remembers Jimin’s father could buy him twenty violins like it’s nothing, so he just waits for him quietly.
Once they’re face to face, the difference between their financial statuses is very noticeable. Jimin’s shorter than Jeongguk, but the tiny studs attached to his ears look like diamonds, and the cardigan he’s wearing is most likely made of pure cashmere. His shoes, too, look like they cost like a tiny apartment. There’s a silver logo on them, Jeongguk has seen it before somewhere, he just can’t remember the brand.
Suddenly, Jeongguk regrets inviting Jimin outside. He regrets being there, actually, but it’s too late to run away and also, where would he run? They’re surrounded by hills and woods and grass and trees and he’s not even sure he remembers his way back home.
“Do you wanna see the greenhouse?” Jimin’s gentle voice makes Jeongguk stop daydreaming for a second, but he manages to nod briefly.
It’s weird, but Jeongguk finds comfort in that question. He’s glad Jimin didn’t ask for his age, or any other personal question. He’s glad he didn’t stare either- because rich boys sometimes do that, but Jimin seems different. Feels different, too.
Before they get to see the greenhouse, Jimin asks Jeongguk to wait for him as he sprints back inside his house. He comes out shortly after, offering the boy a steaming croissant. He got two- one for Jeongguk and one for himself- he says they’re from Paris, a gift from his uncle. Jeongguk gapes, accepting the baked good with gratitude.
“I saw you were eating a piece of toast, so I thought you might still be hungry,” Jimin shrugs, walking down the path that leads to the greenhouse. Jeongguk follows him like a lost puppy, mouth full of crispy sweet puff pastry. That croissant might be the thing closest to Heaven- its buttery taste almost makes him sigh with pleasure. They eat until there’s nothing more than a bunch of crumbs on their garments, crumbs that Jeongguk tries to pop into his mouth before they fall on the ground.
The greenhouse isn’t enormous, but it’s enchanting nonetheless. Through the transparent glass, Jeongguk spots a multitude of colors- pink, lilac, orange, crimson, royal blue. The white structure ties everything together in a quite harmonious marriage, and Jimin must be fond of his greenhouse as well given the proud smile dancing on his face. It’s warm inside, which helps against the frozen air outside, and the two boys spend the rest of the morning chatting loudly about comics and the latest video games. Jeongguk’s mother would love this tiny little angle of paradise, he thinks, because flowers have always been the easiest way to make her happy. Jeongguk remembers picking daisies on his way home from school when he was a bit younger, excited to give his handmade bouquet to his mom- she always accepted it with eagerness, placing it in a glass of water right on his bedside table.
It’s a good thing that Jimin is friendly. He talks a lot, but he doesn’t really ramble. His voice is slightly feminine, maybe because of his young age, but it’s melodic and Jeongguk likes it. Jimin overall reminds Jeongguk of a flower- not just because they are hanging out in a greenhouse. Jimin’s short, he’s as tall as a tiny pine, with his button nose and his rosy cheeks. His presence is nice, which is alarming, because Jeongguk literally just met him and he’s not a fan of rich people either, but he feels like perhaps Jimin is the exception to the rule. His lips are plush and their color is so similar to a bunch of pink roses not too far away from them. He’s cute, long story short.
“I wish we could hang out more often.” Jimin’s voice is filled with sincerity, which makes Jeongguk instantly reply that yeah, they totally should hang out more often.
“I’ll be here with my father everyday, gotta, uh, help him with the oranges and stuff,” Jeongguk says while they’re walking back to the mansion, “So if you’re free we can meet, I guess. I mean, you live here.”
And that’s how they end up making their summer plans, plans that aren’t really out of this world but they both get to spend time with someone, which is more than awesome, considering no one else lives nearby and solitude kind of really sucks when you’re a kid. Jimin tells Jeongguk about his violin lessons, and his homework, and his piano lessons, and all the other things that will keep him busy in the morning. He promises he’ll make time for Jeongguk though, he says they’ll hang out by the pool- the same pool Jeongguk kinda fell in love with, he says they will explore the woods, and the river, even.
