The orchard gave them two months. 60 mornings to wake to
the same light, 60 nights to lie close.
But even the longest harvest has it sent, and now only five days
remain. 5 days to finish their list, 5 days to hold on to what
they built. Five days before goodbye becomes
real. The orchard has watched them,
from the first awkward touches to the first kiss, to every
moment that became more than they expected.
This is where it all gathers. The last fruit, the last kiss
beneath the trees, the last night before parting.
This is beneath the tangerine trees.
Chapter 7 It was more than a kiss.
The morning had barely begun. The lights were still faint, too
weak to climb the hills, the room holding onto the night's
chill. Eugene was asleep, deeper than
he had been in days, one hand curled loose against the pillow,
his lips parted slightly, a slow, steady breath slipping out
with each rise of his chest. The blanket had pulled half
down, unmoved, carefully around the room, every action measured
against the stillness. He bent to pick up his shirt
from the chair, lifting it without a scrape.
The floor groaned once beneath him and he froze, eyes flicking
back to Eugene. Nothing.
The boy didn't stir. Hun slipped out into the
washroom, water splashing sharp against his skin, cold enough to
steal his breath. Most mornings he would have
laced his shoes after jump. The orchard rose until the sun
rose, until his legs ached and the day felt lighter.
But not this morning. Today, the run could wait.
When Han stepped back inside, the room hadn't changed.
Eugene hadn't changed. Blanket high, lashes start
against his skin. Han sat at the edge of the
floor, bed, towel tossed aside. He leaned back on his palms and
let his gaze linger piece by piece.
The faint hollow in his cheek pressed him by sleep, the way
his fingers twitched once, then stilled.
The steady curve of his breath, unbothered, unaware, and tried
to memorize it, as if staring long enough might carpet into
memory. He thought of all the things he
would miss. Not the sharp teasing, not even
the kisses, but this, the quiet, the ordinary, the proof that
someone could rest this close to him and trust the morning to
come. He thought back to the first
night on the floor, bed, Eugene stiff beside him, the space
between them wide as a wall. Now there was no space at all,
only this steady breathing. Eugene stirred, lashes
fluttering, his eyes finally opening, heavy with sleep.
They found Han watching him. His voice was low, rough at the
edges, but touched was quite amusement as he asked.
You watching me sleep? Hun?
Smirked, sharp and quick, but the weed in his chest stayed.
No. He said lightly, tone cutting
like a knife. Just making sure you're still
breathing. Eugene gave a small laugh,
muffled as he turned on to his side and let the smirk fade.
But his eyes didn't move away. For a moment, they only looked
at each other, no words, no sound but the orchard outside.
As if even the leaves were waiting.
The orchard carried its rhythm, as it always had.
Branches swayed, insects hummed in their hidden places, the
scent of peal and earth hung warm in the air.
But their movements slowed. Not lazy, not distracted, just
slower, as if neither of them wanted to work to end.
A crate sat open at Hunt's feet, half filled.
He leaned against it, rolling a tendrin in his hand, thumb
pressing against the skin until the oils clung to him.
When he grew restless, he tossed it into the air, caught it with
a slap of palm. Up again, down again, the rhythm
steady, almost careless. Across from him, Eugene stacked
fruit into neat rows. He worked slowly with scare,
wiping dirt from each one, pausing longer than necessary,
as if the ACT itself might buy them more time.
When he straightened, his eyes shifted toward the counter at
the edge of the house. The list was there, Folded,
creased edges soften from weeks of being opened and closed.
The ink had blurred where their fingers had smudged it, words
written in uneven lines, some bold, some faint.
They had made it in laughter, scribbling down moments they
thought might never happen, daring themselves to fill it.
Now. Most of it was marked through
eating fruit straight from the branch, baking until the kitchen
filled with sugar and peel, staying up until dawn,
whispering words they couldn't remember in the morning, and the
word kiss written more than once, each marked bolder than
the last, as though repetition could pin it to memory.
Hung caught the fruit again and tossed it higher this time,
grinning at his own carelessness.
Looks like we're nearly perfect students.
He said, his tone sharp, a grin flickering across his mouth.
Almost a whole list done. Eugene brushed his palm against
his pants, then reach for the paper.
He smoothed it open, eyes tracing down each cross outline
until they stop at the bottom. Lonely rock, the words that
bare, untouched, no mark through them, no memory attached.
He stared at it too long, the silence gathering around him.
Then he folded the paper slowly, carefully, as though gentleness
might soften what it meant. Let's leave this one out, he
said finally, voice steady. I'm not lonely.
