Work Text:
youth (n.) the time between childhood and maturity
☼ ☼ ☼
10 2018
It’s odd, youth, for you never think about it until it’s tumbled from the tips of your fingers; years gone with the wind, a time slip through the ages, a boy becomes a man.
Jihoon thinks it’s amusing.
He fakes a cough in an attempt to hide the wry smile that tugs at his lips when an old woman takes a seat beside him on the bus; he recognizes her as the grandma who lives a few doors down, though kind, the old woman does little more than complain, warning Jihoon to spend his younger years well, for he’ll only be young once.
“Right now, right here, you’re the oldest you’ve ever been, did you know?” the old woman pats his hand, “Time waits for no one.”
Jihoon nods along, polite though annoyed, and he snickers when the kid seated across of them grins and tells his mom he can’t wait to be old like Jihoon, to which the old woman shakes a bony finger at—it’s just odd to Jihoon, almost sad, how no one is ever satisfied with where they are in life.
As for Jihoon, he doesn’t really know how he feels yet, about age and youth and life and all that.
It’s not that Jihoon is old because he’s not, no where near old, considering he’s just started college, but whether Jihoon likes it or not, he’s not very young either, no longer a small boy without a worry in the world besides who he’d play with after school and what flavor of yogurt he’d pick. He’s a bit of a wanderer, Jihoon supposes, sailing up and down the spectrum of it all without an anchor holding him down or a rope binding him to one extreme or the other, and he likes it that way.
He figures it’s for that same love of sweet freedom that brings his quick steps to a halt before the small crowd of students, curious as he asks around.
It’s the ardor that plants itself in the pit of his heart and stretches its roots to his lungs, weaving its strong vines about Jihoon’s ribs, tight and unforgiving, that drives him to jot down Park Jihoon, Year 2 on the interest form pasted to the wall of the university’s cafeteria, paper worn from excited hands, a string of names both familiar and not decorating its lines.
With one last glance over his shoulder at the big bold words printed across the top of the poster, Jihoon laughs to himself as he slips from the crowd, hands nestled deep in the pockets of his jeans.
It appears he’s just found the perfect way to spend whatever is left of his oh so precious youth, for a moment Jihoon wonders if the old woman would be proud of him and he makes a note to tell her the next time he takes the bus.
☼ ☼ ☼
.
01 2019
He never does see the old woman again, and for a moment he wonders if she’s moved onto her next life, but Jihoon’s wrong, if his mother’s horrified gasp and scolding is to tell; he supposes she’s just caught another bus.
JIhoon packs his bags on a cold Sunday morning and he’s headed to the airport the next Friday night, old neck pillow looped around his elbow, passport and documents held tight within his clutch, fingers damp with sweat and shoulders tense. His mother and father send him off with hugs and teary eyes on his mother’s part, and a firm pat on the back and joking salute on his father’s. It’s the first time he’s ever gone abroad without them and for a moment, as his mom presses her face into his shoulder, Jihoon wonders where all the time had gone.
With one last wave and a promise of daily phone calls, Jihoon joins the others.
He’s in a group of around thirty other students, most familiar and he can pick out a few names but there are none that make him want to approach them. It’s not that he’s particularly shy or has trouble making friends on his own, he just enjoys solitude and there’s never been a thing wrong with that. Despite Jihoon’s perhaps innocent demeanor, no one outside of his own friend group really bothers to try to befriend him, and in a way, Jihoon is glad.
Jihoon checks over his own belongings, less to actually make sure he hasn’t misplaced his things and more to give himself something to do.
Their time overseas will be supervised by a kind and assertive woman and with her guidance, they move through security checks with ease and sooner rather than later, Jihoon is next in line to aboard the airplane, passing off his plane ticket and documents to a stern-faced man who glances between Jihoon and his passport photo once before returning the papers with a dry grunt. Jihoon takes that as a go and he says his thanks before moving past and taking a step toward the long corridor-like walkway leading to the aircraft.
Jihoon’s never been fond of the enclosed bridges; it’s not that he’s claustrophobic, but the walls seem a bit closer than they are and Jihoon’s throat tightens for every step he takes further into it. The walk seems to drag on for eons, and it makes Jihoon feel like he’s approaching the gates of Hell, each second pulling him further and further from home.
