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He followed him like the warm scent of liquor clinging to his coat as he left sleazy bar after sleazy bar.
Seonghwa met him before… long before. So long, it was a time he barely remembered.
He couldn’t remember the exact scent of the library, nor the old wooden desk he sat at. He couldn’t quite recall the color of his armchair nor the sound of a quill against aged paper.
But he remembered him.
He could see in his mind, as clear and crisp as the videos he now had access to, the sound of his knocking on the library door, hollow and loud in the silence as Seonghwa tried to compose yet another correspondence. He could recall perfectly the strength and sturdiness of his voice as he bid him to enter, and he could pinpoint the exact moment he caught sight of him because he felt the earth itself shift.
He dressed like all household staff- a tattered white shirt tucked into black pants with a stained up apron, His face was smudged with soot and dirt, like everyone else in the city, and he had bandages wrapped around his fingers- consequences of the hot irons and pots dealt with in the kitchen.
He bowed when he entered, polite and respectful as he approached the desk with a tray in his hands. He set the wine glass on the wood gently, not lifting his head. He poured the dark red wine in until it was half full before pushing it closer to Seonghwa.
He gathered his tray again, holding it to his chest. “Will you require anything else, sir?”
His voice was smooth- deep and full, like a red wine against white cloth, so contrasting to everything around it. The dark wood, the dirty skin, the foul air, but his voice was smooth and clean- a fresh, pure wine, aged and tempered. Tested against time and better for it.
“What is your name, boy?” Seonghwa asked, his own voice seeming too much like a bitter white wine- too close in color to things around them, too tangy and sharp compared to the smoothness of him.
He looked surprised at the question, delicate features shifting upwards. In truth, he could not have been younger than himself (as young as he was). But he had been told how to address the staff, so when he didn’t answer, he asked again, too sharp and too bitter. “I asked you a question, boy.”
“Hongjoong, sir,” he answered quickly with a bow.
Seonghwa hummed, and nodded, waving a hand to let his know to leave because this is how he was taught to address the staff.
He bowed, leaving quietly, and even in the following silence around him, he could still hear him in the glass of wine before him as he swirled it, watching it cling to the sides before sliding down into a deep red abyss.
He heard his wine-red voice around the mansion from time to time. He caught sight of him even more rarely, but he could never speak to him. What would his host family think, seeing him approaching a member of the help just to hear that voice again?
He did speak to him once, though, he remembered at the last moment.
It had been in the library again. Not his private one, but the large one downstairs. He had wandered in to look for a certain book and he saw him there. He froze faster than a water droplet against ice, staring at him in shock for a moment, completely unprepared to meet him again.
He glanced up where he was cleaning a shelf, noticing his gaze upon him, and he lowered his hands respectfully, bowing his head. “Did you need something, sir?” he questioned, wine spilling over the aged pages of the books.
“I’m looking for a book,” he said, voice still too sharp. Hongjoong’s head lowered further, perhaps thinking him annoyed. “It is not in its usual place. Find me the third issue of ‘Hands Together.’”
Hongjoong bowed low, turning and hurrying off into the shelves. Seonghwa had no desire to reread that mundane issue, but it bought him time to compose himself before Hongjoong reappeared faster than he expected.
“Here, sir,” he said, handing it to him, not meeting his eyes. He thought they might have been a light brown, but Hongjoong never looked at him to know whether that was true or not. “It was on a table, waiting to be reshelved.”
Seonghwa’s hands were stained red as he took the book, holding it tightly. “Thank you,” he responded sternly. Hongjoong’s head lowered further, hiding his eyes deeper behind his hair. “You may return to your duties.”
Hongjoong nodded. “Thank you, sir.” It was the last shade of aged wine he heard from him. Their paths never crossed again, but those two, insignificant conversation were what gave Seonghwa the strength to leave his life behind when the time came.
When the world around him had grown too old, and he was still too young. He stood outside the mansion, looking back on his home of the last decade, and felt the familiar tug of nostalgia.
It was cold, nearing winter.
He drew his coat further around himself, turning his back on yet another chapter of his life. He never forgot the sound of red wine, though. Even when the world roared around him, he clung to the familiar feeling of smooth wine and hidden eyes.
~~~~~~~
Time changed Seonghwa, he knew this. Perhaps not physically, but in every other way.
