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Kibum–25 years old, Earth, Holiday Solstice
It’s been a long day of socializing, and theoretically, Kibum should be tired.
Well, he is, in some ways. His throat reminds him of just how much time he’s spent raucously drinking with childhood friends with every swallow, and the left side of his lower back won’t let him forget the hours catching up with college professors in the uncomfortable office chairs on campus.
But even with the aches and pains of cramming a full visitation itinerary into his small window of holiday leave, Kibum can’t help the nervous energy thrumming through his body. It’s in the way he fights to keep his breath even and barely even feels the cold nip of the air as the festival grounds darken with the passing hours.
There’s no reason for Kibum to be as anxious as he is–he’s attended the holiday solstice with his parents for as long as he can remember, only missing one or two in his childhood due to illness. Furthermore, as one of the galaxy’s foremost experts on sun-related rituals and phenomena, this particular celebration edges close enough to work to invite exasperation in his limited time off of work.
But in spite of all that, Kibum feels like it’s his first solstice all over again. His fingers clench and unclench in his gloves just for something to do with all his nervous energy. He fidgets in his parka, shifting enough on the blankets laid over the snowy ground that his mother offers him a glance.
It’s the holiday solstice, the day where Earth will welcome its sun deity back into being after a long winter of dark nights and frozen atmosphere.
The festival has not changed much since Kibum’s earliest memories. The field just outside of town is frozen over as always, and the booths doling out the sweet tea from dried hawthorn and honey haven’t changed much either. The same grandmother who used to ladle out the servings now sits by the electric heater and murmurs directions, and the new son-in-law fumbles at the cash register, but the sharp, sweet flavor tastes just the same as always.
Kibum’s family always chooses the far east side of the field to lay down their blankets and set up for the bonfire. It backs up to an alpine forest where Kibum used to stomp around as a child before the sun went down–a practical choice from when his parents decided this location would cause the least disruption to other picnickers that ended up becoming family tradition. It puts them far from the bonfire, but Kibum doesn’t think he could handle being any closer than he currently is anyway.
Kibum’s dad announces that he’s going to walk by the booths again to see if they have any more lamb skewers, and shakes his frozen joints out before switching on his lantern. It’s not exactly dark out yet, but his eyesight is getting worse and he might be awhile.
Kibum watches as he lumbers off into the crowd, a dark figure retreating into a mass of children running about, lit only by the lanterns they happen to pass on their way and the glowing necklaces and masks purchased at the vendors.
That’s one thing that keeps changing, at least–as new television shows come on air or new politicians rise to prominence, the masks at the booths keep shifting to follow the trends. This year, the newly-elected galactic chancellor is a popular choice for adults to act out their parodies, while the children gravitate toward a show featuring a family of alien bears with glowing antennae and staticy fur.
Every year, the ink paintings of the sun deity line the displays as well, but they’re mostly for intergalactic or non-local tourists. Everyone in Kibum’s village already has a likeness of the current sun deity, and won’t be needing a replacement for another hundred years, at least.
Kibum has many such illustrations–the traditional ink on parchment from his hometown, a woodblock carving from a nearby planet, a holographic figure from the International Space City, a painted plate, a wooden figure, and a ludicrously hideous painting purchased from a plucky young vendor last year as a joke.
Still, Kibum never tires of seeing the real thing in front of his eyes. Work or not, there’s something beyond the majesty that the likenesses capture–little things, like the hint of a smile behind kind eyes or the habit of brushing dark hair behind his ears.
Things that Kibum knows have no relation to his work, so he bites his lip and dozes off against the bark of a cedar until his father’s return jostles him awake.
Just in time, too–both male Kims are lucky, because the way the central stage is lit up indicates that the ceremony itself is about to begin.
The local priestess walks onto the stage with her armful of cedar boughs, making three circles around the pile of wood before calling on her attendants to begin their chants. Kibum watches, feeling disconnected from body and mind as three things happen at once.
One–Kibum’s feet are so cold in his boots that his right toes cramp.
Two–Kibum can hear in the back of his mind the instinctive cataloging his job has instilled in him: Folkloric category A600-A899 Cosmogony and Cosmology, the desire to express control over the individual environment, E600-699 Reincarnation, T83 Hero and–
Three–Kibum watches, completely separated in mind and body from items one and two, as the boughs are lit and tossed onto the fire. When he sees a figure stumble out of the fire, he reaches out with his hand unconsciously.
