A Beautiful Burden

[london9calling]

Title: A Beautiful Burden
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s)/Focus: Kyungsoo/Jongin
Length: 2,024 words
Warning(s)/Triggers: -
Summary: Jongin’s mind has never left the war, Kyungsoo has never understood how anyone could leave Jongin behind.

Notes: I took my inspiration for this story from a painting by Etienne Sandorfi, titled Alizarine. The impression this painting left on me was one of a bizarre and beautiful sadness; hopefully I infused this story with the same type of feeling (and yes, the first scene is based on the paining in a physical sense). Thanks to R for her feedback, and for finding some weird way to connect this fic to Death in Venice, you weirdo you.

Originally posted as part of the ateliers Fic Challenge

The words were strangled, an exhausting method of speech born of his posture. “Did you know?” Jongin sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself. “Monks in Russia used to seal themselves in an earthen grave as penance.” Exhaling, steadying himself he continued, “And die like that.”

Kyungsoo leaned against the stucco doorway, sliding his hand along the cool and smooth wall. “You aren’t a monk in Russia, Jongin.”

“Is it,” Inhale, “steady?”

“Yeah, it is steady.” Kyungsoo sighed, crossing his arms.

He waited, knowing it would be soon. Jongin could never hold the posture as long as he wanted to, his muscles rebelling against the contortionist act he forced upon them. Years ago he could hold any pose, his muscles conditioned after years of training. But that was years ago, no longer a reality.

The wood board, the grapefruit, and the apple slid onto the bed, the apple rolling halfway towards the door as Jongin watched his failure scatter across the room. “I held it longer this time, didn’t I?” Jongin was proud of himself, his body vibrating as he flashed a wicked smile, untamed, his devilish grin framed by unruly wild dark hair and dark eyes.

Kyungsoo didn’t question why, he knew the answer – or at least the two dozen answers Jongin had provided over the last four years. He was looking for peace, or strength, or calm, or concentration, or flexibility, or the limits of what his body was capable of. There were at least a half dozen more explanations, Kyungsoo tucking them away as a Jongin thing. An explanation that was unique and unrepeatable and not worth his time until Jongin was flitting through the villa, emotions demanding an answer that he had long forgotten.

“I shall perfect it before I die. Soon, I shall perfect it soon.” Jongin gathered the apple and grapefruit, tossing them onto the goose feather stuffed mattress. The white linen shirt was still halfway down his torso, revealing his tanned skin.

“Don’t talk about dying.” Kyungsoo stopped Jongin as he attempted to stride through the doorway, clasping the younger man’s arm. “I don’t like it.”

“How could I die when I feel so alive?” It was a typical response, a question in trade of concern, as light and breezy and fleeting as Jongin himself. Kyungsoo watched the younger man as he sauntered down the hall, his hand tracing along the paintings, the woodwork, and the void that signaled entryways to other rooms.

“We should go to the sea today,” Kyungsoo called after Jongin, waiting for the familiar pause, the familiar question.

“Why?” The younger man whirled around, a dancer’s movement, graceful with his weight centered perfectly on the balls of his feet.

“You like the sea,” Kyungsoo answered simply, waiting.

“Do I?” Jongin appeared thoughtful, then clapped his hands twice. “We should. I love the sea, Kyungsoo. I love the sea.”

Kyungsoo brought beach towels, smiling fondly at Charis, the elderly woman who came from town three times a week to clean and watch over them. “I am taking him to see the beach, he is doing so well today.,” he explained simply, Charis chuckling in response as she continued sorting the small harvest of grapes they had claimed as their own. The vines had ripened early this year, the housekeeper deciding what she could make of them.

Kyungsoo plodded out of the villa, the early hours of the morning giving him a clear shot towards the rocky beach. Jongin ran ahead, Kyungsoo trudging behind him, picnic basket in hand. He laughed at the sight of Jongin running across the two lane road, planting his feet in the scarce white sand on the other side, marveling at the indentations of his footprints. “Kyungsoo!” Jongin called, “Look!”

Kyungsoo was looking. He was always looking. He had always been looking. Jongin rushed towards the waves lapping at the shore, laughing as his bare feet were covered in the ocean water, his ability to consistently dart among the rocks on the beach amazing Kyungsoo. He jumped back, then forward, testing his ability to react. The black and white striped one piece tank and short bathing suit stuck to Jongin’s skin as he hazarded a step forward, splashing the incoming waves over him until he was soaking wet.

“We should come here more often!” Jongin cried, laughing. Kyungsoo watched him, knowing he would see the same scene a hundred more times.

“You can’t even have a drink in the good ole USA anymore.” Chanyeol shook the brandy glass, the ice chunks clanking against the crystal. “And they say the continent is foolish.”

Kyungsoo sipped his brandy, eyes never leaving the sleeping form of Jongin, lying lazily on the sofa.

“Are you really planning on holing up here indefinitely?” Chanyeol made a show of looking about the place. “Is this really good for him?”

“He is happy here,” Kyungsoo answered simply, knowing that no one else would understand.

“If you ever need excitement, send me a telegraph. Baek and I find Paris suitable, for now,” Chanyeol murmured, unable to hide how concerned he was with his friend’s situation. A fate worse than death, he thought sometimes.

“Every Morning, every evening, Ain’t we got fun?” Jongin sung along to the song, watching the gramophone intently before launching into a strange sequence of pirouettes, a graceful madness that signaled a sense of normalcy.

“Jongin, it will be the new year soon.” Kyungsoo hugged the wool blanket to him, the winds picking up, howling over the island. “Your birthday will follow.”