But, as someone who was around himself so often, he didn’t see it starkly. He could see where his preferences changed, perhaps. Where his speech developed as the world around him progressed. He could tell that he had learned more, lost more, gained more than he had in the centuries he wandered around.
But he could not pick out the nuances of change in himself. He couldn’t see how his voice had softened, warbling differently as he grew accustomed to the vernacular of the time. It was lost on him, the way his eyes had softened and his muscles loosened from stiff aristocracy to comfortable slouching.
One thing had not changed: he still found himself drawn to the same sorts of places that had attracted him all his life.
The streets were still dirty as he walked through them, ash and rubble scattered around.
What did you expect, though? There was a war going on. Which meant the people around him moved in a haze- eyes dead and faced gaunt and limbs stiff. Like undead monsters, no life to comfort them as their world exploded around them.
He entered the bar, waving off a woman who immediately made his way towards him, thinking him one of the loney men who wandered in looking for company. He had no desire to speak with anyone at the moment.
It got depressing, seeing so many wars, seeing all the same outcomes, knowing that even if they rebuilt, the scars of humanity would remain and grow.
He sat at the bar, a man cleaning a glass lifting a silent eyebrow. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said, voice rough- like a sharp vodka that stabbed at your throat when you took too much.
The man grunted, turning and calling a short “Hey!” to someone that Seonghwa didn’t bother lifting his eyes to. He stared at the stained, sticky wooden counter and counted his breaths. He usually only drank when he wanted to forget, but the catch was that he often didn’t remember what it even was he wanted to forget. But he drank anyway.
There would always be a reason, wouldn’t there be?
“Scotch on the rocks,” a different voice said, a glass setting down in front of him.
Seonghwa’s head snapped up so quick it hurt.
He couldn’t see the changes in himself easily, but after so long apart, he could see every miniscule difference in the red wine that dripped by his ears.
Hongjoong was different. So much was different. His skin was a different kind of dirty, but his face was fuller, better fed, more grown into. The lifetimes that had passed between their last meeting had made his harder- his eyes were not lowered this time.
He stared directly into his eyes, one suspicious eyebrow raised, a warning hand on his hip, stance defiance in a way his past self would never have been allowed to assume. His apron was stained with alcohol, arms stronger than the sticks they had been before.
“You got a problem, buddy?” he questioned harshly, and Seonghwa almost didn’t recognize the voice anymore.
The red wine had faded, leaving a strong bourbon, the kind that burned down your throat, dangerous in large quantities, only able to be taken in short sips that punched the air from your lungs. His voice winded him, leaving him helpless for a few moments as he tried to breathe around the burn in his throat.
He gave him a glare- a warning of what may happen if you didn’t drink slower. “Keep staring, and you might lose those eyes, sir .” The honor title was sarcastic at best and mocking at worse.
Seonghwa had forgotten what it felt like to live .
“Sorry,” he said, voice surprisingly strong. He supposed his voice now had taken a step away from bitter. His tone matched the solidity of a strong liquor- not quite as smooth as his bourbon, not quite as punchy, but a smooth malt scotch. Age had changed him, made his lilt smoother, his words more mature. No longer a bitter ache on the ears, but flowing.
“Have we met before?” he questioned.
Hongjoong cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you before,” he answered roughly, tone burning. “Why- you looking for someone who looks like me?”
All my life , he didn’t answer. He shook his head. “No, I simply wondered about the presence of such a beautiful person in such a place like this.”
Hongjoong narrowed his eyes. “Are you one of those rich fellows who thinks they can float in here, sprouting fancy speech and think someone will fall at their feet like they’ve got nothing better to do?”
“Of course not,” he answered quickly, shaking his head sharply. “I merely thought to extend a compliment.”
He still stared at him suspiciously. “Well, no one around can do much with compliments. They’re not worth much, are they?”
“In the long term, they may be worth more,” he said, making his frown. “A kind word- any word- can last a long time in one’s ears. One’s voice could be heard for centuries.”
Hongjoong snorted. “As if any of us are going to make it that long,” he scoffed. “Well, unless your compliments are going to do me any good in the next year, you can keep them. I doubt they’re very effective when the bombs hit.”