It’s the sun deity, looking worn and pale in his white robe. With limbs so shaky even Kibum can see them from his distance, he perseveres and stands tall on stage. With each passing moment, he looks stronger–countenance filling in and breaths deepening until he can raise his head and look out over the crowd.
The priestess walks over to offer a cup of sweet rice wine, steam trailing off the surface. He drinks, double adams apple bobbing, before returning the cup to the priestess with a deep bow.
Completely revitalized, the sun deity brushes the bangs sweeping across his forehead behind his ear. He faces the crowd, and gives another deep bow of respect.
As he stands up, and just before he blinks out of sight, he looks right at Kibum and smiles.
Kibum–19 years old, Earth, University of the Inner Galaxy
“Now, for our own Milky Way galaxy, we have a new sun deity every two hundred years or so, coinciding with our sun’s solar flares and the greater spiritual needs of the cosmos. Our current sun deity was formed approximately twenty years ago—"
Kibum is sitting in the front row of the lecture hall, like always. If he turns his head, he knows he’ll see a smattering of students in the rows behind him–some listening, some doing everything but.
“As for the duties of the sun deity in our galaxy, they range from classic harvest and equinox festivals to more complicated purification rites. The closer to the core, the more complex the ideology becomes—for example, on the innermost planet where the sun’s presence is strongest, the exocolonists of old developed a complicated calendar of waxing and waning to determine everything from when to hold fertility rituals to what types of food are allowable to eat each day of the week—different from our own division of a week, mind you!”
For himself, Kibum is the picture of engagement–a diligent student, highlighter set ready and waiting on the desk and manual notebook open to a fresh page. It’s a little bit of a vanity to be using such 21st century materials, but Kibum thinks it will make him stand out in the sea of faces.
Plus, he enjoys it. What Anthropology student wouldn’t want to feel like they are going back in time, just for a bit?
“A good question! As many have noted in our most recent discussion forum, the actual abilities of our sun deity are somewhat vague. Our data scientists have tracked the correlation between harvest ceremonies to the sun deity on fifteen planets and the crop and weather outcomes over a fifteen-year period, and found—"
Besides, Kibum doesn’t even have to fake it for today’s lecture. The topic is the one Kibum has already decided he is going to make his specialization: sun ceremonies and deities. Ever since his first holiday solstice at home, he has been fascinated by his galaxy’s sun deity. Having demonstrated a knack for history and an aptitude for the arts in school, Kibum gravitated toward disciplines that allowed him to pore over old encyclopedias, dusty cookbooks from bygone eras, even the microfiche in the library basement in his town.
It’s a little embarrassing now to think about how he fancied himself such a unique and individual scholar back in his primary education, dressing in retro styles and flashing his vintage books. But he can’t feel too badly about it, since it sparked an interest in other peoples and cultures that has carried him all the way to the best university in the Inner Ring.
Now, he has decided to take that passion and apply it to making a difference in the world. Actually, in the whole galaxy! He’s dutiful in his studies and quick to apply his readings to the classroom discussions. Kibum is becoming known for his sharp tongue and witty remarks, delighting his professors to no end with his critiques of the scholars of the past and their racist, homophobic, dominant culture-centered views.
“Yes, the question of morality and individual agency is present in this unit, as in all before. That’s the whole point of folklore—not just to document the cultures, tradition, and practices for an encyclopedia, but to draw greater conclusions about what these all reveal about a society’s needs, fears, and joys! Actually, when we think about the sun deity in relation to the various origin stories of our cosmos, we—"
Even the Federation of today is not spared–for every lesson in how to ethically advocate for the preservation of tradition and just allocation of resources, Kibum can find an example from this decade, this year, this month even, when the Federation and their dusty, old “Cultural Asset Team” have botched an important opportunity to establish themselves as neutral, non-prescriptive peacekeepers.
But Kim Kibum, age 19, is going to be different from those frauds. He’s going to be the new name in the field, fighting passionately for equal treatment for all cultures from all planets, proximity to the core and natural resources be damned. With every roll call before class, Kibum hears his name and thinks to himself, that’s the name to remember. Kim Kibum is going to be the next name in the field.
Remember my name.
Kibum–23 years old, Coordinates 23.9, Federation Cruise Ship
Kibum groans, thunking his head back against the solid wall behind him. His accommodations are relatively nice—comfortable, but minimalist, and not even in the retro-fashionable way. They’re designed to cater to the blandest of tastes, to try to appease everyone while pleasing no one in particular. The only thing lightening up the room of navy and off-white tones is the unusually bright orange of the sun filtering through his solar-proofed and quadruple-insulated window. All in all, it’s comfortable, safe, boring, and utterly stagnant.
