The Moons Galileo Discovered

by TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard

Summary:

“Why do it through a poem?” he wonders.

“Isn’t there something romantic about it?” Jaeyun laughs yet again and Jongseong finally decides that he likes the sound. “I want to handwrite it. Spritz the paper with perfume. Seal it in a fancy envelope. Everything.”

 

 

 

 

I want to offer you a lovelier word

than lovely. I want to offer you a prettier word

than pretty.

 

Love and beauty is all you are;

Darling, you were born from a yellow star.

 

You're my sunshine by Juansen Ryne Dizon

 

ღ

 

The academy is centuries old and built sturdy and strong with tradition. Tucked away on a secluded plot of land in the northern foothills, some of the country’s greatest young minds have studied in the school's famous castle-like halls. The architecture is nearly Gothic with its towering spires and vaulted ceilings and heavy, dark, hardwood floors.  It is like something from a history book, a place where men are knighted and defend against sieges. There is beauty in the academy’s isolation and rigidity and stoicism, however, and there is romanticism in the turrets and towers. Like bits of fairy tales rendered in mortar and stone and hanging wisteria. There is a loveliness to the leaves of the old trees turning orange and yellow with the slow changing of the seasons.

 

It is the perfect place for young love.

 

In the afternoons, especially between the hours of four and five, sunlight pours through the rows of stained glass windows in the library's west wing and spills warm, multi-colored light across the upstairs study tables. It is a breathtaking kaleidoscope of reds and greens and yellows and blues.

 

It is Jongseong's favorite place.

 

Quiet, shy little Jongseong with his thick, round glasses and lucky ink pen and mild speech impediment and bitten-down fingernails. It is almost expected that his favorite place in the academy would be the library.

 

This wonderful place that always smells of ink and paper and wood. This hallowed place full of knowledge and shadowy corners and gleaming, prismatic light.

 

Here, Jongseong can read and study and write to his heart's content, fingers flipping through well-worn pages of old textbooks and back-dated newspapers. Here, he can quietly observe the other students in their perfect cream-colored school uniforms as they come and go with whispered voices and tip-toed steps, every giggle amplified by the echo between the shelves.

 

Here, Jongseong can admire his crush from a safe and carefully measured distance. Not too close as to acquire attention. Not too far as to be entirely outside of his crush’s presence.

 

Sunghoon.

 

He has it all, doesn’t he? Such arrestingly sharp eyes. Such a prominent, stately nose. Such plush, doll-like lips. Moles like a constellation across his face. And he has not just looks but talent! A member of the prestigious student council. Captain of the academy’s mathematics team. A beautification volunteer often seen tending to the flowers and shrubs in the wee hours of the morning. He truly has it all! Grades. Popularity. Charisma. Above-average height. Sunghoon is a shining star and Jongseong is the amateur astronomer who can only observe him from a cosmos away through outdated tools.

 

Sunghoon usually sits in the corner three tables down with his friends and classmates. They are a surprisingly studious bunch and rarely get loud and disruptive, despite the group’s size. That means that Jongseong is free to peer up from his homework and watch Sunghoon. He cannot do it for too long at a time or make too many attempts in a row else he’ll be caught but even this is something that he’s mastered over the weeks. A dance with danger. One cannot stare into the sun without damaging their eyes, after all, and Sunghoon’s starlight is both dazzling and damning. So Jongseong is careful with how he watches Sunghoon. How he watches Sunghoon bite his bottom lip in concentration. How he watches Sunghoon’s well-combed hair drape over his forehead as he leans over a textbook. Watches his slender hands flip through notebooks and guide a pen across a page.

 

Marvelous. Well and truly.

 

Struck by inspiration, Jongseong lowers his gaze to his own notebook. His lucky ink pen in hand, he scribbles down a line of poetry. Something flowery and crisp. And then he writes another line. And another. It comes easy to him. The descriptions are exaggerated, true. The metaphors are heavy-handed. The imagery is blunt and over-the-top. This is love, after all. Silly, stupid, pathetic love, and there’s no use for subtlety. 

 

Jongseong looks up, drags a hand over his chin in thought.

 

Sunghoon laughs at something one of his friends says but he is immediately shushed by the boy next to him. Even that brief glimpse of his smile is enough to fuel Jongseong’s art. His heart. 

 

It is like having a scientific breakthrough. Jongseong even points a finger and whispers “Aha.”

 

He looks back down. The last line he wrote is now unsatisfactory. He drags a line of ink through it and then rewrites it. It is not necessarily better but it is different and when he writes a fourth line beneath it, the stanza is complete.

 

Brilliant.

 

Jongseong glances up. The boys three tables down are standing up, packing their things, slinging their bags over their shoulders, muttering in low voices about after-dinner plans.

 

One is missing from the group.

 

Jongseong counts them twice just to be sure.

 

“What are you working so hard on today?” The voice comes from immediately behind Jongseong.

 

He whirls in his chair, barely manages to hold back a shout. 

 

Sunghoon looms over him, handsome and tall and smelling like mint. One hand rests on the back of Jongseong’s chair. The other sits on the edge of the table, close enough to Jongseong’s wrist that he can feel the heat of it. Sunghoon slowly smiles. “That doesn’t look like class work.” Yet he’s looking into Jongseong’s face, not at the ink scribbles on the page.

 

“It is, actually,” Jongseong manages to squeak out the half-lie. He has already completed and handed in that assignment. He swallows a mouth full of spit and says, “for Mr. Jung’s class.”

 

Sunghoon nods slowly. “Ahh. English. That explains it. May I?” But he’s already lifting his hand from the table, already flipping the notebook page back to skim over Jongseong’s words.

 

Jongseong is not as afraid of this as he feels like he should be. He does not feel threatened and vulnerable and exposed. His heart doesn’t go hammering in his chest. He doesn’t slam the notebook shut on Sunghoon’s fingers and run for the stairs. Then again, he is smart. He knows not to use Sunghoon’s name in his poetry. He knows to avoid specificity. Any identifying details are all hidden beneath ambiguous comparisons to colors and stars and water and fruit. This is not Jongseong’s first secret crush and he has learned the hard, violent way to never draw his name and another boy’s name in a bubbly heart. 

 

Not where other people can see, at least.

 

Sunghoon opens his mouth, perhaps to make some sort of comment on Jongseong’s work, but then one of the other boys calls Sunghoon’s name, begs him to come on already .

 

“See you around,” Sunghoon whispers to Jongseong, as if he’s actually promising that they will talk again, and then he jogs off to catch up with his friends. 

 

ღ

 

The times are slowly changing.

 

Chapel on Sunday mornings is no longer mandatory for students to attend, but Jongseong is a creature of habit. He spent his childhood among the pews and up in the choir stand. Even here at this school, this far away from his mother’s watchful eyes and his father’s strict discipline, Jongseong can’t bring himself to skip service.

 

“Let’s skip service.”

 

The words startle him from his reading of Deuteronomy. Jongseong sits up, the bible heavy on his lap. The page is well-worn, almost soft , beneath the press of his pointer finger. Jongseong blinks as if waking from a dream. It is noisy in the chapel. Voices and movement and footsteps as people settle into their places on the pews. The tuning of instruments. Service is about to start. 

 

It takes a few moments of rapid blinking for Jongseong’s eyes to adjust to the chapel’s oddly stark lighting.

 

A tall boy is on the pew directly in front of Jongseong, twisted all the way around to look at him. He’s handsome, with an expression that is soft and warm, eyes that are big and expressive. A smile that feels both friendly and mischievous. The boy’s dress shirt is wrinkled along the sleeves, his cuffs are unbuttoned and his tie is criminally loose.

 

Jongseong looks to his left and then to his right. There’s no one on either side of him just yet.

 

The tall boy says, smiling, “I’m talking to you, Jongseong.”

 

“You know my name?” he blurts out, a hair too loudly.

 

That makes the boy laugh. It sounds like birds in the morning. It sounds like light. He leans forward and props an elbow on the back of the pew. “Of course!”

 

“Do I… know you?” Jongseong asks, but as soon as the question leaves his mouth, he gasps. 

 

This is Jaeyun in front of him. The ace of the school’s soccer team. Famous on campus for his playboy tendencies and for having a family who generously donates to the academy. If there’s a celebrity on campus, it’s Jaeyun. Jongseong gasps all over again.

 

Unfazed, Jaeyun repeats, “Let’s skip service.” He probably shouldn’t say that so boldly!

 

“I c-c-can’t,” Jongseong mumbles. No one here knows his family. No one here will tell his mother that he skipped service, but the guilt will weigh on his soul. He will probably last two days before he goes to the office to dial up his parents and tattle on himself.

 

“Come on,” says Jaeyun, standing up. “Just this once.” He reaches out and removes the bible from Jongseong’s lap with a disrespectful amount of force. “I need your help with something. It’s quite important.” He snaps the book closed and unceremoniously crams it into the shelf behind his pew.

 

“ My help?” Jongseong parrots. He curls his hands uselessly into the fabric of his slacks, only just now recognizing that the good book has been taken from him. He sits there, paralyzed. He is torn between freeing the book from the shelf to smooth out the pages Jaeyun rumpled and creased when he’d roughly handled it or reaching up and adjusting Jaeyun’s crooked tie. His fingers twitch as he chooses neither. “How can I help you ?” 

 

Jaeyun grabs his wrist, pulls him to his feet. “Let’s go,” he says. He tugs Jongseong towards the aisle without anything resembling an explanation. It’s a bit of an awkward stretch, with the high-backed pew between them, and they are slowed down by having to skirt around the knees of other students and faculty and chapel-goers, but when they get out into the aisle, Jaeyun tightens his grip on Jongseong’s arm and pulls him down the aisle and through the chapel’s double doors, out into the clean October sunshine.

 

Jongseong sucks in a breath, helpless. Even rushing down the stairs at this hour feels blasphemous. He’s not used to being out until the early afternoon!

 

That does not seem to bother Jaeyun. He lets out a wild laugh and pulls on Jongseong’s arm until he tilts into something mildly more urgent than a fast walk.

 

The two of them run down the slope and away from the chapel. The grass beneath their dress shoes is yellowing with the cooling temperatures but the strawflowers are still in bloom and they are beautiful.

 

They wind up on the southern end of campus, away from most of the other academy buildings and not too far from the river. It’s possible to see the roofs of the town through the thinning cover of the deciduous trees but it’s a view Jongseong can’t see much of when he is being pulled with such force.

 

Jaeyun does not stop until the two of them are in the shade of a large tree that stands at the top of a hill. He collapses against the trunk of the tree, his cheeks pink with exertion and his hair an unkempt mess from the run. The both of them breathe heavily, though Jongseong, a tad less athletic, must plant a hand on his knee as he gasps.

 

“This is a bit embarrassing,” Jaeyun begins, his voice hoarse and thin. “But I’ve been thinking about it all week and can’t come up with a better plan.” He bites back another laugh and stares up at the sky through the half-naked branches of the tree. A flock of migrating birds whorls overhead. In the distance, the church bell begins to chime, counting off the start of service, counting off the hour. It ding-dongs ten times and then the whole yard goes quiet. Jaeyun says, “I was wondering if you could help me confess to someone.” 

 

Jongseong rubs at his ear, fearful that he’s misheard. The church bell is quite loud, even at this distance. “H-how can… How can I help you do that?”

 

Jaeyun lets go of his arm but then leans into his face. Close. “You write poetry, don’t you? Mr. Jung says you’re the best he’s seen this school year. Only you can help me get my feelings out.”

 

Hearing all of that makes Jongseong’s jaw go slack with surprise. Mr. Jung said his work is the best he’s seen? After embarrassing him in front of the class with that rather scathing critique just this past Thursday? But, beyond that, his reputation as a poet is in such a state that Jaeyun has heard of him? One of the most popular guys in school?

 

And he needs Jongseong’s help confessing to some girl?

 

“Why do it through a poem?” he wonders. 

 

“Isn’t there something romantic about it?” Jaeyun laughs yet again and Jongseong finally decides that he likes the sound. “I want to handwrite it. Spritz the paper with perfume. Seal it in a fancy envelope. Everything.”

 

Jongseong glances down, takes in the sight of Jaeyun scuffing his shiny shoes on the rough tree roots. He tries not to grimace. “She must be one great girl.”

 

At that, Jaeyun hesitates. His smile dims but not by a noticeable amount. “I want my confession to be memorable and--” He dips forward to put his face in Jongseong’s line of sight. “I feel like only you can help me with that.”

 

It is such an odd, weirdly personal request that Jongseong nervously rubs at his ear again. He is tempted to walk away. Just flee and not look back.

 

“Can you help me write something?” Jaeyun asks. “A quick poem. Nothing fancy.” He reaches out both hands, slaps them down on Jongseong’s tiny shoulders and shakes him just shy of violently. “Please,” he begs, grinning from ear to ear.

 

The absurdity of it all! But Jongseong can’t identify an issue with the plan so he sighs and gives in. “I need to go to my room and get my things. Meet me by the fountain in the garden in an hour.”

 

He does not expect Jaeyun to pull him into a hug.

 

He does not expect Jaeyun to smell like spiced apple cider.

 

ღ

 

Jongseong only intends to return to his dorm for a few minutes. Jaeyun is waiting for him, after all, and it would be highly improper to make him wait. If there's one thing his military general father ingrained in Jongseong, down to the marrow of his bones, it is the almost compulsive need to be punctual . To always stick to a schedule, rain or shine. Jongseong checks his wristwatch for the time and allots himself fifteen minutes to gather his things and make it to the place where he is meeting Jaeyun. Picking up his pace, he turns the next corner to get to his wing of the dorm building. His journey is full of obstacles, however. A battlefield lies before him. The wood-paneled corridor is crowded with eager, rowdy boys. The walls echo with their noise and trembles with their stomping despite the somewhat early Sunday hour. Isn't this supposed to be a day of rest and quiet renewal? Jongseong turns up his nose in displeasure.