With a sigh, Jihoon straightens and grips the straps of his backpack a bit tighter.
One foot after the other, away we go.
Jihoon’s gaze lingers, washing over faces, both happy and sad, whistling to himself as he watches other passengers fine their places and stuff their carry-ons into the overhead compartment, movements machine-like, a boy imitates his father, and soon enough Jihoon finds himself imitating the boy as he stands before his own seat.
72B. Not a window seat nor an aisle seat, set between an old woman who vaguely resembles his second great aunt and a young woman, around his age maybe, who sits with her arms crossed, sleeping mask drawn over her eyes.
Jihoon apologizes as he steps over the young woman’s outstretched legs, face heated from embarrassment when she doesn’t make even a noise of acknowledgement, ears ablaze too when the older woman coos at him, calling him adorable and a “lovely young man”, to which Jihoon only flushes more at, much to her delight.
Routine checks go by in a blur, and only upon take off does Jihoon break from his reverie, meaning to glance out the window when he catches the fear settling into the older woman’s kind features, fingers clutching onto the arm rest between them for dear life.
Jihoon keeps his smile light, “Are you scared of flying?”
It takes her a moment to realize Jihoon is speaking to her but when she does, the old woman chuckles, waving her hands around as she talks, “Not scared, sweet pea. I'm just a little anxious, that’s all. Don’t mind an old lady like me.”
Jihoon nods, and he thinks for a second before he extends his elbow, flashing a small smile. “You know, my mom hates airplanes too but she says that having me near makes her feel safe.”
The older woman grins, all grandma-like, face scrunched up and she loops her arm through Jihoon’s angled elbow. “I understand why she says so, thank you, dear.”
“It’s nothing!” Jihoon beams, glad to put the woman at ease. “Though it would be nice to have an extra pack of peanuts.”
He only says it as a joke, for the most part, but Jihoon can’t say no when the older woman presses the packet of snacks into his hands with a stern nod.
(The salted peanuts and the older woman’s colorful storytelling is worth far more than a tired arm.)
Hours pass and the woman runs out of tales to share, and at some point, the older woman nods off, head falling to rest on Jihoon’s shoulder. Jihoon sighs but he doesn’t move to shake her off, own eyes fluttering closed soon after, mind lulling to a quiet hum.
Jihoon’s awoken by the young woman to his left poking light, fleeting butterfly touches along his forearm until he straightens to rub the heavy sleep from his eyes, nodding his thanks. He figures he’s slept through the remainder of the flight, the sign at the end of the aisle signals the approaching landing and the flight attendants move up and down the aisle with quick steps.
Neck sore from the odd position, Jihoon rubs at his nape while he stares out the window, a glance and he’s sold, eyes held captive by the waking city below. It’s almost as if the clouds felt obliged to part just for him, drifting away to reveal the beauty beneath.
Jihoon can’t see much from so far above but the city almost seems to glisten, white and gold and rose tinted from the hints of breaking dawn and he thinks it’s just beautiful.
Excitement burns through Jihoon’s heart in the blur of time between descending from the winds and following the buzzing crowds through the gateway. The airport is rather cold and a gust of freezing air kisses his cheeks as soon as he steps through the wide glass doors.
It’s kind of odd being in the airport so late into the night or he supposes, early in the day, half-awake and in a daze. Jihoon knows it’s just past four in the morning, but he seems to forget the concept of time, at peace just being there, under the soft streams of sunlight filtering through the wide windows above. Jihoon’s not sure how to explain it; almost like he’s soaking it all up while not really being conscious of any of it, in touch with reality while his head is in the clouds.
Jihoon perks up when a voice pierces through all the sound, resonant and clear, one made to draw attention and hold it. Curious, Jihoon’s eyes dart toward where the voice had come from and when they land on a boy no older than Jihoon himself, they don’t, can’t, wander elsewhere.
The boy for one, is gorgeous, skin glowing where the stripes of light hit him just right, all tousled hair and sharp eyes. Two, he wears a hoodie with an emblem that matches the one on Jihoon’s brochure. It takes a second for Jihoon to process the fact, but when he does, something similar to relief washes over him, and he doesn’t know why it does, nor is he sure if he likes the feeling, but Jihoon doesn’t know how to undo whatever has happened.