Just like his job prospects.
Having graduated with highest honors and the glowing recommendations of his professors, Kibum entered the job market with high hopes. At first, he carefully pored over fellowship applications, websites, boards of directors, and mission statements, carefully selecting which organizations he thought seemed moral and progressive. He wrote and rewrote applications, sent them to his friends, and heard nothing but praise for his materials.
And then, nothing.
So he looked some more, started looking into smaller organizations that worked outside of the core, made some compromises in his head about what kind of living environment is absolutely necessary, what percentage of fieldwork to office work might suit his professional development, maybe even some allowances for the organization’s values to catch up to his own in time.
Some interviews followed, and even a handful of offers, but always accompanied with reservations about Kibum’s bold proclamations and advice to tamp down on his ambitions, cover his tracks in his speech and demeanor, and even to consider a slightly more professional appearance.
Kibum thanked them all for their time, and wished them well in their searches.
Now, at six months after graduating from University, Kibum has held his final round interview with the Federation. A kind professor had reached out to him without judgment, and told him about a new position opening up in the research arm of the Federation working directly under a colleague of hers. The position, she passed along, would be mostly research-based with frequent travel to outer ring planets to observe and document events of cultural significance with the ultimate goal of advocating for greater protection and culturally-respectful funding to preserve and continue these practices.
It's probably not exactly where he had seen himself working, she gently mentioned at the end of their video call, but it’s a good start where he can learn something about bureaucracy and contribute to a good cause. Plus, she could vouch for his supervisor, at the very least.
“You sound so lifeless, Kibum-ah,” Jonghyun exclaimed as Kibum parroted all these justifications at him over video chat.
Jonghyun, at least, was back home on Earth after graduation and working on setting up a small green space in their home village. He had gotten hired with the city to design a new park and come up with a schedule of annual activities focused on integrative culture and art. His first project was a music festival in the late Summer, just before the children went back to school. Already, he had planned, revised, planned, revamped, and planned and rewrote the whole day to fit the Junior High Symphony into the program while simultaneously removing the Kindergarten percussion ensemble and changing the Adult Gagaku to a new time after 1:00 PM. And that’s not even including the catering change and permitting and everything else!
It was already late Summer, by Kibum’s definition of the term, so he understood the stress. But even after hearing about a contact form that forgot to mention allergies and the city refusing to pay for wheelchair accommodations and then backtracking, Kibum felt jealous about the light that shone in Jonghyun’s face as he spoke on and on about his ideas. Would he feel so passionate about his job, where he would go and insert himself into some perfectly good and normal and sacred space as an outsider documenting the odd customs of the natives like the anthropologists of old?
“Kibum-ah, really, you know you wouldn’t do that.” Jonghyun chided. “I know it feels bad, but if there is anyone who I would have faith in to be a respectful observer and fearless advocate, it’s you. You’re not the same as those old, racist assholes.”
How could he not be, working for the same Federation that perpetuated such injustices? Coming from Earth, the absolute worst of the bunch, no less?
“Yeah, that’s true…” Jonghyun looked off camera at something. “I mean, I guess you just need to be mindful of that history and be willing to learn and grow? I think you’ll do great, Kibum-ah.”
What about all those honors at University? And awards? All of that just to be some Federation crony…
“I think they all helped you in the end! You learned stuff and grew as a person and figured a lot of stuff out about yourself and the world Kibummie!”
You don’t think it’s…..disappointing?
“What! Kibummie, no! Never! You could never be. It’s just not in you. You’re Kim Kibum and you try your hardest and have always done the right thing! That’s a universal constant. Your hyung is always proud of you.”
The orange glow lighting up his boring box of a room thrums softly when Kibum finally hangs up, as if to agree.
Kibum–22 years old, Hinterlands, Summer Festival
He got a little space sick on the way over, he probably hasn’t slept very much in the past week, and his senior thesis is kicking his ass, but Kim Kibum doesn’t feel anything except adrenaline as he watches the various drums being wheeled into placement on stage.
It’s the final portion of his research component—actual fieldwork, paid for with a small grant from the University. He managed to get the committee on-board with his thesis on their galactic sun deity and various celebrations throughout the solar system. He’s written about his own experiences on Earth, visited a few local planets to observe their solar tributes, and used the majority of his grant money to finance a trip to the Hinterlands to witness their spectacular Summer Festival.
