Chapter Text
Jake knows that the wedding announcement is coming. Ever since he had turned twenty-one, a true adult in the eyes of polite society, he had been waiting, breathless, to find out who his match would be. He stayed awake past lights out, whispering to himself and pretending that he had a best friend who was listening to him, naming out all of the eligible princes and dukes and wealthy merchants that he could be married off to.
“There’s Koga Yudai, he’s going to inherit a whole county, and is likely going to be governor when his father dies. And the Chois…there are a lot of them, but I think Beomgyu is a little too eccentric for my taste. I’d much rather have Soobin. Or I could go older…Kim Namjoon is still eligible, and his estate is getting so large. Surely he needs a wife to help maintain everything, he’s so absentminded. And he has kind eyes. I should tell mother.”
Jake imagines that his imaginary best friend nods enthusiastically, offering their encouragement for Jake to speak up about his perfect match. Because Kim Namjoon would be perfect. Sure, he’s a bit older, but that has never bothered Jake. Namjoon, so the rumors go, lives like a monk, and if he does then Jake would never have to worry about what would happen on his wedding night. Younger men might tear at him, desperate and eager to bite into what is now theirs. He can’t imagine Namjoon handling anything roughly, let alone his new bride.
He doesn’t tell his mother, though. Not even when a month passes after his birthday, not even when November rolls into December rolls into January rolls into February, as winter turns into spring turns into early summer. He doesn’t say anything, one, because he hardly sees his mother nowadays, and two, he doesn’t actually have a best friend and confidante to egg him on.
Perhaps most importantly, Jake doesn’t have any say in who he marries. He knows this, deep down and on the surface. It is apparent in every, painful aspect of his life. Jake was born to be a perfect bride, and so he shall be, to whomever his father chooses.
Ever since he was a baby he has been handled delicately. As a second child, specifically a second son, there was nothing left for him but to be prepared for alliance via marriage, unless of course something tragic were to happen to his older brother, in which case the classes on diplomacy and business and calculus would actually come in handy. He has been bathed in milk every Saturday since he was an infant, he sprinkles perfume in his hair and keeps sachets of flowers in his underwear drawer. He never exerts himself, has not run or rough-housed with other children. In fact, he was never around other children, period. His skin is precious, touch is precious, and they could not risk having him around toddlers who did not know restraint and who could unwittingly sully their perfect asset.
Jake has never been touched. Even as a baby his mother only held her to her clothed breast and fed him her milk by a bottle. She wore gloves, everyone wore gloves, when handling him, even when they bathed him. He is old enough to bathe himself now, and he does so very quickly, unused to even feeling his own skin on his fingertips.
Jake has studied history and art. He plays several instruments, including the piano and the violin. He can sing. He can paint and has perfect calligraphy. He is well read and, for purposes of emergencies only, can handle complex mathematics and negotiating. He is virginal, pure in every sense of the word. According to his mother, he has never even had an impure thought…which is mostly true. He entertained, once, when he was much younger, the idea of kissing someone when he had gotten hold of one of the romance novels left behind by one of his ladies-in-waiting. The book had been burned and the woman let go and Jake had never dared to think such thoughts again.
He is perfect, he knows. The perfect bride, ripe for the picking. Which is why he cannot understand how he is not yet betrothed.
It is late June. The spring calves are already fattening, wandering the fields on steady legs and munching on coarse, emerald green grass. The days are getting longer and more temperate. The occasional freezing rains of the spring have gotten warmer, shifted into heavier summer showers that drench him on his daily walk around the manor, sullying his already sullen mood into something bitter. He steps harder in puddles, getting a small satisfaction from the way the mud squelches under his boot, the way the dirty water splashes up and discolors the laces on his boots.
“Now now,” one of his ladies says from a safe distance behind him. “No need dirtying yourself on purpose. What if your new husband is waiting inside and will find you stumbling in like a muddied rat.”
Jake bites his tongue from snapping that there is no husband. If there was a husband, he would have been married off by now, should have been married off by now. He should have had a line of men out of the door with how much of a prize he is, should have been able to walk down the line and have his pick, or, better yet, had them fight for him. But no, he is stuck, in the rain, drenched and muddied, unbetrothed and useless. He clenches his jaw, and the next puddle he comes across he jumps in, just to hear his ladies gasp.
Unfortunately for him, the woman is right.
Jake re-enters the manor looking for all intents and purposes like a farm animal taken into the barn and stands before his father and mother. His mother looks horrified at his appearance, her hand rising to cover her mouth lest she be seen making such an ugly face. His father is nonplussed, though he always is.
“I will…read your engagement announcement aloud, shall I?” his father says, looking between Jake and his mother like he expects one of them to stop him. Neither do. Jake’s mother already knows, of course, and Jake is shaking as much from anticipation as the damp. He crosses his fingers behind his back and chants in the back of his mind Kim Namjoon, oh let it be Namjoon please, I’d give anything.
“Sim Jaeyun, you are to join in hand and heart with one Lee Heeseung on the first day of July, to align families and lands for generations to come,” his father reads from the paper, and Jake’s heart feels like it’s rising in his throat, feels like it’s going to burst out of his mouth and splatter over his mother’s pristine emerald shoes. He swallows so hard that it hurts.
“Who?” he asks. He’s listed every eligible bachelor within a fifteen kilometer radius on a nightly basis, and none of them were a Lee Heeseung.
“The second son of Sir Lee. Of the Lee Vineyards.”
There is so much wrong with that sentence that Jake can’t wrap his head around it. He starts to shake harder, his teeth begin to chatter. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started foaming at the mouth in his shock.
“You’re marrying me off to a second son? Of a farmer?”
“A vintner,” his father corrects.
“And darling, you are a second son as well,” his mother points out, which just infuriates him.
“But I am perfect!” Jake shouts, and oh, no, there are tears streaking down his cheeks. He knows because they are hot and burn his skin and he knows that they are making him even more unsightly, not helping him in the least. He tries to slow them, but when he takes a deep breath in he only cries harder. “What about Kim Namjoon?”
“Namjoon?” His father raises an eyebrow. “Namjoon is not looking for a wife. He’s never wanted a wife.”