Jeongguk slowly learns things about Jimin, like the fact that he attends a private institute with a name longer than the freaking deoxyribonucleic acid (no surprise, considering that his father managed to buy and not rent this mansion, thing that later will turn out to be false because his father had it built). He learns that Jimin both likes music and painting, but he sucks at both. His fingers are too short to play the piano and his artistic sixth sense just. Doesn’t work. All of his paintings are just attempts, because his teacher keeps yelling about him not making his color-combinations cohesive and blah blah blah. He still tries his best- because Jimin’s father didn’t raise a quitter.
When summer does come, they realize that maybe, just maybe, their plans have to change a little bit. Picking oranges takes more than a few hours in the morning, and when Jeongguk’s father allows him to go home and rest, he’s too tired to protest. His knees are stained with blood from kneeling down for so long, and his clothes are a mess, so when Jimin calls him from his window Jeongguk hides behind a tree with shame. He wishes Jimin wouldn’t see him like this, but when he’s about to go back to work- a chubby hand grabs his wrist, gentle chocolate eyes filled with worry and a bunch of bandages held in his other hand.
“Since I’m older, well, I should look after you,” Jimin tells him one day, carefully pressing a sanitized cotton pad on his scraped forearm. Jeongguk winces in pain but his chest feels warm, and that feeling becomes his companion anytime Jimin is near. Even though barely two years of age separates them, Jimin seems to treat Jeongguk more and more like his own little brother as time goes by.
Their friendship, their friendship is so precious that Jeongguk doesn’t want summer to end. It should last forever, he thinks as he peels an orange that wasn’t ripe enough to be put with the others. He offers half of it to Jimin, who accepts it with a shy smile, a bunch of books scattered on the grass and a yellow paint stain drying on his cheek.
It’s alright if they don’t get to play near the river, or if Jimin becomes too busy to invite Jeongguk to spend time at the pool. They watch the sunset on the hill every evening, when Jeongguk’s father is counting the last batch of oranges, until the sky starts to get dark and Jimin’s father yells at him to come back home. Sometimes Jimin would rest his head on Jeongguk’s shoulder, and some other times Jeongguk would make a wonky flower bracelet and tie it around his friend’s thin wrist. Their friendship is as sweet as oranges, and it turns as bitter as coffee when Jimin has to come back to his hometown because school is about to begin.
“Will I see you next summer?” Jeongguk’s voice cracks real bad, and if Jimin notices, well, he doesn’t say anything about it.
Summer is slipping through their fingers like dust, and it’s heartbreaking, because leaves are turning orange and the sky isn’t as blue as it used to be, and Jimin is leaving, and Jeongguk can’t help but just let everything happen.
“Yeah, but don’t become taller than me, okay?” Jimin’s laugh is breezy and sort of addicting, but Jeongguk feels like he’s about to burst into tears.
Jimin leaves on a humid evening in August, planting a kiss on Jeongguk’s cheek right after their driver honks twice. He promises time will fly and before he knows it, it will be March again and it will feel like Jimin never left.
Jeongguk looks at the sunset from his bedroom, which is sad and pathetic, until a soft knock on the door makes him peel his eyes off the big burning star.
“I made orange pie, bun.”
Jeongguk’s mother leaves a slice of orange pie on his desk, as for saying that’s okay, you’ll see him again soon. The pie is sweet, probably thanks for the tasty oranges Mr. Park allowed his father to bring home since there was an abundance of them.
Jeongguk can’t wait to make Jimin try it.
The next time Jeongguk sees Jimin, it’s one year later and Summer nights by John Travolta and Olivia Newton John is playing on the radio. It’s amazingly easy for them to fall into the same old cycle- it’s truly like Jimin was never gone. Their first hug is breathtaking, literally, because Jimin holds him so tight it feels like Jeongguk can’t breathe. Jimin’s hair is shorter, just like himself, or maybe it’s Jeongguk who got taller, but his rosy cheeks and chubby fingers are still the same as they were last year. There’s so much Jeongguk wants to ask him. Can he play the violin without losing his temper, now? Can he paint without making a mess on the floor and on himself?