Seonghwa wished he knew. Wished he could convince his what his voice could do. “Even if you were to die, you would be remembered. And then, are you truly dead?”
He chuckled, like blowing bubbles in the dark liquor. “Who’s gonna remember me? Sooyoung?” he jerked his head over to the bartender he had first spoken to, presumably someone who owned this place. “Unlikely.”
“I would remember you.” I do remember you .
He remembered when he used to sound like a smooth wine. He wondered what had happened- what had sharpened his words so?
Hongjoong laughed. “As if someone like you would have nothing better to do than remember a bitch of a bar rat.”
“I get bored easily,” he responded smoothly. “I try to remember a lot of things.”
“Like what?” he prompted, clearly indulging him.
“The taste of red wine. But I’m becoming fond of the burning of a strong liquor.”
Seonghwa got to speak to him more here than he ever got to before.
Hongjoong began to recognize him, already providing his drink when he sat at the little bar. Sometimes, he talked to him- harsh words and a biting laugh and a burning anger in his throat. Sometimes, he was too busy. Sometimes, he had bruises on his arm- a danger of the profession- and sometimes he gave them to men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.
A fiery bourbon that punched the air from your lungs.
“You really think it’s worth it- being remembered?” he asked one day when it was dead inside the bar, and he was one of only a handful of patrons.
“It’s the only way to live forever,” he said, the irony of it settling heavy in his stomach, curdling bitterly.
Hongjoong’s hard lines of his face were softer, more vulnerable as he rested his cheek against his fist, leaning on the counter. “And did you mean what you said- that you would remember me?”
“I don’t think I could forget you if I tried,” Seonghwa admitted truthfully, watching his hair that had grown out slip over his shoulder. He didn’t bother trying to fix it as he sighed emptily.
“I’ll remember you, too,” Hongjoong said quietly, like no one else should hear. “You’re different than the other guys who come through here. You’re… better. But don’t go getting a big ego about that.”
Seonghwa chuckled, the first in centuries, like a warm buzz sitting in his stomach, taking away the edges of inhibition and dulling the pain. “I wouldn’t dare to dream of it.” He set the money on the table, standing on stiff legs from sitting so long. “I also wouldn’t dare to ever forget you, Hongjoong.” He tipped an invisible hat to his and turned towards the door.
“Hey!” He turned, hand reaching for the door, lifting an eyebrow. He stared at him in shock. “How’d you know my name?” he asked curiously. “I never told you, did I?”
Seonghwa smiled bittersweetly, either a laugh or a sob stuck in his throat. “I told you, I would never dare to forget you, my dear.”
He still looked confused, but didn’t call after him again as he exited into the bitter winter wind.
When he returned to the bar the following afternoon, he found nothing but rubble in its place- ash and burned slats of wood and charred brick. Seonghwa pressed his lips together as he stared at the empty space, chest tightening.
Such was life, he told himself.
Such was life. Always. Always ending. Always moving on. Without Seonghwa. Without his consent.
Seonghwa kicked the rubble, a broken cry stuck in his throat that was only allowed to leave as he fell to his knees, fingers curling in the warm ashes.
People on the streets looked his way, but none said a word. The sight of a man cursing the earth in the rubble of their lives was a common occurrence.
Seonghwa did not cry, through his gritted teeth and burning hands that begged him to release the embers.
Why? He wanted to scream. Why- after so many years, after so long-
Why did you take him again?
Why make him live so long if you would only taunt him with the one person he-
Seonghwa released a harsh breath, feeling his anger and agony fading with the last warmth of the embers dying.
He breathed quietly, drawing his arms in as he stood like a drunk man, swaying on his feet as he straightened, his hands stained black with soot that stung as if it stained him red.
His eyes burned as he stuffed his hands into his coat to ward off the cold.
The world had moved on. Started a new chapter. And it was about time Seonghwa did as well.
But he never could, could be?
That was always his downfall. He could never move on.
He turned away from the bar, knowing no amount of staring would fill the ache forming in his chest.
He filed away the burning trail of amber bourbon along the smooth red of wine, prepared for another lifetime of hearing ghosts and drowning in the sounds that spilled after him.
~~~~~~~
Seonghwa expected another few centuries of solitude.
But barely 60 years went by as he wandered the streets, hearing the roar of cars, the shouts of people, the buzzing of technology.