When Jihoon thinks to listen to, and not just ogle at, the boy, he double takes upon the realization that the boy is speaking Korean. Though a bit awkward, maybe from lack of use, he sounds fluent, hints of the Busan accent seeping in here and there.
The boy introduces himself as Woojin, Park Woojin. He, Woojin, leads them outside where he says the university has provided transportation for them and will be taking them to campus.
The beginning of a new day makes itself known, streaks of pink and orange on the horizon, but Jihoon can’t be bothered to take pictures like he would back in Korea, for Park Woojin has a smile that could rival every sunrise Jihoon’s ever seen.
There’s a certain ambience that falls onto them then, a promise of adventure that twinkles in the vanishing moon and a whisper of assurance held by the wind.
Jihoon smiles to himself, voice a mere soft whisper amongst the loud murmur of voices and laughter, “Hello, Japan.”
☼ ☼ ☼
The rest of the week is a blur to Jihoon, he’s kept busy with arranging his dorm and refreshing his knowledge of the Japanese language, which by the way, is in no way very impressive, and all in all, trying to grow accustomed to the place.
Jihoon doesn’t see the gorgeous boy from the airport again until classes start up, and to Jihoon’s happiness and maybe luck, the boy strides into the grand hall just as the professor enters.
Fate pulls its strings and the stars align as they wish and for once, Jihoon doesn’t receive the short end of the stick, for in some trick of fate, Woojin is assigned to be his guide and partner for the semester.
Jihoon smiles and he extends a hand as Woojin approaches him, “Hello,” he switches to Japanese after a beat of embarrassment. “I’m Park Jihoon. It's nice to meet you.”
The boy smiles back and Jihoon thinks he might just die, death would be simpler, would be better than the way his heart seems to fly to the moon, and Woojin replies in Korean, “Park Woojin. Let’s be good friends.”
Jihoon wonders how a simple hand shake could do such things to his heart.
“I’d like that, yeah.”
☼ ☼ ☼
03 2019
Jihoon doesn’t know how or when it had happened, when the attraction he felt toward Woojin progressed into whatever it is he feels now, but it had. Through trips to the forests and the cities and the museums and the parks and the mountains, ties were made and hearts raced as one. Change hadn't come all at once, but one bead at a time; Woojin would hold Jihoon's hand instead of his wrist and Jihoon's camera would wander from the architecture and scenery to focus on the boy meters away.
Some where along the way, he and Woojin moved beyond the stretches of friendship and into the depths of an ocean of opportunity, or something more. It was a slow progression, really, getting close to Woojin, with all his nooks and crannies, but Jihoon thinks that falling for him is the opposite.
It’s smooth and sudden, like a rollercoaster approaching the big drop; each and every moment had had a part in drawing Jihoon higher and higher, until he sat nice and pretty at the top of the world, heaving in a single breath of air and then he was falling. Once he had fallen, there was no way back.
It’s scary and exhilarating all at once, and Jihoon isn’t quite sure if he’s ready to give his heart to someone he’s only known for two months but perhaps Jihoon had fallen for Woojin the moment he had laid eyes on him.
Jihoon thinks though, being with Woojin is as easy as it'll ever get.
(“Woojin.” Jihoon mumbles one evening, when they’re out at Woojin’s favorite hiding place. They lay side by side on a blanket Jihoon brought along, at the top of the hill just outside the city, where the bright lights don’t reach and the stars can shine.
“I’m listening.” and he is, Jihoon knows.
“What am I to you?”
Woojin laughs and the melodic sound engraves itself into the side of Jihoon’s heart, meant to be remembered.
“Rather straightforward now, are we?”
“Answer the question.” Jihoon huffs, softer then as he tacks on. “We don’t have time to run around each other in circles.”
Woojin frowns at his words but he caves, eyes growing serious and his grip on Jihoon’s waist tightens, “What are you to me… well, you are first and foremost my responsibility. I was assigned to help you find your way around, and at first that’s all I wanted, intended to do. Then you became a friend, someone who made me laugh and who I was comfortable with. Sometimes I would wonder how it’d be if I had met you sooner rather than later, and then somehow, somewhere down the road, you became a bit more than what you were before.”