Hung caught the tender in mid air and didn't throw it again.
His lip twitched, the way they always did when he wanted to cut
through heaviness with a joke, but nothing came.
The orchard seemed to notice. A branch shifted through the air
was still. Even the crates felt too loud
when the wood cracked under Eugene's touch.
Eugene set to fold the page back on the crate, leaving his hand
there a moment longer than needed.
His fingers pressed flat, as if holding the words in place might
change them. When he pulled away, the silence
remained. Han leaned back against the
crate, fruit still resting in his palm.
He watched Eugene from the corner of his eye, but said
nothing. And Eugene was the page still
warm in his hand, didn't speak either.
It wasn't an empty silence. It wasn't heavy.
It was full of what they had said already, and of everything
they never would. The orchard had thinned, rose
once, bowed with bright fruit, now stood lighter branches half
bare. What clung to them were the
strays. Sweet but not for market.
Good for juice, for jam. Desserts, maybe, but desserts
needed someone to eat then, and soon.
No one would be here for that. Hun sat down, 1/2 filled crate
and rubbed the back of his neck, the work abandoned before it was
finished. He glanced once at the Rose,
then at Eugene, and let a crooked smile curve across his
mouth. Don't worry.
Hun said, voice easy, almost careless.
I can't manage the rest. Eugene's lips parted as if to
argue, but the words caught. The silence between them already
carried too much. They left the tools where they
stood, crates half packed, fruits still clinging, the
orchard unfinished. Their steps fell into rhythm as
they drifted down the path. The grass whispered on their
foot, the breeze talked at their sleeves.
The scent of citrus hung heavy, sharp and sweet.
Neither spoke, neither needed to.
Both knew where the past LED. It brought them to the same
place. Here, beneath the tangerine
trees, fruit had scattered into the dirt like marbles.
Laughter had broken into surprise.
A first kiss had come. Now there was no surprise.
Hun stepped closer, slow, certain.
No joke in his eyes. The space between them dissolved
when his lips met Eugene's. The kiss was unhurried, but not
soft. It carried weight, the warmth of
mouses pressing closer. Breath caught between them, the
ache of something ending even as it deepened.
Eugene's hand rose to Han's shoulder, then slid up to the
back of his neck, holding him there, not pulling harder, not
letting go. Their breath is tangled, the
orchard pressing close around them.
The air itself seemed to still. When they parted, their
foreheads stayed close. Eugene's eyes opened slowly, his
voice low, almost pleading. Once more, Hans's breast caught.
A faint laugh escaped him, not sharp, not mocking, but warm and
unsteady. And then he kissed him again,
this time longer, deeper. The orchard stood around them,
still as memory already foaming. Branches weighed once, but no
fruits fell. The silence wrapped tight,
carrying everything they couldn't say.
The orchard slipped behind them, branches bowed, and rows of
green gave way to the open Rd. Hun drove, both hands steady on
the wheel, though his chest was not.
Beside him, Eugene's father sat silent, eyes fixed on the
stretcher head, his breast deep but uneven in the back.
Eugene leaned into the window, his mother beside him,
whispering small reminders about the bags, about timing.
Her voice was gentle, but the words passed like air.
The road wound them out of the fields.
Greenhill softened into farmland, then into concrete.
The air lost its sweetness, replaced was heat rising from
the road. Eugene shifted once, shoulders
brushing the glass. His reflection blinked back at
him from the window. He glanced forward at Han's
profile, then dropped his gaze again.
Hunt didn't look back, but his grip on the wheel tightened from
the passenger seat. His father cleared his throat, a
sound meant to steady the silence, but it faded as quickly
as it came. The city gathered around them,
building stacked higher. Signs pointed forward,
departures, arrivals. Hun excelled.
Once, long and low, as if trying not to let it sound, they
parked. The car fell quiet, engine
ticking as it could. Then doors opened.
The noise of the airports built in, wheels clattering, voice
echoing, announcements calling out.
They crossed the concrete, through the sliding glass doors
into the white mouse of the terminal.
The air smelled of coffee, steel and fuel.
Every sound echo too big, too sharp, swallowing anything
small. Han walked at Eugene's side.
The checkpoint rolls ahead, belts and trays, lines of
people, officers waving them through.
Here, only three could go forward.
Han stopped. His hand tightened on the strap
of the back, then fell away. Eugene's father moved first into
the line. His mother touched Eugene's arm,
murmured something only for him. Eugene turned back.