 

Although it is somewhat reckless to do so indoors, a group of four or five boys have begun pitching a sports ball back and forth between them, shouting and laughing and pointing and cursing, and it takes quite a bit of patience and maneuvering for Jongseong to get by them without being tackled as they mindlessly block the corridor with their game. Not too far beyond them, more boys sprint around the corner in varying stages of undress, apparently attempting to run away from their friend full of wicked laughter who might be clutching something gross and hairy and alive in his cupped palms. Even in the last stretch of red-carpeted hall in front of Jongseong's door, two boys shout and wrestle each other to the floor and it is not all that apparent if they are friends or enemies. Pressing flat to the wall to avoid flailing limbs, Jongseong slips past them and fetches his dorm room key from the pocket of his dress slacks.

 

Jongseong isn't used to walking through such chaos, which is quite the reminder that he's supposed to be in service! He's normally at the chapel around this hour, listening and learning. Being obedient and faithful. Staying after for dinner usually doesn't have him back at the dorm until late-afternoon, when the boys' dorm is somewhat quiet as the students settle in for the evening.

 

Jongseong should be in service right now. That is his place.

 

But he's made a promise and it would do him no good to break it.

 

He closes the door behind him and casts his gaze about the room. It is remarkably easy, even with just a glance, to tell the difference between his side of the room and his roommate's side of the room. One half of the space is a disorganized sty of haphazardly discarded trash and dirty clothing, piles of board game pieces and action figures, barely hidden stacks of magazines with scantily-clad women on the covers. The other half of the room is neatly arranged. Mystery novels are organized alphabetically by author on the tall, wooden bookcase. Textbooks on language and chemistry and wildlife and astronomy and physics are lined up along the far wall since there is no more room for them on the shelves. The desk is covered in stacks of reference books and incomplete homework assignments and half-finished essays and rows of quill pens, the smell of ink heavy in the air even from this distance. Jongseong's uniform--already ironed and ready for Monday morning--hangs off the back of the desk chair. The twin-size bed is neatly made, the sheets and comforter tight and crisp atop the mattress. The door to the wardrobe is wide open, revealing hangers full of clean, sharply-pressed, starched clothing. There aren't many personal effects: a crucifix hangs on the wall above the bed, a leather-bound bible sits on the small table near the door, a framed photograph of a full moon sitting high in the night sky hangs to the right of the bookcase, a 1,000-piece puzzle that he is nearly finished with sits on the hardwood floor at the foot of the bed while a stack of comic strips cut out of numerous newspapers sits in a cardboard box next to his row of shoes.

 

Jongseong's roommate is gone for the time being--probably spending time with his many friends--but he's left the window up and the chilly, mildly damp breeze has stirred up the papers on Jongseong's desk.

 

Quickly, Jongseong crosses the room to get his things back in order.

 

He'll gather a few of his poetry notebooks, he reasons as he works. The notebooks with some of his older pieces that could do with a bit of polish. Perhaps he'll bring along a book or two by his favorite poet. For inspiration! Has Jaeyun eaten yet? Would he appreciate a snack? They'll need a sheaf of fresh paper. A few pens. How long will this take? Should he bring along some of his homework?

 

Goodness. He is very nervous. Still caught up on the idea of Jaeyun asking him for help confessing to someone.

 

"What should I do?" he whispers into the air. Because no matter how he thinks of it, he's not sure he is the right man for this task. "How can I help anyone else when I can't even confess to someone myself?" It almost seems ironic. He knows so little of love yet is expected to teach someone else how to express it. But the answer is quite obvious. He has dozens--hundreds!--of poems and letters detailing his fondness and affection for Sunghoon. Surely it won't be difficult at all to help Jaeyun string a few lovely words together so that the man might confess to his own crush. Jongseong considers himself a skilled teacher. If they can cover the basics today, Jaeyun will be writing poetry of his own in no time! 

 

His confidence renewed, Jongseong goes around the room to gather his materials. He has to empty his satchel of his textbooks and class notes beforehand, but it is still fun work to neatly stack his notebooks full of poetry and his other supplies into the bag's leather belly.

 

By the end of it, he's in such a good mood that, certainly, he's just imagined Sunghoon's twinkling laugh ringing in his ears.

 

No. There it is again. Loud and real and close. Not at all a figment of his imagination.

 

Jongseong approaches the open window and looks out at the rolling hills of the campus. Even with the autumnal chill in the air, the sky is a lovely blue and the clouds look low and soft enough to touch. It's a beautiful day and Jongseong finds himself breathing in the October air and letting it sit in his lungs before he exhales it. He pushes a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and searches the crowd of people for the source of that laugh he'd heard. There's a great many students walking the tree-lined, stone paths a story below. With the dorm this close to the center of campus, tucked so tightly between the academic and administrative buildings, of course there would be a great many people out and about. Still, even with so many figures walking and shouting and laughing, Jongseong's eyes gravitate down and to the right almost instinctively. Almost like magic.

 

There he is.

 

Sunghoon. Walking with his numerous friends from his study group, a friendly arm thrown around one of their shoulders. His head is thrown back as he laughs and the morning sunlight glints off his white teeth and wet tongue.

 

Jongseong has looked at him a great many times over the school year but the sight of Sunghoon still manages to make him quietly gasp. 

 

Such a pronounced nose. Such strong brows. Such wonderfully sharp eyes! He will never get tired of looking at the man. He always finds something new to admire. This is why it is so easy to compare Sunghoon's looks to flowers. To fruit. To the ocean. Jongseong does not know or wish to know what wine tastes like but Sunghoon looks like how wine must taste. Sweet and rich and full and decadent. Jongseong lets himself imagine, for one brief and sinful moment, how lovely it would be to kiss Sunghoon. To taste Sunghoon's tongue with his own tongue and feel Sunghoon's skin with his own skin.

 

How does Sunghoon look like that ? So terrifically handsome. So brilliant and rare. Like a star that fell from heaven to walk among mortal men.

 

"That's it!" Jongseong gasps, settling his weight on the windowsill. Hastily, he flips open the notebook in his hands and puts his ink pen to the page.

 

He writes. Like his life depends on it, he writes.

 

Inspiration burns bright in him, a towering fire, and he almost frightens himself with how easily the words pour out. So rarely does he get like this. Like he's in tune with the world. Like the heavens are speaking through his pen. It excites him. He can't help but smile with everything that he has! So rarely can he directly translate the flickering images and nebulous thoughts in his head into distinct words. It is as if he's meant to be here, in this very moment, sitting on this sill with sunlight warm and dappled and soft-edged on his face, recording the sheer length of his adoration onto paper. He's careful not to write Sunghoon's name. Careful to only describe Sunghoon as celestial bodies. As stars. As comets. As planets. As moons. He measures the distance between the two of them in lightyears and lists how hot his infatuation burns in degrees Celsius. Line after line slips from his pen, his handwriting as neat as if he'd sat down with a typewriter. One stanza becomes two. Two becomes three. Like stars going supernova. Exploding. Three stanzas morphs into four and then he's reached the bottom of the page, his words trailing off next to the flowers printed into the notebook's outer corners.

 

At last, Jongseong finishes. He heaves a giddy sigh now that the work is complete and he finds himself grinning from ear to ear. Satisfaction bubbles up in him. His blood fizzes in his veins as if he's replaced the sacred stuff with foaming, too-sweet root beer. 

 

He tucks his pen between the pages like a bookmark and then shuts his notebook. Jongseong looks out the window and lifts a hand, fully prepared to slide the pane shut, but he glances to the path beneath the window and spots Sunghoon looking up at him.

 

They make eye contact--there is no doubt about it--and neither of them immediately look away.

 

Jongseong stills. 

 

Sunghoon's friends have long since left him behind, it seems, but that doesn't appear to bother Sunghoon as he stands at the edge of the path, hands pushed into his wool pants, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches Jongseong.

 

Has he been standing there the whole time, Jongseong wonders. Has he been watching Jongseong write all this while? Why would he do such a thing?

 

A brisk wind picks up then, stirring through Jongseong's dark hair. He braces against it, takes his eyes off of Sunghoon and glances down at his wristwatch. Goodness! It is five minutes past the time he's supposed to be meeting Jaeyun! How has he let so much time slip past him? Jongseong drops off of the windowsill and lowers the pane to lock the window shut. Through the glass, he glances down at the path below and is almost relieved to see that Sunghoon is not there. Of course it had been an illusion. A dream. A spell worked from Jongseong's ardent wishes and untamed desire. Of course Sunghoon hadn't really been standing there and watching him write, he laments.

 

If he had looked off to the left, however, past the thinning deciduous tree and around the iron fence post, Jongseong would have seen Sunghoon fighting back a grin as he walked backwards, eyes still honed on Jongseong's window.

 

ღ

 

Jaeyun is already standing by the fountain in the center of the garden maze, staring into the mildly murky water as if debating whether or not he should stick his hand in. He's changed clothes since Jongseong saw him back at the chapel, swapping out his crooked tie and wrinkled dress shirt for a more comfortable striped sweater and an athletic jacket sporting their school's mascot and logo. He hasn't noticed Jongseong's presence yet so the bespectacled boy takes a few seconds to catch his breath and smooth down his hair after half-jogging from his dorm.

 

When he's got his breathing back under control, Jongseong resumes his walk across the cobbled stone of the fountain plaza and stutters out, "I a-a-apologize for my t-tardiness."

 

Jaeyun turns to look at him and a smile broadens across his face at just the sight of Jongseong. "Oh, you're late? No problem. I'm just getting here myself."

 

An obvious lie. "I... I shouldn't have k-k-kept you waiting. How-- How improper of m-me."

 

"Jongseong, it's fine. I didn't mind." And his smile makes him look like he means it. Maybe he does.

 

Perhaps fourteen minutes isn't late but it is still late enough for someone like Jongseong who prides himself on keeping to his timetables. "S-sorry," he apologizes again. He takes a calming breath but his pulse just won't slow.

 

Jaeyun seems to recognize this and takes a carefully measured step towards him. "Have you seen the geese today?"

 

It is such an off-topic question that Jongseong can't do anything but stand there, blinking.

 

"The geese," Jaeyun repeats. "They've been leaving campus all day. Heading south, I'm guessing. All the noise they keep up... I love watching them fly in formation."

 

Jongseong almost laughs. The sound stops just at the tip of his tongue.

 

Jaeyun spots it. He uses it as permission to step closer. "How do birds know which way to go? I've always wondered. How do they know which way is south?" And he laughs a bit at his own ridiculous question. The sound is bold. Bright. Like trumpet sound.

 

It makes Jongseong grin. Makes him perk up and forget that he is late and sweaty and that he probably should have changed clothes. He says, "Let us not waste too much more time." Jongseong circles the stone rim of the fountain and sits in his usual place in front of the moss-ridden statue. He's spent many afternoons here in the garden throughout the warmer months. Usually, he wanders the hedge maze, pretending to get lost as if he hasn't already memorized the correct path through the towering foliage. Although, on occasion, he gets so caught up admiring the flowers and wrought-iron decorative pieces or catching glimpses of the castle-like academy buildings that he truly does get turned around a bit and must take several seconds to reorient himself. This statue, this fountain, is his second favorite place on campus, after all, so he's even memorized all of her faded, worn spots. All of her chips and cracks and broken bits. When he's done in the library in the afternoons, he is almost always here--lost to the world--a book on his lap, reading among the flowers and birds and butterflies. He is rarely the only one in the garden but that doesn't keep it from being so personal to him. That's why it feels almost wrong to have someone else--a stranger, just about--here with him, sharing his favorite place. He wonders why he'd even offered it up as a meeting place to begin with. He looks up at Jaeyun. "Sit," he says, but not unkindly.

 

Jaeyun nearly startles him when the guy sits immediately next to him and slings an arm around his shoulders, gently shaking him. Their thighs are uncomfortably pressed together but Jongseong quietly appreciates the extra warmth to help fight back the odd midday chill. Autumn has tightened her grip on the campus and it won't be long now until all of the leaves have fallen and it will be too cold and dreary to sit out in the garden. Jongseong must make these days count. He must appreciate them while he can because winters can be long this close to the mountains and spring already feels impossibly far away.

 

Moments pass. Full of silence. Full of Jaeyun's body heat wrapping around him. Jongseong realizes belatedly that Jaeyun is waiting on him . Waiting for Jongseong to speak first. Move first. Act first. "Right," Jongseong squeaks out, not used to being the one who must take initiative. He tugs his satchel off of his shoulder, unbuckles it and retrieves one of his poetry notebooks. "Let's get started then." He's nervous, but his words don't falter as they leave his mouth. "We should begin by dismissing the incorrect notion that all poetry must rhyme. Poetry can do whatever you want it to do." He looks up to make sure Jaeyun is paying attention and almost jolts out of his skin due to the proximity of their faces.

 

Jaeyun is just listening to him intently. Nodding. Smiling. His attention feels so heavy. As if Jongseong hasn't earned it. He is so used to blending in. To being nearly invisible. It feels foreign to him to be watched so closely.

 

A bit less confidently, he continues, "A lot of people find poetry intimidating and opaque but, once you get the hang of it--"

 

Much like he'd snatched the bible from Jongseong's hands over an hour ago in the chapel, Jaeyun unwraps his arm from Jongseong's shoulders and snatches the notebook out of Jongseong's grip. His eyes sparkling and smile brightening, he flips through the pages, quickly skimming the ink Jongseong has scrawled across the yellowing pages. Jaeyun pauses after reading one particular poem. "You wrote all of these? Every single one? You're amazing, mate," he blurts out.

 

"You don't think it's dumb?"

 

"I wouldn't have asked for help if I thought it was dumb," Jaeyun responds. 

 

There's an earnestness to his words that Jongseong can recognize even when Jaeyun's nose is still buried in the notebook. "None of it can really be all that good," Jongseong deflects. "I just do it for fun."

 

"Are you kidding?" Jaeyun glances up from his page-flipping to meet Jongseong's eyes. "You have such a nice way with words. Everything you do is so nice."