“Well, he should have one! And it should be me!”
“Darling,” his mother says, her voice sugar-sweet. She only ever calls him darling when she is cross with him, and only ever uses that tone of voice when she is ready to lock him in the cold attic room to punish him for being bad. “There is no need to throw a tantrum. Heeseung is only a year older than you, isn’t that lovely? Rare that you get to marry someone so close to your age.”
He wants to scream. He wants to stomp his feet and rage and yell that he doesn’t care how old or young this Heeseung is. He is quite positive that he is one of the purest eligible brides left because as a child he’d heard whispers that his family were too strict, too old fashioned, too cruel to treat him the way that they did. He is worth a fortune and a good deal more, worth far more, surely, than some farmhand that he’s never heard of.
He doesn’t scream. He knows that it’s useless, and he’d really rather not be locked in the attic. He hates being locked in there; it is cold and the window is too high for him to see out of and all he is able to eat is stale bread and warm milk with honey in the evening and he has to stand in the middle of the room, posture perfect, reciting by memory whatever etiquette book that his mother deems is most appropriate in that moment. (He doesn’t know how she knows, but she always bursts in if he stops, or sits down, like she has some creature in the rafters watching him and informing her of when he is misbehaving.)
He takes a shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to keep them from leaking. He squeezes the hem of his shirt until his knuckles ache.
“May I ask…did I fetch a good price?”
“You did,” his mother answers. “The Lee Winery is doing quite well. It is on track to be the wine that represents our entire country. It will be most beneficial to have that partnership. It’s a good match, Jaeyun.”
Jake nods, but he can’t stop his lower lip from trembling. He drops his head so that his chin presses to his chest. He breathes in, and when he exhales there comes a fresh wave of tears. He manages to keep the sounds to himself, to cry quietly, but he is sure that his shoulders are visibly shaking. No one comes to comfort him. No one ever does.
“My wedding is on July 1st,” he hisses to his imaginary best friend that night. “Not even fit to be a June bride. What if the whole thing is a joke?”
He doesn’t get a reply; of course he doesn’t, so he clutches his pillow to his face and he weeps into it so that whoever is posted outside of his door doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t want it to get back to his mother that he’s still melancholy, doesn’t want to appear ungrateful or bothersome. If they decide he is unfit for marriage and take this away from him, he has no idea what will become of him. (He does consider trying to suffocate himself when he accidentally breathes in his pillowcase, but it’s a passing thought.)
Eventually he falls asleep, but when he wakes his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. His mother visits him for breakfast, a rare occasion and therefore unexpected, and she tuts at his disheveled appearance.
”We are hosting the Lee’s for dinner tomorrow night, and you’re lazing about in squalor,” she chastises as she delicately taps the back of her spoon against the soft-boiled egg on her plate. Jake almost chokes on his coffee — his singular delight, mostly cream and sugar and usually savored in solitude — but he manages to swallow the hot liquid with only minor discomfort.
”Tomorrow night?”
”Yes,” his mother says, as if this dinner party was something that they have been discussing for months. She waves at one of the attendants, and the woman scurries off without even asking what his mother wants. “The wedding is in a couple of weeks. We aren’t barbaric as to not have the two of you court.”
“But courting for two weeks is acceptable?”
The attendant returns with a bucket of ice and a handful of long spoons. She sets the bucket down by Jake, pushes his coffee out of the way, and then takes the two spoons and presses them to his eyes. He hisses and tries to pull away, but the attendant just pulls him back against the chair and her waist, using the spoons as a firm hold. Jake’s eyes throb and all he can see are blue and white squiggles. His skin burns and aches from the sudden cold, and there’s a sharp pain along his brow bone from the way the metal spoon digs in.
”It is quite acceptable,” his mother says slowly, “for you to not see your husband until your wedding. That your first impression will be when he lifts the veil, and then takes you to bed.”
Jake shivers, though it has nothing to do with the icy spoons. He recognizes a threat from his mother, knows that if he keeps misbehaving that his mother will happily lock him away in the attic and only let him out when it is time for his wedding. He immediately stills; his back straightens and he stops fighting against the attendant. Her grip loosens so that the spoon no longer digs into his skin; and the spoon has started to acclimate to his temperature, no longer painful. Of course, as soon as he has that thought, the attendant removes the spoons, shoving them back into the ice bucket and procuring two fresh ones to press against his eyes. Jake hisses at the contact, and then he grits his teeth to bear it.
”There we go,” his mother says approvingly. “I trust you know what you need to do to prepare for this dinner.”
Jake does. He must bathe, twice. First in milk, and then in soapy water that is perfumed with various essential oils. He must scrub his skin with sugar and then cover himself in lotion. He must braid the white primrose that has begun to bloom in the gardens into his hair — not to be picked himself, of course, he’s not allowed in the gardens — and he must curl the hair that falls in front of his ears so that they form perfect spirals. He must practice the violin and the piano, must warm up his voice to old favorites, as surely he will be asked to display his talents. He must practice his expressions in the mirror, the demure smile, looking up through his lashes, the coy yet shy glances that his mother has had him perfect since he was eight years old. And then tomorrow morning he must primp and perfume and rouge himself into a mask that looks natural but is too perfect to be anything but hours of careful preparation.
He doesn’t say any of this. He simply nods, a small, tight movement because the attendant is still holding his head hostage.
”Good,” his mother says. There is the scrape of a chair against the tile floor, the rustle of skirts. “Try not to be so distressed, Jaeyun. It really is a good match.”
Jake doesn’t say anything. It isn’t worth bringing up that the Lee family winery is so far away that it is a barely-there dot on the map. He doesn’t say that he will fade away into obscurity once the talk of how the most eligible Sim son was married off to a nobody farmer. He doesn’t bring up that he had his own dreams and hopes around his wedding and his husband. There is no point, so Jake does what he does best. He offers a soft smile, the same smile that he had been taught to perfect. He doesn’t even know if his mother lingers long enough to see it, not that it matters.
When the attendant removes the second set of spoons she dumps them in the bucket, then pulls the bucket and his coffee away.
”No more coffee until your wedding,” she says. “It stains your teeth.”