As promised, Jeongguk and Jimin share two slices of orange pie on the highest hill, as the sunset blinds them with its warm and comforting shade of amber. They chat about everything and nothing, about school, about a couple of new plants that will join the others inside the greenhouse. It’s nice being together again, and if the centimeters between them get a bit shorter, it’s fine. Jeongguk doesn’t mind brushing his shoulder against Jimin’s bony one, or letting the older’s fingers gently tuck a couple of hair strands behind his ear. He doesn’t mind being fed either, or even being held by the waist. Jimin smells nice, and feels like home.
“Daddy thinks you’re a distraction,” Jimin says under his breath one rainy morning in June, when their feet are soaked into the shallow waters of the river and humidity lays a thick layer of stickiness on their skin. The air smells like rain, and Jeongguk can’t understand if the pain he feels in his chest is caused by the guilt of knowing that yeah, he kind of is a distraction, or by the fact that he didn’t have breakfast earlier.
Jeongguk isn’t even that surprised, honestly. He knows Jimin’s father has very high expectations, he wants great things for his only son, and Jimin in return spends the whole afternoon sharing expensive pastries with Jeongguk and chasing pretty clouds in the sky with his eyes, heart beating fast among orange trees and hands sweaty. Jeongguk does feel guilty, but maybe for once he can let himself be selfish too, the inexplicable longing for Jimin burning like a bonfire, eating him alive.
He wonders if Jimin even feels the same, though.
“Am I?”
Jimin looks tiny in that oversized sweater of his. He doesn’t raise his head, but Jeongguk knows something is on his mind. He shakes his head after a while, shy fingers searching for Jeongguk’s long ones. They stay with their fingers interlocked for what it seems to be an eternity, and even if they held hands before- now it feels different, intimate, and Jimin scoots a little bit closer, and suddenly it starts to rain, and neither of them stand up to find a shelter- because Jimin’s lips are pressed against Jeongguk’s right cheek in a clumsy kiss.
Jeongguk thinks about that kiss until it’s August and Jimin has to leave again and this time it’s ten times worse.
The piggybank is staring at him from his bedside table, all round and heavy, with money for the new spiderman figure written all over it. Jeongguk grabs it with his breath stuck in his throat and smashes it on the ground, ears filled with the annoying noise of coins rolling around. There are a couple of dollars too, not many but enough, and soon Jeongguk shoves everything he has been saving for the past five years in his pockets and runs to the village.
When Jimin pushes his suitcases into the trunk, Jeongguk is already there- with his hands behind his back, excitement bubbling in his tummy like it’s his first day of school. He hands the older a tiny box with a big, shiny yellow ribbon on top of it, because he knows Jimin’s birthday is in October and they won’t be together to celebrate it.
“Oh, Gguk,” Jimin sighs with content, pressing the box to his tiny chest. Before he leaves, Jimin kisses Jeongguk again on the cheek and mouths a sweet thank you.
Jeongguk hopes he likes the set of watercolors he got, even though the quality probably isn’t that great. It was a bit humiliating counting coins in front of the old shop assistant, whose glasses took half of her face, but he managed to pay in the end (he spent everything, from the bills to the last cent). Best 65 dollars ever spent.
Jeongguk can’t wait to see the paintings Jimin made with his gift.
Jimin doesn’t come back until the candles on Jeongguk’s birthday cake are eighteen and his hair is long, soft curly locks falling on his eyes and caressing his sharp jawline.
The mansion, no matter how much time passes, never gets old. Its ecru walls still look as candid as they were when Jeongguk was thirteen. Its plum shutters, its fancy tiles, the greek statues, the cozy greenhouse- everything looks the same. Jeongguk sometimes would look at it from the rooftop of his modest house, wondering what happened to Jimin, to them, to their whispered secrets and soft promises carried by the warm wind of June.
He waits for him, of course. When the sun makes the flowers bloom, he waits for him. When the raindrops continuously hit the window of his bedroom, he waits for him. When summer comes and goes, when winter coats everything with snow and grass isn’t green anymore, he waits for him.
It’s weird looking at the orange trees when they’re blooming, sweet scent intoxicating the air, white soft flowers decorating the orchard. Oranges fall on the ground one by one, one by one, one by one. Jeongguk’s father found another job- he repairs clocks now, which doesn’t even pay that well, but even if Jimin’s father asked him to pick oranges again, he’d have to refuse- because he’s getting old, and his back aches, and his legs don’t work like they used to before.
Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits is echoing in the kitchen downstairs when a pearly white SUV stops in front of Jimin’s house. Jeongguk is writing a stupid essay for his stupid History class, a mess of notebooks and crumpled pieces of paper scattered on the desk. His laptop is dying, and he can’t find the damned charger, and he doesn’t know a single thing about the Russian revolution, but school is almost over and graduation is so close that he can feel the sweet taste of freedom on the tip of his tongue. Except that this stupid car is making so much noise and he can’t focus and-
It really isn’t intentional, but Jeongguk’s eyes fall on the short and skinny boy walking towards the mansion, hands running through his pretty mop of platinum blonde hair and the world stops spinning, because that’s Jimin, Jeongguk’s Jimin, except that he looks nothing like him. But it’s him, right?
He spots Jimin’s father right next to him, and suddenly everything hurts, memories rush back to his brain, and all Jeongguk can see is a big, fat question mark. He thought Jimin sold the house- or just forgot about it, about Jeongguk, about oranges, about their friendship. If he could he’d run to him, bury him with questions, demanding answers, angry fists banging on his chest because how could you leave me behind, but instead Jeongguk just stares at him through his open window, heart beating like a broken clock inside his chest and legs made of jelly.
Could his father fix that clock, too?
Things hurt more, at night. Jeongguk is laying on his bed and his eyes are two sizes bigger than the moon, the same moon that’s mocking him from up there along with thousands of stars. It’s irritating, and Jeongguk can’t sleep, so he gets up and slowly makes his way to the rooftop.
Jimin’s up as well, judging by the dim light coming from his bedroom. Is he anxious as well? Is he happy to be back? Does his heart feel empty, or full like the river after it rained all week?
Jeongguk wants to see him. Wants to look at him, hold him close, share a slice of orange pie with him just like a few years ago. Would it hurt, to just stand quietly under his window? To search for his slender silhouette? Would it hurt to softly call his name, catch a glimpse of his shy smile?
Jeongguk grabs a clean t-shirt and he’s out of the house, feet hitting the ground fast and brain screaming warning warning warning. He reaches Jimin’s mansion within a couple of minutes and without his breath. He’s careful not to make any noise, because who the hell goes around at two am just creeping on people? He stands underneath his window and he feels like his legs are made of pure concrete, but Jeongguk is impulsive like his mother and before he knows it, his hand is holding a tiny rock.
And he throws it. At Jimin’s window, because apparently why not?
Maybe Jimin just forgot to switch the lights off, and he’s peacefully sleeping. Maybe he thought it was a dead bat who smashed itself against the glass, or perhaps he just didn’t hear it, so Jeongguk throws another and another one and another one again until the window slowly opens and Jimin’s confused gaze meets Jeongguk’s scared one.
This is the part where Jimin asks him if he’s a burglar, and Jeongguk’s ready to run for his life. But Jimin closes the window, runs down the stairs with such a frenzy that he’s this close to twisting his ankles, and in a matter of seconds he’s in front of Jeongguk, cheeks flushed and lips parted.
Now that he’s close- Jeongguk can see that years passed for Jimin too, making him lose his puffy cheeks and granting him a sharp, defined jawline. The shadows dance on the column of his neck and Jeongguk finds it hard to breathe, because Jimin looks like a dream and everything about him changed, but the kindness in his eyes is still the same.
“Your hair,” Jimin mutters with a soft voice, just a tone deeper than he used to have, as he runs his stubby fingers through Jeongguk’s long locks.
They hug, of course. Jimin still smells expensive, the addicting and familiar mix of white musk and citrus lingering on his skin like a second layer of clothes. Jeongguk hides his face in the crook of his neck and inhales as much as he can, and it’s fine if it’s hard to do so because Jimin is still as tall as a flower.
“Missed you,” Jeongguk mumbles, lips brushing on skin. “So much.”
Jimin simply hums, blunt nails gently scratching the younger’s nape. He holds Jeongguk’s face like it’s something fragile, precious, and kisses his cheek. They end up walking towards the greenhouse, which has always been their special place, and Jeongguk feels relief when warmth engulfs him.