The Hinterlands is a planet covered in plains—long, grassy expanses that can be seen from space, with only the occasional lake or river to break up the endless fields. The topography rolls gently, and a few evergreen trees cluster and dot the horizon, along with the magnificent longhouses of the local people.
Today is blustery—par for the course for this time of year—and underprepared tourists are losing all kinds of items to the wind. Kibum has already seen three hats, two umbrellas, and countless disposable plates flying across the fields, all accompanied by fretting visitors giving futile chase.
The wind actually feels nice, makes Kibum feel a bit refreshed from the stuffy space sickness and sleep-deprived daze. The banners waving in the wind and the kites soaring high in the air make a nice sight, so Kibum snaps a photo with his research tablet.
At that moment, a huge gust of wind passes through and panicked shouting is accompanied with a miniature stampede after pretty much all unsecured items tumble their way East.
Kibum hears a quiet snort behind him. A kid probably not much younger than him is sitting behind a booth counter, hand on his chin as he watches the parade of tourists trying to retrieve their items. Clearly a local, the kid has recently dyed his hair purple, if the slight stains around his ears and neck are any indication. He has a couple more piercings than are strictly customary for his people, too.
Looking closer, Kibum sees that his vendor badge says “Taemin” in the local language, but his nametag says “Francesco” in galaxy common. And sprawled out across his booth, held fast by industrial-standard magnetic tape, are the actual worst, most hideous depictions of the sun deity Kibum has ever seen.
Kibum can’t help the raucous laugh that bubbles out of him. Stars and space and atoms above, these are terrible! The proportions are all wrong, the sun deity’s bronzed skin tone has been reduced to a watery ivory, his wavy hair blown out around his face in a reference clearly lifted from romance novel covers, and the background, in contrast to the illustrated figure, seems to be a handheld tablet photo of the nearby village.
The deepest injustice of all, though, must be the sun deity’s face. His gaze—passionate but always tempered with kindness—has been turned into a furrowed frown, ludicrously huge eyebrows stern and unyielding.
The kid at the table starts, looking up at Kibum and hurrying into a more upright position. Before Kibum can get a word in, he babbles on in common, “Authentic village paintings of the sun deity, get three for 25—”
“What do you mean, authentic?” Kibum can’t help the amused exclamation in Hinterlands standard. He’s always been good with languages.
The kid looks mildly surprised, then slouches down again and shrugs at Kibum. “Well, they were made in the village, so they’re authentic, I guess.” He’s speaking Hinterlands standard as well now, and looking a lot more at-ease.
“Did you do these?” Kibum can barely keep the mirth out of his voice as he asks.
“Hell no!” The kid looks offended, as if he isn’t the one selling these disasters in the first place.
Kibum lets the laugh he’d been holding back out at that. “Who did?”
“My friend Jongin,” the kid rolls his eyes. “I told him to not even sell them, but at least Minho liked them.”
“Minho?”
“Yeah, the sun deity or whatever.”
Kibum’s heart skips a beat. “I thought your people called him ‘Fukou?’”
The kid spares a glance at him. “Yeah, we call him that. But his name’s Minho.”
Before Kibum can ask anything else, a large tourist group swarms the booth, and “Francesco” is suddenly out of his seat, all charming smiles and rambling galactic common.
Later that night, watching the sun deity’s fiery taiko performance on stage, eyes burning with determination and tanned body glistening with exertion, Kibum’s thoughts wander.
The sun deity’s hair, cropped shorter here than Kibum has seen on his own planet, lights up in a halo from the rays of the setting sun. Between his small recordings, Kibum writes his notes:
- Sun deity appears on stage around 7:00 PM local time
- Dressed in loose, black pants with slits on sides, held up by rope
- No top or head coverings
- Taiko performance starts almost immediately—see prior notes on drums and accompaniment
- Sun Deity—A102.5 (Omnipresent God)—exists at multiple places at once
- Sun Deity—A102.12 (Perfect God)?
- Sun Deity—A102.8 (Imperfect God—rebirth)?
- Sun Deity—A121.2 (Sun as God)
- Sun Deity—A124 (Luminous God)?
- Sun Deity—Minho? /mɪnhow/
Kibum writes and writes and writes, but his mind and body are on a separate plane from his soul. When he watches the sun deity—Minho?—conclude his performance, sweat dripping down his face as he grins and bows to the applause of the crowd, he adds another note:
- Kim Kibum—A185.12 (God Provides Man with Soul)
Kibum–6 years old, Earth, Holiday Solstice
Kim Kibum, age 6, is so bundled up in padded jackets and snow boots and knit caps that he thinks he might be a marshmallow. He feels like one, anyway, focusing pretty hard on putting one foot down at a time without toppling over.