”Of course,” Jake murmurs. He’s thankful that it makes him sound agreeable; if he had spoken any louder he would have screamed.
“I will run you a milk bath.”
”Of course,” Jake says again.
Jake had been looking forward to his engagement and subsequent marriage. He had been preparing for it for so long, and had illusions of grandeur, of page long articles taken out in the papers, front page of course, his photo next to a dashing portrait of his soon-to-be husband. He’d expected courting gifts of diamonds, trips on yachts, leisurely strolls down city streets he would otherwise never be allowed to traverse, for the simple need of being seen. But instead he is getting a last minute dinner party and slipshod July wedding. Suddenly the act of getting ready to present himself, the moment he has dreamed of, is tedious.
He can hardly bear to scrub himself, only half-heartedly exfoliating his elbows and knees. When he has to moisturize, he simply dumps lotion on his body and then lays naked on his bed waiting for it to sink in. The flowers he is meant to braid into his hair are already plucked and sitting in a vase on his dressing table, a reminder of everything he needs to do to make himself look desirable for this mysterious Lee Heeseung.
Jake wonders what the man is like, and then he snorts at the thought. Man? Mother said he was only a year older, which means he is still a boy. He isn’t a man like Namjoon is a man. Jake wonders what he looks like, if he’s tall or short. As the second son he is likely relegated to manual labor, likely works in the fields, so he should be muscular at least. Jake’s nose scrunches as he thinks of rough hands and dirty nails; he hopes his future husband values cleanliness.
He hopes his future husband values delicate things.
Jake has never questioned his upbringing. He quickly got used to the loneliness, got used to the need for cleanliness and sterile environments. He never had toys, wasn’t allowed to play with other children, so he didn’t miss having them. His artworks were carefully tucked away in folders in the library, only to be brought out to show how exceptional he was. He’d never thought of himself as lacking, but he finds himself worrying about his future prospects. He knows nothing about the country, about field labor, about wine. He doesn’t know how to thrive in dirt and muck. He’s never thought of himself as weak, but he is deeply afraid that he will break as soon as he arrives at the Lee estate.
Do they even have an estate? Do they, god forbid, have a cottage?
He isn’t able to eat dinner that night, which is fine because all he is served is a small salad garnished with flower petals and a bowl of milk ice. He is going to be presented as a fine gift, so his face can’t be puffy from overindulgence, and he can’t have anything that may stain his teeth or get caught in his bite. No meat; if his mother could have her way he wouldn’t even have the salad, but there is tradition of eating the flowers to absorb their essences, and the family can take no chances. So much effort has been put into him already, there is no point risking it all for the sake of a hearty meal. (Though he can’t help but wonder, as he tosses and turns atop his feather mattress that night, if his family is perhaps in dire circumstances. He wonders if there is something that he is missing, important information that has been kept from him during the occasional meetings he has been allowed to sit in on. He can think of no other explanation of why they would go through such trouble to keep him pure, to ripen him for the picking, as his mother likes to say, to nothave him arranged to marry someone of great import. But this line of thinking makes tears well in his eyes again, and he has to think of other things. He ends up reciting The Ladies Guide to Tasteful Dinner Engagements under his breath until light starts to stain the horizon line pink.)
There is no point in trying to sleep once the sky has begun to lighten, so Jake rises early. He looks at his reflection in the mirror; his eyes are a little bloodshot from the lack of sleep, but there are no dark circles and they aren’t puffy. If he darkens and lengthens his lashes he’s certain that it will distract from the red lines in the corners of his eyes. He sets about his routine, starting with his hair since it will be easier to deal with everything else once it is out of the way.
Jake’s hair has never been cut, so it is long and heavy and takes forever to dry. Even with it fanned out over a towel throughout the night, it is still damp as he goes about braiding it. He braids and layers and folds in the flowers that were brought in the day before, sprinkling some perfume as well because the flowers have lost some of their scent as they’ve sat in his sterile room. His fingers ache and his biceps burn and his shoulders become stiff from holding the same position. He usually does his hair in two messy braids if he is stuck indoors, or will twist it into a bun if he goes outside, solely because to do anything more is, quite literally, painful.
The sun is high in the sky by the time his hair is finished, past noon; Jake’s growling stomach would attest for the time even if he couldn’t see that the shadows were growing longer over the western wall. He takes one more appraising look in the mirror – there is a braided crown along his hairline with some whisps hanging down, (he always felt that his face looked better when framed by bangs), and then the braid twists and curls into elaborate rosette patterns. It is an intricate piece of art, the peonies arranged to highlight the braided rosettes, the white petals radiant against his shiny, deep brown locks. It is also hefty; it feels like a stone where the braid curls over his shoulder and weighs all the way down to his waist, like he’s wearing an animal over one arm.
“Don’t think like that,” he mutters to himself, even as he pats his hair the way he sees the stable boys pet the horses. “It is beautiful.”
And it is, of course. Jake is keenly aware that his hair is shiny and lustrous in a way that even his mother’s is not. He knows that the braid he has created is intricate and fantastical, that it will draw out expressions of awe and delight. But as he stands up and pulls his shoulders back, he can’t help but feel the sheer weight of it, can’t help but want to hunch a little – or better yet, find his mother’s fabric shears and simply cut some of it off.
There is a tray outside of his door; thankfully someone realized he wasn’t at breakfast and rightfully assumed that he was too caught up in getting ready to remember to eat. He appreciates the now cold tea and small mug of fresh cream. Everything on the tray are items that can be taken cold – plain bread, dried fruit, large nuts that are free from their shells and have soft flesh. His stomach growls, but he is only able to nibble at a few items before anxiety grips him, clenching all of his organs so tightly that it becomes hard enough to breathe, let alone swallow food.