 

It's not the most eloquent of compliments, sure, but Jongseong can see that Jaeyun is trying his hardest. Like this matters to him. He doesn't have the words to say exactly what he means but there is something so kind and honest about Jaeyun. His sincerity quite literally radiates off of him in waves. Jongseong gasps. "I've brought paper. Pens. I'll show you a few of my favorite poets and walk you through how they do things. Then I'll let you get to work. You can write whatever you want. Whatever you're thinking."

 

At that, Jaeyun stiffens. His smile falters. "What? I was assuming you'd just... let me borrow one of your poems."

 

"Borrow?" Jongseong repeats lamely, not quite liking the sound of that. "You mean, take?"

 

"Yeah, well-- No, well--" Jaeyun sputters out. His face flushes pink with hot shame and he looks out at the hedge maze. He snaps the notebook closed and his expression turns uncharacteristically dour. "I'd never be able to write something like this. Never in a million years. This isn't my thing. What I come up with won't be good enough."

 

"Then why must it be poetry?" Jongseong asks him again. 

 

The question stuns Jaeyun. Makes his mouth drop open as he turns to look into Jongseong's eyes. Then his eyes blaze with determination. "Because poetry is beautiful... And... You can't confess your love without something beautiful. Without something deep and meaningful."

 

It is a difficult point to argue. Jongseong can't exactly fault him. Jongseong watches Jaeyun's hands as they clutch the notebook tight. He says, "But you-- You have got to try, Jaeyun. Writing s-something, I mean. You have to put your own f-f-f-feelings into your own words."

 

"But my words won't impress... Won't impress them. They can't impress anyone. I'm not smart. I'm not creative." He sighs, looking entirely put upon. "I need your words," he pleads. He takes one of his hands off of the poetry notebook and then grips Jongseong's hand. Tight. Desperate. "If I could just impress them... If I could make this really count... I can't do this on my own. They'll laugh at me. They'll turn me down. I need you." Then Jaeyun adds, at a near-whisper, "I can't be with them without you, Jongseong."

 

Jongseong sits there. Overwhelmed. Confused. It feels like his skin is burning in the place where Jaeyun's hand is gripping his. Jaeyun is so warm . Every bit of him. And his hand is so large . Every bit of him. His words, especially. And biggest of all is this impossible favor he is asking. It's surprising, to say the least, to have someone else want to use his words in such a way. To use his heart and everything he's written with it to ask for someone else's heart. "This must be one special girl," he offers after a long, silent minute of deliberation.

 

Jaeyun's expression noticeably tightens. His lips part like he wants to say something but then he thinks better of it and falls silent. His only movement becomes the uncertain wriggling of his fingers, which reminds Jongseong all over again of the fact that Jaeyun is clutching Jongseong's hand. Tight. Like he's gripping a life line. Like Jaeyun will drown if Jongseong lets him go.

 

"You must really like her," Jongseong says after several moments of studying Jaeyun's face.

 

Jaeyun nods. Slowly. Hesitantly. Indecision looks so alien on him. Where is the carefree, confident part of him he shows to everyone else?

 

"I know how it feels," says Jongseong, "to like someone. It-- It a-almost feels like a d-d-dangerous thing to-- To fill up your h-heart with them."

 

Jaeyun lifts his head. "See? That's what I need. Pretty words like that."

 

"I'm just t-talking," Jongseong tells him.

 

"And your words are pretty ."

 

Jongseong falls silent. Stunned. He looks out into the garden, towards the maze, thoughts whirling, and his heart is so full of Sunghoon that he swears he sees the boy off to the left, between the hedges. Watching them. But when Jongseong blinks and turns back, there is only a cherub statue beneath the iron archway. Still, an odd sense of guilt wracks Jongseong and he slowly, so as not to be entirely rude, pries his hand free of Jaeyun's and pulls it back onto his own lap. "And your feelings... They-- They are s-sincere?"

 

Jaeyun nods. Forcefully enough to send his fluffy hair every which way.

 

Jongseong understands. He likes Sunghoon, after all. Despite, or perhaps in spite of, the fact that he shouldn't. The fact that he's not allowed to. That it is wrong for him to do so and that he'll be punished or badly hurt if he is caught. But even in the face of such consequences, those kinds of feelings don't go away easily, he's discovered, and he wonders how desperate Jaeyun must be if he has to ask for help with this at all.

 

Another heavy quiet blankets the two of them and even though they sit right next to each other, the wind still manages to drive a sharp chill between them. As if it is acting as a wedge or a wall. In the distance, they both hear the chapel bell chime at the top of the afternoon hour. Above them, the sun reappears from between two thick clouds and it isn't until sunlight falls on his skin that Jongseong recognizes how cold he has been.

 

Jaeyun suddenly turns around to look at him. He leans in close to Jongseong's face, that smile of his sudden and bright and back where it belongs. "Please," he begs. "Help me out. Just this once? And I swear I won't bother you again."

 

Really. How could Jongseong turn him down when he makes a face like that? "Fine," Jongseong surrenders. He reaches over and plucks the notebook from Jaeyun's long, slender fingers. "Take my bag. Get a pen. I know just the poem that will work."

 

Jaeyun gasps in excitement. He slings an arm around Jongseong's shoulders again, drags him close, hugs him tight, shakes him until his fears come loose.

 

Jongseong's nose fills with the warm scent of apple cider.

 

ღ

 

Jongseong has a schedule for his library time. He has an itinerary . 

 

Each weekday, between three and three fifteen, immediately after class lets out, Jongseong tends to administrative matters. He returns any books he’s finished with, has a nice chat with the head librarian who always calls him ‘sweetie’ and makes him feel special, and then he peruses the shelf of new arrivals in hopes of finding something that’ll catch his eye. 

 

Between three fifteen and four, he does his assigned homework. Math first, as it is usually the hardest and takes up the largest portion of his time. Then history. Then biology. Then English, saving what he likes best for last.

 

From four to five is usually when Sunghoon and his group of friends arrive and gather around their usual table. They are another reason Jongseong does his harder work first. When Sunghoon is around, Jongseong cannot be bothered to focus on his more challenging coursework. And even when they leave, Jongseong waits until five ten or so to leave the library, just to reduce the risk of running into them in the halls.

 

But today, Monday, his comfortable routine is disrupted--completely and utterly turned on its head!--when he can’t take but ten steps away from the circulation desk without being startled nearly out of his shoes. 

 

Because Sunghoon is standing right in front of him . An entire forty-five minutes before Jongseong expects to see him. And, on top of that, Sunghoon is speaking to him. Initiating conversation!

 

“I’m glad I ran into you. Something fun happened to me today,” the guy says. 

 

Jongseong looks over both of his shoulders just to ensure no one cooler or more important is standing directly behind him. There isn’t. Not a soul. Jongseong looks back into Sunghoon’s face and tries not to sound like a blubbering fool when he asks, “What happened?”

 

Sunghoon blushes . It is such an alarmingly novel reaction that Jongseong nearly asks him if he’s okay. Sunghoon blurts out, “I have a secret admirer.”

 

It is not the news Jongseong expects to hear. Not here. Not from Sunghoon. A secret admirer sounds like the kind of personal tidbit you bring up with your friends , not the schoolmate you see in the library every now and then. “Good for you,” Jongseong says, and he hopes it doesn’t sound sarcastic. “Who is she?”

 

“That’s the thing about secret admirers,” Sunghoon tells him. “They want to remain a secret. Oh.” He reaches into the pocket of his cream-colored blazer and pulls free a folded sheet of paper. “Can I show it to you?”

 

At that, Jongseong’s left hand flies to his ear. “ Should you?” 

 

Sunghoon hesitates, the letter half-opened in his hands. Then he regains his composure and continues to fold it open. “It’s a poem. I feel like you would be interested.”

 

“But they wrote that for you, not me.”

 

That makes Sunghoon hesitate again. This time, it is a long enough pause to be awkward. “Still,” he manages, “if it’s from who I think it’s from…” 

 

Jongseong’s mouth hangs open but he does nothing to stop Sunghoon from unfolding the sheet of paper. He just stands there stunned, because even if confession letters weren’t so intimate, he’s also not so sure he wants to suffer through the heartbreak of watching someone else crush on his crush but also be brave enough to do something about it .

 

“Tell me if you like it,” Sunghoon says, and then he proceeds to read it. There is no real rhythm to his delivery, no sense of flow or timing. It is more like he’s reading off a grocery list, but--

 

Jongseong’s blood runs cold.

 

He knows this poem. 

 

By heart. 

 

Word for word.

 

Because it is his .

 

Or, more accurately, it is one of his poems about Sunghoon that he allowed Jaeyun to copy out of his notebook just yesterday evening!

 

And now that he looks at the sheet of paper in Sunghoon’s hands again, it is indeed the very sheet hastily, crookedly ripped from Jaeyun’s composition notebook. The handwriting is clearly Jaeyun’s sloppy, overly large work. Technically, it is his fourth attempt at scribing the poem in pen without making some spelling error or botching the lines of ink and his impatience is visible in the lines of words slanting into the margins and running terribly close to the paper’s ripped edge.

 

So much for presentation! Where’s the sealed envelope and the spritzed perfume?

 

Static buzzes in Jongseong’s head so loudly that he does not hear Sunghoon ask him what he thinks of it.

 

Jongseong won’t find comfort in his routine today. His perfectly constructed timetable has fallen apart and he’s positive that he won’t be able to focus on anything else today. Jongseong turns around. If he weren’t so concerned about following rules, he’d run . His anxiety follows him out of the library’s massive wooden doors faster than Sunghoon’s shout-whisper of his name.

 

Ღ

 

“I should have written my name on it,” Jaeyun laments the next day, dragging his hands through his fluffy hair. 

 

Jongseong says nothing. He feels like he is not allowed.

 

Jaeyun keeps on. “Darn it! I should have manned up and just given it to them directly instead of laying it on their desk between classes.”

 

Still, Jongseong does not respond. He tries not to move a single muscle. Perhaps if he continues to quietly read the novel in his lap, perhaps if he makes no sudden movements, everything will go back to normal. And normal, in this case, would be sitting on the stone edge of the garden fountain alone at lunchtime, being completely ignored by someone as well-liked and cool as Jaeyun.

 

Things do not go back to normal. Jaeyun groans. “I talked to them this morning and tried to drop hints that I was the one who left them the letter, but…” He groans again, really doing a number on his hair with his hands. “I forgot so many of the words. Something-something-butterflies… And then something-something-nectar, right? I probably sounded like an idiot then. I sound like an idiot now .”

 

Jongseong slowly turns the page of his novel and continues to read. 

 

Then Jaeyun drapes an arm over his shoulders, tugs him close, ribcage to ribcage. “You have to teach me a poem!”

 

“T-teach you?” Jongseong sputters. 

 

Jaeyun nods. “I want to recite it to them face to face! I want them to know how I feel.”

 

Jongseong prompts, “And how do you feel?”

 

For a few moments, Jaeyun stares off into the depths of the garden. The flowering shrubs of summer have already been dug up and replaced by pretty, trimmed evergreen bushes. This is Jongseong’s second favorite place on campus but he didn’t think that inviting Jaeyun here yesterday would immediately turn it into their place. Or at least that’s what Jaeyun had called it when he spotted Jongseong here and then sat down beside him like this is something they’ve always done.

 

When Jaeyun collects his thoughts, he says, “It’s difficult to put in words. It feels almost dirty to say aloud, but… I know what my heart wants. I know that I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.”

 

And it’s ironic how closely Jaeyun’s sentiment mirrors Jongseong’s own. He wants to tell Sunghoon how he feels. More than anything. As painfully as the guilt gnaws at his spirit, as much as it feels like he should keep his emotions locked away in a cage, Jongseong fundamentally understands that he’s deeply attracted to Sunghoon. That he’s felt this way for weeks and weeks and nothing he’s done or prayed about has changed the way he feels. His heart wants what it wants and he wants to say these things to Sunghoon. He really does! But instead, he must teach someone else, someone better, how to speak their feelings for the man instead.

 

Carefully, Jongseong slots his bookmark between the pages and shuts the novel. His thrilling mystery will have to wait because Jaeyun is doing that playful, smiley thing where he laughs and then shakes Jongseong.

 

“Please,” Jaeyun begs. “Teach me one of your poems so that I can recite it to them. You’ll be a lifesaver. I’ll owe you.”

 

“Why can’t you just tell Sunghoon you have a crush on him?” Jongseong has to know.

 

Jaeyun goes still. Not too different from the statue in the fountain that they sit beneath. His eyes go wide. He lowers his arm from around Jongseong’s shoulders and he slides away as if burned. “You know I like Sunghoon? Oh darn, have I been that obvious?”

 

“No, it’s--” Jongseong clears his throat. “I j-just so happened to f-find out.” After finding his own work clutched tight in Sunghoon’s hand. “I was able to piece it together.”

 

Weirdly, almost cruelly, Jaeyun does not ask him to clarify. He does not demand to know how Jongseong discovered his biggest secret. He does not ask if Jongseong went behind his back and told the school. Instead, he just stands up and positions himself directly in front of Jongseong as if needing to be the center of his attention. “Teach me a poem. Teach me so I can tell him how I feel.”

 

Jongseong sets aside his book with a weary sigh. Then he reaches into his leather satchel and pulls out his poetry notebook with its cloth slipcover and violet ribbon. He has had it for nearly two semesters now and the pages no longer give off the wonderful, homey, comforting smell of fresh paper, but they still contain months and months of his emotions. A diary in verse. The key to the inner workings of his heart. Jongseong thumbs through the pages and quickly skims the passages until he finds a poem that should be easy to remember but, more importantly, fun to say aloud. He looks up at Jaeyun. “Ready?”

 

The guy nods rapidly, eagerly. He even squats down in front of Jongseong as if being closer to eye level will help him listen more attentively. “Ready.”

 

“Repeat after me,” Jongseong says, and then he launches into the first line.

 

When Jaeyun repeats it, he muddles the order of the words. Hilariously so. “Don’t laugh at me,” he wails, gently smacking Jongseong’s knee.