60 years wasn’t long enough to change much. At curious questions, he simply excused that he grew up with his elderly grandfather and merely picked up on his speech. He tried to keep up, to listen to the people around him and imitate, but it wasn’t worth it. Why bother when in another half a century, it would be another cycle, another group, another burden?
One thing he liked about this new time period: the alcohol had gotten more inventive. Bubbly ones, burning ones, sharp ones, fruity soft ones-
“A little young to be drinking such hard liquor, aren’t you?” the old men behind the bars joked.
“I like the way it sounds,” he murmured, staring at the warm amber color and hearing burning anger. He tipped it back skillfully.
“Sounds?” he laughed. “How many drinks have you got in your system, man? Not my business, I guess. Can I get you another one?”
Seonghwa stared at the empty glass before nodded. He wasn’t looking for any sort of buzz. It was interesting… how drinking went from something to make him forget to being something that helped him remember. He nodded. “I’ll have one more,” he agreed.
“Sure thing,” the man chuckled. “Hongjoong- another bourbon over here!”
Seonghwa kicked the bar as he jerked, head popping up, telling himself not to hope, but knowing that maybe-
A man came over, and God, if time had barely changed him, it had twisted his so far, Seonghwa barely recognized her.
But in the best way.
His cheeks were sharp, eyes bright and sparkling as he walked over with a beautiful confidence, nothing weighing his shoulders now. His skin was clean and his hair was soft and washed, longer still and reaching passed his ears in a messy puff- dyed a deep red that splashed like wine over the pale paper books-
His clothes weren’t torn up rags, but bright, wild colors that matched the tone of his skin.
There was no oppression, no war, nothing to endanger him, to end his life early. He was here, living life fully and in no danger of losing it so suddenly.
He was thriving.
“One bourbon, coming up,” he said, and his tone still held that burn, but it was brighter this time- like the warmth of sun rays, rather than the lashing of angry flames. “How’s your night going, sir?” he questioned, upbeat and genuine, eyes dancing in the lights of the bar.
Seonghwa stared at him.
Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but stare and frantically memorize. Committing all of him to detail, desperate and frightened-
Don’t walk away, just stay, let me see one last time-
He could recognize his face just fine, but his voice-
There was no weight of social hierarchy that forced it to be smooth and rich with formality, slipping down a dark red.
There was no looming threat of war they never wanted, nothing to sharpen it with anger and bitterness and fear of not making it another day, nothing coloring it a dark amber, the only part of it that didn’t burn.
Here, he was free and happy. Seonghwa had been adventurous one night, a few drinks deep in a bar, and had tried something different (on one of those nights that remembering was too much, so he tried to forget with something else).
He forwent his wine and bourbon and tried whiskey, knocking it back in a shot that had taken him completely by surprise.
It burned . Different from the deep heat of bourbon sliding down, it burned and sparked . Like swallowing a fireworks, bright sparks and a million tiny individual burns. It didn’t last as long as the bourbon, but it knocked the wind out of him just as strong. It tasted like a brighter bourbon, a lighter one.
Hongjoong spoke to him like sparks exploding in a million tiny stars, warming his stomach and setting off fireworks inside. It wasn’t as dark as the bourbon, but it was addictive , that feeling.
His voice was happier . Lighter. Brighter. Sparkling with life and excitement that burned its way into his throat. God, did he burn him alive.
Hongjoong got out a glass, holding his bottle at the ready, smiling brightly, but he glanced back at Seonghwa and his smile melted.
No , Seonghwa wanted to interrupt. Do it again. Smile again .
His eyes were coffee colored, he realized. How many centuries had be wondered? He hadn’t even bothered to check last time. But he sat there now, locking eyes with his and filing the exact color away.
Before it was taken away.
“Have we… met before?” Hongjoong asked, frowning slightly, the millions of spark dulling down to hundreds, but it still warmed his stomach, like a comforting blanket of buzzed where you still were aware of everything but felt it more .
Seonghwa’s voice caught in his throat. He still probably sounded like a smooth liquor, but if he tried to speak now, it could come out as a watery beer, he was sure.
Hongjoong sat the bottle down suddenly, drawing his hands away. “You’re crying.” He sounded like the tail end of a shot, a memory of the sparks that had lit up after they faded.