With a small smile, Woojin holds Jihoon’s hand in his own. “I’d take you to places I had only ever kept to myself, like here, and your eyes would look a bit brighter and your smile looked a little prettier and when I took pictures of you, I’d get this feeling, this something. It’d grow and grow when you’d come around and ask me what I was doing. I’d get nervous because even I didn’t know what I was doing. I just did it. I would hold your hand and pull you closer because my heart told me to.”
Jihoon fake gags and Woojin laughs.
Woojin goes on, “That day, when you fell asleep in the meadow. God, you were so fucking beautiful and I couldn’t stop staring. It was such a cliche, but right then and there, I knew I was too far gone.”
The younger ends it with a shy laugh and Jihoon wonders where he had found such a boy.
“I didn’t ask you to wax poetics for me but okay.” Jihoon teases but his own flushed cheeks give him away.
“I don’t know how else to explain it.” Woojin shrugs, eyes set on the night sky. “There’s no word to describe what you are to me.”
“Okay, Romeo, I get it.”
“Oh shut up, you loved it.” Woojin laughs, punching Jihoon lightly on the chest.
Jihoon’s smile comes without him knowing, lazy but fond, “Now that, I did.”
Woojin props himself up on an elbow, eyes curious as he gets up in Jihoon’s space, “What about you? What am I to you?”
There are a million things Jihoon could say, more that he wants to say, but he locks them away.
“You?” Jihoon whistles as he eyes the younger, taking in the sharp lines of Woojin’s face,
“To me, you’re Japan.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
Jihoon snickers at the sulk weighing down on Woojin’s lips, “It’s a secret.”
“Fuck you.”
“Easy now, horndog, we’re in public.”)
Their story is a beautiful one, born from two boys who find home in each other despite their differences, they match and contradict one another, like complementary angles, but to every peak, there is a valley.
(Jihoon’s valley comes in the shape and form of doubt, anxiety and uncertainty that he only dares speak of to Kim Donghan, his roommate for the semester and new friend.
“Donghan, I have no idea what I’m doing.” Jihoon whispers. Jihoon doesn’t know why he keeps his voice low, maybe in fear of speaking his doubts into existence, but he does, careful not to be too loud. “I like him so much and I know I shouldn’t. In months there’s going to be a literal ocean between us.”
Donghan grunts, annoyed after hearing the same thing a hundred times over, and Jihoon can almost feel the eye roll coming from the older, “It’s okay to not know what you’re doing, Jihoon. That’s pretty much what college is for. You do things you probably shouldn’t. You fuck up. You try again.”
“That’s some shit advice.”
“Take what you can get, you punk.” Donghan snorts. “What I’m trying to say is, it’s okay to be scared of what you feel, of whatever it is between you and Yoojin—”
“Woojin.” Jihoon corrects, mouth twisting into an annoyed frown.
“Woojin, whatever.” Donghan hisses, shooting a glare at Jihoon from where he sits perched on their dresser. “It’s normal to be afraid, Jihoon, but you should listen to your heart for once. I know you got a lot of thoughts inside that pretty little head but you have time to fuck up once in awhile. Let your head do the work when you’re old and wrinkly.”
“How dare you disrespect old people like that.”
Donghan snickers, but he doesn’t say more and Jihoon lays there staring at the ceiling, tossing over a piece of candy toward Donghan’s direction in thanks.
“Do you love him? Woojin, I mean.”
The sincere curiosity in Donghan’s voice makes Jihoon freeze and he hesitates before releasing a long sigh. “It’s too early to say it’s love,” Jihoon decides, “but he means a lot to me, far more than I want him to.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Jihoon smiles, small and slow, “Yeah?”
“Yeah, I am.”
Jihoon’s still not sure how he himself feels, but he decides he can figure that out another day, maybe when he’s old and wrinkly.)
The valleys don’t hold a candle to the peaks though, Jihoon decides, and for now, that’s enough.
☼ ☼ ☼
05 2019
Time stops for no one, and before he can fathom it, the semester comes to an end and they’re back at the airport.
Woojin and Jihoon’s time together has a limit, an expiration date, and they both knew from the beginning, but really, knowing beforehand doesn’t make it hurt less.
Jihoon thinks it’s a bit ironic, maybe cruel, that their story would come to an end at the same place it had began.
Woojin’s smile is radiant when he bids his farewells and thanks the entire group for following him well, just as beautiful as the first time Jihoon saw it, but Jihoon knows him better now, can read the emotions that wash over his sharp features and his eyes seems to convey a certain sadness that makes Jihoon’s chest ache.