“How old will I be?” Jongin asked, sitting on the peach colored sofa, leaning towards Kyungsoo as he blinked rapidly.

“Not old enough,” Kyungsoo answered, ruffling Jongin’s hair.

The former dancer pulled away, returning to his semblance of a dance.

Charis passed away on a summer afternoon, Kyungsoo and Jongin sending their condolences.

“Is she gone forever?” Jongin asked, juggling three apples as he stared out towards the sea.

“I am afraid so.” Kyungsoo answered, patting the younger man on the back in a gesture that was for himself as much as for Jongin. Jongin wouldn’t care. Jongin wouldn’t know. It was better that way.

Chanyeol sucked in the smoke, coughing. “Do you think he will ever snap out of it?”

Kyungsoo pursed his lips. Jongin was practicing Tour en l’air, over and over, in the villa’s living room, perfect time and time again. Perfect.

“Soo, you can’t wither away here.” Chanyeol snubbed out his cigarette in the green glass ashtray. “Bring him to Paris, give him a change of scenery.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Kyungsoo tapped his fingers on the couch, sighing. “Chanyeol, thank you but I don’t believe you would understand.”

“I only want to see you both live a life.” Chanyeol sucked in a deep breath, frowning. “How long has it been?”

“I don’t think war has an expiration date,” Kyungsoo whispered, the threat of tears causing him to look away. Jongin was still practicing.

The rain pounded the island nonstop for nearly a week. Jongin was reclusive, unwilling to move from his bed. “I feel peaceful, Kyungsoo,” he explained simply, adding, “It is the calm before the storm.”

“Jongin, the Somme is far away.” Kyungsoo had said it a dozen – no a hundred – maybe a thousand times. It was silly, a waste of breath, but an effort to explain that the place Jongin’s mind lived in was not the place where he lived physically. He wasn’t in a trench, he wasn’t at war, and he wasn’t running from toxic gas and bullets. He was home. Yet Jongin was never truly at home for more than a few fleeting minutes, an hour or two at most on a good day. How Kyungsoo hated war, how he despised it. The ruin, the damage, was never done.

“Kyungsoo, did you know that the word Somme comes from the Celtic word for tranquility?” Jongin laughed. It was the only statement he would ever make even remotely related to the event. Kyungsoo had heard it a dozen – no a hundred- maybe a thousand times.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Kyungsoo responded, finding enough room on the bed to lie next to Jongin, listening to the rain pound on the roof of the villa as the younger man stared, a dead look in his eyes. When it began thundering and lighting he sprung out of bed, rushing towards cover, a trench he had built in his mind, crying for Kyungsoo to do the same.

Chanyeol’s second book was a bestseller, the toast of the continent, its popularity even sinking its claws into the United States. Kyungsoo collected newspaper clippings that focused on the book, smiling when he read another rave review.

Kyungsoo was cutting out one of Chanyeol’s articles, a book review opposite the society pages, when he saw the name. Soo Jung was to be married. He read and reread the announcement, memorizing the date and the place and the time and the attendants. It was nearly identical to her announcement with Jongin, before the war. Kyungsoo closed the paper, throwing it out. It wasn’t like Jongin would read it, the newspaper never interested him. No, it was more symbolic to designate the announcement trash, to toss it aside the same way Jongin’s fiancée had done when he had returned from the front a broken man.

1924. The visit. Jongin’s mother arrived, a day trip from her sister’s winter home in Naples. She arrived with her assistant and Jongin’s cousin, hovering in the doorway of the villa as she peeked inside, straining her neck to and fro without stepping a foot inside.

“Kyungsoo, how is he?” She asked after her only son, never referring to him by name.

“He is well, would you like to see him?” Kyungsoo cocked his head to the side, hoping, praying she would see him.

The off key singing filtered into the living room, the latest hit from Irving Caesar. “When skies are grey and you say you are blue, I’ll send the sun smiling through.”

“I need to go, Kyungsoo.” Jongin’s mother tried to appear apologetic as she took her leave, even chancing a hug with her son’s caretaker. “Thank you for doing what no one else would.”

Kyungsoo held onto those words for years, relishing how brutal and wicked the world was that people could cast off such a beautiful soul as Jongin, all because of the war, all because their ideal was lost. A star ballerino would never dance in Paris, in Vienna, in Prague, ever again and that was enough reason for everyone to forget he existed, everyone but Kyungsoo, that is.

“Was someone here?” Jongin skipped into the room, cheerfully twirling and shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

“No,” Kyungsoo lied. “No one was here.”

“Good.” Jongin crossed the room in a fluid motion, pulling Kyungsoo into a tight embrace. “I don’t like it when people come to bother us.”

Kyungsoo nodded into Jongin’s shoulder, moving his arms to hug Jongin back.

“I love you.” Kyungsoo mumbled into Jongin’s shirt, tightening his hold.

“I love you too, Kyungsoo.” Jongin reciprocated, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Kyungsoo lifted his head, never recalling Jongin thanking him before. Not like this. The man’s words almost seemed lucid, unusually so.

“Not being like everyone else.” Jongin smiled.

Kyungsoo smiled back, confident that he had just heard the most beautiful words he would ever likely hear in his life, from the most beautiful man he would ever see in his life, the rest of the world be damned.

The cool ocean breeze blew over the island of Capri that day, a chill in the air as two men went on with their lives, one man’s mind flashing back and forth from a bloody and deadly summer eight years prior, his scars deep and invisible to all but himself. The other man living in the present, his mind rooted in the reality of going forward without ever leaving the other behind, a promise he had made eight years prior, a promise he would keep for the rest of his life, finding happiness with the most precious burden a man could imagine.