Kibum makes it to the table and chairs where his family has set up camp for the time being, and is promptly swept up into someone’s arms and plopped on a folding chair. While he admires the strings of lanterns overhead, a plate with grilled rice cakes and a cup of steaming tea appear in front of his setting.
He is briefly fussed over when he moves his swaddled hand to try and grab at a rice cake.
“Kibummie-ah, it’s hot, you need to let your food cool down first, hmm?”
His mother’s face comes into view, the words puffing cheerfully into the air. Kibum watches her pick up a skewer and blow on it, taking her glove off to test the heat before handing it over for Kibum to clumsily grasp with his own mittened hand.
It takes a few attempts, but he’s finally got it secure, tucked between his thumb and palm. When he finally takes a small bite, it’s sweet and savory, sticky and crunchy all at once. It takes forever to chew the rice cake, but once he finally swallows his first bite, Kibum eagerly goes for a second and third combined.
While he’s busy chewing away at the sticky rice, Kibum looks over his surroundings once again. The booths are all decorated with masks and lanterns. There’s more people here than he thought his whole village even had living in it. And they all look happy, children less restrained by puffy clothes than him running between the tables, dogs on leashes sniffing food spilled on the ground, some village elders huddled around a heater with their drinks and laughter.
Before he even gets the chance to swallow, though, Kibum’s eyes land on a small figure standing somewhat away from the crowd. There’s a boy about his age peeping around the corner of the booth selling spicy grilled squid. He has large eyes and lips pursed into a slight pout as he stares at the squid on the grill, the villagers eating under the lanterns, and the hard crust of frost on the ground.
Kibum swallows his rice cake, too intrigued to take his fourth bite. Above him, the adults are talking about something, but Kibum doesn’t bother paying any attention.
The boy has a head of messy, dark hair, not unlike Kibum’s own when he wakes up in the morning. But while Kibum and all the other kids are packed into warm jackets and boots and hats and mittens, this boy is only wearing a simple cotton robe. It kind of looks like the one Kibum used when he and his grandma went to a bathhouse one time.
Also, Kibum suddenly notices, the boy isn’t wearing any socks or shoes. He’s standing on the frosted ground in just a white robe, no hat and no mittens, or even a coat.
The boy lifts his head and turns to look Kibum directly in the eye. His gaze is wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, curiosity shining in his expression, but Kibum suddenly becomes painfully aware of his jacket, his gloves, hat, and mittens, and his family surrounding him. He looks down sharply, cheeks burning.
After a few long moments of staring at his rice cakes, Kibum dares another glance up. He can invite the boy over, he has decided. He can give him the tea and half of the remaining rice cakes. And maybe his mom or dad can buy him a hat. He’ll have to ask but he thinks they’ll say yes.
Just as Kibum opens his mouth and looks up, he sees the boy being led away by a woman with a pleated skirt and long black hair.
Something like disappointment charges through Kibum—he wanted to help the boy and give him what he had.
The boy glances over his shoulder at Kibum, but Kibum can’t do much more than stare back as the boy is shepherded out of sight.
Kibum still feels a little bad, but, rather maturely, he thinks, he is glad that the boy had someone to take care of him after all.
Kibum can’t quite get it out of his mind, though, even as he chews on his rice cakes, sips his tea, and precociously joins the adult conversation.
And he can’t swallow his shock when he is lifted onto his dad’s shoulders late that evening, when the air has grown dark and cold and the stage is lit up by giant bonfire, and Kibum sees the young boy lisping along to the chanting of the priestesses on stage.
And when the wizened sun deity emerges from the flames, he goes to the boy first and pats his head, inviting him to follow alongside him as he performs the rituals.
Kibum snaps out of his wonder. He asks his dad who the boy is, but his dad doesn’t hear him. Frustrated, he tugs on his dad’s ear until he listens.
“Ah, that’s our new sun deity, Kibum-ah. Well, he will be, once he gets older.”
Kibum is satisfied and doesn’t ask anymore questions. Instead, he looks upon the boy on stage with wonder.
It is the first time Kim Kibum feels awe.
Kibum–26 years old, The Mare (uninhabited), Summer Twilight
It’s quiet here—nothing except the white noise of waves rolling steadily underneath the rooftop Kibum sits on.