They talk, of course. Jimin talks about his first years of university, about a couple of his paintings that now belong in an art gallery, about how he begged his father to let him come back to their old mansion. He talks about how bad and ugly their fights were, about how the city felt so boring and dull without Jeongguk. Jeongguk listens, knees pressed to his chest, arms hugging his legs. Even thought the moonlight paints them with a white, cold light, he can still notice the difference between their skin color. Jeongguk can’t help but think that his sun kissed skin matches Jimin’s slightly paler one like no other could.
“Am I still a distraction?” Jeongguk’s voice reaches Jimin’s ears and his words are dipped in bitterness, and Jimin feels guilty, and he shakes his head but no matter what he does- he can’t get those years back. He can’t make up for it.
“My father still doesn’t like you,” Jimin replies after remaining quiet for a couple of minutes. His smile is tainted with a kind of sadness that Jeongguk desperately wants to wipe away.
Jeongguk knows Jimin’s father has never really been fond of him, mostly because of the fact that him and Jimin just aren’t on the same level economically- but also because what kind of future could they have together? What could Jeongguk give, to Jimin? He ain’t no doctor, no lawyer. He doesn’t receive gifts from relatives living in every continent, he doesn’t have a driver, he doesn’t even own a clean pair of leather shoes. But Jeongguk likes to think that he makes Jimin happy, he makes him smile with this goofiness and with the orange pies his mother taught him to bake. He doesn’t have money in his pockets but he has fingers he can intertwine with Jimin’s ones, and he has time to give him, and he has ears to listen, and a shoulder for him to rest his head on. He thinks he’s enough.
Among the things Jimin talks about, there’s a name he mentions a couple of times. Taehyung is his roommate, and they sit next to each other during classes too. He’s tall, and a thin but chic pair of glasses rests on his nose. Jimin says he’s very artistic and Jeongguk is tempted to ask him what does that even mean, but the way Jimin describes him makes Jeongguk a little uncomfortable because it seems like they share everything together and at this point, Jeongguk wonders if Jimin shares part of his heart with him, too. He’s smart, and full of new ideas, and his parents are both surgeons, and basically he’s everything Jeongguk isn’t.
Jeongguk never, ever wants to meet him.
Jimin keeps talking softly, his thumb brushing against Jeongguk’s knuckles in a soothing motion. Jimin’s hands are soft, pretty and feminine compared to Jeongguk’s calloused ones, but they’re cute together. Are Taehyung’s hands pretty as well?
It’s five am when they decide that maybe they should leave the greenhouse and get some sleep. It’s Sunday morning and Jimin is supposed to go to mass with his father, but he says he’ll fake a flu and stay in bed, which is what Jeongguk probably will do too. The sky is a pretty shade of coral, a gentle reminder that summer is right around the corner. Jimin still smells like citrus when sunlight hits his face, and with his new hair color he almost looks angelic, but Jeongguk doesn’t tell him that. He doesn’t even tell him that the necklace Jimin’s wearing, a T and a J tied together, feels like drinking a shot glass of poison. He doesn’t tell him that he wishes his plump lips landed on his own chapped ones instead of on his cheeks, and that he hopes they can meet again, sometimes.
All Jeongguk says, right before watching Jimin walk back inside hugging his cashmere cardigan, is a lame and stupid bye.
When Jeongguk sits on his bed, hands suddenly feeling empty and heartbeat fast and loud, he realizes that he kind of have always liked Jimin- from the beginning till now, Jimin has always been a constant thought living in the back of his head, and if a few years ago the mere idea of just hanging out with him made Jeongguk euphoric, now it’s not enough anymore, and Jeongguk wants to take him to the moon and he wants to sit on the ring around Saturn with their legs dangling off the edge and kiss him. Liking a boy is scary, but it feels right, it feels like a pure, precious love. Jeongguk is well aware of all the things that could go wrong, but if he’s careful enough, he can still enjoy that happiness quietly, far away from judgmental eyes.
He just hopes- God, he desperately hopes Jimin feels the same.
Spring flies by in a heartbeat; Jeongguk graduates and his mother stains his robe with warm, happy tears. Jimin’s father, with very little kindness, offers him the same job he offered his dad- and Jeongguk accepts just to stay closer to Jimin (because oranges truly aren’t his priority). June is hot and July is hotter, and if Jeongguk’s eye catches Jimin staring at him from his window when he’s about to take his shirt off, he makes sure to put on a little show just for fun. They share a glass of lemonade in the evening, right after sunset, and it’s cute how the thin slice of lemon Jimin drops in it resembles the moon.