Seonghwa blinked, and sure enough he could feel the warmth of tears against his cheeks. He laughed emptily, bending his head to wipe at them. Have we met before?
How cruel.
“Forgive me,” he requested, a weak fizz of champagne on his lips. “I don’t know what caused this-” He cleared his throat hard, but all it did was close tighter.
A moment of silence. “I think we have met before,” Hongjoong said suddenly. “No, I remember you,” he said, an echo of spark growing. “We- We met in a bar, didn’t we? Not this one, but-” Hefrowned, confused by his own memories. “I- Did the bar close down? Why did you stop coming in? You-” He shook his head. “You never told me your name, did you?”
Seonghwa couldn’t breathe around the bubble in his chest, like holding the most painful ember in your chest.
I’ll remember you, too.
“Hongjoong,” he whispered, feeling like he was free falling.
He chuckled, a spark trying to catch in the damp. “No, that’s my name. But you never told me yours, did you?”
“Seonghwa.”
He tilted his head, as if trying to remember if it triggered any memory. “You were nice talking to, last time,” he recalled, and Seonghwa wondered what sort of tricks his mind was playing on his to account for the lapse in time. He looked at him, eyes tight and sympathetic. “Why are you crying this time?”
Seonghwa swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he croaked weakly, weak beer barely making a difference.
Hongjoong managed a smile. “How could I forget you? You were worth ten of the men who used to come into whichever bar it was.”
Seonghwa was tired of remembering.
He didn’t want to keep having memories. He wanted concrete, he wanted experiences . He wanted to stop having to drink to remember, he wanted to be able to glance beside himself and see him.
“Would you like to be with me?”
Hongjoong blinked, taken aback, before he laughed brightly, those spark appearing in his throat, burning a warm fire. There was no shadow of light or fear- only bright joy that painted him brighter than the dying sun rays
“Is this asking me on a date?” he asked lightly, tickled. “Because if so, I think that’s the most formal way I’ve ever heard it said.”
He swallowed nervously. “That isn’t a no, is it?” he questioned.
Hongjoong hummed, tapping his cheek, coy and bright and alive . “You were nice the last time. And you’re a lot more polite than most of the guys who roll through here.” He chuckled to himself. “What have I got to lose? Sure, why not?”
Seonghwa felt like he had swallowed a firecracker. “Honestly?” he prompted firmly. “You’ll be with me?”
He laughed again, reaching across the bar to poke his shoulder. “If you keep talking like that, you’re going to start sounding old. But I kind of like it,” he mused. “It sounds like those old movies- you know, the ones where they find true love and it all ends happily?”
Hongjoong rolled his eyes, as if embarrassing himself as he shook his head.
“Would you like that?” Seonghwa asked innocently. “That sort of timeless love?”
Hongjoong blinked, mouth opening in surprise and then shutting. He stared at Seonghwa, coffee eyes colored bright with shock before he laughed, taken aback, shrugging.
“I mean, yeah,” he said, almost breathless. “Who doesn’t think of having someone forever? But don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself?” He quirked an accusing eyebrow. “At least take me on a first date before you start talking about forever.”
Seonghwa had waited centuries.
What was a week more? What was a month, a year- when the end result was finally being with him? Without the fear, without the war, without the loss-
With just the two of them and a world that wouldn’t take him from him?
“Where do you want to go?” Seonghwa asked, an odd mix of nerves and excitement settling in his stomach.
He would take him anywhere.
Hongjoong hummed, glancing at his watch. “Well, I’m off in an hour. Feel like getting something to eat? I’m starving.”
Seonghwa felt himself smile (the first in decades) and he nodded. “That sounds lovely.”
Hongjoong chuckled. “I like you,” he said easily, hips wiggling as if ready to move. “I can’t wait to see how this turns out.”
They would last, Seonghwa promised himself.
As long as Hongjoong would have him, he would be there- even if he made him wait another few centuries. What was it- compared to an ending that contained forever?
Seonghwa pushed his drink away.
What use did he have for this artificial memory when Hongjoong smiled at him, promising not to keep him waiting as he hurried off to another patron?
Seonghwa smiled, the second in minutes.
Oh, if only he knew.
But that was okay. Seonghwa would wait. For as long as it took, until it was forever.