He wonders what this Heeseung is like. Is he tall? Handsome? Is he dirty from working all day in the fields? Does he want to get married? Does he, perhaps, have someone that he’s already taken a fancy to – will there be a mistress that Jake has to contend with, bitter jealousies and secrets? Has he heard of Jake – is he excited by him, curious, delighted? With all of the other eligible bachelors in the area, Jake could predict how their first meeting would go based on information he had gathered on them, their likes and dislikes, their business ventures, their households and hobbies. But Heeseung and his family were a complete mystery to him, as elusive and otherworldly as fairy tales and mythical gods. (Jake had even snuck into the library and pulled out one of the maps, thinking that maybe he’d missed the Lee vineyards at some point, but there was no property dedicated to the Lees anywhere on the paper. The only vineyard was the small one that was run by the Kims on the other side of the lake. The Lees must be a small family, or must live very far away, beyond the border.)
Jake continues to nibble as he does his makeup, layering mascara onto his lashes until they are heavy, and applying a dewy, pearlescent shadow on his upper lip. He smears and dusts and smears and dusts endlessly until his face looks doll-like: fresh and innocent, but with an air of mystery from his dark eyes. He then spends a good hour pondering his closet; he can feel the breeze through his open window, still slightly cool from the early summer rains, which means some of the more delicate blouses are too thin to be practical. He settles for pleated high-waisted trousers with pearl buttons, and a white jacket with black velvet trim and crimped tulle that juts out from the lapel. The cut of the jacket accentuates his small waist, and the tulle gives the illusion of sharp spikes, like Jake is armored – though armored with fabric thin enough to tear away with one’s bare hands, if one so wished.
He is doing last checks in the mirror when he hears the commotion outside. There are shouts, declarations that the Lees have arrived, and shortly after that there is a brusque knock at his door. His lady-in-waiting visibly sags with relief when she opens the door and sees that he is fully made-up and ready for viewing. She doesn’t even have to say anything to beckon him; he knows his role in this meeting. He has walked through this very scenario many a night, standing on his bed to the audience of his imaginary friend as he played out the moment he and his future husband would lay eyes on each other. What he hadn’t accounted for in all of those moments of pretend, was the way his stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering and his heart rising so that it could beat an unsteady rhythm in his throat.
Jake settles at the top of the stairs, tucked behind the wall so that no one can see him before he is ready, and he presses his palm to his throat. He can feel his heart beating there, right behind his adams apple, and pounding with enough force that he’s almost worried it will knock the cartilage out of place, maybe out of his throat entirely. He swallows, but it takes effort; his heart is taking up too much space in his throat and is making everything too tight. It’s even hard to breathe, the air coming into his lungs in short, sharp gasps. Spots dance before his eyes and he suddenly feels a cold sweat behind his knees. He doesn’t realize he is on the verge of passing out until he hears someone announce his name – at least he thinks someone is announcing him, the voice sounds far away and vaguely under water – and by that point it is too late. He steps around the wall and grips the bannister because his knees buckle as soon as he hits the top stair.
He wonders if anyone notices his blunder, wonders if he looks as pale and sweaty as he feels. He wonders if it adds to his charms, this nervousness that he has no control over. He pauses, takes a deep breath in as he tries to get his bearings, and focuses his sharp gaze on the line of people at the bottom of the stairs. His mother is glaring at him, her eyebrows two dark slashes framing a crease on her forehead, which means he has done or is doing something to displease her. His father looks how he always looks, beard neatly trimmed and eyes neatly vacant. But next to his parents are unfamiliar faces – first an older couple that Jake assumes are Heeseung’s parents. He scans their outfits, surprised at how simple they look. The father wears a beige linen suit with a white shirt, and his wife is in a tea-dress that only goes down to her mid calf. It is lavender with a lace belt, and her pumps match the fabric perfectly. Jake is shocked to see so much skin, but he tries to not show it; perhaps they do things differently in the country. Then there are three men, and since Jake doesn’t know who Heeseung is, he can’t be sure where he is in the line-up. He assumes at first that it must be the man next to the mother, but then he realizes that if they aren’t lined up by importance, but rather by age, then he doesn’t know where Heeseung would fall. Either way, they aren’t lined up by height because the tallest man is in the middle, shifting from foot to foot like he is uncomfortable.
Jake continues his descent down the stairs, this time matching his breathing to his steps and doing his best to remember his mother’s early lesson of how to glide. The crease between her eyebrows becomes shallower, so he must be doing an alright job. He pauses at the first step and folds his hands in front of his stomach, standing as straight as he possibly can as he inclines his head in a slight bow. There is a long moment where nothing happens; Jake’s eyes dart to his mother. He’s pretty positive his future husband is supposed to be announced to him because everyone already knows who he is. However, no one does, and the silence starts to become uncomfortable, so Jake inclines his head again to gesture another bow.
“It’s an honor and a privilege,” he says, the words clunky in his mouth because they aren’t rehearsed. He darts his eyes down the line of newcomers, willing whomever he’s supposed to marry to step forward. He’s scrambling for more things to say – maybe he’ll compliment Mrs. Lee’s dress – when the tall boy in the middle steps forward.
“Hi,” he says, then winces when one of the Lees makes a disgruntled sound behind him. “I mean, hello. I’m sorry. I’m Heeseung. It’s nice to meet you.”
He smiles and holds his hand out, then seems to remember that they aren’t supposed to touch, and drops his hand back to his side. He has a nice smile at least; his teeth are bright and his eyes are round and kind. Jake doubts he is a rough man, which is good. He also seems very nervous, which could also be a good thing; it means that he is less likely to try anything untoward.
“We’ve set up refreshments in the main hall,” Jake’s mother pipes up, stepping forward as well and standing beside Jake so that she can face everyone. “Perhaps the couple can get to know each other as we discuss arrangements. Have you brought a chaperone?”
The man on the end raises a hand halfway. He is incredibly handsome; his jaw is sharp and his skin is tan and his hair is cut cleanly by his ears and slicked back. His suit fits his broad shoulders and narrow waist well, and when he inclines his head at Jake in greeting, he sees that there is a heart shaped birthmark on his neck. His expression is bored, though, a little cold. He actually looks to be more in charge than Heeseung, Heeseung who is tall and broad but seems to be soft all over. Even his hair is soft, wispy curls that are kept longer than the common cut for males, almost to his chin and only partially slicked back.
“Perhaps you can go for a stroll,” Jake’s mother says, and Jake nods. He knows that it isn’t a suggestion, but a command. He is not wanted in the house while they discuss his…sale? Trade? And walking the manor displays their wealth, the size of the house, the sheer vastness of the property.