Sometimes, if Jimin’s too busy to secretly bring Jungkook a sandwich for lunch, the younger would sit underneath an orange tree, sweet orange juice dripping from his chin and knife held in his hand, and he’d listen to the melody coming from the living room (it’s true, Jimin really got better at playing the violin). He’d push his damp hair away from his forehead and he’d wait for Jimin to stand on the balcony to say hi, flushed cheeks and cheeky white shorts. They’d wave at each other and that would be enough to push Jeongguk through the day.
Sometimes, if Jimin’s father is out of town for work, Jimin would invite Jeongguk over to hang out by the pool. They would enjoy the coolness of the water surrounding their heated bodies- and when Jeongguk would jokingly push Jimin towards the corner of the pool, the older wouldn’t even try to squirm away- they’d stare at each other’s lips with a tension so thick it could be cut with a knife, and then Jimin’s hands would gently push Jeongguk away with a breezy laugh, and the magic would be over in a second.
Sometimes, if it’s late enough and the sky is pitch black, Jimin would let Jeongguk in and they’d eat Scottish shortbread biscuits or cream filled pastries on Jimin’s bed. I wanna feel your heartbeat by Bad Boys Blue would be playing in the background from a tiny stereo on the top shelf of Jimin’s desk, and crumbles staining the baby yellow sheets wouldn’t be a problem. At dawn Jeongguk would wait on Jimin’s doorstep for the latter to stand on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and then he’d softly wish him goodnight.
But Jimin still wears that necklace.
Taehyung visits Jimin on a random Tuesday morning, turquoise hair matching his blue shirt in a way that would look awful on anyone else. He’s tall and the sunglasses resting on top of his head probably cost like Jeongguk’s beaten up car he got recently, his voice is deeper than the ocean and his boxy smile makes Jimin eyes disappear in such a pretty way that Jeongguk wish he had a camera in his hands to capture that moment. Taehyung’s nice, he’s very damn nice, and he’s rich, and Jeongguk wants to hate him but he can’t- because he has no reason to.
Jeongguk pretends to look away whenever Taehyung’s lips would get too close to Jimin’s neck, and he’d pretend to be fine when Jimin’s hand would find its way to hold Taehyung’s.
The bitter truth is that Taehyung visits Jimin twice a week now, and their chemistry is so damn obvious that Jeongguk feels out of place, like a stupid third wheel. He thinks- he thinks it’s better if he backs off, because if Jimin’s happy with him, then- then there’s not reason for Jeongguk to stick around anymore.
Orange season ends early, around mid-August. Jeongguk is busy filling the wheelbarrow with the fruits that were either damaged by the weather or with oranges too tiny to be sold, the remaining sunlight dancing on his bare back, when Jimin approaches him with a glass of icy water.
He says he has to leave soon because school starts in September and there’s still so much he has yet to do. Jeongguk just nods and keeps working, not really wanting to look Jimin in the eye, because it would hurt and Jeongguk’s heart is too tired to deal with this- whatever this is. Maybe Jimin isn’t even sorry to come back home. There’s Taehyung waiting for him, too.
“Will I see you next year?” Jimin asks, watching as Jeongguk refuses the glass of water he brought for him.
In the greenhouse Jeongguk talked about wanting to become a professional photographer, one of those who own a camera bigger than their head, the ones who shoot pictures for international magazines and important events. He talked about not having enough money to move to the big city, to attend class, to buy all the equipment- he talked about traveling the world, seeing new cities, crossing rivers, sailing oceans.
“You know I can’t go anywhere,” Jeongguk replies sarcastically, “Will I see you, next year?”
Jimin promises to come back, with or without his father. Jeongguk just hopes he won’t bring Taehyung along, this time.
Jimin leaves a couple of days later, fingertips running softly along Jeongguk’s jawline and that stupid necklace still touching his skin. There’s so much Jeongguk wants to say, to ask him. Is he dating Taehyung? Did he throw away the set of watercolors Jeongguk bought with the only money he had?
