Morning slips into their room like a thief, stealing away precious hours of sleep. Just as Iseul closes his eyes again, comprehension suddenly dawns upon him, of where he is and with whom. There’s no way he can go back to sleep now, when time is trickling through his fingers like sand.
If there’s one time of day he hates, it’s late morning, because it reminds him of everything he’s yet to accomplish for the day. As he blinks against the sunlight filtering through wooden lattice windows, he finds Kuro facing him, eyes closed and dark lashes fanned out in slumber.
There’s something about seeing him like this, all soft edges and dark hair loose around his face and over white linens. On stage, both he and Kuro wear only the slightest amount of makeup—kohl lining their eyes, gloss coating their lips, concealer covering all imperfections. It doesn’t make that much of a difference, now that he’s able to observe Kuro’s features up close.
The tip of Kuro's nose is a light pink, almost like a blush over his fair skin. He doesn’t know what to do with this information—only knows that it gives him an answer to the question of whether Kuro would tan or burn in the sun. He’ll remind both of them to wear sunscreen next time.
Right above Kuro's eyebrows, is a small scar. Now that’s something Iseul’s been wanting to know—if the makeup artists painted the mark on him every morning or if it was actually a permanent scar. Even the fans discuss among themselves that the scar gives Kuro’s pretty boy face a rugged charm. Something inexplicable compels him to reach out to brush the hair away from Kuro’s face, to trace the lines of the scar.
“Am I that handsome?”
Iseul freezes, heartbeat suddenly picking up. He retracts his hand the moment Kuro opens his eyes, staring at him sleepily with a languid smile.
Iseul immediately sits up. He must not be fully awake, because he cannot believe he just tried to do that. “Good morning.”
“You’re up early.”
“It’s late in the morning,” Iseul points out, checking his phone again for good measure. He untangles himself from the bedding and rises to his feet, then quickly folds up the comforter atop his futon to give his hands something else to do. “I’m going to get some work done.”
Kuro closes his eyes, still tucked into his pillow. “Go ahead. I’ll join you later.”
Iseul quickly gets dressed before leaving through the sliding doors, unsteady on his feet on the way out.
* * *
“Is Lee Kuro treating you well?” Kotone asks him.
“He’s treating me just fine?” Iseul answers against the cup of coffee against his lips. They’re sitting outside at one of the broad wooden tables in the gardens, quietly enjoying the coffee that Kotone brewed earlier in the morning. Clusters of vibrant red spider lilies and golden chrysanthemums surround them, breathing their perfume into the air, mingling with the scents of the gingko trees.
“I see.” Kotone’s leaning on one elbow, watching as a butterfly gently lands on one of the lilies. “Do you two get to meet often?”
Iseul sets his cup down right next to his notebook on the table. “Huh?”
“It’s probably difficult with your schedules, but I’m hoping that he spends enough time with you. It’s nice that he brought you all the way here with him, but—” Kotone furrows her brow, concern apparent in her delicate features. “He’s not thinking of this as a short-term relationship, is he? I’ll make sure to talk some sense into him if he is.”
“Ah,” Iseul suddenly says, because he never did clear up the misunderstanding. “I’m not—we’re not—”
Before he can finish speaking, the door at the side of the inn slides open. Aoi peeks out from the inside. “Aunt Kotone! Can you help me with our new guests?”
“Be right there,” Kotone calls back, standing up from the bench. “I’ll catch up with you later, Iseul. Enjoy your coffee—Kuro always drinks this brand whenever he comes here.”
As she smiles at him, filled with a mother’s warmth, Iseul can only nod along.
Left to his own thoughts, Iseul stares at the lined white paper. Before, he would have found all of these thoughts to be worthy of being recorded, but he feels more selective now. Even holding a pen feels strange.
He can’t afford to spend too much time being meticulous now, because nothing should concern him besides his writing. Until he knows what he wants to do with this song and what vision he wants to show in his performance, Kuro can’t help him.
He never truly had the freedom to consider this before, when there was always someone else to tell him what his music should sound like. Another producer or company representative would be there to dictate the direction of his music, but with Kuro here, things are different now. Iseul tries to let the words take over for him, but his lyrics don't come.
He carves out several attempts with difficulty, penning lines about his surroundings—how the heat of the sun is warmer here, the wind carrying the scent of hot sand and cypress, the people not caring who he is and where he comes from—but he doesn’t have a story.
All of his previous attempts at songwriting had fallen short of what he wanted to achieve. Now he wants to write something wonderful on these pages, so that one day, they’ll turn into melodies that resonate with people’s hearts. But how does he create something that has no vocabulary, when he feels so much that he’s never been able to speak to his family about it?
Knowing himself should be the most straightforward thing in life, but somehow, it feels the most difficult. Kuro thinks that he’s capable of too much, that he’s meant to do this and has always been. Iseul doesn’t know if he’ll be able to live up to those expectations. Whereas Kuro makes the world burn with his music, Iseul’s the spark of a fire that has yet to be kindled. He doesn’t know how to start the flame that Kuro wants to see in him.
He considers tearing the page out, but as he thinks it over, none of his efforts should be treated as though they were worthless. No matter what anyone else thinks. The impulse dies as he flips to a clean page, absently thinking of what a letter to his family would look like. After his conversation with Kuro from last night, he doesn’t want to run away any longer.
As he starts addressing his mother, father, Sion on the first line of the paper, the awareness that he’s writing something unlike anything he’s ever done before, sweeps him up in a fever, compelling him to write without stopping, making him lose track of time.
He tells them how he’s living within a shell of how he used to be—the boy who feared nothing when he left his family and wanted to conquer the world with his music.
He tells them his skin feels too stretched out, having to contain all the homesickness inside of him.
He tells them that if he can’t figure out his new music after losing almost everything, he fears that he’ll lose himself too.
But it’s not all bad either.
He tells them he’s doing his best to find himself here, because there’s Kuro at his side, and for the first time in years, he feels steadier.
He tells them he misses them as much as the water that exists in the sea.
It’s like stripping himself down to who he is at the very core—not performer and singer and dancer Iseul—but the son and friend to his family that he hasn’t seen in years, supporting him regardless if he deserves it or not. It’s a different kind of love, the kind that reminds him of how his mother pulled him into an embrace at the airport, telling him that she’ll always be watching him.
Only now he’s the one thinking of her.
Iseul is writing just enough. No excessive words, no complex embellishments—only a calm, reverent love for his family. For all that his hiatus is difficult and disappointing, for all his fears of disappointing his family and himself, it would be even worse to never perform again.
This time, he’s not desperate to prove something to them. It’s an acknowledgment of another beginning, of what he still needs to do during his time here. A promise that they’ll see him on stage again. A promise that he'll return, because they'll always be there for him no matter what.
It’s not perfect.
It’s not complete.
It’s not a song, but it has the potential to be. Several lines are crossed out and there are many corrections to be made, but it’s something new yet familiar and tangible to him. Warm and loving.
And if anyone were to ask what the story is, Iseul would answer—
Homecoming.
* * *
By the time Iseul has filled several pages of his notebook, Kuro hasn’t joined him for coffee yet. He shakes off the ache in his wrists, then sets his pen aside and closes the book. It’s a good stopping point for now.
Iseul returns inside the inn, making his way down the hallway, when he sees a young man locking the door of a room next to theirs. Aoi mentioned that more guests are expected to arrive as the festival approaches, but their inn should still be quieter than others in the area.
He takes out his room key, about to open the door to their room, when the man turns to him.
“Han Iseul?”
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