“Are you trying to be disagreeable?” his mother hisses, turning over her shoulder so that no one can read her lips. “You should have worn a dress. Or florals at least. What are you thinking?”
Jake looks down at the white tulle, trying to ascertain what is wrong with it, while his mother turns back to the guests with her winning smile. Jake shakes off her scolding and dons a sublime smile of his own, finally descending the steps fully so that he can stand in front of Heeseung. Even with an arm's length between them, Jake can tell that Heeseung is much taller than him. He looks up through his lashes as he was taught to do.
“Shall we go for a walk, Sir Lee?”
“Oh my god, please don’t call me that,” Heeseung says with a laugh. He holds out an arm, his elbow bent, then once again remembers and drops it. He shoves his hands into his pockets – not entirely appropriate, but nothing worth Jake causing a fuss about, and shrugs his shoulders as a gesture, Jake assumes, to encourage him to lead the way.
“What am I supposed to call you, then?” Jake asks as he steps in front of Heeseung. He leads the way down the hall and out of the front door; he can tell that Heeseung is walking at a snail's pace to match him, can tell that it’s difficult for him, so once they are outside he shifts his small dainty steps to a pace that is more natural. With his parents inside and only the Lee’s chaperone with him, there’s no one there to scold him for being undignified, too boyish.
“You can call me Heeseung.” Heeseung says. He sidles up beside Jake, hands still in his pockets, not close enough to touch but close enough to ride the line of being in appropriate. Jake side steps to increase the space between them. Heeseung doesn’t follow.
“That simple?” Jake asks. “Isn’t your name something special? Something to only be used by those close to you?”
Heeseung shrugs. “My name is my name. It’s who I am. Why, do you have a name other than Jaeyun?”
Jake debates for a moment. They turn a corner, following the gravel path around the perimeter of the house. It’s cooler on this side, away from where the sun is shining. Jake tucks himself farther into his jacket.
“I like your outfit,” Heeseung says, either deciding that Jake isn’t going to answer or deciding that he doesn’t care about the answer. “It looks like armor. Like an ice shield. Like you’re daring someone to take you.”
Jake can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, especially since his mother had berated him for his choice. He fingers the tulle, reveling in the scratchy sensation against his fingertips.
“You give me too much credit,” he murmurs. “I was bred for the taking. There is no shield to stop it.”
He takes a few more steps before he realizes that the only crunch of boots on gravel are his own. He stops and turns, surprised to see Heeseung standing a few paces behind him with a distraught expression on his face. Jake's heart sinks with the realization that Heeseung likely didn’t want this marriage, that he probably hadn’t been preparing his whole life for an alliance like Jake has, that he doesn’t realize what a great gift he has been given – pretty Jake wrapped up and placed directly in his lap.
“It’s just some silly tulle,” Jake says, trying to salvage the situation, but Heeseung shakes his head.
“I think…you don’t give yourself enough credit,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you were bred for the taking but you’re not going without a little bit of fight, are you?”
Ice runs down Jake’s spine. Can Heeseung see his disappointment? Is it clear in his expression? Was the outfit actuallya bad choice and not just his mother berating him? He doesn’t know what it would mean if Heeseung decided that he was too difficult, decided that he didn’t want the wedding and called it off. Even though Heeseung isn’t his first choice Jake does want to get married. He has to. It’s his whole purpose.
“I like to be called Jake,” Jake says. It’s an attempt at a peace offering, to give Heeseung something to keep him interested. And, he realizes this after he offers it, he finds that he likes the idea of giving his name to Heeseung, to have someone that may actually voice it instead of his imaginary friends. “When you asked if I had another name. My brother used to call me Jake when we were kids…but it’s Jaeyun when I am announced.”
Heeseung’s pinched expression slowly melts away, and Jake’s shoulders melt down with it. When Heeseung closes the distance between them, his tension dissolves even more. Even if it’s just for this moment, Heeseung is still interested in him, so that’s good.
“May I call you Jake?” Heeseung asks. He tilts his head, and when he does Jake notices the two dots on the lobe of his ear, scars of old piercings. He schools his expression to hide his surprise; he’s never seen a man with pierced ears before. He doesn’t even have his ears pierced, a fact that his mother sometimes laments when she passes jewelry down to him.
“You may,” Jake says, dragging his eyes away from Heeseung’s ears and focusing on the deep brown of his irises. His eyes remind Jake of drawings of deer and other woodland creatures in fairy tales – round and large and sparkling under the pink light of the setting sun.
“Though, perhaps, not in front of my mother,” Jake amends, pulling his gaze away completely and continuing to walk along the path. “It would be inappropriate.”
“Of course,” Heeseung says, stepping in time beside Jake. This time Jake doesn’t pull away, doesn’t bother to increase the space between them. “I’ve always just been Heeseung, so you can call me Heeseung.”
“Your mother calls you princess,” the chaperone pipes up from behind them, his tone smug. Heeseung’s cheeks flush a brilliant pink and he shoots a glare over his shoulder. The chaperone laughs, which only makes Heeseung’s cheeks flush even more. The blush spreads all the way to his ears, which Jake shamefully finds adorable.
“That’s an interesting name,” Jake pipes up. “Are you royalty?”
Heeseung snorts despite himself. “No. I just…wanted to be called that as a kid, I guess. And it stuck.”
Heeseung turns abruptly, following the curve of the path that leads to the gardens. Jake pauses, and, realizing that Jake is no longer beside him, Heeseung stops as well. He turns to face Jake with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not allowed,” Jake says, cheeks flushing as he stutters over the words. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed, why he’s ashamed to admit this. His walks have always consisted of roaming the perimeter of the grounds, and he’d never really thought about how small that circuit was until this very moment. Heeseung’s brow raises higher, and then slams down into a furrow.
“Not allowed in the gardens?” He asks, as if Jake wasn’t clear. Jake doesn’t even bother to dignify the clarification with a nod; what else would he be talking about? “Why not?”
Jake takes a moment to answer; it was explained to him, many years ago, when he was a child. He hasn’t thought of it in a while, the pattern of his life so well-worn that he’d since stopped wondering why he did the things that he did.