The driver honks twice and Jimin’s orange-y scent is gone, vanished in the air.
Jeongguk sits on the rooftop of his own house, eyes counting the multitude of tiny white dots in the sky, and cries.
Jimin keeps his promise, and on March 31st he’s sitting on his beige porch swing, a book resting on his lap and gaze fixed on the orange trees not too far away from the mansion. His hair is wavier than the waves of the sea and pinker than a newly born rose, and even though that style might not be the most masculine one, Jeongguk thinks it fits Jimin very well- he says it out loud when he runs his fingers through it and Jimin lets him, cheeks warm like a nice pair of wool gloves in December.
Apparently, lots of things happened in a year. Jeongguk got taller, his hair longer, and Jimin got skinnier, his fingers now thin and decorated by sparkly silver rings. Jeongguk is almost twenty and Jimin is almost twenty two, but it seems like neither of them is ready to let their childhood go. They still watch the sunset together, drink iced tea by the pool, read old comic books like they’re some kind of relics.
Jimin doesn’t wear his necklace anymore, and Jeongguk doesn’t ask. He quietly picks orange blossoms one by one and connects them together with a thin grass strand, making a pretty necklace for the older. It might not be made of gold, but it’s made of pure adoration- and its like Jimin knows, because the smile he wears when Jeongguk ties the ends around his neck is different. Feels different, too.
The next time Jeongguk finds himself in Jimin’s bedroom, the wall is completely covered by colorful droplets of paint and the curtains are open, letting the sun drown the room in pale, orange light. The twilight will come soon but Jimin doesn’t seem to mind, hands arranging brushes and pieces of paper. He asks Jeongguk to take his t-shirt off and lay on the carpet, so he can straddle his waist and start his little masterpiece. Jeongguk sighs a little when the cold tip of the brush tickles his nape, where the skin is sensitive. Jimin paints Jeongguk’s back with warm, soft tones of pinks and blues, greens and reds. He paints the sea and the sun, the clouds and the sand- and when the brush doesn’t do its job anymore, Jimin uses the tips of his short fingers- and presses on the skin, dragging colors along Jeongguk’s spine like he’s trying to remember the details of his back until his last day on earth.
When he’s done, Jimin asks Jeongguk to sit upright- and then he paints his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin, his forehead. He dips the palm of his hand in red paint and then gently places it on Jeongguk’s chest, right above his heart. They’re so close that Jeongguk can count every and each of Jimin’s eyelashes, he can feel the older’s breath mix with his own, they’re so close that Jeongguk hears Jimin swallow, and when Jimin’s blue stained index finger brushes against Jeongguk’s lower lip- Jeongguk leans in some more and suddenly they’re barely kissing.
Jimin is shy when he kisses, lips gently pecking Jeongguk’s parted ones tentatively. The sun is long gone as they end up clumsily making out in the dark of Jimin’s bedroom, the chilly breeze dancing through their hair. Jeongguk’s hands silently travel underneath Jimin’s thin sweater, caressing the smooth skin of his hips. He pulls him closer, tugs at the fabric until Jimin allows him to take it off- and then they kiss some more, wet patches adorning necks and jaws.
Jeongguk only stops when he realizes Jimin is now laying on his back, eyelids fighting to stay open, lips bitten and raw, purple bruises slowly appearing on his exposed collarbones. Unchained melody by The Righteous Brothers is playing in the background and the sound of his heartbeat is so loud that he can barely hear the lyrics, but then Jimin’s hand cups his cheek and Jeongguk gets lost in his eyes all over again.
That night Jeongguk finds out that Jimin looks beautiful on his knees, with his cheeks stained by hot tears and throat ready to be abused. He looks beautiful when he’s hiding his embarrassed face in his decorated pillow, fists grabbing the bedsheets until his knuckles turn white. He looks beautiful when bliss makes him gasp for air, the constant feeling of Jeongguk’s cock filling him up- he looks beautiful when he softly demands for more, voice broken and unstable, and he looks beautiful when he smiles through kisses, forehead damp and limbs aching.
