For once my update was slower, not because I was being slow, but because the chapter is long and detailed and I had to stop every five seconds to google something. Plus LeoJi makes my chest contract so tightly because. Damn. That ship. I love them so much they're so beautiful, but it's hard to write when I have to stop and clutch my heart all the time. They're probably the couple I feel most guilty about, in regards to this fic. How could I do this to such pure babies?
...
Ever done something so stupidly, laughably, preposterously reckless in the name of love? Something that could get you both in more trouble than would appear worth it? Something that could either ruin both your lives or be the best thing you have ever done? I have, and it appears to be working. We have gotten away with it for now, and though I would love to say this is the end of our troubles, I will not be happy until the two of us are safe where no one can hurt us.
This is a story I will need to start from the beginning, is it not? I do not know why I am even telling it, leaving hard evidence to the multiple crimes I have committed in the name of this manic, reckless love, but I suppose it will be nice to be able to reflect on this when I am old and grey and forgetting things. When we are old, that is. Maybe one day, in the far future, someone will find this diary and see our love was not wrong, that the rest of humanity is wrong instead. I do not know what the world will be like in a hundred years when I am dead and gone; maybe it is utopia. I can dream, can I not?
My name is Leopoldo de la Iglesia. I am nineteen years old and for the past five years I have travelled Europe and Asia as a wandering musician. My family owns a farm along the west coast of the United States, and as a young man I decided to travel the world before settling down as a labourer. I had it all planned out, and would not be taking my parents' money but work when I needed money or food, and play the rest of the time. They did not seem to believe me when I said I could do it, but I left anyway. I hope they have had enough time to let all their anger out and forgive me for leaving with only a note as an explanation. They would have tried stopping me. And it was a very sweet note. I told them I loved them and would soon be back.
And I was right. Everything has gone smoothly- save for a few near-death experiences- and I met so many wonderful people, not least Guang Hong Ji. As I write this, he sleeps in the bunker next to me, so beautiful, so peaceful. I cannot let him be unhappy ever again. If whoever reads this could only see what I see, the serene breathing and those rosy cheeks. His smile as his worries melt away in his dreams. The freckles and fluffy hair, that face no longer innocent but oh so kind and captivating. The feelings resting in my heart are too much at times, and if a wrote a thousand words I could only capture a fraction of them. We are a mere metre apart, and I long to simply reach my hand over and caress his face, though I must resist.
Besides, I have a story to tell.
After I ran away from home, I spent a year or so working in the boiler room of various cruise liners like this one, and merchants vessels, before finally ending up in Hong Kong, between jobs with nothing but the clothes on my back, my last paycheck and my guitar. It was a busy place, filled with merchants from all over the world, and I had never seen so many people in one place, but I had had enough of the sea and so instead of looking for work on another boat, I set out north. I did not care what I saw, as long as it was not coal or fire. Spending my life in the hull of a ship was not what I had set out for.
The plan was to travel through China, then enter Europe through Russia or the Ottoman empire. That was what I decided from looking at a map, but I had little knowledge of the countries and decided to ask which was safer to travel through at a later date.
I did not know much about China either, it seemed. The country seemed dripping in civil unrest, but I found sanctuary in a little farm northeast, somewhere in the centre of the country, after half a year or so travelling, working, and trying my best not to get killed. And along the way I played, to anyone who would listen and those who wouldn't. Music is a gift to be given freely, but coins and food tossed my way were much appreciated.
I might have been a little lost, come to think of it.
But Mr Ji took me in, a foreign stranger, and gave me food and shelter in exchange for work on his farm. Seemed like a good deal. He explained his eldest son was something of a… gentle soul. Dreamer, even. Well, his words were disappointment, or useless- he spoke an odd dialect of a language I barely understand, forgive me- and I came into his house fully expecting to find myself sharing a roof with a slovenly, imprudent child. What I found was a very sweet- if effeminate- boy smiling over a bowl of rice. He was the oldest of his siblings by far, the rest crowded round him, an ever-moving mess of clothes and hair.
When I first met Guang Hong, and talked to him over that first meal, I had hoped to become something of a brother figure to him, if I was to stay very long. It was strange, but he evoked this protective urge in me I had never felt before. And over the next few weeks I grew more and more upset over Mr Ji's words.