 

“Fine.” Jongseong walks him through it again, a bit more slowly.

 

This time, Jaeyun gets it… slightly more correct. “Don’t laugh,” he whines petulantly. He reaches out a hand, grips Jongseong’s small wrist tight, but only for a moment. His warmth is there and gone. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Jongseong huffs. “Y-y-you’re just s-so… cute like this.”

 

They go back and forth until Jaeyun can say the line all of the way through without messing up or giggling. 

 

The two of them move on to the second line and Jaeyun must try it half a dozen times before he can recite both lines from memory.

 

“You should employ a bit more feeling when you speak,” Jongseong suggests. “Don’t say it like you are reading an instruction manual. You are telling him how you feel , after all.” He sounds like Mr. Jung and he’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

 

“Right, right,” Jaeyun says, nodding.

 

“And don’t rush it . You need to let the words breathe. You need to allow the meaning to take up space in the universe.”

 

Jongseong expects the boy to protest or call poetry ‘stupid’ like half the guys Jongseong has sat down and taught like this, but instead, Jaeyun says, “Okay. I think I get it.”

 

And he must mean it because he changes how he repeats the words back. They don’t tumble from his mouth in a rush like he’s trying to get them all out before he forgets. They don’t flatten into monotone on his tongue. It takes several minutes, but the words eventually carry the drama and flourish of a song. Of a great Shakespeare play.

 

They go over everything, a dozen times or more, before Jaeyun can recite the whole poem without needing Jongseong to prompt him with the next word.

 

They are successful but, oddly, it is Jongseong who is ready to call it quits. “Must you look at me like that?”

 

“Like what?” Jaeyun asks, innocent.

 

Like that , Jongseong wants to reiterate. With those big eyes full of hope. With that wide smile that shows off his pretty, straight teeth. Some time in the past few moments, Jaeyun has even propped his elbows up on Jongseong’s knees. Jongseong lowers his gaze to the page of his notebook and utters, “Like I’m the one you’re confessing to.”

 

Jaeyun stands up. And just in time too. The chiming of the bell signaling the end of lunch echoes through the garden. Jaeyun grabs him by the wrists and helps Jongseong get to his feet. Now they are chest to chest. Nearly face to face. Their sudden proximity feels dangerous, almost, and sends Jongseong’s heart racing. Makes his cheeks burn pink. Jaeyun speaks the first line of the poem and giggles at Jongseong’s reaction. “If you’re this flustered,” Jaeyun says, not quite mocking, “that means it’s working. And it will work on him too.” Their fingers tangle together as they both attempt to readjust their hands. Jaeyun leans forward, bringing them nearly nose to nose, and recites the second line of the poem like it was made to roll off his sweet tongue. Jongseong was the one who wrote it, the one who taught it to him, but the whole meaning of it shifts when the words are spoken lowly, softly, as Jaeyun gazes directly into Jongseong’s eyes. As his mouth hovers wickedly close to Jongseong’s own. Jongseong almost shivers. Delighted with his delivery, Jaeyun giggles and says, “I can’t wait to recite this to him.”

 

To Sunghoon. Right.

 

Jaeyun pulls away, back to his regular, smiling, laughing self. “Thanks, Jongseong. You’ve been such a big help. I mean it, mate.”

 

Jongseong’s heart breaks. Just a little. And he’s not sure why.

 

Jaeyun drops their intertwined hands and rushes away. Probably to find Sunghoon.

 

Jongseong stares down at his trembling hands and mourns the loss of Jaeyun’s warmth.

 

Ღ

 

Jongseong can hardly concentrate on the subject matter of his lessons. Although his history teacher covers a rather interesting time period, the events dramatic enough that even the rough kids in the back row have stopped their whispering to listen, Jongseong can't bring himself to pay attention. The teacher's words sluice through him like water and he retains no information. His notes are a scattered mess of run-on sentences and incomplete concepts. His handwriting slants off of the lines like the words are throwing themselves over a cliff edge and when he reads any of it back, he can't make heads or tails of the names and dates, even with his copious amount of bullet points.

 

His mind is troubled. His thoughts have spun up into a raging storm.

 

He presses a hand to his temple to fight off the slow throb of a headache.

 

Jongseong's still thinking about lunchtime in the garden with Jaeyun. It had been... oddly romantic. Sunlight beaming through the tree branches, the stone lip of the fountain warm beneath him, the birds chirping merrily despite the chill in the air. But more importantly than that, he is thinking about Jaeyun and the way the man had so effortlessly taken Jongseong's breath away repeating his own poetry back to him.

 

Sunghoon used to take up so much space in Jongseong's head. Like the sun at the center of the solar system, everything revolved around Sunghoon. His eyes. His smile. His hands. Yet, for some odd reason that Jongseong can't understand, even with his intelligence, Jaeyun has also been crowding in on his thoughts lately. He can't think of one boy without thinking of the other and that seems a little bit unfair. It seems a little selfish. 

 

And now that he knows that Jaeyun also likes Sunghoon, Jongseong can't help but feel like he's getting in their way.

 

Jongseong gets startled out of his daydreams as the bell signaling the end of the school day chimes loudly. 

 

The classroom fills with noise and movement as his classmates pack their things and jump up from their seats. The guys yell at each other and joke and roughhouse before they go running towards the door. The girls, with far less urgency, cluster together in groups to chat, wrap their scarves around their necks and make plans with each other for the afternoon.

 

As if tethered to his chair, Jongseong does not move. A lone island surrounded by a churning sea. He folds his hands in his lap and frowns as more and more confusing emotions grip him.

 

It hits him, then, how silly all of this is. He is the one who likes Sunghoon. He is the one who has written all of his feelings down. He is the one who wants this more than anything in the universe, yet here he is, helping Jaeyun ask Sunghoon out. And with his own poetry, on top of that! It's not too different, he thinks, from handing Jaeyun the sword that will be used to cut him down.

 

He wants to be angry--he feels like that is the best emotion to feel in a situation like this--but he can't bring himself to dig that deep.

 

Because, when he thinks about it, isn't this his only option?

 

Through Jaeyun, he can show Sunghoon his poetry. Through Jaeyun, he can show Sunghoon how he feels! All the work that he's put into cultivating this crush--this love--over the past few semesters can now bear fruit. The words may not come from his own mouth but they are still his. They were born from his heart. And Jaeyun lets Jongseong be brave. With that silly, stupid, beautiful smile of his, Jaeyun lets Jongseong have the courage needed to share the inner workings of his heart with Sunghoon. Just without the sting of rejection or the humiliation of a revealed secret. So wouldn't it be best if those two wound up together? Wouldn't it be a relief?

 

Now that his hands have finally stopped shaking, Jongseong packs his belongings, slings his satchel over his shoulder and leaves the empty, quiet classroom.

 

It is eight minutes past three. He is significantly behind schedule. He should already be across campus and in the library right now! But even with such urgency nipping at his heels, Jongseong can't bring himself to move at any speed faster than a slow, moping walk. It is as if his dark emotions have hardened into chains and now he drags their iron weight behind him. He has just come down the stairs to the building's ground floor when he spots Sunghoon in the hall, working on some kind of wall display between classroom doors.

 

Even after the tortuous hell his thoughts have just dragged him through, Jongseong can't help but gasp at the sight of Sunghoon. He truly is a stunning specimen. Bright as the sun with entire constellations drawn on his face. Jongseong could name them, if he wishes. Name each star on his face. He longs to touch them. Count them. Feel the burn of them against his fingertips. How does Sunghoon not attract everyone's attention? How does no one else stop and stare as they pass by Sunghoon in the hallway?

 

Jongseong hadn't intended to get caught in such a vulnerable state. Not so immediately .

 

"Afternoon, Jongseong," Sunghoon calls out with a cheer and familiarity that their bare-bones acquaintanceship shouldn't allow. Sunghoon doesn't even turn away from his work. As if he knows that Jongseong has come to a stop behind him. "What do you think?"

 

Of you ? Jongseong nearly blurts out the question, ruining everything. All the sweet, lovely things I think of you will outnumber the stars . Light could cross from one end of the universe to the other and I still would not be done telling you how I feel . My emotions crush me flat as if all of Earth's oceans sit on my chest . He bites back his declaration of love and says, instead, "What do I think of what?" It is a miracle that he does not stutter.

 

Sunghoon steps back, away from the wall and what it is he is hanging on it, so that they are standing nearly side by side.

 

Jongseong gulps. He is not too sure that the two of them have ever stood this close to each other. Almost touching. Hands so close. Even in a crowded hall full of their loud and boisterous classmates, it is as if the two of them are alone.

 

Sunghoon wipes his hands on his uniform pants and gestures to the display. He repeats, "What do you think?"

 

Jongseong takes his eyes off of Sunghoon's startlingly sharp profile and looks up at the artwork. It's a quartet of gouache paintings set in black, wooden frames. The canvases are covered in gaseous sweeps of green and turquoise. Swirls of red and orange and yellow streak across a painted black backdrop. It takes Jongseong several seconds of quiet staring to recognize it for what it is: an image of deep space. He can see it now. The cold, blue pinpricks of distant stars. The bright orange of Jupiter's stormy surface and the planet's many moons. He recalls their names: Io. Ganymede. Callisto. Europa. The artwork is all abstracted and beautiful. Color and shape and chaos. The stippled paint offers mere suggestions of the unreachable cosmos. It doesn't even look real. Just like how Sunghoon doesn't even look real. "It's-- It's b-breathtaking," Jongseong speaks the naked truth.

 

"It's for you," Sunghoon states, turning his head to quietly admire the wide-eyed, open-mouthed wonder on Jongseong's face.

 

"F-f-or... For-- For m-me?" Jongseong breathily repeats. He pushes his glasses farther up his nose, as if seeing things more sharply will help him understand.

 

"Look closely," urges Sunghoon. He reaches out a hand, almost as if he wants to touch Jongseong's arm, but his fingers pause just shy of the crook of Jongseong's elbow. He lowers his arm to his side. "Step back if you have to."

 

Jongseong is about to ask him how stepping back will help him look more closely, but then he understands . He gasps. "It's--" 

 

It's his poem. An assignment he turned in to Mr. Jung at the start of the month. Yes. He sees it clearly now. The slashes of electric color, the backdrop of twinkling stars, the bits of blue and purple that add dimension and depth to the almost solid black of the background... If he tilts his head back, he can see the silver lettering that stretches from one canvas to another. Subtle. Like comet tails. The lettering spells out the closing lines to his poem. Words about infinitely-growing love. Admiration that burns as bright as any star. An undiscovered, unnamable passion.

 

Shocked, Jongseong turns to look at Sunghoon. "Did you paint this?" he asks, almost frightened. Terrified. How worrying it is to be acknowledged. How terrifying it is to be perceived! 

 

"Mr. Jung asked me to."

 

And such words make Jongseong's anxiety spike more fiercely. If Sunghoon worked on something like this, if he read the poem enough times to turn it into art, surely he knows. Surely he has figured it all out!

 

"Mr. Jung adores your work and thought that I would complement it well. I'm getting extra credit in Miss Jeong's class but I didn't do it just for that." Sunghoon says such a thing calmly. Without affectation. As if it was no burden at all for him to create something wonderful like this.

 

"But this poem--" Jongseong starts. Is about you , he finishes in his head. In a fit of nervousness, his hand flies up to his ear. He scratches at it and tugs at it and wills himself not to turn around and run.

 

Sunghoon looks at him with the tiniest smile. His usually sharp eyes are softened with an expression that is difficult to parse. It is almost like he can read Jongseong's mind. Like he can look into Jongseong's eyes and see his soul laid bare. It is almost as if he knows Jongseong's feelings already and is simply waiting for Jongseong to admit them aloud.

 

But Jongseong doesn't have that kind of bravery. That kind of courage. He is not Jaeyun. He'll never be able to tell Sunghoon the same things he's written. Unlike Jaeyun, who has already handed him letters, recited poetry to him.

 

And isn't that what all of this has been leading up to? All of the poetry lessons? Hasn't Sunghoon and Jaeyun being happy together been the goal all along?

 

Quietly, as if fearful of scaring him away, Sunghoon asks, "Jongseong? Are you alright? You're tearing up."

 

Jongseong tries to fight the tears back. He tries valiantly to dam up everything that he is feeling. But it is an uphill battle and he is losing quickly. Jongseong feels his nose begin to run. He can't let Sunghoon know how badly this hurts! "It's just... The painting-- It's very b-b-beautiful." He throws the words out. They are the truth, without a doubt, but they also aren't the thoughts making a solitary tear slip hotly down his cheek. They aren't the thoughts making him sniffle and tremble. He keeps on, "I don't-- I don't think anyone has ever d-done something so nice for me b-before."

 

Sunghoon doesn't say anything for a long, stretched-thin moment and his silence makes Jongseong think the worst. But then Sunghoon steps closer, raises a hand, gently presses it to Jongseong's cheek. His skin is so soft and fragrant with lotion. His hand is so comfortable and warm. Jongseong forgets himself. Loses himself. He squeezes shut his eyes and leans into the touch. Sunghoon uses his thumb to swipe away the tear where it hangs off Jongseong's chin. He says, softly, "Hopefully, it won't be the last good thing I do for you." The moment reaches its limits. The threads of it snap. Sunghoon blinks rapidly and shakes his head as if shucking off the evanescent, feathery weight of a dream. He draws his hand away swiftly and steps sideways, pulling back, leaving Jongseong feeling unmoored, eyes blinking open like he's just been shaken from a nap. Sunghoon swallows noisily and then returns his gaze to the line of paintings hanging on the wall. Even his tone of voice changes as he abruptly switches topics. "I'm a big fan of your work. So I'll probably paint other pieces when I have time." He takes a moment to regain his composure and, during the extended pause, Jongseong becomes aware of all of the people moving past them in the narrow hall. The two of them have slipped out of their own little universe now, it seems, and have rejoined the madness of the real world. Continuing on, Sunghoon says, "Mr. Jung lets me read your submitted work all of the time. You have a very distinct style. And there's this way that you use certain words... Like it is your signature." He pauses for another moment. Laughter spills up out of him, sudden and unbidden. It must surprise him just as much as it surprises Jongseong because he apologetically puts his hand over his mouth. "I know when something is yours," he states. "No matter who else recites it."