“We hire outside workers,” he finally says. “And I am…what I am.” He can’t bring himself to say a commodity, the word his mother had used when she explained it to him. Heeseung stares at him for a moment, clearly waiting for him to continue, provide more explanation, but then his eyes widen.
“What? Do you think someone is going to jump out and ravage you in the bushes?”
Jake can feel a heat crawl all the way down his chest. The tulle of his jacket is scratching against his neck. He resists the urge to fidget, to scratch.
“It’s a valid concern.”
“So you’ve never seen your own garden.”
“Flowers are picked for me.”
Heeseung shoots a glance over Jake’s shoulder, likely to the chaperone. There is a long silence, and occasionally Heeseung’s eyebrows move like he’s trying a strange form of telepathy. Jake stands still, back straight, sweat rolling down his neck and skin itching from the heat of his own emotions and the beam of the setting sun on his back because he’s no longer standing in the shade of the house.
“Well, I doubt there’s any gardeners working at this hour,” Heeseung finally says, speaking carefully. He takes a step backwards towards the garden, eyes fixed on Jake. “And I’m here with you. Jay, too. We’ll make sure you don’t get ravaged.”
Jake knows that he should say no; the gardens are also off limits because there are plants that are overgrown and branches that hang down and insects that can bite and sting. There are rabbits he may be tempted to pet, and birds that may try to perch on his shoulder or pick at the flowers that are braided into his hair. The garden is full of natural elements that his family have done their utmost to keep him from.
However, he’s always wanted to go into the gardens…and – he looks around – there’s no one to stop him from doing so. He smiles, a slow unfurling that he has no control over, and practically runs to Heeseung. Heeseung smiles too – he once again holds out a hand like expects Jake to take it, and then quickly shoves his hand back into his pocket. Behind him, Jake can hear the crunch of boots from the chaperone – Jay.
It is with the sun hanging low in the sky, burning a bright magenta and radiating yellows and reds and purples, the shadow of his home at his back, that Jake steps through the garden gate for the first time.
The first few steps aren’t anything different than what Jake is used to, aside from a few bushes lining the path that he’s only ever seen from afar. But the further they walk, the denser the foliage becomes. There are trees that are heavy with green leaves and buds promising blooms. There are bright yellow daffodils and purple irises and witch hazel and fluffy dandelions that Jake has the childish urge to pick and blow. (He gives in at one point, snatching one that is close enough to the path and squeezing his eyes shut as he blows the fluff away. He watches the seeds dance on the wind, filled with an awe that he can’t verbalize. Heeseung asks him what he wished for, but Jake hadn’t wished for anything, had only wanted to experience the joy and wonder of wind, even if the stem leaves a sticky residue on his palm afterwards that he can’t stop rubbing at.)
The path is muddy from the near constant drizzle over the past weeks, and it clings to the bottoms of Jake’s nice boots, as well as to the hem of his trousers. Heeseung’s shoes fare no better, the black leather splattered with brown and milky clay. The air smells like earth, like mud and worms and sweet florals and deep, heady mulch. It also smells animal – wild – musky and slightly feral. Jake is taken by the sight of a fox slinking through the grass; he squats, holding his knees to his chest, uncaring of the way his trousers drag even more in the mud. It is glorious, and he never wants to leave.
“The sun is setting,” Jay says at one point, but Jake ignores him. Heeseung doesn’t urge him to get up either, so Jake doesn’t. He watches the fox until it runs away, darting deeper into the woods that frame the gardens and borders their property. When he rises his knees creak and the sudden wind chill makes him shiver. Heeseung watches him, a soft smile on his lips. There is a pink flower in his hand that he’s twirling between his fingers, and when Jake gets near Heeseung tucks it behind his ear. Jake freezes, startled from the closeness, the touch, the impropriety.
“Hey,” he hears Jay shouting over the roaring of his blood in his ears. “Hey, c’mon man, you know you’re not supposed to touch him.”
“Oops,” Heeseung says with a small shrug, his smile widening. Jake’s skin feels so hot he’s sure it is going to melt off of him, and he takes two stumbling steps backwards. He fingers at the soft petals by his ear; they feel velvety on his cheekbone and the stem is scratchy and tangling in his hair and he’s trying to not think about the brush of Heeseung’s thumb on his earlobe when he pulled away.
“Y-you,” Jake stammers, breathless. “Were you raised in the woods? Have you no shame?”
Heeseung’s smile freezes on his face. He looks confused. Maybe a little offended.
“Raised in the woods?” he parrots. “I barely even touched–”
“There are rules of courtship,” Jake snaps. The words come easier now that he has some distance, now that his breath is settling in his lungs, now that he can’t feel the ghost of Heeseung’s fingers on him.
“This is hardly a courtship,” Heeseung says, his smile dropping away. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the setting sun makes long shadows fall over his features, making them sharper, more angular. “It’s one dinner. And in two weeks we’ll be married.”
“I know.” Jake stomps forward. He’s feeling cold now. The hem of his trousers are muddy and damp and the wet fabric smacks at his bare ankles. He regrets coming into the garden, regrets watching the fox, regrets getting wet and dirty and being stuck with Heeseung as the shadows start to get longer over unfamiliar terrain. He is not used to so much sensation, the hot and cold, the wet and grit, the warmth of another human being. “What did your family do, I wonder, to secure this alliance?”
Heeseung looks lost. He takes a step back, slips in sloping mud and almost loses his balance, but manages to right himself. Jake wants to keep advancing, but he’s already close enough that he can feel heat radiating off of Heeseung, and that in itself is almost too much for him to bear.
“What do you mean what did my family do?”
“I’ve never heard of you,” Jake says, all of his frustration and confusion over the past few days dripping in his words. “I know every eligible bachelor around, and you, I’d never even heard of you.”
Something flickers across Heeseung’s face, an emotion that Jake can’t pinpoint, and the dusk is becoming too dark for Jake to discern anything specific.
“Don’t worry,” Heeseung finally says. “My family is quite prominent. Respectable.”