Then he stepped forward and closed the distance.
Han opened his arm without a word.
Eugene pressed into him, the hug rougher, longer than either had
meant it to be. Han's chin touched his hair.
Eugene's hand fisted in his shirt.
Neither moved, neither let go. Finally, Eugene drew back.
A half smile flickered at his lips, heavy but sure.
Then almost shy. He lifted a hand in a salute.
Crooked, awkward, not quite proper, but it carried weight
all the same. I'll return as a man, he said.
His voice wavered, but the words held.
Hunt's chest tightened, the faintest smirk tugging at the
corner of his mouse. Eugene lowered his hand, turned,
and followed his parents toward the line.
He didn't say goodbye, he didn't need to.
He turned. Hunt stood rooted, watching
every step. At the screen door, Eugene
looked back once. Hunt lifted a hand.
Not a wave, just a steady hold in the air.
Eugene answered was the same brief, certain, and then the
door slit shut between them. Hun drove back alone.
The passenger seat was empty now.
The road out to the airport curved past Glaston Steel, past
signs pointing to gates. Traffic closed in.
Horns sharpened the air. Block by block, the city
loosened. Buildings sent into houses,
houses sent into fields, fields been into hills.
Green returned, the land rolling wider, the orchard waiting
beyond it. But the drive felt longer this
time. Every mile dragged, every turn
pressed lower, as if the road itself didn't want to end.
Han's hand stayed tight on the wheel.
He kept his eyes forward, never to the side.
And he thought, in 10 more days he will be on this road again,
not returning to the orchard, not to Eugene, but leaving Jeju
behind, back to Seoul. The thought pressed in, heavier
than the silence. The orchard would not wait for
either of them. Months is later, Han was back in
Seoul, the city pressed around him, glassed and steel stacked
High Street, restless wires cutting the sky into lines.
It was nothing like Jeju, nothing like the orchard.
He stood at the counter of a narrow post office, the smell of
ink and dust around him. The envelope was already sealed,
the address written clear. His handwriting looked sharper
here, almost too neat. He dropped the letter into the
slot, a soft scrape of paper against metal.
Outside, the air was thick with rain.
On concrete. Hung carried a folder under his
arm. Rent papers, cost sheets, list
with numbers and names. He walked quickly, ice forward
until he reached the narrow door he had claimed.
The shop wasn't much, yet at the centre lay one page.
Edges curl from being touched too often, a hand drawn sign
with forewords beneath the tendering trees.
Huntraced the letter with his thumb, not to smudge them, but
to ground them, to make the idea feel real beneath his skin.
He sat down, the city noise muffled into a low hum outside
the glass. Opening a notebook, he flipped
through pages filled with receipts, supplier contacts,
rent calculations. But at the top of the current
page, written darker than anything else, one line anchored
everything. Fruit from Eugene's orchard.
He closed the notebook, set the pen aside, and leaned back in
the chair. The shop was still empty, but it
was enough to keep moving forward.
Enough to wait. Three months had passed.
Training camp was behind Eugene now.
He was posted a rhythm of Army life, press into every hour,
drills, orders, shouts cutting through the air.
He was still getting used to it, the weight of the uniform, the
way the day stacked without pause.
But when they ran, he was less breathless than the others.
The Orchard Rose had trained him.
The jog was hung, carving strengths into his legs, air
into his chest. He had hated them once.
Now he carried them like a secret advantage.
On his bunk, Eugene unfolded our letter.
The handwriting was sharp, familiar.
Han's voice seemed to rise from the page as he read, and for a
moment the barracks wall fell farther away.
A small smile tugged at him. He folded the letter closed.
Then Eugene set the letter aside, leaned back, and closed
his eyes. He thought to himself.
So did I get to kiss him? The words caught in his chest.
Well, it was more than a kiss, it was a promise.
Just 15 more months and we'll start again together.
This was Beneath the Tangerine Trees, a story of orchard
mornings, of lists written in laughter, of kisses that became
promises, and of goodbyes that were never really the end.
Han found his way back to Seoul, carrying the orchard into his
hands, turning memory into something new.
Eugene carried the orchard in his breath. 15 months is marked
not by loneliness, but by the hope of what waited after.
And though the orchard grew quiet, their story does not.
It lingers in every letter, in every fruit that ripens, in
every promise not yet broken. Thank you for listening to this
journey. The full compilation of Beneath
the Tendrin Trees will be coming soon and after this.
New stories, new faces, new places to fall into.
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