 

Jongseong doesn't get the chance to ask him what he means by that because Sunghoon's friends show up then, loud and boyish, and give him no time at all to try and worm his way out of going to the library with them to study.

 

But Sunghoon does manage to turn around as he is being dragged away. He looks up at Jongseong and says, yet again, "See you around."

 

ღ

 

As the days pass, Jaeyun begins to orbit around Jongseong much like how a moon orbits a planet. His constant company is surprising, to say the least, and mind-boggling, for lack of a more fitting word, but his new presence in Jongseong's life is not entirely unwelcome. Even if it takes a monumental effort to grow acclimated to it. His smile. His easy joy. The way he takes every opportunity to hug Jongseong. It all shines brightly. Wondrously. And it makes Jongseong stop and gasp every time such light is aimed at him. Every time Jaeyun spins close enough in his orbit to touch. It is unbelievable, in a way. Jongseong just can't fathom how he, of all people, has a gravitational pull strong enough to catch someone as spectacular as Jaeyun. As a matter of fact, Jongseong doubts his own cosmic influence until Jaeyun sits right next to him on the pew during midday bible study.

 

The bible in Jongseong's hands nearly slips onto the floor in his surprise as Jaeyun's arm snakes around his shoulders. Jongseong's never seen Jaeyun here in the chapel. Not on weekdays, at least. Has he come here just for Jongseong? Or is such a thought presumptious?

 

At the head of the congregation, the priest in his crisply ironed robes continues his sermon. His voice is loud. Thunderous. It carries all the way to the back row of the pews yet his words are about love and grace and devotion and deliverance. Jongseong tries his best to listen. To apply such things to his own wayward life.

 

Jaeyun leans close to Jongseong and attempts to whisper something right into his ear.

 

Jongseong can't risk looking up at him. He can't risk looking into those deep brown eyes and that wide smile. He raises a finger to his lips and quietly shushes Jaeyun before he can squeak out one word.

 

Surprisingly, Jaeyun obeys. He settles a bit more comfortably against Jongseong's side, as if they have always been such good, close friends. As if they've always hung around each other, two stars caught up in each other's pull, burning up on each other's friction and mass.

 

Ahead of them, the priest shouts on, gazing out at his rapt audience, arms outstretched.

 

Jongseong and Jaeyun are both still in their school uniforms. It's their free period after first block lunch. A sliver of time on Thursdays that Jongseong always devotes to bible study. A sliver of time he is positive Jaeyun always spends elsewhere on campus. His own curiosity wins out against all odds. He turns his head towards Jaeyun's ear and whispers, "Wouldn't you rather be anywhere else?" Jaeyun had been the one to ask him to skip service that past Sunday, after all.

 

Jaeyun turns to him then, bringing their faces sinfully close, right there in front of the altar, in front of the painting of Christ. "No," Jaeyun whispers back, and before Jongseong can ask anything else, Jaeyun presses a finger to Jongseong's lips and shushes him, as if getting him back.

 

Partially scandalized and partially scolded, Jongseong's face heats before he even thinks to turn away and put his eyes back on the scripture. His heart thrashes in his chest for a reason he can't quite identify and his skin tingles in the place where Jaeyun's arm rests across his shoulders. He is so stunned by this tidal wave of brand new feelings that he doesn't snap out of it until the small chapel fills with the noise of hastily flipping pages as the congregation follows the priest's sermon to the Book of Mark. Seconds too late, and far too loudly in the sudden quiet, Jongseong flips his own bible's pages in the frantic search for the correct page. At long last, he finds it and uses his pointer finger to follow along as the priest reads from up on the pulpit.

 

Jaeyun leans in close to him. Closer, still. Perhaps to follow along. 

 

It is a bad idea for him to do so, Jongseong concludes. His sudden proximity, the warmth radiating off of his body, the apple-sweet smell of him... It's all too much for Jongseong to handle and he loses his place in the passage immediately. For several moments, the words of the bible blur in front of his eyes. It's all a jumbled hodgepodge until he blinks enough times to bring it back into focus. The words the priest speak are different from the ones above Jongseong's pointer finger and he panics, lost, floundering, until the priest lists a new chapter and verse.

 

From that point on, it becomes terribly hard for him to focus. Jongseong pretends to read more than he actually reads and he only flips to a new page when the congregation around him does so. He is absolutely positive that Jaeyun catches on quickly. He hears the man snicker in his ear and whisper a lighthearted taunt that Jongseong is too dizzy with anxiety to decipher.

 

Minutes pass. The sermon crescendos but Jongseong pays little attention to it. His body won't obey him. His hands feel clammy and numb. His throat feels tight and suddenly dry. He doesn't connect his wild distraction to Jaeyun's body leaning against his until Jaeyun's head dips sideways and sinks into the crook of his neck. Jongseong's heart speeds up. Nervousness springs to life in Jongseong's chest and he habitually lifts a hand to his left ear. The movement causes his hand to collide with Jaeyun's, the man's arm still slung tight around his shoulders. Yet even such a brief touch sets something loose in Jongseong. Something unfamiliar and wild. Something full of heat and light and energy, primed to burst. It presses against his ribcage as if dying to be free of him. He attempts to speak Jaeyun's name, out of concern or perhaps even as a warning, but the only noise that escapes his throat is a pitchy squeak loud enough to make the woman seated in the pew ahead of him turn her head to fix him with a suspicious, unhappy glare. She snorts in contempt before turning back around, though all of the noise that she is keeping up is perhaps more distracting to her neighbors than anything Jongseong has managed.

 

With very little success, he returns his attention to the sermon and as Jongseong follows along to the next chapter and verse, he takes note of the fact that Jaeyun has fallen asleep on his shoulder! Just like that. With little to no concern about how inappropriate it is. He can feel Jaeyun's warm breath on his neck. He can hear Jaeyun's faint, whiny snores in his ears. He can smell the soap on Jaeyun's skin. The shampoo in his hair. It takes every scrap of focus and good sense he's got left in him not to turn his head and sniff the man. 

 

He does, however, glance down at the long slope of Jaeyun's nose and the pink pillow of his lips and the dark fan of his lashes.

 

It dawns on him, then. A brand new discovery.

 

Has Jaeyun always been this handsome? And has such handsomeness always been so tempting?

 

Then he remembers where he is. What he's doing. Why he's here. Jongseong snaps his head back up, faces forward and spends the last fifteen minutes of bible study listening to the passionate words and fervent prayers of the priest.

 

ღ

 

Jongseong sees them together later that afternoon.

 

Sunghoon and Jaeyun. 

 

The two of them walk across campus at a leisurely pace, more than likely on their way to their last class of the school day. 

 

It is probably the first time Jongseong has ever seen the two of them chatting. Not that he’s known them to ever hate each other, mind. Jaeyun usually hangs around with the other athletes and Sunghoon’s friends are all associated with the student council. But being from such different circles doesn’t seem to hold them back. Sunghoon says something that must be funny because Jongseong hears Jaeyun’s laugh clearly, even from this distance. Then Jaeyun pulls something free of his khaki pants pocket and hands it to Sunghoon. It’s hard to identify from this far away but it must be some type of edible treat. Sunghoon accepts it, unwraps it, it seems, and then sticks it in his mouth to chew. The flavor must appease him because his smile catches the light. Not too different from a sparkle off a diamond. Jaeyun slings an arm over Sunghoon’s shoulder.

 

And they look good together, don’t they? Someone handsome with someone handsome.

 

Priceless art with an immeasurable treasure.

 

Stars too far away for him to reach. He is only allowed to observe. 

 

Jongseong can’t tell if Jaeyun followed through with confessing his feelings or not. In a place like this, in a school like this , they probably wouldn’t kiss. They probably wouldn’t even hold hands where others can see them. But Jaeyun is smiling and Sunghoon is smiling so maybe things went spectacularly well.

 

Jongseong tries terribly hard to be happy for them.

 

Ღ

 

On Friday, Sunghoon once again manages to disrupt Jongseong’s carefully constructed library routine. But at least this time, he has the courtesy to wait until five twenty-three, right at the end, when Jongseong has just descended the stone stairs in front of the building.

 

“There you are,” Sunghoon trills, leaning up off of the brick wall. He runs his hands down the length of his embroidered school sweatshirt as if to wipe off dirt. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

 

Jongseong can’t help but to look over his shoulder, but none of Sunghoon’s friends are marching down the stairs behind him. He turns back around and meets his crush’s eyes. Sunghoon is speaking to him . Again! Jongseong’s hand flies to the shell of his ear when he asks, “For me?”

 

“Mmhmm,” Sunghoon affirms. 

 

And how silly of Jongseong to feel like he’s been absolutely gutted just because Sunghoon smiles at him. He feels ripped raw. Split open. This is what love is, he convinces himself. Feeling like he’s flying when he is only standing still.

 

The seconds tick by but Sunghoon says nothing. Does nothing. He only stands in front of Jongseong as if giving Jongseong time to count his moles and paint constellations with them.

 

“Did I do something?” Jongseong wonders when the moment stretches taffy-thin. “Did you need me for something?”

 

Sunghoon shakes his head. “No. Nothing like that. I just wanted to talk.”

 

“To me ?”

 

“Yes. Is that so hard to believe?” 

 

And he proves such an outrageous claim when he falls into step next to Jongseong, easy as can be. Like they walk to the dorms together all of the time. “How was your day?” Jongseong attempts.

 

“It was nice. Full of surprises. Plenty of reasons to smile. How was yours?”

 

“I can’t be too sure.”

 

Sunghoon nudges his elbow into Jongseong’s side. “Are you alright?”

 

“Pardon? Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

Sunghoon hesitates. A nervous laugh escapes him. Afternoon sunlight catches on his teeth and turns molten in his eyes. “Usually…” He trails off, temporarily distracted by the delighted screech of a girl as she chases her friends down the path in the opposite direction. He turns back to Jongseong. “Usually, you work so diligently. In the library, I mean.” A lengthy pause. He fiddles with the strap of his backpack. “Most days, you have all of your books and papers and things laid out in neat rows on the table, but…” He trails off yet again, which Jongseong finds so odd because Sunghoon gives speeches in front of the entire student body every assembly yet is never reduced to ummms and ahhhs as he thinks.

 

“But what?” Jongseong prompts, worried.

 

“But you didn’t have any textbooks open today. You didn’t… You didn’t write anything in your notebook.” Sunghoon laughs humorlessly. “Does it sound strange that I noticed?”

 

“Not… N-not at all.” Jongseong feels the heat pool in his face. Feels the nerves zing up his spine. Has Sunghoon just admitted that he’s been keeping tabs on Jongseong? Sneaking glances at Jongseong as often as Jongseong has sneaked glances at him? 

 

Or is Jongseong’s poor, foolish, romantic heart reading too far into it?

 

Sunghoon stops walking quite abruptly so Jongseong circles back to stand in front of him. Sunghoon wrings his fingers nervously and says, “I was wondering if something was wrong.”

 

“With me ?” Jongseong shakes his head. “No.” It is not as hard as it probably should be to lie. “I didn’t have much h-h-homework but… I have a schedule, you s-see, and I have to s-s-stick to it.” Though, in reality, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jaeyun and Sunghoon. He couldn’t focus on his work if he tried.

 

“I just wanted to make sure,” Sunghoon admits, “because if there’s anything I can help you with…”

 

“Everything is fine,” Jongseong insists. 

 

They are standing beneath a large, old tree that reaches out over the stone path between buildings. It is not a warm day at all, which means standing so still in the tree’s shade nearly puts a shiver through Jongseong’s body and reminds him that he should probably start wearing scarves and gloves. The tree branches sway in a sudden gust of wind and bright yellow leaves flutter through the air in a hypnotic dance and settle on the ground around the two of them. One such leaf must land on Jongseong’s head because Sunghoon reaches up a hand and gently, almost tentatively, runs his fingers through Jongseong’s hair.

 

Reflexively, Jongseong’s hand goes to his ear. Their hands collide.

 

“You only do that when you’re nervous, huh,” Sunghoon comments.

 

“Do what?” Jongseong asks seriously.

 

Sunghoon chuckles. A tiny, precious little thing that he’s only sharing with Jongseong. “Oh, nothing,” he says, looking fond. He runs his fingers through Jongseong’s hair again, obviously to dislodge another leaf from on top of Jongseong’s head.

 

The touch is soft, hardly noticeable, and Sunghoon’s hand draws back far too soon, but Jongseong’s heart still ticks up in response to the contact. He finds himself short of breath, as if he’s just finished running, and he’s so dizzy with giddiness that he can’t be sure if Sunghoon is leaning closer to him or not.

 

And he is. He most certainly is .

 

Sunghoon’s breath is warm against Jongseong’s ear when he whispers, “See you around,” before turning away to leave.

 

This time, however, Jongseong believes him. 

 

Ღ

 

It is such a cliche , Jongseong weeps.

 

It is such a mindless, overplayed trope, he despairs. 

 

How silly is it to be walking next to the athletic field minding one’s own business, scribbling poetry in one’s dedicated notebook, only for a poorly-aimed soccer ball to come sailing through the air and make an attempt on his life!

 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jaeyun coos. Everything about his face is lovely. 

 

But is he being dramatic? Or is he simply describing the trauma he’s just lived through?

 

“The ball didn’t even hit you. You fell over on your own.”

 

Still! Jongseong sighs. Well, more like he whimpers. He went down quite hard. Right there on the path. Skinned his calf. Tore a hole in his pants leg. The blood had ruined his sock! It felt like he broke something. Twisted something.

 

“You’ll be fine, mate,” Jaeyun insists. All that he does is big and kind and gentle. Including tending to wounds. In all honesty, Jongseong hardly feels the sting of the alcohol as Jaeyun cleans up his leg with cotton swabs and disinfectant. “The cut was shallow and the bleeding has already stopped. See? You’ll be fine.”