“But what about you?” Jake pushes. He takes another step forward even though it feels like he is going to catch fire. Perhaps that wouldn’t be a terrible thing, to go up in flames and be reduced to nothing but a pile of ash at Heeseung’s feet. “Do you have anything to your name? As just Heeseung, and not as a Lee?”
Heeseung tilts his head. His eyes glitter in the darkness, like stars. Like beetles.
“Do you have anything to your name aside from being the tortured beauty kept by the Sims?” Heeseung asks back, his voice a low murmur like cool water over stone. And they wash over Jake like cool water, too, all of him suddenly stiff with icy mortification. Is that how people see him? As someone tortured? As nothing more than a creature locked in a cage? He always thought that he was something treasured, that he was a prize piece of gold. A beauty to be worshiped. Adored.
“Um, we should head back,” Jay says, cutting through Jake’s tumultuous thoughts and the thick tension between him and Heeseung. “I don’t know the rules for walking after dark.”
“Some chaperone you have,” Jake mutters under his breath. “Is he even an actual chaperone?”
“No,” Heeseung says, his voice too light for how improper that admittance is. “He’s just my friend.”
“You’re breaking a lot of rules for having such a prominent family.”
Heeseung sighs but doesn’t dignify that statement with a response. Though, Jake supposes, there’s nothing else to say. He is aware, of course, that their union is a deal being settled by their parents. If the Lees want to cut corners and his own parents are fine with it, then there is nothing Jake or Heeseung can do about it.
But then what is the point? Jake wonders to himself as he follows these two strangers out of his own garden. What is the point of any of it?
He can tell his mother notices his wet hems and muddy boots; even with just the slight tilt of her chin, the tiniest narrowing of her eyes, he knows she is not pleased. He wonders how the picture they make looks to her – his cheeks are ruddy from the sudden cold, and he knows this because they immediately begin to tingle when he steps into the warmth of the house. The pink flower is still tucked behind his ear, too tangled in his hair to try to get out, and he feels flyaways sticking to his cheek and forehead and neck. The bottoms of his pants are heavy with wetness and splattered with mud; Heeseung’s sensible loafers are also completely caked, and somehow his suit jacket got a little crumpled, like someone had handled him roughly. At the worst, it looks like they’ve gotten up to something dreadfully inappropriate, and at the very least they wandered where Jake isn’t allowed to go.
For better or worse, his mother isn’t able to pull him aside and interrogate him without causing a scene, so he’s safe for now. Either her curiosity and rage will burn off, or Jake will spend the days leading up to his wedding in the attic. He finds he doesn’t fear the punishment as he usually does; he has nothing to daydream about anymore, nothing that they can take from him that he would mourn the loss of. Actually, time alone in the cool and the dark might be good for him, calm his frazzled nerves.
He doesn’t have time to change before dinner, which means he’s stuck in his damp trousers for the rest of the night. The only consolation is that the hem of Heeseung’s pants are also damp, and that some mud had gotten on his socks as well, and based on the look on his face every time he takes a step the sensation isn’t at all pleasant. Heeseung sits across from him at the table; at one point their ankles brush, nearly lock, and Jake delivers a swift kick to Heeseung’s shin that makes him jump. His cheeks flush when everyone turns to look at him, and he shoots a soft glare Jake’s way, but he keeps his feet on his side of the table for the rest of the meal. Jay is sat beside Jake, which he thinks is an odd choice, but his own brother is away on Business – capital B – so Jay helps to even out the table.
Heeseung keeps making these soft, surprised noises whenever a new dish is presented, like he’s never seen food before. At one point one of his noises must get too loud because his brother – Jake finally learns who the other man was in the line up – nudges him hard with his elbow. Jake doesn’t know why they bother; he’s figured out that the Lees aren’t from around here, so it’s not at all surprising to him if they’ve never had some of their local delicacies. He wonders what kind of home Heeseung lives in, what food he eats if this is all so exotic to him. Does he forage in the woods like a man of the wild, sustaining himself on berries and mushrooms and squirrels that he skins himself? He almost laughs at the thought, and has to bring his napkin to his lips to hide his grin because the idea of Heeseung skinning any animal is laughable. Heeseung eats with relish, unafraid to show how much he likes something. He laughs at the stories Jake’s father tells, and the laugh doesn’t have the hollow quality to it like when Jake joins in to be polite. Every so often, though, Heeseung will meet his eyes across the table after a joke or story, and his lips will twitch into a soft smile and his eyes will hold something deep and dark, like they’re sharing a moment away from everyone else. These glances always make Jake flush down to his toes, and he is thankful when Heeseung decides to look somewhere else.
Jake doesn’t quite know what to make of his feelings. In some ways everything is going as he expected, as he prepared for. The dinner conversation cycles around topics that he has discussed at length in the confines of his room or across from his mother during trainings of etiquette and posturing. But there’s also a bitterness within him; it has been festering for a while but now spreads an acrid taste along the back of his tongue that he can’t seem to scrape off no matter how many times he runs his teeth over his tongue or how much cider he gulps down. It doesn’t make sense to feel so lonely, especially not when he’s currently surrounded by people. He can’t help it though; he is hyper aware of his loneliness, and the ache of it makes him angry, makes him want to rip at the tulle of his jacket and stomp onto the table and throw the food against the wall and scream.
The thoughts are overwhelming. Frightening. And it doesn’t help that when he’s not feeling angry, he’s feeling…flushed. That’s the only way to describe the way he feels every time Heeseung looks at him. All of him gets warm and tingly when they lock eyes – even when they don’t lock eyes, just seeing Heeseung makes him feel like he’s been dunked in a hot bath. Though he looked like a gangly noodle when Jake first saw him, he’d be lying if he said Heeseung isn’t handsome. It’s his eyes, Jake thinks as he watches Heeseung through his lashes, and the easy way he smiles. It’s his delicate laugh and his soft chin. It’s the slope of his nose and the way his ears are large and stick out a little bit; it’s the way Heeseung has so many soft features and doesn’t seem to mind them, carrying the softness with pride alongside his tanned skin and the calluses on his broad palms. Jake wonders what those hands would feel like against his own, maybe brushing on his arm or across his neck, and then he has to carefully empty his mind to think of nothing at all.