Guang Hong was not a strong boy. Well, in terms of physical strength. Out in the fields, I would stay close to him, do as much of his work as I could get away with whenever his father was looking elsewhere. The boy was passionate and driven, but not about farming, much like myself at his age. I eventually found out he wanted to go to America, become a film actor and be famous. That was why I fascinated him, I suppose, and in turn, he fascinated me. Guang Hong has the most beautiful of voices, and would make up lyrics to accompany my humming and guitar playing. He also wanted to know all about America, my life there, and demanded I take him with me when it was time for me to go. I saw no problem with that.
What amused me was how keen I had been to leave America for China. I tried to explain to him that when it was time to go back, it would unfortunately be to settle down as a farmer, but for some reason that didn't deter him. He said farming was not so bad with me around. And it was still closer to the film studios he longed to work at.
He was my new best friend, and I wanted to help make his dream come true. I would get Guang Hong to New York no matter the cost and he would become an actor. Or a producer or director. He said he did not mind which.
But for now, I was happy on the farm. I mean, I could sing as I worked, learn about a new country, and spend all day with Guang Hong. We even shared a room. You know, like supposed brothers. I was not going anywhere, but he said he was happy waiting. He did not seem all that pleased though, come to think of it.
Mr Ji let me stay in return for food and shelter. After a year or so, I began to steal from him. Nothing he would miss, of course, just his eldest son's heart and a few kisses, lying on our stomachs in a rice field, completely hidden from sight.
It was the most exhilarating of times, and the most terrifying. How could it not be? Not only was there the constant threat of discovery, but I have more or less guaranteed myself a place in hell, after trying so hard to be a good, devout Catholic. But no, I am wrong and sick and Guang Hong is worth it, I am certain.
He did not understand fully where I was coming from in my worries, only that he was worried about breaking the law. I did not know what the punishment for sodomy was- even though we were only after kisses, I feared that was what we would be accused of- and I did not want to find out, but Guang Hong maked me want to take the risk. He made clear that we were to leave before he would be expected to marry and continue his family name.
Not that I actually had the courage to say a word to him at first. I kept my feelings a deep, twisted secret to torture myself with at night, and I suspect he did the same. I think at one point I attempted to drown myself in the fields, but that was more of a humiliating failure than I had planned. If there's one thing worse than hating yourself for who you are, it is doing so cold and covered in mud, struggling for breath before just giving up in the whole affair. At the time I had to wonder if this would be my life now, or if I would have to run away, knowing whatever I did, Guang Hong would hate me for it.
Alcohol is an incredible thing. When I left Hong Kong, I took a small pot of baijiu with me that I had bought for an extra special occasion. A year on the farm seemed like something to celebrate. Guang Hong was the only person who seemed keen on celebrating with me, so we slipped out during dinner to take a walk, making some excuse I cannot remember before making our way through the ricefields. There was a pond hidden amongst towering reeds that Guang Hong loved to swim in, and I was the only person he ever brought there, the only one to know this secret. It was some walk and I was glad to cool off in the water and have a drink. Guang Hong was happy to join me in both.
The alcohol hit the pair of us like an automobile. At one point I forgot how to swim and just sank to the bottom of the pond. Guang Hong is certain that was just a trick to get him to pull me onto the riverbank and fuss over me. Jiji, please, I could not remember my own name that night.
But it was there, under the reeds, that he kissed me, shamelessly. Well, we had half the bottle each, and it may have been a mutual, reckless decision. Oh why could I not remember the details?
The important fact was that he felt for me as I did him. For a few months we continued on as the most secret of lovers, stealing kisses when there was no one else about, trying to spend all the time in each other's company that we could without arousing suspicion. It was not that hard; as long as we were not stupidly affectionate we could get away with spending time in each other's company, after all, everyone in Guang Hong's village knew we were inseparable, like brothers.
But it was not to last.
It happened one night, by Guang Hong's pond. We were alone. Everything was perfect. There was no baijiu this time, and I can remember his lips clearly, and how he told me he loved me. He said we would need to leave soon, to my hypothetical empty farm where no one could hurt us. I said that I, too, was keen to move on to another land. After all, I would not be going home without seeing some of the world and China, as nice as it is, was simply not enough. He was happy to go along with that, see a few sights, wander as a pair of free spirits, as long as we were together.
That night would have been perfect, had we not been followed. One of Guang Hong's sisters had crept out behind us, unknown and silent. She was not at all silent when she saw us kissing, oh no, there was a clear plan she had that was being lain out before us, that even my limited understanding of Mandarin could see. She was going to tell their parents. And Guang Hong would be in so much trouble and I would be sent away.