 

Still!

 

Jongseong frowns as he stares down at his leg. The wound had looked far worse than it felt. Now that his leg was cleaned of pebbles and dirt and blood, he’s quite mad that such a small scrape had him nearly teary-eyed. More than that, he’s a bit embarrassed at how quickly Jaeyun had come running. He hadn’t even been the one to send the ball sailing towards the path!

 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your game,” says Jongseong. They are sitting on the bleachers, his right leg draped across Jaeyun’s lap, pants leg rolled up past his knobby little knee. “I didn’t mean to m-m-mess things up.”

 

Jaeyun’s voice is full of patience when he says, “You interrupted nothing. It’s just practice. We were due for a break anyway.” His hands are warm. Silky soft where Jongseong expects hardened callouses. Jaeyun leans over and reaches into the tin first aid kit at his side. “Do you want the plain bandages?”

 

“The colorful ones,” Jongseong corrects. Then, in a softer voice, he adds, “The pink ones.”

 

Jaeyun lifts his head and grins at him, raises the box in his hand. “I had a feeling.”

 

Jongseong doesn’t mean to stare . He doesn’t mean to hope and wonder, but he can’t bring his eyes away. Jaeyun looks quite different when he’s not dressed up for class or for chapel. His sweatband shoves his fluffy hair out of his face. His jersey is damp and mildly sticky with sweat. His hairy legs are covered in bruises and bandages from playing the game. But even this roughened, grass-stained side of him is pretty.

 

“Are you sure I didn’t break anything?” Jongseong questions when the silence becomes too much. Too heavy. “Are you s-s-sure I didn’t twist my ankle or s-something?”

 

“If you had broken something, could I be doing this?” 

 

And it’s not until then that Jongseong realizes that Jaeyun has long finished bandaging his leg and that he has been gently massaging his foot for the past few moments.

 

“Right,” Jongseong says slowly. But now that they’re both here, this close in such a taut silence, Jongseong is reminded of Sunghoon. He wants to ask Jaeyun how well they are getting along. He wants to ask if they are seeing each other. He wants to ask why Jaeyun is here with him instead of somewhere with Sunghoon. “I should go.”

 

Jaeyun nearly lets him go, then he gasps as he remembers something. “I have socks. A spare pair. You can have one.” Before Jongseong can stop him, Jaeyun is reaching into the duffel bag between his cleated feet and pulling loose a pair of white cotton socks striped with red. “They’re clean. I swear.”

 

“It’s fine,” Jongseong whispers. “You don’t have to.” He doesn’t want to impose. Doesn’t want to take Jaeyun’s socks. He weakly attempts to grab Jaeyun’s wrist but he remembers that they’ve already tossed his blood-soaked sock away and that his dress shoes are killer on the backs of his heels. 

 

“It might be a little rougher than what you’re used to,” says Jaeyun, “but I hope it’s comfy.” He unballs the sock and, much slower than necessary, slips it over Jongseong’s foot. “You don’t even have to give it back. I mean, it’s just a sock.” His fingers press into Jongseong’s ankle, into the meat of Jongseong’s calf, as he rolls the cotton up his leg. He looks up, eyes full of worry. “Did that hurt? Does the cut still sting?”

 

Jongseong realizes that he must have hissed in pain or something. “A little.”

 

“I can make it feel better,” Jaeyun confidently declares. He bends over, plants his mouth on the sensitive skin south of Jongseong’s knee and kisses him. And, like nothing’s happened at all, he sits up and shouts, “See? All better.”

 

Dumbly, Jongseong nods. “Yeah. All b-better.” Because as silly of an idea as it is, maybe his leg does feel better. The pain has been soothed away. The itch has dulled. Joy is all that’s left. Sweet and decadent. Jongseong drags his eyes away from the spot on his leg that Jaeyun kissed. He stares at Jaeyun’s profile as the guy peers down at the soccer field where his teammates are resuming practice. Jongseong’s mouth feels dry. His throat constricts. His chest gets tight. 

 

“Oh, did you see that kick? He’s gonna be a star!” Jaeyun looks over at him suddenly with a bright and carefree smile and Jongseong realizes, with goosebump-inducing clarity, that he wants to kiss the guy.

 

ღ

 

Jongseong watches Sunghoon from his carefully measured distance. Not too close. Not too far away.

 

The study table in the corner of the library's west wing is emptier than usual today, as if half of Sunghoon's friends have some other obligation this afternoon.

 

It presents Jongseong with a terrible, brand new dilemma. A mighty and insurmountable challenge that he is not sure how to deal with.

 

With less heads and shoulders in the way, with less books stacked in crooked towers on the table, Jongseong's view of his crush is less obstructed. It is like looking through the telescope in the observatory and discovering that the clouds do not block the view of the full moon. Or that the moon does not block the view of Venus. His heart races. His thoughts unsettle and threaten to upend his good sense. What spectacular fortune! He can see more of Sunghoon as he sits at his table and leans over his textbooks, his hands busy with writing and marking out and rewriting. Jongseong can watch Sunghoon tuck his hair behind his ear with the cap of his pen. He can watch the way Sunghoon's eyebrows furrow when he encounters a problem in the textbook that he doesn't immediately understand. He can watch the way Sunghoon playfully sticks out his tongue and hiss out some scathing remark when one of his friends whispers something taunting or foul. 

 

But, Jongseong also discovers, fewer friends at his table means, ironically, that Sunghoon is more easily distracted.

 

Time and time again, Jongseong looks up from his own challenging coursework to see that Sunghoon is already looking his way. 

 

He feels caught. Pinned. A fly imprisoned in a spider's web. Yet Sunghoon makes no move to devour him.

 

Between four fifteen and four forty-five, they turn this odd, twisting, sizzling thing between them into a bit of a silent game in which both of them win because neither of them can lose. 

 

If Sunghoon looks up and catches Jongseong staring, he gracefully pretends not to notice. He'll glance up at the ceiling. Or puts his eyes on the lantern hanging above Jongseong's table. He'll lift his arms and stretch or fake a yawn. Anything to give Jongseong the seconds he needs to get one last look before lowering his gaze. But, sometimes, he holds the eye contact like it is something precious and, when Jongseong doesn't lose his nerve and turn away, Sunghoon gives him a smile. A tiny one that his friends won't pick up on. A small little curl at the corner of his mouth that Jongseong can only see because he is already looking.

 

And Jongseong collects these tiny smiles and holds on to them. Tightly. He tallies them up like he is keeping score. 

 

Each one makes his heart squeeze a little tighter. Makes his stomach burn a little brighter. Makes his skin tingle with a fresh wave of goosebumps.

 

He recognizes this feeling as longing and, with each of Sunghoon's smiles he adds to his steadily-growing collection, he wonders more and more what they all mean. What promise they hold. What purpose they serve.

 

Jongseong is not sure what has changed--he isn't even sure when it has changed--but it is as if he and Sunghoon have reached some sort of unspoken understanding. As if they are both privy to a dangerous, thorny secret and it delights them both to tease at it in a place full of so many other people. 

 

Such a severe departure from routine should shake Jongseong up. It should make him anxious. Make him shudder and panic. But he is calm.

 

No. Not just calm but happy . Happy enough that he forgets . He forgets how impossible this is for them. That they shouldn't even be doing this much. He forgets that he's already given up. Surrendered. That he's passed up all of this so that Jaeyun can lay claim to these moments in his stead. Yes, he reminds himself. Jaeyun should be here collecting smiles and stealing away looks from beneath half-lidded eyes instead of him. 

 

With a sigh, he quits their silent game, loses count of all the smiles he's gathered, and puts his attention back on his homework. At least he has saved English for last. It is so terribly easy to lose himself in the passages and become immune to the prickle of Sunghoon's eyes on him.

 

At four fifty-six, just as Sunghoon and his friends are beginning to pack their things and stand up from their table, Jongseong's routine is further destabilized when a person he does not expect at all to see appears next to his chair.

 

This is the first time Jaeyun has tracked Jongseong all the way to the library.

 

First, the pretty garden fountain with its shade and butterflies and pretty flowers. Now the study tables beneath the library's centuries-old stained glass windows. Next it will be the observatory at the top of the north tower. One by one, clever Jaeyun stakes a claim on all of Jongseong's favorite places. Determined to share. Determined to be there . Next to him. Always.

 

"Jongseong," Jaeyun says, equal parts greeting and, somehow, a command. The guy doesn't give any explanation. Doesn't give Jongseong a chance to glance across the tables at Sunghoon in the corner. Doesn't even give Jongseong time to pack his things! He hauls Jongseong to his feet by tugging on his arm and guides him away from the study tables. They slip through the non-fiction section almost on tip-toe. Jaeyun takes them past the books on law, the books on religion, the books on health and wildlife and hobby crafting. He doesn't slow until they are in the far, back corner of the library, at the tail end of the biography aisle.

 

It reminds Jongseong of that time they skipped chapel service, tucked into that great tree's shadow, both of them warm and breathless and standing far, far too close.

 

"You should come with me, mate," Jaeyun says. Perhaps he thinks he says such words softly, but they leave his mouth in a half-shout that Jongseong immediately shushes him for. Jaeyun takes it in stride, giggling lightly and pulling Jongseong closer as if they aren't already sharing breaths. 

 

It dawns on Jongseong then that Jaeyun is in his soccer uniform. That he's damp with sweat, his chest heaving, his hair slick and sticking to his neck, as if he ran all the way across campus after practice just to find him. One of Jaeyun's hands is still clamped firmly around Jongseong's wrist. The other is casually splayed on his hip, fingers improperly close to the place where Jongseong's shirt is tucked into his slacks.

 

"Come with you where?" Jongseong whispers, not wanting their voices to carry, even though this section of the library is hardly ever visited.

 

Jaeyun lowers his own voice and leans dangerously close to get his mouth near Jongseong's ear. "I want to write a love letter." When he pulls back, he's smiling. "I'm asking Sunghoon to meet me tonight in the garden. I'm asking him to go with me." 

 

His bold words shock the breath from Jongseong's lungs. His eyes go wide. "Really?" And he's thankful that his whisper comes out high-pitched, nearly snapping across the syllables. Because, then, it sounds like excitement. Joy. Glee. And not the disappointment that he truly, deeply feels. 

 

Goodness. Jaeyun is so lovely. So warm and wonderful. So easy to be around. So nice to spend time with! These last few days have been like heaven so Jongseong had almost forgotten the Shakespearean tragedy of their friendship. That Jaeyun is only here to ask for yet another favor. That Jaeyun is only here with him now because he would much rather be with Sunghoon. That he's only here, at this very moment, to use more of Jongseong's words in order to impress and woo the boy Jongseong is too cowardly to approach. Jongseong laughs humorlessly as the façade cracks apart around him like shattering glass. Hasn't he known from the start that Sunghoon is too good for him? That Jaeyun shines too bright for him? And he had almost been happy!

 

Jongseong says, "Why do you need me to go with you? Moral support?"

 

Jaeyun doesn't recognize the strain in Jongseong's tone for what it is. His easy smile spreads across his face and then he looks down, shy. Slowly, he unhands Jongseong's wrist only to lace their fingers together, palm to palm, in a soft, sticky, intimate way that he probably shouldn't do in so public and open a place. Jaeyun looks back up into Jongseong's eyes and that smile of his grows even brighter. "I can't meet him without you," he easily admits. "I can't be with him without you."

 

Because he needs Jongseong's words. Jongseong's poetry. The letters Jongseong scraped and bruised his heart to build.

 

"I need you," Jaeyun says. And he almost sounds like he's reciting his own poem. Like he's digging down deep to pull up something vulnerable and precious. Then he adds, "We have to tell Sunghoon."

 

Jongseong sighs. He should stand firm. He should tell Jaeyun no and then walk away. But if he does such a horrendous and final thing, when would Jaeyun ever smile at him like this again? Shamelessly, Jongseong wants to hold on to what they have. He wants to keep Jaeyun this close. Close enough that it would be absolutely no trouble at all to tip forward and kiss his soft mouth. He wants. He wants ! But he holds himself back. With everything that he has, he stops himself.

 

And maybe Jaeyun sees the look on his face. Maybe he recognizes it. But perhaps he doesn't. He starts, "I think I know how you... I'm sure that-- I know that you like--"

 

Then the absolute worst thing happens.

 

Sunghoon comes into the aisle then. Not to search for a book but to search for them. Jongseong sees him turn the corner and he whips his head around to watch him approach. There's no way for Jongseong not to notice the way Sunghoon's eyes dart rapidly between the two of them. Like he's caught them in the act.

 

Goodness. This probably looks far more indecent than it actually is! Jaeyun practically has Jongseong pinned to the tall, heavy shelving. Their faces are inappropriately close, even for friends, and their hands are tangled together rather affectionately. A picture that is nigh-impossible to explain away! Jongseong's heart races with alarm. 

 

Yet, oddly, Sunghoon doesn't look affronted. The arch of his eyebrows and the tilt of his head implies curiosity as opposed to caution or discomfort and when he walks right up to them, it is with a giggle in his throat. "You two sure are bold," he declares. He is so close. So warm. The air swells with the cool, minty scent of him. With Jaeyun pressed so firmly to Jongseong's right, Sunghoon has no other option but to close up on Jongseong's left, falling into place like the missing puzzle piece. Sunghoon reaches out a hand and it lands, gently, on Jongseong's forearm. "I will have to match your boldness. Forgive me if it takes me a while."

 

At that, Jaeyun laughs. Like there was a joke in there that only he heard.

 

Sunghoon shushes him, eyes crinkling as he grins.

 

"S-S-Sunghoon," Jongseong stutters out. His left arm tenses, eager to bring his hand up to his ear, but he can't move it with Sunghoon's fingers digging into his skin. "It's not-- It's not--" It's not what it looks like , his clumsy tongue won't allow him to say. He looks over at Jaeyun, whose heart is practically in his eyes as he stares at Sunghoon. Then Jongseong looks over at Sunghoon who smiles just as brightly back at Jaeyun. Neither of them seem particularly embarrassed or angry with the fact that Jongseong is the obstruction that stands between them but Jongseong can't help feeling cornered. He pries himself free of Jaeyun's hold on him and steps away until he's removed himself from between them.