But Jeongguk thinks Jimin looks even more beautiful when it’s six in the morning and he’s still sleeping, not really caring about the pile of discarded clothes on the rug. Jeongguk wakes him up with sweet, sugary kisses to let him know that their parents are probably looking for him and that he should leave, but Jimin’s iron grip makes him stumble back and so he allows himself to stay for five more minutes.
“September is getting closer,” Jimin croaks, still half asleep. I don’t wanna leave just yet. “So, stay.”
September comes and brings thick, angry clouds with it. Jimin kisses Jeongguk while holding a bright yellow umbrella in his right hand and his suitcase in his left one. He says he does’t know when he’ll be back- but he’ll stay in touch, and he asks Jeongguk to wait for him because orange season comes every year and so will he.
Before leaving, Jimin gives Jeongguk an early birthday present. The driver honks twice and he’s gone, the citrusy taste of his lips still tangling on Jeongguk’s tongue. The younger takes a picture of Jimin as he’s about to turn his head, pretty pink hair getting soaked by the rain. He laughs and Jeongguk does the same, hoping the picture he took will help him remember that moment forever.
Warmth of my life, don’t be scared to follow your dreams. Spread your wings.
-Jimin
Jeongguk holds the black camera Jimin bought for him and brings it closer to his chest.
Warmth of my life.
Jeongguk holds his breath, big brown irises staring at the birthday candles on top of the chocolate pie his mother baked in the morning. He counts them- one, three, five, seven, ten, twelve, twenty five. His father encourages him to make a wish, but he better do it quickly, since the colorful wax is already starting to melt down.
Jeongguk isn’t thinking about anything in particular when he blows out the short and wonky candles, but he smiles anyway when his parents clap their hands, fond smiles on their faces and the faint smell of smoke filling the air.
“I’m glad you came,” Jeongguk mutters as he hugs them both, careful not to stain his pristine white shirt with the chocolate cream left on his plate.
“We’d never miss our son’s first exhibit, right?” his father exclaims. His mother nods enthusiastically and holds Jeongguk’s hand, as for saying you made it.
When Jeongguk hands the waiter his credit card to pay for his birthday lunch with his parents, he wonders if Jimin would be proud of him for following his dreams- and making it. He wonders if he got older, if he still wears a ring on each finger, if his lips still tremble when he kisses someone. He wonders if he found love, if the smell of orange blossom still lingers on his skin.
Jimin never came back after that summer, when birds used to sing early in the morning and the moon looked closer than ever. In December the orange trees got cut and a big, scary sign with sold written on it appeared in front of the mansion.
So Jeongguk followed his dream and left the countryside.
Jeongguk takes pictures for a living. He publishes them on magazines, the ones he sometimes used to read while he was waiting for school to start. He wears suits and ties, black shiny shoes when he has meetings. He buys fancy cups of coffee, checks the time thanks to the expensive watch he got in Switzerland last March.
But Jeongguk- Jeongguk didn’t change much. He still wants that Spiderman figure he first saw when he was a kid, the one with the fake spiderwebs and all. He still keeps his hair long, because he remembers Jimin liked to run his fingers through it, he still secretly eats raw cookie dough and forgets to buy cereals every time he goes grocery shopping. He’s still Jimin’s Jeongguk, but is Jimin still Jeongguk’s Jimin?
The exhibition starts at five in the afternoon, and it goes well. There’s red wine, people chattering- Jeongguk stares at the pictures on the walls and only now realizes that he took all of those. He bows to faces he doesn’t recognize and holds hands he knows he won’t hold another time. Jeongguk stops by the last picture he took- a pretty sunset with sunlight creeping through the woods- and then keeps walking, looking at skies and clouds and all the things that mean something to him.
“That one’s my favorite,” a high pitched voice says, taking Jeongguk by surprise.
“What’s the title?” he asks again, pointing his chubby index finger towards a picture with a boy in it, hair like cotton candy and eyes disappearing because of a laugh.
Jeongguk stares at the stranger who’s now standing next to him, notes of orange blossom filling the air like it's spring and trees are coming back to life.
“It’s called,” Jeongguk breathes- words are dying in his throat, hints of tears stinging his eyes.
“Warmth of my life,” Jimin finishes for him, fingers finding Jeongguk’s ones like they remember the way.
As if they could ever forget it.
warmth of my life - to the love i found among orange trees