She was gone before either of us could stop or bribe her.
Well there was no time to lose. In the frantic scramble to clothe ourselves, I asked Guang Hong one thing: would he escape with me to whatever unknown awaited us, or do we stay to face the consequences here?
It was a stupid question, come to think of it.
There were certain items we could not leave without. The money I had saved, my guitar, important documents and Guang Hong's few prized possessions. Somehow, I needed to sneak back inside the house and collect them without being found. The Ji family would be out looking for us anyway.
Sick with worry, I had insisted Guang Hong remain hidden outside, but he was having none of it. It would be quicker with us both, and two pairs of ears and eyes would make things safer, so we snuck in the window of our room to pack.
It turned out the rest of the family had not gone to look for us yet.
Our guilty expressions and the fact that we were running away seemed to confirm everything Guang Hong's sister had said, at least in the eyes of Mr Ji. He was going to kill us. His wife tried to make him see reason, hear our side of the story, but he ignored her. He was going to kill us before anyone outside the family found out about us.
He told me, quite simply and plainly so I would understand, that he was going to take the knife in his hand and bury it in my heart. Or neck. I cannot quite remember, given how distracted I was by my seemingly inevitable death. I was a traitor and we had both committed a crime. He would sooner kill us than have his oldest son go to jail.
All I could think to do was shield Guang Hong and try to reason with his father, and try to remain calm. I was not sure what to say, but begged him to spare his son. It was my fault. I manipulated Guang Hong and lied and tricked and seduced. I deserved to die here and Guang Hong was completely innocent.
It might have worked, had Guang Hong not moved me out of the path of the blade, had it not drawn blood by the time Mr Ji realised what had happened and tried to stop himself. Guang Hong simply dropped, bleeding horribly. I thought he was dying, but he still had the energy to scream, demand his father not touch me. Guang Hong was having none of my heroics, and made sure his entire family knew his feelings.
Any regrets Mr Ji seemed to have were gone then, and he raised his knife again to finish the boy off.
I do not consider myself to be a man with any real rage inside of me, but at that moment I wanted to hurt Mr Ji like nothing I had experienced before. It was a white hot rage, like someone had struck me with a poker right in my back and pushed me forward to attack. Guang Hong had been ready to die for me, and I would do the same for him. He could be dying, and it was all that bastard's fault.
Please never ask me exactly what happened at that moment, because for the life of me I cannot recall. All I knew was that one second I was tackling him to the ground, and the next there was blood and the knife was in my hand. I might have screamed. I later found out at least some of the blood was from a wound in my own hand, but what I never found out was if I became a murderer that night. I was not stupid enough to stay and find out.
When I came to my senses, the only thing that mattered was Guang Hong. There he was on the floor, red and white and sobbing. I had to get him out of there. Even if he hated me now and never wanted to see me again, I had to find a doctor to treat that wound.
I didn't dare look at it as we made our retreat, and at that point Guang Hong was either too in shock or too weak from blood loss to speak. I more or less dragged him to the nearest doctor, all the way in the next town, throwing all the money I had and begging him to save Jiji, who by now was almost dead, I had feared. We had walked through the night, hunted and alone, Guang Hong heavy against my shoulder, his father's knife in my trembling, bloody hand. I did not know how many others I would need to defend myself against before we were safe, or even if we were being followed in the first place.
But he pulled through. In my panic, I had believed the wound to be deeper than it truly was. And boy did I panic.
But my beloved Jiji pulled through. I remember that drained face, still smiling and clutching my hand in the early hours of the morning, that horrid wound across his chest held together with stitches. He thanked me for being brave, and I chided him for being reckless. Then thanked him too. After all, I would likely be dead without him.
I gave him as much time to recover as I could allow before we were on the road again. I did not know if Guang Hong's family would pursue us, but I wanted out, of the country, if possible. It was time to move on to new and better things, and Guang Hong was anxious about life on the road.
It was rough, and we were both injured, but somehow we made it into Russia after a few weeks of travelling, Turkestan in the south. The route we now had to plan with somewhat tricky, since we needed to avoid the Himalayas to the south and colder weather to the north, not to mention wherever we went there seemed to be more mountains. Samarkand was beautiful though, when we stopped there.
Things were tense amongst the Russians and native population though, so we quickly moved on. There was no work and no reason to stay.