“Don’t you forget about me, Park Jihoon.” Woojin threatens with a small smile, tone light and teasing despite it all, and the younger’s sharp eyes are soft around the edges. For the first time, Jihoon curses him for having such expressive eyes for all Jihoon can see in them is pain.
Jihoon smiles back, pushes the bile rising in his throat down, and he holds Woojin closer, memorizing the lines and contours of the younger’s body before moving back to capture the exact moment Woojin’s eyes soften in a way that conveys all the adoration he holds for him, and Jihoon swears he had never wanted time to stop more than right then. “I would never, Park Woojin.”
A woman’s voice rings through the airport and Jihoon thinks he can hear the exact moment Woojin’s heart breaks, one second after his own.
With one last kiss, Woojin and Jihoon part.
“I promise you.”
Only once he’s on the plane, eyes set on the clouds below, does Jihoon allow himself to cry, lets the hot tears cascade down his cheeks, lets his heart mourn the loss.
The sun doesn’t shine as brightly today and Jihoon can’t see the city from up here, only white, but he finds himself thanking the heavens; it’s almost as if they pity him, summoning the clouds to shield the view of the awakening city from his glassy eyes.
☼ ☼ ☼
09 2020
“I thought you died.” Jihoon’s mouth moves before he can even think about the words he’s saying when he spots the old woman from almost two years ago. For a moment, he’s too stunned to say more, lips parted in surprise and eyes wide with horror.
Jihoon is older now, graduated from university with a degree in architecture at the end of May, now an intern at a firm near the city. He thought the memory of his trip to Japan had faded over time, but with one glance at the old woman, Jihoon finds it hard to breathe as it all comes back to play before his eyes. The memories are as clear as day, like it had happened yesterday; the flight, the forests, the villages, the cities, Park Woojin.
The old woman bursts into laughter, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she waves a hand when he tries, in a frenzy, to apologize. “My God! Well, isn’t it good that I’m not? It’s okay, dear, I get that a lot.”
Jihoon keeps his mouth shut, too scared to let himself say more for the time being. Jihoon only loosens up when she reassures him that it’s okay, that she had had a good laugh thanks to him.
The old woman doesn’t ask, but Jihoon feels compelled to tell her where he’s been all this time. “I studied abroad,” and after a moment, Jihoon adds, “in Japan.”
"How did you like it? Japan."
To Jihoon, Japan means a lot of things; the fading chalk on the sidewalks and the golden hue of the sun and the pink cherry blossoms and the end of youth.
Japan means Park Woojin.
"I loved it."
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Jihoon smiles, soft around the edges as he looks out the window, eyes trained on nothing in particular.
Jihoon doesn’t know what it is about today; it’s but a mere summer day, hot and humid, the sun shines as it always does and the world continues to spin on its axis, indifferent to the troubles of its inhabitants, but Jihoon is melancholic, a wash of grey over a canvas of vibrant color.
Beside him, the woman hums a tune, a song too old for Jihoon to know and she sits with her hands folded over her lap.
After a moment, she glances over at Jihoon, “Do you remember what I told you?”
“Right now, right here, I’m the oldest I’ve ever been,” Jihoon repeats the words with an ease that he doesn’t ever remember having, much to the old woman’s delight. “Time waits for no one.”
“You’re right.” the old woman nods. “Time doesn’t stop and you can’t make it.” she smiles and pats Jihoon’s hand like she had all those months ago. “What you can do though, is whatever you want.”
“What do you mean?”
“Time stops for no one and no one lives forever, but that’s okay, because time will always, always fall short to love.” the old woman eyes him with a knowing look, gaze flickering to the chain around Jihoon’s neck, silver ring swaying with the movements of the bus. By instinct, Jihoon brings a hand up to touch it, wincing when he does. There's an ache deep in the core of his heart, for it reminds Jihoon of the boy who gave it to him. The necklace had become a part of him, whether Jihoon liked it or not, he hadn't taken it off since Woojin clasped it for him. He had thought about it, many times he had, but Jihoon always found himself leaving it be. “With love, time means nothing. So do whatever you want.”
Jihoon nods, once, twice, and then he grins.
"Sir! Please let me off at the next stop!"