Page 115 of Hamartia
“Not as cute as you.”
At this he rolls his eyes and points at the largest parcel before immediately sitting back, folding his arms across his chest. He looks nervous for some reason.
I wait for him to say something, something to explain, pre-emptively, what is in the huge box and why it has him so nervous, but he doesn’t say a word.
It’s immaculately wrapped again, and the box underneath the paper is solid. Heavy too. So I don’t try and lift it up, I just peel the paper back carefully to reveal a polished wooden box, black lacquer with what appears to be Korean lettering across its surface in delicate gold script. I wonder if what’s in it is what’s written here, or if it’s just the maker’s mark. I glance briefly at Jae who’s expression hasn’t changed at all.
Carefully, I pull the paper out and away from the gorgeously crafted box, smoothing my hand over its edges and curves, around to the front where a gold lock and key sit stylishly against the black wood. It sort of reminds me of those boxes that have very expensive bottles of whisky inside, though I’m certain that’s not what this is.
“Should I open it?” I ask and he nods once, offering me the faintest of smiles.
Turning the lock gently, I hear a soft snick, before I push up the lid to get a look at the contents.
Sitting in an intricate woodcut frame, is a guitar. Acoustic, the body carved of the same black lacquer as the box itself. The neck is stained red and the strings and pegs are that same gorgeous burnished gold of the lettering on the box. And in the lower corner of the body is that same Korean script most certainly denoting a maker. I’m clearly a philistine because I don’t know a single Korean guitar manufacturer. But what I do know is it’s the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen.
“It is handmade. One of the producers at the company told me that these are very rare,” Jae explains. “There are only fifty in the world. Because he makes only six per year and has refused to let them be made by machine. I think he is perhaps a little strange.”
He laughs a soft nervous laugh.
I want to tell him I don’t deserve it. That my hands aren’t even close to worthy of playing this, that it’s the most special gift I’ve ever been given by anyone. But I can’t get any words to come out.
“I’m sorry if it is not your style. I know you play electric guitar, but I thought it was very pretty, and I suppose I liked the idea of you playing a Korean guitar. Maybe you would think of me when you played. I believe there is only one other in Northern America, though Beomgyu says it is in a museum…in the place where the country music is made.”
He’s still nervous, scared that I hate it, because he’s talking quickly and breathlessly and before I even realize what’s happening I’m fucking crying. I turn to look at him and his words peter out. His expression transforms to shock.
“Jaehyun, this is fucking incredible. It’s the most beautiful gift anyone’s ever given me,” I look back at the guitar with awe. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t even want to touch it…it’s…seriously beautiful.”
I shake my head as I reach out and draw my fingers over the gold strings. It reminds me of him. Sleek, immaculately crafted, and jaw-droppingly beautiful.
“I do not know much about instruments but I am certain they only work when you touch them.”
I laugh, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand. When I look at him again, he’s watching me closely. When he reaches across to take my hand, kissing the fingers softly, he doesn’t look nervous anymore.
“Will you play something for me on it?”
I take a deep steadying breath and nod. The guitar glides out of its box, far lighter than I was expecting. I stand, taking a seat on the footstool instead as I rest it on my thigh—it fits against me perfectly, just like he does—and start to tune it. Though I barely have to. It sings clean and sharp on each chord, the strings humming warmly beneath my fingers.
“I was gonna play this for you from my phone,” I tell him.
“Play what?”
“Your second gift.” I give him an embarrassed smile as I lean over to take a deep gulp of my wine. “I might have sort of wrote you a song.”
His eyes light up brighter than the Christmas tree as he settles himself back on the sofa and sips his own wine. “Oh, this will be very good. Please tell me you will sing about my asshole.”
I splutter out a laugh as I sit my glass back down. “That’s actually the title.”
“Of course.” He nods, proudly. Then his face melts into this gorgeous smile and my heart trips over itself. I love him. I seriously fucking love this guy. Person. Human.
“You should know I’m really embarrassed about this,” I say, as I play through the first few notes of the first song I ever learnt. It’s one of Finn’s. A B-side from his first EP.
“I am certain it’s not that bad.” Jae smiles, stretching out on his side with his knee bent up, head resting on his upturned hand. His t-shirt rises up over the flat warm skin of his abdomen making my mouth water.
“Writing a love song and playing it to the person you wrote it about is the most embarrassing thing a musician can do.”
“Is that so?” He reaches his foot out to toe me into action. “Then I think I like you embarrassed. You look very pretty when your cheeks are pink.”
“I don’t think you’ll find it so pretty when I shit myself.”