It is late now, and I feel as though our adventures in the desert should wait for another day [plenty of privacy, but lacked water, unsurprisingly], maybe for when I sit outside my farmhouse watching the sunset. What is needed to be said now is that we ended up travelling south in the end, into the Ottoman empire with a plan to travel north through the Balkans into Europe. We were strongly advised against this. There was low-level fighting in parts of Macedonia that we could get caught up in, and the countries that had gained independence recently wanted more land. I am not a politician, so all this was hard to follow. We considered entering Europe by sea, but the Ottoman empire was fighting Italy over places like Tripoli so that would have been dangerous too.
Eventually, we decided to skip most of the Balkans and sail straight to Romania. And from there things seemed a little more simple. Through Austria-Hungary into Italy then France. And at long last: we could make plans to leave for America.
We both got factory jobs to save up for tickets, and picked up some French despite how- after English, Spanish and Mandarin- I was not prepared to learn a fourth language. It was lucky we did though, because without it I would not have known something that would most certainly affect our plans: Chinese were not allowed in the US. Well no one told me, and just how long had I been away exactly?
An unskilled farmer like Guang Hong would have no chance of being allowed an entry visa or any papers that would let him in the country. I did not quite know the meaning behind this law, but needed to think of something and fast.
It would mean more money that would have to be saved up, but so be it. 1911 rolled into 1912, and bit by bit I collected everything we would need: forged passport and visa, a birth certificate stating that not only was Guang Hong born in California, but was in fact my younger brother: Miguel de la Iglesia. We also needed to save up for a change of clothes, as his current ones would give away his nationality in a second. He also cut his hair for the first time, his braid stored in his luggage with that knife. It was scary, the months leading up to now as he planned and plotted and combed through each detail of our little scheme to make sure it was watertight. He was to smile and say nothing, and if need be speak in Spanish or English, but only if absolutely necessary. And we would have would have to put his looks down to Amerindian heritage, a grandmother of ours, maybe. After everything that had happened, I was not opposed to adding lying [and fraud] to my long list of crimes and sins but Jiji… he was a little apprehensive. Even during our rehearsals, he tended to forget he needed to breathe.
Well, there was nothing really to do after that but buy our tickets and hope for the best. And it worked. I wrapped him up warm and once we said we were American citizens, not much scrutiny was thrown our way. Here we are, a week away from being back in the good old land of liberty [unless one happened to be from China, it seemed] and that bit closer to seeing my family again. I hope they are not still angry. I did write. They know I will be back painfully soon, and of my adventures which I will write about eventually. They never wrote back, but I suppose my lack of permanent address was a problem in that regards.
It would have been nice to have a cabin to ourselves, alone in a luxurious little sanctuary for the duration of voyage, but to the rest of the world we are two single men, and as such will be berthed with other single men.
Yuuri and Phichit seem pleasant enough though, friendly with what appear to be good hearts. We get along well, and once again I am glad we gave in and learnt some French, so we can actually communicate with each other. Guang Hong and I decided it was probably best to introduce him by his true name and nationality in this situation, as a brief inspection was one thing, but sharing a cabin whilst in disguise would be a bit trickier. We would slip up inevitably. Plus, we tend to get caught at the worst of times, and the only way that hypothetical situation could be made worse was if people thought we were brothers too. But Phichit and Yuuri will keep Guang Hong's secret.
I have written a total of seventeen love songs inspired by Guang Hong, one for every year he has made the world a better, brighter place. What does this say about me? About us?
I am ready to drop now, so I must draw this account to a close. I hope for the best in our future, and that we can both achieve our dreams this coming year. After everything we have been through, I can almost taste that peaceful life awaiting us.
...
Yes, I went with Leopoldo for Leo's full name rather than the obvious Leonardo because I'll be damned if I let any references to /that/ film slip in here [or any film about the Titanic come to mention it, so no rapping Makkachin either]. So yeah I'd appreciate no comments that reference any Titanic films [particularly the James Cameron one], though if you want to know about what a rapping dog would be doing in a Titanic film, I am more than happy to make sure you suffer though that monstrosity too. Do it. You'll lose all faith in humanity.
Ahem, anyway, Happy New Year and I hope you liked this chapter. I'll try to be more regular with my updates from now on. And no, Guang Hong hasn't told Leo he keeps using a term meaning 'penis' as a pet name. He probably thinks it's the funniest shit.