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Namjoon closes his eyes, looks for the words to describe what it feels like. He likes to start with smells. Salt, gasoline, that undefinable seaweed/water/wave combination that’s so distinctly ocean . He tilts his head, squinting at the details. Sunscreen, even this early, when the sun hasn’t even made an appearance above the marine layer yet, the distance of the beach hidden in fog. Waves crashing, light traffic along the main drag behind him. His fingers skitter across the keyboard, trying to pick the right sensation, the one that evokes this feeling .
It’s windy but not forceful, fresh and earthy and alive, alone but somehow not at all alone. There’s an entirely human energy at odds with the force of nature crashing on the sand. Early morning joggers run up and down the pier, surfers linger in the distance, waiting. There’s this distinct waiting in the air. Maybe it’s the fog, maybe it’s the hour, but Namjoon can’t quite find the words.
He had brought his coffee in a thermos and set up at the edge of the sand, hoping that being there, feeling it on his own skin, would help, but instead he’s just overwhelmed by the amount of little things, the sand crunching under his sneakers and the light spray he can feel even from here. There’s too much to fit into one paragraph, into one book. It’s all too beautiful, too much, but nothing at all is happening in the first place.
He closes his laptop. It’s too much. A swell rises up at the end of the pier and that surfer, the one who’s been waiting along with Namjoon, perks up. He lets the ocean do the work, paddling along the wave until it takes him with it. When he finally catches the wave, the surfer doesn’t do any tricks or anything, just stands up and hollers in the froth, jumping off before he can make it anywhere too shallow. Namjoon can hear his laughter from the edge of the beach when he pops up again, leaning against his board as he lazily paddles back out.
Namjoon has never wanted to surf before, but a part of him wants to go join the giggling surfer in the white water. He finds himself making a story for it, him, with that silhouette of a man he’s made in his head. The man, the kid, whoever, he’s been surfing since he was a kid and is more than happy to teach Namjoon, the lonely writer on the beach. He smiles as he leads Namjoon into the water, smiles at Namjoon as the swell approaches, smiles after they both pop up after a white out. The surfer has a nice smile, in his head.
Maybe that’s who he should use for this story. The smiling surfer who grew up in the ocean, who can’t describe all of this in any way other than home . His hair was obviously red or pink or something at one point, turned a weird bleachy peach by the salt and sun.
Namjoon carries on like that until the marine layer starts to lift away, until the beach starts to fill with the tourists that filter in from the city to try and get just an ounce of that home he’s trying so hard to describe.
The surf’s dying down with the tide, fewer good waves and further between, the surfer having taken to laying on his board and letting the sun warm him. That’s it. That’s the moment he has to start at. The sun, the warmth, the gentle rocking of the water underneath him, the smell of sunscreen and the cling of the drying wetsuit, the light crowing of seagulls overhead and laughter of toddlers experiencing waves for the first time. Footsteps in the sand and knowing that the water will wash them away, being okay with that. Sand in your shoes, being okay with that.
That surfer, that ease, that willingness to let nature be and love it anyway. Maybe he’s projecting onto this protagonist of his fantasy, but he pulls out his laptop again anyway, writes it down, turns back to the surfer for reference—
And he’s gone. Namjoon waits for the head to pop up again in the froth of a wave break.
He waits, the water settles.
Up, from under the water, a surfboard pops up. No surfer.
Namjoon waits, wants to wait because Surfer can definitely swim better than Namjoon, but children are still laughing and the lifeguard’s station is empty right now, but the board is rocked by another wave and still no sign of Surfer.
Namjoon’s wearing sneakers and socks and his laptop is out of the bag in a very populated place but the shoes come off and really a life is more important than a laptop.
There are so many little things Namjoon wants to take stock of, so many sensations, the sand between his roses and the sharp surprise when he realizes just how cold the water really is, the current fighting him as he ducks underneath breaking waves. He finds a surprising amount of strength in his strokes as he pulls himself towards the board. Those are tied to the surfers, usually, velcroed around their ankles, and when Namjoon reaches it he easily traces the cord to a broken end, seaweed knotted around the length.
Had Surfer gotten caught in seaweed? But seaweed floats, bodies float, he would be here?
Namjoon dives and opens his eyes to murky water, he can barely see the tips of his fingers, reaching out in front of him, but he pushes down anyway. His lungs start to burn and he has to come up, has to take a deep breath, and goes under again.
It’s oppressive and dark and the further down he gets the less he can see and that magic , that home , that’s bullshit. This is fear. There’s a rip current just under the surface, pulling down and away, out to sea, and—
Namjoon has to come up, just one more time, because time is running out and people on the shore are starting to finally get that something is wrong .
His head breaks the surface and he barely takes a moment to open his eyes, blinding sun, fill his lungs, ready to go back under.
There, just bobbing into his vision, peachy pink and still breathing, the Surfer treads water as the rip keeps pulling him out. Namjoon remembers something about swimming parallel to the shore, watching out for smooth water, but Surfer is going for the board Namjoon reaches out and clings onto.
It’s okay. Surfer isn’t panicking, Namjoon isn’t panicking, all Namjoon has to do is paddle over, stay cool, and help Surfer pull them both back to shore. He wipes the salt out of his eyes as he approaches, pretends it’s all from the ocean, and focuses on Surfer.
He’s got seaweed in his hair. He’s... smiling? He waves at Namjoon and hoots, laughs, like he hadn’t been about to die. Namjoon’s still fighting with the images of Pretty Surfer. Tangled up in seaweed, in the dark, reaching long fingers to the sun.