It feels wrong to talk. Not at a place like this, where water runs over a massive network of stone pathways and what were previously grand staircases. In the crystal-clear ocean, Kibum can see fallen pillars lying still in the depths, and courtyards that look deceptively close to the surface.
There are plenty of records of the city from eons ago—space travelers stopping by this bustling oceanside port, enjoying the local food and the beautiful coast. Merchants and their accounting books, authors who came to enjoy the serene lifestyle.
Then, all records come to a sudden halt.
Then, decades later, it is widely known that this city is no more.
No one today really knows what happened, only that it was many centuries ago. Still, Kibum and others have pieced together enough from the writings that do remain to guess at a Summer Twilight festival that used to be held at about this time of year.
It’s not really related to his job, and he had no particular expectations for this voyage, but he felt like he had to come here. No one had batted an eye, and the Federation, pleased with his most recent report that supported further infrastructure in one of their target planets, hadn’t even bothered him with justifying travel expenses or anything else.
Still, he hadn’t expected that the sun deity would quietly appear and sit alongside him.
When Kibum saw the shadow appear next to where he was seated, he froze, eyes wide and heart hammering in his chest. When he finally worked up the courage to turn his head up, he lost all sense of what his body was feeling—only felt shock and awe and a strange but powerful tide of comfort.
Dressed in a simple tunic, the sun deity’s hair curled in wisps around his ears. Lit by the rising run, his skin seemed to glow an even deeper tan, and Kibum swore he saw the entire ocean reflected in the large eyes looking down at him.
When Kibum’s lagging mind finally caught up to his body, he shook his head and blinked, looking the sun deity up and down. He was curious about something, actually—
“Minho?” He mouthed the name, still feeling like speaking might intrude upon this moment.
The sun deity smiled, and gracefully sat down beside him. He stared out over the ocean, the remnants of his smile slowly melting away as a soft thoughtfulness took over his face.
While the sun deity—Minho—looked over the ocean, Kibum looked at him. With no notes, no papers, no civilians to advocate for and force their loves, hopes, and dreams through the meatgrinder of policy-friendly language and incentives (they were lightyears too late for that), Kibum was free to observe the soft lips, smooth cheeks, double adams apple, and angled eyelashes that he had spent his entire adult life orbiting.
Minho continues to look contemplative, watching the ruins and the waves. It is the day of the Summer Twilight, and Kibum wonders if Minho is honoring the weathered commitment created and made obsolete long before he came into existence.
Alone like this, Kibum finally allows himself to wonder—do deities anger? Do they cry? Do they love?
And does this one in particular know that he is being watched, that Kibum can’t help but revolve around and around him, trajectory dipping or weaving but always, always returning?
Minho returns to his feet, and his hand—warm, solid—brushes against Kibum’s own in the motion. He smiles once again, and bows slightly before disappearing into the sunrise.
Kibum–27 years old, Fuot (Indigenous name, no Federation identity assigned), Sun Deity Offerings
Kibum journals and journals, writes notes upon notes, revises them, and then sends them back to headquarters to advocate for peacekeeping and the noninvasive, non-prescriptive distribution of resources.
He feels like his hips exist on a hinge, constantly bowing to officials when he enters the shared space station, only at peace in his tiny rented pod for this longer period stationed in the outer ring.
In the end, his job is a lot less research and a lot more convincing xenophobic old men to not be themselves. He’s sick of it. But at least he has a sun ceremony coming up on a distant planet that he’s been looking forward to.
The planet itself is quite distant from the sun, and, blocked by gravitational fields and magnetic planes, not very accessible to visitors from the core. But it is absolutely bursting at the seams with water. Some of its geysers are visible from space, not to mention the abundance of hot springs, rivers, and waterfalls that cover over 75% of the planet’s surface.
In fact, it’s here at one of the terraced hot springs that Kibum sits alongside village leader Jinki, waiting for the offerings to begin.
Kibum’s not entirely sure what cue they are waiting for, but he’s content to enjoy his time in the meanwhile.
For his part, Jinki is soaking in one of the many pools, lackadaisically minding a basket of eggs and vegetables boiling alongside him. Jinki smiles at the parents who chide their children not to run on the hot, wet stones—it seems the whole village is here, splashing about in the pools and generally making a nice day of the festival.
It’s when Jinki tries for the fourth time to cajole Kibum, already lobster-red and feeling like steam is coming out of his ears, to at least put his feet back in the water that Minho appears.