In this way dinner passes swiftly with Jake hardly touching his plate and having no recollection of any of the conversation. He floats by, only carried through to the next part of the evening because the order of events has been ingrained into his mind. He steps into the main parlor; the curtains are still open, which gives a view of the stars twinkling through thin clouds if one is close enough to the window to not catch the glare of the oil lamps. The piano is just such a place, and Jake sits at the bench, allowing himself to temporarily be distracted by the night sky while Heeseung takes his dedicated spot standing beside him. His fingers drum listlessly on the lid, and the hollow hammering is what pulls Jake’s eyes to him. He arches an eyebrow and hopes that the warmth he feels spreading across his cheeks isn’t actually visible.
“Are you bored?” Jake asks. It’s goading, uncouth, but Heeseung just shrugs.
“A little,” he admits – and this is another thing about Heeseung that he isn’t used to: his brutal honesty. “I know you can play, so I don’t know why you have to show me. I can also play Mary had a Little Lamb on the piano.”
The flush across Jake’s cheeks burns so hot that he’s sure he’s a rosy pink. He wonders if his constant flares of anger can push him into illness, trigger a fever.
“You mock,” he says with a scoff.
“I don’t, I promise.” Heeseung says, speaking quickly. He does sound apologetic, so Jake tilts his head and waits for him to continue. “I just think it would be more fun if we duet.”
“This is not about fun,” Jake says automatically, though his mind is racing. Duet? Duet? He doesn’t think he’s ever played with another person; music was always something to be perfected, done under strict controls and with someone there to judge his playing. The joy of music has always been muted for him, as are most things in his life, because they are done for a specific purpose rather than enjoyment. The idea of dueting with Heeseung is exciting, so exciting that his hands begin to shake. He folds them into his lap.
“What’s it about then?” Heeseung asks. His lips are curved up into a smirk, like he knows that Jake doesn’t have an answer, that the argument is already won. Jake sighs and rolls his eyes – another bit of impropriety that will get him a scolding later if his mother saw it, but he shifts closer to the window.
“You cannot sit too close,” Jake says, more to the piano than to Heeseung, though he can see the growing smile on Heeseung’s lips. “It would be improper.”
“Of course,” Heeseung says, already sliding in beside Jake. He does leave a good amount of distance between them, and when Jake leans back to figure out how they have so much space, he realizes that Heeseung is only halfway sitting on the bench. His mouth curves up into a smile– he can’t help it, and when Heeseung meets his gaze, eyes wide and mouth dropped slightly open like he didn’t expect Jake to notice, his smile only grows wider. Heeseung smiles too; he really is quite pretty, Jake thinks.
“So I’ll play low, I guess,” Heeseung says, pulling his thoughts back to safer territory. Jake nods and Heeseung flips through the pages of the various sheet music. Heeseung mutters something that sounds like so old, but Jake only half pays attention because he can feel his mother glaring daggers into his back. He sits up straighter in response; he knows he should tell Heeseung to stand back up, that they will get in trouble, to ask him if it is really so hard for country people to follow rules and can’t he just behave for a few hours? But he doesn’t, because Heeseung picks a song that Jake didn’t even know they had in the collection; it is something lively and joyous, notes flying over the scales and across the pages. Heeseung sets his fingers over the keys – they look longer here than they did around his glass at dinner – and Jake does the same. Heeseung glances at him, grins, and Jake grins back. Then, with a deep breath from both of them, they play.
It is wild. Jake’s fingers fly across the keys as he stares at the sheet music with a concentration that he doesn’t usually need because he’s memorized everything he’s supposed to play for guests. The song Heeseung picked is fast and tumultuous, and occasionally their arms have to cross to hit the correct keys, and when they do Jake’s breath catches in his chest and he inevitably goes sharp or hits the wrong key entirely. When he does Heeseung just laughs, which makes Jake laugh, and that laughter loosens the tense ball of anxiety that has been sitting in the center of his chest all day. Even though keeping up with Heeseung takes work – he can feel sweat between his shoulder blades – he feels like he can breathe more deeply than he has been able to in…years.
Jake has never understood the joy of music until this very moment. In the seven minutes it takes them to play through the entire piece, he finally understands all of the quotes about music being food for the soul, the essence of life, joy in a depressive drought. He almost starts to cry when Heeseung turns the final page and the pace of the music slows down, a denouement that he wishes would never conclude. But conclude it does, as it must, and Jake stares at his fingers still hovering over the keys, his knuckles red from exertion. Beside him he can hear Heeseung breathing, the air hot and heavy and panting. Jake is sure he doesn’t fare much better, though the boning in his jacket prevents him from being able to gasp and gale so freely.
Jake sets his hands into his lap as the room breaks out into polite applause. Heeseung looks at him with a bright smile, either completely ignoring or completely oblivious to the other people in the room.
“That was fun,” Heeseung says, and Jake can’t help his smile.
“It was,” he admits. Heeseung’s eyes darken and his hand reaches out, but before Jake has a chance to flinch away Heeseung tucks his hand back into his own pocket. He fishes out a handkerchief, so white it must be new, and holds it out to him.
“You’ve a little,” Heeseung says, trailing off as Jake takes the handkerchief delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Heeseung gestures to his own forehead, and Jake dabs above his own brows in response. When he pulls the handkerchief away there are spots of dampness and a tan smear from his foundation. Now that he is aware of it, he can feel sweat down the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, behind his knees.
He desperately wants a bath.
Worse, he desperately wonders what it would have felt like if Heeseung hadn’t stopped himself in time, if his fingers had brushed along his forehead and into his hair. He thinks about it for the rest of the night, thinks about it when the Lees leave, thinks about it as his mother scolds him for nearly ruining the entire engagement, forcing him to stand naked before her in the bathroom as she inspects him for any marks or signs that Heeseung had touched him.
After his bath, with his skin still tingling from the boiling water and his hair piled and wet on the top of his head, he holds Heeseung’s handkerchief close to his nose. It doesn’t smell like much, like clean soap and something earthy, like sunlight on hay, but it’s different enough to the sterile scent of his room. He holds it to his cheek, pretends it’s a hand, and falls asleep.