 

To his credit, Jaeyun lets him go without a fuss. More accurately, his attention still lies elsewhere. "Sunghoon. You're here. Great. I've been meaning to talk to you."

 

This catches Sunghoon off guard. "Hmm?"

 

"Are you free? Not right now. Tonight, I mean. Will you be free?"

 

Sunghoon stiffens. He reaches up a hand and brushes his brown hair out of his eyes. "Am I free?" he parrots. He tilts his head as if to think about it. His eyes swing from Jaeyun standing confidently in front of him to Jongseong, off to the side, nervously tugging at his ear. When he looks back up at Jaeyun, his mouth is set in a firm line as if he's just come to a grand decision. "Yes. I'm available. What do you need?"

 

"I've got a letter for you," Jaeyun admits. "Well... I don't have it now. I haven't written it yet. Do you have a moment? I can write it now."

 

"Now?" Sunghoon asks. "Why not just tell me? Since we're right here?" His eyes dart between Jongseong and Jaeyun again.

 

"It has to be a letter," Jaeyun decides. "I've been meaning to write you a letter for ages."

 

Jongseong feels faint. He doesn't know why it is so difficult to watch the two of them. The way they look at each other, eyes sparking with hope and youthful wonder. The way they grin at each other, as if they already know what all of this is about. As if they are simply playing along for the sake of the other's pride. The two of them get along so swimmingly. Moons orbiting planets. Planets orbiting a sun. The two of them could so easily be in love with each other. If they aren't already.

 

He has no place here, Jongseong knows. And Jaeyun inviting him out to the garden tonight to watch him confess to Sunghoon is no different from Jongseong being offered front-row seats to his own execution. He will end up alone but he knows he will be out in the garden regardless. He knows he won't be able to fling himself free of Sunghoon's gravitational pull.

 

Jongseong swallows hard and makes a bold decision of his own. He's not sure if either of them notice when he turns down the aisle and makes a hasty escape.

 

ღ

 

An hour and a half later, when the sky is just beginning to burn pink and orange with twilight, a knock comes on Jongseong's dorm room door. 

 

His roommate, already twisted into a cocoon of his suspiciously stained bed sheets, groans out a half-asleep curse and tells Jongseong to answer it.

 

Jongseong closes his book, places it neatly in the center of his desk and then stands up to cross the room.

 

He expects it to be one of his roommate's friends. One of the ones who always comes over in the evenings right before dinner. Either the freshman with too-long hair and a stiff, foreign accent or the loud one with the large, expressive eyes and a rather ferocious appetite and a bad habit of using Jongseong's things without asking first. 

 

But when Jongseong opens the door, it is neither of them. In fact, it is none of his roommate's friends.

 

It's Jaeyun.

 

Because, yet again, he has managed to fit himself so casually and so comfortably into a place Jongseong cherishes.

 

He has Jongseong's heart. Isn't that enough?

 

"Jaeyun," Jongseong gasps out, blinking to make sure it is not a dream.

 

And the man heaves such a great sigh of relief and smiles so brightly at him that Jongseong lowers his gaze, feeling undeserving of it. "At last," Jaeyun exhales, sagging weightlessly against the doorframe. "I've got the right room."

 

Jongseong chokes out, "You were looking for me?"

 

"Yes. Of course," Jaeyun says. 

 

And now that Jongseong gives him a second look, he sees his own leather satchel hanging off Jaeyun's broad shoulder and now this all makes a far greater amount of sense. 

 

"You left your things behind in the library," Jaeyun explains, as if that isn't already clear. "Where did you go, by the way? We waited for you."

 

That makes Jongseong's chest tighten. Why would they wait for him when they had each other? "I felt a little sick," he lies. "I've been resting." 

 

Jaeyun stands up on his tip-toes and peers past Jongseong's lithe frame into the room.

 

Jongseong almost wants to shut the door and block his view. His roommate's side of the room is so messy and shabby. More like a messy dog than a human.

 

"You should have told us you weren't feeling well," Jaeyun gently reprimands. "We could have taken you to the nurse. Sunghoon was frantic." He settles his weight back on his heels and uses a curled thumb beneath Jongseong's chin to make him lift his head and meet Jaeyun's eye. Then, too soon, he drops his hand. But he doesn't drop his gaze. Silence flows past them for a quarter of a minute before he remembers his purpose here. "Right. Here." He pulls the satchel off of his shoulder and holds it out for Jongseong to take. "I hope I got everything. Let me know if something is missing." 

 

The weight of it in Jongseong's arms is comforting and familiar. He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed something to do with his hands.

 

"You're still coming tonight, right?" Jaeyun asks brightly.

 

Behind him, Jongseong's roommate groans in annoyance at the volume of their voices and rolls over on his mattress, facing the wall.

 

Jaeyun takes that as his cue to lean forward a little so that he can lower his voice. "You'll be there, right? When I'm with him, you'll be with me. Right?"

 

This nighttime meeting is so clearly important to him. Jongseong can see the grand ways in which it matters in Jaeyun's eyes. He's not sure when it happened, but Jaeyun has stepped into the room a bit to clamp his hands down on Jongseong's shoulders. Fingers digging in to the cotton of his shirt, he shakes Jongseong. Just a little. Far more gently than he usually does as if he recognizes the fragility of what is between them. Jongseong looks him in the face and knows he can't say no. He knows he can't do or say anything that'll wipe that hopeful grin off Jaeyun's face. "I'll be there," he promises.

 

"That's great," Jaeyun declares loudly, much to the chagrin of Jongseong's roommate. Much more quietly, Jaeyun adds, "Jongseong, you're a star."

 

And there is a moment, then, honey-sweet and ember-hot, like the first rays of a summer sun peeking out over the eastern horizon and burning away the fog and dew, where Jongseong swears that Jaeyun might kiss him. Right on the mouth. Right then and there. Then the moment passes, quick as it came. Perhaps it was Jongseong's own cruel heart toying with his perception, making him see only what he wishes to see, because, in reality, Jaeyun is leaning away, stepping backwards into the hall with cheeks so red they look like they hurt.

 

"Don't forget," Jaeyun tells him, his smile wide, his skin golden. "Nine thirty. In the garden." And then he is gone, leaving Jongseong with the weight of his satchel and the weight of the world in his arms.

 

Ღ

 

The garden looks entirely different at night.

 

During daylight hours, the trimmed hedges and low-lying bushes are a wondrous maze of evergreen leaves and hanging vines and the shimmer of dragonfly wings.

 

At night, beneath the light of the full moon and a clear sky full of stars, the garden turns into a jungle of shadow and silver. A sliver cut from a dream and lit by flickering fireflies. The air is heady and sharp with the scent of pine. The old statues brighten with moonlight, angel wings and cherub faces. The darkness beneath the trees is disorienting enough that it’s easy to get lost. Turned around. Mixed up. Toads sing and crickets play their violins, a tuneless song that can’t be danced to. The hazy orange glow spilling out from the leaded windows of the nearby academy buildings is just barely enough to illuminate the path forward.

 

But if one follows the babbling noise of the fountain, the maze’s center is always easy to find.

 

It is Jongseong’s second favorite place, after all.

 

There’s not enough lantern light for Jongseong to read by out here in the quiet hour right before curfew, but that’s a good thing. There’s no light to obscure his view of the stars. No man-made glow to distract him from a glimpse of the planets.

 

Yet there is one shadow that is different from the rest, and it falls across Jongseong’s face and makes him turn away from the cosmos.

 

He almost doesn’t realize who he is looking at in the silver light and skewed shadows. He doesn’t expect him to be so close and in a place that Jongseong chose as his own. “Sunghoon?”

 

Sunghoon sits down next to him. Close enough for their thighs to touch. Close enough that they now share their warmth. “Aren’t you cold out here?”

 

“Not r-really,” Jongseong explains. His uniform blazer is heavy enough. There’s not that much bite to the wind just yet. “W-w-what about you?”

 

“I brought an extra coat. Just in case.” He drapes the windbreaker in question over his knee.

 

When Jongseong looks up, he sees how the light of the moon rides the sharp slope of Sunghoon’s nose, how it sits on the pillow curve of Sunghoon’s upper lip. It brings Jongseong pain how desperate he is. He wants to burn up. He wants to go up in flames. He wants to kiss Sunghoon’s mouth, wants to sample the flavor of his tongue. Wants to implode like a collapsing star. That’s how deep in this he is. That’s how bad he has let this get. Sunghoon turns his head towards him so Jongseong swiftly averts his eyes before they make eye contact.

 

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” Sunghoon tells him. He reaches out a hand. His fingers loosely wrap around Jongseong’s wrist and pulls his trembling hand away from his ear. “It’s going to be okay.” He laughs but Jongseong is not the butt of the joke. “Your heart’s beating like a hummingbird.” And he knows this because his thumb is pressed into the notch of Jongseong’s wrist, right above his pulse point. “I’m actually a little honored that you like me so much.”

 

Jongseong panics. He almost fights against Sunghoon’s hold on him. “W-w-what?”

 

Sunghoon’s voice is a soothing purr when he states, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m going to say yes.”

 

Jongseong isn’t completely sure he knows where this came from. Say yes to what ? Has he gotten so lost in his own head that he hasn’t paid attention to their conversation?

 

Sunghoon tugs Jongseong’s hand until it sits in his own lap and then he runs a finger down the lines that crisscross Jongseong’s palm. “It’s amazing, I think. The idea is so… so crazy and stupid that it has to work. It has to be splendid. Whose idea was it? Yours or his?”

 

Jongseong glances up at him and Sunghoon is grinning . Even in the low lighting, the color across his cheeks is evident. Bright pink like peonies. Like roses. He’s so handsome. He’s so absolutely darling .

 

Sunghoon takes in Jongseong’s open-mouthed surprise. “Oh, this was his idea? Yes. I can see how he’d be the one to come up with this. He told me you got hurt, you know. Skinned your leg. You’re alright, aren’t you?”

 

Perhaps Sunghoon’s proximity has ruined the last remaining bit of Jongseong’s common sense. He can’t even speak ! Can’t even ask what Sunghoon means by any of this.

 

“If I am being completely honest, which I fully intend to do with you both, I found it all a bit weird in the beginning,” Sunghoon continues. “Like, I had never considered the idea.” He turns his gaze up towards the full moon. “But the more and more I thought about it, the more astounding it all became. How mad,” he exclaims. “How genius!”

 

Jongseong says the first thing that comes to his mind. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Sunghoon says shyly. He giggles--and the sound is like music !--and then he leans forward to knock their temples together. Jongseong ignores the urge to inhale the shampoo-scent of his hair. Sunghoon says, “I knew you and Jaeyun were up to something a few days back. The moment he started fumbling through that poem for me.”

 

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong lamely repeats.

 

“Speaking of which, he’s running late, isn’t he?” Sunghoon twists Jongseong’s wrist in his lap until he can peer at the face of Jongseong’s wrist watch. “It is after nine thirty. Isn’t he late?”

 

Confusion bubbles up in Jongseong. All of this feels like a dream. Sunghoon being next to him, speaking to him, smiling at him, touching him. None of it feels real, which may be why none of it makes sense. Jongseong’s voice comes out like a frog’s croak when he asks, “Late for what?”

 

Sunghoon’s shy smile fades. He looks into Jongseong’s horrified face. “The both of you asked to meet me here in the garden at nine thirty. Aren’t you two going to ask me out?”

 

Jongseong’s jaw drops. Are they going to-- Were the two of them going to-- What ? There must be some mistake!

 

He spots the look on Jongseong’s face. “Did… Did he not tell you everything?” Sunghoon inquires, truly worried. He releases his hold on Jongseong’s wrist, digs into the pocket of his sweater and pulls free a folded sheet of paper. “You wrote me this poem and Jaeyun wrote me a letter asking to meet.” He places the paper in Jongseong’s hand. “This is from your notebook, right? I recognize the flowers in the corners.” 

 

And Jongseong does recognize the page, roughly torn from his notebook, crooked and ugly. He recognizes the poem. One of his more recent ones, actually. “I did write this,” he points to the neatly-scribed poem. “And Jaeyun did write this.” He points to Jaeyun’s slanted handwriting, hastily scribbled words asking Sunghoon to meet by the statue in the garden at nine thirty.

 

“Then what’s the problem?” Sunghoon asks, desperate. 

 

Jongseong’s mind goes blank. He had picked out the poem for Jaeyun’s use, yes, but he also fully expected Jaeyun to copy it out . Not carelessly rip it from the notebook. Oddly, this is what has Jongseong so upset. It is the cruel fact that his perfectly organized notebook has  perforated pages ! “Why rip the paper from the spine?” he loudly complains. But it is nearly nine fifty five and there’s a slightly more pressing matter to attend to. Jongseong looks up at Sunghoon. “He’s waiting for you . And I think I know where he is.”

 

Fortunately, Sunghoon asks no questions, though his stiff expression makes it crystal clear that he has plenty. Sunghoon gets up to his feet when Jongseong pulls him by the wrist and he wordlessly follows Jongseong away from the fountain and through the moonlit garden. It is not much of a maze when you know the exact path between the bushes and trees and slanted shafts of moonlight. 

 

It hardly takes two minutes to reach the large bronze statue that stands sentinel just beyond the garden gates. It is the statue of the academy’s founder, quite the sight when it stands in backlit contrast to the stone of the administration building behind it. And Jaeyun, handsome as ever, stands alone in the white glow of the moon, pacing back and forth with nerves.

 

“Oh dear,” Sunghoon sighs. “How long do you think he’s been waiting for us?”

 

“For you,” Jongseong corrects. Then he pulls Sunghoon through the wrought-iron gates.