“Ah, Minho-ah!” Jinki calls out over Kibum’s shoulder. “Come join us! It’s been so long.”
To Kibum’s surprise, the Minho that steps out from under the waterfall is not the one he’s most accustomed to seeing. Instead, he looks more like the Minho that Kibum saw at his own Holiday Solstice festival when he was 19. This Minho is a little gangly and shy and awkward, shaking his long hair out of his face like a dog with an uncertain smile, and gripping one arm in the other until a bustling group of village women surround him.
Kibum can’t really make out what’s happening—he hears bits and pieces of the kind of praise that his mom might dispense (“Minho-ya, you’re so handsome! Ah, it’s ok, you don’t have to be so formal. Oh my, what a polite young man—“) before Minho is wrapped in a towel and suddenly sitting in the hot spring next to Jinki.
He still looks a little bewildered, but is slowly relaxing into the warm water as Jinki fetches a cutting board and knife. While Jinki cuts the vegetables into small pieces, he chats with Minho, calling him by name (it seems everyone here does) and musing about how he has grown so much since last time.
Kibum has heard that the strange dips and folds in the fabric of the galaxy do lead to time and light being distorted, and perhaps the distance and various pockets of magnetism have caused Fuot to be delayed in how they receive their sun deity.
Still, it’s a bit of a jarring experience for Kibum, to see Minho so young and unsure of his role. Was he always this fidgety? Perhaps Kibum had just been so caught up in the majesty that he hadn’t noticed.
Jinki tops a rice porridge with the chopped vegetables and a few peeled onsen eggs, presenting the bowl to Minho alongside a tray of spices and sauces.
Kibum wonders, not for the first time, if this Minho is the same Minho to exist across the entire galaxy. Does Minho exist outside of festivals and celestial duties? What does he like to do?
Kibum is fascinated, notes almost completely forgotten, politics and funding rinsed fully out of his body and mind as he watches this Minho heap spicy flakes into his porridge, effortlessly befriend the young children of the village, and absently play with the hair of a boy snuggled next to him while he observes the surrounding festivities.
Kibum thinks about all the times he’s seen the sun deity—gracefully dancing on stage, furiously drumming, performing ritual after ritual with precise perfection, and fitting every mold assigned to him.
Kibum also thinks about Minho, and his consistencies—the way he pays special attention to children, the way his tongue sometimes pokes out of his teeth when concentrating, the stubborn set to his brow when facing a challenge.
Kibum realizes, with a slow, spreading certainty, that he might be in love with Minho. Not the one sitting before him now—Kibum remembers being 19 and he is definitely not there anymore. But the one who has grown up alongside him all these years, the one who is dutiful and kind, the one who smiles right at him.
Kibum feels a slight prickle in his neck, and looks up to see this Minho sneaking a sidelong glance at him. He gives this Minho an earnest smile, and watches as he ducks his head to hide his pleased grin.
Kibum–27 years old, Coordinates 91.0, Space Hotel
When Kibum and Minho do speak, it’s not at a ceremony.
It’s not anything Kibum expected, really. He was content to be a satellite, orbiting around Minho with appreciation, letting his own love guide his inner observations, not needing anything in return.
So it comes as quite a surprise when Kibum, choking down the absolutely abysmal coffee taken to-go from the headquarters, opens the door to his individual living pod and sees a figure sitting on his bed.
Immediately as the door opens, a head framed with dark hair lifts up, and it’s like the room is filled with sunshine. It’s not like the room itself gets any brighter, but it’s the way all the nooks and crannies seem to glow with a soft incandescence that is hard to come by in the artificial pod lighting.
Kibum gasps, and feels the coffee cup grow lighter in his hand, slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground. Kibum really couldn’t care less about the coffee, unable to take his eyes off of the man still sitting on his bed. In fact, he barely registers that the coffee travel cup is actually floating its way, unopen, to his desk to set itself down gently.
He’s far too busy staring at Minho’s sheepish gaze and bashful smile.
“Hello,” Minho starts, then clears his throat, and starts again. “Hello, Kibum.”
His voice is deep, soft, and self-conscious. His fingers twist into Kibum’s bedsheets. But his eyes hold the same gentle determination that Kibum has grown to love across the universe.
“Hello, Minho.” Kibum breathes out, as he walks into the room and shuts the door behind him.
Minho–xx years old
You are the sun, but the blankness of space is so cold.
You once felt the gentle warmth of the one before you. You can feel a small hint, the tiniest halo, of the one who will come after.