He was right, though, Pretty Surfer has a pretty smile.
As soon as Namjoon reaches him, Surfer hoists his torso onto the board, not even giving Namjoon a chance to catch his breath. The boy, Namjoon can see now, coughs a mouthful of water over the edge, takes a few heaving breaths that only faintly rattle in his lungs, coughs a bit more, and flips over, lower half still hanging in the water. His eyes are closed but he’s still smiling .
“Caught me off guard,” he murmurs with a laugh.
Namjoon doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have anything to say, so he just falls forward, over pretty surfer, blocking the sun.
“You okay?” is what he settles with.
Pretty Surfer opens an eye. “Better now.”
Namjoon scoffs, repositions to let Surfer straddle the board behind him. He’s still coughing and the second he can, slumps against Namjoon’s back, breathing heavily.
Namjoon paddles in at an angle, getting out of the rip current as quickly as possible. The water changes immediately when they’re out and pulls them back to shore. Pretty Surfer gets his feet under him when it’s shallow enough, fingers white around the edge of his board. He keeps the other hand around the back of Namjoon’s shirt until they drag the board out of the water and reach dry sand.
The tourists want to help, Namjoon is sure, but instead they watch him and the Pretty Surfer collapse in the sand.
Pretty Surfer has to lean over and cough up more water, scrunching his nose while Namjoon rubs his back. There’s still seaweed in his hair. Namjoon picks it out, throws it back to the ocean, lays back down when Pretty Surfer does.
It’s another one of those moments, one that Namjoon wants to catalogue. His arms are sore, but how to describe that? It’s good, it’s bad, it means that he kind of saved a life, means that he did something important. The sand is warm, heated by the sun, and out of the shade, he can feel himself burning, but he’s still so cold. How to describe it? He feels like a chicken defrosting in the microwave but that’s not quite poetic enough. Pretty Surfer must feel like Icarus, in a puddle of his melted wings, but, because of Namjoon, still breathing.
Icarus, good literary reference. He likes those.
“You’re Icarus,” he tells Pretty Surfer.
Pretty Surfer lets out a laugh that seems to surprise even him. Namjoon lets his head fall to the side, squints his eyes open, watches Pretty Surfer’s dumb smile, the one that seems to say I’m alive, I’m warm, I’m thankful, I just got a new story, I’m alive, I was so scared , some indecipherable combination of emotions. His lips crack with it, sun dry. Namjoon has lip balm in his laptop bag, maybe Pretty Surfer wants some.
“If I’m Icarus, who are you?”
“Namjoon.”
Pretty Surfer scrunches his nose, opens just one eye, again. “That doesn’t really work with the metaphor.”
Namjoon sighs. “I’ve been struggling with those today.”
That breathless laugh, again, and god Namjoon could get used to it. “Namjoon, I think you might just be an angel.”
“Different mythology, still doesn’t work.”
Pretty Surfer waves his hand. “We’ll workshop it.”
They breathe like that, for a while. The tourists get bored and stop staring, but if they avoid the highway of eerily still water that leads out into the deep, all the better.
Pretty Surfer lets them sit in the moment of still for a little while longer, but can’t help the nervous laughter bubbling up in his throat, the little bit of adrenaline he’s hanging on to.
“Jungkook. I’m Jungkook, and I haven’t wiped out that bad in years.”
Namjoon scoffs. “I don’t think I’ve intentionally been in the ocean in years.”
That sets Jungkook off again, pressing his cheek into the sand and Namjoon can only imagine how long he’ll be finding sand in his eyelashes.
He fights the image of picking out the sand himself.
Jungkook has pretty eyes. It’s the first thing, the only thing Namjoon can think when Jungkook finally opens them both, finally looks at Namjoon and lets the scared smile fall away.
“Thank you, really,” he says, fingers running through the sand. Namjoon pushes himself to sitting, brushed the hair out of his face. He shakes his head.
“No need to thank me. Anyone would have at least tried to help.”
Jungkook raises an eyebrow, looks around. “No one else did.”
Because they weren’t watching you, Namjoon bites his tongue. “It’s no problem.”
Jungkook cocks his head, sits up next to Namjoon. Maybe he angles a little closer, pulls himself forward, maybe Namjoon is imagining it.
“This is a good story, you know, for a first meeting,” Jungkook says.
Namjoon can’t help but smile. “I’m pretty proud of it, if we’re being honest.”
“How’d you even notice something happened? I was down and out before I even knew what happened.”
Namjoon rubs the back of his neck. “I was...” he gestures back to his laptop, untouched over on a bench at the edge of the sand.
When he turns back, Jungkook is even closer, big dark eyes reflecting something like sunshine, something playful, something dangerous, something like intent. A hand on his knee.
“It’s a great story. You saved me.”
It’s hot, Namjoon is defrosting in the microwave, skin buzzing, and Jungkook is leaning in.
He tastes like salt and seaweed, cracked lips and seawater. It’s done before Namjoon can close his eyes.
“For the story.”
Namjoon closes his eyes, leans in again. He swipes a quick tongue along Jungkook’s lips, pulls back, pecks again at the corner, and finds the words there.
“I think we can make it even better.”
Jungkook laughs and Namjoon wants to drown in it, the rattle gone and the sun only speaking noon. That fear, the murky reminder of just how close it could have been, is pulled out to sea, replaced with the reminder of home .