 

Jaeyun, who had been nervously biting his thumb, hears their approaching footsteps on the cobblestone and whirls to face them. He frantically squints into the near-dark as they get closer and closer. Then he recognizes them. The relief that floods his face is palpable in the air. He even slaps a hand over his chest as if to hold his heart within his ribcage. “There you are. I was starting to believe you wouldn’t show.” And the brightness of his smile is worth the heartache.

 

“Funny,” Sunghoon says, “because I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

 

“Well,” Jaeyun says, “I’m glad Jongseong’s here to help keep our heads on straight.”

 

By then, Jongseong has tugged Sunghoon up to him and Jaeyun takes advantage of the fact that he is now within arm’s reach by grabbing hold of Sunghoon’s free hand.

 

“Sorry we made you worry. We got the locations mixed up,” Sunghoon admits. “Or… Well, maybe I just assumed that when you said ‘statue,’ you meant the one Jongseong always sits under.”

 

At that, Jaeyun grabs hold of Jongseong’s free hand. “That would have been a prettier spot for a meeting like this.”

 

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong hisses, “you were supposed to write it on your own paper. Remember? The envelope? The spritz of perfume?”

 

Jaeyun throws his head back and laughs loudly, like they aren’t seconds away from being truant due to curfew. “I totally forgot all of that. I just wanted to get the message to him as fast as possible.”

 

“You being hasty caused quite the misunderstanding,” Jongseong snaps. Because, goodness, he is trying to help someone else start a love with his crush! He is feeding his own love poems to someone else for them to use. Isn’t that painful enough? 

 

“Well, I apologize,” Jaeyun says. “But it’s all been straightened out now, hasn’t it?”

 

Has it?

 

Even though they are on the far side of campus from the chapel, all three of them can still hear the church bell ding, signaling the turn of the late hour.

 

“Since we’re all here, that means we’re okay with this, right?” Sunghoon asks.

 

Jaeyun nods.

 

Jongseong panics, only just now realizing that Sunghoon is holding his left hand and that Jaeyun is holding his right. Is he not an obstruction? Why are they letting him block their path? If they won’t dismiss him, he’ll simply remove himself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do not want to receive demerits from a patrolling prefect.” He hoists up both of his hands, untangles his fingers from theirs and makes it so that they are only holding each others’ hands. “Goodnight.” 

 

“Jongseong, wait,” Sunghoon says.

 

Jaeyun shouts, “Where are you going?”

 

And with his heart aflutter--with his heart aflame --Jongseong takes off running, back into the shadow-filled garden maze where he is sure that they won’t follow.

 

Ღ

 

Jongseong goes against everything he stands for and breaks his own routine.

 

No. He doesn’t break it. He takes a sledgehammer to it. Entirely demolishes it.

 

He does not go to the library the next evening and he pays for it by sinking neck-deep into anxiety for the two wicked hours between three and five. He can’t sit in his dorm room. Not to read nor to do his homework nor to relax . He can’t sit still at all, according to the crude, expletive-laden complaints of his roommate. So Jongseong wanders the hall of the boys’ dorm until he determines that it is too risky. He’ll run into either one of them in the red-carpeted halls. Or, worse, he’ll see them both together. Jongseong goes outside through the double doors and wanders across campus, directionless. A comet sailing through the cosmos, burning itself to smithereens in its haste. 

 

He is not sure he’s ready to see Sunghoon’s face.

 

He isn’t ready to see Jaeyun’s face either but Jaeyun hasn’t received such a memorandum.

 

He must spot Jongseong from across the field because he shouts the boy’s name and comes sprinting across the yellowing grass. 

 

Jongseong looks around, tries to find a place to hide, a direction to run, but by the time he decides on something, Jaeyun is snaking an arm around his shoulders and gently shaking him like he always does. “Haven’t seen you all day, mate. What have you been up to?”

 

“Are you mad at me?” Jongseong blurts out.

 

Jaeyun shakes his head. “Why would I be mad?” And he looks so happy. So genuinely happy to see Jongseong. His big, white smile and rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes! How can he be so perfect? So charming? So beautiful?

 

Jongseong doesn’t know what’s come over him.

 

Jaeyun’s smile dims. “Hey, buddy. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

 

But Jongseong can’t stop the tears now that they are falling. He can’t even wipe them off his face quickly enough! Why is everything so frustrating? Why does everything hurt ?

 

As always, Jaeyun is patient. Gentle. Kind. “Say that again. I didn’t quite catch it.”

 

Jongseong chokes back a sob, tries to get a handle on his words. But he is a poet so speaking his thoughts and emotions aloud has never been his strong suit. “Why are you so n-nice to me?” Because he doesn’t know why . Jongseong doesn’t know why Jaeyun is still coming around even though he’s already gotten what he wanted. Even though Jongseong’s already helped him express his feelings to Sunghoon. Aren’t they happy together? 

 

“I still can’t understand what you’re saying,” Jaeyun says softly. With a hand on Jongseong’s elbow, he guides him to a nearby wrought-iron bench and sets Jongseong down upon it. “Take a deep breath.”

 

Jongseong tries to. He tries to breathe. He tries to wrangle his feelings into something that he can control, but that just makes a larger crack appear in the dam. More tears pour out. “W-w-why do you make it so easy t-t-to like you? To love you? You m-make it as easy as b-breathing.” 

 

At least Jaeyun seems to hear him then. “Oh? Is this a new poem?”

 

Jongseong can’t even be mad, as deeply as he wants to be. The tears just won’t let him. “No, silly.” He almost laughs. “I’m confessing.”

 

“To me ?” Jaeyun wonders.

 

It almost feels like Jaeyun is getting him back somehow. Jongseong sputters out, “Of course!” He has to take off his glasses because he can’t even see out of them now that they are splattered with his tears. “I’m supposed to like Sunghoon… I do like Sunghoon, but then you come around and n-n-now I like you too and I don’t know w-w-what to do.”

 

“Hey, hey,” Jaeyun coos. He kneels down in front of Jongseong. “It’s okay. It’s okay to like me. It’s okay to like Sunghoon too.” 

 

“It’s not ,” Jongseong cries out. There is so much he doesn’t understand! “Because we’re not supposed to like each other-- You’re only supposed to like each other. That’s why we did all of this. So you can be happy.”

 

“I am happy,” Jaeyun states. “Both of you make me happy. There’s no rule against that.”

 

But there are! There are so many rules. And they are breaking them all.

 

Jaeyun raises both of his hands to either side of Jongseong’s face and wipes away his tears. He says, “You can like however many people you want, Jongseong. Don’t you dare feel bad about that.” It’s like he knows exactly what to do. It’s like he knows exactly how to fix this. Just like with Jongseong’s injury.

 

“B-b-but you’re with him now. Right?” Jongseong can’t even keep looking Jaeyun in the eye. 

 

“I can’t meet him without you,” Jaeyun says sternly. 

 

Jongseong looks back up at him, meets his gaze and discovers that Jaeyun is getting teary-eyed too.

 

Jaeyun says, “I can’t be with him without you.” 

 

And maybe this is how things end. Perhaps this is the place where the ties are severed. “You have to,” Jongseong says. 

 

“Says who?”

 

“Says me! You can’t keep using my poetry to get to him. You have to use your own words, Jaeyun.”

 

And this is supposed to be a serious moment but Jaeyun laughs . “Sunghoon is smart, you know. Real smart.” He wipes more tears off of Jongseong’s cheeks with one hand and then smears tears off of his own face with the other. “I couldn’t fool him. Even with all of our practice. He knew from the start that the poetry was yours. He said that he’d recognize your style anywhere.”

 

“And he didn’t stop you?” Jongseong has to ask. “He didn’t call you out?”

 

“He thought it was cute,” says Jaeyun. And then, at Jongseong’s incredulous face, he defends himself, “ His words!”

 

Jongseong smiles through the tears. How silly have they all been?

 

“It’s funny.” Jaeyun dries off more of Jongseong’s tears. At least now they are finally slowing. “I was using your words to confess to him but he thought you were using my voice to confess to him.”

 

Jongseong’s tears stop. At last. He swallows down the last of his bitter, salty sobs and has to bite his bottom lip not to laugh.

 

“Told you it was funny,” says Jaeyun when he hears that snorted-back chuckle.

 

Jongseong can’t be mad anymore. He can’t even be upset. This whole thing is wonderfully absurd! One mistake after another has led to the happiest moment he’s experienced quite possibly in his entire life. Right here. Right now.

 

“Don’t you remember?” Jaeyun continues with a bright, bubbly laugh. He uses his hands to tilt Jongseong’s face down towards his but stops just shy of a kiss. “Because of me being silly with the paper, Sunghoon thought we were the ones asking him out.”

 

Sunghoon’s own words float back into Jongseong’s head and he sniffles wetly and grossly before he repeats them aloud, “and to clue you in on a little secret, he was going to say yes.”

 

Ღ

 

They had spent all of this time writing Sunghoon notes and poetry but, this time, it is Sunghoon who writes them a letter.

 

He hands it to Jongseong in the library at four forty nine in the evening, just as Sunghoon’s friends are packing up their things to leave.

 

Sunghoon looks like a prince in the afternoon sunlight, his face streaked in primary colors as he stands beside the stained-glass window. He looks untouchable. He looks unreachable. Yet, still… “Don’t worry,” Sunghoon says before turning to leave. “I already gave Jaeyun his invitation.”

 

Jongseong is both terrified and thrilled. He is so nervous that his hands shake. He can only sit there and stare at this beautiful thing Sunghoon has made for him. Given him. The letter is in a wax-sealed envelope, cream in color and made from sturdy, crisp stock. He pops open the seal with a bit of careful tugging, not wanting to rip anything. The folded paper inside is spritzed in rosy perfume, sweet as a dream, and Jongseong unfurls it like it is special. Like it is holy. The letters on the page are written in a neat, orderly fashion, as if Sunghoon had worked extra hard to perfect the spacing, even in his heavy-handed script. Despite the thick strokes of black ink, the words are soft, flowery and poetic. 

 

But the meaning is clear. 

 

Sunghoon wants to be with Jongseong. He absolutely cannot live without him. Absolutely cannot be without him. And it is imperative that they meet in the shadow of Jongseong’s favorite statue at nine thirty that very evening.

 

Ღ

 

“Is he not going to show?” Jaeyun asks, stealing a glance at Jongseong’s wrist watch and confirming that, yes, it is indeed nine thirty four when it was nine thirty three last time he checked.

 

“He’s going to show,” Jongseong says around chattering teeth. He probably should have worn a scarf and gloves! “He used such fantastic stationery.”

 

The weather’s changed. The starry sky is now hidden behind a veil of thick, gray clouds and low thunder rumbles in the distance. The air is heavy with the strong scent of ozone and if they aren’t careful, they’ll be caught out in the rain, terribly far from the shelter of even the nearest building.

 

“I’m quite cold,” Jongseong complains. He hadn’t meant anything by it, but Jaeyun immediately grabs both of his hands, holds them up to his mouth and breathes warm air across his knuckles. It doesn’t help much but the sentiment is nice and well appreciated. 

 

“He’s going to show,” Jaeyun says, probably to reassure himself.

 

A moment later, there’s a rustle in the nearby brush. At first, Jongseong thinks it’s the wind or possibly the pitter-patter of rainfall, but then Sunghoon steps out of the shadows, bundled up in a proper raincoat with an umbrella clutched in his fist.

 

“There you are,” Jaeyun bellows, delighted.

 

Jongseong shushes him.

 

“What?” Jaeyun huffs. “It’s not past curfew yet!”

 

Sunghoon walks up to them. Although his face is almost entirely in shadow on such a dark night, his grin is easy to spot. The red of his cheeks is easy to spot. “Since we’re all here, we’re okay with this, right?” His words are a near-perfect echo of the other evening and Jongseong almost hates himself for running away.

 

“I’m okay with it,” Jaeyun says. “It’s more than I could ask for.” He steps forward, pushes back the hood of Sunghoon’s raincoat like it is as weighted and meaningful as a bride’s veil and then kisses Sunghoon’s cheek as easy as if he’s done it a million times. He almost manages to pull away before Sunghoon chases after his mouth, catches it with his own. They part, smiling so brightly it is as if they are stars that have stepped down from heaven.

 

“I’m--” Jongseong begins. His hand lightly tugs at his ear. “I’m okay with it. I-I never would have dreamed I could have something like this.” 

 

Sunghoon leans toward him. His breath smells sweet, like honey, and Jongseong hardly gets a moment to savor the scent before Sunghoon’s mouth is on his. The kiss is so warm. Dizzyingly sweet like the juice at communion. Sunghoon pulls away and gasps for breath as if Jongseong stole his from him. “And I’m… I’m okay with it,” Sunghoon says. “More than anything, I want to see how far we’ll go and how strong we’ll be.”

 

Jaeyun puts both hands on Jongseong’s shoulders and shakes him until Jongseong turns and faces him.

 

There he is, looking at Jongseong with that big smile and that absolutely ecstatic glint in his eye. Like Jongseong is the distant star that he’s managed to grab hold of despite the distance. Despite the burn. 

 

Jongseong is the one who leans forward and kisses him.

 

And it must be the great shift the universe needs because lovely, cold rain begins to fall but Jongseong’s heart has never burned so hot and bright.

 

Ღ

 

Jongseong’s routine did not have to change.

 

From three to three fifteen, he still goes to the circulation desk to return old books and check out new ones.

 

From three fifteen to four, he still sits at his usual table, bathed in the prismatic light pouring through the stained glass windows, and does his homework. Math first, because it is the hardest. Then history. Then biology. English last, because it is his favorite.

 

But now, at four, Sunghoon sits on his left side and Jaeyun, still smelling like fresh-cut grass from soccer practice, sits on Jongseong’s right.

 

They don’t kiss in a place like this. Don’t hold hands. They hardly touch, less they give themselves away. Less they burn like fiery stars on the surface of each other. 

 

But they do write poetry for each other.

 

The descriptions are exaggerated. The metaphors are heavy-handed. The imagery is blunt and over-the-top. 

 

But this is love, after all. Wild, silly, powerful love, and there is no use for subtlety.