You understand your duties. You perform them impeccably, to the best of your abilities. The inhabitants of this galaxy depend on you for many things, and you give them what you can. If they need you to be a particular role, you must respect and honor that role. When they ask for rites and prayers and protection, you must do as you can to fulfil them.
You understand all of this, and you are honored by it.
Yet, you are lonely.
Even across the vastness of this galaxy, even spread across multiple planets and even multiple timelines, you are alone.
Or maybe, you (Minho, as you have named yourself) are not known.
Faces always swim past you in your ceremonies, and you do your utmost to pay attention to each and every one. And some shine more memorably than others, but in the end, they all look upon you as a mirror to their own hopes.
Until you notice him.
He looks at you, and it makes you feel nervous, as first. He looks at everything, all sharp eyes and busy notepad, observing everything around him. But when he looks at you, he stops writing and his narrowed eyes widen to something less pointed.
It makes you feel seen, feel separate from everything around you.
It’s scary. You worry that he’ll notice your mistakes and faults.
But soon enough, after enough ceremonies, the fear changes and the attention becomes addictive.
That’s scary, too.
You think you need to keep your distance. You need to be fair and right. But you keep slipping, when you see him pat the head of the child clinging to his leg, or the way his face puckers when he eats a local sour fruit.
Or when you see him gaze at you with soft wonder.
You decide that you cannot hide, that to run away would be cowardly. So you smile at him across the crowds. Just before dissipating, you see his shocked expression.
Lightyears of coordinates away now, you can’t help but grin at that. You decide to do it again.
And again. And again.
And as many times as you want. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t smile back. When you see him, you feel like the sun. And the sun always gives all it has, gives it freely and unashamed.
You decide to shine.
Kibum–35 years old, from a small, cramped room in a research station above the asteroid belt
It's a little after midnight, local time, and Kibum is typing away at his journal, illuminated by the pink light from his holographic screen but having turned off the classic typewriter clacking plug-in out of consideration for his companion.
Speaking of–Kibum pauses his weekly log to brush his hand through Minho’s hair, grown long and curled in his own preference. With no other obligations occupying these particular coordinates, Minho is free to lounge and rest and fill his days snuggling Kibum, playing with the toy poodle AI prototype Jonghyun had smuggled onto his tablet, or puttering around the tiny space to see what new human trinkets Kibum has brought back from his travels.
Today, he opted to join Kibum in a very close-quartered round of yoga. It’s necessary for Kibum’s space-weakened joints, along with his supplements. It’s fun for Minho, who seems to like bending and twisting and giggling when the soothing voice of the instructor directs Kibum to “salute the sun.”
Minho feels very human, here–a goofy man who enjoys cracking a wide smile and nuzzling into Kibum’s shoulder. His indignant pout and furrowed brows when Kibum won’t buy decaf coffee, or lit up eyes and scrambling limbs to catch the jar of gochujang Kibum brought home from Earth, or expanses of golden skin laid bare for Kibum’s hands, mouth, tongue–
Kibum shakes his head and huffs out a quiet laugh. No need for the journal to go in that direction. Not today, at least. He switches it off and settles further into the darkness.
Beside him, Minho’s form rises and sinks with his even breaths, even as an arm not-so-discreetly sneaks around his middle. Minho is somehow always simultaneously warm to the touch, and on a constant mission to become even warmer. He has never once in Kibum’s knowledge or memory complained about his role or duties, but he does tend to look imploringly at Kibum’s bed whenever he returns from a snowy ceremony, to the point where Kibum will prepare warm soup and a hot bath ahead of time, when he is able.
Their schedules don’t always align, sometimes going weeks on end before they can even speak to each other, much less touch and hold.
And sometimes, when they are together, Minho looks distant and shudders with the knowledge of some interstellar event happening at another point in time. Kibum knows it’s a weighty burden Minho bears, and just tries to be as available and comforting as he can without prying.
And when Kibum tears his hair out, tears nearly escaping his eyes out of anger and frustration at bureaucracy and helplessness, Minho observes with troubled eyes and a pained expression, knowing that this was well out of the realm of his advice, and warm cups of tea tend to make their way to Kibum’s workstations at times like these.
It works for them. It’s not always easy, but when Kibum can see Minho’s smiling face, laugh lines deepening in sync with Kibum’s own, it all feels worth it.
Kibum snuggles closer to Minho, content to keep their story to himself and his own private journals. He does, however, give it one brief foreword, just for himself:
Q195: Blessings